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Full text of "The complete works of William Shakespeare, with a full and comprehensive life; a history of the early drama; an introduction to each play; the readings of former editions; glossarial and other notes, etc., etc., from the work of Collier, Knight, Dyce, Douce, Halliwell, Hunter, Richardson, Verplanck, and Hudson. Edited by George Long Duyckinck"

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1 


^IHlfc^SlPEACSE. 


THE 


COMPLETE  AYORKS 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE, 


k    FULL    AND    COMPREHENSIVE    LIFE;    A    HISTORY    OF    THE    EARLY 

DRAMA;   AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  EACH  PLAY;  THE  READINGS 

OF    FORMER    EDITIONS ;    CLOSSARIAL    AND    OTHER 

NOTES,  ETC.,  ETC.,  FROM  THE  WORKS  OF 


COLLIER,  KNIGHT,  DYCE,  DOUCE,  IIALLIWELL,  HUNTER,  RICHARDSOJ^", 
YERPLANCK,  .v.\d  HUDSON. 


EDITED    BY 


GEORGE  LONG  DUYCKIKCK. 


\0 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PORTER    &    C  0  A  T  E  S. 


PUBLISHERS'    PEEFACE. 


The  want  of  an  edition  oi  Shakespeare  which  would  give  the  student  oi 
reader  the  works  of  the  Great  Poet  in  a  convenient  form,  with  large  type, 
unburdened  with  discursive  or  critical  notes,  but  only  such  as  would  be  neces- 
sary to  a  more  perfect  understanding  of  the  text,  has  been  so  often  expressed 
as  to  induce  tlie  pubhshers  to  issue  the  present  edition.  The  text  is  that  of 
the  Collier  Folio  of  1632. 

The  preparation  of  the  Notes  was  confided  to  the  late  George  Lono-  Duv- 
ckinck,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  rare  taste.  It  has  been  the  aim,  by  close  con- 
densation, to  convey  a  greater  amount  of  information  directly  illustrative  of 
the  text  than  has  ever  been  presented  in  a  similar  form. 

The  notes  illustrative  of  obsolete  words,  expressions,  and  customs,  have 
been  derived  from  Mr.  Collier's  first  edition.  Knight's  Pictorial  Shakespeare, 
the  works  of  Dyce,  Douce,  Halliwell,  Hunter,  Richardson,  and  the  Americau 
editions  of  Messrs.  Verplanck  and  Hudson,  with  such  aid  as  Mr.  Duyckinck's 
long  acquaintance  with  the  Dramatic  and  general  Literature  of  the  age  ol 
Elizabeth  and  James  could  furnish. 

The  head  of  the  Poet,  which  forms  the  frontispiece,  is  a  faithful  copy  of 
the  engraving  by  Martin  Droeshout,  wdiicli  is  printed  on  the  title-page  of  the 
folios  of  1623  and  1632,  and  upon  which  Ben  Jonson  wrote  the  celebrated 
lines  testifying  so  decidedly  to  the  faithfulness  of  the  likeness,  —  a  stronger 
guaranty  than  can  be  claimed  for  any  other  portrait  of  the  Dramatist  existing. 

By  the  addition  of  the  exhaustive  Life  of  Shakespeare,  Players'  Dedi- 
cation, and  Address  to  Readers,  the  Will  of  Shakespeare,  the  commendatory 
verses  of  men  of  the  time,  a  thorough  History  of  the  Drama  and  Stage, 
a  full  descriptive  introduction  to  each  play,  ample  elucidatory  notes,  the 
Poetical  Works,  and  the  numerous  spirited  illustrations,  it  is  believed  nothing 
more  can  be  desired  to  make  this  a  truly  complete  edition  of  the  Works  of 
Sliakespeare. 


[A    Literal   C«py   from   the   Edition  of  1^23.] 


THE  EPISTLE   DEDICATORIE. 

To  the  moft  Noble  and  IncomparaDle  Paire  of  Brethren.     Vv^illiam  Earle  of  Pembroke,  &c 
Lord  Chamberlaine  to  the  Kings  moft  Excellent  Maiefty. 
And  Philip  Earle  of  Montgomery,  &c.     Gentleman  of  his  Maiefties  Bed-Chamber. 
Both  Knights  of  the  moft  Noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  and  our  fingular  good  Lords. 

Right  Honourable, 

HILST  we  ftudie  to  be  thankful  in  our  particular,  for  the  many  fauors 
we  haue  receiued  from  your  L.  L.  we  are  falne  vpon  the  ill  fortune,  to 
mingle  two  the  moft  diuerfe  things  that  can  bee,  feare,  and  raftinefle  ; 
r-ifhnefTe  in  the  enterprize,  and  feare  of  the  fuccefle.  For,  when  we  valew 
the  places  your  H.  H.  fuftaine,  we  cannot  but  know  their  dignity  greater, 
then  to  defcend  to  the  reading  of  thefe  trifles :  and,  while  we  name  them 
trifles,  we  have  depriu'd  our  felues  of  the  defence  of  our  Dedication.  But 
fince  your  L.  L.  haue  beene  pleas'd  to  thinke  thefe  trifles  fome-thing,heere- 
tofore  ;  and  haue  profequuted  both  them,  and  their  Author  liuing,  with  fo  much  fauour :  we 
hope,  that  (they  out-Iiuing  him,  and  he  not  hauing  the  fate,  common  with  fome,  to  be  exe- 
quutor  to  his  owne  writings)  you  will  vfe  the  like  indulgence  toward  them,  vou  haue  done 
vnto  their  parent.  There  is  a  great  diff'erence,  whether  any  Booke  choofe  his  Patrones,  or 
finde  them  :  This  hath  done  both.  For,  fo  much  were  your  L.  L.  likings  of  the  feuerali 
parts,  when  they  were  a6ted,  as  before  they  were  publiflied,  the  Volume  afk'd  to  be  yours. 
We  haue  but  collected  them,  and  done  an  office  to  the  dead,  to  procure  his  Orphanes, 
Guardians;  without  ambition  either  of  felfe-profit,  or  fame ;  onely  to  keepe  the  memory  of 
fo  worthy  a  Friend,  &  Fellow  aliue,  as  was  our  SHAKESPEJRE^  by  humble  offer  of  his 
playes,  to  your  moft  noble  patronage.  Wherein,  as  we  haue  iuftly  obferued,  no  man  to 
come  neere  your  L.  L.  but  with  a  kind  of  religious  addreffe;  it  hath  bin  the  height  of  our 
care,  who  are  the  Prefenters,  to  make  the  prefent  worthy  of  your  H.  H.  by  the  perfection. 
But,  there  we  muft  alfo  craue  our  abilities  to  be  confiderd,  my  Lords.  We  cannot  go 
beyond  our  owne  powers.  Country  hands  reach  foorth  milke,  creame,  fruites,  or  what 
they  haue  :  and  many  Nations  (we  haue  heard)  that  had  not  gummes  »^  incenfe,  obtained 
their  requefts  with  a  leauened  Cake.  It  was  no  fault  to  approch  their  Gods,  by  what 
meanes  they  could  :  And  the  moft,  though  meaneft,  of  things  are  made  more  precious, 
when  they  are  dedicated  to  Temples.  In  that  name  therefore,  we  moft  humbly  confecrate 
to  your  H.  H.  thefe  remaines  of  your  feruant  Shakefpeare:  that  what  delight  is  in  them, 
may  be  euer  your  L.  L.  the  reputation  his,  &  the  faults  ours,  if  any  be  committed,  by  a 
pavre  fo  carefull  to  ftiew  their  gratitude  both  to  the  liuing,  and  the  dead,  as  is 

Your  Lordfliippes  moft  boupden, 

j  loHN    HeMINCE. 

Henrv  Ccnpell 


[A   Literal    Copy   trom   the   Edition   of  1613.] 


TO   THE  GREAT   VARIETY   OF   READERS. 

ROM  the  moft  able,  to  him  that  can  but  fpell :  There  you  are  nurnber'd. 
We  had  rather  you  were  weighd.  Efpecially,  when  the  fate  of  all  Bookes 
depends  vpon  your  capacities:  and  not  of  your  heads  alone,  but  of  your  puifes. 
Well !  it  is  now  publique,  &  you  wil  ftand  for  your  priuiledges  wee  know  ; 
to  read,  and  cenfure.  Do  fo,  but  buy  it  firft.  That  doth  beft  commend  a 
Booke,  the  Stationer  faies.  Then,  how  odde  foeuer  your  braines  be,  or  your 
wifedomes,  make  your  licence  the  fame,  and  fpare  not.  ludge  your  fixe-pen'orth,  your 
fhillin2;s  worth,  vour  fiue  (hillings  worth  at  a  time,  or  higher,  fo  you  rife  to  the  iuft  rates, 
and  welcome.  But,  what  euer  you  do,  Buy.  Cenfure  will  not  driue  a  Trade,  or  make 
the  lacke  go.  And  though  you  be  a  Magiftrate  of  wit,  and  fit  on  the  Stage  at  Black-Friers^ 
or  the  Cock-pit^  to  arraigne  Playes  dailie,  know,  thefe  Playes  haue  had  their  triall  alreadie, 
and  ftood  out  all  Appeales  ;  and  do  now  come  forth  quitted  rather  by  a  Decree  of  Court, 
then  any  purchas'd  Letters  of  commendation. 

It  had  bene  a  thing,  we  confefTe,  worthie  to  haue  bene  wifhed,  that  the  Author  him- 
felfe  had  liu'd  to  haue  fet  forth,  and  ouerfeen  his  owne  writings  ;  But  fince  it  hath  bin 
ordain'd  otherwife,  and  he  by  death  departed  from  that  right,  we  pray  you  do  not  envie  his 
Friends,  the  office  of  their  care,  and  paine,  to  haue  collecSled  &  publifh'd  them  ;  and  fo  to 
haue  publifh'd  them,  as  where  (before)  you  were  abus'd  with  diuerfe  ftolne,  and  furreptitious 
copies,  maimed,  and  deformed  by  the  frauds  and  ftealthes  of  iniurious  importers,  that  expos'd 
them  :  euen  thofe,  are  now  ofFer'd  to  your  view  cur'd,  and  perfe6^  of  their  limbes ;  and  all 
the  reft,  abfolute  in  their  numbers,  as  he  conceiued  them.  Who,  as  he  was  a  happie  imi- 
tator of  Nature,  was  a  moft  gentle  expreffer  of  it.  His  mind  and  hand  went  together : 
And  what  he  thought,  he  vttered  with  that  eafmefle,  that  wee  haue  fcarfe  receiued  from 
him  a  blot  in  his  papers.  But  it  is  not  our  prouince,  who  onely  gather  his  works,  and  giue 
them  you,  to  praife  him.  It  is  yours  that  reade  him.  And  there  we  hope,  to  your  diuers 
capacities,  you  will  finde  enough,  both  to  draw,  and  hold  you  :  for  his  wit  can  no  more  lie 
hid,  then  it  could  be  loft.  Reade  him,  therefore  ;  and  againe,  and  againe  :  And  if  then 
you  doe  not  like  him,  furely  you  are  in  fome  manifeft  danger,  not  to  vnderftand  him.  And 
fo  we  leaue  vou  to  other  of  his  Friends,  whom  if  you  need,  can  bee  your  guides  :  if  you 
neede  them  not,  vou  can  Icade  your  felues,  and  others.      And  fuch  Readers  we  wifti  him. 

John   Heminge. 
Hevrie  Condell 
(viii) 


A    CATALOGUE 

OF   ALL    THE    COMEDIES,    HISTORIES,    AND    TRAGEDIES    CONTAl 
IN   THIS   BOOK. 

THE    TEMPEST  .... 

THE    TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    VERONA 

THE    MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR 

MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE 

THE    COMEDY    OF    ERRORS 

MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING 

love's    LABOUR  's    LOST      . 

MIDSUMMER    NIGHT's    DREAM 

THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE 

AS    YOU    LIKE    IT         ...  . 

THE    TAMING    OF    THE    SHRSW 

ALL  'S    WELL    THAT    ENDS    WELL 

TWELFTH    NIGHT,    OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL 


\ED 


THE    WINTER'S    TALE 


y 


PASB 
1 

20 

39 

62 

. 

86 

102 

124 

148 

166 

188 

210 

232 

257 

,    , 

278 

THE    LIFE    AND    DEATH    OF    KING    JOHN 

THE    LIFE    AND    DEATH    OF    KING    RICHARD    U. 

THE    LIFE    AND    DEATH    OV    KING    HENRY    IV. 

THE    SECONO    PART    OF    KING    HENRY    IV. 

THE    LIFE    OF    KING    HENRY    V. 

THE    FIRST    PART    OF    KING    HENRY    VX. 

THE    SECOND    PART    OF    KING    HENRY    VI. 

THE    THIRD    PART    OF    KING    HENRY    V[. 

THE    TRAGEDY   OF    RICHARD    III. 

THE    FAMOUS    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    VIII. 


TRAGEDIES 


TROILUS    AND    CRESSIDA      , 
THE    TRAGEDY    OF    CORIOLANUS 
TITUS    ANDRONICUS    . 
ROMEO    AND    JULIET 
TIMON    OF    ATHENS    . 
THE    TRAGEDY    OF    JULIUS    C^ISAR 
THE    TRAGEDY    OF    MACBETH       . 
THE    TRAGEDY    OF    HAMLET 
THE    TRAGEDY    OF    KING    LEAR 
THE    MOOR    OF    VENICE       . 
ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    CYMBELIKE  , 
PERICLES,    PR[NCE    OF    TYRE  '-/. 


J 


305 
327 
3ol 
377 
405 
432 
456 
483 
509 
541 


568 
597 

627 
649 
676 
697 
719 
739 
772 
S02 
831 
8C.0 
890 
911 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


I'fOT,   the  Effigies  of  my  worthy  Friend,  the  Author, 
Master  William  Shakespeare,  and  his  Works. 
Spectator,  this  life's  shadow  is  : — to  see 
The  truer  image,  and  a  livelier  he. 
Turn  reader.     But  observe  his  comio  vein. 
Laugh ;  and  proceed  next  to  a  tragic  strain, 
Then  weep  :  so, — when  thou  find'st  two  contraries. 
Two  different  passions  from  thy  wrapt  soul  rise, — 
Say,  (who  alone  effect  such  wonders  could) 
Rare  Shake-speare  to  the  Ufe  thou  dost  behold. 

,  In  Epitaph  on  the  admirable  Dramatic  Poet,  W.  Shake- 
speare.^ 
What  need  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honom-'d  bones, 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones ; 
Or  that  his  haUow'd  rehques  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid  ? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need'st  thou  such  duU  witness  of  thy  name  ? 
Thou,  in  our  wonder  and  ast<3nishment>. 
Hast  built  thyself  a  lasting  monument : 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art, 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow ;  and  that  each  part 
Hath,  fiom  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book. 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took ; 
Then  thou,  our  f;mcy  of  herself  bereaving. 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving ; 
And,  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 

To  the  Memory  of  the  deceased  Author,  Master  W.  Shake- 
speare. 
Shake-speare,  at  length  thy  pious  fellows  give 
The  woi-ld  thy  works  ;  thy  works,  by  which  outlive 
Thy  tomb  thy  name  must :  when  that  stone  is  rent, 
And  tune  dissolves  thy  Stratford  monument. 
Here  we  ahve  shall  view  thee  still :  this  book, 
When  brass  and  marble  fade,  shall  make  thee  look 
Fresh  to  all  ages  ;  when  posterity 
Shall  loathe  what 's  new,  think  all  is  prodigy 
That  is  not  Shakespeare's,  every  hne,  each  verse, 
Here  shall  revive,  redeem  thee  from  thy  hearse. 
Nor  fire,  nor  cankering  age,  as  Naso  said 
Of  his,  thy  wit-fraught  book  shall  once  invade  : 

1  An  Epitaph  on  the  admirable  Dramatic  Poet,  W.  Shakespeare.] 
These  lines,  like  the  preceding,  have  no  name  appended  to  them  in 
fhe  folio,  l(i.3-2,  but  the  authorship  is  ascertained  by  the  publication 
ot  them  85  Milton's,  in  the  edition  of  his  Poems  in  1615.  Svo.  Ws 
give  them  as  they  stand  there,  because  it  is  evident  that  they  ■were 
•.hen  printed  from  a  copy  corrected  by  the  author  :  the  variations  arc 
inter3sting,  and  Malone  pointed  out  only  one,  and  that  certainly  the 
least  important.  Instead  of  '•  weak  witness"'  in  line  6.  the  folio  1632 
has  "  dull  witness  :"  instead  of  "  live-long  monument,"  in  line  3,  the 
folio  has  "  lasting  monument  :"  instead  of  "  heart,"  in  line  10  the 
folio  has  ^  part,"  a.n  evident  misprint:  and  instead  of  "  itself  be- 
reaving," in  line  13,  the  folio  has  •' Aerse// bereaving."  The  la.«t  is 
.the  difference  mentioned  by  Malone,  who  also  places  '■  John  Milton" 
at  the  end,  as  if  the  name  were  found  in  the  folio  of  16-3-2. 

»  Than  when  thy  half-sword  parleying  Romans  spake  :]     Leonard 
Dipges  prefixed  a  long  copv  of  verses  to  the  edition  of  Shakespeare's 
Poems   in  1640.  Svo,  in  which  he  makes  this  passage,  referring  to 
"  Julius  Caesar,"  more  distinct  ;  he  also  there  speaks  ol  the  audiences 
Bhikespeare's  plays  at  that  time  drew,  in  comparison  with  Ben.  Jon- 
X)n'a.     This  is  the  only  part  of  his  production  worth  adding  in  a  note. 
"  So  have  I  seen,  when  Ctesar  would  appear. 
And  on  the  stage  at  half-sword  parley  were 
BrutuF  and  Cassius,  0,  how  the  audience 
Were  ravish'd  '  with  what  wonder  they  went  thence  ' 


Nor  shall  I  e'er  believe  or  think  thee  dead, 

(Though  miss'd)  until  our  bankrupt  stace  be  sped 

(Impossible)  with  some  new  stram  f  out-do 

Passions  of  Juhet,  and  her  Romeo ; 

Or  till  I  hear  a  scene  more  noblv  take, 

Than  when  thy  half-sword  parleying  Romans  spake  ,-• 

Till  these,  till  any  of  thy  volume's  rest. 

Shall  with  more  fire,  more  feeling,  be  expressed. 

Be  sure,  (our  Shake-speare,)  thou  canst  never  die, 

But,  crown'd  with  laurel,  five  eternally. 

L    DlGCES. 

To  the  Blemory  of  M.  W.  Shake-speare. 
We  wonder'd  (Shake-speare)  that  thou  went'st  so  bood 
From  the  world's  stage  to  the  grave's  tii-ing-room  : 
We  thought  thee  dead ;  but  this  thy  printeli  worth 
Tells  thy  spectators,  that  thou  went'st  but  forth 
To  enter  with  applause.     An  actor  s  art 
Can  die,  and  Uve  to  act  a  second  part : 
That 's  but  an  exit  of  mortality. 
This  a  re-entrance  to  a  plaudite.  L  IL' 

To  the  Memory  of  my  beloved,  the  Author,  Mr.  Willian 
Shakespeare,  and  what  he  hath  left  us. 
To  draw  no  envy  (Shakespeare)  on  thy  name. 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book,  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  man,  nor  muse,  can  praise  too  luuch ; 
'T  is  true,  and  all  men's  suffi-age  ;  but  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise  : 
For  seeliest  ignorance  on  these  m.iy  light. 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  ec.'n>es  right. 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance  ; 
Or  crafty  mahce  might  pretend  this  praise. 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seem'd  to  raise  : 
These  are.  as  some  infamous  bawd,  or  whore. 
Should  praise  a  matron  ;  whjit  could  hurt  her  more 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them  ;  and.  indeed. 
Above  th'  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I,  therefore,  will  begin  : — Soul  of  the  age. 
The  applause,  dehght,  the  wouder  of  our  stage, 
My  Shakespeare,  rise  !    I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser ;  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  fiirther,  to  make  thee  a  ixwm^ : 

When,  some  new  day,  they  would  not  brook  a  line 

Of  tedious,  though  well-labour"d,  Cataline  ; 

Sejanus  too,  was  irksome  :  they  priz'd  mor« 

'  Honest'  lago,  or  the  jealous  .Moor. 

And  though  the  Fox  and  subtil  Alchymist, 

Long  intermitted,  could  not  quite  be  mist. 

Though  these  have  sh.ira'd  all  th"  ancients,  and  m.gb:  ryot 

Their  author's  merit  with  a  crown  of  bars. 

Yet  these  sometimes,  even  at  a  friend's  d«»:re. 

Acted,  have  scarce  defray'd  the  sea-coa!  fire. 

And  door-keepers  :  wheii,  1st  but  FilstatT  com*. 

Hal,  Poins,  the  rest, — you  scarce  shall  hiTe  a  room. 

All  is  so  pester'd  :  let  but  Beatrice 

And  Benedick  be  seen,  lo  !  in  a  trice 

The  cock-pit,  galleries,  boxes,  all  are  full. 

To  hear  .Malvolio,  that  cross-garter'd  gull. 

Brief,  there  is  nothing  in  his  wu-fraught  book. 

\Vhose  sound  we  would  not  hear,  on  whose  worth  Inok,"  *e 
'  Perhaps  the  initials  of  John  .Marston. 

*  Referring  to  lines  by  William  Basse,  then  circulating  in  MS  . 
and  not  printed  (as  far  as  is  now  known)  until  ISB,  wnen  ;heT  w».-» 
falsely  imputed  to  Dr  Donne,  in  the  edition  of  his  poems  la  in»' 
rear.  All  the  MSS  of  the  lines,  now  extant,  dilTer  in  m.n-u*  X" 
ticuIaiB 


Kll 


COMMENDATORY    7ERSES. 


Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb ; 

And  art  alive  etill,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  biam  excuses ; 

I  mean,  with  great  but  dis'proportiou'd  muses : 

For,  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  yeai-s, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers  ; 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Ljiy  outshiue, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line  : ' 

And  though  thou  hadst  snudl  Latin,  iuid  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  would  not  seek 

For  names  ;  but  call  forth  thundering  Jischylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles,  to  us, 

Facuvius.  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead. 

To  live  again,  to  heiu"  thy  buskin  tread 

And  shake  a  stage  :  or,  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

I^ave  thee  alone,  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece,  or  haughty  Rome, 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  fi-om  their  iishes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Biitain  !  thou  hast  one  to  show. 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ; 

And  all  the  muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 

When  hke  Apollo  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm. 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 

And  joy'd  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines  ; 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  tit, 

As  since  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wiL 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus.  now  not  please  ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  he. 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art. 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part : 

Fur  though  the  poefs  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  d^jth  give  the  fashion  ;  and  that  he, 

Who  casts  to  write  a  hving  line,  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are)  aud  strike  the  second  be-it 

Upon  the  muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same, 

( And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to  frame  ; 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scoth. 

For  a  good  poet 's  made,  as  well  as  bt>m  : 

And  such  wert  thou.     Look,  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue  ;  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind,  and  manners,  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-tui-nevl  aud  true-filed  lines  ; 

In  each  i:>f  which  he  seeins  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  braniiish'd  at  the  eyes  of  iguorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were. 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear ; 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  dill  tiike  EUza.  aud  our  James. 

But  stay  ;  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advane  d.  and  made  a  constellation  there  : 

Shjue  forth,  thou  star  of  poets  ;  and  with  rage, 

'  >r  influence,  chide,  or  cheer,  the  drooping  sti'^e  ; 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourn'd  like 

night, 
Aud  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume  's  light 

Ben  Joxsox. 

On  worthy  Master  Shakespeare,  and  his  poems.' 
A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,  whose  clear 

Audequal  surface  can  make  things  appear. 

Distant  a  thousiind  years,  and  represent 

Them  in  their  lively  colours,  just  extent : 

To  outrun  hasty  time,  retrieve  the  fates, 

Roll  back  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron  gates 

Of  death  aud  Lethe,  where  (confused)  he 

Great  heaps  of  ruinous  mortahty : 


1      In  that  deep  dusky  dungeon  to  discern 
A  royal  ghost  from  churls  ;  by  ait  to  learn 
The  physiognomy  of  shades,  and  give 
Them  sudden  birth,  wondering  how  oft  they  live ; 
What  story  coldly  tells,  what  poets  feign 
At  second  hand,  and  picture  without  brain. 
Senseless  and  soul-less  shows :  to  give  a  stage 
(Ample,  and  true  with  life)  voice,  action,  age. 
As  Plato's  year,  and  new  scene  of  the  world, 
Them  unto  us,  or  us  to  them  had  hurl'd  : 
To  raise  our  ancient  sovereigns  from  their  hears*, 
Make  kings  his  subjects  ;  by  exchanging  vei-ae 
Enhve  their  pale  trunks,  that  the  present  age 
Joys  in  their  joy,  and  trembles  at  their  rage  : 
Yet  so  to  temper  passion,  that  our  eai-s 
Take  pleasure  in  tlieu-  pain,  and  eyes  in  tears 
Both  weep  aud  smile  ;  fearful  at  plots  so  sad, 
Then  laughing  at  our  fear  ;  abus'd,  and  glad 
To  be  abus'd  ;  affected  with  that  truth 
Which  we  perceive  is  false,  pleas 'd  in  that  ruth 
At  which  we  start,  and,  by  elaboiate  play, 
Tortur'd  and  tickled  ;  by  a  crab-like  way 
Time  past  made  pastmie,  and  in  ugly  bort 
Disgorging  up  his  ravin  for  our  sp<jrt : — 
— While  the  plebeian  imp,  from  lofty  throne, 
Oreates  and  rules  a  world,  and  works  upon 
Mankind  by  secret  engines  ;  now  to  move 
A  chilling  pity,  then  a  rigorous  love  ; 
To  strike  up  and  stroke  down,  both  joy  and  ire  ; 
To  st€er  th'  affections ;  and  by  heavenly  fire 
Mould  us  anew,  stol'n  from  ourselves  : — 

This,  and  much  more,  which  cannot  be  express'd 
But  by  himself,  his  tongue,  imd  his  own  breast, 
Was  Shakespeare's  fi'cehold  ;  which  his  cunning  braio 
Lnprov'd  by  favour  of  the  nine-fold  train  ; 
The  buslcin'd  muse,  the  comic  queen,  the  grand 
And  louder  tone  of  Clio,  nimble  hand 
And  nimbler  foot  of  the  melodious  pair. 
The  silver-voiced  lady,  tli  j  most  fair 
Calliope,  whose  speaking  silence  daunts. 
And  she  whose  praise  the  heavenly  body  chants 
These  jointly  woo'd  him,  envying  one  another, 
(Obey'd  by  all  as  spouse,  but  lov'd  as  brother) 
And  wrought  a  curious  robe,  of  sable  grave. 
Fresh  green,  and  pleasant  yellow,  red  most  brave 
And  constant  blue,  rich  purple,  guiltless  white, 
The  lowly  russet,  and  the  scarlet  bright : 
Branch'd  and  embroider'd  like  the  painted  spring 
Each  leaf  match'd  with  a  flower,  and  each  strmg 
Of  golden  wire,  each  line  of  silk  ;  there  run 
Italian  works,  whose  thread  the  sisters  spim ; 
Aud  there  did  sing,  or  seem  i'l  sing,  the  choice 
Birds  of  a  foreign  note  imd  various  voice  : 
Here  hangs  a  mossy  rock  ;  there  plays  a  fair 
But  chidinir  f.>uutjiin.  purled  :  not  the  air. 
Nor  clouds,  nor  thunder,  but  wci-e  living  drawn ; 
Not  out  of  conimt>n  tiihmy  or  lawn. 
But  fine  materials,  which  the  muses  know. 
And  only  know  the  countries  where  they  grow. 

Now,  when  they  could  no  longer  him  enjoy, 
In  mortal  garments  pent, — death  may  uesti-oy, 
Thev  say,  his  body  ;  but  his  verse  shall  live, 
And  more  than  nature  tjikes  our  hands  shall  give 
In  a  less  volume,  but  more  strongly  bound, 
Sliakespeare    shall   breathe    and    speak;     with    lanrel 

ciown'd, 
Which  never  fades  ;  fed  with  ambrosian  meat, 
In  a  well-lined  vesture,  rich,  and  neat 
So  with  this  robe  they  clothe  him,  bid  him  wear  it ; 
For  time  shall  never  stain,  nor  envy  tear  it 

The  frieniily  admirer  of  his  endowments. 

LM.S. 


'  On  ■aronhv  Master  ?hake«peare,  and  his  Poems]  These  lines  are  I  may  have  been  appended  to  the  other  copy  of  verses  by  hira  prefixes 
.bacribad  I  .M.  S.  in  the  lolio  lC)d,  "  probably  Jasper  Mayne,"  says  to  the  folio  of  U'>-fi,  in  order  that  his  iniiiaU  should  stand  at  the  end 
'i  ilone.  Moft  probably  not,  because  Mayne  has  left  nothing  behind  of  the  present.  We  know  of  no  other  poet  of  the  time  capable  oi 
.in  lo  Lead  u»  to  suppose  that  he  could  have  produced  this  surpassing  writing  the  ensuing  lines.  We  feel  morally  certain  that  they  are  b) 
:oute      I   .M.  S.  may  possihlr  bn  loha  Milton,  .S'(ut;«n(,  and  no  name    Milton. 


COMMENDATOKY    VEKSES. 


Upon  the  Lines,  and  Life^  of  the  famous  Scenic  Poet, 
Master   W.  Shakespeare. 

Those  hands  -which  you  so  clapp'd.  go  now  and  wring, 
You  Britons  brave  ;  for  doue  are  Shake-speare's  days  : 
His  davs  are  done  that  made  the  dainty  plays. 

Which  made  the  Globe  of  heaven  and  earth  to  ring. 

Dried  is  that  vein,  dried  is  the  Thespian  spring, 
Turn'd  all  to  tears,  and  Phoebus  clouds  his  rays ; 
That  coi-pse,  that  coffin,  now  bestick  those  bays. 

Which  cro-svn'd  him  poet  first,  then  poet's  king 
If  tragedies  might  any  prologue  have. 

All  those  he  made  -would  scarce  make  one  to  this ; 
Where  fame,  no-w  that  he  gone  is  to  the  grave, 

(Death's  public  tiring-house)  the  Nuntius  is: 

For,  though  his  line  of  life  went  soon  about. 

The  life  yet  of  his  lines  shall  never  out. 

Hugh  Sollaud. 


The  following  are  Ben  Jonson^s  lines  on  the  Portrait  of 
Shakespeare,  precisely  as  they  stand  on  a  separate  leaf 
opposite  to  the  title-page  of  the  edition  of  1623.  ana 
which  are  reprinted  in  the  same  place,  with  some  trifling 
variation  of  typography,  in  the  folio  of  1632. 

TO   THE    READER. 

This  Figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put. 
It  -was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut , 
Wherein  the  Graver  had  a  strife 
With  Nature,  to  out-do  the  life  : 
0,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass,  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face ;  the  Print  would  then  surpass 
All,  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass. 
But  since  he  cannot.  Reader,  look 
Not  at  his  picture,  but  his  book 

BLJ 


THE  NAMES  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL  ACTORS  IN  ALL  THESE  PLAYS 


WaLiAM  Shakespeare. 
Richard  Buubadge. 
John  Hemmixgs. 
Augustine  Phillips. 
WiLLi.\M  Kempt. 
Thomas  Poope. 
George  Bryan. 
Henry  Condkli. 
WiLUAi*  Sltx. 


Richard  Cowxt. 
John  Lowink. 
Samuel  Crosse. 
Alexander  Cookk 

SAJttTELL    GlLBORNE. 

Robert  Armin. 

WiLLLUJ    OSTLKE. 

Nathan  Field. 
JcKW  Undhi-w^ood. 


Nicholas  Toolet. 
William  Ecclestone 
Joseph  Tatlor. 
Robert  Benfleld. 
Robert  Goughe. 
Richard  Robinsox 
John  Shanche. 
JOHH   Rics. 


HISTORY 

OF 

THE   ENGLISH   DRAMA    AND    STAGE 

TO 

THE  TIME  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Iw  or  •  er  to  make  the  reader  acquainted  with  the  origin  of 
the  English  stage,  such  as  Shakespeai-e  found  it  when  he 
became  connected  with  it,  it  is  necessary  to  mention  that  a 
miracle-play  or  mysteiy,  (as  it  has  been  termed  b  modern 
times),  is  the  oldest  form  of  dramatic  composition  in  our 
Language.  The  stories  of  pi-oductions  of  this  kind  were 
derived  from  the  Sacred  Writings,  from  the  pseudo-evan- 
gelium,  or  from  the  hves  and  legends  of  saints  and  martyrs. 
Miracle-plays  were  common  in  London  iu  the  year  1170; 
and  as  early  as  1119  the  miiacle-play  of  St  Katherine  had 
oeen  represented  at  Dunstaple.  It  hsis  been  conjectured, 
and  indeed  in  part  established',  that  some  of  these  perform- 
ances were  in  French,  as  well  as  in  Latin  ;  and  it  was  not 
until  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  that  they  were  generally 
acted  m  English.  We  have  thi-ee  existing  series  of  miiacle- 
plays,  all  of  which  have  been  recently  printed ;  the  Towue- 
ley  collection  by  the  Surtees  Club,  and  those  known  as  tlie 
Coventiy  and  Chester  pageants  by  the  Shakespeare  Society. 
The  Abbotsford  Club  has  likewise  printed,  from  a  manu- 
script at  Oxford,  three  detached  mii-acle-plays  which  once, 
Srobably,  formed  a  poi-tion  of  a  connected  succession  of  pro- 
uctions  of  that  class  and  description. 
Dui-ing  about  3u0  years  this  species  of  theatrical  enter- 
tainment seems  to  have  flourished,  often  under  the  auspices 
of  the  clergy,  who  used  it  as  the  means  of  reUgioiJS  instruc- 
tion; but  prior  to  the  reign  of  Henry  VL  a  new  kind  of 
drama  had  become  popular,  which  by  wiiters  of  the  time 
was  denominated  a  moral,  or  moral  play,  and  more  recently 
a  morality.     It  acquired  this  name  fi'om  the  nature  and 

[mrpose  of  the  representation,  which  usually  conveyed  a 
esson  for  the  better  conduct  of  human  hfe,  the  characters 
employed  not  being  scriptural,  as  in  miracle-plays,  but  alle- 
gorical, or  symbolical  Miracle-plays  continued  to  be  repre- 
sented long  after  moral  plays  were  introduced,  but  iwm  a 
remote  date  abstract  impersonations  had  by  degrees,  not 
now  easily  traced,  found  their  way  into  miracle-plays :  thus, 
perhaps,  moral  plays,  consisting  only  of  such  chiu'acters, 
grew  out  of  them. 

A  veiy  remarkable  and  interesting  mii-acle-play,  not 
founded  upon  the  Sacred  Writings,  but  upon  a  popular 
legend,  and  all  the  characters  of  which,  with  one  exception, 
purport  to  be  real  personages,  has  recently  been  diseovei-ed 
in  tne  Ubraiy  of  Trinity  College,  Dubhn,  in  a  manuscript 
lertainly  as  old  as  the  later  part  oi  the  reign  of  Edward 
[V.'''  It  is  perhaps  the  only  specimen  of  the  kind  in  our 
language ;  and  as  it  was  unknown  to  all  who  have  hitherto 
written  on  the  history  of  our  ancient  drama,  it  will  not  here 
oe  out  of  place  to  give  some  account  of  the  incidents  to 

'  See  Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  vol.  ii.  p.  131. 

»  We  are  indebted  for  a  correct  transcript  of  the  original  to  the  zeal 
ind  kindness  of  Dr.  J.  H.  Todd,  V.P.,  R.S.A. 

'  In  another  part  of  the  manuscript  it  is  called  "The  Play  of  the 
Conversion  of  Sir  Jonathas,  the  Jew,  by  the  Miracle  of  the  Blessed 
Sicrament;"  but  inferior  Jews  are  converted,  besides  Sir  Jouathas, 
vrho  is  the  head  of  the  tribe  in  the  "  famous  city  of  Araclea." 


which  it  relates,  and  of  the  persons  conceraed  in  the  ol  Th* 
title  of  the  piece,  and  the  year  in  which  the  events  are  svp 
posed  to  have  occurred,  are  given  at  the  close,  where  we 
are  told  that  it  is  "  The  Play  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament',' 
and  that  the  miracle  to  which  it  refers  was  wrouirht  "  If 
the  forest  of  Arragon,  in  the  famous  citv-  of  Aracleau  iji  the 
year  of  our  Lord  God  1461."  There  can  be  no  doubt  tliat 
the  scene  of  action  was  imaginaiy,  being  fixed  merely  for 
the  greater  satisfacticju  of  the  spectators  as  to  the  reality 
of  the  occm-rences,  and  as  little  that  a  legend  of  the  knud 
was  of  a  much  older  date  than  tliat  assigned  in  the  manu 
script,  which  was  probably  neai"  tlie  time  when  the  drair  i 
had  been  represented. 

In  its  form  it  closely  resembles  the  miracle-plays  wliicb 
had  theu'  origin  in  Scripture-histoiy,  and  one  of  the  charac- 
ters, that  of  the  Saviour,  common  in  pi'oductions  of  thjit 
class,  is  introduced  into  it :  the  i-est  of  the  pei-sonjig*^ 
engaged  are  five  Jews,  named  Jonathas,  Jas<-«n.  Jasdotu 
Masphat,  and  Malchus ;  a  Christian  merchant  cjdled  Aris- 
torius,  a  bishop,  Sir  Isidore  a  priest,  a  physician  fnmi 
Brabant  called  "Mr.  Brundyche,"  and  Colle  his  servant* 
The  plot  relates  to  the  pm-chase  of  the  Eucharist  by  th< 
Jews  from  Aristorius  for  100/.,  under  an  assunmce  ?iK: 
that  if  they  find  its  miraculous  powei-s  verified,  they  will 
become  converts  to  Christianity.  Aristorius,  having  fM« 
session  of  the  key  of  the  church,  entei-s  it  secretly,  takei 
away  the  Host,  and  sells  it  to  the  Jews.  They  put  it  to 
various  tests  and  torments  :  they  stab  "  the  cake"  wit*' 
j  their  daggers,  and  it  bleeds,  while  one  of  the  Jews  got  .- 
mad  at  the  sight.  They  next  attempt  to  nail  it  to  a  po^; 
but  the  Jew  who  uses  the  hammer  has  his  hand  torn  otT. 
and  here  the  doctor  and  his  servant,  Mr.  Brundyche  and 
Colle,  make  their  appearance  in  order  to  attend  the  wound- 
ed Jew;  but  after  a  long  comic  scene  between  the  quack 
and  his  man,  highly  illustrative  of  the  manners  of  the 
time,  they  are  driven  out  as  impostors.  The  Jews  then 
proceed  to  boil  the  Host,  but  the  water  turns  blood-red 
and  taking  it  out  of  the  cauldron  with  pincers,  they  throw 
it  into  a  blazing  oven  :  the  oven,  after  blood  has  run  ou: 
"at  the  crannies,"  bursts  asunder,  and  an  image  of  the 
Saviour  rising,  he  addresses  the  Jews,  who  are  as  pocd 
as  their  word,  for  they  are  converted  on  the  spot.  The\ 
keel  to  the  Christian  "bishop,  and  Aristorius  having  con- 
f  ssed  his  crime  and  declared  his  repentance,  is  forgiven 
after  a  suitable  admonition,  and  a  strict  charge  never 
again  to  buy  or  sell. 

Tills  very  singular  and  striking  perfoi-raance  is  opened 
as  was  usual  with  miracle-plays,  by  two  VexilLitors,  who 

♦  This  name  may  possibly  throw  some  light  on  an  obscure  passac* 
in  a  letter  dated  about  ISK.  and  quoted  in  "The  History  of  Ki  :; 
Dram.  Poetry,  and  the  Stage,"  I.  13J,  where  a  peraon  of  the  name 
Thomas  Wylley  informs  Cromwell.  Earl  of  Essex,  that  he  had  wni- 
a  play  in  which  a  character  called  -  Col'.e.  closger  of  Conscience,"  wi^ 
introduced   to  the  great  offence  of  the  Koman  Catholic  cleigy. 


HISTORY    OF  THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 


explain  Oie  nature  of  the  story  about  to  be  represented,  in  ] 
ultt^matc  staiiauj;  anil  Uie  whole  j)€rfonnauce  is  wouuil  up  j 
bv  an  cpili'u'ue  from  llie  bishop,  enforcing  the  moral,  whicli  ] 
of  c«>ur»e  was  intended  to  illustrate,  ami  impress  upon  the 
uuilience.  llie  divine  origin  of  the  doctrine  of  trausubsUintia- 
li.«n.  Were  it  necessar}-  to  oui-  design,  and  did  space  allow 
of  it,  we  should  b«'  stivngly  tempted  to  introduce  eome 
clLiractt'ristic  extract*  (roui  this  hitherto  unseen  production  ; 
but  we  must  content  oui-selves  with  saving,  tliat  the  language 
in  wveral  i)lace8  appeare  t4>  be  older  thiui  the  reign  of 
l'."iward  l\  ,  or  even  of  IleniT  VI.,  and  that  we  might  be 
dif  |K«»'d  to  carrv  Ixiek  the  original  composition  of  the  drama 
Ui  liu  period  of  Wiekhtfe,  and  the  Lollards. 

It  vus  not  until  tlie  reign  of  Elizabeth  that  miracle-plays 
werti  ,^enerally  abiuidouea,  but  in  some  distant  part«  of  the 
kiiic  lom  they' were  pereevered  with  even  till  the  time  of 
James  I.  Miracle-plays,  in  fact,  gradujilly  gave  way  to 
mond  plays,  which  presented  more  variety  of  situation  and 
diameter ;  and  nioral  plays  in  turn  were  superseded  by  a 
•pecies  of  mixed  drama,  wliich  was  strictly  neither  moral 
pmy  nor  histoiical  play,  but  a  combiuatiou  of  both  in  tlie 
Kwu  representation. 

()(  tliis  singular  union  of  disct>rdant  materials,  no  person 
who  luis  liithcrt-i  written  upon  the  history  of  our  dramatic 
|i.ietrj-  h:u*  taken  due  notice;  but  it  is  very  necessary  uot  to 
pa«s  It  over,  inasmuch  as  it  may  be  said  to  have  led  ulti- 
nuitely  t<i  the  introduction  of  tragedy,  comedy,  and  history, 
as  we  uow  undei-stjind  the  terms,  upon  the  'boards  of  our 
puUic  theatres.  No  bhune  for  the  omission  can  fairly  be 
unp::tcd  to  t.ur  predecessors,  because  the  earliest  specimens 
of  this  sort  <if  mixed  drama  which  remain  to  us  have  been 
briMight  to  light  within  a  comp.uatively  few  years.  The 
lui-tl  imp>rtiiut  of  these  is  the  "Kynge  Johan"  of  Bishop 
Bale.  We  are  not  able  to  settle  with  precision  the  date 
whwi  it  was  originally  written,  but  it  was  evidently  per- 
fiirrued,  with  additions  and  alteiatious,  after  Elizabeth  came 
•o  tJie  throne.'  The  purpose  of  the  author  was  tt-  promote 
die  Reformation,  by  applying  tt)  the  circumstances  of  his 
iiwii  times  tiie  events  of  the  reign  of  King  John,  when  the 
kingdom  was  placed  bv  tlie  Pope  under  an  interdict,  autl 
when,  according  U>  popuLir  beUef,  the  sovereign  was  poisoned 
by  a  draught  administered  to  him  by  a  monk.  This  drama 
resembles  a  moral  play  in  Uie  introduction  of  abstract  im- 
(teiK  nations,  and  a  historical  play  in  the  adaptiition  of  a 
|«orlion  of  our  national  annals,  with  real  cnaracters,  to  the 
i<urp<i8e8  of  the  st^igc.  Though  performed  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  we  may  carry  back  the  fii-st  composition  and 
representation  of  "  Kynge  Johan "  to  the  time  of  Edward 
VI.;  but,  as  it  has  been  printed  by  the  Camden  Society,  it 
is  iHtt  uecessaiy  that  we  should  enlarge  upon  it 

Tlie  obj.ct  of  Bale's  pUiy  was,  jw  we  have  stilted,  to 
adviuice  Uie  Refonnation  under  Edward  VI.;  but  in  the 
reign  of  his  successor  a  drama  of  a  similar  description,  and 
of  u  directly  op|».isit<'  tendency,  was  written  and  acted.  It 
has  never  been  mentioned,  arid  as  it  exists  only  in  mauu- 
wripi  of  tlie  time,'  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  quote  its 
cithv  and  to  explain  bi-iefly  in  wliat  manner  tlie  anonymous 
aiiUior  cariies  out  his  design.     lie  calls  his  drama"  Res- 

fuMica,"  and  he  adds  tliat  it  wjis  "  made  in  the  year  of  our 
.Old  1&&3.  and  the  first  year  of  the  most  prosperous  reign 
of  our  m.ittt  gnicious  S<'vereigu,  Queen  Alaiy  the  First" 
He  was  8Uj)p<.»ed  to  epeak  the  prologue  himself,  in  the 
diameter  of  "a  Poet,"  and  altliough  every  person  he  intro- 
diieeK  i.i  in  fact  called  by  some  abstract  name,  he  avowedly 
brings  forward  the  Queen  herself  as  "  Nemesis,  the  Goddess 


AV     1,T. 


y 


vn  • 


i«  ri' ■v.rlhpli-m  thus  Kpnken  of,  a» 
1      ■■■^.  and  SorinetlBS,"  nub- 
j  of  that  year :  we  hare 
■  ■bjoin  it. 
'.ry  hcarv* 
r-r^y-'"  lo  turr  •■  U:f  j  iiyncfiiU  booke  ; 
1-     mill  :  that  h««t  ob'-aynde  nuch  ycarei, 
I    •'.■.■*'  not  yet  on  p»p<;r»  palf.  to  lof.lce; 
V  r  r.'iv  to  beate  thy  werypi.  bni'nc. 

■  tr,y  prnne,  that  long  hath  labour'd  loore: 

■  rni-n  unfyt  mire  U  •och<'  paine, 

■  lyweim  to  labour  now  no  more  : 

•...    .,  I  ihynke   Don  Platoo*  part  will  playe, 
ith  booka  in  hand  to  b«T«  thy  dying  daye." 


of  redress  and  correction,"  while  iier  kingdom  of  England  u 
intended  by  "  Respubhca,"  and  its  inhabitints  repi'eseuve< 
by  "  People :"  the  Refonnation  in  the  Church  is  dist'iiguished 
as  "  Ojipression  ;"  and  Policy,  Authority,  and  Honesty,  are 
designated  "Avarice,"  "Insolence,"  and  "Adulation."  AL 
this  is  distinctly  stated  by  the  author  on  his  title-page,  while 
he  also  em])loys  the  impersonations  of  Misericordia,  Veri- 
tas, Justitia,  and  Pax,  (agents  uot  unfrequently  resoited  to 
in  the  older  miracle-plays)  as  the  friends  of  "  Nemesis,"  the 
Queen,  and  as  the  supporters  of  the  Roman  Cathohc  religior 
in  her  dominions. 

Nothing  would  be  gained  by  a  detail  of  the  import  of  the 
tedious  interlocutions  between  the  charactere,  represeDt«d, 
it  would  seem,  by  boys,  who  were  perhaps  the  children  of 
the  Cliapel  Royal ;  foi-  there  are  traces  in  the  performance 
that  it  was  originally  acted  at  court,  Respublica  is  a  widow 
greatly  injured  and  abused  by  Avai-ice,  Insolence,  Oppres- 
sion, and  Adulation;  while  People,  using  throughout  a 
rustic  dialect,  also  eomphun  bitterly  of  their  suffeiings, 
especially  smce  the  iuti-t)duction  of  what  had  been  tei-med 
"  Reformation"  in  matters  of  faith :  in  the  end  Justitia 
brings  in  Nemesis,  to  effect  a  total  change  by  restoring  the 
former  coudititm  of  religious  affairs;  and  the  piece  close* 
with  the  delivei-y  of  the  offenders  to  condign  punishment. 
The  production  was  evidently  written  by  a  msm  of  educa- 
tion ;  but,  although  there  are  many  attempts  at  humour, 
and  some  at  vanety,  both  in  character  and  situation,  the 
whole  must  have  been  a  very  wearisome  performance 
adapted  to  please  the  court  by  its  general  tendency,  but 
little  calcuUited  to  accompUsh  any  other  purpose  eiiterUiined 
by  the  writer.  In  all  respects  it  is  much  iufeii(jr  to  the 
"  K-\nige  Johan"  of  Bale,  which  it  followed  in  point  ci  date, 
and  to  which,  perhaps,  it  was  meant  to  be  a  counterpart 

In  the  midst  of  the  perfoimance  of  diiuiiatic  proouctiona 
of  a  religious  or  poUtical  character,  each  paity  supporting 
the  views  which  most  accorded  with  the  autlwr's  individual 
opinions,  John  Heywood.  who  was  a  zealous  Roman  Catho- 
lic, and  who  subsequently  suffered  for  his  creed  under 
Edward  VL  and  Ehzabeth,  discovered  a  new  species  of 
entertainment,  of  a  highly  humorous,  and  not  altf)gether 
of  an  uuiustructive  kind ;  which  seems  to  have  been  very 
acceptable  to  tlte  sovereign  and  nobihty,  and  to  have 
obtained  for  the  author  a  distinguished  ehaiacter  as  a  court 
dramatist,  and  ample  rewards  as  a  court  dependent' 
These  were  properly  calleJ  "  interludes,"  being  short  comic 

f)ieces,  represented  ordinarily  in  the  interval  between  the 
east  and  the  banquet;  and  we  may  easily  believe  that 
they  had  considerable  influence  in  the  settlement  of  the 
form  which  our  stage-performances  ultimately  assumed 
Heywood  does  not  appear  to  have  begun  writing  until 
after  Henry  VIIL  had  been  some  years  on  the  throne;  but, 
while  Skelton  was  composing  such  tedious  elaborations  aa 
his  "  Magnificence,"  which,  witli(jut  imy  improvement  merely 
cariies  to  a  still  greater  length  of  absurdity  the  old  style 
of  moral  plays,  Heywood  was  writing  his  "John  Tib  and 
Sir  Jolin,"  his  "Four  Ps,"  his  ,"  Pardoner  and  Friar,"  and 
pieces  of  that  description,  which  pieseuted  both  variety  of 
matter  and  novelty  of  coustructi<«i,  as  well  as  considerable 
wit  and  drollery  in  the  hmguage.  He  was  a  very  original 
winter,  and  ceilaiuly  merits  more  admiration  than  any  of 
his  dramatic  contemporaries. 

To  the  commencement  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  we  may 
refer  several  theatiiciU  productions  which  make  approaches 
more  or  less  near,  to  comedy,  tragedy,  and  liisU)iy,  and  stih 
retain  many  of  the  known  features  of  moral  plays.    "  Tom 

Besides  "  King  Johan,"  Bale  was  the  author  of  four  extant  dramatic 
productions,  which  may  be  looked  upon  as  miracle-plays,  both  in  theii 
form  and  characters;  viz.  1.  "The  Three  Laws  of  Nature,  jMoses  and 
Christ;"  2.  "God's  Promises:"  3.  ".John  the  Baptist;"  4.  "The 
Temptation  of  Christ."  He  Also  wrote  fourteen  other  dramas  of  vari- 
ous kinds,  none  of  which  have  come  down  to  us. 

>  In  the  library  of  Mr.  Hudson  Gurney,  to  whom  we  beg  to  express 
our  obligations  for  the  use  of  it. 

'  John  Heywood,  who  flourished  in  the  reign  of  Henrv  VTTI.,  is  not 
to  be  confounded,  as  some  modern  editors  of  Shakfspeare  have  con- 
foundcil  him,  with  Thomas  Heywood,  w-ho  became  a  dramatist  mor* 
,  than  half  a  century  afterwards,  and  who  continued  a  writer  for  the 
stage  until  near  the  date  of  the  closing  of  the  theatres  by  the  Puritans. 
;  John  Heywood,  'ji  all  probability,  died  before  Thomas  Heywood  was  bora 


TO  THE  TIME   OF  SHAKESPExVRE. 


Tiler  and  his  Wife"  is  a  comedy  in  its  incidents ;  but  the 
allegoncal  personages,  Desire,  Destiny,  Strife,  and  Patience, 
connect  it  imraediutely  with  the  eai-lier  species  of  stage- 
entertiiiunieut.  "  Tlie  Conflict  of  Conscience,"  on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  tragedy  on  tlie  fate  of  an  historical  personage ; 
but  Conscience,  Hypocrisy,  Avarice,  Horror,  &c.,  are  called 
m  njd  of  the  purpose  of  tlie  writer.  "  Appius  and  Virginia" 
is  in  most  respects  a  history,  founded  upon  facts;  but 
Rumour,  Comfort,  and  Doctrine,  are  importantly  concerned 
in  the  represeutati^>n.  These,  and  other  productions  of  the 
same  class,  \rhich  it  is  not  necessaiy  to  particularize,  show 
the  gradual  advances  made  towai-ds  a  better,  because  a 
more  natural,  species  of  theatrical  composition.'  Into  miracle- 

tlays  were  graduallv  introduced  "'legoiical  personages,  who 
jally  usurped  the  whole  stage ;  while  they  in  turn  yielded 
to  real  and  historical -characters,  at  first  only  intended  to 
give  variety  to  absti-act  impersonations.  Hence  the  origin 
of  comedy,  tragedy,  and  history,  such  as  we  lind  them  in 
the  works  of  Shakespeare,  and  of  some  of  his  immediate 
predecessors. 

What  is  justly  to  be  considered  the  oldest  known  comedy 
in  our  langui^ge  is  of  a  date  not  much  postei-ior  to  the  reign 
of  Henry  VIII,  if,  indeed,  it  were  not  composed  while  he 
was  on  the  throne.  It  has  the  title  of  "  Ralph  Roister 
Bolster,"  and  it  was  written  by  Nicholas  Udall,  who  was 
master  of  Eton  school  in  1540,  and  who  died  in  lo57.*  It 
is  on  eveiy  account  a  veiy  remarkable  performance ;  and 
as  the  scene  is  laid  in  London,  it  affords  a  cui-ious  picture 
of  metropolitan  manners.  The  regularity  of  its  construction, 
even  al  that  early  date,  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact, 
that  in  the  single  copy  which  has  descended  to  us'  it  is 
divided  into  acts  and  scenes.  The  story  is  one  of  common, 
every-day  hfe  ;  and  noue  of  the  characters  are  such  as  peo- 
ple had  been  accustomed  to  find  in  ordiuaiy  dramatic  enter- 
tainments. The  piece  takes  its  name  from  its  hero,  a  young 
town-gallant,  who  is  mightily  enamoured  of  himself,  and 
who  is  encouraged  in  the  good  opinion  he  entertains  of  his 
own  person  and  accomplishments  by  Matthew  Meriygreek, 
a  poor  relation,  who  attends  him  in  the  double  capacity  of 
companion  and  servant.  Ralph  Roister  Doister  is  in  love 
with  a  lady  of  property,  called  distance,  betrothed  to 
Gawin  Goodluck,  a  merchant,  who  is  at  sea  when  the 
comedy  begins,  but  who  returns  before  it  concludes.  The 
main  incidents  relate  to  the  mode  in  which  the  hero,  with 
the  treacherous  help  of  his  associate,  endeavours  to  gam 
the  aflections  of  Custauce  He  -m-ites  her  a  letter,  which 
Merrygreek  reads  without  a  due  observance  of  tlie  punctua- 
tion, so  that  it  enti"ely  perverts  the  meaning  of  the  wiiter : 
he  visits  her  while  she  is  surrounded  by  her  female  domes- 
tics, but  he  is  unceremoniously  rejected:  he  resolves  to 
carry  her  by  force  of  arms,  and  makes  an  assault  upon  her 
habitation;  but  with  the  assistance  of  her  maids,  armed 
with  mops  and  brooms,  she  diives  him  from  the  attack. 
Then,  her  betrothed  lover  returns,  who  has  been  niisuiformed 
on  the  subject  of  her  fidelity,  but  he  is  soon  recjnciled  on 
an  explanation  of  the  facts;'  and  Ralph  Roister  Doister, 
finding  that  he  has  no  chance  of  success,  and  that  he  has 

>  One  of  the  latest  pieces  without  mixture  of  history  or  fable,  and 
consisting  wholly  of  abstract  personages,  is,  "The  Tide  tarryeth  no 
Man,"  by  George  Wapul,  printed  in  107(i  :  only  a  single  copy  of  it  has 
bflen  preserved,  and  that  is  in  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire. 
The  principal  persons  introduced  into  it  have  the  foUowing  names  :— 
Painted-profit,  No-good-neighbourhood,  Wastefulness,  Christianity, 
Correction,  Courage,  Feigned-furtherance,  Greediness,  Wantonness, 
and  Authority-in-despair.  j  •     c-    it  I 

»  A  very  interesting  epistle  from  Udall  is  to  be  found  in  bir  Kenry  . 
Ellis's  volume  (edited  for  the  Camden  Society)  "Original  Letters  ol 
Eminent  Literary  Men."     That  of  Udall  is  first  in  the  series.  I 

3  This  single  copy  is  without  title-page,  so  that  the  year  when  it  was 
printed  cannot  be  ascertained ;  but  Thomas  Hacket  had  a  licence  in 
1.566  for  the  pubUcation  of  "  a  play  entitled  Rauf  Ruyster  Duster,  as 
it  is  called  on  the  registers  of  the  Stationers'  company.  We  may  pre- 
Bume  that  it  was  published  in  that  year,  or  m  the  next.  ! 

*  By  '-the  older  drama,"  we  mean  moral  piays,  into  whict.  the  Vice 
was  introduced  for  the  amusement  of  the  spectators  :  no  character  so 
called,  or  with  similar  propensities,  is  to  be  traced  in  miracie-plays. 
He  was.  in  fact,  the  buffoon  of  our  drama  in,  what  may  be  termed,  its 
lecond  stage;  after  audiences  began  to  grow  weary  of  plays  lounded 
npon  Scripture-history,  and  when  even  moral  plays,  in  order  to  be 
relished,  required  the  insertion  of  a  character  of  broad  humour,  \nd 
vicious  inclinations,  who  vas  »oinetimes  to  he  the  companion,  and  at 


only  been  cajoled  and  laughed  at,  make?  up  bis  mind  to  b^ 
merry  at  the  wedding  of  Gowlluck  and  Custauce. 

In  all  this  we  have  no  trace  of  anything  like  a  moral 
play,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  the  character  of 
Matthew  Merrj-greek,  which,  in  some  of  its  features,  -U 
love  of  mischief  and  its  drollery,  bears  a  resemblau<'»  t.. 
the  Vice  of  tlie  older  drama.''  Were  the  dialogue  modem 
ised,  the  comedy  might  be  performed,  even  in  our  oui. 
day,  to  the  satisfaction  of  many  of  the  usual  attendauta  at 
our  theati-es. 

In  considering  the  merits  of  this  piece,  we  are  to  recoUeci 
that  Bishop  Still's  "  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,"  wliicli,  uutik 
of  late,  was  held  to  be  our  earliest  comedy,  was  written 
some  twenty  years  after  '  Ralph  Roister  Doister :"  it  vrne 
not  acted  at  Cambridge  until  1566,  nine  yeais  subsequent 
to  the  death  of  Udall;  and  it  is  in  eveiy  point  of  view  an 
inferior  production.  The  plot  is  a  mere  piece  of  absurditv, 
the  language  is  provincial  (well  fitted,  indeed,  to  the  couutry 
where  the  scene  is  lud,  and  to  the  clownish  persous  engagcil 
in  it)  and  the  manners  depicted  are  cliiefly  those  of  illiter-ite 
rustics.  The  story,  such  as  it  is,  reUites  u'<  tlie  1'  iss  of  a  needle 
with  which  Gammer  Gurton  had  mended  Hodge's  breeches, 
and  which  is  afterwards  found  by  the  hero,  when  he  is  about 
to  sit  down.  The  himiour,  generally  speaking,  is  as  coai-se 
as  the  dialogue ;  and  though  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that 
the  author  was  a  man  of  talents,  they  were  hardly  such  a.- 
could  have  produced  "  Ralph  Roister  Doister." 

The  drama  which  we  have  been  accustomed  to  i-egard  as 
our  oldest  tragedy,  and  which  probably  has  a  just  chiim 
to  the  distinction,  was  acted  on  18th  January.  1562  and 
printed  in  1565.^  It  was  originally  called  "Gorboduc;"  but 
it  was  reprinted  in  1571  uuder  the  title  of  "Forrex  and 
Porrex,"  and  a  third  time  in  1590  as  "  Gorboduc."  The  first 
three  acts  were  written  by  Thomas  Norton,  and  the  latit  two 
by  Thomas  Sackville,  afterwards  Earl  of  Dorset,  and  it 
was  performed  "  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  Inner  Temple.' 
Although  the  form  of  the  Greek  drama  is  observed  in 
"  Gorboduc,"  and  each  act  concluded  by  a  chorus,  yet  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  who  admitted  (in  his  "  Apology  of  IWtry") 
that  it  was  "  full  of  stately  speeches  aud  well-si  iinuliDg 
phrases,"  could  not  avoid  complaining  that  the  unities  ot 
time  and  place  had  been  disregarded.  Thus,  in  the  ver} 
outset  and  origin  of  our  stage,  as  regards  what  may  !>•:• 
termed  the  regular  drama,  the  liberty,  which  allowetl  full 
exercise  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience,  and  which  was 
afterwards  happily  carried  to  a  greater  excess,  was  distinctly 
asserted  and  maintained.  It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  tliu: 
"  Gorboduc"  is  the  earUest  known  play  in  our  huiguage  ib 
which  blank-verse  was  employed;*  but  of  the  intiiKiucticn 
of  blank-vei-se  upon  our  public  stage,  we  shall  have  occasi<  'D 
to  speak  hereafter.  It  was  an  important  cluuige,  which 
requires  to  be  separately  considered. 

We  have  now  entered  upon  the  reign  of  Elizabeth ;  and 
although,  as  already  observed,  moi-al  pLiys  and  even  miracle 
plays  were  sdU  acted,  we  shall  soon  see  what  a  variety  of 
subjects,  taken  from  ancient  history,  from  mytholotry,  fable, 
and  romance,  were  employed  for  the  purposes  of  *Jie  drama 

others,  the  castigator,  of  the  devil,  who  represented  the  principle  of  erj) 
amnng  mankind.  The  Vice  of  moral  nlays  subsequently  becarM  the 
fiiol  and  jester  of  comedy,  tragedy,  and  history,  and  forms  another,  md 
an  important,  link  of  connexion  between  them. 

s  In  the  Uist.  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  ii.  4S-Z  it  i>  «  .: 
that  the  earliest  edition  of  "Gorboduc''  has  no  date.    This  is  a  m.s-ak- 
as  is  shown  by  the  copv  in  the  collection  of  Lord  Francis   '  . 
whici.  has  "anno  1.565.  Septemb.  "ii"  at  the  bottom  of  the  : 
Mr.   Hallam,   in   his  admirable  "Introduction  to  the  Ln-r; 
Europe."  &c.  (Second  Edit.  vol.  ii.  p.  1671.  expresses  his  diss,  .l   :.-    n 
the  position,  that  the  three  Jir.tt  acts  were  by  Norton,  and  the  iico  las: 
by  Sackville.     The  old  title-page  states,  that  "  three  arts  were  writtei. 
bv  Thomas  Norton,  and  the  tico  last  by  Thomas  Sackville."     Unle-j 
the  printer,  William  Griffith,  were  misinformed,  this  seema  decisive 
Norton's  abilities  have  not  had  justice  done  to  them. 

«  Richard  Edwards,  a  very  distinguished  dramatic  poet,  who  died  in 
1566,  and  who  wrote  the  lost  plav  ef  "  Palamon  and  Arcite,"  which 
was  acted  before  the  Qneen  in  .'eptemher  of  that  year,  did  not  foUon 
the  example  of  Sackville  and  Norton  :  his  "Damon  and  Pithiis"  (th» 
only  piece  by  him  that  has  survived)  is  in  rhyme.  See  D'xisley's  Old 
Plays,  last  edition,  vol.  i.  p.  177.  Thomas  Twine,  an  actor  ir  "  I^lamor 
and' Arcite,"  wrote  an  epitaph  upon  its  author.  "Gammer  Gurton-f 
Needle,"  and  "Goiboduo,"  (the  last  printed  from  the  SMxmA  ediUon 
are  also  inserted  in  voU.  i.  and  ii.  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plavi 


niSTOllY   OF  THE  ENGLISH  STAGE 


6u>wbeD  GossoD,  ooe  of  the  earliest  enemies  of  theatrical 
peifc'iiniuioes,  writiig  his  "  Plays  confuted  in  Five  Actions" 
a  httle  after  the  period  of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  but 
•dveriint;  to  the  Jniuia  as  it  hati  existed  some  years  before, 
U-Us  us.  that  " the  I'alace  of  Pleasure,  the  Gofd.n  Ass.  the 
iEtuiopian  History,  Aniadis  of  Ki-ance,  and  the  Round 
Table,"  as  well  as  "•  et)niedies  in  Latin,  French,  Italian,  and 
Spanish,  have  been  tlioroughly  rausacked  to  furnish  the 
play-houses  in  London."  Hence,  unquestionably,  many  of 
Uie  nuiterials  of  what  is  termed  our  romiuitic  drama  were 
obtaine<l.  T\\e  accounta  of  tlie  Master  of  the  Revels  between 
1670  and  1680  contmu  the  names  of  various  plays  repre- 
senteti  at  court ;  and  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  it  was  certainly 
Uie  practice  at  a  later  d:ite.  and  it  was  probably  the  praiv 
tice  at  the  time  U>  which  we  are  now  adverting,  to  select 
for  perfi>ruiauce  before  the  Queen  such  pieces  as  were  most 
in  favour  witli  public  audiences :  consequently  the  mention 
of  a  few  of  the  titles  of  pritductions  represented  before 
Elizabeth  at  Greenwich,  Whitehall,  Richmond,  or  Nonesuch, 
will  show  tlie  chanicter  of  the  popular  performauces  of  the 
day.  We  ilerive  the  following  names  from  Mr.  P.  Cunning- 
barn's  "  Extracts  from  the  Revels'  Accounts,"  piinted  for  the 
Shakespeare  Society : — 


Lady  Barbara. 

Iphi(renii». 

Ajax  and  Ulysses. 

Nurci.-<8us. 

Paris  and  Vienna. 

Tlie  Play  of  Fortune. 

Alcniwoii. 

Quiiiius  Fubius. 


Mutius  Scsevola. 
Portio  and  Demorantes. 
Titus  and  Gisippus. 
Three  Sisters  of  Mantua. 
Crueltv  of  a  Stepmother. 
The  G"reek  Maid. 
Rape  of  the  second  Helen 
The  Four  Sons  of  Fabius. 


Timoclea  at  tlie  Siege  of  Thebes.    History  of  Sarpedou. 
Per.-eus  and  Andromeda.  Murderous  Michael. 

The  Painters  Daughter.  Scipio  Africanus. 

The  History  of  the  Collier.  The  Duke  of  Milan. 

The  History  of  Error. 

These  are  only  a  few  out  of  many  dramas,  establishing  the 
multipUcity  of  sources  to  which  the  poets  of  the  time 
resorted.'  Nevertheless,  we  find  on  the  same  indisputable 
authority,  that  moral  plays  were  not  yet  altogether  dis- 
carded in  the  court  enteitainments;  for  we  read,  in  the 
original  rec<jrds,  of  productions  the  titles  of  which  prove 
that  they  were  pieces  of  that  allegorical  description : 
among  these  are  "Ti-uth,  Faithfulness,  and  Mercy,"  and 
'  Tlie  ilarriage  of  Mind  and  Measure,"  which  is  expressly 
called  "  a  moral" 

Our  main  object  in  referring  to  these  pieces  has  been  to 
show  the  great  diversity  of  subjects  which  had  been  drama- 
tised be6»re  1580.  In  1581  JBaniabe  Rich  published  his 
"  Farewell  to  Militarj-  Profession,'"^  consisting  of  a  collection 
of  eight  novels;  and  at  the  close  of  the  work  he  inserts  this 
strange  address  "  to  the  reader:" — "  Now  thou  hast  perused 
these  hist/tries  to  the  end,  I  doubt  not  but  thou  wilt  deem 
of  them  as  they  worthily  deserve,  and  think  such  vanities 
more  titter  U>  be  presented  on  a  stage  (as  some  of  them 
have  hi'tfu)  than  to  be  pubhshed  in  print"  The  fact  is,  that 
thre*-  dramas  are  extant  which  more  or  less  closely  resem- 
ble thr..if  ..f  Rich's  novels:  one  of  them  "Twelfth  Night;" 
another,  "  Tlie  Weakest  g(»eth  to  the  Wall ;"  and  the  third 
the  old  play  of  "  Philotus."' 

Upon  the  manner  b  which  the  materials  thus  procured 
«"»re  then  handled,  we  have  several  contemporaneous 
a.ithorities.  Gcjrge  Whetstone,  (an  author  who  has  prin- 
cipally acf^uired  celebrity  by  writing  an  earlier  drama  upon 
the  incidents  employed" by  Shakespeare  in  his  "Measure 
for  Measure")  in  the  dedication  of  his  "  Promos  and  Cassan- 
dra," gives  a  c<jinpendioU8  description  (»f  the  nature  of  popu- 
lar thtalrical  representations  in  1678.     "The  Euglisnman 

>  '-The  Play  of  Fortune."  in  the  aboTe  li«t,  ii  doubtleiw  the  piece 
which  hu  reached  mm  in  a  printed  ihape,  u  "The  Rare  Triumph*  of 
Lore  and  Fortune  ;"  it  wi«  actpd  at  court  at  early  u  1.37:),  and  again 
in  laHT.';  but  it  did  not  come  from  the  pr»Ti»  until  1,5-0.  and  the  only 
ooi»7  of  it  i«  in  the  library  of  Lord  Francis  Egerton.  The  purpose  of 
the  anonymou*  writer  waj  to  compo«  an  entertainment  which  should 
po«en  tn'  cr>at  rp.)ii.»i!e  of  variety,  with  as  much  «how  a«  could  at 
that  early  date  be  accmpluhed  ;  and  we  are  to  recollect  that  thf  court 
theatres  pnnwwed  fow  unu.ual  faciHtie»  for  the  purpose.  The  "  Induc- 
.'rp"  I*  in  b.ank-v,  r»^.  t..,t  the  body  I'f  the  drama  is  in  rhyme      "  The 


(he  remarks)  in  this  quality  is  most  vain,  indiscreet,  and  out 
of  order.  He  first  grounds  his  work  on  impossibilities; 
then,  in  three  hours,  runs  he  through  the  world,  marries,  gete 
children,  makes  children  men,  men  to  conquer  kingdoma, 
murder  monsters,  and  briugeth  gods  irom  heaven,  and 
fetcheth  devils  from  hell :  and,  that  which  is  worst,  tlieir 
g:'ound  is  not  so  unperfect  as  their  woiking  indiscreet ;  not 
weighing,  so  the  people  hiugh,  though  they  laugh  them  foi 
th(  ir  follies  to  scorn.  Many  times,  to  make  mirth,  they 
make  a  clown  companion  with  a  king:  in  their  grave  cour 
cils  they  allow  the  advice  of  fools ;  yea,  they  use  one  order 
of  speech  for  all  persons,  a  gross  indecorum."'  Thia,  it  will 
be  perceived,  is  an  accurate  account  of  the  ordinai-y  licenw 
taken  in  our  romantic  diama.  and  of  the  reliance  of  poet*, 
long  before  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  upon  the  imagination* 
of  theu'  auditors. 

To  the  same  effect  we  may  quote  a  work  by  Stephen 
Gosson,  to  which  we  have  before  been  indebted, — "  Playfl 
confuted  in  Five  Actions," — which  must  have  been  printed 
about  1580  : — "  If  a  true  history  (says  Gosson)  be  taken  in 
hand,  it  is  made,  like  our  shadows,  longest  at  the  rising  and 
fallbg  of  the  sun,  shortest  of  all  at  high  noon ;  for  the  poets 
drive  it  commonly  unto  such  points,  as  may  best  show  the 
majesty  of  their  pen  in  tragical  speeches,  or  set  the  hearers 
agog  with  discourses  of  love ;  or  paint  a  few  antics  to  fit 
their  own  humours  with  scoffs  and  taunts ;  or  bring  in  a 
show,  to  furnish  the  stage  when  it  is  bare."'  Again,  speak- 
ing of  plays  professedly  founded  upon  nMiiauce,  and  not 
upon  "  true  history,"  he  remarks :  "  Sometimes  you  shall 
see  nothing  but  the  adventures  of  an  amorous  knight,  pass- 
ing from  country  to  coimtry  for  the  love  of  his  lady,  encoun- 
tering many  a  terrible  monster,  made  of  brown  paper,  and 
at  his  return  is  so  wonderfully  changed,  that  he  cannot  be 
known  but  by  some  posy  in  his  tablet,  or  by  a  broken  ring, 
or  a  handkerchief,  or  a  piece  of  cockle-shell."  We  can 
hardly  doubt  that  when  Gosson  wrote  this  passage  he  had 
particular  productions  in  his  mind,  and  several  of  the  cha- 
racter he  describes  are  stiU  extant. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  is  believed  to  have  written  his  "Apology 
of  Poetry"  in  1583,  and  we  have,  already  referred  t«  it  in 
connexion  with  "  Gorboduc."  His  observations,  upon  the 
general  character  of  dramatic  representations  in  his  time, 
throw  much  light  on  the  state  of  the  stage  a  verj-  few 
years  before  Shakespeare  is  supposed  to  have  quitted. 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  attached  himself  to  a  theatrical 
company.  "  Our  tragedies  and  comedies  (says  Sidney)  are 
not  without  cause  cried  out  against,  observing  neither  mice 

of  honest  ci\-ility,  nor  skilful  poetiy But  if  it  be  so 

in  Gorboduc,  how  much  more  in  all  the  rest,  where  you 
shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Afric  of  tlie  other,  and 
so  many  other  under-kingdoms,  that  llie  player,  when  he 
comes  in,  must  ever  begin  with  telling  where  he  is,  or  else 
the  tale  will  not  be  conceived.  Now  you  shall  have  three 
ladies  walk  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  we  must  beheve 
the  stage  to  be  a  garden :  by  and  by  we  hear  news  of  a 
shipwreck  in  the  same  place ;  then,  we  are  to  bhime  if  we 
accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon  the  back  of  that  comes  out 
a  hideous  monster  with  fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the  misei^ 
able  beholders  are  bound  to  tiike  it  for  a  cave;  while,  in 
tlie  meantime,  two  armies  fly  in,  represented  with  four 
swords  and  bucklei-s,  and  thcii  what  nard  heart  wil!  not 
receive  it  for  a  pitched  field  ?  Now,  of  time  they  are  much 
more  liberal;  for  ordinaiy  it  is  that  two  young  piinces  fall 
in  love .  after  many  traverses  she  is  got  with  child,  delivered 
of  a  fair  boy ;  he  is  lost,  groweth  a  man,  falleth  in  love,  and 
is  ready  to  get  another  child,  and  all  tliis  in  two  hours' 
space:  which  how  absurd  it  is  in  sense,  even  sense  may 
imagine,  and  art  hath  taught,  and  all  ancient  exan.j/les  justi- 

History  of  the  Collier,"  also  mentioned,  was  perhaps  the  comedy  subse- 
r,uently  known  and  printed  as  "  Grim,  the  Collier  of  Croydon  ;"  and  it 
has  been  reasonably  suyposed,  that  "  The  }iistory  of  Error"  was  an  olr. 
play  on  the  fame  subject  a.s  Shak'speare's  "  Comedy  of  Errors. " 

>  Until  recently  no  eo.tion  of  an  earlier  date  than  that  of  1006  wa* 
known;  but  there  is  an  impression  of  \5^\  at  Oxford,  which  is  aboai 
to  be  reprinted  by  the  Shakespeare  Society.  Malone  had  heard  of  : 
copy  in  1.5".").  but  it  is  certainly  a  mistake. 

'It  was  reprinted  for  the  Bannalyne  Club  in  1S35.  by  J  W.  Mack 
enii»    Ks<j. 


TO  THE  TIME   OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


ded."  He  afterwards  comes  to  a  point  previously  urged  by 
Whetstone ;  for  Sidney  complains  that  plays  were  "  neither 
right  tragedies  nor  right  comedies,  mingling  kings  and 
do^vns,  not  because  the  matter  so  canieth  it,  but  thrust  in 
the  clown  by  head  and  shoulders,  to  play  a  part  in  majesti- 
cal  matters  with  neither  decency  nor  discretion ;  so  as  neither 
the  admiration  and  commiseration,  nor  right  sportfulness  is 
by  theii"  mongrel  ti"aj.-^-comedy  obtained.'' 

It  will  be  remarked  that,  with  the  exception  of  the 
instance  of  "  Gorboduc,"  no  writer  we  have  had  occasi<jn  to 
cite  mentions  the  Enghsh  Chi-onieles,  as  having  yet  fmnished 
dramatists  with  stories  for  the  stage ;  and  we  may  perhaps 
infer  that  resort  was  not  had  to  them  for  the  purposes  of  the 
public  theatres,  until  after  the  date  of  which  we  are  now 
gpeaking. 

Having  thus  briefly  adverted  to  the  nature  and  character 
of  dramatic  representations  from  the  earliest  times  to  the 
year  1583,  and  having  estabhshed  that  our  romantic  drama 
vas  of  ancient  origin,  it  is  necessary  shox'tly  to  describe  the 
iircumst;mces  under  which  plays  were  at  different  early 
reriods  performed. 

Theie  were  no  regular  theatres,  or  buildings  permanently 
.  constructed  for  the  purposes  of  the  drama,  mitil  after  1575. 
Mii'acle-plays  were  sometimes  exhibited  in  churches  and  in 
the  halls  of"  corporations,  but  more  frequently  upon  move- 
able stiiges,  or  scaffolds,  erected  in  the  open  air.  Moral 
plays  were  subsequently  perfoi-med  under  nearly  similar 
circumstimces,  excepting  that  a  practice  had  grown  up, 
among  the  nobility  and  wealthiei-  gentiy,  of  having  dramatic 
entertainments  at  particular  seasons  in  then-  own  residences.' 
These  were  sometuues  performed  by  a  company  of  actors 
retained  in  the  family,  and  sometimes  by  itinerant  players,'' 
who  belonged  to  large  towns,  or  who  called  themselves  the 
servants  of  members  of  the  aristocracy.  In  14  Eliz.  an  act 
was  passed  allowing  strolling  actors  to  perform,  if  hcensed 
bv  some  baron  or  nobleman  of  higher  degree,  but  subjecting 
all  others  to  the  penalties  inflicted  upon  vagrants.  There- 
fore, although  many  companies  of  players  went  round  the 
country,  and  acted  as  the  servimts  of  some  of  the  nobility, 
they  had  no  legislative  protection  until  1572.  It  is  a  singu- 
.  lar  fact,  that  the  earUest  known  company  of  players,  travel- 
ling under  the  name  and  patronage  of  one  of  the  nobihty, 
was  that  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  afterwards  Richard 
IIV  Henry  VII.  had  two  distinct  btidies  of  "actors  of 
interludes"  in  his  pay,  and  from  henceforward  the  profession 
of  a  player  became'well  understood  aud  recognized.  In  the 
later  pait  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.,  the  players  of  the 
Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Buckingham,  and  of  the  Earls  of 
Arundel,  Oxford,  and  Northumberland,  perfoi-med  at  court. 
About  this  period,  and  s.jmewhat  earher,  we  also  hear  of 

I  As  early  as  1463  a  company  of  players  had  performed  at  the  vred- 
4ing  of  a  person  of  the  name  of  MoUnes,  who  was  nearly  related  to 
Sir  John  Howard,  afterwards  Duke  of  Norfolk.  See  '•  Planners  and 
Household  Expenses  ot  England,'"  printed  by  Mr.  Botfield,  M.  P.,  for 
the  Roxburshe  Club  in  1&41.  p.  511. 

3  The  anonymous  MS.  plav  of  "  Sir  Thomas  More,'"  written  towards 
the  close  of  the  reipi  of  Elizabeth,  gives  a  very  correct  notion  ot  the 
mode  in  which  offers  to  perform  were  made  by  a  company  of  players, 
and  accepted  by  the  owner  of  the  mansion.  Four  players  and  a  boy 
(for  the  female  characters)  tender  their  services  to  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor, just  as  he  is  on  the  point  of  giving  a  grand  supper  to  the  Lord 
Mayi.'  and  Corporation  of  London  :  Sir  Thomas  !More  inquires  what 
Bieces  :hey  can  perform,  and  the  answer  of  the  leader  of  the  company 
lUDplies  the  names  of  seven  which  were  then  popular ;  viz.,  ••  The 
Cradle  of  Security,"  '•  Hit  Nail  on  the  Head,"  '-Impatient  Poverty, 
"The  Four  Ps,"  "Dives  and  Lazarus,"  "Lusty  Juvent us,"  and  '  Ihe 
Marriage  of  Wit  and  Wisdom."  Sir  Thomas  More  fixes  upon  the  last, 
ind  it  is  accordingly  represented,  as  a  play  within  a  play,  betore  the 
banquet.  "  S  r  Thomas  More  "  was  regularly  licensed  lor  public  per- 
formance ,  ,,,  ^     , 

3  Either  from  preference  or  policy,  Richard  IH.  appears  to  have 
been  a  great  encourager  of  actors  and  musicians  :  besides  his  players, 
he  patronized  l  .vo  distinct  bodies  of  -  minstrels,"  and  performers  on 
instruments  en  lied  "  shalms."  These  facts  are  derived  Irom  a  inanu- 
Bcript  of  the  household-book  of  John  Lord  Howard,  afterwards  duke  ol 
Norfolk,  preserwd  in  the  library  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  and 
recently  printed  for  the  use  of  the  members  o£  the  Roxburghe  Club, 
as  a  sequel  to  Mr.  Botfield's  volume.  .    ,     , 

♦  At  a  considerably  subsequent  date  some  of  these  infant  companies 
performed  before  general  audiences:  and  to  them  were  added  the 
Children  of  the  Revels,  who  had  ne^er  been  attached  to  any  religious 
■•si-ibJishinent.  but  were  chiefly  encouraged  as  a  nursery  for  actors, 
rh-i  Q.ueen  of  Jamei  I  had  also  a  compan-i  cf  theatrical  children 
iiii'.er  her  patronage 


companies  attached  to  particular  pLicee ;  and  b  e<K;vaJ 
records  we  read  of  the  players  of  York,  Coventry.  Ljiveu 
ham,  Wycombe,  Chester,  Manniugtree,  Evesham,  .Mik-end 
Kingston,  <tc. 

In  the  reign  of  Heniy  VIII.,  aud  perhaps  in  tliat  of  )iit) 
predecessor,  the  gentlemen  anil  siusring-boys  of  the  Chiipel 
Royal  were  employed  to  act  plays  and  "interludes  before 
the  court;  and  afterwards  tlie  children  of  Westminster,  St 
Paul's,  and  Windsor,  imder  their  several  masters,  aie  not 
unfrequeutly  mentioned  in  tlie  household  books '  of  the 
palace,  and  in  the  accounts  of  the  department  of  the  revels.* 

In  1514  the  kmg  added  a  new  company  to  the  di-amntic 
retinue  of  the  court,  besides  the  two  companies  which  \  ud 
been  paid  by  his  father,  and  the  associations  of  theatrical 
children.  In  fact,  at  this  period  di-amatic  entei-taijjuientii, 
masques,  disguisiugs,  and  revels  of  every  description,  wen 
carried  to  a  costly  excess.  Heniy  VIII.  raised  the  sum, 
until  then  paid  for  a  play,  from  6/.  13s.  4d.  to  10/.  William 
Cornyshe,  the  master  of  the  children  of  the  chapel,  on  one 
occasion  was  paid  no  less  a  sum  th:m  2»)U/..  in  the  money  of 
that  time,  by  way  of  reward ;  and  John  Hey  wood,  the  author 
of  interludes  before  mentioned,  who  was  also  a  phvyer  upou 
the  virginals,  had  a  salary  of  2u/.  per  annum,  in  additioo  to 
his  other  emolimients.  Dm-ing  seasons  of  festivity  a  Lord 
of  Misrule  was  regularly  appointed  to  superinteud  the 
sports,  and  he  also  was  separately  aud  hberally  remune- 
rated. The  example  of  the  court  was  followed  by  the 
courtiers,  and  the  companies  of  theatrieid  retainers,  in  the 
pay,  or  acting  in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom  under  th« 
Hiimes  of  particular  noblemen,  became  extremely  nunieix>u8. 
Religious  houses  gave  them  encouragement,  and  even  assisted 
iu  the  getting  up  and  representation  of  the  perfomumeeo 
especially  shortly  before  tlie  dissolution  of  the  monastei-ies  • 
in  the  accountrbook  of  the  Prior  fif  Dimmow,  between 
March  1532  and  July  153C,  we  find  entries  of  payments 
to  Lords  of  Misrule  there  appointed,  as  well  as  to  the  playei« 
of  the  King,  and  of  the  Earls  of  Deiby,  Exeter,  and  bus*ex ' 

In  1543  was  passed  a  statute,  rendered  necessary-  by  th« 
polemical  character  of  some  of  the  dramas  pubhely  repre- 
sented, although,  not  many  years  before,  tlie  king  had  him- 
self encouraged  such  performances  at  court,  by  being  present 
at  a  play  in  which  Luther  and  his  wife  were  i  idiculed  The 
act  prohibits  "  ballads,  plays,  rhymes,  songs,  and  other  fan- 
tasies" of  a  reUgious  or  doctrimU  tendency,  but  at  the  same 
time  carefully  provides,  that  the  chmses  sliall  not  extend  to 
"  songs,  phiys,  and  interludes"  which  bid  for  object  •*  the 
rebuking  and  reproaching  of  vices,  and  the  setting  forth  of 
virtue ;  so  always  the  s;\id  songs,  plays,  or  interludes  med- 
dle not  with  the  interpretations  of  Scripture."' 

The  permanent  office  of  ilaster  of  the  Revels,  for  the 

5  For  this  information  we  are  indebted  to  Sir  N.  H.  Nicholas,  who 
has  the  original  document  in  his  library.  Similar  facts  mistit  be 
established  from  other  authorities,  both  of  an  earlier  and  somewhM 

6  See  Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  Vol.  i.  p.  lo7. 
The  official  account,  made  out  by  Richard  Gibson,  who  had  the  ©!«>*• 
ration  of  the  dresses,  5:c.,  is  so  curious  and  characteriitic,  th»;  W9 
quote  it  in  the  words,  though  not  in  the  uncouth  orthography,  of  the 
ori.'inal  document  :  the  date  is  the  10th  Nov.  15-2t,  not  long  Iwfore  tt.e 
king  saw  reason  to  change  the  whole  course  of  his  policy  as  regini»tl 
thelleformation. 

"The  king's  pleasure  was  that  at  the  said  revels,  by  Cierks  iu  tha 
Latin  tongue,  should  he  played  in  his  presence  a  play,  when-of  en.c- 
eth  the  names.  First  an  Orator  in  appjrel  of  gol<f ;  a  Poet  in  ^pjarrf 
of  cloth  of  gold  ;  Religion,  Ecclesia,  Veritas,  hke  three  N>;v.ct!.,  it 
garments  of  silk,  and  veils  of  lawn  and  typress;  Heresy,  ^  »'«-'"•''•- 
pretation.  Corrupt lo-scriptoris,  like  ladies  of  Bohemia,  apparelled  id 
-arments  of  silk  of  divers  colours;  the  heretic  Luther,  like  a  party 
friar,  in  russet,  damask  and  black  «^*'a  L^u'her  .  wile,  like  a  fiv«r 
of  Spiers  inAlmain,  in  red  silk;  Peter,  Wul,  and  Jarae^  m  thr-^ 
habiis  of  white  sarsenet  and  three  red  mant  es,  an.l  hair,  of  ii  rer  >^f 
damask  and  pelerines  of  scarlet,  and  ».<^i""'"'''  '"J'''h"''l!?^',,  If 
Sergeants  in  rich  apparel;  the  Dauphin  and  his  '''°"'"  ="  °?*1»  •' 
velvet  embroidered  with  gold,  and  caps  "^  ^''" ^^i^'^t^^^l'^' ^il 
Messenger  in  i.nsel-satin  :  six  men  in  f^*-"' "rST""  "7/"',','  "5 
women  in  go^ns  of  crimson  sarsenet;  War  in  rich  cloth  jf  gold  and 
feXrs  ai^  armed  ;  three  A-nvams  in  -Pr;"^' ,»'' ^"'^VQlel,',^ 
Lad V  Peace,  in  lady's  apparel,  all  white  and  rich ;  and  Lady  ^melix!-, 
aud  Dame  TranquiUity,  richly  bescen  m  ladies  apparel. 

The  drama  represented  by  these  personage*  appean  »<>  l|*rj»;2 
the  composition  of  John  Rightwise,  then  master  or  ;he  children  o< 


XX 


HISTORY   OF  THE  ENGLISH   STAGE 


luperbleuilence  .if  all  ilijunatic  performances,  was  created 
In  1546,  and  Sir  Tbumas  Cawardeu  was  api>oiuted  to  it  -with 
an  annual  salaiv  of  lu/.  A  pei-sou  of  the  nar*:?  of  Juhu 
Bernard  was  iiiude  Clofk  of  the  Revels,  with  au  iillowauce 
of  Sd.  per  day  and  livery'. 

It  is  a  reniarkable  pomts  estjiblished  by  Mr.  Tytler',  that 
Henry  VIII.  was  not  yet  buned,  aud  Bishop  Gardiner  and 
his  paiishioners  were  ab«>iit  to  sing  a  dirge  for  his  soul, 
when  the  actoi-s  of  tlie  Earl  of  Oxford  posted  bills  for  the 
perfonnance  of  a  play  iu  S<->uthwark.  This  was  long  before 
the  constiuctioii  of  liny  regular  theatre  on  the  Baukside ; 
but  it  shows  at  bow  early  a  date  that  part  of  the  town  was 
•elected  for  such  exliibitious.  When  Mr.  Tytler  adds,  that 
the  pLiyers  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford  were  "  the  first  that  were 
kept  bv  any  uobleuuua,"  he  falls  into  an  error,  because 
Richard  HI.,  and  others  of  the  uobility,  as  already  remark- 
ed, had  comp;u)ies  of  pLiyers  attached  to  their  households. 
We  have  the  evidence  of  Putteuhaui,  in  his  "  Art  of  English 
Poesie,"  1589,  for  stating  that  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  under 
whose  name  the  playei^  in  1647  were  about  to  perfonn, 
was  himself  a  dramatist 

Verj'  soon  after  Edward  VL  came  to  the  throne,  severe 
measures  were  taken  to  restniin  not  onlj-  diiimatic  per- 
fomiances,  but  the  publication  of  dramas.  Playing  and 
printing  pbiys  were  tii-st  entirely  suspended ;  then,  the 
c«>mpauies  of  noblemen  were  allowed  to  perform,  but  not 
without  special  autliority;  and,  finally,  the  sign  manual,  or 
the  names  of  six  of  the  Privy  Council  were  required  to 
their  Ucenses.  The  objection  stated  was,  that  the  plays  liad 
a  political,  not  a  pjlemicah  purpose.  One  ttf  the  first  acts 
of  Marj-'s  government,  was  to  issue  a  proclamation  to  put 
a  stop  to  the  perfi>rmauee  of  interludes  calculated  to  ad- 
vance the  principles  of  the  Reformation  ;  and  we  may  be 
sure  that  the  play  ordered  at  the  coronation  of  the  queen 
was  of  a  cnti-ary  desciiption'.  It  appears  on  other  autho- 
rities, tliat  for  tw-o  years  there  was  an  entire  cessation  of 
DubUc  dramatic  perfonnances ;  but  in  this  reign  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  old  Roman  Catholic  mu-acle-pUiys  was  par- 
tially and  authoiitatively  revived. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  detail  the  proceedings  in  connexion 
witli  the^itrical  representations  at  the  opening  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth.  At  tii-st  pbiys  were  discountenanced,  but  by 
degrees  they  were  permitted  ;  and  the  queen  seems  at  all 
times  to  liave  derived  much  pleasure  from  the  services  of 
her  own  playei-s,  those  of  her  nobility,  and  of  the  different 
Companies  <if  children  belonging  to  Westminster,  St.  Pauls, 
Windsor,  and  the  Chapel  RttyaL  Tlie  members  of  the  inus 
of  court  also  performed  •'  Gorboduc  "  on  1 8th  January,  1562  ; 
and  on  Februar)'  1st,  an  historical  play,  under  tlie  uame  of 
"  Juhus  Ca'sar,"  was  represented,  but  by  what  company  is 
uo  where  mentioned. 

In  1572  the  act  was  passed  (which  was  renewed  with  ad- 
ditional force  in  1597)  to  restram  the  number  of  itinerant 

»  The  oripinat  apjKiintment  of  John  Bernard  is  preserved  in  the 
l!)r«ry  of  Sir  Tboma*  Phillippes,  Bnrt..  to  wliom  we  owe  the  addi- 
liwal  information,  that  this  Clerk  of  the  Revels  had  a  house  assjfrncd 
to  him,  strangely  railed,  in  the  instruinnnt.  "  E(0'P'>  anil  Flesh- 
Hall."  with  a  garden  which  had  l)eloiig.nl  to  the  dissolved  monastery 
of  the  Charter-house  :  the  words  of  the  original  are,  omnia  ilia  do- 
mum  el  tdifiria  nuper  voratn  Egiple  et  FUshall.  el  illnm  domum 
mijacenlem  nup'r  vomtnm  U  garnrter.  The  theatrical  wardrobe  of 
IW  court  was  at  this  period  kept  at  St.  John's  Gate,  Clerkcnwell. 

»  In  hii  ••  Edward  Vl.  and  Mary,"  IKR),  vol.  j.  p.  20. 

'  See  Kernjie's  •■  Losely  Manuscripts,"  i-:{.5,  p.  (il.  The  warrant 
for  the  purpose  was  undo r  the  sign  manual,  and  it  was  directed  to 
.Sir  T.  Caward.-n.  as  Master  of  the  Hevels  :— '•  We  will  and  command 
V..U.  upon  the  sight  hereof,  f.irlhwith  to  make  and  deliver  out  of  our 
Ki'vcis,  uiil'.  the  Gentlemen  of  our  Chapel,  for  a  play  to  be  played 
before  ii»  a!  the  fenxl  of  our  Coronation,  as  in  times  past  hath  been 
accuitoHK-d  to  I*  done  by  the  Gentlemer.  of  the  Chapel  of  our  pro- 
Itenitors.  all  surh  necessary  garinorls,  and  other  things  for  the  lur- 
Biture  th»'re..f  n»  shall  1#  lh<iught  meet,''  kc.  The  play,  although 
ordered  fir  tins  occnsmn.  viz.  1st  Oct.  liW,  was  for  some  unex- 
pla.ned  reason  ileferred  until  Christmas. 

♦  There  is  a  material  diffejence  between  the  warrant  under  the 
privy  seal,  and  the  patent  under  the  great  seal,  granted  upon  this 
occasion  :  the  former  gives  the  players  a  right  to  perform  '  as  well 
irithln  the  city  of  London  and  lilierties  of  the  same  "  as  elsewhere  ; 
but  the  latier  (date.!  three  days  afterwards,  viz.  HI  .May,  157t)  omits 
Ibis  paragraph;  and  we  need  entertain  little  doubt  iliat  it  was  ex- 
olnded  at  the  instance  of  the  Corporation  of  London,  aiway«  opposed 
V>  Uteairical  performance.. 


performers.  Two  years  afterwards,  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
obtained  from  Elizjibeth  a  patent  under  the  great  seal,  to 
'  enable  his  players  James  Burhage,  John  Perkyn.  John  Lan- 
ham,  Wilhum  Johnson,  aud  Robert  Wilsoii,  to  perforn: 
"  comedies,  tragedies,  interludes,  and  stiigc-plays,"  in  any 
part  of  the  kuigdom,  with  the  exception  oif  the  metropolis* 
The  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen  succeeded  in  excluding 
the  players  from  the  strict  boundaries  of  the  city,  but  they 
I  were  not  able  to  shut  them  out  of  the  liberties ;  and  it  ia 
[  not  to  be  forgotten  that  James  Burbuge  and  his  associates 
1  were  sujjported  by  coiut  favour  generally,  aud  by  the  pow- 
erful patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester  in  jjarticular.  Ac- 
cordiugly,  in  the  year  after  they  had  obtained  tlieir  patent, 
!  James  Burbage  aud  his  fellows  tcnik  a  lai-ge  house  in  tlie 
!  precinct  of  the  dissolved  monastery  of  the  Black  Friars,  aud 
I  converted  it  into  a  theatre.  This  was  accomplished  in  1676, 
'  and  it  is  the  first  time  we  hear  of  any  building  set  apart  for 
\  theatrical  representations.  Until  then  the  various  compa- 
I  nies  of  actors  had  been  obliged  to  content  themselves  with 
churches,  halls,  with  temporary  erections  iu  the  streets,  or 
I  with  iuu  yards,  in  which  they  raised  a  stage,  the  specbitors 
■  standing  below,  or  occupying  the  galleries  that  surrounded 
the  open  space*.  Just  abtiut  the  same  period  two  other 
edifices  were  built  for  the  exhibition  of  plays  in  Shoreditch, 
'  one  of  which  was  called  "  The  Curtain",''  aud  the  other  "  The 
j  Theatre."  Both  these  are  mentioned  as  in  existeuce  and 
operation  in  1577'.     Thus  we  see  that  two  buildings  close 

rithiu  a  pri 
trict  iu  the  city,  all  expressly  applied  to  the  purpose  of 


to  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  a  third  within  a  privileged  dis- 

^luipos 
stage-plays,  were  m  use  almost  immediately  after  the  date 
i  of  the  Patent  to  the  playere  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  It  is 
1  extremely  likely,  though  we  have  uo  distiuct  evidence  of 
j  the  fact,  that  one  or  more  phty-h»)uses  were  opened  about 
I  the  same  time  iu  Southwark ;  aud  we  know  that  the  Rose 
theatre  was  standing  there  uot  many  years  afterwards" 
!  John  Stockwood,  a  puritanical  preacher,  published  a  sermon 
1  in  1578,  in  which  he  asserted  that  theie  were  "  eight  ordi 
nary  places"  in  and  near  Loudon  for  diamatic  exhibitions. 
I  and  that  the  united  profits  were  not  less  than  £2000  a  year 
'  at  least  £12,0U0  of  our  present  money.  Another  divine,  of 
i  the  name  of  White,  equally  opposed  to  such  perfonuauces, 
[  preaching  in  1576,  called  the  play-houses  at  that  time 
i  erected,  "  sumptuous  theatres."  Xo  doulit,  the  puritauicid 
:  zeal  of  these  divines  had  been  excited  by  the  o))cning  of  the 
Blackfiiars,  the  Curtsuu,  and  the  Theatie,  in  1576  and  1577, 
for  the  exclusive  purpose  of  the  drama ;  aud  the  five  adili- 
tiouiil  places,  where  plays,  according  to  Sttickwood,  weie 
acted  before  1578,  were  most  hkely  a  play-house  at  Xew- 
iugton-butts,  or  inn-yards,  converted  occasionally  into 
theatres. 

An  important  fact,  in  connexion  with  the  manner  in  which 
dramatic  performiuices  were  patronized  by  Queen  EUzabeth, 
has  been  recently  brought  to  light*.     It  has  been  hitherto 

*  In  1SS7  the  Boar's  Head,  Aldgate,  had  been  used  for  the  per- 
formance of  a  drama  called  "  The  Sack  full  of  News;"  and  Stephen 
Gosson  in  his  "  School  of  Abuse,'"  \'u'J,  (reprinted  by  the  Shakespeare 
Society)  mentions  the  Belle  Savage  and  the  Bull  as  inns  at  which 
particular  plays  had  been  represented.  R.  Flecknae,  in  his  '-Short 
Discourse  of  the  English  Stage,'"  appended  to  his  *  Lovc"s  Kingdom,' 
IGUJ,  says  that  "  at  this  day  is  to  be  seen  "  that  ••  t'le  inn  yard.s  of  the 
Cross-Keys,  and  Bull,  in  Grace  and  Bishopsgate  Streets'"  had  been 
used  as  theatres.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  Boar's  Head, 
Aldgate,  had  belonged  to  the  father  of  Edward  Allcyn. 

'  It  has  Ijeen  supposed  by  some,  th.it  the  Curtain  theatre  owed  its 
name  to  the  curtain  employed  to  separate  the  actors  from  the  aud.- 
ence.  We  have  liefore  us'  documents  (which  on  account  of  thei 
length  we  cannot  insert)  showing  that  such  was  probably  not  the  fa  :t 
and  that  the  ground  on  which  the  building  stood  wa-s  c  .illed  the  Cur 
tain  (perhaps  as  part  of  the  fortifications  of  London)  before  any  p[ay 
house  was  built  there.  For  this  information  we  have  to  ouor  ol- 
thanks  to  Mr.  T.  E.  Tomlins  of  Islington. 

■>  In  John  Northbrooke's  "Treatise,'"  kc.  against  "vain  plays  oi 
interludes,"  licensed  for  the  press  in  l.'iT",  the  work  being  then  ready 
and  in  the  printer's  hands  It  has  been  reprinted  by  the  Shak<>spearr 
Society. 

8  See  the  "  Memoirs  of  Edward  Alleyn,"  (published  by  the  Shake- 
speare Society)  p.  1*^9.  It  seems  that  the  Rose  had  been  the  sign  of 
a  house  of  public  entertainment  before  it  was  ronverted  into  a  theatre. 
Such  was  also  the  case  with  the  Swan,  and  the  Hope,  in  the  same 
neighbourhood. 

»  By  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  in  his  "Extracts  from  the  AicounU 
of  the   Revels,"  printed   for  the  Shakespeare  Se^'eiv,  pp    3*2  an/ 


TO  THE  TIME  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


XXI 


iijpposed  that  in  1583  she  selected  one  company  of  twelve  1 
performers,  to  be  called  "  the  Queen's  players  ;"  but  it  seems  : 
that  she  had  two  separate  associati(Jus  iu  her  pay,  each  dis- 
tinguished as  "  the  Queen's  players."  Tyluey,  the  master 
of  the  revels  at  the  time,  records,  in  one  of  his  accounts, 
that  in  March,  1583,  he  had  been  sent  for  by  her  Majesty 
"  to  chuse  out  a  company  of  players :"  Richard  Tarlton  and 
Robert  Wilson  were  placed  at  the  head  of  that  association, 
which  was  probably  soon  afterwards  divided  into  two  dis- 
tinct bodies  of  performers.  In  1590,  John  Lanham  was  the 
leader  of  one  body',  and  Lawrence  Button  of  the  other. 

We  have  thus  brought  our  sket^'  of  dramatic  perform- 
ances and  performers  down  to  about  the  same  period,  the 
year  1583.  We  propose  to  continue  it  to  1590,  and  to  as- 
sume that  as  the  period  not,  of  course,  when  Shakespeare 
first  joined  a  theatrical  company,  but  when  he  began  writing 
original  pieces  for  the  stage.  Tliis  is  a  matter  which  is 
more  distinctly  considered  in  the  biography  of  the  poet ; 
but  it  is  necessary  here  to  fix  upon  some  date  to  which  we 
are  to  extend  our  mtroductory  account  of  the  progress  and 
condition  of  theatrical  affairs.  What  we  have  still  to  offer 
will  apply  to  the  seven  years  from  1583  to  1590. 

The  accounts  of  the  revels  at  court  about  this  period 
afford  us  little  mformation,  and  indeed  for  several  years, 
when  such  entertainments  were  certainly  required  by  the 
Queen,  we  are  without  any  details  either  of  the  pieces  per- 
formed, or  of  the  cost  of  preparation.  We  have  such  par- 
ticulars for  the  years  1581,  1582,  1584,  and  1587,  but  for 
the  intermediate  years  they  are  wanting.* 

The  accounts  of  1581,  1582,  and  1584,  give  us  the  fol- 
lowing names  of  dramatic  performances  of  various  kinds 
exhibited  before  the  Queen : 

A  comedv  called  Deliglit.  Ariodante  and  Genevora. 

The  Story  of  Pompey.  Pastoral  of  Phillida  and 
A  Game  of  the  Cards.  Clorin. 

A    comedy   of    Beauty    and      Histwy  of  Felix   and  Phi 

Housewifry.  liomenii. 

Love  and  Fortune.  Five  Plays  in  One. 

History  of  Ferrar.  Three  Phiys  in  One. 

History  of  Telomo.  Agamemnon  and  Ulysses. 

This  list  of  dramas  (the  accounts  mention  that  others 
were  acted  without  supplying  their  titles)  establishes  that 
moral  plays  had  not  yet  "been  excluded^.  The  "  Game  of 
the  Cards"  :s  expressly  called  "  a  comedy  or  moral,"  in  the 
accounts  of  1582;  and  we  may  not. imreasonably  suppose 
that  "  Deliglit,"  and  "  Beauty  and  Housewifry,"  were  of  the 
same  class.  "The  Story  of  Pompey,"  and  "Agamemnon 
and  Ulysses,"  were  evidently  performances  founded  upon 
ancient  history,  and  such  may  have  been  the  case  with  "  The 
History  of  Telomo."  "  Love  and  Fortune"  has  been  called 
"  the  play  of  Fortune"  in  the  account  of  1573  ;  and  we  may 
feel  assured  that  "  Ariodante  and  Genevora"  was  the  story 
told  by  Ariosto,  wliich  also  forms  part  of  the  plot  of 
"  Much  Ado  about  Nothing."  "  The  Histoiy  of  Ferrai-"  was 
doubtless  "The  History  of  Error"  of  the  account  of  1577, 
the  clerk  having  written  the  title  by  his  ear :  and  we  may 
reasonably  suspect  that  "Felix  and  Philiomena"  was  the 
tale  of  FeUx  and  Felismena,  narrated  in  the  •'  Diana"  of 
Montemayor.     It  is  thus  evident,  that  the  Master  of  the 

£86.     The  editor's  "  Introduction  "  is  full  of  new  and  valuable  infor- 

1  Tarlton  filed  on  3  Sept.  15S8.  and  we  apprehend  that  it  was  not 
until  after  this  date  that  Lanham  became  leader  of  one  company  of 
the  Queen's  Players.  Mr.  Halliwell  discovered  Tarlton's  will  in  the 
Prerogative  Office,  bearing  date  on  the  day  of  his  decease  :  he  there 
calls  himself  one  of  the  grooms  of  the  Queen's  chamber,  and  loaves 
all  his  "  goods,  cattels,  chattels,  plate,  ready  money,  jewels,  bonds 
oblitratory.  specialties,  and  debts,"  to  his  son  Philip  Tarlton,  a  niinor. 
He  appoinis  his  mother,  Katherine  Tarlton  his  friend  Robert  Adams, 
and  "his  fellow  William  Johnson,  one  also  of  the  grooms  oi  her 
Maiesty's  chamber,"  trustees  for  his  son.  and  executors  ot  his  will, 
whi^ch  was  proved  by  Adams  three  days  after  the  death  of  the  testator. 
M  Tarlton  says  nothing  about  his  wife  in  his  will,  we  may  presume 
that  he  was  a  widower  ;  and  of  his  son,  Philip  Tarlton,  we  never  hear 
afterwards.  .    ,  j    eu  i,„ 

»  From  1587  *-.  1604.  the  most  important  period  as  regards  bhake- 
«peare,  it  does  not  appear  that  any  official  statements  by  the  mas  er 
of  the  .evels  have  been  preserved.  In  the  same  way  there  is  an  un- 
fortunate  interval  between  1604  and  Kill.  v,  .u  ,„..  „ 

»  One  of  the  last  pieces  represented  before  Queen  Ehzibeth  was  a 


Revels  and  the  actors  exerted  themselves  to  furbish  variety 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  Queen  and  her  nobility ;  but 
we  still  see  no  trace  ("  Gorboduc"  excepted)  of  any  play-  at 
com-t,  the  materials  for  which  were  obtained  from  "the  Eng- 
lish Chronicles.  It  is  very  certain,  however,  that  anterior 
to  1588  such  pieces  had  been  written,  smd  acted  before  puV> 
lie  audiences'* ;  but  those  who  cateix-il  for  the  court  in  these 
matters  might  not  consider  it  expedieut  to  erhibit,  in  the 
presence  of  the  Queen,  any  play  which  involved  the  neti<iua 
or  conduct  of  her  predecessors.  The  companies  of  playere 
engaged  in  these  representations  were  those  of  the  Queen, 
tlie  Earls  of  Leicester,  Deiby,  Sussex,  Oxford,  the  Lr^'Je 
Himsdon  and  Strange,  and  the  children  of  the  Chapel  Eloyn? 
and  of  St.  Paul's. 

About  this  date  the  number  uf  companies  of  actoi-s  pei 
forming  pubHcly  in  and  near  London  seems  to  have  beer 
very  considerable.  A  person,  wh*  calls  himself  "  a  soldier," 
writing  to  Secretary  Walsingham,  in  January,  1580,'  tells 
him,  that  "  every  day  in  the  week  the  players'  bills  are  set 
up  in  sundry  places  of  the  city."  and  after  mentioning  the 
actors  of  the  Queen,  the  Earl  of  Leicester,'  the  Earl  of 
Oxford,  and  the  Lord  Admiral,  he  goes  on  to  state  that  not 
fewer  than  two  hundred  persons,  thus  retained  and  em 
ployed,  strutted  in  their  silks  about  the  streets.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  this  statement  is  nmch  exaggerated,  re- 
collecting the  many  noblemen  who  had  players  acting  under 
their  names  at  tliis  date,  and  that  each  c<inipauy  cousist«d 
probably  of  eight  or  ten  performers.  Ou  the  same  authmity 
we  learn  that  theatrical  representations  upon  the  Sabbath 
had  been  forbidden ;  but  this  restiiction  cloes  not  seem  to 
have  been  imposed  without  a  considerable  struggle.  Before 
1581  the  Privy  Council  had  issued  an  order  upon  the  sub- 
ject, but  it  was  disregarded  in  some  of  the  subuibs  of  Loo- 
don ;  and  it  was  not  until  after  a  fatal  exhibition  of  bear- 
baiting  at  Pa:  is  Garden,  upon  Sunday,  13  .June,  1583,  when 
many  persons  were  killed  imd  wounded  by  the  falling  of  a 
scaffold,  that  the  practice  of  playmg,  as  well  iis  bear-biiting. 
on  the  Sabbath  was  at  all  generally  cheeked.  In  1586,  lu? 
far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  information  that  has  ctime 
down  to  om-  day,  the  order  which  kid  been  issued  in  thia 
respect  was  pretty  strictly  enforced.  At  this  period,  and 
afterwards,  plays  were  not  uufrequently  played  at  court  on 
Sunday,  and  the  cliief  difficulty  therefore  seems  to  have 
been  to  induce  the  Privy  Council  to  act  with  energy  against 
similar  performances  iu  pubUc  theatres. 

The  annual  official  statement  of  the  Master  of  the  Revels 
merely  tells  us,  in  general  tenns,  that  between  Christmas 
1586,  and  Shrovetide  1587,  "seven  plays,  besides  feats  of 
activity,  and  other  shows  by  the  children  of  Paul's,  her 
Majestv's  servants,  and  the  gentlemen  of  Gray's  Inn."  were 
prepared  and  represented  befoie  the  Queen  at  Greenwich. 
No  names  of  plavs  are  furnished,  but  iu  1587  was  priuti-d  a 
tragedy,  under  the  title  of  "The  Misforluues  of  Arthur.' 
which  purports  to  have  been  acted  by  some  of  the  memlM-ra 
of  Gray's  Inn  before  the  Queeu,  on  28  Feb.,  1587  :  tliid.  in 
fact,  must  be  the  very  productii>n  stated  iu  the  revels'  ac- 
counts to  have  been  got  up  and  perforaied  by  tliese  par- 
ties ;  and  it  requii-es  notice,  not  merely  for  its  own  iutriusic 
excellence  as  a  drama,  but  because,  in  point  of  date,  it  is 

moral  play,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Contention  between  Lib*r«lit» 
and  Prodigi.-ty,"  printed  in  l«U-2,  and  acted,  as  appears  by  the  ttron^ 
est  internal  evidence,  in  1600.  ....     a,  ,   ,-;si  „i^ 

4  Tarlton.  who  died,  as  we  have  already  stated,  in  Sept.  15s3.  oV 
tained  great  celebrity  bv  his  performance  of  the  two  part*  of  Demck 
and  *e  .fudge,  in  the  old  historical  play  of  ••  The  Famous  ^  .ctone. 
of  Henry  the  Fifth."  ,  ,       ,,^_   „     _,. 

»  See  the  original  letter  in  Harleian  MSS.  >o.  >to. 

6  The  mannlr  in  which,  about  this  time,  the  P'^-^'" '«"  j""^ 
away  from  Oxford  is  curiou.s.  and  one  of  the  items  '"  '\'  »'/°";'' 
expresslv  applies  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester  s  servanU^  We  are  oblige 
to  the  Rev^^Dr.  Bliss  for  the  following  extract*.  relaUng  to  thi.  p- 
riod  ard  a  little  afterwards  :  ■    i    j- 

1587  Solut.  Histrionibus  Comitis  Lf  est",,  ut  cum  su.s  ludi. 

sine  majore  Academic  molestift  discedsot  .        .     xx, 

Solut   Histrionibus  HonoratiKsirai  Domini  Howard  .     XX. 

1588  Solut.  Histrionibus,  ne  ludos  inhone*to«  exercerent  in-         ^ 

fra  Universitatem  ..-■("»  *"•■ 

15M  Solut.  per  D.  Eedes,  vice-cancellarii  locum  t<'n.«"««°. 
quibusdam  Histrionibus.  ut  sine  pertn-batija*  -t 
KUepitu  ab  Academia  discederent  •      » 


xxu 


HISTORY    OF  THE  ENGLISH  STAGE 


the  secouil  pliiv  foiiuded  upt>u  Euglisli  bistoiy  represented 
at  court,  as  well  lus  the  socoiid  original  theatrical  production 
in  bhmk-vor-se  that  has  been  preserved'.  The  example,  in 
this  particular,  had  been  set,  as  we  have  already  shown,  in 
'•  Goi-bxiuo,"  tifleeu  yeai-s  before  ;  and  it  is  probable,  that  in 
tliat  interval  not  a  few  of  the  serious  compositions  exhibited 
at  court  were  in  blank-verse,  but  it  had  not  yet  been  used 
on  any  of  our  public  stages. 

The  nuun  body  of  "  The  Misfortunes  of  Arthur"  was  the 
authorehip  of  Thomas  Hughes,  a  member  of  Gray's  Inn; 
but  some  speeches  and  two  choruses  (which  are  in  rhyme) 
were  addled  by  William  Fulbecke  and  Francis  Flower, 
wliile  no  Ifss  a  man  than  Lord  Bacon  assisted  Christopher 
Velverton  and  John  Lsmoaster  in  the  preparation  of  the 
dumb-shows.  Hughes  evidently  took  "  Gorboduc"  as  his 
uuhIcI.  both  in  subject  aud  style,  jind,  like  Saekville  and 
Norton,  he  adopted  the  form  of  the  Greek  aud  Roman 
dnuna,  and  aiDiered  •  more  strictly  than  his  predecessors  to 
the  unities  of  time  and  place.  The  j)lot  relates  to  the  re- 
Wlliou  <  if  Mordred  against  liis  father,  king  Arthur,  aud  part 
of  the  plot  is  vei7  revolting,  on  account  of  the  incest  be- 
tween Moixlred  and  his  stepmother  Guenevora,  Mordred 
himself  being  the  s-m  of  Arthur's  sister:  there  is  also  a  vast 
deal  of  bl'jod  and  slaughter  throughout,  and  the  catastrophe 
is  tlie  killing  of  the  son  by  the  father,  and  of  the  father  by 
the  Son;  st>  that  a  moie  painfully  disagi-eeable  story  could 
hardly  have  been  selected.  The  author,  however,  possessed 
a  very  bold  imd  vigorous  genius ;  his  characters  are  strongly 
lirawn,  and  the  language  they  employ  is  consistent  with 
tJieir  situations  and  habits :  his  blank-verse,  both  in  force 
uid  variety,  is  superior  to  that  of  either  Saekville  or  Nor- 
ton'. 

It  is  veiy  clear,  that  up  to  the  year  15S0,  about  which 
date  Gossou  published  his  "  Plays  confuted  in  Five  Ac- 
tions," drjmiatic  performjmces  on  the  pubUc  stages  of  Lou- 
don were  sometimes  in  prose,  but  more  constantly  in  rhyme. 
In  his  "School  of  Abuse,"  1579,  Gossuu  speaks  of  "two 
prose  b<^<jks  played  at  the  Bell  Savage' ;"  but  in  his"  Plays 
confuted'  he  tells  us,  that  "poets  send  their  verses  to  the 
8l!u:e  iijion  such  feet  as  c<intinually  are  roUed  up  in  rhyme." 
Witli  one  or  two  exceptions,  all  the  plays  publicly  acted,  of 
a  date  anterior  to  1590,  that  have  come  down  to  us,  are 
either  in  prose  or  b  rhyme*.  The  case  seems  to  have  been 
ditferent,  a«  already  remarked,  -with  some  of  the  coui-t- 
shows  and  private  entertainments;  but  we  are  now  advert- 
■|ng  to  the  pieces  represented  at  such  places  as  the  Theatre, 
tlie  Curtain,  Blackfriars,  aud  in  inn-yards  adapted  tempo- 
rarily to  dramatic  amusements,  to  which  the  public  was 
'indisciiminatelv  admitted  The  eaiUest  work,  b  which  the 
employment  of  blank-verse  for  the  purpose  of  the  common 

1  GajtcoyneV  "Jocanta,"  printed  in  1577,  and  represented  by  the 
*utlior  and  other  members  of  the  society  at  Gray's  Inn  in  1500  a-s  a 
prirate  »how.  was  a  translation  from  Euripides.  It  is,  as  far  a-s  has 
jtt  been  ascertained,  the  second  play  in  our  language  written  in 
blank-verse,  but  it  wa*  not  an  oripinal  work.  The  same  author's 
•'  Pupjo^<!."  taken  from  Ariosto,  is  in  prose. 

»  ••  I'hf  Mi.sfortunes  of  Arthur,"  with  four  other  drama^'.  has  been 
reprinted  in  a  »upplementarv  volume  to  the  last  edition  of  Dodsley's 
Old  I'lays.  It  is  not.  therefore,  necessary  here  to  enter  into  an  ex- 
amination of  iu  structure  or  versification.  It  is  a  work  of  extraor- 
dinary fK)wer. 

>  .<ee  the  Shakespeare  Society's  reprint,  p.  ."50.  Gosson  cives  them 
the  hi(;hest  praise,  a«ertinp  that  they  contained  •'  never  a  word 
withoat  wit,  never  a  line  without  pith,  never  a  letter  placed  in 
vain." 

♦  Sometimes  plays  written  in  prose  were,  at  a  subsequent  date, 
when  blank-verse  had  become  the  popular  form  of  compo.sition.  pub- 
lished as  if  ther  had  been  composed  in  measured  lines.  The  old  his- 
tonral  i.lay.  "The  Kamou*  Victories  of  Henry  trie  Fifth."  which 
preceded  that  of  Soaxespeare.  is  an  instance  directly  in  point  :  it  was 
written  in  prose,  but  the  old  printer  chopped  it  up' into  lines  of  un- 
equal length.  M  as  to  make  it  appear  to  the  eye  something  like  blank- 
Teiie, 

»  Greene  began  writine  in  l.')0,  his  ■' Mamillia"  havine  been 
then  pnnted  :  his  '-Mirror  of  Mode.ty"  and  '•  Monardo,'-  bear  the 
date  of  l.SM.  His  '•  .Minaphon"  (afterwards  called  "Greenes  Ar- 
cadia") first  appeared  in  15-7.  and  it  waa  reprinted  in  15-9.  We 
na»e  nev^r  seen  the  earliest  edition  of  it,  but  it  is  mentioned  bv 
laiious  bibliopraphem;  and  those  who  have  thrown  doubt  upon  the 
point,  (stated  in  the  History  „f  English  Dramatic  Poetry  and  the 
Suge.  vol.  lii..  p.  l.Vl),  for  the  sake  of  founding  an  argurnent  upon 
ii.  have  not  advened  to  the  conclusive  fact,  that  'Menaphon"^  is 
mentioned  as  already  ia  T,t.»'  in  the  introductory  matter  to  another 


I  stage  is  noticed,  is  an  epistle  I  y  Thomas  Nash  btroducing 
to  the  world  his  friend  Robert  GrecLe's  "  Meuaplion,"  in 
158"*:  there,  b  reference  to  "vain-glorious  tragedians,"  he 
says,  that  they  are  " mounted  on  the  stage  of  airogance," 
and  that  they  "  think  to  out-brave  better  pens  with  the 
sweUiug  bombast  of  bragging  blank-vci-se."  He  afteiwards 
talks  of  the  "drumming  decjisylhbon"  they  employed,  aud 

I  ridicules  them  for  "  i-eposing  eternity  iu  the  mouth  of  a 
player."     This  question  is  fartlier  illustiated  by  a  produe- 

I  tion  by  Greene,  pubhshed  b  the   next  year,  "  Penmavles, 

I  tlie  Blacksmith,"  from  which  it  is  evideutthat  Nash  had  ac 
bdividual  allusion  in  wliat  he  had  said  in  1587.  Greene, 
fixes  on  the  author  of  the  tragedy  of  "  Tamburlaine,"  whom 
he  accuses  of  "settbg  the  end  of  scholaiism  b  an  English 
blank-verse,"  and  who,  it  should  seem,  had  somewhere  ac- 
cused Greene  of  not  bebg  able  to  write  it 

We  learn  from  various  authoiities,  that  Christopher 
Marlowe*  was  the  author  of  "  Tamburlaine  the  Gieat,"  a 
dramatic  woik  of  the  highest  celebrity  and  populantv. 
prbted  as  early  as  1590,  and  affording  the  fiist  knowL  in- 
stance of  the  use  of  blank-verse  in  a  pubUc  theatie:  the 
title-page  of  the  edition  1690  states,  that  it  had  been  "sun- 
diy  times  shown  upon  stjiges  b  the  city  of  London."  In 
the  prologue  the  author  claims  to  have  introduced  a  ntrw 
form  of  composition : — 

"  From  jigging  veins  of  rhyming  mother-ints. 
And  sncii  conceits  as  clownage  keeps  in  p;iy, 
v\'e  '11  lead  you  to  the  stately  tent  of  war,"  &c. 

Accordbgly,  nearly  the  whole  drama,  consisting  of  a  first 
and  second  part,  is  iu  blank-verse.  Hence  we  see  the  value 
of  Dryden's  loose  assertion,  in  the  dedication  to  Lord  ur 
reiy  of  his  "  Rival  Ladies,"  in  166-1,  that  "  Shakespeare  wae 
the  first  who,  to  shun  the  pains  of  continual  rhymbg,  in- 
vented that  kbd  of  writbg  which  we  call  blaiik-veise." 
The  distinction  belongs  to  Marlowe,  the  greatest  of  Shakes 
peare's  predecessors,  and  a  poet  who,  if  he  had  lived,  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  a  foimidable  rival  of  his  genius.  We 
have  too  much  reverence  for  the  exhaustless  originality  of 
our  great  dramatist,  to  thbk  that  he  cannot  afford  this,  or 
any  other  tribute  to  a  poet,  who,  as  far  as  the  public  stage 
is  concerned,  deserves  to  be  regarded  as  the  bventor  of  a 
new  style  of  ^imposition. 

Tliat  the  attempt  was  viewed  with  jealousy,  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  after  what  we  have  quoted  from  N!\sh  and  Greene. 
It  is  most  likely  that-  Greene,  who  was  older  than  Nash, 
had  previously  written  various  dramas  in  rhyme ;  and  the 
bold  experiment  of  Marlowe  having  been  instantly  success- 
ful, Greene  was  obliged  to  abandon  his  old  course,  and  his 
extant  plays  are  all  b  blank-verse.     Nash,  who  had  at- 

of  Greene's  pamphlets,  dated  in  15S7 — we  mean  "Euphues  hii 
Censure  to  Phiiautus." 

*  If  Marlowe  were  bom,  as  has  been  supposed,  abont  15<i'>,  (Oldys 
places  the  event  earlier,)  he  was  twenty-four  when  he  wrote  '•  Tam- 
burlaine.'' as  we  believe,  in  LS-'G,  and  only  thirty-one  when  he  was 
killed  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Archer,  in  an  ali'rav  nrising  out  of 
an  amorous  intrigue,  in  1.5W.  In  a  manuscript  note  of  the  time,  in 
a  copy  of  his  version  of  "Hero  and  Leaiider,"  edit.  l(i'29.  in  our  i*.-^ 
session,  it  is  said,  among  other  things,  that  ■'  Marlowe's  father  was  a 
shoemaker  at  Canterbury,"  and  that  he  had  an  acquaintance  at  Pover 
whom  he  infected  with  the  extreme  liberality  of  his  opinions  on 
matters  of  religion.  At  the  back  of  the  title-page  of^  the  ssms 
volume  is  inserted  the  following  epitaph,  subscribed  with  JMarlowe' 
name,  and  no  doubt  of  his  composition,  although  never  befoi 
noticed  : — 

"In  obitum  honoratissimi  viri 
ROGKRI  Maxwood,  :\Ii litis.  Qusstorii 
Reginalis  Capitalis  Baronis. 
Noctivngi  terror,  ganeonis  triste  flagellum, 
Et  Jovis  Alcides.  rigido  vulturque  latroni, 
L'rnil  subtegitur  :  scelerum  gaudete  nepotes. 
Insons,  luctifica  sparsis  cervice  capillis. 
Plange,  fori  lumen,  venerandaj  gloria  legis 
Occidit  :  heu  I  secum  effcEtas  Acherontis  ad  oraa 
Multa  abiit  virtus.     Pro  tot  virtutibus  uni, 
Livor,  parce  viro  :  non  aud?cissimus  esto 
Illius  in  cineres,  cujus  tot  millia  vulvus 
Mortalium  attonuit  :  sic  cnm  te  nuncia  Pitis 
Vulneret  exanguis,  feliciter  o^a  quie.scant. 
Famaque  marmorei  superet  monumenta  sepnlchri." 
It  is  added,  that  "  Marlowe  was  a  rare  scholar,  ami  died  aged  rbouf 
thirty."     The  above  is  the  only  extant  specimen  of  his  La'in  :ora 
position,  and  we  insert  it  exactly  as  ir  sutnds  in  m'.riscr.pt 


TO  THE  TIME  OF   SHAKESPEAKE. 


XXlll 


And  scale  the  icy  mountains'  lofty  toM, 
Which  with  thy  beauty  will  bo  soou  dissolv'd. 


tacked  Marlowe  in  1687,  before  1593  (when  Marlowe  was 
killed)  had  joined  him  in  the  production  of  a  blank-verse 

tragedy  on  the  stoiy  of  Dido,  which  was  printed  in  1594  ^^^^  ^,^^.      jjU^dej  ^^.  _ 

It  has  been  objected  to  "  Tainburlame,    that  it  is  written    ^^^^  ^^^^^  -^  ^.^^  hardly  have 

m  a  turgid  and  ambitious  style,  such  indeed  as  ^ash  and  ,  ^^,  ^.gg^  ^^,^^^^  j^  ^^^^^^  ^j^^  p^ 


Tamburlaine"  in  1587,  it  ie  evi 

been  written  later  than  1585 

period  when  it  has  bten  geuer 


Greene  ndicule ;  but  we  are  to  recollect  that  Marlowe  was  -  ^jj     ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^.j^  appealance  of  probabUitv,  siipljose  1 
at  this  time  endeavouring   to  wean   audiences   from   the     -  •'    -    -  .  '  r.  .    .      .     »    .  -. .    .n     . 


jicro-intr  veins  of  rhyming  mother-wits,"  and  that,  in  order  to 
eatfsfy  the  ear  for  the  loss  of  the  jingle,  he  was  obUged  to 
Dive  what  Nash  calls  "  the  swelling  bombast  of  bragging 
blank-verse."  This  consideration  will  of  itself  account  tor 
breaches  of  a  more  correct  taste  t.^  be  found  in  "  Tambur- 
laine." In  the  Prologue,  besides  what  we  have  already 
quoted.  Marlowe  tells  the  audience  to  expect  "  high  as- 
iouLdLog  terms,"  and  he  did  not  disappoint  expectation. 
Perhaps  the  better  to  reconcile  the  ordinary  frequenters  of 
pubhc  theatres  to  the  change,  he  inserted  various  scenes  of 
low  comedy,  which  the  printer  of  the  edition  in  1590 
thought  fit  to  exclude,  as  "  digressing,  and  far  unmeet  for 
the  matter."  Marlowe  Ukewise  sprinkled  couplets  here 
and  there,  although  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  havmg  ac- 
complished his  object  of  substituting  blank-verse  by  the 
first  part  of  "  Tamburlaine,"  he  did  not,  even  in  the  second 
part,  think  it  necessary  by  any  means  so  frequently  to  m- 
troduce  occasional  rhymes.  In  those  plays  which  there  is 
ground  for  believing  to  be  the  first  works  of  Shakespeare, 
couplets,  and  even  stanzas,  are  more  frequent  than  in  any 
of  the  surviving  productions  of  Marlowe.  This  cu-cum- 
stance  is,  perhaps,  in  part  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact 
(as  far  as  we  may  so  call  it)  that  our  great  poet  retained 
in  some  of  his  performances  portions  of  old  rhyming  dramas, 
which  he  altered  and  adapted  to  the  stage ;  but  in  early 
plays,  which  are  to  be  looked  upon  as  entirely  his  own, 
Shfikespeare  appears  to  have  deemed  rhyme  more  neces 
sary  to  satisfy  the  ear  of  his  auditory  than  Marlowe  held  it 
when  he  wrote  his  "  Tamburlaine  the  Great." 

As  the  first  employment  of  blank-verse  upon  the  pubhc 
Etao-e  by  Marlowe  is  a  matter  of  much  miportance,  m  rela- 
tion to  the  history  of  our  more  ancient  drama,  and  to  the 
subsequent  adoption  of  that  form  of  composition  by  Shakes- 
peare we  ought  not  to  dismiss  it  without  affording  a  smgle 
epecii^ien  from  "  Tamburlaine  the  Great."  The  loUowmg 
is  a  portion  of  a  speech  by  the  hero  to  Zenocrate,  when  nrst 
he  meets  and  sues  to  her : 

"  Disdains  Zenocrate  to  live  with  me, 
Or  you,  mv  lords,  to  be  my  followers  ? 
Think  you"  I  weigh  this  treusure  more  than  you  ! 
Not  all'the  gold  "in  India's  wealthy  arms 
Shall  buy  the  meanest  soUiier  in  my  train. 
Zenocrate,  lovelier  than  the  love  ot  Jove, 
Brighter  than  is  the  silver  Khodone, 
Fairer  than  whitest  snow  on  Scythian  hills, 
Thy  person  is  more  worth  to  Tamburlaine, 
Than  the  possession  of  the  Persian  crown, 
Which  gracious  stars  have  promis  d  at  my  birtn. 
A  hundred  Tartars  shall  attend  on  thee, 
Mounted  on  steeds  swifter  than  Pegasus  : 
Thv  Kannents  shall  be  made  ot  Median  silk, 
Enchas'd  with  precious  jewels  of  inme^own. 
More  rich  and  valuroua  than  Zenocrate  s  : 
'  With  milk-white  harts  upon  an  ivory  sled 
Thou  shale  be  drawn  amidst  the  trozen  poles, 

f>u  quotation  is  from  a  cpy  of  the  edition  of  ^f,  4  to.  in  the 
abcdTf  of  Lord  Francis  Egerton,  which  v.e  beheve  to  be  the  earl  est 
4  Uie  lHle-pa<re  it  is  stated  that  it  is  •'  now  first  and  newly  pub- 
Ushci"  U  wal  several  tunes  reprinted.  No  modern  edmon  is  to  be 
trusted  :  they  are  full  of  the  grossest  errors,  and  never  could  have 
'%^\noUrefplay,  not  publis)ied  until  1657  -"er  the  title  of  ^  W. 

and  even  included  in  editions  of  his  works      I\^^ '^f  ^  P\°f  ,?'4'^^ 


that  Shakespeare  arrived  in  London.  In  considering  tLi 
state  of  the  stage  just  before  our  great  dramatist  became  » 
writer  for  it,  it  is  clearly,  therefore,  necessaiy  to  adveil 
briefly  to  the  other  works  of  Marlowe,  observing  "in  addi- 
tion, with  reference  to  "  Tamburlaine,"  that  it  is  a  histoiica! 
drama,  in  which  not  a  single  unity  is  regarded;  time,  pla'-»- 
and  action,  are  equally  set  at  defiance,  and  the  s'j'.-ne  Aiikt 
at  once  to  or  from  Peisia,  Scythia,  Georgia,  and  Moruceo, 
as  best  suited  the  purpose  of  the  poet 

Marlowe  was  also,  most  Hkely,  the  autlior  of  a  play  in 
which  the  Priest  of  the  Sun  was  prominent,  ae  Greene  men- 
tions it  with  "Tamburlaine"  in  1588,  but  no  such  piece  is 
now  known :  he,  however,  wrote  "  The  Tragical  Historj'  of 
the  Life  and  Death  of  Doctor  Faustus,"  "  The  Massacre  at 
Paris,"  "  The  rich  Jew  of  Malta,"  and  an  English  historical 
play,  called  "  The  troublesome  Reign  and  hmientable  Death 
of  Edward  the  Second,"  besides  aiding  Nash  in  '"  Dido 
Queen  of  Carthage,"  as  already  mentioned.'  If  they  were 
not  all  of  them  of  a  date  anterior  to  any  of  Shakespeare's 
original  works,  they  were  wiitten  by  a  niiui  who  had  set 
the  example  of  the  employment  of  bhmk-vorse  upon  the 
pubUc  stage,  and  perhaps  of  the  historical  and  romantic 
drama  in  all  its  leading  features  and  characteristics.  His 
"  Edward  the  Second"  affords  sufficient  proof  i-f  lK)th  these 
points:  the  versification  displays,  though  n.-t  perhaps  in  the 
same  abtmdance,  nearly  all  the  excellences  of  Shakespeare  : 
and  in  point  of  construction,  as  well  as  in  inteiest,  it  be^i-s 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  "  Richard  tlie  Second"  of  our 
great  dramatist.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  one  without 
:  being  remmded  of  the  other,  and  we  am  have  u<>  ditfioulty 
in  assigning  "  Edward  the  Second"  to  an  anterior  period.' 

The  same  remark  as  to  date  may  be  made  upon  the 
plays  which  came  from  the  pen  of  Robert  Greene,  who 
died  m  September,  159'2,  when  Shakespeare  was  rising  bto 
notice,  and  exciting  the  jealousy  of  dramatists  who  had 
previously  furnished  the  pubhc  stages.  This  jealousy  broke 
out  on  the  part  of  Greene  in,  if  not  bt«fore,  1592,  (m  which 
■    "  Groatsworth  of  Wit,"  a  posthum.-us  work,  was 


year 


when  he 


pubhshed  by  his  contemporary,  Heniy  Chettle* 
complamed  that  Shakespeare  had  "beautifiet 
with  the  feathers  of  others  :  he  alluded,  as  we  appi-eheud, 
to  tlie  manner  in  which  Shakespeare  had  availed  iiiiusi-lf 
of  the  two  parts  of  the  "  Contention  between  the  Houses, 
York  and  Lancaster,"  m  the  authoi-ship  of  which  there  is 
much  rea8t)n  to  suppose  Greene  had  been  conceined.'  Such 
evidence  iis  remauis  upon  this  point  has  been  adduced  in 
our  "  Introduction"  to  "  The  Third  Part  of  Henry  V  1.  f  and 
a  perusal  of  the  two  pails  of  the  "  Contention."  in  Uieir 
original  state,  will  serve  to  show  the  condition  of  kuv  dni- 
matic  literature  at  that  great  epoch  of  our  stagt-^iist..ry, 
when  Shakespeare  began  to  aequiie  celebiity.  " llie  1  lue 
Tragedy  of  Richard  IIL"  is  a  drama  of  aU'ut  the  same 
period,  which  has  come  down  to  us  in  a  much  more  iiiiiH-r 
feet  state,  the  original  manuscript  having  been  obviously 


ward  II."    We  will 
upon  this  point,  where 


ngly  adopt  the  analification  of  Mr.  Halluc 
he  says.  ("  Introduction  to  the  Literature  ot 


Europe, 


1  edit  l^J^i.)  "  I  am  relncUnt  to  adroit  that 
Shakespeare  modelled  iijs  characters  by  those  °^J.'^'"l'v^'^^^  '1 
natural  to  ask  whether  there  were  not  an  exttaordinarylikej.e«  in 
the  dispositions,  as  well  as  in  the  fortunes  of  the  »»"  """ej  ■  , 

4  in^our  biographical  account  of  ^^hakespeare.  under  the  date  of 
1.5»->   we  have  Necessarily  entered  more  at  large  into  this  question. 

i  Mr   Hallam  ('•  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Lurop*     ''>\..^, 

Tiprhins   not  very  lone  before  the  death  of  Greene. 
^  .They  have  been  accurately  reprinted  by  tne  ^h=^«*P«=;™J'< '"^ 
under  the  care  of  Mr    HalUwell,  from  the  earliest  unpre«  n.  x» 
1594  and  150.5. 


XllV 


IIISTORT   OF  THE  ENGLISH  STAGE. 


very  corrupt.  It  was  piloted  in  1694,  and  Shakespeare, 
riu<[uig  it  in  iLe  pt«i*»sj«ion  of  the  cou)p:mv  to  which  he 
was  attached,  probal.ly  luiii  ui>  sciuple  in  construetiug  his 
'Richard  the  Third"  of  some  of  its  rude  materials.  It 
D  ciDs  U"t  uulikely  that  Robert  Gieeue,  and  perhaps  some 

0  lier  {x'puhir  dramatists  of  his  diiv.  had  been  engaged 
OiXKi  -  The  True  Tragedy  of  Richard  III."' 

The  dnunatic  works  published  under  the  name  or  initials 
of  Robert  Cireene,  or  by  extraneous  testimony  ascertained 
to  be  his,  were  "Orhiudo  Furioso."  (founded  upon  the 
poems  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto.)  lirst  printed  b  1594:* 
'  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay,'"  also  fiist  printed  in  1594, 
and  taken  fn>m  a  p^ipuhir  story-book  of  the  time;  "Al- 
phonsus  King  of  Arragon,"  1699.  for  which  we  know  of  no 
uiigiual ;  and  "  James  the  Fourth"  of  Scotland,  1598, 
partly  Uirrowetl  from  histt)ry,  and  partly  mere  inventiiai. 
Greene  also  joined  with  Thomas  Lodge  in  writing  a  species 
of  moi-al-minicle-play,  (partaking  of  the  nature  of  both,) 
under  the  title  of  "A  Loi>king-GIass  for  London  and  Eng- 
land." 1594.  derived  fiom  sacred  histtiry;  and  to  him  has 
also  been  imputed  "George  a  Greene,  the  Pinner  of  Wake- 
field." and  *•  The  Contention  between  Liberality  and  Prodi- 
gality," the  one  printed  in  1599.  and  the  other  in  1602.  It 
may  be  seriously  doubted  whether  he  had  any  hand  in  the 
two  last  but  the  productions  above-named  deserve  atten- 
tion, as  Works  written  at  an  early  date  for  the  gratification 
of  popular  audiences. 

In  the  passage  already  referred  to  fi-om  the  "  Groats- 
woith  of  Wit,"  1592,  Greene  also  objects  to  Shakespeare 
ou  the  ground  that  he  thought  himself  "  as  well  able  to 
bombast  out  a  blank-verse"  as  the  best  of  his  contempoi-a- 
Hes.  The  fact  is,  that  in  this  respect,  as  in  all  othere, 
(rreene  was  much  inferior  to  Marlowe,  and  still  less  can  his 
Unes  bear  comparison  witli  those  of  Shakespeare.  He 
doubtless  began  to  write  for  tlie  stage  in  rhyme,  and  liis 
blank-verse  preserves  neai  ly  all  the  defects  of  that  early 
form  :  it  reads  heavily  and  monciton((Usly,  without  variety 

01  pause  and  inflection,  and  almost  the  only  difference  be- 
tween it  and  rhyme  is  the  absence  of  corresponding  sounds 
at  the  ends  of  the  lines. 

Tlie  same  defects,  and  in  quite  as  striking  a  degree,  be 
long  to  another  of  the  dramatists  who  is  entitled  to  be  con 
eidered  a  predecasstu-  of  Shakespeare.  an<l  whose  name  has 
been  befi>re  introduced — Thomas  Lodge.  Only  one  play  in 
which  he  was  unassisted  has  desceniied  to  us.  and  it  bears 
tlie  title  of  "The  Wounds  of  Civil  War.  lively  set  forth  in 
the  True  Tragedies  of  Marius  and  Sylla." '  It  was  not 
printe<i  until  1594,  but  the  author  began  to  write  as  early 
as  1580,  and  we  may  safely  consider  his  tragedy  anterior 
to  the  orij^inal  works  of  Shakespeare:  it  was  prohabiy 
written  aU.ut  1587  or  1588,  as  a  not  very  successful  expe- 
riment in  blank-verse,  in  imitation  of  that  style  which 
Marlowe  had  at  once  rendered  popular. 

As  re<rar(l8  the  <late«  when  his  pieces  cnme  from  the 
pre**.  John  Lyly  is  entitled  to  earlier  notice  than  Greene,! 
Lodge,  or  even  Marlowe;   and  it  is  possible,  as  he  was  ten. 


'  years  older  than  Shakespeare,  that  he  was  a  writei'  before 
any  of  them :  it  does  not  seem,  howevei-,  that  his  dramM 
were  intended  for  the  public  stage,  but  for  court-shows  ot 
private  entertainments.'  His  "  Alexander  and  Campaspe," 
tlie  best  of  his  prcnluctious,  was  represented  at  Court,  and 
it  was  twice  printed,  in  1584,  and  again  in  1591  :  it  is,  like 

I  most  of  this  autLor's  proUuctions,  in  prose  ;  but  his  "  Wo 
man  in  the  Moon"  (piinted  m  1597)  is  in  blank-verse,  auo 

j  the  "  Maids  Metamorphosis,"  l<ju0,  (if  indeed  it  be  by  him, J 
is  in  ihyme.     As  none  of  these  di-amas,  genei-ully  com- 

j  posed  in  a  refined,  aflecfed,  and  artificial  style,  can  be  said 

I  to  have  had  any  material  influence  upon  stage-entertjuu- 

I  ments  before  miscellaneous  audiences  in  London,  it  ia  nii 
necessaiy  for  our  present  purp-ose  to  sav  more  regarding 

I  them. 

George  Peele  was  about  the  same  age  as  Lyly  *  but  his 
theatrical  pr.xluctions  (with  the  exception  of  "The  Ar- 
raignment of  Paris,"  printed  in  1584.  and  written  for  the 
court)  are  of  a  different  desciiption.  having  been  intendea 
for  exhibition  at  the  ordinary  theatres.  His  "  Edwai  d  the 
First"  he  calls  a  "  famous  chionicle,"  and  mtet  of  the  inci- 
dents are  deiived  from  history :  it  is.  in  fact,  one  of  our 
earUest  plays  founded  upon  English  annals.  It  was  piinted 
in  1593  and  in  1599,  but  with  so  many  imperfections,  tliat 
we  cannot  accept  it  as  any  fair  representation  of  the  state 
in  which  it  came  from  the  authors  pen.  The  most  le- 
markable  feature  belonging  to  it  is  the  unworthy  nranner 
in  which  Peele  sacrificed  tlie  character  of  the  Queen  to  his 
desue  to  gratify  the  populai-  antipathy  to  the  Spaniaids: 
the  opening  of  it  is  spuited,  and  atfords  evidence  of  the 
authors  slaU  as  a  writer  of  bknk-verse.  His  "Battle  of 
Alcazai-"  may  also  be  termed  a  historical  drama,  in  which 
he  allowed  himself  the  most  extravagant  licence  as  to 
time,  incidents,  and  characters.  It  perhaps  preceded  hi'j 
"  Edward  the  Fii-st"  in  point  of  date,  (though  not  piinted 
until  1594.)  and  the  principal  event  it  refers  to  occurred  in 
1578.  "Su-  Clyomon  and  Clamydes"  is  merely  a  romance, 
in  the  old  form  of  a  rhyming  play  ;*  and  "  David  anil  Betli- 
sabe,"  a  sciiptui-al  drama,  and  a  gieat  unprovement  upon 
older  pieces  of  the  same  description :  Peele  here  confined 
liuuself  strictly  to  the  incidents  in  H<ily  Writ,  and  it  cer 
taiuly  contains  the  best  specmieus  uf  his  blauk-vei-se  com- 
position. His  "Old  Wives'  Talc,"  iu  the  shape  in  which  it 
has  leached  us,  seems  hardly  deser\iug  of  criticism,  and  it 
would  have  received  httle  notice  but  for  some  remote,  and 
perhaps  accidental,  resemblance  between  its  story  and  that 
of  Milton's  "Comns."^ 

The  "  Jeroniino"  of  Thomas  Kyd  is  to  be  looked  upon  as 
a  species  of  transition  play:  the  date  of  its  composition, 
on  the  testimony  of  lien  Jonson,  may  he  stated  to  l>e  prior 
to  1588."  just  after  Marlowe  had  pro<luced  his  "Tamhur- 
laine."  hikI  when  Kyd  hesitated  to  follow  his  Ijold  step  to 
the  full  extent  of  his  progress.  *' Jeronimo"  is  therefore 
partly  in  hlank-verse,  and  partly  in  rhyme:  the  same  ol>- 
servation  will  apply,  though  not  in  tJie  same  degree,  tc 
Kyd's  "  Spanish  Tragedy;"  it  is  in  truth  a  second  part  of 


J  Tliu  dnuna  hM  alao  been  repnnted  by  th^  Shakespeare  Societv,  ilty  of  Sir  W.  Draper,  in  1566-7,  of  which  an  account  is  eiven  b» 
with  p.-rf«:t  fi.Wity  to  the  origiiml  edition  of  1594,  in  il.e  library  of  Mr.  Fairholt.  in  his  work  upon  "  Lord  .Mayors"  Pageants.^  printed 
the  Dukr  of  DevuDnhire.    The  r.prii.t  waa  superintended  by  Mr    B     '       '      "  -  •  ^  .   ■       " . 


«Iii  "The  ni»i..ry  of  Enfclinh  Drnmatic  Poetry  and  the  Staee '• 
»ol.  iii..  p.  1S5.  it  is  olMh-rred  of  "Orl.n.i..  FiirioMj:"—' How  far  thV 
play  waa  pririte<)  accordini?  to  the  authors  copy,  we  have  no  nieaitf 
"f  deciding  :  t"it  it  h^s  evi.Ientlr  cme  down  to  us  in  a  very  iniper- 
rect  itAlA."     .Mean>  of  determining  the  point   beyond  djtpute  have 

iince  ■...  r.     vrr^d  in  a  manu*cnpl  of  the  part  of  Orlando  (as  wril- 

'*"  •  .leyn  by  the  copyist  of  the  theaue)  preserved  at 

^'^  -nre  it  i>  clear  that  much  was  omitted  and  cor- 

'*!  r.nled  editions  of  Io4>4  and  15a9.     See  the  '•  Me- 

i*"*---  eyn."  p.  1K-. 

A-  '  ';.'  ■  '  '  ^  "'^  ''*'  'i"*  «='>»'"*«'>  "f  'he  chapel,  or  by  the  children 
©I  ^t  Jai.,  >  an  J  a  few  of  thera  bear  evidence  on  the  titie-paces  that 
they  v-r-  t  r^...n  •.!  at  a  private  theatre— none  of  them  thai  they  had 
"••n  !  '  "'^iic  »tajres  before  popular  audiences. 

*   '  lave  been  born  about   the  year  IVil.      He  was 

P^'  ■  n  I'eele.  who  was  a  bookseller  and  a  writer  of 

•*'  '-  ••  e  -as  the  publisher  of  Bishop  Bale's  miracle- 

F'*y  '  '  "-'  I  r. 'i.ises,  in  15/7,  and  his  name  is  subscrib-d.  as 
anihor,  to  two  liaiiad.  printed  by  the  Percy  .Society  in  the  earliesi 
prviuction  from  their  press.  The  connexion  between  Stephen  and 
Be-  rpe  I'eele  has  never  struck  any  of  the  biographers  of  the  latter. 
ateohen  I  eele  was  most  Ukely  the  authoi  of  a  pageant  on  l&e  mayor- 


for  the  Percy  Society  :  he  erroneously  supposed  it  to  have  been  the 
work  of  George  Peele.  who  could  not  then  have  been  more  than  four- 
teen yean  old.  even  if  we  carry  back  the  date  of  his  birth  to  1  J5;J. 
George  Peele  was  dead  in  1.3'.t-. 

*  It  may  be  doubled  whether  Peele  wrote  any  part  of  this  produc- 
tion :  it  was  printed  anonymously  in  l.j'.W.  and  all  the  evidence  of 
authorship  is  the  existence  of  a  copy  with  the  name  .if  Peele.  in  au 
old  hand,  upon  the  title-page.  If  he  wrote  it  at  all.  it  was  doubtless 
a  very  early  composition,  and  it  belongs  precL^ely  to  tha  claas  of  ro- 
mantic plays  ridiculed  by  Stephen  Gosson  about  15-;U. 

'  See  Alilton  s  .Minor  Poems,  by  T.  Warton.  p.  1.15.  edit.  ITKl.  Of 
this  resemblance.  Warton,  who  hrst  pointed  it  out.  remarks.  ''Thai 
Milton  had  an  eye  on  this  ancient  drama,  which  might  have  teiin  a 
favourite  in  his  early  youth,  perhaps  it  may  be  afhrmed  with  at  leas; 
as  much  credibility,  as  that  he  conceived  the  Paradise  Lost  from  Aeeing 
a  mystery  at  Florence,  written  by  Adreini,  a  Florentine,  in  1617, 
entitled  Adamo."  The  fact  may  have  been,  that  Peele  and  Miltoi. 
resorted  to  the  same  original,  now  lost:  -'The  Old  Wives'  Tale" 
reads  exactly  as  if  it  were  founded  upon  some  popular  story- 
book. 

■  In  the  Induction  to  his  "Cynthia's  Revel.«."'  acted  in  1600 
where  he  is  speaking  of  the  revival  of  plays,  and  ami  ng  other*  ol 
'■the  old  Jeroniino."  ■vhicii.  he  aJiis.  l:aJ  '•.ieiarieJ  i  Jcz»n  yea» 
since." 


TO  THE  TIME  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


''  Jeronimo,"  the  story  beins:  continued  from  one  play  to  the 
Dther,  and  mnnaged  with  considerable  dexterity.  The  in- 
terest in  the  latter  is  great,  and  generally  well  sustained, 
and  some  of  the  characters  are  drawn  with  no  little  art  and 
force.  The  success  of  "Jeronimo,"  doubtless,  induced  Kyd 
10  write  the  second  part  of  it  immediately ;  and  we  need 
not  hesitate  in  concluding  that  "The  Spanish  Tragedy" 
had  been  acted  before  1590. 

Besif.es  Marlowe,  Greene,  Lodge,  Lyly,  Peele,  and  Kyd, 
there  were  other  dramatists,  who  may  be  looked  upon  as 
the  immediate  predecessors  of  SbiJespeare,  but  few  of 
whose  printed  works  are  of  an  earlier  date,  as  regards 
composition,  than  some  of  those  which  came  from  the  pen 
of  our  great  poet.  Among  these,  Thomas  Nash  was  the 
most  distinguished,  whose  contribution  to  "Dido,"  in  con- 
junction with  Marlowe,  has  been  before  noticed:  the  por- 
tions which  came  from  the  pen  of  Marlowe  are,  we  think, 
easily  to  be  distinguished  from  those  written  by  Nash, 
whose  genius  does  not  seem  to  have  been  of  an  imaginative 
or  dramatic,  but  of  a  satirical  and  objurgatory  character. 
He  produced  alone  a  piece  called  "  Summer's  Last  Will 
and  Testament,"  which  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1592, 
hut  not  printed  until  1600:  it  bears  internal  evidence  that 
it  was  exhibited  as  a  private  show,  and  it  could  never  have 
been  meant  for  public  performance.^  Henry  Chettle,  who 
w.is  also  senior  to  Shakespeare,  has  left  behind  him  a 
tragedy  called  "  Hoffman,"  "which  was  not  priute.l  until 
1630;  and  he  was  engaged  with  Anthony  Munday  in  pro- 
ducing "The  Death  of  Robert  Earl  of  Huntington," 
printed  in  1601.  From  Henslowe's  Diary  we  learn  that 
both  these  pieces  were  written  subsequent  to  the  date  when 
Shakespeare  had  acquired  a  high  reputation.  Munday  had 
been  a  dramatist  as  early  as  1584,  when  a  rhyming  trans- 
lation by  hhn,  under  the  title  of  "The  Two  Italian  Gentle- 
men," came  from  the  press  ;^  and  in  the  interval  between 
that  year  and  1602,  he  wrote  the  whole  or  parts  of  various 
plays  which  have  been  lost.^  Robert  Wilson  ought  not  to 
be  omitted :  he  seems  to  have  been  a  prolific  dramatist, 
but  only  one  comedy  by  him  has  survived,  under  the  title 
of  "The  Cobbler's  Prophecy,"  and  it  was  printed  in  1594. 
According  to  the  e\idence  of  Henslowe,  he  aided  Drayton 
and  Munday  iu  writing  "The  First  Part  of  the  Life  of  Sir 
John  Oldcastle,"  printed  in  1600;  but  he  must  at  that  date 
have  been  old,  if  he  were  the  same  Robert  Wilson  who  was 
one  of  Lord  Leicester's  theatrical  servants  in  1574,  and 
who  became  one  of  the  leatlers  of  the  company  called  the 
Queen's  Players  in  1583.  He  seems  to  have  been  a  low 
comedian,  and  his  "  Cobbler's  Prophecy  "  is  a  piece,  the 
drollery  of  which  must  have  depended  in  a  great  degree 
upon  the  performers. 

With  regard  to  mechanical  facilities  for  the  representa- 
tion of  plays  before,  and  indeed  long  after,  the  time  of 
Shakespeare,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  state,  that  our  old  pub- 
lic theatres  were  merely  round  wooden  buildings,  open  to 
the  sky  in  the  audience  part  of  the  house,  although  the 
stage  was  covered  by  a  hanging  roof:  the  spectators  stood 
on  the  ground  in  front  or  at  the  sides,  or  were  accommo- 
dated in  boxes  round  the  inner  circumference  of  the  edifice, 
or  in  galleries  at  a  greater  elevation.     Our  ancient  stage 

1  It  can  be  shown  to  have  been  represented  at  Croydon,  no  doubt 
at  Beddington.  the  residence  of  the  Carews,  under  whose  patmnago 
Nash  acknnwledges  himself  to  have  been  living.  See  the  dedication 
t(.  his  "Terrors  of  the  Night,"  4to,  1594.  The  date  of  the  death  of 
Nash,  who  probably  took  a  part  in  the  representation  of  his  "Sum- 
mer's Last  Will  and  Testament,"  has  been  disputed— whether  it  was 
before  or  after  1601 ;  but  the  production  of  a  cenotaph  upon  hint 
from  Fitz-geciffrey's  Affaniw,  printed  in  1601.  must  put  an  end  to  all 
doubt.  See  the  Introduction  to  Nash's  "Pierce  Pennjiess,"  1092,  as 
reprinted  for  the  Shakespeare  Society. 

«  The  only  known  copy  of  this  comedy  is  without  a  title-page,  but 
it  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  for  publication  in  1584,  and  we 
may  presume  that  it  was  printed  about  that  date. 

3  He  had  some  share  in  writing  the  first  part  of  the  "  Life  of  fcir 
John  Oldcastle,"  which  was  printed  as  Shakespeare's  work  in  1000, 
although  some  copies  of  the  play  exist  without  his  name  on  the  title- 
page. 


was  unfurnished  with  moveable  scenery  ;  and  tables,  chairs, 
a  few  boards  for  a  battlemented  wall,  or  a  rude  structure 
for  a  tomb  or  an  altar,  seem  to  have  been  nearly  all  the 
properties  it  possessed.  It  was  usually  hung  round  with 
decayed  tapestry ;  and  as  there  was  no  other  mode  of  con- 
veying the  necessary  information,  the  aiitlior  often  provided 
that  the  player,  on  his  entrance,  should  t^ike  occasion  to 
mention  the  place  of  action.  When  the  business  of  a  piece 
required  that  the  stage  should  represent  two  apartments, 
the  effect  was  accomplished  by  a  curtain,  called  a  traverse, 
drawn  across  it ;  and  a  sort  of  balcony  in  the  rear  enal>le<l 
the  writer  to  represent  his  characters  at  a  window,  on  the 
platform  of  a  castle,  or  on  an  elevated  terrace. 

To  tins  simplicity,  and  to  these  deficiencies,  we  doubt- 
less owe  some  of  the  finest  passages  in  our  early  plays;  for 
it  was  part  of  the  business  of  the  dramatist  to  supply  the 
absence  of  coloured  canvas  by  grandeur  and  luxuriance 
of  description.  The  ear  was  thus  made  the  substitute  for 
the  eye,  and  the  poet's  pen,  aided  by  the  auditor's  imagina- 
tion, more  than  supplied  the  place  of  the  painter's  brush. 
Moveable  scenery  was  unknown  in  our  pul)lic  theatres  untQ 
after  the  Restoration;  and,  as  has  been  observed  elsewhere, 
"the  introduction  of  it  gives  the  date  to  the  commence- 
ment of  the  decline  of  our  dramatic  poetry."* 

How  far  propriety  of  costume  was  regarde<l,  we  have 
no  sufficient  means  of  deciding;  l)ut  we  apjirehend  that 
more  attention  was  paid  to  it  than  has  been  generally  suf>- 
posed,  or  than  was  accomplished  at  a  much  later  and  more 
refined  period.  It  is  indisputable  thatotten  in  this  depart- 
ment no  outlay  was  spared:  the  most  costly  dresses  were 
purchased,  that  characters  might  be  consistently  habited; 
and,  as  a  single  proof,  we  may  mention,  that  sometimet 
more  than  20/.  were  given  for  a  cloak,^  an  enormous  pricey 
when  it  is  recollected  that  money  was  then  five  or  six  tiuiet 
as  valuable  as  at  present. 

We  have  thus  briefly  stated  all  tliat  seems  abs4.1utely  re- 
quired to  give  the  reader  a  correct  notion  of  the  state  of 
the  English  drama  and  stage  at  the  peii'xl  when,  accordiug 
to  the  best  judgment  we  can  form  from  such  evidence  af 
emains  to  us,  Shakespeare  advanced  t*>  a  forward  place 
among  the  dramatists  of  the  day.  As  long  ago  as  1675» 
Dryden  gave  cm-reucy  to  the  uotiun,  which  we  have  shown 
to  be  mistaken,  that  "Shakespeare  "  created  first  th«  stage," 
and  he  repeated  it  in  1692:*^  it  is  not  necessary  to  the  just 
admiration  of  our  noble  dramatist,  that  we  should  do  injus- 
tice to  his  predecessors  or  earlier  contt-mpoi-arics :  on  the 
contrary,  his  miraculous  powers  are  best  to  be  estimated  by 
a  comparison  with  his  ablest  riviJs ;  and  if  he  appear  not 
greatest  when  his  works  are  placed  beside  those  of  Mar- 
lowe, Greene,  Peele,  or  Lodge,  however  distinguisheil  their 
rank  as  dramatists,  and  however  deserved  then-  popukrity, 
we  shall  be  content  to  think,  that  for  more  tbtui  two  ceu- 
tm-ies  the  world  has  been  under  a  delusiou  as  t*.  his  claims. 
He  rose  t<i  eminence,  and  he  maintained  it,  amid  strjggh-* 
for  equality  by  men  of  high  genius  and  vaiied  tjdents  ;  and 
with  liis  example  ever  since  before  us,  no  poet  of  our  owe, 
or  of  any  other  counti-y,  has  even  approached  his  excel- 
lence. Shakespeare  is  greatest  by  a  com paiison  with  great 
ness,  or  he  is  nothing. 

♦  "  History  of  Er.gl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stace.''  rol.  lii  .  p  3«i. 
»  See  "The  AUeyn  Papers,"  printed  by  the  Shakespeare  ^ocIety, 

^'Mn  his  Proloffue  to  the  alteration  of  "Troilns  and  C^^i^' 
1679.  he  puU  these  lines  into  the  mouth  of  the  t.h"si  oi  .dwm 
peare  .         ^^  Untaught.  unpractis"d,  in  a  barbarous  age, 

I  found  not,  but  created  fir^t  the  .-^tace. 
In  the  dedication  of  the  fanslation  of  Juvenal.  '^*^""  J^'^Tw-rf^" 
T^ards,  Drvden  repeats  the  same  a^<ertion  in  "*"'>' .'j''„*f°>*'r?^ 
"he  created  the  stage  among  us."  Shakespeare  '^''^  "°'.  ^"^''i^ 
stage,  and  least  of  all  did  he  create  it  such  a*  .t  «^'^««'* '°.''';  »"»• 
of  Dryc'en  :  "  it  wa.«.  in  truth,  cre.ited  by  no  one  man.  and  in  ^.  cm 
ale  and  whatever  improvements  Shakespeare  introduced,  »»>•■  h« 
tSg^n  to  write  for  'heWe  our  romantic  dra.na^.a»co^^ 
formed,  and  firmly  established."-Pref.  to  "TheHirt.ol  fcngl.  Ifnm. 
Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  vol.  i  ,  p  xi. 


THE     LIFE 


WILLIAM     SHAKESPEARE 


CHAPTER  L 

So  Sl.akcppenre  advanced  or  rewarded  by  Henry  VIL  An- 
tiquity ol  the  Sliakesf)eares  iu  Warwicksliire,  &c.  Earliest 
occurrence  of  tlie  name  at  .Stratl<)rd-ui>on-Avon.  The 
Tr.idc  of  John  Shakespwire.  Richard  Sliakespeare  of  Snit- 
torfield,  probably  father  to  Jolin  S!iake:*peare,  and  cer- 
tainly tenant  to  Robert  Arden,  father  of  John  Shakespeare's 
wife."  Rot>crt  Arden's  seven  dniicrhters.  Antiquity  and 
property  of  tiie  Arden  family.  Marriage  of  John  Shakes- 
peare and  Mary  Arden  :  their  circumstances.  Piircliase 
of  two  liouses  in  Stratford  by  Jolm  Sliakespeare.  His 
progress  iu  the  corporation. 

It  Ims  been  supposed  that  some  of  the  paternal  ances- 
tors of  Willimn  Sliakespeare  •were  advanced,  and  rewarded 
with  lands  and  tenements  in  Wai"wickshire,  for  services 
render<»d  to  Heniy  VIL'  The  rolls  of  that  reign  have 
been  recently  most  carefully  searched,  and  the  name  of  ; 
Shakespeare,  according  to  any  mode  of  spelling  it,  does 
D  )t  occur  in  them. 

Many  Shakespeares  were  resident  in  different  parts  of 
Warwickshiie,  as  well  as  in  some  of  the  adjoining  counties, 
bt  an  early  date.  The  register  of  the  Guild  of  St  Aune  of 
Knolle,  or  Kuowle,  beginning  in  1407  and  ending  in  1535, 
when  it  was  dissolved,  contains  vaiious  repetitions  of  the 
name,  dilriug  the  reigns  of  Henry  VI..  Edwaid  IV„  Rich- 
ard IIL,  Heniy  VII.,  and  Henrj'  VIII:  we  there  find  a 
Thomas  Shakespere  of  Balislialle,  or  Balsal,  Thomas 
Ohacsj)er  and  John  Sliakespeyre  of  Rowington,  Richard 
Shaksj>ere  of  Woldiehe,  tfigether  with  Joan,  Jane,  and 
William  Shakespeare,  of  places  not  mentioned  :  an  Isabella 
Shakspere  is  also  there  stated  to  have  been  priorissa  de 
Wraralfi  in  the  19th  Henry  VIL'  The  Shakespeares  of 
Wroxal,  of  RowingUjn,  and  of  Baleal,  are  mentioned  by 
Malone,  as  well  as  other  persons  <jf  the  same  name  at 
Ckverdou  and  Hampton.  He  carries  back  his  information 
regarding  t)ie  Shakespeares  of  Wanvick  no  higher  than 
1602,  but  a  William  Shakespeare  was  drowned  in  the 
Avon  near  Warwick  in  1574,  a  Jolin  Shakespeare  was 
resident  on  "the  High  Pavement"  in  1578,  and  a  Thomas 
Shakespeare  in  the  same  place  in  1585.' 

The  earliest  date  at  which  we  hear  of  a  Shakespeare  in 
the  b<»rough  of  Sti-atford-upon-Avon  is  17th  June,  1555, 
when  Thomas  Siche  instituted  a  proceeding  in  the  court  of 

'  On  the  authority  of  a.  prant  of  arau  from  the  Herald's  College  to 
Jekn  Shakespeare,  which  circumstance  is  considered  hereafter. 

»  For  this  information  we  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Suunton.  of  Long- 
brdpe  Hoai*,  near  Warwick,  the  owner  of  the  original  Registerium 
Fratrum  et  Sororum  Glide  Sancit  Anne  de  Knolle,  a  MS.  upon 
?«Uam 

»  For  the  circumstance  of  the  drowning  of  the  namesake  of  our 
MXt,  we  are  obliged  to  the  Rev.  Joseph  Hunter.  Mr.  Charles 
Dickens  was  good  enough  to  be  the  medium  of  the  information 
respecting  the  Shakespeares  of  Warwick,  transmitted  from  Mr. 
8&ndy»  who  deriTc^i  it  inm  tha  land-rerenue  records  of  the  respec- 
liTS  perods. 

•  Aubrey's  words,  in  his  MS.  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum,  at  Ox- 
ford, are  these  :—"  William  Shakespeare's  father  was  a  butcher,  and 
i  n»ve  been  told  heretofore  by  tome  of  the  reiphbours.  that  when  he 
was  a  bnv  he  exercised  his  filher's  trade  ;  but  when  he  killed  a  calf, 
ae  would  d<.  it  in  a  hich  Hrle.  and  make  a  speech.''  This  tradition 
lit  does  not  read  like  truth,  and  at  what  date  Aubrey  obtained 


I  the  bailiff,  for  the  recovery  of  the  sum  of  8/.  fi-oin  John 
Shakespeare,  who  has  always  been  taken  to  ht-  the  father 
of  our  great  dramatist.  Thomas  Siche  was  of  Arlescote, 
or  Arscotte,  in  Woicestershire,  and  in  the  Latin  record  of 
the  suit  John  Shakespeare  is  »alled  "  glover,"  in  English. 
Taking  it  for  granted,  as  we  have  eveiy  re:ison  to  do,  that 
this  John  Shakespeare  was  the  father  of  the  poet,  the 
docmiieut  satisfied  Malone  that  he  was  a  glover,  and  not  a 
butcher,  as  Aubrey  had  affirmed,^  nor  a  dealer  in  wool,  as 
Rowe  had  stated.*  We  think  that  Malone  was  right  and 
the  testimony  is  unquestionalily  more  positive  and  authen- 
tic than  the  traditions  to  which  we  have  referred.  As  it  is 
also  the  most  ancient  piece  of  direct  evidence  connected 
with  the  est^ibhshnient  of  the  Shakespeare  family  jkt  Strat- 
ford, and  as  Malone  did  not  copy  it  quite  accurately  from 
the  register  of  the  baiM's  court,  we  quote  it  as  it  there 
stands : — 

"  Stretford,  ss.  Cur.  Phi.  et  Maria  Dei  gra,  &c.  secundo  et 
tercio,  ibm  tent,  die  Marcurii  videlicet  xvij  die  Juuij  ann. 
predict,  coram  Joline  Burbage  Balliuo,  &c. 

Thomas  Siche  de  Arscotte  in  com.  Wigorn.  querit' versus 
John  Shak_\spere  de  Stretford  in  com.  Warwic.  Glou  in  plac 
quod  reddat  ei  oct.  libias  &c." 

John  Shakespeare's  trade,  "  glover,"  is  expressed  by  the 
common  contraction  for  the  tei-mination  of  the  word ;  and 
it  is,  as  usual  at  the  time,  spelt  with  the  letter  u  instead  of 
V.  It  deserves  remark  also,  that  although  John  Shakes- 
peare is  often  subsequently  mentioned  in  the  records  of 
the  corporation  of  Stratford,  no  addition  ever  accompanies 
his  name.  We  may  piesume  that  in  1556,  he  was  estab- 
lished in  his  business,  because  on  the  3uth  April  of  that 
year  he  was  one  of  twelve  jurymen  of  a  court-leet  His 
name  m  the  list  was  at  first  struck  through  with  a  pen,  but 
underneath  it  the  word  stet  was  written,  probably  by  the 
town-clerk.  Thus  we  find  liim  iu  1556  acting  as  a  regular 
tra(hug  iuhabitjuit  of  the  borough  of  Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Little  doubt  can  be  entertained  that  lie  came  from  Suit- 
terfield.  three  miles  from  Stratford  ;  and  up>n  this  point  we 
have  several  new  documents  before  us.  It  appears  from 
them,  that  a  pei-son  of  the  iiiuue  f>f  Richard  Shakespeare 
(no  where  before  mentioned)  was  resident  at  Snitterfield  in 
1550:'  he  was  tenant  of  a  house  and  land  belonging  to 

his  information  has  not  been  ascertained  :  Malone  coniectured  thM 
Aubrey  was  in  Stratford  about  ^(M) :  he  died  about  1700,  and,  in  all 
probability,  obtained  his  knowledge  from  the  s-ame  source  as  tha 
writer  of  a  letter,  dated  April  10,  169.3.  to  Mr.  Kdward  Southwell, 
printed  in  IC:^"!.  It  appears  from  hence  that  the  j'arish  clerk  of  Strat- 
ford, who  was  "above  eighty  years  old"  in  lG9;i,  had  told  .Mr.  Ed- 
ward  SouthwelPf  correspondent  that  William  .Shakef)ie.nre  had  been 
'•  bound  apprentice  to  a  butcher;"  but  he  did  not  say  tli:.t  his  fathm 
was  a  butcher,  nor  did  he  add  any  thing  as  absurd  a.*  Aubrey  suS- 
joins.  respecting  the  killing  of  a  calf  *'  in  a  high  style."" 

»  Rowe  is  supposed  to  have  derived  his  materials  from  Betterton, 
the  actor,  who  died  in  1710,  and  who.  it  is  said,  went  to  .^^tratford  to 
collect  such  particulars  as  could  be  obtained  :  the  date  of  his  visit  ii 
not  known. 

•  In  l.V)9.  a  person  of  the  name  of  Antony  Shakei^peare  lived  at 
Snitterfield.  and,  a.s  we  learn  from  the  Muster-book  of  the  county  >l 

,  Warwick  for  that  vear  in  the  State  Paper  o^liie,  he  was  appointed  * 

I  "  biUman." 

XX  vi 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 


XiVU 


Rober'  Arden  (or  Ardera,  as  the  name  was  anciently  spelt, 
and  as  it  stands  in  the  papei-s  in  our  hands)  of  Wilnieeote,  in 
the  parish  of  Aston  Cantlowe.  B^  a  conveyance,  dated 
21st  Dec,  11th  Henry  VIIL,  we  find  that  Robert  Arden 
then  became  possessed  of  houses  and  laud  m  Suitterfield, 
from  Richard  Rushby  and  his  wife  :  from  Robert  Ardi-n  the 
property  descended  to  his  son,  and  it  was  pail  of  this 
estate  which  was  occupied  by  Richard  Shakespeare  in  1550. 
W^e  have  no  distinct  evidence  upon  the  point;  but  if  we 
suppose  Richard  Shakespeare  of  Snitterfield*  to  have  been 
the  father  of  John  Shakespeare  of  Stratford,''  who  married 
Mary  Arden,  the  youngest  daughter  of  Robert  Arden,  it 
will  easily  and  naturally  explain  the  manner  in  which  John 
Shakespeare  became  introduced  to  the  family  of  the  Ar- 
dens,  inasmuch  as  Richard  Shakespeare,  the  father  of  John, 
and  the  grandfather  of  William  Shakespeare,  was  one  of 
the  tenants  of  Robert  Arden. 

Malone,  not  having  the  information  we  now  possess  be- 
fore him,  was  of  opinion  that  Robert  Arden,  who  married 
Agnes  Webbe,  and  died  in  1556,  had  only  four  daughters, 
but  the  fiict  undoubtedly  is  that  he  had  at  least  seven.  On 
the  7th  and  llth  July,  1550,  he  executed  two  deeds,  by 
which  he  made  over  to  Adam  Palmer  and  Hugh  Poiter, in 
ti'ust  for  some  of  his  daughters,  certain  lauds  and  tene- 
ments in  Suitterfield.'  In  these  deeds  he  mentions  six 
daughters  by  name,  four  of  tliem  married  and  two  single  : 
— viz..  Agues  Stringer,  {who  had  been  twice  married,  first 
to  John  Hewyns,)  Joan  Lambert,  Katherine  Etldus,  Mar- 
garet "Webbe,  Jocose  Arden,  and  Alicia  Arden.  Maiy,  his 
youngest  daughter,  was  not  included,  and  it  is  possible  that 
he  had  either  made  some  other  provision  for  her,  or  tlmt, 
by  a  separate  and  subsequent  deed  of  trust,  he  gave  to  her 
an  equivalent  in  Snitterfield  for  what  he  had  made  over 
to  her  sisters.  It  is  quite  certain,  as  will  be  seen  hereafter, 
that  Mary  Arden  brought  property  in  Snitterfield,  as  part 
of  her  fortime,  to  her  husband  John  Shakespeare. 

Although  the  Ardens  were  an  ancient  and  considerable 
family  in  Wai-wickshire,  which  derived  its  name  fi'om  the 
forest  of  A'den,  or  Ardern,  in  or  near  which  they  had  pos- 
sessions, Robert  Arden,  in  the  two  deetls  above  referred  to, 
which  were  of  course  prepared  at  his  instance,  is  only 
called  "husbandman:" — "  Bobertus  Ardern  de  Wilmecoie, 
in  parochia  de  A.stoji  Cantloice,  in  comilatu  Wancici, 
nusbandinan."  Nevertheless,  it  is  evident  fi-om  his  will 
(dated  24th  November,  and  proved  on  the  I7th  December, 
1656)  that  he  was  a  man  of  good  lauded  estate.  He  men- 
tions his  wife's  "jointure  m  Snitterfield,"  payable,  no  doubt, 
out  of  some  other  property  than  that  which,  a  few  years 
before,  he  had  conveyed  to  trustees  for  the  benefit  of  six  of 
his  daughters;  and  his  freehold  and  copyhold  estates  in 
the  parish  of  Aston  Cantlowe  could  not  have  been  incon- 
siderable. Sir  John  Arden,  the  brother  of  his  grandfather, 
had  been  esquire  of  the  body  to  Henry  VII.,  and  his  ne- 
phew had  been  page  of  the  bedchamber  to  the  same 
monarch,  who  had  bountifullv  rewarded  their  services  and 
fidelity.  Sir  John  Arden  died  in  1526,  and  it  was  his 
aephew,  Robert  Arden,  who  purchased  of  Rushby  and  his 
wife  the  estate  in  Snitterfield  in  1520.     He  was  the  father 

>  Richird  Shakespeare,  who,  upon  this  supposition,  was  the  g:rand- 
lither  oi  the  poet,  was  living  in  15GU,  when  Agnes  Arden,  widow, 
^aated  a  lease  for  forty  years  to  Aleriander  Webbe  (probably  some 
member  of  her  own  family)  of  two  houses  and  a  cottage  in  fcnitter- 
field.  in  t  .3  occupation  of  Richard  Shakespeare  and  two  others. 
Malone  disccrered  that  there  was  also  a  Henry  Shakespeare  resident 
«t  Snitterfield  in  losG,  and  he  apprehended  (there  is  little  doubt  ol 
'he  fact)  that  he  was  the  br- ^her  of  John  Shakespeare.  "enry 
Shakespeare  waa  buried  Dee.  iSth.  1596.  There  was  also  a  Thomas 
Shakespeare  in  the  same  Tillage  in  1582,  and  he  may  have  been 
another  brothei  of  John  Bhakespeare,  and  all  three  sons  to  Kichard 
Shakespeare.  ,.  ,      „,    , 

a  This  is  rundered  the  more  probable  by  the  fact  that  John  ^hakes- 
peare  christened  one  of  his  children  (born  in  1573)  Richard.  Malone 
found  that  another  Richard  Shakespeare  was  living  at  Rowington  in 
1574. 

3  They  are  thus  described  :  "  Totum  illud  messungnim  meum.  et 
Ires  guartroiias  terra,  cum  pratis  eisdem  pcrtinnUibus.  cum  futs  per- 
line^tii.<,.  in  Snyttcrfylde.  qum  vunc  sunt  in  Unura  cujusdam  Huardt 
Henley,  ac  tuVum  iUud  cottagium  meum.  cum  gardtno  et  pomario 
adjacevtibus.  cuvi  suis  pertinenths.  in  Snytterfyld.  qua  nunc  sunt  xn 
lenura  Hugunis  Porter.-  Adam  Falmer,  the  other  trustee,  does  not 
•eem  to  hav»  occupied  any  part  of  the  property. 


of  the   Robert  Arden  who  died   in   1556,  and  to  ■wboae 
seventh  daughter,  Mary,  John  Shakespeare  was  mariied. 

No  registration  of  that  marriage  has  been  discovered, 
but  we  ueed  not  hesitate  in  deciding  that  the  ceremony 
took  place  in  1557.  Maiy  Ai  len  and  her  sister  Alicia 
were  certainly  unniariied,  wheo  they  were  !»y)piiiuted  "rj-- 
ecittores"  under  tlieir  father's  will,  (hited  24th  Nnv.,  1566 
and  the  probability  seems  to  bf  that  tluy  wt-re  on  that 
account  chosen  for  the  office,  in  prefcience  to  their  five 
married  sisters.  Joan,  the  fiist  cliild  of  J<^hn  Shakespeare 
and  his  wife  Mary,  was  baptized  iu  the  church  of  Stratf<ji-d 
upon- Avon  on  the  15th  Sept.,  1558,\  so  that  wc  may  fij 
their  union  towards  the  close  of  1567,  alx)Ut  a  yeui*  aft«i 
the  death  of  Robert  Arden. 

What  were  the  circiunstances  of  John  Shiikespeare  iit 
the  time  of  his  marriage,  we  can  ouly  conjecture.  It  has 
been  shown  that  two  years  before  that  event,  a  cbim  of  8/. 
was  made  upon  him  in  the  borough  court  of  Stratford,  and 
we  must  conclude,  either  that  the  money  was  not  due  and 
the  demand  unjust,  or  that  he  was  unable  to  pay  the  debt 
and  was  therefore  proceeded  against.  The  issue  of  the 
suit  is  not  known ;  but  in  the  next  year  he  seems  to  ha?r 
been  established  in  business  as  a  glover,  a  branch  of  trade 
much  carried  on  in  that  part  of  the  kingdom,  and,  as  al- 
ready mentioned,  he  certtiinly  sei-ved  upn  the  jury  nf  a 
court-leet  in  1556.  Therefore,  we  are,  perhaps,  justified  in 
thinking  that  his  affairs  were  sufficiently  pr(isj)ei-ous  to 
wari'aut  his  union  with  the  youngest  of  seven  co-heiresses, 
who  brought  him  some  iudependeut  property. 

Under  "her  father's  will  she  inherited  6/.  13.<.  4d.  ic 
money,  and  a  small  estate  in  fee,  in  the  parish  of  Aston 
Cantlowe,  called  Asbyes,  consisting  of  a  messuage,  fifty 
acres  of  arable  land,  six  acres  of  meadow  and  pasture,  and 
a  right  of  common  for  all  kinds  of  cattle.'  Malone  knew 
notliing  of  Maiy  Arden's  property  in  Snitterfield,  to  which 
we  have  already  referred,  and,  without  it,  he  estimated  that 
her  fortune  was  equal  to  110/.  13s.  4rf.,  which  seems  to  u» 
rather  an  under  calculation  of  its  actual  value.'  He  als^) 
speculated,  that  at  the  time  of  their  marriage  John  Shakes- 
peare was  twenty -seven  years  <ild,  and  Mary  Aiden 
eighteen;'  but  the  truth  is  that  we  have  not  a  particle  of 
direct  evidence  upon  the  point.  Had  she  been  s*i  yotuig, 
it  seems  very  unlikely  that  her  father  would  have  ap- 
pointed her  one  of  his  executors  m  the  preceding  year,  and 
we  aie  inclined  to  think  that  she  must  have  been  of  fuD 
age  in  Nov.  1556. 

"it  was  probably  in  contemplation  of  his  marriage  that, 
on  2d  October,  1556,  John  Shakespeare  became  the  owner 
of  two  copv-hold  houses  in  Stiatford.  the  one  in  Greenhill- 
street,  and  "the  other  in  Henley -street,  which  were  alienated 
to  hmi  by  George  Tui-nor  and"  Edward  West  resDectively  • 
the  house  in  Grecnhill-street  had  a  garden  and  croft  at- 
tached to  it,  and  the  house  m  Henley-street  ouly  a  garden  ; 
and  for  each  he  wjis  to  pay  to  the  lord  of  the  miuior  an  an 
nual  rent  of  six-pence."  In  1567  he  was  again  sworn  as  a 
juiyman  upon  the  courtrleet,  and  in  the  spting  of  the  fol- 
lowing year  he  was  amerced  in  the  sum  of  fourpeuce  for 
not  keeping  clean  the  gutter  m  front  of  his  dwelling :  Fran- 

♦  The  register  of  this  event  is  in  the  following  form,  under  ih. 
head  "Baptismes,  Anno  Dom.  1.55s  :"—  ^^^ 

"  Septeber  15.  Jone  Shakspere  daughter  to  John  Shak«>eT». 
It  seems  likely  that  the  child  was  named  after  her  ^i""'- J"^",  "?*'• 
ried  to  Edward  Lambert  of  Barton  on  the  He»th.     hdward  l.»mbert 
was  related  to  Edmund  Lambert,  afterwards  mentioned. 

»  Shakspeare.  by  Boswell,  vol.  ii.  p.  -Jo. 

6  The  terms  of  Robert  Arden's  bequest  to  his  d^ushier  M^T  •«• 
these  :— "Also  1  geve  and  bequeth  to  my  youni:.-;!*'  Jau^ni^r.  .narra, 
all  mvlande  in  Villmecote\'alled  Asbyes,  and  -.u^  ^1  ^I'^V)! 
ground,  sowne  and  tyllede  as  hit  is  :  and  vj/.-  xuj.-.  '^'J',  °' '"""^  " 
be  payde  over  ere  mv  goodes  be  devvdede  Hence  we  »«'"'>;'>  "• 
dei^tand  that  he  had  "no  more  '"".l  in  W.lmeco.e  than  A.bye,.  but 
that  he  gave  his  daughter  Wary  all  his  land  in  ^^  ilmecoU,  «hicfc 
was  known  bv  the  name  of  Atbyes. 

I  Shakspeare,  bv  Boswell,  vol.  ii.  p.  Jtl.  •      .   i „.w. 

8  We  copv  the.followinp'descnpt.ons  from  the  o"/'"*!  J^^'e*^ 
record,  onlyavoiding  the  abbreviauons,  which  render  it  .«.  int*i 

nemclum.cm gnrdU  tt  crojt.cumpert.nent.bus  '''';;'"  n.^''''^^ 
Kt  quod  Kdwnrdus  West  ahenorU  pred,cto.Mann,SkaL,sr^ 
unum  tenementum.  cum  garden  adjaccnU.  ,n  Hc^lc,  .tr««. 


XXVlll 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


m  Burbage.  the  then  bailiiF,  Adriau  Quiiiey,  "  Mr.  Hall  nud 
Mr.  Cli'pNm"  (6"  tlu'ir  uiuiics  stand  iii  the  iustj-uineut)  were 
each  of  tluiii  at  tlio  same  time  fiued  a  similar  sum  for  the 
same  DoglecL'  It  is  a  point  of  little  importnuee,  but  it  is 
luirhly  pii'bable  tJiat  John  Sluikespeare  was  first  admitted 
a  uiemoor  of  the  onjioratiou  of  Stratford  in  1567,  when 
be  WHS  made  one  of  the  ale-tasters  of  the  town ;  and  in 
Sept.,  1558,  he  w:is  appointed  one  of  tlie  foiu-  eonstables, 
bia  niune  foUowiui;  those  of  Humphiev  Plyndey.  Roger 
Sadler,  and  John  Taylor."  He  oontiuued  eoustiible  in  1559, 
lus  asstviates  then  'being  John  T  aylor,  William  Tyler,  and 
William  Smith,  and  he  was  besicfes  one  of  four  persons, 
oidled  alTeerors,  whose  duty  it  was  to  impose  fines  upou 
tlieir  fellow-townsmen  (sueli  as  he  had  himself  paid  in  1557) 
for  offences  agiuust  the  bye-laws  of  the  borougk 


CHAPTER  II. 

Death  of  .Tohn  Shnkc.«peare's  eldest  child,  Joan.  Two  John 
Sliakcspeares  in  Stratford.  Amercements  of  members  of 
the  corpnnition.  Birth  and  death  of  John  Shakespeare's 
second  child,  Margaret.  Birth  of  William  Shakespeare  : 
his  birth -day,  and  the  house  in  which  he  was  born.  The 
plasue  in  Stratford.  Contributions  to  tlie  sick  and  poor  by 
John  Shakespeare  and  others.  John  Shakespeare  elected 
alderman,  and  subsequently  bailiff.  Gilbert  Shakespeare 
born.  Aiioilier  dauifhter,  "baptized  Joan,  born.  Proofs 
that  John  Shakespeare  could  not  write. 

It  was  while  John  Shakespeare  executed  the  duties  of 
coustible  in  1558,  that  liis  eldest  child,  Joan,  was  born,  hav- 
ing been  baptiz.d,  as  already  stated,  on  the  15th  Septem- 
ber, of  that  year :  she  died  in  her  infancy,  and  as  her  burial 
does  not  appear  in  the  register  of  Stratford,  she  was,  per- 
haps, int«ried  at  Suitterfield,  where  Richard  Shakespeare, 
probably  the  father  of  Joiiu  Shakespeare,  still  resided^  as 
tenant  to  Agnes  Ardeu,  widow  of  Robert  Arden,  and  ino- 
tlier  of  Mary  Shakespeare.  In  respect  to  the  registers  of 
marriages,  baptisms,  and  deaths  at  Stratford,  some  confusion 
has  been  produced  by  the  indisputable  fact,  that  two  per- 
Binjs  of  the  name  of  John  Shakespeare  were  living  in  the 
town  at  the  same  time,  and  it  is  not  always  easy  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  entries  which  rebite  to  the  one,  or  to 
the  other :  for  instance,  it  was  fonnerly  thought  that  John 
Shakespeare,  tlie  father  of  the  poet,  had  lost  his  first  wife, 
Mary  Arden,  and  had  taken  a  second,  in  consequence  of  a 
memorandum  in  the  register,  showing  that  on  the  25th  Nov., 
1584,  Jolm  Shakespeare  had  married  Margery  Roberts: 
Malone,  however,  t<Kik  great  pains  to  prove,  and  may  be 
Baid  to  have  succeeded  in  proving,  that  this  entry  and 
others,  of  the  births  of  Phihp,  Ursula,  and  Humphrey 
Shakespeare,  relate  to  John  Shakespeare,  a  shoemaker , 
and  not  t<^i  J<  'hn  Shakespeare  the  glover. 

Jokn  Shakfsf)eare  wjis  again  chosen  one  of  the  four 
affeerors  of  Stratford  in  1561,  and  the  Shakespeare  Society 

'  The  orifrinal  memorandum  runs  thus  • — 

'  Francis  Berba^e.  .Ma>ter  Baly  that  now  ys,  Adreane  Quvny. 
Mr  Hall,  Mr.  Clopton,  for  the  gutter  alonge  the  chappell  in  Chaj)- 
pell  Lane  John  ^?h.^kl•peyr,  foi-  not  kepynge  of  their  gutters  cleane, 
Uiey  atand  amerced." 

The  unm  wnicii  tiicv  were  so  amerced,  4rf.,  ia  placed  above  the  names 
f''  •  xh  of  the  parties. 

'  The  toiiowinc  are  the  terms  ujed  : — 

'hern,  ther  tryiity  and  weibelovyd  Hunjfrey  Plymley,  Roger 
tidier,  .Fohn  Taylor,  and  John  Shaksnevr,  constabulles." 

'  Thin  fact  appears  from  a  lea^e.  before  noticed,  granted  on  21st 
Ma>  1.''><1(I,  by  Mary  Arden  to  Alexander  Webbe,  of  two  messuages, 
with  a  cottace.  one  of  which  is  stated  then  to  be  in  the  occupation  of 
R'chard  Sii  ikejipeane.  We  quote  the  terras  of  the  (ifipinal  deed  in 
the  hands  of  the  Shakespeare  f^ocicty  : — "  Wytnesseth.  that  the  said 
Agnes  ArJerne.  for  dyvenie  and  hundry  consyderations.  hath  de- 
tr.yfii,  graunted.  kr.  to  the  said  Alexander  Webbe.  and  to  his  a»- 
lienes  all  thoi*  her  two  raessuaees.  with  a  cottage,  with  all  anJ 
iingu.ir  th-ir  ippurtenances  in  Snytterfeild.  and  a  yarde  and  a  haKe 
of  ayiable  i&nde  thereunto  belonging,  kc,  being  in  the  towne  and 
ty'idn  of  Snvtterfeild  atforsaid  :  all  which  now  are  in  the  occupation 
jf  Riciia.-de  Shakspere.  John  Henley,  and  John  Hargreve."  Of  course 
this  property  formed  part  of  the  jointure  of  Agnes  Arden,  mentioned 
in  the  will  of  her  hUfband. 

•  John  P'iake«r''''fe-  'he  shoemaker,  seems  not  to  have  belonged  to 
th*  rcTVci'jon,  \l  all  events,  till  many  years  afterwards,  so  that  the 


is  in  possession  of  the  original  presentation  made  by  thew 
officers  on  the  4th  May  in  that  year,  the  name  of  the  father 
of  our  great  dramatist,  coining  last,  after  those  of  Heur)' 
BydyU,  Lewis  ap  William,  and  William  Mvnske.  The 
most  remarkable  circumstance  connected  wkb  it  is  the 
immber  of  persons  who  were  amerced  in  sums  varying  from 
6.s\  8d.  to  2d.  "  The  bailiff  that  now  is,"  was  fined  Hx.  4d 
for  "  breaking  the  assize,"  he  being  a  "  common  baker :"  three 
other  bakers  were  severally  compelled  to  pay  similar 
amounts  on  the  same  occiision,  and  for  the  same  offence.* 
In  September  following  the  date  of  this  report  Jolm  Shake- 
speare was  elected  one  of  the  chamberlains  of  tlie  borough, 
a  very  responsible  post,  in  which  he  remained  two  years. 

His  second  child,  Margaret,  or  Maigareta,  (as  the  name 
stands  in  the  register,)  was  baptized  on  the  2d  Dec,  1662, 
while  he  continued  chamberlain.  She  was  buried  on  30th 
April,  15C3-. 

The  greatest  event,  perhaps,  m  the  hterary  history  of  the 
world  oecuri-ed  a  year  afterward.s — WiUiani  Shakespeare 
was  born.  The  day  of  his  birth  cannot  be  fixed  witli  abso- 
lute certainty,  but  he  was  baptizeil  on  the  26th  April,  1564, 
and  the  memorandum  in  the  register  is  precisely  in  the 
following  form : — 

"  1564.  April  26.  GuUdmusJiliiis  Johannes  Shukspere.'''' 
So  that  whoever  kept  the  book  (in  all  probability  the  clerk) 
either  committed  a  common  clerical  error,  or  was  no  great 
proficient  in  the  rules  of  grammai-.  It  seems  most  likely 
that  our  great  dramatist  had  been  brought  into  the  world 
only  three  days  before  he  was  baptized^  and  it  was  then 
the  custom  to  carry  infants  very  early  bi  tlie  font.  A  house 
is  still  pointed  out  by  tradition,  in  Henley-street,  as  that  in 
which  Wilhani  Shakespeare  first  saw  the  hglit,  and  we 
have  already  shown  that  his  fathei-  was  the  owner  of  two 
copy-hold  dwellings  in  Henley-street  and  Greenhill-streel, 
and  we  may,  perhaps,  conclude  that  the  birth  took  place  in 
the  former.  John  and  Mary  Shakesi)caie  having  previously 
lost  two  girls,  Joan  rikI  Margaret,  William  was  at  this  time 
the  only  cluld  of  liis  parents. 

A  malignant  fever,  denominated  the  plague,  broke  out  at 
Stratford  while  William  Shakespeare  was  in  extreme  in- 
fancy :  he  was  not  two  months  old  when  it  made  its  appear- 
ance, having  been  brought  from  London,  where,  accortiing 
bj  Stow,  {A7inales,-p.  1112,  edit.  1616.)  it  raged  with  great 
violence  throughout  the  year  1563,  and  did  not  so  far  abat« 
that  term  could  be  kept,  as  usual  at  Westminster,  until 
Easter,  1564.  It  was  most  fatiil  at  Stiatfoid  between  June 
and  December,  1564,  imd  Malone  calculated  that  it  carried 
off  in  that  interval  more  than  a  seventh  part  of  Hie  whole 
population,  consistmg  of  abi)ut  14u0  inhabitants.  It  does 
not  appear  that  it  reached  any  member  of  the  iminetliate 
family  of  John  Shakespeare,  and  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely  tliat 
he  avoided  its  ravsiges  by  quitting  Stratford  for  Suitterfield, 
where  he  owned  some  property  in  right  of  his  wife,  and 
where  perhaps  his  father  was  still  living  as  tenant  to  Alex- 
ander Webbe,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  m  1560,  had  obtained 

confusion  to  which  we  have  referred  does  not  extend  itself  to  any  of 
the  records  of  that  body.  After  John  Sliakesneare,  the  father  of  our 
poet,  had  been  bailiff,  he  is  always  called  ^Ir.  or  Mn^isttr  John 
f^hakeapeare ;  while  the  shoemaker,  who  married  .Margery  Roberts, 
and  was  the  father  of  Philij),  Ursula,  and  Humphrey,  is  invariably 
styled  only  John  Shakespeare.  There  is  no  trace  of  any  relationship 
between  the  two. 

*  The  affeerorsseem  to  have  displayed  unusual  vigilance,  and  con- 
siderable severity  :  William  Trout,  Christopher  Smythe,  Maud  Har- 
bage,  and  John  Jamson  were  all  fined  .If.  4il,  "for  selling  ale,  and 
having  and  keeping  gaming  contrary  to  the  order  of  the  Court:" 
eleven  other  inhabitants  were  amerced  in  smaller  sums  on  the  same 
ground  Robert  I'errot  was  compelled  to  pay  6s.  Hd.  "for  makin.' 
and  selling  unwholesome  ale."' 

<  The  registratkins  of  her  birth  and  death  are  both  in  Latin  : — 
"l.iO'i.    iJecemher'i.  Miir/rnretit  filia  .liihnnnis  Skaksperf." 
"I. '56.').  .^prilSO.  Mnrirnrftn filin  .Inhnniiis  s/iak.iperc.'^ 
'  The    inscription  on  his  monument  supports  the  opinion  that  h« 
wa«  born  on  the  23d  April  :   without  the  contractions  it  runs  thus  :— 
•■  Obiit  JInvu  Dumini  IBM) 
JF.talin  5,3.  die  'JH  Aprilis." 
and  this,  in  truth,  is  the  only  piece  of  evidence  upon  the  joint     Ma- 
lone  referreu  to  the  statement  of  the  Rev.  .1.  Greene,  as  an  authoritj 
I  but  he  was  master  of  the  free-school  at  Stratford  nearly  two  centurie* 
I  after  the  death  of  .^hakenpeare,  and,  in  all  probi.bility.spcke  only  from 
1  the  tenor  of  the  inscription  in  the  church 


THE   LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


a  lease  for  foi'/j  years  fi'om  his  relative,  the  widow  ^gnes 
Arden,  of  the  messuage  iu  which  Richard  Shakespeare  re- 
sided. 

In  order  to  show  that  John  Shakespeare  was  at  this  date 
in  moderate,  and  probably  comfortable,  though  not  in  afflu- 
ent circumstances,  Malone  adduced  a  piece  of  evidence  de- 
rived from  the  records  of  Stratford^:  it  consists  of  the 
names  of  persons  in  the  borough  who,  on  this  calamitous 
visitation  of  the  plague,  contributed  vm-ious  sums  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  poor.  The  meeting  at  which  it  was  determined 
to  collect  subsci-iptions  with  this  object  was  convened  in  the 
open  ail",  "  At  a  hall  heilden  in  our  garden,"  <te. ;  no  doubt 
on  account  of  the  infection.  The  donations  varied  between 
Vs.  4d.  (given  by  only  one  individual  of  the  name  of  Rich- 
ard S}nuens)  and  &d. ;  and  the  sum  against  the  name  of  John 
Shakespeare  is  Is.  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  at  this  date 
be  was  not  an  alderman ;  and  of  twenty-four  persons 
enumerated  five  others  gave  the  same  amount,  while  six 
gave  less  :  the  bailiff  contributed  3s.  4d.,  and  the  head  alder- 
man 2s.  8d.,  wliile  ten  more  put  down  either  2s.  6t/.  or  2<. 
each,  and  a  person  of  the  name  of  Botte  4s.  These  sub- 
scriptions were  raised  on  the  30th  August  but  on  the  6th 
September  a  forther  sum  seems  to  have  been  required,  and 
the  baihff  and  six  aldermen  gave  Is.  each,  Adrian  Quyney 
Is.  &d.,  and  John  Shakespeai-e  and  four  others  6d.  each :  only 
one  member  of  the  corporRtion.  Robert  Bi-att,  whose  name 
will  afterwards  occur,  contributed  4d.  We  are,  we  think, 
warranted  iu  concluding,  that  in  1564  John  Shakespeare 
was  an  industrious  and  thriving  tradesman. 

He  continued  steadily  to  advance  iu  rank  and  importance 
in  the  corporation,  and  was  elected  one  of  the  fourteen  alder- 
men of  Stratford  on  the  4tli  July,  1565  ;  but  he  did  not 
take  the  usual  oath  until  the  12th  September  following. 
The  bailiif  of  the  year  was  Richard  Hill,  a  woollen-draper ; 
and  the  father  of  our  poet  bcame  the  occupant  of  that 
situation  rather  more  than  three  years  aftei-wards,  when 
his  son  William  was  about  four  years  and  a  half  old.  John 
Shakespeare  was  bailiff  of  Stratford-upon-Avon  from  Mi- 
chaelmas 1568,  to  Michaelmius  1569,  the  autumn  being  the 
customary  period  of  elcetiun.  In  the  meantime  his  wife 
had  brought  him  another  son,  who  was  cliristened  Gilbert,  j 
on  13th  October,  1566^ 

Joan  seems  to  have  been  a  favom-ite  name  with  the  Shake- 
speares :  and  Joan  Shakespeare  is  mentioned  in  the  records 
of  the  guild  of  Kuowle,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. ;  and 
John  and  Mary  Shakespeare  christened  their  first  child, 
which  died  an  infant.  Joan.  A  third  daughter  was  born  to 
them  while  John  Shakespeare  was  bailiff,  and  her  they  also 
baptized  Joan,  on  15tli  April,  1569^  The  partiality  for 
the  name  of  Joan,  in  this  instance,  upon  which  some  bi- 
ographers have  remarked  without  being  able  to  explain  it, 
may  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  a  maternal  aunt, 
married  to  Edward  Lambert,  was  called  Joan ;  and  it  is 
veiy  possible  that  she  stood  god-mother  upon  both  occa- 
sions. Joan  Lambert  was  one  of  the  daughters  of  Robert 
Arden,  regarding  whom,  until  recently,  we  have  had  no 
information. 

We  have  now  traced  John  Shakespeare  through  various 
offices  in  the  borough  of  Stratford,  until  he  reached  the 
highest  distbction  which  it  was  in  the  power  of  his  fellow- 
townsmen  to  bestow  :  he  was  bailiff,  and  ex-officio  a  magis- 
frate.  _ 

Two  new  documents  have  recently  come  to  fight  which 
belong  to  this  period,  and  which  show,  beyond  aU  dispute, 
that  although  John  Shakespeai-e  had  risen  to  a  station  so 

I  Shakspeare,  by  Bos-well,  toI.  ii.  p.  83.  ,  ,  * 

3  The  register  of  the  parish-church  contains  the  subsequent 
entry : —  ,  „ 

"  1566,  Of «ftftcr  13.   Oilbertus  filius  Johannis  Shakspere. 

3  Although  John   Shakespeare  was  at  this  time  bailiff,  no  Mr.  or 
Magister  is  prefixed  to  his  name  in  the  register,  a  distinction  which 
ippears  only  to  have  been  made  after  he  had  served  that  othce.^^ 
"1569,  April  15.     Jone  the  daughter  of  John  Shakspere 

♦  Malone  gave  both  the  confirmation  and  exemplification  of  arms, 
but  with  some  variations,  which  are  perhaps  pardonable  on  account 
of  the  state  of  the  originals  in  the  Heralds'  College  :  thus  he  printed 
"parent  and  late  antecessors."  instead  of  -'parents  and  late  ante- 
c«s3ors,"'  in  the  confirmation  ;  and  ■'  whose  parent  and  great  grand- 
fjUHer,  and  late  antecessor."  instead  of  -  whose  parent,  great  grand- 


respectable  as  that  of  baihff  of  Stratfoid.  with  his  name  in 
the  commission  of  the  peace,  he  was  not  able  m  write. 
Malone  referred  to  the  recoi-ds  of  the  borough  to  estjibUsh 
that  in  1565,  when  John  Wheler  was  called  upon  by  nine- 
teen aldermen  and  burgesses  to  undertake  the  duties  of 
biiihff,  John  Shakespeare  was  among  twelve  otlier  marks- 
men, including  Geoige  Whately,  the  then  baihff,  and  Roarer 
Sadler,  the  "  head  alderman."  There  was,  therefore,  m-thuie 
remarkable  in  this  uuibility  to  write;  and  if  there  were 
any  doubt  upon  this  point,  (it  being  a  Utile  ambiguoua 
whether  tlie  siffman  referred  to  the  name  of  Thomas 
Dyxun,  or  of  John  Shakespeare,)  it  can  never  be  enter- 
tained hereafter,  because  the  Shakespeare  Society  has  been 
put  in  possession  of  two  warrants,  granted  by  John  Shake- 
speare as  baihff  of  Stratford,  the  one  dated  the  3rd,  and 
the  other  the  9th  December,  11  Ehzabeth,  for  the  caption 
of  John  Ball  and  Richard  Walcar,  on  account  of  debta 
severally  due  from  them,  to  bfjlh  of  which  his  mark  only  ia 
appended.  The  same  fact  is  established  by  two  other 
docum-ents,  to  which  we  shall  have  occasion  hereafter  to 
advert,  belonging  to  a  period  ten  years  subsequent  to  that 
of  which  we  are  now  speaking. 


CHAPTER  HI 

The  grunt  of  arms  to  John  Shakespeare  considered.  The  con- 
firmiition  and  exemplification  of  anus.  Sir  W.  Detliick's 
coiidnet.  Ingon  meadow  in  John  SliakespeareV  tenancy. 
Birth  and  death  of  his  daughter,  Anne.  Kicliurd  Shake- 
spenie  born  in  1574,  and  named,  perliaps,  after  liis  grand- 
father. John  Shakespeare's  purchase  of  two  freehold 
houses  in  Stratford.  Decline  in  his  pecuniary  affairs,  and 
new  evidence  upon  the  point.  Indenture  of  sale  of  JohL 
Shakespeare's  and  liis  wife's  share  of  property  at  Snitter- 
field,  to  Robert  Webbe.  Birth  of  Edmund  Shakespeare  ir 
1580. 

Although  John  Shakespeare  could  not  write  Ids  name 
it  has  generally  been  stated,  and  beUeved,  that  while  he 
filled  the  ofiice'of  bailiff  he  obtamed  a  gi-ant  of  anns  from 
Clarencieux  Cooke,  who  was  in  office  from  1566  to  1592. 
We  have  considerable  doubt  of  this  fact,  partly  arising  out 
of  the  circumstance,  that  although  Cooke's  original  book,  iu 
wliich  he  entered  the  amis  he  granted,  has  been  preseiTcd 
in  the  Heralds'  College,  we  find  iu  it  no  note  of  any  such 
concession  to  John  Shakespeare.  It  is  true  that  this  book 
might  not  contain  memoranda  of  all  the  anns  CiKike  had 
granted,  but  it  is  a  circimistance  deser\-ing  n<itice.  that  in 
this  case  such  an  eutiy  is  wanting.  A  confirmation  of  these 
amis  was  made  in  1596,  but  we  cannot  help  thinking,  with 
Malone,  tliat  this  mstrument  was  obtained  at  the  personal 
instance  of  the  poet,  who  had  then  actually  purchasetL  or 
was  on  the  eve  of  purchasing,  Kew  Phice  (or  '•  the  great 
house,"  as  it  was  also  called)  in  Stratford.  The  contirma- 
tion  states,  that  the  heralds  had  been  "  by  credible  report 
mformed,"  that  "the  parents  and  late  antecessors"*  of  John 
Shakespeare  "  wci-e  for  tiieir  valiant  and  faithful  seiwicea 
advanced  and  rewarded  of  the  most  prudent  prince,  Henry 
the  Seventh ;"  but,  as  has  been  before  stated,  on  exammuig 
the  rolls  <>i  that  reign,  we  can  discover  no  trace  of  ad- 
vancement or  reward  to  any  pereon  of  tlie  name  of  Shake- 
speare. It  is  true  that  the  Ardens.  or  Artlerns,  were  so 
"  advanced  and  rewarded  •,""  and  these,  though  not  strieUy 
the  "  pai-ents,"  were  certainly  the  "  antecessors'  of  W  ilbam 

father,  and  late  antecessor,"  in  the  exemplification,  ^e  »"]»""^ 
here  to  express  our  acknowledgmenu  to  ^ ,"  >  *'"'r  in  m^S^.til' 
present  Garter  King  at  Arms,  ^o^  the  'rouble  he  ookmm.n.tMy 
collating  Malone-s  copies  with  the  docunients  them^elvM  O  he. 
errors  he  pointed  out  do  not  require  particularnotioe,  as  they  a,.p.T 
to  parts  of  the  instruments  not  necessary  or  our  a^C"""";^  ^11 
s  Robert  Ardern  had  two  offices  conforreJ  upon  h.m  ^r  H'snry jri 
in  the  Kith  and  17th  years  of  his  reign;  ana  he  is  ^Pf >=!"  ?f  '"  '°; 
.rants  as  unusffarcwnu,n  cnmrro!  n,..Wr<c  .■  the  one  <>"'"  '"^ff  '^^^ 
k  eperof  the  fark  at  Aldercar  and  'he  other  ,ha.  of  ba.Uff  ofth* 
lordship  of  Codnor,  and  keeper  of  the  park  there,  lie  obW'"'* » J^"' 
of  lands  in  'Zi  Henry  VII.  ;  viz.  the  large  'X^fV  entT^ie  k"nci 
county  of  Stafford,  on  condition  of  a  payment  of  a  rent  to  the  KnK» 
42/.  per  annum 


XXX 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Bhiikespeure.  In  1699.  an  exemplification  of  arms  was  been  added  when  Sir  William  Dethick's  conduct  was  called 
pixK-'ured,  imii  in  tliis  d-'ouineut  it  is  asserted  that  the  "  great  in  question  ;  and  certain  other  statements  are  made  at  the 
eraudfath.r"  nl  J.'hn  Sliakesneare  had  been  "advanced  bottom  of  the  same  docun:?nt,  which  would  be  material  to 
aud  rewarded  with  lan<is  ana  tenements"  by  Heui-y  VII.  Garter's  vindication,  but  wLich  are  not  burne  out  by  facts. 
Uur  poet's '•  great  i^rmidfather,"  by  the  mother's  side,  was  One  of  these  statements  is,  that  John  Shakespeare,  in 
«o"a<hauced  and  rewarded ;"  and  we  know  that  he  did  1590,  was  worth  500/.,  an  error  certainly  as  regarded  him, 
•  fjiithful  and  approved  service"  to  tliat  "most  pinident  but  a  truth  probably  as  regarded  his  son. 
pi-ince."  ,  i      It   is  really  a   matter  of  little   moment  whether   John 

Another  point,  though  one  of  less  importance,  is,  that  Sliakespearc 'did  or  did  not  obtiiiu  a  grant  of  arms  while  he 
it  is  stated.  Ml  a  note  at  the  foot  of  the  contarmation  of  1 596,  .^^.^s  baiUtf  of  Stratford;  but  we  are  stroutrlv  inclined  to 
thill  John  Shakesneare  "  showeth"  a  patent  "  under  Clarence  think  that  he  did  not,  and  that  the  assertion  that  lie  did,  and 
C<*>ke's  iuiud:"  the  word  seems  ongiually  to  have  been  that  he  was  worth  500/.  in  1596,  originated  with  Sir  W. 
$etit,  over  which  "showeth"  was  written:  if  the  original  Dethick,  when  he  subsequently  wanted  to  make  out  his  own 
pjiteut,  under  Cooke's  hand,  had  been  «c/i?  to  the  Heralds'  v^jdit-j^tiun  from  the  charge  of  having  conceded  arms  to 
CoUi'ge  in  1596,  tliere  could  have  been  little  question  about  various  persons  without  due  caution  and  inquiry. 
it;  but  the  substituted  word  "showeth"  is  more  iudetinite,  I  lu  1570,  when  William  Shakespeare  was  in  his  seventh 
and  may  mean  only,  that  the  party  applying  for  the  con- 1  year,  his  father  was  in  possessioi.  of  a  field  called  lugon, 
dmiatiou  alleged  that  Cooke  had  granted  such  a  coat  ofj,,).  higton,  meadow,  within  two  miles  of  Stratford,  which 
anns'.  "lliat  William  Shakespeare  could  not  have  pro-  he  held  under  William  Clopton.  We  cannot  tell  in  what 
cured  a  grant  of  arms  for  himself  in  1596  is  highly  proba-  year  he  fiist  rented  it,  because  the  instrument  proving  his 
ble.  from  the  fact  that  he  was  an  actor,  (a  profession  then  !  tenancy  is  dated  11th  June,  1581,  and  only  states  the  fact, 
much  looked  down  upon)  and  not  of  a  rank  in  life  to  en-  that  on  11th  Dec,  1570,  it  was  in  his  occupation.  ITie  an- 
title  him  to  it:   he,  therefore,  may  have  veiy  fairly  and  nual  payment  for  it  was  8/.,  a  considerable  sum,  certainly, 

Eroperlv  put  forward  his  father's  name  and  claims  as  for  that"^ tune ;  but  if  there  had  been  "a  good  dwelUng- 
aving  been  baiUtf  of  Stratford,  and  a  "justice  of  peace,"  j  house  and  orchard"  upon  the  field,  as  Malone  conjectured, 
and  coupled  that  fact  with  the  deserts  and  rewaids  of  the  { that  circimistance  would,  m  all  probability,  have  been  meu- 
Ardens  under  Henry  VII.,  one  of  whom  was  his  maternal  |  tioned'.  We  may  presume  that  John  Shakespeare  em- 
'  great  gnmdfather|"  and  all  of  whom,  by  reason  of  the  !  ployed  it  for  agricultural  purposes,  but  upon  tiiis  point  we 
marrijige  of  his  father  with  an  Arden,  were  his  "  ante- '  are  without  inform ation.  That  he  lived  in  Stratford  at  the 
cessors."  -  time  we  infer  from  the  fact,  that  on  the  28th  September. 

We  only  doubt  whether  John  Shakespeare  obtained  any  l§7l,  a  second  daughter,  named  Anne,  was  baptized  at  the 
erant  of  arms,  as  bis  been  supposed,  in  1568-9;  and  it  is  I  parish-chui'cb.  He  had  thus  four  children  living,  two  bovs 
to  be  observed  that  the  documents  relating  to  this  question,  and  two  girls,  William,  Gilbert,  Joan,  and  Anne,  but  the 
still  preserved  in  the  Heralds'  College,  are  full  of  cori-ec-  last  died  at  an  early  age,  having  been  buried  on  4th  April, 
tions  jmd  interhueations,  particulai-ly  as  regards  the  an- 1  lo79\  It  will  be  remarked  that,  on  the  baptism  of  his 
Beetore  of  John  Sliakespeare :  we  are  persuaded  that  when  j  daughter  Anne,  he  was,  for  the  first  time,  called  "  Magister 
Wilham  Siwke^peare  applied  to  the  ofiice  in  1596,  Garter  j  Shakespeare"  in  the  Latin  entry  in  the  Register,  a  distinc- 
of  thjit  day,  oi-  his  assisttrnts,  made  a  confusion  between  the  i  tion  he  seems  to  have  acquired'by  having  served  the  ofiice 
"  givat  trrandtither"  and  the  "  antecessors"  of  John,  and  of  ]  of  bailiff  two  years  before.     The  same  obsei'vation  will 


WilUam  Shakespeare.  What  is  stilted,  both  in  the  confir- 
mation and  exemplification,  as  to  parentage  and  descent,  is 
true  as  regards  William  Shakespeare,  but  en-oneous  as  re- 
gards John  Sliakespeare''. 

It  appears  that  Sir  William  Dethick,  garter-king-at- 
arms  in  1596  and  1599,  was  subsequently  called  to  account 
for  hjiviui;  granted  a>ats  to  pers<jns  whose  station  in  society 
and  circumstances  gave  them  no  right  to  the  distinction. 
The  case  of  .John  Shakespeare  was  one  of  those  complained 
of  in  this  respect ;  and  had  Clarencieux  Cooke  really  put 
his  name  in  1568-9  to  any  such  patent  as,  it  was  asserted, 
had  been  exhibited  ^l  Sir  William  Dethick,  a  copy  of  it,  or 
6ome  reconi  of  it,  would  probably  have  remained  in  the 
office  of  arms  in  1596  ;  ana  the  production  of  that  ak)ne, 
proving  that  he  had  merely  acted  on  the  precedent  of  Cla- 
rencieux Cooke  would,  U}  a  considerable  extent  at  least, 
have  justified  Sir  William  Dethick.  No  copy,  nor  record, 
vas  however  so  produced,  but  merely  a  memorandum  at 
the  i'xA  of  tlie  Confirmation  of  1596,  that  an  original  grant 
had  been  »ent  or  shown,  which  memorandum  may  have 

'  The  worJ  ■'  fhowelh"'  ii  thus  employed  in  nearly  every  petition, 
and  it  i«  only  there  ejuivalent  to  tiateth,  or  setteth  forth.  The  as- 
»cn;on  that  «uch  a  grant  had  been  alleged  was,  probably,  that  of  the 
her  Aids. 

'  The  confirmation  and  the  exemplification  differ  slightly  as  to 
the  mode  in  which  the  arms  are  set  out  :  in  the  former  it  is  thus  : 
"  1  have  therefore  awiened,  graunted.  and  by  these  have  confirmed, 
tb.a  shield  01  cote  of  arms,  viz.  could,  on  a  bend  vable  and  a  speare 
»f  the  first,  tha  point  steeled,  proper  ;  and  for  his  crest  or  cocnizance 
a  faulcon,  his  wings  displayed,  arcent,  standing  on  a  wrethe  of  his 
eouilorii,  su;.poitini;  a  speare  gould  Steele  as  aforekaid,  sett  upnon  a 
helmeu  wi;h  mantelles  and  tasselles  as  hath  been  accustomed."  In 
the  exeinphficanon  the  arms  are  stated  as  follows:  "In  a  field  of 
eonld  ujon  abend  sables  a  speare  of  the  first,  the  poynt  upward, 
bedded  ari:»ni;  and  for  his  crest  or  cognisance  a  falcon  with  his 
wyngK  J..'ij.iared.  standing  on  a  wrethe  of  his  coullors,  supporting  a 
fpe&re  armed  hedded  or  steeled  sylver,  fyxed  upon  a  helmet,  with 
manteli«s  and  taswUes.'*  In  the  confirmation,  as  well  as  in  the  ex- 
•mplifica'.ioo.  It  is  stated  that  the  arms  are  "depicted  in  the  mar- 
gin ;''  and  in  the  latter  a  reference  is  made  to  another  escutcheon,  in 
which  the   arras  of  Shakespeare  are   impaled 


apply  to  the  registration  of  his  fifth  child,  Richard,  who 
was  baptized  on  11th  March,  1573-4,  as  the  son  of  "J/r. 
John  Shakespeare^"  Richard  Shakespeaie  may  have  been 
named  after  his  grandfather  of  Snitterfield,  who  perhap-j 
was  sponsor  on  the  occasion". 

The  increase  of  John  Shakespeare's  family  seems,  for 
some  time,  to  have  been  accompanied  by  an  increase  of  his 
means,  and  in  1574  he  gave  Edmund  and  Emma  Hall  40/. 
for  two  freehold  houses,  with  gardens  and  orchards,  id 
Heuley-streef.  It  will  not  be  forgotten  that  he  was  al- 
ready the  owner  of  a  copyhold  tenement  in  the  same  street, 
which  he  had  bought  of  Edward  West,  in  1556,  before  hia 
marriage  with  Mary  Arden.  To  one  of  tlie  two  hist-pur- 
chased  dwellings  John  Shakespeare  is  supposed  to  have  re- 
moved his  family ;  but,  fi>r  aught  we  know,  he  had  hved 
from  the  time  of  his  marriage,  and  continued  to  hve  in 
1674,  in  the  house  in  Henley -street,  which  had  been  alien- 
ated to  him  eighteen  years  before.  It  does  not  appear  that 
he  had  ever  parted  with  West's  house,  so  that  ni  1574  he 
wjts  the  owner  of  three  houses  in  Henley-street,     Forty 

use  the  same  shield  of  arms,  single,  or  impaled  as  aforesaid,  during 
his  naturall  lyffe."  The  motto,  as  given  at  the  head  of  the  confit 
mation.  is 

.SON    8A.\Z    DROICT. 

For  '-Arden  ofWellingcote"'  the  heralds  should  have  said  Arden  o. 
Wilmecote. 

3  .Malone  places  reliance  on  the  words  of  the  close  roll,  (from  which 
the  information  is  derived)  "with  the  ajipurtenances ;''  but  surely 
'•a  good  dwelling-house  and  orchard"  would  have  been  specified, 
and'not  included  in  such  general  terms :  they  are  not  mere  "•ap- 
purtenances." 

«  The  following  are  copies  .if  the  registration  of  the  baptism  anc 
burial  of  Anne  Shakespeare  : — 

'•1.571  Hrpteli''  Mi.  Jlnnn  filia  Maestri  Skak.tprre.'" 

"  1.579  April  4.  Anne  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Shaksper*." 

>  The  baptismal  register  runs  thus  : — 

••  157)  March  U.  Richard  sonne  to  Mr.  John  Sh.akspeer." 

•  Malone  speculated  (.Shakspeare,  by  Boswell.  vol.  ii.  p.  106,)  that 
Richard  Hill,  an  alderman  of  Stratford,  had  stood  godfather  Ui  tl»i« 
child,  but  he  was  not  aware  of  the  existence  of  any  such  perst  n  ai 
Richard  Shakespeare,  of  Snitterfield,  who,  there  is  go(<d  cround  U 


the   auncvenl 
of  Arden  ofWellingcote.  signifving  thereby  that  it  maye'and  |  believe,  was  fatfier  to  John  Shakespeare 
•nail  be  lawfull  for  the  said  John  Shakespeare,   gen.^  to  beare  and  |      ''  "  Malone's  Shakspeare,  by  Uosvc^ll,' 


Jl   ii.  p.  93 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


poxuids,  even  allowing  for  great  difference  in  value  of  i 
money,  seems  a  email  sum  for  the  two  freehold  houses,  i 
with  gai'dens  and  orchards,  sold  to  him  by  Edmund  and 
Emma  Hall.  i 

It  is,  we  apprehend,  indisputable  that  soon  after  this 
(Lite  the  tide  of  John  Shakespeare's  affairs  began  to  turn,  | 
and  that  he  experienced  disappointments  and  losses  which 
seriously  affected  liis  pecuniary  circumstances.  Malone  j 
was  in  possession  of  several  imported  "acts  upon  this  sub-  \ 
ject  and  recently  a  strong  piece  of  confirmatoiy  testimony 
has  been  procured.  We  will  first  advert  to  that  which  was 
in  the  hands  of  Malone,  applicable  to  the  beginning  of  ; 
1678.  At  a  borougl  hall  on  the  29lh  Jari.  in  that  year,  it, 
was  ordered  that  every  alderman  in  Stratford  sht)uld  pay  1 
6s.  8(1,  and  every  burgess  3s.  4rf.  towards  "  the  furniture  of  j 
three  pikcmen,  two  billmen,  and  one  archei-."  Now,  al-  j 
though  John  Shakespeare  was  not  only  an  alderman,  but 
had  been  chosen  "  head  alderman"  in  1571,  he  was  allowed 
to  contribute  t>uly  8s.  4d.,  as  if  he  had  been  merely  a  bur- 1 
gess :  Humphrey  Pljnnley,  another  alderman,  paid  5s.,  [ 
while  John  Walker,  Thomas  Brogden,  and  Anthony  Tuiuer ! 
contributed  2s.  6d.  each,  Williatn  Brace  Is.,  and  Robert ; 
Bratt  "  nothing  in  this  place."  It  is  possible  that  Bi-att 
had  been  called  upon  to  furnish  a  contribution  in  some 
other  place,  or  perhaps  the  words  are  to  be  taken  to  mean, 
that  he  was  excused  altogether  ;  and  it  is  to  be  remarked 
that  in  the  contribution  to  the  poor  in  Sept.  1564,  Bratt 
was  the  only  individual  who  gave  no  more  than  fourpence. 
lu  November,  1578,  when  it  was  required  that  every  alder- 
man should  "  pay  weekly  to  the  relief  of  the  poor  4J.," 
John  Shakespeare  and  Robert  Bratt  were  excepted :  they 
were  "  not  to  be  taxed  to  pay  any  thing,"  while  two  others 
(one  of  them  Alderman  Plyniley)  were  rated  atSrf.  a  week. 
In  March,  1578-9,  when  another  call  was  made  upon  the 
town  for  the  purpose  of  purchasing  corslets,  cahvers,  Ac, 
the  name  of  John  Shakespeare  is  found,  at  the  end  of  the 
account,  in  a  list  of  persons  whose  "  sums  were  unpaid  and 
unaccounted  for."  Another  fact  tends  strongly  to  the  con- 
clusion that  in  1578  John  Shakespeare  was  distressed  for 
money :  he  owed  a  baker  of  the  name  of  Roger  Sadler  51., 
for  wiiich  Edmund  Lambert,  and  a  person  of  the  name  of 
Cornishe,  had  become  security :  Sadler  died,  and  in  his  will, 
dated  14th  November,  1678,  he  included  the  following 
among  the  debts  due  t<j  him  : — "  Item  of  Edmund  Lambert 
and  Comishe,  for  the  debt  of  Mr.  John  Shacksper,  61." 

Malone  conjsetured  that  Edmund  Lambert  was  some  re- 
lation to  Mary  Shakespeare,  and  there  can  be  httle  doubt 
of  it,  as  an  Edward  Lambert  had  married  her  sister  Joan 
Arden.  To  Edmund  Lambert  John  Shakespeare,  in  1578,  i 
mortgaged  his  wife's  estate  in  A  shton  Cantlowe,  called 
Asbyes,  for  40?.,  an  additional  circumstance  to  prove  that 
he  was  m  want  of  money ;  and  so  severe  the  pressure  of 
his  necessities  about  this  date  seems  to  have  been,  that  in  j 
1579  he  parted  with  his  wife's  interest  in  two  tenements  in , 
Snitterfield  to  Robert  Webbe  for  the  small  sum  of  41.  This 
ig  a  striking  confirmation  of  John  Shakespeare's  embarrass- 
ments, with  which  Malone  was  not  acquainted  ;  but  the  oi-ig- 
inal  deed,  with  the  bond  for  the  fulfilment  of  covenants, 
(both  bearing  date  15th  Oct.  1679)  subscribed  with  the  dis- j 
tinct  marks  of  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare,  and  sealed  with 
their  respective  seals,  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Shakespeare 
Society.  His  houses  in  Stratford  descended  to  his  son,  but 
they  may  have  been  mortgaged  at  this  period,  and  it  is  in- 
disputable that  John  Shakespeare  divested  himself  in  1578 
ind  1579,  of  the  landed  property  his  wife  had  brought  him, 
being  in  the  end  driven  to  the  extremity  of  raismg  the 

1  The  property  is  thus  described  in  the  indenture  between  John 
Shakespeare  and  his  wife,  and  Robert  Webbe.  For  and  in  conside- 
rat  on  of  the  sum  of  4/.  in  hand  paid,  they  '-give,  praunte,  bar- 
ca/ne.  and  sell  unto  the  said  Robert  Webbe,  his  heires  and  assignes 
for  ever,  all  that  theire  raoitye,  parte,  and  partes,  be  it  more  or  less*, 
sf  and  in  two  messuages  or  tenementes,  with  thappurtennances,  sett, 
lyinge  and  beyng?  in  Snitterfield  aforesaid,  in  the  said  county  of 
Wirwicke."     The  deed  terminates  thus  : 

"  In  witnesse  whereof  the  parties  above  said  to  these  present  inden- 
tures interchangeablie  have  put  theire  handes  and  seales,  the  day 
ind  vearefvrst  above  wry tten.  ,      ,t     /■  im 

"  the  marke  +  of  John  Shackspere.  The  -narke  M  of  Marye 
«hac'i£Dtro 


trifling  sum  of  41.  by  the  sale  of  her   share  of  two  mes^ 
suages  in  Snitterfield'. 

It  has  been  supposed  that  be  might  not  at  this  time 
reside  in  Stratfo7d-upon-Avon,  and  that  for  this  reason  he 
only  contributed  Ss.  'id.  for  pikemen,  <tc.,  and  nothing  to  the 
poor  of  the  town,  in  1578.  This  notion  is  refuted^by  lli« 
fact,  that  in  the  deed  for  the  sale  of  his  wife's  property  in 
Snitterfield  to  Webbe,  in  1579,  he  is  called  -'John  Shack- 
spere  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,"  and  in  the  bond  for  the  per- 
formance of  covenants,  "  Johannevi  tihiivkspcre  tie  til  rat  for  d- 
upo7i-Avon,  in  comitat.  Warwici:'  Had  he  been  lesideut 
at  Ingon,  or  at  Snitterfield,  he  would  hardly  liave  been  de- 
scribed as  of  Stratford-upon-Avon.  Another  point  re- 
quiring notice  in  connexion  with  these  two  newly -discovered 
documents  is,  that  in  both  John  Shiikespeare  is  termed 
"yeoman,"  and  not  glover:  perhaps  in  1579,  although  he 
continued  to  occupy  a  house  in  Stratford,  he  had  relin- 
quished his  original  trade,  and  having  enibaiked  in  agricul- 
tural pursuits,  to  which  he  had  not  been  educated,  had  been 
unsuccessful.  This  may  appear  not  an  unnatural  mode  of 
accounting  for  .«ome  of  his  difficulties.  In  the  midst  of 
them,  in  the  spring  of  1680,  another  son,  named  Kdmuud, 
(perhaps  after  Edmund  Lambert,  the  mortg.igee  of  As- 
Ijyes)  was  born,  and  christened  at  the  parish  chuj  ch" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Education  of  William  Shakespeare :  probably  at  the  free- 
school  of  Stratford.  At  what  time,  and  under  what  cir- 
cumstances, he  left  school.  Possibly  an  assistant  in  llie 
school,  and  afterwards  in  an  attorney's  office.  His  liund- 
writing.  His  marriage  with  Anne  Hathaway.  The  prelimi- 
nary bond  given  by  Fulk  Sandells  and  John  Kiohardson. 
Birth  of  Susanna,  the  first  cliild  of  William  Shakespeare 
and  his  wife  Anne,  in  1583.  Shakespeare's  opinion  ou  the 
marriage  of  persons  of  disproportionate  age.  "is  domestic 
circumstances.     Anne  Hathaway's  family. 

At  the  period  of  the  sale  of  their  Snitterfield  property  by 
his  father  and  mother,  WUliam  Shakespeare  was  in  his  six- 
teenth year,  and  in  what  way  he  had  been  educated  is  mere 
ma/tter  of  conjecture.  It  is  highly  pi'obable  that  he  Wiis  at 
the  free-school  of  Stratford,  founded  by  Thomas  Jolyffe  in 
the  reign  of  Edward  lY.,  and  subsequently  chartei-ed  by 
Edward  VI.;  but  we  are  destitute  of  all  evidence  beyond 
Rowe's  assertion.  Of  course,  we  know  nothing  of  the  time 
when  he  might  have  been  first  sent  there;  but  if  so  sent 
between  1570  and  1678,  Walter  Roche,  Thomas  Hunt,  and 
Thomas  Jenkins,  were  successively  masters,  and  fi-om  them 
he  must  have  derived  the  rudiments  of  his  Latin  and  Greek. 
That  his  father  and  mother  could  give  him  no  instiuction 
of  the  kind  is  quite  ceitain  from  the  pi-oof  we  have  adduced, 
that  neither  of  them  could  write;  but  this yeiy  deficiency 
might  render  them  more  desirous  that  their  eldest  s.ai.  at 
least,  if  not  their  children  in  general,  should  receive  iLe 
best  education  cii-cumstances  would  allow.  'n»e  free  gi-«m- 
mar-school  of  Stratford  afforded  an  opportiuiity  of  which, 
it  is  not  luilikely,  the  parents  of  Wdliam  Shakespeare 
availed  themselves. 

As  we  aie  ignorant  of  the  time  when  he  went  to  sch  ol. 
we  are  also  in  the  dark  as  to  the  period  when  he  l.'fl  it 
Rowe,  mdeed,  has  told  us  that  the  pi>veity  of  John  Shake- 
speare, and  the  necessity  of  employing  his  son  profitably 
at  home,  induced  him,  at  an  early" age,  to  withdraw  hun 

"  Sealed  and  delivered   in  the  presens  of 

Nycholas   Knoolles,  Vicax  ofAnston, 

Wyllyam  .Maydcs,  and  _  Anthony   0»- 

baston,  with  other  moe."  ,.-•.•  i    t   a      .-,.  :. 

The  seal  affixed  bv  John  Shakespeare  has  his  initials  I  S  open  .t 
while  that  appended  to  the  mark  of  his  wife  reprctent*  a  rudp..v.<-D 
graved  horse!  The  mark  of  Mary  Shakespeare  seems  to  nave  n«i. 
intended  for  an  uncouth  imitation  of  the  letter  M.  -VTith  reier-nc. 
to  the  word  ••  raoietv.'"  used  throuehc.U  the  indenture.  '»  "'"''•' /*• 
membered  that  at  its  date  the  term  i.i  not.  it  new.  imply  half,  •nl 
any  part,  or  share.     Shakespeare  repeatedly  so  uses  it. 

»  The  register  contains  the  following  :—  

"15&0.     M»T  3      Edmund  Sonne  to  Mr  John  8hak5per» 


xxxu 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


{n>m  the  place  of  inst ruction.'  Such  may  have  been  the 
«i»e-  butii*  coiisidcriiii:  the  question,  we  must  not  leave 
out  of  view  the  fact,  that  the  education  of  the  eon  of  a  mem- 
ber of  the  corponition  would  cost  nothing;  so  that,  if  the 
boy  were  removed  from  school  at  the  period  of  his  father's 
enibarrassmeuts,  tlie  expense  of  continuing  liis  studies  there 
ct>-ild  not  have  entered  into  tlie  calculation:  he  must  have 
been  taken  awav,  as  Howe  sUxtes,  in  order  to  aid  his  father 
in  the  maintenance  of  his  family,  consisting,  after  the  death 
of  his  daughter  Anne  in  1579,  and  the  birth  of  his  son  Ed- 
mund iu  15S0,  of  his  wife  and  five  children.  lk>wever,  we 
are  without  the  power  of  c^>nfii-ming  or  contradicting  Rowe's 

etntemoni.  .     , .    ,,^o  •      i      a  i. 

Aubrev  has  asserted  positively,  in  his  MbS.  m  the  Ash- 
molejin  Museum,  that  "  in  his  younger  years  Shakespeai-s 
liad  been  a  schoolmaster  in  the  country ;"  and  the  truth  may 
be,  though  we  are  not  aware  that  the  speculation  luis  ever 
been  luuarded,  that  being  a  young  man  of  abilities,  and 
rapid  iu  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  he  had  been  em- 
ploved  bv  Jenkins  (the  master  of  the  school  from  1577  to 
1580.  if  not  for  a  longer  period)  to  aid  him  iu  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  junior  boys.  Such  a  course  is  certainly  not  very 
unusua!,  and  it  may  serve  to  account  for  this  part  of  Au- 
brey's narrative.' 

We  decidcdlv  concur  with  J^Ialone  in  thinking,  that  after 
Shakespeare  quitted  the  free-school,  he  was  employed  in 
the  othce  of  an  attorney.  Proofs  of  something  like  a  legal 
education  are  to  he  found  iu  many  of  his  plays;  and  it  may 
be  safely  asserted,  that  they  do  not  occur  anything  like  so 
frequiiitlv  in  the  dramatic  productions  of  his  contempo- 
i-aries.  We  doubt  if,  in  the  whole  works  of  Marlowe, 
Greene.  Peele,  Jonsou.  Heywood,  Chapmiui,  Marston,  Dek- 
ker.  and  Webster,  so  many  law  terms  and  allusions  are  to 
be  found,  as  in  only  six  or  eight  plays  by  Shakespeare ;  and, 
moreover,  they  are  applied  with  umch  technics  exactness 
Qod  propriety.     Maloue  has  accumulated  some  of  these, 

>  "  The  narrowness  of  his  father's  circumstances,  and  the  want  of 
kiF  'jsi.«tance  at  home  forced  his  father  to  withdraw  him  from 
thwjice,  and  unhappily  prevented  his  farther  proficiency."— Rowes 
Life. 

'  Aubrey  cites  "Mr.  Beeston"  as  his  authority,  and  as  persons  of 
that  name  were  connected  with  theatres  before  the  death  of  Shake- 
ipeare.  and  lone  afterward.s.  we  ought  to  treat  the  assertion  with  the 
raore  reispect.  Simon  Forman,  according  to  his  Diary,  was  employed 
in  this  way  in  the  free-school  where  he  was  educated,  and  was  paid 
liy  the  parents  of  the  bo^-B  for  his  assistance.  The  same  might  be 
the  cai.e  with  Shake.speare. 

'  A  pa-ssape  from  the  epistle  of  Thomas  Nash  before  Greene's 
"  Menaphon."  has  been  held  by  some  to  apply  to  Shakespeare,  to  his 
"Hamlet.''  and  to  his  early  occupation  in  an  attorney's  office.  The 
best  answer  to  this  supposition  is  an  attention  to  dates  :  "  Menaphon  " 
wa«  not  printed  for  the  first  time,  as  has  been  suppo«ed,  in  15&9,  but 
in  IS-**;  in  all  probability  before  Shakespeare  had  written  any  play, 
much  less  ''  Hamlet."  The  "  Hamlet  "  to  which  Nash  alludes  must 
bare  been  the  old  drama,  which  was  in  existence  long  before  Shake- 
speare took  up  the  subject.  The  terms  Nash  employs  are  these  :  and 
it  ii  to  be  obtier\'ed,  that  by  noverint  he  means  an  attorney  or  attor- 
Bey's  clerk,  employed  to  draw  up  bonds,  &c..  commencing  Ji'oncrint 
univfrfi,  kc.  "  It  ik  a  common  practice  now-a-dayes.  amongst  a  sort 
of  ihiftlng  companions,  that  run  through  every  art  and  thrive  by 
aone,  to  leave  the  trade  of  vorerini,  whereto  they  were  borne,  and 
baxie  themfelves  with  the  indevour.^  of  art.  that  could  scarcely  Lat- 
iaize  iheirneck  verse,  if  they  should  have  neede  :  yet  Engli.sh  Seneca, 
nwi  by  candle-light,  yields  many  good  sentences,  as  Blouil  is  a  hep- 

Cr.  and  so  forth  ;  and  if  you  intreate  him  faire  in  a  frostie  morning, 
will  uifoord  you  whole' Hamlets,  I  should  say  handfuls  of  tragical 
■wccheii  ■'  Hence  we  may  possibly  infer  that  the  author  of  the  old 
"Hamlet,"  preceding  Shakespeare's  tragedy,  had  been  an  attorney's 
elerk.  In  l.>7.  Shakespeare  was  only  in  his  twenty-third  year,  and 
oould  hardly  be  said  by  that  time  to  have  "  run  through  every  art. 
and  thriven  by  none."  Seneca  had  been  translated,  and  published 
coUecTively,  six  years  before  Na-sh  wrote.  He  may  have  intended  to 
tprak  c<»n«ra'.ly.  and  without  more  individual  allusion  than  a  mod- 
•rn  poet,  when,  in  the  very  same  spirit,  he  wrote  the  couplet, 
"  Some  clerk  foredoom'd  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza  when  he  should  ingross." 

♦  It  is  certain  also  that  Shakespeare  wrote  with  great  facility,  and 
tkat  his  comi/ositions  required  little  correction.  This  fact  we  have 
apon  th<'  indiibiiable  ajisertion  of  Ben  .Tonson,  who  thus  speaks  in 
aw  "  Di-oovf-rios.''  written  in  old  age.  when,  a.s  he  tells  us.  his  mera- 
sry  began  (•■  fail,  and  printed  with  the  date  of  16)1  : — 

'•  I  rem<-mt^r  the  players  have  often  mentioned  it  as  an  honour 
to  Shakespeare,  that  in  hi.i  writing  (whatsoever  he  punned)  he 
never  blotted  out  line.  My  answer  hath  been.  Would  he  had  blrtted 
•  thousand!  which  they  thought  a  malevolent  sneech.  I  had  not 
told  posterity  this,  but  for  their  ignorance,  who  chuse  that  circum- 
stance to  ccmraend  their  friend  by,  wherein  he  most  faulted  ;  and  to 


and  it  would  be  easy  to  multiply  them.'  We  may  presumft 
that,  if  so  employed,  he  was  paid  somethiiiy:  for  his  ser- 
vices; for,  if  he  were  to  earn  lyithing.  his  fatlier  could  bavf 
had  no  other  motive  for  taking  him  from  school.  Suppoa- 
ing  him  to  have  ceased  to  receive  instruction  from  Jeukiua 
in  1579,  when  John  Shakespeare's  distiesses  were  appa- 
rently most,  severe,  we  may  easily  imagine  that  he  was,  for 
the  next  year  or  two,  in  the  office  of  one  of  the  sf  veii  at- 
torneys in  Stratford,  whose  names  Mahme  introduces.  Tliat 
he  wrote  a  good  hand  we  are  perfectly  sure,  not  only  from 
the  extant  specimens  of  his  sigftatuie,  when  we  may  sup- 
pose him  to  have  been  iu  health,  but  from  the  ridicule  whicJi, 
in  "Hamlet,"  (act  v.  sc.  2)  he  throws  ui>on  such  as  affected 
to  write  illegibly : 

"  1  once  did  liold  it,  as  our  statists  do, 
A  baseness  to  write  fuir." 

In  truth,  many  of  his  dramatic  contemporaries  wrote  ex- 
cellently :  Ben  Jonson's  penmanship  was  beautiful ;  ai,d 
Peele,  Chapman,  Dekker,  and  Marston,  (to  say  nothing  of 
some  inferior  authors)  must  have  given  pi-inters  and  copy- 
ists little  trouble.* 

Excepting  by  mere  tradition,  we  hear  not  a  syllable  re- 
garding William  Shakespeare  from  the  time  of  his  birth 
until  he  had  considerably  passed  his  eighteenth  year,  and 
then  we  suddenly  come  to  one  of  the  most  important  eventa 
of  his  life,  established  upon  irrefragable  testimony :  we  al- 
lude to  his  marriage  with  Anne  Hathaway,  which  could  not 
have  taken  place  before  the  28th  Nov.  1582,  because  on 
that  day  two  persons,  named  Fulk  Saudells  antl  John  Rich- 
ardson entered  into  a  prehminaiy  bond  (wliich  we  subjoin 
m  a  note^)  in  the  penalty  of  -10/.  to  be  forfeited  to  the  bishop 
of  the  diocese  of  Worcester,  if  it  were  thereafter  found  that 
there  existed  any  lawful  impediment  fc)  tlie  solemnization 
of  matrimony  between  William  Shakespeare  and  Anne 
Hathaway,  of  Stratford.   It  is  not  known  at  what  church  the 

justify  mine  own  candour,  fcr  I  loved  the  man,  and  do  honour  his 
memory  (on  this  side  idolatry)  as  much  as  any.  He  was  indeed 
honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature ;  had  an  excellent  fancy, 
brave  notions,  and  gentle  expressions,  wherein  he  flowed  with  that 
facility,  that  sometimes  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped. 
Sufflaminandus  era'.,  as  Augustus  sa;d  of  Haterius.  His  wit  was  in 
his  own  power  ;  would  the  use  of  it  had  been  so  too !" 

Hence  he  proceeds  to  instance  a  pa-ssage  in  -'Julius  Caesar."  Ben 
Jonson  then  adds  in  conclusion  : — "But  he  redeemed  his  vices  with 
his  virtues  :  there  was  ever  more  in  him  to  be  praised,  than  to  be 
pardoned."  Consistently  with  what  Hen  Jonson  tells  us  above  tne 
players  had  "  often  mentioned,"  we  find  the  following  in  the  address 
of  Heminge  and  Condell,  ''  To  the  great  variety  of  Readers,"  before 
the  folio  of  UVXi  : — '■  His  mind  and  hand  went  together,  and  what  he 
thought  he  uttered  wi',n  that  ea-sine.ss,  that  we  have  scarce  received 
from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers" 

»  The  instrument,  divested  of  useless  formal  contractions,  runs 
thus: 

•'Noverint  universi  per  presentes,  nos  Fulconem  Sandells  de  Strat- 
ford in  comitatu  Warwici,  agricolara.  et  Johannem  Richardson  ibi- 
dem agricolam,  teneri  et  firmiter  obligari  Ricardo  Cosin.  generoso,  et 
Roberto  Warmstry,  notario  publico,  in  quadraginta  libris  bons  et  le 
galis  monetae  Anglia;  solvendis  eisdeiu  Ricardo  et  Roberto,  heredibus, 
executoribus,  vel  assignatis  suis,  ad  quam  quidem  ."olutionein  bene 
et  fideliter  faciendam  oblig.araus  nos,  et  utruinque  nostrum,  per  ae 
pro  toto  et  in  solido,  heredes,  execurores,  et  administratores  noslroa 
firmiter  per  presentes.  sigillis  nostris  sigillatos.  Datum  '2S  die  No- 
vembris,  anno  Regni  Domins  nostra;  Klizabeths,  Dei  gratia  Ang'ia, 
Kranciae,  et  Hibernis  Reginae,  Fidei  Defensoris.  kc.  i'A 

'•The  condition  of  this  obligation  ys  suche,  that  if  hereafter  thera 
shall  not  appere  any  lawful!  left  or  impediment,  by  reason  of  anr 
precontract,  consanguinitie,  athnitie,  or  by  any  other  lawful! 
meanes  whatsoever,  but  that  William  Shagspere  one  thone  pariie, 
and  Anne  Hath  *ey,  of  Stratford  in  the  Dioces  of  Worcester,  maiden, 
may  lawfully  solemnize  matrimony  together,  and  in  the  same  after- 
wards remaine  and  continew  like  man  andiv  ilfc.  --'•orclin?  unto  the 
lawes  in  that  behalf  provided  :  and  moreover,  if  ..ere  be4i6t  at  thi*' 
present  time  any  action,  sute,  quarrel,  or  demaui  .  inoved^r  depend- 
ing before  any  judge,  ecclesia.stical  or  teinpor.-il.  lor  and  crfhcerning 
any  suche  lawfuUlett  or  impediment:  and  moreover,  if  the  said 
William  Shagspere  do  not  proceed  to  solemnization  of  marriadg  with 
the  said  Anne  Hathwey  without  the  con.^ent  of  her  frinds  :  and  also 
if  the  said  William  do,  upon  his  owne  proper  costs  and  expenses,  de- 
fend and  save  harmles  the  Right  Reverend  Father  n  God,  Lord  John 
Bushop  of  Worcester,  and   his  offycers.   for  licenc.ng  them  the  said 

I  William  and  Anne  to  be  maried   together  with  once  asking  of  thf 

I  bannes  of  matrimony  betwene  them,  and  for  all  other  causes  which 
mav  ensue  by  rea.son  or  occasion  thereof,  that  then  the  said  obli^a 
tioii  to  be  voyd  and  of  none  effect,  or  els  to  stand  and  abide  lO  full* 

'  force  and  vertue." 

'  The  marks  and  seals  of  Sandells  and  Richaidaoa 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAEE. 


jeremony  was  performed,  but  certainly  not  at  Stratford- 
upon-Avon,'  to  which  both  the  parties  belonged,  where  the 
bondsmen  resided,  and  where  it  might  be  expected  that  it 
would  have  been  registered.  The  object  of  the  bond  was 
to  obtain  such  a  dispensation  fi-om  the  bishop  of  Worcester  ! 
as  would  authorize  a  clergyman  to  unite  the  bride  and  , 
groom  after  only  a  smglc  publication  of  the  banns ;  and  it  is  ' 
not  to  be  concealed,  or  denied,  that  tlHs  whole  proceeding 
seems  to  indicate  haste  and  seeresy.  However,  it  ought 
not  to  escape  notice  that  the  seal  used  when  the  bond  wiis 
executed,  although  damaged,  has  upon  it  the  initials  R.  H., 
as  if  it  had  belonged  to  R.  Hathaway,  the  father  of  the  bride, 
and  had  been  used  on  the  occasion  with  his  consent.^ 

Considering  all  the  circumstances,  there  might  be  good 
reasons  why  the  liither  of  Anne  Hathaway  should  concur  in 
the  alliance,  independently  of  any  regard  to  the  worldly 
prospects  of  the  parties.  The  iirst  child  of  "William  and 
Anne  Shakespeare  was  christened  Susanna  on  26th  May, 
1583^  Anne  was  between  seven  and  eight  years  older 
than  her  young  husband,  and  several  passages  in  Shake- 
speare's plays  have  been  pointed  out  by  Malone,  and 
repeated  by  other  biographers,  which  seem  to  point  directly 
at  the  evils  resulting  from  unions  in  wliich  the  parties  were 
"  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years."  The  most  remarkable 
of  these  is  certainly  the  well-known  speech  of  the  Duke  to 
Viola,  in  "  Twelfth  Night,"  (act  u.  sc.  4)  where  he  says, 

"  Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself:  so  wears  she  to  him ; 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart : 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn. 
Than  women's  are." 

Afterwards  the  Duke  adds, 

"  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  aflFectiou  cannot  hold  the  bent." 

Wliether  these  lines  did  or  did  not  originate  in  the  au- 
thor's reflections  upon  his  own  marriage,  they  are  so  appli- 
cable to  his  own  case,  that  it  seems  impossible  he  should 
have  written  them  without  recalhng  the  circumstances  at 
tending  his  liasty  union,  and  the  disparity  of  years  betwec  i 
himself  and  his  wife.  Such,  we  know,  was  the  confirmed 
opmion  of  Coleiidge,  expressed  on  two  distinct  occasions  in 
his  lectures,  and  such  we  think  will  be  the  conclusion  at 
which  most  readers  will  arrive : — "  I  cannot  hesitate  in  be- 
lieving," observed  Coleridge  in  1815,  "that  in  this  passage 
from  '  Twelfth  Night,'  Shakespeare  meant  to  give  a  caution 
arising  out  of  his  own  experience  ;  and,  but  for  the  fact  of 
the  disproportion  in  point  of  years  between  himself  and  his 
wife,  I  doubt  much  whether  the  dialogue  between  Viola  and 
the  Duke  would  have  received  this  turn*."  It  is  incident  to 
om-  nature  that  youths,  just  advancing  to  manhood,  should  ; 
feel  with  peculiar  strength  the  attraction  of  women  whose  [ 
charms  have  reached  the  full-blown  summer  of  beauty  ;  but 
we  cannot  think  that  it  was  so  necessary  a  consequence,  as 
some  have  supposed^,  that  Anne  Hathaway  should  have  pos- : 
sessed  peculiar  personal  advantages.  It  may  be  remarked,  | 
that  poets  have  often  appeared  comparatively  indifferent  j 
to  tie  features  and  persons  of  their  mistresses,  since,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  strength  of  their  imaginative  faculty,  thej 

'  Malone  conjectured  that  the  marriage  took  place  at  Weston,  or 
Billesloy,  hut  the.plfl  regi'  ers  there  havitiff  been  lost  or  destroyed,  it 
ia»im possibT,'3  to  asou"iin  the  fact.  A  more  recent  search  in  the  reg- 
isters of  soiie  other  jnurches  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Stratford  has 
not  been  attended  with  any  success.  Possibly,  the  ceremony  was 
performed  in  the  vicinity  of  Worcester,  but  the  mere  fact  that  the 
bond  was  there  executed  proves  nothing.  An  examination  of  the 
registers  at  Worcester  has  been  equally  fruitless. 

*  Rowe  tells  us.  (and  we  are  without  any  other  authority)  that 
Hathaway  was  "said  to  have  been  a  substantial  yeoman,"  and  he 
was  most  likely  in  possession  of  a  seal,  such  as  John  Shakespeare  had 
nsed  in  1579 

'  The  fact  is  registered  in  this  form  : — 

'•1.583.     May '2f3.     Susanna  daughter  to  William  Shakspere." 

*  We  derive  this  opinion  from  our  own  notes  of  what  fell  from 
Ooleridge  upon  the  occasion  in  question.  The  lectures,  upon  wh.ch 
ne  was  then  engaged,  were  delivered  in  a  room  belonging  to  the 
Globe  tavern,    n^Fleet-street.     He  repeated  the  same  sentiment  in 


liave  been  able  to  supply  all  physical  deficiencies'.  Cole- 
ridge was  aware,  if  not  from  liis  own  particular  case,  from 
recorded  examples,  that  the  beauty  of  the  objecte  of  the 
affection  of  poets  was  sometimes  more  fanciful  than  real , 
and  his  notion  was.  that  Anne  Hathaway  was  a  womac 
with  whom  the  boyish  Shakespeare  had  fsillen  in  love,  per- 
haps from  proximity  of  residence  and  frequency  of  mter 
course,  and  that  she  had  not  any  j^eculiar  recommendations 
of  a  personal  description.  Tlie  ti-uth,  however,  is,  that  we 
have  no  evidence  either  way ;  and  when  Oldys  7-emarkfl 
upon  the  93rd  sonnet,  that  it  "  seems  to  have  been  addi-essed 
by  Shakespeare  to  his  beautiful  wife,  on  some  suspicion  of 
her  infidelity'',"  it  is  clear  that  he  was  under  an  entire  mi»- 
take  as  to  the  individual :  the  lines, 

"  So  shall  I  live  supposing  thou  art  tme 
Like  a  deceived  husband ;  so  love's  lace 
May  still  seem  love  to  me,"  &c. 

were  most  certainly  not  applied  to  his  wife ;  and  Oldys  could 
have  had  no  other  ground  for  asserting  that  Anne  Hatha- 
way was  "  beautiful,"  than  general  supposition,  and  the  er- 
roneous belief  that  a  sonnet  Hke  that  from  which  we  have 
made  a  brief  quotation  had  Shakespeare's  wife  for  its  ob- 
ject 

The  present  may  not  be  an  improper  opportunity  I«'i 
remarking  (if,  indeed,  the  remark  might  not  be  entirely 
spared,  and  the  reader  left  to  draw  his  own  inferences)  that 
the  balance  of  such  imperfect  infm-mation  as  remains  to  us^ 
leads  us  to  the  opinion  that  Shakespeare  was  not  a  very 
happy  married  man.  The  disparity  in  age  between  hun- 
self  and  his  wife  from  the  first  was  such,  that  she  could 
not  "  sway  level  m  her  husband's  heait ;"  and  this  difference, 
for  a  certain  time  at  least,  became  more  apparent  as  they 
advanced  in  years :  may  we  say  also,  that  the  pecuhar  cir- 
cimistances  attending  their  marriage,  and  the  birth  of  their 
first  child,  would  not  tend,  even  in  the  most  grateful  am! 
considerate  mind,  to  increase  that  respect  which  is  the  chief 
source  of  confidence  and  comfort  in  domestic  life.  To  thi^ 
may  be  added  the  fact  (by  whatever  circumstances  it  may 
have  been  occasioned,  wliich  we  shall  consider  presently) 
that  Shakespeare  quitted  his  home  at  Stratford  a  ven*  few 
vears  after  he  had  become  a  husband  and  a  father,  and  that 
although  he  revisited  his  native  town  frequently,  and  ulti 
niately  settled  there  with  his  family,  there  is  no  priKif  that 
his  wife  ever  returned  with  him  to  London,  or  resided  witi 
him  during  anv  of  liis  lengthened  sojourns  m  the  meti-op«.K 
lis :  that  she  "may  have  done  so  is  very  possible :  and  io 
1609  he  certainly  paid  a  weekly  poor-rate  to  an  amount 
that  may  indicat-e  that  he  occupied  a  house  ui  Southwark 
capable  of  receiving  his  family",  but  we  are  here,  as  upon 
many  other  points,  compelled  to  deplore  the  absence  of  dis- 
tinct testunony.  'VS'e  put  out  of  view  the  doubtful  and  am- 
biguous indications  to  be  gleaned  from  Shakespeare's  &>n- 
nets,  observing  merelv,  that  they  contain  little  to  show  that 
he  was  of  a  domestic  tura,  or  that  he  found  any  great  en- 
joyment m  the  society  of  his  wife.  That  such  may  have 
been  the  fact  we  do  not  pretend  to  deny,  and  we  wilUngly 
believe  that  much  favourable  evidence  up.^^.n  the  pomt  has 
been  lost :  all  we  venture  to  advance  on  a  question  of  »o 
much  difficulty  and  delicacy  is,  that  what  remauis  to  us  u 
not,  as  far  as  it  goes,  perfectly  satisfactorj-. 

public  in  181?,  and  we  have  more  than  once  heard  it  from  him  ia 

^t'The^Rev^Mr.  Pyoe,  in  his  Life  of  Sh.kespeare  r«fi«^  ««  ;h« 
Aldine  edition  of  his  Poems.  l'2rao.  KW.  P.  x.  It  cump.i^-5all  th. 
main  points  of  the  biography  of  our  poet  «h^"/."°'^",  ,^  ,.,  ^  ^^ 
6  When  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dvce  ob=;erve.-^  th?-  "A  is  -jnlikely  thd.  »  w»- 
man  devoid  of  personal  charms  should  have  won  ,  he  rou.hfu.^fl^*- 
t?ons  of  so  imaginative  a  being  as  ?h^^;^r<-"e^h«  f°Tf '»,',''»;  *J 
rr;er^net^lPcSs^^:■Ms^"Ke7e^;^^^^^^^ 

^■e^We  have  noticed  this  matter  n.ore  at  l"r.t\he«.f>»r.  within, 
ference  to  the  question,  ^h^'^er  Shakespeare,  in  !<.«•?  "r*  "°L™*'^ 
to  the  poor  of  Southwark  in  respect  of  his  theatrical  p.-op«tr,  .n< 
not  for  any  dwelling-house  which  he  occupied. 


THE  LIFE  OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


A  qiiestiou  wiia  formerly  ngitjited,  -whioh  the  man  iage 
bond,  alre:i(U-  quoted,  tends  to  k-l  at  rest  Some  of  Slialve- 
speure't!  bioEjraplu'rs  have  eouteuded  that  Auue  Hathaway 
eiime  fixuii  Sliottery,  within  a  mih-  of  .Stratf.ird,  while  Ma- 
loue  argued  that  t^lie  \v:is  probably  from  Ltukiiiigton,  about 
tliree  miles  from  the  borouj^h.  There  is  no  doubt  that  a 
family  of  the  name  of  Hathaway  had  been  resident  at 
.Shotter_\  fiom  the  year  1643,  and  eontinued  to  occupy  a 
house  there  long  after  the  death  of  Shakespeare' ;  there  is 
also  a  tiaiitiou  in  favour  of  a  particuLir  cottage  in  the  vil- 
lage, and.  on  tlie  whole,  we  may  peihaps  conclude  that 
Anue  Hathaway  was  of  that  family.  She  is,  however, 
described  in  the  bond  as  "  of  Stratford."  and  we  may  take 
it  for  granted,  until  other  and  better  proof  is  offered,  thjit 
she  wuii  n  sident  at  the  time  in  the  borough,  although  she 
may  have  eome  from  Shottery^  Had  the  parties  seeking 
the  Ucence  wished  to  misdeseiibe  her,  it  might  have  an- 
swered their  purpose  better  to  have  stilted  her  to  be  of  any 
jiher  place  rather  than  of  Stratford. 


CHAPTER  V. 

>?hake.<«pe«re's  twins,  Hamnet  and  Judith,  born  in  1585.  His 
departure  from  Stratford.  The  question  of  deer-stealing 
from  Sir  Tiiomas  Lucy  considered.  Authorities  for  the 
story;  Rowe,  Bettertoii,  Fulmairs  MSS.,  Oldys.  Ballad 
by  Shakespeare  iigainst  Sir  Thomas  Lucy.  Proof,  in  op- 
position to  Malone,  tliat  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  had  deer:  his 
present  of  a  buck  to  Lord  Ellesmere.  Other  inducements 
to  Shakespeare  to  quit  Stratford.  Companies  of  players 
encouraged  by  the  Lorporation.  Several  of  Shakes|ieare"s 
fellow-actors  'from  Stratford  and  Warwickshire.  The 
Princely  Pleasures  of  Kenilworth. 

In  the  begicning  of  1585  Shakespeare's  vnfe  produced  him 
twins — a  boy  and  a  girl — and  they  were  baptized  at  Strat- 
foid  Church  on  the  2d  Feb.  in  that  year'.  Malone  sup- 
posed, and  the  supposition  is  veiy  likely  well  founded,  that 
Hamnet  Sadler  and  his  wife  Judith  stood  sponsors  for  the 
infants,  which  were  baptized  by  the  Christian  names  of  the 
godfather  and  godmother.  Hamnet*  and  Judith.  It  is  a  fact 
Dot  altogether  luiimportaut,  -vvith  relation  to  the  terms  of  af- 
f'ction  between  Shakespeare  and  his  wife  in  the  subsequent 
part  of  liis  career,  that  she  brought  him  no  more  children, 
although  in  1585  she  was  only  thirty  years  old. 

That  Shakespeare  quitted  his  home  and  his  family  not 
long  afterwards  has  not  been  disputed,  but  no  ground  for 
tlus  step  has  ever  been  derived  from  domestic  disagree- 
ment.s.  It  has  been  alleged  that  he  was  obhged  to  leave 
Stratford  on  account  of  a  scrape  in  wliieh  he  had  involved 
him.self  by  stealing,  or  assisting  in  stealing,  deer  from  the 
grouufls  of  Charlcote,  the  pioperty  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
al»ut  five  miles  from  the  borough.  As  Rowe  is  the  oldest 
autiiority  in  print  for  this  story,  we  give  it  in  his  own 
words: — "He  had,  by  a  misfortune  common  enough  to 
young  fellows,  fallen  into  ill  company ;  and  among  them 

>  Kichird  Hathaway,  alias  Gardener,  of  .Shottery,  had  a  daughter 
named  Johanna,  baptized  at  .Stratford  church  on  9th  May,  ISOti ;  but 
tkere  ).  no  trace  of  the  baptiKin  of  Anne  Hathawav. 

'  From  an  ei*.r.v:t  of  a  letter  from  Abraham  Sturley,  dated  24 
Jan.,  l.j<»H,  printed  in  "  Malone's  Shakupeare  by  Boswell,"  vol.  ii.  p. 
•JW,  It  appear*  that  our  preat  dramatist  then  contemplated  the  pur- 
chw  of  ••  lome  oj  J  yarJ-iand  or  other  at  .Shottery."  This  intention 
perhiyn  ajrooe  out  of  the  connexion  of  hi.s  wife  with  the  village. 

'  The  rejruitration  is,  of  couree.  dated  a  Feb.,  I.'x-i4,  a.s  the  vear  \^r} 
iii  not  at  that  date  begin  until  after  U.>th  March  :  it  runs  thu.s  :— 

"l.'V-l.  Feb.  2.  Hamnet  k  Judith  sonne  &  dauchter  to  WiUia 
Shak»pere." 

♦  There  wai  an  actor  called  Hamnet  (the  name  in  (sometimes  xpelt 
Hamlet,  tee  •  .Memoir. of  Kdward  Alleyn,"  p.  127)  in  one  of  the  Lon- 
don com;  \,  .. .  ::  -I  .r -e.^uent  date.  It  i«  not  at  all  impo.«sible  that, 
••*'  "?"■   •  'lal  day.  he  came  from  Warwick.shire. 

,    '■■■''    ■  •  Rev.  .Mr.  Davies  are  these  : 

'•''  'i"""!!  given  to  all  unluckine!>s  in  stealing 

"""  '^  ,  ularly  from  Sir  Luev,  who  had   him  oft 

w.iipp"!  »i.  -.I.-;,.,-  impri«)ned,  and  at  la-st  made  him  fly  his 
native  country,  to  hi»  ;;reat  advancement.  But  his  revenge  waJ  so 
great  that  he  is.  his  Ju.tice  Clodpate  ;  and  calls  him  a  great  man,  and 
that,  in  ailn*ion  to  his  name,  bore  three  louses  rampant  for  his 
»rm«.  Fnlman's  MSS.  vol.  xv.  Here  we  see  that  Davie.H  calls  Sir 
thomas  Lncy  onl}  '-Sir  Lucy/'  a«  if  he  did  not  know  his  Christian 


some,  that  made  a  frequent  practice  of  deer-stealing,  en 
gaged  him  more  than  once  in  robbmg  the  park  that  be 
longed  to  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  of  Chai-lecot,  near  Stratford 
For  this  he  was  prosecuted  by  that  gentleman,  as  h« 
thought^  scmiewhat  to<j  seveicly  ;  and,  ia  order  to  revenge 
that  ill-usage,  he  made  a  balhid  upon  him.  And  thoiigb 
this,  probably  the  fii-st  essay  of  his  poetry,  be  lost,  yet  it  ir 
said  to  have  been  so  very  bitter,  that  it  redoubled  the  pros 
ecution  against  him  to  that  degree,  that  he  was  obligetl  u^ 
leave  his  business  and  family  in  Warwicksldre  for  sonw 
time,  and  shelter  himself  in  Loudoa" 

We  have  said  that  Rowe  is  the  oldest  printed  source  jf 
this  anecdote,  liis  "  Life  of  Shakespeare  "  having  been  pub- 
lished in  1709  ;  but  Malone  produced  a  manuscript  of  un 
certain  date,  anterior,  however,  to  the  pubhcatiou  of  Rowe' 
"  Life,"  which  gives  the  incident  some  coulirmatioa  Had 
this  manuscript  authority  been  of  the  same,  or  even  of  more 
recent  date,  and  derived  from  an  independent  quarter,  un- 
connected with  Rowe  or  his  informant,  it  would  on  this  ac- 
coimt  have  deserved  attention ;  but  it  was  older  than  the 
publication  of  Rowe's  "  Life,"  because  the  Rev.  R.  Davies, 
who  added  it  to  the  papers  of  Fulmau.  (now  in  the  library 
of  Corpus  Christi  College)  died  in  1707^  Rowe  (as  he  dis- 
tinctly admits)  obtained  not  a  few  of  his  mateiLils  from 
Betterton,  the  actor,  who  died  the  yeai-  after  Rowe's  "  Life  " 
came  out,  and  who,  it  has  been  repeatedly  asserted,  paid  a 
visit  to  Stratford  expressly  to  glean  such  partii^ulars  as 
could  be  obtained  regarding  Shakespeare.  In  wLit  year 
he  paid  that  visit  is  not  known,  but  Malone  was  of  opinion 
that  it  was  late  in  life  :  on  the  contrary,  we  think  tliat  it 
must  have  been  comparatively  early  in  Bettcrton's  career, 
when  he  would  naturally  be  more  enthusiastic  in  a  pursuit 
of  the  kind,  and  when  he  had  not  been  atEicted  by  that  dis- 
order from  which  he  suffered  so  severely  in  his  later  years, 
and  to  which,  in  fact,  he  owed  his  death.  Betterton  was 
bom  in  1635,  and  became  an  actor  before  1660:  and  we 
should  not  be  disposed  to  place  his  journey  to  Stratford  later 
tlian  1670  or  1675,  when  he  was  thirty-live  or  forty  years 
old.  He  was  at  that  period  in  the  height  of  his  popuhirity. 
and  being  in  the  frequent  habit  of  playing  such  parts  as 
Hamlet,  Lear,  and  Othello,  we  may  readily  beheve  that  he 
would  be  anxious  to  collect  any  infoi-mation  regarding  the 
author  of  those  ti-agedies  that  then  existed  in  his  native 
town.  We  therefoi-e  apprehend,  that  Betterton  must  have 
gone  to  Stratford  many  years  before  the  Rev.  Richard 
Davies  made  his  additions  to  Fulman's  brief  account  of 
Shakespeare,  for  Fuhnan's  papers  did  not  devolve  into  hie 
hands  until  1688.  The  conclusion  at  which  we  arrive  is, 
that  Rowe"s  printed  account  is  in  truth  older,  aa  far  as 
regards  its  origin  in  Betterton's  inquiries,  than  the  manu- 
script authority®  produced  by  Malone  ;  and  certainly  the 
latter  does  not  come  much  recommended  to  us  on  any  other 
ground.  Davies  must  have  been  ignorant  both  of  persons 
and  plays ;  but  this  vei-y  circumstance  may  possibly  be 
looked  upon  as  in  favour  of  the  originality  and  genuineness 
of  wliat  he  furnishes.  He  does  not  tell  us  from  whence, 
nor  from  whom,  he  procured  his  information,  but  it  reads 

name,  and  he  was  ignorant  that  such  a  character  as  Justice  Clodpate 
is  not  to  be  found  in  any  of  Shakespeare's  plays. 

•  We  may,  perhaps,  consider  the  authority  for  the  story  obtained 
by  Oldys  prior  in  point  of  date  to  any  other.  According  to  hirn,  i 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Jones,  of  Turbich  in  Worcestershire.  J;»d 
in  170.3,  at  the  age  of  ninety,  and  he  remembered  to  have  hetid,  iron 
several  old  people  of  Stratford,  the  story  of  Shakespeare's  robbing  S-- 
Thomas  Lucy's  park  ;  and  they  added  that  the  ballad  of  which  Row< 
makes  mention,  had  been  alhxed  on  the  park-gate,  a-s  an  additional 
exa-speralion  to  the  knight  Oldys  preserved  a  stanza  of  this  satiri- 
cal effusion,  which  he  had  received  from  a  person  of  the  name  o! 
Wilkes  a  relation  of  Mr.  Jones  :  it  mns  thus  : 

"A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scare-crowe,  at  London  an  asse ; 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it : 
He  thinks  himself  great. 
Yet  an  a.«se  in  his  slate 
We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lncy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  mi.scall  it, 
Sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  btfall  it." 
What  is  called  a  ''complete  copy  of  the  veises,"  contained  ir.  ••  Ma 
lone's  Shakspeare,  by  Boswell,"  vol.  ii.  p.  5G5,  u  evidently  net  get 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


XXXV 


ss  if  it  had  been  obtained  from  some  soui'ce  independent  of  1 
Bett.-.rton,  and  perhaps  even  from  inquiries  on  the  spot,  j 
The  whole  was  obviously  exaggerated  and  distorted,  but ! 
whether  by  Davies,  or  by  the  person  fi-oni  whom  he  derived  ' 
the  story,  we  must  remain  in  doubt.  The  revei'end  gentle- 
man died  three  years  before  Betterton,  and  both  may  cer- 
tainly have  been  indebted  for  the  information  to  the  same 
parties  ;  but  most  likely  Davies  simpi_j  recorded  what  he 
had  heard. 

In  reflecting  upon  the  general  probabihty  or  improbabil- 
ity of  this  important  incident  in  Shakespeare's  life,  it  is  not 
to  be  forgotten,  as  Malone  remarks,  that  deer-stealing,  at 
the  period  refeiTed  to,  was  by  no  means  an  uncommon 
offence  ;  that  it  is  referred  to  by  several  authors,  and  pun- 
ished by  more  than  one  statute.  Neither  was  it  eousideied 
to  include  any  moral  stain,  but  was  often  committed  by 
young  men,  by  way  of  frolic,  for  the  purpose  of  furnishing 
a  feast,  and  not  with  any  view  to  sale  or  emolument  If 
Shakespeare  ever  ran  into  such  an  indiscretion,  (and  we 
own  that  we  cannot  entirely  discredit  the  story)  he  did  no 
more  than  many  of  his  contemporaries;  and  one  of  the 
ablest,  most  learned,  and  bitterest  enemies  of  theatrical 
performances,  who  wrote  just  before  the  close  of  the  six- 
teenth centmy,  expressly  mentions  deer-stealing  as  a  venial 
crime  of  which  um-uly  and  misguided  youth  was  sometimes 
guilty,  and  he  couples  it  merely  with  carousing  in  taverns 
and  robbing  orchards'. 

It  is  very  possible,  therefore,  that  the  main  offence  against 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  was,  not  stealing  his  deer,  but  wiiting 
the  ballad,  and  sticking  it  on  his  gate  ;  and  for  this  Shake- 
speare may  have  been  so  "severely  prosecuted"  by  Su' 
Thomas  Lucy,  as  to  render  it  expedient  for  him  to  abandon 
Stratford  "  for  some  time."  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  died  in  1600, 
and  the  mention  of  deer-steaUug,  and  of  the  "  dozen  white 
luces  "  by  Slender,  and  of  "  the  dozen  white  lowses  "  by  Sir 
Hugh  Evans,  in  the  opening  of  "  The  Meriy  Wives  of 
Windsor,"  seems  too  obvious  to  be  mistaken,  and  leads  us 
to  the  conviction  that  the  comedy  was  written  before  the 
demise  of  Su-  Thomas  Lucy,  whose  indignation  Shakespeare 
had  incurred.  True  it  is",  that  the  coat  of  arms  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  contained  only  "  three  luces  (pike-fishes)  ha- 
riant,  argent ;"  but  it  is  easy  to  imagine,  that  while  Shake- 
speai-e  would  wish  the  i idieule  to  be  undei'stood  and  felt  by 
the  knight  and  his  friends,  he  might  not  desire  that  it  should 
be  too  generally  intelligible,  and  therefore  multiplied  the 
luces  to  "  a  dozen,"  instead  of  stating  the  true  number.  We 
believe  that  "  The  Mei'iy  Wives  of  Windsor  "  was  wiitten 
before  1600,  among  other  reasons,  because  we  are  convinced 
that  Shakespeare  was  too  generous  in  his  nature  to  have 
carried  his  resentment  beyond  the  grave,  and  to  have  cast 
ridicule  upon  a  dead  adversary,  whatever  might  have  been 
his  sufferings  while  he  was  a  living  one. 

Malone  has  attacked  the  story  of  deer-stealing  on  the 

•  Dr.  John  Rainolds,  in  his  "Overthrow  of  Stage  PUyes,"  4to, 
1599,  p.  -22.  Some  copies  of  the  %vork  (one  of  which  is  in  the  library 
of  Lord  Francis  Egerton)  bear  date  in  1600,  and  purport  to  have  been 
printed  at  Middleburgh  :  thev  are,  in  fact,  the  same  edition,  and  there 
is  little  doubt  that  they  were  printed  in  London,  although  no  name 
is  found  at  the  bottom  of  any  of  the  title-pages.  His  words  on  the 
point  to  which  we  are  now  referring,  are  these  —••Time  ot  recrea- 
tion is  necessary,  I  grant ;  and  think  as  necessary  for  scholar.*,  that 
are  scholars  indeed,  I  mean  good  students,  as  it  is  for  any  :  yet  in  my 
opinion  it  were  not  fit  for  them  to  play  at  stool-ball  among  wenches, 
nor  at  mum-chance  or  maw  with  idle  loose  companions,  nor  at  trunks 
in  guild-halls,  nor  to  dance  about  may-poles,  nor  to  rifle  in  ale-houses, 
nor  to  carouse  in  taverns,  nor  to  steal  deer,  nor  to  rob  orchard.s.- 

This  work  was  published  at  the  time  when  the  building  of  a  new 
theatre,  called  the  Fortune,  belonging  to  Henslowe  and  AUeyn.  was 
axciting  a  great  deal  of  general  attention,  and  particular  animoMty 
on  the  part  of  the  Puritans.  To  preci.^ely  the  same  import  as  the 
above  qifotation  we  might  produce  a  passage  from  Forman  s  D'ary 
referred  to  by  Malone,  and  cited  by  Mr.  Ha  iwell,  in  a  note  to  The 
Finst  Part  of  the  Contention  between  the  Houses,  \  ork  and  Lancas- 


Speaking  of  Aurelian  Townshend,  who,  he  says.  ^^.^  f^P°?^^J°\'  ''^d 
fng  in  Bkrbican,  near  the  Earl  of  Sridgewater's,  he  adds  that  he  had 
»  a  fine  fair  daughter,  mistress  to  the  Pa.grave  ^^^  '  ^"/ '"^^"^^"^^^ 
^ards  to  the  noble  Count  of  Dorset,  a  Privy  Councillor  and  a  Kmght 
o(  the  Garter,  and  a  deer-^tealer;-  &c.     It  wa«  to  William  Earl  ot 


groimd  that  Sir  Thamas  Lucy  never  had  any  park  at  Charl- 
cote  or  elsewhere,  but  it  admits  of  an  easy  and  immediate 
answer ;  for,  although  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  had  no  park,  ho 
may  have  had  deer,  and  that  his  successor  had  deer,  though 
no  park,  can  be  proved,  we  think,  satisfactorily.  Malone 
has  remarked  that  Sir  'riiomas  Lucy  never  seeiiis  to  liave 
sent  the  corporation  of  Stratford  a  buck,  a  not  unusual 
present  to  a  body  of  the  kind  from  persons  of  rank  and 
wealth  in  tlie  vicinity.  This  may  be  so,  and  the  fact  may 
be  accounted  for  on  several  grounds ;  but  that  the  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  who  succeeded  his  father  in  ]  6u0,  made  such 
gifts,  though  not  perhaps  to  the  corporation  of  Stratfoi-'J, 
is  very  certain.  When  Lord  Keeper  Egei-ton  entertained 
Queen  Elizabeth  at  Harefield,  in  August  1602.  many  of  the 
nobihty  and  gentry,  in  nearly  all  parts  of  the  ki'Dgdom. 
sent  him  an  abundance  of  presents  to  be  used  or  consumed 
in  the  entertainment,  and  on  that  occasion  Sir  Thomas  Lucy 
contributed  "  a  buck,"  for  which  a  reward  of  6.».  8</.  was 
given  to  the  bringer^.  This  single  circumstance  shows  that 
if  he  had  no  park,  he  had  deer,  and  it  is  most  Ukely  that  he 
inherited  them  from  his  father.  Thus  we  may  pretty  safely 
conclude  that  Su-  Thomas  Lucy  who  resided  at  Charl- 
eote  when  Shakespeare  was  in  his  youth,  had  venison  to  be 
stolen,  although  it  does  not  at  all  necessarily  follow  that 
Shakespeai-e  was  ever  concerned  in  steahng  it. 

The  question  whether  he  did  or  did  not  quit  Stratford 
for  the  metropohs  on  this  account,  is  one  of  much  importancf 
in  the  poet's  history,  but  it  is  one  also  upon  which  we  shall 
in  all  probabihty,  never  arrive  at  certainty.  Our  opinion  is 
that  the  traditions  related  by  Rowe.  and  mentioned  in  P"ul- 
man's  and  in  Oldys'  MSS.  (which  do  nf>t  seem  to  luive  orig 
inated  in  the  same  source)  may  be  founded  ujwn  an  actual 
occurrence  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  very  possible  that 
that  alone  did  not  determine  Shakespeare's  line  of  conduct 
His  residence  in  Stratford  may  have  been  rendered  incon- 
venient by  the  near  neighbourhood  of  such  a  hostile  juid 
powerful  magistrate,  but  perhaps  he  would  nevei-thelese 
not  have  quitted  the  town,  had  not  other  circumstances  com- 
bined to  produce  such  a  decisitm.  Wluit  those  circum- 
stances might  be  it  is  our  business  now  to  inquire. 

Aubrey,  who  was  a  veiy  curious  and  minute  investigator, 
Ithough"  undoubtedly  too  credulous,  says  nothing  about 
deer-stealing,  but  he  tells  us  that  Shakespeaie  was  "  inclined 
aturally  to  poetry  and  acting,  and  to  this  iccliuation  he  at- 
tributes his  journey  to  London  at  an  early  age.  That  tliis 
youthful  propensity  existed  there  can  be  no  dispute,  and  it 
is  easy  to  trace  now  it  may  have  been  promoted  and 
strenglheued.  The  corporation  of  Stratford  seem  to  havt- 
given  great  encouragement  to  companies  of  pkyere  arriving 
there.  We  know  from  various  authorities  that  when  itine- 
rant actors  came  to  any  cousideiable  town,  it  wat.  their  cm 
tom  to  Wiut  upon  the  mayor,  bailiff,  or  t>ther  head  of  th. 

rporation,  in  onlei-  to  ask  permission  to  perform,  either 


Pembroke,  and  Philip  Earl  of  Montgomery,  that  the  plarer-edi- 
tors  dedicated  the  folio  Shakespeare  of  lliSJ ;  and  ore  of  Earl 
Philip's  MS.  notes,  in  the  volume  from  which  we  have  already 
quoted,  contains  the  following  mention  of  seven  dramatic  poets,  in- 
cluding Shakespeare  :— "  The  full  and  heightended  style  of  Mailer 
Chapman  ;  the  laboured  and  understanding  works  of  .Mr.  Jhonson; 
Mr  Beaumont,  Mr.  Fletcher,  (brother  to  Nat  Fetcher,  Mrs.  White  i 
servant,  sons  to  Bishop  Fletcher  of  London,  and  great  tobacconirt. 
and  married  to  my  Lady  Baker)-Mr.  Shakespear.  .Mr.  Deckar,  Mr. 
Heywood."  Horace  Walpole  registers  on  the  title-page  of  the 
volume  that  the  notes  were  made   by  Philip,  tar!  of  1  embroke  and 

a"sfe'"The  Egerton  Papers."  printed  by  the  Camden  Society,  I*. 
1840  pp.  350.  ;J5;J.  The  editor  of  that  voluui-i  ob.-erves  :  '  Many  o. 
these  [presents]  deserve  notice,  but  especiar.y  one  ot  -.he  items,  •whrre 
it  is  stated  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  (against  whom  .-hakespeare  is  njd 
to  have  written  a  ballad)  sent  a  present  ot  i  •  buo...  MaJon.  di- 
credits  the  wholestory  of  the  deer-stealing.  o---au.-  -^'^  Th"™"  t^'-^J 
had  no  park  at  Charlcote  :  '1  conceive  (he  sav.)  it  *'"  ;«^  "^^tiil 
be  granted  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  could  not  ;o>e  triil  .f  which  he  wu 
never  possessed."  We  find,  however,  irom  wnit  to.  ow,  tha  he  wa. 
possessed  of  deer,  for  he  senta  Present  ot  a  "••■>=  '<'.L«'t''i.TI^i 
in  160-2."  He  gave  "  a  buck."  because  he  nid  bred  it  himself,  and 
because  it  was  perhars  well  known  that  he  kept  deer ;  and  he  would 
hardiv  have  e.x^sed  Lmself  to  ridioule  bv  Duy.ng  a  buck  for  a  pr^ 
sent,  under  the  ostentatious  pretence  that  it  «  i.s  ol  his  own  rearinp. 
Malone  thought  that  he  had  triumphantly  overthrown  the  i*"-^l^- 
ing  s'orv,  but  his  refutation  amounts  to  little  or  rothing  Wh.lhef 
it  13  nevertheless  true  is  quite  a  ditferent  question 


xxx\i 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


in  the  town-hiilL  if  I  bit  coulJ  bo  gnuited  to  tbem,  or  else- 
wber»»  li.  s<)  hjippetis  tLiit  tlje  earliest  record  of  tho  re- 
|no8entatiou  of  any  plays  in  Stratford-upou-Avon.  is  dix1>'d 
ui  the  year  vrheu  John  Shakespeare  was  baiUtf :  tlie  pre':i.s« 
seas<in  is  not  stjiteil.  but  it  was  in  1669.  when  "  the  I2ue»^n's 
riayers  "  (meaning  probably,  at  this  date,  one  company  of 
her"  Interlude  Players,"  retliined  under  that  name  by  her 
father  and  grandfather)  received  9*'.  »)Ut  of  the  corporate 
funds,  while  the  Earl  of  Worcester's  servants  in  the  same 
year  obtained  only  12(/'.  In  ISTS,  just  before  the  grant  of 
the  roval  license  to  them,  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  Play- 
ers, of  whom  James  Burbage  was  Die  leader,  received  6s. 
Sd. ;  and  in  the  next  year  tiie  companies  acting  under  the 
names  of  the  Earls  of  W-arwick  auU  Worcester  obtained  lis. 
luid  5s.  Id.  respectively.  It  is  unnecessary  to  state  precisely 
the  smns  disbursed  at  various  times  by  the  bailiff  alder- 
men, and  burgesses,  but  we  may  notice,  that  in  1577  the 
players  of  the  Eails  of  Leicester  and  Worcester  again  ex- 
hibited ;  and  in  1579  we  hear  of  a  company  in  Stratford 
pati-onized  by  one  of  the  female  nobihty,  (a  very  uuusual 
circmnstance)  the  Countess  of  Essex'^.  "  Lord  Strange's 
men  "  (at  this  date  not  players,  but  tumblers')  also  exhibited 
in  the  same  year,  jmd  m  1580  the  Earl  of  Derby's  players 
were  duly  rewaided*.  The  same  encouragement  was  given 
to  the  companies  of  the  Earls  of  Worcester  and  Berkeley  in 
1581  ;  but  in  15S2  we  only  hear  of  the  Earl  of  Worcester's 
dctors  having  been  in  the  town.  In  1583  the  eaii  of  Berke- 
ley's playei-s,  imd  those  of  Lord  Chandois,  perfoimed  in 
Stratford,  while,  in  the  next  yeai",  thiee  companies  appear 
to  have  visited  the  borougk  In  1586  "  the  pkyers  "  (with- 
out mentioning  what  company)  cxliibited ;  and  in  1587  no 
fewer  than  live  associations  were  rewarded :  viz.  the 
Queen's  Players',  and  those  of  the  Earls  of  Essex,  Leices- 
ter, and  Stafford,  with  "  anothei-  company, "  the  nobleman 
.Muntenancing  tliem  not  being  named. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  that  several  of  the  players,  with 
whom  Shakespeare  was  aftei-wards  connected,  appear  to 
have  come  originally  frem  Stratford  or  its  neighbourhood. 
A  family  of  the  name  of  Burbage  was  resident  in  Stratford, 
and  one  member  of  it  attained  to  the  highest  dignity  in  the 
corporation' :  in  the  >luster-book  of  the  county  of  Warwick, 
in  1569,  preserved  in  the  State-paper  office,  we  meet  in  va- 
lious  places  witli  the  name  of  Burbage,  Slye,  and  Heminge, 
although  not  with  the  same  Christian  names  as  those  of  the 
actors  in  Shakespeare's  phiys :  the  usual  combination  of 
Nicholas  To<jley  is.  however,  found  there ;  and  he  was  a 
well-known  member  of  the  company  to  which  Shakespeare 
was  attached'.     It  is  very  distinctly  ascertained  that  James 

'  We  may  conclude  that  the  Earl  of  Worcester's  players  did  not 
perform,  but  that  Idrf.  was  given  them  a^  .some  compensation,  and  to 
lid  them  on  their  road  to  another  place. 

2  The  \ridow  of  Walter  Devereux,  whom  Leicester  verv  soon  after- 
warda  married.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  as  early  as  li&2  the  Earl 
of  Es»«x  had  a  company  of  players  travelling  under  the  protection 
jf  bis  name,  and  that  on  the  0th  January  Lord  Howard,  through  one 
of  his  stewards,  gave  them  a  reward.  This  Earl  of  Essex  was,  how- 
ever, of  a  different  family,  viz.  Henry  Bourchier,  who  was  created 
:o  H01,and  who  died  in  li-i-l.  See  the  Household  Book  of  John 
Lord  Howard,  afterwards  Duke  of  .Norfolk,  printed  in  1-44  for  the 
Roxburgne  Club,  p.  149. 

'  In  the  account  of  the  cost  of  the  Revels  for  the  year  1591-2.  we 
are  told  that  "iiundrey  feates  of  tumbling  and  activitie  were  shewed 
before  her  .Majestie  on  newe  yeares  night  by  the  Lord  Straunge  his  ser- 
vaunles.-'  .See  .Mr.  P.  Cunningham's  Extracts  from  the  Revels  ac- 
counts, p.  177 

*  Mi'.one.  who  gleaned  thes«  particulars  from  the  accounts  of  the 
Chamberlains  of  .--tratford.  mi.s-.>tat.!d  this  date  1510.  but  we  have 
Mcertained  it  to  be  15-0,  as  indeed  furim  evid«nt. 

*  This  viM  most  likely  one  of  the  coinjianies  which  the  Queen  had 
iiiected  to  be  formed,  consisting  ol  a  selection  of  the  best  actors  from 
the  a«»ociations  of  several  of  the  nobility,  and  not  either  of  the  dis- 
tinct bodies  of  "interlude  players"  who  had  vi.sited  Stratford  while 
John  .'^hskespeare  was  baililf. 

*  Mili.ne  attributes  the  following  order,  made  by  the  corporation 
of  Stratford  many  years  after  the  date  to  which  we  are  now  advert- 
ing, to  the  ;;rowth  of  puritanism;  but  possioly  it  originated  in  other 
motives,  and  may  even  have  been  connected  with  the  attraction  of 
young  men  from  their  homes  : — 

"17.  Dec.  4">  Eliz  :  I60-.>.  At  this  Hall  yt  is  ordered,  that  there 
■hall  be  no  plays  or  interludes  played  in  the  Chamber,  the  Guildhall, 
nor  in  any  parte  of  the  howse  or  coorte,  from  hensforward,  upon 
^yna,  that  whoever  of  the  Baylif,  Aldermen,  or  Burgesses  of  the 
5n-r.nghje  shal'  cive  leave  or  license  thereunto,  shall  forfeyt  foreverie 
oSratii — x»." 


I  Burbage,  the  father  of  the  celebrated  Richard  Burbagft 
I  (the  representative  of  many  of  the  heroes  in  the  works  of 
!  our  great  dramatist)  and  one  of  the  original  builders  of  th« 
;  Blackfriai-3  theatre,  migrated  to  London  fi-om  that  part  of 
I  the  kingdom,  and  the  name  of  Thomas  Greene,  who  was 
indisputiibly  fi-om  Stratford,  will  be  familiar  to  all  who  are 
j  acquainted  with  the  detailed  history  of  our  stage  at  that 
period.  Makiue  supposed  that  Thomas  Greene  might  have 
introduced  Shakespeare  to  the  theatre,  and  at  an  early  date 
he  was  certainly  a  member  of  the  company  called  the  Lord 
Chamberlain's  servants:  how  long  he  continued  we  are 
without  information,  although  we  know  that  he  became,  and 
perhaps  not  long  after  1589,  an  actor  in  thf  rival  associa 
'  tion  under  Alleyn,  and  that  he  was  one  of  Queen  Anne'a 
I  Players  when,  on  the  accession  of  James  I.,  she  took  a  com-. 
'  pauy  imder  her  patronage.  If  any  introduction  to  the  Lord 
]  Chamberlain's  servants  had  been  necessary  for  Shakespeare 
j  at  an  early  date,  he  could  easily  have  procured  it  from 
'  several  other  quarters'*. 

The  fiequeut  performances  of  various  associations  of  ac- 
tors in  Stratford  and  elsewhere,  and  the  taste  for  theatrical? 
thereby  produced,  may  have  had  the  effect  of  drawing  not 
a  few  young  men  in  Warvvick.shire  from  their  homes,  te 
follow  tlie  attractive  and  profitable  profession ;  and  such 
may  have  been  the  case  with  Shiikespeare,  without  sup 
posing  that  domestic  differences,  arising  out  of  disparity  of 
age  or  any  other  cause,  influenced  his  determination,  or  that 
he  was  driven  away  by  the  terrors  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy. 

It  has  been  matter  of  speculation,  and  of  mere  specula- 
tion, for  nobody  has  pretended  to  bring  forward  a  particle 
of  proof  upon  the  question,  whether  Shakespeare  visited 
Kemlworth  Castle,  when  Queen  Elizabeth  was  entertained 
there  by  the  Earl  of  Leicester  in  1575.  and  whether  the 
pomp  and  pageantry  he  then  witnessed  did  not  give  a 
colour  to  his  mind,  and  a  direction  to  his  pursuits.  Con- 
sidering that  he  was  then  only  in  liis  eleventh  year,  we  own. 
that  we  cannot  beheve  he  found  his  way  into  that  gorgeous 
and  august  assembly.  Kenilworth  was  fourteen  miles  dis- 
tant: John  Shakespeare,  although  he  had  been  bailiff  and 
was  still  head-alderman  of  Stratford,  was  not  a  man  of 
sufficient  rank  and  importance  to  be  tliere  in  any  official 
capacity  ;  and  he  probably  had  not  means  to  equip  him- 
self and  his  sou  for  such  an  exhibition.  It  may  be  vei-j 
well  as  a  matter  of  fancy  to  indulge  such  a  notion,  but,  as 
it  seems  to  us,  every  reasonable  probability  is  against  it*. 
That  Shakespeare  heard  of  the  extensive  preparations,  and 
of  the  magnificent  entertainment,  there  can  be  no  doubt ; 
it  was  an  event  calculated  to  create  a  strong  sensation  in 

'  Nicholas  Tooley,  was  of  Burmington,  and  he  is  said  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  20/.,  goods.  We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Lemon  for  directing 
our  attention  to  this  document,  which  he  only  recently  discovered  in 
the  public  archives. 

"  It  has  been  conjectured,  but,  we  believe,  upon  no  evidence  be- 
yond the  following  entry  in  the  register  of  deaths  at  Stratford,  thtt 
Greene  was  in  some  way  related  to  Shakespeare  : — 

"15S9.  March  6.  Thomas  Green,  alias  Shakspere."" 
This  was  perhaps  the  father  of  Thomas  Greene,  the  actor,  who  -ras  a 
comedian  of  great  reputation  and  popularity,  and  becamie  so  famous 
in  a  character  called  Bubble,  that  the  play  of  the  "City  Gallant." 
(acted  by  the  Queen's  Players)  in  which  it  occurs,  with  the  constanlr 
repeated  phra-se,  Tu  quoque,  was  named  a  fler  hira.  In  the  account  of 
the  Revels  of  1011-12,  it  is  called  first  "  the  City  Gallant."  and  after- 
wards Tu  quoqite  :  it  was  printed  in  1614,  under  the  double  title  of 
"  Greene's  Tu  Quoque,  or  the  City  Gallant,"  preceded  by  an  epistle 
from  T.  Heywood,  by  which  it  appears  that  Greene  was  then  dead. 
A  piece  of  verse,  called  '•  A  Poet's  'Vision  and  a  Prince's  Glory."  1603. 
was  written  by  a  Thomas  Greene,  but  it  may  be  doubted,' whether 
this  were  the  comedian.  The  Greenes  were  a  very  respectable 
family  at  Stratford,  and  one  of  them  was  a  solicitor  settled  in 
London. 

'  Upon  this  point  we  differ  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Halpin  in  his  in- 
genious and  agreeable  "  Es.say  upon  Oberon's  Vision,"  printed  by 
the  .Shakespeare  Society.  Bishop  Percy,  in  his  "  Reliques,"  was  the 
first  to  start  the  idea  that  Shake.speare  had  been  present  at  the  enter- 
tainment at  Kenilworth.  and  the  Rev  Mr.  Halpin  calls  it  a '•  plea- 
sant conceit,"  which  had  been  countenanced  by  .Malone  and  adopted 
by  Dr.  Drake  :  neverthclesi.  he  afterwards  seriously  argues  the  mat- 
ter, and  arrives  at  the  conclusion  that  Shakespeare  was  present  in 
right  of  his  gentry  on  both  sides  of  the  family.  This  appears  to  %>> 
even  a  more  "pleasant  conceit"  than  that  of  Percy,  ftlalone.  and 
Drake,  who  suppo.sed  Shakespeare  to  have  gone  to  Kenilworth  "  unde? 
the  wing  "'  of  Thomas  Greene. 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAjIESPEARE, 


XXX  vii 


file  whole  of  that  pai-t  of  the  country ;  and  if  the  cele- 
brated passage  in  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  (act.  ii. 
Be  l),had  any  reference  to  it,  it  did  not  require  that  Shake- 
speare should  have  been  present  in  order  to  have  written 
it  especially  when,  if  necessary,  he  had  Gascoyne's  "  Princely 
Pleasures  of  Kenilworth  "  and  Laneham's  "  Letter  "  to  as- 
siat  his  memory^ 


CHAPTER  VL 

John  Shakespeare  removed  from  his  situation  as  alderman 
of  Stratford,  and  its  possible  connexion  with  William  Shake- 
speare's departure  for  Loudon  in  the  latter  end  of  1586. 
WilUam  Shakespeare  a  sharer  in  the  Blackfriars  Theatre  in 
1589.  Complaints  against  actors  :  two  companies  silenced 
for  bringing  Martin  Mar-prelate  on  the  stage.  Certificate 
of  the  sharers  in  the  Blackfriars.  Shakespeare,  in  all  prob- 
ability, a  good  actor :  our  older  dramatists  often  players. 
Shakespeare's  earliest  compositions  for  the  stage.  His 
"Venus  and  Adonis"  and  "Lucrece"  probably  written 
before  he  came  to  London. 

In  reference  to  the  period  when  our  great  dramatist  aban- 
doned his  native  town  for  London,  we  think  that  sufficient 
attention  has  not  been  paid  to  an  important  incident  in  the 
life  of  his  father.  John  Shakespeare  was  deprived  of  his 
gown  as  aldermim  of  Stratford  in  the  autumn  of  1586  :  we  say 
that  he  was  deprived  of  his  gown,  not  because  any  resolu- 
tion precisely  warranting  those  terms  was  come  to  by  the 
rest  of  the  corporation,  but  because  it  is  quite  evident  that 
such  was  the  fact,  from  the  tenor  of  the  entry  in  the  records 
of  the  borough.  On  the  6th  Sept.  15S6,  the  following  me- 
morandum was  made  in  the  register  by  the  town  clerk^ : 

"  At  this  hall  "William  Smythe  and  Eichard  Courte  are 
chosen  to  be  aldermen,  in  the  place  of  John  "V\'heler,  and 
John  Shaxspere  ;  for  that  Mr.  "\V  holer  doth  desyer  to  be  put 
out  of  the  companye,  and  Mr.  Shaxspere  doth  not  come  to 
the  halles,  when  they  be  warned,  nor  bath  not  done  of  a 
long  tyme." 

According  to  this  note,  it  was  Wheler's  wish  to  be  re- 
moved from  his  situation  of  alderman,  and  had  such  also 
been  the  desu-e  of  John  Shakespeare,  we  should,  no  doubt, 
have  been  told  so  :  therefore,  we  must  presume  that  he 
was  not  a  consenting,  or  at  aU  events  not  a  willing,  party 
t<>  this  proceeding;  but  there  is  no  doubt,  as  Malone  ascer- 
tained from  an  inspection  of  the  ancient  books  of  the  bo- 
rough, that  he  had  ceased  to  attend  the  halls,  when  they 

1  Gascoyne's '"Princely  Pleasures,"  kc.  was  printed  in  1576,  and 
Laneham's  "Letter  "  from  Kenilworth  in  the  preceding  year.  Gas- 
coy  ne  was  himself  a  performer  in  the  shows,  and,  according  to  Lane- 
ham,  represented  "a  Savage  Man."  who  made  a  speech  to  the  Queen 
as  she  came  from  hunting.  Robert  Laneham,  the  afl'ected  but  clever 
writer  of  the  "Letter,"  was  most  likely  (as  ;s  suggested  in  the 
Bridgewater  Catalogue,  4to.  1S37,  p.  16-2)  related  to  John  Lanehara, 
the  player,  who  was  one  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  players,  and  is 
named  in  the  royal  license  of  1574.  "  Robert  Laneham."  observes 
the  compiler  of  that  Catalogue,  "  seems  to  have  been  quite  as  much 
a  comedian  upon  paper,  as  John  Laneham  was  upon  the  stage.'' 

2  William  Tyler  was  the  bailiff  of  the  year.  See  Malone"s  Shak- 
ipeare  by  Boswell,  vol.  li.  p.  IGt  . 

3  This  use  of  the  word  -  warned  "  occurs  several  times  in  bhake- 
■peare  :  in  '"Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  (p.        )  Octavius  tells  Antony, 

■•  They  meaa  to  warn  us  at  Philippi  here  :" 
tad  in  "  King  John,"  (p.        )  after  King  Philip  has  said, 
'•  Some  trumpet  summon  hither  to  the  wails 
These  men  of  Anglers," 
t  ntizcn  exclaims  from  the  battlements, 

"Who  is  it  that  hath  warned  us  to  the  walls?'' 
*  We  do  not  imagine  that  one  event,  or  the  other,  was  influenced 
in  any  wav  by  the  execution  of  Edward  Arden,  a  maternal  relative 
of  the  fam'ily.  at  the  close  of  15S3.  According  to  Dugdale,  it  wa5 
more  than  suspected  that  he  came  to  his  end  through  the  power  ot 
Leicester,  who  was  exasperated  against  him,  '•  for  gaUing  him  by 
lenain  harsh  expressions,  touching  his  privatf  accesses  to  the  Count- 
ess of  Essex."  while  she  was  still  the  wife  of  Walter  Devereux.  It 
loes  not  appear  that  there  had  been  any  intercourse  between  Edward 
iVrden,  then  the  head  of  his  family,  and  Mary  Shakespeaxe,  the 
youngest  daughter  of  the  junior  branch, 
s  Shakspeare  by  Boswell,  vol.  ii.  p.  157.  ^         r  t 

«  The  excess  to  which  the  enmity  between  the  corpoiation  ol  Lion- 
\<u  and  the  plav»-.   was  carried  may  be  judged  by  the  following 


were  "  wai-ned  "  or  summoned^  fi'om  the  year  1579  dowii- 
wards.  This  date  of  1579  is  the  more  important,  although 
Malone  was  not  aware  of  the  fact,  because  it  was  the  sam« 
year  in  which  John  Shakespeare  was  so  distressed  for 
money,  that  he  disposed  of  his  wife's  small  property  in  Snit- 
tertieid  for  4/. 

We  have  thus  additional  reasons  for  thinking,  that  the 
unprosperous  state  of  John  Shakespeare's  pecuniary  cir- 
cumstances had  induced  him  to  abstain  from  attending  the 
ordinary  meetings  of  the  corporati>jn.  and  finally  led  to  his 
removal  from  the  office  of  alderman.  What  connexion  this 
last  event  may  have  had  with  WiUiam  Shakespeai'e's  de- 
termination to  quit  Stratford  cannot  be  known  from  any 
circumstances  that  have  since  come  to  hght.  but  it  will  not 
fail  to  be  remarked,  that  in  point  of  date  the  events  seem 
to  have  been  coincident'. 

Malone  "  supposed  "  that  our  great  poet  left  Stratford 
"about  the  year  1586  or  1587°,"  but  it  seems  to  us  more 
likely  that  tie  event  happened  in  the  former,  than  in  the 
latter  year.  His  twins,  Hamuet  and  Judith,  were  baptized 
as  we  have  shown,  early  in  February,  1565,  and  his  father 
did  not  cease  to  be  an  alderman  imtil  about  a  year  and  seven 
months  afterwards.  The  iiict,  that  his  sun  had  become  a 
player,  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  the  lower  rank 
his  brethren  of  the  bench  thought  he  ought  to  hold  in  the 
corporation ;  or  the  resolution  of  the  son  to  abandon  his 
home  may  have  arisen  out  of  the  degradation  of  the  lather 
i  in  his  native  town  ;  but  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
two  cu'cumstances  were  in  some  way  connected,  and  that 
the  period  of  the  departure  of  William  Shakespeare,  to  seek 
his  fortune  in  a  company  of  players  in  the  metropolis,  may 
be  fixed  in  the  latter  end  of  1586. 

Neveitheless,  we  do  not  hear  of  him  in  London  until 
thi-ee  years  aftei-wards,  when  we  find  him  a  sharer  in  the 
Blackfriars  theatre.  It  had  been  constructed  (or,  possibly, 
if  not  an  entirely  new  building,  some  large  edilice  had  been 
I  adapted  to  the  pm-pose)  upon  pait  of  the  site  of  the  dis- 
'  solved  monastery,  because  it  was  beyond  the  jurisdiction  of 
!  the  lord  mayor  and  corporation  of  Loudon,  who  had  always 
evinced  decided  hostility  to  di-amatic  representations^  The 
imdertaking  seems  to  have  been  prosperous  from  the  eom- 
'  mencement ;  and  in  1589  no  fewer  than  sixteen  performei-s 
!  were  sharers  in  it,  including,  besides  Shakespeare  and  Bur- 
"  '  upoE 
the; 
ably  thus  numerous  on  account  of  the  flourishing  sUile  of 
theconcern,  many  being  desirous  to  obtain  an  interest  in  ita 
receipts.     In  1589  some  general  complainis  seem  to  have 

quotation  from  "a  Jig,"  or  humorous  tneatrical  ballad,  called  "The 
Horse- load  of  Fools."  which,  in  the  manuscript  in  which  it  t^as  been 
handed  down  to  us,  is  slated  to  have  bean  written  by  Richard  Tail- 
ton  and  in  all  probability  was  delivervd  by  him  before  applauding 
audiences  at  the  Theatre  in  Shoredilch.  Tarlton  introduces  to  th« 
spectator  a  number  of  puppets,  accompanying  the  exhibiuon  by  a 
ureal  stanzas  upon  each,  and  he  thus  speaks  of  one  of  them  :— 


Thomas  Greene  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  Nicholas 
Tooley,  also  a  Warwickshire  man  :  the  ass'jciutiou  was  prob- 


"  This  foole  comes  from  the  citizens; 
Nay,  prithee  doe  not  frowne  ; 
I  knowe  him  as  well  as  you 
By  his  liverie  gowne  : 

Of  a  rare  horne-maJ  famihe. 

"  He  is  a  foole  by  prenticeship 
And  servitude,  he  saves, 
And  hates  all  kindes  of  wisedome. 
But  most  of  all  in  playes  : 

Of  a  verie  obstinate  familie. 

"  You  have  him  in  his  liverie  gowne, 
But  presentlie  he  can 
Qualiiie  for  a  mule  or  mare. 
Or  for  an  alderman  ; 

With  a  golJe  chaine  in  his  fanuUe. 

"  Being  borne  and  bred  for  a  foole, 
Whv  should  he  be  wi.-<e. 
It  would  make  him  not  tia  to  siit 
With  his  brethren  of  a^ize ; 

Of  a  verie  long  earde  famibe." 

Possibly  the  lord  mavor  and  alderraen  complained  of  th.s  v-ri 
composition,  and  it  may  have  been  one  ot  the  causes  w  "ch.j«.n  al 
terwards,  led  to  the  silencing  of  the  coiupany  :  at  all  event,  it  ;r« 
not  likely  to  conciliate  the  members  of  the  corporation. 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Deen  made,  that  iinjiiopor  mattere  were  iutixxluced  into 
plavs  ;  and  it  is  quitt-  it-itiiin  that  "  the  children  of  Paul's," 
3d  the  acting  clu>ir-l).>ys  of  that  cathodial  were  called,  and 
the  asst>eiaiion  of  regular  professional  performers  occupy- 
ing the  Theatre  in  Shoreditch  at  tliis  date,  had  introduced 
Martin  Mar-prelate  upon  their  stages,  in  a  manner  that  had 
given  great  otfeuee  to  the  Puritjins.  Tylney,  the  master  of 
the  revels,  had  interjx'seti,  and  having  brought  the  matter 
to  the  knowledge  of  Lord  Burghley,  tw«:  \>.>die8  of  pbiyers, 
those  of  the  Ixird  Admind  and  Lord  Strvjige,  (the  latter 
by  this  time  having  advanced  from  tumbloi-s  to  actors)  had 
been  summoned  before  the  lord  mayor,  and  ordered  to  de- 
sist from  all  performances'.  The  silencing  of  other  associ- 
ations would  probably  have  been  beneficial  to  that  exhibit- 
ing »  Blaektriais,  and  if  no  proceeding  of  any  kmd  had 
l>een  ii.stiluted  against  James  Burbage  and  his  partners,  we 
uiny  presume  that  they  would  have  continued  quietly  to 
reap  their  augmented  harvest  We  are  led  to  mfer,  how- 
ever, that  tliey  als<3  apprehended,  and  experienced,  some  mea- 
sure of  restraint,  imd  feeling  conscious  that  they  had  given 
00  just  ground  of  olYciice.  they  transmitted  U>  the  pri\^ 
council  a  sort  of  certiticate  of  their  good  conduct,  asserting 
that  tliey  had  never  introduced  into  their  representations 
mattei-s  of  state  and  rehgion,  and  that  no  compl;iiut  of  that 
kind  had  ever  been  preferred  against  them.  This  certificate 
passe  J.  into  the  hands  of  Lord  Ellesmere,  then  attorney- 
general,  and  it  has  been  preserved  among  his  papers.  We 
subjoin  a  copy  of  it  in  a  note^ 

It  seems  rather  str.inge  that  this  testimonial  should  have 
come  from  the  players  themselves  :  we  should  rather  have 
expected  that  they  avouUI  have  procm-ed  a  certificate  from 
some  disinterested  ])arties ;  and  we  are  to  tidie  it  merely  as 
a  statement  on  their  own  authority,  and  possibly  as  a 
sort  of  challenge  for  inquiry.  When  they  say  tliat  no 
complaint  of  the  kind  had  ever  been  preferred  against  them,  | 
we  are  of  course  to  understand  that  the  a&seition  ajjplies 
to  a  time  previous  to  some  general  representation  against 
theatres,  which  had  been  made  in  1589,  and  in  which  the 
sharers  at  the  Blackfiiars  thought  themselves  unjustly  in- 
cluded. In  this  document  we  see  the  important  fact,  as  re- 
gards the  biography  of  Shakespeare,  that  b  1589  he  was, 
not  only  an  actor,  but  a  sharer  in  the  undertaking  ut  Black- 
friai-8 ;  and  whatever  inference  may  be  drawn  from  it,  we 
find  that  his  name,  following  eleven  others,  precedes  those 
of  Kempe,  Johnson,  Goodale,  and  Aimyn.  Kempe,  we 
know,  was  the  successor  of  Tarlton  (who  died  in  1588)  in 
comic  parts',  and  must  have  been  an  actor  of  great  value 

•  All  the  known  details  of  these  transactions  may  be  seen  in  "The 
Hut.  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  vol.  i.  p.  '271,  &c. 

»  It  if  on  a  long  slip  of  paper,  very  neatly  written,  but  without 
my  narneg*appended. 

"Thew  are  to  certifie  your  right  Honble  Lordships,  that  her  .\Ia- 
naty's  poore  Playcres,  James  Burbad";e,  Richard  Burbadge,  John 
Lanehatn.  Thoma.'!  Greene,  Robert  Wilson,  John  Taylor,  Anth. 
Wadew.n.  Thomas  Pope.  George  Peele.  Augustine  Phillipps,  Nicho- 
las To-.r.»-y,  William  rjhakespeare,  William  Kempe,  William  John- 
•on.  Haj.'.i.-te  Goodale,  and  Robert  Armyn,  being  all  of  them  sharers 
in  the  Slacke  Fryen  playehouse,  have  never  given  cause  of  displea- 
»ur«,  in  that  they  have  brought  into  their  playes  maters  ot  state  and 
Religion,  unfitt  to  be  handled  by  them,  or  to  be  presented  before 
lewde  spectators  :  neither  hath  anie  complaynte  in  that  kinde  ever 
oene  preferrde  against  them,  or  anie  of  them.  Wherefore,  they  trust 
moat  humblie  in  your  Lordships  consideration  of  their  former  good 
reha.7i0Dr.  being  at  a'^  tymes  readie,  and  willing,  to  yeelde  obedience 
to  any  command  whatsoever  your  Lordships  in  your  wisdome  may 
tiiinke  in  such  caie  meete,  &.c. 

•  Nor.  15^." 

Here  we  see  that  .Shakespeare's  name  stands  twelfth  in  the  enu- 
meration of  the  members  of  the  company  ;  but  we  do  not  rest  much 
on  the  succession  in  which  they  are  inserted,  becau.se  among  the  four 
names  which  follow  that  of  our  great  dramati.->t  are  certainly  two 
performers,  one  of  them  of  the   highest  reputation,  and  the  other  of 


long  standing  in  the  profeMion. 
'  In  the  dedication  of  hi 


'Almond  for  a  Parrot."  printed  without 
date,  but  not  lat<-r  than  I-WJ,  (the  year  of  which  we  are  now  speak- 
ing) Thoni.Ts  Nash  call.i  Kempe  "  Je»;inongpr  and  Vice-gerent  gene- 
ral to  the  fhost  of  Uick  Tailton.*'  lleywood.  in  his  '' Apology  for 
Actors."  ltJl-.>,  (^^llakespea^e  Society's  rcpr.i.t,  p.  4:f)  tells  us  that 
Kempe  succopJed  Tarlton  "as  well  in  the  favour  of  her  Majesty,  ai 
in  1  »e  opinion  and  pood  thoughts  of  the  general  audience  " 

»  He  wa.<  also  one  of  the  executors  under  Tarlton's  will,  and  was 
also  trustee  for  h.s  son  Philip.  See  p.  xiii.  What  became  of  Johnson 
after  \^-'9,  we  have  no  information. 

•  Uo  was  rne  of  the   a-tors,  with   Laneham,  in   the  anonymous 


and  eminence  in  the  company :  Jolinson,  as  appear.*  by  tlw 
royal  license,  had  been  one  of  the  theatrical  servants  of  the 
Earl  of  Leicester  in  1574*:  of  Goodale  we  have  no  account, 
,  but  he  bore  a  Stratford  uame°;  and  Armyn,  though  he  had 
been  instructed  by  Tarlton",  was  perhaps  at  this  date  quite 
young,  and  of  low  rank  in  the  association.     The  situation  in 
the  list  which  the  name  of  Shakespeare  occupies  may  scene 
to  show  that,  even  in  1589,  he  was  a  pei-son  of  considemble 
importance  in  relation  to  the  success  of  the  sharers  iu  Black- 
friars  theatre.     In  November,  1589,  he  was  in  the  middle 
of  his  twenty-sixth  year,  and  in  the  full  strength,  if  not  in 
the  liighest  maturity,  of  his  mental  and  bodily  powei-e. 
j      We  can  have  no  hesitation  iu  believing  that  he  oiiginally 
I  came  to  London,  iu  order  to  obtiiin  his  hvehhood  by  the 
stiige,  and  with  no  other  view.     Aubrey  tells  us  that  he 
j  was  "  inclined  naturally  to  ix)etry  and  acting ;"  and  the 
!  poverty  of  Lis  father,  and  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  profit- 
able employment  in  the  country  for  the  maiutenauce  of  his 
family,  without  f)ther  motives,  may  have  induced  liim  readily 
to  give  way  to  that  inclination.    Aubrey,  who  had  probably 
j  taken  due  means  to  inform  huuself,  adds,  that  "  he  did  act 
;  exceedingly  well ;"  and  we  are  convinced   that  the  opinion, 
founded  chiefly  upon  a  statement  by  Rowe,  that  Shake- 
[  speare  was  a  very  moderate  performer,  is  erroneous.     It 
j  seems  hkely  that  for  two  or  three  years  he  employed  him- 
I  self  chiefly  in  the  more  active  duties  of  the  profession  he 
had  eliosen ;  and  Peele',  who  was  a  very  practised  and  popu- 
j  lar  play-wright,  considerably  older  than  Shakespeare,  was  a 
I  member  of  the  company,  without  saying  anything  of  Wade- 
son,  regarding  whom  we  know  nothing  but  that  at  a  subse- 
quent date  he  was  one  of  Henslowe's  dramatists;  or  of 
Armyn,  then  only  just  coming  forward  as  a  comic  performer. 
Theie  is  reason  to  think  that  Peele  did  not  continue  one  of 
the  Lord  Chamberlains  servants  after  1590,  and  his  extant 
di-amas  wei-e  acted  by  the  Queen's  players,  or  by  those  of 
the  Lord  Admiral :  to  the  latter  association  Peele  seems 
subsequently  to  have  been  attached,  and  his  •'  Battle  of  Al- 
cazar," printed  in  1594,  purports  on  the  title-page  to  have 
been  played  by  them.     While  Peele  remained  a  member 
of  the  company  of  the  Lord  Chamberhiin's  players,  Shake- 
speare's sei-viees  as  a  dramatist  may  not  materially  have 
interfered  with  his  exertions  as  an  actor ;  but  aftei-wardfl, 
wheu  Peele  had  joined  a  rival  establishment,  he  may  hav«3 
been  much  more  frequently  called  upon  to  employ  Ins  pen, 
and  then  his  value  iu  that  department  becoming  cleaily 
undei-stood,  he  was  less  frequently  a  performer. 

Out  of  the  sixteen  sharers  of  which  the  company  he  be- 

mannscript  play  of  '■  Sir  Thomas  More."  (Harl.  Coll.,  No.  7303)  which, 
we  may  conjecture,  was  licensed  for  the  stage  before  1.392. 

'  This  fact  is  stated  in  a  publication  entitled  '•  Tarlton's  Jests.''  of 
which  the  earliest  extant  impression  is  in  lGll,but  they  were  no 
doubt  collected  and  published  very  soon  after  the  death  of  Tarlton 
in  l.WS. 

'  When  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dyce  published  his  edition  of  Peele's  Works, 
he  was  not  aware  that  there  was  any  impression  of  that  author's 
"Tale  of  Troy."  in  161)4,  as  well  as  in  loVJ,  containing  such  varia- 
tions IS  show  that  it  must  have  been  corrected  and  augmented  by 
Peel''  after  its  first  ajipearance.  The  impression  of  1604  is  the  most 
diraiuutive  volume,  perhaps,  ever  printed,  not  exceeding  an  inch  and 
a  half  high  by  an  inch  wide,  with  the  following  title  :— "  The  Tale 
of  Troy.  By  G.  Peele,  M.  of  Artes  in  Oxford.  Printed  by  A.  IL 
16U4."  We  will  add  only  two  passages  out  of  many,  to  prove  th« 
nature  of  the  changes  and  additions  made  by  Peele  after  the  origin^U 
publication.     In  the  edition  of  lUOl  the  poem  thus  opens : 

"  In  that  world's  wounded  part,  whose  waves  yet  swell 
With  everlasting  showers  of  tears  that  fell, 
And  bosom  bleeds  with  great  efTuze  of  blood 
That  long  war  shed.  Troy,  Neptune's  city,  stood, 
Gorgeously  built,  like  to  the  house  of  Fame, 
Or  court  of  Jove,  as  some  describe  the  same,"  ke. 

The  four  lines  which  commence  the  second  page  of  Mr.  Dyce's 
edition  are  thus  extended  in  the  copy  of  1601  : 

"  His  court  presenting  to  our  human  eyes 
An  earthly  heaven,  or  shining  Paradise, 
Where  ladies  troop'd  in  rich  disguis'd  attire, 
Glistring  like  stars  of  pure  immortal  fire. 
Thus  happy,  Priam,  didst  thou  live  of  yore, 
That  to  thy  fortune  heavens  could  add  no  more." 

Peele  was  dead  in  l-W,  and  it  is  likely  that  there  were  one  oi 
more  intervening  impressions  of  "The  Tale  of  Troy,"  betw  ten  1.5:<I 
and  low. 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


loDged  t<>  consisted  in  1589,  (besides  the  usual  proportion  of 
'hired  men,"  who  only  took  inferior  eliaracters)  there  would 
be  more  than  a  sufficient  nun  ber  iov  the  representation  of 
most  plays,  without  the  assistance  of  Shakespeare.  He  was, 
doubtless,  soon  busily  and  profitably  engaged  as  a  dra- 
matist ;  and  this  remark  on  the  rareness  of  liis  appearance 
on  the  stage  will  of  course  apply  more  strongly  in  his  after- 
life, when  he  produced  one  or  more  dramas  every  year. 

His  instructions  to  the  players  in  "Ibiimlet"  have  often 
been  noticed  as  establishing  that  he  was  admirably  ac- 
'juainted  with  the  theory  of  the  art ,  and  if,  as  Rowe  as- 
ierts,  he  only  took  the  short  part  of  the  Ghost'  in  this 
tragedy,  we  are  to  recollect  that  even  if  he  had  considered 
himself  competent  to  it,  the  study  of  such  a  character  as 
Hamlet,  (the  longest  on  the  stage  as  it  is  now  acted,  and 
still  longer  as  it  was  oi'iginally  written)  must  have  con- 
sumed more  time  than  he  could  well  afford  to  bestow  upon 
it,  especially  when  we  call  to  mind  that  there  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  company  who  had  hitherto  represented  most  of 
the  heroes,  and  whose  excellence  was  as  imdoubted,  as  his 
popularity  was  extraordinary".  To  Richard  Bmbage  was 
therefore  assigned  the  arduous  character  of  the  Priuce, 
whde  the  author  took  the  brief,  but  important  part  of  the 
Ghost,  which  required  person,  deportment,  judgment,  and 
voice,  with  a  delivery  distinct,  solemn,  and  imjjressive.  All 
the  elements  of  a  great  actor  were  needed  for  the  due  per- 
formance of  "  the  buried  majesty  of  Denmark^." 

It  may  be  observed,  in  passing,  that  at  the  period  of  our 
Irama,  such  as  it  existed  in  the  hands  of  Shakespeai'e's 
Jumediate  predecessors,  authors  were  most  commonly  ac- 
tors also.  Such  was  the  case  with  Greene,  Marlowe^, 
Lodge,  Peele,  probably  Nash,  Munday,  Wilson,  and  others : 
the  same  practice  jDrevailed  with  some  of  their  successoi-s, 
Ben  Jonson,  Heywood,  Webster,  Field,  <fec. ;  but  at  a  some- 
what later  date  dramatists  do  not  usually  appear  to  have 

'  "  His  name  is  printed,  as  the  custom  was  in  those  times,  amongst 
those  of  the  other  piayers,  before  some  old  plays,  but  without  any 
particular  account  of  what  sort  of  parts  he  used  to  play  ;  and  though 
I  have  inquired,  I  never  could  meet  with  any  further  account  of  him 
this  way,  than  that  the  top  of  his  performance  was  the  Ghost  in  his 
own  'Hamlet.'-' — Rowe"s  Life.  Shakespeare's  name  stands  first 
among  the  players  of  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  and  fifth  among 
those  of  "  Sejanus." 

-  From  a  Mrf.  Epitaph  upon  Burbage,  (who  died  in  1G19,)  sold 
among  the  books  of  the  late  Mr.  Heber,  we  find  that  he  was  the  orig- 
inal Hamlet,  Romeo,  Prince  Henry,  Henry  V.  Richard  III.,  Mac- 
beth, Brutus,  Coriolanus,  Shylock,  Lear,  Pericles,  and  Othello,  in 
Shakespeare's  Plays  :  in  those  of  other  dramatists  he  was  Jeronimo, 
in  Kyds  '•Spanisli  Tragedy;"  Antonio,  in  Marston's  ■'Antonio  and 
Mellida;"  Frankford.  in  T.  Heywood's  "Woman  killed  with  Kind- 
ness ;■'  Philaster,  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  play  of  that  name  ; 
Amintor,  in  their  ••  Maid's  Tragedy." — See  "  The  Alleyn  Papers," 
printed  by  the  Shakespeare  Society,  p.  xxx.  On  a  subsequent  page 
we  have  inserted  the  whole  passage  relating  to  his  characters  from 
the  Epitaph  on  Burbage. 

3  J'lj.  Thomas  Campbell,  in  his  Life  of  Shakespeare,  prefixed  to 
the  edition,  in  one  volume,  163S.  was,  we  believe,  the  first  to  remark 
upon  the  almost  absolute  necessity  of  having  a  good,  if  not  a  great 
actor,  for  the  part  of  the  Ghost  in  '•  Hamlet." 

*  It  seems  from  an  obscure  ballad  upon  Marlowe's  death,  (handed 
down  to  us  in  MS.,  and  quoted  in  "  New  Particulars  regarding  the 
Worke  of  Shakespeare,"  svo.  lS.3(j,)  that  he  had  broken  his  leg  while 
acting  at  the  Curtain  Theatre,  which  was  considered  a  judgment 
apon  him  for  his  irreligious  and  lawless  life. 

"  Both  day  and  night  would  he  blaspheme, 
And  day  and  night  would  sweare  ; 
As  if  his  life  was  but  a  dreame. 
Not  ending  in  despaire. 
"A  poet  was  he  of  repute, 

And  wrote  full  many  a  playe; 
No-w  strutting  in  a  silken  sute, 
Now  begging  by  the  way. 

"  He  had  alsoe  a  player  beenc 
Upon  the  Curtaine  stage. 
But  brake  his  leg  in  one  lewd  scene, 
When  in  his  early  age. 

"  He  was  a  fellow  to  all  those 
That  did  God's  lawes  reject ; 
Consorting  with  the  Christian's  foes, 
And  men  of  ill  aspect,"  &c. 

The  ballad  consists  of  twenty-four  similar  stanzas  of  Marlowe's 
t«&i  h  the  author  thus  writes  : 

'•  His  lust  was  lawlesse  as  his  life, 
Ani  bro"j-ht  about  his  death. 


trodden  the  stage.  We  have  no  hint  tliat  Dekker,  Chap 
man,  or  Marstou,  though  contemporary  with  Ueu  Jonaon, 
were  actors  ;  and  Massinger,  Beaumont,  Fletchei-,  Middletoa 
Daboi'ue,  and  Shirley,  who  may  be  said  to  have  followea 
them,  as  far  as  we  now  know,  uever  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  performance  of  their  own  dramas,  or  of  those  of  othe: 
poets.  Id  then-  day  the  two  departments  of  author  suir. 
actor  seem  to  have  been  generally  distinct,  while  the  cou 
trary  was  certainly  the  case  some  years  anterior  to  the  de 
mise  of  ELzabeth. 

It  is  impossible  to  determine,  almost  impossible  to  giees, 
what  Shakespeare  had  or  had  not  written  in  1589.  That 
he  had  chiefly  employed  his  pen  in  the  revival,  alteration, 
and  improvement  of  existmg  dramas  we  are  sti-ougly  dis- 
posed to  beheve,  but  that  he  had  not  ventured  upon  origi- 
nal composition  it  would  be  much  too  bold  to  assert  "  The 
Comedy  of  Errors  "  we  take  to  be  one  of  the  pieces,  which, 
having  been  first  written  by  an  infei-ior  dramatist'^,  was 
heightened  and  amended  by  Shakespeare,  perhaps  about 
the  date  of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  and  "  Love's  La- 
bour's Lost,"  or  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  may  have 
been  original  compositions  brought  upon  the  stage  prior  to 
1590.  We  also  consider  it  more  than  probable  that  "Titua 
Andronicus  "  belongs  even  to  an  earlier  period ;  but  we  feel 
satisfied,  that  although  Shakespeare  had  by  this  time  given 
clear  indications  of  powers  superior  to  those  of  any  of  his 
rivals,  he  could  not  have  wi'itten  any  of  his  greater  works 
until  some  years  afterwards*^.  With  regard  to  productions 
unconnected  with  the  stage,  there  are  several  pieces  among 
his  scattered  poems,  and  some  of  his  sonnets^  that  indispu 
tably  belong  to  an  earlier  part  of  his  life.  A  young  man, 
so  gifted,  would  not,  and  could  not,  wait  until  he  was  five 
or  six  and  twenty  before  he  made  considerable  and  most 
succesful  attempts  at  poetical  composition;  and  we  feci 
morally  certain  that  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  was  in  being 

For  in  a  deadly  mortal  strife, 
Striving  to  stop  the  breath 

"  Of  one  who  was  his  rival  foe. 
With  his  owne  dagger  slaine, 
He  groan'd  and  word  spoke  never  moe, 
Pierc't  through  the  eye  and  braine.'' 

"WTiich  pretty  exactly  accords  with  the  tradition  of  the  mode  in 
which  he  came  to  his  end,  in  a  scuffle  with  a  person  of  the  name  of 
Archer  :  the  register  of  his  death  at  St.  Nicholas,  Deptford,  ascertains 
the  name  : — "  1st  June,  1.59'3.  Christopher  Marlowe  slain  by  Francis 
Archer."  He  was  just  dead  when  Peele  wrote  his -'Honour  of  the 
Garter,"  in  1.59-3,  and  there  spoke  of  him  as  '"  unhappy  in  his  end," 
and  as  having  been  ''the  .Muses'  darling  for  his  verse." 

5  See  pp.  ix.  and  xiii.,  where  it  is  shown  that  there  was  an  old 
drama,  acted  at  Court  in  1.573  and  15s2,  called  ''The  History  of  Er- 
ror" in  one  ca.se.  and  "The  History  of  Ferrar '"  in  the  other.  See 
also  the  Introduction  to  ''The  Comedy  of  Errors." 

6  Upon  this  point  we  cannot  agree  with  Mr.  F.  G.  Tomlins,  who 
has  written  a  very  sensible  and  clever  work  called  "  A  brief  view  of 
the  English  Drama."  l'.Jmo,  ls40,  where  he  argues  that  Shakespeare 
probably  began  with  original  composition,  and  not  with  the  adapta- 
tion and  alteration  of  works  he  found  in  possession  of  the  stage  when 
he  joined  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  players.  We  know  that  the  earli- 
est charge  against  him  by  a  fellow  dramatist  was,  that  he  had  availed 
himself  of  the  productions  of  others,  and  we  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  some  of  the  plays  upon  which  he  was  first  employed  were 
not  by  any  means  entirely  his  own  :  we  allude  among  others  to  the 
three  parts  of  ''Henry  VI."  It  seems  tons  much  more  likelf  that 
Shakespeare  in  the  first  instance  confined  himself  toaltera'cici-s  anc 
improvements  of  the  plays  of  predecessors,  than  that  he  at  once  founa 
himself  capable  of  inventing  and  constructing  a  great  original 
drama.  However,  it  is  but  fair  to  quote  the  words  of  .Mr.  Toiolins. 
"We  are  thus  driven  to  the  conclusion  that  his  writing  must  ha^» 
procured  him  this  distinction.  What  had  he  written  .'  is  the  next 
question  that  presents  itself.  Probably  origmai  plays,  for  the  adap- 
tation of  the  plays  of  others  could  scarcely  be  entrusted  to  the  inex- 
perienced hands  of  a  young  genius,  who  had  not  manifested  his  know- 
ledge of  stage  matters  by  any  productions  of  his  own.  This  kind  of 
work  would  be  jealously  watched  by  the  managers,  and  mtist  eve: 
have  required  great  skill  and  experience.  Shakespeare,  mighty  as  b* 
was,  was  human,  and  it  is  scarcely  possible  that  a  genius,  so,  ripe, 
so  rich,  so  overflowing  as  his,  should  not  have  its  enthusiasm  km- 
died  into  an  original  production,  and  not  by  the  mechanical  botchi^^ 
of  the  inferior  productions  of  others,"  p.  31. 

Upon  this  passage  we  have  only  to  remark  that  according  to  cm 
view,  it  would  have  required  much  more  "skill  and  experience"  ic 
write  a  new  play,  than  merely  to  make  additions  to  the  speeches  oi 
scenes  of  an  old  one.  ,    ,    .         ,  ,  . 

'  "  His  sugar'd  sonnets"  were  fianded  about  "  among  lus  pnvat« 
friends"  many  years  before  they  were  printed  :  Francis  Meres  men 
tions  them  in  the  woids  we  have  quoted,  in  1593. 


XI 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


interior  to  Shakespeare's  quittini;  Stratford'.  It  bears  all 
the  marks  of  youthful  vijjour.tif  strong  passion,  of  luxuriant 
imagination,  touetlur  with  a  force  aiul  originality  of  ex- 
prejision  wliich  lx-t->koii  the  tirst  efforts  of  a  great  niiuil.  not 
always  well  regulated  in  its  taste  :  it  seems  to  have  been 
written  in  tlie  open  air  of  a  tine  country  like  Warwickshire, 
witli  all  the  freshness  of  the  recent  impression  of  natural 
objects;  and  we  will  go  so  far  as  to  sjiy,  that  we  do  not 
tlunk  even  Shakespeaie  liimself  could  have  produced  it,  in 
the  form  it  bears,  after  he  had  reached  the  age  of  forty.  It 
was  quite  new  in  its  class,  being  founded  upon  no  model, 
cither  ancient  or  modern :  nothing  like  it  had  been  attempted 
Before,  and  nothing  comparable  t*>  it  Wiis  produced  after- 
wanU'.  Thus  in  lft93  he  might  cjill  it,  in  the  dediciitiou  to 
Lord  S«>uthamptoD,  "the  first  heir  of  his  invention"  in  a 
double  sense,  not  merelv  because  it  wass  the  first  printed, 
but  because  it  was  the  torst  written  of  liis  productions. 

The  information  we  now  possess  enables  us  at  once  to 
reject  the  story,  against  the  truth  of  whicli  Malone  elabo- 
rately argueil,  tliat  Shakespeare's  earhest  employment  at  a 
theatre  was  holding  the  horses  of  noblemeii  and  gentlemen 
wlio  visited  it,  and  that  he  had  under  him  a  number  of  lads 
who  were  known  as  "  Shakespeare's  b<iys."  Shiels  in  his 
"  Lives  of  the  Poets."  (published  in  1753  in  the  name  of 
Gibber)  was  the  fii-st  to  give  currency  to  this  idle  inven- 
tion :  it  was  icpeated  by  Dr.  Johnson,  jmd  has  often  been 
reiterated  since;  anil  we  should  hardly  have  thought  it 
wortli  notice  now,  if  it  had  not  found  a  place  in  many  modem 
accounts  of  our  great  dramatist'.  The  company  to  which 
he  attached  himself  had  not  unfrequently  performed  in 
Stratford,  and  at  that  date  the  Queen's  Players  and  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  seem  sometimes  to  have  been 
confounded  in  the  provinces,  although  the  ditfercnce  was 
well  understood  in  London ;  some  of  the  chief  members 
'•f  it  had  Come  from  his  own  part  of  the  country,  and  even 
ftom  the  very  toTvn  in  wliich  he  was  b<jrn ;  and  he  was  not 
in  a  station  of  hfe,  nor  so  destitute  of  means  and  friends,  as 
to  have  been  reduced  to  such  an  extremity. 

Besides  having  written  "  Venus  and  Adonis"  before  he 
came  to  L<jndon,  Shakespeare  ma}'  also  have  composed  its 
r>)unterpart,  "  Lucrece,"  which,  as  our  readers  are  aware, 
first  appeared  in  print  in  1594.  It  is  in  a  different  stanza, 
»ud  in  some  respects  in  a  different  style  ;  and  after  he  joined 
the  Blaekfriars  company,  the  author  may  possibly  have 
added  parts,  (such,  foi-  instance,  as  the  long  and  minute  de- 
scription of  the  siege  of  Troy  in  the  Uipestry)  which  indi- 
cat«  a  closer  acquaintance  with  the  modes  and  habits  of 
society;  but  even  here  no  knowledge  is  dispkiyed  tliat 
might  not  have  been  acquh-ed  in  Warwickshire.     As  he  had 

'  Malone  •waa  of  opinion  that  "Venus  and  Adonis"  vras  not  ■vrrit- 
len  until  after  J-hakespeare  came  to  London,  because  in  one  stanza 
It  contains  an  allusion  to  the  stage, 

"And  all  this  durah  play  had  his  act*  made  plain 
With  tears,  which,  chorus-like,  her  eyes  did  drain." 
Surely,  such  a  passage  might  have  been  written  by  a  person  who  had 
■evtr  "  •  n  .i  |    .v  in  London,  or  even  wen  a  play  at  all.     The  stage- 
Kn'-.  ..  . »  is  merely  that  of  a  schoolboy. 

•    fnes  nearest  to  it,  in  some  respects,  is  Marlowe's 
'"  '  but  it  waii  not  printed  until  l59-).'and  although 

It*  •'  -in  l.V.fJ,  he  may  have  seen  Shakespeare's  •'  Ve- 

nus ar.ii  AJjnij  in  manuscript:  it  is  quite  as  probable,  as  that 
Shakespeare  had  seen  '-Hero  and  Leander "  before  it  was  printed. 
.Maiston's  "  Pypmalion's  Image."  published  five  years  after  '•  Venus 
Mid  Adonis."  lo  a  groa  exaggeration  of  iu  style ;  and  Barlcsteads 
"Myrrha  the  Mother  of  Adonis'' is  a  poor  and  coarse  imitation:  the 
fame  poets  "Hiren,  or  the  Kair  Greek,"  is  of  a  similar  character. 
Shirley's  "  Narcissus."  which  must  have  been  written  many  years 
afterwards,  is  a  production  of  the  same  class  as  Marston's  "  Pygma- 
lion,' but  in  better  tas'.e.  The  popm  called  ••  Salma-^is  and  Herraa- 
phroditus,"  fir»t  printed  in  1»}'C>.  and  assigned  to  Francis  Be.iumont 
ID  two.  when  It  wa*  republished  by  Blaicklock  the  bookseller,  we  do 
not  believe  u,  have  been  the  author,.hip  of  B»^aumont.  and  it  is  rather 
an  imil.iu.n  .t  ■  Hern  ,ind  I.eander"'  than  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis  " 
Atthedai-  Ahen  it  r.ricinally  came  out  (iOICJ)  Beaumont  was  only 
sixteen,  and  t!i.-  firjt  editicn  ha.«  no  name  nor  initials  to  the  address 
'To  Ca..n..f*.  •  to  which  Blaicklock  in  1l>4(l,  for  his  own  book-selling 
parses,  thought  fit  to  add  the  letters  K  B.  In  the  same  way,  and 
with  the  same  object,  he  changed  the  initials  to  a  commendatory 
pwm  from  A.  F  to  I.  F..  in  order  to  make  it  appear  as  if  John 
Fletcher  had  applauded  his  friend's  early  verses.  These  are  facts 
ttiat  hitherto  have  escaped  observation,  perhaps,  on  account  of  the 
fTtreme  rarity  of  copiej  of  the  original  impre.<.<iion  of  '•  .Salma.<iis  and 
•lermaphrodi-j*,'  prevet   ing  a  comparison  of  it  with   Blaicklock's 


exhibited  the  wantonness  of  lawless  passion  in  "  Venus  and 
Adonis,"  he  followed  it  by  the  exjdtation  of  matron  liki 
chastity  m  "  Lucrece  ;"  and  "there  is,  we  think,  nothing  in  the 
latter  poem  which  a  young  man  of  one  or  two  and  twenty, 
so  endowed,  might  not  liave  written.  Neither  is  it  at  all 
impossible  that  he  had  done  something  in  c<jnnexion  ■with 
the  stiige  while  he  was  yet  resident  iu  his  native  town,  and 
before  he  had  made  up  liis  mind  to  quit  it  K  his  "  inclina- 
tion for  poetry  and  acting,"  to  rejjeat  Aubrey's  word.'?,  were 
so  strong,  it  may  have  led  him  to  have  both  written  and 
acted.  He  may  have  contributed  temporary  prologues  or 
epilogues,  and  -without  supposing  him  yet  to  have  pos-sessed 
any  extraordinary  art  as  a  dramatist^-— only  to  be  acquired 
by  practice, — ^he  may  have  inserted  speeches  and  occasional 
passages  iu  older  phiys :  he  may  even  have  assisted  som* 
of  the  companies  in  getting  up,  and  performing  the  dramas 
they  repiesented  in  or  near  Stratford*.  We  own  that  this 
conjecture  appears  to  us  at  least  plausible,  and  the  Lord 
Chamberlain's  servants  (known  as  the  Earl  of  Leicester's 
players  until  1587)  may  have  experienced  his  utility  in 
both  departments,  and  may  have  held  out  strong  induce- 
ments to  so  promising  a  novice  to  continue  his  assistance  by 
accompaimng  them  to  London. 

What  we  have  here  said  seems  a  natm-al  and  easy  wa; 
of  accounting  for  Shakespeare's  station  as  a  sharer  at  th 
Blaekfriars  theatre  in  1589,  about  three  years  after  we  s'lp 
pose  him  to  have  finally  adopted  the  profession  of  an  actor 
and  to  have  come  to  London  fur  tlie  purpose  of  pm-suiug  it. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

Tlie  earliest  allusion  to  Shakespeare  in  Spenser's  "  Tears  of 
the  Muses,"  1591.  Proofs  of  its  applicability— What 
Shakespeare  had  probably  by  this  date  written— Edmund 
Spenser  of  Kingsbury,  Warwickshire.  No  otlier  dramatist 
of  the  time  merited  the  character  given  by  Spenser.  Greene. 
Kyd,  Lodge,  Peele,  Marlowe,  and  Lyly,  and  their  several 
claims:  that  of  Lyly  sui»ported  by  Malone.  Temporary 
cessation  of  dramatic  performances  in  Loudon.  Prevalence 
of  the  Plague  iu  1592.  Probability  or  improbability  tbit 
Shakespeare  went  to  Italy. 

We  come  no-w  to  the  earliest  known  allusion  to  Shakes]>eafe 
as  a  dramatist;  and  although  his  surname  is  not  given,  we 
apprehend  tluit  there  can  be  no  hesitation  in  applying  what 
is  said  to  him :  it  is  contained  in  Spenser's  "  Tears  ^f  the 
Muses,"  a  poem  printed  iu  1591^  The  appHcatiou  of  the 
passage  to  Shakespeare  has  been  much  contested,  but  the 

fraudulent  reprint,  which  also  contains  various  pieces  to  which,  it  is 
known,  Beauinont  had  no  pretensions.  To  afford  the  better  means  of 
comparison,  and  as  we  know  of  only  one  copy  of  the  edition  of  lUlkJ. 
we  subjoin  the  title-page  prefixed  to  it :  f^almasis  and  Hermaphrodite.. 
Srilmacida  spolia  sine  sanffuiue  et  sadorc.  Imprinted  at  London  foi 
John  Hodgets,  &c.  ir>(l2.''^4lo. 

'  It  is  almost  to  be  wondered  that  the  getters  up  of  this  piece  o' 
information  did  not  support  it  by  reference  to  Shakespeare's  obvioji 
knowledge  of  horses  and  horsemanship,  displayed  in  so  many  ^ufjt 
of  his  works.  The  description  of  the  horse  in  •'  Venus  and  Adonis  '• 
Will  at  once  occur  to  every  body  ;  and  how  much  it  wa-s  admired  ai 
the  time  is  evident  from  the  fact,  that  it  was  plagiarised  so  soon  after 
it  was  published.  (See  the  Introduction.)  For  his  judgment  of 
skill  in  riding,  among  other  p.i.vsages.  pee  his  account  of  Lamord'i 
horsemanship  in  ''Hamlet."  The  propagators  and  supporters  of 
the  horse-holding  anecdote  ought  to  have  added,  that  Shakespeai 
probably  derived  his  minute  and  accurate  acquaintance  with  -.a 
subject  from  his  early  observation  of  the  skill  of  the  English  nobiiitj 
and  gentry,  after  they  had  reraoun'tel  at  the  play-house  door  :— 
••  But  chiefly  skill  to  ride  sec  lis  a  science 
Proper  to  gentle  blood.'' — Spenser's  F.  Q.  b.  :i.  c.  -1. 
*  We  have  already  stated  that  although  in  l-MG  only  one  un- 
named company  performed  in  Stratford,  in  the  very  next  year 
(that  in  which  we  have  supposed  Shake.<peare  to  have  become  a  regu- 
lar actor)  five  companies  were  entertained  in  the  borough  •  one  of 
.  these  consisted  of  the  players  of  the  Earl  -l  Leicester.  t.>  wnom  ti»« 
I  Blaekfriars  theatre  belonged  ;  and  it  is  very  pos.vible  that  Shakespeare 
;  at  that  date  exhibited  before  his  fellow-townsmen  in  his  new  ptjw 
'  fessional  capacity.  Before  this  time  his  perform.nnces  at  Stratford 
may  have  been  merely  of  an  amateur  de>cnption.  It  is,  at  all  events, 
I  a  striking  circumstance,  that  in  1.58!)  only  one  company  perfcrracd, 
and  that  in  1.5^7  such  extraordinary  encouragement  was  given  tc 
theatricals  in  Stratford. 
.      *  Malone  (Shakspeare   by  Boswell,  vol.  ii.  p.  166)  says  that  Speu 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xh 


difiiculty  in  our  mind  is,  how  the  lines  are  to  be  exphiined 
by  reference  to  any  other  di'amatist  of  the  time,  even  sup- 
posmg,  as  we  have  supposed  and  believe,  that  our  great 
poet  Avas  at  tliis  period  only  rising  into  notice  as  a  writer  for 
the  stage.  We  wiU  first  quote  the  hues,  hteratini  as  tliey 
stand  in  the  edition  of  1591,  and  afterwards  say  something 
of  the  claims  of  others  to  the  distinction  they  confer. 

"  And  he  the  man,  whom  Nature  sehe  had  made 

To  mock  ber  selfe,  and  Truth  to  imitate, 
With  kindly  counter  under  Mimick  shade, 

Our  pleasant  Willy,  ah  !  is  dead  of  late  : 
With  whom  ail  joy  and  jolly  meriment 
Is  also  deadcd,  and  in  dolour  drent. 
"In  stead  thereof  scoffing  Scurrilitie, 

And  scornfull  FoJlie  with  contempt  is  crept, 
Kolliiig  in  rynic's  of  shameless  ribaudrie, 

Without  regard  or  due  Decorum  kept : 
Each  idle  wit  at  will  presumes  to  make, 
And  doth  the  Learned's  taske  upon  him  take. 
"But  that  same  gentle  Spirit,  from  whose  pen 

Large  streames  of  honnie  and  sweete  Nectar  flowe, 
Scorning  the  boldnes  of  such  base-borne  men. 

Which  dare  their  follies  forth  so  rashlie  throwe, 
Doth  rather  choose  to  sit  in  idle  Cell, 
Than  so  himselfe  to  mockerie  to  sell." 

The  most  striking  of  these  lines,  with  reference  to  our 
jH-esent  inquiry,  i3, 

"  Our  pleasant  Willy,  ah  !  is  dead  of  late ;" 
and  hence,  if  it  stood  alone,  we  might  infer  that  Willy,  who- 
erer  he  might  be,  was  actually  dead ;  but  the  latter  part 
of  the  thii-d  stanza  we  have  quoted  shows  us  in  what  sense 
the  word  "  dead  "  is  to  be  understood :  WUly  was  "  dead " 
as  far  as  regarded  the  admirable  dramatic  talents  he  had 
ah-eady  displayed,  wliieh  had  enabled  him,  even  before 
1691,  to  outstrip  all  living  rivalry,  and  to  afford  the  most 
certiiin  indieati-ons  of  the  stiU  greater  things  Spenser  saw  he 
would  accomplish :  he  was  "  dead,"  because  he 

"  Doth  rather  choose  to  sit  in  idle  Cell, 
Than  so  himselfe  to  mockerie  to  sell." 

It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  these  stanzas,  and  six 
others,  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  Thalia,  whose  lamenta- 
tion on  the  degeneracy  of  the  stage,  especially  in  comedy, 
follows  those  of  Calliope  and  Melpomene.  Rowe,  under 
the  impression  that  the  whole  passage  referred  to  Shake- 
speare, introduced  it  into  his  "  Life,"  in  his  first  edition  of 
1709,  but  silently  withdrew  it  in  his  second  edition  of  1714 : 
his  reason,  perhaps,  was  that  he  did  not  see  how,  before 
1591,  Shakespeare  could  have  shown  that  he  merited  the 
character  given  of  him  and  his  productions — 

"  And  he  the  man,  whom  Nature  selfe  had  made 
To  mock  her  selfe,  and  Truth  to  imitate." 

Spenser  knew  what  the  object  of  his  eulogy  was  capable 
of  doing,  as  well,  perhaps,  as  what  he  had  done  ;  tmd  we 
have  estabhshed  that  more  tlian  a  year  before  tlie  publica- 
tion of  these  fines,  Shakespeare  had'  risen  to  be  a  distin- 
guished member  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  company,  and 
a  sharer  in  the  undertaking  at  the  Blackfi-iars.     Although 


Kr's  "  Tears  of  the  Muses  "  was  published  in  1590,  but  the  volume 
in  which  it  first  appeared  bears  date  in  1591.  It  was  printed  with 
some  other  pieces  under  the  title  of  "  Complaints.  Containing  sun- 
drie  small  Poems  of  the  Worlds  Vanitie.  Whereof  the  ne.\t  Page 
maketh  mention.  By  Ed.  Sp.  London.  Imprinted  for  William 
Ponsonbie,  &c.  1591."  It  will  be  evident  from  what  follows  in  our 
text,  that  a  year  is  of  considerable  importance  to  the  question. 

I  Perhaps  it  was  printed  off  before  his  •' Bartholemew  Fair"  was 
acted  in  1G14  ;  or  perhaps,  the  comedy  being  a  new  one,  Ben  Jonson 
did  not  think  he  had  a  right  to  publish  it  to  the  de'riment  of  the 
company  (the  sei-vants  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth)  by  whom  it  had 
been  purchased,  and  produced. 

»  Such  as  "  the  Widow,"  written  soon  after  1f)13.  in  which  he  was 
assisted  by  Fetcher  and  Middleton  ;  -'The  Case  is  Altered,"  printed 
in  1609,  in  which  his  coadjutors  are  not  known;  and  '•  Eastward 
Ho!"  published  in  IG07,  in  which  he  was  joined  by  Chapman  and 
Marston  :  fhis  last  play  exposed  the  authors  to  great  danger  of  pun- 
ishment. 

'  We  are  not  tc  he  understood  as  according  in  the  ascription  to 
Stair  Mpeare  of  various  plays  imputed  to  him  in  the  folio  of  10tj4,  and 


we  feel  assured  that  he  had  not  composed  any  of  hia  great. 
est  works  before  1591,  he  may  have  done  niuch,  besiden 
what  has  come  down  to  us,  amply  to  warrant  Spenser  iu 
applauding  him  beyond  aU  his  theati-ieal  contemporaries. 
His  earhest  printed  plays,  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  "  Richard 
11.,"  and  "Richard  III.,"  bear  date  m  1597  ;  but  it  is  indis- 
putable that  he  had  at  that  time  written  considerably  more, 
and  part  of  what  he  had  so  written  is  contained  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  never  having  made  its  appearance  in  any  earlier 
form.  When  Ben  Jonson  pubhshed  the  large  vJhinie  of 
his  "Works"  in  1616',  he  excluded  several  comedies  ii. 
which  he  had  been  aided  by  other  poets^,  and  re-wrote  pai"! 
of  "  Sejanus,"  because,  as  is  supposed,  Shakespeare,  (wh. 
performed  in  it,  and  whom  Jonson  terms  a  "  happy  genius  . 
had  assisted  him  in  the  composition  of  tie  tragedy  96  it 
was  originally  acted.  The  player-editors  of  the  foaO  of 
Shakespeare's  "  Comedies,  Tragedies,  and  Histones,"  ii 
1623,  may  have  thought  it  right  to  pursue  the  same  course 
excepting  in  the  case  of  the  three  parts  of  "  Heniw  VL : 
the  poet,  or  poets,  who  had  contributed  to  these  histori<# 
(perhaps  Marlowe  and  Greene)  had  been  then  dead  thirtj 
years  ;  but  with  respect  to  other  pieces,  persons  still  living 
whether  authors  or  booksellers,  might  have  joint  clainTi 
upon  them,  and  hence  their  exclusion'.  We  oul^  put  this 
as  a  possible  circmnstance  ;  but  we  are  persuacfed  that 
Shakespeare,  early  in  his  theatrical  fife,  must  have  written 
much,  in  the  way  of  revivals,  alterations,  or  joint  produe- 
tions  with  other  poets,  which  has  been  forever  lost  We 
here,  as  before,  conclude  that  none  of  his  greatest  original 
dramatic  productions  had  come  from  his  pen  ;  but  if  iu  159) 
he  had  only  brought  out  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona" 
and  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,"  they  are  so  infinitely  superior 
to  the  best  works  of  his  predecessors,  that  the  justice  of  tl^ 
tribute  paid  by  Spenser  to  his  genius  would  at  once  be  ad 
mitted.  At  all  events,  if  before  1591  he  had  not  accom 
pfished,  by  any  means,  all  that  he  was  capable  of.  he  had 
given  the  cleai-est  indications  of  high  genius,  abundantly 
sufficient  to  justify  the  anticipation  of  Spenser,  that  he  w:is 


"  whom  Nature's  selfe  had  made 

To  mock  her  selfe,  and  Truth  to  imitate  :" 

a  passage  which  m  itself  adnfirably  comprises,  and  com- 
presses nearly  aU  the  excellences  of  which  dramatic  poedy 
is  susceptible — the  mockery  of  nature,  and  the  imitation  of 
truth. 

Another  point  not  hitherto  noticed,  because  not  hitherto 
known,  is,  that  there  is  some  fittle  ground  for  thinking,  that 
Spenser,  if  not  a  Wai-wickshire  man,  was  at  one  tune  resi- 
dent in  Warwickshire,  and  later  in  life  he  may  have  become 
acquainted  with  Shakespeare.  His  birth  had  been  conjee- 
turaUy  placed  in  1553*,  and  on  the  authority  of  some  lines 
in  his  "  Prothalamion  "  it  has  been  supposed  that  he  was 
born  in  London :  East  Smithfieid,  near  the  Tower,  has  also 
been  fixed  upon  as  the  part  of  the  town  wliere  he  first 
drew  breath ;  but  the  parish  registers  in  that  neighbour- 
hood have  been  searched  iu  vain  for  a  record  of  the  event*. 
An  Edmund  Spenser  unquestionably  dwelt  at  Kingsbury, 
in  Warwickshire,  in  1569,  which  was  the  year  when  Xht< 
author  of  "  The  Faerie  Queene  "  went  to  Cambriilge,  and 


elsewhere.  We  believe  that  he  was  concerned  in  '•  The  Vorlofcia 
Tragedy,"  and  that  he  may  have  contributed  some  parts  of  "  Aide 
of  Feversham;"  but  in  spite  of  the  ingenious  letter,  published  at 
Edinburgh  in  IS.'JJ,  we  do  not  think  that  he  aided  Fletcher  in  writ- 
ing "  The  Two  Xobie  Kinsmen."  and  there  is  not  a  single  passage 
in  "The  Birth  of  Merlin"  which  is  worthy  of  his  most  careless  mo- 
ments. Of  "  The  first  part  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  '"  we  hare  else- 
where spoken  ;  and  several  other  supposititious  dramas  in  the  folio 
of  1GG4.  which  certainly  would  have  done  little  credit  to  Shake- 
speare, have  also  been  ascertained  to  be  the  ■»  srk  of  other  dramatist* 

*  This  date  has  always  appeared  to  us  -.x  late,  recollecting  thai 
Spenser  wrote  some  blank-verse  sonnets,  prefixed  to  Vandemoodt't 
"Theatre  for  Worldlings,"  printed  in  15(>9.  h  he  were  born  in 
15.53,  in  1.569  he  was  only  in  his  sixteenth  year,  and  the  sonnets  f 
which  we  refer  do  not  read  like  the  productions  of  a  very  young  mac. 

s  Chalmers  was  a  very  diUigent  inquirer  into  .luch  mjiitere.  and  he 
could  discover  no  entry  of  the  kind.  See  his  "  Supplemental  Apcl- 
o"y,"  p.  2"2.  Subsequent  investigations,  instituted  with  reference 
to  this  question,  have  led  to  the  same  result.  Oldys  if  respocsibis 
for  the  statement. 


xlii 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


was  admitted  a  sizer  at  Pembroke  College.  The  fact  that 
Edmund  Spenser  (a  rather  unusual  combination  of  names') 
was  an  inhabitant  of  Kinirsbury  in  1569  is  established  by 
the  muster-b<.>ok  of  Warwioksliire,  preserved  in  the  state- 
paper  office,  to  which  we  have  before  had  occasion  to  refer, 
but  it  does  not  give  the  a^'es  of  the  parties.  This  Edmund 
Spenser  mav  possibly  have  been  the  father  of  the  poet, 
vwhose  Christian  nimie  is  no  where  recoided)  and  if  it  were 
tlie  one  or  the  other,  it  seems  to  afford  a  link  of  connexion, 
however  slicht,  between  Spenser  and  Shakespeaie,  of  which 
we  have  had  no  previous  knowledge.  Spenser  was  at  least 
eleven  veai-s  older  than  Shakespciue,  but  laoir  early  resi- 
dence in  tlie  same  part  of  the  kingdom  may  have  given 
rise  to  an  intimacy  afterwards" :  Spenser  must  have  appre- 
oiuted  and  admired  the  genius  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  au- 
thor of  " 'Hie  Teai-s  of  the  Muses,"  at  the  age  of  thiity- 
eeven.  may  have  paid  a  merited  tribute  to  his  young  flieud 
i.f  twenty -six. 

The  Edmund  Spenser  of  Kingsbury  may  have  been  en- 
tirely a  ditlereut  pei-s^in,  of  a  distinct  family,  and  perhaps 
we  aie  disjjosed  to  lay  too  much  stress  upon  a  mere  coinci- 
dence of  names ;  but"  we  may  be  forgiven  for  clinging  to 
the  conjecture  that  he  may  have  been  the  author  of  "  The 
Faerie  Queeue,"  and  that  the  greatest  romantic  poet  of  this 
countrj-  was  upK>n  terms  of  friendship  and  cordiahty  with 
the  greatest  di-amatist  of  the  world.  This  circumstance, 
with  which  we  were  unacquainted  when  we  wrote  the  In- 
troduction to  '•  A  ilidsummer-Nights  Dream,"  may  appear 
to  give  new  point  and  a  more  certain  application,  to  the 
well-remembered  lines  of  that  drama  (Act  v.  se.  L)  in  which 
Shakespeare  lias  been  supposed  to  refer  to  the  death  of 
Spenser',  and  which  may  have  been  a  subsequent  insertion, 
for  the  sake  of  repaying  by  one  poet  a  debt  of  gratitude  to 
the  other. 

Without  taking  int<^  consideration  what  may  have  been 
lost,  if  we  are  asked  what  we  think  it  likely  that  Shake- 
speare had  written  in  and  before  1591,  we  should  answer, 
that  he  had  altered  and  added  to  three  parts  of  "  Henry 
VI,"  that  he  had  wi-itten,  or  aided  in  wiiting,  "  Titus  An- 
dr^.nicus,"  that  he  had  revived  and  amended  "  The  Comedy 
of  Errors,"  and  that  he  had  conifx-sed  "  The  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,"  and  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost."  Thus,  look- 
ing only  at  his  extant  works,  we  see  that  the  eulogy  of 
Spenser  was  well  warranted  by  the  plays  Shakespeare,  at 
that  early  date,  had  prtxluced. 

If  tl^e  endence  upon  this  point  were  even  more  scanty, 
we  should  be  ojuviuced  that  by  "  our  pleasant  Willy,"  Spen- 
ser meant  William  Shakespeare,  by  the  fact  that  such  a 
character  as  he  gives  could  belong  to  no  other  dramatist  of 
the  time.  Greene  can  have  no  pretensions  to  it,  nor  Lodge, 
nor  Kyd,  nor  Peele;  Marlowe  had  never  touched  comedy: 
but  if  these  have  no  title  to  the  praise  that  they  had  mocked 
nature  and  imitated  truth,  the  claim  put  in  by  Malone  for 
Lyly  ifl  Uttle  s'lort  of  absurd.  Lyly  was,  beyond  dispute, 
the  most  artiii.-ial  and  affected  writer  of  his  day :  his 
dramas  have  notliing  like  nature  or  truth  in  them ;  and  if  it 
cuuld  be  established  tliat  Spenser  and  Lyly  were  on  the 
mo6t  intimate  fooling,  even  the  exaggerate  admiration  of 
the  fondest  friendship  could  hardly  have  carried  Spenser  to 

•  AnJ  b»  aping  to  no  other  family  at  that  time,  aj  far  as  our  re- 
•earche*  l.are  ext.-nJ.J  I:  },.v-  t^^n  too  hastily  concluded  that  the 
i>pAD»cr  wti'jin    li.-  ■  '.  ffjin   Ru.<«ia,  in  some  epistles 

printed  at  th<;  en  !  T  .les,"  l.O-r?,  was  not  the  poet. 

Talcing  ^V<>oJ'^    r.  :    the»e    letters  were  written    as 

m'.j  a*   l.'ViH.  il  i-  .  .  •  that  the  author  of  "The  Faerie 

Qneene"  waj  the  p'-r-.  n  v,  m  i  in  they  were  sent:  he  was  a  very 
younp  man,  it  il  true,  but  perhapi  not  quite  lo  young  ai  ha<  been 
imagined. 

'  Nobody  has  been  ab'.e  eren  to  speculate  where  Spenser  was  at 
school  ; — possibly  at  Kingsbury.  Drayton  was  also  a  Warwickshire 
man. 

'  Differences  of  opinion,  founded  upon  discordances  of  contempo- 
ranecns  or  nearly  contem))oraneous,  representations,  have  prevailed 
respecting  the  extreme  poverty  of  Spenser  at  the  time  of  <  is  death. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  a  pension  of  5<J/.  a  year  (at  .east  -SMI 
of  our  present  money)  from  the  royal  bounty,  which  probably  he 
rectived  to  the  last.  At  the  same  time  we  think  there  is  much  plau- 
siL.iitT  in  the  story  that  Lord  Burghley  stood  in  the  way  of  some 
special  pecuniary  gift  from  Elizabeth.  The  Rev.  H.  J.  Todd  disbe- 
lievM  it,  snd  in  his  '•  Life  ot  Spenser  "  calls  it  "  a  calumny,*"  on  the 
foundation   of  the   pension,  without  considering,  perhaps,   that  the 


the  extreme  to  which  he  has  gone  in  his  "  Tears  of  tb< 
Muses.'  If  Malone  had  wished  U^  point  out  a  dramatist  of 
that  day  to  whom  the  words  of  Spenser  could  by  no  possi- 
bility fitly  apply,  he  could  not  have  made  a  better  choice 
than  when  he  fixed  upon  Lyly.  However,  he  labours  the 
contrary  position  with  great  pertinacity  and  considerable 
ingenuity,  and  it  is  extraordinaiy  how  a  man  f>f  much  read- 
ing, and  of  sound  judgment  upon  many  points  of  iiteraiy 
discussion,  could  unpose  upon  himself  and  bo  led  so  fai 
from  the  truth,  by  the  desire  to  establish  a  novelty.  At  all 
events,  he  might  have  contented  himself  -with  an  endeavour 
to  prove  tlie  negative  as  regards  Shakespeare,  without  going 
the  strange  length  oi  attempting  to  make  out  the  affirma- 
tive as  regards  Lyly. 

We  do  not  for  an  instant  admit  the  right  of  any  of  ?hakfc- 
speare's  predecessors  or  contemporaries  to  the  tribute  of 
Spenser  ;  but  Malone  might  have  made  out  a  case  for  any 
of  them  with  more  plausibility  than  for  Lyly.  Greene  was 
a  writer  of  fertile  fancy,  but  choked  and  smothered  by  the 
overlaying  of  scholastic  learning  :  Kyd  '.vas  a  man  of  strong 
natural  parts,  and  a  composer  of  vigorous  iiiies :  Lodge  was  a 
poet  of  genius,  though  not  in  the  depailment  of  the  drama : 
Peele  had  an  elegant  mind,  and  was  a  smotith  and  agreea- 
ble versifier ;  while  Marlowe  was  gifted  with  a  soaring  and 
a  daring  spii  it,  though  unchecked  by  a  well-regulated  taste : 
but  all  had  more  nature  in  their  dramas  than  Lyly,  who 
generally  chose  classical  or  mythological  subjects,  and  dealt 
with  those  subjects  with  a  wearisome  monotony  of  style, 
with  thoughts  quaint,  conceited,  and  violent,  and  with  an 
utter  absence  of  force  and  distinctness  in  his  characteriza 
tion. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  farther  into  this  part  of  the 
question,  because,  we  think,  it  is  now  established  that  Spen- 
ser's lines  might  apply  t<j  Shakespeare  as  regards  the  date 
of  their  publication,  and  indispuUibly  applied  with  most 
feUcitous  exactness  to  the  works  he  has  left  behind  him. 

With  regard  to  the  lines  which  state,  that  Willy 

"  Doth  rather  choose  to  sit  in  idle  Cell, 
Thau  so  himselfe  to  mockerie  to  sell," 

we  have  already  shown  that  in  1589  there  must  have  been 
some  compulsory  cessation  of  theatrical  performances, 
which  affected  not  only  offending,  but  unoffending  compa- 
nies :  hence  the  certificate,  or  more  properly  remonstrance, 
of  the  sixteen  sharers  in  the  BlaeklViars  Tlie  choir-boys 
of  St  Pauls  were  silenced  for  biuigiug  " niattei-s  of  state 
and  rehgion  "  on  their  stage,  when  they  introduced  ilartin 
Mar-prehite  into  one  of  their  dramas :  and  the  phiyers  of 
the  Lord  Admii'al  and  Lord  Strange  were  prohibited  from 
acting,  as  far  as  we  can  learn,  on  a  simUar  ground.  The  in- 
terdiction of  perfornumces  by  the  children  of  Paul's  was 
pel-severed  in  for  alxmt  ten  years ;  and  although  the  public 
companies  (after  the  completion  of  some  inquiries  by  com 
missionei-s  specially  appointed)  were  allowed  agjiin  to  fol- 
low their  vocation,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  there  was  a 
temporary  suspension  of  all  theatrical  exhibitions  in  Lon- 
don. This  suspension  commenced  a  short  time  before 
Spenser  wrote  his  "  Teai-s  of  the  Muses,"  in  which  be 
notices  the  silence  of  Shakespeare. 

epigram,  attributed  to  Spenser,  may  have  been  occasioned  by  the 
obstruction  ?y  the  Lord  Treasurer  of  some  additional  proof  of  the 
Queens  admiration  for  the  author  of  ""  The  Kaerie  Ciueene.''  Fuller 
first  published  the  anecdote  in  his  '•  Worthies."  U!:)-J ;  but  sixty  yean 
earlier,  and  within  a  very  short  time  after  the  death  of  Spenser,  tht 
story  was  current,  for  we  find  the  lines  in  .Manninghara's  Diary 
(Harl.  MS.  5153)  under  the  date  of  May  4,  \iiO-2:  they  are  thus  intro- 
duced : 

'•  When  her  Majesty  had  given  order  that  Spenser  should  have  » 
reward  for  his  poems,  but  Spenser  could  have  nothing,  he  preseutej 
her  with  these  verses  : 

"  It  pleased  yonr  Grace  upon  a  time 

To  grant  me  reason  for  my  rhyme  ; 

But  frcm  that  time  until  this  sea-«on. 

1  heard  of  neither  rhyme  nor  reason.'' 
The  wording  differs  slightly  from   Fuller's  copy.     We  add  the   fnl 
lowing  epigram  upon  the  death  of  Spenser,  also  on  the  authority  ol 
Manningham  : — 

"  In  Spenserum. 
"  Famous  alive,  and  dead,  here  is  the  odds; 

Then  god  of  poets,  now  poet  ol  the  gods." 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


x.ih 


"We  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  how  long  the  order, 
inidbiting  theatrical  performances  generally,  was  persevered 
in  ;  but  the  plague  broke  out  m  London  in  1592,  and  in  the 
autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  number  of  deaths  was  great- 
est, "the  Queens  players',"'  in  their  progress  round  the 
country,  whither  they  wandered  when  thus  prevented  fi-om 
acting  in  the  metropolis,  performed  at  Chesterton,  near 
Cambridge,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  t*"-^  heads  of  the  uni- 
versity. 

It  was  at  this  juncture,  probably,  if  indeed  he  ever  were 
in  that  country,  that  Shakespeare  visited  Italy.  Mr.  C. 
A.rmitage  Brown,  m  his  very  clever,  and  in  many  respects 
original  work,  "  Shakespeare's  Autobiographical  Poems," 
has  maintained  tlie  affirmative  with  great  conddence,  and  has 
brought  into  one  view  all  the  internal  evidence  afforded  by 
the  productions  of  our  great  dramatist  External  evidence 
there  is  none,  since  not  even  a  tradition  of  such  a  journey 
has  descended  to  us.  We  own  that  the  internal  evidence, 
in  our  estimation,  is  by  no  means  as  strong  as  it  appeared 
to  Mr.  Brown,  who  has  evinced  great  ingenuity  and  ability 
in  the  conduct  of  his  case,  and  has  made  as  much  as  possi- 
ble of  his  proofs.  He  dwells,  among  other  things,  upon  the  !  although  not  "in  consequence  of  it,  died  one  of  th' 
fact,  that  there  were  no  contemporaneous  translations  of  the    torious  and  distmguished  of  the  literaiy  men  of  tl 


gone  there  without  having  left  behind  him  any  diatind 
record  of  the  fact  At  the  date  to  which  we  are  now  ad- 
verting he  might  certainly  have  had  a  convenient  opportu 
mty  for  doing  so,  in  consequence  of  the  temporary  prohibi- 
tion of  dramatic  performances  in  Londoa 


CHAPTER  VHL 

Death  of  Kobert  Greene  in  1592,  and  publication  of  b 
"  Groatsworth  of  Wit,"  by  H.  Cbettle.  Greene's  addresi 
to  Marlowe,  Lodge,  and  Peele,  and  his  envious  mention  c< 
bhakespeare.  Shakespeare's  offence  at  Cliettle,  and  thi 
apology  of  the  latter  in  his  "  Kiud-heart's  Dremn."  Th* 
character  of  Shakespeare  there  given.  Second  allusion  by 
Spenser  to  Shakespeare  in  "  Colin  Clout's  come  home 
again,"  1594.  The  '-gentle  Shakespeare."  Change  in  the 
character  of  his  composition  between  1591  and  1594  •  hia 
"  Eichard  II."  and  "  Kichard  111." 


tales  on  which  "  The  ilercliant  of  Venice  "  and  "  Othello  " 
are  founded ;  but  Shakespeare  may  have  understood  as 
much  Italian  as  answered  his  purpose  without  having  gone 
to  Venice.  For  the  same  reason  we  lay  no  stress  upon  the 
recently -discovered  fact  (not  known  when  Mr.  Brown 
wrote)  that  Shakespeare  constructed  his  "  Twelfth  Kight " 
with  the  aid  of  one  or  two  Italian  comedies ;  they  may 
have  found  their  way  into  England,  and  he  may  have  read 
them  in  the  original  language.  That  Shakespeare  was  ca- 
pable of  translatmg  Itilian  sufficiently  for  his  own  pur 
poses,  we  are  morally  certain ;  but  we  think  that  if  he  had 
travelled  to  Venice,  Verona,  or  Florence,  we  should  have 
had  more  distinct  and  positive  testimony  of  the  fact  in  hi 
works  than  can  be  adduced  from  them. 

Uther  authors  of  the  time  have  left  such  evidence  behind 
them  as  cannot  be  disputed.  Lylv  tells  us  so  distinctly  in 
more  than  one  of  his  pieces,  and  kich  informs  us  that  he 
became  acquainted  with  the  novels  he  translated  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Alps :  Daniel  goes  the  length  of  letting 
us  know  where  certain  of  his  sonnets  were  composed 
Lodge  wrote  some  of  his  tracts  abroad  :  Nash  gives  us  the 
places  where  he  met  particular  persons;  and  his  friend 
Greene  admits  his  obhgations  to  Italy  and  Spain,  whither 
he  had  travelled  early  in  life  in  pursuit  of  letters.  In  truth, 
at  that  period  and  afterwards,  there  seems  to  have  been  a 
prevailing  rage  for  foreign  ti-avel,  and  it  extended  itself  to 
mere  actors,  as  well  as  to  poets  ;  for  we  know  that  WUham 
Kempe  was  in  Rome  in  1601',  during  the  interval  between 
the  time  when,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  he  quitted  the 
company  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  players,  and  joined 
that  of  the  Lord  AdmiraP.  Although  we  do  not  beheve 
that  Shakespeare  ever  was  in  Itdy,  we  admit  that  we  are 
without  evidence  to  Drove  a  negative ;  and  he  may  have 


'  They  consisted  of  the  company  under  the  leadership  of  Lawrence 
Uuttcn,  one  of  the  two  associations  acting  at  this  period  under  the 
(Queen's  name.  Both  were  unconnected  with  the  Lord  Chamber- 
.»in"s  servants. 

2  See  .Mr.  Halliweirs  "  Ludus  CoTentriae"  (printed  for  the  .Shake- 
iT«are  Society),  p  411).  Rowley,  in  his  "  Search  for  Money,"  speaks 
M  this  expedition  by  Kerr.pe,  who,  it  seems,  had  wagered  a  certain 
»om  of  money  that  he  vrouid  go  to  Rome  and  back  in  a  given  num- 
ber of  days.  In  the  iT.troduction  to  the  reprint  of  that  rare  tract  by 
the  Percy  Society,  i'  is  shown  that  Kempe  also  danced  a  morris  in 
France.  These  ciriumstances  were  unknown  to  the  Rev.  A.  Dyce, 
when  he  super.itended  a  republication  of  Kempe"s  "Nine  Days' 
Wonder,"  IGUO  for  the  Camden  Society. 

i  It  is  a  new  fact  that  Kempe  at  anytime  quitted  the  company 
playing  at  the  Blackfriars  and  Globe  theatres  :  it  is  however  indis- 
putable, and  we  have  it  on  the  authority  of  Heaslowe's  Diary,  where 
payments  are  recorded  to  Kempe.  and  where  entries  are  also  made  for 
the  expenses  of  dresses  supplied  to  him  in  160-2.  These  memoranda 
Malone  overlooked,  when  the  -MS.,  belonging  to  Dulwich  College, 
was  in  his  hinds  ;  but  they  may  be  very  important  with  reference 
to  the  dates  ot  some  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  the  particular  actore 
jngaged  in  Ihem :  they  also  account  for  the  non-appearance  ot 
Kempe's  name  in  the  royal  license  granted  in  -May,  1G0:J,  to  the  com- 
pany to  whi-,h  he  had  belonged.  Mr.  Dyce  attributes  the  omission 
»f  Ksmpe-s  name  in  that  instrument  to  his  death,  because,  in  the 


During  the  prevalence  of  the  infectious  malady  of  1692, 
ai-y  men  ot  tlie  time- 


Robert  Greene.  He  expired  on  the  3d  of  September,  159-2, 
and  left  behind  him  a  work  purporting  to  have  been  writ- 
ten duiing  his  last  iEuess  :  it  was  published  a  few  montha 
afterwards  by  Henrj^  Chettle,  a  feUuw  dramatist  under  the 
title  of  "  A  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  bought  with  a  Million  of 
Repentance,"  bearing  the  date  of  1592,  and  preceded  by  an 
address  from  Greene  "  To  those  Gentlemen,  his  quondjim 
acquaintance,  who  spend  their  wits  in  making  Phiys."  Here 
we  meet  with  the  second  notice  of  Shakespeare,  not  indeed 
by  name,  but  vdth  such  a  near  approach  to  it  that  nobody 
can  entertain  a  moment's  doubt  that  he  was  intended,  li 
is  necessary  to  quote  the  whole  p:issage,  and  to  observe, 
before  we  do  so,  that  Greene  is  addressing  himself  particu- 
larly to  Marlowe,  Lodge,  and  Peele,  and  urging  them  to 
break  off  all  connexion  with  players'* : — "  Base  minded  men 
all  three  of  you,  if  by  my  misery  ye  be  not  warned ;  for 
unto  none  of  you,  like  me,  sought  those  burs  to  cleave , 
those  puppets,  I  mean,  that  speak  fiom  our  mouths,  those 
antieks  garnished  in  om-  colours.  Is  it  not  strange  that  I, 
to  whom  they  all  have  been  beholding ;  is  it  not  like  that 
you,  to  whom  they  have  all  been  beholding,  shall  (were  ye 
in  that  case  that  I  am  now)  be  both  of  them  at  once  for- 
saken ?  Yes,  trust  them  not ;  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow 
beautified  with  our  feathei-s,  that  with  his  Tigers  heart 
v'.rapp'd  in  a  players  hide,  supposes  he  is  as  well  able 
to  bombast  our  blank-verse,  as  the  best  of  you :  and,  being 
an  absolute  Johannes  Factotum,  is,  in  his  own  conceit 
the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country.  0 !  that  I  might  en- 
treat your  rare  wits  to  be  employed  in  m<.n-e  profitable 
courses,  and  let  these  apes  imitate  your  p;ist  excellence, 
and  never  more  acquaint  them  with  yom-  admired  inven- 
tions." 

The  chief  and  obvious  purpose  of  this  address  is  to  iu- 

register  of  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark,  Chalmers  found  an  eaXrj,  dated 
Nov.  2,  1603,  of  the  burial  of  '-William  Kempe,  .i  nun.'  Ther» 
were  doubtless  many  men  of  the  common  names  of  William  Kemp«  ; 
and  the 'William  Kempe.  who  had  acted  Dogberry.  Peter,  ic.  w»« 
certainly  alive  in  160.5,  and  had  by  that  date  rejoined  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain's servantes,  then  called  -  the  King's  players."  Th«-  follow- 
ing unnoticed  memoranda  relating  to  him  are  extracted  from  Haaa 
lowe's  Diary  : 

"  Lent  unto  W"  Kempe.  the  10  of  Marche.  160-J,  in  redr  mony, 
twentye  shiUinges  for  his  necesary  uses,  the  some  of  xx». 

"  Lent  unto  W"  Kempe,  the  -^i  of  Auguste,  100-2,  to  buye  buck- 
ram to  make  a  payer  of  gyentei  hosse.  the  some  of  t*. 

■'Pd  unto  the  tyerman  for  inackynge  of  W"  Kerap«"»  uvt,  a»d 
the  bovew,  liie  4  Septembr  IW)--',  some  of  riij*.  -r^." 

«  We  have'  some  doubu  of  the  authenticity  of  the  "Groatoworth 
of  Wit,"  as  a  work  by  Ureene.  Chettle  was  a  needy  dramiUift,  xnd 
possibly  wrote  it  in  order  to  avail  himself  of  the  high  popularity  of 
Greene,  then  just  dead.  Falling  into  some  discredit,  in  conjeqnene* 
of  the  publication  of  it.  Chettle  re-a&.-erted  that  it  was  by  Ofmd*, 
but  he  admitted  that  the  manuscript  from  which  it  was  nnnted  wai 
in  his  own  hand- writing  :  this  circumstance  he  explained  by  statiaf 
that  Greene's  copy  was  so  illegible  that  he  was  obliged  to  tranicnh* 
it  :  -'it  was  ill-written,"  says  Chettle,  "as  Greene's  hand  was  aoot 
of  the  best ;"  and  therefore  he  re-wrote  it. 


xliv 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 


duce  Marlowe,  Lodge,  and  Pecle  to  cease  to  -write  for  the 
stage  ;  and,  in  the  course  of  his  exhortation,  Greene  bitterly 
inveighs  acaiust  "  un  upstait  crow,"  who  had  availed  him- 
•elf  of  the  dramatic  laboui-s  of  others,  who  iniagined  him- 
Belf  able  to  write  aa  good  blimk-verse  as  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries, who  W!is  a  Jofiauues  Fac-totum,  aud  who,  in 
his  own  opinion,  wiis  "  the  only  Sh.\ke-sce.ss  in  a  country." 
All  this  is  clearly  levelled  at  Shakespeare,  imder  the  pur- 
posely-perverted Djuue  of  SUake-scette,  and  the  words, 
"  Tiger's  heart  wnijip'd  in  a  player's  hide,"  are  a  parody 
upon  a  line  in  a  historical  play,  (most  likely  by  Greene) 
"  O,  tiger's  heart  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide,"  from  which 
Shakespeare  had  takeu  his  "  Heniy  "VI."  part  iii.' 

From  heuce  it  is  evident  that  Shakespeare,  near  the  end 
oi  159'2,  had  establi^hed  such  a  reputation,  and  was  so  im- 
pjrtaut  a  rival  of  the  dramatists,  who,  until  he  came  for- 
ward, had  kt'pt  uudisputed  possession  of  the  stage,  as  to  ex- 
cite the  euvy  aud  enmity  of  Greene,  even  during  his  last  and 
fatal  illuess.  It  also,  we  think,  establishes  another  point  not 
hitherto  adverted  to,  viz.  that  our  great  poet  possessed  such 
variety  of  talent,  that,  for  the  purposes  of  the  company  of 
which  he  was  a  member,  he  could  do  anything  that  he 
might  be  called  upon  to  perforin  :  he  wsis  the  Johannes  Fac- 
totum of  the  association :  he  was  an  actor,  and  be  was  a 
writer  of  original  plays,  an  adapter  and  improver  of  those 
already  in  existence,  (some  of  them  by  Greene,  Marlowe, 
Lodge,  or  Peele)  and  no  doubt  he  contributed  prologues  or 
epilogues,  and  inserted  scenes,  speeclies  or  passages  on  any 
temporary  emergency.  Ha^'ing  his  ready  assistance,  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  required  few  other  contribu- 
tions from  rival  dramatists^ :  Shakespeare  was  the  Johau- 
ne«  Fac-totum  who  could  turn  his  h;uid  to  auy  thing  con- 
nected with  his  piofession,  and  who,  in  all  probability,  had 
thrown  men  like  Greene,  Lodge,  and  Peele,  and  even  Mar- 
lowe himself,  into  the  shade.  In  our  view," therefore,  the  j 
quotation  we  have  made  from  the  "  Groatsworth  of  Wit " 
proves  more  than  has  been  usually  collected  from  it 

It  was  natural  and  proper  that  Shakespeare  should  take 
oflfence  at  this  gross  and  public  attack :  that  he  did  there  is 
no  doubt,  for  we  are  told  so  by  Chettle  himself,  the  avowed  ' 
editor  of  the  "  Groatsworth  of  Wit :"  he  does  not  indeed  i 
mention  Shakespeare,  but  he  designates  him  so  intelligibly  | 
that  there  is  no  room  for  dispute.  Marlowe,  also,  and  not  i 
without  reason,  complained  of  the  manner  in  which  Greene  ! 
had  spoken  of  him  in  the  same  work,  but  to  him  Chettle  i 

1  See  this  point  more  fully  iUustrated  in  the  Introduction  to 
"  Henry  Vi."'  part  iii. 

'  At  this  date  Feele  had  relinquished  his  connection  with  the  com-  • 
Mny  occupying  the  Blackfriars  theatre,  to  which  as  will  be  remem-  I 
bered.  he  wa«  attached  in  15-9.  How  far  the  rising  cenius  of  Shake-  , 
ipeare.  and  his  increased  utility  and  importance,  had  contributed  to 
Ac  withdrawal  of  Peele.  and  to  his  junction  with  the  rival  associa- 
u*n  acting  under  the  name  of  the  Lord  Admiral,  it  is  impossible  to  I 
determine.     We  have  previously  adverted  to  this  point. 

'  There  were  not  seoarate  impressions  of  "Kind-heart's  Dream" 
in  1592.  but  the  only  three  copies  known  vary  in  some  minute  pai- 
ticnian  :  thus,  with  reference  to  these  words,'  one  impression  at  Ox- 
lord  reads,  "  his /atiou*  grace  in  writing,"  and  the  other,  correctly,  as 
we  have  given  it.  ■•  Kind-heart's  Dream"  has  been  re-printed,  by 
the  Percv  rSociety,  from  the  third  copy  in  the  King's  Library  at  the 
British  Mniieum. 

*  More  than  ten  yean  afterwards.  Chettle  paid  another  tribute  to 
!hake>peare.  under  the  named  .Melicert.  in  his  "  England's  Monm- 
•Df  Garment:"  the  author  is  reproaching  the  leading  poets  of  the 
i»y,  Daniel,  Warner,  Chapman,  Jonson.  Drayton,  Sackville.  Dekker, 
kc.  (or  not  writing  in  honour  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  was  just 
i«ad     he  thus  addresses  Shakespeare  : — 


made  no  apology,  while  to  Shakespeare  he  offered  all  tlie 
amends  in  his  power. 

His  apology  U>  Shakespeare  is  contained  in  a  tract  called 
"  Kind-heait's  Dream,"  which  was  published  without  date, 
but  as  Greene  expired  on  3d  September,  1592,  and  Chettle 
tells  us  in  "  Kind-heart's  Dream,"  that  Greene  di  A  "  about 
three  months "  before,  it  is  certain  that  "  Kind-heart's 
Dream  "  came  out  prior  to  the  end  of  1692,  as  we  now  cal- 
culate the  year,  and  about  three  months  before  it  expired, 
according  to  the  reckouiug  of  that  period  The  whole  pa» 
sage  relating  to  Marlowe  and  Shakespeare  is  highly  inteiv 
esting,  and  we  therefore  extract  it  entire. — 

"  About  three  niontlis  since  died  M.  Kobert  Greene,  leav- 
ing many  papers  in  sundry  booksellers'  hands  :  among  others 
his  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  in  which  a  letter,  written  to  divers 
play-makers,  is  otfensively  by  one  or  two  of  them  taken  ;  and 
because  on  the  dead  they  cannot  be  avenged,  they  wilfully 
forge  in  their  conceits  a  living  author,  and  after  tossing  it  to 
and  fro,  no  remedy  but  it  must  litrhl  on  me.  How  I  have,  all 
the  time  of  my  conversing  in  printing,  liindered  the  bitter  in- 
veighing against  scholars,  it  hath  been  very  well  known  :  and 
how  in  that  I  dealt,  I  can  sufficiently  prove.  With  neither 
of  them,  that  take  offence,  was  I  acquainted ;  and  with  one 
of  them  [Marlowe]  I  care  not  if  I  never  be  :  the  other,  [Shake- 
speare] whom  at  that  time  I  did  ni«t  so  much  spare,  as  since  I 
wish  1  had,  for  that  as  I  have  moderated  the"  heat  of  living 
writers,  and  might  have  used  my  own  di.^cretion  (especially 
in  such  a  case,  the  author  beiner  dead)  that  1  did  not  I  am  aa 
sorry  as  if  the  original  fault  had  been  njy  fault;  because  my- 
self have  seen  his  demeanour  no  less  civil,  than  he  excellent 
in  the  quality  he  professes  :  besides,  divers  of  worship  have 
reported  hi.s  uprightness  of  dealing,  which  argues  his  honesty, 
and  his  facetious  grace  in  writingj^  that  approves  his  art.  For 
the  first,  [Marlowe]  whose  learning  1  reverence,  and  at  the 
perusing  of  Greene's  book  struck  out  what  then  m  conscience 
I  thought  he  in  some  displea-sure  writ,  or  liad  it  been  true, 
yet  to  publish  it  was  intolerable,  him  I  would  wish  to  use  me 
no  worse  than  I  deserve." 

The  accusation  of  Greene  against  Marlowe  had  reference 
to  the  freedom  of  his  religious  opinions,  of  which  it  is  not 
necessary  here  to  say  more  :  the  attack  upon  Shakespeare 
we  have  ah-eady  inserted  and  observed  upon.  In  Chettle's 
apology  to  the  latter,  one  of  the  most  noticeable  points  is 
tlie  tribute  he  pays  to  our  great  dramatist's  abihties  as  an 
actor,  "  his  demeanour  no  less  civil,  than  he  excellent  in 
the  quality  he  professes  :"  the  word  "  quality  "  was  applied, 
at  that  date,  peculhirly  and  technically  tti  acting,  and  the 
"  quality  "  Shakespeare  "  professed  "  was  that  of  an  actor. 
"  His  facetious  gi-ace  in  writing' "  is  separately  adverted  to, 
and  admitted,  while  "  his  uprightness  of  dealing  "  is  attested, 
not  only  by  Chettle's  o-wu  experience,  but  by  the  e\-ideuce  of 
"  divers  of  worship."  Thus  the  amends  made  to  Shake- 
speare for  the  envious  assault  of  Greene  shows  most  deci- 
sively the  high  opinion  enterbuued  of  him,  towards  the 
close  of  1692,  as  an  actor,  an  author,  and  a  man\ 

We  have  already  mserted  Spenser's  warm,  but  not  lest 
judicious  and  well-merited,  eulogium  of  Shakespeai-e  in 
1591,  when  m  his  "  Tejii-s  of  the  Muses  "  he  addresses  him 
as  Willy,  and  designates  him 


"  Nor  doth  the  silver-tongued  .Melicert 

Drop  from  his  homed  .Muse  one  sable  tear, 
To  mourn  her  death  that  graced  his  desert, 

And  to  his  laysopen'd  her  royal  ear. 
Shepherd,  remember  our  Elizabeth, 
And  sing  her  Rape,  done  by  that  Tarquin  death." 

This  passage  is  important,  with  reference  to  the  Royal  encourage- 
ment given  to  ShakexMare.  in  consequence  of  the  approbation  of  his 
plays  at  Court :  ?:iizabelh  bad  '•  gracsd  his  desert,"  and  "  open'd  her 
royal  ear  "  to --hii"  lav»."  Chettle  did  not  long  survive  the  publica- ' 
tion  of  '•  England's  Mourning  Garment  "  in  ItifCJ  :  he  was  dead  in 
IWI",  as  he  IS  spoken  of  in  Dekker's  "  Knight's  Conjuring,''  of  that 
year,  (there  is  in  imj.re.«.'ion  also  without  date  and  possibly  a  few 
months  earlier;  a*  a  very  c  rpulent  ghost  in  the  Elysian  Fields.  He 
bad  "oeen  on-inaiiv  a  pnnter,  then  became  a  tiookseller,  and,  finally. 
1  f>amphlelcer  and  dramatut.  He  was,  in  various  degrees,  concerned 
iQ  about  foity  plays.  I 


"  that  same  gentle  spirit,  from  whose  pen 

Large  streames  of  houuie  and  sweete  nectar  flowe." 

If  we  "were  to  trust  printed  dates,  it  would  seem  that  in 
the  same  year  the  author  of  "  The  Faerie  Queene  "  gav« 
another  proof  of  his  admiration  of  our  great  dramatist, 
we  allude  t«  a  passage  in  "  Colin  Clout's  come  home  again," 
which  was  published  with  a  dedication  dated  27th  Deiem- 
ber,  1591  ;  blit  Maloue  proved,  beyond  all  cavil,  that  for 
1591  we  ought  to  read  1594,  the  pnut*?r  having  made  an  ex- 
traordinary blunder.  In  tluit  poem  (after  the  author  has 
spoken  of  many  living  and  dead  poets,  some  by  their  names, 
as  Alabitstei-  aud  Daniel,  aud  others  by  fictitious  and  fanci- 
ful appellations')  he  inserts  these  lines : — 

»  Malone,  with  a  good  deal  of  refearch  and  patience,  goes  over  all 
the  pvudo-names  in  •  Colin  Clou;  s  come  home  ag£j«."'  applying 
each  to  poets  of  the  time  ;  but  how  uncertain  and  unsatisfactory  any 
attempt  of  the  kind  must  necessarily  be  may  be  illustrated  in  t 
single  instance.   Malono  refers  the  tr  11--' wjng  Unesto  Arthur  iSclding 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


dv 


"  And  there,  though  lust  not  least,  ia  ^tion  ; 
A  gentler  shepherd  may  no  where  be  found, 
Whose  Mu^e,  full  of  high  thought's  invention, 
Doth,  like  liiaiself,  he'roieally  sound." 
Maloue  takes  uu  necessary  pains  to  establish  that  this  pas- 
sage applies  to   Shakespeare,  although  he  pertinaciously 
denied  that  "  our  pleasant  Willy  "  of  "  The  Tears  of  the 
Muses  "  was  intended  for  him.   We  have  no  doubt  on  either 
point ;  and  it  is  singular,  that  it  should  never  liave   struck 
Malone  that  the  same  epithet  is  given  in  both  cases  to  the 
person   addressed,  and  that  epithet  one  which,  at  a  subse- 
quent date,  almost  constantly  accompanied  the  name  of 
Shakespeare.     In  "  The  Tears  of  the  Muses  "  he  is  called  a 
"gentle  spirit,"  and  in  "  Colin  Clout's  come  home  again  "  we 
are  told  that, 

"  A  gentler  shepherd  may  no  where  be  found." 
In  the  same  feeling  Ben  Jonson  calls  him  "  my  gentle  Shake- 
speare," in  the  noble  copy  of  verses  prefixed  to  the  folio  of 
1623,  so  that  ere  long  the  term  became  pecuUarly  applied 
lo  our  great  and  aniiabla  dramatist'.  This  coincidence  of 
tixpression  is  another  circimistanee  to  establish  that  Spenser 
certainly  had  Shakespeare  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  his 
"  Tears  of  the  Muses  "  in  1591,  and  his  "  Colin  Clout's  come 
home  again  "  in  1594.  In  the  latter  instance  the  whole  de- 
scription is  nearly  as  appropriate  as  in  tlie  earher,  with  the 
addition  of  a  line,  which  has  a  clear  and  obvious  reference 
to  the  patronymic  of  our  poet :  his  Muse,  says  Spenser, 

•'  Doth,  like  himself,  heroically  sound." 
These  words  alone  may  be  taken  to  show,  that  between 
1591  and  1594  Shakespeare  had  somewhat  changed  the 
character  of  his  compositions  :  Spenser  having  applauded 
him,  in  his  "  Tears  of  the  Muses,"  for  unrivalled  talents  iu 
comedy,  (a  department  of  the  drama  to  which  Shakespeare 
had,  perhaps,  at  that  dnte  especially,  though  not  exclusively, 
devoted  himself)  iu  his  "CoUu  Clout"  spoke  of  the  "high 
thought's  invention,"  which  then  filled  Shakespeare's  muse, 
and  made  her  sound  as  "  heroically  "  as  his  name.     Of  his 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  dramas  written  by  Shakespeure  U|>  to  1594.  Kew  doon- 
ments  relating  to  his  fatlicr,  under  the  authority  of  Sii 
Thomas  Lucy,  Sir  Fulk  Greville,  &c.  Kecu^aiits  in  StraV- 
ford-upon-Avon.  John  Sljukespcare  employed  to  value 
the  goods  of  \i.  Field.  Publication  of  "  Venu.-*  and  Ado- 
nis "  during  the  plague  in  15'j3.  Dedication  of  it,  and  of 
"  Lucrece,"  1594,  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton.  IJounty  of 
the  Earl  to  Shakespeare,  and  coincidence  between  the  date 
of  the  CTift  and  the  building  of  the  Globe  theatre  on  tha 
Bankside.  Probability  of  the  story  that  Lord  Sooihanip- 
ton  presented  Shakespeare  with  lOOOi. 

Having  arrived  at  the  year  1594,  we  may  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  stating  wliich  of  Shakespeare's  extant  works,  ic 
our  opinion,  had  by  that  date  been  produced  We  liave  al- 
ready mentioned  the  three  parts  of  "  Henry  VL,"  "  Titus 
Andronicus,"  "  The  Comedy  of  Errors,"  "  The  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,"  and  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,"  as  iu  being  in 
1591  ;  and  in  the  interval  between  1591  and  1594,  we  ap- 
prehend, he  had  added  to  them  "  Richard  II."  and  "  Richard 
III."  Of  these,  the  four  last  were  entirely  the  work  of 
our  great  dramatist :  in  the  others  he  more  or  less  availed 
himself  of  previous  dramas,  or  possibly,  of  the  assistance 
of  contemporaries. 

We  must  now  return  to  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  order  to 
advert  to  a  very  different  subject. 

A  document  has  been  recently  discovered  in  the  State 
Paper  Office,  which  is  highly  interesting  with  respect  to 
the  rehgious  tenets,  or  worldly  circumstances,  of  Shake- 
speare s  father  iu  15921  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Sir  Fulk  Gre- 
ville, Sir  Henry  Goodere,  Sir  John  Hai'rington,  and  four 
others,  having  "been  appointed  commissioners  to  make  in 
quiries  "  touching  all  such  persons  "  as  were  "Jesuits,  semi 
nary  priests,  fugitives,  or  recusantes,"  in  the  county  of  Wai 
wick,  sent  to  the  Privy  Council  what  they  caU  their  "  second 
certificate,"  on  the  25th  Sept.  1592=.  'it  is  divided  into 
different  heads,  according  to  the  respective  huudreds,  pa- 


genius,  in  a  loftier  strain  of  poetry  than  belonged  to  comedy,  |  i-ighes,  Ac,  and  each  page  is  signeii  by  them.     One  of 

'    " "  "    these  divisions  apphes  to  Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  the  re- 
turn of  names  tliere  is  thus  introduced  : — 

"  The  names  of  all  sutch  Kecusantes  as  have  bene  hearto- 
fore  presented  for  not  cominge  monetlilie  to  the 
church,  according  to  lier  Majesties  lawes,  and  yet  are 
thought  to  forbeare  the  church  for  debt,  and  for  leare 
of  processe,  or  for  some  other  wor?e  fanltes,  or  for  aire. 
sicknes,  or  impotencie  of  bodie." 

The  names  which  are  appended  to  this  introduction  are  the 
following : — 


our  great  dramatist,  by  the  year  1594,  must  have  given 
some  remarkable  and  undeniable  proofs.  In  1591  he  had 
perhaps  written  his  "  Love's  Labour  's  Lost "  and  "  Two 
Gentlemeu  of  Verona;"  but  iu  1594  he  had,  no  doubt,  pro- 
duced one  or  more  of  his  great  historical  plays,  his  "  Rich- 
ard II."  and  "  Richard  III.,"  botli  of  which,  as  before  re- 
marked, together  with  "  Romeo  and  Juhet,"  Cixme  from  the 
press  iu  1597,  though  the  last  in  a  very  mangled,  imperfect, 
and  unauthentic  itate.  One  chcmnstanee  may  be  mentioned, 
as  leading  to  the  belief  that  "  Richard  III."  was  brought 
out  in  1594,  viz.  that  iu  that  year  an  impression  of  "The 
Trae  Ti-agedy  of  Richard  the  Third,"  (an  older  play  than 
that  of  Shakespeare)  was  pubhshed,  that  it  might  be 
bought  under  the  notion  that  it  was  the  new  drama  by  the 
most  popular  poet  of  the  day,  then  in  a  course  of  repre- 
sentation. It  is  most  probable  that  "  Richard  II."  nad  been 
composed  before  "  Richard  III.,"  and  to  either  or  both  of 
them  the  lines, 

"  Whose  Muse,  full  of  high  thought's  invention, 
Doth,  like  himself,  heroically  sound," 
will  abundantly  apply.     The  difference  in  the  character  of 
Spenser's  tributes  to  Shakespeare  iu  1591  and  1594  was  oc- 
casioned by  the  difference  in  the  character  of  his  produc- 
tions. 

■'And  there  is  old  Palemon,  free  from  spite. 

Whose  careful  pipe  may  make  the  hearers  rue ; 
Yet  he  himself  may  rued  be  more  right, 
Who  sung  so  long,  until  quite  hoarse  he  greyr. 
The  passage,  in  truth,  Tpplies  to  Thomaj  Churchyard^^a^  '^f,  w"?'*},! 
inforris  u?in  his  "  Pleasant  Discourse  of  Court  and  Wars,'   lo9()  .  he 
iomp(ains  of  neglect,  and  tells  us  that  the  Court  is 
"The  platform  where  all  poets  thrive, 

Save  one  whose  voice  in  koarse,  they  say  ; 
The  stage,  where  time  away  we  drive. 
As  children  in  a  pageant  play." 


'Mr.  John  Wheeler, 
John  Wheeler,  his  son, 
Mr.  John  Shackspere, 
Mr.  Nichola.s  Bariieshurste, 
Thomas  James,  alia.-*  Gyles, 


William  Bainton, 
Richard  Harrington, 
William  Flullen, 
George  Baidolpbe* :"' 


and  opposite  to  them,  separated  by  a  bracket,  we  read  thes< 
words : — 

"  It  is  sayd,  tliat  these  last  nine  coome  not  to  churche  for 
feare  of  processe  of  debte." 

Here  we  find  the  name  of  "  Mr.  John  Shakespeare  "  either 
as  a  recusant,  or  as  "  forbearing  the  ChuFch,"  on  aeciint  of 
the  fear  of  process  for  debt,  or  on  account  of  "  age.  sicknesa, 
or  impotency  of  body,"  mentioned  in  the  uitnxluoUon  to 
the  docunrent.  The  question  is,  to  wliich  cause  we  are  to 
attribute  his  absence;  and  with  regard  U.  process  for  debt. 


I  In  a 
coveries,' 

is  there  perhaps  rather  referrinR  L •  ..     ,        •    -■     ■ 

i  .We  Lve  ?o  express  our  best  thank,  lo  .Vr.  ^enion  for  direct.  nro« 
:  attention  to  this  rianuscript,  and  lor  supplying  us  with  .n  an4lr»« 
i  of  its  contents. 

?  The  first  certificate  has  not 

after  the  most  dil.gent  search.      ^^ ^^^  .^   „i, '•  Henry 

rey  wu 


his! 


;n  foand 
"Hence" we  see  that  Shakespeare  took 


the  State  Paper  Office, 


In  the  same  way  we  might  show  that  Malone  was  mistaken  as  to         „";-"  "  --^'ho  bore  them  in  hi.  native 
author 'f      Colin  CI    it  "  meant  Shakesppare. 


xlvi 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 


we  are  to  recollect  that  it  could  not  be  served  on  Sunday, 
ik>  tli:it  upprehi-usiou  of  that  kind  need  not  have  kept  him 
awav  fruni  ohiiioh  on  the  Sabbath.  Neither  was  it  likely 
tliat  his  son,  wlio  was  at  this  dat«  profitably  employed  in 
London  as  an  actor  and  author,  and  who  three  years  before 
wjis  a  sharer  in  the  Blackfriai-s  theatre,  would  have  allowed 
his  father  to  continue  so  distressetl  for  money,  as  not  to  be 
able  to  attend  the  usual  place  of  divine  worship'.  There- 
fore, idthough  Jolin  Shakespeare  was  certainly  in  great  pe- 
ouuiarv  diliiculties  at  the  time  his  son  Wilham  quitted 
SU-atford,  we  altogetlier  reject  the  notion  that  that  son  had 
permitted  his  father  to  live  in  wmparative  Wimt,  while  he 
himself  pissesscd  more  than  competence. 

"  Age,  sickness,  and  in\potency  of  body,"  may  indeed 
tiave  kept  John  Shakespeare  fi-oni  church,  but  upon  this 
p^>int  we  have  no  information  beyond  the  fact,  that  if  he 
were  b<.)ra,  as  Malone  supposes,  in  1530,  he  was  at  this  date 
only  sixty -two. 

SV'ith  regard  to  his  religious  opinions,  it  is  certain  that 
after  he  becjune  alderman  of  Stratfjrd,  on  4th  July  1565, 
he  must  have  taken  the  usual  oath  required  from  all  pro- 
testimts ;  but,  according  to  the  records  of  the  borough,  it 
was  not  administered  to  Lira  until  the  12th  September  fol- 
lowing his  election.  This  trifling  circumstance  perhaps 
hardly  deserves  notice,  as  it  may  have  been  usual  to  choose 
the  corporate  officers  at  one  court,  and  to  swear  them  in  at 
the  next.  So  far  John  Shakespeare  may  have  conformed 
Vi  the  requirements  of  the  law,  but  it  is  still  possible  that 
he  may  not  have  adopted  all  the  new  protestant  tenets,  or 
Jiat  having  adopted  them,  like  various  other  conscientious 
men,  he  saw  reason  afterwards  to  return  to  the  faith  he  had 
abandoned.  We  have  no  evidence  on  this  point  as  regards 
him ;  but  we  have  evidence,  as  regards  a  person  of  the 
name  of  Thomas  Greene,  (who,  although  it  seems  very  un- 
likely, may  have  been  the  same  man  who  was  an  actor  in 
the  compa"ny  to  wliieh  Shakespeare  belonged,  and  who  was 
a  co-sharer  in  the  Blackfriars  Theatre,  in  1589)  who  is  de- 
sciibed  in  the  certificate  of  the  commissioners  as  then  of  a 
different  parish,  and  who,  it  is  added,  had  confessed  that  he 
had  been  "  reconciled  to  tlie  Romish  religion."  The  memo- 
nmdum  is  in  these  terms : — 

"  It  is  here  to  be  rcmembred  that  one  Thomas  Greene,  of 
this  parisshe,  heretofore  presented  and  indicted  for  a  reca- 
t^ante,  hath  confessed  to  Mr.  Eobt.  Burgoyn,  one  of  the  coin- 
mis><ioners  for  tliis  service,  that  anould  Preeut  reconciled  liiin 
to  the  Komishe  religion,  while  he  was  priso<ier  in  Worcester 
^oale.    This  Greene  is  not  everie  day  to  be  founde." 

On  the  same  authority  we  learn  that  the  wife  of  Thomas 
Greene  was  "  a  most  wilful  recusant ;"  and  although  we  are 
by  no  means  warranted  in  forming  even  an  opinion  on  the 
(juestiou,  whether  Mary  Shakespeare  adhered  to  the  ancient 
laith,  it  is  indisputable,  if  we  may  rely  upon  the  represen- 
tation of  tlie  commissioners,  that  some  of  her  fiundy  con- 
tinued Roman  Cath(jfic3.  In  the  document  under  considera- 
tion it  is  stated,  that  Mi-s.  Mary  Arden  and  her  servant 
John  Browne  had  been  presented  to  the  commissioners  as 

*  By  an  account  of  rents  received  by  Thomas  Rogers,  Chamber- 
lain of  Stratford,  in  15-9.  it  appears  that  '-John  .Shakespeare  "  occu- 
j.ied  a  house  in  Bridge-street,  at  an  annual  rent  of  twelve  shillings, 
nine  shillings  of  which  had  been  paid.  Perhaps  (as  .Malone  thought) 
this  wan  John  Shakespeare,  the  hhoemaker;  because  the  father  of  the 


poet,  having  been  bailiff  and  head-alderman,  was  usually  styled  Mr. 
John  i?hakesr)eare,  as  we  have  before  remarked.  However,  it  ia  a  co- 
incidence to  be  noted,  that  the  name  of  John  Shakespeare  immediately 


follows  that  of  Henry  Fylde  or  Field,  whose  goods  Mr.  John  Shake 
tpeare  was  subsequently  employed  to  value  :  they  were  therefore  in 
■ll  probability  neighbours. 

'  "Shakspeare  and  his  Times."  vol.  i.  p.  8.  Dr.  Drake  seerns  to 
ht  of  the  opinion  that  John  Shakespeare  may  have  refrained  from 
attending  the  corporation  halls  previous  to  15S6.  on  account  of  hit 
religious  opinions. 

*  It  has  the  following  title  : — 

"A  true  and  perfect  Inventory  of  the  Goodes  and  Cattells,  which 
■x»re  the  Goo<iesand  Cattells  of  Henry  Keelde,  late  of  Stretford-uppon- 
Avon  in  the  Coanty  of  WarwyKe.  tanner,  now  decessied,  beynge  in 
r^lretford  aforesaya,  the  21  »t  dave  of  Auguste,  Anno  Domini  1592.  By 
Thomas  Tnisspll,  (jenti  jman,  Sir.  John  Shaksper.  Richard  Sponer  and 
•then.;'  ^ 

The  items  of  the  inventory  consist  of  nothing  but  an  enumeration  of 
old  bedsteads,  paii  ted  cloths,  andirons,  tec.  of  no  curiosity  and  of 
little  value.  It  is  to  be  ob.erved  that  Thomas  Trussel  was  an  attor- 
Boy  of  Stratford,  ind  it  seems  likely  that  the  valuation  was  made  in 


recusants,  and  that  they  had  been  so  piior  to  the  date  of 
the  former  return  by  the  same  official  persons. 

In  considering  the  subject  of  the  faith  of  our  poet's  father, 
we  ought  to  put  entirely  out  of  view  the  paper  upon  which 
Dr.  Di'ake  lays  some  stress' ;  we  mean  the  sort  of  religious 
will,  or  confession  of  faith,  supposed  to  have  been  found, 
about  the  year  1770,  concealed  in  the  tiling  of  the  house 
Joiin  Shakespeare  is  conjectured  to  have  inhabited.  It  was 
printed  by  Mah)ne  in  1790,  but  it  obviously  merits  no  atr 
tention,  and  there  are  many  reasons  for  believing  it  to  be 
spurious.  Malone  once  looked  upon  it  as  authentic',  but  Ji 
corrected  his  judgment  respecting  it  afterwards. 

Upon  the  new  matter  we  have  here  been  able  to  pro 
duce,  we  sliaU  leave  the  reader  to  draw  his  own  conclugiou, 
and  to  decide  for  himself  whether  John  Shakespeare  fti^ 
bore  chui-ch  in  1592,  beeausf  he  was  in  fear  of  arrest,  be- 
cause he  was  "  aged,  sick,  and  impotent  of  body,"  or  be- 
cause he  did  not  accord  in  the  doctrines  of  the  protestant  faith. 

We  ought  not,  however,  to  omit  to  add,  that  if  John 
Shakespeare  were  infirm  in  1592,  or  if  he  were  harassed 
and  threatened  by  creditors,  neither  the  one  circumstance 
nor  the  other  prevented  him  from  being  employed  in  Au- 
gust 1592  (in  what  particular  capacity,  or  for  what  precise 
purpose  is  not  stated)  to  assist  "  Thomas  Trussell,  gentle- 
man," and  "  Richard  S{K)ner  and  others,"  in  taking  an  inven- 
tory of  the  goods  and  chattels  of  Henry  Feelde  of  Strat- 
ford, tanner,  after  bis  decease.  A  contemporary  copy  of 
the  original  document  has  recently  been  placed  in  the  hands 
of  the  Shakespeare  Society  for  publication,  but  the  fact, 
and  not  the  details,  is  all  that  seems  of  importance  here' 
In  the  heading  of  the  paper  our  poets  father  is  called  "  Mr. 
John  Shakespeare,"  and  at  tlic  end  we  find  his  name  fiP 
"  John  Shakespeare  senior :"  this  appears  to  be  the  only  in- 
stance in  which  the  addition  of  "  senior  "  was  made,  and  the 
object  of  it  might  be  to  distinguish  him  more  eflfectually 
from  John  Shakespeare,  the  shoemaker  in  Stratford,  with 
whom,  of  old  perhaps,  as  iu  modern  times,  he  was  now  sind 
then  confounded.  The  fact  itself  may  be  material  iu  de- 
ciding whether  John  Shakespeare,  at  the  age  of  sixty-two, 
was,  or  was  not  so  "  aged,  sick,  or  impotent  of  body  "  as  to 
be  unable  to  attend  protestant  divine  worship.  It  certainly 
does  not  seem  likely  that  he  would  have  been  selected  for 
the  performance  of  such  a  duty,  however  trifling,  if  he  had 
been  so  apprehensive  of  arrest  as  not  to  be  able  to  leave 
his  dwelling,  or  if  he  had  been  veiy  infirm  from  sickness  or 
old  Jige. 

Whether  he  were,  or  were  not  a  member  of  the  protes- 
tant reformed  Church,  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  that  his  child- 
ren, all  of  whom  were  born  between  1558  and  1580,  were 
baptized  at  the  ordinary  and  established  place  of  worship 
in  the  parish.  That  his  son  William  was  educated,  lived, 
and  died  a  protestsmt  we  have  no  doubt*. 

We  have  already  stated  our  distinct  and  deliberate  opin 
ion  that  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  was  written  before  its  author 
left  his  home  in  Warwickshire.  He  kept  it  by  him  for  some 
years,  and  early  in  1693  seems  to  have  put  it  into  the  hands 

relation  to  Field's  will.  The  whole  sum  at  which  the  goods  were 
e.slimated  was  JC14.  lis.  Od.,  and  the  total,  with  the  names  of  the 
persons  making  the  appraisement,  is  thus  stated  at  the  end  of  the  ac 
count 

"Some  totall— £14.  14».  Od. 
John  Shaksper  senior 
By  me  Richard  Sponer 
I'er  me  Thomas  Trussel 
Script,  present." 
Of  course,  unless,  as  does   not   appear  in   this  coeval  copy,  Joh» 
Shakespeare  made  his  mark,  the  document  must  have  been  subscribed 
by  some  person  on  his  behalf. 

♦  Nearly  aJI  the  passages  in  his  works,  of  a  relierious  or  doctrinal 
character,  have  been  brought  into  one  view  by  Sir  Frederick  B.Wat- 
son. K.  C.  H..  in  a  very  elegant  volume,  printed  in  ls1:(,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  theatrical  funds  of  our  two  great  theatres.  The  object 
of  the  very  zealous  and  amiable  compiler  was  to  counteract  a  notion, 
formerly  prevailing,  that  William  Shakespeare  was  a  Roman  Catholic, 
and  he  has  done  so  very  effectually,  although  we  do  not  find  among 
his  extracts  one  which  seems  to  us  of  great  value  upon  this  question  : 
it  for.Tis  part  of  the  prophecy  of  Cranmer,  at  the  christening  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  in  •'  Henry  VIll."  act  v.  sc.  4.  It  consists  of  but  five  ex- 
pressive words,  which  we  think  clearly  refer  to  the  compIetioE  »f  th( 
Reformation  anderour  maiden  queen. 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xb 


if  a  printer,  named  Richard  Field,  -who,  it  has  been  said, 
was  of  Stratford,  and  might  be  the  son  of  the  Henry  Feelde, 
or  Field,  whose  goods  John  Shakespeare  was  employed  to 
value  in  1592.  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  at  the  time 
"  Venus  and  Adonis  "  was  sent  to  the  press,  while  it  was  print- 
ing, and  when  it  was  published,  the  phigue  prevailed  in 
London  to  such  an  excess,  that  it  was  deemed  expedient  by 
the  privy  council  to  put  a  stop  to  all  theatrical  perform- 
ances". Shakespeare  seems  to  have  availed  himself  of  this 
interval,  in  order  to  bring  before  the  world  a  production  of 
a  diiTerent  character  to  those  which  had  been  ordinarily  seen 
from  his   pen.     Until  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  came  out,  the 

SubUc  at  large  could  only  have  known  him  by  the  dramas 
e  had  written,  or  by  those  which,  at  an  earlier  date,  he  had 
altered,  amended,  and  revived.  The  poem  came  from 
Field's  press  in  the  spring  of  1593,  preceded  by  a  dedica- 
tion to  me  Earl  of  Soutlihampton.  Its  popularity  was  great 
and  instantaneous,  for  a  new  edition  of  it  was  called  for  in 
1594,  a  thh'd  in  1596,  a  fourth  in  1600,  and  a  tifth  in  1602^ : 
there  may  have  been,  and  probably  were,  intervening  uu- 
pressious,  which  have  disappeared  among  the  popular  and 
destroyed  hterature  of  the  time.  We  may  conclude  that 
this  admirable  and  unequalled  production  first  introduced 
its  author  to  the  notice  of  Lord  Southampton ;  and  it  is 
evident  from  the  opening  of  the  dedication,  that  Shake- 
speare had  not  taken  the  precaution  of  ascertaining,  in  the 
drst  instance,  the  wishes  of  the  young  nobleman  on  the  sub- 
ject Lord  Southampton  was  more  than  nine  years  younger 
than  Shakespeare,  havmg  been  born  on  6th  Oct  1573. 

We  may  be  sure  that  the  dedication  of  "  Venus  and 
Adonis  "  was,  on  every  account,  acceptable,  and  Shakespeare 
followed  it  up  by  inscribing  to  the  same  peer,  but  in  a  much 
more  assm-ed  and  confident  strain,  his  "  Lucrece "  in  the 
succeeding  year.  He  then  "  dedicated  his  love  "  to  his  ju- 
venile patron,  having  "  a  warrant  of  his  honourable  dispo- 
sition "  towards  his  "  pamphlet "  and  himself.  "  Lucrece  " 
was  not  calculated,  from  its  subject  and  the  treatment  of  it, 
to  be  so  popular  as  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  the  first 
edition  having  appeared  from  Field's  press  in  1594,  a  re- 
print of  it  docs  not  seem  to  have  been  called  for  until  after 
the  lapse  of  four  years,  and  the  third  edition  bears  the  date 
of  16U0. 

It  must  have  been  about  this  period  that  the  Earl  of 
Southampton  bestowed  a  most  extraordinary  proof  of  his 
high-minded  munificence  upon  the  author  of  "  Venus  and 
Adonis  "  and  "  Lucrece."  It  was  not  unusual,  at  that  time 
and  aftei-wards,  for  noblemen,  and  others  to  whom  works 
were  dedicated,  to  make  presents  of  money  to  the  writers 
of  them ;  but  there  is  certainly  no  instance  upon  record  of 
such  generous  bounty,  on  an  occasion  of  the  kind,  as  that 
of  which  we  are  now  to  speak^:  nevertheless,  we  have 
every  rehance  upon  the  authenticity  of  the  anecdote,  taking 
Jito  account  the  unexampled  merit  of  the  poet  the  known 
Uoerality  of  the  nobleman,  and  the  evidence  upon  which 
the  story  has  been  handed  down.  Rowe  was  the  original 
aan-ator  of  it  in  prmt,  and  he  doubtless  had  it  with  other 
information,  from  Betterton,  who  probably  received  it  di- 
rectly from  Sir  WiUiam  Davenant,  and  communicated  it  to 
Rowe.  K  it  cannot  be  asserted  that  Davenant  was  strictly 
contemporary  with  Shakespeare,  he  was  contemporaiy  with 
Shakespeare's  contemporaries,  and  from  them  he  must  have 
ifctained  the  original  information.  Rowe  gives  the  state- 
Bent  in  these  words  : — 

"  There  is  one  mstauce  so  singular  in  the  munificence  of 

»  By  the  following  order,  derived  from  the  registers  :— 

"  That  for  avoyding  of  great  concourse  of  people,  which  ca^eth 
increase  of  the  infection,  it  were  convenient  that  all  Playes,  Bear- 
baytings,  Cockpitts,  conamon  Bowling-alleyes,  and  such  like  unne- 
sessarie  assemblies,  should  be  suppressed  during  the  time  of  infection, 
for  that  infected  people,  after  their  long  keeping  in.  and  beiore  they 
be  cleared  of  their  disea.se  and  infection,  being  desirous  of  recreation, 
ase  tp  resort  to  such  assemblies,  where,  through  heate  and  thronge, 
'.hey  Infect  many  sound  personnes."  mi 

In  ronsequence  of  the  virulence  and  extent  of  the  disorder,  -Mich- 
aelmas '.erm,  1593,  was  kept  at  St.  Alban's.  It  was  abjut  this  period 
thatNaeh-s  '^Summers  Last  Will  and  Testament'-  was  acted  as  a 
private  entertainment  at  Croydon.  ,      „,,      ■  •       „f 

'  Malone  knew  nothing  of  any  copy  of  1594.  The  impression  of 
»Sn2  was  printed  for  W.  Leake  ;  only  a  single  copy  of  the  edition  has 


this  patron  of  Shakespeare's  tliat  if  I  had  not  been  aaaared 
that  the  story  was  handed  down  by  Sir  William  Davenant, 
who  was  probably  very  well  acquainted  with  ld.s  [^Shake- 
speare'a]  affairs,  1  should  not  have  ventured  to  have  inserted  ; 
that  my  Lord  Southampton  at  one  time  jrave  him  u  thousand 
pounds  to  enable  him  to  go  through  with  a  purchase  which 
he  heard  he  had  a  mind  to." 

No  biographer  of  Shakespeare  seems  tn  have  advertetl 
to  the  period  when  it  was  liltely  that  the  gift  Wiis  made,  in 
combination  with  the  nature  of  the  purchjise  Lord  Soutli 
ampton  had  heard  our  great  dramatist  wished  t')  com- 
plete, or,  it  seems  to  us,  they  would  not  have  though* 
the  tradition  by  any  means  so  improbable  as  some  Lav 
held  it 

The  disposition  to  make  a  worthy  return  for  the  dedi'-.-i 
tions  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  and  "  Lucrece  "  would  of 
course  be  produced  in  the  mind  of  Lord  Southampton  by  tlw- 
publication  of  those  poems  ;  and  we  are  to  recollect  that  it 
was  precisely  at  the  same  date  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain? 
servants  entered  upon  the  project  of  building  the  Glob< 
Theatre  on  the  Baukside,  not  very  far  to  the  west  of  th.- 
Southwark  foot  of  London  Bridge.  "  Venus  and  Adouif  " 
was  published  in  1593  ;  and  it  was  on  the  22nd  Dec.  in  that 
year  that  Richard  Burbage,  the  great  actor,  and  the  leader 
of  the  company  to  which  Shakespeare  was  attached,  signed 
a  bond  to  a  carpenter  of  the  name  of  Peter  Street  for  the 
construction  of  the  Globe.  It  is  not  too  much  to  allow  at 
least  a  year  for  its  completion ;  and  it  was  during  1594. 
while  the  work  on  the  Bankside  was  in  progress,  that  "  Lu- 
crece "  came  from  the  press.  Thus  we  see  that  the  build- 
ing of  the  Globe,  at  the  cost  of  the  sharers  in  the  Black- 
friars  theatre,  was  coincident  in  pouit  of  tune  with  the  ai^ 
pearauce  of  the  two  poems  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Soutn- 
ampton.  Is  it,  then,  too  much  to  beUeve  that  the  young 
ancl  boimtiful  nobleman,  having  heard  of  this  enterprise 
fi'om  the  peculiar  interest  he  is  known  to  have  taken  in  all 
matters  relating  to  the  stage,  and  having  been  incited  by 
warm  admiration  of  "  ^'enus  and  Adonis  "  and  "  Lucrece." 
in  the  fore-front  of  wiiich  he  rejoiced  to  see  his  own  name. 
presented  Shakespeare  with  lUOU/.,  to  enable  him  to  niak* 
g<x)d  the  money  he  was  to  produce,  as  his  pR>p»irtioD,  for 
the  completion  of  the  Globe  i 

We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  our  great  dramatist  stood  m 
need  of  the  money,  or  that  he  could  not  have  deposited  it 
as  well  as  the  other  sharers  in  the  Blackfiiars* ;  but  Lord 
Southampton  may  not  have  thought  it  necessary  to  inquire. 
whether  he  did  or  did  not  want  it  nor  to  consider  precisely 
what  it  had  been  customary  to  give  ordinaiT  versihers.  wbi' 
sought  the  pay  imd  patronage  of  the  nobility.  Although 
Shakespeare  had  not  yet  reached  the  climax  of  his  excel- 
lence. Lord  Southampton  knew  him  to  be  the  greatest 
dramatist  this  country  had  yet  produced ;  he  knew  liim  t<\^' 
to  be  the  writer  of  two  poems,  dedicated  to  hiniseH  with 
which  nothing  else  of  the  kind  could  bear  compuris^m ;  and 
in  the  exercise  of  his  bounty  he  measured  the  poet  by  hw 
deserts,  and  "  used  him  after  his  own  honour  and  dignity. 
by  bestowmg  \\\xn\  him  a  sum  worthy  of  his  title  ana  char- 
acter, and  which  his  wealth  pn>bably  enabled  him  without 
difficulty  to  artord.  We  do  not  believe  lliat  there  has  U'-l 
any  exaggeration  in  the  amount  (although  tliat  is  more  p^*- 
sible,  than  that  the  whole  sUitemeut  should  have  been  a  no- 
tion) and  Lord  Soutliampton  may  Urns  have  mteuded  al«i. 
to  indicate  his  hearty  good  will  u.  the  new  undertakiug  U 
the  company,  and  his  determination  to  support  it . 

come  down  to  our  day:  it  had   been  entered   by  hira  u  e«rly  u 

I  ^^3%he  author  of  the  present  Life  of  Shakespean.  i.  bound  to  mitt. 

I  one  exception,  which  has  come  prticnlarly  within  his  own  know. 

'  ed"e.  but  of  which  he  does  not  teel  at  liberty  to  »iy  more. 

I  ?  Neither  are  we  to  imagine  that  Snake>,.ar.  '<>"'''. ''»3«»°/;"; 
tribute  the  whole  sum  of  IIHKW.  as  his  contnbut.on  to  the  cost  of  .h. 
Globe  :  probably  much  le.^  ;  but  this  was  a  considermtion  '^S^  w, 
may  feel  assured,  never  entered  the  mind  of  a  man  like  Lord  South- 

,  ^'""IXr  the  Globe  had  been  burned  down  in  June.  16J;«.  '»  J"  .^ 
buiU  very  much  by  the  fontribunons  of  the  king  and  I6e  nob.  ..t 

I  Lord  Southampton  may  have  intended  the  lOtxi/  m  /*--•»  »  «^" 
uibution  to  this  enterprise,  through  the  h»'"i»°f  "  ""'•^l;'^/*''' 

1  he  had  good  iea«)n  to  distinguish  from  the  rest  of  th-  coa,p»«y. 


xlviii 


THE  LIFE  OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTKR  X. 

The  opot:in?  of  the  Glohe  theatre,  on  tlic  Biinkside,  in  1595. 
Duion  of  Shiiko;*pcureV  iissocintes  with  tlie  Lord  Adminirs 
plavers.  The  theatre  at  Nowiiiirton  Butts.  Projooted  repair 
aud  cnlttrjjcnieiil  of  the  Blacklriars  tiicatrc  :  opiiositioti  by 
the  iuhabitaiits  of  tlie  jireciiiot.  Shakespeare's  rank  in  tlie 
company  in  1596.  Petition  from  him  and  feveii  others  to 
the  Privy  Council,  and  it3  results.  Kepair  of  tlie  Blackfriars 
theatre.'  Shakespeare  a  resident  in  Southwark  in  1596: 
proof  that  he  was  ao  from  the  papers  at  Dulwich  College. 

We  have  concluded,  as  wc  tliink  that  we  may  do  very  fairly, 
hat  tlie  coustruotiou  of  the  new  theatre  on  the  Biinkside, 
uliscquently  known  as  the  Globe,  having  been  commenced 
soon  after  the  signature  of  the  bond  of  Bui-bage  to  Street, 
■  rtj  2'2d  Dec.  1593,  was  continued  through  the  year  1594: 
we  apprehend  that  it  wuuld  be  finished  and  ready  for  the 
reception  of  audiences  early  in  the  spring  of  1595.  It  was 
a  round  wooden  building,  open  to  the  sky,  while  the  stage  j 
w:is  protected  from  the  weather  by  an  overhanging  roof  of 
that'^h.  The  uumbei'  of  pereons  it  would  contain  we  have 
uo  mesms  of  ascertaining,  but  it  was  certainlj  of  larger  di- 
mensions than  the  K^.^e,  the  Hope  or  the  Swaa,  three  other 
edifices  of  the  same  kind  aud  used  for  the  same  purpose,  in 
the  immediate  vicinity.  The  Blackfi-iars  was  a  private 
theatre,  as  it  was  c:dlocl,  entirely  covered  in.  and  of  smaller 
size ;  aud  from  thence  the  company,  after  the  Globe  had 
bt>en  completed,  was  in  the  habit  of  removing  in  the  spring, 
perhajis  as  sewn  as  tlieie  was  any  indication  of  the  setting 
m  of  line  checi  ful  weather'. 

Befi>re  the  building  of  the  Globe,  for  the  exclusive  use 
of  the  theatrical  servants  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  there 
can  Ix-  little  doubt  that  they  did  n<jt  act  all  tlie  year  round 
at  the  Blackfriars :  they  appear  to  have  pciiornied  some- 
times at  the  Curtain  in  Shoreditch,  and  Richard  Burbage, 
at  the  time  of  his  death,  still  had  shares  in  that  playhouse* 
Whetlier  they  occupied  it  in  common  with  any  other  associa- 
tion is  not  so  clear ;  but  we  learn  from  Heuslowe's  Diary,  that 
in  1594,  and  perhaps  at  an  earlier  date,  the  compiuay  of 
which  Shakespeare  was  a  member  had  played  at  a  theatre 
in  Newington  Butts,  where  the  Lord  Admiral's  sei-vants 
(dso  exhibited.  At  this  period  of  our  stage-history  the  per- 
formances usually  began  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon ; 
for  tlie  citizens  transacted  their  business  and  dined  early,  j 
and  many  of  them  afterwards  walked  out  iuto  the  fields  I 
for  recreation,  often  visiting  such  theatres  as  were  open  I 
purposely  for  their  reception.  Henslowe's  Diary  shows  that 
the  L<jrd  Chamberkin's  aud  the  Lord  Admiral's  servants  1 
liad  joint  possession  of  the  Newington  theatre  from  3<1  June 
1594.  to  the  15th  November,  1596;  and  during  that  period 
various  pieces  were  performed,  which  in  their  titles  resemble 
plays  which  unquestionably  came  from  Shakespeare's  pen. 
That  none  of  these  were  productions  by  our  great  dramatist, 
it  i.s  of  coui-se,  impo.«sible  U)  allirm  ;  but  the  strong  proba- 
bility seems  t4)  be,  that  they  were  older  dramas,  of  which 
he  subsequently,  more  or  less,  availed  himself  Among 
these  was  a  "Hamlet,"  acted  on  11th  of  June,  1594:  a 
"Taming  of  a  Shrew,"  acted  on  11th  June,  1594;  an  "  An- 
'Ironieus,"  acted  on  12th  June,  1594 ;  a  "  Veuetism  Comedy,"  | 
sct«d  on  12th  Aui;.  1594;  a  "  Cajsar  and  Pompey,"  acted 
S-b  Nov.  1594;  a  "Second  Part  of  Caesar,'  acted  26th  I 
i;ne,  1696  ;  a  "  H.ury  V.,"  acted  on  2Sth  Nov.  1595  ;  and! 
»  •  Troy,"  acted  on  the  22d  June.  1596.  To  these  we  might ' 
add  a  "  Palamon  luid  Arcite,"  (iicted  on  17th  Sept.  1594)  if  ! 
we  suppose  Shakespeare  to  have  had  any  hand  in  writing  I 


"  The  IVo  Noble  Kinsmen  ;"  and  an  "  Antony  and  Vallea," 
(acted  on  the  20th  June.  1595)  as  it  is  called  in  the  barbarous 
record,  which  may  possibly  have  had  some  connexion  with 
"  Antony  and  Cleopatra."  We  have  no  reason  to  think  that 
Shakespeare  did  not  aid  in  these  represeutatious,  although 
be  was  perhaps,  too  much  engaged  with  the  duties  of  au- 
thorship, at  this  date,  to  take  a  very  busy  or  prominen\ 
pait  as  au  actor. 

The  fact  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  players  acted  at 
Newuigtou  until  November,  1596,  may  appear  to  militate 
against  our  notion  that  the  Globe  was  finished  and  ready 
for  performauees  in  the  spring  of  1595 ;  aud  it  is  very  pos- 
sible that  the  construction  occupied  more  time  than  we  have 
imagined.  Malone  was  of  opinion  that  the  Globe  might  har« 
been  opened  even  in  1594^;  but  we  postpone  that  evtut 
until  the  following  year,  because  we  thiuk  the  time  too 
short,  and  because,  unless  it  were  entirely  completed  early 
in  1594,  it  would  not  be  required,  inasmuch  as  the  company 
for  which  it  was  built  seem  to  have  acted  at  the  Bhickfrisre 
iu  the  winter.  Oar  notion  is,  that,  even  after  the  Globe 
was  finished,  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  now  and  then 

Eerformed  at  Newington  in  the  summer,  because  audiences, 
aving  been  accustomed  to  expect  them  there,  assembled 
for  the  purpose,  and  the  players  did  not  think  it  prudent  to 
relinquish  the  emolument  thus  to  be  obtained.  The  per- 
formances at  Newington,  we  presume,  did  uot  however  in- 
terfere with  the  represeutatious  at  the  Globe.  If  any  mem- 
bers of  the  company  hud  continued  to  play  at  Newington 
after  November  1596,  we  should,  no  doubt,  have  found  sonve 
trace  of  it  in  Henslowe's  Diary. 

Another  reason  for  thinking  that  the  Globe  was  opeued 
in  the  spring  of  1595  is,  that  very  soon  afterwards  the 
sharers  in  that  enterprise  commenced  the  repair  and  en- 
largement of  their  theatre  in  the  Blacklriars,  which  had 
been  in  constant  use  for  twenty  years.  Of  this  proceeding 
we  shall  have  occasion  to  say  more  presently. 

"We  may  feel  assured  that  the  important  incident  of  the 
opening  of  a  new  theatre  on  the  B:inkside,  larger  than  any 
that  then  stood  in  that  or  in  other  parts  of  the  town,  was 
celebrated  by  the  production  of  a  new  play.  Considering 
his  station  and  duties  in  the  company,  and  lus  popuLirity  as 
a  dramatist,  we  may  be  confident  also  that  the  new  play 
was  written  by  Shakespeare.  In  the  imperfect  state  of  our 
information,  it  would  be  vain  to  speculate  which  of  his 
dramas  was  brought  out  on  the  occasion ;  but  if  the  reader 
will  refer  U>  our  several  Introductions,  he  will  see  which  of 
the  plays  accoiding  to  such  evidence  as  we  are  acquainted 
with,  may  appear  in  his  view  to  have  the  best  claim  to  the 
distinction.  Many  years  ago  we  were  strongly  inclined  to 
think  that  "  Henry  V ."  was  the  piece  :  the  Globe  was  round, 
and  the  "  wooden  O"  is  most  [x)intedly  mentioned  in  that 
drama ;  so  that  at  all  events  we  are  satisfied  that  it  was 
acted  in  that  theatre  :  there  is  also  a  nationality  alxmt  the 
subject,  aud  a  popularity  iu  the  treatment  of  it,  which 
would  render  it  peculiarly  appropriate  ;  but  on  farther  re- 
flection and  information,  we  are  unwillingly  convinced  that 
"  Henry  V."  was  not  written  until  some  years  afterwards. 
We  frankly  own,  therefore,  that  we  are  not  in  a  condition 
to  ofi'er  an  opinion  upon  the  question,  and  we  are  disposed, 
where  wc  can,  to  refrain  even  from  conjecture,  when  we  have 
no  ground  on  which  t<>  rest  a  speculation. 

Allowing  about  fifteen  months  for  the  erection  and  com- 
pletion of  the  Globe,  we  may  believe  that  it  was  in  full 
operation  in  the  spring,  summer,  and  autumn  of  1595.  Ou 
the  approach  of  cold  weather,  the  company  would  of  cour.^c 
return  to  their  winter  quarters  in  the  Blackfriars?,  whicli 


'  We  kno'w  that  ih^y  did  «o  afterwards,  and  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  th.T.t  nuch  wa«  their  practice  from  the  beeinnin^.  Dr.  For- 
man  recor !«,  in  his  Diary  in  the  Anhmolean  Museum,  that  he  «aw 
"Macb'th  "  at  the  G'.obe,  on  the  •Unh  April.  1010;  "Richard  IT."  on  , 
the  3(nh  April,  1011,  and  •'  The  Winter's  Tale  "'  on  the  15th  May,  in  j 
the  »ame  year.     Seethe  Introductions  to  those  several  plays. 

'  The  »ame  wa.-"  preciselv  the  ca.se  with  Pope,  the  celebrated  come-  I 
<ian,  who  died  in  Feb.  KkM.  His  will,  dated  2-2d  ,hily,  iwm,  con- 
.aiDS  the  followinir  claose  :  '■  Item,  I  eive  and  bequeath  to  the  »aid 
Mary  Clark,  aliax  Wood,  and  to  the  said  Thomas  Bromley,  as  well  all 
my  part,  richt,  title,  and  interest,  which  I  have,  or  oupht  to  have  | 
n  and  to  all  that  playhouse,  with  the  appnrtenances,  called  the  Cur-  | 


tain,  situate  and  being  in  Holywell,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Leonard's 
in  Shoreditch,  in  the  county  of  Middlesex  ;  as  also  my  part,  estate,  and 
interest,  which  I  have,  or  ought  to  have,  in  and  to  all  that  playhouse, 
with  the  appurtenances,  called  the  Globe,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Sa- 
viour's, in  the  county  of  Surrey." — Chalmers'  Supplemental  Apology 
p.  1(«. 

Richard  Burbage  lived  and  died  (in  IG19)  in  Holywell-street,  neat 
the  Curtain  theatre,  as  if  his  presence  were  necessary  for  the  superin- 
tendence of  the  concern,  although  he  had  been  an  actor  at  the  BlacK- 
friars  for  many  years,  and  at  the  Globe  ever  since  its  erection 

'  Inquiry  irU>  the  Authenticity,  &c.  p.  87 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xlix 


JFas  enclosed,  lighted  from  within,  and  comparatively  warm, 
riiis  theatre,  as  we  have  stated,  at  this  date  had  been  iu 
■H>ustant  use  for  twenty  years,  and  earl}' in  1596  th«  sharers 
directed  their  attention  to  the  extensive  repair,  enlargement, 
and,  possibly,  entire  re- construction  of  the  building.  The 
evidence  that  they  entertained  such  a  design  is  very  deci- 
sive; and  we  may  perhaps  mfer,  that  the  prosperity  of 
rheu'  uew  experunent  at  the  Globe  encouraged  them  U) 
thi*  outlay.  On  the  9th  Jan.  1596  (1595,  according  to  the 
then  mode  of  calculating  the  year)  Lord  Huusdon,  who  was 
Lord  Chamberlain  at  the  time,  but  who  died  about  six 
ruouths  afterwards,  wrote  to  Sir  William  More,  expressing 
R  wish  to  take  a  house  of  him  in  the  Blackfriars,  and  adding 
that  he  had  heard  that  Sir  WiUiam  More  had  parted  with 
a  portion  of  his  own  residence  "  to  some  that  mean  to  make 
a  playhouse  of  it\" 

The  truth,  no  doubt,  was,  that  in  consequence  of  their  in- 
ci-eased  popularity,  owing,  we  may  readily  imagine,  in  a 
jrreat  degree  to  the  success  of  the  plays  Shakespeare  had 
produced,  the  company  which  had  occupied  the  Blackfriars 
theatre  found  that  their  house  was  too  small  for  their  audi- 
ences, and  wished  to  enlarge  it ;  but  it  appears  rather  sin- 
gular that  Lord  Hunsdon,  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  should 
not  be  at  all  aware  of  the  intention  of  the  players  acting  un- 
der tlie  sanction  of  his  name  and  office,  and  should  only  have 
heard  that  some  persons  "meant  to  make  a  playhou&e  "  of 
part  of  Sir  WiUiam  More's  residence.  We  have  not  a  copy 
of  the  whole  of  L<jrd  Huusdon's  letter — only  an  abstract 
of  it — which  reads  as  if  the  Lord  Chamberlain  did  not  even 
know  that  there  was  any  theatre  at  all  m  the  Blackfriars. 
Two  documents  in  the  State  Paper  Office,  and  a  third  pre- 
served at  Dulwich  College,  euable  us  to  state  distinctly 
what  was  the  object  of  the  actors  at  the  Blackfiiars  in  1596. 
The  first  of  these  is  a  representation  from  certain  inhabitants 
of  the  precinct  in  which  the  playhouse  wa^  situated,  not 
only  against  the  completion  of  the  work  of  repair  and  en- 
lai-gement,  then  commenced,  but  against  all  farther  per- 
formances in  the  theatre. 

Of  this  paper  it  is  not  necessary  for  our  purpose  to  say 
more ;  but  the  answer  to  it,  on  the  part  of  the  assoeiation 
of  actors,  is  a  very  valuable  reUc,  inasmuch  as  it  gives  the 
nanies  of  eight  players  who  were  the  proprietors  of  the 
theatre  or  its  appurtenances,  that  of  Shakespeare  being 
fifth  in  the  Ust.  it  wiU  not  have  been  forgotten,  that  in 
1689  no  fewer  than  sixteen  sharers  were  enumerated,  and 
that  then  Shakespeare's  name  was  the  twelfth ;  but  it  did 
not  by  any  means  follow,  that  because  there  were  sixteen 
sharers  in  the  receipts,  they  were  also  proprietors  of  the 
building,  properties,  or  wardrobe  :  in  1596  it  is  stated  that 
Thomas  Pope,  (from  whose  will  we  have  already  given  an 
exti-act)  Richard  Burbage,  John  Uemiugs,  (properly  spelt 
Heminge)  Augustine  Phillips,  VS'iUiam  Shakespeare,  VV  il- 
liam  Kempe,  (who  withdrew  from  the  company  m  16ul) 
William  Slye,  and  Nicholas  Tooley,  were  "  owners  "  of  the 
theati-e  as  well  as  sharers  iu  the  pi-otits  arising  out  of  the 
performances.  The  fact,  however,  seems  to  be  that  the  sole 
owner  of  the  edifice  iu  which  plays  were  represented,  the 

>  See  "The  Loseley  Manuscripts."  by  A.  J.  Kerape,  Esq.,  9vo. 
1835,  p.  49tj ;  a  very  curious  and  interesting  collection  of  ori^'inal 
ocuraents.  , 

2  '•  To  the  right  honourable  the  Lords  of  her  Majesties  most  hon- 
ttrable  Privie  Councell.  ,   „     l  t  u 

"The  humble  petition  of  Thomas  Pope,  Richard  Burbage,  John 
tiemings,  Augustine  Phillips.  William  Shakespeare,  William  Kempe, 
William  Slye^  Nicholas  Tooley,  and  others,  servaunts  to  the  Kiglit 
Honorable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  to  her  Majestie. 

"Sheweth  most  humbly,  that  your  Petitioners  are  owners  and 
olayers  of  the  private  house,  or  theatre,  in  the  precinct  and  libertie  ol 
the  Blackfriers,  which  hath  beene  for  many  yeares  used  and  occu- 
pied for  the  playing  of  tragedies,  commedies,  histories,  enterludes, 
*nd  playes.  That  the  same,  by  reason  of  its  having  beene  so  long 
built,  hath  fallen  into  great  decay,  and  that  besides  the  reparation 
thereof,  it  hath  beene  found  necessarie  to  make  the  same  more  con- 
venient for  the  entertainment  of  auditories  coming  thereto,  inat 
wO  this  end  your  Petitioners  have  all  and  eohe  ot  them  put  down 
eomraes  of  money,  according  to  their  shares  in  the  said  theatre,  ana 
which  they  have  justly  and  honestly  gained  by  the  exercise  ot  their 
qualitie  of  stage-players ;  but  that  certaine  persons  (some  ot  them  ol 
honour)  inhabitants  of  the  said  precinct  and  libertie  of  the  Black- 
friers  have,  as  your  Petitioners  are  informed,  besought  your  honour- 
able Lordshiops  not  to  permitt  the  said  private  house  any  longer  to 


proprietor  of  the  freehold,  was  Richard  Burbage,  who  in 
herited  it  from  his  father,  and  transmitted  it  t..  his  sons  ;  bu! 
as  a  body,  the  parties  addressing  the  privy  council  (for  th« 
"  petition  "  appears  to  have  been  sent  thither  I  might  iu  a 
ceitaiu  sense  call  themselves  owners  of,  as  well  as  shai-en 
in,  the  Blackfiiars  theatre.  We  insert  the  document  iu  a 
note,  obsei'ving  merely,  that  like  many  others  of  a  aimiW 

I  kind,  it  is  without  signatures'. 

I  The  date  of  the  year  when  this  petition  of  the  actors  wa« 
presented  to  the  privy  council  is  ascertained  from  that  of 
the  remonstrance  of  the  inhabitants  wliich  had  rendered  it 

1  necessary,  viz.  1596  ;  but  by  another  paper,  among  the  the- 

i  atrical  relics  of  Alleyn  and  Henslowe  at  Dulwich  College, 
we  are  enabled  to  show  that  both  the  remonstrance  and  UM 
petition  were  anterior  to  May  in  tliat  year.  Henslow* 
(step-father  to  Alleyn's  wife,  and  Alleyn  s  pailucr)  seems 
always,  very  prudently,  to  have  kept  up  a  good  undei-staud- 
ing  with  the  officers  of  the  department  of  the  revtls ;  aud 
on  3rd  May,  1596,  a  person  of  the  name  of  Veale,  servant 
to  Edmond  Tyluey,  master  of  the  revels,  wrote  to  Ueus- 
lowe,  informing  him  (as  of  course  he  must  take  an  interest 
in  the  result)  that  it  had  been  decided  by  the  privy  council, 
that  the  Lord  Chamberlain  s  servants  should  be  allowed 
t<j  complete  their  repairs,  but  not  to  enlarge  their  house  in  the 
Blackfriars ;  the  note  of  Veale  to  Henslowe  is  on  a  smuU 
shp  of  paper,  very  clearly  written ;  and  as  it  is  short,  we  heie 
insert  it : — 

"  Mr.  Hinslowe.  This  is  to  enfourme  you  that  my  Mr.,  the 
Maister  of  the  revelle.-*,  hatli  rec.  from  the  LI.  of  iiie  couuh«11 
order  that  the  L.  Chaiuberlen's  servuuutes  shall  not  be  did 
tourbed  at  the  Blackefryars,  according  with  tlieir  petition  in 
that  behalfe,  but  leiive  shall  be  given  untu  ibeym  to  make 
good  the  deciiye  of  the  suiJe  Hdusc,  butt  not  to  make  tl»e 
same  larger  then  iu  former  tyme  liatb  bene.  From  tiioffi'^ 
of  the  Revelies.  this  3  of  maie,  1596.  "  Rich.  Vealk." 

Thus  the  whole  tnmsaction  is  made  clear :  the  company^ 
soon  after  the  opening  of  the  Globe,  contemplated  the  repaiu 
and  enlargement  of  the  Blackfriars  theatre  :  the  iniiabitanta- 
of  the  precincts  objected  not  only  to  the  repair  and  euhirge- 
ment,  but  to  any  tlramatic  representations  iu  that  jMUt  of 
the  town:  the  company  petiUoned  to  be  alli/Wtd  to  cairy 
out  their  design,  as  regarded  the  restoration  of  the  edifice, 
i  and  the  increase  of  its  size;  but  the  pnvy  council  c..b^^.•uted 
only  that  the  building  should  be  repjiired.  We  an-  U>  c<>u 
elude,  therefore,  that  after  the  i-epairs  were  finished,  the 
theatre  would  hold  no  more  specUtors  than  formfrly  ;  but 
that  the  dilapidations  of  time  were  substantuilly  remedied, 
we  are  sure  from  the  tact,  that  Uie  house  coiitiuued  L>ng 
afterwards  to  be  employed  for  the  purpose  for  wliich  it  had 
been  originally  constrifctedl 

What  is  of 'most  importance  in  this  proceeding,  with  re- 
i  ference  to  Shakespeare,  is  the  circumstjiuce  up..u  which  we 
I  have  already  remarked ;  tliat  whereas  his  name,  iu  I58», 
stood  twelfth  iu  a  list  of  sixteen  shiuers,  in  1596  it  was  ad- 
vanced to  the  tiftli  pkce  in  im  enumeration  of  eight  persons, 
who  termed  theuiselves  "  owners  imd  phiyei-s  of  the  private 
house,  or  theatre,  iu  the  precinct  aud  Uberty  of  the   Black- 

remajne  open,  but  hereafter  to  be  shut  up  and  clo»4,  to  the  maaifM 
and  great  injuria  of  your  peiitiuners,  who  hive  no  oltier  mMM 
whereby  to  maintain  their  wive*  and  families,  but  by 
of  their  qualitie  as  they  have  hereiotore  done,  turther 
the  summer  season  your  I'eiiuoneni  are  able  to  playe  »t  thfir  ac« 
built  house  on  the  Bankside  calde  the  Oiobo.  but  ihii  in  me  wioito 
they  are  compelled  to  come  to  the  Biacklrien.;  and  il  your  nononbi- 
Lordshipps  give  con«ni  unto  that  which  u  prayde  agaan.t  your  »•- 
titioner^,  thay  will  not  onely,  while  the  winter  endur«.  lo».  Ui« 
meanes  whereby  they  now  support  them  selve.  and  their  l»n.il.«», 
but  be  unable  to  practise  thenuelvcs  in  anie  playe.  or  ta.tr.a<^ 
when  calde  upon  to   performe    for   the   recreauon   an!    ^-•.-'   o.  d« 

Ma"'  and  her  honorable  Court,  as  they  have  hrr~-  •■■■ -  vc» 

toined.     The   humble  prayer  of  your  I'etiii.  r  inai 

your  honorable  Lordshipps  grant  p«rmiision  :  ■•'<'" 

and  alterations  they  have  begun  ;  and  a»  your  m«- 

erto  been  well  ordered  in  their  behaviour,  ana  ,u..  ,i.  .  ....     -^..uft, 

.  that  your  honorable  Lordshipps  will  nut  inhibii  inem  "■;■■;  ^■;'"^/* 
their  above  namde  private  house  in  the  P«<='-"  "^  '''^; '''  w^U 
Blackfriers  and  your   Petitioner.,  a.  in  dune  mo.1  bounaeo.   wili 

;  fver  pray  for  "he  'increasing  honor  and  happinesse  of  vour  uonorabi. 

i  ^"/xtiTtimate  fate  of.  this  playhouse,  and  of  M_r.e_r._exi_,nn_?_a^ 
same  tixne, 


Exerc*. 


•  urtuonuorc. 


.  found  stated  m  a  subsiqu^nt  part  of  oor  i 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARi-:. 


friars."  It  is  not  difficult  to  suppose  thjit  the  speculation 
ut  Uic  01i>b<>  had  Iksou  reinarkaDly  sucoossful  in  its  first 
season,  and  that  the  Lord  Chiiinberlain's  servants  had  there- 
by beeu  induced  to  expend  money  upon  the  Blackfiiars,  in 
order  to  render  it  more  commodious,  as  well  as  more  capa- 
cious, under  the  calculation,  that  the  receipts  at  the  one 
bouse  dcriug  the  winter  would  be  greater  in  consequence  of 
th^ir  ptipuhirily  ut  tlie  other  during  the  summer. 

Where  Shakespeare  had  resided  from  the  time  when  he 
first  cjime  to  London,  until  the  period  of  which  we  are  now 
speaking,  we  have  no  itjformation  ;  but  in  July,  1596,  he 
was  living  in  Soutliwark,  perhaps  to  be  close  to  the  scene  of 
action,  and  more  effectually  to  superintend  the  performances 
at  the  trlobe,  which  were  continued  through  at  least  seven 
months  of  the  year.  We  know  not  whetlier  he  removed 
there  shortly  before  the  opening  of  the  Globe,  or  whether 
from  the  fii-st  it  liad  been  his  usual  place  of  abode ;  but 
Malone  tells  us,  "  From  a  paper  now  befoie  me,  which  for- 
merly belonged  to  Edwai-a  AUeyn,  the  player,  our  poet  ap- 
pears to  have  lived  in  Southwark,  near  the  Beai'-garden,  m 
1596'."  He  gives  us  no  fm-ther  insight  into  the  contents  of 
the  paper  ;  but  he  probably  referred  to  a  small  slip,  bor- 
rowed, with  other  relics  of  a  like  kind,  from  Dtilwich  Col- 
lege, many  of  which  were  returned  after  his  dciith.  Among 
those  returned  seems  to  have  been  the  paper  in  question, 
which  is  valuable  only  because  it  proves  distinctly,  that 
our  great  dramatist  was  an  inhabitant  of  Southwark  very 
■800U  after  the  Globe  was  in  operation,  although  it  by  no 
means  esbibhshes  that  he  had  not  been  resident  there  long 
before.  We  subjoin  it  exactly  as  it  stands  in  the  original : 
the  hand-writing  i.s  ignoi-ant,  the  spelling  peculiar,  and  it 
was  evidently  merely  a  hasty  and  impei'fect  memorandum.— 

"  Inhabitautes  of  Sowtherk  as  have  complaned,  this  —  of 
Jolly,  1596. 

Mr  Markis 

Mr  Tuupin 

Mr  Limgorth 

Wilsooe  the  pvper 

Mr  Barett 

Mr  Shaksper 

rhellipcs 

Tornson 

Mother  Golden  the  baude 

Nugtfes 

FUlpott  and  no  more,  and  soe  well  ended." 

This  is  the  whole  of  the  fragment,  for  such  it  appears  to 
be,  and  w-ithout  farther  explanation,  which  we  have  not 
been  able  to  find  in  any  other  document,  in  the  depository 
where  the  abtjve  is  preserved  or  elsewhere,  it  is  impossible 
to  un<lerstand  more,  than  that  Shakespwire  and  other  in- 
habitants of  Southwark  had  made  some  complaint  in  July 
1596,  which,  we  may  guess,  was  hostile  to  the  wishes  of  the 
•writer,  who  congratulated  himself  thiit  the  matter  wtis  so 
well  at  an  end.  Some  of  the  parties  named,  including  our 
great  dramatist.,  continued  resic^nt  in  Southwark  long  after- 
wardr,  as  we  shall  have  occasion  in  its  proper  place  to 
show.  'I'iie  writer  seems  to  have  been  desirons  of  speaking 
derogatMrily  of  all  the  persons  he  enumerates,  but  still  he 
designates  some  sis  "  Mr.  Markis,  Mr.  Tuppin,  Mr.  Langortli, 
Mr.  Barett,  and  Mr.  Shaksper ;"  but  "  Phellipes'^  Tomaon, 
Nagges,  and  Fillpott,"  he  only  mentions  by  their  surnames, 
while  he  adds  the  words  "  the  pyper  "  and  "  the  baude  "  after 
■'  Wil.«one'  "  and  "  Mother  Golden,"  probably  to  indicate  that 
any  cjmplaint  from  them  ought  t^i  have  but  little  weight.  All 
ihik,  we  eertaiuly  collect  from  the  memorandum  is  what  Ma- 
lone gathered  from  it,  that  in  July  1596,  (Malone  only  gives 
the  y  ;ar,  and  adds  "  near  the  Bear  garden,"  which  we  do  not ! 
find  Tonfirmed  by  the  contents  of  the  paper)  in  the  middle 


'  "'nqairy 
rewtrvpii  partir 
live  to  comjile 

«  T  lis  may 
eonip'>ny  of  th 
foorth  in  the  i 
b'.e  two  jean 
pronred  on  the 
»Bd  '•  fellows,' 
Shft!ieif> -ire 


into  the  Aathent 

nlani  f<r  his  "  Life  of  Shakespeare.' 


;y,"  Ac.  p.  21.5.  He  Keems  to  have 
f  Shakespeare.*'  which  he  did  not 
le,  and  ;rhich  wa«  imperfectly  finished  by  Ho8well. 
have  been  Augaitine  Phillippes,  who  belonped  to  the 
B  Lord  Chamberlnin's  servants,  and  whose  name  standg 
oyal  license  of  May  ItJO.'J.  He  died  as  nearly  as  possi- 
afterwards,  his  will  being  dated  on  the  4lh  .May,  and  : 
nth  May,  IfWJ.S.  Araone  other  bequesU  to  his  friends  | 
'  he  gave  '■  a  thirty-shillinf;s  piece  of  pold  "  to  William  j 
He    was    »    distinpoisho'i    comic    performer     and    the  [ 


of  what  we  have  considered  the  second  season  at  the  new 
theatre  willed  the  Globe,  Shakespeare  wiis  an  inhabitrovt  of 
Southwai-k.  'lliat  he  had  removed  thither  for  the  sakv>  of 
convenience,  and  of  being  nearer  to  the  spot,  is  not  unlikely 
but  we  have  no  evidence  upon  the  point  as  there  is  reason 
to  believe  that  Burbage,  tlie  principal  actor  at  the  (*.'obe, 
lived  in  Holywell  Street,  Shoreditch,  near  the  Curtain  play- 
liouse\  such  an  arrangement,  as  regards  Shakespeare  and  tb« 
Globe,  seems  the  more  probable 


CHAPTER  XI 

Chancery  suit  iri  1597  by  John  Shakespeare  and  his  wife  to 
recover  Asbyes  :  tlieir  bill ;  the  answer  of  John  Lambvit; 
and  the  replication  of  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare.  Proba- 
ble result  of  the  suit.  William  Shakespeare's  annual  visit 
to  Stratford.  Death  of  his  son  llamnet  in  1596.  (General 
scarcity  in  England,  and  its  ettVets  at  Stratford.  The  quan- 
tity of  corn  in  the  hands  of  William  Shakespeare  and  his 
neighbours  in  February,  1598.  Ben  Joiison's  "  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour,"  and  probable  instrumentality  of  Shake- 
speare in  the  origiiuil  production  of  it  on  the  stage.  Ilens- 
lowe's  letter  respecting  the  death  of  Gabriel  Spenser. 

We  have  already  mentioned  that  in  1578  John  Shakespeare 
and  his  wife,  in  order  to  relieve  themselves  from  pecuniary 
embarrassment,  mortgiiged  the  small  estate  of  the  latter, 
called  Asbyes,  at  Wilmecote  in  the  parish  of  Aston  Cant- 
lowe,  to  Edmund  Lambert,  for  the  sum  of  40/.  As  it  con- 
sisted of  nearly  sixty  acres  of  laud,  with  a  dwelling-house, 
it  mi.st  have  been  worth,  perhaps,  three  times  the  sum  ad- 
vanced, and  by  the  admission  of  all  parties,  the  mortgagers 
were  again  to  be  put  in  possession,  if  they  repaid  the  money 
borrowed  on  or  before  Michaelmivs-day,  1680.  According  to 
the  assertion  of  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare,  they  tendered 
the  40/.  on  the  day  appointed,  but  it  was  refused,  unless 
other  moneys,  which  they  owed  to  the  mortgagee,  were  re- 
paid at  the  same  time.  Edmund  Lambert  (perhaps  the 
father  of  Edward  Lambert,  whom  tlie  eldest  sister  of  Mary 
Shakespeare  had  married)  died  in  1586,  in  possession  of 
Asbyes,  and  from  him  it  descended  to  his  eldest  son,  John 
Lambert,  who  continued  to  withhold  it  in  1597  from  those 
who  claimed  to  be  its  rightful  owners. 

In  order  to  recover  the  property,  Jfihn  and  Mary  Shake- 
speare filed  a  bill  in  chancery,  on  24th  Nov.  1597,  against 
John  Lambert  of  Barton-on-the-Heath,  in  which  they  al- 
leged the  fact  of  the  tender  and  refusal  of  the  40/.  by  Ed- 
mund Lambert,  who,  wishing  to  keep  the  estate,  no  doubl 
coupled  with  the  tender  a  condition  not  included  in  the  deed 
The  advance  of  other  moneys,  the  repayment  of  which  wai 
re(juired  by  p]dmund  Lambert  was  not  denied  by  John  and 
Mary  Shakespeare,  but  they  contended  that  they  had  done 
all  the  law  required,  to  entitle  them  to  the  restoration  of 
theu-  esbite  of  Asbyes :  in  their  bill  they  also  set  forth,  that 
John  Lambert  was  "  of  great  wealth  and  ability,  and  well 
friended  and  allied  amongst  gentlemen  and  freeholders  of 
the  country,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,"  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  they  were  "  of  small  wealth,  and  very  few  friends  and 
alliance  in  the  said  county."  The  answer  of  John  Lambert 
merely  denied  that  tlie  40/.  had  been  tendered,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  he  alleged  that  his  father  became  "  law 
fully  and  absolutely  seised  of  the  premises,  in  his  denies* 
as  of  fee."  T(j  this  answer  Jolm  and  Mary  Siiakespeai 
put  in  a  replication,  reiterating  the  asseilrion  of  the  teudei 
and  refusal  of  the  40/.  on  Michj.elmas-day.  1580,  and  pray 
ing  Lord  Keeper  Egerton  (afterwards  Baron  EUesmere)  U 
decree  in  their  favour  accordingly. 

earliest  notice  we  have  of  him  is  prior  to  the  death  of  Tarlton  in 
l;i88. 

'  It  is  just  possible  that  by  "  Wilsone  the  pyper  "  the  writer  meant 
to  point  out  ''Jack  Wilson,"  the  singer  of  "  Sigh  no  more,  ladief  " 
in^'V-  -  - 


Much  ado  about  Nothing,"  who,  naight  be,  and  probably 
■'.Memoirs 
ward  All'eyn,"  (printed  by  the   ShaJcespeaxe  Society)  p.  15:j,  for  a 
of  •'  M 
the  fo 
Malone's  Sbakspeare  by  Boewel 


player  upon  some  wind  instrument.     See  also  the 

rn,"  (printed  by  the   Shake 
tice  of  •'  Mr.  Wil.*nn.   the  singer."'  when  he  dined  on  one  ooc-»Jicr 
with  the  founde'of  Oulwich  College. 

11.  i.i.  p.  189. 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


If  any  decree  xere  pronounced,  it  is  singular  that  no 
»ra<">  <<i  it  should  have  been  preserved  either  in  the  records 
of  the  Court  of  (Jhaucery,  or  among  the  papers  of  Lord 
Ellesniere ;  but  such  is  the  fact,  and  the  inference  is,  that 
the  suit  was  settled  by  the  parties  without  proceeding  to 
this  extremity.  We  can  have  little  doubt  that  the  bill  had 
been  filed  with  the  concurrence,  and  at  the  instance,  of  our 
great  dramatist,  who  at  this  date  was  rapidly  acquiring 
wealth,  although  his  father  and  mother  put  forward  in  their 
bill  their  own  poverty  and  powerlessness,  compared  with 
the  riches  and  influence  of  then-  opponent.  Wilhani  Shake- 
speare must  have  been  aware,  that  during  the  kst  seven- 
teen yeai-s  his  father  and  mother  had  been  deprived  of  their 
right  to  Asbyes  :  in  all  probability  his  money  was  employed 
in  order  to  commence  and  prosecute  the  suit  in  Chancery  : 
and  unless  we  suppose  them  to  have  stated  aad  re-stated"  a 
dehberate  falsehood,  respectiog  the  tender  of  the  40/.,  it  is 
very  clear  that  they  had  equity  on  their  side.  We  think, 
therefore,  we  may  conclude  that  John  Lambert,  finding 
he  had  no  chance  of  success,  relinquished  liis  claim  to  Asbyes, 

Eerhaps  on  the  payment  of  the  40/.  and  of  the  sums  which 
_  is  father  had  requii-ed  from  John  and  Mary  Shiikespeare 
in  1580,  and  which  in  1597  they  did  not  dispute  to  have 
been  due. 

Among  other  matters  set  forth  by  John  Lambert  in  his 
answer  is,  that  the  Shakespeares  were  anxious  to  regain 
possession  of  Asbyes,  because  the  current  lease  was  near 
its  expiriition,  and  they  hoped  to  be  able  to  obtain  an  im- 
proved rent  Supposing  it  to  have  been  restored  to  their 
hands,  the  fact  may  be  that  they  did  not  let  it  again,  but 
cultivated  it  themselves ;  and  we  have  at  this  period  some 
new  documentary  evidence  to  produce,  leading  to  the  belief 
that  our  poet  was  a  knd-owner,  or  at  all  e\'ents  a  land-oc- 
cupier, to  some  extent  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon. 

Aubrey  informs  us,  (and  there  is  not  only  no  reason  for 
disbelieving  his  statement,  but  every  grouud  for  giving  it 
credit)  that  William  Shakespeare  was  "  wont  to  go  to  his 
native  country  once  a  year."  Without  seeking  for  any  evi- 
dence upon  the  question,  nothing  is  more  natural  or  proba- 
ble ;  and  when,  therefore,  he  had  acquired  sufficient  pro- 
perty, he  might  be  anxious  to  settle  his  family  comfortably 
and  independently  in  Stratford.  We  must  suppose  that  his 
father  and  mother  were  mainly  dependent  upon  him,  not- 
withstanding thv  recovery  of  the  small  estate  of  the  latter 
at  Wilmecote ;  and  he  may  have  employed  his  brother 
Gilbert,  who  was  two  years  and  a  half  younger  than  hun- 
self,  and  perhaps  accustomed  to  agricultural  pursuits,  to 
look  after  his  farming  concerns  in  the  country,  while  he 
himself  w;is  absent  superintending  his  highly  profitable 
theatrical  undertakmgs  m  London.   In  1595,  1596,  and  1597, 


faithful  chronicler,  to  "  the  late  greatest  price'."  Malone 
lound,  and  printed,  a  letter  from  Abraham  Sturley,  of  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, dated  24th  Jan.,  1597-8,  stating  that  his 
''neighbours  groaned  with  the  wants  thev  felt  through  the 
dearness  of  coru^"  and  that  malcontents  "in  great  nuinbei-s 
had  gone  to  Sir  Thorns  Lucy  and  Sir  Fulke  GreviUe  t.. 
complain  of  the  maltsters  for  engrossing  it.  Connected  with 
this  dearth,  the  Shakespeare  Society  has  been  put  in  pos- 
session of  a  document  of  much  value  as  regards  the  bio 
graphy  of  our  poet,  although,  at  first  sight,  ft  mav  not  ap 
pear  to  deserve  notice,  it  is  sui-e  in  the  end  to  attract.  It  is 
thus  headed  : — • 

"  The  noate  of  come  and  make,  taken  the  4th  of  Fsbraury, 
1597,  in  the  40t.h  year  of  the  raigne  of  our  most  tfra- 
cious  Soveraigne  Ludie,  Queen  EILzabetli,  .fee."' 

and  in  the  margin  opposite  the  title  are  the  words  "  Strat- 
forde  Burroughe,  Warwicke."  It  was  evidently  prepared 
In  order  to  ascertam  how  much  corn  and  malt  there  really 
was  in  the  town  ;  and  it  is  divided  into  two  columns,  one 
showing  the  "  Townsmen's  com,"  anci  the  other  the  "  Stran- 
gers' maltV  The  names  of  the  Townsmen  and  Strangers 
(when  known)  are  all  given,  with  the  wards  m  which  they 
resided,  so  that  we  are  enabled  by  this  document,  among 
other  things,  to  prove  in  what  part  of  Stratford  the  family 
of  our  great  poet  then  dwelt :  it  was  in  Chapel-street  Ward, 
and  it  appears  that  at  the  date  of  the  account  William 
Shakespeare  had  ten  quarters  of  com  in  his  possession.  As 
some  may  be  curious  to  see  who  were  his  immediate  neigh- 
bours, and  in  what  order  the  names  are  given,  we  copy  tbt 
account,  as  far  as  it  rektes  to  Chapel-street  Ward,  ex'actly 
as  it  stands. — 

Chapple  Street  Ward. 

3  Frauncis  Smythe,  Juu'.,  3  quarters. 

5  John  Co.\c,  5  quarters. 

17i  M^  Thomas  Dyxon,  17i  quarters. 

3  M'.  Thomas  Barbor,  3  quarters. 

5  Myciiaeil  Hare,  5  quarters. 

6  M'.  Bifieide,  6  quarters. 
6  Hugh  Aynger,  6  quarters. 

6  Thomas  Badsey,  6  quarters — barelev  1  quarter. 
1.  2  str.  John  Kogers,  10  strikes. 

8  W"".  Emmettes,  8  quarters. 

U  M'.  Aspiiml),  aboute  11  quarters. 

10  W™.  Stiackespere,  10  quarters. 

7  Jul.  Shawe,  7  quarters." 

We  shall  have  occasion  hereafter  again  to  refer  to  this 
document  upon  another  point,  but  in  the  mean  time  we  may 
emark  that  the  name  of  John  Shakespeare  is  not  found  in 
any  part  of  it     This  fact  gives  additional  probability  to  the 


our   poet  must  have  been  in  the  receipt  of  a  considerable  j  behef  that  the  two  old  people,  possibly  with  some  of  their 
-'     -  ■        ■  ■  •  "    ■      children,  were  hving  in  the  house  of  their  st^m  WilUam,  for 

such  may  be  the  reason  why  we  do  not  find  John  Shake 
speare  mentioned  in  the  account  as  the  owner  of  any  <x>tu. 
It  may  like\vise  iu  part  explain  how  it  happened  that  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  was  in  possession  <jf  so  large  a  quantity  : 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  his  family,  in  time  of  scar 
city,  he  would  be  uaturidly  desirous  to  be  well  pr^>vidcHl 
with  the  main  article  of  subsistence ;  or  it  is  very  possible 


and  an  mcreasing  income:  he  was  part  proprietor  of  the 
Bkekfriars  and  the  Globe  theatres,  both  excellent  specula- 
tions ;  he  was  an  actor,  doubtless  earniug  a  good  salary,  in- 
dependently of  the  proceeds  of  his  shares ;  and  he  was  the 
most  popular  and  appkuded  dramatic  poet  of  the  day.  In 
the  summer  he  might  find,  or  make,  leisure  to  visit  his  na- 
tive town,  and  we  may  be  tolerably  sure  that  he  was  there 
iu  August,  1596,  when  he  had  the  misfortune   to  lose  his 

only  son  Hamuet,  one  of  the  tvrins  born  early  in  the  spring   that,  as  a  grower  of  grain,  he  might  keep  some  in  store  for 
of  1585  ;  the  boy  completed  his  eleventh  year  in  February,  i  sale  to  those  who  were  iu  w;uit  of  it.      i'en  quarters  dc 


1596,  so  that  his  death  iu  August  following  must  have  been 
i  very  severe  trial  for  his  parents'. 

Stow  informs  us,  that  iu  1596  the  price  of  provisions  in 
England  was  so  higli,  that  the  bushel  of  wheat  was  sold  for 
six,  seven,  and  eight  shilhngs^ :  the  dearth  continued  and 
mcreased  thi'ough,  1597,  and  in  August  of  that  year  the 
price  of  the  bushel  of  wheat  had  risen  to  thii-teen  shilhngs, 


not  seem  much  more  than  would  be  needed  for  his  owi 
consumption ;  but  it  affords  some  proof  of  his  means  luiii 
substance  at  this  date,  that  only  two  pers«^'ns  iu  Clui|>tl 
street  Ward  had  a  larger  quantity  in  their  hands.  We  are 
led  to  infer  from  this  circumstance  that  our  great  dramatist 
may  have  been  a  cultivator  of  land,  and  it  is  not  uuUkely 
tliat  the  wheat  in  his  granary  had  been  grown  on  his  nuv 


to  ten  shillings,  and  rose  again,  in  the  words  of  the  old  ther's  estate  of  Asbyes,  at  Wihnecote,  of  which  we  know 


'  The  folio-wing  is  the  form  of  the  < 
»M  of  the  church  of  Stratford  : — 


:y  of  the  burial  in  the  regis- 


"1596.     ./Juo-ustll.     HamnetjUius  milinm  Shakspere.'' 
»  Annales,  edit.  1615,  p.  1279.  3  ibid.  p.  1304. 

«  Malone's  Shakspeare.  by  Boswell,  vol.  ii.  p   566. 
•  In  the  indorsement  of  the  document  it  is  stated,  that  the  To-7 
mfn's  malt  amounted  to  1 19  Quartpr?  and   t-a  ->  ■'  strik-e  "  or  ba.-l 


besides  9  quarters  of  barley— th  ^ir  peas,  beans,  and  Tetches  to  lo 
quarters,  and  their  oats  to  12  quarters  The  malt,  the  property  of 
Strangers,  amounted  to  248  quarters  and  5  strike,  tcget;.er  -with  3 
quraters  of  peas.  Besides  malt,  the  Town.'imen,  it  is  said,  -were  in 
possession  of  4.3  quarters  and  a  h?lf  ol"  "  wheAi  and  mJU-com.""  aad 
of  10  quraters  and  6  strike  of  barli  r  ;  but  it  seems  to  have  been  ecu 
siderablv  more,  even  in  Ch.ip<>l-8trfet  Wai  \. 


hi 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


that  DO  fewer  than  fifty,  out  of  about  sixty,  acree  were 
Bi-able'. 

We  must  now  return  to  London  and  to  theatrical  affairs 
there,  and  in  the  first  place  advert  to  a  passage  in  Rowe's 
Life  ot  Shakespeare,  relating  to  the  real  or  supposed  c<)m- 
meneeinout  i>f  the  connexion  between  our  great  dramatist 
and  Ben  Jonson^  Rowe  tells  us  that  "  Shakespeare's  ao- 
qiuiiriUiuce  with  Ben  Jonson  began  with  a  remarkable  piece 
of  humauity  and  good  nature.  Mr.  Jonson,  who  was  at 
that  time  altogether  unknown  to  the  world,  had  oiTered  one 
of  his  plays  t*)  the  players,  in  order  to  have  it  acted ;  and 
tlie  j  erstms  into  whose  himds  it  was  put,  after  having  turned 
it  cArelessly  and  superciliously  over,  were  just  upon  return- 
ing it  t<>  him  with  an  ill-natured  answer,  that  it  would  be 
of  no  service  to  their  company,  when  Shakespeare,  luckily, 
cast  his  eye  upon  it,  and  found  something  so  well  in  it,  as  to 
engage  liiin  firet  to  re«d  it  through,  and  afterwards  to  re- 
commend Mr.  Jonson  and  his  writings  to  the  public."  This 
anecdote  is  entirely  disbelieved  by  Mr.  Gifford,  and  he  rests 
hi*  incredulity  upon  the  supposition,  that  Ben  Jonson's  ear- 
liest known  production,  "  Every  Man  iu  his  Humour,"  was 
originally  acted  in  1597  at  a  different  theatre,  and  he  pro- 
duces as  evidence  Heuslowe's  Diary,  which,  he  states,  proves 
that  the  comedy  came  out  at  the  Rose". 

The  truth,  however,  is,  that  the  play  supposed,  on  the 
authority  of  Henslowe,  to  be  Ben  Jonson's  comedy,  is  only 
called  bv  Henslowe  "  Humoui-s  "  or  "  Umers,"  as  he  igno- 
i-antlv  siK'lls  it*.  It  is  a  mere  speculation  that  this  was  Ben 
Jonsou's  play,  for  it  may  have  been  any  other  performance, 
by  any  other  poet,  iu  the  title  of  which  the  word  "  Hu- 
mours "  occurred ;  and  we  have  the  indisputable  and  une- 
quivocal testimony  of  Ben  Jonson  himself  in  his  own  au- 
thorized edition  of  his  works  in  1616,  that  "  Every  Man  in 
his  Humour  "  was  not  acted  until  1598  :  he  was  not  satisfied 
with  stating  on  the  title-page,  that  it  was  "  acted  in  the  year 
1598  by  the  then  Lord  Chamberlain  his  servants,"  which 
might  have  been  considered  sufficient ;  but  in  this  instance 
(as  in  all  others  in  the  same  volume)  he  informs  us  at  the 
end  that  1598  was  the  year  in  which  it  was  firxt  acted  : — 
"This  ojmedy  was  first  acted  in  the  year  1598."  Are  we 
prepared  to  disbelieve  Ben  Jonson's  positive  assertion  (a 
man  of  the  highest  and  purest  notions,  as  regarded  truth 
and  integrity)  for  the  sake  of  a  theory  founded  upon  the 
bare  aasumptitju,  that  Henslowe  by  "  Umers "  not  only 
meant  Ben  Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  but  could 
mean  nothing  else  ? 

Had  it  Vx-en  brought  out  originally  by  the  Lord  Admi- 
ral's players  at  the  Rose,  and  acted  with  so  much  success 
that  it  was  repeated  eleven  times,  as  Heuslowe's  Diary 
shows  was  the  case  with  "  Umers,"  there  can  be  no  appa- 
rent reason  why  Ben  Jonson  should  not  have  said  so  ;  and 
if  he  liad  afterwards  withdrawn  it  on  some  pique,  and  car- 
ried it  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  players,  we  can  hardly 
Cijuceive  it  possible  that  a  man  of  Ben  Jonson's  temper  and 
spirit  would  not  have  told  us  why  in  some  other  part  of  his 
works. 

Mr.  Gifford,  passing  over  without  notice  the  positive  state- 
ment we  have  quoted,  respecting  the  first  acting  of  "  Every 
Man  ill  his  Humour  "  by  tne  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants 
m  1598.  proceeds  to  argue  that  Ben  Jonson  could  stand  in 
net-d  of  no  such  assistance,  as  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have 

»  Malone'i  Shakespeare,  bjr  Boewell,  vol.  ii.  n.  25 

>  For  the  material*  of  the  following  note,  which  sett  right  an  im- 
bort^n*.  error  relating  to  Ben  Jonson'i  mother,  we  are  indeoted  to  Mr 
Veter  Cunningham. 

.Malone  and  GiiTord  (Ben  Jonson'i  Worki,  vol.  i.  p.  5)  both  came  to 
he  conclusion  that  the  .Mn.  Marcaret  Jonson.  mentioned  in  the 
-epnter  of  St.  Martan'i  in  the  Fields  as  having  been  married,  17th 
Aiovember,  l.'iTS,  to  Mr  Thomaji  Fowler,  was  the  mother  of  Ben  Jon- 
son. who  then  took  a  second  huhband.  "There  cannot  be  a  reasona^ 
hie  dcabl  of  it,"  says  Giflord  ;  bu'.  the  fact  is  nerertheless  certainly 
othenvise.  It  appears  that  3en  Jonxon's  mother  was  living  after  the 
oomedy  of  '"  Eastward  Ho  I"  which  cave  offence  to  King  James,  (and 
which  wa«  printed  in  1605,)  was  brought  out. — (Laing's  edit,  of 
'Ben  Jonson's  Conversations,"  p.  20.)  It  is  incontestable  that  the 
Mrs.  .Margaret  Fowler,  who  was  married  in  1575,  was  dead  before 
*.5ft5  ;  for  her  husband,  Mr.  Thomas  Fowler,  was  then  buried,  and  in 
the  inscription  upon  his  tomb,  in  the  old  church  of  St.  Martin's  in 
the  Fields,  it  was  stated  that  he  stmrived  his  three  wives,  Ellen.  Mar- 
garet, as 4  Elizabeth,  who  were  buried  in  the  lame  grave.    The  iu- 


afforded  liim,  because  he  was  "  as  well  known,  and  perhaps 
better,"  than  Shakespeare  himself.  Surely,  with  all  defer 
ence  for  Mr.  GifTord's  undisputed  acuteness  and  general  ao 
curacy,  we  may  doubt  how  Ben  Jonson  could  be  better,  oi 
even  sis  well  known  as  Shakespeare,  when  the  latter  had 
been  for  twelve  years  connected  with  the  stage  as  author 
and  actor,  anc^  had  written,  at  the  lowest  calculation,  twelv* 
dramas,  while  \he  former  was  only  twenty-four  years  old 
and  had  produced  no  known  play  but  "  Every  Man  in  hie 
Hmnour."  It  is  also  to  be  observed,  that  Hensl  )we  had  xic 
pecuniary  transactions  with  Ben  Jonson  prior  to  the  mouth 
of  August,  1598 ;  whereas,  if  "  Umers"  had  been  purchased 

I  from  him,  we  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  find  some  me 
morandum  of  payments,  anterior  to  the  production  c  f  th# 
comedy  on  the  stage  in  May,  1597. 

!      Add  to  this,  thjit  nothing  could  be  more  consistent  witl. 

I  the  amiable  and  generous  character  of  Shakespeare,  thau 
that  he  should  thus  have  interested  himself  in  favour  of  a 
writer  who  was  ten  years  his  junior,  and  who  gave  such 
undoubted  proofs  of  genius  as  are  displayed  in  "  Every  Man 

'■  iu  liis  Humour."  Our  great  dramatist,  established  in  public 
favour  by  such  comedies  as  •'  The  Mei-chant  of  Venice "'  an  1 

\ "  A  Midsummer   Night's   Dream."  by  such  a  tragedy  as 

I"  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  and  by  such  histories  as  "  King  John." 
"  Richard  II.,"  and  "  Richard  III.,"  must  have  felt  himself 
above  all  rivalry,  and  could  well  afford  this  act  of  "  hu- 

:  manity  and  good-nature,"  as  Rowe  tei-ms  it,  (though  Mr. 
Gifford,  quoting   Rowe's  words,  accidentally  omits  the  two 

]  last)  on  behalf  of  a  young,  needy,  and  meritorious  author. 
It  is  to  be  recollected  also  that  Rowe,  the  original  narrator 

{ of  the  incident,  does  not,  as  iu  several  other  cases,  give  it  as 
if  he  at  all  doubted  its  correctness,  but  mihesitatingly  and 
distinctly,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  well  known,  and  entiiely 
believed",  at  the  time  he  wrote. 

Another  circumstance  may  be  noticed  as  an  incidental 
confirmation  of  Rowe's  statement,  with  which  Mr.  Gitto-.d 
could  not  be  acquainted,  because  the  fact  has  only  been  re- 
cently discovered.  In  1598  Ben  Jonson,  being  then  v>nly 
twenty-four  years  old,  had  a  quarrel  with  Gabriel  Spence:-, 
one  of  Henslowe's  principal  actors,  in  consequence  of  which 
they  met,  fought,  and  Spencer  was  killed.  Henslowe,  wiit- 
ingto  Alleyn  on  the  subject  on  the  26th  September,  ust-s 
these  words: — "  Since  you  were  with  me,  I  have  lost  one 
of  my  company,  which  hurteth  me  greatly  ;  that  is  Gabriel, 
for  he  is  slain  "in  Hoxton  Fields  by  the  hands  of  Benjamin 
Jonson,  bricklayer*."  Now,  had  Ben  Jonson  been  at  that 
date  the  author  of  the  comedy  called  "  Umers,"  and  had  it 
been  his  "  Every  man  in  his  Humour,"  which  was  acted  by 
the  Lord  Adniual's  players  eleven  timea,  it  is  not  very 
likely  that  Henslowe  would  have  been  ignorant  who  Benja- 
min Jonson  was,  and  have  spoken  of  him,  not  as  one  of  the 
dramatists  in  his  pay,  and  the  author  of  a  very  successful 
comedy,  but  merely  as  "  bricklayer :"  he  was  writing  also 
to  his  step-daughter's  husband,  the  leading  member  of  his 
company,  to  whom  he  would  have  been  ready  to  give  the 
fullest  information  regarding  the  disastrous  affair.  We  only 
adduce  this  additional  matter  to  show  the  improbability  of 
the  aasmnption,  that  Ben  Jonson  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  comedy  of  "  Umeis,"  acted  by  Henslowe's  company  iu 
May,  1597  ;  and  the  probability  t^f  the  position  that,  as  ben 
Jonson  himself  states,  it  was  originally  brought  out  in  1 59S 

scription  (which  we  have  seen  in  Strype's  edit,  of  Stowe's  Sun'ey, 
1720,  b.  vi.  p.  09)  informs  us  also,  that  Mr.  Thomas  Fowler  was  "  born 
at  Wicam,  in  the  county  of  Lancaster."  and  that  he  had  been 
"Comptroller  and  PaymasUr  of  the  Work.s  "  to  Queen  Mary,  and 
for  the  first  ten  years  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  date  of  bis  death  ii 
not  stated  in  the  inscription,  but  bv  the  register  of  the  church  it  r.p- 
pears  that  he  was  buried  on  the  aOth  .May.  1 'id).  The  :\Irs.  Mnr-urel 
Fowler,  who  died  before  1595,  could  not  have  been  the  mother  of 
Ben  Jonson,  who  was  living  about  ItiUt  ;  and  if  Ben  Jonson's  mo- 
ther married  a  second  time,  we  have  yet  to  ascertain  who  was  he: 
second  husband. 

3  The  precise  form  in  which  the  entry  stands  in  Hen«Iowe's  ao 
count  book  is  this  : — 

"  Maye  1597.  11.    It.  at  the  comodey  of  Vmers." 

«  Ben  Jonson's  Works,  8vo.  l!^16,  vol.  i.  p.  46. 

»  See  '"Memoirs  of  Edward  Alleyn,"  p.  51.  The  author  ol  thai 
work  has  since  seen  reason  to  correct  himself  on  this  and  several  othei 
points. 


THE  LIFE   OF  AVILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


bj  " the.  then  Loid  Chamborlain's  servants."  It  may  have 
been,  and  probably  was,  acted  by  them,  because  Shake- 
speare hadkindiy  interposed  with  his  associates  on  behalf 
of  the  deserving  and  unfriended  author. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Restriction  of  dramatic  performances  in  and  near  London  in 
1597.  Thomas  Nash  and  his  play,  "  The  Isle  of  Do^s  :" 
imprisonment  of  Nash,  and  of  some  of  the  players  of  the 
Lord  Admiral.  Favour  shown  to  the  companies  of  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  aad  of  the  Lord  Admiral.  Printing  of 
Shakespeare's  Plays  in  1597.  The  list  of  his  known  dra- 
mas, published  by  F.  Meres  in  1598.  Shakespeare  author- 
ized the  printing  of  none  of  his  plays,  and  never  corrected 
the  press.  Carelessness  of  dramatic  authors  in  this  respect. 
"  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  1599.  Shakespeare's  reputation 
as  a  dramatist. 

In  the  summer  of  1597  an  event  occurred  which  seems  to 
have  produced  for  a  time  a  serious  restriction  upon  dramatic 
performances.  The  celebarted  Thomas  Nash,  early  m  the 
year,  had  written  a  comedy  which  he  called  "  The  Isle  of 
Dogs  :"  that  he  had  partners  in  the  undertaking  there  is  no 
doubt ;  and  he  tells  us,  in  his  tract  called  "  Lenten  Stuff," 
printed  in  1599,  tliiit  the  phiyers,  when  it  was  acted  by  the 
Lord  Admiral's  servants  in  the  beginning  of  August,  1597, 
had  taken  most  unwarrantable  liberties  with  his  piece,  by 
making  large  additions,  for  which  he  ought  not  to  have 
been  responsible.  The  exact  nature  of  the  performance  is 
not  known,  but  it  was  certainly  satirical,  no  doubt  personal, 
and  it  must  have  had  refereuce  also  to  some  of  the  polemi- 
cal and  political  questions  of  the  day.  The  repi-esentation 
of  it  was  forbidden  by  authority,  and  Nash,  with  others, 
was  arrested  under  an  order  from  the  privy  council,  and 
eent  to  the  Fleet  prison'.  Some  of  the  offending  actors  had 
e«cajied  for  a  time,  and  the  privy  council,  not  satisfied  with 
what  had  been  ab'eady  done  in  the  way  of  punishment, 
wrf>te  from  Greenwich  on  loth  August,  1597,  to  certain 
magistrates,  requiring  them  strictly  to  examine  all  the  par- 
ties in  cust(jdy,  with  a  view  to  the  discovery  of  others  not 
yet  at.prehended.  This  important  official  letter,  which  has 
hitherto  been  unmeutioned,  we  have  inserted  in  a  note  from 
the  registers  of  the  privy  council  of  that  date ;  and  by  it 
we  learn,  not  only  that  Nash  was  the  author  of  the  "  sedi- 
tious and  slanderous  "  comedy,  but  possibly  himself  an  ac- 
tor in  it,  and  "  the  maker  of  part  of  the  said  play,"  especi- 
ally pointed  at,  who  was  in  custody''. 

Before  the  date  of  this  incident  the  companies  of  various 
play-houses  iu  the  county  of  Middlesex,  but  particularly  at 
the  Cm-tain  and  Theatre  m  Shoreditch  liad  attracted  atten- 
tion, and  given  offence,  by  the  licentious  character  of  their 
performances  ;  and  the  registers  of  the  privy  council  show 

'  The.  circumstance  was  thus  alluded  to  by  Francis  Meres  in  the 
next  year  : — ''As  Actseon  was  wooried  of  his  owne  hounds,  so  is  Tom 
Nash  of  his  He  of  Dogs.  Dogges  were  the  death  of  Euripides  ;  but 
bee  not  disconsolate,  gallant  young  Juvenall;  Linus  the  sonne  of 
Apollo  died  the  sanae  death.  Yet,  (jod  forbid,  that  so  brave  a  witte 
»hould  so  basely  perish  :  thine  are  but  paper  dogges  ;  neither  is  thy 
banishment,  like  Ovid's,  eternally  to  converse  with  the  barbarois 
Getes  :  therefore,  comfort  thyselfe,  sweete  Tom,  with  Cicero's  glori- 
ous return  to  Rorr.e,  and  with  the  counsel  Aeneas  gives  to  his  sea- 
beaten  soldiers,  lib.  i.  Aeneid  : — 

'  Pluck  up  thine  heart,  and  drive  firom  thence  both  feare  and  sare 
away  , 
To  thinke  on  this  may  pleasure  be  perhaps  another  day.' 
"  Durato,  et    *«J»et  rebus  servato  secundis." — Palladia  Tamia,  1598, 
fo.  286. 

'  Tlie  mir>i:t'  in  the  registers  of  the  privy  council  (pointed  out  to 
us  by  Mr.  Lemorl  is  this  : — 

•'A  lettor  to  Richard  Topclyfe,  Thomas  Fowler,  and  Ric.  Skeving- 
ton,  Esqui'.es.  Doccour  Fletcher,  and  Mr.  Wilbraham. 

"  Upcn  information  given  us  of  a  lewd  plaie,  that  was  plaied  in  one 
»f  the  plaie  bowses  on  the  Bancke  side,  containing  very  seditious 
\ni  solaunderous  matters,  wee  caused  some  of  the  players  to  be  ap- 
piehsndtd  and  ccmytted  to  pryson,  whereof  one  of  thera  was  not  only 
an  actor,  but  a  maker  of  parte  of  the  said  plaie.  For  as  much  as  yt 
ys  thought  meete  that  the  rest  of  the  players  or  actonrs  in  that  mat- 
tei  shal  be  apprehended,  to  receave  soche  punyshraent  as  there  lewde 
iBi  mulynous  behavior  dotii  desenc ;  these  shall  be   therefore,  to  r-"-  I 


that  the  magistra  ,es  had  been  written  to  on  the  28th  July, 
1597,  requiring  that  no  plays  should  be  acted  during  the 
summer,  and  directing,  in  order  to  put  an  elfectual  stop  to 
I  such  performances,  because  "  lewd  matters  were  handled  on 
stages,"  that  the  two  pkces  above  named  should  be  "  plucked 
downV  The  magistrates  were  also  enjoined  U>  send  f.n- 
the  owners  of  "  any  other  c<jmm»)n  play-house  "  within  thel- 
jurisdiction,  and  not  only  to  forbid  peiformanees  of  every 
description,  but  "  so  to  deface  "  all  places  erected  for  thealr- 
cal  representations,  "  as  they  might  not  be  employed  again  t.> 
such  use."  This  command  was  given  just  anterior  to  thr 
production  of  Nash's  "Isle  of  D.>gs,"  which  was  certaini- 
not  calculated  to  lessen  the  objections  entertamed  by  any 
peisous  iu  authority  about  the  Court 

j  The  Blackfriars,  not  being,  according  to  the  terms  of  the 
I  order  of  the  privy  council,  "a  common  pky-house,"  but 
what  was  called  a  private  theatre,  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  included  in  the  general  ban ;  but  as  we  know  that 
similar  directions  had  been  conveyed  to  the  magistrates  of 
the  county  of  Surrey,  it  is  somewhat  surprisiug  thai  LLej 
seem  to  have  produced  no  effect  upon  the  peifoiniauces  at 
the  Globe  or  the  Rose  upon  the  Bankside  We  must  attri- 
bute this  circumstance,  perhaps,  to  the  exerci.-o  of  private 
influence  ;  and  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  necessity  of  keep- 
ing some  companies  in  practice,  in  ordei-  that  they  might 
be  prepared  to  exhibit,  when  required,  before  the  Queen, 
was  made  the  first  pretext  for  granting  exclusive  "  licenses  " 
to  the  actors  of  the  Lord  Chamberkin,  and  of  the  Lord 
Admiral  We  know  that  the  Earls  of  Southampton  and 
Rutland,  about  this  date  and  shortly  afterwards,  were  in  the 
frequent  habit  of  visiting  the  theatres^ :  the  Earl  of  Not- 
tingham also  seems  to  have  taken  an  imusual  interest  on 
various  occasions  in  favour  of  the  company  acting  under 
his  name,  and  to  the  representations  of  these  noblemen  we 
are,  perhaps,  to  attribute  the  exemption  of  the  Globe  and 
the  Rose  from  the  operation  of  the  order  "  to  deface  "  all 
buildings  adapted  to  dramatic  representations  in  iliddlesex 
and  Surrey,  in  a  manner  that  would  render  them  unfit  for 
any  such  purpose  in  future.  We  have  the  authority  of  the 
registers  of  the  privy  conned,  under  date  of  19th  Feb.'l597-8, 
for  stating  that  the  companies  of  the  Lord  Chamberkin 
and  of  the  Lord  Admiral  obtained  renewed  permission  "  to 
use  and  practise  stage-plays,"  in  order  that  they  might  be 
duly  qualified,  if  called  upon  to  perform  before  the  Queen. 
This  privilege,  as  regards  the  players  of  the  Lord  Admi- 
ral, seems  the  more  extraordinary,  because  that  was  the  very 
company  which  only  in  the  August  preceding  had  given  such 
offeuce  by  the  representation  of  Nash's  "  Isle  of  Logs,"  that 
its  farther  performance  was  forbidden,  the  author  and  some 
of  the  pkyers  were  arrested  and  sent  to  the  Fleet,  and 
vigorous  steps  taken  to  secure  the  persons  of  other  parties 
wh(j  for  a  time  had  made  their  escjipe.  It  is  very  likely 
that  Nash  was  the  scape-goat  on  the  occasion,  and  that  the 
chief  blame  was  thrown  upon  him,  although,  iu  his  tract, 

quire  yow  to  examine  these  of  the  plaiers  that  are  coraytted,  whoM 
names  are  knowne  to  you,  Mr  Topclyfe.  what  it  l*corae  of  the  reix 
of  theire  fellowes  that  either  had  their  partes  m  the  devysinge  o{  ihtt 
sedytious  matter,  or  that  were  actours  or  plaiers  in  the  same,  what 
copies  they  have  given  forth  of  the  said  playe,  and  to  whoine,  and 
soch  other  pointes  as  you  shall  thinke  meete  to  be  deraaundei  of 
them  ;  wherein  you  shall  require  of  them  to  deale  trulie.  as  they  will 
looke  to  receave  anie  favour.  Wee  praie  yow  also  to  peruse  toch  pa- 
pers as  were  fownde  in  Xash  his  lodgings,  which  Ferrys,  a  inaaMn- 
ger  of  the  Chamber,  shall  delyver  unto  yow.  and  to  ceriytie  ua  ths 
exaraynations  you  take.  So  Sco.  Greenwich,  15.  Aug.  lotfT." 
From  the  Council  Register. 

Eliz.  No.  13.  p.  M6. 
3  We  lind  evidence  in  a  satirist  of  the  time,  that  about  ti-»  iwe 
the  Theatre  was  abandoned,  though  not  "  plucked  down." 

■•  But  see  yonder 

One,  like  the  unfrequented  Thea;re. 
Walkes  in  darke  silence,  and  vast  aolitude  '' 
Edw.  Guilpin's  "Skialetheia,"  ?vo.  l.)9:*.     ^ign.DC 

The  theatre,  in  all  probability,  was  not  used  for  plays  afterwardi. 

*  See  Vol.  ii.  p.  13'2  of  the  '-Sidney  Papers."  wher»  Rowlam. 
White  tells  Sir  Robert  Sydney, '".My  Lord  Southampton  and  Lori 
Rutland  come  not  to  the  court  :  the  one  doth  but  very  seldom.  Tb«7 
paiis  away  the  time  in  London  merely  in  going  to  plays  every  day. 
This  letter  is  dated  11th  October,  15f«,  and  the  Q.}uea  wa*  then  t 
Nonesuch. 


hv 


TUE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


before  meutioued,  he  ma  utiiius  tbat  be  wiis  the  most  inno- 
eeut  party  of  all  those  who  wore  eonoerueil  iu  tlie  transac- 
tioQ  It  seeius  eviJetit,  lh:it  iu  1598  there  wjia  a  stroug 
dwpositiou  oQ  the  part  of  some  members  of  the  Queen's 
giiverumeut  to  restriot  druuiatic  performances,  iu  auil  near 
I»u<Jou.  to  the  servnuta  of  the  Lord  Chamberlaiu  aud  of  the 
Lord  AdmiraL 

As  far  lis  we  can  judge,  there  was  good  reason  for  show- 
ing favour  to  the  association  with  which  Shakespeare  was 
oouuected,  because  uothing  lias  reached  us  to  lead  to  the 
behef  that  tlie  Lord  ChamberLiiu's  servants  had  incurred 
any  displeasure  :  if  the  Lord  Admiral's  servants  wei-e  to  be 
permitted  to  continue  their  performances  at  the  Rose,  it 
would  have  been  an  act  of  the  grossest  injustice  to  have 
prevented  the  Loi'd  Chamberlain's  ?ervauti  from  acting  at 
the  (Tlobe.  Accordingly,  we  hear  of  no  interruption,  at 
tJiis  date,  of  the  performances  at  either  of  the  theatres  in 
the  rt-ofipt*  of  which  Shakespeare  participated. 

To  the  year  1598  inclusive,  only  five  of  his  }>lays  had 
been  printed,  although  he  had  then  been  connected  with  the 
stage  for  about  twelve  yeare,  viz.  "  Romeo  aud  Juhet," 
'•  Richard  IL'  and  '•  Richard  IIL"  in  1597,  aud  "  Love's  La- 
bour's  L<«t"  and  "  Henry  IV."  part  i.  in  1598' ;  but,  as  we 
leara  fivm  indisputable  contemporaneous  authority,  he  had 
written  seven  otliei-s.  besides  what  he  had  done  in  the  way 
of  alteration,  addition,  and  adaptation.  The  earliest  enu- 
meration of  Shakespeare's  dramas  made  it^  appearance  in 
1 598,  in  a  work  by  Francis  Meres  entitled  "  Falladis  Ta- 
mia.  Wits  Treasury."  In  a  division  of  this  small  but  thick 
volume  (consisting  of  666  8vo.  pages,  besides  "  The  Table,") 
headed  "  A  comparative  discourse  of  our  Eughsh  Poets, 
with  the  Greeke,  Latiue  aud  Italian  Poets,"  tlie  author  iu- 
Berts  the  foUowmg  paragraph,  which  we  extract  precisely 
as  it  stands  in  the  original,  because  it  has  no  where,  that  we 
recollect,  been  quoted  quite  correctly. 

"  As  Plautus&nd  Senecaam  accounted  the  beet  for  Comedy 
and  Tragedy  among  the  Latiiie.s  :  so  Shakespeare  among  y« 
EiiglLsli  i.s  tfie  most  excellent  iu  both  kinds  for  tlie  stage  ;  for 
Comedy,  witnes  hi.-*  Gttleme  of  Verona,  his  Errors,  his  Loue 
labors  lost,  his  Loue  iabfturs  wonne,  iiis  Midsummers  night 
dreame,  &  hi--  Merchant  of  Venice  :  for  Tragedy  his  Ricluird 
iht  2.  RicJiard  the  3.  Henru  the  4.  King  lohn,  Titus  An- 
dronicus  and  his  Borneo  and  Juliei"." 

Thus  we  see  that  twelve  comedies,  histories,  and  trage- 
dies (for  we  have  specimens  in  each  department)  were 
known  as  Shakespeare's  in  the  Autumn  of  1598,  when  the 

I  It  is  doubtful  whether  an  edition  of  "  Titus  Andronicus  "  had  not 
appeared  ai  early  as  1594  ;  but  no  earlier  copy  than  that  of  IGOO,  in 
the  library  of  Lord  Francis  Egerton,  is  known.  It  is  necessary  to 
bear,  in  mind,  that  the  impression  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet"  in  l.WT 
was  only  a  mangled  and  mutilated  representation  of  the  state  in 
which  the  tragedy  came  from  the  hand  of  its  author. 

'  The  following  pas»ageR.  in  the  same  division  of  the  work  of 
Me««a,  contain  mention  of  the  name  or  works  of  .Shakespeare. 

"  A«  the  soule  of  Euphorbus  was  thought  to  liue  in  Pythagoras, 
■o  the  sweete  wiltie  soule  of  Ouid  hues  in  mellifluous  and  hony- 
tongued  .Shakenp'jare  ;  witnes  his  f^enus  and  Jldunis.  his  Lucrcce,  his 
■ugred  »onneW  among  his  priuate  friends  ic."  fol.  2il. 

'■An  Epiu«  Stolo  said,  the  Muses  would  speake  with  Plautus 
tongue,  if  they  would  speak  Latin  ;  so  I  say  the  Muses  would  speak 
with  .Shakespeare"!  fine-filed  phrase,  if  ihey  would  speak  English." 
fol.  *Ti. 

"Andaa  Horace  saith  of  his.  Exegi  monumentti  sere  perennius, 
Regaliq;  sito  p^ramidum  altins;  Quod  non  imber  edax  ;  Aon  Aquilo 
impotent  possit  diruere.  aut  innumerabilis  annorun-  series  et  fuga 
lemporura;  so  say  I  severally  of  .Sir  Philip  Sidneys,  Spencers,  Dan- 
iels. Draytons,  ShakeKpeares.  and  Warners  workes."  fol.  282. 

'•  As  Pindanis,  Anacreon,  and  Calhinachus  among  the  Greekcs,  and 
Horace  and  Catullus  among  the  Latinea,  are  the  best  lyrick  poets; 
CO  in  this  faculty  the  best  amog  our  poets  are  .Spencer  (who  excelleth 
in  all  kinds)  Daniel.  Drayton.  Shakespeare,  Bretlo."  fol.  'bi'i. 

•' A»  these  traglcke  jjoets  flourished  in  Greece.  jEschylus,  Euripe- 
des.  Sophocles,  Alexander  Aetolus.  Achius  ErilhriceuK.  Astydamas 
Atheniepis.  Apollodorus  Tanensls.  Nicomachjs  I'hrygiu.t,  The.<|iis 
Atticus,  and  Timon  Apolloniates ;  and  these  among  the  Latines, 
AcciUB.  M.  -MtiliUB,  Pomponius  Secundvs  and  Seneca;  .so  these  are 
our  best  for  tragedie  ;  the  Lord  Buckhurst.  Doctor  Le;;  of  Cambridge, 
Dr.  EJe.>  of  Oxford,  Mai.«ter  Edward  Ferris,  the  Aulhour  of  the  .1/ir- 
rouT  for  Mnsn'fralrt.  .Mallow.  IVele,  Wat.son,  Kid.  Shakespeare, 
Drayton.  Chapman.  Decker,  and  Heniamin  lohnson."  fol.  %-<i. 

"  The  best  poets  for  comedy  among  the  Greeks  are  these  :  Menan- 
der,  Aristophanes.  Eupolii  Atheniensis  Alexis,  Terius,  Nicostratus, 
Amipras  Atheniensis,  Anaxadrides  Rhodius.  Aristonymus,  Archip- 
pui    '  >enie8i>  and  C&iliu  Atheniensis;  and  among  the  Latines, 


work  of  Meres  came  from  the  press'.  It  is  a  remarkable 
circumstance,  evincing  strikingly  the  manner  iu  which  thf 
various  companies  of  actors  of  that  period  ^vere  able  to 
keep  popular  pieces  from  the  press,  that  until  Shakesp- are 
had  been  a  writer  for  the  Loi-d  Chamberlain's  servants  ten  or 
eleven  years  not  a  siugle  play  by  him  was  published  ;  and 
then  four  of  his  first  printed  plays  were  without  his  name 

I  a<5  if  the  bookseller  had   been   ignorant  of  the  fact,  or  as  if 

I  he  considered  that  the  omission  would  not  affect  the  sale :  on« 
of  them,  "  Romeo  and  Juhet,"  was  never  pi'inted  iu  any  early 
quarto  as  the  wtirk  of  Shakespeare,  as  will  be  seen  from 

!  our  exact  reprint  of  the  title-pages  of  the  editions  of  1597, 
1599,  and  1609,  (see  lutroduc.')  The  reprints  of  "  Riehanl 
II."  and  "Richard  III."  iu  1598,  as  before  observed,  have 
Shakespeare's  name  on  the  title-pages,  aud  tliey  were  issued, 

j  perhaps,  after  Meres  had  distinctly  assigned  those  "  histo- 
ries "  to  him. 

It  is  our  conviction,  after  the  most  minute  and  patient 
examination  of,  we  believe,  every  old  impression,  that 
Shakespeare  in  no  instance  authorized  the  publication  of  his 

I  plays'* :  we  do  n<jt  consider  even  "  Hamlet  "  an  exception, 

]  although  the  edition  of  1604  was  probably  intended,  by 
some  parties  connected  Avith  the  theatre,  t<^)  supersede  the 
garbled  and  fraudulent  edition  of  1603  :  Shakespeare,  iu 
our  opinion,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  one  or  with  the 

I  other.  He  allowed  most  mangled  aud  deformed  copies  of 
several  of  his  greatest  woi-ks  to  be  circulated   for  man^- 

i  years,  and  did  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  expose  the 
fraud,  which  remained,  iu  several  cases,  undetected,  as  far  as 

!  the  great  body  of  the  public  was  concerned,  uutil  the  a]j- 

I  pearauce  of  the  folio  of  1623.  Our  great  dramatist's  indil 
ference  upon  this  point  seems  to  have  been  shared  by  mau_> , 
if  not  by  most,  of  his  contemporaries ;  and  if  the  quarto 
impression  of  any  one  of  his  plays  be  moi-e  accurate  in 

I  typography  than  another,  we  feel  satisfied  that  it  arose  out 

I  of  the  better  state  of  the  manuscript,  or  the  greater  pains 

j  and  fidelity  of  the  printer. 

We  may  here  point  out  a  strong  instance  of  the  careless- 
ness of  dramatic  authors  of  that  period  respecting  the  con- 
dition in  which  their  productions  came  iutj  the  world  :  others 
might  be  adduced  without  much  difficulty,  but  one  will  be 
sufficient  Before  liis  "  Rape  of  Lucreoe,"  a  drama  fii-bl 
printed  iu  1608,  Thomas  Hey  wood  inserted  an  address  l.o 
the  reader,  informing  him  (for  it  was  an  exception  to  thn 
general  rule)  that  he  had  given  his  consent  to  the  pubhca- 
tion  ;  'out  those  who  have  examined  that  impression,  aud 
its  repetition  iu  1609,  will  be  aware  that  it  is  full  of  the 

Plautus,  Terence,  Naeuius,  Sext.  Turpilius,  Licinius  Imbrex,  au>i 
VirgiliusRomanus  ;  so  the  best  for  comedy  amongst  us  bee  Edward 
Earle  of  Oxforde,  Doctpr  Gager  of  Oxforde,  Maister  Rowley,  once  .» 
rare  scholler  of  learned  Pembrcoke  Hall  in  Cambridge,  Maister  Ed- 
wardes,  one  of  her  Maiestics   Chappell,   eloquent  and   wittie  .foha 

I  Lilly,  Lodge,  Gascoyne.  Greene.  Shakespeare,  Thomas  Nash,  Thoinaa 
I'eywood,  Anthony  -Mundye.  our  best  plotter,  Chapman,  J'orter,  Wil 

I  so.n,  Hathway,  and  Henry  Chettle."  fol.  2b3. 

I      '   As  these  are  famous  among  the  Greeks  for  elegie,  Meianthns, 

I  IMyanerus  Colophonius,  Olympius  Mysius.  Parthenius  Xr-.eus.  I'ii,- 

I  letas  .~'ous,  Theogenes  Megarensis.  and  Pigres  Halicarna.-<Eus ;  ami 
these  among  the  Latines,  .Mecienas,  Ouid,  Tibullus,  Propertius.  T 
Valgius,  Ca-ssius  Seuerus.  and  Clodius  Sabinus  ;  so  these  are  tn« 
most  passionate  among  us  to  bewaile  and  bemoane  the  perplexities 
c'f  loue  :  Henrie  Howard  Earle  of  Surrey,  sir  Thomas  Wyat  the  eldei , 
sir  Francis  Brian,  sir  Philip  Sidney,  sir  Walter  Rawley,  sir  Edward 
Dyer,  Spencer,  Daniel,  Drayton,  Shakespeare,  Whetstone,  Gascoyne, 
Samuel!  Page  sometime  fellowe  of  Corpun  Chriati  CoUedge  in  Ox- 
ford, Churchyard,  Bretton."  fol.  2*3. 

3  It  wa-s  entered  for  publication  on  the  Stationers'  Registers  in  Sep- 
tember, iriDi.  Meres  must  have  written  something  in  verse  which 
has  not  reached  our  day,  because  in   1601    he   was  addressed  by  C 

j  p'ltzgeolTrey  in  his  .ijfania,  as  a  poet  and  theologian  :  he  was  cer- 
tainly well  acquainted  with  the  writing.*  of  all  the  poets  of  his  time, 
whatever  might  be  their  department.     Kitzgeoffrey  mentions  Meres 

I  in  cojnpany  with  .Spenser,  Daniel,   Drayton,  Ben  Jonson,  Sylvester, 

\  Chapman,  Marston,  «fcc. 

j  ♦  The  same  remark  will  apply  to  "  Henrv  V."  first  printed  in -llo. 
lUOO,  and  again  in  1()U2,  and  a  tLird  time  in  1UU3,  without  the  na.iie 

i  of  Shakespeare.     However,   this   "history"   never  appeared   in   any 

I  thing  like  an  authentic  shape,  such  as  wo  may  suppose  it  came  frond 
Shakespeare's  pen,  until  it  was  included  in  the  folio  ol  ICvXi. 

*  It  will  be  observed  that  we  confine  this  opinion  to  the  plays, 
because  with  respect  to  the   poems,  especially  ■■  Venus  and   Adonis' 

I  and  '■  Lucrece,''  we  feel  quite  a-;  strongly  convinced  that  ."^hakespeare 
being  instrumental  in  their  publication,  and  more  anxious  altout 
their  correctness,  did  see  at  least  the  first  editions  throngh  the  preji 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


leiy  grossest  blunders,  which  the  commonest  corrector  of 
the  press,  much  less  the  author,  if  he  had  seen  the  sheets, 
eould  not  have  allowed  to  pass.  Nearly  all  jilays  of  that 
time  were  most  defectively  printed,  but  Heywood's  "llape 
of  Lucrece,"  as  it  originally  came  from  the  press  with  the 
author's  imprimatur,  is,  we  think,  the  worst  specimen  of  ty- 
pography that  ever  met  our  observation.^ 

Returning  to  the  important  list  of  twelve  plays  furnished 
by  Meres,  we  may  add,  that  although  he  does  not  mention 
them,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  three  parts  of  "Henry 
VI."  had  been  repeatedly  acted  before  1598  :  wo  may  pos- 
sibly infer,  that  they  were  not  inserted  because  they  were 
then  well  known  not  to  be  the  sole  work  of  Shakespeare. 
By  "Henry  IV."  it  is  most  probable  that  Merts  intended 
both  parts  of  that  "history."  "  Love's  L.abour's  Won"  has 
been  supposed,  since  the  time  of  Dr.  Farmer,  to  be  "All's 
AVell  that  ends  Well,"  under  a  different  title:  our  notion  is 
(see  Introduction)  that  the  original  name  given  to  the  play 
was  "  Love's  Labour's  Won :"  and  that,  when  it  was  revived 
with  additions  and  alterations,  in  1605  or  1606,  it  received 
also  a  new  appellation. 

In  connexion  with  the  question  regarding  the  interest 
tiiken  by  Shakespeare  in  the  pubUcation  of  his  -works,  we 
may  notice  the  impudent  fraud  practised  in  the  year  after 
the  appearance  of  the  Hst  furnished  by  Meres.  In  1599 
came  out  a  collection  of  short  miscellaneous  poems,  under 
the  title  of  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  :"  they  were  all  of  them 
imputed,  by  W.  Jaggai-d  the  printer,  or  by  W.  Leake  the 
bookseller,  to  Shakespeare,  although  some  of  them  were 
Qotoricnsly  by  other  poet^s.  In  the  Introduction  to  our 
i-epi-int  of  this  little  work  we  have  stated  all  the  known 
paiticulars  regarding  it ;  but  Shakespeare,  as  far  as  ap- 
pears from  any  evidence  that  has  descended  to  us, 
took  no  notice  of  the  trick  played  upon  him  :  possibly  he 
never  heard  of  it,  or  if  he  heard  of  it,  left  it  to  its  own 
detection,  not  thinking  it  worth  while  to  interfere^.  It 
serves  to  estabUsh,  what  certainly  could  not  otherwise  be 
doubted,  the  popularity  of  Shakespeare  in  1599,  and  the 
manner  in  which  a  scheming  printer  and  stationer  endea- 
voured to  take  advantage  of  that  popularity. 

Yet  it  is  singular,  if  we  rely  upon  several  coeval  authori- 
ties, how  little  our  great  dramatist  was  about  this  period 
known  and  admired  for  his  plays.  Richard  Barnfield  pub- 
lished his  "  Encomion  of  Lady  Pecunia,"  in  1598,  (the  year 
in  which  the  list  of  twelve  of  Shakespeare's  phiys  was 
printed  by  Meres)  and  from  a  copy  of  verses  entitled 
"  Remembrance  of  some  EngUsh  Poets,"  we  quote  the 
following  notice  of  Shakespeare : 

"And  Shakespeare  thou,  whose  honey-flowing  vein, 
Pleasing  the  world,  ihy  praises  doth  contain. 
Whose  Venus,  and  whose  Lucrece,  sweet  i\.na  chaste, 
Tiiy  name  in  Fame's  immorttd  book  hath  plac'd  ; 
Live  ever  you,  at  least  in  fame  live  ever: 
Well  may  the  body  die,  but  fame  die  never." 

Here  Shakespeare's  popularity,  as  "  pleasing  the  world," 
Is  noticed ;  but  the  proofs  of  it  are  not  derived  from  the 
stage,  where  his  dramas  were  in  daily  performance  before 
crowded  audiences,  but  from  the  success  of  his  "  Venus  and 
Adonis  "  and  "  Lucrece,"  which  had  gone  through  various 
editions.  Precisely  to  the  same  effect,  but  a  stiU  sti-onger 
kwtiince,  we  may  refer  to  a  play  in  which  both  Burbage  and 

1  We  cannot  wonder  at  the  errors  in  plays  surreptitiously  procured 
%.ni.  hastily  printed,  wiiich  was  the  case  with  many  impressions  of 
thz'.  day.  Upon  this  point  Heywood  is  an  unexceptionable  witness, 
tad  he  tells  us  of  one  of  his  dramas, 

'•  that  some  by  stenography  drew 

The  plot,  put  it  in  print,  scarce  one  word  true." 
Other  dramatists  make  the  same  complaint ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
lh»t  it  was  the  practice  so  tc  defraud  authors  and  actors,  and  to  palm 
wretchedly  disfigured  pieces  upon  the  public  as  genuine  and  authen- 
tic works.  It  was,  we  are  satisfied,  in  this  way  that  Shakespeare  s 
••  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  "  Henry  V.,"  and  "  Hamlet,''  first  got  out  into 
the  world.  ,       ^    .      ,_„      .. 

'When  "The  Passionate  Pilgrim"  was  reprinted  in  lbl.i,  witn 
some  additional  pieces  by  Thomas  Heywood.  that  dramatist  pointed 
out  the  imposition,  and  procured  the  cancelling  of  the  title-page  in 
which  tho  authorship  of  the  whole  was  assigned  to  Shakespeare. 


Kempe  are  introduced  as  characters,  the  one  of  whom  had 
obtained  such  celebrity  in  the  tragic,  and  the  otlier  in  tht: 
comic  parts  in  ShaJcespeare's  dramas  :  we  allude  U)  "  llie 
Return  from  Parnassus, '  which  was  indisputably  acted  before 
the  death  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  In  a  scene  where  two  young 
students  are  discussing  the  merits  of  particubir  poets,  one  of 
them  spearks  thus  of  Shakespeai-e : 

"  Who  loves  Adonis  love  or  Lucrece  rape, 
His  sweeter  verse  contains  heart-robbing  life  ; 
Could  but  a  graver  subject  him  content,' 
Without  love'.s  foolish,  lazy  languishmeiit," 

Not  the  most  distant  allusion  is  made  to  any  of  hu 
dramatic  productions,  although  the  poet  ci-iticised  by  the 
young  students  immediately  before  Shakespeare  waa  Ben 
Jonson,  who  was  declared  to  be  "  the  wittiest  fellow,  of  a 
bricklayer,  in  England,"  but  "  a  slow  inveutoi'."  Hence  we 
might  be  led  to  unagine  that,  even  down  to  as  late  a  period 
as  the  coniniencement  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  repu- 
tation of  Shakespeare  depended  rather  upon  his  i>oenis  than 
upon  his  plays ;  almost  as  if  productions  for  the  stage  were 
not  looked  upon,  at  that  date,  as  part  of  the  recognized 
hteratm-e  of  the  country. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

New  Place,  or,  "the  great  house,"  in  Stratford,  bouarht  by 
Shakespeare  in  1597.  Kemovul  of  the  Lord  Admiral's 
plaj'ers  from  the  Bankside  to  tlie  Fortune  theatre  in  Crip- 
plegate.  Rivcilry  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  and  Lord  Ad- 
miral's company.  Order  in  1600  continiug  the  acting  of 
plays  to  the  Globe  and  Forliuie  :  the  influence  of  the  two 
associations  occupying  those  theatre.-*.  Disobedience  of 
various  companies  to  the  order  of  1600.  Plays  by  Shake- 
speare published  in  1600.  The  "  First  Part  of  the  Life  of 
Sir  John  Oldcastle,"  printed  in  1600,  falsely  imputed  to 
Shakespeare,  and  cancelling  of  the  title-piige. 

It  will  have  been  observed,  that,  in  the  document  we  have 
prod»aced,  relating  to  the  quantity  of  com  and  m;dt  m  Strat- 
ford, it  is  stated  that  William  Shakespeare's  residence  was 
in  that  division  of  the  borough  called  Chapel-street  ward. 
This  is  an  unportant  chcumstance,  because  we  think  it  may 
be  said  to  settle  decisively  the  disputed  question,  whether 
om-  gi-eat  dramatist  purchjised  what  was  known  ;is  "  tb« 
great  house,"  or  "  New  Place,"  before,  in,  or  after  1597.  It 
was  situated  in  Chapel-street  ward,  close  to  the  chapel  of 
the  Holv  Trinitv.  We  are  now  cerUun  that  hi-  had  a  house 
in  the  ward  in  February,  1597-8,  and  that  he  had  ten  quar- 
ters of  corn  there  ;  and  we  need  not  doubt  that  it  was  the 
dwelling  which  had  been  built  by  Sir  Hugh  Clipt^-n  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIL  :  the  Cloptons  subsequeuUy  sold  it  to  a 
person  of  the  name  of  Botte',  and  he  to  Hercules  Uuderhill, 
who  disposed  of  it  to  Shakespeare.  We  therefore  find  him, 
in  the  beginning  oi  1598,  occupying  one  of  the  best  houses, 
in  one  of  the  best  parts  of  Stratfoid.  He  who  had  quitted 
his  native  town  about  twelve  yeui-s  before,  poor  and  com- 
paratively friendless,  wjis  able,  by  the  pi-ntils  .-f  his  own 
exertions,  and  the  exercise  of  his  own  talents,  to  retum  to  it, 
and  to  estabhsh  his  family  in  more  comfort  and  opulence 
than,  as  far  as  is  known,  they  had  ever  before  enjoyed*. 

3  Botte  probably  lived  in  it  in  1564,  when  he  contributed  4».  to  the 
poor  who  were  afflicted  with  the  plague  :  this  was  the  hiehest  lunouDt 
subscribed,  the  bailiff  only  giving  is  -W..  and  the  head  aiderinan  U.  -^J 

4  That  Shakespeare  was  considered  a  man  who  was  lu  a  condition 
to  lend  a  considerable  sum,  in  the  autumn  of  IV.'-.  we  have  upon  tiie 
evidence  of  Richard  duyney,  (father  to  Ihomas  Liu>  ney  who  «ib.e- 
quer.uy  married  Shakespeare's  youngest  daughter  Judith)  whj  Jicb 
applied  to  him  for  a  loan  of  :JW  ,  equal  to  about  \.*>l  of  our  pre.«nl 
miney  and  in  terms  which  do  not  indicate  any  doubt  that  our  poe. 
would  be  able  to  make  the  advance.  This  application  i.conlainea  ,i 
a  letter  which  must  have  been  sent  by  hana.  as  it  unluck.iy  content 
no  direction  :  it  is  the  only  letter  vet  discovered  addressed  to  .-hake- 
speare,  and  it  was  first  printed  by  fioswell  Irom  .Malone  s  papei..  to. 

"  '^Lo^vTng  Contryman,  I  am  bolde  of  T2--  ^  ^f  »  f«"<l'-  "'""^ 
yowr  helpt  w"  xxxl^  uppon  -M'  Bushell  *  my  ..ecurytee.or  M'  .Myv 
tens  with  me.     M'  Rosswell  is  not  come  ^  London  as  jrate.  i.  J  h»»» 


Ivi 


THE  LH^E   of  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


We  consider  the  point  that  Shakespeare  had  become  owner 
Df  New  Pliioe  in  or  before  1597  as  completely  made  out,  as, 
at  6ueh  a  distimoe  of  time,  and  ^vith  suen  imperfect  informa- 
tion u|K>n  nearly  all  mattera  ooanected  with  his  history  i 
coidd  be  at  all  expected'. 

We  apprehend  likewise,  as  we  have  already  remarked 
(p.  xxi),  thiit  the  ot>iifirmatiou  of  arms  in  1696,  obtained  aa 
we  believe  by  William  Shakespeare,  had  reference  to  the 
permanent  aiid  substantial  settlement  of  his  family  in 
Stratf.inl,  and  to  the  purchase  of  a  residence  there  consistent 
with  the  alti-red  circumstances  of  that  family — altered  by 
its  incrciised  wealth  and  consequence,  owing  to  the  success  j 
of  our  great  |>>et  l»th  as  an  actor  and  a  dramatist 

The  removal  of  the  Lord  Admirars  playei-s,  under 
Henslowe  and  Alle\T],  from  the  Rose  theatre  on  the  Bimk- 
side.  t')  tlie  new  house  cjiUed  the  Fortune,  in  Golding-laue,  I 
Cripplegate,  s<x)n  after  the  date  to  which  we  are  now 
referring',  may  lead  to  the  opinion  that  that  company  did  i 
Di.t  find  itself  equal  to  sustain  the  rivalship  with  the  Lord  . 
Chamborhun's  servants,  under  Shakespeare  and  Burbage,  at 
the  Globe.  That  theatre  was  opened,  as  we  have  adduced 
reasons  to  believe,  in  the  sprin^  of  1595 :  the  Rose  was  a 
eonsiderably  older  building,  and  the  necessity  for  repairing 
it  might  enter  into  the  calculation,  when  Henslowe  and 
Allevn  thought  of  ti-ying  the  experiment  in  a  different  part 
of  the  town,  and  on  the  Middlesex  side  of  the  water.  Thea-  j 
tres  being  at  this  date  "merely  wooden  structures,  and  much  j 
frequented,  they  would  soon  fall  into  decay,  especially  in  a  I 
marshy  situation  like  that  of  the  Bankside  :  so  damp  was  ' 
the  sod  in  the  neighbourhood,  that  the  Globe  was  surrounded  ; 
by  a  moat  to  keep  it  di-v  ;  and,  although  we  do  not  find  the 
filct  anv  whei-e  stated,  it  is  most  likely  that  the  Rose  wms 
similarly  drained.  The  Rose  was  in  the  first  instance,  and  i 
as  far  back  as  the  reign  of  Edward  VL,  a  house  of  entertain-  j 
ment  with  that  sign,  and  it  was  converted  intxi  a  theatre  by  j 
Henslowe  and  a  grocer  of  the  name  of  Cholmley  about  the 
year  1584  ;  but  it  seems  to  have  early  required  considerable 
reparations,  and   they  might  be  again  necessary  prior  to 

e«peciaU  cawse.  Vo"  shall  frende  memuche  in  helpeing  me  out  of 
all  the  debeits  I  owe  in  London,  I  thanck  god,  and  much«  quiet  to  my 
mynde  w^''  vrolde  not  be  indebited.  I  am  now  towards  the  Cowrte, 
in  hope  y  answer  for  the  dispatche  of  my  Buysenes.  Yo"  shall 
nether  loose  creddytt  nor  monney  by  me.  the  Lorde  willinge  ;  &  nowe 
butt  pswade  yo"'  selfe  soe  as  1  hope  &  yo"  shall  nott  need  te  feare  ; 
but  with  all  hartie  thanckfuUness  I  wyll  holde  ray  tyrae  &  content 
yo*'  frend,  &  yf  we  Bargains  farther,  yo"  shall  be  the  paie  ra' 
yo"  selfe.  My  tyme  bidds  me  to  hasten  to  an  ende,  &  soe  I  comitt 
thy»  [to]  yC"  care  Sc  hope  of  yo'"  helpe.  I  feare  I  shall  nott  be  backe 
this  night  from  the  Cowrte.  haste,  the  Lorde  be  w""  yo"  &  w""  us 
kU.  imen.  From  the  Bell  in  Carter  Lane,  the  25  October  1598. 
"  Yo*"  in  all  kyndenes. 

"Rtc.  Qthtskt. 
"To  my  Loveing  good  frend 
•  k.  contrVman  M'  W«> 
Shackespe  tbees." 

The  deficiency  as  regards  the  direction  of  the  letter,  lamented  by 
Halone,  in  not  of  so  much  importance,  because  we  have  proved  that 
Shake«p»'are  was  renident  in  >outhwark  in  1.59();  and  he  probably 
waji  so  in  15f)~.  because  the  reasons  which  we  have  supposed,  in- 
duced him  to  take  ar>  his  abode  there  would  still  be  in  operation,  in 
ki  mucn  force  an  ever. 

>  In  the  garden  of  this  houi-e  it  i»  believed  that  Shakespeare  planted 
a  mulberry  tr^e.  about  the  year  160!)  :  such  is  the  tradition,  and  we 
are  disposed  to  think  that  it  is  foundrd  in  truth.  In  1609.  King 
James  was  an%iou«  to  introduce  the  mulberry  (which  had  been  im- 
ported about  half  a  century  earlier)  into  general  cultivation,  and  the 
records  in  the  .State  Paper  Office  show  that  in  that  year  letters  were 
writteTi  uf»on  the  subject  to  ino»l  of  the  justices  of  peace  and  deputy 
Iveutenants  in  the  kingdom  ih'  plants  were  sold  by  the  .State  at  6i. 
Uie  hundred.  On  the  iVh  November.  16(»,  O.aS/.  were  paid  out  of  the 
public  purse  for  the  planting  of  mulberry  trees  "  near  the  palace  of 
Westminster."  The  mulberry  tree,  said  to  have  been  planted  by 
Shakespeare,  was  in  existence  up  to  about  the  year  IT.V);  and  in  the 
tvhng  of  174'2.  Gamrk.  Marklin.  and  Delaiie  the  actor  (not  Dr. 
Delany.  the  friend  of  Swift,  as  .Mr  Dyce.  in  his  compendious  .Memoir. 
p.  l.x..»tat»5.)  were  entertained  under  it  by  .Sir  Hugh  Clopton.  New 
Pla^e  r^main-d  in  possession  of  Shakespeare's  successors  until  the 
Rettoration  ;  it  vof  then  repurchased  by  the  Clopton  family  :  about 
l7.Vi  it  was  sf.ld  by  the  executor  nf  ,«ir  Hugh  Clopton  to  a  clergyman 
of  the  name  of  Gastrell.  who,  on  some  otff  nee  taken  at  the  authorities 
of  the  borough  fif  Stratford  on  the  subject  of  rating  the  house,  pulled 
.t  down,  and  rut  down  the  mulberrr  tree.  According  to  a  leit»r  in 
th»  Annual  Register  of  I7'tO.  the  wood  was  bought  by  a  silversmith, 
who  '•  male  many  odd  things  of  it  f  .r  the  cunous."  In  our  time  we 
t>a»e  soen  as  many  relics,  said  to  have  been  formed  from  this  one 
melberry  tree,  as  could  hardlv  have  been  furnished  by  all  the  mul- 
'vorry  tree*  in  the  county  of  Warwick. 


1599,  when   Henslowe   and   AllejTi   resolved   to   Kbandoa  a_ 

Southwark.     However,  it  may  be   doubted  whether  thev         S 
would  not  have  continued  where  they  were,  recollecting  th«  ™ 

convenient  proximity  of  Paris  Garden,  (where  bears,  bulla, 
<kc.  were  baited,  and  in  which  they  were  also  jointly  inter 
ested)  but  for  the  success  of  the  Lord  Chiunberlaiu's  playere 
at  the  Globe,  which  had  been  in  use  four  or  five  years'^ 
Henslowe  and  AUeyn  seem  to  have  found,  that  neither  their 
plays  nor  their  players  could  stiuid  the  competition  of  then 
rivals,  and  they  accordingly  removed  to  a  vicinity  where  no 
play-house  had  previously  existed. 

The  Fortune  theatre  was  commenced  in  Golding  Lane, 
Cripplegate,  in  the  year  1599,  and  finished  in  1600,  and 
thither  without  delay  Henslowe  and  AUeyn  trauspcrted 
their  whole  dramatic  establishment,  strengthened  m  iljc 
spring  of  1602  by  the  addition  of  that  great  and  popular 
comic  performer,  William  Kempe'.  The  association  at  the 
Globe  was  then  left  in  almost  undisputed  possession  of  the 
Bankside.  There  weie,  indeed,  occasional,  and  perliaps  not 
unfrequent,  performances  at  the  Rose,  (although  it  hutl  been 
stipulated  with  the  public  authorities  that  it  sh(juld  be 
pulled  down,  if  leave  were  given  for  the  construction  of  tlie 
Fortune)  as  well  as  at  the  Hope  and  the  Swan,  but  not  bv 
the  regular  associations  which  had  previously  occupied 
them ;  and  after  the  Fortune  was  opened,  the  speculation 
there  was  so  profitable,  that  the  Lord  Admiral's  pLiyers 
had  no  motive  for  returning  U>  their  old  quarters*. 

The  members  of  the  two  companies  belonging  to  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  and  to  the  Lord  Admiral  appear  to  have 
possessed  so  much  influence  in  the  summer  of  1600,  that 
(backed  perhaps  by  the  puritanical  zeal  of  those  who  were 
unfriendly  to  all  theatrical  performances)  they  obtained  an 
order  from  the  privy  council,  dated  22d  June,  that  no  othei 
public  play-houses  should  be  permitted  but  the  Globe  in 
Surrey,  and  the  Fortune  in  Middlesex.  Nevertheless,  the 
privy  council  registers,  where  this  order  is  inserted,  also 
contain  distinct  evidence  that  it  was  not  obeyed,  even  in 
May  1601 ;  for  on  the  lOih  of  that  month  the  Lords  wrote 

2  We  may  be  disposed  to  ajisign  the  following  lines  to  about  this 
period,  or  a  little  earlier:  they  relate  to  some  theatrical  wager  in 
which  AUeyn,  of  the  Lord  Admiral's  players,  was,  for  a  part  not 
named,  to  be  matched  against  Kempe,  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
servants.  By  the  word,';  '■  Will's  new  play,  "  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  some  work  by  .-Shakespeare  was  intended  ;  and  we  know  frora 
Heywood's  ■' Hierarchie  of  the  Blessed  Angels,"  I6.J5,  that  Shake- 
speare was  constantly  familiarly  called  "  Will."  The  document  is 
preserved  at  Dulwich,  and  it  was  first  printed  in  the  "  Memoirs  ot 
Edward  AUeyn."  p.  13. 

"  Sweet  Nedde,  nowe  wynne  an  other  wager 

For  thine  old  frende.  and  fellow  stager. 

Tarlton  himselfe  thou  doest  excell, 

And  Bentley  beate,  and  conquer  Knell, 

And  now  shall  Kempe  orecoine  as  well. 

The  moneyes  downe.  the  place  the  Hope  ; 

Phillippes  shall  hide  his  head  and  Pope. 

Feare  not,  the  victorie  is  thine  : 

Thou  still  as  macheles  .\ed  shall  shyne. 

If  Roscius  Richard  foame.<  and  fumes, 

The  Globe  shall  have  but  einptie  roomes, 

If  thou  doest  act ;  and  Willes  newe  playe 

Shall  be  rehearst  some  other  daye. 

Consent,  then,  .Nedde  ;  do  us  tliis  grace  : 

Thou  cannot  faile  in  anie  case  , 

For  ir.  the  triall,  come  what  maye, 

All  sides  shall  brave  Ned  AUin  saye." 
By  "Roscins  Richard  "  the  writer  of  these  lines,  wno  was  the 
backer  of  AUeyn  against  Kempe.  could  have  meant  nobody  bin 
Richard  Burbage.  It  will  be  recollected,  that  not  very  long  aftei 
wards  Kempe  became  a  member  of  the  association  of  which  Alley 
was  the  leader,  and  quitted  that  to  which  Shakespeare  end  Burbag 
were  attached.  It  is  possible  that  this  wager,  and  Kempe's  succ^s* 
in  it,  led  AUeyn  and  Henslowe  to  hold  out  inducements  Vj  him  to 
join  them  in  their  undertaking  at  the  Fortune.  Upon  this  point, 
iiowever,  we  have  no  other  evidence,  than  the  mere  fact  that  Kempe 
went  over  to  the  enemy. 

'  After  his  return  from  Rome,  where  he  was  seen  in  the  autniaa 
of  1001. 

*  It  was  at  the  Fortune  that  AUeyn  seems  to  have  realized  sc  muck 
money  in  the  few  first  years  of  the  undertaking,  that  he  was  iible  to 
Nov.  1604  to  purchase  the  manor  of  Kennington  for  £106;)  and  in  the 
next  year  the  manor  of  Lewisham  and  Dulwich  for  X3000.  Thes* 
two  sums,  in  money  of  the  present  day.  would  be  equal  to  at  lea.sl 
Xi'j.ttOO  ;  but  it  is  to  be  observed  that  for  Dulwich,  .■\lleyn  only  paid 
X'JOOO  down,  while  the  remaining  sum  was  left  upon  mortgage.  In 
the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  century  theatrical  siiecniations 
generally  seem  to  have  been  highly  lucr.itive.  See  •■  The  AUeyo 
Pa(,ers.''  (printed  by  the  Shakespeare  Society.)  p   xiv 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ivii 


to  certaiu  magistrates  of  Middlesex  reqxiiring  them  to  put  a 
stop  to  the  performance  of  a  play  at  the  Curtain,  in  which 
were  introduced  "some  gentlemen  of  good  desert  and 
quality,  that  are  yet  alive,"  but  saying  nothing  about  the 
«osing  of  the  house,  although  it  was  open  in  dehance  of  the 
imperative  command  of  the  precediug  year.  We  know 
also  upon  other  testimony,  that  not  only  the  Curtain,  but 
theatres  on  the  Bankside,  besides  the  Globe,  (where  per- 
formances were  allowed)  were  then  in  occasional  use.  It  is 
fair  to  presume,  therefore,  that  the  order  of  the  22d  June, 
1600,  was  never  strictly  enforced,  and  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  circumstances  of  the  times  is,  the  little  atten- 
tion, as  regards  theati-icixls,  that  appears  to  have  been  paid 
to  the  absolute  authority  of  the  court  It  seems  exactly  as 
if  restrictive  measures  had  been  adopted  in  order  to  satisfy 
the  importunity  of  particular  individuals,  but  that  there  was 
DO  disposition  on  the  part  of  persons  in  authority  to  carry 
them  into  execution.  Such  was  piobably  the  fact;  for  a 
vear  and  a  half  after  the  order  of  the  22d  June  had  been 
issued  it  was  renewed,  but,  as  far  as  we  can  leam,  with  just 
aa  little  effect  as  before.' 

Besides  the  second  edition  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet "  in 
1699,  (which  was  most  Ukely  printed  from  a  playhouse 
manuscript,  being  very  different  from  the  mutilated  and 
manufactured  c^py  of  1597)  five  plays  by  our  great  dra- 
matist found  their  'way  to  the  press  in  1 600,  viz.  "  Titus  An- 
drouicus."  (which  as  we  have  before  remarked  had  probably 
been  originally  published  in  159-t)  "  The  Merchant  of  Ve- 
nice," "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream^"  "Hem-y  IV."  part 
ii^  and  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing."  The  last  only  was  not 
mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598  ;  and  as  to  the  periods  when 
we  may  suppose  the  others  to  have  been  written,  we  must 
refer  the  reader  t<j  our  several  Inti-oductious,  where  we 
have  given  the  existing  information  upon  the  subject  "  The 
Chi-onicle  Histoiy  of  Henry  V."  also  came  out  in  the  same 
year,  but  without  the  name  of  Shakespeare  upon  the  title- 
page,  and  it  is,  if  possible,  a  more  imperfect  and  garbled 
renreientation  of  the  play,  as  it  proceeded  from  the  author's 
pen,  than  the  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  of  1597.  Whether  any  i 
of  the  managers  of  theatres  at  this  date  might  not  some- 
times be  concerned  in  selling  impressions  of  dramas,  we 
have  no  sufficient  means  of  deciding ;  but  we  do  not  beUeve 
it,  and  we  are  satisfied  that  dramatic  authors  in  general 
were  content  mth  disposing  of  their  plays  to  the  several 
companies,  and  looked  for  no  emolument  to  be  derived 
from   pubUcation^      We  are  not  without  something   like 

Cof  that  actors  now  and  then  sold  their  pai-ts  in  plays  to 
ksellers,  and  thus,  by  the  combination  of  them  and  other 
assistance,  editions  of  popular  plays  were  surreptitiously 
printed. 

We  ought  not  to  pass  over  without  notice  a  circumstance 
which  happened  in  16u0,  and  is  connected  with  the  question 
of  the  authorized  or  xinauthorized  pubhcation  of  Shake- 
SDeare's  plavs.  In  that  year  a  quarto  impression  of  a  play, 
<»lled  "The' first  part  of  the  true  and  honourable  History 
of  the  Life  of  Su-  John  Oldcastle,  the  good  Lord  Gobham," 

1  See  "Hist.  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  "Vol.  i.  p.  316, 
where  the  particulars,  which  are  here  necessariiy  briefly  and  summa- 
riH  dismissed,  are  given  in  detail.  ^  ,,  „  ■ 

»  The  clothing  of  Snug  the  joiner  .n  a  "iion  s  fell  in  this  play, 
Act  T.  KC  1,  SPems  to  have  suggested  the  humorous  speech  to  King 
•  Jumes  at  Linlithgow,  on  :Wth  June  1617,  eight  lines  of  which  only 
»J6  given  in  Nichols's  ''  Progresses  ''  of  that  monarch.  Vol.  in.  p.  3-2*). 
The  whole  address,  of  twentv-two  Unes,  exists  in  the  State  Paper 
office,  where  it  was  discovered  bv  Mr.  Lemon.  It  seems  to  have  been 
the  eiiginal  MS.  which  was  placed  at  the  time  in  the  hands  of  the 
king,  and  as  it  is  a  cuiiosity,  we  subjoin  it. 

"A  moveing  engine,  representing  a  fountaine,  and  running  wine, 
same  to  the  gate  of  the  towne,  in  the  midst  of  which  wa*  a  ly^n, 
wd  in  the  lyon  a  man,  who  delivered  this  learned  speech  to  as 
iDajest.e. 

"Most  royall  sir,  heere  I  doe  you  beseech, 

"Who  are  a  lyon   to  hear  a  lyon's  speech ; 

A  miracle  ;  for  since  the  dayes  ot  jEsop, 

Till  ours,  noe  Ivou  yet  his  voice  did  hois-up 

To  such  a  Maje'st.e.     Then.  King  of  Men, 

The  king  of  beasts  speaks  to  thee  Irom  his  denn, 

A  fountaine  nowe.     That  lyon.  which  -vas  'edd 

Bv  Androdus  through  Rome,  had  not  a  head 

More  rational)  then  this,  bredd  in  this  nation,  | 

Whoe  in  thy  presence  warbleth  this  or  tion. 


came  out  on  the  title-page  of  which  the  name  of  William 
Shakespeare  appeared  at  length.  We  find  by  Henslowe's 
Diary  that  this  di-ama  was  in  fact  the  autliorship  of  f(..ur 
poets,  Anthony  Muuday,  Michael  Dranon,  Robtrt  Wiis.«j 
and  Richard  Hathway ;  and  to  attribute  it  to  Shake.«pear# 
was  evidently  a  mere  trick  by  the  bookseller,  Tihi^niuij] 
P[avier],  in  the  hope  that  it  would  be  bought  as  liis  wurk. 
Malone  remarked  upon  this  fraud,  but  he  was  nut  awar*. 
when  he  wrote,  that  it  had  been  detected  and  c  irrected  at 
the  time,  for  since  his  day  moi-e  than  one  copy  of  the  "  FirsI 
Part,  <fec.  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  "  has  come  to  light  upon 
the  title-page  of  which  no  name  is  to  be  found,  tbe  book- 
seller apparently  having  been  compelled  to  cancel  the  leaf 
containing  it  From  the  indifference  Shakespeare  seems 
uniformly  to  have  displayed  on  mattei-s  of  the  kind,  we 
may,  possibly,  conclude  that  the  cancel  was  made  at  th« 
instance  of  one  of  the  four  p(jets  who  were  the  real  authors 
of  the  play  ;  but  we  have  no  means  of  speaking  decisively 
upon  the  point,  and  the  step  may  have  been  in  soiiie  way 
connected  with  the  objection  taken  by  Uving  members  of  the 
Oldcastle  family  to  the  name,  which  had  been  assigned  bj 
Shakespeare  m  the  first  instance  to  Falstalf. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Death  of  John  Shakespeare  in  1601.  Performance  of"  Twelfth 
Night  "  in  February,  1602.  Anecdote  of  Shakespeare  and 
Burbasre  :  Manningbam's  Diary  in  the  Briiish  Museum  tiia 
authority  for  it.  "  Othello,"  acted  by  Burbage  aii^l  otlierj 
at  the  Lord  Keeper's  in  August,  1602.'  Death' of  EiiaibetU, 
aud  Arrival  of  James  I.  at  Theobalds.  English  aciorh  in 
Scotland  in  1539,  and  again  in  1.599,  1600,  and  1601  :  luri^a 
rewards  to  them.  The  freedom  of  Aberdeen  conferred  in 
1601  upon  Laurence  Fletcher,  the  leader  of  the  English 
company  in  Scotland.  Probability  that  Shakespeare  never 
was  in  Scotland. 

The  father  of  our  great  poet  died  in  the  autumn  of  1601 
j  and  he  was  buried  at  Stratford-upon-Avon*.  He  seems  to 
have  left  no  will,  and  if  be  possessed  tuiy  property,  in  land 
or  houses,  not  made  over  to  his  family,  we  know  not  how  it 
was  divided.  Of  the  eight  children  which  his  wife,  Mai-y 
Arden,  had  brought  him,  the  foll<.>wing  were  then  ahve,  an<i 
might  be  piesent"  at  the  funeral : — William,  Gilbert,  Joan, 
Ricliard,  and  Edmund.  The  latter  yeai-s  of  John  Shake- 
speare (who,  if  born  in  1530  as  Malone  supposed,  was  io 
his  seventv-first  year)  were  doubtless  easy  and  comfortable, 
and  the  prosperity  of  his  eldest  son  must  have  placed  him 
beyond  the  reach  of  pecuniary  difficulties. 

Early  in  the  spring  of  16u2,  we  meet  with  one  of  th<»9« 
rare  facts  wliich  distinctly  show  how  uncertain  all  e<>ujeo- 
ture  must  be  respecting  the  date  when  Shakespeare's  d.  amaa 
were  originally  written  and  produced.  Malone  iui<l  Tyr- 
whitt,  in  1790,  conjectured  that  "  TwelJ'th  Night  "  kid  been 
written  in  1614:  in  his  second  edition  ilalone  altered  it  to 

For  though  he  heer  inclosed  bee  in  pliister. 
When  he  was  free  he  was  this  townes  school-mut«r 
This  Well  you  see,  is  not  that  Arethusa. 
The  Nymph  of  Sicile  :  .Voe,  men  may  caron«  & 
Health  of  the  plump  Ly^us.  noblest  srrapes. 
From  these  faire  conduits,  and  turne  drunk  like  ap«& 
This  second  spring  1  keep,  as  did  that  dragon 
Hesperian  apples.     And  nowe.  .sir,  a  plague  on 
This  vour  poore  towne.  if  to  "t  you  bee  not  welcora* 
But  wnoe  can  doubt  of  this.  when,  loe  '.  a  Well  com* 
Is  nowe  unto  the  gate  ?     I  would  say  more. 
But  words  now  failing,  dare  not,  Wast  I  roare 
The  eieht  lines  in  Nichols's   "  Progresie.  vf  Jamea  '  "  »«  ^o™ 
Drummonds  Poem,  and  there  can   be  UttU  doubt  that  the  *»irl, 

speech  was  from  his  pen.  

3  It  was  a  charee  against  Robert  Greene,  that,  driven  br  tbe  ore* 
sure  of  necessity,  he  had  on  one  occM.on  raised  money  by  mafanc 
'•  a  double  sale  -  of  his  plav  called  "  Orlando  Ftmo...  I5»4.  fir.t  to 
the  plavers  and  afterwards  to  the  pres-s.  Such  may  have  "tra  the 
fact,  but  it  was  unquestionably  an  exception  to  the  ordinary  rgle 
♦  See  the  Introduction  to  '•  Henrv  IV.  '  Part  I 
i  On  the  8ih  September,  as  we  find  by  the  subsequent  ent  ,  .t  .h. 
,an.h  register^-  ^^^  ^      ^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  „ 


IVill 


THE  LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


16u7,  and  Ohalmoi-s,  weighing  tlie  evidence  in  favour  of 
one  date  iind  of  the  otlier,  thought  neither  correct,  and  fixed 
upon  lt;i:>',  an  opiuiou  in  wliich  Dr.  Drake  fully  concurred'^ 
The  trutl)  is,  that  wo  have  iriefiiigable  evidence,  from  an 
eve-witu<'tis.  <>f  its  existence  on  2nd  February,  16l»2,  when 
it  was  plaved  at  the  Reader's  Feast  in  the  Middle  Temple. 
Tliis  eye-witness  was  a  barrister  of  the  name  of  Manning- 
nain,  who  left  a  Diaiy  behind  him,  which  has  been  pre- 
served in  the  British  Museum ;  but  as  we  have  inserted  his 
acc«.iunt  of  the  plot  in  our  introduction  to  the  comedy,  ( VoL 
LiL  p.  317)  no  more  is  required  here,  thiui  a  mere  mention 
o{  the  eiroumstanoe.  However,  in  another  part  of  the  same 
manuscript',  he  gives  an  anecdote  of  Shakespeare  and  Bur- 
k;ige,  which  we  quote,  without  farther  remark  than  that  it 
hiis  been  supposed  to  depend  upon  the  authority  of  Nicho- 
las Tooley*.  but  on  kwking  at  the  original  record  again,  we 
doubt  whether  it  came  from  auy  such  source.  A  "  Mr. 
Towse"  is  repeatedly  introduced  lis  a  person  from  whom 
Manuingham  derived  information,  and  that  name,  tliough 
blotted,  seems  to  be  placed  at  the  end  of  the  paragraph, 
certainly  without  the  addition  of  any  Christian  name.  This 
circumstance  may  make  some  ditference  as  regards  the  au- 
thenticity of  the  stoiy,  because  we  know  not  who  Mr. 
Towse  might  be,  while  we  are  sure  that  Nicholas  Tooley 
was  a  fellow-actor  in  the  same  company  as  both  the  indi- 
viduals to  whom  the  story  relates.  At  the  same  time  it  I 
was,  very  p>ssibly,  a  mere  invention  of  the  "  roguish  play- 
ers," originating,  as  was  often  the  case,  in  some  older  joke, ! 
and  appUed  to  Shakespeare  and  Burbage,  because  their  ^ 
Christian  names  happened  to  be  William  and  Richa^d^ 

Elizabeth,  from  the  commencement  of  her  reign,  seems 
V)  have  extended  her  personal  patronage,  as  well  as  her 
pubUc  Countenance,  to  the  drama  ;  and  scarcely  a  Christmas 
or  a  Shrovetide  cau  be  pointed  out  during  the  forty-five ' 
years  she  (K,'cupied  the  throne,  when  there  were  not  dra- 1 
matic  entertainments,  either  at  Whitehall,  Greenwich,  None- 
such. Richmond,  or  Wiudsor.  The  latest  visit  she  p;ud  to ; 
any  of  her  nobility  in  the  country  was  to  the  Lord  Keeper, 
Sir  Thomas  Egerton,  at  Harefield,  only  nine  or  ten  months 
before  her  death  and  it  was  ujjon  this  oec;ision,  in  the  very 
beginning  of  August,  1602,  that  "  Othello""  (having  been; 
got  up  for  her  amusement,  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 

'  Sapplementa.1  Apology,  &c.  p.  467. 

>  Shatspeaxe  and  his  Times,  vol.  ii.  p.  262. 

'  MS.  Hail.  No.  5;i3:}. 

*  Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  vol.  i.  p.  -331.  'iTie 
Christian  name  is  nranling  in  the  Hajrl.  .MS. 

»  See  ••  Hist.  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  vol.  i.  p.  331. 
The  ■writer  of  that  work  thus  introduces  the  anecdote  : — "  If  in  the 
eouse  of  my  inquiries,  1  have  bi^en  unlucky  enough  (I  may  perhaps 
say)  to  find  anything  which  represents  our  great  dramatist  in  a  less 
faTourable  light,  as  a  human  being  with  human  infirmities,  I  may 
lament  it.  but  I  do  not  thei  ifore  feel  myself  at  liberty  to  conceal  and 
lapprexs  the  fact '"     The  anecdote  is  this. 

"Upon  a  tyme  when  B'lrbage  played  Rich.  3,  there  was  a  citizen 
crew  to  larre  in  lUing  sith  him,  that  before  shee  went  from  the 
play,  thee  appointed  hira  to  come  that  night  unto  her,  by  the  name 
of  Rich  the  ;i.  Shakespeare,  overhearing  their  conclusion,  went  be- 
fore, WM  entertained,  an  1  at  his  game  ere  Burbage  came.  Then, 
mestaije  being  brought,  that  Pich.  the  3.  was  at  the  dore.  Shake- 
speare cnj»ej  returnc  to  be  made,  that  William  the  Conqueror  was 
before  Rich,  the  3.     Shakespeare's  name  Willra." 

This  nor)-  may  he  a  piece  of  scandal,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that 
Bnrbage  was  the  original  Richard  III.  As  to  the  cu.stom  of  ladies 
inriting  players  home  to  aupper.  see  Middleton's  "'Mad  World,  my 
Masters.' Act  v.  sc.  2,  in  -"^Dodsleys  Old  Plays,"  last  edit.  The 
players,  in  turn.  som«times  invited  the  ladies,  as  we  find  by  Field's 
'Amends  for  Ladies,"  Act  iii.  sc.  4,  in  the  supplementary  volume  to 
"  Dodsl«y  s  O.i  l':i.--»."  published  in  l-^JD. 

•  See  the  ■' Iniroauilion  "  to  ••Othello."  Also  "The  Egerton  Pa- 
pers." printed  by  the  Carnden  .Soriety.  1-10.  p   :i43. 

'  In  a  former  note  we  have  inserted  the  names  of  some  of  the 
I»ri no i pal  characters,  in  plays  of  the  time,  sustained  by  Burbage.  as 
they  are  given  in  the  Epitaph  ufKin  his  death,  in  1619.  Our  readers 
may  like  to  itee  the  manner  in  which  thene  characters  are  spoken  of 
by  the  contemporaneous  versifier.  The  production  opens  with  this 
•onplel : — 

"  Some  skilful  limner  help  me,  if  not  so, 
Some  sad  tragedian  to  express  my  woe  ;" 
which  certainly  does   not  promise   much   in  the  way  of  excellence  ; 

Vat  the  enumeration  of  pans  is  all  that  is  valuable,  and  it  is  this  : 

"  No  more  yonng  Hamlet,  though  but  scant  of  breath, 
Shall  cry.  Revenge  I  for  his  dear  father's  death  : 
Poor  Romeo  never  more  shall  tears  beget 
For  Juliet's  love,  and  cruel  Ca-nlet : 


players  brought  down  to  the  Lt)rd  Keeper's  seat  in  Hert- 
fordshire for  the  purpose)  was  reDresenled  before  her.  Ic 
tliis  case,  as  in  the  preceding  one  respecting  "  Twelfth 
Night,"  all  that  we  positively  learn  is  that  such  drama  was 
performed,  and  we  are  left  to  infer  that  it  was  a  new  pla\ 
from  othei-  circumsUuices,  as  well  as  from  the  fact  tliut  il 
was  customary  on  such  festivities  to  exliibit  some  drama 
that,  as  a  novelty,  was  then  attracting  pubHc  attention. 
Hence  we  are  led  to  believe,  that  "Twelfth  Night"  (not 
printed  until  it  formed  part  of  the  foUo  of  1623)  was  writ- 
teu  at  the  end  of  1600,  or  in  tlie  beginning  of  1601  ;  and 
that  "  Othello"  (fii-st  published  in  4to,  1622,)came  from  the 
author's  pen  about  a  year  afterwards. 

In  the  memorandum  ascertaining  the  performance  of 
"  Othello  "  at  Harefield,  the  compjmy  by  which  it  was  re- 
presented is  called  "  Burbages  Players,"  that  designation 
arising  out  of  the  fact,  tliat  he  wjis  looked  upon  as  the 
leader  of  the  association  :  he  was  certainly  its  most  cele- 
brated actor,  and  we  find  from  other  sources  that  he  win 
the  representative  of  "  the  Moor  of  Venice'."  Whethei 
Shakespeare  had  any  and  what  part  in  the  tragedy,  either 
then  or  upon  other  occasions,  is  not  known  ;  but  we  do  no! 
think  any  argument,  one  way  or  the  other,  is  to  be  drawn 
from  the  fact  that  the  company,  when  at  Harefield,  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  under  his  immediate  government 
Whether  he  was  or  was  not  one  of  the  '■  playei-s '"  in 
"Othello,"  in  August  1602,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  i\s 
an  actor,  and  moreover  as  one  "  excellent  in  his  qiuility,"  ba 
must  have  been  often  seen  and  applauded  by  Ehzabeth 
Chettle  informs  us  after  her  death,  in  a  passage  already 
quoted,  that  she  had  "  opened  her  royal  ear  to  his  lays  ;■' 
but  this  was  obviously  in  his  capacity  of  dramatist,  and  we 
have  no  diiect  evidence  to  establish  that  Shakespeare  had 
ever  perfoi-med  at  Court*. 

James  L  reached  Theobalds,  in  his  joui-ney  from  Edin- 
burgh to  London,  on  the  Tth  May,  16uS  Before  he  quitted 
his  own  capital  he  had  had  various  op]X>rtunities  of  wit- 
nessing the  performances  of  English  actors ;  and  it  is  an  in- 
teresting, but  at  the  same  time  a  difficult  question,  whether 
Shakespeare  had  ever  appeared  before  liiiu,  or,  in  other 
words,  whether  our  great  dramatist  had  ever  visited  Scot- 
land ?     We  have  certainly  no  afllrmative  testimony  upon 

Harry  shall  not  be  seen  as  King  or  Prince, 

They  died  with  thee,  dear  Dick, — 

Not  to  revive  again.     Jeronimo 

Shall  cease  to  mourn  his  sun  Huratio. 

They  cannot  call  thee  from  thy  naked  bed 

By  horrid  outcry  :  and  Antonio's  dead. 

Edward  shall  lack  a  representative  ; 

And  Crookback.  as  befits,  shall  cease  to  live. 

Tyrant  Macbeth,  with  unwash"d  bloody  hand, 

We  vainly  now  may  hope  to  understand. 

Brutus  and  Marcius  henceforth  must  be  dumb, 

For  ne'er  thy  like  upon  our  sla-.'e  shall  come. 

To  charm  the  faculty  of  ears  and  eyes, 

Unless  we  could  command  the  dead  to  rise 

Vindex  is  gone,  and  what  a  lo.<s  was  he  I 

Frankford,  Brachiano.  and  .Malevole. 

Heart-broke  Philaster.  and  Aminta.-*  too. 

Are  lost  fur  ever,  with  the  red-h.iir"d  .few, 

Which  sought  the  bankrupt  .Merchant's  pound  of  flesh. 

By  woman-lawyer  canghl  in  his  own  mesh    •  •  • 

And  his  whole  action  he  would  change  with  eas« 

From  ancient  Lear  to  youthful  Peri<fles. 

But  let  me  not  forget  one  chiefest  part 

Wherein. beyond  the  rest,  he  mov'd  the  heart  j 

The  grieved  Moor,  made  jealous  by  a  slave, 

Who  sent  his  wife  to  fill  a  timeless  grave, 

Then  slew  himself  upon  the  bloody'bed. 

All  these,  and  many  more,  with  him  are  dead,"  &c 
The  MS   from  which  the  above  lines  are  copied  seems,  at  leait  ino»> 
place,  defective,  but  it  might  be  cured  by  the  addition  of  the  words, 
"and  not  long  since  " 

*  A  ballad  was  published  on  the  death  of  Elizabeth,  in  the  com- 
mencement of  which  .''hakespeare,  Ben  Jon.-ion.  and  Thoma.»  Greene," 
author  of  "A  Poet's   Vision    and  a   Prince's  Glorie,''  -Ito.  ltj(l'»    -"n 
called  upon  to  contribute  some  verses  in  honour  of  the  late  C^ueeu  . 
"  You  poets  all,  brave  Shakespeare,  .lohnson.  Greene, 

Bestow  your  time  to  write  for  England's  Queene,'"  ice 
Excepting  for  this  notice  of  "  brave  Shakespeare,"  the  prodactioo 
is  utterly  contemptible,  and  must  have  been  the  work  of  some  of  the 
"  goblins  and  underelves  "  of  poetry,  who.  according  to  a  poem  in  H 
Chettle's  "  England's  Mourning  Garment.''  had  put  forth  upcn  iftt 
occasion  "  rude  rhimes,  and  metres  reasonlesn.'' 


THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


I IX 


the  point,  bej  oad  what  may  be  derived  from  some  passages  I 
in  "  Macbeth,"  descriptive  of  particular  localities,  with 
which  passages  our  readers  must  be  familiar  :  thei'e  is, 
howevtr,  ample  room  for  conjecture ;  and  although,  ou  the 
whole,  we  are  iucUued  to  think  that  he  was  never  north  of  : 
the  Tweed,  it  is  indisputable  that  the  company  to  which  he 
belonged,  or  a  part  of  it,  had  performed  in  Edinburgh  and 
Aberdeen,  and  doubtless  in  some  intermediate  places.  We 
will  briefly  state  the  existing  proofs  of  this  fact. 

The  year  1599  has  been  commonly  supposed  the  earliest 
date  at  which  an  association  of  English  actors  was  in  Scot- 
land ;  but  it  can  be  shown  beyond  contradiction  that  "  lier  I 
Majesty's  players,"  meaning  tliose  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wei-e 
in  Edinburgh  ten  years  earher'.  In  1689,  Ashby,  the  am- 
bassador extraordinary  from  England  to  James  VI.  of 
Scotland,  thus  writes  to  Lord  Burghley,  under  date  of  the 
22d  October :—  j 

"  My  Lord  Bothwfell]  begins  to  shew  himself  willing  and  ! 
ready  to  do  her  Mujcsty  any  service,  and  desires  hereafter  to ' 
be  tliouirht  of  as  he'sliiill  deserve  :  he  sheweth  great  kindness 
to  our  imtion,  using  her  M^jjesties  Players  and  Canoniers  with  : 
ail  courtesie^." 

In  1589,  the  date  of  Ashby's  dispatch,  Shakespeare  had 
quitted  Stratford  about  three  years,  and  the  question  is, 
what  company  was  intended  to  be  designated  as  "  her  Ma- 1 
jesty's  players."  It  is  an  admitted  fact,  that  in  1583  the! 
Queen  selected  twelve  leading  performers  from  the  theat- ; 
rieal  servants  of  some  of  her  nobility,  and  they  were  after- : 
wards  called  "  her  Majesty's  players ;"  and  we  also  now 
know,  that  in  1590  the  Queen  had  two  companies  acting 
imder  her  name^ :  in  the  autumn  of  the  precedmg  year,  it  is 
likely  that  one  of  these  associations  had  been  sent  to  the 
Scottish  capital  for  the  amusement  of  the  young  king,  and 
the  company  formed  in  1583  may  have  been  divided  into 
two  bodies  for  this  express  purpt)se.  Sir  John  Sinclair,  in 
bts  "Statistical  Account  of  Scotland,"  estabhshed  that  a 
body  of  comedians  was  in  Perth  in  June,  1589;  and  al- 
though we  are  without  evidence  that  they  were  English 
players,  we  may  fairly  enough  assume  that  they  were  the 
same  company  spoken  of  by  Ashby,  as  having  been  used 
courteously  by  Lord  Bothwell  in  the  October  following. 
We  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  names  of  any  of  the 
players,  nor  indeed,  excepting  the  leaders  Laneham  and 
Dutton,  can  Ave  state  who  were  the  members  of  the  Queen's 
two  companies  in  1590.  Shakespeare  might  be  one  oi 
them ;  but  if  he  were,  he  might  not  belong  to  that  division 
of  the  company  which  was  dispatched  to  Scotland. 

It  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  English  actors,  having 
found  their  way  north  of  the  Tweed  in  1689,  would  speedily 
repeat  their  visit ;  but  the  next  we  hear  of  them  is,  not  until 
after  a  long  interval,  in  the  autumn  of  1599.  The  pubhc 
records  of  Scotland  show  that  in  October,  1599,  (exactly  the 
same  season  as  that  In  which,  ten  years  earher,  they  are 
spoken  of  by  Ashby)  43/.  6s.  8f/.  were  dehvered  to  "his 
Highness'  self,"  to  be  given  to  "  the  English  comedians  :"  in 
the  next  month  they  were  paid  41/.  12.f.  at  various  times. 
In  December  they  received  no  less  than  333/.  6.<.  9>d. ;  in 
April,  1600,  10/.;  and  in  December,  1601,  the  royal  bounty 
anounted  to  400/.'' 

Thus  we  see,  that  English  players  were  in  Scotland  from 
October,  1599,  to  December,  1601,  a  period  of  more  than 
two  years;  but  still  we  are  without  a  particle  of  proof  that 
Shakespeare  was  one  of  the  association.  We  cannot,  how- 
ever, entertain  a  doubt  that  Laurence  Fletcher,  (whose 
name,  we  shall  see  presently,  stands  first  in  the  patent 
granted  by  King  James  on  his  arrival  in  London)  was  the 


leader  of  the  association  which  perform-id  in  Edinburgh  aoa 
elsewhere,  because  it  appears  from  the  registers  of  the  towo 
council  of  Abei-deen,  that  on  the  9th  Octi-.ber,  1601,  the 
English  players  received  32  maiks  as  a  gratuity,  and  that 
on  22d  October  the  freedom  of  the  city  was  conferred  .if^xn 
Laurence  Fletcher,  who  is  especially  styled  "  comedian  to 
his  Majesty."  The  company  had  arrived  in  Aberdeen,  and 
had  been  received  by  the  public  authorities,  ;ujder  the  sanc- 
tion of  a  special  letter  from  James  VI. ;  and,  although  they 
were  in  fact  the  players  of  the  Queen  of  Kngiimd,  they 
might  on  this  account  be  deemed  and  treated  as  the  playert 
of  the  King  of  Scotland. 

Our  chief  reason  for  thinking  it  unlikely  that  Shakespear* 
would  have  accompanied  his  ft-llows  to  Scotland,  at  all 
events  between  October,  1599.  and  December,  16ul,  is  that, 
as  the  principal  writer  for  the  company  to  which  he  was 
attached,  he  could  not  well  have  been  spared,  and  because 
we  have  good  ground  for  beheving  that  about  that  penod 
he  must  have  been  imusually  busy  in  the  composition  of 
plays.  No  fewer  than  five  dramas  seem,  as  far  as  e\idenc«, 
positive  or  conjectural,  can  be  obtained,  to  belong  to  th^ 
interval  between  1698  and  1602 ;  and  the  proof  appears  to 
us  tolerably  conclusive,  that  "  Henry  V.,"  "  Twelfth  Night," 
and  "  Hamlet,"  were  written  respectively  in  1599, 16u0.  and 
1601.  Besides,  as  far  as  we  are  able  to  decide  such  a  pohit, 
the  company  to  which  our  great  dramatist  belonged  con- 
tinued to  perform  in  London ;  for  although  a  detachment 
under  Laurence  Fletcher  may  have  been  sent  U)  Scotland, 
the  main  body  of  the  association  called  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's players  exhibital  at  court  at  the  usual  seasons  in 
1599,  1600,  and  1601^  Therefore,  if  Shakespeare  \Tsit<-d 
Scotland  at  all,  we  tliink  it  must  have  been  at  an  eat  her 
period,  and  there  was  imdoubtedly  ample  tune  between  the 
years  1589  and  1599  for  him  to  "have  done  so.  Neverthe- 
less, we  have  no  tidings  that  any  EugUsh  actoi-s  were  m  any 
part  of  Scotknd  during  those  ten  years. 


1  Between  September.  15s9,  and  September.  1590,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth had  sent,  as  a  present  to  the  young  King  of  Scotland  on  his 
marriage,  a  splendid  mask,  with  all  the  necessary  appurtenances, 
and  we  find  it  charged  for  in  the  accounts  of  the  department  of  the 
revels  for  that  period.  See  "Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the 
Stage."  vol.  i.  p.  -270.  It  is  most  likely  that  the  actors  from  London 
accompanied  this  gift.  ,  ,       ^         at     a„i,k„ 

>  From  MS.  Harl.  4047,  being  copies  of  despatches  from  Mr.  Ash  by 
to  different  members  of  the  Council  in  London.  We  are  indebted  to 
Mr.  N.  Hill  for  directing  our  attention  to  this  curious  notice. 

3  See  Mr.  P.  Cunningham's  "  Extracts  from  the  Revels'  Accounts, 
'printed  for  the  Shakespeare  Society,)  p.  xxxii. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Proclamation  by  James  I.  ngainst  phiys  on  Sundny  Kenewa, 
I  of  theatrical  performances  m  London.  Patent  ot  5Uu  i  ■  in, 
I  1603,  to  Laiircnee  Fletcher,  William  blmkcspeare,  and 
i  others.  Kovul  patronage  of  lliree  companies  ot  acton*. 
1  Shakespeare's  aaditionalpurehases  in  Stnittord-up.n-Avon. 
!  Shakespeare  in  London  in  the  autumn  ot  1603:  and  a  can- 
didate for  the  office  of  Master  of  ll.e  Queen  s  Kevels  Ch«- 
racters  Shakespeare  is  known  to  hav^  ^7*"!";"th  i  .vl 
I     retirement  from  the  sUige,  as  an  actor,  after  April  9th,  lo.4. 

Before  he  even  set  foot  in  London.  James  I.  thought  it  ne- 
cessary t^  put  a  stop  to  di-amatic  performances  ou  buuday 
This  fact  has  never  been  mentioned,  because  the  proolama- 
tion  he  issued  at  Theobalds  on  7th  May,  containing  the  m-y 

I  .rraph  for  this  purpose,  has  only  recentlv  come  to  hj,  it 
^'iS-e   had   been    aMong   pending   struggle   b^-'t^-n    •!•« 

■Puritans  and  the  players  upon  this  point,  and  each  party 
seemed  by  turns  to  gain  the  victory;  for  ^:;';'7';  ';  J  '^ 
were,  from  time  to  time,  issued  irom  auth.u-.ty.  «-'b>;|'i'"^ 
exhibitions  of  the  kind  on  the  Sabbath,  and  '■^^'''^l^^'^l 
been  uniformly  more  or  less  contravened  J^  ^  '  >  ^^^ 
nose  that  strons  remonstrances  having  been  n..ule  to  Ibe 
SnS  l;  l;ie  of  th..e  who  attended  him  ^'^-^^^^^ 
clause  with  this  special  object  was  "fj-'";  '^  ^  '  ,.' :  .^^^^'^ 
tion  directed  against  monop.hes  iind  '^'i^f  .^"^.'^.'Ij^^r 
mere  circumstance  of  the  company  m  which  this  i>aragrapli. 

*  For  these  particulars  of  payment,    a„d-^^.^^^^^^^ 

^"/■rh^afc-ounts  of  the  ^^^^^^^:-^^ix:^ ^l!^  X 

complete  as  usual,  and  in  -Jl^-/^  V,  i,,  '^  The  interv.l  vtj  a  F«noO 
tails  of  any  kind  between  l.>5,  ''"'^J'^'.   ,h-  Lrfoimanc*  o(  the  pto- 
of  the  greatest  possible  i"««"f  „^: '!^'„lVly  h^pe  that  lh«  oii^i 
ductions  of  Shakespeare,  and  «e  e^ne»tly       P 
accounU  may  yet  be  recovered. 


Ix 


THE  UFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


against  dramatic  perforniauces  on  Sunday,  is  found,  seems 
to  prove  that  it  was  lui  after-thought,  and  that  it  was  in- 
sort^il.  booause  his  courtiers  had  urged  that  James  ought 
not  even  to  euter  his  new  capitjil.  until  public  steps  had 
been  taken  t*'  put  au  oud  to  tlie  profauatiou'. 

The  Kiug,  haviug  issued  this  CMiiiiiiand,  arrived  at  the 
Charterhouse  on  the  same  day.  and  all  the  theatrical  Com- 
panies, wliich  had  temporarily  suspended  tlieir  performances, 
began  to  act  agiuu  on  the  9lh  -May'.  Permission  to  this 
•rtect  was  given  by  James  L  imd  commuuiciited  through 
die  ordinary  channel  to  the  players,  who  soon  found  reason 
to  rejoice  in  tlie  accession  of  the  new  sovereign;  for  ten 
davs  after  he  reached  London  he  took  the  Lord  Chamber- 
bun's  phiyers  into  his  pay  and  patron:ige,  cjdling  them  "  the 
Kiog's  servjints,"  a  title  they  always  afterwards  enjoyed. 
For  tils  purptise  he  issued  a'warrant,  under  the  privy  seal, 
for  making  out  a  patent  under  the  great  seal',  authorizing 
the  nine  following  aetoi  s,  and  others,  to  perform  in  his  name, 
not  only  at  the  Globe  on  the  Baukside.  but  in  any  part  of 
the  kingdom  ;  viz.  Laurence  Fletcher,  William  Shjikespeare, 
Richard  Burbage,  Augustine  Phillippes,  John  Heminge, 
Henry  Condell,  William  Sly,  Robert  Armyn,  and  Richard 
Cowley. 

We  miss  from  this  list  the  names  of  Thomas  Pope,  Wil- 
bam  Kempe,  and  Nicholas  Ttwley,  who  had  belonged  to  the  1 
oompjiny  in  1596 ;  and  instead  of  them  we  have  Laurence  [ 
Fletcher,  Henry  Condell,  and  Robert  Armyn,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  Richard  Cowley.  Pope  had  been  an  actor  iu  1589, 
and  perhaps  in  -May.  1603,  was  an  old  man,  for  he  died  iu 
the  February  following.  Kempe  li;\d  joined  the  Lord  Ad-^ 
miral's  playei-s  soon  after  the  opening  of  the  Fortune,  on  his  | 
letum  from  the  Continent,  for  we  find  him  in  Henslowe's 
pay  in  16ii2.  Nicholas  Tooley  had  also  perhaps  withdrawn  ; 
from  the  association  at  this  date,  or  his  name  would  hardly  i 


'  The  paragraph  is  in  these  terms,  and  we  quote  them  because  they 
tiave  not  been  noticed  by  any  historian  of  our  stage. 

'■  And  for  that  we  are  informed,  that  there  hath  been  heretofore 
treat  neghict  in  this  kingdome  of  keeping  the  ,Sabbath  day;  for  the 
better  obstrvinp  of  the  same  and  avoydin^  all  impious  prophanation. 
We  do  Kiraightly  charge  and  coramaund  that  no  Beare- bay  ling,  Bal- 
bayting.  Enterludes,  common  Playes,  or  other  like  disordered  or  un- 
lawful exercises,  or  pastimes,  be  frequented,  kept,  or  used  at  any  time 
hereafter  upon  the  Sabbath  day. 

Given  at  our  Court  at  Theobalds,  the  7  day  of  May,  in  the 
first  yeare  of  our  Reigne." 

'  This  fact  we  have  upon  the  authority  of  Henslowe's  Diary.  See 
the  Hist.  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  vol.  i.  p.  34ii. 

'  It  runs  verbatim  et  literatim  thus  : — 

Bt  The  Ki.ng. 

"  Right  'rusty  and  welbeloved  Counsellor,  we  greete  you  well,  and 
will  and  commaund  you,  that  under  our  privie  Seale  in  your  custody 
for  the  lime  being  you  cause  our  letters  to  be  dererted  to  the  keeper 
of  our  greate  seale  of  England,  commaunding  him  under  our  said 
^reate  Seale,  he  cause  our  letters  to  be  made  patents  in  forme  follow- 
ing. James,  by  the  graceof  God,  King  of  England,  Scotland,  Fraunce, 
and  Irland,  defender  of  the  faith.  &.c.  To  all  Justices.  .Maiors,  .Sheriff's, 
Consiabies,  Headburouphes.  and  other  our  officers  and  loving  subjects 
erecting.  Know  ye.  thai  we  of  our  speciall  grace,  certaine  know- 
ledge, and  meere  motion  have  licenced  and  authorized,  and  by  these 
present's  doe  licence  and  authorize,  these  our  servants.  Lawrence 
Fletcher.  William  Shakejipeare,  Richard  Burbage,  Augustine  Phil- 
lippen,  John  Hemmings.  Ilenrie  Condell,  William  Sly,  Robert  Armyn, 
Richard  Cowlye.  and  the  rest  of  their  a^sociats,  freely  to  use  &  exer- 
e;.««  the  arte  and  faculty  of  playing  Comedies,  Tragedies!.  Historiei, 
Enterludes,  Moralls.  I'astoralls,  Stage  pUies,  and  s"ch  other  like,  as 
that  thei  have  already  studied  or  hereafter  shall  use  or  stdd;;.  aswell 
£or  the  recreation  of  our  loving  subjects,  as  for  our  solace  and  piea- 
■nre,  when  we  nhall  thinke  good  to  see  them,  dunng  our  pleasure. 
An  J  tka  laid  Comedies,  Tragedies.  Historic*,  Enterludes,  .MoralU, 
Pastoral.i.  Suge  plaies,  and  such  like,  to  shew  &  exercise  publiquely 
to  their  best  corniiioditie,  when  the  infection  of  the  plague  shall  de- 
ereajie,  as  well  witnin  iheire  now  usuall  howse  called  the  Globe, 
within  our  county  of  .Surrey,  as  also  within  anie  towne  halls,  or  mout 
halls,  or  other  convenient  places  wiihin  the  liberties  i  (Veedome  of 
any  other  cit!e.  universitie,  towne.  or  borough  whatsoever  within  our 
Mid  realmes  and  dominions.  Willing  and  commaunding  you,  and 
•very  of  you,  as  you  tender  onr  pleasure,  not  only  to  permit  and  sofTer 
them  heerin,  without  any  your  IctU.  hinderances.  or  molestations, 
dunng  our  faid  pleasure,  but  also  to  be  ayding  or  assisting  to  them, 
yf  any  wrong  h-  to  them  offered.  And  to  allowe  them  such  former 
courtesies,  aj  bathe  bene  given  to  men  of  their  place  and  qualitie  : 
and  also  what  further  favour  you  shall  siiew  to  th'sse  our  servants  for 
sar  sake,  we  shall  lake  Kindly  at  your  hands.  And  these  our  lettera 
(hall  be  ynur  »ulhc:'nt  warrant  and  di»charce  in  this  behalfe.  Given 
Qoder  'ur  Signet  at  our  mannorof  Greenewirhe,  the  seaventeenth 
iay  of  -May  in  the  first  yere  of  onr  raigne  of  England,  France,  and 
Inland,  Jc.  ol  Scotland  the  six  k  thirtieth.  Ex  per  Lake." 


have  been  omitted  in  the  patent,  as  an  established  aDtoi 
and  a  man  of  some  property  and  influence ;  but  he,  as  welj 
as  Kempe,  not  long  subsequently  lejoiued  the  association 
with  which  they  had  been  so  loug  connected. 

We  may  assume,  perhaps,  in  the  absence  of  any  direot 
testimony,  that  Laurence  Fletcher  did  not  acquire  his  prom- 
inence in  the  company  by  any  remarkable  excellence  as  ar 
actor.  He  had  been  in  Scotland,  and  had  performed  with 
his  associates  before  James  in  1599,  1600,  and  1601,  and  in 
the  Litter  year  he  had  been  registered  its  "  his  Majesty 'e 
Comedian"  at  Aberdeen.  He  might,  therefore,  have  been  a 
favourite  with  the  Kiug,  and  being  also  a  considerable  sharer 
in  the  association,  he  perhaps  owed  his  place  in  the  pateol 
of  May,  1603,  to  that  circumstance*.  The  name  of  bhake 
speare  cj-.mes  next,  and  as  authoi-,  actor,  and  sharer,  w« 
cannot  be  surprised  at  the  situation  he  occupies.  His  pro- 
gress upwaru,  in  connexion  with  the  profession,  had  been 
gradual  and  uniform  :  in  1589  he  w;is  twelfth  iu  a  company 
of  sixteen  members:  in  1696  he  was  fifth  iu  a  compsmy  of 
eight  members;  and  in  1603  he  was  second  in  a  company 
of  nine  members. 

The  degree  of  encouragement  and  favour  extended  to  ac- 
tors by  James  L  iu  the  very  commencement  of  liis  reign  is 
remarkable.  Not  only  did  he  take  the  Lord  Chamberlain'p 
players  unto  his  own  service,  but  the  Queen  adopted  the 
company  which  had  acted  under  the  name  of  the  Earl  of 
Worcester,  of  which  the  eelebnited  dramatist,  Thomas  Hey- 
wood,  was  then  one  ;  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  that  of  the 
Lord  Admiral,  at  the  head  of  which  was  Edward  AUeyu, 
the  founder  of  Dulwich  College.  These  three  royal  asso- 
ciations, as  they  may  be  termed,  were  independent  of  others 
under  the  patronage  of  iudi\^dual  noblemeu'. 

The  policy  of  this  course  at  such  a  time  is  evident,  and 
James  L  seems  to  have  been  impressed  wdth  the  ti-uth  of 

The  patent  under  the  great  seal,  made  out  in  consequence  of  this 
warrant,  bears  date  two  days  afterwards. 

*  Nothing  seems  to  be  known  of  the  birth  or  origin  of  Laurence 
Fletcher,  (who  died  in  September,  1()0>.)  but  we  may  suspect  that  H* 
was  an  elder  brother  of  John  Fletcher,  the  dramatist.  Bishop  Fletcher, 
the  father,  died  on  15  June,  l.5yii,  having  made  his  will  in  October, 
1.594,  before  he  was  translated  from  Worcester  to  London.  This  doo- 
uinent  seems  never  to  have  been  examined,  but  it  appears  from  it.  a* 
Mr.  P.  Cunningham  informs  us,  that  he  had  no  fewer  than  nine 
children,  although  he  only  mentions  his  sons  Nathaniel  and  John  by 
naiqe  He  died  poor,  and  among  the  Lansdowne  MSS.  is  one.  enti- 
tled "Reasons  to  move  her  Majesty  to  some  commiseration  towardi 
the  orphans  of  the  late  Bishop  of  London,  Dr.  Fletcher:"  this  is 
printed  in  Birch's  "Memoirs."  He  incurred  the  lasting  displeasure' 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  by  marrying,  for  his  second  wife,  Lady  Baker 
of  Kent,  a  woman  of  more  than  questionable  character,  if  we  may 
believe  general  report,  and  a  satirioai  poem  of  the  time,  handed  dowa 
only  in  manuscript,  which  begins  thus  : — 

"The  pride  of  prelacy,  which  now  long  since 
Was  banish'd  with  the  Pope,  is  sayd  of  late 
To  have  arriv'd  at  Bn.-towe,  and  from  thence 
3y  Worcester  into  London  brought  his  state." 
It  afterwards  goes  on  thus  : — 

"  The  Romaine  Tarquin,  in  his  folly  blind. 
Of  faire  chaste  Lucrece  did  a  Lais  make ; 
But  owr  proud  Tarquin  beares  a  braver  mind, 
And  of  a  Lais  doth  a  Lucrece  make." 
We  cannot  venture   to  quote  the  coarse  epithets  liberally  bestowed 
upon  Lady  Baker,  but  the  poem  ends  with  these  lines  : — 
"  But  yet,  if  any  will  the  reason  find. 

Why  he  that  look"d  as  lofty  as  a  steeple, 
Should  be  so  base  as  for  to  come  behind. 

And  take  the  leavings  oi  the  common  people, 
'T  is  playne  ;  for  in  processions,  you  know, 
The  priest  must  after  all  the  people  goe.-' 

We  ought  to  have  mentioned  that  the  poem  is  headed  "  BisLof 
Fletcher  and  my  Lady  Baker."  The  Bishop  had  buried  his  firet 
wife,  Elizabeth,  at  Chelsea  Church  in  December,  15<hi.  Nathaniel 
Fletcher,  mentioned  above  as  included  with  his  brother  John  in  hit 
father's  will,  is  spoken  of  on  a  preceding  page  as  "servant"  to  Mrs 
White;  but  who  Mrs.  While  might  be,  or  what  was  the  precisf 
nature  of  '•  Nat.  Fletcher's"  servitude,  we  have  no  information. 

*  However,  an  Act  of  Parliament  was  very  soon  passed  (I  Jac.  I,  c. 
7,)  to  expose  strolling  actors,  although  protected  by  the  authority  of 
a  peer,  to  the  penalties  of  39  Eliz.  c.  4.  Itseems  to  have  been  founi 
that  the  evil  had  increased  to  an  excess  which  requited  this  degree 
of  correction  ;  and  Sir  Edward  Coke  in  his  Charge  to  the  Grand  fxuj 
at  Norwich  in  lt>07,  (when  at  was  printed)  observes,  ''The  abuse  of 
stage-players,  wherewith  I  find  the  country  much  troubled,  may 
ea.>-j|y  be  reformed,  they  having  no  commission  to  play  ir.  any  placr 
without  leave;  and  therefore  by  your  will, -tgness  if  thof  be  not  en 
terlained.  yon  may  soon  be  rid    f  them." 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixi 


the  paasage  in  "  Hamlet^"  (brought  out,  as  we  apprehend, 
very  shortly  before  he  came  to  the  throne)  where  it  is  said 
>f  these  "  abstracts  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  time,"  that 
it  is  "  better  to  have  a  bad  epitaph,  than  their  Ul  report  while 
you  live."  James  made  himself  sure  of  their  good  report ; 
and  an  epigram,  attribute,!  to  Shakespeare,  has  descended 
to  us,  which  doubtless  was  intended  in  some  sort  as  a  grate- 
ful return  for  the  royal  countenance  bestowed  upon  the 
•tage,  and  upon  those  who  were  connected  with  it  We 
copy  it  from  a  coeval  manuscript  in  oui-  possession,  which 
seems  to  iiave  belonged  to  a  curious  accumulator  of  mat- 
ters of  the  kind,  and  which  also  contains  an  unknown  pro- 
duction by  Dekker,  as  well  as  various  other  pieces  by  dra- 
jnatiets  and  poets  of  the  time.     The  lines  are  entitled, 

"SHAKBaPEAKE   ON   THE    KlNG. 

"  Crowns  have  their  compass,  length  of  days  their  date, 
Triumphs  their  tomb,  telicity  her  fate  : 
Of  nought  but  eartli  ctiii  earth  make  us  partaker, 
But  knowledge  makes  a  king  most  Uke  his  Maker." 

We  have  seen  these  lines  Lq  more  than  one  other  old 
manuscript,  and  as  they  were  constantly  attributed  to 
Shakespeare,  and  in  the  form  in  which  we  have  given  them 
above,  are  in  no  respect  unworthy  of  his  pen,  we  have  little 
doubt  of  their  authenticity'. 

Having  established  his  family  in  "  the  great  house  "  called 
"  New  Place  "  in  his  native  town  in  1597,  by  the  purchase 
of  it  from  Hercules  Underbill,  Shakespeare  seems  to  have 
contemplated  considerable  additions  to  his  property  there. 
In  May,  1602,  he  laid  out  £320  upon  107  acres  of  land, 
which  he  bought  of  William  and  John  Combe^,  and  attached 
it  to  his  dwefling.  The  original  indenture  imd  its  counter- 
part are  in  existence,  bearing  date  1st  May,  1602,  but  to 
neither  of  them  is  the  signature  of  the  poet  affixed ;  and  it 
seems  that  he  being  absent,  liis  brother  Gilbert  was  his  im- 
mediate agent  in  the  transaction,  and  t<>  GUbert  Shakespeare 
the  property  was  delivered  to  the  use  of  William  Shake- 
speare. In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  he  became  the 
owner  of  a  copyhold  tenement  (called  a  cotagium  in  the 
instrument)  in  Walker's  Street,  alias  Dead  Lane,  Stratford, 
surrendered  to  him  by  Walter  Getley".  In  November  of 
the  next  year  he  gave  Hercules  UnderhUl  £60  for  a  mes- 
suage, barn,  granary,  garden,  and  orchard  close  to  or  in  Strat- 
ford ;  but  in  the  original  fine,  preserved  in  the  Chapter  House, 
Westminster,  the  precise  situation  is  not  mentioned.  In 
1603,  therefore,  Shakespeare's  property,  in  or  near  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, besides  what  he  might  have  bought  of  or 
inherited  from,  his  father,  consisted  of  New  Place,  with  107 
acres  of  land  attached  to  it,  a  tenement  in  Walker's  Street, 
and  the  additional  messuage,  which  he  had  recently  pur- 
chased from  UnderliilL 

Whether  our  great  dramatist  was  in  London  at  the  period 
when  the  new  king  ascended  the  throne,  we  have  no  means 
of  knowing,  but  that  he  was  so  in  the  following  autumn  we 
have  positive  proof ;  for  in  a  letter  written  by  Mrs.  Alleyn, 
(the  wife  of  Edward  Alle\-n,  the  actor)  to  her  husband, 
then  m  the  country,  dated  20th  October,  1603,  she  teUs  him 
that  she  had  seen  "  Mr.  Shakespeare  of  the  Globe "  in 
Southwark\   At  this  date,  accordiiig  to  the  same  authority, 

»  Bos-well  appears  to  have  had  a  manuscript  copy  of  this  epigram, 
bet  the  general  position  in  the  last  line  was  made  to  have  a  particu- 
l»r  application  by  the  change  of  "  a  "  to  the.  See  Shakspeare  by 
BoBwell,  vol.  ii.  p.  4^1.  There  were  other  variations  for  the  worse  in 
Boswell's  copy,  but  that  which  we  have  noticed  completely  altered 
the  character  of  the  production,  and  reduced  it  from  a  great  general 
truth  to  a  mere  piece  of  personal  flattery — •'  But  knowledge  makes 
Uie  king  most  like  his  Maker." 

2  Much  has  been  said   in  all  the  Lives  of  our  poet,  from  the  time 

of  Aubrey  (who  first  gives  the  story)  to  our  own,  respecting  asatirical 

epitaph  upon  a  person  of  the  name  of  John  a  Combe,  supposed  to 

have  been  made  extempore  by  Shakespeare  :  Aubrey  words  it  thus  : — 

"  Ten  in  the  hundred  the  devil  allows, 

But  Combe  will  have  twelve,  he  swears  and  he  vows. 

If  any  one  ask.  Who  lies  in  ihis  tomb  ? 

Ho  !  quoth  the  devil,  'tis  my  John  a  Combe." 
Rowe  changes  the  terms  a  little,  but  the  point  is  the  saine,  and  in 
Brathwaite's  ■'  Remains,"  1613,  we  have  another  version  of  the  lines, 
where  they  are  given  as  having  been  written  by  that  author  ^_  upon 
one  John  Combe,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  a  notable  usurer.  We 
we  by  no  means  satisfied  that  they  were  originally  penned  by  Brath- 


[  most  of  the  companies  of  players  wh..  had  Iffl  Ixjndon  for 
the  province*,  on  account  of  the  preval«^uce  of  the  pla^e, 
and  the  consequent  cessation  of  di-amatic  performances,  had 
returned  to  the  metropolis;  and  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that 
Shakespeare  was  one  of  those  who  had  returned,  having 
taken  the  opportunity  of  visiting  his  family  at  Stratfonf 
upon-Avon. 

Under  Ehzabeth  the  Children  of  the  Chapel  (originally 
the  choir-boys  of  the  royal  establishment)  had  become  aa 
acknowledged  company  v:>f  playere,  and  these,  besides  her 
association  of  adult  performers.  Queen  Anne  t«ok  under 
her  immediate  patronage,  with  the  style  of  the  Children  of 
her  Majesty's  ilevels,  requiring  that  the  pieces  they  pro- 
posed to  represent  should  first  be  submitted  to,  and  haT« 
the  approval  of,  the  celebrated  poet  Samuel  DanieL  Tb« 
mstrimient  of  their  appomtment  bears  date  30th  January, 
1603-4;  and  from  a  letter  from  Daniel  to  his  patron,  Su 
Thomas  Egerton,  preserved  among  his  papers,  we  may  per- 
haps conclude  that  Shakespeare,  as  weii  as  Michael  Dray- 
ton, had  been  candidates  for  the  post  of  master  of  the 
Queen's  revels  :  he  says  in  it,  "  I  cannot  but  know,  that  I 
am  lesse  deserving  than  some  that  sued  by  other  of  the  no- 
bihty  unto  her  Majestic  for  this  roome  ;'  and,  after  intro- 
ducing the  name  of  "  his  good  friend.'  Drayton,  he  adds  th« 
following,  which,  we  apprehend,  refere  with  sufficient  dis 
tinctness  to  Shakespeare  : — "  It  seemeth  to  myne  humble 
judgement  that  one  who  is  the  authour  of  playes,  now  daylia 
presented  on  the  public  stages  of  Lond'in.  and  the  p>sses80T 
of  no  small  gaines,  and  moreover  hun  selfe  an  actor  in  the 
Kinges  companie  of  comedians,  could  not  with  reason  pre- 
tend to  be  Master  of  the  Queene's  Majesties  Revells.  for  as 
much  as  he  wold  sometimes  be  asked  to  approve  and  allow 
of  his  own  writings." 

This  objection  would  have  applied  with  equal  force  to 
Drayton,  had  we  not  every  reason  to  believe  that  before 
this  date  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  dramatic  author.  He  had 
been  a  writer  for  Henslowe  and  Alleyn's  company  duiing 
several  years,  firet  at  the  Rose,  and  afterwards  at  the  For- 
tune ;  but  he  seems  to  have  relinquished  that  species  of 
composition  about  a  year  prior  to  the  demise  of  Elizabeth, 
the  last  piece  in  which  he  was  concerueil.  »i  which  we  hare 
anv  intelligence,  being  noticed  by  Henslowe  under  date  of 
May,  1502:  this  pbiy  was  called  "The  Harpi\-s,"  and  he 
was  assisted  in  it  by  Dekker,  Middleton,  Webster,  and 
Munday. 

It  is  highly  probable  that  Shakespeare  was  a  suitor  for 
this  office,  in  contemplation  of  a  speedy  retirement  as  on 
actor.  We  have  already  spoken  of  the  presumed  excel- 
lence of  his  personations  on  the  stage,  and  to  the  traditioo 
that  he  was  the  original  player  of  the  part  of  the  tilmst  in 
"  Hamlet"  Another  character  he  is  said  to  have  sustained 
is  Adam,  in  "  As  you  like  it ;"  and  his  brother  (;iU)ert,(who 
in  1602  had  received,  on  behitlf  William  Shakespeare,  the 
107  acres  of  land  purchased  from  Willijim  and  John  Combe) 
who  probably  sm-vived  the  Restoration,  is  supposed  to  liave 
been  the  author  of  this  tradition'.  He  had  acted  aW>  in 
Ben  Jonson's  •' Even- MiUi  in  his  Humour,"  in  159S,  after 
(as  we  believe)  introducing  it  to  the  company  ;  and  he  is 
supposed  to  have  written  part  of,  as  well  as  known  to  have 

waite.  from  being  imputed  to  him  in  that  Tolnme,  and  by  i  pasuge 
in  "Maroocus  Extaticus,"  a  tract  printed  as  early  a>  LIS*,  jt  >•  ■'trj 
evident  that  the  connexion  between  the  Devii  and  John  a  Coir.V-*.  of 
John  of  Comber  (as  he  is  there  called)  wa*  much  older  :—■' >"o  t."  nU 
had  his  rent  at  the  daie.  the  devill  and  John  of  Corabor  »hn..  :  nci 
have  fetcht  Kate  L.  to  Bridewell."  There  is  no  ground  tor  fuyfy-.tn 
that  Shakespeare  was  ever  on  bad  terms  with  snr  of  the  C^mb**. 
and  in  his  will  he  expressly  left  his  sword  to  .Mr  Thomas  Combe 
In  a  MS.  of  that  time,  now  before  us.  we  find  the  following  e»»«» 
as  an  epitaph  upon  Sir  VTilliam  Stone  : — 

"  Heer  ten  in  the  hundred  lies  dead  and  merared : 
But  a  hundred  to  ten  his  soul  is  not  saved."' 
And  the  couplet  is  printed  in  no  very  differesi  form  in  "The  Mot» 
the  .Merrier,-'  bv  H.  P.,  Kit's,  as  well  as  in  Camden  s  '•  Remaini 

s  A  coeval  copy  of  the  court-roll  is  in  the  hands  of  the  bhixespeart 
Society.  Malone  had  seen  It.  and  put  his  initials  upon  It  NodcuM 
it  was' his  intention  to  have  used  it  in  his  unfinished  Life  of  thai*- 

*^*Tee  the  "  Memoirs  of  Edward  Alleyn,"  printed  for  the  Shmk- 
speare  Society,  p.  63. 

»  See  the  Introduction  to  "  A«  r<«»  "*•  »•■ 


Ixii 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


peifi'iined  io.  tlie same  author's  " Sejanus,"  in  1603*.  This  is 
Lkt^  liLst  wf  hoar  uf  him  upon  the  sUige.  but  that  he  eontiuued 
a  number  of  the  c^.mpaoy  uutil  April  9,  1604,  we  have 
the  evideuee  of  a  di>cumeut  preserved  at  Dulwich  College, 
wheie  the  uauus  of  the  King's  plu\ei-s  are  euumerat-ed  iu 
Uie  following  order:— Burbage,  Shakespeare,  Flet<;her, 
jniiilips,  Coudell.  Heminge,  Armyu,  rily,  Cowley,  Ostler, 
and  Day.  If  tiliakespeare  had  not  then  actually  ceased  to 
p*rfi>riu,  we  need  not  hesiUit-^  iu  deciding  that  he  quitted 
timt  depai-tmeut  of  the  professioB  very  shortly  afterwards. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

'mmediute  consequences  of  Shakespeare's  retirement.  Of- 
fences given  by  the  company  to  the  court,  and  to  private 
individuals.  "  Gowry's  Conspiracy  :"  "  Biron's  Conspi- 
racy "  and  "Tragedy."  Suspension  of  theatrical  perform- 
ances. Purciuwie  of  a  lease  of  the  tithes  of  Stratford,  &c., 
by  Shakespeare.  "Hamlet"  printed  iu  1603  and  1604. 
"  Henry  Vlll."  "  Macbeth."  Supposed  autograpU  letter 
of  King:  James  to  Shakespeare.  Susanna  Sliakespnare  and 
John  Hall  marrietl  in  1607.  Death  of  Edmund  Shake- 
speare in  the  same  year.  Death  of  Mary  Shakespeare  in 
1608.  Shakespeare's'  great  popularity :  rated  to  the  poor 
of  Southwark. 

No  sooner  had  our  great  dramatist  ceased  to  take  part  m 
the  public  performimces  of  the  King's  players,  than  the 
company  appears  to  have  thrown  off  the  restraint  by  which 
it  had  been  usually  controlled  ever  since  its  formation,  and 
t<»  have  produced  pbiys  which  were  objectionable  to  the 
court,  as  well  as  offensive  to  private  persons.  Shakespeare, 
from  his  abilities,  station,  and  experience,  must  have  pos- 
Bea-ted  grciit  inllueuce  with  the  body  at  large,  and  due  de- 
feivnce,  we  may  readily  believe,  was  shown  to  his  know- 
ledge and  judgment  iu  the  selection  aud  acceptance  of 
plays  sent  in  for  approbation  by  authors  of  the  time.  The 
contrast  bt-tween  the  conduct  of  the  association  unmediately 
before,  and  immediately  after  his  retirement,  would  lead  us 
to  conclude,  not  only  that  he  was  a  man  of  pi-udence  and 
discretion,  but  that  the  exercise  of  these  qualities  had  in 
many  in-itauees  kept  his  fellows  from  incurrmg  the  displea- 
sure of  pcisons  iu  power,  and  from  exciting  the  animosity 
of  partieuhir  indivKluals.  We  suppose  Shakespeare  to  have 
ceased  to  act  in  the  summer  of  1604,  and  in  the  ^vinter  of 
that  very  year  we  find  the  King's  players  giving  offence  to 
"  some  great  counsellors  "  by  perfornung  a  play  upon  the 
subject  of  Gowry's  conspiracy.  This  fact  we  have  upon 
the  evidence  of  one  of  Sir  R.  Wiuwood's  correspondents, 
Jxhn  Chamberlaine,  who,  iu  a  letter  dated  18th  December, 
16IJ4,  uses  these  expressions: — "The  tragedy  of  Gowry. 
with  all  action  and  achjrs.  hath  been  twice  represented  by 
the  King's  players,  with  exceeding  concourse  of  all  sorts  of 
people ;  but  whether  the  matter  or  manner  be  not  well 
handled,  or  that  it  be  thought  unfit  that  princes  should  be 
played  on  the  stiige  in  thoir  lifetime,  I  hear  that  some  gi-eat 
C'-unsellors  are  mu.-h  displeased  with  it  and  s<^),  it  is  thought, 
it  shall  be  forbidden."     Whether  it  was  so  forbidden  we  do 

'  From  line*  preceding  it  in  the  4to.  100.5.  -we  know  that  it  was 
C'ooghl  out  at  ttie  Globe,  and  Ben  Jon»on  aJinits  that  it  waa  ill  re- 
vived by  the  aud:ence. 

'  We  may  nere  notice  two  productions  by  thia  great  and  varions 
ftothor,  one  of  which  m  mentioned  by  Ant.  Wood  (Ath.  Oxon.  edit. 
BliM.  vol.  11.  p.  575),  and  the  other  by  Warton  (Hut.  Engl.  Poetr. 
»ol.  iv.  p.  -JTO,  edit,  "vo),  on  the  authority  merely  of  the  stationers' 
regi«ter»;  but  none  of  our  literary  antiquaries  seem  to  have  been  able 
to  meet  with  them.  They  are  both  in  existence.  The  fimt  is  a  de- 
fence of  his  -Andromeda  Liberata."  1614,  which  he  wrote  in  cele- 
bration of  the  marriage  of  the  Karl  of  Somerset  and  the  Counters  of 
bssex,  which  Chapman  tells  a>  had  been  "  most  maliciou.«ly  misin- 
terpreted .'  it  iH  called  ■'  A  free  and  offenceless  Justitication  '  of  his 
poem,  and  it  was  printed  in  1H14.  It  is  chiefly  in  prose,  but  at 
the  end  is  a  dialogue  in  rhyme,  between  I'lieme  and  Theodinef,  the 
last  tiiae  meant  for  Chapman  :  Wood  only  supposes  that  Chapman 
wrote  It.  but  if  he  could  have  read  it  he  would  have  entertained  no 
ionbi  It  appears  that  Somerset  himself  had  conceived  that  -  An- 
iroraeda  Lioerala"  was  a  covert  attack  upon  him,  and  from  this  no- 
tion Chapman  w-u  anxious  to  relieve  himself  The  poetical  dialogue 
•  thus  open.d  by  I'neme,  and  sufficiently  explains  the  object  of  th* 


not  hear  upon  the  same  or  any  other  authority,  but  no  such 
ilrama  has  come  down  to  us. 

In  the  next  year  (at  what  particular  part  of  it  is  not 
stated)  Sir  ijcouard  Haliday,  then  Lord  Mayor  of  London; 
backed  no  doubt  by  his  brethren  of  the  corporation,  made 
a  complaint  agaiu.st  the  same  company,  "  that  Kempe,  (who 
at  this  date  had  rejoined  the  association)  Armyu,  and  others, 
players  at  the  Blackfriars,  have  again  not  forborne  to  briug 
upon  their  stage  one  or  more  of  the  worshipfid  aldermen 
of  the  city  of  London,  to  their  great  scandal  and  the  lessen- 
ing of  theip  authority ;"  aud  the  interposition  of  the  pi'ivy 
council  to  prevent  the  abuse  was  therefore  solicited.  What 
wiis  done  in  consequence,  if  anything  were  done  does  not 
appear  in  any  extant  document. 

In  the  spring  of  the  next  year  a  still  graver  charge  wa 
brought  against  the  body  of  actors  of  whom  Shakespeare 
uutil  very  recently,  had  been  one  ;  and  it  origiuated  iu  no 
less  a  person  than  the  French  ambassador.  George  Chap- 
man'^ had  written  two  plays  upon  the  history  and  execution 
of  the  Duke  of  Biron,  eoutainiug,  in  the  shape  in  which  they 
were  originally  produced  on  the  stsifre  such  matter  that  M 
Beaumont,  the  representative  of  the  King  of  France  in 
London,  thought  it  necessary  to  remonstrate  against  the  re- 
petition, aud  the  performance  of  it  w:is  prohibited  :  as  soon, 
however,  as  the  court  had  quitted  London,  tlie  King's  play- 
ers persisted  in  acting  it ;  in  consequence  of  which  three 
of  the  players  were  arrested,  (their  uiimes  are  not  given) 
but  the  auth(jr  made  his  escape.  These  two  dramas  -were 
printed  in  1608,  and  again  in  1625  ;  and  looking  through 
them,  we  are  at  a  loss  to  discover  anything,  beyond  the  his- 
torical incidents,  which  could  have  given  offence  ;  but  the 
truth  certainly  is,  that  all  the  objectionable  portions  were 
omitted  in  the  press  :  there  can  be  no  doubt,  ou  the  author- 
ity of  the  despatch  from  the  French  ambassador  to  his 
court,  that  one  of  the  dramas  originally  contained  a  scene 
in  which  the  Queen  of  Frauce  and  Mademoiselle  Verneuil 
were  introduced,  the  former,  after  having  abused  her,  giving 
the  latter  a  box  on  the  ear. 

This  information  was  conveyed  to  Paris  under  the  date 
of  the  5th  April,  1606  ;  and  the  French  ambassador,  appa- 
rently in  order  to  make  his  court  acquainted  with  the  law- 
less character  of  dramatic  performances  at  that  date  in 
England,  adds  a  very  singular  pai-agraph,  proving  that  the 
King's  players,  only  a  few  days  before  they  had  brought  the 
Queen  of  France  upon  the  stage,  had  not  hesitated  to  intro- 
duce upon  the  same  boards  their  own  reigning  sovereign  in 
a  most  imseemly  manner,  making  him  swear  violently,  and 
beat  a  gentleman  for  iuterfeiiug  with  his  known  propensity 
fur  the  chase.  This  course  indicates  a  most  extraordinary 
degree  of  boldness  on  the  part  of  the  players ;  but,  never- 
theless, they  were  not  prohibited  from  acting,  until  M. 
Beaumont  had  directed  the  attention  of  the  public  authori- 
ties to  the  insult  offered  to  the  Queen  of  France :  then,  an 
order  was  issued  putting  a  stop  to  the  acting  of  all  plays 
in  London  ;  but,  accordiug  to  the  same  authority,  the  com- 
panies had  clubbed  their  money,  and,  attacking  James  I.  on 
ins  weak  side,  had  offered  a  large  sum  to  be  allowed  to 
continue  their  perfoi-mances.  The  French  ambassador  him- 
self apprehended  that  the  appeid  to  the  King's  pecuniaiy 

"  Ho.  you  '  Theodines  '  you  must  not  dreame 
Y'are  thus  disinist  in  peace  :  seas  too  extreame 
Your  song  hath  stir'd  up  to  be  calm'd  so  soone  : 
Nay,  in  your  haven  you  shipwracke  :  y'are  undosso. 
Your  I'erseus  is  displeaa'd,  and  sleighteth  now 
Your  work  as  idle,  and  as  servile  yow. 
The  peoples  god-voice  hath  exclaim'd  away 
Your  miblie  clouds;  and  he  sees,  oleare  as  day, 
Y'ave  made  hira  scandal'd  for  anothers  wrong. 
Wishing  unpuHsht  your  unpopular  song.'' 
The  otker  production,  oi    vhich  our  knowledge  h.is  aiso  hitherlc 
been   derived    from    the   sta^  >ners'  registers,    is   called     '  I'etrarch's 
.Seven  I'enitentiall  Psalms,  paraphra*iically  translated,"  ■«  iih  other 
poems  of  a  miscellaneous  kind  at  the  end  :   it  was   printed  .n  small 
evo,  in  llil'J,  dedicated  to  Sir   Edward    J'liillips,  Master  of  the   Rolls, 
where  Chapman  speaks  of  his  yet  unfinished  translation   of  Homer, 
which,  he  adds,  the  Prince   of  Wales   had  commanded   him  to  com- 
plete.    The   editor  of  the  present   work   has  a  copy   of   Chapman't. 
'■  .Memorable  Masque  "  on  the  marriage  of  the  PaUgrave  and  Princeu 
Elizabeth,  corrected   by  Chapman   in  his  owh  hand  ;  but   the  erron 
are  few,  and  not  very  important.     1;  shows  the   ratieat  accuracy  of 
the  accomplished  writer 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixih 


ccants  -would  be  effectual,  and  that  permission,  under  certain 
restrictions,  would  not  long  be  withheld^ 

Whatever  emoUunents  Shakespeare  had  derived  from  the 
Blackfriars  or  the  (ilobe  theatres,  as  an  actor  merely,  we 
may  be  tolerably  certain  h«  rehuquished  when  he  ceased 
to  perform.  He  would  thus  be  able  to  devote  more  of  his 
tinxe  to  dramatic  composition,  and,  as  lie  continued  a  sharer 
in  the  two  undertakings,  perhaps  his  income  on  the  whole 
was  uot  much  lessened.  Certain  it  is,  that  in  1605  he  was 
in  possession  of  a  considerable  sum,  which  he  was  anxious 
to  invest  advantageously  in  property  in  or  near  the  place 
of  his  birth.  WlSitever  may  have  been  the  circurasUtuces 
under  which  he  quitted  Stratford,  he  always  seems  to  have 
contemplated  a  permanent  return  thither,  and  kept  his  eyes 
eonstaotly  turned  in  the  direction  of  his  birth-place.  As 
long  before  as  January,  1598,  he  had  been  advised  "to  deal 
in  the  matter  of  tithes"  of  Stratf  ird" ;  but  perhaps  at  that 
date,  having  recently  purchased  New  Place,  he  Wiis  not  in 
sufficient  funds  for  tlie  pm-pose,  or  possibly  the  party  in 
possession  of  the  lease  of  the  tithes,  though  not  unwilling 
U)  dispose  of  it,  required  more  than  it  was  deemed  worth. 
\t  all  events,  nothing  was  done  on  the  subject  for  more  than 
six  years ;  but  on  the  24th  July,  1 605,  we  find  Willi;iiu 
Shakespeare,  who  is  described  as  "of  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
gentleman,"  executmg  an  indenture  for  the  purchase  of  the 
unexpu'ed  term  of  a  long  lease  of  the  great  tithes  of  "  corn, 
graiu,  blade,  and  hay,"  and  of  the  small  tithes  of  "  wool, 
Lxmb,  and  other  small  and  privy  tithes,  herbage,  obhitions," 
(fee,  in  Stratford,  uld  Stratford,  Bishopton,  and  Weleombo, 
in  the  county  of  Warwick.  The  vendor  was  Raphe  Hu- 
band,  of  Ippesley,  Esquire  ;  and  from  the  draft  of  the  deed, 
now  before  vis^,  we  leain  that  the  original  lease,  dated  as  tar 
back  as  1539,  was  "  for  four  score  and  twelve  years ; '  so 
that  in  16u5  it  had  still  twenty-six  years  to  run,  and  for 
this  our  great  dramatist  agreed  to  pay  440/ :  by  the  receipt, 
contained  in  the  same  deed,  it  appears  that  he  paid  the 
whole  of  the  money  before  it  was  executed  by  the  parties. 
He  might  very  fitly  be  described  as  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  because  he  had  there  not  only  a  substantial,  settled 
residence  for  liis  family,  but  he  was  the  owner  of  consider- 
able property,  both  in  hind  and  houses,  iu  the  town  and 
neighbom'hood  ;  and  he  had  been  before  so  described  iu 
1602,  when  he  bought  the  107  acres  of  Wilham  and  John 
Combe,  which  he  annexed  to  his  dwelling  of  New  Place. 

A  spurious  edition  of  "  Hamlet"  having  been  published 
in  1603^,  a  more  authentic  copy  came  out  in  the  next  year, 
containing  much  that  had  been  omitted,  and  more  that  hiid 
been  grosSly  disfigured  and  misrepresented.  We  do  not 
believe  that  Shakespeare,  individually,  had  anything  to  do 
with  this  second  and  more  correct  impression,  and  we  doubt 
much  whether  it  was  authorized  by  the  company,  which 
seems  at  all  times  to  have  done  its  utmost  to  prevent  the 

1  We  derive  these  very  curious  and  novel  particulars  from  M.  Von 
Raumers  '■  History  ot  the  Sixteenth  and  seventeenth  Centuries." 
translated  by  Lord 'Francis  Egenon,  vol.  ii.  p. -219.  The  terms  are 
worth  quoting. 

"April  5,  1606.  I  ciused  certain  players  to  be  forbid  from  acting 
the  History  of  the  Duke  of  Biron  :  when,  however,  they  saw  that 
the  whole  court  had  left  town,  tftey  persisted  in  acting  it ;  nay,  they 
brought  upon  the  stage  the  i^ueen  of  France  and  Mademoisellfi  Ver- 
oeuil.  The  former,  having  first  accosted  the  latter  with  very  hard 
words,  gave  her  a  box  on  the  ear.  At  my  suit  three  of  them  were 
wrested  ;  but  the  principal  person,  the  author,  escaped. 

"One  or  two  days  before,  they  had  brought  forward  their  own 
Xing  and  all  his  favorites  in  a  very  strange  fashion  :  they  made  him 
mrse  and  swear  because  he  had  been  robbed  of  a  bird,  and  beat  a 
gentleman  because  he  had  called  olf  the  hounds  from  the  scent. 
They  represent  him  as  drunk  at  least  once  a-day,  fee. 

"  He  has  upon  this  made  order,  that  no  play  shall  be  henceforth 
acted  in  London  ;  *'ir  the  repeal  of  which  order  they  have  already 
offered  100,000  livres.  Perhaps  the  permission  will  be  again  granted 
but  upon  condition  that  they  represent  no  recent  history,  nor  speak 
jf  the  present  time." 

»  In  a  letter  from  a  resident  in  Stratford  of  the  name  of  Abraham 
Sturley.  It  was  originally  cubli.=hed  by  Boswell  (vol.  ii.  p.  5(>(j)  at 
length,  but  the  only  part  which  relates  to  Shakespeare  runs  thus  : 
we  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  preserve  the  uncouth  abbrevia- 
tions of  the  original. 

"  This  is  one  special  remembrance  of  your  fathers  motion.  It 
.eerr.e'.h  by  him  that  our  countnman,  Mr.  Shakespeare,  is  willing  to 
Ixsburse  some  money  upon  some  od  yardeland  or  other  at  .>hottery, 
ir  near  ab-mt  us:  he  thinketh  it  a  very  titt  patterne  to   move  him  to 


appearance  of  plays  b  print,  lest  to  a  certain  extent  tiyt 
public  cui-iosity  should  thereby  be  satisfied. 

The  point  is,  of  coui-se,  hable  to  dispute,  but  wo  bav6 
little  doubt  that  "Henry  VIII."  was  represented  veiy  soon 
after  the  acces6i<in  of  James  L  to  whom  and  to  wh(jse  family 
it  contains  a  highly  eompUmentary  allusion ;  and  "  Mac- 
beth," having  been  written  in  16^)5,  we  suppose  to  have 
been  produced  at  the  Globe  in  the  spring  of  1606.  Al- 
though it  related  to  Scottish  annals,  it  was  not  like  the 
play  of  Gowry's  Conspiracy  "  (mentioned  by  Chaniberlaine 
at  the  close  of  1603),  founded,  to  use  Von  Kaunier's  words, 
upon  "  recent  history  ;"  and  instead  of  running  the  slighte'4 
risk  of  giving  otfence,  many  of  the  sentiments  and  allusion* 
it  contained,  especially  that  to  the  "  two-fold  balls  and  tretl 
sceptres,"  in  Act  iv.  scene  1,  must  have  been  highly  accent 
able  to  the  King.  It  has  been  supposed,  upon  the  authority 
of  Sheflield  Duke  of  Buckingham,  that  King  James  with 
his  own  hand  wrote  a  letter  to  Shakespeare  in  return  for 
the  compliment  paid  to  him  in  "  Macbeth  :"'  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham  is  said  to  have  had  Davenant's  evidence  for 
tnis  anecdote,  which  was  first  told  in  print  in  the  advertise- 
ment to  Lintot's  edition  of  Shakespeare's  Poems  in  1710*. 
Rowe  says  nothing  of  it  in  his  "  Life,"  either  in  1709  or  1714, 
so  that,  at  all  events,  he  did  not  adopt  it;  and  it  seems  very 
improbable  that  James  L  should  have  so  far  condescended, 
aiid  very  probable  that  the  writer  of  Lintofs  advertisement 
should  not  have  been  very  scrupulous.  We  may  conjec- 
ture, that  a  privy  seal  under  the  sign  manual,  (then  the  usual 
form  of  proceeding)  granting  to  the  King's  pLiyers  some 
extraordinary  reward  on  the  occasion,  has  been  misrepre- 
sented as  a  private  letter  from  the  King  to  the  dramatist 

Malone  speculated  that  "  Macbeth  "  had  been  played  be- 
fore King  James  and  the  King  of  Denmark,  (who  arrived 
in  England  on  6th  July,  1606)  but  we  have  not  a  particle 
of  testimony  to  establish  that  a  tragedy  relating  to  the  as- 
sassination of  a  monarch  by  an  ambitious  vassal  was  ever 
represented  at  court :  we  should  be  surprised  to  discover 
any  proof  of  the  kind,  because  such  incidents  seem  usually 
to  have  been  carefully  avoided. 

The  eldest  daughter  <if  William  and  Anne  Shakespeare^ 
Susanna,  having  been  born  in  May,  1583,  was  rather  more 
than  twenty-four  years  old  when  she  was  married,  on  6th 
Jmie,  1607^  to  Mr.  John  Hall,  of  Stratford,  who  is  styled 
"  gentleman "  in  the  register'^,  but  he  was  a  professor  of 
medicine,  and  subsequently  practised  as  a  physiciaa  There 
appears  to  have  been  no  reason  on  any  side  for  opposing 
the  match,  and  we  may  conjecture  that  the  ceremony  was 
performed  in  the  presence  of  om-  great  dramatist,  duriiig 
one  of  liis  summer  excui-sions  to  his  native  town.  About  six 
months  afterwards  he  lost  his  brother  Edmund',  and  his 
mother  in  the  autumn  of  the  succeeding  year. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Edmund  Shakespeare,  who  was 

deale  in  the  matter  of  our  tithes.  By  the  instructions  yon  can  gi»e 
uim  theareof,  and  by  the  frendes  he  can  make  therefore,  we  thinke  ix 
a  faire  marke  for  huia  to  shoote  at.  and  not  unpossible  to  hitt.  U  ob- 
tained would  advance  him  in  deede,  and  would  do  us  much  good._ 
The  terms  of  this  letter  prove  that  Shasespeare's  townsmen  were  of 
opinion  that  he  was  desirous  of  advancing  himself  among  the  in- 
habitants of  Stratford. 

3  It  is  about  to  be  printed  entire  bv  the  Shakespeare  tociety,  to  the 
council   of  whicft  it  has   been   handed  over  by  the  owner  lor  ike 

*''*4^rhe  only  copy  of  this  impression  is  in  the  library  of  his  Gf»c 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and  we  have  employed  it  to  a  certain  exte« 
in  settling  and  explaining  lue  text  of  me  tragedy.  See  the  lnt:» 
duction  to  •'  Hamlet."  ,  „     ,  .      .  f„_  n. 

5  That  the  story  came  through  :he  Duke  of  Buckingham,  from  Ua- 
venant,  seems  to  have  been  a  conjectural  add  tion  by  Uldys :  the 
words  in  Lintot^s  advertisemen;  are  these  :-"  That  most  learned 
Prince,  and  great  patron  of  learn. n^-.  King  James  the  first,  wM 
pleased  with  his  own  hand  to  write  an  amicable  letter  to  .Mr.  .haM- 
speare  ;  which  letter,  though  now  lost,  remained  long  in  the  hands 
of  Sir  William  Davenant.  as  a  credible  person  now  living  can  tes- 
tiiv  "  Dr  Farmer  was  the  first  to  give  currency  to  the  notion,  thai 
[he  compliment  to.the  Stu^^t  family  in  '•  -Macbeth  -  was  the  occasion 
of  the  letter. 
'      6  The  terms  are  these  : —  ,^ 

I         "  1607.  Junii  3.  John  Hall  gentlema  k  Susanna  Shaxspere. 

Southwark,  in  the  imraedi&ti- 


7  He  was  buried  at  St.  Savi 
-      -■   ■      ■       je;  th 

ttusua    . 
"  1607,  _>ec.  31      Edmund  Shakespeare,  -i  player 


vicinitv  of  the  Globe  theatre  :  the  .egistration  being  in  the  foil.. wm^ 
form  specifying,  rather  unusually,  the  c^cupat.on  of  the  dcc.«»o. 


Ixiv 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


ool  twfuty-eiirbt  at  tlie  tiiiio  of  bis  deiith,  had  embraced  the 
profe8#i..u'..f  ii  pbiy»'i-,  liaviuu'  peibn|)#  fallowed  the  fortunes 
of  bis  brother  WiUium.  luul  attjicbed  himself  to  the  same 
company.  We,  bowerer,  never  meet  with  his  name  in  any 
list  of  the  associations  of  the  time,  nor  is  lie  mentioned  as  an 
actor  among  tlie  cbaract^'i-s  of  imy  old  play  with  which  we 
are  acquainted.  We  may  presume,  therefore,  that  he  attain- 
ed no  eminence  ;  perhai>s  his  principal  employment  might 
be  under  his  brother  in  the  management  of  his  theatrical 
concerns,  while  be  only  took  inferior  parts  when  the  assistance 
of  a  larger  number  of  performei-s  than  usual  was  necessary. 

MaiT  Shakespeare  survived  her  son  f^dmund  about  eight 
mouth*,  and  was  buried  at  Stratford  on  the  9th  Sept.  1608'. 
There  are  few  points  of  bis  life  wliich  can  be  sUited  with 
more  confidence  than  tliat  our  great  diamalist  attended  the 
funeral  of  his  mother:  tilial  piety  and  duty  would  of  course 
impel  him  to  visit  Stratford  on  "the  occasion,  and  in  proof 
that  be  did  .so,  we  may  mention  that  on  the  16th  of  the 
next  month  he  stood  godfather  there  to  a  boy  of  the  name 
of  William  Walker.  Shakespeare's  motlier  had  probably 
reside"!  at  New  Phice,  the  house  of  her  sou ;  from  whence, 
we  may  presume  also,  the  body  of  her  husband  had  been 
carried  t-j  the  grave  seven  years  before.  If  she  were  of 
full  age  when  she  was  married  to  John  Sliakespeare  in 
1557.  she  was  about  72  yeans  old  at  the  time  of  her  decease. 

The  reputation  of  our  poet  as  a  draiuatist  seems  at  this 
period  to  have  been  at  its  height  His  "King  Lear"  was 
printed  three  times  for  the  same  bookseller  in  1608 ;  and  in 
iM-der  perhaps  to  increase  its  sale,  (as  w-ell  as  to  secure  the 
purchaser  against  tlie  old  "  King  Leir,"  a  play  upon  the 
same  story,  being  given  to  him  instead)  the  name  of  "  M. 
William  Shakespeare"'  was  placed  very  conspicuously,  and 
most  unusually,  at  the  top  of  the  title-page.  The  same  ob- 
sei-vation  will  in  part  apply  to  "  Pericles,''  which  came  out 
in  1609,  with  tlie  name  of  the  author  rendered  particularly 
obvious,  although  in  the  oi'dinary  place.  "Troilus  and 
Cressida,"  which  was  published  iu  the  same  year,  also  has 
the  name  of  the  author  very  distinctly  legible,  but  in  a  some- 
what smaller  type.  In  bith  the  latter  cases,  it  would  like- 
wise seem,  that  there  were  plays  by  older  or  rival  drama- 
tists upjn  the  same  incidents.  The  most  noticeable  proof 
of  the  advantage  which  a  tK>okseller  conceived  be  should 
derive  from  the  announcement  that  the  work  he  published 
was  by  our  poet,  is  afforded  by  the  title-page  of  the  collec- 
tion of  his  dispeised  sonnets,  which  was  ushered  into  the 
wnrld  as  "  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,"  in  very  large  capitals,  as 
if  tliat  mere  fact  would  be  held  a  sufficient  recttuimendation. 

In  a  former  part  of  our  memoir  (p.  xxv.)  we  have  alluded 
t4)  the  eircumstjiuce,  that  iu  1609  Shakespeare  was  rated  t<i 
the  pMir  of  the  Liberty  of  the  Clink  in  a  sum  which  might 
|x>*sibly  indicate  that  he  was  the  occupant  of  a  commodious 
dwdbug-house  iu  Southwaik.  The  fact  that  our  great 
dramatist  paid  six-pence  a  week  to  the  poor  there,  (as  high 
u  sum  as  auyl^jdy  in  that  immediate  vicinity  was  assessed 
at)  is  stjited  in  the  account  of  the  Life  of  Edward  Alleyn, 
printed  by  the  Shakespeare  Society,  (p.  90)  and  there  it  is 
trx>  hastily  inferred  that  he  was  rated  at  this  sum  upon  a 

'  The  following  in  R  copy  of  the  repirter. 

"UJO-,  .Septemb.  9.  Mayrv  ^^haxl!pe^e.  Wydowe." 
»  The  account  (prenerTed  at  Uulwich  College)  does  not  state  that 
he  t>artiei  enumerated  (cofmistinR  of  ."i?  persons)  were  rated  to  the 
^M.  for  dwellinR-houie*.  but  merely  that  they  were  rated  and  as- 
•emed  to  a  weekly  payment  towards  the  relief  of  the  poor,  some  for 
dweiliDg-houses.  and  other*  perhapii  in  respect  to  different  kinds  of 
property  :   it  ii  thus  entitled  ■ — 

■'  A  breif  noat  taken  out  of  the  poores  booWe.  contayning  the  names 
of  ali  thenhabitantes  of  this  Liberty,  which  are  rated  and  auesaed  to 
a  weekely  paiment  towardes  the  relief  of  the  poore.  As  it  .^tandes 
now  encrea.<«d.  this  0th  day  of  Aprill.  16*19,  Delivered  up  to  Phillip 
Henslowe.   Esqnior.  churchwarden,  by   Francis   Carter,  one  of  the 

orreseem  of  the  same  Liberty."     It  commences  with  these  names  : 

Phillip  Henslowe,  esquior,  axsesseJ  at  weekely  vjil 

Ed.  Alleyn.  a«e«»ed  at  weekely vjii 

The  Ladye  Buckley,  weekly  iiijd 

The  account  is  in  three  divisions;  and  in  the  first,  besides  the  above 
we  find  the  names  of 

Mr  Lanjtworthe ijjii 

Mr.  Benfield „jd 

Mr.  Gnflin  ...  ijo 

Mr.  Toppin ij4 

Ml   Louens  [i.  e.  Lewis]  .  {^ 


dweUing-house  occupied  by  himself.  Tliis  is  very  ywssibiy 
the  fact ;  but,  on  the  other  hiind,  the  truth  may  be.  that  b« 
paid  the  rate  not  for  any  habitation,  good  or  bad.  large  oi 
small,  but  in  respect  of  his  theatrical  property  in  the  Globe, 
which  was  situated  in  tlie  same  district".  The  parish  reg- 
ister of  St.  Saviour's  establishes,  that  in  1601  tlie  church- 
wardens had  been  instructed  by  the  vestry  "  to  talk  with 
the  players  "  respecting  the  payment  of  tithes  mid  .jontribo- 
tions  to  the  maintenance  of  the  poor ;  and  it  is  not  very  un- 
Ukely  that  some  arrangemt-ut  was  made  under  which  the 
sharers  in  the  Globe,  and  Sludicspeare  as  one  of  them,  would 
be  assessed.  As  a  confirmatory  circumstance  we  may  add, 
that  when  Henslowe  and  Alleyn  were  about  to  build  the 
Fortune  play-house,  in  1599-1600,  the  iuhabiticts  of  the 
Lordship  of  Fiiisbury,  in  the  parish  of  Oripplegate,  peti 
tioned  the  privy  council  in  favour  of  the  undertaking,  one 
of  their  reasons  being,  that  "the  erectors  were  contented  to 
give  a  very  liberal  portion  of  money  weekly  towards  the 
relief  of  the  poor."  Perhaps  the  parties  interested  in  the 
Globe  were  contented  to  come  to  similar  terms,  and  the 
parish  to  accept  the  money  weekly  from  the  vaiious  indi- 
viduals. Henslowe,  Alleyn,  Lowiu,  Town,  Juby,  (tc,  who 
were  either  sharers,  or  actors  and  sharers,  in  that  or  otlier 
theatres  in  the  same  neighlxjurhood.  contributed  in  different 
proportions  for  the  same  purpose,  the  largest  amount  being 
six-pence  per  week,  which  was  paid  by  Shakespeare,  Hens- 
lowe, and  Alle}Ti^ 

The  ordinary  inhabitants  included  in  the  same  hst,  doubt- 
less, paid  for  their  dwellings,  according  to  their  several 
rents,  and  such  may  have  been  the  case  w'ith  Shalcespeare 
all  we  contend  for  is,  that  we  ought  not  to  conclude  at  once, 
that  Shakespeare  was  the  tenant  of  a  house  in  the  Liberty 
of  the  Clink,  merely  from  the  circumstance  that  he  waa 
rated  to  the  poor.  It  is  n<>t  uulikely  that  be  was  the  occu 
pier  of  a  substantial  dwelling-house  iu  the  immediate  neigh 
bourhood  of  the  Globe,  where  his  presence  and  assistance 
would  often  be  required ;  and  the  iuiiouut  of  his  iucome  at 
this  period  would  wairant  such  im  expenditui-e,  although  we 
have  no  reason  for  thinking  that  such  a  house  would  be 
ueeded  for  liis  wife  and  family,  because  the  existing  evi- 
dence is  opposed  to  the  notion  that  they  ever  resided  -w'rth 
him  in  London. 


CHAPTER  XYII 

Attempt  of  the  Lord  Mayor  and  alJcrmeii  in  160S  to  expel  the 
King's  players  from  Uie  Biackfriars,  and  its  tiiilnie.  Nego- 
tiation by  the  corporation  to  pureiias^e  the  theatre  and  it« 
appurtenances:  interest  and  property  of  Sha'.cespeare  aud 
other  sharers.  Tlie  inC'ime  of  Kichard  Bnrbaire  at  his 
death.  Diary  of  tlio  Kev.  J.  Ward,  Vicar  of  Stratford,  and 
his  statement  rcffiinliiig  Shakespeare's  expenditure.  Copy 
of  n  letter  from  Lord  Southampton  on  beh:ilf  of  Shakespeare 
and  Burbiige.  Probable  decision  of  Lord  Chancellor  Ellee- 
mere  in  tiivour  of  the  company  at  the  Biackfriars  theatre. 

We  have  referred  to  the  probable  amount  of  the  income  o( 
our  great  dramatist  in  16o9,  and  withiu  the  last  ten  yeai-a  a 

Francis  Carter jj* 

Gilbert  Catherens ij* 

and  twenty-one  others.  The  next  division  includes  a  list  of  nineteen 
names,  and  at  the  head  of  it  we  find, 

Mr.  Shakespeare vj"! 

Mr.  Edw.  Collins       ...  .         .         .         .     yjn 

John  Burret rj<' 

and  all  the  rest  pay  a  rate  of  either  'J^d  or  \{^,  including  the  following 
actors  : 

.Mr.  Tonne ij*  ob. 

Mr.  Jubye j*  ob. 

Richard  Hunt .         .         .       i<  ob. 

Simon  Bird j«  ob. 

The  third  division  consists  of  seven  persons  who  only  paid  one  penny 
per  week,  and  among  them  we  perceive  the  name  of  no  individaal 
who,  according  to  other  evidence,  appears  to  have  been  in  any  way 
concerned  with  theatres:  Malone  (see  his  "Inquiry,"  p  215.)  had 
seen  this  document,  but  he  mis-states  that  it  belongs  to  the  year  1C0^' 
and  not  16(»9. 

'  John  Xorthbrooke,  in  his  Treatise  against  Plays.  Playen,  &o.. 
(Shakespeare  Society's  reprint,  p.  12G.)  informs  us  that  in  1577  peof-.'* 
contributed  weekly  to  tne  support  of  the  poor  "according  to  their 
ability,  some  a  penny,  some-two- pence,  anolhar  f-ur-pence.  and  lb« 
best  commonlr  giveth  but  lix-pence.'' 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 


Ixv 


document  ha.s  been  discovered,  -which  enables  us  to  form  | 
»ome  judgment,  though  not  perhaps  an  accurate  estimate,  I 
of  the  sum  he  annually  derived  from  the  private  theatre  in  j 
the  Fliiekfriai-8.  I 

From  the  outset  of  the  undertaking,  the  Lord  Mayor  and 
aldt-rmen  of  Loudon  had  been  hostile  to  the  establishment 
i>f  players  within  this  precinct,  so  near  to  the  boundaries, 
but  beyond  the  jurisdiction  of  the  corporation  ;  and,  as  we 
have  already  shown,  they  Jiad  made  several  fruitless  effoi'ts 
to  dislodge  them.  The  attempt  was  renewed  in  1608,  when 
Sir  Henry  Montagu,  the  Attorney  General  of  the  day,  gave 
an  opinion  in  favour  of  the  claim  of  the  citizens  to  exercise 
their  municipal  powers  within  the  precinct  of  the  late  dis- 
solved monastery  of  the  Blackfriars.  The  questitjn  seems 
in  some  shape  to  have  been  brought  before  Baron  EUes- 
inere,  then  Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  who  required  from 
the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  brethren  proofs  that  they  had  ex- 
ercised any  authority  in  the  disputed  liberty.  The  distin- 
i^uished  lawyers  of  the  day  retained  by  the  city  wei-e  inime- 
diateiy  employed  in  searching  for  records  applicable  to  the 
point  at  issue ;  but  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  no  such  proofs, 
as  were  thought  necessary  by  the  highest  legal  authority 
of  th.3  time,  and  applicable  to  any  recent  period,  wei-e  forth- 
coming. Lord  Ellesmere,  therefore,  we  may  conclude,  was 
opposed  tt)  the  claim  of  the  city. 

Failing  in  this  endeavour  to  expel  the  King's  players  fi'om 
their  hold  by  force  of  law,  the  corporation  appeai-s  to  have 
taken  a  milder  course,  and  negotiated  with  the  players  for 
the  purchase  of  the  Blackfriars  theatre,  with  all  its  proper- 
cies  and  appurtenances.  To  tliis  negotiation  we  are  proba- 
bly indebted  for  a  paper,  which  shows  with  great  exactness 
and  particularity  tJie  amount  of  interest  then  claimed  by 
each  sharer,  those  sharers  being  Richard  Burbage,  Laurence 
Fletcher',  William  Shakespeare,  Jolin  Heminge,  Henry 
Condell,  Joseph  Taylor,  and  John  Lowin,  with  four  other 
persons  not  named,  each  the  owner  of  half  a  share. 

We  have  inserted  the  document  entire  in  a  note'',  and 
hence  we  find  that  Richard  Burbage  was  the  owner  of  the 
fi-eehold  or  fee,  (which  he  no  doubt  inherited  from  his 
father)  as  well  as  the  owner  of  four  shares,  the  value  of  all 
which,  taken  together,  he  rated  at  1933/.  6.?.  8d.  Laurence 
Fletcher  (if  it  be  he,  for  the  Christian  name  is  written 
"  Laz,")  was  proprietor  of  three  shares,  for  which  he  claimed 
700/.  Shakespeare  was  proprietor  of  the  wardrobe  and 
propeities  of  the  theatre,  estimated  at  500/.,  as  well  as  of 
'our  shares,  valued,  Uke  those  of  Burbage  and  Fletcher,  at 
'3/.  6.S.  8d.  each,  or  933/.  6s.  8d.,  at  seven  years'  purchase : 
nis  whole  demand  was  1433/.  68.  8d.,  or  500/.  less  than  that 
frf  Burbage,  in  as  much  as  the  fee  was  considered  worth 
1000/.,  while  Shakespeare's  wardrobe  and  properties  were 
valued  at  500/.  According  to  the  same  calculation,  Hem- 
inge and  Condell  each  required  466/.  13.«.  4c?.  fir  tlieir  two 
shares,  aud  Taylor  350/.  for  his  share  and  a  half  while  the 
tour  unnamed  half-sharers  put  in  their  claim  to  be  compen- 
sated at  the  same  rate,  466/.  13s.  4c/.  This  mode  of  esti- 
mating the  Blackfriars  tbeati-e  made  the  value  of  it  6166/. 
13s.  43.,  and  to  this  sum  was  to  be  added  remuneration  to 
the  hu-ed  men  of  the  company,  who  were  not  sharers,  as 

'  These  transactions  most  probably  occurred  before  September, 
ICOS,  because  Laurence  Fletcher  died  in  that  month.  However,  it  is 
not  quite  certain  that  the  ''Laz.  Fletcher,''  mentioned  in  the  docu- 
ment, was  Laurence  Fletcher  :  we  know  of  no  person  named  Lazarus 
Fletcher,  though  he  may  have  been  the  personal  representative  of 
Laurence  Fletcher. 

2  It  is  thus  headed— 
"  For  avoiding  of  the  Playhouse  in  the  Precinct  of  the  Blacke  Friers. 

£.      s.  d. 
Imp.  Richard  Burbidge  oweth  the  Fee,  and  is  alsoe  a 
sharer  therein.     His  interest  he  rateth  at  the  grosse 
summe  of  KJOO/.  for  the  Fee,  and  for  his  foure  shares 

in  the  summe  of  933;.  6s.  8d 19:33     6    8 

Vcwi.  Laz.  Fletcher  oweth  three  shares,  which  he  rateth 
at  700^,  that  is,  at  seven  yeares  purchase  for  each 
share,  or  331.  6s.  8rf.,  one  yeare  with  another  .  .  700  0  0 
Item.  "W.  Shakespeare  asketh  for  the  wardrobe  and 
properties  of  the  same  playhouse  500^,  and  for  his 
4  shares,  the   same   as  his   fellowes,  Burbidge   and 

Fletcher;  viz.  933/.  6s.  8rf 1433     6    8 

ftfm.  Heminge  and  Condell  eche  2  shares   .         .         .       933     6    8 
hem.  Joseph  Taylor  1  share  and  an  halfe      .         .  350     0    0 


well  as  to  the  widows  and  orphans  of  deceased  ac'.ors:  the 
purchase  money  of  the  whole  property  was  thus  raised  tc 
at  least  7000/. 

Each  share,  out  of  the  twenty  into  which  the  receipts  of 
the  theatre  were  divided,  yielded,  as  was  alleged,  an  annuaj 
profit  of  33/.  6s.  8d. ;  and  Shakespeai'e,  owning  four  of  tlieae 
shares,  his  annual  income,  from  them  only,  was  183/.  6s.  8<l  : 
he  was  besides  proprietor  of  the  wardrobe  and  properti-d, 
stated  t<i  be  woi'th  500/.:  these,  we  may  conclude,  he  lent 
t^J  the  company  for  a  certain  consideration,  and,  reckoning 
wear  and  tear,  ten  per  cent,  seems  a  very  low  rate  of  pay- 
ment; we  will  take  it,  however,  at  tliat  sum,  which  would 
add  50/.  a  year  to  the  133/.  6s.  8d.  already  mentioned,  making 
together  183/.  6s.  8(/.,  besides  what  our  great  dramatist  must 
have  gained  by  the  profits  of  his  pen,  upon  which  we  have 
no  data  for  forming  any  thing  like  an  accurate  estimate 
Without  including  any  thing  on  this  account,  and  supposing 
only  that  the  Globe  was  as  profitable  for  a  summer  theatre 
as  "the  Blackfriars  was  for  a  winter  theatre,  it  is  evident 
that  Shakespeare's  income  could  hardly  have  been  less  than 
366/.  13s.  4c/.  Taking  every  known  source  of  emolument 
into  view,  we  consider  400/.  a  year  the  very  lowest  amount 
at  which  his  income  can  be  reckoned  in  1608. 

The  document  upon  which  this  calculation  is  founded  i» 
preserved  among  the  papers  of  Lord  Ellesmere,  but  a  re 
markable  incidental  confirmation  of  it  has  still  more  recently 
been  brought  to  light  in  the  Statc-papeV  office.  Sir  Dudley 
Carlton  was  ambassador  at  the  Hague  in  1619,  and  John 
Chamberlaiue,  writing  to  him  oii  19th  of  March  in  that 
year,  and  mentioning  the  death  of  Queen  Anne,  states  thai 
"  the  funeral  is  put  oft'  to  the  29th  of  the  next  month,  to  th». 
great  hinderance  of  our  players,  which  are  forbidden  to  plaj 
so  long  as  her  body  is  above  ground:  one  speciall  mac 
among  them,  Burbage,  is  lately  dead,  and  hath  left,  they 
say,  better  than  300/^  land^" 

Burbage  was  interred  at  St  Leonard's,  Shoreditch,  on 
16th  March,  1619,  three  days  anterior  to  the  date  of  Cham- 
berlaine's  letter^,  having  made  his  nuncupative  will  four 
days  before  his  burial:  m  it  he  said  nothing  about  tl^e 
amount  of  his  property,  but  merely  left  his  wife  Winifrei' 
his  sole  executrix.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  howevc,  that 
the  correspondent  of  Sir  Dudley  Carlton  was  correct  in  his 
information,  and  that  Burbage  died  worth  "  better  than " 
300/.  a  year  in  land,  besides  his  "  goods  and  chattels :"  300/. 
a  year  at  that  date  was  about  1500/.  of  our  present  money, 
and  we  have  every  reason  to  suppose  that  Shakespeare  was 
quite  in  as  good,  if  not  in  better  circumstances.  Until  the 
letter  of  Chamberlaine  was  found,  we  had  not  the  shghtest 
knowled(,'e  of  the  amount  of  property  Burbage  had  accu- 
mulated, he  having  been  during  his  whole  hfe  merely  ar 
actor,  and  not  combining  in  his  own  person  the  profits  of  a 
most  successful  dramatic  author  with  those  of  a  performer 
Nevertheless,  it  must  not  be  forgotten,  that  although  Shake- 
speare continued  a  large  sharer  with  the  leading  membei-s 
of  the  company  in  1608,  he  had  retired  from  the  stage  about 
four  years  before ;  and  having  ceased  to  act,  but  still  re- 
taining his  shares  in  the  profits  of  the  theatres  with  which 
he  was  connected,  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  arrangement 

hem.  Lowing  also  one  share  and  an  halfe    .         .'  350     0    0 

Item.  Foure  more  playeres  with  one  halfe  share  to  eche 
of  them        .         .   • <66   13    4 

Summa  totalis        .     6106   13    4 
Moreover,  the  hired  men  of  the  Companie  demaund  some  recompence 
for  their  great  losse,  and  the  Widowes  and  Orphanes  of  Players.  wIhj 
are  paide  bv  the  Sharers  at  divers  rates  and  proportions,  so  is  in  (ha 
whole  it  wi'U  cost  the  Lo.  .Mayor  and  the  Citizens  at  least  7000/." 

3  This  new  and  valuable  piece  of  information  was  pointed  oat  to 
us  by  Mr.  Lemon,  who  has  been  as  indefatigable  in  his  researches  as 
liberal  in  the  communication  of  the  results  of  them. 

*  The   passage   above   quoted   renders   Middleton  s  epigram  on  thi" 
death  of  Burbage  (Works  by  Dyce.  vol   v.  p,  503)  quite  clear  ;— 
"  Astronomers  and  star-gazers  this  year 
Write  but  of  four  eclipses  ;  five  appear. 
Death  interposing  Burbage,  and  rtie.r  staying, 
Hath  made  a  visible  eclipse  of  playing." 
It  has  been  conjectured  that  "their  staying"  reterrea  to  a  teniporary 
suspension  of  plays  in  consequence  of  the  death  of  Burbage  ;   bet  thfl 
stay  was  the  prohibition  of  acting  until  after  the  funeraJ  ol  Quwjo 
Anne 


Ixvi 


THE  LIFE  OF   WILLIAM   SHAKESrEARE. 


Ite  may  hiive  made  will  the  rest  of  tlio  company  for  the 
reguk'r  coutributinn  of  dromiiB,  in  "lieu  perhaps  of  his  own 
per8«inal  exertions. 

In  a  work  puhlishca  n  few  years  apo,  containing  extracts 
from  the  Diary  of  the  Ker.  ji.lin  Ward,  who  wjis  vicar  of 
Stratford-npou-Avon,  and  whose  nuinoraiida  extend  from 
1*48  to  167y',  it  is  stated  that  Shakespiare  "in  his  elder 
days  hved  at  Stratfoni.  and  siipplieii  the  stjige  with  two 

Elays  every  year,  and  for  it  had  an  allowance  so  large,  that 
e  spent  at  the  rate  of  lOOU/.  a  yeai-,  as  I  have  heard."  We 
«>nlv  adduce  this  passage  to  show  what  the  opinion  was  as 
to  Shaki'.-ipi'ares  circumstjinces  shortly  after  the  Restora- 
liwu'.  We  take  it  for  granted  that  the  sum  of  1000/.  (equal 
to  nearlv  5000/.  now)  is  a  considerable  exaggeration,  but  it 
m*v  warrant  the  belief  that  Shakespeare  lived  in  good  style 
and  port  late  in  life,  in  his  native  town.  It  is  very  possible, 
too,  thougii  we  think  not  probable,  that  after  he  retired  to 
Stratford  he  couliuued  to  write,  but  it  is  utterly  incicdible 
that  subsequent  to  his  retirement  he  "  supplied  the  stage 
with  two  plays  even-  year."  He  might  not  be  able  at  once 
^l  relinquish  his  old  and  confirmed  habits  of  composition ;  j 
but  such  other  evidence  as  we  jiossess  is  opposed  to  Ward's  j 
ftatement,  to  which  he  himself  appends  the  cautionaiy  \ 
words,  "  as  I  have  heard."  Of  course  he  could  have  known  : 
nothing  but  by  heai-say  forty -six  years  after  our  poet's  de-  j 
cease.  He  might,  however,  easily  have  known  inhabitants ' 
of  Stratfoid  who  well  recollected  Shakespeare,  and,  consid- 
ering the  opportunities  he  possessed,  it  strikes  us  as  very 
eingular  that  he  collected  so  little  information. 

We  have  already  adverted  to  the  bounty  of  the  Earl  of 
Southampton  to  Shakespeare,  which  we  have  supposed  to 
have  been  consequent  upon  the  dedication  of  "  \  enus  and 
Adonis,"  and  •'  Lucrece,"  to  that  nobleman,  and  couicident 
in  point  of  date  with  the  building  of  the  Globe  Theatre. 
Anotlier  document  has  been  h;inded  down  to  us  among  the 
napers  of  Lord  EUesmere,  which  proves  the  strong  interest 
Lord  Southampton  still  t<^>ok,  about  fifteen  years  afterwards, 
in  Shakespeare's  affairs,  and  in  the  prosperity  of  the  com- 
pany to  which  he  was  attached :  it  has  distinct  reference 
also  to  the  pending  and  unequal  struggle  between  the  cor- 
poration of  London  and  the  players  at  the  Blackfriars,  of 
which  we  have  already  spoken.  It  is  the  copy  of  a  letter 
subscribed  H.  S.  (the  initials  of  the  Earl)  to  some  nobleman 
in  favour  of  our  great  dramatist,  and  of  the  chief  performer 
in  many  of  his  plays,  Richard  Burbage ;  and  recollecting 
what  Lord  Southampton  had  before  done  for  Shakespeare, 
and  the  mannei-  in  which  from  the  first  he  had  patronized 
our  stjige  and  drama,  it  seems  tf»  us  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  for  him  to  write  a  letter  personally  on  behalf 
of  partie.s  who  had  so  many  public  and  private  claims.  We 
may  couclude  tiiat  the  original  was  not  addressed  to  Lord 
Ellestnere.  or  it  would  have  been  found  in  tlie  depository 
of  his  papers,  an<l  not  merely  a  transcript  of  it;  but  a  copy 
of  it  may  have  been  furnished  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  in 
order  to  give  him  some  information  respecting  the  charac- 
ten*  of  the  parties  upon  whose  cause  he  was  called  upon  to 
decide.     Loud  Ellesniere  stood  high  in  the  confidence  of  his 

'  Diarr  of  the  Rpt  John  Wajd,  Sec.  Arranged  by  Charles  Severn. 
M.D.     Undon.-TD.  18:J<J. 

^  Mr  Ward  was  appointed  to  the  vicarage  of  Stratford-upon-Avon 
ia  l6r,-2 

The  copy  was  made  upon  half  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  without  ad- 
it*t :  it  runs  as  foUovs  : — 

"My  verie  honored  Lord.  The  manie  goou  v>ificei!  I  haue  receiued 
at  yotir  Lordship's  hands,  which  ouf;ht  to  make  me  backward  in  asking 
fcnher  favoni.  oni-ly  imbouldenetb  rre  to  requite  more  in  the  same 
cniie.  Your  Lordship  will  be  wa.uea  nowe  nereaftir  yuu  graunt 
anie  sute,  seeing  It  draweth  on  mere  and  creater  demaun  l».  1  hi.s 
which  now  preweth  m  to  request  your  Lord.hip,  in  all  you  can,  to  be 
good  to  the  poore  players  ol  the  liiark  Kryer*.  who  call  tbem  selves  by 
kDihoritie  the  serrauntsof  hi<  .Majeslie,  and  a*ke  lor  the  protection 
of  iheir  mo«t  gracious  .Maister  and  .Sovereicne  in  this  the  tyme  of  tlieir 
treble,  'i'hey  are  threatened  by  the  I.orJ  .Mayor  and  Aldermen  of 
London,  never  friendly  to  their  calling;,  with  the  di*truction  of  their 
meanes  of  livelihood,  by  the  nulling  do wne  of  their  plaiehoufe.  which 

a  pnuate  theatre,  and  hath  neuer  giuen  occasion  of  anger  by  anie 
Jisordei..  These  bearers  are  two  of  the  chiefe  of  the  companie  ;  one 
ftt  tbem  Vy  name  Richard  Burbidge,  who  humblie  sneth  for  your 
Ijordship's  kinde  helpe,  for  that  he  is  a  man  famous  as  our  English 
Roscius,  one  wno  fitt-ih  the  action  to  the  word,  and  the  word  to  the 
ution    inoi>t   admvr•.^lV       Bv  the   exercise  of  his  qualitye,    indu.stry 


sovereign :  he  had  many  important  public  duties  to  discharg« 
besides  those  belonging  to  his  great  office ;  and  notwith 
standing  he  had  shown  himself  at  all  times  a  liberal  patron 
of  lettei-s,  and  had  had  many  works  of  value  dedicated  l-o 
him,  we  may  readily  imagine,  that  although  he  must  have 
heard  of  Siuikespeare  and  Burbage,  he  was  iu  -oine  degree 
of  ignorance  as  to  their  imlividual  deserts,  whu-n  this  com 
muiiication  was  intended  to  remove.  That  it  was  not  sent 
to  him  by  Lord  Southampton,  who  probably  was  acquainted 
with  him,  may  afford  a  proof  of  the  delicacy  of  the  Earl's 
mind,  who  would  not  seem  directly  Ui  interpose  while  a 
question  of  the  sort  wjis  pending  before  a  judge,  (though 
possibly  not  iu  his  judicial  capacity)  the  history  of  whose 
life  establishes  that  where  the  exercise  of  his  high  function* 
was  involved  he  wjis  equally  deaf  to  pubUc  and  to  privat*" 
influence. 

We  have  introduced  an  exact  copy  of  the  document  in  a 
note^  and  it  will  be  observed  that  it  is  without  date ;  but 
the  subject  of  it  shows  beymid  dispute  that  it  belongs  to  this 
period,  while  the  lord  mayor  and  aldermen  were  endeavour 
ing  to  expel  the  players  from  a  situation  where  they  had 
been  uciuterruptedly  estabhshed  for  more  than  thii-ty  yeais 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  object  the  players  had  ir 
view  was  attained,  because  we  know  that  the  lord  mayor 
and  his  brethren  were  not  alknved,  until  many  years  after 
wards,  to  exercise  any  authority  within  the  precinct  and 
liberty  of  the  Blackfriars.  and  that  the  King's  servants  con- 
tinued to  occupy  the  theatre  long  after  the  death  of  'Jhake 
speare. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

Warrant  to  Daborne,  Shakespeare,  Field,  and  Kirkhnm,  foi 
the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels,  in  Jan.  1610.  Puju- 
larity  of  juvenile  companies  of  actors.  Stay  of  Dab-inie's 
warrant,  and  the  reason.s  for  it.  Plavs  Intended  to  be  acted 
by  the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels.  Shakespeare's 
dramns  between  1609  and  1612.  His  retirement  to  Stratford, 
and  disposal  of  his  property  in  the  Blackfriars  and  Gl-'be 
theatres.  AUeyn's  pnrcliases  in  Blackfriars  in  1612.  SIi.-.ko 
speare's  purchase  of  a  house  in  Blackfriars  from  Henrv 
Walker  in  1618,  and  tiie  possible  cause  of  it  explained 
Shakespeare  described  as  of  Stralford-upon-Avou, 

There  is  reason  for  believing  that  the  important  quesbcn 
of  jurisdiction  had  been  decided  in  favour  of  the  Kine's 
players  before  January,  1609-10,  because  we  have  an  l^ 
strument  of  that  date  authorizing  a  juvenile  company  to 
exhibit  at  Blackfriars,  as  well  its  the  association  which  had 
been  iu  possession  of  the  theatre  ever  since  its  t)riginal  c<ni- 
struction.  One  circumstance  connected  with  this  document, 
to  which  we  shall  presently  advert,  may  however  appear 
to  cast  a  doubt  upon  the  point,  whether  it  had  yet  be*o 
finally  determined  that  the  corporation  of  London  was  b^ 
law  excluded  fi-om  the  precinct  of  tlie  Blackfriars. 

It  is  a  fact,  of  which  it  may  be  said  we  have  conclusive 
proof,  that  almost  from  the  first,  if  not  from  the  fiist,  the 


and  good  behaviour,  he  hath  be  come  pos.'sessed  of  the  Blacke  Fryer* 
playhouse,  which  hath  bene  imployed  for  playes  sithence  it  wa« 
builded  by  his  Father,  now  nere  5li  yeres  agone.  The  other  is  a  man 
no  whitt  lesse  deserving  favor,  and  my  especiall  friends,  till  of  lale 
an  actor  of  good  account  in  the  companie,  now  a  sharer  in  the  sami., 
and  writer  of  some  of  our  best  English  plaves,  which,  a.s  you'  Loid- 
ship  knoweth,  were  most  sincularly  liked  of  Quene  El!^abeth.  whi'U 
the  companie  was  called  uppon  to  performe  before  her  .Maiestie  it 
Court  at  Christmas  and  ."^hrovetide  His  most  gracious  Maiestie  King 
James  alsoe.  sence  his  coming  to  the  crowne,  hath  extended  hit  rov.'U 
favour  to  the  companie  in  divers  waies  and  at  sundrie  tymes  Thu 
other  hath  to  name  William  :5hakespeare,  and  they  are  both  of  one 
countie.  and  indeede  allraoslof  one  towne  :  both  are  right  fumons  in 
their  qualityes.  though  it  longeth  not  of  your  Lo.  grauitie  and  wiaa- 
dome  to  report  vnto  the  place.-*  where  they  are  wont  to  delight  iht 
publique  eare  Their  trust  ami  sute  nowe  is  not  to  bee  nioiesiud  in 
their  way  of  life,  whereby  they  maintaine  them  selves  and  tbtii 
wives  and  families,  (being  both  married  and  of  good  reputation)  nt 
well  as  the  widows  and  orphanes  of  some  of  their  dead  fellows 
"  Your  Lo  most  bounden  at  com 
"  Copia  vera."  "  H.  S.' 

Lord  Southampton  was  clearly  mistaken  when  he  stated  that  ili* 
B.ackfriars  theatre  had  been  built  nearly  fifty  yeaii  in  ICOr'  .1  ha,'' 
been  bujlt  about  thirtv-three  vears 


•niE   LIFE   OF   AVILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixvii 


Blaokfiiais  theatre  had  been  in  the  jomt  possession  of  the'  to  proceed*;  and  it  is  a  circumstance  deserving  notice,  that 
Lord  Chainberlain's  servants  and  oif  a  juvenile  company  ■"  the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels"  -were  thereby 
called  the  Children  of  the  Chapel :  they  were  also  kn.rwn  as  licensed  not  only  to  act  "  tragedies,  comedies,"  &c.  in  the 
"  her  Majesty's  Children,"  and  '•  the  Cliihh-en  of  the  Black-  Blackfiiars  theatre,  but  "  elsewhere  within  the  realm  of 
hiars/'and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  they  employed  Engliind ;"  so  that  even  places  where  the  city  authoritiee 
the  tbeatie  oc  alternate  days  with  their  older  competitors,  had  indisputably  a  right  to  exercise  jui-isdicti'on  were  not 
but  thiit,  when  the  Lord  Chamberhiin's  servants  acted  else-    exempted. 

where  in  the  summer,  the  Children  of  the  Chapel  com-  It  will  be  recollected  that  this  had  been  a  point  in  dio 
meneed  their  performances  at  the  Blaekfriars.'  After  the  pute  in  1574,  and  that  the  words  "'as  well  within  our  city 
opening  of  the  Globe  in  1595,  we  may  presume  that  the  of  Loudon"  were  on  this  account  excluded  from  the  patent 
Lord  Cliamberlain's  servants  usually  left  the  Blackfriai's  granted  by  Elizabeth  to  tlie  players  of  Lord  Leicester, 
theatre  to  be  occupied  by  the  Children  of  the  Chapel  during  though  found  in  the  privy  seal  dated  three  davs  earlier' 
the  seven  mouths  fi-om  April  to  October.  |  For  the  same  reason,  probably,  they  ai-e   not  contained  • 

The  success  of  the  juvenile  companies  in  the  commence- :  tlie  patent  of  James  L  to  Fletcher,  Shakespeare,  and  othe  m, 
ment  of  the  reign  of  James  L,  and  even  at  the  latter  end  |  iu  1603.     "We  may  be  satisfied  that  the  warrant  of  1609-10 


of  that  of  Elizabeth,  was  great ;  and  we  find   Shakespeare  j  to  Daborne  and  his  partners  was  not  carried  into  effect,  anVi 
alluding  tc  it  in  very  pointed  terms  in  a  well-known  passage '         "  '  '  .      .-        .    •  .         .  .     ..    . 

in  •'  Hamlet,"  which  we  suppose  to  have  been  written  in  the 
winter  of  1601,  or  in  the  spring  of  1602.  They  seem  to 
have  gone  on  increasing  in  popidai'ity,  and  very  soon  after 
James  L  ascended  the  throne.  Queen  Anne  took  a  company, 
called  ••  the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels,"  under  her 
immediate  patronage.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that 
they  continued  to  perform  at  Bhickfriars,  and  in  the  very 
commencement  of  the  year  1610  we  find  that  Shakespeare 
either  was,  or  intended  to  be,  connected  with  them.  At  this 
period  he  probably  contemplated  an  early  retirement  from 
the  metropolis,  and  might  wish  to  avail  himself,  for  a  short 
period,  of  this  new  opportunity  of  profitable  employment. 
Robert  Daborne,  the  author  of  two  dramas  that  have  been 

fi-iuted.  and  of  several  others  that  have  been  lost,'-*  seems  to 
ave  been  a  man  of  good  family,  and  of  some  interest  at  court ; 
and  in  January  16U9-10,  he  was  able  to  procure  a  royal 
gi-aut,  authorizing  him  ami  others  to  provide  and  educate  a 
number  of  young  actors,  to  be  called  "  the  Children  of  the 


possibly  on  that  account :  although  it  may  have  been  decided 
at  this  dale  that  the  lord  mayor  and  aldermen  had  no  power 
forcibly  to  exclude  the  actors  fiom  the  Blackfiiars,  it  may 
have  been  held  inexpedient  to  go  the  length  of  authorizing 
a  young  company  to  act  within  the  very  boimdaries  of  the 
city.  So  far  the  coi-poration  may  have  prevailed,  and  this 
may  be  the  cause  why  we  never  hear  of  any  steps  having 
been  taken  under  the  warrant  of  1609-lb.  The  word 
"  stayed  "  is  added  at  the  conclusion  of  the  draft,  as  if  some 
good  ground  had  been  discovered  for  delaying,  if  not  for 
entirely  withholding  it.  Perhaps  even  the  question  of  juris- 
diction had  not  been  completely  settled,  and  it  may  have 
been  thought  useless  to  concede  a  priWlege  which,  after  all. 
by  the  operation  of  the  law  m  favour  of  tlie  claim  of  the 
city,  might  turn  out  to  be  of  no  value,  because  it  could  no' 
be  acted  upon.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  new  scheme  seenit 
to  have  been  entirely  abandoned ;  and  whatever  Shakt 
speare  may  have  intended  when  he  became  connected  Math 
it,  he  continued,  as  long  as  he  remained  in  Loudon,  and  as 


Queen's  Revels."  As  we  have  observed,  this  was  not  a  new  j  far  as  any  evidence  enables  us  to  judge,  to  write  only  for 
association,  because  it  had  existed  undei'  that  appellation,  and  .  the  company  of  the  King's  players,  who  persevered  in  their 
under  those  of  •'  the  Children  of  the  Chapel "  and  "  the  Chil-  >  performances  at  the  Blackfriai-s  in  the  winter,  and  at  the 
dreu  of  the  Blackfiiars,"  from  near  the  beginning  of  the  reign  ;  Globe  in  t'he  summer. 

of  Ehziibeth.  Daborne,  in  1609-10,  was  placed  at  the  head  j  It  will  be  seen  that  to  the  draft  in  favour  of  "  Daborne 
of  it,  and  not.  perhaps,  having  sufiicient  means  or  funds  of  his  and  others,"  as  directoi-s  of  the  performances  of  the  Children 
own,  he  had,  as  was  not  unusual,  partners  in  the  undertak-  of  the  Queen's  Revels,  a  list  is  appended,  apparently  of 
big:  those  partners  were  WiUiam  Shakespeare,  Nathaniel  dramatic  performances  in  representing  which  the  juvenile 
Field,  (the  celebrated  actor,  and  vei-y  clever  author)  and  1  company  was  to  be  employed.  Some  of  these  may  be  con- 
Edward  Kirkham.  who  had  previously  enjoyed  a  privilege  j  sidered,  known  and  estabUshed  performances,  such  as  "  An- 
of  the  same  kind'.  A  memorandum  of  the  warrant  to  touio,"  which  perhaps  was  intended  for  the  "  Antonio  and 
"Daborne  and  otliers,"  not  there  named,  is  inserted  in  the  Mellida"of  ^Larston,  printed  in  1602;  "  Grisell"  for  the 
"•  Entry  Book  of  Patents  and  Warrants  for  Patents,"  kept  "  Patient  Grisell "  of  Dekkei-,  Chettle,  and  Haughton,  printed 
by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Tuthill,  who  was  employed  by  in  1603;  and  "K.  Edw.  2.,"  for  Marlowe's  "  Edward  II.," 
Lord  EUesmere  for  the  purpose,  and  which  book  is  pre-  printed  in  1598.  Of  others  we  have  no  information  fi-om 
served  among  the  papers  handed  down  by  his  lordship  to  any  quarter,  and  only  two  remind  us  at  all  of  Shakespeare : 
his  successors.  In  the  same  depositoiy  we  also  find  a  draft  "  Kinsmen,"  may  mean  "  The  two  Xoble  Kinsmen."  in  wiit/ 
of  the  warrant  itself,  under  which  Daborne  and  his  partners,  ing  which,  some  suppose  oui'  great  dramatist  to  have  been 
therein  named,  viz.  Shakespeare,  Field,  and  Kirkham,  were   concerned ;  and  "  Taming  of  S."  is  possiblv  to  be  taken  for 

I 

'  See  Hist.  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  vol.  iii.  p. 975,  -where  '  -wife,  hath  for  her  pleasure  and  recreation  appointed  her  .servwrts 
»uch  IS  conject::.-ed  to  havfi  beeii  the  arrangement.  I  Robert  Daiborne,  &c.  to  provide  and  bring  upp  a  convenient  nomber 

'-  ■' The  Christian  turned  Turk."  161  J.  and  -  The  Poor  Man's  Com-  of  children,  who  shall  be  called  the  Children  of  her  Majesties  ReveiU, 
fort,"  1055.  In  "The  Ailevn  Papers.'''  (printed  bv  the  Shakespeare  knowe  ye  that  we  have  appointed  and  authorized  and  by  these  pre- 
Society.)  may  be  seen  much  correspondence  between  Daborne  and  sents  doe  appoint  and  autiiorize  the  said  Robert  Daiborne,  VVUiiaiE 
Henslowe  respecting  plays  he  was  then  writing  for  the  Fortune  the-  I  Shakespeare.  jVathaniel  Field,  and  Edwaid  Kirkhain,  trom  time  tc 
»tre.  Bv  a  letter  from  him.  dated  ind  Au-ust.  1014.  it  appears  that  1  ti™«  *<>  pro-'ide  and  bring  upp  a  convenient  nomber  of  children,  and 
Lord  WiUoDghby  had  sent  for  him.  and  it  is  raostlikely  that  Da-  '.  them  to  instruct  and  exercise  in  the  quality  of  playing  Iragedie. 
borne  went  to  Ireland  under  this  nobleman's  patronage.  It  is  certa-n  j  Comedies,  &c.,  by  the  name  of  the  Children  ol  the  Keve.ls  to  tl. 
:hat,  having  been  regularly  educated,  he  went  into  the  Church,  and  Queene.  within  the  Blackfryers,  in  our  Citie  of  London,  or  els  whew 
had  a  living  at  or  near  Waterford,  where,  in  161^.  he  preached  a  i  '"'ithin  our  realm  of  England.  \\  herefore  we  will  and  commau 
•ermon  which  is  extant.  While  writins  for  Henslowe  he  was  in  y«"-  and  everie  of  you.  to  perrnitt  her  said  sen-aunts  to  keepe  a  con- 
gjeox  poverty,  having  sold  most  of  the  propeny  he  had  with  his  wife,  -^'enient  nomber  ot  children,  by  the  name  of  the  Children  ol  the 
We  have  no  information  as  to  the  precise  time  of  his  death,  but  his  Kevells  to  the  Queene.  and  them  to  exercise  in  the  quautie  ot  play 
'•  Poor  Man's  Comfort "  was  certainly  a  posthumous  production  :  he  ■"?  according  to  her  royal  pleasure.  Provided  alwaies.  that  no  pia,  es 
had  sold  it  to  one  of  the  companies  of  the  day  before  he  took  holy  ^"^^  ^^f'^H ''^ '^f™  P^^^"  '  f"*  *"^f  '^  f7/^f '^k.^pvIu! 
orders,  and.  like  various  other  plays,  after  long  remaining  in  manu- 


script, it  was  published.  His  lost  plays,  some  of  which  he  wrote  in 
sonjanction  with  other  dramatists,  appear  from  "  The  AUeyn  Papers  '' 
to  have  been— 1.  Machiavel  and  the  Devil :  2.  The  Arraignment  of  j 
London  :  3.  Tlie  Bellman  of  London  ;  4.  The  Owl ;  5.  The  She  Saint ; 
besides  others  the  titles  of  which  are  not  given.  I 

^  He  was  one  of  the  masters  of  the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels 
in  160:M.  See  Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stag-.,  vol.  i. 
p  :«2.  ' 

*  It  iQns  thus  : — 

"Right  trusty  and  welbeloved.  &c..  James,  &c.     To  all  Mayors.    Stayed 
Rueri  is,  Justices  of  the  Peace.  &c     Whereas  the  Queene   our  dearest 


the  approbation  and  a'Uowance  of  our  Maister  of  the  Revells  for  the 
tyme  being.     And  these  our  Ires,  shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant  in 
this  behaife.    In  witnesse  whereof,  fee,  4»  die  Janij.  16tl9. 
"  Proud  Povertie.  Engl.  Tragedie. 

Widow's  Mite.  False  Friends. 

Antonio.  Hate  and  Love. 

Kinsmen.  Taming 'fS. 

Triumph  of  Truth  K.  Edw.  -2. 

Touchstone.  Mi  ror  ol  Lift 

Gnsell. 


f*»e  Hi»l.  Engl.  Dram    Poetry  and  the  St>ge,  vol 


Ixviii 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


•  The  Taming:  of  the  Shrew,"  or  for  the  older  phiy,  with 
ntarlv  tlio  sjiine  title,  upon  which  it  was  founded. 

••fn>ilu9  and  Cressida  "  and  "Pericles"  were  printed  in 
1 609.  and  ^o  our  mind  there  seems  but  little  doubt  that  they 
had  been  written  and  prepared  for  the  stasje  only  a  short 
Lime  bef.re  thev  came  fiom  the  press.  With  the  single 
pxceptiim  of  "  Othello."  wliieh  eame  out  in  4to  in  1622,  no 
other  ut-w  drama  by  Shakespeare  appeared  in  a  printed 
form  between  1600  and  the  date  of  the  publication  of  the 
folio  in  1623'.  We  need  not  here  discuss  what  plays,  first 
f.iund  in  that  volume,  were  penned  by  our  great  dramatist 
after  16(»9,  because  we  have  separately  considered  the 
fllaims  of  each  in  our  preliminary  Introductions.  "  Timon 
of  Athens."  "  Coriolanus."  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  "  Cym- 
beliiie."  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  and'" The  Tempest,"  seem  to 
belnic  to  a  late  period  of  our  poet's  theatricjil  career,  and 
some  of  them  were  dmbtless  written  between  1609  and  the 
peri.)d.  whatever  that  period  might  be,  when  he  entirely 
relinquished  dramatic  composition. 

Between  January  1609-10,  when  Shakespeare  was  one 
of  the  pai-ties  to  whom  the  wan-ant  for  the  Children  of  the 
Queens  Revels  was  conceded,  and  the  year  1612,  when  it 
has  been  reasonably  supposed  that  he  quitted  London  to 
take  up  his  permaueut  residence  at  Stratford,  we  are  in 
j)osse3sion  of  no  facts  connected  with  his  personal  history^. 
It  would  seem  both  natural  and  prudent  that,  before  he 
witiidrew  from  the  metropolis,  he  should  dispose  of  his 
theatrical  property,  which  must  necessarily  be  of  fluctuating 
and  uncertain  value,  depending  much  upon  the  presence 
and  activity  of  the  owner  fi>r  its  profitable  management. 
lu  his  will  (unlike  some  of  his  contemporaries  who  expiied 
in  London)  he  says  nothing  of  any  such  property,  and  we 
are  left  to  iufei-  that  he  did  not  die  in  possession  of  it, 
btiviug  disposed  of  it  before  he  finally  retired  to  Stratford. 

It  is  to  be  recollected  also  that  the  species  of  iaterest  he- 
iiad  m  the  Blackfriars  theatre,  independently  of  his  shares 
in  the  receipts,  was  peculiarly  perishable :  it  consisted  of  the 
wardrobe  and  properties,  which  in  1608,  when  the  city 
luthorities  contemplated  the  purchase  of  the  whole  estab- 
lishment, were  valued  at  500/.;  and  we  may  feel  assured 
that  he  would  sell  them  to  the  company  which  had  had  the 
coustant  use  of  them,  and  doubtless  had  paid  an  annual 
r.-onsideration  to  the  owner.  The  fee,  or  freehold,  of  the 
house  and  gi'ound  was  in  the  hands  of  Richard  Burbage, 
and  from  him  it  descended  to  his  two  sons :  that  was  a  per- 
manent and  substantial  possession,  very  different  in  its 
<!ha!-acter  and  durabihty  from  the  dresses  and  machinery 
wluch  belonged  to  Shakespeare.  The  mere  circumstance 
of  the  uatui-e  of  Shakespeare's  property  in  the  Blackfriars 
seems  to  authorize  the  conclusion,  that  he  sold  it  before  he 
retired  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  where  he  meant  to  spend 
the  re*it  of  his  days  with  his  family,  m  the  tranquil  enjoy- 
ment of  the  independence  he  had  secured  by  the  exertions 
of  five  and  twenty  years.  Supposing  bim  to  have  begun 
his  th'^atrical  career  at  the  enci  of  1586,  as  we  have  ima- 
gmod,  the  quarter  of  a  century  would  be  completed  by  the 

'  One  copy  of  the  fo'.io  is  known  with  the  date  of  1622  upon  the 
titte-pace.  The  volume  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  on  the  bth 
Nov.  liiiJ,  tit  if  it  had  not  been  published  until  late  in  that  year, 
unl^M  we  suppose  the  entry  made  by  Blount  and  Jaggard  some  time 
ttler  publication,  in  order  to  secure  their  right  to  the  plays  first 
printed  there,  which  they  thought  might  be  invaded. 

>  We  ought,  perhaps  to  except  a  writ  issued  by  the  borough  court 
(n  Jcne  161U,  at  the  jiuit  of  Shakespeare,  for  the  recovery  of  a  small 
•am.  A  similar  occurrence  had  taken  place  in  M'M.  when  our  poet 
•ought  to  recover  W.  l-l*  Od.  from  a  person  of  the  name  of  Rogers,  for 
:orn  sold  to  him.  The^e  facts  are  ascertained  from  the  existing 
recordi  of  Stratford. 

'  See  the  •'  Memoirs  of  Edward  Alleyn,"'  p.  lO.'j.  where  a  conjecture 
la  hastily  hazarded  that  it  might  be  .Shakespeare's  interest  in  the 
Blackfriars  theatre  Upon  this  question  we  agree  with  .Mr.  Knight 
in  ■' Shak-pere,  a  Biography,"'  prefixed  to  his  pictorial  edition  of  the 
I'oet"s  works. 

♦  It  is  in  the  following  form,  upon  a  small  damp-injured  piece  of 
p«per,  and  obviously  a  mere  memorandum. 
"April  1012, 
"Money  paid  by  me  E.  A.  for  the  Blackfryers         .     I6O11 
More  for  the  Blackfryen  ...     IWS'' 

More  again  for  the  Leasse 310'' 

Tbe  writinge^  l>r  the  same  and  other  •mall  chrxgei       3"  fl"  8'' 


close  of  1612,  and  for  aught  we  know,  that  might  be  th« 
period  Shakespeaie  had  in  his  mind  fixed  upon  for  the  ter 
j  miuation  of  his  toils  and  anxieties. 

'  It  has  been  ascertained  that  Edward  Allevii,  the  acUtr 
founder  of  the  college  of  "God's  Gift"  at  Dulwich,  pur- 
chivsed  property  in  the  Blaekfiiai-s  in  Apiil  1612",  ancl  al 
though  it  may  possibly  have  been  tiieatrical,  there  seemr 
;  suflicieut  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  not,  but  that  it  cou 
j  sisted  of  certain  leasehold  houses,  for  which  according  to 
'  his  own  account-book,  he  paid  a  quarterly  rent  of  40/.  Th# 
brief  memorandum  upon  this  point,  preserved  at  Dulwich, 
certainly  relates  to  any  thing  ratlier  than  to  th.'  species  of 
interest  which  Shakespeare  indisputably  had  in  the  ward- 
I  robe  and  properties  of  the  Blackfriars  theatr-e* :  the  term» 
1  Alleyn  uses  would  apply  only  to  teneinents  or  ground,  and 
j  as  Burbage  valued  his  freehold  of  the  theatre  at  1000/.,  we 
i  need  not  hesitate  in  deciding  that  the  lease  Alleyn  pur- 
j  chased  foi'  599/.  6.1.  8d.  was  not  a  lease  of  the  play-hou'^e. 
We  shall  see  presently  that  Shakespeare  himself,  tlK>ut.'h 
under  some  peculiar  circumstances,  became  the  owner  of  a 
I  dweUiug-house  in  the  Blackfriars,  unconnected  with  Ihe 
j  theatre,  very  soon  after  he  had  taken  up  his  abi>de  at  Sti  at- 
ford,  and  Alleyn  probably  had  made  a  simihu',  but  a  larger 
investment  in  the  same  neighbourhood  in  1612.  Whatever, 
in  fact,  became  of  Shakespeare's  interest  in  the  Blaekfriai  .=» 
theatre,  both  as  a  sharer  and  as  the  owner  of  the  wardrobe 
and  properties,  we  need  not  hesitate  in  concluding  that  in 
the  then  prosperous  state  of  theatrical  affairs  in  the  metro- 
polis, he  was  easily  able  to  procure  a  purchaser. 

He  must  also  have  had  a  considei-able  stake  in  the  Globe, 
but  whether  he  was  also  the  owner  of  the  same  species  of 
property  there,  as  at  the  Blackfriars,  we  can  only  speculate. 
We  should  think  it  highly  probable  that,  as  far  as  the  mere 
wardrobe  was  concerned,  the  same  di-esses  were  made  ta 
serve  for  both  theatres,  and  that  when  the  summer  sciison 
commenced  on  the  Bankside,  the  necessary  apparel  waa 
conveyed  across  the  water  from  the  Blackfriars,  and  re- 
mamed  there  until  the  comjjany  returned  t^)  their  winter 
quarters.  There  is  no  hint  in  any  existing  document  whal 
became  of  our  great  dramatist's  interest  in  the  Globe ;  but 
here  agiiin  we  need  not  doubt,  from  the  profit  that  had 
always  attended  the  undertaking,  tliat  he  could  have  had  no 
difficulty  in  finding  parties  to  take  it  oft'  his  hands.  Burbi^e 
we  know  was  rich,  for  he  died  in  1619^  worth  300/.  a  year 
in  land,  besides  his  personal  property,  and  he  and  others 
would  have  been  glad  to  add  to  their  capital,  so  advantage- 
ously employed,  by  purchasing  Shakespeare's  interest 

It  is  possible,  as  we  have  said,  that  Shakespeare  conti- 
nued to  employ  his  pen  for  the  stage  after  his  i-etirement 
to  Stratford,  and  the  buyers  of  his  shares  might  even  make 
it  a  condition  that  he  should  do  so  for  a  time;  but  we  much 
doubt  whether,  -nitli  his  long  experience  of  the  necessity  of 
personal  superintendence,  he  would  have  continued  a  share- 
holder in  any  coucera  of  the  kind  over  which  Ke  had  do 
control.  During  the  whole  of  his  life  in  connexion  with  thf 
stage,  even  after  he  quitted  it  as  an  actoi-,  he  seems  to  hav  j 

If  this  paper  had  any  relation  at  all  to  the  theatre  in  the  Blackfriaii, 
it  is  very  evident  that  Shakespeare  could  neither  grant  nor  sell  a 
lease  ;  and  it  is  quite  clear  that  Burbage  did  not,  because  he  remained 
in  posses.sion  of  the  playhouse  at  the  time  of  his  death  :  his  sons  en- 
joyed it  afterwards  :  and  Alleyn  continued  to  pay  40/.  a  quarter  fix 
the  property  he  held  until  his  decease  in  \&26. 

»  We  have  already  inserted  an  extract  from  an  epitaph  upon  Bar- 
bage,  in  which  the  writer  enumerates  many  of  the  characters  he  sus- 
tained. The  following  lines  in  Sloane  AJ.S.  No.  1  "Si,  (pointed  out 
to  us  by  Mr.  Bruce)  are  just  worth  pre-^erving  on  account  of  the  emi» 
nence  of  the  man  to  whom  they  relate. 

■'An  Epitaph  on  .Mr.  Richard  Burhage,  the  Player. 
"  This  life's  a  play,  scean'd  out  by  nature's  art, 

Where  every  man  has  his  allotted  parte. 

This  man  hath  now,  as  many  men  can  tell, 

Ended  his  part,  and  he  hath  acted  well. 

The  play  now  ended,  th^nke  his  grave  to  bee 

The  retiring  house  of  his  sad  tragedie; 

Where  to  give  his  fame  this  be  not  afraid  : — 

Here  lies  the  best  Tragedian  ever  play'd." 
From  hence  we  might  infer,  against  other  authorities,  hat  «h»» 
was  called  the  "  tiring  room  "  in  theatres,  wa.s  so  called  because  th« 
actors  retired  to  it.  and  not  atttreii  in  it.  It  most  likely  answered 
both  purposes,  but  we  sometimes  find  it  called  '  the  attiriag  room'' 
by  authors  of  the  time. 


THE  LIFE   OF    WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixix 


J>een  obliged  to  reside  iu  London,  apart  fi-om  his  family,  for  | 
the  purpose  of  watching  over  his  mt-ereste  in  th«  two  thea- 1 
h-es  to  which  he  belonged  :  had  he  been  merely  an  author,  j 
after  he  ceased  to  be  an  actor,  he  might  have  composed  his 
dramas  as  well  at  Stratford  as  in  Loudon,  visiting  the  me-  | 
tropolis  only  while  a  new  play  was  iu  rehearsal  and  pre- 
paration ;  but  such  was  clearly  not  the  ease,  aud  we  may 
be  confident  that  when  he  retired  to  a  place  so  distant 
fron^  the  scene  of  his  triumphs,  be  did  not  allow  his  mind 
to  be  encumbered  by  the  continuance  of  professional 
anxieties. 

It  may  seem  difiBcult  to  reconcile  with  this  consideration 
the  undoubted  fact,  that  in  the  spring  of  161S  Shakespeare 
purchased  a  house,  aud  a  small  piece  of  ground  attached  to 
it,  not  far  from  the  Blackfriars  theatre,  in  which  we  believe 
hiiji  t<>  have  disposed  of  his  concern  in  the  preceding  year. 
The  documents  relatmg  to  this  transaction  have  come  down 
to  us,  and  the  indenture  assigning  the  property  from  Henry 
Walker,  "  citizen  of  London  and  minstrel  of  London,"  to 
William  Shakespeare,  "of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the 
county  of  Warwick,  gentleman,"  bears  date  10th  March, 
1612-13':  the  consideration  money  was  140/.;  the  house 
was  fiituated  "  within  the  precinct,  circuit,  aud  compass  of 
the  late  Blackfriars,"  and  we  are  farther  informed  that  it 
stood  "  right  against  his  Majesty's  Wardrobe."  It  appears 
to  have  been  merely  a  dwelling-house  with  a  small  yard, 
and  not  in  any  way  connected  with  the  theatre,  which  was 
Ht  some  distauce  from  the  royal  wardrobe,  although  John 
Heminge,  the  actor,  was,  with  Shakespeare,  a  party  to  the 
deed,  as  well  as  William  Johuson,  vintner,  and  John  Jack- 
sou,  gentleman. 

Shidiespeare  may  have  made  this  purchase  as  an  accom- 
modation in  some  way  to  his  "  friend  and  feUow"  Heminge, 
aud  the  two  other  persons  named;  and  it  is  to  be  re- 
marked that,  on  the  day  after  the  date  of  the  conveyance, 
Shakespeare  mortgaged  the  house  to  Henry  Walker,  the 
vendor,  for  60/.,  having  paid  down  only  80/.  on  the  10th 
March.  It  is  very  possible  that  our  poet  advanced  the  80/. 
to  Heminge,  Johnson,  and  Jackson,  expecting  that  they 
would  repay  him,  and  furnish  the  remaiuiug  60/.  before  the 
29th  September,  1613,  the  time  stipulated  in  the  mortgage 
deed ;  but  as  they  did  not  do  so,  but  left  it  to  him,  the 
house  of  course  continued  the  propeity  of  Shakespeare, and 
after  his  death  it  was  necessarily  surrendered  to  the  uses 
of  his  will  by  Heminge,  Johnson,  and  Jackson'^ 

Such  may  have  been  the  nature  of  the  transaction ;  and 
if  it  were,  it  will  account  for  the  apparent  (and,  we  have  no 
doubt,  only  apparent)  want  of  means  on  the  part  of  Shake- 
speare to  pay  down  the  whole  of  the  purchase-money  in  the 
first  instance :  he  only  agreed  to  lend  80/.,  leaving  the  par- 
ties whom  be  assisted  to  provide  the  rest,  and  by  repaying 
him  what  he  had  advanced  (if  they  bad  done  so)  to  entitle 
themselves  to  the  house  in  question. 

Shakespeare  must  have  been  in  London  when  he  put  his 
signature  U)  the  conveyance ;  but  we  are  to  recollect,  that 
.   the  circumstance  of  his  being  described  in  it  as  "  of  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon" is  by  no  means  decisive  of  the  fact,  that 
.  his  usual  place  of  abode   in   the  spring  of  1618   was  his 
native  town  :  he  had  a  similar  description  in  the  deeds  by 
which  he  purchased  107  acres  of  land  from  John  and  Wil- 
liam Combe  in    1602,  and  a  lease  of  a  moiety  of  the  tithes 
I        fi'om  Raphe  Huband  in  1605,  idthough  it  is  indisputable 
th^t  at  those  periods  he  was  generally  resident  in  Loudon. 
From  these  facts  it  seems  likely  that  om-  great  dramatist 

'  It  was  Bold  by  auction  by  Messrs.  Evans,  of  Pall  Mall,  in  1S41, 
for  162/  I5s.  The  autograph  of  our  poet  was  appended  to  it,  in  the 
u»ua.  manner.  In  the  next  year  the  instrument  was  again  brought 
to  the  hammer  of  the  same  parties,  when  it  produced  nearly  the  sum 
for  which  it  had  been  sold  in  tei41.  The  autograph  of  Shakespeare, 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  Florio's  translation  of  Montaigne's  Essays,  folio, 
1603,  (which  we  feel  satisfied  is  genuine)  had  been  previously  sold 
jy  auction  for  100^.,  and  it  is  now  deposited  in  the  British  Museum. 
We  have  a  copy  of  the  same  book,  but  it  has  only  upon  the  title- 
page  the  comparatively  worthless  signature  of  the  reigning 
monarch. 

*  By  his  will  he  left  this  house,  occupied  by  a  person  of  the  name 
•f  John  Robinson,  to  his  daughter  Susanna. 


preferred  to  be  called  "  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,"  contem- 
plating, as  he  probably  did  through  the  whole  of  his  the^i- 
trical  life,  a  return  thither  as  soon  as  his  circumstancce 
would  enable  him  to  do  so  with  comfort  and  independence. 
We  are  thoroughly  convinced,  however,  that,  anterior  tc 
March,  1613,  Shakespeare  had  taken  up  his  permanent  re- 
sidence with  his  family  at  Stratford. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Members  of  the  Shakespeare  family  ot  Stratford  in  161^. 
Joan  Shakespeare  aud  VVillium  Hart:  iheir  marriage  and 
family.  William  Shakespeare's  chancery  suit  respecting 
the  tfthes  of  Stratford  ;  and  the  income  he  derived  from 
the  lease.  The  Globe  burnt  in  161S:  its  recoub'tructioii. 
Destructive  fire  at  Stratford  in  1614.  ShnLrespeare's  visit 
to  London  afterwards.  Proposed  inclo.'^ure  of  A\  elcombe 
fields.  Allusion  to  Shakespeare  in  the  liistorical  poem  of 
'•  The  Ghost  of  Richard  the  Third,"  published  iu  1614. 

The  immediate  members  of  the  Shakespeare  family  re 
sident  at  this  date  in  Stratford  were  comparatively  few. 
Richard  ShEikespeare  had  died  a-t  the  age  of  forty  ^  only 
about  a  month  before  William  Shakespeare  signed  the 
deed  for  the  purchase  of  the  house  in  Blackfriars.  Since 
the  death  of  Edmund,  Richard  had  been  our  poet's  youngest 
brother,  but  regarding  his  vvay  of  life  at  Stratford  we  have 
no  iuformation.  Gilbert  Shakespeare,  born  two  years  and 
a  half  after  William,  was  also  probably  at  this  time  an  in- 
habitant of  the  borough,  or  its  unmediate  neighbourhood, 
and  perhaps  married,  for  in  the  register,  under  date  of  3i'd 
February,  ]  611-12,  we  read  an  account  of  the  buiial  of 
"  Gilbertus  Shakspeare,  adole.icenx,"  who  might  be  his  son. 
Joan  Shakespeare,  who  was  five  years  younger  than  her 
brother  William,  had  been  married  at  about  the  age  of 
thirty  to  William  Hart,  a  hatter,  in  Stratford ;  but  as  the 
ceremonv  was  not  performed  in  that  parish,  it  does  not  ap- 
pear in  the  register.  Their  fii'st  child,  William,  was  bap- 
tized on  28th  August,  1600,  and  they  had  afterwards  chil- 
dren of  the  names  of  Mary,  Tliomas,  and  Michael,  born  re- 
spectively in  1603*,  16U5,  and  1608^  Our  poets  eldest 
daughter,  Susanna,  who,  as  we  have  elsewhere  stated,  was 
married  to  Mr.  John,  afteiwards  Dr.  Hall,  m  June,  1607, 
produced  a  daughter  who  was  baptized  Elizabeth  on  21st 
February,  1607-8  ;  so  that  Shakespeare  was  a  grandfather 
before  he  had  reached  his  forty -fifth  year  ;  but  Mrs.  Hall 
had  no  faither  increase  of  family. 

By  whom  New  Place,  otherwise  called  "the  great 
house."  was  inhabited  at  this  period,  we  can  only  conjecture. 
That  Shakespeare's  wife  and  his  youngest  daughter  Judith 
(who  completed  her  twenty-eighth  year  in  February,  1612.) 
resided  in  it,  we  cannot  doubt;  but  as  it  would  be  much 
more  than  they  would  require,  even  after  they  wei-e  per- 
manently joined  by  our  great  dramatist  on  his  retu-ement 
from  London,  we  may  perhaps  conclude  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hall  were  joint  occupiers  of  it,  and  aided  in  keeping  up 
the  vivacitv  of  the  hmiily  circle.  Shakespeare  himself 
only  completed  his  forty -eighth  year  in  April,  1612.  and 
evei-y  tradition  and  circumstauc-e  of  liis  life  tends  to  estab- 
lish not  only  the  gentleness  and  kindness,  but  the  habitual 
cheerfulness  of  his  disposition. 

Nevertheless,  although  we  suppose  him  to  have  sepa- 
rated hmisclf  from   the   labours  and  anxieties   attendant 

3  The  register  of  Stratford  merely  contains  the  following  among 
the  deaths  in  the  parish  :— 

'•  161-2.  Feb.  4    Rich.  Shakspeai.:. 

4  It  appears  by  the  register  that  Mary  Hart  died  in  IRO/  When 
Shakespeare  made  his  will,  a  blank  was  left  for  the  n^me  of  his  no 
phew  Thomas  Hart,  a.,  if  he  had  not  recollected  it ;  b"t  per^iaps  i. 
was  merely  the  omission  of  the  scrivener.  The  Harts  lived  in  a 
house  belonging  to  Shakespeare  ^,     ,        „     .    ..u.   .,.1   >  „f„H 

5  It  has  been  generally  stated  that  Charles  Ha,«,  t^e  celutrated 
actor  after  the  Restoration,  was  the  grand-nephew  of  Shakespeare 
son  to  the  eldest  son  of  Shakespeare's  sister  Joan,  but  ^^^^  J  «^°" ' 
positive  evidence  upon  the  point.  In  11.-22  a  person  of  the  n^^e^' 
Hart  kept  a  house  of  entertainment  close  to  the  Fortune  theatre  ino 
he  may  have  been  the  son  of  Shakespeare's  sister  Joan.  and  th^ 
tather  o*^  Charles  Hart  the  actor,  who  died  about  Uw9 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


apon  hi?  theatrical  coiicenis,  he  was  not  without  Lis  nn- 
n.  yances  th<'U(;h  ..f  a  diffen-ut  kind.  Wc  rtfer  to  a  chnn- 
cerv  suit  in  which  he  socnis  to  liave  been  involved  by  the 
pui'chjiiie.  in  16n5.  of  the  reniaiuinjj;  term  of  a  lease  of  ;)artof 
tlu-  titht  s  of  Stratford.  It  appears  that  a  rent  of  27/.  1 3.f.  4d. 
had  betu  reserved  which  Wos  to  be  paid  by  certain  lessees 
under  peril  of  foifeiture.  but  that  some  of  the  parties,  disre- 
gai-vliugthecouscqueucej.had  refused  to  contribute  their  pro- 
|>oilious;  and  Richaitl  Lane,  of  Awstou,  Esquiie,  Thomas 
Greene,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  Esquire,  and  William 
Shakespeare,  "of  Stmtfi>rd-upon-Avon.  gentleman,"  were 
under  tbe  necessity  of  fiUny:  a  bill  before  Lord  Ellesmere,  to 
O'Uipel  all  the  pei-sous  deriving  estates  under  the  dissolved 
College  of  Stratford  to  pay  their  shaies.  "What  was  the 
issue  of  the  suit  is  not  any  where  stated ;  and  the  only  ini- 
|)ort:ii»t  point  in  tlie  draft  of  tlie  bill,  in  the  hands  of  the 
Sliakespeare  Society,  is,  that  our  great  diamatist  therein 
stated  iLe  value  of  his  "moiety"  of  the  tithes  to  be  60/.  per 
annum. 

In  the  summer  of  1613  a  calamity  happened  which  we  j 
d.)  n.it  believe  affected  our  author's  immecliate  interests,  on  ' 
account  of  the  strong  pnibability  that  he  had  taken  care  to 
divest  himself  of  all  theatrical  property  before  he  fiually 
took  up  his  residence  in  his  buth-phiee.  The  Globe,  which 
had  been  in  use  for  ab<,)ut  eighteen  yeare,  was  burned  down 
on  2yth  June,  1613,  in  consequence  of  the  thatch,  with 
which  it  was  partially  covered,  catching  fire  fiom  the  dis- 
cliaige  of  s<^inie  theatrical  artillery'.  It  is  doubtful  what 
nlay  was  then  in  a  course  of  repiesentation :  Sir  Henry 
WjttoD  gives  it  the  title  of  "  All  is  True,"  and  calls  it  "  a 
new  play ;"  while  Howes,  in  his  continuation  of  Stowes 
yl I.  Hi/*"*,*  distinctly  states  that  it  was  "  Heniy  the  Eighth"." 
It  is  very  possible  that  both  may  be  right,  and  that  Shake- 
sjieaies  historical  drama  was  that  night  revived  under  a 
new  name,  and  therefore  mistakenly  called  '  a  new  play" 
by  Sir  Heui-y  Wottoi;,  although  it  had  been  nearlj'  ten 
years  on  the  stiige.  The  Globe  Wiis  rebuilt  in  the  next 
year,  ae  we  are  told  on  what  may  be  considered  good  autho- 
nty.at  the  cost  of  King  James  ami  of  many  noblemen  and 
gentlemen,  who  seem  to  have  contributed  sums  of  money 
f  >r  the  purpose.  If  James  I.  lent  any  pecuniaiy  aid  on  the 
>>ceasiou.  it  affords  another  out  of  many  proofs  of  his  dis- 
position to  encourage  the  drama,  and  to  assist  the  players 
who  acted  under  the  royal  name^  Although  Shakespeare 
might  ui't  be  in  any  way  pecuniarily  affected  by  the  event, 
we  mav  be  sure  tliat  he  would  not  be  backward   in  using 


had  often  acted,  from  which  he  had  derived  so  much  prtfit 
and  in  the  continuance  of  the  performances  at  which  so 
many  of  his  friends  and  fellows  were  deeply  interested. 

He  must  himself  have  had  an  escape  from  a  similar  dis 
aster  at  Stratford  in  the  very  next  year.  Fires  had  brukel 
out  in  the  borough  in  159-t  and  1595,  which  had  destroyed 
many  of  the  houses,  then  built  of  wood,  or  of  materials  not 
calculated  to  resist  combustion  ;  but  that  which  occurred  on 
the  9th  July.  1614,  seems  to  have  done  more  damage  than 
both  its  predecessors.  At  the  instance  of  various  gentlemen 
in  the  ueighb*)urhood,  including  Sir  Fulk  Greville,  Sir  Rich- 
ard Verney,  and  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  King  James  issued  a 
pi-oclamation,  or  brief,  dated  11th  May,  1615,  in  favoui-  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Stratford,  authorizing  the  collection  of 
donations  in  the  different  churches  of  the  kingdom  for  thf 
resU)iation  of  the  town  ;  and  alleging  that  within  two  hours 
the  fire  had  consumed  "  fifty-four  dwelUng-houses,  many  of 
them  being  very  fail-  houses,  besides  barns,  stables,  am^ 
other  houses  of  office,  t^tgether  also  with  great  store  of  corn, 
hay,  straw,  wood,  and  timber."    The  amount  of  loss  is  stated, 


on  the  same  authority,  to  be  "  eight  thousand  pounds  and 
upwardsV     What  was  the  issue  of  this  charitable  apt 
to  the  whole  kingdom,  we  know  not. 


charitable  appeal 


his  influence,  and  peihaps  in  rendering  iissistance  by  a  gift 
of  money,  for  the  rec< 'ustruction  of  a  playhouse  in  which  he 

'  John  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  wes  a  spectator  of  the  calamity, 
:perhsp>  in  tiii  own  wherry)  and  thas  celebrated  it  in  an  epigram, 
which  he  printed  in  l»H  in  his  '•  Nipping  and  Snipping  of  Abuses," 
Jce.  4to. 

"Upo.v  the  Bcrxino  of  the  Globe. 
'•  Aspiring  Pha'ton.  with  pride  inspirde, 
Miii^uidinc  Phabu!'  carre,  the  worUe  he  firde  ; 
But  Ovid  did  with  fiction  &erve  hi.s  turne. 
And  I  in  u:lion  saw  the  Globe  to  burne." 

'  .'ee  '•  Hirt.  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  rol.  i.  p. 
>~<J,  and  vol   lii.  p.  •293. 

*  Thi»  fact,  with  »*veral  other  new  and  curious  particulars  respect- 
ne  the  fate  of  the  Blackfiiars  theatre,  the  Whitefriars  (called  the 
■iilJ-hurT  C"'jrt)  theatre,  the  Pha?nix.  the  Fortune,  and  the  Hope 
V  •  :..■  ri  ••.&,-  lifo  at  tinie«  u»ed  for  bear-baiting)  is  contained  in  some 
a-,  t,  .-  n;  ;  ii'ites  to  a copT  of  .Stowe's  .InnnUs,  by  Howes,  folio,  IKJI, 
in  li.-  po-.—  .-.on  of  Mr.  Pickering:  they  appear  to  have  b<'en  made 
luiit  after  llie  ia»t  event  mentioned  in  them.  The  burning  of  the 
'ilobe  11  there  erToneou>ly  fixed  in  1012.  When.  too.  it  is  said  that 
•he  Hope  wa«  built  in  IfilO.  the  meaning  mu.»t  be  that  it  was  then 
.-econ«truct«d.  »o  aji  to  be  adapted  to  both  purpose.*,  stage-plays  and 
Sear-fcaiting.  The  memoMnda  are  thus  headed  :  "A  note  of  such 
pu^ageii  as  have  beene  omitted,  and  as  I  have  seene,  since  the  print- 
ine  of  Str,»e'.  Survey  of  London  in  4to,  1013,  and  this  Chronicle  at 
large.  IWl.- 

••  Plat  Hocseh  — T>ie  Globe  play  house,  on  the  Banlc  aide  in 
Southwarke.  was  burnt  downe  to  the  ground  in  the  yeare  1012.  .\nd 
new  built  up  acaine  in  the  yeare  1G13.  at  the  great  charge  of  King 
lames,  and  many  noble  men.  and  others.  And  now  pulleJ  downe  to 
the  grout  J  by  ?ir  Mathew  Brand  on  Munday,  the  15  of  April,  1014, 
to  make  tenemenU  in  the  rrrne  of  it 

"The  Biacs  Fners  play  hou>e.  in  Black  Friers  London,  which  had 
•twJ  m->ny  yeares,  wis  pulled  down  to  the  ground  on  S'unday,  the 
•>  .Uy  of  August,  ltJ5o,  and  ienein*nU  built  in  the  roome. 


It  is  very  certain  that  the  dwelhng  of  our  great  drama 
tist,  called  Xew  Place,  escaped  the  conflagration,  and  his 
property,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  seems  to  have  been  situ- 
ated in  a  part  of  the  town  which  fortunately  did  not  suffer 
fi-om  the  ravages  of  the  fire, 

l"he  name  of  Shakespeare  is  not  found  among  those  of 
inhabitants  whose  certificate  was  stated  to  be  the  immediate 
ground  for  issuing  the  royal  brief,  but  it  is  not  at  all  un- 
Ukely  that  he  was  instrumental  in  obtaining  it.  We  are 
sure  that  he  was  in  Loudon  in  Xovember  foUowiug  the  fire* 
and  possibly  was  taking  some  steps  in  favour  of  his  fellow- 
townsmen.  However,  his  principal  business  seems  to  havf^ 
lelated  to  the  projected  inclosure  of  certain  common  lands 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Stratford  in  which  he  had  an  in- 
terest Some  inquiries  as  to  the  rights  of  various  j>arUe8 
were  instituted  in  September,  1614,  as  we  gather  from  a 
docmnent  yet  preserved,  and  which  is  now  before  us.  The 
individuals  whose  claims  are  set  out  are,  "  Mr.  Shakespeare," 
Thomas  Paiker,  Mr,  Lane,  Sir  Francis  Smith,  Mace,  Arthur 
Cawdrey,  and  "Mr.  Wright,  vicar  of  Hishoptou."  All  that 
it  is  necessary  to  quote  is  the  following,  which  refers  to 
Shakespeare,  and  which,  Uke  the  rest,  is  placed  under  the 
head  of  "  Auncient  Fr.-eholders  in  the  fields  of  Old  Strat- 
ford and  Welcome." 

"  Mr.  Shakspeare,  •-      rl  lauil':  noe  common,  nor  ground 

"The  play  house  in  Salisbury  Court,  in  Fleete  streete,  was  pulled 
down  by  a  company  of  souldiers.  set  on  by  the  Sectaries  of  these  sad 
time.s.  on  Saturday,  the  •Jith  day  of  March.  11149. 

"The  Phenix.  in  Druery  Lane,  was  pulled  down  also  this  day, 
being  Saturday  the  •24th  of  March,  1649.  by  the  same  souldiers. 

"  The  Fortune  play  house,  between  White  Crosse  streete  and  Geld- 
ing Lane,  was  burned  do-.vn  to  the  ground  in  the  year  lOls.  And 
built  againe.  with  bricke  worke  on  the  outside,  in  the  year  10*2;  and 
now  pulld  downe  on  the  in.-ide  by  these  souldiers,  this  1649. 

'•The  Hope,  on  the  Banke  side  in  Southwarke.  commonly  called 
the  Beare  Garden  :  a  play  house  for  stage  playes  on  -Mundays,  Wed- 
nesdayes.  Fridayes.  and  SaterJayes  ;  and  for  the  bai'ing  of  the  beares 
on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdayes — the  stage  being  made  to  lake  up  and 
downe  when  they  please.  It  was  built  in  the  year  1010;  and  now 
\  pulled  downe  to  make  tenement.-  by  Thoinas'Walker,  a  peticoat« 
'  maker  in  Cannon  Streete,  on  Tuesday  the  •i.'t  day  of  March,  lt>56. 
Seven  of  Mr.  GodCries  beares,  by  the  command  of  Thomas  Piide,  then 
hie  Sherefe  of  Surry,  were  shot  to  death  on  .Saturday,  the  9  day  of 
,  February,  1055,  by  a  company  of  souldiers." 

I  *  We  take  these  particulars  from  a  copy  of  the  document  "  printed 
j  by  Thomas  Purfout."  who  then  had  a  patent  lor  all  proclamations, 
I  kc.  It  has  the  royal  arms,  and  the  initials  I.  R.  at  the  top  of  it  as 
usual.     It  is  in  the  possession  of  the  .Shakespeare  Society. 

*  The  name  of  his  friend  William  Combe  is  found  among  the  "'es- 
1  quire.-'  enumerated  in  the  body  of  the  instrument. 

•  This  fact  appears  in  a  letter,  written  by  Thomas  Greene,  on  IVth 
I  November,  1014,  in  which  he  tells  some  person  in  .Stratford  that  he 
;  had  been  to  see  "  his  cousin  Shakespeare,"  who  had  reached  town  tli* 

day  before. 

'  .Malone  informs  us,  without  mentioning  his  authority,  that  "  in 
the  fields  of  Old  Stratford,  where  our  poet's  estate  lay,  a  yard  land 
contained  only  about  twenty-seven  acres."  but  that  it  varied  muoh 
in  dilferent  places:  he  derives  the  term  fiom  the  Saxon  ^^/rrf  land. 
rir/r.itu  terra;. — Shakspeare,  by  Boswell.  vol.  i  p.  ^25.  According 
to  the  same  authority,  a  yard  land  in  Wiimecote  consisted  of  men 
than  fiftv  acres. 


THE  LIFE   OF    WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixxi 


i>€/ond  Gospell  buslie  :  noe  ground  in  Sandfield,  nor  none  in  1  dicate  that  he  -would  be  capable  of  a  work  of  such  powei 
Slow  Hil!  field  beyond  Bishopton,  uor  none  in  the  enclosures  ;  ^nd  variety.  It  is  divideO  into  three  portions,  the  "  Cha 
beyond  Bisliopton."  |  racter,"  the  "  Legend,"  and  tlie  "  Tragedy  "  of  Richard  IlL 

The  date  of  this  paper  is  5th  September,  1614,  and,  as  and  the  second  part  opens  with  the  fullowing  stanzas,  which 
we  have  said,  we  may  presume  that  it  was  chiefly  upon  this  :  s^ow  the  high  estmiate  the  writer  had  formed  of  the  geniue 
business  tliat  Shakespeare  came  to  London  on  the  16th  Xo-  j  yf  Shakespeaie :  they  are  extremely  intere«tiug  as  a  con 
/ember.  It  should  appear  that  Thomas  Greene,  of  Strat-  ]  temporaneous  tribute.  Richard,  narrating  his  own  history 
ford,  was  officially  opposing  the  iuclosure  on  the  part  of  the  i  thus  speaks : 


corporation ;  and  it  is  probable  that  Shakespea^e'8  wishes 
were  accordant  with  those  of  the  majority  of  the  inhabi- 
tants :  however  this  might  be,  (and  it  is  liable  t(>  dispute 
which  partv  Shakespeare  favoured)  the  members  of  the  mu- 
nicipal body  of  the  borough  were  nearly  unanimous,  and,  as 
Car  as  we  can  learn  from  the  imperfect  particulars  remain- 
ing upon  this  subject  they  wished  our  poet  to  use  his  influence 
to  resist  the  project,  which  seems  to  have  been  supported 
by  Mr.  Arthur  Mainwaring,  then  resident  in  the  family  of 
Lord  EUesmere  as  auditor  of  his  domestic  expenditure. 

It  is  very  likely  that  Shakespeare  saw  Mainwaring  ;  and, 
as  it  was  only  fiv-e  or  six  years  since  his  name  had  been  es- 
pecially brought  under  tlie  notice  of  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
hi  relation  to  "the  claim  of  the  city  authorities  to  jurisdiction 
in  the  Blackfriars,  it  is  not  impossible  that  Shakespeare 
may  have  had  an  interview  with  Lord  EUesmere,  who 
seems  at  all  times  to  have  been  of  a  very  accessible  and 
kindlv  disposition.  Greene  was  in  London  on  the  17th  No- 
vember, and  sent  to  Stratfoi-d  a  short  account  of  his  pro- 
ceedings on  the  question  of  the  inclosure,  in  which  he  men- 
tioued^tliat  he  had  seen  Shakespeare  and  Mr.  Hall  (proba- 
bly meaning  Shakespeare's  son-in-law)  on  the  precedmg 
day,  who  told  him  that  they  thought  nothing  would  be 
done'.  Greene  returned  to  Stratford  soon  afterwards,  and 
having  left  our  poet  m  London,  at  the  instance  of  the  cor- 
poration, he  subsequently  wrote  two  letters,  one  to  Shake- 
speare, and  the  other  to  Mainwaring.  (the  latter  only  has 
been  preserved)  setting  forth  in  strong  terms  the  injury  the 
inclosure  would  do  to  Strattord,  and  the  heavy  loss  the  in- 
habitants had  not  long  before  sustained  from  the  fire.  _  A 
petition  was  also  prepared  atid  presented  to  the  privy 
council,  and  we  may  gather  that  the  opposition  was  effect- 
ual, because  nothing  was  done  in  the  business:  the  common 
fields  of  Weleombe,  which  it  had  been  mtended  to  mclose, 
remained  open  for  pasture  as  before. 

How  soon  after  the  matter  relating  to  the  inclosure  had 
been  settled  Shakespeare  returned  to  Stratford,— how  long 
he  remained  there,  or  whether  he  ever  og-me  to  London 
again, — we  are  without  information.  He  was  very  possibly 
in  the  metropoHs  at  the  time  when  a  narrative  poem, 
founded  in  part  upon  liis  historical  play  of  "  Richard  III.," 
was  published,  and  which  until  now  has  escaped  observa- 
tion, although  it  contains  the  clearest  allusion,  not  indeed  by 
name,  to  our  author  and  to  his  tragedy.  It  is  called  "The 
Ghost  of  Richard  the  Third,"  and  it  bears  date  in  1614; 
but  the  wiiter,  C.  B.,  only  gives  his  initials'^  We  know  of 
no  poet  of  that  day  to  whom  they  would  apply,  excepting 
Charles  Best,  who  has  several  pieces  in  Davison's  "  Poetical 
Rhapsody,"  1602,  but  he  has  left  nothing  behind  him  to  in- 


"To  him  that  impt  my  fame  with  Clio's  quill, 
Whose  magick  rais'd  me  from  Oblivion's  den, 
That  writ  my  storie  on  the  Muses  hill, 
And  with  my  actions  dignified  his  pen ; 
He  that  from  Helicon  sends  many  a  rill, 
Whose  nectared  veines  are  drunke  by  thir.'»tie  men ; 
Crown'd  be  his  stile  with  fame,  his  head  with  bayes, 
And  none  detract,  but  gratulate  his  praise. 
"  Yet  if  his  secenes  have  not  engrost  all  grace, 
The  much  tam'd  action  could  extend  on  stage ; 
If  Time  or  Memory  have  left  a  place 
For  me  to  fill,  t'enforme  this  ignorant  age, 
To  that  intent  1  shew  my  horrid  face. 
Imprest  with  feare  and  characters  of  rage  : 
Nor  wits  nor  chronicles  could  ere  containe 
The  hell-deepe  reaches  of  my  sonndlesse  brain^-^." 

The  above  is  the  last  extant  panegyric  upon  Shake- 
speare during  his  lifetime,  and  it  exceeds,  in  point  of  fervour 
and  zeal,  if  not  injudicious  criticism,  any  that  had  gone  be- 
fore it ;  for  Richard  tells  tiie  reader,  that  the  writer  of  the 
scenes  in  which  he  had  figured  on  the  stage  had  ■  imped 
his  fame  with  the  quill  of  the  historic  muse,  and  that,  by 
the  magic  of  verse,  he  who  had  written  so  much  and  so 
finely,  had  raised  him  from  oblivion.  That  C.  B.  was  an 
author  of  distinction,  and  well  known  to  some  of  the  greatest 
poets  of  the  day,  we  have  upon  their  own  evidence,  ft-om 
the  terms  they  use  in  their  commendatory  poems,  sub- 
scribed by  no  less  names  than  those  of  Ben  Jonson',  George 
Chapman,  William  Browne,  Robert  Daborne,  and  George 
Wither.  Tlie  author  professes  to  follow  no  particular 
original,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  narrative  or  dramatic, 
in  °  chronicles,  plays,  or  poems,"  but  to  adopt  the  incidents 
as  they  had  been  handed  down  on  various  authoiities.  As 
we  have  stated,  liis  work  is  one  of  great  excellence,  but  it 
would  be  going  too  much  out  of  our  way  to  enter  l-ere  into 
any  farther  examination  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Shakespeare's  return  to  Stratford.  Marriage  of  his  daughter 
Judith  to  Thomas  Quiney  in  February,  1616.  Shake- 
speare's will  prepared  in  January,  but  diiteil  March,  1616. 
His  last  illness:  attended  by  Dr.  Hall,  his  son-in-law. 
Uncertainty  as  to  the  nature  of  Shakespeare's  fatal  malady. 
His  birth-day  and  death-day  the  same.  Entry  of  his  burial 
in  the  register  at  Stratford.  His  will,  and  circumstances  to 
prove  that  it  was  prepared  two  months  before  it  was  execut- 
ed. His  bequest  to  his  wife,  and  provision  for  her  by  dower. 
The  autumn  seems  to  have  been  a  very  usual  time  for 
publishing  new  books,  and   Shakespeare  having  been  in 


Ui 


I  The  memorandum  of  the  contents  of  hig  letter  (to  which  we  have 
already  referred  on  p  Ixii.)  is  in  ihese  terms,  avoiding  abbreviations  ;— 

'•  Jovis,  17  No.  My  cosen  Shakespeare  corayng  yesterday.  I  went 
to  see  him.  how  he  did.  He  told  me  that  they  assured  him  they  ment 
so  inclose  no  further  than  to  Gospel  bush,  and  so  upp  straight  (leaving 
out  part  of  the  Dyngles  to  the  field)  to  the  gate  in  Clopton  hedg,  and 
take  in  Salisburys  peece  ;  and  that  they  mean  in  Aprill  to  survey  the 
land,  and  then  to  gyve  satisfaction,  and  not  before  :  and  he  and  Mr. 
Hall  say  they  think  there  will  be  nolhyng  done  at  all." 

In  what  way.  or  in  what  degree.  Shakespeare  and  Greene  were  re- 
lated, so  that  the  latfr  should  call  the  former  his  "cousin,"  must 
remain  a  matter  of  speculation  ;  but  it  will  be  recollected  that  the 
parish  reirister  of  Stratford  shows  that  '•  Thomas  Greene,  alias  Shake- 
speare," was  buried  on  6th  March.  15wn-90.  Whether  Thomas 
Greene,  the  solicitor,  was  any  relation  to  Thomas  Greene,  the  actor, 
we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining.  i    j.  ,        i  <■ 

»  And  these  not  on  the  title-page,  but  at  the  end  of  the  prefatory  ^  ot^  °*''^."  _'. 
matttr  :  the  whole  title  runs  thus  : — 

"The  Ghost  of  Richard  the  Third.  Expressing  himselfe  in  these 
three  Parts.  1  His  Character.  '2  His  Legend.  3.  His  Tragedie. 
Containing  moic  of  him  than  hath  been  heretofore  shewed,  either  in 
Chronicles,  Playes,  or  Poems.  Lauren  Desidi,r  prahetur  vvlln. 
Printed  bv  G.  Eld  :  for  L  Lisle  :  and  are  to  be  sold  in  Paules  Church- 
jaid,  ai  the  eigne  of  the  Tygers  head.     1614  "  4to 


about  to  be  reprinted  by  the  Shakespeare  Society,  and  on  every 

t  it  well  merits  the  distinction. 

3  We  may  suspect,  in  the  last  line  but  one,  that  the  word  '•  wits" 

has  been  misprinted  for  acts.     The  stanza  which  follows  the  al>o»» 

refers  to  another  play,  founded  on  a  distinct  portion  of  the  same  tkit- 

tory,  and  relating  especially  to  Jane  Shore  :— 

"  And  what  a  peece  of  justice  did  I  shew 
On  raistresse  Shore,  when  (with  a  famed  hate 
To  unehast  life)  I  forced  her  to  goe 
Barefoote  on  pen  nance,  with  dejected  state. 
But  now  her  fame  by  a  vile  play  doth  grow. 
Whose  fate  the  women  do  commisserate,  '  ic. 
The  allusion  mav  here   be  to  Heywood's  historical  drama  of  "  Ed 
ward  IV  "  (reprinted  bv  the  Shakespeare  Society),  in  which  Shore  » 
wife  is  introdiced  ;  or  it  may  be  to  a  different  drama  upon  theevenu 
h    it   is  known  on  various   authorities,    had   be'ii 

I  ''TfX'ZZTr.n.lo..-s  Diary,  that  in  J«ne.  .6...  Ben  .T^.- 
Ison  was  himself  writing  a  historical  play  called  -  Richard  orook 
i  back,"   for  the  Lord  Admiral's  players  at  the  Fortune.     W  e  have  no 

evidence  that  it  wa.^   ever  completed   or   represented.     Ben  .Jons-oB  . 

testimony  in  favour  of  the  poem  of  C.  B.  is  compressed  into  a  lew 
I  lines 


Ixxii 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


LoikU.ii  in  Vhe  midille  of  November,  1614.  as  we  liuve  re- j  might  be  deferred  until  he  was  attacked  by  serious  inJia 
mm kfd.  he  was  perhaps  tiieie  when  "The  Ghost  of  Rioh- j  position,  and  then  the  date  of  the  mouth  only  might  be 
ard  tlie  Third '  came  out,  and,  like  Ben  Jonson,  Chapman, ,  altered,  leaving  the  assertion  as  to  health  aud  menVory  as 
and. >thers,  might  be  aecpmiuted  witli  the  author.  He  pro-  it  had  originally  stood.  What  was  the  nature  of  Shake- 
bablv  returned  home  before  the  winter,  and  passed  tlie  speare's  fat^il  illness  we  liave  no  satisfactory  means  of 
re*«t  \>{  his  davs  in  tranquil  retirrment.  and  in  the  enjoyment  kuowing^  but  it  was  probably  uot  of  long  dura'tion  ;  and  if 
of  the  society"  of  his  friends,  whether  residing  in  the  country,  when  he  subscribed  his  will  he  had  really  beeu  in  health 
or  oceasioujillv  visitiug  him  fiom  the  metropolis.  "The  we  are  persuaded  that  at  the  age  of  only  hfty -two  he  would 
bitter  jiart  of  iiis  life,"  says  Howe,  "was  spent,  as  all  men  have  signed  his  name  with  greater  steadiness  aud  distinct 
of  g.M>d  sejise  will  wish  theirs  mav  be.  in  ease,  retirement,  uess.  All  three  signatures  are  more  or  less  infirm  and  ille- 
luid  the  societv  of  his  friends;"  anil  he  adds  what  cannot  be  j  gible.  especially  the  two  first,  but  he  seems  to  have  made 
doubt«d.  that  "his  pleasunible  wit  and  go(Kl-nature  en-  an  effort  to  write  his  best  when  he  affixed  both  his  names 
paired  him  in  the  ac(piaiutjmce.  and  entitled  him  U)  the  at  length  at  the  end,  "  By  me  William  Shakspeare." 
friendship  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourliood."  He  j  We  hardly  need  enteitiiin  a  doubt  that  he  was  attended 
must  have  been  of  a  livelv  luid  companionable  dism)sition ; '  in  his  last  illness  by  his  son-in-law,  Dr.  Hall,  who  had  theu 
and  his  long  residence  in  London,  amid  tiie  bustling  and  been  married  to  Susanna  Shakespeare  moie  than  eight  years: 
varied  sciucs  eonnecteil  with  his  public  hfe.  independently  |  we  have  expressed  our  opinion  that  Di-.  and  Mrs.  Hall  lived 
t>f  his  natunil  powei-s  of  con  versa  tii'n,  a>uld  not  fail  to  reu-  in  the  same  house  with  our  poet,  and  it  is  tt)  be  recollected 
der  his  siK^^iety  most  agreeable  and  desirable.  We  can  j  that  in  his  will  be  leaves  Now  Place  to  his  daughter  Susau- 
readilv  believe  that  when  any  of  his  old  associates  of  the  na.  Hall  must  have  been  a  man  of  considerable  science  for 
stJige.whether  authors  or  actors,  came  to  Stratford,  they  the  time  at  which  he  practised,  and  he  has  left  behind  him 
found  a  hearty  welcome  and  free  entertainment  at  his  j  proofs  of  his  knowledge  and  skill  in  a  numbtn-  of  cases 
house  :  and  that  he  would  be  the  last  man,  in  his  pros- !  which  had  come  under  his  own  eye,  and  which  he  described 
perity,  to  treat  with  slight  or  indifference  those  with  whom,  [  in  Latin :  these  were  afterwards  translated  from  his  manu- 
in  tJie  earlier  part  of  his  career,  he  had  been  on  tei-ms  of  ,  script,  and  published  in  1657  by  Jonas  Cooke,  with  the  title 
familiar  intercourse.  It  could  not  be  in  Sliakespeare's  na- 1  of  "  Select  Observations  on  English  BodiesV  but  the  c^se 
ture  to  jlisregard  the  claims  of  ancient  friendship,  especially  J  of  Dr.  Hall's  fatlier-iu-law  is  not  found  there,  because,  un- 
if  if  approached  him  in  a  garb  of  comparative  poverty.  fortunately  the  "observations"  only  begin  in  1617.     Oue  of 

One  of  tlie  very  latest  acts  of  Lis  life  was  bestowing  the  the  earliest  of  them  shows  that  an  epidemic,  called  the  "  new 
hand  of  his  daughter  Judith  upon  Thomas  Quiney,  a  vintner  fever,"  then  prevailed  in  Stratford  aud  "  invaded  many." 
aud  wine-merchant  of  Sti-atford,  the  son  of  Richard  Quiney.  Possibly  Shakespeare  was  one  of  these ;  though,  had  such 
She  must  have  been  four  years  older  thau  her  husband,  j  been  the  fact,  it  is  not  unlikely  that,  when  speaking  of  "  the 
having,  as  already  stated,  been  born  on  2nd  February,  1585,  Lady  Beaufou"  who  suffered  under  it  on  July  1st,  1617,  Dr. 
while  he  was  not  born  until  26th  February,  1589  :  he  was  Hall  would  have  referred  back  to  the  earlier  instance  of  his 
consequently  twenty -seven  years  old,  a.nd  she  thirty-one,  at  ^  father-in-law\  He  does  advert  to  a  tertian  ague  of  which, 
the  tune  of  "their  marriatre  in  Februarj-,  1616'  ;  and  Shake-  \  at  a  period  not  mentioned,  he  had  cured  Michael  Drayton, 
speare  thus  became   father-in-law   to  the  son  of  the  friend    ("  an  excellent  poet,"  as  Hall  terms  him)  wiien  he  was,"uer- 


("  an  excellent  poet,"  as  Hall  terms  him)  when  be  was,  per 
haps,  on  a  visit  to  Shakespeare.  However,  Drayton,  as  for 
merly  remarked,  was  a  uative  of  Wai-wickshire,  and  Dr. 
Hall  may  have  been  called  in  to  attend  him  elsewliere. 

We  are  left,  therefoie,  in  utter  uucertamty  as  to  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  the  death  of  Shakespeare  at  an  ;ige  when 
he  would  be  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties,  and  when  in 
the  ordinal^  course  of  nature  be  might  have  L'ved  many 
1  as  long  before  its  actual  date  i  years  b  the  enjoy meut  of  the  society  of  his  family  and 
ry,  1615-16,  aud  this  fact  is  apparent  on  the  j  friends,  in  that^iateful  fmd  easy  retirement,  which  had  been 
t    originally    began    "  Vicexhno    (ju'udo    die  I  earned  by  his  genius  and  industry,  and  to  obtain  which  had 


who,  eighteen  years  before,  had  borrowed  of  him  30/.,  and 
who  had  died  on  Slst  May,  1602,  while  he  was  bailiff  of. 
Stratford.  As  tliere  was  a  difference  of  four  years  in  the 
ages  of  Judith  Shakespeaie  aud  her  husband,  we  ought 
perksps  to  receive  that  fact  as  some  testimony,  that  our 
treat  ilramatist  did  not  see  sufficient  evil  in  such  dispropor- 
tion to  imluce  him  to  oppose  the  union. 

His  will  had  been  prepi: 
as  25th  January 
face    of    it 


■Jnnuarijr  (not  Ftbiuarij.  as  Malone  errouerjusly  read  it) 
but  the  Word  Jnunarij  Wax  subsequently  struck  through 
with  a  pen.  and  Murtij  sub-^tituted  by  interlineation.  Pos- 
sibly it  w!ii<  ni't  thi'ULdit  necessary  to  alter  viceshiio  quinto, 
or  the  25tli  March  might  be  the  very  day  the  will  was  exe- 
cuted:  if  it  weie,  the  signatures  of  the  testator,  upon  each 
of  the  thi  ee  sheet*  of  pa|)er  of  which  the  will  consist*,  beat 
eviden<?e  (from  the  want  of  firnuiess  in  the  writing)  that  he 
was  at  that  time  "•ufft-ring  under  sickness.  It  opens,  it  is 
true,  by  »tating  that  he  was  "in  perfect  health  and  me- 
mory," and  such  waB  doubtless  the  case  when  the  instru- 
ment was   prepared  in   January,  but  the   execution  of  it 

'  The  r»ri»triition  in  the  booV»  of  Stratford  church  is  this  : 
"\r,\r,.\ii  K'nbruarjr  10.     'I'ho  Ciueeny  tow  Judith  Shakspere." 

The  fruiu  of  thi<  m&rri&ee  wre  three  Konii  ;  viz.  Shakespeare, 
b»(.-iz<d  2:ird  November,  ltl«.  and  buried  May  sth.  1017;  Ricliard. 
b»|.t:zed  !llh  February.  16I7-1k.  and  buried  aith  February,  lG;i--9; 
and  Thomaii.  baptized  ilrd  January.  1619-vJO.  and  buried  2«th 
lanuary,  l'>.'}--9.  Judith  (.{uiner.  their  mother,  did  not  die  until 
after  the  Reitoration.  and  wa*  buried  0th  February,  IWil-'J.  The 
Stratford  rec)»ter«  contain  no  entrr  of  the  bunal  of  ThomaJi  Quiney, 
aer  hoiband.  and  it  U  very  pouibie,  therefore,  that  he  died  and  waa 
buried  in  London. 

»  The  Re».  John  Waxd'n  Diary,  to  which  we  have  before  referred, 
2ontain«  the  follnwioi;  undated  pa.'apr.iph  : — 

•' 9nakc!i(eare.  Drayton,  and  Bea  Jonaon,  had  a  merie  meeting 
and.  lit  neerni,  drank  too  hard,  for  Shaketpear  died  of  a  fevoar  there 
'"I.V?"*'^    J  V     J  I-  ,  by  Dr.  Hall,  (baptized  on  the  21st  Feb.  1007-N.)  and  prand-dauphtei 

Yi  hnt  credit  may  be  due  to  thin  ilatement,  preceded  aa  it  .«  by  the  |  to  our  poet,  was  married  on  the  2-.M  April,  HiJti,  to  Mr.  Thomas  Nash, 
wordi  ■•  It  .eem..  '  implyinp  a  doubt  on  the  .ubject  in  the  writer'n  1  (who  died  in  1(147)  and  on  ."jth  June,  11)49.  to  Mr.  John  BernLrJ,  <:( 
mind.  »e  irnjt  leave  the  reader  to  determine.  That  Sh,ike,.peare  ;  Abinpdon.  who  waj.  kni^'hted  after  the  Restoration.  L.idy  Bernard 
»a«  of  »obe-.  though  of  companionable  habiu.  we  are  thoroughly  I  died  childless  in  1G79.  and  wa»  buried,  not  at  Stratford  with  her  owb 
>oB-  inced  he  could  not  hare  written  leven-and-thirty  play,  (not  ,  family,  but  at  Abingdon  with  that  of  her  second  husband.  S5he  wa» 
mek  ning  alUrstiooi   and  addjiions  now    Id)  in   five-and-twenty  I  the  laat  of  the  lineal  deacendants  of  William  Shakocpeare 


apparently  been  the  main  object  of  many  years  of  toil, 
anxiety,  and  deprivation. 

Whatever  doubt  may  prevail  as  to  the  day  of  the  birth 
of  Shakespeare,  none  can  well  exist  as  to  the  dav  of  his 
death.  The  inscription  on  his  monument  in  Stratford  church 
tells  us, 

"Obiit  Anvo  Domini  1616. 
^taliH  53.  die  23  Apr." 

And  it  is  remarkable  that  he  was  born  and  died  on  the  same 
day  of  the  same  month,  suppoiiing  him,  as  we  have  every 
reason  to  believe,  to  have  farst  seen  the  hght  on  the  2ad 

years  had  he  been  otherwise;  and  we  are  sure  also,  that  if  Drayton 
and  Ben  Jonson  visited  him  at  Stratford,  he  would  give  them  a  free 
and  hearty  welcome.  We  have  no  rea.«on  to  think  that  Draytc* 
was  at  all  given  to  intoxication,  although  it  is  certain  that  Ben  Joij- 
«on  was  a  bountiful  liver. 

'  For  a  copy  of  this  curious  and  interesting  work,  we  gladly  expres* 
our  obligations  to  Mr.  William  Fricker.  of  Hyde,  near  Manchester. 

♦  He  several  times  sneaks  of  sicknes.ses  in  his  own  family,  and  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  had  removed  them  :  a  case  of  his  own.  in  which 
he  mentions  his  age,  accords  with  the  statement  in  his  in?cr;jition, 
and  ascertains  that  he  was  thirty-two  when  he  married  Susanna 
Shake.speare  in  1007.  "Mrs.  Hall,  of  Stratford,  my  wife."  is  more 
than  once  introduced  in  the  course  of  the  volume,  as  we.l  as  "  Eliz- 
abeth Hall,  my  onlydaughter.""  .Mrs.  Susanna  Hall  died  in  lt>49, 
aged  G«.  and  was  buried  at  .^tratford.  Elizabeth  Hall,  her  diLithtei 
by  Dr.  Hall,  (baptized  on  the  21st  Feb.  1007 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixxiil 


April,  1564.  It  was  most  usual  about  that  period  to  men-  j 
don  the  day  of  death  in  inscriptions  upon  tomb-stones,  tab- 
lets, and  monuments  ;  and  such  wa^  the  case  -with  other 
members  of  the  Shakespeare  family.  We  are  thus  informed 
that  his  wife,  Anne  Shakespeare,  "  departed  this  life  the  6th 
day  of  Augu.  1623':"  Dr.  Hall  "deceased  Nove.  25.  A".  I 
1635^  f  Thomas  Xash,  who  married  Hall's  daughter,  "died 
April  4,  A.  1647^:"  Susanna  Hall  "  deceased  the  11th  of 
Jvdy,  A"".  1649*."  Therefore,  although  the  Latin  inscription 
ou  the  monument  of  om-  great  dramatist  may,  from  its  form 
and  punctuation,  appear  not  so  decisive  as  those  we  have 
(juoted  in  English,  there  is  in  fact  no  ground  for  disputing 
that  he  died  ou  23d  April,  1616.  It  is  quite  certain  from 
the  register  of  Stratford  that  he  was  interred  on  the  2.5th 
April,  and  the  record  of  that  event  is  placed  among  the 
burials  in  the  following  manner : 

"  1616.  April  25,  Will'  Shakspere,  Gent." 

Whether  from  the  frequent  prevalence  of  infectious  dis- 
orders, or  from  any  other  cause,  the  custom  of  keeping  the 
bodies  of  relatives  imburied,  for  a  week  or  more  after  death, 
seems  comparatively  of  modem  origin  ;  and  we  may  illus- 
trate this  point  also  by  reference  to  facts  regarding  some  of 
the  members  of  the  Shakespeare  family.  Anne  Shake- 
speare was  buried  two  days  after  she  died,  viz.  on  the  8th 
Aug.,  1623' :  Dr.  HaU  and  Thomas  Nash  were  buried  on  the 
day  after  they  died" ;  and  although  it  is  true  that  there  was 
an  interval  of  five  days  between  the  death  and  burial  of 
Mrs.  Hall,  in  1649,  it  is  very  possible  that  her  corpse  was 
conveyed  from  some  distance,  to  be  interred  among  her  re- 
lations at  Stratford".  Nothing  would  be  easier  than  to  ac- 
cumulate instances  to  prove  that  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare, 
a.8  well  as  before  and  afterwards,  the  custom  was  to  bury 
persons  very  sht)rtly  subsequent  to  their  decease.  In  the 
ease  of  our  poet,  concluding  that  he  expired  on  the  23d 
April,  there  was,  as  in  the  instance  of  his  wife,  an  intei-val 
of  two  days  before  his  interment 

Into  the  pai'ticular  provisions  of  his  will  we  need  not  en- 
ter at  all  at  large,  because  we  have  printed  it  at  the  end  of 
the  present  memoir  from  the  original,  as  it  was  filed  in  the 
Prerogative  Court",  probate  having  been  granted  on  the  22d 
June  foUowins;  the  date  of  it.  His  daughter  Judith  is  there 
only  caUed  by  her  Christian  name,  although  she  had  been 

•  The  inscription,  upon  a  brass  plate,  let  into  a  stone,  is  in  these 
terms  : — We  have  to  thank  Mr.  Bruce  for  the  use  of  his  copies  of  them, 
with  which  we  have  compared  our  own. 

■■  [leere  lyeth  interred  the  Body  of  Anne,  Wife  of  William  Shake- 
ipeare.  who  departed  this  life  the  6th  day  of  Augu.  1623.  being  of 
U:e  age  of  07  yeares. 

Ubera,  tu  mater,  tu  lac,  vitamq  ;  dedisti, 

Vae  mihi  :  pro  tanto  m.unere  saxa  dabo. 
Quam  mallem  amoveat  lapidem  bonus  angel'  ore' 

Exeat  ut  Christi  corpus  imago  tua. 
Sed  nil  vota  valent.  venias  cito  Christe  resurget 
Clausa  licet  tumulo  mater,  et  astra  petit.'" 
'  The  following  is  the  inscription  commemorating  him. 
••Heere  lyeth  the  Body  of  lohn  HaU,  Gent:  Hee  marr  :  Susanna 
yt  daughter  and  coheire  of  Will  :  Shakespeare,  Gent.     Hee  deceased 
Nove.  -25.  A".  16:35,  aged  60. 

Hallius  hie  situs  est,  medica  celeberrimus  arte, 

Expectans  regni  gaudia  Ista  Dei. 
Dignus  erat  meritis,  qui  Xestora  vinceret  annis, 

In  terris  omnes,  sed  rapit  Eequa  dies. 
Ne  tumulo  quid  desit,  adest  fidissima  conjux, 
Et  vitEE  comitem  nunc  quoq  :  mortis  habet." 
'  His  inscription,  in  several  places  difficult  to  be  deciphered,  is 
tbis  :— 

''  Heere  resteth  ye  Body  of  Thomas  Nashe,  Esq.  He  mar.  Eliza- 
beth the  daug.  and  heir'e  of  John  Halle,  Gent.  He  died  ApuU  4. 
A.   1617,  Aged  53. 

Fata  manent  omnes  hunc  non  virtute  carentem, 

Ut  neque  divitiis  abstulit  atra  dies  ; 
Abstulit.  at  referet  lux  ultima  :  siste,  viator, 
^  Si  peritura  paras  per  male  parta  peris." 

*  The  inscription  to  her  runs  thus  : 

'Heere  lyeth  v^  body  of  Susanna,  Wife  to  lohn  Hall.  Gent  .■  ye 
Uughter  of  William  Shakespeare,  Gent.  Shee  deceased  ye  11th  of 
fuly,  A0.1649.  aged66." 

Dugdale  has  handed  do>vn  the  following  verses  upon  her,  which 
were  originally  engraved  on  the  stcne,  but  are  not  now  to  be  f)und, 
ualf  of  it  having  been  cut  away  to  make  rem  for  an  inscription  tc 
Rjchdii  Watts,  who  lUed  in  1707. 


married  to  Thomas  Quiney  considerably  more  than  a  month 
anterior  to  the  actual  date  of  the  will,  ami  although  his  eld- 
est daughter  Susanna  is  mentioned  by  her  husband's  patro- 
nymic. It  seems  evident,  from  the  tenor  of  the  whole  in 
stiumeut,  that  when  it  was  prepared  Judith  was  not  mar 
ried^,  although  her  speedy  union  with  Thomas  Quiney  was 
contemplated:  the  attorney  or  sciivener,  who  drew  it,  had 
first  written  '•  son  and  daughter,"  (meaning  Judith  and  her 
intended  husband)  but  erased  the  words  "  son  and"  after- 
wards, as  the  parties  were  not  yet  married,  and  were  not 
"  son  and  daughter"  to  the  testator.  It  is  true  that  Tr.oma8 
Quiney  would  not  have  been  Shakespeaie's  son,  only  his 
son-in-law ;  but  the  degrees  of  consanguinity  were  not  at 
that  time  strictly  marked  and  attended  to,  and  in  the  same 
will  Elizabeth  HaU  is  called  the  testator's  "niece,"  when 
she  was,  in  fact,  his  granddaughter. 

Tie  bequest  which  has  attracted  most  attention  is  an  in- 
terlineation in  the  following  words,  "  Itm  I  gyve  imto  my 
wief  my  second  best  bed  with  the  furniture."  Upon  this 
passage  has  been  founded,  by  Malone  and  others,  a  charge 
against  Shakespeare,  that  he  only  remembered  his  wife  as 
an  afterthought,  and  then  merely  gave  her  "  an  old  bed." 
As  to  the  hist  part  of  the  accusation,  it  may  be  answered, 
that  the  "  second  best  bed"  was  probably  that  in  which  the 
husband  and  wife  had  slept,  when  he  was  in  Stratford  ear- 
Uer  in  life,  and  every  night  since  his  retirement  from  the 
metropohs :  the  best  bed  was  doubtless  reserved  for  visitors : 
if,  therefore,  he  were  to  leave  his  wife  any  express  legacy 
of  the  kind,  it  was  most  natural  and  considerate  that  he 
should  give  her  that  piece  of  furniture,  which  for  many  years 
they  had  jointly  occupied.  With  regard  to  the  second  pai't 
of  the  charge,  our  great  dramatist  has  of  late  yeai's  been  re- 
lieved from  the  stigma,  thus  attempted  to  be  thrown  upon 
him,  by  the  mere  remark,  that  Shakespeare's  property  be- 
ing principally  freehold,  the  widow  "oy  the  ordinaiy  opera- 
tion of  the  law  of  England  would  be  entitled  to,  what  is  le- 
gally known  by  the  term,  dower."  It  is  extraordiuaiy  that 
this  explanation  should  never  have  occurred  to  Malone,  who 
was  educated  to  the  legal  profession ;  but  that  many  othera 
should  have  followed  him  in  his  unjust  imputation  is  not 
remarkable,  recollecting  how  prone  most  of  Shakespeare's 
biographers  have  been  to  repeat  errors,  rather  than  take  the 
trouble  to  inquire  for  themselves,  to  sift  out  truth,  ai:d  to 
balance  probabilities. 

Witty  above  her  sexe,  but  that's  not  all ; 
Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistress  Hall. 
Something  of  Shakespeare  was  in  that,  but  this 
Wholy  of  him  with  whom  she's  now  in  blisse. 

Then,  passenger,  hast  ne're  a  teare 

To  weepe  with  her  that  wept  for  all  ? 
That  wept,  yet  set  her  selfe  to  cheere 

Them  up  with  comforts  cordiall. 
Her  love  shall  live,  her  meicy  spread. 
When  thou  hast  ne're  a  teare  to  shed." 
The  register  informs  us  that  she  was  buried  on  the  16th  July,  1649. 

*  The  following  is  copied  from  the  register  . — 

"  162:3,  August  3.     Mrs.  Shakspeare." 

*  Their  registrations  of  burial  are  in  these  terms  : — 

"1635.  JVov.  26.  Johannes  Hall,  nedicus  peritissimus." 
"1617.  Aprillo.  Thomas  Nash,  Gent." 

'  The  register  contains  as  follows  : — 

'•1619.  July  16.  Mrs.  Susanna  Hall,  widow." 

8  We  are  indebted  to  Sir  F,  Madden,  Keeper  of  the  MSS  ia  tK« 
British  Museum,  for  the  use  of  a  most  exact  collation  of  Shakes»^eare'8 
will  ;  in  addition  tc  which  we  have  seveial  times  gone  over"  every 
line  and  word  of  it.  We  have  printed  it  as  nearly  as  possib.i  u  it 
appears  in  the  original. 

s  Another  trifling  circumstance  leading  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
will  was  prepared  in  January,  though  not  executed  until  March,  is 
that  Shakespeare's  sister  is  called  Jon e  Hart,  and  not  Jone  Hart,  u-iot^c. 
Her  husband  had  died  a  few  days  before  Shakespeare,  and  he  was 
buried  on  17  April,  1616.  as  "  Will  Hart,  hatter.'"  She  was  buried 
on  4  Nov.  1646.  Both  entries  are  contained  in  the  parish  registers  ot 
Stratford. 

10  This  vindication  of  Shakespeare's  memory  from  the  supposed  ne- 
glect of  his  wife  we  owe  to  Mr.  Knight,  in  his  '•  Pictorial  Shak- 
spere." See  the  Postscript  to  ••  Twelfth  Nignt."  When  the  expla- 
nation is  once  given,  it  seems  so  easy,  that  we  wonder  it  was  never 
before  mentioned  ;  but  like  many  discoveries  of  difl^erent  kinds,  it  is 
not  less  simple  than  important,  and  it  is  just  that  Mr.  Knight  shoaU 
have  full  credit  for  it. 


Ixxiv 


THE   LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKP:SPEARE. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Monainent  to  Slmkesneare  at  Stratford-upon-Avon  erected 
be«ore  1023;  probubly  iiiider  tlie  superintendeiiee  of  Dr. 
Hull,  and  Slmkespeare's  daughter  Susuiiiia.  Ditference 
oetweeii  the  bust  on  the  monument  and  the  portrait  ou  the 
tiUe-pii^e  of  the  folio  of  1623.  Ben  Jonson's  testimony  in 
favour  of  the  likeness  of  the  hitter.  Shakespeare's  personal 
appeanmce.  His  social  and  convivial  qualities.  "  Wit- 
o«>iiibat8"  mentioned  by  Fuller  in  his  "  Wortliies."  Epi- 
taplis  upon  Sir  Tliomas  Stanley  and  Elias  Jamea.  Cou- 
clusioL.     Hallum's  character  of  Shakespeare. 

A  MOMJMEXT  to  Shakespeare  was  erected  anterior  to  the 
publication  of  the  folio  edition  of  his  "  Comedies,  Histories, 
and  Tragedies  "  in  1623,  because  it  is  thus  distinctly  meu- 
ti.'n«Hl  by  Leonard  Digges,  in  the  earliest  copy  of  conimeu- 
dutory  verses  prefixed  to  that  volume,  -which  he  states  shall 
KUtlive  the  poet's  tomb : — 

"  when  tliat  stone  is  rent, 

And  time  dissolves  thy  Stratford  Monument, 

Here  we  alive  shall  view  thee  still." 

This  is  the  most  ancient  notice  of  it;  but  how  long  before 
1623  it  had  been  placed  in  the  church  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  we  have  no  means  of  deciding.  It  represents  the 
poet  sitting  under  an  arch,  with  a  cushion  before  him,  a  pen 
in  his  i-ight  hand,  and  his  left  resting  upon  a  sheet  of  paper: 
it  hjis  been  the  opinion  of  tlie  best  judges  that  it  was  cut  by 
an  English  sculptor,  (pei'haps  Thomas  Stant<jn)  and  we  may 
conclude,  without  much  hesitation,  that  the  artist  was  em- 
ployed by  Dr.  Hall  and  his  wife,  and  that  the  resemblance 
was  as  faithful  as  a  bust,  not  modelled  from  the  life,  but 
probably,  uniler  living  instructions,  from  some  picture  or 
cast  could  be  expected  to  be.  iShakespeare  is  there  con- 
siderably fuller  in  the  face,  than  in  tlie  engraving  ou  the 
title-page  of  the  folio  of  1623,  which  must  have  been  made 
from  a  different  original  It  seems  not  unlikely  that  after 
he  separated  himself  from  the  business  and  anxiety  of  a 
f- rofessional  life,  and  withdrew  to  the  permanent  inhaling 
of  his  native  air,  he  became  more  robust,  and  the  half- 
length  upon  his  monument  conveys  the  notion  of  a  cheerful, 
good-tem|)t.Ted,  and  somewhat  jovial  man.  The  expression, 
we  apprehend,  is  less  intellectual  than  it  must  have  been  in 
reality,  and  the  forehead,  though  lofty  and  expansive,  is  not 
fftrougly  marked  with  thought:  on  the  whole,  it  lias  rather 
a  look  of  gaiety  and  g<jod  humour  than  of  thought  and  re- 
tleetiiin,  and  the  lips  are  full,  and  apparently  in  the  act  of 
giving  utterance  to  sf»me  amiable  pleasanti'y. 

Ou  a  tablet  below  the  bust  are  placed  the  following 
inscriptions,  which  we  give  literally : — 

"  Ivdicio  Pylivm,  penio  Socratein,  arte  Maronem, 

Terra  tegit,  popvlvs  mseret,  Olympvs  habet. 
Stay.  Pa.s8enger,  why  goest  thov  by  so  fast  * 
Read,  if  thov  canst,  whom  enviovs  Death  hath  plast 
Within  tliis  monvment:  Shakspeare;  witli  wliome 
Quick  nutvre  dide;  whose  name  doth  deck  y  Tombe 
Far  more  tlicn  co.-t;  sieth  all  y'  he  hatli  writt 
Leaves  living  art  bvt  page  to  serve  his  witt 
Obiit  ano  Uo'.  1616. 
iEtjitis.  53.  die  23  Ap'." 
On  a  flat  grave  stone  in  front  of  the  monument,  and  not 
(ai  from    tlie  wail  against  wliich  it  is  tixed,  we  read  these 
lines ;    and   Southwell's  correspondent  (whose   letter   Wiis 
print«-d  in  1838,  from  the  original  manuscript  dated  1693) 
mforms   us,  speaking  of  ccuree   from   tradition,   that   they 
were  written  by  Shakespeare  himself: — 

"  Good  frend,  for  lesvs  sake  forbeare 
To  digg  the  dvst  eucloased  heare : 

'  It  wu  originally,  like  many  other  monuments  of  the  time,  and 
vuii.e  in  ."•trailoril  church,  coloured  after  the  lile,  and  m  it  continued 
untU  .Malone,  in  hia  iiiiataken  zeal  for  clauical  tajite  and  severity, 
and  (orpeiiiog  the  practice  of  the  t>eriod  at  which  lh«  work  was  pro- 
duced, had  It  pointed  one  uniform  atone-colour.  He  lhu»  exposed 
Qimielf  to  much  not  unmerited  ridicule.  It  wai  afterwards  lound 
iinp'.>«sible  to  re&iore  the  oiigiiial  colours 

'  Besides,  we  may  suppose  that  Jonson  would  be  carelul  how  hj 
\C{>lauded  th*  likeness,  when  there  must  have  been  so  many  persons 


Blest  be  y'  man  y'  spares  thes  stones, 
And  cvrst  be  he  y'  moves  my  bones." 
ITie  half-length  on  the  title  page  of  the  folio  of  1628. 
engraved  by  Martin  Droeshout,  has  certainly  an  expression 
of  greater  gravity  than  the  bust  on  Shakespeare's  monu- 
ment ;  and.  making  some  allowances,  we  win  conceive  the 
original  of  that  i-eseinblauce  moi'e  capable  of  producing  the 
mighty  works  Shakespeare  has  left  behind  him,  than  the 
original  of  the  bust :  at  all  events,  the  first  rather  looks  like 
the  author  of  "  Lear  "  and  "  Macbeth,''  and  the  last  like  the 
author  of  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing "  and  "  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor:"  the  one  may  be  said  to  represent 
Shakespeare  during  his  later  years  at  Stiatford,  happy  in 
the  intercourse  of  his  family  and  fi-iends  and  the  cheerful 
companion  of  his  neighboui-s  and  townsmen ;  and  the  other, 
Shakespeare  in  London,  revolving  the  great  works  he  had 
written  or  projected,  and  with  his  mind  somewhat  burdened 
by  the  cares  of  his  professional  life.  The  last,  thei'efore, 
is  obviously  the  likeness  which  ought  to  accompany  his 
plays,  and  which  his  "  friends  and  fellows,"  Hemiuge  and 
Condell,  preferred  to  the  head  upon  the  "  Stratford  Monu- 
ment," of  the  erection  of  which  they  must  have  been  aware. 
There  is  one  point  in  which  both  the  engraving  and  the 
bust  in  a  degree  concur, — we  mean  in  the  length  of  tiio 
upper  lip,  although  the  peculiarity  seems  exaggerated  in  the 
bust.  We  have  no  such  testimony  in  favour  of  the  truth 
of  the  resemblance  of  the  bust'  as  the  engraving,  opposite 
to  which  are  the  following  lines,  subsciibed  with  the  initials 
of  Ben  Jonson,  and  doubtless  from  his  pen.  Let  the  reader 
bear  in  mind  that  Ben  Jonson  was  not  a  man  who  could  be 
hired  to  commend,  and  that,  taking  it  for  granted  he  was 
sincere  in  his  praise,  he  had  liie  most  unquestionable  means 
of  forming  a  judgment  upon  the  subject  of  the  likeness  b<'- 
tween  the  living  man  and  the  dead  representation'.  We 
give  Ben  Jonson's  testimonial  exactly  as  it  stands  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  for  it  aftei-wards  went  through  various  literal 


"  To  THE  Header. 
"  This  Figure,  that  thou  here  sccst  put, 

It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut; 

Wlierein  tlie  Grauer  liad  a  strife 

With  Nature,  to  out-doo  the  life  : 

0,  could  he  but  haue  drawne  liis  wit 

As  well  in  bnusse,  as  he  lialli  liit 

His  face;  the  Print  would  then  surpasse 

All,  that  was  euer  writ  in  brasse. 

But,  since  he  cannot,  Reader,  looke 

Not  on  his  Picture,  but  his  Booke. 

B.  I." 
With  this  evidence  before  us,  we  have  not  hesitated  in 
having  an  exact  copy  of  Droeshout's  engraving  executed 
for  the  present  edition  of  the  Works  of  Skakespeare.  It  is, 
we  believe,  the  fii-st  time  it  has  ever  been  selected  for  the 
purpose  since  the  appearance  of  the  folio  of  1623;  and. 
although  it  may  not  be  recommended  by  the  appearance 
of  so  high  a  style  of  art  as  some  other  imputea  resem- 
bknces,  there  is  eei-taipJv  not  one  which  has  such  un- 
doubted claims  to  our  notice  on  the  grounds  of  fidelity  and 
authenticity. 

The  fact  that  Droeshout  was  required  to  employ  liis  skill 
upon  a  bad  picture  may  tend  to  confirm  our  reliance  upon 
the  hkeuess :  had  there  been  so  many  pictures  of  Shake- 
speare as  some  have  contended,  but  as  we  are  far  fioiu 
believing,  Heniinge  and  Condell.  when  they  were  seeking 
for  an  appropriate  ornament  for  the  title-page  of  their  folio, 
would  hardly  have  chosen  one  which  was  an  unskilful  paint- 
ing, if  it  had  not  been  a  striking  resemblance.  If  only  half 
the  pictures  said,  within  the  last  century,  to  represent 
Shakespeare,  were  in  fact  from  the  life,  the  poet  must  have 

livinp,  who  could  have  contradicted  him.  had  the  praise  not  been 
de.<erved.  Jonson  doe.s  not  Kpeak  of  the  painter,  but  of  the  '"  praver.'' 
who  we  are  inclined  to  think  did  full  ju.~iice  to  the  p.clure  placed  lo 
his  hands  Droeshout  was  a  man  of  considerable  eminence  in  hii 
branch  of  art,  and  has  left  behind  him  unloubted  proofs  of  his  skill 
— some  of  them  so  much  superior  to  the  head  of  Shakespeare  in  ll»« 
folio  of  lii'.Sl,  as  to  lead  to  the  conviction,  that  the  picture  from  whica 
he  worked  was  a  very  coarse  specimen  of  art. 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Ixxv 


possessed  a  vast  stock  of  patience,  if  not  a  larger  share  of 
vanity,  -when  he  devoted  so  much  time  to  sitting  to  the 
artists  of  the  day ;  and  the  player-editoi's  could  have  found 
no  difficulty  in  procuring  a  picture,  -which  had  better  pre- 
tensions to  their  approval  To  us,  therefore,  the  very  de- 
fects of  the  engraving,  -which  acconapanies  the  folio  of  1623, 
are  a  recommeudation,  since  they  serve  to  show  that  it  was 
botli  genuine  and  faithful. 

Aubrey  is  the  only  authority,  beyond  the  inferences  that 
may  be  dra-wn  from  the  portraits,  for  the  personal  appear- 
ance of  Shakespeare  ;  and  he  sums  up  our  great  poet's  phy- 
sical and  moral  endowments  in  two  hues ; — "  He  was  a 
handsome  well-shaped  man,  very  good  companv,  and  of  a 
very  ready,  and  pleasant,  and  smooth  wit."  We  have  every  | 
reason  to  suppose  that  this  is  a  correct  description  of  his 
pei-sonal  appearance,  but  we  are  unable  to  add  to  it  from 
any  other  source,  unless  indeed  we  were  to  rely  upon  a  few 
equivocal  passages  in  the  "  Sonnets."  Upon  this  authority 
it  has  been  supposed  by  some  that  he  was  lame,  and  cer- 
tainly the  3Tth  and  S9th  Sonnets,  without  allowing  for  a 
figurative  mode  of  expression,  might  be  taken  to  import  as  j 
much.  If  we  were  to  consider  the  words  literally,  we 
should  imagine  that  some  accident  had  befallen  him,  which  i 
rendered  it  impossible  that  he  should  continue  on  the  stiige, 
and  hence  we  could  easily  account  for  his  early  retirement ' 
from  it.  We  know  that  such  was  the  case  with  one  of  his  ( 
most  famous  predecessors,  Christ<3pher  Marlowe',  but  we  j 
have  no  sufficient  reason  for  believing  it  was  the  fact  as  re- 
gards Shakespeare:  he  is  evidently  speaking  metaphori-: 
cally  in  both  places,  where  "  lame  "  and  "  lameness  "  occur.  | 

His  social  qualities,  his  good  temper,  hilarity,  vivacity,  I 
and  what  Aubrey  calls  his  "veiy  ready,  and  pleasant,  and  \ 
smooth  wit,"  (in  our  author's  o-wn  words,  "  pleasant  without 
scurrility,  witty  without  affectation,")  cannot  be  doubted, ' 
since,  besides  what  may  be  gathered  fi-om  his  works.,  we  j 
have  it  from  various  quarters ;  and  although  nothing  very 
good  of  this  kind  may  have  descended  to  us,  we  have  suffi- 
cient to  show  that  he  must  have  been  a  most  welcome 
visitor  in  all  compimies.  The  epithet  "  gentle  "  has  been 
frequently  appUed  to  hmi,  twice  by  Ben  Jonson,  (in  his  | 
lines  before  the  engraving,  and  in  his  laudatoi-y  vei-ses  pre- 1 
fixed  to  the  plays  in  the  foho  of  1623)  and  if  it  be  not  to  be  | 
uudei'stood  precisely  in  its  modern  acceptation,  we  may  be  ! 
sure  that  one  distinguishing  feature  in  his  character  was  gen-  \ 
es'al  kindl'ness  :  he  may  have  been  "  sharp  and  sententious,"  I 
but  never  needlessly  bitter  or  ill-natured :  his  wit  had  no  1 
malice  for  an  ingredient.  Fuller  speaks  of  the  "  wit-combats  "  ; 
between  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  at  the  convivial  ■ 
meetings  at  the  Mermaid  club,  established  by  Sir  Walter , 
Raleigh" ;  and  he  adds,  "  which  two  I  behold  like  a  Spanish  [ 
great  galleon  and  an  Enghsh  man-of-war :  Master  Jonson, 
like  the  former,  was  built  far  higher  in  learning ;  solid,  but 
slow  m  his  performances :  Shakespeare,  with  the  English ' 
man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn 
with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all  -winds 

I  See  the  extract  from  a  ballad  on  Marlowe  (p.  xxxi.).  This  cir- 
cumstance, had  he  known  it,  would  materially  have  aided  the  mo- 
dern sceptick.  who  argued  that  Shakespeare  and  Marlowe  were  one  | 
and  the  same.  I 

*  Giil'ord  (Ben  Jonson's  "Works,  vol.  I.  p.  Ixv.)  fixes  the  date  of  the  ! 
establishment  of  this  club,  at  the  Mermaid  in  Friday  Street,  about  1 
1>H)3.  and  he  adds  that  "  here  for  many  years  Ben  Jonson  repaired 
irith  Shakespeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Selden,  Cotton,  Carew.  Mar- 
tin, Donne,  and  many  others,  whose  names,  even  at  this  distant 
period,  call  up  a  mingled  feelinij  of  reverence  and  respect."  Of  what 
passed  at  these  many  assemblies  Beaumont  thus  speaks,  addressing 
Ben  Jonson  : — 


"What  things  have  we  seen 


Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame,  | 

As  if  that  every  one  from  whom  they  came  ] 

Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest."  i 

The  .Mitre,  in  Fleet  Street,  seems  to  have  been  another  tavern  where 

»ho  wits  and  poets  of  the  day  hilariously  assembled. 

3  Worthies.     Part  iii.  p.  1-26,  folio  edit. 

♦  Fuller  has  another  simile,  on  the  same  page,  respecting  Shake-  ' 
»peare  and  his  acquirements,  which  is  worth  ciuoting.  "He  was  an  j 
eminent  instance  of  the  truth  of  that  rule,  Poeta  )iiin  fit,  sed  nascitur;] 
one  is  nut  made,  but  born  a  poet.  Indeed  his  learning  was  very  little,  i 
no  that  as  C^ornUh  diamonds  are  not  polished  by  any  lapidary,  but  are  | 


by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  inventionV  The  simile  is 
well  chosen,  and  it  came  fiom  a  writer  who  seldom  sai  t 
anything  ilP.  Connected  -vith  Ben  Jonson's  sohdity  ami 
slowness  is  a  witticism  between  him  and  Shakespeare,  said 
to  have  passed  at  a  tavern.  One  of  the  Ashmolean  manu 
scripts  {No.  88)  contains  the  following : — 

"  Mr.  Ben  Johnson  and  Mr.  Wm.  Shakespeare  behig 
merrie  at  a  tavern,  Mr.  Jonson  begins  this  for  his  epitaph, 

Here  lies  Ben  Jonson 
Who  was  once  one  : 

he  gives  it  to  Mr.  Shakespeare  to  make  up,  who  presently 
writt 

That,  while  he  liv'd,  was  a  slow  thing. 
And  now,  being  dead,  is  no-thing." 

It  is  certainly  not  of  much  value,  but  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  the  estimate  of  an  extempore  joke 
at  the  moment  of  delivery,  and  the  opinion  we  may 
form  of  it  long  afterwards,  when  it  has  been  put  upoo 
paper,  and  transmitted  to  posterity  under  such  names 
as  those  of  Shakespeare  and  Jonson.  The  same  ex- 
cuse, if  required,  may  be  made  for  two  other  pieces  of 
unpretending  pleasantry  between  the  same  parties,  which 
we  subjoin  in  a  note,  because  they  relate  to  such  men, 
and  have  been  handed  down  to  us  upon  something  like 
authority*. 

Of  a  different  character  is  a  production  preserved  bv 
Dugdale,  at  the  end  of  his  Visitation  of  Salop,  in  the 
Heralds'  College  :  it  is  an  epitaph  inscribed  upon  the  tomb 
of  Sii-  Thomas  Stanley,  in  Tongue  church ;  and  Dugdale, 
whose  testimony  is  unimpeachable,  distinctly  states  that 
"  the  following  verses  were  made  by  William  Shakespeare, 
the  late  famous  tragedian." 

"  Written  upon,  the  east  end  of  the  tomb. 

"  Ask  who  lies  here,  but  do  not  weep  ; 
He  is  not  dead,  he  doth  but  sleep. 
This  stony  register  is  for  his  bone.<  ; 
His  fame  is  more  perpetual  than  the.-e  stones  : 
And  his  own  goodness,  with  himself  bein?  gone, 
Shall  live  when  earthly  monument  is  noue^ 

"  Written  on  the  west  end  thereof. 
"  Not  monumental  stone  preserves  our  fame. 
Nor  skv-aspiring  pyramids  our  name. 
The  memory  of  him  for  whom  this  stands 
Sliall  out-live  marble  and  defacers'  hands. 
When  all  to  time's  consumption  shall  be  given, 
Stanley,  for  whom  this  stands,  shall  stand  in  heaven." 

With  Malone  and  others,  who  have  quoted  them,  we 
feel  satisfied  of  the  authenticity  of  these  verses,  though  we 
may  not  perhaps  think,  as  hedid,  that  the  kst  line  beai-s 

pointed  and  smooth  even  as  they  are  taken  out  of  the  earth,  so  nature 
itself  was  all  the  art  which  was  used  upon  him."  Of  course  Fui)er 
is  here  only  referring  to  Shakespeare's  classical  acquirements:  hi* 
"learning "of  a  different  kind,  perhaps,  exceeded  that  of  all  the 
ancients  put  together. 

'  "  Shakespeare  was  god-father  to  one  of  Ben  Jonson's  children 
and  after  the  christening,  being  in  a  deepe  study.  Jonson  came  to 
cheere  him  np.  and  asfct  him  whv  he  wa.^;  so  melancholy? — 'No 
faith.  Ben.  (saves  he)  not  I;  but  I  have  been  considering  a  great 
while  what  should  be  the  fittest  gift  for  me  to  bestow  upon  my  god- 
child, and  I  ha.ve  resolv'd  at  last.' — 'I  pr'ythee  what?'  says" he 
'  I  'faith.  Ben,  FU  e"en  give  him  a  douzen  of  Larten  spooues,  and 
thou  shalt  translate  them."  " 

Of  course  the  joke  depends  upon  the  pnn  between  Latin,  and  the 
mixed  metal  called  latten.  The  above  is  from  a  MS.  of  Sir  H. 
L'Estrange,  who  quotes  the  authority  of  Dr.  Donne.  It  is  inserted  in 
Mr.  Thoms's  amusing  volume,  printed  for  the  Camden  Society, 
under  the  title  of  •'  Anecdotes  and  Traditions."  p.  -2.  The  next  i» 
from  a  MS.  called  ''Poetical  Characteristics,"  formerly  in  the  H- 
leian  Collection  : — 

'•  Verses  by  Ben  Jonson  and  Shakespeare,  occasioned  by  the  mo'ta 
to  the  Globe  theatre — Tutus  mur.dus  ncrit  hl.itrinnem. 

••Jonson.     If  but  ?. age-actors  all  the  world  displays. 

Where  shall  we  find  spectators  of  their  play<  ' 
"  Shakespeare.     Little,  or  much  of  what  we  see,  we  do; 
We  are  both  actnrs  and  spectators  too." 


Ixxv 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Buoh  "  strong  marks  of  tbe  hand  of  Shiikespeare'."     The 
OLUDcidence  between  the  line 

"  Nor  sky-aspirinjr  pyruinids  our  name," 

and  the  passage  in   Milton's  Epitaph   upon  Shakespeare, 
prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1632, 

"  Or  tlmt  his  hallow'd  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-y pointing  pyramid," 

•eejns,  as  far  as  we  recollect,  to  have  escaped  notice. 

\Vv  have  tlius  brought  into  a  consecutive  narrative  (with 
a*  little  interruption  of  its  thread  as,  under  the  circum- 
Btauces,  and  with  such  disjointed  materials,  seemed  to  us 
possible)  the  particulai-s  respecting  the  life  of  the  "  myriad- 
minded  Shakespeare',"  with  which  our  predecessors  were 
acquainted,  or  which,  from  various  sources,  we  have  been 
able,  during  a  long  series  of  years,  to  collect  Yet,  after  all, 
comparing  what  we  really  know  of  our  great  dramatist 
with  what  we  might  possibly  have  known,  we  cannot  but  be 
»ware  how  little  has  been"  accomplished.  "  Of  WUliam 
Shakespeare,"  says  one  of  om-  greatest  hving  authore  of 

'  The  following  reaches  ns  in   a  more  questionable  shape  :  it  is 
(jom  a  MS.  of  the  time  of  Charles  I.,  preserved  in  the  Bodleian  Li- 
brary, which  cont&ins  also  poems  by  Herrick  and  others. 
"as  epitaph. 
"When  God  was  pleas'd,  the  world  unwilling  yet, 
Elias  James  to  nature  paid  his  debt. 
And  here  reposeth.     As  he  lived  he  died, 
The  saving  in  him  strongly  verified. 
Such  life,  such  death  :  then,  the  known  truth  to  tell, 
He  liv'd  a  godly  life,  and  died  as  well. 

Wm  Shakespeare." 


our  greatest  dead  one,  "whom,  through  the  mouths  of 
those  whom  he  has  inspired  to  body  forth  the  modifications 
of  his  immense  mind,  we  seem  to  know  better  than  luiy 
human  writer,  it  may  be  truly  said  tliat  we  scarcely  know 
anything.  We  see  him.  so  far  as  we  do  see  him,  not  in 
himself,  but  in  a  reflex  image  from  the  objectivity  in  which 
he  is  manifested:  he  is  Falstaflf,  and  Mercutio,  aud  Mai 
volio,  and  Jaques,  and  Portia,  and  Imogen,  and  Lear,  and 
Othello;  buttons  he  is  scarcely  a  determined  person,  a  sul)- 
stantial  reahty  of  past  time,  tlie  man  Shakespeare'."  We 
cannot  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have  done  much  to  bring  tlie 
reader  better  acquainted  with  "  the  man  Shakespeare." 
but  if  we  have  done  anything  we  shall  be  content;  and.  in- 
stead of  attempting  any  character  of  our  own,  we  will  subjoin 
one.  in  the  words  of  the  distinguished  writer  we  have  alijvp 
quoted*,  as  brief  in  its  form  as  it  is  comprehensive  in  its  mat 
ter : — "  The  name  of  Shakespeare  is  the  greatest  in  our 
literature, — it  is  the  greatest  in  all  literature.  No  man  ever 
came  near  to  him  in  the  creative  powers  of  the  mind ;  do 

i  man  had  ever  such  strength  at  ouce,  and  such  variety  o<" 

j  imagination." 

I  If  the  details  of  his  life  be  imperfect,  the  history  of  hie 
mind  is  complete ;  and  we  leave  the  reader  to  turn  from  thf 

;  contemplation  of  "  the  man  Shakespeare"  to  the  study  of 

(THE  POET  Shakespeare. 

2  Coleridge's  Table  Talk,  vol.  ii.  p.  301  .—Mr.  Hallam  in  his  "  in- 
jtroduction   to  the   Literature   of  Europe,"   vol.  iii.  p.  69.  edit.  l&4a, 
raewhat    less    literally    translates   the    Greek   epithet,   fivpiovevi, 
thonsand-souled." 

s  Hallam's  "  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,"  vol.  ii.  y.  175 
♦  Ibid.  vol.  iii.  p.  89. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    WILL.' 


"Vicesimo  Qninto  Die  Martij'  Anno  Regni  Domini 
nostri  Jacobi  nunc  Rex  Anglie  Ac.  Decimo  quarto 
d:  Scotie  xltx°  Annoq;  Domini  1616. 

T.  W"'J  Shackspeare 

In  tlie  name  of  god  Amen  I  William  Shackspeare 
o(  Stratford  vpon  Avon  in  the  countie  of  warr  gent  in  per- 
fect health  4  memoriegod  be  praysed  doe  make  &  Ordayne 
this  my  last  will  <t  testament  in  manner  &  forme  followeiug 
That  ye  to  save  First  I  Comend  my  Soule  into  the  handes 
of  gcnl  my  (."reator  hoping  &.  aasuredlie  beleeving  through 
tiionelie  meritea  of  Jesus  Chiiste  my  Sa\aour  to  be  made 
partaker  of  lyfe  everlastiuge  And  my  bodye  to  the  Earth 
whereof  yt  ya  made  Item  I  Gyve  <t  bequeath  vuto  my 
Daughter'  Judyth  One  hundred  '&  Fvftie  jioundes  of  law- 
full  English  money  to  be  paied  vut<j  Ler  in  manner  <fc  forme 
followemg  That  ys  to  save  One  hundred  pounds  in  discharge 
of  her  marriage  porcion  within  one  yeaie  after  my  deceas 
with  consideracion  after  the  Kate  of  twoe  Shilliiiges  in  the 
pound  fur  aoe  long  tyme  as  the  same  shalbe  vnpaied  vuto 
her  after  my  deceas  <t  the  Fyflie  poundes  Residewe  thereof 
?pf>n  her  Surrendring  of*  or  gyving  of  such  sufficient  Secu- 
ntie  as  the  overseers  of  this  my  Will  shall  hke  of  to  Sur- 
render or  graunte  All  her  estate  &,  Right  that  shall  disoeiid 
or  come  vnUj  her  after  my  deceas  or  that  shce'  nowe  hath 
of  in  or  to  one  Copiehold  tenemente  with  thappurtenauces 
iyeing  ik  being  in  Stratford  vpon  Avon  uforesaied  iu  the 


saied  countie  of  warr  being  parcell  or  holden  of  the  man- 
nour  of  Rowington  vnto  my  Daughter  Susanna  Hall  &  her 
'  heires  for  ever  Item  I  Gyve  <fc  bequeath  vnto  my  saied 
!  Daughter  Judith  One  hundred  and  Fvftie  Poundes  more  if 
j  shee  or  Anie  issue  of  her  b<idie  be  Lyvinge  att  thend  of 
three  yeares  uexl  ensueing  the  Daie  of  the  Date  of  this  my 
j  Will  during  which  tyme  my  executoui-s  to  paie  her  consid- 
I  eracion  from  my  deceas  according  to  the  Rate  aforesaied 
'  And  if  she  dye  within  the  saied  terme  without  issue  of  her 
bodve  then  my  wiU  ys  <fe  I  Doe  gyve  «fe  bequeath  One  Huu- 
j  dre^  Poundes  thereof  to  my  Neece  Elizabeth  Hall  <fe  th« 
Fiftie  Poundes  to  be  sett  fourth  by  my  executours  during  th* 
;  lief  of  my  Sister  Johane  Harte  it  the  vsc  and  pruffilt  tliere- 
j  of  Cominge  slialbe  payed  to  my  saied  Sister  lone  «fe  after 
her  deceas  the  .saied  I''  shall  Remaine  Amongst  the  children 
j  of  my  saied  Sister  Equallie  to  be  Devided  Amongst  them 
I  But  if  my  saied  Daughter  Judith  be  ly^'ing  att  thend  of  the 
saied  three  Yeares  or  anie  yssue  of  her  bodye  then  my  will 
]y8<i:  soe  I  Devise  <fe  bequeath  the  saitd  Hundred  and  Fyftie 
I  Poundes  to  be  sett  out  by  my  execut<jurs  <fe  ovei'seers'  for  the 
I  best  beuefitt  of  her  <fc  her  issue  <fc  the  stock"  not  to  be°  paied 
vuto  her  soe  long  as  she  sludbe  marryed  <fe  Covert  Baron" 
but  my  will  ys  that  she  shall  have  the  consideracion  yearlie 
paied  vnto  her  during  her  hef  &  after  her  deceits  the  saied 
stock  and  consideracion  to  bee  paied  to  her  children  if  she 
,  have  Anie  <fe  if  not  to  her  executoui-s  or  assignes  she  lyviug 
I  the  saied  tenne  after  my  deceas  Provided  that  if  such  hua- 


'  The  following  is  from  an  exact  tranitcript  of  the   orffrna..  Will        s  Before  "  Daughter"  sonne  and  wa«  originally  written.  l*t  Ktruck 
deposited  in  the  I'r^ropative  othce,  London,  the  onlv  difference  oeing    through  with  the  pen. 

thAt  we  have  not  thought  it  neccMary  to  pive  the  legal  contractions  j       

r'  the  scrivener:  in  all  other  respecU.  even  lo  the  rniKe.iip'.oyment  I 
»:  *»pital  letters,  and  the  omission  of  poinuour  copy  is  moul  faithful.  I 

•The  word  "  Martij"  is  interlined  aoove  "Januaiij,"'  which  is 
•trick  through  with  the  pen.  Malone  (Shaksp.  by  jioswell.  vol.  i. 
p  'I'll.)  state*  mat  the  word  struck  through  is  Ftbruarij,  bur  this  ii 
i.  m:«t&k4. 


'in  discharge  of  her  marriage  porcion"  are  interline/1 
interlined 


interlined. 


ords  • 
•The  word  -'of 

*  The  words  "  that  shee"  are  interlineo. 
'  The  words  •'  by  ray  executours  and  overseers" 
■  Th««  words  '•  the  stock"  are  interlined. 

•  The  words  "  to  be"  are  interlined. 
'•  After  •'  Baron"  the   •"ords  ''  by  ray  executours  ,V  '>vr'(eert"  «»• 

eraied  with  the  pen. 


THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAEE. 


Ixxvii 


b  od  as  she  shall  att  thend  of  the  saied  three  yeares  be  mar-  [ 
n,  ed  vnto  or  attiiine  after  doe  suffieientlie  Assure  vnto  her  i 
<k  thissue  uf  her  bodie  landes  Answereable  to  the  poreion  | 
by  this  my  will  gyven  vnto  her  &  to  be  adiudged  soe  by  my  '' 
executom-s  &  overseers  tlien  my  will  ys  that  the  saied  CI'' 
shalbe  paied  to  such  husbond  as  shall  make  such  assurance 
to  his  owne  vse  Item  I  gyve  &  bequeath  vuto  my  saied  sis- 
ter lone  xx''  &  all  my  wearing  Apparrell  to  be  paied  &  de- 
liuered  within  one  yeare  after  my  Deeeas  And  I  doe  will 
&  devise  vnto  her  the  house'  with  thappurtenanees  in  Strat- 
ford wherein  she  dwelleth  for  her  natural  hef  vuder  the 
yearlie  Rent  of  xii<^  Item  I  gyve  &  bequeath"  vnto  her 
three  sunns  William  Harte  Hait  <t   Miehaell   Harte 

Fyve  Poundes  A  peece  to  be  paied  within  one  Yeare  after 
my  deeeas^  her  Item  I  gyve  &  bequeath  unto  the  saied 
Elizabeth  Hall^  All  my  Plate  (except  my  brod  silver  &  gilt 
bole")  that  I  now  have  att  the  Date  of  this  my  will  Item  I 
gyve  &  bequeath  vnto  the  Poore  of  Stratford  aforesaied  tenn 
poundes  to  Mi-  Thomas  Combe  my  Sword  t«  Thomas  Rus- 
sell Esquier  Fyve  poundes  &  to  Frauneis  CoUins  of  the  Bo- 
rough of  warr  in  the  countie  of  warr  gentleman  thirteene 
pjundes  Sixe  shilUuges  &  Eight  pence  to  be  ])aied  within 
one  Yeare  after  my  Deeeas  Item  I  gyve  &  bequeath  to 
Hamlett  Sadler^  xxvi»  viij*^  to  buy  him  A  Ringe  to  William 
Rayuoldes  gent  xxvj-'  viij''  to  buy  him  a  Riuge'  to  my  godson 
William  Walker  xx'  in  gold  to  Anthonye  Nashe  geut  xxvjs 
viij'i  (fc  to  Mr  John  Nashe  xxvj^  vii j'^"  &  to  my  Fellowes  John 
Hemynges  Richard  Burbage  &  Henry  Cuudell  xxvj»  viij'^ 
Apeece  to  buy  them  Ringes  Item  I  Gyve  will  bequeath  <fe 
devise  vnto  my  Daughter  Susanna  Hall  for  better  enabling 
of  her  to  performe  this  my  will  &  towardes  the  performans 
thereof  "All  that  Capitall  messuage  or  tenemente  with  thap- 
purtenanees in  Stratford  aforesaid"  Called  the  new  place 
wherein  I  nowe  Dwell  <fe  two  Messuages  or  tenementes  with 
thaj^purtenances  scituat  lyemg  &  being  in  Henley  streete 
within  the  borough  of  Stratfoi-d  aforesaied  And  all  my 
barues  stables  Orchardes  gardens  laudes  tenementes  &  here- 
ditamentes  whatsoeuer  scituat  lyeing  &  being  or  to  be  had 
Receyved  perceyved  or  taken  within  the  towues  Hamletes 
Villages  Fieldes  &  groundes  of  Stratford  vpon  Avon  Old- 
stratfoi-d  Bushopton  &  Welcombe  or  in  anie  of  them  in  the 
said  countie  of  warr  And  alsoe  All  that  messuage  or  tene- 
mente with  tlmppurtenances  wherein  One  John  Robinson 
dwelleth  scituat  lyeing  &  being  in  the  blackfi-iers  in  London 
uei'e  the  Wardrobe  ife  all  other  ni}  landes  tenementes  & 
hereditamentes  whatsoeuer  To  have  <fe  to  ht>ld  All  it  singu- 
ler  the  saied  premisses  with  their  appurtenances  vnto  the 

1  The  words  "  the  house"  are  interlined. 

>  The  first  sheet  ends  -trith  the  word  "  bequeath,"  and  the  testator's 
•ignature  is  in  the  margin  opposite. 

•*  After  '"deeeas"  follow  these  words,  struck  through  with  the  pen, 
"  to  be  sett  out  for  her  within  one  yeare  after  my  deeeas  by  my  execu- 
tours  with  thadvise  and  direccions  of  my  overseers  for  her  best  profitt 
Tnlill  her  mariage  and  then  the  same  with  the  increase  thereof  to  be 
paied  vnto  :"  the  erasure  ought  also  to  have  included  the  word  "  her," 
which  follows  "vnto." 

*  The  words  "the  saied  Elizabeth  Hall"  are  interlined  above  her, 
which  is  struck  through  with  the  pen. 

This  parenthesis  is  an  interlineation. 

*  "  Hamlet  Sadler"  is  an  interlineation  above  Mr.  Richard  Tyler 
Ihelder,  which  is  erased. 

'Tie  words  "  to  William  Raynoldes  gentleman  IXTJ"  riv*  to  buy 
nm  A  Ringe"  are  interlined. 


saied  Susanna  Hall  for  &  during  the  terme  o{  her  nattirall 
hef  &  after  her  deeeas  to  the  first  sonne  of  her  bodie  iaw- 
fulhe  yssueing  &  to  the  heires  Males  of  the  bodie  of  the  saied 
first  Sonne  lawfuUie  yssueing  &  for  defalt  of  such  issue  to 
the  second  Sonne  of  her  bodie  lawfullie  issueinge  &  to  tlie 
heires  males  of  the  bodie  of  the  saied  Second  Sonne  lawful- 
he  yssueinge  and  for  defalt  of  such  heires  to  the  tliird  Sonne 
of  the  bodie  of  the  saied  Susanna  Lawfullie  yssueing  &  of 
the  heires  males  of  the  bodie  of  the  saied  third  sonne  law- 
fullie yssueing  And  for  defalt  of  such  issue  the  same  soe  to 
be  &  Remaine  to  the  Fourtli'^  Fyfth  sixte  ife  Seaveuth  sonnea 
of  her  bodie  lawfullie  issueing  one  after  Another  <fe  to  the 
lieires'^  Males  of  the  bodies  of  the  saied  Fourth  fifth  Sixte 
and  Seaventh  sonnes  lawfullie  yssueing  in  such  manner  as 
yt  ys  before  Lymitted  to  be  &  Remaine  to  the  first  second 
&  third  Sonus  of  her  bodie  <fe  to  their  heires  Males  And  for 
defalt  of  such  issue  the  saied  premisses  to  be  &  Remaine  to 
my  sayed  Neece  Hall  &  the  heires  Males  of  her  bodie  lau- 
fulhe  yssueing  &  for  defalt  of  such  issue  to  my  Daughter 
Judith  &  the  heires  Males  of  her  body  lawfulhe  issueinge 
And  for  defalt  of  such  issue  to  the  Right  heires  of 
me  the  saied  William  Shackspeare  for  ever  Item  I  gyve 
vnto  my  wief  my  second  best  bed  with  the  furniture'^  Item 
I  gyve  &  bequeath  to  my  saied  Daughter  JucUth  my  broad 
silver  gilt  bole  All  the  rest  of  my  goodes  Chattel  Leases 
plate  Jewels  &  household  stuffe  whatsoeuer  after  my  Dettea 
and  Legasies  paied  <fe  my  funeraU  expences  discharged  I 
gyve  devise  and  bequeath  to  my  Sonne  in  Lawe  John  Hall 
gent  &  my  Daughter  Susanna  his  wief  whom  I  ordaine  <fe 
make  executours  of  this  my  Last  will  and  testament  And  I 
doe  intreat  &  Appoint  the  saied '^  Thomas  Russell  Esquier  & 
Frauneis  Collins  gent  to  be  overseers  hereof  And  doe  Re- 
voke AU  former  wiUs  A  publishethis  to  be  my  last  wiU  and 
testament  In  Witness  whereof  I  have  herevnto  put  my 
hand'^  the  Dale  &  Yeare  first  aboue  written. 

"  By  me  WilHam  Shakspeare. 

Witnes  to  the  pubhshing 

hereof  Fra :  CoUyna  Probatum  cora  Magr.  Willim 

Julyus  Shawe  Byrde  Dcore  Comiss.  &c.  xx*"  die 

John  Robinson  mensis  Junij  Anno  Dni  1616 

Hamnet  Sadler  Juram'"  Johannis  Hall  vnius 

Robert  Whattcott  ex  <tc  Cui  <te  De  bene  &c  Jui-at 

Resvat  ptate  «te.  Susanne  Hall 
alt  ex  &c  eu  vefiit  <tc  petitur 

(Inv'  ex') 

8  After  "  xxvj"  viijii"  in  gold  was  originally  written,  but  erased 
with  the  pen. 

9  The  words  "  &  to  my  Fellowes  John  Hemynges  Richard  Bur- 
bage and  Henry  Cundell  xxvj»  viij<i  to  buy  them  Ringes"  are  inter- 
lined. 

10  The  words  "  for  better  enabling  of  her  to  performe  this  my  will 
&  towardes  the  performans  thereof  are  interlined. 

11  The  words  "  in  Stratford  aforesaid"  are  interlined. 

12  After  "  Fourth"  the  word  sonne  was  first  written,  but  erased  with 
the  pen. 

13  The  second  sheet  ends  with  the  word  "heires,"  and  the  signa- 
ture of  the  testator  is  at  the  bottom  of  it 

1*  The  words  ''  Item  I  gyve  vnto  my  wief  my  second  best  bed  with 
the  furniture"  are  interlined, 

i»  The  words  "  the  saied"  are  interlined. 

i«  The  word  •'  hand"  is  interlined  above  ica/<,  which  is  erased  with 
tba  pen. 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE   PLAYS. 


i 


THE    TEMPEST. 

f"  The  Tempest "  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  edition 
of  "  Mr.  William  Shakespeare's  Comedies,  Histories,  and 
Trajredies,"  bearing  date  in  1623,  where  it  stands  first,  and 
occnpies  nineteen  pa^cs,  viz.  from  p.  1,  to  p.  19  inclusive. 
It  fills  il.e  same  place  in  the  folios  of  1632,  1664,  and  1685.] 

A  MATERIAL  fact,  in  reference  to  the  date  of  the  first  pro- 
■Inction  of  "The  Tempest,"  has  only  been  recently  aseer- 
hiined  :  we  allude  to  the  notice  of  the  performance  of  it,  before 
King  James,  on  Nov.  1st,  1611,'  which  is  contained  in  the 
"  Extracts  from  the  Accounts  of  the  Kevels  at  Court,"  edited 
by  Mr.  P.  Cunningham  for  the  Shakespeare  Society,  p.  211 : 
the  memorandiun  is  in  the  following  form : 

"  Ilallomas  nygrlit  was  presented  att  Whithall  before  the 
Kinges  Majestic  a  play  called  the  Tempest." 

In  the  margin  is  inserted  the  additional  circumstance,  that 
the  performance  was  "  by  the  King's  Players  :"  and  there  can 
t>e  no  reasonable  doubt  that  it  was  Shakespeare's  drama, 
which  had  been  written  for  that  company.  When  it  had  been 
•o  written,  is  still  a  point  of  difficulty;  but  the  probability, 
we  think,  is  that  it  was  selected  by  the  Ma.ster  of  the  Eevels, 
for  repre^^entation  at  Court  in  1611,  on  account  of  its  novelty 
and  popularity  on  the  public  sta^e.  Eleven  other  dramas, 
as  api^ears  by  the  same  document,  were  e.xhibited  between 
.»ct.  31.  1611," «nd  the  same  day  in  the  next  year;  and  it  is 
remarkable  that  ten  of  these  (as  far  as  we  possess  any  infor- 
mation respecting  them)  were  comj)aratively  new  plays,  and 
with  reeard  to  the  eleventh,  it  was  not  more  than  three  years 
old.'  We  may,  perhaps,  be  warranted  in  inferring,  therefore, 
th^t  "  The  Tempest"  was  also  not  then  an  old  play. 

It  seems  to  us,  likewise,  that  the  internal  evidence,  derived 
from  st^-le  and  language,  clearly  indicates  that  it  was  a  late 
production,  and  that  it  belongs  to  about  the  same  period  of 
our  great  dramatist's  literary  history  as  his  "  Winter's  Tale," 
which  was  also  chosen  for  a  Court-play,  and  represented  at 
Whitehall  only  four  days  after  "  The  Tempest"  had  been  ex- 
hibited. In  point  of  construction,  it  must  be  admitted  at  once 
that  there  is  the  most  obvious  dissimilarity,  inasmuch  as 
"The  Winter's  Tide"  is  a  piece  in  which  the  unities  are  ut- 
terly disregarded,  while  in  "The  Tempest"  they  are  strictly 
observed.  It  is  on!y  in  the  involved  and  parenthetical  cha- 
racter of  some  of  the  speeches,  and  in  psychological  resem- 
blances, that  we  would  institute  a  comparison  between  "The 
Tempest"  and  the  "Winter's  Tale,"  and  would  infer  from 
•hence  that  they  belong  to  about  the  same  period. 

Without  here  adverting  to  the  real  or  supposed  origin  of 
the  story,  or  to  temj'orary  incidents  which  may  have  snar- 
jrested  any  part  of  the  jilot,  we  may  remark  that  there  is  one 
piece  of  external  evidence  which  strongly  tends  to  confirm 
the  opinion  that  "The  Tempest"  was  composed  not  very 
long  before  Ben  .Jonson  wrote  one  of  his  comedies:  we  allude 
to  his  •'  Bartholomew  Fair,"  and  to  a  passjige  in  "  the  Induc- 
tion," frequently  mentioned,  and  which  we  concur  in  think- 
ing wan  intended  as  a  hit  not  only  at  "  The  Tempest,  '  but  at 
"The  Winter's  Tale."  Ben  Jonson's  "  Bartholomew  Fair," 
was  acted  in  1614,  and  written  f«rhaps  in  the  preceding  year.' 
during  the  popularity  of  Shakespeare's  two  plays;  and  there 


•  Th<'  earlipgt  date  hitherto  discovered  for  the  perrormance  of 
mp<>i 
eiitatilishpn  from  Vertup'ii  MSS.  :   it   whs  Ihpn  anted  by  "the  King't 


"  Thp  Tomppiit "  waB  the  hppinninKof  the  year 


the  perf 
Kiin."  w 


hicli  Mnlone 


Company,  lioforn  Prinrp  Chnrlps.  the  Princess  Elizalicth,  and  the 
Prince  I'aUtine,"  but  where,  is  not  stated. 

'Sec  note  2  to  the  Introduction  to  "  The  Winter's  Talc."  The 
pAfti'^ular  pl.iy  to  which  we  refer  is  entitled  in  the  Revpis'  Account 
•  Lucrpcid."  which  may  have  Iiecn  eithpr  T.  Hpywood's  "  Rape  of 
Lticrece,"  first  printed  in  1606,  or  a  different  tragedy  on  the  same 
incidents. 

'  See  "  A.'lejTi  j'apers."  printed  hv  thp  Shakespeare  Society,  p.  67, 
"here  Dal->rne.  under  dute  of  Nov.  13tli.  IGM  speaks  of  "  j'i.n»on"s 
Diav  "  as  then  alx.ut  to  l>c  performed.  Possibly  it  was  deferred  for 
a  short  t, me.  as  the  title-page  etates  that  it  was  acted  in  lUI  I.  It 
■nay  have  been  written  in  Iftl'J.  for  performance  in  IGi:}. 

Ixxviii 


we  find  the  following  words,  which  we  'eprint,  for  the  firs 
time,  exactly  as  they  stand  in  the  orij;j.ial  edition,  whcie 
Italic  type  seems  to  have  been  nsed  to  make  the  allusioni 
more  distinct  and  obvious: — "  If  there  bee  never  a  Sertart, 
monster  i'  the  Fui/re,  who  can  heliie  it,  he  saves;  nor  a  ues. 
of  Antiques  ?  Hee  is  loth  to  make  Nature  afraid  in  h\»  PUi^ft- 
like  those  that  beget  Tales,  Te»ipests,  and  .luch  like  Dro,„je- 
ries.''''  The  words  "servant-monster,"  '"antiques,"  "Tales," 
"  Tempests,"  and  "  drolleries,"  which  last  Shakespeare  him- 
self employs  in  "  The  Tempest,"  (Act  iii.  sc.  3.)  seem  so  ai>- 
plicable,  that  they  can  hardly  relate  to  any  tiling  else. 

It  may  be  urged,  however,  that  what  was  rcpresenl«d  at 
Court  in  1611  was  only  a  revival  of  an  older  play,  acted  before 
1596,  and  such  may  have  been  the  ca.se :  we  donot,  howevei . 
think  it  probable,  for  several  reasons.  One  of  these  is  an 
apparently  trifling  circumstance,  pointed  out  by  Farmer;  viz. 
that  in  "The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  written  before  1598,  the 
name  of  Stephano  is  invariably  pronounced  with  the  accent 
on  the  second  syllable,  while  in  "  The  Tempest,"  the  proper 
pronunciation  is  as  constantly  required  by  the  verse.  It 
seems  certain,  therefore,  that  Shakespeare  found  his  error  in 
the  interval,  and  he  may  have  learnt  it  froin  Ben  Jonson's 
"  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  in  which  Shakespeare  per- 
formed, and  in  the  original  list  of  characters  to  which,  in  tho 
edition  of  1601,  the  names  not  only  of  Stephano,  but  of  Pro<»- 
pero  occur. 

Another  circumstance  shows,  we  think  almost  decisively, 
that  "The  Tempest"  was  not  written  until  after  1603j  wlien 
the  translation  of  Montaigne's  Essays,  by  Florio,  made  its  first 
appearance  in  print.  In  Act  II.  sc.  1,  is  a  passage  so  closely 
copied  from  Florio's  version,  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  identity.* 
If  it  be  said  that  these  lines  may  have  been  an  insertion  sub- 
sequent to  the  original  production  of  the  play,  we  answer, 
that  the  passage  is  not  such  as  could  liave  been  introduced, 
like  some  others,  to  answer  a  tehiporary  or  complimentary 
purpose,  and  that  it  is  given  as  a  necessary  and  continuona 
portion  of  the  dialogue. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Hunter,  in  his  very  ingenious  and  elaborate 
"  Disquisition  on  the  Tempest,"  has  referred  to  this  and  to 
other  points,  with  a  view  of  proving  that  every  body  has 
hitherto  been  mistaken,  and  that  this  play  instead  of  being 
one  of  his  latest,  was  one  of  Shakespeare's  earli<-st  works. 
Witli  regard  to  the  point  derived  from  Montaigne's  Essays 
by  Florio,  1603,  he  has  contended,  that  if  the  particular  essay 
were  not  separately  printed  before,  (of  which  we  have  not  the 
slightest  hint)  Shakespeare  may  have  seen  the  translation  in 
manuscript;  but  unless  he  so  saw  it  in  print  or  manuscript 
as  early  as  1595,  nothing  is  established  in  favour  of  Mr.  Hun- 
ter's argument ;  and  surely  when  other  circumstances  show 
that  "The  Tempest"  was  not  written  till  1610,'  we  need  not 
hesitate  long  in  deciding  that  our  great  dramatist  went  to  no 
manuscript  authority,  but  took  the  passage  almost  verbatim, 
as  he  found  it  in  the  complete  edition.  In  the  same  way 
Mr.  Hunter  has  argued,  that  "  The  Tempest"  was  not  omitted 
by  Meres  in  his  list  in  1598,  but  that  it  is  found  there  under 
its  second  title,  of  "  Love's  Labours  Won;"  but  this  is  little 
better  than  a  gratuitous  assumi.tion,  even  supposing  we  were 
to  admit  that  "  All's  well  that  ends  Well "  is  not  the  play  in- 
tended by  Meres."  Our  notion  is,  that  "  All 's  well  that  (nde 
Well "  was  originally  called   "  Love's  Labours   Won,"  and 

♦  Malone  (Shaksp.  by  Boswell,  vol.  xv.  p  78.)  quotes  this  impor- 
tant paMsnge  from  Florio's  transinlion  of  Montaipiie  with  a  sinpulai 
dpprce  of  incorrectness  :  with  many  minor  variations  he  substitute! 
partitions  for  "  dividences."  and  omits  tlie  words  "  no  manuring;  o( 
lands  "  altoRctlier.  This  is  a  case  in  which  verbal,  and  evfin  literal, 
accuracy  is  important. 

'  In  the  Introduction  to  "The  Winter's  Tale."  we  have  assipi- 
ed  a  reason,  founrled  upon  a  papsnge  in  R.Greene's  "  Pandosto.*" 
for  believing  that  "The  Tempest"   was  anterior  in  composition  to 


are  "  won  ;"  but  such  is  the  case  with  every  play  in  which  the  issue 
is  successful  passion,  after  ilifTiculties  and  disappointments  :  in  "The 
Tempest"  they  are  fewer  than  in  most  other  pla\»,  since  from 
first  to  last  the  love  of  Ferdinand   and  Miranda  is  prosperous      As 


i 


mTKODTJCTIO"N^  TO  THE   PLAYS. 


I XXIX 


in  '  The  Tempest,'  exhibited  in  its  profonnd  and  original  cha- 
racterisation, strikes  us  at  once ;  but  we  must  also  admire  the 
deep  sense  of  the  art  {tiefsinnige  Knnst)  which  is  apparent  in 
tlie  structure  of  the  whole,  in  the  wise  economy  of  its  means, 
and  in  tlie  skill  with  wliicli  the  scaffolding  is  raised  tosustair 
the  marvellous  aerial  structure."  Ueher  Dram.  Kunst  und 
Liu.  Vol.  iii.  p.  123.  edit.  1817. 


khat  it  was  revived,  with  some  other  changes,  under  a  new 
aame  in  1605  or  1606. 

Neither  can  we  agree  with  Mr.  Hunter  in  thinking  that  he 
Has  estaHlished,  that  nothing  was  suggested  to  Sliakespeare 
oy  the  storm,  in  July  1609,  which  dispersed  the  fleet  under 
Sir  George  Somers  and  Sir  Tliomas  Gates,  of  which  an  ac- 
count was  published  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Jourdan  in 
the  following  year.  This  point  was,  to  our  mind,  satisfacto- 
rily made  out  by  Maloue,  and  the  mention  of  "  the  still-vex'd 
Bermootlies'"  by  Shakespeare  seems  directly  to  connect  the 
drama  with  -Jourdan's  "Discovery  of  the  Bermudas,  other- 
wise calle>i  the  Isle  of  Devils,"  printed  in  1610.  We  are  told 
at  the  end  of  the  play,  in  the  folio  of  1623,  that  the  scene  is 
laid  "  in  an  uninhabited  island,"  and  Mr.  Hunter  Iuk  on- 
lended  that  this  island  was  Lampedusa,  which  unque>tin  .|y 
Lies  in  the  track  which  the  ships  in  "The  Tempest"  w-mld 
tiike.  Our  objection  to  this  theory  is  two-fold  :  first,  we  can- 
not persuade  ourselves,  that  Shakespeare  had  any  particular 
island  in  his  mind;  and  secondly,  if  he  had  meant  to  lay  his 
scene  in  Lampedusa,  he  could  hardly  have  failed  to  introduce 
its  name  in  some  part  of  his  performance :  in  consequence  of 
the  deficiency  of  scenery,  &c.,  it  was  the  constant  custom 
with  our  early  dramatists  to  mention  distinctly,  and  often 
more  than  once,  where  the  action  was  supposed  to  take  place. 
As  a  minor  point,  we  may  add,  that  we  know  of  no  extant 
Englisl.  authority  to  which  he  could  have  gone  for  inforina- 
don,  ajid  we  do  not  suppose  that  he  consulted  the  Turco 
GrcEciie  of  Crusius,  the  only  older  authority  quoted  by  Mr. 
Hun  tor. 

No  novel,  in  prose  or  verse,  to  which  Shakespeare  resorted 
for  the  incidents  of  "  The  Tempest"  has  yet  been  discovered ; 
end  although  Collins,  late  in  his  brief  career,  mentioned  to 
T.  Warton  that  he  had  seen  such  a  tale,  it  has  never  come  to 
light,  and  we  apprehend  that  he  must  have  been  mistaken. 
We  have  turned  over  the  pages  of,  we  believe,  every  Italian 
novelist,  anterior  to  the  age  of  Shakespeare,  in  hopes  of  find- 
ing some  story  containing  traces  of  the  incidents  of  "The 
Tempest,"  but  without  success.  The  ballad  entitled  "  The 
Inchanted  Island,"  printed  in  "Farther  Particulars  regarding 
Shakespeare  and  his  Works,"  is  a  more  modern  production 
than  the  play,  from  which  it  varies  in  the  names,  as  well  as  in 
some  points  of  the  story,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  concealing 
its  »-onnection  with  a  production  which  was  popular  on  the 
stas-e.  Ui.r  opinion  decidedly  is,  that  it  was  founded  upon 
'■The  Tempest,"  and  not  upon  any  ancient  narrative  to  which 
Shakespeare  also  might  have  been  indebted.  It  may  be  re- 
marked, that  here  also  no  locality  is  given  to  the  island  :  on 
the  contrary,  we  are  told,  if  it  ever  had  any  existence  but  in 
the  imagination  of  the  poet,  that  it  had  disappeared  : — 

"From  that  daie  forth  the  Isle  has  beene 
By  wandering  sailors  never  scene  : 

Some  say  'tis  buryed  deepe 
Beneath  the  sea,  which  breakes  and  rores 
Above  its  savage  rocky  shores, 

Nor  ere  is  knowne  to  sleepe." 

Mr.  Thorns  has  pointed  out  some  resemblances  in  the  inci- 
dents of  an  early  German  play,  entitled  Die  Schone  Sidea,  and 
"The  Tempest:"  his  theory  is,  that  a  drama  upon  a  similar 
Btory  W.1S  at  an  early  date  perfonned  in  Germany,  and  that 
if  it  were  not  taken  from  Shakespeare's  play,  it  was  perhaps 
derived  from  the  same  unknown  source.  Mr.  Thoms  is 
preparing  a  translation  of  it  for  the  Shakespeare  Society,  and 
we  shall  then  be  better  able  to  form  an  opinion,  as  to  the  real 
or  supposed  connection  between  the  two. 

When  Coleridge  tells  us  (Lit.  Rem.  ii.  p.  94.)  that  "  'The 
Tempest'  is  a  specimen  of  the  purely  romantic  Drama,"  he 
of  course  refers  to  the  nature  of  the  plot  and  personages :  in 
one  sense  of  the  words,  it  is  not  a  "  romantic  drama,"  inas- 
much as  there  are  few  plays,  ancient  or  modern,  in  which  the 
unities  are  more  exactly  observed  :  the  whole  of  the  events 
occupy  only  a  few  hours.  At  the  same  time  it  is  perfectly 
truo,  as  the  same  enlightened  and  fanciful  commentator  adds, 
''•  It  is  a  species  of  drama,  which  owes  no  allegiance  to  time 
or  space,  and  in  which,  therefore,  errors  of  chronology  and 
geography — no  mortal  .sins  in  any  species — are  venial  faults, 
and  count  for  nothing:  it  addresses  itself  entirely  to  the 
imaginative  faculty."  This  opinion  was  delivered  in  1818; 
and  three  years  earlier  Coleridge  had  spoken  of  "  The  Tem- 
pest," as  certainly  one  of  Shakespeare's  latest  work?,  judg- 
mg  from  the  language  only  :  Sclilegel  was  of  the  same  opinion, 
without,  however,  assigning  any  distinct  reason,  and  insti-  [ 
tuted  ft  comparison  between  "The  Tempest"  and  "  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,"  adding,  "The  preponderance  of  thought ' 

ill  events  "  The  Tempest"  was  played  at  Court  under  that  title  in  "  Everv  Man  in  his  Humour ;"  but  while  we  admit  the  acnteneea 
1011  and  Ifi]."?.  Mr  Hunter  also  endeavours  to  establi.-^h  that  Ben  we  cannot  by  any  means  allow  the  conclusiveness,  of  Mr  Hunteu 
Jonson   alluiled   to   "The  Tempest"   in   1596.   in   the  Pmloeue   to    reasoning. 


THE 
TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF  VERONA. 

[''The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona"  was  first  printed  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  wheie  it  occupies  nineteen  pages,  viz.  frcr_  p 
20  to  p.  38,  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies."  It  is 
there  divided  into  Acts  and  Scenes.  It  also  stands  second 
in  the  later  folios.] 

The  only  ascertained  fact  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  in 
reference  to  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  is,  that  it  is 
included  in  the  list  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  which  Francis 
Meres  furnished  in  his  Palladis  Tamia,  1598.  It  comes  first 
in  that  enumeration,  and  although  this  is  a  very  slight  cir- 
cumstance, it  may  atford  some  confirmation  to  the  opinion, 
founded  upon  internal  evidence  of  plot,  style,  and  characters, 
that  it  was  one  of  the  earliest,  if  not  the  very  earliest  of  Shake- 
speare's original  dramatic  compositions.  It  is  the  second  play 
in  the  folio  of  1623,  where  it  first  appeared,  but  that  is  no 
criterion  of  the  period  at  which  it  was  originally  written. 

It  would,  we  think,  be  idle  to  attempt  to  fix  upon  any  par- 
ticular year:  it  is  unquestionably  the  work  of  a  young  and 
unpractised  dramatist,  and  the  conclusion  is  especially  inar- 
tificial and  abrupt.  It  may  have  been  written  by  our  great 
dramatist  very  soon  after  he  ioined  a  theatrical  company ;  and 
at  all  events  we  do  not  think  it  likely  that  it  was  composed 
subsequently  to  1591.  We  should  be  inclined  to  place  it,  as 
indeed  it  stands  in  the  work  of  Meres,  immediately  before 
"  Love's  Labour 's  Lost."  Meres  calls  it  the  "  Gentlemen  of 
Verona."  Malone,  judging  from  two  passages  in  the  comedy, 
first  argued  that  it  was  produced  in  lg95,  but  he  afterwards 
adopted  1591  as  the  more  probable  dateTThe  quotations  tc 
which  he  refers,  in  truth,  prove  nothing,  either  as  regards 
1595  or  1591. 

If  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  "  were  not  the  offspring 
merely  of  the  author's  invention,  we  have  yet  to  discover  the 
source  of  its  plot.  Points  of  resemblance  have  been  dwelt 
upon  in  connection  with  Sir  PhOip  Sidney's  "Arcadia,"  1590, 
and  the  "  Diana  "  of  Montemayor,  which  was  not  translated 
into  English  by  B.  Yonge  until  1598;  but  the  incidents,  com- 
mon to  the  drama  and  to  these  two  works,  are  only  such  as 
might  be  found  in  other  romances,  or  would  present  them- 
selves spontaneously  to  the  mind  of  a  young  poet:  the  one  is 
the  command  of  banditti  by  Valentine;  and  the  other  the 
assumption  of  inale  attire  by  Julia,  for  a  purpose  nearly  simi- 
lar to  that  of  Viola  in  "Twelfth  Night."  E.vtracts  from  the 
"Arcadia"  and  the  "  Diana  "  are  "to  be  found  in  "Shake- 
speare's Librarj%"  vol.  ii.  The  notion  of  some  critics,  that 
"  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona"  contains  few  or  no  marks 
of  Shakespeare's  hand,  is  astrongproof  of  their  incomjietence 
to  form  a  judgment. 


I  THE  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WLN'DSOR. 

["  A  Most  pleasaunt  and  excellent  conceited  Comedie,  of  Sjt 
I     lohn  Falstaffe,  and  the  merrie  Wiues  of  Windsor.     Enter- 
mixed  wiih  sundrie  variable  and  pleasing  humors,  of  Syr 
Hno-h  the  Welch  knight,  lustice  Shallow,  and  his  wise  Cousin 
M.  Slender.  With  the  swiiggering  vaine  of  Auncient  PistoU, 
I      and  Corporal  Nym.     By  William  Shakespeare.    As  it  hath 
bene  diuers  tiines  Acted  by  the  right  Honorable  my  Lord 
I      Chamberlaines  sernants.     Both  before  her  Maiestie,  and 
elsewhere.     London  Printed  by  T.  C.  for  Arthur  Johnson, 
I     and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Powles  Church-yard,  at  the 
signe  of  the  Flower  de  Leuse  and  the  Crowue.  1602."   4to 
27  leaves. 
!      "  A  Most  pleasant  and  excellent  conceited  Comedy,  of  Sir 
!      lohn  F.ilstaffe,  and  the  Merrv  Wiues  of  Windsor.    With  the 
■     swagsering  vaine  of  Ancient  Pistoll,  and  Corporal!   Nym 
'      Written  by  W.  Shakspeare.    Printed  for  Arthur  Johnsiit, 
1619."    4to.  28  leaves. 


1aa> 


LNTllODUCTlOX  TO  THE   PLAYS. 


The  4to.  of  1«80,  was  "printed  by  T.  H.  for  B.  Mei^hen."  &c.  |  Dennia  in  that  yenr  printed  h 
In  the   folio,1623,  "The  Merrv  Wiues  of  Wiiulsor"  oc-    upon  the  "Merry  Wives  of  W 


his  "Comical  Gallant,  '  foundMi 
indsor,"  and  in  the  dedicati  a 


,,  viz.  t'rom  p.  89  to  p.  60  inclusive,  |  he  states,  that  "the  comedy  was  written  at  the  command  ct 


cupies  twenty-two  pa*re; ,  .  ■,,.,•      > 

in  the  division  of  "  Comedies."     It  also  stands  third  m  the 
three  later  folios.] 

This  comcdv  waa  printed  for  the  first  time  in  a  perfect 
iiUite  in  the  folio  of  1623:  it  had  come  out  in  an  imperfect 
Ptntc  in  1602,  and  again  in  1619,  in  both  instances  for  a  book- 
seller of  the  name  of  Arthur  Johnson:  Arthur  Johnson  ac- 
cuired  the  right  to  publish  it  from  John  Busby,  and  the 
original  entri-,~"and  tht-  assi<;:nmeiit  of  the  play,  run  thus  in 
the  Registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company. 

"  18  Jan.  :601.  Jolin  Busby]  An  excellent  and  plea.sant 
conceited  commcdie  o"f  Sir  John  Faulstof,  and  the 
Merrv  wyves  of  Windesor 

"  Arth.  Johnson]  By  lU'^signment  from  Jno.  Busbve 
a.  B.  An  excellent  and  t)lea8ant  conceited  comedie 
of  Sir  John  Faulslafe,  and  the  mery  wyves  of  Wind- 
sor." 
January  1601,  aqpordin?  to  our  present  mode  of  reckoning 
the  vear,"was  January  1602,  and  the  "most  pleasaunt  and 
excellent  conceited  comedie  of  Syr  John  Falstaffc,  and  the 
merrie  Wives  of  Win.isor,"  (the  title-page  following  the  de- 
oeription  in  the  entry)  appeared  in  quarto  with  the  date 
i.f  1602.  It  has  been  the  custom  to  look  upon  this  edition  as 
the  first  sketch  of  the  drama,  which  Shakespeare  afterwards 
enlarged  and  improved  to  the  form  in  which  it  appears  in  the 
folio  of  1623.  After  the  most  minute  examination,  we  are 
not  of  that  opinion:  it  has  been  universally  admitted  that  the 
4to.  of  1602  was  piratic.il ;  and  our  conviction  is  that,  like  the 
first  edition  of  "  Henry  V."  in  1600,  it  was  made  up,  for  tlie 
purpose  of  sale,  partly  from  notes  taken  at  the  theatre,  and 
partly  from  memorj-,  without  even  the  assistance  of  any  of  the 
parts  as  delivered"  out  by  the  copyist  of  the  theatre  to  the 
actors.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  John  Busby,  who  assigned 
"The  Merry  Wivesof  Windsor  ".to  Arthur  Johnson  in  1602, 
wa."!  the  same  bookseller  who,  two  years  before,  had  joined  in 
the  publication  of  the  undoubtedly  surreptitious  "  Henry  V." 
An  exact  reprint  of  the  4to.  of  1602  has  recently  been  made 
bv  the  Shakespeare  Society,  under  Ih*  care  of  Mr.  J.  O.  Hal- 
li'we'l-,  and  any  person  possessing  it- may  easily  institute  a 
comparison  between  that  very  ha-sty  and  mangled  outline,  and 
the  complete  and  authorized  comedy  in  the  folio  of  1623,  | 
printed  trom  the  play-house  manuscript  in  the  hands  of  He- 
ininge  and  Condell :  "on  this  comparison  we  rely  for  evidence 
to  establish  the  position,  that  the  4to.  of  1602  was  not  only 
published  without  the  consent  of  the  author,  or  of  the  com- 
pany for  which  it  was  written,  but  that  it  was  fraudulently 
made  up  by  some  person  or  persons  who  attended  at  the 
theatre  tor  t'he  purpose.  It  will  be  found  that  there  is  no  va- 
riation in  the  progress  of  the  plot,  and  that  although  one  or 
two  transpositions  may  be  pointed  out,  of  most  of  the  speeches, 
necessary  to  the  conduct  and  development  of  the  story,  there 
is  some  germ  or  frai;ment:  all  are  made  to  look  like  prose  or 
verse,  apparently  at  the  mere  caprice  of  the  writer,  and  the 
edition  is  wretchedly  printed  in  a  lar^o  type,  as  if  the  object 
had  been  to  bring  it  out  with  speed,  in  order  to  take  advan- 
tage of  a  temporary  interest. 

That  temporary"  interest  perhaps  arose  more  immediately 
out  the  representation  of  the  comedy  before  Queen  Elizabeth, 
during  the  Christmas  holidays  preceding  the  date  of  the  entry 
in  the  Statinners'  Registers:  the  title-nage  states,  that  it  had 
been  acted  "  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  "  before  the 
Queen  "  and  elsewhere  :"  "  elsewhere,"  wa."  perhaps  at  the 
Globe  on  the  Bankside,  and  we  may  suppose,  that  it  had  been 
brought  out  in  the  commencement  of  the  summer  season  of 
1600,  before  the  death  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy.  If  the  "  dozen 
white  Iuc6«"  in  the  first  scene  were  meant  to  ridicule  him, 
Shakespeare  would  certainly  not  have  introduced  the  allusion 
aft«r  the  death  of  the  obje'ct  of  it.  That  it  continued  a  fa- 
Ton-ite  play  we  can  readily  believe,  and  we  learn  that  it  was 
acted  before  James  I.,  not  long  after  he  came  to  the  throne  : 
the  following  memorandum  is  contained  in  the  accounts  of 
ihe  "  Revels  at  Court"  in  the  latter  end  of  1604 


Queen  Elizabeth,  and  by  her  direction;  and  she  was  so  eagei 
to  see  it  acted,  that  she  commanded  it  to  be  ti.iished  in  four- 
teen days."  Dennis  gives  no  authority  for  any  part  of  this 
assertion,  but  because  he  knew  Dryden,  it  is  supposed  to  have 
come  from  him;  and  because  Dryden  was  acquainted  with 
Davenant,  it  has  been  conjectured  that  the  latter  might  have 
communicated  it  to  the  former.  We  own  that  we  ])lace  little 
or  no  reliance  on  the  story,  especially  recollecting  that  Den- 
nis had  to  make  out  a  case  in  favour  of  his  alterations,  by 
showing  that  Shakespeare  had  composed  the  comedy  in  an 
incredibly  short  period,  and  consequently  that  it  was  capabls 
of  improvement.  The  assertion  by  Dennis  was  repeated  b> 
Gildoii,  Pope,  Theobald,  &c.,  and  hence  it  has  obtained  s 
degree  of  currency  and  credit  to  which  it  seems  by  no  means 
entitled. 

It  has  been  a  disputed  question  in  what  part  of  the  series 
of  dramas  in  which  Falstaff  is  introduced,  "  The  Merr> 
Wives  of  Windsor"  ought  to  be  read:  Johnson  thought  il 
came  in  between  "  Henry  IV."  part  ii.  and  "  Henry  V. ;"  Ma- 
lone,  on  the  other  hand,  argued  that  it  should  be  placed  be- 
tween the  two  parts  of  "  Henry  IV.;"  but  the  truth  is,  that 
almost  insuperable  difficulties  "present  themselves  to  either 
hypothesis,  and  we  doubt  much  whether  the  one  or  the  other 
is  well  founded.  Shakespeare,  having  for  some  reason  been 
induced  to  represent  Falstaff  in  love,  considered  by  what 
persons  he  might  be  immediately  surrounded,  and  Bardolph, 
Pistol,  Nym,  and  Mrs.  Quickly,  naturally  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind:  he  was  aware  that  the  audience,  with 
whom  they  had  been  favourite  characters,  would  expect  them 
still  to  be' Falstaff 's  comi^anions;  and  though  Shakespeare 
had  in  fact  hano^ed  two  of  them  in  "Henry  V.,"  and  Mrs. 
Quickly  had  died,  he  might  trust  to  the  forgfetfulness  of  those 
before  whom  the  comedy  was  to  be  represented,  and  care 
little  for  the  consideration,  since  so  eagerly  debated,  in  what 
part  of  the  series  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  ought  to 
be  read:  Shakespeare  might  sit  down  to  write  the  comedy 
without  reflecting  upon  the  manner  in  which  he  had  previ- 
ously disposed  of  some  of  the  characters  he  was  about  tc  in- 
troduce. Any  other  mode  of  solving  the  modern  difficulty 
seems  unsatisfactory,  and  we  do  not  believe  that  it  ever  pre- 
sented itself  to  the  "mind  of  our  great  dramatist. 

The  earliest  notice  of  any  of  the  persons  in  "  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor"  is  co"ntained  in  Dekker's  play  Ciilled 
"Satiromastix,"  1602,  where  one  ot  the  characters  observes, 
"  We  must  have  false  fires  to  amaze  these  spangle-babies, 
these  true  heirs  of  master  Justice  Shallow."  This  allusion 
must  have  been  made  soon  after  Shakespeare's  comedy  had 
appeared,  unless,  indeed,  it  were  to  the  Justice  Shallow  of 
"  Henry  IV."  jiart  ii. 

With  regard  to  the  supposed  sources  of  the  plot,  they  have 
all  been  cdlected  by  Mr.  Ilalliwell  in  the  appendix  to  his  re- 
print of  the  imperfect  edition  of  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor," in  1602:  the  tale  of  "The  Two  Lovers  of  Pisa,"  the 
onlv  known  English  version  of  the  time,  is  also  contained  in 
"Shakespeare's  Library,"  Vol.  ii.;  but  our  opinion  is,  that 
the  true  original  of  the  story  (if  Shakespeare  did  not  himself 
invent  the  incidents)  has  not  come  down  to  us. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 

["Measure  for  Measure"  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of 
"  Mr.  William  Shakespeares  Comedies,  Histories,  &  Tra- 
gedies," 1623,  where  it  occupies  twent;>-four  pages,  viz., 
from  p.  61  to  p.  84,  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "Come- 
dies." It  was,  of  course,  reprinted  in  the  later  folios  ol' 
1632,  1664,  and  1685.] 


In  the  "  Historv  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry,"  IIL  «8,  It  is 

remarked,  that  ""although  it  seems  clear  that  Shakespeare 

kept  Whetstone's  '  Promos  and  Cassandra'  in  his  eye,  while 

"BVhisMajestie's'plaiei^.' The  Sundav'followinge  a!  writing  '  Mea.su re  for  Measure,'  it  is  probable  that  he  also 

'Plav  of  the  Merrv  Wiues  of  Winsor'.^'  ]  made  use  of  some  other  dramatic  composition  or  novel,  lu 

which  the  same  story  was  treated."     I  was  led  to  form  this 

opinion  from  the  constant  habit  of  dramatists  of  that  period 
to  employ  the  productions  of  their  predecessors,  and  from  the 
extreme  likelihood,  that  when  our  old  play-writers  were  hunt- 
ing in  all  directions  for  stories  which  they  could  convert  to 
their  purpose,  they  would  not  have  passed  over  the  novel  by 
Giraldi  Cinthio,   which   had  not  only  been  translated,   but 


the  Sunday  following  " 


Play  of  the  Merry 
This  representation  occurred   on 
Nov.  IsL,  1604 

What  hjis  led  f>ome  to  imagine  that  the  surreptitious  im- 
pression of  1602  was  the  comedy  as  it  first  came  from  the 
hands  of  Shakespeare,  is  a  tradition  respecting  the  rapidity 
with  which  it  was  composed.  This  tradition,  when  traced 
to  its  source,  can  be  carried  back  no  farther  than  1702:  John 


«  See  Mr.  Pffer  Cunnin((haiii'»  "Extr«et«  from  the  Account 
the  Revelii  at  Court,"  (printed  for  the  Shakegp.  Society)  p  203.  We 


f  hsH  no  previotm  extrinsic  knowledife  of  any  early  pe-formance  of 
The  Merry  Wivei  of  Windsor  •• 


INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


Ixxxi 


aeinally  converted  into  a  drama  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century 
before' the  death  of  Elizabeth.  Whetstone's  "Promos  and 
Cassandra,"  a  play  in  two  parts,  was  printed  in  1578,  though, 
ae  far  as  we  know,  never  acted,  and  he  subsequently  intro- 
duced a  translation  of  the  novel  (which  he  admitted  to  be  its 
origin),  in  his  "  Heptameron  of  Civil  Discourses."  4to.  1582i. 
No  plays,  however,  excepting  "  Promos  and  Cassandra,"  and 
"  Measure  for  Measure,"  founded  on  the  same  incidents,  have 
reached  our  day,  and  Whetstone's  is  the  only  existing  ancient 
version  of  the  Italian  novel. 

The  Title  of  Cinthio's  novel,  the  fifth  of  the  eighth  Decad 
of  his  ffecatommithi,  gives  a  suiEcient  account  of  the  progress 
of  the  story  as  he  relates  it,  and  will  show  its  connexion  with 
Shakespeare's  play: — "Juriste  e  mandate  da  Massimiano, 
Imperadore,  in  Ispruchi,  ove  fa  prendere  un  giovane,  viola- 
tore  di  una  vergine,  e  condannalo  a  morte :  la  sorella  cerea  di 
liberarJo:  Juriste  da  speranza  alia  donna  di  pigliarla  per  mog- 
lie,  e  di  darle  libero  il  fratello  :  ella  con  lui  si  giace,  e  la  notte 
istessa  Juriste  fa  tagliar  al  giovane  la  testa,  e  la  manda  alia 
sorella.  Ella  ne  fa  querela  all'  Imperadore,  il  quale  fa  sposare 
ad  Juriste  la  donna;  poscialofS,  dare  ad  essere  ucciso.  La  don- 
na lo  hbera,  e  con  lui  si  vive  amorevolissimamente." — Whet- 
stone adopts  these  incidents  pretty  exactly  in  his  "  Promos 
and  Cassandra ;"  but  Shakespeare  varies  from  them  chiefly 
by  the  introduction  of  Mariana,  and  by  the  final  union  be- 
tween the  Duke  and  Isabella.  Whetstone  lays  his  scene  at 
Julio  in  Hungary,  w^hither  Corvinus,  the  King,  makes  a  pro- 
gress to  ascertain  the  truth  of  certain  charges  against  Promos  : 
Shsikespeare  lays  his  scene  in  Vienna,  and  represents  the 
Duke  as  retiring  from  public  view,  and  placing  his  power  in 
the  hands  of  two  deputies.  Shakespeare  was  not  incfebted  to 
Whetstone  for  a  single  thought,  nor  for  a  casual  expression, 
exceptinsr  as  far  as  similarity  of  situation  may  be  said  to  have 
necessarily  occasioned  corresponding  states  of  feeling,  and 
employment  of  language.  In  Whetstone's  "  Pleplameron," 
the  name  of  the  lady  who  narrates  the  story  ot  "  Promos  and 
Ca.ssandra,"  is  Isabella,  and  hence  possibly  Shakespeare  might 
have  adopted  it. 

As  to  the  date  when  "  Measure  for  Measure"  was  written, 
we  have  no  positive  information,  but  we  now  know  that  it 
was  acted  at  Court  on  St.  Stephen's  night,  (26  Dec.)  1604. 
This  fact  is  stated  in  Edmund  Tyjuey's  account  of  the  ex- 
penses of  the  revels  from  the  end  of  Oct.  1604,  till  the  same 
date  in  1605,  preserved  in  the  Audit  OflBce:  the  original 
memorandum  of  the  master  of  the  revels  runs  literatim,  as 
follows : — 

"  By  his  Ma"»Plaiers.  On  St.  Stivens  night  in  the  Hall,  a 
Play  caled  Mesur  for  Mesur." 

In  the  column  of  the  account  headed  "The  Poets  which 
mayd  the  Plaies,"  we  find  the  name  of  "  Shaxberd"  entered, 
which  was  the  mode  in  wliich  the  ignorant  scribe,  who  pre- 
pared the  account,  spelt  the  name  of  our  great  dramatist. 
Maloiie  conjectured  from  certain  allusions  (such  as  to  "  the 
war"  with  Spain,  "the  sweat,"  meaning  the  plague,  &c.), 
that  "  Measure  for  Measure  "  was  written  in  1608;"and  if  we 
suppose  it  to  have  been  selected  for  performance  at  Court  on 
26th  Dec.  1604,  on  account  of  its  popularity  at  the  theatre 
after  its  production,  his  supposition  will  receive  some  confir- 
mation. However,  such  could  not  have  been  the  case  with 
"  the  Comedy  of  Errors,"  and  "  Love's  Labours  Lost,"  which 
were  written  before  159S,  and  which  were  also  performed  at 
Christmas  and  Twelfth-tide,  1604^5.  Tyrwhitt  was  at  one 
time  of  opinion,  from  the  passage  in  A.  II.  sc.  4. — 

"  As  these  black  masks 
Proclaim  an  enshield  beauty  ten  times  louder 
Than  beauty  could  displayed," 

that  this  drama  "  was  wTitten  to  be  acted  at  Court,  as  Shake- 
speare -would  hardly  have  been  guilty  of  such  an  indecorum 
to  flatter  a  common  audience."  He  was  afterwards  disposed 
to  retract  this  notion  ;  but  it  is  supported  by  the  quotation 
h-vi  the  Eevels'  accounts,  unless  we  imagine,"  as  is  not  at  all 
impcdsible,  that  the  lines  respecting  "black  masks"  and 
some  others  (to  use  Tyrwhitt's  words),  "  of  particular  flattery 
to  James,"  were  inserted  after  it  was  known  that  the  play,  on 
account  of  its  popularity,  had  been  chosen  for  perform'ance 
before  the  king.  One  of  these  passages  seems  to  have  been 
the  following,  which  may  have  had  reference  to  the  crowds 
attending  the  arrival  of  James  I.  in  London,  not  very  long 
before  "Measure  for  Measure"  -was  acted  at  Whitehall':— 

"and  even  so 

The  greneral.  subject  to  a  -well-wish'd  King, 
Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught    nve 
Must  needs  appear  offence." 


Steevens  quotes  a  passage  from  "  a  True  Narration  of  IIk' 
Entertainment "  of  the  King  on  his  way  from  Edinburgh  to 
London,  printed  in  1603,  where  it  is  said,  "  he  was  faine  to 
publish  an  inhibition  against  the  inordinate  and  dayly  accesse 
of  people  comming."  Taken  with  the  context,'  the  lines 
above  quoted  read  like  an  insertion. 

I  We  may,  therefore,  arrive  pretty  safely  at  the  conclusion, 
j  that  "  Measure  for  Measure  "  was  written  either  at  the  close 
of  1603,  or  in  the  beginning  of  1604. 

I  "Measure  for  Measure''  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of 
I  1623;  and  exactly  fifty  years  afterwards  was  published  Sir 
!  William  Davcnant's  "  Law  against  Lovers,"  founded  upon 
i  it,  and  "  Much  ado  about  Nothing."  With  some  ingenuity 
I  in  the  combination  of  the  plots,  he  contrived  to  avail  himself 
largely,  and  for  his  purpose  judiciously,  of  the  material 
Shakespeare  furnished. 

Of  "  Measure  for  Measure,"  Coleridge  observes  in  his 
"Literary  Remains,"  ii.  122:  "This  play, -which  is  Shake- 
speare's throughout,  is  to  me  the  most  "painful,  say  rather, 
the  only  painful  part  of  his  genuine  works.  The  comic  and 
tragic  parts  equally  border  on  the  utanraw — the  one  being 
disgusting,  the  other  horriblje;  and  the  pardon  and  marriage 
of  Angelo  not  merely  baffles  the  strong  indignant  claim  of 
justice  (for  cruelty,  with  lust  and  damnable  baseness,  cannot 
be  forgiven,  because  we  cannot  conceive  them  as  being  mo- 
rally repented  of),  but  it  is  likewise  degrading  to  the  ouarac- 
ter  of  woman."  In  the  course  of  Lectures  on  Shakespeare 
delivered  in  the  year  1818,  Coleridge  pointed  especially  to  the 
artifice  of  Isabella,  and  her  seeming  consent  to  the  suit  of 
Angelo,  as  the  circumst^ances  which  tended  to  lower  the 
character  of  the  female  sex.  He  then  called  "Measure  for 
Measure"  only  the  "least  agreeable"  of  Shakespeare's 
dramas. 


>  Whetstone's  "  Heptameron  "  is  not  paged,  but 
•.one  of  Promos  and  Cassandr    " 


commences  on 


THE   COMEDY   OF  EEROES. 

"  The  Comedie  of  Errors  "  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623, 
where  it  occupies  sixteen  pages,  viz.  from  p.  85  to  {>.  100 
inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies."  It  was  re-printed 
in  the  three  subsequent  impressions  of  the  same  volume. 

We  have  distinct  evidence  of  the  existence  of  an  old  play 
called  "The  Historie  of  Error,"  which  was  acted  at  Hampton 
Court  on  new-year's  night,  1576-7.  Tlie  same  play,  in  all 
probability,  was  repeated  at  Windsor  on  twelfth  night,  1582-8, 
though,  in  the  accounts  of  the  Masterof  the  Eevels,  it  is  called 
"  The  Historie  of  Ferrar."  Boswell  (Mai.  Shakesp.  III.  406.1 
not  veiy  happily  conjectured,  that  this  "Historie  of  Ferrar" 
was  some  piece  by  George  Ferrars,  as  if  it  had  been  named 
after  its  author,  who  had  been  dead  some  years :  the  fact,  no 
doubt,  is,  that  the  clerk  who  prepared  the  account  merely 
wrote  the  title  by  his  ear.  Thus  we  see  that,  shortly  before 
Shakespeare  is  supposed  to  have  come  to  London,  a  play  was 
in  course  of  performance  upon  which  his  own  "  Comedy  of 
Errors"  might  be  founded.  "The  Historie  of  Error"  was, 
probably,  an  early  adaptation  of  the  Menachmi  of  Plautus, 
of  which  a  free  translation  was  published  in  lodb,  under  the 
following  title: — 

"  A  pleasant  and  fine  Conceited  Comsedie,  taken  out  of 
the  most  excellent  -n-ittie  Poet  Plautus:  Chosen  purposely 
from  out  the  rest,  as  least  harmefull,  and  vet  most  deligntfuli. 
Written  in  English  by  W.  W.— London,  Printed  by  The. 
Creede,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  William  Barley,  at  his  shop  in 
Gratious  streete.     1595."  4to. 

The  title-page,  therefore,  does  not  (as  we  might  be  led  to 
suppose  from  Steevens's  reprint  in  the  "Six  Old  Plays  ")  men- 
tion the  Mencechmi  by  name,  but  -we  learn  it  from  the  com- 
mencement of  the  piece  itself. 

Eitson  was  of  opinion,  "that  Shakespeare  was  not  under 
the  slightest  obligation"  to  the  translation  of  the  Menachmi, 
by  W.  W.,  supposed,  by  Ant.  Wood  ^Ath.  Oxon.  by  Bliss, 
I.  766.),  to  be  u  .  Warner:  and  most  likely  Eitson  was  right, 
not  from  want  of  resemblance,  but  because  "The  Comedy  of 
Errors"  was,  in  all  probability,  anterior  in  point  of  date,  and 
because  Shakespeare  may  have  availed  himself  of  the  olci 
drama  which,  as  has  been  noticed,  was  performed  at  court  :n 
1576-7.  and  in  1582-3.  Tliat  court-drama,  we  may  infer,  had 
its  origin  in  Plautus;  and  it  was,  perhaps,  the  popularity  of 
Shakespeare's  "  Comedy  of  EiTors  "  which  induced  Creede 
to  print  Warner's  version  of  the  Mencechmi  in  1595.  There 
are  various  points  of  likeness  between  Warner's  J/«»<E<"/(wn 
and  Shakespeare's  "Comedy  of  Errors;"  but  those  points 
we  may  suppose  to  have  been  derived  intermediately  through 
the  court-drama,  and  not  directly  from  Plautus'."    Sir   W. 


■  the  rare  His-        i  In  Act  I.  and  Act  II.  of  "  The  Comedy  of  Errors,"  in  the  foUo  of 
N.  ij  6  1623   Antipholus  of  Syracuse  is  twice  callfd  ETOte$  aicd  Ktrotit.  whidi 

6 


Ixxxii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


lMack»tone  cntertoined  the  belief,  from  the  «Mong  hobbhns 
ver>e-"  in  the  ''Conicay  of  Errors,"  lluit  it  wiis  "  mnoiig 
t;imki'S{>cnre'8  more  early  proauotiona:"  this  is  plausible,  but 
we  imajrine,  from  Iheirpenernl  dissimilarity  to  the  style  of  our 
irreat  dramatist,  that  tla-e  "long  hobbling  verses"  formed  a 
portion  of  the  old  court-anima,  of  which  Shakespeare  made 
Hs  much  use  as  answered  his  purpose:  they  are  quite  iu  the 
style  of  plavs  anterior  to  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  and  it  is 
easy  to  distinguish  such  portions  of  the  comedy  as  he  must 
have  written.  „      ^         ,       „t. 

The  earliest  notice  we  have  of  "  The  Comedy  of  Errors,'  is 
bv  Meres,  iu  liis  I'aUadU  Tumia,  1598,  where  he  gives  it  to 
Slmkesiieare  under  the  name  of  "  Errors"."  IIow  much  before 
Uiattiino  it  had  been  written  and  produced  on  the  stage,  we 
eon  only  (ii>eciilale.  Maloiie  ret'ers  to  a  part  of  the  dialogue 
in  Act  ill.  sc  2,  where  Dromio  of  Syracuse  is  conversing  with 
his  ma'iter  about  the  "  kitchen  wench  "  who  insisted  upon 
making  love  to  him,  and  who  was  so  fat  and  round—"  spher- 
ical like  a  globe"— that  Dromio  "  could  find  out  countries  in 
her:"— 
''Ant.  S.  Where  France? 

Dro.  S.  In  her  forehead ;   armM  aiid  reverted,  maknig  war  against 
hftr  heir." 

It  Ls  supposed  that  an  equivoque  was  intended  on  the  word 

heir  "  (which  is  printed  m  the  folio  ofl623  "  heire,"  at  that 


y  of  spelling  "  hair"),  and  that  Shake- 
civil  war  iu  France,  which  began  in  the 


in  two  persons,  yet  these  are  mere  individual  accidents,  oa*w 
ludentis  natunv,  and  the  veruiii  will  not  excuse  the  invcrin 
mile.  But  farce  dares  add  the  two  Dromios,  and  is  justified 
iu  so  doing  by  the  laws  of  its  end  and  constitution." 


period  an  unusual  way  .         _ 

sj^KUire  alluded  to  the  civil  war  iu  France,  which  began  in  the 
middle  of  15S9,  and  did  not  terminate  until  the  close  of  1593, 
This  notion  seems  well-founded,  for  otherwise  there  woiild 
be  r.o  joke  in  the  reply;  and  it  accords  pretty  e.xactly  with 
the  time  when  we  mav'believe  "The  Comedy  of  Errors"  to 
have  been  written.  But  here  we  have  a  range  of  four  ye:irs 
aud  a  half,  and  we  can  arrive  at  no  nearer  approximation  to 
a  precise  date.  As  a  mere  conjecture  it  may  be  .stated  that 
Shakespeare  would  uot  have  inserted  the  allusion  to  the  hos- 
tility between  France  aud  her  "  heir,"  after  the  war  had  been 
60  long  carried  on,  that  interest  in,  or  attention  to  it  in  this 
country  would  have  been  rela.xed. 

Another  question  by  Antipholus,  and  the  answer  of  Dromio, 
immediately  preceding  what  is  above  quoted,  is  remarkable 
on  a  different  account : — 

Ant.  S.  Where  Scotland  ? 
"  Dto.  a.  1  found  it  by  the  barrenness ;  hard,  in  the  palm  of  the 
hand." 

"  From  this  passage,"  (says  Malone)  "  we  may  leam  that 
this  comedy  was  not  revived  after  the  accession  of  the  Scot- 
tish monarch  to  the  English  throne ;  otherwise  it  would  pro- 
bably have  been  struck  out  by  the  Master  of  the  Revels." 
However,  we  are  now  certain  (a  curious  foct  hitherto  un- 
known), that  "The  Comedy  of  Errors"  was  represented  at 
Whitehall  on  the  28th  December,  1604.  In  the  account  of 
the  Master  of  the  Kevels  of  the  expenses  of  his  department, 
from  the  end  of  October  1604,  to  Shrove  Tuesday,  1605,  pre- 
served in  the  Audit  Office,  we  read  the  subsequent  entry: — 

"  By  his  Mu'"  Plaiers.  On  Inosents  Night,  the  plaie  of 
Errors,"  the  name  of  Shaxberd,  or  Shakespeare,  being  in- 
»ert*d  in  the  niarein  as  "the  Poet  which  mayd  the  Plaie." 
"  The  Comedy  of  Errors  "  was,  therefore,  not  only  "  revived," 
Sut  represented  at  court  very  soon  after  James  1.  came  to  the 
crown:  we  mav  be  confident,  however,  that  the  question  and 
•nnwer  respcctiuir  Scotland  were  not  repeated  on  the  occasion, 
though  retained  in  the  MS.  used  by  the  actor-editors  for  the 
folio  of  1623. 

In  hi.H  Lectures  on  Shakespeare  in  1818,  Coleridge  passed 
over  "The  Comedy  of  Errors"  without  any  particular  or 
separate  observation  ;  but  in  his  "  Literary  Remains  "  we 
find  it  twice  mentioned  (vol.  ii.  90  and  114),  in  much  the  same 
tenna.  "  Shakespeare,"  he  observes,  "  has  in  this  piece 
praeented  us  with  a  legitimate  farce,  in  exactest  consonance 
i^th  the  philosopVical  principles  and  character  of  farce,  as 
distinguished  from  comedy  an<l  entertainments.  A  r)ro]ier 
farce  is  mainly  distinguished  from  comedy  by  the  license 
allowed,  and  even  renuire'l,  in  the  fable,  in  order  to  produce 
«trange  and  laughable  situations.  The  story  need  not  be 
probable ;  it  is  enough  that  it  is  possible.  A  comedy  would 
Bcarocly  allow  even  tlic  two  Antipholnses;  because,  although 
there  have  been  instances  of  almost  undistinguisiiable  likeness 

ia  conjectored  to  b«  a  corruption  of  erralitus.  Antipholus  of  Epnesns, 
in  the  »am»  -way,  is  once  called  !<ereptus  (misprinted,  perhaps,  for 
tumvttu,,  >>ut  III  the  last  three  acts  they  are  distin^ished  as  "  An- 
lishclosof  b>T.-ic:u»ia.''  and  ''Antipholus  of  Eohesus."  The  epithets 
M  erratuut  .iiid  .mrreptus  were  not  obtained  by  Shakespeare  from 
Warner,  but  p-iwibiy  from  the  old  court  drama. 

>  The  hut  siippliod  by  .Merci  it  of  twelve  plays;  and.  if  anything  is 
to  be  eathered  from  the  circjmstancp,  he  places  '' Errors  '  second. 
■  Gentlemen  of  Verona''  comine  before  it. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTIimG. 

["  Much  adoe  about  Nothing.     As  it  hath  beensundrie  timet* 

publikely  acted  by  the  riglit  honourable,  the  Lord  Cham- 

berlaino  his  seruants.    Written  by  William  Sliakesneare.— 

London  Printed  by  V.  S.  for  Aiidrew  Wise,  and  Willia<r 

Aspley.  1600."  4to.  36  leaves. 

It  is  also  printed  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies  "  in  the  folic 

1623,  where  it  occupies  twenty-one  pages,  viz.,  from  p.  101, 

to  p.  121,  inclusive.     It  was  reprinted  in  the  otlier  folios.] 

We  have  no  information  respecting   "Much  Ado  abOTit 

Nothing"  anterior  to  the  appearanceof  the  4to.  edition  In 

1600,  excepting  that  it  was  entered  for  publication  on  the 

books  of  tiie  Stationers'  Comjiany,  on  the  23d  of  August  in 

that  vear,  in  the  following  n*anner: — 

"23  Aug.  1600. 

And.  Wise  Wm.  AspleyJ  Two  books,  the  one  called  Mucho 

adoe  about  Nothinge,  and  the  other  The  Second  Parte 

of  tlie  History  of  King  Henry  the  iiiith,  with  the  Humors 

of  Sir  John  Fallstaff:  wryttcn  by  Mr.  Sliakespeare.  * 

There  is  another  memorandum  in  the  same  register  bearing 

date  on  the  "4th  August,"  without  the  year,  which  runs  in 

these  terms: — "As  you  like  yt,  a  book.     Henry  the  flBft,  a 

book.     Every  man  in  his  humor,  a  book.    The'Comedie  of 

Much  Adoe  'about  Nothinge,  a  book."     Opposite  the  titles 

of  these  plays  are  added  the  words,  "  to  be  staled."    This 

last  entry,  there  is  little  doubt,  belongs  to  the  year  1600,  for 

such  is  the  date  immediately  preceding  it;  and,  as  Malone 

observes,  the  clerk  seeing  1600  just  above  his  pen,  when  he 

inserted  the  notice  for  staying  the  publication  of  "  Much  Ado 

about  Nothing"  and  the  two  other  plays,  did  not  think  it 

necessary  to  repeat  the  figures.    The  caveat  of  the  4th  August 

iigainst  the  publiciition  had  most  likely  been  withdrawn  by 

the  23rd  of  the  same  month.     The  object  of  the  ^'  st.iy  "  was 

probably  to  prevent  the  publication  of  "  Ilenrj-  V.,"  "Every 

Slan  in  his  Humour,"  and  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  by 

any  other  booksellers  than  Wise  and  Aspley. 

The  4to.  of  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  which  came  oat 
in  1600,  (and  we  know  of  no  other  impression  in  that  form) 
is  a  well-printed  work  for  the  time,  and  the  type  is  unusually 
trood.  It  contains  no  hint  from  which  we  can  at  all  distinctly 
infer  the  date  of  its  composition',  but  Malone  supposed  that 
it  was  written  early  in  tlie  year  in  which  it  came  from  the 
press.  Considering,  however,  that  the  comedy  would  have* 
to  be  got  up,  acted,  and  become  popular,  before  it  was  pub- 
lishedj  or  entered  for  publication,  the  time  of  its  compositioi. 
by  Shakespeare  may  reasonably  be  carried  back  as  far  as  the 
autumn  of  1599.  That  it  was  popular,  we  can  hardly  doubt; 
and  the  extracts  from  the  Stationers'  Registers  seem  to  show 
that  apprehensions  were  felt,  lest  rival  booksellers  shonld 
procure  it  to  be  printed. 

It  is  not  included  by  Meres  in  the  list  he  furnishes  in  his 
PalladU  Tamia,  1598";  and  "  p::ngland's  Parnassus,"  1600, 
contains  no  quotatio.u  from  it.  If  any  conclusion  could  ho 
drawn  from  tliis  fact,  it  might  be,  that  it  was  written  subse- 
quent to  the  appearance  of  one  work,  and  prior  to  the  publi- 
cation of  the  other.  Respecting  an  early  performance  of  it  at 
Court,  Steevens  supplies  us  with  the  subseouent  information; 
— "  '  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  '  (as  I  understand  from  one 
of  Mr.  Vertue's  MSS.)  formerly  passed  under  the  title  of 
'Benedick  and  Beatrix.'  Hemiiige,  the  player,  received  on 
the  20th  May,  1613,  the  sura  of  £40,  and  £20  more  as  hie 
Majesty's  gratuity,  f<>r  exhibiting  six  plays  at  Hampton  Court, 
i  among  which  was  this  comedy."  The  change  of  title,  if  in- 
1  deed  it  were  made,  could  only  have  been  temporary.  The 
divisions  of  Acts  (Scenes  are  not  marked)  were  first  made  in 
I  the  folio  of  1623.  The  adaptation  of  "Much  Ado  about 
I  Nothing,"  coupled  with  the  oliief  incidents  of  another  of 
Shakespeare's  tlrainas,  (see  the  "  Introduction"  to  '  Measure 
I  for  Measure,'")  by  Sir  William  Davenant,  was  first  printed  ic 
,  the  edition  of  his  works  in  1673. 

The  serious   portion  of  the  plot  of  "Much  Ado  abou: 

«  Chalmers  (Suppl.  Apol.  ,331.)  conjectures  that  when  Beatrice  sRy», 
"  Yes,  you  had  musty  victuals,  and  he  hiith  holp  to  civt  il,"  Shake- 
speare meant  a  sarcasm  upon  the  manner  in  which  the  army  undet 
the  Earl  of  Essex  had  been  supplied  with  bad  provisions  durina;  the 
Irish  campai^.  Most  readers  will  consider  this  an  overstrained  spec- 
ulation, although,  in  point  of  date,  it  accords  pretty  accurately  will, 
"Much 


Ado    about    Nothing"  may    h^re    hem 


INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


{^othiiior,"  which  relates  to  Hero,  Clandio,  ar.d  "John  the 
IJastard,''  is  extremely  similar  to  the  story  of  Ariodante  and 
Geneura,  in  Ariosto's""  Orlando  Farioso,"  B.  v.  It  was  sepa- 
rately versified  in  English  bv  Peter  Beverley,  in  imitation 
of  Arthur  Brooke's  Eomeus  'and  Juliet,"'  1562,  and  of  Ber- 
nard Garter's  "Two  English  Lovers,"  156S ;  and  it  was 
printed  by  Thomas  East,  without  date,  two  or  three  years  1 
after  those  poems  had  appeared.  It  was  licensed  for  the  press 
in  1565;  and  Warton  informs  us  (Hist.  Engl.  Poetry,  iv.  310, 
edit.  1S24)  that  it  was  reprinted  in  1600,  the  year  in  which 
"Much  Ado  about /Nothing"  came  from  the  press.  This 
feet  is  important,  because  either  Shakespeare  s  attention 
Kiight  be  directed  to  the  story  by  the  circumstance,  or  (which 
Becms  more  probable)  Beverley's  poem  might  then  be  repub- 
lished, in  consequence  of  its  connexion  in  point  ol  story  with 
hakespeare's  comedy. 

Sir  John  Haringtoh's  translation  of  the  whole  "  Orlando 
Furioso"  was  originally  published  in  1591,  but  there  is  no 
special  indication  in  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  "  that  Shake- 
speare availed  himself  of  it.  In  a  note  at  the  eiid  of  the  canto 
occupied  by  Ariodante  and  Geneura,  Sir  John  Harington 
added  this  eenteuce  : — "  Howsoever  it  was,  surely  the  tale  is 
a  pretty  comical  matter,  and  hath  been  written  in  English 
verse  some  few  years  past  (learnedly  and  with  good  grace), 
though  in  verse  of  another  kind  by  M.  George  Turbervil." 
If  this  note  be  correct,  and  Harington  did  not  confound  Tuber- 
ville  with  Beverley,  the  translation  by  the  former  has  been 
lost.  Spenser's  version  of  the  same  incidents,  for  they  are 
evidentlv  borrowed  from  Ariosto,  iu  B.  II.  c.  4,  of  his 
"  Faerie"Queene,"  was  printed  in  1590  ;  but  Shakespeare  is  not 
to  be  traced  to  this  source.  In  Ariosto  and  in  Spenser  the 
rival  of  Ariodante  has  himself  the  interview  with  the  tVinale 
attendant  on  Geneura;  while  in  Shakespeare  "  John  the  Bas- 
tard "  employs  a  creature  of  his  own  for  the  purpose.  Shake- 
speare's plot  may,  therefore,  have  had  an  entirely  ditferent 
origin,  possibly  some  translation,  not  now  extant,  of  Bandello's 
twenty-second  novel,  in  vol.i.  of  the  Lucca  edition,  4to.  1554, 
which  is  entitled,  "  Como  il  S.  Timbreo  di  Cardona,  essendo 
ool  Ee  Piero  d'Aragona  in  Messina,  s'innamora  di  Fenicia  Lio- 
nata;  e  i  varii  fortunevoli  accidenti,  che  avvennero  prima  ehe 
per  moglie  la  prendesse."  It  is  rendered  the  more  likely  that 
Shakespeare  employed  a  lost  version  of  this  novel  by  the  cir- 
ciims!:ance,  that  in  Italian  the  incident  in  which  she,  who  may 
be  called  the  false  Hero,  is  concerned,  is  conducted  nnich  in 
the  same  way  as  in  Shakespeare.  Moreover,  Bandollo  lays 
his  scene  in  Me.ssina  ;  the  father  of  the  lady  is  named  Lionato; 
and  Don  Pedro,  or  Piero,  of  Arragon,  is  the  friend  of  the 
lover  who  is  duped  by  his  rival. 

Nobody  has  observed  upon  the  important  fact,  in  connexion 
with  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  that  a  "History  of  Ario- 
dante and  Geneuora"  was  played  before  Queen  Elizabeth,  by 
"Mulcaster's  children,"  in  1582-3.  How  fiir  Shakespeare 
might  be  indebted  to  this  production  we  cannot  at  all  deter- 
mine ;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  serious  incidents  he  employed 
in  his  comedy  had  at  an  early  date  formed  the  subject  of  a 
dramatic  representation'. 

In  the  ensuing  text  the  4to,  1600,  has  been  followed,  with 
due  notice  of  anv  variations  in  the  folio  of  1623.     The  first 


p.  44,  inclusive.  It  was  reprinted  in  1681,  4to,  "  by  "W .  S. , 
;or  John  Smethw  'eke ;"  and  the  title-page  states  that  it  was 
published  "  as  it  was  acted  by  his  Majesties  Seruants  at 
the  Blacke-Friers  and  the  Globe."  It  is  merely  a  copy  from 
the  folio,  1623,  with  the  addition  of  some  errors  of  the 
press.] 

There  is  a  general  concurrence  of  opinion  that  "  Love's 
Labour 's  Lost "  was  one  of  Shakespeare's  earliest  productions 
for  the  stage.  In  his  course  of  Lectures  delivered  in  1818 
Coleridge  was  so  convinced  upon  this  point,  that  he  smd 
"  the  internal  evidence  was  indisputable;"  and  in  his  ■'  Lite- 
rarv  Eemains,"  II.  102,  we  find  him  using  these  expressions; 
— '"'  The  characters  in  this  play  are  either  impersonated  o* 
of  Shakespeare's  own  multiformity,  by  imaginative  self-posi- 
tion, or  out  of  such  as  a  country  town  and  a  school-boy's  ob- 
servation might  supply'."  The  only  oWection  to  this  theory 
is,  that  at  the  time  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost  "was  composed, 
the  author  seems  to  have  been  acquainted  iu  some  degree 
with  the  nature  of  the  Italian  comic  performances  ;  but  this 
acquaintance  he  might  have  acquired  comparatively  sarly  in 
life.  The  character  "of  Armado  is  that  of  a  Spanish  braggart, 
very  much  such  a  personage  as  was  comiiion  on  the  Italian 
stage,  and  figures  in  GV  Jngannati,  (which,  as  the  Eev.  Jo- 
seph Hunter  was  the  first  to  point  out,  Shakespeare  saw  before 
he  wrote  his  "Twelfth  Night,")  under  the  name  of  Giglio: 
in  the  same  comedy  we  have  M.  Piei-o  Pedante,  a  not  unusual 
character  in  pieces  of  that  description.  Holofernes  is  repeat- 
edly called  "the  Pedant"  in  the  old  copies  of  "Love's  La- 
bour 's  Lost^,"'  while  Annado  is  more  frequently  introduced 
as  "  the  Braggart  "  than  by  his  name.  Steevens,  af^er  stating 
that  he  had  "not  been  able"  to  discover  any  novel  from  which 
this  comedv  had  been  derived,  adds  that  "  the  story  has  most 
of  the  features  of  an  ancient  romance ;"  but  it  is  not  at  all 
impossible  that  Shakespeare  found  some  corresponding  inci- 
dents in  an  Italian  play.  However,  after  a  long  search,  i 
have  not  met  with  any  such  production,  although,  if  used  by 
Shakespeare,  it  most  likely  came  into  this  country  in  a  printed 
form. 

The  question  whether  Shakespeare  visited  Italy,  and  at 
what  period  of  his  life,  cannot  properly  be  considered  here; 
but  it  is  a  very  important  point  in  relation  both  to  his  bio- 
graphy and  works.  It  was  certainly  a  very  general  custom 
for  our  poets  to  travel  thither  towards  the  close  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  and  various  instances  of  the  kuid  are  on  record. 
Eobert  Greene  tells  us  in  his  "  Eepentance,"  1592,  that  he 
had  been  in  Italv  and  Spain :  Thomas  Nash,  about  the  same 
date,  mentions  what  he  had  seen  in  France  and  Italy;  and 
Daniel  has  several  early  sonnets  on  his  "  going  to  Italy,"  and 
on  his  residence  there'.  Some  of  our  most  celebrated  actors 
of  that  time  also  made  journeys  across  the  Alps ;  and  Mr.  Hal- 
liwell,  in  the  notes  to  his  "  Coventry  Mysteries,"  printed  for 
the  Shakespeare  Society,  has  shown  that  Kemp,  the  comedian, 
who,  as  we  have  seen^  performed  Dogberry  in  "  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing,"  was  in  Eome  in  1601. 

It  is  vain  to  attempt  to  fix  with  any  degree  of  precision 
the  date  when  "Love's  Labour's  Lost"  came  from  the 
author's  pen.  It  is  verv  certain  that  Biron  and  Eosaline  are 
early  sketches  of  two  characters  to  which  Siiakespeare  subse- 


impression  contains  several  passages  not  inserted  in  the  re-  quently  gave  greater  force  and  effect — Benedick  and  Beatrice ; 
print  (for  such  it  undoubtedly  was)''uiider  the  care  of  Heininge  but  this  only  shows,  what  cannot  be  doubted,  that^"  Lc  vC  8 
and  Ccndsl,  and  the  te.xt  of  the  4to  is  to   be  preferred  in 


nearly  aJ  instances  of  variation. 


LO,YE'S  LABOUR'S   LOST. 

(*A  pleasant  Conceited  Comedie  called,  Loues  labors  lost.  As 
it  was  presented  before  her  Highnes  this  last  Christmas. 
Newly  corrected  and  augmented  Bv  W.  Shakespere.  Im- 
printed at  London  by  W.  W.  for  Cutbert  Burby.  1598."  4to, 
8S  leaves. 

'jv  the  folio,  1623,  "Love's  Labour's  Lost"  occupies  23 
pages,  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies,"  viz.,  from  p.  122  to 

'  Thomas  J  jrdan's  "  Royal  Arbor  of  Loyal  Poesie."  8vo.  1664.  con- 
:ains  an  ill-\vritten  ballad,  called  "The  Revolution,  a  Icve-story," 
Icunded  upon  the  serious  portion  of  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  " 

'  Farther  on  this  great  psychological  critic  oDserves  :  —  "If  this 
juvenile  drama  had  been  the  only  one  extant  of  our  Shakespeare,  and 
w»  possessed  the  tradition  only  of  his  riper  -works,  or  accounts  of  them 
m  Tsriters  who  had  not  even  mentioned  this  play,  how  many  of  Shake- 
fpeare's  cbjracteristic  features  might  we  not  still  have  discovered  in 
'Love's  Labour's  Lost,'  though  as  in  a  portrait  taken  of  him  in  his 
boyhood:  I  can  never  sufficiently  admire  the  wonderful  activity  of 
tiiought  th'.oughout  the  whole  of  the  first  scene  of  the  play,  rendered 
■:itural,  a«  it  is,  by  the  choice  of  the  characters  and  the  -whimsical 
determination  on -which  the  drama  is  founded — a  whimsical  determina- 
tion c6iiaii.ly,  yet  not  altogether  so  very  improbable  to  those  -who  are 


Labour  's  Lost  "  wa-s  snterior  iu  composition  to  "  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing."  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost "  was  first  printed, 
as  far  as  we  now  know,  in  1598,  4to,  and  then  it  professed  on 
the  title-page  to  have  been  "  newly  corrected  and  ausrmented:  ' 
we  are  likewise  there  told  that  it  was  presented  before  Queen 
Elizabeth  "this  last  Christmas."  It  was  not  uncommon  for 
dramatists  to  revise  and  add  to  their  plays  when  they  were 
selected  for  exhibition  at  court,  and  such  may  have  been  the 
case  whh  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost."  "  The  last  Christmas  ' 
probablv  meant  Christmas,  1598  ;  for  the  year  at  this  penod 
did  not  "end  until  25th  March.  It  seems  likely  that  tne  com- 
edy had  been  written  six  or  even  eight  years  before,  tha..  a 
was  revived  in  1598,  with  certain  corrections  and  augmenta- 

conversant  m  the  mstory  of  the  middle  ages,  with  their  Court"  of 
Love,  and  aU  that  lighter  drapery  of  chiYajry,  which  engaged  even 
mi<'hty  kings,  with  a  sort  of  serio-comic  mterest,  and  may  well  be 
supposed  to  have  occupied  more  completely  the  smaUer  pr'nces  at  a 
time  when  the  noble's  or  prince's  court  contaried  tne  only  theatre  c? 
the  domain  or  principality."  ,       .      ,       .  t  -a  \^  ™™ 

3  It  was  asserted  by  Warburton,  that  in  the  character  of  HoWernei 
Shakespeare  intended  to  ridicule  Flono,  and  that  our  great  poet  here 
condescended  to  personal  satire.  The  only  apparent  offence  by  Flono 
vras  a  passage  in  his  •'  Second  Fruits,"  lo91.  where  he  complauied  o. 
the  want  of  decorum  in  English  dra'natic  representations  The  prt^ 
vocation  was  e^•idently  insufficient,  and  we  7ii»y  safely  disnj-ss  tte 
-whole  conjecture  as  unfounded. 


Ixxxiv 


INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


lions  for  performance  before  the  Quoen  ;  nnd  this  circum- 
Htanco  mi>y  have  led  to  its  ))ublicutioii  immediately  at\erwards. 
The  evidence  derived  from  passages  and  allusions  in  the 
piece,  to  which  Malone  refers  in  his  "  Chronological  Order," 
M  dearly  of  little  value,  and  he  does  not  himself  place  much 
confidence  in  it.  "Love  Labour  Lost"  is  mentioned  by 
Meres  in  169S,  nnd  in  the  same  year  came  out  a  }>ocm  by 
Il[obert]  T[olte]  entitled  "  Alba/'  in  the  commencement  ot 
one  of  the  stanzas  of  which  this  comedy  is  introduced  bj 
mime: — 

"  Love's  Lnb-iur  Lost  I  once  did  see,  a  play 
Yclepcd  so." 
This  does  not  read  a>*  if  the  writer  intended  to  say  that  he  had 
seen  it  recently.  There  is  a  coincidence  in  Act  III.  sc.  1, 
which  requires  notice ;  Costard  there  jokes  upon  the  ditference 
between  "remuneration "and  "guerdon  ;" and  Steevens  con- 
tended that  Shakespeare  was  "  certainly  indebted  for  his  vein 
of  jocularitv"'  in  this  instance  to  a  tract  by  I[ervase]  M[ark- 
h.aml,  calleil.  '•  A  Health  to  the  Gentlemanly  Profession  of 
Serving  Men,"  which  Dr.  Farmer  informed  him  wa8  nub- 
liiihed  in  1578.  The  fact,  however,  is,  that  this  tract  did  not 
appear  until  1598,  the  yearin  which  '•  Love's  Labour 's  Lost " 
came  from  the  press. '  It  wn.s,  possibly,  a  current  jest,  and  it 
will  be  found  quoted  correctly  from  the  original,  and  not  as 
Steevens  inserted  it,  in  a  note  upon  the  j)assage. 

It  is  capable  of  proof  that  the  play,  as  it  stands  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  was  reprinted  from  tlie  4to.  of  1598,  as  it  adopts 
various  errors  of  the  press,  which  could  not  have  found  their 
way  into  the  folio,  had  it  been  taken  from  a  distinct  manu- 
script. There  are,  however,  variations,  which  might  show  that 
tiic  player-editors  of  the  folio  resorted  occasionally  to  some 
authority  besides  tlie  4to.  These  diflfevences  arc  pointed  out 
in  the  notes.  The  4to.  ha-s  no  divisions  into  Acts  and  Scenes; 
and  the  folio  only  distinsruishes  the  Acts,  but  with  considera- 
ble inequality:  thus  the  third  Act  only  occupies  about  a  page 
and  a  half,  while  the  fifth  Act  (misprinted  Actus  Quartus) 
fills  nine  Pages.  Nevertheless,  it  would  liave  been  taking  too 
great  a  lioerty  to  alter  the  arraiiffement  in  this  respect,  al- 
tiiough,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  it  might  be  improved 
without  much  diflRculty. 

There  is  no  entry  of  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost"  at  Stationers' 
Hall,  until  22d  Jan.  1606-7,  when  it  was  transferred  by  Burby 
(the  publisher  of  it  in  1598)  to  Ling,  who  perhaps  contem- 
plated a  new  edition.  If  it  were  printed  in  1606  or  1607,  no 
such  impression  lias  come  down  to  us.  Its  next  appearance 
was  in  tne  folio,  1623;  but  another  4to,  of  no  authority,  was 
published  in  1631,  the  year  before  the  date  of  the  second 
folio. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM. 

I'-A  Midsommer  nights  dreame.     As  it  hath  beene  sundry 
times  publickely  acted,  by  the  Right  honourable,  the  Lord 
Chamberlaine  his  seruants.     Written   by  William  Shake- 
speare.    Imprinted  .it  London,  for  Thomas  Fisher,  and  are 
to  be  soulde  at  his  shoppe,  at  the  Signe  of  the  White  Hart, 
in  Fleetestrcete,  1600.'*  82  leaves. 
"  A  Midsommer  night's  dreame.     As  it  hath  beene  sundry 
times  publikelv  acted,  by  the  Ri?ht  honourable,  the  Lord 
Chamberlaine  liis  seruants.     Written    by  William  Shake- 
speare.    Printed  by  James  Roberts,  1600."  32  leaves. 
In  the  folio,  1628,  it  occupies  18  pages,  viz.,  from  p.  145  to 
162  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "Comedies."      It  is  of 
•course,  like  the  other  plays,  inserted  in  the  later  folios.] 
Thl9  drama,  which  on  the  title-pases  of  the  eariicst  impres- 
sions is  not  called  comely,  history,  nor  traeedy,  but  which  is 
included  by  the  player-editors  of   the  first  lolio  among  the 
"comedies"  of  Shakesr>eare,  was  twice  ]irinted  in  1600,  "for 
Thomas   Fisher"  and   "  by  James  Roberts."     Fisher  was  a 
b>v)k»eller,  and  employed  some  umiamcd  printer ;  but  Roberts 
r^as  a  printer  us  well  as  a  bookseller.    The  only  entry  of  it  at 
Stationers'  Hall  is  to  Fisher,  and  it  runs  as  follows:— 

"8  Oct.  1600.  Tho.  Fysher]  A  booke  called  a  Mydsomcr 
nights  Dreame." 

'  ^o.  l'<41,  p.  0.  The  followine  are  the  terms  Forman  employs, 
and  they  are  sabioined,  that  the  reader  raa^  compare  them  with  the 
pau&ce  in  ••  .Midsummer-NiKht"»  Dream.'  A.  ii.  sc  1.  "  Ther  was 
moch  sicknes  bnt  lyttle  death,  moch  fruit,  and  many  plombsof  all 
sorts  this  yeare  and  small  nuu.  but  fewe  walnuts.  This  monethes 
of  Jnne  and  July  were  lery  wet  and  wonderful  cold  like  winter,  that 
th«  10  dae  of  .lulii  many  did  syt  by  the  Iyer,  yt  waa  so  cold  ;  and  lioe 
■w««  r*  in  Maye  and  June;  and  scarce  too  fair  dais  topether  all  that 
tyme.  but  yt  ravnec  every  day  more  or  lesse.  Yf  yt  did  not  raine, 
thon  was  yt  cold  and  cloudye.  Mani  murders  were  done  this  quar.er. 
There  were  many  preat  Andes  this  sommer,  and  about  Michelmas. 
tii.'-'we  tVe  tbundaunce  of  raine  that  fell  sodeinly.  the  brige  of 


There  is  no  memorandum  regarding  the  impression  by  Ro- 
berts, which  perhaps  was  unauthorized,  alllioueh  Hem.ngfl 
nnd  (Jondcll  followed  his  text  when  they  iiicUided  "  Midsum- 
mer-Night's Dream  "  in  the  folio  of  1623.  lu  some  instances 
the  folio  adopts  the  evident  misprints  of  Roberts,  while  such 
iinprovementa  as  it  makes  are  not  obtained  from  Fisher's 
more  accurate  copy:  both  the  errors  and  emendations,  if  not 
merely  trifling,  are  pointed  out  in  our  notes.  The  chief  differ- 
ence "between  the  two  quartos  and  the  folio  is,  that  in  tlie 
latter  the  Acts,  but  not  the  Scenes,  are  distinguished. 

We  know  frcm  the  ruUudis  Tamia  of  Meres,  tliat  "  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  "  was  in  existence  at  least  two  years 
betbre  it  came  from  the  press.  On  the  question  when  it  was 
written,  two  pieces  of  internal  evidence  nave  been  especially 
noticed.  Mr.  Halliwell,  in  his  "Introduction  to  a  .Midsum- 
mer-Night's Dream  "  has  produced  a  passage  from  the  Diarj 
of  Dr.  Simon  Forman,  which  in  some  points  tallies  with  the 
description  of  the  state  of  the  weather,  and  the  condition  ot 
the  country  given  by  the  Fairy  Queen. »  The  memorandun 
in  Forman's  Diary  relates  to  the  year  1594,  and  Stowe's  Chro 
iiicle  may  be  quoted  to  the  same  ettect. 

The  other  supposed  temporary  allusion  occurs  in  Act  v 
sc.  1.  and  is  conUiined  in  the  lines, — 

"The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  learning,  late  deceas'd  in  beggary," 

which  some  have  imagined  to  refer  to  the  death  of  Spenser. 
If  so,  it  must  have  been  an  insertion  in  the  drama  subsequent 
to  its  first  production,  because  Spenser  was  not  dead  in  1598, 
when  "Midsummer-Night's  Dream"  was  mentioned  by 
Meres.  It  is  very  doubtful  whether  any  particular  reference 
were  intended  by  Shakespeare,  who,  perhaps,  only  meant  to 
advert  in  strong  terms  to  the  general  neglect  of  learning.  T. 
Warton  carrieri  the  question  back  to  shortly  subsequent  to 
the  year  1591,  when  Spenser's  "Tears  of  the  Muses"  was 
printed,  which,  from  the  time  of  Kowe  to  that  of  Malone,  jvaa 
supposed  to  contain  passages  highly  laudatory  of  Shakespeare. 
There  is  a  slight  coincidence  of  expression  between  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare,  in  the  poem  of  the  one,  and  in  the  drama 
of  the  other,  which  deserves  remark  :  Spenser  says, — 

"Our  pleasant  Willy,  ah,  is  dead  of  late. 
And  one  of  Shakespeare's  lines  is, — 

"  Of  learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary." 
Yet  it  is  quite  clear,  from  a  subsequent  stanza  in  "  The  Tears 
of  the  Muses,"  that  Spenser  did  not  refer  to  the  natural  death 
of  "  Willy,"  whoever  he  were,  but  merely  that  he  "  rather 
chose  to  sit  in  idle  cell,"  than  write  in  such  unfayourab.le 
times.  In  the  same  manner,  Shakespeare  might  not  mean 
that  Spenser  (if  the  allusion  indeed  be  to  him)  was  actually 
"deceased,"  but  merely,  as  Spenser  expresses  it  in  his  "Colin 
Clout,"  that  he  was  "  dead  in  dole."  The  allusion  to  Queen 
Elizabeth  as  the  "  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west,"  in  A.  ii. 
sc.  1,  affords  no  note  of  time. 

It  seems  highly  probable  that  "A  Midsummer-Night's 
Dream  "  was  not  written  before  the  autumn  of  1594,  and  if  the 
speech  of  Titania  in  A,  ii.  sc.  1,  were  intended  to  describe  the 
real  state  of  the  kingdom,  from  the  extraordinary  wetness  of 
tlie  season,  we  may  infer  that  the  drama  came  from  the  pen 
of  Shakespeare  at  the  close  of  1594,  or  in  the  beginning  of 
1595. 

"The  Knight's  Tale"  of  Chaucer,  and  the  same  poet's 
"Tysbe  of  Babylone,"  together  with  Arthur  Golding's  trans- 
lation of  the  story  of  Pyramus  and  Tliisbe  from  Ovid,  are  the 
only  sources  yetpoiiited  out  of  the  plots  introduced  and  em- 
ployed by  Shakespeare.  Oberon,  Titania,  and  Robin  Good- 
fellow,  or  Puck,  are  mentioned,  as  bclonsring  to  the  fairy 
mythology,  by  many  autliors  of  the  time.  The  Percy  Society 
not  long  since  reprinted  a  tract  called  "  Robin  Good-fellow 
his  Mad  Pranks  and  Merry  Jests,"  from  an  edition  in  1628 
but  there  is  little  doubt  that  it  originally  came  out  at  leas 
forty  years  earlier*:  together  with  a  ballad  inserted  ic  th 
Introduction  to  that  reprint,  it  shows  how  Shakespeare 
availed  himself  of  existing  popular  superstitions.  In  "  Percy'* 
Reliques"  (III.  254,  edit.  1812,)  is  a  ballad  entitled  "The 

Ware  was  broken  downe,  and  at  Stratford  Bowe.  the  water  was  nevai 
seen  »o  byg  a.s  yt  was  :  and  in  the  lat'.ere  end  of  October,  the  waten 
burst  downe  the  bridge  at  Cambridgr  In  Barkshira  were  n^anv  gre( 
waters,  wherewith  was  moch  harm  d«,.ie  sodenly."  MS;  Ashm.  3S4, 
fol.  105. 

'  A  wood-cut  is  on  the  title-page,  intended  to  represent  Robio 
Goodfellow  :  he  is  like  a  Satyr,  with  hoofs  and  horns,  and  a  broom 
over  his  shoulder.  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  in  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor," was  no  doubt  thus  dressed,  when  he  represented  Puck,  or  Robii 
Goodfellow.  A  copy  of  the  wood-cut  may  be  seen  in  "  The  Bridpa 
water  Library  Catalogue,"  4to,  1837,  p.  258. 


INTRODUCTION^   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


Ixxxv 


Merry  rraoks  of  Robin  Good-fellow,"  attribxited  to  Ben  Joii-  i 
»on,  of  which  I  have  a  version  in  a  MS.  pf  the  time  :  it  is  the  ' 
inor«  curious,  because  it  has  the  initials  B.  J.  at  the  end.  It  • 
oontains  some  variations  and  an  additional  stanza,  which,  < 
oonsidering  the  subject  of  the  poem,  it  may  be  worth  while 
litre  to  subjoin  :— 

•■  When  as  my  fellow  elfes  and  I 
In  circled  ring  do  trip  around 
If  that  our  sports  by  any  eye 
Do  happen  to  be  seen  or  fount! 
If  that  they 
No  words  do  say. 
But  mu?n  continue  as  thej   go. 
Each  night  I  do 
Put  groat  in  shoe 
And  wind  out  laughing,  ho,  ho.  no  " 

Tne  incidetite  connected  with  the  life  of  Eobin  Good-fellow 
were,  no  doubt,  worked  up  by  different  dramatists  in  diffoc- 
aut  ways;  .and  in  "  Henslowe's  Diary"  are  inserted  two 
SHtries  of  money  paid  Co  Henry  Ghettle  for  a  play  he  was 
writing  in  Sept.  1602,  under  the  titleof  "Eobin  Good-fellow." 

There  js  every  reason  to  believe  that,  "  Midsummer-Night's 
Dream"  was  popular:  in  1622,  the  year  before  it  was  re- 
printed in  the  first  fojio,  it  is  thus  mentioned  by  Taylor,  ^le 
water-poet,  in  his  "  Sir  Gregory  Nonsense  :" — "  I  say,  as  it  is 
appknsfully  written,  smd.  eonimeuded  to  posterity,  an  the 
Midsutnmer^Night's  Dniatn : — if  we  oflend.  it  is  with  oiir 
good  will :  we  came  \yith  no  iuteiit  but  to  offend,  and  sliow 
our  simple  skill." — (See  A.  \^.  sic.  1.) 

It  appears  by  a  MS.  preserved  in  the  Library  at  Lambeth 
Palace,  that  "Midsummer-Night's  Dream"  was  represented 
at  the  house  of  John  Williams,  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  on  27tji 
Sept.  1631.    Hisl.  of  Eng.  Dram.  Poetry  and  tlie  Stage,  ii,  26. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE. 

["The  excellent  History  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice.     With 
the  extreme  cruelly  of  Shylocke  the  lew  towards  the  saide 
Merchant,  in  cutting  a  inst  pound  of  his  flesh.     And  the 
obtaining  of  Portia,  by  the  choyse  of  three  caskets.  Written 
by  W.  Shakespeare.     Printed"  by  J.  Eoberts,  1600."    4to, 
40  leaves. 
"  The  most  excellent  Historic  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 
With  the  extreame  crueltie  of  Shylocke  the  lewe  towards 
the  sayd  Merchant,  in  cutting  a  iust  pound  of  his  flesh :  and 
the  obtayning  of  Portia  by  the  choyse  of  three  chests.     As 
it  hath  beene  diners  times  acted  by  the  Lord  Ghamberlaine 
his  Seruants.    Written  by  William  Shakespeare.    At  Lon- 
don, Printed  by  I.  E.,  for  Thomas  Heyes,  and  are  to  be  sold 
in  Paules  Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Greene  Dragon, 
1600."  4to,  38  leaves. 
It  is  also  printed  in  the  folio,  1623,  where  it  occupies  22  pages,  I 
viz.,  from  p.  163  to  p.  184,  inclusive,  in  the  division  of"  Co- 
medies." Besides  its  appearance  in  the  later  folios,  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  was  republished  in  4to,  in  1637  and  1652.] 
The  two  plots  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  are  found  as 
distinct  novels  in  various  ancient  foreign  authorities,  but  no 
English  original  of  either  of  them  of  the  age  of  Shakespeare 
has  been  discovered.  That  there  were  such  originals  is  highly 
probable,  but  if  so  they  have  perished  with  many  other  relics 
of  our  popular  literature.     Whether  the  separate  incidents, 
relating  to  the  bond  and  to  the  caskets,  were  ever  combined 
in  the  same  novel,  at  all  as  Shakespeare  combined  them  in 
his  drama,  cannot  of  course  be  determined.    Steevens  asserts 
broadly,  that  "  a  play  comprehending  the  distinct  plots  of 
Shakespeare's  Merchant  of  Venice  had  been  exhibited  long 
before  he  commenced  a  writer  ;"  and  the  evidence  he  adduces 
IS  a  passage  from  Gosson's  "  School  of  Abuse,"  1579,  where 
fcj  especially  praises  two  plays  "  showne  at  the  Bull,"  one, 
^Ijd  "The  Jew,"  and  the  other  "  Ptolome  :"  of  the  former  j 
toDsson  states,  that  it  "  represented  the  greedinesse  of  worldly  | 
ihusers,  and  bloody  minis  of  usurers."     (Shakespeare  Socie-  ; 
ty's  Eeprint,  p.  80.)  The   terms,   "worldly  chusers,"  may 
certainly  have  reference  to  the  choice  of  ihe" caskets;  and  the 
condcet  of  Shylock  may  very  well  be  intended  by  the  words,  I 
"  blocdy  minds  of  usurers.''     It  is  possible,  therefore,  that  a ' 
theatrical  performance  should  have  existed,  anterior  to  the  | 
tii.ie  of  Shakespeare,  in  which  the  separate  plots  were  united:  i 
and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  some  novel  had  been  published  t 
whioh  gave  the  same  incidents  in  a  narrative  form.     "  On  the  ' 
whole,''  says  the  learned  and  judicious  Tyrwhitt,  "  I  am  in-  1 
dined  to  suspect  that  Shakespeare  followed  some  hitherto 
unknown  novelist,  who  had  saved  him  the  trouble  of  working 
np  the  two  stories  into  one." 

Both  stories  are  found  separately  in  the  Latin  Gesta  Homa- 
7K>ruin,  with  considerable  variations:  that  of  the  bond  is 
('hap.  xlviii.  of  MS.  Harl.  2270,  as  leferred  to  by  Tyrwhitt;  | 


and  that  of  the  caskets  is  chap,  xcix,  of  the  same  eoDection. 
The  Pecorom  of  Ser  Giovanni  Fiorentino  also  contains  a  novei 
very  similar  to  that  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  with  ro- 
spect  to  the  bond,  the  disguise  and  agency  of  Portia,  and  the 
gift  of  the  ring.  This  narrative  {Giorn.  iv.  nav.  1)  was  writ- 
ten as  early  as  the  year  1S78,  but  not  printed  in  Italy  until 
1554 ;  and  it  is  remarkable  that  the  scene  of  certain  romantic 
adventures,  in  which  the  hero  was  engaged,  is  there  laid  in 
the  dwelling  of  a  lady  at  Belmont.  These  adventures  se^m 
afterwards  to  have  been  changed,  in  some  English  version, 
for  the  incidents  of  the  caskets.  In  Boccaccio's  Decameron 
(Giorn.  x.,  nov.  1)  a  choice  of  caskets  is  introduced,  bnt  it 
does  not  in  other  respects  resemble  the  choice  as  we  find  it 
in  Shakespeare  :  while  the  latter,  even  to  the  inscriptions,  is 
extremely  like  the  history  in  the  Gesta  Eomanorum. 

The  earliest  notice  in  English,  with  a  date,  of  any  circum- 
stances connected  with  the  bond  and  its  fort'eitnre,  h,  20vl- 
taiued  in  "The  Orator:  handling  a  Hundred  severv^  Dis- 
courses," a  translation  from  the  French  of  Alexander  Silvayr., 
by  Anthony  Munday,  who  published  it  under  the  name  of 
Lazarus  Plot,  in  1596,  4to.  There,  with  the  head  of  "  Decla- 
mation 95,"  we  find  one  "  Of  a  Jew,  who  would  for  his  debt 
have  a  pound  of  flesh  of  a  Christian;"  and  it  is  followed  by 
"  The  Christian's  Answer,"  but  nothing  is  said  of  the  inci- 
dents, out  of  which  these  "  declamatiojis  "  arose.  Of  the  old 
ballad  of  "  The  Crueltie  of  Gernutus,  a  Jewe,"  in  "  Percy's 
Eeliques,"  I.  228  (edit.  1812)  no  dated  edition  is  known ;  but 
most  readers  will  be  inclined  to  agree  with  Warton  ("  Obser- 
vations on  the  Faerie  Queene,"  I."l28,)  that  it  was  not  found- 
ed upon  Shakesiaeare's  play,  and  was  anterior  to  it :  it  might 
owe  its  origin  to  the  ancient  drama  of  "  The  Jew,"  mentioned 
by  Gosson.  "  Henslowe's  Diary,"  under  date  of  25th  Aug. 
1594,  contains  an  entry  relating  to  the  performance  of  "The 
Venetian  Comedy,"  which  Malone  conjectured  might  mean 
"  The  Merchant  of  Venice ;"  and  it  is  a  circumstance  not  to 
be  passed  over,  that  in  1594  the  company  of  actors  to  which 
Shakespeare  was  attached  was  playing  at  the  theatre  in  New- 
ington  Butts,  in  conjunction,  as  far  as  we  can  now  learn,  with 
the  company  of  which  Henslowe  was  chief  manager. 

Meres  has  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  in  his  list,  which 
was  published  in  1598,  and  we  have  no  means  of  knowing 
how  long  prior  to  that  date  it  was  written.    If  it  were  "  The 
Venetian  Comedy  "  of  Henslowe,  it  was  in  a  course  of  per- 
formance in  August,  1594.  The  earliest  entry  regarding  "The 
Merchant  of  Venice"  in  the  Stationers'  Register  is  curious, 
from  its  particularity : — 
"22  July,  1598,  James  Eobertes.]     A   booke  of  the  Mar- 
chaunt  of  Venyec,  or  otherwise  called  the  Jewe  of  Ve- 
nyse.     Provided  that  yt  bee  not  prynted  by  the  said 
James  Eobertes,  or  anye  other  whatsoever,  without 
lycence  first  had  from  the  right  honourable  the  Lord 
Chamberlen." 
Shakespeare  was  one  of  the  players  of  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain, and  the  object  seems  to  nave  been  to  prevent  the  pub- 
lication of  the  play  without  the  consent  of  tlie  company,  to  be 
signified  through  the  nobleman  under  whose  patronage  they 
acted.     This  caution  was  given  two  years  before  "The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  "  actually  came  from  the  press  :  we  find  it 
published  in  1600,  both  by  J.  Eoberts  and  by  Thomas  Heyes, 
in  favour  ot  the  last  of  whom  we  meet  with  another  entry  in 
the  Stationers'  books,  without  any  proviso,  dated, — 

"28  Oct.,  1600,  Tho.  Haies.]    The  booke  of  the  Merchant 

of  Venyce." 
By  this  time  the  "licence"  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  for 
printing  the  play  had  probably  been  obtaine>t.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  title-page"of  Roberts's  edition  of  1600,  no  place  is  stated 
where  it  was  to  be  purchased:  it  is  merely,  "Printed  by  J. 
Eoberts,  1600;"  while  the  imprint  to  the  edition  of  Heyea 
informs  us  that  it  was  "printed  by  I.  R.,"  and  that  it  wu 
"  to  be  sold  in  Pauls  Church-yard,"  &c.  I.  E.,  the  printe 
of  the  edition  of  Heyes,  was,  most  likely,  J.  Eoberts  ;  but  it 
is  entirely  a  distinct  impression  to  that  which  appeared  in  tli« 
same  year  with  the  name  of  Eoberts.  The  edition  of  Eoberts 
is,  on  the  whole,  to  be  preferred  to  that  of  Heyes;  but  the 
editors  of  the  folio  of  1623  indisputably  employed  that  of 
Heyes,  adopting  various  misprints,  but  inserting  also  sevenil 
improvements  of  the  Iv,kT.  These  are  pointed  out  in  our 
notes  in  the  course  of  the  plav.  The  similarity  between  the 
names  of  Salanio,  Salarino,  and  Salerio,  in  the  Dramatis  Per - 
soncs,  has  led  to  some  confusion  of  the  speakeri  in  aU  tho 
copies,  quarto  and  folio,  which  it  has  not  always  been  found 
easy  to  set  right. 

"  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  was  performed  before  James  I., 
on  Shrove-Sunday,  and  again  on  Shrove-Tucsday,  1605: 
hence  we  have  a  right  to  infer  that  it  gave  great  satisfaction 
at  court.    Tlie  fact  is  thus  recorded  in  the  original  accounl 


Ixxxvi 


INTRODUCTION    TO  THE  PLAYS. 


of  expen«e«i,  mnde  out  l.y  tlie  Master  of  the  Revels,  and  still 
piosorved  in  tlio  Audit  Office  : — 

"  IJj-  His  Ml.'-  I'lttit-w.     On  Shrovsunday  a  play  of  the 

M.-irohaiit  of  Veiiis." 

"  lly  hi*  Ma"*  Players.     On  Shrovtusday  a  piny  cauled 

tlie  Martohant  of  Venis  apaine,  commanded  by  the 

Kiiips  Ma''*." 

The  name  of  Shaxberd.  for  Shakespeare,  as  "the  poet 

wjneh  (nade  the  play,"  is  added  in  the  margin  opposite  both 

SPeno  entries.     Nolwithstandinsr  the  popularity  of  this  drama 

before  the  closinjr  of  the  theatres  in  1642,  it  secm.s  to  have 

been  co  much  furpottcn  soon  after  the  Restoration,  that  in 

1664.  Tbomas  Jordan  made  a  ballad  out  of  the  story  of  it  in 

his  "  Royal  Arbor  of  Loyal  I'oesie,"  and  thoueht  himself  at 

liberty  to  pervert  the  original,  by  making  the  Jew's  daughter 

the  p'rincipal   instrument  of  punishintr  her  own  father:  at 

the  trial,  she  takes  the  office  which  Shakespeare  assigns  to 

Portia. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

'  "As  You  Like  It"  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623,  where 
t  occupies  twenty-three  pasres,  viz.  from  p.  185  to  p.  207 
inclusive,  in  the  division  of"  Comedies."  It  preserved  its 
place  in  the  three  subsequent  impressions  of  that  volume 
in  1632,  1664,  and  1685.] 

"  As  Yor  Like  It"  is  not  only  founded  upon,  but  in  some 
^outs  very  closely  coiiied  from,  a  novel  by  Thomas  Lodge, 
wiivr  the"title  of  "  Rosalynde ;  Euphues  Golden  Legacie," 
which  was  originally  j>rinted  in  4to,  1590,  a  second  time  in 
1592,  and  a  third  edition  came  out  in  1598.     We  have  no  in- 


telligence of  any  re-imnression  of  it  between  1592  and  1598. 

1  jterii 
are  disposed  to  th 


fhis  third  edition  uerhaps  appeared  early  in  1598 ;  and  we 
ink,  tiiat  the  re-publication  of  so  popular  a 


date  of"  As  You  Like  It."    Shakespeare  probably  iutendiM 
to  make  no  allusion  to  any  particular  fountain. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  in  deciding  upon  the  probable  daU 
of  "  As  You  Like  It,"  that  Meres  makes  no  mention  of  it  in 
his  PaUadU  Tamia,  1598;  and  as  it  was  entered  at  Stationers' 
Hall  on  the  4th  August  [1600],  we  may  conclude  that  it  waa 
written  and  acted  in  that  interval.  In  A.  iii.  so.  .5.  a  line  frois 
the  first  Sestiad  of  Marlowe's  "  Hero  and  Leander  "  is  quoted : 
and  as  that  poem  was  first  printed  in  1508,  "As  You  Like  It" 
may  not  have  been  written  until  after  it  appeared. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Lodge,  when  composing  his  "  Rosa- 
lynde:  Euphues  Golden  Legacie,"  which  he  did,  as  he  in- 
forms us,  while  on  a  voyage  with  Captain  Clarke,  "  to  the  isl- 
ands of  Terceras  and  the  Canaries,"  had  either  "  The  Coke's 
Tale  of  Gamelyn"  (falsely  attributed  to  Chaucer,  as  Tyrwhitt 
contends  in  his  Introd.  to  the  Cant.  Tales,  1.  clx.xxiii.  Edit 
1830.)  strongly  in  his  recollection,  or,  which  does  not  seem 
very  probable  in  such  a  situation,  with  a  manuscript  of  it 
actually  before  him.  It  was  not  printed  until  more  than  a 
century  afterwards.  According  to  Farmer,  Shakespeare 
looked  no  firther  than  Lodge's  novel,  which  he  followed  in 
"  As  You  Like  It"  quite  as  closely  as  he  did  Greene's  "  Pan- 
dosto"  in  the  "  VVinter's  Tale."  There  are  one  or  two  coin- 
cidences of  e.xpression  between  "  As  You  Like  It "  and  "  The 
Coke'.s  Tale  of  Gamelyn,"  but  not  perhaps  more  than  might 
be  accidental,  and  the' opinion  of  Farmer  appears  to  be  suffi- 
ciently borne  out.  Lodge's  "  Rosalyndc  "  has  been  recently 
printed  as  part  of  "  Shakespeare's  Library,"  and  it  will  be 
easy,  therefore,  for  the  reader  to  trace  the  "particular  resem- 
blances between  it  and  "  As  You  Like  It." 

In  his  Lectures  in  1818,  Coleridge  eloquently  and  justly 
praised  the  pastoral  beauty  and  simplicity  of  "  As  You  Like 
It;"  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  compare  it' with  Lodge's  "  Ro- 
salynde,"  where  the  descriptions  of  persons  and  of  scenery 
are  comparatively  forced  and  artificial : — "  Shakespeare,"  saici 
Coleridge,  "  never  gives  a  description  of  rustic  scenery  merely 
for  its  own  sake,  or  to  show  how  well  he  can  paint  natural 


work  directed  Shakespeare's  attention  to  it.     If  so,  "  As  You 
Like  It "  may  have  been  written  in  the  summer  of  1598,  and 

first  acted  in  the  winter  of  the  same,  or  in  the  spring  of  the  j  objects :  he  is  never  tedious  or  elaborate,  but  While  he  now 
tollowing  year.i  -     o»  »•  ,  r.  \im<i  then  displavs  marvellous  accuracy  and  minuteness  of 

btationers  Company    knowledge,  he  usnally  only  touches  upon  the  larger  features 


The  only  entry  in  the  registers  of 
relating  to  "As  You  Like  It,"  is  confirmatory  of  this  suppo" 
bilion.  It  has  been  iJready  referred  to  in  the  "  Introduction'' 
.0  '•  Much  Ado  about  Nothing"  and  it  will  be  well  to  insert 
It  here,  precisely  in  the  manner  in  which  it  stands  in  the 
original  record : — 

"  4  August. 

"  As  yoa  like  yt,  a  book.  Henry  the  ffift,  a  book.  Every 
mm  in  his  humor,  a  book.  The  Commedie  of  Much 
adoo  about  nothinge,  a  book." 

Opposite  this  memorandum  are  added  the  words  "  To  be 
staiea."  It  will  be  remarked,  that  there  is  an  important  de- 
ficiency in  the  entry,  as  resrards  the  purpose  to  which  we 
wish  to  apply  it : — the  date  of  the  year  is  not  given  ;  but  Ma- 
.one  conjectured,  and  in  that  conjecture  I  have  expressed  con- 
currence, that  the  clerk  who  wrote  the  titles  of  the  four  plays, 
irith  the  date  of  "  4  Augu.st,"  did  not  think  it  necessary  there 
to  repeat  the  year  1600,  as  it  was  found  in  the  memorandum 
immediately  preceding  that  we  have  above  quoted.  Shake- 
•peare's  "  Henry  the  Fiftii,"  and  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  " 
were  both  prii.ted  in  1600,  and  Ben  Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in 
his  Humour"  in  the  year  t'ollowing;  though  Gilford,  in  his 
edition  of  that  poet's  works  (vol.  i^  p.  2),  by  a  strange  error, 
stales,  that  the  first  impression  was  in  1603.'  The  "  stay,"  as 
regards  ''  Henry  the  Fifth,"  "  Every  Man  in  his  Ilumour,"  and 
"  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  was  doubtless  soon  removed; 
for  "  Henry  the  Fifth"  was  entered  again  for  publication  on 
the  Ulh  August;  and,  as  has  been  already  shown.  Wise  and 
A«plev  UMjk  the  saiw;  course  with  "  Much  Ado  about  No- 
thing '  on  the  23rd  August.  There  is  no  known  edition  of 
''As  You  Like  It"  prior  to  its  appearance  in  the  folio  of 
"iiZ,  Cwiiere  it  is  divided  into  Scenes,  as  well  as  .^cts)  and 
•e  may  possibly  sussume  that  the  "  stay"  w:is  not,  for  some 
anex|ilained  and  uncertain  reason,  removed  as  to  that  comedy. 

Malonc  relied  upon  a  piece  of  internal  evidence,  which,  if 
examined,  seems  to  be  of  no  value  in  settling  the  question 
when  "As  You  Like  It"  wiw  first  written.  The  following 
words  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  Rosalind : — "  I  weep  for 
nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain"  (A.  iv.  sc.  1),  which 
Malone  suj.posed  to  refer  to  an  alabaster  fiirure  of  iDiana  on 
tho  ea.^t  of  Cheaf>side,  wliich,  according  to  Stowe's  I*'  Survey 
af  London,"  was  set  up  in  i598,  and  was  in  decay  in  1608. 
r'uis  figure  of  Diana  did  not  "  weep ;"  for  Stowc  expressly 
states  that  the  water  aime  "  prilling  from  her  naked  breast." 
Therefore,  thi*  passage  proves  nothing  as  far  as  respects  the 


and  broader  characteristics,  leaving  the  fillings  up  to  the  ima- 
gination. Thus  in  '  As  You  Like  It'  he  describes  an  oak  ot 
many  centuries  growth  in  a  single  line  : — 

'  Under  an  oak  whose  antique  root  peeps  out.' 
Other  and  inferior  writers  would  have  dwelt  on  this  descrip- 
tion, and  worked  it  out  with  all  the  pettiness  and  imperti- 
nence of  detail.     In  Shakespeare  the  '  antique  root '  furnishes 
the  whole  picture." 

These  expressions  are  copied  from  notes  made  at  the  time; 
and  they  partially,  though  imperfectly,  supply  an  obviou? 
deficiency  of  sreneral  criticism  in  vol.  ii.  p.  115,  of  Coleridge's 
"  Literary  Remains." 

Adam  Spencer  is  a  character  in  "  The  Coke's  Tale  of  Game- 
lyn,'' and  in  Lodge's  "  Rosalvnde :"  and  a  great  additional  in- 
terest attaches  to  it,  because  it  is  supposed, With  some  appear- 
ance of  truth,  that  the  part  was  originally  sustained  by  Shake 
speare  himself.  We  have  this  statement  on  the  authority  of 
Oldys's  MSS.:  he  is  said  to  have  derived  it,  intermedi.itely  of 
course,  from  Gilbert  Shakespeare,  who  survived  tlie  Restora- 
tion, and  who  had  a  faint  recollection  of  having  seen  his  bro- 
ther William  "in  one  of  his  own  comedies,  wherein,  being  to 
personate  a  decrepit  old  man,  he  wore  a  long  beard,  and  ap- 
peared 80  weak  and  drooping,  ami  unable  to  walk,  that  he 
was  forced  to  be  supported  and  carried  by  another  person  to 
a  table,  at  which  he  was  seated  among  some  company,  who 
were  eatine,  and  one  of  them  sung  a  song."  This  descriptioL 
very  exactly  tallies  wiilj  "  As  You  Like  It,"  A.  ii.  sc.  7. 

Shakespeare  found  no  prototypes  in  Lodge,  nor  in  anj 
other  work  yet  discovered,  for  the  characters  of  Jaques, 
Touchstone,  and  Audrey.  On  the  admirable  manner  in  which 
he  has  mnde  them  part  of  the  staple  of  his  story,  and  on  the 
importance  of  these  additions,  it  is  needless  to  enlani-e.  It  ia 
rather  singular,  that  Shakespeare  should  have  introduced  twe 
characters  of  the  nameof  Jaques  into  the  same  play;  but  in  tha 
old  impressions,  Jaques  de  Bois,  in  the  f)refixe3  to  his  speeches, 
is  merely  called  the  "  Second  Brother." 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

["  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew"  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of 
1623,  where  it  occupies  twenty-two  paees,  viz.  from  p.  208 
to  page  229  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies."  It 
was  reprinted  in  the  three  later  folios.] 


>  tf  w»»nt>DO»!  rhat  the  third  edition  of  I^odpe'ii  "  Roj-alynde"  wan    one  of  tne  earlier  irapreswions  in  I.'inO  or  1.592,  it  would  show  tha   "A» 
oca<ioned  oy  mr  lopuian'f  of  .SnaKe.«peare'i<  comedy,  founded  upon    You  Like  It"  was  acted  in  1 59-.  and  m  cht  have  leen  written  i»    59" 


mTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


Ixxxvn 


Shakespeare  was  indebted  for  nearly  the  whole  plot  of  his 
"Taming  of  the  Shrew"  to  an  older  play,  published  in  1594, 
auder  the  title  of  "  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew."  The  mere  cir- 
cumstance of  tlie  adoption  of  the  title,  substituting  only  the 
definite  for  the  indefinite  article,  proves  that  he  had  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  concealing  his  obligation. 

When  Steevens  published  the  "  Six  Old  Plays,"  more  or 
less  employed  by  Shakespeare  in  six  of  his  own  dramas,  no 
earlier  edition  of  the  "  Taming  of  «  Shrew"  than  that  of  1607 
was  known.  It  was  conjectured,  however,  that  it  had  come 
from  the  press  at  an  earlier  date,  and  Pope  appeared  to  have 
been  once  in  possession  of  a  copy  of  it,  published  as  early  as 
1594.  This  copy  has  since  been  recovered,  and  is  now  in  the 
collection  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire :  the  e.xact  title  of  it  is 
as  follows : — 

"  A  Pleasant  Conceited  Historic,  called  The  taming  of  a 
Shrew.  As  it  was  sundry  times  acted  by  the  Eight  honorable 
the  Earle  of  Pembrook  his  seruants.  Printed  at  London  by 
Peter  Short  and  are  to  be  sold  by  Cutbert  Burble,  at  his  shop 
at  the  Eoyall  Exchange.  1594."  "4to. 

It  was  reprinted  in  1596,  and  a  copy  of  that  edition  is  in 
the  possession  of  Lord  Francis  Egerton.  The  impression  of 
1607,  the  copy  used  by  Steevens,  is  in  the  collection  of  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire. 

There  are  three  entries  in  the  Kegisters  of  the  Stationers' 
Company  relating  to  "The  Taming  of  a  Shrew"  but  not  one 
referring  to  Shakespeare's  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew. "i  When 
Blounte  and  Jaggard.  on  the  8th  Nov.  1623,  entered  "  Mr. 
William  Shakspeere's  Comedyes,  Histories,  and  Tragedyes, 
soe  many  of  the  said  copies  as  are  not  formerly  entered  to 
other  men,"  they  did  not  include  "The  Taming  of  the  Shrew:" 
hence  an  inference  might  be  drawn,  that  at  some  previous 
time  it  had  been  "entered  to  other  men;"  but  no  such  entry 
lias  been  found,  and  Shakespeare's  comedy,  probably,  was 
never  printed  until  it  was  inserted  in  the  folio  of  1623. 

On  the  question,  when  it  was  originally  composed,  opinions, 
including  my  own,  have  varied  considerably ;  but  I  now  think 
we  can  arrive  at  a  tolerably  satisfactory  decision.  Malone  first 
believed  that  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  "  was  written  in 
1606,  and  subsequently  gave  1596  as  its  probable  date.  It 
appears  to  me  that  n'obody  has  sufficiently  attended  to  the 
apparently  unimportant  fact  that  in  "Hamlet"  Shakespeare 
mistakenly  introduces  the  name  of  Baptista  as  that  of  a  wo- 
man, while  in  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  "  Baptista  is  the 
fiither  of  Katharine  and  Bianca.  Had  he  been  aware  when  he 
wrote  "Hamlet"  that  Baptista  wa-s  the  name  of  a  man,  he 
would  hardly  have  used  it  for  that  of  a  woman :  but  before  he 
p-oduced  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  "  he  had  detected  his 
own  error.  The  great  probability  is,  that  "  Hamlet "  was 
written  at  the  earliest  in  1601,  and  "The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew"  perhaps  came  from  the  pen  of  its  author  not  very 
long  afterwards. 

The  recent  reprint  of  "  The  Pleasant  Comedy  of  Patient 
Grissill,"  by  Dekker,  Chettle,  and  Haughton,  from  the  edition 
of  1603,  tends  to  throw  light  on  this  point.  Henslowe's  Diary 
establishes,  that  the  three  dramatists  above  named  were  writ- 
ing it  in  the  winter  of  1599.  It  contains  various  allusions  to 
the  taming  of  shrews ;  and  it  is  to  be  recollected  that  the  old 
"Taming  of  a  Shrew"  was  acted  by  Henslowe's  company, 
and  is  mentioned  by  him  under  the  date  of  11th  June,  1594. 
One  of  the  passages  in  "  Patient  Grissill,"  which  seems  to  con- 
'  nect  the  two,  occurs  in  Act  v.  sc.  2,  where  Sir  Owen  pro- 
ducing his  wands,  says  to  the  marquess,  "  I  will  learn  your 
medicines  to  tame  shrews."  This  expression  is  remarkable, 
because  we  find  by  Henslowe's  Diary  that,  in  July,  1602, 
Dekker  received  a  payment  from  the  old  manager,  on  account 
of  a  comedy  hs  was  writing  under  the  title  of  "  A  Medicine 
for  a  curst  Wife."  My  conjecture  is,  that  Shakespeare  (in 
coalition,  possibly,  with  some  other  dramatist,  who  wrote  the 
portions  which  are  admitted  not  to  be  in  Shakespeare's  manner)  | 
prciuced  his  "Tamingof  the  Shrew"  soon  after  " Patient 
fcrrissill"  had  been  brought  upon  the  stage,  and  as  a  sort  of 
counterpart  to  it :  and  that  Dekker  followed  up  the  subject  in 
the  summer  of  1602  by  his  "  Medicine  for  a  curst  Wife,"  hav- 
ijig  been  incited  by  the  success  of  Shakespeare's  "  Taming  of 
the  Shrew  "  at  a  rival  theatre.  At  this  time  the  old  "  Taming 
of  a  Shrew"  had  been  laid  by  as  a  public  performance,  and 
Shakespeare  having  very  nearly  adopted  its  title,  Dekker  took 
a  different  one,  in  accordance  with  the  ex]3ression  he  had  used 
two  or  three  years  before  in  "  Patient  Griesill"." 

The  silenoo  of  Meres  in  1598  regarding  any  such  play  by 

'  Malone  was  mistaken  when  he  said  (Shakespeare  by  Boswell, 
Tol.  ii.  p.  342.)  that  "  our  authors  genuine  play  was  entered  at  Sta- 
•aoners'  Hall"  on  the  17th  Nov.     The  entry  is  of  the  19th  Nov.  and 

ioc  of  Shakespeare's  -"raming  of  the  Shrew,"  but  of  the  old  "  Tam- 

ng  of  a  Shrew  " 


Shakespeare  is  also  important :  had  it  thci,  been  written,  h« 
could  scarcely  have  failed  to  mention  it;  so  that  we  have 
strong  negative  evidence  of  its  non-existence  before  th<; 
appearance  of  Palladis  Tamia.  When  Sir  John  Haringtoc. 
in  his  "  Metamorphosis  of  Aiax,"  1596,  says,  "  Bead  the  booke 
of  'Taming  a  Shrew,'  which  hath  made"  a  number  of  us  so 
perfect  that  now  every  one  can  rule  a  shr^w  in  our  country, 
save  he  that  hath  her,"  he  meant  the  old  "Taming  of  a 
Shrew,"  reprinted  in  the  same  year.  In  that  play  we  have 
not  only  the  comedy  in  which  Petruchio  and  Katharine  are 
chieflv  engaged,  but  the  Induction,  which  is  carried  cvt  to 
the  cfose  ;  for  Sly  and  the  Tapster  conclude  the  piece,  as  tLcj 
had  begun  it. 

As  it  is  evident  that  Shakespeare  made  great  use  of  the  old 
comedy,  both  in  his  Induction  and  in  the  body  of  his  play,  il 
is  not  necessary  to  inquire  particularly  to  what  originals  the 
writer  of  "The  Taming  of  a  Shrew"  resorted.  As  regards 
the  Induction,  Douce  was  of  opinion  that  the  story  of  "  The 
Sleeper  awakened,"  in  the  "Arabian  Nights'  I^ntertain- 
ments,"  was  the  source  of  the  many  imitations  which  have, 
from  time  to  time,  been  referred  to.  Warton  (Hist.  Engl. 
Poetry,  iv.  117.  Edit.  1824)  tells  us,  that  among  the  books  of 
Collins  was  a  collection  of  tales  by  Eiehard  Edwards,  dated 
in  1570,  and  including  "the  Induction  ot  the  Tinker  in 
Shakespeare's  '  Taming  of  the  Shrew.'  "  This  might  be  tlie 
original  employed  by  the  author  of  the  old  "Taming  of  a 
Shrew."  For  the  play  itself  he,  perhaps,  availed  himself  of 
some  now  unknown  translation  of  Nott.  viii.  fab.  2,  of  the 
PiacevoU  Notti  of  Straparola. 

The  Svppositi  of  Ariosto,  freely  translated  by  Gascoyne, 
(before  1566,  when  it  was  acted  at  Grey's  Inn)  under  the  title 
of  "  The  Supposes,"  seems  to  have  aiForded  Shakespeare  part 
of  his  plot:  it  relates  to  the  manner  in  which  Lucentio  and 
Tranio  pass  off  the  Pedant  as  Vincentio,  which  is  not  found 
in  the  old  "  Taming  of  a  Shrew."  In  the  list  of  persons  pre- 
ceding Gascoyne's  "Supposes"  Shakespeare  found  the  name 
of  Petruchio,  (a  character  not  so  called  by  Ariosto,)  and  hence, 
perhaps,  lie  adopted  it.  It  affords  another  slight  hnk  of  con- 
nexion between  "The  Taming  of  the  Shrew''  and  "The 
Supposes;"  but  there  exists  a  third,  still  slighter,  of  which  no 
notice  has  been  taken.  It  consists  of  the  use  of  the  word 
"supposes,"  in  A.  v.  sc.  1,  exactly  in  the  substantive  sense 
in  winch  it  is  employed  by  Gascoyne,  and  in  reference  to  that 
part  of  the  story  which  had  been  derived  from  his  translation. 
How  little  Shakespeare's  "Taming  of  the  Shrew  "  was  known 
in  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  may  be  judged 
from  the  fact,  tliat  "  The  Tatler,"  No.  231,  contains  the  story 
of  it,  told  as  of  a  gentleman's  family  Jhen  residing  in  Lincoln- 
shire. 


ALL'S    WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL. 

["  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well "  was  first  printed  in  the  folio 

of  1623,  and  occupies  twenty-five  pages,  viz.  from  p.  230  to 

p.  254  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies."     It  fills 

the  same  space  and  place  in  the  three  later  folios.] 

The  most  interesting  question  in  connexion  with  "  All  s 

Well  that  Ends  Well  "  is,  whether  it  was  originally  callea 

"Love's  Labour's  Won?"     If  it  were,  we  may  be  sure  that 

it  was  written  before  1598;  because  in  that  year,  and  under 

the  title  of  "  Love  Labours  Wonne,"  it  is  included  by  Francis 

Meres  in  the  list  of  Shakespeare's  plays  introduced  into  his 

Palladis  Tamia. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Coleridge,  an  opinion  which  he  first 
delivered  in  1813,  and  again  in  1818,  though  it  is  not  found 
in  his  "  Literary  Eemai'ns,"  that  "  All 's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,"  as  it  ha-s  come  down  to  us,  was  written  at  two  differ- 
ent, and  rather  distant  periods  of  the  poet's  life.  He  pointed 
out  very  clearly  two  distinct  styles,  not  only  of  thought,  bU 
of  expression  ;  and  Professor  Tieck,  at  a  later  date,  adcf^ted 
and  enforced  the  same  belief  So  tar  we  are  disposed  to  agree 
with  Tieck;  but  when  he  adds,  that  some  passages  in  "All  'a 
Well  that  Ends  Well,"  which  it  is  difficult  to  understand  and 
explain,  are  relics  of  the  first  draught  of  the  play,  we  do  not 
concur,  because  thev  are  chiefly  to  be  discovered  in  that  por- 
tion of  the  drama  which  affords  evidence  of  riper  thought, 
and  of  a  more  involved  and  constrained  mode  of  writin?. 
Surely  those  parts  which  reminded  Tieck,  as  he  slates,  of 
"  Veiius  and  Adonis,"  are  to  be  placed  among  the  earlier 
efforts  of  Shakespeare.    There  can  be  little  doubt,  however 

a  If  we  suppose  Shakespeare,  in  Act  iv  sc  1,  to  allude  to  T  Hey 
wood's  plav.  "A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  "  it  would  show  thai 
"The  Taniingof  the  Shrew"  was  written  after  Feb.  1603-3,  buttn« 
expression  was  probably  proverbial,  and  for  this  reason  Hey  wood  to>li 
it  as  the  title  of  his  tragedy 


Ixxxviii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


•ihiit  Coleridge  aud  Tieck  are  right  in  their  conchision,  that 
•  All 's  Well  thiit  Ends  Well,"  which  was  printed  for  the 
tirot  time  in  the  folio  of  1623,  contains  indication!*  of  the 
workinjfs  of  Shakespeare's  mind,  and  specimens  of  his  com- 
pobiliun  at  two  separate  dates  of  his  career. 

It  hiis  been  a  point  recently  controverted,  whether  the 
"  Love  Ijihours  Won  "  of  Meres  were  the  same  piece  as 
"  All  "s  Well  that  Ends  Well."  The  supposition  that  tjiey 
were  idcnticjil  was  first  promulgatcil  by  Dr.  Farmer,  in  1767, 
in  his  "  Et-sav  on  the  learninjr  of  Shakespeare."  On  the 
other  hand,  die  Kev.  Joseph  Hunter,  in  his  "  Disiquisition 
on  the  Tempeal,"'  8vo.  1839,  has  contended  that  by  "Love 
l>;ibours  Won  "  Meres  meant  "  The  Tempest,"  aud  that  it 
originally  bore  "  Love  Labours  Won  "  as  it-s  second  title.  I 
do  not  think  that  Mr.  Hunter,  with  all  his  acuteness  and 
le.irning,  has  made  out  his  case  satisfactorily;  and  in  our  In- 
troduction to  '"  The  Tempest,"  some  reasons  will  be  found  for 
ttssi^ning  that  play  to  the  year  1610,  or  1611.  Mr.  Hunter 
argues  that  ''  The  Tempest,"  even  more  than  "  All 's  Well 
that  Ends  Well,"  deserves  the  significant  name  of  "  Love 
Labours  Won ;"  and  he  certainly  is  successful  in  showing, 
that  "All's  Well  that  Ends  Weil"  bespoke  its  own  title  in 
two  separate  quotations.'  They  are  from  towards  the  close 
of  the  play ;  and  here,  perhaps,'  we  meet  with  the  strongest 
evklences  that  this  portion  was  one  of  it«  author's  later  eflForts. 

My  notion  is  (and  the  speculation  deserves  '.lo  stronger 
term)  that  "  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Weil"  was  in  the  first  in- 
stance, and  prior  to  1598,  called  "Love's  Labour's  Won," 
and  that  it  had  a  clear  reference  to  "  Love's  Labour 's  Lost," 
of  which  it  miglit  be  considered  the  counterpart.  It  was  then, 
perhaps,  laid  by  for  some  years,  aud  revived  by  its  author, 
with  alterations  and  additions,  about  1605  or  1606,  when  the 
new  title  of  "  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well "  wa.s  given  to  it. 
At  this  date,  however,  "Love's  Labtmr's  Lost "  probably 
continued  to  be  represented  ;  and  we  learn  from  the  Kevels' 
Accounts  tiuit  it  was  chosen  for  performance  at  court  between 
Jan.  1  and  Jan.  6,  1604-5.  Tlie  entry  runs  in  tliese  terms: — 
"  Betwin  Newers  Day  aud  Twelfe  Day,  a  play  of  Loves 
Labours  Lost." 
The  name  of  the  author,  and  of  the  company  by  whom  the 
piece  was  acted,  are  not  in  this  instance  given.  We  have  no 
mformation  that  •'  All  "s  Well  that  Ends  Well  "  met  with  the 
same  distinction ;  and  possibly  Shakespeare  altered  it<i  name, 
in  order  to  give  an  appearance  of  greater  novelty  to  the  repre- 
sentation on  its  revival.  This  surmise,  if  well  founded,  would 
account  for  the  difference  in  the  titles,  as  we  find  them  in 
Meres  and  in  the  folio  of  1623. 

Without  here  eiitennsr  into  tne  question,  wnetner  Shake- 
■♦peare  understood  Italian,  of  which,  we  think,  little  doubt 
cat)  be  iMitertaJued,  we  need  not  suppose  that  he  went  to  Boc- 
eaccjo'fi  Decameron,  fjr  the  story  of  "All 's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,"  because  lie  found  it  already  translated  to  his  hands,  in 
"  The  Palace  .of  Pleasure,"  by  William  Painter,  of  whicli  tlie 
first  volume  was  nublislied  in  1566,  and  the  second  in  1567.'' 
It  is  the  9ih  novel  of  the  third  day  of  Boccaccio,  and  the  28th 
novel  of  the  first  volume  of  "The  Palace  of  Plea-sure."  In 
the  Decameron  it  bears  the  following  title,  which  is  very  lite- 
rally translated  by  Painter: — "Giglietta  di  Nerbona  guarisce 
il  Re  di  Francia  d'una  fistola:  domanda  per  marito  &ltramo 
di  Eossiglione  ;  il  quale  contra  sua  voglia  sposatala,  a  Firenze 
se  ne  va  (>or  isdeirno;  dove  vagheggiando  una  giovane,  in 
persona  di  lei  Giglietta  giacque  con  lui,  e  hebbene  due  figliu- 
oli ;  porchd  csfli  poi  liavutala  cara  per  moglie  la  tiene."  The 
Enirlish  version  by  Painter  maybe  read  in  "Shakespeare's 
Library  ;"  and  lience  it  will  appear,  that  the  poet  was  only 
indebted  to  Boccaccio  for  the  mere  outline  of  his  plot,  as  re- 
lywds  Helena,  Bertram,  the  Widow,  and  Diana.  All  that 
belongs  to  the  characters  of  the  Countess,  the  Clown,  and 
Parolles,  and  the  comic  business  in  which  the  last  is  engaged, 
were,  as  far  as  we  now  know,  the  invention  of  Shakespeare. 
The  only  names  Bficcaccio  (and  after  him  Painter)  (jives  are 
Oiflrlietta  and  lieltramo:  the  latter  Shakespeare  a'lplicised  to 
Bertram,  and  he  changed  Gisrlietta  to  Helena,  probably  be- 
cause he  had  already  made  Juliet  the  name  of  one  of  his  hero- 
ines.   Shakespeare  much  degrades  the  character  of  Bertram, 


towards  the  end  of  the  drama,  by  the  dupl'.city,  and  ever 
falsehood,  he  makes  him  display:  Coleridge  (Lit.  hem.  ii.  121' 
was  otfended  by  the  fact,  that  in  A.  iii.  sc.  5,  Helena,  "  Shake 
speare's  loveliest  character,"  speaks  that  which  is  untrue 
under  the  appearance  of  necessity  ;  but  Bertram  is  convicted 
by  the  King  of  telling  a  deliberate  untruth,  and  of  persisting 
in  it,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  court  of  Fran-.t.  In  Boccaccio 
the  winding  up  of  the  story  occurs  at  Kousillon,  as  in  Shako 
speare,  but  the  King  is  no  party  to  the  scene. 

The  substitution  of  Helena  for  Diana  (as  in  "  Measure  tor 
Mciisure  "  we  Lad  that  of  Mariana  for  Isabella)  was  a  common 
incident  in  Italian  novels.  One  of  these  wa.s  inserted  !: 
"Narbonus:  the  Laberynth  of  Libertie,"  by  Austin  Baker, 
4to,  1580:  a  romance  in  which  the  scene  is  laid  in  Vienna, 
but  the  manners  are  those  of  London  :  there  the  object  wan 
to  impose  a  wife  upon  her  reluctant  husband  ;  but  the  resem- 
blance to  the  same  incident  in  "  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well '' 
is  only  general. 


The  two  pauagei  run  ai  follows  :- 


■  We  mu»t  away  ; 


Onr  waf^Kon  i«  prerar'd.  and  time  revivei  \ 

All 's  well  that  enai  well ;  iiill  the  fine  '■  the  crown." 


■Air 


ell  that  end«  well  y«t. 


■c.  4. 


Though  .ime  «eern  so  advene,  and  met  ns  unfit." 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:   OK,   WHAT  YOU 
WILL. 

["Twelfe  Night,  Or  what  you  Will,"  was  first  printed  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  where  it  occupies  twenty-one  pages  ;  viz.  from 
p.  255  to  275  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies," 
p.  276  having  been  left  blank,  and  unpaged.     It  appears  in 
the  same  form  in  the  three  later  folios.] 
We  have  no  record  of  the  performance  of  "  Twelfth-Night" 
at  court,  nor  is  there  any  mention  of  it  in  the  books  at  Sta- 
tioners' Hall  until  November  8,  1623,  when  it  was  registered 
by  Blount  and  Jasreard,  as  abont  to  be  included  in  the  first 
folio  of  "Mr.   William   Shakespeare's  Comedies,  Histories, 
and  Tragedies."  It  appeared  originally  in  that  volume,  under 
the  doable  title,  "  Twelfth-Nisrht,  or"What  You  AVill,"  with 
the  Acts  and  Scenes  duly  noted. 

We  cannot  determine  with  precision  when  it  wa.s  first 
written,  but  we  know  that  it  was  acted  on  the  celebration  of 
the  Readers'  Feast  at  the  Middle  Temple  on  Feb.  2,  1602, 
according  to  our  modern  computation  of  the  year.  The  fact 
of  its  performance  we  have  on  the  evidence  of  an  oyg-witness, 
who  seeins  to  have  been  a  barrister,  and  whose  Diary,  in  his 
own  hand-writing,  is  preserved  in  the  British  Museum  (Han. 
MSS.  5353).  The  inemora:\dum  runs,  literatim,  as  follows:— 
"  Feby.  2,  1601  [2].  At  our  feast  we  had  a  pla\  called 
Twelve-Night,  or  What  Yoti  Will,  much  like  the  comedy  of 
errors,  or  Mencclimi  in  Plautus,  but  most  like  and  neere  to 
that  in  Italian,  called  Inganni.  A  good  practise  in  it  to  make 
the  steward  believe  his  lady  widdowe  was  in  love  with  him, 
by  counterfay ting  a  letter,  as  from  his  lady,  in  generail  terines 
telling  him  what  shee  liked  best  in  him, "and  j)rescribing  his 
gestures,  inscribing  his  apparaile,  &c.,  and  then  when  he 
came  to  practise,  making  him  beleeve  they  tooke  him  to  bo 
mad." 

This  remarkable  entry  was  pointed  out  in  the  "History  of 
English  Dramatic  Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  vol.  i.  p.  327.  8vo, 
1831,  aud  the  Rev.  Josepli  Hunter,  in  his  "  Disquisition  on 
The  Tempest,"  8vo,  1839,  has  ascertained  that  it  was  made 
by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Manningham.  It  puts  an  end  to 
the  conjecture  of  Malone,  that  "  Twelfth-Night  "  was  written 
in  1607,  and  to  the  less  probable  speculation  of  Tyrwhitt,  that 
it  was  not  produced  until  1614.  Even  if  it  should  be  objected 
that  we  have  no  evidence  to  show  that  this  Coincily  wiis  com- 
posed shortly  prior  to  its  representation  at  the  .Middle  Tem- 
ple, it  may  be  answered,  that  it  is  capable  of  proof  that  it  wa.s 
written  posterior  to  the  publication  of  the  translation  of  Lin- 
schotcn's  "  Discours  of  Voyages  into  the  East  and  West  In- 
dies." In  A.  ii.  sc.  2.  Maria  says  of  Malvolio: — "He  does 
smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  are  in  the  new  miip,  with 
the  ausjmcntation  of  the  Indies."  When  Malone  prepared 
his  "Chronological  Order"  he  had  "not  been  able  to  Icara 
the  date  of  the  map  here  alluded  to,"  but  Linschoten's  'Dis- 
cours of  Voyages"  was  published  in  folio  in  English  ic  1598, 
and  in  that  volume  is  inserted  "the  new  map  with  the  aug 
nientation  of  the  Indies."  Mercs  takes  no  notice  of  •'  Twelfth 

way.     According  to  my  supposition,  the.se  passages,  as  well  as  an-  ' 

other  in  the  Epilogue,  "'  AI.   is  we^l  ended,  if  this  suit  is  won,"  wert 
added  when  the  comedy  was  revived  in  I0U.5  or  16()G.  and  when  a  nei 


name  was  given  to  it.     "  All  's  well  that  ends  well  "  is  merely  a 

proverbial   phrase,  which  was  in  u.se  in  our  language  long  before 

Shakespeare  wrote.     8ee  note  1 .  p.  97.  of  '•  The  Comedy  of  Krrors.'' 

I      '  They  were  published  together  in  157.5.  and  hence  lias  ari.sen  tb* 

error  into  which  some  modern  editors  have  fallen,  when  ihey  suppos* 

Mr.  Hnn'.T  p.nnts  ■•  All  s  well  that  snda  ••  ell  "  ia  Italic,  and  with    that  '•  The  Palace  of  Pleasure  "  was  first  printed  in  that  year    Painm? 

capitals,  in  both  instanced,  a*  if  it  were  a    itle;  but  in  the  original    dates  the  dedication  of  his  "second  tome"  "  From  mv  pon  hor-M. 

•djtion  the  words  appear  only  in  ♦.he  ordinary  type  and  in  the  usual  '  besides  the  Towre  of  Lob  Jon,  the  iiij.  of  November.  1!«7.' 


r_p 


INTRODUCTION  TO   THE  PLAYS. 


1 XXX IX 


Night"  in  his  list,  published  in  tiie  same  year,  and  we  may  I  tronati  di  Siena,  which  was  several  times  printed;  last,  per- 
wnclude  th.'.t  the  Comedy  was  not  then  in  existence.  The  haps,  in  the  collection  Delle  Comnndie  degV  Accad^raici  Intro- 
words  "new  map,"  employed  by  Shakespeare,  may  be  | /ja^t  </-*  5i«??«,  1(511,  12mo.  Wliether  our  great  dramatist  saw 
thought  to  show  that  Linschoten's  "  Discours  "  had  not  made  1  either  of  these  pieces  before  he  wrote  his  "  Twelfth-Night " 
its  appearance  long  bafore  "  Twelfth-Ni^ht  "  was  produced;  I  may  admit  of  doubt;  but  looking  at  the  terms  Manningham 


out  oil  the  whole,  we  are  inclined  to  fix  the  period  of  its  com 
position  at  the  end  of  1600,  or  in  the  beginning  of  1601 :  it 
might  be  acted  at  the  Globe  in  the  summer  of  the  same  year, 
and  from  thence  transferred  to  the  Middle  Temple  about  six 
uioiiths  afterwards,  on  account  of  its  continued  popularity. 

Several  originals  of  "Twelfth-Night,"  in  English,  French, 
•Mid  Italian,  have  been  pointed  out,  nearly  all  of  them  dis- 
covered within  tlie  present  century,  and  to  these  we  shall  now 
advert. 

A  voluminous  and  various  author  of  the  name  of  Barnabe 
tiich,  who,  had  been  brought  up  a  soldier,  published  a  volume, 
wliich  he  called  "  Rich  his  Farewell  to  Military  Profession," 
without  date,  but  between  the  years  1578  and  1581:  a  re- 
:mpre8sion  of  it  appeared  in  1606,  and  it  contains  a  novel 
entitled  "Apolonius  and  Silla,"  which  has  many  points  of 
resemblance  to  Shakespeare's  comedy.  To  this  production 
Tiiore  particular  reference  is  not  necessary,  as  it  forms  part 
of  the  publication  called  "Shakespeare's  Library."  If  our 
great  dramatist  at  all  availed  himself  of  its  incidents,  he  must 
of  course  have  used  an  earlier  edition  than  tliat  of  1606.  One 
minute  circumstance  in  relation  to  it  m.ay  deserve  notice. 
Manningham  in  his  Diary  calls  Olivia  a  "  widow,"  and  in 
Kieh's  novel  the  lady  Julina,  who  answers  to  Olivia,  is  a 
widow,  but  in  Shakespeare  she  never  had  been  married.  It 
as  possible  that  in  the  form  in  which  the  comedy  was  per- 
formed on  Feb.  2,  1601-2,  she  was  a  widow,  and  that  the 
author  subsequently  made  the  change  ;  but  it  is  more  likely, 
as  Olivia  must  have  been  in  mourning  for  the  loss  of  her 
brother,  that  Manningham  mistook  her  condition,  and  con- 
eluded  hastily  that  she  lamented  the  loss  of  her  husband. 

Rich  furnishes  us  with  the  title  of  no  work  to  which  he  was 
mdebted;  but  we  may  conclude  that,  either  immediately  or 
intermediately,  he  derived  his  chief  materials  from  the  Italian 
of  Bandello,  or  from  the  French  of  Belleforest.  In  Bandeilo 
it  forms  tlie  thirty-sixth  novel  of  the  Seconda  ParU^  in  the 
Lucca  edit.  1554.  4to,  where  it  bears  the  subsequent  title: — 
"  Nicuola,  innamorata  di  Lattantio,  va  a  servirlo  vestita  da 
puggio ;  e  dope  molti  casi  seco  si  marita :  e  cio  die  ad  un 
Buo  fratello  avvenne."  In  the  collection  by  Belleforest, 
printed  at  Paris  in  1572,  12mo,  it  is  lieaded  as  follows: — 
"  Comme  une  fiUe  Romaine,  se  vestant  en  page,  servist  long 
tetnps  un  sien  amy  sans  estre  cogneue,  et  depuis  I'eust  a 
mary,  avec  autres  divers  discours."  Although  Belleforest 
inserts  no  names  in  his  title,  he  adopts  those  of  Bandello,  but 
abridges  or  omits  many  of  the  speeches  and  some  portions  of 
Uie  narrative  :  what  in  Bandello  occupies  several  pages  is  some 


employs,  it  might  seem  as  if  it  were  a  matter  understood,  at 
the  time  "  Twelfth-Night "  was  acted  at  the  Temple  on  Feb. 
2,  1602,  that  it  was  founded  upon  the  Inganni.  There  is  no 
indication  in  the  MS.  Diary  that  the  writer  of  it  was  versed 
in  Italian  literature,  and  GV  Ingannl  might  at  that  day  be  a 
known  comedy  of  which  it  was  believed  Shakespeare  had 
availed  himselif.  An  analysis  of  it  is  given  in  a  pniall  tract, 
called  "  Farther  Particulars  of  Shakespeare  and  his  Works,"* 
8vo,  1839,  but  as  only  fifty  copies  of  it  were  printed,  it  maj 
be  necessary  here  to  enter  into  some  few  details  of  its  ploi. 
conduct,  and  characters.  The  "  Argument,"  or  explauaVory 
Prologue,  which  precedes  the  first  scene,  will  show  that  the 
author  of  GV  Ingunni  did  not  adhere  to  Bandello  by  atiy 
means  closely,  and  that  he  adopted  entirely  different  names 
for  his  personages. 

"  Anselmo,  a  Genoese  merchant  who  traded  to  the  Levant, 
having  left  his  wife  in  Genoa  great  with  child,  had  two  chil- 
dren by  lier,  one  a  boy  called  Fortunate,  and  the  other  a 
girl  named  Gineura.  After  he  had  borne  for  four  years  the 
desire  of  seeing  his  wife  and  family,  he  returned  home'  to 
them,  and  wishing  to  depart  again,  he  took  them  with  him ; 
and  when  they  were  embarked  on  board  the  vessel,  he  dressed 
them  both  in  short  clothes  for  greater  convenience,  so  that  the 
girl  looked  like  a  boy.  And  on  the  voyage  to  Soria  he  was 
taken  by  Corsairs  and  carried  into  Natolia,  wliere  he  re- 
mained in  slavery  for  fourteen  years.  His  children  had  a 
different  fortune ;  for  the  boy  was  several  times  sold,  but 
finally  here  in  this  city,  which,  on  this  occasion,  shall  be  Na- 
ples ;  and  he  now  serves  Dorotea,  a  courtesan,  who  lives  there 
at  that  little  door.  The  mother  and  Gineura,  after  various 
accidents,  were  bought  by  M.  Massimo  Caraccioli,  who  lives 
where  you  see  this  door ;"  but  by  the  advice  of  the  mother, 
who  has  been  dead  six  years,  Gineura  has  changed  her  name 
and  caused  herself  to  be  called  Ruberto  ;  and,  as  her  mother 
while  living  persuaded  her,  always  gave  herself  out  to  be  a 
bov,  thinking  in  this  way  that  slie  should  be  better  able  tc 
preserve  lier  chastity.  Fortunate  and  Ruberto,  by  the  infor- 
mation of  their  mother,  know  themselves  to  be  brother  and 
sister.  M.  Massimo  lias  a  son,  whom  they  call  Gostanzo,  and 
a  daughter  named  Portia.  Gostanzo  is  in  love  with  Dorotea, 
the  courtesan  to  whom  Fortunate  is  servant.  Portia,  his 
sister,  is  in  love  with  Ruberto,  notwithstanding  she  is  a  girl, 
because  she  has  always  been  thought  a  man.  Ruberto,  the 
girl,  not  knowing  how  to  satisfy  the  desires  of  Portia,  who 
constantly  importunes  her,  has  sometimes  at  night  conveyed 
^    ^  lier  brother  into  the  house  in  her  place :  he  has  got  Portia  with 

Umea  included  by  Belleforest  in  a  single  paragraph.  We  quote  '  child,  and  she  is  now  every  hour  expecting  to  be  brought  to 


til*  subsequent  passage,  because  it  will  more  exactly  show  the 
degree  of  connexion  between  "  Twelfth-Night"  and  the  old 
French  version :  it  is  where  Nicuola,  the  Viohv  of  Shakespeare, 
disguised  as  a  page,  and  under  the  name  of  Romule,  has  an 
interview  with  Catelle,  the  Olivia  of  "  Twelftli-Night,"  on 
behalf  of  Lattance,  who  answers  to  the  Duke. 

"  Mais  Catelle,  qui  avoit  plus  I'ceil  sur  I'orateur  et  sur  la 
tiaive  beaut^,  que  I'oreille  aux  paroles  venant  d'ailleurs,  estoit 
Ml  une  estrange  peine,  et  volontiers  se  fut  jettee  a  son  col 
pour  le  baiser  tout  a  son  aise:  mais  la  honte  la  retint  pour  un 
iemps:  a  la  fin  n'en  pouvant  plus,  et  vaincue  de  ceste  impa- 
tience d"amour,  et  se  trouvant  favorisee  de  la  commodite,  ne 
soeut  de  tant  se  commander,  que  I'embrassant  fort  estroite- 
ntent  elle  ne  le  baisast  d'une  douzaine  de  fois,  et  ce  avec  telle 
lasoivite  et  gestes  effrontez,  que  Romule  s'apparceut  bien  que 
oette-cy  avait  plus  chere  son  accointance  que  les  ambassades 
Je  celuy  qui  la  courtisoit.  A  ceste  cause  luy  dit,  Je  vous 
jftie,  madame,  me  faire  tant  de  bien  que  me  donnant  conge, 
j'aye  de  vuus  quelque  gracieuse  responce,  avec  laquelle  je 
f^lsse  faire  content  et  joyeux  mon  seigneur,  lequel  est  en 
•oncy  9t  tourment  continuel  pour  ne  s^avoir  votre  volenti 
vers  luy,  et  s'il  a  rien  acquis  en  vos  bonnes  graces.  Catelle, 
hnmant  de  plus  en  plus  le  venin  d'amour  par  les  yeux,  luy 
sembloit  que  Rocnale  devint  de  fois  a  autre  plus  beau." 

Upon  the  novel  by  Bandello  two  Italian  plays  were  com- 
posed, which  were  printed,  and  have  come  down  to  our  liaie. 
The  title  of  one  of  these  is  given  by  Manningham,  where  he 
Bays  that  Shakespeare's  "  Twelfth-Night"  was  "  most  like 
and  neere  to  that  in  Italian  called  Inganni.''''  It  was  first 
acted  in  1547,  and  the  earliest  edition  of  it,  with  which  I  am 
acquainted,  did  not  appear  until  1582,  when  it  bore  the  title 
of  GV  Inganni  Uomedia  del  Signor  N.  S.  The  other  Italian 
drama,  founded  upon  Bandello's  novel,  bears  a  somewhat 
•iiuilar  title: — GV  Ingannatl  Commedia  degV  Accademioi  Inr- 


bed.  On  the  other  hand,  Ruberto,  as  a  girl  and  in  love  with 
her  young  master  Gostanzo,  has  double  suffering — one  from 
the  passion  which  torments  her,  and  the  other  from  the  fear 
lest  the  pregnancy  of  Portia  should  be  discovered.  Massimo, 
the  father  of  Portia  and  Gostanzo,  is  aware  of  the  condition 
of  bis  daughter,  and  has  sent  to  Genoa  to  inquire  into  tlie 
parentage  of  Ruberto,  in  order  that  if  he  find  him  ignoble, 
and  unworthy  to  be  the  liusband  of  his  daughter,  whom  lie 
believes  to  be  with  child  by  him,  lie  may  have  him  killed. 
But,  bv  what  I  have  heard,  the  father  of  the  twins,  who  has 
escaped  from  the  hands  of  the  Turks,  ought  this  day  to  be 
returned  with  the  messenger,  and  I  think  that  everj-  thing 
will  be  accommodated." 

In  this  plav,  therefore,  Portia,  who  is  the  Olivia  of  Shake- 
speare, is  not  stated  to  be  a  widow,  and  our  great  dramatist 
avoided  the  needless  indelicacy  of  representing  her  to  be  witli 
child.  In  GV  Inganni,  Gineura  {i.  e.  Viola,)  as  will  have 
been  seen  from  the  "Argument,"  is  not  page  to  tlie  man  witli 
whom  she  is  in  love,  but  to  Portia:  while  Gostan/o,  whose 
affection  Gineura  is  anxious  to  obtain,  is  brother  ro  her  mis- 
tress. This  of  course  makes  an  important  difference  in  th« 
relative  situations  of  the  parties,  because  Gineura,  disguised 
as  Ruberto,  is  not  employed  to  carry  letters  and  messages 
between  the  characters  who  represent  the  Duke  and  Olivia. 
Gostanzo  being  in  love  with  a  courtesan,  named  Dorotea,  in 
the  first  Act,  Gineura  endeavours  to  dissuade  him  frcm  his 
lawless  passion,  in  a  manner  that  distantly,  and  on'y  dis- 
tantly, reminds  us  of  Shake^^peare.  Ruberto  {i.  e.  Ginetra) 
tells  Gostanzo  to  find  some  object  worthy  of  liis  affection  :— 

"  Gostanzo.  And  where  shall  I  fin  J  her' 

Ruberto.  I  know  one  who  is  more  kst  for  love  of  you,  thtn  yon  vt 

for  this  carrion. 
Gostanzo.  Is  she  fair? 
Ruberto    Indifferentiv 


rNTRODUCTlON   TO  THE   PLAYS. 


should  lie  with  her. 


the  slave  of  another  woman  " 


Where  '.s  »h« : 

Ruberlo.  Not  far  from  you. 

Gostanzo.  And  will  she  be  content  that 

Rubtrto.  If  r.oJ  wills  that  jou  should  do  it. 

Gostanzo.  How  shall  1  Ret  to  her? 

Ruberto.  As  tou  would  come  to  me. 

Gostanzo.  How  do  vou  know  that  she  loves  me? 

Ruberto.  Because  she  often  talks  to  me  of  her  love 

Gostanzc    Do  1  know  her? 

Ruberto.  As  well  as  you  know  me 

Gostanzc.  Is  she  young? 

Ruberto.  Ofmj-  age. 

Gostanzo.  And  loves  me? 

Ruberto.  Adores  you. 

Gostanzo.  Have  I  ever  seen  her? 

Ruberto.  As  often  as  you  have  seen  me. 

Gostanzo.  Why  does  she  not  discover  herself  ' 

Ruberto.  Because  she  sees  y 

Tlie  resemblance  between  Gineura  and  her  brother  Fortii- 
onto  is  8o  jrreat,  that  Portia  has  mistaken  the  one  for  the 
jther,  and  in  the  end,  like  Sebastian  and  Olivia,  they  are 
united:  while  Gostanzo,  being  cured  of  hia  passion  for  Doro- 
tea,  Hiid  grateful  for  the  persevering  and  disinterested  aftec- 
tjon  of  Gineura,  is  married  to  her.  Our  great  dramatist  has 
given  an  actual,  as  well  as  an  intellectual  elevation  to  the  whole 
subject,  bv  the  manner  iu  which  he  has  treated  it;  and  has 
converted"  wliat  may,  in  most  respects,  be  considered  a  low 
cotnedv  into  a  fine  romantic  drama. 

So  inuch  for  Gl^  Inganni,  aud  it  now  remains  to  speak  of 
GC  InganiMti,  a  comedy  to  wliich,  in  relation  to  "  Twelfth- 
Niffht,'"  attention  was  first  directed  by  tlic  Rev.  Jo.seph  Hunter 
in  his' "  Disquisition  on  Shakespeare's  Tempest,"  p.  78.  GV 
Ingannnd  fdlows  Bandeilo's  novel  with  more  exactness  than 
or  In(!a>ini,  though  both  change  the  names  of  the  parties; 
and  here  we  have  the  iniportant  feature  that  tlie  heroine, 
culled  Lelia,  (disguised  as  Fabio)  is  page  to  Flamminio,  with 
vrhom  she  is  in  love,  but  who  is  in  love  with  a  lady  named 
Isabella.  Lelia,  as  in  Shakespeare,  is  employed  by  Flammi- 
nio to  forward  his  suit  with  Isabella.  What  sncceeda  is^p;irt 
of  the  Dialogue  between  Lelia,  in  her  male  attire, 
miuio: — 

"  Lelia.  Do  aal  advise.  Abandon  Isabella,  and  love  one  who  loves 
you  in  return.  Vou  may  not  find  her  as  beautiful ;  but,  tell  me,  is 
there  nobody  else  whom  you  can  love,  and  who  loves  you? 

Flammtnto.  There  was  a  young  lady  named  Lelia.  whom,  I  wa.s  a 
thousand  times  about  to  tell  you,  you  are  much  like.  She  wa-s  thought 
the  fairest,  the  cleverest,  and  the  most  courteous  damsel  of  this  coun- 
try. I  will  show  you  her  one  of  these  days,  for  I  formerly  looked  upon 
ner  with  some  regard.  She  was  then  rich  and  about  the  court,  and  I 
continued  in  love  with  her  for  nearly  a  year,  durinjf  which  time  she 
thowed  me  much  favour.  Afterwards  she  went  to  Mirandola,  and  it 
was  my  fate  to  fall  in  love  with  Isabella,  who  has  been  as  cruel  to 
rae  as  Lelia  was  kind. 

Lelia.  Then  you  deserve  the  treatment  you  have  received.  Since 
you  slighted  her  who  loved  you,  yon  ought  to  be  slighted  in  return 
bv  others. 

Flamminio.  What  do  you  say? 

Lelia.  If  this  poor  pirl  were  your  first  love,  and  still  loves  you  more 
than  ever,  why  did  you  abandon  her  for  Isabella?  I  know  not  who 
could  pardon  that  offence  Ah '  signer  Flamminio,  you  did  her 
grievous  wrong. 

Flamminio.  You  are  only  a  boy,  Fabio,  and  know  not  the  power 
of  love.  I  tell  you  that  I  cannot  help  loving  Isabella:  I  adore  her, 
nor  do  I  wish  to  think  of  any  other  woman." 

Elsewhere  the  resemblance  between  "  Twelfth-Night "  and 
Gr  Ingannuti,  in  point  of  situation  is  quite  as  strong,  but 
there  the  likeness  ends,  for  in  the  dialogue  we  can  truce  no 
connexion  between  the  two.  The  author  of  the  Italian  com- 
edy has  obviously  founded  himself  entirely  upon  Bandello's 
novel,  of  which  there  miirlit  be  some  translation  in  the  time 
of  Shakespeare  more  nearly  approaching  the  original,  than 
the  version  which  Kich  published  before  our  great  dramatist 
rioited  the  metropolis.  Whether  any  such  literal  translation 
nad  or  had  not  been  made,  Shakespeare  may  have  gone  to 
•,he  Italian  story,  and  Le  Novella  dl  Jiandello  were  very  well 
known  in  England  as  early  as  about  the  middle  of  the  si.x- 
eonth  century.  If  Shakespeare  had  followed  Rich  we  should 
probably  have  discovered  some  verb;il  trace  of  his  obligation, 
B.H  in  the  c-u^es  where  he  followed  Painter's  "  Palace  of  Plea- 
Viire,"  or,  still  more  strikini.'ly,  where  he  availed  himself  of 
;he  works  of  Greene  and  Lodge.    In  GV  Ingannati  we  find 

1  From  thi  Introduction  to  the  same  work,  we  find  that  "The 
Winter's  Talt "  was  also  represented  at  court  on  Kaster  Tuesday, 
1819. 

*  The  expenses  of  eleven  other  plays  are  included  in  the  same  ac- 
«onnt.  viz.  •' The  Tempest,"  "  King  and  no  King,"  "The  Citv  Gal- 
.ant,"  "The  Almanark,"  "The  Twins'  Tragedy,"  "Cupid's  Re- 
»enge,''  "The  Silver  Aje."  "Lucretia,"  "The  Nobleman,"  "  Hy- 
men'»  Holiday  "  and  ••  The  Maid's  Tragedy."  At  most,  only  one  of 
hfM  had  beei   printed  before  they  were  thus  acte'  and  some  of  the 


nothing  but  incident  in  common  with  "  Twelfth-Night.'" 
The  vast  inferiority  of  the  former  to  the  latter  in  language  and 
sentiment  may  be  seen  in  every  page,  in  every  line.  Tl>« 
mistake  of  the  brother  for  the  sister,  by  Isabella,  is  the  same 
in  both,  and  it  terminates  in  a  somewhat  similar  manner,  for 
the  femide  attendant  of  the  lady,  meeting  Fabricio  (who  ia 
dressed,  like  his  sister  Lelia,  in  white)  in  the  street,  conducts 
him  to  her  mistress,  who  receives  him  with  open  arms 
Flamminio  and  Lelia  are  of  course  united  at  the  end  of  tht 
comedy. 

The  likeness  between  GV  In^anncii  s-nd  "Twelfth-Night" 
is  certainly  in  some  points  of  the  story,  stronger  than  that 
between  GV  Jnr/anni  iind  Shakespeare's  drama;  but  to  neither 
can  we  say,  witii  any  degree  of  certainty,  that  our  great  ota- 
matist  resorted,  although  he  liad  jicrhaps  read  both,  when  he 
was  considering  the  best  mode  of  adapting  to  the  stage  th« 
incidents  of  Bandello's  novel.  There  is  no  hint,  in  any  source 
yet  discovered,  for  the  smallest  portion  of  the  comic  business 
of  "  Twe'fth-Night."  In  both  the  Italian  dramas  it  is  of  the 
most  homely  antl  vulgar  materials,  by  the  intervention  of  em- 
pirics, braggarts,  pedants,  and  servants,  who  deal  in  the 
coarsest  jokes,  and  are  guilty  of  the  grossest  bufl'uonery. 
Shakespeare  shows  his  infinite  superiority  in  each  depart- 
ment: ni  the  more  serious  portion  of  his  drama  lie  employed 
the  incidents  furnished  by  predecessors  as  the  mere  scaffold- 
ing for  the  erection  of  his  own  beautiful  edifice;  and  for  tlte 
comic  scenes,  combining  so  admirably  with,  and  assisting  so 
importantly  in  the  progress  of  the  main  plot,  he  seems,  an 
usual,  to  liave  drawn  merely  upon  his  own  interminable  re- 
sources. 

It  was  an  opinion,  confidently  stated  by  Coleridge  in  his 
lectures  iu  1818,  that  the  passage  in  Act  ii.'sc.  4,  beginning 
"Too  old,  by  heaven  :  let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself,"  &c. 
had  a  direct  application  to  the  circumstances  of  his  own  mar- 
riage with  Anne  Hathaway,  who  was  so  much  senior  to  the 
poet.     Some  of  Shakespeare's   biographers   had    previously 
enforced  this  notion,  and  others  have  since  followed  it  up; 
but  Coleridge  took  the  opportunity  of  enlarging  eloquently  on 
the  manner  in  which  young  poeis  have  frequently  connected 
themselves  with  women  of  very  ordinary  personal  and  metital 
attractions,  the  imagination  supplying  all  deficiencies,  clothing 
the  object  of  affection  with  grace  and  beauty,  and  furnishing 
her  with  every  accomplishment. 


i 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


["The  Winter's  Tale"  was  fir.st  printed  in  folio  in  1623, 
where  it  occupies  twenty-seven  pages,  from  p.  277  to  808, 
and  is  the  last  in  the  division  of  "  Comedies."  The  back 
of  p.  803  is  left  blank  and  unpaged.  The  later  folios  adopt 
the  same  arrar.genient.] 

Little  doubt  can  be  entertained,  that  "  The  Winter's  Tale  " 
was  produced  at  the  Globe,  very  soon  after  that  theatre  had 
been  o()ened  for  what  might  be  ciillcd  tlie  summer  season  in 
1611.  In  the  winter,  as  has  been  well  ascertained,  the  king's 
players  performed  at  "the  private  house  in  Black-friars," 
and  they  usually  removed  to  the  Globe,  which  was  open  to 
the  sky,' late  in  the  spring. 

Three  pieces  of  evidence  tend  to  the  conclusion,  that  "The 
Winter's  Tale"  was  brought  out  c:irly  in  1611  :  the  first  of 
these  ha-s  never  until  now  been  ailduccd,  and  it  cor.sists  of 
the  following  entrv  in  the  account  of  the  Master  of  the  Revels, 
Sir  Georire  Buc,  from  the  31st  of  October,  1611,  to  the  same 
day,  1612:— 

"  The  5th  of  November :  A  play  called  the  wintfira 
nightes  Tayle." 
No  author's  name  is  mentioned,  but  the  piece  was  represented 
at  Whitehall,  by  "the  king's  players^"  as  we  find  stated  iu 
the  margin,  and  there  can  be  no  hesitation  in  deciding  that 
"  The  Winter's  Night's  Tayle  "  was  Shakespeare's  "  Wintfi  r'H 
Tale."  The  fact  of  its  performance  has  been  established  ay 
Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  in  liis  valuable  work,  entitled,  "Ex- 
tracts from  the  Accounts  of  the  Revels  at  Court,"  8vo,  1842 


printed  for  the  Shakespeare  Society'.  "The  Winter's  Tale'' 
was  probably  selected  on  account  of  its  novelty  and  popu- 
larity', 

never  came  from  the  press  "  The  Nobl»man  '•  by  Cyril  Tourneur, 
was  entered  at  Stationers' Hall  for  p\.biirati<n  on  l.'ith  February, 
1011  "Lucretia"  may  have  been  a  different  play  from  Heywood'i 
"  Rape  of  Lucrece,"  which  bears  date  in  IGIH  :  if  so,  there  is  no  ex- 
ception, and  all  fhat  came  from  the  press  at  any  period  were  printed 
subsequently  to  l(i11-12,  the  earliest  in  V'A3,  and  the  latest  m  1655 
Hence  a  strong  inference  mav  be  drawn,  th.it  thoy  were  all  draniat 
which  had  been  recommended  for  court- performance  by  their  novelty 
•ind  I'opularitv. 


rS-TRODUCTIOiS^  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


great  dramatist  follows  Greene's  story  very  closely,  as  iu»y 
be  seen  by  some  of  the  notes  in  the  course  of  the  play,  and 
by  the  recent  republication  of  "  Pandosto"  from  the  iiiiiqiie 
copy  of  1588,  in  "  Sliakespeare's  Library."  Tlicre  is,  how- 
ever, one  remarkable  variation,  which  it  is  necessary  to  poiul 
out.    Greene  says : — 

"The  guard  left  her"  (the  Queen)  "in  this  perplexitie, 
and  carried  the  child  to  the  king,  who,  quite  devoide  of  pity 
commanded  that  without  delay  "it  should  be  put  in  the  boat, 
having  neither  sail  nor  rudder  to  guide  it,  and  so  to  be  car- 
ried into  the  midst  of  ihe  sea,  and  there  left  to  the  wind  and 
wave,  as  the  destinies  please  to  appoint." 

The  child  thus  "  left  to  the  wind  and  wave"  is  the  Perdita 
of  Shakespeare,  who  describes  the  way  in  which  the  infant 
was  exposed  very  differently,  and  probably  for  this  reason: — 
that  in  "  The  Tempest "  he  had  previously  (perhaps  not  long 
before)  represented  Prospero  and  Miranda  turned  adrift  at 
sea  in  the  same  manner  as  Greene  had  stated  his  heroine  to 
have  been  disposed  of.  \\  nen,  therefore,  Shakespeare  came 
to  write  "  The  "Winter's  Tale,"  instead  of  following  Greene, 
as  he  had  usually  done  in  other  minor  circumstances,  he 
varied  from  tiie  original  narrative,  in  order  to  avoid  an  objec- 
tionable similarity  of  incident  in  his  two  dramas.  It  is  true, 
that  in  the  conclusion  Shakespeare  has  also  made  important 
and  most  judicious  changes  in  the  story;  since  nothing  could 
well  be  more  revolting  than  for  Pandosto  (wlio  answers  to 
Leontes)  first  to  fall  dotingly  in  love  with  his  own  daughter, 
and  afterwards  to  commit  suicide.  The  termination  to  which 
our  great  dramatist  brings  the  incidents  is  at  once  striking, 
natural,  and  beautiful,  and  is  an  equal  triumph  of  judgment 
and  power. 

It  is,  perhaps,  singular  that  Malone,  who  observed  "pon 
the  "involved  parenthetical  sentences"  prevailing  in  "The 
Winter's  Tale,"  did  not  in  that  very  peculiarity  find  a  proof 
that  it  must  have  been  one  of  Shakespeare's  later  productions. 
In  the  Stationers'  Registers  there  is  no  earlier  entry  of  it  than 
that  of  Nov.  8,  1623,  when  the  publication  of  the  first  folio 
was  contemplated  by  Blount  and  Jaggard:  it  originally  ap- 
peared in  that  volnm'e,  where  it  is  regularly  divided  into  Acts 
and  Scenes:  the  "  Wynter's  Nighte's  Pastime,"  noticed  in 
the  registers  under  date  of  May  22,  1594,  must  have  been  a 
different  work.  If  any  proof  of  the  kind  were  wanted,  we 
learn  from  two  lines  in  "  Dido,  Queen  of  Carthage,"  by  Mar- 
lowe and  Nash,  1594,  4to,  that  "  a  winter's  tale  "  was  a  then 
current  phrase : — 

"  Who  would  not  undergoe  ail  kinde  of  toyle 
To  be  well  sior'd  with  such  a  winter's  tale?"    Sign.  D.  -3  b. 

In  representing  Bohemia  to  be  a  maritime  country,  Shake- 
speare adopted  the  popular  notion,  as  it  had  been  encouraged 
since  1588  by  Greene's  "Pandosto."  With  regard  to  the  pre- 
vailing ignorance  of  geosrraphy,  the  subsequent  passage  from 
John  Taylor's  "  Travels  to  Prague  in  Bohemia, "a  journey  per- 
formed by  him  in  1620,  shows  that  the  satirical  writer  did  not 
consider  it  strange  that  an  alderman  of  London  was  not  aware 
that  a  fleet  of  ships  could  not  arrive  at  a  port  of  Bohemia: — 
"  I  am  no  sooner  eased  of  him,  but  Gregory  Gandergoose,  an 
We  have  seen  that  "  The  Temnest"  and  "  The  Winter's  |  Alderman  of  Gotham,  catches  me  by  the  goll,  demanding  if 

Tale"  were  both  acted  at  Whitehall,  and  included   in  Sir    g^^gj^^j.^  ^^g  ^  g,.gat;  town,  and  whether  there  be  any  meat  in 

George  Buc's  aecLiunt  of  the  expenses  of  the  Eevels  from  >  ■^^   g^^^i  ^vhether  the  last  fleet  of  ships  be  arrived  there."    It 

October,  1611,  to  October,  1612'.     How  much  older  "The      '       '  -        ^-    . 

Tempest"  might  be  than  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  we  have  no 

means  of  determining ;   but  there  is  a  circumstance  which 

shows  that  the  composition  of  "  The  Tempest  "  was  anterior 

to  that  of  "  The  Winter's  Tale :"  and  this  brings  us  to  speak 

of  the  novel  upon  which  the  latter  is  founded. 

As  early  as  the  year  1588,  Eobert  Greene  printed  a  tract 

called  "  Pandosto  :"The  Triumph  of  Time,"  better  known  as 

"The  History  of  Dorastus  and  Fawnia,"  the  title  it  bore  in 

sotne  cf  the  later  copies.     As  far  as  we  now  know,  il  was  not 

-^printed  until  1607,  and  a  third  impression  appeared  in  1609: 

!*  afterwards  went  through  many  editions^;  but  it  seems  not 

unlikely  that  Shakespeare  was  directed  to  it,  as  a  proper  sub- 
ject for  dramatic  representation,  by  the  third   impression 

which  came  out  the  year  before  we  suppose  him  to  have  com- 

moiiced  writing  his  "  Winter's  Tale^."    In  many  respects  our 


The  second  piece  of  evidence  on  this  point  has  also  recent- 
ly come  to  light.  It  is  contained  in  a  MS.  Diary,  or  Note- 
book, keot  bv  Dr.  Simon  Forman,  (MSS.  Ashm.  208.)  in 
which,  under  "date  of  the  loth  May,  1611,  he  states  that  he 
saw  "  The  Winter's  Tale"  at  the  Globe  Theatre  :  this  was  the 
May  preceding  the  representation  of  it  at  Court  on  the  5th 
November.  He  gives  the  following  brief  account  of  the  plot, 
which  inseniously  includes  all  the  main  incidents: — 

"  Observe  there  how  Leontes,  king  of  Sicilia,  was  overcome 
with  jealousy  of  his  wife  with  the  king  of  Bohemia,  his  friend 
that  came  to"  see  liim  ;  and  how  he  contrived  his  death,  and 
would  have  had  his  cup-bearer  to  have  poisoned  [him],  who 
gave  the  king  of  Bohemia  warning  thereof,  and  fled  with  him 
to  Bohemia.  Eemember,  also,  how  he  sent  to  the  oracle  of 
Apollo,  and  the  answer  of  Apollo  that  she  was  guiltless,  and 
that  the  king  was  jealous,  &c. ;  and  how,  except  the  child  was 
found  again  tliat  was  lost,  the  king  should  die  without  issue; 
for  the  child  was  carried  into  Bohemia,  and  there  laid  in  a 
forest,  and  brought  up  by  a  shepherd  ;  and  the  king  of  Bohe- 
mia's son  married  tliat  wench,  and  how  they  fled  into  Sicilia 
to  Leontes;  and  the  shepherd  having  showed  the  letter  of  the 
nobleman  whom  Leontes  sent,  it  was  that  child,  and  [by]  the 
jewels  found  about  her,  she  was  known  to  be  Leontes'  daugh- 
ter, and  was  then  sixteen  years  old.  Eemember,  also,  the 
rogue  that  came  in  all  tattei-ed,  like  Coll  Pipci,  and  how  lie 
feigned  him  sick,  and  to  have  been  robbed  of  all  he  had;  and 
how  he  cozened  the  poor  man  of  all  his  money,  and  after 
came  to  the  sheep-sheer  with  a  pedlar's  packe,  and  there 
cozened  them  again  of  all  their  money.  And  how  he  changed 
apparel  with  the  king  of  Bohemia's  son,  and  then  how  he 
turned  courtier,  &c.  Beware  of  trusting  feigned  beggars  or 
fawning  fellows." 

We  have  reason  to  think  that  "  The  AVinter's  Tale  "  was  in 
its  first  run  on  the  15th  May,  1611,  and  that  the  Globe  Thea- 
tre had  not  then  been  long  opened  for  the  season. 

The  opinion  that  the  play  was  then  a  novelty,  is  strongly 
confirmed  by  the  third  piece  of  evidence,  which  Malone  dis- 
covered late" in  life,  and  which  induced  him  to  relinquish  his 
earlier  opinion,  that  "The  Winter's  Tale"  was  written  in 
1604.  He  found  a  memorandum  in  the  oflBce-book  of  Sir 
Henry  Herbert,  Master  of  the  Eevels,  dated  the  19th  August, 
1628,"in  which  it  was  stated  that  "  The  Winter's  Tale,"  was 
"an  old  play  formerly  allowed  of  by  Sir  George  Buc."  Sir 
George  Buc" was  Master  of  the  Eevels  from  October,  1610, 
until"  May.  1622.  Sir  George  Buc  must,  therefore,  have 
licensed  "The  Winter's  Tale"  between  October,  1610,  when 
he  was  appointed  to  bis  office,  and  May,  1611,  when  Forman 
saw  it  at  the  Globe. 

It  might  have  been  composed  by  Shakespeare  in  the  autumn 
and  winter  of  1610-11,  with  a  view  to  its  production  on  the 
Bank-side,  as  soon  as  the  usual  performances  by  the  King's 
players  commenced  there.  Sir  Henn"  Herbert  informs  us 
that  when  he  srave  permission  to  revive  "  The  Winter's  Tale  ' 
in  August  1628,  "the  allowed  book"  (that  to  which  Sir 
George  Buc  had  appended  his  signature)  "was  missing."  It 
had  no  doubt  been  destroyed  when  the  Globe  Theatre  was 
consumed  by  fire  on  29th  June,  1618. 


»  The  circumstance  that  ''The  Tempest"  and  "  The  Winter's  Tale" 
vett)  both  acted  at  court  at  this  period,  and  that  they  might  belong  to 
nearly  the  same  date  of  composition,  seems  to  give  great  additional 
probability  to  the  opinion,  that  Ben  Jonson  alluded  to  thetn  in  the 
following  passage  in  the  Induction  to  his  "  Bartholomew  Fair."  which 
was  acted  in  1614,  while  Shakespeare's  two  plays  were  still  high  in 
popular  favour  : — "  If  there  be  never  a  Servant-monster  V  the  Fair, 
who  can  help  it,  he  says  ?  nor  a  nest  of  Anticks  ?  He  is  loth  to  make 
nature  afraid  in  his  Flayes.  like  those  that  beget  Tales,  Tempests, 
ind  such  like  Drolleries."  The  Italic  type  and  the  capitals  are  as 
they  stand  in  the  original  edition  in  folio,  lC:n  Gifiord  (Ben  Jon- 
•on's  Works,  Vol.  iv.  p.  370)  could  not  be  brouxht  to  acknowledge 


is  to  be  observed,  that  Shakespeare  r-everses  the  scene  of 
"  Pandosto,"  and  represents  as  passing  in  Sicily,  what  Greene 
had  made  to  occur  in  Bohemia.  In  several  places  lie  more 
verbally  followed  Greene  in  this  play  than  he  did  even  Lodge 
in  "  As  You  Like  it;"  but  the  general  variations  are  greater 
from  "Pandosto"  than  from  "Eosalynde."  Shakespeare 
does  not  adopt  one  of  the  appellations  given  by  Greene ;  and 
it  mav  be  noticed  that,  just  anterior  to  the  time  of  our  poet, 
the  name  he  assigns  to  the  Queen  of  Leontes  liad  been  em- 
ploved  as  that  of  a  male  ehai-acter  :  in  "The  rare  Triumphs 
of  Love  and  Fortune,"  acted  at  court  in  1581-2,  and  printed 
in  1589,  Hermione  is  the  lover  of  the  heroine. 

"The  idea  of  this  delightful  drama"  (says  Coleridge  in  his 
Lit.  Eem.  vol.  ii.  p.  250)is  a  genuine  jealousy  of  disposition^ 
and  it  should  be  immediately  followed  by  the  perusal  OT 
'  Othello,'  which  is  the  direct  contrast  of  it  in  every  partica- 

that  the  words 

pests,"  applied  to  Shakespeai 

fact  seems  hardly  disputable, 

3  How  lon-^  it  continued  popular,  may  bs  judged  from  the  fact  that 
it  was  printed  as  a  chap-book  as  recently  as  the  year  173o,  when  it 
I  was  called  '•  The  Fortuiate  Lovers  ;  or  the  History  of  llorastus,  I'nnce 


Servant-monster."  ''Anticks,"  "  Tales,"  and  "Tem- 
Shakespeare,  but  with  our  present  information  th« 


!  of  Sicily,  and  of  Fawn 
I  hernia,"  i-2mo. 


ily  daughter  and  heir  to  the  King  of  Bo- 


3  In  a  note  upon  a  passage  in  Act  iii.  sc  2,  a  reason  is  assigned  foi 
thinking  that  Shakespeare.did  not  employ  the  first  edition  of  Greene  i 
novel,  but  in  all  probability  that  of  1W19, 


XCll 


INTRODUanON   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


tr.  For  jealousy  is  a  vice  of  the  mind,  a  culpable  tondcnoy 
jf  temper,  liavimj  cerlaiii  well  known  and  well  define'l  effect« 
ami  cmiouiuilants,  all  of  which  are  visible  in  Lennte?,  and  1 
boldly  say,  not  one  of  which  marks  its  presence  in  Othello: — 
such  as,  fir^t,  an  excitability  by  the  most  inadequate  causes, 
ind  an  eagerness  to  snatch  at  proofs ;  secondly,  a  grossuess 
iif  conception,  and  a  disposition  to  degrade  the  object  of  the 
passion  W  sensual  fancies  and  images;  thirdly,  a  sense  of 
slmme  of  Vw  own  tl-dings  exhibited  in  a  solitary  moodiness 
of  Iramour,  and  yet  frotn  the  violence  of  the  passion  forced  to 
ntwr  itself,  and  therefore  catching  oc&isions  to  ease  the  mind 
by  ambiguities,  and  equivoques,  by  talking  to  those  who  can- 
not, anvlwho  are  known  not  to  be  able  to  uuderstaiid  what 
is  said  to  them  ;  in  short,  by  soliloquy  in  the  form  of  dialogue, 
and  hence  a  ctinfiised,  broken,  and  fragmentary  manner ; 
fourthly,  a  dread  of  vulgar  ridicule,  as  distinct  from  a  high 
sense  of  honour,  or  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty  ;  and  lastlv,  and 
nnmediatcly  consequent  on  tnis,  a  spirit  of  selfish  vindictive- 

U06S." 

In  his  lectures  in  1S15.  Coleridge  dwelt  on  tae  '•  not  easily 
jealotis"  fnune  of  Othello's  mind,  and  on  the  art;  of  the  groat 
iKMJt  in  workina  upon  lus  gcnerons  and  imsuspecting  nature : 
he  c<3ntrasted  the  characters  of  OtJicUo  and  Leontes  in  this 
respect,  the  latter  from  predisposition  requiring  no  s.uch  ma- 
lignant instigator  as  lago. 


P.- 


THE 

LIFE  AXD  DEATH  OF  EIXG  JOHN. 

f "  Tiie  Life  and  Death  of  King  John  "  was  first  pnnted  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  where  it  occupies  twenty-two  pages  ;  viz.  from 
1  to  p.  22  inclusive,  a  new  pagination  beginning  with  the 
Histories."  It  occupies  the  same  place  and  the  same 
space  in  the  re-impressions  of  1632,  1664,  and  1685.] 
"  King  John,"  the  earliest  of  Shakespeare's  "  Histories  " 
in  the  folio  of  1623,  (where  they  are  arranged  according  to  the 
reigns  of  the  ditferent  monarc'hs)  first  appeared  in  that  vol- 
ume,' and  the  Registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company  have 
searched  in  vain  for  any  entry  regarding  it:  it  is  not  enume- 
rated by  Blount  and  Jaggard  on  the  8th  Nov.  1623,  w-hen 
they  inserted  a  list  of  the  pieces,  "  not  formerly  entered  to 
other  men,"  about  to  be  included  in  their  folio  :  hence  an  in- 
ference might  be  drawn  that  there  had  been  some  previous 
entry  of  "  King  John  "  "  to  other  men,"  and,  perhaps,  even 
Ihatthe  play  had  been  already  published^". 

It  seems  indisputable  that  Shakespeare's  "  King  John  "  was 
founded  upon  an  older  play,  three  times  printed  anterior  to 
the  publication  of  the  folio  of  1623  :  "  The  first  and  second 
part  of  the  troublesome  Eeign  of  John,  King  of  England," 
came  from  the  press  in  1591,  1611,  and  1622.'  Malone,  and 
others  who  have  adverted  to  this  production,  have  obviously 
not  had  the  several  impressions  before  them.  The  earliest 
copy,  that  of  1591,  has  no  name  on  the  title-page:  that  of  1611 
has""  W.  Sh."  to  indic^ite  the  author,  and  that  of  1622,  "  W. 
Shakespeare,"  the  sur-name  only  at  length.*  Steevens  once 
thought  tliat  the  ascription  of  it  to  Shakespeare  by  fraudulent 
booksellers,  who  wished  it  to  be  taken  for  his  popular  work, 
was  correct,  but  he  subse<^uently  abandoned  this  untenable 
opinion.  Pope  attributed  it  jointly  to  Shakespeare  and  AVil- 
liam  Rowlev :  and  Farmer  "  made  no  doubt  that  Rowley  wrote 
the  first  King  John."  There  is,  however,  rea.son  to  believe 
that  Rowley  was  not  an  author  at  so  early  a  date :  his  first 
extant  printed  work  was  a  play,  in  writing  which  he  aided 
John  Day  and  George  Wilkins,  called  "  The  Travels  of  three 
English  Brothers."  1607.  In  1.591,  he  must  have  been  very 
young ;  but  we  are  not  therefore  to  conclude  decisively  that 
ols  name  is  not,  at  any  period  and  in  any  way,  to  be  connect- 
td  with  a  drama  on  the  incidents  of  the'reigii  of  King  John  ; 
fc  •  the  tradition  of  Pope's  time  may  have  been  founded  upon 

'  It  pxj.f'^TtM  to  be  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  bat  very  irregularly  : 
thus  waj.:  i.s  called  Actus  Secundas  fills  no  more  than  about  half  a 
page,  ani  Arlu^  Quartus  is  twice  repeated.  The  later  folios  adopt  1 
this  rtefective  airangement,  excepting  that  in  that  of  1632  Actus  t 
Quin(u.«  is  made  to  precede  Ariuf  (^uarlut. 

'■>  On  the  '.Sth  Nov.  1014.  '•  a  booke  called  the  Historie  of  George 
Lord  Faulconbridpe,  bastard  son  of  Richard  Cordelion,"  was  entered  ' 
iji  the  Stationem'  Registers,  but  this  was  evidently  the  prose  romance  ' 
of  which  an  edition  in  1116,  -Ito.  is  extant.  Going  back  to  155S,  it 
appears  that  a  book,  called  •'  Car  de  Lion,"  waJ!  entered  on  the  Sta- 
tioners' Rfgister  of  that  year. 

'  "  It  was  wntten,  I  believe  (says  Malone),  by  Robert  Greene,  or 
George  Peele,"  but  he  produces  nothing  in  support  of  his  opinion 
The  mention  of"  the  Scythian  Tamberlaine,"  in  the  Prologue  to  the 
edition  of  the  old  '•  King  .lohn,"  in  1591,  might  lead  us  to  suppose 
that  it  wa*  the  production  of  Marlowe,  who  did  not  die  until  l.'iai; 
but  the  style  of  the  two  parts  is  evidently  different :  rhvraing  couplef.8 
are  much  more  alundant  in  the  first  thaain  the  second,  and  there  is 
reaaoo  to  beliare.  ucording  to  the  frequent  cut  torn  of  that  age,  that 


■  the  fact  tliat,  at  some  later  date,  he  was  instrumenV.!  in  a  re- 
vival of  the  old  "King  John." 

How  long  the  old  "King  John"  had  been  in  possession  Dt 
the  stage  prior  to  1591,  when  it  was  originiJly  })rinted,  we 
have  no  precise  information*,  but  Shakespeare  found  it  there, 
and  took  the  course  VLsuai  with  dramatists  of  the  time',  by 
applying  to  his  own  purposes  as  much  of  it  as  he  thougll 
would  be  advantageous.  He  converted  the  "  two  pans  "  into 
one  drama,  and  in  many  of  its  main  features  followed  the 
story,  not  as  he  knew  it  in  history,  but  as  it  was  fixed  in  po- 
pular belief.  In  some  particulars  he  much  improved  upon  tl>€ 
conduct  of  the  incidents:  for  instance,  in  the  first  act  of  the 
old  "  King  John,"  Lady  Falconbridgc  is,  needlessly  and  ob- 
jectionably, made  a  spectator  of  the  scene  in  which  the  bas- 
tardv  of  her  son  Philip  is  discussed  before  King  John  and  his 
motner.  Another  amendment  of  the  original  is  the  absence 
of  ConsUinoe  from  the  st«ge  when  the  marriage  between 
Lews  and  Blanch  is  debated  and  determined.  A  third  ma- 
terial variation  ought  not  to  be  passed  over  without  remark. 
Although  Shakespeare,  like  the  author  or  authors  of  the  old 
"  King  .lolm,"  employs  the  Bastard  forcibly  to  raise  money 
from  the  monastenes  in  England,  he  avoidsthe  scenes  of  ex- 
tortion and  ribaldry  of  the  elder  play,  in  which  the  monks 
and  nuns  are  turned  into  ridicule,  and  the  indecency  and 
licentiousness  of  their  lives  exposed.  Supposing  the  old 
"  King  John  "  to  have  been  brought  upon  the  stage  not  long 
after  the  defeat  of  tlie  Spanish  Armada  in  1588,  when  t\w. 
haired  of  the  Roman  Catholics  was  at  its  height,  such  an  ex- 
hibition must  have  been  extremely  gratifying  to  the  taste  of 
j  vulgar  audiences.  Shakespeare  might  justly  hold  in  contempt 
i  such  a  mode  of  securing  applause ;  or,  possibly,  his  own  re- 
I  ligious  tenets  (a  point  whicn  is  considered  at  length,  with 
I  the  addition  of  some  new  information,  in  the  biography  of 
the  poet)  might  induce  him  to  touch  lightly  upon  sucli  mat- 
ters. Certain  it  is,  that  the  elder  drama  contains  much  coarse 
abuse  of  the  Roman  Catholics,  and  violent  invective  against 
the  ambition  of  the  pontiff,  little  of  which  is  found  in  Shake- 
speare. It  is,  however,  ea.-<y  to  discover  reasons  why  he 
■would  refuse  to  pander  to  popular  prejudice,  without  snp 
posing  him  to  feel  direct  sympathy  with  the  enemies  of  the 
Reformation. 

Some  of  the  principal  incidents  of  the  reign  of  John  had 
been  converted  into  a  drama,  with  the  purpose  of  promoting 
the  Reformation,  very  early  in  the  reign  of  Elizjibeth,  if  not 
in  that  of  Edward  VI.  We  refer  to  the  play  of  "  Kynge 
Johan,"  by  Bishop  Bale,  which,  like  the  old  "King  John," 
is  in  two  parts,  though  we  can  trace  no  other  |>articular  re- 
semblance. It  was  printed  by  the  Camden  Society,  from  the 
author's  original  MS.  (in  the'library  of  the  duke'of  Devon- 
shire) in  1838,  and  is  a  specimen  of  the  mixture  of  allegory 
and  history  in  the  same  play,  perhaps  unexampled.  As  it 
was,  doubtless,  unknown  both  to  the  author  or  authors  of  the 
old  "  King  John,"  as  well  as  to  Shakespeare,  it  requires  no 
farther  notice  here,  than  to  show  at  how  early  a  date  that  por- 


tion of  our  annals  had  been  brought  upon  the  stage. 
Upon   the  question,  when   "  King  John  "  was  wn 
Shakespeare,  we  have  no  knowledge  beyond  the  fact  that 


Francis  Meres  introduces  it  into  his  list  in  1598.  Malone  spe 
eulated  that  it  was  composed  in  1596,  but  he  does  not  plac« 
reliance  upon  the  internal  evidence  he  himself  adduces,  which 
certainly  is  of  a  more  than  usually  vaene  character.  Chalmers, 
on  the  other  hand,  would  assign  the  play  to  159S,  but  the 
chance  seems  to  be,  that  it  was  written  a  short  time  before  if 
wa.s  spoken  of  by  Meres:  we  should  be  disposed  to  assign  it 
to  a  date  between  1596  and  1.598,  when  the  old  "  King  John," 
which  was  probably  in  a  course  of  rejircsentntion  in  1591,  had 
gone  a  little  out  of  recollection,  and  when  Meres  would  have 
had  time  to  become  acquainted  with  Shakespeare's  drama, 
from  its  popularity  either  at  the  Globe  or  Blackfriars'  The- 
atres. 

man  one  dramatist  was  concerned  in  the  composition  of  thj 


play 

♦  The  edition  of  1591  was  printed  for  Sampson  Clarke  :  that  of  1011. 
by  Valentine   Simmcs.  for  John 
Mathews,  for  Thomas  Dew( 


Helme  ;  and  that  of  1622,  by  Aug'. 

»  The  edition  of  1.591  is  preceded  by  a  Prologue,  omitted  in  the  two 
later  impressions,  which  makes  it  quite  clear  that  the  old  "  King 
John,"  was  posterior  to  Marlowe's  ''  Tamberlaine  :"  it  begins. 

"  Yon  that  with  friendly  grace  of  smoothed  brow. 
Have  entertained  the  Scythian  Tamberlaine,"  &c 
In   the   Hist,  of  En^l.   Dram.   Poetry  and   the   Stage,  vol.  iii.  p    1J2. 
reasons  are  assigned  lor  believing  that  Marlowe's  "  Tamberlaine  ""  wai 
acted  about  1.5"?7 

'  in  Ilensiowe  s  MS.  Diarv.  under  the  date  of  May,  1.598,  we  meet 
with  an  entry  of  a  plav  by  Robert  Wil.*on,  Henry  Chettle.  Antnony 
Munday.  and  Michael  Drayton,  entitled  "The  Funerals  of  Richard 
Cordelion."  It  possibly  had  no  connexion  with  the  portion  of  hivtor; 
to  which  Shakespeare's  play  and  the  old  ''  King  John  ''  relate. 


mTRODUCTION   TO  THE   PLAYS. 


KIKG  RICHARD  H. 

['•The  Tnio-edie  of  KiHsr  Kichard  the  second.     As  it  hath 
beeiie  publikely  acted  by  the  right  Honourable  the  Lorde 
Chamberluine  his  Sernants.     London  Printed  by  V^aleiitine 
Simmes  for  Androw  Wise,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  hii  sliop 
in  Paules  church  yard  at  the  signe  of  the  Angel.     1597." 
4to.  37  leaves. 
"  The  Tragedie  of  King  Kichard  the  second.   As  it  hath  beene 
publikely  acted  by  the  Right  Honoarable  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlaine  his  seruants.    By  William  Shake-speare.    London 
Printed  by  Valentine  Simmes  for  Andrew  Wise,  and  are 
10  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Paules  churchyard  at  the  signe  of 
the  Angel.  1598."  4to.  36  leaves. 
"The.  Tragedie  of  King  Kichard  the  Second:  with  new  ad- 
ditions of  the  Parliament  Seeane,  and  the  deposing  of  King 
Richard.     As  it  liath  been  lately  acted  by  the  Kinges  Ma- 
iesties  seruantes,  at  the  Globe.     By  William  Shakespeare. 
At  London,  Printed  by  W.  W.  for  Mathew  Law,  and  are 
to  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Panic's  cliurchvard,  at  the  signe 
oftheFoxe.  160S."  4to.  39  leaves. 
"The  Tragedie  of  King  Richard  the  Second:  with  new  ad- 
ditions of  the  Parliament  Seeane,  and  the  deposing  of  King 
Richard.     As  it  hath  been  lately  acted  by  the  Kinges  Ma- 
iesties  seruants,  at  the  Globe.     By  William  Shake-speare. 
At  London,  Printed  for  Mathew  Law,  and  are  to  be  sold 
at  his  shop  in  Paules  Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Foxe. 
1615."  4to.  89  leaves. 
In  the  folio  of  1623,  "  The  life  and  death  of  King  Ricliard  the 
Second"  occupies  twenty-three  pages,  viz.  from   p.  23  to 
p.  45,  inelusive.     The  three  other  folios  reprint  it  in  the 
same  form,  and  in  all  it  is  divided  into  Acts  and  Scenes.] 
Above  we  have  given  the  titles  of  four  quarto  editions  of 
"  King  Richard  IL,"  wliich  preceded  the  publicaion  of  the 
folio  of  1623,  ard  which  were  all  published  during  the  life- 
time of  Shakespeare :  thev  bear  date  respectively  in  1597, 
1598,  1608,  and  1615.     It  will  be  observed  that  the  title  of 
the  edition  of  1608  states  that  it  contains  "  new  additions 
.■)f  the  Parliament  Scene,  and  the  deposing  of  King  Richard." 
The  Duke  of  Devonshire  is  in  possession  of  an  unique  copy, 
dated  1608,  the  title  of  which  merely  follows  the  wording  of 
the  preceding  impression  of  1598,  omitting  any  notice  of 
"  new  additions,"  though  containing  the  whole  of  them'. 
The  name  of  our  great  dramatist  first  appears  in  connection 
with  this  historical  play  in  1598,  as  if  Simmes  the  printer,  and 
Wise  the  stationer,  when  they  printed  and  published  their 
edition  of  1597,  did  not  know,  or  were  not  authorized  to  state, 
that  Shakespeare  was  the  wiiter  of  it.     Precisely  the  same 
was  the  case  with  "King  Richard  III.,"  printed  and  pub- 
lished by  the  same  parties  in  the  same  year,  iftid  of  which 
also  a  second  edition  appeared  iu  1598,  with  the  name  of  the 
author. 

We  will  first  speak  regarding  the  date  of  the  original  pro- 
duction of  "Richard  II.,"  and  then  of  the  period  when  it  is 
likely  that  the  "  new  additions"  were  inserted. 

It  was  entered  on  tlie  Stationers'  Register  in  1597.  in  the 
following  manner: — 

"  29  Aug.  1597. 
Andrew  Wise.]  The  Tragedye  of  Richard  the  Seconde." 
This  memorandum  was  made  anterior,  but  perhaps  only 
shortly  anterior,  to  the  actual  publication  of  "Kichard  II. ," 
and  it  forms  the  earliest  notice  of  its  existence.  Malone  sup- 
poses that  it  was  written  in  1593,  but  he  does  not  produce  a 
single  fact  or  argument  to  establish  his  position ;  nor  perhaps 
could  any  be  adduced  beyond  the  circumstance,  that  having 
assigned  the  "  Comedy  of  Errors  "  to  1592,  and  "  Love's  La- 
bour's  Lost"  to  1594,  he  laid  left  an  interval  between  those 
years  in  which  he  could  place  not  only  "Richard  II."  but 
_  Richard  III."  In  fact,  we  can  arrive  "at  no  nearer  approx- 
imation ;  although  Chalmers,  in  his  "  Supplemental  Apology," 
contended  that  a  note  of  time  was  to  be  found  in  the  allusions 
in  the  first  and  second  Acts  to  the  disturbances  in  Ireland. 
It  is  quite  certain  that  the  rebellion  in  tliat  country  was  re- 
newed in  1594,  and  proclaimed  in  1595 :  but  it  is  far  from 


1  There  is  miother  circumstance  belonging  to  the  title-page  of  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire's  copy  which  deserves  notice  :  it  states  that  the 
play  -was  printed  "  as  it  hath  been  publikely  acted  by  the  Right  Ho- 
nourable the  Lord  Chamberlaine,  his  seruantes."  The  company  to 
which  Shakespeare  belonged  were  not  called  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  after  James  I.  came  to  the  throne,  but  "  the  King's 
Majesty's  servants,"  as  in  the  title-page  of  the  other  copy  of  KiOS. 
This  fact  might  give  rise  to  the  supposition,  that  it  had  been  intended 
to  reprint  an  edition  of  Richard  II.,  jncluding  "  the  Parliament 
scene,''  but  not  mentioning  it,  before  *the  death  of  Elizabeth;  but 
that  for  some  reason  it  was  postponed  for  about  five  years.  | 

'  There  might  be  many  reasons  why  the  exhibition  of  the  deposing    templated  about  this  date, 
of  Richard  II    would  be  objectiooEble  to  Elizabeth,  especially  after 


I  clear  that  any  reference  to  it  was  i'Uenaed  by  Shakespeare. 
!  Where  the  matter  is  so  extremely  d'^ubtful,  we  shall  not  at- 
'  tempt  to  fix  on  any  particular  year.  If  any  argument,  one 
i\-ay  or  the  other,  could  be  Ibunded  upon  the  publication  of 
Daniel's  "  Civil  AVars,"  in  1595,  it  woi>ld  show  that  that  poet 
had  raade  alterations  in  subsequent  editions  of  his  poem,  in 
order,  perhaps,  to  fall  in  more  with  the  popular  notions  re- 
garding the  history  of  the  time,  as  produced  by  the  success 
of  the  plav  of  our  great  dramatist.  Meres  mentions  "  Richard 
the  2"  in"  1598. 

Respecting  the  "  new  additions"  of  "  the  deposing  of  King 
Richard  "  we  have  some  evidence,  the  existence  of  wliieh  was 
j  not  known  in  the  time  of  Malone,  who  conjectured  that  thiH 
'  scene  had  originally  formed  part  of  Shakespeare's  jilay,  and 
i  was  "suppressed  in  the  primed  copy  of  j597,  from  the  fear 
j  of  offending  Elizabeth,"  and  not  published,  with  the  rest, 
!  until  leoS^.^Such  may  have  been  the  case,  but  we  now  know 
I  that  there  were  two  separate  plays  upon  the  events  of  th 
reign  of  Richard  II.,  and  the  deposition  seems  to  have  formed 
a  portion  of  both.  On  the  80th  Aprl,  1611,  Dr.  Simon  For- 
man  saw  "  Richard  2,"  as  he  expressly  calls  it,  at  the  Globe 
Theatre,  for  which  Sh.akespeare  was  a  writer,  at  which  he  had 
been  an  actor,  and  in  the  receipts  of  which  he  was  interested. 
In  his  oriffinal  Diary,  (MS.  Ashm.  208,)  preserved  in  the 
Bodleian  Library,  Forman  inserts  the  following  account  of, 
and  observations  upon,  the  plot  of  the  "Richard  II. ,"  he 
having  been  present  at  the  representation  : — 

"Remember  therein  how  Jack  Straw,  by  his  overmuch 
boldness,  not  being  politic,  nor  suspecting  any  thing,  was 
suddenly,  at  Smithfield  Bars,  stabbed  by  Walworth,  the 
Mayor  o"f  London  :  and  so  he  and  his  whole  army  was  over- 
thrown. Therefore,  in  such  case,  or  the  like,  never  admit 
any  party  witliout  a  bar  between,  for  a  man  cannot  be  too 
wi"se,  nor  keep  himself  too  safe.  Also,  remember  how  the 
Duke  of  Glouster,  the  Earl  of  Arundel,  Oxford,  and  others, 
crossing  the  King  in  his  humour  about  tlie  Duke  of  Erland 
(Ireland)  and  Bushy,  were  glad  to  fly  and  raise  a  host  of  men  : 
1  and  being  in  his  castle,  how  the  Duke  of  Erland  came  by 
nisrht  to  betray  him,  with  300  men  ;  but,  having  privy  warning 
thereof,  kept  'his  gates  fast,  and  would  not  suffer  the  enemy 
I  to  enter,  which  went  back  again  with  a  fly  in  his  ear,  and 
1  after  was  slaiii  by  the  Earl  of  Arundel  in  the  battle.  Remem- 
ber, also,  when  the  Duke  (i.  e.  of  Gloucester)  and  .Arundel  came 
to  London  with  their  army.  King  Richard  came  forth  to  them, 
and  met  them,  and  gave  them  fair  words,  and  promised  them 
pardon,  and  that  all  should  be  well,  if  they  would  discharge 
their  armv  ;  upon  whose  promises  and  fair  speeches  they  did 
it :  and  after,  tlie  King  bid  them  all  to  a  banquet,  and  so  be- 
trayed them,  and  cut  off  their  heads,  &e.,  because  they  had 
not  his  pardon  under  his  hand  and  seal  before,  but  his  word. 
Remember  therein,  also,  how  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  privily 
contrived  all  villainy  to  set  them  all  togetlier  by  the  ears,  and 
to  make  the  nobility  to  envy  the  King,  and  niislike  him  and 
his  government;  by  which  means  he  made  his  own  son  king, 
which  was  Henrv'Bolinsjbroke.  Remember,  also,  how  the 
Duke  of  Lancaste'r  asked  a  wise  man  whether  himself  should 
ever  be  king ;  and  he  told  him  no,  but  his  son  should  be  a 
king:  and  wlien  he  had  told  him,  he  hanged  him  up  for  his 
labour,  because  he  should  not  bruit  abroad,  or  speak  thereof 
to  others.  This  was  a  policy  in  the  Commonwealth's  opinion, 
but  I  sav  it  was  a  villain's  part,  and  a  Judas'  kiss,  to  hang 
the  man'for  telling  him  the  truth.  Beware  by  this  example 
of  noblemen  and  their  fair  words,  and  say  little  to  them,  lest 
thev  do  the  like  to  thee  for  thy  good  will." 

The  quotation  was  first  published  in  "  New  Particulars  re- 
garding Shakespeare  and  his  Works,"  8vo,  1836,  where  it 
was  siTggested  that  this  "  Richard  II."  might  be  the  play 
which  Sir  Gillv  Merrick  and  others  are  known  to  nave  pro- 
cured to  be  acted  the  afternoon  before  the  insurrection 
headed  bv  the  Earls  of  Essex  and  Southampton,  in  1601  j 
(Bacon's  Works  by  Mallet,  iv.  320)  but  in  a  letter,  published 
in  a  note  to  the  same  tract,  Mr.  Amyot  argued,  that  "  the 
deposing  of  King  Richard"  probably  formed  no  part  ot  the 
play  Forman  saw,  and  that  it  might  actually  be  another,  and 

the  insurrection  of  Lords  Essex  and  Southampton.  Thorpe's  Custu- 
male  Roffense,  p.  89,  contains  an  account  of  an  inten-iew  .  etweer 


Lambarde  (when  he  presented  his  pandect  of  the  records  of  the  Tower) 
and  Elizabeth,  shortly  subsequent  to  that  event,  in  which  she  ob 
served.  "  I  am  Richard  the  Second,  know  you  not  that?  '  L^mtardc 
replied,  "  Such  a  wicked  imagination  was  determined  and  atierapte'J 
by  a  most  unkind  gentUman,  the  most  adorned  creature  tn at  ever 
your  Maiestie  made."  "He  (said  the  Queen)  that  w'  foreat  God 
will  alsde  forgett  his  benefactors."  The  publication  of  tha  y.ditiot 
of  1608,  without  the  mention  on  the  title-page  of  "the  Parliamen/ 
Scene,  and  the  deposing  of  King  Richard,'  might  have  been  con 


XCIV 


rNTKODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


a  lost  play  by  Slmkespcare,  intended  bs  ft  "first  part"  to  his 
extant  drama  on  the  later  portion  of  tlie  roi^rn  of  that  monarch. 
It  is  also  true  that  Fornian  savs  nothiuji  of  the  t'ornial  depo- 
sition of  Richard  II. ;  but  he  tells  us  that  in  the  course  of  the 
dmma  the  Duke  of  J.ancaster  "  made  bis  own  son  Kinp,"  and 
he  could  not  do  so  without  something  like  a  deposition  ex- 
nibitcd  or  narrated.  It  is  also  to  he  observed,  that  if  For- 
mnii's  account  be  at  nil  correct,  Shakespeare  could  never  have 
exhibited  the  characters  of  the  King  and  of  Gaunt  so  incon- 
sistently in  two  parts  of  the  same  play.  The  Richard  and 
'.he  Guunt  of  Fonuaii.  with  their  treachery  and  cruelty,  are 
totjiUy  unlike  the  Richard  and  Gaunt  of  Shakesneare.  For 
these" reusoMS  we  may,  perhaps,  arrive  at  the  conclusion,  that 
U  was  a  distinct  drama,  and  not  by  Shakespeare.  We  rnay 
presume,  also,  that  it  was  tlie  very  jiicce  which  Sir  Gilly 
ilerrick  procured  to  be  represented,  and  for  the  performance 
of  which,  accordiuiT  to  a  piussage  in  the  arraignment  of  Cuffe 
and  Merrick,  the  latter  paid  forty  shillings  additional,  because 
it  was  an  old  plav,  and  not  likely  to  attract  an  audience. 

The  very  description  of  the  plot  given  by  Forman  reads  as 
if  it  were  an  old  play,  with  the  usual  quantity  of  blood  and 
treachery.  How  it  came  to  bo  popular  enough,  in  1611,  to  be 
performed  at  the  Globe  must  be  matter  (jf  mere  specuhition  : 
perhaps  the  revival  of  it  by  the  party  of  the  Kavls  of  Essex 
and  Southampton  had  recidled  public  attention  to  it,  and  im- 
provements might  have  been  made  which  would  render  it  a 
favourite  in  1611,  though  it  had  been  neglected  in  1601. 

Out  of  these  improvements,  and  out  of  this  renewed  popu- 
larity, may,  possibly,  have  grown  the  "  new  additions,"  which 
were  first  printed'  with  the  impression  of  Shakespeare's 
"  Richard  II."  in  1608',  and  which  solely  relate  to  the  deposing 
of  the  Kinir.  On  the  other  hand,  if  these  "  new  additions," 
as  they  were  termed  in  1608,  were  only  a  suppressed  part  of  the 
original  play,  there  seems  no  sufficient  ground  for  concluding 
that  it  was  not  Shakespeare's  drama  wliieh  was  acted  at  the 
instance  of  Sir  Gilly  Merrick  in  1601.  If  it  were  written  in 
1593,  as  Malone  im'asined,  or  even  in  1596,  according  to  the 
ppeculation^f  Chalmers,  it  might  be  called  an  old  play  in  1601, 
considering  the  rapidity  with  which  dramas  were  often  writ- 
ten and  brought  out  at  the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking. 
If  neither  Shakespeare's  play,  nor  that  described  by  Forman, 
were  the  pieces  selected  by  Sir  Gilly  Merrick,  there  "must 
have  been  three  distinct  plays,  in  the  possession  of  the  com- 
panv  acting  at  the  Globe,  upon  the  events  of  the  reign  of 
Ricfiard  II. 

For  the  incidents  of  this  "most  admirable  of  all  Shake- 
speare's purely  historical  plays,"  as  Coleridge  calls  it,  (Lit. 
Rem.  ii.  164,)  our  great  poet  appears  to  have  gone  no  farther 
than  Holinshed,  who  was  himself  indebted  to  Hall  and  Fabian. 
However,  Shakcsiiearo  has  nowhere  felt  himself  bound  to  ad- 
here to  chronology  when  it  better  answered  his  purpose  to 
desert  it.  Thus,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards  Henry  V., 
is  spoken  of  in  Act  v.  sc.  3,  as  frequenting  taverns  and  stews, 
when  he  was  in  fact  only  twelve  years  old.  Marston,  in  a 
short  address  before  his  "  Wonder  of  Women,"  1606,  aiming 
a  blow  at  lien  Jonson,  puts  the  duty  of  a  dramatic  author 
in  this  respect  upon  its  true  footing,  when  he  says,  "  I  have 
not  laboured  to  tie  mj-self  to  relate  anything  as  a  historian, 
but  to  enlarge  everytlnng  as  a  poet;"  and  what  we  have  just 
referred  to  in  this  play  is  exactly  one  of  those  anachronisms 
which,  in  the  words  of  Schlegel,  Shakesneare  cominittc<l 
"  purposely  and  mo-t  deliberately'."  His  design,  of  course, 
was  in  this  instance  to  link  together  "Richard  II."  and  the 
first  part  of  "Henry  IV." 

Of  the  four  quarto  editions  of  "  Richard  II."  the  most  valu- 
nblc,  for  itsreailingsatifl  general  accuracy  beyond  all  dispute, 
is  the  impression  of  1597.  The  other  three  ouartos  were, 
more  or  less,  printed  from  it.  and  the  folio  of  1*323  seems  to 
have  taken  the  latest,  that  of  1615,  as  the  foundation  of  its 
text;  but,  from  a  few  words  found  only  in  the  folio,  it  may 
seem  that  the  player-editor.'*  referred  also  to  some  extrinsic 
authority.  It  is  (]uite  cert.ain,  however,  tliat  the  folio  coi>ied 
obvious  and  indisputable  blunders  from  the  quarto  of  1615. 
There  are  no  fewer  than  eiirht  i)laces  where  the  folio  omits 
pa.ssaees  inserted  in  the  quartos,  in  one  instance  to  the  de- 
Btmctioii  of  tlie  contiiiuitv  of  the  sense,  and  in  most  to  the 
detriment  of  the  play.  Hence  not  only  the  expediency,  but 
the  absolute  necessity  of  referring  to  the  quarto  copies,  from 
which  we  have  restored  all  the  missing  lines,  and  have  dia- 
tinguishcd  them  by  placing  them  V>etween  Vjrackets. 

>  It  m»y  perhaps  be  inferred  that  there  was  an  intention  to  publish 
the  '•  history,''  with  these  •'  new  additions,"  in  U')03  :  at  all  events,  in 
that  year  the  rirht  in  "  Richard  II."  •'  Richard  III."  and  "  Henry  IV  " 
part  i.  wa»  transferred  to  Matthew  Law.  in  whose  name  the  plays 
c*ir»  on*,  when  the  next  editions  of  them  appeared.  The  entry  re- 
lating  tt    \hem    in    the    books   of    the    Stationers'    Company    nins 


FmST  PART    OF   KING  HENRY  IV. 

["The  History  of  Henrie  the  F'ovrth.;  With  the  battell  u. 
Shrewsburie,  betweene  the  King  and  Lord  Henry  Percy, 
surnamed  Ilenrie  Hotspur  of  the  North.  With  iheliumoV- 
ous  conceits  of  Sir  lolin  Falstaltt'c.  At  London,  printed  by 
P.  S.  for  Andrew  Wise,  dwelling  in  Panics  Churchyard,  a* 
the  signe  of  the  Angcll.  1598."  4to.  40  loaves. 

"The  History  of  Henry  the  Fovrth ;  With  the  battell  aS 
Shrewsburie,  betweene  the  King  and  Lord  Henry  Percy, 
surnamed  Henry  Hotspur  of  the  North.  With  the'humor- 
ous  conceits  of  Sir  lolin  Falstalft'e.  Newly  corrected  by 
W.  Shake-spcarc.  At  London,  Printed  by  S.'S.  for  Andrew 
Wise,  dwelling  in  Paules  Churchyard,  at  the  signe  of  tli* 
Angell.  1599."  4to.  40  leaves. 

"  The  History  of  Henrie  the  Fourth,  With  the  battell  al 
Shrewsburie,  betweene  the  King,  and  Lord  Henry  Ferc>, 
surnamed  Henry  Hotspur  of  the  North.  With  the  humor- 
ous conceits  of  Sir  lohii  Falstalft'e.  Newly  corrected  by 
W.  Shake-spcare.  London  Printed  by  Valentine  Simmes, 
for  Mathew  Law,  and  are  to  be  soldo  at  his  shop  in  Paules 
Churchyard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Fox.  1604."  4to.  40  leaves. 

"The  History  of  Henry  the  tbnrlh.  With  the  battell  of 
Slirewseburic,  betweene  the  King,  and  Lord  Henry  Percy, 
surnamed  Henry  Hotspur  of  the  North.  With  the  humor- 
ous conceites  of  Sir  lohn  Falstalffe.  Newly  corrected  by 
W.  Shake-speare.  London,  Printed  for  Mathew  Law,  and 
are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Paules  Churchyard,  neere  untc 
S.  Augustines  gate,  at  the  signe  of  the  Foxe.  1608."  4to. 
40  leaves. 

The  4to  edition  of  1613  also  consists  of  40  leaves ;  and  the  only 
differences  between  its  title-page  and  that  of  1608  are  the 
date,  and  the  statement  that  it  was  "  Printed  by  W.  W." 

In  the  folio  of  1623,  "The  First  Part  of  Henry  the  Fourth- 
with  the  Life  and  Death  of  Henry  Sirnamed  Hot-spvrre,'' 
occupies  twenty-six  pages,  viz.  from  p.  46  to  p.  73  inclusive. 
In  the  later  folios  it  is  reprinted  in  the  same  form.] 

At  the  titrie  when  Shakespeare  selected  the  portion  of  his- 
tory included  in  the  following  play,  as  a  fit  subject  for  drama- 
tic "representation,  the  stage  was  in  possession  of  an  old  playj 
entitled,  "  The  Famous  Victories  of  Henry  the  Fifth, '^  o. 
which  tliree  early  impressions,  one  printed  in  1598,  and  two 
others  without  date,  have  come  down  to  us :  a  copy  of  one 
edition  without  date  is  in  the  Collection  of  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  ;  and,  judging  from  the  type  and  other  circum- 
stances, we  may  conclude  that  it  was  anterior  to  the  impression 
of  1598,  and  th'at  it  made  its  appearance  shortly  after  1594,  on 
the  14th  of  May  of  which  year  it  was  entered  on  the  Station- 
ers' Registers.  Richard  Tarlton,  who  died  in  1588,  was  an 
actor  in  that  piece,  but  how  long  before  1588  it  had  been  pro- 
duced, we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining.  It  is,  in  fact,  iu 
prose,  although  many  portions  of  it  are  printed  to  look  like 
verse,  because,  at  the  date  when  it  first  came  from  the  press, 
blank-verse  had  become  popular  on  the  stage,  and  the  Dook- 
seller  probably  was  desirous  of  giving  the  old  play  a  modern 
appearance.  Our  most  ancient  public  dramas  were  composed 
in  rhyme :  to  rhyme  seems  to  have  succeeded  pro.se ;  and 
prose,"  about  the  "date  when  Shakespeare  is  believed  to  have 
originally  come  to  London,  was  displace<i  by  blank-verse,  in- 
termixed with  couplets  and  stanzas.  "  The  Famous  Victories 
of  Henry  the  Fifth"  seems  to  belong  to  the  middle  period ; 
and  as  Stephen  Gosson,  in  his  "School  of  Abuse,"  1579,  leads 
us  to  suppose  that  at  that  time  prose  was  not  vrry  usual  in 
theatrical  performances,  it  may  be  conjectured  that  "  The 
Famous  Victories  of  Henry  the  Fifth"  was  not  written  until 
after  1580. 

That  a  play  upon  the  events  of  the  reign  of  Henry  V.  was 
npon  the  stage  in  1592,  we  have  the  indisputable  evidence  of 
Thomas  Na.-*h,  in  liis  notorious  work,  "  Pierce  Penniless,  hi.i 
SuiT])licatioii,"  which  went  through  three  editions  in  thesacio 
ycjir :  we  quote  from  the  first,  (Sign.  H  2.)  where  lie  says, 
"  What  a  glorious  iJiiiig  it  is  to  have  Henry  the  Fifth  re|iie- 
seuted  on  the  Stage,  leading  the  French  King  prisoner,  and 
forcing  hvm  and  the  Dolphin  to  sweare  feallie."  We  know 
also  that  a  drama,  called  "Harry  the  V.,"  was  performed  by 
Hcnslowe's  Company  on  the  28t"h  November,  1595,  and  it  ap- 
pears likely  that  it  wiis  a  revival  of  "  The  Famous  Victories," 
with  some  important  additions,  which  gave  it  the  attraction 
of  a  new  play ;  for  the  receipts  (as  we  find  by  Henslowe's 

"27  June  160.3 
"  Matth.  Lawe]  in  full  Courte,  iij  Enterhides  or  plaves.     Th« 
first  of  Richard  the  .3d.     The  second  of  Richard  the  2d 
The  third  of  Henry  the  -4,  the  first  pt«.  all  Kings." 
'  "  Ich  unternehme  darzutftun,  dass  ifhakespeare's  Anachronismen 
mehrentheils   geilissentlich    und    mit   grnssem   liedacht  anpebrach; 
sind." — Ueber  diamatische  Kunst  auJ  Litter^tur,  vi  I.  ii  43 


mXEODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


xcv 


Diai7)  were  of  such  an  ainouut  as  was  generally  only  pro- 
dueea  by  a  first  representation.  Out  of  this  circumstance 
may  have  arisen  the  publication  of  the  early  undated  edition 
in  the  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire.  The  reproduc- 
tion of  "  The  Famous  Victories"  by  a  rival  company,  and  the 
appearance  of  it  from  the  press,  possibly  led  Shakespeare  to 
consider  in  what  way,  and  with  what  improvements,  he  could 
avail  himself  of  some  of  the  same  incidents  for  the  theatre  to 
which  he  beloncfcd.  This  event  would  at  once  make  the  sub- 
ject popular,  and  hence,  perhaps,  the  re-impression  of  "  The 
Famous  Victories  of  Henry  the  Fifth"  in  1598'.  The  year 
1596  may  possibly  have  been  the  date  when  Shakespeare  wrote 
his  "  Henry  IV."  Fart  i. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  incidents  which  are  summarily 
dismissed  in  one  old  play,  are  extended  by  our  jjreai  dramatist 
over  three— the  two  parts  of  "  Henry  IV."  and  "  Henry  V." 
It  is  impossible  to  institute  any  parallel  between  "  The  Fa- 
mous Victories"  and  Shakespeare's  dramas  ;  for,  besides  that 
the  former  has  reached  us  evidently  in  an  imperfect  shape,  the 
immeasurable  superiority  of  the  latter  is  such,  as  to  render 
any  attempt  to  trace  resemblance  rather  a  matter  of  contrast 
than  comparison.  Who  might  be  the  writer  of  "  The  Famous 
Victories,"  it  would  be  idle  to  speculate  ;  but  it  is  decidedly 
inferior  to  most  of  tlie  extant  works  of  Marlowe,  Greene, 
Feele,  Kyd,  Lodge,  or  any  other  of  the  more  celebrated  pre- 
decessors of  Shakespeare. 

Sir  John  OUlcaslle  is  one  of  the  persons  in  "  The  Famous 
V^ictories;"  and  no  doubt  can  be  entertained  that  the  charac- 
ter of  Sir  John  Falstatf,  in  the  first  part  of  Shakespeare's 
"  Henry  IV.,"  was  originally  called  Sir  John  Oldcastle.  If  any 
hesitation  could  formerly  have  been  felt  upon  this  point,  it 
must  liave  been  recently  entirely  removed  by  Mr.  Halliwell's 
very  curious  and  interesting  tract,  "  On  the  character  of  Sir 
John  Falstaff,  as  originally  exhibited  by  Shakespeare,"  12mo. 
1841.  How  the  identity  of  Oldcastle  and  Falstaff  could  ever 
have  been  questioned  after  the  discovery  of  the  following 

Eassage  in  a  play  by  Nathaniel  Field,  called,  "  Amends  for 
adies,"  1618,  it  is  difla.cult  to  comprehend  :  the  lines  seem  to 
us  decisive : — 

"  Did  yon  never  see 

The  play  where  the  fat  knight,  hight  Oldcastle, 
Did  tell  you  truly  what  this  honour  was  ?" 
This  can  allude  to  nothing  but  to  Falstaff 's  speech  in  Act  v. 
sc.  2,  of  the  ensuing  play  ;  and  it  would  also  show  (as  Mr. 
Halliwell  points  out)  that  Falstaff  sometimes  "  retained  the 
name  of  (31dcastle  after  the  author  had  altered  it  to  that  of 
Falstaff^."  This  fact  is  remarkable,  recollecting  that  "  Amends 
for  Ladies"  could  hardly  have  been  written  before  1611,  that 
prior  to  that  date  no  fewer  than  four  editions  of  "  Henry  IV." 
rart  i.,  had  been  printed,  on  the  title-pages  of  which  Falstaff 
w;is  prominently  introduced,  and  that  he  was  called  by  no 
other  name  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  that  drama. 
The  case  is  somewhat  different  with  respect  to  Shakespeare's 
"  Henry  IV."  Part  ii.,  which  contains  a  singular  confirmatory 
piece  of  evidence  that  Falstaff'  was  still  called  Oldcastle  after 
that  continuation  of  the  "  history"  had  been  written  and  per- 
formed. In  Acti.  sc.  2  of  the  drama,  Old.  is  given  as  the  pre- 
fix to  one  of  Falstaff 's  speeches.  The  error  is  met  with  in  no 
other  part  of  the  play,  and  when  the  MS.  for  the  quarto,  1600, 
was  corrected  for  the  press,  this  single  passage  escaped  obser- 
vation, and  the  ancient  reading  wiis  preserved  until  it  wa.s 
expunged  in  the  folio  of  1623.  Malone  and  Steevens,  in  op- 
position to  Theobald,  argue  that  Old.  was  not  meant  for  Old- 
castle, but  was  the  commencement  of  the  name  of  some  actor  : 
none  such  belonged  to  Shakespeare's  company,  and  the  pro- 
bability is  all  in  favour  of  Theobald's  supposition. 

This  change  mvist  have  been  made  by  Shakespeare  anterior 
to  the  spring  of  159S,  because  we  then  meet  with  the  subse- 
quent entry  in  the  Stationers'  Eegisters,  relating  to  the  earliest 
•dition  of  '•'  Henrv  IV."  Part  i. 
"  25  Feb.  1597. 
Andrew  Wisse]     A  booke  intitled  the  Historj-e  of 
Henry  the  iiii"',  with  his  battaile  of  Shrewsburye 
against  Henry  Hottspurre  of  the  Northe  with  the 
conceipted  Mirth  of  Sir  John  Falstaffe^." 


•  The  third  edition  of  "  The  Famous  Victories"  was  printed  after 
Jimes  I.  came  to  the  throne  :  it  has  no  date,  but  it  states  on  the  title- 
page  that  "  it  was  acted  by  the  Kmfj's  Majesty's  servants."  This 
assertioB.  was  probably  untrue,  the  object  of  the  stationer  being  to 
induce  bayers  to  believe  that  it  was  the  same  play  as  Shakespeare's 
work,  which  was  certainly  performed  b)'  ••  the  King's  Majesty's  ser- 
vants." From  this  impression  Steevens  reprinted  it  in  the  "  Six  Old 
Piays."  evo.  1779. 

'  The  same  conclusion  may  perhaps  be  drawn  from  the  mention  of 
"  fat  Sir  John  Oldcastle."  in  "  The  INIeeting  of  Gallants  at  an  Ordi- 
oarie,"  1604,  4to,  a  tract  recently  reprinted,  under  the  editorial  care 
>f  Mr.  Halliwell,  for  the  Percy  Society 


As  the  year  did  not  then  end  until  the  25th  March,  the  25th 
February,  1597,  was  of  course  the  25th  February,  1598;  and 
pursuant  to  the  above  entry,  Andrew  Wise  published  the 
first  edition  of  "  Tlie  History'of  Henry  IV."  with  the  date  of 
1.598 :  we  may  infer,  therefore,  that  ft  was  ready,  or  nearly 
ready,  to  be  issued  at  the  time  the  memorandum  was  made  at 
Stationers'  Hall :  on  the  title-page,  "  the  humorous  conceits 
of  Sir  John  Falstalffe"  are  made  peculiarly  obvioas.  It  is 
certain,  then,  that  before  the  play  was  printed,  the  name  of 
Oldcastle  had  been  altered  to  that  of  Falstaff.  The  reason  for 
the  change  is  asserted  to  have  been,  that  some  descendart! 
of  "Sir  John  Oldcastle,  the  good  Lord  Cobham,"  (as  he  is 
called  upon  the  title-p.age  of  a  play  which  relates  to  his  his- 
tory, printed  in  1600*,)  remonstrated  against  the  ridicule 
thrown  upon  the  character  of  the  protestant  martyr,  by  the 
introduction  into  Shakespeare's  drama  of  a  person  bearing  th» 
same  name.  Such,  unquestionably,  may  have  been  the  case, 
but  it  is  possible  also  that  Shakespeare,  "finding  that  Ids  play, 
and  his  Sir  John  Oldcastle  were  often  confounded  with  "  The 
Famous  Victories"  and  with  Sir  John  Oldcastle  of  that  dram;), 
made  the  change  with  a  view  that  they  should  be  dis- 
tinguished. That  he  did  not  quite  succeed,  is  evident  from 
the  quotation  we  have  made  from  Field's  "Amends  for 
Ladies." 

Kespecting  the  manner  in  which  Falstaff  was  attired  on  tlw 
stage  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  we  meet  with  a  curious 
passage  in  a  manuscript,  the  handwriting  of  Iiiigo  Jones,  the 
property  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire.  The  Surveyor  of  the 
Works,' describing  the  dress  of  a  person  who  was  to  figure  in 
one  of  the  court  masques,  early  in  the  reign  of  James  I.,  says, 
that  he  is  to  be  dressed  "  like  a  Sir  John  Falstaff,  in  a  robe 
of  russet,  quite  low,  with  a  great  belly,  like  a  swollen  man, 
j  long  moustachios,  the  shoes  sliort,  and  out  of  them  great  toes, 
like  naked  feet:  buskins,  to  show  a  great  swollen  leg."  We 
are,  perhaps,  only  to  understand  from  this  description,  that 
the  appearance  of  the  character  was  to  bear  a  general  resem- 
blance to  that  of  Sir  John  Falstaff',  as  exhibited  on  the  stage 
at  the  Globe  or  Blackfriars'  Theatres. 

Although  we  are  without  any  contemporaneous  notices  of 
the  performance  of  Shakespeare's  "Henry  IV."  Part  i.,  there 
cannot  be  a  doubt  that  it  was  extraordinarily  popular.  It 
went  through  five  distinct  impressions  in  4to,  in  1598,  1599, 
1604,  1608,  and  1613,  before  it  was  printed  in  the  first  folio. 
There  was  also  an  edition  in  1639,  which  deserves  notice,  be- 
cause it  was  not  a  reprint  of  the  play  as  it  had  appeared  either 
in  the  first  or  second  folios,, but  of  the  4to.  of  1613,  that  text 
being  for  some  reason  preferred.  Meres  introduces  "  Henry 
the  IVth"  into  his  list  in  1598,  and  we  need  feel  little  doubt 
that  he  alluded  to  Part  i.,  because,  on  the  preceding  page, 
(fo.  281,  b)  he  makes  a  quotation  from  one  of  Falstaff's 
speeches, — "  there  is  nothing  butrogueTjin  villainous  man," 
— though  without  acknowledging  the  source  from  which  it 
was  taken.  We  may  be  tolera^lysure,  however,  that  "  Henry 
IV."  Part  ii.,  had  then  been  produced  by  Shakespeare,  but  ft 
is  not  distinguished  by  Meres,  and  he  also  makes  no  men- 
tion of  "  Henry  V.,"  the  events  of  whose  reign,  to  his  mar- 
riage with  Catherine  of  France,  were  included  in  the  old  play 
of  "  The  Famous  Victories." 

With  regard  to  the  text  of  this  play,  it  is  unquestionably 
found  in  its  purest  state  in  the  earhest  4to.  of  1598,  and  to 
that  we  have  mainly  adhered,  assigning  reasons  in  our  notes 
when  we  have  varied  from  it.  The  editors  of  the  foho,  1623, 
copied  implicitly  the4to.  impression  nearest  to  their  own  day, 
that  of  1613,  adopting  many  of  its  defects,  and,  as  far  as  we 
can  judge,  resorting  to  no  MS.  authority,  nor  to  the  previous 
quartos  of  1598,  1599, 1604,  and  1608.  Several  decided  errors, 
made  in  reprint  of  1599,  were  repeated  and  multiplied  in  the 
subsequent  quarto  impressions,  and  from  thence  found  their 
way  into  the  folio.  Near  the  end  of  Act  i.  we  meet  with  a 
curious  proof  of  what  we  have  advanced  :  we  there  find  a  line, 
thus  distinctly  printed  in  the  4to,  1598  :— 

"I'le  steale  to  Glendower  and  Lo:  Mortimer  :" 
that  is,  "I'll  steal  to  Glendower  and  Lord  Mortimer,"  Lo« 
being  a  common  abbreviation  of  "  Lord  ;"  out  the  composi- 


3  There  is  another  entrv.  under  date  27th  June,  160.3,  by  which 
'■  Henn'  the  4  the  first  pte."'  seems  to  have  been  transferred  by  Wise 
to  Law.  for  whom  the  edition  of  1604  was  in  fact  printed. 

*  Mr.  Halliwell  does  not  seem  to  have  been  aware,  when  speaking 
of  "  The  First  part  of  the  true  and  honorable  History  of  th(^  Life  of 
Sir  John  Oldcastle.  the  good  Lord  Cobham,"  a  play  attributed  to 
Shakespeare  on  the  title-page  of  most  of  the  copies  printed  in  1600, 
i  that  two  other  copies  of  it  have  recently  been  discovered,  wbich  ^avo 
no  author's  name.  Hence  it  might  be  inferred,  that  the  originaJ 
title-page  was  cancelled  at  the  instance  of  our  gr».at  drams  tirt,  and 
another  substituted. 


INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


tor  of  the  4to,  169it,  strangely  misuuderstanding  it,  printed  it 
IB  follows : — 

"  lie  tletle  to  Glendower  and  lo«  Mortimer  ;" 
as  if  Lo:  of  the  4to,  1598,  were  to  be  taken  a,x  the  interjection 
o  I  thon  nau:illy  printed  h'f.  and  so  the  bluiuicr  was  followed 
n  the  pubsenuetit  quartos,  inclndiiip  that  of  1618,  from  whence 
t  was  transferred,  literatini,  to  the  folio,  1623.  The  error  is 
repeated  in  the  folio,  1632  ;  but  Norton,  the  printer  of  the4to, 
1689,  who,  as  lias  been  remarked,  did  not  adopt  the  text  of 
either  of  the  folios,  saw  that  there  mnst  be  a  blunder  in  the 
line,  and  aIthou;jh  he  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  set  it  right, 
e  at  least  made  sense  of  it,  by  giving  it, 

"  I  'U  steal  to  Glendower  and  to  Mortimer." 
We  only  adduce  this  instance  as  one  proof,  out  of  many 
vhicb  might  be  brought  forward,  to  e.«tablish  the  superiority 
of  the  text  of  tiie  4to.  of  1598,  to  any  of  the  subsequent  re- 
ii  ipressions. 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 


The  Second  part  of  Henrie  the  fourth,  continuing  to  his 

death,  and  coronation  of  Henrie  the  lift.   With  the  humours 

cf  Sir  loht:  Falshiffe,  and  swaggering  PistoU.     As  it  hath 

been  .'^undrie  times  publikely  acted  by  the  right  honourable,  I      It  is  a  circumstance  deserving  remark,  that  not  one  of  the 

the  Lord  Chamberlaine  liis  seruants.     Written  by  Willi.am    title-pages  of  the  quarto  editions  of  "  Henrj-  V.  "  attributefl 


Pistoll.  As  it  hath  oene  sundry  times  playd  by  tlie  Rieh- 
honorable  the  Lord  Chaniberlai'ne  his  seruant.-i.  Londu 
Printed  by  Thomas  Creede.  for  Tho.  Miliiniiton,  and  lol  ■ 
Busby.  And  are  to  be  sold  at  liis  house  in  Carter  Lant. 
next  the  Powle  head.  1600.  4to.  27  leaves. 
Tlie  Chronicle  Hi.-tory  of  Henry  the  lift.  With  his  battel: 
fought  at  Agin  Courtin  Fmnce".  Together  with  Auntient 
Pistol!.  As  it  hath  bene  sundry  times  playd  by  the  Right 
honorable  the  Lord  Chambcrlame  liis  seruants.  London 
Printeil  by  Tliomas  Creede,  for  Thomas  Pauier,  and  arc  to 
be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Cornhill,  at  the  signe  of  the  Cat  and 
Parrels,  neare  the  Exchange.  1602.  "  4to.  26  leaves. 
The  Clironicle  History  of  Henry  the  fift,  with  liis  battel! 
fought  at  Agin  Court  in  France.  Together  with  ancient 
Pistoll.  As  it  liath  bene  sundry  times  playd  by  the  Right 
Honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  Seruants.  Printed 
for  T.  P.  1608."  4to.  27  leaves. 

The  Life  of  Henry  the  Fift, "  in  the  folio  of  1623,  occupiejt 
twenty-seven  pages,  viz.  from  p.  69  to  p.  95  inclusive.  The 
pagination  from  "  henry  IV.  ^  Part  ii.  to  "  Henry  V.  "  is 
not  continued,  but  a  new  .series  begins  with  "  Henry  V. " 
on  p.  69,  and  is  regularly  followed  to  the  end  of  the  "  His- 
tories. "  The  folio,  1632.  adopts  this  error,  but  it  is  avoided 
in  the  two  later  folio  impressions. 


Shakespe.ire.     London  Printed  by  V.  S.  for  Andrew  Wise, 
and  William  Aspley.   1600."  4lo".  43  leaves. 
Other  copies  of  tho  same  edition,  in  quarto,  not  containing 

Sign.  t.  5  and  E  6,  have  only  41  leaves. 
In  the  folio,  1623,  '-The  Second  Part  of  Henry  the  Fourth, 
oontainine  his  Death :  and  the  Coronation  of  King  Henry 
the  Fift,"  occupies  twenty-nine  pages  in  the  division  of 
"  Histories, "  viz.  from  p.'  74  to  p.  102  inclusive,  the  last 
two  not  being  numbered.  P.iges  89  and  90,  by  an  error  of 
the  press,  are  numbered  91  and  92.  In  the  reprint  of  the 
folio,  1632,  tliis  mistake  is  repeated.  In  the  two  later  folios 
the  pagination  continued  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
the  volume. 

We  may  state  with  more  certainty  than  usual,  that  "Henry 
IV."  Part  ii.  war,  written  before  tlie  25th  Feb.  1598.  In  the 
preliminary  notice  of  "  Henrj-  IV.  "  Part  i.  it  is  mentioned, 
that  Act  ii.sc.  2,  of  the  "  history  "  before  us  contains  a  piece 
of  evidence  that  FalstaflF  was  still  cjilled  Oldcastle  when  it  was 
written  ;  viz.  that  the  prefix  of  Old.  is  retained  in  the  quarto, 
1600,  before  a  speech  which  belongs  to  Falstaff,  and  which 
Ls  assigned  to  him  in  the  folio  of  1623.  Now.  we  know  that 
the  name  of  Oldcastle  was  changed  to  that  of  Falstaff  anterior 
to  the  entry  of  "  Henry  IV.  "  Part  i.  in  the  books  of  the  Sta 


the  authorship  of  the  play  to  Shakespeare.'  It  was  printed 
three  ses'eral  times  during  the  life  of  the  poet,  but  in  no  in- 
stance with  his  name.  The  fact,  no  doubt,  is.  that  there  never 
was  an  authorized  edition  of  "  Henry  V.  "  until  it  appeared 
in  the  folio  of  1623,  and  that  the  <}uarto  impressions  were 
surreptitious,  and  were  published  without  the  consent  of  the 
author,  or  of  the  company  to  wiiich  he  was  attached.  They 
came  out  in  1600,  1602,  and  1608,  the  one  being  merely  a  re- 
print of  the  other ;  and,  considering  the  imperfectness  and 
deficiency  of  the  text  in  the  quarto  of  1600,  it  is  perhaps 
strange  that  no  improvements  were  made  in  the  subsequent 
impressions.  The  arama  must  have  enjoyed  ^reat  popularity  ; 
it  must  have  been  played  over  and  over  again  at  the  theatre, 
and  yet  tlie  public  interest,  as  far  as  perusal  is  concerned, 
would  seem  to  have  been  satisfied  with  a  brief,  rude,  and  mu- 
tilated represent.ition  of  tlie  performance.  The  quartos  can 
be_  looked  upon  in  no  otlier  light  than  as  fragments  of  the 
original  play,  printed  in  haste  for  the  satisfaction  of  public 
curiosity. 

The  quar  os  bear  strong  external  and  internal  evidence  of 
ft-aud:  the  earliest  of  thein  was  not  published  by  a  bookseller 
or  booksellers  by  whom  Shakespeare's  genuine  dramas  were 
issued ;  and  tlie  second  and  third  came  from  the  hands  of 


tioners"  Company  on  the  25th  Feb.  1597-8.  This  circumstance  Thomas  Pavicr,  who  was  instrumental  in  giving  to  the  worid 
overturns  Malone's  theory,  that  "  Henrv  IV."  Part  ii.  was  '  ^^ms  pieces,  with  the  composition  of  wliich  Shakespeare  had 
not  written  until  1599.  It  requires  no  proof  that  it  was  pro-  i  P°  concern,  though  ascribed  to  him  on  the  title-page.  The 
duced  after  "  Richard  II."  because  that  plav  is  quoted  in  it.  internal  evidence  shows  that  the  edition  was  made  up,  not 
The  memorandum  in  the  Stationers'  Registers,  prior  to  the  '  ^I^^  ^^y  authentic  manuscript,  nor  even  from  ai:y  combina- 
publication  of  the  following  play,  is  inserted  literatim  in  Vol.  I  '^'°"  °^  ^^^  separ.ite  parts  delivered  out  to  the  actors  by  the 
li.  p.  183 :  it  bears  date  on  2.3d  Aug.  1600,  and  it  was  made  ^^op^''^-  of  the  theatre,  but  from  what  could  be  taken  down  in 
by  Andrew  Wi.se  and  William  A'spley,  who  brought  out  I  short-hand,  or  could  be  remembered,  while  the  performance 
"TheSeconde  Parte  of  the  Historv  of  Kiiife  Henry  the  iiii'''  "  i  ^**  taking  place.  It  is  true  that  the  quarto  impressions  con- 
4to,  in  that  year.  -  e  ,      ^^^^  ^^^^  ^j^^  slightest  hint  of  the  Chorusses,  nor  of  whole 

There  was'only  one  edition  of  "Henrv  IV.  "Part  ii.  in  1600,  ■^^'^"?"'  """^  ••'"?  speeches,  found  in  the  folio  of  1628:  and 
bat  some  copie.i  vary  importantly.  The  plav  wa-s  evidently  1 '^*^  inference  seems  to  be  that  "Henry  V."  was  originally 
produced  from  the  press  in  haste  ;  and  Desides  other  large  Produced  by  Shakespeare  in  a  comparatively  incomplete  state, 
i>mi»sioiis,  a  whole  scene,  forming  the  commencement  of  Act  ""*^  ''''*^  )ATffe  portions  contained  in  the  folio,  and  of  wliich 
iii.  was  left  out.  Most  of  the  copies  are  without  these  pages  ""  ^^'^'^'^  «"«"  t>e  pointed  out  in  tlie  quartos,  were  added  at  a 
Out  they  are  found  in  those  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  and  '  s=absequent  date,  to  give  greater  novelty  and  attraction  to  the 
Mak'nf.  The  sta'ioner  must  have  discovered  the  error  after  drama.  Such,  we  know,  was  a  very  common  course  with  all 
the  publication,  and  sheet  E  was  accordiugiv  reprinted    in  |  °"'"  ®*'''.^'  stage-poets.    A  play  called'  "  Henrv  V.  "  was  repre- 

— ' '    ■■      '  "  -       '^  'sented  at  Court  on  the  7th  Jan.  1605,  as  we  learn  from  "The 

Extracts  from  the  Accounts  of  the  Revels,  "  edited  by  Mr. 
P.  Cunningham,  and  printed  by  the  Shakespeare  Society, 
p.  204 ;  and  these  important  additions  may  have  been  inserted 
for  that  occasion.  The  entry  runs,  literatim,  as  follows  : — 
"  On  the  7  of  January  was  played  the  plav  of  Henrv 
thefifl." 


irder  to  supply  the  defect. 

Th^  folio  1628  wa-s  taken  from  a  complete  copy  of  the  edi-  [ 
T  on  of  1600;  and,  moreover,  the  actor-editors,  probably  from 
a  play-house  manuscript  in  their  hands,  furnished  nianv  other 
Ime-*  wanting  in  the  ouarto.  On  the  other  hand,  the  quarto, 
16iX>,  contains  several  passaffes  not  found  in  the  folio,  1623.  I 
'  ir  Ui.Tt  includes  both,  (properly  distinguished  in  the  note8>  I 


:n  order  that  no  syllable  which  came  from  the  pen  of  Shake-  i  \^  *^®  margin  we  are  informed  that  it  was  acted  by  his  Ma- 
-pearc  may  be  lost.  Even  if  we  suppose  our  great  dramatist  '  j^sty's  players,  but  the  name  of  the  author  is  not  i'n  this  ii.- 
tn  have  himself  rejected  certain  portions,  preserved  in  the  *'.^«"<^«  (riven,  although  "Shaxberd"  is  placed  opposite  the 
(uarto  the  exclusion  of  them  by  a  modem  editor  would  be  ^'''^  ^^  "Measure  for  Measure,  "  stated  to  have  oeen  exlii- 
unpardonable,  as  they  form  part  of  the  history  of  the  poet's  '"''^^  ^"  *  preceding  night.  The  fact  that  the  actors  belonged 
mind.  "  I  to  Shakesjieare's  company  renders  it  most  probable  that  his 

I  play  was  performed  on  the  occa>ion ;  but  it  is  to  be  recollected 

...,._^^        -_r-,-T.T^TT    TT  also,  that  the  old  play  of  "  The  Famous  Victories  of  Henry 

KIN  (jr    HEN  RY    V.  I  the  Fifth"  purports  on  the  title-page  to  have  been  "  acted  by 

»Tn,_  o         in-  ,  ,.  .      -  the  King's  Majesty's  servants,"  even  at  so  late  a  date  as  1617', 

Ihe  Cronicie  History  of  Henry  the  fift.  With  his  battell    when  the  last  edition  of  it  made  its  appearance.     Neverthe 

.ougnt  at  Agin  Court  in  ]<rance.    Togitlier  with  Auntient   less,  we  may  perhaps  take  it  for  granted,  that  the  "Hf  n 


INTKODUCTIO^  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


xcvn 


the  flft,  "  played  at  Whitehall  by  the  king's  servants,  on  7th 
Jan.  1605,  was  Shakespeare's  liistorical  drama;  and  it  may 
not  be  too  much  to  presume,  that  most  of  the  additions  (Cho- 
russes  excepted)  included  in  the  folio  of  1623,  were  written  in 
consequence  of  the  selection  of  "  Henry  V.  "  by  the  Master 
of  the  Kevels  for  representation  before  James  I. 

Our  opinion,  then,  is  that  Shakespeare  did  not  originally 
write  his  "  Henry  V.  "  by  any  means  aa  we  find  it  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  and  thatit  was  first  produced  without  various  scenes 
and  speeches  subsequently  written  and  introduced:  we  are 
perfectly  convinced  that  the  three  quarto  editions  of  1600, 
1602,  and  1608  do  not  at  all  contain  the  play  as  it  was  acted 
in  the  first  instance ;  but  were  hastily  made  up  from  notes 
taken  at  the  theatre  during  the  performance,  subsequently 
patched  together.  Now  and  then  we  meet  with  a  few  con- 
secutive lines,  similar  to  the  authentic  copy,  but  in  general 
the  text  is  miserably  mangled  and  disfigured.  We  might  find 
proofs  in  support  of  our  position  in  every  part  of  tiie  play, 
but  as  in  his  "  Twenty  quartos  "  Steevens  has  reprinted  that 
of  1608,  it  will  be  needless  to  select  more  than  a  single  speci- 
men. We  give  the  text  as  we  find  it,  literatim,  in  the  quarto, 
1600,  from  the  copy  in  the  Library  of  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire :  our  extract  is  from  Act  i.  sc.  2,  the  speech  of  the  King, 
just  before  the  French  Ambassadors  r.re  called  in  : — 
"  Call  in  the  messenger  sent  from  the  Dolphin, 

And  by  your  aid,  the  noble  sinewes  of  our  land 

France  being  ours,  weele  bring  it  to  our  awe. 

Or  break  it  all  in  pieces : 

Eyther  our  Chronicles  shal  with  full  mouth  speak 

Freely  of  our  acts, 

Or  else  like  toonglesse  mutes  

Not  worshipt  with  a  paper  epitaph." 
Such  is  the  speech  as  it  is  abridged  and  corrupted  in  tlie 
quarto,  1600  :  the  correct  text,  as  contained  in  the  folio  of 
1623,  may  be  found  in  this  edition. 

It  not  unfrequently  happened  that  the  person  who  took 
down  the  lines  as  tlie  actors  delivered  them,  for  the  purpose 
of  publishing  the  quarto,  1600,  misheard  what  was  said,  and 
used  wrong  words  which  in  sound  nearly  resembled  the  right : 
thus,  earlier  in  the  same  scene,  the  Arciibishop  of  Canterbury 
says,  according  to  the  folio,  1623, 

•'  They  of  those  Marches,  gracious  sovereign, 

Shall  be  a  wall  sufficient  to  defend 

Our  inland  (-err.  the  pilfering  borderers." 
In  the  quarto,  1600,  the  materials  for  which  were  probably 
surreptitiously  obtained  at  the  theatre,  the  passage  is  thus 
given  : — 

"  The  Marches,  gracious  soveraigne,  shalbe  sufficient 

To  guard  yoar  England  from  the  pilfering  borderers." 

We  might  multiply  instances  of  the  same  kind,  but  we  do 
not  think  there  can  be  any  reasonable  doubt  upon  the  point. 
The  quartos,  as  we  have  stated,  contain  no  hint  of  the 
Chorusses,  but  a  passage  in  that  which  precedes  Act  v.  cer- 
tainly relates  to  the  expedition  of  the  Earl  of  Essex  to  Ireland, 
between  the  15th  April  and  the  28th  Sept.  1599,  and  m'  st 
have  been  written  during  his  absence  : — 
"As,  by  a  lower  but  loving  likelihood, 

Were  now  the  general  of  our  gracious  empress 

(As  in  good  time  he  may)  from  Ireland  coming, 

Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword, 

How  many  would  the  peaceful  city  quit 

To  welcome  him." 
The  above  Rnes  were,  therefore,  composed  between  the  15th 
April  and  tlie  28th  Sept.  1599,  and  most  likely  the  Chorusses 
formed  part  of  the  piece  as  originally  acted,  although  the 
short-hand  writer  did  not  think  it  a  necessary  portion  of  the 
performance  to  be  included  in  the  earliest  quarto,  1600,  which 
was  to  be  brought  on  with  great  speed ;  and  perhaps  the 
length  of  these  and  other  recitations  might  somewhat  baffle 
his  skill.  Upon  this  supposition,  the  question  when  Shake- 
speare wrote  his  "  Henry  V.  "  is  brought  to  a  narrow  point; 
and  confirmed  as  it  is  by  the  omission  of  all  mention  of  the 
play  by  Meres,  in  his  Falladis  Tamia,  1598,  we  need  feel  lit- 
tle doubt  that  his  first  sketch  came  from  the  pen  of  Shake- 
speare, for  performance  at  the  Globe  theatre,  early  in  the 
"'iinnier  of  1599.  The  enlarged  drama,  as  it  stands  in  the 
."olio  of  1623,  we  are  disposed  to  believe  was  not  put  into  the 
complete  shape  in  which  it  has  there  come  down  to  us,  until 
shortly  before  the  date  when  it  was  played  at  Court. 


FIEST  PART  OF  KINO  HENRY  YI. 

"  The  first  Part  of  Henry  the  Sixt "  was  printed  originally  in 
the  folic  of  1628,  where  it  occupies  twenty-four  pages ;  viz. 
from  p.  96  to  p.  119  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  His- 
toiies.  "    It  was  reprinted  in  the  folios  1632,  1664,  and  1685. 


This  historical  drama  is  first  found  in  the  folio  of  162S:  no 
earlier  edition  of  it  in  any  shape,  or  in  any  degree  of  impel- 
fectness,  has  been  discovered.  Of  the  second  and  third  parts 
of  "  Henry  VI.,  "  copies  in  quarto,  under  ditl'erent  titles, 
lengthened  in  some  speeches,  and  abbreviated  in  others,  are 
extant ;  but  the  first  part  of  "  Henry  VI.  "  appeared  originally 
in  the  collected  edition  of  ''Mr.  William  Shakespeare's  Come- 
dies, Histories,  and  Tragedies,  "  put  forth  under  the  care  of 
bis  i^Uow-actors,  Heminge  and  Condell. 

This  single  fact  is  sufficient,  in  our  mind,  to  establish 
Shakespeare's  claim  to  the  authorship  of  it,  even  were  we  to 
take  Malone's  assertion  for  grafted  (which  we  are  by  no 
means  inclined  to  do)  that  the  internal  evidence  is  all  opposed 
to  that  claim.  When  Heminge  and  Condell  published  the 
folio  of  1623,  many  of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries,  authorp, 
actors,  and  auditors,  were  alive  ;  and  the  player-editors,  if  they 
would  have  been  guilty  of  the  dishonesty,  would  hardly  have 
committed  the  folly  of  inserting  a  yilay  in  their  volume  wliich 
was  not  his  production,  and  perhaps  well  known  to  have 
been  the  work  of  some  rival  dramatist.  If  we  imagine  the  fre- 
quenters of  theatres  to  have  been  comparatively  ignorant  upon 
such  a  point,  living  authors  and  living  actors  must  have  been 
aware  of  the  truth,  and  in  the  face  of  these  Heminge  and  Condoli 
would  not  have  ventured  to  appropriate  to  Shakespeare  what 
had  really  come  from  the  pen  of  another.  That  tricks  of  the 
kind  were  sometimes  played  by  fraudulent  booksellers,  in 
publishing  single  plays,  is  certainly  true ;  but  Heminge  and 
Condell  were  actors  of  repute,  and  men  of  character :  thej 
were  presenting  to  the  world,  in  an  important  volume,  scat- 
tered performances,  in  order  to  *'  keep  the  memory  of  so 
worthy  a  friend  and  fellow  alive,  as  was  our  Shakespeare,  " 
and  we  cannot  believe  that  they  wonld  have  included  any 
drama  to  which  he  had  no  title.  In  all  probability  they  had 
acted  with  Shakespeare  in  the  first  part  of  "Henry  VJ. :" 
they  had  received  his  instructions  and  directions  from  time 
to  time  with  reference  to  the  performance  of  it,  and  they  must 
almost  necessarily  have  been  acquainted  with  the  real  state 
of  the  property  in  it. 

Our  opinion  is  tlierefore  directly  adverse  to  that  of  Malone, 
who,  having  been  "  long  struck  with  the  many  evident 
Shakespeareanisms  in  these  plays,  "  afterwards  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  had  been  entirely  mistaken,  and  that  none 
of  these  peculiarities  were  to  be  traced  in  the  first  part  of 
"  Henry  VI. :  "  "1  am,  therefore  (he  added),  decisively  of 
opinion,  that  this  play  was  not  written  by  Shakespeare."  To 
support  this  notion,  he  published  a  "Dissertation  on  the 
Three  Parts  of  King  Henry  VI.,"  in  which  he  argued  that 
the  first  part  was  not  only  not  the  authorship  of  Shakespeftre. 
but  that  it  was  not  written  by  the  same  persons  who  had 
composed  the  second  and  third  parts  of"  Henry  VI." 

With  reference  to  the  question,  how  far  and  at  what  time 
Shakespeare  became  connected  with  the  plays,  known  as  the 
three  parts  of  "Henry  VI.,"  it  is  necessary  to  observe,  that 
it  was  very  usual  in  the  time  of  our  great  dramatist,  for  one 
poet  to  ta'ke  up  the  production  of  another,  and,  by  making 
additions  to  and  improvements  in  it,  to  appropriate  it  to  his 
own  use,  or  to  the  use  of  the  theatre  to  which  lie  belonged. 
This  practice  applied  to  the  works  of  living  as  well  as  of  dead 
poets,  and  it  has  been  coniectured  that  when  Kohert  Gieene, 
in  his  "  Groatsworth  of  W  it,"  1592,  spoke  of  Shakespeare,  as 
"  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country,"  and  as  "  an  up.start 
crow  beautified  with  our  feathers,"  he  alluded  chiefly  to  the 
manner  in  which  Shakespeare  had  employed  certain  dramas, 
by  Greene  and  others,  as  the  foundation  of  his  three  jiarts  of 
""Henry  VI."  These  certain  dramas  were  some  undiscovered 
original  of  the  first  part  of  "Henry  VI. ;"  the  first  part  of 
"  The  Contention  betwixt  the  Two  Famous  Houses  of  York 
and  Lancaster,"  1600  ;  and  "  The  True  Tragedy  of  Richard 
Duke  of  York,"  1595.  It  was  by  making  additions,  alterap 
tions,  and  improvements  in  these  three  pieces,  that  Shake- 
speare's name  became  associated  with  them  as  their  author, 
and  hence  the  player-editors  felt  themselvt-s  justified  in  in- 
serting them  among  his  other  works  in  the  ibl:o  of  1628. 

There  are  two  other  theories  respecting  the  j^lder  plays  we 
have  mentioned,  neither  of  them,  as  it  seems  to  us,  supported 
by  sufficient  testimony.  One  of  them  is,  that  the  first  part 
of  "  Henry  VI.,"  as  it  is  contained  in  the  folio  of  1628,^  the 
first  part  of  the  "Contention,"  1594,  and  the  "True  Tra- 
gedv,  "  1595,  were  in  fact  productions  by  Shakespeare  him- 
self!"  which  he  subsequently  enlarged  and  corrected:  the 
other  theory  is,  that  the  two  latter  were  early  editions  of  the 
same  dramas  that  we  find  in  the  folio,  and  that  the  imper- 
fections or  variations  in  the  quarto  impressions  are  to  be  RO- 
counted  for  bv  the  suneptitious  manner  in  which  the  manu- 
script, from  which  they  were  printed,  was  obtained  by  the 
booksellers.     In  support  of  the  first  of  these  opinions,  liUle 


XCVlll 


INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


heUer  than  conjecture  can  be  produced,  contradic'ed  by  t'lie 
b^p^or^'■ons  of  Greene  in  169i!,  iis  fur  as  those  expressions 

•  pply  to  these  plays  ;  nn>l  with  rttrurd  to  the  second  npiiiioM, 
hi  souie  phices  tlie  quiirto  eiiitions  of  the  tirsl  part  of  the 

•  Contention"  and  the  -True  Tra>redy"  arc  fuller,  by  iPiniy 
linfcn,  tinm  the  copy  in  the  folio,  1623,  wliicli  would  hurdly 
li:ive  been  the  cjuse,  had  the  dialogue  been  taken  down  in 
fthort-hand,  and  corrected  by  memory:  in  the  next  place,  the 
upeechcs  have  such  a  dcpree  of  completeness  and  regularity 
aii  to  render  it  very  imj  robable  that  they  were  obtained  by  so 
r.ncertain  and  iniperle<.t  an  expedient.  We  think  it  most 
likelv  that  the  first  j>art  of ''Henry  VI."  was  founded  upon  a 
j)rev'ious  plav,  ultliou^rh  none  such  has  been  bron<rhl  to  light: 
:ind  that  the  mateiiaU  for  the  second  and  third  parts  of 
"  Henry  VI."  were  mainly  deri^-ed  from  the  older  dramas  of 
•.!ie  first  part  of  "Tlie  Contention  betwixt  the  Two  Famous 
Houses  ofYork  and  Lanwister,"  and  "  The  True  Tragedy  of 
Kichard  Duke  of  York.-' 

Although  no  such  drama  has  come  down  to  us,  we  know, 
on  the  authority  of  Henslowe's  Diarv,  tliat  there  was  a  nlay 
called  "Hurcythc  VI.''  acted  on  5d  March,  1591-2,  and  so 
[K)pular  as  to"  have  been  repeated  twelve  times.  This  was, 
tsjrhaps,  the  piece  which  Shakespeare  subsequently  altered 
:ind  iujproveil,  and  to  which  Nash  alludes  in  his  "  Pierce 
IViiniless,"  1592  (sign.  H.  2.),  where  he  speaks  of  "brave 
Talbot"  having  been  made  "to  triumph  again  on  the  stage," 
r.er  having  been  two  hundred  years  in  his  tomb.  Malone 
Shakespeare,  by  Boswell,  vol.  lii.  r.  298.)  concludes  deci- 
-ively  in  the  affirmative  on  both  these  points,  forgetting, 
LowiscT,  that  the  "  Ilarey  the  VI."  acted  by  Hi-uslowe's  com- 
pany, might  possibly  be  a" play  got  up  and  represented  in  con- 
sequence of  the  success  of  the  drama  in  the  authorship  of 
.^  hich  Sliakespeare  was  concerned. 

If  our  great  dramatist  founded  his  first  part  of  "Henry  VI." 
upon  the  play  produced  by  Henslowe's  company,  of  course,  it 
«ould  not  have  been  written  until  after  March,  1592;  but  with 
regard  to  tlie  precise  date  of  its  composition  we  must  remain 
■.n  onc»'.rtainty.  Malone's  later  notion  wa-s,  as  we  have  already 
ol>served,  that  Shakespeare's  hand  was  not  to  be  traced  in 
any  part  of  it ;  but  Steevens  called  attention  to  several  re- 
markable coincidences  of  expression,  and  passages  mitrht  be 
fiointed  out  so  much  in  the  spirit  and  character  of  Shake- 
speare, that  we  cannot  conceive  them  to  have  come  from  any 
other  pen.  Coleridge  has  instanced  the  opening  of  the  play 
aa  nnhke  Shakespeare's  metre  (lyt.  Remains,  vol.  ii.  p.  184. ) : 
he  was  unquestionably  right ;  but  he  did  not  advert  to  the 
fact,  of  which  there  is 'the  strongest  presumptive  evidence, 
that  more  than  one  author  was  engaged  on  the  work.  The 
very  discordance  of  style  forms  part  of  the  proof;  and  in  his 
lectures  in  1815,  Coleridge  adduced  many  lines  which  he  be- 
lieved must  have  been  written  by  Shakespeare. 


I  wished  to  liave  it  believed,  that  the  old  play  was  the  i.rodno- 
tion  of  our  great  dramatist. 

Shakespeare's  property,  according  to  our  present  notions 
was  only  in  the  ailditions  and  improvements  lie  introduced, 
which  are  included  in  the  folio  of  1623.  In  Act  iv.  sc.  1,  .» 
a  line  necessarily  taken  from  "  the  first  part  of  the  Conten- 

1  tion,"  as  the  sense,  without  it,  is  incomplete :  but  the  old 

\  play  has  many  passages  which  Shakespcuie  rejected,  and  the 

;  murder  of  Duke  Humphrey  is  somewhat  ditfcrontly  managed. 
In  general,  however,  .Shakespeare  adopted  the  wliole  con.i'ict 

.  of  the  story,  and  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  correct  the  '-b 

j  vious  historical  errors  of  the  original. 

I  It  is  impossible  to  assign  a  date  tc  this  play  e:«ce).t".;:!!'  t.T 
conjecture.  Its  success,  perhaps,  led  to  the  entry  at  Stati->n- 
ers'  Hall  of  the  older  play  in  March,  1593,  and  to  its  appear 
ance  from  the  press  hi  1594. 


SECOND  PART  OF  EZN^G  HENRY  YI. 

"The  second  Part  of  Henry-  the  Sixt,  with  the  death  of  the 

Good  Duke  Hvmfrey,"'  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623, 

where  it  occupies  twenty-seven  pages ;  viz.  from  p.  120  to 

p.  146  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Histories."     It  fills  the 

'same  place  in  the  subsequent  folio  impressions. 

The  "history"  is  an  alteration  of  a  play  printed  in  1594, 

under  the  fcJIoaing  title:  "  The  First  part  of  the  Contention 

bet-.vlxt  the  two  famous  houses  of  Yorke  and  Lancaster,  with 

the  dtathofthe  good  Duke  Huniphrev:  And  the  banishment 

and  death  of  the  Duke  of  Sulfolke,  and  the  Tragicsill  end  of 

the  proud  Cardinall  of  Winche.-ter,  with  the  notable  Rebellion 

of  lackeCade:  And  the  Duke  of  Yorkes  first  claime  unto  the 

Crowne.     London    Printed   by  Thomas  Creed,  for  Thomas 

Millington,  and  are  to  be  soldat  his  shop  under  Saint  Peter's 

Ctarch  in  Cornwall.     1594."     By  whom  it  was  written  we 

have  no  information ;  but  it  was  entered  on  the  Stationers' 

Ref^stera  on  the  12th  March,  1593.     Milhngton  published  a 

»econd  edition  of  it  in  1600  :  on  the  19th  April,  1602,  it  was 

assigned   by  Millington  to  Tho.  Pavier,  and  we   hear  of  it 

aL'iiin,  in   the  Stationers'  Register,  merely  as  "Yorke  and 

Ijmcastcr,"  on  the  Sth  November,  1630. 

The  name  of  Shakespeare  was  not  connected  with  "the 
flrt>t  part  of  tho  Contention,"  until  about  the  year  1619,  wlien 
T.  P.  (Thomas  Pavier)  priiite<l  a  new  edition'of  the  first,  and 
what  he  culled  "the  second,  part"  of  the  same  play,  with  the 
name  of  "  William  Shakspeare,  Gent."  upon  tlie  genara'i  tltlo- 
page.     The  object  of  Pavier  was  no  doubt  fraudulent:  he 

Cbettle  acknoTrledcM  the  important  nhare  he  had  in  the  nublica- 
tioB  ot   "The  Grcauworth  of  Wit,"  in   his  "Kind-heart's  Dream," 


«rnirh  wa*  printe<^  at  the  cloie  of  159-2,  or  in  the  becinnine  of  1593. 
8««  tha  eicellen.  reprint  of  thii  rei 


Tery  cunoua  and  interetUng  tract 


THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY   VI. 

"  The  third  Part  of  Henry  the  Sixt,  with  the  death  of  tho 

Duke  of  Yorke,"  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623,  whei-e 

it  occupies  twenty-six  p.iges,  in  the  division  of  "  Hist*)ries," 

viz.  from  p.  147  to  p.  172,  inclusive,  pages  165  and  166  being 

jnisprinted  167  and  168,  so  that  these  numbers  are  twice 

inserted.     The  error  is  corrected  in  the  folio,  1632.     The 

play  is  also  contained  in  the  folios  of  1664  and  1685. 

None  of  the  commentators  ever  saw  the  first  edition  of  tiiC 

drama  upon  which,  we  may  presume,  Shakespeare  foonded 

his  third  part  of  "  Henry  VI. :"  it  bears  the  following  title  : — 

"  The  true  Tragedie  of  Richard  Duke  of  Yorke,  and  the  death 

of  the  good  King  Henrie  the  Sixt,  with  the  whole  contention 

betweeue  the  two  houses  Lancaster  and  Yorke,  as  it  wa?  sun- 

drie  times  acted  by  the  Right  Honourable  the  Earle  of  Pem- 

brooke  his  seruants.   Printed  at  London  by  P.  S.  for  Thomas 

Millington,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shonpe  under  Saint 

I  Peters  Church  in  Coruwal.  1595."  8vo.  This  play,  like  "the 
First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  was  reprinted  for  the  same 

1  bookseller  in  1600,  4to.     About  tlie  year  1619  a  re-improssion 

I  of  both   plays  was  published   by  T.  P. ;  and   tlie  name  of 

]  Shakespeare",  as  has  been  already  observed  in  our  Introduc- 

j  tiou  to  "  Henry  VI."  part  ii.,  first  appears  in  connection  -witt 

'  these  "  histories"  in  that  edition. 

\  Believing  that  Shakespeare  was  not  the  writer  of  "The 
First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  1594.  nor  of  "  The  Tru-j  Tra- 
gedy of  Richard  Duke  of  York,  1595,  and  that  Malone  estab- 
lished his  position,  that  Shakespeare  only  enlarged  and  altered 

I  them,  it  becomes  a  question  bv  whom  they  were  produced. 

j  Chalmers,  who  possessed  the  on)y  known  copy  of  "  The  True 
Tragedy,"  1595,  witliout  scruple  assigned  that  piece  to  Chris- 
topher Marlowe.  Although  there  is  no  ground  wha'ever  for 
giving  it  to  Marlowe,  there  is  some  reason  for  supposing  thai 
it  came  from  the  pen  of  Robert  Greene. 

In  the  Introduction  to  "  Henry  VI."  part  i.,^  we  alluded,  as 
far  as  was  there  necessary,  to  the  language  of  Greene,  when 
speakinir  of  Shakespeare  "in  his  "Groatsworth  of  Wit,"  1592. 
This  tract  was  not  publisbed  until  after  the  deatli  of  its  author 

'  in  Sept.  1592,  when  it  appeared  under  the  editorship  of  Henry 
Chettle";  and  what  follows  is  the  whole  that  relates  to  our 

I  great  dramatist : — "  Yes,  trust  them  not;  for  there  is  an  up- 
start crow  beautified  with  our  feathers,  tliat  with  his  tiger's 
heart,  tcrapp'd  in  a  player's  hide,  supposes  he  is  as  well  able 

:  to  bombast  out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you  ;  and  being 

i  an  absolute  Johannes  Factotum,  is  in  liis  own  conceit  th« 
only  Shakesoene  in  a  countrey."  (Dyc«'s  Edit,  of  Greene's 
Works,  I.  Ixxxi.)  In  this  extract,  although  Greene  talks  of 
"an  upstart  crow  beautified  with  ovr  feathers,"  lie  seems  to 
have  referred  principally  to  his  own  works,  and  to  the  niannei 
in  which  Shakespeare  "had  availed  liiniself  of  them.  Thw 
opinion  is  somewhat  confirmed  by  two  lines  in  a  tract  called 
"Greene's  Funerals,"'  by  R.  B.,"l594,  where  the  writer  in 
adverting  to  tlie  obligations  of  otlicr  authors  to  Greene  :— 

"  Nay  more,  the  men  that  to  eclips'd  his  fnire 
Puirloind  his  plumes— can  they  deny  the  same  ?" 

Here  R.  B.  nearly  adopts  Greene's  words,  "  beatit-iJiM  icit 
our /fatherx,"'  and  np]'lics  to  him  individually  wliat  Greene 
perhaps  to  avoid  the  chargre  of  egotism  and  vanity,  had  stated 
more  generally.  It  may  be  mentioned,  also,  as  a  confirmatory 
circumstance,' that  the"  words  "tiger's  heart,  wrnpp'd  in  a 
player's  hide,"  in  our  extract  from  the  "Groatsworth  of 
Wit,"  are  a  repetition,  with  tlie  omission  of  an  interjection  and 

made  for  the  Percy  Society,  under  the  editorial  care  o!  Mr  AimbanlL 
In  his  address  to  the  "  Gentlemen  Readers.''  Chctt.e  apcloeizei  t« 
Shakespeare  (not  by  name)  for  having  been  instrumental  :n  tM  pub- 


lication of  Greene's  attc^k  upon  him. 


INTRODUCTlCNr  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


xcix 


:he  change  of  a  wo"d,  of  a  line  in  "  The  True  Trflgedy,"  1595, 

"0  !  tiger's  heart,  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hit'e." 
Thus  Greene,  wiien  charging  Shakespeare  with  having  ap- 
propriated his  plays,  parodies  a  line  of  his  own,  as  if  to  show 
the  particular  productions  to  which  he  alluded'. 

Another  fact  tends  to  the  same  ccyiclusion:  it  is  a  striking 
eoir.cidence  between  a  passage  in  "  The  True  Tragedy"  and 
some  lines  in  one  of  Greene's  aeknowledjred  dramas,  "  Al- 
plionsus.  King  of  Arragon,"  printed,  in  1599,  by  Thomas 
Creed,  the  sace  printer  who,  in  15*^4,  bad  produced  from  his 
press  an  edition  of  "'J'he  First  Part  of  the  Contention."  In 
"  Alphonsus"  the  hero  kills  Flaminius,  his  enemy,  and  thus 
addresses  tlie  dying  man  : — 

"  Go,  pack  thee  hence  unto  the  Styo;ian  lake, 
And  make  report  unto  thy  traitorous  sire. 
How  well  thou  hast  enjoy'd  the  diadera, 
Which  he  by  treason  set  upon  thy  head  : 
And  if  he  aik  thee  who  did  send  thee  down. 
Alphonsus  say,  who  now  must  wear  thy  crown." 

In  "The  True  Tragedy,"  1595,  Kichard,  while  stabbing 
Henry  VI.  a  second  time,  exclaims, 

"  If  any  spark  of  life  remain  in  thee, 
Down,  down  to  hell ;  and  say  I  sent  thee  thither." 

Shakespeare,  when  altering  "  The  True  Tragedy"  for  his 
own  theatre,  (for,  as  originally  composed,  it  had  been  played 
by  the  Earl  of  Pembroke's  servants,  for  whom  Greene  was  in 
the  habit  of  writing)  adopted  the  line, 

"  0  tiger's  heart,  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide," 
without  the  change  of  a  letter,  and   the  couplet  last  quoted 
with  only  a  very  slight  variation  ; 

"  If  any  spark  of  life  be  yet  remaining, 
Down,  down  to  hell ;  and  say  I  sent  thee  thither." 

As  in  "  Henry  VI."  part  ii.,  Shakespeare  availed  himself 
of ''The  First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  1594,  so  in  "Henry 
VI."  part  iii.,  lie  applied  to  his  own  purposes  much  of  "The 
True  Tragedy  of  Kichard  Duke  of  York,"  1595.  He  made, 
however,  considerable  omissions,  as  well  as  large  additions, 
find  in  the  last  two  Acts  he  sometimes  varied  materially  from 
tiie  conduct  of  the  story  as  he  found  it  in  the  older  play.  One 
improvement  may  be  noticed,  as  it  shows  the  extreme  simpli- 
city of  oar  stage'  just  before  what  we  may  consider  Shake- 
speare's time;  ana  it  is  to  be  ascertained  by  comparing  two 
scenes  of  his  "  Henry  VI."  part  iii.,  (Act  iv.sc.  2  and  3)  with 
a  portion  of  "  The  True  Tragedy."  In  the  older  play,  War- 
wick. Oxford,  and  Clarence,  aided  by  a  party  of  soldiers, 
standing  on  one  part  of  the  stage,  concert  a  plan  for  surpris- 
ing Edward  IV.  in  his  tent  on  another  part  of  the  stage. 
Having  resolved  upon  the  enterprise,  they  merely  cross  the 
boards  of  Edward's  encampment,  the  audience  being  required 
to  suppose  that  the  assailing  jsarty  had  travelled  from  their 
own  quarters  in  order  to  arrive  at  Edward's  tent.  Shake- 
speare showed  his  superior  judgment  by  changing  the  place, 
and  by  interposing  a  dialogue  between  the  Watchmen,  who 
Biiard  the  King's  tent.  Robert  Greene,  in  his  "Pinner  of 
Wakefield,"  (See  "  Hist,  of  Engl.  Dram.  Poetry  and  the 
Stage,"  vol.  iii.  p.  368.)  relied  on  the  imagination  of  his  audi- 
tors, exactly  in  the  same  way  as  the  author  of  "The  True 
Tragedy." 

It  is  to  be  observed  of  "  Henry  VI."  part  iii.,  as  was  re- 
marked in  the  Introduction  to  the  second  part  of  the  same 
play,  that  a  line,  necessary  to  the  sense,  was  omitted  in  the 
foho,  1623,  and  has  been  introduced  into  our  text  from  "The 
True  Tragedy,"  1595.  It  occurs  in  Act  ii.  sc.  6,  and  it  was, 
probably,  accidentally  omitted  by  the  copyist  of  the  manu- 
script from  which  Shakespeare's  "  history,"  as  it  appears  in 
the  folio,  was  printed. 


-KING  RICHARD   HI. 

•*The  Tragedy  of  King  Richard  the  third.  Containing,  His 
treacherous  Plots  against  his  brother  Clarence  :  the  pittie- 
fuU  murther  of  his  innocent  nephewes :  his  tyrannical!  vsur- 

'  Th<re  is  a  trifling  fact  connected  with  "  Henry  VI."  part  i,  a  no- 
tice of  which  ought  not  to  be  omitted,  when  considering  the  question 
of  the  authorship  of  some  yet  undiscovered  original,  upon  which  that 
Rlay  might  be  founded.     In  Act  v.  sc.  3,  these'^  two  lines  occur  : — 
"  Shu  's  beautiful,  and  therefore  to  be  woo'd  ; 
She  is  a  woman,  therefore  to  be  won." 
The  last  of  these  lines  is  inserted   in   Greene's  '-Planetomachia," 
printed  as  ea'.y  as  15S5.     In  "The  First  Part  of  the  Contention"  a 
pirate  is  mentioned,  who  is  introduced  into  anotlier  of  Greene's  pro- 
nuctions. 

^  By  the  title-pages  of  the  four  earliest  editions  on  the  opposite  leaf, 
It  will  be  seen,  tha*  '.t  was  professed  by  Andrew  Wise,  that  the  play 
•n  IGn,  had  been  "  newly  augmented,"  although  i*  was  in  fact  orly 


pation :  with  the  whole  course  of  his  detested  life,  ana 
most  deserued  death.  As  it  hath  beene  lately  Acted  by  the 
Right  honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  seruants!  At 
London,  Printed  by  Valentine  Sims,  for  Andrew  Wise, 
dwelling  in  Paules  Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Aiigell, 
1597."  4to.  47  leaves. 

"The  Tragedie  of  King  Richard  the  third.  Conteining 
his  treacherous  Plots  against  his  brother  Clarence :  the 
pitiful  murther  of  his  innocent  Nephewes  :  his  tyrannieall 
vsurpation  :  with  the  whole  course  of  his  detested  life,  an 
most  deserued  death.  As  it  hath  beene  lately  Acted  by  th 
Right  honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  seruants.  By 
William  Shake-speare.  London  Printed  by  Thomas  Creede, 
for  Andrew  Wise,  dwelling  in  Paules  Church-yard,  at  the 
signe  of  the  Angell.     1598."  4to.  47  leaves. 

"  The  Tragedie  of  King  Richard  the  third.  Conteining  his 
treacherous  Plots  against  his  brother  Clarence  :  the  pittiful! 
murther  of  his  innocent  Nephewes  :  his  tyrannica';  usurpa- 
tion :  with  the  whole  course  of  his  detested  life,  and  most 
deserued  death.  As  it  hath  bene  lately  Acted  by  the  Right 
Honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  seruants.  Newly 
augmented,  By  William  Shakespeare.  London  Printed  by 
Thomas  Creede,  for  Andrew  Wise,  dwelling  in  Paules 
Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Angell.  1602."  4to.  46 
leaves. 

"  The  Tragedie  of  King  Richard  the  third.  Conteining  his 
treacherous  Plots  against  his  brother  Clarence  :  thepittifnll 
murther  of  his  innocent  Nephewes  :  his  tyrannieall  vsurpa- 
tion: with  the  whole  course  of  his  detested  life,  and  most 
deserued  death.  As  it  hath  bin  lately  Acted  by  the  Right 
Honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  seruants.  Newly 
augmented,  by  William  Shake-speare.  London,  Printecl 
byTiiomas  Creede,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  Matthew  Lawe, 
dwelling  in  Pauk-s  Cinirch-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Foxe, 
near  S.  Austins  eate,  1605.""  4to.  46  leaves. 

In  the  folio  of  ]6'^23,  "  The  Tragedy  of  Richard  the  Third  : 
with  the  Landing  of  the  Earle  of  Richmond,  and  the  Bat- 
tell  at  Bosworth  Field,"  occupies  thirty-two  pages;  viz. 
from  p.  173  to  p.  204  inclusive.  There  is  no  material  varia- 
tioti  in  the  later  folios. 

The  popularity  of  Shakespeare's  "  Richard  the  Third"  must 
have  been  great,  judging  only  from  the  various  quarto  editions 
which  preceded  the  publication  of  it  in  the  folio  of  1628.  It 
originally  came  out  in  1597,  without  the  name  of  the  author: 
it  was  reprinted  in  1598,  with  "  by  William  Shake-speare" 
on  the  title-page,  and  again  in  16u2^,  ali  three  impression<i 
having  been  made  for  the  same  bookseller,  Andrew  Wise. 
On  the  27th  June,  1603,  it  was  assigned  to  Mathew  Lawe,  as 
appears  by  an  entry  in  the  Stationers'  Registers  ;  accordingly, 
he  published  the  fourth  edition  of  it  with  the  date  of  1605  : 
the  fifth  edhion  was  printed  for  the  same  bookseller  in  1613^. 
This  seems  to  have  been  the  last  time  it  came  out  in  quarto, 
anterior  to  its  appearance  in  the  first  folio*;  but  after  that 
date,  three  other  quarto  impressions  are  known,  viz.  in  1624, 
1629,  and  1634,  and  it  is  remarkable  that  these  were  all  mere 
reprints  of  the  earlier  quartos,  not  one  of  them  including  any 
of  the  passages  which  the  player- editors  of  the  folio  first  in- 
:  serted  in  their  volume.  This'  fact  might  show  that  the  pulj- 
lishers  of  the  later  quartos  did  not  know  that  there  were  any 
material  variations  between  the  earlier  quartos  and  the  folio, 
that  they  did  not  think  them  of  importance,  or  that  the  pro- 
jectors of  the  folio  were  considered  to  have  some  species  of 
copyright  in  the  additions.  These  additions,  extending  in 
one  instance  to  more  than  fifty  lines,  are  pointed  out  in  oar 
notes.  It  will  also  be  found  that  more  than  one  speech  in 
the  folio  is  unintelligible  without  aid  from  the  quartos ;  and 
for  some  other  characteristic  omissions,  particularly  for  one 
in  Act  iv.  sc.  2,  it  is  not  possible  to  account. 

With  respect  to  the  additions  in  the  folio  of  1623,  we  have 
no  means  of  ascertaining  whetlier  they  formed  part  of  the 
original  play.  Stevens  w"as  of  opinion  that  the  quarto,  1697, 
contained  a  better  text  than  the  folio:  sueh  a  not  our 
opinion;  for  though  the  quarto  sets  right  i6veral  doubtful 
matters,  it  is  not  well  printed,  even  for  a  production  of  that 

a  reprint  of  the  previous  impressions  of  1597  and  1598,  for  the  same 
bookseller.  It  is  possible  that  the  augmentations  obsen.-able  in  the 
folio  of  1623  were  made  shortly  before  1602.  and  that  Wise  wished  it 
to  be  thought,  that  his  edition  of  that  year  contained  them.  The 
quarto  reprints,  subsequent  to  that  of  1602,  all  purport  to  have  oeen 
"newly  augmented."  /^   <■     ■    ,      , 

3  Malone  gives  the  date  1612,  and  in  his  copy  at  Oxford  the  lasi 
figure  is  blurred.  The  title-page  in  no  respect  differs  from  that  of 
1605,  excepting  that  the  plav  is  said  to  have  been  ••acted  by  th« 
King's  Majesty's  servants."  They  were  not  so  called,  until  aftei 
.May,  1603. 

*  An  impression  in  1622  is  mentioned  in  some  lists,  ;ut  the  exist 
ence  of  a  copy  of  that  date  is  doubtful. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


Jay,  nnd  bears  murks  of  liavinfr  been  broupht  out  in  hnste, 
«ul  from  an  imperfect  inami.xcript.  Tiie  copy  of  the  "  liis- 
lory*'  ill  the  folio  of  1623  wim  in  some  places  ii  rei>riiit  of  the 
quarto,  1602.  nB  several  obvious  errors  of  the  pre^s  are  rc- 
poated,  right  for  "  ti(.'ht,''  helps  for  "  helms,"  &e.  For  the  iid- 
.litioiis,  a'lnanusoript  wius  no  doubt  employed  ;  aiul  the  va- 
riations in  some  scones,  particularly  near  the  middle  of  the 
plav,  are  so  numerous,  and  the  corrections  so  frequent,  that 
It  is  probable  a  transcript  belonoring  to  the  theatre  was  liiere 
cjnsulted.  Our  text  is  that  9f  the  folio,  with  due  notice  of 
all  the  chief  variations. 

The  earliest  entry  in  the  Stationers'  Registers  relating  to 
BbakespeareV  "  Richard  the  Third,"  is  in  these  torma  :— 
"20  Oct.  1.5'(7 

Andrew  Wise]  The  Trasredie  of  Kinfire  Richard  the  Third, 
with  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence." 

This  memorandum,  probably,  immediately  preceded  the 
publication  of  the  quarto,  159Y.'  The  only  other  entry  relat- 
ing to  "Richard  the  Third"  we  have  already  mentioned, 
luid  the  exact  words  of  it  may  be  seen  in  a  note  to  our  Intro- 
-luction  to  "  Richard  the  Second." 

It  is  certain  that  there  was  a  historical  drama  upon  some 
f  the  events  of  the  reign  of  Richard  III.  anterior  to  that  of 
Shakespeare.  T.  Warton  quoted  Sir  John  Harington's 
"  .\pologie  for  Poetry,"  prefi.\ed  to  his  translation  of  Ariosto 
in  1591,  respectiuiT  atrasredy  of  "  Richard  the  Third,"  acted 
at  St.  John's,  Cambridge,  which  would  "have  moved  Pha- 
laris,  the  tyrant,  and  terrified  all  tyrannous-minded  men ;" 
luid  Steeve'ns  adduced  Heywood's  "  Apology  for  Actors'," 
!612,  to  the  .-ainc  eftVct,  without  apparently  being  aware  that 
Hey  wood  was  professedly  only  repeating  the  words  of  Har- 
:ngton.  Bi^th  those  authors,  liowever,  referred  to  a  Latin 
drama  on  the  story  of  Richard  III.,  written  by  Dr.  Leggc, 
and  acted  at  Cambridge  before  1583.  Bteevens  followed  up 
hiB  quotation  from  Ileywood  by  the  copy  of  an  entry  in  the 
Stationers'  Registers,  dated  Ju'ne  19,  1594,  relating  to  an 
Knglish  play  on  the  same  subject.  When  Steevens  wrote, 
and  for  many  years  afterwards,  it  was  not  known  that  such  a 
drama  had  e'ver  been  printed  ;  but  in  1821  Boswell  reprinted 
a  large  fragment  of  it  fwith  many  errors)  from  a  copy  want- 
ing the  commencement.  A  perfect  cony  of  this  very  rare 
play  is  in  the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and  from 
It  we  transcribe  the  following  title-page  : — 

"The  true  Tragedie  of  Richard  the  third:  Wherein  is 
showne  the  death  of  Kdward  the  fourth,  with  the  smothering 
of  the  two  yooiig  Princes  in  the  Tower  :  With  a  lamentable 
ende  of  Shore's  wife,  an  example  for  all  wicked  women. 
And  lastly,  the  coniunction  and  ioyning  of  the  two  noble 
Houses,  Lsiicaster  and  Yorke.  As  it  wai?  playd  by  the 
Queenes  Maiesties  Players.  London  Printed  by  Thomas 
Oreede,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  William  Barley,  at  his  shop  in 
Newgate  Market,  neare  Christ  Church  doore.  1594." 

This  title-page  so  nearly  corresponds  with  tlie  entry  in  the 
St-itioners'  Registers',  as  "to  leave  no  doubt  that  the  latter  re- 
ferred to  the  former.  The  piece  itself,  as  a  literary  composi 
tion,  deserves  little  remark,  but  as  a  drama  it  possesses  se- 
veral peculiar  features.  It  is  in  some  respects  unlike  any 
relic  of  the  kind,  and  was  evidently  written  several  years 
before  it  came  from  Creedc's  press.  It  opens  with  a  singular 
dialogue  between  Truth  and  Poetry  : — 

"  Poetrii    Truth,  well  met. 

"  Truth.  ThanliM.  Poetre  ;  what  makes  thou  upon  a  stage? 
"  Poet.  Shadowes. 

"  Truth.  Then,  will  I  adds  bodies  to  the  shadowed. 
Therefore  depart,  and  give  Truth  leave 
To  shew  her  papeant. 

"  Pnet.  Why.  will  Truth  be  a  Player? 
"  Truth.  No  ;  but  Tracedia  like  for  to  present 
A  Tiapedie  in  Kn^tand  done  but  late, 
Thkt  will  revive  the  hearts  of  droopinij  mtndes. 
"  Pott.  Whereof? 
'•  Truth.  Marry,  thus.'' 
Hence  Truth  proceeds  with  a  sort  of  argument  of  the  play; 
bat  before  the  Induction  begins,  the  ghost  of  George,  Duke 
of  Clarence,  had  iiassed  over  the  stage,  delivering  two  lines 
a«  h3  went,  whicli  we  give  precisely  a.s  in  the  original  copy 
now  'oofore  us  : — 

"  Crett*  rruor  ian^uinis.  mtietur  sanguine  rrense, 
Quod  sftro  leitio.     O  sriiio,  srilio,  vendicta  f'' 
The  drama  itself  afterwards  opens  with  a  si-ene  represent- 

i  Steven* eal'ii it  "The  Actors'  Vindication,"  an  indeed  it  was  enti- 

.led  when   it  was  republinhed  (with   alterations  and   insertions)  by 

Cartwriirht  the  Comedian,  withojt  dale,  but  during  the  Civil  Wars. 

8«e  the  reprint  of  this  tract  by  the  Shakespeare  Society,  the  text  being 

kkeii  from  the  first  impression. 

*  It  is  as  foMows,  being  rather  unusually  particular: — 

Tho.  Oreede]     An  Enterlude  entitled   the  Tragedie  of  Richard 

th*  Third,  wherein  ••  shoinen  the  Death  of  Edward  the  Fourthe, 


ng  the  death  of  Edward  IV.,  luid  the  whole  story  is  thenco 
forward  most  inartificially  and  clumsily  conducted,  with  a 
total  disregard  of  dates,  facts,  and  places,  by  characters  im 
perfectly  drawn  and  ill  sustained.  Shore's  wile  plays  a  con 
spiciious  part ;  and  the  tragedy  does  not  finish  with  the 
battle  of  liosworth  Field,  but  is  carried  on  subsequently, 
although  the  plot  is  clearly  at  an  end.  The  conclusion  is 
quite  as  remarkable  as  the  commencement.  After  the  deoth 
of  Richard,  Report  (a  personification  like  some  of  those  in  the 
old  Moralities)  enters,  and  liolds  a  dialogue  with  .a  Page,  to 
inform  the  audience  of  certain  matters  not  exhibited  ;  and 
after  along  scene  between  Richmond,  the  Queen  mother, 
Princess  Elizabeth,  &c.,  two  Messengers  enter,  and,  mixing 
with  the  personages  of  the  play,  detail  the  succession  of 
events  and  of  monarchs  from  the  death  of  Richard  until  the 
accession  of  Elizabeth.  The  Queen  mother  then  comes  for- 
ward, and  pronounces  an  elaborate  panegyric  upon  Elizabeth, 
ending  witn  these  lines  : — 

"For  which,  if  ere  her  life  be  taen  away, 
God  grant  her  soule  may  live  in  heaven  for  aye  ; 
p"or  i;  her  Graces  dayes  be  brought  to  end, 
Your  hope  is  gone,  on  whom  did  peace  depend." 

ls  in  this  sort  of  epilogue  no  allusion  is  made  to  tlio 
Spanisli  Armada,  though  other  public  events  of  less  promi- 
nence are  touched  upon,  we  may  perhaps  infer  thai  th« 
drama  was  written  before  the  year  1588. 

The  style  in  wliich  it  is  composed  also  deserves  observation  : 
it  is  partly  in  prose,  partly  in  heavy  blank-verse,  (such  as 
was  penned  before  Marlowe  had  introduced  his  improve 
nients,  and  Shakespeare  liad  adopted  and  advanced  them) 
partly  in  ten-syllable  rhyming  couplets,  and  stanza*,  and 
partly  in  the  long  fourteen-syllable  metre,  which  seems  to 
nave  been  popular  even  before  prose  was  employed  upon  our 
stage.  In  every  point  of  view  it  may  be  asserted,  that  i'&ff 
more  curious  dramatic  relics  exist  in  our  language.  It  is  per- 
haps the  most  ancient  printed  specimen  of  composition  for  a 
public  tlieatre,  of  which  the  subject  was  derived  from  Eng- 
lish history. 

Boswell  asserts  that  "  The  True  Tragedy  of  Richard  the 
Third"  had  "  evidently  been  used  and  read  by  Shake-speare," 
but  we  cannot  trace  any  resemblances,  but  such  as  were  pro- 
bably purely  accidental,  and  are  merely  trivial.  Two  persons 
could  hardly  take  up  the  same  period  of  our  annals,  as  the 
ground-work  of  a  arama,  without  some  coincidences ;  but. 
there  is  no  point,  either  in  the  conduct  of  the  plot  or  in  tho 
language  in  which  it  is  clothed,  where  our  great  dramatist 
does  not  show  his  measureless  superiority.  The  portion  of 
the  story  in  which  the  two  plays  make  the  nearest  approach 
to  each  other,  is  just  before  the  murder  of  the  princes,  where 
Richard  strangely  takes  a  page  into  his  confidence  respecting 
the  fittest  agent  for  the  purpose. 

It  is  not  to  be  concluded,  because  the  title-page  of  "Tho 
True  Tragedy  of  Richard  the  Third"  expresses  that  it  waa 
acted  "  by  the  Queen's  Majesty's  Players,"  that  it  wjis  the 
association  to  which  Shakespeare  belonged,  and  which  be- 
came "  the  King's  Players "  after  James  I.  ascended  the 
throne.  In  1583,  the  Queen  selected  a  company  from^  the 
theatrical  servants  of  several  of  her  nobility  ;  (Hist,  of  f^ngl. 
Dram.  Poetry  and  the  Stage,  vol.  i.  254;)  and  in  1590  there 
were  two  companies,  called  "  her  Majesty's  Players,"  one 
under  the  management  of  Laneham,  and  the  other  of  Lau- 
rence Dutton'.  By  one  of  these  companies  "The  True  Tra- 
gedy of  Richard  the  Third"  must  have  been  performed. 
Until  the  death  of  Elizabeth,  the  association  to  which  Shake 
speare  was  attached  was  usually  called  "  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's Servants." 

In  the  "  Memoirs  of  Edward  Alleyn,"  p.  121,  it  is  shown 
that  Henslowe's  company,  subsequent  to  1599,  was  either  in 
pos.session  of  a  play  upon  the  story  of  Richard  III.,  or  that- 
some  of  the  poets  he  employed  were  engaged  upon  such  a 
drama.  From  the  sketch  of  five  scenes,  there  inserted,  wo 
mav  judge  that  it  was  a  distinct  performance  from  "  The 
Triie  Tragedy  of  Richard  the  Third."  B>  \n  entry  in  Hen- 
slowe's Diary,  dated  22d  June,  1602,  we  learn  that  Ben  Jon- 
son  received  \0l.  in  earnest  of  a  play  called  "  Richard  Crook- 
back,"  and  for  certain  additions  he  was  to  make  to  Kyd'a 
Spanish  Tragedy.  Considering  the  success  of  Shakespeare's 
"  Richard  the  Third,"  and  the  active  contention,  at  certain 
periods,    between    the  company  to  which   Shakespeare  be- 

with  the  Smotheringe  of  the  twoo  Princes  in  the  Tower,  with 
a  lamentable  Knd  of  .Shores  wife,  and  the  conjunction  of  th« 
twoo  Houses  of  I,anra.«ter  and  York. 
,  '  This  new  fact  in  the  history  of  our  early  drama  and  theatres,  we 
owe  to  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  who  establishes  it  beyond  contradic- 
tion, in  his  interesting  and  important  volume  of  ''  Kxtracts  from  tb» 
Accounts  of  the  Revels  at  Court,"  printed  for  the  Shakespeare  S' 
ciety.     Introd.  p   xxxii 


I 


INTEODUCTION   TO  THE  PLAYS. 


ci 


ionged,  and  that  under  the  management  of  Ilenslowe,  it 
may  be  loi^ked  upon  as  singular,  that  the  latter  should  have 
been  without  a  drama  on  that  portion  of  English  history 
;intil  after  1599 ;  and  it  is  certainly  not  less  singular,  that  as 
.ato  as  1602  Ben  Jonson  should  have  been  occupied  in  writ- 
ing a  new  play  upow  the  subject.  Possibly,  about  that  date 
Shakespeare's  "  Eichard  the  Third  "  had  been  revived  with 
the  additions ;  and  hence  the  employment  of  Jonson  on  a 
rival  drama,  and  the  publication  of  the  third  edition  of  Shake- 
ipeare's  tragedy  after  an  interval  of  four  years. 

Maloce  was  of  opinion  that  Shakespeare  wrote  "Eichard 
Die  Third  "  in  1593,  but  did  not  adduce  a  particle  of  evidence, 
and  none  in  fact  exists.  We  should  be  disposed  to  place  it 
Bomewhat  nearer  the  time  of  publication. 


KING  HENRY  VIII. 

"  The  Famous  History  of  the  Life  of  King  Henry  the  Eight," 
was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623,  where  it  occupies 
twenty-eiglit  pages  ;  viz.  from  p.  205  to  p.  282,  inclusive. 
It  is  the  kat  play  in  the  division  of  "  Histories."  It  fills 
the  same  place  in  the  later  impressions  in  the  same  form. 

The  principal  question,  in  relation  to  Shakespeare's 
"  Henry  the  Eighth,"  is,  when  it  was  written.  We  are  satis- 
fied, both  by  the  internal  and  external  evidence,  that  it 
came  from  the  poet's  pen  after  James  I.  had  ascended  the 
throne. 

Independently  of  the  whole  character  of  the  drama,  which 
was  little  calculated  to  please  Elizabeth,  it  seems  to  us  that 
Cranmer's  prophecy,  in  Act  v.  sc.  4,  is  quite  decisive.  There 
the  poet  first  speaks  of  Elizabeth,  and  of  the  advantages  de- 
rived from  her  rule,  and  then  proceeds  in  the  clearest 
manner  to  notice  her  successor  : — 

"  Njr  shall  this  peace  sleep  with  her  :  hut  as  when 
The  bird  of  wonder  dies,  the  maiden  phcenix, 
Her  ashes  new  create  another  heir, 
As  great  in  estimation  as  herself; 
So  shall  she  leave  her  blessedness  to  one 
(When  heaven  shall  call  her  from  this  cloud  of  darkness) 
Who  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  her  honour 
Shall  star-like  rise,  as  great  in  fame  as  she  was. 
And  lo  stand  fix'd." 

Insrenuity  cannot  pervert  these  lines  to  any  other  meaning  ; 
but  it  has  been  said  that  they,  and  some  others  which  follow 
them,  were  a  subsequent  introduction  ;  and,  moreover,  that 
they  were  the  work  of  Ben  Jonson,  on  some  revival  of  the 
play  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  There  does  not  exist  the 
slightest  evidence  to  estabhsh  either  proposition.  Any  per- 
son, reading  the  whole  of  Cranmer's  speech  at  the  christenmg, 
can  hardly  fail  to  perceive  such  an  entireness  and  sequence 
of  thoughts  and  words  in  it,  as  to  make  it  very  unlikely 
that  it  was  not  dictated  by  the  same  intellect,  and  written 
by  the  same  pen.  Malone  and  others  made  up  their  minds 
that  "  Henry  the  Eighth  "  was  produced  before  the  death  of 
Elizabeth ;  and  finding  the  passagre  we  have  quoted  directly 
in  the  teeth  of  this  supposition,  they  charged  it  as  a  subse- 
quent addition,  fixed  the  authorship  of  it  upon  a  diflferent 
poet,  and  printed  it  witliin  brackets. 

As  to  external  evidence,  there  is  one  fact  which  has  never 
had  sufficient  importance  given  to  it.  We  allude  to  the  fol- 
lowing memorandum  in  the  Registers  of  the  Stationers' 
Company : — 

"12  Feb.  1604 
"  Nath.  Butterl     Yf  he  get  srood  allowance  for  the  En- 
terlude  of  K.  Henry  8th  before  he  begyn  to  print  it ; 
and  then  procure  the  wardens  hands  to  yt  for  the 
entrance  of  yt :  he  is  to  have  the  same  for  his  copy." 
Chalmers   asserted,  without  qualification,  that  this  entry 
referred  to  a  contemporaneous  play  by  Samuel  Rowley,  under 
the  title  of  "When  you  see  me  you  know  me,"  1605;  but 
the  "  enterlude  "  is  expressly  called  in  the  entry  "  K.  Henry 
8th,"  and  we  feel  no  hesitation  in  concluding  that  it  referred 
to  Shakespeare's  drama,  which  had  probably  been  brought 
out  at  the  Globe  Tlnatre  in  the  summer  of  1604.     The  me- 
morandum, judging  from  its  terms,  seems  to  have  been  made, 
not  at  the  instance  of  Nathaniel  Butter,  the  bookseller,  but 
of  the  company  to  which  Shakespeare  belonged,  and  in  order 
to  prevent   a   8urrep"tious    publication    of   the   play.     The 
"12  Feb.   1604,"  was,  of  course,   according  to  our  "present 
reckoning  the  12  Feb.  160.5,  and  at  that  date  Butter  had  not 
begun  to  print  "Henry  the  Eighth."     No  edition  of  it  is 


known  before  it  appeared  in  the  folio  of  1623,  and  we  may 
infer  that  Butter  failed  in  getting  "good  allowance"  with 
"the  wardens'  hands  to  it." 

The  Globe  Theatre  was  destroyed  on  29th  June,  1613,  the 
thatch  with  which  it  was  covered  having  been  fired  by  th« 
discharge  of  some  small  pieces  of  ordnance.  (Hist,  of  Engl. 
Dram.  Foetry  and  the  Stage,  vol.  iii.  p.  29S.)  It  has  been 
stated  by  Howes,  in  his  continuation  of  Stowe's  Chronicle, 
that  the  play  then  in  a  course  of  representation  was  "  Henrv 
the  Eighth ;"  but  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  who  is  very  particular 
in  his  description  of  the  calamity,  asserts  that  the  play  was 
called  "  All  is  True."  There  is  little  doubt  that  he  is  right, 
because  a  ballad,  printed  on  the  occasion,  has  the  burden  of 
"  All  is  True  "  at  the  end  of  every  stanza.  The  qiiestio.i 
then  is,  whether  this  was  Shakespeare's  "  Henry  the  Eigi  h'' 
under  a  different  title,  or  a  different  play  ?  Sir  Henry  \\  utr 
ton  informs  us  in  terms  that  it  was  "a  new  play,"  and  as  be 
was  right  in  the  title,  we  may  have  the  more  faith  in  his 
statement  respecting  tlie  novelty  of  the  performance. 

In  the  instance  of  "Henry  the  Eighth,"  as  of  many  other 
works  by  our  great  dramatist,  there  is  ground  for  believing 
that  there  existed  a  preceding  play  on  the  same  story.  He*} 
slowe's  Diary  aflbrds  us  some  curious  and  important  &,-.- 
dence  on  this  point,  unknown  to  Malone.  According  to  this 
authority  two  plays  were  written  in  the  year  1601  for  the 
Earl  of  Nottingham's  players,  on  the  events  of  the  life  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey,  including  necessarily  some  of  the  chief  in- 
cidents of  the  feign  of  Henry  VIII.  'These  plays  consisted 
of  a  first  and  second  part,  the  one  called  "The  Rising  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey,"  and  the  other,  "  Cardinal  Wolsey."  We 
collect  that  the  last  was  produced  first,  and  the  success  it  met 
with  on  the  stage  was  perhaps  the  occasion  of  the  second 
drama,  containing,  in  fact,  the  commencement  of  the  story. 
Of  this  course  of  proceeding  Henslowe's  Diary  furnishes 
several  other  examples. 

The  earliest  entry  relating  to  "  Cardinal  Wolsey,"  (the 
second  play  in  the  order  of  the  incidents,  though  the  earliest 
in  point  of  production)  is  dated  5th  June,  1601,  when  Henry 
Chettle  was  paid  20«.  "  for  writing  the  book  of  Cardinal 
Wolsey."  On  the  14th  July  he  was  paid  40«.  more  on  the 
same  account,  and  in  the  whole,  between  5th  June  and  I7th 
July,  he  was  paid  5^,  as  large  a  sum  as  he  usually  obtained 
for  a  new  play. 

We  have  no  positive  testimony  of  the  success  of  "  Cardi- 
nal Wolsey,"  of  which  Chettle  was  the  sole  author ;  but  we 
are  led  to  infer  it,  because  very  soon  afterwards  we  find  no 
fewer  than  four  poets  engaged  upon  the  production  of  the 
drama  under  the  title  of  "  Tlie  Rising  of  Cardinal  Wolsey," 
which,  doubtless,  related  to  his  early  life,  and  to  his  gradual 
advance  in  the  favour  of  Henry  VIII.  These  four  poets  were 
Drayton,  Chettle,  Munday,  and  Wentworlh  Smith;  and  so 
maiiy  pens,  we  may  conjecture,  were  employed,  that  the  play 
might  be  brought  out  with  all  dispatch,  in  order  to  follow  up 
the  popularity  of  what  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  secontl 
part  of  the  same  "history."  Another  memorandum  in  Hen- 
slowe's Diary  tends  to  the  same  conclusion,  for  it  appear* 
that  the  play  was  licensed  piece-meal  by  the  Master  of  the 
Revels,  that  it  might  be  put  into  rehearsal  as  it  proceeded, 
and  represented  immediately  after  it  was  finished. 

A  farther  point  established  by  the  same  authority  is,  that 
Henslowe  expended  an  unusual  amount  in  getting  up  the 
drama.  On  the  10th  Aug.  1601,  he  paid  no  less  than  21?.  for 
"  velvet,  sattin,  and  tafleta"  for  the  dresses,  a  sum  equal  now 
to  about  100?.  Upon  the  costumes  only,  in  the  whole, 
considerably  more  than  200?.  were  laid  out,  reckoning  the 
value  of  money  in  1601  at  about  five  times  its  value  at 
present. 

We  may  conclude  with  tolerable  certainty  that  Shakespear« 
wrote  "Henry  the  Eighth"  in  the  winter  of  1603-4,  and 
that  it  was  first  acted  at  the  Globe  soon  after  the  eommenee- 
ment  of  the  season  there,  which  seems  to  have  begun  to- 
wards the  close  of  April,  as  soon  as  a  theatre  open  to  tiic 
weather  could  be  conveniently  employed.  The  coronation 
procession  of  Anne  Bullen  forms  a  prominent  feature  in  the 
drama ;  and  aa  the  coronation  of  James  I.  and  Anne  of  Den- 
mark took  place  on  the  24th  July,  1603,  we  may  not  unrea- 
'  sonably  suppose  that  the  audiences  at  the  Globe  were  in- 
!  tended  to  be  reminded  of  that  event,  and  that  the  show,  de- 
■  tailed  with  such  unusual  minuteness  in  the  folio  of  1623,  was 
I  meant  as  a  remote  imitation  of  its  splendour.  The  opinion, 
I  that  Shakespeare's  "  Henry  the  Eighth  "  was  undf.ubtedly 
!  written  after  the  accession  of  James  I.,  was  expressed  and 
I  printed  by  us  nearly  twenty  ye.ars  ago.  The  words  "  ugeJ 
'  princess,"'  (no  part  of  the  imputed  addition  by  Ben  Jonson) 
would  never  have  been  used  by  Shakespeare  during  the  lif* 
of  Elizabeth. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 

riie  Famous  Historic  of  Trovlus  niul  Cres!<eid.     Excellently 

expressiiip  the  hccinniiie  of  their  loiics,  with  the  conceited 

wooinsr   of  Pmidarus   I'riiico   of  Licia.      Written  by  Wil- 

iiftin  Siiake^'penre.     London   Imprinted  by  G.  Eld  for  R. 

Bonian  and  H.  Wnllcy.  and  are  to  be  sold  nl  the  sprcd  Ea$rle 

in  Panics  Church-veard,  ouer  against  the  great  North  doore. 

1609.  4lv>.  46  leave-o. 

riie  Historic  <>f  Troylus  and  (^resseida.     As  it  was  acted  by 

the  Kings  Maiestiea  scruunts  at  tlie    Globe.     Written  by 

William  Sliakcspeiire.     London  Inijirinted  by  G.  Eld  for 

R.  Bonian  and  H.  Walloy,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  sprcd 

Rnfflo  in    Pi.iles    Chnrcii-ycard,    ouer  a;trainst    tlie    great 

North  docire.  1609.  4to.  4.5  leaves. 

In  the  folio  of  1628,  "  The  Tragcdie  of  Troylns  and  Cresaida" 

occupies  twenty-nine  pages,  the  Prologue  filling  tlie  first 

page  and  the  Inst  being  left  blank.     It  retains  its  place  in 

the  later  folios  ;  but  in  that  of  16S5  the  Prologue  is  placed 

at  the  head  of  the  page  on  which  the  play  commences. 

W'e  will  first  state  the  facts  respecting  the  early  impressions 

of"  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  and  then  make  such  observations 

upon  them  a*  seem  necessary. 

The  play  was  originally  printed  in  1609.  It  was  formerly 
supposed  that  there  were  two  editions  in  that  year,  but  they 
were  merely  diflTerent  issues  of  tlie  same  impression  :  the 
i>.idy  of  the  work  (with  two  exceptions,  pointed  «>nt  hereafter) 
:~  alike  in  each  ;  they  were  from  the  types  of  the  same 
I'rinter,  and  were  published  by  the  same"  booksellers.  The 
litle-pages,  as  may  be  seen  on  the  opposite  leaf,  vaiy  ma- 
terially :  but  there  is  another  more  remarkable  alteration. 
On  the  title-page  of  the  copies  first  circulated,  it  is  not  stated 
that  the  drama  had  been  represented  by  any  company  ;  and 
in  a  sort  of  preface  headed,  "  A  never  Writer  to  an  ever 
Reader.    News,"  it  is  asserted  that  it  liad  never  been  "staled 


"  Histories,"  and  "  Tragedies,"  at  the  beginning  of  th* 
volume  wa.s  most  likely  printed  last,  and  the  person  who 
formed  it  accidentally  omitted  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  be- 
cause it  liad  been  as  accidentally  omitted  in  the  pagination. 
No  copy  of  the  folio  of  1628  is,  we  believe,  known,  which 
does  not  contain  "Troilus  and  Cressida:"  it  is  not  tlit;re  di 
vided  into  acts  and  scenes,  although  at  the  commencement  ot 
the  piece  we  have  Actvs  Frimvs,  Scanu  Prima. 

Such  are  the  tiicts  connected  with  the  appearance  of  the 
tratredy  in  quarto  and  folio.  It  seems  very  evident  that 
"  Troilus  and  Cressida"  was  acted  in  the  interval  between  the 
first  and  the  second  issue  of  tlie  ouarto,  as  printed  by  G.  Eld 
f'>r  Honian  and  Walley  in  the  early  part  of  1609.  k  is  prob- 
able that  our  great  dramatist  prepared  it  for  the  etage  in  ttia 
winter  of  1608-9,  with  a  view  to  its  production  at  the  Glol:-^ 
as  soon  as  the  season  cominei?ced  at  that  theatre  :  before  it 
was  so  produced,  and  after  it  liad  been  licensed,"  Bonian  and 
Walley  seem  to  liave  possessed  themselves  of  a  copy  of  it ; 
and  having  procured  it  to  be  printed,  issued  it  to  the  world 
''a  new  j.lay,  never  staled  with  the  stage,  never  clapper- 
'      ■■'    "         '  "   '  '        ■'    That  thev  had  ob- 


clawed  with  the  palms  of  the 

tained  it  without  the  consent  of  the  company,  "  the  grand 
possessors,"  as  they  are  c;illed,  may  be  gathered  from  the 
conclusion  of  the  preface.  The  second  issue  of  Bonian  and 
Walley's  edition  of  1009  was  not  made  until  after  the  tragedy 
lad  been  acted  at  the  Globe,  as  is  stated  on  the  title-page. 
This  is  an  easy  and  intelligible  mode  of  accounting  for  the 
main  differences  in  the  quarto  copies  ;  and  it  enables  us  with 
some  plausibility  to  conjecture,  that  the  date  when  Shakes- 
jieare  wrote  "  Troilus  and  Cressida  "  was  not  long  before  it 
was  first  represented,  and  a  still  shorter  time  before  it  was 
first  printed. 

Some  difficulty  has  arisen  out  of  the  entry,  already  quoted, 

of  a  "Troilus  and  Cressida"  in  the  Stationers'  books,  with 

the  date  of  7th  Feb.  1602-3,  in  which  entry  it  is  stated  that 

with  the  stage,  never  clapper-clawed  with  the  palms  of  the  i  the  jilay  was  "  acted  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants  ;" 

vulgar  ;"  in  other  words,  ttiat  the  play  had  not  been  acted,  j  the  company  to  which  Shakespeare  belonged  having  been  so 

This  was  probably  then  true ;  but  as  "Troilus  and  Cressida"    denominated  anterior  to  the  license  of  James  L  in  May,  1608. 

was  very  soon  afterwards  brought  upon  the  stage,  it  became  |  This  circumstance  formed  Malone's  chief  ground  forcontend- 

necessarj- for  the  publishers  to  substitute  a  new  title-page,  |  ing  that  Shakespeare  wrote  his  "Troilus  and  Cressida"  in 

and  to  suppress  their  preface :  accordingly  a  re-issue  of  the  ;  1602.     It  may,  however,  be  reasonably  inferred  that  this  was 

Siime    edition  took  place,   by  the  title-page  of  which  it  ap-    ^  different  piay  on  the  same  subject.     Every  body  must  be 

neared,  that  the  play  was  printed  "as  it  was  acted  by  the    struck  with    the  remarkable    inequality  of  some'  parts  of 

King's  M.njesty's  servants  at  the  Globe."  I  Shakespeare's    "Troilus  and  Cressida,"  especially  towards 

III  the  Stationers'  Retristers  are  two  entries,  of  distinct  dates,    the  conclusion  :  they  could  hardly  have  been  written  by  the 

relating  to  a  play,  or  plays,  called,  "Troilus  and  Cressida:"  |  pen  v/hich  produced  the  magnificent  speeches  of  Ulysse.i  and 

they  are  in  the  following  terms  : —  \  other  earlier  portions,  and  were  probably  relics  of  a  drama 

"  7  Feb.  1602-8  I  acted  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants"  about  1602,  and  in 

"  Mr.  Roberts]     The  booke  of  Troilus  and  Cresseda,  as  I  the  springof  1603  intended  to  be  printed  by  Roberts.    In  April 

yt  is  acted  by  my  Lo.  Chamberlena  men."  |  and  Mav,  1.599,  it  appears  by  Henslowe's  Diary  that  he  paid 

"  28  Jap.  1608-9  I  various  sums  to  Dekker  and  Chettle  for  a  play  they  were  then 

"  Rich.  Bonion  and  Hen.  Whalleys]     Entere^l  for  their  i  writing  under  the  title  of  "Troilus  and  Cressida:"  it  ijiay  be 

copic  under  t' hands 

Sir  Geo.  Bucke,  and 

booke  called  the  History  of  Troyliisand  Cressula."  i  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  entered  by  Roberts  on  the  7th  Feb. 
The  edition  of  1609  was,  doubtless,  published  in  conse- '  1S02-3,  may  have  been  a  tragedy,  not  by  Shakespeare,  brought 
qnence  of  the  entry  of  "28  Jan.  1608-9;"  but  if  Roberts  out  by  the  Lord  Cham berlain's'scrvants  at  the  Globe,  in  corn- 
printed  n  "Troilus  and  Cressida,"  whether  by  Shakespeare  petition  with  their  rivals  at  the  Rose  or  Fortune.  Of  this 
or  by  any  other  dramatist,  in  consequence  of  the  earlier  entry  '  I'icce  it  is  not  impossible  that  Shakespeare  in  some  degree 
of  '*7  Feb.  1602-3,"  none  such  has  come  down  to  our  time,  availed  himself;  and  he  might  be  too  much  in  haste  to  have 
Shakespeare's  tragedy  was  not  again  printed,  as  far  as  can  \  time  to  alter  and  improve  all  that  his  own  Uiste  and  genius 
now  be  ascertained,  until  it  appeared,  under  rather  peculiar!  would  otherwise  have  rejected. 

■  :rcumstances,  in  the  folio  of  1623.  |     This  brings  us  to  the  question  of  the  source  from  which 

In  that  volume  the  dramatic  works  of  Shakespeare,  as  is  !  Shakespeare  derived  his  plot:  how  far  he  did,  or  did  not, 


of  ilr.  Segar  Deputy  to    concluded  'hut  it  was  soon  afterwards  acted  by  the  Earl  of 
Mr.  Warden  Lownes :  A  !  Nottingham's  f)layers,  for  whom  it  was  composed  ;  and  the 


ell  known     are    printe-l  in  three  divisions— "Comedies,"  i  follow  the  older  plav  wc  suppose  him  to  have   emproyed'i 
Histories,     and   "  Tnixyedies :"  nnd  a  list  nf  t'Wt^'y,     miHnr    ;»   ^.^f   ».^oo;ki«   f.,  Ji„f„,™;.,„       t„    icoi    u„   proper  ballad 

"T  ' "  " ^ 

markable,  that  it  is 


.    .  '    '  Tr.-igedies ;"  and  a  list  of  the-ri,   under    is  not  possible  to  determine".      In   1581 
tliose  heads  IS  inserted  at  the  commencement.     In  that  list  j  dialogne-wise,  between  Troilus  and  Cressida"  was  entered 
and  Cressida"  is  not  found  ;  and  it  is  farther  re- I  on  the  Stationers'  Registers  by  Edward  White,  and  in  the  lai 
,  .  .ci^'ed  near  the  middle  of  the  folio  of  .  form  of  expression  of  that  dav  this  mav  have  been  a  dramatic 

itiv,  without  any  paging,  excei)ting  that  the  second  leaf  is  I  performance.  More  than  a  centurv  earlier,  viz.  in  1471,  Cax- 
t.arnbered  79  and  80  :  the  signatures  also  do  not  correspond  ton  had  printed  his  "Recuvell  of  the  Historves  of  Trove," 
nitii  any  othoro  in  the  series.  Hence  it  w.is  inferred  by  which  at  various  dates,  and  in  a  cheap  form,  was  repriiited. 
harnier,  that  the  insertion  of  "  Troilus  and  Cressida  "  wa'a  '  Lvdgate's  "  Historv,  Segc,  and  Destruccyon  of  Trove  "  came 
Bu  anerthongljt  by  the  plavcr-editors,  and  that  when  the  rest  from  Pvnson's  press  in  1518 ;  but  Shake'speare  seems  to  have 
of  the  folio  was  printed  they  had  not  intended  to  include  it.  ;  been  so  attentive  a  reader  of  Chaucer's  five  books  of  "Troylus 
It  sc.-n:s  to  us,  that  there  is  no  adequate  ground  for  this  and  Cresevda"  (of  which  the  last  edition,  anterior  to  the  pro- 
notion,  ai.rl  that  the  peculiar  nrcumstjinccs  to  which  we  have  auction  of  Shakespeare's  plav,  appeared  in  1602)  as  to  hava 
H  "r  u  t"'^i''  '  ^'™'^'*'".''>'  n<"countcd  for  by  the  supposition  been  considerably  indebted  to  tliem.  It  is  not  easy  to  trace 
.liat  troilus  and  Cressida"  was  given  to,  and  executed  bv,  anv  direct  or  indi"rect  obligations  on  the  part  of  Shakespeare 
a  ditrerei.t  printer.  The  paging  of  the  folio  of  1623  is  in  to"Chapman'8  translation  of  Homer,  of  which  the  earl  est 
Mveral  placr-s  irregular,  and  in  the  division  „f  "  Tragedies  "  '  portion  came  out  in  1598.  It  is  well  known  that  the  ad\en- 
(fit  the  head  of  which  "Iroilns  and  Cressida"  is  ph.ced)  I  tures  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  are  not  any  where  mentioned  in 
Jiere  is  a  mistake  of  100  pages.    The  list  of  "  Comedies,"  |  the  Iliad. 

'  VTe  infer  thi.  from   the  term*  of  the  entry  in   the   Stationem' j  acted  for  the  Master  of  the  Revels.     Sir  George  Buck  wa*  not  fonnaUi 
Hepirt/-™    in  which  Pir  Oeorce    Buck,  and    h\%   dpputy,  Pesar.  are    appointed  until  1610 
VMtuonti.     It  u  upon  thif  evidence  only  that  we  know  that  begar  I 


J 


INTEODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


cm 


After  adverting  to  the  real  or  supposed  origin  of  the  story 
of  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  Coleridge  remarks  in  his  Literary 
tCeinains,  vol.  u.  p.  ISO,  that  it  "can  scarcely  be  classed  with 
^18  dramas  of  Greek  and  Koinan  History ;  but  it  forms  an  in- 
termediate link  between  the  fictitious  Greek  and  Eoman  His- 
tories, whioh  we  may  call  legendary  dramas,  and  the  proper 
ancient  hi-itories  ;  that  is,  between  the  Pericles  or  Titns  An- 
dronicus,  and  the  Coriolanns  or  Julius  Caesar."  He  then  ad- 
verts to  the  characters  of  the  hero  and  heroine,  and  the 
pj.rpose  Shakespeare  had  in  view  of  pourtraying  them,  and 
goes  on  to  observe:— "I  am  half  inclined  to  believe  that 
Shakespeare's  main  object,  or  shall  1  rather  say,  his  ruling 
impulse,  was  to  translate  the  poetic  heroes  of  paganism  into 
the  not  less  rude,  but  more  intellectually  vigorous,  and  more 
featurely^  warriors  of  Christian  chivalry, — and  to  substantiate 
the  distinct  and  graceful  profiles  or  outlines  of  the  Homeric 
epic  into  the  flesh  and  blood  of  the  romantic  drama,— in 
short,  to  give  a  grand  liistory-pieee  in  the  robust  style  of 
Albert  Durer."  Consistentlv  in  some  degree  with  this  opinion, 
Schlegel  remarks,  tliat  "  tlie  whole  play  is  one  continued  irony 
of  the  crown  of  all  heroic  tales— the  tale  of  Troy,"  and  after 
dwelling  briefly  upon  tliis  point,  he  adds  :— "  in  all  this  let  no 
man  conceive  that  an  indignity  was  intended  to  Homer: 
Shakespeare  had  not  the  Iliad  before  him,  but  the  chivalrous 
romances  of  the  Trojan  war  derived  from  Dares  Fhrygius." 
Shakespeare,  in  fact,  found  the  story  popular,  and  he  applied 
it  to  a  popular  purpose  in  a  popular  manner. 

One  reason  for  thinking  that  "Troilus  and  Cressida" 
:.ame  from  the  hands  of  a  different  printer,  though  little  or 
no  distinction  can  be  traced  in  the  type,  is  tliat  there  is  hardly 
anv  play  in  the  folio  of  1628  which  contains  so  many  errors 
of  "the  press.  The  quarto  of  1609  was  unquestionably  the 
foundation  of  the  text  of  the  folio,  for  in  various  instances 
the  latter  adopts  the  literal  blunders  of  the  former:  it  besides 
introduces  not  a  few  important  corruptions,  for  which  it  is  not 
easy  to  account,  so  that  the  language  of  Shakespeare,  on  the 
whole,  is  perhaps  best  represented  in  the  quarto.  There  are, 
however,  some  valuable  additions  in  the  folio,  not  found  in 
the  quarto,  while  on  the  other  hand  the  quarto  contains 
passages  omitted  in  the  folio,  though  sometimes  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  sense.  The  variations,  whether  important 
or  comparatively  insignificant,  are  noted  at  the  foot  of  the 
page;  but  there  are  two  instances  deserving  notice  in  which 
our  text  differs  from  that  of  all  preceding  editions.  It  has 
been  thought  that  the  quarto  impressions  of  1609,  as  far  as 
regards  the  body  of  the  play,  are  identical.  Such  is  not  pre- 
cisely the  case,  and  a  copy  of  the  drama  issued  after  it  had 
beeii  "acted  by  the  King's  Majesty's  servants  at  the  Globe," 
belonging  to  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  contains  two  valuable 
improvements  of  the  text,  as  it  had  been  given  in  the  earlier 
copies  published  before  it  had  been  performed.  Tlie  flrst  of 
these  occurs  in  Act  iii.  sc.  2,  where  Troilus,  anticipating  the 
entrance  of  Cressida,  exclaims,  as  we  find  the  passage  in  all 
modern  editions, 

"I  am  giddy  :  expectation  whirls  me  round. 
Th'  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
That  it  enchants  ray  sense ;  what  will  it  be 
When  that  the  wat'ry  palate  tastes  indeed 
Love's  thrice-reputed  nectar  ?" 

For  "  thrice-reputed  nectar,"  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's 
copy  of  the  quarto,  1609,  has  '■'■  ilmca-repured  nectar,"  or 
thrice  purified  and  refined  nectar.  The  other  instance  of  the 
same  kind  occurs  near  the  end  of  the  play  (Act  v.  sc.  7.) 
where  Achilles  is  exciting  his  armed  Myrmidons  to  the 
slaughter  of  Hector,  and  tells  them, 

"  Empale  him  with  your  weapons  round  ahout : 
In  fellest  manner  execute  your  arms." 

Thus  it  stands  in  all  editions,  from  the  folio  of  1623  down- 
wards, and  the  commentators  have  been  at  some  pains  to  ex- 
plain the  phrase  "execute  your  arms,"  when  in  truth,  as 
Steevens  suspected,  it  is  nothing  but  a  misprint  for  "execute 
your  aims,"  as  appears  upon  the  authority  of  the  quarto, 
1609,  in  the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire:  for 
Achilles,  to  charge  his  followers  to  encircle  Hector  with  their 
jveapons,  and  then  to  execute  their  aims  against  liim  in  the 
fellest  manner,  requires  no  explanation,  and  is  an  improve- 

»  A  never  Writer  to  an  ever  Reader.  News.]  This  address,  or 
•pistle.  is  onlv  found  in  such  copies  of  "  Troilus  and  Cressida"  as  do 
not  state  on  the  title-page  that  it  "  was  acted  by  the  King's  Majesty's 
eervants  at  the  Globe  "     See  Introduction. 

2  —and  set  up  a  new  English  inquisition.]  This  prophecy  has 
Deen  well  verified  of  late  years,  when  (to  say  nothing  of  the  prices 
5f  first  editions  of  Shakespeare's  undoubted  works)  100/.  have  teen 
Biven  for  a  copy  of  the  old  -'Taming  of  a  Shrew,"  1594,  and  1.30/.  for 
"The  True  Tragedy  of  Richard  Duke  of  York,"  1595,  mere4y  becanse 
<heT  were  plays  which  Shakespeare  made  use  of  in  his  compositidns. 


ment  of  the  received  text.    This  copy  of  the  second  issue  of 
the  quarto,  1609,  seenT*  originally  to  have  belonged  to  Hum- 

Shry  Dyson,  a  curious  collector,  who  consitlerably  outlived 
ha'kespeare,  and  who  registers  on  the  title-page,  with  the 
attestation  of  his  signature,  that  "Troilus  and  Cressida"  was 
"printed  amongest  the  workes"  of  Shakespeare,  referring  ol 
course  to  the  folio  of  162S. 

Dryden  produced  an  alteration  of  "Troilus  and  Cressida" 
at  the  Dorset  Garden  Tlieatre  in  1679,  and  itrwas  printed  in 
the  same  year  :  in  the  preface  he  states  that  he  had  "  refined 
Shakespeare's  language,  wliich  before  was  obsolete." 


ADDRESS 

PREFIXED    TO    SOME    COPIES    OF    THE   EDITION    Cf    1»»A 

A  never  Writer  to  an  ever  Reader.     News"^ . 

Eternal  reader,  vou  have  here  a  new  play,  never  staled  with 
the  stage,  never  clapper-clawed  with  the  palms  of  the  vulgar, 
and  yet  passing  full  of  the  palm  comical ;  for  it  is  a  birth  of 
your  brain,  that  never  undertook  anything  comical  vainly . 
and  were  but  the  vain  names  of  comedies  changed  for  the 
titles  of  commodities,  or  of  plays  for  pleas,  you  should  see  all 
those  grand  censors,  that  now  style  thern  such  vanities,  flock 
to  them  for  the  main  grace  of  their  gravities;  especially  this 
author's  comedies,  that  are  so  framed  to  the  life,  that  they 
serve  for  the  most  common  commentaries  of  all  the  actions 
of  our  lives,  showing  such  a  dexterity  and  power  of  wit,  that 
the  most  displeased  with  plays  are  pleased  with  his  oomedies. 
And  all  such  dull  and  heavy-wittcd  worldlings,  as  were  nt^er 
capable  of  the  wit  of  a  comedy,  coming  by  report  of  them  *^ 
his  representations,  have  found  that  wit  there  that  theyne',  -' 
found  in  themselves,  and  have  parted  better-vvitted  than  the' 
came ;  feeling  an  edge  of  wit  set  upon  them,  more  than  ever 
they  dreamed  they  had  brain  to  grind  it  on.  So  much  and 
such  savoured  salt  of  wit  is  in  his  comedies,  that  they  seem 
(for  their  height  of  pleasure)  to  be  born  in  that  sea  that 
brouglit  forth  Venus.  Amongst  all  there  is  none  more  witty 
than"this ;  and  had  1  time  I  would  comment  upon  it,  though 
1  know  it  needs  not,  (for  so  much  as  will  make  you  think 
your  testern  well  bestowed)  but  for  so  much  worth,  as  even 
poor  I  know  to  be  stuffed  in  it.  It  deserves  such  a  labour, 
as  well  as  the  best  comedy  in  Terence  or  Plautus :  and  believe 
this,  that  when  he  is  gone,  and  his  comedies  out  of  sale,  you 
will  scramble  for  theiii,  and  set  up  a  new  English  inquisition." 
Take  this  for  a  warning,  and  at  the  peril  of  your  pleasure's 
loss,  and  judgment's,  refuse  not,  nor  like  this  the  less  for  not 
being  sullied  with  the  smoky  breath  of  the  multitude ;  but 
thank  fortune  for  the  scape  it  hath  made  amongst  you,  since 
by  the  grand  possessors'  wills,  I  believe,  you  should  have 
prayed  for  them,  rather  than  been  prayed.^  And  so  I  leave 
all  such  to  be  prayed  for  f  for  the  states  of  their  wits'  healths! 
that  will  not  praise  it. —  Vale. 


COKIOLANUS. 

"The  Tragedy  of  Coriolanus"  was  first  pri^ited  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  where  it  occupies  thirty  pages,  viz.  from  p.  1  to  p. 
80   inclusive,    a   new   pagination    commencing   with    that 
drama.     In  the  folio  of  ^1632  the  new  paL'ination   begins 
with  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  and  in  the  folios  of  1664  and 
1685  "  Coriolanus"  is  inserted  in  the  same  order. 
Nothing  lias  yet  been  discovered  to  lead  to  the  belief  that 
there  was  a  play  on  the  story  of  Coriolanus  anterior  to  Shake- 
speare's tragedy.    Henslowe's  Diary  contains  no  hint  of  the 

'The  materials  for  this  drama  appear  to  have  been  derived 
exclusivelv  from  "the  Life  of  Caius  Martins  tJono.anus  in 
the  early  translation  of  Plutarch  by  Sir  Thomas  North.  Ihat 
translation  came  from  the  press  in  folio  in  1579,  with  the  fol- 
lowino-  title :  "  The  Lives  of  the  noble  Grecians  and  Komanes". 
compared  together  by  that  grave  learned  Philosc^hcr  niid 
Historiographer,  Plutarke  of  Chseronea."     It  was  avowedly 

3  -rather  than  been  prayed]  This  pp^age  refer.,  probably,  to 
the  unwillingness  of  the  company  to  which  \hakes.eare  belonged 
to  allow  anv  of  their  plays  to  be  printed.  Such  seer.s  to  have  been 
the  case  with  all  the  associations  of  actors,  and  hence  the  imperfecl 
manner  in  which  most  of  the  drama-s  of  the  time  have  come  down  t« 
us  and  the  few  that  issued  from  the  press,  compared  with  the  num- 
be'r  that  were  written.  The  word  -them,'  '"/  P'-^y/f.  ;^"„^5""1. 
refers,  as  Mr.  Barron  Field  suggests  to  me.  not  to  the  grand  po, 
sessors,"  but  to  '•  his  comedies,"  mentioned  above. 


vlV 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


nade  from  the  Frjncn  of  Amiot,  Bishop  of  Auxcrre,  and  ap- 
pears to  liave  been  very  popular:  thousrli  publislied  at  a  high 
price  vequiil  to  about  bl.  of  our  present  inunev\  it  was 
sevcrul  times  reprinted;  and  we  may,  perhaps,  presume  thai 
our  jrreat  dramatist  made  use  of  an  impression  nearer  his  own 
time,  possiblv  that  of  1595.  In  many  of  the  principal 
speeches  he  lias  followed  this  authority  with  verbal  exact- 
ness ;  and  he  was  indebted  to  it  for  the  whole  conduct  of  his 
plot.  Tlie  action  occupies  less  than  four  years,  for  it  com- 
mences subsequent  to  tlie  retirement  of  the  people  to  Mons 
8accr  in  262,  aAer  the  foui-.dation  of  Kome,  and  terminates 
with  the  death  of  Coriolanus  in  A.  U.  C.  266. 

"The  Tragedv  of  Coriolanus"  originally  appeared  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  whore  it  is  divided  into  act.-<  but  not  into  scenes ; 
and  it  was  registered  at  Stutioners'  Hall  by  Blount  and  Jag- 
pard  on  the  8th  of  November  of  that  year,  as  one  of  the 
"copies"  which  had  not  been  "entered  to  other  men." 
Hence  we  infer  that  there  had  been  no  previous  edition  of  it 
in  quarto.  Malone  supposed  that  "  Corifilanus"  was  written 
in  1610 ;  but  we  are  destitute  of  all  evidence  on  the  point, 
beyond  what  may  be  derived  from  the  style  of  composition  : 
this  would  certainly  induce  us  to  tix  it  somewhat  late  in  the 
eareer  of  our  great" dramatist. 

It  is  on  the  whole  well  printed  for  the  time  in  the  folio  of 
1623;  but  in  Act  ii.  sc.  8.  either  the  transcriber  of  the  manu- 
script or  the  compositor  must  have  omitted  a  line,  which 
Pope  supplied  from  conjecture  (with  the  aid  of  North's 
Plutarch),  and  which  has  ever  since  been  received  into  the 
test,  because  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  th«'.  intelligibility 
of  the  p:u-iS!ige.  For  the  sake  of  greater  distinction,  we  have 
printed  the  line  within  brackets,  besides  pointing  out  the 
circumstance  in  a  note. 


I  to  recollect  that  our  dramatic  poets  were  then  only  beginninj 
to  throw  ott'  the  shackles  of  rhyme,  and  their  verMficatfon  jiai- 
took  of  the  weight  an<i  monotony  which  were  the  usual  accom- 
I  paniments  of  couplets.  "Titus  AnJroiiicus"  is  to  be  read 
under  this  impression,  and  many  passages  will  then  be  found 
in  it  which,  we  think,  are  remarkable  indications  of  skill  and 
power  in  an  unpractised  dramatist :  as  a  poetical  production 
It  has  not  hitherto  had  justice  done  to  it,  on  account,  partly, 
of  the  revolting  nature  of  the  plot.  Compared  with  the  ver- 
sificiition  of  Greene,  Peele,  or  Lodge,  the  lines  in  "  Titus  Au- 
.-ironicus"  will  be  found  to  run  with  ease  and  variety,  and 
they  are  scarcely  inferior  to  the  later  and  better  prodnctimis 
of  Marlowe.  Neither  is  internal  evidence  wholly  wanting,  for 
words  and  phrases  employed  by  Shakespeare  in  his  other 
works  may  be  pointed  out :  and  in  Act  iii.  se.  1,  we  meet  a  tc- 
tnarkable  expression,  which  is  also  contained  in  "  Venus  and 
Adonis." 

With  reference  to  the  general  oomplexitv  of  the  drama,  and 
the  character  of  the  plot,  it  must  also  be  torne  in  mind  that 
it  was  produced  at  a  time,  when  scenes  of  horror  were  especi- 
ally welcome  to  public  audiences,  and  when  pieces  were  actu- 
ally recommended  to  their  admiration  in  consequence  of  the 
blood  and  slaughter  with  which  they  abounded.  Shakespeare, 
perhaps,  took  up  the  subject  on  this  account,  and  he  worked 
it  out  in  such  a  way  as,  prior  to  the  introduction  and  forma- 
tion of  a  purer  taste,  would  best  gratify  those  for  whose 
amusement  it  was  intended. 

The  oldest  known  edition  of  "  Titus  Andronicns"  bejirs 
date  in  1600  :  two  copies  of  it  are  extant,  the  one  in  the  collec- 
tion of  Lord  Francis  Egerton,  now  before  us,  and  the  other 
in  the  Signet  Library  at  Edinburgh.  This  second  copy  was 
not  discovered  until  very  recently,  and  we  feel  convinced  that 
a  more  ancient  impression  will  some  time  or  other  again  be 
brought  to  light.  That  it  once  existed,  we  have  the  testiinonv 
of  Langbaine,  in  his  "  Account  of  English  Dramatic  Poets,'' 
8  vo.  1691,  where  he  tells  us  that  the  play  was  "  tirst  printed 
4to.  Lond.  1594."  Consistently  with  this  assertion  we  nnd  the 
following  entry  in  the  Registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company  :— 

"  6  Feb.  1593 
John  Datiter]     A  booke  entitled  a  noble  Roman  Historye  of 
Tytus  Andronieus." 

The  Stationers'  books  contain  several  subsequent  memo- 
randa respecting  "  Titu.s  Andronieus,"  bearing  date  19tr- 
April,  1602,  Uth  Dec.  1624,  and  8tli  Nov.  1630;  but  non» 
which  seems  to  have  relation  to  the  editions  of  1600  an* 
1611.  No  quarto  impressions  of  asubsetjuent  date  are  known, 
and  the  tragedy  next  appeared  in  the  folio  of  1623.  The  folic 
was  printed  from  the  quarto  of  1611,  but  with  the  addition 
of  a  short  scene  in  the  third  Act,  which  otherwise,  according 
to  the  divisions  theie  adopted,  would  have  consisted  of  only 
one  scene. 

The  wording  of  the  title-page  of  the  edition  of  1600  is  re- 
markable, although  it  has  hitherto  been  passed  over  without 
due  notice  :  it  professes  that  the  drama  had  been  played  not 
only  by  "the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants,"  of  whom  Shake- 
speare'was  one,  hut  bv  the  theatrical  servants  of  the  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  the  Eiirl  of  Derby,  and  the  Earl  of  Sussex.  The 
performance  of  Shakespeare's  plays  seems  alnnst  uniformly 
to  have  been  confined  to  the  company  to  which  he  belonged  ; 
but  we  know  from  Henslowe's  Diary  that  bet  w -en  3rd  June, 
1594,  and  15th  Nov.  1596,  the  Lord  Chamberlaii's  servant* 
were  acting  in  apparent  conjunction  with  those  of  the  Lord 
Adminil'  :  one  of  the  plays,  enumerated  by  HeuMloweas  hav 
ing  been  acted  in  this  interval,  is  "Titus  Andronieus,"  which 
circumstance  he  records  under  date  of  12lh  June,  1594.  This 
may  have  been  the  very  play  Sl\akespeare  had  written,  and 
which  having  been  thus  represented  by  several  companies, 
although  the  Earl  of  Nottingham's  servants  was  not  one  of 
them,  the  fact  was  stated  on  the  title-page  of  the  earliest  ex- 
tant impression.  It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  Ilenslowe 
has  an  entry  of  the  performance  of  "Titus  Andronieus"  on 
the  23rd  Jan.  1593-4.  when  it  appears  to  have  been  a  new 
play.  The  "Titus  Andronieus,"  therefore,  acted  on  12th  June, 
1594,  may  have  been  a  rei)etition  of  a  drama,  whicli  possiWy 
had  been  got  up  for  Henslowe,  in  consequence  of  the  success 
of  a  tragedy  upon  the  same  story,  the  property  of  a  rival 
company.  There  can  be  little  dount  that  Shakespeare's  "  Ti- 
tus Andronieus"  was  written  several  years  earlier. 

It  is  very  possible  that  Shakespeare's  "  Titus  Andronieus" 
was  founded  upon  some  anterior  dramatic  jicrformance,  but 
on  this  point  we  have  no  evidence  beyond  what  may  be  ool 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 

rhe  most  lamentable  Romaine  Tragedie  of  Titus  Andronieus. 

As  it  hath  sundry  times  beene  playde  by  the  Right  Honour- 
able the  Earle  of  Pembrooke,  tne  Earle'of  Darbie,  the  Earle 

of  Sussex,  and  the  LordeChamberlaine  tiieyr  Seruants.    At 

London,  Printed  by  I.  R.  for  Edward  White,  and  are  to  bee 

solde  at  his  shoppe,  at  the  little  North  doore  of  Paules,  at 

the  si^ne  of  the  Gun.     1600.  4to.  40  leaves. 
Tlie  most  lamentable  Tragedie  of  Titus  Andronieus.     As  it 

hath  sundrv  tiines  beene  plaide  by  the  Kings  Maiesties 

Seruants.    London,  Printed  for  Eedward  Wliite,  and  are  to 

besolde  at  his  shoppe,  nere  the  little  North  dore  of  Pauls, 

at  the  signeof  the  Gun.     1611.  4to.  40  leaves. 
In  the  folio  of  1623,  "  The  Lamentable  Tragedy  of  Titus  An- 
dronieus" occupies  twenty-two  paees,  in  the  division  of 

"  Tragedies,"  viz.  from  p.  81  to  p.  52  inclusive.     The  three 

later  folios,  of  course,  insert  it  in  the  same  part  of  the  volume. 

We  feel  no  hesitation  in  assigning  "  Titus  Andronieus"  to 
Khakespeare.  Whether  he  m.\v  lay  claim  to  it  as  the  author 
of  the  entire  traeedy,  or  only  in  a  qualified  sense,  as  having 
made  additions  to,  and  improvenients  in  it,  is  a  ditferent  and 
a  more  difficult  question. 

We  find  it  given  to  him  by  his  contemporary,  Francis  Meres, 
in  his  Palladi*  Tamia,  1593,  where  he  mentions  "Titus  An- 
dronieus" ill  immediate  connection  with  "Richard  II.," 
"  Richard  III.,"  "  Henry  IV.,"  "  King  John,"  and  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet."  It  was  also  inserted  in  the  folio  of  1623  by 
.ShakoBpeare's  fellow-actors,  Heminge  anfl  Coudell,  and  thev 
place  it  between  "Coriolanus"  and  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 
Mad  it  not  been  by  our  ereat  dramatist.  Meres,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  literature  of  his  time,  would  not  have 
attributed  it  to  him  ;  and  the  player-editors,  who  had  been 
8hakespear«'s  "  fellows  and  friends,"  and  were  men  of  char- 
acter and  experience,  would  not  have  included  it  in  their  vol- 
ume.   These  two  facts  are,  in  our  view,  sufficient'. 

It  was,  undoubtedly,  one  of  his  earliest,  if  not  his  very 
earliest  dramatic  pro<luution.  We  are  not  to  suppose  that  at 
Ihe  time  he  first  joined  n  theatrical  company  in  London,  when 
he  mieht  not  be  more  than  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years 
old,  his  style  wils  as  formed  and  as  matured  us  it  afterwards 
f»ecome  :  nil  are  aware  that  there  is  a  most  marked  distinction 
i»etween  his  mode  of  comix^sition  early  and  late  in  life  ;  asex- 
nibiled,  for  instance,  in  "  Love's  I.abonr's  Lost,"  and  in  "  The 
W'lnler's  Ta.e  ;"  and  we  apprehend  that  "  Titus  Andronieus" 
oelonea  to  a  period  even  anterior  to  the  former.  Supposing 
"  Titus  Andronieus"  to  have  been  written  about  1588,  we  are 

•   W«  ccniiiderRavrnKroft'*  tertimony,  in  hi»  alteration  of  "Titus  '  spf  are  only  gave  "some  maner-touches  to  one  or  two  ot  the  principal 
\adroniouii."  (acted  about   1 07-.  and  printed  nine  years  afterwardu)  '  characters." 

•f  very  littie  value  :  in  his  suppressed  Prolocue  he  a.<serted  it  to  be  the  .  '  See  "The  Memoirs  of  Edward  Allevn,"  pni  lished  by  tha  t<hake- 
Bnqnestionable  work  of  Shakespeare,  while  in  his  preface  to  the  speare  Society,  p. '22.  The  theatre  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  and  the 
rTint»d  copy  in  1667,  he  mentions  it  as  a  st&ge-tradilion,  that  Shake-  I  Lord  Admiral's playere  jointly  occupied,  waithaiat  Newington  ButiB. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


dissimi 


ected  from  the  piece  itself,  in  certain  real  or  su 
larities  of  composition. 

When  Danter  entered  the  "  noble  Roman  History  of  Titus 
Androuicus"  in  1593,  he  coupled  with  it  "  the  ballad  thereof," 
which  probably  is  the  same  printed  in  Percy's  "  Reliques," 
wol.  i.  p.  241,  edit.  1812.  A  play  called  "  Andronicus"  is  men- 
tioned by  Ben  Jonson  in  the  Induction  to  his  "  Bartholomew 
Fair,"  (plaved  first  in  1614,)  as  apiece  of  twenty-five  or  thirty 
vears  standing.  This  may  have  been  Shakespeare's  tragedy, 
that  acted  by  Henslowe-s  company,  or  a  drama  which  had 
served  as  a  foundation  of  both.  The  oldest  notice  of  "  Titus 
Andronicus"  (excepting  that  by  Meres)  is  contained  in  a  tract 
called  "  Father  Hubbard's  Tales,  or  The  Ant  and  the  Night- 
ingale," 4to.  1604,  imputed  to  Thomas  Middleton,  where  (Sign. 
E.  3)  the  author  speaks  of  the  "  lamentable  action  of  one  arm, 
like  old  Titus  Andronicus."  The  loss  of  his  hand  by  the 
hero  woix.d  no  doubt  form  an  incident  in  every  drama  written 
upon  the  subject. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 

An  excellent  conceited  Tragedie  of  Romeo  and  luliet.  As  it 
hath  been  often  (with  great  applause)  plaid  publiquely,  by 
the  right  Honourable  tlie  L.  of  Hunsdon  his  Seruants.  Lon- 
aon.  Printed  by  lohn  Danter.  1.597.  4to.  39  leaves. 
The  most  excellent  and  lamentable  Tragedie,  of  Romeo  and 
luliet.  Newly  corrected,  augmented,  and  amended  :  As  it 
hath  bene  sundry  times  publiq^uely  acted,  by  the  right  Hon- 
ourable the  Lord  Chamberlanie  his  Seruants.  London 
Printed  by  Thomas  Creede,  for  Cuthbert  Burby,and  are  to 
be  sold  at'his  shop  neare  the  Exchanse.  1599.  4to.  46 leaves. 
The  most  excellent  and  Lamentable  Tragedie,  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  As  it  hath  beene  sundrie  times  publiquely  Acted, 
by  the  Kings  Maiesties  Seruants  at  the  Globe.  Newly  cor- 
rected, augmented  and  amended  :  London  Printed  for  lohn 
Smethwick,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  Shop  in  Saint  Dun- 
stanes  Church-yard,  in  Fleetestreete  vnder  the  Dyall.  1609. 
4to.  46  leaves. 
In  the  folio  of  162?  "  The  Tragedie  of  Romeo  and  luliet" 
occupies  twenty-five  f.ageE,  viz.  from  p.  53  to  p.  79,  inclu- 
sive, in  the  division  of  "  Tragedies.'"  It  fills  the  same  space 
in  the  folios  of  1632,  1664,  and  1685. 

It  is  certain  that  there  was  an  English  play  upon  tne  story 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet  before  the  year  1562  ;  and  the  fact  estab- 
lishes that,  even  at  that  early  date,  our  dramatists  resorted  to 
Italian  novels,  or  translations  of  them,  for  the  subjects  of  their 
productions.  It  is  the  most  ancient  piece  of  evidence  of  the 
Kind  yet  discovered,  and  it  is  given  by  Arthur  Brooke,  who 
in  that  year  published  a  narrative  poem,  called  "  The  Tragicall 
Historve  of  Romeus  and  Juliet."  At  the  close  of  his  address 
"  to  the  Reader"  he  observes  :—"  Though  I  saw  the  same  argu- 
ment lately  set  forth  on  stage  with  more  commendation  than  I 
can  look  for  (being  there  much  belter  set  forth,  than  I  have,  or 
can  do),  vet  the  same  matter,  penned  as  it  is,  may  serve  the 
like  good  eflfect."  (Hist,  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry  and  the 
Stage,  vol.  ii.  p.  416.]  Thus  we  see  also,  that  the  play  had 
been  received  "  with  commendation,"  and  that  BrooKe  him- 
self, unquestionably  a  competent  judge,  admits  its  excellence. 
We  can  scarcely  suppose  that  no  otlier  drama  would  be 
founded  upon  the  same  hiteresting  incidents  between  1562 
and  the  date  when  Shakespeare  wrote  his  tragedy,  a  period 
of,  probably,  more  than  thirty  years  ;  but  no  hint  of  the  kind 
is  given  in  any  record,  and  certainly  no  such  work,  either  man- 
uscript or  printed,  has  come  down  to  us.  Of  the  extreme  pop- 
ularity of  the  story  we  have  abundant  proof,  and  of  a  remote 
date.  It  was  included  by  William  Paynter  in  the  "second 
tome"  of  his  "  Palace  of  Pleasure,"  the  dedication  of  whitth 
he  dates  4th  Nov.  1567  ;  and  in  old  writers  we  find  frequent 
mention  of  the  hero  and  heroine.  Thomas  Dalapeend  give^ 
the  following  brief  "  argument"  in  his  "  Pleasant  Fable  ol 
flermaphroditus  and  Salmacis,"  1565  :— "  A  noble  mayden  of 
the  cytye  of  Verona,  in  Italye,  whyche  loved  Romeus,  eldest 
Bonne  of  the  Lorde  Montesche,  and  beinge  pryvelye  maryed 
Icsyther,  he  at  last  poysoned  liyin  selfe  for  love  of  her :  she, 
for  sorowe  of  his  deat'he,  slewe"  her  selfe  in  the  same  tonibe 
with  hys  dagger."  B.  Rich,  in  his  "Dialogue  betwene  Mer- 
cury and  a  Souldier,"  1574,  says  that  "  the  pittifull  history  of 
Romeus  and  Julietta,"  was  so  well  known  as  to  be  represented 
on  tapestrv.  It  is  again  alluded  to  in  "The  Gorgeous  Gal- 
lery of  Gallant  Inventions,"  1578  ;  and  in  "  A  Poore  Knight 
his  Palace  of  Private  Pleasure,"  1579.  Austin  Saker's  "  Nar- 
bonus,"  1580,  contains  the  subsequent  passage  : — "  Had  Ro- 
meus bewrayed  his  mariage  at  the  first,  and  manifested  the 
intent  of  his  meaning,  he  had  done  very  wisely,  and  gotten 
lieense  for  the  livesr  of  two  faithful  friends."  After  this  date 
the  mention  of  the  story  becon.os  evet  more  frequent,  and 


sometimes  more  particular ;  and  our  inference  is,  that  it  owed 
part  of  its  popularity,  not  merely  to  printed  narratives  Ir, 

Erose  or  verse,  nor  to  the  play  spoken  of  by  Brooke  in  1562, 
ut  to  subsequent  dramatic  representations,  perhaps,  more  OT 
less  founded  upon  that  early  drama. 

How  far  Shakespeare  might  be  indebted  to  any  such  pro- 
duction we  have  no  means  of  deciding  ;  but  Malone,  Steeveiis, 
and  others  have  gone  upon  the  supposition,  that  Shakespeare 
was  only  under  obligations  either  to  Brooke's  poem,  or  to 
Paynter's  novel ;  and  least  of  all  do  tiiey  seem  to  have  con- 
templated the  possibility,  that  he  might  have  obtained  assist 
ance  from  some  foreign  source. 

Arthur  Brooke  avowed  that  he  derived  his  materials  from 
Bandello  (Part  ii.  Nov.  9),  La  sfortvnata  morte  di  due  ivftVy 
clssimi  Amanti,  &c.  ;  and  Paynter  very  literally  translated 
Boisteau's  Histoire  de  deux  Amuns,  dtc,  in  the  collection  of 
Hisioires  Tragiques,  published  by  Belle-forest.  Both  Brooke's 
poem  and  Paynter's  prose  version  have  recently  been  reprint- 
ed in  a  work  called  "  Shakespeare's  Library,"  where  the  an- 
tiquity of  the  story  is  considered.  Steeveiis  was  disposed  to 
think  that  our  great  dramatist  had  obtained  more  from  Payn- 
ter than  from  Brooke,  while  Malone  supported,  and  we  think, 
established,  a  contrary  opinion.  He  examined  a  number  of 
minute  points  of  resemblance ;  but,  surely,  no  doubt  can  be 
entertained  by  those  who  only  compare  the  following  short 
passage  from  a  speech  of  Friar  Laurence  with  three  lines  from 
Brooke's  "  Romeus  and  Juliet." 

"  Art  thou  a  man  ?     Thy  form  cries  out  thou  art ; 
Thy  tears  are  womanish  ;  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast." — (Act  iii.  so.  3.) 
This,  as  will  be  seen  from  what  is  subjoined,  is  almost  ver- 
bally IVoni  Brooke's  i)oem  : — 

"Art  thou,"  quoth  he,  "  a  man  ?  thy  shape  saith  so  thou  art; 
Thy  crying  and  thy  wetpinp  eyes  denote  a  woman's  heart  *  * 
If  thou  a  man  or  woman  wert,  or  els  a  brutish  beast." 

(Sakesp.  Lib.  part  vii.  p.  43.) 
Shakespeare's  "  Romeo  and  Juliet"  originally  came  out.  but 
in  an  imperfect  manner,  in  1597,  quarto.  This  edition  is  in 
two  dilferent  tvpes,  and  was  probably  executed  in  haste  by 
two  difi'erent  printers.  It  has  generally  been  treated  as  an 
authorized  impression  from  an  authentic  manuscript.  Such, 
after  the  most  careful  examination,  is  not  our  opinion.  We 
think  that  the  manuscript  used  by  the  printer  or  printers  (no 
bookseller's  or  stationer's  name  is  placed  at  the  bottom  of  the 
title-page;  was  made  up,  partly  from  portions  of  the  play  as 
it  was  acted,  but  unauly  obtain'ed,  and  partly  from  notes  taken 
at  the  theatre  during  representation.  Our  principal  ground 
for  this  notion  is,  that  there  is  such  great  inequality  in  differ- 
ent scenes  and  speeches,  and  in  some  places  precisely  that 
degree  and  kind  of  imperfectness,  which  would  belong  to 
manuscript  prepared  from  defective  short-liantl  notes.  As 
Steevens  printed  the  first  and  the  third  edition  of  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet"  in  his  "Twenty  Quartos,"  a  comparison,  to  test 
the  truth  of  our  remark,  may  be  readily  made.  We  do  not 
of  course  go  the  length  of  contending  that  Shakespeare  did 
not  alter  and  improve  the  jilay,  subsequent  to  its  earliest  pro- 
duction on  the  stage,  but  merely  that  the  quarto,  1597,  does 
not  contain  the  tragedv  as  it  was  originally  represented.  The 
second  edition  was  printed  in  1599,  and  it  professes  to  have 
been  "  newly  corrected,  augmented,  and  amended  :'  the  third 
dated  edition  appeared  in  1609  ;  but  some  copies  without  a 
date  are  known,  which  most  likely  were  posterior  to  1609,  but 
anterior  to  the  appearance  of  the  folio  in  1623.  The  quarto, 
1637,  is  of  no  authority. 

The  quarto,  1609,  was  printed  from  the  edition  which  came 
out  ten  years  earlier;  and  the  repetition,  in  the  folio  of  1623, 
of  some  decided  errors  of  the  press,  shows  that  it  was  a  re- 
print of  the  quarto,  1609.  It  is  remarkable,  that  although 
everv  early  quarto  impression  contains  a  Prologue,  it  was  not 
transferred  to  the  folio.  The  quarto,  1597,  has  lines  not  m 
the  quartos,  1599. 1609,  nor  in  the  folio  :  and  the  folio,  reprint- 
intr  the  quarto,  1609,  besides  ordinary  errors,  makes  several 
important  omissions.  Our  text  is  that  of  the  quarto,  lo99, 
compared,  of  course,  with  the  quarto,  1609,  and  with  the  folio 
of  1623,  and  in  some  places  importantly  assisted  by  the  quarto 
of  1597  0.f  the  value  of  this  .-tssistauce,  as  regards  particu- 
lar words,  we  will  only  give  a  single  instance,  out  of  many, 
from  Act  iii.  sc.  1,  where  Benvolio,  in  reference  to  the  conflict 
between  Mercutio  and  Tybalt,  says  of  Romeo, 

"  His  agile  arm  beats  down  their  fatal  points." 
The  quartos,  1599  and  1609,  and  the  folio  of  162.3   absurdly 
read  "a!7.^  arm  :",  and  the  editor  of  the  folio  ot  1632  substi- 
tuted "«*fe  arm:"  the  true  word    for  which   no  substitute 
equallv  good  could  be  found,  is  only  in  the  quarto    1.^97. 

St  will  be  observed  that  on  the  title- pa-e  ot  the  ouarto, 
1597,  it  is  stated  that  "Ronico  ail  Jaliet"  was  acted  by  the 


CVl 


d;troduction  to  the  plays. 


players  of  Lord  Uunsdon  ;  and  hence  Malone  nrpued  tlint  it 
uiu'st  have  been  first  performed  and  printed  between  July, 
159$,  and  Anril,  lo97.  The  company  to  which  Shukespeare 
waa  attached  caiioil  themselves  "  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
Chamberliiiii."  lleiirv  Lord  Hunsdon  died  Lord  Clinmber- 
lain  on  22nd  July,  lo'j'e,  and  his  sou  Goorv'e  succeeded  to  tlie 
title,  but  not  to  "the  office,  which,  in  Aujrust,  was  conferred 
lion  Lord  Cobiiam.  Lord  Cobhain  filled  it  until  his  death 
1  March  subsequent  to  his  appointment,  very  soon  after 
which  event  Georpo  Lord  Hunsdon  was  made  Lord  Cliam- 
t>erlain.  It  seems  that  the  theatrical  servants  of  Henry  Lord 
Hunsdon,  Lord  Ciiamherlain,  did  not.  on  his  decease,  trans- 
fer their  services  to  his  successor  in  office.  Lord  Cobham,  but 
t->  his  successor  in  title,  Georsre  Lord  Hnnsdon,  and  called 
themselves  the  servants  of  that  noWeman  in  the  interval  be- 
U-een  the  death  of  his  father  on  22nd  July,  1596,  and  17th 
April,  1597,  when  he  himself  became  Lord  Chamberlain. 
M;Jone  concludes  that  in  this  interval,  while  those  players 
who  hud  been  the  servants  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  csiUcd 
themselves  tlie  servants  of  Lord  Hunsdon,  "  Konieo  and 
Juliet  "  was  first  performed  and  printed  ;  and  that,  in  conse- 
quence, the  title-page  of  the  first  edition  states,  that  it  had 
been  played  by  "  the  1.,.  of  Uunsdon  his  Bervants." 

The  answer  that  may  be  made  to  this  ar<rument  is,  that 
ihough  the  traeedy  was" printed  in  1597,  as  it  had  been  acted 
hy  L^rd  Ilunsdon's  servants,  it  does  not  follow  that  it  might 
not  have  beun  played  some  years  before  by  thg  same  actors, 
whea  CJilling  themselves  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants. 
This  is  true  ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  that  there  is  an  allu- 
sion iu  one  of  the  speeches  of  the  Nurse  (Act  i.  bc.  3)  to  an 
earthquake  which,  she  states,  had  occurred  eleven  years 
before  : — 


It  is  remarkable  that  in  no  edition  of  "  Romeo  and  Jnlist.'' 
printed  anterior  to  the  publication  of  the  folio  of  1623,  do  we 
find  Shakespeare's  name  upon  tlie  title-pafre.  Yet  Mercs,  iu 
his  Palladis  Tamia,  had  distinctly  assigned  it  to  )iim  in  1598: 
and  although  the  name  of  the  antlior  might  be  purposely  left 
out  in  the  imperfect  copy  of  1597,  there  would  seem  to  be  nc 
reason,  especially  after  the  announcement  by  Meres,  for  nat 
inserting  it  in  tlie  "  corrected,  augmented,  and  amended" 
edition  of  1599.  But  it  is  wanting  even  in  the  impression  ot 
1609,  although  Sliakespeare's  popularity  must  then  have  been 
at  its  heisrht.  "King  Lear,"  in  1608,  liad  been  somewhat 
ostentatiously  called  "  M.  William  Shake-speare,  his,  <fec.  Life 
and  Death  of  King  Lear;"  and  his  bonnets,  in  1609,  were 
recommended  to  purchasers,  as  "  Shake-spcare'a  Sonnet"." 
in  unusually  large  characters  on  the  title-page. 


'But  as  I  said, 


On  Lammas  eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen ; 
That  shall  she,  marry  ;  I  remember  it  -well. 
'T  is  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years; 
And  she  was  wean'd." 

It  has  been  supposed  that  this  passage  refers  to  the  earth- 
quake of  15S0,  and.  consequcntJy,  that  the  play  was  written 
in  1591.  However,  those  who  read  the  whole  speech  of  the 
Nurse  cannot  fail  to  remark  such  discrepancies  in  it  as  to 
render  it  impossible  to  arrive  at  any  definite  conclusion,  even 
if  we  suppose  that  Shakespeare  intended  a  reference  to  a  par- 
ticular earthquake  in  Enirland.  First,  the  Nurse  tells  us,  that 
Juliet  was  in  a  course  of  being  weaned  ;  then,  that  she  could 
■•tand  alone ;  and,  thirdly,  that  she  could  run  alone.  It  would 
have  been  rather  extraordinary  if  she  could  not,  for  even 
according  to  tlie  Nurse's  own  calculation  the  child  was  very 
■.early  three  years  old.  No  fair  inference  can,  therefore,  be 
Irawn  from  the  expression,  "  'T  is  since  the  earthquake  now 
i«even  years,"  and  we  coincide  with  Malone  that  the  tragedy 
«ras  probably  written  towards  the  close  of  1596'. 

Another  trifling  circinnstance  may  lead  to  the  belief  tliat 
"  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  was  not  written,  at  all  events,  until  after 
1594.  In  Act  ii.  (not  Act  iii.,  as  Malone  states)  there  is  an 
allasiou,  in  the  words  of  Mercutio — "  a  gentleman  of  the  very 
first  house — c>f  (hf  Jirst  and  second  came,'''' — to  a  work  on 
duelling,  called  "  Vineeiitio  Saviolo  his  Practise."  That  book 
was  first  printed  in  1594,  and  again  in  1595,  and  the  i.ssue  of 
the  second  impression  might  call  Shakespeare's  attention  to 
it  just  before  he  began  "Romeo  and  .Juliei;."  We  have 
already  seen  "  Vincentio  Saviolo  his  Practise"  more  particu- 
larly referred  to  in  "  As  You  Like  It."  We  ]ilace  little 
reliance  upon  the  allusion  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  because 
"  the  first  and  second  cause  "  are  also  mentioned  in  "  Love's 
Labour's  Tx)st,"  though  the  passatre  may,  like  some  others, 
have  been  an  insertion  just  prior  to  Christmas,  1598. 

Malone  luistily  concludeil  from  a  reference  in  Marston's 
Satires,  that  Shakespeare's  "  Romeo  and  Juliet"  was  acted  at 
'he  Curtain  Theatre,  in  Shoreditch  :  but  we  can  bo  by  no 
.•neans  sure  that  Marston,  by  the  terms  "Curtain  plaudities," 
did  not  mean  apjilauscs  at  any  theatre,  for  all  had  "  curtains," 
rjid  we  have  i;o  tra<,'e  that  any  other  of  our  great  dramatist's 
plays  w!«  acteil  at  the  Curtain.  The  subject  must  hf.ve  been 
»  favourite  with  the  public,  and  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
rival  companies  had  c>ntemporaneo\is  phiys  upon  the  same 
rtory.  (See  the  .Memoirs  of  fedward  Alleyn,  p.  19.)  To  some 
pie<»  formed  upon  the  Siime  incidents,  and  represented  at  the 
Curtain  Theatre,  Marston  may  have  referred. 

'  The  Register*  of  the  Stationers'  Company  throw  little  liijht  upon 
tna  qnettion  when  ''Romeo  and  Juliet"  was  first  written.  On  5 
Ao(j.  1.096,  Edward  White  entered  "A  newe  ballad  of  Romeo  and 
Juliett,"  which  may  fK)i..«iMy  have  been  the  tragedy,  printed  (without 
a  Vookjeller's  name)  in  LVJ?,  though  called  only  a  ballad.  On  'i-JJan. 
l&)6-7,  "  Rsraoo  and  Juliet "  (together  with  "  JiOV»'»  I-abonr  'b  Lort  " 


TIMON   OF   ATHENS. 

"  The  Life  of  Tymon  of  Athens  "  first  appeared  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  where  it  occupies,  in  the  division  of  "  Tragedies," 
twenty-one  pages,  numbered  from  p.  80  to  p.  98  inclusive  ; 
but  pp.  81  and  82,  by  an  error,  are  repeated.    Page  98  is 
tollowcd  by  a  leaf,  headed,  "The  Actors'  Names,"  mid  the 
list  of  characters  fills  the  wliole  page :   the  back  of  it  isieft 
blank.    The  drama  bears  the  same  title  in  the  later  folios. 
Shakespeare  is  supposed  not  to  have  written  "  Timon  of 
Athens  "  until  late  in  his  theatrical  career,  and  Malone  has 
fixed  upon  1610  as  the  probable  date  when  it  came  from  his 
I  pen.     We  know  of  no  extrinsic  evidence  to  confirm  or  contra- 
dict this  opinion.     The  tragedy  was  printed  in  1623,  in  the 
folio   edited   by  Heminge   and   Condell ;    and   liaving   been 
inserted  in  the  Registers  of  the  Stationers' Company  as  a  play 
"not  formerly  entered  to  other  men,"  we  may  infer  that  it 
had  not  previously  come  from  the  press.     The  versification  is 
remarkably  loose  and  irregular,  but  it  is  made  to  appear  more 
so  by  the  manner  in  which  it  was  originally  printed.    The 
object,  especially  near  the  close,  seems  to  have  been  to  make 
the  drama  occupy  as  much  space  as  could  be  conveniently 
filled  ;  consequently,  many  of  the  lines  are  arbitrarily  divided 
into  two  :  the  drama  extends  to  p.  98  in  the  folio,  in  the  divi- 
sion of  "  Tragedies  ;"  what  would  have  been  p.  99,  if  it  ha  1 
been  figured,  contains  a  list  of  the  characters,  and  what  would 
have  been  [>.  100  is  entirely  blank  :   the  next  leaf,  being  the 
first  page  ot  "  Julius  Caesar,"  is  numbered  109.     It  is  possible 
that  another  printer  began  with  "Julius  Caesar,"  and  that  a 
miscalculation  was  made  as  to  tlie  space  which  would  be  occu- 

Sied  by  "  Coriolanus,"  "Titus  Andronieus,"  "Romeo  and 
uliet."  and  "  Timon  of  Athens."  The  interval  between 
what  would  have  been  p.  100  of  the  folio  of  1623,  and  p.  109, 
which  immediately  follows  it,  may  at  all  events  be  in  this  way 
explained. 

There  is  an  apparent  want  of  finish  about  some  portions  of 
"Timon  of  Athens,"  while  others  are  elaborately  wrought. 
In  his  Lectures  in  1815,  Coleridge  dwelt  upon  this  discordance 
of  style  at  considerable  length,  but  we  find  no  trace  of  it  in 
the  published  fragments  of  liis  Lectures  in  1818.  Coleridge 
said,  in  1815,  that  he  saw  the  same  vigorous  hand  at  work 
throughout,  and  gave  no  countenance  to  the  notion,  that  any 
parts  of  a  previously  existing  play  had  been  retained  in 
"  Timon  of  Athens,"  as  it  had  come  down  to  us.  It  was 
Shakespeare's  throughout;  ana,  ds  "riginally  written,  he 
apprehended  that  it  was  one  of  the  author's  most  complete 
performances:  the  i>layers,  however,  he  felt  convinced,  had 
done  the  poet  much  injustice  ;  and  he  especially  instanced  fas 
indeed  he  did  in  1818)  the  clumsy,  "  clap-tran  "  blow  at  the 
Puritans  in  Act  iii.  sc.  3,  as  an  interpolation  by  the  actor  of 
the  part  of  Timon's  servant.  Coleridge  accounted  for  the 
ruggedness  and  inequality  of  the  versification  upon  the  same 
principle,  and  he  was  persuaded  that  only  a  corrupt  and  im- 
perfect copy  !iad  come  to  the  hands  of  the  player- editors  o. 
the  folio  ot  1623.  Why  the  manuscrii>t  of"  Timon  of  Athen"  " 
siiould  have  been  more  mutilated,  than  that  from  which  other 
dramas  were  printed  for  the  first  time  in  the  same  .'olume, 
was  a  question  into  which  he  did  not  enter.  His  admiration 
of  some  i>arts  of  the  tragedy  was  unbounded  ;  but  he  main- 
tair.ed  that  it  was,  on  the  whole,  a  painful  and  disagreeable 
production,  because  it  gave  only  a  dis:idvantageons  picture  of 
iiuman  nature,  very  inconsistent  with  what,  he  nrmly  be- 
lieved, was  our  great  poet's  real  view  of  the  cliaracters  of  his 

tad  "The  Taming  of  a  Shrew")  was  entered  to  "Mr.  Linge,"  with 
consent  of  '  Mr  Burby  "  On  19  Nov.  KiO*.  John  Smythick  entered 
"Hamlet,"  "The  Taming  of  a  Shrew,"  "Romeo  and  Juliet,'"  and 
"  Love's  Labour  's  Lost," as  having  derived  h.s  nrnwrty  in  them  (f^'t 
Linge. 


mTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


evil 


fellow  creatures.  He  said  that  the  whole  piece  was  a  Litter 
dramatic  satire, — a  species  of  writing  in  which  Shakespeare 
had  show"",  as  in  all  other  kinds,  that  he  could  reach  the  very 
highest  point  of  excellence.  Coleridge  could  not  help  sus- 
pecting that  the  subject  might  have  been  taken  up  under  some 
temporary  feeling  of  vexation  and  disappointment. 

How  far  this  notion  is  well  founded  can  of  course  be  matter 
of  mere  speculation  j  but  a  whole  play  could  hardly  be  com- 
peted under  a  transient  tit  of  irritation,  and  to  us"  it  seems 
more  likely,  that  in  this  instance,  as  in  others,  Shakespeare 
adopted  the  story  because  he  thought  he  could  make  it 
acceptable  as  a  dramatic  representation.  We  agree  with 
Farmer  in  thinking  that  there  probably  existed  some  earlier 
popular  play  of  which  Tinion  was  the  hero.  The  novels  in 
f*aynter's  "  Palace  of  Pleasure  "  were  the  common  property 
of  the  poets  of  the  day  ;  and  "  tlie  strange  and  beastly  nature 
of  Timon  of  Athens"  is  inserted  in  the" first  volume  of  that 
collection,  which  came  out  before  1567.  Paynter  professes  to 
have  derived  his  brief  materials  from  the  life  of  Marc  Antony, 
in  Plutarch  ;  but  Sir  Thomas  North's  translation  having  made 
its  appearance  in  1579,  all  the  circumstances  may  have  been 
familiar  to  most  readers.  True  it  is,  that  Shakespeare  does 
not  appear  to  have  followed  these  authorities  at  all  closely, 
and  there  may  have  been  some  version  of  Lucian  then  current 
with  which  we  are  now  unacquainted.  To  these  sources 
dramatists  preceding  S\.akespeare  may  have  resorted ;  and 
we  find  Timon  so  ofteT.  mentioned  by  writers  of  the  period, 
that  his  habits  and  disposition,  perhaps,  had  also  been  made 
known  through  the  medium  of  the  stage.  Shakespeare  him- 
eelf  introduces  Timon  into  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost,"  which, 
in  its  original  shape,  must  certainly  have  been  one  of 
our  great  dramatist's  early  plays.  In  Edward  Guilpin's 
A>llection  of  Epitrrams  and  Satires,  published,  under  the  title 
of  "  Skialetheia,"  in  159S,  we  meet  with  the  following  line, 
(Epigr.  52,)  which  seems  to  refer  to  some  scene  in  which 
Timon  had  been  represented  : — 

"  Like  hate-man  Timon  in  his  cell  he  sits  :" 
And  in  the  anonymous  play  of  "  Jack  Drum's  Entertainment," 
printed  in  1601,  one  of  the  characters  uses  these  expressions  : — 

"  But  if  all  the  brewers'  jades  in  the  town  can  drag  me  from  the 
love  of  myself,  they  shall  do  more  than  e'er  the  seven  wise  men  of 
Greece  could.  Come,  come ;  now  I'll  be  as  sociable  as  Timon  of 
Athens." 

We  know  also  that  there  existed  abotit  that  date  a  play 
upon  the  subject  of  Timon  of  Athens.  The  original  manu- 
script of  it  is  in  the  library  of  the  Kev.  Alexander  Dyce,  who 
has  recently  superintended  an  impression  of  it  for  the  Sluike- 
speare  Society.  He  gives  it  as  his  opinion,  that  it  was 
"  intended  for  the  amusement  of  an  academic  audience,"  and 
although  the  epilogue  may  be  considered  rather  of  a  contrary 
complexion,  the  learned  editor  is  probably  right:  it  is,  how- 
ever, nearly  certain  that  it  was  acted  ;  and  although  it  will  not 
bear  a  moment's  comparison  with  Shakespeare's  "Timon  of 
Athens,"  similar  incidents  and  persons  are  contained  in  both. 
Thus,  Timon  is  in  the  commencement  rich,  bountiful,  and 
devoured  by  flatterers :  he  becomes  poor,  and  is  at  once 
ileserted  by  all  but  l;is  faitl.iful  steward  ;— but  before  he  aban- 
dons Athens  in  disgust,  he  invites  his  parasites  to  a  last 
banquet,  where  he  gives  them  stones  painted  to  resemble  ' 
artichokes,  which  he  tiings  at  them  as  he  drives  them  out  of 
his  hall.  Shakespeare  represents  Timon  as  regaling  his  guests 
with  warm  water  ;  but  it  is  very  remarkable,' that  at  the  end 
of  his  mock-banquet  scene,  after  the  hero  has  quitted  the 
stage,  leaving  certain  lords  behind  him,  upon  whom  he  had 
thrown  the  w  iirm  "vater,  the  following  dialogue  occurs  ; — 
"'\  Lord.  Let's  make  no  stay. 

2  Lord.  Lord  Tiraon's  mad. 

3  Lord.  I  feel  't  upon  my  bones. 

4  Lord.  One  day  he  gives  us  diamonds,  next  day  stones." 
Shakespeare's  Timon  had  cast  no  "  stones  "  at  his  guests,  and 
the  above  extract  rends  exactly  as  if  it  had  formed  part  of 
e-Jme  play  in  whicl.  stones  (as  in  the  "  Timon  "  edited  by  the 
Rev.  A.  Dyce)  had  been  employed  instead  of  warm  water. 
Unless  stones  had  been  thrown,  there  eouUf,  as  Steevens 
observes,  be  no  propriety  in  the  mention  of  thern  oy  the  fourth 
Lord;  and  thou>rh  Shakespeare  may  not  have  seen  the  aca- 
ietnlc  play  to  which  wo  have  alluded,  a  fragment  may  by 
accident  have  found  its  way  into  his  "  Timon  of  Athens," 
which  belonsred  to  some  other  drama,  where  the  banquet- 
Rcene  was  differently  conducted.  It  is  just  possible  that  our 
great  dramatist,  at  some  subsequent  date,  altered  his  origin.al 
arauffht,  and  by  oversijiht  left  in  the  rhyming  couplet  with 
which  the  third  Act  concludes.  We  need  not  advert  to  other 
"^semblances  between  the  academic  play  and  "Timon  of 
Athens,"  becaus*  by  the  liberality  cf  the  possessor  of  the  man- 
uscript, it  may  bf  now  said  to  have  be?ume  public  property. 


JULIUS     C^SAR. 

["  The  Tragedie  of  Julius  Csesar  "  was  first  printed  in  tbo 

folioof  1623,  where  it  occupies  twenty-two  pages;  viz.  froit 

p.  109  to  p.  180  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Tragedies." 

The  Acts,  but  not  the  Scenes,  are  distinguished  ;   and  it 

appeared  in  the  same  manner  in  the  three  later  folios.] 

No  early  quarto   edition  of  "  Julius  Cesar  "  is  known,  and 

there  is  reason  to  believe  that  it  never  appeared  in  that  form. 

The  manuscript  originally  used  for  the  folio  of  1623  musi 

have  been  extremely  perfect,  and  free  from  corruptions,  for 

there  is,  perhaps,  no  drama  in  the  volume  more  accurately 

printed. 

Malone  and  others  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
"  Juliiis  Csesar"  could  not  have  been  written  before  1607. 
We  think  there  is  good  ground  for  believing  that  it  was  acted 
before  1603. 

We  found  thi.s  opinion  upon  some  circumstances  connected 
with  the  publication  of  Drayton's  "Barons'  Wars,"  and  the 
resemblance  between  a  stanza  there  f.^und,  and  a  passage  in 
"  Julius  Csesar,"  both  of  which  it  will  be  necessary  to  quote. 
In  Act  v.  sc.  5,  Antony  gives  the  following  cliaracter  ol 
Brutus : — 

"  His  life  was  pentle  ;  and  the  elements 
So  mix\l  in  him,  that  Na'ure  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world.  This  was  a  man.^' 

In  Drayton's  "  Barons'  Wars,"  book  iii.  edit.  8vo.,  1603,  we 
meet  witli  the  subsequent  stanza.  The  author  is  speaking  of 
Mortimer : — 

"  Such  one  he  was,  of  him  we  boldly  say. 
In  whose  rich  soul  all  sovereign  powers  did  suit. 
In  whom  in  peace  /A'  elements  all  lay 
So  mix'd,  as  nom  could  sovereignty  impute  ; 
As  all  did  govern,  yet  all  did  obey  : 
His  lively  temper  was  so  absolute. 

That  't  seem'd,  when  heaven  his  model  first  began, 

In  him  it  shew'd  perfection  in  a  man." 

Itali-c  type  is  hardly  necessary  to  establish  that  one  poet 
must  have  availed  himself,  not  only  of  the  thought,  but  of  the 
very  words  of  the  other.  The  question  is,  was  Shakespeare 
indebted  to  Drayton,  or  Drayton  to  Shakespeare  ?  We  shall 
not  enter  into  general  probabilities,  founded  upon  the  oritrinal 
and  exhaustless  stores  of  the  mind  of  our  great  dramatist,  but 
advert  to  a  few  dates,  whicli,  we  think,  warrant  the  conclu- 
sion that  Drayton,  having  heard  "Julius  Csesar"  at  the 
theatre,  or  seen  it  in  manuscript  before  1608,  applied  to  his 
own  purpose,  perhaps  unconsciously,  what,  iu  fact,  belonged 
to  another  poet. 

Drayton's  "  Barons'  Wars  "  first  appeared  in  l.')96,  quarto, 
under  the  title  of  "  Mortimeriados.''  Malone  had  a  copy 
without  date,  and  he  and  Steevens  imagined  that  the  poem 
hftd  originally  been  printed  in  1598.  In  the  quarto  of  1596, 
and  in  the  undated  edition,  it  is  not  divided  into  book?,  and 
is  in  seven-line  stanzas :  and  what  is  there  said  of  Moi  timer 
bears  no  likeness  whatever  to  Shakespeare's  expressions  in 
"  Julius  Csesar."  Drayton  afterwards  changed  the  title  from 
"Mortimeriados"  to  "The  Barons'  Wars,"  and  re-modelled 
the  whole  historical  poem,  altering  the  stanza  from  the 
English  ballad  form  to  the  Italian  ottava  ■'•ima.  This  course 
he  took  before  1603,  when  it  came  out  in  octavo,  with  tlie 
stanza  first  quoted,  which  contains  so  marked  a  similarity  to 
the  lines  from  "  Julius  Csesar."  We  apprehend  that  he  did 
so  because  he  hud  heard  or  seen  Shakespeare's  tragedy  before 
1603;  and  we  thitik  that  strong  presumptive  proof  that  he 
was  the  borrower,  and  not  Shakespeare,  i.s  derived  from  the 
fact,  that  in  the  subsequent  impressions  of  "The  Biirons' 
Wars,"  in  1605,  1608,  1610,  and  1613,  the  stanza  remained 
urecisely  as  in  the  edition  of  1603;  but  that  in  161S,  tfter 
Shakespeare's  death  and  before  "  Julius  Csesar"  i\as  printed, 
Drayton  made  even  a  nearer  approach  to  the  words  of  hia 
original,  thus : — 

"  He  was  a  man,  then  boldly  dare  to  say, 

In  whose  rich  soul  the  virtues  well  ilid  suit; 

In  whom  so  mix'd  the  elements  did  lay. 

That  none  to  one  could  sovereignty  impute ; 

As  all  did  govern,  so  did  ali  obey  : 
He  of  a  temper  was  so  absolute. 

As  that  it  seem'd,  when  Nature  him  began, 

She  meant  to  show  all  that  might  be  in  man." 

Wb  have  been  thus  particular,  because  the  point  is  obvi- 
ouslv  of  importance,  as  regards  the  date  when  "  Julius  Csesar  " 
was  brought  upon  the  stage.  Maloiie  seems  to  have  thought 
that  "  The  Barons'  Wars  "  continued  undyr  its  original  name 
and  in  its  first  sh.ipe  until  the  edition  of  1608,  aud'concluded 
that  the  resemblance  to  Shakespeare  was  first  to  be  traced  ir 


mTRODUCnON  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


Ihat  impression.  Ho  nod  not  consulted  the  copies  of  1603,  or 
1605  (which  were  not  in  his  possession),  for  if  he  had  looked 
at  them  he  must  have  seen  tliut  Drayton  had  copied  "  Julius 
C«9ar  "  as  early  as  1603,  and,  consequently,  unless  Shake- 
ppcure  imitated' Drayton,  tiiat  that  tragedy  must  then  liave 
been  in  existenc,e.  That  Drayton  liad  not  remodelled  his 
"  Mortimeriados  "  as  late  as  1602,  we  jrather  from  the  circum- 
stance, that  he  reprinted  his  poems  in  that  year  without  "  The 
Barons'  Wars"  in  any  form  or  under  any  title. 

Another  slitrht  circumstance  niight  be  adduced  to  show  that 
''Julius  Caesar"  was  even  an  oldor  trnffedy  than  "  Hamlet." 
In  the  latter  (Act  iii.  sc.  2)  it  is  si,'d  that  Julius  Caesar  was 
•  killed  in  the  Capitol :"  in  Shakesjicare's  drama  such  is  the 
representation,  althou>rh  contrary  to  the  truth  of  history. 
This  seams  to  have  been  the  popular  notion,  and  we  find  it 
confirmed  in  Sir  Edward  Dyer  s  "  Prayse  of  Nothing,"  158o, 
quarto,  a  tract  unknown  to  every  bibliographer,  where  these 
Words  occur:  "Thy  stately  Cajiitol  (proud  Rome)  had  not 
bvheld  the  bloody  fall  of  pacified  Caesar,  if  nothinp  had  accom- 
panied him."  Robert  Greene,  a  praduate  of  both  Universities, 
makes  the  same  statement,  and  Shakespeare  may  have  fol- 
lowed some  older  play,  where  the  assassination  scene  was  laid 
in  the  Capitol :  Chancer  had  so  spoken  of  it  in  his  "  Monk's 
Tale."  It  is  not,  however,  likely  that  Dr.  Eedes,  who  wrote 
a  Latin  academical  play  on  the  story,  acted  at  Oxford  in  1582, 
should  have  committed  the  error. 

Shakespeare  appears  to  have  derived  nearly  all  his  materials 
from  Plutarch,  a.s  translated  by  Sir  Thomas'  North,  and  first 
published  in  1579>.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  unlikely  that 
there  was  a  preceding  play,  and  our  reason  for  thinking  so 
is  assigned  in  a  note  in  Act  iii.  sc  i.  It  is  a  new  fact,  ascer- 
tained from  an  entry  in  Henslowe's  Diary  dated  22nd  May, 
1602,  that  Anthony  Munday,  Michael  Dray'ton,  John  Webstc'r, 
Thomas  Middleton,  and  otlier  poets,  were  engaged  upon  a 
tragedy  entitied  "  Caesar's  Fall."  The  probability  is,  that 
these  dramatists  united  their  exertions,  in  order  without 
delay  to  bring  out  a  tragedy  on  the  same  subject  as  that  of 
Shakespeare,  which,  perhaps,  was  then  performing  at  the 
Globe  Theatre  with  success.  Malone  states,  that  there  is  no 
proof  that  any  conteniporary  writer  "  had  presumed  to  new- 
model  a  story' that  had  already  employed  the  pen  of  Shake- 
8|ieare."  He  forgot  that  Ben  Jonson  was  engaged  upon  a 
"  Richard  Crookback  "  in  1602  ;  and  he  omitted,  when  exam- 
ining Henslowe's  Di&ry,  to  observe,  that  in  the  same  year 
four  distintruished  dramatists,  and  "other  poets,"  were 
employe.i  upon  "  Caesar's  Fall." 

From  Vertue'a  manuscripts  we  learn  that  a  play,  called 
"  Caesar's  Tragedy,"  was  acted  at  Court  in  1613,  which  might 
be  the  production  of  Lord  Stirlinir,  Shakespeare's  drama,  that 
written  by  Munday,  Drayton,  Webster,  Middleton,  and  others, 
or  a  play  printed  i'n  1607,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Tra<redy  of 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  or  Csesar's  Revenge."  Mr.  Peter  Cun- 
ningham, in  his  "'Revels'  Accounts,"  (Introd.  p.  xxv.)  has 
shown  that  a  dramatic  piece,  with  the  title  of  "  The  Tragedy 
of  Caesar,"  was  exhibited  at  Court  on  Jan.  81,  1636-7. 


MACBETH. 

["  The  Tragedie  of  Macbeth  "  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of 
1623,  where  it  occupies  twenty-one  pages  ;  viz.  from  p.  131 
to  p.  151  inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Tra<rcdie8."    The 
Acts  and  Scenes  are  regularly  marked  there,  as  well  as  in 
the  later  folios.] 
4'mf.   only  ascertained    fact   respecting   the   performance   of 
"  Macbeth,"  in  the  lifetime  of  its  author,  is  that  it  was  repre- 
sented at  the   Globe   Theatre  on   the   20th   of  April,  1610. 
Whether  it  was  then  a  new  play,  it  is  impossible  to  decide; 
but  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  it  was  not,  and  that  Malone 
was  right  In  his  conjecture,  that  it  was  first  acted  about  the 
year  1606.    The  subsequent  account  of  the  plot  is  derived 
from  Dr.  Simon  Forman's  manuscript  Diary,  preserved  in  the 
A^hmolean    Museum,  from  which    it   appears,  that    he   saw 
"  Macbeth"  played  at  the  Globe  on  the  day  we  have  stated  : — 

"In  Macbeth,  at  th*  Globe,  1610,  the  20th  of  April,  Saturdy.y,  there 
wM  to  be  observed.  firi<t,  how  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  two  noblemen  of 
Gotland.  ridinR  throuch  &  wood,  there  stood  before  them  three  women 
Klines,  or  Nymphs,  and  saluted  .Macbeth,  saying  three  times  unto 
him.  Hail,  .Macbeth.  King  of  Coder,  for  thou  t^halt  be  a  Kinp,  but 
•halt  betrei  no  Kinps.  Ac.  Then,  said  Banquo,  What !  all  to  .Macbeth, 
and  nothing  to  me?  Yes,  said  the  Nymphs.  Hail  to  thee.  Banquo  : 
thou  Shalt  bepet  Kings,  jret  be  no  King.  And  so  Ihey  departed,  and 
same  to  the  Court  of  Scotland,  to  Duncan,  King  of  Scots,  and  it  was 

>  Lord  Stirling  published  a  tragedy  under  the  title  of  "'Julius 
Caesar."' in  1WI4  :  the  resemblances  are  by  no  means  numerous  or 
obvious,  and  probably  not  more  than  may  be  accounted  for  by  the 
bet,  that  t«r3  wt;ters  were  treating  the  same  subject.     The  popularity 


in  the  days  of  Edward  the  Confessor.  And  D:incan  bad  them  toU 
kindly  welcome,  and  made  Macbeth  forthwith  Prince  of  Northumbar 
land  ;  and  sent  him  home  to  his  own  Castle,  and  appoined  Macb«tk 
to  provide  for  him,  for  he  would  sup  with  him  the  next  c:.v  at  nigkt, 
ana  did  so. 

"And  Macbeth  contrived  to  kill  Duncan,  and  through  the  T)er«a» 
sion  of  his  wife  did  that  night  murder  the  Icing  in  his  own  Castle, 
being  his  guest.  And  there  were  many  prodigies  seen  that  night  and 
the  day  before.  And  when  Macbeth  had  murdered  the  King,  tb« 
blood  on  bis  hands  could  not  be  washed  off  by  any  means,  nor  from 
his  wife's  hands,  which  handled  the  bloody  daggers  in  hiding  them, 
by  which  means  they  became  both  much  amazed  and  affronted. 

"The  murder  being  known.  Duncan's  two  sons  fled,  the  one  ta 
England,  the  [other  to]  Wales,  to  save  themselves  :  they,  being  fled, 
■were  supposed  guilty  of  the  murder  of  their  father,  which  wa» 
nothing  so. 

'•  Then  was  Macbeth  crowned  King,  and  then  he  for  fear  of  Banqno, 
his  old  companion,  that  he  should  beget  kings  but  be  no  king  himself, 
he  contrivea  the  death  of  Banquo,  and  caused  him  to  be  murdered  oa 
the  way  that  he  rode.  The  night,  being  at  supper  with  his  noble- 
men, whom  he  had  bid  to  a  feast,  (to  the  which  also  Banquo  should 
have  come.)  he  began  to  speak  of  noble  Banquo,  and  to  wish  that  he 
were  there.  And  as  he  thus  did,  standing  up  to  drink  a  carouse  to 
him,  the  ghost  of  Banquo  came,  and  sat  down  in  his  chair  behind 
him.  And  he,  turning  about  to  sit  down  again,  saw  the  ghost  of 
Banquo,  which  fronted  him.  so  that  he  fell  in  a  great  passion  of  feai 
and  fury,  uttering  many  words  about  his  murder,  by  which.  whe» 
they  heard  that  Banquo  was  murdered,  they  suspected  Macbeth. 

"Then  Macduff  fled  to  England  to  the  King's  son,  and  so  they 
raised  an  army  and  came  to  Scotland,  and  at  Dunston  Anyse  over- 
threw Macbeth.  In  the  mean  time,  while  Macduff  was  in  England, 
Macbeth  slew  Macdufl^'s  wife  and  children,  and  after,  in  the  battle 
Macduff  slew  Macbeth. 

"  Observe,  also,  how  Macbeth's  Queen  did  rise  in  the  night  in  he* 
sleep,  and  walk,  and  talked  and  confessed  all,  and  the  Doctor  noted 
her  words." 

principal   r 

been  originally  represented  at  least  four  years  before  1610,  is 
the  striking  allusion,  in  Act  iv.  sc.  1,  to  the  union  of  the  three 
kingdoms  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  in  the  hands  of 
Jaines  I.  That  monarch  ascended  the  throne  in  March, 
1602-8,  and  the  words, 

"  Some  I  see. 
That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry," 

would  have  had  little  point,  if  we  suppose  them  to  have  been 
delivered  after  the  king  who  bore  the  balls  and  sceptres  had 
been  more  than  seven  years  on  the  throno.  James  was  pro- 
claimed kin?  of  Great"  Britain  and  Ii  eland  on  the  24th  cf 
October,  1604,  and  we  may  perhaps  conclude  that  Shakespeare 
wrote  "  Macbeth  "  in  the  year  1605,  and  that  it  was  first  acted 
at  the  Globe,  when  it  was  opened  for  the  summer  season,  in 
the  spring  of  1606. 

Malone  elaborately  supports  liis  opinion,  that  "  Macbeth  " 
was  produced  in  1606,  by  two  allusions  in  the  speech  of  the 
Porter,  Act  ii.  sc.  8,  to  the  cheapness  of  corn,  and  to  the  doc- 
trine of  equivocation,  which  liad  been  supported  by  Robert 
Garnet,  who  was  executed  on  the  8d  of  May,  1606.  We  are 
generally  disposed  to  place  little  confidence  in  such  passages, 
not  only  because  they  are  frequently  obscure  in  their  applica- 
tion, but  because  they  may  have  been  introduced  at  any 
subsequent  period,  either  by  the  author  or  actor,  with  the 
purpose  of  exciting  the  applause  of  the  audience,  by  reference 
to  some  circumstance  then  attracting  public  attention.  We 
know  that  dramatists  were  in  the  constant  liabit  of  making 
additions  and  alterations,  and  that  comic  performers  had  the 
vice  of  delivering  "  more  than  was  set  down  for  them."  The 
speech  of  the  Porter,  in  which  the  two  supposed  temporary 
allusions  are  contained,  is  exactly  of  the  kind  which  the  pef- 
fortner  of  the  part  might  be  inclined  to  enlarge,  and  so 
strongly  wiis  Coleridge  convinced  that  it  was  an  interpolation 
by  the  plaver,  that  he  boldly  "  pledered  himself  to  demonstrate 
it."  (Lit."  Rem.  vol.  ii.  p.  235.)  This  notion  was  not  new  to 
liirn  in  1818  ;  for  three  years  earlier  he  had  publicly  declaied 
it  in  a  lecture  devoted  to  "  Macbeth,"  although  he  admitted 
that  there  was  something  of  Shakespeare  in  "the  primrose 
way  to  the  everlasting  bonfire."  It  mav  be  doubted  whether 
he  would  have  made  this  concession,  if  tie  liad  not  recollected 
"the  primrose  p.ith  of  dalliance  "  in  "Hanikt." 

Shalcespeare,  doubtless,  derived  all  the  materials  he  required 
from  Holinshed,  without  resorting  to  Boethius,  or  toany'othei 
authority.  Steevens  continued  to  maintain,  that  Shakesjieaw 
was  indebted,  in  some  degree,  to  Midiileton's  "  Witch"  for 
the  preternatural  portion  of"  Macbeth  ;"  but  Malone,  who  at 
fir»t  entertained  the  same  view  of  the  6ut>iect,  ultimately 
atandoned  it,  and  became  convinced  that  "  The  Witch  "  wa* 
a  play  written  subsequently  to  the  production  of"  Macbeth." 

of  Shakespeare's  tragedy  about  1603  may  have  led  to  the  printing  o. 
nai  by  Lord  Sterling  in  1604,  and  on  this  account  the  date  is  cf  cob 
<equence.  Malone  appears  to  have  known  of  no  edition  of  Lord 
Stirling's  "Julius  Casar  "  until  1607 


mTEODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


cix 


Tuose  who  read  the  two  will,  perhaps,  wonder  how  a  donbt 
toould  have  beer,  entertained.  "The  Witcli,"  in  all  proba- 
bility, was  not  written  until  about  1613 ;  and  what  must 
surnrise  every  body  is,  that  a  poet  ofMiddleton's  rank  could 
*o  degrade  the  awfnj  beings  of  Shakespeare's  invention  ;  for 
(Jthough,  as  Lamb  observes,  "  the  power  of  Middleton's 
witches  13  in  some  measure  over  the  mind,"  (Specimens  of 
Kngl.  Dram.  Poets,  p.  174,)  they  are  of  a  degenerate  race,  as 
if,  Shakespeare  having  created  them,  no  other  mind  was 
■uflBcieutly  gifted  even  to  continue  their  existence. 

Whether  Shakespeare  obtained  his  knowledge  regarding 
these  agents,  and  of  tlie  locality  he  supposes  them  to  have 
frequented,  from  actual  observation,  is  a  point  we  have  con- 
sidered in  the  Biografihy  of  the  poet.  The  existing  evidence 
on  the  question  is  there  collected,  and  we  have  shown,  that 
ten  years  before  tne  date  liitherto  assigned  to  that  circnm- 
Btance,  a  comrnmy  called  "  the  Queen's  Players  "  had  visited 
Edinburgh.  This  fact  is  quite  new  in  the  history  of  the 
ijitroduction  of  English  theatrical  performances  into  Scotland. 
That  the  Queen's  comedians  were  nortli  of  the  Tweed  in  1599, 
on  the  invitation  of  James  VI.,  we  have  distinct  evidence  : 
we  know  also  that  they  were  in  Aberdeen  in  1601,  when  the 
freedom  of  the  city  was  presented  to  Laurence  Fletcher  (the 
first  name  in  the  patent  of  1603) ;  but  to  establish  that  they 
were  in  Edinburgh  in  1589  gives  much  more  latitude  for 
speculation  on  the  question,  whether  Shakespeare,  in  the 
interval  of  about  fourteen  years  before  James  L  ascended  the 
throne  of  England,  had  at  any  time  accompanied  his  fellow- 
actors  to  Scotland. 

At  whatever  date  we  suppose  Shakespeare  to  have  written 
•'  Macbeth,"  we  may  perhaps  infer,  from  a  passage  in  Kemp's 
"Nine  Days'  Wonder,"  1600,  tliat  there  existed  a  ballad  upon 
the  story,  which  may  have  been  older  than  the  tragedy  :  sucli 
is  the  opinion  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dyce,  in  his  notes  to  the  reprint 
of  this  tract  by  the  Camden  Society,  p.  84.  The  point,  how 
ever,  is  doubtful,  and  it  is  obvious  that  Kemp  did  not  mean 
to  be  very  intelligible  :  his  other  allusions  to  ballad-makers  of 
his  time  are  purposely  obscure. 

"  Macbeth  "  was  inserted  by  the  player-editors  in  the  folio 
of  1623  ;  and,  as  in  other  similar  cases,  we  may  presume  that 
it  had  not  come  from  the  press  at  an  earlier  date,  because  in 
the  book*  of  the  Stationers'  Company  it  is  registered  by 
Blount  and  Jaggard,  on  the  8th  of  November,  1623,  as  one  of 
the  plays  "  not  formerly  entered  to  other  men."  It  has  been 
lianded  down  in  an  unusually  complete  state,  for  not  only  are 
the  divisions  of  the  acts  pointed  out,  but  the  subdivisions  of 
the  scenes  carefully  and  accurately  noted. 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

|The  Tragical!  Historie  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmarke  By 
William  Shake-speare.  As  it  hath  beene  diuerse  times 
acted  by  his  Highnesse  seruants  in  the  Cittie  of  London : 
as  also  in  the  two  Vniuersjties  of  Cambridge  and  Oxford, 
and  else-where.  At  London  printed  for  N.  L.  and  lohn 
Trundell.     1603.    4to.     33  leaves. 

The  Tragicall  Historie  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmarke.  By 
William  Shakespeare.  Newly  imprinted  and  enlarged  to 
almost  as  much  againe  as  it  was,  according  to  the  true  and 
perfect  Coppie.  At  London,  Printed  by  I.E.  for  N.  L.  and 
are  to  be  sold  at  his  shoppe  vnder  Saint  Duustons  Church 
in  Fleetstreet.     1604.    4to.     51  leaves. 

Tlie  title-page  of  the  edition  of  1605  does  notdiflfer  in  the  most 
minute  particular  from  that  of  1604. 

Tlie  Tragedy  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmarke.  By  William 
Shakespeare.  Newly  imprinted  and  enlarged  to  almost  as 
much  againe  as  it  was,  according  to  the  true  and  perfect 
Coppy.  At  London,  Printed  for  lohn  Smethwicke  and  are 
to  be  sold  at  his  shoppe  in  Saint  Dunstons  Church  yeard  in 
Fleetstreet.     Vnder  the  Diall.     1611.    4to.     51  leaves. 

The  Tragedy  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmarke.  Newly  Im- 
printed and  inlarged,  according  to  the  true  and  perfect 
Copy  lastly  Printed.  By  William  Shakespeare.  London, 
Printed  by  W.  S.  for  lohn  Smethwicke,  and  are  to  be  sold 
at  his  Shop  in  Saint  Dunstans  Church-yard  in  Fleetstreet : 
Vnder  the  Diall.    4to.    51  leaves. 

1  I>r.  Farmer  had  an  imperfect  copy  of  it,  but  it  is  preserved  entire 
II long  Capell's  books  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
ini  was  printed  in  IGUs,  by  Richard  Bradocke,  for  Thomas  Pavier. 
"  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  had  originally  come  from  the  press 
considerably  before  the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
although  tlie  multiplicity  of  readers  of  productions  of  the  kind,  and 
the  carelessness  with  which  such  books  were  regarded  after  perusal, 
has  led  to  the  destruction,  as  far  as  can  now  be  ascertained,  of  every 
•nrliet  copy." — Introduction  to  Part  IV.  of  "  Shakespeare's  Library."' 


This  undated  edition  was  probably  printed  in  1607,  as  it  wa( 
entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  on  Nov.  19,  in  that  year.  An 
impression,  by  E.  Youngr,  in  4to,  1637,  has  also  John  Smell> 
wicke  at  the  bottom  of  the  title-page. 

In  the  folio  of  1623,  "The  Tnigedie  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of 
Denmarke,"  occupies  thirty-one  pages,  in  the  diviaion  of 
"Tragedies;"  viz.  from  p.  152  to  p.  280,  inclusive,  there 
being  a  mistake  of  100  pages  between  p.  156  and  wha» 
ought  to  have  been  p.  157. J 

The  storv  upon  which,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  Shakespea»*o 
founded  his  tragedy  of  "  Hamlet,"  has  recently  been  reprinted, 
from  the  only  known  perfect  copy',  as  part  "of  a  work  callea 
"Shakespeare's  Library;"  and  there  is,  perhaps,  notliinij 
more  remarkable  than  the  manner  in  which  our  (jreat  drauifc- 
tist  wrought  these  barbarous,  uncouth,  and  scanty  materials 
into  the  magnificent  structure  he  left  beliind  him.  A  com- 
parison of"  The  Historie  of  Hamblet,"  as  it  was  translated  at 
an  early  date  from  the  French  of  Belleforest^,  with  "  The 
Tragedy  of  Hamlet,"  is  calculated  to  give  us  the  most  exalted 
notion  of,  and  profound  reverence  for,  _the  genius  of  Shake- 
speare :  his  vast  superiority  to  Green  and  Lodge  was  obvious 
in  "The  Winter's  Tale," "and  "As  You  Like  It;"  but  the 
novels  of  "Pandosto"  and  "  Eosalynde,"  as  narratives,  were 
perhaps  as  far  above  "  The  Historie  of  Hamblet,"  as  "  The 
Winter's  Tale  "  and  "As  You  Like  It  "  were  above  the  origi- 
nals from  which  their  main  incidents  were  derived.  Nothing, 
in  point  of  fact,  can  be  much  more  worthless,  in  story  and 
Btyle,  than  the  production  to  which  it  is  supposed  Shakespeare 
was  indebted  for  the  foundation  of  his  "  Hamlet." 

There  is,  however,  some  ground  for  thinking,  that  a  lost 
play  upon  similar  incidents  preceded  the  work  of  Shake- 
speare :  how  far  that  lost  play  might  be  an  improvement  upon 
the  old  translated  "  Historie  "  we  have  no  means  of  deciding, 
nor  to  what  extent  Shakespeare  availed  himself  of  such  im- 
provement. A  drama,  of  which  Hamlet  was  the  hero,  was 
certainly  in  being  prior  to  the  year  1587,  (in  all  probability 
too  early  a  date  for  Shakespeare  to  have  been  the  writer  of  it") 
for  we  find  it  thus  alluded  to  by  Thomas  Nash,  in  his  pro- 
liminary  epistle  to  the  "  Menaphon "  of  Eobert  Greene, 
published  in  that  year^ :— "  Yet  English  Seneca,  read  by 
candle-light,  yeelds  many  good  sentences,  as  blood  is  a  beggar, 
and  so  forth;  and  if  you  entreat  him  fair  in  a  frosty  morning, 
he  will  afford  you  whole  Hamlets,  I  should  say  handfuls,  of 
tragical  speeches."  The  writer  is  referring  to  play-poets  and 
their  productions  at  that  period,  and  he  seems  to  have  gone 
out  of  his  way,  in  order  to  introduce  the  very  name  of  the 
performance  agai  nst  which  he  was  directing  ridicule.  Another 
piece  of  evidence,  to  the  same  effect,  but  of  a  more  question- 
able kind,  is  to  be  found  in  Henslowe's  Diary,  under  the  date 
of  June  9th,  1594,  when  a  "  Hamlet  "  was  represented  at  the 
theatre  at  Nowington  Butts  :  that  it  was  then  an  old  play  is 
ascertained  from  the  absence  of  the  mark,  which  the  "old 
manager  usually  prefixed  to  first  performances,  and  from  the 
fact  that  his  share  of  the  receipts  was  only  nine  shillings.  At 
that  date,  however,  the  company  to  which  Shakespeare  be- 
longed was  in  joint  occupation  of  the  same  theatre,  and  it  is 
certainly  possible,  though  improbable,  tliat  the  drama  repre- 
sented on  June  9th,  1594,  was  Shakespeare's  "  Hamlet." 

We  feel  confident,  however,  that  the  ''  Hamlet  "  which  has 
come  down  to  us  in  at  least  six  quarto  impressions,  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  and  in  the  later  impressions  in  that  form,  was 
not  written  until  the  winter  of  1601,  or  the  spring  of  1602. 

Malone,  Steevens,  and  the  other  commentators,  were  ac- 
quainted with  no  edition  of  the  tragedy  anterior  to  the  quarto 
of  1604,  which  professes  to  be  "  enlarged  to  almost  as  m'lch 
again  as  it  was  :"  they,  therefore,  reasonably  suspected  that 
it  had  been  printed  he'fore  ;  and  within  the  hist  twenty  years 
a  single  copy  of  an  edition  in  1603  has  been  discovered.  This, 
in  fact,  seems  to  have  been  the  abbreviated  and  imperfect 
edition,  consisting  of  only  about  half  as  much  as  the  impres- 
sion of  1604.  It  belongs  to  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and,  by 
the  favour  of  his  Grace,  is  now  before  us.  From  whose  press 
it  came  we  have  no  information,  but  it  professed  to  be 
"  printed  for  N.  L.  and  lohn  Trundell."  The  edition  of  the 
following  year  was  printed  by  I.  E.  for  N.  L.  only  ;  and  why 
Trundell  ceased  to  have  any  interest  in  the  publicat'on  we 
know  not.     N.  L.  was  Nicholas  Ling  ;  and  1.  E.,  the  printer 

»  Belleforest  derived  his  knowledge  of  the  incidents  from  the  History 
of  Denmark,  by  Saxo  Grammaticus.  first  printed  in  1514. 

3  We  give  the  date  of  15S7  on  the  excellent  authority  of  the  Rev 
A.  Dyce,  (Greene's  Works,  vol.  i.  pp.  xxxvii.  and  ciii.)  "We  h»v# 
never  been  able  to  meet  with  any  impression  earlier  than  that  of 
1589.  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  reprinted  the  tract  from  the  edition  a 
1616,  (when  its  name  had  been  changed  to  "  Green's  Arcadia")  il 
"  Archaica,"  vol.  i. 


nsTRODUCTION  TO  THE   I'LAYS. 


o'^  the  edition  of  1604,  wna,  no  lionbt,  James  Roberts,  who, 
tvrv    years    beti>re,    had    made   the   following  entry   in  tlie 
Eetrls'ters  of  the  Stationers'  Conipanv  : — 
"26  .Inly  1602. 
James  Ki>bcrt.sl  A  books,  The  Revenge  of  Hamlett  prince 
of  Deiimarke,  as  yt  was  Ijitelie  acted  by  the  Lord 
Chinnbcrlayn  his  servantcs." 

"  The  words.  "  as  it  was  lately  acted,"  are  important  upon 
the  qticsiion  of  date,  and  the  entry  farther  proves,  that  the 
tnigody  had  been  performed  by  tlie  coini)any  to  which  Shake- 
epeare'belonged.  In  the  spriiiir  of  1603  "  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's servants"  beanne  the  Kind's  filayr-rs;  and  on  the 
••jtle-page  of  the  qiiarto  of  1603  it  is  asserted  that  it  had  been 
acted  "by  his  Hiirhness'  servants."  On  the  title-pap;e  of  the 
(jiiarto  of  1604  we  are  not  informed  that  the  tragedy  had  been 
acted  by  any  company. 

Thus"  we 'see,  that  in  July,  1602,  there  was  an  intention  to 
print  and  publish  a  play  called  "The  Rcven^re  of  Hamlet, 
Prince  of  Denmark;"  and  this  intention,  we  may  fairly  con- 
clude, arose  out  of  the  popularity  uf  tlie  piece,  as  it  was  then 
acted  by  "  the  Lord  ('hamberlain's  servants,"  who,  in  ilay 
•ollowing,  obtained  the  title  of  "  the  King's  players."  The 
object  of  Roberts  in  making  the  entry  already  quoted,  was 
to  secure  it  to  himself,  being,  no  doubt,  aware  that  other 
printers  and  booksellers  would  endeavor  to  anticipate  him. 
It  seems  probable,  that  lie  was  unable  to  obtain  such  a  copy 
of"  Hamlet"  as  he  would  put  his  name  to  ;  but  acme  inferior 
and  nameless  printer,  who  was  not  so  scrupulous,  having 
surreptitiously  secured  a  manuscript  of  the  play,  however 
imperfect,  which  would  answer  the  purpose,  and  gratify  public 
curiosity,  the  edition  bearing  date  in  It^O^?  was  published. 
Such,  we  have  little  doubt,  was  the  origin  of  the  impression 
of  which  only  a  single  copy  has  reached  our  day,  and  of  which, 
probably,  but  a  few  were  sold,  as  its  worlhlessness  was  soon 
discovered,  and  it  was  quickly  entirely  superseded  by  the 
enlarged  impression  of  1604. 

As  an  accurate  reprint  was  made  in  1825  of  "  The  Tragicall 
llistorie  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmarke,"  1603,  it  will  be 
uimecessary  to  go  in  detail  into  proofs  to  establish,  as  we 
(■ould  do  without  much  difficulty,  the  following  points : — 
1.  That  great  part  of  the  play,  as  it  there  stands,  was  taken 
•  iown  in  sliort-haiid.  2.  That  w-Jiere  mechanical  skill  faileil 
the  short-hand  writer,  he  either  filled  up  the  blanks  from 
memory,  or  employed  an  inferior  writer  to  assist  him.  3.  That 
dlthongh  some  of  the  scenes  were  carelessly  transposed,  and 
others  entirely  omitted,  in  the  edition  of  1603,  the  drama,  as 
it  was  acted  while  the  short-hand  writer  was  employed  in 
taking  it  down,  was,  in  all  its  main  features,  the  same' as  the 
more  perfect  copy  of  the  tragedy  printed  with  the  date  of 
1604.  It  is  true,  that  in  the  edition  of  1603,  Polonius  is  called 
Corarabis,  and  his  servant,  Montano,  and  we  may  not  be  able 
to  determine  why  these  changes  were  made  in  the  immedi- 
ately subsequent  impression  ;  but  we  may  perhaps  conjecture 
that  they  were  names  in  the  older  j^lay  on  the  same  stwy, 
or  names  which  Shakespeare  at  first  introduced,  and  subse- 
quently thought  fit  to  reject.  We  know  that  Ben  Jonsoa 
chimjjcd  the  whole  dramatis  personte  of  his  "  Every  Man  in 
liis  Humour." 

But  although  we  entirely  reject  the  ouarto  of  1603,  as  an 
authentic  •'  Hamlet,"  it  is  of  high  value  in  enabling  us  to 
settle  the  text  of  various  important  passages.  It  proves, 
besides,  that  certain  portions  of  the  plav,  as  it  appears  in  the 
folio  of  1623,  which  do  not  form  part  of  the  quarto  ot  1604, 
were  originally  acted,  and  were  not,  as  has  been  hitherto 
imagined,  sub.-cqucnt  introductions.  We  have  pointed  oilt 
these  and  other  peculiarities  so  fully  in  our  notes,  that  we 
need  not  dwell  upon  them  here;  but  we  may  mention,  that 
in  Act  iii.  t<c.  4,  the  quarto  of  1603  explains  a  curious  point 
of  Btage-bnsiness,  which  puzzled  all  the  commentator!>.  Just 
OS  the  Ghost  is  departing  from  the  Qaeen's  closet,  Hamlet 
xcla'ms, 

"  Look,  how  it  steals  away  ! 
My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  .'" 

.Malone,  Stcevens,  and  Monck  Mason  argue  the  question 
'■  '.ether  in  this  scene,  the  Giiost,  a.s  in  former  scenes,  onght 
to  wear  armour,  or  to  be  dressed  in  "  his  own  familiar  habit ;" 
and  they  conclude,  either  that  Shakespeare  had  "  forgotten 
himself,"  or  had  meant  "to  vary  the  dress  of  the  Ghost  at 
this  his  last  api)earancc."  The  quarto  of  1603,  shows  exactly 
how  the  poet's  intention  was  carricl  into  eft'ect,  for  there  we 
meet  with  the  stage-direction,  "Enter the  Ghost  in  hisniglit- 
gown  ;"  and  such  was  unquestionably  the  appearance  of  the 
performer  of  the  part  when  the  short-hantl  writer  saw  the 
tragedy,  with  a  view  to  the  speedy  publication  of  a  fraudulent 
impression.  "My  father,  in  <^«  habit  as  he  lived,"  are  the 
words  he  recorded  from  the  month  of  the  actor  of  Hamlet. 


The  iinpression  of  1604  being  intended  to  supersede  tha! 
of  1603,  which  gave  a  most  mangled  and  imperfect  notion  o 
the  drama  in  its  true  state,  we  may  perhaps  jiresume  that  the 
quarto  of  1604  was,  at  least,  as  authentic  a  copy  of  "  Hansiet  " 
as  the  editions  of  any  of  Shakespeare's  plays  that  came  from 
the  press  during  his  lifetime.  It  contains  various  passages, 
some  of  them  of  great  importance  to  the  conduct  and  charaote* 
of  the  hero,  not  to  be  found  in  the  folio  of  1623;  wihile  the 
folio  includes  other  passages  wh'ch  are  left  out  in  the  quarto 
of  1604  ;  although,  as  before  remarked,  we  have  the  evidoncf 
of  the  quarto  of  1603,  that  they  were  originally  acted.  Tin 
different  quarto  impressions  were  printed  from  each  other 
and  even  that  of  1687,  though  it  makes  some  verbal  changen. 
contains  no  distinct  indication  that  tlie  printer  had  resorted 
to  the  folios. 

The  three  later  folios,  in  this  instance  as  in  others,  were 
printed  from  the  immediately  preceding  edition  in  the  same 
form  ;  but  we  are  inclined  to"  think,  that  if  "  Hamlet,"  in  the 
folio  of  1628,  were  not  composed  from  some  now  unknown 
quarto,  it  was  derived  from  a  manuscript  obtained  by  Heni- 
inge  and  Condell  from  the  theatre.  The  Acts  and  Scenes 
are,  however,  marked  only  in  the  first  and  second  Acts,  after 
which  no  divisions  of  the  kind  are  noticed  ;  and  where  Act  iii. 
commences  is  merely  matter  of  modern  conjecture.  Some 
large  portions  of  the  play  appear  to  have  been  omitted  for 
the  sake  of  shortening  the  performance  ;  and  any  editor  who 
should  content  himself  with  reprinting  the  folio,  without  large 
additions  from  the  quartos,  would  present  but  an  imperfect 
notion  of  the  drama  as  it  came  from  the  hand  of  the  poet. 
The  text  of  "Hamlet"  is,  in  fact,  only  to  be  obtained  from 
a  comparison  of  the  editions  in  quarto  and  folio,  but  the  mis- 
prints in  the  latter  are  quite  as  numerous  and  glaring  as  in 
the  former.  In  various  instances  we  have  been  able  tp  correct 
the  one  by  the  other,  and  it  is  in  this  respect  chiefly  that  the 
quarto  of  1603  is  of  intrinsic  value. 

Coleridge,  after  vindicating  himself  from  the  accusation 
that  he  had  derived  his  ideas  of  Hamlet  from  Schlegel,  (and 
we  heard  him  broach  them  some  years  before  the  Lectures, 
Ueber  DramatiscJie  Kwnst  tmd  Litteratur,  were  published.) 
thus,  in  a  few  sentences,  sums  up  the  character  of  Hamlet: — 
"  In  Hamlet,  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  wished  to  exemplify 
the  moral  necessity  of  a  due  balance  between  our  attention 
to  the  objects  of  our  senses,  and  our  meditation  on  the  work- 
ings of  our  mind,  —  an  eguilibrwm  between  the  real  and 
the  imaginary  worlds.  In  Hamlet  this  balance  is  disturbed  ; 
his  thoughts  and  the  images  of  his  fancy  are  fur  more  vivid 
than  his  actual  perceptions;  and  liis  very  perceptions,  in- 
stantly passing  througli  the  medium  of  liis  contemplations, 
acquire,  as  they  pass,  a  form  an<l  a  color  not  naturally  their 
own.  Hence  we  see  a  great,  an  almost  enormous,  intellectual 
activity,  and  a  proportionate  aversion  to  real  action  conse- 
quent "upon  it,  with  all  its  symptoms  and  accoinpanying 
qualities.  This  character  Shakespeare  places  in  circumstances 
under  which  it  is  obliged  to  act  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
Hamlet  is  brave,  and  careless  of  death  ;  but  lie  vacillates 
from  sensibility,  and  procrastinates  from  thought,  and  loses 
the  power  of  action  in  the  energy  of  resolve."  (Lit.  Rem. 
vol.  ii.  p.  205.) 

It  has  generally  been  supposed  that  Joseph  Taylor  was 
the  original  actor  of  Hamlet — and  Wright,  in  his  "  Historia 
Histrionica,"  1699,  certainly  speaks  of  him  as  having  per- 
formed the  part.  This,  however,  must  have  been  afier  tlie 
death  of  Richard  Biirbage,  which  happened  precisely  eighty 
years  before  Wright  published  his  tract.  We  know,  from 
the  manuscript  Elegy  upon  Bnrbage,  sold  among  Ileber's 
books,  that  he  was  the  earliest  representative  of  Hamlet; 
and  tliere  the  circumstance  of  his  Ijeing  "fat  and  scant  of 
breath,"  in  the  fencing  scene,  is  noticed  in  the  very  words 
of  Shakespeare.  Taylor  did  not  belong  to  the  company  for 
which  Shakspearc  wrote  at  the  date  when  "Hamlet"  was 
produced. 


KING  LEAR 

M.  William  Shak-speare":  His  True  Chioniclc  Hietorio  of  th 
life  and  death  of  King  Lear  and  his  three  Daughters.  With 
the  vnfortunate  life  of  Edgar,  «onnc  and  licire  to  the  Earlo 
of  Gloster,  and  his  sullen  and  a.ssumed  humour  of  Tom  Oi 
Bedlam.  As  it  was  played  before  the  Kings  Maiestie  a 
Whitehall  vpon  S.  Stephans  night  in  Christmas  Hollidayes. 
By  his  Maiesties  seruants  playing  vsually  at  the  Gloabe  on 
tlie  Bancke-side.  London,  Printed  for  Nathaniel  Butter 
and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Paul's  Church-yard,  attht 
signe  of  the  Pide  Bull  ueere  St.  Austin's  Gate.  1608.  4to 
41  leaves. 


miRODUCTIOI^  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


3X1 


il.  William  Shake-speare,  Hia  True  Chronicle  History  of  the  |  Lear,"  and  on  the  26th  November  he  pvocTired  the  foil 


life  and  death  of  Kinof  Lear,  and  his  three  Danghters. 
With  the  vnfortunate  life  of  Edgar,  sonnc  and  heire  to  the 
Earle  of  Gloeester,  and  his  sullen  and  assumed  humo\ir  of 
Tom  of  Bedlam.  As  it  was  plaid  before  the  Kings  Maiesty 
Kt  White-Hall,  vppou  S.  Stephens  night,  in  Christmas  Hof- 
lidaies.  By  liis  Maiesties  Seruants, "playing  vsually  at  the 
Globe  on  the  Banek-side.  Printed  for  Nathaniel  Butter. 
1608.    4to.    44  leaves. 

The  titlo-page  of  a  third  impression  in  1608  corresponds  with 
that  last  above  given. 

In  the  folio  of  1623,  "  The  Traeedie  of  King  Lear  "  occupies 
twenty  seven  pages,  in  the  division  of  "  Tragedies ;"  viz. 
from  p.  283  to  p.  809,  inclusive.  The  last  page  but  one,  by 
an  error,  is  numbered  38,  instead  of  808.  In  the  first,  as 
well  as  in  the  folios  of  1682,  1664,  and  1685,  the  Acts  and 
Scenes  are  regularly  marked.] 

The  most  remarkable  circumstance  connected  with  the  early 

fmblication  of  "  King  Lear  "  is,  that  the  s;une  stationer  pub- 
iahed  three  quarto  Impressions  of  it  in  1608,  that  stationer 
being  a  person  who  had  not  put  forth  any  of  the  authentic 
(as  far  as  they  can  deserve  to  be  so  consi'dered)  editions  of 
Shakespeare's  i)lays.  After  it  had  been  thus  thrice  printed 
(for  they  were  not  merely  re-issues  with  fresh  title-pages)  in 
the  same  year,  the  tragedy  was  not  again  printed  until  it 
appeared  in  the  folio  of  1628.  Why  it  was  never  republished 
in  quarto,  in  the  interval,  must  be  "matter  of  speculation,  but 
such  was  not  an  unusual  occurrence  with  the  works  of  our 
great  dramatist :  his  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  "  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,"  and  "  Troilus  and  Cressida  "  were  each 
twice  printed,  the  two  first  in  1600,  and  the  last  in  1609,  and' 
they  were  not  again  seen  in  type  until  they  were  inserted  in 
tlic  folio  of  1623 :  there  was  also  no  second  qiiarto  edition  of 
'•  Much  fldo  about  Nothing,"  nor  of  "  Love's  Labour  's  Lost." 
The  extreme  popularity  of  "King  Lear"  seems  proved  by 
the  mere  fiict  that  the  public  demand  for  it,  in  the  first  year 
of  its  publication,  could  not  be  satisfied  without  three  distinct 
impressions. 

It  will  be  seen  by  the  exact  copies  of  the  title-pages  which 
we  have  inserted  on  the  opposite  leaf,  that  although  Nathaniel 
Butter  was  the  publisher  of  the  three  quarto  editions,  he  only 
put  his  address  on  the  title-page  of  one  of  them.  It  is  per- 
haps impossible  now  to  ascertain  on  what  account  the  differ- 
ence was  made  ;  but  it  is  to  be  observed  that  "  Printed  by  .J. 
Roberts,"  without  any  address,  is  found  at  the  bottom  of" the 
title-pages  of  some  of  the  copies  of  "The  Merchant  of 
Venice"  and  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  in  1600.  A 
more  remarkable  circumstance,  in  relation  to  the  title-pages 
of  "  King  Lear,"  is,  that  the  name  of  William  Shakespeare  is 
made  so  obvious  at  the  top  of  them,  the  type  being  larger 
than  that  used  for  any  other  part  of  the  work  :  morecTver,  we 
have  it  again  at  the  head  of  the  leaf  on  which  the  tragedy 
commences,  "  M.  William  Shake-speare,  his  History  of  King 
Lear."  This  peculiarity  has  never  attracted  sufficient  atten- 
tion, and  it  belongs  not  only  to  no  other  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  but  to  no  other  production  of  any  kind  of  that  period 
which  we  recollect.  It  was  clearly  intended  to  enable  pur- 
chasers to  make  sure  that  they  were  buying  the  drama  which 
*'  M.  William  Shakespeare  "  had  written  "upon  the  storv  of 
King  Lear. 

The  cause  of  it  is,  perhaps,  to  be  found  in  the  fiict,  that 
there  was  another  contemporary  drama  upon  the  same  sub- 
ject, and  with  very  nearly  the  same  names  to  the  principal 
characters,  which  was  not  by  Shakespeare,  but  which  the 
publisher  probably  had  endeavored  to  pass  off  as  his  work. 
An  edition  of  this  play  was  printed  in  1605,  under  the  follow- 
ing title  :— "  The  True  Chronicle  History  of  King  Leir  and  his 
three  Daughters,  Gonorill,  Eagan,  and  "Cordelia.  As  it  hath 
e  divers  and  sundry  times  lately  acted."  It  was  printed, 
Simon  Stafford,  for  John  Wright;  and  we  agree  with 
one  in  thinking  that  this  impression  was  put  forth  in 
aonsequenceof  the  popularity  of  Shakespeare's  "  King  Lear," 
which  was  then  in  a  course  of  successful  performance  at  the 
Globe  theatre.  That  this  edition  of  "The  True  Chronicle 
History  of  King  Leir"  was  a  re-impression  we  have  little 
doubt,  because  it  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  for  publica- 
hon  as  early  as  14th  May,  1594:  it  was  entered  a^ain  on  8th 
May,  1605,  anterior  to  the  appearance  of  the  impression  with 
that  date,  the  title-page  of  which  we  have  above  quoted. 

We  may  presume  that  in  1605  no  bookseller  was  able  to 
obtain  from  the  King's  Players  a  copy  of  Shakespeare's  "  Kin? 
liCar  ;"  for  there  is  perhaps  no  point  in  our  early  stage-history 
more  cleai,  than  that  the  different  companies  took  every  pre- 
caution in  order  to  prevent  the  publication  of  plavs  belongin<r 
to  them.  Jowever,  in  the  autumn  of  1607,  Nathaniel  Butter 
hRd  in  some  way  possessed  him  of  a  manuscript  of  "  King 


unusually  minute  memorandum  to  be  made  in  the  Stationew 
Registers : — 

"26  Nov.  1607. 
Na.  Butter  and  Jo.  Busby]   Entered  for  tje:.'  Copie 
under  t'  hands  of  Sir  Geo.  Bucke,  Kt.  and  the  War- 
dens, a    booke   called    Mr.  Willm   Shakespeare,  his 
Historye  of  Kinge  Lear,  as  yt  was  played  before  the 
King's   Majestic  at  Whitehall,  upon  "St.  Stephen's 
night  at  Christmas  last,  by  his  Majesties  Servants 
playing  usually  at  the  Globe  on  the  Bank-side." 
This  entry  establishes  that  Shakespeare's  "  King  Lear"  had 
been  played  at  Court  on  the  26th  December,  1606,  and  not 
on  the  26th  December.  1607,  as  we  might  infer  from  the  title 
pages  of  the  three  editions  of  1608. 

The  memorandum  we  have  just  inserted  would  lead  us  to 
believe  that  John  Busby  was 'the  printer  of  "King  Lear," 
although  his  name  does  not  otherwise  at  all  appear  itTconneo 
tion  with  it.  The  difterences  between  the  quartos  are  seldon 
more  than  verbal,  but  they  are  sometimes  important :  after  a 
very  patient  comparison,  we  may  state,  that  the  quartos  with- 
out the  publisher's  address  are  more  accurate  than  that  with 
his  address  ;  and  we  presume  that  the  latter  was  first  issued. 
It  would  seem  that  the  folio  of  1623  was  composed  from  a 
manuscript,  which  had  been  much,  and  not  very  judiciouslv, 
abridged  for  the  purposes  of  the  theatre ;  ancl  although  'it 
contains  some  additions,  not  in  any  of  the  quartos,  there  are. 
perhaps,  few  quartos  of  any  of  Shakespeare's  plavs  more 
valuable  for  the  quantity  of  matter  they  contain,  of  which 
there  is  no  trace  in  the  folio. 

We  have  said  that  we  agree  with  Malone  in  opinion,  tha* 
"King  Lear"  was  brought  out  at  the  Globe  Theatre  in  the 
spring  of  1605,  according  to  our  present  mode  of  computing 
the  year.  We  may  decide  with  certainty  that  it  was  not 
written  until  after  the  appearance  of  Harsnet's  "Discovery 
of  Popish  Impostors  "  in  1603,  because  from  it,  as  Steevens 
established,  are  taken  the  names  of  various  fiends  mentioned 
by  Edgar  in  the  course  of  his  scenes  of  pretended  madness. 

As  we  find  a  "  King  Leir  "  entered  on  the  Stationers'  books 
in  1594,  we  can  have  no  hesitation  in  arriving  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  old  play,  printed  by  Simon  Stafford  for  John 
Wright,  in  1605,  when  Shakespeare's  "King  Lear"  was  (as 
we  have  supposed)  experiencing  a  run  of  popularity  at  the 
Globe,  was  considerably  anterior  in  point  of  date.  There  is 
little  doubt  that  Shakespeare  was  acquainted  with  it,  and 
probably  adopted  from  it  at  least  that  part  of  the  conduct  of 
his  story  svhich  relates  to  the  faithful  Kent.  There  are  other 
general,  but  few  particular  resemblances;  for  both  the  chief 
materials  were  evidently  derived  from  Holinshed,  but  Shake- 
speare varied  from  all  authorities  in  his  catastrophe:  he 
seems  to  have  thought,  that  to  abandon  the  course  of  the 
ordinary  and  popular  narrative,  would  heighten  and  improve 
the  effect  of  his  drama,  and  give  a  novelty  to  its  termination. 
The  story  of  Lear  and  his  daughters  is  briefly  told  bv  Spen- 
ser in  B.  ii.  c.  10,  of  his  "  Fairie  Queene,"  and  thence  it  has 
been  thought  that  Shakespeare  obtained  the  name  of  Cor- 
delia, till  then  usually  called  Cordelia.  That  portion  of  the 
plot  which  relates  to  the  Earl  of  Gloster,  he  may  have  pro- 
cured from  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "Arcadia,"  first  printed  in 
1590,  4to.  B.  ii.  c.  10,  of  that  romance  is  thus  headed  :— 
"ThepitifuU  state  and  storie  of  the  Paphalgonian  unkinde 
King,  and  his  kind  son."  An  early  ballad  on  King  Lear  was 
also  published  (see  Percy's  Reliques,  vol.  ii.  p.  249 ;  edit. 
1812),  but  no  copy  with  a  date  has  come  down  to  us :  although 
it  employs  the  older  names  of  some  of  the  characters,  it  adopts 
that  of  Cordelia;  and  there  are  several  circumstances,  besides 
a  more  modern  style  of  composition,  which  lead  us  to  the 
belief  that  it  was  written  posterior  to  the  production  of  Shak«- 
speare's  Tragedy. 


OTHELLO. 

["  The  Tragoedy  of  Othello,  The  Moore  of  Venice.  As  it  hatfl 
beene  diuerse  times  acted  at  the  Globe,  and  at  the  Black- 
Friers,  by  his  Maiesties  Seruants.  Written  by  William 
Shakespeare.  London,  Printed  by  N.  0.  for  Thomas 
Walkley,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop,  at  the  Eagle  and 
Child,  in  Brittans  Bursse.  1622."  4to.  48  leaves,  irregu- 
larly paged. 

"  The  Tragedie  of  Othello,  the  Moore  of  Venice,"  occupies 
thirty  pages  in  the  folio  of  1623  ;  viz.  from  p.  310  to  p.  889 
inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Tragedies  :"  it  is  there,  as  ir 
the  three  later  folios,  divided  into  Acts  and  Scenes,  and  or 
the  last  page  is  a  list  of  the  characters,  headed,  "  The  Namw 
of  the  Actors." 


CXll 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


Bt  the  subsequent  extract  fVom  "  The  Egerton  Papers," 
printed  by  the  Camden  Society,  (p.  848)  it  appears  that 
'•  Olhello  "  was  actea  for  the  entertainment  of  Queen  Eliza- 
oeth,  at  the  residence  of  Lord  Elle-sinere  (then  Sir  Thomas 
^Jre^ton,  Lord  Keeper  of  tlie  Great  Seal)  at  Harefield,  in  the 
Useinning  of  Ausiiist,  1602  : — 

«"t!  August  1602.  Re\rards  to  the  Vaultcrs,  players,  and 
dauncers.  Of  tliis  x"  to  Burbidge's  players  for  Othello, 
briiii"  xviiii'  x*." 

Tlie  part  of  the  memorandum  which  relates  to  "  Othello  " 
m  interlined,  as  if  added  afterwards;  but  thus  we  find  de- 
cisively, that  this  trasredy  was  in  being  in  the  summer  of 
ISOS  ;  iinl  the  probability"  is,  that  it  was  selected  for  perform- 
ance because  it  was  a  new  play,  having  been  brougnt  out  at 
'.he  Globe  theatre  in  the  spring  of  that  year.* 

The  incidents,  with  some  variation,  are  to  be  found  in 
Cinthio's  IT(cat/>mTnithi,  where  the  novel  is  tlie  seventh  of  the 
third  Decad,  and  it  bears  the  following  explanatory  title  in  the 
Monte  Regale  eilition  of  1565 : — "  Un  Capitano  Moro  piglia 
per  mosjliera  una  cittadina  Venetiana  :  un  suo  Altieri  I'aecusa 
di  adulterioal  marito;  cerca  che  I'Alfieri  uceida  colui  ch'egli 
credea  I'adiiltero:  il  Capitano  uccide  la  moslie.  e  acensato 
dallo  Alfieri,  non  confessa  il  Moro,  ma  essendovi  cliiari  inditii 
i  bandito ;  et  lo  scelerato  Alfieri,  credendo  nnocere  ad  altri, 
procaccia  k  se  la  niortc  niiseramente."  This  novel  was  early 
translated  into  French,  and  in  all  probability  into  English, 
bat  no  such  version  has  descended  to  us.  Our  great  drama- 
tist may  indeed  have  read  tlie  story  in  the  original  language; 
and  it  is  hiehly  probable  that  he  was  suflBciently  acquainted 
with  Italian  for  the  purpose.  Hence  he  took  only  the  name 
of  Desdemona. 

We  have  seen,  by  the  quotation  from  "The  Egerton 
Papers,"  that  the  company  by  which  "  Othello  "  was  per- 
formed at  Harefield  was  called  "Burbidge's  players;"  and 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  the  leading  actor  of  the 
oimpany,  and  thereby  in  the  account  gave  his  name  to  the 
a.ssociation,  though  properly  denominated  the  Lord  Chamber- 
Iain's  Servants.  Richard  Eurbage  was  the  original  actor  of 
the  part  of  OtlH?llo,  as  we  learn  from  an  elegy  upon  his  death, 
•imone  the  late  Mr.  Heber's  manuscripts.  To  the  same  fact 
we  may  quote  the  concluding  stanza  of  a  ballad,  on  the  inci- 
dents of  "Othello,"  written  after  tlie  death  of  Burbage,  which 
oas  also  come  down  to  us  in  manuscript : — 

"  Dick  Burbage.  that  most  famous  man. 

That  actor  without  peer. 
With  this  same  part  his  course  began, 

And  kept  it  many  a  year. 
Shakespeare  was  fortunate.  I  trow, 

That  sach  an  actor  had  : 
If  we  had  but  his  equal  now. 

For  one  I  should  be  glad." 

The  writer  spoke  at  random,  when  he  asserted  that  Burbage 
oegan  his  career  with  Othello,  for  we  have  evidence  to  show 
that  he  was  an  actor  of  high  celebrity,  many  years  before 
Shakespeare's  "  Othello  "  was  written,  and  we"  have  no  proof 
that  there  was  any  older  play  upon  the  same  subject. 

There  are  two  "quarto  editions  of  "  Othello,"  one  bearing 
date  in  1622,  the  year  before  the  first  folio  of  *'  Mr.  William 
Sh.-ikespeare's  Comedies,  Histories,  and  Tragedies  "  appeared, 
and  the  other  printed  in  1630.  An  exact  copy  of  the  title-page 
of  the  anarto  of  1622,  will  be  found  in  the"  usual  place,  and 
that  published  in  1630  differs  only  in  the  imprint,  which  is 
"by  A.  M.  for  Richard  Hawkins,"  &c.  We  have  had  fre- 
quent occasion  in  our  notes  to  refer  to  this  impression,  which 
has,  indeed,  been  mentioned  by  the  commentators,  but  nothing 
like  Hufficienl  attention  has  been  paid  to  il.  Malone  summa- 
rily dismissed  it  as  "an  edition  of  no  authority,"  but  it  is 
very  clear  that  he  had  never  sufficiently  examined  it.  It  was 
unquestionably  printed  from  a  manuscript  different  from  tliat 
^sed  for  the  quarto  of  1622,  or  for  the  f<.lio  of  1623;  and  it 
presents  a  number  of  various  readings,  some  of  which  sineu- 
Jariy  illustrate  the  original  text  of"  Othello."  Of  this  fact  it 
may  be  fit  here  to  8Up[>ly  some  proof. 

Iq  Act  iii.  sc.  8,  a  j>iis3.age  occurs  in  the  folio  of  1623,  which 
is  not  eontained  in  the  quarto  of  1622,  and  which  runs  thus 
iMperfeci;^  ii.  the  folio  : — 

"  Like  to  the  Pontick  lea, 

WlioM  icy  current  and  corapuliiTe  conrse 
Ne'er  keepi  retiring  ebb.  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontick  and  the  Hellespont,"  ic. 

It  will  not  be  disputed  that  "  Ne'er  ke^ps  retinng  ebb  " 

'It  appears  from  Mr.  P.  Cunningham's  "  KxtracU  from  the 
A'-'-oorls  of  the  Rerels  at  Court,"  (^printed  for  the  Shakespeare  Societvl 
r.  ««,  that  aplay.  called  •  The  .Moor  of  "Venis,"  no  doubt.  ■•  Olhello,'' 
»»*  act:d  at  'whitoh.\ll  on  .Nov.  1,  1601.     Tu^  Tigedy  seems  to  have 


must  be  wrong,  the  compositor  of  the  folio  having  caught 
"  keeps  "  from  the  later  portion  of  tlie  same  line.  In  Pope')^ 
edition,  "feels"  was  substituted  for  Irfpn.  and  the  word  haa 
1  since  usually  continued  in  the  text,  with  Malone's  -ote,  ''t'.ie 
j  correction  was  made  by  Mr.  Pope."  The  truth  is,  that  Pope 
I  was  right  in  his  conjecture  as  to  the  misprinted  word,  for  in 
the  quarto  of  1630,  which  Malone  could  not  have  consulted, 
but  which  he  nevertheless  pronounced  "  of  no  authority,"  the 
ptussage  stands  thus  : — 


'  Like  to  the  Pontick  sea. 


Whose  icy  current,  and  compuliive  course 
Ne'eryef/s  retiring  ebb,"  ice. 

If  Malone  had  looked  at  the  (juarto  of  1630,  he  would  have 
seen  that  Pope  had  been  anticipated  in  his  proposed  emen- 
dation about  a  hundred  years ;  and  that  in  the  mannscript 
from  which  the  quarto  of  1630  was  printed,  the  true  word 
was  "fee's,"  and  not  leepg,  a.-<  it  was  misprinted  in  the  folic 
of  1623.  We  will  take  an  instance,  only  six  lines  earlier  in 
the  same  scene,  to  show  the  value  of  the  quarto  of  1630,  in 
supportine  the  quarto  of  1622,  and  in  correcting  the  folio  of 
1623.     Othello  exclaims,  as  we  find  the  words  in  the  folio, 

"Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  the  hollow  hell," 
a  line  which  has  been  generally  thus  printed,  adopting  the 
text  of  the  quarto  of  1622  :— 

"Arise,  black  vengeance,  Crom  thy  hollow  cell ;" 

and  these  are  exactly  the  words  in  the  quarto  of  1630,  although 
it  can  be  established  that  it  was  printed,  not  from  the  quarto 
of  1622.  nor  from  the  f  ilio  of  1623,  but  from  a  manuscript 
which  in  many  places  differed  materially  frotn  both,  and  in 
some  few  supplied  a  text  inferior  to  both".  It  is  not  necessar>- 
to  pursue  this  point  farther,  especially  as  our  brief  notea 
abundantly  establish  that  the  quarto  of  1630,  instead  of  being 
"  of  no  atithority,"  is  of  great  value,  with  reference  to  the 
tpje  reading  of  some  important  passages. 

Walkley,  the  publisher  of  the  quarto  of  1622,  thus  entered 
that  edition  on  the  Stationers'  Registers,  shortly  previous  to 
its  appearance  :— 

"6  Oct.  1621. 

Tho.  Walkley]  Entered  for  his,  to  wit,  under  the 
handes  of  Sir'George  Buck  and  of  the  Wardens: 
The  Tragedie  of  Othello,  the  Moore  of  Venice." 
It  is  perhaps  not  too  much  to  presume,  that  this  impression, 
though  dated  1622,  had  come  out  at  the  close  of  1621;  and 
that  it  preceded  the  folio  of  1623  is  very  obvious,  from  the 
fact,  that  "Othello"  was  not  included  in  their  list  by  Blun'. 
and  Jasrgard,  the  publij^hers  of  the  folio  of  1628,  because  they 
were  aware  that  it  had  already  been  printed,  and  that  it  had 
been  entered  as  the  property  of  another  bookseller.  The 
quarto  of  1622  was  preceded  by  the  following  address: — 

"The  Stationer  to  the  Reader. 

"To  set  forth  a  book  without  an  epistle  were  like  to  the 
old  Enfflish  proverb,  'A  blue  coat  without  a  badge ;'  and 
the  author  being  dead,  I  thought  trood  to  take  that  piece  of 
work  upon  me.  To  commend  it  I  will  not — for  that  whicli 
is  good,  I  hope  -^very  man  will  commend  without  entreaty  ; 
and  I  am  the  bolder,'  because  the  author's  name  is  sufficient 
to  vent  his  work.  Thus  leaving  every  one  to  the  liberty  of 
judgment,  I  have  ventured  to  print  this  play,  and  leave  it 
to  the  general  censure.  Yours,  Thomas  Walkley." 

The  publishers  of  the  folio  of  1623,  perhaps  purchased 
Walkley's  interest  in  "  Othello." 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATTvA. 

["  The  Tragedie  of  Anthonie  and  Cleopatra"  occupies  twenty 

nine  pages  in  the  folio  of  1623  ;  viz,  from  p.  340  to  p.  8«*- 

inclusive,  in  the  division  of  "  Tragedies.''     Although  a*. 

the  beginning  it  has  Actus  Primus.  Scana  Prima,   it  !« 

not  divided   into  acts  and   scenes,  nor  is  the  defect  cure'^ 

in  any  of  the  subsequent  folio  impressions  of  1632,  1664, 

and  1685.    They  are  all  without  any  list  of  characters.] 

Wb  are  without  any  record  that  "Antony  and  Cleopatra" 

was  ever  performed, ;  and  when  in  Act  ▼.  sc.  2,  the  heroine 

anticipates  that  "  some  squeaking  Cleopatra"  will  "  boy  hei 

greatness  "  on  the  stage,  Shakespeare  seems  to  hint  that  n*- 

young  male   performer  would  be  able   to   sustain  the  part 

without  exciting  rii.icule.     However,  the  same  remark  will, 

been  always  so  popular  as  to  remain  what  is  tewned  "  a  stock  piece  : 
and  it  was  performed  again  before  King  Charles  and  his  Q-je«D  ai 
Hampton  Court  on  Dec.  6,  1636.    Ibid.     Introd.  p.  xxt 


ii^TRODUCTION  TO  THE  PLAYS. 


more  or  less,  apply  to  many  of  hia  other  female  characters  ; 
and  tlie  wonder,  of  course,  is,  how  so  much  delicacy,  tender- 
ness, and  beauty  could  be  infused  into  parts  which  the  poet 
knew  must  be 'represented  by  beardless  and  crack-voiced 
boys. 

The  period  of  the  year  at  which  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra  " 
was  entered  on  the  'Stationers'  Kegisters  might  lead  to  the 
inference,  that,  having  been  written  late  in  1607,  it  was 
brouarht  out  at  the  Globe  in  the  spring  of  1603,  and  that  Ed- 
ward Blunt  (one  of  the  publishers  ot  the  folio  of  1623)  thus 
put  in  his  claim  to  the  publication  of  the  tragedy,  if  he  could 
procure  &  manuscript  of  it.  The  memorandum  bears  date 
on  the  20th  May,  1608,  and  the  piece  is  stated  to  be  "  a  book" 
called  "Anthony  and  Cleopatra."  Perhaps  Blunt  was  un- 
able to  obtain  a  copy  of  it,  and,  as  far  as  we  now  know,  it 
was  printed  for  the  first  time  in  the  folio  of  1628. 

It  does  not  appear  that  there  was  any  preceding  drama  on 
the  story,  with  the  exception  of  the  "  Cleopatra  "  of  Samuel 
Daniel,  originally  published  in  1594,  to  which  Shakespeare 
was  clearly  under  no  obligation.  Any  slight  resemblance 
between  the  two  is  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact,  that  both 
poets  resorted  to  the  same  authority  for  their  materials— Plu- 
tarch—who>e  "  Lives  "  had  been  translated  by  Sir  T.  North 
m  1579.  The  minuteness  with  which  Shakespeare  adhered 
to  history  is  more  remarkable  in  this  drama  than  in  any  other; 
and  sometimes  the  most  trifling  circumstances  are  artfully, 
but  still  most  naturally,  interwoven.  Shakespeare's  use  of 
history  in  "Antony  and  Cleopatra"  may  be  contrasted  with 
Ben  j'onson's  subjection  to  it  in  "  Sejanus." 

"Of  all  Shakespeare's  historical  plays  (say»  Coleridge) 
'  Antony  and  Cleopatra '  is  by  far  the  most  wonderful.  There 
is  not  one  in  which  he  has  followed  history  so  minutely,  and 
yet  there  are  few  in  which  he  impresses  the  notion  of  angelic 
strength  so  much — perhaps  none  in  which  he  impresses  it 
more  strongly.  This  is  greatly  owing  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  fiery  force  is  sustained  throughout,  and  to  the  numerous 
momentary  flashes  of  nature,  counteracting  the  historic  ab- 
Btraction."     (Lit.  Rem.  vol.  ii.  p.  143.) 


CTMBELmE. 

["The  Tragedie  of  Cymbeline"  was  first  printed  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  where  it  stands  last  in  the  division  of  "Trage- 
dies," and  occupies  thirty-one  pages ;  viz.  from  p.  369  to 
p.  399,  misprinted  p.  993."  There  is  another  error  in  the 
pagination,  as  p.  379  is  numbered  p.  ^°°      t^v<-.oo  o^-^-o 


Those  errors 


are  corrected  in  the  three  later  folios. 


The  materials  in  Holinshed  for  the  historical  portion  of  "  Cym- 
beline "  are  so  imperfect  and  scanty,  that  a  belief  may  be 
entertained  that  Shakespeare  resorted  to  some  other  more 
tertile  source,  which  the  most  diligent  inquiries  have  yet 
fulled  to  discover.  The  names  of  Cymbeline  and  of  his  sons, 
Guiderius  and  Arviragus,  occur 'in  the  old  Chronicle,  and 
there  we  hear  of  the  tribute  demanded  by  the  Roman  em- 
peror, but  nothing  is  said  of  the  stealing  of  the  two  young 
princes,  nor  of  their  residence  with  Bellarius  among  the 
mountains,  and  final  restoration  to  their  father. 

All  that  relates  to  Posthumus,  Imogen,  and  lachimo  is 
merely  fabulous,  and  some  of  the  chief  incidents  of  this  part 
of  the  plot  are  to  be  found  in  French,  Italian,  and  English. 
We  will  speak  of  them  separately. 

They  had  been  employed  for  a' dramatic  purpose  in  France 
at  an  early  date,  in  a  Mi'racle-play,  printed  in  1839  by  Messrs. 
Monmerqu6  and  Michel,  in  their  Theatre  Francois  au  Moyen- 
age,  from  a  manuscript  in  the  Bibliotheque  du  Roi.  In  that 
piece,  mixed  up  with  many  romantic  circumsiances,  we  find 
the  wager  on  the  chastity  of  the  heroine,  her  flight  in  the 
disguise  of  a  page,  the  proof  of  her  innocence,  and  her  final 
restoration  to  her  husband.  There  also  we  meet  with  two 
ciroumstanees,  introduced  into  Shakespeare's  "  Cymbeline," 
but  not  contained  in  any  other  version  of  the  story  with 
which  we  are  acquainted :  we  allude  to  the  boast  of  Beren- 
gier  (the  lachimo  of  the  French  Drama),  that  if  he  were  allow- 
ed the  ipportunity  of  speaking  to  the  heroine  but  twice,  he 
should  be  able  to  accomplish  his  design :  lachimo  (Act  i. 
me.  5)  makes  the  same  declaration.  Again,  in  the  French 
Nliracle-play,  Berengier  takes  exactly  Shakespeare's  mode 
of  assailing  the  virtue  of  Imogen,  by  exciting  her  anger  and 
jealousy  by  pretending  that  her  husband,  in  Rome,  had  set 
her  the  example  of  infidelity.  Incidents  soniewhat  similar 
are  narrated  in  the  French  romances  of  La  Violette,  and  Flore 
etjehanne:  in  the  latter,  the  villain,  being  secretly  admitted 
by  an  old  woman  into  the  bed-room  of  the  heroine,  has  the 
means  of  ascertaining  a  particular  mark  upon  her  person 
while  she  is  bathing. 


The  novel  by  Boccaccio  lias  many  corresponding  features 
it  is  the  ninth  of  G-i&rnata  IL,  and  bears  the  following  title; 
"  Bernabo  da  Geneva,  da  Ambrogiiiolo  ingannato,  perde  i. 
Ruo,  e  comanda  che  la  moglie  innocente  sia  uceisa.  Ella 
scampa,  et  in  habito  di  huomo  serve  il  Soldano ;  ritrova  I'in- 
gannatore,  e  Bernabo  conduce  in  Alessandria,  dove  I'ingan- 
natore  punito,  ripreso  habito  feminile  col  marito  ricchi  si 
tornano  a  Geneva."  This  tale  includes  one  circumstance 
only  found  there  and  in  Shakespeare's  play :  we  allude  to 
the  mole  which  lachimo  saw  on  the  breast  of  Imogen.  The 
partiefi  are  all  merchants  in  Boccaccio,  excepting  towards  the 
close  of  his  novel,  where  the  Soklau  is  introduced  :  the  vil- 
lain, instead  of  being  forgiven,  is  punished  by  being  anointed 
with  honey,  and  exposed  in  the  sun  to  flies,  wasps,  and  mos- 
quitoes, which  eat  the  flesh  from  his  bones. 

A  modification  of  this  production  seems  to  have  found  its 
way  into  our  language  at  the  commencement  of  the  seven 
teenth  century.  Steevens  states  that  it  was  printed  in  1603, 
and  again  in  1620,  in  a  tract  called  "  Westward  for  Smelts." 
If  there  be  no  error  as  to  the  date,  the  edition  of  1603  has 
been  lost,  for  no  copy  of  that  year  now  seems  to  exist  in  any 
public  or  private  collection.  Mr.  Halliwell,  in  his  reprint  of 
The  First  Sketch  of  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  (f-w 
the  Shakespeare  Society)  p.  135,  has  expressed  his  opinion 
that  Steevens  must  have  oeen  mistaken,  and  that  '■  West- 
ward for  Smelts"  was  not  published  until  1620:  only  one 
copy  even  of  this  impressio'n  isknowni;  and  if,  in  fact,  it 
were  not,  as  Steevens  bupposes,  a  reprint,  of  course  Shake- 
speare could  not  have  resorted  to  it :  however,  he  might, 
without  much  difliculty,  have  gone  to  the  original;  or  some 
version  may  then  have  been  in  existence,  of  which  he  availed 
himself,  but  which  has  not  come  down  to  our  day.  The  inci- 
dents in  "Westward  for  Smelts"  are  completely  anglicised, 
and  the  scene  is  laid  in  this  country  in  the  reigns  of  Eenry  VI. 
and  Edward  IV.  In  the  French  and  Italian  versions,  lachimo 
(or  the  person  answering  to  him)  is  conveyed  to  Imogen's 
chamber  in  a  chest,  but  in  "  Westward  for  ^Smelts,"  where 
the  tale  is  in  other  respects  vulgarised,  he  conceals  himself 
under  her  bed. 

Some  German  critics,  whose  opinions  are  often  entitled  to 
the  most  respectful  consideration,  have  supposed  that  "Cym- 
beline" was  written  in  1614  or  1615,  not  adverting  to  the 
circumstance  that  Shakespeare  had  then  relinquished  all  con- 
nection with  the  stage,  and  had  retired  from  the  metropolis. 
Malone  thought  that  1609  was  the  year  which  could  be  most 
probably  fixed  upon  ;  and  although  we  do  not  adopt  his  rea- 
soning upon  the  point,  we  are  strongly  inclined  to  believe 
that  this  drama  was  not,  at  all  events,  written  at  an  earlier 
period.  Forman,  the  astrologer,  was  present  when  "  Cymbe- 
line" was  acted— most  likely,  in  1610  or  1611— but  he  does 
not  in  his  Diary  insert  the  date  when,  nor  the  theatre  where, 
he  saw  it.  His  brief  account  of  the  plot,  in  his  "  Booke  of 
Plaies  and  Notes  thereof"  (MS.  Ashmol.  No.  208),  is  in  the 
following  terms: — 

"  Remember,  also,  the  story  of  Cymbeline,  king  of  England  in 
Lucius'  time  :  how  Lucius  came  from  Octavius  Cfesar  for  tribute, 
and  being  denied,  after  sent  Lucius  with  a  great  array  of  soldiers, 
who  landed  at  Milford  Haven,  and  after  were  vanquished  by  Cymbe- 
line, and  Lucius  taken  prisoner;  and  all  by  means  of  three  outlaws, 
of  the  which  two  of  them  were  the  sons  of  Cymbeline,  stolen  from 
him  when  they  were  but  two  years  old,  by  an  old  man  whom  Cym- 
beline banished  ;  and  he  kept  them  as  his  own  sons  twenty  year? 
with  him  in  a  cave.  And  how  one  of  them  slew  Cloten,_  that  was 
the  queen's  son,  going  to  Milford  Haven  to  seek  the  love  of  Imogen 
the  king's  daughter,  whom  he  had  banished  also  for  loving  hi 
daughter. 

"And  how  the  Italian  that  came  from  her  love  conveyed  himseu 
into  a  chest,  and  said  it  was  a  chest  of  plate,  sent  from  her  love  and 
others  to  be  presented  to  the  king.  And  in  the  deepest  of  the  night, 
she  being  asleep,  he  opened  the  chest  and  came  forth  of  it,  and  view- 
ed her  in  her  bed,  and  the  marks  of  her  body,  and  took  away  her 
bracelet,  and  after  accused  her  of  adultery  to  her  love,  &c.  And  in 
the  end,  how  he  came  with  the  Romans  into  England,  and  waj 
taken  prisoner,  and  after  revealed  to  Imogen,  who  had  turned  herself 
into  man's  apparel,  and  fled  to  meet  her  love  at  JNlilford  Haven  ;  and 
chanced  to  fall  on  the  cave  Ih  the  woods  where  her  two  brothen 
were  :  and  how  by  eating  a  sleeping  dram  they  thought  she  had 
been  dead,  and  laid  her  in  the  woods,  and  the  body  of  Cloten  by  her. 
in  her  love's  apparel  that  he  left  behind  him,  and  how  she  was  found 
by  Lucius,"  &c. 

We  have  certainly  no  right  to  conclude  that  "  Cymbeline  " 
was  a  new  piece  wKen  Forman  witnessed  the  performance  of 
it  ;  but  various  critics  have  concurred  in  the  opinion  (which 
we  ourselves  entertain)  that  in  style  and  versification  it  re- 
sembles "  The  Winter's  Tale,"  and  that  the  two  dramas 
belong  to  about  the  same  period  of  the  poet's  life.     Format 

»  Among  Capell's  bcjks,  which  he  gave  to  Trinity  College,  Cam 
bridge,  and  which  are  there  preserved  with  care  pr«  porticnat*  to  theu 
value  ' 


mTRODUCnON  TO  THE  FLAYS. 


•aw  "  The  Winter's  Tale  "  on  17lh  MuT,  1611,  and,  perhaps, 
he  saw  "  Cyuibelino  "  at  the  Globe  in  the  xyrmg  of  the  pre- 
c«dinjr  year!  However,  upor.  this  point,  wc  Iinve  no  evidence 
to  f  uide  UH,  beyond  the  mere  mention  of  the  play  and  its 
inchlentfl  in  Forman's  Uiary.  That  it  was  acted  iit  court  at 
an  early  date  is  more  than  p'robnble,  but  we  are  n  itliout  any 
record  of  such  an  event  until  let  January,  1633  (Vide  Hist, 
of  Engl.  Dram,  poetry  and  the  Suxge,  voi.  ii.  p.  57) ;  under 
which  date  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  the  Master  of  the  Eevels. 
-egisters  that  it  was  performed  by  the  King's  Players,  and 
•hat  it  was  "  well  liked  by  the  King'."  The  particular  allusion 
in  Act  ii.  sc  4,  to  "  proud  Cleopatra"  on  the  Cydnus,  which 
"swcird  above  his  banks,"  might  lead  us  to  think  that 
"  Antony  and  Cli;oi>atra"  had  preceded  "  Cymbeline." 

It  ie  the  last  of  tlie  "  Trafredies  "  in  the  folio  of  1623,  and 
we  have  reason  tp  suppose  that  it  had  not  been  printed  at  any 
earlier  date.  The  divisions  of  act.s  and  scenes  are  throughout 
regularly  marked. 


PEKu:Lji;S,  PKIXCE  of  TYTiE. 

I"  The  liite,  And  much  admired  Play,  called  Pericles,  Prince 
of  Tyre.  AVith  the  true  Relation  of  the  whole  Historie, 
aduentures,  and  fortunes  of  the  said  Prince  :  As  also,  The 
no  lesse  strange,  and  worthy  accidents,  in  the  Birth  and 
Life,  of  his  Daughter  Mariana.  As  it  hath  been  diners  and 
•nndry  times  acted  by  his  Maiesties  Seruants,  at  the  Globe 
on  the  Biinck-side.  By  Willinm  Shakespeare.  Itnpriuted 
at  Loudon  for  Henry  Gosson,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  signe 
of  the  Sunne  in  P'ater-noster  row,  &c.  1609."  4to.  85 
leaves. 

"The  late.  And  much  admired  Play,  called  Pericles,  Prince 
of  Tyre.  With  the  true  Kelation  of  the  whole  History, 
aduentures,  and  fortunes  of  the  saide  Prince.  Written  by 
W.Shakespeare.    Printed  for  T.  P.    1619."    4to.    34  leaves. 

"The  late,  And  much  admired  Play,  called  Pericles,  Prince 
of  Tyre.  With  the  true  Relatioii  of  the  whole  History, 
aduentures,  iind  fortunes  of  the  sayd  Prince :  Written  by 
Will.  Shakesiit-are  :  London,  Printed  by  1.  N.  for  R.  B.  and 
are  to  be  sonld  at  his  shop  in  Cheapside,  at  the  signe  of  the 
Bible..    1630."    4to.     S4  leaves. 

In  the  folio  of  1664,  the  followiu?  is  the  heading  of  the  page 
on  which  the  play  begins:  "The  much  admired  Play, 
called,  Pericles.  Prince  of  Tyre.  With  the  true  Relation 
of  the  whole  Hi^tory,  Adventures,  and  Fortunes  of  the  said 
Prinoe.  Written  by  W.  Shakespeare,  and  published  in  his 
life  time."  It  .  ccupies  twenty-pages  ;  viz.  from  p.  1  to  p. 
20,  inclusive,  a  new  pagination  of  tlie  volume  commencing 
with  "  Pericles."  It  is  there  divided  into  Acts,  but  irregu- 
larly, and  the  Scenes  are  not  marked.] 

Tub  first  question  to  be  settled  in  relation  to  "  Pericles,"  is 
it"  title  to  a  place  among  the  collected  works  of  Shakespeare. 

There  is  so  marked  a  character  about  every  thing  that  pro- 
.:eeded  from  the  j.cn  of  our  great  dramatist,— his  mode  of 
thought,  and  his  style  of  expression,  are  so  unlike  those  of 
wiy  of  his  contemporaries,  that  they  can  never  be  mistaken. 
They  are  clearly  visible  in  all  the  later  portion  of  the  play ; 
and  so  indisputable  docs  this  fact  appear  to  us,  that,  we  co'n- 
fl'lently  assert,  however  strong  may  be  the  external  evidence 
U)  the  same  point,  the  internal  evidence  is  infinitely  stronger: 
w  those  who  have  studied  his  works  it  will  seem  incontro- 
vertible. As  we  do  not  rely  merely  upon  particular  expres- 
sions, nor  upon  separate  j.assages,  but  upon  the  general 
eomfilexion  of  whole  scenes  and  acts,  it  is  obvious,  that  we 
oaRnit  here  enter  into  proofs,  which  would  require  the  re- 
onpi  eosion  of  man  v  of  the  succeeding  pases. 

A:i  opinion  hius  long  prevailed,  and  we  have  no  doubt  it  is 
well  founded,  that  two  hands  are  to  be  traced  in  the  composi- 
tion of  "  Pei-icles."  The  larger  part  of  the  tirst  three  Acts 
were  in  all  prohebility  the  work  of  an  inferior  dramatist:  to 
these  Shakespeare  added  comparatively  little;  but  he  found 
it  necessary,  as  the  story  advanced  and  as  the  interest  in- 
crea!*ed,  to  insert  more  of  his  own  composition.  His  hand 
begins  to  be  distinctly  seen  in  the  third  Act,  and  afterwards 

'  By  a  lilt  of  theatrical  apparel,  formerly  beloncinp  to  Allevn,  and 
presenrel  at  Dulwich  College,  it  appears  that  he  had  probabiy  acted 
in  a  pUy  called  •  IVncles."  See  "  Memoire  of  Edward  Alleyn," 
'"J."*f''o  *■  ""*  •"^hakenpeare  Society,  p.  21.  This  might  be  the  play 
»hieh  Shakecpeare  altered  and  improved. 

>  It  Mem*  that  ■  Pericles  "  was  reprinted  under  the  same  circum- 
stances in  161 1 .  I  have  never  been  able  to  meet  with  a  copy  of  this 
•dition,  and  doubted  its  existence,  until  Mr.  Halliwell  pointed  it  oat 
]»  me.  in  a  sale  catalogue  in  WM  :  it  purported  to  have  been  '•  printed 
far  8.  8.  This  fact  would  show,  that  Shakespeare  did  not  then  con- 
lUtei  the  T»:terated  awertion    that  he  wa-  the  author  of  the  play 


we  feel  persuaded  that  we  coald  extract  nearly  every  line  tliat 
was  not  dictated  by  his  great  intellect.  We  apprehend  that 
Shakespeare  found  a  drama  on  the  story  in  the  possession  of 
one  of  the  companies  performing  in  London,  and  that,  in 
accordance  with  the  ordinary  practice  of  the  time,  he  made 
additions  to  and  improvements  in  it,  and  procured  it  to  be 
represented  at  the  Globe  theatre*.  Who  might  he  the  author 
of  the  original  piece,  it  would  be  in  vain  to  conjecture. 
Although  we  have  no  decisive  proof  that  Shakespeare  evei 
worked  in  immediate  concert  with  any  of  his  contemporaries, 
it  was  the  custom  with  nearly  all  the  dramatists  of  his  day, 
and  it  is  not  impossible  that  such  was  the  case  with  "  Pericles."' 

The  circumstance  that  it  was  a  joint  production,  may  partly 
account  for  the  non-appearance  of  "  Pericles"  in  the  folio  of 
1628.  Ben  Jonson,  when  printing  the  volume  of  his  Worka. 
in  1616,  excluded  for  this  reason  •'  The  Case  is  Altered,"  and 
"Eastward  Ho!"  in  the  composition  of  which  he  had  beep 
engaged  with  others;  and  when  the  player-editors  of  the  folio 
of  1623  were  collecting  their  materials,  they  perhaps  omitted 
"  Pericles  "  because  some  living  author  might  have  an  interest 
in  it.  Of  course  we  only  advance  this  point  as  a  mere  spect- 
lation ;  and  the  fact  that  the  publishers  of  the  folio  ot  1628 
could  not  purchase  the  right  of  the  bookseller,  who  had  then 
the  property  in  "  Pericles,"  may  have  been  the  real  cause  of 
Its  non-insertion. 

The  Registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company  show  that  on  the 
20th  May.  1608,  Edward  Blount  (one  of  the"  proprietors  of  the 
folio  of  1623)  entered  "  The  booke  of  P.rieles,  Prynoe  of 
Tyre,"  with  one  of  the  undoubted  works  of  Shakespeare, 
"  Antony  and  Cleopatra."  Nevertheless,  "  Pericles  "  was  not 
published  by  Blount,  but  by  Gosson  in  the  following  year; 
and  we  may  infer,  either  that  Blount  sold  his  interest  to 
Gosson,  or  that  Gosson  anticipated  Blount  in  procuring  a 
manuscript  of  the  play.  Gosson  may  have  subsequently 
parted  with  "  Pericles  "  to  Thomas  Pavier,  and  hence  the 
re-impression  by  the  latter  in  1619. 

Having  thus  spoken  of  the  internal  evidence  of  authorship. 
and  of  the  possiole  reason  why  "  Pericles  "  was  not  included 
in  the  folio  of  1623,  we  will  now  advert  briefly  to  the  external 
evidence,  that  it  was  the  work  of  our  great  dramatist.  In 
the  first  place  it  was  printed  in  1609,  with  his  name  at  full 
length",  and  rendered  unusually  obvious,  on  the  title-page. 
The  answer,  of  course,  may  be  that  this  was  a  fraud,  and  that 
it  had  been  previously  committed  in  the  cases  of  the  first  part 
of  "Sir  John  Oldcistle,"  1600,  and  of  "The  Yorkshire 
Tragedy,"  1608.  It  is  undoubtedly  true,  that  Shakespeare's 
name  is  upon  those  title-pages;  but  we  know,  with  regard  to 
"Sir  John  Old  castle,"  that  the  original  title-page,  stating  it 
to  have  been  "Written  by  William  Shakespeare"  was  can- 
celled, no  doubt  at  the  instance  of  the  author  to  whom  it  wjis 
falsely  imputed  ;  and  as  to  "  The  Yorkshire  Tragedy,"  many 
persons  have  entertained  the  belief,  in  which  we  join,  thai 
fehakespeare  had  a  share  in  its  composition.  We  are  not  to 
forget  tnat,  in  the  year  preceding,  Nathaniel  Butter  had  made 
very  prominent  use  of  Shakespeare's  name,  for  the  sale  of 
three  impressions  of  "  King  Lear  ;"  and  that  in  the  very  year 
when  "Pericles"  came  out,  Thorpe  had  printed  a  collection 
of  scattered  poems,  recommending  them  to  notice  in  very 
large  capitals,  by  stating  emphatically  that  they  were  "Shake- 
speare's Sonnets." 

Confirmatory  of  what  precedes,  it  may  be  mentioned,  thai 
previously  to  the  insertion  of  "Pericles"  in  the  folio  of  1664, 
It  had  been  imputed  to  Shakespeare  by  S.  Shepherd,  in  his 
"  Times  displayed  in  Six  Sestiads,"  1646  ;  and  in  lines  by  J. 
Tatham,  prefixed  to  R.  Brome's  "Jovial  Crew,"  1652. 
Dryden  gave  it  to  Shakespeare  in  1675,  in  the  Prologue  to  C. 
Davenant's  "  Circe."  Thus,  as  far  as  stage  tradition  is  of 
value,  it  is  uniformly  in  favour  of  our  position ;  and  it  is 
moreover  to  be  observei,  that  until  comparatively  modern 
times  it  has  never  been  contradicted. 

The  incidents  of  "  Pericles  "  are  found  in  Lawrence  Twine'a 
translation  from  the  Ge^ta  Romanorum,  first  published  in 
1578,  under  the  title  of  "The  Patterne  of  Painfull  Adven- 
tures," in  which  the  three  chief  characters  are  not  named  a« 
in  Shakespeare,  but  are  called  Apollonius,  Lucina,  and 
Tharsia'.    This  novel  was  several  times  ret)rinted,  and  an 

'  The  novel  is  contained  in  a  work  called  "  Shakespeare's  Library," 
a<  well  as  Gower's  poetical  version  of  the  same  incidents,  extracted 
from  his  Confefsio  Amnntis  Hence  the  propriety  of  making  Govrei 
the  speaker  of  the  rarious  interlocutions  in  "'Pericles."  The  ongin 
of  the  ftory,  as  we  find  it  in  the  (iefla  Romanorum,  is  a  matter  of 
dispute  :  Belleforest  asserts  that  the  version  in  his  Hittoiref  Tta- 
giques  was  from  a  manuscript  tirt  du  Grec.  Not  long  since,  Mr. 
Thorpe  printed  an  Anclo  Saion  narrative  of  the  same  incidenl.«  :  and 
it  is  stated  to  exist  in  Latin  manu.ocriptsof  as  eailv  a  date  as  the  lentfc 
century. — -'Shakespeare's  Library,"  part  v.  p.  ii. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   THE   PLAYS. 


snlition  of  it  came  out  in  1607,  which  perhaps  was  the  year 
in  which  "  Pericles  "  was  first  represented  "  at  the  Globe  on 
the  Bank-side,"  as  is  stated  on  the  title-paere  of  the  earliest 
edition  in  1609.  The  drama  seems  to  liave  been  extremely 
popular,  but  the  nsnal  difficulty  bein^  experienced  by  book- 
bellers  in  obtaining  a  copy  of  it,  Nathaniel  Butter  probably 
employed  some  i>erson  to  attend  the  performance  at  the 
theatre,  and  with  the  aid  of  notes  there  taken,  and  of  Twine's 
version  of  the  stoiy,  (which,  as  we  remarked,  had  just  before 
been  reprinted)  to  compose  a  novel  out  of  the  incidents  of  the 
play  under  the  following  title  :  "  The  Painfull  Adventures  of 
Pericles  Prince  of  Tj're.  Being  the  true  History  of  the  Play 
of  Pericles,  as  it  was  lately  presented  by  the  worthy  and 
ancient  Poet  lohn  Gower.  At  London.  Printed  by  T.  P.  for 
Kat.  Butter.  1608."  It  has  also  a  wood-cut  of  Gower,  no 
doubt,  in  the  costume  he  wore  at  the  Globe. 

This  publication  is  valuable,  not  merely  because  it  is  the 
only  known  specimen  of  the  kind  of  that  date  in  ourlanguagre, 
but  because  thnugh  in  prose,  (with  the  exception  of  a  song) 
it  gives  someof  tt>e  speeches  more  at  length,  than  in  the  play 
as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  and  explains  several  obscure  and 
disputed  passages.  For  this  latter  purpose  it  will  be  seen 
'hat  we  have  availed  ourselves  of  it  in  our  notes ;  but  it  will 
not  be  out  of  place  here  to  speak  of  the  strong  presumptive 
evidence  it  aflFords,  that  the  drama  has  not  reached  us  by  any 
means  in  the  shape  in  which  it  was  originally  represented. 
The  subsequent  is  given,  in  the  novel  of  1608,  as  the  speech 
of  Marina,  when  she  is  visited  in  the  brotliel  by  Lysimachus, 
the  governor  of  Mitylene,  whom,  by  her  virtue,  beauty,  and 
eloquence,  she  diverts  from  the  purpose  for  wliick  he  came. 

"  If  as  you  sav,  my  lord,  yon  are  the  governor,  let  not  your  authority, 
which  should  teach  you  to  rule  others,  be  the  means  to  make  you 
misgovern  yourself.  If  the  eminence  of  your  place  came  unto  you  by 
descent,  and  the  royalty  of  your  blood,  let  not  your  life  prove  your 
birth  bastard  :  if  it  were  thrown  upon  you  by  opinion,  make  good 
that  opinion  was  the  cause  to  make  you  great.  What  reason  is  there 
ill  your  justice,  who  hath  power  over  all,  to  undo  any  ?  If  you  take 
ftom  me  mine  honour,  you  are  like  him  that  makes  a  gap  into  for- 
hiddfln  ground,  after  whom  many  enter,  and  you  are  guilty  of  all 
theii  evils  My  life  is  yet  unspotted,  my  chastity  unstained  in 
thought :  then,  if  your  violence  deface  this  building,  the  workman- 
sliip  of  heaven,  made  up  for  good,  and  not  to  be  the  exercise  of  sin's 
intemperance,  you  do  kill  your  own  honour,  abuse  your  own  justice, 
and  impoverish  me." 

Of  this  speech  in  the  printed  play  we  only  meet  with  the 
following  emphatic  germ : — 

"  If  yon  were  born  to  honour,  show  it  now  : 
If  put  upon  you,  make  the  judgment  good. 
That  thought  you  worthy  of  it."— (A.  iv.  sc.  6.) 

It  will  hardly  be  required  of  us  to  argue,  that  the  powerful 
aldress,  copied  from  the  novel  founded  upon  "Pericles," 
eonld  not  be  the  mere  enlargement  of  a  short-hand  writer, 
who  had  taken  notes  at  the  theatre,  who  from  the  very  diffi- 
culty of  the  operation,  and  from  the  haste  with  which  he 
must  afterwards  have  compounded  the  history,  would  be 
much  more  likely  to  abridge  than  to  expand.  In  some  parts 
of  the  novel  it  is  evident  that  the  prose,  there  used,  was  made 
np  from  the  blank-verse  composition  of  the  drama,  as  acted 
it  the  Globe.  In  the  latter  we  meet  with  no  passage  similar 
to  what  succeeds,  but  still  the  ease  with  which  it  may  be 
re  <^>iiverted  into  blank-verse  renders  it  almost  "«rt»iin  that 


[  it  was  so  originally.     Pericles  tells  Simonides,  in  the  po»el 
that 

"  His  blood  was  yet  untainted,  but  with  the  heat  got  by  tke  WTtsng 
the  king  had  offered  him,  and  that  he  boldly  durst  and  did  d»fy  nu» 
self,  his  subjects,  and  the  proudest  danger  that  either  .Tt&naf  m 
treason  could  inflict  upon  him." 

To  leave  out  only  two  or  three  expletives  renders  ths  sen- 
tence perfect  dramatic  blank-verse : — 

"  His  blood  was  yet  untainted,  but  with  heat 
Got  by  the  wrong  the  king  had  otTer'd  him  ; 
And  that  he  boldly  durst  and  did  defy  him, 
His  subjects,  and  the  proudest  dan;<er  that 
Or  tyranny  or  treason  could  intiici." 

Many  other  passages  to  the  same  end  mieht  be  produced 
from  the  novel  of  which  there  is  no  trace  in  the  play.  We 
shall  not,  however,  dwell  farther  upon  the  point,  than  to  men- 
tion a  peculiarly  Shakespearean  expression,  which  o:curs  in 
the  novel,  and  is  omitted  in  the  drama.  Lychorida  brings 
the  new-born  infant  to  Pericles,  who  in  tlie  printed  pla^ 
(Act  iii.  BC.  1)  says  to  it, 

"  thou'rt  the  rudeliest  welcome  to  this  world 

That  e'er  was  prince's  child.     Happy  what  follows  I 

Thou  hast  as  chiding  a  nativity. 

As  fire,  air,  water,  earth,  and  heaven  can  make.*" 

In  the  novel  founded  upon  the  play,  the  speech  is  thu> 
given,  and  we  have  printed  the  expression,  which,  we  think, 
mnst  liave  come  from  the  pen  of  Shakespeare,  in  italic  type : 

"  Poor  inch  of  nature.'  (quoth  he)  thou  art  as  rudely  welcome  te 
the  world,  as  ever  princess'  babe  was,  and  hast  as  chiding  a  nativity 
as  fire,  air,  earth  and  water  can  aiford  thee." 

The  existence  of  such  a  sinsrular  production  was  not  known 
to  any  of  the  commentators  ;  but  several  copies  of  it  have 
been  preserved,  and  one  of  them  was  sold  in  the  library  of 
the  late  Mr.  Heber. 

It  will  have  been  remarked,  that  the  novel  printed  in  1608 
states  that  "Pericles"  had  been  "  teteZy  presented,"  and  on 
the  title-page  of  the  edition  of  the  play  in  1609  it  is  termed 
"the  lat£  and  much-admired  Play  called  Pericles:"  it  is, 
besides,  spoken  of  as  "a  new  play,"  in  a  poetical  tract  ealled 
"  Pimlico  or  Kun  Red-cap,"  printed  in  1609.  Another  piece, 
called  "Shore,"  is  mentioned  in  "Pimlico,"  under  exactly 
similar  circumstances:  there  was  an  older  drama  upon  the 
story  of  June  Shore,  and  this,  like  "  Pericles,"  had,  in  all 
probability,  about  the  same  date  been  revived  at  one  of  the 
theatres,  with  additions. 

"Pericles"  was  five  times  printed  before  it  was  inserted 
in  the  folio  of  1664,  viz.  in  1609,  1611,  1619,  1630,  and  1685. 
The  folio  seems  to  have  been  copied  from  the  last  of  these, 
with  a  multiplication  of  errors,  but  with  some  corrections. 
The  first  edition  of  1609  was  obviously  brought  out  in  haste, 
and  there  are  many  corruptions  in  it;"  but  more  pains  were 
taken  with  it  than  Malone,  Steevens,  and  others  imagined  ■ 
they  never  compared  different  copies  of  the  same  edition,  of 
they  would  have  seen  that  the  impressions  vary  importantly, 
and  that  several  mistakes,  discovered  as  the  play  went  through 
the  press,  were  carefully  set  right :  these  will  be  found  point- 
ed out  in  our  notes.  The  commentators  dwelt  upon  the 
blunders  of  the  old  copies,  in  order  to  warrant  their  own 
extraordinary  innovations ;  but  wherever  we  couid  do  so, 
with  due  regard  to  the  sense  of  the  author  we  hr-^B  rct-lorec 
the  f««t  to  that  of  the  earliest  impression. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


DRAMATIS    PEESON^. 


A-LONSo.  King  of  Naples 

Sebastian,  his  Brother. 

Prospero.  the  right  Duke  of  Milan. 

AntoiVio,  his  Brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of 

Milan. 
Ferdinand,  Son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 
GoNZAi.o,  an  honest  old  Counsellor. 

^°^^^^'       }  Lords. 
Francisco,  j 

Caliban,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 

Trinculo,  a  Jester. 

SCENE,  a  Ship  at  Sea ;» 


Stephano,  a  drunken  Butler. 

Master  of  a  Ship,  BoatsN^  ain,  Mariners 

Miranda,  Daughter  to  Prospero. 

Ariel,  an  airy  Spirit. 

Iris,  "l 

Ceres, 

Juno,         I  Spirits. 

Nymphs, 

Reapers,  J 


Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 
afterwards  an  uninliabited  Island. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.— On  a  Ship  at  Sea. 

A.  tempestuous  noise  of  Thunder  and  Lightning  heard.' 

Enter  a  Ship-master  and  a  Boatswain,  as  an  ship-board, 

shaking  off  wet. ^ 

Master.  Boatswain  ! 

Boats.  Here,  master  :  what  cheer  ? 

Ma.'it.  Good.    Speak  to  the  mariners :  fall  to't  yarely,* 
or  we  run  ourselves  aground  :  bestir,  bestir.         [Exit. 
Enter  Marhiers. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts!  cheerly,  cheerly,  my 
-hearts!  yare.  yare.  Take  in  the  topsail;  tend  to  the 
master's  whistle. — Blow,  till  thou  burst  thy  wind,  if 
room  enough  ! 

Enter  Alonzo,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Ferdinand,  Gon- 
ZALO,  and  Others,  from  the  Cabin. ^ 

Alon.  Good  boatswain,  have  a"  care.  Where's  the 
master  ?     Play  the  men. 

Boats.  I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.  Where  is  the  master,  boatswain  ? 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him  ?  You  mar  our  labour. 
Keep  your  cabins :  you  do  assist  the  storm. 

Gon.  Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence  !  What  care  these 
roarers  for  the  name  of  king  ?  To  cabin :  silence  ! 
trouble  us  not. 

Gon.  Good ;  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast  aboard. 

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

Gon.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow  :  me- 
Ihinks,  he  hath  no  drowning  mark  upon  him ;  his  com 
plex?on  is  perfect  gallows.     Stand  fast,  good  fate,  to 


his  hanging :  make  the  rope  of  his  destiny  our  cable, 
for  our  own  doth  little  advantage.  If  he  be  not  bom 
to  be  hanged,  our  case  is  miserable.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Boatswain. 
Boats.  DowTi  with  the  top-mast :  yare  ;  lower,  lower 
Bring  her  to  try  with  main-course.     [A  cry  within.] 
A  plague  upon  this  howling  !  they  are  louder  than  th 
weather,  or  our  office. — 

Re-enter  Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  Gonzalo. 
Yet  again  !  what  do  you  here  ?    Shall  we  give  o'er,  and 
drowni  ?     Have  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Seb.  A  pox  o'  your  throat,  you  bawling,  blasphemous, 
incharitable  dog  ! 

Boats.  Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang  !  you  whoreson,  insolent  noise- 
maker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drowned  than  thou  art. 
Gon.  I'll   warrant  him  for  drov/ning;   though  the 
ship  were  no  stronger  than  a  nutshell,  and  as  leaky  as 
an  unstanched  wench. 

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

Enter  Mariners,  wet. 
Mar.  All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers  !  all  lost !  [Ex. 
Boats.  What  !  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ?        [them. 
Gon.  The  king  and  prince  at  prayers !  let  us  assirt 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 
Seb.  I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.  We  are  merely''  cheated  of  our  lives  by  drunk 
ards. 
This  wide-chapp'd  rascal, — would,  thou  might'st  li 

drowning. 
The  washing  of  ten  tides  ! 

Gon.  He'll  be  hanged  yet, 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it. 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut  him.     [A  confused  noise 

within.]     Mercy  on  us  ! — 
We  split,  we  split — Farewell,  my  wife  and  children  ! — 
Farewell,  brother  ! — We  split,  we  split,  we  split  - — 


'  Former  editions  :  the  sea  -vrith  a  ship, 
in  f.  p.     «  a  :  not  in  f.  e.     '  Absolutely. 
A 


*  beard  :  not  in  f.  e.     *  as  on  ship-board,  etc  i  not  in  f.  e.     *  Nimbly. 


from  the  cabin  ;  not 
1 


2 


THE    TEMPEST. 


Ant    Let's  all  sink  wth  the  king.  \Exit. 

Sch.  Lets  take  leave  ol"  hiin.  [Exit. 

Gem.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of  sea 
(br  an  acre  of  barren  ground  ;  loni;  liontli,  brown  furze, 
txiy  thiiig.  The  wills  above  bo  done  !  but  I  would 
fain  die  a  dry  death.  [Exit. 

St:KNK  II. — The  Island:  before  Ihe  cell  of  Prospkro. 
Enter  I'rosi'kro  and  Miranda. 

Mira.  If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them. 
The  sky.  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 
Hut  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  heat,' 
Oa.shes  the  tire  out.     O  !   I  have  suffer'd 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer  :  a  brave  vessel. 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures'  in  her, 
Da*h'd  ah  to  pieces.     O  !  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.     Poor  souls,  they  pcrish'd. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowM,  and 
The  Iraughting  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected: 

No  more  amazement.     Tell  your  piteous  heart, 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  0,  woe  tlie  day  ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

(  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
(Of  thee,  my  dear  one!  thee,  my  daughter!)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  P)0.«pero.  maister  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  farther.     Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So  : 

[Laijs  doivn  his  rohe.^ 
Lie  there  my  art. — Wipe  thou  thine  eyes ;  have  comfort. 
The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touch'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compa.ssion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  prevision*  in  mine  art 
So  safely  ordcr'd,  that  there  is  no  soul — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair. 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  ve.ssel 
Which  thou  heard'st  cry,  wluch  thou  saw'st  sink.     Sit 

do\Aii; 
For  thou  must  now  know  farther. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am;  but  stopp'd. 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition, 
Concluding,  "  Stay,  not  yet." 

Pro.  The  hour's  now  come, 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive,     ('anst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  ?        [Sits  dawn.' 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst,  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out  three  years  old. 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro    By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thins  thu  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

^tirn.  'Tis  far  off; 

And  rather  like  a  dream,  than  an  a!»,surancc 
Tliat  my  remembrance  warranLs.     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  rne  ? 

Pro.  Thou  hadat,  and  more,  Miranda.    But  how  is  it, 


That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time"!* 
If  thou  remembcr'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here. 
How  thou  cam'st  here,  thou  may"st. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not 

Pro.  Twelve  year  since,  Miranda,  twelve  year  siiiwj 
Thy  father  was  tlie  duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ' 

Pro.  Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She  said — Uiou  wast  my  daughter ;  and  thy  father 
Was  duke  of  Milan,  thou'  his  only  heir 
And  princess,  no  worse  issued. 

Mira.  0,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  \ve,  that  we  came  from  the&co? 
Or  blessed  was't,  we  did? 

Pro.  '  Both,  both,  my  girl : 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heav'd  thence ; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  0  !  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen'  that  I  have  turn"d  you  to, 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance.     Please  you,  farther 

Pro.  My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  calfd  Antonio,— 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious  ! — he  whom,  next  thyself, 
or  all  the  w^orld  I  lov'd,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as,  at  that  time, 
Through  all  the  signiories  it  was  the  first, 
(And  Prospero  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity)  and.  for  the  liberal  arts, 
Without  a  parallel  :  those  being  all  my  study, 
The  govermnent  I  cast  upon  my  brother. 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir.  most  heedfully. 

Pro.  Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits. 
How  to  deny  them,  whom  t' advance,  and  whom 
To  trash'  for  over-topping,  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine,  I  say,  or  chang'd  thein, 
Or  else  new  form'd  them  ;  having  both  the  key 
Of  otTiccr  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i'  the  state 
To  what  tune  plcas'd  his  ear :  that  now  he  wafi 
The  i^'y,  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk, 
And  suck'd  my  verdure  out  on't.     Thou  attend'st  not      I 

Mira.  0  good  sir !  I  do.  r 

Pro.  I  pray  thee,  mark  me.         ' 

I  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicated 
To  closeness,  aj\d  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which  but  by  being  so  retired 
O'cr-priz'd  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awak'd  an  evil  nature  :  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was  ;  which  had,  indeed,  no  I'mit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  loaded,* 
Not  only  with  what  my  revcnvfe  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact. — like  one, 
Who  having  to  untruth.'"  by  telling  of  it. 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  his  own  lie, — he  did  believe 
He  was  indeed  the  duke  ;  out  o'  the  substitution, 
And  executing  th'  outward  face  of  royalty. 
With  all  prerogative: — hence  his  ambition 
Growing — Dost  thou  hear? 

Mira.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  play'd. 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 


»  •bft«k  :  In  f  »«.      >  CTBatnre  :  in  f.  e.      »  mantle  :  in  t.  e.      •  pr 
taK  Mrra,  airnirying  to  b«a.t  bftck.    Soe  Othello,  II.,  1      •  lorded: 


ovjgion  :  in  f.  e.      »  Not  in  {.  e. 
f  e      >•  UDto  truth  :  in  f  e 


BCte'iE  n. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


Absolute  Milan.     Me,  poor  man  ! — my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough  :  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable ;  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  with  the  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage, 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow'd,  (alas,  poor  Milan  !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  0  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.  Mark  his  condition,  and  th'  event;  then  tell  me, 
[f  this  might  be  a  brother. 

3Iira.  I  should  sin 

fo  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 
Good  wombs  have  bonie  bad  sons. 

Pr^  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 
Which  was,  that  he  in  lieu  o'  the  premises, — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute, — 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom,  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother  :  whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight. 
Fated  to  the  practise,'  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan  ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness. 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me.  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again  :  it  is  a  hint, 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to 't. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  farther. 

And  then  I'll  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now  's  upon  's  ;  without  the  which  this  story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench  : 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not, 
So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me,  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business  ;  but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark, 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea,  where  they  prepar'd 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,'  not  rigg'd, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  had^  quit  it :  there  they  hoist  us. 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us  ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack  !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  . 

Pro.  0  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me.     Thou  didst  smile. 
Infused  wilh  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
vVhen  I  have  deck'd  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt, 
Under  my  burden  groan'd ;  which  rais'd  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach,  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore? 

Pre    By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity,  (who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design)  did  give  us  ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 
Which  since  have  steaded  much  :  so,  of  his  gentleness. 
Knowing  I  lov'd  my  books,  he  furnish'd  me, 
From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 

^pu)  pose  :  in  f.  e.    »  butt :  in  f  e     »  have  :  in  f.  e     *  rhis  direction  is  not  in  f.  e 


I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise  ; —  [Pitts  on  his  robe  again  ' 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arriv'd  ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Tlian  other  princes'  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.  Heavens  thank  you  for't !     And  now^  T  pray 
you,  sir, 
For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth.^ 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  ;  and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star,  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop.     Here  cease  more  questions. 
Thou  art  inclined  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  dulness. 
And  give  it  way : — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. — 

[Miranda  sleeps. 
Come  away,  servant^^  TOtasJ..~.J-am  reatiy  now. 
Approaciiy-iwy-ATi"eT :  come ! 

Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.  All  hail,  great  master  ;  grave  sir,  hail.    I  come 
To  answer  thy  liest  pleasure;  be  't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds :  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

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

Ari.  To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship ;  now  on  the  beak. 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flam'd  amazement :  sometimes.  I  'd  divide. 
And  burn  in  many  places ;  on  the  topmast, 
The  yards  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  and  join.    Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-outrunning  were  not :  the  fire,  and  crackb- 
Of  sulphurous  roaring  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem  to  besiege,  nnd  make  his  bold  waves  tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason? 

Ari.  ■    Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation.     All,  but  mariners, 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel. 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair) 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd,   cried,  "Hell  is  cmptj 
And  all  the  devils  are  here." 

Pro.  Why,  that's  my  spirit! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

An.  Not  a  hair  perish'dj 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish. 
But  fresher  than  before  :  and.  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle. 
Tlie  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself, 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  siglis 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

cess  -  in  f.  e. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


ACT    r. 


Pro.  Of  tlie  Icinsi's  ship 

The  iiiiinncre,  say,  how  thou  ha«t  dipposM, 
And  all  the  re«t  o*  the  fleet? 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  tlie  kiniz's  ship :  in  flie  deep  nook,  where  once 
Tliou  eall'dht  nie  up  at  midniulit  to  feteh  dew 
From  tlie  still-vox'd  Rormoothee.  there  she's  hid  : 
Tlie  mariners  all  under  hatches  stmv'd  ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  joined  to  their  suffer'd  labour, 
i  have  left  asleep :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet 
Which  I  dispers"d,  they  all  have  met  again, 
And  all'  ujwn  the  Mediterranean  float,' 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples, 
Supjwsins  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  A\Teck'd, 
An<l  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  perform'd  ;  but  there's  more  work. 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  2las.ses.  The  time  "twixt  six  and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.  Is  there  more  toil?  Since  thou  dost  give  me  pains, 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd, 
Which  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now  !  moody  ? 

What  is  't  thou  canst  demand? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.  Before  the  time  be  out?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  prithee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  thee  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without  or  grudge,  or  grumblings.  Thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

An.  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost;  and  think'st  it  much,  to  tread  the  ooze 
Of  the  salt  deep. 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wnd  of  the  north, 
To  do  me  business  in  tlie  veins  o'  th'  earth, 
When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not.  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !    Hast  thou  forgot 
The  foul  -witch  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop?  hast  thou  forgot  her? 

Aii    No.  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  liast.     Where  was  she  born? 

speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.  Sir.  in  Argicr. 

Pro.  0  !  wa.s  she  so  ?     I  must. 
Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 
Which  thou  forgct'st.     This  damn'd  witch.  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  kno-rV-,  was  banish'd  :  for  one  thing  she  did. 
They  would  not  take  her  life.     Is  not  this  true? 

Ari.  Ay,  sir. 

Pro.  ThJH  blue-cycd  hag  was  hither   brouaht  with 
child, 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors :  thou,  my  slave 
.Km  thou  report'st  thysflf.  wast  then  her  servant: 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands. 
Refusing  her  grand  bests,  she  did  confine  thee, 
Hy  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  hor  most  unmitigablc  rase. 
Into  a  elo%-en  pine  ;  -within  which  rift 
Iraprisond,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years;  -within  which  space  she  died. 

•  are  :  in  f  e     »  Bote  :  in  f.  e.    »  the  :  in  f,  •.    •  like 


And  left,  thee  there,  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike.     Then  was  this  island 
(Save  for  a'  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born)  not  lionour'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes;  Caliban,  her  son. 

Pro.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so;  he.  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears.     It  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd.  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  :  It  was  mine  art. 
When  I  arrived  and  heard  thee,  that  mad«  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out.  • 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  mimnur'st,  I  v^ill  rend  an  oak, 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 

Ari.  Pardon,  master : 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command. 
And  do  my  spriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so,  and  after  two  day« 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That's  my  noble  master  ! 

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

Pro.  Go,  make  thyself  a  like  njTnph*  o'  the  sea  :  be 
subject 
To  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine  ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball,  else.     Go,  take  this  shape. 
And  hither  come  in't;  go;  hence,  with  diligence. 

[Exit  Ariel. 
Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake ! 

Mira.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put  [  Waking.* 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off.     Come  on : 

We'll  \nsit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss  him :  he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.— What  ho!  slave!  Caliban! 
Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.  [Within]  There's  Avood  enough  -within. 

Pro.  Come  forth,  I  say  ;  there's  other  business  for  thee 
Come,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 

Re-enter  Ariel,  like  a  water-nymph. 
Fine  apparition  !     My  quaint  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.  [Exit 

Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himdeL 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth  ! 
Enter  Caliban. 

Cal.  As  wicked  dew.  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'd 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen. 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye. 
And  blister  you  all  o'er  ! 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-nieht  thou  shalt  have  cramps 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  nisht  that  they  may  work. 
All  exercise  on  thee:  thou  shalt  be  pinchd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,*  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  'em. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.  When  thou  cam'st  here  first 


in  I.  e.    •  Not  in  T.  e     •  honev-oomb  :  in  t  e. 


SCENE   U. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me;  would" st 

give  me 
Water  watli  berries  in  't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less,  ^ 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  thee, 
And  show"d  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  tli'  isle. 
The  fresh  sprmgs.  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile. 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so  ! — All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax.  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you ; 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have. 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king  :  and  here  you  sty  me, 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  o'  th'  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness,  I  have  us'd  thee. 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care ;  and  lodg'd  thee 
In  mine  o^^-n  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honour  of  my  child. 

Cal.  0  ho  !  0  ho  ! — would  it  had  been  done  ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave, 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !     I  pitied  thee. 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other :  when  thou  didst  not.  savage, 
Know  thine  o\\ai  meaning,  but  would'st  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known  :  but  thy  vile  race. 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in't  which  good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with  :  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confin'd  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserv"d  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.  You  taught  me  language ;  and  my  profit  on't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse.     The  red  plague  rid  you, 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou'rt  best. 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect' st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps ; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches  ;  make  thee_  roar, 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Cal.  No,  pray  thee  ! — 

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

It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave;  hence  !   [Exit  Caliban. 

Re-enter  Ajiiel,  invisible.,  playing  and  singing  ;  Ferdi- 
nand following.^ 
Ariel's  Song. 
Come  imto  these  yellow  sands.. 

And  then  take  hands: 
CourVsied  when  you  have.,  and  kiss''d 

The  wild  waves  u'hist. 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ;^ 
And.  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear 

Hark,  hark  ! 
Burden.     Bow,  wow.  [Dispersedly. 

The  watch  dogs  bark  : 
Burden.     Bow,  wow. 

Hark,  hark  !     I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,  cock-a-doodle-doo.  [earth? — 

Fer   Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  th'  air,  or  th" 
ft  sounds  no  more : — and  ^ure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  o  th  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 


"Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wTeck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters, 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air :  thence  I  have  followed  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather : — but  'tis  gone.- 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 
Full  fathom  Jive  thy  father  lies  ; 
Of  his  bones  arc  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  .strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell  : 

[Burden :  ding-don^ 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them. — ding-dong,  bell. 
Fer,  The  ditty  does  remember  mydrown'd  father.— 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes^ — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

[Music  above. 
Pro.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'. 

Mira.  What  is 't?  a  spirit? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir. 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — ^but  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench  :  it  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  hath  sueh 


As  we  have  ;  such.     This  gallant,  which  thou  seest. 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and  but  he"s  something  stain'd 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person.     He  hath  lost  his  fellows. 
And  strays  about  to  find  'em. 

3/jrrt.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine,  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  I  see,  [Aside. 

As  my  soul  prompts  it: — Spirit,  fine  spirit !  I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess  [Seeing  her.' 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  ! — Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island,      [Kneek. 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here  :  my  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  lasj  pronounce,  is,  0  you  wonder  ! 
If  you  be  maid,  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir  ; 

But.  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language  !  heavens  ! — Rises 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech. 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How!  the  best? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Fer.  A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples.     He  does  hear  me, 
And  that  he  does  I  weep  ;  myself  am  Naples  ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king,  my  father,  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy  i 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords;  the  duke  of  Milan. 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't. — [Aside.]  At  the  first  sight 
They  have  chang'd  eyes  : — Klelicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! — [To  him.]  A  word,  good  sir  , 
I  fear,  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong:  a  word. 

3Iira.  Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently?     This 


1  f.  e.  have  "him."  *  The  old  copips  read  :  "  Foot  it  featly  here  and  there,  and  sweat  sprites  bear  the  burden."  The  MS.  annotatoi 
of  the  folio  of  163'2,  anticipated  later  iritics  in  altering  the  passage  as  it  staiuls  in  the  text.  ^Owes  *Not  in  f  e  *Not  m  f.  e 
•  Not  in  f.  e        Not  in  f.  e 


THK    TEMPEST. 


ACT  n 


\»  Ihe  third  man  that  e'er  I  Raw :  the  first 
T)iat  e'er  1  sighcl  tor.     Pity  move  my  father 
To  be  incliu'd  my  way  ! 

Fer.  O  !  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affoction  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir ;  one  word  more. — 

[Aside.]  They  are  both   in  cither's  powers  :  but  this 

8wirt  bu^mess 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning 
Make  the  prize  light. — [To  him.]  One  word  more:  I 

char:;e  thee, 
That  thou  attend  me.     Thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island  as  a  ppy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  ihe  lord  on't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.  There's  nothing  ill  ean  dwell  in  such  a  temple : 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  a  house, 
Good  thinirs  will  strive  to  dwell  with't. 

Pro.  Follow  me. —  [7b  Ferd. 

Sjwak  not  you  for  him ;  he's  a  traitor. — Come. 
I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together ; 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled.     Follow. 

Fer.  No; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power. 

[He  drau-3,  and  is  charmed  from  moving. 

Mira.  0,  dear  father! 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 

Pro.  What!  I  say: 

My  foot  my  tutor? — Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor; 
Whomak'st  a  show,  but  dar'.'st  not  .strike,  thy  conscience 
Is  so  posscss'd  with  guilt :  Come  from  thy  ward, 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 


Mira.  Bosccch  you,  father! 

Pro.  Hence  !  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  Lave  pity 

I'll  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  maite  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor?  hush! 
Thou  thinkst  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban:  foolish  wench! 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble  :  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on;  obey:     [To  Fer d 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  lo.ss.  the  weakness  which  I  feel. 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  nor  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
MiL'ht  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Bi'hoKl  this  maid  :  all  corners  else  o'  th'  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works. — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — rFollow  me. — 

[To  Ferd.  aiul  Mm. 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.  [7b  Ariel 

Mira.  Be  of  comfort. 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir. 
Than  he  appears  by  .speech  :  this  is  unwonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds :  but  then,  exactly  do 
AH  points  of  my  command. 

Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.  Come,  follow. — Speak  not  for  him.       [Exeunt 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Ai.onoo.  Skb.astia.n,  Antonio.  Gonzalo, 

Adrian,  Francisco  ajul  Others. 

Gon.  Beseech  you.  sir.  be  merry:  you  have  cause 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy.  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss.     Our  hint  of  woe 
Is  common  :  every  day.  some  sailor's  wife. 
The  ma.«ter'  of  some  merchant,  and  the  merchant, 
Have  jUHt  our  theme  of  woe  ;  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us  :  then.  wi.sely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Oar  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

■^ion.  Pr'ythec.  peace 

Stb.  He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.  The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  .so. 

Seb.  I./)ok:  he's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his  wit: 
by  and  by  it  will  strike. 

Gon.  Sir. — 

Stb.  Ono:— tell. 

Gon.  When  every  grief  is  entcrtain'd.  that's  offer'd. 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

Gm.  Dolour  comes  to  him,  indeed  :  you  have  spoken 
tmcr  than  you  purposed. 


Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant  you 
should. 

Gon.  Therefore,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue  ' 

^/o72.  I  pr'yihee.  spare. 

Gon.  Well,  I  have  done.     But  yet — 

Sch.  He  will  be  talking. 

Ant.  Which,  or»  he  or  Adrian,  for  a  good  wager, 
first  begins  to  crow? 

Seb.  The  old  cock 

Ant.  The  cockrel. 

Seb.  Done.     The  wager? 

Ant.  A  laughter. 

Seb.  A  match. 

Adr.  Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Seb.  Ha.  ha.  ha  ! 

Arit.  So,  you're  paid. 

Adr.  riiinhabitablc.  and  almost  inaccessible, — 

Srb.  Yet— 

Adr.  Yet^ 

Ant.  He  could  not  miss  ii. 

Adr.  It  must  needs  be  of  subtle  tender,  and  delicat* 
temperance. 

Ant.  Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 


l>ut«ri  :  in  f.  e       *  ^f  them  :  in  f.  e.      KniKht's  edition  rwwlt,  "  of  them." 


JENE  1. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


Seb.  Ay,  and  a  subtle,  as  he  most  learnedly  delivered. 

Adr.  Tlie  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 

Seb    As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.  Or  as  'twere  perfumed  by  a  fen. 

Gon.  Here  is  every  thing  advantageous  to  life. 

Aiit.  True :  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.  Of  that  there's  none,  or  little. 

Gon.  Howlush^  and  lusty  ine  grass  looks  !  how  green  ! 

Ant.  The  ground,  indeed,  i.s  tawny. 

Seb.  With  an  eye^  of  green  in  't. 

4nt.  He  misses  not  much. 

Seb.  No ;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is,  which  is  indeed  almost 
jyond  credit — 

Seb.  As  many  voueh'd  rarities  are. 

Gon.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were, 
drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their  fresh- 
ness, and  glosses;  being  rather  new  dyed,  than  stain'd 
with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak,  would  it 
noi  say,  he  lies  ? 

Seb.  Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report. 

Go7i.  Methiiiks,  our  garments  are  now  as  fresh  as 
when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the  marriage  of 
the  king's  fair  daughter  Claribel  to  the  king  of  Tunis. 

Seb.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper  well 
in  our  return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with  such  a 
paragon  to  their  queen. 

Gon.  Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  Widow?  a  pox  o'  that !  How  came  that  widow 
in?    Widow  Dido! 

Seb.  What  if  he  had  said,  widower  iEneas  too?  good 
lord,  how  you  take  it  I 

Adr.  Widow  Dido,  said  you  !  you  make  me  study  of 
that:  she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 

Gon.  This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.  Carthage? 

Gon.  I  assure  you.  Carthage. 

Ant.  His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 

Seb.  He  hath  rais'd  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy  next? 

Seb.  I  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in  his 
pocket,  and  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea,  bring 
forth  more  islands. 

Gon.  Ay? 

Ant.  Why,  in  good  time. 

Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking,  that  our  garments  seem 
now  as  fresh,  as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at  the  mar- 
riage of  your  daughter,  who  is  now  queen. 

Ant.  And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 

Seb.  Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.  0  !  widow  Dido  ;  ay,  widow  Dido. 

Gmi.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the  first  day 
1  wore  it  ?     I  mean,  in  a  sort. 

Ant.  That  sort  was  well  fish'd  for. 

Gon.  When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  marriage  ? 

Alon.  You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears,  against 

he  stomach  of  my  sense.     Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there  !  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too. 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  remov'd, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     0  thou,  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan  !  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee  ? 


Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live. 

I  sa"w  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs :  he  trod  the  water, 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  brea.sted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him :  his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bow'd, 
As  stoopins  to  relieve  him.     I  not  doubt, 
He  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  No,  no  ;  he's  gone. 

Seb.  Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great  loss 
That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daugktei 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye, 
Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on  't. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Seb.  You  were  kneel'd  to,  and  importun'd  otherwise 
By  all  of  us ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weigh'd  between  lothness  and  obedience,  as^ 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  should*  bow.     We  have  losi 

your  son, 
I  fear,  for  ever  :  Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them,  of  this  business'  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them :  the  fault 's 
Your  own. 

Alon.  So  is  the  dearest  of  the  loss. 

Gon.  My  lord  Sebastian 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
A'jid  time  to  speak  it  in :  you  rub  the  sore. 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.  And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.  It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir, 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  weather? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

Gon.  Had  I  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  He'd  sow  't  with  neddle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows 

Gon.  And  were  the  king  on't,  what  would  1  do? 

Seb.  'Scape  being  drunk,  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.  V  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things,  for  no  kind  of  tratHc 
Would  I  admit  :^  no  name  of  magistrate ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known  ;  riches,  poverty. 
And  use  of  service,  none  ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none; 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation,  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women,  too,  but  innocent  and  pure. 
No  sovereignty  : — 

Seb.  Yet  he  would  be  king  on't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  this  commonwealth  forgets 
the  beginning. 

Gon..  All  things  in  common  nature  should  piodaoe, 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour :  treason,  felony, 
SxTOrd,  pike,  knife,  gim,  or  need  of  any  engine, 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foisson,*  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Seb.  No  marrying  'mong  his  subjects? 

Ant.  None,  man  :  all  idle  ;  whores,  and  knaves. 

Gon.  I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty  ! 


>  Juiey.  »  Slight  shade  of  color,  s  at :  in  f  e.  *  She'd  :  in  f.  e.  »  It  is  a  nation,  would  I  answer  Plato,  that  hath  no  kinde  of  traffilte, 
no  knowledge  of  Letters,  no  intelligence  of  numbers,  no  name  of  magrtstrate,  nor  of  politike  superioritie  ;  no  use  of  service,  of  riohes, 
or  of  povertie  ;  no  contracts,  no  successions,  no  dividences,  no  occupation  but  idle  ;  no  respect  of  kinred.  but  conimon,  no  apparel  Iml 
naturall,  no  manuring  of  lands,  no  use  of  wme.  come,  or  mettle.  The  very  that  import  lying,  falshood,  trea.son,  dissimulations  oovet- 
envie,  detraction,  and  pardon,  were  never  heard  of  amongst  them  —Montaigne,  Florio^s  translalion,  1G03.      *  Plenty, 


laE    TEMPEST. 


AhI.  Long;  live  Gonzalo  I 

G<m.  And.  do  you  mark  me,  sir? — 

Alon.  Pr  ythee,  no  more :  tliou  dost  talk  nothing  to 
me. 

Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  hiizhncss  :  and  did  it  to 
oimioler  oocai^ion  to  those  gentlemen,  who  are  of  such 
•«n8iMe  and  nimble  lungs,  that  they  always  UBe  to 
laui!h  at  nothms. 

Ant.    Twas  you  we  laugh'd  at. 

Gon.  Who,  in  tliis  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am  nothing 
to  you  :  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh  at  nothing 
Mill. 

Ant.  What  a  blow  was  there  civen ! 

Sfh.  An  It  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

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

Enter  Ariel  ahovc,^  invisible,  playitig  solemn  music. 

Seb.  Wc  would  so.  and  then  go  a  bat-fowling. 

Ani.  Nay.  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

Gon.  No.  I  warrant  you;  I  will  not  adventure  my 
discretion  so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh  me  asleep,  for 
I  am  vcr>-  heavy? 

Ant.  Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

[All  sleep  but  Ai.on.  Seb.  and  Ant. 

Alon.  What !  all  so  soon  a--jlcep?  I  wish  mine  eyes 
Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts  :  I  find, 
They  are  inclined  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow ;  when  it  doth, 
U  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  Wc  two,  my  lord. 

Will  guard  your  pei-son  while  you  take  your  rest, 
And  watch  your  safety. 

AloTi.  Thank  you.  Wondrous  hea\y. — [Aj.o^.  sleeps.' 

Seb.  What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them  ! 

Ant.  It  is  the  quality  of  the  climate. 

Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not,  then,  our  eye-lids  sink  ?     I  find  not 
Myself  disposed  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I :  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent : 
They  dropp'd,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.    Wliat  might. 
Worthy  Sebastian  ? — 0 !  what  might  ? — No  more  : — 
And  ye*,  methinks.  I  sec  it  in  thy  face, 
What  thou  shouldst  be.    Th'  occasion  speaks  thee,  and 
My  strong  imauination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What !  art  thou  waking  ? 

Ant.  Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seb.  I  do  ;  and,  surely, 

(l  ifl  a  sleepy  lani,Mia2e.  and  thou  speakst 
Out  of  thy  sleep.     What  is  it  thou  didst  say? 
This  is  a  strange  rcp*^»sc,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open  ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant  Nohle  Sebastian, 

Thou  Ictst  thy  fortune  sleep— die  rather ;  wink'st 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

^l>.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly : 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.  I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom :  you 
Must  be  so  tor.  if  heed  me;  which  to  do, 
T'rblc^  ihec  oer. 

Seb.  Well ;  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant    III  teach  you  how  to  flow. 
.  '^*  Do  so :  to  ebb 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 


I      Ant.  O! 

i  If  you  but  knew,  how  you  the  puri)ose  cherish, 
i  Whiles  tlius  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it, 
j  You  more  invest  it !     Ebbing  men.  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Pr  ythee,  say  on. 

The  setting  of  thine  eye.  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee  ;  and  a  birth,  indeed. 
Which  throes  thcc  much  to  yield 

Ant.  ■  Thus,  sir, 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this 
(Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory. 
When  he  is  earthil)  hatli  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 
Professes  to  persuade)  the  king,  his  son  's  alive, 
'Tis  as  impossible  that  he's  undrown'd, 
As  he  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 

Seb.  I  have  no  hope 
That  he  's  midrownd. 

Ant.  0  !  out  of  that  no  hope, 

What  great  hope  have  you !  no  hope,  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  a  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But  doubts  discovery  there.    Will  you  grant,  with  me 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown'd  ? 

Seb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me. 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.  She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis;  she  that  dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life ;  she  that  from  Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  the  moon  's  too  slow)  till  new-born  chins 
Be  rough  and  razorable :  she.  for'  whom 
We  all  were  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast  again ; 
And  by  that  destiny  to  perform  an  act 
Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue,  what's*  to  come. 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  siaff  is  this  ! — How  say  you  ? 

'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter  's  queen  of  Tunis; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples  ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  "  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples?'' — Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake ! — Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seized  them  ;  why,  they  were  no  worse 
Than  now  they  are.     There  be.  that  can  rule  Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps  :  lords  that  can  prate 
As  amply,  and  unnecessarily, 
As  this  Gonzalo  :  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  of  as  deep  chat.     0.  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do  !  what  a  sleep  were  thii« 
For  your  advancement !     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Seb.  Methinks,  I  do. 
Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seb.  I  remember, 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True : 

And  look  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me ; 
Much  feater  than  before.     My  brothers  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  tiiey  are  my  men. 

Srb.  But.  for  your  conscience — 

A)it.   Ay.  sir  :  where  lies  that  ?  if  it  were  a  kyt)ft 
'Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper :  but  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom :  twenty  coiisciei.ces. 
jThat  stand  't%\'ixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 


'  Not  la  f.  e.      >  Etu  Abibi.  :  ib  f.  e        »  from  :  in  f.  e       ♦  what :  in  f.  e 


SCENE   IL 


THE    TEMPEST. 


And  melt,  ere  tliey  molest !     Here  lies  your  brother, 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
[f  he  were  that  which  now  he's  like,  that's  dead. 
Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it. 
Can  lay  to  bed  for  ever  ;  whiles  you,  doing  thus. 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  Sir  Prudence,  who 
Sliould  not  upbraid  our  course :  for  all  the  rest, 
riiey"ll  take  suggestion  as  a  cat  laps  milk ; 
They'll  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend, 

Shall  be  my  precedent :  as  thou  got'st  Milan, 
I'll  come  by  Naples.     Draw  thy  sword  :  one  stroke 
Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  pay'st. 
And  I,  the  king,  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together ; 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  O  !  but  one  word.      [They  converse  apart. 

Mu.sic.     Ariel  descends  invisible.^ 
Ari.  My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the  danger 
That  you,  his  friend,  are  in;  and  sends  me  forth 
(For  else  his  project  dies)  to  keep  them  living. 

[Sings  in  Gonzalo's  ear 
While  you  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-eyed  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take. 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware : 
Awake!  Awake! 
Ant.  Then,  let  us  both  be  sudden. 
Gon.  Now,  good  angels,  preserve  the  king  ! 

[They  wake 
Alon.  Why.  how  now,  ho  !  awake  !     Why  are  you 
drawn  ? 
Wherefore  thus=  ghastly  looking  ? 

Goti.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.  Whiles  we  stood  here  securing  your  repose. 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing, 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions :  did  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing. 

Ant.  0  !  'twap  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear. 
To  make  an  earthquake :  sure,  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo? 

Gon.  Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  hunoming. 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me. 
f  shak'd  you,  sir,  and  cry'd  :  as  mine  eyes  open'd, 
I  saw  their  weapons  drawn. — There  was  a  noise, 
That's  verity  :'  'tis  best  we  stand  upon  our  guard, 
Or  that  we  quit  this  place.     Let's  draw  our  weapons. 
Alon.  Lead  off  this  ground,  and  let's  make  farther 
search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts, 
Fur  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away.     [Exeunt. 

^  Ari.  Prospero,  my  lord,  shall  know  what  I  have  done  : 
So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IL— Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Caliban,  with  a  burden  of  wood. 

A  noise  of  thunder  heard. 

Cal.  All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 

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

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


And  yet  I  needs  must  curse ;  but  they'll  not*  pinch, 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  fire-brand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  'em  ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me  : 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  moo  and  chatter  at  me, 
And  after,  bite  me ;  then  like  hedge-hogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  bare-foot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  at  my  foot-fall :  sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who  with  cloven  tongues 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness. — Lo,  now  !  lo  ! 

Enter  Trinculo. 
Here  conjies  a  spirit  of  his,  and  to  torment  me 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly:  I'll  fall  flat; 
Perchance,  he  will  not  mind  me. 

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

Enter  Stephano,  singing  ;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.  I  shall  no  more  to  sea.  to  sea, 

Here  shall  I  die  a-shore. — 
This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  funeral. 
Well,  here's  my  comfort.  [Drinki. 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 
The  gunner,  and  hi'?  mate, 

Lov^d  Mall,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 
But  none  of  us  car^d  for  Kate  ; 
For  she  liad  a  tongue  with  a  tang, 
Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go,  hang  : 

She  lovhl  not  th/:  savour  of  tar,  nor  of  pitch, 

Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where-e'er  she  did  itch , 
Then,  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang. 
This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too ;  but  here's  my  comfort.  [Drinks. 

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me  :  0  ! 

Ste.  What's  the  matter?  Have  we  devils  here? 
Do  you  put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages,  and  men  of 
Inde?  Ha  !  I  have  not  'scap'd  drowning,  to  be  afeard 
now  of  your  four  legs ;  for  it  hath  been  said,  as  proper 
a  man  as  ever  went  on  four  legs  cannot  make  him  give 
ground,  and  it  shall  be  said  so  again,  while  Stephano 
breftthes  at  nostrils. 

Cal.  The  spirit  torments  me  :  0 ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four  legs, 
who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague.  Where  the  devil 
should  he  learn  our  language  ?  I  will  give  him  some 
relief,  if  it  be  but  for  that :  if  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep 

'  ■*J"**c-     Re-enter  Am^L,  invisible:  int.  0.    'this:  inf.e.    '  Collier's  ed.,  1844,  reads,  "verily  "—most  of  the  other  editions,  "verity" 
I  in  the  text     *iior  :  in  f.  e     5Th«nameof  a  large  vessel  to  contain  drini  as  well  as  of  a  piece '>f  artillery.    «Notnf.«     "dregs:  inf.e 


^0 


THE    TEMPEST. 


ACT  in. 


him  tame,  and  pet  to  Naples  with  him.  he's  a  present 
for  any  einporor  tli:it  over  trod  on  ncat"s-lcathor. 

Co/.  I\)  not  torinont  me,  pr'ythce:  I'll  bring  my 
wood  home  fniiter. 

Ste.  He's  in  111."  fit  now,  and  docs  not  talk  after  tlie 
wisest.  He  .chilli  taste  of  my  bottle  :  if  lie  liavc  never 
drunk  wine  nfore,  it  will  20  near  to  remove  his  fit.  If 
I  enn  recover  liim.  and  keep  liim  tame,  I  will  not  take 
loo  nunh  lor  Imn  :  he  shall  pay  for  him  that  hath  Jliim, 
and  that  koiiikIIv. 

Cal.  Thou  dcis^i  me  yet  hut  little  hurt;  thou  wilt 
anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling:  now  Prosper  works 
upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways  :  open  your  mouth ;  here  is 
hat  which  will  uive  lanuuaae  to  you,  eat.  Open  your 
mouth:  tliis  will  pliake  your  shaking.  I  can  tell  you. 
and  (hat  ."ioundly:  you  cannot  tell  who  's  your  friend; 
open  your  ch.'ps  asain.  (Caliban  drinks.^ 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice.  It  should  be — but 
he  is  drowned,  and  these  are  devils.     0,  defend  me  ! — 

Stf.  Four  le^s.  and  two  voices!  a  mo.st  delicate 
monster.  His  forward  voice,  now,  is  to  speak  well  of 
his  friend  :  his  backward  voice  is  to  utter  loul  speeches, 
and  to  detract.  If  all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  re- 
cover him,  I  will  help  his  ague.  Come, — Amen!  I 
will  pour  some  in  thy  other  mouth. 

Trin.  Stcjthano  I 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me?  Mercy! 
mercy  !  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster:  I  will  leave 
him;  I  have  no  long  spoon. 

Trin.  .Stephano  ! — if  thou  beest  Stcphano,  touch  me, 
and  speak  to  me.  for  I  am  Trinculo : — be  not  afeard, — 
thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  bee.<;t  Trinculo,  come  forth.  I'll  pull 
lhc«  by  the  les.ser  legs:  if  any  be  Trinculo's  legs,  tlie.se 
are  they.  Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  indeed  !  How 
cam'st  thou  to  be  the  siege'  of  this  moon-calf?  Can  he 
vent  Trinculos? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunder-.stroke. 
— But  art  thou  not  drowned.  Stojihano  ?  I  hope  now. 
thou  art  not  drowned.  Is  the  storm  overblown?  I 
hid  me  under  the  dead  moon-calfs  gaberdine  for  fear 
of  the  storm.  And  art.  thou  living,  Stephano?  0 
Stephano!  two  Neapolitans  'scaped? 

Ste.  Pr>-thee,  do  not  turn  me  about :  my  stomach  is 
not  (•on.«tant. 

Cal.  These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  not  sprites. 
That  8  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor : 
I  will  kneel  to  him! 

Ste.  How  didsi  thou  'scape?  How  cam\st  thou 
hither?  swear  by  this  bottle,  how  thou  cam'st  hither. 
I  escaped  upon  a  butt  of  sack,  which  the  sailors  heaved 
over-board,  by  this  oottle!  which  I  made  of  the  bark 
of  a  tree,  with  mine  own  hands,  since  1  was  cast 
A-shore. 

Cal.  I'll  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true 
•bjwt.  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly.  [Kneels.' 

Ste.  Here:  swear,  then,  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  a-hhore,  rnan,  like  a  duck.  I  can  swim 
like  a  duck,  1 11  be  sworn. 


Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book.  Though  thou  canst  swim 
like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.  O  Stephano  !  hast  any  more  of  this? 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man  :  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock  by 
the  sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid.  How  now,  moon- 
calf! how  does  thine  ague? 

Cal.  Hast  Ihou  not  drojiped  from  heaven  ? 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee:  I  was  the 
man  in  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee  :  my 
mistress  .showed  me  thee,  and  thy  dog.  and  thy  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that ;  kiss  the  book  :  I  will  fur- 
nish it  anon  with  new  contents.     Swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  liuht,  this  is  a  very  shallow  mon- 
ster : — I  afeard  of  him  ? — a  very  weak  monster. — The 
man  i'  the  moon  ! — a  most  poor  credulous  monster. — 
Well  diawn,  monster,  in  good  sooth. 

Cal.  I'll  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island; 
and  I  will  kiss  thy  foot.     I  pr'ytliee.  be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken 
monster:  when  his  god's  asleep,  hell  rob  his  bottle. 

Cal.  I'll  ki.ss  thy  foot  :  I'll  swear  myself  thy  subject. 

Ste.  Come  on,  then ;  down  and  swear. 

[Caliban  lies  down.* 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this  puppy- 
headed  monster.  A  most  scurvy  monster  :  I  could  find 
in  my  heart  to  beat  him, — 

Ste.  Come,  kiss. 

Trin.  — But  that  the  poor  monster's  in  drink.  An 
abominable  monster  ! 

Cal.  I'll  show  thee  the  best  springs;  I'll  pluck  thee 
berries ; 
ril  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve  ! 
ril  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee. 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster,  to  make  a  wonder 
of  a  poor  drunkard  ! 

Cal.  I  pr'jihee,  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs  grow; 
And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts; 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  tliec  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet :  I'll  bring  thee 
To  clustering  filberds,  and  somotiinos  I'll  get  thee 
Young  scamels  from  the  rock  :  Wilt  thou  go  with  me? 

Ste.  I  pr'ytliee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any  more 
talking. — Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  else 
being  drowned,  we  will  inherit  here. — Here  :  bear  my 
bottle. — Fellow  Trinculo.  we'll  fill  him  by  and  by  again 

Cal.  Farewell.,  master  ;  farewell.,  farewell. 

[Sings  drunkenly 

Trin.  A  howling  monster  ;  a  drunken  monster. 

Cal.  No  more  dams  Til  make  for  fish  ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring., 
Nor  scrape  trencher.^  nor  wash  dish; 
''Ban  ^Ban.,  Ca — Caliban. 
Has  a  new  ma.ster — Get  a  new  num. 
Freedom,  hey-day  !  hey-day,  freedom  !  freedom !  hey 
day,  freedom  ! 

Ste.  0  brave  monster  !  lead  the  way.  [ExewU 


ACT    III. 

SCF.NK  I.-Bofore  Prospkbo's  Cell.  I  ^^y.^^^t  in  them  sets  off:  some  kinds  of  baseneu 

Enter  FrRniNAND.  hearing  a  lo^.  Are  nobly  undergone  ;  and  most  poor  matters 

Per    There   be  some  si>ort«  are   painful,  and   their   Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task 

labour  |  Would  be  as  heavy  to  me,  as  odious ;  but 

'  Ko«  h  f.  0      «  uai.     »  .Not  IB  r.  •      ♦  Not  in  f.  e.     »  tTonoherin*  :  in  f.  e 


« 

J 


SCRNE  n. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


II 


Tne  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what 's  dead, 

And  makes  my  labours  pleasures :  0  !  she  is 

Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father  's  crabbed  ; 

And  he  's  composed  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 

Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 

Upon  a  sore  injunction  :  my  sweet  mistress 

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

Had  never  like  executor.     I  forget : 

But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labours ; 

Most  busy,  blest'  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  Miranda  •  and  Prospf.ro  behind.' 

Mira.  Alas  !  now,  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard :  I  would,  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile. 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you  :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study  ;  praj  now  rest  yourself : 
He  's  safe  for  these  tliree  hours. 

Per.  0,  most  dear  mistress  ! 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mira.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while.     Pray,  give  me  that : 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature  : 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you  ;  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease,  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !  thou  art  Infected  ; 

This  visitation  shows  it.  [Aside. ^ 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress ;  't  is  fresh  morning  with  me. 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers, 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda. — 0  my  father  ! 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so.  [To  herself.* 

Fer.  Admir'd  Miranda  ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration  ;  worth 
What 's  dearest  to  the  world  !     Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  ey'd  with  best  regard  ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women  ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil  :  but  you,  0  you  ! 
So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex  ;  no  woman's  face  remember. 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father.     How  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-less  of ;  but.  by  my  modesty, 
'The  jewel  in  my  dower)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 
S'.mething  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king  ; 
(I  would^  not  so  !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
Tlds  wooden  sla^^-ery,  than  to  suffer 

«  loaet :  in  f.  e.     '  xt  a  distance :  in  f.  e.      *  Not  in  1 


The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.     Hear  my  eoul  speak  : 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 

My  heart  fly  to  your  service  ;  there  resides, 

To  make  me  slave  to  it  ;  and  for  your  sake, 

Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.  0  heaven  !  O  earth  !  bear  witness  to  tnib  sound 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event. 
If  I  speak  true  ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  aught'  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool. 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  enccunter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !     Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them  !  [Aside.' 

Per.  Wherefore  weep  you? 

Mira.  At  mine  unworthinesa,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take, 
What  I  shall  die  to  want.     But  this  is  trifling; 
And  all  the  more  H  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  i1  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning, 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Per.  My  mistress,  dearest. 

And  I  thus  humble  ever.  [Kneels.^ 

Mira.  My  husband  then  ? 

Fer.  Ay,  wdth  a  heart  as  willing  [Rises.* 

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

Mira.  And   mine,   with  my  heart  in 't :  and  now 
farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  thousand  !   [Exeunt  Fer.  and  Mir. 

Pro.  So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surpris'd  with  all  :  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I'll  to  my  book; 
For  yet,  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Stephano  and  Trincui.o  ;   Caliban  following 

ivith  a  bottle 

Ste.  Tell  not  me  : — when  the  butt  is  out,  we  "will 
drink  water;  not  a  drop  before  :  therefore  bear  up,  and 
board  'em.     Servant-monster,  drink  to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster?  the  folly  of  this  island! 
They  say,  there  's  but  five  upon  this  isle  :  we  are  three 
of  them ;  if  the  other  two  be  brained  like  us,  the  state 
totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee :  thy 
eyes  are  almost  set  in  thy  head. 

Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else  ?  he  were  s 
brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail. 

Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  dro^A^led  his  tongue  ib 
sack  :  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  dro^^^l  me  :  I  swam, 
ere  I  could  recover  the  shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues, 
off"  and  on,  by  this  light.  Thou  shalt  be  my  lieutenant, 
monster,  or  my  standard. 

Trin.  Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he  's  no  c^andard. 

Ste.  We'll  not  run,  monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither ;  but  you'll  lie,  like  dogs,  and 
yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou  beest 
a  good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour  ?     Let  me  lick  th^  shoe 

Not  m  f.  e.      »  what  else  :  in  f  e.      •  '  •  No*  in  f.  e. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


ACT   m. 


•  'II  not  serve  him.  he  is  not  valiant. 

Trin.  Thou  liost.  most  ifiiioriiiit  monster  :  I  am  in 
rase  to  justlo  a  eon.stable.  Why,  tliou  debauclicd  fusli 
tlion.  \va.s  tlierc  over  man  a  coward,  tliat  hath  drunk 
M.  nuu-li  sai-k  as  I  to-day  ?  Wilt  lliou  toll  a  monstrous 
I  (\  howj.  but  half  a  lish,  and  lialf  a  monster  ? 

Cut.  Lo,  how  ho  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him,  my 
lord  ? 

Trin.  Lord,  quoth  he  I— that  a  monster  should  be 
such  a  natural  ! 

Cal.  Lo.  lo.  again  !   bite  him  to  death,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ste.  Triniulo.  keep  a  uood  tongue  in  your  head  :  if 
you  prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree — The  poor  mon- 
8t»'r  "s  my  subject,  and  he  shall  not  sulfer  indignity. 

(.'<i/.  I  tliank  my  noble  lord.  Wilt  tliou  be  pleas'd 
to  hearken  once  auain  to  the  suit  I  made  to  thee  ? 

Ste.  Marry  will  1  :  kneel  and  repeat  it:  I  will  stand, 
md  so  shall  Trinculo.  [Caliban  kneels.^ 

Enter  Ariel,  invisible. 

Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a  tyrant; 
a  sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath  cheated  me  of  the 
.sland. 

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou  ; 

(  would,  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee: 
(  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in  his 
lale,  by  this  hand,  I  will  supplant  some  of  your  teeth. 

Trin.  Why,  I  said  nothing.  [eecd. 

Ste.  Mum  then,  and  no  more. — [To  C.\liban.]    Pro- 

Cal.  I  say  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle  ; 
?rom  me  he  got  it :  if  thy  greatness  will, 
levenge  it  on  him — for,  I  know,  thou  dar'st ; 
But  this  thing  dare  not. 

Ste.  That 's  most  certain. 

Cal.  Thou  slialt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve  thee. 

Ste.  How,  now,  shall  this  be  compassed  ?  Canst 
Ihou  bring  me  to  the  party  ? 

Cal.  Yea,  yea,  my  lord  :  I'll  yield  him  thee  asleep, 
Where  thou  may'st  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.  Thou  liest;  thou  canst  not. 

Cal.  What  a  pied'  ninny  's  this  !  Thou  scurvy  patch  ! 
I  do  beseech  thy  ereatness.  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him  :  when  that  'b  gone, 
He  shall  drink  nouulit  but  brine  ;  for  TU  not  show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  farther  danger  :  interrupt 
the  monster  one  word  farther,  and,  by  this  hand,  I'll 
turn  my  mercy  out  of  doors,  and  make  a  stock-fish  of 
thee. 

Trin.  Why,  what  did  I  ?  I  did  nothing.  I'll  go 
Carther  off. 

Ste.  Didst  thou  not  say,  he  lied  ? 

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Ste.  Do  I  so  ?  take  thou  that.  {Strikes  him.]  As 
fon  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  anotlier  time. 

Trin.  I  did  not  give  the  lie.  Out  o'  your  wits,  and 
nearing  too  ?  A  pox  o'  your  bottle  !  this  can  sack,  and 
drinking  do.  A  murrain  on  your  monster,  and  the 
Jevil  take  your  fingers  ! 

Cal.  Ha,  ha.  ha  ! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  with  your  talc.  Pr'ythee  stand 
farther  otf. 

Cal.   Beat  him  enough  :  after  a  little  time, 
I'll  beat  him  too. 

Ste.  Stand  farther.     Come,  proceed. 

Cal.  Why,  iui  I  told  Ihce.  'tis  a  custom  with  him 
r  the  afternoon  to  sleep:  then  thou  may'st  brain  him, 


Having  first  seiz'd  his  books ;  or  with  a  log 

Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 

Or  cut  his  wczand  with  thy  knife.     Remember, 

First  to  possess  his  books  ;  for  without  them 

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

One  spirit  to  command  :  they  all  do  hate  him, 

As  rootedly  as  I.     Burn  but  his  books  ; 

He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them) 

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

And  that  most  deeply  to  consider  is 

The  beauty  of  his  daughter  ;  he  liimself 

Calls  lier  a  nonpareil :  I  never  saw  a  woman, 

But  only  Sycorax  my  dam,  and  she; 

But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax, 

As  great'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  ? 

Cal.  Ay,  lord  ;  she  will  become  thy  bed,  I  warrant 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.  Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man  :  his  daughter  and 
I  will  be  king  and  queen  ;  (save  our  graces  !)  and 
Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys.  Dost  thou 
like  the  plot,  Trinculo  ? 

Trin.  Excellent. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  am  sorry  I  beat  thee  ;  but, 
while  thou  livest,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy  head. 

Cal.  Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep  ; 
W^ilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Ari.  This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

Cal.  Thou  mak'st  me  merry  :  I  am  full  of  pleasure. 
Let  us  be  jocund  :  will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-erc? 

Ste.  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason,  any 

reason.     Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing.  [Smgs. 

Flout   'e7/i,   and  scout   '<?m;   and  scout   ^cm,   and 

flout  'e?n  .• 
Thought  is  free. 

Cal.  That 's  not  the  tune. 

[Ariel  plays  a  tune  on  a  Tabor  and  Pipe. 

Ste.  What  is  this  same  ? 

Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played  by  the 
picture  of  No-body. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man.  show  thyself  in  thy  like- 
ness :  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take  't  as  thou  list. 

Trin.  0,  forgive  me  my  sins  ! 

Ste.  He  that  dies,  pays  all  debts  :  I  defy  thee.— 
Mercy  upon  us  ! 

Cal.  Art  thou  afeard  ? 

Ste.  No,  monster,  not  I. 

Cal.  Bo  not  afeard ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hart 

not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears  ;  and  sometimes'  voices. 
That,  if  I  then  had  wak'd  after  long  sleep. 
Will  make  me  sleep  again  :  and  then,  in  dreaming. 
The  clouds,  methought,  would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me,  that  when  I  wak'd 
I  cry'd  to  dream  again. 

Sle.  Til  is  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me,  where 
I  siiall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 

Cal.  When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

Ste.  That  shall  be  by  and  by  :   I  remember  the  story. 

Trin.  The  sound  is  going  away  :  let's  follow  it,  and 
after  do  our  work. 

Ste.  Lead,  monster;  we'll  follow. — I  would,  I  could 
see  this  taborer  :  he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.  Wilt  come  ?  I'll  follow,  Stephano.      [Exeunt. 


'  Not  in  f.  e.      »  Dreutd  in  motl*y,—\)\\t  cxpregnion  : 
b«  l^oa  attired.      *  <u)iiiatin)e :  in  f  • 


•  patch"  were  ppithetH  ofl-Mi  applied  to  foola     Trinoulo,  as  "  a  jester,"  -vrould 


SCENE  rrr. 


THE    TEITPEST. 


13 


SCENE  III.— Another  part  of  the  Island. 

fJM^er  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo, 
Adrian.  Francisco,  and  Others. 

Gon.  By'r  la'kin/  I  can  go  no  farther,  sir  ; 
My  old  bones  ake :  here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights,  and  meanders!  by  your  patience, 
[  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alon.  Old  lord.  I  cannot  blame  thee. 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  weariness. 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits  :  sit  down,  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer :  he  is  drown'd, 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  f.nd  ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land.     Well,  let  him  go. 

Arvt.  I  am  right  glad  that  he  's  so  out  of  hope. 

[Aside  to  Sebastian. 
Do  not.  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  reso'v'd  to  effect. 

Seb.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night ; 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  camiot.  use  such  vigilance. 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

[Solemn  and  strange  music  ;  and  Prospero  above,  invis- 
ible.     Enter  several  strange  Shapes^  bringing  in   a 

banquet:  they  dance  about  it  with  gentle  actions  of 

salutations  ;  and,  inviting  the  King,  Sfc.  to  eat,  they 

depart.] 

Alon.  What  harmony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends,  hark  ! 

Go7i.  Marvellous  sweet  music  ! 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens  !     What  were 
these  .'' 

Seb.  A  living  drollery.     Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns  ;  that  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoBnix'  throne  ;  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me 
And  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true  :  travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now.  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say.  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet.  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle,  kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present. 
Are  worse  than  devils. 

-1-on.  I  cannot  too  much  muse,    [ing 

such  shapes,  such  gestures,"  and  such  sounds,'  express- 
Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro.  [Aside.]  Praise  in  departing. 

Fran.  They  vanish'd  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind,  for  we  have  sto- 
machs.— 
Will 't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

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


^Vho  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers 
Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  a» 

them 
Wallets  of  flesh?  or  that  there  were  such  men, 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now,  we  find, 
Each  putter-out  of  five  for  one*  \\'ill  bring  •jb 
Good  warrant  of. 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed, 

Although  my  last:  no  matter,  since  I  feel 
The  best  is  past. — Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 
Thunder  and  lightning.      Enter  Ariel,  like  a  harpy, 

claps  his  wings  upon  the  table,  and,  with  a  qitatnt 

device,  the  banquet  vanishes. 

Ari.  You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 
(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world, 
And  what  is  in't)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caused  to  belch  up,  and  on  this  island 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad  :* 
And  even  with  such  like  valour  men  hang  and  drown 
Their  proper  selves.     You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate  :  the  elements, 

[Ai.ON.,  Seb.,  (5rc.,  draw  their  Swords.* 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle' that's  in  my  plume:  my  fellow-ministei 
Are  like  imailnerable.     If  you  could  hurt. 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted.     But,  remember, 
(For  that's  my  bu.^^iness  to  you)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 
Expos'd  unto  the  sea  (which  hath  requit  it) 
Him,  and  his  innocent  child  :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying  not  forgetting,  have 
Incens'd  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures. 
Against  your  peace.     Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronounce  by  me, 
Lingering  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You,  and  your  ways  ;  whose  wratlis  to  guard  you  from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  falls 
Upon  your  heads)  is  nothing,  but  heart's  sorrow, 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 
He  vanishes  in  thunder :  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the 

Shapes  again,  and  dance  with  mocks  and  mowes,  ami 

carry  out  the  table. 

Pro.  [Above.']  Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  haet 
thou 
Performed,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring. 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated. 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say  :  so,  with  good  life 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  kinds  have  done.  My  high  charms  work, 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions  :  they  now  are  in  my  power ; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  while  I  -visit 
Young  Ferdinand,  (whom  they  suppose  is  dro-mi'd) 
And  his  and  my  lov'd  darling.  [Exit  Prospero. 

Gon.  V  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why  stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  0,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous  J 

Methought,  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  itj 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me  ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronoonc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper  :  it  did  base  my  trespass. 


'  By  our  lady-»in.  »  gesture  :  in  f.  e.  '  sound  :  in  f.  e.  ♦A  custom  of  old  travellers  to  put  out  a  sum  of  money  at  interest,  at  the 
sntset  of  a  journey,  for  which  they  received  at  the  rate  of  five  to  one,  if  they  returned.  *  f  e.  insert  here  this  diieotion  :  Steijif 
&iOX  ,  8sB.,  l^c.  draw  theii    Sicords.      «  Omitted  in  f  e.      ^  A  feather  or  particle  of  doum.      »  Aside  :  in  t.  o 


14 


THE    TEMPEST. 


Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded  ;  and 
''11  seoji  him  decj>or  than  e'er  plummet  Bounded, 
And  with  hiin  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

VU  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.     ill  be  tliy  second.        [Eievnt  Sr.B.  and  Ain. 

Gon.  All  three  ol  them  are  dcspcrato  •  their  great  guilt, 


Like  poison  given  to  vrork  a  great  time  after. 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits. — I  do  beseech  you, 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

AJr    Tollow.  I  pray  you.  tEzcuni 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— Before  Prospero's  Cell. 
Enter  Prospero,  Ferdinand,  and  Miranda. 

Pro.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd  you, 
Y  )ur  compensation  makes  amends  ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread'  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live  :  whom  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand.     All  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test:  here,  afore  Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift  !     0  Ferdinand ! 
Do  not  stnile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off. 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fcr.  1  do  believe  it. 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.  Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchas"d.  take  my  daughter:  but 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may, 
With  full  and  holy  rite,  be  minister'd, 
No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow;  but  barren  hate. 
Sour-eyed  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly. 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both  :  therefore,  take  heed. 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now,  the  murkiest  den. 
The  most  opportune  place,  the  strong'st  suggestion 
Our  worser  genius  can.  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honour  into  lust,  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  days  celebration, 
When  I  shall  think,  or  Pha-bus'  steeds  are  founder'd 
Or  nighi  kept  chaiu'd  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke. 

Sit  then  and  talk  with  her;  she  is  thine  own. — 
What,  Ariel !  my  industrious  servant  Ariel ! 
Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.  What  would  my  potent  master?  here  I  am. 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 
Did  worthily  perform,  and  I  mu.st  use  you 
In  such  another  trick.     Go.  bring  the  rabble. 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place: 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion  ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art :  it  is  my  promise. 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently? 

Pro.  Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.  Before  you  can  say,  "Come,"  and  "  go," 
And  breathe  twice;  and  cry,  "so  so;' 
Earh  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  bp  here  with  mop  and  mow. 
Do  you  love  me,  master?  no? 


Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel,     Do  not  approach 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well  I  conceive     [Exit 

Pro.  Look,  thou  be  true.     Do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein :  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood.     Be  more  abstemious. 
Or  else,  good  night,  your  vow. 

Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir , 

The  white-cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardoiir  of  my  liver. 

Pro.  Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel  !  bring  a  corollary,' 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit:  appear,  and  pertly.* — 
No  tongue   ail  eyes  :  be  silent.  [Soft  mv.nc. 

A  Masque.     Enter  Iris. 

7m.  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  peas ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep. 
And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover.*  them  to  keep; 
Thy  banks  with  pioned*  and  tilled'  brims. 
Which  spong\'  April  at  thy  best  bctnnis, 
To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns ;  and  thy  brown' 

groves. 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves. 
Being  lass-lorn  ;  thy  poie-clipt  vineyard  ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  steril,  and  rocky-hard. 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air ;  the  queen  o'  the  sky, 
Whose  watery  arch  and  messenger  am  1, 
Bids  thee  leave  these,  and  with  her  sovereign  greice, 
Here  on  this  grase-plot,  in  this  very  place, 

[Juno  descends  slowly.* 
To  come  and  sport.     Her  peacocks  fly  amain: 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 
Eiiter  Ceres. 

Cer.  Hail,  many-colour'd  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter; 
Who  with  thy  saffron  wings  upon  my  flowers 
Diffuscst  honey-drops,  retreshing  showers; 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosk'j'  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down. 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth;  why  hath  thy  queen 
Sumnion'd  ine  hither,  to  this  short-graz'd  green? 

Jri.s.  A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate. 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  blcssd  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow. 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know, 
Do  now  attend  the  queen?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means  that  dusky  Dis  my  dautihter  got. 
Her  and  her  blind  boys  scandald  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid  :  I  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos,  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her.     Here  thought  they  to  have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid. 


■  tbird  :  in  r  e 


»  Surplutaft.       '  perUy—^itirkly.  skit  fully.     *  Coar%e  gra.".  ufcA  Bonietimes  for  coverinR  farm-buildine»       *  pion— 
ID  f.  a.      '  broom  :  in  f.  o     •  Tbia  directiun  ii  omitted  in  most  modern  edition*  ;  "  slo  vly"  is  added  in  tke  MS.,  1632 


dCENE   I. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


15 


Whose  vows  are.  that  no  bed-right  shall  be  paid 

Till  Hymen's  torch  be  liijhted  ;  but  in  vain: 

Mars'  hot  minion  is  return'd  again  ; 

Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows, 

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

And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes  :  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 
Enter  Juno. 
Jun.  How  does  my  bounteovxs  sister  ?     Go  with  me, 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be, 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue. 

SoifG. 
Juno    Honoui    riches^  marriage^  blessing^ 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing^ 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you} 
Earth's  increase^  foison  -plenty^ 
Barns,  and  garners  never  empty  ; 
Vines,  with  clusfring  bunches  growing  ; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  boiving  ; 
Rain^  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest  ! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you  ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 
Fer.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly.     May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

p',0.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  cali'd  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever : 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  father,  and  a  wife,' 
Makes  this  place  Paradise. 
[Juno  aiul  Ceres  whisper,  and  send  Iris  on  employment. 
Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence  ! 
Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously ; 
There's  something  else  to  do.     Hush,  and  be  mute. 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.  You  nymphs,   cali'd   Naiads,  of  the  winding^ 
brooks, 
With  your  sedge*  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  chamiels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons  :  Juno  does  command. 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebiate 
A.  contract  of  true  love  :  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 
Vou  sun-burn'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry. 
Make  holy -day  :  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
Fn  country  footing. 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited :  they  join  with 
the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance  ;  towards  the  end  where- 
of Pros,  starts  smklenly,  and  speaks  ;  after  which,  to  a 
strange,  hollow,  and  confused  noise,  they  heavily  vanish. 
Pro.   [Aside.]   I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates, 
Against  my  life  ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 
[s    almost    come. — [To   the    Spirits.]     Well    done. — 
Avoid  ; — no  more. 
Fer.  This  is  strange  :  your  father's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  till  this  day. 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  disteinper'd. 

Pro.  You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort, 

Ajs  if  you  were  dismay'd  :  be  cheerful,  sir. 

Our  levels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors. 


As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 

Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  sliall  dissolve. 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 

Leave  not  a  rack*  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 

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

Bear  with  my  weakness  ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled  : 

Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity. 

If  you  be  pleas'd  retire  into  my  cell. 

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

To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  Mira.  We  wish  your  peace.     [Exeunt 

Pro.  Come  with  a  thought ! — I  thank  thee. — Ariel 
come ! 

Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to.   What 's  thy  pleasure ' 

Pro.  Spirit, 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban. 

Ari.  Ay,  my  commander :  when  I  presented  Ceres. 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it;  but  I  fear'd 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pro.  Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  these  varlets  ? 

Ari.  I  told  you.  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with  drinking  : 
So  full  of  valour,  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet,  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project.     Then  I  beat  my  tabor. 
At  which,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  prick'd  their  ears, 
Advanc'd  their  eye-lids,  lifted  up  their  noses. 
As  they  smelt  music:  so  I  charm'd  their  ears. 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  follow'd,  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  gorse,  and  thorns 
Which  enter'd  their  frail  skins :'  at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'erstunk  their  feet. 

Pro.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird, 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
Tlie  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  hither. 
For  stale'  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.     {Exit 

Pro.  A  devil,  a  born  de-sal,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  never  can  stick ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost ; 
And  as  with  age  his  body  uglier  grovrs, 
So  his  mind  cankers.     I  will  plague  them  all. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  loaden  with  glistering  apparel,  Sfc. 
Even  to  roaring. — Come,  hang  them  on  this  line. 

Ariel  hangs  them  on  the  line,  and  with  Prospero 
remains  unseen.^ 

Enter  Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo,  all  wet. 

Cal.  Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole  ma 
not 
Hear  a  foot  fall :  we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

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

Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smell  all  horse-pijs,  at  which 
my  nose  is  in  great  indignation. 

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

Trin.  Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

Cal.  Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still. 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I'll  bring  thee  to 


Ib  f.  e.  the  remainder  of  the  song  is  priven  to  Ceres.      2  Spring  :  in  f.  e       '  -wise  :  in  f.  e      *  sedg'd  :  in  {.  e.      *  A  vapor,  from  reeb 
lina  :  in  f.  e        ''A  decoy       *  f.  e.  have  onlv  the  direction,  Prospeko  and  Arikl  rer/tain  unseen.      •  Jack  o'  lautern. 


16 


THE    TEMPEST. 


ACT   V 


Shall  hood-wink  this  mischance :  therefore,  speak  softly; 
All  'b  hush'tl  as  niiilnicht  yet. 

Trin.  Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool, — 

Sle.  There  is  not  only  disirraco  and  dishonour  in 
Uiat.  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

Trin.  That  "s  more  to  ino  than  my  wetting  :  yet  this 
18  your  harmless  fairy,  monster. 

Stf.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  o'er  ears 
for  my  labour. 

Cat.  IV ythee,  my  king,  be  quiet.     Secst  thou  here  ? 
This  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell  :  no  noise,  and  enter: 
Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  this  island 
Thim-  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-lic'ker.# 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand.  I  do  begin  to  have  bloody 
tli»ughts. 

Trin.  0  king  Stephano  !  0  peer  !  0  worthy  Ste- 
phano !  look,  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee  ! 

[Seeing  the  apparel.^ 

Cal.  Let  it  alone,  thou  fool :  it  is  but  trash, 

Trin.  0,  ho.  monster  !  we  know  what  beiongs  to  a 
frippery.'— O  king  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  go^^^l,  Trinculo:  by  this  hand,  I  '11 
have  that  gown. 

Trin.  Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

Cal.  The  dropsy  dro-WTi  this  fool !  what  do  you  mean, 
To  doat  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let 't  alone, 
And  do  the  murder  first :  if  he  awake, 
From  toe  to  crown  he'll  fill  our  skins  with  pinches; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster. — Mistress  line,  is  not 
this  my  jerkin?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the  line: 
now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your  hair,  and  prove 
a  bald  jerkin. 


Trin.  Do,  do  :  we  steal  by  line  and  level,  and  'I  like 
your  grace. 

Ste.  1  thank  thee  for  that  jest;  here's  a  garment 
for 't :  wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded,  while  I  am  king  oi 
this  country.  "  Steal  by  line  and  level,'"  is  an  excel- 
lent pass  of  pate ;  there's  another  garment  for't. 

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

Cal.  I  will  have  none  on  "t :  we  shall  lose  our  time. 
And  all  be  turn'd  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  villainous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay  to  your  fingers:  help  to  bear  th'i 
away  where  my  hogshead  of  wuie  is.  or  I'll  turn  yoi; 
out  of  my  kingdom.     Go  to;  carry  this. 

Trin.  And  this. 

Ste.  Ay,  and  this. 
[A  nvise  of  hunters  heard.     Enter  divers   Spirits,  in 

shape  of  hounds,  and  hunt  them  about ;   Prospkro 

and  Ariel  setting  them  on.] 

Pro.  Hey,  Mountain,  hey  ! 

Ari.  Silver  !  there  it  goes.  Silver  ! 

Pro.  Fury,  Fury  !  there,  Tyrant,  there  !  hark,  hark  ! 
[Cal..  Ste..  and  Trin.  are  driven  out. 
Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 
With  aged  cramps,  and  more  pinch-spotted  make  them, 
Than  pard,  or  cat  o'  mountain.       [Cries  and  roaring* 

Ari.  Hark  !  they  roar. 

Pro.  Let  them  be  hunted  soundly.     At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end.  and  thou 
Slialt  liave  the  air  at  freedom:  for  a  little, 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunl 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I.— Before  tlie  Cell  of  Prospero. 

Enter  Prospero  in  his  magic  robes  ;  and  Ariel. 

Pro.  Now  does  my  project  sather  to  a  head : 
My  charms  crack  not.  my  spirits  obey,  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How's  the  day? 

Ari.  On  the  sixth  hour;  at  which  time,  my  lord. 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so. 

When  first  I  rais'd  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit. 
How  fares  the  king  and  's  followers? 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

in  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge; 
Just  as  you  left  them:  all  prisoners,  sir, 
In  the  Hne*-i.'rove  which  weather-fends  your  cell; 
They  cannot  bud:re  till  your  release.     The  king. 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted, 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them. 
Brim-full  of  sorrow,  and  dismay;  but  chiefly 
Him  that  you  term'd,  sir.  the  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo: 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds.     Your  charm  so  strongly  works 

them. 
That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit? 

Ari.  Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Haiit  thou,  v/hirh  art  but  air.  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 


One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply. 

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

Tho'  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the  quick. 

Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason,  'gainst  my  fury 

Do  I  take  part.     The  rarer  action  is 

In  virtue,  than  in  vengeance:  they  being  penitent, 

The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 

Not  a  frown  farther.     Go  ;  release  them,  Ariel. 

My  charms  I  "11  break,  their  senses  I  "11  restore. 

And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.    '  I'll  fetch  them,  sir.     [Exit 

Pro.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and 
groves : 
And  ye,  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him. 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  dcmy-puppcts.  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green-sward'  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites;  and  you,  who.se  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms:  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  thouch  ye  be)  I  have  be-dimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  cali"d  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war:  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Joves  stout  oak 
With  his  oym  bolt:  the  strons-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake:  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar:  graves,  at  my  command. 
Have  waked  their  sleepers;  oped,  and  let  them  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 


'  Not  in  f  e.      »  .in  old  rlo'  shop       >  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦  The  old  word  for  lime.      •  Ereen-sour  ;  in  f.  e. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


I  here  abjure ;  and.  when  I  have  requir'd 
Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do) 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 
And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 
I  "11  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

Re-enter  Ariel  :    after  him    Atoxso,    with   a  frantic 
gesture,  attended  by  Gonzalo;   Sebastian  and  An- 
TOMO    in    like    manner,    attended   by    Adrian    and 
Francisco  :  they  all  enter  the  circle  which  Prospero 
had  made,  and  there  stand  cJmrmed  ;  which  Prospero 
observing,  speaks. 
A  solemn  air.  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains. 
Now  useless,  boiTd  within  thy  skull !     There  stand. 
For  you  are  spell-stopp'd. — 
Noble'  Gonzalo,  honourable  man, 
Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  flow'  of  thine. 
Fall  fellowly  drops. — The  charm  dissolves  apace; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night. 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason. — 0  good  Gonzalo  ! 
My  true  preserv'er,  and  a  loyal  servant' 
To  him  thou  foUow'st,  I  will  pay  thy  graces 
Home,  both  in  word  and  deed. — Most  cruelly 
Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter : 
Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act : — 
Thou  'rt  pinch'd  for  't  now,  Sebastian. — Flesh  and  blood, 
Vou  brother  mine,  that  entertain'd  ambition, 
Expell'd  remorse  and  nature ;  who,  with  Sebastian, 
(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong) 
Would  here  have  kill'd  your  king ;  I  do  forgive  thee. 
Unnatural  though  thou  art. — Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell,  and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores. 
That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them. 
That  yet  looks  on  me,  eer*  would  know  me. — Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell ;  [Exit  Ariel. 
[  will  dis-case  me,  and  myself  present, 
As  I  was  sometime  Milan. — Quickly,  spirit; 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

Ariel  re-enters  singing,  and  helps  to  attire  Prospero. 
Ari.    Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  coicslip's  bell  I  lie : 
There  I  couch.      When  owls  do  cry, 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly. 
After  sumvur,  merrily: 
Merrilif.  inerrily.  shall  I  live  now, 
Uiuler  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 
Pro.  Why,  that  "s  my  dainty  Ariel !  I  shall  miss  thee ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom : — so,  so,  so. — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
S        There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 

Under  the  hatches ;  the  master,  and  the  boatswain. 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place, 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 
.  Ari.  I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 

f)r  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit  Ariel. 

Gon.  All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amazement 
Inhabit  here  :  some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  'earful  country  ! 

Pro.  [Anired  as  Duke.^]       Behold,  sir  king, 
The  wTonged  duke  of  Milan,  Prospero. 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body ; 
And  to  thee,  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
\  hearty  welcome. 

'  Holy  :  in  i.  e.     »  show  ■  in  t  e.      '  sir  •  in  f.  e.      *  or  :  in  f.  e. 
B 


Alon.  Whe'r  thou  beest  he,  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  devil*  to  abuse  me. 
As  late  I  have  been,  1  not  know :  thy  pulse 
Beats  as  of  flesh  and  blood  ;  and.  smce  I  saw  thee. 
Th'  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me.     This  must  crave 
(An  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign  ;  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  thy  wrongs. — But  how  should  Prospert' 
Be  living,  and  be  here  ? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend. 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age,  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measur'd,  or  confin'd.         ^ 

Gon.  Whether  this  be, 

Or  be  not,  I  '11  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtleties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain. — Welcome,  my  friends  all. — 
But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

[Aside  to  Seb.  and  Ant 
I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors  :  at  this  time 
I  will  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.   [Aside.]         The  devil  speaks  in  him. 

Pro.  No.— 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth.  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  faults' ;  all  of  them  ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation  : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  tliree  hours  since 
Were  wrcck'd  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have  lost, 
(How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is  !) 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  for 't,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss,  and  patience 
Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think. 

You  have  not  sought  her  help  ;  of  whose  soft  grace. 
For  the  like  loss  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

Pro.  As  great  to  me,  as  late;  and,  supportable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you,  for  I 
Have  lost  ray  daughter. 

Alon.  A  daughter  ? 

O  heavens  !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there  !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 
Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  yourdaughtei  ? 

Pro.  In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason,  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath ;  but,  howsoe"er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain, 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  Ibrth  of  Milan  ;  who  most  strangelv 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wTCck'd,  was  landed 
To  be  the  lord  on 't.     No  more  yet  of  this  ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day. 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell 's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad  :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 
»  Not  in  f.  e.      »  trifle  :  in  f  e.      '  fault :  in  f.  a. 


18 


THE    TEMPEST. 


iCT   V 


I  will  requite  you  with  as  cood  a  tiling  ; 
At  least.  Wma  lorlh  a  wonder,  to  content  ye 
Aa  much  ns  nie  my  dukedom. 

Prospero  draws  a  nirtain,^  and  discot'crs  Ferdinand 
ami  Miranda  playing  at  chess. 

AFtra.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.  Ye«,    for   a   score   of  kingdoms   you    should 
^>Tangle. 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alcn.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  t^-ice  lose. 

Seh.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Ffr.  Though  the  seas  threaten  they  are  merciful : 
I  have  cursd  them  without  cause.       [Kyieels  to  Alon. 

Alon.  Now.  all  the  blessings 


Of  a  giad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
.\rise.  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  0.  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is  !     0,  brave  new  world, 
Tliat  has  such  people  in"t  ! 

Pro.  'T  is  new  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast  at 
play? 
Vour  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours  : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she  is  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  providence,  she  's  mine : 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice,  nor  thouL'ht  I  had  one.     She 
h  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown. 
But  never  saw  before ;  of  whom  I  have 
KeceJved  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers. 

Rut  0  !  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness. 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop  : 

Let  U8  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  a  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Ooa.  I  have  inly  wept. 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  dovm,  you  sods, 
.And  on  this  couple  drop  a  bles.sed  crowni, 
For  it  is  you  that  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way, 
Which  brought  us  hither  ! 

Alon.  I  say.  Amen.  Gonzalo. 

Gf/n.  Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan.  Ihnt  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     0  !   rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy.  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lastins  pillars.     In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  hT  husband  find  at  Tunis; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife. 
Where  ho  him'-'^li  was  lost ;  Prosi)ero  his  dukedom, 
In  a  poor  isle;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves. 
When  no  man  was  his  own. 

Alon.  Give,  me  your  hands  ;  \To  Fer.  and  MiR. 

Let  srief  and  sorrow  still  onibraee  his  heart. 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ! 

Gon.  Be  it  so  :  Amen. 

Re-enter  Arief,.  vith  the  Ma.ster  and  Boat.twain 
nmnzedly  folhicine;. 

0  look,  sir !  look,  sir !  here  are  more  of  us, 

1  prophesied,  if  a  sallows  were  on  land. 

This  fellow  could  not  drown. — Now,  blasphemy. 

'  TKt  inlrattee  of  the  etll  opfni,  and  .  in  f.  e.      »  without  ;  in  f.  •. 


That  swcar'st  grace  o'erboard.  not  an  oath  on  shoVe? 
Hast  thou  no  inoulh  by  land  ?  What  is  the  news? 

Hunts.  The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  foiux* 
Our  king,  and  company:  the  next,  our  ship. 
Which  but  three  glasses  since  we  gave  out  split, 
Is  tight,  and  yare,  and  bravely  riggd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  serAnce     [Asidt 

Have  I  done  since  I  went. 

Pro.  My  tricksy  spirit !     [".-/.w/* 

Alon.  These  are  not  natural  events ;  they  strenglhei 
From  slranse  to  stranger. — Say,  how  came  you  hither' 

Boats.  If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
I  'd  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And  (how  we  know  not)  all  clapp'd  under  hatches. 
Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noisw 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  jingling  chains, 
And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awak'd  ;  straightway,  at  liberty  : 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship  ;  our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her  :  on  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
EAcn  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them, 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was  't  well  done  ?  I 

Pro.  Bravely,   my  diligence  !     Thou  shall  >  Aside. 
be  free.  ) 

Alon.  This  is  as  stranire  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod  ; 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  natiu-e 
Was  ever  conduct  of :  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  ^^^th  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business  :  at  pick'd  leisure. 
Which  ?hall  be  shortly,  single  I  "II  resolve  you 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable)  of  every 
These  happen'd  accidents  ;  till  when,  be  cheerful. 
And  think  of  each  thing  well. — Come  hither,  spirit 

[Asick 
Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free ; 
Untie  the  spell.  [Ex.  Ariel.]  How  fares  my  gracious  8ir> 
There  are  yet  missmg  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads,  that  you  remember  not. 
Re-enter  Ariel,  driving  in  Caliban,  Stephano,  and 
Trinculo.  in  their  stolen  apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  no  mar 
take  care  for  himself,  for  all  is  but  fortune. — Coragio  ' 
bully-nionstcr,  coragio  ! 

Trin.  If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in  m> 
head,  here  "s  a  goodly  sight. 

Cal.  O  Setebos  !  these  be  brave  spirits,  indeed. 
How  fine  my  master  is  !     I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

Seb.  Ha,  ha  ! 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio? 
Will  money  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like  :  one  of  them 

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

Pro.  Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lordb 
Then  say,  if  they  be  true. — This  mis-shapen  knave, 
His  mother  was  a  witch  ;  and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control  the  moor,  make  flows  and  ebbs. 
And  deal  in  her  command  with  all'  her  power. 
These  three  have  robbd  me  ;  and  this  demi-devil 
(For  he's  a  bastard  one)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life  :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own;  this  thing  of  dark-ness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  dea<h 


SCENE    I. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


l.^ 


Alon.  Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler  ? 

Sch.  He  is  drixnk  now  :  where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon.  And  Trineulo  is  rueViag  ripe :  where  should  they 
Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  'em  ? — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

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

Seb.  Why,  how  now,  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  0  !  touch  me  not :  I  am  not  Stephano,  but  a 
cramp. 

Pro.  You  'd  be  king  of  the  isle,  sirrah  ? 

Ste.  I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e'er  I  look'd  on. 
[Pointing  to  Caliban. 

Pro.  He  is  as  disproportion'd  in  his  manners. 
As  in  his  shape. — Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 
Take  with  you  your  companions  :  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cnl.  Ay,  that  I  will  ;  and  I  "li  be  wise  hereafter, 
And  seek  for  grace.     What  a  thrice-double  ass 
Was  I.  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 
A  nd  worship  this  dull  fool  ? 

Pro.  Go  to  ;  away  ! 


Alan.  Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  where  you 
found  it. 

Seh.  Or  stole  it,  rather.     [Ex.  Cal..  Ste.,  an^f  Trin. 

Pro.  Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train, 
To  my  poor  cell,  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  which,  part  of  it,  1  '11  waste 
With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away  ;  the  story  of  my  life. 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by. 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle  ;  and  in  the  morn, 
I  '11  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemnizd  ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I  '11  deliver  all  ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail,  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off. — My  Ariel ; — chick, — 
That  is  thy  charge  :  then,  to  the  elements  ; 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! — Please  you  draw  neai 


EPILOGUE. 
Spoken  by  Prospero. 


Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrowTi, 
And  what  strength  I  have  's  mine  o-wn : 
Which  is  most  faint  :  now,  't  is  true, 
I  must  be  here  confin'd  by  you. 
Or  sent  to  Naples.     Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got. 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
Tn  this  bare  island,  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands. 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands. 


Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 

Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails. 

Which  was  to  please.     Now  I  want 

Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 

And  my  ending  is  despaii 

Unless  I  be  reliev'd  by  prayer; 

Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 

Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 

Ab  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 

[Exeunt  Omnea 


THE 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF     VERONA. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE. 


Panthino,  Servant  to  Antonio 
Host,  where  Julia  lodges. 
Outlaws  with  Valentine. 


Duke  of  Milan.  Father  to  Silvia. 
Valentine.  1  j^^^  ^^^  Gentlemen. 
Proteus.       ) 

Antonio.  Father  to  Proteus. 
Tiu-Rio.  a  foolish  rival  to  Valentine. 
Er.LAMOi-R.  agent  of   Silvia  in  her  escape. 
Speed,  a  clownish  Servant  to  Valentine. 
Launce,  the  like  to  Proteus. 

SCENE:  sometimes  in  Verona;  sometimes  in  Milan,  and  on  the  frontiers  of  Mantua. 


JuLLA,  beloved  of  Proteus. 
Silvia,  beloved  of  Valentine. 
Lucetta,  Waiting- woman  to  Julia. 
Servants,  Musicians. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  I. — An  open  place  in  Verona. 
Enter  Valentine  and  Protfx'S. 

Fal.  Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus  : 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits. 
Wer  "t  not.  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honour'd  love, 
I  rather  would  entreat  thy  company 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad. 
Than,  living  dully  slugL'ardiz"d  at  home, 
Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 
But  since  thou  lovst,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 
Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  besin. 

Pro    Wilt  ihou  begone?     Sweet  Valentine,  adieu. 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou  haply  seest 
Some  rare  note-worthy  object  in  thy  travel : 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness. 
When  thou  iost  meet  good  hap ;  and  in  thy  danger, 
If  ever  danL'er  do  environ  thee, 
('ommend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  will  be  thy  bead's-man,*  Valentine. 

Val.  And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success. 

Pro.  Upon  some  book  1  love,  I"  11  pray  for  thee. 

Val.  That 's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love, 
How  young  Leandcr  crossd  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  That  H  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love, 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

Val.    T  is  true ;  but*  you  are  over  boots  in  love, 
And  yet  you  never  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  Over  the  boots?  nay,  uive  me  not  the  boots.* 

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

Pro.  What? 

Val.  To  be  in  love  where  scorn  is  bouirht  with  groans ; 
f 'oy  looks,  with  heart-sore  sighs  ;  one  lading  moment's 

mirth. 
With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights: 
If  haply  won,  perhaps,  a  hapless  gain: 
If  lost,  wtv  then  a  grievous  labour  won  : 


However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  -wit, 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Pro.  So,  by  your  circumstance  you  call  me  fool 

Val.  So.  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear  you'll  proT» 

Pro.  'Tis  love  you  cavil  at:  I  am  not  love. 

Val.  Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you ; 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Mcthinks,  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise. 

Pro.  Yet  -wTiters  say,  as  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

Val.-  And  writers  say,  as  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  the  yoting  and  tender  wit 
Is  turnd  to  folly;  blasting  in  the  bud, 
Losins  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime. 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee. 
That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  ■:■ 
Once  more  adieu.     My  father  at  the  road  _ 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipp'd. 

Pro.  And  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

Val.  Sweet  Proteus,  no:  now  let  us  take  our  leare 
To  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters, 
Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Bctidcth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend. 
And  1  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro.  All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan. 

Val.  As  much  to  you  at  home :  and  so,  farewell.  [ExU 

Pro.  He  after  honour  hunts,  1  after  love : 
He  leaves  his  friends  to  dignify  them  more; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou.  Julia,  thou  hast  metainorphos'd  me; 
Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time. 
War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought, 
Made  \\-it  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought 
Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  Sir  Proteus,  save  you.    Saw  you  my  master' 


'  for  :  in  f  e  •  Onr  who  pray t  for  another :  the  word  in  derived  from  the  dropping  of  a  bead  in  h  roKnry,  at  each  prayer  rf  cited 
•  tor  :  in  f  e  ♦  .SuppniK-d  by  Knielit  to  refor  to  the  ingtrum'-nt  of  torture,  the  boot,  by  which  the  BiifTerer's  lesr  was  crushed  bv  wolype 
driTen  between  it  and  the  hoot  in  which  it  wa»  placed.  Collier  say*  it  is  a  proverbial  expresaion,  signifyintt  "don't  make  a  laupninB 
ttn«k  of  me  " 

20 


THE    TWO    GENTLEMEN    OP'    VEKONA. 


2] 


Pro.  But.  now  he  parted  hence  to  embark  for  Milan. 

Speed    Twenty  to  one.  then,  he  is  shipp'd  already. 
A.nd  1  have  play'd  the  sheep  in  losing  him. 

Pro.  Indeed  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray, 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude,  that  my  master  is  a  shepherd, 
then,  and  I  a  sheep? 

Pro.  I  do. 

Why  then,  my  horns  are  his  horns,  whether 
I  wake  or  sleep. 

Pro.  A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.  This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.  True,  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed.  Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance. 

Pro.  It  sliall  go  hard,  but  I  '11  prove  it  by  another. 

Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not  the 
sheep  the  shepherd  :  but  I  seek  my  master,  and  my 
master  seeks  not  me :  therefore.  I  am  no  sheep. 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd,  the 
shepherd  for  food  follows  not  the  sheep;  thou  for 
wages  followest  thy  m.ister,  thy  master  for  wages 
follows  not  thee :  theref<)re.  thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.  Such  another  j-.roof  will  make  me  cry  "  baa." 

Pro.  But,  dost  thou  hear?  gav'st  thou  my  letter  to 
Julia? 

Speed.  Ay,  sir:  I.  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  letter  to 
her,  a  laced  mutton'  :  and  she,  a  laced  mutton,  gave 
me,  a  lost  mutton,  nothing  for  my  labour. 

Pro.  Here  's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  store  of 
muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharg'd,  you  were  best 
stick  her. 

Pro.  Nay,  in  that  you  are  a  stray,  't  were  best  pound 

fOU. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me 
for  carrying  your  letter. 

Pro.  You  mistake :  I  mean  the  pound,  the  pinfold. 

Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin?  fold  it  over  and  over, 
'T  is  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your  lover. 

Pro.  But  what  said  she?  did  she  nod? 

Speed.  I.  [Speed  nods. 

Pro.  Nod,  I  ?  wiiy  that 's  noddy.' 

Speed.  You  mistook,  sir :  I  say  she  did  nod,  and  you 
ask  me,  if  she  did  nod  ?  and  I  say  I. 

Pro.  And  that  set  together,  is  noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it 
t^tgether,  take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.  No.  no  ;  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the  letter. 

Speed.  Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear  with  you. 

Pro.  Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir.  the  letter  very  orderly;  having 
nothing  but  the  word  noddy  for  my  pains. 

Pro.  Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.  And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow  purse. 

Pro.  Come,  come;  open  the  matter  in  brief:  what 
said  she? 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money,  and  the 
matter,  may  be  both  at  once  delivered. 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains.  What  said 
she?  [Giving  him  money. ^ 

Speed.  Truly,  sir.  I  think  you  '11  hardly  win  her. 

Pro.  Why  ?  Couldst  thou  perceive  so  much  from  her  ? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from  her 

better* ; 

No.  not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your  letter ; 

And  being  so  hard  to  me  that  brought  to  her'  your  mind, 

I  fear  she  "11  prove  as  hard  to  you  in  telling  you  her'  mind. 


Give  her  no  token  but  stones,  for  she  's  as  hard  as  steel. 

Pro.  What !  said  she  nothing? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as — •'  Take  this  for  thy 
pains."  To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you 
have  testern'd*  me ;  in  requital  whereot',  henceforth 
carry  your  letters  yourself.  And  so,  sir,  I  "11  commead 
you  to  my  master.  [Exit.' 

Pro.  Go,  go,  be  gone,  to  save  your  ship  from  wreck. 
Which  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
Being  destin'd  to  a  drier  death  on  shore. — 
I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger : 
I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines. 
Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post.       [Exit  " 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Julia's  Garden. 
Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.  But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Wouldst  thou,  then,  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love? 

Luc.  Ay,  madam  ;   so  you  stumble  not  unheedfuUy, 

Jul.  Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen. 
That  every  day  with  parle  encoimter  me. 
In  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love  ? 

Luc.  Please  you,  repeat  their  names,  I  '11  show  my 
mind. 
According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 

/(//.  What  think' st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour' 

Luc.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine; 
But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercutio?" 

Luc.  Well,  of  his  wealth  ;  but  of  himself,  so,  so. 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 

Luc.  Lord,  lord  !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us ! 

Jul.  How  now  ?  what  means  this  passion  at  his  name  ? 

Luc.  Pardon,  dear  madam  :  't  is  a  passing  shame, 
That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am. 
Should  censure  thus  a  loving'^  gentleman. 

Jul.  Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 

LiK.  Then  thus, — of  many  good  I  think  him  best. 

Jul.  Your  reason? 

Luc.  I  have  no  other  hut  a  woman's  reason : 
I  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 

Jid.  And  wouldst  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on  him  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cart  g-w-ay. 

Jul.  Why,  he,  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  mov'd  mo 

Luc.  Yet  he.  of  all  the  rest.  I  think,  best  loves  ye. 

Jid.  His  little  speaking  sliows  his  love  but  small. 

Luc.  Fire  that 's  closest  kept  burns  most  of  all. 

Jul.  They  do  not  love,  that  do  not  show  their  love. 

Luc.  0  !  they  love  least,  that  let  men  know  their  love 

Jul.  I  would  I  knew  his  mind. 

Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 

Jid.  "  To  Julia."    Say.  from  whom.  [Gives  a  letter." 

Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 

Jul.  Say,  say,  who  gave  it  thee  ? 

Luc.  Sir  Valentine  s  page ;  and  sent,  I  think,  from 
Proteus. 
He  would  have  given  it  you,  but  I,  being  in  the  way, 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it :  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray 

/((/.  Now.  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker  ! 
Dare  you  presume  to  harbour  wanton  lines  ? 
To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ? 
Now,  trust  me,  't  is  an  office  of  great  worth, 
And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place. 
There,  take  the  paper  •  see  it  be  leturn'd,  [Gives  it  back.^* 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate. 

Jtd.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

'  Most  commentators  make  thi.s  mean,  a  dressed-up  courtesan.  Knieht  su^^ests  that,  (lace  being  used  in  its  primitive  meaniBg  of  any 
thing  that  catches  or  secures)  it  means  caught  sheep.  ^  The  old  name  for  the /bintre  or /oo/ of  a  pack  of  cards.  '  ♦  Not  in  f  e.  *  to  her  . 
not  in  f.  e  «  tellin?  your  mind  :  in  f.  e.  '  Tliis  speech  is  printed  as  prose  in  f.  e.  ^  A  teBtern  is  a  tixvevce.  »  Not  in  f.  « 
">  Exeunt  ■  in  f  e.      "  Mercatio  :  in  f.  e.       "  on  lovely  :  in  f.  e.      13  i4  Not  in  f.  e. 


TUE   TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    VEHuNA. 


A.ar  L 


Luc.  Tliat  you  may  ruminate.     [Exit. 

Jill.  Ami  yet.  I  would  1  lia<l  o"erlook"d  tlie  letter. 
Ii  .vcre  a  slinine  to  call  her  back  a^aiu. 
.A.xl  pray  her  to  a  lault  lor  which  I  chid  hci 
Wliat  tool  is  she.  that  knows  I  am  a  maid. 
Anil  would  not  I'oroe  the  letter  to  my  view. 
.<iiu'e  maids,  in  modesty,  say  "  No."  to  tiial 
Which  they  would  iuive  the  proflerer  construe   "  Ay." 
Fie,  fie  I   how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 
That  like  a  testy  babe  will  scratch  the  nurse, 
.And  presently,  all  iiumbled,  kiss  the  rod. 
How  churlishly  1  chid  Lucetta  hence, 
When  wilhiiiily  I  would  have  had  her  here: 
How  anijorly  1  tauL'ht  my  brow  to  frown, 
When  inward  joy  enlbrcd  my  heart  to  smile. 
My  penance  is  to  call  Lucetta  back, 
.\nd  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past. — 
What  ho  !  Lucetta  ! 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

JjUC.  What  would  your  ladyship? 

Jul.  Is  it  near  dinner-time? 

Luc.  I  would,  it  were ; 

That  you  might  kill  your  stomach  on  your  meat, 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 

[Drops  the  letter,  and  take.t  it  up  again.^ 

Jul.  What  is  t  that  you  took  up  so  gingerly? 

Luc.  Nothing. 

/((/.  Why  didst  thou  stoop,  then  ? 

Luc.  To  take  a  paper  up 

That  I  let  fall. 

7m/.  And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 

Luc.  Nothing  concerning  me. 

Jul.  Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.  Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 
I'nless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

ful.  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 

Luc.  That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune, 
Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyship  can  set. 

Jul.  As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible. 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  "  Licht  o'  love." 

Luc.  It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

Jul.  Heavy?  belike,  it  hath  some  burden  then. 

Luc.  Ay  ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you  sing  it. 

Jul.  And  why  not  you  ? 

Luc.  I  cannot  reach  so  hish 

Jul.  Let  '8   see   your  song. — [Snatching  the  letter.^] 
How  now,  minion  ! 

Luc.   Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out: 
And  yet.  methinks.  1  do  not  like  this  tune. 

Jul.  You  do  not  ? 

Liu.  No.  madam  :  'it  is  too  sharp. 

Jul.  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.  Nay,  now  you  arc  too  flat, 

And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant :' 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean*  to  till  your  sons. 

Jul.  The  moan  is  drownd  with  your  unruly  base. 

Luc.   Indeed  I  bid  the  ba.se'  for  Proteus. 

Jul.  This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 
Here  in  a  coil  with  protestation 


And  kill  the  bees  that  yield  it  with  your  stijgB  ! 
I  "11  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 
Look,  here  is  writ — "kind  .lulia;" — unkiud  Julia! 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 
I  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones. 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
And  here  is  writ — "  love- wounded  Proteus." — 
Poor  wounded  name  !   my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 
Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  through". y  heal'd; 
And  thus  I  search"  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 
But  twice,  or  thrice,  was  Proteus  WTitten  down  • 
Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away. 
Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter, 
Except  mine  own  name  ;  that  some  whirlwind  beai 
Unto  a  ragged,  fearful,  hanging  rock, 
And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea. 
Lo  !  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  t\^ice  -wTit,— - 
"  Poor  forlorn  Proteus  ;  passionate  Proteus 
To  the  sweet  Julia  :' — that  1   11  tear  away; 
And  yet  I  will  not,  sith  so  prettily 
He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  name.' 
Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another: 
Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  wiU. 
Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.  Madam, 
Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays. 

Jul.  Well,  let  us  go. 

Luc.  What !  .shall  those  papers  lie  like  tell-tales  here  i 

Jul.  If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 

Luc.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  tliem  down  ; 
Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie  for  catching  cold. 

Jul.  I  see,  you  have  a  month's  mind'"  unto"  them. 

Luc.  Ay,    madam,    you    may  see  what  sights  you 
think  ;*^ 
I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 

Jul.  Come,  come;  will 't  please  you  go?      [ExevrU 

SCENE  III. — The  same.     A  Room  in  Antonios 
House. 
Filter  Antonio  and  Panthino. 
Ant.  Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad''  talk  was  thai, 
Wherewitli  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister? 
Pant.    T  was  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  youj-  son. 
Ant.  Why,  what  of  him? 

Pant.  He  wonder'd.  that  your  loidshir 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home, 
I  While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 
I  Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out: 
!  Some  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there; 
I  Some,  to  discover  islands  far  away; 
Some,  to  the  studious  universities. 
For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises. 
He  said,  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet, 
I  And  did  request  me  to  importune  you 
1  To  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 
Which  would  be  great  impeachment  to  his  age 
In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.  IV'or  nced'st  thou  much  importune  me  to  msk. 
Whereon  this  month  1  have  been  hammering. 


[Tear.'!  tltf  letter*  arul  throws  it  down.  I  have  consider'd  well  his  loss  of  time, 

.0  :  get  yon  cone,  and  let  the  papers  lie  :  And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perlcct  man, 

Vnu  would  be  finL'criim  them  to  anirer  me.  (better'  Not  being  tried  and  tutord  in  the  world  : 

Luc.  She  makes  it  slraii^'c.  but  she  would  be  pleas'd  Experience  is  by  industry  achiev'd. 

To  be  so  anuerd  with  another  letter.  [Frit.  And  perfected  by  the  swi'ft  course  of  time. 

Jul.  Nay.  would  I  were  so  aiiL'cr'd  with  the  same  !  Then,  tell  me.  whither  were  1  best  to  send  him? 
J  h.'itclul  hands  !  to  tear  such  loving  words  :                  |      Punt.  1  think,  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant 

rnjurious  wanps.  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey,  How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 

'  Thi»<tir<>rtinni.not  infe.  »  Not  in  f.  e.  '  Wlml  wp  now  f-.->|l  jn  muRir.n  rariVKi^n.  *  A  trnnr.  »  An  allusi. in  to  the  frame  of  base.  Of 
yrinnn  Unae.  in  whir-h  one  run*  nnd  ••linlii-nKPii  hm  opixinoTpi  m  piirmie.  •  The  re.-"!  of  this  dirertion  is  not  In  f.  e  ">  liest  pleased  :  in  l.e 
^  rroif       »  nnmr,     m  f.  r.     lo  Thm   provprhini   exproMmn  is  ilrrived  from  the  reinpiiilir!in<-e  or  i-ommemoralion  of  the  d.-ail  by  mi»«*s 

'.».      "fo:infe.      '^i  may  say  what  sights  you  see  :  in  (   e        '"' grave  :  in  f  ? 


for  »liUlIe.t  per 


in  r  e.     '»Thi 

ihey  were  benco  called  monlfi'A 


BOENE    I. 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  YERONA. 


28 


Attends  the  en.peror  in  his  royal  coui-t 

Ant.  I  know  it  well. 

Font.  "T  were  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent  him 
thither. 
There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments, 
Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen, 
And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise, 
Worthy  his  youth,  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.  I  like  tliy  counsel :  well  hast  thou  advis'd ; 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  how  well  I  like  it, 
The  execution  of  it  shall  make  knowTi. 
Even  with  the  speediest  expedition 
1  will  dispatch  him  to  the  emperors  court. 

Pant.  To-morrow,  may  it  please  you,  Don  Alphonso, 
With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem. 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 
And  to  commend  their  ser\-ice  to  his  will. 

Ant.  Good  company;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go: 
And,  in  good  time, — now  will  we  break  with  him. 
Enter  Proteus,'  twt  seeing  his  Father. 

Pro.  Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  I 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart : 

[Kissing  a  letter. 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour's  pawn. 
0 !  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 
And  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 
0  heavenly  Julia  ! 

Ant.  How  now  !  what  letter  are  you  reading  there  ? 

Pro.  May  "t  please  your  lordship,  't  is  a  word  or  two 
Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine.  [Putting  it  up.' 
Deliver'd  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.  Lend  me  the  letter :  let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.  There  is  no  news,  my  lord,  but  that  he  writes 
How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  belov'd, 
And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor ; 


Wishing  me  with  him.  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.  And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish? 

Pro.  As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 
And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 

A7it.  My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish. 
Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed. 
For  what  I  ^all.  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 
I  am  resolv'd,  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
'With  Valentino-  in  tlie  emperor's  court : 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 
Like  exhibition*  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 
Excuse  it  not.  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.  My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided : 
Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 

Ant.  Look,  what  thou  wantst  shall  be  sent  after  thee: 
No  more  of  stay  ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go. — 
Come  on.  Panthino  :  you  shall  be  employ'd 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition. 

[Exeunt  Antonio  and  Panthino 

Pro.  Thus  have  I  shurm'd  the  fire  for  fear  of  burning. 
And  drench'd  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drown'd. 
I  fear'd  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter. 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  lov^e  ; 
And,  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse, 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
0  !  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away. 
Re-enter  Panthino. 

Ant.  Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you : 
He  is  in  haste ;  therefore,  I  pray  you.  go. 

Pro.  Why,  this  it  is  :  my  heart  accords  thereto, 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers  no.  [Exeunt 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  L— Milan.    A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
E7iter  Valentine  aitd  Speed. 

Speed.  Sir,  your  glove. 

Val.  Not  mine ;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.  Why  then  this  may  be  yours,  for  this  is  but 
one. 

Val.  Ha  !  let  me  see:  ay,  give  it  me,  it  "s  mine. — 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine  ! 
Ah  Silvia  !  Silvia  ! 

Speed.  Madam  Silvia  !  madam  Silvia ! 

Val.  Hf^w  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.  She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.  Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her? 

Speed.  Your  M-orship.  sir;  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.  Well,  you  '11  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too  slow. 

Val.  Go  to.  sir.    Tell  me.  do  you  know  madam  Silvia  ? 

Speed.  She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Val.  Why.  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ^ 

Speed.  Miirry.  by  these  special  marks.  First,  you 
have  learn'd,  like  sir  Proteus,  to  wTcath  your  arms,  like 
a  mal-content :  to  relish  a  love  song,  like  a  robin-red- 
breast ;  to  walk  alone,  like  one  that  hath'  the  pestilence ; 
to  sigh,  like  a  schoolboy  that  hath  lost  his  ABC:  to 
weep,  like  a  young  wench  that  hath  buried  her  grandam ; 
to  fast,  like  one  that  takes  diet ;  to  watch,  like  one 


that  fears  robbing ;  to  speak  puling,  like  a  beggar  at 
Hallowmas.  You  were  wont,  when  you  laugh'd,  te 
crow  like  a  cock ;  when  you  walk'd,  to  walk  like  one 
of  the  lions ;  when  you  fasted,  it  was  presently  after 
dinner;  when  you  look'd  sadly,  it  was  for  want  oi 
money :  and  now  you  are  so'  metamorphosed  •with  a 
mistress,  that,  when  I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly  think 
you  my  master. 

Val.  Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me? 

Speed.  They  are  all  perceived  without  ye. 

Val.  Without  me  ?  they  caimot. 

Speed.  Without  you  ?  nay,  that  "s  certain :  for.  with- 
out you  were  so  simple,  none  else  would  be' :  but  you 
are  so  without  these  follies,  that  these  follies  are  within 
you,  and  shine  through  you  like  the  water  in  an  urinal, 
that  not  an  eye  that  sees  you,  but  is  a  physician  to 
comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.  But  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Sihia? 

Speed.  She,  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at  supp*-? 

Val.  Hast  thou  observed  that  ?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.  Why.  sir.  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her,  and 
yet  know'st  her  not  ? 

Speed.  Is  she  not  hard-favour'd,  sir? 

Val.  Not  so  fair,  boy.  as  well  favour'd. 

Speed.  Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Val.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 


1  The  rest  of  this  dire-jtion  is  not  in  f.  e.      »  Not 
toiversit'.es.      »  had  :  ii  f.  e.      •  '  Not  in  f.  e 


'  Valentinus  :  in  f.  e.      *  maintenance,  stili  in  use  In  this 


EogbBl 


21 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA. 


ACT  n. 


.S/>.«/  That  she  is  not  so  fair,  as  (of  you)  well- 
Tavour'd 

f'rt/.  I  mcnij,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but  lier 
favour  iiifinito. 

Sp<ed.  Tliiit  ■»  bec.iuso  the  one  is  painted,  and  the 
iillier  out  of  all  count. 

Val.   How  pouitcd?  and  how  out  of  count':' 

SfKfd.  Marry.  «ir.  so  painted  to  make  her  fair,  that 
no  inaji   counts  of  her  beauty. 

ViU.  How  esteem'st  thou  me?  I  account  of  her 
beauty. 

Siicrd.  You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  deformd. 

I  111.  How  loHL'  liatli  she  been  deformd? 

Sprrd   Ever  since  you  loved  lior. 

lal  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saw  her.  and  still 
I  sec  her  beautilul. 


Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you 
Vol.  Whv? 


cannot  see  her. 


Spfcd.  Because  love  is  blind.  0 !  that  you  had 
mme  eyes :  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  liuhts  tliey  were 
.voiit  to  have,  when  you  chid  at  sir  Proteus  for  going 
uncartered  ! 

i'al.  What  should  I  see  then  ? 

S/vn/.  Your  own  present  fully,  and  her  pa.«5sing  de- 
formity ;  for  he.  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to  garter 
!  .8  hose  ;  and  you,  being  in  love,  cannot  see  to  put  on 
>our  hose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love ;  for  last 
moniin^'  you  coulil  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Spefd.  True,  sir;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed.  I 
thank  you.  you  swinged  me  for  my  love,  whicli  makes 
rae  the  bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.  In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 

Speed.  I  would  you  were  set,  so  your  affection  would 
cease. 

y'dl.  La.«!t  night  she  enjoin'd  me  to  write  some  lines 
to  one  she  loves. 

Spfrd.  And  have  you? 

lal.  I  have. 

Spred.  Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Val.  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them. — 
Peace  !  here  she  comes. 

EtUer  Sflvi.v. 

Speed   0  excellent  motion  !'  0  exceeding  puppet  I 
\ow  \\t11  he  interpret  to  her. 

Val    Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good  morrows. 

Speed.  O  !  'give  ye  good  even  :  here  's  a  million  of 
manners.     ^  \A.'^ide.^ 

Sil    Sir  Valentine  and  servant.'  to  you  two  thousand. 

Speed.  He  should  give  her  interest,  and  she  gives  it 
him. 

Val.  As  you  enjoin'd  me.  I  have  writ  your  letter 
Cnto  the  secret  nameless  friend  of  yours  ; 
Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  m, 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship.       {Giving  a  paper.* 

Sil.  I  thank  you,  gentle  .servant.  'T  is  very  clerkly 
done. 

yal.   Now  tnjst  me.  ma<lam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For.  being  iimorant  to  whom  it  goes, 
I  wnt  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 

Sil.   IVrphanee  you  tliink  too  much  of  so  much  pains? 

Vni  No.  ma/larn  :  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write. 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much. 
And  yet — 

Sil    A  pretty  period.      Wdl.  I  sruew  the  sequel  ; 

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

And  yet  Like  this  again  ; — and  yet  I  thank  you. 
Meaning  henr.-forth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Sjrrrd   And  yet  vou  will ;  and  yet,  another  yet.  \A.side.*\ 

•  A  iriDpat  ikow       »  I»of  ir.  f  •       >  An  ol"!  t«rfii  for  lofer.      *  •  • 


I      Val.  What  means  your  ladyship?  do  you  not  like  it? 
I      Sil.  Yes.  yes:  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ, 
But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again. 
I  Nay,  take  thom.  [Giving  it  back  * 

[       ]'at.  Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

Sil.  Ay.  ay  ;  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request, 
But  I  will  none  of  them  :  they  are  for  you. 
I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movin^'ly. 
I      Vol.  Pleiise  you.  I  "11  write  your  ladyship  another. 
1      Sil.  And.  when  it 's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over 
And  if  it  plea.se  you,  so  ;  if  not,  why,  so. 

Vnl.  If  it  please  me,  madam  ;  what  then  ? 

Sil.  Why.  if  it  please  yon,  take  it  for  your  labour  ; 
And  so  good-morrow,  servant.  [Exit 

I      Speed.  0  jest !  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible. 
As  a  nose  on  a  mans  face,   or  a  weathercock   on  a 

::'tecple. 
My  master  sues  to  her,  and  she  hath  taught  her  suitor, 
He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 
0  excellent  device  !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better, 
That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  sliould  write 
tiie  letter? 

Val.  How  now.  sir  !  what,  are  you  reasoning  with 
yourself? 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rh^Tning  :  't  is  you  that  have  the 
reason. 

Val.  To  do  what  ? 

Speed.  To  be  a  spokesman  from  madam  Silvia. 

Val.  To  wliom  ? 

Speed.  To  yourself.     Why,  she  woos  you  by  a  figure. 

Val.  What  figure? 

Speed.  By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

Val.  Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 

Speed.  What  need  she.  when  she  hath  made  you 
write  to  yourself?     Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the  jesf: 

Val.  No.  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  believing  you,  indeed,  sir  :  but  did  you 
perceive  her  earnest  ? 

Val.  Slie  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.  Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.  That  "s  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  deliver'd,  and  there 
an  end. 

]'al.  I  would  it  were  no  wor.se  I 

Speed.  Ill  warrant  you.  't  is  as  well : 

For  often  have  you  writ  to  her.  and  she.  in  modesty, 
Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply  ; 
Or  fearing  else  some  messenger,  that  might  her  mind 

discover. 
Her  self  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto  hei 

lover. — 
All  this  I  speak  in  print,  for  in  print  I  found  it. — 
Why  muse  you.  sir?  't  is  dinner  time. 

Val.  I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir  :  though  the  cameleon 
love  can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am  nourishd 
by  my  victuals,  and  would  fain  have  meat.  O  !  be  no< 
like  your  mistress  :  be  moved,  be  moved.  [Ereuut 

SCENE  II. — Verona.    A  Room  in  Julia's  House. 
Enter  Proteis  and  Julia. 

Pro.  Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

/'//.  I  mu.st.  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.  When  po.ssibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Jul.  If  you  turn  not.  you  will  return  the  sooner 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julias  sake.' 

Pro.  Why  then,  we  "11  make  exchaniie;  here,  takf 
you  this.  [Ejrhnngi  tings' 

Jul.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holv  kis',. 


Not  in  f.  e.      '  e^ving  a  ring  is  &dded  in  f.  e. 


Not  .n  r  e. 


SCENE  rv. 


THE    TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    VEKONA. 


2.5 


Pro.  Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'er-slips  me  in  tlie  day, 
Wherein  1  sigh  not.  Julia,  for  thy  sake. 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness. 
My  father  stays  my  coming :  answer  not. 
The  tide  is  now :  nay.  not  thy  tide  of  tears ; 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longerthan  I  should.  [Exit  Juma 
Julia,  farewell. — What !  gone  without  a  word? 
Ay.  so  true  love  should  do  :  it  cannot  speak  ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds,  than  words,  to  grace  it. 
Enter  Panthixo. 

Pant.  Sir  Proteus,  you  are  stay'd  for. 

Pro.  Go ;  I  come,  I  come. — 

Alas  !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb.    [Exeunt. 
SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Launce.  leading  kis^  Dog. 

Launce.  Nay.  't  will  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done 
weeping :  all  the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  this  very 
fault.  I  have  received  my  proportion,  like  the  prodi- 
gious son.  and  am  going  A\ith  sir  Proteus  to  the  impe- 
rial's court.  I  think  Crab,  my  dog.  be  the  sourest- 
natured  dog  that  lives  :  my  motlier  weeping,  my  father 
wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our  maid  howling,  our  cat 
wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house  in  a  great  per- 
plexity, yet  did  not  this  cruel-hearted  cur  shed  one 
tear.  He  is  a  stone,  a  veiy  pebble-stone,  and  has  no 
more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog  ;  a  Jew  would  have  wept 
to  have  seen  our  parting  :  why,  my  grandam  having  no 
eyes,  look  you,  wept  herself  blind  at  my  parting.  Nay. 
I  '11  show  you  the  manner  of  it.  This  shoe  is  my  father ; 
— no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  father  ; — no,  no.  this  left  shoe 
ie  my  mother  : — nay.  that  cannot  be  so.  neither  : — yes, 
it  is  so,  it  is  so  ;  it  hath  the  worser  sole.  This  shoe, 
with  the  hole  in  it,  is  my  mother,  and  this  my  father. 
A  vengeance  on  't !  there  't  is  :  now,  sir,  this  staiF  is  my 
sistei  ;  for,  look  you.  she  is  as  white  as  a  lily,  and  as 
small  as  a  wand  :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our  maid  :  I  am  tlie 
dog : — no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am  the  dog. — 0  ! 
the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am  myself:  ay,  so,  so.  Now  come 
I  to  my  father ;  "  Father,  your  blessing  :"  now  should 
not  the  shoe  speak  a  word  for  weeping :  now  should  I 
kiss  my  father;  well,  he  weeps  on.  Now  come  I  to 
my  mother,  (0,  that  she  could  speak  now  !)  like  a  wild^ 
woman  : — well,  I  kiss  her  ;  why  there  "t  is  :  here  's  my 
mother's  breath,  up  and  down.  Now  come  I  to  my 
sister ;  mark  the  moan  she  makes  :  now,  the  dog  all 
this  while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word,  but  see 
how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 
Enter  Panthino. 

Pant.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard  :  thy  master  is 
shipped,  and  thou  art  to  post  after  -vath  oars.  What 's 
the  matter  ?  why  weep'st  thou,  man  ?  Away,  ass ; 
jrou  '11  lose  the  tide,  if  you  tarry  any  longer. 
[  Launce.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  tied  were  lost ;  for  it 
IS  the  unkindest  tied  that  ever  any  man  tied. 

Pant    Wliat  "s  the  unkindest  tide  ? 

Launce.  Why,  he  that 's  tied  here  :  Crab,  my  dog. 

Pant.  Tut,  man.  1  mean  thou  'It  lose  the  flood  ;  and, 
in  losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage ;  and.  in  losing  thy 
voyage,  lose  thy  master;  and.  in  losing  thy  master,  lose 
thy  ser^'ice  ;  and,  in  losing  thy  service, — \^niy  dost  thou 
stop  my  mouth  ? 

Launce.  For  fear  thou  should'st  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pant.  Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue? 

Launce.  In  thv  tale. 

Pant.  In  thy  tail  ? 

Launce.  Lose   the   tied,   and    the  voyage,   and   the 

>o  Dog:    nf. 


master,  and  the  service,  and  the  tide.  'Wliy,  man,  if 
the  river  were  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it  -with  my  tears  : 
if  the  wind  were  down,  I  could  drive  the  boat  with  my 
sighs. 

Pant.  Come;  come,  away,  man:  I  was  sent  to  caF 
thee. 

LavMce.  Sir,  call  me  what  thou  dar'st. 

Pant.  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Launce.  Well,  I  will  go.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— MUan.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Valentine,  Silvia,  Thuric,  and  Speed 

Sil.  Sei-vant. — 

Val.  Mistress. 

Speed.  Master,  sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 

Val.  Ay.  boy,  it 's  for  love. 

Speed.  Not  of  you. 

Val.  Of  my  mistress,  then. 

Speed.  'T  were  good  you  knock"d  him. 

Sil.  Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Val.  Indeed,  madam.  I  seem  so. 

Tliu.  Seem  vou  that  you  are  not? 

Val.  Haply, 'l  do. 

TTiu.  So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.  So  do  you. 

Thu.  What  seem  I  that  I  am  not  ? 

Val.  Wise. 

Thu.  What  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 

Val.  Your  folly. 

Thu.  And  how  quote'  you  my  folly  ? 

Val.  I  quote  it  in  your  je:k-in. 

Thu.  My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Val.  Well.  then,  't  will*  double  your  folly. 

Thu.  How? 

Sil.  What,  angry,  sir  Thurio?  do  yuu  change  colour? 

Val.  Give-him  leave,  madam  :  he  is  a  kind  of  came- 
leon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  bloody 
than  live  in  your  air. 

Val.  You  have  said.  sir. 

Thu.  Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir :  you  always  end  ere  you 
begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and  quickly 
shot  off. 

Val.  'T  is  indeed,  madam  ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sil.  Wlio  is  that,  servant  ? 

Val.  Yourself,  sweet  lady ;  for  you  gave  the  fire. 
Sir  Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship's  looks, 
and  spends  what  he  borrows  kindly  in  your  company. 

Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  w-ith  me,  1 
shall  make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir :  you  have  an  exchequer  of 
words,  and,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give  your  fol- 
lowers ;  for  it  appears  by  their  bare  liveries,  that  they 
live  by  your  bare  words. 

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

Enter  the  Dcke. 

Duke.  Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset. 
Sir  Valentine,  your  father  's  in  good  health  : 
What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  ? 

Val.  My  lord,  I  ^ill  he  thankful 

To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Di'.ke.  Know  you  Don  Antonio,  your  countryman? 

Val.  Ay.  my  good  lord  :  I  know  the  gentleman 
To  be  of  wealth'  and  worthy  estimation, 
And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 


in  f.  e  :  wood  (i.  e.  mad).      '  A'ore  or  observt.      *  I  'U  :  in  f.  e       •  -worth  ;  in  f.  e. 


26 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF   VEIKJNA. 


A.CT  n. 


D*ke.  Hath  lie  not  n  son? 

Val.  Ay,  my  j;oo<l  lord  ;  a  son,  tliat  well  deserves 
The  honour  and  reiiard  of  sxjoli  a  father. 
FhJce.  You  knuw  him  well? 

Va!.  1  knew  him.  as  my.'^ell ";  for  from  our  infancy 
We  h;ive  conversd.  and  spent  our  hours  together : 
-And  thouiih  myself  have  beeu  an  idle  truant, 
Omiltini:  the  swoet  bcnctil  of  time 
To  clothe  mine  anc  with  ansel-like  perfection, 
Vet  hath  sir  I'rotens,  for  that 's  his  name. 
Made  use  and  lair  advantage  of  his  days  : 
His  years  but  youns.  but  his  experience  old  ; 
His  liead  unmcllow'd.  but  his  judgment  ripe  ; 
And  in  a  word,  (for  far  behind  his  worth 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow) 
He  is  complete  in  feature,  and  in  mind, 
With  all  L'ood  <irace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

l>ik€.  Bcshrcw  me.  sir.  but.  if  he  make  this  good, 
He  is  as  woiHiy  for  an  empress"  love. 
As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 
Well.  sir.  this  iicntleman  is  come  to  me 
With  commendation  from  great  potentates: 
And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  a-while. 
I  think,  't  is  no  unwelcoir.e  news  to  you. 

Val.  Should  I  have  wi.sh'd  a  thins,  it  had  been  he. 
Duke.  Welcome  him,  then,  according  to  his  worth. 
Silvia.  I  speak  to  you  :  and  you.  sir  Thurio  : — 
For  Valentine.  I  need  not  cite  him  to  it. 
I  "11  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.         [Exit  Dukk. 

Val.  This  is  the  gentleman.  I  told  your  ladyship, 
Had  come  along  with  me.  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  eyes  lock"d  in  her  crystal  looks. 

Sil.  Belike,  that  now  she  hath  enfranchisd  them, 
Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 

Val.  Nay.  sure.  I  think,  she  holds  them  prisoners  still. 
.S'i7.  Nay,  then  he  sliould  be  blind  ;  and.  being  blind, 
How  could  he  see  his  way  to  .seek  you  out? 

Val.  Why,  lady,  love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 
TTiu.  They  say,  that  love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 
Val.  To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself: 
Upon  a  homely  object  love  can  wink. 
Enter  Protels. 
Sil.  Have  done,  have  done.     Here  comes  the  gen- 
tleman. [Exit  Thurio. 
Val.  Welcome,  dear  Proteus! — Mistress,  I  beseech 
you. 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favour. 

Sil.  His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither, 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wisli'd  to  hear  from. 

Val.  .Mistress,  it  is.     Sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  tel low-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  hish  a  servant. 
Pro.  Not  so.  sweet  lady;  but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress 
Val.  Leave  off  discourse  of  di.sability. — 
Street  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 
Pro    My  duty  will  I  boast  of.  nothing  else. 
Sil.   And  duty  yet  did  never  want  his  meed. 
Servant,  you  arc  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 
Pro.  I  "11  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 
Sil.  That  you  arc  welcome  ? 
P''o  That  you  are  worthless. 

*  Re-enter  Thirio. 
Thu.  Madam,  my  lord,  your  father,   would  speak 
with  you. 

Sil.  I  wait  upon  his  pleasure:  come,  sir  Thurio, 
Go  with  Tie — Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome: 
I  '11  leave  you  to  confer  of  home-afTairs : 
When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 

'  Enttr     in  r  •       »  iwclUng  :   in  f.  •. 


Pro.  We  "11  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  SiLvu,  Thurio,  and  Speed 
Val.  Now.  tell  me.  how  do  all  from  whence  you  came? 
Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much 

commended. 
Val.  And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  left  them  all  in  health 

Val.  How  does  your  lady,  and  how  thrives  your  love'' 
Pro.  My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you : 
I  know,  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Vnl.  Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  alter'd  now: 
I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  love; 
Whose  high  imperious  thoushls  have  punish'd  me 
With  bitter  fasts,  and  penitential  groans. 
With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs  j 
For.  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love. 
Love  liath  chas"d  sleep  trom  my  enthralled  eyes, 
And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's  sorrovr. 
0,  gentle  Proteus !  love  "s  a  mighty  lord. 
And  halli  so  humbled  me,  as,  I  confess, 
There  is  no  woe  to  his  correction, 
Nor,  to  his  service,  no  such  joy  on  earth  ! 
Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love ; 
Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 
Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pro.  Enough ;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye. 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  woiship  so? 

Val.  Even  she ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  T 
Pro.  No.  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 
Val.  Call  her  divine. 
Pro.  I  will  not  flatter  her. 
Val.  0  !   flatter  me.  for  love  delights  in  praises. 
Pro.  When  I  was  sick  you  gave  me  bitter  pills, 
And  I  mu.st  minister  the  like  to  you. 

Val.  Then  .speak  the  truth  by  her:  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality, 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 
Pro.   Except  my  mistress. 
Val.  Sweet,  except  not  any, 
Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 
Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own? 
Val.  And  1  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her,  too  : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour, — 
To  bear  my  lady"s  train,  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 
And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud. 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-smelling'  flower, 
And  make  roush  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.  Why.  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this  ? 
Val.  Pardon  me.  Proteus  :  all  I  can,  is  nothing 
To  her.  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing. 
She  is  alone. 

Pro.  Then,  let  her  alone. 

Val.  Not  for  the  world.    Wliy,  man.  she  is  mine  owr  • 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel. 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold 
Forgive  me.  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee^ 
Because  thou  seest  me  dote  upon  my  love. 
My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge. 
Is  gone  with  her  along,  and  I  must  after, 
For  love,  thou  knowst,  is  full  of  jealousy. 
Pro.   But  she  loves  you? 

Val.  Ay.    atid    we   are  betroth'd ;   nay,    more,  our 
marriage  hour, 
With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight 
Delermin'd  of:  how  I  must  climb  her  window, 
The  ladder  made  of  cords,  and  all  the  means 


SCFISTE   VI. 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  YERONA. 


27 


Plotted,  and  "greed  on  for  my  happiness. 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
In  these  affaiis  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.  Go  on  before ;  I  shall  enquire  you  forth. 
f  must  unto  the  road,  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use. 
And  then  I  '11  presently  attend  on'  you. 

Val.  Will  you  make  haste? 

Pro.  I  will. —  [Exit  Valentine. 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels. 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
h  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  mine  own,'  or  Valentino's^  praise. 
Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 
That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 
She  's  fair,  and  so  is  Julia  that  I  love  : — 
That  [  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw'd, 
Which,  like  a  waxen  image  'gainst  a  fire, 
Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 
Methinks,  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold. 
And  that  I  love  him  not.  as  I  was  wont : 
0  !  but  I  love  his  lady  too  too  much  : 
And  that 's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 
How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice. 
That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her  ? 
'T  is  but  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld. 
And  that  hath  dazzled  so*  my  reason's  light ; 
But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 
There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind. 
If  I  can  check  my  erring  love.  I  will ; 
[f  not,  to  compass  her  I  '11  use  my  skill.  [Exit. 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Speed  and  Launce. 

Speed.  Launce  !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to  Milan. 

Launce.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth,  for  I  am 
not  welcome.  I  reckon  this  always — that  a  man  is 
never  undone,  till  he  be  hang'd  ;  nor  never  welcome  to 
a  place,  till  some  certain  shot  be  paid,  and  the  hostess 
say.  welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on.  you  mad-cap,  I  "11  to  the  alehouse 
with  you  presently  :  where  for  one  shot  of  five  pence 
thou  shalt  have  five  thousand  welcomes.  But,  sirrah, 
liow  did  thy  master  part  with  madam  Julia '^ 

Launce.  Marry,  atter  they  closed  in  earnest,  they 
parted  very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.  But  shall  she  marry  him  ? 

Launce.  No. 

Speed.  How  then  ?     Shall  he  marry  her  ? 

Launce.  No,  neither. 

Speed.  What,  are  they  broken  ? 

Launce.  No.  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.  Why  then,  how  stands  the  matter  with  them  ? 

Launce.  Marry,  thus  :  when  it  stands  well  with  him 
■»  stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.  Wliat  an  ass  art  thou  ?    I  understand  thee  not. 

Launce.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  not. 
My  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  What  thou  say"st? 

Launce.  Ay,  and  what  I  do  too  :  look  thee ;  I  "11  but 
lean,  and  my  staff  understands  me. 

Sjieed.  It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

Launce.  Why,  stand-under  and  under-stand  is  all  one. 

Speed.  But  tell  me  true,  will  't  be  a  match  ? 

Launce.  Ask  my  dog :  if  he  say,  ay,  it  will ;  if  he 
•sr.y,  no,  it  will ;  if  he  shake  his  tail,  and  say  nothing, 
k,  will. 


Speed.  The  conclusion  is,  then,  that  it  will. 
■Launce.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from 
me.  but  by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'T  is  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce,  how 
sav'st  thou,  that  my  master  is  become  a  notable  lover  ' 

Launce.  I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.  Than  how? 

Launce.  A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him 
to  be. 

Spe^d.  Why,  thou  whoreson  ass,  thou  mistak'st  me. 

Launce.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee  :  I  meant  thy 
master. 

Speed.  1  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 

Launce.  Why,  I  tell  thee.  1  care  not  though  he  bum 
himself  in  love,  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to  the  ale- 
house :  if  not,  thou  art  an  Hebrew,  a  Jew,  and  not 
worth  the  name  of  a  Christian. 

Speed.  Why? 

Launce.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  in 
thee,  as  to  go  to  the  ale  with  a  Christian.    Wilt  thou  goT 

Speed.  At  thy  service.  [Eoceunt 

SCENE  VI.— -The  Same.     An  Apartment  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  Proteus. 
Pro.  To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  1  be  forsworn; 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn; 
And  even  that  power,  which  gave  me  first  my  oath, 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury  : 
Love  bad  me  swear,  and  love  bids  me  forswear. 

0  sweet-suggesting  love  !  if  1  have*  sinn'd, 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star. 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 
Unheedful  vows  may  heedfully  be  broken  , 
And  he  wants  wit,  that  wants  resolved  will 
To  learn  his  wit  t'  exchange  the  bad  for  better. 
Fie.  fie,  unreverend  tongue  !  to  call  her  bad. 
Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  has    preferr"d 
With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths, 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  1  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love,  where  I  should  love 

Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose  : 

If  I  keep  them.  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

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

For  Valentine,  myself;  for  Julia.  Silvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend. 

For  love  is  still  most  precious  to^  itself; 

And  Silvia,  (witness  heaven  that  made  her  fait .') 

Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive. 

Remembering  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead ; 

And  Valentine  I  '11  hold  an  enemy, 

Aiming  at  Silvia,  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself 

Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine. 

This  night,  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvias  chamber  window; 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor. 

Now.  presently  I  "11  give  her  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising,  and  pretended'  flight; 

Who.  all  enrag'd,  will  banish  Valentine, 

For  Thurio.  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter. 

But,  Valentine  being  gone.  1  "11  quickly  cross 

By  some  sly  trick  blunt  Thurio"s  dull  proceeding. 
j  Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 
I  As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift !  [Exit 


Not  in  f  e       a  eye  :  in  f.  e.     Knight  reads,  ''her  mien."     '  Valentinus'  :  in  f  e.      «  Not  in  f. 


in  f  e.     <  in  :  in  f  a 


28 


TirE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VEKONA, 


ACT  m 


SCKNE  VII — Verona.     A  Room  in  Jllias  Housp. 
EtUfr  Jri,lA  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.  Counsel.  Lucetta;  centle  cirl.  assist  me: 
A.nd,  e'en  in  kind  iove.  I  do  lonjurethee. 
Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  ^•isl^lly  characlcr'd  and  eniiravd. 
To  lesson  me  :  and  icll  me  some  nood  mean, 
How,  with  my  honour.  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  lovin;;  Proteus. 

Luc.  Alas  !   the  way  is  weari.«ome  and  long. 

Jul.  A  true-devoted  piliriim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps. 
Much  less  shall  she.  that  hath  loves  wings  to  fly; 
And  when  the  tlight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 
Ot"  such  divine  perfection,  as  sir  Proteus. 

Luc.  Better  forbear,  till  Proteus  make  return. 

Jul.  0  '  knowst  thou  not.  his  looks  are  my  soul's 
food? 
Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in. 
By  lonainu  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  tiiou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 
Thou  would.<t  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow. 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire, 
But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage. 
Lest  it  siiould  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.  The  more  thou  daminst  it  up.  the  more  it  bums. 
The  current,  that  with  gentle  mu;mur  glides. 
Thou  knowst.  being  stoppd.  impatiently  doth  rage; 
But.  when  his  I'air  course  is  not  hindered, 
He  raake,«  sweet  music  -with  the  enameld  stones, 
Gi\ing  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  : 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  .strays 
With  willing  sport  to  the  \*nde'  ocean. 
Then,  let  me  go.  and  hinder  not  my  course. 
I  '11  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream. 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step. 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love; 
And  there  I  'II  rest.  as.  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Luc.  Bui  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along? 

Jul.  Not  like  a  woman,  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men. 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  be.scem  some  well-reputed  page. 

Luc.  Why,  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.  No,  girl;   I  Ml  knit  it  up  in  silken  strinis, 


With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots 
To  be  fantastic,  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Luc.  What    fashion,    madam,    shall    I    make   your 
breeches? 

/(//.  That  fits  as  well,  as — "  tell  me.  good  my  lord, 
What  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale?" 
Why,  even  what  fashion  thou  best  lik'st.  Lucetta. 

Luc.  You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  codpiece^ 
madam. 

Jul.  Out.  out.  Lucetta  !  that  ■will  be  ill-favour'd. 

Luc.  A  round  hose,  madam,  now 's  not  worth  a  pin, 
LTnless  you  have  a  codpiece  to  stick  pins  on. 

Jul.  Lucetta,  as  thou  lov'st  me.  let  me  have 
What  thou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly. 
But  tell  me.  wench,  how  v\ill  the  world  repute  me 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey? 
I  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandalizd. 

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

Jul.  Nay.  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.  Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
If  Proteus  like  your  journey,  when  you  come, 
No  matter  who  "s  displcas'd,  when  you  are  gone. 
I  fear  me.  he  will  scarce  be  pleasd  withal. 

Jul.  That  is  the  least.  Lucetta.  of  my  fear. 
A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 
And  instances  as  infinite  of  love. 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Luc    All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

Jul.  Base  men.  that  use  them  to  .<50  base  eflfect ; 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth : 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate; 
His  tears,  pure  messengers  sent  from  Ijis  heart; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud,  as  heaven  from  earth. 

Luc.  Pray  heaven,  he  prove  so,  when  you  come  tc 
him  ! 

Jul.  Now.  as  thou  lov'st  me.  do  him  not  that  wrong. 
To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth  : 
Only  deserve  my  love  by  loving  him. 
And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chainber, 
To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 
To  furnish  me  upon  my  loving'  journey. 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 
My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation: 
Only,  in  lieu  thereof,  dispatch  me  hence. 
Come;  answer  not.  but  to  it  presently: 
I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  [Exeuttt 


ACT    III 


SCE.NK  I — Milan.     An  .\iite-chamber  in  the  Dike's 
Palace. 

Enter  Di'KE.  Tmurio.  nnd  Proteus. 

Duke.  Sir  Thuno.  give  us  leave.  I  pray,  awhile  : 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about. — Exit  Thcrio. 
Now.  tell  me.  Proteu*.  what's  your  will  with  me? 

Pro.   My  irracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  discover. 
The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal  : 
But.  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favours 
Done  to  me.  unde^ervini  as  I  am. 
My  duty  pncks  rne  on  to  utter  that, 
Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 
Knov,  worthy  Pnnce.  »ir  Valentine,  my  friend. 
This  night  intends  to  steal  awa)  your  daughter: 

'  wiM  .  in  f.  e       »  longing  :  io  f.  e 


I  Myself  am  one  made  jifwy  to  the  plot. 
I  know  you  have  determin'd  to  be.«tow  her 
On  Thurio.  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates: 
And  should  she  thus  be  stol'n  away  from  yott, 
It  v.ould  be  much  vexation  to  your  a^e. 
Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake.  1  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift, 
Than,  by  concealins  it.  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down. 
Being  unprevented.  to  your  timeless  grave. 

Duke.  Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care. 
Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 
This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen. 
Haply,  when  they  have    udged  me  fast  asleep, 
And  oftentimes  have  purpos'd  to  forbid 


SCENE   I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  YERONA. 


29 


Sir  Valentine  her  company,  and  my  court ; 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  might  err, 
And  so  unworthily  disgrace  the  man, 
(A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn'd) 
I  cave  him  gentle  looks ;  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyseli'  hast  now  disclos'd  to  me. 
And.  that  thou  may'st  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowmg  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested, 
1  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower, 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  convey'd  away. 

Pro^  Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devis'd  a  mean 
How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down 
For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 
And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently. 
Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him. 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly. 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend, 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence. 

Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.  Adieu,  my  lord:  sir  Valentine  is  eoming.[Exit. 
Enter  Valentine.'  iti  his  cloak. 

Diike.  Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast? 

Val.  Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 
And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 

Duke.  Be  they  of  much  import? 

Val.  The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Duke.  Nay,  then  no  matter :  stay  with  me  awhile. 
1  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs 
That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
"Tis  not  unknown  to  thee,  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend,  sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 

Vat.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord;  and,  sure,  the  match 
Were  rich  and  honourable :  besides,  the  gentleman 
Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wile  as  your  fair  daughter. 
Cannot  your  grace  win  her  fancy  to  him  ? 

Duke.  No.  trust  me  :  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  froward, 
Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty; 
Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child. 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 
And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers 
Upon  advice  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her; 
And,  where  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherish'd  by  her  child-like  duty, 
I  now  am  full  resolv'd  to  take  a  wife. 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in : 
Then,  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower; 
For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

Val.  What  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in  this? 

Duke.  There  is  a  lady  in  Milano''  here, 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice,  and  coy. 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence  : 
Now.  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, 
(Frr  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court ; 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  changed) 
How,  and  which  way.  I  may  bestow  myself, 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.  Win  her  with  gilts,  if  she  respect  not  words. 
Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silenl  kind. 
More  than  quick  words  do  move  a  woman's  mind. 

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

Val.  A  woman  sometime  scorns  what  best  contents 
her. 

Ml  hit  citak :  not  in  f.  e.      >  a  lady,  sir.  in  Milan  here  •  in  f.  e. 


Send  her  another ;  never  give  her  o'er, 

For  scorn  at  first  makes  alter-love  the  more. 

If  she  do  frown,  't  is  not  in  hate  of  you, 

But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 

If  she  do  chide,  "t  is  not  to  have  you  gone, 

For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 

Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say; 

For  "get  you  gone,"  she  doth  not  mean,  "away." 

Flatter,  and  praise,  commend,  e.\tol  their  graces ; 

Though  ne"er  hO  black,  say  they  have  angels'  laces 

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

If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke.  But  she  I  mean  is  promis'd  by  her  friends 
Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth. 
And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.  Why,  then  1  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  the  doors  be  lockd,  and  keys  kept  safo 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Val.  What  lets,  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window' 

Duke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  tlie  ground, 
And  built  so  shelving,  that  one  cannot  climb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 

Val.  Why  then,  a  ladder  quaintly  made  of  cords, 
To  cast  up,  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks. 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower. 
So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Duke.  Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood, 
Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Val.  When  would  you  use  it?  pray,  sir,  tell  me  that. 

Duke.  This  very  night ;  for  love  is  like  a  child, 
That  longs  for  every  thing  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.  By  seven  o'clock  1  'II  get  you  such  a  ladder. 

Duke.   But  hark  thee ;   I  will  go  to  her  alone. 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither? 

Val.  It  will  be' light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 

Duke.  A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the  turn  ? 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then,  let  me  see  thy  cloak 

I  '11  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.  Why  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 

Duke.  How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak? — 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me. — 
What  letter  is  this  same  ?  What 's  here '' — "  To  Silvia.' 
And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding ! 

[Ladder  and  letter  fall  out.' 
I  '11  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.  [Reach. 

"  My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly  ; 

And  slaves  they  are  to  vie,  that  send  them  flying : 
0 !  could  their  master  cone  ami  go  as  lightly. 

Him!<elf  would  lodge  uhere  senseless  they  are  lying. 
My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them  ; 

While  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  importtim, 
Do  cur.se  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  bless' d  them 

Because  my.setf  do  want  my  .servant's  fortune. 
I  cur.'ie  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 
That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  should  be." 
What 's  here  ? 

"  Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee :" 
'T  is  so  :  and  here's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. — 
Why,  Phaeton,  (for  thou  art  Merops"  son) 
Wilt  thou  aspire  to  gnide  the  heavenly  car. 
And  ^-iith  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars,  because  they  shine  on  thee? 
Go,  base  intruder ;  over- weening  slave  : 
Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates, 
And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert 
Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence. 
>  This  direction  is  not  in  f.  e. 


50 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA. 


Tliank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  tlie  favours 

Whioli.  all  too  inufli.  1  have  besto\v"d  on  thee: 

But  if  thou  liii;;cr  in  my  torritorien 

Lo'-ger  than  swiftest  cxpcnlition 

Wi  1  mvc  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 

B'.  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 

1  e  ,-er  bore  my  dauiiliter.  or  thyself. 

Bejione  :  1  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse  ; 

But.  &s  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence. 

[Exit  Duke. 

Val.  And  why  not  death,  rather  than  living  torment? 
To  die  is  to  be  banishd  from  myself. 
And  Silvia  is  myself:  banishd  from  her, 
is  self  from  self:  a  deadly  banishment. 
What  lishl  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen? 
What  joy  is  joy.  if  Silvia  be  not  by? 
I'nless  it  be,  to  think  that  she  is  by, 
And  teed  upon  the  sliadow  of  perfection. 
Kxcept  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night. 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day, 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon. 
She  is  my  essence :  and  1  leave  to  be, 
if  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Fosterd,  illumind.  cherish'd.  kept  alive. 
I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom: 
Tarry  I  here.  I  but  attend  on  death : 
But  fly  I  hence.  I  fly  away  from  life. 

EtUer  Proteus  and  Launce 

Pro.  Run.  boy ;  run.  run,  and  seek  him  out. 

Launce.  So-ho  !  so-ho  ! 

Pro.  What  secst  ihou  ? 

Launce.  Him  we  go  to  find:  there's  not  a  hair  on  's 
head,  but   t  is  a  Valentine. 

Pro.  Valentine? 

Ta/.  No. 

Pro.  Who  then?  his  spirit? 

Val.   Neither. 

Pro.  What  then? 

Val.  Nothing. 

Launce.  Can  nothine  speak?  master,  shall  I  strike? 

Pro.  Whom  wouldst  thou  strike  ? 

Launce.  Nothing. 

Pro.  Villain,  forbear. 

Launce.  Why.  sir,  Til  strike  nothins  :  I  pray  you, — 

Pro.  Sirrah,    I  say,  forbear. — Friend    Valentine,  a 
word. 

Val.  My  ears  are  stopp'd,  and  cannot  hear  good  news, 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  po.sscss'd  them. 

Pro.  Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine. 
For  they  are  harsh,  untuneable,  and  bad. 

Val.  Is  Silvia  dead  ? 

Pro.  No.  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia  ! — 
Hath  she  forsworn  me? 

Pro.  No.  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me  ! — 
What  is  your  news? 

Launce.  Sir.  there  is  a  proclamation  that  you  are 
vanish'd. 

Pro.  That  thou  art  banish'd  :  O  !  that  is  the  news, 
From  hence    tram  Silvia,  and  from  me.  thy  friend. 

Val    01   £  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already, 
And  now  exces.s  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 
/)oih  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished? 

Pro.  Ay.  ay  :  and  she  haih  offerd  to  the  doom,- 
(Which,  unrevers'd.  stands  in  eflectual  torcc) 
A  sea  of  meltins  pearl,  which  some  call  tears: 
Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tender'd, 
With  th<>m,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  telf ; 


I  Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became  them, 
I  As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe  ; 
I  But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
I  Sad  siglis,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 
I  Could  penetrate  her  uncompa.<isionate  sire, 
I  But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 
I  Besides,  her  intercession  chaf  d  him  so, 
I  When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 
That  to  close  pri-son  he  commanded  her. 
W'ith  many  bitter  threats  of  "biding  there. 

Val.  No  more ;    unless    the   next  word    that    thiti 
speak'st 
Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life: 
If  so.  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  my  ear, 
As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour. 

Pro.  Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not  help, 
And  siudy  help  for  that  which  thou  lamentest. 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love ; 
Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover's  staff";  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  thoui;h  thou  art  henc«* 
Which,  being  writ  to  me.  shall  be  dcliver'd 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate  : 
Come,  I  '11  convey  thee  through  tlie  city-gate, 
And.  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love  affliirs. 
As  thou  lov"st  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

Val.  I  pray  thee.  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest  my  boy, 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  north-gate. 

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

Val.  0  my  dear  Silvia  !  hapless  Valentine  ! 

[Exeunt  "Valentine  and  Proteus. 

Lavnce.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you,  and  yet  I  have 
the  wit  to  think,  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave ;  but 
that's  all  one,  if  he  be  but  one  knave.  He  lives  not 
now,  that  knows  me  to  be  in  love:  yet  I  am  in  love  ; 
hut  a  team  of  hor.se  shall  not  pluck  that  from  me.  nor 
who  't  is  I  love  ;  and  yet  't  is  a  woman  :  but  what 
woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself :  and  yet  't  is  a  milk- 
maid ;  yet  't  is  not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had  gossips  : 
yet  't  is  a  maid,  for  she  is  her  master's  maid,  and  scnes 
for  wages.  She  hath  more  qualities  than  a  water- 
spaniel,  which  is  much  in  a  bare  Christian.  Here  is 
jthe  cat-lo2  [pulling  nut  a  paper]  of  her  conditions. 
Imprimis,  "  She  can  fetch  and  carry."  Why.  a  horse 
can  do  no  more  :  nay.  a  horse  cannot  feJeh.  but  only 
carry ;  therefore,  is  she  better  than  a  jade.  Item, 
"  She  can  milk  ;"  look  you,  a  sweet  virtue  in  a  maid 
with  clean  hands. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  How  now,  signior  Launce?  what  news  with 
your  mastership? 

Launce.  "With  my  master's  ship?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still  :  mistake  the  word. 
W^hat  news.  then,  in  your  paper? 

Lavnce.  The  blackest  news  that  ever  thou  heard'st 

Speed.  Vi\\\.  man.  how  black? 

Liunce.  W^hy,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.   Let  me  read  them. 

jMunce.  Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head  !  thou  canst  not  read 

Speed.  Thou  liest.  I  can. 

Launce.  I  will  try  thee.     Tell  me  this :  who  begot 
thee  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Launce.  0,  illiterate  loiterer  !  it  was  the  son  of  th^ 
grandmother.     This  proves  that  thou  canbt  not  reaa 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VEKONA. 


31 


Speed.  Come,  fool,  come  :  try  me  in  thy  paper. 
Lazmce.  There,  and  saint  Nicholas  be  thy  speed  ! 
Speed.  Imprimis,  "  She  can  milk." 

Launce.  Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  brews  good  ale." 

Launce.  And  thereof  comes  the  proverb, — Blessing 
of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  can  sew." 

Launce.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  Can  she  so  ? 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  can  knit." 

Launce.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  -v^ith  a 
«-ench,  when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock  ? 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  can  wash  and  scour." 

Launce.  A  special  virtue ;  for  then  she  need  not  be 
wash'd  and  scour'd. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  can  spin." 

Launce.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels,  when 
ehe  can  spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues." 

Launce.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say.  bastard  virtues; 
that,  indeed,  know  not  their  fathers,  and  therefore 
have  no  nanees. 

Speed.  Here  follow  her  vices. 

Launce.  Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.  Item.  "  She  is  not  to  be  kissed  fasting,  in 
respect  of  her  breath." 

Launce.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with  a 
breakfast.     Read  on. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth." 

Launce.  That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep." 

Launce.  It 's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  slip  not  in 
her  talk. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  is  slow  in  words." 

Launce.  0  villain  !  that  set  this  down  among  her 
noes  ?  To  be  slow  in  words  is  a  woman's  only  virtue : 
I  pray  thee,  out  with  't,  and  place  it  for  her  chief  virtue. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  is  proud." 

Launce.  Out  with  that  too :  it  was  Eve's  legacy, 
and  cannot  be  ta'cn  from  her. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  no  teeth." 

Launce.  I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love 
cnists. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  is  curst." 

Launce.  Well ;  the  best  is.  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor." 

Launce.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she  will 
not.  I  will ;  for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  is  too  liberal." 

Launce.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot,  for  that 's  writ 
down  she  is  slow  of:  of  her  purse  she  shall  not,  for 
that  I  '11  keep  shut :  now,  of  another  thing  she  may,  and 
that  cannot  I  help.     Well,  proceed. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,  and 
more  faults  than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than 
faults." 

Launce.  Stop  there ;  I  '11  have  her :  she  was  mine, 
and  not  mine,  twice  or  thrice  in  that  la.st  article. 
Reliearse  that  once  more. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit," — 

Launce.  More  hair  than  wit, — it  may  be  :  I  '11  prove 
it :  the  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt,  and  therefore 
It  IS  more  than  the  salt :  the  hair,  that  covers  the  wit, 
is  more  than  the  vdt,  for  the  greater  hides  the  less. 
WHiat  's  next  ? 

Speed.  — "  And  more  faults  than  hairs," — 

Launce.  That 's  monstrous  :  0,  that  that  were  out ! 

Speed.  — "  And  more  wealth  than  faults." 

Launce.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gracious. 

'  running :  not  in  f.  e,      *  some     'n  f.  e. 


Well,  I  '11  have  her ;  and  if  it  be  a  match,  as  nothing 
is  impossible, — 

Speed.  What  then  ? 

Launce.  Why,  then  will  I  tell  thee, — that  thy  master 
stays  for  thee  at  the  north-gate. 

Speed.  For  me  ? 

Launce.  For  tnee?  ay;  who  art  thou?  he  hath 
stay'd  for  a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Launce.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  stay'd 
so  long,  that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  pox  of  youi 
love-letters  !  [Exit^  running} 

Launce.  Now  will  he  be  swing'd  for  reading  my 
letter.  An  unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust  himself 
into  secrets. — I  '11  after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy's  cor- 
rection. [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     An  Apartment  in  the 

Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Duke  ayid  Thurio. 

Ikike.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  but  that  she  will  love  yo«, 
Now  Valentine  is  banish'd  from  her  sight. 

Thu.  Since  his  exile  she  hath  despised  me  most; 
Forsworn  my  company,  £ftid  rail'd  at  me, 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Duke.  This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  in  ice,  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 
And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot. — 

Enter  Proteus. 
How  now,  sir  Proteus  !     Is  your  countryman, 
According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ? 

Pro.  Gone,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  My  dauglner  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.  A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  gi'ief. 

Duke.  So  I  believe ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee, 
(For  thou  hast  shown  sure*  sign  of  good  desert) 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.  Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  grace, 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace. 

Duke.  Thou  know-'st  how  willingly  I  would  effe<^ 
The  match  between  sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.  I  do.  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  also,  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.  She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here 

Duke.  Ay,  and  perversely  she  persevers  so. 
What  might  we  do  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  sir  Thurio  ? 

Pro.  The  best  way  is,  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent ; 
Three  things  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  she  '11  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

Pro.  Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore,  it  must,  with  circumstance,  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Duke.  Then,  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 

Pro.  And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loth  to  do: 
'T  is  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman. 
Especially,  against  his  very  friend. 

Duke.  Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage  him, 
Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him  : 
Therefore,  the  ofBce  is  indifferent. 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 

Pro.  You  have  prevail'd,  my  lord.     If  I  ;aii  do  it, 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 


32 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA. 


ACT  rv. 


•She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say.  this  wean'  Iht  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follow.^  not  tliat  she  will  love  sir  Tliurio. 

Thu.  Therot'oro,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him, 
Lfst  it  shouhl  ravil  and  be  y;ootl  to  none, 
You  must  providi-  to  boiloiii  it  on  nie  ; 
Which  niunt  be  done,  by  jjraisiiii:  me  as  much 
.\.«  you  in  wortli  di.^praise  sir  Valentine. 

Duke.  And.  PiDteus.  we  dare  trust  you  in  this  kind, 
Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 
Vou  are  already  love's  firm  votary, 
And  caiuiol  soon  revolt,  and  change  your  mind. 
I'pon  this  warrant  shall  you  liave  access 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large ; 
For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy. 
And  for  your  fi  lends  sake  will  be  glad  of  you. 
When  you  may  temper  her,  by  your  persuasion, 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.  As  much  as  I  can  do  I  will  effect. 
But  you.  sir  Thurio.  are  not  sharp  enough; 
Vou  mu.st  lay  lime  to  tangle  her  desires 
By  waillul  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full  I'raught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Ditke.  Ay,  mueli  is  the  Ibrce  of  heaven-bred  poesy. 

Pro.  Say,  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 


You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart 

Write,  till  your  ink  be  dry,  and  with  your  tears 

Moist  it  again ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line, 

That  may  discover  strict  integrity  : 

For  Oi  pheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinews, 

W'hose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stones, 

Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 

Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 

After  your  dire-lamenting  elegies. 

Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber  window 

With  some  sweet  consort :  to  their  instruments 

Tune  a  deploring  dump  ;  the  nights  dead  silence 

Will  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  grievauce. 

This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her. 

Duke.  This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  lovt 

I'bv.  And  thy  ndviee  this  night  1  'II  put  in  practice. 
Therct'ore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction  giver. 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently, 
To  sort  some  gentlemen  well-skill'd  in  music. 
I  have  a  somiet  that  will  serve  the  turn 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.  About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.  \Ye  "11  wait  upon  your  grace  till  after  supper, 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.  Even  now  about  it :  I  will  pardon  you.  [Exeuiu. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Forest,  between  Milan  and  Verona. 
Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

1  Out.  Fellows,  stand  fast :  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.  If  there  be  ten.  shrink  not,  but  do^vn  with 'em. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Spked. 

3  Out.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have  about 

you: 
If  not,  we  "II  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.  Sir.  we  are  undone.     These  are  the  villains 
That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 

Val.  My  friends,— 

1  Out.  That's  not  so,  sir:  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.  Peace!  we'll  hear  him. 

3  Out.  Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we;  for  he  is  a  proper 

man. 
Val.  Then  know,  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose. 
A  man  I  am  crossd  with  adversity: 
My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments. 
Of  which  if  you  should  here  disfurnish  me. 
You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  0»//.  Whither  travel  you? 
Val.  To  Verona. 

1  Out.  Whence  came  you? 
Val.   From  Milan. 

3  Out.  Have  you  long  sojoum'd  there? 

Val.  Some  sixteen  montlui;  and  longer  might  have 
stayd, 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

2  Out.  What!  were  you  banish'd  thence? 
Vnl.  I  was. 

2  Out.  For  what  offence? 

Vnl    For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  rehearse. 
I  kili'd  a  man.  whose  death  I  much  repent; 
But  yet  I  slew  iiim  manfully,  in  fight. 
Without  false  vantage,  or  base  treachery. 

I  Ov/.  Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  »o. 
But  were  you  banihli'd  for  so  small  a  fault? 

Val.  I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

•  we«d  :  ID  f  e.      «  Not  in  f.  e. 


1  Out.  Have  you  the  tongues  ? 

Val.  My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy, 
Or  else  I  had  been  often  miserable. 

3  Out.  By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat  Mar, 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction. 

1  Out.  We  '11  have  him.     Sirs,  a  word. 

[They  talk  apart.' 
Speed.  Master,  be  one  of  them : 
It  is  an  honourable  kind  of  thievery. 
Val.   Peace,  ^■^llain ! 

2  Out.  Tell  us  this  :  have  you  any  thing  to  take  to* 
Val.  Nothing,  but  my  fortune. 

3  Out.  Know  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungovern'd  youth 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men : 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banished. 
For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady. 
An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  duke. 

2  Out.  And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 
"Who.  in  my  mood,  I  stabb'd  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.  And  I,  for  such  like  petty  crimes  as  these. 
But  to  the  purpose  :  for  we  cite  our  faults. 
That  they  may  hold  excus'd  our  lawless  lives : 
And,  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautify'd 
With  goodly  shape ;  and  by  your  own  report 
A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection, 
As  we  do  in  our  quality  much  want — 

3  Out.  Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish'd  man, 
Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you. 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  ? 
To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness?  [consort' 

3  Out.  W^hat   say'st   thou?    wilt    thou    be    of   oa- 
Say,  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all. 
We'll  do  thee  homage,  and  be  rul'd  by  thee, 
Love  thee  as  our  commander,  and  our  king. 

1  Out.  But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diesi 

2  Out.  Thou  shall  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have 

offer'd. 


?CKNE   n. 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF   VERONA. 


3S 


Val.  I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you  : 
Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
Ou  silly  women,  or  poor  passengers. 

3  Out.  No :  we  detest  such  vile,  base  practices. 
Come,  go  with  us ;  we  "11  bring  thee  to  our  cave,' 
Ai.d  show  tliee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got. 
Which,  with  ourselves,  all  rest   at  thy  dispose. 

\Exeimt. 

SCENE  II.— Milan.     The  Court  of  the  Palace. 
Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  colour  of  commending  him, 
r  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer ; 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy. 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 
When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her. 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend  ; 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows. 
She  bids  me  think  how  I  have  been  forsworn. 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  lov'd  : 
And.  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips. 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope. 
Yet.  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love. 
The  m.ore  it  grows,  and  faw^leth  on  her  still. 
But    here    comes    Thurio.      Now    must    we    to    her 

window. 
And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 
Enter  Thurio,  and  Musician.^. 

Thii.  How  now.  sir  Proteus  !  are  you  crept  before  us  ? 

Pro.  Ay,  gentle  Thurio;  for,  you  know,  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  camiot  go. 

Thu.  Ay;  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 

Pro.  Sir.  but  I  do:  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 

TliH.  Whom?  Sih-ia? 

Pro.  Ay,  Silvia, — for  your  sake. 

Tim.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.     Now,  gentlemen. 
Let  s  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

Enter  Host  and  Julia  (in  ioi/'s  clotkss).  behind. 

Host.  Now,  my  young  giiest;  methinks  you're  ally- 
eholly :  I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

I'll .  Marrj-,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we  '11  have  you  merry.  I  '11  bring  you 
where  you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gentlemen 
that  you  ask'd  for. 

Jul.  But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

Host.  Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jul.  That  will  be  music.  [Music  plays. 

Host.  Hark!  Hark! 

Jul.  Is  he  among  these  ^ 

Host.  Ay:  but  peace  !  let  "s  hear  "em. 

SONG. 

Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  su:ains  commend  her  ? 

Hohi.  fair,  and  u-i.'^e  as  free  :^ 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her. 

Tliat  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind,  as  she  is  fair, 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  ? 

Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 
To  help  him  of  his  blindness  ; 

And,  being  help'd.  inhabits  there. 

TJien  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing, 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling  : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


Ho.->t.  How  now !  are  you  sadder  than  you  were 
before?     How  do  you,  man?  the  music  likes  you  noi 

Jul.  You  mistake  :  the  musician  likes  me  not. 

Host.  Why,  my  pretty  youth? 

Jul.  He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.  How  ?  out  of  ttine  on  the  strings  ^ 

Jul.  Not  so  :  but  yet  so  false,  that  he  grieves  my 
very  heart-strings. 

Ho.st.  You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay:  I  would  I  were  deaf!  it  makes  me  have  n. 
slow  heart. 

Host.  I  perceive,  you  delight  not  in  music. 

Jul.  Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so.  [Music  plays  again 

Host.  Hark  !  what  fuie  change  is  in  the  music- 

Jul.  Ay,  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  not  have  them  always  play  bu 
one  thing? 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 
Bitt,  Host,  doth  this  sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk  on. 
Often  resort  unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

Ho.st.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man.  told  me.  he 
lov'd  her  out  of  all  nick. 

Jid  Where  is  Launce  '^ 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog:  which,  to-morrow,  by 
his  master's  command,  he  must  carr\-  for  a  present  t^- 
his  lady. 

Jul.  Peace!  stand  aside:  the  company  parts. 

Pro.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  you  not:  I  will  so  plead, 
That  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  excels. 

Thu.  Where  meet  we ? 

Pro.  At  St.  Gregory's  well. 

Thu.  Farewell.  [Exeunt  Thu*  o  and  Musicians 

Enter  Silvia  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.  Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  thank  you -for  your  music,  gentlemen. 
W^ho  is  that;  that  spake':" 

Pro.  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's  truth. 
You  would  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 

Sil.  Sir  Proteus',  as  I  take  it. 

Pro.  Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  servant. 

.9/7.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Pro.  That  I  may  compass  yours  - 

Sil.  You  have  your  wish :  my  will  is  even  this, 
That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  perjur'd,  false,  disloyal  man  ! 
Think'st  thou.  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless. 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery. 
That  hast  deceiv'd  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me,  by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear, 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wTongful  suit. 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself, 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.  I  grant;  sweet  love,  that  1  did  love  a  lady, 
But  she  is  dead. 

Jul.  [Aside.]  'T  were  false,  if  I  should  speak  it; 
For,  I  am  sure,  she  is  not  buried. 

Sil.  Say,  that  she  be;  yet  Valentine,  thy  friead, 
Survives;  to  whom  thyself  art  witness 
I  am  betroth'd  ;  and  art  thou  not  asham'd 
To  WTong  him  with  thy  importunacy? 

Pro.  I  likewise  hear,  that  Valentine  is  dead. 

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

Pro.  Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 

Sil.  Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  her'a  thence 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  her's  sepulchre  thine. 

ltd.  [Aside.]  He  heard  not  that 


nraT3  .  in  f.  e       »  is  she 
G 


'  This  direction  ia  not  in  f.  e. 


84 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA. 


ACT  rv. 


Pro.  Madam,  if  your  heart  be  80  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  inc  yet  your  picture  for  my  love. 
The  picture  tliat  in  hanijins  in  your  chamber: 
To  that  I  "11  speak,  to  that  I  "11  sigh  and  weep ; 
For.  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  cLsc  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow, 
And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 

Jul.  [Aside]  if  t  were  a  substance,  you  would,  sure, 
deceive  it. 
And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am. 

SU.  I  am  very  loth  to  be  your  idol,  sir, 
But,  since  your  falsehood,  "t  shall  become  you  well 
To  wor.<;hip  shadows,  and  adore  false  shapes. 
Send. to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I  '11  send  it. 
And  so,  gooil  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'er  night, 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn. 

[Exeunt  Proteus  and  Silvia. 

Jul.  Host,  will  you  go  ? 

Host.  By  my  halidom.'  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jul.  Pray  you,  where  lies  sir  Proteus? 

Ho.'!t.  Marry,  at  my  house.     Trust  me.  I  think,  't  is 
almost  day. 

JiU.  Not  so ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  watch'd,  and  the  most  heaviest.     [Exetint. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same. 
Enter  Eglamour. 

Egl.  This  is  the  liour  that  madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call,  and  know  her  mind. 
There  's  some  great  matter  she  'd  employ  me  in. — 
.Madam,  madam  ! 

Enter  Silvia  above.,  at  her  whxdow. 

SU.  Who  calls? 

Egl.  Your  servant,  and  your  friend ; 

One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

SU.  Sir  Eslamour,  a  tliousand  times  good  morrow. 

Egl.  As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose,' 
I  am  thus  early  come,  to  know  what  sen-ice 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

SU.  O  Ki.'lamour.  thou  art  a  gentleman. 
Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not, 
Valiant,  wise,  remorseful,'  well  accomplish'd. 
Thou  art  not  ignorant  what  dear  aood  will 
I  bear  unto  the  banish'd  Valentine; 
Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 
Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhors. 
Thyself  hast  lov'd  ;  and  I  liavc  heard  thee  say, 
No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart. 
As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died. 
Upon  whose  grave  thou  vowdst  pure  chastity. 
Sir  E-ilamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 
To  Mantua,  where,  I  hear,  he  makes  abode; 
And,  for  the  ways  arc  danucrous  to  pass. 
I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company. 
Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repo.se. 
Urge  not  my  fathers  anircr.  F.uiamour, 
But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady"s  L'rief ; 
And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence. 
To  keep  mc  from  a  most  unholy  match. 
Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with  plagues. 
I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart 
As  full  of  sorrows  a«  the  sea  of  sands, 
To  bear  me  company,  and  go  witli  me : 
If  not,  to  liidc  what  I  have  said  to  thee. 
That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

Egl.  Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances, 
And  the  most  true  aflections  that  you  bear;* 

»  FTom  the  Saion  haligilorne,  holy  place  or  kingdom.      »  Injuntt 


Which  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  plac'd, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you; 
Recking  as  little  what  betideth  me, 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 
When  will  you  go? 

.S/7.  This  eA'ening  coming. 

Egl.  Where  shall  I  meet  you? 

Sn.  At  friar  Patrick's  cell. 

Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.  I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship.     Good  morrow. 
Gentle  lady. 

SU.  Good  morrow,  kind  sir  Eglamour.  [Exeura^ 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 
Enter  Launce  with  his  dog. 

Luinice.  When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the  cur 
with  him,  look  you,  it  goes  hard  :  one  that  I  brought 
up  of  a  puppy;  one  that  I  saved  from  drowning,  when 
three  or  four  of  his  blind  brothers  and  sisters  went  to 
it.  I  have  taught  him,  even  as  one  would  say  precisely, 
thus  I  would  teach  a  dog,  I  was  sent  to  deliver  him 
as  a  present  to  mistress  Silvia  from  my  master,  and  I 
came  no  sooner  into  the  dining-chamber,  but  he  steps 
me  to  her  trencher,  and  steals  her  capon's  leg.  O  !  'tis 
a  foul  thing,  when  a  cur  cannot  keep  himself  in  all 
companies.  I  would  have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that 
takes  upon  him  to  be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be.  as  it  were,  a 
dog  at  all  things.  If  I  had  not  had  more  wit  than  he. 
to  take  a  fault  upon  me  that  he  did,  I  think  verily,  he 
had  been  hang'd  for  't :  sure  as  I  live,  he  had  sufier'd 
for  't.  You  shall  judge.  He  thrusts  me  himself  into  the 
company  of  three  or  four  gentlemen-like  dogs  under 
the  duke's  table  :  he  had  not  been  there  (bless  the 
mark)  a  pissing  while,  but  all  the  chamber  smelt  him. 
"Out  with  the  dog  !"  says  one  ;  •'  what  cur  is  that?" 
says  another;  "whip  him  out,"  says  the  third;  "hang 
him  up,"  says  the  duke.  1,  having  been  acquainted 
with  the  smell  before,  knew  it  was  Crab,  and  goes  me 
to  the  fellow  that  whips  the  dogs  :  "  Friend,"  quoth  1  ; 
"  do  you  mean  to  whip  the  dog?"  "  Ay,  marry,  do  I." 
quoth  he.  "  You  do  him  the  more  wrong,"  quoth  1  ; 
"  'twas  I  did  the  thing  you  wot  of."  He  makes  me  no 
more  ado,  but  whips  me  out  of  the  chamber.  How 
many  masters  would  do  this  for  his  servant?  Nay,  III 
be  sworn  I  have  sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath 
stolen,  otherwise  he  had  been  executed :  I  have  stood 
on  the  pillory  for  geese  he  hath  kill'd,  otherwise  he  had 
suffcr'd  for  't :  thou  think'st  not  of  this  now. — Nay.  I 
remember  the  trick  you  served  me,  when  I  took  my 
leave  of  madam  Silvia.  Did  not  I  bid  thee  still  mark 
me,  and  do  as  1  do  ?  When  didst  thou  see  me  heave 
up  my  leg,  and  make  water  against  a  gentlewoman's 
farthingale?  Didst  thou  ever  see  me  do  such  a  trick? 
Eiiter  Proteus  fl?iJ.luLi A. 

Pro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name?     I  like  thee  well. 
And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

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

Pro.  I  hope  thou  wilt. — How,  now,  you  whoreson 
peasant ! 
Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  : 

Imuucc.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  mistress  Silvia  the  doe 
you  bade  me. 

Pro.   And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel  ? 

Launce.  Marry,  she  says,  your  dog  was  a  cur  ;  and 
tells  you,  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  sucli  a 
present. 

Pro.  But  she  receiv'd  my  dog  ? 

L/iuncc.  No,    indeed,    did    she    not.     Here  have    1 
brought  him  back  again. 
on.     '  Compafsionatt      ♦  Tb«  line  is  not  in  f.  e. 


e(^ENE    IV 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  YEKONA. 


35 


Pro.  What !  didst  thou  offer  her  this  cur'  from  me  ? 

Launce.  Ay,  sir :  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from 
me  by  a  hangman  boy-  in  the  market-place ;  and  then 
1  offer'd  her  my  ow^l,  who  is  a  dog  as  big  as  ten  of 
vours,  and  therefore  the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.  Go  ;  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again. 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say  !     Stayest  thou  to  vex  me  here  ? 
A  slave  that  still  an  end^  turns  me  to  shame. 

[Exit  Launce. 
Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee, 
Partly,  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth. 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  't  is  no  trusting  to  yond  foolish  lowt ; 
But,  chiefly,  for  thy  face,  and  thy  behaviour, 
Which  (if  my  augury  deceive  me  not) 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth  : 
Therefore,  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee  : 
Deliver  it  to  madam  Silvia. 
She  lov"d  me  well  delivered  it  to  me. 

Jul.  It  seems,  you  lov'd  not  her,  to  leave  her  token. 
She  's  dead,  belike  ? 

Pro.  Not  so  :  I  think,  she  lives. 

Jul.  Alas ! 

Fro.  Why  dost  thou  cry  alas  ? 

Jul.  I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Fro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her  ? 

Jul.  Because,  methinks,  that  she  lov'd  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia. 
She  dreams  on  him,  that  has  forgot  her  love ; 
You  dote  on  her,  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'T  is  pity,  love  should  be  so  contrary, 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry  alas ! 

Pro.  Well,  give  to  her  that  ring ;  and  therewithal 
This  letter  : — that 's  her  chamber. — Tell  my  lady 

claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 
Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary.  {Exit. 

Jul.  How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 
Alas,  poor  Proteus  !  thou  hast  entertain'd 
A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs. 
Alas,  poor  fool  !  why  do  I  pity  him. 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me , 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 
This  ring  I  gave  him  wlien  he  parted  from  me, 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will. 
And  now  am  I  (unhappy  messenger  !) 
To  plead  for  that  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 
To  carry  that  which  I  would  haA^e  refus'd  ; 
To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  disprais"d. 
I  am  my  master's  true  confirmed  love, 
But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 
Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 
Yet  will  I  woo  for  him ;  but  yet  so  coldly. 
As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed. 

Enter  Silvia,  attended. 
Gentlewoman,  good  day.     I  pray  you.  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  madam  Silvia. 

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

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

Jul.  From  my  master,  sir  Proteus,  madam. 
Sil.  0  !  he  sends  you  for  a  picture. 
Jul.  Ay,  madam. 

Sil  Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there .  [A  Picture  brought. 
Go,  give  your  r:iaster  this :  tell  him  from  me, 

'  Not  in  f.  e.      ^  the  hangman's  boys  :  in  f.  e.      '  Continually. 


One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 
Would  better  fit  his  chamber,  than  this  shadow. 

Jul.  Madam,  so*  please  you  to^  peruse  this  letter.— 
Pardon  me,  madam,  I  have  unadvis'd  {Giving  a  letter 
Deliver'd  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not : 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship.  {Giving  another  letter 

Sil.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.  It  may  not  be  :  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

Sil.  There,  hold.  {Giving  it  back 

I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines  : 
I  know,  they  arc  stuff'd  with  protestations. 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths,  which  he  will  break, 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  p^per. 

Jul.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me 
For,  I  have  heard  him  say,  a  thousand  times, 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure. 
Though  his  false  finger  have  profan'd  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 

Jul.  She  thanks  you. 

Sil.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Jul.  I  thank  you.  madam,  that  you  tender  her. 
Poor  gentlewoman  !  my  master  WTongs  her  much. 

Sil.  Dost  thou  knovf  her  ? 

Jid.     Almost  as  well  as  I  do  knovi'  myself: 
To  think  upon  her  woes,  I  do  protest. 
That  I  have  wept  a  hundred  several  times. 

Sil.  Belike,  she  thinks,  that  Proteus  hath  forsook  her 

Jul.  I  think  she  doth,  and  that 's  her  cause  of  sorro-w 

Sil.  Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Jul.  She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is. 
When  she  did  think  my  master  lov'd  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you  ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away. 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Sil.  How  tall  was  she  ? 

Jul.  About  my  stature  ;  for,  at  pentecost. 
When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd, 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part. 
And  I  was  trimm'd  in  madam  Julia's  goA^Ti, 
Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgments, 
As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me : 
Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And  at  that  time  I  made  her  weep  a-good,* 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part. 
Madam,  'twas  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury,  and  unjust  flight ; 
Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears. 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 
Wept  bitterly;  and,  would  I  might  be  dead. 
If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow. 

Sil.  She  is  beholding  to  thee,  gentle  youth. — 
Alas,  poor  lady  !  desolate  and  left ! — 
I  weep  myself,  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth ;  there  is  my  purse  :  I  give  thee  this 
For  thv  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lov'st  her. 
Farewell.  {Exit  Silvia 

/((/.  And  she  shall  thank  you  for  't.  if  e'er  you  know 
her. — 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild,  and  beautiful ! 
I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold. 
Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself ! 
Here  is  her  picture.     Let  me  see  :  I  think. 
If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers  : 

»  Not  in  f  e       •  fn  good  earnest. 


36 


THE   TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF   YERONA. 


AOT   V. 


Kixd  yet  the  painter  flattcr'd  her  a  little. 

I'lilcss  I  (latter  with  myself  too  inueli. 

H'T  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow: 

It  that  be  all  the  ditlcrcnee  in  his  love, 

I   11  get  me  such  a  colourd  peri'wig. 

Her  eyes  are  green  as  grass,'  and  so  are  mine  : 

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

What  should  it  be,  that  he  respects  in  her. 

But  I  can  make  respective  in  myself, 

'!  this  fond  love  were  not  a  blinded  god? 


Come,  shadow  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up. 

For  "t  is  thy  rival.     0  thou  senseless  form  I 

Thou  shall  be  worshipp'd,  kiss'd,  lov'd,  and  ador'd  ; 

And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry, 

My  substance  should  be  statue  in  thy  stead. 

1  "II  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake. 

That  us"d  me  so  :  or  else,  by  .love  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeing  eyes. 

To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee.  \Exu 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     An  Abbey. 
Enter  Eglamour. 

EgL  The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky, 
.\nd  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour. 
That  Silvia  at  friar  Patricks  cell  should  meet  me. 
She  win  not  fail :  for  lovers  break  not  hours. 
I'liless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time, 
.">.»  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 

Eiiter  Silvia. 
See.  where  she  comes. — Lady,  a  happy  evening. 

^il.  Amen,  amen.     Go  on.  good  Eglamour. 
i»at  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey- wall. 
1  rear,  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

Esl-  Fear  not:  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  ofT: 
If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IT.— The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Duke's 

Palace. 

Enter  Thurio,  Proteus,  and  .Iulia. 

Tint.  Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Sih-ia  to  m.y  suit? 

Pro.  0.  sir  I  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was  ; 
,\iid  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 

Thu.  What !  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 

Pro.  No,  that  it  is  too  little, 

Thu.  I  "11  wear  a  boot  to  make  it  somewhat  rounder. 

.f'll.  But  love  will  not  be  spurrd  to  what  it  loaths. 

[Aside. 

Th'i.  What  says  she  to  my  face? 

Pro.  She  says  it  is  a  fair  one, 

Thv.  Nay,  then  the  wanton  lies  :  my  face  is  black. 

Pro.  But  pearls  are  fair,  and  the  old  saying  is. 
Bliek  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies"  eyes. 

Jul.  'T  is  true,  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies'  eyes  : 
For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them.  [Aaide. 

Thu.  How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 

Pro.  Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 

Thu.  But   well,    when    I    discourse    of    love    and 
peace  ? 

Jul.  But  better,  indeed,  when  vou  hold  vour  peace. 

[Aside. 

Thv.  What  says  she  to  my  valour? 

Pro.  0.  sir  I  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 

/'//.  She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  cowardice. 

[Aside. 

Thu.  What  sa\-8  she  to  my  birth? 

Pro.  That  you  are  well  deriv"d. 

/"/.  True  :  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool.  [Aside. 

Thu.  Con.'<iders  she  my  large  jwssession.*  ? 

Pro    O  1  ay.  and  pities  them. 

T^f..   Wherefore  ? 

,^"/.  That  such  an  a.<!8  should  owe  them.         [Aside. 

Pro.  That  x\\f\  are  out  by  lease 

/•//.  Here  comes  the  duke. 


Enter  Duke,  angrily.* 
Duke.  How  now,  sir  Proteus  !  how  now,  Thurio  ! 
Which  of  vou  saw  sir^  Eglamour  of  late  ? 
Thu.  Not  I. 
Pro.  Nor  I. 

Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter? 
I      Pro.  Neither. 
I      Ihike.  Why,  then 
I  She  's  fled  unto  that  peasant  Valentine, 
And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 
"T  is  true  ;  for  friar  Lawrence  met  them  both, 
,  As  he  in  penance  wander' d  through  the  forest : 
I  Him  he  knew  well  ;  and  guess'd  that  it  was  she, 
But,  being  mask'd,  he  was  not  sure  of  her : 
Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 
At  Patrick's  cell  tliis  even,  and  there  she  was  not. 
These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence: 
Therefore,  I  pray  j'ou,  stand  not  to  discourse, 
i  But  mount  you  presently  ;  and  meet  with  me 
jUpon  the  rising  of  the  mountain-foot. 
That  leads  towards  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled. 
Dispatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  m.e. 

[Exit  in  haste.* 
Thu.  "Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl. 
That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her. 
I  '11  after,  more  to  be  reveng'd  on  Eglamour. 
Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.  [Exit. 

Pro.  And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love. 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour  that  goes  with  her.         [Exit. 

Jul.  And  I  will  follow,  more  to  cross  that  love. 
Than  hate  for  Silvia  that  is  gone  for  love.  [Exit 

SCENE  III.— The  Forest. 
Enter  Silvia,  and  Outlatcs. 

1  Out.  Come,  come;  be  patient,  we  must  bring  you 
jto  our  captain.  [Drawing  her  in 

'      Sil    A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learnd  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.  Come,  bring  her  away. 

1  Out.  W^here  is  the  gentleman  that  was  -vs-ith  her? 

3  Out.  Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us ; 
jBut  Moyses.  and  Valerius,  follow  him. 

I  Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood  ; 
I  There  is  our  captain.     We  '11  follow  him  that  s  fled 
The  thicket  is  beset :  he  cannot  'scape. 

1  Out.  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  ourcaptain"s  ca- ■> 
Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind, 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.  0  Valentine  !  this  I  endure  for  thee.      [Ercunt 


gTi-y  M  K'.Ui  :  in  r.  e.      »  »  Not  in  f  e 


SCENE  IV.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Valentine. 
Val.  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
These  shado-wy,  desert,'  unfrequented  woods, 
ite  ■  not  in  I   s       *  This  shidowy,  desert :  in  f.  e. 


6CKNE    IV. 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF   VERONA. 


37 


i  better  brook  than  tlourishing  peopled  towais. 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 
A  lid  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes 
Tune  ray  distresses,  and  record'  my  woes. 

0  !  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 
Leave  not  the  mansion  too  long  tenantless, 
Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall. 
And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 
Repair  me  with  thy  presence.  Silvia  ! 

Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain  ! — 
What  halloing,  and  what  stir,  is  this  to-day  ?  [Shouts.^ 
These  my  rude  mates,^  that  make  their  wills  their  law, 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase. 
They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do, 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine  :  who  's  this  comes  here  V 

[  Withdraws.* 
Enter  Proteus,  Silvia,  and  Julia. 

Pro.  Madam,  this  ser\-ice  having*  done  for  you, 
^Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth) 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him. 
That  would  have  forc'd  your  honour  and  your  love,' 
Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look.' 
A.  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg. 
And  less  than  this,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Val.  How  like  a  dream  is  this,  I  see  and  hear  ! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  awhile.  [Aside. 

Sil.  0.  miserable  !  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 

Pro.  Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came  ; 
But  by  my  coming  I  have  made  you  happy. 

Sil.  By  thy  approach  thou  mak'st  me  most  unhappy. 

Jul.  And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to  your  presence. 

[Aside. 

Stl.  Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 

1  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 
0,  heaven  !  be  judge,  how  I  love  Valentine, 
Whose  life 's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul  : 
And  full  as  much  (for  more  there  cannot  be) 
I  do  detest  false,  perjur'd  Proteus  : 
Therefore  be  gone:  solicit  me  no  more. 

Pro.  What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to  death. 
Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look. 

0  !  'tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approv"d.' 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they  're  belov"d. 

Sii.  When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he  's  belov'd. 
Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first  best  love, 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths  ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury  to  love  me. 
Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou  'dst  two. 
And  that 's  far  worse  than  none  :  better  have  none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one. 
Tbou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend  ! 

Pro.  In  love 

(/!/  ho  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.  Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 

1  '11  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arm's  end, 

And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love  :  force  you. 

Sil.  O  heaven  ! 

Pro.  I  '11  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Val.    [Coming  forward.]  Ruffian,  let    go  that  rude 
uncivil  touch ; 
Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion ! 

Pro.  Valentine  !  [love  ; 

Val.  Thou  common  friend,  that's  without  faith  or 


(For  such  is  a  friend  now)  treacherous  man  ! 
Thou  hast  beguil'd  my  hopes  :  nought  but  mine  eye 
Could  have  persuaded  me.     Now  dared  I  to  say. 
I  have  one  friend  alive,  thou  would'st  disprove  me 
Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right  hand 
Is  perjur'd  to  the  bosom  ?     Proteus, 
I  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more. 
But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 
The  private  wound  is  deep'st.     0  time  acctu-st ! 
'Mongst  all  my'  foes'"  a  friend  should  be  the  worst  I 

Pro.  My  shame  and  desperate  guilt  at  once"  ccn 
found  me. — 
Forgive  me,  Valentine.     If  hearty  sorrow 
Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offi^nce, 
I  tender  't  here :  I  do  as  truly  suifer, 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

Val.  Then,  I  am  paid ; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest. 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied. 
Is  nor  of  heaven,  nor  earth  ;  for  these  are  pleas'd : 
By  penitence  th'  Eternal's  wrath  's  appeas'd. 
And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia  I  give  thee. 

Jid.  O  me  unhappy  ! 

Pro.  Look  to  the  boy. 

Val.  Why,  boy !  why,  wag  !  how  now !  what 's  the 
matter  !  look  up  ;  speak. 

Jul.  0  good  sir  !  my  master  charg'd  me  to  deliver  a 
ring  to  madam  Silvia,  which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was 
never  done. 

Pro.  Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 

Jul.  Here  't  is  :  this  is  it.   [Gives  a  ring 

Pro.  How  !  let  me  see. 
This  is  the  ring  I  gave  to  Julia. 

Jul.  0  !  cry  you  mercy,  sir ;  I  have  mistook  : 
This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia.  [Shows  another  ring. 

Pro.  But,  how  cam'st  thou  by  this  ring  ? 
At  my  depart  I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jid.  And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.  How?     Julia!  [Discovering  herself 

Jul.  Behold  her  that  gave  aim  to  all  thy  oaths 
And  entertain'd  them  deeply  in  her  heart : 
How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root ! 
O  Proteus  !  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush  : 
Be  thou  asham'd,  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment ;  if  shame  live 
In  a  disguise  of  love. 
It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds, 
Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  men  their  minds. 

Pro.  Than  men  their  minds :  't  is  true.     O  heaven ! 
were  man 
But  constant,  he  were  perfect  :  that  one  error      j^sine  : 
Fills  him  with  faults ;  makes  him  run  through  all  the 
Inconstancy  falls  off,  ere  it  begins. 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia's,  with  a  constant  eye? 

Val.  Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either. 
Let  me  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close : 
'T  were  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 

Pro.  Bear  witness,  heaven,  I  have  my  -wieh  t'or  eve 

Jul.  And  I  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  Duke  and  Thurio. 

Out.  A  prize  !  a  prize  !  a  prize  ! 
Val.  Forbear  :    forbear,  I  say :   it  is  my  lord  thf 
duke. — 
Your  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgrac'd, 
Banished  Valentine. 


>  sing.    »  Not  In  f.  e.     '  are  my  mates  :  in  f.  e.     ♦  Steps  aside :  in  f.  e.      »  I  have  :  in  f.  e.     «  f.  e.  have  a  period.     '  f.  e  have  &  eeiE) 
<»olon.      •  proved.      •  Not  in  f.  e.      ">  that     in  f.  e.      n  My  shame  and  guilt  confound  :  in  f.  e 


35 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA. 


Dtike.  Sir  Valentine  ! 

TTiu.  Yonder  is  Silvia;  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Val.  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death. 
Como  not  within  the  meaaure  of  my  ^^Tath: 
Do  not  name  Silvia  thine;  if  once  again, 
Milano'  sliall  not  hold  thee.     Here  she  stands : 
Take  but  possession  of  her  %vith  a  touch. 
I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 

Thu.  Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I. 
ihold  him  but  a  fool,  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 
I  claim  her  not,  and  tlierefore  she  is  thine. 

DtJcc.  The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou. 
To  make  such  means  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions. 
Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine. 
And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love. 
Know  then.  I  here  Jorget  all  former  griefs, 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again, 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  uurivall'd  merit. 
To  which  I  thus  subscribe. — Sir  Valentine, 
Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  deriv'd : 
Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserv"d  her. 

Val.  I  thauk  your  grace  ;    the   gift  hath  made  me 
happy. 


I  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter's  sake, 
To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

J>>ike.  I  grant  it  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 

Val.  These  banishd  men,  that  I  have  kept  withal, 
Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities  : 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here. 
And  let  them  be  recalld  from  their  exile. 
They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good. 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.  Thou  hast  prevail'd  :  I  pardon  them,  and  thoc 
Dispose  of  them,  as  thou  knowst  their  deserts. 
Come;  let  us  go  ;  we  will  conclude^  all  jars 
With  triuniplis,  mirth,  and  rare  .solemnity. 

Val.  And  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smile. 
What  think  you  of  this  stripling^  page,  my  lord? 

DuJce.  I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him  :  he  blu8b«« 

Val.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord,  more  grace  than  boy. 

Duke.  What  mean  you  by  that  saying,  Valentine  ?• 

Val.  Please  you.  I  'U  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned. — 
Come.  Proteus;  't  is  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  love's  discoverer  : 
Our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours  no  less  ;* 
One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness. 

\EzeuaL 


^  Vfpoiia  ■  ia  f.  e.     *  iuolndc  :  in  f  e.     '  <  Not  in  f.  e.      '  That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours  ;  in  f.  » 


THE    MEREY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR 


DEAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Fenton. 

Shallow,  a  Country  Justice. 

Slender,  Cousin  to  Shallow. 

p       '  [  Two  Gentlemen  dwelling  at  Windsor. 

William  Page,  a  Boy,  Son  to  Air.  Page. 
Sir  Hugh  Evans,  a  Welsh  Parson. 
Dr.  Caius,  a  French  Physician. 
Host  of  the  Garter  Inn. 


Bardolph, 

Pistol,        }  Followers  of  Falstaff. 

Ntm, 

Robin,  Page  to  Falstaff. 

Simple,  Servant  to  Slender. 

John  Rugby,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius 

Mrs.  Ford. 

Mrs.  Page. 

Anne  Page,  her  Daughter,  in  love  with  Fenton 

Mrs.  Quickly.  Sei-vant  to  Dr.  Caius. 


Servants  to  Page,  Ford,  &c. 
SCENE,  Windsor  :  and  the  Parts  adjacent 


I 


ACT    I 


SCENE  I.— Windsor.     Before  Page's  House. 

Enter  Justice  Shallow,  Slender,  atid  Sir  Hugh 

Evans. 

Shal.  Sir'  Hugh,  persuade  me  not ;  I  will  make  a 
Srjir-chamber  matter  of  it :  if  he  were  twenty  sir  John 
Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Robert  Shallow,  esquire. 

Slen.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and 
coram. 

Shal.  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  cust-alonim. 

Slen.  Ay,  and  ratolontm  too  :  and  a  gentleman  born, 
master  parson ;  who  wTites  himself  armigero  :  in  any 
bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  armigero. 

Shal.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  and  have  done  any  time  these 
u.ree  hundred  years. 

Slen.  All  his  successors,  gone  before  him,  have  done  't; 
and  all  his  ancestors,  that  come  after  him,  may :  they 
may  give  the  dozen  Avhite  luces'  in  their  coat. 

Sh.al.  It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an  old  coat 
well ;  it  agrees  well,  passant :  it  is  a  familiar  beast  to 
man.  and  signifies  love. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish ;  the  salt  fish  is  an 
old  coat. 

Slen.  I  may  quarter,  coz? 

Slial.  You  may,  by  marrying. 

Eva.  It  is  marring,  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 

Shal.  Not  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  per-lady :  if  he  has  a  quarter  of  your  coat, 
there  is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself,  in  my  simple  con- 
jectures. But  that  IS  all  one  :  if  sir  John  Falstaff  have 
committed  disparagements  unto  you,  I  am  of  the  church, 
and  wUl  be  glad  to  do  my  benevolence,  to  make  atone- 
ments and  compromises  between  you. 

Shal.  The  council  shall  hear  it :  it  is  a  riot. 

Eva.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  a  riot;  there  is 
no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot.  The  council,  look  you,  shall 
desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  rnt : 
lake  your  vizaments  in  that. 


Shal.  Ha !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again  the 
sword  sliould  end  it. 

Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and  end 
it  :  and  there  is  also  another  device  in  my  prain,  which, 
peradventure,  prings  goot  discretions^  with  it.  There 
is  Anne  Page,  which  is  daughter  to  master  George  Page, 
which  is  pretty  virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Aime  Page?  She  has  brown  hair,  and 
speaks  small,  like  a  woman. 

Eva.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  orld  ;  as  just  ai 
you  will  desire,  and  seven  hinidred  pounds  of  monies 
and  gold,  and  silver,  is  her  grandsire,  upon  his  death's 
bed  (Got  deliver  to  a  joyful  resurrections  !)  give,  whep 
she  is  able  to  overtake  seventeen  years  old.  It  were  a 
goot  motion,  if  we  leave  our  pribbles  and  prabbles,  ana 
desire  a  marriage  between  master  Abraham,  and  mis- 
tress Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred 
pound  ? 

Eva.  Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter 
penny. 

Slen.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman  ;  she  has  good 
gifts. 

Eva.  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibilities,  is 
good  gifts. 

Shnl.  Well,  let  us  see  honest  master  Page.  Is  Fal- 
staff there  ? 

Eva.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  lie?  I  do  despise  a  liar,  as 
I  do  despise  one  that  is  false ;  or,  as  I  despise  one  that 
is  not  true.  The  knight,  sir  John,  is  there:  and,  [ 
beseech  you,  be  ruled  by  your  well-willers.  I  will 
peat  the  door  for  master  Page.  [Kiiocks.]  WTiat,  hoa ! 
Got  pi  ess  your  house  here  ! 

Page.  Who 's  there  ?  [Above,  at  the  window.* 

Eva.  Here  is  Got's  plessing,  and  your  friend,  and 
justice  Shallow ;  and  here  young  master  Slender,  that, 
peradventures,  shall  tell  you  another  tuie,  if  matters 
grow  to  your  likings. 


»  A  title  by  whicb  the  liiergy  were  ordinarily  addressed.      '  The  old  name  for  a  pLke--an  allusion  to  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Lucvs' 
three  luces,     s  E„,gf  p^ige ;  in  f  e 

89 


40 


THE  MKliliY    AVIVES   OF    WINDSOR. 


ACT   1. 


Enter  Page.' 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well.  I  tliauk 
K'li  lor  my  venison,  master  Shallow. 

Slhal.  ^iaster  Pa^c,  I  am  glad  to  sec  you :  much 
.(XkI  do  it  your  jiood  heart.  I  wished  your  venison 
•setter,  it  was  ill  killM. — How  doth  good  mistress 
rage? — and  I  tluuik  you  always  with  my  heart,  la; 
Aitii  my  lu-nrt. 

Fage.  Sir.  I  thank  you. 

Shal.  Sir,  I  thank  you  ;  by  yea  and  no.  I  do. 

Page.  1  am  ulad  to  see  you,  good  master  Slender. 

SIcti.  How  does  your  tallow  greyhound,  sir?  I 
'ard  say.  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsold.' 

Pagf.  It  could  not  be  judg'd,  sir. 

Slen.   Vou'll  not  eont'es.<!.  you'll  not  confess. 

^hal.  That  ho  will  not  : — 't  is  your  fault,  H  is  your 
:ault. — T  is  a  good  dog. 

Page.  A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog;  can 
ilicrc  be  more  said?  he  is  good,  and  fair.  Is  sir  John 
Falstaff  here? 

Page.  Sir.  he  is  within;  and  I  would  I  could  do  a 
iiooil  olhce  between  you. 

Eva.  It  is  spoke  as  a  Chri.stians  ought  to  speak. 

Shal.  He  hath  ^^Tong'd  me,  master  Page. 

Page.  Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 

Shal.  If  it  be  confessed,  it  is  not  rcdrcss'd  :  .is  not 
•  hat  so,  master  Page?  He  hath  wrong'd  me;  indeed, 
Le  hath  ; — at  a  word,  he  hath ; — believe  me  : — Robert 
Shallow,  esquire,  saith  he  is  wrong'd. 

Page.  Here  comes  sir  John. 
Enter  Sir  John  Falst.\ff.  Bardolph,  Nym,  and 
Pistol. 

Fal.  Now.  master  Shallow;  you'll  complain  of  me 
to  the  king? 

Shal.  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  men,  killed  my 
deer,  and  broke  open  my  lodge. 

Fal.  But  not  kiss'd  your  keeper's  daughter. 

Shal.  Tut.  a  pin  !  this  shall  be  answered. 

Fal.  I  will  answer  it  straight: — I  have  done  all 
'.his. — That  is  now  answered. 

Shal.  The  council  shall  know  this. 

Fal.  T  were  better  for  you,  if  it  were  knowni  in 
<'oun.«el :  you  "11  be  lauL'hcd  at. 

Em.  Pauca  verba,  sir  John  :  good  worts. 

Fal.  Good  worts  y^  good  cabbage. — Slender,  I  broke 
your  head  ;  what  matter  have  you  against  me? 

'Slen.  Marry,  sir.  1  have  matter  in  my  head  against 
you  :  and  against  your  coiiey-catching  rascals,  Bar- 
dolph,  Nym,  and  Pi.stol.  They  carried  me  to  the 
tavern,  and  made  mc  drunk,  and  afterwards  picked 
my  pocket. 

Bard.  You  Banbury  cheese.* 
Slen.  Ay.  it  is  no  matter. 
Pi.fl.  How  now.  Mcphostophilus? 
Slen.  Ay.  it  is  no  matter. 

Nym.  Slice,  I  say  !  pnura.  pauca  ;  slice  I  that's  my 
bamour. 

SUn.  'Where's  Simple,  my  man?  —  can  you  tell, 
ceusin  ? 

Eva.  Peace!  I  pray  you.  New  let  us  understand : 
there  is  three  umpire*  in  this  matter,  as  I  understand; 
that  is — master  Vn^o.  fidelirrt.  master  I'age  ;  and  there 
IS  myself.  fifUliret.  myself;  and  tiie  three  party  is, 
lastly  anti  finally,  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 


Page.  'We  three,  to  hear  it,  and  end  it  between 
them. 

Eva.  Fcry  goot:  I  will  make  a  priel  of  it  in  my 
note-book:  and  we  will  aftei-wards  'ork  upon  the 
cause,  with  as  great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fat.  Pistol ! 

Pi.st.  He  hears  with  ears. 

Eva.  The  tcvil  and  his  tam  !  what  phrase  is  this'i' 
"  He  hears  with  ear':""'     Why,  it  is  afl'ectations. 

Fal.  Pi.sfol.  did  you  pick  master  Slender's  purse  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would  I 
might  never  come  in  mine  owni  great  chamber  again 
else)  of  seven  groats  in  mill-sixpences,  and  two  Edward 
shovel-boards,*  that  cost  me  two  shilling  and  two  p(  nee 
a-piece  of  Ycd  Miller,  by  these  gloves. 

Fal.  Is  this  true,  Pistol? 

Eva.  No;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 

Pist.  Ha.  thou  mountain-foreigner  ! — Sir  John  and 
master  mine, 
I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo  :* 
■Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras''  here  : 
Word  of  denial ;  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest. 

Slen.  By  these  gloves,  then  'twas  he. 

Nym.  Be  advised,  sir.  and  pass  good  humours.  I  will 
say.  "  marry  trap."  with  you.  if  you  run  the  nuthook'e* 
humour  on  me  :  that  is  the  very  note  of  it. 

Slen.  By  this  hat,  then  he  in  the  red  face  had  it :  for 
though  I  cannot  remember  what  I  did  when  you  made 
me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.  What  say  you,  Scarlet  and  John  ?' 

Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part.  I  say,  the  gentleman 
had  drunk  himself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.  It  is  his  five  senses  :  fie.  what  the  ignorance  is ! 

Bard.  And  being  fap,'"  sir,  was.  as  they  say,  cashier'd ; 
and  so  conclusions  pass'd  the  carieres." 

Slen.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then  too;  Dut  't  is  no 
matter.  I  '11  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again.  bui 
in  honest,  civil,  godly  company,  for  this  trick:  if  I  be 
drunk.  I  '11  be  drunk  with  those  that  have  the  fear  of 
God,  and  not  with  drunken  knaves. 

Eva.  So  Got  'udgc  me,  that  is  a  virtuous  mind. 

Fal.  You  hear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentlemen  ; 
you  hear  it. 

Enter  Anne  Page  icith  v-inc  ;  and  Mistress  Ford  and 
Mi.'^tre.ss  Page. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  wine  in  ;  we  '11  drink 
within.  [Exit  Anne  Page 

Slen.  Oh  heaven  !  this  is  mistress  Anne  Page. 

[Following  and  looking  after  ker.^' 

Page.  How  now,  mistress  Ford  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very  well 
met:  by  your  leave,  good  mistress.  [Kissing  her. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome. — Come, 
we  have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner:  come,  gentle- 
men, I  hope  we  .<!hrtli  drink  down  all  unkindness. 
I  [Exeunt  all  but  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Evan<. 

I      Slen.  I   had  rather  than  forty  shillings,   I  had  my 
book  of  songs  and  sonnets  here. — 
'  Enter  Simple. 

I  How  now,  Simple  !  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  must 
'wait  on  my.self,  must  I?  You  have  not  the  book  of 
[riddles  about  you.  have  you? 

Sim.  Book  of  riddles  !  why.  did  you  not  lend  it  to 
Alice  Shortcake  upon  Allhallowmas  last,  a  fortnight 
afore  Michaelmas? 


>  Not  in  f.  s.  »  CotKHll  :  In  r  *  Cotf<wol<l-«1own»,  in  Glonccdtcriihire,  a  fnmoui  place  for  rural  nports.  »  The  old  name  tor  cabljage 
•This  ciicene  wa«  extrpmrly  tl.ir.  •  bhilline  pieopg,  uned  in  playinR  nhuflle-boarrt,  and  probably  better  fitted  for  the  pame  hy  Wuii 
r.^avitr  than  the  comnion  coin,  and  fci  ooinmandini:  a  premium.  *  Inlten.  a.  oompoKJlinn  nf  copper  and  calamine,  made  into  thin  plates; 
•■ilko.  ii  a  Billoa  blade  or  nword.  '  /ip.t.  »  Iniitrnment  used  by  a  thief  to  hook  thincs  Irom  a  window  ;  he  means.  '■  if  you  say  1  "m  K 
•bief."  »  Two  of  Robm  Hood's  mero'  men.  »»  Puddltd.  n  A  term  in  horsemanship,  for  galloping  a  horse  backwards  and  forwards 
»  TTiis  direction  is  not  in  f  e. 


BCKNE    in. 


THE  MEREY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


41 


She"..  Come,  coz;  come,  coz ;  we  stay  for  you.  A 
word  with  you,  coz :  marry,  this,  coz :  there  is,  as 
't  were,  a  tender,  a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar  off  by  sir 
Hugh  here:  do  you  understand  me? 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable:  if  it  be 
so,  I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

Slial    Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen    So  I  do,  sir. 

Eva.  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  master  Slender.  I  will 
ascription  the  matter  to  you.  if  you  be  capacity  of  it. 

Slen.  Nay,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says.  I 
pray  you,  pardon  me :  he  's  a  justice  of  peace  in  his 
country,  simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Eva.  But  that  is  not  the  question 
concerning  your  marriage. 

Shal.  Ay,  there  's  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  Marry,  is  it,  the  very  point  of  it ;  to  )nistress 
Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her  upon  any 
reasonable  demands. 

Eva.  But  can  you  affection  the  'oman?  Let  us  de- 
mand' to  know  that  of  your  mouth,  or  of  your  lips  :  for 
divers  philosophers  hold,  that  the  lips  is  parcel  of  the 
mouth :  therefore,  precisely,  can  you  carry  yoiu-  good 
will  to  the  maid  ? 

Shal.  Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  vou  love 
her? 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir,  I  will  do,  as  it  shall  become  one 
that  would  do  reason. 

Eva.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  hia  ladies,  you  must 
Bpeak  possitable,  if  you  can  carry  her  your  desires 
towards  her. 

Shal.  That  you  must.  Will  you,  upon  good  dowry, 
marry  her  ? 

Slen.  I  -wall  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,  upon  your 
request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet  coz : 
what  I  do,  is  to  pleasure  you,  coz.  Can  you  love  the 
maid  ? 

Slen.  [  will  marry  her,  sir,  at  your  request ;  but  if 
there  be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet  heaven 
may  decrease  it  upon  better  acquaintance,  when  we  are 
married,  and  have  more  occasion  to  know  one  another. 
I  hope,  upon  familiarity  will  grow  more  contempt : 
but  if  you  say,  "  marry  her,"  I  will  marry  her ;  that 
I  am  freely  dissolved,  and  dissolutely. 

Eva.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer ;  save,  the  fault 
is  in  the  'ort  dissolutely :  the  'ort  is,  according  to  our 
meaning,  resolutely. — His  meaning  is  good. 

Shal.  Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  well. 

Slen.  Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  niighi  be  hanged,  la. 
Re-enter  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Here  comes  fair  mistress  Anne. — Would  I 
were  young,  for  your  sake,  mistress  Anne  ! 

Anne.  The  dimier  is  on  the  table;  my  father  desires 
your  worship's  company. 

Shal.  I  will  wait  on  him.  fair  mistress  Anne. 

Eva.  Od's  plessed  will  !  I  will  not  be  absence  at  th( 
grace..  [Exeunt  Shallow  and  Evans. 

Anne.  Will 't  please  your  worship  to  come  in,  sir? 

Slen.  No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily ;  I  am  very 
well. 

Anne.  The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  I  thank  you,  forsooth. — Go, 
eirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go,  wait  upon  my  cousin 
Shallow.  \Exit  Simple.]  A  justice  of  peace  sometime 
may  be  beholding  to  his  friend  for  a  man. — I  keep  but 
three  men  and  a  boy  yet,  till  my  mother  be  dead  ;  but 
what  though?  yet  I  live  like  a  poor  gentleman  born. 


Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship  :  they 
will  not  sit,  till  you  come. 

Slen.  Y  faith,  I  '11  eat  nothing  ;  I  thank  you  as  much 
as  though  I  did. 

Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir.  walk  in. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you.  I  bruised 
my  shin  the  other  day  with  playing  at  sword  and  dagger 
with  a  master  of  fence,  (three  veneys  for  a  dish  of 
stewed  prunes)  and.  by  my  troth,  I  cannot  abide  the 
smell  of  hot  meat  since.  Why  do  your  dogs  bark  so? 
be  there  bears  i'  tlie  town  ?  [Dogs  bark.- 

Anne.  I  think,  there  are,  sir  ;  1  heard  them  talked  cf. 
I      Slen.  I  love  the  sport  well ;   but   I    shall    as  soon 
the  question  is  quarrel  at  it  as  any  man  in  England.     You  are  afraid^ 
if  you  see  the  bear  loose,  are  you  not  ? 

Anne.  Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That  "s  meat  and  drink  to  me.  now  :  I  have  teen 
Sackerson^  loose,  twenty  times,  and  have  taken  him 
by  the  chain ;  but,  I  warrant  you,  tlie  women  have  so 
cried  and  shriek'd  at  it,  that  it  pass'd* :  but  women, 
indeed,  caiinot  abide  "em ;  they  are  very  ill-favoured 
rough  things. 

Re-enter  Page. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  master  .Slender,  come;  we  stay 
for  you. 

Sle7i.  I  '11  eat  nothing,  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Page.  By  cock  and  pye,  you  shall  not  choose,  sir. 
Come,  come. 

Slen.  Nay ;  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.  Come  on,  sir. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.  Not  I,  sir ;  pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first :  truly,  la,  I  will  not 
do  you  that  wrong. 

Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  "11  rather  be  unmannerly,  than  troublesome. 
You  do  yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la.  [Exeunt. 


Eva. 
which 


SCENE  n.— The  Same. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 
Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  doctor  Caius"  house. 


the  way;  and  there  dwells  one  mistress 
Quickly,  which  is  in  the  manner  of  his  nurse,  or  liis 
dry  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or  his  laundry,  his  washer,  and 
his  wringer. 

Sim.  Well,  sir. 

Eva.  Nay,  it  is  petter  yet. — Give  her  this  letter  :  for 
it  is  a  'oman  that  altogether 's  acquaintance  with  mis- 
tress Anne  Page  :  and  the  letter  is.  to  desire  and  require 
her  to  solicit  your  master's  desires  to  mistress  Anne 
Page  :  I  pray  you,  be  gone.  I  will  make  an  end  of  my 
dinner  :  there  's  pippins  and  cheese  to  come.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Falstaff,  Host,  Bardolph.  Nym,  Pistol,  and 
Robin. 

Pal.  Mine  host  of  the  Garter  ! 

Host.  What  says  my  bully-rook*  ?  Speak  scholarly, 
and  wisely. 

Fal.  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  tui-n  away  some  of  my 
followers. 

Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules ;  cashier :  let  them 
wag ;  trot,  trot. 

Fal.  I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a-week. 

Host.  Thou  'rt  an  emperor,  Caesar,  Keisar,  and 
Pheazar.  I  will  entertain  Bardolph  :  he  sliall  draw, 
he  shall  tap  :  said  I  well,  bully  Hector? 

Fal.  Do  so,  good  mine  host. 


u)iiunaDd  :  in  f  e.      ^  Not  in  f.  e.      *  A  famous  bear,  often  baited  at  Pans  Garden.      •  expression.      »  A  sharper. 


42 


THE  MERRY    WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


Hast.  1  have  spoke  ;  let  him  follow. — Let  mc  see  thee 
froth,  and  lime'  :  I  am  at  a  word  :  follow.       [Exit  Host. 

Fal.  Bardolph.  follow  him.  A  tapster  is  a  good 
trade  :  an  old  eloak  make.';  a  new  jerkin  :  a  withered 
•tervingman.  a  frcsli  tapster.     Go:  adieu. 

Bard.  It  is  a  life  thai  I  have  desired.     I  will  thrive. 
[Exit  Bardolph. 

Puit.  0  base  Gongarian'  wight !  wilt  thou  the  spigot 
vs-ield  ? 

Nym.  He  wa«  gotten  in  drink :  is  not  the  humour 
mceited  ?  His  mind  is  not  heroic,  and  there  "s  the 
umour  of  it. 

Fill.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  aequit  of  this  tinder-box: 
his  thefts  were  too  open;  his  filching  was  like  an  un- 
nkiltul  singer,  he  kept  not  time. 

\ifm.  Tlic  good  liuinour  is  to  steal  at  a  minim's^  rest. 

Pist.  Convey  the  wise  it  call.  Steal  ?  foh  !  a  fico 
for  the  phrase  ! 

Fal.  Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pi.'it.  Wiiy  then,  let  kibes  ensue. 

Fal.  There  is  no  remedy :  I  must  coney-catch,  I 
must  shilt. 

Pist.  Young  ravens  must  have  foo<l. 

Fal.  Wliieh  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  to-wn? 

Pist.  I  ken  the  wight:  he  is  of  substance  good. 

Fal.  My  honest  lads,  I  will  t€ll  yoawhat  I  am  about. 

Pist.  Two  yards,  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now.  Pistol.  Indeed  I  am  in  the  waist 
two  yards  about :  but  I  am  now  about  no  waste  :  I  am 
about  thril't.  Briefly.  I  do  mean  to  make  love  to  Ford's 
vafe:  I  spy  entertainment  in  her;  she  discourses,  she 
craves.*  she  gives  the  leer  of  invitation  :  I  can  construe 
the  action  of  her  familiar  style  ;  and  the  hardest  voice 
of  her  behaviour,  to  be  Englished  rightly,  is.  "  I  am  sir 
John  Falstaffs.'' 

Pist.  He  hath  st  jdied  her  will,  and  translated  her 
well*;  out  of  honesty  into  English. 

Nym.  The  anchor  is  deep  :  will  that  humour  pass? 

Fal.  Now.  the  report  goes,  she  has  all  the  rule  of  her 
husband's  purse:  he  nath  a  legion  of  angels. 

Pist.  As  many  devils  entertain,  and  "To  her,  boy," 
say  I. 

Nym.  The  humour  rises ;  it  is  good :  humour  me  the 
angels.* 

Fal.  I  have  -vsTit  me  here  a  letter  to  her ;  and  here 
another  to  Page's  wife,  who  even  now  gave  me  good 
eyes  too,  examin'd  my  parts  with  most  judicious 
Q'iliads  :  sometimes  the  beam  of  her  view  gilded  ray 
foot,  sometimes  my  portly  belly. 

Pi.st.  Then  did  the  sun  on  dunghill  shme. 

Nym.  I  Ihank  thee  for  tliat  humour. 

Fal.  O  !  she  did  so  cour.'^e  o'er  my  exteriors  with  such 
a  greedy  intention,  that  the  appetite  of  her  eye  did 
seem  to  scorch  me  up  like  a  burning  glass.  Here  's 
another  letter  to  her:  she  bears  the  purse  too;  she  is  a 
region  in  Guiana,  all  gold  and  beauty.'  I  will  be 
cheater"  to  tlirrn  both,  and  they  shall  be  exchequers  to 
me:  they  shall  be  rny  East  and  West  Indies,  and  I 
will  trade  to  them  both.  Go,  bear  thou  this  letter  to 
mistress  Pasc  ;  and  tliou  tins  to  mistress  Ford.  Wc 
will  thrive,  lads,  wc  will  thrive. 

Pitt.  Shall  I  sir  Pandanis  of  Troy  become. 
And  by  my  side  wear  steel  ?  then.  Lucifer  take  all  ! 

Nipn.  I  will  run  no  ba.se  humour  :  here,  take  the 
Bumour-leltcr.  I  will  keep  the  'ha-viour  of  repu- 
tation. 


Fal.  Hold,  sirrah,  [to  Robin,]  bear  you  these  letter* 
tightly : 
Sail  like  my  pinnace'  to  these  golden  shores. — 
Rogues,  hence  !  avaunt  I  vanish  like  hailstones,  go; 
Trudge,  plod  away  o'  the  hoof;  seek  shelter,  pack! 
Falstafl"  will  learn  the  humour'"  of  the  ase. 
French  thrift,  you  rogues :  myselt',  and  skirted  page. 
[Excimt  Falstaff  and  Robin 
Pist.  Let  -s-ultures  gripe  thy  guts  !   for  gourd,  and 
fullam  holds, 
And  high  and  low"  beguile  the  rich  and  poor. 
Tester"  I  '11  have  in  pouch,  when  thou  shalt  lack. 
Base  Phrygian  Turk.  [venge 

Nym.  I  have  operations,  which  be  humours  of  re- 
Pust.  Wilt  thou  revenge? 
Nym.  By  welkin,  and  her  stars." 
Pist.  With  wit.  or  steel  ? 
Nym.  With  both  the  humours,  I  . 
I  will  discuss  the  humour  of  this  love  to  Page.'* 
Pist.  And  I  to  Ford'*  shall  eke  unfold. 
How  Falstaff.  varlet  vile. 
His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold, 
And  his  soft  couch  defile. 
Nyjn.  My  humour  shall  not  cool :    I  will  incense 
Page  to   deal  with  poison  :  I  will  possess   him  with 
yellowness,  for  the  revolt  of  mine  is  dangerous  :  that 
is  my  true  humour. 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I  second 
thee;  troop  on.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Dr.  Caivs's  House. 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly,  Simplf,.  and  John  Rugby. 

Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  I — I  pray  thee,  go  to  the 
casement,  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master,  master 
doctor  Caius,  coming:  if  he  do,  i"  faith,  and  find  any 
body  in  the  hou.^e,  here  will  be  an  old  abusing  of  God's 
patience,  and  the  king's  English. 

Ru^.  I  '11  go  watch.  [Exit  Rugby. 

Quick.  Go:  and  we'll  have  a  posset  for 't  soon  at 
night,  in  faith,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  fire. — An 
honest,  willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant  shall  come 
in  house  withal ;  and,  I  warrant  you,  no  tell-tale,  nor 
no  breed-bate'* :  his  worst  fault  is.  that  he  is  given  to 
prayer:  he  is  something  pee%ish'*  that  way,  but  no- 
body but  has  his  fault :  but  let  that  pass.  Peter  Sim- 
ple, you  say  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.  Ay.  for  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.  And  master  Slender  's  your  master? 

Sim.  Ay.  forsooth. 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard,  like  a 
glover's  paring-knife? 

Sim.  No.  forsooth  :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face, 
with  a  little  yellow  beard  :  a  Cain-coloured  beard." 
I      Quick.  A  softly-sprighted  man.  is  he  not? 
I      Sim.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  but  he  is  as  tall'*  a  man  of  h\f 
hands,  as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head:  he  hath 
fought  with  a  warrener. 

Quick.  How  say  you  ? — O  !  I  should  remember  him: 
does  he  not  hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were,  and  strut  in 
his  sait? 

Sim.  Yes,  indeed,  does  he. 

Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Pane  no  worse  for- 
tune !     Tell  ma.ster  parson  Evans.  I  will  do  what  I  can 
for  your  master :  Anne  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  wnsh — 
!  Re-enter  Rugby,  running. 

I      Rug.  Out,  alas  !  here  comes  my  master. 


•  Froth  boer  hy  pnttinR  in  »oap,  addinif  lime  to  sack  to  mike  it  fonm.  »  S<'me  rend  :  Hungarian,  t  t  ,  Bohemian  or  pipsy.  »  mis- 
Ote'»  :  in  f  e.  «  carven  :  in  f.  c  »  will  :  in  f  e.  •  An  old  coin.  i  bounty  :  in  f.  e.  »  Etrkealor,  an  office  of  the  E.xclicquer.  »  A 
tmall  vettfl ;  the  w..r.|  is  often  ii«e<l  for  a  jro-l>ctween.  i»  The  fohon  sn.i  some  of  -he  f  e  '•  honour  '•>  Cant  terms  O.r  dire.  •»  Six- 
oenre.  "mar:  in  f  e  '♦  Kmijhl.  following  the  folio  of  KivJ)  irangpo.^ps  these  names.  •*  Dtbale  ^*  Silly.  "The  quartos  h»v» 
crtM-colored— Cam  wa«  painted  in  old  taijestriei  with  a  yellow  lieard      »  Fine. 


THE   MEEKY   WIYES   OF  WINDSOK. 


43 


I 


Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent.'  Run  in  here,  good 
voung  man  ;  go  into  this  closet.  [Shuts  Simple  in  the 
closet.]  He  ^^^ll  not  stay  long. — What,  John  Rugby  ! 
John,  what,  John,  I  say  ! — Go,  John,  go  inquire  for  my^ 
master;  \Exit  Rugby.^]  I  doubt,  he  be  not  well,  that 
he  conies  not  home  : — "  and  down,  down,  adown-a," 
&c.  [Sings. 

Enter  Doctor  Caius. 

Carus.  Vat  is  you  sing  ?  I  do  not  like  dese  toys. 
Pray  you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  un  boitier 
verd  J  a  box,  a  green-a  box  ;  do  intend  vat  I  speak  ?  a 
green-a  box. 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  I  '11  fetch  it  you.  [Aside.]  I  am 
glad  he  went  not  in  himself:  if  he  had  found  the  young 
man,  he  would  have  been  horn-mad.  I 

Cains.  Fe.  fe,  fe.,  fe  !  ma  foi.  il  fait  ford  chaud.  Je\ 
men  vais  d  la  cour, — la  grande  affaire. 

Quick.  Is  it  this,  sir? 

Caius.  Oui  :  mettc  le  au  man  pocket :  depeche.  quickly. 
— Vere  is  dat  knave  Rugby  ? 
.    Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  !  John  ! 

Riig.  Here.  sir.  [Enter  Rugby.* 

Caitts.  You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack 
Rugby  :  come,  take-a  your  rapier,  and  come  after  my 
heel  to  de  coiirt. 

Rug.  'T  is  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.  By  my  trot,  I  tarry  too  long. — Od"s  me  ! 
Qu'aifoublie?  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet,  dat  I 
vill  not  for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind.  [Going  to  it. ^ 

Quick.  [Aside.]  Ah  me  !  he  '11  find  the  young  man 
there,  and  be  mad. 

Caius.  0  diable.  diable  !  vat  is  jn  my  closet  ? — Vil- 
lainy !  larron !  [Dragging'^  Simple  out.]  Rugby,  my 
rapier  ! 

Quick.  Good  master,  be  content. 

Caius.  Verefore  shall  I  be  content-a? 

Quick.  The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Caius.  Vat  shall  the  honest  man  do  in  my  closet? 
dere  is  no  honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 

Quick.  I  beseech  you,  be  not  so  phlegmatic.  Hear 
the  truth  of  it :  he  came  of  an  errand  to  me  from  parson 
Hugh. 

Covxs.  Veil. 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to — 

Quick.  Peace,  I  pray  you. 

Caiv^.  Peace-a  your  tongue  ! — Speak-a  your  tale. 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  your  maid, 
to  speak  a  good  word  to  mistress  Anne  Page  for  my 
master,  in  the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  This  is  all.  indeed,  la ;  but  I  '11  ne'er  put  my 
finger  in  the  fire,  and  need  not. 

Caius.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you? — Rugby,  baillez  me 
some  paper :  tarry  you  a  littel-a  while.  [  Writes. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been  tho- 
roughly moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so  loud,  and 
so  melancholy. — But  notwithstanding,  man,  I  '11  do  you 
your  master  what  good  I  can :  and  the  very  yea  and 
the  no  is,  the  French  doctor,  my  master, — I  may  call 
him  my  master,  look  you,  for  I  keep  his  house  ;  and  I 
wash,  MTing,  brew.  bake,  scour,  dress  meat  and  drink, 
make  the  beds,  and  do  all  myself. — 

Sim.  'T  is  a  great  charge,  to  come  under  one  body's 
hand. 

Quick.  Are  you  avis'd  o'  that?  you  shall  find  it  a 


great  charge :  and  to  be  up  early  and  down  late  ; — but 
notwithstanding,  to  tell  you  in  your  ear,  (I  would  have 
no  words  of  it)  my  master  himself  is  in  love  with  mis- 
tress Anne  Page  :  but  notwithstanding  that,  I  know 
Anne's  mind  ;  that 's  neither  here  nor  there. 

Caius.  You  jack'nape,  give-a  dis  letter  to  Sir  Hugh. 
By  gar,  it  is  ashallenge  :  I  vill  cut  histroatin  de  park  ; 
and  I  vill  teach  a  scurvy  jack-a-nape  priest  to  meddle 
or  make. — You  may  be  gone  :  it  is  not  good  you  tarry 
here  : — by  gar,  I  "vill  cut  all  his  two  stones  ;  by  gar,  hi 
shall  not  have  a  stone  to  trow  at  his  dog. 

[Exit  SiMPLS 

Quick.  Alas  !  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 

Caius.  It  is  no  matter-a  for  dat : — do  not  you  tell-a 
me.  dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself? — By  gar,  I 
vill  kill  de  Jack  priest ;  and  I  have  appointed  mine 
Host  of  de  Jarreti'ere  to  measure  our  weapon. — By  gar, 
I  vill  myself  have  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  be 
well.  We  must  give  folks  leave  to  prate  :  what,  the 
good  year  ! 

Caius.  Rugby,  come  to  the  court  vit  mo. — By  gar,  if 
I  have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your  head  out  of 
my  door. — Follow  my  heels.  Rugby. 

[Exetml  Caius  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  You  shall  have  An  fool's-head  of  your  own. 
No,  I  know  Anne's  mind  for  that :  never  a  woman  in 
Windsor  knows  more  of  Anne's  mind  than  I  do,  nor  can 
do  more  than  I  do  with  her.  I  thank  heaven. 

Fent.  [Within.]  Who's  within  there,  ho? 

Quick.  Who  's  there,  I  trow  ?  Come  near  the  house, 
I  pray  you. 

Enter  Fenton. 

Fent.  How  now,  good  woman  !  how  dost  thou  ? 

Quick.  The  better,  that  it  pleases  your  good  worship 
to  ask. 

Fent.  What  news  ?  how  does  pretty  mistress  Anne  ? 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and  honest, 
and  gentle  ;  and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I  can  tell  you 
that  by  the  way  :  I  praise  heaven  for  it. 

Fent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  think'st  thou  ?  Shall  I 
not  lose  my  suit  ? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above  ;  but  not- 
withstanding, master  Fenton,  I  '11  be  sworn  on  a  book, 
she  ioves  you. — Have  not  your  worship  a  wart  above 
your  eye  ? 

Fent.  Yes,  marry,  have  I  ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale. — Good  faith,  it 
is  such  another  Nan  ; — but,  I  detest,  an  honest  maid  as 
ever  broke  bread  : — we  had  an  hour's  talk  of  that  wart. 
— I  shall  never  laugh  but  in  that  maid's  company ; — 
but,  indeed,  she  is  given  too  much  to  allichoUy  and 
musing.     But  for  you — well,  go  to. 

Fent.  Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day.  Hold,  there  's 
money  for  thee  :  let  me  have  thy  voice  in  my  behalf : 
if  thou  seest  her  before  me,  commend  me — 

Quick.  Will  I  !  i'  faith,  that  F  will  ;  and  I  will  tell 
your  worship  more  of  the  wart,  the  next  time  we  have 
confidence,  and  of  other  wooers. 

Fent.  Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste  novr.[Exit 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship. — Truly,  an  honest 
gentleman  :  but  Anne  loves  him  not.  for  I  know  Anne's 
mind  as  well  as  another  does. — Out  upon  't  I  wliai  have 
I  forgot  ?  [Exit. 


Scoldea      "  Kiiipht's  ed,  :  thy 


Not  in  f  e.      •  Pulling 


'  we  :  in  f.  e. 


^ 


THE   MEIUiY    WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  1— Before  Pages  House. 
Enter  MUtress  Page,  with  a  Letter. 
Mrs.  Page.  What  !    have  I    'scaped  love-letters  in 
me  holy-day  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a  sub- 
ject for  them  ?     Let  me  see.  [Reads. 
•*  Ask  me  no  rca.<on  why  I  love  you  ;  for  though  love 
use  reason  for  hh  physician.'  he  admits  him  not  for  his 
oounsellor.     You  arc  not  young,  no  more  am  I :  go  to 
then,  there  's  sympathy.     You  arc  merry,  so  am  I  ;  ha  ! 
ha  !  then,  there  's  more  sympathy  :  you  love  sack,  and 
60  do  I  :  would  you  desire  better  sympathy  ?     Let  it 
suffice  thee,  mistress  Page,  (at  the  least,  if  the  love  of 
soldier  can  suffice)  that  I  love  thee.     I  will  not  say, 
pity  uie.  't  is  not  a  soldier-like  phrase  ;  but  I  say,  love 
me.     By  me. 

Thine  o^^^l  true  knight. 

By  day  or  night. 

Or  any  kind  of  light. 

With  all  his  might, 

For  thee  to  fight.  .Iohn  Fai-st.^fk." 

What  a  Herod  of  JewTy  is  this  ! — 0  wicked,  wicked, 
world 


time  of  "'Green  Sleeves*.''  What  tempest,  1  trow 
threw  this  whale,  with  so  many  tuns  of  oil  in  his  belly, 
a.shore  at  Windsor  ?  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him? 
I  think,  the  best  way  were  to  entertain  him  with  hope, 
till  the  wicked  fire  of  lust  have  melted  him  in  his  own 
grease. — Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? 

Mr.-!.  Page.  Letter  tor  letter,  but  that  the  name  of 
Page  and  Ford  diflcrs  ! — To  tliy  great  comfort  in  this 
mystery  of  ill  opinions,  here  "s  the  twin-brother  of  thy 
letter:  but  let  thine  inherit  first;  for,  I  protest,  mine 
never  shall.  1  warrant,  he  hath  a  thousand  of  these 
letters,  WTit  with  blank  space  for  different  names,  (sure 
more)  and  these  are  of  the  second  edition.  He  will 
print  them,  out  of  doubt ;  for  he  cares  not  what  he  puts 
into  the  press,  when  he  would  put  us  two  :  I  ha^ 
rather  be  a  giantess,  and  lie  under  mount  Pelion 
Well,  I  will  find  you  twenty  lascivious  turtles,  ere  on« 
chaste  man. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  this  is  the  very  same  ;  the  very 
hand,  the  very  words.     Wliat  doth  he  think  of  us  ? 

Mr.-!.  Page.  Nay.  I  know  not  :  it  makes  me  almost 
ready  to  \sTangle  with  mine  own  honesty.  I  "11  entertain 


that  is  well  nigh  worn  to  pieces  with  age.  !  myself  like  one  that  I  am  not  acquainted  withal :  for. 
to  siiow  him.<clf  a  young  gallant !  What  an  unweighed  !  sure,  unless  he  know  some  stain  in  me,  that  I  know  not 
behaviour  hath  tiiis  Flemisli  drunkard  picked  (with  the  j  myself,  he  would  never  have  boarded  me  in  this  fury, 
devils  name)  out  of  my  conversation,  that  he  dares  in!  Mrs.  Ford.  Boarding  call  you  it?  I  "11  be  sure  to 
this  manner  SLSsay  me  ?     Why,  he  hafh  not  been  thrice  keep  him  above  deck. 

in  my  company — What  should  I  say  to  him  ? — I  was  '  Mrs.  Page.  So  will  I  :  if  he  come  under  my  hatches, 
then  frugal  of  my  mirth  : — heaven  forgive  me  I — Why.  I  "11  never  to  sea  again.  Let 's  be  revenged  on  him  . 
I'll  exhibit  a  bill  in  the  parliament  for  the  putting  let 's  appoint  him  a  meeting  :  give  him  a  show  of  corn- 
down  of  fat  men.  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him  !  fort  in  his  suit,  and  lead  him  on  with  a  fine-baited 
for  revenged  I  will  be,  as  sure  as  his  guts  are  made  of  I  delay,  till  he  hath  pa^^■ned  his  horses  to  mine  Host  of 
puddings.  i  the  Garter. 

Enter  Mistress  Ford.  Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  will   consent  to  act  any  villany 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  !  trust  me.  I  wa«  going  to   against  him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  of  our 
your  hou.«c.  honesty.     0,  that  my  husband  saw  this  letter  !  it  would 

Mrs.  Page.  And,  trust  me,   I   was   coming  to  you. '  give  eternal  food  to  his  jealousy. 
You  look  very  ill.  |      Mrs.  Page.  Why,  look,  where  he  comes;   and   my 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  '11  ne'er  believe  that :  I  have  to  |  good  man  too  ;  he  's  as  far  from  jealousy,  as  I  am  frons 
how  to  the  contrary.  j  giving  him  cause  ;  and  that.  I  hope,  is  an  uiuneasurablc 

Mrs.  Page.  Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my  mind.  distance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well.  I  do  then  ;  yet,  I  say,  I  could  show  i      Mrs.  Ford.  You  are  the  happier  woman, 
you  to  the  contrary.     0,  mistress  Page  !  give  me  some       Mrs.  Page.  Let's     consult    together     against    thi:- 


counsel. 

Mrs.  Page.  What 's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  0  woman  I   if  it  were  not  for  one  trifling 
respect.  I  could  come  to  such  honour. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman  :  take  the  honour. 
What  is  it  ? — dispense  with  trifles  : — what  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  fbi-  an  eternal 
moment  or  so.  I  couhl  be  knighted. 

Mrs  Pnsrc.  What? — thou  licst.- 
"Iliese  knii:iits  will  hack*  ;  and  so. 
alter  the  article  of  thy  gentry. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  burn  day-light ; — hore.  read,  read  ; 

igi.  ing  a  letter] — perceive  how  I  mi^'ht  be  knighted. 
Mrs.  Page  read.s] — I  shall  think  the  worse  of  fat 
men  as  long  a«  I  liave  an  eye  to  make  difTercnce  of 
men's  liking  :  and  yet  he  would  not  swear,  praised 
women's  modesty,  and  gave  such  onlcrly  and  well- 
behaved  reproof  to  all  uncoineliness,  that  I  would 
have  Hworn  his  disposition  would  l)ave  f:onc  to  the 
truth  of  his  words;  but  they  do  no  more  adhere  and 
keep  place  together,  than  the  hundredth  psalm  to  the 


reasy  knight.     Come  hither.  [They  retii' 

Enter  Ford,  Pistol,  Page,  and  Nvm. 
Ford.  Well,  I  hope,  it  be  not  so. 
Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtail  dog  in  some  affairs ; 
Sir  John  affects  thy  wife. 

Ford.  Why.  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 
Pi.st.  He  woos  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and  poor, 
j  Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another.     Ford, 
Sir  Alice  Ford  ! —  He  loves  tiie  gally-mawfry  :  Ford,  perpend, 
thou  shouldst  not  [      Ford.  Love  my  wife  ? 

P/.vf.  With  liver  burning  hot:  prevent,  or  go  ihoii 
Like  sir  Acta!on  he,  with  Ring-wood  at  thy  heels. 
O  I  odious  is  the  name. 
Ford.  What  name,  .sir? 
Pist.  Tiie  horn,  I  say.     Farewell  : 
Take  heed  ;  have  open  eye,  for  thieves  do  foot  by  nighi 
Take  heed,  ere  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo  birds  do  sing.— 
Away,  sir  corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  Believe  it,  Page  ;  he  speaks  sense.*    [Exit  Pist 
Ford.  I  will  be  patient :   I  will  find  out  this. 
Nym.  And  this  is  true  ;  [to  ^Page.]     I  like  not  th« 


precimon  :  in  f.  e.      *  Become  harkne 
A  very  popular  air  to  winch  many  tall; 


teytd  < 
ads  w< 


-an  nllimion  to  the  pommonness  with  which  James  I.  conferred  the  distinction 
♦  f .  e   give  this  speech  to  Pistol 


SCENE  n. 


THE  MERRY  WIVES   OF    WINDSOR. 


45 


humour  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me  in  some 
humours :  I  should  have  borne  the  humoured  letter  to 
her,  but  I  have  a  sword,  and  it  shall  bite  upon  my 
necessity.  He  loves  yoir  wife  :  there  's  the  short  and 
the  long.  My  name  is  corporal  Nym  :  I  speak,  and  I 
a' ■■ouch  't  is  true  : — my  name  is  Nym,  and  FalstaiF 
loves  your  wife. — Adieu.  I  love  not  the  humour  of 
bread  and  cheese-.     Adieu.  [Exit  Nym. 

Page.  The  humour  of  it.  quoth  'a  !  here  "s  a  fellow 
frights  English  out  of  his  wits. 
Fard.  I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 

Page.  I  never  heard  such  a  drawling-affecting  rogue. 
Ford.  If  I  do  find  it.  well. 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan.'  though  the 
pne-st  o'  the  town  commended  him  for  a  true  man. 
Ford.  "T  was  a  good  sensible  fellow:  well. 
Page.  How  now.  Meg  ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Whither  go  you,  George? — Hark  you. 
Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank  !  why  art  thou 
melancholy  ? 

Ford.  I  melancholy  !  I  am  not  melancholy. — Get 
you  home.  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  "Faith,  thou  hast  some  crotchets  in  thy 
head  now. — Will  you  go,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you. — You  '11  come  to  dinner. 
George  ? — [Aside  to  Mrs.  Ford.]  Look,  who  comes 
yonder  :  she  shall  be  our  messenger  to  this  paltry 
knight. 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly.  j 

Mrs.  Ford.  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her  :  she  "11  fit  it. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  are  come  to  see  my  daughter  Anne  ? 

Quick.  Ay,   forsooth ;    and,   I  pray,  how  does  good  j 

nii.stress  Anne  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Go  in  with  us.  and  see  :  we  have  an  I 
hour'.s  talk  with  you.  | 

[Eteunt  Mrs.  Page.  Mrs.  Ford,  and  Mrs.  Quickly.  | 
Page.  How  now,  master  Ford  ?  j 

Ford.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me,  did  you 
not  '^ 

Page.  Yes ,  a,nd  you  heard  what  the  otlier  told  me. 
Ford.  Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 
Page.  Hang  'em,  slaves;  I  do  not  think  the  knight 
would  offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him.  in  his  intent 
towards  our  wives,  are  a  yoke  of  his  discarded  men ; 
very  rogues,  now  they  be  out  of  service. 
Ford.  Were  they  his  men  ? 
Page.  Marry,  were  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that. — Does  he 
lie  at  the  Garter  ? 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend  this 
voyage  towards  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her  loose  to 
him  ;  and  what  he  gets  more  of  her  than  sharp  words, 
let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife,  but  I  would  be 
loath  to  turn  them  together.  A  man  may  be  too  con- 
fident ;  I  would  have  nothing  lie  on  my  head.  I  cannot 
be  thus  satisfied. 

Page.  Look,  where  my  ranting  Host  of  the  Garter 
comes.  There  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money 
in  his  purse,  when  he  looks  so  merrily. — How,  now. 
mine  host ! 

Enter  Host.' 
Host.  How  now,  bully-rook  !  thou  "rt  a  gentleman. 
Cavaliero-justice,  I  say. 

Enter  Shallow. 
Shal.  I  follow,  mine  host,  I  follow. — Good  even,  and 
twenty,  good  master  Page.     Master  Page,  will  you  go 
with  us^  we  have  sport  in  hand. 


Host.  Tell  him,  cavaliero-justice  ;  tell  him,  bully- 
rook. 

Shal.  Sir.  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought  between  sii 
Hugh,  the  "\Velsh  priest,  and  Caius,  the  French  doctor 

Ford.  Good  mine  Host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word  with  ynu. 

Host.  What  say'st  thou,  my  bully-rook? 

[They  go  aside. 

Shal.  Will  ;<-ou  [to  Page]  go  with  us  to  behold  it  ? 
My  merry  host  hath  had  the  measuring  of  their  weapons, 
and,  I  think,  hath  appointed  them  contrary  places ;  for, 
believe  me,  I  hear,  the  parson  is  no  jester.  Hark,  1 
will  tell  you  what  our  sport  shall  be. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  my 
guest-cavalier? 

Ford.  None,  I  protest :  but  I  '11  give  you  a  pottle  of 
burnt  sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him,  and  tell  him, 
my  name  is  Brook-  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.  My  hand,  bully :  thou  shalt  have  egress  and 
regress  :  said  I  well  ?  and  thy  name  shall  be  Brook. 
It  is  a  merry  knight. — Will  you  go  on  here  ?^ 

Shal.  Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  I  have  heard,  tlie  Frenchman  hath  good  skill 
in  his  rapier. 

Shal.  Tut;  sir  !  I  could  have  told  you  more  :  in  these 
times  you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes,  stoccadoes, 
and  I  know  not  what :  't  is  the  heart,  master  Page : 
't  is  here,  't  is  here.  I  have  seen  the  time,  with  my 
king  sword.  I  would  have  made  you  four  tall  fellows 
skip  like  rats. 

Host.  Here,  boys,  here,  here  !  shall  we  wag"^ 

Page.  Have  with  you. — I  had  rather  hear  them 
scold  than  see  them  fight. 

[Exeunt  Host,  Shallow,  and  Page. 

Ford.  Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands  so 
firmly  on  his  wife's  fidelity,  yet  I  cannot  put  off  my 
opinion  so  easily:  she  was  in  his  company  at  Page's 
house,  and  what  they  made  there,  I  know  not.  Well, 
I  will  look  farther  into  't ;  and  I  have  a  disguise  to 
sound  Falstaff.  If  I  find  her  honest,  I  lose  not  my 
laboTjr  :  if  she  be  otherwise,  't  is  labour  well  bestowed. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Pistol. 

Fal.  I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.  Why,  then  the  world  's  mine  oyster, 
•Which  I  with  sword  will  open. — 

Fal.  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir,  you 
should  lay  my  countenance  to  pawn:  I  have  grated 
upon  my  good  friends  for  three  reprieves  for  you  and 
your  couch*-fellow,  N>Tn;  or  else  you  had  looked 
through  the  grate,  like  a  gemini  of  baboons.  I  am 
damned  in  hell  for  swearing  to  gentlemen,  my  friends, 
you  were  good  soldiers,  and  tall  fellows :  and  when 
mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan,  I  took  't 
upon  mine  honour  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.  Didst  thou  not  share?  hadst  thou   not  fifteen 
pence  ? 

Fal.  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason:  think'st  thou,  I'll 
endanger  my  soul  gratis?  At  a  word,  hang  no  more 
about  me.  I  am  no  gibbet  for  you : — go. — A  short  knife 
and  a  throng : — to  your  manor  of  Pickt-hatch.*  go. — 
You  '11  not  bear  a  letter  for  me,  you  rogue  ! — you  stand 
upon  your  honour  ! — Why,  thou  unconfinable  baseness. 
it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do.  to  keep  the  terms  of  my 
honour  precise.  I,  I,  I  myself  sometimes,  leaving  the 
fear  of  heaven  on  the  left  hand,  and  hiding  mine  honour 
in  my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shutfle,  to  hedge,  and  to 


1  Cataia  Cathay,  ot  Cliina. 
bad  fame 


»  f.  e.  have      Enter  Host  and  Shaxlow.      '  An-heires  :  in  f.  e. 


A  London  locality  or 


46 


THE  MERRY   AVIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


ACT  n. 


lurch;  and  yet  you,  you  rosrue. -will  ensconce  your  rans,  I      Quick.  Why,  you  say  well.      But   I   have   anothei 
your  cat-a-inoiiiitain   looks,  your  red-lattice'   phrases,  I  messenger  to  your  worsiiip :    mistress    Page  hath   her 

hearty  commendations  to  you   too; — and    let   me  tell 


nnd  youi  bold-beating'  oaths,  under  the  shelter  ol  your 
nonour  !     You  will  not  do  it,  you? 

Pist.  1  do  relent :  what  wouldst  thou  more  of  man? 
Enter  HoBix. 

Rob.  Sir.  here  *s  a  woman  would  speak  with  you. 

Fal.  Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mistress  Quickly. 

Quick.  Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Good-morrow,  good  wile. 

Quick.  Not  so.  an  "t  please  your  worship. 

Fal.  Good  maid,  then. 

Qui:k.  I  "11  be  sworn  ;  as  my  mother  was.  the   first 
O'lr  I  was  boni 

Fal.  I  do  believe  the  swearer.     What  witli  me? 

Quick.  Shall  I  vouchsafe  your  worship  a  word  or  two  ? 

Fal.  Two  thousand,  fair  woman;  and  I  "11  vouchsafe 
tliec  the  hearing. 

Qtiick.  There  is  one  mistress  Ford,  sir  : — I  pray, 
come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. — I  myself  dwell  with 
master  doctor  Caius. 

Fal.  Well,  on:  Mi-stress  Ford,  you  sny. — 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true  :  —  I  pray  your 
worship,  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

Fal.  I  warrant  thee,  nobody  hears: — mine  o^^^l 
people,  mine  ovm  people. 

Quick.  Are  they  so?  Heaven  bless  them,  and  make 
them  his  scrA'ants ! 

Fal.  Well:  M  istress  Ford  ; — what  of  her? 

Quick.  Why  sir.  she  "s  a  good  creature.  Lord,  lord  ! 
your  worship 's  a  wanton:  well,  heaven  forgive  you, 
and  all  of  us.  I  pray  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford  ; — come,  mistress  Ford, — 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it. 
You  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries,  as  "t  is  won- 
derful :  the  best  courtier  of  them  all.  when  the  court 
lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have  brought  her  to  such 
a  canary  :  yet  there  has  been  knights,  and  lords,  and 
gentlemen,  with  their  coaches;  I  warrant  you,  ooach 
after  coach,  letter  after  letter,  gift  after  gift:  smelling 
so  sweetly,  all  musk,  and  so  rushling,  I  warrant  you, 
in  silk  and  gold;  and  in  such  alligant  terms;  and  in 
such  wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and  the  fairest,  that 
would  have  won  any  woman's  heart,  and.  I  warrant  you. 
they  could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of  her^ — 1  had  myself 
twenty  angels  given  me  of  a  morning' :  but  I  defy  all 
angels,  (in  any  such  sort,  as  they  say.)  but  in  the  way 
of  honesty; — and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could  never  get 
her  so  much  as  sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proudest  of  them 
all ;  and  yet  there  has  been  earls,  nay.  which  is  more, 
pensioners* ;  but,  I  warrant  you,  all  is  one  with  her. 

Fal.  But  what  says  she  to  me?  be  brief,  my  good 
she  Mercur>'. 

Qttick.  Marry,  she  hath  received  your  letter,  for  the 
which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times :  and  she  gives 
you  to  notify,  that  her  husband  will  be  absence  from 
his  house  between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  and  then  you  may  come  and 
Bce  the  picture,  she  says,  what  you  wot  of:  master 
Ford,  her  husband,  will  he  from  home.  Alas!  the 
sweet  woman  loads  an  ill  life  with  him  :  he  "s  a  very 
jealousy  man:  she  leads  a  very  frampold'  life  with 
nim,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven, — Woman,  commend  me  to  her; 
I  will  not  fail  her. 


you  in  your  car.  she  s  as  fartuous  a  civil  modest  wife, 
and  one  (I  tell  you)  that  will  not  miss  you  morning  nor 
evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  Windsor,  whoeer  be  the 
other:  and  she  bade  me  tell  your  worship,  that  her 
husband  is  seldom  from  home,  but  she  hopes  there 
will  come  a  time.  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  dote 
upon  a  man:  surely,  I  think  you  have  charms,  la;  yes' 
in  truth. 

Fal.  Not  I,  I  a.'isure  thee :  setting  the  attraction  o» 
my  good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.  Blessing  on  your  heart  for  't ! 

Fal.  But  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this  :  has  Ford's  wife, 
and  Page's  wife,  acquainted  each  other  how  tney  love  me? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest,  indeed  ! — they  have  not  so 
little  grace.  1  hope  : — that  were  a  trick,  indeed  !  But 
mistress  Page  would  desire  you  to  send  her  your  little 
page,  of  all  loves:'  her  husband  has  a  marvellous  in- 
fection to  the  little  page  :  and.  truly,  master  Page  is  an 
honest  man.  Never  a  wife  in  Windsor  leads  a  better 
life  than  she  does  :  do  what  she  will,  say  what  she  will, 
take  all,  pay  all,  go  to  bed  when  she  list,  rise  when 
she  list,  all  is  as  she  will  :  and  truly,  she  deserves  it, 
for  if  there  be  a  kind  woman  in  Windsor,  she  is  one. 
You  must  send  her  vour  page  ;  no  remedy. 

Fal.  Why.  I  will.' 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so,  then  :  and,  look  you,  he  may 
come  and  go  between  you  both  :  and,  in  any  case,  have 
a  nayword,'  that  you  may  know  one  another's  mind, 
and  the  boy  never  need  to  understand  'any  thing :  for 
't  is  not  good  that  children  should  know  any  wicked- 
ness; old  folks,  you  know,  have  discretion,  as  they  say 
and  know  the  world. 

Fal.  Fare  thee  well:  commend  me  to  them  both 
There  's  my  purse :  I  am  yet  thy  debtor. — Boy,  go 
along  with  this  woman. — This  news  distracts  me. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Quickly  and  RoBix 

Pist.  This  punk  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers. — 
Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue,  up  with  your  fights." 
Give  fire  !    She  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them  all ! 

[E.rit  Pistol. 

Fal.  Sayst  thou  so,  old  Jack?  go  thy  ways;  I'll 
make  more  of  thy  old  body  than  1  have  done.  Wil". 
they  yet  look  after  thee?  Wilt  thou,  after  the  expense 
of  so  much  money,  be  now  a  gainer  ?  Good  body.  I 
thank  thee  :  let  them  say,  "t  is  grossly  done ;  so  it  he 
fajrly  done,  no  matter. 

Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  there  's  one  ma.Mer  Brook  below 
would  fain  speak  with  you,  and  be  acquainted  with 
you ;  and  hath  sent  your  worship  a  morning's  draught 
of  sack.' 

Fal.  Brook,  is  his  name  ? 

Bard.  Ay.  sir. 

Fal.  Call  him  in;  [E.r??  Bardolph.]  Such  Brook; 
are  welcome  to  me.  that  o'crflow  such  liquor.  Ali 
ha !  mistress  Ford  and  mistress  Page,  have  I  encom 
passed  you  ?  go  to  ;  via  .' 

Re-enter  Bardolph,  with  Fori    lisgui.-icd. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir. 

Fal.  And  you.  sir:  would  you  speaK  with  me? 

Ford.  I  make  bold,  to  press  with  so  little  preparation 
upon  you. 

Fal.  You're  welcome.  What's  your  will? — Give 
us  leave,  drawer.  [Exit  Bardolph. 


*u-hou%e.      >  Mr.  Dyce  «uKirC!it«  bear-baiting.      >  eivcn  mc  this  morning  :  in  f.  c.         Elizabeth's  band  of  pensiorers  wore  a  ep'.e» 
aid  ainform,   and  so  pflrhaos  excited   Dame  Quickly's  admiration.      Thev  were  also  men  of  fortune.      »  Vexatious.     *Byallmea7t* 
Corerts  of  some  kind  put  up  to  protect  the  men  in  an  enam'pcment. 
I  dav. 


'  Watehttord 

•rine  in  !?hBke«p^nre'! 


It  -flras  a  common  custom  to  bestow  presents  of 


THE  MEEEY   WIVES    OF  WINDSOR. 


.47 


Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent  much:  I      Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it. — There  is  money, 
my  name  is  Brook.  i spend  it,  spend  it :  spend  more:  spend  all  I  have,  only 


FaL  Good  master  Brook.  I  desire  more  acquaintance 
of  you. 

Ford.  Good  sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours :  not  to  charge 
you,  for  I  must  let  you  understand,  I  think  myself  in 
better  plight  for  a  lender  than  you  are;  the  which 
hath  something  embolden'd  me  to  this  unseasoned 
mtrusion,  for,  they  say,  if  money  go  before,  all  ways 
do  lie  open. 

Fal.  Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir.  and  will  on. 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here  trou- 
bles me :  if  you  will  help  to  bear  it  sir  John,  take 
half,  or  all,'  for  easing  me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be  your 
porter. 

Ford.  I  will  tell  you.  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the 
hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  master  Brook :  I  shall  be  glad  to 
be  your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar, — I  will  be  brief 
with  you, — and  you  have  been  a  man  long  known  to 
me,  though  I  had  never  so  good  means,  as  desire,  to 
make  myself  acquainted  with  you.  I  shall  discover  a 
thing  to  you,  wlierein  I  must  very  much  lay  open  mine 
own  imperfection ;  but,  good  sir  John,  as  you  have  one 
eye  upon  my  follies,  as  you  hear  them  unfolded,  turn 
another  into  the  register  of  your  own,  that  I  may  pass 
with  a  reproof  the  easier,  sith  you  yourself  know,  how 
easy  it  is  to  be  such  an  offender. 

Fal.  Very  well,  sir;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town,  her 
hu.sband's  name  is  Ford. 

Fal.  Well,  sir. 

Ford.  I  have  long  loved  her.  and,  1  protest  to  you, 
bestowed  much  on  her;  followed  her  with  a  doting 
observance ;  engrossed  opportunities  to  meet  her ;  fee'd 
every  slight  occasion,  that  could  but  niggardly  give  me 
sight  of  her :  not  only  bought  many  presents  to  give 
her,  but  have  given  largely  to  many,  to  know  what  she 
would  have  given.  Briefly,  1  have  pursued  her,  as 
love  hath  pursued  me,  which  hath  been  on  the  wing 
of  all  occasions  :  bvit  whatsoever  I  have  merited,  either 
in  my  mind,  or  in  my  means,  meed,  I  am  sure,  I  have 
received  none,  vinless  experience  be  a  jewel ;  that  I 
have  purchased  at  aii  infinite  rate,  and  that  hath 
taught  me  to  say  this  : 
Love  like  a  shadow  fiies.  when  substance  love  pursues  ; 
Pursuing  that  that  flies ^  and  flying  what  punnies. 

Fal.  Have  you  received  no  promise  of  satisfaction  at 
ner  hands  ? 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Have  you  importuned  her  to  such  a  purpose? 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Of  what  quality  was  your  love  then? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house,  built  upon  another  man's 
ground :  so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice,  by  mistaking 
the  place  where  I  erected  it. 

Fal.  To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this  to  me  ? 

Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told  you 
ftU  Some  say,  that  though  she  appear  honest  to  me. 
yel  in  other  places  she  enlargeth  her  mirth  so  far,  that 
there  is  shrewd  construction  made  of  her.  Now,  sir 
John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my  purpose :  you  are  a  gen- 
tleman of  excellent  breeding,  admirable  discourse,  of 
great  admittance,  authentic  in  your  place  and  person, 
generally  allowed  for  your  many  war-like,  court-like. 
E.nd  learned  preparations. 

Fal.  0,  sir  ! 

'  take  all,  or  half:  in  f.  e.     ^  soul ;  in  f  e 


give  me  so  much  of  your  time  in  exchange  of  it,  as  tc 
lay  an  amiable  siege  to  the  honesty  of  this  Ford's  wife: 
use  your  art  of  wooing,  win  her  to  consent  to  you ;  if 
any  man  may.  you  may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency  of  yom 
affection,  that  I  should  "ft-in  what  you  would  enjjy" 
Methinks,  you  prescribe  to  yourself  very  preposterously 
I  Ford.  0  !  understand  my  drift.  She  dwells  so  se- 
curely on  the  excellency  of  her  honour,  that  the  folly 
of  my  suit^  dares  not  present  itself:  she  is  too  briglil 
to  be  looked  against.  Now,  could  I  come  to  her  \\ath 
any  detection  in  my  hand,  my  desires  had  instance  and 
argument  to  commend  themselves  ;  I  could  drive  her. 
then,  from  the  ward  of  her  purity,  her  reputation,  her 
marriage  vow.  and  a  thousand  other  her  defences,  which 
now  are  too  too  strongly  embattled  against  me.  What 
say  you  to 't,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  bold  with  your 
money  :  next,  give  me  your  hand :  and  last,  as  I  am  a 
gentleman,  you  shall,  if  you  wtII,  enjoy  Ford's  wife. 

Ford.  0  good  sir  ! 

Fal.  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.  Want  no  money,  sir  John:  you  shail  want 
none. 

Fal.  Want  no  mistress  Ford,  master  BrooK ;  you  shall 
want  none.  I  shall  be  with  her  (I  may  tell  you)  by  her 
own  appointment ;  even  as  you  came  in  to  me,  her 
assistant,  or  go-between,  parted  from  me:  I  say,  I  shall 
be  with  her  between  ten  and  eleven ;  for  at  that  time 
the  jealous  rascally  knave,  her  husband,  will  be  forfli. 
Come  you  to  me  at  night ;  you  shall  know  how  I  speed. 

Ford.  I  am  blest  in  your  acquaintance.  Do  you 
know  Ford;  sir  ? 

Fal.  Hang  him,  poor  cuckoldly  knave  !  I  know  him 
not. — Yet  I  WTong  him  to  call  him  poor  :  they  say 
the  jealous  wittoUy  knave  hath  masses  of  money,  for 
the  which  his  wife  s6ems  to  me  well-favoured.  I  will 
use  her  as  the  key  of  the  cuckoldly  rogue's  coffer,  and 
there  's  my  harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir,  that  you  might 
avoid  him.  if  you  saw  him. 

Fal.  Hang  him.  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue  !  I  ^^i\\ 
stare  him  out  of  his  wits ;  I  will  awe  him  with  my 
cudgel :  it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'er  the  cuckold's 
horns :  master  Brook,  thou  shalt  know  I  will  predomi- 
nate over  the  peasant,  and  thou  shalt  lie  with  his  wife. 
— Come  to  me  soon  at  night. — Ford  's  a  knave,  and  I 
will  aggravate  his  style;  thou,  master  Brook,  shalt  know 
him  for  a  knave  and  cuckold. — Come  to  me  soon  ai 
night.  [Exit. 

Ford.  What  a  damned  Epicurean  rascal  is  this  ! — 
My  heart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience. — Wlio 
says,  this  is  improvident  jealousy  ?  my  -svife  hath  sent 
to  him,  the  hour  is  fixed,  the  match  is  made.  Would 
any  man  have  thought  this  ? — See  the  hell  of  having  a 
false  woman  !  my  bed  shall  be  abused,  my  coffers  ran- 
sacked, my  reputation  gnawn  at ;  and  I  shall  not  only 
receive  this  villainous  wrong,  but  stand  under  the  adop- 
tion of  abominable  terms,  and  by  him  that  does  me  this 
^^Tong.  Terms  !  names  ! — Amaimon  sounds  well  : 
Lucifer,  well ;  Barbason,  well ;  yet  they  are  devils' 
additions,  the  names  of  fiends :  but  cuckold  !  wittol 
cuckold  ''  the  de\-il  himself  hath  not  such  a  name. 
Page  is  an  ass.  a  secure  ass ;  he  will  trust  his  ■v^^fe.  he 
will  not  be  jealous  :  I  will  rather  trust  a  Fleming  with 
my  butter,  parson  Hugh  the  Welshman  with  my  cheese, 
an  Irishman  with  my  aqua  vitae  bottle,  or  a  thief  to  walk 
'  Knowing  himself  one 


48 


THE  MEIIUV    WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


ACT  m. 


•ny  ambling  gelding,  than  my  wife  wilh  herself:  then 
sl:e  plots,  tlien  site  ruminates,  then  she  devises  ;  and 
what  they  think  in  their  hearts  they  may  ell'oet.  they 
will  break  their  hearts  but  tliey  wiil  effect.  Heaven 
So  prai.sed  for  my  jealousy  I — Elevoii  o'cloek  the  hour: 
I  will  prevent  this  detect  my  -wife,  be  revenged  on 
Falstaff.  and  laugh  »i  Page.  I  will  about  it:  better 
three  iiours  too  .soon,  than  a  minute  too  late.  Fie.  fie. 
fi.'  1  cuckold  !  cuckold  1  cuckold  I  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Caius  and  Rugby. 

Cuius.  Jack  Rugby  ! 

R'ig.  Sir. 

Caius.  Vat  is  de  clock.  Jack  ? 

Rup;.  "T  is  pa-st  the  hour.  sir.  that  sir  Hugh  promised 
to  meet. 

Caius.  By  gar.  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no  come : 
he  has  pray  his  Pible  veil,  dat  he  is  no  come.  By  gar, 
luck  Rugby,  he  is  dead  already,  if  he  be  come. 

R"g.  He  is  wise,  sir:  he  knew  your  worship  would 
kill  him.  if  he  came. 

Cniu.-;.  By  gar.  de  herring  is  no  dead,  so  as  I  vill  kill 
him.  Take  vour  rapier.  Jack  :  I  vill  tell  you  how  I 
vill  kill  him. 

R'ig.  Alas,  sir  !   I  cannot  fence.    [Runs  hack  afraid.^ 

C'uus.  Villainy,  take  your  rapier. 

/?"g.  Forbear  :  here  's  company. 

Enter  Host,  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Page. 

Host.  Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Siuil.  Save  you.^naster  doctor  Caius. 

Page.  Now,  good  master  doctor. 

Slen.  Give  you  good-morrow,  sir. 

Caius.  Vat  be  all  you,  one.  two.  tree,  four,  come  for? 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight:  to  see  thee  foin,  to  see  thee 
traverse,  to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there ;  to  see 
thee  pass  thy  punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy  dis- 
tance, thy  montant.  Is  he  dead,  my  Ethiopian?  is  he 
dead,  my  Francisco?  ha,  bully  !  What  says  my  iEscu- 
lapius?  my  Galen?  my  heart  of  elder":"'  ha  !  is  he  dead, 
bully-.stale?  is  he  dead  ? 

Cnius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  cownrd  Jack  priest  of  the 
vorid  :  he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Caftalian-king-Urinal :'  Hector  of 
Greece,  my  boy. 

Caius.  1  pray  you.  bear  vitness  that  me  have  stay  six 
or  spven,  two.  tree  houis  for  him.  and  he  is  no  come. 

S>hal.  He  is  the  wiser  man,  ma.ster  doctor :  he  is  a 
eurer  of  souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies  :  if  you  should 
tight,  you  go  aaainst  the  hair  of  your  professions.  Is  it 
no»  true,  master  Page*:* 

Page.  IMa-ster  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been  a 
•fT^at  fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 


Shal.  Bodykins,  master  Page,  though  I  now  be  old, 
and  of  the  j)cace.  if  I  sec  a  sword  out.  my  finger  itclie.* 
to  make  one.  Though  we  arc  justices,  and  doctors 
and  churchmen,  master  Page,  wc  liave  t-ome  salt  of  oui 
youth  in  us:  we  are  the  sons  of  women,  master  Page. 

Page.  "Tis  true,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  It  will  be  found  so,  master  Page. — Master 
doctor  Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am 
.sworn  of  the  peace:  you  have  showed  yourself  a  wise 
physician,  and  sir  Hugh  hath  shown  himself  a  wi.<e 
and  patient  churchman.  You  must  go  with  me,  mas- 
ter doctor. 

Host.  Pardon,  guest-justice. — A  word.  Monsieur 
Mock- water. 

Caiiis.  Mock-vater  !  vat  is  dat? 

Host.  Mock-water," in  our  English  tonsue.  is  valour, 
bully. 

Cains.  By  gar,  then,  I  have  as  much  mock-vater  as 
de  Englishman. — Scurvy  jack-dog  priest !  by  gar,  me 
vill  cut  his  cars. 

Ho!^t.  He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Caius.  Clapper-dc-claw !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  That  is.  he  will  make  thee  amends. 

Caim.  By  gar,  me  do  look,  he  shall  clapper-de-claw 
me  :  for,  by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.  And  I  will  provoke  him  to't,  or  let  him  wag. 

Cains.  Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Ho.'ft.  And  moreover,  bully. — But  first,  master  guest, 
and  master  Page,  and  eke  cavaliero  Slender,  go  yon 
through  the  town  to  Frogmore.  [Aside  to  them 

Page.  Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  he  ? 

Ho.ft.  He  is  there :  see  what  humour  he  is  in.  and  I 
will  bring  the  doctor  about  bv  the  fields.  Will  it  dc 
well  ? 

Shal.  We  will  do  it. 

Page.  Shal.  and  Slen.  Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 

Caius.  By  gar.  me  A'ill  kill  de  priest,  for  he  speak 
for  a  jack-an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Ho.ft.  Let  him  die.     Sheathe  thy  impatience :  throw 
cold  water  on  thy  choler.     Go  about  the  fields  with  it' 
through  Frogmore:   I  will  bring  thee  where  mistre> 
Anne  Page  is,  at  a  farm-house  a  feasting,  and  tho 
shall  woo  her.     Curds  and  cream,*  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  tank  you  for  dat :  by  gar,  I  love 
you:  and  1  shall  procure-a  you  de  good  guest,  de  earl, 
de  knight,  dc  lords,  dc  gentlemen,  my  patients. 

Ho.st.  For  the  which  I  will  be  thy  adversary  toward 
Anne  Page  :  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  good:  veil  said. 

Ho.st.  Let  us  wag  then. 

Caius.  Come  at  my  heels.  Jack  Rugby. 

[Exeunt 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I — .\  Field  near  Frogmore. 

EiUer  Sir  Hi;gh  Evans,  with  a  honk,  and  Simple. 

Era.  I  pray  you  now.  good  ma.ster  Slenders  serving- 
min.  and  friend  Simple  by  your  name,  which  way  have 
yo;i  looked  for  master  Caius.  that  calls  himself  Doctor 
of  Physic  ? 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  the  pit-way.  the  park-way.*  old 
Windsor  way.  and  every  way,  but  the  town  way. 


Eva.  I  most  fehemently  desire  you.  you  will  also 
look  that  way. 

Sim.   I  will.  sir.  [Retiring. 

Eva.  Pless  my  soul,  how  full  of  cholers  I  am.  and 
trempling  of  mind  ! — I  shall  be  glad,  if  he  have  de- 
ceived me. — How  melancholies  I  am  ! — I  will  knog  his 
urinals  about  his  knave's  costard,  when  I  have  good 
opportunities  for  the  'ork : — plcss  my  soul  ! 

[Sings 


'  T!ii«  direction  in  not  in  f.  o.      '  The  elder  hiis  n  soft  pith        '  Knight  reads,  Caatilian,  King-lTrinal.    The  Spaniards  were,  of  ooarsA 
tnjfrcitd'^av.iiir  with  the  Knifligh  when  this  piny  w»i  wrirf»n      •  orio-l  Kam<>  :  in  f.  e.    '  tlie  petty- ward,  the  park- ward,  every  way  :  inf.' 


THE  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


49 


To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls,^ 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; 
There  u'ill  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow — 
Mercy  on  me  !  I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry.  [Smg5.* 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; — 
When  a.s  I  sat  in  Pabylon,^ 
And  a  thousand  vagram  posies. 
To  shalloic — 

Sim.  [Coming  forward.]  Yonder  he  is  coming,  this 
%'a.y,  sir  Hugh. 

Eva.  He's  welcome.  [Sings.* 

To  .^hallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls — 
Heaven  prosper  tlie  right ! — What  weapons  is  he  ? 

Sim.  No  weapons,  sir.  There  comes  my  master. 
master  Shallow,  and  another  gentleman,  from  Frog- 
more,  over  the  stile,  this  way. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  give  me  my  gown :  or  else  keep  it 
in  your  arms. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 

Shal.  How  now,  master  parson  !  Good-morrow,  good 
sir  Hugh.  Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice,  and  a  good 
student  from  his  book,  and  it  is  wonderful. 

Slen.  Ah.  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Page.  Save  you,  good  sir  Hugh. 

Eva.  Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you  ! 

Shal.  What !  the  sword  and  the  word  ?  do  you  study 
them  both,  master  parson? 

Page.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doiiblet  and  hose, 
this  raw  rheumatic  day  ? 

Eva.  There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Page.  We  are  come  to  you  to  do  a  good  office,  master 
paraon. 

Eva.  Fery  well:  what  is  it? 

Page.  Yonder  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman,  who, 
belike  having  received  ^\Tong  by  some  person,  is  at 
most  odds  with  his  owni  gravity  and  patience  that  ever 
you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years,  and  upward,  I 
never  heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and  learning, 
80  wide  of  his  own  respect. 

Eva.  What  is  he? 

Page.  I  think  yovi  know  him :  master  doctor  Caius, 
the  renowned  French  physician. 

Eva.  Got's  -w-ill,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart !  I  had 
as  lief  you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess  of  porridge. 

Page.  Why? 

Eva.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibbocrates  and 
Galen, — and  he  is  a  knave  besides ;  a  cowardly  knave, 
as  you  would  desires  to  be  acquainted  withal. 

Page.  I  warrant  you,  he  's  the  man  should  fight  with 
him. 

Slen.  0.  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Shal.  It  appears  so,  by  his  weapons. — Keep  them 
asunder  : — here  comes  doctor  Caius. 

Enter  Host,  Caius,  and  Rugby. 

Page.  Nay.  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your  weapon. 

Shal.  So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question :  let  them 
keep  their  limbs  whole,  and  hack  our  English. 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  let-a  me  speak  a  word  vit  your 
ear :  verefore  vill  you  not  meet-p  me  ? 

Eva    Pray  you,  use  your  patience  :  in  good  time. 

Caiiis.  By  sar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog,  John 
ape. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs  to  other 
me*i's  humours ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship,  and  I  will , 

•  A  quotation  from  Marlow's  "  Passionate  Pilsrim."       *  Not  in  f.  e.      'A  line  from  the  old  version  of  Ps.  137      ♦  Not  in  f.  e.      »  Tie 
IblioK  h^ve  :  hands  celestial,  so.     Malone  altered  it  t<>  '■  Give  me  thy  hand  terrestrial,  so  ;  give  me  thv  hand  celestial,  so  "     *  Srald  head 


one  way  or  other  make  you  amends. — 1  will  knog  youi 
urinals  about  your  knave's  cogscomb  for  missing  youi 
meetings  and  appointments. 

Cains.  Liable  ! — Jack  Rugby, — mine  Host  de  Jarre- 
tiere,  have  T  not  stay  for  him,  to  kill  him  ?  have  I  not, 
at  de  place  I  did  appoint  ? 

Eva.  As  I  am  a  Christian  soul,  now,  look  you,  thi? 
is  the  place  appointed.  I  '11  be  judgment  by  mine  Host 
of  the  Garter. 

Ho.'it.  Peace,  I  say  !  Gallia  and  Guallia,  French  and 
Welsh  ;  soul-cnrer  and  body-curer. 

Caius.  Ay,  dat  is  very  good  :  excellent. 

Host.  Peace.  I  say  !  hear  mine  Host  of  the  Garter. 
Am  I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a  Machiavel  ?  Shal 
I  lose  my  doctor  ?  no  ;  he  gives  me  the  potions,  and 
the  motions.  Shall  I  lose  my  parson?  my  priest?  my 
sir  Hugh  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  proverbs  and  the  no- 
verbs. — Give  me  thy  hands,  celestial  and  terrestrial :-" 
so. — Boys  of  art,  I  have  deceived  you  both  :  I  have 
directed  you  to  wrong  places  :  your  hearts  are  mighty, 
your  skins  are  whole,  and  let  burnt  sack  be  the  issue. 
— Come,  lay  their  swords  to  pawn. — Follow  me,  lad  of 
peace  :  follow,  follow,  follow. 

Shal.  Trust  me,  a  mad  host. — Follow,  gentlemen, 
follow. 

Slen.  O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

[E.teiint  Shallow,  Slender,  Page,  and  Host. 

Caius.  Ha !  do  I  perceive  dat !  have  you  make-a  de 
sot  of  us  ?  ha,  ha  ! 

Eva.  This  is  well,  he  has  made  us  his  vlouting-stog. 
— I  desire  you,  that  we  may  be  friends,  and  let  lis  knog 
our  prains  together  to  be  revenge  on  this  same  scai)*. 
scurvy,  cogging  companion,  the  Host  of  the  Garter. 

Caius.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart..  He  promise  to  bring 
me  vere  is  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  he  deceive  me  too. 

Eva.  Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles. — Pray  you. 
follow.  [Exeurtt 

SCENE  H.— A  Street  in  Windsor. 
Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay.  keep  your  way,  little  gallant :  you 
were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  are  a  leader 
Whether  had  you  rather,  lead  mine  eyes,  or  eye  youi 
master's  heels? 

Rob.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like  a 
man,  than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

Mrs.  Page.  O  !  you  are  a  flattering  boy  :  now.  I  see, 
you  '11  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.  Well  met.  mistress  Page.     Whither  go  you  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife  :  is  she  at 
home  ? 

Ford.  Ay;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  together, 
for  want  of  your  company.  I  think,  if  your  husbands 
were  dead,  you  two  would  marry. 

Mrs.  Paere.  Be  sure  of  that, — two  other  husbands. 

Ford.  Where  had  you  this  pretty  woatlier-coek' 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens  his  name 
is  my  husband  had  him  of. — What  do  you  call  you 
knisht's  name,  sirrah  ? 

Rob.  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Ford.  Sir  John  FaLstaff! 

Mrs.  Page.  He,  he :  I  can  never  hit  on  's  name — 
There  is  such  a  league  between  my  good  man  and  him  I 
Is  your  wife  at  home  indeed  ? 

Ford.  Indeed,  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir  :  I  am  sick,  till  I  see 
her.  [Exeunt  Mrs.  Page  and  Robin 


50 


THE  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


ACT  m. 


Ford.  Hath  Page  any  brains  !  hath  he  any  eyes?  hath 
!ie  any  lliinkin^  ?  Sure,  they  sleep  :  he  hulli  no  use  of 
MieiM.  Why,  this  hoy  will  carry  a  letter  twenty  miles, 
as  easy  aa  a  cannon  will  shoot  point-blank  twelve  score. 
He  pieces-out  his  wifes  inclination  ;  lie  i^ivcs  her  folly 
motion,  and  advantase  :  and  now  she  "s  coing  to  my 
wife,  and  Falstalf's  boy  with  her.  A  man  may  hear 
this  shower  sin;?  in  the  wind  : — and  Falstad's  boy  with 
her! — tJood  plots! — they  are  laid;  and  our  revolted 
wives  share  damnation  together.     Well  ;  I  will  take 


Mrs.  Page.  Quickly,  quickly.     Is  the  buck-basket— 

Airs.  Ford.  I  warrant. — What.  Robin,  I  say  I 
Flntcr  Servants  with  a  large  Basket. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  come,  come. 

Mrs.  Ford    Here,  .'^et  it  down. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  cliarge  :  we  must  he 
brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  befonj,  John,  and 
Robert,  be  ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brew-hou?e :  anri 
when  I  suddenly  call  you,  come  forth,  and  (without  anv 


him,  then  torture  my  wife,  pluck  the  borrowed  veil  of  '  pau.«e,  or  staggering)  take  this  basket  on  your  shoulder^ ; 
modesty  from  the  so-sceming  mistress  Page,  divulge 'that  done,  trudge  with  it  in  all  haste,  and  carry  li 
Page  himstlf  for  a  secure  and  willul  Actteon  ;  and  to  among  the  whitstcrs'  in  Datchct  )»ead,  and  thert  emp: ; 


these  violent  proceedings  all  my  neighbours  shall  cry 
aim'.  [Clock  .strikes  ten.']  The  clock  gives  me  my  cue, 
and  my  a.ssurance  bids  me  search  ;  there'  I  shall  find 
Falsiail".  I  shall  be  rather  praised  for  this,  than 
mocked :  for  it  is  as  positive  as  the  earth  is  firm,  that 
Falstaffis  there:  I  will  go. 

Enter  Page,  Sh.allow,  Slender,  Host.  Sir  Hugh 
Evans.  Caius,  and  RicBV. 

Page,  Slial.  ice.  Well  met,  master  Ford. 

Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot.  I  have  good  cheer  at 
home,  and  I  pray  you  all  go  with  me. 

SJial.  I  must  excuse  myself,  master  Ford. 

Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir:  we  have  appointed  to  dine 
with  mistress  Amie.  and  I  would  not  break  with  her 
for  more  money  than  I  "11  speak  of. 

Shal.  We  have  lingered  about  a  match  between 
.A.nne  Page  and  my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day  we 
Khali  have  our  answer. 

Slen.  I  hope,  I  have  your  good  will,  father  Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender ;  I  stand  wholly  for 
you  : — but  my  wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you  altogether. 

Caius.  Ay,  by  gar ;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me  :  my 
nursh-a  Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  What  say  you  to  young  master  Fenton?  he 
eapers.  he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he  writes 
verses,  he  speaks  holyday,  he  smells  April  and  May : 
nc  will  carr>-  't,  he  will  carry  't ;  't  is  in  his  buttons  ; 
he  will  carry  t. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.  The  gen- 
ileman  is  of  no  having* :  he  kept  company  with  the  wild 
Prince  and  Poins  :  he  is  of  too  high  a  region  ;  he  knows 
too  much.  No.  he  shall  not  knit  a  knot  in  his  fortunes 
with  the  finger  of  my  substance  :  if  he  take  her,  let  him 
lake  her  simply  :  the  wealth  I  have  waits  on  my  con- 
ient,  and  my  consent  goes  not  that  way. 

Ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go  home 
with  me  to  dinner :  besides  your  cheer,  you  shall  have 
Bport ;  I  will  show  you  a  monster. — Ma,ster  doctor,  you 
•hall  go : — BO  shall  you,  master  Page  : — and  you,  sir 
Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well. — We  shall  have  the  freer 
*rooing  at  master  Page's. 

[Exeunt  SirAi,i,ow  and  Slender. 

Caius.  Go  home,  John  Rugby ;   I  come  anon. 

[Exit  Rugby. 

Host.  Farewell,  my  hearts.  I  will  to  my  honest 
knight  Falstaff.  and  drink  canary  with  him.     [Exit  Host. 

Ford.  [A.-^iilr]  I  think.  I  shall  drink  in  pij)e-winc 
first  with  him:  111  make  him  dance.  Will  you  go, 
gentles  ? 

AH.  Have  with  you,  to  see  this  monster.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 

Enter  3/rj.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page.  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John  !  what.  Robert  !  ! 


it  in  the  muddy  ditch  close  by  the  Thames  side. 
Mrs.  Page.  You  will  do  it? 

Mrs.  Ford.  1  have  told  them  over  and  over;  thev 
lack  no  direction.  Be  gone,  and  come  when  you  arc 
called.  [Exeunt  Servants 

Mrs.  Page.  Here  comes  little  Robin. 
Enter  Robin. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket'  ?  what  new> 
with  you  ? 

Rob.  My  master,  sir  John,  is  come  in  at  your  back 
door,  mistress  Ford,  and  requests  your  company. 

Airs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-lent',  have  you  been 
true  to  us  ? 

Rob.  Ay,  I  '11  be  sworn :  my  master  knows  not  of 
your  being  here;  and  hath  threatened  to  put  me  into 
everlasting  liberty,  if  I  tell  you  of  it,  for  he  swears  he  "I! 
turn  me  away. 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou  'rt  a  good  boy ;  this  secrecy  of 
thine  shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thee  a 
new  doublet  and  hose. — I  '11  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  so. — Go  tell  thy  ma.<!ter,  I  am  alone. 
Mistress  Page,  remember  you  your  cue.     [Exit  Robin. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thee  :  if  I  do  not  act  it,  his.s 
me.  [Exit  Airs.  Pagv: 

Airs.  Ford.  Go  to,  then :  we  '11  use  this  unwholesome 
humidity,  this  gross  watery  pumpion  : — we  '11  teach 
him  to  know  turtles  from  jays. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Have  I  caught  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel  ?'  Why. 
now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  lived  long  enough  :  this  is 
the  period  of  my  ambition.     0  this  blessed  hour  ! 

Airs.  Ford.  0.  sweet  sir  John  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate, 
mistress  Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish  :  I  would 
thy  husband  were  dead,  I  '11  speak  it  before  the  best 
lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Airs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  sir  John?  alas,  I  should  >>e 
a  pitiful  lady. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  another. 
I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the  diamond  :  thou 
hast  the  right  arched  bc;nity  of  the  brow,  that  become* 
the  ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian 
admittance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  sir  John:  my  brow 
become  nothing  else  :  nor  that  Well  neither. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  thou  art  a  tyrant  to  say  so  :  thou 
wouldst  make  an  absolute  courtier:  and  tht  firm  fixtin  ' 
of  thy  foot  would  give  an  e.vcflient  motion  to  thy  tr; 
in  a  semi-circled  farthingale.     I  .see  what  thou  w-: 
if  fortune  thy  foe  were  not,'  nature  thy  friend:  coir 
thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Airs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there  s  no  such  thing  in  im 

Fal.  What  made  mc  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade 
thee,  there's  something  extraordinary'  in  thee.  Come  : 
I  cannot  cog,  and  say  thou  art  this  and  that,  like  .: 


Applaud — B.  term  i 
Bhet  from  the  Italian 
I  Stelln. 


rrhory.      >  Not   in  f.  e. 
pchctto.  a  little  bsirlc. 
f  (oriane  were  not  thy  fo«. 


>  where  :  in  f.  e.     ♦  Property.      »  Washr 
A.  jack,  or  puppet  thrown  at  as  a  mark,  ii 


•  An  eyas,  is  a  younp  hawk.  » 
'  A  line  from  Sii  jicy's  AstrcpfcrJ 


6CENE   III. 


THE  MEREY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


01 


mauy  of  these  lisping  haw-thorn  buds,  that  come  like 
women  in  men's  apparel,  and  smell  like  BucklersbuiT- 
in  simple' -time:  I  cannot;  but  I  love  thee,  none  but 
thee,  and  thou  deservest  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir.  I  fear,  you  love 
mistress  Page. 

Fal.  Thou  might'st  as  well  say,  I  love  to  walk  by 
the  Counter-gate,  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as  the  reek 
of  a  lime-kiln. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love  you  ; 
iind  you  shall  one  day  find  it. 

Fal.  Keep  in  that  mind ;  I  '11  deserve  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do.  or  else 
I  could  not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.  [  IVithin.]  Mistress  Ford  !  mistress  Ford  !  here  's 
mistress  Page  at  the  door,  sweating,  and  blowing,  and 
looking  wildly,  and  would  needs  speak  with  you  pre- 
sently. 

Fal.  She  shall  not  see  me.  I  will  ensconce  me  be- 
hmd  the  arras. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you.  do  so :  she  's  a  very  tattling 
woman. —  [Falstaff  hides  himself. 

Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 
What 's  the  matter?  how  now  ! 

Mrs.  Page.  0  mistress  Ford  !  what  have  you  done  ? 
You  're  shamed,  you  are  overthrown,  you  "re  undone 
for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  's  the  matter,  good  mistress 
Page? 

Mrs.  Page.  0  well-a-day,  mistress  Ford  !  having  an 
honest  man  to  your  husband  to  give  him  such  cause  of 
suspicion  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion? — Out  upon 
you  !  how  am  I  mistook  in  you  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  alas  !  what's  the  matter? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband  's  coming  hitlier,  woman, 
with  all  the  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for  a  gentle- 
man, that,  he  says,  is  here  now  in  the  house,  by  your 
oonBent,  to  take  an  ill  advantage  of  his  absence.  You 
are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'T  is  not  so,  I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you  have 
such  a  man  here ;  but 't  is  most  certain  your  husband  's 
coming,  with  half  Windsor  at  his  heels,  to  search  for 
such  a  one  ;  I  come  before  to  tell  you  If  you  know 
yourself  clear,  why  I  am  glad  of  it ;  but  if  you  have  a 
friend  here,  convey,  convey  him  out.  Be  not  amazed; 
call  all  your  senses  to  you :  defend  your  reputation,  or 
bid  farewell  to  your  good  life  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do? — There  is  a  gentle- 
man, my  dear  friend  ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  ovm  shame, 
80  much  as  his  peril  :  I  had  rather  than  a  thousand 
pound,  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame  !  never  stand  "  you  had 
rather,"  and  "you  had  rather:"  your  husband's  here 
at  hand  ;  bethink  you  of  some  conveyance  :  in  the  house 
you  cannot  hide  him. — O,  how  have  you  deceived 
me  ! — Look,  here  is  a  basket :  if  he  be  of  any  reason- 
able stature,  he  -nay  creep  in  here ;  and  throw  foul 
linen  upon  him,  as  if  it  were  going  to  bucking  :  or,  it 
is  whiting-time,  send  him  by  your  two  men  to  Datchet 
mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Ht,  's  too  big  to  go  in  there.  What  shall 
I  do? 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Let  me  see  't,  let  me  see  't !  O,  let  me  see  't ! 
I  'U  in,  1  '11  in. — Follow  your  friend's  counsel. — 
\  '11  in. 


'  Hert       ^Nol  in  f  e.      'A  stick  for  two  to  carry  &  basket  with  two  handles  by.      ♦  Dront,  latter. 


Mrs.  Page.  What !  sir  John  Falstaff?  Are  these 
your  letters,  knight  ? 

Fal.  I  love  thee :  help  me  away ;  let  me  creep  in 
here;  I  '11  never — 

[He  gets  into  the  basket,  and  falls  over  :^ 
they  cover  him  with  foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy.  Call 
your  men,  mistress  Ford. — You  dissembling  knight ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What.  John!  Robert!  Jolm !  [Ezii 
Robin.  Re-enter  Servants.]  Go,  take  up  these  clothes 
here,  quickly;  where  's  the  cowl-staff?'  look,  how  you 
drumble* :  carry  them  to  the  laundress  in  Datchet 
mead ;  quickly,  come. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect  withou 
cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me,  then  let  me  be  your 
jest;  I  deserve  it. — How  now  !  whither  bear  you  this' 

Serv.  To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither  they 
bear  it  ?  you  were  best  meddle  wth  buck-washing. 

Ford.  Buck  !  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of  the 
buck  !  Buck,  buck,  buck  'r*  Ay,  buck ;  I  warrant  you. 
buck,  and  of  the  season  too.  it  shall  appear.  [Exeunt 
Servants  with  the  basket.]  Gentlemen,  I  have  dreamed 
to-night :  I  '11  tell  you  my  dream.  Here,  here,  here  be 
my  keys  :  ascend  my  chambers,  search,  seek,  find  out : 
I  '11  warrant,  we  '11  unkeimel  the  fox. — Let  me  stop  this 
way  first : — so,  now  uncape. 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented :  you  wrons 
yourself  too  much. 

Ford.  True,  master  Page.  —  Up,  gentlemen;  you 
shall  see  sport  anon :  follow  me.  gentlemen.         [Exit. 

Eva.  This  is  fery  fantastical  humours,  and  jealousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  "t  is  no  de  fashion  of  France :  it  is  noi 
jealous  in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen :  see  the  issue  of 
his  search.  [Exeunt  P.a.ge,  Evans,  and  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in  this'.^ 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better,  that 
my  husband  is  deceived,  or  sir  Jolm. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in,  when  your 
husband  asked  who  was  in  the  basket ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  need  of 
washing ;  so,  throwing  him  into  the  water  will  do  him 
a  benefit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal !  I  would  all 
of  the  same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think,  my  husband  hath  some  special 
suspicion  of  Falstaff 's  being  here,  for  I  never  saw  him 
so  gross  in  his  jealousy  till  now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  -nail  lay  a  plot  to  try  that;  and  we  will 
yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaff:  his  dissolute  dis- 
ease will  scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion,  mis- 
tress Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing  into  the 
water ;  and  give  him  another  hope,  to  betray  him  to 
another  punishment  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  We  '11  do  it :  let  him  be  sent  for  to-mor- 
row eight  o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  I  cannot  find  him  :  may  be,  the  knave  bragged 
of  that  he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heard  you  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  You  use  me  well,  master  Ford,  do  you? 

Ford.  Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  make  you  better  than  your 
thoughts  ! 

Ford.  Amen.  [Ford. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  -nighty  WTons,  master 


52 


THE  MERRY    WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


ACT  ni. 


Ford.  Ay.  ay  ;  I  must  bear  it. 

Eva.  ll"  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
jhanibcrs.  and  in  the  cotters,  and  in  the  presses,  heaven 
tbrgive  my  sins  at  tlie  day  of  judgment. 

Caitts.  By  gar,  nor  I  too :  dere  is  no  bodies. 

Page.  Fie.  lie.  master  Ford  !  arc  you  not  ashamed  ? 
What  spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination?  I 
'vould  not  have  your  distemper  in  this  kind  for  the 
wealtli  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.    T  IS  my  fault,  master  Page:  I  suffer  for  it. 

Euu.  Yon  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience  :  your  wife  is 
■s  honest  a  'omans  as  I  will  desires  among  five  thou- 
and,  and  five  hundred  too. 

Caius.  By  gar.  I  see  "t  is  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well ;  I  promised  you  a  dinner. — Come,  conic, 
walk  in  the  park:  I  pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  I  will  here- 
after make  known  to  you,  why  I  have  done  this. — 
Oome.  wife; — come,  mistress  Page:  I  pray  you  pardon 
ine;  pray  heartily,  pardon  me. 

Page.  Let  "s  go  in,  gentlemen ;  but  trust  me,  we  '11 
mock  him.  I  do  invite  you  to-morrow  morning  to  my 
house  to  breakfast;  after,  we  "11  a  birding  together:  I 
h.ive  a  fine  hawk  for  the  bush.     Shall  it  be  so? 

Ford.  Any  thing. 

Eva.  If  there  is  one,  I  shall  make  two  in  the  company. 

Caius.  If  tiiere  be  one  or  two,  I  shall  make-a  de  turd. 

Ford    Pray  you  go,  master  Page. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now,  remembrance  to-morrow  on 
'he  lousy  knave,  mine  Host. 

Caius.  Dat  is  good  ;  by  gar,  ^^t  all  my  heart. 

Eva.  A  lousy  knave  !  to  have  his  gibes,  and  his 
mockeries.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Page's  House. 
Enter  Fexton  and  Anne  Page. 

Fent.  I  see,  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love; 
Therefore,  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

Arine.  Ala.s  !  how  then  ? 

Fent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

He  doth  object,  I  am  too  great  of  birth. 
And  that  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth. 
Be.«ide  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, — 
My  riots  pa-st,  my  wild  societies; 
.\nd  tells  me,  't  is  a  thing  impossible 
I  .>hould  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.  May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fent.  No.  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to  come ! 
Albeit.  I  will  confess,  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  wood  thee,  Arme  : 
Yet,  wooing  thee.  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  .sums  in  sealed  bags ; 
And  't  is  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at. 

Anru.  Gentle  master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love ;  still  seek  it,  sir : 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 
Cannot  attain  it.  why  then. — Hark  you  hither. 

[They  talk  apart. 
Enter  Shallow.  Slender,  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Shni.  Break  their  talk,  mistress  Quickly,  my  kins- 
nian  shall  speak  for  him.sclf. 

Slen.  I  11  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on 't.  'Slid,  'tis 
b'.jr  venturing. 

Sfuil.  Bo  not  dismay'd. 

^len.  No.  she  shall  not  dismay  me;  I  care  not  for 
thttt, — but  that  I  am  afeard. 

Quii.k.  Hark  ye  :  master  Slender  would  speak  a  word 
with  y«  u. 

'  Not  is  f  t 


Anne.   I  come  to  him. — This  is  my  father's  cLoioe. 
O.  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-tavour'd  faults 
Looks  liaiidsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a  year! 

Quick.  And  how  does  good  master  Fenton?  Pra> 
you,  a  word  with  you. 

Shal.  She  "s  coming  :  to  her,  coz.  0  boy  !  thou  hadst 
a  father. 

Slen.  I  had  a  father,  mi.stress  Anne:  my  uncle  can 
tell  you  good  jests  of  him. — Pray  you,  uncle,  tell  mi;^- 
tress  Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole  two  gee^e  out 
of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 

Shal.  Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  well  as  I  love  any  woma 
in  Gloucestershire. 

Shal.  He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  loi^g-tail,  under 
the  degree  of  a  'squire. 

Shal.  He  will  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
joiniure. 

Anne.  Good  master  Shallow,  let  him  woo  for 
himself. 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it:  I  thank  you  for 
that  good  comfort.    She  calls  you,  coz  :  1  '11  leave  you 

[Stands  buck. 

Anne.  Now,  master  Slender. 

Sien.  Now,  good  mistress  Anne. 

Anne.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Slen.  My  will  ?  od's  hearllings  !  that 's  a  pretty  jest, 
indeed.  I  ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank  heaven:  I 
am  not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give  heaven  praise. 

Anne.  I  mean,  master  Slender,  what  would  you  with 
me? 

Slen.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little  or 
nothing  \\ith  you.  Your  father,  and  my  uncle,  have 
made  motions :  if  it  be  my  luck,  so ;  if  not,  happy 
man  be  his  dole.  They  can  tell  you  how  things  go, 
better  than  I  can :  you  may  ask  your  father ;  here  he 
comes. 

Enter  Page  and  Mi.stre.i.'!  Page. 

Page.  Now,  master  Slender  I — Love  him,  daughter 
Anne. — 
Why,  how  now  !  what  does  master  Fenton  here? 
You  WTong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  house: 
I  told  you.  sir,  my  daughter  is  dispos'd  of. 

Fetit.  Nay,  master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  master  Fenton.  come  n«»t  to  my 
child. 

Page.  She  is  no  match  for  you. 

Fen.  Sir,  will  you  hear  me? 

Page.  No,  good  master  Fenton  — 

Come,  master  Shallow; — come,  son  Slender;  in. — 
Knowing  my  mind,  you  wrong  me,  master  Fenton. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender 

Quick.  Speak  to  mistress  Page. 

Fent.  Good   mistress   Page,    for   that   I    love    your 
daughter 
In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do, 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  manners, 
I  must  advance  the  colours  of  my  love, 
And  not  retire :  let  me  have  your  good  will. 

Anne.  Good  mother,  do  not  marry  me  to  yond'  fool 

Mrs.  Page.  I  mean  it  not:  I  seek  you  a  better  huv 
band. 

Quick.  That 's  my  master,  master  doctor. 

Anne.  Alas  !  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
And  bowld  to  death  with  turnips. 

Mrs.  Page.    Come,    trouble    not    yourself.      Good 
master  Fenton, 
I  will  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemv 


-m^ 


wi 


THE  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


63 


My  danghtei  will  I  question  how  she  loves  you, 

And  as  1  tind  her,  so  am  I  affected. 

Till  then,  farewell,  sir :  she  must  needs  go  in ; 

Her  father  will  be  angry.  [Exeunt  Mrs.  Page  and  Anne. 

Pent.  Farewell,  gentle  mistress. — Farewell,  Nan. 

Quirk.  This  is  my  doing,  now. — Nay,  said  I,  will 
you  cast  away  your  child  on  a  fool,  and  a  physician  ? 
look  on,  master  Fenton. — This  is  my  doing. 

Fent.  I  thank  thee  ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once  to-night 
Give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring.     There  's  for  thy  pains. 

[Exit. 

Quick  Now,  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune !  A 
kind  heart  he  bath  :  a  woman  would  run  through  fire 
and  water  for  such  a  kind  heart.  But  yet  I  would  my 
master  had  mistress  Anne ;  or  I  would  master  Slender 
had  her ,  or,  in  sooth,  I  would  master  Fenton  had  her. 
I  will  do  what  I  can  for  them  all  three,  for  so  I  have 
promised,  and  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my  word  :  but  spe- 
ciously for  master  Fenton.  Well,  I  must  of  another 
errand  to  sir  John  Falstaff  from  my  two  mistresses : 
what  a  beast  am  I  to  slack  it.  [Exit. 

SCENE  v.— A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  I  say ! 

Bard.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast  in  't. 
[Exit  Bard.]  Have  I  lived  to  be  carried  in  a  basket, 
like  a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal,  and  to  be  thrown  in 
the  Thames  ?  Well,  if  I  be  served  such  another  trick, 
I  '11  have  my  brains  ta'en  out,  and  buttered,  and  give 
them  to  a  dog  for  a  new  year's  gift.  The  rogues 
slighted  me  into  the  river  with  as  little  remorse  as 
Ihey  would  have  drowned  a  blind  bitch's  puppies,  fif- 
teen i'  the  litter ;  and  you  may  know  by  my  size,  that  I 
have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in  sinking  :  if  the  bottom  were 
as  deep  as  hell,  I  should  down.  I  had  been  dro^vTied. 
but  that  the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow ;  a  death 
that  I  abhor,  for  the  water  swells  a  man,  and  what  a 
thing  should  I  have  been,  when  I  had  been  swelled  ! 
I  should  have  been  a  mountain  of  mummy. 
Re-enter  Bardolph,  ivith  the  wine. 

Bard.  Here  's  mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speak  with  you. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the  Thames 
water;  for  my  belly  's  as  cold,  as  if  I  had  swallowed 
snow-balls  for  pills  to  cool  the  reins.     Call  her  in. 

Bard.  Come  in,  woman. 

Enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.  By  your  leave. — I  cry  you  mercy:  give  your 
worship  good  -morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices.  Go,  brew  me  a 
pottle  of  sack  finely. 

Bard.  Witli  eggs,  sir? 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself;  I  '11  no  pullet-sperm  in  my 
brewage. — [Exit  Bardolph.] — How  now? 

Quick.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship  from 
mistress  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford  !  I  have  had  ford  enougli :  I  was 
thrown  into  the  ford  :  I  have  my  belly  full  of  ford. 

Quick.  Alas  the  day !  good  heart,  that  was  not  her 
fault :  she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men ;  they  mistook 
their  erection. 

Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish  woman's 
promise. 

Quick.  We'l,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it  would 
yearn  your  heart  to  see  it.  Her  husband  goes  this 
morning  a  birding :  she  desires  you  once  more  to  come 
to  lier  between  eight  and  nine.  I  must  carry  her  word 
quickly:  she'll  make  you  amends,  I  warrant  you. 
Fal.  Well ,  I  will  visit  her  :  tell  her  so  ;  and  bid  her 


think,  what  a  man  is »  let  her  consider  his  frailty,  and 
then  judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.  I  will  tell  her. 

Fal.  Do  so.     Between  nine  and  ten,  say'st  thou  ? 

Quick.  Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fal.  Well,  be  gone  :  I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.  Peace  be  with  you,  sir.  [Exit 

Fal.  I  marvel.  I  hear  not  of  master  Brook  :  he  seni 
me  word  to  stay  vdthin.  I  like  his  money  well.  O' 
here  he  comes. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir. 

Fal.  Now,  master  Brook ;  you  come  to  know  what 
hath  passed  between  me  and  Ford's  wife  ? 

Ford.  That,  indeed,  sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you.  I  was  at 
her  house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.  And  sped  you.  sir? 

Fal.  Very  ill-favouredly,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir?  Did  she  change  her  determination  '■' 

Fal.  No,  master  Brook ;  but  the  peaking  cornuto  her 
husband,  master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a  continual  laruui 
of  jealousy,  comes  me  in  the  instant  of  our  encounter, 
after  we  had  embraced,  kissed,  protested,  and,  as  it 
were,  spoke  the  prologue  of  our  comedy;  and  at  hif^ 
heels  a  rabble  of  his  companions,  thither  provoked  and 
instigated  by  his  distemper,  and,  forsooth,  to  search  hi* 
house  for  his  wife's  love. 

Ford.  What !  while  you  were  there  ? 

Fal.  While  I  was  there. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not  find  you' 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would  have  it. 
comes  in  one  mistress  Page ;  gives  intelligence  of  Ford''? 
approach  ;  and  by  her  invention,  and  Ford's  wife's  dis- 
traction, they  conveyed  me  into  a  buck -basket. 

Ford.  A  buck-basket ! 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket :  rammed  me  in  with 
foul  shirts  and  smocks,  socks,  foul  stockings,  and  greasy 
napkins;  that,  master  Brook,  there  was  the  rankest 
compound  of  villainous  smell,  that  ever  offended  nostril. 

Ford.  And  how  long  lay  you  there? 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  master  B;  jok,  what  I  have 
suffered,  to  bring  tliis  woman  to  evil  for  your  good. 
Being  thus  crammed  in  the  basket,  a  couple  of  Ford's 
knaves,  his  hinds,  were  called  forth  by  their  mistress, 
to  carry  me  in  the  name  of  foul  clothes  to  Datchet- 
lane  :  they  took  me  on  their  shoulders;  met  the  jealou* 
knave,  their  master,  in  the  door,  who  asked  them  once 
or  twice  what  they  had  in  their  basket.  I  quaked  for 
fear,  lest  the  lunatic  knave  would  have  searched  it : 
bvit  fate,  ordaining  he  shovild  be  a  cuckold,  held  his 
hand.  Well ;  on  went  he  for  a  search,  and  away  -went 
I  for  foul  clothes.  But  mark  the  sequel,  master  Brook : 
I  suffered  the  pangs  of  three  several  deaths:  first,  an 
intolerable  fright,  to  be  detected  with  a  jealous  rotten 
bell-wether:  next,  to  be  compassed,  like  a  good  bilbo, 
in  the  circumference  of  a  peck,  hilt  to  point,  heel  to 
bead :  and  then,  to  be  stopped  in,  like  a  strong  distil- 
lation, with  stinking  clothes  that  fretted  in  their  own 
grease  :  think  of  that, — a  man  of  my  kidney, — think  of 
that ;  that  am  as  subject  to  heat,  as  butter ;  a  man  of 
continual  dissolution  and  thaw:  it  was  a  miracle,  to 
'scape  suffocation.  And  in  the  height  of  this  bath, 
when  I  was  more  than  half  stewed  in  grease,  like  a 
Dutch  dish,  to  be  thrownt  into  the  Thames,  and  cooled, 
glowing  hot,  in  that  surge,  like  a  horse  shoe;  think  of 
that,— hissing  hot,— think  of  that,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  for  my 
sake  you  have  suffered  all  this.  My  suit,  then,  is  def- 
perate  ;  you  '11  undertake  her  no  more  ? 


54 


THE  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  throw-n  into  iEtna,  as  I 
have  been  into  Tlunno.s.  ere  1  will  leave  her  thus.  Her 
husband  is  this  niormni;  iione  ii  birdini? :  1  have  re- 
u'ived  from  her  another  emhnssy  of  meeting;  'twixt 
eight  and  nine  is  the  hour,  master  Brook. 

Ford.    T  18  past  eight  already,  sir. 

Fa/.  Is  it  ?  I  will  then  address  me  to  my  apjwint- 
inent.  Come  to  me  at  your  convenient  leisure,  and 
you  shall  know  how  1  speed,  and  the  conclusion  shall 
be  crowned  with  your  enjoying  her:  adieu.  You  shall 
have  her.  ma-^ter  Brook  ;  master  Brook,  you  .shall 
cuckold  Ford.  [Exit. 

Ford.  Hum:   ha!   is  thi.<  a  vision?  is  ihis  a  dream? 


do  I  sleep?  Master  Ford,  awake!  awake,  master 
Ford  !  there  "s  a  hole  made  in  your  best  coat,  master 
Ford.  Tliis  "l  is  to  be  married  :  this  't  is  to  have  linen, 
and  buck-baskets. — Well,  I  will  proclaim  myself  what 
I  am  :  1  will  now  take  the  lecher ;  he  is  at  my  house : 
he  caimot  "scape  me ;  "t  is  impossible  he  should  :  he 
cannot  creep  into  a  half-penny  pur^e,  nor  into  a  pepper- 
bo.x  :  but,  lest  the  devil  that  guides  him  should  aid 
him.  I  will  search  impossible  places.  Though  what  1 
am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  1  would  not,  shall 
not  make  me  tame:  if  I  have  horns  to  make  me  mad, 
let  the  proverb  go  with  me.  I  'II  be  horn  mad. 

[Exit. 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  I.— The  Street. 
E)iier  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Quickly,  and  William. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  he  at  master  Ford's  already,  think'st 
thou? 

Quick.  Sure  he  is,  by  this,  or  will  be  presently :  but 
truly,  he  is  very  courageous  mad  about  his  tlirowing 
into  the  water.  Mistress  Ford  desires  you  to  come 
suddenly. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  "11  be  with  her  by  and  by ;  I  '11  but 
bring  my  young  man  here  to  school.     Look,  where  his 
master  comes;  'tis  a  playing  day,  I  see. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 
How  now,  sir  Hugh  !  no  school  to-day  ? 

Eva.  No:  master  Slender  is  get'  the  boys  leave  to 
play. 

Quick.  Blessing  of  his  heart ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says,  my  son 
profits  nothing  in  the  world  at  his  book :  I  pray  you, 
ask  him  some  questions  in  his  accidence. 

Eva.  Come  hither,  William  :  hold  up  your  head ; 
come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  an,  sirrah:  hold  up  your  head  : 
answer  your  master;  be  not  afraid. 

Eia.  William,  how  manv  numbers  is  in  nouns? 

IVill.  Two. 

Quick.  Truly.  I  thought  there  had  been  one  number 
more,  because  they  say,  od  "s  nouns. 

Eva.  Peace  your  tattliuKs  ! — What  is  fair,  William? 

Will.  Putcfur. 

Quick.  Pole-cats  !  there  arc  fairer  things  than  pole- 
cats, Bure. 

Eva.  You  are  a  very  simplicity  'oman  :  I  pray  you, 
peace. — What  i.s  lapis.  W^illiam? 

Will.     A  stone. 

Eva.  And  what  is  a  stone,  William? 

Will.  A  pebble. 

Eva.  No,  it  is  lapis :  I  pray  you  remember  in  your 
rain. 

Wir.  Lapis. 

En.  That  is  good  William.  Wliat  is  he,  William, 
bat  does  lend  articles? 

Will.  Articles  arc  borrowed  of  the  pronoun;  and  be 
ihu.o  declined,  Singiilaritrr,  nominatiro^  hie,  hoc,  hoc. 

Eva.  Nominativo.  hig.  hag.  hog  ; — pray  you,  mark  : 
gcnitivo.  hnjiis.     Well,  what  is  your  accu.salive  case? 

Will.  Accu.^ativo,  hinc. 

Eva.  I  {)ray  you,  have  your  remembrance,  child  ; 
nccusativo,  hing.  hang.  hog. 

Quick.  Hang  hog  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  warrant  you. 

'  Irt  :  ic  I    ••  FrcccJud.  vhipped.      •  Spry,  qvick. 


I      Eva.    Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman. — What  is  the 
focative  case,  William? 

Will.  0 — vocativo.  0. 

Eva.  Remember,  William;  focative  is,  caret. 

Quick.  And  that  "s  a  good  root. 

Eva.  'Oman,  forbear.  , 

3Irs.  Page.  Peace  !  u 

Eva.  W^hat  is  your  genitive  case  plural,  William  ?       P 

Will.  Genitive  case  ? 

Eva.  Ay. 

Will.  Genitive, — horum,  harum,  horvm. 

Quick.  Vengeance  of  Jennys  case  !  fie  on  her  ! — 
Never  name  her  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 

Eva.  For  shame,  'oman  ! 

Quick.  Y'ou  do  ill  to  teach  the  child  such  words. — 
He  teaches  him  to  hick  and  to  hack,  which  they  "11  dc 
fast  enough  of  themselves  ;  and  to  call  horum, — fie 
upon  you  ! 

Eva.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics?  hast  thou  no  under- 
standings for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers  and  the  gen- 
ders? Thou  art  as  foolish  Christian  creatures  as  1 
would  desires. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pr'ythee  hold  thy  peace. 

Eva.  Show  me  now.  W^illiam,  some  declensions  of 
your  pronouns. 

Will.  Forsooth,  I  have  forgot. 

Eva.  It  is  qui,  qua,  quod ;  if  you  forget  your  quis, 
your  (juas.  and  your  quods,  you  must  be  preeches*.    Go     i  < 
your  ways,  and  play;  go.  I 

Mrs.  Page.  He  is  a  better  scholar  than  I  thought  he 
was. 

Eva.  He  is  a  good  sprag'  memory.  Farewell,  mis 
tress  Pa  Ere. 

Airs.  Page.  Adieu,  good  sir  Hugh.  [Exit  Sir  Hugh. J 
Get  you  home,  boy. — Come,  we  stay  too  long. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Fords  House. 
Enter  Falstaff  aw/  Mrs.  Ford. 
Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  your  sorrow  hath  eaten  up  n.v 
sufferance.  I  see,  you  are  obsequious  in  your  love, 
and  I  profess  requital  to  a  hairs  breadth  ;  no<  only, 
Mrs.  Ford,  in  the  simple  office  of  love,  but  in  all  the 
accoutrement,  complement,  and  ceremony  of  it.  But 
are  you  sure  of  your  husband  now? 

Mrs.  Ford.  He's  a  birding,  sweet  sir  John. 
Mrs.  Page.  [Within.]  What  hoa!  gossip  Ford  !  what 
hoa! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Step  into  the  chamber,  sir  John. 

[Exit  Falstaff 


THE  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


55 


who  's  at  home 


Enter  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs  Page.  How  now,  sweetheart 
besides  yourself? 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.  Indeed? 

Mrs.  Ford.  No,  certainly. — [-^sitie.]    Speak  louder. 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  nobody 
here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  \Vliy  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in  his  old 
limes  again :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with  my  husband; 
BO  rails  against  all  manned  mankind  :  so  curses  all  Eye's 
daughters,  of  what  complexion  soever ;  and  so  buffets 
himself  on  the  forehead,  crying,  "Peer-out,  Peer-out!  "' 
that  any  madness  I  ever  yet  beheld  seemed  but  tame- 
ness,  civility,  and  patience,  to  this  distemper  he  is  in 
now.     I  am  glad  the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs   Ford.  Why,  does  he  talk  of  him? 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him ;  and  swears,  he  was 
carried  out,  the  last  time  he  searched  for  him,  in  a 
basket :  protests  to  my  husband  he  is  now  here,  and 
hath  drawn  him  and  the  rest  of  their  company  from 
their  sport,  to  make  another  experiment  of  his  sus- 
picion. But  I  am  glad  the  knight  is  not  here;  now 
he  shall  see  his  owni  foolery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  near  is  he.  mistress  Page? 

Mrs.  Page.  Hard  by ;  at  street  end :  he  will  be  here 
anon. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  undone  !  the  knight  is  here. 

3Irs.  Page.  Why,  then  you  are  utterly  shamed,  and 
he  "s  but  a  dead  man.  What  a  woman  are  you  ! — 
Away  with  him,  away  with  him  :  better  shame,  than 
murder. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Wliich  way  should  he  go  ?  how  should  I 
bestow  him  ?     Shall  I  put  him  into  the  basket  again  ? 
Re-enter  Falstaff  in  fright.^ 

Fal.  No,  I  "11  come  no  more  in  the  basket.  May  I 
not  go  out,  ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas,  three  of  master  Ford's  brothers 
watch  the  door  with  pistols,  that  none  shall  issue  out ; 
otherwise  you  might  slip  away  ere  he  came.  But  what 
make  you  here  ? 

Fal.  What  shall  I  do? — I'll  creep  up  into  the  chim- 
ney. 

Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  use  to  discharge  their 
btrding-pieces.     Creep  into  the  kiln-hole. 

Fal.  Where  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  He  will  seek  there,  on  my  word.  Neither 
press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but  he  hath  an 
abstract  for  the  remembrance  of  such  places,  and  goes 
to  them  by  his  note ;   there  is  no  hiding  you  in  the 


I      Mrs.  Page.    Quick,  quick  :    we  "11   come  dress 


yoii 


Fal.  I  '11  go  out,  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  ovra  semblance, 
Jfou  die,  sir  John.     Unless  you  go  out  disguised, — 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  might  we  disguise  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day  !  I  know  not.  There  is 
no  woman's  gown  big  enough  for  him ;  otherwise,  he 
might  put  on  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a  kerchief,  and  so 
escape 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something:  any  extremity, 
rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of  Brent- 
ford, has  a  go^\^l  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  word  it  will  serve  him;  she's  as 
big  as  he  is:  and  there's  her  thrum' d  hat,  and  her 
muffler  too. — Run  up,  sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go.  sweet  sir  John :  mistress  Page 
md  I  will  look  some  linen  for  your  head. 

1  infrisht :  not  in  f.  e       »  Gang. 


straight :  put  on  the  gown  the  while.    [Exit  Falstaff. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet  him  in 
this  shape:  he  camiot  abide  the  old  woman  of  Brent- 
ford ;  he  swears,  she  's  a  witch  ;  forbade  her  my  house, 
and  hath  tlireatened  to  beat  her. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband"*' 
cudgel,  and  the  de^■il  guide  his  cudgel  afterwards  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  But  is  my  husband  coming  ? 

3Irs.  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness,  is  he ;  and  talks  of 
the  basket  too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intelligence. 

Mrs.  Ford.  ^Ye  '11  try  that :  for  I  '11  appoint  mymen 
to  carry  the  basket  again,  to  meet  him  at  the  door  with 
it,  as  they  did  last  time. 

3Irs.  Page.  Nay,  but  he  '11  be  here  presently  :  let 's 
go  dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  "11  first  direct  my  men,  what  they  shall 
do  with  the  basket.  Go  up.  I  '11  bring  linen  for  him 
straight.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet  !  we  cannot 
misuse  him  enough. 

We  '11  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  we  will  do, 

Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too  : 

We  do  not  act.  that  often  jest  and  laugh  : 

'T  is  old  but  true,  •'  Still  swine  eat  all  the  draflf." 

[Exit. 
Re-enter  Mrs.  Ford,  with  two  Servants. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on  your 
shoulders :  your  master  is  hard  at  door  ;  if  he  bid  you 
set  it  down,  obey  him.     Quickly :  despatch.  [Exit 

1  Serv.  Come,  come,  take  it  up. 

2  Serv.  Pray  heaven,  it  be  not  full  of  knight  again. 
1  Serv.  ]  hope  not :  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much  lead. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Shallow,  Caius,  atul  Sir  Hcgh 
Evans. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  master  Page,  have 
you  any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again? — Set  downi  the 
basket,  villains. — Somebody  call  my  wife. — Youth  in  a 
basket  ! — 0  you  panderly  rascals  !  there  's  a  knot,  a 
ging^,  a  pack,  a  conspiracy  against  me :  now  shall  the 
devil  be  shamed. — What,  wife,  I  say  ?  Come,  come 
forth:  behold  what  honest  clothes  you  send  forth  to 
bleaching. 

Page.  Why,  this  passes  !  Master  Ford,  you  are  not 
to  go  loose  any  longer  ;  you  must  be  pinioned. 

Eva.  Why,  this  is  lunatics  :  this  is  mad  as  a  mad 
dog. 

Shal.  Indeed,  master  Ford,  this  is  not  well ;  indeed 
Enter  Mrs.  Ford. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too.  sir. — Come  hither,  mistress  Ford  , 
mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman,  the  modest  wife,  the 
virtuous  creature,  that  hath  the  jealous  fool  to  her 
husband. — I  suspect  without  cause,  mistress,  do  I  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  you  do,  if  you 
suspect  me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.  Well  said,  brazen-face:   hold  it  out. — Come 
forth,  sirrah.       [Pulls  the  Clothes  out.,^  and  throws  them 
all  over  the  stage. 

Page.  This  passes ! 

3Irs.  Ford.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  let  the  clothes 
alone. 

Ford.  I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'T  is  unreasonable.     Wi 
wife's  clothes  ?     Come  away. 

Ford.  Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  man,  why, — 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was  one 
conveyed  out  of  my  house  yesterday  in   this   casket  • 
why  may  not  he  be  there  again  ?     In  my  house  I  am 
'  The  rest  of  the  direction  not  in  f  e. 


you  take  up  your 


66 


THE  MERIIY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


A.crr  IT. 


sure  he  is :  my  intellmcncc  is  true  ;  my  jealousy  is 
msonable — Pluck  mc  out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs.  Ford,  it  you  liud  a  ninn  there,  lie  shall  die  a 
rlcas  death.  [All  Clotlus  throum  out.^ 

Pa^f.   Here  "s  no  man. 

Shal.  Hy  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  master  Ford; 
his  wronus  you. 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  follow 
the  imii^mation.x  ol"  your  own  heart :  this  is  jealousies. 

Ford.  Wcli.  he  s  not  here  I  .seek  for. 

Pope.  No.  nor  no  where  else,  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  ."icarch  my  house  tliis  one  time :  if  I  i 
.Ind  not  what  1  seek,  show  no  colour  for  my  extremity, 
let  mo  for  ever  be  your  table-sport  :  let  them  say  of 
me.  "  As  jealous  a.s  Ford,  that  searched  a  hollow 
walnut  lor  his  wifes  leman'.'  Satisfy  me  once  more; 
once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  hoa  !  mistress  Pase  !  come  you, 
and  the  old  woman,  down  ;  my  husband  will  come  into 
the  chamber. 

Furd.  Old  woman  !     What  old  woman  "s  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why.  it  is  my  maids  aunt  of  Brentford. 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean  ? 
Have  I  not  forbid  her  my  house?  She  comes  of 
errands,  does  she  ?  We  are  simple  men  ;  we  do  not 
know  what  "s  brounht  to  pass  under  the  profession  of 
fortunc-telliiii.'.  She  works  by  charms,  by  spells,  by 
the  figure,  and  such  daubery  as  this  is  ;  beyond  our 
element :  we  know  nothing. — Come  down,  you  witch, 
you  hag  you  ;  come  down  1  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay.  good,  sweet  husband. — Good  gen- 
tlemen, let  him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 
Enter  Falstaff  in  Women's  Clothes,  led  by  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  mother  Prat ;  come,  give  me  your 
band. 

Ford.  I  11  prat  her. — Out  of  my  door^  you  witch  ! 
[beats  him]  you  rag.  you  baggage,  you  polecat,  you 
ronyon*  !  out !  out !  I  '11  conjure  you,  I  "11  fortune-tell 
you.  \Exit  Falstaff. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  ashamed  !  I  think,  you 
have  killed  the  poor  woman. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay.  he  will  do  it. — "T  is  a  goodly  credit 
for  you. 

Ford.  Hang  her.  witch  ! 

Eva.  By  yea  and  nay.  I  think,  the  'oman  is  a  ■witch 
indeed  :  I  like  not  when  a  "oman  has  a  great  peard ;  I 
spy  a  great  poard  under  her  mutller. 

Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen?  I  beseech  you, 
follow  :  see  but  the  is.suc  of  my  jealousy.  If  I  cry  out 
thus  upon  no  trail,  never  trust  me  when  I  open  again. 

Page.  Let  s  obey  his  humour  a  little  farther.  Come, 
gentlemen.   (fJreiy/i/  Ford.  Page.  Shallow,  and  Evans. 

Mrs.  Page.  Tnist  me.  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay.  by  the  ma,«s.  that  he  did  not;  he 
beat  him  most  unpitifully.  methouuht. 

Mrs.  Pasrr.  I  'II  have  tiic  eudiiol  hallowed,  and  hung 
arVrthe  altar:  it  hath  done  meritorious  service. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  think  you?  May  we,  with  the 
warranc  of  womanhood,  and  the  witness  of  a  good  con- 
Boiencc.  punme  liim  with  any  farther  revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Pngf.  The  spirit  of  waiitoniu-ss.  is,  sure,  scared 
Dut  of  him  :  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee  simple, 
with  finf  and  recovery,  he  v\-ill  never,  I  think,  in  the 
way  of  waste,  attempt  Mf.  again. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husband.s  how  we  have 
served  him  ' 

Mrs.  Page.  Yes.  by  all  means  ;  if  it  be  but  to  scrape 
the  figiire.s  out  of  your  husband's  brains.  If  they  can 
find   in   their   hearts   the   poor   un^nrtuous  fat  knight 

'  Not  in  f.  e.  Lorrr  ;  also  u»ed  for  mistrtss.      >  Fr.  rofut,  for 


shall  be  any  farther  afflicted,  we  two  will  still  be  the 
n  inisters. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  11  warrant,  they  '11  have  him  publicly 
shamed,  and,  methinks,  there  would  be  no  period  !•' 
the  jest.     Should  he  not  be  publicly  shamed  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  to  the  forge  with  it.  then  fhaf" 
it :  I  would  not  have  things  cool.  [Ejeitn: 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Host  arid  Bardolph. 
Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  of  yoni 
horfcs  :   the  duke  himself  will  be  to-morrow  at  coun 
and  they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  duke  should  that  be.  comes  so  eecretl)  ? 
I  hear  not  of  him  in  the  court.  Let  me  speak  with 
the  gentlemen  :  they  speak  English  ? 
Bard.  Ay,  sir  :  I  '11  call  them  to  you. 
Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses,  but  I  'II  make 
them  pay  ;  I  '11  sauce  them  :  they  have  had  my  house 
a  week  at  command:  I  have  turned  away  my  other 
guests :  they  must  come  off*  ;  I  '11  sauce  them.     Come. 

[Exevnt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Fords  House. 

Enter  Page,  Ford.  Mrs.  Page.  Mrs.  Ford,  and 

Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Eva.  'T  is  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a  'oman  as 
ever  I  did  look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at  ac 
instant  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Fold.  Pardon  mc,  wife.     Henceforth  do  what  thou 
wilt ; 
I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold. 
Than   thee  with  wantonness ;  now  doth  thy  honour 

stand. 
In  him  that  was  of  late  a  heretic, 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'T  is  well,  't  is  well ;  no  more. 
Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission, 
As  in  offence ; 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward  :  let  our  wives 
Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport. 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 
Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 

Ford.  There  is  no  better  way  than  that  they  spoke  of 

Page.  How  ?  to  send  him  word  they  "11  meet  him  in 
the  park  at  midnight?  fie.  fie  !  he  '11  never  come. 

Eva.  You  see,"  he  has  been  thrown  inio  the  rivers, 
and  has  been  grievously  peatcn,  as  an  old  oman  :  me- 
thinks, there  should  be  terrors  in  him,  that  he  should 
not  come :  methinks,  his  flesh  is  punished,  he  shall 
have  no  desires. 

Page.  So  think  I  too. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Devise  but  how  you'll  use  him  when  he 
comes, 
And  let  tis  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 

Airs.  Page.  There  is  an  old  tale  goes,  that   Heme 
the  hunter, 
'Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest. 
Doth  all  the  winter  time,  at  still  midnight, 
1  Walk  round  about  an  oak,  with  great  ragg'd  horns  ; 
j  And  there  he  blasts  the  trees,  and  takes'  tlie  cattle  : 
I  And  makes  milch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes  achaii 
^  In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner. 
i  You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit :  and  well  you  know. 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld 
Received,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age. 
This  talc  of  Heme  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 

trurf.      ♦  come  down.      >  say  :  in  f.  e 


THE  MERKY   WIVES    OF  WINDSOK. 


57 


Page.  Why,  yet  there  want  not  many,  that  do  fear 
In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Heme's  oak. 
But  what  of  tliis  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mari-y,  this  is  our  devise  ; 

That  Falstaff  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us, 
Disguis'd  like  Heme,  with  huge  horns  on  his  head 

Page.  Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he  '11  come, 
And  in  this  shape  :  when  you  have  brought  him  thither. 
What  shall  be  done  with  him  ?  what  is  your  plot  ? 
Mrs.  Page.  That  likewise  have  we  thought  upon, 
and  thus. 
Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son, 
And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,  we  '11  dress 
Like  urchins,  ouphes',  and  fairies,  green  and  white, 
With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands.     Upon  a  sudden. 
As  Falstaff,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met. 
Let  them  from  forth  a  saw-pit  rush  at  once 
With  some  diffused*  song:  upon  their  sight, 
We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly : 
Then,  let  them  all  encircle  him  about. 
And,  fairy-like,  to-pinch'  the  unclean  knight; 
And  ask  him,  why,  that  hour  of  fairy  revel, 
Fn  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread. 
In  shape  profane. 

Mrs.  Ford.  And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 
Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  soundly, 
And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Mrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  known. 

We  '11  all  present  ourselves,  dis-horn  the  spirit, 
And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practised  well  to  this,  or  they  '11  ne'er  do 't. 

Eva.  I  will  teach  the  children  their  behaviours  ;  and 
I  will  be  like  a  jack-an-apes  also,  to  burn  the  knight 
with  my  taber. 

Ford.  That  will    be  excellent.     I'll  go  buy  them 

vizards. 
Mrs.  Page.  My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of  all  the 
fairies. 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 

Page.  That  silk  will   I   go  buy ; — [Aside.]   and  in 
that  time 
Sliall  master  Slender  steal  my  Na.i  away, 
And   marry  her   at    Eton.     [To  them.]     Go,    send  to 
Falstaff  straight. 
Ford.  Nay.  I  '11  to  him  again  in  name  of  Brook; 
He'll  tell  me  all  his  purpose.     Sure,  he'll  come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fear  not  you  that.  Go,  get  us  properties, 
And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

Eva.  Let  us  about  it :  it  is  admirable  pleasures,  and 
fery  honest  knaveries. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Ford,  and  Evans. 
3Irs.  Page.  Go,  mi.stress  Ford, 
Send  Quickly  to  sir  John,  to  know  his  mind. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Ford. 
I  '11  to  the  doctor  :  he  hath  my  good  will. 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slender,  though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot ; 
And  him  my  husband  best  of  all  affects : 
The  doctor  is  well  money'd,  and  his  friends 
Potent  at  court :  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 
Though  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave  her. 

[Exit. 

\hi  SCENE   v.— A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  Simple. 
Host.  What  wouldst  thou  have,  boor?  what,  thick- 
skin?  speak,  breathe,  discuss  ;  brief,  short,  quick,  snap. 
>  Elves.      »  Irregular.      '  Be-jtinch.      ♦  I  :  in  f.  e.      *  or  :  in  f.  e. 


Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  sir  John  Fal- 
staff from  master  Slender. 

Host.  There  's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  castle,  his 
standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed  :  't  is  painted  about  with 
the  story  of  the  prodigal,  fresh  and  new.  Go,  knock 
and  call ;  he  '11  speak  like  an  Anthropophaginian  unto 
thee  :  knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There  's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone  up 
into  his  chamber  :  I  '11  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir,  till  she 
come  down  ;  I  come  to  speak  with  her,  indeed. 

Host.  Ha  I  a  fat  woman  ?  the  knight  may  be  robbed  : 
I'll  call. — Bully  knight !  Bully  sir  John  !  speak  from 
thy  lungs  military  ;  art  thou  there  ?  it  is  thine  host 
thine  Ephesian.  ciiUs. 

Fal.   [Above.]   How  now,  mine  host  ? 

Host.  Here's  a  Bohemian  Tartar  tarries  the  coming 
down  of  thy  fat  woman.  Let  her  descend,  bully,  let 
her  descend  :  my  chambers  are  honourable  ;  fie  !  pri- 
vacy ?  fie  ! 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  an  old  fat  woman  even 
now  with  me,  but  she 's  gone. 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was  't  not  the  wise  woman  of 
Brentford  ?. 

Fal.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell :  what  would 
you  with  her  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  master  Slender,  sent  to  her, 
seeing  her  go  through  the  streets,  to  know,  sir,  whether 
one  Nym,  sir,  that  beguiled  him  of  a  chain,  had  the 
chain,  or  no. 

Fal.  I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 

Sim.  And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir? 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says,  that  the  very  same  man  that 
beguiled  master  Slender  of  his  chain,  cozened  him 
of^it. 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the  woman 
herself :  I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken  with  her, 
too,  from  him. 

Fal.  What  are  they  ?  let  us  know. 

Ho.st.  Ay,  come ;  quick. 

Fal.  You*  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 

Ho.^t.  Conceal  them,  and'  thou  diest. 

Sim .  Why,  sir,  they  were  nothing  but  about  mistress 
Anne  Page ;  to  know,  if  it  were  my  master's  fortune  to 
have  her,  or  no. 

Fal.  'T  is,  't  is  his  fortune. 

Sim.  What,  sir  ? 

Fal.  To  have  her, — or  no.  Go  ;  say,  the  woman 
told  me  so. 

Sim.  May  I  be  bold  to  say  so,  sir? 

Fal.  Ay,  sir,  tike,  who  more  bold  ? 

Sim.  I  thank  your  worship.  I  shall  make  my  mas- 
ter glad  with  these  tidings.  [Exit  Simple 

JF/o.vf.  Thou  art  clerkly,  thou  art  clerkly,  sir  John 
Was  there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  host :  one,  that  hath 
taught  me  more  wit  than  ever  I  learned  before  in  my 
life :  and  I  paid  nothing  for  it  neither,  but  was  paid 
for  my  learning. 

Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Out,  alas,  sir  !  cozenage ;  mere  cozenage  I 

Host.  Where  be  my  horses  ?  speak  well  of  them, 
varletto. 

Bard.  R"un  away  with  by'  the  cozeners ;  for  so  soon  as 
I  came  beyond  Eton,  they  threw  me  off  from  behind  one 
of  them  in  a  slough  of  mire  :  and  set  spurs,  and  away, 
like  three  German  devils,  three  Doctor  Faustuses 

Host.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  villain 
Do  not  say,  they  be  fled  ;  Germans  are  honest  men. 


58 


THE  MKUKY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR. 


ACT    V. 


Enter  Sir  High  Evans. 
Eva.  Wliere  is  mine  host ';" 
Host.  What  is  tlie  matter,  sir? 

Eva.  Have  a  cure  of  your  entertainments  :  there  is 
4  friend  of  mine  come  to  town  tells  me.  there  is  three 
couzin  pcrmans.  that  has  cozened  all  the  hosts  of  Read- 
in^n,  of  Maidenhead,  of  Colebrook.  of  horses  and  money. 
1  Tell  vou  for  sood  will,  look  you  :  you  are  wise,  and 
'■ill  of  gibes  and  vlouting-stogs,  and  H  is  not  convenient 
bu  should  be  cozened.     Fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Doctor  Caius. 
(uifw.  Vcre  is  mine  Host  de  .larretikre  1 
Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  perplexity,  and  doubt- 
fiil  dilenuna. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell-a  me, 
dat  you  make  grand  preparation  for  a  duke  de  Jar- 
many  :  bv  my  trot,  dcre  is  no  duke,  dat  de  court  is 
know  to  come.     I  tell  you  for  good  vill :    adieu. 

[Exit. 
Host.  Hue  and  cp.-,  villain  !  go. — Assist  me.  knight ; 
I  am  undone. — Fly,  run,  hue  and  cry,  villain!     I  am 
undone  ! 

[ExeurU  Host  and  Bardolph. 
Fal.  I  would  all  the  world  misht  be  cozened,  for  I 
have  been  cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it  should  come 
to  the  ear  of  the  court  how  I  have  been  transformed, 
and  how  my  transformation  hath  been  washed  and  cud- 
gelled, they  would  melt  me  out  of  my  fat.  drop  by  drop, 
and  liquor  fishermen's  boots  with  me:  I  warrant,  they 
would  whip  me  with  their  fine  wits,  till  I  were  as  crest- 
fallen as  a  dried  pear.  I  never  prospered  since  I  for- 
swore myself  at  primero.'  Well,  if  my  wind  were  but 
long  enough,'  I  would  pray  and  repent. 
Enter  Mi.'^tress  Quickly. 
Now,  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.  From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 
Fal.  The  devi.  take  one  party,  and  his  dam  the  other, 
and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed.     I  have  suffered 
more  for  their  sakes.  more,  than  the  villainous  incon- 
stancy of  man's  disposition  is  able  to  bear. 

Qiiick.  And  have  not  they  suffered?  Yes,  I  war- 
rant :  speciously  one  of  them  :  mistress  Ford,  good 
heart,  is  beaten  black  and  blue,  that  you  cannot  see  a 
white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue?  I 
was  beaten  myself  into  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow; 
and  I  was  like  to  be  apprehended  for  the  witch  of 
Brentford  :  but  that  my  admirable  dexterity  of  wit,  niy 
counterfeiting  the  action  of  an  old  woman,  deliver'd 
me.  the  knave  constable  had  set  me  i"  the  stocks,  i' 
the  common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  mc  speak  with  you  in  your  chamber; 
you  shall  liear  how  tliinirs  20.  and,  I  warrant,  to  your 
content.     Here  is  a  letter  will  say  somewhat.     Good 


SCENE  VI. — Another  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Ejiter  Fenton  cjk/  Host. 
Host.  Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me:  my  mind  is 
heavy  :  I  will  give  over  all. 

Fnit.  Yet  hear  me  speak.    Assist  me  in  my  purpose, 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I'  11  give  thee 
A  hundred  pound  in  gold  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.  I  will  hear  you,  master  Fenton ;  and  I  will, 
at  the  lenst,  keep  your  counsel. 

Fent.  From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fnir  Anne  Page: 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answer'd  iny  affection 
(So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  clioqscr) 
Even  to  my  wish.     I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at: 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter, 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested. 
Without  the  show  of  both  : — wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene :  the  image  of  the  jest 

[Showing  the  Letter 
I  '11  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine  Host: 
To-night  at  Heme's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  tlie  fairy  queen: 
The  purpo.se  why,  is  here :  in  which  disguise. 
Wliile  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slij) 
Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry:  she  hath  consented. 
Now,  sir. 

Her  mother,  even  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  Dr.  Caius,  hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  likewise  shuflle  her  away, 
While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 
And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 
Straight  marry  her :  to  this  her  mother's  plot 
She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 
Made  promise  to  the  doctor. — Now,  thus  it  rests : 
Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white : 
And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 
To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  bid  her  go. 
She  shall  go  with  hiin  :^her  mother  hath  intended, 
The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, 
(For  they  must  all  be  mask'd  and  vizarded) 
That  quaint  in  green  she  shall  be  loose  enrob'd, 
With  ribands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head; 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe. 
To  ].inch  her  by  the  hand,  and  on  that  token 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 

Host.    Which    means    she    to    deceive  ?    father    o! 

mother  ? 
Fcnt.  Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me: 
And  here  it  rests, — that  you  11  ])rocure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church  "twixt  twelve  and  one. 
And  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying. 
To  aive  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

Host.  Well,  husband  your  device:  I  '11  to  the  vicar. 


hearts  !  what  ado  here  is  to  bring  you  together.    Sure 

one  of  you  does  not  serve  heaven  well,  'hat  you  are  so  jB,ing  you  the  niaid.  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 

ero«8cd.  Eeni.  So  shall  I  evermore  be  bound  to  Ihee 

Fal.  Come  up  into  my  chamber.  l^^*^^"^-  Besides,  I  '11  make  a  present  rccomjiense.  [Ereura 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Mrs.  Quicki.t. 


This  is  the  third  time;  I  hope,  good  luck  lies  in  odd 
[numbers  Away,  go.  They  say.  there  is  divinity  m 
odd  numbers,  either  in  nativity,  chance,  or  death. - 


Fal.    Pryihee.  no  more  prattling: — go: — I'll  hold.  I  Away. 
•  A  fanw  of  cards       »  to  «ay  my  prayeri"  from  th'  quartoi  :  in  f.  e. 


SCFJfE    V. 


THE  MEKRr  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


69 


Quick.  I  '11  provide  you  a  chain,  and  I  '11  do  what  I 
can  to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

Fal.  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears ;.  hold  up  your  head, 
and  mince.'  [Exit  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Enter  Ford. 
How  now,  master  Brook  !     Master  Brook,  the  matter 
w  ill  be  known  to-night  or  never.     Be  you  in  the  Park 
about  midnight,   at   Heme's  oak,   and  you  shall  see 
wonders. 

Ford  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as  you 
told  me  you  had  appointed  ? 

Fal.  I  went  to  her,  master  Brook  as  y  i  see,  like  a 
poor  old  man :  but  I  came  from  her,  ma.'^ter  Brook, 
ike  a  poor  old  woman.  That  same  knave,  Ford  her 
husband,  hath  the  finest  mad  devil  of  jealousy  in  him, 
master  Brook,  that  ever  governed  frenzy.  I  -vA-ill  tell 
you. — He  beat  me  grievously,  in  tlie  shape  of  a  woman  ; 
for  in  the  shape  of  man,  master  Brook,  I  fear  not 
Goliah  with  a  weaver's  beam,  because  I  know  also, 
life  is  a  shuttle.  I  am  in  haste :  go  along  with  me ; 
I  "11  tell  you  all,  master  Brook.  '  Since  I  plucked  geese, 
played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  I  knew  not  what  it 
was  to  be  beaten,  till  lately.  Follow  me:  I'll  tell  you 
strange  things  of  this  knave  Ford,  on  whom  to-night  I 
will  be  revenged,  and  I  will  deliver  his  wife  uito  your 
hand. — Follow.  Strange  things  in  hand,  master  Brook : 
follow.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 

Page.  Come,  come :  we  '11  couch  i'  the  castle-ditch, 
iill  we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies. — Remember,  son 
Slender,  my  daughter. 

Slen.  Ay,  forsooth ;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  and  we 
have  a  nay-word,  how  to  .know  one  another.  I  come 
to  her  in  white,  and  cry  "mum  :"  she  cries,  "budget," 
and  by  that  we  know  one  another. 

Shal.  That 's  good  too  ;  but  what  needs  either  your 
"  raum,"  or  her  ''  budget  ?"  the  white  will  decipher  her 
well  enough. — It  hath  struck  ten  o'clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark;  light  and  spirits  will 
become  it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No  man 
means  evil  but  the  devil,  and  we  shall  know  him  by 
his  horns.     Let's  away;  follow  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Street  in  Windsor. 
Enter  Mrs.  Page,  3Irs.  Ford,  and  Dr.  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.  Master  Doctor,  my  daughter  is  in  green : 
when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by  the  hand,  away 
with  her  to  the  deanery,  and  dispatch  it  quickly.  Go 
before  into  the  park :  we  two  must  go  together. 

Caius.  1  know  vat  I  have  to  do.     Adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit  Caius.]  My 
husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the  abuse  of  Fal- 
staff,  as  he  will  chafe  at  tb"  doctor's  marrying  my 
daughter :  but  't  is  no  matter ;  better  a  little  chiding, 
than  a  great  deal  of  heart-break. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her  troop  of 
fairies  ?  and  the  Welch  devil,  Evans  ?" 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couched  in  a  pit  hard  by 
Heme's  oak.  with  obscured  lights ;  which,  at  the  very 
instant  of  Falstaff 's  and  our  meeting,  they  will  at  once 
display  to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Ford.  That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  be  not  amazed,  he  will  be  mocked  ; 
if  he  be  amazed,  he  will  every  way  be  mocked. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  '11  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.    Page.     Against    such    lewdsters.    and    their 
lechery, 

'  Walk  (mincingly.)      ^  Hugh  r  in  f.  e.      ^  Buck  sent  for  a  bribe. 


Those  that  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on :  to  the  oak,  to  the 
oak !  [ExeunL 

SCENE  IV.— Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  and  Fairies. 

Eva.  Trib,  trib,  fairies :  come ;  and  remember  your 

parts.     Be  pold,  I  pray  you ;  follow  me  into  the  pit. 

and  when  I  give  the  watch-'ords,  do  as   I   pid  you. 

Come,  come;  trib,  trib.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  Falstaff,  disguised,  with  a  Buck's  Head  on, 

Fal.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve ;  the 
minute  draws  on.  Now,  the  hot-blooded  gods  assist 
me  ! — remember,  Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for  thy  Eu- 
ropa ;  love  set  on  thy  horns. — 0  powerful  love  !  that, 
in  some  respects,  makes  a  beast  a  man.  in  some  other, 
a  man  a  beast. — You  were  also,  Jupiter,  a  swan,  for 
the  love  of  Leda :  O,  omnipotent  love  !  how  near  the 
god  drew  to  the  complexion  of  a  goose  ! — A  fault  done 
first  in  the  form  of  a  beast ; — 0  Jove,  a  beastly  fault  ! 
and  then  another  fault  in  the  semblance  of  a  fowl : 
think  on  't,  Jove  ;  a  foul  fault.  When  gods  have  hot 
backs,  what  shall  poor  men  do  ?  For  me,  I  am  here 
a  Windsor  stag;  and  the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the  forest: 
send  me  a  cool  rut-time,  Jove,  or  who  can  blame  me  to 
piss  my  tallow  ?  Who  comes  here  ?  my  doe  ? 
Enter  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John  ?  art  thou  there,  my  deer  ?  my 
male  deer? 

Fal.  My  doe  with  the  black  scut  ? — Let  the  sky 
rain  potatoes  ;  let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of  "  Green 
Sleeves  ;"  hail  kissing-comfits,  and  snow  eringoes  ;  let 
there  come  a  tempest  of  provocation,  I  will  shelter  me 
here.  [Embracing  her. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me,  sweet- 
heart. 

Fal.  Divide  me  like  a  bribe-buck,*  each  a  haunch  : 
I  will  keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my  shoulders  for  the 
fellow  of  this  walk,  and  my  horns  I  bequeath  your 
husbands.  Am  I  a  woodman  ?  ha  !  Speak  I  like 
Heme  the  hunter  ? — Why.  now  is  Cupid  a  child  of 
conscience  ;  he  makes  restitution.  As  I  am  a  true 
spirit,  welcome.  [Noise  loithin. 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  !  what  noise  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  forgive  our  sins  ! 

Fal.  What  should  this  be  ? 
Mrs.  Ford.  )   .  ,  r^ri  jr 

Mrs.  Page.  \  ^"^'^^'^  ^^^^  '  f  "^^^  ''""  ^■^^ 

Fal.  I  think,  the  devil  will  not  have  me  damned, 
lest  the  oil  that  is  in  me  should  .set  hell  on  fire  ;  he 
would  never  else  cross  me  thus. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  like  a  Satyr;  3Irs.  Quickly, 

and  Pistol;  Anne  Page,  as  the  Fairy  Qiveerij  at- 
tended by  her  brother  and  others,  dressed  like  fairies.^ 

with  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads. 

Queen.  Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  white, 
You  moonshine  revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 
You  orphan-heirs  of  fixed  destiny. 
Attend  your  office,  and  your  quality. 
Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  o-yes. 

Fist.  Elves,  list  your  names  :  silence,  you  airy  toys ' 
Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  when  thoust  leapt,* 
Where  fires  thou  fiiid'st  umak'd,  and  heartlis  unswept, 
There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry: 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts,  and  sluttery. 

Fdl.    They   are  fairies ;    he,  that  speaks   to   them, 
shall  die  :  [To  htmelf} 

4  Shalt  thou  leap.      »  Not  in  f.  e. 


60 


THE  MERRY    \V1VES   OF    WINDSOR 


1   11  wink  and  couch.     No  man  their  works  must  eye. 
[Lies  (loivn  vpon  his  face. 

Eva.  Where  "s  Bead  ? — Go  you,  and  where  \  im  find 
a  maid, 
That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said. 
Rouse'  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy, 
Sle^p  she  a.s  sound  as  careless  infancy  ; 
But  those  tliat*  sleep,  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 
Pineh  them.  arms,  le^,  backs,  shoulders,  sides,  and  shins. 

Queen.  About,  about  ' 
Search  Windsor  ca.>;tle,  elves,  within  and  out  : 
Strew  good  luck,  ouphcs.  on  every  sacred  room, 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom. 
In  state  as  wholesome,  a-s  in  slate  'tis  fit; 
Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 
Tlie  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm,  and  every  precious  flower  : 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest. 
Wnh  loyal  blazon,  ever  more  be  blest ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look,  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garters  compass,  in  a  ring  : 
Th"  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be. 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see  ; 
And,  Honi  soil  qui  mill  y  pense,  WTite, 
In  emerald  tufts,  flowers  purple,  blue,  and  white  ; 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery, 
Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee  : 
Fairies,  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. 
Away  !  disperse  !  but,  till  't  is  one  o'clock. 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Heme  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.  Lock  hand  in  hand  :  yourselves  in  order  set ; 
And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  mea.'jure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay  !   I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth. 

Fal.  Heavens  defend  me  from  that  Welsh  fairy,  lest 
he  transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese  !        [To  himself.^ 

Pist.  Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'er-look'd*  even  in  thy 
birth. 

Queen.  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger-end  : 
If  he  be  cha.>^te.  the  flame  will  back  descend. 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain  :  but  if  he  start, 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pist.  A   trial  !  come. 

Eva.  Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

[They  bum  him  with  their  tapers. 

Fal.  Oh.  oh,  oh  ! 

Queen.  Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire  ! 
About  him,  fairies,  sing  a  scornful  rhyme  : 
And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time.' 
Song,  by  one. 

Fie  on  .tinful  fantasy  ! 

Fie  on  litst  and  luxury  ! 

Lusl  is  but  a  bloody  fire. 

Kindled  with  unchaste  tie.ure. 

Fed  in  h^art  ;  i 'ho.se  flames  aspire .^ 

As  thoughts  do  blow  them  higher  and  higher. 
Chorus. 

Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually  ; 

Pinch  him  for  his  villainy  ; 

Pinch  him.  arul  bum  him.  and  turn  him  about. 

Till  candles,  and  .star-light,  arul  moonshine  he  out. 
During  this  .song,  the  fairies  pinch  Fai-stakf  :    Doctor 

Caiis  comes  one  way,  and  steals  aitay  a  fairy  in  green; 

Slender  another  way,  arul  takes  off  a  fairy  in  white; 

arul  Fenton  comes,  and  .steals  away  Anne  Page.     A 

noise  of  hunting  is  made  within.     All  the  fairies  run 

noay.     Falstaff  pulU  off  his  buck's  head,  and  rises. 


Enter  Page,  Ford,  Mrs.  Page,  and  Mrs.  Ford.     They 
lay  hold  of  him. 

Page.  Nay,  do  not  fly  :  i  think,  we  have  match'd 
you  now. 
Will  none  but  Heme  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  pray  you  come ;  hold  up  the  jest  no 
higher. — 
Now,  good  Sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives  ? 
See  you  these,  husband?  do  not  these  fair  yokes 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who  's  a  cuckold  now  ! — Master 
Brook.  Falstaff""s  a  knave,  a  cuckoldly  knave  ;  here  are 
his  horns,  master  Brook  :  and,  master  Brook,  he  hath 
enjoyed  nothing  of  Ford's  but  his  buck-basket,  his 
cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds  of  money,  which  must  be 
paid  to  master  Brook :  his  horses  are  arrested  for  it. 
master  Brook. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill-luck ;  we  could 
never  meet.  I  will  never  take  you  for  my  love  again, 
but  I  will  always  count  you  my  deer. 

Fal.  I  do  begin  to  perceive,  that  I  am  made  an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  ox  too  ;  both  the  proofs  are 
extant. 

Fed.  And  these  are  not  fairies  !  I  was  three  or  four 
times  in  the  thought,  they  were  not  fairies ;  and  yet 
the  guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the  sudden  surprise  of  tny 
powers,  drove  the  grossness  of  the  foppery  into  a  re- 
ceived belief,  in  despite  of  the  teeth  of  all  rhyme  and 
reason,  that  they  were  fairies.  See  now,  how  wit  may 
be  made  a  Jack-a-lent.  when  't  is  upon  ill  employment ! 

Eva.  Sir  John  Falstaff",  serve  Got,  and  leave  your 
desires,  and  fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.  Well  said,  fairy  Hugh. 

Eva.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I  pray  you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till  thou 
art  able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun.  and  dried  it, 
that  it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  gross  o'er-reaching 
as  this?  Am  I  ridden  with  a  Welch  goat  too  ?  shall 
I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frize  ?*  'T  is  time  I  were  choked 
with  a  piece  of  toasted  cheese. 

Eva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter :  your  pelly  i.« 
all  putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter  !  have  I  lived  to  stand  at 
the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English  ?  Thiii 
is  enough  to  be  the  decay  of  lust,  and  late-walking 
through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why.  Sir  John,  do  you  think,  though  we 
would  have  thrust  virtue  out  of  our  hearts  by  the  head 
and  shoulders,  and  have  given  ourselves  without  scruple 
to  hell,  that  ever  the  devil  could  have  made  you  oui 
delight? 

Ford.  What,  a  hog-pudding  ?  a  bag  of  flax  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  A  puffed  man  ? 

Page.  Old.  cold,  withered,  and  of  intolerable  entrails? 

Ford.  And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan? 

Page.  And  as  poor  as  Job  ? 

Ford.  And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Eva.  And  given  to  fornications,  and  to  taverns,  and 
^ack,  and  wine,  and  methcglins.  and  to  drinkings,  and 
swearings,  and  starings.  pribbles  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme:  you  liave  the  start  of 
me  :  I  am  dejected  :  I  am  not  able  to  answer  the  Welch 
flannel.  Ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er  me  .  nsc 
i  me  as  you  will. 

!  Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we  '11  bring  you  to  Windsor,  to  one 
'  master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozened  of  money,  to 
i  whom  you  should  have  been  a  pander  :  over  and  above 


'  raise  :  in  f.  e       »  i 
leoheries  and  iniquity. 


in  r.  e.      »  Not  in  f.  e. 
A  fooTi  cap  of  fritzt. 


Bnntcked      •  M&lone  addi,  from  the  quarto  -.—  Eva    It  is  ri^ht,  indeed,  he  is  full  of 


THE  MERKY    WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 


61 


that  you  have  suffered,  I  think,  to  repay  that  money 
will  be  a  biting  affliction.' 

Page.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :  thou  shalt  eat  a  pos- 
set to-night  at  my  house  ;  where  I  will  desire  thee  to 
laugh  at  my  wife,  that  now  laughs  at  thee.  Tell  her, 
ina.ster  Slender  hath  married  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Page.  Doctors  doubt  that :  if  Anne  Page  be  my 
daughter,  she  is.  by  this,  doctor  Caius'  wife.       [Aside. 
Enter  Slender,  crying. 

Sim.  Whoo,  ho  !  ho  !'  father  Page  ! 

Page.  Son,  how  now  !  how  now,  son  !  have  you 
despatched  ? 

Slen.  Despatched  ! — I  '11  make  the  best  in  Glouces- 
tershire know  on  't ;  would  I  were  hanged,  la,  else. 

Page.  Of  what,  son  ? 

S!cn.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  mistress  Anne 
page,  and  she  's  a  great  lubberly  boy :  if  it  had  not 
been  i'  the  church,  I  would  have  swinged  him,  or  he 
should  have  swinged  me.  If  I  did  not  think  it  had 
been  Anne  Page,  would  I  might  never  stir,  and  't  is  a 
post-masler's  boy. 

Page.  Upon  my  life,  then,  you  took  the  wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that?  I  think  so, 
when  I  took  a  boy  for  a  girl :  if  I  had  been  married 
to  him,  for  all  he  was  in  woman's  apparel,  I  would  not 
have  had  him. 

Page.  Why,  this  is  your  own  folly.  Did  not  I  tell 
you.  how  YOU  should  know  my  daughter  by  her  gar- 
ments '■' 

Slen.  I  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cried  "  mum," 
and  she  ciied  "  budget,"  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed ; 
and  yet  it  was  not  Anne,  but  a  post-master's  boy. 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry :  I  knew  of 
your  purpose  ;  turned  my  daughter  into  green ;  and, 
indeed,  she  is  now  with  the  doctor  at  the  deanery,  and 
tltere  married. 

Enter  Doctor  Caius. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mistress  Page  ?  By  gar,  I  am  co- 
zened ;  I  ha'  married  im  gar f on,  a  boy ;  un  paisan,  by 
gar  a  boy :  it  is  not  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  I  am 
cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 

1  The  quartos  here  have — 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay.  husband,  let  that  go  to  make  amends  : 
Korgive  that  sum  and  so  we  '11  all  be  friends. 
Ford.  Well,  here  's  ray  hand  :  all  's  forgiven  at  last. 
Fal.  It  hath  coat  me  wel'  :  I  have  been  well  pinched  and  wir'4, 
^  title  :  in  f.  e 


Caius.  Ay,  by  gar,  and  't  is  a  boy  :  by  gar,  I  '11  rais« 
all  Windsor.  [Exit  Caius. 

Ford.  This  is  strange.  Who  hath  got  the  right  Anne  ? 

Page.  My  heart  misgives  me.     Here  comes  master 
Fenton. 

Enter  Fenton  ana  Anne  Page. 
How  now,  master  Fenton  !  [They  kneel. 

Anne.  Pardon,  good  father!  good  my  mother,  pardon. 

Page.    Now,   mistress ;    how  chance  you  went  not 
with  master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why  went  you  not  with  master  doctor 
maid  ? 

Fent.  You  do  amaze  her  :  hear  the  truth  of  it. 
You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefullv. 
Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 
The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted, 
Are  now  so  sure,  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 
The  offence  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed ; 
And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft. 
Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  guile," 
Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  and  shun 
A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours. 
Which  forced  mamage  would  have  brought  upon  her. 

Ford.  Stand  not  aniaz'd  :  here  is  no  remedy. — 
In  love,  the  heavens  themselves  do  gtiide  the  state  : 
Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 

Fal.    I   am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special 
stand  to  strike  at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  glanced. 

Page.  Well,  what  remedy?     Fenton,  heaven  give 
thee  joy. 
What  cannot  be  eschew'd  must  be  embrac'd. 

Fal.    When   night-dogs   run,  all  sorts  of    leer  are 
chas'd. 

Mrs.  Page.  Well,  I  will  muse  no  farther. — Master 
Fenton, 
Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days. — 
Good  husband;  let  us  every  one  so  home. 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 
Sir  John  and  all. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so. — Sir  John, 
To  master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word  j 
For  he,  to-night,  shall  lie  with  mistress  Ford.    [Exetmt 


MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONjE. 


ViNCENTio,  the  Duke, 

ANQfiLO,  the  Deputy. 

EscALUS.  en  ancient  Lord. 

Claudio,  a  young  Gentleman. 

Lucio.  a  Fantastic. 

Two  other  like  Gentlemen. 

Provost. 

A  Justice. 

Elbow,  a  simple  Constable. 

Lords.  Gentlemen. 


Froth,  a  foolish  Gentleman. 

Clown. 

Abhorson,  an  Executioner. 

Barnardine,  a  dissolute  Prisoner. 

Isabella,  sister  to  Claudio. 
Mariana,  betrothed  to  Angelo. 
Juliet,  beloved  of  Claudio. 
Fra.ncisca,  a  Nun. 
Mistress  Over-done,  a  Bawd. 


Guards,  Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE.  Vienna. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L — An  Apartment  in  the  Dukes  Palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Escalus,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Escalus  ! 

Esral.  My  lord. 

Duke.  Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold, 
Would  seem  in  me  t'  affect  speech  and  discourse; 
Since  I  am  apt'  to  know,  that  your  ovsm  science 
Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists  of  all  advice 
My  strength  can  give  you  :  then,  no  more  remains. 
But  add'  to  your  sufficiency  your  worth,' 
And  let  Tliem  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 
Our  city's  institution-s,  and  the  terms 
For  coiiiinon  justice,  y'  are  as  pregnant  in 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  remember.     There  is  our  commission, 

[Giving  it.* 
From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp. — Call  hither, 
[  say.  bid  come  before  us  Angelo. — [Exit  an  Attendant. 
What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  wnll  bear? 
For,  yon  must  know,  we  have  \^-ith  special  soul 
Elected  him  our  ab.sence  to  supply. 
Lent  him  our  terror,  drest  him  with  our  love, 
And  given  his  deputation  all  the  organs 
Of  our  ovm  power.     What  think  you  of  it? 

E.^ca/.  If  any  in  Vienna  be  cf  worth 
To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honour, 
It  is  lord  Angelo. 

Enter  Angelo 

Duke.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Ang.  Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will, 
I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Duke.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 
That   to  th"  observer,  doth  thy  liistory 
Fully  unfold.     Thyself  and  thy  belongings 
Are  not  thine  own  so  proper,  as  to  waste 
Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  them  on  thee. 

>  wit  :  in  f  e       »  tl.Ai  •  >n  r.  e.      '  as  your  worth  is  able  :  in  f.  e. 

K2 


Heaven  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do. 

Not  light  them  for  ourselves  ;  for  if  our  virtues 

Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  't  were  all  alike 

As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely  touch". 

But  to  fine  issues;  nor  nature  never  lends 

The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 

But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 

Both  thanks  and  use'.     But  I  do  bend  my  speech 

To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise  : 

Hold,  theretbre,  Angelo:     [Tende^ring  his  commission 

In  our  remove  be  thou  at  full  ourself ; 

Mortality  and  mercy  in  Vienna 

Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart.     Old  Escalus, 

Though  first  in  question,  is  thy  secondary: 

Take  thy  commission.  [Giving  it 

Ang.  Now,  good  my  lord, 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  metal, 
Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 
Be  stamp'd  upon  it. 

Duke.  No  more  evasion  : 

We  have  with  a  leaven'd  and  prepared  choice 
Proceeded  to  you  :  therefore,  take  your  honours. 
Our  haste  from  honce  is  of  so  quick  condition, 
That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestion'd 
Matters  of  needful  value.     We  shall  \vTite  to  you. 
As  time  and  our  concernings  shall  importune, 
How  it  goes  with  us  ;  and  do  look  to  know. 
What  doth  befall  you  here.     So,  fare  you  well : 
To  the  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord, 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Duke.  My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honour,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple :  your  scope  is  as  mine  own, 
So  to  enforce,  or  qualify  the  laws 
As  to  your  soul  seems  good.     Give  me  vour  hand 

*  Not  in  f.  e.      »  inUrest.      *  ''  Not  in  f.  * 


SCENE  n. 


MEASUKE  FOR  MEASURE. 


63 


I  '11  privily  away :  I  love  the  people, 
But  dc  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes. 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause,  and  ave.s  vehement. 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion, 
That  does  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  -well. 

Ang.  The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  purposes  ! 

Escal.  Lead  forth,  and  bring  you  back  in  happi- 
ness ! 

Duke.  I  thank  you      Fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Escal.  I  sliall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  with  you  ;  and  it  concerns  me 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place  : 
A.  power  I  have,  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 
r  am  not  yet  instructed. 

Ang.  'T  is  so  with  me.     Let  us  withdraw  together, 
And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point. 

E.scal.  I  "11  wait  upon  your  honour.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 
Enter  Lucio  and  two  Geritlemen. 
Lucio.  If  the  duke,  ^dth  the  other  dukes,  come  not 
to  composition  with  the  king  of  Hungary,  why  then, 
all  the  dukes  fall  upon  the  king. 

1  Gent.  Heaven  grant  us  its  peace,  but  not  the  king 
of  Hungary's  ! 

2  Gent.  Amen. 

Lucio.  Thou  concludest  like  the  sanctimonious  pirate, 
that  went  to  sea  with  the  ten  commandments,  but 
scraped  one  out  of  the  table. 

2  Gent.  Thou  shalt  not  steal? 

Lucio.  Ay,  that  he  razed. 

1  Gent.  Why  ?^  'T  was  a  commandment  to  command 
the  captain  and  all  the  rest  from  their  functions :  they 
put  forth  to  steal.  There  's  not  a  soldier  of  us  all,  that, 
in  the  thanksgiving  before  meat,  doth  relish  the  peti- 
tion well  that  prays  for  peace. 

2  Gent.  I  never  heard  any  soldier  dislike  it. 
Lucio.  I  believe  thee ;  for,  I  think,  thou  never  wast 

wliere  grace  was  said. 

2  Gent.  No  ?  a  dozen  times  at  least. 

1  Gent.  ^Yhat,  in  metre  ? 

Lucio.  In  any  proportion,  or  in  any  language. 

1  Gent.  I  think,  or  in  any  religion. 

Lucio.  Ay  :  why  not  ?  Grace  is  grace,  despite  of  all 
controversy  :  as  for  example ;  thou  thyself  art  a  wicked 
villain  despite  of  all  grace. 

1  Gent.  Well,  there  went  but  a  pair  of  sheers  be- 
tween us. 

Lucio.  I  grant ;  as  there  may  between  the  lists  and 
the  velvet :  thou  art  the  list. 

1  Gent.  And  thou  the  velvet  ?  thou  art  good  velvet : 
thou  art  a  three-pil'd  piece,  1  warrant  thee.  I  had  as 
lief  be  a  list  of  an  English  kersey,  as  be  pil'd,  as  thou 
art  pil'd.   for  a  French  velvet.    Do  I  speak  feelingly 

EC7?  ? 

Lucio.  I  thing  thou  dost ;  and,  indeed,  with  most 
painful  feeling  of  thy  speech  :  I  will,  out  of  thine  ovm 
confession,  learn  to  begin  thy  health;  but,  whilst  I 
live,  forget  to  drink  after  thee. 

1  Gent.  I  think.  I  have  done  myself  wrong,  have  I 
not  ? 

2  Gent.  Yes,  that  thou  hast,  whether  thou  art 
tainted,  or  free. 

Lucio.  Behold,  behold,  where  madam  Mitigation 
comes  I 

1  Gent.  I  have  purchased  as  many  diseases   under  I 


her  roof 

'  Mr   Pv7 


2  Gent.  To  what,  I  pray? 

Lucio.  Judge. 

2  Gent.  To  three  thousand  dollars'  a-year. 

1  Gent.  Ay,  and  more. 
Lucio.  A  French  cro\ATi  more. 

2  Gent.  Thou  art  always  figuring  diseases  in  me ; 
but  thou  art  full  of  error  :  I  am  sound. 

Lucio.  Nay,  not  as  one  would  say,  healtliy ;  but  so 
sound  as  things  that  are  hollow  :  thy  bones  are  hollow ; 
impiety  has  made  a  feast  of  thee. 
Enter  Bawd. 

1  Gent.  How  now  ?  Which  of  your  hips  has  the  mosf 
profound  sciatica? 

Bawd.  Well,  well ;  there 's  one  yonder  arrested,  and 
carried  to  prison,  was  worth  five  thousand  of  you  all. 

2  Gent.  Who  's  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Bawd.  Marry,  sir,  that 's  Claudio ;  signior  Claudio. 

1  Gent.  Claudio  to  prison  !  't  is  not  so. 

Bawd.  Nay,  but  Ilvnow, 'tis  so  ;  I  saw  him  arrested  ; 
saw  him  carried  away  :  and,  which  is  more,  within  these 
thrw  days  his  head  is^  to  be  chopped  off. 

Lucio.  But,  after  all  this  fooling,  I  would  not  have 
it  so.     Art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 

Bawd.  I  am  too  sure  of  it ;  and  it  is  for  getting 
madam  Julietta  with  child. 

Lucio.  Believe  me,  this  may  be :  he  promised  to 
meet  me  two  hours  since,  and  he  was  ever  precise  in 
promise-keeping. 

2  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  something  near 
to  the  speech  we  had  to  such  a  purpose. 

1  Gent.  But  most  of  all,  agreeing  with  the  proclama- 
tion. 

Lucio.  Away  :  let 's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Lucio  and  Gentlemen. 

Bawd.  Thus,  what  with  the  war,  what  with  the 
sweat,  what  with  the  gallows,  and  what  "wath  poverty, 
I  am  custom-shrunk.  How  now  ?  what 's  the  news 
with  you? 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Yonder  man  is  carried  to  prison. 

Baicd.  Well  :  what  has  he  done  ? 

Clo.  A  woman. 

Bawd.  But  what 's  his  offence  ? 

Clo.  Groping  for  trouts  in  a  peculiar  river. 

Baicd.  What,  is  there  a  maid  with  child  by  him  ? 

Clo.  No;  but  there's  a  woman  with  maid  by  him. 
You  have  not  heard  of  the  proclamation,  have  you  ? 

Bawd.  What  proclamation,  man? 

Clo.  All  bawdy*  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna 
must  be  pluck'd  down. 

Bawd.  And  what  shall  become  of  those  in  the 
city? 

Clo.  They  shall  stand  for  seed  :  they  had  gone  down 
too,  but  that  a  wise  burgher  put  in  for  them. 

Bawd.  Biit  shall  all  our  houses  of  resort  in  th' 
subiirbs  be  puU'd  down? 

Clo.  To  the  ground,  mistress. 

Bawd.  Why,  here  's  a  change,  indeed,  in  the  com 
monwealth  !     What  shall  become  of  me  ? 

Clo.  Come :  fear  not  you :  good  counsellors  lack  no 
clients  :  though  you  change  your  place,  you  need  not 
change  your  trade :  I  '11  be  your  tapster  still.  Courage  ! 
there  will  be  pity  taken  on  you ;  you  that  have  worn 
your  eyes  almost  out  in  the  service  :  you  will  be  con- 
sidered. 

Baicd.  What 's  to  do  here,  Thomas  Tapster  ?  Let  "s 
withdraw. 

Clo.  Here  comes  signior  Claudio,  led  by  the  provost 


r  come  to —  I  to  prison  ;  and  there 's  madam  Juliet.  [Exeunt 

remcvoB  tlie  interrogation  (?)  giving  why  an  emphatic  senEe  only.      »  A  quibble  upon  dolours.      '  *  Not  in  f.  e. 


64 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  in.— The  Same. 
Enter  Provost,  Claudio,  and  Officers} 

Claud.    Fellow,   -whv  dost  thou  show   me  thus  to 
th'  world  ? 
Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 

Prov.  I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition. 
But  from  lord  Aiiselo  by  special  charge. 

Clntul.  Thus  can  the  demi-sod,  authority. 
Make  us  pay  do^^^l  for  our  oftcnce  by  weight. — 
The  words  of  heaven :' — on  whom  it  will,  it  will ; 
On  whom  it  will  not,  so  :  yet  still   t  is  just. 
Filter  Licio  071(1  two  Gentlemen.* 

Lucio.  Why,  how  now,  Claudio?  wlienoe  comes  this 
restraint  ? 

Claut!.  From  too  much  liberty,  my  Luoio,  liberty : 
As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast. 
So  every  scape  by  the  immoderate  use 
Turns  to  restraint.     Our  natures  do  pursue, 
Like  rats  that  ravin*  do^\^l  their  proper  bane, 
A  thirsty  evil,  and  wlien  we  drink,  we  die. 

Lucio.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an  arrest,  I 
would  send  for  certain  of  my  creditors.  And  yet,  to 
say  the  truth,  I  had  as  lief  have  the  foppery  of  freedom, 
us  the  moralitv  of  imprisonment, — What  "s  thv  offence, 
Claudio? 

Clattd.  What  but  to  speak  of  would  offend  again. 

Lucio.  What  is  it?  murder? 

Claud.  No. 

Lucio.  Lechery? 

Claud.  Call  it'so. 

Prov.  Away,  sir  !  you  must  so. 

Clawi  One  word,  good  friend. — Lucio.  a  word  with 
you.  [Takes  him  cunde. 

Lucio.  A  hundred,  if  they  '11  do  you  any  good. — Is 
lechery  so  look'd  after? 

Claud.  Thus  stands  it  with  me  : — Upon  a  true  con- 
tract, 
I  sot  possession  of  Julietta's  bed  : 
Vou  know  the  lady;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 
.^ave  that  we  do  the  pronunciation*  lack 
Oi  outward  order :  this  we  came  not  to, 
Only  for  procuration*  of  a  dower 
Hemaining  in  the  coffer  of  her  friends. 
From  whom  we  Ihousht  it  meet  to  hide  our  love, 
Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.     But  it  chances. 
The  stealth  of  our  most  mutual  entertainment 
With  character  too  gros.s  is  wTit  on  .luliet. 

Lucio.  With  child,  perhaps' 

Claud.  Unhappily,  even  so. 
And  the  new  deputy  now  for  the  duke. — 
Whetiier  it  be  the  fault  and  elimp.se  of  newness 
Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 
A  horse  whereon  the  governor  doth  ride, 
Who.  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 
He  can  command,  lets  it  straight  feel  the  spur  : 
Whether  the  tyranny  be  in  his  place. 
Or  in  his  eminence  that  fills  it  up. 
1  stagger  in  : — but  this  new  governor 
Awakes  me  all  the  enrolled  penalties. 
Which  have,  like  unscour'd  armour,  hung  by  the  wall 
So  lofis.  that  nineteen  zodiacks  have  gone  round, 
And  none  of  them  been  worn  ;  and.  for  a  name. 
Now  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 
Freshly  on  me  : — 'tis  surely,  for  a  na  ne. 

Lucio.    I   warrant  it  is ;    and   thy   head   stands   so 

>  Enter  Provoti,  Claudio.  Jolikt,  and  Offirert ;  Lccio  and  two  Gentlemen  :  in  f 
IS.  •  Not  in  f.  e.  ♦  Greedily  ilevour.  •  dcnuncjatinn  in  f  e.  '  propagation  : 
tad  Kai^bt :  ilip.    Theotmid  auggesitol  the  chants  also       ><  r.  e.  : 

In  (imf.  Ih<>  rrxl 
Beoomen  more  morkM,  'hir  ff>*r'(J  :  so  our  decrees.      Beeomet 


I  tickle  on  thy  shoulders,  that  a  milk-maid,  if  she  be  m 
I  love,  may  sigh  it  off.  Send  after  the  duke,  and  appeal 
j  to  him. 

I      Claud.  I  have  done  so,  but  he 's  not  to  be  found. 
I  prythee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service. 
This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter, 
And  there  receive  her  approbation  : 
Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state : 
Implore  her,  in  my  voice,  that  she  make  friends 
To  the  strict  deputy  ;  bid  herself  essay  him  : 
I  have  great  hope  in  that ;  for  in  her  youth 
There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect, 
Such  as  moves  men :  beside,  she  hath  prosperous  art. 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 
And  she  can  well  persuade. 

Lucio.  I  pray,  she  may :  as  well  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  like,  which  else  would  stand  under  grievous 
imposition,  as  for  tlie  enjoying  of  thy  life,  who  I  would 
be  sorry  should  be  thus  foolishly  lost  at  a  game  of  tick- 
tack.'  '  I'll  to  her. 

Claud.  I  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Within  two  hours. 

Claud.  Come,  officer ;  away !     [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— A  Monastery. 
Enter  Duke,  and  Friar  Thomas. 

Dvke.  No,  holy  father  ;  throw  away  that  thought : 
Believe  not  tliat  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 
Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom.     Why  I  desire  thee 
To  give  me  secret  harbour  hath  a  purpose 
More  grave  and  wrinkled,  than  the  aims  and  ends 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  May  your  grace  speak  of  it  ? 

Duke.  My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than  yoa 
How  I  have  ever  lov'd  the  life  removd; 
And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies. 
Where  youth,  and  cost,  and  witless  bravery  keeps. 
I  have  delivered  to  lord  Angelo 
(A  man  of  stricture,  and  firm  abstinence) 
My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 
And  he  supposes  me  travell'd  to  Poland  ; 
For  so  I  have  strewd  it  in  the  common  ear, 
And  so  it  is  receiv"d.     Now,  pious  sir, 
You  will  demand  of  me,  why  I  do  this? 

Fri.  Gladly,  my  lord. 

Duke.  We  have  strict  statutes,  and  most  biting  law^ 
(The  needful  bits  and  curbs  to  head-strong  steeds')    / 
Which  for  this  foxirteen  years  wc  have  let  sleep' ;      j 
EvcnJike_an  o'er-gro'W'Ti  lion  in  a  cave,  ; 

ThatgocTliot  out  to  preyT~nS"w.  as  io'nd  fathers,  / 
Having" bounT"uirttTeTTrreat' ning  twigs  of  birch  / 
Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  siglrt.  / 

For  terror,  not  to  use,  in  time  the  rod"  s"  l 

More  mock'd  than  feared  ;  so  our  most  just  decreet 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead,  ! 

And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose : 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart  , 

Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  in  your  grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice,  when  you  pleas'd  ; 
And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seem'd, 
Than  in  lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  fear,  too  dreadful : 

Sith  'twas  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'T  would  be  my  tyranny  to  strike  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do :  for  we  bid  this  be  done, 


>  An  alluHion  t( 
f.   e.      '  Tric-trar 


St.  Paul's  Ep.  to  Romans  i] 
B  weeds  :  in  f.  e.    •  Old  E<i 


added  by  Pope 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


65 


When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass. 

A.nd  not  due  punishment.    Therefore,  indeed,  my  father, 

[  have  on  Aiigelo  imposed  the  office, 

Who  may,  in  th'  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  home, 

A.nd  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  sight/ 

To  draw  on'  slander.     And  to  behold  his  sway, 

I  will,  as  't  were  a  brother  of  your  order. 

Visit  both  prince  and  people:  therefore,  I  pr'ythee, 

Supply  me  with  the  habit,  a**!  instruct  me 

Ho-^'  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 

Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action, 

At  our  more  leisure  shall  I  render  you  ; 

Only  this  one  : — Lord  Angelo  is  precise  ; 

Stands  at  a  guard  with  envy  ;  scarce  confesses 

That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 

Is  more  to  bread  than  stone  :  hence  shall  we  see, 

If  power  change  purpose,  what  our  seemers  be.   [Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— A  Nunnery. 
Enter  Isabella  and  Francisca. 

Isab.  And  have  you  nuns  no  farther  privileges? 

Fran.  Are  not  these  large  enough? 

Isab.  Yes,  truly  :  I  speak  not  as  desiring  more, 
But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sisterhood,  the  votarists  of  saint  Clare. 

Lucio.  [Within.]  Ho  !  Peace  be  in  this  place  ! 

hub.  Who's  that  which  calls  ? 

Fran.  It  is  a  man's  voice.     Gentle  Isabella. 
Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him  : 
You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  are  yet  unsworn. 
When  you  have  vowed,  >ou  must  not  speak  vnth  men. 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress  : 
Then,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your  face ; 
Or,  if  you  show  your  face,  you  must  not  speak. 

[Lucio  calls. 
He  calls  again  :  I  pray  you,  answer  him. 

[Exit  Francisca. 

Isab.  Peace  and  prosperity  !     Who  is't  that  calls  ? 
Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Hail,  virgin,  if  you  be,  as  those  cheek-roses 
Proclaim  you  are  no  less,  can  you  so  stead  me. 
As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 
A  novice  of  this  place,  and  the  fair  sister 
To  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio  ? 

Isab.  Why  her  unhappy  brother?  let  me  ask,    ■ 
The  rather,  for  I  now  m«st  make  you  know 
[  am  that  Isabella,  and  his  sister. 

Lucio.  Gentle  and  fair,   your  brother  kindly  greets 
you. 
Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he's  in  prison. 

Isab.  Woe  me  !  for  what? 

Lucio.  For  that,  which,  if  myself  might  be  his  judge, 
He  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks. 
He  hath  got  his  friend  with  child. 

Isab.  Sir,  make  me  not  your  scorn,* 

L&Kio.  '  Tis  true.     I   would  not,  though  '  tis  my  fa- 
miliar sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest. 
Tongue  far  from  hearty  play  with  all  virgins  so ; 
I  hold  you  as  a  thing  ensky'd,  and  sainted 
By  your  renouncement,  an  immortal  spirit, 
And  to  be  talked  with  in  sincerity, 
As  with  a  saint. 

'  flf  ht ;  in  f.  «.        »  do  in  :  in  f.  e.        »  Not  in  f.  e.        ♦  »tory  :  j 

£ 


Isab.  You  do  blaspheme  the  good  m  mocking  me. 

Lucio.  Do  not  believe  it.     Fewness  and   truth,  'ti.s 
thus: 
Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embrac'd  : 
As  those  that  feed  grow  full  ;  as  blos.sorning  time, 
That  from  the  seeding  the  bare  fallow  brings 
To  teeming  foison,  even  so  her  plenteous  womb 
Expresseth  his  full  tilth  and  husbandry. 

Isab.    Some   one  with  child  by   him  ? — My  cousin 
Juliet? 

Lucio.  Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isab.  Adoptedly  ;  as  school-maids  change  their  nam*- 
By  vain  though  apt,  affection. 

Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isab.  0  !  let  him  marry  her. 

Lxicio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke,  who's  very  strangely  gone  from  hence, 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one, 
In  hand  and  hope  of  action ;  but  we  do  learn, 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state 
His  givings  out  were  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  of  his  authority, 
Governs  lord  Angelo ;  a  man  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broih ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  wanton  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense, 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  study  and  fast. 
He  (to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty, 
Which  have  for  long  run  by  the  hideous  law,    | 
As  mice  by  lions.)  hath  picked  out  an  act,         [ 
Under  whose  heavy  sen.se  your  brother's  life 
Falls  into  forfeit:  he  arrests  him  on  it, 
And  follows  close  the  rigor  of  the  statute. 
To  make  him  an  example.     All  hope  is  gone, 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo ;  and  that's  my  pith 
Of  business  'twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isab.  Doth  he  so  seek  his  life  ? 

Lucio.  Hath  censur'd  hire 

Already  ;  and,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath 
A  warrant  for  his  execution. 

Isab.  Alas  !  what  poor  ability's  in  me 
To  do  him  good  ? 

Lucio.  Essay  the  power  you  have. 

Isab.  My  power,  alas  !  I  doubt. 

Lucio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors. 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win, 
By  fearing  to  attempt.     Go  to  lord  Angelo, 
And  let  him  learn  to  know,  when  maidens  sue. 
Men  give  like  gods ;  but  when  they  weep  and  kneel, 
All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  them. 

Isab    I'll  see  what  I  can  do. 

Lucio.  But  speedily. 

hab.  I  will  about  it  straight, 
No  longer  staying  but  to  give  the  mother 
Notice  of  my  affair.     I  humbly  thank  you  : 
Commend  me  to  my  brother :  soon  at  night 
I'll  send  him  certain  word  of  mv  success. 

Lucio.  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 
Isab.  Good  sir.  adieu      [ExeunJ. 


m 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT    II. 


SCtNE  I— A  Hall  in  Akgelo's  House. 

Entei  Anoblo,  Kscalur.  a  Justice,    Officers,   and  other 
Attendants. 

Ang.  We  must  not  make  a  scare-crow  of  the  law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
lid  let  it  keep  one  shape,  till  custom  make  it 
heir  pcrcli.  and  not  their  terror. 
Escal.  Ay.  but  yet 

ci  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little. 
Than  tail.*  and  bruise  to  death.  Alas  !  this  gentleman, 
Wlioin  1  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father. 
Let  but  your  honour  know, 
(Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  strait  in  virtue.) 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections. 
Had  lime  cohcr"d  with  place,  or  place  with  wishing, 
Or  that  the  resolute  actmg  of  your  blood 
Could  have  aitaiii'd  th'  effect  of  your  own  purpose. 
Whether  you  had  not.  sometime  in  your  life, 
Err'd  in  this  point,  which  now  you  censure  him, 
And  pull'd  the  law  upon  you. 

Ang.  '  Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
.\nother  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny. 
The  jury,  passing  on  a  prisoner's  life. 
May  in  the  sworn  twelve  have  a  thief  or  two 
Guiltier  than  him  they  try;  what's  open  made  to  justice, 
That  justice  seizes  :  what  know  the  laws, 
That  thieves  do  pass  on  thieves  ?     'Tis  very  pregnant, 
The  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  it. 
Because  we  see  it  :  but  what  we  do  not  see 
We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 
Vou  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence. 
For  I  have  had  such  faults  :  but  rather  tell  me. 
When  I,  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend, 
Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death. 
And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir.  he  must  die. 
Escal.  Be  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 
Ang.  \^'here  is  the  provost  ? 

Etiter  Provost. 
Prov.  Here,  if  it  like  your  honour. 
Ang.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning. 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepar'd. 
For  that's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage.   [Exit  Provost. 
Escal.  Well,  heaven  forgive  him,  and  forgive  us  all  ! 
Some  rise  i,j  sin,  and  some  by  virtue  fall  : 
Some  run  :roin  breaks'  of  ice.  and  answer  none. 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 

Enter  Ei-uow,  Froth.  Clown,  Officers,  ffc. 
Elb.  Come,    bring   them   away.      If  these  be   good 
eople  in  a  common-weal,  that  do  nothing  but  use  their 
buses  in  common  house.*,  I  know  no  law :  bring  them 
way. 

Ang.  How  now,  sir?  What's  your  name,  and  what's 
he  matter  ? 

Elb.  li  it  please  your  honour,  I  am  the  poor  duke's 
Dnstable,  and  my  name  is  Elbow:  I  do  not  lean  upon 
u.'-tice,  sir  ;  and  do  bring  in  here  before  your  good 
onour  two  notorious  benefactors. 

Ang  Benefactors  I  Well ;  what  benefactors  are  they  ! 
re  they  not  malefactors  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honour.  I  know  not  well  what 
they  arc;  but  preci.se  villains  they  are,  that  I  am  sure 
if,  and  void  ;t  all  profanation  in  the  world  that  good 
Christians  ought  to  hav* 


Escal.  This  comes  off  well  :  here's  a  wi.<5e  ofRcei. 

Ang.  Go  to:  what  quality  are  they  of?  Elbow  is 
your  name  :   why  dost  thou  not  speak.  Elbow  ' 

Clo.  He  cannot,  sir,  he's  out  at  elbow. 

Ang.   Wliat  are  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  He.  sir  ?  a  tapster,  sir :  parcel-bawd ;  one  that 
serves  a  bad  woman,  whose  house,  sir,  was,  as  they  say 
pluck'd  down  in  the  suburbs  ;  and  now  she  professes  3 
hot-house,  which.  I  think,  is  a  very  ill  house  too. 

Escal.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Elb.  My  wife,  sir,  whom  I  detest  before  heaven  and 
your  honour, — 

Escal.  How  !  thy  wife  ? 

Elb.  Ay.  sir  ;  whom,  I  thanlc  heaven,  is  an  honest 
woman. — 

Escal    Dost  thou  detest  her  therefore? 

Elb.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  detest  myself  also,  as  well  a;- 
she,  that  this  house,  if  it  be  not  a  bawd's  house,  it  is 
pity  of  her  life,  for  it  is  a  naughty  house. 

E.<cal.  How  dost  thou  know  that.  con.stable  ? 

Elb.  iSIavry  sir,  by  my  wife  ;  who,  if  she  had  been  a 
woman  cardinally  given,  might  have  been  accused  in 
fornication,  adultery,  and  all  uncleanliness  there. 

Escal.  By  the  woman's  means? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir,  by  mistress  Over-done's  means  ;  but  as 
she  spit  in  his  face,  so  she  de.led  him. 

Clo.  Sir,  if  it  please  your  honour,  this  is  not  so. 

Elb.  Prove  it  before  these  varlets  here,  thou  hon- 
ourable man  ;  prove  it. 

Escal.  [To  Angelc]  Do  you  hear  how  he  misplaces  . 

Clo.  Sir.  she  came  in  great  with  child,  and  longing 
(saving  your  honour's  reverence)  for  stcw'd  prunes  :  sir 
we  had  but  two  in  the  house,  which  at  that  very  distaiit 
time  stood,  as  it  were,  in  a  fruit-dish,  a  dish  of  some 
three-pence  :  your  honours  have  seen  such  dishes  :  they 
are  not  China  dishes,  but  very  good  dishes. 

Escal.  Go  to.  go  to :  no  matter  for  the  dish.  sir. 

Clo.  No.  indeed,  sir,  not  of  a  pin;  you  are  therein 
in  the  right ;  but  to  the  point.  As  1  say.  this  mistress 
Elbow,  being  as  I  say,  with  child,  and  being  great 
beily'd,  and  longing,  as  I  said  for  prunes,  and  having 
but  two  in  the  dish,  as  I  said,  master  Froth  here,  this 
very  man.  having  eaten  the  re^t.  a,s  I  said.  and.  as  I  say, 
paying  for  them  very  honestly  ; — for,  as  you  know, 
master  Froth,  I  could  not  give  you  three-pence  again 

Froth.  No,  indeed 

Clo.  Very  well :  you  being  then,  if  you  be  remern 
ber'd  cracking  the  stones  of  the  foresaid  prunes. 

Froth.  Ay,  so  I  did.  indeed. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well  :  I  telling  you  then,  if  you  b^- 
remember'd,  that  sucii  a  one,  and  such  a  one,  were  past 
cure  of  the  thing  you  wot  of,  unless  ihey  kept  very 
good  diet,  as  I  told  ycu. 

Froth.  AW  this  is  true. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well  then. 

Escal.  Come  ;  you  arc  a  tedious  fool :  to  the  purpose. 
— What  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  tliat  he  hath  cause 
to  complain  of?     Come  me  to  what  was  done  10  her. 

Clo.  Sir.  your  honour  cannot  come  to  that  yet 

Escal.  No,  sir.  nor  I  mean  it  not. 

Clo.  Sir,  but  you  shall  come  to  it,  by  your  honour'? 

leave.     And  I   beseech   you.   look   unto   master  Froth 

here,  sir  ;  a  man  of  fourscore   pound  a  year,  whose 

father  died  at   Hallowmas- -Wast  uot   at  Haliowmafi, 

I  ma-^ter  Froth  ? 


►i'-  «a  to  brrckt  by  Steeveni.     Dyce  wonM  read  brakts  (instrura'nU  of  torture)  of  Tie*. 


SCENE  f. 


MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE. 


67 


I 


Froth.  All-hallowed  eve. 

Clo.  Why.  very  well  :  I  hope  here  be  truths.  He, 
sir,  sitting,  as  I  say,  in  a  lower  chair,  sir — 't  was  in  the 
Bunch  of  Grapes,  where,  indeed,  you  have  a  delight  to 
bit,  have  you  not  ? 

Froth.  I  have  so;  because  't  is  an  open  room,  and 
good  lor  windows.* 

Clo.   Why,  very  well,  then  :  I  hope  here  be  truths. 

Ang.  This  will  last  out  a  night  in  Russia. 
When  nights  are  longest  there.     FU  take  my  leave, 
And  leave  you  to  the  hearing  of  the  cause. 
Hoping  you'll  find  good  cause  to  whip  them  alL 

Escal.  I  think  no  less.     Good  morrow  to  your  lord- 
ship. [Exit  Angelo. 
Now,  sir,  come  on :  what  was  done   to   Elbow's  wife, 
once  more  ? 

Clo.  Once,  sir  ?  there  was  nothing  done  to  her  once. 

Elb.  1  beseech  you,  sir.  ask  him  what  this  man  did 
to  my  wile. 

Clo.  I  beseech  your  honour,  ask  me. 

Escal.   Well,  sir,  what  did  this  gentleman  to  her  ? 

Clo.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  look  in  this  gentleman's  face. 
— Good  master  Froth,  look  upon  his  honour  ;  'tis  for  a 
good  purpose.     Doth  your  honour  mark  las  face  ? 

Escal.   Ay,  sir,  very  well. 

Clo.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  mark  it  well. 

Escal.  Well,  I  do  so. 

Clo.  Doth  your  lionour  see  any  harm  in  his  face? 

Escal.  Why,  i.o. 

Clo.  I'll  be  supposed  upon  a  book,  his  face  is  the 
worst  thing  about  him.  Good,  then  ;  if  his  face  be  the 
worst  thing  al  out  him,  how  could  master  Froth  do  the 
constables  wife  any  harm  ?  I  would  know  that  of 
your  honour. 

Escal.  He's  in  the  right.  Constable,  what  say  you 
to  It  ? 

Elb.  First,  an  it  like  you,  the  house  is  a  respected 
hou.se;  next,  this  i.s  a  re.-pected  fellow,  and  his  mis- 
;ress  is  a  respected  worn  m. 

Clo.  By  this  hand.  sir.  his  wife  is  a  more  respected 
person  than  any  of  us  all. 

Ellj.  Varlet.  thou  liest :  thou  liest,  wicked  varlet. 
The  time  is  yet  to  come  that  she  was  ever  re.*pected 
with  man.  woman,  or  child. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  was  respected  with  him  before  he  mar- 
ried with  her. 

Escal.  Which  is  the  wiser  here  ?  Justice,  or  Ini- 
quity— Is  tliis  true  ? 

Elb.  0  thou  caitilT!  0  thou  varlet  !  0  thou  wicked 
Hannibal  !  I  respected  with  her  before  I  was  married 
to  her  ? — If  ever  I  was  respected  with  her,  or  she  with 
me,  let  not  your  worship  think  me  the  poor  duke's 
officer. — Prove  this,  thou  wicked  Hannibal,  or  I'll  have 
mine  action  of  battery  on  thee. 

Escal.  [f  he  took  you  a  box  o'  th'  ear,  you  might 
have  your  action  of  slander  too. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  good  worship  for  it.  What 
is  't  your  worship's  pleasure  I  shall*  do  with  this 
wicked  caitiff? 

Escal.  Truly,  officer,  because  he  hath  some  offences 
ia  him  that  thou  wouldst  discover  if  thou  couldst,  let 
him  continue  in  his  courses  till  thou  know'st  what 
they  are. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  worship  for  it. — Thou 
seest,  thou  wicked  varlet  now,  what's  come  upon  thee  : 
thou  art  to  continue ;  now,  thou  varlet,  thou  art  to  con- 
tinue. 

Escal.  Where  were  you  born,  friend? 

Froth.  Here  in  Vienna,  sir. 


f .  •         '  Altered  by  Malone  to  "  should." 


bay; 


Escal.  Are  you  of  fourscore  pounds  a  year  ? 

Froth    Yes.  an  't  please  you,  sir. 

Escal.  So. — What  trade  are  you  of,  sir  ? 

Clo.  A  tapster ;  a  poor  widow's  tapster. 

Escal.  Your  mistress'  name? 

Clo.  Mistress  Over-done. 

Escal.  Hath  she  any  more  than  one  husband  ? 

Clo    Nine,  sir;  Over-done  by  the  last. 

Escal.  Nine  ! — Come  hither  to  me,  master  Froth. 
Master  Froth.  I  would  not  have  you  acquainted  wilh 
tapsters ;  they  will  draw  you,  master  Froth,  and  yoii 
will  hang  them  :  get  you  gone,  and  let  me  hear  no 
more  of  you. 

Froth.   I  thank  your  worship.     For  mine  own  part, 
I  never  come  into  any  room  in  a  taphouse,  but   I  a 
drawn  in. 

Escal.  Well;  no  more  of  it.  master  Froth;  farewell. 
\Exit  Froth.] — Come  you  hither  to  me,  master  tap- 
ster.    What's  your  name,  master  tapster  ? 

Clo.  Pompey. 

Escal.  What  else? 

Clo.  Bum,  sir. 

Escal.  'Troth,  and  your  bum  is  the  greatest  thing 
about  you  ;  so  that,  in  the  beastliest  sense,  you  are 
Pompey  the  great.  Pompey,  you  are  partly  a  bawd. 
Pompey,  howsoever  you  color  it  in  being  a  tapster. 
Are  you  not  ?  come,  tell  me  true  :  it  shall  be  the  better 
for  you. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  fellow  that  would  live. 

Escal.  Hovf  would  you  live,  Pompey  ?  by  being  a 
bawd?  What  do  you  think  of  the  trade,  Pompey?  i? 
it  a  lawful  trade  ? 

Clo.  If  the  law  would  allow  it,  sir. 

Escal.  But  the  law  will  not  allow  it,  Pompey;  nor 
it  shall  not  be  allowed  in  Vienna. 

Clo.  Does  your  wor.-hip  mean  to  geld  and  spay  all 
the  youth  of  the  city  ? 

Escal.  No,  Pompey. 

Clo.  Truly,  .sir.  in  my  poor  opinion,  they  will  to  't 
then.  If  your  lordship  will  take  order  for  the  drabs 
and  the  knaves,  you  need  not  fear  the  bawds. 

Escal.  There  are  pretty  orders  beginning,  I  can  tell 
you  :  it  is  but  heading  and  hanging. 

Clo.  If  you  head  and  hang  all  that  oifend  that  way 
but  for  ten  years  together,  you'll  be  glad  to  give  out  a 
commission  for  more  heads.  If  this  law  hold  in  Vienna 
ten  years,  Til  rent  the  fairest  house  in  it  after  three 
pence  a  day.'  If  you  live  to  see  this  come  to  pass,  say 
Pompey  told  you  so. 

Escal.  Thank  you,  good   Pompey  :  and  in  requital 
of  your  prophecy,  hark  you  : — I  advise  you,  let  me  not 
find  you  before  me   again  upon   any  complaint  what- 
soever ;  no.  not  for  dwelling  where  you  do:  if  I  do 
Pompey,  i   shall  beat  you  to   your   tent,  and  prove 
shrewd   Caesar  to  you.     In   plain   dealing,   Pompey, 
shall  have  you  whipt.     So,  for  this  time.  Pompey,  fa 
you  well. 

Clo.  I  thank  your  worship  for  your  good  counsel,  bu 
I  shall  follow  it,  as  the  flesh  and  fortune  shall  bettei 
determine. 

Whip  me  ?     No,  no ;  let  carman  whip  his  jade; 
The  valiant  heart's  not  whipt  out  of  his  trade.     [Exit 

Escal.  Come  hither  to  me,  master  Elbow;  come 
hither,  master  constable.  How  long  have  you  been  in 
this  place  of  constable  ? 

Elb.  Seven  year  and  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  I  thought  by  your*  readiness   in  the    office, 
you  had   continued  in  it  some  timi.     You  say,  seven 
years  together  ? 
in  f.  8         «  the  :  i»  £  • 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


AOT  IL 


Elb.   And  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  Alas  !  it  hath  been  great  pains  to  you.  They 
d<>  you  svrung  to  |iul  you  so  oft  upon  't.  Are  there  not 
inei:  in  your  ward  suHicient  to  serve  it  ? 

Elb.  Faiili.  sir,  few  of  any  wit  in  such  matters.     As  i 
they  arc  ciio.sen,  they  arc  glad  to  choose  me  for  them  :   For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must 

do  it  for  some  piece  of  money,  and   go  through  with   For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
all.  At  war  'twixt  will,  and  will  not. 


hab.  I  am  a  woeful  suitor  to  your  honour, 

Please  but  your  honour  hear  me. 

Jng.  Well  ;  what's  your  suit 

hub.  There  is  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor^ 

And  most  desire  should  meet  Ihe  blow  of  jusl'co, 


Eacal.  Look  you  bring  me  in  Ihe  names  of  some  six 
or  seven,  the  most  sutficient  of  your  parish. 

Elb.  To  your  worsliip's  house,  sir  ? 

Escal.  To  my  house.     Fare  you  well.  [Exit  Elbow. 
What 's  o'clock,  think  you  ? 

Just.   Eleven,  sir. 

Estal.  I  pray  you,  iiome  to  dmner  with  me. 

Just.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

Escal.  It  grieves  me  for  the  death  of  Claudio  ; 
But  there's  no  remedy. 

Just.  Lord  Ajigclo  is  severe. 

Escal.  It  is  but  needful  : 

Mercy  is  not  itself,  that  oft  looks  so ; 
Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe. 
But  yet,  i)oor  Claudio  ! — There  is  no  rem.edy. 
Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  Provost  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.  He's  hearing  of  a  cause  :  he  will  come  straight. 
I'll  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.       Pray  you.  do.     [Exit  Servant.]    I'll  know 
His  pleasure  ;  may  be,  he  will  relent.     Alas  ! 
He  haih  but  as  offended  in  a  dream  : 
All  sects,  all  ages  smack  of  this  vice,  and  he 
To  die  for  it ! 

Enter  Angelo. 

Ang.  Now.  what's  the  matter,  provost  ? 

Prov.  Is  it  your  will  Claudio  shall  die  to-morrow? 

Ang.  Did  I  not  tell  thee  yea  ?  hadst  thou  not  order? 
Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 

Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash. 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen, 
When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Ang.  Go  to  ;  let  that  be  mine  : 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place, 
And  you  shall  well  be  spar'd. 

Prov.  I  crave  your  honour's  pardon. 

What  shall  be  done,  sir,  with  the  groaning  Juliet  ? 
She's  very  near  her  hour. 

Ang.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place,  and  that  with  speed. 
lie-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemn'd 
Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.  Ay.  my  good  lord  :  a  very  virtuous  maid 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood, 
't'  not  alrcatly. 

Ang.         Well,  let  her  be  swlmitfed.      [Exit  Servant. 
Sec  you  the  forniciitrcs.«  be  rcmov'd  : 
Let  her  have  needful,  but  not  lavish,  means  , 
""here  shall  be  order  for  it. 

Enter  Lucio  and  Isabella. 


Prov.  S.ive  your  honour  ! 
Aug.  Slay  a   little  while. 
come  :  what's  your  wi 

•  RMtinttf.   in  f.  e.         •  You  are  : 


[To  h 


[Offeri7ig  to  go. 
iB.]     Y'  are  wel- 


Ang.  Well ;  the  matter 

Isab.  I  have  a  brother  is  condemn'd  to  die  : 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault. 
And  not  my  brother. 

Prov.  [A.tide.]   Heaven  give  thee  moving  graces. 

Ang.  Condemn  the  fault,  and  not  the  actor  of  it? 
Why,  every  fault's  condemn'd  ere  it  be  done. 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  tine  the  faults,  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isab.  O  just,  but  sevcc  law  ! 

I  had  a  brother  then. — Heaven  keep  your  ho.iour ! 

[Going.' 

Lucio.   [To  Isab]  Give  't  not  o'er  so :  to  Lira  again, 
entreat  him ; 
Kneel  down  belbre  him,  hang  upon  his  gown  j 
You  are  too  cold  :  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 
You  could  not  with  more  tame  a  tongue  desire  it. 
To  him.  I  say. 

Isab.  Must  he  needs  die  ? 

Ang.  Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isab.  Yes  ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him. 
And  neither  heaven,  nor  man,  grieve  at  the  mercy. 

Ang.  I  will  not  do  't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would  ? 

Ang.  Look  ;  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 

Isab.   But   might   you   do    't,  and   do  the  world   n« 
wronp'. 
If  so  your  heart  were  touched  with  that  remorse 
As  mine  is  to  him? 

Ang.  He's  sentenc'd  :  't  is  too  late. 

Lucio.  [To  Isab.]  Thou  art'  too  cold. 

Isab.  Too  late?  why,  no  ;  I,  that  do  speak  a  word. 
May  call  it  back  again  :  W^ell  believe  this. 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does.    If  he  had  been  as  you,  and  you  as  he, 
You  would  have  slipt  like  him  ;  but  he,  like  you. 
Would  not  have  been  so  stern. 

Ang.  Pray  you,  begone. 

I.sab.  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  your  potency. 
And  you  were  Isabel  !   should  it  then  be  thus  ? 
No  ;   1  would  tell  what  't  were  to  be  a  judge 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

Lvcio.  [Aside.]   Ay,  touch  him;  there's  the  vein 

Ang.  Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 
And  you  but  waste  your  words. 

Isab.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were  were  forfeit  once  ; 
And  he  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took. 
Found  out  the  remedy.  How  would  you  be. 
If  he,  which  is  the  God*  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ?  0,  think  on  that 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  .within  your  lips 
Like  man  new  made  ! 

Ang.  Bs  you  content,  fa^   maid 


B.         '  Knight  readu  : 

If  he  had  been  as  you. 
And  you  an  he,  you  voold  have  slipu'd  like  hie 
But  he.  to 


SCENE    /I. 


MEASUKE  FOR  MEASURE. 


[t  is  the  law,  not  I,  condemns  your  brother: 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son. 
It  should  be  thus  willi  him  :  he  must  die  to-morrow. 
Isab.  To-morrow  ?     0,  thai's  sudden  !     Spare  him, 
spare  him  ! 
He's  not  pre})ar"d  for  death.     Even  for  our  kitchens 
We  kill  tlie  fowl  of  season :  shall  we  serve  heaven 
With  less  respect  than  we  do  miiiister 
To  our  gross  selves  ?  Good,  good  my  lord,  bethink  you  ? 
Who  is  it  that  hath  died  for  this  offence  ? 
There's  many  have  committed  it. 

Lucio.  [Aside.]   Ay,  well  said. 

Ang.  The  law  hath  not  been  dead,   though  it  hath 
slept : 
Those  many  had  not  dar"d  to  do  that  evil. 
If  the  lirst  one'  that  did  th'  edict  infringe, 
Had  answered  for  his  deed  :  now.  "t  is  awake ; 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done,  and,  like  a  prophet, 
Looks  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  evils 
Either  new,  or  by  remissness  new-conceiv'd, 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatch'd  and  born. 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees, 
But  ere^  they  live  to  end. 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.  I  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice  ; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 
Which  a  disiniss'd  offence  would  after  gall, 
And  do  hun  right,  that  ao-swenng  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another      Be  satisfied  • 
Vour  brother  dies  to-iporrow  :  be  content. 
Isab.  So  you  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this  sen- 
tence, 
Ajid  he  that  suffers.     0  !   it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Liicio  [Aside.]  That's  well  said. 

Isab.  Could  great  men  thunder, 
Xs  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet, 
for  every  pe'.tiii};,  petty  officer 
Wot;ld  use  hif.  heaven  for  thunder; 
Nothing  but  thut?der.     Merciful  heaven  ! 
Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt 
Split'st  the  unved,'?eable  and  gnarled  oak. 
Than  the  soft  myrtle  ;  but  man,  proud  man  ! 
Urest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Vloist  ig^iiorant  of  what  he's  most  assur'd. 
His  gla.-sy  essence,  like  an  angry  ape, 
Plays  such  laniastic  tricks  before  high  heaven, 
As  make  the  angels  weep  ;  who,  wiili  our  spleens. 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

Lucio.  [To  Isab.]  0,  to  him,  to  him,  wench  !     He 
will  relent : 
H-j's  coming  ;  I  perceive  't. 

Prov.  [Aside.]   Pray  heaven,  she  win  him  I 

Isab.  You  cjnnot  weigh  our  brother  with  yourself: 
Ureat  men  may  je^t  with  saints :  't  is  wit  in  them, 
.But  in  tlie  less  foul  profanation. 

Lucio.   [To  Isab.]  Thou 'rt  in  the  right,  girl:  more 

o'  that. 
Isab.  That  in  the  captain  's  but  a  choleric  word, 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Lucio.  [Ai'de.]   Art  advised  o'  that  ?     more  on 't. 
Ang.  Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 
Isab.  Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself. 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top.     Go  to  your  bosom ; 
Knock  tliere,  and  ask  your  heart,  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault;  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his, 


Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brothers  life. 

Aug.  [Aside.]  She  speaks,  and 't  is 

Such  sense,  that  my   sense  breeds  with  it.    [To  her.^ 
Fare  you  well. 

Isab.  Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back 

Ang.  I  will  bethink  me. — Come  again  to-morrow.- 

Isab.     Hark,  how   I  '11  bribe  you.     Good  my  lord, 
turn  back. 

Ang.  How  !  bribe  me  ?  [with  you. 

Isab.  Ay,  with  such  gifts,  that  heaven   shall  share 

Lucio.   [Aside.]    You  had  marr'd  all  else. 

Isab.  Not  with  fond  circles^  of  the  tested  gold, 
Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich  or  poor 
As  fancy  values  them ;  but  with  true  prayers, 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there 
Ere  sun-rise  :  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.  Well ;  come  to  me  to-morrow, 

Lucio.  [To  Isab.]     Go  to  ;  'tis  well  :  away  ! 

Isab.  Heaven  keep  your  honour  safe  !  [Going.* 

Ang.  [Aside.]  Amen . 

For  1  am  that  way  going  to  temptation. 

Where  prayers  cross. 

Isab.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  lordship  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isab.  Save  your  honour  ! 

[Exeunt  Lucio,  Isabella,  and  Provost. 

Ang.  From  thee  ;  even  from  thy  virtue  ! — 

What's  this  ?  what's  this  '?  Is  this  her  fault  or  mine  ? 
The  tempter,  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most  ?     Ha  I 
Not  she,  nor  doth  she  tempt ;  but  it  is  I, 
That  lying  by  the  violet  in  the  sun. 
Do,  as  the  carrion  does,  not  as  the  flower, 
Corrupt  with  virtuous  season.     Can  it  be, 
That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 
Than  woman's  lightness  ?  Having  waste  ground  enough, 
Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary. 
And  pitch  our  offals'  there  ?     O,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 
What  dost  thou,  or  what  art  thou,  Angelo  ? 
Dost  thou  desire  her  foully  for  tho.se  things 
That  make  her  good  ?     0.  let  her  brother  live  ! 
Thieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority. 
When  judges  steal  themselves.      What  !  do  I  love  her, 
That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again. 
And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?     What  is  'i  I  dream  on  ? 

0  cunning  enemy,  that,  to  catch  a  saint. 

With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook  !     Most  dangerous 
Is  that  temptation,  that  doth  goad  us  on 
To  sin  in  loving  virtue.     Never  could  the  strumpet. 
With  all  her  double  vigour,  art  and  nature, 
Once  stir  my  temper  ;  but  this  virtuous  maid 
Subdues  me  quite. — Even  from  youth  till  now 
When  men  were  fond,  I  smil'd,  and  wonder'd  how. 

[Exit 
SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  a  Prison. 
Enter  Duke,  as  a  Friar,  and  Provost. 
Duke.  Hail  to  you,  provost;  so  I  think  you  are. 
Prov.  I  am  the  provost.     What's  your  will,  goc 

friar  ? 
Duke.  Bound  by  my  charity,  and  my  bless'd  order, 

1  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits 

Here  in  the  prison  :  do  me  the  common  right 
To  let  me  see  them,  and  to  make  me  know 
The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  1  may  minister 
To  them  accordingly. 


'Notiuf.  c.        *  I.e.:  here.    Knis  it  reads— where.        'shekels:   in  fc  i 


*  Not  in  f.  e.       »  evils  :  in  f.  •. 


70 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT  n 


Prov    I    would   do   niiirc  than    that,   if  more    were 
needful. 

Enlcr  Jli.ikt 
Look  :  here  (.■oines  one  :  a  gentlewoman  of  mine, 
Will),  tailing'  ill  the  tlames'  of  her  own  youth, 
Hath  bli!-iei"d  lier  report.     Slie  is  willi  child, 
And  he  tliat  got  it,  seiitcnc'd— a  young  man 
More  tit  to  do  another  sucli  oH'cnec, 
Tlian  die  tor  tliis. 

Jhike.   When  must  he  die? 

Prov.  As  I  do  think,  to-morrow. — 

'To  JiLiET.]  I  liave  provided  for  you:  stay  a  while, 

jd  you  !-liall  be  conducted. 

D'ike.  Hcpeiit  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you  carry? 

Juliet.  I  do,  and  bear  the  shame  most  patiently. 

Duke.  I'll   leach   you  how   you  shall   arraign  your 
conscience, 
And  try  your  penitence,  if  it  be  .sound. 
Or  hollowly  put  on. 

Juliet.  I  '11  gladly  learn. 

Duke.  Love  you  the  man  that  wrong'd  you? 

Juliet.  \es,  as  I  love  the  woman  that  wrong'd  him. 

Duke.  So  then,  it  seems,  your  nio.<t  offenceful  act 
Was  mutual!)  committed  ? 

Juliit.  Mutually. 

Duke.  Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind  than  his. 

Juliet.  I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 

Duke.    'T  is  meet  so,  daughter  :    but  least^  you  do 
repent, 
As  that  the  sin  hath  brought  you  to  this  shame  ; 
Which  sorrow  is  always  toward  ourselves,  not  heaven, 
Sliowing,  we  would  not  serve"  heaven,  as  we  love  it, 
But  as  we  stand  in  fear. 

Juliet.   I  do  repent  me,  as  it  is  an  evil. 
And  lake  the  shame  with  joy. 

Duke.  There  rest. 

Vour  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow. 
And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him, 
Grace  go  with  you  !     Benedicite  !  [Exit. 

Juliet.  Must  die  to  morrow  !     0,  injurious  love, 
That  respites  me  a  life,  whose  very  comfort 
Is  still  a  dying  horror  ! 

Prov.  'T  is  pity  of  him.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Angelo's  House. 
Enter  Angelo. 
Ang.  When   I  would   pray  and    think,  I    think   and 
pray 
To  several  subjects  :  iieaven  hath  my  empty  words, 
Whilst  my  mteniion.  liearing  not  my  tongue, 
Anchors  on  I>abel  :   heaven  in  my  mouth. 
As  if  I  did  but  only  ciiew  his  name, 
And  m  my  heart  tlie  strong  and  swelling  evil 
Of  my  co<icei)tion.     The  state,  whereon  I  studied, 
Is  like  a  good  tli.ng.  being  often  read, 
Grown  sear  and  tedious  ;  yea.  my  gravity. 
Wherein  (let  no  man  hear  me)  I  take  pride, 
Could  I    with  boot,  change  for  an  idle  plume, 
U'hicli  the  air  beats  for  vain.     0  place  !   0  form  ! 
Hew  olleii  dost  thou  with  thy  case,  thy  habit. 
Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tie  the  wiser  souls 
To  thy  false  seeming  !     Blood,  thou  art  blood  : 
Lei"s  write  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn, 
'T  IB  not  Ihc  devil's  crest. 

Enter  Servant. 
How  now  !   who's  there? 

Serv.  One  Isabel,  a  sister. 

Desires  access  to  you. 

AnfT.  Teach  her  the  way.     [Exit  Serv 

•  Knight,  with  thd  old  edn.,  revlB  •  flaws.         '  Mo«i  modern  oiW 


O  heavens ! 

Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heait, 

Making  it  both  unable  for  itself. 

And  dispossessing  all  my  other  part 

Of  necessary  fllness  ? 

So  play  the  foolisii  throngs  with  one  that  swoons  ; 

Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 

By  which  he  should  revive:   and  even  ^o 

The  general,  subject  to  a  well-wisli'd  king, 

Quit  their  own  path,  and  in  obsequious  fondrcss 

Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  llieir  untaught  love 

Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Enter  Isabella. 
How  now.  fair  maid  ? 

l.-<ab.  I  am  corne  to  know  your  pleasure 

Ang.  That  you  might  know  it,  would    much   bette. 
please  me, 
Than  to  demand  what  'tis.     Your  brother  cannot  live 

Isab.  Even  so. — Heaven  keep  your  honour  ! 

[Goi7\g.* 

Ang.  Yet  may  he  live  a  while  ;  and,  it  may  be, 
As  long  as  you,  or  1  :  yet  he  must  die. 

hab.  Under  your  sentence  ? 

Ang.  Yea. 

Isab.  When,  I  beseech  you?  that  in  his  reprieve. 
Longer  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted. 
That  his  soul  sicken  not. 

Ang.  Ha  !  Fie,  these  filthy  vices  !     It  were  as  good 
To  pardon  liiin,  that  hath  from  nature  stolen 
A  man  already  made,  as  to  remit 
Their  saucy  sweetness,  that  do  coin  heaven's  image 
In  stamps  that  are  forbid  :  't  is  all  as  easy 
Falsely  to  take  away  a  life  true  made, 
As  to  put  metal  in  restrained  means, 
To  make  a  false  one. 

Isab.  'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  but  not  in  earth. 

Ang.  Say  you  so  ?  then,  I  shall  poze  you  quickly. 
Which  had  you  rather,  that  the  most  just  law 
Now  took  your  brother's  life,  or  to  redeem  him 
Give  up  your  body  to  such  sweet  uncleanness 
As  she  that  he  hath  stain'd  ? 

Isab.  Sir,  believe  thi.s, 

I  had  rather  give  my  body  than  my  soul 

Ang.  I  talk  not  of  your  soul.     Our  compell'd  sins 
Stand  more  for  number  than  for  accompt. 

Isab.  How  say  you  7 

Ang.  Nay,  I'll  not  warrant  that ;  for  I  can  speak 
Against  the  thing  I  say.     Answer  to  this: — 
I,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law, 
Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life  : 
Might  there  not  be  a  charity  in  sin. 
To  save  this  brother's  life  ? 

Isab.  Please  you  to  do  t, 

I'll  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul  : 
It  is  no  sill  at  all,  but  charity. 

Ang.  i'lcas'd  you  to  do  't,  at  peril  of  your  soul, 
Were  equal  poize  of  sin  and  charily. 

Isab.  That  I  do  beg  his  lile,  if  it  be  sin. 
Heaven,  let  me  bear  it  !  you  granting  of  my  suit, 
If  that  be  sin,  I'll  make  it  my  morn-prayer 
To  have  it  added  to  the  faults  of  mine, 
And  nothing  of  your  answer. 

Aug.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Your  sense  pursues  not  mine  :  either  you  are  ignoran' 
Or  seem  so  crafty  ;  and  that  is  no  good. 

Isab.  Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good. 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  belter. 

Ang.  Thus  wisdom  wishes  to  appear  most  bright. 
When  it  doth  tax  itself:  as  those  black  masks 

reap:  le^t.  '  uniuo  :  in  f.  a.         *  Retiring:  \i\  f.  e. 


•    •      -  # 


'"  p 


,.  rtflT 


SCiiNE  T. 


MEASUKE  FOR  MEASURE. 


71 


I'roclaim  an  inshell'd'  beauty  ten  times  louder 
Than  beauty  could  displayed. — But  mark  me  : 
To  be  received  plain,  Til  speak  more  gross. 
Vour  brother  is  to  die. 

Isab.  So. 

Afig.  And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears 
Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 

Isab.  True. 

Ang.  Admit  no  other  way  to  save  his  life, 
(As  I  subscribe  not  that,  nor  any  other. 
But  in  the  force"''  of  question)  that  you.  his  sister, 
Finding  yourself  desir'd  of  such  a  person. 
Whose  credit  with  the  judge,  or  own  great  place, 
Could  fetch  your  brother  trom  the  manacles 
Of  the  all-binding  law  ;  and  that  there  were 
No  earthly  mean  to  save  him.  but  that  either 
You  must  lay  down  the  treasures  of  your  body 
To  this  suppos'd,  or  else  to  let  him  suffer, 
What  would  you  do  ? 

Isab.  As  much  for  my  poor  brother,  as  myself : 
That  is.  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death. 
Th'  impression  of  keen  whips  I'd  wear  as  rubies, 
And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 
That  longing  I  've  been  sick  for,  ere  I  'd  yield 
My  body  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must 

Your  brother  die. 

Isab.  And  't  were  the  cheaper  way. 
Better  it  were,  a  brother  died  at  once, 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him, 
Should  die  for  ever. 

Ang.  Were  not  you,  then,  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 
That  you  have  slander'd  so  ? 

Isab.  Ignomy  in  ransom,  and  free  pardon, 
Are  of  two  houses  :  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption. 

Ang.  You  seem'd  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  tyrant ; 
And  rather  prov'd  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment,  than  a  vice. 

Isab.  0.  pardon  me,  my  lord  !  it  oft  falls  out. 
To  have  what  we  would  have,  we  speak  not  what  we 

mean. 
I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  T  hate, 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

Ang.  We  are  all  frail. 

Isab.  Else  let  my  brother  die. 

If  not  a  feodary,  but  only  he. 
Owe.  and  succeed  this'  weakness, 

Ang.  Nay,  women  are  frail  too. 

Isab.  Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves. 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 
Women  ! — Help  heaven  !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.     Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail^ 
For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are. 
And  credulous  to  false  prints. 

Ang.  I  think  it  well ; 

And  from  this  te.'timony  of  your  own  sex, 
(Siuce,  1  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger. 


Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames.)  let  me  be  bold  ; 

I  do  arrest  your  words.     Be  that  you  are, 

That  is,  a  woman  ;  if  you  be  more,  you  're  none  *, 

If  you  be  one.  (as  you  are  well  express'd 

By  all  external  warrants.)  show  it  now. 

By  putting  on  the  dcstin'd  livery. 

Isab.  I  have  no  tongue  but  one  :  gentle  my  lord, 
Let  me  entreat  you  speak  the  former  language. 

Ang.   Plainly,  conceive  I  love  you. 

Isah.  My  brother  did  love  Juliet ;  and  you  tell  mc 
That  he  shall  die  for  it. 

Ang.  He  shall  not,  Isabel,  if  you  give  me  love. 

hab.  I  know,  your  virtue  hath  a  licence  in 't, 
Which  seems  a  little  fouler  than  it  is. 
To  pluck  on  others. 

Ang.  Believe  me,  on  mine  honour, 

My  words  express  my  purpose. 

Isab.  Ha  !  little  honour  to  be  much  be4iev'd, 
And  most  pernicious  purpose  ! — Seeming,  seeming! — 
I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo  ;  look  for  't ; 
Sign  nie  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother. 
Or  with  an  outstretch'd  throat  I  '11  tell  the  world 
Aloud  what  man  thou  art. 

Ang.  Who  will  believe  thee.  Isabel  ' 

Mv  unsoil'd  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life. 
May  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'  the  state 
Will  so  your  accusation  overweigh, 
That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report. 
And  smell  of  calumny.     I  have  begun. 
And  now  I  give  my  .sensual  race  the  rein: 
Fit  thy  consent  to  my  sharp  appetite  ; 
Lay  by  all  nicety,  and  prolixious  blushes, 
That  banish  what  they  .'-ue  for  ;   redeem  thy  brother 
By  yielding  up  thy  bcdy  to  my  will. 
Or  else  he  must  not  only  die  the  death. 
But  thy  unkindness  shall  his  death  draw  out 
To  lingering  sufferance.     Answer  me  to-morrow. 
Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 
I  '11  prove  a  tyrant  to  him.     As  for  you, 
Say  what  you  can,  mv  false  o'erweighs  your  true. 

[Exit. 

Isab.  To  whom  should  I  complain  ?     Did  I  tell  this, 
Who  would  believe  me?     0  perilous  mouths  ! 
That  bear  in  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue. 
Either  of  condemnation  or  approof. 
Bidding  the  law  make  court"sy  to  their  will. 
Hooking  both  right  and  wrong  to  th'  appetite, 
To  follow  as  it  draws.     FU  to  my  brother : 
Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 
Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honour, 
That  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  down 
On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he  'd  yield  them  up, 
Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 
To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 
Then,  Isabel,  live  chaste,  and,  brother,  dia* 
More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity, 
I  '11  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request, 
And  fit  his  mind  to  death,  for  his  soul's  rest.         [Exti 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Prison.  |      Clavd.  The  miserable  have 

y,  ^      „  77  •       n  in  No  other  medicine,  but  only  hope. 

Enter  Duke,  as  a  Fnar..  Claudio,  and  Provost.  x  ,  „^._^  ,    ^^  ,    ,■    '    ^^ ,  ^'  ^  L^^^'a  +«  a:^ 

'  '  '  1  have  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepar  d  to  die. 

?  '      Duke.  Be  absolute  for  death  :  either  death,  or  life, 

The  ■word  in  the  te«t  was  taken  from  a  copy  of  fha 


Diihe.  So  then,  you  hope  of  pardon  from  lord  Angelo ' 


«  enshield  :  in  f.  e  2  loss  •  in  f.  e  3  Knight :  thy.    The  old  copies 

Crat  folio,  with  MS.  emendation*  belonging  to  Loril  Francis  Egerton. 


72 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT  m. 


Shall  thereby  be  the  sweeter.  Reason  thus  with  life  : — 

If  I  d)  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 

That  none  but  fools  would  keep  :   a  breath  thou  art. 

Servile  to  all  the  skyey  influences. 

That  do  ihi.s  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 

Hourly  afflict.     Merely,  thou  art  death's  fool ; 

Kor  him  thou  labour"st  by  thy  tlight  lo  shun. 

And  yet  runst  toward  him  still  :  thou  art  not  noble; 

For  all  th'  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st, 

Are  nurs'd  by  bareness  :  thou  art  by  no  means  valiant ; 

F'>r  thou  do>t  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 

Oli  a  }X)or  worm :  thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 

And  that  thou  oft  provok'st,  yet  grossly  fear'st 

Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.    Thou  art  not  thyself; 

For  thou  ciist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 

That  issue  out  of  dust :  happy  thou  art  not  ; 

For  what  thou  hast  not.  still  thou  striv'st  lo  get, 

And  what  thou  ha^t  forget'f-t.     Thou  art  not  certain; 

For  thy  complexion  shifis  to  strange  effects, 

After  the  moon  :  if  thou  art  rich,  thou  "rt  poor; 

For.  like  an  asss,  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 

Thou  bear'st  tliy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 

And  death  unloads  ihee  :  friend  ha.«t  thou  none  ; 

For  thine  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire, 

The  mere  effusion  of  thy  proper  loins. 

Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo,'  and  the  rheum, 

For  ending  tliee  no  sooner  :  thou  hasl  nor  youth,  nor  age, 

But.  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner's  sleep. 

Dreaming  on  both  ;  for  all  thy  boasted*  youth 

Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 

Of  palsied  eld  :  and  when  thou  art  old  and  rich, 

Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 

To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What  's  yet  in  this, 

That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?     Y'et  in  this  lite 

Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths,  yet  death  we  fear, 

That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live.  I  find.  I  seek  to  die, 
\nd.  seekin2  death,  find  life  :  let  it  come  on. 

Isab.   [Withotit.]  What,  ho  !    Peace  here ;  grace  and 
good  company  !  [welcome. 

Prov.  Who  's  there  ?  come  in  :  the  wish  deserves  a 
Enter  Isabei,l.\. 

Dtiie.  Dear  sir.  ere  long  I  "II  visit  you  again. 

Claiul.  Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Isab.  My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 

Prov.  And  very   welcome.     Look,  signior ;  here  's 
your  sister. 

Duke.  Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  As  many  as  you  plea.se. 

Duke.  Bring  me  to  hear  them   speak,  where   I  may 
be  conceal'd.  [Exeunt  Duke  aiid  Provost. 

Clavul.  Now,  sister,  what's  the  comfort  ? 

hob.  Why.  as  all 

Comfort-':  are  :  most  good,  most  good,  indeed. 
Lord  Angelo.  having  affairs  to  heaven, 
Intends  you  for  his  svvift  ambaj^«ador, 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  lieger:* 
Tlieret'ore,  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed  : 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

hab.  None,  but  such  remedy  as  to  save  a  head 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Jsab.  Yes.  brother,  you  may  live  : 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge, 
If  you'll  implore  it.  that  will  free  your  life, 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

»  A  krmi  •/  tetUr.       »  bleved  :  in  f.  «.       '  Rettdent  ambatiadtrr 
'  -Cli''*t>  '^-liebud,  tb&t  if,  rewioved  from  light 


I      Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

{      Isab.  Ay.  just ;  perpetual  durance  :  a  restraint, 
1  Though  all  the  world's  vastidity  you  had, 
To  a  determiu'd  scope. 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.  In  such  a  one  as,  you  consentins  to  it. 
Would  bark  your  honour  from  that  vcunk  you  bear, 
And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  thu  point. 

Isab.  0  !  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio  ;  and  I  quake, 
Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  would'st  entertain, 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect. 
Than  a  perpetual  honour.     Dar'st  thou  die  ? 
The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension, 
And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon. 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies. 

Clai/d.  Why  give  you  me  this  shame? 

Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms. 

Isab.  There  spake  my  brother  :  there  my  father's 
srave 
Did  utter  forth  a  voice.     Yes,  thou  must  die  : 
Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 
In  base  appliances.     This  outward-sainted  deputy, 
Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 
Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  enmew 
As  falcon  doth  the  fowl,  is  yet  a  devil ; 
His  filth  within  being  cast,  he  would  appear 
A  pond  as  deep  as  hell. 

Claud.  The  priestly*  Angelo  ? 

Isab.  0;  'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell, 
The  damued'st  body  to  invest  and  cover 
In  priestly  garb  I'     Dost  thou  think.  Claudio, 
If  I  would  yield  him  my  virginitj", 
Thou  niight'st  be  freed  ? 

Claud.  0,  heavens  !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.  Yes,  he  would  give  't  thee  from  this  rank  offence, 
So  to  offend  him  still.     This  night 's  the  lime 
That  I  snould  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 
Or  ei.«e  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shall  not  do  't. 

Isab.  0  !  were  it  but  my  life, 
I  'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabel. 

hab.  Be  ready.  Claudio.  for  your  death  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Yes.     Has  he  affections  in  him, 
That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  the  nose, 
I  When  he  would  force  it  ?     Sure,  it  is  no  sin, 
Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 

Isab.  Which  is  the  least  ? 

Claud.  If  it  were  damnable,  he  being  so  Mise, 
Why  would  he  for  the  momentary  trick 
Be  perdurably  find  ? — 0  Isabel  ! 

Isab    What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

Isab.  And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.  Ay.  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where  , 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot : 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod  ;  and  the  delighted*  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  region  of  thick-ribbed  ice  : 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds. 
And  blown  ■with  restless  violence  round  about 


'  i.  e.  princely  ;  Knight :  praciae 


•  f.  e. :  gnmnb.      •Kaigbt 


60ENE  1. 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


The  pendoni,  world  :  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 

Of  those  that  lawless  and  uncertain  thoughts 

Imagine  howling  ! — 't  is  too  horrible. 

The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 

That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment 

Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 

To  what  we  fear  of  death. 

Isab.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live. 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far, 
That  4t  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isab.  0,  you  beast ! 

0.  faithless  coward  !  0,  dishonest  wretch  ! 
Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 
Is 't  not  a  kind  of  incest  to  take  life 
From  thine  own  sister's  shame  ?  What  should  I  think  ? 
Heaven  shield,  my  mother  play'd  my  father  fair, 
For  such  a  warped  >lip  of  wilderness^ 
Ne'er  issu'd  from  his  blood.     Take  my  defiance  : 
Die ;  perish  !  might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed. 
I  '11  pray  a  tliousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 
No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.  Nay.  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Isab.  O,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Thy  sin  's  not  accidental,  but  a  trade. 
Mercy  to  thee  would  prove  itself  a  bawd : 
'T  is  best  that  thou  diest  quickly.  [Going. 

Claud.  0  hear  me,  Isabella  ! 

Re-enter  Dukz. 

Duke.  Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister;  but  one  word. 

Isab.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Duke.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure.  1  would 
by  and  by  have  some  speech  with  you  :  the  satisfac- 
tion I  would  require,  is  likewise  your  own  benefit. 

hab.  I  have  no  superfluous  leisure :  my  stay  must 
be  stolen  out  of  other  affairs ,  out  I  will  attend  you  a 
while. 

Duke.  [To  Claudio.]  Son,  I  have  overheard  what 
hath  passed  between  you  and  your  sister.  Angelo  had 
never  the  purpose  to  corrupt  her  ;  only  he  hath  made 
an  essay  of  her  virtue,  to  practise  his  judgment  with 
the  disposition  of  natures.  She,  having  the  truth  of 
honour  in  her,  hath  made  him  that  gracious  denial 
which  he  is  most  glad  to  receive :  I  am  confessor  to 
Angelo,  and  I  know  this  to  be  true  :  therefore,  prepare 
yourself  to  death.  Do  not  satisfy  your  resolution  with 
hopes  that  are  fallible  ;  to-morrow  you  must  die.  Go; 
to  your  knees,  and  make  ready. 

Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am  so  out 
of  love  with  life,  that  I  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it. 

Duke.  Hold  you  tliere :  farewell.         [Exit  Cl.\udio. 
Re-enter  Provost. 
Wovost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.  What  's  your  will,  father? 

Duke.  That  now  you  are  come,  you  will  be  gone. 
Leave  me  awhile  with  the  maid  ;  my  mind  promises 
vith  my  habit  no  loss  shall  touch  her  by  my  company. 

Prov.  In  good  time.  [Exit  Provost. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair  hath  made 
you  good;  the  goodness  that  is  chief*  in  beauty  makes 
beauty  brief  in  goodness  ;  but  grace,  being  the  soul  of 
your  complexion,  shall  keep  the  body  of  it  ever  fair. 
The  assault,  that  Angelo  hath  made  to  yon,  fortune 
hath  convey'd  to  my  understaiading ;  and,  but  that 
frailty  hath  examples  for  his  falling,  I  should  wonder 
at  Angelo.  How  will  you  do  to  content  this  substitute, 
and  to  save  your  brother  ? 

^VUdntss.umrafted.  cheap-  in  f .  e  'Contracted 


Isab.  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him.  I  had  rathei 
m/  brother  die  by  the  law,  than  my  son  should  be  un- 
lawfully born.  But  O.  how  much  is  the  good  dukf 
deceived  in  Angelo !  If  ever  he  return,  and  I  can 
apeak  to  him,  I  will  open  my  lips  in  vain,  or  discover 
his  government. 

Duke.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss  ;  yet,  as  the 
matter  now  stands,  he  will  avoid  your  accusation:  he 
made  trial  of  you  only. — Therefore,  fasten  your  ear  on 
my  advisings  :  to  the  love  I  have  in  doing  good  a 
remedy  presents  itself.  I  do  make  myself  believe,  that 
you  may  most  uprighteously  do  a  poor  wronged  lady 
a  merited  benefit,  redeem  your  brother  from  the  angr 
law,  do  no  stain  to  your  own  gracious  person,  an. 
much  please  the  absent  duke,  if.  peradventure,  he  sha\ 
ever  return  to  have  hearing  of  this  business. 

Isab.  Let  me  hear  you  speak  farther.  I  have  spirit 
to  do  anything  that  appears  not  foul  in  the  truth  of  my 
spirit. 

Duke.  Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful. 
Have  you  not  heard  speak  of  Mariana,  the  sister  of 
Frederick,  the  great  soldier  who  miscarried  at  sea  ? 

Isab,  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good  words  went 
with  her  name. 

Duke.  Her  should  this  Angelo  have  married  ;  he  was 
affianced  to  her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptial  appointed : 
between  which  time  of  the  contract,  and  limit  of  the 
solemnity,  her  brother  Frederick  was  wrecked  at  sea, 
having  in  that  perish'd  vessel  the  dowry  of  his  sister. 
But  mark  how  heavily  this  befel  to  the  poor  gentle- 
woman :  there  she  lost  a  noble  and  renowned  brother, 
in  his  love  toward  her  ever  most  kind  and  natural ; 
with  him  the  portion  and  sinew  of  her  fortune,  her 
marriage-dowry  ;  with  both,  her  combinate'  husband, 
this  well-seeming  Angelo. 

Isab.  Can  this  be  so  ?  Did  Angelo  so  leave 
her  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dried  not  one  of 
them  with  his  comfort ;  swallowed  his  vows  whole, 
pretending  in  her  discoveries  of  dishonour  :  in  few, 
bestowed  her  on  her  own  lamentation,  which  she  yet 
wears  for  his  sake,  and  he.  as  marble  to  her  tears,  is 
washed  with  them,  but  relents  not. 

Isab.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death  to  take  this 
poor  maid  from  the  world  !  What  corruption  in  this 
lite,  that  it  will  let  this  man  live  ! — But  ho^Y  out  of 
this  can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  that  you  may  easily  heal ;  and 
the  cure  of  it  not  only  save's  your  brother,  but  keeps 
you  from  dishonour  in  doing  it. 

Isab.  Show  me  how,  good  father. 

Duke.  This  fore-named  maid  hath  yet  in  her  the 
continuance  of  her  first  affection  :  his  unjust  unkind- 
ness,  that  in  all  reason  should  have  quenched  her 
love,  hath  like  an  impediment  in  the  current,  made  it 
more  violent  and  unruly.  Go  you  to  Angelo  :  answer 
his  requiring  with  a  plausible  obedicncx,  :  agree  wit^ 
his  demands  to  the  point;  only  refer  vo.iFelf  to  thi 
advantage, — first,  that  your  stay  with  him  may  not  be 
long,  that  the  time  may  have  all  shadow  and  silence 
in  it,  and  the  place  answer  to  convenience.  This 
being  granted  in  course,  and  now  follows  all :  we  shall 
advise  this  wronged  maid  to  stead  up  your  appointment, 
go  in  your  place  ;  if  the  encounter  acknowledge  itself 
hereafter,  it  may  compel  him  to  her  recompense  ;  and 
here  by  this  is  your  brother  saved,  your  honour  un- 
tainted the  poor  Mariana  advantaged,  and  the  cor- 
ruD*.  de;  uty  scaled.  The  maid  will  1  frame  an  1  make 
fi^  for  his  al^mpt.     If  you  think  well  to  carry  this,  as 


74 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


you  may,  the  doublcncss  of  tlic  benefit,  defends  the 
deceit  from  reproof.     What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Isab.  Tlie  imago  of  it  gives  me  content  already,  and, 
I  trust,  it  will  grow  to  a  most  pro.^perous  perfection. 

Duke  It  lies  much  in  your  holding  up.  Haste  you 
speedily  to  Angelo  :  if  for  this  night  he  entreat  you  to 
his  bed,  give  hiin  promise  of  satisfaction.  I  will  pre- 
sently to  St.  Luke"s;  there,  at  the  moated  grange, 
resides  this  dejected  Mariana  :  at  that  place  call  upon 
me.  and  despatch  with  Angelo,  that  it  may  be  quickly. 

Isab.  I  thank  you  for  this  comfort.  Fare  you  well, 
tod  father.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Street  before  the  Prison. 

Enter  Dvke,  as  a  Friar ;  to  him  Elbow,   Clown  and 

Officers. 

Elb.  Nay.  if  'here  be  no  remedy  for  it,  but  that  you 
will  needs  bu>  and  sell  men  and  women  like  beasts, 
we  shall  have  all  the  world  drink  brown  and  white 
bastard.' 

Duke.  0,  heavens  !  what  stulf  is  here  ? 

Clo.  'T  was  never  merry  world,  since,  of  two  usances,' 
the  merriest  was  put  down,  and  the  worser  allow'd  by 
order  of  law  a  furr'd  sown  to  keep  him  warm;  and 
furr'd  with  fox  and  lamb-skins  too,  to  signify  that  craft, 
being  richer  than  iniiocency,  stands  for  the  facing. 

Elb.  Come  your  way,  sir. — Bless  you,  good  father 
friar. 

Duke.  And  you.  good  brother  father.  What  offence 
liath  this  man  made  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  offended  the  law  :  and,  sir, 
we  take  him  to  be  a  thief  too,  sir  ;  for  we  have  found 
upon  him.  sir,  a  strange  pick-lock,  which  we  have  sent 
to  the  dejiuty. 

Duke.  Fie,  sirrah  :  a  bawd,  a  wicked  bawd  ! 
The  evil  that  thou  causest  to  be  done, 
That  is  thy  means  to  live.     Do  thou  but  think 
What  't  is  to  cram  a  maw,  or  clothe  a  back, 
From  such  a  filthy  vice:  say  to  thyself 
From  their  abominable  and  beastly  touches 
1  drink,  I  eat,  array  myself,  and  live. 
Canst  thou  believe  thy  living  is  a  life, 
So  stinkingly  depending  ?     Go  mend,  go  mend. 

Clo.  Indeed,  it  does  stink  in  some  sort,  sir  ;  but  yet, 
sir,  I  would  prove 

Duke.  Nay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs  for  sin, 
Thou  wilt  pro%-e  his.     Take  him  to  prison,  olTicer  : 
Correction  and  insi ruction  must  both  work, 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Elb.  He  mu.-^t  before  the  deputy,  sir ;  he  has  given 
hira  warning.  The  deputy  caniio*  abide  a  whoremas- 
ter:  if  he  be  a  whoremonger,  and  comes  before  him, 
he  were  as  good  go  a  mile  on  his  errand. 

Duke.  That  we  were  all,  as  some  would  .seem  to  be. 
From  our  faults,  as  faulis  Irom  seeming,  free  ! 
Enter  Lucio. 

Elb.  His  neck  will  come  to  your  waist,  a  cord,  sir. 

Clo.  I  spy  comfort :  I  cry,  bail.  Here's  a  gentle- 
man and  a  friend  of  mine. 

Lucio.  How  now,  noble  Pompey  !  What  at  the 
wheels  of  Caes.ir  ?  Art  thou  led  in  triumph  ?  What,  is 
there  none  of  Pviimaiion's  images,  newly  made  woman, 
to  be  had  now,  for  putting  the  hand  in  the  pocket  and 
extracting  it  clutch'd  ?  What  reply?  Ha!  What 
say'st  thou  to  this  tune,  matltcr,  and  method  ?  Is't  not 
drown'd  i'  the  last  rain?  Ha!  What  say'st  thou. 
troth?"  Is  the  world  as  it  was.  man? 
way  ?  Is  it  sad,  and  few  words,  or  how  ? 
of  it? 

IlaJ.  iastardo,  a  iweet  winf  m&de  of  raisins. 


Duke.  Still  thus  and  thus:  still  worse  ! 

Lucio.  How  doth  my  dear  morsel,  thy  mistress  T 
Procures  she  still  ?     Ha  ! 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  she  hath  eaten  up  all  her  besf,  and 
she  is  herself  in  the  tub. 

Lucio.  Why,  't  is  good  :  it  is  the  right  of  it ;  it  must 
be  so  :  ever  your  fresh  whore,  and  your  powder'd  bawd  • 
an  unshunii'd  consequence ;  it  must  be  .so.  Art  going 
to  prison,  Pompoy  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  not  amiss,  Pompey.  FarewiU.  Go; 
say.  1  sent  thee  thither.     For  debt,  Pompey,  or  how? 

Elb.  For  being  a  bawd,  for  being  a  bawd. 

Lucio.  Well,  then  imprison    him.     If  imprisonment 

the  due  of  a  bawd,  why,  't  is  his  right :  bawd  is  he, 
douhtless,  and  of  antiquity  too  ;  bawd-born.  Farewell, 
good  Pompey :  commend  me  to  the  prison.  Pompey. 
You  will  turn  good  husband  now,  Pompey  :  you  will 
keep  the  hou.-<e. 

Clo.  I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  will  be  my 
bail. 

Lucio.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey ;  it  is  not  the 
wear.  I  will  pray,  Pompey,  to  increase  your  bondage  : 
if  you  take  it  not  patiently,  why.  your  mettle  is  the 
more.     Adieu,  trusty  Pompey. — Bless  you,  friar. 

Dvke.  And  you. 

Lucio.  Does  Bridget  paint  still,  Pompey  ?     Ha  ! 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir;  come. 

Clo.  You  will  not  bail  me,  then,  sir? 

Lucio.  Then,  Pompey,  nor  now. — What  news  abroad, 
friar  ?     What  news  ? 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir  ;  come. 

Lucio.  Go;  to  kennel,  Pompey.  go. 

Exeunt  Elbow,  Clown  and  Officers. 
What  news,  friar,  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.  1  know  none.     Can  you  tell  me  of  any  ? 

Lucio.  Some  say,  he  is  with  the  emperor  of  Russia  ; 
other  some,  he  is  in  Rome  :  but  where  is  he,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  1  know  not  where ;  but  wheresoever,  I  wish 
him  well. 

Lucio.  It  was  a  mad  fantastical  trick  of  him.  to  steal 
from  the  state,  and  usurp  the  beggary  he  was  neve' 
born  to.  Lord  Angelo  dukes  it  well  in  his  absence  ■ 
he  puts  trangression  to 't. 

Duke.  He  does  well  in't. 

Lucio.  A  little  more  lenity  to  lechery  would  do  no 
harm  in  him  :  something  too  crabbed  that  way,  friar. 

Duke.  It  is  too  general  a  vice,  and  severity  must 
cure  it. 

Lucio.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  the  vice  is  of  great  kin- 
dred :  it  is  well  allied  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  extirp 
it  quite,  friar,  till  eating  and  drinking  be  put  down. 
They  say,  tliis  Angelo  was  not  made  by  man  and 
woman,  after  the  downright  way  of  creation:  rs  it 
true,  think  you  ? 

Duke.   How  should  he  be  made  then  ? 

Lucio.  Some  report,  a  sea-maid  spawn'd  him  :  some, 
that  he  was  begot  between  two  stock-fishes ;  but  it,  is 
certain,  that  when  he  makes  water,  his  ai;i.e  is  con- 
geal'd  ice  :  that  I  know  to  be  true  ;  and  he  is  a  motion 
ingcneralivc,  that's  infallible. 

Duke.  You  are  plea.sant,  sir,  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio.  Why,  what  a  ruthless  thing  is  this  in  him.  for 

the  rebellion  of  a  cod-piece  to  take   away  the  life  of 

man  ?     Would  the  duke  that  is  absent  have  done  this? 

Ere  he  would    have   hang'd  a  man   for   the  getting   a 

Which  is  the  [hundred  bastards,  he  would   have  paid  for  the  nursing 

The  trick 'a  thousand.     He   had  some  feeling  of  the  sport:   In 

I  knew  the  service,  and  that  instructed  him  to    mercy. 
uiuriei  :  in  f.  e.        •  trot :  in  f.  • 


eCENE  II. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


75 


Duke.  I  never  heard  the  absent  duke  much  detected' 
for  women  :  he  was  not  inclined  that  way. 

Lucio.  0.  sir  !  you  are  deceived. 

Duke.  'T  is  not  possible. 

Lucio.  Who  ?  not  the  duke  ?  yes.  your  beggar  of 
fifty  •  and  his  use  was,  to  put  a  ducat  in  her  clack-dish. 
The  duke  had  crotchets  in  him  :  he  would  be  drunk 
too;  that  let  me  inform  you. 

Dtike.  You  do  liim  wrong,  surely. 

Lucio.  Sir,  1  was  an  inward  of  his.  A  shy  fellow 
was  the  duke  ;  and,  1  believe,  I  know  the  cause  of  his 
V^ithdrawing. 

Duke.  What,  I  pr'ythee,  might  be  the  cause  ? 

Lucio.  No, — pardon  : — 't  is  a  secret  must  be  lock'd 
within  the  teeth  and  the  lips  ;  but  this  1  can  let  you 
understand, — the  greater  file  of  the  subject'  held  the 
duke  to  be  wise. 

Duke.  Wise  ?  why.  no  question  but  he  was. 

Lucio.  A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweighing  fel- 
low. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or  mistak- 
iug :  the  very  stream  of  his  life,  and  the  business  he 
hath  helmed,  must,  upon  a  warranted  need,  give  him 
a  better  proclamation.  Let  him  be  but  testunonied  in 
his  own  bringings  forth,  and  he  shall  appear  to  the  en- 
vious a  scholar,  a  statesman,  and  a  soldier.  There- 
fore, you  speak  unskillully  ;  or,  if  your  knowledge  be 
more,  it  is  much  darken'd  in  your  malice. 

Lu£io.  Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge,  and  know- 
ledge with  dearer  love. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke.  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you  know  not 
what  you  speak.  But,  if  ever  the  duke  return,  (as  our 
prayers  are  he  may.)  let  me  desire  you  to  make  your 
answer  before  him  :  if  it  be  honest  you  have  spoke, 
you  have  courage  to  maintain  it.  I  am  bound  to  call 
upon  you  ;  and,  I  pray  you,  your  name. 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio,  well  known  to  the 
duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I  may  live 
to  report  you. 

Lucio    I  fear  you  not. 

Duke.  0  !  you  hope  the  duke  will  return  no  more, 
or  you  imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an  opposite.  But, 
indeed,  I  can  do  you  little  harm  ;  you  '11  forswear  this 
again. 

Lucio.  I  '11  be  hanged  first  :  thou  art  deceived  in  me, 
friar.  But  no  more  of  this.  Canst  thou  tell,  if  Claudio 
die  to-morrow,  or  no  ? 

Duke.  Why  should  he  die.  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Why  ?  for  filling  a  bottle  with  a  tun-dish.  I 
would,  the  duke,  we  talk  of,  were  returii'd  again  :  this 
ungenitur'd  agent  will  unpeople  the  province  with  con- 
tiiieucy ;  sparrows  must  not  build  in  his  house-eaves.  | 
because  they  are  lecherous.  The  duke  yet  would  have 
dark  deeds  darkly  answer'd  ;  he  would  never  bring 
them  to  light  :  would  he  were  return'd  !  Marry,  this 
Claudio  is  coudemn'd  for  untrussing.  Farewell,  good 
friar;  1  pr'ytiiee.  pray  for  me.  1  he  duke.  I  say  to 
thee  again^  would  eat  mutton  on  Fridays.  He  's  now 
past  it;  yet,  and  I  say  to  thee,  he  would  mouth  with 
a  beggar,  though  she  smelt  brown  bread  and  garlic : 
Bay,  that  I  said  so.     Farewell.  [Exit. 

Duke.  No  might  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape  :  back- wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes.     What  king  so  strong. 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

'  Suspected         '  Xumber  of  the  subjects         '  Thfi  words  "the  di 


I  E7iter  EscALUS,  Provost,  Bawd,  and  OJJicers. 

I      Escal.  Go  :  away  with  her  to  prison  ! 
I      Bawd.  Good,  my  lord,  be  good  to  me ;  your  honour 
[is  accounted  a  merciful  man:  good  my  lord. 
I      Escal.  Double  and  treble   admonition,  and  still  for- 
feit in  the  same  kind  ?  This  would  make  mercy  swear 
'  and  play  the  tyrant. 

Prov.  A  bawd  of  eleven  years'  continuance,  may  it 
please  your  honour. 

Batvd.  My  lord,  this  is  one  Lucio's  information 
against  me.  JMistress  Kate  Keep-down  was  with  child 
by  him  in  the  duke's  time  :  he  promised  her  marriage; 
his  child  is  a  year  and  a  quarter  old,  come  Philip  and 
Jacob.  I  have  kept  it  myself,  and  see  how  he  goc 
about  to  abuse  me  ! 

Escal.  That  fellow  is  a  fellow  of  much  licence  : — let 
him  be  called  before  us. — Away  with  her  to  prison! 
Go  to;  no  more  words.  [Exeunt  Bawd  and  OJJicers.i 
Provost,  my  brother  Angelo  will  not  be  altered  ;  Claudi* 
must  die  to-morrow.  Let  him  be  furnished  with  divines 
and  have  ail  charitable  preparation  :  if  my  brothei 
wrought  by  my  pity,  it  should  not  be  so  with  him. 

Prov.  So  please  you,  this  friar  hath  been  v^ith  him, 
and  advised  him  for  the  entertainment  of  death. 

Escal.  (jood  even,  good  father. 

Duke.  Bliss  and  goodness  on  you. 

Escal.  Of  whence  are  you  ? 

Duke.  Not  of  this  country,  though  my  chance  is  now 
To  use  it  for  my  time :   I  am  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order,  late  come  from  the  See, 
In  special  business  from  his  holiness. 

Escal.  What  news  abroad  i'  the  world? 

Duke.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever  on 
goodness,  that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure  it :  nov- 
elty is  only  in  request ;  and  as  it  is  as  dangerous  to 
be  aged  in  any  kind  of  course,  as  it  is  virtuous  to  be 
constant  in  any  undertaking,  there  is  scarce  truth 
enough  alive  to  make  societies  secure,  but  security 
enough  to  make  fellowships  aecurs'd.  Much  upon  this 
riddle  runs  the  wisdom  of  th&  world.  This  news  is  old 
enough,  yet  it  is  every  day's  news.  I  pray  you,  sir,  of 
what  disposition  was  the  duke  ? 

Escal.  One  that,  above  all  other  strifes,  contended 
especially  to  know  himself. 

Duke.  What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ? 

Escal.  Rather  rejoicing  to  see  another  merry,  than 
merry  at  any  thing  which  profess'd  to  make  him  re- 
joice :  a  gentleman  of  all  temperance.  But  leave  we 
him  to  his  events,  with  a  praver  they  may  prove  pros- 
perous, and  let  me  desire  to  know  how  you  find  Clau- 
dio prepared.  I  am  made  to  understand,  that  you  havo 
lent  liim  visitation. 

Duke.  He  professes  to  have  received  no  sinister 
measure  from  his  judge,  but  most  willingly  humbles 
himself  to  the  determination  of  justice;  yet  had  he 
framed  to  himself,  by  the  instruction  of  his  frailty, 
many  deceiving  promises  of  life,  which  I,  by  my  good 
leisure,  have  discredited  to  him,  and  now  is  he  resol-.-ed 
to  die. 

Escal.  You  have  paid  the  heavens  the  due  oP  your 
function,  and  the  prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  call- 
ing. I  have  laboured  for  the  poor  gentleman  to  the 
extremest  shore  of  my  modesty ;  but  my  brother  jus- 
tice have  I  found  so  severe,  that  he  hath  forced  me  to 
tell  him,  he  is  indeed — ^justice. 

Duke.  If  his  o^^-n  life  answer  the  «traitne.«s  of  his 
proceeding,  it  shall  become  him  well  ;  v.herein  if  he 
chance  to  fail,  he  hath  sentenced  himself.  |Well. 

Escal.  I  am  going  to  visit  the  prisoner      Fare  you 

eof-':  not  inf.  6. 


13 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Jhike.  Peace  be  with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Escalus  and  Provost. 
He,  who  the  sword  of  heaven  will  bear 
Should  be  as  holy  as  severe  j 
Pattern  in  liimscir  to  know, 
Grace  to  stand,  virtue  to  go  ;' 
More  nor  less  to  others  paying, 
Than  by  self  offences  weighing. 
Shame  to  him.  wliose  cruel  striking 
Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking  ! 
Twice  trobic  shame  on  Anjielo, 
"o  weed  my  vice,  and  let  his  grow  ! 


0,  what  may  man  within  him  hide, 
Though  angel  on  the  outward  side ! 
How  may  likeness,  made  in  criines, 
Ma.sking'  practice  on  the  times, 
Draw  with  idle  spiders'  strings 
Most  pond'rous  and  substantial  things  ! 
Craft  against  vice  I  must  apply 
With  Angelo  to-night  siiall  lie 
His  old  betrothed,  but  despised  : 
So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguised 
Pay  with  fai.'^ehood  false  exacting 
And  perform  an  old  contracting. 


ACT    IV. 


Isab.  I  have  ta'en  a  due  and  warv  note  upon  't : 
With  whis])cring  and  most  guilty  diligence, 
In  action  all  of  precept,  he  did  show  me 
The  way  twice  o'er. 

Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed,  concerning  her  observance  ? 

Isab.  No,  none,  but  only  a  repair  i'  the  dark; 
And  that  I  have  possess'd  him  my  most  stay 
Can  be  but  brief:  for  I  have  made  him  know, 
I  have  a  servant  comes  with  me  along, 
That  stays  upon  nie  ;  whose  persuasion  is, 
1  come  about  my  brother. 

Duke.  'T  is  well  borne  up. 

I  have  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana 
[Exit  Boy.  I  A  word  of  this. — What,  ho  !  within  !  come  forth 
Re-enter  M.\riana. 
I  pray  you,  be  acquainted  with  this  maid  : 
She  comes  to  do  you  good. 

hab.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Duke.  Do  you  persuade  yourself  that  I  respect  you? 

^Jari.  Good  friar,  I  know  you  do,  and  have  found  it. 

Duke.  Take  then  this  your  companion  by  the  hand, 
Who  hath  a  story  ready  (or  your  ear. 
I  shall  attend  your  leisure  :  but  make  haste; 
The  vaporous  night  approaches. 

Mari.  Will  ''\  please  you  walk  aside? 

[Exeunt  Mariana  and  Tpabella 

Duke.  0  place  and  greatness  !  millions  of  false  eyes 
Are  stuck  upon  thee.     Volumes  of  report 
Run  with  base',  false  and  most  contrarious  quests 
Upon  thy  doings:  thousand  escapes  of  wit 
Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dreams, 
And  rack  thee  in  tlieir  fancies  ! 

Re-enter  Mariana  and  Isabella. 

Welcome  !    How  agreed  1 

Isab.  She  '11  take  the  enterprise  upon  her,  father, 
If  you  advise  it. 

Duke.  It  is  not  my  consent, 

But  my  entreaty  too. 

Isab.  Little  have  you  to  say, 

When  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low, 
"  Remember  now  my  brother." 

Mari.  Fear  me  not. 

Duke.  Nor,  gentle  daughter,  fear  you  not  at  all 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  at  the  moated  Grange. 
Mariana  discovered  sitting :  a  Boy  singing. 

SONG. 

Take.  O  !  take  those  lips  awa^J, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes.  Hie  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 
Seals  of  love,  but  seaVd  in  vain.' 
Mari.    Break   off  thy  song,  and  haste  thee  quick 
away  : 
Here  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 
Hath  often  still'd  my  brawling  discontent. 

Enter  Duke. 
I  cry  you  mercy,  sir;  and  well  could  wish 
You  had  not  found  nie  here  so  musical : 
Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so. 
My  mirth  it  much  displcas'd,  but  pleas"d  my  woe. 
Duke.  'T  is  good  :  though  music  oft   hath  such  a 
charm, 
To  make  bad  good,  and  good  provoke  to  harm. 
I   pray  you,  tell   me,  hath   any  body  inquired   for  me 
here   to-day?  mucli   upon   this   time   have  I  promis'd 
here  to  meet. 

Mari.  You  have  not  been  inquired  alter  :  I  have  sat 
here  all  day. 

Enter  Isabella. 
Duke.  I    do    constantly   believe  you. — The    time   is 
come,  even  now.     I  shall  crave  your  forbearance  a  lit- 
tle :  may  be,  I  will  call  upon  you  anon,  for  some  ad- 
vantage to  yourself. 

Mari.  I  am  always  bound  to  you.  [Exit. 

Duke.   Very  well  met.  and  welcome. 
What  is  the  news  from  this  good  deputy  ? 

Isab.  He  haih  a  garden  circummur'd  with  brick, 
Whose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  back'd ; 
And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  jilanched*  gate, 
That  makes  his  opening  with  ihis  bigger  key  • 
This  other  doth  command  a  little  door, 
Whicli  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leads; 
There  have  I  made  my  promise  upon  the  heavy* 
Middle  of  the  night  to  call  upon  him. 

Dtike.  But  shall   you  on  your  knowledge  find   this  He  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-contract 

way?  To  bring  you  thus  together,  't  is  no  su., 

'  aad  Tirtoe  ^o  :  in  t,  •.         »  Making  :  ii«  f.  e.        '  Thittonc  is  found  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher'*  Bloody  Brother,  Act  V.,  So.  IL  with 
•  Moood  stanza,  u  folio wi.     h  it  attributed  to  Sfaaketprare  in  i\>r  spuriouc  Kd.  of  his  Poems,  primed  in  1640. 

Hid',  oh,  hide  those  hills  ofinow. 

Which  thy  frozin  bvnotn  bears. 

On  ichOKt  tup.'  thr  pinkt  that  prote 

Are  of  those  that  April  wean; 
Butjirst  set  my  poor  heart  free. 
Hound  in  iey  ehnms  by  thee. 
*  Boaried.        •  Knight,  following  th«  old  eds.,  transfenthis  word  to  the  beginning  of  the  next  line.        *  these:  in  t  •■ 


SCENE  II. 


MEASUEE   Foil   MEASURE. 


77 


I 


Sith  that  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 

Doth  flourish  the  deceit.     Come,  let  us  go  : 

Our  corn  's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  field  's,  to  sow  '  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  Provost  and  Clown. 

Prov.  Come  hither,  sirrah.  Can  you  cut  off  a  man's 
head? 

Clo.  If  the  man  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  I  can ;  but  if  he 
be  a  married  man,  he  is  his  wife's  head,  and  I  can 
never  cut  off  a  woman's  head. 

Prov.  Come,  sir ;  leave  me  your  snatches,  and  yield 
me  a  direct  answer.  To-morrow  morning  are  to  die 
Claudio  and  Barnardine :  here  is  in  our  prison  a  com- 
mon executioner,  who  in  his  office  lacks  a  helper  :  if 
you  will  take  it  on  you  to  assist  him,  it  shall  redeem 
you  from  your  gyves  ;  if  not.  you  shall  have  your  full 
time  of  imprisonment,  and  your  deliverance  with  an 
unpitied  whipping,  for  you  have  been  a  notorious 
bawd. 

Clo.  Sir,  I  have  been  an  unlawful  bawd,  time  out 
of  mind  ;  but  yet  I  will  be  content  to  be  a  lawful 
hangman.  I  would  be  glad  to  receive  some  instruction 
from  my  fellow  partner. 

Prov.  What  ho,  Abhorson  !  Where  's  Abhorson, 
there  ? 

Enter  Abhorson. 

Abhor.  Do  you  call,  .sir  ? 

Prov.  Sirrah,  here  's  a  fellow  will  help  you  to-mor- 
row in  your  execution.  If  you  think  it  meet,  compound 
with  him  by  the  year,  and  let  him  abide  here  with 
you  ;  if  not,  use  him  for  the  present,  and  dismiss  liim. 
He  cannot  plead  his  estimation  with  you  :  he  hath 
been  a  bawd. 

Abhor.  A  baM-d,  sir  ?  Fie  upon  him  !  he  will  dis- 
credit our  mystery. 

Prov.  Co  to,  sir;  you  weigh  equally:  a  feather  will 
turn  the  scale.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Pray,  sir.  by  your  good  favour,  (for,  surely,  sir, 
a  good  favour  you  have,  but  that  you  have  a  hanging 
look.)  do  you  call,  sir,  your  occupation  a  mystery  ? 

Abhor.  Ay,  sir  ;  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Painting,  sir,  I  have  heard  say.  is  a  mystery ; 
and  your  whores,  sir,  being  members  of  my  occupa- 
tion, using  painting;  do  prove  my  occupation  a  mys- 
tery ;  but  what  mystery  there  should  be  in  hanging,  if 
I  should  be  hang'd,  I  cannot  imagine. 

Abhor.  Sir,  it  is  a  mystery, 
r   Clo.  Proof? 
■    Abhor.  Every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief. 

Clo.  If  it  be  too  little  for  your  thief,  your  true  man 
thinks  it  big  enough  ;  if  it  be  too  big  for  your  thief, 
your  thief  thinks  it  little  enough  :  so.  every  true  man's 
apparel  fits  your  thief. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.  Are  you  agreed  ? 

Clo.  Sir,  I  will  serve  him  ;  for  I  do  find,  your  hang- 
man is  a  more  penitent  trade  than  your  bawd  :  he  doth 
oftener  ask  forgiveness. 

Prov.  You,  sirrah,  provide  your  block  and  your  axe 
to-morrow,  four  o'clock. 

Abhor.  Come  on,  bawd ;  I  will  instruct  thee  in  my 
trade  :  follow. 

Clo.  I  do  desire  to  learn,  sir ;  and,  I  hope,  if  you 
have  occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  turn,  you  shall 
find  me  yare ;  for,  truly,  sir,  for  your  kindness  I  owe 
vou  a  good  turn. 

Prov.  Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio  : 

[Exeunt  Clown  and  Abhorson. 

•  tithe'i :  in  f.  •       »  Stiffly       '  Mingled.     *  unsisting  :  in  f.  e. 


Th'  one  has  my  pity  ;  not  a  jot  the  other, 
Being  a  murderer,  though  he  were  my  brother. 

Enter  Cl.^udio. 
Look,  here's  the  warrant,  Claudio,  for  thy  death : 
'T  is  now  dead  midnight,  and  by  eight  to-morrow 
Thou  must  be  made  immortal.     Where  's  Barnardine' 

Claud.  As  fast  lock'd  up  in  sleep,  as  guiltless  labour, 
When  it  lies  starkly*  in  the  travellers  bones  : 
He  will  not  awake. 

Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,  go;  prepare  yourself.     But  hark  !  what  noise  * 
[Knocking  within. 
Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort  ! — By  and  by  : — 

[Exit  CLAUDia 
I  hope  it  is  some  pardon,  or  reprieve. 
For  the  most  gentle  Claudio. — Welcome,  father. 
Enter  Duke. 

Duke.  The  best  and  wholesom'st  spirirs  of  the  night 
Enrelop  you,  good  provost !     Who  call'd  here  of  late  r 

Prov.  None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 

Duke.  Not  Isabel? 

Prov.  No. 

Duke.  There  will  then,  ere  't  be  long. 

Prov.   What  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 

Duke.  There 's  some  in  hope. 

Prov.  It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 

Duke.  Not  so,  not  so:  his  life  is  parallel'd 
Even  with  the  stroke  and  line  of  his  great  justice. 
He  doth  with  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself,  which  he  spurs  on  his  power 
To  qualify  in  others  :  were  he  meal'd'  with  that 
Which  he  corrects,  then  were  he  tyrannous  ; 

[K7iocking  within. 
But  this  being  so,  he  's  just. — Now  are  they  come. — 

[Exit  Provost. 
This  is  a  gentle  provost :  seldom,  when 
The  steeled  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men.         [Knocking 
How  now?    What  noise  ?    That  spirit 's  possessed  with 

haste. 
That  wounds  the  resisting*  postern  with  these  strokes. 
Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.   [Speaking  to  one  at  the  door.]  There  he  must 
stay,  until  the  officer 
Arise  to  let  him  in  :  he  is  call'd  up. 

Duke.  Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio  yet, 
But  he  must  die  to-morrow  ? 

Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Duke.  As  near  the  dawning,  provost,  as  it  is, 
You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning. 

Prov.  Happily, 

You  something  know ;  yet,  I  believe,  there  comes 
No  countermand  :  no  such  example  have  we. 
Besides,  upon  the  very  siege  of  justice, 
Lord  Angelo  hath  to  the  public  ear 
Profess'd  the  contrary. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Duke.  This  is  his  lordship's  man." 

Prov.   And  here  comes  Claudio's  pardon 

Mes.  My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note;  [giving  < 
paper]  and  by  me  this  further  charge,  that  you  swer^^ 
not  from  the  smallest  article  of  it,  neither  in  time,  mat- 
ter, or  other  circumstance.  Good  morrow,  for,  as  I 
take  it,  it  is  almost  day. 

Prov.  I  shall  obey  him.  [Exit  Messenger 

Duke.  This  is  his  pardon  ;  purchas'd  by  suci  sin. 

Aside. 
For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in  : 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity, 
When  it  is  born  in  high  authority. 

'  Knight  gives  this  speech  to  the  Provost,  and  the  next  to  the  Ihtkt 
18 


76 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT  IV. 


When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy's  so  extended, 
That  lor  the  fauU's  love  is  Ih'  oflender  iVieiidcd. — 
Kow,  sir.  what  news  ? 

Prov.  I  told  you  :  Lord  Angelo,  belike  thinking  me 
remits  in  nunc  otlice.  awakens  nie  wiih  this  unwonted 
pulling  on  J  mcthinks  strangely,  lor  lie  halh  not  used 
il  before. 

Duke.  Pray  you,  let 's  hear. 

Prov.  [Haul.'!.]  "  Whalsoovcr  you  may  hear  to  the 
contrary,  lei  Claudio  be  executed  by  four  of  llie  clock  ; 
and,  in  llie  alUrnoon.  Harnardinc.  For  my  belter  sat- 
islaction.  Ut  me  have  Claudio"s  head  sent  nie  by  five. 
Let  tills  be  duly  pcrlorind  ;  with  a  thought,  that  more 
depends  on  it  than  we  must  yet  deliver.  Thus  fail  not 
to  do  your  office,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your  peril." — 
■^'hat  say  you  to  this,  sir? 

Duke.  What  is  that  Barnardine,  who  is  to  be  exe- 
cuted iu  the  afternoon  ? 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  born  ;  but  here  nursed  up  and 
bred  :  one  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old. 

Duke.  How  came  it,  that  the  absent  Duke  had  not 
either  delivcr'd  him  to  his  liberty,  or  executed  him  ?  I 
have  heard,  it  was  ever  his  manner  to  do  so. 

Prov.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  for  him: 
and,  indeed.  hi.s  fact,  till  now  in  the  government  of 
Lord  Angelo.  came  not  to  an  undoubtful  proof. 

Duke.   It  is  now  ajiparenl  ? 

Prov.   Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  himself. 

Duke.  Hath  he  borne  himself  penitently  in  prison  ? 
How  seems  he  to  be  touclfd  ? 

Prov.  A  man  that  apprehends  death  no  more  dread- 
fully but   as   a  drunken  .'^leep  ;  careless,  reckless,  and 


fearless  of  what  "s  past,  present,  or  to  come  :  insensible  I  is  almost  clear  dawn 


fortune,  by  the   saint   whom    I   profess,   I   will   plead 
against  it  with  my  life. 

.Prov.  Pardon  me,  good  father:  it  is  agamst  my 
oaMi. 

Duke.  Were  you  sworn  to  tlie  Duke,  or  to  the 
deputy  ? 

Prov.  To  him,  and  to  his  substitutes. 

Duke.  You  will  think  you  have  made  no  offence,  -f 
the  Duke  avouch  the  justice  of  your  dealing. 

Piov.   But  what  likelihood  is  in  that? 

Duke.  Not  a  resemblance,  but  a  certainty.  Yet 
since  1  sec  you  fearful,  that  neither  my  coat,  integrity, 
nor  my  persuasion,  can  with  ea.^e  ailcmpl  you,  1  will 
go  farther  than  I  meant,  to  pluck  all  fears  out  of  you 
Look  you.  sir;  here  is  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  Duke: 
you  know  the  cliaracter,  I  doubt  not,  and  the  signet  is 
not  strange  to  you. 

Prov.  I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of  the 
Duke  :  you  shall  anon  over-read  it  at  your  pleasure, 
where  you  shall  find,  within  these  two  days  he  will  be 
here.  This  is  a  thing  that  Angelo  knows  not,  for  he 
this  very  day  receives  letters  of  strange  tenor :  per- 
chance, of  the  Duke's  death ;  perchance,  entering  into 
some  monastery;  but,  by  chance,  nothing  of  what  is 
writ.  Look,  the  unlblding  star  calls  up  the  shepherd. 
Put  not  yourself  into  amazement  how  tlie.<e  things 
should  be  :  all  difficulties  are  but  easy  when  they  are 
known.  Call  your  executioner,  and  off  with  Barnar- 
dine's  head  :  I  will  give  him  a  present  slirift,  and 
advise  him  for  a  better  place.  Yet  you  are  amazed, 
but  this  shall  absolutely  resolve  you.     Come  away  ;  it 


of  mortality,  and  de.>^perately  mortal. 

Duke.  He  wants  advice. 

Prov.  He  will  hear  none.  He  hath  evermore  had 
the  liberty  of  the  prison  :  give  him  leave  to  escape 
hence,  he  would  not :  drunk  many  limes  a  day.  if  not 
many  days  entirely  drunk.  Wv  have  very  oft  awaked 
him.  as  if  to  carry  him  to  execution,  and  show'd  him 
a  seeming  warrant  for  it  :  it  hath  not  moved  him  at  all. 

Duke.  More  of  him  anon.  There  is  written  in  your 
brow,  provo.-t.  honesty  and  constancy  :  if  I  read  it  not 
truly,  my  ancient  skill  beguiles  me;  but  in  the  bold- 
ness  of   my   cunning    I  will    lay    myself  in    hazard. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  HI.— Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
Elder  Clown. 
Clo.  I  am  as  well  acquainted  here,  as  I  was  in  our 
house  of  profession  :  one  would  think,  it  were  mistress 
Over-done's  own  house,  for  here  be  many  of  her  old 
customers.  First,  here  "s  young  Mr.  Hash;  he 's  in  for 
a  commodity  of  brown  paper  and  old  ginger.'  ninescore 
and  seventeen  pounds,  of  which  he  made  five  marks, 
ready  money  :  marry,  then,  ginger  was  not  much  in 
request,  for  the  old  women  were  all  dead.  Then  is 
there  here  one  Mr.  Caper,  at  the  suit  of  master  Three- 


Claudio,  whom  here  you  have  warrant  to  execute,  is  j  pile  the  mercer,  for  some  four  suits  of  pcach-colour'd 
uo  greater  I'orfeit  to  the  law,  than  Angelo  who  hath  satin,  which  now  peaches  him  a  beggar.  Then  have  we 
sentenced  him.  To  m.ike  you  understand  this  in  a  ,  here  young  Dicy.  and  young  Mr.  Deep-vow,  and  Mr. 
nianifcBied  etfecl,  1  crave  but  lour  days' respite,  for  the  ;  Copper-spur,  and  Mr.  Starve-lackey,  the  rapier  and 
which  you  are  to  do  me  both  a  present  and  a  dangerous  '  dagger-man,   and   young   Drop  heir   that    kill'd    Lusty 


courtesy. 

Prav.  Pray,  sir,  in  what? 

Dukf.  In  the  delaying  death. 

Prov.  Alack  !  how  may  I  do  it,  ha\'ing  the  hour 
limited,  and  an  express  command,  under  penalty,  to 
deliver  Ins  head  in  the  view  of  Angelo  ?  I  may  make 
my  ca.'-e  as  Claudio'.*;,  to  cro.ss  this  in  the  smallest. 

Duke.  By  the  vow  of  mine  order,  I  warrant  you  :  if 
my  instructions  may  be  your  guide,  let  (his  Barnardine 
he  this  morning  executed,  and  hi.s  head  borne  to 
Angelo. 

Prov.  Angelo  hath  seen  them  both,  and  will  discover 
me  favour. 

Duke.  O  !  deatli  's  a  great  disgiiiser,  and  you  may 
add  to  It.  Shave  the  head,  and  tie  the  beard  ;  and  say. 
It  was  the  desire  of  the  penitent  to  be  so  bared  before 
his  death:  you  know,  tlie  course   i.s  common.     If  any 


Pudding,  and  Mr.  Forthright  the  tilter,  and  brave  Mr. 
Shoe-tie  the   great  traveller,  and   wild   Half-can  that 
stabb'd  Potts,  and,  I  think,  forty  more,  all  great  doers 
in  our  trade,  and  arc  now  in^  for  the  Lord's  sake.' 
Enter  ABifonsoN. 

Ahhor.  Sirrah,  bring  Barnardine  hither. 

Clo.   Mr.  Barnardine  !  you  must  rise  and  be  hang'd, 
Mr.  Barnardine. 

Ahhor.  What,  ho,  Barnardine  ! 

Barnnr.  [Within]    A   pox  o'    your   throats!     Who 
makes  that  noise  there  ?     What  are  you  "'' 

Clo.  Your  friends,   sir;    the   hangman.     Y'ou   must 
be  so  good,  sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  death. 

liarnar.  [Within.]  Away,  you  rog«e,  away  !     I  am 
eleepy. 

Abhor  Tell  him.  he  must  awake,  and  that  quickly  too. 

Clo.  Pray,  master   Barnardine,   awake  till  yoai  are 


thing  fall  to  you  upon  this,  more  than  thanks  and  good    executed,  and  sleep  afterwards 

>  It  WM  icuitom  of  uBnrer*  to  compel  borrowen  to  take  part  of  the  sum  advanced  to  thera  in  goods,  often  of  little  real  value. 
to  >.  «.        *  Impritcned  debton  uied  to  beg  trom  the  jail  windows,  *'  for  the  Lord's  sake.'- 


«Mot 


SCENE  in. 


MEASURE  FOR.  MEASURE. 


Abhor.  Go  in  to  him,  and  fetch  him  out. 

Clo.  He  is  coming,  sir,  he  is  coming :  I  hear  hi.>j 
straw  rustle. 

Enter  Barnardink. 

Abhor.  Is  the  axe  upon  the  block,  sirrah  ? 

etc.   Very  ready,  sir.  [you  ? 

Barnar.  How  now.  Abhorson  ?  what 's  the  news  with 

Abhor.  Truly,  sir.  1  would  desire  you  to  clap  into 
J  ur  prayers ;  lor.  look  you,  the  warrant 's  come. 

Barnar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  drinking  all  night : 
I  am  not  fitted  for  "t. 

Clo.  0  !  the  better,  sir:  for  he  that  drinks  all  night, 
and  is  hanged  betimes  in  the  morning,  may  sleep  the 
sounder  all  the  next  day. 

Enter  Duke. 

Abhor.  Look  you,  sir ;  here  comes  your  ghostly 
father.     Do  we  je.^t  now,  think  you  ? 

Dtike.  Sir,  induced  by  my  cl.aiiiy,  and  hearing  how 
hastily  you  are  to  depart.  I  am  come  to  advice  you, 
comfort  you,  and  pray  with  you. 

Barnar.  Friar,  not  I :  I  have  been  drinking  hard  all 
night,  and  I  will  have  more  time  to  prepare  me,  or 
they  shall  beat  out  my  brains  with  billets.  I  will  not 
consent  to  die  this  day,  that's  certain. 

Duke.  0.  sir,  you    must ;  and  therefore.   I  beseech 
you. 
Look  forward  on  the  journey  you  shall  go. 

Barnar.  I  swear,  I  will  not  die  to-day  for  any  man's 
persua.^ion. 

Duke.  But  hear  you, — 

Barnar.  Not  a  word  :  if  50U  have  anything  to  say 
to  me,  come  to  my  ward  ;  for  thence  will  not  1  to-day. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Provost. 

Duke.  Unfit  to  live,  or  die.  0,  grovelling  beast  !' — 
After  him,  fellows:  bring  him  to  the  block. 

[Exeunt  Abhokson  and  Clown. 

Prov.  Now,  sir,  how  do  you  find  the  prisoner? 

Duke.  A  creature  unprepar'd,  unmeet  for  death  ; 
And,  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is. 
Were  damnable. 

Prov.  Here  in  the  prison,  father. 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 
One  Ragozine,  a  most  notorious  pirate, 
A  man  of  Claudio's  years  ;  his  beard  and  head. 
Just  of  his  colour.     What  if  we  do  omit 
This  reprobate,  till  he  were  well  inelin'd, 
And  satisfy  the  deputy  with  the  visage 
Of  Ragozin-.,  more  like  to  Claudio? 

Duke.  0.  'lis  an  accident  that  heaven  provides  ! 
Despatch  it  presently:  the  hour  draws  on 
Prefix'd  by  Angelo.     See,  this  be  done. 
And  sent  according  to  command,  whiles  I 
Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die. 

Prov.  This  shall  be  done   good  father,  presently. 
But  Barnardine  must  die  this  afternoon ; 
And  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 
To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come. 
If  he  were  known  alive? 

Duke.     Let    this    be    done. — Put    them    in    secret 
holds 
Both  Barnardine  and  Claudio; 
Ere  twice  the  sun  hath  made  his  journal  greeting 
To  yonder^  generation,  you  shall  find 
Vour  safety  manifest.' 
Prov.  I  am  your  free  dependant. 
i^m     Duke.  Quick,  despatch,  and  send  the  head  to  Angelo. 
^■^  [Exit  Provost. 

I 


1  gravel  heart  : : 
The  wrrds  to  vou  i 


yond  :  in  f.  e.         '  m.\nife»ted  ; 
"  With.         'oombined  •  jn  f.  i 


Now  will  I  write  letters  to  Angelo, 

(The  provost,  he  shall  bear  them)  whose  contenta 

Shall  witness  to  him,  I  am  near  at  home, 

And  that  by  great  injunctions  I  am  bound 

To  enter  publicly:  him  I  '11  desire 

To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount, 

A  league  below  the  city  :  and  from  thence, 

Bv  cold  gradation  and  well  balanc'd  form,* 

We  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 

Re-Enter  Provost. 

Prov.  Here  is  the  head  ;  I'll  carry  it  myself. 

Duke.    Convenient  is  it.     Make  a  swift  return, 
For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things. 
That  want  no  ear  but  yours. 

Prov.  I  '11  make  all  speed.     [Exit 

Isub.  [IJlthin.]  Peace,  ho,  be  here  ! 

Duke.  The  tongue  of  Isabel. — She  come  to  know, 
If  yet  her  brothers  pardon  be  come  hither; 
But  1  will  keep  lier  ignorant  of  her  good. 
To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despair, 
When  it  is  least  expected. 

Enter  Isabella. 

[sab.  Ho  !  by  your  leave. 

Duke.  Good     morning    to    you,    fair   and     gracious 
daughter. 

Isab.  The  better  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 
Hath  yet  the  deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon? 

Duke.  He  haih  releas'd  him,  Isabel,  from  the  world 
His  head  is  off  and  sent  to  Angelo. 

Isab.  Nay,  but  it  is  not  so. 

Duke.  It  is  no  other.  [Catching  tier.* 

Show  your  wisdom,  daughter,  in  your  close  patience. 

Isub.  0  I  I  will  to  him,  and  pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Duke.  You  shall  not  be  admitted  to  his  sight. 

Isab.   Unhappy  Claudio  !  Wretched  Isabel  ! 
Perjurious*  world  !   Most  damned  Angelo  ! 

Duke.  Tliis  not  hurts  him,  nor  profits  you  a  jot: 
Forbear  it  therefore  ;  give  your  cause  to  heaven. 
Mark  what  I  say  to  you,'  which  you  shall  find 
By  every  syllable  a  faithful  verity. 
The  duke  comes  home  to-morrow;  nay,  dry  your  eyes, 
One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor. 
Gives  me  this  instance.     Already  he  hath  carried 
Notice  to  F.scalus  and  Angelo, 
Who  do  prepare  to  meet  him  at  the  gates, 
Thereto  give  up  their  power.     If  you  can,   pace  ycui 

wisdom 
In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  it  go 
And  you  shall  have  your  bo.som  on  this'  this  wretch. 
Grace  of  the  duke,  revenges  to  your  heart. 
And  general  honour. 

Isab.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.  This  letter,  then,  to  friar  Peter  give  : 
'T  is  that  he  sent  me  of  the  duke's  return  : 
Say.  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 
At  Mariana's  house  to-night.     Her  cause,  and  you. 
I  '11  perfect  him  withal,  and  he  shall  bring  you 
Before  the  duke;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 
Accuse  him  home,  and  home.     For  my  poor  self, 
I  am  confined'  by  a  sacred  vow. 
And  shall  be  absent.     Wend  you  with  this  letter. 
Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 
With  a  light  heart :  trust  not  my  holy  order, 
If  I  pervert  your  course. — Who  's  here  ? 
Enter  Lucio. 
Lucio.  Good  even. 

Friar,  where  is  the  provost  ? 
Duke.  Not  within,  sir. 

*  weal-balanc'd  :  in  f.  e.        •  Not  in  f.  •.        •  Injurioaa  :   In  t  • 


80 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


Lucio.  O,  pretty  Isabella  !  I  am  pale  at  mine  heart, 
to  see  thine  eyes  so  red  :  thou  must  be  patient.  1  am 
fain  to  (line  and  sup  with  water  and  bran  ;  I  dare  not 
fur  my  head  fill  my  belly:  one  fruitful  meal  would  set 
nie  to  "t.  But.  they  say,  tiie  duke  will  be  here  to- 
morrow. By  my  troth,  Isabel,  I  loved  thy  brother; 
if  the  old  fantastical  duke  of  dark  corners  had  been  at 
home,  he  had  lived.  [Exit  Isabella. 

Dvke.  Sir.  the  duke  is  marvellous  litile  beholding  to 
your  reports  ;   bail  the  best  is,  he  lives  not  in  them. 

Lucio.  Fnar.  thou  knowest  not  the  duke  .so  well  as 
•  do:  he's  a  better  woodman  than  thou  takest  him 
or. 

Duke.  Well,  you  '11  answer  this  one  day.  Fare  ye 
well.  [Going. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarry  ;  I '11  go  along  with  thee.  lean 
tell  thee  pretty  tales  of  the  duke. 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him  already, 
sir,  if  they  be  true  ;  if  not  true,  none  were  enough. 

Lucio.  I  wa.s  once  before  him  for  getting  a  wench 
with  child. 

Duke.  Did  you  such  a  thing  ? 

Lucio.  Yes;  marry,  did  1:  but  I  was  fain  to  for- 
swear it :  they  would  else  have  married  me  to  the  rotten 
medlar. 

Drikc.  Sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than  honest.  Rest 
you  well.  [Goivg. 

Lucio.  By  my  troth.  I'll  go  with  thee  to  the  lane's 
end.  If  bawdy  talk  offend  you,  we  '11  have  very  little 
of  it.     Nay,  friar,  I  am  a  kind  of  burr ;  I  shall  stick. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Angelo's  House. 
Enter  Angelo  and  Escalus. 

Escal.  Every  letter  he  hath  writ  hath  disvouch'd 
other. 

Ang.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner. 
His  actions  show  much  like  to  madness:  pray  heaven 
His  wisdom  be  not  tainted  ! 
And  why  meet  him  at  the  gates,  and  re-deliver 
Our  authorities  there  ? 

Escal.  I  liuess  not. 

-'ing.  And  why  should  we 
Proclaim  it  an  hour  before  his  entering, 
That  if  any  crave  redress  of  injustice, 
They  should  exhibit  their  petitions 
In  the  street?' 

Escal.  He  shows  his  rea.son  for  that  :  to  have  a  des- 
patcn   of  complaints,  and  to  deliver   us  from   devices 
injrcafter, 
Which  shall  then  have  no  power  to  .stand  against  us. 

Ang.  Well,  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  proclaim'd  ; 
Betimes  i'  the  niorn,  I  '11  call  you  at  your  house. 
Give  notice  of  such  men  of  sort  and  suit, 
As  are  to  moot  him. 

Escal.  I  shall,  sir  :  fare  you  well.     [Exit. 

Ang.  Good  night. — 
his  deed  unshapes  me  quite,  makes  mc  unpregnaut. 


maid, 


j  And  dull  to  all  proceedings.     A  deflowered 
And  by  an  eminent  body,  that  cnforc'd 
jThe  law  against  it ! — But  that  her  tender  shame 
'Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss. 
How  might  she  tongue  me  !     Yet  reason  dares  her 

no; 
For  my  authority  bears  such*  a  credent  bulk 
That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch. 
But  it  confounds  the  breather.     He  should  have  liv'd.i 
Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous  sense, 
Might  in  the  times  to  come  have  ta'en  revenge, 
For  so  receiving  a  dishonour"d  life 
With  ransom  of  such  shame.  Would  yet  he  had  liv'd 
Alack  !   when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot. 
Nothing  goes  right  :  we  would,  and  wc  would  not.  [Exit 
SCENE  v.— Fields  without  the  Town. 
Enter  Duke,  in  his  own  habit,  and  Friar  Peter. 

Duke.  These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me. 

[Giving  them.* 
The  provost  knows  our  purpose,  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction. 
And  hold  you  ever  to  our  special  drift. 
Though  sometimes  you  do  blench*  from  this  to  that. 
As  cause  doth  minister.     Go,  call   at  Flavius'  house, 
And  tell  him  where  I  stay  :  give  the  like  notice 
Unto  Valentius.  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 
And  hid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate  ; 
But  send  me  Flavius  first. 

F.  Peter.  It  .shall  be  speeded  well.   [Exit  Peter 

Enter  Vakrius 

Duke.  I  thank  thee,  Varrius ;  thou  hast  made  good 
haste. 
Come,  we  will  walk :  there's  other  of  our  friends 
Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius.     [Exeunt, 
SCENE  VI.— Street  near  the  City  Gate. 
Filter  Isabella  and  Mariana. 

Isab.  To  speak  so  indirectly,  I  am  loath  : 
I  would  say  the  truth  ;  but  to  accuse  him  so, 
That  is  your  part ;  yet  I  'm  advis'd  to  do  it, 
He  says,  to  'vailfuP  purpose. 

Mari.  Be  rul'd  by  him. 

Isab.  Be.sides.  he  tells  me.  that  if  peradventure 
He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 
I  should  not  think  it  strange  :  for  't  is  a  physic. 
That  's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 

Mari.   I  would,  friar  Peter — 

Isab.  0,  peace  !  the  friar  is  come. 

Enter  Friar  Peter. 

F.  Peter.   Come ;  I  have  found  you  out  a  stand  most 
fit, 
Where  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  duke. 
He  shall    not   pass    you.     Twice   have    the   trumpets 

sounded  : 
The  generous  and  gravest  citizens 
Have  hent  the  gates,  and  very  near  upon 
The  duke  is  ent'ring  :  therefore  hence,  away.  [Exeitni 


ACT    V 


Mariana,  (i'cjYV.)  Isabella  and  Peter, 
Enter  at  several  doors,  Duke,  Varrius 


SCENE  I. — A  public  place  near  the  City  Gate. 

at  a  distance. 
Lords  ;  An- 
gelo, Escalus.  Lucio,  Provost,  Officers  and  Citizens. 

Duke.  My  very  worthy  cousin,  fairly  met. — 

K«i([htand  other  fdn  print  thii  and  Angtlo's  former  speech  in  prnii«. 


Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see  you. 

Ang.  and   Escal.  Happy  return   be    to  your  rojfJ 
grace  ! 

Ihike.  Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 
We  have  iriade  inquiry  of  you  ;  and  we  hear 
Such  goodness  of  your  ju.stice,  that  our  soul 

•of:inf.  e.   »  Utteri :  in  I.  «.  *  Start  off.  'tc  Teil  full  porDos«  :  in  f.  » 


SCfilTE    I. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


81 


Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks, 
Forerunning  more  requital. 

Ang.  You  make  my  bonds  still  greater. 

Duke.  0  !  your  desert  speaks   loud ;   and   I   should 
wrong  it, 
To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom. 
VVlien  it  deserves  with  characters  of  brass 
A  forted  residence  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time, 
And  razure  of  oblivion.     Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 
That  oi.tward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 
Favours  that  keep  within. — Come.  E^calus; 
You  must  walk  by  us  on  our  other  hand, 
And  good  supporters  are  you. 

Friar  Peter  and  Isabella  come  forward. 

F  Peter.  Now  is  your  time.     Speak  loud,  and  kneel 
before  him. 

Isah.  Justice.  0  royal  duke  !    Vail  your  regard 

[Kneeling} 
Upon  a  'WTong'd.  1  would  fain  have  said,  a  maid  ! 
0  worthy  i  r.nce  !  dislionour  not  your  eye 
By  throwing  it  on  any  other  object, 
Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint, 
And  given  me  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice  ! 

I)nke.  Relate  your  wrongs:  in  what?  by  whom?   Be 
brief. 
Here  is  lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice : 
Reveal  yourself  to  him. 

hab.  O,  worthy  duke !  [Rising.* 

Vou  bid  me  seek  redemption  of  the  devil. 
H'jar  me  yourself;  for  tliat  which  I  must  speak 
Must  either  punish  me.  not  being  believ'd, 
Or  wTing   redress  from  you.     Hear  me.  O,  hear,  me, 
here  !  [Kneeling  again.^ 

Ang.  My  lord,  her  wits,  I  fear  me,  are  not  fiiin : 
She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother, 
Cut  off  by  course  of  justice. 

hab.  By  course  of  justice  !   [Ri.<;ing.* 

Ang.  And  she  will  speak  most  bitterly,  and  strangely.' 

hab.  Most  strangely,  yet'  most  truly,  will  I  speak. 
That  Angelo  's  forsworn,  is  it  not  strange? 
That  Angelo  's  a  murderer,  is  't  not  strange? 
That  Angelo  is  an  adulterous  thief, 
An  hypocrite,  a  virgin-^-iolator, 
Is  it  not  strange,  and  strange  ? 

Duke.  Nay,  it  is  ten  times  strange. 

hab.  It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo, 
Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  .«trange: 
Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true ;  for  truth  is  truth 
To  th'  end  of  reckoning. 

Duke.  Away  with  her. — Poor  soul  ! 

She  speaks  this  in  th'  infirmity  of  sen.se. 

hab.  0  prince.  I  conjure  thee,  as  thou  believ'st 
There  is  another  comfort  than  this  wo  Id, 
That  thou  neglect  me  not,  with  that  opinion 
That  I  am  toucli'd  with  madness :  make  not  impossible 
That  which  but  seems  unlike.     'T  is  not  impos.sible, 
But  one.  the  wicked'st  caitiff  on  the  ground. 
May  seem  as  shy.  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute, 
As  Angelo;  even  so  may  Angelo. 
In  all  his  dressings,  characts.  titles,  forms, 
Be  an  arch-villain.     Believe  it,  royal  prince. 
If  he  be  less,  he  's  nothing;  but  he  's  more, 
Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 

Duke.  By  mine  honesty, 

If  she  be  mad,  as  T  believe  no  other, 
Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense. 
6uch  a  dependency  of  thing  on  thing. 
As  e'er  I  heard  in  madness 


hab  0.  gracious  duke  ! 

Harp  not  on  that ;  nor  do  not  banish  reason 
For  incredulity' ;  but  let  your  reason  serve 
To  make  the  truth  appear,  where  it  seems  hid, 
And  hide  the  false  seems  true. 

Duke.  Many  that  are  not  mad 

Ha»'e.  sure,  more  lack  of  reason. — What  would  you  say ' 

hab.  I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
Condemn'd  upon  the  act  of  Ibrnication 
To  lose  his  head  :  condemned  by  Angelo. 
I.  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood. 
Was  sent  to  by  my  brother;  one  Lucio 
As  then  the  messenger. — 

Lucio.  That 's  I.  an  "t  like  your  grace 

1  came  to  her  from  Claudio.  and  desird  her 
To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  lord  Angelo, 
For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 

hab.  That 's  he,  indeed. 

Duke.  You  were  not  bid  to  speak. 

Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord  ; 

Nor  wish'd  to  hold  my  peace. 

Duke.  I  -wish  you  now,  then  • 

Pray  you.  take  note  of  it ;  and  when  you  have 
A  business  for  yourself,  pray  heaven,  you  then 
Be  perfect. 

Lucio.         I  warrant  your  honour. 

Duke.  The  war  ant 's  for  yourself:  take  heed  to  it 

hah.  This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my  tale. 

Lucio    Ptight. 

Duke.  It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  in  the  -vsTong 
To  speak  before  your  time. — Proceed. 

hab.  I  went 

To  this  perniciotis,  caitiff  deputy. 

Duke.  That 's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 

hab.  Pardon  it: 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter. 

Duke.  Mended  again  :  the  matter? — Now  proceed 

hab.  In  brief. — to  set  the  needless  p  ocess  by, 
How  I  persuaded,  how  I  payd,  and  kneel'd, 
How  he  re:eird  me,  and  how  I  rep'ied, 
(For  this  Wiis  of  much  length)  the  vile  conclusion 
I  now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  ut  er. 
He  would  not.  but  by  gift  of  my  cha.  te  body 
To  his  concu]  iscible  intempi-rate  lust, 
Re'ease  my  brother;  and,  after  much  dcbatement, 
My  sistely  remorse  ccni'utes  mine  honour. 
And  1  did  yield  to  him.     But  the  next  ii:on  betimes, 
His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 
For  my  poor  brother's  head. 

Duke.  This  is  most  likely. 

hab.  O.  that  it  were  as  like",  as  it  is  true  ! 

Duke.  By  heaven,   tbnd  wretch  !   thou   know'st  noi 
what  thou  speak'st. 
Or  el.'e  thou  art  suborn'd  against  his  honour. 
In  hateful  practice.     First,  his  integrity 
Stands  without  blemish  :  next,  it  impo.-ts  no  reason. 
That  -with  such  vehemeney  he  should  pursue 
Faults  proper  to  hiii;se!f ;  if  he  had  so  offended. 
He  would  have  weigh'd  thy  brother  by  himself. 
And  not  have  cut  htm  off.    Some  one  hath  set  you  on! 
Confess  the  truth,  and  s.iy  by  whose  advice 
Thou  cam'st  here  to  complain. 

hab.  And  is  this  all? 

Then,  O !   you  blessed  ministers  above. 
Keep  me  in  patience  ;  and.  \\i.\\\  ripen'd  time, 
Unfold  the  evil  which  is  here  wrapt  up 
In  countenance  I — Heaven  shield  your  grace  from  woe. 
As  I.  thus  wrong'dj^tience  unbelieved  go! 

Duke.  I  know,  vou'd  fain  be  gone. — An  officer ! 


»  »  •  Not  in  f. 
P 


*  strange  :  in  f.  e.      •  Most  strange,  but  yet,  ie  :  m  f.  e.      '  inequality  :  in  f.  e.      *  PrfbabU. 


82 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Afrr  V. 


To  pri«on  wilh  her. — Shall  we  tlms  jwrmit 

A  blnsiing  and  a  ^can(^alous  breath  to  fall 

On  hun  so  near  us  "     This  ne<.d8  must  be  a  practice. 

Who  kinw  ol  your  intei.t,  and  coming  hither? 

Isiih    One  that  I  would  were  here,  triar  Lodowick. 

Lhike.  A   ghostly  father,  belike. — Who  knows  thai 
Lodowick? 

Lucio.  My  lord,  I  know  him  :  't  is  a  meddling  friar: 
[  do  not  like  the  man :  had  he  been  lay,  my  lord, 
For  certain  wods  he  spake  against  your  grace, 
In  your  retirement.  I  had  swing'd  him  soundly. 

Duke.  Words  against  ine?  This  a  good  friar,  belike. 
And  to  S't  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute  I — Let  this  friar  be  found. 

Lucio.  But  vi  stcrnight,  my  lord,  she  and  that  friar 
I  saw  them  at  tlie  prison.     A  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 


grace 


F.  Peter.  Blessed  be  your  roy 

[  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 
Vour  royal  ear  abus'd.     Fi;st.  hath  this  woman 
Most  wrongfully  accu.<5"d  your  substitute, 
Who  is  as  free  from  touch  or  soil  with  her, 
As  she  from  one  ungot. 

Ihike.  "We  did  believe  no  less. 

Know  you  that  friar  Lodo^^^ck.  that  she  speaks  of? 

F.  Peter.  I  know  him  for  a  man  di\'ine  and  holyj 
\ot  scur\-y.  nor  a  temporary  meddler, 
.\s  he  "s  reported  by  this  gentleman; 
And,  on  my  truth',  a  man  that  never  yet 
Did.  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  grace. 

Lucio.  My  lord,  most  villainously:  believe  it. 

F.  Peter.  Well :  he  in  time  may  come  to  clear  him- 
self, 
But  at  th:s  instant  he  ib  sick,  my  lord. 
Of  a  s-trange  fever.     Upon  his  mere  request. 
Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  complaint 
Tntended  "gainst  lord  Angelo.  came  I  hither. 
To  speak,  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 
[s  true,  and  false;  and  what  he  with  his  oath, 
And  all  probation,  will  make  up  full  clear, 
Whensoever  he  s  convented.     First,  for  this  woman. 
To  ju.stify  this  worthy  nobleman, 
So  vulgarly  and  personally  accus'd, 
Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes. 
Till  she  heiself  confess  it. 

Lhike.  Good  friar,  let 's  hear  it. 

[Is.\BE',LA  is  carried  off  guarded;  and  Mariana 
comes  forward. 
Do  you  not  smile  at  this,  lord  Angelo? — 
0  heaven,  the  vaniiy  of  wretched  fools  ! — 
Give  us  some  seau,. — Come,  cousin  Angelo, 
In  this  I   II  be  imphrtial*:  be  you  judge 
Of  your  own  cause. — Is  this  the  witness,  friar? 
First,  let  her  show  her  face,  and  after  speak. 

Mari.  I'.irdon.  niy  lord,  I  will  not  show  my  face, 
Until  my  husband  bid  me. 

Duke. 

Mari.  No.  mv  lord. 

Duke. 

Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Duke.  A  widow,  then  ? 

Mr>ri.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Why,  you 

Are  nothine  then  :  neither,  maid,  widow,  nor  -w-ife? 

Lurio.  My  lord,  s!ie  maybe  a  punk;  for  many  of 
them  nre  neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife. 

Duke.  Silence  that  fellow:    I  would 
cause 
To  prattle  for  himself. 
•  ♦.rnst :  in  f.  e       »  Im,  that  i».  vrry  part'Al.  a  r 


What,  are  you  married 
Are  you  a  maid? 


Lxicio.  Well,  my  lord. 

Mari.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was  married  : 
And,  I  confess,  besides,  1  am  no  maid  ; 
I  have  known  my  husband,  yet  my  husband  knows  net 
That  ever  he  knew  me. 

Lucio.  He  was  drunk,  then,  my  lord  :  it  can  be  no 
better. 

Duke.  For  the  benefit  of  silence,  'would  thou  wert 
so  too  ! 

Lucio.  Well,  my  lord. 

Ihike.  This  is  no  witness  for  lord  Angelo. 

Mari.  Now  I  come  to  "t,  rny  lord. 
She  that  accuses  him  of  fornication, 
In  self-same  manner  doth  accuse  my  husband  ; 
And  charges  him,  my  lord,  with  such  a  time, 
When,  I  'II  depose,  I  had  him  in  mine  arms, 
With  all  til'  effect  of  love. 

Ang.  Charges  she  more  than  me  ? 

Mari.  Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  No?  you  say,  your  husband. 

Mari.  Why,  just  my  lord,  and  that  is  Anirelo. 
Who  thinks,  he  knows,  that  he  ne  'cr  knew  my  body 
But  knows,  he  thinks,  that  he  knows  Isabefs. 

Ang.  This  is  a  strange  abuse. — Let 's  ^ee  thy  face. 

Mari.  My  husband  bids  me;  now  I  will  unmask. 

[Unveiling. 
This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo. 
Which  once,  thou  sworst.  was  worth  the  lookiug  on  : 
This  is  the  hand  which  with  a  vow"d  crntract. 
Was  fast  belock'd  in  thine  :  this  is  the  body 
That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel. 
And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house* 
In  her  imagined  person. 

Dtike.  Know  you  this  woman? 

Lucio.  Carnally,  she  says. 

Duke.  Sirrah,  no  more. 

Lucio.  Enough,  my  lord. 

Ang.  My  lord.  I  must  confess,  I  know  this  woman . 
And  five  years  since  there  was  some  speech  of  marriage 
Betwixt  myself  and  her,  which  was  broke  off. 
Partly,  for  that  her  promised  proportions 
Came  short  of  composition;  but.  in  chief. 
For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 
In  levity:  since  which  time  of  five  years 
I  never  opake  with  her,  saw  her.  nor  heard  from  her, 
Upon  my  faith  and  honour. 

Mari.  Noble  prince,     [Kncchng- 

As  there  comes  light  from  heaven,  and  words  from 

breath, 
As  there  is  sense  in  truth,  and  truth  in  virtue, 
I  am  afliancd  this  man's  wife,  a^  s  rorgly 
As  words  could  make  up  vows:  and.  my  good  lord. 
But  Tuesday  night  last  gone,  in  's  garden-house, 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife.     As  this  is  true 
Let  me  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  knees. 
Or  else  for  ever  be  confixed  here, 
A  marble  monument. 

Ang.  I  did  but  smile  till  now: 

Now.  good  my  lord,  give  me  the  scope  of  justice; 
My  patience  here  is  touch'd.     I  do  perceive. 
These  poor  informal'  women  are  no  more 
But  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member. 
That  sets  them  on.     Let  me  have  way,  my  lord, 
To  find  this  practice  out. 

Duke.  Ay.  with  my  heart; 

And  punish  them  unto  your  height  of  jleas^ure. — 
he  had  some  I  Thou  foolish  friar,  and  thou  pernicious  woman, 

I  Compnct  with  her  that 's  gone,  thinkst  thou,  thy  oaths 
I  Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular  Ksint, 


of  the  prefix.      '  SumvuT-hoM-u. 


SCENE   I. 


MEASUKE   FOE  ]\IEASUKE. 


6-6 


Were  testimonies  against  his  worrli  and  credit, 
That  's  sealed  in  aiprob.ition  ? — You,  lord  Escalus, 
Sit  wilh  my  consiu  :  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  this  abuse,  whence  't  is  deriv'd. — 
There  is  another  friar  that  set  thcin  on ; 
Let  him  be  sent  for. 

F.  Peter.     Would  he  were  here,  my  lord ;  for  he, 
indeed, 
Hath  set  the  women  on  to  this  complaint. 
Your  povost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  liiin. 

Duke.  Go.  do  it  instantly, —  [Exit  Provost. 

And  you,  my  noble  and  well-warranted  cousin. 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth, 
Do  with  your  injuries  as  .-eems  you  best, 
[ii  any  cliasti^emcnl :   1  for  a  while 
Will  leave  you  ;  but  i-tir  not  you.  till  you  have  well 
Determined  upon  these  slanderers.  [Exit  Duke. 

E.tcal.  My  lord,  we  '11  do  it  thoroughly. — Signior 
Lueio,  did  not  you  say,  you  knew  that  friar  Lodowick 
to  be  a  dis'ioncst  per.-on? 

Lucio.  CucuUiis  nan  facit  monachrtm:  honest  in 
nothing,  but  in  his  clothes :  and  one  that  hatli  spoke 
most  vill.iinous  speeches  of  the  duke. 

Escal.  W^e  sliill  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till  he 
come,  and  enforce  them  against  him.  We  shall  find 
this  friar  a  notable  fellow. 

Lucio.  As  any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word. 

Escal.  Ca'l  that  same  Isabel  here  once  again  :  [Tn 
an  Attendant.]  I  would  speak  with  her.  Pray  you, 
my  lord,  sive  me  I'eave  to  question  ;  you  shall  see  how 
I  "11  handle  her. 

Lricio.  Not  better  than  he,  by  her  own  report. 

E.fcal.  Say  you  ? 

Lucio.  Mirry,  sir,  I  think,  if  you  handled  her  pri- 
vately, slie  would  sooner  confess:  perchance,  publicly 
she  11  be  asliamed. 

Re-enter  OJicers.  with  Isabella  :  the  Duke,  tn  a 
Friar's  hubit.  and  Provost. 

E.fcal.  I  will  go  darkly  to  work  with  her. 

Lucio.  That 's  the  way ;  fcr  women  are  light  at  mid- 
night. 

Escal.  Come  on,  mistress.  [To  Isabella.]  Here 's  a 
gentlewoman  denies  all  that  you  have  said. 

Lucio.  My  lord,  here  comes  the  rascal  J  spoke  of; 
here,  with  tlie  provost. 

Escal.  In  very  good  time : — speak  not  you  to  him. 
till  we  call  upon  you. 

Lucio.  Mum. 

Escal.  Come.  sir.  D  d  you  set  these  women  on  to 
slander  lord  AnHc'o?  they  have  confess'd  you  did. 

Duke.  'T  is  fal.se. 

Escal.  How  !   know  you  where  you  are  ? 

Duke.  Respoct  to  yourg'-eat  place!  then  letthedevil 
Be  sometime  honourd  for  his  bu -ning  throne. — 
Where  is  the  duke?  "t  is  he  should  hear  me  speak. 

Escal.  The  duke  "s  in  us,  and  we  will  hear  you  speak  : 
Look,  you  speak  ju-  tly. 

Duke.  BDldly,  at  leist. — But  0.  poor  souls  ! 

Come  you  to  seek  the  iamb  here  of  the  fo.x  ? 
Good  lu^'ht  to  your  redress.     Is  the  duke  gone  ? 
Then  is  your  cau.-e  gone  too.     The  duke  's  unjust. 
Thus  to  reject'  your  manilcst  aj'peai, 
And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth, 
Which  liere  you  come  to  accuse. 

Lucio.  This  is  the  rascal :   this  is  he  I  spoke  of. 

Escal.  Why.  thu  unreverend  and  unhallow'd  friar! 
Is  't  not  enough,  thou  hast  suborn"d  these  women 


To  accuse  this  worthy  man,  but,  in  foul  mouth, 
And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear. 
To  call  him  villain  ?     And  then  to  glance  from  him 
To  the  duke  liimself,  to  tax  him  with  injustice? — 
Take  him  hence :  to  the  rack  with  him. — We  'II  touse  you 
Joint  by  joint,  but  we  will  know  your'  purpose  — 
What !  unjust? 

Duke.  Be  not  so  hot ;  the  duke  dare' 
No  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine,  than  he 
Dare  rack  his  own ;  his  subject  am  I  not, 
Nor  here  provincial.     My  business  in  this  sta*» 
Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vieima, 
Where  I  have  seen  corruption  boil  and  bubble, 
Till  it  o'er-run  the  stew  ;  laws  for  all  faults, 
But  faults  so  countenanc'd,  that  the  strong  statutes 
Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop, 
As  much  in  mock  as  mark. 

E.scal.  Slander  to  the  state  !  Away  with  him  to  prison. 

Ang.  What    can    you  vouch    against    him.  signior 
Lucio '? 
Is  this  the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of? 

Lucio.  "T  is  he,  my  lord. — Come  hither,  goodman 
bald -pate  :  do  you  know  me  ? 

Duke.  I  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of  your 
voice  :  I  met  you  at  the  prison  in  the  absence  of  the 
duke. 

Lucio.  O.  did  you  so?  And  do  you  remember  what 
you  said  of  the  duke? 

Duke.  Most  notedly,  sir. 

Lucio.  Do  you  so,  sir  ?  And  was  the  duke  a  flesh- 
monger,  a  fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then  reported 
him  to  be  ? 

Duke.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  me,  ere 
you  make  that  my  report :  you,  indeed,  spoke  so  of 
him  :  and  much  more,  nmch  worse. 

Lucio.  0,  thou  damnable  fellow  !  Did  not  I  pluck 
thee  by  the  nose,  for  thy  speeches  ? 

Duke.  I  p-otest,  I  love  the  duke  as  I  love  myself. 

Ang.  Hark  how  the  villain  would  gloze  no-.v,  after 
his  treasonable  abuses. 

Escal.  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  be  talk  a  withal: — 
Away  with  him  to  prison. — Where  is  the  provost  ? — 
Away  with  him  to  prison.  Lay  bolts  enough  upon 
him,  let  him  speak  no  more. — Away  with  those  giglots* 
too,  and  with  the  other  confederate  companion. 

[The  Provo.st  lays  hand  on  the  DuKE. 

Duke.  Stay,  sir  ;  stay  a  while. 

Ang.  What !   resists  he  ?     Help  him.  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir;  come,  sir;  come,  sir;  foh  !  sir- 
Why,  you  bald-pated,  lying  rascal  !  you  must  be  hooded, 
must  you  ?  show  your  knave's  visage,  with  a  pox  to 
you  !  show  your  sheep-biting  face,  and  be  hang'd  an 
hour.     Will  't  not  off? 

[Pulling  off  the  Duke's  disguise.* 

Duke.  Thou   art  the  first  knave,  that  e'er  made  a 
duke. —  [All  start  and  stand*. 

First,  provost,  let  me  hail  these  gentle  three. — 
Sneak  not  away,  sir;  [To  Lucio.]  for  the  friar  and  y>u 
Must  have  a  word  anon. — Lay  hold  on  him. 

Lucio.  This  may  prove  worse  than  hanging. 

Diike.  What  you    have  spoke,   I    pardon :    sit  you 
down.  [To  EscALOS. 

We  '11  borrow  place  of  him  : — Sir,  by  your  leave. 

To  Angklo 
Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence. 
That  yet  can  do  thedRoflice?     If  tliou  hast, 
Rely  upon  it  till  my  lale  be  heard. 
And  hold  no  longer  out. 


>  retort :  in  f.  e.      »  his  : 
Socd,  and  discovert  the  Dci 


'  Knis-ht  tr.Tnsfprs  this  word  to  the  beginning  of  the  next  line. 
J.      s  Not  iu  r.  e. 


Wantons       ^  Pulls  off  Ih^   Friar 


84 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


^ng.  O.  my  dread  lord  ! 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  i:uiltine8.s, 
Vo  think  I  can  be  undisoeriiible, 
When  I  perceive  your  grace,  like  power  divine, 
Hath  look'd  upon  my  pa.-sis.     Then,  good  prince, 
No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  fhame. 
But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  conlVssion  : 
FmmedKite  siMitence  then,  and  sequent  death, 
Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 

Ihike.  Come  liither,  Mariana. — 

Say.  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman? 

Ano     I  -svas,  my  lord. 

Diikr.  Go  take  her  hence,  and  marry  her  instantly. — 
Do  you  the  olhce,  friar  ;  which  consummate, 
Rolurn  him  liere  again. — Go  with  him.  provost. 

[Ernint  An(;klo,  Mari.vna,   Peter,  ami  Provost. 

Kscal.  My  lord,  I  am  more  amaz'd  at  liis  dishonour, 
Than  at  the  strangeness  of  it. 

Dttke.  Come  hither,  Isabel. 

Vour  friar  is  now  your  prince  :  as  I  was  then 
Adverii."iing  and  holy  to  your  business, 
Not  changing  lieart  with  habit,  1  am  still 
.\ltoriiey-d  at  your  service. 

ImI>.  0,  give  me  pardon, 

That  I.  your  vas.<;al,  have  employ'd  and  pain'd 
Your  unknown  sovereignty  ! 

Duke.  You  are  pardon'd,  Isabel : 

And  now.  dear  maid,  be  you  as  free  to  us. 
Vour  brother's  death.  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart; 
And  you  may  marvel,  why  I  obscurd  my.^eif, 
Labouring  to  save  his  life,  and  would  not  rather 
Make  ra.'-h  dcmonstrance  of  my  hidden  power. 
Than  let  him  so  be  lo.'-t.     0.  most  kind  maid  ! 
It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death, 
Which  I  did  think  with  slower  foot  came  on. 
That  brain'd  my  purpose :  but  all  peace  be  with  him  ! 
That  life  is  bolter  life,  past  fearing  death, 
Than  that  which  livos  to  fear.     Make  it  your  comfort, 
So  liappy  is  your  brother. 

Rr-enter  A.sgelo,  Mari.\na.  Peter,  and  Provost. 

/■w*.  I  do.  my  lord. 

Duke.  For  this  new-married  man,  approaching  here, 
Whoso  salt  imagination  yet  hath  wrong'd 
Vour  well-defended  honour,  you  must  pardon 
For  .Mariana's  sake.    Bat,  as  he  adjudg'd  your  brother, 
(B'ing  criminal,  in  double  violation 
Of  sacred  chastity,  and  of  promise-breach, 
Thereon  dependent,  for  your  brother's  life,) 
The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 
Moet  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, 
"An  An:;elo  for  Claudio,  death  for  death  !'' 
Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure, 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  Measure  still  for  Measure 
Then.  Ansdo.  thy  fault  's  thus  manifested. 
Which,  though  thou  wouldst  deny,  denies  thee  vantage. 
We  do  condemn  thee  to  the  very  block 
Where  Claudio  stoop'd  to  death,  and  with  like  haste. — 
.\way  with  him. 

Mari.  O.  my  most  gracious  lord  ! 

I  hope  you  will  not  mock  me  with  a  husband. 

Duke.    It    is    your    husband    mock'd    you    with    a 
husband. 
Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honour, 
I  thou:.'ht  your  marriage  fit;  else  imputation. 
Fnr  that  he  knew  you.  might  reproiich  your  life. 
And  chiike  your  irood  to  come.     For  his  posscssiona 
Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours, 
We  do  instate  and  widow  you  livithal, 
To  buy  you  a  better  busbajid. 

>  ■  Not  m  (  •. 


Mart.  O.  my  dear  lord, 

I  crave  no  other,  nor  no  better  man. 

Jhike.  Never  crave  him  :  we  are  definitive. 

Mari.  Gentle  my  liege, —  \Kneelin^ 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labour. 

Away  with  himtodeath. — Now,  sir,  (7'oLucio.|  to  yoo. 

Mari.  O.  my  good  lord  I — Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part  ; 
Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come, 
I  "11  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Duke.  Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her: 
Should  she  kneel  down  in  mercy  of  this  fuct, 
Her  brothers  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break, 
And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 

iMari.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me : 
Hold  up  your  hands,  say  nothing,  I  "11  speak  all. 
They  say,  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults. 
And.  for  the  most,  become  much  ino:e  the  better 
For  being  a  little  bad  :  so  may  my  husband. 
0,  Isabel  !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 

Duke.  He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 

hab.  Mo.-t  bounteous  sir,  [Kneeling 

Look,  if  it  pleafse  you.  on  this  man  condemn'd. 
As  if  my  brother  liv'd.     I  partly  think, 
A  due  sincerity  govern'd  his  deeds. 
Till  he  did  look  on  me  :  since  it  is  so, 
Let  him  not  die.     My  brother  had  but  justice, 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died  : 
For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent ; 
And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent 
That  perish'd  by  the  way.     Thoughts*  are  no  subjects, 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 

Mari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Your  suit 's  unprofitable  :  stand  up,  I  say. — 

[They  me.' 
I  have  bethought  me  of  another  fault. — 
Prov-st,  how  came  it  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  hour? 

Prov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke.  Had  you  a  special  warrant  for  ihe  deed  ? 

Prov.  No,  my  good  lord  :  it  was  by  private  messape. 

Duke.  For  which  I  do  discharge  ycu  of  your  office ; 
Gi'.e  up  your  keys. 

P'ov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord  : 

I  thought  it  wa«  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not. 
Yet  did  repent  me,  after  more  advice  : 
For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison, 
That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 
I  have  reserv'd  alive. 

Duke.  What 's  he  ? 

Prov.  His  name  is  Barnardine. 

Duke.  I  would  thou  had'st  done  so  by  Claudio. — 
Go,  fetch  him  hither  :  let  me  look  upon  him. 

[Exit  Proiosi 

Escal.  I  am  sorr>',  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 
As  you,  lord  Angelo.  have  .<till  ajipeard. 
Should  slip  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood, 
And  lack  of  temper"d  judgment  afterward. 

Ang.   I  am  sorry  that  such  sorrow  I  procure ; 
And  ^o  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart. 
That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy: 
T  is  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

Re-enter  Provost,  Barnarpine,  Ci.aldio  (muffled*), 
ami  Jlliet. 

D^ike.  Wliich  is  that  Barnardine  ? 

Prov.  This,  my  lord 

!)uke.  There  was  a  friar  told  me  of  this  man. — 
Sirrali,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubbora  soul, 


BCENE 


I^rEASUEE  FOR  MEASITEE. 


85 


That  app-el  ends  no  farther  than  tl<is  world, 

And  squar'st  thy  life  according.     Thou  ri  condemned  ; 

But.  for  those  eaithly  faul  s,  I  quit  tlieni  all, 

And  pray  t!iee.  take  this  me  cy  to  provide 

For  better  times  to  come. — Friar,  advi.«e  him  : 

I  leave  him  to  your  hand. — Wliat  muffled  fellow's  that? 

Prov.  This  is  another  prisoner  that  1  sav'd, 
That  should  have  died  when  Claudio  lost  his  head, 
As  like  almost  to  Chiudio  as  him^elf.     [Unmuffies  him. 

Duke.  If   he  be   like  your  brother,   [7b  Isabella,] 
for  his  sake, 

[Claudio  and  Isabella  embrace} 
Is  he  pardon'd  ;  and  for  your  lovely  sake. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  say  you  will  be  mine, 
He  is  my  brother  too.     But  fitter  time  for  that. 
By  tliis  lord  Angelo  pe  ceives  he  's  safe : 
Methinks,  I  see  a  quick'ning  in  his  eye. — 
Well,  Angelo.  your  evil  qui's  you  well  ■ 
Look  that  vftu  love  your  wife :  her  worth,  worth  yours. — 
I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myt^elf. 
And  yet  here  's  one  in  place  I  cannot  pardon. — 
You,  sirrah.   [7b  Lucio,]  that  knew  me  lor  a  fool,  a 

coward. 
One  all  of  luxury,  an  ass,  a  madman  : 
Wherein  have  1  so  well  deserv'd  of  you, 
That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 

Liicio.  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but  according  to 
the  trick.  If  you  will  hang  me  for  it.  you  tnay  ;  but 
I  had  rather  it  would  please  you.  I  might  be  whipp"d. 

Dukt    Whipp'd  firsi.  sir,  and  hang'd  after. — 
Proclaim  it,  provost,  round  about  the  city. 
If  any  woman  "s  wTongd  by  this  lewd  fellow, 


(As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself  there  'b  one 
Wliom  he  begot  with  child.)  let  her  appear, 
And  he  shall  marry  her :  the  nuptial  finisii'd, 
i  Let  him  be  whipp"d  and  hang'd. 

Lucio.  1  beseech  your  highness,  do  not  marry  me  to 
a  whore  !  Your  highness  said  even  now  [  made  you  a 
duke ;  good  my  lord,  do  not  recompense  me  in  making 
me  a  cuckold. 

Ihike.  Upon  mine  honour,  thou  shalt  marry  her. 
Thy  slanders  I  forgive  ;  and  therewithal 
Remit  thy  other  forfeits. — ^Take  him  to  prison, 
And  see  our  pleasure  herein  executed. 

Lucio.  Marrying  a  punk,  my  lord,  is  pressing  to 
death,  whipping,  and  hanging. 

Duke.  Slandering  a  prince  deserves  it, — 
She,  Claudio.  that  you  wrongd,  look  you  restore. — 
Joy  to  you.  Mariana! — love  her,  Angelo: 
1  have  confessed  her,  and  1  know  her  virtue. — 
Thanks,  good  friend  Escalus,  lor  thy  much  goodness : 
There  's  more  behind  that  is  more  gratulate. 
Thanks,  provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrocy ; 
We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place. — 
For'^ive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 
1  he  liead  of  Ragozine  for  Claudio's  : 
Th'  offence  pardons  it.'^elf. — Dear  Isabel, 
I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  goodj 
Whereto  if  you  "11  a  willing  ear  incline. 
What 's  mine  is  yours,  and  what  is  yours  is  mine. — 
So.  bring  us  to  our  palace  ;  where  we  11  show 
Wha«  's  y*  >iehind,  that 's  meet  you  all  should  know. 

[Curtain  draunt ' 


Not  hi  t  a 


Exeunt :  in  f.  •. 


THE    COMEDY    OF    ERRORS 


DKAMATIS    PEItSON^E. 


Soi.iNus.  Duke  of  Ephe^us. 
/Ei;eon.  a  Morcliani  of  Syracuse. 
ANTiPHoi.f  s  of  Kplic-us,    )  Twin  Brothers.  Sons  to 
Antiphoi.us  of  Syracuse,   )    /^Kueon  and  i1%milia. 
Dromio  of  Ephc^us,    I  Twin  Brothers,  Attendants 
DROMioof  Syr.icu.-e,  )  ou  the  two  Aiitiphoi uses. 
Balthazar,  a  Merchant. 
AjioELO,  a  Goldsmith. 


A  Merchant,  Friend  to  Antipholus  of  Syracoio 
Pinch,  a  Schoolina.-<ier. 

^Emilia,  Wife  to  TEseon. 

Adriana,  Wife  to  Aiuipholus  of  Ephesua. 

Ll'c  lANA,  her  sister. 

Luck,  Servant  to  Adriana. 

A  Courtezan. 


Jailor,  Officers,  ami  other  Alleudauts. 
SCENE:  Ephesus. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  r.— A  Hall  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Sot.iNus,  fhike  of  Epke.<nis,  JEc.ROS.  a  Merchant 

of  !^i/raciisa,  Jailor.  Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 

jEge.  Proceed,  Solinu.s,  to  procuie  my  fall, 
And  by  the  doom  of  death  end  woes  and  ail. 

Duke.  Merchant  of  Syracusa,  plead  no  more. 
I  am  not  partial,  to  infringe  our  laws  : 
The  eniniiy  and  discord,  which  of  late 
Sprung  from  the  raiico-ous  outrage  of  your  duke 
To  merchants,  our  well-(te"ling  countrymen, — 
Wlio,  warning  gilders  to  re,'eem  tiicir  lives. 
Have  seal'd  his  rigorous  statutes  with  lliuir  bloods, — 
Excludes  all  pity  from  our  threatning  loolcs. 
For,  since  the  mortal  and  intestine  jars 
'Twixi  thy  seditious  countrymen  and  us, 
It  liath  in  solemn  synods  been  d<'creed, 
Both  by  the  Syracu.sians  and  ourselves, 
To  admit  no  traffic  to  our  advcr.-e  towns  : 
Nay,  more,  if  any.  born  at  P^phesus, 
Be  seen  at  Syracusian  mats  and  fairs; 
Again,  if  any  Syracusian  born 
Come  to  tlie  bay  of  Ephesus,  he  dies ; 
His  goods  confi^cate  to  the  duke's  dispose, 
Unles-  a  thou  and  triarks  be  levied, 
To  quit  the  jenalty,  and  lo  ransom  him. 
Thy  subsiance,  valued  at  the  highest  rate. 
Cannot  amount  un  o  a  hundred  marks  ; 
Therefore,  by  l:iw  thou  art  condeinnd  to  die. 

■£ge.   Vet  this  my  comfort ;   when  your  words  are 
done. 
.Vly  woeB  end  likewise  with  the  evening  sun. 

Thikt.  Well,  Syr;icuKian     say,  in  biief,  the  cause 
Why  thou  dep;irte(l.-i  frotn  thy  native  home, 
•\nd  for  what  cause  thou  cam'st  to  Eplie>us. 

jUfCf    A  hei\icr  tank  could  not  have  been  imposd, 
Than  I  lo  speak  my  grielB  unspeakable ; 
Ycl,  that  the  woi  hi  may  witness,  iliai  my  end 
Was  wrought  by  fortune',  not  by  vile  ofTcnco, 
I  '11  utter  what  my  sorrow  gives  me  leave. 


I  In  Syracusa  was  I  bom ;  and  wed 
I  Unto  a  woman,  happy  but  for  me, 
And  by  me  too,  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. 
Wi.h  her  I  livd  in  joy:  our  wealih  incieas'd. 
By  prosperous  voyages  I  often  made 
To  Epidamnum:  till  my  factors  death, 
And  the  great  care  of  goods  at  random  left 
D,ew  me  from  kind  embracements  of  my  spouso. 
From  whom  my  ab>ence  was  not  six  monilis  olu. 
Before  herself  (almost  at  fainting  under 
The  pleasing  puui.-nuient  that  women  bear) 
Had  made  provision  for  her  following  me, 
And  soon,  and  safe,  arrived  whee  I  was. 
These  had  she  not  been  long,  but  she  became 
A  joyful  mother  of  two  goodly  sons; 
And.  which  was  strange,  the  one  .-o  like  the  other, 
As  could  not  be  distinguish'd  but  by  names. 
That  very  hour,  and  in  the  self-s;ime  urn, 
A  poor  mean  woman  was  delivered 
Of  sucli  a  burden,  male  twins,  both  alike. 
Those,  for  their  p  irents  we.e  exceeding  poor, 
I  bought,  and  brought  up  to  attend  my  .sons. 
My  wile,  not  meanly  p  oud  of  two  such  boys, 
Made  daily  motions  for  our  home  re  urn  : 
Unwilling  I  agreed.     Alas,  loo  ^oon  we  came  aboanl 
A  league  from  Epidamnum  had  we  saild, 
Before  the  alway.--wind-oLeyiiig  deep 
(lave  any  tragic  instance  of  our  harm  : 
But  longer  did  we  not  retain  much  hope  ; 
For  what  obscured  lighi  the  heivcns  did  grant 
Did  but  convey  unto  our  tearful  minds 
A  doubtful  warrant  of  immediate  death; 
Which,  though  myself  would  gcnlly'  have  embrac'd, 
Vei  the  incessant  weepings  of  my  wit'e, 
Weeping  beibre  for  what  she  saw  must  come. 
And  piteous  plainings  of  li.e  prrliy  babes, 
Tlia    mourn'd  for  fa.»hion,  ignorani  what  to  fear, 
Forced  me  to  seek  delays  lor  ihem  and  me. 
And  this  it  was. — for  othe-  means  wire  none. — 
The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat, 


natote  :  in  I.  e.      *  ^lalune  ::inkea  a  sep-irate  line  or  ihc  last  three  words.      >  gladly. 

8(i 


eCENE    II. 


THE   COMEDY    OF  ERTtOKS. 


And  left  the  ship,  then  sinking-ripe,  to  us. 
My  "wife,  more  careful  for  the  latter-born, 
Had  fasten'd  him  unto  a  small  spare  mast, 
Such  as  sea-faring  men  provide  for  storms: 
To  him  one  of  the  other  twins  was  bound, 
Whilst  I  had  been  like  heedful  of  the  other. 
The  children  thus  dispos'd,  my  wife  and  I, 
fixing  our  eyes  on  whom  our  care  was  fix'd, 
Fasten'd  ourselves  at  either  end  the  mast; 
And  floating  straight,  obedient  to  the  stream, 
Were  carried  towards  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length  the  su)i,  gazing  upon  the  earth, 
Dispers'd  those  vaj  ours  that  offended  us. 
And  by  the  benefit  of  his  wish'd  light 
The  seas  wax'd  calm,  and  we  discovered 
Two  ships  from  far  making  amain  to  us ; 
Of  Corinth  that,  of  Epidaurus  this : 
But  ere  they  came. — 0,  let  me  say  no  more  ! 
Gather  the  sequel  by  that  went  before. 

Duke.  Nay,  forward,  old  man;  do  not  break  ofTso 
For  we  may  pity,  though  not  pardon  thee. 

j^ge.  0,  had  the  gods  done  so,  I  had  not  now 
Worthily  term'd  them  merciless  to  us  ! 
For,  ere  the  ship  could  meet  by  twice  five  leagues, 
We  were  encounter'd  by  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  being  violently  borne  upon, 
Our  helpful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midst; 
So  that  in  this  unjust  divorce  of  us 
Fortune  had  left  to  both  of  us  alike 
What  to  delight  in,  what  to  sorrow  for. 
Her  part,  poor  soul  !  seeming  as  burdened 
With  lesser  weight,  but  not  with  lesser  woe. 
Was  carried  with  more  speed  before  the  wind, 
And  in  our  sight  they  three  were  taken  up 
By  fisheimen  of  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length  another  ship  had  seized  on  us  ; 
And  knowing  whom  it  was  their  hap  to  save, 
Gave  healthful  welcome  to  their  shipwreck'd  guests; 
And  would  have  reft  the  fishers  of  their  prey, 
Had  not  their  bark  been  very  slow  of  sail. 
And  therefore  homeward  did  they  bend  their  course. — 
Thus  have  you  heard  me  sever'd  from  my  bliss, 
And  by  misfortune  was  my  life  prolong'd, 
To  tell  sad  stories  of  my  own  mishaps. 

Duke.  And   for  the  .«ake  of  them  thou  sorrowcst  for, 
Do  me  the  favour  to  dilate  at  full 
Wliat  hath  befall'n  of  them,  and  thee,  till  now. 

JEge.  My  youngest  boy.  and  yet  my  eldest  care, 
At  eighteen  years  became  inquisitive 
After  his  brother ,  and  importun'd  me. 
That  his  attendant  (so  his  case  was  like. 
Reft  of  his  brother,  but  retain'd  his  name.) 
Might  ben-  him  company  in  the  quest  of  him; 
Whom  whilst  he'  labour'd  of  all  love  to  see, 
I  hazarded  the  loss  of  whom  1  lov'd. 
Five  summers  have  I  spent  in  farthest  Greece, 
Roaming  clean  through  the  bounds  of  Asia; 
And.  coasring  homeward,  came  to  Ephesus, 
Hopeless  to  find,  yet  loth  to  leave  unsought 
Or  thai,  or  any  place  that  harbours  men. 
But  here  must  end  the  story  of  my  life; 
And  happy  were  I  in  my  timely  death, 
Could  all  my  travels  warrant  me  they  live. 

Duke.  Hapless  yEgeon.  whom  the  fates  have  rnark'd 
To  bear  the  extremity  of  dire  mishap  ! 
Now,  trust  me,  were  it  not  against  our  laws, 
Against  my  crown,  my  oath,  my  dignity, 
Which  princes,  would  they,  may  not  disannul, 
My  soul  should  sue  as  advocate  for  thee. 


But  though  thou  art  adjudged  to  the  death, 
And  passed  sentence  may  not  be  recali'd, 
But  to  our  honour's  great  disparagement, 
Yet  will  I  favour  thee  in  what  I  can : 
Therefore,  merchant,  I'll  limit  thee  this  day, 
To  seek  thy  hope"  by  beneficial  help. 
Try  all  the  friends  thou  hast  in  Ephesus ; 
Beg  thou,  or  borrow,  to  make  up  the  sum, 
And  live;  if  no,  then  thou  art  doom'd  to  die. — 
Jailor,  now'  take  him  to  thy  custody. 

Jail.   I  will,  my  lord. 

jiige.  Hopeless,  and  helpless,  doth  iEgeon  wend, 
But  to  procrastinate  his  lifeless  end.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— A  public  Place. 

Enter  Antipholus  awl  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  and  a 
Merchant. 

Mer.  Therefore,  give  out  you  are  of  Epidamnum, 
Lest  that  your  goods  too  soon  be  confiscate. 
This  very  day,  a  Syracusian  merchant 
Is  apprehended  for  arrival  here  ; 
And,  not  being  able  to  buy  out  his  life 
According  to  the  statute  of  the  town, 
Dies  ere  the  weary  sun  set  in  the  west. 
There  is  your  money  that  I  had  to  keep. 

Ant.  S.  Go,  bear  it  to  the  Centaur,  where  we  hosi. 
And  stay  there,  Dromio,  till  I  come  to  thee. 
Within  this  hour  it  -w-ill  be  dinner-time  : 
Till  then,  I  '11  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings, 
And  then  return  and  sleep  within  mine  iim, 
For  with  long  travel  I  am  stiff  and  weary. 
Get  thee  away. 

Dro.  S.  Many  a  man  would  take  you  at  your  word. 
And  go  indeed,  having  so  good  a  mean. 

[Exit,*  shaking  money-bag 

Ant.  S.  A  trusty  villain,  sir  ;  that  very  oft, 
When  I  am  dull  with  care  and  melancholy. 
Lightens  my  humour  with  his  merry  jests. 
What,  will  you  walk  with  me  about  the  town, 
And  then  go  to  my  inn.  and  dine  with  me  ? 

Mer.  I  am  invited,  sir,  to  certain  merchants, 
Of  whom  I  hope  to  make  much  benefit  ; 
I  crave  your  ]iardon.     Soon'  at  five  o'clock. 
Please  you,  I  '11  meet  with  you  upon  the  mart, 
And  afterwards  consort  you  till  bed-time: 
My  present  business  calls  mc  from  you  now. 

Ant.  S.  Farewell  till  then.     I  will  go  lose  myself. 
And  wander  up  and  down  to  vnew  the  city. 

Mer.  Sir,  I  commend  you  to  your  o\%ni  content. 

[Exu. 

Ant.  S.  He  that  commends  me  to  mine  o^wn  contem, 
Commends  me  to  the  thing  1  cannot  get. 
I  to  the  world  am  like  a  drop  of  water. 
That  in  ihe  ocean  seeks  another  drop; 
Who,  falling  there  to  find  his  fellow  forth, 
Unseen,  inquisitive,  confounds  himself: 
So  I,  to  find  a  mother,  and  a  brother. 
In  quest  of  them,  unhappy,  lose  myself. 
Enter  Dro.mio  of  Ephesia;. 
Here  comes  the  almanack  of  my  true  date. — 
What  now?     How  chance  thou  art  return'd  so  sooa? 

Dro.  E.    Return'd  so  soon  !   rather  approach'd  1c« 
late. 
The  capon  bums,  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit, 
The  clock  hath  .strur.ken  twelve  upon  the  bell; 
My  mistre.«s  made  i(  one  upon  my  cheek: 
She  is  so  hot,  because  the  meat  is  cold  ; 
The  meal  is  cold,  because  you  come  not  home; 


'  I  laboureU  of  a  :  m  f.  e       »  help  :  in  f.  e       »  Not  in  f.  e       •  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e.      »  About  five  ccloeh. 


88 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERROHS. 


ACT  n. 


You  come  noi  home,  bccauBC  yon  have  no  stomach  j 
Von  have  no  stomach,  having  broke  your  fast; 
Bin  we.  that  know  what  't  is  to  fast  and  pray, 
Arc  prnitcnt'  lor  your  default  to-day. 

AnI  S.  Slop  ill  yoiir  wind.  sir.    Tell  me  this.  I  pray; 
Where  have  yon  Icli  the  money  that  I  pave  you  ? 

Pro.  E.  0  !  sixpence,  that  1  had  o'  Wednesday  last 
To  pay  tlie  saddler  for  my  mistress'  crupper. 
The  saddler  had  it.  sir:   I  kept  it  not. 

Ant.  S.  I  am  not  in  a  sportive  humour  now. 
Tell  me.  and  dally  not,  where  is  the  money? 
We  being  strangers  here,  how  darst  thou  trust 
8o  irreat  a  charge  from  tliinc  own  custody? 

bro   E.  I  pray  you.  je.st,  sir.  as  you  sit  at  dinner. 
I  from  my  mistre.«s  come  to  you  in  post; 
If  I  return.  I  shall  be  post'  indeed. 
For  she  will  score  your  fault  upon  my  pate.' 
Methinks.  your  maw.  like  mine,  should  be  your  clock, 
And  strike  you  home  without  a  messenger. 

AiU.  S.   Come.  Dromio,  come;   these  jests  are  out 
of  sea.<!on  : 
Reserve  them  till  a  merrier  hour  than  this. 
Where  is  the  gold  I  gave  in  charge  to  tliee  ? 

Dro.  E.  To  me,  sir?  why  you  gave  no  gold  to  me. 

Ant.  S.  Come  on,  sir  knave ;  have  done  your  fool- 
ishness. 
.And  tell  me  how  thou  ha.st  dispos'd  thy  charge. 

Dro.  E.  .My  charge  was  but  to  fetch  you  from  the 
mart 
Home  to  your  house,  the  Phopnix,  sir,  to  dinner. 
My  mrstre.-s,  and  her  sister,  stay  for  you. 

Ant.  S.  Now.  as  I  am  a  Christian,  answer  me, 
In  what  safe  place  you  have  bestow'd  ray  money, 


Or  I  shall  break  that  merry  sconce  of  yours, 
That  stands  on  tricks  when  1  am  undispos'd. 
Where  is  the  thousand  marks  thou  hadst  of  me? 

Dro.  E.  1  have  some  marks  of  yours  upon  my  pal«  , 
Some  of  my  mi.-tre.-8"  marks  upon  my  shoulders, 
But  not  a  thousand  marks  between  \ou  both. 
If  I  should  pay  your  worship  those  again, 
Percliancc.  you  would  not  bear  them  patiently. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  mistress'  marks!   what  mistress,  slave, 
hast  thou  ? 

Dro.  E.    Your  worship's  wife,  my  mistress  at  the 
Phcrnix  ; 
She  that  doth  fast  till  you  come  home  to  dinner. 
And  prays  that  you  will  hie  you  home  to  dinner. 

Ant.  S.  What,  wilt  thou  flout  me  thus  unto  my  faoe 
Being  forbid?     There,  take  you  that,  sir  kna\e. 

[Strikci  him 

Dro.  E    What  mean  you.  sir?  for  God's  sake,  hold 
your  hands. 
Nay,  an  you  w-ili  not,  sir,  I  '11  take  my  heels. 

[Exit  running.* 

Ant.  S.  Upon  my  life,  by  some  device  or  other 
The  villain  is  o'er-raught'  of  all  my  money. 
They  say.  this  \ovn\  is  full  of  cozenage ; 
As.  nimble  jugglers  that  deceive  the  eye. 
Dark-working  sorcerers  that  change  the  mind, 
Soul-killing  witches  that  deform  the  body. 
Disguised  cheatei-s.  prating  mountebanks, 
And  many  such  like  libertines  of  sin  : 
If  it  prove  so.  I  will  be  gone  the  sroner. 
I'll  to  the  Centaur,  to  go  seek  this  slave: 
I  greatly  fear,  my  money  is  not  safe. 

[EzU 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— A  public  Place. 

Enter  Adri.^na,  wife  to  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  and 

LuciANA,  her  .sister. 

Adr.  Neither  my  husband,  nor  the  slave  return'd, 
That  in  such  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master? 
Sure.  Liieiana,  it  is  two  o'clock. 

L\ic.  Perhaps,  some  merchant  hath  invited  him, 
.And  from  the  mart  he's  somewhere  gone  to  dinner. 
Good  sister,  let  us  dine,  and  never  fret. 
A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty  : 
Time  is  their  master ;  and,  when  they  see  time, 
They'll  iro.  or  come  :  if  so.  be  patient,  sister. 

Adr.  Why  should  their  liberty  than  ours  bo  more? 

Luc.  Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o'  door. 

Adr.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so.  he  takes  it  ill. 

Luc.  O  !  know  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  will. 

Adr.  There's  none  but  a.«RC8  will  be  bridled  so. 

Liu.  Why.  head-strong  liberty  is  lash'd  with  woe. 
There's  nothing  situate  under  heaven's  eye. 
But  hath  his  bound,  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky : 
The  beas's,  the  fishes,  and  the  winged  fowls, 
Vre  their  males'  subjects,  and  at  their  controls. 
Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these, 
r^rds  of  the  wide  world,  and  wild  wat'ry  seai^, 
Indued  with  intellectual  sen.se  and  souks. 
Of  more  pre-eminence  than  fish  and  fowls. 
Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords: 
Then,  let  your  will  attend  on  their  ac<x>riJ.s. 


Adr.  This  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  nnwed. 

Luc.  Not  this,  but  troubles  of  the  marriage-bed. 

Adr.  But.  were  you  wedded,  you  would  bear  some 
sway. 

Luc.  Ere  I  learn  love.  I  '11  practi.«e  to  obey. 

Adr.  How  if  your  husband  start  some  other  where!' 

Luc.  Tilj  he  come  home  again,  I  would  forbear. 

Adr.  Patience  unmov'd.  no  marvel  though  she  pause; 
They  can  be  meek,  that  have  no  other  cause. 
A  wretched  soul,  bruis'd  with  adversity, 
We  bid  be  quiet,  when  we  iicar  it  cry  ; 
But  were  we  burdend  with  like  weight  of  pain. 
As  much,  or  more,  we  should  ourselves  coinpiain: 
So  thou,  that  ha.st  no  unkind  mate  to  grieve  thee, 
"With  urging  helpless  patience  would.st  relieve  me  : 
But  if  thou  live  to  see  like  right  bereft. 
This  fool-begg'd  patience*  in  thee  will  be  left. 

Luc.  Well,  I  will  marry  one  day.  but  to  try. — 
Here  comes  your  man  :  now  is  your  husband  nigh. 
Enter  Dko.mio  of  Ephesus. 

Adr.  Say.  is  your  tardy  master  now  at  hand  ? 

Dro.  E.    Nay.  he  is  at  two  hands  with  me,  and  that 
my  two  ears  can  witness. 

Adr.    Say,  didst  thou  speak  with  him?      Know'si 
thou  his  mind  ? 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  ay;  he  told  his  mind  upon  mine  ear. 
Beshrew  his  hand,  I  scarce  could  understand  it. 

Luc.  Spake  he  so  doubly,'  thou  couldst  not  fnel  hi» 
meaning? 


<  Dotn^  vennnrt.      »  It  wm  k  cuntom  to  murk  the  Brore  of  k  nhop  on  fi  poit 
»iluiion  to  the  custom  -it  »oliciting  the  nuuja({nroent  of  the  esut*  ol  a  fool.      ' 


•  cook  :  in  f.  e. 
DoublfuUy. 


*  Not  in  I.  e. 


0»*»  rtttcktd        '  \r 


HCJLTfK    n. 


THE   COMEDY    OF  EKHOES. 


59 


Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  Ftruck  so  plairiiy,  I  could  too  well 
f€«l  ills  b'oNVS  :  and  withal  so  doubly,  that  I  couid 
scarce  unde  s'and  them. 

Adr.  But  say.  1  pr'ythee,  is  he  coming  home? 
ft  seems,  iie  liath  g-ext  care  to  please  iiis  wife. 

Dro.  E.  Why,  mistress,  sure  my  master  is  horn-mad. 

Adr.  Horn-mad,  thou  villain  ! 

Dro.  E.  I  mean  not  cuckold-mad ; 

But,  sure,  he  is  stark  mad. 
When  I  desir'd  him  to  come  home  to  dinner, 
He  ask"d  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold  : 
'T  is  dinner-time,  quoth  I  ;  iny  gold,  quoth  he  : 
Your  meat  doth  burn,  quoth  I  :  my  gold,  quoth  he  : 
Will  you  come,  quolh  1  ?  my  gold,  quoth  he  : 
Where  is  the  thousand  marks  I  gave  thee,  villain  ? 
The  pig,  quoth  I.  is  burn'd  ;  my  gold,  qiioth  he  : 
My  mistres.'s.  sir,  quoth  I  ;  hang  up  thy  mistress  ! 
[  know  not  thy  mistress  :  out  on  thy  mistress  ! 

Luc.  Quoth  who  ? 

Dro.  E.  Quoth  my  master  : 
I  know,  quoth  he.  no  house,  no  wife,  no  mistress. 
So  that  my  errand,  due  unto  my  tongue, 
I  thank  him.  I  bear  home  upon  my  shoulders, 
For.  in  conclu.'iioii,  he  did  beat  me  there. 

Adr.  Go  back  again,  thou  slave,  and  fetch  him  home. 

Dro.  E.  Go  back  again,  and  be  new  beaten  home? 
For  God"s  sake,  send  .some  other  messenger. 

Adr.  Bick.  slave,  or  I  \at11  break  thy  pate  across. 

Dro.  E.  Andhewillblessthat  cross  with  other  beating. 
Between  you  I  shall  have  a  holy  head. 

Adr.   Hence,  prating  peasant !  fetch  thy  master  home. 

Dro.  E.  Am  [  so  round  with  you,  as  you  with  me, 
That  like  a  foot-ball  you  do  spurn  me  thus  ? 
You  spurn  me  hence,  and  he  will  spurn  me  hither: 
If  I  last  in  this  service,  you  must  case  me  in  leather. 

[Exit. 

Luc.  Fie,  how  impatience  lowreth  in  your  face ! 

Adr.  His  company  mu.^t  do  his  minions  grace, 
Whilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look. 
Hath  homely  age  th'  alluring  beauty  took 
From  my  poor  cheek?  then,  he  hath  wasted  it : 
Are  my  discourses  dull  ?  barren  my  wit? 
If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr'd, 
Unkindness  blunts  it.  more  than  marble  hard. 
Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait? 
That 's  not  my  fault ;  he  's  master  of  my  state. 
What  ruins  are  in  me.  that  can  be  found 
By  him  not  ruin'd  ?  then,  is  he  the  ground 
Of  my  defeatures'.     My  decayed  fair' 
A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair ; 
But,  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale, 
And  feeds  from  home  :  poor  I  am  but  his  stale.* 

Luc.  Self-harming  jealousy  ! — fie  !  beat  it  hence. 

Adr.  Unfeeling  fools  can  with  such  wrongs  dispense. 
I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  o  her  where, 
Or  else,  what  lets  it  but  he  would  be  here? 
Sister,  you  know,  he  promised  me  a  chain  : 
Would  that  alone,  alone  he  would  detain, 
3«  hs  would  keep  fair  quarter  with  his  bed  ' 
I  see,  the  jewel  best  enamelled* 
Will  lose  his  beauty  :  yet  though  gold  'bides  still, 
Thai  others  touch,  and  often  touching  vrill 
Wear  gold  ;  and  no  man,  that  hath  a  name, 
But  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 
Smce  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 
I  *11  weep  what  "s  left  away,  and  weeping  die. 

Luc.  How  many  fond  fools  serve  mad  jealousy!  [Ex'nt. 


SCENE  n.— The  Same. 
Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracu.s" 

Ant.  S    The  gold,  I  gave  to  Dromio.  is  laid  up 
Safe  at  the  Centaur;  and  the  heedful  slave 
Is  wanderd  forth,  in  care  to  seek  me  out. 
By  computation,  and  mine  ho.-  t's  report, 
I  could  not  speak  with  Dromio.  since  at  first 
I  sent  him  from  the  mart.     See.  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Symcu.se. 
How  now,  sir  !   is  your  mer.y  humour  alter'd  ? 
As  you  love  strokes,  so  jest  with  me  again. 
You  know  no  Centaur?     You  rccciv'd  no  gold? 
Your  mistre.  s  sent  to  have  nie  home  to  dinner? 
My  house  was  at  the  Piicenix?     Wa.-t  thou  mad, 
That  thus  so  madly  thou  didst  answer  me  ? 

Dro.  S.    What  answer,  sir  ?  when  spake  I  such  a 
word? 

Ant.    S.    Even  now,  even  here,  not  half   an  hour 
since. 

Dro.  S.   I  did  not  see  you  since  you  sent  me  hence, 
Home  to  the  Centaur,  with  the  gold  you  gave  me. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  did.st  deny  the  gold's  receipt, 
And  told"st  me  of  a  mistress,  and  a  dinner  ; 
For  which.  I  hope,  thou  felt"st  1  was  displeas'd. 

Dro.  S.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  this  merry  vein. 
What  means  this  jest  ?     I  pray  you,  master,  tell  me. 

Ant.    S.    Yea,  dost  thou  jeer,  and  dout  me  in  the 
teeth  ? 
Think'st  thou,  I  jest?     Hold,  take  thou  that,  and  that 

[Beating  him. 

Dro.  S.  Hold,  sir,  for  God's  sake  !  now  your  jtst  is 
earnest : 
Upon  what  bargain  do  you  give  it  me  ? 

Ant.  S.  U'cause  that  I  familiarly  sometimes 
Do  use  you  for  my  fool,  and  chat  with  you, 
Your  saucincss  will  je-st  upon  my  love. 
And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours. 
When  the  sun  shines  let  foolish  gnats  make  sport, 
But  creep  in  crannies  when  he  hides  his  beams. 
If  you  will  jest  with  me,  know  my  aspect, 
And  fashion  your  demeanour  to  my  looks, 
Or  I  will  beat  this  method  in  your  sconce 

Dro.  S.  Sconce,  call  you  it?  so  you  A-ould  leave 
battering,  I  had  rather  have  it  a  head  :  an  you  use 
these  blows  long,  I  must  get  a  sconce  for  my  head,  and 
insconce'  it  too  ;  or  else  I  shall  seek  my  wit  in  my 
shoulders.     But,  I  pray,  sir,  why  am  I  beaten  ? 

Ant.  S.   Dost  thou  not  know  ? 

Dro.  S.  Nothing,  sir ;  but  that  I  am  beaten. 

Ant.  S.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ? 

Dro.  S.  Ay.  sir,  and  wherefore  ;  for,  they  say,  every 
why  hath  a  wherefore. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  first, — for  flouting  me  ;  and  then, 
wherefore. — for  urging  it  the  second  time  to  me. 

Dro.  S.  Was  there  ever  any  man  thus  beaten  out  of 
season. 
When,  in  the  why,  and  the  wherefore,  is  neither  rhyme 

nor  reason  ? — 
Well,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Ant.  S.  Thank  me,  sir  ?  for  what  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  for  this  something,  that  you 
gave  me  for  nothing. 

Ant.  S.  I  '11  make  you  amends  next,  and  give  yon 
nothing  for  something.     But  say,  sir,  is  it  dinner  time 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir  :  I  think,  the  meat  wants  that  I  have. 

Ant.  S.  In  good  time,  sir :  what 's  that  ? 


Uncomelincss.      «  PaiT7ie.u       '  His  pretended  wife— the  stalkins-horse.  behind  which  sportsmen  formerlv  shnt,  was  so  called.     •Thw 
'th«  two  lollowinsf  lines  are  stiuck  out  by  the  MS.  einendator  nf  the  folio  of  la'J-J— where  the  two   succeeding  lines  of  the  text,  in  the 
'  Sconce  means  a  small  fortification,  as  weU  as  head  ;  hence,  insconce.  to  fortify. 


?.tsi  loi'o  of  KliJ,  are  also  omilleU. 


90 


THE  COMEDY   OF  ERROllS. 


Dro.  S.  Basling 

Ani.  S.  Weil,  sir,  then  H  wll  be  dry. 

Dm.  S.  If  it  be.  ."^ir.  1  pray  you  eat  none  of  it. 

Ant.  S.  Your  rca.'-on  ? 

Dm.  S.  Le.-l  ii  make  you  choleric,  and  purchase 
1110  anotlier  dry  ba.<iin2. 

Ant.  S!.  Well,  sir,  learn  to  jest  in  good  time  :  there's 
a  time  for  all  things. 

Dm.  S.  I  dursi  have  denied  that,  before  you  -were 
to  choleric. 

A)il.  S.  By  what  rule,  sir? 

Dro.  S.  ^Iarry.  .sir.  by  a  rule  a.s  plain  as  the  plain 
bald  pate  ol  father  Time  himself. 

Ant.  S.  Let 's  hear  it. 

Dro  S.  There  "s  no  lime  for  a  man  to  recover  his 
hair  ihat  grow.-;  bald  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  M.iy  he  not  do  it  by  fine  and  recovery  ? 

Dro.  S.  Yes.  to  pay  a  fine  for  a  periwig,  and  recover 
the  lost  hair  of  another  man. 

Ant.  S.  Why  is  Time  such  a  niggard  of  hair,  being, 
as  it  i.**,  so  plentiful  an  e.Kcrcment  ? 

Dro.  S.  Bceau.sc  it  is  a  blessing  that  he  bestows  on 
beasts  ;  and  what  he  hath  scanted  men  in  hair,  he  hath 
given  them  m  wit. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  but  there  's  many  a  man  hath  more 
hair  than  wit. 

Dro  S.  Not  a  man  of  those,  but  he  hath  the  wit  to 
loee  his  hair. 

Ar,:.  S.  Why.  tliou  didst  conclude  hairy  men  plain 
dealers,  without  wit. 

Dro.  S.  The  plainer  dealer,  the  sooner  lost :  yet  he 
.oseth  it  in  a  kind  of  jollity. 

Ant.  .S    For  what  reuson  ? 

Dro.  S.  For  two  :  and  s-)und  ones  too. 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sound,  I  pray  you. 

Dro.  S.  Sure  ones  then. 

AjU.  S.  N  ly.  not  sure,  in  a  thing  falsing. 

Dro.  S.  Ce.tain  ones  then. 

Ant.  S.  Name  them. 

Dro.  S.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  that  he  spends 
in  trimming'  ;  the  o^her,  that  at  dinner  they  should 
not  drop  in  Ins  |o  riil;;e. 

Ant.  S.  You  would  all  this  time  have  proved,  there 
16  no  time  for  a'l  things. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  and  did.  sirj  namely,  e'en  no  time 
to  recover  hair  lost  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  But  your  reason  was  not  sub.'-tantial,  why 
there  is  no  lime  to  recover. 

Dro.  S.  Thus  I  mend  it:  Time  himself  is  bald,  and 
therefore,  to  the  wo.lds  end.  will  have  bald  followers. 

Ant.  5?.   I  knew,  "t  would  be  a  bald  conclusion. 
But  soft  !   wl.o  wafts  us  yonder  ? 

Enter  Adria.n.a  a  nil   Llciana. 

Adr.  Ay,  ay.  Antijiliolus.  look  strange,  and  frowTi: 
Some  other  mistre.s.s  h:iih  thy  sweet  aspects, 
I  am  not  Adriana,  no.-  thy  wife. 
The  lime  w-.is  oiiee.  when  thou  unurg'd  wouldst  vow 
That  never  wo  ds  wc  e  music  to  thine  ear, 
That  never  objeci  pleasing  in  thine  eye. 
That  never  touch  well  welcome  lo  thy  hand, 
Thar  never  meat  sweet-sivour'd  in  ihy  ta,-to, 
Unless  I  sjiake.  or  look'd.  or  touch'il.  or  carv  d. 
How  comes  it  now,  my  hiisb'nl.  O'   how  comes  it, 
That  thou  art  thus  c.<lr;inge^l  from  thyself? 
Thy.<^cll    I  cill  i'.  heiii::  siranse  to  me, 
That,  undivulalile,  iiuorjioraie. 
Am  bcil<r  than  thy  dear  scK'.s  better  part 
Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me  ; 


For  know,  my  love,  as  ea.<;y  may  st  thou  fall 

A  drop  of  water  in  the  brnaking  gulph, 

And  take  unminglcd  thence  that  drop  again, 

Without  Jiddition  or  diminif^hing, 

As  take  from  me  thy.- elf,  and  not  me  too. 

How  dearly  would  it  touch  ihee  to  the  quick, 

Shouldst  thou  but  hear  i  were  licentious, 

And  that  this  body,  consecrate  to  thee, 

By  rutfian  lust  should  be  contaminate  ! 

Wouldst  thou  not  spit  at  me,  and  spuni  at  me. 

And  hurl  the  name  of  hu.-band  in  my  face. 

And  tear  the  staiu'd  skin  off  my  harloi-brow. 

And  from  my  false  hand  cut  the  wedding-ring, 

And  break  ii  with  a  deep-divorcing  vow  ? 

I  know  thou  canst :  and  therefore.  .«ee,  thou  do  it. 

I  am  possessd  with  an  adul:era'e  blot ; 

My  blood  is  mingled  with  the  crime  of  lust 

For,  if  we  two  be  one.  and  thou  play  false, 

I  do  digest  the  poi.'^on  of  thy  flesh, 

Being  strumpeted  by  thy  contagion. 

Keep  then  fair  league  and  truce  with  thy  true  bed. 

I  live  unstain'd,'  thou  undishonou.rcd. 

Ant.  S.  Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame  ?  I  know  you  noU 
In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  hours  old. 
As  strange  unto  your  town,  as  to  your  talk ; 
Who.  every  word  by  all  my  wit  being  scann'd, 
Want  wit  in  all  one  word  to  urdeistaiid. 

Luc.  Fie.  brother :  how  the  world  is  chang'd  with  vox.  1 
When  were  you  wonf  to  use  my  sister  thus? 
She  sent  for  you  by  Droraio  home  to  dimier. 

Ant.  S.  By  Dromio  ? 

JJro.  S.  By  me  ? 

Adr.    By  thee ;    and    this   thou   didst   return  from 
him. — 
That  he  did  buffet  thee,  and,  in  his  blows 
Denied  my  house  for  hi.s.  me  for  his  wife. 

Ant.  S.    Did   you    converse,  sir,  with    this   gentle- 
woman? 
What  is  the  course  and  drift  of  your  compact  ? 

Dro.  S.  I.  sir?     1  never  saw  her  till  this  time. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  licst :  for  even  her  very  words 
Didst  thou  deliver  to  me  on  the  mart. 

Dro.  S.   r  never  spake  with  her  in  all  my  life. 

Ant.  S.  How  can  she  thus  then  call  us  bv  '■  ir  names 
Unless  it  be  by  in.^piration  ? 

Adr.  How  ill  agrees  it  with  your  gravity 
To  counterfeit  thus  grossly  with  your  slave. 
Abetting  him  to  thwart  me  in  my  mood  ! 
Bii  it  my  wrong,  you  are  from  me  exempt. 
But  wTong  not  that  wrong  with  a  more  contempt. 
Come,  I  will  fasten  on  this  sleeve  of  thine; 
Thou  art  an  elm,  my  husband.  I  a  vine, 
Whose  weakness,  married  to  thy  stronger  state, 
Makes  me  with  thy  stnngth  to  communicate  : 
If  aught  possess  thee  from  me,  it  is  dross. 
Usurping  ivy,  brier,  or  idle  moss  ; 
Who,  all  for  want  of  pruning,  with  intrusion 
Infect  thy  sap,  and  live  on  thy  confusion. 

Ant.  S.  To  me  she  speaks ;  she  means'  me  for  her 
theme  ! 
What,  was  I  married  to  her  in  my  dream. 
Or  sleep  I  now.  and  think  I  hear  all  this' 
What  error  draw.-*  our  eyes  and  ears  amiss  ? 
Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty, 
I  "11  entertain  the  proffer"d*  fallacy. 

Luc.   Dromio.  go  bid  the  servants  spread  for  dinner 

iJro.  S.  O,  for  my  beads  I   I  cross  me  for  a  sinner. 
This  18  the  fairy  land  :  O,  spite  of  sjiiies  ! 


tping  :  m  r  c.  ;  an  all 
I  Diovei  :  IB  {. 


Iiy  Pnne.  of  trying,  in  oM  pM.      '  ttisKiainpfl  :  the  emendation  in  the  text  wa»  BUKgested  by  W*»bi»/ 
Drivti.      *  uSered  :  lo  f.  e.     The  uld  eds.  read  :  freed 


UOENE   I. 


THE  COMEDY   OF  ERRORS, 


91 


We  talk  witli  goblins,  owls,  and  elves  and  sprites.' 

if  we  obey  them  not,  this  will  en.'iue. 

They  '11  suck  our  breath,  or  pinch  us  black  and  blue. 

Luc.  Why  i.rat'st  thou  to  thyself,  and  answer' st  not '? 
Drornio  thou  Promio,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou  sot  ! 

Dro   S    I  am  traastbrmed,  master,  am  I  not  ? 

Ant.  S.   I  think  thou  art,  in  mind,  and  so  am  I. 

Dro.  S.  Nay,  master,  both  in  mind  and  in  my  shape. 

Ant.  S.  Thou  hast  thine  own  tbrm. 

Dro.  S.  No,  I  am  an  ape. 

Liic.  If  thou  art  chang'd  to  aught,  't  is  to  an  ass. 

Dro.  S.  'T  is  t;ue  :  she  rides  me,  and  I  long  for  grass. 
'T  is  so    I  am  an  ass :  else  it  could  never  be, 
But  I  should  know  her,  as  well  as  she  knows  me. 

Adr.  Come,  come  ;  no  longer  will  I  be  a  fool, 
To  put  the  finger  in  my  eye  and  weep, 


Whilst  man  and  ma.'^ter  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn. 
Come,  sir,  to  dinner. — Droinio.  keep  the  gate. — 
Husband,  I  '11  dine  above  with  you  to-day, 
And  shrive  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks. — 
Sirrah,  if  any  ask  you  for  your  master;, 
Say,  he  dines  forth,  and  let  no  creature  enter. — 
Come.  Sister. — Drornio.  play  the  porter  well. 

Ant.  S.  Am  I  in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  hell? 
Sleeping  or  waking?  mad.  or  well-advis'd? 
Known  unto  these,  and  to  myself  disguis'd? 
I  '11  say  as  they  say,  and  per.^ever  so. 
And  in  this  mist,  at  all  adventures,  go. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  1  be  porter  at  the  gate? 

Aflr.  Ay.  and  let  none  enter,  lest  1  break  your  pais. 

Luc.  Come,  come.  Aulipholus ;  we  dine  too  late. 

[E.xeunt. 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I.— The  Same. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephe.vis,  Dromio  of  Ephesits, 

An'      ^  and  Balthazar. 
Ant.  E.  Good  signior  Angcio,  you  must  excuse  us ; 
My  "wHfe  is  shrewish,  when  I  keep  not  hours, 
Say,  that  I  linger'd  with  you  at  your  shop 
To  see  the  making  of  her  carkanet". 
And  that  to-morrow  you  will  bring  it  home; 
But  here  "s  a  villain,  that  would  face  me  dow^^ 
He  met  me  on  the  mart,  and  that  J  beat  him, 
And  charg"d  him  with  a  thousand  marks  in  gold  ; 
And  that  I  did  deny  my  wife  and  house. — 
Thou  drunkard,  thou,  what  did"st  thou  mean  by  this  ? 
Dro   E.  Say  what  you  will,  sir ;  but  I  know  what  I 
know. 
That  you  beat  me  at  the  mart,  I  have  your  hand  to 

show; 
Ff  my'  skin  were  parchment,  and  the  blows  you  gave 

were  ink. 
Your  own  hand-writing  would  tell  you  for  certain* 
what  I  think. 
Ant.  E.  I  think,  thou  art  an  ass. 
Dro.  E.  Marry,  so  it  doth  appear, 

By  the  wTongs  T  suffer,  and  the  blows  I  bear. 
I  should  kick,  being  kick'd  ;  and  being  at  that  pass, 
You  would  keep  from  my  heels,  and  beware  of  an  ass. 
Ant.  E.  You  are  sad,  signior  Balthazar :  pray  God, 
our  cheer 
May  answer  my  good-will,    and  your  good  welcome 
here. 
BaL  I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sir,  and  your  wel- 
come dear. 
Ant.  E.  0.  signior  Balthazar  !  either  at  flesh  or  fish, 
A  table-full  of  welcome  makes  scarce  one  dainty  dish. 
BaL  Good  meat,  sir,  is  common;  that  every  churl 

affords. 
Ant.  E.    And   welcome    more    common,   for   that 's 

nothing  but  words. 
BaL  Small  cheer  and  great  welcome  makes  a  merry 

fea,st. 
Ant.  E.  Ay,  to  a  niggardly  host,  and  more  sparing 
guest ; 
But  though  my  cates  be  mean,  take  them  in  good  part; 
Better  cheer  may  you  have,  but  not  with  better  heart. 
But  soft !  my  door  is  lock"d.     Go  bid  them  let  us  in. 


Dro.  E.  Maud,    Bridget,    Marian,    Cicely,  Gillian, 

Gin  !  [Callmg. 

Dro.  S.   [Within.]   Mome.'   malt-horse,  capon,   cox- 
comb, idiot,  patch  !' 
Either    get    thee  from   the  door,  or  sit  down  at  the 

hatch. 
Dost  thou  conjttre  for  wenches,  that  thou  call'st  for 

such  store, 
When  one  is  one  too  many  ?   Go,  get  thee  from  the  door. 
Dro.  E.  What    patch     is    made    our   porter? — My 

master  stays  in  the  street. 
Dro.  S.  Let  him  walk  from  whence  he  came,  lest  Jie 

catch  cold  on  's  feet. 
Ant.  E.  Who  talks  within  there?  ho !  open  the  door. 
Dro.  S.  R  iglit,  sir  :   I  '11  tell  you  when,  an  you  '11  tell 

me  wherefore. 
Ant.  E.  Wlierefore  ?    for   my  dinner ;    I    have    not 

din'd  to-day. 
Dro.  S.  Nor  to-day  here  you  must  not,  come  again 

when  you  may. 
A7it.  E.  What  art  thou  that  keep'st  me  out  from 

the  house  1  owe  ? 
Dro.  S.  The  porter  for  this  time,  sir ;  and  my  name 

is  Drotnio. 
Dro.  E.  0  villain  !  thou  hast  stolen  both  mine  office 

and  my  name ; 
The  one  ne'er  got  me  credit,  the  other  mickle  blame. 
Tf  thou  hadst  been  Droinio  to-day  in  my  place. 
Thou  wouldst  have  changd  thy  face  for  a  name,  or 

thy  name  for  a  face.' 
Luce.  \  Within.]   What  a  coil  is  there,  Dromio:  whc 

are  those  at  the  gate  ? 
Dro.  E.  Let  my  master  in.  Luce. 
Luce.  Faith  no ;  he  comes  too  late  ; 

And  so  tell  your  master. 

Dro.  E.  O  Lord.  T  must  laugh  :— 

Have   at   you    \A"ith   a   proverb. — Shall   I   set   in   my 

staff? 
Luce.  Have  at  you  with  another:  that's, — when? 

can  vou  tell  ? 
Dro.  S.   If  thy  name  be  called  Luce,  Luce,  thou  hasi 

answer'd  him  well. 
Aiit.  E.  Do  you  hear,  you  minion?  you 'lllet  us  in. 

I  trow  ?» 
Luce.  I  thought  to  have  ask'd  you. 
Dro.  S.  And  you  said,  na 


'  elvish  sprites  :  in  f.  e.      >  Ncrklare.      '  the  :  in  f.  e. 
**ko  kxs  nothing  to  say.      •  One  patckett  up,  a  pretender. 


Those  two  words  not  in  T.  e.    » fiu/joj,  mummer,  a  silent  pf/orner,  blockheai- 
an  ass  :  m  f.  e.    *  hope  :  in  f.  e. 


92 


THE   COMEDY   OF  EKHORS. 


Dro   E.  So:    come,   help!    well  struck;  there  was  I  And  about  evening  come  youn-elf  alone 

blow  for  hbw.  |  To  know  llie  rea>on  of  iliis  strange  restraint, 

Ant.  E.  Tiiou  baggage,  let  me  in.  j  If  by  strong  hand  you  offer  to  break  in, 

L'ue.  Can  you  tell  for  whose  sake?  Now  in  the  stirring  passage  of  ilie  day, 

Dro.  E.   Master,  knock  the  door  hard. 


tl 

Luce.  Let  him  knock  till  it  ache. 

AtU.  E.  You  'II  cry  for  this,  minion,  if  1  beat  the 

door  down. 
Luce.  What  needs  ail  that,  and  a  pair  of  stocks  in 

the  town? 
Adr.   \  Within.]  Who  is  that  at  the  door,  that  keeps 

all  this  noise? 
Dro.  S.  By   my  troth,  your  town  is  troubled  with 

unruly  boys. 
Am.  E.  Are  you  there,  wife?  you  might  have  come 

before. 
AJr.  Your  wife,  sir  knave  ?  go,  get  you  from  the 

door. 
Dro.  E.  If  you   went  in  pain,  master,  this   knave 

would  go  sore. 
Ang.   Here  is  neither  cheer,  sir,  nor  welcome:  we 

would  fain  have  either. 
Hal.  In  debating  which  was  best,  we  shall  part*  with 

neither. 
Dro.  E.  They  stand  at  the  door,  master :  bid  them 

welcome  hither. 
Ant.  E.  There  is  something  in  the  wind,  that  we 

cannot  get  in. 
Dro.  E.  You  would  say  so.  master,  if  your  garments 

were  thin. 
Your  cake  here  is  warm  within  ;  you  stand  here  in  the 

cold: 
It  would  make  a  man  mad  as  a  buck  to  be  so  bought 

and  sold.' 
Ant.  E.  Go,  fetch  me  something :  I  '11  break  ope  the 

gate. 
Dro.  S.  Break  any  breaking    here,   and  I  '11  break 

your  knave's  pate. 
Dro.  E.  A   man   may  break  a  word  with  you,  sir, 

and  words  are  but  wind  ; 
Ay,  and  break  it  in  your  face,  so  he  break  it  not  be- 
hind. 
Dro.  S.  It  seems   thou  want'st  breaking.     Out  upon 

thee,  hind  I 
Dro.  E.  Here  's  too  much  out  upon  thee  !     I  pray 

thee,  let  me  in. 


have  no  feathers,  and  fish 
Go,  borrow   me   a 


Dro.  S.  Ay.  when  fow 
have  no  fin. 

Ant.  E.  Well,   I  '11    break 
crow. 

Dro.  E.  A  crow  without  feather?  master,  mean  you 
so' 
For  a  fish  without  a  fin.  there 's  a  fowl  without  a  feather. 
If  a  crow  help  us  in.  sirrah,  we  '11  pluck  a  crow  together. 

Ant.  E.    Go,    get   thee    gone  :    fetch    me   an   iron 
crow. 

Bal    Have  patience,  sir  :  0  let  it  not  be  so : 
Herein  you  war  against  your  reputation, 
And  draw  within  the  compa.«s  of  suspect 
Th'  unviolated  honour  of  your  wife. 
Once  this,* — Your  Ions  experience  of  her  wi.sdom. 
Her  sober  virtue,  years,  and  modesty, 
Plead  on  her  part  some  cause  to  you  unknown  ; 
AnJ  doubt  not,  sir,  but  she  will  well  excuse 
Why  at  this  time  the  doors  are  made  against  you. 
Be  nj|  d  by  me  •  dejiart  in  (latience. 
And  let  us  to  the  Tiger  all  to  dinner; 


A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  of 

And  that  supposed  by  the  co<miioii  route, 

Against  your  yet  ungallcd  estimation, 

That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enier  in, 

And  dwell  ujion  your  grave  when  you  are  dead: 

For  slander  lives  uj  on  succession. 

For  ever  housed,  where  it  gets  ims.session. 

Ant.  E.   You  have  prevaiTd:   I  will  depart  in  quiel, 
And.  in  desjiite  of  mirth,  mean  to  be  merry. 
I  know  a  wench  of  excellent  di.-course, 
Pretty  and  witty:  wild,  and  yet  loo.  gentle; 
There  will  we  dine.     This  woman  that  i  mean, 
My  wife  (but  1  protest,  without  desert.) 
Hath  ofientimcs  upbraided  me  wiilial  : 
To  licr  will  we  to  dinner. — Get  you  home. 
And  fetch  the  chain  :  by  this.  I  ki:ow,  "t  is  made. 
Bing  it.  I  pray  you.  to  the  Porcupine:* 
For  there  's  the  liou.se.     That  chain  will  I  bestow 
(Be  it  for  nothing  but  to  spiie  my  wife) 
Ujion  mine  hostess  there.     Good  sir,  make  haste. 
Since  mine  own  doors  refuse  to  entertain  me, 
I  'II  knock  el.^ewhcre.  to  .><ee  if  they  "11  disdain  me. 

Ang.   I  "II  meet  you  at  that  place,  some  hour  hence. 

Ant.  E.  Do  so.     This  jest  shall   co»t  me  some  ex- 
pense. [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 
Enter  Luciana.  and  A.\tii>hoi.l's  of  Syrnaise. 

Lvc.  And  may  it  be  that  you  have  quite  forgot, 

A  husbaiid"s  ortice  ?     Shall  unkind  debate* 
Even  in  the  spring  of  love,  thy  love-springs  rot? 

Shall  love,  in  building,  grow  so  ruinate? 
If  you  did  wed  my  sister  for  her  wealth. 

Then,  for  her  wealth"s  sake  use  her  with  more  kind 
ness : 
Or,  if  you  like  elsewhere,  do  it  by  stealth : 

Muffle  your  false  love  with  some  show  of  blindness; 
Let  not  my  sister  rei  d  it  in  your  eye  : 

Be  not  thy  tongue  thy  own  sliaiiie"s  orator, 
Look  sweet,  speak  fair,  become  disloyally; 

Apparel  vice  like  virtue's  harbinser : 
Bear  a  fair  presence,  though  your  heart  be  tainted , 

Teach  sin  the  carnage  of  a  holy  saint: 
Be  secret-false :  what  need  she  be  acquainted? 

What  simple  thief  brags  of  his  own  attaint? 
'T  is  double  wrong  to  truant  with  your  bed. 

And  let  her  read  it  in  thy  looks  at  board: 
Shame  hath  a  bastard  fame,  well  managed; 

111  deeds  are  doubled  with  an  evil  word. 
Ala.«,  poor  women  !   make  us  but  believe, 

Being  compact  of  credii.'  iliat  you  love  us, 
Though  others  have  the  arm.  show  us  the  sleevn, 

We  in  your  motion  turn,  and  you  may  move  ub. 
Then,  gentle  brother,  get  you  in  again: 

Comtbrt  my  sister,  cheer  her.  call  her  -wife. 
'T  is  holy  sport  to  be  a  little  vain, 

When  the  sweet  breath  of  flatter)'  conquers  gtrife- 

Ant.  S.  Sweet  mistress,  (what  your  name  is  else,  1 
know  not, 

Nor  by  what  wonder  you  do  hit  of  mine.) 
Less  in  your  knowledge,  and  your  grace  you  show  no<. 

Than  our  earth's  wonder;  more  than  earth  divine. 
Teach  me.  dear  creature,  how  to  think  and  speak: 


•  ?*??"*  '  '"  "'*  **"'*  MnM  M  our  »l»nif  phpvn*.  sold.  •  Onrt  for  nil  Iff  me  tell  ymt  lhi$.  ♦  All  ttie  olo  ed»  bdve  Poymiim^ 
whi.'h  Oyc^  wnuM  rpiKJn.  aa  a  Uidinct  form  of  the  word  used  by  many  olil  writers.  •  f  e.  have  Aniipholut,  in  place  of  the  LMt  t«» 
•or.l*.      •  FuU  of  cTtdulity. 


THE  COMEDY    OF   EERORS. 


93 


Lay  open  to  my  earthy  gross  conceit. 
Mnotlierd  in  error-;,  feeble,  shallow,  weak, 

The  folded  nieauiiig  of  your  words'  deceit. 
Against  my  soul's  })ure  truth,  why  labour  you 

To  make  it  wander  in  an  unknowni  field  ? 
Are  you  a  god?  would  you  create  me  new? 

Transform  me  then,  and  to  your  power  I  '11  yield 
But  if  that  I  am  I.  then  well  I  know. 

Your  weeping  sister  is  no  wife  of  mine, 
Nor  to  her  bed  no  homage  do  I  owe : 

Far  more,  far  more,  to  yeu  do  I  incline.' 
0,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note, 

To  drown  me  in  thy  sister's  flood  of  tears. 
Sing,  syren,  for  thyself,  and  I  will  dore : 

Spread  o'er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs. 
And  as  a  bed  [  '11  take  thee,  and  there  lie; 

And,  in  that  glorious  supposition,  think 
He  gains  by  death,  that  hath  such  means  to  die : 

Let  Love,'  being  light,  be  drowned  if  she  sink  ! 

Luc.  What !   are  you  mad,  that  you  do  reason  so? 

Aiit.  S.  Not  mad,  but  mated;'  how,  I  do  not  know. 

Imc.  It  is  a  fault  that  springeth  from  your  eye. 

Ant.  S.  For  gazing  on  your  beams,  fair  sun,  being  by. 

Luc.  Gaze  where  you  should,  and  that  will   clear 
your  sight. 

Ant.  S.  As  good   to  wink,  sweet  love,   as  look  on 
night. 

Luc.  Why  call  you  me  love?  call  my  sister  so. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  sister's  sister. 

Luc.  That 's  my  sister. 

Ant.  S.  No ; 

ft  is  thyself,  mine  o^^^^  self's  better  part ; 
Mine  eye's  clear  eye,  my  dear  heart's  dearer  heart ; 
My  food,  my  fo;-tune,  and  my  sweet  hope's  aim, 
My  sole  earth's  heaven,  and  my  heaven's  claim. 

Lnc.  All  this  my  si.ster  is.  or  else  should  be. 

Ant.  S.  Call  thyself  sister,  sweet,  for  I  am  thee. 
Thee  will  I  love,  and  with  thee  lead  my  life : 
Thou  hast  no  husband  yet,  nor  I  no  wife. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Luc.  O.  soft,  sir  !  hold  you  still : 

I  '11  fetch  my  sister,  to  get  her  good-vsill.  [Exit. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Sifracu.fe,  running.* 

Ant.  S.  Why,  how  now,  Dromio  !  where  run'st  thou 
80  fast' 

Dro.  S.  Do  you  know  mc,  sir  ?  am  I  Dromio  ?  am  I 
7our  man?  am  I  myself? 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  Dromio,  thou  art  my  man,  thou 
axt  thyself. 

Dro.  S.  I  am  an  ass  ;  I  am  a  woman's  man,  and 
besides  myself. 

Ant.  S.  What  woman's  man  ?  and  how  besides  thy- 
self? 

Dro.  iS.  Marry,  sir,  besides  myself,  I  am  due  to  a 
woman;  one  that  claims  me,  one  that  haunts  me,  one 
that  will  have  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  claim  lays  she  to  thee? 
Dro.  S.  Marr>',  sir,  such  claim  as  you  would  lay  to 
your  horse :  and  she  would  have  me  as  a  beast :  not 
that,  I  being  a  beast,  she  would  have  me  ;  but  that  she. 
being  a  verv  beastly  creature,  lays  claim  to  me. 

Ant.  S    What  is  she  ? 

Dro.  S.  A  very  reverend  body;  ay,  such  a  one  as  a 
man  may  not  speak  of.  without  he  say,  sir-reverence.' 
[  have  but  lean  luck  in  the  match,  and  yet  she  is  a 
wondrous  fat  marriage. 

Ant.  S.  How  dost  thou  mean  a  fat  marriage? 


Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  she  's  the  kitchen-wench,  and  all 
and  I  know  not  what  use  to  put  her  to.  but  tc 
make  a  lamp  of  her,  and  run  from  her  by  her  own  light. 
1  warrant,  her  rags,  and  the  tallow  in  them,  will  burn 
a  Polar  winter:  if  she  lives  till  doomsday,  she'll  burn 
a  week  longer  than  the  whole  world. 

Ant.  S.  What  complexion  is  she  of." 

Dro.  S.  Swart,  like  my  shoe,  but  her  face  nothing 
like  so  clean  kept:  for  why?  she  sweats;  a  man  may 
go  over  shoes  in  the  grime  of  it. 

Ant.  S.  That  "s  a  fault  that  water  will  mend. 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir;  'tis  in  grain:  Noah's  flood  could 
not  do  it. 

Ant.  S.  What 's  her  name  ? 

Dro.  S.  Nell,  sir;  but  her  name  is  three  quarters, 
that  is.  an  ell  :  and  three  quarters  vsill  not  measure 
her  from  hip  to  hip. 

Ant.  S.  Then  she  bears  some  breadth  ? 

Dro.  S.  No  longer  from  head  to  foot,  than  from  hip 
to  hip  :  she  is  spherical,  like  a  globe,  I  could  find  out 
countries  in  her. 

Ant.  S.  In  what  part  of  her  body  stands  Ireland? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  in  her  buttocks  :  I  found  it  out 
by  the  boas. 

Ant.  S." Where  Scotland? 

Dro.  S.  I  found  it  by  the  barrenness,  hard,  in  the 
palm  of  the  hand. 

Ant.  S.  Where  France? 

Dro.  S.  In  her  forehead ;  arm'd  and  reverted,  mak- 
ing war  against  her  heir.' 

Ant.  S.  "Where  Eniiland  ? 

Dro.  S.  I  look'd  for  the  chalk-y  cliffs,  but  I  could 
find  no  whiteness  in  them  :  but  I  guess,  it  stood  in 
her  chin,  by  the  salt  rheum  that  ran  between  France 
and  it. 

Arit.  S.  WTiere  Spain  ? 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  I  saw  it  not ;  but  I  felt  it  hot  in  her 
breath. 

Ant.  S.  'Where  America,  the  Indies  ? 

Dro.  S.  O!  sir.  upon  her  nose,  all  o'er  embellished 
-with  rubies,  carbuncles,  sapphires,  declining  their  rich 
a.<pect  to  the  hot  breath  of  Sjiain,  who  sent  whole 
armadoes  of  carracks  to  be  balhist  at  her  nose. 

Ant.  S.  Where  stood  Belgia.  the  Netherlands? 

Dro.  S.  0  !  sir.  I  did  not  look  so  low.  To  conclude, 
this  drudge,  or  diviner,  laid  claim  to  me  :  call'd  me 
Dromio ;  swore,  I  was  assured  to  her :  told  me  what 
pri\'7  marks  I  had  about  me,  as  the  mark  of  my 
shoulder,  the  mole  in  my  neck,  the  great  wart  on  my 
left  arm.  that  I.  amazed,  ran  from  her  as  a  %dtch  :  and, 
I  think,  if  my  breast  had  not  been  made  of  faith,  and 
my  heart  of  steel,  she  had  transform'd  me  to  a  cunail- 
dog,  and  made  me  turn  i'  the  wheel. 

Ant.  S.  Go,  hie  thee  presently  post  to  the  road, 
And  if  the  wind  blow  any  way  from  shore, 
I  will  not  harbour  in  this  town  to-night. 
If  any  bark  put  forth,  come  to  the  mart, 
Where  I  will  walk  till  thou  return  to  me. 
If  every  one  knows  us.  and  we  know  none, 
'T  is  time.  I  think,  to  trudge,  jiack.  and  begone. 

Dro.  S.  As  from  a  bear  a  man  would  run  for  life, 
So  fly  I  from  her  that  would  be  my  wife.  [Exit 

Ant.  S.  There  's  none  but  witches  do  inhabit  here, 
And  therefore  't  is  high  time  that  I  were  hence. 
She  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 
Doth  for  a  wife  abhor ;   but  her  fair  sister, 
Possess'd  with  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace. 


«  decline  :  in  f.  e.      »  Shakespaare  of>en  speaks  of  love  as  feminine.      »  Made  senneless.      *  ha-ftily :  in  f.  e.     »  Snlvd  rtrtrenUA,  save 
•everence.      «  This  and  the  folUiwins  passages,  to  and  including,  "  I  did  not  look  so  low,"  are  struck  out  hy  the  1\1S. 


aUusioD  to  the  war  of  the  Leas 


-the  people' were  "  making  war,"  aftpr  the  assassination  of  Henry  III.  in  15t.9,  against  the  heir  Henry  VT 

14 


94 


TIIE  COMEDY   OF  EKkoRS. 


Df  Fuch  encharitins:  presence  and  discourse, 
Hatli  almost  made  mc  triiilor  to  mysolf: 
But,  loFi  niyseir  be  izuilly  of  sclf-WiOiig, 
1  "11  stop  mine  ears  aiiainsl  ilie  mermaids  song 
Killer  Angklo. 

Aug.   Master  Anli|.liolus  "• 

Ant.  S.  Ay.  that  "s  my  n;ime. 

Ancr.  I  kiiow  it  well.  sir.     Lo  !  here  is  the  chain. 
I  thousht  to  have  ta'en  you  at  the  Porcupine; 
Tlie  chain  unfiuish'd  made  me  aUiy  thus  long. 

Ant.  S.  What    is   your  will   that   I   shall    do   with 
this? 

Ang.  What  please  yourself,  sir:  I  have  made  it  for 
you. 

Ant.  S.  Made  it  for  me,  sir?  I  bespoke  it  not. 


Aug.  Not  once,  nor  twice,  bul  twenty  times  you  have 
Go  h(  nie  witli  it.  and  please  your  wife  withal; 
And  soon  at  suppcr-titne  !  "II  visit  you, 
And  then  receive  my  money  for  ihc  chain 

Ant.  S.  1  pray  you,  sir,  receive  the  money  now, 
For  fear  you  necr  see  chain,  nor  money,  nioie. 

Arig.  You  are  a  merry  man,  sir.     Fare  you  well. 

]E.tii. 

Ant.  S.  "What  T  should  think  of  this.  I  cannot  tell  : 
But  this  I  think,  there  's  no  man  is  >o  vain. 
That  would  refuse  so  fair  an  offcr"d  chain. 
I  see.  a  man  here  needs  not  live  by  shifts, 
"When  in  the  streets  he  meets  such  solden  gifts. 
I  Ml  to  the  mart,  and  there  for  Dromio  stay: 
If  any  ship  put  out,  then  straight  away.  \Exil 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same. 
Enter  a  Merchant .,  A.ngei.o.  and  an  Officer. 

Mer.  You  know,  since  Pentecost  the  sum  is  due, 
And  since  I  have  not  much  importund  you  j 
Nor  now  1  had  not,  but  that  I  am  bound 
To  Persia,  and  want  gilders  for  my  voyage: 
Therefore,  make  present  satisfaction. 
Or  I  "II  attach  you  by  this  otficer. 

Ang.  Even  Just  the  sum.  that  I  do  owe  to  you. 
Is  growing'  to  me  by  Antipholus; 
And.  in  the  instant  that  I  met  with  you, 
Ho  had  of  me  a  chain  :  at  five  ocloek, 
f  shall  receive  the  money  for  the  same. 
Plea.>-cth  you  walk  with  me  down  to  his  house, 
I  will  discharge  my  bond,  and  thank  you  too. 
Entei  A.VTiPuoLLs  uf  Kphexus.  ami  Dromio  of  Ephesvs, 
from  the  Courtezan  s.* 

Off.  That  labour  may  you  save  :  see  where  he  comes. 

Ant.  E.  While  I  go  to  the  goldsmith's  house,  go  thou 
And  buy  a  rope's  end.  that  will  I  bestow 
Among  my  wile  and  these'  confederates. 
For  locking  me  out  of  my  doors  by  day. — 
Hut  soft.  I  see  the  gokbiiiith. — Get  thee  gone; 
Buy  thou  a  rope,  and  bring  it  home  to  me. 

Dro.  E.  1  buy  a  thousand  pound  a-year?  I  buv  a 
roi^e  ?  [Exit. 

Ant.  E.  A  man  is  well  holp  up  that  trusts  to  you : 
I  jiromis'd  me  your  presence,  and  the  chain. 
But  neither  chain,  nor  sohlsrnith.  came  to  me. 
B'^like.  you  thought  our  love  would  last  too  long, 
If  it  were  chain'd  together,  and  therefore  came  not. 

Ang.  Saving  your  merry  Immour.  here  's  the  note 
How  much  your  chain  weiaiis  to  the  utmost  caract, 
The  fineness  of  the  gold,  and  charceful  fashion, 
Which  doth  amount  to  three  odd  ducats  more 
Than  I  stand  dcbted  to  this  gentleman  : 
I  pray  you.  see  him  p'-esenlly  discharged, 
For  he  is  bound  to  sea.  and  slays  but  for  it. 

Ant.  E.  I  am  not  furmsliM  with  the  present  money; 
Residfs.  I  have  some  business  in  the  town, 
f?ood  siiinior.  tako  the  stranuer  to  my  house. 
And  with  you  take  the  chain,  and  bid  my  wife 
Disburse  the  sum  on  the  receipt  iliereof : 
Perchance.  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you. 

Ang.  Then,  you  will  bring  the  chain  to  her  yourself? 

Ant.  E.  No  :  bear  it  with  you,  lest  I  come  not  time 
enough. 

'  Accmng       >  Knitfht  omitH  the  last  three  words        >  their  :  in  f 


Ang.  Well.  sir.  I  will.  Have  you  the  chain  about  you? 

Ant.  E.  An  if  I  have  not.  sir,  1  hope  you  have, 
Or  else  you  may  return  without  your  money. 

Ang.  Nay.  corne,  I  pray  you.  sir.  give  me  the  chain: 
Both  wind  and  tide  stay  for  this  gentleman, 
And  I,  to  blame,  have  held  him  here  too  long 

Ant.  E.  Good  lord  I  you  u.se  this  dalliance,  to  excuse 
Your  breach  of  promise  lo  the  Porcupine. 
I  should  have  chid  you  for  not  bringing  it. 
But.  like  a  shrew,  you  first  begin  to  brawl. 

Mer.  The  hour  steals  on  :   I  pray  you.  sir.  dispatch. 

Ang.  You  hear,  how  he  importunes  me  :  the  chain — 

Ant.  E.  Why,  give  it  to  my  wife,  and  fetch  your 
money. 

Ang.  Come,  come  :  you  know,  I  gave  it  you  even  now 
Either  send  the  chain,  or  send  by  me*  some  token. 

Ant.  E.  Fie  !  now  you  nin  this  humour  out  of  breath. 
Come,  wiiere  "s  the  chain?     1  pray  you.  let  me  see  it. 

]\fcr.  My  business  cannot  brook  this  dalliance. 
Good  sir.  say,  whe'r  you  Ml  answer  me,  or  no? 
If  not,  I  Ml  leave  him  to  the  officer. 

Ant.  E.  I  answer  you  !  what  should  I  answer  you  ? 

Ang.  The  money  that  you  owe  me  for  the  chain. 

Ant.  E.  I  owe  you  none,  till  I  receive  the  chain. 

Ang.  You  know,  I  gave  it  you  half  an  hour  since. 

Ant.  E.  You  gave  me  none :  you  wrong  me  much 
to  say  so. 

Ang.  You  wrong  me  more,  sir,  in  denying  it : 
Consider  how  it  stands  upon  my  credit. 

Mer.  Well,  officer,  arrest  him  at  my  suit. 

Off.  I  do,  and  charge  you  in   the  duke"s   name  to 
obey  me. 

Ang.  This  touches  me  in  reputation. — 
Either  consent  to  pay  this  sum  for  me, 
Or  1  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

Ant.  E.  Con.sent  to  pay  for'  that  I  never  had? 
Arrc.^t  me.  foolish  fellow,  if  thou  darst. 

Ang.  Here  is  thy  fee  :  arrest  him.  offirer. — 
I  would  not  spare  my  brother  iti  this  case. 
If  he  should  scorn  me  .'o  apparently. 

Off.   I  do  arrest  you.  sir.     You  hear  the  suit. 

Ant.  E.   1  do  obey  thee,  till  I  ■■ivc  thee  bail. — 
But.  sirrah,  you  shall  buy  this  sport  as  dear, 
As  all  the  metal  in  your  shop  will  answer.    • 

Ang.  Sir.  sir.  I  shall  have  law  in  Eihesus, 
To  your  notorious  shame.  1  doubt  it  not. 
I  Enter  DRoy}\o  uf  Syrac.ye. 

1      Dro.  S.  Master,  there  is  a  bark  of  Epidamnum 

e       ♦  me  by  :  in  f.  e.      'thee  :  id  f.  e. 


soknt:  m. 


THE   COMEDY   OF  ERROES. 


95 


That  stays  but  till  her  owner  comes  aboard, 

A.nd  then,  sir,  she  bears  away.     Our  fraughtage,  sir, 

r  hitve  coiwey'd  aboard,  and  T  have  bought 

The  oil,  the  balsamum.  and  aqua-vitte. 

The  ship  is  in  her  trim  :  the  merry  wind 

Blows  fair  from  land ;  they  .'Jtay  for  nought  at  all, 

But  for  their  owner,  master,  and  your.self. 

Ant.  E.  How  now  ?  a  madjnan  !    Why,  thou  peevish' 
sheep, 
Wljat  ship  of  Epidamnum  stays  for  me? 

])ro.  S.  A  ship  you  sent  me  to,  to  hire  waftage. 

dixt.  E.   Thou   drunlien  slave,    I  sent    thee    for  a 
rope : 
And  told  thee  to  what  purpose,  and  what  end. 

Dro.  S.  You  sent  me  for  a  rope's  end  as  soon. 
Vou  sent  me  to  the  bay,  sir,  for  a  bark. 

A7it.  E.  I  will  debate  this  matter  at  more  leisure, 
And  teach  your  ears  to  list  me  with  more  heed. 
To  Adriana,  villain,  hie  thee  .straight ; 
Give  her  this  key.  and  tell  her.  in  the  desk 
That  "s  cover'd  o'er  with  Turkish  tapestry. 
There  it;  a  purse  of  ducats :  let  her  send  it. 
Tell  her,  I  am  arrested  in  the  street. 
And  that  .shall  bail  me.     Hie  thee,  slave,  be  gone. 
On,  officer,  to  prison  till  it  come. 

[Exeunt  Merclmnt,  Angelo,  Officer.,  and  Ant.  E. 

Dro.  S.  To  Adriana?  that  is  where  we  din'd. 
Where  Dow.^abel  did  claim  me  for  her  husband : 
She  is  too  big,  I  hope,  for  me  to  compass. 
Thither  I  must,  although  against  my  will. 
For  servants  must  their  masters'  minds  fulfil.       [Exit. 

SCENE  n.— The  Same. 
Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 

Adr.  Ah  !  Luciana.  did  he  tempt  thee  so  ? 

Mightst  thou  perceive  austerely  in  his  eye 
That  he  did  plead  in  earnest  ?  yea  or  no  ? 

Look'd  he  or  red,  or  pale?  or  sad.  or  merry? 
What  observation  mad"st  thou  in  this  case. 
Of  his  heart's  meteors  tilting  in  his  face? 

Luc.  First  he  denied  you  had  in  him  no  right. 

Adr.  He  meant,  he  did  me  none  :  the  more  my  spite. 

Luc.  Theii  swore  he,  that  he  was  a  stranger  here. 

Adr.  And  true   he    swore,  though  yet  forsworn  he 
were. 

Lv£.  Then  pleaded  I  for  you. 

Adr.  And  what  said  he  ? 

Luc.  That  love  T  begg'd  for  you,  he  begg'd  of  me. 

Adr.  With  what  persuasion  did  he  tempt  thy  love? 

Ltic.  With  words,  that  in  an  honest  suit  might  move. 
First.,  he  did  praise  my  beauty ;  then,  my  speech. 

Adr.  Didst  speak  him  fair  ? 

Ltic.  Have  patience,  I  beseech. 

Adr.  I  cannot,  nor  T  will  not  hold  me  still  : 
My  tongue,  though  not  my  heart,  shall  have  his  will. 
He  is  deformed,  crooked,  old,  and  sere, 
Ill-fac'd.  worse  bodied,  shapeless  everywhere ; 
Vicious,  ungentle,  foolish,  blunt,  unkind, 
Stigniat'-aP  in  making,  worse  in  mind. 

Luc.  Who  would  be  jealous,  then,  of  such  a  one? 
No  evil  lost  is  waii'd  when  it  is  gone. 

Adr.  Ah  !  but  I  think  him  better  than  I  say, 

And  yet  would  herein  others'  eyes  were  worse. 
Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries  away  : 

My  heart   prays   for    him,    though    my  tongue   do 


Enter  Dromio  nf  SyracK.se.  running. 
Dro.  S.   Here,  go  :  the  desk  !  the  purse  !  swift',  now 

make  haste 
Luc.  How  hast  thou  lo.st  thy  breath  ? 
Dro.  S.  By  running  fasU 

Adr.  Where  is  thy  master,  Dromio?  is  he  well  ? 
Dro.  S.  No,  he  's  in  Tartar  limbo,  worse  than  hell 
A  devil  in  an  everlasting  garmenf  hath  him  fell*, 
One  whose  hard  heart  is  button'd  up  with  steel  ; 
Wlio  knows  no  touch  of  mercy,  cannot  fee/  , 
A  fiend,  a  fury',  pilile.ss  and  rough  ; 
A  wolf,  nay,  wor.^e.  a  fellow  all  in  buff; 
A  back-friend;   a  shoulder-clapper,  one  t>d.t  counter 

mands 
The  passages  and  alleys,  creeks  and  narrow  lands  : 
A  hound  that  runs  counter,'  and   yet  draws   drv-foot 

well ;' 
One  that,   before    the  judgment,  carries  poor  souls  to 
hell". 
Adr.  Why,  man,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Dro.  S.  I  do  not  know  the  rnatter :  he  is  'rested  on 

the  case. 
Adr.  What,  is  he  arrested  ?  tell  me,  at  whose  suit. 
Dro.  S.  I  know  not  at  whose  suit  lie  is  arrested  well , 
But  he 's  in  a  suit  of  buff  which  'rested  him,  that  can  I  tell. 
Will  you  send  him,  mistress,  redemption?  the  money 
in  his  desk  ? 
Adr.  Go  fetch  it,  sister. — This  I  wonder  at ; 

[Exit  Luciana. 
That  he,  unknown  to  me,  should  be  in  debt : — 
Tell  me,  was  he  arrested  on  a  band"? 

Dro.  S.  Not  on  a  band,  but  on  a  stronger  thing; 
A  chain,  a  chain  :  do  you  not  hear  it  ring  ! 
Adr.  What,  the  chain  ? 

Dro.  S.  No.  no.  the  bell.    'T  is  time  that  I  were  gone  : 
It  was  two  ere  I  left  hiin.  and  now  the  clock  strikes  one. 
Adr.  The  hours  come  back  !  that  did  I  never  hear. 
Dro.  S.  O  yes  ;   if  any  hour  meet  a  serjeant,  'a  turns 

back  for  very  fear. 
Adr.  As  if  time  were  in  debt  !  how  fondly  dost  thou 

reason  ! 
Dro.  S.  Time  is  a  very  bankrupt,  and  owes  mor 
than  he  's  worth,  to  sea^on. 
Nay,  he  's  a  thief  too :  have  you  not  heard  men  say, 
That  time  comes  stealing  on  by  night  and  day? 
If  he  be  in  debt  and  theft,  and  a  serjeant  in  the  way, 
Hath  he  not  reason  to  turn  back  any  hour  in  a  day  ? 
Re-enter  Luciana. 
Adr.  Go,  Dromio:  there's  the  money,  bear  it  straight, 
And  bring  thy  master  home  immediately. — 
Come,  sister;   1  am  press'd  down  with  conceit. 

Conceit,  my  comfort,  and  my  injury.  [Exexmi. 

SCENE   III.— The  Same. 
Enter  Antipmoj^us  of  Syracu.se.  wearing  the  chain 
Ant.  S.  There  's  not  a  man  I  meet  but  doth  salute  mo 

As  if  I  were  their  well  acquainted  friend; 

And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name. 

Some  tender  money  to  me.  some  invite  me; 

Some  other  give  me  thnnks  for  kindnesse.^  ; 

Some  offer  me  commodities  to  buy  : 

Even  now  a  tailor  call'd  me  in  his  shop. 

And  show'd  me  silks  that  he  had  bought  for  me, 

And,  therewithal,  took  measure  of  my  body 

Sure,  these  are  but  imaginary  wiles. 

And  Lapland  sorcerers  inhabit  here. 


>  Still/.  »  BisJisuTtd.  »  sweet  in  f  e.  ♦  Serjmntsworehuf.  »  Not  in  f  e.  •  This  line  is  not  in  f.  e.  i  The  old  nnpies  haw 
r«iry  ;  Theobald  su-ftrested  the  c-haiise  made  t,y  the  MS.  eriiendator.  «  An  allusion  to  his  lakiiiL'  persons  arrested  to  the  Coimler  pr.son 
A  huniinK  phrase,  ineaninir  lo  hunt  hy  the  scent  of  the  animal'' s  foot,  i"  This  wa«  riie  name  ol  a  piace  of  confinement  under  the  Hx. 
«>oquer  chamber,  for  the  debtors  of  the  crown.      >»  Bond. 


96 


THE  co;n[edy  of  errors. 


ACT  IV. 


Enter  Diio.Mio  uf  Syracuse. 

Dro.  5?.  Miisicr.  here  's  tlie  gold  you  sent  me  for. 
What   have   you   got'    the  picture  of  old   Adam  new 
«.p|>areir<l'y 

Ant.  S.   What  gc  Id  is  this?     What  Adam  dost  thou 
mean  ? 

Dio.  S.  Nol  that  Adam  tliat  kept  the  paradise,  but 
Mial  Adam  tlial  kc(i>s  ihe  pnsi  n  ;  he  that  goes  in  the 
caH's-skiJi  that  was  kill'd  for  tlie  prodigal  :  he  that 
e:imc  behind  you.  sir.  like  an  evil  angel,  and  bid  you 
forsake  viur  lihcrty. 

Aiit.  S.  I  uiilors  and  thee  not. 

Dro.  S.  No?  wiiy,  'i  is  a  plain  case:  he  that  went, 
ike  a  ba.-e-viol.  in  a  case  of  leather  :  the  man.  sir.  that. 
when  gent  emcn  arc  tirei,  gives  them  a  fob,  and  "rests 
them  :  he.  sir.  ihat  takes  pity  on  decayed  men,  and 
gives  tlicm  sii'ts  of  durance  :  he  that  sets  up  his  rest  to 
do  mo  e  expl'  its  witli  h:s  mace,  than  a  morris-pike.' 

AnI.  S.  \Vh;il,  tluu  meanst  an  officer? 

Dro.  S.  Ay.  sir,  the  scrjeani  of  the  band;  he  that 
brings  any  man  to  answer  it.  tliat  breaks  his  band  ;  one 
that  thinks  a  man  always  going  to  bed,  and  says, 
••  God  give  you  good  rest !" 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  the-e  rest  in  your  foolery.      Is 
there    any   ship   puts   forth    to-uight  ?    may   we   be 
gone  ? 

Dro.  S.  Why.  sir,  I  brought  you  word  an  hour  since, 
that  the  bark  E.xpedition  put  forth  to-night:  and  then 
were  you  hindered  by  the  serjeant  to  tarry  for  the  hoy 
Delay.  Here  are  the  angels  that  you  sent  for  to  deliver 
you. 

Ant.  S.  The  fellow  is  distract,  and  so  am  I, 
And  here  we  wander  in  illusions. 
Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  hence  ! 
Enter  a  Courtezan. 

Cour.  Well  met.  well  met,  ma.ster  Antipholus. 
I  see,  .'■ir.  you  liave  found  the  gold.-^mith  now: 
Is  that  tlie  chain,  you  promised  me  to-day? 

A7it.  S.  Saltan,  avoid  !   1  charge  thee,  tempt  me  not  ! 

Dro.  S.  Master,  is  this  mistress  Satan? 

Ant.  S.  It  is  the  devil. 

Dro.  S.  Nay,  she  is  worse,  she  is  the  de^^^s  dam; 
and  here  she  comes  in  the  habit  of  a  light  wench  :  and 
thereof  conies  that  the  wenches  say,  "God  damn  me,'- 
that  8  its  iiiucli  as  to  say,  "God  make  me  a  light  wench." 
It  is  written,  they  appear  to  men  like  angels  of  light  : 
light  is  an  elTeet  of  fire,  and  fire  will  burn:  ergo,  light 
wenches  will  burn.     Come  not  near  her. 

Cour.  Vour  man  and  you  arc  marvellous  merry,  sir. 
Will  yo-i  go  with  me?  we  Ml  mend  our  dinner  here. 

Dro.  !.  Master,  if  you  do  expect  spoon-meat,  be- 
speak a  loiiir  spoon. 

Ant.    V   Why.  Dromio? 

Dm.  S.  Marry,  he  must  have  a  long  spoon  that  mu.st 
eat  witli  the  devil. 

Ant.  S    Avoid,  thou*  fiend  !  what  tell'st  thou  me  of 
supping? 
Thou  art.  a«  you  are  all.  a  sorceress: 
I  conjure  the-  to  leave  me.  and  be  gone. 

Cotir.  Give  me  the  ring  of  mine  you  had  at  dinner 
Or  for  my  diamond  the  chain  you  promised, 
And  I  "11  be  uone,  sir.  and  not  trouble  you. 

Dro.  S.  Some  devils  aak    but  the  parings  of  one's 
nail. 
A  rush,  a  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  a  pin,  a  nut,  a  cherry- 

wtone  ; 
But  sh^,  rno-e  covetous,  would  have  a  chain. 
Mantel,  he  wise  :  an  if  you  sive  it  her, 
The  de^  il  will  shake  her  chain,  and  fright  us  with  it. 

What  kave  you  donr  with       »  A  reference  to  the  Serjeant's  fuit 


Cour.  I  pray  you,  sir,  my  ring,  or  else  the  chain. 
I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  cheat  me  so. 

Ant.  S.  Avaunt.  thou  witch!     Come.  Dromio.  le' 

us    20. 

Dro.  S.  Fly  pride,  says  the  peacock:  mistress,  that 
you  know.  [Exeunt  Ant.  and  Dro 

Cour.  Now,  out  of  doubt,  Antipholus  is  mad, 
Else  would  he  never  so  demean  himself. 
A  ring  he  hath  of  mine  worth  forty  ducats, 
And  for  the  same  he  promis'd  me  a  chain  : 
Both  one  and  ether  he  denies  me  now. 
The  reason  that  1  gather  he  is  mad. 
Besides  this  present  instance  of  his  rage, 
Is  a  mad  tale  he  told  to-day  at  dinner 
Of  his  own  doors  being  .shut  against  his  entrance. 
Belike,  his  wife,  acquainted  with  his  fits. 
On  purpose  shut  the  doors  against  his  way 
My  way  is  now.  to  hie  home  to  his  house. 
And  tell  his  wife,  that,  beiii2[  lunatic. 
He  rush'd  into  my  house,  and  took  perforce 
My  ring  away.     This  course  I  fittest  choose, 
For  forty  ducats  is  tco  much  to  lose.  [  Erii. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 
Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephe.su.s,  and  a  Jailor. 

Ant.  E.  Fear  me  not.  man  :  I  will  not  break  away  • 
I  '11  give  thee,  ere  1  leave  thee,  so  much  money, 
To  warrant  thee,  as  I  am  "rested  for. 
My  wife  is  in  a  wayward  mood  to-day. 
And  will  not  lightly  trust  the  messenger: 
That  I  should  be  attach'd  in  Ephesus, 
I  tell  you.  't  will  sound  harshly  in  her  ears. 

Enter  Dro.mio  of  Epkc.ws  with  a  rope's-end. 
Here  comes  my  man:  I  think  he  brings  the  money. — 
How  now,  sir?  have  you  that  I  sent  you  lor? 

Dro.  E.  Here  "s  tint.  I  warrant  you,  will  pay  them  alL 

Ant.  E.  But  where  "s  the  money  ? 

Dro.  E.  Why,  sir,  I  gave  the  money  for  the  rope. 

Ant.  E.  Five  hundred  ducats,  villain,  for  a  rope? 

Dro.  E.  I  '11  serve  you.  sir,  five  hundred  at  the  rate. 

Ant.  E.  To   what   end   did    1   bid    thee    hie   thee 
home  ? 

Dro.  E.  To  a  rope's  end,  sir  ;  and  to  that  end  am  I 
return'd. 

Ant.  E.  And  to  that  end,  sir,  1  -will  welcome  you. 

[Beating  him. 

Jail.  Good  sir,  be  patient. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  'tis  for  me  to  be  patient;  I  am  in 
adversity. 

Jail.  Good  now,  hold  thy  tongue. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  rather  persuade  him  to  hold  his  hands. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  whoreson,  senseless  villain  ! 

Dro.  E.  I  would  1  were  senseless,  sir ;  that  I  might 
not  feel  your  blows. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  art  sensible  in  nothing  but  blows, 
and  so  is  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  1  am  an  ass,  indeed  :  you  may  prove  it  by 
my  long  ears.  I  have  serv'd  him  from  tlie  hour  ol 
my  nativity  to  this  instant,  and  liave  nothing  at  hit" 
hands  for  my  service,  but  blows.  When  I  am  cold,  he 
heats  me  with  beating  ;  when  I  am  warm,  he  cools  me 
with  beating  :  I  am  wuk'd  with  it.  when  I  sleep  ;  rais'd 
with  it,  when  I  sit;  driven  out  of  doors  with  it,  when 
I  go  from  home;  welcomed  home  with  it,  when  I 
return:  nay,  I  bear  it  on  my  shoulders,  as  a  beggar 
wont  her  brat:  and,  I  think,  when  he  nath  lamed  me 
I  shall  beg  with  it  from  door  to  door. 

Ant.  E.  Come,    go    along  :    my     wife    is    oomina 
yonder. 

r  buff       •  A  M:M>rish  yik*       «  then  •  in  f  e. 


SCENE   IV. 


THE   COMEDY   OF  ERRORS. 


97 


Enter  Adriana.  Luciana,  the  Courtezan^  and  a 
Schoolmaster  called  Pinch. 
Dro.  E.  Mistress,  respice  Jiiiem,^  respect  your  end: 
or  rather  the  prophecy,  like  the  parrot,  '-beware  the 
rope's  end."' 

Ant.  E.  Wilt  tliou  still  talk?  [Beats  him. 


I      Bro.  E.  And,  genlle  master,  1  rcceiv"d  no  gold  ; 
But  I  confess,  sir,  that  we  were  lockd  out. 

Adr.  Diss'mbling  villain  !  thou  speak'st  false  in  both 
Ant.  E.   Dissembling  harlot  !  tliou  art  false  in  all, 
And  art  confederate  with  a  damned  pack 
To  make  a  loathsome,  abject  scorn  of  me  ; 


Cour.  How  say  you  now?  is  not  your  husband  mad?  But  with  these  nails  1  "11  pluck  out  these  false  eyes 


Adr.  His  incivility  confirms  no  less 
Good  doctor  Pinch,  you  are  a  conjurer; 
Establish  him  in  his  true  sense  again, 
And  I  will  please  you  what  you  will  demand. 

Luc.  Alas,  how  fiery  and  how  sharp  he  looks  ! 

Cour.  Mark,  how  he  trembles  in  his  ecstasy  ! 

Pinch.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel  your 
pulse. 

Ant.  E.  There  is  my  hand,  and  let  it  feel  your  ear. 

Pinch.  I  charge  thee,  Satan,  hous'd  within  this  man, 
To  yield  possession  to  my  holy  prayers, 
And  10  thy  state  of  darkness  hie  thee  straight : 
I  conjure  thee  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven. 

Ant.  E.  Peace,  doting  wizard,  peace  !  I  am  not  mad. 

Adr.  0.  that  thou  wert  not,  poor  distressed  soul ! 

Ant.  E.  You  minion,  you  ;  are  these  your  customers? 
Did  this  companion  with  the  saffron  face 
Pucvel  and  feast  it  at  my  house  to-day, 
Whilst  upon  me  the  guilty  doors  were  shut, 
And  I  denied  to  enter  in  my  house  ? 

Adr.  0.  husband,  God  doth  know,  you  din'd  at  home  ; 
Where  'would  you  had  rcmain'd  until  this  time. 
Free  from  these  slanders,  and  this  open  shame  ! 

Ant.  E.  Din'd  at  home  ?     Thou,  villain,  what  say'st 
thou? 

Dro.  E.  Sir,  sooth  to  say,  you  did  not  dine  at  home. 

Ant  E.  Were  not  my  doors  lock'd  up,  and  I   shut 
out^ 

Dro.  E.  Perdy,  your   doors    were    lock'd,  and  you 
shut  out. 

Ard.  E.  And  did  not  she  herself  revile  me  there? 

Dro   E.  Sans  fable,  she  herself  revil'd  you  there. 

Ant   E.  Did   not  her  kitchen-maid  rail,  taunt,  and 
scorn  me  ? 

Dro.  E.  Certes,  she  did ;  the  kitchen-vestal  scorn'd 
you. 

Ant.  E.  And  did  not  I  'n  rage  depart  from  thence  ? 

Dro.  E.  In  verity,  you  did  : — my  bones  bear  witness, 
That  since  have  felt  the  rigour'  of  his  rage. 

Adr.  Is  't  good  to  soothe  him  in  these  contraries? 

Pinch.  It  is  no  shame :  the  fellow  finds  his  vein, 
And.  yielding  to  him,  humours  well  his  frenzy. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  hast  suborn"d  the  goldsmith  to  arrest  me. 

Adr.  Alas,  I  sent  you  money  to  redeem  you. 
By  Dromio  here,  who  came  in  haste  for  it. 

Dro.  E.  Money  by  me  !    heart  and  good-will   you 
might ; 
But,  surely,  master,  not  a  rag  of  money 


That  would  behold  in  me  this  shameful  spor 

Enter  three  or  four,  and  bind  Antipholus  aiul 
DuoMio. 

Adr.  0  bind  him,  bind  him  !  let  him  not  come  near 
me. 

Pinch.  More  company  ! — the  fiend  is  strong  witluB 
him. 

Luc.  Ah  me  !  poor  man,  how  pale  and  wan  he  looks. 

Ant.  E.  What,  will  you  murder  me?     Thou  jailor, 
thou, 
I  am  thy  prisoner  :  wilt  thou  suffer  them 
To  make  a  rescue  ? 

Jail.  Masters,  let  him  go . 

He  is  my  prisoner,  and  you  shall  not  have  him. 

Pinch.  Go,  bind  this  man,  foi-  he  is  frantic  too. 

Adr.  What  wilt  thou  do,  thou  peevish  oflicer? 
Hast  thou  delight  to  see  a  wretched  man 
Do  outranje  and  displeasure  to  himself? 

Jail.  He  is  my  prisoner  :  if  I  let  him  go, 
The  debt  he  owes  will  be  requir'd  of  me. 

Adr.  I  will  discharge  thee,  ere  I  go  from  thee. 
Bear  me  forthwth  unto  his  creditor. 
And.  knowing  how  the  debt  grows,  I  will  pay  it. 
Good  master  doctor,  see  him  safe  eonvey'd 
Home  to  my  house. — O,  most  unhappy  day  ! 

Ant.  E.  0,  most  unhappy  strumpet  ! 

Dro.  E.    Master,    I    am    here   enter'd   in   bond    for 
you. 

Ant.  E.  Out  on  thee,  villain !   wherefore  dost  thou 
mad  me  ? 

Dro.  E.  Will  you  be  bound  for  nothing '  be  mad 
good  master ; 
Cry,  the  devil. — 

Luc.  God  help,  poor  souls  !  how  idly  do  they  talk. 

Adr.  Go  bear  liim  hence. — Sister,  go  you  with  me.-^ 

[Exeunt  Pinch  and  a.'^si.'ttants  with  Ant.  and  Dro. 
Say  now,  whose  suit  is  he  arrest.-^d  at  ? 

Jail.  One  Angelo,  a  goldsmith ;  do  you  know  him  ? 

Adr.  I  know  tlie  man.     What  is  the  sum  he  owes; 

Jail.  Two  hundred  ducats. 

Adr.  S,ay,  how  grows  it  due  ' 

Jail.  Due  for  a  chain  your  husband  had  of  him. 

Adr.   He  did  bcs|)eak  a  chain  for  me.  but  had  it  not. 

Cour.  When  as  your  husband,  all  in  rage,  to-day 
Came  to  my  house,  and  took  away  my  ring, 
(The  ring  I  saw  upon  his  finger  now) 
1  Straight  after  did  I  meet  him  with  a  chain. 

Adr.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  did  never  see  it. — 


Ant.  E.  Went'st  not  thou  to  her  for  a  ptirse  of  ducats  !    Game,  jailor,  bring  me  where  the  goldsmith  is 


Adr.  He  came  to  me,  and  I  delivcr'd  i 

Lite.  And  I  am  witness  with  'ner  tiiai  she  did. 

Dro.  E.  God    and    the    rope-maker    now^  bear 
witness. 
That  I  was  sent  for  nothing  but  a  rope  ! 

Pinch.  Mistress,  both  man  and  master  is 
I  know  it  by  their  pale  and  deadly  looks. 
They  must  be  bound,  and  laid  in  some  dark  room. 

Ant.  E.  Say,   wherefore   didst  thou    lock  me  forth 
to-day  ? 
And  why  dost  thou  deny  the  bag  of  gold  ? 

Adi.  I  did  not,  gentle  husband,  lock  thee  forth. 


I  long  to  know  the  truth  hereof  at  largo 
Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  with  his  rapier  drawn 
and  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 
Luc.  God,  for  thy  mercy  !  they  are  loose  again. 
Adr.  And  come  with  naked  swords.     Let 's  call  more 
help, 
To  have  them  bound  again 

Jail.  Away  !  they  '11  kill  us. 

[Exeunt  Adriana,  Luciana,  and  Jailor. 
Ant.  S.  I  see,  these  witches  are  afraid  of  swords. 
Dro.  S.  She,  that  would  be  your  wife,  now  ran  from 
you. 


ui  Ulpian  Fulwe'.l's  First  Parte  of  the  Ei^tith  Liberal  Science,  1.579,  these  words  occur,  nnrl  are  translated  in  a  marsjinal  note,  "  All ' 
•re\l  that  ends  well."    Shakespeare  may  liave  borrowed  both  a  phrase  and  a  title  from  this  work.    »  vigour  :  in  f.  e      »  Not  in  f.  b 

G 


98 


THE  COMEDY   OF  EEROES. 


Ant.  S.  Come  to  the  Centaur;  fetch  our  stufT'  from  |bnt  for  the  mountain  of  mad  flesh  tliat   laims  marriagf 


thonce : 
I  Ion;:  tliat  wc  were  safe  and  sound  aboard. 

J)ro.  S.  Frtiili,  stay  licre  this  nipht.  tlicy  will  surely 
do  us  no  harm:  you  saw  they  spake  us  Aiir.  gave  us 
gold.     Mcthinks  they  are  sncli  a  gentle  nation,  that 


of  me,  I  could  tind  in  my  heart  to  stay  here  still,  and 
turn  -witch. 

Ant.  S.  I  will  not  stay  to-night  for  all  the  town  ; 
Therefore  away,  to  get  out  stuff  aboard.  \Exeunt 


ACT    V 


SCENE  T.— The  Same.     Before  an  Abbey. 
Enter  Merchant  and  Angklo. 

Ang.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  have  hinder'd  you; 
But.  I  protect,  he  had  the  chain  of  me. 
Though  most  dishonestly  he  doth  deny  it. 

Mcr.  How  is  the  man  esteem'd  here  in  the  city? 

Ang.  Of  very  reverend  reputation,  sir  ; 
Of  credit  infinite,  highly  belov'd, 
Second  to  none  that  lives  here  in  the  city  : 
His  word  miglit  bear  my  wealth  at  any  time. 

Mer.  Speak  softly  :  yonder,  as  I  tliink,  he  walks. 
Enter  Antipholus  and  Dromio  of  Syracu.se.' 

Ang.  'T  is  so  ;  and  that  self  chain  about  his  neck, 
Whicii  he  forswore  most  monstrously  to  have. 
Good  sir.  draw  near  with  me,  I  '11  speak  to  him. — 
Signior  Antipholus,  I  wonder  much 
That  you  would  put  me  to  this  shame  and  trouble  ; 
And  not  without  some  scandal  to  yourself. 
With  circumstance  and  oaths  so  to  deny 
This  chain,  which  now  you  wear  so  openly : 
Beside  the  charge,  the  sliame,  imprisonment, 
Vou  have  done  wrong  to  tliis  my  honest  friend; 
Who,  but  for  staying  on  our  controversy, 
Had  hoisted  sail,  and  put  to  sea  to-day. 
This  chain,  you  had  of  me  :  can  you  deny  it? 

Ant.  S.  I  think,  I  had :  I  never  did  deny  it. 

Mer.  Yes.  that  you  did,  sir  :  and  forswore  it  too. 

Ant.  S.  Who  heard  me  to  deny  it,  or  forswear  it  ? 

Mer.  These  ears  of  mine,  thou   knowest,  did   hear 
thee. 
Fie  on  thee,  wretch  !  't  is  pity  that  thou  liv'st 
To  walk  where  any  hone.^t  men  resort. 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  a  villain  to  impeach  me  thus. 
'11  prove  mine  honour  and  mine  honesty 
A.2ninst  ihf-c  jiresently.  if  thoudar'st  stand. 

Mer.  I  dare,  and  do  defy  thee  for  a  villain.  [They  draw. 

Enter  Adriana,  Luciana,   Courtezan,  and  Others. 

Adr.  Hold!  hurt  him  not,  for  God's  sake  !  he  is  mad. — 
Some  get  ^^^tllin  him' ;  take  his  sword  away. 
Bind  Dromio  too.  and  bear  tliem  to  my  houc-se. 

J)ro.  S.  Run.  master,  run;  for  God's  sake  take  a  house  ! 
This  is  .some  priory  : — in.  or  we  are  spoil'd. 

[FJxeimt  Antipiiom:s  and  Dromio  to  the  Abbey. 
Enter  the  Lady  Abbess. 

Abb.  Bo    quiet,    people.      Wherefore    throng    you 
hitiicr? 

A(h.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband  hence. 
Let  us  come  in.  that  wc  may  bind  him  fast, 
And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 

Ang.   I  knew,  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 

Mrr.   I  am  sorn,'  now.  that  I  did  drnw  on  him. 

Ahb.   How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  man? 

Adr.  TLs  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour,  sad  ; 
And  much  different  from  the  man  he  was; 
But,  till  this  afternoon,  his  pa.ssion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  ra^'c. 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  of  sea  ? 

'  Baggage       >  Clru  with  him.      »  Not  in  f.  e 


Buried  some  dear  friend  ?     Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray"d  liis  afTection  in  unlawful  love? 
A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men. 
Who  give  llieir  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to  ? 

Adr^  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last  • 
Namely,  some  love,  that  drew  him  oft  from  home 

Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.  Haply,  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

4bh.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference. 
In  bed,  he  slept  noi  lor  my  urging  it ; 
At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it ;, 
Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme ; 
In  company,  I  often  glanc'd  at^  it : 
Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 

Abb.  And  thereof  came  it  that  the  man  was  mad: 
The  venom  clamours  of  a  jealous  woman 
Poison  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dogs  tooth. 
It  seems,  his  sleeps  were  hind" red  by  tiiy  railing 
And  thereof  comes  it,  that  his  head  is  light. 
Thou  say'st,  his  meat  was  sauc'd  with  thy  upbraidings; 
Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions ; 
Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred  : 
And  what  "s  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness  ? 
Thou  say'st,  his  sports  were  hinder'd  by  thy  brawls : 
Sweet  recreation  barr'd,  what  doth  ensue. 
But  moody  and  dull  melancholy. 
Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  despair, 
And  at  her  heels  a  huge  infectious  troop 
I  Of  pale  di.stemperatures,  and  foes  to  life  ? 
'  In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 
To  be  disturbed,  would  mad  or  man  or  beast. 
The  consequence  is.  then,  thy  jealous  fits 
Have  scar'd  thy  husband  from  the  use  of  wits. 

Luc.  She  never  reprehended  him  but  mildly, 
When  he  demean'd  himself  rough,  rude,  and  wildly. 
Why  bear  you  these  rebukes,  and  answer  not  ? 

Adr.  She  did  betray  me  to  my  o\\ni  reproof. — 
Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him. 

Abb.  No;  not  a  creature  enters  in  my  house. 

Adr.  Then,  let  your  servants  bring  my  husband  forth 

Abb.  Ncitlter  :  he  took  this  place  for  sanctuary, 
And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands. 
Till  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again, 
Or  lose  my  labour  in  essaying  it. 

Adr.  I  will  attend  my  husljand,  be  his  nurse. 
Diet  his  sickness ;  for  it  is  my  office. 
And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself, 
And  tlierefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 

Abb.  Be  patient;  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir, 
Till  1  have  us'd  the  approved  means  I  have, 
Willi  wholesome  syrups,  drugs,  and  holy  prayers, 
I  To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again. 


b<:jene  I. 


THE   COMEDY    OF  ERRORS. 


99 


li  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 

A  cliaritable  duty  of  my  order  ; 

The-i-efore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  me. 

Adr.  I  will  not  hence,  and  leave  my  husband  here  : 
And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness 
To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  and  depart:  thou  shalt  not  have  him. 

[Exit  Abbess. 

Luc.  Complain  unto  the  duke  of  this  indignity. 

Adr.  Come,  go  :  I  will  fall  prostrate  at  his  feet, 
And  never  rise,  until  my  tears  and  prayers 
Have  won  his  grace  to  come  in  person  hither, 
And  take  perforce  my  husband  from  the  abbess. 

Mer.  By  this,  I  think,  the  dial  points  at  five: 
Anon.  I  "m  sure,  the  duke  himself  in  person 
Comes  this  way  to  the  melancholy  vale. 
The  place  of  death  and  solemn^  execution, 
Behind  tlie  ditches  of  the  abbey  here. 

Ang.  Upon  what  cause? 

Mer.  To  s^ee  a  reverend  Syracusian  merchant, 
Who  put  unluckily  into  this  bay 
Against  the  laws  and  statutes  of  this  town. 
Beheaded  publicly  tor  his  offence. 

Ang.  See,  where  they  come  :  we  will  behold  his  death. 

Luc.  Kneel  to  the  duke  before  he  pass  the  abbey. 
Enter  DvYiE  attended;    jEgkon  bare-headed;  with  the 
Heaxhman  and  other  Officers. 

Duke.  Yet  once  again  proclaim  it  publicly, 
If  any  friend  will  pay  the  sum  for  him, 
He  shall  not  die,  so  much  we  tender  him. 

Adr.  Justice,  most  sacred  duke,  against  the  abbess  ! 

Dvke.  She  is  a  virtuous  and  a  reverend  lady  : 
It  carmot  be,  that  she  hath  done  thee  wrong. 

Adr.  May  it   please    your   grace,   Antipholus,    my 
husband. 
Whom  I  made  lord  of  me,  and  all  I  had. 
At  your  important^  letters,  this  ill  day 
A  most  outrageous  fit  of  madness  took  him, 
That  desperately  he  hurried  through  the  street, 
(With  liim  his  bondman,  all  as  mad  as  he) 
Doing  displeasure  to  the  citizens 
By  rushing  in  their  houses,  bearing  thence 
Rings,  jewels,  any  thing  his  rage  did  like. 
Once  did  I  get  him  bound,  and  sent  him  home, 
Whilst  to  take  order  for  the  wTongs  I  went, 
That  here  and  there  his  fury  had  committed. 
Anon,  I  wot  not  by  what  strange^  escape. 
He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him, 
And  with  his  mad  attendant  and  himself. 
Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords, 
Met  us  again,  and,  madly  bent  on  us, 
Chas'd  us  away  ;  till,  raising  of  more  aid, 
We  came  again  to  bind  them.     Then  they  fled 
Into  this  abbey,  whither  we  pursued  them ; 
And  here  the  abbess  shuts  the  gates  on  us, 
And  will  not  suffer  us  to  fetch  him  out. 
Nor  send  him  forth,  that  we  may  bear  him  hence. 
Therefore,  most  gracious  duke,  with  thy  command, 
et  him  be  brought  forth,  and  borne  hence  for  help. 

Dulifi.  Long  since  ihy  husband  serv'd  me  in  my  wars. 
And  I  Lo  thee  engaged  a  prince's  word, 
*Vhen  thou  didst  make  him  master  of  thy  bed. 
To  do  him  all  the  grace  and  good  I  could. — 
Go^  some  of  you,  knock  at  the  abbey  gate. 
And  bid  the  lady  abbess  come  to  me. 
I  will  determine  this,  before  I  stir. 
Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  0  mistress,  mistress  !  shift  and  save  yourself. 

1  depth  and  sorry  :  in  f.  e.      '  Importunate.      '  strong  :  in  f.  e 
1  oeouliar  fashion       «  Th'.g  word  originally  meant  h  irelin^.  and 


My  master  and  his  man  are  both  broke  loose. 
Beaten  the  maids  a-row,*  and  bound  the  doctor, 
Whose  beard  they  have  sing'd  off  v/ith  brands  of  fire 
And  ever  as  it  blazed  they  threw  on  him 
Great  pails  of  puddled  mire  to  quench  the  hair. 
My  master  preaches  patience  to  him,  and  the  while 
His  man  with  scissars  nicks  him  like  a  fool :' 
And,  sure,  unless  you  send  some  present  help. 
Between  them  they  will  kill  the  conjurer. 

Adr.  Peace,  fool !  thy  master  and  his  man  are  here 
And  that  is  false,  thou  dost  report  to  us. 

Serv.  Mistress,  upon  my  life,  I  tell  you  true  ; 
I  have  not  breath'd  almost,  since  I  did  see  it. 
He  cries  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you. 
To  scorch  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you.  [Cry  within. 
Hark,  hark,  I  hear  him,  mistress :  fly,  be  gone. 

Duke.  Come,   stand  by  me;    fear  nothing.     Guard 
with  iialberds  ! 

Adr.  Ah  me,  it  is  my  husband  !     Witness  you, 
That  he  is  borne  about  invisible : 
Even  now  we  hous"d  him  in  the  abbey  here, 
And  now  he  's  there,  past  thought  of  human  reason. 
Enter  Antipholus  and  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  most  gracious  duke  !    0  !  grant  me 
justice. 
Even  for  the  service  that  long  since  I  did  thee. 
When  I  bestrid  thee  in  the  wars  and  took 
Deep  scars  to  save  thy  live ;  even  for  the  blood 
That  then  I  lost  for  thee,  now  grant  me  justice. 

JEge.  Unless  the  fear  of  death  doth  make  me  dote, 
I  see  my  son  Antipholus,  and  Dromio  ! 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  sweet  prince,  against  that  woman 
there  ! 
She  whom  thou  gav'st  to  me  to  be  my  wife, 
That  hath  abused  and  dishonour'd  me, 
Even  in  the  strength  and  height  of  injury. 
Beyond  imagination  is  the  wrong, 
That  she  this  day  hath  shameless  thrown  on  me. 

Duke.  Discover  how,  and  thou  shalt  find  me  just. 

Aiit.  E.    This  day,  great  duke,  she  shut  the  doors 
upon  me. 
While  she  with  harlots    feasted  in  my  house. 

Duke.  A  grievous  fault.    Say,  woman,  didst  thou  so  ? 

Adr.  No,  my  good  lord :  myself,  he,  and  my  sister, 
To-day  did  dine  together.     So  befal  my  soul, 
As  this  is  false  he  burdens  me  withal. 

Luc.  Ne'er  may  I  look  on  day,  nor  sleep  on  night. 
But  she  tells  to  your  highness  simple  truth. 

Ang.  O  perjur'd  woman  !     They  are  both  forsworn: 
In  this  the  madman  justly  chargeth  them. 

Ant.  E.  My  liege.  I  am  advised  what  I  say ; 
Neither  disturb'd  with  the  effect  of  wine, 
Nor  heady-rash  provok'd  with  raging  ire. 
Albeit  my  -wTongs  might  make  one  wiser  mad. 
This  woman  lock'd  me  out  this  day  from  dinner  : 
That  goldsmith  there,  were  he  not  pack'd  with  her, 
Could  witness  it.  for  he  was  with  me  then  ; 
Who  parted  with  me  to  go  fetch  a  chain, 
Promising  to  bring  it  to  the  Porcupine, 
Where  Balthazar  and  I  did  dine  together. 
Our  dinner  done,  and  he  not  coining  thither. 
I  went  to  seek  him :  in  the  street  I  met  him. 
And  in  his  company,  that  gentleman. 
There  did  this  perjur'd  goldsmith  swear  me  down. 
That  I  this  day  of  him  receiv"d  the  chain, 
Which,  God  he  knows,  I  saw  not :  for  the  which. 
He  did  arrest  me  with  an  officei . 
I  did  obey,  and  sent  my  peasant  home 

It  was  the  custom  to  cut  the  hair  o(  (bols  il 


*  One  after  tht  other. 
8  applied  to  either  sex. 


100 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERPwORS. 


For  certain  ducats  :  he  witli  none  returnd. 

riien  fiiirly  I  bosixtke  tlie  olticer, 

To  CO  in  i>erson  with  me  to  my  house. 

By  the  way  we  met 

My  wife,  her  sister,  and  a  rabble  more 

Of  Nile  confederate*  :  along  with  thorn 

They  brouiiht  one  Pinch,  a  liunErry,  lean-fac"d  villain, 

A  mere  anatomy,  u  mouutcbiink. 

.\  thread-bare  jusgler,  and  a  fortune-teller, 

\  neeily.  hollow-i-yd.  sharp-looking  \\Tetch, 

\  living  de;ui  man.     Thu>;  pernicious  slave, 

Forsooth,  took  on  him  a,s  a  conjurer, 

And  giizing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse, 

.\iid  with  no  ft-ce.  as  "t  were,  out-facing  me. 

Cries  out,  I  was  po.^sess'd.     Then,  altogether 

They  tell  upon  me,  bound  me.  bore  me  theuce, 

And  in  a  dark  and  dankii-h  vault  at  home 

They'  left  me  and  my  man.  buth  bound  together  ; 

Till.  gna\\ing  with  my  teeth  my  bonds  in  sunder, 

I  gaiud  my  freedom,  and  immediately 

Ran  hither  to  your  grace,  whom  I  beseech 

To  give  me  atnple  satisfaction 

For  these  deep  shame.-^.  and  great  indignities. 

Ang.  My  lord,  in  truth,  thus  far  I  witness  \^^th  him. 
Tha'  he  dmed  not  at  home,  but  was  lockd  out. 

Dtike.  But  had  he  .<uch  a  chain  of  thee,  or  no  ? 

Ang.  He  had.  my  lord  :  and  when  he  ran  in  here, 
The,»;e  j)eople  saw  the  chain  about  his  neck. 

Mer.  Bedsides.  I  \\-ill  be  sworn,  these  ears  of  mine 
H'^ard  you  confess  you  had  the  chain  of  him, 
After  you  fir>t  forswore  it  on  the  mart. 
.And.  thereupon.  I  drew  my  sword  on  you; 
.\nd  then  you  fled  inlo  this  abbey  here. 
From  whence.  I  think,  you  are  come  by  miracle. 

Anf.  E.  I  never  came  within  these  abbey  walls. 
Nor  ever  didst  thou  draw  thy  sword  on  me. 
f  never  saw  the  chain,  so  help  me  heaven  ! 
\iid'  this  is  false  you  burden  me  withal. 

Dtike.  Why.  what  an  intricate  impeach  is  this  ! 
I  think,  you  all  have  drunk  of  Circe's  cup. 
(f  here  you  housd  him.  here  he  would  have  been  ; 
If  he  were  mad,  he  would  not  plead  so  coldly  >  - 
You  say,  he  dmcd  at  home  ;  the  goldsmith  here 
Denies  that  saying. — Sirrah,  what  say  you  ? 

Dro.  E.  Sir,  he  dined  with  her,  there,  at  the  jPorcupine. 

Cour.  He  did.  and  i>om  my  finger  snatch"d  that  ring. 

Ant.  E.  "T  is  true,  my  liege  ;  this  ring  I  had  of  her. 

Lhike.  Saw".><t  thou  him  enter  at  the  abbey  here  ? 

Ccnir.  As  sure,  my  liege,  as  I  do  see  your  grace. 

Ihike.    Why.  this   is  strange. — Go  call   the   abbess 
hither.^ 
I  think  you  are  all  mated,  or  stark  mad. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

./Ege.  Most  mighty  duke,  vouchsafe  me  speak  a  word. 
Haply,  I  .«ee  a  friend  will  gave  my  life, 
^nd  pay  the  sum  that  may  deliver  mc. 

Ihike.   Speak  freely,  Syracusian.  what  thou  wiU 

A^ge.   Is  not  your  name,  sir,  call'd  Antipholus, 
And  i.s  not  that  your  bondman  Dromio? 

Dro    E.  Within  this  hour  I  was  his  bondman,  sir  ; 
Rut  he.  I  thank  him.  gnaw'd  in  two  iny  cords: 
N'ow  am  I  Dromio.  and  his  man.  unbound. 

/Egc.   I  am  sure  you  both  of  you  remember  me. 

hro.  E.  Ourselves  we  do  remember,  sir.  by  you  ; 
For  lately  we  were  bound,  as  you  arc  nf)W 
Vou  are  not  Pinchs  patient,  are  you.  sir'r" 

.£ge.  Whv  look  you  strange  on  me  ?  you  know  me 
well. ' 

Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  you  in  my  life,  till  now. 

'  There      a  f.  e       •  Dvce  reiuli,  '• »»,"  and  puu  a  period  after  " 


vEgc.  0 !  grief  hath  chang"d  me,  since  you  saw  me 
last  ; 
And  careful  hours,  with  time's  deformed  hand, 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  in  my  face : 
But  tell  mc  yet.  dost  thou  not  know  my  voice  ? 

A?it.  E.  Neither. 

^ge.  Dromio.  nor  thou  ? 

Pro.  E.  No.  trust  me.  sir,  nor  I. 

uEgc.  I  am  sure  thou  dost. 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  sir  :  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not ;  and  what» 
soever  a  man  denies,  you  are  now  bound  to  Relieve 
him. 

jEge.  Not  know  my  voice  ?     O.  time's  extremity  ! 
Hast  thou  so  crack'd  my  voice,  split^  my  poor  tongue 
In  seven  short  years,  that  here  my  only  son 
Knows  not  my  feeble  key  of  untun'd  cares? 
Though  now  this  grained  face  of  mine  be  hid 
In  sap-consuming  winter's  drizzled  snow. 
And  all  the  conduits  of  my  blood  froze  up, 
Yet  hath  my  night  of  life  some  memory. 
My  wasting  lamps  some  fading  glimmer  left, 
My  dull,  deaf  ears  a  little  use  to  hear; 
All  these  old  witnesses  (I  cannot  err) 
Tell  me  thou  art  my  son  Antipholus. 

Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  my  father  in  my  life. 

-^ge.  But  seven  years  since,  in  Syrucusa,  boy, 
Thou  kniow"st  we  parted.  But,  perhaps,  my  son, 
Thou  sham'st  to  acknowledge  me  in  misery. 

Ant.  E.  The  duke,  and  all  that  know  me  in  the  city, 
Can  witness  with  me  that  it  is  not  so. 
I  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  in  my  life. 

Diike.  I  tell  thee,  S>Tacusian,  twenty  years 
Have  I  been  patron  to  Antipholus, 
During  which  time  he  ne'er  saw  S\Tacuse. 
I  see,  thy  age  and  dangers  make  thee  dote. 

Enter  Abbess,  with  Antipholus  of  Syractise  and 
Dro.mio  of  Syracuse. 

Abb.  Most  mighty  duke,  behold  a  man  much-wrong'd. 
[All  gather  to  see  them. 

Adr.  I  see  two  husbands,  or  mine  eyes  deceive  me  ' 

Duke.  One  of  these  men  is  Genius  to  the  other  ; 
And  so  of  these  :  which  is  the  natural  man. 
And  which  the  spirit  ?     Who  deciphers  them  ? 

Dro.  S.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio:  command  him  away. 

Dro.  E.  I.  sir,  am  Dromio  :  pray  let  me  stay. 

Ant.  S.  iEgeon.  art  thou  not?  or  else  his  ghost? 

Dro.  S.  0.  my  old  master  !  who  hath  bound  him  here? 

Abb.  Whoever  bound  him.  I  will  loose  his  bonds, 
And  gain  a  husband  by  his  liberty. — 
Speak,  old  ^'Egeon.  if  thou  be'si  the  man 
That  had  a  wife  once  call'd  ^Emilia, 
Thai  bore  thee  at  a  burden  two  fair  sons. 
0  !  if  thou  be'st  the  same  /Egeon.  speak, 
And  speak  unto  the  same  .Emilia  ! 

/Ege.  If  I  dream  not.  thou  art  ^Emilia. 
If  ihou  art  she.  tell  me.  where  is  that  son 
That  floated  with  thee  on  the  fatal  raft? 

Abb.  By  men  of  Eindamnum,  he.  and  I, 
And  the  twin  Dromio.  all  were  taken  up  ; 
But.  by  and  by.  rude  fishermen  of  Corinth 
By  force  took  Dromio  and  my  son  from  them, 
And  me  they  left  with  those  of  Ejiidainnum. 
What  then  became  of  them,  I  cannot  tell ; 
1,  to  this  fortune  that  you  see  me  in. 

Duke.  Why.  here  beiiins  his  morning  story  right 
These  two  Antipholus'.  these  two  so  like, 
And  these  two  Dromios.  one  in  semblance, — 
I  Besides  his  urging  of  his  wreck  at  .«ea ; — 
1  These  are  the  parents  to  these  children, 

chftin."     '  crack'd  and  snlitted  :  in  f  e. 


SCENE  I. 


THE   COMEDY  OF  ERROES. 


101 


i 


Which  accidentally  are  met  together. 
Ajitipholus,  thou  cam'st  from  Corinth  first. 

Ant.  S.  No.  sir,  not  I  :  I  came  fiom  Syracuse. 

Duke.  Stay,  stand  apart  :  I  know  not  which  is  which. 
Ant.  E.  I  came  from  Corinth,  my  most  gracious  lord. 
Dro.  E.  And  I  with  him. 

Ant.  E.  Brought  to  this  town  by  that  most  famous 
warrior, 
Duke  Menaphon.  your  most  renowned  uncle. 

Adr.  Wlucli  of  you  two  did  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.  T,  gentle  mistress. 

Adi .  And  are  not  you  my  husband  ? 

A)o(.  E.  No  ;  I  say  nay  to  that. 

Ant.  S.  And  so  do  I,  yet  did  she  call  me  so ; 
And  this  fair  gentlewoman,  lier  sister  here. 
Did  call  me  brother. — What  I  told  you  then, 
I  hope,  I  shall  have  leisure  to  make  good. 
If  this  be  not  a  dream  I  see.  and  hear. 

Aiigu  That  is  the  chain,  sir,  which  you  had  of  me. 

Ant.  S    I  think  it  be,  sir  :  I  deny  it  not. 

Ant.  E.  And  you,  sir,  for  this  chain  arrested  me. 

Aug.  1  think  I  did.  sir  :  I  deny  it  not. 

Adr.   \  sent  you  money,  sir,  to  be  your  bail 
By  Diomio  ;  but  I  think,  he  brought  it  not. 

Dro.  E.  No,  none  by  me. 

Ant.  S.  This  purse  of  ducats  I  received  from  you, 
And  Dromio.  my  man.  did  bring  them  me. 
I  see,  we  still  did  meet  each  other's  man, 
A.nd  I  was  ta'en  for  him,  and  he  for  me. 
And  tliereu|ion  the.se  errors  all'  arose. 

A^it.  E.  These  ducats  pawn  I  for  my  father  here. 

Dtike.  It  shall  not  need  :  thy  father  hath  his  life. 

Cour.  Sir,  I  mu.st  have  that  diamondfrom  you. 

Aiit.  E.  There,  take  it ;  and  much  thanks  for  my 
good  cheer. 

Abb.  Renowned  duke,  vouchsafe  to  take  the  pains 
To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here. 
And  hejr  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes' 
And  all  that  are  assembled  in  this  place, 

>  ore  ■    n  f.  e      *  till :  in  f  o 


That  by  this  sympathized  one  day's  error 
Have  suffered  wrong,  go,  keep  us  company, 
And  we  shall  make  full  satisfaction 
Twenty-five  years  have  I  been  gone  in  travail 
Of  you,  my  sons  :  and  at'  this  present  hour 
My  heavy  burdens  are  delivered. — 
Tl>e  duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both, 
And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity. 
Go  to  a  gossip's  feast,  and  go  with  me : 
After  so  long  grief  such  nativity  ! 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart :  I  '11  gossip  at  this  feast. 
[Exeunt  Duke,  Abbess,  i^EcEON,  Courtezan 
Merchant.  Angelo,  a7id  Attendants. 
Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  fetch  your  stuff  from  ship- 
board ? 
Ant.  E.  Dromio,  what  stuflT  of  mine  hast  thou  em- 
barked ? 
Dro.  S.    Your  goods,  that  lay  at  host,  sir,  in  the 

Centaur. 
Ant.  S.  He  speaks  to  me. — I  am  your  master,  Dromio  : 
Come,  go  with  us ;  we  "11  look  to  that  anon. 
Embrace  thy  brother  there  ;  rejoice  witli  him. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  E.,  Adr.,  and  Ltw;. 
Dro.  S.  There    is    a   fat  friend    at    your    master's 
hou.se. 
That  kitchen'd  me  for  you  to-day  at  dinner : 
She  now  shall  be  my  sister,  not  my  wife. 

Dro.  E.  Methinks,  you  are  my  glass,  and  not  my 
brother  : 
I  see  by  you  I  am  a  sweet-faced  youth. 
Will  you  walk  in  to  see  tlieir  gossiping  ? 
Dro.  S.  Not  I,  sir;  you  are  my  elder. 
Dro.  E.  That 's  a  question  :  how  shall  we  try  it? 
Dro.  S.  We  "11  draw  cuts  for  the  senior  :  till  thea 
lead  thou  first. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  then  thus : 
We  came  into  the  world,  like  brother  and  brother ; 
And  now,  let 's  go  hand  in  hard  not  one  before  another 

[Exeunt 


MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING 


DKAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Don  Pedro.  Prince  of  Arragon. 
JoH!«,  his  bastard  Brother. 
Clai'dio.  a  young  Lord  of  Florence 
Benedick,  a  young  Lord  of  Padua. 
Leon.\to.  Governor  of  Messina. 
Antonio,  his  Brother. 
Balthazar.  Servant  to  Don  Pedro. 


BORACHIO. 
CONRADE. 

Dogberry. 

Verges, 


followers  of  John. 
}  two  Officers. 


Friar  Francis. 
A  Gentleman. 
A  Sexton. 
A  ]%. 

Hero.  Daughter  to  Leonn*o 
Beatrice,  Niece  to  Leonafo 

Ursula       '  1  ^^"'^'^'^^"omen  attending  on  Hero. 


Watchmen,  and  attendants,  &c. 
SCENE.  Messina. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— Before  Leonato"s  House. 

Enter  Leokato,  Hero,  Beatrice,  atid  others,  with  a 

Gentleman.^ 

Leon.  1  leam  in  this  letter,  that  Don  Pedro  of  Ar- 
ragon comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Gent.*  He  is  very  near  by  this :  he  was  not  three 
ieagues  off  when  I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this 
iction  ? 

Gent.  But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  t'ue  achiever 
brings  home  full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  Don 
Pedro  hath  bestowed  much  honour  on  a  young  Floren- 
tine, called  Claudio. 

Gent.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally  re- 
tficmbered  by  Don  Pedro  :  he  hath  borne  himself  be- 
yond the  promi.se  of  his  age.  doing  in  the  figure  of  a 
iamb  the  feats  of  a  lion:  he  hath,  indeed  better  bet- 
tered expectation,  than  you  must  expect  of  me  to  tell 
you  how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle,  here  in  Messina,  will  be 
ver\-  much  glad  of  it. 

Gent.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letter.^,  and  there! 
apjxars  n'ucli  joy  in  him  ;  even  so  much,  that  joy  could | 
not  .-iliow  itself  modest  enough  without  a  badge  of  bit-i 
;enie.«s. 

Leon    Did  he  break  out  into  tears? 

Gcnl    111  great  measure. 

Leon.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness.  There  are  no' 
fticct  truer  than  (hose  that  are  so  washed  :  how  much 
belter  is  i(  lo  weep  at  joy,  than  to  joy  at  weeping? 

Bent.  I  pray  you,  is  signior  Montanto'  returned  from 
'he  wars,  or  no? 

Gent.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady :  there  was 
none  such  in  the  army  of  any  sort. 


Leon.  What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.  My  cousin  means  signior  Benedick  of  Padua. 
Gent.  0  !  he  is  returned,  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  hf 
was. 

Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina,  and  chal- 
lenged Cupid  at  the  flight* :  and  my  uncle's  tool,  read- 
ing the  challenge,  subscribed  for  Cupid,  and  challenged 
him  at  the  bird-bolt*. — I  pray  you.  how  many  hath  he 
killed  and  eaten  in  these  wars  ?  But  how  many  liath  ho 
killed?  for,  indeed,  I  promised  to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

Leon.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  signior  Benedick  too 
much ;  but  he  '11  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Gent.  He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these 
wars. 

Beat.  You  had  musty  \ictual,  and  he  hath  holp  to 
eat  it:  he  is  a  very  valiant  trencher-man;  he  hath  an 
excellent  .stomach. 

Gent.  And  a  good  soldier  too.  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady;  but  what  is  he 
to  a  lord  ? 

Gent.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man;  stuffed* 
with  all  honourable  virtues. 

Beat.  It  is  so.  indeed:  he  is  no  less  than  a  stuffed 
man:  but  for  tlie  stuffing. — Well,  we  are  all  mortal. 

Leon.  You  must  not.  sir,  mistake  my  niece.  There 
is  a  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  signior  Benedick  and 
her :  they  never  meet,  but  there  's  a  skirmish  of  wit 
between  them.. 

Bent.  Alas  !  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last 
conflict  four  of  his  five  w  iis^  went  halting  off.  and  now 
is  the  whole  man  governed  with  one  :  so  that  if  he  liave 
wit  enough  to  keep  himself  warm,  let  him  bear  it  for 
a  difference*  between  himself  and  his  horse  :  for  it  is  all 
the  wealth  that  he  hath  left  to  be  known  a  rca,«onable 
creature. — Who  is  liis  companion  now?  He  hath  every 
month  a  new  .sworn  brother. 


'  Mtuenser:  in  T.  e.  »  Thronifhout  the  Scene  :  Mt-tn.  :  in  f.  e.  '  j4  term  of  the  fenring-nrhool.  ♦  A  long  and  lig/il-fenihfre'i  nr 
i»*d  for  nbjpfts  at  i  dintance.  »  A  short  and  thirk  iirroir,  for  near  aim.  •  Stored.  '  Chtmrer  WfCf  llie  five  tcits  for  die  five  set 
A  aiinilar  enumeration,  referred  to  in  the  text,  was  made  of  the  intellectual  powers.      *  In  heraldry,  a  distinction. 

302 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


103 


Gent.  Is  't  possible  ? 
heat.  Very  easily  possible : 


I      Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade") 
he  wears  his  faith  but  as  '  you  of  old. 


trick :  I  kncw 


Ihe  fashion  of  his  hat,  it  ever  changes  wiih  the  next  block. 

Gent.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentlenian  is  not  in  your  books.' 

Beat.  No;  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study. 
But.  I  pray  you,  who  is  his  companion  ?  Is  there  no 
voung  squarer*  now,  that  will  make  a  voyage  with  him 
10  the  devil  ? 

Gent.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right  noble 
Claudio. 

Beat.  0  Lord  !  he  will  nang  upon  him  like  a  dis- 
ease :  he  is  sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence,  and  the 
taker  rims  presently  mad.  God  help  the  noble  Claudio  ! 
if  he  have  caught  the  Benedick,  it  will  cost  him  a  thou- 
Band  pound  eie  he  be  cured. 

Gent.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beat.  Do.  good  friend. 

Leon.  You  will  never  run  mad,  nieoe 

Beat.  No.  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Gent.  Don  Pedro  is  approached. 
Enter  Don  Pedro.  John,  Claudio.  Benedick,   Bal- 
thazar, a7id  others. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  siguior  Leonato.  are  you^  come  to 
meet  your  trouble  ?  the  fashion  of  the  world  is  to  avoid 
eo.st.  and  you  encounter  it. 

Lean.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  like- 
ness of  your  grace :  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort 
should  remain,  but  wiien  you  depart  from  me,  sorrow 
abides,  and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

D.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willingly. 
[  think,  this  is  your  daughter. 

Leon.  Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

Bene.  Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her  ? 

Leon.  Signior  Benedick,  no  ;  for  then  were  you  a  child. 

/).  Pedro.  You  have  it  full.  Benedick  :  we  may  guess 
by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man. — Truly,  the  lady 
fathers  herself. — Be  happy,  lady,  for  you  are  like  an 
honourable  father. 

Bene.  If  signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would 
not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders  for  all  Messina,  as 
like  him  as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  signior 
Benedick  :  no  body  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain !  are  you  yet 
living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die,  while  she 
hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it,  as  signior  Benedick? 
Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in 
her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turn-coat.  But  it  is  cer- 
tain. I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted ;  and 
I  would  I  could  rind  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a  hard 
heart,  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women :  they  would  else 
have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.  I  thank 
God,  and  my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your  humour  for 
that :  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow,  than  a 
Plan  swear  he  loves  me. 

Bene.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind : 
.''o  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predestinate 
scratched  face. 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  't  were 
Buch  a  face  as  yours. 

Bene.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast  of 
yours. 

Bene.  I  would,  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your 
tongue,  and  so  good  a  continuer.  But  keep  your  way 
0'  God's  name ;  I  have  done. 


D.  Pedro.  That*  is  the  sum  of  all., 
nior  Claudio,  and  signior  Benedick,- 


This  phrase  is  derived,  says  Knight,  from  books  of  credit     »  QuarreUr      '  The  old  copies  read  :  you 


-Leonato, — sig- 
my  dear  friend 
Leonato  hath  invited  you  all.  I  tell  him  we  shall  stay 
here  at  the  least  a  month,  and  he  heartily  prays  some 
occasion  may  detain  us  longer :  I  dare  swear  he  is  no 
hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his  heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  for- 
sworn.— Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord :  being 
reconciled  to  the  prince  your  brother,  t  owe  you  all  duty. 

John.  I  thank  you :  I  am  not  of  many  words,  but  1 
thank  you. 

Leon.  Please  it  your  grace,  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand.  Leonato  :  we  will  go  together. 
[Exeunt  all  but  Benedick  and  Claudio. 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  o. 
signior  Leonato  ? 

Bene.  I  noted  her  not ;  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me,  as  an  honest  man  should 
do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment ;  or  would  you  have 
me  speak  after  my  custom,  as  being  a  professed  tyrant 
to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.  No ;  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  'i  faith,  methinks  she  's  too  low  for  a 
high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little 
for  a  great  praise  :  only  this  commendation  I  can  afford 
her ;  that  were  she  other  than  she  is,  she  were  unliand- 
some,  and  being  no  other  but  as  she  is,  I  do  not  like 
her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest,  I  am  in  sport :  I  pray  thee, 
tell  me  tiiily  how  thou  lik'st  her. 

Bene.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after  her? 

Claud.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  speak  you 
this  with  a  sad  brow,  or  do  you  play  the  flouting  Jack, 
to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a  good  hare-finder,  and  Vulcan  a 
rare  carpenter  ?  Come,  in  what  key  shall  a  man  take 
you,  to  go'  in  the  song  ? 

Claud.  In  mine  eye  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that 
ever  I  looked  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  sec  ne 
such  matter ;  there  's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not  pos- 
sessed with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty,  as 
the  fu'st  of  jMay  doth  the  last  of  December.  But  1 
hope,  you  have  no  intent  to  turn  husband,  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  t  had 
sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

Bene.  Is  't  come  to  this,  i'  faith  ?  Hath  not  the  world 
one  man,  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion? 
Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore  again  ?  Go 
to.  i'  faith ;  an  thou  ^^ilt  needs  thrust  thy  neck  into  a 
yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it,  and  sigh  away  Simdays. 
Look;  Don  Pedro  is  returned  to  seek  you. 
Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that 
you  followed  not  to  Leonato's  ? 

Bene.  I  would  your  grace  would  constrain  me  to 
tell. 

D.  Pedro.  I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  count  Claudio :  I  can  be  secret  as 
a  dumb  man,  I  would  have  you  think  so :  but  on  my 
allegiance. — mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance* — He  is 
in  love.  With  wiiom  ? — now  that  is  your  grace's  part. 
— Mark,  how  short  the  answer  is : — with  Hero,  Leo- 
nato's short  daughter. 

Claud.  If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord :  it  is  not  s^,  noi 
Old  cop. :  This.    *  Join 


104 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


tvms   not   so;'    but,    indeed,    God    forbid    it   should 
be  so. 

Cliud.  If  my  pulsion  change  not  shortly,  God  for- 
bid i(  sliould  be  otherwise. 

]).  Pedro.  Amen,  it  you  love  her;  for  the  lady  is 
very  well  worthy. 

Claud.  You  speak  this  to  feteh  me  in,  my  lord. 

!).  Prdro.   By  my  trotii.  I  speak  my  thouijht. 

Claud.   And  in  lailh.  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And  by  my  two  faitlis  and  troths,  my  lord,  I 
spoke  mine. 

Claud.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pedro.  That  she  is  worthy.  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved, 
nor  know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  op'nion 
tliat  fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me :  I  will  die  in  it  at  the 
stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in 
the  de>pite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in 
the  force  of  his  will. 

Bcue.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her : 
that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most  humble 
thanks:  but  tliat  I  will  have  a  recheat'  winded  in  my 
forehead,  or  hang  my  busle  in  an  invisible  baldrick', 
all  women  shall  pardon  me.  Because  I  will  not  do 
them  the  wrong  to  mistrust  any.  I  will  do  myself  the 
right  10  trust  none;  and  the  fine  is.  (for  the  which  I 
may  go  the  finer)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 

1).  Pedro.  I.'ihall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale  with  love. 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger, 
my  1-0  rd :  not  with  love:  prove,  that  ever  I  lose  more 
blood  with  love,  than  I  will  get  again  with  drinking. 
pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a  ballad-maker'.<?  pen.  and  hang 
me  up  at  the  door  of  a  brothel-house  for  the  sign  of 
blind  Cupid. 

I).  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this  faith, 
ihou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and 
shoot  at  mc  :  and  he  that  first*  liits  me.  let  him  be 
clapped  on  the  shoulder,  and  called  Adam.* 

I).  Pedro.  Well,  as  time  shall  try: 
*  In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke."* 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may,  but  if  ever  the  sensible 
IkMiedick  bear  it.  pluck  offthe  bull's  horns,  and  set  them 
111  my  forehead  :  and  let,  me  be  vilely  painted,  and  in 
such  great  letters  as  they  write,  "Here  is  good  horse 
te  hire,"  let  them  signify  under  my  sign, — '-Here  you 
may  see  Benedick  the  married  man  " 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  wouldst  be 
horn-mad. 

1).  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his  quiver 
ui  Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

Bene.   I  look  for  an  earthquake  too,  then. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporize  with  the  hours. 
In  the  mean  time,  good  signior  Benedick,  repair  to 
Leonato's  :  commend  me  to  him.  and  tell  him,  I  will 
not  fail  him  at  supper;  for,  indeed,  he  hath  made  great 
preparation. 

Bene.  1  have  almoi^t  matter  enough  in  me  for  such 
an  embassage  :  and  so  I  commit  you — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God:  from  my  liouse,  if  I 
had  it. — 

I).  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July  :  your  loving  friend, 
Benedick. 


Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  r.ot.  The  body  oi  youi 
difCOur.se  is  sometime  guaidcd'  with  fragments,  and  1h( 
guards  are  but  slightly  basted  on  neiiher:  ere  you  flcut 
old  ends"  any  fartlicr,  examine  your  coi;sciei]ee,  and  si 
I  leave  yon.  [Exit  Bknedk  K 

Claud.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me  good 

/).  Pedro.  My  love  is  thine  to  teach  :  teach  il  but 
how. 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesion  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Claud.  Hath  Leonato  any  sou,  my  lord? 

]).  Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero,  she  "s  his  only  heir. 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio? 

Claud.  0  !  my  lord. 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look  d  ujion  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  lik'd.  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand. 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love: 
But  now  I  am  relurn'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires. 
All  pron:pting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saynig.  I  lik'd  her  ere  I  went  to  wars — ' 

J).  Pedro.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently, 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words. 
If  thou  do.«t  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it. 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father. 
And  thou  shalt  have  her.'°     Was  't  not  to  this  end, 
That  thou  bcgan'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Claud.  How  sweetly  do  you  niini.-^ter  to  love. 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  com].lexion  ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salv'd  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 

D.  Pedro.  What  need  the  bridge  much  broader  than 
the  flood  ? 
The  fairest  ground"  is  the  necessity. 
Look,  what  will  serve  is  fit:  "t  is  once,  thou  lovcst, 
And  I  will  fit  thee  wiih  the  remedy. 
I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night : 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I  '11  unclasp  my  heart. 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force. 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break; 
And,  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine. 
In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  \Exetint 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Lf.on\to's  House. 
Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Leon.  How  now,  brother?  Where  is  my  cou.sic 
your  son?     Hath  he  provided  this  music? 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But,  brother,  I  can 
tell  you  strange"  news  that  you  yet  dreamt  not  of. 

Leon.  Are  they  good? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them ;  but  they  have  a 
good  cover ;  they  show  well  outward.  The  prince  aiui 
count  Claudio,  walking  in  a  thick-pleached  alley  in 
my  orchard,  were  thus"  much  overheard  by  a  man  of 
mine:  the  prince  discovered  to  Claudio  that  he  loved 
my  niece,  your  daughter,  and  meant  to  acknowledge  it 
this  night  in  a  dance ;  and,  if  he  found  her  accordant, 
he  meant  to  take  the  present  time  by  the  top,  and 
instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

Leon.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit,  that  told  you  thia? 


'  An  olil  tnle,  re^emtilint:  in  it*  horrom  and  inridrnts  that  of  Blue  Beard,  and  containing  a  Trequent  repetition  oT  tlic  psRsaee  m  ihr 
text,  in  jr.  vpn  in  BohwpIPh  ed.  of  Malone.  and  in  Knight.  »  A  rerntl.  >  lielt.  *  Tlie  word  ••  first  "  :  not  in  f.  e.  *  fhinM  iii<j  at  n  c.il  ii 
»  tiol I U>  was  an  n|f|  popular  pport;  Adam,  prolial.ly.  allndea  to  Adam  Bell,  tlie  famoua  archer  of  the  llobin  Hood  (niornity.  •  Cliioied 
from  Art  H.  of  Kyd's  .Spanish  I'ragedy  ;  the  play  is  in  Dod.^lev'a  Col.  i  Trimmed.  "  Tho  formal  ronciuaions  of  oM  lelleiH.off.-n  end'nic 
ID  the  word*  'i.«cd  liy  Don  Pedro.  •  The  Ja.ffi.  implyinc  the  interruption  of  a  narrative,  ia  an  addition  by  Collier.  '•  Tliis  pas.snge,  fiom 
"  with  her,"  is  from  the  quarto  ed.  lOUO       "  grant  :  in  f  e.      '»  "  Only  in  the  quarto,  1600 


8CENE   I. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  :N'OTHmG. 


105 


Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow:  I  will  send  for  him,  and 
qucsiion  hiin  yourself. 

Lton.  No.  no :  we  -w-ill  hold  it  as  a  dreain,  till  it 
appear  itself;  but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter  ^A-itllal. 
that  she  may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an  answer,  if 
neradventure  this  be  true.  Go  you.  and  tell  her  of  it. 
[Several  persons  cross  the  stage.]  Cousins,  you  know 
what  you  have  to  do. — 0  !  I  cry  you  mercy,  friend ; 
go  3^ou  with  me,  and  I  will  use  your  skill. — Good 
cousin,  have  a  care  this  busy  time.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  John  and  Conrade. 

Con.  What  the  good  year,  my  lord  !  why  are  you 
thus  out  of  measure  sad  ? 

John.  Tliere  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that 
breeds  it.'  therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Con.  You  should  hear  reason. 

Jchn.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  blessing 
brings  it  ? 

Con.  If  not  a  present  remedy,  at  least  a  patient 
sufferance. 

John.  I  wonder,  that  thou  being  (as  thou  say'st  thou 
art)  born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to  apply  a  moral 
medicine  to  a  mortifpng  miscliief.  I  cannot  hide  what 
I  am  :  I  must  be  sad  when  I  have  cause,  and  smile  at 
no  man's  jests ;  eat  when  I  have  stomach,  and  wait  for 
no  man's  leisure  :  sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend 
on  no  man's  business ;  laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and 
claw  no  man  in  his  humour. 

Con.  Yea  ;  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show 
of  this,  till  you  may  do  it  -vs-ithout  controlment.  You 
have.  tilP  of  late,  stood  out  against  your  brother,  and  he 
hath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his  grace  :  where  it  is  impos- 
sible you  should  take  true*  root,  but  by  the  fair  weather 
that  you  make  yourself:  it  is  needful  that  you  frame 
the  season  for  your  o^^^l  har\'est. 

John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge,  than  a 
rose  in  his  grace ;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood  to  be 
disdained  of  all.  than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to  rob  love 
from  any :  in  this,  though  I  cannot  be  said  to  be  a 
flattering  honest  man,  it  must  not  be  denied  but  I  am 


a  plain-dealing  villain.  I  am  trusted  with  a  muzzle, 
and  enfranchised  with  a  clog ;  therefore  1  have  decreed 
not  to  sing  in  my  cage.  If  I  had  my  mouth.  I  woulo 
bite ;  if  I  had  my  liberty,  I  would  do  my  liking :  in 
the  mean  time,  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not  to 
alter  me. 

Con.  Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent? 

John.  I  make  all  use  of  it.  for  I  use  it  only.     Who 
comes  here  ?     What  news.  Borachio  ? 
Enter  Borachio. 

Bora.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper :  the 
prince,  your  brother,  is  royally  entertained  by  LeO' 
nato.  and  I  can  give  you  intelligence  of  an  intended 
marriage, 

John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build  mischief 
on  ?  What  is  he,  for  a  fool,  that  betroths  himself  16 
unquietncss  ? 

Bora.  Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

John.  Who?  the  most  exquisite  Claudio? 

Bora.  Even  he. 

John.  A  proper  squire  !  And  who,  and  who?  which 
way  looks  he? 

Bora.  Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  of 
Leonato. 

John.  A  very  forward  March-chick  !  How  came 
you  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  was 
smoking  a  musty-room,  comes  me  the  prince  and 
Claudio.  hand  in  hand,  in  sad  conference  :  I  whipt 
me  behind  the  arras,  and  there  heard  it  agreed  upon, 
that  the  prince  should  woo  Hero  for  himself,  and 
having  obtained  her,  give  her  to  count  Claudio. 

John.  Come,  come;  let  us  thiiher:  this  may  prove 
food  to  my  displeasure.  That  young  start-up  hath  all 
the  glor}'  of  my  overthrow  .  if  I  can  cross  him  any 
way,  I  bless  myself  every  way.  You  are  both  sure, 
and  will  assist  me  ? 

Con.  To  the  death,  my  lord. 

John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper :  their  cheer  is  the 
greater,  that  I  am  subdued.  'Would  the  cook  were  of 
my  mind  ! — Shall  we  go  prove  what 's  to  be  done  ? 

Bora.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Hall  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  Hero,  Beatrice,  and 
others. 

Leon.  Was  not  count  John  here  at  supper? 

Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  :  I  never 
can  see  him,  but  I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

Hero    He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Bmt.  He  were  an  excellent  man,  that  were  made 
jiut  in  tire  mid-way  between  him  and  Benedick :  the 
one  is  too  like  an  image,  and  says  nothing:  and  the 
other  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 

Leon.  Then,  half  signior  Benedick's  tongue  in  count 
John's  mouth,  and  half  count  John's  melancholy  in 
signior  Ben?dick"s  face, — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg.  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and 
money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  win  any 
woman  in  the  world. — if  a'  could  get  her  good  will. 

Leon.  By  m.y  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get  thee  a 
httBband;  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

'  Not  in  f.  e.      »  This  word  no»  in  f.  e       '  Only  in  quarto. 


Ant.  In  faith,  she 's  too  curst. 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst:  I  shall  lessen 
God"s  sending  that  way,  for  it  is  said,  "  God  sends  a 
curst  cow  short  horns ;"  but  to  a  cow  too  curst  he 
sends  none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curot,  God  will  send  you  no 
horns  ? 

Beat.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband  ;  for  the 
which  blessing,  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every 
.morning  and  evening.  Lord!  I  could  not  endure  a 
husband  with  a  beard  on  his  face :  I  had  rather  lie  in 
the  woollen. 

Leo7i.    You  may  light  on  a  husband  that  hath  no  beard. 

Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him?  dress  him  m 
my  apparel,  and  make  him  my  waiting  gentlewoman? 
He  that  hath  a  beard  is  more  than  a  youth,  and  ho 
that  hath  no  beard  is  less  than  a  man ;  and  he  that  is 
more  than  a  youth  is  not  for  me :  and  he  that  is  less 
I  than  a  man  I  am  not  for  him  :  therefore,  I  ^^•^ll  even 
take  sixpence  in  earnest  of  the  bear- ward,  and  lead  his 
;  apes  into  hell. 


106 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


aot  d. 


Leoti.  Well  llicii,  S.0  you  into  licll  ? 

Brat.  No;  but  to  the  iiate :  and  there  will  the  devil 
meet  inc.  like  ;iu  old  cuckold,  with  horns  on  his  head, 
and  say,  "Gel  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get  you  to 
heaven  :  here  s  no  i^lucc  for  you  niaid.> :"  so,  deliver  I 
uji  my  apes,  and  away  to  Saint  Peter  for  the  heavens : 
he  shows  iiie  whe.e  the  bachelors  sit,  and  there  live 
we  a«  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  Well,  niece,  I  trust,  you  will  be  ruled  by  your 
father.  [7b  IJero 

Heat.  Yes,  faith  :  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make 
couriesy,  and  s;iy.  '•  Father,  as  it  please  you:"'  but  yet 
for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or 
else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say,  "  Father,  as  it 
please  me."' 

Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  sec  you  one  day  fitted 
with  a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal 
than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  over- 
ma,stered  with  a  piece  of  valiant  du.';t?  to  make  an 
account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl?  No, 
uncle,  I  "11  none:  Adam"s  sons  are  my  brethren;  and 
truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you:  if 
the  prince  do  .solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your 
answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you 
be  not  woo"d  in  good  time  :  if  the  prince  be  too  im- 
portant.' tell  him,  there  is  measure  in  every  thing,  and 
so  dance  out  the  answer :  for,  hear  me,  Hero :  wooing, 
•wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig.  a  measurej 
and  a  cinque-pace :  the  first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like 
a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as  fantastical;  the  wedding. 
mannerly,  modest,  as  a  measure,  full  of  state  and 
ancientry;  and  then  comes  repentance,  and  with  his 
bad  legs  falls  into  the  cinque-pace  faster  and  faster, 
till  he  sink  a-pace'  into  his  grave. 

Leon.  Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  liave  a  good  eye,  uncle :  I  can  see  a  church 
by  day-light. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entering,  brother.     Make 
good  room  ! 
Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  Balthazar; 

JoHK.  BoRACHio,  Margaret,  Ursula,  ttud  maskers. 

D.  Pedro.  Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with  your 
firiend  ? 

Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and  say 
nothing,  I  am  yours  lor  the  walk;  and,  especially,  when 
I  wsrik  away. 

D.  Pedro.  With  me  in  your  company  ? 

Hero.  I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 

JJ.  Pedro.  And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ' 

Hero.  When  I  like  your  favour;  for  God  defend, 
the  lute  .should  be  like  the  case  ! 

JJ.  Pedro.  My  vi.-or  is  Philemon's  roof;  within  the 
hou-Mi  is  Jove.' 

Hero.  Why.  then  your  visor  should  be  thatched. 

D,  Pedro.  Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

[Takes  her  aside. 

Bene.  Well.  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

MarR.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake;  for  I 
Jiave  many  ill  qualities. 

Bene.  Which  is  one? 

Mnrg.  I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

Bene.  I  love  you  the  better;  the  hearers  may  cry 
Amen. 

Marg.  God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer  ! 

Bene.  Amen. 


Marg.  And  G^^-d  keep  him  out  of  my  sight,  when 
the  dance  is  done  ! — Answer,  clerk. 

Bene.  No  more  words :  the  clerk  is  answered. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough ;  you  are  signior 
Antonio. 

Ani.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  liead. 

Anl.  To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  xU-well,  unless  you 
w'cre  the  very  man.  Here  's  his  dry  hand  up  and 
down  :  you  are  he,  you  are  he. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  Come,  come  :  do  you  think  I  do  not  knew  you 
by  your  excellent  wit ?  Can  virtue  hide  itself?  Go 
to,  mum,  you  are  he :  graces  will  appear,  and  there 's 
an  end. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Bene.  No.  you  shall  pardon  me. 

Beat.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are? 

Bene.  Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful,  and  that  I  had  my 
good  wit  out  of  the  "  Hundred  merry  Talcs."* — Weil, 
this  was  signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.  What 's  he  ? 

Beat.  I  am  sure,  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.  Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beat.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester :  a  very  duJ] 
fool,  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders : 
none  but  libertines  delight  in  him;  and  the  commen- 
dation is  not  in  his  wit.  but  in  his  villainy,  for  he  both 
pleases  men,  and  angers  them,  and  then  they  laugh  at 
him.  and  beat  him.  I  am  sure,  he  is  in  the  fleet;  1 
would  he  had  boarded  ine  ! 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I  '11  tell  him 
what  you  say. 

Beat.  Do,  do ;  he  '11  but  break  a  comparison  or  two 
on  me;  which,  peradventure.  not  marked,  or  not 
laughed  at,  strikes  him  into  melancholy;  and  then 
there  's  a  partridge'  wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will  eat 
no  supper  that  night.  \Music  within.\  We  must 
follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.  In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave  them 
at  the  next  turning. 

[Dance.     Then.,  exeunt  all   but  John,   Borachio, 
a7id  Claudio. 

JoJm.  Sure,  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and 
hath  withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  him  about  it 
The  ladies  follow  her,  and  but  one  vi.sor  remains. 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio :  I  know  him  by  his 
bearing. 

John.  Arc  not  you  signior  Benedick? 

Claud.  You  know  me  well :   I  am  he. 

John.  Signior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother  in  his 
love  :  he  is  enamoured  on  Hero.  I  pray  you,  dissuade 
him  from  lier ;  she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth :  you  may 
do  the  part  of  an  honest  man  in  it. 

Claud.  How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

John.  I  heard  him  swear  his  afTection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry 
her  to-night. 

John.  Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

[Kxeimt  John  and  Borachio 

Clawl.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. 
"T  is  certain  so; — the  prince  woos  for  himselC 


«  tmpnriunau.     >  Thin  word  not  in  f.  «.     >  An  allusion  to  tho  gtoo'  of  Baucis  and  Philemon,  in  Ovid, 
oo.-  a  Iragmcnt  ii  extant      It  was  repiintcd  in  1835,  alter  its  discovery. 


♦  A  popular  lest-book.  oi 


SCENE 


MUCH    M)0   ABOUT  NOTHING. 


101 


Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things, 
Save  in  the  office  and  atfairs  of  love  : 
Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues ; 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself. 
And  trust  no  agent,  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood. 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof, 
Which  I  mistrusted  not.     Farewell,  then',  Hero ! 
Re-enter  Bknedick. 

Bene.  Count  Claudio'-' 

Claud.  Yea,  the  same. 

Bene.  Come,  will  you  go  with  me? 

Claud.  Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own 
Dusiness,  county.  What  fashion  will  you  v/ear  the 
garland  of?  About  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain,' 
cr  under  your  arm,  like  a  lieutenant's  scarf?  You 
must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the  prince  hath  got  your 
Hero. 

Claud    I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

Bene.  Why,  that 's  spoken  like  an  honest  drover :  so 
they  sell  bullocks.  Bvit  did  you  think,  the  prince  would 
have  served  you  thus  ? 

Claud.  I  pray  you,  leave  me.  [Angrily.* 

Bene.  Ho  !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man  :  't  was 
the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you  '11  beat  the  post. 

Claud.  If  it  will  not  be,  I  '11  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Alas,  poor  hurt  fowl !  Now  will  he  creep  into 

p^.dges. But,  that  my  lady   Beatrice  should  know 

rae,  and  not  know  me  !  Tlie  prince's  fool  ! — Ha !  it 
may  be,  I  go  under  that  title,  because  I  am  merry. — 
Yea ;  but  so  I  am  apt  to  do  myself  wrong :  I  am  not 
so  reputed :  it  is  the  base,  though  bitter  disposition  of 
Beatrice,  that  puts  the  world  into  her  person,  and  so 
gives  me  out.  Well,  I  '11  be  revenged  as  I  may. 
Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  Now,  signior,  where  's  the  count  ?  Did 
you  see  iiim  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of  lady 
Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in 
a  warren :  I  told  him,  and,  I  tiiink.  I  told  him  true, 
that  your  grace  had  got  the  good*  will  of  this  young 
lady ;  and  I  offered  him  my  company  to  a  willow  iree, 
either  to  make  him  a  garland,  as  being  forsaken,  or  to 
bind  him  up*  a  rod,  as  being  worthy  to  be  whipped. 

D.  Pedro.  To  be  whipped  !     What 's  his  fault  ? 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy ;  who, 
being  overjoy'd  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shows  it  his 
companion,  and  he  steals  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression? 
The  transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss.  The  rod  had  been 
made,  and  the  garland  too ;  for  the  garland  he  might 
have  worn  himself,  and  the  rod  he  might  have  bestow'd 
on  you,  who,  as  I  take  it,  have  stolen  his  bird's  nest. 

D.  Pedro.  I  \Aill  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and  restore 
them  to  the  o\^^ler. 

Bene    If  their  singing  aiLswer  your  saying,  by  my 
j        faith,  you  say  honestly. 

D.  Pedro.  The  lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to  you : 
the  gentleman,  that  danced  with  her,  told  her  she  is 
I        much  wrong'd  by  you. 

I  Bene.  0  !   she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a 

I  block :  an  oak,  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it,  would 
'  have  au.swered  her ;  my  very  visor  began  to  assume 
j  life,  and  .scold  with  her.  She  told  me,  not  thinking  I 
had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester;  that  I 
was  duller  than  a  great  thaw;  huddling  jest  upon  jest, 


with  such  importable*  conveyance,  upon  me,  that  I  stood 
like  a  man  at  a  mark,  with  a  whole  army  shooting  at 
me.  She  speaks  poignards,  and  every  word  stabs :  il 
her  breath  were  as  terrible  as  her  terminations,  there 
were  no  living  near  her ;  she  would  infect  to  the  north 
star.  I  would  not  marry  her  though  she  were  endowed 
with  all  that  Adam  had  lent'  him  before  he  transgressed : 
she  would  have  made  Hercules  have  turned  spit,  yea, 
and  have  cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come, 
talk  not  of  her ;  you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  in 
good  apparel.  I  would  to  God,  some  scholar  would 
conjure  her ;  for,  certainly,  while  she  is  here,  a  man 
may  live  as  quiet  in  hell,  as  in  a  sanctuary;  and  people 
sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would  go  thither,  so, 
indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation  follow  her. 
Enter  Claudio,  Beatrice,  Hero,  and  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.  Look,  here  she  comes. 

Bme.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  service  to 
the  world's  end  ?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest  errand 
now  to  the  Antipodes,  that  you  can  devise  to  send  me 
on :  I  will  fetch  you  a  toothpicker  now  from  thie 
farthest  inch  of  Asia ;  bring  you  the  length  of  Prester 
John's  foot;  fetch  you  a  hair  of*  the  great  Cham's 
beard ;  do  you  any  embassage  to  the  Pigmies,  rather 
than  hold  three  words'  conference  with  this  harpy. 
Have  you  no  employment  for  me  ? 

D.  Pedro.  None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Bene.  O  God,  sir,  here  's  a  dish  I  love  not :  I  can- 
not endure  my  lady  Tongue.  [Exit. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come ;  you  have  lost  the 
heart  of  signior  Benedick. 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile ;  and  I 
gave  him  use  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single  one : 
marry,  once  before  he  won  it  of  me  with  false  dice, 
therefore  your  grace  may  well  say  I  have  lost  it. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  put  him  down,  lady ;  you  have 
put  him  downi. 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my  lord,  lest 
I  should  prove  the  mother  of  fools.  I  have  brought 
count  Claudio.  whom  you  sent  me  to  seek. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  how  now,  count?  wherefore  are 
you  sad  ? 

Claud.  Not  sad.  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  How  then ?     Sick? 

Claud.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry, 
nor  well ;  but  civil,  count,  civil  as  an  orange,  and 
something  of  as  jealous  a  complexion.' 

D.  Pedro.  V  faifh,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be 
true;  though.  I  '11  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit  is 
false.  Here,  Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name,  ana 
fair  Hero  is  won ;  I  liave  broke  with  her  father,  and, 
his  good  will  obtained,  name  the  day  of  marriage, 
and  God  give  thee  joy  ! 

Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with  her 
my  fortunes :  his  grace  hath  made  the  match,  and  all 
grace  say  Amen  to  it ! 

Beat.  Speak,  count,  't  is  your  cue. 

Clazul.  Silence  is  the  perfecte-st  herald  of  joy:  I 
were  but  little  happy,  if  I  could  say  how  much. — Lady, 
as  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours :  I  give  away  myself  for 
you.  and  dote  upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Sjieak.  cousin;  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his 
mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  let  him  not  speak  neither. 

D.  Pedro.  In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord  ;  I  thank  it,  poor  fool,  it  keeps 
on  the  windy  side  of  care. — My  cousin  tells  liim  in  Ms 
ear,  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 


*  therero'-B  :  ii.  f  e       »  A  gold  chain,  a  common  ornament  of  the  wealthy.      *  Not  in  f.  e. 
(  e.      "left     in  f  »      8  The  old  copies  have  "  off."     »  of  that  jealous  complexion  :  in  f.  e. 


»  From  the  quarto.      •  impossible  :  in 


108 


MUCH   ADO    ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Claud.  Ami  so  she  dolli,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  lord  !  for  alliaiico  thus  goes  every  one 
lo  ihe  wcrlil'  but  I.  and  I  am  sun-burned  :  I  may  sit 
in  a  corner,  and  cry.  hcitih  ho !   tor  a  husband. 

I).  Pedro.   Lady  Bi-atnco.  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat  I  wouUl  rather  have  one  of  your  t'atlier\s  getting. 
Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you?  Your  father 
got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could  como  by  them. 

J).  Pedro.   Will  you  have  me.  lady? 

Bent.  No.  my  lord.  unle.«s  I  might  liave  another  for 
workuiu-days :  your  grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every 
d;iy. — But.  I  be-i-ech  your  grace,  pardon  me;  I  was 
bora  to  speak  all  mirth,  and  no  matter. 

1).  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be 
merry  best  becomes  you  ;  lor,  out  of  question,  you  were 
born  in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No.  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cried  ;  but  then 
there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I  born. — 
Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leon.  Niece,  ^^^il  you  look  to  those  things  I  told 
yju  of? 

Beat.  I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle. — By  your  grace's 
pardon.  [Exit  Beatrice. 

B.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spinrcd  lady. 

Leon.  There  's  little  of  the  melancholy  elementinher. 
my  lord :  she  is  never  sad.  but  wlicn  slie  sleeps  ;  and 
not  ever  sad  then,  for  I  have  heard  my  daughter  say. 
she  hath  often  dreamed  of  uiihappiness.  and  waked 
herself  with  laughing. 

D.  Pedro.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a 
husband. 

Leon.  0  !  by  no  means,  she  mocks  all  her  wooers 
out  of  suit. 

D.  Pedro.  She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Benedick. 

Leon.  0  lord  !  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week 
married,  they  would  talk  themselves  ma.d. 

I).  Pedro.  County  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to  go 
to  church  ? 

Claud.  To-morrow,  my  lord.  Time  goes  on  crutches, 
till  love  have  all  his  rites. 

Leon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  is  hence 
a  just  seven-night;  and  a  time  too  brief,  too^  to  have 
all  things  answer  our^  mind. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long  a 
breathing;  but,  I  warrant  thee,  Claudio,  the  time  shall 
not  go  dully  by  us.  I  will,  in  the  interim,  undertake 
one  of  Hercules'  labours,  which  is,  to  bring  signior 
Benedick  and  the  lady  Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of 
alTection,  the  one  with  the  other.  I  would  fain  have  it 
a  match :  and  1  doubt  not  hut  to  fashion  it,  if  you  three 
will  but  minister  such  assistance  as  I  shall  give  you 
direction. 

Leon.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me  ten 
nights'  watching. 

Clauti    And  I.  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  And  you  too.  gentle  Hero? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  i.iodest  office,  my  lord,  to  help 
my  cousin  to  a  good  iiusband. 

D.  Pedro.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest 
husband  that  I  know.  Thus  far  can  I  praise  him  :  he  is 
of  a  noble  strain',  of  approved  valour,  and  confirmed 
lonesty.  I  will  teach  you  how  lo  humour  your  cousin, 
that  she  shall  fall  in  love  with  Benedick  : — and  1.  with 
your  two  helps,  will  so  practise  on  Benedick,  that,  in 
despite  of  his  quick  wit  and  his  queasy  stomach,  he 
Bhall  fall  in  love  with  Beatrice.  If  we  can  do  this, 
Cupid  18  no  longer  an  archer:  his  glory  shall  be  oiu-s, 
for  we  are  the  only  love-goda.  Go  in  with  me,  and  I 
will  leJi  you  111'- drill.  [Exeunt. 

'  1.  *.,  ft!  ntarrxea      '  In  f  e  my  ;  some  eda.  read  "'answer  mind.' 


SCENE  II. — Another  Ro«jm  in  L^onato's  Houbc. 
Enter  John  and  Borachio. 

John.  It  is  so:  the  count  Claudio  shall  marry  the 
daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bora.   Yea,  my  lord;  but  I  can  cross  it. 

John.  Any  bar.  any  cross,  any  imi)ediment  will  b« 
mcdicinable  tome:  I  am  sick  in  disj)le;'sure  to  hira, 
and  whatsoever  comes  athwart  his  afTcction  riinireii 
evenly  with  mine.    How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriaireV 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord:  but  so  covertly  thai 
no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

John.  Show  me  brieily  how. 

Bora.  T  think,  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since, 
how  much  I  am  in  the  favor  of  Margaret,  the  wait- 
ing-gentlewoman to  Hero. 

John.  I  remember. 

Bora.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the  night, 
appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber-window. 

John.  \Vhat  life  is  in  that,  to  be  the  death  of  this 
marriage? 

Bora.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper.  Go 
you  to  the  prince,  your  brother:  spare  not  lo  tell  him, 
that  he  hath  wronged  his  honour  in  marrying  the  re- 
nowned Claudio  (whose  estimation  do  you  mishtily  hold 
up)  to  a  contaminated  .stale,  such  a  one  as  Hero. 

John.  What  proof  shall  1  make  of  that? 

Bora.  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex 
Claudio.  lo  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato.  Look  you 
for  any  other  issue? 

John.  Only  to  despite  them  I  will  endeavour  any 
thing. 

Bora.  Go  then  ;  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw  Don 
Pedro  and  the  count  Claudio.  alone:  tell  ihein,  that 
you  know  that  Hero  loves  mc  ;  intend  a  kind  of  zeal 
both  to  the  prince  and  Claudio.  (as  in  love  of  your  bro- 
ther's honour,  who  hath  made  this  match,  and  his  friend's 
rej)utation.  who  is  thus  like  to  be  cozened  with  the 
.semblance  of  a  maid.)  that  you  have  discovered  thus. 
They  will  scarcely  believe  this  without  trial ;  offer  them 
instances,  which  shall  bear  no  less  likelihood  than  to 
see  me  at  hei  chamber-window,  hear  me  call  Margaret 
Hero  :  hear  Margaret  term  me  Borachio*  ;  and  bring 
them  to  see  this  the  very  night  before  tlie  intended 
wedding:  for  in  the  mean  time  I  will  so  fashion  the 
matter,  that  Hero  shall  be  ab.scnt,  and  there  shall 
appear  such  seeming  proofs'  of  Hero's  disloyalty,  that 
jealousy  shall  be  called  assurance,  and  all  the  prepara- 
tion overthrown. 

John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can,  I  will 
put  it  in  practice.  Be  cunning  in  the  working  this,  and 
thy  fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bora.  Be  you  con.stant  in  the  accusation,  and  my 
cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of  marriage 

[Exeunt 

SCENE    HI.— Leon.ato's  Garden. 
Enter  Benedick,  a  Boy  following* . 
Bene.  Boy  ! 
Boy.  Signior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book;  bring  it 
hither  to  me  in  the  orchard. 
Boy.  I  am  here  already,  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that ;  [Exit  Boy]  but  T  would  have 
thee  hence,  and  here  again.  I  do  much  wonder,  that 
one  man,  seeina  how  much  another  man  is  a  fool  wher 
he  dedicates  his  behaviours  to  love,  will,  after  he  hath 
laughed  at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  "oecome  the 
>  I.ineagt.     ♦  Claudin  :  in  f  e     »  truth  :  ir  f.  e.  •  vitk  a  Hoy  ■  inf  f 


SCENE  ra. 


MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING. 


109 


argument  of  his  own  scorn  by  falling  in  love  :  and  such 
a  man  is  Clatidio.  I  have  known,  when  there  was  no 
music  \vitli  h'Mi  but  the  drum  and  tlie  fife:  and  now 
had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the  pipe:  I  have 
known,  when  he  would  have  walked  ten  mile  afoot  to 
see  a  good  armour :  and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights 
awake,  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He  was 
wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest 
man.  and  a  soldier :  and  now  is  he  turn"d  ortliographer  : 
his  words  are  a  very  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many 
mange  dishes.  May  i  be  so  converted,  and  see  with 
ihese  eyes?  I  caiuict  tell:  I  think  not:  I  will  not  be 
6worn.  but  love  may  transform  me  to  an  oyster :  but  | 
\  "il  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have  made  an  oyster  of 
me,  he  shall  never  make  me  such  a  fool.  One  woman 
is  fair,  yet  I  am  well :  another  is  wise,  yet  I  am  well  : 
another  virtuous,  yet  I  am  well:  but  till  all  graces  be 
in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace. 
Rich  she  shall  be,  that  "s  certain  :  wise,  or  I  '11  none  : 
virtuous,  or  1  "11  never  cheapen  her:  fair,  or  FU  never 
look  on  her :  mild,  or  come  not  near  me :  noble,  or 
not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good  discourse,  an  excellent 
musician,  and  her  hair  shall  be  of  what  colour  it  please 
God.  Ha  !  the  prince  and  monsieur  Love  !  I  will 
hide  me  in  the  arbour.  [Retires  behind  the  trees\ 

Enter  Don  Pkdro,  Leon.^to,  and  Claudio. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  my  good  lord.  How  still  the  evening  is, 
As  hush'd  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony ! 

D.Pedro.  See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself? 

Claud.  0,  very  well,  my  lord  :  the  music  ended, 
We  '11  fit  the  hid'-fo.x  with  a  penny-worth. 

Enter  BalthaJ^ar.  with  Mu.sicians.'' 

D.Pedro.  Come.  Balthazar,  we  '11  hear  that  song  again. 

Balth.  0  !  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

D.  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency, 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection. — 
1  pray  thee.  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.  Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing; 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy;  yet  he  woos, 
Yet  will  he  swear,  he  loves. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay.  pray  thee,  come  : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument. 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes  ; 

There  "s  not  a  note  of  mine  that 's  worth  the  noting. 

D.  Pedro.  Why  these    are   very  crotchets   that    he 
s]>eaks ; 
Note  notes,  forsooth,  and  nothing  !  [Music. 

Bene.  [Behind.]*  Now.  divine  air!  now  is  his  .-^oul 
ravish'd  ! — [s  it  not  strange,  that  sheeps'  guts  should 
hale  souls  out  of  men's  bodies  ? — Well,  a  horn  for  my 
momry,  wlien  all  "s  done. 


THE    SONO. 

1 1th.  Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more., 
Men  were  deceivers  ever  ; 
One  foot  in  sea.  and  one  on  shore  ; 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny., 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into.  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo. 
Or^  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy  ; 


'  Wtthd'ams:  in  f.  e. 
In  1.  e     "  Not  in  f.  e 


3  witli  Music  :  in  f. 


The  fraiuls  of  men  were^  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy. 
Then  sigh  not  so.  &c. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Balth.  And  an  ill  singer,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Ha  ?  no,  no  :  faith,  thou  singest  well 
enough  for  a  shift. 

Bene.  [Behind. y  An  he  had  been  a  dog  that  should 
have  howled  thus,  they  would  have  hang'd  him  :  and.  1 
pray  God,  his  bad  voice  bode  no  mischief !  I  had  as 
lief  have  heard  the  night-raven,  come  what  plague 
could  have  come  after  it. 

D.Pedro.  Yea,  marry;  dost  thou  hear,  Balthazar? 
I  pray  thee,  get  us  some  excellent  music,  for  to-morrow 
night  we  would  have  it  at  the  lady  Hero's  chamber 
window. 

Balth.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.Pedro.  Do  so:  farewell.  [Exeunt  Balthazar 
and  Musicians.]  Come  hither,  Leonato :  what  was  it  you 
rold  me  of  to-day?  that  your  niece  Beatrice  »vas  bi 
love  with  signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  [Aside  to  Pedro \  0  !  ay  : — .stalk  on.  stalk  on  : 
the  fowl  sits.  [Aloud.]  I  did  never  think  ihat  lady 
would  have  loved  any  man. 

Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither:  btit  most  wonderiul.  that 
she  should  so  dote  on  signior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath 
in  all  outward  behaviours  seemed  ever  to  abhor. 

Bene.  [Behind.Y  Is  't  possible  ?  Sits  the  wind  in  that 
corner  ? 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  caimot  tell  what  to 
think  of  it,  but  that  she  loves' him  with  an  enraged 
affection :  it  is  past  the  infinite  of  thought. 

D.  Pedro.  May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Claud.  'Faith,  like  enough. 

Leon.  OGod  !  counterfeit?  There  was  never  counter- 
feit of  passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she 
discovers  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Why.  what  eflfects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Claud.  [Aside.]  Bait  the  hook  well :  this  fish  wll  bite. 

Leon.  What  etfects,  my  lord  ?  She  will  sit  you, — 
yovi  heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claud.  She  did,  indeed. 

D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you  !  You  amaze  me : 
I, would  have  thought  lier  spirit  had  been  invincible 
against  all  assaults  of  affection 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had.  my  lord,  ;  especially 
again.st  Benedick. 

Bene.  [Behind.y  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that 
the  white-bearded  fellow  speaks  it :  knaveiy  cannot, 
stire.  hide  himself  in  such  reverence. 

Claud.  [Aside.]  He  hath  ta'en  the  infection :  hold  it  up. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to 
Benedick  ? 

Lerni.  No.  and  swears  she  never  will :  that  s  her 
torment. 

Claud.  'T  is  true,  indeed;  so  your  daughter  says: 
"  Shall  I,"  says  she,  ''that  have  so  oft  encountered  him 
with  scorn,  WTite  to  him  that  I  love  him  ?'' 

Leon.  This  says  she.  now.  when  she  is  beginning  to 
write  to  him  ;  for  she  '11  be  up  twenty  times  a  night,  and 
there  will  she  sit  in  her  smock,  till  she  have  writ  a 
sheet  of  paper  full.'" — My  daughter  tells  us  all. 

Claud.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  1  remember 
a  pretty  jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leon.  O  ! — when  she  had  wTJt  it,  and  was  reading 
it  over,  she  found  Benedick  and  Beatrice  between  the 
sheets?— 

Chud.  That. 


Aside :  in  f.  e.     *  O/ :  in  f.  e.     •  fraud  of  men  was  . 


16 


110 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


ACT  m 


Leoti.  0  I  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand  half- 
pence :  railed  iit  herself,  that  she  should  be  so  immodest 
to  write  to  one  that  siie  knew  would  flout  her  : — "  I 
measure  him."  says  she,  ''by  my  own  spirit;  for  I 
should  floui  him,  if  he  writ  to  me ;  yea,  though  I  love 
him.  I  should.'" 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps, 
nobs,  boats  hor  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  erics' ; — 
*0  sw-eel  Benedick  I  God  give  me  patience  I" 

Leon.  She  doth  indeed:  my  daughter  says  so;  and 
the  ocsta.sy  halh  so  much  overborne  her,  that  my 
dauiihlcr  is  sometimes  afcard  she  will  do  a  desperate 
utr;ige  to  herself'.     It  is  very  true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good,  that  Benedick  knew  of  it 
y  some  other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Chud  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make  a  sport 
of  it.  and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

1).  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms-deed*  to 
hang  him.  She  's  an  excellent  sweet  lady,  and  out  of 
all  suspicion  she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  In  every  thing,  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  0  !  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  combating  in  so 
tender  a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs  to  one.  that  blood 
hath  the  victory.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  just 
cause,  being  her  uncle  and  her  guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would,  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage  on 
me  :  I  would  have  dafT'd^  all  other  respects,  and  made 
her  half  myself.  I  pray  you^  tell  Benedick  of  it,  and 
hear  what  a'  will  say. 

Leon.  Were  it  good,  think  you? 

Clniid.  Hero  thinks  surely,  she  will  die;  for  she  says, 
she  will  die  if  he  love  her  not,  and  she  will  die  ere  she 
make  her  love  known,  and  she  will  die  if  he  woo  her, 
rather  than  she  will  bate  one  breath  of  her  accustomed 
crossness. 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well :  if  she  should  make  tender 
of  her  love,  "t  is  very  possible  he  '11  scorn  it ;  for  the 
man.  as  you  know  all,  hath  a  contemptible  spirit. 

Clai'd.  He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

I).  Pedro.  He  hath  indeed,  a  good  outward  happi- 
ne,ss. 

Claud.  Before  God,  and  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  sparks  that 
are  like  wit. 

Leon.  And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you :  and  in  the 
managing  of  quarrels  you  may  say*  he  is  wise  ;  for  either 
he  avoids  them  with  great  discretion,  or  undertakes 
them  with  a  most'  Christian-like  fear. 

L^on.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarily  keep 
peace  :  if  he  break  the  peace,  he  ought  to  enter  into  a 
quarrel  with  fear  and  trembling. 

D.  Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do;  for  the  man  doth  fear 
God.  howsoever  it  sc-ems  not  in  him  by  some  large  jes's 
e  will  make.  Well,  I  am  sorry  lor  your  niece.  Shall 
x^•e  iro  s^ek  Benedick,  and  tell  him  of  her  love  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord:  let  her  wear  it  out 
with  i.'f>od  counsel. 


Leon.  Nay,  that 's  impossible :  she  may  wear  hei 
heart  out  first. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  we  will  hear  further  of  it  by  youi 
daughter  :  let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick  well, 
and  I  could  wish  he  would  modestly  examine  himself, 
to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy  so  goi:d  a  lady. 

Leon.  My  lord,  will  you  walk?  dinner  is  ready. 

Claud.  [Aside.]  If  he  do  not  dote  upon  her  upon  thin. 
I  will  never  trust  my  expectation. 

D.  Pedro.  [A.side\  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread 
for  her:  and  that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentle- 
women carry.  The  sport  will  be,  when  they  hold  on** 
an.  opinion  of  another's  dotage,  and  no  such  matter, 
that 's  the  scene  that  I  would  see,  which  will  be  merely 
a  dumb  show.  Let  us  send  her  to  call  him  in  to  dinner 
\Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Leonato 

Bene.  [Advancing  from  the  Arbour.]  This  can  be  no 
trick:  the  conference  was  sadly'  borne. — They  have  the 
truth  of  this  from  Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the  lady  : 
it  seems,  her  afTcetions  have  their  full  bent.  Love  me  I 
why,  it  must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  censured: 
they  say  I  will  bear  myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive  the 
love  come  from  her :  they  say.  too,  that  she  will  rather 
die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection. — I  did  never  think 
to  marry. — I  must  not  seem  proud.  Happy  are  they 
that  hear  their  detractions,  and  can  put  them  to  mending. 
They  say,  the  lady  is  fair ;  "t  is  a  truth,  I  can  bear  them 
witnes.s  :  and  virtuous  ;  "t  is  so,  I  cannot  reprove  it:  and 
wise,  but  for  lo\-ing  me ;  by  my  troth,  it  is  no  addition 
to  her  wit,  nor  no  great  argument  of  her  folly,  for  I  will 
be  horribly  in  love  with  her.  I  may  chance  have  some 
odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me,  because 
I  have  railed  so  long  against  marriage:  but  doth  not 
the  appetite  alter  ?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in  his  age, 
that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  youth.  Shall  quips,  and 
sentences,  and  these  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,  awe  a 
man  from  the  career  of  his  humour?  No;  the  world 
must  be  peopled.  When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor, 
I  did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married. — 
Here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day.  she  's  a  fair  lady : 
I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 
Enter  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come 
in  to  dinner. 

Bene    Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beat.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than 
you  take  pains  to  thank  me :  if  it  had  been  painful,  T 
would  not  have  come. 

Bene.  You  take  pleasure,  then,  in  the  message  ! 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  imiy  take  upon  a 
knife's  point,  ami  not'  choke  a  daw  withal. — You  have 
no  stomach,  signior  :   fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Ha!  "Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you 
come  in  to  dinner'' — there  's  a  double  meaning  in  that. 
'•  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than  you  took 
pains  to  thank  me  " — that 's  as  much  as  to  say.  any 
pains  that  I  lake  for  you  is  as  easy  as  llianks. — If  I 
do  not  take  pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain  :  if  1  do  no! 
love  her,  I  am  a  Jew.     I  will  go  gel  her  picture.    |  fJ.ru 


ACT    ITT. 


SCENE  [.— Leonato's  Garden. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 
Hero.  Good  Margaret,  run  thee  to  the  parlour; 

<  onrwB  :  in  f  0       '  alms  :  in  f.  e.     '  Dnff'd.     *  Quarto  reads 


There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 
Proposing'  with  the  prince  and  Claudio  : 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  oroJiard,  and  our  whole  discourse 


From  the  quai 


Gravely.     ">  Not  in  f.  e.     ■»  Co*v*tti%4 


SCENE  n. 


MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHmG. 


Hi 


Is  all  of  her  :  say,  that  t.hou  overheards't  us  ; 

And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 

Where  honcy-sucklcs,  ripeird  by  the  sun, 

Forbid  the  sun  to  enter;  like  favourites, 

Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 

Against  that  power  that  bred  it. — There  will  she  hide 

her, 
To  listen  our  purpose.     This  is  thy  office ; 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.  I  '11  make  her  come,  I  warrant  you,  presently. 

[Exit. 

Hero.  Now.  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 
Aa  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of.Bencdick  : 
When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit. 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be  liow  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice:  of  this  matter 
is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 
That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin : 
Enter  Beatrice,  .■^iealing  in    hehiml.^ 
For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lap\sing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.  The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait : 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice ;  who  even  now 
Is  couched  in  the  w^oodbine  coverture. 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.  Then  go  we  near  her.  that  her  ear  lose  nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it. — 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ;  [Aloiul.^ 

I  know,  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards^  of  the  rock. 

Ur-t.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely? 

Hero.  So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed  lord. 

Ur.s.  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it.  madam  ? 

Hero.  They  did  intreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it ; 
But  I  persuaded  them  if  they  lov'd  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.  Why  did  you  so?     Doth  not  the  gentleman 
Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  a  bed. 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon? 

Hero.  0  God  of  love  !     I  know,  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man ; 
But  nature  never  fram'd  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak.     She  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so  ; 

And,  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Why,   you   speak   truth.     I    never   yet   saw 
man. 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featur'd. 
But  she  -would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair-fac'd. 
She  'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister  : 
If  black,  why,  nature,  drawing  of  an  antick. 
Made  a  foul  blot :  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 
If  low,  a.n  agate  very  vilely  cut : 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds: 
It  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out, 

Bi»f«A  Beatrice,  behind:  in  f  e       'Nor  inf  e      '  Wild  hawks. 


And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  com.rnendable. 

Hero.  No;  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable. 
But  wlio  dare  tell  her  so?     If  I  .should  speak, 
She  would  mock  me  into  air:  0  !  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore,  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire. 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly : 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks. 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it :  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.  No  ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion  : 
And,  truly,  I  '11  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with.     One  doth  not  know, 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.  0  !  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wTong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit, 
As  she  is  priz'd  to  have)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  signior  Benedick. 

Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.  I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy  :  signior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument  and  valour. 
Goes  foremost  in  report,  through  Italy. 

Hero.  Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it. — 
When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.  Why,  in  a  day*; — to-morrow.     Come,  go  in: 
I  '11  show  thee  some  attires,  and  have  thy  counsel, 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.  [Aside]  She 's  lim'd,  I  warrant  you  :  we  hav« 
caught  her,  madam. 

Hero.  [Aside]  If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by 
haps  : 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  Hero  and  Ursula. 

Beat.  [Advancing]  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears?  Can 
this  be  true  ? 

Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn,  so  much? 
Contempt,  farewell  !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 

No  glory  lives  but  in  the  lack'  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on :  I  will  requite  thee, 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand. 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  , 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Bon  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  and  Leonato 

D.  Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  con 
Bummate,  and  then  go  I  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I  '11  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you  'tl 
vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay;  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the 
new  gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child  his  new 
coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it.  I  \^-ill  only  be  bold 
with  Benedick  for  his  company  ;  for  from  tlie  crovsn  of 
his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all  mirth  :  he  hath 
twice  or  thrice  cut  Cupid's  bow-string,  and  tiie  little 
hangman  dare  not  shoot  at  him.  He  hatli  a  heart  a» 
sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue  is  the  clapper  ;  for  whftJ 
his  heart  thinks,  his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.  Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been, 
♦every  day  :  in  f.  e      »  behink  the  back  .  in  f .  e 


112 


MtJOH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


A.crr  m 


Ixon.  So  say  I :  Miethiiiks  you  are  sadder. 

Clautl.  1  liojie  lie  be  in  love. 

D.  Palro.  U.um:  liiin.  tniuiit  !  there's  no  true  drop  of 
h)r)od  ill  limi.  to  be  truly  touehd  with  love.  If  he  be 
sad  lie  waiiis  iiioin-y. 

Bene.   I  have  the  tooth-ache. 

D.  Pidro.   Draw  it. 

Bene.  Haiiy  it ! 

Claiul.  Vou  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  after- 
wards 

1).  Pcilro.  What  !  siirh  for  the  tooth-ache  ! 

Lcmt.  Where  is  but  a  humour,  or  a  worm? 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief,  but  he 
that  has  it. 

Claud    Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  in  him. 
unless  it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange  disguises  ; 
as  to  be  a  Dutchinan  to-day,  a  Frenchman  to-mor- 
row.' or  in  the  sliajie  of  two  countries  at  once:  as  a 
German  from  the  waist  downward,  all  slops^.  and  a 
Spaniard  from  the  hip  upward,  no  doublet.  Unless  he 
li.ive  a  fancy  to  this  foolery,  as  it  appears  he  hath,  he  is 
no  fool  for  fancy,  as  you  would  have  it  appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman,  there 
is  no  believing  old  signs:  a'  brushes  his  hat  o'  morn- 
ings :  what  should  that  bode? 

I).  Pedro.  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's? 

Claud.  No.  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen  wilh 
him.  and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath  already 
stuff'd  tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did,  by  the 
loss  of  a  beard. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay.  a'  rubs  himself  with  civet :  can  you 
smell  him  out  by  that? 

Claud.  That  "s  as  much  as  to  say.  the  sweet  youth  's 
in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 

Claud.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face? 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which, 
I  hear  \\iiat  they  say  of  him. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit,  which  is  now 
crept  into  a  lutesiring.  and  now  governed  by  stops. 

I).  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  him. 
Conclude,  conclude',  he  is  in  love. 

CloMid.  Nay.  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too :  1  warrant,  one 
that  knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes.  and  liis  ill  conditions;  and  in  despite 
of  all  dies  for  him. 

/;.  Pedro.  She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  up- 
wards. 

Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  tooth-ache. — Old 
signior,  walk  aside  with  me :  I  have  studied  eight  or 
nine  wise  wods  to  sjieak  to  you,  which  these  hobby- 
horses  must   not   hear. 

[Eceunt  Benedick  avd  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about 
Beatrice. 

Claud.  'T  is  even  so.     Hero  and   Margaret  have  by 
this  played  their  parts  with  Beatrice,  and  then  the  two 
cears  will  not  bite  one  another  when  they  meet. 
Enter  John. 

John    My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  den,  brother. 

John.   If  your  leisure  served.  I  would  speak  wilh  you. 

I).  Pedro.   Ill  private? 

John.  If  it  please  you  :  yet  count  Claudio  may  hear, 
for  what  I  would  speak  of  concerns  him. 

'  The  rrmftinder  of  the  sentence  to  the  period,  is  from  the  quarto, 
reail  "nit{lil." 


D.  Pedro.  What's  the  matter? 

/o/t;i.     [7b   Ci.ALDio.]     Means  your  lordship  to  be 
married  to-morrow? 

D.  Pedro.  You  know,  he  does. 

Jtdin.   I  know  not  that,  wiien  he  knows  what  I  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray  you,  A'xsi- 
cov(>r  it. 

Juiin.  You  may  think,  I  love  you  not  :  let  thai 
appear  hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I  now 
will  manifest.  For  my  brother,  I  think,  he  holds  you 
we^l,  and  in  deariicss  of  heart  hath  hoip  to  effect  yo  ii 
ensuing  marriage;  surely,  suit  ill  spent,  and  labour  ill 
bestowed  ! 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  what's  the  matter? 

John.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you;  and.  circumstaiicee 
shortened,  (for  she  has  been  too  long  a  talking  ot)  the 
ladv  is  uisloval. 

Claud.  Wiio?  Hero? 

John.  Even  she:  Lconato's  Hero,  your  Hero,  every 
mans  Hero. 

Clnud.   Disloyal? 

John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her  wicked-  ,. 

ncss:  I  could  say,  she  were  worse:  think  you  of  a 
worse  title,  and  I  \\\\\  fit  her  to  it.  Wonder  not  till 
farther  warrant;  go  but  with  me  to-night,  yoil  shall 
see  her  chamber- window  entered,  even  the  night  before 
her  wedding-day:  if  you  love  her  then,  to-uionow  w*j'! 
her :  but  it  would  better  fit  your  honour  to  change 
your  mind. 

Claud.  May  this  be  so  ? 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  think  it. 

John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see.  confess  not 
that  you  know.  If  you  will  follow  me.  I  will  show  you 
enough  :  and  whe»  you  have  seen  more,  and  heard 
more,  proceed  accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  any  thing  to-night,  why  I  should  not 
marry  her  to-morrow,  in  the  congregation,  where  1 
should  wed.  there  will  I  shame  her. 

J).  Pedro.  And.  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain  her. 
I  will  join  with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  farther,  till  you  are 
my  witnesses:  bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight*,  and 
let  the  issue  show  itself. 

J).  Pedro.  O  day  untowardly  turned  ! 

Claud.  O  mischief  strangely  thwa.tmg! 

JoJin.  O  plague  right  well  prevented  !  So  will  you 
say,  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Street. 
Enter  Dogbkrry  and  Vkkues.  wilh  the  Watch. 

Dog:b.  Are  you  good  men  and  true? 

Verg.  Yea.  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suf- 
fer salvation,  body  and  .soul. 

Do'^b.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  loi 
them,  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them, 
being  chosen  lor  the  prince's  watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbour  Dog- 
berry. 

Dogh.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartlcss  man 
to  be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal,  foi 
they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogh.  Come  hither,  neighbour  Seacoal.  God  hath 
blessed  you  with  a  good  name:  to  be  a  well-favoured 
man  is  the  gift  of  fortune,  but  to  write  and  read  comes 
by  nature. 

2  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable. 

Dogh.  You  have :  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answei 

»  }oou  breeches       '  fVom  the  quarto     •  from  the  quarto  :  the  folio* 


SCENE  m. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


113 


Well,  for  your  favour,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and  go  sit  here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two.  and  then 
make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for  your  writing  and  reading,   all  to  bed. 

let  that  appear  when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.  Dogb.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbours.  I  pray 
You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  lit  you,  watch  about  signior  Leonato's  door :  for  ihe  wed 
man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch :  therefore,  bear  ding  being  there  to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil  to- 
you  the  lantern.      This  is  your  charge.      You  shall  night.     Adieu;  be  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 


comprehend  all  vagrom  men :  you  are  to  bid  any  man 
stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2  Watch.  How,  if  a'  will  not  stand? 

Dogb.  Why  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him 
go ;  and  presently  call  tlie  rest  of  the  watch  together^ 
aid  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is 
none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Dogb.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but 
the  prince's  subjects. — 'V^ou  shall  also  make  no  noise 
in  the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  talk  is 
most  tolerable,  and  not  1o  be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk :  we  know 
what  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogb.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most 
quiet  watchman,  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should 
offend;  only,  have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolen. 
Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid 
those  that  are  drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2  Watch.  How,  if  they  will  not? 

Dogb.  Why  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober; 
if  they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may 
say,  they  are  not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 

2  Watch.  Well,  sir. 

Dogl.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by 
vu-tue  of  3"our  office,  to  be  no  true  man ;  and,  for  such 
kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with  them, 
why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty, 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  w^e  not 
lay  hands  on  him  ? 

Dogb.  Truly,  by  your  office  you  may:  but,  I  think, 
they  that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled.  The  mo,st  peace- 
able way  for  you.  if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is,  to  let  him 
show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of  your  com- 
pany. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man, 
partner. 

Dogb.  Truly.  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will; 
much  more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you  must 
call  to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.  How,  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not 
hear  it  ? 

Dogb.  Why  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child 


[Exeunt  Dogberry  and  Vkrges. 
Enter  Borachio  and  Conrade. 

Bora.  What,  Conrade  ! 

Watch.  [Behind  and  nside.^\  Peace  !  stir  )iot. 

Bora.  Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.  Here,  man :  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Mass,  and  my  elbow  itched;  I  thought,  there 
would  a  scab  follow. 

Con.  I  will  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that;  and  now 
forward  ^^ith  thy  tale. 

Bora.  Stand  thee  close,  then,  under  this  penthouse, 
for  it  drizzles  rain,  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard, 
utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch.  [Aside.]  Some  treason,  masters ;  yet  stand 
close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  Don  John 
a  thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villainy  should  be  so 
dear? 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  possible 
any  villainy  should  be  so  rich:  for  when  rich  villains 
have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may  make  what 
price  they  will. 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  art  unconfirmed.  Thou 
knowest;  that  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a 
cloak,  is  nothing  to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.  I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool 's  the  fool. 
But  seest  thoii  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion 
is? 

Watch.  [Aside]  I  know  that  Deformed  ;  a' has  been 
a  vile  thief  this  seven  year:  a'  goes  up  and  down  like 
a  gentleman.     I  remember  his  name. 

Bora.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.  No  :  't  was  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed  thief 
this  fashion  is  ?  how  giddily  a'  turns  about  all  the  hoi 
bloods  between  fourteen  aiid  five  and  thirty?  some- 
time, fashioning  them  like  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in  the 
reechy-  painting:  sometime,  like  god  Bel's  priests  in 
the  old  church  window ;    sometime,  like  the   shaven 


wake  her  w-ith  crying;  for  the  ewe  that  ynW  not  hear  Hercules  in  the  smirched  worm-eaten  tapestry,  where 


her  lamb  when  it  baes,  will  never  answer 
he  bleats. 

Verg.  'T  is  very  true. 

Dogb.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.   You,  constable. 


calf  when  his  cod-piece  seems  as  massy  as  his  club  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see,  and  I  see  that  the  fasliion  wears 
out  more  apparel  than  the  man.  But  art  thou  not 
thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion  too,  that  thou  hast  shifted 


are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person:  if  you  meet  *  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of  the  fashion? 
the  prince  in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him.  I      Bora.  Not  so,  neither  :  but  know,  that  I  have  to-night 

Vers-  Nay,  by'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  a'  cannot.  !  wooed  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  gentlewoman,  by  the 


Dogb.  Five  shillings  to  one  on 't,  with  any  man  that 
knows  the  statutes,  he  may  stay  him :  marry,  not 
without  the  prince  be  willing :  for.  indeed,  the  watch 
ought  to  offend  no  man,  and  it  is  an  offence  to  stay  a 
man  against  his  will. 

Verg.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogb.  Ha,  ba,  ha!  Well,  masters,  good  night:  an 
there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me. 
Keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own,  and  good 
night.     Come,  neighbour. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge :  let  us 


name  of  Hero  :  slie  leans  me  out  at  her  mistress 
chamber-window,  bids  me  a  thousand  times  good  night. 
— I  tell  this  tale  vilely: — I  should  fii-st  tell  thee,  how 
the  prince,  Claudio.  and  my  master,  planted,  and 
placed,  and  possessed  by  my  master  Don  John,  saw 
afar  off  in  the  orchard  this  amiable  encounter. 

Con.  And  thought  they^  ISIargaret  was  Heio? 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio;  but 
the  devil,  my  master,  knew  she  was  Margaret,  and 
partly  by  his  oaths,  which  first  possessed  them,  partly 
by  the  dark  night,  which  did  deceive  them,  but  chiefly 


Aside  :  in  f. 


H 


Smoked.      ^  From  the  quarto  ;  the  folios,  "tby.' 


114 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


ACT   III. 


charge  you,  let  us  obey 


».y  my  villainy,  which  did  confirm  any  slander  that 
Don  Jolin  liad  nKidc  away  went  Claudio  enraged; 
Kwore  he  would  meet  iicr.  as  he  was  appointed,  next 
morning  at  tlie  tenipic,  and  there,  before  the  whole 
congregation,  shame  her  with  what  he  saw  over-night, 
and  seiul  her  home  again  without  a  hu.«band. 

1  Watch.  [Coming  forward.^]  We  charge  you  in  the 
prince's  name,  stand. 

2  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable.  We 
have  here  recovered  the  most  dangerou.-*  piece  of  lechery, 
tliat  ever  was  known  in  the  commonwealih. 

1  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them  :  I  know 
him,  a'  wears  a  lock. 

Con.  Masters,  masters  ! 

2  ir(i/i7(.  You'll  be  made  bring  Deformed  forth.  I 
warrant  you. 

Con.  Ma.^ters, — 

1  Watch.  Never  speak 
you  to  go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity, 
being  taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  conunodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you.  Come, 
we  '11  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice,  and 
iesire  her  to  rise. 

Urs.  I  will.  lady. 

Hero.  And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Urs.  Well.  [Exit  Ursula. 

Marg.  Troth,  I  think,  your  other  rabato  w^ere  better. 

Hero.  No.  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I  '11  w^ear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it's  not  so  good;  and  I  warrant, 
your  cousin  will  say  so. 

Hero.  My  cousin  's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another. 
I  '11  wear  none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  within  excellently,  if  the 


Marg.  Clap  us  into — '  Light  o'  love  ;"^  that  goes 
without  a  burden  :  do  you  sing  it.  and  I  '11  dance  it. 

Beat.  Yea,  "  Light  o'  love,"  with  your  heels  ! — then, 
if  your  husband  have  stables  enough,  you  '11  see  he 
shall  lack  no  barns. 

Marg.  0,  illegitimate  construction  !  I  scorn  thai 
with  my  heels. 

Beat.  'T  is  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin  :  't  is  time  yon 
were  readv.  By  my  troth.  I  am  exceeding  ill. — Heigh 
ho!  ' 

Marg.  For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ' 

Beat.  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H  * 

Marg.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turned  Turk,  there's  n 
more  sailing  by  the  star. 

Beat.  What  means  the  fool,  trow'? 

Marg.  Nothing  I ;  but  God  send  every  one  their 
heart's  desire  ! 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me.  they  are  an 
excellent  perfume. 

Beat.  I  am  stuffed,  cousin  ;  I  cannot  smell. 

Marg.  A  maid,  and  stuffed  !  there  s  goodly  catching 
of  cold. 

Beat.  0.  God  help  me  !  God  help  me  !  how  long 
have  you  profess'd  apprehension '? 

Marg.  Ever  since  you  left  it.  Doth  not  my  wit 
become  me  rarely  ? 

Beat.  It  is  not  seen  enough,  you  should  wear  it  in 
your  cap. — By  my  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  carduus  bene- 
dictus,*  and  lay  it  to  your  heart :  it  is  the  only  thing 
for  a  qualm. 

Hero.  There  thou  prick'et  her  "vnth  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Benedictus  !  why  benedietus  ?  you  have  some 
moral  in  this  benedictus. 

3Iarg.  Moral  ?  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral 
meaning  ;  I  meant  plain  holy-thistle.  You  may  think, 
perchance,  that  I  think  you  are  in  love  :  nay,  by  'r  lady, 
I  am  not  mcYi  a  fool  to  think  what  I  list :  nor  I  list 


hair  were  a  thought  browner ;  and  your  gown  "s  a  most  1  not  to  think  what  I  can  ;  nor,  indeed,  I  cannot  think, 
rare  fashion,  i' faith.  I  saw  the  duchess  of  Milan's  jjfi  would  think  my  heart  out  of  thinking,  that  you  are 
gown,  that  they  praise  so.  in  loA'e,  or  that  you  will  be  in  love,  or  that  you  can  be 

Hero.  O  !  that  exceeds,  they  say.  in  love.     Yet  Benedick  was  such  another,  and  now  is 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it 's  but  a  night-gown  in  respect  j  ^e  become  a  man  :  he  swore  he  would  never  marry  ;  and 
of  yours:  cloth  o'  gold,  and  cuts,  and  laced  with  sil- |  yet  now.  in  despite  of  his  heart,  he  eats  his  meat  without 
.'er.  set  with  pearls  down  the  sleeves,  side  sleeves.*  I  grudging  ;  and  how  you  may  be  converted.  I  know  not. 


and  skirts  round,  under-borne  with  a  bluish  tinsel ; 
but  for  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful,  and  excellent  fashion, 
yours  is  worth  ten  on't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my  heart  is 
exceeding  hea\->' ! 

Marg.  'T  will  be  heavier  soon  by  the  weight  of  a 
man. 

Hero.  Fie  upon  thee  !  art  not  ashamed  ? 

Marg.  Of  what,  lady  ?  of  speaking  honourably  ?  Is 
not  marriasc  honourable  in  a  beugar  ?  Is  not  your 
lord  honourable  without  marriage'?  I  think,  you  would 
have  me  say.  saving  your  reverence. — a  husband  :  an 
bad  thinking  do  not  wrest  true  speakin2.  I  11  oflfcnd 
no  body.  ]f^  there  any  harm  in  it — tlie  heavier  for  a 
husband  ?  None.  I  think,  an  it  be  the  right  husband, 
and  the  right  wife  :  otherwise  't  is  light,  and  not  heavy  : 
ask  my  lady  Beatrice  el.se  ;  here  she  comes. 
Enter  Beatrice. 

Hero.  Good  morning,  coz. 

Beui.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.   Why,  how  now?   do  you  speak  in  the  sick 
lane  'f 

Beat.  I  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks. 


but,  methinks.  you  look  with  your  eyes,  as  other  women 
do. 

Beat.  What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps  ? 

Marg.  Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw :  the  prince,  the  count,  signior 
Benedick,  Don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of  the  town, 
are  come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Meg.  good 
Ursula.  [EictiiU 

SCENF>  V. — Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
E?}ter  Leonato.  with  Dor.BERRV  and  Verges. 

Leon.  What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbour  ? 

Dogh.  Marrj-,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence  with 
you,  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you;  for,  you  see,  it  is  a  bupy 
time  with  me. 

Dogb.  Marrv',  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verp    Yes.  in  truth  it  is.  sir. 

Leon.  What  is  it,  my  good  friends  ? 

Dogh.  Goodman  Verges,  sir.  speaks  a  little  off  the 
matter  :  an  old  man.  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt. 


t  Not  in  r.  e.  >  Lmg.  fu.'l  sltevex.  '  A  popular  olrl  tunp.  mentioned  also  in  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  ♦  A  play  upon  the  siinilaritT 
of  tounil  l>otween  H  anri  ache.  '  BUsttd  thislU  :  "  so  worthily  named,"  »a>-8  Cogan'e  Haven  of  Health,  l.'">89.  "  ror  the  smguiar  virtues 
Ui&t  it  hath." 


SCENii  I. 


MUCH  ADO    ABOUT  NOTHDs^G. 


115 


as,  God  help,  I  would  desire  they  were ;  but,  in  faith, 
honest  as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man 
li-v-iug,  that  is  an  old  man.  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dogb.  Compaiisons  are  odorous:  palabras,  neigh- 
bour Verges. 

Leon.  Neighbours,  you  are  tedious. 

Dogb.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so.  but  we  are 
the  poor  Duke's  officers ;  but,  truly,  for  mine  own  part, 
if  I  were  as  tediou.s  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in  my  heart 
to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship. 

Leon.  All  thy  tediousness  on  me  ?  ha  ! 

Dogb.  Yea,  an  't  were  a  thousand  pound  more  than 
't  is  :  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your  worship, 
as  of  any  man  m  the  city,  and  though  I  be  but  a  poor 
man.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Verg.  And  so  am  I. 

Leon.  1  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  walch  to-night,  excepting  your 
worship's  presence,  have  ta'en  a  couple  of  as  arrant 
knaves  as  any  in  Messina. 

Dogb.  A  good  old  man.  sir;  he  will  be  talking  :  as 
they  say,  when  the  age  is  in.  the  wit  is  out.  God  help 
us  !  it  is  a  world  to  see  ! — Well  said,  i'  faith,  neighbour 
Verges  : — well,  God  's  a  good  man;  an  two  men  ride  of 
a  horse,  one  nuist  ride  behind. — An  honest  soul,  i'  faith, 
sir  :  by  my  troth  he  is,  as  ever  broke  bread ;  but,  God 


is  to  be  worshipped  :  all  men  are  not  alike  :  ala«.  good 
neighbour  ! 

Lean.  Indeed,  neighbour,  he  comes  too  short  of  you. 

Dogb.  Gifts,  that  God  gives. 

Leon.  I  must  leave  you. 

Dogb.  One  word,  sir.  Our  watch,  sir,  have,  indeed. 
comprehended  two  auspicious  persons,  and  we  would 
have  them  this  morning  examined  before  your  worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring  t 
me  :  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear  unto 
you. 

Dogb.  It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leon.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go.     Fare  you  well. 
Enter  a  3Iessenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  vou  to  give  your 
daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leon.  I  '11  wait  upon  them  :  I  am  ready. 

[Exeunt  Leonato  and  Messenger. 

Dogb.  Go,  good  partner,  go ;  get  you  to  Francis 
Seacoal;  bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the 
gaol  :  we  are  now  to  examination  these  men. 

Verg.  And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dogb.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you;  here  's 
that  shall  drive  some  of  them  to  a  non  com :  only  get 
the  learned  ^^Titer  to  set  down  our  excommtinication, 
and  meet  me  at  the  gaol.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  John,  Leonato,  Friar,  Claudio, 

Benedick,  Hero,  Beatrice,  &c. 

Leon.  Come,  friar  Francis,  be  brief:  only  to  the 
plain  form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their 
particular  duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry  this  lady? 

Claud.  No. 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her ;  friar,  you  come  to 
marry  her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to  this 
count  ? 

Hero.  I  do. 

Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  impediment, 
why  you  should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge  you  on  your 
souls  to  utter  it. 

Claitd.  Know  you  any.  Hero  ? 

Hero.  None,  my  lord. 

Friar.  Know  you  any,  count  ? 

Leon.  I  dare  make  his  answer  ;  none. 

Claud.  O,  what  men  dare  do  !  what  men  may  do  ! 
what  men  daily  do,'  not  knowing  what  they  do  ! 

Bene.  How  now  !  Interjections  ?  Why  then,  some 
be  of  laughing,  as.  ha  !  ha  !  he  !* 

Claud.  Stand  thee  by.  Friar. — Father,  by  your  leave : 
Will  you  with  free  and  unconstrained  soul 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter  ? 

Leon.  As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Claud.  And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back,  whose 
worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift? 

D.  Pedro.  Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 

Claud.  Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thankful- 
ness.— 


There,  Leonato ;  take  her  back  again  : 

Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend  ; 

She  's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honour. — 

Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here  : 

0,  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 

Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal  ! 

Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence, 

To  witness  simple  virtue  ?     Would  you  not  swear, 

All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 

By  these  exterior  shows  ?     But  she  is  none  : 

She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  bed  ; 

Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 

Leon.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.  Not  to  be  man-'cd, 

Not  to  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.  Dear  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own  proof, 
Have  vanquish"d  the  resistance  of  her  youth, 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Claitd.  I  know  what  you  would  say :  if  I  have  knowni 
her, 
You  '11  say,  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin  : 
No,  Leonato, 

I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large ; 
But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  showed 
Bashful  sincerity,  and  comely  love. 

Hero.  And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you? 

Claud.  Out  on  thy'  seeming  !  I  will  wTite  against  it, 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb. 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blo^vn  ; 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pamperd  animals 
That  range*  in  savage  sensuality. 

Hero.  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so  wild  ?' 

Leon.  Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 


'  The  rest  of  the  speech  is  from  the  quarto.      »  A  quotation  from  the  Accidence.      »  thee  •  in  f.  e.    The  change  was  suggested  abo 
•W  Pope.     *  rage  :  in  f.  e.     •  wide  :  in  f.  e. 


116 


MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  KOTIimO. 


ACT   IV. 


Friar.  Yea ;  wherefore  should  she  not ' 

Leon.  Wherefore?      Why.  doth  not  evei7  earthlv 
thin? 
Cry  shame  upon  her  ?     Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  lier  blood' — 
Do  not  live,  Hero ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes : 
For  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die^ 
Thounht  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames 
Myself  would,  on  the  hazard'  of  reproaches, 
Strike  at  thy  life.     GricvM  I,  I  had  but  one? 
Chid  J  for  that  at  fruiial  nature's  fro^\^^'  ? 
0,  one  too  much  by  thee  !     Why  had  I  one  ? 
Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 
Why  had  I  not  with  charitable  hand 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates ; 
Who  smirched  thus,  and  mir'd  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said.  "No  part  of  it  is  mine, 
This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins  ?" 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  lov'd.  and  mine  I  prais'd, 
And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on ;  mine  so  much. 
That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine, 
Valuing  of  her  ;  why,  she — 0  !  she  is  fallen 
Into  a  pit  of  ink.  that  the  wide  sea 
Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again. 
And  salt  too  little,  which  may  season  give 
To  her  soul-tainted*  flesh  ! 

Bene.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient. 

For  my  part,  I  am  so  attir'd  in  wonder, 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beat.  0,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  ! 

Bene.  Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 

Beat.  No.  truly,  not;  although,  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.  Confirm'd,  confirm'd?      0,  that  is   stronger 
made. 
Which  was  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  iron  ! 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie. 
Who  lov'd  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulnees, 
Wash'd  it  with  tears?     Hence  !  from  her;  let  her  die 

Friar.  Hear  me  a  little ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  cross'  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady :  I  have  mark'd 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions 
To  start  into  her  face ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames. 
In  angel  whiteness,  beat  away  those  blushes ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire. 
To  bum  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth. — Call  me  a  fool ; 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observation. 
Which  with  experimental  .seal  doth  warrant 
The  tenour  of  my  book:  trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverend  calling*,  nor  divinity. 
If  this  sweet  lady  Ue  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  blighting'  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  caiuiot  be. 

Thou  seest,  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left. 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury :  .she  not  denies  it. 
Why  seck'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  whicli  appears  in  proper  nakedness? 

Friar.  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accus'd  of? 

Hero.  They  know,  that  do  accuse  me :  I  know  none 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive, 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy! — 0,  my  father! 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  conversed 
At  hours  uimieet,  or  that  I  yesternight 

'  rearwsrd  :  in  f.  e.      'frame  ;  in  f  e.      ♦  foiil-tainted  :  in  f.  e.     »  course  :  in  f.  e.     •  reverence,  calling:  in  f  » 


D  Pedro.  Wiat  should  I  speak  ? 

1  stand  (iislionour'd,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leon.  Are  these  things  spoken,  or  do  I  but  dream  ? 

.hhn.    Sir,  they  are   spoken,  and  these   things  are 
true. 

Bene.  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 

Hero.  True  ?  0  God  ! 

Claud.  Leonato.  stand  I  here  ? 
Is  liii.«  the  prince  ?     Is  this  the  prince's  brother? 
Is  this  t'ace  Hero's  ?     Arc  our  eyes  our  own  ? 

f.^on.  All  this  is  so  ;  but  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.    Let   me   but   move    one   question  to  your 
daughter. 
And.  by  tliat  fatlierly  and  kindly  power 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.  I  charge  thee  do  so',  as  thou  art  my  child. 

Hero.  0  God,  defend  me  !  how  am  I  beset  ! — 
What  kind  of  catechizing  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Hero.  Is  it  not  Hero  ?     Who  can  blot  that  name 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero  : 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 
What  man  was  he  talkd  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  window,  betwixt  twelve  and  one? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.  I  talk'd  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  then  are  you  no  maiden. — Leonato, 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hear  :  upon  mine  honour. 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count. 
Did  see  lier,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night. 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber  window; 
Who  hath;  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  \nllain, 
Confess'd  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

John.  Fie,  fie  !  they  are  not  to  be  nam'd,  my  lord, 
Not  to  be  spoke  of ; 

There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language. 
Without  offence  to  utter  them.     Thou  pretty  lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 

Claud.  0  Hero  !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
It  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  plae"d 
About  thy  thoughts,  and  counsels  of  thy  heart ! 
But,  tare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair  !  farewell, 
Tiioii  pure  impiety,  and  impious  purity  ! 
For  thee  I'll  look  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 
And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang. 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm, 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 

Leon.  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me? 
[Hero  .swoons. 

Beat.  Why,  how  now,  cousin  !  wherefore  sink  you 
down? 

John.  Come,  let  u.s  go.     These  things,  come  thus  to 
light. 
Smother  her  spirits  up. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro.  John,  and  Claudio. 

Bct»«.  How  doth  the  lady? 

Beat.  bead,  I  think  : — help,  uncle  ! 

Hero  !    wljy.    Hero  !— Unci"  !— Signior    Benedick  !— 
friar ! 

Leon.  O  fate  !  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand  : 
Death  1&  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame, 
That  may  be  ■wish'd  for. 

R^at.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  ? 

Friar.  Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leon.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

'  From  the  qnarto. 
Viting  :  in  f.  e. 


J 


BOENE  I. 


MUCK  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


117 


Maintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.  There   is    some    strange   misprision   in   the 
princes. 

Bene.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honour; 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  tliis, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  fraud  and'  villainies. 

Leon.  I  know  not.     If  they  speak  but  truth  of  her, 
These  hands  shall  tear  her  :  if  they  wrong  her  honour. 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  bk)od  of  mine. 
Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 
Nor  fortune  made  such  havoc  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 
But  tlicy  shall  find,  awak'd  in  such  a  cause', 
Roth  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind, 
Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends. 
To  quit  me  of  them  throughly. 

Friar.  Pause  a  while, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter,  here,  the  princes^  left  for  dead; 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it,  that  she  is  dead  indeed : 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation ; 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leon.  What  shall  become  of  this  ?  What  will  this  do  ? 

Friar.  Marry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf 
Change  slander  to  remorse  ;  that  is  some  good  : 
But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course, 
But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 
She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd. 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accus'd, 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied  and  excus'd 
Of  every  hearer ;  for  it  so  falls  out, 
Tha.t  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it,  but  being  lost  and  lack"d*, 
Why,  then  we  rack  the  value ;  then  we  find 
The  virtue,  that  possession  would  not  show  us, 
Whiles  it  was  ours. — So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio : 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words. 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  his  study  of  imagination, 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit. 
More  moving,  delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul. 
Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed : — then  shall  he  mourn 
(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver) 
And  wish  he  had  not  so  accus'd  her ; 
No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 
Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 
Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 
Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 
But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levell'd  false. 
The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 
Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy : 
And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her 
As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation. 
In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life. 
Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Bene.  Signior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you : 
And  though  you  know,  my  inwardness  and  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly,  as  your  soul 
Biiould  with  your  body. 

'  frame  of :  in  f.  e      »  kind  :  ir  f.  «      »  princess  :  in  quarto     « 


Leon.  Being  that  1  flow  in  grief, 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.  'T  is  well  consented  :  present  ly  away, 

For  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  st  rain  the  cui-e. — 
Come,  lady,  die  to  live :  this  wedding  day, 

Perhaps,  is  but  prolong'd  :  have  patience,  and 

endure.  [Exeunt  Friar,  Hero,  and  Leonato. 

Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

Bene.  I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.  You  have  no  reason ;  I  do  it  freely 

Bene.  Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  eousm  is 
WTonged. 

Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me 
that  would  right  her  ! 

Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship? 

Beat.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Bene.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you. 
Is  not  that  strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It  were 
as  possible  for  me  to  say.  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as 
you ;  but  believe  me  not.  and  yet  I  lie  not :  I  confess 
nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing. — I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beat.  Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it,  that  you  love  me ;  and  I 
will  make  him  eat  it,  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.  I 
protest,  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Why,  then,  God  forgive  me  ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour :  I  "way 
about  to  protest,  I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that 
none  is  left  to  protest. 

Bene.  Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Beat.  Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.  Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it.     Farewell. 

Bene.  Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone,  though  I  afti  here : — there  is  no 
love  in  you. — Nay,  I  pray  you.  let  me  go. 

Bene.  Beatrice, — 

Beat.  In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.  We  '11  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than  fight 
with  mine  enemy. 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy. 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that 
hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonoured  my  kinswoman? — 
O,  that  I  were  a  man  !— What !  bear  her  in  hand  until 
they  come  to  take  hands,  and  then  with  public  accusa- 
tion, uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  rancour, — 0  God, 
that  I  were  a  man  !  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the. 
market-place. 

Bene.  Hear  me,  Beatrice — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  iran  out  at  a  window  ! — a  proper 
saying. 

Bene.  Nay,  but  Beatrice — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  ! — she  is  wronged,  she  is  slan- 
dered, she  is  undone. 

Bene.  Beat — 

Beat.  Princes,  and  counties !  Surely,  a  princely  testi- 
mony, a  goodly  count,  count  confect ;  a  sweet  gallant, 
surely  !     0,  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake  !  or  that  1 
ack'd  and  lost :  in  f  e. 


118 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But 
niauliood  is  melted  into  courtesy,  valour  into  compli- 
ment, and  men  are  only  turned  into  tongue,  and  trim 
oae^  too:  he  is  now  as  valiant  as  Hercules,  that  only 
tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it. — I  cannot  be  a  man  with 
vvi>hing.  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with  grieving. 

Be7ie.  Tarry  good  Beatrice.  By  this  hand,  I  love 
iliec. 

Beat  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swear- 
ing by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  count  Claudio 
hath  wronged  Hero? 

Bent.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a  soul. 

Bene.  Enough  !  I  am  engaged.  I  will  challenge  him. 
I  wll  ki.«s  your  hand,  and  so  I  leave  you.  By  this  hand. 
Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account.  As  you  hear 
of  me.  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort  your  cousin  :  1 
must  say  she  is  dead  ;  and  so,  farewell.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— A  Prison. 
Enter  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  Sexton,  in  gowns  ;  and 
the  Watch,  with  Conr.\de  and  Bor.achio. 
Dogb.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ^ 
Verg.  0  !  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton. 
Sexton.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 
Dogh.  Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 
Ff  rg-.  Nav.  that 's  certain :  we  have  the  exhibition 


examine :  you  must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  thoii 
accusers. 

Dogb.  Yea.  marry,  that 's  the  eftest*  way. — Let  the 
watch  come  forth. — Masters,  I  charge  you,  in  the 
prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  Joha,  th« 
prince's  brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dogb.  Write  down — prince  John  a  villain. — Why, 
this  is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother  villain. 

Bora.  Master  constable, — 

Dogb.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace:  I  do  not  like  thy 
look,  I  promise  thee.. 

Sexton.  What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

2  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand 
ducats  of  Don  John,  for  accusing  the  lady  Hero  wrong- 
fully. 

Dogb.  Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 
Verg.  Yen.  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 
Sexton.  What  else,  fellow? 

1  Watch.  And  that  count  Claudio  did  mean,  upon 
his  words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly, 
and  not  marry  her. 

Dogb.  0  villain  !  thou  wilt  be  condemned  into  ever- 
lasting redemption  for  this. 
Sexton.  What  else ? 

2  Watch.  This  is  all. 
Sexton.  And  this   is   more,  masters,  than  yon  can 

to  examine.  i  deny.      Prince  John   is  this  morning   secretly  stolen 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  oflfenders  that  are  to  be  j  away:  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accused,  in  this  very 

examined?  let  them  come  before  master  constable.  {manner  refused,  and.  upon  the  grief  of  this,  suddenly 
Dogb.  Yea,  marr\'.  let  them  come  before  me. — What  died.     Master  constable,  let  these  men  be  bound,  and 


IS  your  name,  friend  ? 

Bora.  Borachio. 

Dogb.  Pray  write  do^^•n  Borachio. ^Yours,  sirrah? 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is 
Conrade. 

Dogb.  Write  down  master  gentleman  Com-ade. — 
Masters,  do  you  ser\-e  God  ? 

Con.  Born.  Yes.  sir.  we  hope.' 

Dogb.  Write  downi — that  they  hope  they  serve  God  : 
— and  write  God  first:  for  God  defend  but  God  should 
go  before  such  -snllains  ! — Masters,  it  is  proved  already 
that  you  are  little  better  than  false  knaves,  and  it  w^ll 
go  near  to  be  thought  so  shortly.  How  answer  you 
for  yourselves  ? 

Con.  Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  A  mars'ellous  ^y\Uy  fellow.  I  assure  you  ;  but 
I  will  go  about  \\-\\.\\  him. — Come  you  hither,  sirrah:  a 
word  in  your  ear,  sir :  I  say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you 
are  false  knaves. 

Bora.  Sir.  I  say  to  you.  we  are  nsne. 

Dogb.  Well,  stand  aside. — 'Fore  God,  they  are  both 
in  a  tale.     Have  you  wTit  dovvni,  that  they  are  none? 

Sexton.  Master   constable,  you  go  not  the  way  to 


brought  to  Leonato's :  I  -will  go  before,  and  show  him 
their  examination.  [Exit. 

Dogb.  Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Verg.  Let  them  be  bound. 

Bora.  Hands  off.  coxcomb  !' 

Dogb.  God  's  my  life  !  where  's  the  sexton?  let  him 
write  down  the  prince's  officer,  coxcomb. — Come,  bind 
them. — Thou  naughty  varlet. 

Con.  Away !  you  are  an  ass :  you  are  an  ass. 

Dogb.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place?  Dost  thou 
not  suspect  my  years  ? — 0,  that  he  were  here  to  write 
me  down  an  ass ! — but,  masters,  remember,  that  I  am 
an  ass ;  though  it  be  not  ^^Titten  down,  yet  forget  not 
that  I  am  an  ass. — No.  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of 
piety,  as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness.  I 
am  a  wise  fellow  ;  and,  which  is  more,  an  officer  :  and, 
which  is  more,  a  householder ;  and.  which  is  more,  a« 
pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any  is  in  ^lessina ;  and  one 
that  knows  the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough, 
go  to  :  and  a  fellow  that  hath  had  leases*;  ajid  one  that 
hath  two  gowns,  and  ever\'  thing  handsome  about  him. 
Bring  him  away.  0,  that  I  had  been  writ  down  an 
ass !  [Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  r.— Before  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 
Ant.  If  you  so  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself; 
And  't  iB  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief 
\st.in.«t  yourself. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve.     Give  not  me  counsel ; 

'  This  sjwech.  «nf1  hulf  of  the  one  followinp,  to  the  word 
Ibem  be  ;n  the  junda — Con.  Off!  coxcomb  1     *  losses  :  in  f. 


I  Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear, 
I  But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine: 
Bring  me  a  father  that  so  lov'd  his  child. 
Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'd  like  mine, 
And  bid  him  speak  to  me'  of  patience  : 
Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine_ 
And  let  it  answer  ever>'  strain  for  strain : 
As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such. 
In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form : 


'  Masters,"  is  from  the  quarto.      »  RtadUat :  in  f.  e.      '  ia  f.  e  ; 
I.      *  The  words  ''  to  me  "  :  not  in  f.  e 


Ycfg    Let 


MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING. 


1L9 


[f  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard ; 
Call  sorrow  joy;'  cry  hem,  when  he  should  groan; 
Patch  grief  with  proverbs  :  make  misfortune  drunk 
With  candle- wasters ;"  bring  him  you  to  me, 
And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 
But  there  is  no  such  man ;  for,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 
Wliich  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but,  tasting  it. 
Tlieir  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage. 
Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread. 
Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words. 
No,  no;  't  is  all  men's  ofhce  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  -WTing  under  the  load  of  sorrow, 
But  no  man's  virtue,  nor  sufficiency. 
To  be  so  moral  when  he  shall  endure 
The  like  himself.     Therefore  give  me  no  counsel : 
My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement. 

Ant.  Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  differ. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  peace  !  I  will  be  flesh  and  blood ; 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher. 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ache  patiently, 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods. 
And  made  a  push'  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

Ant.  Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself; 
Make  those  that  do  offend  you  suffer  too. 

Leon.  There  thou  speak'st  reason :   nay,  I  will  do 
so. 
My  soul  doth  tell  me  Hero  is  belied, 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know ;  so  shall  the  prince. 
And  all  of  them,  that  thus  dishonour  her. 
Enter  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio. 

Ant.  Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio  hastily. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  den,  good  den. 

Clavd.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leon.  Hear  you.  my  lords, — 

D.  Pedro.  We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 

Leon.  Some  haste,  my  lord  ! — well,  fare  you  well, 
my  lord. — 
Arc  you  so  hasty  now? — ^well,  all  is  one. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  U8,  good   old 
man. 

Ant.  If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Claud.  Who  wrongs  him  ? 

Leon.  Marry,  thou  dost  wrong  me ;   thou,  dissem- 
bler, thou. — 
Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword, 
I  fear  thee  not. 

Claud.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand, 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear. 
In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 

Leon.  Tush,  tush,  man  !  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me : 
I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool ; 
As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 
What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would  do, 
Were  I  not  old.     Know,  Claudio,  to  thy  head. 
Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mine  innocent  child  and  me 
That  I  am  forc'd  to  lay  my  reverence  by. 
And  with  grey  hairs,  and  bruise  of  many  days, 
Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 
I  say,  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child : 
Thy   slander    hath    gone   through   and    through    her 

heart. 
And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors. 
0  !  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept. 
Save  this  of  hers,  fram'd  by  thy  villainy. 

Claud.  My  villainy  ? 


Leon.  Thine,  Claudio;  thine,  I  say. 

D.  Pedro.  You  say  not  right,  old  man. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord. 

I  '11  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  he  dare ; 
Despite  his  nice  fence,  and  his  active  practice. 
His  May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustyhood. 

Claud.  Away !  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Leo7i.  Canst  thou  so  daff  me*?    Thou  hast  kill'd  my 
child  : 
If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ant.  He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed  : 
But  that 's  no  matter ;  let  him  kill  one  first : — 
Win  me  and  wear  me, — let  him  answer  me. — 
Come,  follow  me,  boy  !  come,  sir  boy,  come,  follow  me. 
Sir  boy,  I  'U  whip  you  from  your  foining  fence; 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leon.  Brother — 

Ant.  Content  yourself.  God  knows,  I  lov'd  my  niece  : 
And  she  is  dead  ;  slander'd  to  death  by  villains, 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed, 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue. 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts.  Jacks,  milksops  ! — 

Lean.  Brother  Antony— 

Ant.  Hold  you  content.    What,  man  !  I  know  them  ; 
yea. 
And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple : 
Scambling,  out-facing,  fashion-mong'ring  boys. 
That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander, 
Go  antickly,  and  show  an  outward  hideousness, 
And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words. 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  durst, 
And  this  is  all ! 

Leon.  But,  brother  Antony — 

Ant.  Come,  't  is  no  matter  : 

Do  not  you  meddle,  let  me  deal  in  this. 

D.  Pedro.  Gentlemen  both,  we  will  not  wake  your 
patience. 
My  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death ; 
But,  on  my  honour,  she  was  charg'd  with  nothing 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord  ! — 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

Leon.  No  ? 

Come,  brother,  away. — I  will  be  heard. — 

Ant.  And  shall,  or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

[Exeunt  Leonato  and  Antonio 
Enter  Benedick. 

D.  Pedro.  See,  see !  here  comes  the  man  we  went 
to  seek. 

Claud.  Now,  signior,  what  news? 

Be7ie.  Goed  day,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Welcome,  signior :  you  are  almost  come 
to  part  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses 
snapped  off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

J).  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother.  What  thiulf'st 
thou  ?  Had  we  fought,  I  doubt,  we  should  have  beer 
too  young  for  them. 

Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valour.  I 
came  to  seek  you  both. 

Clatid.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thfte . 
for  we  are  high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain  have 
it  beaten  away.     Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit  ? 

Bene.  It  is  in  my  scabbard :  shall  I  draw  it  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side? 

Child.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have 
been  beside  their  wit. — I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we  da 
the  minstrels* ;  draw  to  pleasure  us. 


'  And  sorrow,  wag  !  in  f.  e.      »  Ben  Jonson  calls  a  book-worm,  a  candle-waster.     This  would  make  the  text  mean,  pedantic  spef  ctiPr 
JBh  :  often  spelt  as  in  the  text.     ♦  Put  me  aside.      »  Draw  their  instruments  from  their  cases 


120 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTIimG. 


ACT   V. 


D.  Fedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks  pale. — 
Art  thou  sick,  or  angry? 

Ckmd.  What  !  courage,  man  !  What  though  care 
killed  a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill 
care. 

Baie.  Sir.  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career,  an 
you  cliarge  it  against  me. — I  pray  you,  choose  another 
subject. 

Claud.  Nay  then,  give  him  another  staff:  this  last 
was  broke  cross. 

I).  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and  more. 
I  think  he  be  angry  indeed. 

C/<7i/</.  It"  he  be.  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle.' 

Bene.  Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear? 

Claud.  God  biess  nie  from  a  challenge  ! 

Bene.  You  arc  a  villain. — I  jest  not : — I  will  make 
It  good  how  you  dare,  with  wliat  you  dare,  and  when 
you  dare. — Do  me  right,  or  I  will  protest  your  coward- 
ice. You  have  killed  a  .<iweet  lady,  and  her  death  shall 
fall  hea^'^•  on  you.     Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claud.  Woli,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good 
cheer. 

D.  Pedro.  What,  a  feast  ?  a  feaf^t  ? 

Claud,  r  faith.  I  thank  him  :  he  hath  bid  me  to  a 
calf 's-head  and  capers,'  the  which  if  I  do  not  carv'e 
most  curiously,  say  my  knife 's  naught. — Shall  I  not 
tind  a  woodcock  too?' 

Bene.  Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well :  it  goes  easily. 

D.  Pedro.  I  '11  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  thy  wit 
the  other  day.  I  said,  thou  hadst  a  tine  wit :  "  True," 
said  she.  ''a  fine  little  one:"  '■  No,"  said  I,  "  a  great 
wit :"'  ••  Right."  says  she,  "'  a  great  gross  one  :"'  "  Nay." 
said  I.  '•  a  good  wit :"  •'  Just,"'  said  she,  "  it  hurts  no- 
body :"  "  N'ay."  said  I.  "  the  gentleman  is  wise :" 
■  Certain.''  said  she.  "  a  wise  gentleman :"  "  Nay,"  said 
I.  'he  hath  the  tongues:"  "That  I  believe."  said  she, 
•  for  he  swore  a  thing  to  me  on  Monday  night,  which 
he  forswore  on  Tuesday  morning :  there  "s  a  double 
tongue  ;  there  "s  two  tongues."  Thus  did  she.  an  hour 
together,  trans-shape  thy  particular  virtues  •  yet  at  last 
Rhe  concluded  with  a  sigh,  thou  wast  the  properest  man 
in  Italy. 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said 
>he  cared  not. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea.  that  she  did ;  but  yet,  for  all  that, 
an  if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love  him 
dearly.     The  old  mans  daughter  told  us  all. 

Claud.  All.  all;  and  moreover,  who*saw  him  when 
he  was  hid  in  the  garden. 

D.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  bull's 
horns  on  the  .sensible  Benedick's  head? 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  '•  Here  dwells 
Benedick  the  married  man  !" 

Bene.  Fare  you  well,  boy:  you  know  my  mind.  I 
will  leave  you  now  to  your  go.«sip-like  humour:  you 
break  jest*  as  braggarts  do  tlieir  blades,  which.  God  be 
thanked,  hurt  not. — My  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies 
I  thaiik  you  :  I  must  discontinue  your  company.  Your 
brother,  the  bastard,  is  fled  from  Messina:  you  have, 
among  you.  killed  a  sweet  and  innocent  lady.  For  my 
lord  Lack-beard,  there,  he  and  I  shall  meet ;  and  till 
then,  peace  be  with  him.  [Exit  Benedick. 

D.  Pedro.  He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest;  and.  I  "11  warrant 
you,  for  the  love  of  B<^;atricc. 

D.  Pedro.  And  hath  challenged  thee  ? 

Claud.  Most  sincerely. 


I      D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when  he  goes 

I  in  his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit ! 

Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  a^e;  but  then  is  ar 
ape  a  doctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft  you ;  let  me  be :  pluck  up.  my 
heart,  and  be  saA.     Did  he  not  say,  my  brother  wa* 
fled? 
I        Enter  Dogberry.  Verges,  and  the  Watch.,  with 

CoNRADE  and  Borachio. 
'      Dogb.  Come,  you,  sir :  if  justice  cannot  tame  you, 
she  shall  ne'er  weigh    more  reasons  in  her  balance. 
j  Nay,  an  you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once,  you  must  be 
looked  to. 

I  D.  Pedro.  How  now !  two  of  my  brother's  men 
■  bound  ?     Borachio,  one  ? 

Claud.  Hearken  after  their  offence,  ray  lord. 
D.  Pedro.  Officers,  what   offence    have    these  men 
done? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  report ; 
moreover,  they  have  spoken  untruths:  secondarily, 
they  are  slanders ;  sixth  and  lastly,  they  have  belied 
a  lady  ;  thirdly,  they  have  verified  unjust  things;  and, 
to  conclude,  they  are  hing  kjiaves. 

D.  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  they  have  done? 
thirdly,  I  ask  thee,  what 's  their  offence  ?  sixth  and 
lastly,  why  they  are  committed  ?  and,  to  conclude,  what 
j  you  lay  to  their  charge  ? 

!      Claud.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division ;  j 

'  and.  by  my  troth,  there  "s  one  meaning  well  suited. 

D.  Pedro.  Whom  have  you  offended,  masters,  that 
you  are  thus  bound  to  your  answer  ?  this  learned 
constable  is  too  cumiing  to  be  understood.  What 's 
your  offence  ? 

I  Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  farther  to  mine 
answer :  do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me.  I 
have  deceived  even  youi  very  eyes :  what  your  wis- 
doms could  not  discover,  these  shallow  fools  have 
brought  to  light ;  who,  in  the  night,  overheard  me  con- 
fessing to  this  man.  how  Don  John  your  brother, 
incensed  me  to  slander  the  lady  Hero ;  how  you  were 
brought  into  the  orchard,  and  saw  me  court  Margaret 
I  in  Hero's  garments;  how  you  disgraced  her,  when 
you  should  marry  her.  My  %'illainy  they  have  \ipon 
record  which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my  death,  than 
repeat  over  to  my  shame.  The  lady  is  dead  upon  mine 
and  iny  master's  false  accusation  :  and,  briefly,  I  de- 
sire nothing  but  the  reward  of  a  villain. 

D.  Pedro.  Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron  through 

your  blood  ? 
Claud.  I  have  drunk  poison  whiles  he  utter'd  it. 
D.  Pedro.  But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to  this  ? 
Bora.  Yea;  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice  of  it. 
D.  Pedro.  He  is  composed  and  fram'd  of  treachery. — 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villainy. 

Claud.  Sweet  Hero  !  now  thine  image  doth  apjiear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I    oved  it  first. 

Dogb.  Come  ;  bring  away  the  plaintiffs  :  by  this  time 
our  sexton  hath  reformed  signior  Leonato  of  the  mat- 
ter. And  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify,  when  lime 
and  i)lacc  shall  sers^e,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Verg.  Here,  here  comes  master  signior  Leonato.  and 
the  sexton  too. 

Re-enter  Leonato,  Antoxio.  and  the  Sexton. 
Leon.  Which  is  the  villain  ?     Let  me  see  his  eyes, 
That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him.     Which  of  these  is  he":^ 
j      Bora.  If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look  on  me. 


>  "  I.aree  holts  were  -worn  with  the  K>rdlc  hrfore.  l.::t  for  wrcsflinR.  the  huckle  WRB  turlled  behind,  to  give  the  adversary  a  Tairc  Rrasp 
at  the  Kird'.e.  The  action  wan  therefore  a  challpnge.  "— //o/<  White.  »  a  capon  :  in  f.  e.  »  An  allusion  to  a  popular  belief  that  a  wood- 
cock had  no  brsins      ♦  God — with  a  period  at  the  end  of  the  speech  :  in  f.  e. 


SCENE  n 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


121 


Leon.  Art  thou  the  slave,  that  with  thy  breath  hast 
kill'd 
Mine  innocent  child  ? 

B&ra  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.  No,  not  so,  villain  ;  thou  beliest  thyself : 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honourable  men, 
A  third  is  fled,  that  had  a  hand  in  it. — 
[  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death  : 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  M'orthy  deeds. 
'T  was  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Claud.  I  know  not  hov.-  to  pray  your  patience, 
Vet  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  yourself; 
Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin:  yet  simvd  I  not, 
But  in  mistaking. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  soul,  nor  I ; 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he  '11  enjoin  me  to. 

Leon.  I  cannot  bid  you  cause'  my  daughter  Live ; 
That  were  impossible  :  but,  I  pray  you  both, 
Possess  the  people  in  Messina,  here, 
How  innocent  she  died  :  and,  if  your  love 
Can  labour  aught  in  sad  invention, 
Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb, 
And  sing  it  to  her  bones  :  sing  it  to-night. — 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house, 
And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law. 
Be  yet  my  nephew.     My  brother  hath  a  daughter. 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that 's  dead, 
And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us  : 
Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her  cousin. 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  0  noble  sir  ! 

Your  over-kindness  doth  Avring  tears  from  me. 
[  do  embrace  your  offer,  and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

Leon.  To-morrow,  then,  I  will  e.xpect  your  coming  : 
To-night  I  take  my  leave. — This  naughty  man 
Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
Who,  I  believe,  was  pact*  m  all  this  wrong, 
Hir'd  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did,  when  she  spoke  to  me  ; 
But  always  liath  been  just  and  virtuous. 
In  any  thing  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dogb.  Moreover,  sir,  which,  indeed,  is  not  under 
white  and  black,  this  plaintiff  here,  the  offender,  did 
call  me  ass  :  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  remembered  in  his 
punishment.  And  also,  the  watch  heard  them  talk  of 
one  Deformed  :  they  say,  he  wears  a  key  in  his  ear,  and 
a  lock  hanging  by  it,  and  borrows  money  in  God's 
name  :  the  wliicli  he  hath  used  so  long,  and  never  paid. 
that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted,  and  will  lend  nothing 
for  God's  sake.  Pray  you,  examine  him  upon  that 
point. 

Ixon.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dogb.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful 
and  reverend  youth,  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leon.  There  's  for  thy  pains. 

JJogb.  God  save  the  foundation  ! 

Leon.  Go  :  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I 
thank  thee. 

Dogb.  I  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  worship; 
which,  I  beseech  your  worship,  to  correct  yourself  for 
the  example  of  others.  God  keep  your  worship  :  I  wish 
your  worship  well :  God  restore  you  to  health.  I  humbly 
give  you  leive  to  depart,  and  if  a  merry  meeting  may 


be  wished,  God  prohibit  it. — Come,  neighbour. 

[Exeunt  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  Watch, 
Leon.  Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  farewell. 
Ant.  Farewell,  my  lords :  we  look  for  you  to-mor- 
row. 
D.  Pedro.  We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I  '11  mourn  with  Hero. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio. 
Leon.  Bring  you  these  fellows  on.     We  '11  talk  witU 
Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd^  fellow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Leonato's  Garden 
Enter  Benedick  and  Margaret,  meeting. 

Bene.  Pray  thee,  sweet  mistress  Margaret,  deserve 
well  at  my  hands  by  helping  me  to  the  speech  of 
Beatrice. 

Marg.  Will  you,  then,  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise 
of  my  beauty  ? 

Bene.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man 
living  shall  come  over  it;  for,  in  most  comely  truth, 
thou  deservest  it. 

Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me  ?  why  shall  I 
always  keep  below  stairs  ? 

Bene.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's  mouth ; 
it  catches. 

Marg.  And  your  's  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils, 
which  hit,  but  hurt  not. 

Bene.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret ;  it  will  not  hurt 
a  woman :  and  so,  I  pray  thee,  call  Beatrice.  I  give 
thee  the  bucklers. 

Marg.  Give  us  the  swords,  we  have  bucklers  of  our 
own. 

Bene.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must  put  in 
the  pikes  with  a  vice ;  and  they  are  dangerous  weapons 
for  maids. 

Marg.  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who,  I  think, 
hath  legs.  [Exit  Margaret. 

Bene.  And  therefore  will  come. 

Tlie  god  of  love  J  [Singing.] 

That  sits  above., 
And  knows  me.,  and  knows  me, 
How  pitiful  I  deserve, — * 
I  mean,  in  singing ;   but  in  loving,  Leander  the  good 
swimmer,  TroiJus  the  first  employer  of  panders,  and  a 
whole    book  full   of  these   quondam   carpet-mongers, 
whose  names  yet  run  smoothly  in  the  even  road  of  a 
blaidv  verse,  why,  they  were  never  so  truly  turned  over 
and  over,  as  my  poor  self,  in  love.     Marry,  I  cannot 
show  it  in  rhyme  ;   I  have  tried  :   I  can  find  out  no 
rhyme  to  "  lady"  but  '■  baby,"  an  innocent  rhyme;  for 
•■scorn,"  "horn,"  a  hard  rhyme;  for  "  school,"  "'fool," 
a  babbling  rhyme — very  ominous  endings.     No,  I  was 
not  born  under  a  rhyming  planet,  nor  I  cannot  woo  in 
festival  terms. — 

Enter  Beatrice. 
Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I  called  thee? 

Beat.  Yea,  signior  :  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Bene.  0  !  stay  but  till  then. 

Beat.  "  Then"  is  spoken;  fare  you  well  now: — and 
yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came  for ;  which  is, 
with  knowing  what  hath  passed  between  you  and 
Claudio. 

Bene.  Only  /oul  words;  and  thereupon  I  will  kiss  thee, 

Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  ^^-ind,  and  foul  ^\•ind  is 
but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome ;  therefore 
I  will  depart  unkissed. 

«  bid  :  in  f.  e.     '  Knight  adhe  es  to  thn  old  reading  pack%  an  old  form  of  the  word  in  the  text.     '  Wiektd.     »  The  beginning  of  a 
song  bv  William  Eldsrton    • 


122 


MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTIimG. 


Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his  right 
sense,  so  foreible  is  thy  wit.  But,  I  must  tell  thee 
plainly,  Claudio  undergoes  my  eliallonge,  and  cither  I 
!nust  .<hortly  hear  from  him.  or  I  will  subscribe  him  a 
ooward.  And.  I  pray  thee  now,  toll  mc.  for  which  of 
my  bad  parts  didst  thou  tirst  tall  in  love  with  mc  ? 

Beat.  For  ihcm  all  together;  which  maintained  so 
politic  a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any  good 
Dart  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for  which  of  my 
ood  part-*  did  you  lirst  sutler  love  for  mc? 

Bene.  Sutler  love  !  a  good  epithet.  I  do  suffer  love, 
indeed,  for  I  love  thee  again.'^t  my  will. 

Beat.  In  sjiite  of  your  heart,  I  think.  Alas,  poor 
heart  I  If  yon  spite  it  tor  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for 
yours;  fori  will  never  love  that  which  my  friend  hates. 

Bene.  Thou  and  I  arc  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession  :  there 's  not 
one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise  himself. 

Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  lived 
in  the  time  of  good  neighbours.  If  a  man  do  not 
erect,  in  this  age,  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall 
live  no  longer  in  monument,  than  the  bell  rings,  and 
the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.  And  how  long  is  that,  think  you? 

Bene.  Question : — why  an  hour  in  clamour,  and  a 
quarter  in  rheum :  therefore  is  it  most  expedient  for 
the  wise,  (if  Don  Worm,  his  conscience,  find  no  impe- 
dimekt  to  the  contrary,)  to  be  the  trumpet  of  his  own 
virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself.  So  much  for  praising 
myself,  who,  I  myself  will  bear  witness,  is  praiseworthy. 
And  now  tell  me.  how  doth  your  cousin? 

Beat.  Very  ill.' 

Bene.  And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend.     There  will 
I  leave  you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 
Enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle.  Yonder 's 
old'  coil  at  home :  it  is  proved,  my  lady  Hero  hath  been 
falsely  accused,  the  prince  and  Claudio  mightily 
abused ;  and  Don  John  is  the  author  of  all,  who  is 
fled  and  gone.     Will  you  come  presently  ? 

Beat.  Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  signior  ? 

Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap.  and 
be  buried  in  thy  eyes :  and,  moreover,  I  will  go  ^\•ith 
thee  to  thy  uncle's.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III.— The  Inside  of  a  Church. 
Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Attendants^  with 

music  and  taper.';. 
Claud.  Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato? 
Atten.  It  is.  mv  lord. 
Claud.  [Reads'.] 

EPITAPH. 

Done  to  death  hy  .slanderous  tongues 

Was  thi  Hero  that  here  lie.';  : 
Death,  in  guerdon  of  her  wrongs., 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies. 
So  the  life,  that  died  with  shame, 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 
Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomh^ 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. — 
Now  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  oolenrn  hymn. 

SONG. 

Pardon.  god(Uss  of  the  night, 

Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  bright*  ; 

For  the  which,  with  .wnf^s  of  woe., 

Round  about  her  tomb  we  go.  i 

'  U«e<1  in  the  collrqnini  emptmtir  Fpnie,  for  "great."     »  knight :  in  f.  e. 
in  f .  ^      •  Thin  line  ia  from  the  qunrto. 


Midnight,  a.ssi.st  our  moan  ; 
Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan., 

Heavily,  heavily : 

Graves,  yawn,  and  vield  vour  dead. 

Till  death  be  uttered,^ 

Heavily,  heavily. 

Claud.  Now,  unto  thy  bones  good  night  ! 

Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow,  masters  :  put  your  torches 
out. 
The  wolves  have  prey'd  ;  and  look,  the  gentle  day 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  grey. 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us  :  fare  you  well. 
Claud.  Good  morrow,  masters  :  each  his  way  can 
tell.*  [Exeunt  Torch-bearers.'' 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other  weed  : 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 

Claud.  And  H>Tr.en  now  with  luckier  issue  speed, 
Than  this,  for  whom  we  render'd  up  this  woe ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  Benedick,  Beatrice, 
Ursula,  Friar,  awl  Hero. 

Friar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent? 

Leon.  So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  accus'd 
her 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated  : 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this. 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.  Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  son  so  well. 

Bene.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforc'd 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Lco7i.  Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves. 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask'd. 
The  prince  and  Claudio  proniis"d  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me. — You  know  your  office,  brother  ; 
You  must  be  father  i-.,  your  brother's  daughter. 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.  [Exeunt  Indies. 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  confirm'd  countenance. 

Bene.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.  To  do  what,  signior  ? 

Bc7ie.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  me ;  one  of  them.— - 
Signior  Leonato.  truth  it  is,  good  signior, 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favour. 

Leon.  That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her  :  't  is  most  true. 

Bene.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.  The  sight  whereof,  I  think,  you  had  from  me. 
From  Claudio,  and  the  prince.     But  what  "s  your  will  ' 

Bene.  Your  answer,  sir.  is  enigmatical  : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd 
In  the  state  of  honourable  marriage  : — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.  My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help. 

Here  come  the  prince,  and  Claudio'. 

Enter  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio,  with  Attendants. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 

Leon.  Good  morrow,  prince  :  good  morrow,  Claudio . 
We  here  attend  you.     Are  you  yet  determin'd 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 

Claud.  I'll  hold  my  mind  were  she  an  Ethiop. 

Leon.  Call  her  forth,  brother  :  here  's  the  friar  ready. 
[Exit  Antonio. 


'  Done  away  with.     *  each  his  several  way  :    n  f .  6.     •  Not 


SCENE  IV. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  ^n^OTHZN-G. 


123 


i 


D.  Pedro.  Gocd  morrow,  Benedick.     Why.  what 's 
the  matter, 
That  you  have  siicn  a  Fehriiary  face. 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness  ? 

Clatvd.  I  think,  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull. — 
Tush  !  fear  not,  man.  we  '11  tip  thy  horns  ^\-ith  gold, 
A.nd  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee, 
As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove, 
When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 

Bene.  Bull  Jove,  sir,  had  an  amiable  low  : 
And  some  such  strange  bull  leap'd  your  father's  cow, 
And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat, 
Much  like  to  you.  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 
Re-enter  Antonio,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Claud.  For  this  I  owe  you  :  here  come  other  reckon- 
ings. 
Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 

Leon.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 

Claud.  Why.  then  she  's  mine. — Sweet,  let  me  see 
your  face. 

Leon.  No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her  hand 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Claud.  Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  friar  : 
I  am  your  husband,  if  you  like  of  me. 

Hero.  And  when  I  liv'd,  I  was  your  other  wife : 

{Unmasking. 
And  when  you  lov'd,  you  were  my  other  husband. 

ClavA.  Another  Hero  ?  , 

Hero.  Nothing  certainer. 

One  Hero  died  belied' ;  but  I  do  live, 
And.  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 

D.  Pedro.  The  former  Hero  !  Hero  that  is  dead  ! 

Leon.  She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander  liv'd. 

Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify ; 
When  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended., 
I  '11  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death : 
Mean  time,  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Bene.  Soft  and  fair,  friar. — Which  is  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  I  answer  to  that  name.    [Unmasking]    What 
is  your  will  ? 

Bene.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beat.  Why,'  no  more  than  reason. 

Bene,  Why,  then,  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and 
Claudio, 
Have  been  deceived,  for'  they  swore  you  did. 

Beat.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  no*  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then,  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula, 
Are  much  deceived  ;  for  they  swore',  you  did. 

Bene    They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 

Beat.  1  hey  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead  forme. 


Bene-  It  is  no*  matter, — Then,  you  do  not  love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

Leon.  Come,  cousin.  I  am  sure  vou  love  the  gentle- 
man. 

ClavA.  And  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  't,  thai  he  loves  her  j 
For  here  's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  ovm.  pure  brain, 
Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here  's  another. 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stol'n  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle  !  here  s  our  owia  hands  against  our 
hearts. — Come,  I  will  have  thee  ;  but,  by  this  light.  I 
take  thee  for  pity. 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you  : — but,  by  this  good  day, 
I  yield  upon  great  persuasion,  and,  partly,  to  save  your 
life,  for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  consumption. 

Bene.  Peace  !  I  will  stop  your  mouth. 

D.  Pedro.  How  dost  thou.  Benedick,  the  married 
man? 

Bene.  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  prince  ;  a  college  of  wit- 
crackers  cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humour.  Dost 
thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire,  or  an  epigram  ?  No  :  if 
a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,  a'  shall  wear  nothing 
handsome  about  him.  In  brief,  since  I  do  purpose  to 
marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any  purpose  that  the 
world  can  say  against  it  :  and  therefore  never  flout  at 
me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it,  for  man  is  a  giddy 
thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion. — For  thy  part, 
Claudio,  I  did  think  to  have  beaten  thee  ;  but,  in  that 
thou  art  like  to  be  ray  kinsman,  live  unbruised,  and 
love  my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hoped,  thou  wouldst  have  denied 
Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgelled  thee  out  of  thy 
single  life,  to  make  thee  a  double  dealer  ;  which,  out 
of  question,  thou  wilt  be,  if  my  cousin  do  not  look 
exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends. — Let 's  have  a 
dance  ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our 
own  hearts,  and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.  We  '11  have  dancing  afterward. 

Bene.  First,  of  my  word  :  theretbre,  play,  music  ! — 
Prince,  thou  art  sad  ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a  wife : 
there  is  no  stafi"  more  reverend  than  one  tipped  with 
horn. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  yoiu-  brother  John  is  ta'en  in  flight 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow  :  I  '11  devise 
three  brave  punishments  for  him. — Strike  up,  pipers. 
[Dance  of  ull  the  actors.'' 


'  defile!  :  in  f  e. 
Danee:  f.  e. 


No,  no :  in  f.  e      »  Not  in  f.  e.     ♦  f.  e.  have  :  Troth  no,  no.     »  did  swear  :  m  f.  e.     «  'T  i»  n»  inch;  in  f  e 


LOVE'S    LABOUR'S    LOST 


DKAMATIS    PEESON^. 


Costard,  a  Clown. 
Moth,  Page  to  Armado. 
A  Forester. 


Fbrdinand,  King  of  Navarre. 

BiROX,  ) 

LoNGAViLLE,  >  Lords,  attending  on  the  King. 

Dr.MAINE,  ) 

BoYET,  i  Lords,  attending  on  the  Princess 

Mercade.       )      of  France. 

Don  Adriano  de  Armado,  a  Spaniard. 

Sir  Nathaniel,  a  Curate. 

Holofernes.  a  Schoolmaster. 

Dull,  a  Constable. 

Officers  and  otliers.  attendants  on  the  King  and  Princes*. 


Princess  of  France. 

Rosaline,      ) 

Maria.  >  Ladies,  attending  on  the  Princes- 

Katharine,  ) 

Jaquenetta,  a  country  wench. 


SCENE.  Navarre. 


ACT  r. 


SCENE  I. — Navarre.     A  Park,  with  a  Palace  in  it. 

Enter  the  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumaine. 
King.  Let  fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives, 
Live  rcixifiterd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
.\nd  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death; 
When,  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  time. 
Th'  endeavour  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  honour,  which  shall  bate  his  scjthe's  keen  edge, 
And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors  ! — for  so  you  are, 
Tliat  war  against  your  owni  affections. 
And  the  liuge  army  of  the  world's  desires, — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongly  stand  in  force. 
Navarre  shall  be  the  wonder  of  the  world: 
Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe, 
S(ill  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  three.  Biron.  Dumaine.  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me, 
My  fellow-scholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes. 
That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here:   [Sliowing  it.' 
Your  oaths  arc  past,  and  now  subscribe  your  names, 
That  his  oa^ti  hand  may  strike  his  honour  down. 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein. 
If  you  are  arm'd  to  do.  as  sworn  to  do. 
Subscribe  (o  your  deep  oaths,  and  keep  them  too. 

Long.  I  am  r<solv'd  :  't  is  but  a  three  years'  fast. 
The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine: 
Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates  ;  and  dainty  bits 

lake  rich  the  ribs,  but  bankrupt  quite'  the  wits, 
Dum.  My  loving  lord.  Dumaine  is  mortified. 
The  grosser  manner  of  this  world's  delights 
He  throws  upon  the  gross  world's  ba.«er  slaves  : 
To  love,  to  wealth,  to  pomp.  1  pine  and  die, 
With  all  these  living  in  philoso|)hy. 

Biron.  I  can  but  say  their  protestation  over; 
So  much,  dear  lieize.  I  have  already  sworn, 
That  is,  to  live  and  study  here  three  years. 


But  there  are  other  strict  observances ; 
As,  not  to  see  a  woman  in  that  term. 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there: 
And.  one  day  in  a  week  to  touch  no  food. 
And  but  one  meal  on  every  day  beside. 
The  which,  I  hope,  is  not  enrolled  there: 
And  then,  to  sleep  but  three  hours  in  the  night, 
And  not  be  seen  to  wink  of  all  the  day. 
When  I  was  wont  to  think  no  harm  all  night. 
And  make  a  dark  night,  too.  of  half  the  day, 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there. 

0  !  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  hard  to  keep. 
Not  to  see  ladies,  study,  fast,  not  sleep. 

King.  Your  oath  is  pass'd  to  pass  away  from  these. 
Biron.  Let  me  say  no,  my  liege,  an  if  you  please. 

1  only  swore  to  study  with  yom  grace, 

And  stay  here  in  your  court  for  three  years'  space. 

Long.  You  swore  to  that.  Biron,  and  to  the  rest. 

Biron.  By  yea,  and  nay,  sir,  then  I  swore  in  jest. 
What  is  the  end  of  study,  let  me  know  ? 

King.  W^hy,  that  to  know  which  else  we  should  nW 
know. 

Biron.    Things   hid    and    barr'd,    you   mean,   from 
common  sense  ? 

King.  Ay,  that  is  study's  god-like  recomprnsa 

Biron.  Come  on.  then  :  I  will  swear  to  study  so, 
To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know; 
As  thus, — to  study  where  I  well  may  dine. 

When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid  ; 
Or  study  where  to  meet  some  mistress  fine. 

When  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid  ; 
Or,  having  sworn  too  hard-a-kecping  oath. 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth. 
If  study's  gain  be  this,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that  which  yet  it  doth  not  know. 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  will  ne'er  say  no. 

King.  These  be  the  stops  that  hinder  study  quite. 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 


I  Not  in  f.  p. 
12i 


'  From  the  quarto,  1596. 


LOYE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


125 


Biron.  Why,  all  delights  are  vain  j  but'  that  most  vain, 
Which,  with  pain  purchas'd,  doth  inherit  pain : 
As  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book, 
To  seek  the  light  of  truth ;  while  truth  the  while 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look  : 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile. 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  npon  a  fairer  eye  : 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 

And  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun. 

That  will  not  be  deep-search'd  with  saucy  looks : 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star. 
Have  no  more  profits  of  their  shining  nights, 

Than  those  that  walk,  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 
Too  much  to  know  is  to  know  nought  but  fame  ] 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name. 

King.  How  well  he 's  read,  to  reason  against  reading  ! 

Dum.  Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  proceeding ! 

Long.  He  weeds  the  corn,  and  still  lets  grow  the 
weeding. 

Biron.  The  spring  is  near,  when  green  geese  are  a 
breeding. 

Dum.  How  follows  that  ? 

Biron.  Fit  in  his  place  and  time. 

Dum.  In  reason  nothing. 

Biron.  Something,  then,  in  rhyme. 

King.  Biron  is  like  an  envious  sneaping^  frost, 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 

Biron.  Well,  say  I  am :  why  should  proud  summer 
boast, 
Before  the  birds  have  any  cause  to  sing  ? 
Why  should  I  joy  in  any  abortive  birth  ? 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose, 
Tlia)i  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows ; 
But  like  of  each  thing  tliat  in  season  grows. 
So  you,  by  study  now  it  is  too  late, 
Climb  o'er  the  house-top  to  unlock  the  gate.' 

King.  Well,  set  you  out :  go  home,  Biron  :  adieu  ! 

Biron.    No,  my  good  lord  ;   I  have   sworn   to  stay 
with  you  : 
And,  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more, 

Than  for  that  angel  knowledge  you  can  say, 
Yet  confident  1  '11  keep  to  what  I  swore,* 

And  bide  the  penance  of  each  three  years'  day. 
Give  me  the  paper :  let  me  read  the  same ; 
And  to  the  strict'st  decrees  I  '11  ^\Tite  my  name. 

King.   How  well  this  yielding  rfescues  thee  from 
shame  ! 

Biron.  [Reads]  Item,  "  That  no  woman  shall  come 
■within  a  mile  of  my  court." — Hath  this  been  pro- 
slaim'd? 

Long.  Four  days  ago. 

Biron.  Let's  see  the  penalty.  {Reads.\  "On  pain 
of  losing  her  tongue." — Who  devis'd  this  penalty? 

Long.  Marry,  that  did  I. 

Biron.  Sweet  lord,  and  why? 

Long.    To    fright    them    hence    with    that   dread 
penalty. 

Biron.  A  dangerous  law  against  garrulity.' 

[Reads]  Item,  "  If  any  man  be  seen  to  talk  with  a 
woman  within  the  terra  of  three  years,  he  shall  endure 


such  public  shame  as  the  rest  of  the  court  can  po«.sibly 

devise." 

This  article,  my  liege,  yourself  must  break ; 

For,  well  you  know,  here  comes  in  emba.s8v^ 
The  French  king's  daughter  with  yourself  to  speak, — 

A  maid  of  grace,  and  complete  majesty, — 
About  surrender  up  of  Aquitain 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bed-rid  father : 
Therefore,  this  article  is  made  in  vain, 

Or  vainly  comes  th'  admired  princeai  rather. 

King.    What  say  you,  lords?  why,  this  was  qui 
forgot. 

Biron.  So  study  evermore  is  overshot : 
While  it  doth  study  to  have  what  it  would, 
It  doth  forget  to  do  the  thing  it  should ; 
And  when  it  hath  the  thing  it  hunteth  most, 
'T  is  won,  as  towns  with  fire  ;  so  won,  so  lost. 

King.  We  must  of  force  dispense  with  this  decree : 
She  must  lie  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Biron.  Necessity  will  make  us  all  forsworn 

Three  thousand  times  within  this  three  years'  space ; 
For  every  man  "wdth  his  affects  is  born, 

Not  by  might  master'd,  but  by  special  grace. 
If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  plead''  for  me, 
I  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessity. — 
So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name ;    [Subscribes. 

And  he,  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree, 
Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame. 

Suggestions'  are  to  others,  as  to  me ; 
But.  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loth, 
I  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  granted  ? 

King.  Ay,  that  there  is.     Our  court,  you  know,  is 
haunted 

With  a  refined  traveller  of  Spain  ; 
A  man  in  all  the  world-new  fashions  flaunted,* 

That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain : 
One,  whom  the  music  of  his  own  vain  tongue 

Doth  ravish  like  enchanting  harmony;' 
A  man  of  complements,  whom  right  and  wrong 

Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny  : 
This  child  of  fancy,  that  Armado  hight. 

For  interim  to  our  studies,  shall  relate 
In  high-born  words  the  worth  of  many  a  knight 

From  ta^^^ly  Spain,  lost  in  the  world's  debate. 
How  you  delight,  my  lords,  I  know  not,  I, 
But.  I  protest,  I  love  to  hear  him  lie. 
And  I  will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy.' 

Biron.  Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  waght, 
A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  own  knight. 

Long.  Costard,  the  swain,  and  he  shall  be  our  sport ; 
And  so  to  study  three  years  is  but  short. 

Enter  Dull,  with  a  letter.,  and  Costard. 

Dull.  Which  is  the  duke's  own  person? 

Biron.  This,  fellow.    Whatwouldst? 

Dull.  I  myself  reprehend  his  o\\ti  person,  for  I  am 
his  grace's  tharborough'" ;  but  I  would  see  his  o\^^l 
person  in  flesh  and  blood. 

Biron.  This  is  he. 

Dull.  SigniorArm — Arm — commends  you.  There' 
villainy  abroad:  this  letter  will  tell  you  more. 

Co.rf.  Sir,  the  contempts  thereof  are  as  touching  me. 

King.  A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado. 

Biron.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope  in  God 
for  high  words. 

Long.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  hearing"  :  God  grant 
us  patience ! 


'  From  the  quarto ;  the  folio  reads  :  and.  =  Snipping,  or  nipping.  ^  Climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate  :  m  f.  e.  *  1 1\  keep 
what  I  have  swore  :  in  f.  e.  »  gentility  :  in  f.  e.  «  speak  :  in  f.  e.  '  Temptations.  8  world's  new  fashions  plantsd  :  in  f.  e.  *  As  a  min 
ttrel  to  tell  me  stories.     ">  Third  borough,  a  peace  officer,      ii  having  •  in  f.  e 


126 


LOVE'S   L  ABO  UK'S  LOST. 


ACT   I. 


Riron.  To  hear,  or  forbear  hearing. 
Long.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh  moderately; 
or  to  lorboar  both. 

Biron.  Well.  sir.  be  it  as  the  style  shall  give  us  cause 
lo  chime  in  in'  tlic  merriness. 

Cost.  Tlie  matter  is  to  me.  sir,  as  concerning  Jaque- 
nelta.  Tlie  mamier  of  it  is,  1  was  taken  with  the 
manner.' 

Biron.  In  what  manner? 

Cost.  In  manner  and  lorm  following,  sir ;  all  those 
three:  I  was  seen  witli  her  in  tlie  manor  house,  sitting 
with  her  upon  the  lonn,  and  taken  following  her  into 
the  park;  wliicli.  put  together,  is,  in  manner  and  form 
following.  Now,  sir.  for  the  manner, — it  is  the  man- 
ner of  a  man  to  speak  to  a  woman ;  for  the  form. — in 
some  form. 

Biron.  For  the  following,  sir? 

Cost.  As  it  shall  follow  in  my  correction ;  and  God 
defend  the  right  ! 

King.  Will  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention? 

Biron.  As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

Co.<;t.  Such  is  the  simplicity  of  man  to  hearken  after 
:he  flesh. 

King.  [Read-f^  "Great  deputy,  the  welkin's  vice- 
gerent, and  sole  dominator  of  Navarre,  my  souFs 
earth's  God,  and  body's  festering  patron. — " 

Co.%t.  Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King.  '■  So  it  is, — '' 

Cost.  It  may  be  so:  but  if  he  say  it  is  so,  he  is.  in 
telling  true,  but  so, —  , 

King.  Peace  ! 

Cost.  — be  to  me,  and  everj-  man  that  dares  not 
fight. 

King.  No  words. 

Co.ot.  — cf  otlier  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King.  '•  So  it  is.  besieged  ^^■^th  sable-coloured  melan- 
choly, I  did  commend  the  black-oppressing  humour  to 
the  most  wholesome  physic  of  thy  health-giving  air: 
and,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  betook  myself  to  walk. 
The  time  when?  About  the  sixth  hour;  when  beasts 
most  graze,  birds  best  peck,  and  men  sit  down  to  that 
nourishment  which  is  called  supper.  So  much  for  the 
time  when.  Now  for  the  ground  which;  which,  I 
mean,  I  walked  upon :  if  is  ycleped  thy  park.  Then 
for  the  place  where ;  where.  I  mean,  I  did  encovmter 
that  obscene  and  most  preposterous  event,  that  draweth 
from  my  snow-white  pen  the  ebon-coloured  ink,  which 
here  thou  viewe.st.  beholdest,  surseyest.  or  seest.  But 
to  the  place,  where  : — it  standeth  north-north-east  and 
by  east  from  the  west  corner  of  thy  curious-knotted 
garden* :  there  did  I  see  that  low-spirited  swain,  that 
ba.se  minnow  of  thy  mirth," — 

Cost.  Me. 

King.  " — that  unletter'd  small-knowing  soul," 

Cost.  Me. 

King.  "  — that  shallow  vessel*," 

Cost^.  Still  me. 

King.  '• — wliich,  a.s  I  remember,  hight  Costard," 

Co.it.  0  !  me. 

King.  '• — sorted  and  consorted,  contrary  to  thy 
established  proclaimed  edict  and  continent  canon, 
vi-ith — \\-ith.--0!  with — but  with  this  I  pa.«!?ion  to  say 
wherewith."' 

Cost.  With  a  wench. 

King.  •■ — with  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Eve, 
a  female;  or,  for  thy  more  sweet  understanding,  a 
woman.  Him  I  (as  my  ever-e.steemed  duty  prick-s  me 
on)  have  sent  to  thee,  to  receive  the  meed  of  punish- 

•  climb  In  :  in  f.  e.      »  The   law  French  phrase,  mainour,  with  the  thing  stolen  in  hand, 
formal  ^raens  of  the  oeriod.     *  v&sasl :  in  (.  e.     *  f.  e.  give  this  speech  to  Biron. 


ment,  by  thy  sweet  grace's  officer,  Antony  Dull,  a  mar 
of  good  repute,  carriage,  bearing,  and  estimation.'' 
Dttll.  Me.  an  't  shall  please  you  :  1  am  Antony  Dull, 
King.  '•  For  Jaquenetta,  (so  is  the  weaker  vessel 
called)  which  I  apprehended  wth  the  aforesaid  swain, 
I  keep  her  as  a  ves.se  1  of  thy  law's  fur\-:  and  shallj 
at  the  least  of  thy  sweet  notice,  bring  her  to  trial. 
Thine,  in  all  complements  of  devoted  and  heart-burn- 
ing heat  of  duty, 

"  Don  Adriano  de  Armado.'' 
Biron.  This  is  not  so  well  as  I  looked  for,  but   th 
be.st  that  ever  I  heard. 

King.  Ay,  the  best  for  the  worst. — But,  sirrah,  wliat 
say  you  to  this? 

Cost.  Sir,  I  confess  the  wench. 
King.  Did  you  hear  the  proclamation? 
Co.st.  1  do  confess  much  of  the  hearing  it,  but  little 
of  the  marking  of  it. 

King.  It  was  proclaimed  a  year's  imprisonment  to 
be  taken  with  a  wench. 

Cost.  I  was  taken  with  none,  sir :  I  was  taken  with 
a  damsel. 

King.  Well,  it  was  proclaimed  damsel. 
Cost.  This  was  no  damsel  neither,  sir :   she  was  a 
virgin. 

King.  It  is  so  varied,  too,  for  it  was  proclaimed  virgin. 
Co.st.  If  it  were,  I  deny  her  virginity :  I  was  taken 
with  a  maid. 

King.  This  maid  will  not  serve  your  turn,  sir. 
Cost.  This  maid  will  serve  my  turn,  sir. 
King.  Sir,  I  will   pronounce   your   sentence :    you 
shall  fast  a  week  with  bran  and  water. 

Cost.  I  had  rather  pray  a  month  with  mutton  and 
porridge. 

King.  And  Don  Armado  shall  be  your  keeper. — 
My  lord  Biron.  see  him  deliverd  o'er : 
And  go  we.  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 
Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn. 

[Exeunt  King,  Longavillk.  and  Dumaini. 
Biron.  I  '11  lay  my  liead  to  any  good  man's  hat, 
These  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn. 
Dtdl.  Sirrah,  come  on.* 

Cost.  I  suffer  for  the  truth,  sir :  for  true  it  is,  I  was 
taken  with  Jaquenetta,  and  jaquenetta  is  a  true  girl ; 
and  therefore,  welcome  the  sour  cup  of  prosperity  ! 
Affliction  may  one  day  smile  again,  and  till  then,  set 
thee  down,  sorrow  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Ar.mado's  House  in  the  Park. 
Elder  Armado  and  Moth,  his  page. 

Arm.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it,  wiien  a  man  of  great 
spirit  grows  melancholy? 

Moth.  A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad 

Ami.  Why?  sadness  is  one  and  the  self-same  thing, 
dear  imp. 

Moth.  No,  no ;  0  lord  !  sir,  no. 

Arm.  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melancholy, 
my  tender  Juvenal  ? 

3Ioth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  working, 
my  tough  senior. 

Arm.  Why  tough  senior?  why  tough  senior? 

Moth.  Why  tender  juvenal  ?  why  tender  juvenal  ^ 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  juvenal,  as  a  congruent 
epitheton  appertaining  to  thy  young  days,  which  we 
may  nominate  tender. 

Moth.  And  I.  tough  senior,  as  an  appertinent  title 
to  your  old  time,  wiiich  we  may  name  tough 

Arm.  Pretty,  and  apt. 

»  The  fantastic  fgvres  in  the  beds  of  th» 


LOYE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


127 


Moth.  How  mean  you,  sir?     I  pretty,  and  my  say- 1  to  have  a  love  of  that  colour,  metliiuk?,  Sainson  huj 


iiig  apt ;  or  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 

Arm.  Thou  pretty,  because  little. 

Moth.  Littlepretly,  because  little.     Wherefore  apt? 

Arm.  And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 

Moth.  Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 

Arin.  In  thy  condign  praise. 

31oth.  I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 

Arm.  What,  that  an  eel  is  ingenious? 

Moth.  That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.  I  do  say,  thou  art  quick  in  answers.  Thou 
heatest  my  blood. 

Moth.  I  am  answered,  sir. 

Arm.  I  love  not  to  be  crof^sed. 

Moth.  [Aside.]  He  speaks  the  mere  contrary: 
crosses'  love  not  him  ? 

Arm.  I  have  promised  to  study  three  years  with  the 
duke. 

Moth.  You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 

Arm.  Impossible. 

Moth.  How  many  is  one  thrice  told? 

Arm.  I  am  ill  at  reckoning :  it  fitteth  the  spirit  of 
a  tapster. 

Moth.  You  are  a  gentleman,  and  a  gamester,  sir. 

Ar7n.  I  confess  both  :  they  are  both  the  varnish  of 
a  complete  man. 

Moth.  Then,  I  am  sure,  you  know  how  much  the 
gross  sum  of  deuce-ace  amounts  to. 

Arm.  It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 

Moth.  Which  the  base  vulgar  do  call  three. 

Arm.  True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study? 
Now,  here  is  three  stvidied  ere  you  '11  thrice  wink  : 
and  how  easy  it  is  to  put  years  to  the  word  three,  and 
study  three  years  in  two  words,  the  dancing  horse''  will 
tell  you. 

Arm.  A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.  [Aside.]  To  prove  you  ?.  cypher. 

Arm.  I  will  hereupon  confess  I  am  in  love ;  and,  as 
it  is  base  for  a  soldier  to  love,  so  am  I  in  love  with  a 
base  wench.  If  drawing  my  sword  against  the  humour 
of  affection  would  deliver  me  from  the  reprobate 
thought  of  it,  I  would  take  desire  prisoner,  and  ransom 
him  to  any  French  courtier  for  a  new  devised  courtesy. 
I  think  scorn  to  sigh :  methinks,  I  should  out-swear 
Cupid.  Comfort  me,  boy.  What  great  men  have 
been  in  love  ? 

Moth.  Hercules,  master. 

Arm.  Most  sweet  Hercules ! — More  authority,  dear 
boy,  name  more  ;  and,  sweet  my  child,  let  them  be 
men  of  good  repute  and  carriage. 

Moth.  Samson,  master :  he  was  a  man  of  good 
carriage,  great  carriage  ;  for  he  carried  the  town-gates 
on  his  back,  like  a  porter,  and  he  was  in  love. 

Arm.  O  well-knit  Samson  !  strong-jointed  Samson  ! 
I  do  excel  thee  in  my  rapier,  as  much  as  thou  didst 
me  in  carrying  gates.  I  am  in  love  too.  Who  was 
Samson's  love,  my  dear  Moth  ? 

Moth.  A  woman,  master. 

Arm.  Of  what  complexion  ? 

Moth.  Of  all  the  four,  or  the  three,  or  the  two,  or 
one  of  the  four. 

Arm.  Tell  me  precisely  of  what  complexion. 

3Ioth.  Of  the  sea- water  green,  sir. 

Arm.  Is  that  one  of  the  four  complexions  ? 

31oth.  As  I  have  read,  sir,  and  the  best  of  them  too. 

Arm.  Green,   indeed,   is  the  colour  of   lovers;   but 


small  reason  for  it.    He,  surely,  afiected  I  er  for  her  wit. 

Moth.  It  was  so,  sir,  for  she  had  a  grc^n  wit. 

Arm.  My  love  is  most  im.maculate  white  and  red. 

3Ioth.  Most  maculate  thoughts,  master,  are  ma8ke<J 
under  such  colours. 

Ann.  Define,  define,  well-educated  infant. 

Moth.  My  father's  wit,  and  my  mother's  tongue^ 
assist  me  ! 

Arm.  Sweet  invocation  of  a  child  ;  most  pretty,  ai  d 
poeticaP  ! 

3Ioth.    If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red, 
Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known ; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred. 

And  fears  by  pale  white  shown : 
Then,  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame, 

By  this  you  shall  not  know; 
For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same, 
Which  native  she  doth  owe*. 
A  dangerous   rhyme,  master,   against   the   reason   of 
white  and  red. 

Arm.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  Kin-g  and 
the  Beggar?' 

Moth.  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  ballad 
some  three  ages  since,  but,  I  think,  now  't  is  not  to  be 
found ;  or,  if  it  were,  it  would  neither  serve  for  the 
writing,  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  that  subject  newly  -wTit  o'er,  that  I 
may  example  my  digression  by  some  mighty  precedent. 
Boy,  I  do  love  that  country  girl,  that  I  took  in  the  park 
with  the  rational  hind  Costard :  she  deserves  well. 

Moth.  [Aside.]  To  be  whipped;  and  yet  a  better 
love  than  my  master. 

Arm.  Sing,  boy:  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in  love. 

3Ioth.  And  that  's  great  marvel,  loving  a  light 
wench. 

Arm.  I  say,  sing. 

Moth.  Forbear,  till  this  company  be  past. 
[Enter  Dull,  Costard,  and  Jaquenetta. 

Dull.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is,  that  you  keep  Cos- 
tard safe  :  and  you  must  let  him  take  no  delight,  noi 
no  penance  ;  but  a'  must  fast  three  days  a  week.  For 
this  damsel,  I  must  keep  her  at  the  park;  she  is 
allowed  for  the  day^-woman.     Fare  you  well. 

Arm.  I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing. — Maid. 

Jaq.  Man. 

Arm.  I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jaq.  That 's  hereby. 

Arm.  I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

Jaq.  Lord,  how  wise  you  are  ! 

Arm.  I  will  tell  thee  wonders. 

Jaq.  With  that  face  ? 

Arm.  I  love  thee. 

Jaq.  So  I  heard  you  say. 

Arm.  And  so  farewell. 

Jaq.  Fair  weather  after  you. 

Dull.  Come,  Jaquenetta,  away. 

[Exeunt  Dull  and  Jaquenetta. 

Arm.  Villain,  thou  shalt  fast  for  thy  offences,  ere 
thou  be  pardoned. 

Cost.  Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it,  I  shall  do  il 
on  a  full  stomach. 

Arm.  Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished. 

Co.st.  I  am  more  bound  to  you  than  your  fellows, 
for  they  are  but  lightly  rewarded. 

Arm.  Take  away  this  villain  :  shut  him  up. 

3Ioth.  Come,  you  transgressing  slave  :  away  ! 


'  Coins  ;  so  called  from  the  crosses  on  them.  »  Bankes'  horse,  Marocco,  exliibited  in  London  about  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury and  repeatedly  aluded  to  in  the  writing?  of  the  time.  He  is  said  to  have  ascended  St.  Paul's  steeple.  Bankes  took  his  horse  tc 
Iho  contment,  and  both  are  said  to  have  been  burnt,  at  Home,  for  witchcraft.  ^  pathetical  :  in  f.  e.  *  Po-t-^est.  »  It  is  printed  in  Vol 
I.,  of  Percy^i  Religues.      «  Dey,  or  dairy 


128 


LOVE'S   LABOUK'S  LOST. 


ACT  n. 


Cost.  Let  me  not  be  pent  up,  sir:  I  ^vill  fast,  being 
loose. 

Moth.  No,  sir;  that  were  fast  and  loose:  thou  shall 
to  prison. 

Cost.  Well,  if  ever  I  do  see  the  merrj-  days  of  deso- 
JiMon  that  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see — 

Moth.  What  shall  .<:ome  see? 

Cost.  Nay  nothing,  master  Moth,  but  \vhat  they  look 
upon.  It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too  silent  in  their 
wonls;  am^  therefore  I  will  say  nothing:  I  thank  God 
I  liave  as  little  patience  as  another  man.  and  therefore 
I  can  be  quiet.  [Exeimt  Moth  mnl  Costard. 

Arm.  I  do  affect  the  ver>'  ground,  wliich   is   base, 

here  her  shoe,  -svhich  is  baser,   guided  by  her  toot. 

which  is  basest,  doth  tread.  I  shall  be  forsworn,  (which 


is  a  great  argiimont  of  falsehood)  if  I  love ;  and  how 
can  that  be  true  love,  which  is  falsely  attempted  ?  Love 
is  a  familiar ;  love  is  a  devil :  there  is  no  evil  angel  but 
love.  Yet  was  Samson  so  tempted,  and  he  had  an 
excellent  strength :  yet  was  Solomon  so  seduced,  and 
he  had  a  very  good  ■w'it.  Cupid's  butt-shaft  is  too  hard 
for  Hercules'  club,  and  therefore  too  much  odds  for  a 
Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and  second  cause  will  not 
serve  my  turn ;  the  pa.ssado  he  respects  not.  the  duello 
he  regards  not :  his  disgrace  is  to  be  called  boy,  but 
his  glory  is.  to  subdue  men.  Adieu,  valour  !  rust,  rapier  ! 
be  still,  drum!  for  your  ariniger'  is  in  love;  yea,  he 
lovefh.  Assist  me  some  extemporal  god  of  rhyme,  tor, 
I  am  sure,  I  shall  turn  sonnet-maker^  De\ise  wit,  -wnite 
pen.  for  I  am  for  whole  volumes  in  folio.  [Ex^. 


ACT    II. 


SCKNE  I.— Another  part  of  the  Park.     A  Pavilion 
and  Tents  at  a  distance. 

Enter  the  Princess  of  France.  Rosaline,  Maria, 
Katharine.  Bovet,  Lorch.  and  other  Attendants. 

Boyet.   Now,    madam,  suimnon   up   your   clearest' 
spirits. 
Consider  whom  the  king  your  father  sends, 
To  whom  he  sends,  and  what 's  his  embassy : 
Vourself  held  precious  in  the  world's  esteem, 
To  parley  with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe. 
Matchless  Navarre:  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 
Than  Aquitain.  a  do\\Ty  for  a  queen. 
Be  now  as  prodigal  of  all  dear  grace, 
.As  nature  was  in  making  graces  dear, 
When  she  did  starv'e  the  general  world  beside, 
And  prodigally  gave  them  all  to  you. 

Prin.  Good  lord  Boyet.  my  beauty,  though  but  mean, 
.Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise  : 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye. 
Not  utter'd  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's  tongues. 
I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth. 
riian  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  prai.sc  of  mine. 
But  now  to  tn.sk  the  tasker.— Good  Boyet, 
You  are  not  iirnorant.  all-telling  fame 
Doth  noise  abroad.  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painl'ul  study  shall  out-wear  three  years, 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court : 
Therefore  to  us  seem'th  it  a  needful  course. 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 
To  k-now  his  pleasure  :  and  in  that  behalf, 
Bold  of  your  worthinesp.  we  single  you 
As  our  best  moving  fair  solicitor. 
Fell  him.  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  France. 
On  serious  business,  craving  q\iick  despatch, 
Importunes  pergonal  conference  with  his  grace. 
Haste,  signify  .so  much  ;  while  we  attend. 
Like  humbie-visag'd  suitors,  his  hish  will. 

Hoyet.  Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go.    [Exit. 

Prin.   AH  pride  is  willing  nride,  and  yours  is  so. — 
Wiio  are  the  votaries,  my  loving  lords, 
Tiiat  are  vow-fellows  with  this  virtuous  duke? 

I  Jxird.  Longaville  is  one. 

Prin.  Know  you  the  man? 

Mar.  I  know  him,  madam  :  at  a  marriage  feasi, 
Between  lord  Perieort  and  the  beauteous  heir 


Of  Jaques  Falconbridge,  solemnized 

In  Normandy,  saw  I  this  Longaville. 

A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteem'd ; 

Well  fitted  in  the  arts :  glorious  in  arms: 

Nothing  becomes  him  ill,  that  he  would  well. 

The  only  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss, 

If  virtue's  gloss  will  stain  v>-\i\\  any  soil. 

Is  a  sharp  wit  match'd  with  too  blunt  a  will : 

Whose  edge  hath  power  to  cut,  whose  will  still  -wills 

It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 

Prin.  Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belike  ;  is  't  so? 

Mar.  They  say  so  most  that  most  his  humours  know 

Prin.  Such  short-liv'd  wits  do  wther  as  they  gw^w 
Who  are  the  rest? 

Kath.  The   young   Dumaine,    a   well-accomplished 
youth, 
Of  all  that  -virtue  love  for  virtue  lov'd  : 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill. 
For  he  hath  -wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good, 
And  shape  to  win  srace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  Duke  Alenfon's  once ; 
And  much  too  litt  le  of  that  good  I  saw- 
Is  my  report  to  his  great  worthiness. 

Ros.  Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him :  if  I  have  heard  a  truth, 
Biron  they  call  him  :  but  a  merrier  man. 
Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal. 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit ; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch. 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest, 
Which  his  fair  tongue  (conceit's  expositor) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  -w^ords, 
That  aged  cars  play  truant  at  his  talcs, 
And  younuer  hearings  are  quite  ravished. 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse. 

Prin.  God  bless  my  ladies  !  are  they  all  in  love. 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
Witli  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise? 

Lord.  Here  comes  Boyet. 

Re-enter  Botet. 

Prin.  Now.  what  admittance,  lord; 

Boyet.  Navarre  had  notice  of  your  fair  approach  ; 
And  he.  and  his  competitors  in  oath. 
Were  all  address'd  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 
Before  I  came.     Marr\-,  thus  much  I  have  learnt, 
He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field. 
Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  court, 


>  uumager  :  in  f.  e       >  sonneteer  :  in  f  e.     The  folio  hsi :  sonnet.      '  dearest  :  in  f.  e 


LOYE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


129 


Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath, 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Here  comes  Navarre.  [The  ladies  mask. 

Enltr  King.  Longaville.  Dumaine,  Biron,  and 
Attendants. 

King.  Fair  princess,  welcome  to  the  court  of  Na- 
varre. 

Frin.  Fair,  I  give  you  back  again;  ana  welcome  I 
have  not  yet  :  t4ie  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high  to  be 
yours,  and  welcome  to  the  wide'  fields  too  base  to  be 
mine. 

King.  You  shall  be  welcome,  madam,  to  my  court. 

Prin.  I  will  be  welcome  then.    Conduct  me  thither. 

King.  Hear  me.  dear  lady :  I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Prin.  Our  lady  help  my  lord  !   he  "11  be  forsworn. 

King.  Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my  will. 

Prin.  Why,  will  shall  break  it ;  will,  and  nothing  else. 

King.  Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 

Prin.  Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were  wise, 
Where  now  his  kno\\  ledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear  your  grace  hath  sworn  out  house-keeping : 
'T  is  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord, 
And  sin  to  break  it. 
But  pardon  me.  I  am  too  sudden-bold  : 
To  teach  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 
And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit.      [Gives  a  paper. 

King.  Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may.     [Reads.^ 

Prin.  You  will  the  sooner  that  I  were  away, 
For  you  '11  prove  perjur'd,  if  you  make  me  stay. 

Biron.  Did  not  1  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once  ? 

Ros.  Did  not  I  dance  with  yciu  in  Brabant  once  ? 

Biron.  1  know  you  did. 

Ros.  How  needless  was  it,  then^ 

To  ask  the  question? 

Biron.  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Ros.  'T  is  'long  of  you,  that  spur  me  with  such 
questioiis. 

Biron.  Your  wit 's  too  hot,  it  speeds  too  fast,  't  will 
tire. 

Ros.  Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Biron.  What  time  o'  day? 

Ros.  The  hour  that  fools  should  ask. 

Biron.  Now  fair  befal  your  mask  ! 

Ros.  Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers ! 

Biron.  And  send  you  many  lovers  ! 

Ros.  Amen,  so  you  bo  none. 

Biron.  Nay,  then  will  I  begone. 

King.  Madam,  your  father  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns; 
Being  but  the  one  half  of  an  entire  sum. 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
But  say,  that  lie.  or  we,  (as  neither  have) 
Receiv'd  that  sam,  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more ;  in  surety  of  the  which. 
One  part  ol  Aquitain  is  bound  to  us. 
Although  not  valued  to  the  money's  worth. 
If,  then,  the  king  your  father  will  restore 
But  that  one  half  which  is  unsatisfied. 
We  will  give  up  our  right  in  Aquitain, 
And  hold  fair  friend.-hip  with  his  majesty. 
But  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth. 
For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 
An  hundred  thousand  crowns ;  and  not  demands, 
On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns, 
To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitain; 
Which  we  much  rather  had  depart'  witha? 
And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent, 


Than  Aqwitain,  so  gelded  as  it  is. 

Dear  princess,  were  not  his  requests  so  far 

From  reason's  jielding,  your  fair  self  should  make 

A  yielding,  'gainst  some  reason  in  my  breast. 

And  go  well  satisfied  to  France  again. 

Prin.  You  do  the  king  my  father  too  much  wrong. 
And  wrong  the  reputation  of  your  name, 
In  so  unseeming  to  confess  receipt 
Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 

King.  I  do  protest  I  never  h-iard  of  it; 
And,  if  you  prove  it,  1  '11  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 

Prin.  We  arrest  your  word. 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances 
For  such  a  sum  from  special  officers 
Of  Charles  his  father. 

King.  Satisfy  me  so. 

Boyet.  So  please  your  grace,  the  packet  is  not  come 
Where  that  and  other  specialties  are  bound : 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  them. 

King.  It  shall  suffice  me  :  at  which  interview, 
All  liberal  reason  I  will  yield  unto. 
Mean  time,  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand, 
As  honour,  without  breach  of  honour,  may 
Make  ttnder  of  to  thy  true  worthiness. 
You  may  not  come,  fair  princess,  within*  my  gates; 
But  here  without  you  shall  be  so  receiv'd. 
As  you  shall  deem  yourself  lodg'd  in  my  heart. 
Though  so  denied  free'  harbour  in  my  house. 
Your  own  good  thougnts  excuse  me,  and  farewell : 
To-morrow  shall  we  visit  you  again. 

Prin.  Sweet  beallh  and  fair  desires  consort  yotu 
grice! 

King.  Thy  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in  every  place  ' 
[Exeunt  King  arid  his  train, 

Biron.  Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  mine  own  heart. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  do  my  commendations ;  I  would  be- 
glad  to  see  it. 

Biron.  I  would,  you  heard  it  groan. 

Ros.  Is  the  fool  sick  ? 

Biron.  Sick  at  the  heart. 

Ros.  Alack  !  let  it  blood. 

Biron.  Would  that  do  it  good  ? 

Ros.  My  physic  says,  ay. 

Biron.  Will  you  prick  't  with  your  eye  ? 

Ros.  No  point,'  with  my  knife. 

Biron.  Now,  God  save  thy  life. 

Ros.  And  yours  from  long  living. 

Biron.  I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving.        [Stands  back. 

Dum.  Sir,  I  pray  you,  a  word.     What  lady  is  that 
same  ?  [ Coming  forward.' 

Boyet.  The  heir  of  Alenfon,  Rosaline  her  name. 

Dum.  A  gallant  lady.     Monsieur,  fare  you  well. 

[Exit 

Long.  I  beseech  you  a  word.     What  is  she  in  the 
white  ?  [Coming  forward.'' 

Boyet.  A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  saw  her  in  the 
light. 

Long.  Perchance,  light  in  the  light.     1  desire  her 
name. 

Boyet.  She  hath  but  one  for  herself;  to  desire  that, 
were  a  shame. 

Long.  Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter? 

Boyet.  Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 

Long.  God's  blessing  on  your  beard  ! 

Boyet.  Good  sir,  be  not  offended. 
She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 

Long.  Nay,  my  choler  is  ended. 


•  Some  mod.  eds.  read  : 
L  e.      •  Non  point :  Fr. 

I 


■wild.     »  Not  in  f.  e.      '  Part  and  depatt  were  used  indifferently.    *  So  the  quarto  ;  the  folio  : 
Retiring ;  in  f.  e.     »  '  Not  in  f.  e. 


130 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


AOT  m. 


She  18  a  most  sweet  lady. 

Boyct.  Not  unlike,  sir;  that  may  be.      [Exit  Long. 

Riron.  What  "s  licr  name,  in  the  caji  ^ 

[  ( 'liming  forward} 

Boyet.  Katharine,  by  good  hap. 

Biron.  Is  she  wedded,  or  no? 

Boyct.  To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 

Biron.  0  !  you  are  welcome,  sir.     Adieu. 

Boyet.  Farewell  to  me,  sir,  and  welcome  to  you. 

[Exit  Biron. — Ladies  unmask. 

Mar.  That  last  is  Biron,  the  merry  mad-cap  lord: 
Not  a  word  with  him  but  a  jest. 

Boi/rt.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

Priu.  It  was  well  done  of  you  to  take  him  at  his  w^ord. 

Boyct.  I  was  as  willing  to  grapple,  as  he  was  to  board. 

Mar.  Two  hot  sheeps,  marr)' ! 

Boyct.  And  wherefore  not  ships  ? 

IVo  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  we  feed  on  your  lips. 

Mar.  You  sheep,  and  I  pasture-:    shall  that  linish 
the  jest  ? 

Boyet.  So  you  grant  pasture  for  me. 

[Offering  to  kis.s  her. 

Mar.  Not  so.  gentle  beast. 

My  lips  are  no  common,  though  several'  they  be. 

Boyet.  Belonging  to  whom  ? 

Mar.  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

Prin.   Good  wits  will  be  jangling;   but,  gentles, 
agree. 
This  civil  war  of  wits  were  much  better  used 
On  Navarre  and  his  book-men,  for  here  't  is  abused. 

Boyct.  If  my  observation,  (which  very  seldom  lies,) 
3y  the  heart's  still  rhetoric,  disclosed  with  eyes, 
Deceive  me  not  now,  Navarre  is  xnlected. 

Prin.  With  what  ? 

Boyet.  With  that  which  we  lovers  entitle,  affected. 


Prin.  Your  reason  ? 

Boyet.  Why.  all  his  behaviours  did  make  their  retire 
To  the  court  of  his  eye.  peeping  thorough  desire: 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impressed, 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  expies>ed  • 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  ."^ee, 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  eye-sight  'o  be  : 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair, 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair. 
Methought.  all  his  ."senses  were  lock'd  in  his  eye 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy  ; 
Who,  tcnd'ring  their  own  worth,  from  where'  they  were 

glass'd, 
Did  point  you  to  buy  them   along  as  you  pass'd. 
His  face's  o^^•n  margin  did  quote  such  amazes. 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes. 
I  '11  give  you  Aquitain,  and  all  that  is  his. 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  'oving  kiss. 

Prin.  Come  to  our  pavilion  :  Boyet  is  dispos'd — 

Boyct.  But  to  speak  that   in  words,  which  his  eye 
hath  disclos'd. 
I  only  have  made  a  mouth  of  his  eye. 
By  adding  a  tongue,  which  I  k'low  will  not  lie. 

Ros.  Thou    art   an   old   love-monger,  and  speak'st 
skilfully. 

Mar.  He  is  Cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns  news  of 
him. 

Ros.  Then  was  Venus  like  her  mother,  for  her  father 
is  but  grim. 

Boyet.  Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wene^ies  ? 

Mar.  '         No. 

Boyet.  What  then,  do  you  see  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  our  way  to  be  gone. 

Boyet.  You  are  too  hard  for  me.     [Exeunt. 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I.— Another  part  of  the  Same. 
Enter  Arm. a  do  and  Moth. 
Song.   See.  my  love.* 
Arm.  Warble,  child  :  make  passionate  my  sense  of 
hearing. 

Moth.  Crmcolinel (Amato  bene.)*  [Singing. 

Arm.  S^*eet  air  ! — Go,  tenderness  of  years  :  take  this 
\ey.  give  enlargement  to  the  swain,  bring  him  fcsti- 
nately  hither;  I  must  employ  him  in  a  letter  to  rry 
iove. 

Moth.  Ma.'ster,  will  you  win  your  love  with  a  French 

brawl*  ? 
Arm.  How  meanest  thou  ?  brawling  in  French  ? 
Moth.  No,  my  complete  master ;  but  to  jig  off  a 
lime  at  Ihc  tongxje's  end,  canary'  to  it  with  your  feet, 
humour  it  with  turning  up  your  eyelids  ;  sigh  a  note. 
and  Finga  note  ;  sometime  through  the  throat,  a.*:  if  you 
rwallowed  love  with  sincing  iove  :  sometime  through 
the  nose,  as  if  you  snuffed  up  love  by  smelling  love  : 
with  your  hat  penthouse-like,  o'er  the  shop  of  your 
eyefl  ;  with  your  arms  crossed  on  your  thin  belly's  doub- 
let, like  a  rabbit  on  a  spit  :  or  your  hands  in  your  pocket, 
like  a  man  after  the  old  painting  ;  and  keep  not  too 
iong  in  one  tune,  but  a  snip  and  away.      These  are 


complements,  these  are  humours  ;  these  betray  nice 
wenches,  that  would  be  betrayed  without  these,  and 
make  them  men  of  note,  (do  you  note,  men?)  that  most 
are  affected  to  these. 

Arm.  How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience  ' 

Moth.  By  my  pain*  of  observation. 

Arm.  But  0,— but  O,— 

Moth.  The  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Arm.  Callest  thou  my  love  hobby-horse  ? 

Moth.  No,  master  ;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a  colt, 
and  your  love,  perhaps,  a  hackney.  But  have  you  for- 
got your  love  ? 

Arm.  Almost  I  had. 

Moth.  Negligent  student  !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.  By  heart,  and  in  heart,  boy. 

Moth.  And  out  of  heart,  master  :  all  those  three  I 
will  prove. 

Arm.  What  wilt  thou  prove' 

Moth.  A  man,  if  I  live  :  and  this,  by,  in.  and  with 
out.  upon  the  instant :  by  heart  you  love  her,  because 
your  heart  caimot  come  by  her  :  in  heart  you  love  her. 
because  your  heart  is  in  love  with  her  :  and  out  of  heart 
you  love  her,  being  out  of  heart  that  you  cannot  enjoy 
her. 

Arm.  I  am  all  these  three. 


1  Kot  in  f.  e.  »  A  play  upon  the  leKftl  meaninR  of  the  words  common,  vnrnrlosed  land;  and  several,  that  which  U  private  property 
Severell,  if  said  hy  Dr.  James,  to  have  in  Warwickshire,  the  loc.il  meanitc  of  bc-lonKing  to  a  few  proprietors  in  common.  '  Bo  the  quarto 
the  Colio  ha.i  :  whence.  ♦  •  Jfot  in  f.  e.  •  Fr.  Uranlt ;  a  dance  in  which  the  parties  joined  hands  and  danced  around  a  couple,  who 
kissed  in  turn  all  of  the  opposite  sex  to  themselves,  then  took  their  plnces  in  the  circle,  and  were  succeeded  by  a  second  couple,  and  M 
on,  till  all  tiad  had  their  share.      '  Ttie  name  of  a  lively,  grotenque  dance.     «  f.  e.  :  penny.    The  oriRinal   word  of  the  folio  is  petimt 


J 


BUENE    I. 


LOYE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


131 


Moth.  And  three  times  as  much  more,  and  yet 
nothing  at  all. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain  :  he  must  carry  me  a 
letter. 

Moth.  A  messenger'  well  sympathised:  a  horse  to 
be  ambassador  for  an  ass. 

Arm.  Ha.  ha  !  what  sayest  thou  ? 
3Ioth.  Marr)    sir,  you  must  send  the  ass  upon  the 
horse,  for  he  i.s  very  slow-gaited  :  but  I  go. 
Ann.  The  way  is  but  short.     Away  ! 
Moth.  As  swift  as  lead,  sir. 
Arm.  Thy  meaning,  pretty  ingenious  ? 
Is  not  lead  a  metal  heavy,  dull,  and  slow  ? 

Moth.  Minime.  honest  master  ;  or  rather,  master,  no. 
Arr.i.   I  say,  lead  is  slow. 

3Ioth.  You  are  too  swift,  sir,  to  say  so  : 

Is  that  lead  slow  which  is  fir'd  from  a  gun? 

Arm.  Sweet  smoke  of  rhetoric  ! 
He  reputes  me  a  cannon  ;  and  the  bullet,  that 's  he : — 
I  shoot  thee  at  the  swain. 

Moth.  Thump  then,  and  I  flee.     [Exit. 

Arm.  A  most  acute  juvenal ;  voluble  and  fair"  of 
grace  ! 
By  thy  favour,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy  face  : 
Moif-t-eyed^  melancholy,  valour  gives  thee  place. 
My  herald  is  return'd. 

Re-enter  Moth  ivith  Costard. 
Moth.  A  wonder,  master  !  here  "s  a  Ccstard*  broken 

in  a  shin. 
Arm.  Some  enigma,  some  riddle :  come. — thy  V envoy; 

— begin. 
Cost.  No  egma.  no  riddle,  no  F envoy !  no  salve  in 
them  all,'  sir  :    0,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain  !  no 
I' envoy,  no  I' envoy  :  no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain. 

Arm.  By  virtue,  thou  enforcest  laughter  ;  thy  silly 
thought,  my  spleen ;  the  heaving  of  my  lungs  provokes 
me  to  ridiculous  smiling.  0.  pardon  me,  my  stars  ! 
Doth  the  inconsiderate  take  salve  for  V envoy ^  and  the 
word  V envoy  for  a  salve  ? 

Moth.  Do  the  wise  think  them  other  ?  is  not  l envoy 
a  salve  ?^ 

Arm.  No,  page  :  it  is  an  epilogue,  or  discourse,  to 
make  plain 
Some  obscure  precedence  that  hath  tofore  been  sain. 
I  will  example  it  : 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee. 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
There  's  the  moral  :  now  the  I' envoy. 

Moth.  I  \\-ill  add  the  V envoy.     Say  the  moral  again. 
Arm.  The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  iiumble-bee, 

Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
Moth.  Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door. 

And  stayed  the  odds  by  making'  four. 
Now  ^^ill  I  begin  your  moral,  and  do  you  follow  with 
my  Venvoy. 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 
vV=r3  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
Arm.  Unti-  the  goose  came  out  of  door. 
Staying  the  odds  by  making  four. 
A  good  Venvoy.^ 

Moth.  Endmg  in  the  goose  ;  would  you  desire  more  ? 
Cost.  The  boy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain,"  a   goose, 
that 's  flat. — 
Sir,  your  pennyworth  is  good,  an  your  goose  be  fat. — 


To  sell  a  bargain  well  is  as  cunning  as  fast  and  loose :" 
Let  me  see,  a  fat  l envoy  ;  ay,  that  "s  a  fat  gooee. 

Arm.  Come  hither,  come  hither.     How  did  this  ar- 
gument begin  ? 

Moth.  By  saying  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in  a  shin 
Tlien  call'd  you  for  the  I' envoy. 

Cost.  True,  and  I  for  a  plantain  :  thus  came  your 
argument  in  ; 
Then  the  boy's  fat  Tenvoy.,  the  goose  that  you  bought 
And  he  ended  the  market." 

Arm.  But  tell  me  ;  how  was  there  a  Costard  broken 
in  a  shin  ? 

Moth.  I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 

Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it.  Moth  :  I  will  spea 
that  I'envoy. 

I,  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within. 
Fell  over  the  threshold,  and  broke  my  .shin. 

Arm.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 

Cost.  Till  there  be  more  matter  in  the  shin. 

Arm.  Sirrah  Costard,  marry. '°  I  will  enfranchise 
thee. 

Cost.  0  !  marry  me  to  one  Frances  ? — I  smell  some 
Venvoy.  some  goose,  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean,  setting  thee  at 
liberty,  enfreedoming  thy  person :  thou  wert  immured, 
restrained,  captivated,  bound. 

Cost.  True,  true  ;  and  now  you  will  be  my  purgalion, 
and  let  me  be  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  free'^  from 
durance  ;  and,  in  lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee  nothing 
but  this  :  bear  this  significant  {Giving a  letter. Y*  to  the 
country  maid  Jaquenetta.  There  is  remuneration  ;  for 
the  best  ward  of  mine  honour  is  rewarding  my  depen- 
dents.    Moth,  follow.  [Exit. 

Moth.  Like  the  sequel,  L — Signior  Costard,  adieu. 

[Exit. 

Cost.  Mv  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh  !  my  incony" 
Jew"  !— 
Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Remuneration  ! 
0  !  that 's  the  Latin  word  for  three  farthings  :  three 
farthings,  remuneration. — '•'  What 's  the  price  of  this 
inkle''  ?  A  penny. — No,  I  '11  give  you  a  remuneration :" 
why,  it  carries  it. — Remuneration  ! — why,  it  is  a  fairer 
name  than  French  crowni.  I  will  never  buy  and  sell 
out  of  this  word. 

Enter  Biron. 

Biron.  0,  my  good  knave  Costard  !  exceedingly 
well  met. 

Cost.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much  carnation  ribbon  may 
a  man  buy  for  a  remuneration  ? 

Biron.  What  is  a  remuneration  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  sir,  half-penny  farthing.  [Showing  it.'* 

Biron.  0  !  why  then,  three-farthing-worth  of  silk. 

Cost.  I  thank  your  worship.     God  be  ^^i'  you. 

Biron.  0,  stay,  sfeve  !  I  must  employ  thee  : 
As  thou  ■n'ilt  win  my  favour,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 

Cost.  When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir? 

Biron.  0  !  this  afternoon. 

Cost.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  sir.     Fare  you  well. 

Biron.  0  !  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 

Cost.  I  shall  know,  sir,  when  I  have  dene  is. 

Biron.  Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 

Cost.  I  will  come  to  your  worship  to-morrow  morning. 


»  message  :  in  f  e.  »  free  :  in  f.  e.  '  most  rude  :  in  f.  e.  ♦  Head.  •  the  male  :  in  f.  e.  TjTwhitt,  also  suggested  the  word  m  the 
tex<,  6  X  play  on  the  i,atin  salutation,  salve.  ">  adding  :  in  f.  e.  e  f.  g.  give  this  line  as  well  as  the  next  to  Moth.  '  Selling  a  bar- 
gain, says  Capell.  con.sisted  in  drawing  a  person  in,  by  some  stratagem,  to  proclaim  himself  a  fool  by  his  own  lips. — Knight.  '»  A 
cneating  game,  played  with  a  stick  and  a  belt  or  string,  so  arranged  that  a  spectator  would  think  he  could  make  the  latter  fast  by  placing 
a  stick  through  its  intricate  folds,  whereas  the  operator  could  detach  it  at  once.— HallhcelVs  Glossary.  "  An  allusion  to  &  proverb - 
•'  Tliree  women  and  a  g:oose  make  a  market."  i=  i^  i*  Xot  in  t.  e.  '*  Sweet,  pretty.  '«  Used  as  a  term  of  endearment  ;  also  in  Mi  L  Sum. 
Nta   Dream,  where  Thisbe  calU  Pyramus,  "  most  lovely  Jew."      n  A  species  of  tape.      ^»  Not  in  f  e. 


132 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST 


Biron.  It  must  be  done  this  afternoon.  Hark,  slave, 
It  is  but  this. — 

The  jiriiicess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  park, 
And  ill  her  train  tliere  is  a  gentle  lady; 
Wlieii  toniruos  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name  her  name. 
And  Rosaline  tliey  call  her  :  ask  for  her. 
And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 
This  seal'd-up  counsel.     There  's  thy  guerdon  :  go. 

[Gives  him  money. 

Cost.  Guerdon. — 0,  sweet  guerdon  !  better  than 
remuneration  ;  eleven-pence  farthing  better.'  Most 
swet  t  guerdon  ! — 1  will  do  it,  sir,  in  print'. — Guerdon 
-remuneration !  [Exit. 

Biron.  0  ! — And  I.  forsooth,  in  love  !  I,  that  have 
been  loves  whip ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh  : 
A  critic,  nay,  a  night-watch  constable, 
A  domineering  pedant  o"er  the  boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent  ! 
This  whimpled'.  whining,  purblind,  waj^^ard  boy ; 
This  senior-junior,  giant -dwarf,  Dan  Cupid  ; 
Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms, 
Th'  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 


Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents, 
Dread  prince  of  plackets,  king  of  cod-pieces. 
Sole  imperator,  and  great  general 
Of  trotting  paritors,*  (0  my  little  heart  !) 
And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field, 
And  wear  his  colours  like  a  Jumbler's  hoop  ! 
What  ?     I  love  !   I  sue  !   I  seek  a  wife  ! 
A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock, 
Still  a  repairing,  ever  out  of  frame. 
And  never  going  aright ;  being  a  watch, 
I  But  being  watch'd  that  it  may  still  go  right' 
I  Nay,  fo  be  perjur'd,  which  is  worst  of  all  ; 
j  And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 
A  witty*  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow, 
With  two  pitch  balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes; 
Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed, 
Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard  : 
And  1  to  sigh  for  her  !  to  watch  for  her  ! 
To  pray  for  her  !  Go  to  ;  it  is  a  plague 
That  Cupid  will  impose  for  my  neglect 
Of  his  almighty  dreadful  little  might. 
Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  and  groan: 
Some  men  must  love  my  lady,  and  some  Joan.     [Exit 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Same. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Rosaline,  Maria,  Katharine, 
BoYET,  Lords.,  Attendants,  and  a  Forester. 

Prill.  Was  that  the  king,  that  spurred  his  horse  so  hard 
Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill? 

Boyet.  I  know  not :  but,  I  think,  it  was  not  he. 

Prin.  Whoe'er  a'  was,  a'  show'd  a  mounting  mind. 
Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch  ; 
On  Saturday  we  will  return  to  France. — 
Then  forester,  my  friend,  where  is  the  bush. 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in?' 

For.  Hereby,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  coppice  ; 
A  stand  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 

Prin.  I  thank  my  beauty.  I  am  fair  that  shoot. 
And  thereupon  thou  speak"st  the  fairest  shoot. 

For.  Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 

Prin.  Wliat,  what?  first  praise  me,  and  again  say,  no  ? 
0,  short-liv'd  pride  !     Not  fair?  alack  for  woe  ! 

For.  Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now : 

Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  my  gla.s8,  take  this  for  telling  true. 

[Giving  him  money. 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 

For.  Nolliing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  iniierit. 

Prin.  See,  sec  !  my  beauty  will  be  sav"d  by  merit. 
0  heresy  in  faith,'  fit  for  these  days  ! 
A  giving  liand,  though  foul,  shall  have  fair  prai.se. — 
But  come,  the  bow : — now  mercy  goes  to  kill. 
And  shooting  well  is  then  accounted  ill. 
Thus  will  1  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot: 
Not  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do  'i  ; 
if  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill, 
That  more  for  praise  than  purpose  meant  to  kill. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes  : 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes. 


When,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part. 

We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart; 

As  I  for  praise  alone  now  seek  to  spill 

The  poor  deer's  blood,  that  my  heart  means  no  ill. 

Boyet.  Do  not  curst  wIac"  hn]d  that  self-sovereignty 
Only  for  praise'  sake,  when  they  strive  to  be 
Lords  o'er  their  lords  ? 

Prin.  Only  for  praise  ;  and  praise  we  may  afford 
To  any  lady  that  subdues  a  lord. 
Enter  Costard. 

Prin.  Here  comes  a  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

Co.'it.  God  dig-you-den*  all.  Pray  you,  which  is  thf 
head  lady? 

Prin.  Thou  shalt  know  her,  fellow,  by  the  rest  that 
have  no  heads. 

Co.si.  Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest? 

Prin.  The  thickest,  and  the  tallest. 

Cost.  The  thickest,  and  the  tallest?  it  is  so;  truth 
is  truth. 
An  your  waist,  mistress,  were  as  slender  as  my  wit. 
One  o'  these  maids'  girdles  for  your  waist  should  be  fit. 
Are  not  you  the  chief  woman?  you  are  the  thickest  here. 

Prin.  What 's  your  will,  sir  ?  what 's  your  will  ? 

Cost.  I  have  a  letter,  from  monsieur  Biron  to  one 
lady  Rosaline.  [Giving  it.* 

Prin.  O,  thy  letter,  thy  letter  !    he  's  a  good  Iriend 
of  mine. 
Stand  aside,  good  bearer. — Boyet,  you  can  csltxc  ; 
Break  up'"  this  capon.  [Handing  it  to  hin.'' 

Boyet.  I  am  bound  to  serve. — 

This  letter  is  mistook;  it  importeth  none  here : 
It  is  writ  to  Jaquenetta. 

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear. 

Break  the  neck  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give  ear. 

Boyet.  [Reads.]  "  By  heaven,  that  thou  art  fair,  is 
mo.><t  infallible;  true,  that  thou  art  beauteous;  truth 
itself,  that  thou   art   lovely.     More  fairer  than  fair, 


>  A  trnct  pnNiinhed  in  1.598,  "  A  Hpalth  to  the  penflemnnly  profesHion  of  ServinR-Men,"  has  a  story  of  a  servant  who  got  a  remuiterO' 

flow  of  throe  farthinKs  from  one  of  his  mnxtprs  (riirstR.  nnil  a  Ruerdnn  of  a  shilliiiK  fmm  another.      »  Erartly.      3  Veiled.     *  Avparitort, 

offieem  of  Ihp  eoclesiastiral  court,  who  carried  out  citations,  oflt'n,  of  course,  for  offfiiireK  instigated  by  "  Dan  Cupid."    *  whitely  :  in  f.  e 

Shooting  deer,  with  the  croso-low,  was  a  favourite  amusement  of  ladies  of  rank,  in  Shakespeare's  time.     '  tair  •  in  f.  e      •  Give  yo» 

goodrten.      »  Not  in  f.  e       ^»  Carve.      "  Not  in  f.  e. 


SCENT,  n. 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


133 


beautiAil  than  beauteous,  truer  than  truth  itself,  have 
commiseration  on  thy  heroical  vassal  !  The  magnani- 
mous and  most  illustrate  king  Cophetua  set  eye  upon 
the  pernicious  and  indubitate  beggar  Penelophon ; 
and  he  it  was  that  might  rightly  say,  veni,  vidi,  vici  ; 
which  to  anatomize  in  the  'VT.ilgar,  (0  base  and  ob- 
scure vulgar  !)  videlicet,  he  came,  saw,  and  overcame: 
he  came,  one ;  saw,  two ;  overcame,  three.  Who 
came  ?  the  king ;  Why  did  he  come  ?  to  see  ;  Why  did 
he  see  ?  to  overcome  ;  To  whom  came  he  ?  to  the 
beggar  ;  What  saw  he  ?  the  beggar ;  Whom  overcame 
he?  the  beggar.  The  conclusion  is  victory  :  on  whose 
eide  ^  the  king's  :  the  captive  is  enriched :  on  whose 
side  ?  the  beggar's.  The  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial :  on 
whose  side  ?  the  king's  ? — no,  on  both  in  one,  or  one 
in  both.  I  am  the  king,  fur  so  stands  the  comparison  ; 
thou  the  beggar,  for  so  witnesseth  thy  lowline.-s.  Shall 
I  command  thy  love  ?  I  may.  Shall  I  enforce  thy 
love?  I  could.  Shall  I  entreat  thy  love?  I  will. 
What  shalt  thou  exchange  for  rags  ?  robes ;  for  tittles  ? 
titles;  for  thyself?  me.  Thus,  expecting  thy  reply,  I 
profane  my  lips  on  thy  foot,  my  eyes  on  thy  picture, 
and  my  heart  on  thy  every  part. 

'•  Thine,  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry, 

"  Don  Adriano  de  Armado." 
"  Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Neinean  lion  roar 

'Gainst  thee,  thou  lamb,  that  standest  as  his  prey ; 
Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before, 

And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play  : 
But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then? 
Food  for  his  rage,  lepasture  for  his  den.'" 

Prin.  What   plume   of   feathers  is  he  that  indited 
this  letter  ? 
What  vane?  what  weather-cock?  did  you  ever  hear 
better  ? 

Boyet.  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  but  I  remember  the  style. 

Prin.  Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o'er  it  erewhile. 

Boyet.  This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps  here 
in  court ; 
A  phantasm,  a  JVIonarcho.^  and  one  that  makes  sport 
To  the  prince,  and  his  book-mates. 

P)i7i.  Thou,  fellow,  a  word. 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter  ? 

Cost.  I  told  you ;  my  lord. 

Prin.  To  whom  shouldst  thou  give  it  ? 

Co.st.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.  From  which  lord,  to  which  lady? 

Cost.  From  my  lord  Biron,  a  good  master  of  mine, 
To  a  lady  of  France,  that  he  call'd  Rosaline. 

Prin.  Thou  hast  mistaken  his  letter. — Come,  lords, 
away. — 
Here,  sweet,  put  up  this  :  't  will  be  thine  another  day. 
[Exeunt  Princess  and  Train. 

Boyet.  Who  is  the  suitor?  who  is  the  suitor?' 

Ros.  Shall  I  teach  you  to  know  ? 

Boyet.  Ay,  my  continent  of  beauty. 

Ros.  Why,  she  that  bears  the  bow. 

Finely  put  off ! 

Boyet.  My  lady  goes  to  kill  horns  ;  but  if  thou  marry, 
Hang' me  by  the  neck,  if  horns  that  year  miscarry. 
Finely  put  on  ! 

Ros.  Well  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 

Boyd.  And  who  is  your  deer  ? 

Ros.  If  we  choose    by  the  horns,   yourself:    come 
not  near. 


Finely  put  on,  indeed  ! — 

3Iar.  You  still  wTangle  with  her,  Boyet,  and  sh« 

strikes  at  the  brow. 
Boyet.  But   she   herself  is  hit  lower.     Have  I  hit 

her  now? 
Ros.  Shall  I  come  upon  thee  with  an  old  saying, 
that  was  a  man  when  king  Pepin  of   France  "was  u 
little  boy,  as  touching  the  hit  it  ? 

Boyet.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old,  that 
was  a  woman  when  queen  Guinever  of  Britain  was  a 
little  wench,  as  touching  the  hit  it. 

Ros.         Thou  canst  not  hit  it.,  hit  it,  hit  it. 

Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man. 
Boyet.  An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot, 

An  I  cannot,  another  can. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  Kath. 
Cost.  By  my  troth,  most   pleasant :    how  both  did 

fit  it! 
Mar.  A   mark  marvellous  well  shot,  for  they  both 

did  hit  it. 
Boyet.  A  mark  !    0  !  mark  but  that  mark  :  a  mark, 
says  my  lady. 
Let    the    mark    have  a  prick   in 't,  to  mete  at,  if  it 
may  be. 
Mar.  Wide  o"  the  bow  hand  :  i'  faith,  your  hand  is  out. 
Cost.  Indeed,  a'  must  shoot  nearer,  or  he  '11  ne'er 

hit  the  clout. 
Boyet.  An   if   my  hand   be    out,  then  belike  your 

hand  is  in. 
Cost.  Then  will  she  get  the  upshot  by  cleaving  the  pin.* 
Mar.  Come,  come,  you    talk    greasily;    your    lips 

grow  foul. 
Cost.  She  's  too  hard  for  you  at  pricks,  sir :    chal- 
lenge her  to  bowl. 
Boyet.  I  fear  too  much  rubbing.      Good  night,  my 
good  owl.  [Exeunt  Boyet  and  Maria. 

Cost.  By  my  soul,  a  swain  !  a  most  simple  clown  ! 
Lord,  lord  !  how  the  ladies  and  I  have  put  him  down  ! 
0'  my  troth,  most  sweet  jests  !  most  incony  \ailgar  wit  ! 
When   it    comes   so  smoothly  off,  so  obscenely,  as  it 

were,  so  fit. 
Armado  o'  the  one  side, — 0,  a  most  dainty  man  ! 
To  see  him  walk  before  a  lady,  and  to  bear  her  fan ! 
To  see  him  kiss  his  hand  !  and  how  most  sweetly  a' 

will  swear ; 
Looking  babies  in  her  eyes,  his  passion  to  declare.' 
And  his  page  o'  t'  other  side,  that  handful  of  small*  wit ! 
Ah.  heavens,  it  is  a  most  pathetical  nit  ! 
Sola,  sola  !  [Shouting  within. 

[Exit  Costard. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 
Enter  Holofernes,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

Nath.  Very  reverend  sport,  truly;  and  done  in  the 
testimony  of  a  good  conscience. 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  sanguis, — in 
blood  ;  ripe  as  the  pomewater,'  who  now  hangeth  like 
a  jewel  in  the  ear  of  calo. — the  sky,  the  welkin,  the 
heaven;  and  anon  falleth  like  a  crab,  on  the  face  of 
terra, — the  soil,  the  land,  the  earth. 

Nath.  Truly,  master  Holofernes,  the  epithets  are 
sweetly  varied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  lea.st  :  but,  sir, 
I  assure  ye,  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first  head.* 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  haud  credo. 

Dull.  'T  was  not  a  haud  credo,  't  was  a  pricket.* 


■  These  verses  are  usually  pven  to  Boyet,  as  his  own,  instead  of  being  an  appendage  to  Armado^s  epistle.  '  An  Englrshman,  who 
a  wrding  to  fTush,  (Have  with  vou  to  Saffrnn  "Walden,  1596.1  "quite  renounst  his  naturall  English  accents  and  gestures,  and  wrestei 
hiKJself  wholly  to  the  Italian  puntilios."  He  asserted  himself  to  be  sovereign  of  the  worid,  and  from  this  '•  phantastick  humor  obtain 
f>d  the  t-'.ie  of  Monarcho.  ^  A  play  upon  shooter  and  suitor,  showing  that  the  pronunciation  of  the  two  was  similar  *  Clout  and  jnn, 
terms  in  archery ;  the  clout  or  pin,  held  up  tlie  mark  aimed  at.  »  This  line  is  not  in  f.  e  « Not  in  f.  e.  '  j1  kind  of  apple.  »  A  stagjivt 
ytars  old.    •  A  stag  two  year^  old. 


13i 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S   LOST. 


Hoi  Most   barbarous    intimation!    yet    a   kind  of       Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple ;  a 


msmuation,  a^i  it  were,  tn  via.  in  way  of  explication  : 
faccre.  ae  it  wore,  replication,  or,  rather,  o.stcntare.  to 
show,  as  it  were,  his  inclination. — after  his  undressed, 
unjx)lished,  uneducated,  unpruned.  untrained,  or  rather 
unlettered,  or,  ratiierest.  unconfirmed  fashion, — to  in- 
sert asiain  my  hniul  credo  for  a  deer. 

Ihtll.  I  said,  the  deer  was  not  a  hand  credo  :  't  was 
pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice  sod  simplicity,  bis  cocttis ! — 
0  thou  monster  ignorance,  how  deformed  dost  thou 

look ! 
Nath.  Sir,  he  hath  never  fed  of  the  dainties  that  are 
bred  in  a  book  ; 
He  hath  not  eat  paper,  a,s  it  were  ;  he  hath  not  drunk  ink : 
Hia  intellect  is  not  replenished ;    he  is  only  an  animal 

not  to  think,' 
Only  sensible  in  the  duller  parts*;   and  such  barren 

plants 
Arc  set  before  us,  that  we  thankful  should  be 
Which  we,  having*  taste  and   feeling,   are  for  those 

parts  that  do  fructify  in  us  more  than  he : 
For  a;?  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  vain,  indiscreet, 

or  a  fool, 
So.  were  there  a  patch  set  on  learning,  to  set  him  in  a 

school : 
But.  ormi£  bene,  say  I ;  being  of  an  old  father's  mind. 
Many  can  brook  the  weather,  that  love  not  the  wind. 

Drill.  You  two  are  book  men  :  can  you  tell  by  your  wit. 
What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth,  that 's  not  five 
weeks  old  as  yet? 
Hoi.  Doctissime*   good  man  Dull ;  Dict>ima,  good 
■nan  Dull. 
Dull.  What  is  Dictynna  ? 
Nath.  A  title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 
Hoi  The  moon  was  a  month  old  when  Adam  was 
no  more ; 
And  raught*  not  to  five  weeks,  when  he  came  to  five- 
score. 
The  allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  'T  is  true  indeed :  the  collusion  holds  in  the 
exchange. 

Hoi.  God  comfort  thy  capacity!  I  say,  the  allusion 
holds  in  the  exchange. 

Drill.  And  I  say  the  pollusion  holds  in  the  exchange, 
tor  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month  old :  and  I  say  be- 
side, that  't  was  a  pricket  that  the  princess  kill'd. 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  will  you  hear  an  extemporal 
epitaph  on  the  death  of  the  deer  ?  and,  to  humour  the 
ignorant,  I  have  call'd  the  deer  the  princess  kill'd,  a 
pricket. 

Nath.  Perge.  good  master  Holofernes,  perge ;  so  it 
shall  plca.«e  you  to  abrogate  scurrility. 

Hoi.  I  will  something  affect  the  letter,  for  it  arsrues 
facility.  [Reads. 

The  preyful  princess  piercd  and  pricked  a  pretty  pleasing 
pricket  ; 
Some  say.  a  sore  ;  but  not  a  sore,  till  nmo  made  sore 
with  .shooting. 
The  dogs  did  yrU ;  put  I  to  sore,  then  sorel  jumps  from 
thicket;  '  J      I    J 

Or  pricket  sore,  or  else  sorel :  the  people  fall  a  hooting. 
Jf  sore  be  sore,  then  I  to  sore  makes  fifty  .snres  ;  O  .sore  I  ! 
Of  one  .sore  Ian  hundred  make,  by  adding  but  one  more  I. 
Nath.  A  rare  talent  ! 


foolish  extravagant  spirit,  full  of  forms,  figures,  sliapes. 
objects,  ideas,  apprehensions^  motions,  revolutions; 
these  are  begot  in  the  ventricle  of  memory,  nourished 
in  the  womb  of  pia  mater,  and  delivered  upon  the 
mellowing  of  occasion.  But  the  gift  is  good  in  those 
in  whom  it  is  acute,  and  I  am  thankful  for  it. 

Nath.  Sir,  I  praise  the  Lord  for  you.  and  so  may  my 
parishioners:  for  their  sons  are  well  tutored  by  you. 
and  their  daughters  profit  very  greatly  under  you:  you 
are  a  good  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

Hoi.  Mchcrcle  !  if  their  sons  be  ingenious,  tliey  shall 
want  no  instruction :  if  their  daughters  be  capable,  I 
will  put  it  to  them  ;  but,  vir  sapit,  qui  pauca  loquitur. 
A  soul  feminine  saiutcth  us. 

Enter  Jaquenetta  and  Cost.\rd. 
Jaq.  God  give  you  good  morrow,  master  person.* 
Hoi.    Master   person, — qxtasi   pers-on.      An   if  one 
should  be  pierced,  which  is  the  one  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is  likest 
to  a  hogshead. 

Hoi.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead  !  a  good  lustre  of  con- 
ceit in  a  turf  of  earth ;  fire  enough  for  a  flint,  pearl 
enough  for  a  swine  :  't  is  pretty  ;  it  is  well. 

Jag.  Good  master  parson,  be  so  good  as  read  me 
this  letter  :  it  was  given  me  by  Costard,  and  sent  me 
from  Don  Armado  :  I  beseech  you,  read  it. 

Hoi.    Fan.ste,  precor  gelidd  quandopecus  omne  sub 
umbrd 
Ruminat, — and  so  forth.     Ah,  good  old  Mantuan  !'     I 
may  speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice : 
—  Venegia,  Veriegia, 
Chi  non  te  vede.  non  te  pregia.^' 
Old  Mantuan  !    old  Mantuan  !      Who  understandeth 
thee    not,    loves   thee    not. —  Ut.  re.  sol,  la,  mi,  fa. — 
Under  pardon,  sir,  what  are  the  contents?  or,  rather, 
as  Horace  says  in  his — What,  my  soul,  verses  ? 
Nath.  Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 
Hoi.  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse :  lege, 
domine. 

Nath.  If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I  sicear  to 
love  ? 
Ah,  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vowed! 
TJiough  to  myself  for  su'orn.  to  thee  I'll  faithful  prove  ; 
Those  thoughts  to  me  were  oaks,  to  thee  like  osiers 
bou'ed. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine  eyes, 
Where  all  those  pleasures  live,  that  art  would  com- 
prehend : 
If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suffice. 
Well  learned  is  tlmt  tongue,  that  well  can  thee  com- 
mend ; 
All  ignorant  that  soul,  that  sees  thee  without  wonder , 
Which  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts  admire. 
Thy  eye  Jove's  lightning  bears,  thy  voice  his  dreadfm 
thunder. 
Which,  not  to  anger  bent,  is  music,  and  sweet  fire. 
Celestial,  as  thou  art,  O!  pardon,  love,  this  wrong. 
That  sings   heaven^s  praise  with  such    an    earthly 

tongue  ! 
Hoi.  You  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  so  miss  the 
accent :  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet.  Here  are  only 
numbers  ratified  :  but,  for  the  elegancy,  facility,  and 
golden  cadence  of  poesy,  caret.  Ovidius  Naso  was  the 
man  :  and  whv,  indeed.  Naso,  but  for  smelling  out  the 


Dtill.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,*  look  how  he  claws  him  odoriferous  flowers  of  fancy,  the  jerks  of  invention? 
with  a  talent  [J.9/<i«.' , Imitating"  is  nothing:  so  doth  the  hound  his  master, 

O.  thou  monster."  &c., 


i  '."^"i '"  thiuy  "  :  not  in  f.  e.      »  The  whole  of  thin  pMsaRe,  rommpneins  with 
•  of :  in  !   e.      ♦  Dirtynna  :  in  f.  e.      »  Rfnehed.      *  Tnton  was  often  written  tatent 


„.^,...        Not  in  f.  e.     8  parion  was  sometinics  called  f ««»»». 

He  is  ciMed  parfon.  persona,  hecnuse  by  his  p'raon  the  rhuroh.  which  is  an  invisil)le  bodv.  is  represen'od."— B/nct.v(one.     »  /vhn  haptirt 
Mantu.inus;  his  eclogues  were  translated  by  George Turberville,  1567.      ""  •      .    .  •    ,,        ...    ^ .,  •    ■ 


printed  as  prose  in  f.  e. 

■■    ■  person. 

Daptisl 

">  A  proverb :  quoted  in  Howe'l's  Letters.      "  lioitari :  li  f .  e 


BCENE  ni. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S   LOST. 


135 


the  ape  his  keeper,  the  trained'  horse  his  rider.     But 
damosella,  virgin,  was  this  directed  to  you? 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,  one  of  the 
strange  queen's  lords. 

Hoi.  I  will  overglance  the  superscript.  "  To  the 
snow-white  hand  of  the  most  beauteous  Lady  Rosaline." 
I  will  look  again  on  the  intellect  of  the  letter,  for  the 
nomination  of  the  party  writing  to  the  person  WTitten 
unto:  '"Your  ladyship's,  in  all  desired  emplojTnent, 
Biron."  Sir  Nathaniel,  this  Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries 
with  the  king :  and  here  he  hath  framed  a  letter  to  a 
sequent  of  the  stranger  queen's,  which,  accidentally,  or 
by  the  way  of  progression,  hath  miscarried. — Trip  and 
go.  my  sweet :  deliver  this  paper  into  the  royal  hand 
of  the  king ;  it  may  concern  much.  Stay  not  thy  com- 
pliment; I  forgive  thy  duty:  adieu. 

Jaq.  Good  Costard,  go  with  me. — Sir,  God  save  your 
life  ! 

Cost.  Have  with  thee,  my  girl. 

{Exeunt  Cost,  and  Jaq. 

Nath.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fear  of  God, 
very  religiously ;  and.  as  a  certain  father  saith 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  me  not  of  the  father ;  I  do  fear  colour- 
able colours.  But.  to  return  to  the  verses :  did  they 
please  you,  sir  Nathaniel  ? 

Nath.  Marvellous  well  for  the  pen. 

Hoi.  I  do  dine  to-day  at  the  father's  of  a  certain 
pupil  of  mine :  where,  if  before  repast  it  shall  please 
you  to  gratify  the  table  with  a  grace,  I  will,  on  my 
privilege  I  have  with  the  parents  of  the  aforesaid  child 
or  pupil,  undertake  your  hen  venuto ;  where  I  will 
prove  those  verses  to  be  very  unlearned,  neither  savour- 
ing of  poetry,  wit,  nor  invention.  I  beseech  your 
society. 

Nath.  And  thank  you  too;  for  society  (saith  the 
text)  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

Hoi.  And,  certes,  the  text  most  infallibly  concludes 
it. — Sir,  \To  Dull,]  I  do  invite  you  too :  you  shall  not 
say  me  nay :  jiauca  verba.  Away  !  the  gentles  are  at 
their  game,  and  we  will  to  our  recreation.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Another  part  of  the  Same. 
Enter  Biron,  with  a  paper. 

Biron.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer ;  I  am  cours- 
ing myself:  they  have  pitch'd  a  toiP :  I  am  toiling  in 
a  pitch — pitch  that  defiles.  Defile  ?  a  foul  word. 
Well,  set  thee  down,  sorrow  !  for  so,  they  say,  the  fool 
said,  and  so  say  I,  and  I  the  fool.  Well  proved,  wit ! 
By  the  Lord,  this  love  is  as  mad  as  Ajax :  it  kills  sheep ; 
it  kills  me,  I  a  sheep.  Well  proved  again  o'  my  side  ! 
I  will  not  love  ;  if  I  do,  hang  me :  i'  faith,  I  will  not. 
O  !  but  her  eye, — by  this  light,  but  for  her  eye,  I 
would  not  love  her  !  yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  Well,  I 
do  nothing  in  the  world  but  lie,  and  lie  in  my  throat. 
By  heaven,  I  do  love,  and  it  hath  taught  me  to  rhyme, 
and  to  be  melancholy ;  and  here  is  part  of  my  rhyme, 
and  here  my  melancholy.  Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my 
sonnets  already:  the  clowai  bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and 
the  lady  hath  it :  sweet  clown,  sweeter  fool,  sweetest 
lady  !  By  the  world,  I  would  not  care  a  pin,  if  the 
other  three  were  in.  Here  comes  one  with  a  paper: 
God  give  him  grace  to  groan  !  [Gets  up  into  a  tree. 

Enter  the  King,  with  a  paper. 

King.  Ay  me ! 

Biron.  [Aside]^  Shot,  by  heaven  ! — Proceed,  sweet 
Cupid :  thou  hast  thump'd  him  with  thy  bird-bolt  under 
the  left  pap. — In  faith,  secrets  ! — 


King.  [Reads ^   So  sweet  a  kiss  the  golden  sun  gives  not 
To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 
As  thine  eye-beams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have  smote 

The  dew  of  night'  that  on  my  cheeks  down  fiows . 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 
Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  tJie  deep, 
As  doth  thy  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light ; 

Thou  shin^st  in  every  tear  tJiat  I  do  weep : 
No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee  ; 
So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe. 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  my  grief  will  show : 
But  do  not  love  thyself;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
O  queen  of  queens,  how  far  thou  dost*  excel, 
No  thought  can  think,  nor  tongue  of  mortal  tell. 
How  shall  she  know  my  griefs  ?     I  '11  drop  the  paper. 
Sweet  leaves,  shade  folly.     Who  is  he  conies  here  ? 

Enter  Longaville,  with  a  paper. 
What,  Longaville!  and  reading?  listen,  ear. 

[Steps  aside. 
Biron.  [Aside  in  the  tree]''  Now,  in  thy  likeness,  one 

more  fool  appear ! 
Long.  Ay  me  !  I  am  forsworn. 
Biron.    [Aside.\  Why,  he  comes  in  like  a  perjure, 

wearing  papers.' 
King.  [Aside]  In  love,  I  hope.     Sweet  fellowship 

in  shame  ! 
Biron.  [Aside]  One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the 

name. 
Long.  Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjur'd  so  ? 
Biron.  [Aside.]  I  could  put  thee  in  comfort:  not  by 
two  that  I  know. 
Thou  makest  the  triumviry,  the  corner-cap  of  society. 
The  shape  of  love's  Tyburn,  that  hangs  up  simplicity 
Long.  I  fear  these  stubborn  lines  lack  power  to  move. 
O  sweet  Maria,  empress  of  my  love  ! 
These  numbers  will  I  tear,  and  write  in  prose. 

Biron.  [Aside.]  0  !  rhymes  are  guards'  on  wanton 
Cupid's  hose : 
Disfigure  not  his  slop.' 

Long.  This  same  shall  go. —      [He  reads  the  sonnet. 
Did  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye, 

^Gainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argument^ 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 

Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but  I  will  prove, 

Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee. 
My  vow  ivas  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love  ; 

Thy  grace,  being  gainhl.  cures  all  disgrace  in  mc. 
Voivs  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is  : 

Then  thou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  dost  shine. 
ExhaVst  this  vapour-vow  ;  in  thee  it  is : 
If  broken,  then,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine. 
If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise, 
Ta  lose  an  oath,  to  win  a  paradise  ? 
Biron.  [Aside.]  This  is  the  liver  vein',  which  makes 
flesh  a  deity : 
A  green  goose,  a  goddess :  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
God  amend  us  !  God  amend  us  !  we  are  much  out  'o 
the  way. 

Enter  Dumaine,  with  a  peeper. 
Long.  By  whom  shall  I  send  this  ? — Company !  stay 

[Steps  aside 
Biron.   [Aside]  All  hid,  all  hid-*:  an  old  infant  play. 
Like  a  demi-god  here  sit  I  in  the  sky, 
And  wretched  fools'  secrets  heedfully  o'er-eye. 


"tired  :  in  f.  e.  *  An  enclosure,  mto  which  gz.me  vreie  driven.  ^  night  of  deto:  in  i.e.  *  dost  thou  :  in  f.  e.  ^  Aside :  in  {  ",.  sPapere 
stating  their  offence,  -were  affixed  to  perjurers  at  the  time  of  their  pvmishmKnl.—HoHnshed.  '  Trimmings.  8  shape  :  in  f.  e.  »  The  livoi 
w.\8  supposed  to  he  the  seat  of  the  affections.     "  An  old  name  for  hide  and  go  seek. 


136 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


A.OT  rv. 


More  sacks  to  the  mill !  O  heavens !  I  have  my  wish : 
Dumaine  transrorm'd?  lour  woodcocks  in  a  dish. 
Ihim.  O  most  divine  Kate! 
Biron.   [Aside.]  0  most  profane  coxcomb  ! 
Dum.  By  heaven,  tlie  wonder  of  a  mortal  eye! 
Biron.  [Aside]  By  eanh,  she  is  most'  corporal;  there 

you  lie. 
Dtim.  Her  amber  hairs  for  foul  have  amber  quoted. 
Biron.  [Aside.]  An  amber-colour'd  raven  was  well 

noted. 
Ihtm.  Ai^  upright  as  the  cedar. 
Binm.  [Aside^  Stoops'.  I  say; 

Her  sliouUler  is  with  child. 

Dum.  As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.  [Aside.]  Ay,  as  some  days;  but  then  no  sun 

must  shine. 
Dtim.  0,  that  I  had  my  wish  ! 
Limg.  [Aside\  And  I  had  mine  ! 

King.   [Aside.]  And  I  mine  too,  good  lord  ! 
Biron.   [Ai^ide.]  Amen,  so  I  had  mine.     Is  not  that 

a  good  word  ? 
Dum.  I  would  forget  her ;  but  a  fever  she 
Reigns  in  my  blood,  and  will  rememberd  be. 

Biron.   [Aside.]  A  fever  in  your  blood?  why,  then 
incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers  :  sweet  misprision  ! 
Dum.  Once  more  I  '11  read  the  ode  that  I  have  WTit. 
Biron.  [A.side.]  Once  more  1  '11  mark  how  love  can 

vary  -wit. 
Dum.    On  a  day.  alack  the  day! 

Love,  u'hose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom^  passing  fair, 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air  : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 
All  unseen,  ^gan  pas.sage  find ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow, 
Air.  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But  alack  !  my  hand  is  sworn. 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow.  alack  !  for  youth  unmeet. 
Youth  .so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me. 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee  ; 
Thou  for  whom  great*  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  hut  an  Ethiop  icere  ; 
And  deny  him.self  for  Jove^ 
Timing  mortal  for  thy  love. 
This  will  I  send,  and  something  else  more  plain, 
That  shall  express  my  true  love's  la.sting*  pain. 
0,  would  the  King,  Biron,  and  Longaville, 
Were  lovers  too  !     Ill,  to  example  ill. 
Would  from  my  forehead  wipe  a  pcrjur'd  note ; 
For  none  offeiHl.  where  all  alike  do  dote. 

Long.   [Adrancing.]  Dumaine,  thy  love  is  far  from 
charily, 
That  in  love's  grief  desir'st  society : 
You  may  look  pale,  but  I  should  blush,  I  know, 
To  be  o'erheard.  and  taken  napping  so. 

f^ing.  [Advancing]   Come,  sir,  blu.sh   you  :    as  his 
your  case  is  such  ; 
You  chide  at  him.  o^ending  twice  as  much  : 
You  do  not  love  Maria;  Longaville 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile, 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  alhwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart,. 
1  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush, 


And  inark'd  you  both,  and  for  you  both  did  blush. 
I  iieard  your  guiity  rhymes,  observ  d  your  fashion. 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion: 
Ay  me  !  says  one  ;  0  Jove  !   the  other  erics  ; 
One,  her  Imirs  were  gold,  crystal  the  otiier's  eyes: 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth  : 

[To  LcKO 
And  Jove  for  your  love  would  infringe  an  oath. 

[To  DUMAINR 

What  will  Biron  say,  when  that  he  shall  hear 
Faith  infringed,  with  such  zeal  did  swear? 
How  will  he  scorn  !  how  will  he  spend  his  wit ! 
How  will  he  triumph,  leap,  and  laugh  at  it ! 
For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see. 
I  would  not  have  him  know  .so  much  by  me. 
Biron.  Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  liypocrisy. — 

[Coming  down  from  the  tree. 
Ah,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee  i)ardon  me. 
Good  heart !  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  reprove 
These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love  ? 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaches ;  in  your  tears 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears : 
You  '11  not  be  perjur'd,  't  is  a  hateful  thing: 
Tush  !  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonneting. 
But  are  you  not  asham'd  ?  nay,  are  you  not, 
All  three  of  you,  to  be  thus  much  o'ershot? 
You  found  his  mote  ;  the  king  your  mote  did  see , 
But  I  a  beam  do  find  in  each  of  three. 
0  !  what  a  scene  of  foolery  have  I  seen, 
Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen  ! 

0  me  !  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat, 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat  ! 

To  see  great  Hercules  whipping  a  gig,* 

And  profound  Solomon  to  tune  a  jig, 

And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys, 

And  critic  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 

Where  lies  thy  grief?     0  !  tell  me,  good  Dumaine  : 

And,  gentle  Longaville,  where  lies  thy  pain  ? 

And  where  my  liege's  ?  all  about  the  breast  :— 

A  caudle,  ho  ! 

King.  Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betray'd  thus  to  thy  over-view  ? 

Bircm.  Not  you  by  me,  but  I  betray'd  to  you : 
I,  that  am  honest ;  I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in ; 

1  am  betray'd,  by  keeping  company 

With  men.  like  men  of  strange*  inconstancy. 

When  shall  you  see  me  write  a  thing  in  rhyme? 

Or  groan  for  love?  or  spend  a  minutes  time 

In  pruning  me?     When  shall  you  hear  that  I 

Will  prai.se  a  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  an  eye, 

A  gait,  a  state,  a  brow,  a  breast,  a  waist, 

A  leir,  a  limb?—  [Going.' 

King.  Soft '  Whither  away  so  fast  ? 

A  true  man,  or  a  tnief,  that  gallops  .«o? 

Biroti.  I  post  from  love  :  good  lover,  let  me  go. 
Enter  .Iaquenetta  and  Costard. 

J,uj.  God  bless  the  king  ! 

King.  What,  peasant',  hast  thou  there 

Go.st.  Some  certain  treason. 

King.  What  makes  treason  here  ? 

Co.st.  Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 

King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither. 

The  treason  and  you  go  in  peace  away  together. 

Jaq.   I  beseech  your  grace,  let  this  letter  be  rei  d  : 
Our  parson  misdoubts  it ,  't  was  treason,  he  said. 

King.  Biron.  read  it  over.       [BiiiON  reads  the  letter 
Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 


'  not  :  in  f.  e.      '  Stooo  :  in  f.  e. 
L  »     •  present :  in  f.  e. 


*  This  word  in  not  in  f. 


faj'tins  :  in  f  e.     *  A  kind  of  top.     *  Tijclt,  suRgents  stuh 


SCEJSTE  ni. 


LOVE'S   LABOUE'S   LOST. 


Jaq.  Of  Costard. 

King.  Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 

Cost.  Of  Dun  Adramadio,  Dun  Adramadio. 

King.  How  now  !  what  is  in  you  ?  why  dost  thou 

tear  it  ? 
Biron.  A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy:   your  grace   needs 
not  fear  it?  [Tearing  it.^ 

Long.  It  did  move  him  to   passion,  and  therefore 

let 's  hear  it. 
Dum.  It  is  Biron' s  writing,  and  here  is  his  name. 

[Picking  up  the  pieces. 
Biron.  Ah,  you  whoreson  loggerhead  !  [7b  Costard.] 
y  )U  were  born  to  do  me  shame. — 
Guilty,  mv  lord,  guilty  !   I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.  What? 

Biron.  That  you  three  fools  lack'd  me,  fool,  to  make 
up  the  mess. 
He,  he,  and  you.  and  you  my  liege,  and  I, 
Are  pick-purses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
0  !  dismiss  this  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  you  more. 
Dum.  Now  the  number  is  even. 
Biron.  True,  true;  we  are  four. — 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone? 
King.  Hence,  sirs ;  away  ! 

Cost.  Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  let  the  traitors 
stay.  [Exeunt  Costard  and  Jaquenetta. 

Biron.  Sweet  lords,  sweet  lovers.  O  !  let  us  embrace. 
As  true  we  are,  as  flesh  and  blood  can  be : 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  flow,  heaven  show  his  face ; 
Young  blood  doth  yet  obey  an  old  decree : 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born ; 
Therefore,  of  all  liands  must  we  be  forsworn. 

King.  What,  did  these  rent  lines  show  some  love  of 

thine  ? 
Biron.  Did  they?   quoth  you.     Who  sees  the  hea- 
venly Rosaline, 
That,  like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Inde, 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east, 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head  :  and,  stricken  blind. 

Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast  ? 
What  peremptory,  eagle-sighted  eye 

Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow. 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty  ? 

King.  What  zeal,  what  fury  hath  inspir'd  thee  now? 
My  love,  her  mistress,  is  a  gracious  moon. 

She,  an  attending  star,  scarce  seen  a  light. 
Biron.  My  eyes  are  then  no  eyes,  nor  I  Biron. 
O  !  but  for  my  love,  day  would  turn  to  night. 
Of  all  complexions  the  culFd  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek ; 
Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity, 

Where  nothing  wants  that  want  itself  dotli  seek. 
Lend  me  the  flourish  of  all  gentle  tongues, — 

Fie,  painted  rhetoric  !  0  !  she  needs  it  not : 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs  ; 

She  passes  praise  :  then  praise  too  short  doth  blot. 
A  wither'd  hermit,  five-score  winters  worn. 

Might  shake  off  fifty,  looking  in  her  eye: 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age.  as  if  new-born, 

And  gives  the  crutch  the  cradle's  infancy. 
0  '   't  is  the  sun,  that  maketh  all  things  shine  ! 
King.  By  heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 
Biron.  Is  ebony  like  her?     0  wood  divine  ! 
A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
0  !  who  can  give  an  oath  ?  where  is  a  book  ? 

That  I  may  swear  beauty  doth  beauty  lack, 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look : 

No  face  is  fair,  that  is  not  full  so  black. 
King.  O  paradox  !     Black  is  the  badge  of  hell, 
1  Not  in  f.  e.      >  boow 


The  hue  of  dungeons,  and  the  shade^  of  night  : 
And  beauty's  be.  t  becomes  the  heavens  well. 

Biron.  Devils  soonest   tempt,  resembling  spirits  of 
light. 
O  !  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deck"d, 

It  mourns,  that  painting,  and  usurping  hair, 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect : 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 
Her  favour  turns  the  fasliion  of  these  days ; 

For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now, 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise. 
Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow. 
Dum.  To  look  like  her  are  chimney-sweepers  black 
Long.  And  since  her  time  are  colliers  counted  bright 
King.  And  Ethiops  of  tlieir  sweet  complexion  crack. 
Dum.  Dark  needs  no  candles  now,  for  darK  is  light. 
Biron.  Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain. 
For  fear  their  colours  should  be  wash"d  away. 
King.  'T  were  good,  yours  did ;  for,  sir.  to  tell  you 
plain. 
I  '11  find  a  fairer  face  not  wash'd  to-day. 
Biron.  I  '11  prove  her  fair,  or  talk  till  doomsday  here. 
King.  No  devil  will  fright  thee  then  so  much  as  she. 
Dum.  I  never  knew  man  liold  vile  stuff  so  dear. 
Long.  Look,  here  's  thy  love  :  my  foot  and  her  face 

see. 
Biron.  0  !  if  the  streets  were  paved  with  thine  eyes. 

Her  feet  were  much  too  dainty  for  such  tread. 
Dum.  0  vile  !  then,  as  she  goes,  what  upward  lies 
The  street  should  see,  as  she  walk'd  over  head. 
King.  But  what  of  this?     Are  we  not  all  in  love? 
Biron.  0  !    nothing  so  sure;    and  thereby  all  for- 
sworn. 
King.  Then  leave  this  chat :  and,  good  Biron,  now 
prove 
Our  lo\-ing  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 
Dum.  Ay,  marry,  there  :  some  flatter\'  for  this  evil 
Long.  0  !  some  authority  how  to  proceed  ; 
Some  tricks,  some  quillets',  how  to  cheat  the  devil. 
Dum.  Some  salve  for  perjury. 

Biron.  0  !  't  is  more  than  need. — 

Have  at  you.  then,  affection's  men  at  arms. — 
Consider,  what  you  first  did  swear  unto  : — 
To  fast. — to  study, — and  to  see  no  woman  : 
Flat  treason  'gainst  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 
Say,  can  you  fast  ?  your  stomachs  are  too  young, 
And  abstinence  engenders  maladies. 
And  where  that  you  have  vow'd  to  study,  lords, 
In  that  each  of  you  hath  forsworn  his  book, 
Can  you  still  dream,  and  pore,  and  thereon  look? 
For  when  would  you.  my  lord,  or  you.  or  you, 
Have  found  the  ground  of  study's  excellence. 
Without  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face  ? 
From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive: 
They  are  the  ground,  the  books,  the  Academes, 
From  whence  doth  spring  the  trae  Promethean  fire. 
Why,  universal  plodding  prisons  up 
The  nimble  spirits  in  the  arteries. 
As  motion,  and  long-during  action,  tires 
The  sinew>'  vigour  of  the  traveller. 
Now,  for  not  looking  on  a  woman's  face. 
You  have  in  that  forsworn  the  use  of  eyes, 
And  study,  too.  the  causer  of  your  vow; 
For  where  is  any  author  in  the  world, 
Teaches  such  learninu*  as  a  woman's  eye? 
Learning  is  but  an  adjunct  to  ourself, 
And  where  we  are.  our  learning  likewise  is. 
Then,  when  ourselves  we  see  in  ladies'  eyes,* 
Do  we  not  likewise  see  our  leaniing  there  ? 


f.  e.      '  From  quodlihets.      *  beauty  :  in  f.  e.      »  Between  this  and  the  next  line,  f.  e.  insert  :   With  aursclrt 


138 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


0  !  we  have  made  a  vow  to  study,  lords, 

And  in  tliat  vow  we  have  forsworn  our  books  : 

For  when  would  you.  my  liege,  or  you,  or  you, 

111  lt'a»leii  coiitcmpUuion  have  Ibund  out 

Such  fiery  numbers,  a.^  the  proniptiiiii  eyes 

or  beauty's  tutors  have  enrich"d  you  with  ? 

Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain, 

And  therefore,  finding  barren  practisers, 

Scarce  f.how  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil ; 

But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes, 

Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain, 

IJut  with  the  motion  of  all  elements 

Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power, 

And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power. 

Above  iheir  lunctions  and  their  offices. 

It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye  : 

A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind  : 

A  lover's  ear  will  liear  the  lowest  sound, 

When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd  : 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft,  and  sensible, 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails  : 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste. 

For  valour  is  not  love  a  Hercules. 

Still  climbing  trees  in  tlie  Hesperides  ? 

Subtle  as  sphinx  :  as  sweet,  and  musical, 

As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair; 

And,  when  love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 

Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write. 

Until  his  ink  were  teniper'd  with  love's  sighs  ; 

0  !  then  his  lines  would  ra%'ish  savage  ears, 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humanity.' 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive  : 

They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire  ; 

They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  Academes, 

That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world. 


Else  none  at  all  in  ausht  proves  e.xcelUnt. 
Then,  tools  you  were  these  women  to  forswear, 
Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  you  will  prove  fools 
For  wisdom's  sake,  a  word  that  all  men  love. 
Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men. 
Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women, 
Or  women's  sake,  by  whom  we  men  arc  men, 
Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths   to  find  ourselves, 
Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oaths. 
It  is  religion  to  be  tlius  forsworn; 
For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law, 
And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity  ? 

King.  Saint  Cupid,  then  !  and,  soldiers,  to  the  fieli  1 

Biron.  Advance   your  standards,   and  upon  them. 
lords  ! 
Pell-mell,  do^^'n  wth  them  !  but  be  first  advis'd, 
In  conflict  that  you  get  the  sun  of  them. 

Long.  Now  to  plain-dealing  .  lay  these  glozes  by. 
Shall  we  resolve  to  woo  these  girls  of  France  ? 

King.  And  win  them  too :  therefore,  let  us  devise 
Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 

Biron.  First,   from  the  park   let  us    conduct  them 
thither : 
j  Then,  homeward,  every  man  attach  the  hand 
Of  his  fair  mistress.     In  the  afternoon 
We  will  with  some  strange  pastime  solace  them. 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape ; 
For  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merr}-  liours. 
Fore-run  fair  Love,  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 

King.  Away,  away  !  no  time  shall  be  omitted, 
That  will  be  time,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 

Biron.    Allans !    allons ! — Sow'd  cockle   reap'd   nc 
corn; 
And  justice  always  whirls  in  equal  measure : 
Light  wenches  may  prove  plagues  to  men  forsworn 
If  so,  our  copper  buys  no  better  treasure.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Same. 
Enter  Holofernes.  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

Hoi.  Satis  iptod  .s-ujficit. 

Nath.  I  praise  God  for  you,  sir:  your  reasons  at 
dinner  have  been  sharp  and  sententious ;  pleasant 
without  scurrility,  witty  without  aff'ection*.  audacious 
without  impudency,  learned  without  opinion,  and 
strange  without  heresy.  I  did  converse  this  quondam 
day  with  a  companion  of  the  king's,  who  is  intituled. 
nominated,  or  called.  Don  Adriano  de  Armado. 

Hoi.  Nori  hominem  tanquam  tc:  his  humour  is  lofty, 
liis  discourse  peremptory,  his  tongue  filed,  his  eye  am- 
bitious. Ills  gait  majestical.  and  his  general  behaviour 
vain,  ridiculous,  and  tlira.sonical'.  He  is  too  picked, 
too  spruce,  too  aff"ected,  too  odd.  as  it  were,  too  pere- 
grinate, as  I  may  call  it. 

Nath.  A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[Draw.s  out  his  table-book. 

Hoi  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity 
finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument.  I  abhor  such 
fanatical  phantasm."*,  such  in.sociable  and  point-devi.'^e* 
companions;  such  raekers  of  orthography,  as  to  speak 
dout.  fine,  when  he  should  say,  doubt:  det,  when  he 
should  pronounce,  debt — d.  e.  b,  t.  not  d.  e,  t:  he 
clepeth  a  calf,  cauf;   half,  hauf;   neighbour  vacatur 


nebour;  neigh  abbreviated  ne.  This  is  abhominable. 
(which  he  would  call  abominable.)  it  insinuateth  one  of 
insania^:  ne  intelligi.t.  domine  ?  to  make  frantic,  lunatic. 

Hath.  Laus  Deo,  bone  intclligo. 

Hoi.  Bane  ?  —  bone,  for  6en« ;  Priscian  a  little 
scratch'd  ;  't  will  serve. 

Enter  Armado,  Moth,  and  Costard. 

Nath.    Vidcsne  quis  venit  ? 

Hoi.    Video,  et  gaudeo. 

Arm.  Chirrah  !  \To  Moth. 

Hoi.   Quare  Chirrah,  not  sirrah  ? 

Arm.  Men  of  peace,  well  encounter'd. 

Hoi.  Most  military  .sir,  salutation. 

Moth.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  language*, 
and  stolen  the  scraps. 

Cost.  0 !  they  have  lived  long  on  the  alms-ba-^ket 
of  words.  I  marvel  thy  master  hath  not  eaten  thee 
for  a  word :  for  thou  art  not  so  long  by  tlve  head  as 
honorificabilitudinitatibus* :  thou  art  easier  swallowed 
than  a  flap-dragon'. 

Moth.  P<^ace!  the  peal  beg' ns. 

Arm.  Monsieur,  [To  Hol.]  are  you  not  letter'd? 

Moth.  Yes,  yes ;  he  teaches  boys  the  'lorn-book. — 
What  is  a,  b,  spelt  backA^ard  with  the  horn  on  hip 
head. 

Hol.  Ba,  pucritia,  with  a  horn  added. 


•  hnmi|-ty  :  in  f.  e.  »  Affectation.  '  On  the  style  of  Terence's  Thraso.  ♦  Nice  to  excess. 
•  Taylor,  'he  Water  Poet,  sayg  Knight,  used  this  word  with  still  .mother  syllable,  lionorijicica,  ice. 
of  liquor.  *uich  it  tna  .-i  feit  for  a  toper  to  swaJlow  ignited. 


»  It  insinatPth  one   of   msanio  :  in  f. 
'  A  small  substance,  floating  on  a  f;la 


SCENE  n. 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


139 


Moth.  Ba  !  most  silly  sheep,  -with  a  horn.  —  You 
hear  his  leaniiiig. 

Hoi.   Quis,  (]uis,  thou  consonant? 

Moth.  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you  repeat 
them ;  or  the  fifth,  if  I. 

Hoi.  I  will  repeat  them.  a.  e,  i. — 

Moth.  The  sheep  :  the  other  two  concludes  it :  o,  u. 

Arm.  Now,  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Mediterranean, 
d  sweet  touch,  a  quick  venew'  of  wit !  snip,  snap,  quick 
and  home  :  it  rejoiceth  my  intellect :  true  wit  ! 

3Ioth.  Ofier"d  by  a  child  to  an  old  man ;  which  is 
wit-old. 

Hal.  What  is  the  figure  ?  what  is  the  figure  ? 

Moth.  Horns. 

Hoi.  Thou  disputest  like  an  infant:  go,  whip  thy  gig. 

Moth.  Lend  me  your  horn  to  make  one,  and  I  will 
whip  about  your  infamy  circum  circa.  A  gig  of  a 
cuckold's  horn  ! 

Cost.  An  I  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world,  thou 
shouldst  have  it  to  buy  gingerbread  :  hold,  there  is 
the  very  remuneration  I  had  of  thy  master,  thou  half- 
pemiy  purse  of  wit,  thou  pigeon-egg  of  discretion.  0  ! 
an  the  heavens  were  so  pleased,  that  thou  wert  but  my 
bastard,  what  a  joyful  father  wouldst  thou  make  me. 
Go  to  ;  thou  hast  it  ad  dunghill,  at  the  fingers'  ends,  as 
they  say. 

Hoi.  0  !  I  smell  false  Latin ;  dunghill  for  unguem. 

Arm.  Arts-man.  prceambula  :  we  -"Nill  be  singled  from 
the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at  the  large 
house^  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ? 

Hoi.  Or  mons,  the  hill. 

Arm.  At  your  sweet  pleasure  for  the  mountain. 

Hoi.  I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir.  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure  and 
affection,  to  congratulate  the  princess  at  her  pavilion 
in  the  posteriors  of  this  day,  which  the  rude  multitude 
call  the  afternoon. 

Hoi.  The  posterior  of  the  day,  most  generous  sir,  is 
liable,  congruent,  and  measurable  for  the  afternoon : 
the  word  is  well  cuUd,  chose;  sweet  and  apt,  I  do 
assure  you,  sir;  I  do  assure. 

Arm.  Sir.  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman,  and  my 
familiar,  I  do  assure  you,  my  very  good  friend. — For 
what  is  inward  between  us,  let  it  pass. — I  do  beseech 
thee,  remember  thy  courtesy : — I  beseech  thee,  apparel 
thy  head : — and  among  other  important  and  most  serious 
designs, — and  of  great  import  indeed,  too. — but  let  that 
pass : — for  I  must  tell  thee,  it  will  please  his  grace  (by 
the  world)  sometime  to  lean  upon  my  poor  shoulder, 
and  with  his  royal  finger,  thus  dally  with  my  excre- 
ment, with  my  mustachio  :  but.  sweet  heart,  let  that 
pass.  By  the  world,  I  recount  no  fable  :  some  certain 
special  honours  it  pleaseth  his  gi-eatness  to  impart  to 
Armado.  a  soldier,  a  man  of  travel,  that  hath  seen  the 
world  :  but  let  that  pass. — The  very  all  of  all  is. — but, 
Bweet  heart.  I  do  implore  secrecy, — that  the  king  would 
have  me  present  the  princess,  sweet  chuck,  with  some 
delightful  ostentation,  or  show,  or  pageant,  or  antiek, 
or  fire- work.  Now,  understanding  that  the  curate  and 
your  sweet  self  are  good  at  such  eruptions,  and  sudden 
breaking  out  of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have  acquainted 
you  withal,  to  the  end  to  crave  your  assistance. 

Hoi.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  nine  Wor- 
thies.— Sir  Nathaniel,  as  concerning  some  entertain- 
ment of  time,  some  show  in  the  posterior  of  this  day, 
to  be  rendered  by  our  assistance, — the  king's  command, 
and  this  most  gallant,  illustrate,  and  learned  gentle- 
man,—  before  the  princess.  I  say,  none  so  fit  as  to 
present  the  nine  Worthies. 

^  A  Mt  in  fencing.      ^  charge-house  :  in  f.  e.      '  Fit,  agree.      *  Th 


JVath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy  enough  to 
present  them? 

Hoi.  Joshua,  yourself;  myself,  or  this  gallant  gen- 
tleman, Judas  Maccabeus ;  this  swain,  (because  of  his 
great  limb  or  joint.)  shall  pass  for  Pompey  the  great; 
the  page,  Hercules. 

Arm.  Pardon,  sir ;  error :  he  is  not  quantity  enough 
for  that  worthy's  thumb  :•  he  is  not  so  big  as  the  end 
of  his  club. 

Hoi.  Shall  I  have  audience  ?  he  shall  present  Her- 
cules in  minority ;  his  enter  and  exit  shall  be  strangling 
a  snake;   and  I  will  have  an  apolog>"  for  that  purpose. 

Moth.  An  excellent  device  !  so,  if  any  of  the  au- 
dience hiss,  you  may  cry,  "  Well  done,  Hercules  !  now 
thou  crushest  the  snake  !"  that  is  the  way  to  make  an 
offence  gracious,  though  few  have  the  grace  to  do  it. 

Arm.  For  the  rest  of  the  Worthies? — 

Hoi.  I  will  play  three  myself. 

3Ioth.  Thrice-worthy  gentleman. 

Arm.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing? 

Hoi.  We  attend. 

Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  fadge'  not,  an  antick, 
I  beseech  you,  to  follow. 

Hoi.  Via  .'—Goodman  Dull,  thou  hast  spoken  no 
word  all  this  while. 

Didl.  Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir. 

Hoi.  Allons  !  we  will  employ  thee. 

Dull.  I'll  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so;  or  I  "will 
play  on  the  tabor  to  the  Worthies,  and  let  them  dance 
the  hay. 

Hoi.  Most  dull,  honest  Dull.     To  our  sport,  away ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  11.— Another  part  of  the  Same.     Before 

the  Princess's  Pavilion. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Katharine,  Rosaline,  arui 

Maria,  with  presents.* 

Prin.  Sweet  hearts,  we  shall  be  rich  ere  we  depart, 
If  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in  : 
A  lady  wall'd  about  with  diamonds  ! — 
Look  you,  what  I  have  from  the  loving  king. 

Ros.  Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with  that  ? 

Prin.  Nothing  but  this  ?  yes ;  as  much  love  in  rhyme, 
As  would  be  cramm'd  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  on  both  sides  the  leaf,  max  gin  and  all. 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 

Ros.  That  was  the  way  to  make  his  god-head  wax;' 
For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 

Kath.  Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 

Ros.  You  '11  ne'er  be  friends  with  him :  a'  kill'd  you. 
sii<ter. 

Kath.  He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and  heavy; 
And  so  she  died  :  had  she  been  light,  like  you, 
Of  such  a  merry,  nimble,  stirring  spirit. 
She  might  a'  been  a  grandam  ere  she  died : 
And  so  may  you,  for  a  light  heart  lives  long. 

Ros.  What 's  your  dark  meaning,  mouse',  of  tbis 
light  word  ? 

Kath.  A  light  condition  in  a  beauty  dark. 

Ros.  We  need  more  light  to  find  your  meaning  out. 

Kath.  You  '11  mar  the  light  by  taking  it  in  snuff, 
Thirefore,  I  '11  darkly  end  the  argument. 

Ros.  Look,  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'  the  dark 

Kath.  So  do  not  you,  for  you  are  a  light  wench. 

Ros.  Indeed,  I  weigh  not  you,  and  therefore  light. 

Kath.  You  weigh  me  not? — 0  !  that 's  you  care  not 
for  me. 

Ro.s.  Great  reason ;  for,  past  cure  is  still  past  care. 

Prin.  Well  bandied  both;  a  set  of  wit  well  play'd 

words  not  in  f.  e.      *  Grow.      «  A  term  of  endearment . 


140 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


ACT    V. 


But  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favour  too: 
Wlio  soni  II  ?  and  what  is  it  ? 

iJa?.  I  would  you  knew : 

An  it  my  face  were  but  as  fair  aa  yours, 
My  favour  w  ere  as  great :  be  witness  this. 
Nay.  I  liiive  verses  loo.  I  tliank  Biron. 
The  number.-^  true:  and,  were  the  numb'ring  too, 
I  were  the  tairest  iioddess  on  the  ground  : 
I  am  coiiijiar'd  to  twenty  tliousand  fairs. 
0  '  he  hull  dra\\ni  my  picture  in  his  letter. 

Prill.  Any  thing  like? 

Ros.  Much,  in  the  letters,  nothing  in  the  praise. 

Prin.  Beauteous  as  ink :  a  good  conclusion. 

KaJh.  Fair  as  a  text  R'  in  a  copy-book. 

Ros.    Ware  pencils  !      How?  let  me  not  die  your 
debtor, 
My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter: 
0.  that  your  lace  were  not  so  full  of  0"s  ! 

Prin.  A  pox  of  that  jest  !  and  I  beshrew  all  shrows  I 
But,  Kaiharine,  what  was  sent  to  you  from  fair  Du- 
maine  ? 

Kath.  Madam,  this  glove. 

Prin.  Did  he  not  send  you  twain? 

Kaih.  Yes,  madam ;  and.  moreover, 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover: 
A.  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy, 
Vilely  coiiipild.  profound  simplicity. 

Mar.  Tiiis,  and  these  pearls  to  me  sent  Longaville : 
The  letter  is  too  long  by  half  a  mile. 

Prin.  I  think  no  less.     Dost  thou  not  wish  in  heart, 
The  chain  were  longer  and  the  letter  short? 

Mar.  Ay.  or  I  would  these  hands  migiit  ncA-er  part. 

Prin.  We  are  nnIsc  girls  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 

Ros.  Thi-y  are  worse  fools  to  purchase  mocking  so. 
That  same  Biron  1  '11  torture  ere  I  go. 
0  I  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week  !' 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg.  and  seek, 
And  wait  the  sea.«on,  and  observe  the  times, 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes, 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  behests, 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests  ! 
So  poiently'  would  I  o'ersway  his  state, 
That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 

Prin.  None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they  are  catchd, 
As  wit  turn'd  fool:  folly,  in  wisdom  hatchd. 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant,  and  the  help  of  school. 
And  wit's  own  grace  to  grace  a  learned  fool. 

Ros.  The  blood  of  yoiitii  burns  not  with  such  excess, 
As  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 

Mar.  Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  strong  a  note. 
As  foolery  in  ihi-  wise,  when  wit  doth  dote; 
Since  all  the  pr.wer  thereof  it  doth  apply, 
To  prove  by  wit  worth  in  simplicity. 
Enter  Bovet. 

Prin.  Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his  face. 

Boyrt.  O  !    I  am  stabb'd  with  laughter.     Where  's 
her  grace  ? 

Prin.  Thy  news,  Boyet? 

Boyet.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare  ! 

Arm.  wenche.«.  arm  !  eneounterers*  mounted  are 
Again.st  your  peace.     Love  doth  approach  disgiiis'd, 
Anned  in  argiiriu-nts  :  you  '11  be  surprisd. 
Mu.«ter  your  vnis ;  stand  in  your  own  defence, 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  antl  fly  hence. 

Prin.  Saint  Dennis  to  saint  Cupid  !  What  are  they. 
That  chariie  the  breach*  against  us?  say.  scout,  say. 

Boyd.   Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  syrainore, 
r  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour, 


When,  lo!  to  interrupt  my  purpos'd  rest. 

Toward  that  shade  I  might  beliold  addreat 

The  king  and  his  companions  :  warily 

I  stole  into  a  neighbour  thicket  by. 

And  overheard  what  you  shall  overiiear  ; 

That  by  and  by  disguised  they  will  be  here. 

Their  herald  is  a  pretty  knavish  page. 

That  well  by  heart  hath  conn'd  his  embassage: 

Action,  and  accent,  did  they  teach  him  there: 

■■  Thus  must  thou  speak,  and  thus  thy  body  bear  '' 

And  ever  and  anon  they  made  a  doubt 

Presence  majcstical  would  put  liim  out ; 

'■  For,'  quoth  the  king.    '  an  angel  shalt  thou  see 

Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  audaciously." 

The  boy  replied,  •'  An  angel  is  not  evil ; 

I  should  have  feared  her,  had  she  been  a  devil." 

With  that  all  iaugh'd,  and  clapp"d  him  on  the  .shoulder 

Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 

One  rubb'd  his  elbow  thus,  and  fleer"d  and  swore 

A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before  : 

Another,  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 

Cry'd  ■•  Via !  we  will  do"t,  come  what  will  come :" 

The  third  he  caper'd,  and  cried.  '•  All  goes  well :" 

The  fourth  turn'd  on  the  toe.  and  down  he  fell. 

With  that,  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground, 

With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound. 

That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  appears. 

To  check  their  folly,  passion's  sudden'  tears. 

Prin.  But  what,  but  what,  come  they  to  visit  us  ? 

Boyet.  They  do.  they  do  :  and  are  apparel'd  thus,-- 
Like  MuscoA'ites,  or  Russians  :  as  I  guess. 
Their  purpose  is.  to  parle.  to  court,  and  dance ; 
And  every  one  his  love-suit'  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress  ;  which  they  '11  know 
By  favours  several  which  they  did  bestow. 

Prin.  And  will  they  so?  the  gallants  shall  be  task'd 
For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  maskd. 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  .see  a  lady's  face  — 
Hold  Rosaline  :  this  favour  thou  shalt  wear, 
And  then  the  king  y\i\\  court  thee  for  his  dear  : 
Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  me  thine, 
So  shall  Biron  take  me  for  Rosaline. — 
And  change  you*  favours,  too  :  so  shall  your  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceiv'd  by  these  removes. 

Ros.  Come  on  then  :  wear  the  favours  most  in  sight 

Kath.  But  in  this  changing  what  is  your  intent' 

Prin.  The  effect  of  my  intent  is.  to  cross  theirs: 
They  do  it  but  in  mockery,  merriment  ; 
And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 
Their  several  counsels  they  unbosom  shall 
To  loves  mistook  :  and  so  be  inock'd  withal, 
Upon  the'  next  occasion  that  we  meet. 
With  visages  displayed,  to  talk,  and  greet. 

Ros.  But  shall  we  dance,  if  they  desire  us  to  't  ? 

Prin.  No  ;  to  the  leath,  we  will  not  move  a  foot 
Nor  to  their  penn'd  speech  render  we  no  grace  ; 
But,  while  'i  is  spoke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Boyet.  Why,  that  contempt  will  kill  the  speaker' 
heart. 
And  quite  divorce  his  memory  from  his  part. 

Prin.  Therefore  I  do  it ;  and.  I  make  no  doubt, 
The  rest  will  ne'er  come  in.  if  he  be  out. 
There  's  no  such  sport,  as  sport  by  sport  o'erthrown  ; 
To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  oaati  : 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game  ; 
And  they,  well  mockd,  depart  away  with  shame. 

[Trumpets  sound  witkin 


'  B  :  in  f.  e.      »  For  a  eertainty. 
feat       •  So  IS*.  Quarto;  the  folio: 


•  port«nf-like  •  in  f.  e.      •  encounters  :  in  f.  e.      »  their  breath  : 


'  solemn      n  f.  «.      '  Ltfvi 


3CENE    TI. 


LOYE'S   LABOUE'S   LOST. 


141 


Boyet.  Tlie  tnunpet  t^oimds  :  be  mask'd,  the  maskers 

come.  [The  ladies  mi,sk. 

iHnter  the   King,  Biron,   Longaville.  and  Dumaine, 

in  Russian  habits,  and  masked ;  Moth,  Alusicians^ 

and  Attendants. 

Moth.  ■'  All  hail,  the  richest  beauties  on  the  earth  !" 

Biron. ^   Beauties  uo  richer  than  rich  taffata. 

Moth.  '"A  holy  parcel  ot  the  fairest  dames, 

[The  Ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
That  evei  turn'd  their  backs  to  mortal  views  !" 

Biron.  "  Their  eyes,"  villain,  "  their  eyes." 

Moth.  "  That  ever  turn'd  their  eyes  to  mortal  views  ! 
>jt— " 

Boyet.  True:   " out,"  indeed. 

Moth.     '••  Out   of    your    favours,    heavenly   spirits, 
vouch.^afe 
Not  to  behold'' — 

Biron.  "  Once  to  behold."  rogue. 

Moth.  "  Once  to  behold  with  your  sun-beamed  eyes, 
with  your  sun-beamed  eyes" — 

Boyet.  They  will  not  answer  to  that  epithet; 
Vou  were  best  call  it  daughter-beamed  eyes. 

Moth.  They  do  not  mark  me.  and  that  brings  me 
out. 

Biron.  Is  this  your  perfectness?  be  gone,  you  rogue. 

Ros.  What  would  these  strangers?  know  their  minds, 
Boyet. 
If  they  do  speak  our  language,  't  is  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  their  purposes. 
Know  what  they  would. 

Boyet.  What  would  you  with  the  princess  ? 

Biron.  Nothing  but  peace,  and  gentle  visitation. 

Ros.  What  would  they,  say  they  ? 

Boyet.  Nothing  but  peace,  and  gentle  visitation. 

Ros.  Why.  that  they  have  ;  and  bid  them  so  be  gone. 

Boyet.  She  says,  you  have  it,  and  you  may  be  gone. 

King.  Say  to  her,  we  have  measur'd  many  miles, 
To  tread  a  measure  with  her  on  this  grass. 

Boyet.   They  say,  that  they  have  measur'd  many  a 
mile, 
To  tread  a  measure*  with  you  on  this  grass. 

Ros.  It  is  not  so :  ask  them  how  many  inches 
Ts  in  one  mile  ?  if  they  have  measur'd  many, 
The  measure  then  of  one  is  easily  told. 

Boyet.  If,  to  come  hither  you  have  measur'd  miles. 
A  nd  many  miles,  the  princess  bids  you  tell, 
Kow  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile. 

Biron.  Tell  her,  we  measure  them  by  weary  steps. 

Boyet.  She  hears  herself. 

Ros.  How  many  weary  steps. 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone. 
Are  number'd  in  the  travel  of  one  mile  ? 

Biron.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  for  you  : 
Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite, 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  accompt. 
Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face, 
That  we  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

Ros.  My  face  is  but  a  moon,  and  clouded  too. 

King.  Blessed  are  clouds,  to  do  as  such  clouds  do  ! 
Vouchsafe,  bright  moon,  and  these  thy  stars,  to  shine 
(Those  clouds  removed)  upon  our  watery  e>Tie. 

Ros.  O,  vain  petitioner  !  beg  a  greater  matter  ; 
Thou  now  request'st  but  moonshine  in  the  water. 

King.  Then,  in  our  measure  do  but  vouchsafe  one 
change. 
Thou  bi  i'st  me  beg ;  this  begging  is  not  strange. 

Ros.  Play,  music,  then  !  nay,  you  must  do  it  soon. 

[3Iusic  plays. 
Not  yet ; — no  dance  : — thus  change  I  like  the  moon. 

'  Dyce    gives  this  Bpeeoh  to   Boyet,  as  do  most  mod.  eds.      >  A 


King    Will  you  not  dance  ?     How  come  you  thue 
estranged  ? 

Ros.  You  took  the  moon  at  full,  but  now  she 's  changed. 

King.  Yet  still  she  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 
The  music  plays  :  vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 

Ros.  Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 

King.  But  your  legs  should  do  it. 

Ros.    Since    you    are  strangers,  and  come  here  by 
chance. 
We  '11  not  be  nice.     T:  ke  hands  : — we  will  not  dance 

King.  Why  take  we  hands  then  ? 

Ros.  Only  to  part  friends.— 

Court'sy,  sweet  hearts  :  and  so  the  measure  ends. 

King.  More  measure  of  this  measure  :  be  not  nice 

Ros.  We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  a  price. 

King.  Prize  ^-ou  yourselves  ?    What  buys  y  our  30m- 
pany  ? 

Ros.  Your  absence  only. 

King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.  Then  cannot  we  be  bought;  and  so  adieu. 
Twice  to  your  vi.-^or,  and  half  once  to  you  ! 

King.  If  you  deny  to  dance,  let 's  hold  more  chat. 

Ros.  In  private,  then. 

King.  I  am  best  pleas'd  with  that.  {They  converse  apart 

Biron.  W^hite-handed  mistress,  one  sweet  word  witb 
thee. 

Prin.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar  :  there  are  three 

Biron.  Nay,  then,  two  treys,  (an  if  you  grow  so  nice) 
Metheglin.  wort,  and  malmsey. — Well  run,  dice  ! 
There  's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 

Prin.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu. 

Since  you  can  cog',  I  '11  play  no  more  with  you. 

Biron.  One  word  in  secret. 

Prin.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Biron.  Thou  griev'st  my  gall. 

Prin.  Gall  ?  bitter. 

Biron.  Therefore  meet.     [They  converse  apart. 

Bum.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a  word  ? 

Mar.  Name  it. 

Dum.  Fair  lady, — 

Mar.  Say  you  so  ?  Fair  lord. — 

Take  that  for  your  fair  lady. 

Dum.  Please  it  you, 

As  much  in  private,  and  I  '11  bid  adieu. 

[They  converse  apart. 

Kath.  Wliat,  was  your  visor  made  without  a  tong-ie  r 

Long.  I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 

Kath.  0,  for  your  reason !  quickly,  sir ;  I  long. 

Long.  You  have  a  double  tongue  within  your  mask, 
And  would  afford  my  speechless  visor  half. 

Kath.  Veal,   quoth  the   Dutchman. — Is  not   veal   a 
calf? 

Long.  A  calf,  fair  lady? 

Kath.  No,  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Long.  Let 's  part  the  word. 

Kath.  No ;  I  '11  not  be  your  half : 

Take  all,  and  wean  it :  it  may  prove  an  ox. 

Long.  Look,  how  you  butt  yourself  in  these  sharp 
mocks. 
Will  you  give  horns,  chaste  lady?  do  not  so. 

Kath.  Then  die  a  calf,  before  your  horns  do  grow. 

Long.  One  word  in  private  with  you,  ere  I  die. 

Kath.  Bleat  softly  then  :  the  butcher  hears  you  cry 
[They  converse  apart 

Boyet.  The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are  a«  keen 
As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 
Cutting  a  smaller  hair  than  may  be  seen  ; 
Above  the  sense  of  sense,  so  sensible 
Seemeth  their  conference ;  their  conceits  have  wings, 

formal,  slow  dance.       '  To  cog,  was  to  load  dice,  to  cheat,  to  'soeive. 


142 


LOYE'S   LABOUR'S  LOST. 


ACT    V. 


Fleeter   than   arrows,  bullets,  wind,  thought,  swifter 
things. 

Ros    Not   one    word   more,    my  maids :    break  off. 
break  oH" 

Biron.  By  heaven,  all  dry-beaten  with  p\ire  scoff! 

King  Farewi.ll.  mad  weiictn^s  :  you  have  simple  wits. 

[Exeunt  King.  Lonh.  Moth,  Xhisic.  and  Attendants. 

Prin.  Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovites. — 
Are  th<\<e  ihe  breed  of  wiis  so  wonder"d  at? 

Hoyet.    Tapers  they   are,  with   your  sweet  breaths 
pufTd  out. 

Ros.  Well-liking  ^^^ts  they  have ;  gross,  cross ;  fat, 
fat. 

Prin.  0,  poverty  in  wit,  kilTd  by  pure  flout'  ! 
Will  they  not.  think  you.  hang  themselves  to-night, 

Or  ever,  hut  in  visors,  show  their  faces? 
This  pert  Biron  was  out  of  countenance  quite. 

Ros.  0  !  they  were  all  in  lamentable  cases  ! 
Tiie  king  was  woeping-ripe  for  a  good  word. 

Prin.  Biron  did  swear  himself  out  of  all  suit. 

Mar.  Duniaine  was  at  my  service,  and  his  sword  : 
No  point,  quoth  1  :  my  servant  straight  was  mute. 

Kath.  Lord  Longaville  said,  I  came  o'er  his  heart ; 
And  trow  you,  what  he  call'd  me  ? 

Prin.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.  Yes,  in  good  faith. 

Prin.  Go,  sickness  as  thou  art ! 

Ros.  Well,  better  wits  have  worn  plain  statute-caps', 
But  will  you  hear?  the  king  is  my  love  sworn. 

Prin.  And  quick  Biron  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 

Kaih.  And  Longa^^lle  was  for  my  service  born. 

Mar.  Dumaine  is  mine,  as  sure  as  bark  on  tree, 

Boyet.  !Madain,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give  ear. 
Immediately  they  ^^^ll  again  be  here 
In  their  own  shapes :  for  it  can  never  be, 
Tiicy  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 

Prin.  Wilfthey  return? 

Boyct.  They  will,  they  will,  God  knows  : 

A.nd  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with  blows  : 
Therefore,  change  favours ;  and.  when  they  repair. 
Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.  How  blow  ?  how  blow  ?  speak  to  be  understood. 

Boyet.  Fair  ladies,  mask'd,  are  roses  in  their  bud: 
Dismask"d,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown. 
Are  angels  vailing  clouds',  or  roses  blown. 

Prin.  Avaunt,  perplexity  !     What  shall  we  do. 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo  ? 

Ros.  Good  madam,  if  by  me  you  '11  be  advised. 
Let 's  mock  them  still,  as  well,  knovsni.  as  disguis'd. 
Let  us  complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 
Disguis'd  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear; 
And  wonder,  what  they  were,  and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows,  and  prologue  vilely  penn'd. 
And  th'ir  rounh  carriage  so  ridiculous. 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 

Boyet.  Ladies,  withdraw:  the  gallants  are  at  hand. 

Prin.  Whip  to  our  tents,  as  roes  run  over  land. 

\Erctmt  Princess.  Ros.  K.^th.  and  Maria. 
Enter  the  KiNt;.   Bikon,  Longaville,   and  Du.maine, 
in  their  proper  habits. 

King.  Fair  sir.  God  save  you  !  Where  is  the  princess? 

Boyet.  Gone  to  lier  tent :  please  it  your  majesty, 
Command  me  any  service  to  her  thither  ? 

King.  That  she  vouchsafe  me  audience  for  one  word. 

Boyet.  I  will ;  and  so  will  she,  I  know,  my   lord. 

[Erit. 

Biron.  This  fellow  pecks  up  wit,  as  pigeons  peas. 


And  utters  it  again  when  God*  doth  pleaue. 
He  is  wit's  pcdler,  and  retails  his  wares 
At  wakes,  and  wassails,  meeiings,  markets,  fairs  ; 
And  we  that  sell  by  gi-oss,  the  Lord  doth  know, 
Have  not  the  grace  to  grace  it  with  such  show. 
This  gallant  pins  the  wenches  on  hi.<  sleeve: 
Had  he  been  Adam,  he  had  templed  Eve. 
A'  can  carve  too,  and  lisp :  why.  this  is  he. 
That  kiss'd  his  hand  away  in  courtesy : 
This  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice, 
That,  when  he  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice 
In  honourable  terms  :  nay.  he  can  sing 
A  mean  most  meanly  ;  and.  in  ushering. 
Mend  him  who  can  :  the  ladies  call  him.  sweet; 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet. 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one. 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whales  bone'  ; 
And  consciences,  that  will  not  die  in  debt. 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongiicd  Boyet. 

King.  A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue,  -with  my  heart 
That  put  Armado's  page  out  of  his  ]iart  ! 

Enter  the  Princess,  ushered  by  Boyet:  Ros4LIne, 
Maria,  Katharine,  and  Attendants. 

Biron .  See  where  he  comes  ! — Behaviour,  what  wer 
thou. 
Till  this  man*  show'd  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou  now? 

King.    All   hail,  sweet    madam,  and   fair  time  of 
"day  ! 

Prin.  Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul,  as  I  conceive. 

,King.  Construe  my  speeches  better,  if  you  may. 

Prin.  Then  wish  me  better  :  I  Mill  give  you  leave. 

King.  We  come  to  visit  you.  and  purpose  now 
To  lead  you  to  our  court :  vouchsafe  it,  then. 

Prin.  This  field  shall  hold  me,  and  so  hold  your  vow  . 
Nor  God.  nor  I.  delight  in  perjur'd  men. 

King.  Rebuke  me  not  for  that  which  you  provoke; 
The  A-irtue  of  your  eye  must  break  my  oath. 

Prin.  You  nick-name  virtue  ;  vice  you  should  have 
spoke. 
For  virtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth. 
Now.  by  my  maiden  honour,  yet  as  pure 

As  the  unsullied  lily.  I  protc'^t, 
A  world  of  torments  though  I  should  endure, 

I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest; 
So  much  I  hate  a  breaking  cause  to  be 
Of  heavenly  oaths,  vow'd  with  integrity. 

King.  0  !  you  have  liv'd  in  desolation  here. 
Unseen,  unvisited  ;  much  to  our  shame. 

Prin.  Not  so,  my  lord  ;  it  is  not  so,  I  swear: 
We  have  had  pastimes  here,  and  pleasant  game. 
A  mess  of  Russians  left  us  but  of  late. 

King.  How,  madam  !  Russians  ? 

Prin.  Ay,  in  truth,  my  lord 

Trim  gallants,  full  of  courtship,  and  of  state. 

Ros.  Madam,  speak  true. — It  is  not  so,  my  lord: 
My  lady  (to  the  manner  of  these  days) 
In  courtesy  gives  undeserving  praise. 
We  four,  indeed,  confronted  were  with  four 
In  Russian  habit:  here  they  stay'd  an  hour. 
And  talk"d  apace;  and  in  that  hour,  my  lord. 
They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 
I  dare  not  call  them  fools  :  but  this  I  think. 
When  they  are  thirsty,  fools  would  fain  have  drink. 

Biron.  This  jest  is  dry  to  me. —  Fair,  gentle  sweet 
Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish  :  when  we  greet, 
With  eyes  best  seeing,  heaven's  fiery  eye. 
By  light  we  lose  light:  your  capacity 


'  kinttlT— poor  flout :  in  f 
■lon/t)  u-h  ieh  h  id  thfm 


By  act  of  Parliament  of  1571.  all  persona  not  noble,  were  ordsred  to  wear  woollen  caps.      '  Lowerimttht 
♦  So  the  quarto  •  the  folio  .  Jove.      •  The  tocth  of  the  roclrus,  forme'lT  called   the   whale.      •  The  old  ccis  I  a»» 
which  Dree  tfouIo  reUi-n 


SCENE   II. 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S  LOST. 


143 


Ib  cf  that  natu/e.  that  to  your  huge  store 
Wise  things  s';em  foolish,  and  rich  things  but  poor. 
Pos.  This    proves    you  wise    and   rich,  for   in  my 

eye. — 
Biron.  I  am  a  fool,  and  full  of  poverty. 
Ros.  But  that  you  take  what  doth  to  you  belong, 
It  were  a  fault  to  snatch  words  from  my  tongue. 
Biron.  0  !  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 
Ros.  All  tlie  fool  mine  ? 

Biron.  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

Ros.  Which  of  the  ^-isors  was  it,  that  you  wore? 
Biron.  Where?   when?    what  visor?    why  demand 

you  this  ? 
Ros.  There,  then,  that  \isor  ;  that  superfluous  ease, 
That  hid  the  worse,  and  show'd  the  better  face. 
King.  We  are  descried  :  they  '11  mock  us  now  down- 
right. 
Ditm.  Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 
Prin.  Amazd.  my  lord?      Why  looks   your   high- 
ness sad? 
Ros.  Help  !    hold  his  brows  !    he  '11  swoon.      Why 
look  you  pale  ? — 
Sea-sick,  I  think,  coming  from  Muscovj'. 

Biron.  Thus  pour  the  stars  down  plagues  for  per- 
jury. 
Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out? — 
Here  stand  I,  lady :  dart  thy  skill  at  me  ; 

Bruise  me  with  scorn,  confound  me  with  a  flout ; 
Thrust  thy  sharp  ^it  quite  through  my  ignorance  ; 

Cut  me  to  pieces  with  thy  keen  conceit; 
And  I  will  wish  thee  never  more  to  dance. 
Nor  never  more  in  Russian  habit  wait. 
0 !  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penn'd. 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  school-boy's  tongue ; 
Nor  never  come  in  visor  to  my  friend ; 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  song ; 
Taflata  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-pil'd  hyperboles,  spruce  affectation, 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer  flies 

Have  bloAATi  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation. 
I  do  forswear  them  ;  and  I  here  protest 

By  this  white  glove,  (how  white  the  hand.  God 
knows.) 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  express'd 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes : 
And,  to  begin, — wench,  so  God  help  me,  la  ! 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 
Ros.  Sans  sans,  I  pray  you. 
Biron.  Yet  I  have  a  trick 

Of  the  old  rage : — bear  with  me.  I  am  sick  : 
I  "11  leave  it  by  degrees.     Soft !  let  us  see  :— 
Write  '•  Lord  have  mercy  on  us'"  on  those  three  ; 
They  are  infected,  in  their  hearts  it  lies ; 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your  eyes  : 
These  lords  are  visited ;  you  are  not  free, 
For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 

Pri7i.  No,  they  are  free  that  gave  these  tokens  to  us. 
Biron.  Our  states  are  forfeit :  seek  not  to  undo  us. 
Rss.  It  is  not  so  ;  for  how  can  this  be  true, 
That  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue  ? 

Biron.  Peace  !  for  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 
Ros.  Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 
Biron.  Speak  for  yourselves :  my  wit  is  at  an  end. 
King.  Teach  us,  sweet  madam,  for  our  rude  trans- 
gression 
Some  fair  excuse. 

Prin.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  here,  but  even  now,  disguis'd  ? 


King.  Madam,  I  was. 

Prin.  And  were  you  well  ad-'is'd  ? 

King.  I  was,  fair  madam. 

Prin.  \Vlien  you  then  were  her«», 

What  did  you  whisper  in  your  lady's  ear? 

King.  That  more  than  all  the  world  I  did  respect  hor. 

Prin.  When  she  shall  challenge  this,  you  will  reject 
her. 

King.  Upon  mine  honour,  no. 

Prin.  Peace  !  peace  !  forbear: 

Your  oath  once  broke,  you  force^  not  to  forswear. 

King.  Despise  me.  when  I  break  this  oath  of  mine. 

Prin.  I  will ;  and  therefore  keep  it. — Rosaline, 
What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear  ? 
j      Ros.  Madam,  he  swore,  that  he  did  hold  me  dear 
As  precious  eye-sight,  and  did  value  me 
j  Above  this  world  ;  adding  thereto,  moreover, 
T-hat  he  would  wed  me.  or  else  die  my  lover. 

Prin.  God  give  thee  joy  of  him  !  the  noble  lord 
'  Most  honourably  doth  uphold  his  word. 

King.  What  mean  you,  madam  ?  by  my  life,  my  trotii, 
I  never  swore  this  lady  such  an  oath. 
I      Ros.  By  heaven,  you  did  :  and  to  confirm  it  plain, 
You  gave  me  this  :  but  take  it,  sir.  again. 
I      King.  My  faith,  and  this,  the  princess  I  did  give  • 
j  I  knew  her  by  this  jewel  on  her  sleeve. 

Prin.  Pardon  me,  sir.  this  jewel  did  she  wear  ; 
I  And  lord  Biron,  I  thank  him,  is  my  dear. — 
What !  will  you  have  me,  or  your  pearl  again  ? 

Biron.  Neither  of  either  ;  I  remit  both  twain. — 
I  see  the  trick  on  't : — here  was  a  consent, 
Kno%\"ing  aforehand  of  our  merriment. 
To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy. 
■  Some  carrA'-tale.  some  please-man.  some  slight  zany, 
j  Some  mumble-news,  some  trencher-knight,  some  Dick, 
That  smiles  his  cheek  in  years,  and  knows  the  trick 
To  make  my  lady  laugh  when  she  's  disposed. 
Told  our  intents  before ;  which  once  disclos'd, 
The  ladies  did  change  favours,  and  then  we, 
Following  the  signs,  woo'd  but  the  sign  of  she. 
Now.  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror, 
!  We  are  again  forsworn — in  M-ill.  and  error. 
Much  upon  this  it  is  : — and  might  not  you  [To  Bo  yet. 
Forestal  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue? 
Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squire'. 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back.  sir.  and  the  fire, 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrily? 
You  put  our  page  out :  go,  you  are  allow'd. 
Die  when  you  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shroud. 
You  leer  upon  me.  do  you  ?  there  's  an  eye, 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boyet.  Full  merr.ly 

Hath  this  brave  manage,  this  career,  been  run. 

Biron.  Lo  !  he  is  tilting  straight.     Peace  !     I  have 
done. 

Enter  Costard. 
Welcome,  pure  wit  !  thou  partest  a  fair  tra^ . 

Cost.  0  Lord,  sir,  they  would  know, 
Whether  the  three  Worthies  shall  come  in.  or  no. 
Biron.  What,  are  there  but  three  ? 

Cost.  No,  sir  ;  but  it  is  vara  fine, 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  niae 

Cost.  Not  so,  sir;  under  correction,  sir,  I  hope,  it 
is  not  so. 
You  cannot  beg*  us,  sir,  I  can  assure  you,  sir;    we 
know  what  we  know  : 


'  Vhe  lUbcription,  -written  on  houses  infected  with  the  plague, 
•nstody  of  us  as  lunatics. 


^Hesitate,   an  old  use  of  the  word.      '  Square.      *  Beg  to  have  the 


lU 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir, — 

Bit  on.  Is  not  nine. 

Cost.  Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  whereuntil  it 
dolli  amount. 

liiioii.  By  Jove,  I  always  took  three  threes  for  nine. 

Cosl  0  Lord  !  sir,  it  were  pity  you  should  get  your 
living  by  reckoning,  sir. 

Biroii.  How  niucli  i.>*  it  ? 

Cost.  0  Lord  !  sir.  tiie  parties  them.«elves,  the  actors, 
<jir.  will  show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount  :  for  mine  own 
part,  I  am,  as  ihey  say,  but  to  purseiit  one  man, — e'en 
one  poor  man — Pompion  tiie  great,  sir. 

Biruii.  Art  thou  one  of  the  Worthies? 

Cost.  Ii  plea.-cd  them,  to  think  me  worthy  of  Pom- 
pion the  great  :  for  mine  own  part,  I  know  not  tlie 
degree  ol  ihe  Worthy,  but  I  am  to  stand  for  him. 

Biruu    Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cost.  We  will  turn  it  finely  off,  sir:  we  will  take 
some  care.  [Exit  Costard. 

King.  Biron,  they  will  shame  us;  let  them  not  ap- 
proach. 

Biron.  We  are  shame-proof,  my  lord  ;  and  't  is  some 
policy 
To  have  one  show  worse  than  the  king's  and  his  com- 
pany. 

King.  I  say,  they  shall  not  come. 

Prin.  Nay.  my  good  lord,  let  me  o'er-rule  you  now. 
That  spurt  best  plea.ses,  that  doth  least  know  how  : 
Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Die  in  the  zeal  of  them  which  it  presents, 
Their  form  confounded  makes  most  form  in  mirth; 
When  great  things  labouring  perish  in  their  birth. 

Biron.  A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my  lord. 
Enter  Armado. 

Arm.  Anointed,  I  implore  so  much  expense  of  thy 
royal  sweet  breath,  as  will  utter  a  brace  of  words. 

[Armado   converses  with  the  King,  and  delivers 
a  paper  to  him. 

Prin.  Doth  this  man  serve  God? 

Biron.  Why  ask  you? 

J'rin.  A'  speaks  not  like  a  man  of  God's  making. 

Arm.  That 's  all  one,  my  fair,  sweet,  honey  monarch  ; 
for.  I  protest,  the  school-master  is  exceeding  fantasti- 
cal ;  too.  too  vain  ;  too.  too  vain  :  but  we  will  put  it, 
ts  they  say.  to  fortuna  della  gucrra.  I  wish  you  the 
peace  of  mind,  most  royal  coupjement  !    [Exit  Arma])o. 

King.  Here  is  like  to  be  a  sood  presence  of  Wor- 
thies.    He  presents  Hector  of  Troy ;  the  swain,  Pom- 
\ey  the  irreat  :  the  parish  curate,  Alexander;  Armado's 
page,  Hercules  ;  the  pedant,  Judas  Maccabeus. 
And  if  these  four  Worthies  in  their  first  show  thrive, 
The.se  lou  ■  will  change  habits,  and  present  the  otherfive. 

Biron    There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 

King    You  arc  deceived  ;  't  is  not  so. 

Biron  The  pedant,  the  braggart,  the  hedge-priest, 
the  fool,  and  the  hoy: — 

•\bate  th  ow  at  novum',  and  the  whole  world  again 
Cannot  pick  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his  vein. 

King    The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she  comes 
amain. 

Entir  Costard  armed,  for  Pompcy. 

Cost.  ••  I  Pompey  am, — " 

Bnyrt.  You  lie,  you  are  not  he. 

C(j.'!t.  ■■  I  i'oinpey  am. —  ' 

Boyel  With  libbard's*  head  on  knee. 

Biron  Well  said,  old  mocker:  I  must  needs  be  I 
triends  with  thee. 


I      Cost.  "I  Pompey  am.  Pompey  surnam'd  the  big, — " 
Dum.  The  great. 

Cost.  It  is  great,  sir  : — "  Pompey  surnam'd  the  great . 
That  oft  in  field,  with  targe  and  shield,  did  make  my 

foe  to  sweat : 
And  travelling  along    this  coast  I  here  am  come  bj 

chance, 
And  lay  my  arms  before  the  legs  of  this  sweet  lass  of 

France." 
If   your   ladyship  would   say,   "  Thanks,   Pompey,"   ) 
had  done. 
Prin.  Great  thanks,  great  Pompey. 
Co.st.  'T  is  not  so  much  worth  ;  but,  1  hope,  I  was 
perfect.     I  made  a  little  fault  in,  '•  great." 

Biron.  My  hat  to  a  halfpemiy,  Pompey  proves  the 
best  Worthy. 

Enfrr  Sir  Nathaniel  armed,  for  Alexander. 
Nath.  "When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the  world's 
commander ; 
By  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  I  spread  my  conquering 

might : 
My  'scutcheon  plain  declares,  that  I  am  Alisander." 
Boyet.  Your   nose  says,  no,  you    are    not;    for    it 
stands  too  right. 
j      Biron.  Your  nose  smells,  no,  in  this,  most  tendcr- 
I  smelling  knight.' 

Prin.  The  conqueror  is   dismayd. — Proceed,   good 
Alexander. 
I      Nath.  "  When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the  world's 
'  commander:" — 

1      Boyet.  Most  true  ;  't  is  right ;  you  were  so,  Alisander 
I      Biron.  Pompey  the  great, — 

Cost.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 
j      Biron.  Take  away  the  conqueror,  take  away  Ali 

Sander. 
I  Cost.  O  !  sir,  [To  Nath.]  you  have  overthrown  Ali- 
sander the  conqueror.  You  will  be  scraped  out  of  the 
I  painted  cloth*  for  this:  your  lion,  that  holds  his  poll- 
'  axe  sitting  on  a  close-stool,  will  he  give  to  Ajax* :  he 
will  be  the  ninth  Worthy.  A  conqueror,  and  afeard  to 
,  speak  ?  run  away  for  shame,  Alisander.  [Nath.  retires.] 
There,  an  't  shall  please  you  ;  a  foolish  mild  man  ;  an 
honest  man,  look  you,  and  soon  dash'd.  He  is  a  mar- 
vellous good  neighbour,  faith,  ai\d  a  very  good  bowler  , 
but,  for  Alisander,  alas!  you  see  how  'tis; — a  little 
o'erparted. — But  there  are  Worthies  a  coming  •will 
speak  their  mind  in  some  other  sort. 

King.  Stand  aside,  good  Pompey.      [Exit  Costard. 
Enter  Holofernes  armed,  for  JudaSj  and  Moth 
armed,  for  Hercules. 
Hoi.  "Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp, 
Whose   club  kill'd  Cerberus,  that   three-headed 
canis  ; 
And,  when  he  was  a  babe,  a  child  a  shrimp. 

Thus  did  he  strangle  serpents  in  his  manvs. 
Quoniam,  he  seemeth  in  minority. 
Ergo,  I  come  with  this  apology. — 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish.    [Exit  Mcth. 
Hoi.  ■'  Judas  I  am," — 
Dum.  A  Judas ! 
Hoi.  Not  Iscariot.  sir. — 
"  Judas  I  am,  yclep'd  Maccabeus." 

Ihim.  Judas  Maccabeus  dipt  is  plain  Judas. 
Biron.    A    kissing   traitor. — How   art   thou   prov'd 
Judas  ? 

Hoi.  "  Judas  I  am," — 

Dum.  The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas. 


'  A  gnuif  <ti  Hire,  of  which  five  and  nino  were  the  chief  throws.  »  Panther's.  »  Alexander  wag  wry-neclced,  and  his  body  oayg  Plutarch, 
lad  a  gwr"!  ...J.,ur  ♦  Used  for  wall»  in  place  of  ta[>estry.  *  The  arms  Kiven  to  Alexander  in  the  old  history  of  the  Nine  Worthies,  were 
'  a  lion  iittitii;  in  >  chair,  holdint;  a  batil>!-axe.''      *  Not  in  f.  •. 


RCENE   n. 


LOYE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


145 


Hoi.  What  mean  you,  sir? 

Boyet.  To  make  Judas  hang  himself. 

Hoi.  Begin,  sir :  you  are  my  elder. 

Biron.  Well  follow'd :  Judas  was  hang'd  on  an  elder.* 

Hoi.  I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenauce. 

Biron.  Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.  What  is  this? 

Boyet.  A  cittern'  head. 

Dum.  The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Biron.  A  death's  face  in  a  ring. 

Long.  The  face  of  an  old  Roman  coin,  scarce  seen. 

Boyet.  The  pummel  of  Caesar's  faulchion. 

Dum.  The  car\'\i-bone  face  on  a  flask'. 

Biron.  St.  George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Diim.  Ay,  and  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Biron.  Ay,  and  worn  in  the  cap  of  a  tooth-drawer. 
A.nd  now  forward,  for  we  have  put  thee  in  countenance. 

Hoi.  You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.  False  :  we  have  given  thee  faces. 

Hoi.  But  you  have  out-fac'd  them  all. 

Biron.  An  thou  wert  a  lion,  we  would  do  so. 

Boyet.  Therefore,  as  he  is  an  ass,  let  him  go. 
And  so  adieu,  sweet  Jude  !  nay,  why  dost  thou  stay? 

Dim.  For  the  latter  end  of  his  name. 

Biron.   For  the  ass  to  the  Jude  ?    give   it  him  : — 
Jud-as.  away. 

Hoi.  This  is  not  generoixs,  not  gentle,  not  humble. 

Boyet.  A  light  for  monsieur  Judas  !  it  grows  dark, 
he  may  stu.mble. 

Prin.    Alas,  poor    Maccabeus,  how   hath    he    been 
baited  ! 

Enter  Armado   armed,  for  Hector. 

Biron.  Hide  thy  head,  Achilles :  here  comes  Hector 
in  arms. 

Dum.  Tiiough  my  mocks  come  home  by  me.  I  will 
now  be  merry. 

King.  Hector  was  but  a  Trojan  in  respect  of  this. 

Boyet.  But  is  this  Hector? 

Bing.  I  think  Hector  was  not  so  clean-timber'd. 

Long.  His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector's. 

Dum.   More  calf,  certain. 

Boyet.  No ;  he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Biron.  This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dian.  He  's  a  god  or  a  painter;  for  he  makes  faces. 

Arm.  •'  The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  almighty, 
Gave  Hector  a  gift, — " 

Dum.  A  gift*  nutmeg. 

Biron.  A  lemon. 

Long.  Stuck  ^vith  cloves.* 

Dum.  No,  cloven. 

Arm.  Peace  ! 

"  The  armipotent  Mars  of  lances  the  almighty, 
Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  Ilion; 
A  man  so  breath'd.  that  certain  he  woi^ld  fight,  yea, 
From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 
I  am  that  flower, — " 

Dum.  That  mint. 

Long.  That  columbine. 

Arm.  Sweet  lord  Longaville,  rein  thy  tongue. 

Long.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein,  for  it  runs 
against  Hector. 

Dum.  Ay,  and  Hector  's  a  greyhound. 

Arm.  The  sweet  war-man  is  dead  and  rotten :  sweet 
chucks,  beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried  :  when  he 
breathed,  he  was  a  man. — But  I  wdll  forward  -with  my 
de\'ice.  Sweet  royalty,  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of 
hfoaring.* 


Prin.  Speak,  brave  Hector:  we  are  much  delighted. 

Arm    I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 

Boyet.  Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

D-m.  He  may  not  by  the  yard. 

Arm.  '"This  Hector  far  surmounted  Hannibal," — 
Re-enter  Cost.\rd.  in  haste,  unarmed.'' 

Cost.  The  party  is  gone:  fellow  Hector,  she  is  gone; 
she  is  two  months  on  her  way. 

Arm.  What  meajiest  thou  ? 

Cost.  Faith,  unless  you  play  the  honest  Trojan,  the 
poor  wench  is  cast  away :  she  's  quick ;  the  child  brasi 
in  her  belly  already:  't  is  yours. 

Arm.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  potentates 
Thou  shalt  die. 

Cost.  Then  shall  Hector  be  whipp'd  for  Jaquenetti 
that  is  quick  by  him,  and  hang'd  for  Pompey  that  is 
dead  by  him. 

Dimi.  Most  rare  Pompey  ! 

Boyet.  Reno\A-ned  Pompey  ! 

Biron.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great  Pom- 
pey !  Pompey  the  huge  ! 

Dum.  Hector  trembles. 

Biron.  Pompey  is  moved. — More  Ates,  more  Ates  I 
stir  them  on  !  stir  them  on  ! 

Dnm.  Hector  will  challeiige  him. 

Biron.  Ay,  if  a'  have  no  more  man's  blood  in  "s 
belly  than  will  sup  a  flea. 

Arm.  By  the  north  pole.  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Cost.  I  \\ill  not  fight  with  a  pole,  like  a  northern 
man*:  I  '11  slash;  I'll  do  it  by  the  sword. — I  pray  you 
let  me  borrow  my  arms  again. 

Dum.  Room  for  the  incensed  Worthies  ! 

Cost.  I  '11  do  it  in  my  shirt. 

Du7n.  Most  resolute  Pompey  ! 

Moth.  Master,  let  me  take  you  a  button-hole  lower. 
Do  you  not  see,  Pompey  is  unca.«'ng  for  the  combat'." 
What  mean  you  ?  you  will  lose  /our  reputation. 

Arm.  Gentlemen,  and  sold'  rs,  pardon  me ;  I  will 
not  combat  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  You  may  not  deny  it :  Pompey  hath  made  the 
challenge. 

Arju.  Sweet  bloods,  I  both  may  and  will. 

Biron .  What  reason  have  you  for  't  ? 

Arm.  The  naked  truth  of  it  is,  I  have  no  shirt.  1 
go  woolward'  for  penance. 

Boyet.  True,  and  it  was  enjoin'd  him  in  Rome  for 
want  of  linen ;  since  when.  I  '11  be  sworn,  he  wore 
none,  but  a  dish-clout  of  jaquenetta's,  and  that  a' 
wears  next  his  heart  for  a  favour. 

Enter  Monsieur  Mercade.  a  Messenger. 

Mer.  God  save  you,  madam. 

Prin.  Welcome,  Mercade. 
But  that  thou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 

Mer.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  for  the  news  I  bring 
Is  heavy  in  my  tongue.     The  king  your  father — 

Prin.  Dead,  for  my  life  ! 

Mer.  Even  so :  my  tale  is  told. 

Biron.  Worthies,  away  !     The  scene  begins  to  cloud 

Arm.  For  mine  own  part,  I  breathe  free  breath.  1 
have  seen  the  day  of  wTong  through  the  little  hole  of 
discretion,  and  I  will  right  myself  like  a  soldier. 

[Exeunt  Worthies 

King.  How  fares  yoiir  majesty  ? 

Prin.  Boyet,  prepare  :  I  will  away  to-night. 

King.  Madam,  not  so  :  I  do  beseech  you,  stay. 

Prin.  Prepare,  I  say. — I  thank  you,  gracious  lords, 
For  all  your  fair  endeavours ;  and  entreat, 


'  Such  -was  an  old  popular  belief  often  referred  to.  »  Guitar-heads  often  had  a  face  carved  on  them.  '  Pmoder-flask.  *  Folk) :  n 
ellt.  It  is  spoken  of  as  a  sort  of  charm,  in  Ben  Jonson's  "Gipsies  Metamorphosed."  *  A  common  practije.  *  f.  e.  hare  the  direction  : 
BiSOK  whispers  Costard.  '  Not  in  f  e  *  The  qnarter-staff  was  most  in  use  In  the  North  •  With  the  -woollen  outer  garment  next  t«ie 
•kin. 


U6 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST. 


A.CT  V- 


LhJt  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe 
In  ycur  rich  wisdom  to  excuse,  or  hide. 
The  liberal  opposition  of  our  spirits: 
It"  ovcr-boidly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
111  the  converse  of  breath,  your  gentleness 
Was  guilty  of  it.     Farewell,  worthy  lord  ! 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  a  nimble'  tongue. 
Kxcuse  me  so.  coming  too  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtain'd. 

King.  The  extreme  parting  time  expressly  forms" 
AH  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed , 
And  ofien.  at  his  very  loose',  decides 
That  whicli  long  process  could  not  arbitrate : 
And  tliough  the  mourning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love 
Tlie  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince  : 
Vet.  since  love's  argument  was  first  on  foot. 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From  what  ft  purpos'd  :  since,  to  wail  friends  lost 
Is  not  by  much  so  wholesome,  profitable, 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.  I  understand  you  not:  my  griels  are  dull.* 

Biron.  Honest  plain  words  best  pierce  the  ear  of  grief ; 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  yo'ir  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  time. 
Playd  fo\il  play  with  our  oaths  :  your  beauty,  ladies. 
Hath  much  deform'd  us,  fashioning  our  humours 
Even  to  the  opposed  ends  of  our  intents  : 
And  what  in  us  hath  secm'd  ridiculous, — 
As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strangeness  :' 
All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain : 
Form'd  by  the  eye.  and,  therefore,  like  the  e}'-e, 
Full  of  strange'  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  forms, 
V'ar^'ing  in  subjects,  as  the  eye  doth  roll 
To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance  : 
Which  party-coatci.'  presence  of  loose  love 
Put  on  by  us.  if,  in  ^  lur  heavenly  eye.?, 
Have  misbecome  our  «.  'ths  and  gravities. 
Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  faults, 
.Suggested  us  to  make.     Therefore,  ladies. 
Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 
Is  likewise  yours :  we  to  ourselves  prove  false. 
By  being  once  false  for  ever  to  be  true 
To  those  that  make  us  both. — fair  ladies,  you  : 
And  evei;  that  falsehood,  in  itself  sc  base.' 
Thus  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  grace. 

Prin.  We  have  receiv'd  your  letters  full  of  love  ; 
Your  favours,  the  ambassadors  of  love  ; 
And;  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 
At  court.siiip.  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy. 
As  bombast",  and  as  lining  to  the  time. 
But  more  devout  than  thi.^.  in  our  respects 
Have  we  not  been :  and  therefore  met  your  loves 
In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment. 

iMim.  Our  letters,  madam,  showd  much  more  than 
jest. 

Long.  So  did  our  looks. 

Ros.  We  did  not  quote  them  so. 

King.  Now.  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  liour. 
Grant  us  your  loves. 

Prin.  A  time,  methinks.  too  short 

To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in. 
No.  no.  my  lord,  your  grace  is  perjur'd  much. 
Full  of  dear  guiltiness;  and  therefore  this. — 
li  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 
Vou  will  do  auL'ht.  this  shall  you  do  for  me  : 
Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 


To  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage, 

Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world; 

There  stay,  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs 

Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning. 

If  this  austere  insociabic  life 

Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood  ; 

If  frosts,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds, 

Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love. 

But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  love  ; 

Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year, 

Come  challenge  me,  challenge'  by  these  deserts. 

And  by  this  virgin  palm,  now  kissing  thine. 

I  will  be  thine;  and.  till  that  in.stani'",  shut 

My  woful  self  up  in  a  mourning  house. 

Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation, 

For  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 

If  this  thou  do  deny,  let  our  hands  part. 

Neither  intitled  in  the  others  heart. 

King.  If  this,  or  more  than  thif-,  I  would  deny, 
To  flatter  up  these  powers  of  mine  with  rest. 
The  sudden  hand  of  death  close  up  mine  eye. 
Hence  ever  then  my  heart  is  in  thy  breast. 

Biron.  And  what  to  me.  my  love  ?  and  what  to  me'^ 

Ros.  You  must  be  purged  too,  your  sins  are  rank  :• 
You  are  attaint  with  faults  and  perjury; 
Therefore,  if  you  my  favour  mean  to  get, 
A  twelvemonth  shall  you  spend,  and  never  rest, 
But  seek  the  weary  beds  of  people  sick. 

Dt(m.  But  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  but  what  to  me  ? 

Kath.  A  wife  ! — A  beard,  fair  health,  and  honesty : 
With  three-fold  love  I  wnsh  you  all  these  three. 

Dtim.  0  !  shall  I  say,  I  thank  you,  gentle  wife  ? 

Kath.  Not  so,  my  lord.     A  twelvemonth  and  a  day 
I  '11  mark  no  words  that  smooth-fac'd  wooers  say : 
Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come. 
Then,  if  I  have  mudi  love,  I  "11  give  you  some. 

Diim.  I  '11  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till  then. 

Kath.  Yet  swear  not,  lest  you  be  forsworn  again. 

Long.  What  says  Maria? 

Mar.  At  the  twelvemonth's  end. 

I  '11  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  friend. 

Long.  I  '11  stay  with  patience ;  but  the  time  is  long 

Mar.  The  liker  you  :  few  taller  are  so  young. 

Biron.  Studies  my  lady?  mistress  look  on  me: 
Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eye. 
What  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there ; 
Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love. 

Ro.-!.  Oft  had  I  heard  of  you.  my  lord  Biron, 
Before  I  saw  you,  and  the  world's  large  tongue 
Proclaims  yoti  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks; 
Full  of  comparisons  and  wounding  (louts. 
Whieh  you  on  all  estates  will  exercise," 
That  lie  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit: 
To  weed  this  wormwood  from  your  fruitful  brain, 
And.  therewithal,  to  win  me,  if  you  please. 
Without  the  which  I  am  not  to  be  won. 
You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term,  from  day  to  dav, 
Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches ;  and  your  task  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavour  of  your  wit. 
To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile. 

Biron.  To  move  wild  laugiiter  in  the  throat  of  deatJi ' 
It  cannot  be  ;  it  is  impossible  : 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Ro.s.  Why.  that  's  tic  way  to  choke  a  gibing  spirit. 
Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  grace, 
Which  .sliallovv  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools. 


1  hnmble  :  in  f.  e.  *  parts  of  time  extrem»'.y  form  :  in  f.  e.  »The  technical  term  for  the  loosing  of  an  arrnw.  •  donble  :  in  f. '• 
'  BtrauiR  :  in  f.  e.  •  straying  :  in  f.  ^.  'a  sin  :  in  f.  e.  *  Cotton  wool.  nue.A  for  stuffinp  drcfses.  •  has  me  :  in  f.  e,  '<>  -nstaiiceB  :  \.u 
f.  e      "  Knight  and  C-leridee  think  that  this  gpeeoh  of  Rosaline^s  eiiould  be  omitted.     It  is  found  in  all  the  old  eds.     '»  ex-rcute  :  in  '  c. 


LOYE'S    LABOUR'S  LOST. 


147 


A.  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 

Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 

Of  him  that  makes  it:  then,  if  sickly  ears, 

Deaf'd  with  the  clamours  of  their  own  dire'  groans, 

Will  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  them,' 

And  I  vrill  have  you.  and  that  fault  withal ; 

But,  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 

And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault, 

Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 

Biron.  A  twelvemonth?  well,  befalwhat  will  befal, 
^  '11  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 

Prin.  Ay,  sweet  my  lord ;  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

[2b  the  King. 

King.  No,  madam ;  we  will  bring  you  on  your  way. 

Biron.  Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old  play ; 
Jack  hath  not  Jill :  these  ladies'  coui'tesy 
Might  well  have  made  our  sport  a  comedy. 

king.  Come,  sir,  it  wants  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day. 
And  then  't  viill  end. 

Biron.  That 's  too  long  for  a  play. 

Enter  Arm.^do. 

Arm.  Sweet  majesty,  vouchsafe  me. — 

Prin.  Was  not  that  Hector  ? 

Dum.  The  worthy  knight  of  Troy. 

Arm.  I  will  kiss  thy  royal  finger,  and  take  leave. 
I  am  a  votary:  I  have  vowed  to  Jaquenetta  to  hold 
the  plough  for  her  sweet  love  three  years.  But,  most 
esteemed  greatness,  will  you  hear  the  dialogue  that  the 
two  learned  men  have  compiled  in  praise  of  the  owl 
and  the  cuckoo  ?  it  should  have  followed  in  the  end  of 
our  show. 

King.  Call  them  forth  quickly;  we  will  do  so. 

Arm.  Holla!  approach. 
Enter  Holofernes,  Nathaniel,  Moth,  Costard,  and 

others. 
This  side  is  Hiems,  wanter ;  this  Ver,  the  spring ;  the 
one  maintained  by  the  owl,  the  other  by  the  cuckoo. 
Ver,  begin. 

SONG. 

Spring.  When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  oil  silver-white 


And  cvckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 

Do  paint  the  meaxlows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he  ; 
Cuckoo, 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — 0  word  of  fear  ! 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear. 

II. 
When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws. 

And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen' s  clocks, 
When  turtles  tread.,  and  rooks,  and  daws. 

And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  h^.  ; 
Cuckoo, 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — 0  word  of  fear  ! 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear. 
III. 
Winter.  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall. 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 
When  blood  is  nippUI,  and  icays  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
To-who, 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson^s  sai 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snmv. 

And  Marian''s  nose  looks  red  and  raw 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who, 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 
Arm.  The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  aft 
of  Apollo.     You,  that  way :  we,  this  wav 


the  iongB- 

[Exeunt 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S    DREAM 


DKAMATIS    PERSONS. 


in  love  with  Hermia. 


Thejkus.  Duke  of  Athens. 

Egeus,  Father  to  Hermia. 

Ltsandkr, 

Dkmetrius, 

Philostrate,  Master  of  the  Revels  to  Theseu! 

QcixcE.  a  Carpenter. 

Snug,  a  Joiner. 

Bottom,  a  Weaver. 

Flute,  a  Bellows-mender. 

Snout,  a  Tinker. 

Starveling,  a  Tailor. 

Hippolyta,  Queen  of  the  Amazons. 

Hermia,  in  love  with  Lysander. 

Helena,  in  love  vriih  Demetrius. 


Oberon,  King  of  the  Fairies. 

TiTANiA,  Queen  of  the  Fairies 

Puck,  or  Robin-Goodfellow. 

Peas-Blossom, 

Cobweb, 

Moth, 

]\Iustard-Seed, 

Pyramus. 

Thisbe, 

Wall, 

Moonshine, 

Lion, 


Fairies. 


Characters  in  the  Interlude. 


Other  Fairies  attending  their  King  and  Quec-n. 
Attendants  on  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 

SCEXE :  Athens,  and  a  Wood  not  far  from  it. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  I.— Athens.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  of 
Theseus. 
Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  and  Attend- 
ants. 
The.  Now,  fair  Hippol\-ta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace :  four  happy  days  bring  in 
.\notlier  moon  :  but,  oh,  methink.s,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes  !  she  linsers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager, 
Lons  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.  Four  days  •will  quickly  steep  themselves  in 
nights : 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  timej 
And  then  tiic  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New'  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go.  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments; 
Awake  the  pf-rt  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth : 
Turn  melancholy  forih  to  funerals. 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. — 

[Exit  Philostrate. 
Hippol>ia.  I  woo'd  thee  •with  my  .<;word. 
And  won  thy  love  doing  thee  injuries; 
But  1  -will  wed  thee  in  another  key. 
With  pomp,  with  triumph,  and  with  revelry.* 
Enter  Egeus.  wi'h  hi.i  da"plif'r  Hermia,  Lysander, 
and  DEMr:TRius. 
Ege.  Happy  h*-  The -ciis,  our  renowned  duke  ! 
Tflc.  Thanks,  good  Egeu.s :  what 's  the  news  with 

thee? 
Ege.  Full  of  vexation  come  T ;  with  complaint 
Again.st  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia. — 


Stand  forth,  Demetrius. — My  noble  lord, 

This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her. — 

Stand  forth.  Lysander : — and,  my  gracious  duke. 

This  liath  be\^itch•d  the  bo.som  of  my  child : 

Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes. 

And  interchang'd  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 

Thou  hast  by  moon-light  at  her  window  sung, 

With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 

And  stol'n  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 

With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds,  conceits. 

Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweet-meats  (messengers 

Of  strong  prcvailment  in  unhardcn'd  youth.) 

With  cunning  ha.st  thou  fileh'd  my  daughter's  hean , 

Tum'd  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me. 

To  stubborn  hardness. — And,  my  gracious  duke, 

Be  it  so,  she  will  not  here,  before  your  grace, 

Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 

I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athen.s, 

As  she  is  mine.  I  may  dispose  of  her. 

Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman, 

Or  to  her  death,  according  to  our  law 

Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

TJte.  Wliat  say  you,  Hermia?  be  advis'd,  fair  maid 
To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god ; 
One  that  cotnpos'd  your  beauties  ;  yea,  and  one 
To  wiioiri  you  are  but  as  a  Ibrm  in  wax. 
By  him  im])rinted,  and  within  his  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it, 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.  So  is  Lysander. 

The.  In  himself  he  is; 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

Her.  I  would,  my  father  lookd  but  with  my  eye«  I 


n  f.  e.     The  ctiange  wan  aluo  sagfjestcd  by   Rowe.  and  adopted  generally       '  revel'.Lnf  :  in  f 

148 


SCENE   I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


149 


The.  Rather,  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgment  look. 

Her.  I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold, 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty, 
In  such  a  presence  here,  to  plead  my  thoughts ; 
But  I  beseech  your  grace,  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befal  me  in  this  case, 
If  I  refusi'  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.  Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires ; 
Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 
Vou  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun. 
For  aye  to  be  in  sliady  cloister  mew'd, 
To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  they,  that  master  so  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage  : 
But  earthly*  liappier  is  the  rose  distill'd. 
Than  that  whicli,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies,  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  iip 
Unto  his  lordship,  to-  whose  unwish'd  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause :   and  by  the  next  new 
moon, 
The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship, 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will. 
Or  else  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would ; 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest. 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

Dem.  Relent,  sweet  Hermia ; — and,  Lysander,  yield 
Thy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

Lys.  You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius ; 
Let  me  have  Hermia's :  do  you  mari-y  him. 

Ege.  Scornful  Lysander  !  true,  he  hath  my  love, 
And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him  ; 
And  she  i«  mine,  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  deriv'd  as  he, 
As  well  possess'd  ;  my  love  is  more  than  his  ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd, 
(If  not  with  vantage,)  as  Demetrius'  ; 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  belov'd  of  beauteous  Hermia. 
Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right  ? 
Demetrius,  I  '11  avouch  it  to  his  head. 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul  ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes. 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry, 
Upon  this  spotted  and  inconstant  man. 

The.  I  must  confess,  that  I  have  heard  so  much. 
And  with  Demetrius  thought  to  have  spoke  thereof ; 
But,  being  over-full  of  self-affairs. 
My  mind  did  lose  it. — But,  Demetrius,  come  ; 
And  come,  Egeus  :  you  shall  go  with  me, 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both. — 
For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 
To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will. 
Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 
(Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate) 
To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  .single  life. — 
Come,  my  Hippolyta :  what  cheer,  my  love  ? — 


Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along : 
I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 
Against  our  nuptial,  and  confer  with  you 
Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.  With  duty,  and  desire,  we  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Thes.  Hip.  Ege.  Dem.  and  train 

Lys.  How  now,  my  love  ?     Why  is  your  check  so 
pale? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.  Belike,  for  want  of  rain,  which  I  could  well 
Beteem^  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.  Ah  me  !  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  : 
But.  either  it  was  different  in  blood, — 

Her.  0  cross  !  too  high  to  be  enthrall'd  to  low*  ! 

Lys.  Or  else  misgraffed,  in  respect  of  years  ; — 

Her.  0  spite  !  too  old  to  be  engag'd  to  young  ! 

Lys.  Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  men* : — 

Her.  O  heH  !  to  choose  love  by  another's  eyes ! 

Lys.  Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice. 
War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it, 
Making  it  momentany*  as  a  sound. 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  : 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied'  night. 
That,  in  a  spleen*,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say. — ^behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.  If,  then,  true  lovers  have  been  ever  cross'd, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny : 
Then,  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross, 
As  due  to  love  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sighs, 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers. 

Lys.  A  good  persuasion :  therefore,  hear  me.  Henn'a. 
I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child  : 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote'  seven  leagues ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee. 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lov'st  me.  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night, 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 
(Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May) 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander  ' 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow, 
By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head, 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves, 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls,  and  prospers  lovus^ 
And  by  that  fire  which  burn'd  the  Carthage  queeu, 
When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke  ; 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me. 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Lys.  Keep  promise,  love.     Look,  here  comes  Helena. 
Enter  Helena. 

Her.  God  speed  fair  Helena  !     Whither  away  ? 

Hel.  Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fair*' :  0  happy  fair  ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars,  and  your  tongue's  sweet  air 
More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawlhorn  buds  appear. 


•  eartnliet  :  in  f.  e.  Capel  also  suggested  the  change.  '  to  is  added  in  the  second  folio  ;  Knight  and  others,  omit  it  *  Bestow.  *  lovB 
in  f.  e.  Theobald  suggested  the  change  '  Folio,  162:3  :  merit.  Other  eds.  :  friends  ;  from  the  quartos.  «So  the  quartos  |  the  folio  :  mo 
mentary.      '  Black       »  Pit  of  passion       '  So  the  quartos  ;  the  folio  :  remov'd.      '<>  Features 


150 


MLDSUMMER-NIGHTS  DREAM. 


A.crr 


Sickness  is  catching :  0.  were  favour'  so  ! 
Vour  words  I  'd  catch,  I'air  Hermia;  ere  I  go^ 
My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My  tongue  should  catcli  your  toniruc's  sweet  melody. 
Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 
riic  rest  I  "11  iiive  to  be  to  you  translated. 
0  !  teach  me  how  you  look,  and  -with  what  art 
Vou  sway  tlic  motion  of  Deinetrius'  heart. 
Her.  I  fro\Mi  upon  him.  yet  he  loves  me  still. 
Hel.   O.  tliat  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles 

such  skill  ! 
Her.  I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  me  love. 
Hel.  0,  that  my  prayers  could  such  affection  move  ! 
Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 
Hel.  The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 
Hct .  His  fault,  fair'  Helena,  is  none  of  mine,  [mine  ! 
Ht'l.  None,  but  your  beauty  :  would  that  fault  were 
Her.  Take  comfort :  he  no  more  shall  see  my  face  : 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. — 
Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seem'd  Athens  as  a  paradise  to  me  : 
0  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  must  dwell, 
That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  into  hell  ! 

1/7/5.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold. 
To-morrow  night  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  wat'ry  glass, 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovers"  flights  doth  still  conceal.) 
Through  Athens"  gates  have  we  devis'd  to  steal. 
Her.  And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose-beds  were  wont  to  lie. 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet. 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet ; 
.A.nd  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyes, 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies. 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow  ;  pray  thou  for  us, 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! — 
Keep  word,  Lysander :  we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

[Exff  HiRM. 
Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia. — Helena,  adieu  : 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you  !         [Exit  Lys. 

Hel.  How  happy  some,  oer  otiier  some  can  be  ! 
Through  Athens  1  am  thought  as  fair  as  she  ; 
But  what  of  that?  Demetrius  thinks  not  so  ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know; 
And  a-s  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I;  admiring  of  his  qualities. 
Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity, 
Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind. 
And  therefore  is  wingd  Cupid  painted  blind: 
.Nor  hath  love"s  mind  of  any  judgment  taste; 
Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  unheedy  haste : 
.\nd  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child. 
Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguil'd. 
As  waggish  boys  in  game  themselves  forswear, 
So  the  boy  love  is  pcrjur  d  every  wiiere; 
For  ere  Demetrius  lookd  on  Hermia's  eyne. 
He  haiid  doN\-n  oaths  that  he  wa,s  only  mine; 
.\iid  when  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt. 
So  he  di8.-olv"d.  and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 
I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  lliL'ht  ; 
Then  to  the  wood  will  he.  lo-morrow  night, 
Pursue  her:  and  for  this  inteiliaence 
If     have  thanks,  it  is'  dear  recompense  : 
But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain, 
To  have  his  sight  thither,  and  back  again.  [Exit 


SCENE  IL— The  Same.     A  Room  in  a  Cottage. 

Ejiter  Quince,  Snuo,  Bottom,  Flutb,  Snout,  mid 

Starveling. 
Quin.  Is  all  our  company  here  ? 
Bot.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man  by 
man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

Quill .  Here  is  tlie  scroll  of  every  man's  name,  which 
is  thought  fit.  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in  our  inter- 
lude before  the  duke  and  duchess  on  his  wedding-day 
at  night. 

Hot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play 
treats  on ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors,  and  so 
go  on  to  appoint.* 

Quin.  Marry,   our  play  is — The  most     amentable 

comedy,  and  most  cruel  death  of  PjTamus  and  Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you,  and 

a  merry. — Now,  good   Peter  Quince,  call  forth  your 

actors  by  the  scroll.     Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom,  the 
weaver. 

Bot.  Ready.    Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed . 

Quin.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 

Bot.  What  is  Pyramus?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant? 

Quin.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallant  for  love. 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing 

of  it :  if  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes  ;  I 

will  move  stones  ;'   I  will  condole  in  some  measure. 

To  the  rest  : — yet  my  chief  humour  is  for  a  t)Tant :   I 

could  play  P^rcles  rare!)',  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in.  to 

make  ail  split. 

"  The  raging  rocks, 

"  And  shivering  shocks, 

"  Shall  break  the  locks 

"  Of  prison-gates  : 
"  And  Phibbus"  car 
"  Shall  shine  from  far 
"  And  make  and  mar 
"  The  foolish  fates." 
This  was  lofty  ! — Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players. — 
This  is  Ercles'  vein,*  a  tjTant's  vein ;  a  lover  is  more 
condoling. 

Quin.  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 
Flu.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 
Quin.  You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 
Flu.  What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 
Quin.  It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 
Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman  :  I  have 
a  beard  coming. 

Quin.  That 's  all  one.  You  shall  play  it  in  a  mask, 
and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby 
too.  I  '11  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice  : — '•  Thisby, 
Thisby— Ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear  !  thy  Thisby 
dear,  and  lady  dear  !" 

Quin.  No,  no;  you  must  play  PjTamus,  and,  Flute, 
you  Thisby. 

Bot.  Well,  proceed. 
Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 
Star.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.    Robin   Starveling,   you   must   play  Thisby  s 
mother. — Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 
Snout.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.    You,    Pyramus"s   father  :    my,«clf,    Thisby's 
father. — Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lions  part ; — and, 
hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written?  pray  yoti, 
if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 


>  Beaulif.      »  folly,  in  pla«»  of.  fault,  fair  :  in  f.  e.      'a  dear  expense  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  so  go  on  to  a  point  :  in  f.  e.      •  storms 
'eene'ii  fi'pat  s  vrorth  oi  wil,  a  player  sayf    "The  twelve  laoours  ol'  Hercules  hare  I  terribly  thundered  on  the  stage." 


f.  e.    •  U 


SCE-TE  I. 


MIDSUMMER-XIGHT'S   DREAM. 


151 


Qiiin.  You  may  do  ii,  extempore,  tor  it  is  nothing 
but  roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too.  I  will  roar,  that  I 
will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me  :  I  will  roar, 
Jhat  ]  will  make  the  duke  say,  "  Let  him  roar  again  : 
let  him  roar  again." 

Quin.4  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would 
fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would 
Bhriek  ;  and  that  were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.  That  would  ha"ng  us,  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should  fright 

he  ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more 

iscretion  but  to  hang  us,  but  I  will  aggravate  my  voice 

0,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove  : 

I  will  roar  you  an  't  were  any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus  ;  for  Pyra- 
mus  is  a  sweet-faced  man ;  a  proper  man,  as  one  shall 
see  in  a  summer's  day,  a  most  lovely,  gentlemanlike 
man ;  therefore,  you  must  needs  play  Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were  I 
best  to  play  it  in  ? 


Quin.  Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw-colour 
beard,  yovir  orange-tawny  beard,  your  purple-ui-grain 
beard,  or  your  French-crown-colour  beard,  your  pei  feet 
yellow. 

Quin.  Some  of  your  French  crowTis  have  no  hair  at 
all,  and  then  you  will  play  bare-faced. — But  masters, 
here  are  your  parts ;  and  I  am  to  entreat  you,  request 
you,  and  desire  you,  to  con  them  by  to-morrow  night, 
and  meet  me  in  the  palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the 
town,  by  moon-light :  there  will  we  rehearse :  for  if 
we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be  dog'd  with  company, 
and  our  devices  known.  In  the  meantime  I  will  draw 
a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants.  I  pray 
you,  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse 
more  obscenely,  and  courageously. 

Quin.  Take  pains  ;  be  perfect ;  adieu.'  At  the  duke':- 
oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough,  hold,  or  cut  bow-strings.*         [Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Wood  near  Athens. 
Enter  a  Fairy  and  Puck  at  opposite  doors. 
Fuck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.  Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  every  where. 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 

And  I  sers'e  the  fairy  queen. 

To  dew  her  orbs'  upon  the  green : 

The  cowslips  all*  her  pensioners  be : 

In  their  gold  cups*  sjjots  you  see. 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours. 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savours  : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here. 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob*  of  spirits:  I'll  be  gone. 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night. 
Take  heed,  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight ; 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy,  stol'ii  from  an  Indian  king : 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling  : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild ; 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy. 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy  : 
And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green. 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen. 
But  tJiey  do  square' ;  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fai.  Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite. 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
Call'd  Robin  Good-fellow.     Are  you  not  he. 
That  frights  the  maidens  of  the  villagery  ; 
Skiins  milk,  and  sometimes  labours  in  the  quern', 
And  bootless  makes  the  breathless  housewife  churn; 
And  sometimes  makes  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm' ; 


Misleads  night- wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  "^ 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck. 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Fairy'",  thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile. 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile, 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  filly  foal : 
And  sometimes  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl. 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab  ; 
And.  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  wither'd  dew-lap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt  telling  the  saddest  tale. 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me ; 
Then  slip  I  from  her  bum,  down  topples  she. 
And  '•  tailor"  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough : 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  laugli, 
And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room,  Fairy:  liere  comes  Oberon. 

Fai.  And  here  my  mistress. — Would  that  he  were 
gone  ! 

Enter  Oberon,  from  one  side,  with  his  train,  and 
TiTANiA,  from  the  other,  with  hers. 

Obe.  Ill  met  by  moon-light,  proud  Titania. 

Tita.  What,  jealous  Oberon  !     Fairies^',  skip  heiico  . 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Obe.  Tarry,  rash  wanton.     Am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tita.  ThenJ  I  must  be  thy  lady ;  but  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stol'n  away  from  fairy  land, 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here. 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India, 
But  tliat.  torsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin' d  mistress  and  your  warrior  love. 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded  ?  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.  How  canst  tliou  thus,  for  shame,  THania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 


*  Ir  f.  e.  this  half  of  the  speech  is  given  to  Bottom.      2  a.  popular  proverbial  phrase. 
".      fcoits:infe.     ^  Lubber.      ^  Quarrel.      »  Haitd-inill.     ^  Yeast.       i"  Not  in  f.  e. 


<  The  fcreen  circles  knowr.  as  fairy-nngs       ♦  l^i: 
n  Fairv:  in  f .  «i 


152 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Aoi  n. 


Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 

Didst  thou  not  lead  hiir.  throuirh  the  glimmering  night 

From  Perigenia.  whom  he  ravished  ? 

And  make  him  with  lair  yEgle  break  his  faith, 

With  Ariadne,  and  Antiopa  ? 

Tita.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy: 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summers  spring,' 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain*,  or  by  rushy  brook. 
Or  on  the  beached  margin  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  wliistling  wind. 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturbd  our  sport. 
Therefore  the  wmds,  piping  to  us  in  vain. 
As  m  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs:  which  falling  in  the  land, 
Have  every  pelting'  river  made  so  proud. 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents : 
The  ox  hath  therefore  streteh'd  his  yoke  in  vain 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat :  and  tlie  green  corn 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attain"d  a  beard  : 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock  : 
The  nine  men's  morris  is  fill'd  up  with  mud  ;* 
And  the  quaint  mazes  on  the  wanton  green. 
For  lack  of  tread  are  undistinguishable. 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here  . 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest ; 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods. 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air. 
That  rheumatic  disea.<es  do  abound  : 
And  thorough  this  distemperature.  we  see 
The  seasons  alter:  hoar>--headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose  ; 
.\nd  on  old  Hyem"s  chin*,  and  icy  crown, 
An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mockery,  set.     The  spring,  the  summer. 
The  childing'  autumn,  angry  winter.  chani;e 
Their  wonted  liveries:  and  the  "mazed  world, 
By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which. 
And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension  : 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obe.  Do  you  amend  it  then :  it  lies  in  you. 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon? 
1  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman. 

Tita.  Set  your  art'  at  rest : 

Thy'  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  votaress  of  my  order : 
.And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air.  by  night. 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip  d  by  my  side. 
And  sat  with  me  on  Ncptuiies  yellow  sands, 
Marking  th'  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 
When  we  have  lau^rhd  to  see  the  sails  conceive. 
And  grow  big-bellied,  with  the  wanton  wind  : 
Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait 
following,  (her  womb,  then  ripe'  with  my  young  squi  -e)  ,  Because  I  cannot  meet  my  Hermia. 


If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts 
06c.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 
Jtta.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom. — Fairies,  away  ! 

We  shall  chide  downright,  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exit  Titania.  with  her  train. 
Obe.  Well,  go  thy  way  :   thou  shalt  not  from  thib 
I  grove, 

'  Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. — 

My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither  :  thou  remember'st 
;  Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory. 

And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphins  back 
,  Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
I  That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song. 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
I  To  hea-r  the  sea-maid's  music. 
!      Puck.  I  remember. 

I      Obe.  That  very  time  I  saw  (but  thou  couldst  notl 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
I  Cupid  all  arm'd  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 
i  At  a  fair  vestal"  throned  by  the  west, 
j  And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
1  As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 
!  But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beatns  of  the  waterj-  moon 
:  And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 
j  In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 

Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower. 

Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 

Fetch  me  that  flower  ;  the  herb  I  show'd  thee  once . 

Tlie  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid. 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  is  seen''. 

Fetch  me  this  herb  ;  and  be  thou  here  again, 
!  Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 
I      Puck.  I  'd"  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
I  In  forty  minutes.  [Exit  Pixk- 

Obe.  Having  once  this  juice. 

I  "11  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 

And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes : 

Tne  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 

(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull. 

On  meddlins  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape.) 

She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love  : 

And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight, 

(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb) 
j  I  "11  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 

But  who  comes  here  ?     I  am  invisible. 

And  I  will  over-hear  their  conference.  [Retiring 

Enter  Demetrius,  Helena /o//ou'i?ig  him. 
Bern.  I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not. 

Where  is  Lysandcr,  and  fair  Hermia  ? 

The  one  I  "11  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 

Thou  told'.st  me  they  were  stoFn  into  this  wood, 

And  here  am  I,  and  wood"  within  this  wood. 


Would  imitate,  and  sail  upon  the  land, 

To  fetch  me  trifles,  and  return  aaain. 

As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandise. 

But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die: 

And  for  her  sake  I  do  rear  up  her  boy. 

And  for  her  sake  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Obe.  How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stayl 
Tita.  Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 

If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round. 

And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us; 


Hence  !  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more, 

Hel.  You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant : 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel :  leave  you  your  power  to  draw, 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Dem.  Do  I  entice  you  ?     Do  I  speak  you  fair? 
Or,  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
I  Tell  you  I  do  not.  nor  I  cannot  love  you? 

I  Hel.  And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more. 

I I  am  your  spaniel ;  and.  Demetrius, 


'  Bepinninp  of  midsntnraer.      •  Stream  mnniriR  otit  pet>bles.      ■>  fetty. 
■wa«  playe<l  with  eighteen  utonei  divided  between  two  players,  who  moved  these  stones  after  the  manner  of  cnequers 
tourse  proluce  the  effect  in  the  text.      *  Tyrwhitt  reads  :  thin.      *  Teeming       ">  heart  :  in  f.  e.      *  The 
;>»«8age  ii  supposed  to  refer  to  Q,ueen  Elizabeth.      "  it  sees  :  in  f.  •.      i«  I'L  :  in  f.  e.      "  Mad.  crazt4 


'  Petty.      *  A  sort  of  table  of  cross  lines  cut  in  the  tnrf,  on  which  a 
ho  moved  these  stones  after  the  manner  of  cneguer 


SCENE   n. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DEEAM. 


153 


The  more  you  beat  me.  I  will  fawn  on  you : 
Use  me  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  me, 
Neglect  liie,  lose  me  ;  only  give  me  leave. 
Unworthy  as  I  am.  to  follow  you. 
What  worser  place  can  I  beg  in  your  love, 
(And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me.) 
Than  to  be  used  as  you  use  yoiu-  dog  ? 

Dem.  Tempt  not  too  much  the  hatred  of  my  spirit, 
For  I  am  sick  when  I  do  look  on  tliee. 

Hel.  And  I  am  sick  when  I  look  not  on  you. 

Dem.  You  do  impeach  your  modesty  too  much, 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
Into  the  hands  of  one  that  loves  you  not ; 
To  trust  the  opportunity  of  night, 
And  the  ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place. 
With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity. 

Hel.  Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that. 
It  is  not  night,  when  I  do  see  your  face, 
Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  the  night ; 
Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  vv'orlds  of  company, 
For  you,  in  my  respect,  are  all  the  world. 
Then  how  can  it  be  said,  I  am  alone, 
When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.  I  "11  run  from  thee,  and  hide  me  in  the  brakes, 
And  leave  thee  to  the  m.ercy  of  wild  beasts. 

Hel.  The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  cliang'd  ; 
Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase : 
The  dove  pursues  the  griffin  :  the  mild  hind 
Makes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger.     Bootless  speed  ! 
When  cowardice  pursues,  and  valour  flies. 

Dem.  I  will  not  stay  thy  questions  :  let  me  go  ; 
Or.  if  thou  follow  me,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

Hel.  Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  the  field. 
You  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex ; 
We  camiot  fight  for  love,  as  men  may  do  : 
We  should  be  woo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo, 
I  "11  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell, 
To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 

[Exeunt  Dem.  and  Hel. 

Obe.  Fare  thee  well,  nymph  :  ere  he  do  leave  this  grove. 
Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. — 

Re-enter  Puck. 
Hast  thOu  the  flower  there  ?     Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is.   . 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips,  and  the  nodding  violet  grows  : 
Quite  over-canopied  with  lush'  woodbine. 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine  : 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lull'd  in  these  bowers"  with  dances  and  delight  ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamell'd  skin, 
Weed  wide  enough  to  -WTap  a  fairy  in  : 
And  -vsath  the  juice  of  this  I  '11  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove : 
A  .sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth  :  anoint  his  eyes  ; 
But  do  it,  Vt'hen  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Eflfect  it  with  some  care,  that  he  may  prove 
More  fond  on  her,  than  she  upon  her  love. 
A  fid  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 

Ptick.  Fear  not,  my  lord  :  your  servant  shall  do  so. 

[Exetmt. 

•  'necious  :  m  f.  e.      »  flowen  :  in  {.  e.      '  Bat.i.      *  in  our :  in  f.  ( 


SCENE  II.— Another  Part  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  Titania,  with  her  train. 
Tita.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song  ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  : 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  : 
Some  war  with  rear-mice'  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wondere 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

TAIRIES'    SONG. 

1  Fai.       You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongw., 

Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen, 
Newts,  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong  ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen  : 

ftHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody. 
Sing  now  your'-  sweet  lullaby  ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  . 
Never  Imrm, 
Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 
II. 

2  Fai.       Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here  ; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence : 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 
Worm,  nor  sriail,  do  no  offence. 

CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody,  &c. 
2  Fai.      Hence,  away  !  now  all  is  well. 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeu7it  Fairies.     Titania  sleeps 
Enter  Oberon. 
Obe.  What  thou  seest.  when  thou  dost  wake, 

[Anointing  Titania's  eye-lids 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take  ; 
Love,  and  languish  for  his  sake  : 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear. 
Wake  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  [Eril- 

Enter  Lysander  and  Hermia. 
Lys.  Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wandering  in  the  wood  ; 
And,  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  oiu-  way  : 
We  '11  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 
And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 
Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander  :  find  you  out  a  bed, 
For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 

Lys.  One  turf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  both  : 
One  heart,  one  bed,  two  bosoms,  and  one  troth. 

Her.  Nay,  good  Lysander  :  for  my  sake,  my  dear. 
Lie  fui-ther  off  yet :  do  not  lie  so  near. 

Lys.  0,  take  the  sense,  sweet,  of  my  innocence  ; 
Love  takes  the  meaning  in  love's  confidence.' 
I  mean,  that  my  heart  unto  yours  is  knit, 
So  that  but  one  heart  we  can  make  of  it : 
Two  bosoms  interchained  with  an  oath ; 
So  then,  two  bosoms,  and  a  single  troth. 
Then,  by  your  side  no  bed-room  me  deny, 
For,  lying  so,  Hermia,  I  do  not  lie. 

Her.  Lysander  riddles  very  prettily. 
Now  much  beshrew  my  manners  and  my  pnde, 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say  Lysander  lied. 
But,  gentle  friend,  for  love  and  courtesy 
Lie  further  off ;  in  human  modesty 
Such  separation  as  may  well  be  said 

'  conference  :  in  f .  o 


154 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


ACT  m. 


Becomes  a  virtuous  bacliclor  and  a  maid, 

So  far  be  distant ;  and  good  night,  sweet  friend. 

Thy  love  ne'er  alter  till  thy  sweet  life  end  ! 

Lys.  Amen,  amen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I ; 
And  then  end  life,  when  I  end  loyalty! 
Here  is  my  bed  :  sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest  ! 

Her.   With    half  that   wish   the  wisher's    eyes   be 
press'd  !  [They  sleep. 

Enter  Puck. 
Ptuk.    Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Atlienian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence  !  who  is  here? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear  : 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
De.«pised  the  Athenian  maid  : 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul  !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  kill-courtesy. 
Churl;  upon  thy  eyes  I  tlirow 
All  the  power  this  nharm  doth  owe. 

[Anointmg  his  eyes.' 
Wlien  thou  wak'st,  let  love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eyelid. 
So  awake  when  I  am  gone, 
For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  [Exit. 

Enter  Deme  trius  and  Helen.\.  7n(nning. 
Hel    Slay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 
Dem.  T  charoe  thee,  hence  ;  and  do  not  haunt  me  thus. 
Hel.  0  !  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?  do  not  so. 
Dem.  Stay,  on  thy  peril :  I  alone  will  go. 

[Exit  Demetrius. 
Hel.  0  !  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase. 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Kappy  is  Hermia.  wheresoe'er  she  lies. 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?     Not  with  salt  tears  : 
'•'  so.  my  eyes  are  oftener  wa«h'd  than  hers. 
.\o.  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear, 
F-r  beasts  that  meet  me,  run  away  for  fear  ; 
Therefore,  no  marvel,  though  Demetrius 
Do.  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 
Made  me  compare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne? — 
But  wlio  is  here  ? — Lysander  on  the  ground  ? 
Dead,  or  asleep  ? — I  see  no  blood,  no  wound. — 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 
Lys.    And  run   through   fire  I  will,  for  thy  sweet 
sake.  ■  [Waking. 

Transparent  Helena  !     Nature  here  shows  art*, 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 


Where  is  Demetrius  ?     0,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on  my  sword  ! 

Hel.  Do  not  say  so,  Lysander  :  say  not  so. 
What  though  he  love  your  Hermia?  Lord  !  what  though': 
Yet  Hermia  still  loves  you  :  then,  be  content. 

Lys.  Content  with  Hermia  ?     No  :  I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
'Not  Hermia.  but  Helena  I  love, 
j  Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd, 
I  And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season  ; 
So  I.  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason  ; 
And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill. 
Reason  becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will. 
And  leads  mc  to  your  eyes  ;  where  I  o'crlook 
Love's  stories.  wTitten  in  love's  richest  book. 

Hel.   Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery  born  ? 
When,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is  't  not  enough,  is  "t  not  enough,  young  man. 
That  I  did  never,  no.  nor  never  can. 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  from  Demetrius'  eye, 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufficiency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong  ;  good  sooth,  you  do. 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well  :  perforce  I  must  confess, 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness. 
0,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refus'd. 
Should,  of  another,  therefore,  be  abus'd  !  [Exit 

Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia. — Hermia.  sleep  thou  there 
And  never  may'st  thou  come  Lysander  near ; 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings  ; 
Or,  as  the  heresies,  that  men  do  leave. 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive; 
So  thou,  my  surt'eit,  and  m\  heresy. 
Of  all  be  hated,  but  the  most  of  me  : 
1  And  all  my  powers  address  their  love  and  might. 
To  honour  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight.  [Exit 

Her.    Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me  !  do  thy  best. 

[  Waking 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast. 
Ah,  me.  for  pity  ! — what  a  dream  was  here  ! 
Lysander.  look,  how  I  do  quake  with  fear. 
!  Methought  a  serpent  ate  my  heart  away, 
JAnd  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey. — 
I  Lysander  !  what,  remov'd  ?  Lysander  !  lord  ! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?  gone  ?  no  soiuid.  no  word  ? 
I  Alack  !  where  are  you  ?  speak,  an  if  you  hear  ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  !   I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
!  No  ? — then  I  will  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
i  Either  death,  or  you,  I  '11  find  immediately.  [£iif. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Titani'  lying  asleep. 
Enter  Quince,  S.nug,  Bottom,  Flife,  Snout,  an 


Bot.  Peter  Quince, — 
Quin.  What  sayst  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 
Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  "  Pyramus 
Starveling.  and  Thisbj^,"  that  will  never  please      First.  Pyrami.s 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met?  I  must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself,  which  the  ladies 

Qvin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here  's  a  mars'ellous  convenient '  cannot  abide.     How  answer  you  that  ? 
place  for  our  rehearsa'..     This  green  plot  shall  be  our  I      Snout.  By 'rlakin',  a  parlous  fear, 
sta^'e     this    hawthorn    brake   our    'tiring-hou.«e  :    and  ;      Star.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out,  when 
we  will  do  it  in  actior^  as  we  will  do  it  before  the  ail  is  done, 
duke.  I      Bot.  Not  a  whit 


I  have  a  device  to  make  all  well 


'  This  direction  not  in  f.  •.      »  Malone'«  reidinj;  '•  Nature  shows  ner  art."      '  By  our  lady  kin. 


tjCKN'E    I. 


MIDSUMMER-KiGHT'S   DKEAM. 


155 


Write  mc  a  prologue  ;  and  let  the  prologue  seem  to 
say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with  our  swords,  and  that 
Pp-araus  is  not  killed  indeed :  and,  for  the  more 
better  assurance,  tell  them,  that  I,  Pyramus,  am  not 
PjTamus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver.  This  will  put  them 
out  of  lear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue,  and  it 
shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six.' 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more  :  let  it  be  WTitten  in 
eight  and  eight. 

Snout.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion? 

Star.  I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves  : 
to  bring  in,  God  shield  us  !  a  lion  among  ladies,  is  a  most 
dreadful  thing ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild- 
fowl than  your  lion  living,  and  we  ought  to  look  to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore,  another  prologue  must  tell  he  is 
not  a  lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his 
face  must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck  ;  and  he 
himself  must  speak  through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the 
same  defect : — •'  Ladies,  or  fair  ladies,  I  would  wish 
you,  or,  I  would  request  you,  or,  I  would  entreat  you, 
not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble  :  my  life  for  yours.  If  you 
think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of  my  life  : 
uo,  I  am  no  such  thing :  I  am  a  man  as  other  men 
are :"  and  there,  indeed,  let  him  name  his  name,  and 
tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug,  the  joiner. 

Quin.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard 
things :  that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a  chamber; 
for  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by  moonlight. 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play  our 
play? 

Bot  A  calendar,  a  calendar  !  look  in  the  almanack ; 
find  out  moonshine,  find  out  moonshine. 

Quirf.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then  you  may  leave  a  casement  of  the 
great  chamber  window,  where  we  play,  open;  and  the 
moon  may  shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quin.  Ay  ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush  of 
thorns  and  a  lanthorn,  and  say,  he  comes  to  disfigure, 
or  to  present,  the  person  of  moonshine.  Then,  there 
IS  another  thing :  we  must  have  a  wall  in  the  great 
chamber  ;  for  Pyramus  and  Thisby  (says  the  story.) 
did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a  wall. 

Snug.  You  can  never  bring  in  a  wall. — What  say 
you,  Bottom? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall ;  and  let 
him  have  some  plaster,  or  some  lime^,  or  some  rough- 
cast about  him,  to  signify  wall  :  and^  let  him  hold  his 
fingers  thus,  and  through  that  cranny  shall  Pyramus 
and  Thisby  whisper. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit 
down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts. 
Pyramus,  you  begin.  When  you  have  spoken  your 
speech,  enter  into  that  brake;  and  so  every  one  ac- 
cording to  his  cue. 

Enter  Puck  behirul. 

Puck.  What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swagger- 
ing here. 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward?     I  '11  be  an  auditor  ; 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quia.  Speak,  Pyramus. — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pyr.    "  Thisby,   the    flowers   have*  odious   savours 
sweet," — 

Quin.  Odours,  odours. 

Pyr.  "  odours  savours  sweet : 

^  alternate  verses  of  these  syllables.     >  loam:  in  f.  e.     '  or  :  in  f.  e. 
m  r  e       9  Black-bird. 


So  hath  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby,  dear. — 
But,  hark,  a  voice  !  stay  thou  but  here  a  while, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear."  [Exit 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd  here. 

lExit 
This.  Must  I  speak  now? 

Quin.  Ay.  marry,  must  you;  for  you  must  under 
stand,  he  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard,  and 
to  come  again. 

Thi.'i.  "  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of  hue, 
Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier, 
Most  brisky  juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire, 
I  '11  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb." 

Quin.  Ninus'  tomb,  man.    Why  you  must  not  speak 

that  yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus.     You  speak  all 

your  part  at  once,  cues  and  all. — Pyramus,  enter:  your 

cue  is  past ;  it  is,  "  never  tire." 

Re-enter  Puck,  and  Bottom  with  an  ass's  head  on.^ 

This.  0  ! — "  As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would 

never  tire." 
Pyr.  "  If  I  were,  fair  Thisby,  I  were  only  thine." — 
Quin.  0  monstrous  !  0  strange  !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters  !  fly,  masters  !  help  ! 

[Exeunt  Cloivns.  in  confusion.^ 
Puck.  I  '11  follow  you,  I  '11  lead  you  about  a  round. 
Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through 
brier : 
Sometime  a  horse  I  '11  be,  sometime  a  hound, 

A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire ; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  grunt,  and  roar,  and  burn. 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn.  [Exit. 
Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away?  this  is  a  knavery  of 
them,  to  make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  Snout. 
Snout.  0  Bottom  !  thou  art  changed :  what  do  I  se« 
on  thee  ?  [Exit,  frightened.'' 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  you  see  an  ass's  head  of 
your  own,  do  you  ? 

Re-enter  Quince. 

Quin.  Bless   thee.    Bottom !    bless   thee !    thou    art 

translated.  [Exit,  frighteiud.^ 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery.     This  is  to  make  an  ass 

of  me,  to  fright  me,  if  they  could ;  but  I  will  not  stir 

from  this  place,  do  what  they  can.    I  will  walk  up  and 

down  here,  and  I  will  sing,  that  they  shall  hear  I  am 

not  afraid.  [Sings. 

The  oosel-cock^,  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  ivith  his  note  so  true, 
The  wren  with  little  quill. 
Tita.  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 

I  Waking. 
Bot.       The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 
The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 
Ami  dares  not  answer,  nay  ; 
for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolish  a  bird? 
wlio  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  he  cry  '•  cuckoo" 
never  so? 

Tita.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again : 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note. 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  sliape ; 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force,  perforce,  doth  move  me, 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little 
reason  for  that :  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason  and 
love  keep  little   company  together  now-a-days.     The 

or  :  in  f.  e.     »  Not  in  f .  e       •  Tho  last  two  words  not  in  f.  «.     '  '  Not 


156 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Kot  m 


more  the  pity,  ihat  Boine  honest 
make  them  I'nends.     Nay,  I  can 

I'ita.  Thou  art  a:^  wi.se  as  thou  art  beautilu 
Bot.  Not  so,  neillicr  ;  but  if  I  liad  wit  enough  to  get 
out  of  this  wood.  1  have  mou^h  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Tila.  Out  of  tliis  wooil  do  not  desire  to  go : 
Tliou  shall  remain  liere,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  conunon  rate; 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee  :  therefore,  go  with  me; 
I   11  give  theo  fairies  to  attend  on  tliee: 
And  llicy  shall  feleh  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing  while  thou  on  pressed  tlowcrs  dost  sleep: 
And  I  \\ill  purge  ihy  mortal  grossne.-s  so, 
That  thou  sluilt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — 
I'o.is-blossoni  I   Cobweb  !  Moth  !  and  Mustard -seed. 
Enter  fuur  Fairies. 

1  f<ii.  Ready. 

2  Fat.  And  I. 
'.i  Flit.  And  I. 
4  Fai.  Where  shall  we  go? 
Tita.  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman: 

Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks,  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries. 
Their  honey  bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  tor  night  tapen?  crop  their  waxen  thighs. 
And  light  ihem  at  t'le  fiery  glow-woriifs  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise; 
.■Vnd  pluck  the  wingi  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moon-be  ims  from  his  sleeping  eyes. 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  pnd  do  him  courtesies. 

1  Fai.  Hail,  morttl. 

2  Fai.  Hail  ! 

3  Fai.  Hail  ! 

4  Fai.  Hail  ! 

Bot.  I  cry  youi  Aorship's  mercy,  heartily. — I  be- 
seech, your  worship's  name. 

Cob.   Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  df/i'u'9  of  you  more  acquaintance,  good 
in.uiter  Cobweb.  lA  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold 
•Mth  you. — Your  name,  honest  gentleman? 

Pmx.  Peas-M essoin. 

Bot.  I  jiray  you.  commend  me  to  mistress  Squash, 
your   mother,   and    to   master   Peascod,   your   father. 


G<>od  ma.stcr  f'eas-blossom,  I  shall  desire  of  you  more 
acquaintance  too. — Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir? 

Mus.  Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  ma.ster  Mustard-seed,  I  kniow  your  i)a- 
tiencc  well:  that  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef 
liath  devouifd  many  a  gentleman  of  your  house.  I 
promise  you,  your  kindred  hath  made  my  eyes  water 
ere  now.  I  desire  of  you  more  acquaintance,  good 
fiMiter  Muslard-seexl. 

Ufa   Come,  wait  upon  him  :  lead  him  to  my  bower, 
line  moon,  metliinks,  looks  with  a  watery  eye, 
\nd  wlif-n  she  wtfjis,  weep.s  every  little  flower, 
Lami'iiling  some  enlbrced  chastity. 
Tic  up  my  lovers  tongue,  and  bring  him  silently. 

[JCxeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Anoth-r  Part  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  Obkko.n. 
Ohc.   I  wonder,  if  Titania  be  awakd  ; 
Th<n,  -A-hat  it  was  that  next  came  in  her  eye, 
Which  she  must  dote  on  in  extremity. 

Enter  Puck. 
Here  comes  my  messenger. — How  now,  mad  spirit? 
What  night-rule'  now  about  this  liaunlcd  grove? 

•  /«A»,  I'oiT       »  Rerei       »  yoU.  ktad       •  Fr.  Lichtr :  to 


neighbours  will  not  |      Puck.  My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love, 
leek'  upon  occasion.  |  Near  to  her  close  and  consecrated  bower, 

While  she  was  in  her  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 

A  crew  of  patches,  rude  mechanicals, 

That  work  tor  bread  upon  Athenian  stalls, 

Were  met  together  to  rchcar.se  a  play. 

Intended  for  great  Theseus"  nu])!ial  day. 

The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort, 

Who  Pyramus  presented  in  their  sport. 

Forsook  his  scene,  and  cnterd  in  a  brake, 

When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take  ; 

An  ass's  nowP  I  fixed  on  his  head  : 

Anon,  his  Thisbe  must  be  answered. 

And  forth  my  mimic  comes.     When  Ihey  him  spy, 

As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 

Or  russet-pated  clioughs,  many  in  sort, 

Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report, 

Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky; 

So,  at  his  sight,  away  his  fellows  fly. 

And,  at  our  stamp,  here  o'er  and  o'er  one  falls : 

He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 

Their  sense  thus  weak,  lost  with  their  fears  thus  strong, 

Made  senseless  things  begin  to  do  them  wrong. 

For  briers  and  thorns  at  their  apparel  snatch, 

Some,  sleeves,  some,  hats,  from  yielders  all  things  catxjh 

I  led  them  on  in  this  distracted  fear. 

And  left  sweet  Pyramus  translated  there; 

When  in  that  moment  (so  it  came  to  pass,) 

Titania  wak'd,  and  straightway  lov"d  an  ass. 

Obe.  This  falls  out  belter  than  I  could  devise. 
But  hast  thou  yet  latch'd*  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  as  I  did  bid  thee  do  ? 

Puck.  I  took  him  sleeping,  (that  is  finish'd  too) 
And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side, 
That,  when  he  wak'd,  of  force  she  must  be  ey'd. 
Enter  Demetrius  and  Hermia.       • 

Obe.  Stand  clo.se:  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Puck.  This  is  the  woman ;  but  not  this  the  man. 

[  They  stand  apart ' 

Dem.  0  !  why  rebuke  you  him  that  loves  you  so? 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 

Her.  Now,  I  but  chide  ;  but  I  should  use  thee  worse 
For  thou,  I  fear,  hast  given  mc  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep, 
Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep, 


And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day. 

As  he  to  me.     Would  he  have  stol'n  away 

From  sleeping  Hermia?     I  "11  believe  as  soon, 

This  whole  earth  may  be  bor'd,  and  that  the  moon 

May  through  the  centre  creep,  and  .'■o  displease 

Her  brothers  noon-tide  with  th"  Antipodes. 

It  cannot  be  but  thou  hast  murderd  iiim; 

So  should  a  murderer  look,  .>-o  dead,  .so  grim. 

Dem.  So  should  the  murdcr"d  look,  and  so  should  I 
Pierc'd  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty ; 
Yet  you.  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear, 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 

Her.  What  "s  this  to  my  Lysander  ?  where  is  ho  • 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me? 

J)cm.  I  had  rather  give  his  carcase  to  my  houndf 

Her.  Out,  dog  !  out,  cur  !  thou  driv"st  me  pa«i  the 
bounds 
Of  maidens  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him  then  ? 
Henceforth  be  never  numbered  among  men ! 
0  !  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  e"en  for  my  sake; 
Durst  thou  have  look'd  upon  him,  being  awake, 
And  lia.st  thoa  kill'd  him  sleeping?     O  brave  touch  ' 
Could  not  a  worm,  an  adder,  do  so  much  ? 

•  Thii  (iireclion  not  in  I.  «. 


SCENE  n. 


MIDSUMMEK-NIGHT'S  DKEAM. 


157 


An  suAder  did  it :  for  w-ith  doubler  tongue 
Than  thine,  thou  serpent,  never  adder  stung. 

Dem.  You  ^pend  your  passion  in  a  mispris"d  flood:' 
I  am  not  giiiltv  of  Lysander's  blood. 
Nor  is  he  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 

Her.  I  pray  thee,  tell  me,  then,  that  he  is  well. 
Dem.  And,  if  I  could,  what  should  I  get  therefore? 
Her.  A  privilege,  never  to  see  me  more. — 
A  id  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so ; 
See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no.  [Exit. 

Dem.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce  vein : 
Here,  therefore,  for  a  while  I  \x\\\  remain. 
So  sorrow's  hea^aness  doth  hea^^er  grow 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe ; 
Wliich  now  in  some  slight  measure  it  will  pay. 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay.       \Lies  down. 
Obe.   What    hast    thou  done?    thou    hast  mistaken 
quite,  [Coming  forward. 

A.nd  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true-love's  sight : 
Of  thy  misprision  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true-love  turn'd,  and  not  a  false  turn'd  true. 
Puck.  Then  fate  o'er-rules ;  that  one  man  holding 
troth, 
A.  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 

Ohe.  About  the  wood  go  swifter  than  the  ^^-ind, 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find  : 
All  fancy-sick  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fresh  blood  dear. 
By  some  illusion  see  you  bring  her  here : 
[  '11  charm  his  eyes  against  she  do  appear. 

Puck.  I  go.  I  go :  look  how  I  go  : 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.  [Exit. 

Ohe.  Flower  of  this  purple  die, 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery, 

Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye.  [Anointing  his  eyes. 

When  his  love  he  doth  espy, 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 
As  the  Venus  of  the  sky, — 
When  thou  wak'st.  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

Re-enter  Puck. 
Puck.  Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 
Helena  is  here  at  hand. 
And  the  youth,  mistook  by  me, 
Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee. 
Shall  we  their  fond  pageant  see  ? 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  ! 

Obe.  Stand  aside  :  the  noise  they  make 
Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 

Puck.  Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one : 
That  must  needs  be  sport  alone ; 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me. 
That  befal  preposterously.  [They  stand  apart. 

Enter  Lysander  and  Helena. 
Lys.  Why  should  you  think  that  I  should  woo  in  scorn  ? 
Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears : 
Look,  when  I  vow  I  weep,  and  vows  so  born, 

In  their  nati^^ty  all  truth  appears. 
Kow  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you. 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith  to  prove  them  true  ? 

Hel.  You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and  more. 
When  truth  kills  fnth,  O,  devilish-holy  fray  ! 
These  vows  are  Hermias :  \A-ill  you  give  her  o'er? 

Weigh  oath  witii  oath,  and  you  will  nothing  weigh 
Vour  vows,  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh,  and  both  as  light  as  tales.' 
I^s.  I  had  no  judgment,  when  to  her  I  swore. 
Hel.  Nor  none,  in  my  mind,  now  you  give  her  o'er. 
Lys.  Demetrius  loves  her.  and  he  loves  not  yoxi. 


Dem.  O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph,  perfect,  divine  ! 

[Awaking 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thjie  eyne  ? 
Crystal  is  muddy.     O  !  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow ' 
That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
When  thou  hold"st  up  thy  hand.     0.  let  me  kiss 
This  impress*  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss  ! 
Hel.  0  spite  !  0  hell !  I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment : 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do. 
But  you  must  join  in  souls  to  mock  me  too  ? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so  : 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts. 
When,  t  am  sure,  you  hate  me  Mviih  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia, 
And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena. 
A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise. 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes 
With  your  derision  !  none  of  noble  sort 
Would  so  offend  a  \-irgin.  and  extort 
A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

Lys.  You  are  unkind,  Demetrius  ;  be  not  so. 
For  you  love  Hermia ;  this,  you  know,  I  know : 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  -v\-ith  all  my  heart, 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  in  Helena  to  me  bequeath. 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  ^^'ill  do  till  my  death. 

Hel.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 
Dem.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia :  I  will  none : 
If  e'er  I  lov'd  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  to  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojourn'd, 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  return'd, 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know, 
Lest  to  thy  peril  thou  aby  it  dear. — 
Look,  where  thy  love  comes  :  yonder  is  thy  dear. 
Enter  Hermia. 
Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function  Taken, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes  ; 
Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense, 
It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompen.se. 
Tbou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found , 
Mine  ear,  I  thank  it,  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  press  to  go  ? 
Her.  What  love  could  press  Lysander  from  my  side  .■• 
Lys.  Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him  bide, 
Fair  Helena,  who  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  ocs^  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek"st  thou  me  ?  could  not  this  make  thee  know. 
The  hate  I  bare  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 
Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think  :  it  carmot  be. 
Hel.  Lo  !  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy. 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoin'd,  all  three. 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me. 
Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspir'd.  have  you  with  these  contrived 
To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shar'd. 
The  sisters'  vows,  tl>e  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  tmie 
For  parting  us. — 0  !  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school  days'  friendship,  childhood's  innocence  " 


1  a  mispns'd  mood  :  in  f .  i 


princess  :  in  f.  e.      ^  Eyes. 


158 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


We,  Hcnnia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Maye  with  our  needles  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion. 
B')th  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds, 
Ha<i  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a.  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  an  union  in  partition; 
Two  loving'  berrie-s  moulded  on  one  stem, 
S.1.  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart ; 
Two  of  the  tir.st,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one,  and  croNATied  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rend  our  ancient  love  asunder. 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 
It  is  not  iVieiidly,  't  is  not  maidenly : 
)iir  sex,  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it. 
I  hough  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Her.  I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words. 
I  scorn  you  not :  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Hcl.  Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn. 
To  follow  me.  and  praise  my  eyes  and  lace, 
.\nd  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot, 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul. 
And  tender  me,  forsooth,  affection, 
But  by  your  setting  on.  by  your  consent? 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you. 
So  hung  uj  on  with  love,  so  fortunate, 
But  miserable  most  to  love  unlov'd, 
This  you  should  pity,  rather  than  despise. 

Her.  I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  this. 

Hel.  Ay.  do.  pcrsever,  counterfeit  sad  looks. 
Make  moutlis  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back : 
Wink  at  each  other;  hold  the  sweet  jest  up  : 
This  .'^port.  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  had  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners, 
Vou  would  not  make  me  such  an  argument. 
But.  fare  ye  well :  "t  is  partly  mine  own  fault, 
Which  death,  or  absence,  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.  Stay,  gentle  Helena:  hear  my  excuse: 
My  love,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena ! 

Hel.  0  excellent ! 

Her.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 

Dem.  If  she  cannot  entreat.  I  can  compel. 

Lys.  Thou  canst  compel  no  more  than  she  entreat : 
Tliy  threats  have  no  more  strength  than  her  weak 

prayers. — 
Helen,  I  love  thee ;  by  my  life,  I  do  : 
I  swear  by  that  which  I  \\-ill  lose  for  thee. 
To  prove  him  false,  that  sajs  I  love  thee  not. 

I)cm.  I  say,  I  love  tlice  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.  If  thou  say  so,  withdraw,  and  prove  it  too. 

Dem.  Quick,  come. — 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  all  this  ?  [Homing  him.' 

Lys.  Away,  you  Ethiop  ! 

Dem.  No,  no,  he  '11 — 

Si-"?in  to  break  loose:  take  on,  as  you  would  follow; 
B:it  yet  come  not.     You  are  a  tame  man,  go  I 

f.,ys.  Hang  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr !  \ilc  thimr.  let 
loose. 
Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me  like  a  serpent. 

Her.  Why  are  you  grown  so  rude  ?  what  change  is  this. 
Sweet  love? 

Lys.  Thy  love  ?  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out  I 

Out,  loathed  medicine  I   hated  potion,  hence  I 

Her.  Do  you  not  jest  ? 

>  larely  :  in  f.  e.     *  Not  in  f.  e.      »  ne-rt :  in  f.  e. 


Hcl.  Yes,  'sooth  :  and  so  do  you 

Lys.  Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee. 

Dem.  I  would,  I  had  your  bond ;  for,  I  perceive, 
A  weak  bond  holds  you :  I  '11  not  trust  your  word. 

Lys.  Wliat !  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her 
dead  ? 
Although  I  hate  her,  I  '11  not  harm  her  so. 

Her.  What !  can  you  do  me  greater  harm  than  hale  ' 
Hate  me  !   wherefore  ?   0  me  !  what  means'  my  love  ' 
Am  not  I  Hermia?     Are  not  you  Lysander? 
I  am  as  fair  now,  as  I  was  erewhile. 
Since  night,  you  lov'd  me  ;  yet,  since  night  you  left  me  • 
Why,  then  you  left  me  (0,  the  gode  forbid  !) 
In  earnest,  shall  I  say  ? 

Lys.  Ay,  by  my  life  ; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore,  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt ; 
Be  certain,  nothing  truer  :  't  is  no  jest. 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

Her.  0  me  ! — you  juggler  !  you  canker-blossom  ! 
You  thief  of  love  !  what,  have  you  come  by  night. 
And  stol'n  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Hel.  Fine,  i'  faith  ' 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame. 
No  touch  of  ba.shfulness  ?     What,  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue? 
Fie.  fie  !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet,  you  ! 

Her.  Puppet !  why  so  ?  Ay,  that  way  goes  the  game 
Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures  :  she  liath  urg"d  her  height. 
And  with  her  personage,  her  tall  personage. 
Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevail'd  with  him. — 
And  are  you  gro^ni  so  high  in  his  esteem, 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish,  and  so  low  ? 
How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole?  speak; 
How  low  am  I  ?     I  am  not  yet  so  low, 
But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

Hel.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me.  gentlemen. 
Let  her  not  hurt  me  :  I  was  never  curst : 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewislmess : 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice  : 
Let  her  not  strike  me.     You,  perhaps,  may  thinlc. 
Because  she  is  something  lower  than  myself, 
That  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower  !  hark,  again. 

Hfl.  Good  Hermia,  do  not  be  so  "bitter  with  me. 
I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia, 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wrong'd  you ; 
Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood. 
He  follov/d  you  ;  for  love,  I  follow'd  him  : 
But  he  hath  cliid  me  hence,  and  threaten'd  me 
To  strike  me.  spurn  me.  nay.  to  kill  me  too : 
And  now.  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go 
To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back. 
And  follow  you  no  farther.     Let  me  go : 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am. 

Her.  W\\\.  get  you  gone.    Who  is  "t  that  hinders  yon  ' 

Hcl.  A  foolish  heart,  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

Her.  What,  with  Lysander  ? 

Hel.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.  Be  not  afraid:  she  shall  not  harm  thee.  Helena 

Dem.  No,  sir :  she  shall  not.  though  you  take  her  part 

Hel.  0 !  when  she  is  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd 
She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And.  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 

Her.  Little  again?  nothing  but  low  and  little? — 
Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
Let  me  come  to  her. 


40ENE   n. 


MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S  DKEAM. 


159 


Wf  Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

'        Vou  minimus,  of  hindering  knot-grass'  made  : 
V'ou  bead,  you  acorn. 
Dem.  You  are  too  officious 

»[n  her  behalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone  ;  speak  not  of  Helena  : 
•   Take  not  her  part,  for  if  thou  dost  intend 
Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
Tliou  shalt  aby*  it. 

►         Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not ; 

Now  follow,  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right. 
Or  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 

Her.  Follow  ?  nay,  I'll  go  with  thee,  cheek  by  jowl. 
[Exeunt  Lys.  and  Debi. 

>Her.  You.  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  "long  of  you. 
Nay,  go  not  back. 
Hel.  I  will  not  trust  you,  I. 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 
Your  hands,  than  mine,  are  quicker  for  a  fray; 
My  legs  are  longer  though,  to  run  away.  [Exit. 

Her.  I  am  amaz'd.  and  know  not  what  to  say.  [Exit. 
Obe.  This  is  thy  negligence  :  still  thou  mistak"st. 
[Coming  forward.^ 
Or  else  commit'st  thy  knaveries  -wilfully.* 

Puck.  Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
Did  you  not  tell  me  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  had  on? 
And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprise, 
That  I  have  "nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes; 
And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort, 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Obe.  Thou  seest  these  lovers  seek  a  place  to  fight : 
Hie,  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night ; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
With  drooping  fog,  as  black  as  Acheron ; 
And  lead  these  testy  rivals  so  astray. 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue. 
Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  ^\Tong  ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius  ; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus. 
Till  o"er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep. 
With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings,  doth  creep. 
Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye  ; 
Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property. 
To  take  from  thence  all  error  with  his  might, 
And  make  his  eye-balls  roll  with  wonted  sight. 
When  they  next  wake,  all  this  derision 
Shall  seem  a  dream,  and  fruitless  vision  : 
And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend. 
With  league,  whose  date  till  death  shall  never  end. 
Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ, 
1  "11  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Lidian  boy  ; 
And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 
From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be  peace. 

Pvck.  My  faiiy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with  haste. 
For  night's  s^\^ft  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger ; 
At  whose  approach,  gliosts,  wandering  here  and  there,  j 
Troop  home  to  church-yards  :  damned  spirits  all, 
That  in  cross- ways  and  floods  have  burial. 
Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone  ; 
For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 
They  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light, 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-brow'd  night. 

Obe.  But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort. 
1  with  the  morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 

'  Formerly  supposed  to  have  the  propertv  of  hindering  th<>  growth. 
n«rly- 


j  Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery-rjd, 
j  Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt  green  streanr.s. 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;  make  no  delav  : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day     [Exit  Oberon 
Puck.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down  : 
I  \N'ill  lead  them  up  and  down  : 
I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town  ; 
Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  do\\ni. 
Here  comes  one. 

Enter  Lysander. 
Lys.  Where  art  thou,  proud  Demetrius?  speak  tiou 
now.  Jthou  - 

Puck.  Here,  villain  !  drawn  and  ready.     Where  art 
Lys.  I  will  be  with  thee  straight. 
Puck.  Folksy  me  then 

To  plainer  ground.      [E.xit  Lys.  as  foUowii..rr  tJie  voice. 
Enter  Demetrius. 
Dem.  Lysander  !  speak  ag>^,in. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled  ? 
Speak  !  In  some  bush  ?  Where  dost  thou  hide  t^y  bead  ? 
Puck.  Thou  coward  !   art  thou  bragging  to  >  he  stars, 
Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars. 
And  ^\^lt  not  come  ?  Come,  recreant ;  come,  thou  child  ; 
I  '11  whip  thee  with  a  rod  :  he  is  defil'd, 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

Dem.  Yea  ;  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.  Follow  my  voice :  we  '11  try  no  manliood  here 

[ExeurJ 
Re-enter  Lysander. 
Lys.  He  goes  before  me.  and  still  dares  me  on  : 
When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 
The  villain  is  much  lighter  heel'd  than  I : 
I  follow'd  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly  ; 
That  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way. 
And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day  ! 

[Lies  dawn. 
For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  grey  light, 
I  '11  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite.         [Sleeps 
Re-enter  Puck  and  Demetrius. 
Puck.  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !   Coward,  why  com'st  thou  not  ' 
Dem.  Abide  me,  if  thou  dar'st ;  for  well  I  wot, 
Thou  run'st  before  me.  shifting  every  place. 
And  dar'st  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  now  ? 

Puck.  Come  hither  :  I  am  here. 

Dem.  Nay,  then  thou  mock'st  me.     Thou  shalt  'by 
this  dear, 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  day-light  see  . 
Now,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constraineth  me 
To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be  -Yisited. 

[Lies  down  and  sleeps 
Enter  Helena. 
Hel.  0  weary  night  !  0.  long  and  tedious  night  ! 
Abate  thy  hours  :  shine,  comforts,  from  the  ea6t 
That  T  may  back  to  Athens,  by  day-light. 

From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest. 
And  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye. 
Steal  me  a  while  from  mine  owni  company.        [Sleeps 
Puck.  Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more  : 
Two  of  both  kinds  make  up  four. 
Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad. 
Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad. 
Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 
Enter  Hermia. 
Her.  Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe. 

Bedabbled  with  the  dew,  and  torn  ynih.  briers  • 

'  Abide,  an8^ver  for.     '  Not  in  f.  e.     ♦  So  the  quarto  :  the  folic     viV. 


160 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


1  can  no  farther  crawl,  no  farther  go  ; 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 
Here  will  I  rest  ine  till  the  break  of  day. 
Heavens  shield  Lvsander,  if  they  mean  a  fray  ! 

[Sleeps} 
Puck.  On  the  ground  sleep  sound 
I  'II  apply  to  your  eye, 
Genile  lover,  remedy. 

[Anointing^  Lysander's  eyes. 
When  thou  wak"st,  sec  thou  tak'st 


True  delight  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  former  lady's  eye  : 

And  the  country  proverb  known, 

That  every  man  s^hould  take  his  o-wTi, 

In  your  waking  shall  be  shown  : 

Jack  shall  have  Jill; 

Nought  shall  go  ill  ; 
The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again, 
And  all  shall  be  well. 

[Exit  Puck. — De.m.  Hel. 


(■c.  ntxy 


ACT    IV. 


/'   SCENE  I.— The  Same. 
Enter  Vit-^nia  and  Bottom  :  Fairies  attending  :        I 
-  \        Oberon  behind  V7i.scen.  \ 

Tita.  Qbme,  sit  thee  do^^■n  upon  this  flowerj-  bed, 
^^^li.le  I  thy  amiable  checks  do  coy*. 
And  sticf^  musk-ro:=cs  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head. 
Anil  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

Bot.  Where 's' Peas-blossom  ? 

Peds.  Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head.  Peas-blossom. — Where  's 
monsieur  Cobweb  ? 

Cob.  Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb ;  good  monsieur,  get  your 
weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  hum- 
t)le-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle  ;  and.  good  monsieur, 
bring  me  the  honey-bag.  Do  not  fret  yourself  too 
much  in  the  action,  monsieur  :  and,  good  monsieur, 
have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not :  I  would  be  loath 
10  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey-bag,  signior. — 
Where 's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

.Must.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  3-our  neif,*  monsieur  Mustard-seed. 
Pray  you.  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieur. 

Must.  What 's  your  Mill  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  cavalery 
Cobweb'  to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  barber's,  monsieur ; 
for,  niethinks.  I  am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face, 
and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle 
me,  I  must  scratch. 

Tita.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet 
love  ? 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music :  let 's 
have  the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tita.  Or,  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirst  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender  :  I  could  munch 
your  good  dr>'  oats.  Methinks.  I  have  a  great  desire 
to  a  bottle  of  hay  :  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Tita.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  raUier  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried 
peas.  But.  I  pray  you.  let  none  of  your  people  stir 
me  :  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tita.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  a  while*  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine,  the  sweet  lioneysuckle, 
Gently  entwi.^t :  the  female  iv\'  so 
Enrings  the  bark-j-  fingers  of  the  elm. 
0,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  !     [They  sleep. 
Enter  Puck. 

Obc.     [Advancing.]     Welcome,  good  Robin.     Seest 
thou  this  sweet  sislit? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity ; 
For  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood, 

'  Lies  dovBH  :  in  f.  e.      »  Sgueezins  the  juice  on       >  Caregt      *  Fist 


i  Seeking  sweet  savours  for  this  hateful  fool, 
j  1  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her  : 
JFor  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
j  With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers  ; 
!  And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell  like  round  and  orient  pearls. 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flow'rets'  eyes. 
Like  tears  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had  at  my  pleasure  taunted  her, 
And  she  in  mild  terms  begg'd  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child. 
Which  straight  she,  gave  me  :  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  liateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes  : 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
Frorn  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain, 
That  he.  awaking  when  the  other  do. 
May  all' to  Athens  back  again  repair,  _ 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first  I  will  release  the  fair>'  queen. 

Be.  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be  ;  [Anointing  her  eye*. 
See,  as  thoxi  wast  wont  to  see  ; 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  ray  Titania  !  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
Tita.  My  Oberon  !  what  Wsions  have  I  seen  ! 
Methought,  I  was  enamourd  of  an  ass. 
Obe.  There  lies  your  love. 

Tita.  How  came  these  things  to  pa^s  - 

0,  how  mine  eyes  do  loath  his  "sisage  now  ! 

Obe.  Silence,  a  while. — Robin,  take  off  this  head.— 
Titania.  music  call  ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tita.  Music,  ho  !  music  !  such  as  eharmeth  sleep. 
Puck.  Now.  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own  foole 

eyes  peep. 
Obe.  Sound,  music  ' 
with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity, 
And  will  to-morrow  midnight  solemnly 
Dance  in  Duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly. 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity. 
There  .shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 

Puck.  Fairy  king,  attend,  and  mark  • 
I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 

Obc.  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad, 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade  ; 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon. 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 

Tita.  Come,  my  lord  ;  and  in  oar  flight, 

A  probable  misprint  for  Pea»-Wossom.      •  all  ways  :  t 


Come,  my  queen,  take  handj 


MIDSUMMEE-KIGHT'S  DREAM. 


16] 


Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night, 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found 
With  these  mortals  on  the  ground.  [Exeunt. 

[Horns  soimd  within. 
Enter  Theseus.  Hippolyta,  Egeus.  and  train. 

The.  Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester  ; 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  : 
An-d  since  we  have  the  vaward'  of  the  day, 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. — 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley  :  let  them  go  ! — 
Despatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester. — 
We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.  I  was  with  Hercules,  and  Cadmus,  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta  :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skie.s,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry.     I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

The.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind. 
So  flew'd.  so  sanded  ;"  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew ; 
Crook-kneed,  and  dew-lap"d  like  Thessalian  bulls  ;    ' 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  halloo'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 
Judge,  when  you  hear.— But,  soft  !  what  nymphs  are 
these  ? 

Ege.  My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep; 
And  this,  Lysander  ;  this  Demetrius  is  ; 
This  Helena,  old  Nedar's  Helena  : 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 

The.  No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May  ;  and,  hearing  our  intent, 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. — 
But  speak.  Egeus  ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice  ? 

Ege.  It  is,  my  lord. 

The.  Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their 
horns. 
[Horns,  and  shouts  unthin.    Demetrius,  Lysander, 
Hermia,  and  Helena,  wake  and  start  up. 

The.  Good-morrow,  friends.    Saint  Valentine  is  past ; 
Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  now  ? 

Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord.  [He  and  the  rest  kneel. 

The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know,  you  two  are  rival  enemies  : 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy. 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity? 

Lys.  My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 
Half  sleep,  half  waking :  but  as  yet,  I  swear, 
I  caimot  truly  say  how  I  came  here : 
But,  as  I  think,  (for  truly  would  I  speak, — 
And  now  I  do  Ijethink  me,  so  it  is) 
I  came  with  Hermia  hither:  our  intent 
Was  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Ege.  Enough,  enough  !  my  lord,  you  have  enough. 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law.  upon  his  head. 
They  would  have  storn  away;  they  would,  Demetrius, 
Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me  ; 
Vou,  of  your  wife,  and  me,  of  my  consent. 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

Lem    My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  tlieir  stealth, 
their  purpose  hither,  to  this  wood : 

the  fore  part.     "  Fkw''d,  the  large  chaps  of  a  hoand 


And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them. 

Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 

But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power 

(But  by  some  power  it  is.)  my  love  to  Hermia, 

Melted  as  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 

As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gawd, 

Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon ; 

And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart, 

The  object,  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 

Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord, 

Was  I  betroth'd  ere  I  saw  Hermia : 

But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loath  this  food  , 

But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 

Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it. 

And  will  for  evermore  be  true  to  it. 

The.  Fair  lovers,  you  are  fortunately  met. 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon.— 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will. 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us. 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  ■worn. 
Our  purpos'd  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens :  three  and  three, 
We  "11  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. — 
Come,  Hippolyta. 

[Exeunt  Theseus,  Hippolyta.  Egeus,  and  train. 

Dcm.  Tliese  things  seem  small,  and  undistinguishahle 
Like  far-off  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her.  Methinks,  I  see  these  things  witli  parted  eye 
When  every  thing  seems  double. 

Hel.  So  methinks  : 

And  I  have  found  Demetrius,  like  a  jewel, 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Dem.  Are  you  sure 

That  we  are  awake  ?     It  seems  to  me 
That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. — Do  not  you  think 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 

Her.  Yea ;  and  my  father. 

Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.  And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 

Dem.  Why  then,  we  are  awake.  Let 's  follow  him, 
And  by  the  way  let  us  recount  our  dreams.      [Exeunt. 

Bot.  [Waking^  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and 
I  will  answer  : — my  next  is,  "  Most  fair  Pyramus." 
Hey,  ho  ! — Peter  Quince  !  Flute,  the  bellows- 
mender  !  Snout,  the  tinker !  Starveling !  God 's  ray 
life  !  stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep.  1  have  had  a 
most  rare  vision.  I  have  had  a  dream, — past  the  "wil 
of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was :  man  is  but  an  ass, 
if  he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream.  Methought  1 
was — there  is  no  man  can  tell  what.  Methought  I 
was,  and  methought  I  had. — but  man  is  but  a  patched-' 
fool,  if  he  will  offer  to  say  what  methought  I  had. 
The  eye  of  man  hath  not  heard,  the  ear  of  man  haih 
not  seen,  man's  hand  is  not  able  to  taste,  his  tongue 
to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to  report,  what  my  dream 
was.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to  wTite  a  ballad  of  this 
dream:  it  shall  be  called  Bottom's  Dream,  because  it 
hath  no  bottom,  and  I  will  sing  it  in  the  latter  end  of 
the*  play,  before  the  duke:  peradventure,  to  make  ii 
the  more  gracious,  I  shall  sing  it  at  Thisby's'  death. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II.— Athens.     A  Room  in  Quince's  House. 
Enter  Quince.  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starvelino. 
Qiiin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  is  he  come 
home  yet? 

,      Star.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.     Out  of  doubt.,  he  is 
transported. 

sanded,  their  hues.     '  Party-coloured  fool.     •  a  :  in  '  e.     »  bf'  •  in  f.  » 


162 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


ACT    V. 


iF7u.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred.  It 
goes  not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quin.  It  is  not  possible :  you  have  not  a  man  in  all 
Athens  atle  to  discharge  P\Tamus.  but  he. 

Flu.  No:  he  liath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any  handy- 
craft  man  in  Athens. 

Quin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too;  and  he  is  a 
ver>'  paramour  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  ."ay,  paragon:  a  paramour  is,  God 
hlc«8  us  !  a  thing  of  nought. 

Enter  Snug. 

Sntig.  Ma.'Jters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the  temple, 
•nd  there  is  two  or  three  lords  and  ladies  more  mar- 
ried If  our  sport  had  gone  Toward,  we  had  all  been 
made  men. 

Flu.  0.  sweet  bully  Bottom  !  Thus  hath  he  lost 
•iixpence  a-day  during  his  life :  he  could  not  have 
'scaped  si.vpcnce  a-day:  an  the  duke  had  not  given 
him  sixpence  a-day  for  playing  Pyramus,  I  '11  be 
hanged:  he  would  have  deser^'cd  it:  sixpence  a-day 
in  PjTamus,  or  nothing. 


Enter  Bottom. 

Bot.  Where  are  these  lads?  where  are  these  Viearts  r 

Quin.  Boitoni ! — 0  most  courageous  day  !  O  mosi 
happy  hour  ! 

Bot.  Masters,  I  am  to  discoiirse  wonders :  but  ask 
me  not  what,  for,  if  I  tell  you.  I  am  no  true  Atlieniajj 
I  will  tell  you  everv'  thing,  right  as  it  fell  out. 

Quin.  Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot.  Not  a  word  of  mp.  All  that  I  will  tell  you  is 
that  the  duke  hath  dined.  Get  your  apparel  together  , 
good  strings  to  your  beards,  new  ribbons  to  your 
pumps-  meet  presently  at  the  palace  :  every  man  look 
O'er  liis  part  :  for.  the  short  and  the  long  is,  our  play 
is  preferred.  In  any  case  let  Thisbyhave  clean  linen, 
and  let  not  him  that  plays  the  lion  pare  his  .lails,  (:>r 
they  shall  hang  out  for  the  lion's  claws.  And,  mo.-< 
dear  actors,  eat  no  onions,  nor  garlick.  for  we  are  to 
utter  sweet  breath,  and  I  do  not  doubt  but  to  hear 
them  say,  it  is  a  sweet  comedy.  No  more  words  . 
away  !  go  ;  away  !  [EimrU. 


ACT    V. 


„^c<».T«  T      T-u    o  »      »  .  ■     ^1     r)  1        !  What  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play. 

SCEN  E  I.-The  Same.    An  Apartment  in  the  Palace  ^  ^o  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 

«f  Theseus.  ,  ^aii  Philostrate. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  Lords,  and ,      Philo.it.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

Attendants.  |      jy^g  gay,  what  abridgment  have  you  for  this  evening  ? 

Hip.  'T  is  strange,  my  Theseus^  that   these  lovers  What  mask  ?  what  music  ?     How  shall  we  beguile 

speak  of.  |  The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

The.  More  strange  than  true  :  I  never  may  believe    |      Philost.  There  is  a  brief  how  many  spoYts  are  ripe  ; 
These  antic  tables,  nor  these  fairy  toys.  '  Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  lirst. 

Lovers,  and  madmen,  have  such  seething  brains,  [Giving  a  paper. 

~ "  ^  The.   [Reads.]  "  The  battle  with  the  Centaurs,  to  bo 

sung 
By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp." 
We  '11  none  of  that :  that  have  I  told  my  love, 
In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

"  The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 
Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage  '' 
That  is  an  old  device  :  and  it  was  play'd 
When  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

'•  The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  learning,  late  deceas"d  in  beggar)-." 
That  is  some  satire,  keen,  and  critical, 
Not  sorting  -with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

"  A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  P>Tamus, 
And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very-  tragical  mirth.'' 
Merry  and  tragical  !     Tedious  and  brief ! 
That  is.  hot  ice.  and  wondrous  seething'  snow. 
How  shall  wc  find  the  concord  of  this  discord?* 

Philost.  A  play  this  is.  my  lord,  some  ten  words  long, 
Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play; 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long, 
Which  makes  it  tedious  ;  for  in  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt.  one  player  fitted  : 
And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is. 
For  PyTamus  therein  doth  kill  himself. 
Which,  when  1  saw  rehears"d,  I  must  confe.«8, 
Made  mine  eyes  water  :  but  more  merry  tears 
The  pa,<5sion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 
The.  What  are  they,  that  do  p.ay  it? 
Philost.  Hard-handed  men.  that  work  in  Athens  hwe 
Which  never  labour'd  in  their  minds  till  now  ; 
And  now  have  toil'd  their  unbreath'd  memories 
I  With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptial 

In  the  foUo,  Lysandtr  readi  the  "  brief,"  and  Thtuu*  oofomeaU 


Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 

More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact: 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold  ; 

That  is,  the  madman  :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 

The  poet's  eye.  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  eaiih,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

And   a.s  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation,  and  a  name. 

Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination. 

That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 

It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy ; 

Or  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 

How  ea-sy  is  a  bush  supposd  a  bear? 

Hip.  But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over, 
And  all  th'ir  minds  transtigur'd  so  together. 
More  wtnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy, 
But.  howsoever,  strange,  and  admirable. 

The.  Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth. 
ErUer  Ltsander.  Demetrius.  Her.mia.  ami  Helena. 
loy.  gentle  friends  :  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love, 
Accompany  your  hearts  ! 

Ey.i.  More  than  to  us 

Wait  in  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed  !  [have, 

The.  Come  now;  what  ma.sks.  what  dances  shall  we 
To  weai  away  this  long-age  of  thr^e  hours, 
Between  our  after-supper,  and  bed-time? 
Where  it>  our  usual  manager  of  mirth? 

'  rtrange  .   in  f.  e.      »  Thii  it  ihe  reading  of  the  quartoe. 


BOENE   I. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


163 


The.  And  we  will  hear  it. 

Philost.  No,  my  noble  lord  ; 

ft  is  not  tor  you  :  I  have  heard  it  over, 
And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world, 
Unless  you  can  tind  sport  in  their  intents, 
Extremely  stretch'd,  and  conn'd  with  cruel  pain, 
To  do  you  service. 

The.  I  will  hear  that  play : 

For  never  any  thing  can  be  amiss, 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 
Go,  bring  them  in ; — and  take  your  places,  ladies. 

[Exit  Philostrate. 

Hip.  I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'ercharg'd, 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 

The.  Why,  gentle  sweet,  you  shall  see  no  such  thing. 

Hip.  He  says  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

The.  The  kmder  we,  to  give  them  thanks  tor  nothing. 
Our  sport  shall  be  to  take  what  they  mistake  : 
And  wliat  poor  duty  cannot  do, 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 
Where  I  have  come,  great  clerks  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  with  premeditated  welcomes : 
Where  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale. 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences. 
Throttle  their  practis'd  accent  in  their  fears. 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off, 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome.     Trust  me,  sweet. 
Out  of  this  silence,  yet,  I  pick'd  a  welcome  ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  road  as  much,  as  from  the  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity. 
In  least  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 
Enter  Philostrate. 

Philost.  So  please  your  grace,  the  prologue  is  addrest.' 

The.  Let  him  approach.  [Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  the  Prologue. 

Prol.  "  If  we  offend,  it  is  with  our  good  will. 

That  you  should  think,  we  come  not  to  offend. 
But  with  good-will.     To  show  our  simple  skill. 

That  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
Consider,  then,  we  come  but  in  despite. 

We  do  not  come  as  minding  to  content  you, 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight. 

We  are  not  here.     That  you  should  here  repent  you, 
The  actors  are  at  hand ;  and,  by  their  show. 
You  shall  know  all,  that  you  are  like  to  know." 

The.  Tliis  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  his  points. 

Lys.  He  hath  rid  his  prologue  like  a  rough  colt: 
he  knows  not  the  stop.  A  good  moral,  my  lord :  it  is 
not  enough  to  speak,  but  to  speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed,  he  hath  played  on  this  prologue,  like  a 
child  on  a  recorder' ;  a  sound,  but  not  in  government. 

The.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain, 
Nothing  impair'd,  but  all  disordered. 
Who  is  next  ? 

Enter  the  Presenter*,  Pyramus,  and  Thisbe,  Wall., 
Moonshine,  and  Lion,  as  in  dumb  show. 

Pres.*  "  Gentles,  perchance,  you  wonder  at  this  show ; 

But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things  plain. 
This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know; 

This  beauteous  lady  Thisby  is,  certain. 
This  man,  with  I'me  and  rough-cast,  doth  present 

Wall,  that  vile  wall  which  did  these  lovers  sunder; 
And  through  wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are  content 

To  whisper,  at  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
This  man,  wnh  lantern,  dog,'  and  bush  of  thorn, 

Presenteth  moonshine ;  for,  if  you  will  know, 
By  moonshine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 


To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo. 
This  grisly  beast,  which  lion  hight  by  name, 
The  trusty  Thisby,  coming  first  by  uight. 
Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright : 
And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  did  fall, 

Which  lion  vile  with  bloody  mouth  did  stain. 
Anon  comes  Pyramus,  sweet  youth  and  tall, 

And  finds  his  gentle  Thisby's  mantle  slain : 
Whereat,  with  blade,  with  bloody  blameful  blade, 

He  bravely  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast 
And  Thisby,  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade. 

His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
Let  lion,  moonshine,  wall,  and  lovers  twain, 
At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain." 

[Exeunt  Pres.,  Thisbe,  Lion,  and  MoonshiriC 

The.  I  wonder,  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 

Dem.  No  wonder,  my  lord  : 
One  lion  may,  when  many  asses  do. 

Wall.  "  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befal, 
That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall ; 
And  such  a  wall,  as  I  would  have  you  think, 
That  had  in  it  a  cranny,  hole,  or  chink, 
Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
Did  whisper  often  very  secretly. 
This  lime,  this  rough-cast,  and  this  stone,  doth  show 
That  I  am  that  same  wall :  the  truth  is  so ; 
And  this  the  cranny  is,  right  and  sinister, 
Through  which  the  fearful  lovers  are  to  whisper." 

The.  Would  you  desire  lime  and  hair  to  speak  better? 

Dem.  It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I  heard 
discourse,  my  lord. 

The.  Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall :  silence  ! 
Enter  Pyramus. 

Pyr.  "  0,  grim-look'd  night !     0,  night  with  hue  so 
black  ! 

0  night,  which  ever  art,  when  day  is  not ! 
0  night !  0  night !    alack,  alack,  alack  ! 

1  fear  my  Thisby's  promise  is  forgot. — 
And  thou,  0  wall  !  0  sweet,  0  lovely  wall  ! 

That  stand'st  between  her  father's  gi-ound  and  mine  ; 

Thou  wall,  0  wall !  0  sweet,  and  lovely  wall ! 

Show  me  thy  chink  to  blink  through  with  mine  eyne. 
[Wall  holds  up  his  fingers. 

Thanks,  courteous  wall :  Jove  shield  thee  well  for  this  ! 
But  what  see  I  ?     No  Thisby  do  I  see. 

0  wicked  wall  !  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss ; 
Curst  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me  !" 
The.  The   wall,   methinks,   being   sensible,    should 

curse  again. 

Pyr.  No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not. — "Deceiving 

me,"  is  Thisby's  cue  :  she  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am  to 

spy  her  through  the  wall.     You  shall  see,  it  will  fall 

pat  as  I  told  you. — Yonder  she  comes. 
Enter  Thisbe. 
This.  "  0  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my  moan  i, 
For  parting  my  fair  P>Tamus  and  me  : 

My  cherry  lips  have  often  kiss'd  thy  stones; 

Thy  stones  with  l>me  and  hair  knit  up  in  thee." 
Pyr.  "I  see  a  voice :  now  will  I  to  the  chink, 
To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisby's  face. 

Thisby  !" 

This.  "  My  love  !  thou  art  my  love,  I  think." 
Pyr.  "  Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's  grace; 

And  like  Limander  am  '  trusty  still." 

This.  "  And  I  like  Heien,  till  the  fates  me  kill." 
Pyr.  "  Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true." 
This.  "As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you  '' 
Pyr.  "  0  !  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile  wall.'' 
This.  "  I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not  your  lips  at  all.'' 


Heady.      a  Flageolet.      »  Not  in  f.  e.      *  This  i 


is  given  in  f.  e.  to  the  Prolosue. 


164 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Pyr.  "Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  me  straight- 
way ■:*■' 

Tliis.  *'  "Tide  lil'e,  'tide  death,  I  come  wthout  delay." 

Hu//.  "Thus  liave  I.  wall,  my  part  discharged  so; 
Ajid,  being  done,  thus  wall  away  doth  go." 

[Exeunt  WalU  Pyr.^mus,  ai\d  Thisbe. 

The.  Now  is  the  wall'  down  between  the  two  neigh- 
bours. 

Dem.  No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are  so  wilful 
to  hear  without  warning. 

Hip.  This  is  (lie  silliest  stuff  that  e'er  I  heard. 

The.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows  ;  and  the 
worst  are  no  worse,  it'  imagination  amend  them. 

Hip.  It  must  be  your  imagination,  then,  and  not 
theirs. 

The.  If  wo  imagine  no  worse  of  them,  than  they  of 
tnemselves,  they  may  pass  for  excellent  men.     Here 
co'ne  two  noble  beasts  in,  a  man  and  a  lion. 
Enter  Lion  ami  Moonshine. 

Lion.  '•  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do  fear 

The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on  floor, 
May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  here, 

When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 
Then  know,  that  I,  one  Smig  the  joiner,  am 
\  lion's  fell.'  nor  else  no  lion's  dam  : 
For,  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 
Into  this  place,  't  were  pity  on  your  life." 

The.  A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  conscience. 

Dem.  The  very  best  at  a  beast,  my  lord,  that  e'er  I 
.eaw. 

Lys.  This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valour. 

The.  True,  and  a  goo.se  for  his  discretion. 

Dem.  Not  so.  my  lord :  for  his  valour  cannot  carry 
his  discretion,  and  the  fox  carries  the  goose. 

The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry  his 
valour,  for  the  goose  carries  not  the  fox.  It  is  well : 
leave  it  to  his  discretion,  and  let  us  listen  to  the  moon. 

Moon.  '•  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  present ;" 

l)em.  He  should  have  worn  the  horns  on  his  head. 

T}ie.  He  is  not  crescent,  and  his  horns  are  invisible 
within  the  circumference. 

Moon.  ''This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  present; 
Myself  the  man  i'  the  moon  do  seem  to  be." 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest.  The 
man  should  be  put  into  the  lantern:  how  is  it  else  the 
man  i'  the  moon  ? 

Dem.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle :  for, 
you  .see,  it  is  already  in  snuff. 

Hip.  I  am  aweary  of  this-  moon :  would,  he  would 
change ! 

The.  It  appears  by  his  small  light  of  discretion. 
that  he  is  in  the  wane ;  but  yet,  in  courtesy,  in  all 
reason,  we  must  stay  the  time. 

Lyx.   Proceed,  moon. 

Moon.  All  that  I  have  to  say.  is,  to  tell  you,  that  the 
lantern  is  the  moon  :  I,  the  man  in  the  moon ;  this 
thorn-bush,  my  tliorn-bush  :  and  this  dog,  my  dog. 

Dem.  Why,  all  the.se  should  be  in  the  lantern  :  for  all 
these  are  in  the  moon.    But.  silence  !  here  comes  Thisbe. 
Enter  Thisbe. 

This  "This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb.  Where  is  my 
love?" 

Li'TK.   "Oh — ."    [The  Lion  roars . — Thisbe  ruris  o^. 

Dem.  Well  roared,  lion. 

The.  Well  run.  Thisbe. 

Hip.  Well  shone,  moon. — Tnily,  the  moon  shines 
^th  a  good  grace.       [The  Lion  tears  Thisbe's  mantle., 

[and  exit. 


The.  Well  mouthed',  lion. 
Dem.  And  then  came  Pyramus. 
Lys.  And  so  the  lion  vanislied. 

Enter  Pyramus. 
Pyr.  "  Sweet  moon,   I  thank   thee  for  thy  sunny 
beams ; 
I  thank  thee,  moon,  for  shining  now  so  bright, 
For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glittering  streams, 
I  trust  to  take  of  truest  Thi.sby  sight. 

But  stay  ; — 0  spite  !     [Seeing  Thisbe's  mantle. 
But  mark,  poor  knight, 
What  dreadt'ul  dole  is  here  ! 
Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 
How  can  it  be  ? 
0  dainty  duck  !  O  dear  ! 
Thy  mantle  good. 
What  !  .stain'd  with  blood? 
Approach,  ye  furies  fell  ! 
0  fates  !  come,  come  ; 
Cut  thrciul  and  thrum ; 
Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell  !" 
The.  This  passion  on'  the  death  of   a  dear  fnendj 
would  go  near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 

Hip.  Beshrew  ray  heart,  but  i  pity  the  man. 
Pyr.  "  0,  wherefore,  nature,  didst  thou  lions  frame, 
Since  lion  vile  hath  here  deflour'd  my  dear? 
Which  is — no,  no— which  was  the  fairest  dame. 
That  liv'd,  that  lov'd,  that  lik'd,  that  look'd  with  cheer. 
Come,  tears,  confound ; 
Out,  sword,  and  wound 
The  pap  of  P\Tamus  : 
Ay,  that  left  pap. 
Where  heart  doth  hop : — 
Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus  !     [Stabs  himself 
Now  am  I  dead,  [as  often* 

Now  am  I  fled  ; 
My  soul  is  in  the  slcy  : 

Tongue,  lose  thy  light ! 

Moon,  take  thy  flight !     [Exit  Moonshine.' 

Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die."  [Dies. 

Dem.  No  die,  but  an  ace,  for  him  ;  for  he  is  but  one. 

Lajs.  Less  than  an  ace,  man,  for  he  is  dead ;  he  is 

nothing. 

The.  With  the  help  of  a  surgeon,  he  might  yet  re- 
cover, and  yet  prove  an  ass. 

Hip.  How  chance  moonshine  is  gone,  before  Thisbe 
comes  back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.  She  will    find    him   by   starlight. — Here   she 
comes,  and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 
Enter  Thisbe. 
Hip.  Methinks,  she  should  not  use  a  long  one  for 
.such  a  PjTamus :  I  hope  she  will  be  brief. 

Dem.  A  mote  will  turn  the  balance,  which  Pyramus, 
which  Thisbe,  is  the  better :  he  for  a  man,  God  war- 
rant  us  ;  she  lor  a  woman.  God  bless  us. 

Lys.  She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those  sweet 
eyes. 

Dem.  And  thus  she  moans,  videlicet. 

This.  "  Asleep,  my  love  ? 
What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
0  Pyramus  !  arise  : 

Speak,  speak  !     Quite  dumb' 
Dead,  dead?     A  tomb 
Must  cover  thv  sweet  eves. 
This  lily  lip*, 
This  cherry  tip,* 
These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 
Are  gone,  are  gone. 


•  miiAl  .  m  r.  e.     »  A  lion  fell  :  in  f. 
■a  f.  c.    *  Thii  direction  not  in  f.  e.     ^  i 


B.  Field  BORBflsted  this  coirfietion  also.     '  moused  :    in  f.  e. 
f.  «.  :  this  direction  ii  given  it  the  next  line.     »  These  lily  lips  : 


SCENE   II. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


165 


Lovers,  make  moan  : 
His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 
0  !  sisters  three, 
Come,  come  to  me, 
With  hands  as  pale  as  milk; 
Lay  them  in  gore. 
Since  you  have  shore 
With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 
Tongue,  not  a  word  : — 
Come,  trusty  sword; 
Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue: 
And  farewell,  friends. — 
Thus  Thisby  ends: 
Adieu,  adieu,  adieu."  [Dies. 

The.  Moonshine  and  Lion  are  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
Dem.  Ay.  and  wall  too. 

Bot.  No,  I  assure  you;  the  wall  is  down  that  parted 
their  fathers.  Will  it  please  you  to  see  the  epilogue,  or  to 
hear  a  Bergoinask'  dance  between  two  of  our  company  ? 
The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray' you;  for  your  play  needs 
no  excuse.  Never  excuse,  for  when  the  players  are 
all  de^d.  there  need  none  to  be  blamed.  Marry,  if  he 
that  writ  it,  had  play'd  Pyramus,  and  hanged  himself 
in  Thi.^be's  garter,  it  would  have  been  a  fine  tragedy; 
and  so  it  is.  truly,  and  very  notably  discharged.  But 
corae,  your  Bergomask :  let  your  epilogue  alone. 

[A  dance. 
Tlie  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve. — 
Lovers,  to  bed  :  't  is  almost  fairy  time. 
I  fear  we  shall  outsleep  the  coming  morn. 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwateh'd. 
This  palpable  gross  play  hath  well  beguil'd 
The  heavy  gait  of  night. — Sweet  friends,  to  bed. — 
A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity, 
In  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. 
Enter  Puck,'  with  a  broom  on  his  shoulder. 
Puck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon; 
Whilst  the  heaA^^  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Wliil.-it  the  screech-owl,  screeching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch,  that  lies  in  woe. 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night, 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite. 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide; 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecates  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  a|e  frolic ;  not  a  mouse 


Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house : 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 
Enter  Oberon  and  Titania,  with  all  their  train. 
Obe.  Through  the  house  give  glimmering  light. 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire ; 
Every  elf,  and  fairy  sprite. 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier ; 
And  this  ditty  after  me 
Sing,  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

Tita.  First,  rehearse  your  song  by  rote. 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note : 
Hand  in  hand  with  fairy  grace 
Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place. 


Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 

Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray. 

To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we. 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be; 

And  the  issue  there  create 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  tliree 

Ever  true  in  loving  be ; 

And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 

Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand ; 

Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar, 

Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 

Despised  in  nativity. 

Shall  upon  their  children  be,* 

With  this  field-dew  consecrate. 

Every  fairy  take  his  gait, 

And  each  several  chamber  bless, 

Tlirough  this  palace  with  sweet  peace; 

Ever  shall  it  safely*  rest, 

And  the  ow^ner  of  it  blest. 

Trip  away;  make  no  stay; 

Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

[Exeimt  Oberon,  Titania,  and  train 
Puck.    If  we  shadows  have  offended. 

Think  but  this,  and  all  is  mended. 

That  you  have  but  slumbered  here. 

While  these  visions  did  appear ; 

And  this  weak  and  idle  theme. 

No  more  yielding  but  a  dream. 

Gentles,  do  not  reprehend: 

If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 

And,  as  I  'm  an  honest  Puck, 

If  we  have  unearned  luck 

Now  to  'scape  the  serpent's  tongue, 

We  will  make  amends  ere  long, 

Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call : 

So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 

Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends, 

And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.  [  Exit 


•  So  called,  from  the  place  in  Italy  it  was  derived  from.      »  The  rest  of  this  direction  : 
•t.     *  f.  e.  all  have  a  porjjd  instead  of  a  comma.      *  in  safety 


iot  in  f.  e.    Puok  ia  thus  represented  it  an  old  irood 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Suitors  to  Portia. 


Duke  of  Venice. 

Prince  of  Morocco, 

Prince  of  Arra^on, 

Antonio,  the  Merchant  of  Venice  : 

Bassanio,  his  Friend. 

Gratiano,  ) 

Salanio,     >  Friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Salarino,    ) 

Lorenzo,  in  love  with  Jessica. 

Shylock.  a  Jew : 

Tubal,  a  Jew.  his  Friend. 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  a  Clown. 


Old  Gobbo,  Father  to  Launoelot. 
Salekio,  a  Messenger. 
Leonardo,  Servant  to  Bassanio 
Balthazar,  )  ^^^^^^^^^  ^^  p^^^^ 
Stefhano,    ) 

Portia,  a  rich  Heiress. 
Nerissa,  her  Waiting-woman. 
Jessica,  Daughter  to  Shylock. 

Magnificoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Court  of 
Justice,  Jailors,  Servants,  and  other  Attendaiita 


SCENE,  partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Antonio,  Salarino,  and  Salanio. 
Ant.  In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad. 

.t  wearies  me  :  you  say.  it  wearies  you  : 

l?ut  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 

What  stuff 't  is  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 

I  am  to  learn  ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me. 

That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 
Salnr.  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean. 

There,  where  your  argosies'  with  portly  sail, 

Like  sisniors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  flood, 

Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, 

Do  overpeor  the  petty  traffickers, 

That  curi'.^y  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  tiicy  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 
Salan.  Believe  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth. 

The  better  part  of  my  atreetions  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass  to  know  where  sits  the  wind, 
Peering  in  maps  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads ; 
Vnd  every  objrct  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt, 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Solar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth. 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  sec  the  sandy  hour-iilass  run. 
But  1  should  think-  of  .>-hallows  an<l  of  flats, 
And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  in  sand, 
Vailinc  her  hiiih  lop  lower  than  her  ribs. 
To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church. 
And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone, 
And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks, 
Which  loueliiiig  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side. 
Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream, 

»  Ve»Ml8  of  fihoiit  two  hundred  Ions. 


Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks, 

And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this, 

And  now  worth  nothing?     Shall  I  have  the  thought 

To  think  on  this,  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought. 

That  such  a  thing  bechane'd  would  make  nie  sad  ' 

But,  tell  not  me :  I  know,  Antonio 

Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Ant.  Believe  me,  no.     I  thank  my  fortune  for  it. 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted. 
Nor  to  one  place  ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year  : 
Therefore,  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad. 
Salan.  Why,  then  you  are  in  love. 
Ant.  Fie,  fie ! 

Salan.  Not  in  love  neither?     Then  let's  say,  you 
are  sad, 
Because  you  are  not  merry :  and  't  were  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say,  you  are  merry^, 
Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed  Janus 
Nature  hath  fram'd  strange  fellows  in  her  time : 
Some  that  will  evcrmOre  peep  through  their  eyes, 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper; 
And  otlier  of  such  vinegar  aspect. 
That  they  Ml  not  show  their  iceth  in  way  of  smile. 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  je.«t  be  laughable. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Lorenzo,  and  Gratiano. 
Salan.  Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kins- 
man, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  you  well: 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salnr.  I  would  have  stay'd  till  I  had  made  you  merry 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ajit.  Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occa.sion  to  depart. 

Saiar.  Good  morrow,  my  good  lords.  [when? 

Bass.  Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh?  Say 


SCENE   II. 


THE  MEKCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


167 


You  grow  exceeding  strange  :  must  it  be  so  ? 

Salar.  We  '11  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 
[Exeunt  Salarino  and  Salanio. 

Lor.  My  lord  Bassanio.  since  you  have  found  Antonio, 
We  U\o  will  leave  you ;  but  at  dinner-time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.  I  will  not  fail  you. 

Gia.  You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio  ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world  : 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  chang'd. 

Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part. 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool  : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come, 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  wliose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks  ; — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond, 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain. 
With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 
As  who  should  say,  "  I  am  sir  Oracle. 
And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark !" 

0  !  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these. 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise. 

For  saying  nothing  ;  when'  I  am  very  sure, 

If  they  should  speak,  'twould^  almost  damn  those  ears. 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers  fools. 

1  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time : 
But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait. 
For  this  fool-gudgeon,  this  opinion. — 
Come,  good  Lorenzo. — Fare  ye  well,  awhile  : 
I  '11  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you,  then,  till  dinner-time. 
I  must  be  one  of  those  same  dumb  wise  men. 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years  more. 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  owni  tongue. 

Ant.  Farewell :  I  '11  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear.^ 

Gra.  Thanks,  i'  faith  ;  for  silence  is  only  commendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  dried,  and  a  maid  not  vendible. 

[Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo. 

Ant.  It  is  that : — any  thing  now.* 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing. 
more  than  any  man  in  all  Venice.  His  reasons  are  his 
two  grains  uf  wheat  hid  in  twt)  bushels  of  chaff:  you 
shall  seek  all  day  ere  you  find  them  ;  and  when  you 
nave  them,  they  are  not  worth  the  search. 

Ant.  Well  ;  tell  nie  now.  what  lady  is  the  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage. 
That  you  to-day  promis"d  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.  'T  is  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate. 
Hy  ^omething  sho^^^ng  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance  : 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 
From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is  to  come  tairly  off  from  the  great  debts. 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money,  and  in  love; 


And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it 
And  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do. 
Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assur'd, 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means, 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.  In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft, 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way  with  more  advised  watch. 
To  find  the  other  forth  ;  and  by  adventuring  both, 
I  oft  found  both.     I  urge  this  childhood  proof, 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much,  and,  like  a  wasteful*  youth, 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost  ;  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  anotlier  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both. 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again, 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant.  You  know  me  well,  and  herein  spend  but  time, 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance  ; 
And.  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost. 
Than  if  you  liad  made  waste  of  all  I  have  : 
Then,  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do. 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done. 
And  I  am  prcst'  unto  it :  therefore,  speak. 

Ba.ss.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  w-ord. 
Of  wondrous  virtues  :  sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages. 
Her  name  is  Portia  ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth, 
For  the  lour  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors  ;  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece  ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont  Colchos'  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 
O,  my  Antonio  !  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  witli  one  of  them, 
I  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift. 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant.  Thou  know'st,  tliat  all  my  fortunes  are  al  sr& , 
Neither  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum  :  therefore,  go  forth  ; 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do  : 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  BL-lmont.  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is,  and  I  no  question  make, 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake.  [E.reunt 

SCENE  II. — Belmont.     An  Apartment  in  Portia"b 
House. 
Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 
For.  By  my  troth.  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary 
of  this  great  world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries 
were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are. 
And,  yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick,  that  surfeit 
with  too  much,  as  they  that  starA-e  witJi  nothing  :  it  is 
no  mean'  happiness,  therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the 
mean  :  superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs,  but 
competency  lives  longer. 

For.  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced 


•  So  all  old  copies  ;  mod.  eds.,  following  Rowe.  reads  :  "who.' 
/"olios  ;  mod  eds.  read  •  •'  Is  that  anything,  now  ?"     »  wishful : 


»  would  :  in  f.  e.      »  For  this  matter.      *  So  all  quartos,  and  Ist  and 
in  f.  e.      '  Ready.      '  So  the  quartos  ;  the  folios  :  "snail." 


im 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE. 


Ajr  1. 


N^er.  They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

Por.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were 
good  to  do.  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's 
cottages  princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine  that  fol- 
lows his  own  instructions  :  I  can  ea.>iier  teach  twenty 
what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty 
to  follow  mine  own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise 
laws  for  the  blood  ;  but  a  hot  temper  leaps  o'er  a  cold 
decree  :  such  a  hare  is  madne.-^s.  the  youth,  to  skip  o'er 
the  meshes  of  good  coun.<eI,  the  cripple.  But  this  rea- 
soning' i.<  not  in  the  fashion  to  chocsc  me  a  husband. 
— O  me  !  the  word  choose  !  I  may  neither  choose  whom 
I  would,  nor  refu.^e  whom  I  dislike  :  so  is  the  will  of 
a  living  daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father. 
— Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one. 
nor  refuse  none  ? 

Ncr.  Vour  father  was  ever  virtuous,  and  holy  men 
at  their  death  have  good  inspirations  :  therefore,  the 
lottery,  that  he  hath  devised  in  these  three  chests  of 
gold,  silver,  and  lead  (whereof  who  chooses  his  mean- 
ing, chooses  you)  will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by 
any  rightly,  but  one  whom  you  .'^hall  rightly  love.  But 
what  warmth  is  there  in  your  affection  towards  any  of 
the.<e  princely  suitors  that  are  already  come  ? 

Por.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them,  and  as  thou 
iiamest  them.  I  will  describe  them  ;  and,  according  to 
my  description,  level  at  my  afTcclion. 

Ncr.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

Por.  Ay.  that 's  a  colt,  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing 
but  talk  of  his  hor.se ;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appro- 
bation of  his  ONMi  good  pans,  that  he  can  shoe  him 
himself.  I  am  much  afraid,  my  lady  his  mother  played 
fal.<e  wiih  a  smith. 

Nir.  Then,  is  there  the  county  Palatine. 

Por.  He  doth  nothing  but  frowni.  as  who  should  say, 
"  An  you  will  not  have  me,  choose."  He  hears  merry 
takes,  and  smiles  not :  I  fear  he  will  prove  the  weeping 
philosopher  when  he  grows  old.  being  so  full  of  unman- 
nerly sadness  in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married 
lo  a  death's  head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to 
either  of  these.     God  defend  me  from  these  two  ! 

Ncr.  How  say  you  bv  the  French  lord,  monsieur  le 
Bon  ? 

Por.  God  made  him.  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for 
a  man.  In  truth.  I  knosv  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker  ; 
but,  he  !  why,  he  hath  a  horse  belter  than  the  Neapo- 
litan's :  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning  than  the  count 
F'alatine  :  he  is  every  man  in  no  man:  if  a  throstle 
»ing.  he  falls  ."Straight  a  capering  :  he  will  fence  with 
his  o-wn  shadow.  If  I  should  marry  him.  I  should 
marry  twenty  husbands.  If  he  would  despi.«e  me,  I 
would  foriiive  him  :  for  if  he  love  me  to  madness,  I 
Uiall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you,  then,  to  Faulconbridge,  the 
young  baron  of  England  ? 

Por.  You  know,  I  say  nothing  to  him,  for  he  under- 
•tands  not  mf,  nor  I  him  :  he  hath  neither  Latin, 
French,  nor  Italian  ;  and  you  will  come  into  the  court 
and  Bwear.  that  I  have  a  poor  penny-worth  in  the  Eng- 
li.'-h.  He  is  a  proper  man's  picture;  but.  alas!  who 
can  conver.se  with  a  dumb  show?  How  oddly  he  is 
■uiied  !  I  think,  he  bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his 
round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his 
behaviour  every  where. 

Ncr.  What  thmk  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his 
oeichbour  ? 

Por.  That  he  hath  a  neighbourly  charity  in  him ; 
for  h-;  borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  the  Englishman, 


and  swore  he  would  pay  him  again,  when  he  was  able 
I  think,  the  Frenchman  became  his  surety,  and  sealed 
under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  duke  of 
Saxony's  nephew  ? 

Por.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober 
and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is  drunk  : 
when  he  is  best,  he  is  a  little  worse  than  a  man;  and 
when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little  better  than  a  bea.st.  An 
the  worst  tall  that  ever  fell,  I  hope,  I  shall  make  shift 
to  go  without  him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the 
right  casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's 
will,  if  you  should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

Por.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thet, 
set  a  deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary'  casket  • 
for.  if  tiie  devil  be  within,  and  that  temptation  with- 
out, I  know  he  will  choose  it.  I  will  do  anything, 
Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be  married  to  a  spunge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of 
these  lords  :  they  have  acquainted  me  with  their  de- 
terminations ;  which  is  indeed,  to  return  to  their  homes, 
and  to  trouble  you  wnth  no  more  suit,  unless  you  may 
be  won  by  some  other  sort  than  your  father's  imposi- 
tion, depending  on  the  caskets. 

Por.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla.  I  will  die  as 
chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  ol 
my  father's  will.  I  am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are 
so  reasonable  ;  for  there  is  not  one  among  them  but  I 
dote  on  his  very  absence,  and  I  pray  God  grant  them  a 
fair  departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's 
time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came 
hither  in  company  of  the  marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

Por.  Yes,  yes  ;  it  was  Bassanio  :  as  I  think,  so  was 
he  called. 

Ner.  True,  madam  :  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever 
my  foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a 
fair  lady. 

Por.  I  remember  him  well,  and  I  remember  hinr 
worthy  of  thy  praise." — How  now?  what  news  ? 
Enter  a  Sen'ant. 

Serv.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you.  madam,  lo 
take  their  leave  :  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come  from 
a  fifth,  the  prince  of  Morocco,  who  brings  word,  ihe 
prince,  his  master,  ^^^ll  be  here  to-niiiht. 

Por.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good 
heart,  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be 
glad  of  his  approach  :  if  he  have  the  condition  of  a 
saint,  and  the  complexion  of  a  devil.  I  had  rathoi  he 
should  shrive  me  than  wive  me.  Come.  Nerissa. — 
Sirrah,  go  before.' — Wliiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one 
wooer,  another  knocks  at  the  door.  [Exttunt. 

SCENE  III.— Venice.     A   public  Place. 
Enter  Bass.xnio  a7id  Shylock. 
Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats. — well. 
Ba,<!s.  Ay,  sir.  tor  three  months. 
Shy.  For  three  months, — well. 
Bass.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall  b« 
bound. 

Shi).  Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 
Bn.s.s.   May  you  stead  me  ?     Will  you  pleasure  roe  ' 
Shall  I  know  your  answer  ? 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats  for  three  months,  end 
I  Antonio  bound. 
j      Bass.  Your  answer  to  that. 
1      Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 


'  revsnn  :  in  f.  e.     The  quartos.  n»  in  tlin  text,     «  The  rest  of  the  sentence  is  from  the  quartos.    *  Knight  and  Dyce  print  these  three 
•crils  aa  the  first,  and  the  rest  of  tiie  speech  as  the  last  line  of  a  couplet. 


BCENE  m. 


THE  MEECHANT  OF  YENICE. 


169 


Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contraiy  ? 

Shy.  Ho  !  no,  no,  no,'  no : — my  meaning,  in  saying 
he  is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me,  that 
he  IS  sufficient ;  yet  his  means  are  in  supposition.  He 
hath  an  argosy  bound  to  Tripolis,  another  to  the  Indies  : 
I  understand  moreover  upon  the  Rialto,  he  hath  a  third 
at  Mexico,  a  fourth  for  Enghxnd.  and  other  ventures 
he  hath  squandered'  abroad  ;  but  ships  are  but  boards, 
Bailors  but  men  :  there  be  land-rats,  and  water-rats, 
land-thieves,  and  water-thieves:"  I  mean,  pirates  :  and 
then,  there  is  the  peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks. 
Tlie  man  is,  notwithstanding.  sulTicient :  three  thou- 
sand ducats. — I  think,  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Ba.ss.  Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured,  I  may ;  and,  that  I  may  be 
assured,  I  will  bethink  me.    May  I  speak  with  Antonio  ? 

Bass.  If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork  ;  to  eat  of  the  habitation 
which  your  prophet,  the  Nazarite,  conjured  the  devil 
into.  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk  M-ith 
you,  walk  with  you,  and  so  following  ;  but  I  will  not  eat 
with  you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with  you.  What 
news  on  the  Rialto? — Who  is  he  comes  here? 
Enter  Antonio. 

Bass,  This  is  signior  Antonio. 

Shy.  [Aside.]  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks  ! 
I  liate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian  ; 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice, 
[f  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
[  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  iny  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  forgive  him  ! 

Ba.fs.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

Shy.  I  am  debating  of  my  present  store, 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
[  cannot  instantlv  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 
Will  furnish  me.     But  soft !  how  many  months 
Do  you  desire  ? — Rest  you  fair,  good  signior  ; 

[To  Antonio. 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.  Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess. 
Yet,  to  sujiply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
[  '11  break  a  custom.     Are  you  yet  possess'd, 
How  much  he  would  ? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.  And  for  three  months. 

Shy.  I  had  forgot : — three  months  ;  you  told  me  so. 
Well  then,  your  bond  ;  and  let  me  see — But  hear  you : 
Methought.  you  said,  you  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.  When  Jacob  graz'd  his  uncle  Laban's  sheep, 
This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abraham  was 
A.S  his  wise  mother  wrought  in  his  behalf,) 
The  third  possessor ;  ay,  he  was  the  third. 

Ant.  And  what  of  him  ?  did  he  take  interest? 

Shy.  No,  not  take  interest ;  not,  as  you  would  say. 
Directly  interest :   mark  what  Jacob  did. 
When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromis'd. 
That  all  the  eanlings  which  were  streak'd,  and  pied. 


Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire,  the  ewes,  being  rank, 

In  end  of  autumn  turned  to  the  rams ; 

And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 

Between  these  woolly  breeders  in  the  act, 

The  skilful  shepherd  peel'd  me  certain  wands. 

And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind. 

He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes. 

Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning  time 

Fall  party-colour"d  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 

This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blest : 

And  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Ant.  This  was  a  venture,  sir,  that  Jacob  serv'i  for, 
A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass. 
But  sway'd,  and  fashion'd  by  the  hand  of  heaven. 
Was  this  inferred'  to  make  interest  good  ? 
Or  is  your  gold  and  silver,  ewes  and  rams  ? 

Shy.  I  cannot  tell :  I  make  it  breed  as  fast. — 
But  note  me,  signior. 

A7it.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio. 

The  devil  can  cite  scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  w'itness. 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek, 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart. 
0,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath  ! 

Shy.  Thee  thousand  ducats ; — 't  is  a  good  round  sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 

Ant.  Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholding  to  you  ? 

Shy.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
On  the  Rialto*,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies  and  my  usances : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ; 
For  sufferance  is  a  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  call'd  me — misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  minp  ovni. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to,  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
"  Shylock,  we  would  have  monies  :"  you  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard. 
And  foot  me  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  :  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say^ 
"  Hath  a  dog  money  ?     Is  it  possible, 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats?"  or 
Shall  I  bend  low.  and  in  a  bondman's  key. 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness, 
Say  this : — 

"  Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last: 
You  spurn'd  me  such  a  day ;   another  time 
You  call'd  me  dog;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I  '11  lend  you  thus  much  monies  ?" 

Ant.  I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again. 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friend ;  for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed  for*  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ? 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy ; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Wliy,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love. 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain'd  me  with, 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  monies. 
And  you  '11  not  hear  me.     This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.  This  were  kindcess. 

Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary,  seal  me  there 


'  Used  as  scattered;  not  in  a  reproachful  sense.— Knight.      *  water-thieves  and  land-thieves  :  m  f.  e.      '  f.  e.  :  inserted  ;  in/efT«d  bat 
bore  the  sense  of  trou^ht  in.     ♦  Probably  the  island  so  called  on  which  was  the  Exchange,  and  not  the  bridge,  which  was  bailt  in  1591 
So  the  quarto  ;  the  folio  :  "  of." 


1/0 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT  n. 


Vour  single  bond  .  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 

I«  you  repay  ine  not  on  such  a  day. 

I)>  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums  as  are 

F'lpre^'d  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 

Be  uomiuated  for  an  equal  pouud 

Of  your  fair  fle.<h,  to  be  cot  off  and  taken 

hi  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Ant.  Content,  in  faith  :  I  "11  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say  there  is  much  kindne.«s  in  thee.  Jew. 

Bass.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me  : 
'11  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.  Why.  fear  not.  man :  I  will  not  forfeit  it : 
Within  these  two  months,  that  "s  a  month  before 
This  bond  expire,*.  I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shy.  0,  tather  Abraham  !  what  these  Christians  are, 
Whose  ovsTi  hard  dealing.*  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  ! — Pray  you.  tell  me  this ; 
[f  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 


By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 

A  pound  of  mans  flesh,  taken  from  a  man. 

Is  not  so  e.*titnable.  protitable  neither, 

As  flesh  of  muttons,  beeves,  or  goats.     I  say, 

To  buy  his  favour  I  extend  this  friendship : 

If  he  will  take  it,  so;  if  not.  adieu: 

And,  for  my  love.  I  pray  you,  -wTong  me  not. 

Ant.  Yes.  Shylock.  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.  Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notarj's 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merr>-  bond, 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight ; 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrit\y  knave,  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [ErU. 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

The  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian  :  he  grows  kind. 

Bass.  I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  ^•illain'8  mind. 

Ant.  Come  on :  in  this  there  can  be  no  di.<niay, 
Mj  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    II 


SCENE    I. — Belmont.      An  Apartment    in    Portia's 

House. 
Enter  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  and  his  followers  ;  Portia, 

Nerissa.  and  other  of  her  train.  Flourish  Comets. 

Mor.  Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 
The  ghadow"d  livery  of  the  burning'  sun. 
To  whom  I  am  a  neighbour,  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  bom, 
Where  Phcebu.s"  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles. 
And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love. 
To  prove  who.<e  blood  is  reddest,  his.  or  mine. 
I  tell  thee.  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 
Hath  fear  d  the  valiant :  by  my  love,  I  swear. 
The  best  regarded  \irgins  of  our  clime 
Have  lov"d  it  too.     I  would  not  change  this  hue, 
Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  ray  gentle  queen. 

Por.  In  term.*  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 
By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes  : 
Besides,  the  lotterj-  of  my  destiny 
Bars  me  the  rishr  of  voluntar>-  choosing; 
But.  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me. 
.\nd  hedg'd  me  by  his  wit.  to  yield  myself 
His  Wife  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you, 
Yourv-lf.  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair, 
Aa  any  comer  I  have  look'd  on  yet, 
For  tny  affection. 

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  yuu  : 

Therefore.  I  pray  you.  lead  me  to  the  caskets. 
To  tr)-  my  fortune.     By  this  scimitar. — 
That  slew  the  55ophy.  and  a  Persian  prince, 
That  won  three  fields  of  Sultan  Solyman.— 
I  would  out-stare*  the  sternest  eyes  that  look. 
Out-brave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth 
Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  from  fhe  she-bear, 
Yea.  mock  the  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey. 
To  win  thee,  lady.     But.  alas  the  while  1 
!f  Herculc*  and  Lichas  play  at  dice, 
•Vliich  i.*  the  better  man?  the  greater  throw 
.\Iay  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  band: 
.vj  i.«  Alcidea  beaten  by  hi.«  pase' ; 
.\nd  so  may  I.  blind  fortune  leading  me. 
Mis.'  that  which  one  un worthier  may  attain, 
And  die  with  grieving. 


Por.  You  must  take  your  chance, 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all. 
Or  swear  be  tore  you  choose,  if  you  choose  wrong. 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage  :  therefore,  be  advis  d. 

Mor    Nor  will  not.   Come,  bring  me  unto  my  chance 

Por.  First,  forward  to  the  temple  :  after  dinner 
Your  hazard  shall  be  made. 

Mor.  Good  fortime  then.  [Comets 

To  make  me  blest,  or  cursed'st  among  men  ! 

[Exeunt 


SCENE  IT  —Venice.  A  Street. 
Enter  Launcelot  Gobbo. 
I  Laun.  Certainly,  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run 
from  this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine  elbow, 
'  and  tempts  me,  sa>ing  to  me.  ■'  Gobbo.  Launcelot 
1  Gobbo.  good  Launcelot.  or  good  Gobbo,  or  good  Laun- 
I  celot  Gobbo.  use  your  less,  take  the  start,  run  away  :" 
I  My  conscience  says. — "  No  :  take  heed,  hone,«t  Laun- 
I  ceiot ;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo :"'  or,  as  aforesaid. 
I  '■  hone.st  Launcelot  Gobbo  ;  do  not  run  :  scorn  running 
1  with  thy  heels."  Well,  the  most  contagious*  fiend  bids 
I  me  pack  :  "  Via  !''  says  the  fiend  ;  "  away  !"'  says  the 
fiend  :  "  fore  the  heavens,  rouse  up  a  brave  mind,"  says 
the  fiend,  ''  and  run."  Well,  my  conscience,  hangine 
1  about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  ver>-  wisely  to  me, — 
'  "  My  honest  tViend  Launcelot,  beine  an  honest  man's 
son." — or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son; — for.  indeed. 
;  my  father  did  something  smack,  .something  grow  to, 
ihe  had  a  kind  of  taste  : — well,  my  conscience  says. 
i  "  Launcelot.  budge  not."  "  Budge."  says  the  fiend  : 
"budge  not."  says  my  conscience.  Conscience,  say 
I.  you  counsel  well ;  fiend,  say  L  you  counsel  well : 
to  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  f  should  stay  with  the 
Jew  my  master,  who  (God  bless  the  mark  I)  is  a  kind 
of  devil  :  and.  to  run  away  from  the  Jew.  I  should  be 
ruled  by  fhe  fiend,  who.  saving  your  reverence,  is  the 
devil  himself.  Certainly,  the  Jew  is  the  very  devil 
incarnation  :  and,  in  my  conscience,  my  conscience  is 
but  a  kind  of  hard  conscience  to  offer  to  counsel  me  to 
stay  with  the  Jew.  The  fiend  gives  the  more  friendly 
counsel  :  I  will  run.  fiend  ;  my  heels  are  at  your  com- 
mandment;  I  will  run.  [Going  out  in  haste.'' 


I 


>  kurriphM  :  in  f.  e 


I  One  of  th»  qnartn*.  and  the  folio 

The'ihald        *  nmragenui  •  in  f.  e. 


*d  :   "  oVr-fiUre."     »  old  ed.  :   fmge.      Moit  have,  howeyer,  adcpl«J  IW 
^  This  direction  not  in  f.  e. 


SCENE  n 


THE   MEROHA>^T  OF   YEXICE. 


171 


Enter  Old  Gobbo,  iciih  a  Basket.  aud  thy  master  agree?     I  have  brought  him  a  presem 

Gob.  Masier.  young  man.  you;  I  pray  you.  -which  How  agree  you  now? 
is  the  way  to  master  Jew's  ?  Laun.  Well,  well  ;  but,  for  mine  oym  part,  as  I  hav^ 

Lavn.  [Aside]  0  heavens  !  this  is  my  true  begotten  set  up  my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have 
father,  who.  being  more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  run  .«ome  ground.  My  master  "s  a  very  Jew  :  give  him 
blind,  knows  me  not  : — I  will  try  confusions'  with  him.   a  present  I  give  him  a  halter:  I  am  famish'd  in  his  ser- 

Gob.  Master,  young  gentleman.  I  pray  you,  which  vice  :  you  may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs 
is  the  way  to  master  Jew"s  ?  Father,  I  am  glad  you  are  come  :  give  me  your  present 

Laun.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the  next  turn-  to  one  master  Bassanio.  who.  indeed,  gives  rare  new 
ing.  but  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  lefl; ;  marry,  liveries.  If  I  serve  not  him.  I  ^^^ll  run  as  far  as  God 
at  the  ver}-  next  turning,  turn  cf  no  hand,  but  turn  j  has  any  ground. — O  rare  Ibrtune  I  here  comes  the  man: 
do%vn  indirectly  to  the  Jew's  house. 

Gob.  Bv  Gods  sonties'.  "t  will  be  a  hard  wav  to  hit. 


I  — to  him.  father ;  for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  the  Jew 
any  longer. 

Enter  Bassanio.  icith  Leonardo,  and  Followers. 

Bass.  You  may  do  so ; — but  let  it  be  so  hasted,  tha 
supper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  tive  of  the  clock. 
See  these  letters  delivered  :  put  the  liveries  to  making, 
and  desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to  my  lodging.  [Exit 

Laun.  To  him,  father.  [a  Servant. 

Gob.  God  bless  your  worship  ! 

Bass.  Gramercy.     Wouldst  thou  aught  with  me  ! 

Gob.  Here  's  my  son.  sir.  a  poor  boy. 

Laun.  Not  a  poor  boy.  sir.  but  the  rich  Jew's  man, 
that  would,  sir. — as  my  father  shall  specify. 

Gob.  He  hath  a  great  inl'ectiou,  sir,  as  one  would 
say.  to  serve 

Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve  the 
Jew.  and  have  a  desire, — as  my  father  shall  specify. 

Gob.  His  master  and  he  (saving  your  M-orship"s  reve- 
rence), are  scarce  cater-cousins. 

Laun.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the  Jew 
ha\-ing  done  me  ^^Tong,  doth  cause  me. — as  my  father^ 
being.  I  hope,  an  old  man.  shall  fructify  unto  you. 

Goh.  T  have  here  a  dish  of  doves.'  that  I  would  bestow 
upon  your  worship  :  and  my  suit  is, 

Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to  my- 
self, as  your  lordship  sliall  know  by  this  honest  old 
man :  and.  though  I  say  it.  though  old  man,  yet,  pool 
man.  my  father. 

Bass.  One  speak  for  both. — What  would  you? 

Laun.  Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.  That  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.  I  know  thee  well :  thou  hast  obtained  thy  suit. 
Shylock.  thy  master,  spoke  -with  me  this  day. 
And  hath  preterrd  thee  :  if  it  be  preferment. 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  I'ollower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

Laun.  The  old  proverb  is  very  well  parted  between 
my  master  Shylock  aud  you,  sir :  you  have  the  grace 
of  God.  sir.  and  he  hath  enough.  [son. — 

Bass.  Thou  speak'st  it  well. — Go.  father,  with  thy 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  aud  inquire 
My  lodging  out.-^ive  him  a  liver>-  [To  his  followers. 
More  guarded'  than  his  fellows' :  see  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in. — I  cannot  gel  a  service. — no:  I 
have  ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head. — Well :  [Looking  on 
his  palm  .]  if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a  fairer  table, 
which  doth  offer  to  swear  upon  a  book. — I  shall  have 
good  fortune. — Go  to :  here  "s  a  simple  line  of  Life ! 
here  's  a  small  trifle  of  wives :  alas  !  lifteen  wives  is 
nothing:  eleven  ^^-ido^^-s.  and  nine  maids,  is  a  simple 
coming  in  for  one  man :  and  then,  to  'scape  dro^^■ning 
thrice,  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  \N-ith  the  edge  of  a 
feather-bed :  here  are  simple  'scapes !  Well,  if  for- 
tune be  a  woman,  she  s  a  good  wench  for  this  gear.— - 
Father,  come  :  I  '11  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the 
t^^^nkling  of  an  eye.  [E.xeunt  Launcelot  arid  Old  GoBBO. 
Bass.  I  pray  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on  this. 

1  One  of  the  qnsrtos  reads  :  "  conclusions."    »  Saints.    *  f.  e. :  phill,  same  as  thill,  or  shaft-horse.      ♦Not  in  f.  e.      »  A  common  lt«li«« 
siesent      S'^me  aigue  from  this  and  other  similar  references,  that  Shakes|)eare  rieited  Italy.      *  Laced,  or  ornamented. 


Can  you  tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot.  that  dwells 
with  him.  dwell  with  him,  or  no  ? 

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? — [Aside.] 
Mark  me  now  :  now  ^^-ill  I  raise  the  waters. — [Jo  him.] 
Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Gob.  No  master,  sir.  but  a  poor  man's  son  :  his  father, 
though  I  say  it.  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor  man;  and. 
God  be  thanked,  well  to  live. 

Laun.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  a'  will,  we  talk 
of  young  master  Launcelot. 

Gob.  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot.  sir. 

Laun.  But  I  pray  you.  ergo,  old  man.  ergo.  I  beseech 
you.  talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Goh.  Of  Launcelot.  an  "t  please  your  mastership. 

Laun.  Ergo,  master  Launcelot.  Talk  not  of  master 
Launcelot.  father :  for  the  young  gentleman  (according 
to  fates  and  destinies,  and  such  odd  sayings,  the  sisters 
three,  and  such  branches  of  learning^  is.  indeed,  de- 
ceased ;  or,  as  you  would  say.  in  plain  terms,  gone  to 
heaven. 

Gob.  Marry.  God  forbid  !  the  boy  was  the  verj*  staff 
of  my  age.  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  [Aside.]  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel- 
post,  a  staff,  or  a  prop? — [To  him.]  Do  vou  know  me, 
father? 

Gob.  Alack  the  day:  I  know  you  not.  young  gentle- 
man. But.  I  pray  you.  tell  me.  is  my  boy.  (God  rest 
his  soul !)  alive,  or  dead? 

Laun.  Do  you  not  know  me.  father? 

Gob.  Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind :  I  know  you  not. 

Laun.  Nay.  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you  might 
fail  of  the  knowing  me  :  it  is  a  wise  father  that  knows 
liis  own  child.  Well,  old  man.  I  will  tell  you  news 
of  your  son.  [A'Hfc/s.]  Give  me  your  blessing  :  truth 
will  come  to  light :  murder  cannot  be  hid  long,  a  man's 
son  may.  but  in  the  end  truth  will  out. 

Gob.  Pray  you.  sir,  stand  up.  I  am  sure  you  are 
not  Launcelot.  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you.  let 's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it. 
but  give  me  your  blessing :  I  am  Launcelot.  your  boy 
that  was.  your  son  that  is.  your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gob.  I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Laun.  I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that  :  but  I 
tm  Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man,  and.  I  am  sure,  Margery. 
y-jwr  wife,  is  my  mother. 

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed :  I  '11  be  sworn, 
if  thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  oanti  flesh  and 
blood.  Lord  !  worshipp'd  might  he  be  !  what  a  beard 
hast  thou  got :  thou  hast  got  more  hair  on  thy  cliin, 
than  Dobbin  my  iill'-hoi-se  has  on  his  tail. 

Laun.  [Rising.*]  It  should  seem.  then,  that  Dobbin's 
tail  grows  backward  :  1  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  of 
his  tail,  than  I  have  of  my  face,  when  I  last  saw 
bim. 

Gob.  Lord  !  how  art  thou  changed  !    How  dost  thou 


172 


THE   MERCHANT  OF   VEXICE. 


These  things  being  bought,  and  orderly  bestow'd, 
Rciurn  'n  lia.<te.  lor  I  do  least  to-niglit 
My  best-estccmd  aequaintance  :  hie  thee,  go. 
Leon.  My  bcKt  endeavours  shall  be  done  herein. 

Enter  GSATIANO. 

Gra.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Leon  Yonder,  sir.  he  walks.      [Exit  Leon.ardo. 

Gra.  Siginor  Bas.'ianio  ! 

Bass.  Gratiano. 

Gra.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtain'd  it. 

Gra.  You  must  not  deny  me.     I  must  go  with  you 
to  Belmont. 

Bass.  Wliy.  then  you  must ;  but  hear  thee,  Gratiano. 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice  : — 
Parts,  tliat  become  thee  happily  enough. 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults : 
But  wliere  thou  art  not  known,  why.  there  they  show 
Something  too  liberal. — Pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit,  lest  through  thy  wild  behaviour, 
1  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to. 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me  : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit. 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 
Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely ; 
Nay  more,  while  grace  is  sajTng.  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  -with  my  hat.  and  sigh,  and  say  amen; 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility. 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent 
To  plca.^e  his  grandam.  never  trust  me  more. 
Bass.  Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 
Gra.  Nay.  but  I  bar  to-night:  you  shall  not  gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity. 

r  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldi  St  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment.     But  fare  you  well, 
I  have  some  business. 

(jra.  And  I  must  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  rest; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  in. — The  Same.  A  Room  in  Shvlock"s  House. 
Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 

Jes.  I  am  sorrj'  thou  -wilt  leave  my  father  so: 
Our  liou>e  is  hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil, 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  ta.'jte  of  tediousne.'^s 
But  fare  thee  well  ;  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee. 
And.  Launcelot.  .soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest ; 
Give  him  this  letter:  do  it  secretly, 
And  so  farewell.     I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  in  talk  with  thee. 

Lann.  A^ieu  I — tears  exhibit  my  tonirue. — Most 
beautiful  pagan. — most  sweet  Jew  !  If  a  Christian  did 
Bot  play  the  knave,  and  get  thee.  I  am  much  deceived  : 
but,  adieu  !  these  foolish  drops  do  somewhat  drown  my 
manly  spirit:  adieu  !  [Exil. 

Jes    Farewell,  good  Launcelot. — 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me. 
To  be  neham'd  to  be  my  fathers  child  ! 
Itut  tnough  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
I  am  not  to  his  manners.     0  Lorenzo  ! 
If  thou  keep  promise.  I  shall  end  this  strife, 
fvccome  a  Ciiristian,  and  thy  loving  wife.  [Exu 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Eiitn  Gratiano.  Lorenzo.  Salarino.  and  Salanio. 
L>)r    Nay   we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time, 


Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Gra.  We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 
Salar.  We  have  not  spoke  as  yet  of  torch-bparers. 
Salan.  'T  is  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly  order'd. 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

Lor.  'T  is  now  but  four  o'clock  :  we  have  two  houm 
To  furnish  us. — 

Enter  Launcelot.  with  a  letter. 

Friend  Launcelot.  what's  the  news? 

Laun.  An  it  shall  please  you  to  t  reak  up  this,  it 

shall  seem  to  signify.  [(Jiving  a  iMter 

Lor.  I  know  the  hand  :  in  fajth,  't  is  a  fair  hand ; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faiih. 

Laun.  By  your  leave,  sir. 
Lor.  Whither  goest  thou? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master,  the  Jew,  to 
sup  to-night  with  my  new  master,  the  Christian. 
Lor.  Hold  here,  take  this. — Tell  gentle  Jessica, 
I  ^^^ll  not  fail  her: — speak  it  privately: 
Go. — Gentlemen.  [Exit  Launcelot. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Saiar.  Ay,  marry,  I  '11  be  gone  about  it  straight. 
Salan.  And  so  will  L 

Lor.  Meet  me,  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodging  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.  'T  is  good  we  do  so.  [£xfi/H/ Salar.  aruf  Salan. 
Gra.  Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 
Lor.  I  must  needs  tell  thee  all.     She  hath  directed, 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house  ; 
What  gold  and  jewels  she  is  furnish'd  with; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  heaven, 
It  ■will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake  ; 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cro.^s  her  foot, 
Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse. 
That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me  :  peruse  tliis.  as  thou  goest. 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  V. — The  Same.     Before  Shylock's  House. 
Enter  Shvlock  and  Launcelot. 
Shy.  Well,  thou  shalt  see.  thy  eyes  shall  be  thy  judgCj 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio. — 
What.  Jessica  ! — Thou  shalt  not  gormandize. 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me  ! — What,  Jessica! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out. — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say  ! 

Laun.  "Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?     I  do  not  bid  thee  call. 
Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me,  that  I 
could  do  nothing  without  bidding. 
Enter  Jessica. 


Jes.  Call  vou 


Wha 


Shy.  I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica  • 
There  are  my  keys. — But  wherefore  should  I  go? 
I  am  not  bid  for  love :  they  flatter  me : 
But  yet  I  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal   Christian. — Jessica,  my  girl. 
Look  to  my  house : — I  am  right  loath  io  go. 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Laun.  I    beseech  you,  sir,  go:   my  young   maator 
doth  expect  your  reproach. 

Shy.  So  do  I  his. 

Latin.  And   they  have   conspired   together: — I  will 
not  say,  you  shall  see  a  masque;  but  if  you  do.  tien 


BCEITE  TH. 


THE  MERCHAJNT  OF  YENICR 


173 


f-       it  was  not  for  nothing  that  my  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on 

lack  Monday'  last,  at  six  o'clock  i'  the  morning,  falling 

out  that  year  on  Ash- Wednesday  was  four  year  in  the 

afternoon.  [Jessica : 

Shy.  What !    are   there   masques  ? — Hear  you  me, 
Lock  up  my  doors;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
A.nd  the  vile  ^qucaking  of  the  wry-neck'd  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then. 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  faces, 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements ; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  staff,  1  swear, 
r  have  no  mina  of  feasting  forth  to-night ; 
But  I  will  go. — Go  \ou  before  me,  sirrah; 
Say,  I  will  come. 

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir. — Mistress,  look  out  at 
window,  for  all  this  : 
There  will  come  a  Chris^tian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.  [Exit  Laun. 

Shy.  Wuat  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring?  ha  ! 

Jes.  His  words  were,  farewell,  mistress  ;  nothing  else. 

Shy.  The  patch  is  kind  enough;  but  a  huge  feeder. 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild-cat :  drones  hive  not  vrith  me ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him,  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrow'd  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in: 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately. 
Do,  as  I  bid  you ;  shut  doors  after  you : 
Safe  bind,  safe^  find, 
A.  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  [Exit. 

Jes.  Farewell :  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crost, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.— The  Same. 
Enter  GR.iTi.\NO  and  Salarino,  masqued. 

Gra.  This  is  the  pent-house,  under  which  Lorenzo 
Desir"d  us  to  make  stand. 

Sa'ar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

Gra.  And  it  is  marvel  he  oiit-dwells  his  hour, 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.  0  !  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new-made,  than  they  are  wont 
To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  ! 

Gra.  That  ever  holds  :  who  riseth  from  a  feast, 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures,  with  the  unbated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?     All  things  that  are, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy'd. 
How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal. 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 
Hugg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
How  like  a  prodigal  doth  she  return, 
With  over-weather'd  ribs,  and  ragged  sails, 
\ean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
Enter  Lorenzo. 

Snlar.  Here  comes  Lorenzo  : — more  of  this  hereafter. 

Lor.  Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for  my  long  abode  ; 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs  have  made  you  wait : 
When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wives, 
1  '11  watch  as  long  for  you  then. — Approach ; 
Here  dwoLs  my  father  Jew. — Ho  !  who  's  within? 
'  Enter  Jessica  above,  as  a  boy. 

Jes.  Who  are  you  ?     Tell  me  for  more  certainty, 
,  Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 


Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes.  Lorenzo,  certain ;  and  my  love,  indeed. 
For  whom  love  I  so  much  ?     And  now  who  knows, 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours  ? 

Lor.  Heaven,   and   thy  thoughts   are  witness   thaJ 
thou  art. 

Jes.  Here,  catch  this  casket :  it  is  worth  the  pains. 
I  am  glad  't  is  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me. 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange ; 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lor.  Descend,  for  you  must  be  my  torch  bearer. 

Jes.  What !  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames  ? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too  too  light 
Why,  't  is  an  office  of  discovery,  love, 
And  I  shovild  be  obscur'd. 

Lor.  So  are  yoii,  sweet, 

Even  in  the  garnish  of  a  lovely  boy. 
But  come  at  once  ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  run-away, 
And  we  are  stay'd  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jes.  I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 
With  some  more  ducats,  and  be  with  you  straight 

[Exit J  from  above 

Gra.  Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 

Lor.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily ; 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her. 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true, 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  prov'd  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 
Enter  Jessica,  to  them  below. 
What,  art  thou  come  ? — On,  gentlemen  ;  away ! 
Ouf  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exit  with  Jessica  arid  Salariko 
Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  Who  's  there  ? 

Gra.  Siguier  Antonio? 

Ant.  Fie,  fie,  Gratiano  !  where  are  all  the  rest  ? 
'T  is  nine  o'clock ;  our  friends  all  stay  for  you. 
No  masque  to-night :  the  wind  is  come  about, 
Bas&anio  presently  will  go  aboard : 
I  have  sent  twenty  oiit  to  seek  for  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  on  't :  I  desire  no  more  delight, 
Than  to  be  under  sail,  and  gone  to-night.         [Exeuni 

SCENE  VIL— Belmont.     An  Apartment  in 

Portia's  House. 

Enter  Portia,  with  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  and  both  their 

trains. 

For.  Go,  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 
The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince. —     [Curtains 
Now  make  your  choice.  [drawn  asid-e.^ 

Mor.  The  first,  of  gold,  who  this  inscription  bears  : — 
"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire  " 
The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries : — 
''  Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves." 
This  third,  dull  lead,  with  warning  all  as  blunt : — 
"  Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  ho  hath.'' 
How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right  ? 

For.  The  one  of  them  contains  my  picture,  prince" 
If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 

Mor.  Some  god  direct  my  judgment !     Let  me  8ee_ 
I  will  survey  th'  inscriptions  back  again: 
What  says  this  leaden  casket? 


>  Stow  WTs.  Black  Monday  eot  its  name  from  the  following  occurrence  :  On  Easter-Monday,  April  14,  1360,  E' Vard  III.,  with  hUhort 
lay  before  he  city  of  Paris,  and  the  dav  "  was  full  dark  of  mist  and  hail,  and  bo  bitter  cold  that  many  men  died  oi  their  horses'  backs  -sntfc 
the  cold  "      '  Fait  bind,  fast  find  •  in  f  e.      a  This  direction  not  in  i.  e. 


171 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  YEXICE. 


AOT   n- 


"  Who  chooscth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath." 

Must  give — For  what?  for  lend?  hazard  for  lead? 

This  casket  threatens:  men.  that  hazard  all, 

Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages : 

A  g.-tlden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross; 

[   11  iheii  nor  give,  nor  hazard,  aught  for  lead. 

What  says  the  silver,  wiih  her  virgin  hue? 

"Who  chooseth  me  .shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves." 

As  much  as  he  deserves? — Pause  there.  Morocco, 

And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand. 

If  thou  be"st  rated  by  thy  estimation, 

Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 

May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady; 

.-^nd  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving 

Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 

As  much  as  I  deserve? — Why.  that's  the  lady: 

[  do  in  birth  deserve  her.  and  in  fortvuies, 

[n  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding: 

But  more  than  these  in  love  I  do  deserve  her. 

What  if  I  stray'd  no  farther,  but  chose  here  ? — 

Let  "s  see  once  more  this  saying  grav'd  in  gold : 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire." 

Why,  that  "s  the  lady;  all  the  world  desires  her: 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come, 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 

The  Hyrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  -wide  Arabia,  are  as  through-fares  now, 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia : 

The  wat'ry  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits,  but  they  come. 

As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia : 

One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  picture. 

Is  't  like,  that  lead  contains  her?     'T  were  damnation, 

To  think  so  base  a  thought :  it  were  too  gross 

To  rib  her  cer-ecloth  in  the  obscure  grave. 

Or  shall  I  think  in  silver  she  's  immur'd. 

Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  tried  gold  ? 

0  sinful  thought !     Never  so  rich  a  gem 

Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.     They  have  in  England 

A  coin,  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angcd 

Stamped  in  gold,  but  that 's  insculp'd  upon ; 

But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 

Lies  all  within. — Deliver  me  the  key: 

Here  do  T  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may ! 

Por.  There,  take  it.  prince  :  and  if  my  form  lie  there, 
Then  I  am  yours.  [He  opens  the  golden  casket. 

Mor.  0  hell  !  what  have  we  here? 

A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll.     I  "11  read  the  wTiting. 
"  All  that  glisters  is  not  2old  : 

Often  have  you  heard  that  told : 

Many  a  man  his  lite  hath  sold. 

But  my  outside  to  behold  : 

Gilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 

Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold. 

Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old. 

Your  answer  had  not  been  inscroll'd : 

Fare  you  well :  your  suit  is  cold." 
Cold,  indeed,  and  labour  lost : 
Then,  farewell,  heat ;  and,  welcome,  frost. — 
F'ortia.  adj^u.     I  have  too  griev'd  a  heart 
To  lake  a  tedious  leave:  thus  lo.sers  part.  [Exit. 

Por.  A  gentle  riddance. — Draw  the  curtains :  go. 

[Ctcrtains  drawn. 
Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salari.no  ami  Salanio. 
Saint.  Why  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail  • 


With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along; 

And  in  their  ship,  I  "m  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Salan.  The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  rais'd  the  duke, 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salar.  He  came  too  late,  the  ship  was  under  sail: 
But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand, 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica. 
Besides,  Antonio  certified  the  duke, 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Sala7i.  I  never  heard  a  pass.ion  so  confus'J, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streeis : 
'•  My  daughter  ! — 0  my  ducats  I — 0  my  daughter  ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian? — 0  my  Christian  ducats! 
Justice  !  the  law  !  my  ducats,  and  my  daughter  ! 
A  sealed  bag.  two  sealed  bags  of  ducats. 
Of  double  ducats,  stol'n  from  me  by  my  daughter  ! 
And  jewels  too  !  two  rich  and  precious  stones, 
Stol'n  by  my  daughter  ! — Justice  !  find  the  girl ! 
She  hath  the  stones  upon  her,  and  the  ducats !" 

Salar.  Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow  hira, 
Crying,  his  .stones,  his  daughter,  and  his  ducats. 

Sala7i.  Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salar.  Marrv',  well  remeraber'd. 

I  reason'd  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday. 
Who  told  me,  in  the  narrow  seas,  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught. 
I  thought  upon  Antonio  when  he  told  me, 
And  wish'd  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his. 

Salan.  You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what  you  hear  . 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part. 
Bassanio  told  him,  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return  :  he  answer" d — "  Do  not  so  ; 
Slubber  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio. 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time  : 
And  for  the  Jew's  bond,  which  he  hath  of  me, 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love. 
Be  merry;  and  apply  your  chiefest  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there."' 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him. 
And  with  affection  wondrous  sensible 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand  ;  and  so  they  parted. 

Salan.  I  think,  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go,  and  find  him  out. 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX. — Belmont.     An  Apartment  in  Portia"? 
House. 
Enter  Nerissa,  tcith  a  Servitor. 
Ner.  Quick,  quick,  I  pray  thee;  draw  the  curtaiiih 
straight. 
The  prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath, 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 
Enter  the  Prince  of  Arragon.  Portia,  oTvi  their  trains 
Flf/urish  cornets.     Curtains  u-ithilravn. 
Por.  Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble  prince 
If  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain"d, 
StraiL'ht  .shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  soleniniz'd  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  hence  immediately. 

At.  I  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  ob.serve  three  things 


SCENE 


THE  MEECHANT  OF  YEMCE. 


175 


First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 

Which  casket  "t  was  I  chose:  next,  if  I  fail 

Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 

To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage  :  lastly, 

If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice, 

Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 

Por.  To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear, 
That  comes  to  hazaid  for  my  worthless  self. 

Ar.  And  so  have  I  addret^s'd  me.     Fortune  now 
To  my  heart's  hope  ! — Gold,  silver  and  base  lead. 
•'  Who  choo.'^eth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath  :" 
Vou  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
VVhat  says  the  golden  chest?  ha  !  let  me  see  : — 
'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire." 
What  many  men  desire : — that  many  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show, 
^ot  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach ; 
Which  prize  not  th''  interior,  but.  like  the  martlet, 
Builds  in  the  weather,  on  the  outward  wall, 
Eve»  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  wi'l  not  choo.se  what  many  men  desire, 
Because  I  will  not  jump  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house ; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 
*'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves  ;" 
And  well  said  too  :  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable, 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?     Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignit}'. 

0  I  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices, 

Were  not  deriv'd  corruptly  ;  and  that  clear  honour 
Were  purchas'd  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer  ! 
How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare  ; 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command  : 
How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  glean'd 
From  the  trvie  seed  of  honour  ;  and  how  much  honour 
Pick'd  from  the  chatf  and  ruin  of  the  times, 
To  be  new  varnish'd  !     Well,  but  to  my  choice  : 
"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves." 

1  will  assume  desert : — give  me  a  key  for  this, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

[He  opens  the  silver  casket.' 
Por.  Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find  there. 
Ar.  What's  here?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot, 

Presenting  me  a  schedule  ?     I  will  read  it. 

How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia  ! 

How  much  unlike  my  hopes,  and  my  deservings  ! 


"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  have  as  much  a*  he  deserves  " 
Did  I  deserA'e  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

Por.  To  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  afficcs, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ar.  What  is  here  ? 

"  The  fire  seven  times  tried  this  : 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgment  is, 
That  did  never  choose  amiss. 
Some  there  be  that  shadows  kiss  ; 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss. 
There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis, 
Silver'd  o'er  ;  and  so  was  this. 
Take  what  -wife  you  will  to  bed, 
I  will  ever  be  your  head  : 
So  begone  :  you  are  sped." 
Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 
By  the  time  I  linger  here  : 
With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo, 
But  I  go  away  with  two. — 
Sweet,  adieu.     I  '11  keep  my  oath. 
Patiently  to  bear  my  wToth. 

[Exeunt  Arragon,  and  train. 
Por.  Thus  hath  the  candle  sing'd  the  moth. 
0.  these  deliberate  fools  !  when  they  do  choo.se, 
They  have  the  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 

Ner.  The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy  : 
Hanging  and  wiving  go  by  destiny.  dravm.' 

Por.  Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa.        [Cvrtcina 

Enter  a  Messenger.* 
Mess.  Where  is  my  lady  ? 

Por.  Here  ;  what  would  my  lord? 

Me.ss.  Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify  the  approaciiing  of  his  lord, 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets  : 
To  wit,  (besides  commends,  and  courteous  breath,) 
Gifts  of  rich  value  ;  yet  I  have  not  seen 
So  likely  an  ambassador  of  love. 
A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet, 
To  show  how  costly  summer  was  at  hand. 
As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  betore  his  lord. 

Por.  No  more,  I  pray  thee  :  I  am  half  afeard, 
Thou  wilt  say  anon  he  is  some  kin  to  thee. 
Thou  spend'st  such  high-day  wit  in  praising  him. — 
Come,  come,  Nerissa;  for  I  long  to  see 
Cupid's  quick  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

Ner.  Bassanio,  lord  Love,  if  thy  will  it  be.  [Exeunt 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salanio  and  Salarino. 

Salan.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  uncheck'd.  that  Anto- 
nio hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wreck'd  on  the  narrow 
seas  ;  the  Goodwins,  I  think  they  call  the  place  :  a 
very  dangerous  flat,  and  fatal,  where  the  carcasses  of 
many  a  tall  ship  lie  buried,  as  they  say,  if  my  gossip, 
report,  be  an  honest  woman  of  her  word. 

Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that, 
as  ever  knapped'  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbours  be- 
lieve she  wept  for  the  death  of  a  third  husband.  But 
It  is  true,  without  any  slips  of  prolixity,  or  crossing  the 
plain   high-way  of  talk,  that  the  good  Antonio,  the 


honest  Antonio, — 0,  that  I  had  a  title  good  enough  tc 
keep  his  name  company  ! — 

Saiar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

Salan.  Ha! — what  say'st  thou? — Why  the  end  i.«, 
he  hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salar.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his  losses. 

Salan.  Let  me  say  amen  feetimes,  lest  the  devil 
cross  my  prayer ;  for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness  of 
a  Jew. — 

Enter  Shyt.ock. 
How  now,  ShylocK  ?  what  news  among  the  merchants  ? 

Shy.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as  you, 
of  my  daughter's  flight. 

Salar.  That 's  certain  :  1,  for  m>  part,  knew  the  tailoi 
that  made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 


Which  pries  nol  to  th'  :  in  f. 


This  direction  not  in  f.  e.      ♦  So  the  old  copies  ; 


3d.  eds.  read  :  "  Servant."      *  Brokt 


176 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE. 


ACT  ni. 


f^hn.  And  Rliylook.  for  his  own  part,  knew  the  bird 
wiu-i  fled-i'd  ;  and  tlit-u,  it  is  tlie  conii'lexiou  of  them  all 
10  leave  the  dam. 

Sht/    Sli9  is  damned  for  it. 

Sahr.  That  "s  certain,  if  tlie  devil  maybe  her  judge. 

Shy.  My  own  He.'^h  and  blood  to  rebel  ! 

Salar.  Out  upon  it,  old  carrion  !  rebels  it  at  these 
years  ? 

Shy.  I  say.  my  daughter  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Salnr.    Tliere  is  more  difference  between  thy  flesh 

and  hers,  than  between  jet  and  ivory;  more  between 

'•our   bloods,   than    there    is   between   red   wine    and 

icnish.     But   leli   us.  do  you   hear  whether  Antonio 

ave  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.  Tiiere  1  have  another  bad  match  :  a  bankrupt, 
a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the 
Riaito  ; — a  beagar.  that  was  wont'  to  come  so  smug 
upon  the  mart. — Let  him  look  to  his  bond  :  he  was 
wont  to  call  me  usurer  ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond  : 
he  wa,"!  wont  to  lend  money  for  a  Christian  courtesy; 
— let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

Salar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not 
take  his  flesh  :  what 's  that  good  for? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal  :  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else, 
it  will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced  me,  and 
hindered  me  half  a  million  ;  laughed  at  my  losses, 
mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my 
bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies ;  and 
what  'ft  iiis  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew.  Hath  not  a  Jew 
eyes  ?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses, 
aflections.  passions?  fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with 
ihe  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed 
by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same 
winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is  ?  if  you  prick  us, 
do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us.  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if 
you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us, 
Bliall  we  not  revenge  ?  If  we  are  like  you  in  the  rest, 
we  will  resemble  you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong  a 
Christian,  what  is  his  humility?  revenge.  If  a  Chris- 
tian wrong  a  Jew.  what  should  his  sufferance  be  by 
Christian  example?  why,  revenge.  The  villainy  you 
teach  me,  I  -will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  I 
will  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sere.  Gentlemen,  my  master  Antonio  is  at  his  house, 
and  desires  to  speak  with  you  both. 

S(ilar.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  him. 

Salan.  Here  comes   another  of  the    tribe  :    a  third 
cannot  be  matched,  unless  the  devil  himself  turn  Jew. 
[Exeunt  Salan.  Salar.  and  Servant. 
Enter  Tubal. 

Shy.  How  now.  Tubal  ?  what  news  from  Genoa  ? 
ha.*^!  thou  found  my  daughter? 

Tub.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her.  but  can- 
not find  her. 

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there  !  a  diamond 
|one,  cost  mc  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort.  "The 
urse  never  fell  upon  our  nation  till  now  ;  I  never  felt 
I  till  now: — two  tlioiisand  ducats  in  that;  and  other 
preciouK.  precious  jewels. — I  would,  my  daughter  were 
dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  lier  ear  !  would  she 
were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin  ! 
No  news  of  them  ? — Why,  so  : — and  1  know  not  what's 
•pent  in  the  search  :  Why  then — loss  upon  loss  !  the 
thief  gone  with  so  much,  and  so  much  to  find  the 
thief,  and  no  satisfaction,  no  revenue  :  nor  no  ill  luck 
•tirring,  but  what  lights  o'  my  shoulders;  no  siglis, 
but  o'  my  breatliing  ;  no  tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 


Tvb.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too.  Anionic 
as  I  heard  in  Genoa, — 

Shy.  What,  what,  what?  ill  luck,  ill  luck? 

I'rih.  —  hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  fiwr, 
Tripolis. 

Shy.  I  thank  God  !  1  thank  God  !  Is  it  true  ?  is  it  true  ? 

Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped 
the  wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal  -Good  news,  good 
news  !  ha  !  ha  ! — Where?  in  Genoa? 

Ivh.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard,  one 
night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me.  I  shall  never 
see  my  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting? 
fourscore  ducats  ! 

Tub.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  ..i 
my  company  to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot  chooso 
but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  I'll  plague  him  ;  I'll 
torture  him  :  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Ttib.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had  of 
your  daushter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her  !  Thou  torturest  me.  Tubal  :  il 
was  my  torquoise' ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  ■«  as  a 
bachelor :  I  would  not  have  given  it  for  a  wilderness 
of  monkeys. 

Ttib.  Rut  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shy.  Nay,  that 's  true,  that 's  very  true.  Go,  Ti.bal, 
fee  me  an  oflficer:  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  before.  1 
will  have  the  heart  of  him,  if  he  forfeit :  for.  were  he 
out  of  Venice,  I  can  make  what  merchandise  I  will. 
Go,  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at  our  synagogue:  go,  good 
Tubal ;  at  our  synagogue,  Tubal.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II. — Belmont.     An  Apartment  in  Portia's 
House. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Portia,  Gratiano,  Nerissa,  and 
their  Attendants. 

For.  I  pray  you  tarry :  pause  a  day  or  two. 
Before  you  hazard  ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  :  therefore,  forbear  a  while. 
There's  something  tells  me,  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you.  and  you  know  yourself, 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality. 
But  le,st  you  should  not  under.^tand  me  well. 
And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought, 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you, 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me  ; 
But  if  you  do.  you  '11  make  me  wish  a  sin. 
That  I  had  been  tbrsworn.     Besiirew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'er-look'd'  me.  and  divided  me  : 
One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours. — 
Mine  own.  I  would  say  ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours, 
And  so  all  yours  !     0  !  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights ; 
And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours. — Prove  it  so, 
Let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it. — not  I. 
I  speak  too  long ;  but  't  is  to  pause*  the  time, 
To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length. 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bas.  Let  me  choose  ; 

For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

For.  Upon  the  rack.  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  minsled  with  your  love. 

Brt.s.s-.  None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust. 
Which  makf's  mc  fear  th'  enjoying  of  my  love. 


'  that  ii»ed  :  in  f.  e.      »  It  wa»  a  popular  unponititinn,  that  thi«  itone  "doth  move  ■ 
fntitHi  Serrtt  Womtera  of  Nalurt,"  1.)6fl       '  Charmed.      ♦  peize  :  in  f.  e. 


there  it  any  peril  prepared  to  liim  ■«  ho  wpBreth  Jl.' 


THE  MERCHAKT   OF   VENICE. 


177 


There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 

'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

For.  Ay.  but,  I  fear,  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  any  thing. 

Bass.  Promise  me  life,  and  I  '11  confess  the  truth. 

Por.  Well  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess,  and  love, 

Had  been  the  A-ery  sum  of  my  confession. 

0  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 

Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  !   [drawn  aside. ^ 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets.       [Curtains 

Por.  Away  then.     I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  : 
f  you  do  love  me.  you  will  find  me  out. — 
^-Jerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. — 
Let  music  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice  ; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music  :  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream, 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     He  may  win, 
And  what  is  music  then  ?  then  music  is 
Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  .subjects  bow 
To  a  new-cro\TOed  monarch  :  such  it  is. 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day. 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 
And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes. 
With  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more  love, 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster :  I  stand  for  sacrifice, 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives. 
With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  th'  exploit.     Go,  Hercules  ! 
Live  thou,  I  live  : — with  much,  much  more  dismay 

1  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

A  Song,  the  whilst  Bassanio  comments  on  the  caskets 
to  himself. 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred, 

Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 

Hoiv  begot,  how  nourished  ? 

Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 

With  gazing  fed  ;  and  fancy  dies 

In  the  cradle  vfhere  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy'' s  knell  ; 

I'll  begin  it, Ding,  dong,  bell. 

All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 
Bass.  So  may  the  outward  shows  be  least  themselves  : 
The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt. 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  e\i\  ?     In  religion. 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text. 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules,  and  frowning  Mars, 
Who,  inward  searcli'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk ; 
And  these  assume  but  valour's  excrement, 
To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty, 
And  you  snail  see  't  is  purchased  by  the  weight ; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature. 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks, 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 


Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  knowTi 
To  be  the  dowiy  of  a  second  head. 
The  scull  that  bred  them,  in  the  sepulchre. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiling^  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea,  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian' :  beauty,  in  a  word, 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold, 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee. 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
"Tween  man  and  man  :  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead. 
Which  rather  threat'nest  than  dost  promise  aught, 
Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence^ 
And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence  i 
Por.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair, 
And  shuddering  fear,  and  green-ey'd  jealousy. 

0  love  !  be  moderate  ;  allay  thy  ecstasy  : 
In  measure  rain  thy  joy  ;  scant  this  excess  : 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing;  make  it  less. 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here  ?    [He  opens  the  leaden  casket 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  !     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion?     Here  are  sever'd  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends.     Here,  in  her  hairs, 
The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  t'  entrap  the  hearts  of  men. 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs ;  but  her  eyes  ! — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them ;  having  made  one, 
Methinks,  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  hie, 
And  leave  itself  unfinish'd* :  yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  t?iis  shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. — Here  's  the  scroll, 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 
"  You  that  choose  not  by  the  view, 

Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true  ! 

Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 

Be  content,  and  seek  no  new. 

If  you  be  well  pleas'd  with  this. 

And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 

Turn  you  where  your  lady  is. 

And  claim  her  with  a  loA-ing  kiss." 
A  gentle  scroll . — Fair  lady,  by  your  leave  ; 
I  come  by  note,  to  give,  and  to  receive.      [Kissing  her. 
Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize. 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes. 
Hearing  applause,  and  universal  shout, 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 
Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no  ; 
So,  thrice  fair  lady,  stand  I,  even  so, 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true. 
Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you, 

Por.  You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,'  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am  :  though,  for  myself  alone 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish. 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet  for  you 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself: 
A  thousand  times  more  fair.ten  thousand  tunes  more  rich. 
That  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 
I  might  in  \irtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account  :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  nothing  ;  w^hich,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd : 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 


»  This  direction  not  in  f.  e. 
■negested  the  same  change. 

M 


guiled  :  in  f.  e.      '  f.  e.  have  :  "  Veiling 
0  the  quartos  ;  tha  folio  :  '■  You  see,  my  lord  Bassanio.' 


in  a  irord.     ♦  unfurniih'd  :  in  f.  e.    Steeveni> 


178 


THE  MEECHAIST  OF   VENICE. 


Bui  she  may  learn :  happier  than  this, 

Sho  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn ; 

Happiest  of  all.  in'  that  her  gentle  spirit 

Coniinits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 

As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 

Myself,  and  what  is  nnne.  to  you.  and  yours 

Is  now  converted  :  but  now  I  was  the  lord 

Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 

Queen  o"er  myself:  and  even  now,  but  now, 

Thi.s  house,  these  .«ervants.  and  this  same  myself. 

Are  yours,  my  lord.     1  give  them  with  this  ring, 

Which  wlien  you  part  from,  lo.*e.  or  give  away, 

Let  it  presage  tiie  ruin  of  your  love. 

And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you.        [Giving  it.* 

Hass.  ftladam.  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words  : 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins ; 
And  there  is  such  confusion  in  my  powers, 
As  afier  some  oration,  fairly  spoke 
PiV  a  beloved  prince,  there  doth  appear 
Among  the  buzzing  plea-^ed  nuiltitude; 
Wliere  every  something,  being  blent  together, 
Turns  to  a  wild  of  nothing,  save  of  joy, 
Kxpress'd.  and  not  expres.'j'd.     But  when  this  ring 
Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence  : 

0  I  then  be  bold  to  say.  Ba.ssanio  "s  dead. 
Ncr.  My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time, 

Tiiat  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper. 

To  cry,  good  joy.     Good  joy.  my  lord,  and  lady ! 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio.  and  my  gentle  lady  ! 

1  w'sli  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish, 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me ; 
And,  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith.  I  do  beseech  you, 
Kven  a!  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife. 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship,  you  haA'e  got  me  one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours  : 
Vou  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid  ; 
Vou  lov"d,  I  lov'd  ;  for  intermission 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Vour  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there. 
And  so  did  mine  too.  as  the  matter  falls  ; 
For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again. 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  tongue^"  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love,  at  last,  if  promise  last. 
i  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 

Par.  Is  this  true.  Nerissa  ? 

AVr.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleas'd  withal. 

^a.M.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith  ? 

Gra.  Yes,  'faith,  my  lord.  [marriage. 

lin.^.'s.  Our  feast    shall    be    much  honour'd  in  your 

Gra.  We  '11  play  with  them  the  first  boy  for  a  thou- 
sand ducats. 

Ner.  What,  and  stake  down  ? 

Gra.  No;   we  shall  ne'er  win  at  that  sport,  and 
stake  down. — 
Bat  who  comes  here  ?     Lorenzo,  and  his  infidel  '^ 
What  !  and  my  old  Venetian  friend.  Salerio  ? 
Enter  Lorenzo,  .Ik-jsica.  and  Salf.rio. 

Bass.  Lorenzo,  and  Salerio.  welcome  hither. 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  tw  bid  you  welcome. — By  your  leave 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen. 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

Por.  So  do  I;  my  lord  : 

They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.  I  thank  your  honour. — For  my  part,  my  lord. 

'  dJ'  If     in  f  e       »  Not  in  f  p.      *  roof :  in  f.  e.  :  in  the  folio  :  rongh 


My  purpose  wqs  not  to  have  seen  you  here. 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way. 
He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay, 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Sale.  I  did.  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.  [Givc.<!  Hassanio  a  letter 

Bass.  Ere  1  ope  this  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 

Sale.  Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind  j 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind  .  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate.  [Bassanio  rteub 

Gra.  Nerissa.  cheer  \^on  stranger  ;  bid  her  wehcom**. 
Your  hand.  Salerio  :  what 's  the  news  from  Venice  ** 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio" 
1  know,  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success  ; 
We  are  the  .lasons,  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

Sale  T  would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  lie  hath  lost ! 

Por.  There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same 
paper. 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek : 
Some  dear  friend  dead,  el.'^e  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  V— 
With  leave,  Bassanio;  1  am  half  yourself. 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  0  sweet  Portia ! 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper.     Gentle  lady. 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins — I  was  a  gentleman  : 
And  then  I  told  you  true,  and  yet,  dear  lady, 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you. 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engag'd  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engag'd  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 
To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady; 
The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend. 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound. 
Issuing  life-blood. — But  is  it  true,  Salerio? 
Have  all  his  ventures  fail'd  ?     What,  not  one  hit  ? 
From  Tripolis.  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon.  Barbary,  and  India? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scap'd  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant-marring  rocks  ? 

Sale.  Net  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  .lew, 
He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man. 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man. 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning,  and  at  night, 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state. 
If  they  deny  him  justice  :  twenty  merchants. 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  \i'ith  him 
But  none  ean  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  fort'eiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jcs.  When  I  was  with  him  1  have  heard   him  sweat 
To  Tubal  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen. 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh, 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him  ;  and  I  know,  my  lord. 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deny  not, 
It  -will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

•  Not  in  f.  •. 


SCENE  rv. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


179 


For.  Is  it  your  dear  friend  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 

Bass.  The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best  conditioird  and  unwearied'st  spirit, 
In  doing  courtesies;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

For.  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Bass.  For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

For.  What !  no  more  ? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond  : 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  through  my  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife. 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over : 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along. 
My  maid  Nerifsa  and  myself,  mean  time, 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away ! 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day. 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer  ; 
Since  you  are  dear  bought.  I  will  love  you  dear. — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  "  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all 
miscarried,  my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very 
low,  my  bond  to  the  .lew  is  forfeit  ;  and  since  in 
paying  it  it  is  impossible  I  should  live,  all  debts  are 
cleared  between  you  and  I,  if  I  might  but  see  you  at 
my  death.  Notwithstanding,  use  your  pleasure  :  if 
your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my 
letter." 

For.  0  love  !  despatch  all  business,  and  begone. 

Bass.  Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 
I  will  make  haste  :  but  till  I  come  again. 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay. 

Nor  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain.     [Exeinit. 

SCENE  III.— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Shylock,  Salanio,  Antonio,  and  Jailor. 

Shy.  Jailor,  look  to  him  :  tell  riot  me  of  mercy. — 
This  is  the  fool  that  lent'  out  money  gratis. — 
Jailor,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet.  good  Shylock. 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond  ;  speak  not  against  my  bond  ; 
[  have  sworn  an  oath  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog  before  thou  hadst  a  cause. 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs. 
The  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  wonder. 
Thou  navighty  jailor,  that  thou  art  so  fond 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.  I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak: 
1  '11  have  my  bond,  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I  'li  not  be  made  a  soft  and  duU-ey'd  fool, 
To  shake  the  head ,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not; 
I  '11  ha"\e  no  speaking  :  I  will  have  my  bond. 

[Exit  Shylock. 

Salan.  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur, 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Ant.  Let  him  alone  : 

I  '11  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life ;  his  reason  well  I  know. 
I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me  ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salan.  I  am  sure,  the  duke 

'  So  the  qn^rtos  ;  the  fa'^o  :  lenJs 


Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.  The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law  ; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied, 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state; 
Sinoe  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go: 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me, 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  tiesh 
To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor. — 
Well,  jailor,  on. — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 
To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not,   [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House 

Enter  Portia,  Nerissa,  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and 

Balthazar. 

Lor.  Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  presence 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  god-like  amity  :  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But,  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour, 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief, 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord,  your  husband, 
I  know,  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work. 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

For.  I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good. 
Nor  shall  not  now :  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together, 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit ; 
Which  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  loi-d. 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord.     If  it  be  so. 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow'd, 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  ray  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty  ! 
This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself. 
Therefore,  no  more  of  it :  hear  other  things. — 
Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 
The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house, 
Until  my  lord's  return :  for  mine  o^^^l  part, 
I  have  toward  heaven  breath'd  a  sacred  vow 
To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation. 
Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here. 
Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return. 
There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off, 
And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you 
Not  to  deny  this  imposition. 
The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity. 
Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor  Madam,  with  all  my  heart : 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

For.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 
In  place  of  lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 
So  fare  you  well,  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts,  and  happy  hours,  attend  on  you  ! 

Jes.  I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

For.  I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well-pleas'd 
To  wish  it  back  on  you  :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. — 

[Exmnt  Jessica  and  Loo^enzo 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true. 
So  let  me  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man, 
In  speed  to  Padua :  see  thou  render  this 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  doctor  Bellario ; 
And    look,  what  no'cs  and  garments  he  doth  give  thee 


J  80 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT  m. 


Bring  llietii,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagin'd  speed 
Unto  the  Tranect.  to  the  common  ferry 
'  Whicii  trades  to  Venice.     Waste  no  time  in  words, 
Rut  get  ihoc  irone  :   I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth.  Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed.  [Exit. 

Por.  Come  on,  Nerissa:  I  have  work  in  hand, 
That  you  yet  know  not  of.     We  '11  see  our  husbands, 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner.  Shall  they  sec  us  ? 

Por.  They  .shall,  Nerissa :  but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  tiiey  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  that  we  lack.     I  '11  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I  '11  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace  ; 
And  speak  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 
With  a  reed  voice ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 
Into  a  manly  stride  ;  and  speak  of  frays. 
Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  ;  and  tell  quaint  lies, 
How  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love, 
Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died  ; 
I  could  not  do  withal'  : — then,  I  '11  repent. 
And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kiil'd  them. 
And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I  "11  tell, 
That  men  shall  swear,  I  have  discontinued  school 
Above  a  twelvemonth.     I  have  within  my  miiid 
A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks. 
Which  I  will  practise. 

Ncr.  Why,  shall  we  turn  to  men  ? 

Por.  Fie  !  what  a  question  's  that, 
If  thou  wert  near  a  lewd  interpreter. 
But  come :  I  '11  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park  gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     A  Garden. 
Enter  Launcelot  and  Jessica. 

Laun.  Yes.  truly;  for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the  father 
are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children:  therefore,  I  promise 
you,  I  fear  you.  I  was  always  plain  with  you.  and  so 
now  I  speak  my  agitation  of  the  matter :  therefore,  be 
of  good  cheer;  for,  truly,  I  think,  you  are  damned. 
There  is  but  one  hope  in  it  that  can  do  you  any  good, 
and  that  is  but  a  kind  of  bastard  hope  neither. 

Jes.  And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Laun.  Marrj-.  you  may  partlv  hope  that  your  father 
got  you  not :  that  you  are  not  the  Jew's  daughter 

Jcs.  That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  indeed ;  so 
the  .sins  of  my  mother  should  be  visited  upon  me. 

Laun.  Truly,  then,  I  fear  you  are  danmed  both  by 
father  and  mother :  thus  when  I  shun  Seylla,  your 
father.  I  fall  into  Charybdis,  your  mother.  Well,  you 
are  gone  both  ways. 

Jes.  I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband  ;  he  hath  made 
me  a  Christian. 

Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he  :  we  were  Chris- 
tians enow  before  ;  e'en  as  many  a«  could  well  live 
one  by  another.  This  making  of  Christians  will  raise 
the  price  of  hogs  :  if  wc  grow  all  to  be  pork-eaters,  we 
shall  not  shortly  have  a  rasher  on  the  coals  for  money. 
Enter  Lorenzo. 

Jes.  I  '11  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you  say: 
here  he  comes. 


Lor.  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you  shortly,  Launcelot 
if  you  thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Tf.T.  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo :  Launcelot 
and  I  are  out.  He  tells  me  flatly,  there  's  no  mercy  for 
me  in  heaven,  because  I  am  a  Jew's  daugliter ;  and  he 
says,  you  are  no  good  member  of  the  commonwealth, 
for  in  converting  Jews  to  Christians,  you  raise  the  price 
of  pork. 

Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the  commonwealt  li, 
than  you  can  the  getting  up  of  the  negro's  belly:  the 
Moor  is  with  child  by  you,  Launcelot. 

Immi.  It  is  much,  that  the  Moor  should  be  more 
than  reason  :  but  if  she  be  less  than  an  honest  woman, 
slie  is,  indeed,  more  than  I  took  hor  for. 

Lor.  How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the  word  !  1 
think,  the  best  grace  of  wit  will  shortly  turn  into  silence, 
and  discourse  grow  commendable  in  none  only  but  par- 
rots.— Go  in.  sirrah:  bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done,  sir;  they  have  all  stomachs. 

Lor.  Goodly  lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are  you  !  then, 
bid  them  prepare  dinner. 

iMun.  That  is  done  too,  sir;  only,  cover  is  the 
word. 

Lor.  Will  you  cover  then,  sir? 

Laun.  Not  so,  sir,  neither;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  ■with  occasion?  Wilt  thou 
.show  the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an  instant?  I  pray 
thee,  understand  a  plain  man  in  his  plain  meaning :  go 
to  thy  fellows,  bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve  in  the 
meat,  and  we  will  come  in  to  dinner. 

Imuu.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in,  for 
the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered ;  for  your  coming  in 
to  dinner,  sir,  why,  let  it  be  as  humours  and  conceits 
shall  govern. 

[Exit  Launcelot. 

Lor.  0,  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are  suited  ! 
The  fool  liath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words  ;  and  I  do  know 
A  many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.     How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica? 
And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion ; 
How  dost  thou  like  the  lord  Bassanio's  wife  ? 

/e.9.  Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet, 
The  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life, 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  then, 
Tn'  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other,  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me.  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

Jes.  Nay,  but  a.sk  my  opinion,  too,  of  that. 

Lor.  I  will  anon  ;  first,  let  us  go  to  dinner. 

Jes.  Nay,  let  me  praise  you,  while  I  have  a  stom»«ii 

Lor.  No,  pray  thee,  let  it  serve  for  table  talk ; 
Then,  howsoe'er  thou  speak'st,  'mong  other  things 
I  shall  digest  it. 

Jes.  Well,  I  '11  set  you  forth.     [Exeurxl 


•  I  could  not  help  it.      »  So  one  of  the  quartos  ;  the  folio  and  f.  «.,  read  in  place  of  "  then. 


THE  MEECHAXT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT    IV. 


181 


SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  Dcke  ;  the  Magnificoes ;  Antonio,  Bassanio, 
Gratiano,  Salarino.  Salanio,  and  others. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  for  thee  :  thou  art  come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversarj-,  an  inhuman  -wTetch 
Tncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy. 

Ant.  I  have  heard, 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate, 
And  that  no  lai.\-ful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  env\-"s'  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury,  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer  \\ix\\  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyraimy  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court. 

Solan.  He  "s  ready  at  the  door.     He  comes,  my  lord. 
Enter  Shylock. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our 
face. — 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too. 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act :  and  then,  't  is  thought. 
Thou  "It  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse,  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty ; 
And  where  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty'. 
Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh, 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose''  the  forfeiture, 
But,  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal  ; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses. 
That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back. 
Enow  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down. 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  .state 
From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 
From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 
To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.  I  have  po.*sess'd  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose; 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond : 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city"s  freedom. 
You  "11  ask  me.  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats  ?     I  '11  not  answer  that : 
But,  say.  it  is  my  humour :  is  it  answer'd  ? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  ?     What,  are  you  answer'd  yet? 
Some  men  there  are  love  not  a  gaping  pig; 
Some,  that  are  mad  if  they  behold  a  cat ; 
And  others,  when  the  bag-pipe  sings  i'  the  nose 
Cannot  contain  their  urine  for  afl^ection: 
Masters  of  passion  sway^  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes,  or  loathes.     Now,  for  your  answer  : 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd, 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 


'  Hatred.     *  The  old  copies  have  "  Ioom. 


•TjcUan  ;  in  f.  e.     BoUen  i 


'      5  The  old  copies  have  '"  sways. 
:  for  affection 
Master  of  passion,  swavs  it,  &o. 
»  in  f.  e.  : 
You  mar  as  -well  use  question  -nith  the  -wolf. 
Why  he'  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb. 


"Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat; 

Why  he.  a  bollen*  bag-pipe  ;  but  of  force 

Must  yield  to  such  inevitable  shame. 

As  to  offend,  himself  being  offended. 

So  can  I  give  no  rea.son.  nor  I  will  not. 

More  than  a  lodg"d  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 

I  bear  Antonio,  fhat  I  follow  thus 

A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answer'd? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man. 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

SJnj.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  Ihee  with  my  answer. 

Bass.  Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love? 

Sh]).  Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass.  Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy.  What !  wouldst  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee 
twice  ? 

Ant.  I  pray  you.  think  you  question  with  tie  Jew. 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach. 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  heighl  ; 
Or  e'en  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf. 
When  you  behold  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb  ;* 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise. 
When  they  are  fretten  with  the  gusts  of  heaven; 
You  may  as  well  do  any  thing  most  hard. 
As  geek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what's  harder?) 
His  Jewish  heart. — Therefore.  I  do  beseech  you. 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  farther  means, 
But  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  sir. 

Shy.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  ever}-  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them :  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.   How  shalt   thou  hope  for  mercy,  rendering 
none? 

Shy.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong' 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchas'd  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mules. 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them : — shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free  ;  marr\-  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burdens  ?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  season'd  with  such  viands  ?     You  will  answer, 
The  slaves  are  ours. — So  do  I  answer  you: 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him, 
Is  dearly  bought,  't  is  mine,  and  I  will  have  it. 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  "Venice. 
I  stand  for  judgment :  answer;  shall  I  have  itl 

Dv.ke.  Upon  my  power  I  may  dismiss  this  court, 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor, 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this, 
Come  here  to-day. 

Salar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor, 
New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.  Bring  us  the  letters  :  call  the  messenger. 

Bass.  Good  cheer.  Antonio  !    What  man,  courage  ycil 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all, 
Knight  reac  g  the  passage  thus  : 


182 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT  rv. 


Eie  tliou  shall  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.  I  am  a  tainted  wellier  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  dcaili :  ilic  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  tlie  ground,  and  so  let  me. 
You  cannot  belter  be  employ'd.  Bassanio. 
Than  lo  live  still,  and  write  n)ine  epitapli. 

Enter  Nkkissa,  dressed  like  a  lawyer's  clerk. 

Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 

Ner.  From  both,  my  lord.    Bellario  grccls  your  grace. 
[Presenting  a  letter. 

Bass.  Wliy  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  carne.'^tly? 
[Shyi.ock  whets  his  knife.^ 

Shy.  To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 

Gra.  Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  .«oul.  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen  ;  but  no  metal  can. 
No,  not  the  hangman's  axe,  bear  half  tlie  keenness 
Of  thy  .'^harp  cun-}-.     Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee? 

Shy.  No.  none  that  tliou  hast  wit  enough  to  make. 

Gra.  0.  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable'  dog, 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus"d  ! 
Thou  almost  mak  st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men  :  tliy  currish  spirit 
(jovcrnd  a  wolf,  wiio,  hang'd  for  human  slaughter, 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet. 
And  whilst  thou  lay"st  in  thy  unhaliow'd  dam, 
Infus'd  itself  in  thee  ;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  ravenous. 

Shy.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bond, 
Thou  but  offend"st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud. 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin. — I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.  This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court. — 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ner.  He  attcndeth  here  hard  by. 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you  '11  admit  him. 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart : — some  three  or  four  of 
you, 
Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 
Mean  time,  the  court  shall  hear  Bcllario's  letter. 

[Clerk  reads.]  "  Your  grace  shall  understand,  that 
at  the  receipt  of  your  letter  I  am  very  sick;  but  in 
the  instant  that  your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visita- 
tion was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of  Rome ;  his  name 
is  Balthazar.  I  acquainted  him  with  the  cause  in  con- 
troversy between  the  Jew  and  Antonio,  the  merchant : 
we  turned  o'er  many  books  together :  lie  is  furnishM 
with  my  opinion  ;  which,  better'd  with  his  own  learn- 
ing, tlie  greatness  whereof  I  cannot  enough  commend. 
comes  with  him,  at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your 
grace's  request  in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack 
of  years  be  no  imjiediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend 
estimation,  for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  witii  so 
oM  a  head.  I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  aeecptance, 
whase  trial  shall  better  publish  his  commendation." 

Duke.  You  hear  the  leam'd  Bellario,  what  he  \ATitc8: 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. — 

Enter  Poutia,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 
Give  me  your  hand.     Came  you  from  old  Bellario? 

Por.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome:  take  your  place. 

Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court? 

I-or.  1  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cau.se. — 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew? 


Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth 

Por.  Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

'  Not  ir  '.  •.      »  f.  e.,  in  part  :  inexerable.      »  An  old  pftraie  for  being  in  the  power  of,  as  well  as,  indtbled  to. 


Shy.  Shylock  is  my  nanie. 

Por.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow; 
Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  iinpui^n  you.  as  you  do  proceed. — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,'  do  you  not  ?  [To  Antonio 

Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant.  I  do. 

Por.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that 

Por.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  straiu'd. 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd  ; 
It  blesscth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes: 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest:  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown: 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway : 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself. 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God  s, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  pica,  consider  this, — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  I'or  mercy, 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  vis  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea. 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there 

Shy.  My  deeds  upon  my  head.     I  crave  the  law  ; 
The  )ienalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Por.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money? 

Bass.  Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 
Yea.  twice  the  sum  :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er. 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart. 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth  :  and,  I  beseech  you 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  autliority : 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong. 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

Por.  It  must  not  be.     There  is  no  power  in  Venico, 
Can  alter  a  decree  established  : 
'T  will  be  recorded  for  a  precedent, 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
Will  rush  into  the  .state.     It  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel '  - 
0,  wise  young  judge,  how  I  do  honour  thee  ! 

Por.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  Here  't  is,  most  reverend  doctor ;  here  it  is. 

[Showing  it.* 

Por.  Shylock,  there  's  thrice  thy  money  offer'd  thee 

Shy.  An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven. 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Por.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit, 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart. — Be  merciful; 
Take  thrice  thy  money :  bid  me  tear  the  bond 

Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tcnour. — 
It  doth  appear  you  arc  a  worthy  judge; 
You  know  the  law;  your  exposition 
Math  been  most  sound  :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar. 
Proceed  to  judgment.     By  my  soul  I  swear, 

Not  in  f.  e. 


SCENE    L 


THE   MEKCHANT  OF    VENICE. 


183 


There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me.     I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant.    Most  heartily  I  do  teseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  Why,  then,  thus  it  is  : — 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife 

Shy.  0,  noble  judge  !     0,  excellent  young  man  ! 
Por.  For  tlie  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law, 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty, 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  'T  is  very  true.     0,  wise  and  upright  judge  ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 
Por.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 
Shy.  Ay,  his  breast ; 

So  says  the  bond : — doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ? — 
Nearest  his  heart :  those  are  the  very  words. 

Por.  It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here  to  weigh 
The  flesh  ? 

Shy.  I  have  them  ready.         [Producing  scales.^ 

Por.  Have  by  some  surgeon.  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do°  bleed  to  death. 
Shy.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 
Por.  It  is  not  so  expressed  ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
'T  were  good  you  do  so  much  for  charit>^ 
Shy.  I  cannot  find  it :  't  is  not  in  the  bond. 
Por.  You^,  merchant,  have  you  any  thing  to  say  ? 
Ajit.  But  little  :  I  am  arm'd,  and  well  prepar'd. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio :  fare  you  well. 
Grieve  not  that  [  am  fallen  to  this  for  you. 
For  herein  fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use 
To  let  the  wretclied  man  out-live  his  wealth, 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow, 
An  age  of  poverty :  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife  : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end  ; 
Say.  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 
And,  when  tlie  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge, 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  lover. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.  Antonio.  I  am  married  to  a  wife, 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteem' d  above  thy  life : 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  -sacrifice  them  all. 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

Por.  Your  wife  would  give  you  little   thanks  for 
that. 
If  she  were  by  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.  I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love : 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 
Ner.  'T  is  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Shy.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands  !     I  have  a 
daughter ; 
Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barabbas* 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian  ! 
We  trifle  time  :  I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

Por.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine  : 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 
Shy.  Most  rightful  judge  ! 

Por.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast : 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 


Shy.  Most  learned  judge  I — A  sentence  !  come,  pr«»- 
pare  !  [Shoiving  the  scales  again.* 

Por.  Tarry  a  little  :  there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood  ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh  : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh ; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are  by  the  laws  of  Venice  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gra.   0  upright  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew  : — 0  leariip^ 
judge  ! 

Shy.  Is  that  the  law  ? 

Por.  Thyself  shalt  see  the  act  ; 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd. 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  de.eirest. 

Gra.    0   learned   judge  ! — Mark,   Jew  : — a  learned 
judge  ! 

Shy.  I  take  his  offer  then  :  pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

Por.  Soft  ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice  : — soft ! — no  haste  : — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.  0  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge  ! 

Por.  Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood  ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh  :  if  thou  tak'&t  more, 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  hea\->^,  in  the  balance', 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple ;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.  A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel.  Jew  ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

Por.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  Take  thy  forfeiture. 

Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee  :  here  it  is. 

Por.  He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  court : 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  a  second  Daniel  ! — 
I  thank  thee.  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

Por.  Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril.  Jew. 

Shy.  Why  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it. 
I  '"11  stay  no  longer  question. 

Por.  Tarry,  Jew ; 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, 
If  it  be  prov'd  against  an  alien, 
That  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts. 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen. 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive, 
Shall  sfeize  one  half  his  goods  :  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  pri\'y  coffer  of  the  state  ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  othej  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st ; 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too. 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant,  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 
■Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.    Beg,   that  thou   may'st   have   leave   to  har.g 
thyself : 


>  Not  in  f.  e.     »  So  the  quartos  ;  the  folio  ; 
diKction  not  in  f.  e.     •  tnbstance  :  in  f.  e. 


'should."      '  The  folio  reads  :"  Come."     ♦  mod.  edi  nwiaUy  read  :"  Barrabas."     »Thi; 


184 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  YEOTCE. 


Acrr  TV. 


And  yet,  thy  -wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 

Tliou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord  : 

Therefore,  tliou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state's  charge. 

Lhtke.  Tliat  thou  shalt  .^ee  the  difference  of  our  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it. 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's  : 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  line. 

Por.  Ay.  lor  the  state  :  not  for  Antonio. 

.'nAi/.  Nay.  take  my  life  and  all;  pardon  not  that  : 
Vou  take  my  hou.^e.  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  .sustain  my  hou.«e  ;  you  take  my  life, 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

Por.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him.  Antonio? 

Gra.  A  halter  gratis  :  nothing  else,  for  God's  sake  ! 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the  court. 
To  quit  the  tine  for  one  half  of  his  goods, 
I  am  content,  .so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use.  to  render  it, 
I'lwn  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
Tliat  lately  stole  his  daughter  : 
Two  things  provided  more. — that,  for  this  favour, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian  ; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possessed, 
I'nto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.  He  shall  do  this,  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon,  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Pot.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew  ?  what  dost  thou  say  ? 

Shy.  I  am  content. 

Por.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.  I  pray  you.  give  me  leaA'c  to  go  from  hence. 
I  am  not  well.     Send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Gel  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christening  thou  shalt  have  two  godfathers: 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  have  had  ten  more.' 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font.  [Ext/  Shylock. 

Duke.  Sir.  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

Por.  I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon  : 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  .sorry,  that  your  leisure  serves  you  not. 
Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman. 
Por,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 

[Exeunt  Duke.  Mafrniftcoes,  and  train. 

Ba.'is.  Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Hi  grievous  penalties  :  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

Ant.  And  .--tand  indebted,  over  and  above-, 
in  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 

Pot.  He  is  well  paid,  that  is  well-satisfied; 
And  I,  delivering  you.  am  satisfied. 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid : 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you.  know  me.  when  we  meet  again  : 
[  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

lias.s.  Dear  sir.  of  force  I  must  attempt  you  farther: 
Take  .some  remembrance  of  us.  a.s  a  tribute. 
Not  as  a  fee      Grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you  ; 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 


]      Por.  You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will  yield 
Give  me  your  gloves,  I  '11  wear  them  for  your  sake  , 
And.  for  your  love,  I  '11  take  this  rins  from  you. — 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand  ;  I  '11  lake  no  more. 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bas.-i.  This  ring,  good  sir  ? — alas,  it  is  a  trifle; 
I  will  not  .shame  myself  to  give  you  this. 

Por.  I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this; 
And  now,  methinks,  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

Bass.  There  's  more  depends  on  this,  than  on  th 
value. 
The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you, 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation  ; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you.  pardon  me. 

Por.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers  : 
You  taught  me  first  to  beg.  and  now.  methinks. 
You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  .should  be  answer'd. 

Bass    Good  sir.  this  ring  was  given  me  by  my  wife; 
And  when  she  put  it  on  she  made  me  vow, 
That  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 

Por.  That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their  gift* 
An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman, 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserv'd  this  ring, 
She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever. 
For  giving  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Ant.  My  Lord  Bassanio.  let  him  have  the  ring, 
Let  his  deser\-ings,  and  my  love  withal. 
Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass.  Go,  Gratiano  ;  run  and  overtake  him  ; 
Give  him  the  ring,  and  bring  him  if  thou  canst, 
Unto  Antonio's  house. — Away  !  make  haste. 

[Exit  Gratiano. 
Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently, 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  toward  Belmont.     Come,  Antonio.  [Exeuni. 

SCENE  IL— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Portia  arul  Nerissa. 

Por.  Inquire  the  Jew's  house  out,  give  him  this  deed, 
And  let  him  sign  it.     We  '11  away  to-night. 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home. 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 
Enter  Gratiano  running. 

Gra.  Fair  sir,  you  are  well  o'erta'en. 
My  lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice. 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring,  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  be. 

His  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully. 
And  so,  I  pray  you,  tell  him  :  furihermore, 
I  prav  you,  show  my  youth  old  Shylock's  house. 

Gra.  That  will  I  do. 

Ncr.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you. — 

I  '11  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring,      [To  Portia. 
Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.  Thou  may'st,  I  warrant.     We  shall  have  old* 
swearing. 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ; 
But  we  '11  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
Away  !  make  ha,sle  :  thou  Vnow'st  where  I  will  tarry. 

Ner.    Come,  good  sir;   will   you  show  me,  to  tliis 
house?  [Eicvit 


c«ll»  jnrTinen  "  6o<lfather»-in-Uw." — Knigkt.      '  Often  UMd  u  an  ingmentativo. 


h^tn^.  A.iro 
Por.  Is  vou 


THE  MEKCHANT  OF    VENICE. 


185 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I. — Belmont.     The  Avenue  to  Portia's 

House. 

Enter  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright. — In  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise  :  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus.  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew  ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Stood  Dido  yvith  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew, 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well, 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Ijor.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.  I  would  out-night  you,  did  no  body  come ; 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 
Enter  Stephano. 

Lor.  Wlio  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night  ? 

Steph.  A  friend. 

Lor.  A  friend  ?  what  friend  ?  your  name,  I  pray  you, 
friend  ? 

Steph.  Stephano  is  my  name  ;  and  I  bring  word. 
My  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  heie  at  Belmont  :  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

Steph.  None,  but  a  holy  hermit,  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  return'd  ? 

ior.  He  is  not.  nor  v.'e  have  not  heard  from  him. — 
But  go  we  in.  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 
And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 
Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
Enter  Launcelgt. 

Lawn.  Sola,  sola  !  wo  ha,  ho  !  sola,  sola  ! 

Lor.  Who  calls  ? 

Latin.  Sola  !  did  you  see  master  Lorenzo,  and  mis- 
tress Lorenza  ?  sola,  sola  ! 

LK>r.  Leave  hallooing,  man  ;  here. 

Liaun.  Sola  !  where  ?  where  ? 

Lor.  Here. 

Laun.  Tell  him,  there  's  a  post  come  from  my  master, 
with  his  horn  full  of  good  news  :  my  master  will  be 
here  ere  morning.  [Exit. 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let 's  in,  and  there  expect  their 
coming. 
And  yet  no  matter ; — why  should  we  go  in  ? 

»  Tho  folio  •  patens  (i.  e.,  pJates)      »  This  d-jection  not  in  f.  e       ' 


My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you 
Within  the  house,  your  mistres.s  is  at  hand; 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. — 

[Exit  Stephamu 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  we  will  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patterns'  of  bright  gold ; 
There  's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubins : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Enter  Musicians. 
Come,  ho  !  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn  : 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear. 
And  draw  her  home  with  music.  [Mustc 

Jes.  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

Lor.  The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood, 
If  they  but  hear,  perchance,  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears. 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze. 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music  :  therefore,  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods, 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself. 
Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  : 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  aifections  dark  as  Erebus. 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

[Ml/sic  again.' 
Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa,  at  a  distance. 

For.  That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my  haU. 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

Ner.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the  candle. 

For.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king, 
j  Until  a  king  be  by :  and  then  his  state 
!  Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music  !  hark  ! 

Ner.  It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house. 

For.  Nothing  is  good.  I  see,  without  respect : 
Methinlvs,  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

Ner.  Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam 

For.  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 
When  neither  is  attended  :  and,  I  think. 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise,  and  true  perfection  !— 
Peace  !  now*  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endyinion, 
And  would  not  be  awak'd  !  [Mitsic  ceases 

j      Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

how  :  in  f.  e.    Knight  makes  the  emendation  in  the  text. 


186 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT   V 


Or  I  am  much  deceir'd,  of  Portia. 

Por.  He  knows  me  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo, 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  wcicflmc  home. 

Por.  We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands'  welfare, 
Wliich  speed,  wc  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  relurud  .' 

Lor.  Madam,  they  arc  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before, 
To  signify  their  coming. 

Por.  Go  in,  Nerissa : 

Give  order  to  my  sers-ants,  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  o\ir  being  absent  hence ; — 
Nor  you,  Lorenzo  ; — Jessica,  nor  you. 

[A  tucket'  sounded. 

Lor.  Your  husband  is  at  hand  :  I  hear  his  trumpet. 
We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam  ;  fear  you  not. 

Por.  This  niglit.  methinks,  is  but  the  daylight  sick; 
t  looks  a  little  piTier :  't  is  a  day. 
Such  as  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

Enter  Bassanio.  Antonio.  Gratiano,  and  their 
followers. 

Bass.  We  should  hold  day  with  the  Antipodes, 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun. 

Por.  Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light ; 
For  a  light  ^^^fe  doth  make  a  heavy  husband, 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me : 
But  God  sort  all : — You  are  welcome  home,  my  lord. 

Bass.  I  thank  you,  madam.     Give  welcome  to  my 
friend : 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 

Por.  You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to  him^ 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 

Ant.  No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

Por.  Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house : 
It  must  appear  in  other  ways  than  words, 
Therefore.  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy. 

Gra.  [To  Nerissa.]  By  yonder  moon.  I  swear,  you 
do  me  ^^Tong; 
In  faith.  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk: 
Would  he  were  gelt  that  had  it,  for  my  part. 
Since  you  do  take  it,  love,  so  much  at  heart. 

Poi .  A  quarrel,  ho,  already!  what's  the  matter? 

Gra.  About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  to'  me:  whose  poesy  was 
For  all  the  world,  like  cutlers'  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,  ••  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not." 

.Ver.  What  talk  you  of  the  poesy,  or  the  value? 
You  swore  to  me,  when  1  did  cive  it  you. 
That  you  would  wear  it  till  your*  hour  of  death. 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  ycu  in  your  grave : 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths, 
Yc*  should  have  been  respective,  and  have  kept  it. 
Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk  !   no,  God  's  my  judge,* 
The  clerk  will  ne"er  wear  hair  on  's  face,  that  had  it. 

Gra.  He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 

Ner.  Ay.  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra.  Now,  by  this  hand,  I  izave  it  to  a  youth, 
B  kind  of  boy;  a  little  scrubbed  boy, 
No  higher  than  thyself,  the  judge's  clerk; 
A  prating  boy,  that  begg'd  it  as  a  fee: 
I  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 

Por.  You  were  to  blame.  I  must  be  plain  with  you, 
To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wifes  first  gift; 
A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  u|ion  your  finger, 
And  so  riveted  with  faith  unU)  your  flesh. 
I  gave  my  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 


Never  to  part  with  it ;  and  here  he  stands : 

I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave 

Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger  for  the  wealth 

That  the  world  masters.     Now,  in  faith.  Gratiano, 

You  give  your  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  griel : 

An  't  were  to  nie,  I  should  be  mad  at  it.  [off. 

Box.'!.  [Aside.]  Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand 
And  swear  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it. 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  tliat  begg'd  it,  and,  indeed, 
Deserv'd  it  too;  and  then  the  boy.  his  clerk, 
That  took  .some  pains  in  writing,  he  beggd  mine; 
And  neither  man,  nor  master,  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

Por.  What  ring,  gave  you,  my  lord? 

Not  that,  I  hope,  which  you  receiv"d  of  me. 

Bas.s.  If  I  could  add  a  lie  unto  a  fault, 
I  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see,  my  finger 
Hath  not  the  ring  upon  it :  it  is  gone. 

Por.  Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 
By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

Ner.  Nor  I  in  yours, 

Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  1  gave  the  ring, 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring. 
When  naught  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring. 
You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure. 

Por.  If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring, 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring, 
Or  your  o\ati  honour  to  retain'  the  ring. 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  um-easonable, 
If  you  had  pleas'd  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modeF*v 
To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony? 
Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe  : 
I  '11  die  for  't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Bass.  No.  by  mine  honour,  madam,  by  my  soul 
No  woman  had  it:  but  a  civil  doctor. 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me, 
And  begg'd  the  ring,  the  which  I  did  deny  him, 
And  suffer'd  him  to  go  displeas'd  away. 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say,  swee*  lady? 
I  was  cnforc'd  to  send  it  after  him  : 
I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy; 
My  honour  would  not  let  ingratitude 
So  much  besmear  it.     Pardon  me,  good  lady, 
For.  by  these  blessed  caudles  of  the  night, 
Had  you  been  there,  I  think,  you  would  have  begg'd 
The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

Por.  Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my  house. 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  lov'd, 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you  : 
I  '11  not  deny  him  any  thing  1  have; 
No,  not  my  body,  nor  my  husband's  bed. 
Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it: 
Lie  not  a  night  from  home;  watch  me  like  Argns; 
If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone. 
Now.  by  mine  honour,  which  is  yet  mine  on^ti, 
I  '11  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Ner.  And  I  his  clerk;  therefore,  be  well  advis'd 
How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 


Flourish  of  a  trumpet 

i    int.: 


*  Not  io  f.  e.      'So  the  quirtoi :  the  folio  "the."      *  So  the  quartos;  the  folio  :  "but  well  I  knoT."      • . 


soiasTi; 


THE  MEECHANT  OF   VENICE. 


187 


Gra.  "Well,  do  you  fo  :  let  not  me  take  him  then; 
For,  if  I  do,  I  '11  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.  I  am  th'  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

For.  Sir.  grieve  not  you ;  you  are  welcome  notwith- 
standing. 

Bass.  Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong; 
And  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends 
I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes, 
Wherein  I  see  myself, — 

For.  Mark  you  but  that ! 

In  both  my  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself; 
In  each  eye.  one : — swear  by  your  double  self, 
And  there  's  an  oath  of  credit. 

Ba.<;s.  Nay.  but  hear  me. 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  swear, 
I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  with  thee. 

Ant.  I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth, 
Which  but  for  him  that  had  your  husband's  ring, 
Had  quite  miscarried  :  I  dare  be  bound  again. 
My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 
Will  never  more  break  faith  ad\isedly. 

For.  Then,  you  shall  be  his  surety.     Give  him  this, 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ant.  Here,  lord  Bassanio ;  swear  to  keep  this  ring. 

Bass.  By  heaven !  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the  doctor. 

For.  I  had  it  of  him :  pardon  me.  Bassanio, 
For  by  this  ring  the  doctor  lay  with  me. 

Ner.  And  pardon  me.  my  gentle  Gratiano, 
For  that  same  scrubbed  boy,  the  doctor's  clerk, 
In  lieu  of  this  last  night  did  lie  with  me. 

Gra.  Why,  this  is  like  the  mending  of  highways 
In  summer,  when*  the  ways  are  fair  enough. 
What !  are  we  cuckolds,  ere  we  have  deserv'd  it  ? 

For.  Speak  not  so  grossly. — You  are  all  amaz'd  : 
Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  your  leisure ; 
It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario : 
There  you  shall  find,  that  Portia  was  the  doctor ; 
Nerissa  there,  her  clerk.     Lorenzo,  here, 
Shall  witness  I  set  forth  aa  soon  as  you. 


And  even  but  now  return'd :   I  have  not  yet 
Enter'd  my  house. — Antonio,  you  are  welcome ; 
And  I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you, 
Than  you  expect :  unseal  this  letter  soon ; 
There  you  shall  find,  three  of  your  argosies 
Are  richly  come  to  harbour  suddenly. 
You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Ant.  I  am  dumb. 

Bass.  "Were  you  the  doctor,  and  I  knew  you  not  ? 

Gra.  Were  you  the  clerk,  that  is  to  make  me  cuckold  r 

JVer.  Ay :  but  the  clerk  that  never  means  to  do  it, 
Unless  he  live  until  he  be  a  man. 

Bass.  Sweet  doctor,  you  shall  be  my  bedfellow: 
"When  I  am  absent,  then,  lie  with  my  wife. 

Ant.  Sweet  lady,  you  have  given  me  life  and  living, 
For  here  I  read  for  certain  that  my  ships 
Are  safely  come  to  road. 

For.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts,  too,  for  you. 

Ner.  Ay,  and  I  '11  give  them  him  without  a  fee. — 
There  do  I  give  to  you  and  Jessica, 
From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift. 
After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd  of. 

Lor.  Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  in  the  way 
Of  starved  people. 

For.  It  is  almost  morning, 

And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 
Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  inter' gatories, 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

Gic.  Let  it  be  so :  the  first  inter'gatory, 
That  m,y  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on.  is. 
Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rather  stay, 
Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to  day? 
But  were  the  day  come,  I  should  \ATsh  it  da.K, 
Till  I  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk. 
We  1,  while  I  live,  I  'II  fear  no  other  thing 
So  sore,  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring.  ExeunJU 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


DKAMATIS    PERSONS. 


DtJKE,  Senior,  living  in  exile. 

Freperick,  his  Brother,  usurper  of  his  dominions. 

Amiens,  1  Lords  attending  upon  the  exiled 

Jaques.    )      Duke. 

Le  Beai'.  a  Courtier. 

Oliver,     | 

Jaqves,      [  Sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Orlando,  ) 

^"'^^'-     I  Ser\'ants  to  Oliver. 
Dennis,  ) 

Charles,  a  Wrestler. 


Touchstone,  a  Clown. 

Sir  Oliver  Mar-Text,  a  Vicar. 

Wii,liam,  a  Country  Fellow,  in  love  witl.  Audrey. 
Hymen. 

Rosalind,  Daughter  to  the  exiled  Duke. 
Celia,  Daughter  to  the  usurping  Duke. 
Phebe,  a  Shepherdess. 
Audrey,  a  Country  Wench. 


Lords  ;  Pages,  Foresters,  and  Attendants. 
The  SCENE  lies,  first,  near  Oliver's  House ;  afterwards  in  the  Usurper's  Court,  and  in  the  Forest  of  Arde& 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L — An  Orchard,  near  Oliver's  House. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Orl.  As  I  remember.  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion : 
he  bequeathed  me  by  will'  but  a  poor  thousand  crowns ; 
and,  as  thou  say'st,  charged  my  brother  on  his  blessing 
to  breed  me  well :  and  there  begins  my  sadness.  My 
brother  .laques  he  keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks 
goldenly  ot  Ids  profit :  for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rusti- 
cally at  home,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  stays  me 
here  at  home  unkept  ;  for  call  you  that  keeping  for  a 
gentleman  of  my  birth,  that  differs  not  from  the  stall- 
ing of  an  ox?  His  hor.<es  are  bred  better  ;  for,  besides 
that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are  taught 
their  manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired :  but 
I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but  growth,  for 
the  which  his  animals  on  his  dunghills  are  as  much 
bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides  this  nothing  that  he  so 
plentifully  gives  me,  the  something  that  nature  gave 
me.  his  countenance'  seems  to  take  from  me :  he  lets 
me  feed  witli  his  hinds,  bars  me  the  place  of  a  brother, 
and,  a.s  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines  my  gentility  with  my 
education.  This  is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves  me;  and  the 
Bpiritof  my  father,  which  I  tliink  is  within  me.  begins  to 
mutiny  against  this  sfrvitiide.  I  will  no  longer  endure 
it  though  yet  1  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 

Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  mnstcr,  your  brother. 

Orl.  Go  apart.  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he 
will  Bhake  me  up.  [Adam  retires.* 

Enter  Oliver. 

OH.  Now,  sir  !  what  make  you  here  ? 

Orl.  Nothing:  I  am  not  taught  to  make  any  thing. 

OH.  What  mar  you  then,  .sir? 

Orl.  Marr>-,  sir.  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which 
God  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idle- 


it  was  upon  this  Tishion  bequeathed   ke.      *  Beharior       *  Not  in  f  •. 

188 


Oli.  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught 
awhile.* 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with 
them?  What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent  that  I 
should  come  to  such  penury? 

OH.  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir? 

Orl.  0  !  sir,  very  well :  here,  in  your  orchard. 

OH.  Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 

Orl.  Ay,  better  than  he  I  am  before  know;  mo.  I 
know,  you  are  my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in  the  gentle 
condition  of  blood,  you  should  so  know  me.  The  cour- 
tesy of  nations  allows  you  my  better,  in  that  you  aro 
the  first-born  :  but  the  same  tradition  takes  not  away 
my  blood,  were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us.  1 
have  as  much  of  my  father  in  me,  as  you,  albeit,  I  con- 
fess, your  coining  before  me  is  nearer  to  his  reverence 

OH.  What,  boy ! 

Orl.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young 
in  this. 

OH.  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain  :  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  sir 
Rowland  de  Bois  ;,  he  was  my  father,  and  he  is  thrice 
a  villain,  that  says,  such  a  father  begot  \nllains.  Wert 
thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not  take  this  hand  from 
thy  throat,  till  this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for 
saying  so.  [Shaking  kim'^.]  Thou  hast  railed  on  thy- 
self. 

Adam.  [Coming  forward.]  Sweet  masters,  be  patient : 
for  your  father's  remembrance,  be  at  accord. 

OH.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall  hear  me. 
My  father  charged  you  in  his  v/ill  to  give  me  good 
education:  you  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant,  ob- 
scuring and  hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like  quali- 
ties :  the  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in  me.  and  I 
will  no  longer  endure  it:  therefore,  allow  me  such  ej- 
f  •.      *  A  petty  malediction       *  Not  ia  f.  e. 


SCENE  n. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


189 


ercises  as  may  become  a  gentleman,  or  give  me  the 
poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testament :  Avith 
that  1  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

OH.  And  what  wilt  thou  do?  beg,  when  that  is 
spent  ?  Well,  sir,  get  yoa  in  :  I  ■will  not  long  be  trou- 
bled with  you ;  you  shall  have  some  part  of  your  will. 
I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  offend  you,  than  becomes  me 
for  my  good. 

Oli.  Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward  ?  JNIost  true,  I  have 
lost  my  teeth  in  yoiu"  service. — God  be  with  my  old 
master !  he  would  not  have  spoke  such  a  word. 

[Exeunt  Orl.\ndo  and  Adam. 

Oli.  Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow  upon  me  ?  I 
will  physic  your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thousand 
crowiis  neither.     Hola,  Dennis  ! 

Enter  Dennis. 

Den.  Calls  your  worship  ? 

OH.  Was  not  Charles,  ihe  duke's  wTestler,  here  to 
speak  with  me  ? 

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door,  and  im- 
portunes access  to  you. 

Oli.  Call  him  in.   [Exit  Dennis.] — 'T  will  be  a  good 
way;  and  to-morrow  the  wrestling  is. 
Enter  Charles. 

Cha.  Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 

Oli.  Good  monsieur  Charles,  what 's  the  new  news  at 
the  new  court  ? 

Cha.  There  's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the  old 
news ;  that  is,  the  old  duke  is  banished  by  his  younger 
brother  the  new  duke,  and  three  or  four  lo\ing  lords 
have  put  themselves  into  voluntary  exile  with  him, 
whose  lands  and  revenues  enrich  the  new  duke  ;  there- 
fore he  gives  them  good  leave  to  wander. 

Oli.  Can  you  tell,  if  Rosalind,  the  old'  duke's  daugh- 
ter, be  banished  with  her  father  ? 

Cha.  0 !  no  ;  for  the  new-  duke's  daughter,  her 
cousin,  so  loves  her,  being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred 
together,  that  she  would  have  followed  her  exile,  or 
have  died  to  stay  behind  her.  She  is  at  the  court, 
and  no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle  than  his  o^xn  daugh- 
ter :  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

Oli.  Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

Clia.  They  say,  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of  Arden, 
and  a  many  merry  men  with  him ;  and  there  they  live 
like  the  old  Robin  Hood  of  England.  They  say.  many 
young  gentlemen  flock  to  him  every  day,  and  fleet  the 
time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the  golden  world. 

Oli.  What,  you  WTestle  to-morrow  before  the  new 
duke? 

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir  ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint  you 
with  a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to  understand, 
that  your  younger  brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition 
to  come  in  disguised  against  me,  to  try  a  fall.  To- 
morrow, sir,  I  wrestle  for  my  credit,  and  he  that  escapes 
me  without  some  broken  limb  shall  acquit  him  well. 
Your  brother  is  but  young  and  tender  :  and,  for  your 
love,  I  would  be  loath  to  foil  him.  as  I  must  for  my 
own  honour  if  he  come  in :  therefore,  out  of  my  love 
to  you  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  j^ou  withal,  that 
either  you  might  stay  him  from  his  intendment,  or 
brook  such  disgrace  well  as  he  shall  run  into,  in  that 
it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search,  and  altogether  against 
my  will. 

Oli.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me,  which, 
'  thou  shalt  find,  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I  had 
myself  notice  of  my  brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have, 
by  underhand  means,  laboured  to  dissuade  him  from 


it ;  but  he  is  resolute.  I  '11  tell  thee,  Charles :  it  is 
the  stubbornest  young  fellow  of  France  ;  full  of  ambi- 
tion, an  envious  emulator  of  every  man"s  good  parts, 
a  secret  and  villainous  contriver  against  me  his  natural 
brother :  therefore,  use  thy  discretion.  I  had  as  lief 
thou  didst  break  his  neck  as  his  finger :  and  thou  wert 
best  look  to  't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace, 
or  if  he  do  not  mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will 
practise  against  thee  by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  some 
treacherous  device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hatii 
ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  or  other ;  for,  I 
assure  thee  (and  almost  with  tears  I  speak  it)  there  is 
not  one  so  young  and  so  -villainous  this  day  living.  I 
speak  but  brotherly  of  him :  but  should  I  anatomize 
him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and  w-eep,  and  thou 
must  look  pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you.  If 
he  come  to-morrow,  I  '11  give  him  his  payment :  if  ever 
he  go  alone  again,  I  "11  never  wrestle  for  prize  more. 
And  so,  God  keep  your  worship  !  {Exit. 

Oli.  Farewell  good  Charles. — Now  will  I  stir  this 
gamester.  I  hope,  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him ;  for  my 
soul,  yet  I  know  not  wiiy,  hates  nothing  more  than  he : 
yet  he  's  gentle ;  never  schooled,  and  yet  learned ;  full 
of  noble  device  ;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved,  and, 
indeed,  so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  espe- 
cially of  my  own  people,  wiio  best  know  him,  that  I  am 
altogether  misprised.  But  it  shall  not  be  so  long;  this 
wrestler  shall  clear  all :  nothing  remains,  but  that  I  kin- 
dle the  boy  thither,  which  now  I  '11  go  about.       [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Cel.  I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry. 

Ros.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am  mis- 
tress  of,  and  would  you  yet  P  were  merrier  ?  Unless 
you  could  teach  me  to  forget  a  banished  father,  you 
must  not  learn  me  how  to  remember  any  extraordinary 
pleasiu-e. 

Cel.  Herein,  I  see,  thou  lovest  me  not  with  the  full 
weight  that  I  love  thee.  If  my  uncle,  thy  banished 
father,  had  banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke  my  father,  so 
thou  hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could  have  taught  my 
love  to  take  thy  father  for  mine  :  so  wouldst  thou,  il 
the  truth  of  thy  love  to  me  were  so  righteously  tem- 
pered, as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my  estate, 
to  rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know,  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I,  nor 
none  is  like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  wiien  he  dies,  thou 
shalt  be  his  heir :  for  wiiat  he  hath  taken  away  from 
thy  father  perforce,  I  will  render  thee  again  in  alfec- 
tion  :  by  mine  honour,  I  will :  and  when  I  break  that 
oath  let  me  turn  monster.  Therefore,  my  sweet  Rose, 
my  dear  Rose,  be  merry. 

Ros.  From  henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise  sports. 
Let  me  see  ;  w^hat  think  you  of  falling  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Marry,  I  pr'vlhee,  do.  to  m.ake  sport  withal: 
but  love  no  man  in  good  earnest :  nor  no  further  in 
sport  neither,  than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou 
may'st  in  honour  come  off"  again. 

Ros.  What  shall  be  our  sport  then  ? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit,  and  mock  the  good  housewife,  For- 
tune, from  her  wiieel,  that  her  gifts  may  henceforth  be 
bestowed  equally. 

Ros.  I  would,  we  could  do  so ;  for  her  benefits  are 
mightily  misplaced,  and  the  bountiful  blind  woman 
doth  most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Cel.  'T  is  true,  for  those  that  she  makes  fair,  ebe 


Tlia  U  not  in  f  e       '  This  word  is  not  in  f.  o.      '  I,  was  added  by  Pope. 


190 


AS  YOU  LIKE  rr. 


ACT   L 


scarce  makes  honest :  and  those  that  she  makes  honest, 
•he  makes  very  ill-favoured. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  tliou  soost  from  fortune's  office  to 
nature's  :  fortune  reigns  in  gil'ts  of  the  world,  not  in 
the  lineaments  of  nature. 

Enter  Touchstone. 

Cel.  No  :  when  nature  hath  matle  a  fair  creature, 
may  she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  fire? — Though 
nature  hath  given  us  wt  to  flout  at  fortune,  liath  not 
fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off  the  argument  ? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  fortune  too  hard  for  nature, 
"shen  fortune  makes  nature's  natural  the  cutter  off  of 
nature's  wit. 

Cel.  Peradventure.  this  is  not  fortune's  work  neither, 
but  nature's  :  who.  perceiving  our  natural  Avits  too  dull 
to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  hath  sent  this  natural  for 
our  whetstone  :  for  alwaA-s  the  dulness  of  the  fool  is 
the  whetstone  of  the  wits. — How  now,  wit?  whither 
w  ander  you  ? 

Touch.  Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your  father. 

Cel.  Were  you  made  the  messenger  ? 

Touch.  No.  by  mine  honour:   but  I  was  bid  to  come 
for  you. 

Ros.  Where  learned  you  that  oath   fool  ? 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his  honour 
they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his  honour 
the  mustard  was  naught  :  now,  I  "11  stand  to  it,  the 
pancakes  were  naught,  and  the  mustard  was  good,  and 
yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  of  your 
knowledge  ? 

Ros.  Ay.  marr>' :  now  luimuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now;  stroke  your  chins, 
and  swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 

Cel.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  tliem,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were; 
but  if  you  swear  by  that  that  is  not.  you  are  not  for- 
sworn :  no  more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by  his  honour, 
for  he  never  had  any ;  or  if  he  had.  he  had  sworn  it 
away  before  ever  he  saw  those  pancakes,  or  that  mus- 
Urd. 

Cel.  Pr^-thee,  who  is  't  that  thou  mean'st  ? 

Touch    One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father,  loves. 

Ros^.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honour  him 
etiough.  Speak  no  more  of  him :  you  '11  be  whipped 
for  taxation',  one  of  these  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pit>',  that  fools  may  not  speak 
wisely,  what  wise  men  do  fooli.«hly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true:  for  since  the 
ittleA\-it  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the  little  foolerj' 
nat  wise  men  have  makes  a  great  show.  Here  comes 
monsieur  Le  Beau. 

EiUer  Le  Be.\u. 

Ros.  With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us,  as  pigeons  feed  their 
foung. 

Ros.  Then  shall  we  be  news-cramm'd. 

Cel.  All  the  better:  we  .shall  be  the  more  marketable. 
Bon  jour,  monsieur  Le  Beau  :  what 's  the  news? 

Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good 
fjwrt. 

Cel.  Spot'  ?     Of  what  oolour  ' 

Le  Beau.  What  colour,  madam  ?  How  shall  I 
Bn.-«wer  you? 

Ros.  As  wit  and  fortune  •will. 

Tofich.  Or  a«  the  destinies  decree. 

Cel.  Well  said:  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Touch.  Nay.  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, — 

Ros.  Thou  iosest  thy  old  smell. 

•  Some  eds.  gire  thii  tpeeci  to  Celia.    *  Standal.     >  iport :  in  f.  •. 


Le  Beau.  You  amaze*  me,  ladies :  I  would  have 
told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the 
sight  of. 

Ros.  Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  \^Testlmg. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning :  and,  if  it 
please  your  ladyships,  you  may  see  tlie  end.  for  the 
best  is  yet  to  do  :  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are 
coming  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Well, — the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man,  and  his  three 
sons, — 

Cel.  I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent 
growth  and  presence: — 

Ros.  With  bills'  on  their  necks. — "  Be  it  knowTi  unto 
all  men  by  these  present.s.'" — 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  wth 
Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler  :  which  Charles  in  a  mo- 
ment threw  him.  and  broke  three  of  his  ribs,  that  there 
is  little  hope  of  life  in  him  :  so  he  served  ihe  second, 
and  .eo  the  third.  Yonder  they  lie.  the  poor  old  man, 
their  father,  making  such  pitiful  dole  over  them,  that 
all  the  beholders  take  his  part  with  weeping. 

Ros.  Alas  ! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the 
ladies  have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  evcri'  day  !  it  is 
the  first  time  that  ever  I  heard  breaking  of  ribs  was 
sport  for  ladies. 

Cel.  Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken 
music  in  his  sides  ?  is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon 
rib-breaking? — Shall  we  see  this  ■^^Testling,  cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here  :  for  here  is 
the  place  appointed  for  the  ^ATCStling.  and  they  are 
ready  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming  :  let  us  now  stay 
and  see  it. 

Flourish.     Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lords.  Orlando, 
Charles,  ajid  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on  :  since  the  youth  -vN-ill  not  be 
entreated,  his  oami  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.  Is  yonder  the  man  ? 

Le  Beau.  Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.  Alas!  he  is  too  young:  yet  he  looks  successfully. 

Duke  F.  How  now.  daughter,  and  cousin !  are  you 
crept  hither  to  see  the  -wTestling? 

Ros.  Ay.  my  liege,  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  "delight  in  it,  I  can  tell 
you,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  men'.  In  pity  of  the 
challenger's  youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he 
will  not  be  entreated  :  speak  to  him.  ladies ;  see  if  you 
can  move  hitn. 

Cel.   Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  Le  Beau 

Jhike  F.  Do  so:  I  '11  not  be  by.       [Duke  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  prineces;  <'alJ 
for  YOU. 

6rl.  I  attend  them  with  all  respect  and  duty 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles  the 
■viTCstler  ? 

Orl.  No,  fair  prince.«8 ;  he  is  the  general  challenge) 
I  come  but  in.  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength 
of  my  youth. 

Cel.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirit*  are  too  bold  for 
your  years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's 
strength:  if  you  saw  yourself  ■with  our'  eyes,  or  knew 
yourself  with  our*  judgment,  the  fear  of  your  adventure 
I  would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal  enterprise.  We 
ConfuM.    •  A  kind  of  pikt,  or  halbert.    *  man  .  'n  f.  •     '  •  7  "ir :  in  f  ^ 


SCENE  ni. 


AS   YOU  LIKE  IT. 


191 


pray  you,   for  your  own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own 
safety,  and  give  over  this  attempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir  :  your  reputation  shall  not  there- 
fore be  misprised.  We  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the 
duke,  that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard 
thoughts,  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  deny 
§0  fair  and  excellent  ladies  any  thing.  But  let  your 
fair  eyes,  and  gentle  wishes,  go  with  me  to  my  trial  • 
wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there  is  but  one  shamed  that 
was  never  gracious  ;  if  killed,  but  one  dead  that  is 
wiling  to  be  so.     I  shall  do  my  friends  no  wrong,  for 

have  none  to  lament  me ;  the  world  no  injury,  for  in 
it  I  have  nothing ;  only  in  the  world  I  fill  up  a  place, 
which  may  be  better  supplied  when  I  have  made  it 
empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it 
were  with  you. 

Ccl.  And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  heaven,  I  be  deceived 
in  you ! 

Cel.  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Come ;  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is  so 
desirous  to  lie  with  hi.s  mother  earth? 

Orl.  Ready,  sir;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more 
modest  working. 

Duke  F.  You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace,  you  shall  not  entreat 
him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded  him 
from  a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after  :  you  should  not 
have  mocked  me  before  :  but  come  your  ways. 

Ros.  Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

Cel.  I  wirtuld  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong 
fellow  by  the  leg.  [Charles  and  Orlando  lurestle. 

Ros.  O,  excellent  young  man  ! 

Ccl.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell 
who  should  do"v\Ti.  [Charles  is  thrown.     Shout. 

Duke  F.  No  more,  no  more. 

Orl.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace :  I  am  not  yet  well 
breathed. 

Duke  F.  How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.  He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.  Bear  him  away.  [Charles  is  jorne  out. 
What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orl.  Orlando,  my  liege:  the  youngest  son  of  sir 
Rowland  de  Bois. 

Duke  F.  I  would,  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some  man 
else. 
The  world  esteem'd  thy  father  honourable. 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy: 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleas'd  me  with  tMs  deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
Rttt  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth. 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

[Exeunt  Duke  Fred.  Train,  and  Le  Beau. 

Cel.  Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 

Orl.  I  am  more  proud  to  be  sir  Rowland's  son, 
H.s  youngest  son,  and  would  not  change  that  calling, 
7o  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.  My  father  lov'd  sir  Rowland  as  his  .soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind. 
Had  T  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
1  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventur'd . 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin. 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him  : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. — Sir,  you  have  well  deserv'd  :  | 


If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love 

But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  all  promise, 

Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ros.  Gentleman, 

[Giving  him  a  chain 
Wear  this  for  me,  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune, 
That  could  give  more,  but  that  her  hand  lacks  means,  — ■ 
Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Cel.  Ay. — Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman . 

Orl.  Can  I  not  say.  I  thank  you  ?  My  better  parts 
Are  all  throwii  down,  and  that  which  here  stands  up 
Is  but  a  quintaine',  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ros.  He  calls  us  back.  My  pride  fell  with  my  fortunes 
I  '11  ask  him  what  he  would. — Did  you  call,  sir? — 
Sir.  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ros.  Have  with  you. — Fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  anA  Celia. 
Orl.  What   passion  hangs  these  wei,ghts  upon  my 
tongue  ? 
I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urg'd  conference. 

Re-enter  Le  Beau. 
O,  poor  Orlando  !  thou  art  overthrown. 
Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

Le  Beau.  Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel  you 
To  leave  this  place.     Albeit  you  have  deserv'd 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love, 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke  s  condition. 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done. 
The  duke  is  humorous :  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  me  to  speak  of. 

Orl.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  and,  pray  you,  tell  me  this : 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke, 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling? 

Le  Beau.    Neither   his  daughter,  if  we   judge   by 
manners ; 
But  yet,  indeed,  the  shorter*  is  his  daughter: 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish'd  duke, 
And  here  detain'd  by  her  usurping  uncle. 
To  keep  his  daiighter  company ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  tlian  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you,  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece, 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument. 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake  ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth. — Sir,  fare  you  well : 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 
Orl.  I  rest  much  bounden  to  you  :  fare  you  well. 

[Exit  Lb  Bead- 
Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother ; 
From  tyrant  duke,  unto  a  tyrant  brother. — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  [Exit 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin;  why,  Rosalind. — Cupid  hav 
mercy  ! — Not  a  Avord  ? 

Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  ''".st  away 
upon  curs ;  throw  some  of  them  at  me :  come,  lame  me 
with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up,  when  the 
one  should  be  lamed  -with  reasons,  and  the  other  mad 
without  any. 

Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 


A  shield  fastened  to  a  pole,  or  a  pupptt,  used  as  a  mark  in  tilting.     *  smaller :  inf.  e.    Pope  also  made  the  correction. 


192 


AS   YOD   LIKE  IT. 


ACT  I. 


Rus    No,  some  of  it  for  my  father's  child.'     O,  how  |  And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
full  of  briars  is  this  working-day  world  !  i  Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparate.'  [aes^ 

Cel.  Tliey  arc  but   burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  I      Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  tor  thee;  and  her  smooth- 
^i    holiday  foolery:    if  wc  walk   not   in   the  trodden  I  Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience, 


paths,  our  vcr>'  petticoats  will  catch  thcin. 

Ri)s.  1  could  shake  them  off  my  coat :  these  burs 
■.re  in  my  heart. 

Ccl.  Hem  tlieni  away. 

Ros.  I  would  try,  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have  him. 

Cd.  Come,  come  ;  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  0  !  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  -wTcstler  than 
my.'^elf. 

Cel.  O.  a  pood  wi.<h  upon  you  !  you  will  try  in  time, 


in  despite  of  a  fall. — But.  turning  tl 
Ber^^ce,  let  us  talk  in  good  earnest.     Is  it  possible,  on 
such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so  strong  a  liking 
with  old  sir  Rowland's  youngest  son  ? 

Ros.  The  duke  my  fatlier  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love 
his  son  dearly  ?  By  this  kind  of  chase.  I  should  hate 
him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father  dearly ;  yet  I  hate 
not  Orlando. 

Ros.  No  'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Cel.  Why  should  I  r.ot  'i"  doth  he  not  deserve  well  ? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that;  and  do  you  love 
him.  because  1  do. — 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 
Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Ccl.  With  liis  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Diike  F.  Mistress,  dispatch  you  with  your  fastest* 
haste. 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 

Ros.  Me,  unele  ? 

Duke  F.  You.  cousin  : 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  a.s  twenty  miles, 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace. 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me. 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  o-wn  desires, 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, 
(As  I  do  trust  I  am  not)  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors  : 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words. 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself. 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor. 
Tell  me,  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.    Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter ;  there  's 
enough. 

Ros.  So  was  I  when  your  highness  took  his  dukedom ; 
So  was  I  when  your  highness  banish'd  him. 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord  ; 
Or  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
What  's  that  to  me?  my  father  was  no  traitor. 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  ine  not  so  much, 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia  :  wc  stayM  her  for  your  sake  ; 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  rans'd  along. 

Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay: 
It  wa.s  your  pleasure,  and  yiur  own  remorse. 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her, 
But  now  I  know  her.     If  sbe  be  a  traitor. 
Why  so  am  1 ;  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together; 
■  ohild't  father :  in  f  •.      *  ufeft :  in  f.  a.      *  insepanUe 


Sjieak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 

Thou  art  a  fool  :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ;         [one, 

And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virto. 

When  she  is  gone.     Then,  open  not  thy  lips  : 

Finn  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 

Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her.     She  is  banish'd. 

Cel.  Pronounce  that  sentence,  then,  on  me,  my  liege 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company.  [self : 

Di'ke  F.  You  are  a  fool. — You,  niece,  provide  your- 


jests  out  of    If  you  out-stay  the  time,  upon  mine  honour. 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeimt  Duke  Fhkderick  mid  Lords 
Cel.  0,  iny  poor  Rosalind  !  whither  wilt  thou  go  ' 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?     I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  grieved  than  I  am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin. 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  me,  his  daughter  ? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.  No  ?  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks,  then,  the  love, 
Which  tcacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one. 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  ? 
No :  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore,  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out; 
For.  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale. 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I  '11  go  along  with  thee. 

Ros.  Why.  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle 

In  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us. 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ! 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Ccl.  I  '11  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face. 
The  like  do  you  :  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  gallant  curtle-ax*  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand  ;  and,  in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will, 
We  '11  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outeide, 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have. 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances 

Cel.  What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  tn.iD  " 

Ros.  I  '11  have  no  worser'  name  than  Jove's  own  p^ge. 
And  therefore  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  cail'd? 

Ccl.  Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state: 
No  longer  Celia.  but  Aliena. 

Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  cssay'd  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfori  to  our  travel  ? 

Cel.  He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let 's  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together, 
Devise'  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we  in  content 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  [Exeuni. 

Cutlass.      >  won*  a  :  in  f.  e. 


f.  e. 


AS   YOU  LIKE  IT. 


193 


ACT    II. 


Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ?" 

Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court. 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life,  swearing,  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers!  tyrants,  and  what 's  worse, 

To  fright  the  animals,  and  kill  them  up 

In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling  place. 

Dvke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contemplation  ? 

2  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place. 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he  's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.  I  '11  bring  you  to  him  straight.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lo)-ds.  and  Attendants. 
Duke  F.  Can  it  be  possible  that  no  man  saw  them? 
It  cannot  be  :  some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.  I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber, 
Saw  her  a-bed  ;  and  in  the  morning  early 
They  found  the  bed  untreasur'd  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.  My  lord,  the  roynish'  cloA\ai,  at  whom  so  ofi 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 
Hesperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman. 
Confesses  that  she  secretly  o'er-heard 
Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 
The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wi-estler. 
That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sine,w>'  Charles  ; 
And  she  believes,  wherever  thej  are  gone 
That  youth  is  surely  m  their  company. 

Di^e  F.    Send  to  his  brother:    fetch  that  gallant 
hither  : 
If  he  be  absent  bring  his  brother  to  me. 
I  '11  make  him  find  him.     Do  this  suddenly, 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III. — Before  Oliver's  House. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam,  meeting. 

Orl.  Who  's  there  ? 

Adam.    What,  my  young   master? — 0,    my    gentle- 
master  ! 
0,  my  sweet  master  !  0,  you  memory 
Of  old  Sir  Rowland !  why,  what  make  you  here  ? 
Why  are  you  virtuous  ?     Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  "^ 
Why  would  you  be  so  fond^  to  overcome 
The  bony  priser  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 
No  more  do  yours  :  your  virtues,  gentle  master, 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
0,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it  ! 

Orl.  WTiy.  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.       '  0,  unhappy  youth  ! 

Come  not  within  these  doors  :  beneath'  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives. 
Your  brother — (no,  no  brother ;  yet  the  son — 

*  as  :  in  f.  e.      a  Fenton,  in  1569,  tells  us  "  there  is  found  in  heads  of  old  and  great  toaJs,  a  stone  -wiuoh  they  call  borax  or  steton  :  it  ie  irosl 
eommonly  found  in  the  head  of  a  hp.-t"ad  "  -Knight.      ^  Barbed  arrows.      *  had :  in  f.  e.      »  Scurvy.      «  Fooltsh.      '  witkin  :  in  f .  «" 

N 


SCENE  I.— The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Duke,  Senior,  Amiens,  and  other  Lords,  like 
Foresters. 

Duke  S.  Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile, 
Hath  not  old  cu.^tom  made  this  life  more  sweet, 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court? 
Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference,  or'  the  icy  fang. 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which  when  it  bites,  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery  :  these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity. 
Which,  like  the  toad,=  ugly  and  venomous. 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt. 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

Ami.  I  would  not  change  it.     Happy  is  your  grace, 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
[nto  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke  S.  Come,  shall  ^xe  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools. 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads' 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

1   Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that : 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak.  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood ; 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt. 
Did  come  to  languish  :  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans. 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  :  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook. 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1   Lord.  0  !  yes.  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream ; 
"  Poor  deer,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  mak'st  a  testament 
4.S  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  hath*  too  much."     Then,  being  there 

alone, 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 
"  'T  is  right,"  quoth  he  ;   '•  thus  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company."     Anon,  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him. 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him :  "  Ay,"  quoth  Jaques, 
"  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ; 
'T  is  just  the  fashion  :  wherefore  do  you  look 


194 


AS   YOU   LIKE  IT. 


ACT  n. 


Yei  not  ilie  son — I  will  not  call  him  son — 

Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  liis  father,) — 

nath  heard  your  praises,  and  this  night  he  means 

'"o  burn  tlie  lodjiing  wliere  you  use  to  lie, 

/Ind  you  within  it  :  if  he  fail  of  that. 

He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off: 

I  overheard  him.  and  his  practices. 

This  is  no  place  ;  this  house  is  but  a  butchery  : 

Abhor  it.  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 

Orl.  Why.  whither,  Adam,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  ? 

Aildin.   \o  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

Orl.  What  !  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my 
food. 
Or  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword  enforce 
A  thievi.-ih  living  on  the  common  road. 
This  I  must  do.  or  know  not  what  to  do , 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can. 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted,  proud.'  and  bloody  brother. 

Adcm.  But  do  not  so.     I  have  five  hundred  crowns, 
The  thrifty  hire  I  sav'd  under  your  father, 
Which  1  did  store,  to  be  my  foster-nurse 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown. 
Take  that  :  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow, 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !     Here  is  the  gold : 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your  servant : 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty; 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood: 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility : 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly.     Let  me  go  with  you : 
I  "11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  rnan 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Orl.  0.  good  old  man  !  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  favour'  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  ! 
Thou  art  not  tor  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  will  sweat  but  for  promotion. 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  -with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield, 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come  thy  ways:  we'll  go  along  together. 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent. 
We'll  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.  Master,  go  on,  and  I  wnll  follow  thee 
To  the  last  gasp  with  truth  and  loyalty. 
From  se^.enteen  years,  till  now  almost  fourscore. 
Here  lived  I.  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek , 
But  at  fourscore  it  is  too  late  a  week : 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  mc  better. 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Forest  of  Arden. 
Enter  Ros.u.ino  for  Gnnymerk,  Celia.  for  Aliena.  and 
Clotcn,  alias  Touch.stone. 
Ros.  0  Jupiter  !  how  weary'  are  my  spirits  ! 
Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not 
weary. 

Ro.i.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's 
apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman  :  but  I  must  comfort 
ihe  weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show 


itself  courageous  to  petticoat :  therefore,  courage,  good 
Aliena. 

Crl.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me :  I  can  go  no  farther. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you, 
than  bear  you  :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross,  if  I  did 
bear  you,  for,  I  think,  you  have  no  money  in  your 
purse. 

Ros.  Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden :  the  more  fool  I ; 
when  I  was  at  home  1  was  in  a  better  place,  but  tra 
vellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone. — Look  you;  whr, 
comes  here?  a  young  man,  and  an  old,  in  solemn  talV 
Enter  Corin  and  Silvius. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you  still. 

Sil.  0  Corin,  that  ihou  knew'.vt  how  I  do  love  her' 

Cor.  I  partly  guess,  for  1  have  lov'd  ere  now. 

Sil.  No.  Corin ;  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess, 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow  : 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine. 
As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so. 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  dra^^•n  to  by  thy  fantasy? 

Cor.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.  0  !  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily. 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  spake*,  as  I  do  now. 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company. 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd. 

0  Phebe.  Phebe,  Phebe  !  [Exit  SiLvics. 
iJo.f.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  !  searching  of  thy  wound, 

1  have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine  o\n\. 
Touch.  And  I  mine.     I  remember,  when  I  was  in 

love  I  broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bid  him  takn 
that  for  coming  a-night  to  Jane  Smile  :  and  I  remem- 
ber the  kissing  of  her  batler',  and  the  cow's  dugs  that 
her  pretty  chapped  hands  had  milked  :  and  I  remember 
the  wooing  of  a  peascod  instead  of  her ;  from  w^iom  I 
took  two  cods,  and,  giving  her  them  again,  said  with 
weeping  tears,  "  Wear  these  for  my  sake."  We,  that 
are  true  lovers,  run  into  strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is 
mortal  in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in  folly 

Ros.  Thou  speakest  wiser  than  thou  art  'ware  of. 

Touch.  Nay.  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine  own  wiL 
till  I  break  my  shins  again.st  it. 

Ros.  Love,  love  !*  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion 

Touch.  And  mine  ;  but 

It  grows  something  stale  with  me,' 
And  begins  to  fail  with  mc.* 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond'  man, 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food  : 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.  Holla,  you  clown  ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool :  he  's  not  thy  kinsman. 

Cor.  Who  calls  ? 

Totich.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  very  wTctched. 

Ros.  Peace,  T  say.— 

Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.  And  to  you,  gentle  sir ;  and  to  you  all. 

Ros.  1  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love,  or  gold, 

>  diTe>v«d  blood  :  in  f.  e.      »  »erTioe  :  in  f.  e.      »  The  old  copiei  haye  "merrr."  -which  Knieht  retain*.      »  »t  :  in  f  e.      *  A   bat  ui*d  m 
naahing  linnn.      •  Jore,  Jove  :  in  f.  ».      '  f  e   gire  theie  two  lines  aa  one.      •  Thii  line  not  in  f.e. 


SCENE  vn. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


195 


Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  is  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,  and  feed. 
Here  's  a  young  maid  wath  travel  much  oppress'd, 
And  faints  for  succour. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her. 

And  wish,  for  her  sake  more  than  for  mine  own, 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her  ■ 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man, 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze : 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition, 
And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality. 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed. 
Are  now  on  sale ;  and  at  our  sheepcote  now, 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on ;  but  what  is,  come  see. 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.  What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and  pasture  ? 

Cor.  That  young  swain  that  you  saw  here  but  ere- 
while, 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

Ros.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.     I  like  this  place, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.  Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold. 
Go  with  me  :  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be. 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly.        [Exeunt. 
SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Amiens,  Jaques,  and  others. 


SONG. 

Ami.   Uiuler  the  grecinvood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  : 

Here  shall  he  see  no  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.  More,  more  !  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More  !  I  pr'ythee,  more.  I  can 
Buck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs. 
More  !  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged* ;  I  know  I  cannot  please 
you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me ;  I  do  desire 
you  to  sing.  Come,  more;  another  stanza.  Call  you 
'era  stanzas  ? 

Ami.  What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names ;  they  owe  me 
nothing.     Will  you  sing? 

Ami.  More  at  your  request,  than  to  please  myself. 

Jaq.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I  '11  thank 
you  :  but  that  they  call  compliment  is  like  the  en- 
eounter  of  two  dog-apes  :  and  when  a  man  thanks  me 
heartily,  methinks,  I  have  given  him  a  penny,  and  he 
renders  me  the  beggarly  thanks.  Come,  sing;  and 
you  that  -will  not,  hold  your  tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I  '11  end  the  song. — Sirs,  cover  the  while; 
the  duke  will  drink  imder  this  tree. — He  hath  been  all 
this  day  to  look  you. 

JoAj.  And  1  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid  him. 
He  is  too  disputable  for  my  company :  I  think  of  as 
many  matters  as  he,  but  I  give  heaven  thanks,  and 
make  no  boast  of  them.     Come,  warble  ;  come. 

'  Roagh.      s  due-ad-m«  (come  hither) :  says  Hanmer.      '  comfortable 


SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shim,     [All  together  here 
And  loves  to  live  t'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  ivith  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see,  &c. 
Jaq.  I  '11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  made 
yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  I  '11  sing  it. 
Jaq.  Thus  it  goes  : — 

If  it  do  com£  to  pass. 
That  any  man  tarn  ass. 
Leaving  his  wealth  aiid  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame : 

Here  shall  he  see,  gross  fools  as  lie, 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 
Ami.  What's  that  ducdame^? 

Jaq.  'T  is  a  Greek  invocation  to  call  fools  iuto  a 
circle.  I  '11  go  sleep  if  I  can  :  if  I  cannot,  I  '11  rail 
against  all  the  first-born  of  Egj^pt. 

Ami.  And  I  '11  go  seek  the  duke  :  his  banquet  is 
prepared.  [Eaxunt  severally. 

SCENE  VI.— The  Same. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  farther :  0  !  I  die 
for  food.  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  my  grave. 
Farewell,  kind  master. 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam  !  no  greater  heart  in 
thee?  Live  a  little;  comfort  a  little;  cheer  thyself  a 
little.  If  this  uncouth  forest  yield  any  thing  savage, 
I  Avill  either  be  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  for  food  to  thee. 
Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death  than  thy  powers.  For  my 
sake  be  comforted^;  hold  death  awhile  at  the  arms 
end.  I  will  here  be  with  thee  presently,  and  if  I  bring 
thee  not  something  to  eat,  I  will  give  thee  leave  to 
die;  but  if  thou  diest  before  I  come,  thou  art  a  mocker 
of  my  labour.  Well  said  !  thou  look'st  cheerily ;  and 
I  '11  be  -viith  thee  quickly. — Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak 
air :  come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter,  and  thou 
shalt  not  die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  any 
thing  in  this  desert.     Cheerly,  good  Adam.       [ExeurU. 


SCENE  VII.— The  Same. 

A  Table  set  out.     Enter  Duke,  Senior,  Amiens, 

Lords,  and  others. 

Duke  S.  I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast, 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 

1  Lord.  My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone  hence 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.  If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grow  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. — 
Go,  seek  him :  tell  him,  I  would  speak  with  him. 
Enter  Jaques. 

1  Lord.  He  saves  my  labour  by  his  onati  approach. 

Duke  S.  Why,  how  now,  monsieur  !  what  a  life  is  this, 
That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your  company ! 
What,  you  look  merrily. 

Jaq.  A  fool,  a  fool  ! 1  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 

A  motley  fool ;   (a  miserable  world  !) 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool. 
Who  laid  him  dowii  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 
And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms. 
In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
"Good-morrow,  fool,"  quoth  1 :  "No,  sir,"  quoth  he, 
"  Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortuae." 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke. 


196 


AS   YOU   LIKE  IT. 


ACT  n. 


And  looking  on  it  with  laok-lusfrc  eye, 

Says  ver>-  w  sely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock  : 

Thus  may  \%e  see.'  quoth  lie.  "  liow  the  world  wags: 

'T  is  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  wa.s  nine, 

And  after  one  hour  more  'twill  be  eleven, 

And  so  from  hour  to  liour  we  ripe  and  ripe. 

And  then  from  hour  to  hour  we  rot  and  rot : 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."     When  I  did  hear 

Tlie  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 

My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 

That  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative; 

And  t  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 

An  hour  by  his  dial. — 0,  noble  fool ! 

A  worthy  iool  !     Motley's  the  only  wear. 

Lhikc  S.  What  fool  is  this? 

Jag.  0.  worthy  fool  ! — One  that  hath  been  a  courtier, 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair. 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his  brain, 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage,  he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms. — 0.  that  I  were  a  fool  ! 
1  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 

Dttke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 

Jaq.  It  i.s  my  only  suit ; 

Provided,  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them. 
That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty- 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please ;  for  so  fools  have  : 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly. 
They  most  must  laugh.     And  why,  sir.  must  they  so? 
The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  cliurch  : 
He,  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit, 
Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart. 
But'  to  seem  seiuseless  of  the  bob  :  if  not. 
The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomized. 
Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 
Invest  me  in  my  motley  :  give  me  leave 
T©  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 
Clean.se  the  foul  body  of  th"  infected  world. 
If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke  S.  Fie  on  thee!  I  cantell  whatthouwouldst  do. 

Jcu].  What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do,  but  good  ? 

Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin  : 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine. 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself: 
And  all  th'  embossed  sores,  and  headed  evils. 
That  tiiou  with  license  of  free  foot  ha.«t  caught, 
Wouldst  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world. 

Jaq.  Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  .sea. 
Till  that  the  very  means  of  wear*  do  ebb  ? 
Wliat  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name. 
When  that  I  gay,  the  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders? 
Who  can  come  in,  and  say,  that  I  mean  her. 
Wiien  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbour  ? 
Oi  what  i.s  he  of  ba.«est  function. 
That  says,  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost. 
Tiiinking  that  I  mean  him,  but  therein  suits 
His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 
There  then;    how  then?    what  then?      Let  me  see 

wherein 
My  tnng'ie  hath  -wTong'd  him  :  if  it  do  him  right. 
Then  lie  hath  wrong'd  himself;  if  he  be  free, 
Why  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaimd  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here? 

»  t.  e   ■  Not.      >  the  very,  rery  means  :  in  f.  «. 


Enter  Orlando,  with  his  sword  drawn 

Orl.  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaq.  Why,  I  have  eat  noiio  yet 

Orl.  Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  serv'd. 

Jaq.  Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.  Art  thou  thus  bolden'd,  man,  by  thy  dis- 
tress. 
Or  else  a  rude  dcspiser  of  good  manners, 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 

Orl.  You  touch'd  my  vein  at  first  :  the  thorny  point 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility;  yet  am  I  uiland  bred, 
And  know  some  nurture.     But  forbear,  I  say: 
He  dies,  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit. 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.  An  you  will  not  be  answered  vdi\\  reason, 
I  must  die. 

Dvke  S.  What  would  you  have  ?     Your  gentleness 
shall  force. 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

Orl.  I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 
'Duke  S.  Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to  our 
table. 

Orl.  Speak  you  so  gently  ?    Pardon  me.  I  pray  you 
I  thought,  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here. 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.     But  whate'er  you  are. 
That,  in  this  desert  inaccessible. 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time, 
If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days, 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoild  to  church. 
If  over  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast, 
If  ever  from  your  eye-lids  wip'd  a  tear, 
And  know  what  't  is  to  pity  and  be  pitied, 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be. 
In  the  which  hope  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days, 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church, 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts,  and  wip'd  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engendcr'd  ; 
And  therefore  sit  you  do^^^l  in  gentleness. 
And  take,  upon  commajid.  what  help  we  have. 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  minister'd. 

Orl.  Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while. 
Wliiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  rny  fawTi, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man. 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Liiuii"d  in  pure  love:  till  he  be  first. suflfic'd, 
Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger, 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out. 
And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Orl.  I  thank  ve  :  and  be  bless'd  for  your  good  com 
fort!        ■  [Exit 

Duke  S.  Thou  scest,  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy , 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woful  pageanta.  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaq.  All  the  world's  a  stage. 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances. 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts. 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
Then,  the  whining  school-boy.  with  his  satchel, 
And  sliining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then,  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 


SCENE  n. 


AS    TOTJ  LIKE  IT. 


197 


Made  t<^  liis  mistress'  eye-brow.     Tlien,  a  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaihs,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  ill  the  cannon's  mouth.     And  then,  the  justice, 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lin'd, 
With  eye  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances  ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon. 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side  : 
His  youthful  hose,  well  sav'd.  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank,  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  v/histles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  histon,-. 
[s  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  : 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 
Re-enter  Orlando,  with  Adam. 

Duke  S.  Welcome.  Set  down  your  venerable  burden, 
And  let  him  feed. 

Orl.  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.  So  had  you  need  ; 
[  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.  Welcome  ;  fall  to :  I  will  not  trouble  you 
As  yet  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. 
Give  us  some  music:  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 

[Confers  loith  Orlando.' 


SONG. 

Blow^  blow,  thou  wint-er  ivind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen.. 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude 
Heigh,  ho!  sing,  heigh,  ho!  unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  rmre  folly. 
Then,  heigh,  ho  !  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 
Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot  : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp* 
Tliy  sting  is  not  so  sharp. 
As  friend  remember' d  not. 
Heigh,  ho!  sing,  kc. 

Duke  S.  If  that  you  were  the  good  Sir  Rowland'e 
son. 
As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully,  you  were, 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  lirnn'd,  and  living  in  your  face, 
Be  truly  welcome  hither.     I  am  the  duke, 
That  lov'd  yoiu-  father.     The  residue  of  your  fortune, 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man. 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is. 
Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand^ 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.  [Exeunt 


ACT    III, 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Oliver,  Lords  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Not  seen  him  since  ?  Sir.  sir,  that  camiot  be : 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.     But  look  to  it: 
Find  out  thy  brother,  Avheresoe'er  he  is  : 
Seek  him  with  candle :  bring  him.  dead  or  living, 
Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 
To  seek  a  li\'ing  in  our  territory. 
Thy  lands,  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine, 
Worth  seizure,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands, 
TiU  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's  mouth 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

Oli.  0.  that  your  highness  knew  my  heart  in  this  ! 
I  never  lov'd  my  brother  in  my  life. 

Duke  F.  More  villain  thou. — Well,  push  him  out  of 
doors  • 
And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature 
Make  an  extent  upon  his  house  and  lands. 
Do  thiB  expediently,'  and  turn  him  going.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Forest  of  Arden. 
Enter  Orlando,  hanging  a  paper  on  a  tree.* 
Orl.  Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love : 
And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 

With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above. 
Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
Rosalind  !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books. 
And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I  '11  character, 

That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks. 
Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 

Run.^  run,  Orlando  :  carve,  on  every  tree, 

The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  she.  [Exit. 


Enter  Corin  a7id  Touchstone. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  master 
Touchstcine  ? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a 
good  life ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it 
is  naught.  In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very 
well ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very  \nle 
life.  Now,  in  respect  it  is  in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth  me 
well ;  but  in  respect  it  is  not  in  the  court,  it  is  tedious. 
As  it  is  a  spare  life,  look  you.  it  fits  my  humour  well : 
but  as  there  is  no  more  plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much 
against  my  stomach.  Hast  any  philosophy  in  thee, 
shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know  the  more  one  sick- 
ens, the  worse  at  ease  he  is ;  and  that  he  that  wants 
money,  means^  and  content,  is  without  three  good 
friends :  that  the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet,  and  fire 
to  burn ;  that  good  pasture  makes  fat  sheep,  and  that 
a  great  cause  of  the  night,  is  lack  of  the  sun  :  that  he, 
that  hath  learned  no  \\\t  by  nature  nor  art,  may 
complain  of  good  breeding,  or  comes  of  a  very  dull 
kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher.  Wast 
ever  in  court,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No,  truly. 

Touch.  Then  thou  art  damned. 

Cor.  Nay,  I  hope, — 

Touch.  Truly,  thou  art  damned,  like  an  ill-roasted 
egg,  all  on  one  side. 

Cor.  For  not  being  at  court  ?     Your  reason. 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at.  court,  thou  never 
saw'st  good  manners  :  if  th.ou  never  saw'st  good  man- 
ners, then  thy  manners  must  be  v,ncked  ;  and  wicked- 
ness is  sin,  and  sin  is  daimiation.  Thou  art  in  a  parloiis 
state,  shepherd. 


'  Not  in  f  e.      '  Wt  ive  together.      'Expeditiously.     *  ivith  a  paper :  ia.  i.  e. 


198 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Cor.  Not  a  whit,  Touclistone  :  those  tliat  are  good 
mauner.->  at  the  court  are  as  ridiculous  in  the  country, 
a£  the  behaviour  of  the  country  is  most  mockable  at 
the  couit.  Vou  told  inc,  you  salute  not  at  the  court, 
but  you  kiss  your  hands:  that  courtesy  would  be 
uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were  shepherds. 
Touch.  Instance,  briefly  ;  come,  instance. 
Cor.  Why,  we  are  .»;till  handling  our  ewes,  and  their  j 
fells,  you  know,  are  grea-'sy.  | 

Touch.  Why.  do  not  your  courtier's  hands  sweat? 
and  is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wholesome  as  the 
nweat  of  a  man?  Shallow,  shallow.  A  better  instance, 
say ;  come. 

Cor.  Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 
Touch.  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner  :  shallow 
again.     A  more  sounder  instance:  come. 

Cor.  And  they  are  often  tarred  over  with  the  surgery 
of  our  sheep  :  and  would  you  have  us  kiss  tar  ?  The 
courtiers  hands  are  perfumed  with  civet. 

Touch.  Most  shallow  man  !  Thou  worms-meat,  in 
respect  of  a  good  piece  of  flesh,  indeed  ! — Learn  of  the 
wise,  and  perpend  :  civet  is  of  a  baser  birth  than  tar ; 
the  very  uncleanly  flux  of  a  cat.  Mend  the  instance, 
shepherd. 

Cor.  You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me  :  I  '11  rest. 
Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned?  God  help  thee, 
shallow  man  !  God  make  incision  in  thee  !  thou  art  raw. 
Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  labourer  :  I  earn  that  I  eat, 
get  that  I  wear;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's 
happiness  ;  glad  of  other  men's  good,  content  with 
my  harm  :  and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is,  to  see  my 
ewes  graze,  and  my  lambs  suck. 

Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you  ;  to  bring 
the  ewe^  and  tlie  rams  together,  and  to  offer  to  get 
your  living  by  the  copulation  of  cattle ;  to  be  bawd  to 
a  bell-wether,  and  to  betray  a  she-lamb  of  a  twelve- 
month, to  a  crooked-pated.  old.  cuckoldly  ram,  out  of 
all  reasonable  match.  If  thou  be'st  not  daiVined  for 
tliis,  the  devil  himself  will  have  no  shepherds :  I 
cannot  see  else  how  thou  shouldst  'scape. 

Cor.  Here  comes  young  master  Gan>Tnede,  my 
new  mistress's  brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  reading  a  paper. 
Ros.    From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  M  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  hears  Rosalind. 
All  the  pictures,  fairest  lin'd^, 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mijid, 
But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 
Touch.  I  '11  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together,  din- 
ners, and  suppers,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted  :  it  is 
*he  richt  butter-women"s  rank*  to  market. 
Ros.  Out,  fool  ! 
Touch.  For  a  taste  : — 

*'  If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 
Let  him  !«eek  out  Hosalind. 
If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 
So,  be  sure,  will  Hosalind. 
Winter'  garments  must  be  lin'd, 
So  must  slender  Rosalind. 
They  that  reap  must  sheaf  and  bind, 
Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 
Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 
Such  a  nut  is  Ro.salind. 
He  that  sweetest  rose  will  find. 
Must  find  love's  prick,  and  Rosalind." 


•  Dtlin'nttd.      '  Following  in  jog-trot,  one  after  another.      '  Wintred :  in  f.  e. 
I»  frec'^^'  '!•-  spoken  of  in  old  writor*. 


This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses  :    why  do  yot 
infect  yourself  with  them  ? 

Ros.  Peace  !  you  dull  fool :  I  found  them  on  a  tree. 

Touch.  Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I  '11  gratr  it  with  you.  and  then  I  shall  graff  it 

with  a  medlar :  then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  i'  the 

country  :  for  you  '11  be  rotten  e'er  you  be  half  ripe,  and 

that 's  the  right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said ;  but  whether  wisely  or  no, 
let  the  forest  judge. 

Enter  Celia,  reading  a  paper. 
Ros.  Peace  ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading :  stand  aside. 
Cel.  WTiy  shoidd  this  a*  desert  be  ? 
For  it  is  unpeopled  ?     No  ; 
Tongues  I ''II  Jmng  on  every  tree, 
That  shall  civil  sayings  show : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage., 
That  the  stretching  of  a  ."span 
Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

^Tivixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend: 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 
Or  at  every  sentence^  end. 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write  ; 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 
Heaven  ivould  in  little  show. 
Therefore  heaven  Nature  charged, 

That  one  body  .';hould  he  fiWd 
With  all  graces  wiilc  enlarged: 

Nature  presently  distiU'd 
Helenas  cheek,  but  not  her  heart, 

Cleopatra^ s  majesty, 
Atalanta's  better  part. 

Sad  Lucretia\'i  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  iras  devis'd. 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts. 
To  have  the  touches  dearest  priz'd. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 
Ros.  0,  most  gentle  Jupiter  ! — what  tedious  homily 
of  love  have  you  wearied  your  parishioners  withal,  and 
never  cried,  '•  Have  patience,  good  people  ! " 

Cel.  How  now?  back,  friends. — Shepherd,  go  off  a 
little  : — go  with  him.  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  honourable 
retreat;  though  not  with  bag  and  baggage,  yet  with 
scrip  and  scrippage.  [Exeunt  Corin  a?jrf  Touchstone 
Cel.  Didst  thou  hear  these  verses? 
Ros.  0!  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too;  for 
some  of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verset 
would  bear. 

Cel.  That 's  no  matter:  the  feet  might  bear  the  verses. 
Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not  bear 
themselves    without    the    verse,  and    therefore    stood 
lamely  in  the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear  without  wondering,  how  thy 
naviie  should  be  hanged  and  carved  upon  these  trees? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the  wonder, 
before  you  came  ;  for  look  here  what  I  found  on  a 
palm-tree  :  I  was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras' 
time,  that  I  was  an  Irish  rat*,  which  I  can  hardlj 
remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you,  who  hath  done  this  ? 
Ros.  Is  it  a  man? 

Pope  inserted,  '  a."      •  Rhyming  Irian  r»t»  to  death 


SCENE   II. 


AS   YOU   LIKE  IT. 


199 


Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his 
aeck  ?     Change  you  colour  ? 

Ros.  I  pr'>i.hee,  who  ? 

Cel.  0  lord,  lord !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends  to 
meet;  but  mountains  may  be  removed  with  earth- 
quakes, and  so  encounter. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  who  is  it? 

Cel.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pr-jiihee,  now,  with  most  petitionary 
vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Cel.  O,  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful 
wonderful  !  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after  that, 
out  of  all  whoop'ng  ! 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion  !  dost  thou  think,  though 
I  am  caparison'd  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and 
hose  in  my  disposition  ?  One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a 
Southsea  of  discovery:  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  who  is  it 
quickly ;  and  speak  apace.  I  would  thou  couldst  stam- 
mer, that  thou  mightst  pour  this  concealed  man  out  of 
thy  mouth,  as  wine  comes  out  of  a  narrow-mouth'd 
bottle;  either  too  much  at  once,  or  none  at  all.  I 
pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out  of  thy  mouth,  that  I  may 
drink  thy  tidings. 

Cel.  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Ros.  Is  he  of  God's  making?  What  manner  of 
man  ?  Is  his  head  worth  a  hat.  or  his  chin  worth  a 
beard  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Ros.  Why,  God  ■"A'ill  send  more,  if  the  man  will  be 
thankful.  Let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if 
thou  delay  me  not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin. 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripp'd  up  the  wres- 
tler's heels  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  de^-il  take  mocking  :  speak  sad* 
brow,  and  true  maid. 

Cel.  I 'faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.  Orlando? 

Cel.  Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day  !  what  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet 
and  hose  ? — What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st  him  ? 
What  said  he  ?  How  look"d  he  ?  Wherein  went  he  ? 
What  makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where 
remains  he  ?  How  parted  he  with  thee,  and  when  shalt 
thou  see  him  again  ?     Answer  me  in  one  word. 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's' mouth  first: 
't  is  a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this  age's  size. 
To  say,  ay,  and  no,  to  these  particulars  is  more  than 
to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  Bat  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest,  and 
m  man's  apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did  the 
day  he  wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,  as  to  resolve  the 
propositions  of  a  lover :  but  take  a  taste  of  my  finding 
him,  and  relish  it  with  good  observance.  I  found  him 
under  a  tree,  like  a  dropped  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  call'd  Jove's  tree,  when  it  drops 
fewiih  such  fruit. 

Cel.  Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.  Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he  stretch'd  along,  like  a  wounded 
knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it  well 
becomes  the  ground. 

Cel.  Cry,  holla  !  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee  :  it  curvets 
unseasonably.     He  was  furnish'd  like  a  hunter. 

Ros.  0  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden  :  thou 
bring'st*  me  out  of  tune. 


Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I  think 
I  must  speak.     Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques. 

Cel.  You  bring  me  out. — Soft  !  conies  he  not  here' 

Ros.  'T  is  he  :  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[Rosalind  and  Celia  retire. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company  :  but,  good  faith, 
I  had  as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.  And  so  had  I :  but  yet,  for  fashion  sake,  1  thank 
you  too  for  your  society. 

Jaq.  Good  bye,  you :  let 's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 

Orl.  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  -strangers. 

Jag.  I  pray  you.  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing 
love-songs  in  their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pray  you  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with  read- 
ing them  ill-favouredly. 

Jaq.  Rosalind  is  your  love's  name? 

Orl.  Yes.  just. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orl.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when  she 
was  christened. 

Jaq.  What  stature  is  she  of? 

Orl.  Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers.  Have  you  not 
been  acquainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and  conn'd 
them  out  of  rings? 

Orl.  Not  so ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth*, 
from  whence  you  have  studied  your  questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  vnt :  I  think  't  was  made  of 
Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me  ?  and  we 
two  will  rail  against  our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our 
misery. 

Orl.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world,  but  my- 
self, against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.  The  worst  fault  you  have  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'T  is  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best  vir- 
tue.    I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  1  was  seeking  for  a  fool  when  I 
found  you. 

Orl.  He  is  drovra'd  in  the  brook :  look  but  in,  and 
you  shall  see  him. 

Jaq.  There  I  shall  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool,  or  a  c^-pher. 

Jaq.  I  '11  tarry  no  longer  with  you.  Farewell,  good 
signior  love. 

Orl.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure.  Adieu,  good 
monsieur  melancholy. 

[Exit  Jaques. — Rosalind  and  Celia  come  forwaid. 

Ros.  [J.nde  to  Celia.]  I  will  speak  to  him  hke  a 
saucy  lackey,  and  under  that  habit  play  the  knave 
with  him.   [To  him.]  Do  you  hear,  forester  ? 

Orl.  Very  well :  wliat  would  you? 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is  't  o'clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'  day  :  there  's 
no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then,  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else 
sighing  every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour,  would 
detect  the  lazy  foot  of  time  as  well  as  a  clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  had  not 
that  been  as  proper  ? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir.  Time  travels  in  divers  paces 
with  divers  persons.  I  '11  tell  you  who  Time  ambles 
withal,  who  Time  trots  withal,  who  Time  gallops  withal_ 
and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl.  I  pr')i:hee.  who  doth  he  trot  \s-ithal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  be- 
tween the  contract  of  her  marriage,  and  the  day  it  la 
solemnized  :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  Time's 


^antj  who  swallo-wed  five  pilgrims  in  a  salad.      '  Puttest  me  out.      ♦  In  the  style  of  the  m  iral  maxims  i>amted  ir 


'  Serio-JB.      »  Rabelais'  giant,  who  swallo-wed  five  pilgrims  in  a 
Bmao  with  pictures  on  cloth,  hung  around  rooms  like  tapeiicry. 


200 


AS   YOU   LIKE  IT. 


pace  ia  so    ard  that  it  seems  the  length  of  seven  years. 

Orl.  Who  anibk'S  Time  witlial  ? 

Ros.  With  a  prii-st  that  hicks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man 
that  hath  not  the  gout;  lor  the  one  .sleeps  easily, 
because  he  cannot  .-^tudy  ,  and  tlie  oilier  lives  merrily, 
because  he  feel.^  no  pain  :  the  one  lacking  the  burden 
of  lean  and  wasteful  learning,  the  other  knowing  no 
burden  of  lieavy  tedious  penury.  These  Time  ambles 
withal. 

Orl.  Wlio  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  Witli  a  tiiief  to  the  gallows  ;  for  though  he  go 
as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon 
here. 

Orl.  Who  stands  he'  still  wiihal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ;  for  they  sleep 
between  term  and  term,  and  then  they  peroeive  not 
how  time  moves. 

Orl.  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth? 

A' 05.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister  :  here  in  the 
skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orl    Are  you  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  coney,  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is 
kindled. 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could 
purcha.^e  in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many  :  but,  indeed,  an 
old  religious  \incle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak,  who 
was  in  his  youth  an  inland  man  ;  one  that  knew  court- 
ship too  well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love.  I  have  heard 
him  read  many  lectures  against  it :  and  I  thank  God, 
I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touched  with  so  many  giddy 
offences,  as  he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole  sex 
withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils 
that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal  :  they  were  all  like 
ene  another,  as  half-pence  are ;  every  one  fault  seem- 
ing monstrous,  till  his  fellow  fault  came  to  match  it. 

Orl.  I  pr'ythce.  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  on 
those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest, 
that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on 
their  barks  ;  hangs  odes  upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies 
on  brambles  :  all.  for.sooth,  deifying  the  name  of  Rosa- 
lind :  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger  I  would  give 
him  some  good  coun.sel,  for  he  seems  to  liave  the  quo- 
tidian of  love  upon  him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shakcd.  I  pray  you, 
tell  me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you  : 
nc  taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  :  in  which 
case  of  rushes,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  prisoner. 

Orl.  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not :  a  blue  eye, 
and  sunki'ii.  which  you  have  not;  an  unquestionable 
spirit,  which  you  have  not  ;  a  beard  neglected,  which 
you  have  n:;: — but  I  pardon  you  for  that,  for,  simply, 
your  having  in  beard  is  a  younger  brother's  revenue. 
— Then,  your  hosi-  should  be  ungarter'd.  your  bonnet 
unhanded,  your  sleeve  unbutloncd.  your  shoe  untied, 
and  every  thing  about  you  demonstrating  a  careless 
desolation.  But  you  are  no  such  man;  you  are  rather 
point-device'  in  your  accoutrements  ;  as  loving  yourself, 
'ban  per-ming  the  lover  of  any  other. 

Ori.  Fair  youth,  I  would  1  could  make  thee  believe 
1  lov«». 

xto5.  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her  that 

you  love  believe  it  ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to 

do,  than  to  confess  she  does  .  that  is  one  of  the  points 

tax*  it :  it  f. 


in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to  their  con- 
sciences. But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs 
the  verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so  ad 
mired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of 
Rosalind,  I  am  that  he.  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes 
speak  ? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  exprc'^s  how- 
much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness,  and,  I  tell  you,  de- 
serves as  well  a  dark  house,  and  a  whip,  as  madmen 
do  ;  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and 
cured,  is.  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinaiT,  that  the  whip- 
pers  are  in  love  too.     Yet  I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one  :  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to 
imagine  me  his  love,  his  mistress,  and  I  set  him  every 
day  to  woo  me  :  at  which  time  would  I.  being  but  a 
moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  changeable,  long- 
ing, and  liking;  proud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  in- 
constant, full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles  :  for  every  passion 
something,  and  for  no  passion  truly  any  thing,  as  boys 
and  women  are.  for  the  most  part,  cattle  of  this  colour  : 
would  now  like  him,  now  loathe  him  ;  then  entertain 
him,  then  forswear  him  ;  now  weep  for  him,  tlun  spit 
at  him  :  that  I  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour 
of  love,  to  a  loving  humour  of  madness  ;  which  was,  to 
forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world,  and  to  live  in  a 
nook,  merely  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured  him ;  and 
this  way  will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as 
clean  as  a  sovmd  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be 
one  spot  of  love  in  't. 

Orl.  I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me 
Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me. 

Orl.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will.  Tell  ma 
where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  witih  me  to  it,  and  T  '11  show  it  you  ;  and, 
by  the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you 
live.     Will  you  go? 

Orl.  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind. — Come,  sis- 
ter, will  you  go  ?  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey  ;  Jaques  behind, 


observing  them. 
Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey 


will  fetch  up 
your  goats,  Audrey.  And  how,  Audrey  ?  am  I  the 
man  yet?     Doth  my  simple  feature  content  you? 

Aid.  Your  features  ?  Lord  warrant  us  !  what  fea- 
tures ? 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the 
most  capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the 
Goths. 

Jaij.  [Aside.]  0  knowledge  ill-inhabited  !  wors« 
than  Jove  in  a  thatch'd  house  !* 

Touch.  When  a  mans  verses  cannot  be  understood, 
nor  a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the  forward  child 
understanding,  it  strikes  a  man  more  dead  than  a  great 
reckoning  in  a  little  room. — Truly,  I  would  the  gods 
had  made  thee  poetical. 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is.  Is  it  honest 
in  deed,  and  word  ?     Is  it  a  true  thing  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the  most 
feigning  ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetr>',  and  vrhat 
they  swear  in  poetry,  it  may  be  said,  as  lovers  they  do 
feign. 


Exact,  derived  from  a  kind  of  needlework.      '  Alluding  to  Baucii  and  Philemon,  in  Una 


SCENE  IV. 


AS   YOU   LIKE  IT. 


201 


Aud.  Do  you  wish,  then,  that  the  gods  had  made  me  :      Touch.  Come,  sweet  Audrey  : 
poetical  ?  I  We  must  be  married;  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry 

Touch.  I  do,  trvily  ;  for  thou  swear'st  to  me,  thou  art   Farew-ell,  good  master  Oliver  !     Not 
now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might  have  some 


tionest 

hope  thou  didst  feign. 

Aiid.  Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 

Touch.  No  truly,  unless  tliou  wert  hard-favoured ; 
for  honesty  coupled  to  beauty  is  to  have  honey  a  sauce 
to  sugar. 

Jaq.  [Aside.]  A  material  fool. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair,  and  therefore,  I  pray  the 
gods,  make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon  a  foul 
elut  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 

Aud.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods  I  am 
foul.' 

Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness  : 
siuttishness  may  come  hereafter.  But  be  it  as  it  may 
be,  I  will  marry  thee :  and  to  that  end,  I  have  been 
with  sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  the  vicar  of  the  next  village, 
who  hath  promised  to  meet  me  in  this  place  of  the 
forest,  and  to  couple  us. 

Jciq.   [Aside.]  I  would  fain  see  this  meeting. 

Aud.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy. 

Touch.  Amen.  A  man  might,  if  he  were  of  a  fearful 
he2irt.  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have  no 
temple  but  the  wood,  no  assembly  but  horn-beasts. 
But  what  though  ?  Courage  !  As  horns  are  odious, 
they  are  necessary.  It  is  said, — many  a  man  knows 
no  end  of  his  goods  :  right ;  many  a  man  has  good 
horns,  and  knows  no  end  of  them.  Well,  that  is  the 
do\^Tj'  of  his  wife :  "t  is  none  of  his  own  getting.  Are 
horns  given  to  poor  men  alone  ?' — No,  no  ;  the  noblest 
deer  hath  them  as  huge  as  the  rascal'.  Is  the  single 
man  therefore  blessed  ?  No  :  as  a  wall'd  town  is  more 
worthier  than  a  village,  so  is  the  forehead  of  a  married 
man  more  honourable  than  the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor  ; 
and  by  how  much  defence  is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so 
much  is  a  horn  more  precious  than  to  want. 

Enter  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text. 
Here  comes  sir  Oliver. — Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  you  are 
well  met :  will  you  dispatch  us  here  under  this  tree,  or 
shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 

Sir  OH.  Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman? 

Touch.  I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  OH.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  marriage 
is  not  lawful. 

Jaq.  [coining  forward.]  Proceed,  proceed  :  I  '11  give 
her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  Mr,  What-ye-call  "t :  how 
do  yon,  sir  ?  You  are  very  well  met :  God'ild  you*  for 
your  last  company.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  : — even 
£  toy  in  hand  here,  sir. — Nay  ;  pray,  be  cover'd. 

Ja(j.  Will  you  be  married,  motley  ? 

Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,'  sir,  the  horse  his 
curb,  and  the  falcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath  his  desires; 
and  as  pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock  would  be  nibbling. 

Jaq.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breeding, 
be  married  under  a  bush,  like  a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to 
church,  and  have  a  good  priest  that  can  tell  you  what 
marriage  is  :  this  fellow  will  but  join  you  together  as 
they  join  wainscot ;  then,  one  of  you  ^^^ll  prove  a  slirunk 
pannel.  and,  like  green  timber,  warp.  warp. 

Touch.  I  am  not  in  the  mind,  but  I  were  better  to 
be  married  of  him  than  of  another  :  for  he  is  not  like 
to  marn-  me  well,  and  not  being  well  married,  it  will 
be  a  good  excuse  for  me  hereafter  to  leave  my  wife. 

Jaq.  Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 


0  sweet  Oliver  !  0  brave  Oliver  ! 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee  : 

But  wend'  away,  begone.  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wxdding  bind'  thee. 
[Exeunt  J.iQUES,  Touchstone,  and  Audrey. 
Sir  OH.  'T  is  no  matter :  ne'er  a  fantastical  knave 
of  them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.       [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     Before  a  Cottage. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.  Never  talk  to  me  :  I  will  weep. 

Cel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee  ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to  con 
sider,  that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire  :  therefore 
weep. 

Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  colour. 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's.  Marry,  his 
kisses  are  Judas^s  ow^l  children. 

Ros.  V  faith,  liis  hair  is  of  a  good  colour. 

Cel.  An  excellent  colour :  your  chestnut  was  ever 
the  only  colour. 

Ros.  Aud  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanctity  as  the 
touch  of  holy  bread. 

Cel.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of  Diana 
a  nun  of  winter's  sisterhood  kisses  not  more  religiously 
the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  them. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this 
morning,  and  comes  not  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Ros.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Cel.  Yes  :  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-punse,  nor  a 
horse-stealer  ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love.  I  do  think  him 
as  concave  as  a  covered*  goblet,  or  a  worm-eaten  nut 

Ros.  Not  true  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but,  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Ros.  You  haA'e  heard  him  swear  downright,  he  was. 

Cel.  Was  is  not  is  :  besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover  is 
no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster  ;  they  are  both 
the  confirmers  of  false  reckonings.  He  attends  here 
in  the  forest  on  the  duke  your  father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much  ques- 
tion with  him.  He  asked  me,  of  what  parentage  I 
w\as  ?  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he ;  so  he  laughed, 
and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when 
there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

Cel.  0.  that 's  a  brave  man  !  he  writes  brave  verses, 
speaks  braA'e  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  ajd  breaks 
them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart  the  heart  of  his 
lover  ;  as  a  puny  filter,  that  spurs  his  horse  but  on  one 
side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble  goose.  But  all 's 
brave,  that  youth  mounts,  and  folly  guides. — ^Wh« 
comes  here  ? 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor.  Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  inquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love. 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel.  Well ;  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.  If  you  viill  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love. 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 


'  Hcmely. 
f  t.      1  vrltb 


Horns  ? 
9  Emptv 


Even  so  : — Poor  men  alone  ?     »  Lean,  poor  deer.      «  Yield  you.      »  Yoke,  shaped  like  a  bow.      •  vk-iul ; 


202 


AS   YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ACT  m. 


Ros.  0  !  come,  let  us  remove  : 

Tlie  sight  of  lovers  fcedetii  those  in  love. — 
Bring  us  to  this  sight,  and  you  siiall  say 
I  '11  prove  a  busy  actor  in  liieir  play.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Sii.viis  and  Phebe. 

SU.  Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me ;  do  not,  Phebe : 
Say  that  you  love  nic  not  :  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.     Tlie  eonunon  executioner. 
Whose  lieart  th"  aecust(iin"d  sight  of  death  makes  hard, 
Falls  not  the  a.\e  upon  tlie  humbled  neck. 
But  fir.>;t  bogs  pardon:  will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  kills'  and  lives  by  bloody  drops  ? 
Enter  IiOSAMND,  Cei>ia,  and  Corin,  behind. 

Plie.  I  would  not  be  thy  executioner  : 
fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tell'st  ine,  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye : 
"T  is  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable, 
That  eyes,  that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies. 
Should  be  call'd  tyrants,  butchers,. murderers  ! 
Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 
And,  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill  thee  ; 
Now  counterfeit  to  swoon  ;  why,  now  fall  down; 
Or,  if  thou  canst  not.  O.  for  shame   for  shame  ! 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 
Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee  : 
Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 
Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush. 
The  cicatrice  and  palpable'  impre.«sure 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps ;  but  now  mine  eyes, 
Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not, 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 

SU.  0!  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever,  (as  that  ever  may  be  near) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But  till  that  time 

Come  not  thou  near  me ;  and  when  that  time  comes 
Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not, 
As  till  that  time  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.    [Advancing.^    And  why,   I  pray  you?     Who 
might  be  your  mother, 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over  the  wretched  ?    What  though  you  have  no  beauty, 
As.  by  my  faith.  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed. 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  this?     Why  do  you  look  on  me? 
[  see  no  more  in  you,  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work  : — Ods  my  little  life  ! 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too. 
No,  'faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it: 
^Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black-silk  hair. 
Your  bugle  eye-balls,  nor  your  check  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  propercr  man, 
Than  she  a  woman  :  't  is  such  fools  as  you. 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favonr'd  children. 
■'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you.  that  flatters  her; 
And  out  of  yon  she  sees  herself  more  proper, 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. — 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself:  down  on  your  knees. 
And  thank  heaven  fasting  for  a  good  man's  love ; 


is  f .  • 


>  capable  :  in  f,  s       'An  alluaion  to  Marlowe  and 


For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear. 
Sell  when  you  can:  you  are  not  for  all  markets. 
Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer : 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scolTcr. 
So,  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd. — Fare  you  well. 

Phc.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you,  chide  a  year  together 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide,  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  your  foulness,  and 
she  '11  fall  in  love  with  my  anger.  If  it  be  so.  as  fast 
as  she  answers  Ihce  with  frowning  locks,  I  '11  sauce 
her  with  bitter  words. — Why  look  you  bo  upon  me? 

Phe.  For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.  1  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 
Besides,  I  like  you  not. — If  you  will  know  my  house, 
'T  is  at  the  tuft  of  olives,  here  hard  by. — 
Will  you  go,  sister? — Shepherd,  ply  her  hard. — 
Come,  sister. — Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 
And  be  not  proud :  though  all  the  world  could  see, 
None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  he. 
Come,  to  our  flock. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind,  C£1,ia,  and  Corin. 

Phe.  Dead  shepherd  !  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might, 
"  Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov"d  not  at  first  sight  ?"* 

SU.  Sweet  Phebe  ! 

Phe.  Ha  !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius? 

SU.  Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Phe.  Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

SU.  Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be : 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 
By  gi\ing  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermin'd. 

Phe.  Thou  hast  my  love:  is  not  that  neighbourly? 

SU.  I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was  that  I  hated  thee. 
And  yet  it  is  not  that  I  bear  thee  love  ; 
But  since  that  thou  canst,  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure,  and  I'll  employ  thee  too; 
But  do  not  look  for  farther  recompense. 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ'd. 

SU.  So  holy,  and  so  perfect  is  my  love. 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps,  loose  now  and  then 
A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I'll  live  upon. 

Phe.  Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me  ere 
while  ? 

SU.  Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds, 
That  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of. 

Phc.  Think  not  I  love  him.  though  I  ask  for  him. 
'T  is  but  a  peevish  boy : — yet  he  talks  well : — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do  well, 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth : — not  very  pretty  : — 
But,  sure,  he 's  proud ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him 
He  '11  make  a  proper  man  :  the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion  ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  oflTence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall  ;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tali 
His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet  't  is  well : 
There  wa.s  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip; 
A  little  riper,  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mix'd  in  his  check:  'twas  just  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red,  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  maik'd  him 
h'.E  Hero  andLeander,  where  the  quotation  is  to  l>e  found. 


80ENE  L 


AS  YOU  LIKE  rr. 


203 


In  parcels,  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 

To  fall  in  love  with  him ;  but  for  my  part 

I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not,  and  yet 

I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him ; 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 

He  said  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black ; 

And,  now  I  am  remember"d,  scorn'd  at  me : 

I  nmrvel  why  I  answer'd  not  again : 


But  that 's  all  one  ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 
I  '11  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it:  wilt  thou,  Silvius? 

Sil.  Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I  '11  write  it  straight 

The  matter  's  in  my  head,  and  in  my  heart : 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short. 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Forest  of  Arden. 
Enter  Rosalind.  Celia,  and  Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better 
acquainted  with  thee. 

Ros.  They  say.  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.  I  am  sj :  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either  are 
abominable  fellows,  and  betray  themselves  to  every 
modern  censure  worse  than  drunkards. 

Jaq.  Why,  't  is  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.     Why  then,  't  is  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy,  which 
is  emulation ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is  fantastical ; 
nor  the  courtier's,  which  is  proud ;  nor  the  soldier's, 
which  is  ambitious;  nor  the  la\\->-er's,  which  is  politic; 
nor  the  lady's,  which  is  nice ;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is 
all  these :  but  it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  com- 
pounded of  many  simples,  extracted  from  many  objects, 
and,  indeed,  the  sundry  contemplation  of  my  travels ; 
which  by'  often  rumination  wraps  me  in  a  most 
humorous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller  !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great 
reason  to  be  sad.  I  fear,  you  have  sold  your  own 
lands,  to  see  other  men's ;  then,  to  have  seen  much, 
and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor 
hands. 

Jaq.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 
Enter  Orlando. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad.  I  had 
rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merrj',  than  experience 
to  make  me  sad.     And  to  travel  for  it  too  ! 

Orl.  Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind. 

Jaq.  Nay  then,  God  be  wi'  you,  an  you  talk  in  blank 
rerse.  [Exit. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller:  look  you  lisp, 
and  wear  strange  suits;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your 
own  country ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and 
almost  chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance 
you  are,  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a 
go'idola. — Why,  how  now,  Orlando  !  where  have  you 
been  all  this  while?  You  a  lover?  An  you  serve  me 
snch  another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  1  come  within  an  hour  of  my 
promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  !  He  that 
will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break 
but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the 
affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  that  Cupid  hath 
clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  '11  warrant  him 
heart-whole. 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay.  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my 
tught :  I  had  as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a  snail. 

Orl.  Of  a  snail? 

•  "ii  -which  my"  ia  the  reading  of  the  2d  folio;  adopted  by  Knij 
•  chnm.clers  :  in  f.  e.     Hanmer  also  suggested  the  change. 


Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly, 
he  carries  his  house  on  his  head,  a  better  jointure,  I 
think,  than  you  make  a  w^oman.  Besides,  he  brings 
his  destiny  with  him. 

Orl.  What's  that? 

Ros.  Why,  horns ;  which  such  as  you  are  fain  to  be 
beholden  to  your  wives  for :  but  he  comes  armed  in  his 
fortune,  and  prevents  the  slander  of  his  vnte. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker,  and  my  Rosalind  is 
virtuous. 

Ros.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath  a 
Rosalind  of  a  better  leer'  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me  ;  for  now  I  am  in  a 
holiday  humour,  and  like  enough  to  consent. — ^What 
would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your  very  very 
Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first;  and  when 
you  were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might  take 
occasion  to  kiss.  Very  good  orators,  when  they  are 
out,  they  will  spit ;  and  for  lovers,  lacking  (God  warn 
us  !)  matter,  the  cleanliest  shift  is  to  kiss. 

Orl.  How-  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there 
begins  new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloveii 
mistress  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your  mis- 
tress, or  I  should  thank  my  honesty  rather  than  my 
wit.' 

Orl.  What,  out  of  my  suit  ? 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of  your 
suit.     Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would 
be  talking  of  her. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person  I  say — I  will  not  have  you. 

Orl.  Then,  in  m.ine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  'faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is 
almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time  there 
was  not  any  man  died  in  his  ovai  person,  videlicet,  in  a 
love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed  out  with  a 
Grecian  club ;  yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  before, 
and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he 
would  have  lived  many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had 
turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hot  midsummer 
night ;  for,  good  youth,  he  went  but  forth  to  wash  liira 
in  the  Hellespont,  and,  being  taken  \sith  the  cramp, 
was  dro^^^led,  and  the  foolish  coroners*  of  that  age 
found  it  was— Hero  of  Sestos.  But  these  are  all  lies 
men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  hav« 
eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this 
mind,  for,  I  protest,  her  fro^vn  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.     But  come, 

;ht.         Fe4iturt      »  think  my  honesty  ranker  than  my  wit  r  in  f.  t. 


204 


AS   YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ACT   IV. 


now  I  will  be  your  IJosalind  in  a  more  coming-on-dis- 
position.  and  ask  nie  what  vou  wnll,  I  will  grant  it. 

Orl.  Tln-n  love  inc.  Hosa'lind.  [all. 

Ros.  Yes.  laith  will  I;  Fridays,  and  Saturdays,  and 

Orl.  And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.  Wiiat  sayst  thou  ? 

Ros.  Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.  I  hojic  so. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good 
thing'.' — Conio.  sister,  you  shall  be  the  piiest,  and  marry 
us  ^Jivc  me  your  hand,  Orlando. — What  do  you  say, 
sister  ? 

Oil.  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.  I  caimot  say  the  words. 

Ros.  You  must  begin, — ''  Will  you,  Orlando." — 

Cel.  Go  to. — Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wile  this 
Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  will. 

Ros.  Ay.  but  when  ? 

Orl.  Why  now ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marr^-  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say. — "I  take  thee,  Rosalind, 
for  wife." 

Orl.  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission ;  but, — 
I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband.  There  "s  a 
girl,  goes  before  the  priest ;  and,  certainly,  a  woman's 
thought  runs  before  her  actions. 

Orl.  So  do  all  thoughts :  they  are  winged. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  you  would  have  her, 
after  you  have  po.«sessed  her  ? 

Orl.  For  ever,  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever.  No,  no,  Orlando : 
men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December  when  they 
wed :  maids  are  May  when  they  arc  maids,  but  the 
sky  changes  when  they  are  wives.  I  will  be  more 
jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his 
hen ;  more  clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain ;  more 
new-fangled  than  an  ape ;  more  giddy  in  my  desires 
than  a  monkey  :  I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in 
the  fountain,  and  I  will  do  that  when  you  are  disposed 
to  be  merry ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when 
thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so? 

Ros.  By  my  lite,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.  0  !  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  ^^•it  to  do  this : 
the  wiser,  the  way  warder.  Make'  the  doors  upon  a 
woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  casement:  shut 
that,  and  't  will  out  at  the  key-hole:  stop  that,  'twill 
fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the  chimney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he 
might  say.— "Wit,  whither  wilt?" 

Ros.  Nay.  you  might  keep  that  check  for  it,  till  you 
met  your  wiles  wit  going  to  your  neighbour's  bed. 

Orl.  And  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse  that  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  to  say, — she  came  to  seek  you  there. 
You  shall  never  take  her  without  her  answer,  unless 
you  take  lier  without  her  tongue.  0 !  that  woman 
that  cannot  make  her  fault  her  husband's  accusing,' 
let  her  never  nurse  her  child  herself,  for  she  will  breed 
it  like  a  fool. 

Orl    For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 

Roi    Alas  !  dear  love.  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  diimcr :  by  two 
o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay.  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways. — I  knew  what 
fou  would  prove;  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I 
thought  no  less : — that  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won 

>  Make  ia»t.      »  occa*ioQ  :  in  f.  e.      *  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦  ii  gone  :  in  f. 


me : — 't  is  hut  one  cast  away,  and  so, — come,  death  !— 
Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

Orl.  Ay,  sweet  Hosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  '^o  God 
mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  danger- 
ous, if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise,  or  come  one 
minute  behind  your  hour.  I  will  think  you  the  most 
pathetical  break-promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover, 
and  the  nio.st  unworthy  of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that 
may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  unfaithful. 
Therefore,  beware  my  censure,  and  keep  your  promise. 

Orl.  With  no  less  religion,  than  if  thou  wert  indeed 
my  Rosalind:  so,  adieu. 

Ros.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all 
such  offenders,  and  let  time  try  you'.     Adieu  ! 

[Exit  Orlando. 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misused  our  sex  in  your  love- 
prate.  We  must  have  your  doublet  and  hose  plucked 
over  your  head,  and  show  the  world  what  the  bird  hath 
done  to  her  own  nest. 

Ros.  0!  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou 
didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in  love  I  But 
it  cannot  be  sounded :  my  affection  hath  an  unknown 
bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fa«t  as  you  pour 
affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No  ;  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus,  that 
was  begot  of  thought,  conceived  of  spleen,  and  born  of 
madness  ;  that  blind  rascally  boy.  that  abuses  every- 
one's eyes,  because  his  own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge 
how  deep  I  am  in  love. — I  '11  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot 
be  out  of  tlie  sight  of  Orlando.  I  '11  go  find  a  shadow, 
and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.  And  I  '11  sleep.  [Exaint. 

SCENE  II.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Jaques  and  Lords,  like  Foresters. 
Jag.  Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer? 

1  Lord.  Sir,  it  was  I. 

Jag.  Let 's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a  Roman 
conqueror  :  and  it  would  do  well  to  set  the  deer's  horns 
upon  his  head  for  a  branch  of  victory. — Have  you  no 
song,  forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

2  Lord.  Yes,  sir. 

Jag.  Sing  it :  't  is  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune,  so  it 
make  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

What  .shall  he  have  that  kiWd  the  deer  ? 
His  leather  skin,  and  horns  to  wear. 
Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn; 
It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born. 

Thy  father's  father  wore  it, 
And  thy  father  bore  it: 
The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn, 
Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn. 


[Then  sing  him 

iioine  :   the  re»t 

shall    beai  thit 
burden.] 


[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Forest. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Ros.  How  say  you  now  ?  Is  it  not  past  two  o'clock ' 
And  here  much  Orlando  ! 

Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love,  and  troublea 
brain, 
He  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  gone*  forth — 
To  sleep.     Look,  who  comes  here. 
E7iter  SiLviL's. 
Sil.  My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth. — 
My  gentle  Phebe  did  bid  me  give  you  this  : 

[Giving  a  letter.^     Ros.  rends  it. 

i.     *  The  reit  of  this  stage  direction  not  in  f.  s. 


SCENE  ni. 


AS   YOIT  LIKE  IT. 


205 


'  know  not  the  contents ;  but  as  I  guess, 
By  the  stern  brow  and  waspish  action, 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
It  bears  an  angry  tenour.     Pardon  me, 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 

Ros.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter, 
And  play  the  swaggerer :  bear  this,  bear  all. 
She  says,  I  am  not  fair ;  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud,  and  that  she  could  not  love  me. 
Were  man  as  rare  as  Phoenix.     Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt : 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me  ? — Well,  shepherd,  well ; 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Sil.  No,  I  protest ;  I  know  not  the  contents  : 
Phebe  did  write  it. 

Ros.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool. 

And  turn'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand  :  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 
A  freestone-colour'd  hand  :  I  verily  did  think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on.  but  't  was  her  hands  : 
She  has  a  housewife's  hand  :  but  that  ^s  no  matter. 
I  say,  she  never  did  invent  this  letter : 
This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  his  hand. 
Sil.  Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Ros.  Why,  't  is  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers :  why,  she  defies  me, 
Like  Turk  to  Christian.     Woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance. — Will  yott  hear  the  letter? 

Sil.  So  please  you ;  for  I  never  heard  it  yet,, 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Ros.  She  Phebes  me.     Mark  how  the  tyrant  writes. 

"  Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turn'd, 

That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burn'd  ?" — 
Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 
Sil.  Call  you  this  railing  ? 
Ros.  '  Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 

Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart  ?" 
Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? — 

''  Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me. 

That  could  do  no  vengeance  to  me." — 
Meaning  me,  a  beast. — 

"  If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 

Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine. 

Alack  !  in  me  what  strange  effect 

Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  ? 

Whiles  you  chid  me,  I  did  love ; 

How  then  might  yoitr  prayers  move  ? 

He  that  brings  this  love  to  thee. 

Little  knows  this  love  in  me : 

And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind ; 

Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 

Will  the  faithful  offer  take 

Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make  ; 

Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny. 

And  then  I  '11  study  how  to  die." 
Sil.  Call  you  this  chiding  ? 
Cel.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  ! 

Ros.  Do  you  pity  him?  no;  he  deser\^es  no  pity. — 
Wilt  thou  love  such  a  woman  ? — What,  to  make  thee 
an  instrument,  and  play  false  strains  upon  thee  ?  not  to 
be  endured  ! — Well,  go  your  way  to  her,  (for  I  see, 
love  hath  made  thee  a  tame  snake)  and  say  this  to 
her : — that  if  she  love  me,  I  charge  her  to  love  thee ; 
if  she  will  not,  I  will  never  have  her,  unless  thou 
entreat  for  her. — If  you  be  a  true  lover,  hence,  and  not 
a  word,  for  here  comes  more  company.  [Exit  Silvius. 
Enter  Oliver. 
OH.  Good  morrow,  fair  ones.    Pray  you,  if  you  knoW; 


Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenc'd  about  with  olive-trees  ? 

Cel.  West  of  this   place,  dovra  in  the   neighboui 
bottom : 
The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place. 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There  's  none  within. 

Oli.  If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  should  I  know  you  by  description ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years : — •'  The  boy  is  "air, 
Of  female  favour,  and  bestows  himself 
Like  a  ripe  sister  :  the  woman  low, 
And  browner  than  her  brother."     Are  not  you 
The  o^A^ler  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for  ? 

Cel.  It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd.  to  say,  we  are. 

Oli.  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both  j 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Piosalind. 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin.     Are  you  lie  ? 

Ros.  I  am.     What  must  we  understand  by  this? 

Oli.  Some  of  my  shame  :  if  you  -will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am.  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stain'd. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

Oli.  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you, 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside. 
And.  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself ! 
Under  an  old  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with  age, 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  'SM-etched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  wdth  hair. 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back :  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  WTea-th'd  itself. 
Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approach'd 
The  opening  of  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly, 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself, 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush ;  under  which  bush's  shade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  dra-^Ti  dry-, 
Lay  coaching,  head  on  ground,  with  catlike  watch, 
When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir ;  for  't  is 
The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast, 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead. 
This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man, 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brothfir. 

Cel.  0  !  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother : 
And  he  did  render  him  the  most  umiatm-al 
That  liv'd  'mongst  men. 

Oli.  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  umiatural. 

Ros.  But,  to  Orlando. — Did  he  leave  him  there, 
Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ? 

Oli.  Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purpos'd  so ; 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge. 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion. 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness. 
V/ho  quickly  fell  before  him :  in  which  hurtling 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awak'd. 

Cel.  Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Ros.  Was  it  you  he  rescu'd  ? 

Cel.  Was  't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him? 

Oli.  'T  was  I :  but  't  is  not  I.     I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 

Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ? 

Oli.  B  r  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bath'd. 


206 


AS   YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ACT    V. 


As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place, 

[n  brief,  lie  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke, 

Who  gave  nic  fresh  array,  and  entertainment. 

Committing  me  unto  my  brothers  love  : 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave. 

There  stripp'd  hnnsolf;  and  here,  upon  his  arm, 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled;  and  now  he  fainted. 

And  cried  in  fainting  upon  Hosalind. 

Brief,  I  recoverM  him,  bound  up  his  wound  ; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am. 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 

His  broken  promise ;  and  to  give  this  napkin. 

Dyed  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 

That  lie  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  how  now,  Ganymede  ?  sweet  Ganymede  ? 
[Rosalind  swoons. 

OH.  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Cel.  There  is  more  in  it. — Cousin  ! — Ganymede  ! 

Oli.  Look,  he  recovers.  [Raising  her.^ 

Ros.  I  would  I  were  at  home. 


Cel.  We  '11  lead  you  thither.— 

I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

Oli.  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth. — You  a  man?  You  lacB 
A  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sirrah  !  a  body  would 
think  this  was  well  counterfeited.  )  pray  you,  tell 
your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited. — Heigh  ho  !  — 

Oli.  This  was  not  counterfeit:  there  is  too  great 
testimony  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion  of 
earnest. 

Ros.  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oli.  Well  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  couulerfeit 
to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do ;  but.  i'  faith,  I  should  have  been  a 
woman  by  right. 

Cel.  Come :  you  look  paler  and  paler  :  pray  you. 
draw  homewards, — Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

Oli.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back, 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  dcAise  something.  But,  I  pray  you, 
commend  my  counterfeiting  to  him. — Will  you  go  ? 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  FoTcst  of  Arden. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey :  patience, 
gentle  Audrey. 

Aud.  'Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all  the 
old  sentleman's  saying. 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  sir  Oliver,  Audrey ;  a  most 
vile  Mar-te.xt.  But,  Audrey ;  there  is  a  youth  here  in 
the  forest  lays  claim  to  you. 

Aud.  Ay.  I  know  who  't  is ;  he  hath  no  interest  in 
me  in  the  world.     Here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 
Eyiter  William. 

Touch.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a  clown. 
By  my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits  have  much  to 
answer  for :  we  shall  be  flouting  •  we  cannot  hold. 

Will.  Good  even,  Audrey. 

And.  God  ye  good  even,  William. 

Will.  And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy  head, 
cover  thy  head :  nay,  pr'ythee,  be  covered.  How  old 
are  you.  friend  ? 

Will.   Five  and  twenty,  sir. 

Tmch.  A  ripe  age.     Is  thy  name  William  ? 

mil.  William,  sir. 

Touch.  A  fair  name.     Wast  born  i'  the  forest  here? 

Will.  Ay.  sir,  I  thank  God. 

Touch.  Thank  God ; — a  good  answer.     Art  rich  ? 

Will.  'Faith,  sir,  so,  so. 

Touch.  So,  so.  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent 
good  ; — and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so  so.    Art  thou  wise  ? 

Will.  Ay.  .sir.  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why.  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  remember 
a  naying :  "  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise,  but  the 
wi.se  man  know.s  himself  to  be  a  fool."  The  heathen 
philosopher,  when  he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a  grape,  would 
open  his  lips  when  he  put  it  into  his  mouth,  meaning 
thereby,  that  to^apes  were  made  to  eat.  and  lips  to  open. 
You  do  love  this  maid? 

Will.  I  do.  sir. 

Touch.  Give  me  your  hand.     Art  thou  learned? 

Win.  No,  sir. 

•  Not  in  f.  «. 


Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me.  To  have,  is  to  have  : 
for  it  is  a  figure  in  rhetoric,  that  drink,  being  poured 
out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling  the  one  doth  empty 
the  other ;  for  all  your  writers  do  consent,  that  ipse  is 
he :  now,  you  are  not  ipse,  for  I  am  he. 

Will.  Which  he,  sir  ? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  tiiat  must  marry  this  woman.  There 
fore,  you  clown,  abandon. — which  is  in  the  \'ulgar 
leave,  the  society, — which  in  the  boorish  is,  company, 
— of  this  female. — which  in  the  common  is,  woman ; 
which  together  is.  abandon  the  society  of  this  female, 
or,  clown  thou  perishest ;  or.  to  thy  better  imderstand- 
ing.  diest ;  or,  to  wt,  I  kill  thee,  make  thee  away, 
translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy  liberty  into  bondage. 
I  will  deal  in  poison  with  thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in 
steel :  I  will  bandy  with  thee  in  faction  ;  I  will  o'er- 
run  thee  vdth  policy ;  I  will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and 
fi-fty  ways :  therefore  tremble,  and  depart. 

Arid.  Do,  good  William. 

Will.  God  rest  you  merry,  sir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you :  come,  away, 
away  ! 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey;  trip,  Audrey. — I  attend.  1 
attend.  [Excuuf. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Oliver. 

Orl.  Is  't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you 

should  like  her  ?  that,  but  seeing,  you  .should  love  her  ; 

and,  loving,  woo  ;  and,  wooing,  she  should  grant  ?  and 

will  you  persever  to  enjoy  her? 

Oli.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question,  the 
poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my  sudden  woo- 
ing, nor  her  sudden  con.scn1ing;  but  say  with  me,  I 
love  Aliena;  say  with  her,  that  she  loves  me;  consent 
witli  both,  that  wc  may  enjoy  each  other:  it  shall  be 
1  to  your  good  ;  for  my  father's  houee,  and  all  the  revenue 
I  that  was  old  sir  Rowlaiul's.  will  1  estate  upon  you,  and 
'  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd. 
I  Orl.  You  have  my  consent. 
Let  your  wedding  be  to-morrow    thither  will  1 


SCENE  m. 


AS   YOU  LIKE  n'. 


207 


iavite  the  duke,  and  all's  contented  followers. 

Enter  Rosalind. 
Go  yoii,  and  prepare  Aliena;  for,  look  you, 
Here  comes  my  Rosalind. 

Ros.  God  save  you,  brother. 

OH.  And  you,  fair  sister.  [Exit. 

Ros.  0  !  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see 
thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 

0/7.  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with 
the  claws  of  a  lion. 

Orl.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited 
to  swoon,  when  he  showed  me  your  handkerchief? 

Orl.  Ay.  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  0  !  I  know  where  you  are. — Nay,  't  is  true : 
there  was  never  any  thing  so  sudden,  but  the  fight  of 
two  rams,  and  Cscsar's  thrasonical  brag  of — "I  came, 
saw,"  and  "  overcame  :"  for  yoi;r  brother  and  my  sister 
no  sooner  met,  but  they  looked ;  no  sooner  looked,  but 
they  loved;  no  sooner  loved,  but  they  sighed;  no 
sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked  one  another  the  reason ; 
no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but  they  sought  the  re- 
medy :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made  a  pair  of 
stairs  to  marriage,  which  they  will  climb  incontinent, 
or  else  be  incontinent  before  marriage.  They  are  in 
the  very  wrath  of  love,  and  they  will  together :  clubs 
cannot  pai't  them. 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  I  will 
bid  the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But,  0  !  how  bitter  a 
thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through  another  man's 
eyes  !  By  so  much  the  more  shall  I  to-morrow  be  at 
the  height  of  heart-heaviness,  by  how  much  I  shall 
think  my  brother  happy  in  having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your  turn 
for  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you,  then,  no  longer  with  idle  talk- 
mg.  Know  of  me,  then,  (for  now  I  speak  to  some  pur- 
pose) that  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman  of  good  con- 
ceit. I  speak  not  this,  that  you  should  bear  a  good 
opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch,  I  say,  I  know  you 
are ;  neither  do  I  labour  for  a  greater  esteem  than  may 
in  some  little  measure  draw  a  belief  from  you,  to  do 
yourself  good,  and  not  to  grace  me.  Believe  then,  if 
you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange  things.  I  have,  since 
I  was  three  years  old.  conversed  with  a  magician,  most 
profound  in  his  art,  and  yet  not  damnable.  If  you  do 
love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as  your  gesture  cries  it 
out,  when  yovar  brother  marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry 
•  lier.  I  know  into  what  straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven ; 
and  it  is  not  impossible  to  me,  if  it  appear  not  incon- 
venient to  you,  to  set  her  before  your  eyes  to-morrow, 
human  as  she  is,  and  without  any  danger. 

Orl.  Speak'st  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do  ;  which  1  tender  dearly, 
mough  I  say  I  am  a  magician.  Therefore,  put  you 
in  your  best  array,  bid  your  friends,  for  if  you  will  be 
married  to-morrow,  you  shall,  and  to  Rosalind,  if  you 
will. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Phebe. 
Look  ;  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 

Phe.  Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungentleness, 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

Ros.  I  care  not.  if  I  have ;  it  is  my  study 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you. 
You  are  there  follow'd  by  a  faithful  shepherd  : 
Look  upon  him,  love  him  :  be  worships  you. 

Phe.  Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what 't  is  to  love. 


Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears  j 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service; 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy. 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  obedience' ; 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience; 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ; 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  yon? 
[To  Rosalind. 

Sil.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

[To  PlIEBE. 

Orl.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

Ros.  Who  do  you  speak  to,  "why  blame  you  mc 
to  love  you?" 

Orl.  To  her,  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this :  't  is  like  the  howl- 
ing of  Irish  wolves  against  the  moon. — I  will  help  you, 
[To  Silvius]  if  I  can: — I  would  love  you,  [To  Phebe] 
if  I  could. — To-morrow  meet  me  all  together. — I  will 
marry  you,  [To  Phebe]  if  ever  I  marry  woman,  and 
I'll  be  married  to-morrow: — I  will  satisfy  you,  [To 
Orlando]  if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be 
married  to-morrow: — I  will  content  you,  [To  Silvius] 
if  what  pleases  you  contents  you,  and  you  shall  be 
married  to-morrow. — As  you  [To  Orlando]  love  Ro- 
salind, meet; — as  you  [To  Silvius]  love  Phebe,  meet ; 
and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I  '11  meet. — So,  fare  you  well ; 
I  have  left  you  commands. 

Sil.  I  '11  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I.   [Exewnt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey :    to 
morrow  will  we  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  hope 
it  is  no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of 
the  world." 

Touch.  Here  come  two  of  the  banished  duke's  pages. 
Enter  tivo  Pages. 

1  Page.  Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met.  Come,  sit ;  sit,  aisd 
a  song. 

2  Page.  We  are  for  you :  sit  i'  the  middle. 

1  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into  't  roundly,  without  hawk 
ing,  or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse,  which  ar 
only  the  prologues  to  a  bad  voice  ? 

2  Page.  V  faith,  i'  faith ;  and  both  in  a  tune,  like  tw« 
gypsies  on  a  horse. 

SONG. 

It  was  a  lover,  and  his  lass. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonviio, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  ; 


1  observance  :  in  ; 


Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 
Malone  also  snggestecl  the  change       *  To  be  married. 


JW 


208 


AS   YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ACT  V. 


Between  the  acres  of  the  rye. 

With  a  hey.  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  vcould  lie. 

In  spring  time,  iVc. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hmir. 

With  a  hey.  and  a  ho.  and  a  hey  nonino, 
How  that  our  life  was  hut  afoiccr, 

In  spring  time,  iSc. 
And  therefore  take  the  present  time. 

With  a  hey.  and  a  ho.  and  a  hey  nonino. 
For  love  is  croirned  with  the  prime 

In  spring  time,  ifc. 
Tmich.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there  was 
Bo  great  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  was  very 
UHtimcable'. 

1  Page.  You  are  deceived,  sir :  we  kept  time ;  we 
OS/  not  our  time. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  yes;  I  count  it  but  time  lost 
to  hear  such  a  foolish  song.  God  be  wi'  you  ;  and  God 
mend  your  voices. — Come.  Audrey.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Duke  Senior.  Amiens,  Jaques,  Orlando, 

Oliver,  and  Celia. 
Duke  S.  Dost  thou  believe.  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orl.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not, 
As  those  that  fear  to'  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 
Enter  Rosalind,  Silvics.  and  Phebe. 
Ros.  Patience,  once   more,  whiles   our    compact  is 
heard^. — 
[To  the  Dike.]   You  say.  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind, 
You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 

Duke  S.  That  would  I.  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  ■with  her. 
Ros.  [To  Orlando.]    And  you  say.  you  will  have 

her.  when  I  bring  her  ? 
Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  l«ng. 
Ros.  [To  Phebe.]  You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I 

be  \\-illing? 
Phe.  That  will  1,  should  I  die  tlie  hour  after. 
Ros.  But  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You  "11  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd? 
Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 
Ros.  [To  Sii.vns.]  You  sav.  thai  vou  "11  have  Phebe. 

if  she  \>-ill  ? 
Sit.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one 

thing. 
Ros.  I  have  promis'd  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word.  0  duke  !  to  give  your  daughter  ; — 
You  yours.  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daushter : — 
Keep  you  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you  "11  marry  me  ; 
Or  else,  refusing  mp,  to  wed  this  shepherd  : — 
Keep  your  word,  Sihnus,  that  you  11  marry  her. 
If  she  refu.se  rae : — and  from  hence  I  go, 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even — even  so*. 

[Ezeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Duke  S.  1  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favour. 

Orl.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methougiit  he  wa-s  a  brother  to  your  daughter: 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born. 
And  hath  been  tutord  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desjierate  studies  by  his  uncle. 
Whom  he  report*  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forf^f. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
Jaq.  There  is.  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these 
couples  are  coming  to  the  ark.     Here  comes  a  pair  of 

>  ontuneaWe  :  in  f.  e.      »  they  :  in  f  e.      '  urg'd  :  in  f.  •.      ♦  These  two  wordi  &re  not  in  f  e. 


very  strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are  called 
fools. 

Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all. 

Jag.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  This  is  the 
motley-minded  gentleman,  that  1  have  so  often  met  in 
the  forest  :  he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he  svvi-ars. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my 
purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure  ;  I  have  flattered  a 
lady  :  I  have  been  politic  with  my  friend,  smooth  with 
mine  enemy;  I  have  undone  three  tailors  ;  I  have  had 
four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have  fought  one. 

Jaq.  And  how  was  tliat  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  waa 
upon  the  seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How  the  seventh  cause  ? — Good  my  lord,  like 
this  fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Tonich.  God  'ild*  you,  sir  ;  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I 
press  in  here,  sir,  among  the  rest  of  the  country  copu- 
latives, to  swear,  and  to  forswear,  according  as  mar- 
riage binds,  and  blood  breaks. — A  poor  \irgin,  sir.  an 
ill-favoured  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own  :  a  poor  hiunour 
of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else  will.  Rich 
honesty  dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor-house,  as 
your  pearl  in  your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  senten- 
tious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such 
dulcet  diseases. 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause ;  how  did  you  find 
the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed. — Bear 
your  body  more  seeming,  Audrey. — As  thus,  sir.  I 
did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard  :  he 
sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut  well,  he 
was  in  the  mind  it  was  :  this  is  called  the  '•  retort 
courteous."  If  I  sent  him  word  again,  it  was  not  well 
cut,  he  would  send  me  word,  he  cut  it  to  please  him- 
self: this  is  called  the  '-quip  modest."  If  again,  it 
was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment :  this  is 
called  the  "  reply  churlish."  If  again,  it  was  not  well 
cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  true  :  this  is  called 
the  "  reproof  valiant."  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut, 
he  would  say,  I  lied  :  this  is  called  the  ''  countercheck 
quarrelsome  :"  and  so  to  the  "  lie  circumstantial,"  and 
the  "  lie  direct." 

Jag.  And  how  oft  did  you  say,  his  beard  was  not 
well  cut  ? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  farther  than  the  "  lie  circum- 
stantial," nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  "  lie  direct ;" 
and  so  we  measured  swords,  and  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of 
the  lie  ? 

Touch.  0  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book,  as 
you  have  books  for  good  manners  :  I  will  name  you 
the  degrees.  The  first,  the  retort  courteous  ;  the 
.second,  the  quip  mode.st ;  the  third,  the  reply  churli.sh  : 
the  fourth,  the  reproof  valiant :  the  fifth,  the  counter- 
check quarrelsome  :  the  .sixth,  the  lie  with  circum- 
stance :  the  seventh,  the  lie  direct.  All  these  you  may 
avoid,  but  the  lie  direct ;  and  you  may  avoid  that  too. 
with  an  if.  I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not 
take  up  a  quarrel  ;  but  when  the  parties  were  met 
themselves,  one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  if,  a«  If  you 
.said  so.  then  I  said  so  ;  and  they  shook  hands  and  swore 
brothers.  Your  if  is  the  only  peace-maker ;  much 
\-irlue  in  if. 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he  's  as 
good  at  any  thing,  and  yet  a  fool. 


SCENE  IV. 


AS    YOU   LIKE  IT. 


209 


Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse,  and 
nnder  the  presentation  of  that  he  shoots  his  "wat. 
Enter  Hymen,  leading  Rosalind  in  woman's  clothes; 
and  Celia. 
Still  Music. 
Hym.    Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven., 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone^  together. 
Good  duke,  receive  thy  daughter, 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her  ; 

Yea,  brought  her  hither, 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  his, 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 
Ros.  [To  Duke  S.]To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 
,7'o  Orlando.]   To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 
])uke  S.    If  there   be   truth   in  sight,  you  are  my 

daughter. 
Orl.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Rosalind. 
Phe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true. 
Why  then,  my  love  adieu  ! 

Ros.  [To  Duke  S.]  I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be 
not  he : — 
[  To  Orlando.]  I  '11  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  : — 
[  To  Phebe.]  Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. 
Hym.    Peace,  ho  !  I  bar  confusion. 
'T  is  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events  : 
Here  's  eight  that  must  take  hands, 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents. 
[7b  Orlando  and  Rosalind.]    You  and  you 

no  cross  shall  part : 
[To  Oliver  and  Celia.]    You   and   you    are 

heart  in  heart : 
[To  Phebe.]  You  to  his  love  must  accord. 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord  : 
[To  Touchstone  and  Audrey.]  You  and  you 

are  sure  together, 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock-h^nnn  we  sing. 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning, 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish. 
How  thus  we  met,  and  thus  we'  finish. 

SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown  ; 

O:  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
^Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  wedlock,  then,  be  honoured  : 
Honour,  high  honour,  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  in'  every  town  ! 
Duke  S.  0,  my  dear  niece  !  welcome  thou  art  to  me  : 
Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 
Phe.    [To  SiLVius.]    I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now 
thou  art  mine ; 


Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 
Enter  Second  Brother. 

2  Bro.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word  or  two. 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland. 
That  brings  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly.— 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power,  which  were  on  foot 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword. 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came, 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him, was  converted 
Both  from  his  entei*prise,  and  from  the  world ; 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restor'd  to  them  again. 
That  were  with  him  exil'd.     This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life, 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  m.an 

Thou  ofFer'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wedding  : 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld  ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot ; 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number. 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  'states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fall'n  dignity. 
And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry. — 
Play,  music  !  and  you  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jag.  Sir,  by  your  patience. — If  I  heard  you  rightly.. 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life. 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court  ? 

2  Bro.  He  hath.  " 

Jag.  To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn'd. — 
You  [To  Duke  S.]  to  your  former  honour  I  bequeath  ; 
Your  patience,  and  your  virtue,  well  deserve  it : — 
You  [To  Orlando.]  to  a  love,  that  your  true  faith  dotb) 

merit : — 
You  [To  Oliver.]  to  your  land,  and  love,  and  great. 

allies  : — 
You  [To  SiLVius.]  to  a  long  and  well  deserved  bed  :— 
And  you    [To  Touchstone.]   to  wrangling;   for  thy- 

loving  voyage 
Is  but  for  two  months  victuall'd. — So,  to  your  pleasures  ■ 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 

Duke  S.  Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

Jag.  To  see  no  pastime,  I  : — what  you  would  have, 
I  '11  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.  [Exit. 

Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed  :  we  will  begin  these  rite-s,. 
As  we  do  trust  they  '11  end,  in  true  delights. 


EPILOGUE. 


I 


Rns.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the  Epi- 
logue ;  but  it  is  no  more  unhandsome,  than  to  see  the 
lord  the  Prologue.  If  it  be  true,  that  good  wine 
needs  no  bush,  't  is  true  that  a  good  play  needs  no 
epilogue  ;  yet  to  good  wine  they  do  use  good  bushes, 
and  good  plays  prove  the  better  by  the  help  of  good 
epilogues.  What  a  case  am  I  in,  then,  that  am  neither 
a  good  epilogue,  nor  cannot  insinuate  with  you  in  the 
behalf  of  a  good  play  ?  I  am  not  furnished  like  a  beg- 
gar, therefore  to  beg  vnll  not  become  me  :  my  way  is, 
to  conjure  you ;  and  I  '11  begin  with  the  women.     I 

'  Haittonize.     »  these  things  :  in  f.  e.     '  of  :  in  f.  e. 

0 


charge  you,  0  women  !  for  the  love  you  bear  to  men., 
to  like  as  much  of  this  play  as  please  you  :  and  I 
charge  you,  O  men  !  for  the  love  you  bear  to  women, 
(as  I  perceive  by  your  simpering  none  of  you  hate.-- 
them)  that  between  you  and  the  women,  the  play  may 
please.  If  I  were  a  woman.*  I  would  Iriss  as  many  of 
you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me.  complexions  that 
liked  me,  and  breaths  that  I  defied  not ;  and,  I  ami 
sure,  as  many  as  have  good  beards,  or  good  faces  ot" 
sweet  breaths,  will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  makf 
curtsey,  bid  me  farewell.  [Exeunt 

*  Tieck  says,  this  is  an  allusion  to  the  practice  of  women's  parts  being  played  by  men 


TAMING    OF    THE   SHREW. 


DEAMATIS  PERSONS. 

A  Lord.                                                      ]  Persons  Tranio,        ] 

Chr IS roPHERO  Sly,  a  Tinker.* Hostess,     in  the  Biondello,  J 

Page.  Players,  Huntsmen,  and    Ser-     Indue-  Grumio,        i 

vant.«!,                                                        J  tion.  Curtis,         \ 

Raptista,  a  rich  gentleman  of  Padua.  The  Pedant. 

ViNrEXTio,  an  old  Gentleman  of  Pisa.  Katharina,  ' 

Lucextio,  Son  to  Vincentio.  Bianca, 

Petruchio.  a  Gentleman  of  Verona.  Widow. 
Grkmio, 
kortensio, 

Tailor,  Haberdasher,  and  Sen-ants  attending  on  Baptista  and  Petruchio. 
SCENE,  sometimes  in  Padua;  and  sometimes  in  Petruchio's  House  in  the  Country, 


Suitors  to  Bianca. 


Servants  to  Lucentio. 
Servant*  to  Petruchio. 

Daughters  to  Baptista. 


INDUCTION. 


SCENE  I. — Before  an  Alehouse  on  a  Heath. 
Enter  Hostess  and  Christophero  Sly. 

Sly.  I  '11  pheese'  you,  in  faith. 

Host.  A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue  ! 

.H\'i/.  Y"  are  a  baggage  :  the  Slys  are  no  rogues  :  look 
•n  the  chronicles,  we  came  in  ^^■^th  Richard  Conqueror, 
riiereforc.  paucas  pallabris  ;  let  the  world  slide,   ^csm  ." 

Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  yoii  have  burst? 

S/y.  No,  not  a  denier.  Go  by,  Jeronimy;'  go  to  thy 
cold  bed.  and  warm  thee.* 

Ho^i.  I  kriow  my  remedy;  I  must  go  fetch  the 
headborouirh.*  \Exit. 

Sly.  Third,  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough.  I  '11  answer 
him  by  law ;  I  '11  not  budge  an  inch,  boy :  let  him  come, 
and  kindly.  [Lies  down,  and  falls  asleep. 

Wind  horns.     Enter  a  Lord  from  hunting,  with  Hunts- 
men and  Scri'ants. 

Lord.   Huntsman,  I  charge    thee,  tender  well  my 
hounds : 
Orach*  Merriman, — the  poor  cur  is  emboss'd,' 
And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deep-mouth'd  brach. 
Saw'st  thou  not,  boy,  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge  comer,  in  the  coldest  fault? 
I  would  not  lose  the  dog  for  twenty  pound. 

1  Hiin.  Why,  Belman  i.s  as  good  as  he,  my  lord; 
He  cried  upon  it  at  the  merest  loss. 
And  twice  to-day  pickd  out  the  dullest  scent: 
Truit  me.  I  take  him  for  the  hotter  dog. 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  fool  :  if  Echo  were  as  fleet, 
I  would  esteem  him  worth  a  dozen  such. 
Bot  sap  them  well,  and  look  unto  them  all : 
To-morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  again. 

1  Hun.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Lord.  What  'b  here  ?  one  dead,  or  drunk  ?    See,  doth  ! 
he  breathe?  I 


2  Hun.  He  breathes,  my  lord     Were  he  not  wamiM 
with  ale, 
This  were  a  bed  but  cold  to  sleep  so  soundly. 

Lord.  0,  monstrous  beast  I  how  like  a  swine  he  Hes 
Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsoine  is  thine  image  ! 
Sirs.  (  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man. 
What  think  you.  if  he  were  convey"d  to  bed. 
Wrapp'd  in  sweet  clothes,  rings  put  upon  his  fingenj 
A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  bed, 
And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  w-akes, 
Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself? 

1  Him.  Believe  me,  lord.  I  think  he  cannot  chooee 

2  Hun.  It  would  seem  strange  unto  him  when  lit 

wak'd. 
Lord.  Even  as  a  flattering  dream,  or  worthless  fancv, 
Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest. 
Carry  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber, 
And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  wanton  pictures ; 
Balm  his  foul  head  with  warm  distilled  waters. 
And  burn  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging  sweet: 
Procure  me  music  ready  when  he  wakes, 
To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  souiid ; 
And  if  he  chance  to  speak,  be  ready  straight, 
And,  with  a  low  submissive  reverence. 
Say, — what  is  it  your  honour  will  command  ? 
Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  bason, 
Full  of  rose-water,  and  beetrew'd  with  flowers. 
Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper. 
And  say, — will 't  please  your  lordship  cool  your  hand* 
Some  one  be  ready  wnth  a  costly  suit, 
And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear; 
Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse. 
And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease. 
Persuade  him  that  he  hath  been  lunatic; 
When  he  says  what  he  is,*  say  that  he  dreams, 
For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 


•  A  oomiDon  word  in  the  w^<!»t  of  England,  whore  it  means  to  rhattiu.  Mumble. — Giford.  *  Ce*»a,  oea»«.  •  f.  e.  :  pays  Jeronimy.  Go, 
B7  Jeronimy— from  Th./ma»  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy,  oftpn  quoted  in  derision,  and  a»  a  csnt  phrase,  by  the  writers  of  the  day.  *  Tk  J 
la  ftI>o  a  qco'-ilion  from  the  5am<;  play  •  Conttablt ;  it  ia  usDally  altered  to  thirdboroagh.  •  A  iound.  '  Foams  at  the  moutk  /rmn 
fatigut       ■  And  when  he  say*  he  is  :  in  f.  e. 

210 


INDUCTION. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


211 


This  do,  and  do  it  kuidly,  gentle  sirs ; 
[t  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent, 
If  it  be  husbanded,  ivith  modesty. 

1  Hun.  My  lord,  I  warrant  you,  we  will  play  our  part, 
As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence, 

He  is  no  less  than  what  we  say  he  is. 

Lord.  Take  him  up  gently,  and  to  bed  with  him. 
And  each  one  to  his  otfice  when  he  wakes. — 

[Sly  i\  ^ome  out.     A  trumpet  sounds. 
Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet  't  is  that  sounds : — 

[Exit  Servant. 
Belike,  some  noble  gentleman,  that  means. 
Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here. — 

Re-enter  Servant. 
How  now  ?  who  is  't  ?' 

Serv.  An  't'  please  your  honour,  players 

That  offer  humble'  service  to  your  lordship. 
Lord.  Bid  them  come  near. 

Enter  Jive  or  six  Players.* 

Now,  fellows,  you  are  welcome. 
Players.  We  thank  your  honour. 
Lord.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  with  me  to-night? 

2  Play.  So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our  duty. 
Lord.  With  all  my  heart. — This  fellow  I  remember, 

Since  once  he  play'd  a  farmer's  eldest  son : — 
'T  was  where  you  woo'd  the  gentlewoman  so  well. 
[  have  forgot  your  name ;  but,  sure,  that  part 
Was  aptly  fitted,  and  naturally  perform'd. 

1  Play.  I  think,  't  was  Soto  that  your  honour  means. 

Lord.  'T  is  very  true :  thou  didst  it  excellent. 
Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time, 
The  rather  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand. 
Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 
There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night; 
But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties. 
Lest,  over-eyeing  of  his  odd  behaviour, 
(For  yet  his  honour  never  heard  a  play) 
You  break  into  some  merry  passion, 
And  so  offend  him ;  for  I  tell  you,  sirs. 
If  you  should  smile  he  grows  impatient. 

1  Play.  Fear  not,  my  lord :  we  can  contain  ourselves, 
Were  he  the  veriest  antic  in  the  world. 

Lord.  Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery. 
And  give  them  friendly  welcome  every  one  : 
Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  affords. — 

[Exeunt  Servant  and  Players. 
Sirrah,  go  you  to  Bartholomew,  my  page,  [To  a  Servant. 
And  see  him  dress'd  in  all  suits  like  a  lady : 
That  done,  conduct  him  to  the  drunkard's  chamber; 
A  nd  call  him  madam,  do  him  obeisance : 
Tell  him  from  me,  as  he  will  win  my  love, 
He  bear  himself  vdth  honourable  action, 
Such  as  he  hath  observ'd  in  noble  ladies 
Unto  their  lords  by  them  accomplished  : 
Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do. 
With  soft  low  tongue,  and  lowly  courtesy ; 
And  say, — what  is  't  your  honour  will  command, 
Wherein  your  lady,  and  your  humble  mfe 
May  show  her  duty,  and  make  known  her  love? 
And  then,  with  kind  embracements,  tempting  kisses, 
And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom. 
Bid  him  shed  tears,  as  being  overjoy'd 
To  see  her  noble  lord  re.stor'd  to  health. 
Who  for  this  seven  years  hath  esteemed  him 
No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar. 
And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift, 
To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tears. 
An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift, 


Which,  in  a  napkin  being  close  convey'd. 

Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye. 

See  this  despatch'd  with  all  the  haste  thou  canst: 

Anon  I  '11  give  thee  more  instructions.     [Exit  Servant 

I  know,  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace, 

Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman  : 

I  long  to  liear  him  call  the  druiikard  husband. 

And  how  my  men  will  stay  themselves  from  laughter, 

When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant. 

I'll  in  to  counsel  them  :  haply,  my  presence 

May  M-ell  abate  their  over-merry  spleen, 

Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes.     [Exeitv'. 

SCENE  II. — A  Bedchamber  in  the  Lord's  House. 
Sly  is  discover ed^  with  Attendants ;  some  with  apparel 
others  with  ba.son^  ewer,  and  appurtenances.      Enter 
Lord,  dressed  like  a  Servant. 
Sly.  For  God's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale. 

1  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  lordship  drink  a  cup  of 

sack? 

2  Serv.   Will 't  please  your  honour  taste  of  these 

conserves  ? 

3  Serv.  What  raiment  will  your  honour  wear  to-day? 
Sly.    I  am  Christophero  Sly ;    call  not  me  honour 

nor  lord.ship :  I  ne'er  drank  sack  in  my  life;  and  if  you 
give  me  any  conserves,  give  me  conserves  of  beef. 
Ne'er  ask  me  what  raiment  I  '11  wear,  for  I  have  no 
more  doublets  than  backs,  no  more  stockings  than  legs, 
nor  no  more  shoes  than  feet :  nay,  sometime,  more  feet 
than  shoes,  or  such  shoes  as  my  toes  look  through  the 
overleather.  [honour ! 

Lord.     Heaven   cease    this    evil'   humour   in   your 
O  !  that  a  mighty  man,  of  such  descent. 
Of  such  possessions,  and  so  high  esteem. 
Should  be  infused  with  so  foul  a  spirit ! 

Sly.  What !  would  you  make  me  mad  ?  Am  not  I 
Christophero  Sly,  old  Sly's  son,  of  Burton-heath;*  by 
birth  a  pedlar,  by  education  a  card-maker,  by  trans- 
mutation a  bear-herd,  and  now  by  present  profession  a 
tinker?  Ask  Marian  Hacket,  the  fat  alewife  of  Win- 
cot',  if  she  know  me  not :  if  she  say  I  am  not  fourteen 
pence  on  the  score  for  Warwickshire*  ale,  score  me  up 
for  the  lying'st  knave  in  Christendom.  What !  I  am 
not  bestraught'.     Here  's — 

1  Serv.  0  !  this  it  is  that  makes  your  lady  mourn. 

3  Serv.  0  !  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants  droop. 

Lord.  Hence  comes  it  that  your  kindred  shun  youi 
house. 
As  beaten  hence  by  your  strange  lunacy. 
0.  noble  lord  !  bethink  thee  of  thy  birth  ; 
Call  home  thy  ancient  thoughts  from  banishment, 
And  banish  hence  these  abject  lowly  dreams. 
Look  how  thy  servants  do  attend  on  thee, 
Each  in  his  office  ready  at  thy  beck : 
Wilt  thou  have  music?  hark  !  Apollo  plays,      [Music 
And  twenty  caged  nightingales  do  sing : 
Or  wilt  thou  sleep  ?  we'  II  have  thee  to  a  couch, 
Softer  and  .sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose  trimm'd  up  for  Semiramis. 
Say  thou  wilt  walk,  we  will  bestrew  the  ground  • 
Or  wilt  thou  ride,  thy  horses  sliall  be  trapp'd. 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  gold  and  pearl. 
Dost  thou  love  hawking  ?  thou  hast  hawks  will  soar 
Above  the  morning  lark :  or  wilt  thou  hunt  ? 
Thy  hounds  shall  make  the  welkin  answer  them. 
And  fetch  shrill  echoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

1  Serv.    Say  thou  wilt  course,  thy  greyhounds  are 
as  swift 


'  i«  it :  in  f.  e.      »  An  it :  in  f.  e.      >  Not  in  f.  e       ♦  Enter  Players  :  in  f.  e.      »  idle  : 
<«ickihire    a  supposed  to  be  a'luded  to.      '  A  place  about  four  miles  from  Stratford. 


«  Barton-on-the-Heath,  a  village  in  War 
in  f.  e.      9  Distraught,  dittracled 


212 


TAMING   OF  THE  SHREW. 


Ks  breathed  stags,  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe. 

2  Serv.  Do.«t  thou  love  pictures?  we  will  fetch  thee 

straight 
Adonis  painted  by  a  running  brook, 
And  Cytlierea  all  in  liedges  hid, 
Which  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath, 
Kveii  a-x  tiic  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

Lord.  We  '11  show  thee  lo  as  she  waf;  a  maid, 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surpris"d. 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

3  Serv.  Or  Daphne  roaming  through  a  thorny  wood, 
Scratcliing  her  legs,  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds ; 
And  at  tliat  sight  .«hail  sad  Apollo  weep. 

So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 

lAjrd.  Thou  art  a  lord,  and  nothing  but  a  lord  : 
Thou  hast  a  lady,  far  jnore  beautiful 
Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age. 

1  Serv.  And.  till  the  tears  tliat  she  hath  shed  for  thee, 
Like  envious  floods,  o'er-ran  her  lovely  face, 

She  wa-s  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world  ; 
And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 

Sly.  Am  I  a  lord  ?  and  have  I  such  a  lady  ? 
Or  do  I  dream  ?  or  have  I  dream'd  till  now  ? 
I  do  not  sleep  :  I  see,  I  hear.  I  speak : 
I  smell  sweet  savours,  and  I  feel  soft  tilings. — 
Upon  my  life.  I  am  a  lord,  indeed. 
And  not  a  tinker,  nor  Christophero  Sly. — 
Well,  bring  the  lady  hither  to  our  .sight : 
And  once  asain.  a  pot  o'  the  smallest  ale. 

2  Serv.  Will  't  please  your  mightiness  to  wash  your 

hands  ? 

[Servants  present  an  ewer,  ba-'son.,  and  napkin. 
0.  how  we  joy  to  see  your  ^^^ts  restor'd  ! 
0,  that  once  more,  you  knew  but  what  you  are  ! 
These  fifteen  years  you  have  been  in  a  dream. 
Or.  when  y^u  wak'd.  so  wak'd  as  if  you  slept. 

Sly.  These  fifteen  years  !  by  my  fay,  a  goodly  nap. 
But  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time? 

1  Serv.  0  !  yes,  my  lord,  but  very  idle  words ; 
For  though  you  lay  here  in  this  goodly  chamber. 
Yet  would  you  say,  ye  were  beaten  out  of  door. 
And  rail  upon  the  hostess  of  the  house. 
And  say  you  would  present  her  at  the  leet,* 
Because  she  brought  stone  jugs,  and  not  seal'd*  quarts. 
Sometimes  you  would  call  out  for  Cicely  Hacket. 

Sly.  Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house.  [maid, 

3  Serv.  Why,  sir,  you  know  no  house,  nor  no  such 
Nor  no  such  men,  as  you  have  reckon'd  up, 

\s  Stephen  Sly.  and  old  John  Naps  of  Greece, 
.And  Peter  Turf,  and  Henry  Pimpemell, 
And  twenty  more  such  names  and  men  as  these, 
Which  never  were,  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 


Sly.  Now,  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good  amends  ! 

Ml.  Amen. 

Sly.  I  thank  thee  ;  thou  shalt  not. lose  b>  it. 

Enter  the  Page.,  as  a  Lady,  with  Attendants. 

Page.  How  fares  mv  noble  lord  ? 

Sly.  Marry,  1  tare  well ;  lor  here  is  cheer  enough. 
Where  is  my  wife  ? 

Page.  Here,  noble  lord  :  what  is  thy  will  with  her? 

Sly.  Are  you  my  wife,  and  will  not  call  me  husband  ' 
My  men  should  call  me  lord  :  I  am  your  good-man. 

Page.  My  husband  and  my  lord,  my  lord  and  bus- 
band  ; 
I  am  your  wife  in  all  obedience. 

Sly'.  I  know  it  well.— What  must  I  call  her? 

Lord.  Madam. 

Sly.  Alee  madam,  or  Joan  madam ? 

Lord.  Madam,  and  nothing  else  :  so  lords  call  ladies 

Sly.  Madam  wife,  they  say  that  I  have  dream'd, 
And  slept  about'  some  fifteen  year  and  more. 

Page.  Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me, 
Being  all  this  time  abandon'd  from  your  bed. 

Sly.  'T  is  much. — Servants,  leave  me  and  her  alone. — 
Madam,  undress  you,  and  come  now  to  bed. 

Page.  Thrice  noble  lord,  let  me  entreat  of  you 
To  pardon  me  yet  for  a  night  or  two ; 
Or  if  not  so.  until  the  sun  be  set, 
For  your  physicians  have  expressly  charg'd, 
In  peril  to  incur  your  former  malady. 
That  I  should  yet  absent  me  from  your  bed. 
I  hope  this  reason  stands  for  my  excuse. 

Sly.  Ay,  it  stands  so,  that  I  may  hardly  tarr\-  sr 
long;  but  I  would  be  loath  to  fall  into  my  dreams  again  ; 
I  will  therefore  tarrj^,  in  despite  of  the  flesh  and  th* 
blood. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Your  honour's  players,  hearing  your  amend- 
ment. 
Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy ; 
For  so  your  doctors  hold  it  very  meet, 
Seeing  too  much  sadness  hath  congeal'd  your  blood, 
And  melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy : 
Therefore,  they  thought  it  good  you  hear  a  play, 
And  frame  your  mind  to  mirth  and  merriment. 
Which  bars  a  thousand  harms  and  lengthens  life. 

Sly.  Marry,  I  will ;  let  them  play  it.  Is  not  a  oom- 
monty  a  Christmas  gambol,. or  a  tumbling-trick? 

Page.  No,  my  good  lord  :  it  is  more  pleasing  stufF. 

Sly.  What,  household  stuff? 

Page.  It  is  a  kind  of  history. 

Sly.  Well,  we'll  see't.     Come,  madam  -n-ife,  sit  bj 
my  side. 
We  shall  ne'er  be  younger,  and  let  the  world  slide  • 


ACT    I 


SCENE  I.— Padna.     A  Public  Place. 
Enter  Lucentio  and  Tranio. 
r,uc.  Tranio,  since,  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, 
I  am  arriv'd  for  fruitful  Lombardy, 
The  plea-sant  garden  of  great  Italy  ; 
And.  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  arm'd 
W'th  his  good  will,  and  thy  good  company. 
My  trusty  ser^-ant,  well  approv'd  in  all. 
Here  let  ub  breathe,  and  haply  institute 

Tourt  leel.      »  Sea'ed  or  itsmped  aa  full  quart  measure.      '  ot>OTe 


A  course  of  learning,  and  ingenious  studies. 

Pi.'sa,  reno-vsTied  for  grave  citizens, 

Gave  me  my  being ;  and  my  father,  fir.st 

A  merchant  of  creat  traffic  ilirough  the  world, 

Vincentio,  comes  of  the  Bentivolii. 

Vincentio's  son,  brought  up  in  Florence, 

It  shall  become,  to  serve  all  hopes  conceiv'd, 

To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  virtuous  deeds* 

And  therefor*.  Tranio,  for  the  time  I  study 

Virtue,  and  that  part  of  philosophy 

Will  I  apply,  that  treats  of  happiness 

in  f  e.      ♦  And  let  the  world  »lip  :  we  shall  ne'er  be  vounifer    in  I 


SCKNK  I. 


TAMING   OF  THE  SHREW. 


213 


By  virtue  specialLy  to  be  achiev'd. 
Tell  nie  thy  mind ;  for  I  have  Pisa  left 
And  am  to  Padua  come,  as  he  that  leaves 
A.  shallow  plash,  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep, 
And  with  satiety  seeks  to  quench  his  thirst. 

Tra.  Mi  perdonate.  gentle  master  mine, 
I  am  in  all  aifected  as  yourself, 
Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve, 
To  suck  the  sweets  of  sweet  philosophy ; 
Only,  good  master,  wliile  we  do  admire 
This  virtue,  and  this  moral  discipline, 
Let 's  be  no  stoics,  nor  no  stocks,  I  pray ; 
Or  so  devote  to  Aristotle's  Ethics,' 
As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjur'd. 
Talk  logic  with  acquaintance  that  you  have, 
And  practise  rhetoric  in  your  common  talk : 
Music  and  poesy  used  to  quicken  you : 
The  mathematics,  and  tlie  metaphysics. 
Fall  to  them  as  you  find  your  stomach  serves  you. 
No  profit  grows,  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en : — 
In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  atfect. 

Luc.  Gramercies.  Tranio,  well  dost  thou  advise. 
If.  Biondello  now  were"  come  ashore. 
We  could  at  once  put  us  in  readiness. 
And  take  a  lodging  fit  to  entertain 
Such  friends  as  time  in  Padua  shall  beget. 
But  stay  awhile  ;  what  company  is  this  ? 

Tra.  Master,  some  show  to  welcome  us  to  to^\^l. 

[They  stand  back.^ 

Enter  Baptista,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Gremio,  and 

HORTENSIO. 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  importune  me  no  farther. 
For  how  I  firmly  am  resolv'd  you  know ; 
That  is,  not  to  bestow  my  youngest  daughter, 
Before  I  have  a  husband  for  the  elder. 
If  either  of  you  both  love  Katharina, 
Because  I  know  you  well,  and  love  you  well, 
Lea,ve  shall  you  have  to  court  her  at  your  pleasure. 

Gre.  To  cart  her  rather :  she  's  too  rough  for  me. — 
Tiiere.  there,  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife  ? 

Kath.   [To  Bap.]   I  pray  you,  sir,  is  it  your  gracious* 
will 
To  make  a  stale  of  me  amongst  these  mates  ? 

Hor.  Mates,  maid  !  how  mean  you  that  ?  no  mates 
for  you, 
Unless  you  were  of  gentler,  milder  mood.* 

Kath.  V  faitb.  sir,  you  shall  never  need  to  fear: 
I  wis,  it  is  not  half  way  to  her  heart ; 
But,  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  .should  be 
To  comb  your  noddle  wnth  a  three-legg'd  stool, 
And  paint  your  face,  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 

Hot.  From  all  such  devils,  good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Gre.  And  me  too,  good  Lord  ! 

Tra.  Hush,    master !    here   is    some    good    pastime 
toward : 
That  wench  is  stark  mad,  or  wonderful  froward. 

Luc.  But  in  the  other's  silence  do  I  see 
Maids'  mild  behaviour,  and  sobriety. 
Peace,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Well  said,  master :  mum  !  and  gaze  your  fill. 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good 
What  I  have  said, — Bianca,  get  you  in  : 
And  let  it  not  displease  thee,  good  Bianca, 
For  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  my  girl. 

Kath.  A  pretty  peat  !*  it  is  best 
Put  finger  in  the  eye, — an  she  knew  why. 

Bian.  Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent. — 
Sir,  to  your  pleasure  humbly  I  subscribe  : 

•  checks  :  in  f.  e.     Blaekstone  also  suggested  the  change.     *  thou 
tn  £  •.     •  Pet.     '•  Their  :  in  f  e.     »  Commend     *  Lot. 


My  books,  and  instruments,  shall  be  my  company, 
On  them  to  look,  and  practise  by  myself. 

Luc.  Hark,  Tranio  !  thou  may'st  hear  Minerva  speak 

Hor.  Signior  Baptista,  will. you  be  bo  strange? 
Sorry  am  I,  that  our  good  will  effects 
Bianca's  grief. 

Gre.  Why,  will  you  mew  her  up, 

Signior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell, 
And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue  ? 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  content  ye  ;  I  am  resolv'd.— 
Go  in,  Bianca. —  [Exk  Bianca 

And  for  I  know,  she  taketh  most  delight 
In  music,  instruments,  and  poetry. 
Schoolmasters  wall  I  keep  within  my  house, 
Fit  to  instruct  her  youth. — If  you,  Hortensio, 
Or  signior  Gremio,  you,  know  any  such. 
Prefer  them  hither ;  for  to  cunning  men 
I  will  be  very  kind,  and  liberal 
To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing-up ; 
And  so  farewell.     Katharina,  you  may  stay, 
For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca.  [Exit 

Kath.  Why.  and  I  trust,  I  may  go  too ;  may  I  not  ? 
What !  shall  I  be  appointed  hours,  as  though,  belike, 
I  knew  not  what  to  take,  and  what  to  leave  ?  Ha  '  [Exit 

Gre.  You  may  go  to  the  devil's  dam  :  your  gifts  are 
so  good,  here  's  none  will  hold  you.  This^  love  is  not 
so  great,  Hortensio,  but  we  may  blow  our  nails  toge- 
ther, and  fast  it  fairly  out :  our  cake  's  dough  on  both 
sides.  Farewell : — yet,  for  the  love  I  bear  my  sweet 
Bianca.  if  I  can  by  any  means  light  on  a  fit  man  to 
teach  her  that  wherein  she  delights,  I  will  wish*  him 
to  her  father. 

Hor.  So  will  I,  signior  Gremio :  but  a  word,  I  pray. 
Though  the  nature  of  our  quarrel  yet  never  brook'd 
parle.  know  now  upon  advice,  it  toucheth  us  both,  thai 
we  may  yet  again  have  access  to  our  fair  mistress,  and 
be  happy  rivals  in  Bianca's  love,  to  labor  and  effect 
one  thing  'specially. 

Gre.  What  's  that,  I  pray  ? 

Hor.  Marry,  sir,  to  get  a  husband  for  her  sister. 

Gre.  A  husband  !  a  devil. 

Hor.  I  say,  a  husband. 

Gre.  I  say,  a  devil.  Think'st  thou,  Hortensio, 
though  her  father  be  very  rich,  any  man  is  so  very  a 
fool  to  be  married  to  hell  ? 

Hor.  Tush,  Gremio  !  though  it  pass  your  patience, 
and  mine,  to  endure  her  loud  alarums,  why,  man,  there 
be  good  fellows  in  the  world,  an  a  man  could  light  on 
them,  would  take  her  with  all  faults,  and  money  enough. 

Gre.  I  caiuiot  tell,  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her  dowry 
with  this  condition, — to  be  whipped  at  the  high-cross 
every  morning. 

Hor.  'Faith,  as  you  say,  there 's  small  choice  in  rotten 
apples.  But,  come;  since  this  bar  in  law  makes  ue 
friends,  it  shall  be  so  far  forth  friendly  maintained, 
till  by  helping  Baptista's  eldest  daughter  to  a  husband 
we  set  his  youngest  free  for  a  husband,  and  then  hav 
to  't  afresll.  Sweet  Bianca  ! — Happy  man  be  his  dole  ! 
He  that  runs  fastest  gets  the  ring.  How  say  you,  sig- 
nior Gremio  ? 

Gre.  I  am  agreed :  and  'would  I  had  given  him  the 
best  horse  in  Padua  to  begin  his  wooing,  that  would 
thoroughly  woo  her,  wed  her,  and  bed  her,  and  rid  the 
house  of  her.     Come  on. 

Exeunt  Gremio  and  Portensio 

Tra.  [advancing.]  I  pray,  sir,  tell  nie,  is  it  possible 
That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold  ? 

Luc.  0,  Tranio !  till  I  found  it  to  be  true, 

wen  :  !D  f.  e.    '  aside :  in  f.  e.    ♦  This  word  ii  not  in  f.  e.    »  mould 


:U 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT   I. 


[  never  tliought  it  possible,  or  likely. 
But  see  !  while  idly  I  stood  looking  on, 
I  found  the  eflect  of  love  in  idleness ; 
And  now  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee, 
That  art  to  me  as  secret,  and  as  dear, 
As  Anna  to  the  Queen  of  Carthage  was, 
Tranio,  I  burn,  I  pine  ;  I  jjerish.  Tranio, 
If  I  achieve  not  lliis  yonnir  modest  siirl. 
Counsel  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  canst : 
Assist  me.  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Tra.     Miuiter,  it  is  no  time  to  chide  you  now; 
Affection  is  not  rated  from  the  heart: 
If  love  have  toueli'd  you,  nought  remains  but  so, — 
Redime  te  captum.  quam  qucas  minimo} 

Luc.  Gramercies,  lad  ;  go  forward  :  this  contents ; 
The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel 's  sound. 

Tra.  Master,  you  look'd  so  longly  on  the  maid. 
Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what 's  the  pith  of  all. 

Luc.  O  !  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  in  her  face. 
Such  as  the  daughter  of  Agcnor's  race,' 
That  made  great  Jove  to  humble  him  to  her  hand. 
When  \\\X\\  his  knees  he  kiss'd  the  Cretan  strand. 

Tra.  Saw  you  no  more  ?  mark'd  you  not,  how  her 
sister 
Began  to  scold,  and  raise  up  such  a  storm, 
That  mortal  ears  might  scarce  endure  the  din  ? 

Luc.  Tranio,  I  saw  her  coral  lips  to  move, 
And  with  her  breath  she  did  perfume  the  air: 
Sacred,  and  sweet,  was  all  I  saw  in  her. 

Tra.  Nay,  then,  't  is  time  to  stir  him  from  his  trance. — 
I  pray,  awake,  sir :  if  you  love  the  maid. 
Bend  thoughts  and  wits  to  achieve  her.  Thus  it  stands: 
Her  elder  si.ster  is  so  curst  and  shrewd, 
That,  till  the  father  rid  his  hands  of  her, 
Ma,<;ter.  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home ; 
And  therefore  has  he  closely  mew'd  her  up, 
Because  she  will  not  be  annoy'd  with  suitors. 

Lxic.  Ah,  Tranio,  what  a  cruel  father  '"s  he  ! 
But  art  thou  not  advis'd,  he  took  some  care 
To  get  her  cunning  masters  to  instruct  her? 

Tra.  Ay,  marry  am  I,  sir ;  and  now  't  is  plotted. 

Lxic.  I  have  it,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Master,  for  my  hand. 

Both  our  inventions  meet  and  jump  in  one. 

Luc.  Tell  me  thine  first. 

Tra.  You  will  be  schoolmaster. 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid : 
That 's  youi  device. 

Luc.  It  is :  may  it  be  done  ? 

Tra.  Not  possible ;  for  who  shall  bear  your  part, 
And  be  in  Padua,  here,  Vincentio's  .son ; 
Keep  house,  and  ply  his  book;  welcome  his  friends  : 
Visit  his  countrymen,  and  banquet  them  ? 

Luc.   Jiasta;  content  thee  ;  for  I  have  it  full. 
We  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house. 
Nor  can  we  be  distinguish'd  by  our  faces. 
For  man,  or  ma.ster :  then,  it  follows  thus ; 
Thou  shalt  be  master,  Tranio,  in  my  stead. 
Keep  house,  and  port,  and  servants,  as  I  should. 
I  will  some  other  be  ;  some  Florentine. 
Some  Neapolitan,  or  meaner  man  of  Pisa. 
'T  is  hatch'd,  and  shall  be  so  : — Tranio.  at  once 
Unease  thee  ;  take  my  colour'd  hat  and  cloak  : 
When  Biondello  comes,  he  waits  on  thee. 
But  I  will  charm  him  first  to  keep  his  ton-rue. 

Tra.   So  had  you  need.  \They  exchange  habit.s. 

Be  brief,  then,  sir.*  sith  it  your  plea.sure  is, 
And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient ; 
(For  so  your  father  charg'd  me  at  our  parting ; 

'  Qnoted  a.s  it  stands  in  Lily's  Grammar,  and  not  asin  Terence 


"  Be  serviceable  to  my  son,"  quoth  he, 
Although,  I  think,  't  was  in  another  sense,^ 
I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio. 
Because  no  well  I  love  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  be  so,  because  Lucentio  loves. 
And  let  me  be  a  slave,  t'  achieve  that  maid 
Whose  sudden  sight  hath  thrall'd  my  wond'ring*  ?ye. 

Enter  Bionuei.lo. 
Here  comes  the  rogue. — Sirrah,  where  have  you  L'^en  ? 

Bion.  Where  have  I  been?    Nay,  how  now?  where 
are  you  ? 
Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stol'n  your  clothes, 
Or  you  stol'n  his,  or  both  ?  pray,  what 's  the  news  ' 

Lvc.  Sirrah,  come  hither  :  't  is  no  time  to  jest, 
And  therefore  frame  your  manners  to  the  time. 
Your  fellow  Tranio,  here,  to  save  my  life, 
Puts  my  apparel  and  my  countenance  on, 
And  I  for  my  escape  have  put  on  his ; 
For  in  a  quarrel,  since  I  came  ashore, 
I  kill'd  a  man,  and  fear  I  was  descried. 
Wait  you  on  him,  I  charge  you,  as  becomes. 
While  I  make  way  from  hence  to  save  my  life. 
You  understand  me  ? 

Bior^.  I,  sir  ?   ne'er  a  whit. 

Luc.  And  not  a  jot  of  Tranio  in  your  mouth : 
Tranio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 

Bion.  The  better  for  him ;  'would  I  ware  so  too  ! 

Tra.  So  would  I,  faith,  boy,  to  have  the  next  wish 
after, 
That  Lucentio,  indeed,  had  Baptista's  youngest  daugh- 
ter. 
But,  sirrah,  not  for  my  sake,  but  your  master's,  I  advise 
You  use  your  manners  discreetly  in  all  kind  of  com- 


When  I  am  alone,  why,  then  I  am  Tranio ; 
But  in  all  places  else,  your  master,  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  let 's  go. — 
One  thing  more  rests,  that  thyself  execute  • 
To  make  one  among  these  wooers :  if  thou  ask  me  why, 
Sufficeth,  my  reasons  are  both  good  and  weighty. 

[  Exeunt. 

1  Serv.  My  lord,  you  nod;  you  do  not  mind  the  play. 

Sly.  Yes,    by   saint  Anne,   do  I.     A  good   matter, 
surely  :  comes  there  any  more  of  it  ? 

Page.  My  lord,  'tis  but  begim. 

Sly.  'Tis  a  very  excellent  piece  of  work,  madam 
lady  ;  would  't  were  done  ! 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Before  Hortensio's  House. 
Enter  Petruchio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Verona,  for  a  while  I  take  my  leave, 
To  see  my  friends  in  Padua ;  but,  of  all. 
My  best  beloved  and  approved  friend, 
Hortensio  ;  and,  I  trow,  this  is  his  hou!«c. — 
Here,  sirrah  Gi^umio  !  knock,  I  say. 

Gru.  Knock,  sir  !  whom  should  I  knock  ?   is  there 
any  man  has  rebused  your  worship  ? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  here  soundly. 

Gru.  Knock  you  here,  sir?  why,  sir,  what  am  I,  sir 
that  I  should  knock  you  here,  sir  ? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate; 
And  rap  me  well,  or  I  '11  knock  your  knave's  pate. 

Gru.  My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome. — I  should 
knock  you  first, 
And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  Will  it  not  be? 
'Fa'th,  sirrah,  an  you  '11  not  knock.  I  '11  wring  it : 
I  '11  try  how  you  can  sol,  fa,  and  sing  it. 

[He  wrings  GRU.Mro  by  the  enrx 
>  Agenor  had  :  in  f.  e.      '  In  brief,  sir  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  woundod  :  in  f.  # 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHEEW. 


2J5 


Chru.  Help,  masters,  help  !  my  master  is  mad. 

Pet.  Now,  knock  when  I  bid  you :  sirrah  !  \'illain  ! 
[G RUM  10 /a//s  down. 
Enter  Hortensio. 

Hot.  How  now!  what 's  the  matter  ? — My  old  friend 
Grumio,  and  my  good  friend  Petruchio  ! — How  do  you 
all  at  Verona  ? 

Pr,t.  Signior  Hortensio.  come  you  to  part  the  fray? 
Con  tutto  il  core  ben  trovato,  may  I  say. 

Hor.  Alia  nostra    casa   ben   venuto,  molto   honorato 
signior  mio  Petruchio. 
Rise,  Grumio,  rise  :  we  will  compound  this  quarrel. 

Gru.   [Rising. ^\  Nay,  'tis  no  matter,  sir,  what  he 
'leges  in  Latin. — If  this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me 
to  leave  his  service. — Look  you,  sir — he  bid  me  knock 
liim,  and  rap  him  soundly,  sir  : 
Well,  was  it  fit  for  a  servant  to  use  his  master  so ; 
Being,  perhaps,  (for  aught   I  see)  two  and  thirty, — a 

pip  mo  ?' 
Whom,  'would  to  God,  I  had  well  knock'd  at  first, 
Then  had  not  Grumio  come  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  A  senseless  villain  ! — Good  Hortensio, 
I  bade  the  rascal  knock  upon  your  gate. 
And  could  not  get  him  for  my  heart  to  do  it. 

Gru.  Knock  at  the  gate  ?—0  heavens  !  Spake  you 
not  these  words  plain, — "  Sirrah,  knock  me  here  ;  rap 
me  here,  knock  me  well,  and  knock  me  sound^ly?" 
And  come  you  now  with  knocking  at  the  gate  ? 

Pet.  Sirrah,  be  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise  you. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  patience :  I  am  Grumio' s  pledge. 
Why  tliis  ?  a  hea\'y  chance  'twixt  him  and  you ; 
Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant  Grumio. 
And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend,  what  happy  gale 
Blows  you  to  Padua,  here,  from  old  Verona  ? 

Pet.  Such  wind  as  scatters  young  men  through  the 
world. 
To  seek  their  fortunes  farther  than  at  home, 
Where  small  experience  grows.     But  in  a  few, 
Signior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  with  me : 
Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceas'd, 
Ana  I  have  thrust  myself  into  this  maze, 
Haply  to  wive,  and  thrive,  as  best  I  may. 
Crowiis  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  home^ 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  shall  I  then  come  roundly  to  thee, 
And  wish  thee  to  a  shrewd  ill-favour'd  wife  ? 
Thou  'dst  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel  ; 
And  yet  I  '11  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich, 
And  very  rich  : — but  thou  'rt  too  much  my  friend, 
And  I  '11  not  \\-ish  thee  to  her. 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  'twixt  such  friends  as  we 
Few  words  suffice  ;  and  therefore,  if  thou  know 
One  rich  enough  to  be  Petruchio's  wife, 
(>j.s  wealth  is  burthen  of  my  wooing  dance) 
Be  she  as  foul  as  M^as  Florentius'  love,' 
As  old  as  Sybil,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  even  worse. 
She  moves  me  not,  or  not  removes,  at  least. 
Affection's  edge  in  me.     Were  she  as  rough 
As  are  the  swelling  Adriatic  seas, 
I  come  to  wive  it  wealthily  in  Padua; 
If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padua. 

Gru.  Nay,  look  you,  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly  what  his 
mind  is .  why,  give  hun  gold  enough  and  marry  him 
tc  a  puppet,  o'-  an  a.ilet-baby* ;  or  an  old  trot  with  ne'er 
a  tooth  in  her  head,  though  she  have  as  many  diseases 
as  two  and  fifty  horses.  Why,  nothing  comes  amiss, 
so  money  comes  withal. 


Hor.  Petruchio,  since  we  are  stepp-d  thus  far  in, 
I  will  continue  that  I  broach'd  in  jest. 

,an,  Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 
With  wealth  enough,  and  young,  and  beauteour ; 
Brought  up,  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman : 
Her  only  fault,  and  that  is  faults  enough, 
Is,  that  she  is  intolerably  curst. 
And  shrewd,  and  froward  ;  so  beyond  all  measure, 
That,  were  my  state  far  worser  than  it  is, 
I  would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  of  gold. 

Pet.  Hortensio,    peace !    thou    know'st    not   gold's 
effect. — 
Tell  me  her  father's  name,  and  't  is  enough. 
For  I  will  board  her,  though  she  chide  as  loud 
As  thunder,  when  the  clouds  in  Autumn  crack. 

Hor.  Her  father  is  Baptista  Minola, 
An  affable  and  courteous  gentleman : 
Her  name  is  Katharina  Minola, 
Reno\ATi'd  in  Padua  for  her  scolding  tongue. 

Pet.  I  know  her  father,  though  I  know  not  her, 
And  he  knew  my  deceased  father  well. 
I  will  not  sleep,  Hortensio,  till  I  see  her ; 
And  therefore  let  me  be  thus  bold  with  you, 
To  give  you  over  at  this  first  encounter, 
Unless  you  will  accompany  me  thither. 

Gru.  I  pray  you.  sir,  let  him  go  while  the  humou'' 
lasts.  O'  my  word,  an  she  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do, 
she  would  think  scolding  would  do  little  good  upon 
him.  She  may,  perhaps,  call  him  half  a  score  knaves 
or  so :  why,  that 's  nothing :  an  he  begin  once,  he  '11 
rail  in  his  rope-tricks.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  sir. — an  she 
stand  him  but  a  little,  he  will  throw  a  figure  in  her 
face,  and  so  disfigure  her  with  it,  that  she  shall  have 
no  more  eyes  to  see  withal  than  a  cat.  You  know 
him  not,  sir. 

Hor.  Tarry,  Petruchio,  I  must  go  with  thee, 
For  in  Baptista's  keep  my  treasure  is : 
He  hath  the  jewel  of  my  life  in  hold, 
His  youngest  daughter,  beautiful  Bianca, 
And  her  witliholds  from  me,  and  other  more 
Suitors  to  her,  and  rivals  in  my  love ; 
Supposing  it  a  thing  impossible. 
For  those  defects  I  have  before  rehears'd, 
That  ever  Katharina  will  be  woo'd  : 
Therefore  this  order  hath  Baptista  ta'en. 
That  none  shall  have  access  unto  Bianca, 
Till  Katiiarine  the  curst  have  got  a  husband. 

Gru.  Katharine  the  curst  ! 
A  title  for  a  maid  of  all  titles  the  worst. 

Hor.  Now  shall  my  friend  Petruchio  do  me  grace, 
And  offer  me,  disguis'd  in  sober  robes. 
To  old  Baptista.  as  a  schoolmaster 
Well  seen  in  music,  to  instruct  Bianca ; 
That  so  I  may  by  this  device,  at  least 
Have  leave  and  leisure  to  make  love  to  her. 
And  vinsuspected  court  her  by  herself. 

Enter  Gremio,  and  Lucentio  disguised,  with  books 
under  his  arm. 

Gru.  Here's  no  knavery?  See,  to  beguile  the  old 
folks,  how  the  young  folks  lay  their  heads  together  ! 
Master,  master,  look  about  you  :  who  goes  there  ?  ha  ! 

Hor.  Peace,  Grumio  :  't  is  the  rival  of  my  love. 
Petruchio,  stand  by  a  while. 

Gru.  A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous  ! 

[They  retire. 

Gre.  0  !   very  well ;  I  have  perus'd  the  note. 
Hark  you,  sir ;  I  '11  have  them  very  fairly  bound : 
I  All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  any  hand. 


»  Not  in  f.  e.     »  out :  in  f.  e      >  The  story  is  in  Gower's  Confessio  Amantis. 
»-as  often  shaped  like  a  human  fonn. 


An  aglet  was  a  point  or  tag  to  the  string  of  a  are3» 


216 


TAMES^G  OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT   L 


.\nd  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her. 

Vou  understand  me. — Over  and  beside 

Signior  Baptislas  liberality, 

I  "11  mend  it  with  a  lary;es«. — Take  your  papers,  too, 

And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perluind, 

For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself. 

To  whom  they  <:o.'     What  will  you  read  to  her? 

Luc.  Wiiate'er  I  read  to  her,  I  '11  plead  for  you, 
As  for  my  patron  :  stand  you  .«o  assur'd, 
As  firmly  as  yourself  were  still  in  place  : 
Vea,  and  perhaps  with  more  successful  words 
Than  you,  unless  you  were  a  scholar,  sir. 

Gre.  O,  this  learning,  what  a  thing  it  is  ! 

Gni.  0.  this  woodcock,  what  an  ass  it  is  ! 

Pd..  Peace,  sirrah  ! 

Hor.  Gruinio.    mum!  —  [Coming   forward.] — God 
save  you.  signior  Greniio  ! 

Gre.  And  you  are  well  met,  signior  Hortensio. 
Trow  you.  whither  I  am  going? — To  Baptista  Minola. 
[  promis'd  to  inquire  carefully 
About  a  master  for  the  fair  Bianca : 
And.  by  good  fortune.  I  have  lighted  well 
On  this  young  man :  for  learning  and  behaviour, 
Fit  for  her  turn:  well  read  in  poetry. 
And  other  books. — good  ones,  I  warrant  ye. 

Hor.  'T  is  well :  and  I  have  met  a  gentleman 
Hath  promisd  me  to  help  me  to  another, 
A  fine  musician  to  in.struct  our  mistress : 
So  shall  I  no  whit  be  behind  in  duty 
To  fair  Bianca,  so  belov'd  of  me. 

Gre.  Belov'd  of  me.  and  that  my  deeds  shall  prove. 

Gru.  And  that  his  bags  shall  prove. 

Hor.  Gremio,  't  is  now  no  time  to  vent  our  love. 
Listen  to  me.  and  if  you  speak  me  fair, 
[  "11  tell  you  news  inditferent  good  for  either. 
Here  is  a  gentleman,  whom  by  chance  I  met. 
Upon  agreement  from  us  to  his  liking, 
Will  undertake  to  woo  curst  Katharine  : 
Yea,  and  to  marry  her,  if  her  dowTy  please. 

Gre.  So  said,  so  done,  is  well. — 
Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults  ? 

Pet.  I  know,  she  is  an  irksome,  brawling  scold  : 
If  that  be  all.  masters,  I  hear  no  harm. 

Gre.  No.  say'st  me  so,  friend  ?     What  countryman  ? 

Pet.  Born  in  Verona,  old  Antonio's  son: 
.My  father  dead,  my  fortune  lives  for  me : 
.And  I  do  hope  good  days,  and  Ions,  to  see. 


My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  good,  and  ours*. 

Hor.  I  promis'd  we  would  be  contributors. 
And  bear  his  charge  of  wooing,  whatsocer. 

Gre.  And  so  we  will,  provided  that  he  win  her. 

Gru.   I  would,  I  were  as  sure  ot  a  good  dimier. 

Enter  Tranio,  bravely  apparelhd ;  and  BiONEtLLO. 

Tra.  Gentlemen.  God  save  you  !      If  I  may  be  bold 
Tell  me.  I  beseech  you,  which  is  the  readiest  way 
To  the  house  of  signior  Baptista  Minola? 

Bion.  He  that  has  the  two  lair  daughters; — is 't  be 
you  mean  ? 

Tra.  Even  he,  Biondello. 

Gre.  Hark  you,  sir  :  you  mean  not  her  to — 

Tra.  Perhaps,  him  and  her,  sir  :   what  have   you 
to  do? 

Pet.  Not  her  that  chides,  sir,  at  any  hand,  I  pray. 

Tra.  I  love  no  chiders,  sir, — Biondello,  let 's  away. 

Luc.  Well  begun,  Tranio.  [Aside 

Hor.  Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go 
Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea,  or  no  ? 

Tra.  An  if  I  bo,  sir,  is  it  any  offence  ? 

Gre.   No ;  if  without  more  words  you  will  get  you 
hence. 

Tra.  Why,  sir.  I  pray,  are  not  the  streets  as  free 
For  me,  as  for  you  ? 

Gre.  But  so  is  not  she. 

Tra.  For  what  reason,  I  beseech  you  ? 

Gre.  For  this  reason,  if  you  "11  know. 
That  she  's  the  choice  love  of  signior  Gremio. 

Hor.  That  she  's  the  chosen  of  signior  Hortensio. 

Tra.  Softly,  my  masters  !  if  you  be  gentlemen, 
Do  me  this  right :  hear  me  with  patience. 
Baptista  is  a  noble  gentleman, 
To  whom  my  father  is  not  all  unknown ; 
And  were  his  daughter  fairer  than  she  is, 
She  may  more  suitors  have,  and  me  for  one. 
Fair  Leda's  daughter  had  a  thousand  wooers; 
Then,  well  one  more  may  fair  Bianca  have. 
And  so  she  shall.     Lucentio  shall  make  one, 
Though  Paris  came  in  hope  to  speed  alone. 

Gre.  What !  this  gentleman  will  out-talk  us  ail. 

Luc.  Sir,  give  him  head:  I  know,  he  '11    prove  a 
jade. 

Pet.  Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these  words  ? 

Hor.  Sir.  let  me  be  so  bold  as  ask  you. 
Did  you  yet  ever  see  Baptista's  daughter? 

Tra.  No.  sir;  but  hear  I  do.  that  he  hath  two. 


Gre.  0  !  sir.  such  a  lite  with  .such  a  wife  were  strange  :   The  one  as  famous  for  a  scolding  tongue, 


But  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to  't  o'  Gods  name 
Vou  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all. 
But  will  you  woo  this  wild  cat? 

Pet.  Will  I  Jive? 

Gru.  Will  he  woo  her?  ay.  or  I  "11  han^  her. 

Pet.  Why  came  I  hither,  but  to  that  intent  ? 
Think  you,  a  little  din  can  daunt  mine  ears? 
Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  lirms  roar? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  sea,  pufT'd  up  with  winds. 
Rage  like  an  anirrj-  boar,  chafed  with  sweat? 
Have  I  not  heard  sreat  ordnance  in  the  field. 
And  heaven's  artillery  thunder  in  the  skies? 
Have  I  not  in  a  pitched  battle  heard 
Loud  'larums.  neiiihin?  steeds,  and  trumpets'  clang? 
.And  do  you  tell  me  of  a  woman's  tonirue. 
That  sivcs  not  half  so  great  a  blow  to  hear, 
As  will  a  chestnut  in  a  farmer's  fire? 
Push  !  tush  !  fear  boys  with  bugs'. 

Gru.  For  he  fears  none 

Gre.  Hortensio.  hark, 
rhis  gentleman  is  happily  arriv'd, 

>  r»  to  :  in  folio.      »  This  word 


i  As  is  the  other  for  beauteous  modesty. 

Pet.  Sir,  sir,  the  first 's  for  me  :  let  her  go  by. 

Gre.  Yea,  leave  that  labour  to  great  Hercules, 
And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcides'  twelve. 

Pet.  Sir,  understand  you  this  of  me  :  insooth, 
The  youngest  daughter,  whom  you  hearken  for 
Her  father  keeps  from  all  access  of  suitors, 
And  will  not  promise  her  to  any  man, 
I  Until  the  elder  sister  fir.st  be  wed  ; 
The  younger  then  is  free,  and  not  before. 

Tra.  If  it  be  so,  sir,  that  you  are  the  man 
Must  stead  us  all,  and  me  among  Xhe  rest ; 
And  if  you  break  the  ice,  and  do  this  feat*, 
Achieve  the  elder,  set  the  younner  free 
For  our  access,  whose  hap  shall  be  to  have  her 
Will  not  so  graceless  be  to  be  insrate. 

Hor.  Sir,  you  say  well,  and  well  you  do  conceive, 
And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  .suitoi, 
You  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman. 
To  whom  we  all  rest  generally  beholding. 

Trz    Sir,  I  shall  not  be  slack  :   in  sign  whereof, 


formerly  s>Tionynious  wi'.a  terrori,  like  oar  bug-be»r«.      *  joun  : 


♦  seek  :  ib  f.  e. 


SCENE  I. 


TAMING  OF   THE  SHREW. 


217 


Please  ye  we  may  contrive*  this  afternoon, 
And  qua^  carouses  to  our  mistress'  health : 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  law, 
Strive  mightily,  but  eat  and  drink  as  friends. 


excellent   motion  !      Fellows,  lei 's 


Gru.  Bion.  O, 

begone. 

Hor.  The  motion's  good  indeed,  and  be  it  so. — 
Pctruchio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  venuto.  [ExeurJ 


ACT    II, 


SCENE  I. — The  Same.    A  Room  in  Baptista's  House. 
Enter  Katharina  and  Bianca. 

Bian.  Good  sister,  wrong  me  not,  nor  wrong  yourself 
To  make  a  bondmaid,  and  a  slave  of  me  : 
That  I  disdain ;  but  for  these  other  gards", 
Unbind  my  hands,  I  '11  put  them  off  myself, 
Yea,  all  my  raiment,  to  my  petticoat ; 
Or  what  you  will  command  me  will  I  do, 
So  well  I  know  my  duty  to  my  elders. 

Kath.  Of  all  tliy  suitors,  here  I  charge  thee,  tell 
W  aom  thou  lov'st  best :  see  thou  dissemble  not. 

Bian.  Believe  me,  sister,  of  all  the  men  alive, 
[  )  ever  yet  beheld  that  special  face 
W'lich  I  could  fancy  more  than  any  other. 

Kath.  Minion,  thou  licst.     Is  't  not  Hortensio  ? 

Bian.  If  you  affect  him,  sister,  here  I  swear. 
I  "U  plead  for  you  myself,  but  you  shall  have  him. 

Kath.  0  !  then,  belike,  you  fancy  riches  more  : 
Y'/u  will  have  Gremio  to  keep  you  fair. 

Bian.  Is  it  for  him  you  do  envy  me  so  ? 
iVay  then,  you  jest :  and  now  I  well  perceive, 
ifou  have  but  jested  with  me  all  this  while. 
I  pr'ythee,  sister  Kate,  untie  my  hands.  [her. 

Kath.  If  that  be  jest,  then  all  the  rest  was  so.   [Strikes 
Enter  Baptista. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  dame !  whence  grows  this  in- 
solence ? — 
Bianca,  stand  aside  : — poor  girl  !  she  weeps. — 
Go  ply  thy  needle  :  meddle  not  with  her. — 
For  shame,  thou  hildiug'  of  a  devilish  spirit, 
Why  dost  thou  wrong  her  that  did  ne'er  wrong  thee  ? 
When  did  she  cross  thee  with  a  bitter  word  ? 

Kath.  Her  silence  flouts  me,  and  I  '11  be  reveng'd. 

[Flies  after  Bianca. 

Bap.  [Holding  her.*]  What !   in  my  siglit  ? — Bianca, 
get  thee  in.  [Exit  Bianca. 

Kath.  What !  will  you  not  sufl^er  me?  Nay,  now  I  see, 
She  is  your  treasure,  she  mu.st  have  a  husband ; 
I  must  dance  barefoot  on  her  wedding-day, 
And  for  your  love  to  her  lead  apes  in  hell. 
Talk  not  to  me  :  I  will  go  sit  and  weep. 
Till  I  can  find  occasion  of  revenge.    [Exit  Katharina. 

Bap.  Was  ever  gentleman  thus  grieved  as  I  ? 
But  wlio  comes  here  ? 
Enter  Gremio.  v:ifh  Lucentio  in  a  mean  habit ;  Petru- 

CHio.  unth  Hortensio  as  a  Musician  ;  and  Tranio, 

with  Biondello  nearing  a  lute  and  books. 

Gre.  Good-morrow,  neighbour  Baptista. 

Bj,p.  Good-morrow,   neighbour  Gremio.      God  save 
you,  gentlemen  ! 

Pet.  And  you,  good  sir.  Pray,  have  you  not  a  daughter, 
Call'd  Katharina,  fair,  and  virtuous? 

Bap.  I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  call'd  Katharina. 

Gre.  You  are  too  blunt  :  go  to  it  orderly. 

Pet.  You  wrong  me,  signior Gremio:  give  me  leave. — 
I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir, 
Tliar,  hearing  of  her  beauty,  and  her  wit, 
Her  affability,  a.n'^  bashful  modesty, 

pass  or  sp»nQ.      »  goods  :  in  f.  e.      '  Low  wre 


Her  woman's*  qualities,  and  mild  behaviour 
Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guesi 
Within  your  house,  to  make  mine  eye  the  witness 
Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  heard. 
And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 
I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine, 

[Presenting  Hortensic. 
Cunning  in  music,  and  the  mathematics, 
To  instruct  her  fully  in  those  sciences, 
Whereof,  I  know,  slie  is  not  ignorant. 
Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  rne  wi-ong : 
His  name  is  Licio,  born  in  Mantua. 

Bap.  You're  welcome,  sir,  and  he,  for  your  good  sake. 
But  for  my  daughter  Katharine,  this  I  know, 
She  is  not  for  your  turn ;  the  more  my  grief. 

Pet.  I  see,  you  do  not  mean  to  pan  with  her, 
Or  else  you  like  not  of  my  company. 

Bap.  Mistake  me  not ;  I  speak  but  as  I  find. 
Whence  are  you.  sir  ?  what  may  I  call  your  name? 

Pet.  Petruchio  is  my  name,  Antonio's  son ; 
A  man  well  known  throughout  all  Italy. 

Bap.  I  know  him  well ;  you  are  welcome  for  his  sake. 

Gre.  Saving  your  tale,  Petruchio,  I  pray, 
Let  us,  that  are  poor  petitioners,  speak  too. 
Backare*  :  you  are  marvellous  forward. 

Pet.  0  !  pardon  me,  signior  Gremio :  I  would  fain 
be  doing. 

Gre.  I  doubt  it  not,  sir;  but  you  will  curse  your 
wooing. — 
Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
To  express  the  like  kindness  myself,  that  have  been 
more  kindly  beholding  to  you  than  any,  J  freely  give 
unto  you  this  young  scholar,  [Presenting  Lucentio] 
that  hath  been  long  studying  at  Puheims ;  as  cunning 
in  Greek.  Latin,  and  other  languages,  as  the  other  in 
music  and  mathematics.  His  name  is  Cambio ;  pray 
accept  his  service. 

Bap.  A  thousand  thanks,  signior  Gremio:  welcome, 
good  Cambio. — But,  gentle  sir,  [To  Tranio,]  methinks, 
you  walk  like  a  stranger:  may  I  be  so  bold  to  know 
the  cause  of  your  coming  ? 

Tra.  Pardon  me.  sir,  the  boldness  is  mine  own 
That,  being  a  stranger  in  this  city  here, 
Do  make  myself  a  suitor  to  your  daughter, 
Unto  Bianca,  fair,  and  virtuous. 
Nor  is  your  firm  resolve  unknown  to  me, 
In  the  preferment  of  the  eldest  sister. 
This  liberty  is  all  that  I  request, — 
That,  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo, 
And  free  access  and  favour  as  the  rest : 
And,  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 
I  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument, 
And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books . 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.  Lucentio  is  your  name  ?  of  whence.  I  pray  ' 

Tra.  Of  Pisa,  sir  :  son  to  Vincentio. 

Bap.  A  mighty  man  of  Pisa :  by  report 
I  know  him  well.     You  are  very  welcome,  sir. — 

ch.      *  Not  in  f.  e.      '  -wonilrous  :  in  f.  e.      *  A  word  oflen  ncod  ;   it 


^18 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHKEW. 


ACT  a. 


Take  you  [7b  Hor.]  the  lute,  and  you  [To  Luc]  the 

Bet  of  books  ; 
You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 
Holla,  within  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Sirrah,  lead  these  gentlemen 
To  my  daughters  :  and  tell  them  both, 
Tliese  are  their  tutors:  bid  them  use  them  -well. 

[Exit  Servant,  with  Hortensio,  Lucentio, 
and  BioNDELLo. 
We  -will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard. 
.\nd  then  to  dinner.     You  are  passing  welcome. 
And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 

Pet.  Siiiuior  Baptista,  my  business  askcth  haste, 
And  every  day  I  cannot  come  to  woo'. 
You  knew  my  father  well,  and  in  him,  me, 
Left  solely  heir  to  all  his  lands  and  goods. 
Which  1  have  better'd  rather  than  decreased  : 
Tlien.  toll  me, — if  I  get  your  daughter's  love. 
What  do\NTy  shall  I  have  with  her  to  wife  ? 

Bap.  After  my  death,  the  one  half  of  my  lands, 
And  in  possession  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Pel.  And.  for  that  dowry,  I  '11  assure  her  of 
Her  widowhood,  be  it  that  she  survive  me, 
In  all  my  lands  and  leases  whatsoever. 
Let  specialities  be  therefore  drawn  between  us. 
That  covenants  may  be  kept  on  either  hand. 

Bap.  Ay,  when  the  special  thing  is  well  obtaind. 
That  is.  her  love  ;  for  that  is  all  in  all. 

Pet.  Why,  that  is  nothing  ;  for  I  tell  you,  father, 
I  am  as  peremptory,  as  she  proud-minded  ; 
And  where  two  raging  fires  meet  together, 
They  do  consuiiie  tlie  thing  that  feeds  their  fury. 
Though  little  fire  grows  great  with  little  wind. 
Yet  extreme  gusts  wU  blow  out  fire  and  all ; 
So  I  to  her,  and  so  she  yields  to  me, 
For  I  am  rough,  and  woo  not  like  a  babe. 


Bap. 


W^ 


may  St  thou  woo.  and  happy  be  thy  speed 


But  be  thou  arm'd  for  some  unliapjjy  words 

Pet.  Ay,  to  tlie  proof ;  as  mountains  are  for  winds. 
That  siiake  not,  though  they  blow  perpetually. 
Re-enter  Hortensio,  with  his  head  broken. 

Bap.  How  now,  my  friend  !  why  dost  thou  look  so  pale 

Hor.  Fo.  fear.  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 

Bap.  What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good  musician  ? 

Hor.  I  think,  she  '11  sooner  prove  a  soldier: 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 

Bap.  Why,  then  thou  canst  not  break  her  to  the  lute  ? 

Hor.  Why  no,  for  she  hath  broke  the  lute  to  me. 
I  did  but  tell  her  she  mistook  her  frets, 
And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering, 
WT.en,  witli  a  most  impatient,  devilish  spirit,    [them :" 
"  Frets,  call  you  these  ?"  quoth  she  :  "  I  '11  fume  with 
And  with  that  word  she  struck  me  on  the  head, 
And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way  ; 
And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  awhile, 
As  on  a  pillory-  looting  through  the  lute, 
While  she  did  call  me  rascal  fiddler. 
And  twanglinc  Jack,  with  twenty  such  \nle  terms, 
As  she  had  studied  lo  mi.«u.sc  me  so. 

Pet.  Now,  by  the  world,  it  is  a  lusty  wench  ! 
I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did  : 
D.  how  I  long  to  have  .some  chat  with  her  ! 

Bap.  Well,  go  with  me,  and  be  not  so  discomfited  : 
Proceed  in  patience  vsith  my  younser  daughter  ; 
She  'h  apt  to  learn,  and  thankful  for  good  turns.— 
Signior  Petrachio,  will  you  go  with  ns, 
Or  shall  I  .send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 
Pet.  I  pray  you  do ;  I  will  attend  her  here, 
••T^.p  bnthcn.  K-r%  Knight,  of  an  old  bnllad  entitle 


[Exeunt  Baptista,  Grbmio,  1'ranio.  and  Hortenbic. 

And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  -when  she  comes. 

Say,  that  she  rail  ;  why,  then  I  '11  tell  her  plain, 

She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale  : 

Say,  that  she  frown  ;  I  '11  say,  she  looks  as  clear 

As  morning  roses  newly  wash'd  with  dew  : 

Say,  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word  ; 

Then  I  '11  commend  her  volubility. 

And  say,  she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence  : 

If  .she  do  bid  me  pack,  I  '11  give  her  thanks, 

As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week  : 

If  she  deny  to  wed,  I  '11  crave  the  day 

Wlien  I  shall  a.sk  the  banns,  and  when  be  married. — 

But  here  she  comes  ;  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

Enter  Katharina. 
Good-morrow,  Kate,  for  that 's  your  name,  I  hear. 
Kath.  Well  have  you  heard,  but  something  hard  of 
hearing  : 
They  call  me  Katharine  that  do  talk  of  me. 

Pet.  You  lie,  in  faith :  for  you  are  call'd  plain  Kate, 
And  bomiy  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst ; 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom  ; 
Kate  of  Kate-Hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates  :  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation  : — 
Hearing  thy  mildness  prais'd  in  every  town, 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded. 
Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs. 
Myself  am  mov'd  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Kath.   Mov'd  !    in  good  time  :  let  him  that  mov'd 
you  hither. 
Remove  you  hence.     I  knew  you  at  the  first. 
You  were  a  moveable. 

Pet.  Why,  what 's  a  moveable  ? 

Kath.  A  joint-stool. 

Pet.  Thou  hast  hit  it :  come,  sit  on  me. 

Kath.  Asses  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 
Pet.  W^omen  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 
Kath.  No  such  jade  to  bear  you,'  if  me  you  mean. 
Pet.  Alas,  good  Kate  !   I  will  not  burden  thee ; 
For,  knowing  thee  to  be  but  young  and  light, — 

Kath.  Too  light  for  such  a  swain  as  you  to  catch. 
And  yet  as  heavy  as  my  weight  should  be. 
Pet.  Should  be  ?  should  buz. 

Kath.  Well  ta'en.  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.  0.   slow-wing'd  turtle  !    shall  a  buzzard  take 

thee  ? 
Kath.  Ay,  for  a  turtle,  as  he  takes  a  buzzard. 
Pet.  Come,  come,  you  wasp ;  i'  faith,  you  are  to« 

angry. 
Kath.  If  I  be  waspish,  best  beware  my  sting. 
Pet.  My  remedy  is,  then,  to  pluck  it  out. 
Kath.  Ay,  if  the  fool  could  find  out  where  it  lies. 
Pet.  Who  knows  not  where  a  wa.sp  does  wear  hi* 
sting  ? 
In  his  tail. 

Kath.         In  his  tongue. 
Pet.  Whose  tongue  ? 

Kath.  Yours,  if  you  talk  of  tails :  and  so  farewell. 
Pet.  What !  with  my  tongue  in  your  tail  ?  nay,  comf 
again  : 
Good  Kate,  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Kath.  That  I'll  try.     [Striking  hi'n 

Pet.  I  swear  I  '11  cuff"  you,  if  you  strike  again. 
Kath.  So  may  you  lose  your  arms  : 
If  you  strike  me  you  are  no  gentleman. 
And  if  no  Kcntleman,  why,  then  no  arms. 

Pet.  A  herald,  Kate?     0  !  put  me  in  thy  books. 
Kath.  What  is  your  crest  ?  a  coxcomb  ? 


"  The  Ingenioni  BraRgadocio."      »  No  men  jade  as  you  ;  in  f.  e. 


SCENE   1. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHKEIV. 


219 


Pet.  A  combless  cock,  so  Kate  will  be  my  hen. 

Kath.  No  cock  of  mine  ;  you  crow  too  like  a  craven. 

Pet.  Nay,  come,  Kate,  come  ;  you  must  not  look  so 
sour. 

Kath.  It  is  my  fashion  when  I  see  a  crab. 

Pet.  Why,  here  's  no  crab,  and  therefore  look  not  sour. 

Kath.  There  is,  there  is. 

Pet.  Then  show  it  me. 

Kath.      ■  Had  I  a  glass  I  would. 

Pet.  What,  you  mean  my  face  ? 

Kath.  Well  aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.  Now,  by  Saint  George.  I  am  too  yoimg  for  you. 

Kath.  Yet  you  are  wither'd. 

Pet.  'T  IS  with  cares. 

Kath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.  Nay,  hear  you,  Kate  :  in  sooth,  you  'scape  not 
so,  [Holding  her.^ 

Kath.  I  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry  :  let  me  go. 

Pet.  No,  not  a  wliii :  I  find  you  passing  gentle. 
'T  was  told  me,  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and  sullen. 
And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar ; 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  courteous. 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time  flowers. 
Thou  canst  not  frowni,  thou  canst  not  look  askance, 
Nor  bite  the  lip,  as  angry  wenches  will  ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk  ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers. 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 
Why  does  the  world  report  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 
0,  slanderous  world  !  Kate,  like  the  hazel-twig. 
Is  straight,  and  slender  :  and  as  brown  in  hue 
As  hazel  nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 
0  !  let  me  see  thee  walk  :  thou  dost  not  lialt. 

Kath.  Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  command. 

Pet.  Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove, 
As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait  ? 
0  !  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate, 
And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  sportful. 

Kath.  Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly  speech  ? 

Pet.  It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother- wit. 

Kath.  A  witty  mother  !  witless  else  her  son. 

Pet.  Am  I  not  wise  ? 

Kath.  Yes  ;  keep  you  warm. 

Pet.  Marry,  so  I  mean,  sweet  Katharine,  in  thy  bed. 
And  therefore,  setting  all  this  chat  aside, 
Thus  in  plain  terms  : — your  father  hath  consented 
That  you  shall  be  my  \\ife  :  your  dowry  'greed  on, 
And,  will  you,  nill  you.  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn  ; 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty. 
Thy  beauty  that  idoth  make  me  like  thee  well. 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me  : 
For  I  am  he,  am  born  to  tame  you,  Kate, 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild  Kate  to  a  Kate 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father  :  never  make  denial  ; 
must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 
P:^-enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  and  Tranio. 

Bap.  Now,  signior   Petruchio,  how  speed  you  with 
my  daughter  ? 

Pet.  How  but  well,  sir  ?  how  but  well  ? 
It  were  impossible  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  daughter  Katharine  !  in  your 
dumps  ? 

Kath.  Call  you  me,  daughter?  now,  I  promise  you. 
You  have  show'd  a  tender  fatherly  regard. 
To  wisli  me  wed  to  one  half  lunatic ; 
A  mad-cap  ruffian,  and  a  swearing  Jack, 
That  thinks  with  oaths  to  face  the  matter  out. 


Pet.  Father,  't  is  thus  : — yourself  and  all  the  world. 
That  talk'd  of  her,  have  talk'd  amiss  of  her. 
If  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy, 
For  she  's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  do-^e ; 
She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  moon  ;* 
For  patience  she  will  prove  a  .second  Gris.sei. 
And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity ; 
And  to  conclude, — we  have  'greed  so  well  together, 
That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 

Kath.  I  '11  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 

Gre.  Hark,    Petruchio:    she   says,   she'll  see    tllee 
hang'd  first. 

Tra.  Is  this  your  speeding  ?  nay  then,  good  night  our 
pact. 

Pet.  Be  patient,  gentlemen  ;  I  choose  her  for  myself 
If  she  and  I  be  pleas'd,  what  "s  that  to  you  ? 
'T  is  bargain'd  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 
That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  tell  you.  't  is  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me.     O,  the  kindest  Kate  ! 
She  hung  about  my  neck,  and  kiss  on  kiss 
She  vied  so  fast,  protesting  oath  on  oath. 
That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  lier  love. 

0  !  you  are  novices  :  't  is  a  world  to  see,' 
How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 

A  meacock*  -wTetch  can  make  the  curstest  shrew,'— 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate  :  I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy  apparel  'gainst  the  wedding-day. — 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests , 

1  will  be  sure  !  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Bap.  I  know  not  what  to  say ;  but  give  me  your 
hands  : 
God  send  you  joy  !  Petruchio,  't  is  a  match. 

Gre.  Tra.  Amen,  say  we  :  we  vnll  be  witnesses. 

Pet.  Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu. 
I  will  to  Venice  ;  Sunday  comes  apace. 
We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array  ; 
And,  kiss  me,  Kate,  we  will  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

\ Exeunt  Petruchio  and  Katharine,  severally. 

Gre.  Was  ever  match  clappd  up  so  suddenly  ? 

Bap.  Faith,  gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  merchant's  part, 
And  venture  madly  on  a  desperate  mart. 

Tra.  'T  was  a  commodity  lay  fretting  ,by  you  : 
'T  \vi\]  bring  you  gain,  or  perish  on  the  seas. 

Bap.  The  gain  I  seek  is  quiet  in  the  match. 

Gre.  No  doubt  but  he  hath  got  a  quiet  catch. — 
But  now,  Bapti.«ta,  to  your  younger  daughter. 
Now  is  the  day  we  long  have  looked  for : 
I  am  your  neighbour,  and  was  suitor  first. 

Tra.  And  I  am  one,  that  love  Bianca  more 
Than  words  can  witness,  or  your  thoughts  can  guess. 

Gre.  Youngling,  thou  canst  not  love  so  dear  as  I. 

Tra.  Grey-beard,  thy  love  d^^ch  freeze. 

Gre.  ■    But  thine  doth  fry 

Skipper,  stand  back  :  't  is  age,  that  nourisheth. 

Tra.  But  youth,  in  ladies'  eyes,  that  flourisheth. 

Bap.  Content  you,  gentlemen ;    I  '11  compound  this 
strife  : 
'T  is  deeds  must  win  the  prize  ;  and  he,  of  both. 
That  can  assure  my  daughter  greatest  dower, 
Shall  have  my  Bianca's  love. — 
Say.  signior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her  ? 

Gre.  First,  as  you  know,  my  house  within  the  oiiy 
Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold  : 
Basons,  and  ewers,  to  lave  her  dainty  hands ; 
My  hangings  all  of  Tyrian  tapestry  : 
In  ivory  coffers  I  have  stufTd  my  crownis ; 
In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints, 
Costly  apparel,  tents,  and  canopies, 


Not  <n  f.  e       >  mom  :  in  f  e.      ^  A  proverbial  phrase,  worth  a  world  to  see.      ♦  Cowardli 


220 


TAMING   OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT  m. 


Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions  boss'd  with  pearl, 
Valance  of  Venice  i;old  in  needle-work, 
Pe-«ner  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 
To  house,  or  housekeepini,' :  then,  at  my  farm, 
I  have  a  hundred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 
Six  score  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls, 
And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 
Myself  am  struck  in  years.  I  must  conl'ess ; 
And  if  I  die  to-morrow  this  is  hers, 
If  whilst  I  live  she  will  be  only  mine. 

Tra.  Tiiat  "only"'  came  well  in. — Sir,  list  to  me  : 
I  am  my  father's  heir,  and  only  son  : 
If  I  may  have  your  daughter  to  my  wife, 
I  '11  leave  her  houses  tliree  or  four  as  good, 
Within  rich  Pisa  walls,  as  any  one 
Old  signior  Gremio  has  in  Padua ; 
Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year 
Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  jointure. 
What,  have  I  pinchd  you,  signior  Gremio? 

Gre.  Two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year  of  land  ! 
My  land  amounts  not  to  so  much  in  all : 
That  slie  shall  have  ;  besides  an  argosy, 
That  now  is  lying  in  Marseilles'  road. — 
What,  have  I  chokd  you  with  an  argosy  ? 

Tra.  Grenuo,  't  is  knowni,  my  father  hath  no  less 
Than  three  great  argo.«ies,  besides  two  galliasses, 
And  t*\velve  tight  galleys  :  these  I  will  assure  her. 
And  twice  as  much,  whate'er  thou  offer'st  next. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  have  offer'd  all.  I  have  no  more : 
And  she  can  have  no  more  than  all  I  have  : — 


If  you  like  me,  she  shall  have  me  and  mine. 

Tra.  Why,  then,  the  maid  is  mine  from  all  the  world, 
By  your  firm  promise  :  Gremio  is  out-vied. 

Bap.  I  must  confess  your  otfer  is  the  best ; 
And.  let  your  father  make  her  the  assurance, 
She  is  your  ovra ;  else,  you  must  pardon  me  : 
If  you  should  die  before  him,  where  "s  her  dower? 

Tra.  That 's  but  a  cavil  :  he  is  old.  I  young. 

Gre.  And  may  not  young  men  die,  as  well  as  old  ? 

Bap.  Well,  gentlemen. 
I  am  thus  resolvd. — On  Sunday  next,  you  kjiow, 
My  daughter  Katharine  is  to  be  married  : 
Now,  on  the  Sunday  following  shall  Bianca 
Be  bride  to  you,  if  you  make  this  assurance  : 
If  not,  to  signior  Gremio  : 
And  so  I  take  my  leave,  and  thank  you  both.        \Ezit. 

Gre.  Adieu,  good  neighbour.     Now  I  fear  thee  noi: 
Sirrah,  young  gamester,  your  father  were  a  fool 
To  cive  thee  all,  and,  in  his  waning  age. 
Set  foot  under  thy  table.     Tut,  a  toy  ! 
An  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy.  'Exit 

Tra.  A  vengeance  on  yoiu-  crafty  \\-iiher  d  hide  ! 
Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten.' 
'T  is  in  my  head  to  do  my  ma,-ier  good : — 
I  see  no  reason,  but  suppos'd  Lucentio 
Must  get  a  father,  call'd — supposed  Vincentio  ; 
And  that 's  a  wonder  :  fathers,  commonly. 
Do  get  their  children;  but  in  this  case  of  winning.' 
A  child  shall  get  a  sire,  if  I  fail  not  of  my  cunning. 

I'Exit. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  Baptista's  House. 
Enter  Lucentio,  Hortensio,  and  Bianca. 

Luc.  Fiddler,  forbear :  you  grow  too  forward,  sir. 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcomed  you  withal  ? 

Hor.  Tut,  wrangling  pedant !  I  avouch,  this  is' 
The  patrones.s  of  heavenly  harmony  : 
Then,  give  me  leave  to  have  prerogative ; 
And  when  in  music  we  have  spent  an  hour. 
Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 

Luc.  Preposterous  ass,  that  never  read  so  far 
To  know  the  cause  why  music  was  ordain'd  ! 
Was  it  not  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man, 
.\fter  liis  studies,  or  his  usual  pain? 
Then,  give  me  leave  to  read  Philosophy, 
And  while  I  pause  serve  in  your  harmony. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  I  will  not  bear  these  braves  of  thine. 

Bian.  Why.  gentlemen,  you  do  me  double  wrong, 
To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice. 
I  am  no  breeching  scholar  in  the  schools ; 
I'll  not  be  tied  to  hours,  nor  'pointed  times, 
But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 
And,  to  cut  off  all  strife,  here  sit  we  down: — 
Take  you  your  instrument,  play  you  the  whiles; 
His  lecture  •will  be  done,  ere  you  have  tun'd. 

Hor.  You'll  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in  tune? 
[Hortensio  retires. 

Lue.  That  will  be  never: — tune  your  instrument. 

Bian.  Where  left  we  last  ? 

L'lc.  Here,  madam  : 

Hac  that  Simois  ;  hie  e.it  Sigcia  teUus  ; 
Hie  .iteterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis. 


Bian.  Construe  them. 

Luc.  Hac  ibat.  as  I  told  you  before, — Simois.  I  am 
Lucentio. — hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  of  Pisa. — Sigeia 
tellus,  disguised  thus  to  get  your  love  : — Hie  stcterat. 
and  that  Lucentio  that  comes  a  wooing. — Priami.  is 
my  man  Tranio,  regia.  bearing  my  port, — celsa  senis. 
that  we  might  beguile  the  old  pantaloon. 

Hor.  [Returning.]  Madam,  my  instrument's  in  tune. 

Bian.  Let 's  hear. —  [Hortensio  plays. 

0  fie  !  the  treble  jars. 

Luc.  Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 

Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  construe  it:  Hac  ibat 
Simui.s.  I  know  you  not ; — hie  est  Sigeia  tellus,  I  trust 
you  not ; — Hie  steterat  Priami.  take  heed  he  hear  us 
not : — regia,  presume  not ; — celsa  senis,  despair  not. 

Hor.  Madam,  't  is  now  in  tune. 

Luc.  All  but  the  ba^e. 

Hor.  The  base  is  right;  'tis  the  base  knave  thai  jars. 
How  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  ! 
Now.  tor  my  life,  the  knave  doth  court  my  love  : 
Pcdaseule.  I'll  watch  you  better  yet.  \.isidi.- 

Bian.  In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  I  miitrust 

Luc.  Mistrust  it  not ;  for,  sure,  iT!acides 
Was  Ajax.  call'd  so  from  his  grandfather. 

Hinn.  I  must  believe  my  master:  else,  I  promi.«e  yon, 

1  should  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt: 
But  let  it  rest. — Now,  Licio.  to  you. — 
Good  masters,  take  it  not  unkindly,  pray. 
That  I  have  been  thus  pleasant  with  vcu  both. 

Hor.  [To  Lucentio.]  You  may  go  walk,  and  give 
me  leave  awhile: 
My  lcs,<;ons  make  no  music  in  three  parts.  [wait. 

Luc.  Are  you  .so  formal,  sir?  [Aside.]  Well,  I  must 


An  old  prove 'bial 


••ion.      >  wooing  :  in  f.  e.      •  Bnt,  wrangling  pedant  thii  if  :  in  f.  e.    *  Not  in  f.  e. 


SCENE   II. 


TAinLNG  OF  THE  SHKEW. 


221 


And  watch  withal ;  for,  but  I  be  deceiv'd, 
Our  fine  musician  groweth  amorous. 

Hor.  Madam,  betore  you  touch  the  instrument, 
To  learn  the  order  of  my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  with  rudiments  of  art; 
To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort, 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual, 
Than  hath  been  tauglit  by  any  of  my  trade  : 
And  there  it  is  in  writing  fairly  drawn. 

Bian.  Why.  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 
Hor.  Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 
Bian.   [Reads.]  G^.m\\i  I  am,  the  ground  of  all  accord., 
A  re,  to  plmd  Hortensio' s  passion  ; 
B  mi.  Bianca.  take  him  for  thy  lord., 

C  ifaut,  that  loves  with  all  affection  : 
D  sol  re,  one  cliff,  two  notes  have  I: 
E  la  mi,  show  pity,  or  I  die. 
Call  you  this  gamut?  tut !  I  like  it  not: 
Old  fa.<hions  please  me  best ;  I  am  not  so  nice, 
To  change  true  rules  for  new  inventions. 
Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.    Mistress,  your  father  prays  you   leave  your 
books, 
And  help  to  dress  your  sister's  chamber  up  : 
You  know,  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day. 

Bian.    Farewell,  sweet   masters,  both :    I  must  be 

gone.  [Exeunt  Bianca  and  Servant. 

Luc.  'Faith,  mistress,  then  I  have  no  cause  to  stay. 

[Exit. 
Hor.  But  I  have  cause  to  pry  into  this  pedant : 
Methinks,  he  looks  as  though  he  were  in  love. — 
Yet  if  thy  thoughts.  Bianca,  be  so  humble, 
To  cast  thy  wandering  eyes  on  every  stale, 
Seize  thee  that  list :  if  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 
Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing.       [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio,  Katharina, 

Bianca,  Lucentio,  and  Attendants. 

Bap.  Signior  Lucentio,  this  is  the  'pointed  day 
That  Katharine  and  Petruchio  should  be  married, 
And  yet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-law. 
What  will  be  said  ?  what  mockery  will  it  be, 
To  want  the  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage  ? 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours  ? 

Kttth.  No  shame  but  mine  :  I  must,  forsooth,  be  forc'd 
To  give  my  hand,  oppos'd  against  my  heart, 
Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,  full  of  spleen  ; 
Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at  leisure. 
I  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantic  fool,      , 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behaviour ; 
And  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man, 
He'll  woo  a  tliousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage. 
Make  friends,  invite,  yes,  and  proclaim  the  banns ; 
Vet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo'd. 
Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 
And  say. — "  Lo,  there  is  mad  Petruchio's  wife, 
If  it  would  please  him  come  and  marry  her." 

Tra.  Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  Baptista  too. 
Upon  my  life.  Petruchio  means  but  well, 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word : 
Though  he  be  blunt.  I  know  him  passing  wise ; 
Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he  's  honest. 

Kath.  Would  Katharine  had  never  seen  him  though  ! 
[Exit.,  weeping,  followed  by  Bianca,  and  others,  i 

Bap.  Go,  girl ;  I  cannot  blame  thee  now  to  weep,       j 
For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  very  saint, 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humour.  i 

'  nld  news,  and  such  news     in  f.  e.     »  Farcy.      '  humours  of :  in  f. 


Enter  Biondsllo. 

Bion.  Master,  master  !  news,  and  such  old  news'  v 
you  never  heard  of  ! 

Bap.  Is  it  new  and  old  too  ?  how  may  that  be  ? 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news  to  hear  of  Petruchio's 
corning  ? 

Bap.  Is  he  come  ? 

Bion.  Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.  What  then  ? 

Bion.  He  is  coming. 

Bap.  When  will  he  be  here  ? 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and  ser.B  yo 
there. 

Tra.  But,  say,  what  is  thine  old  news  ? 

Bion.  Why,  Pclrnchio  is  coming,  in  a  new  hat.  and 
an  old  jerkin ;  a  pair  of  old  breeches,  thrice  turned  ; 
a  pair  of  boots  that  have  been  candle-cases,  one  buckled, 
another  laced  :  an  old  rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the 
town  armoury,  with  a  broken  hilt,  and  chapelessj  with 
two  broken  points :  his  horse  heaped  with  an  old  inothy 
saddle,  and  stirrups  of  no  kindred:  be:;ides,  possessed 
with  the  glanders,  and  like  to  mose  in  the  chine ; 
troiibled  with  the  iampass,  infected  with  the  fashions.'' 
full  of  wind-galls,  sped  with  spavins,  rayed  with  the 
yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives,  stark  spoiled  with  the 
staggers,  begnawn  with  the  hots  ;  swayed  in  the  back, 
and  shoulder-shotten ;  ne"er-legged  before,  and  with  a 
half-cheeked  bit,  and  a  head  stall  of  sheep's-leather; 
which,  being  restrained  to  keep  him  from  stumbling, 
hath  been  often  burst,  and  now  repaired  with  knots : 
one  girth  six  times  pierced,  and  a  woman's  crupper  of 
velure,  which  hath  two  letters  for  her  name  fairly  set 
down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced  with  pack- 
thread. 

Bap.  Who  comes  with  him? 

Bion.  0,  sir  !  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  caparisoned 
like  the  horse  ;  with  a  linen  stock  on  one  leg.  and  a 
kersey  boot-hose  on  the  other,  gartered  with  a  red  and 
blue  list ;  an  old  hat,  and  ''the  amours  or^  forty  fancies'' 
pricked  in  't  for  a  feather  :  a  monster,  a  A'ery  monst«r 
in  apparel,  and  not  like  a  Christian  footboy,  or  a  gen- 
tleman's lackey. 

Tra.    'T  is  some  odd    humour   pricks    him   to   this 
fashion ; 
Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean  apparell'd. 

Bap.  I  am  glad  he  is  come,  howsoe'er  he  comes. 

Bion.  Why,  sir,  he  comes  not. 

Bap.  Didst  thou  not  say,  he  comes  ? 

Bion.  Who?  that  Petruchio  came? 

Bap.  Ay,  that  Petruchio  came. 

Bion.  No,  sir ;  I  say,  his  horse  comes,  with  him  on 
his  back. 

Bap.  Why,  that 's  all  one. 

Bion.  Nay,  by  St.  Jamy, 

I  hold  you  a  penny, 
A  horse  and  a  man 
Is  more  than  one, 
And  yet  not  many. 
Enter  Petruchio  and  Grumio,  strangely  apparelled.* 

Pet.  Come,  where  be  these  gallants  ?  who  is  at  home  ? 

Bap.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap.  And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tra.  Not  so  well  apparelP  1 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pet.  Were  it  much*  better,  I  should  rush  in  thus. 
But  where  is  Kate  ?  where  is  my  lovely  bride  ? — 
How  does  my  father? — Gentles,  methinks  you  frown 
And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company, 
e.      «  These  -words  are  not  in  f .  e       »  Not  in  f.  e. 


222 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT  m. 


ka  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy  ? 

Bap.  Wliy,  sir.  you  know,  tins  is  your  wedding-day: 
First  were  we  sad.  fearing  you  would  not  come ; 
Now  sadder,  tliat  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fie  !  dotTthis  habit,  shame  to  your  estate. 
A.n  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

Trn.  And  tell  us  what  oceasion  of  import 
Hath  all  .so  long  delain"d  you  from  your  wife, 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself? 

Pet.  Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear: 
Sutficcth.  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word. 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress; 
Which,  at  more  leisure.  I  vk-ill  so  excuse 
As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 
But,  where  is  Kate?     I  stay  too  long  from  her: 
Tlie  morning  wears,  't  is  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tra.  See  not  your  bride  in  these  unrcverent  robes. 
Go  to  mv  chamber  :  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Pet.  Not  I.  believe  me :  thus  I  '11  visit  her. 

Bap.  But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Pet.    Good  sooth,  even  thus  ;    therefore,  have  done 
with  words : 
To  me  she  's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes. 
Could  I  repair  what  she  viall  wear  in  me. 
As  I  can  cliange  these  poor  accoutrements, 
'Twere  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
But  what  a  fool  am  I  to  chat  with  you. 
When  1  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride, 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  loving'  kiss  ! 

{Erennt  Petruchio,  Grumio.  and  Biondello. 

Tra.  He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire. 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible, 
To  put  on  better,  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.  I  11  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this.  [Exit. 

Tra.  But.  to  our  love*  concerneth  us  to  add 
Her  father's  liking;  which  to  bring  to  pass, 
As  I  betore  imparted  to  your  worship. 
I  am  to  get  a  man. — whate'er  he  be, 
Tt  skills  not  much,  we'll  fit  him  to  our  turn. — 
And  he  shall  be  Vincentio  of  Pisa, 
And  make  assurance,  here  in  Padua, 
Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 
So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope. 
And  marry  sweet  Bianca  with  consent. 

Luc.  Were  it  not  that  my  fellow  schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Rianca's  steps  so  narrowly. 
'T  were  good,  methinks.  to  steal  our  marriage  ; 
Which  once  perform'd,  let  all  the  world  say  no, 
I  '11  keep  mine  own,  despite  of  all  the  world. 

Tra.  That  by  degrees  we  mean  to  look  into, 
And  watch  our  vantage  in  this  business. 
We  '11  over-reach  the  srey-beard,  Gremio, 
The  narrow-prying  father.  Minola, 
The  quaint  musician,  amorous  Licio  ; 
All  for  my  master's  sake.  Lueentio. 
Re-enter  Gremio. 
Signior  Gremio.  came  you  from  the  church  ? 

Gre.  As  wiTJJngly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 

Tra.  And  is  thV  bride,  and  bridegroom,  coming  home? 

Gre.  A  bri(lei.'rf;"m  say  you  ?  't  is  a  groom  indeed ; 
A  grumblins  groonu  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 

Tra.  Curster  than\'*'ic?  why,  'tis  impo.ssible. 

Gre.  Why,  he  's  a  de.^''';  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 

Tra.  Why,  she's  a  de\\'li  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 

Gre.  Tut !  she  's  a  lam  ^:  *  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 
I  Ml  tell  you,  sir.  Ltieentio  ■  when  the  priest 
Shoui:  ask,— if  Katharine  s  '"oild  be  his  wife. 


"  Ay,  by  gogs-wouns,"  quoth  he  ;  and  swore  so  lond, 
That,  all-aniaz'd,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book, 
And,  a«  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up. 
This  mad-braind  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff, 
That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and  priest: 
"  Now  take  them  up,"  quoth  he,  •'  if  any  list." 

Tra.  What  said  the  wench  when  he  arose  again  ? 

Gre.  Trembled  and  shook ;  for  why,  he  stamp'd,  and 
swore, 
As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him. 
l?ut  after  many  ceremonies  done. 
He  calls  for  wine  : — "  A  health  !"'  quoth  he  ;  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard,  carousing  to  his  mates, 
After  a  storm  : — quaff' d  off  the  muscadel, 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face  ; 
Having  no  other  reason. 
Rut  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly, 
And  seem"d  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck, 
And  kiss'd  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack, 
That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo ; 
And  1.  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame  : 
And  after  me,  I  know,  the  rout  is  coming : 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before. 
Hark,  hark  !   I  hear  the  minstrels  play.  [Music 

Enter  PEiRUCHia  Katharina.  Bianca,  Baptista, 
HoRTENSio.  Grumio,  and  Train. 

Pet.  Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for  your 
pains. 
I  know,  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day. 
And  have  prepar'd  great  store  of  wedding  cheer  ; 
But,  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence, 
And  therefore  here  1  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Bap.  Is  't  possible  you  will  away  to-night  ? 

Pet.  I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  come. 
Make  it  no  wonder  :  if  you  knew  my  business. 
You  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. — 
And.  honest  company.  I  thank  you  all. 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife  : 
Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me. 
For  I  must  hence  ;  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.  It  may  not  oe. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  It  cannot  be. 

Kath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  I  am  content. 

Kath.  Are  you  content  to  stay? 

Pet.  I  am  content  you  shall  entreat  me  stay, 
But  yet  not  stay>  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Kath.  Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pet.  Grumio,  my  horse  ! 

Gru.  Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready:  the  oats  have  eaten 
the  horses. 

Kath.  Nay,  then. 
Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day ; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  not  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir,  there  lies  your  way ; 
You  may  be  jogging  whiles  your  boots  are  green  ; 
For  me,  I  'II  not  be  gone,  till  I  please  my.^^elf. — 
'T  is  like  you  '11  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom. 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Pet.  O,  Kate !  content  thee :  pr"ythee,  be  not  angry. 

Kath.  I  wfll  be  angry.     Wliat  hast  thou  to  do?— 
Father,  be  quiet;  he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.  Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  it  begins  to  work. 

Kath.  Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner. 


•  Icrely  :  in  f.  i 
thoreh  —Knight. 


But,  nr.  t-  "-v"^  '■  '"  ^-  ••      '  '*  *"  'he  ouitom  nt  the  time  of  the  play,  for  a  bride  or  knittinf-cup  U  be  quaffed  ir 


SOESE   I. 


TAMING   OF  THE  SHEETV. 


223 


I  see,  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool, 
If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 

Pet.  They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  command.- 
Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her : 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer, 
Carouse  full  measure  to  her  maidenhead. 
Be  mad  and  merry,  or  go  hang  yourselves. 
But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  mu.«t  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor  fret  ; 
I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own. 
She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels  ;  she  is  my  house, 
My  household-stuff,  my  field,  my  barn. 
My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  any  thing : 
And  here  she  stands  :  touch  her  whoever  dare  : 
I  '11  bring  mine  action  on  the  proudest  he 
That  stops  my  way  in  Padua. — Grumio, 
Draw  forth  thy  weapon  ;  we  're  beset  with  thieves  : 
Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man. — 


Fear  not,  sweet  wench  ;  they  shall  not  touch  thee,  Kate : 
I  '11  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio.  Katharina,  and  Grumio. 
Bap.  Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones, 
Gre.  Went   they  not   quickly,   I    should    die   with 

laughing. 
Tra.  Of  all  mad  matches  never  was  the  like. 
Luc.  Mistress,  what 's  your  opinion  of  your  si^'ter  ' 
Bian.  That,  being  mad  herself,  she's  madly  n.ited. 
Gre.  I  warrant  him,  Petruchio  is  Kated. 
Bap.  Neighbours    and    friends,    though    bride   an 
bridegroom  wants 
For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table, 
You  know,  there  wants  no  junkets  at  the  feast  — 
Lucentio,  you  shall  supply  the  bndegi-oom's  place, 
And  let  Bianca  take  her  sister's  room. 

Tra.  Shall  sweet  Bianca  practise  how  to  bride  it? 
Bap.  She  shall,  Lucentio. — Come,  gentlemen  ;  let 's 
go.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    lY. 


SCENE  I. — A  Hal]  in  Petrijchio's  Country  House. 
Enter  Grumio. 
Gru.  Fie,  fie,  on  all  tired  jades,  on  all  mad  masters, 
and  all  foul  ways  !  Was  ever  man  so  beaten  ?  was 
ever  man  so  rayed*  ?  was  ever  man  so  weary  ?  I  am 
Rent  before  to  make  a  fire,  and  they  are  coming  after 
to  warm  them.  Now,  were  not  I  a  little  pot,  and  soon 
hot,  my  very  lips  might  freeze  to  my  teeth,  my  tongue 
to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  my  heart  in  my  belly,  ere  I 
should  come  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me ;  but,  I,  with  blow- 
ing the  fire,  shall  warm  myself,  for,  considering  the 
weather,  a  taller  man  than  I  will  take  cold.  Holla, 
hoa !  Curtis  ! 

Enter  Curtis. 
Curt.  Who  is  that,  calls  so  coldly  ? 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice :  if  thou  doubt  it,  thou  may'st 
slide  from  my  shoulder  to  my  heel,  with  no  greater  a 
run  but  my  head  and  my  neck.     A  fire,  good  Curtis. 

Curt.  Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 

Gru.  0  !  ay,  Curtis,  ay ;  and  therefore  fire,  fire : 
cast  on  no  water. 

Curt.  Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she  's  reported  ? 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost  ;  but 
thou  know'st,  winter  tames  man,  woman,  and  beast, 
for  it  liath  tamed  my  old  master,  and  my  new  mistress, 
and  thyself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.  Away,  you  three-inch  fool  !     I  am  no  beast. 

Gru.  Am  I  but  three  inches  ?  why,  thy  horn  is  a 
foot ;  and  so  long  am  I  at  the  least.  But  wilt  thou  make 
a  fire,  or  shall  I  complain  on  thee  to  our  mistress,  whose 
hand  (she  being  now  at  hand)  thou  shalt  soon  feel,  to 
thy  cold  comfort,  for  being  slow  in  thy  hot  office  ? 

Curt.  I  pr'ythee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me,  how  goes 
tke  world  ? 

Gru.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office  but  thine ; 
iuid,  therefore,  fire.  Do  thy  duty,  and  have  thy  duty, 
for  my  master  and  mistress  are  almost  frozen  to  death. 

Curt.  There's  fire  ready;  and  therefore,  good  Gru- 
mio. the  news  ? 

Gru.  Why,  "  Jack,  boy !  ho  boy  !"*  and  as  much 
news  as  thou  wilt. 

Curt.  Come,  you  are  so  full  of  conycatching*. — 

Grv.  Why,  therefore,  fire :  for  I  have  caught  extreme 

'  Bnerayed.  dirtied.  »  The  first  yraiAs  of  an  old  drinkingr  round 
drinking  cups.    » on.    •  Matched 


cold.  Where  's  the  cook  ?  is  supper  ready,  the  house 
trimmed,  rushes  strewed,  cobwebs  swept ;  the  serving- 
men  in  their  new  fustian,  their  white  stockings,  and 
every  officer  his  wedding-garment  on  ?  Be  the  Jacks 
fair  within,  the  Jills*  fair  without,  the  carpets  laid,  and 
every  thing  in  order  ? 

Curt.  All  ready ;  and  therefore,  I  pray  thee,  news  ? 

Gru.  First,  know,  my  horse  is  tired ;  my  master  and 
mistress  fallen  out. 

Curt.  How? 

Gru.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt ;  and  thereby 
hangs  a  tale. 

Curt.  Let 's  ha't,  good  Grumio. 

Gru.  Lend  thine  ear. 

Curt.  Here. 

Gru.  There.  [Striking  him. 

Curt.  This  't  is  to  feel  a  tale,  not  to  hear  a  tale. 

Gh-u.  And  therefore  't  is  called,  a  sensible  tale  ;  and 
this  cuff  was  but  to  knock  at  your  ear,  and  beseech 
listening.  Now  I  begin :  Imprimis,  we  came  down  a 
foul  hill,  my  master  riding  behind  my  mistress. 

Curt.  Both  of*  one  horse  ? 

Gru.  What 's  that  to  thee  ? 

Curt.  Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.  Tell  thou  the  tale:— but  hadst  thou  not 
crossed  me,  thou  shouldst  have  heard  how  her  horse 
fell,  and  she  under  her  horse ;  thou  shouldst  have 
heard,  in  how  miry  a  place  ;  how  she  was  bemoiled  ; 
how  he  left  her  with  the  horse  upon  her  ;  how  he  beat 
me  because  her  horse  stumbled ;  how  she  waded 
through  the  dirt  to  pluck  him  off  me  ;  how  he  swore  : 
how  she  prayed,  that  never  prayed  before :  how  I 
cried  ;  how  the  horses  ran  away  ;  how  her  bridle  was 
burst ;  how  I  lost  my  crupper  ;— with  many  things  of 
worthy  memory,  which  now  shall  die  in  oblivion,  and 
thou  return  unexperienced  to  thy  grave. 

Curt.  By  this  reckoning  he  is  more  shrew  than  she. 

Gru.  Ay ;  and  that  thou  and  the  proudest  of  you  all 
shall  find,  when  he  comes  home.  But  what  talk  I  of 
this  ?— Call  forth  Nathaniel,  Joseph,  Nicholas.  Philip, 
Walter,  Sugarsop,  and  the  rest  :  let  their  heads  be 
sleekly  combed,  their  blue  coats  brushed,  and  their 
garters  of  an  indifferent  knit* :  let  them  curtsey  vs-ith 
their  left  legs,  and  not  presume  to  touch  a  hair  of  my 
Jacks,  -were  leathern  -^inlrng  jug«.    *  Trickery,  cheating.    »  rewtet 


224 


TAMmG  OF  THE  SHKEW. 


ACT  rv. 


master's  horse-tail,  till  they  kiss  their  hands.     Are 
they  all  ready? 
Curt.  Tliey  arc. 
Gru.  Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear?  ho!  you  must  meet  my  master, 
to  countenance  my  mistress. 

Gru.  Why,  slie  hath  a  face  of  her  o%vn. 
Curt.  Wlio  know.-;  not  tliat  ? 

Gru.    Tliou,  it  seems,  that  callest  for  company  to 
countenance  her. 

Curt.  1  call  tliem  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.  Why,  she  comes  to  borrow  nothing  of  them. 

Enter  several  Servants. 
N^ath.  Welcome  home,  Grumio. 
Phil.  How  now.  Grumio  ? 
Jos.  What.  Grumio  ! 
Nich.  Fellow  Grumio  ! 
Nath.  How  now,  old  lad  ? 

Gru.  Welcome,  you  ; — how  now,  you  : — ^what,  you  ; 
— fellow,  you  ; — and  thus  much  for  greeting.    Now,  my 
spruce  companions,  is  all  ready,  and  all  things  neat? 
Nath    All  things  is  ready.     How  near  is  our  master? 
Gru.  Een  at  hand,  alighted  by  this ;  and  therefore 
be  not, — Cock's  passion,  silence  ! — I  iiear  my  master. 
[All  servants  frightened.^ 
Enter  Petruchio  and  Katharina. 
Pet.  Where  be  these  knaves  ?     What !  no  man  at 
the  door. 
To  hold  my  stirrup,  nor  to  take  my  horse. 
Where  is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip? — 

All  Serv.  Here,  here,  sir;  here,  sir. 
^  Pet.  Here,  sir  !  here,  sir  !  here^  sir  !  here,  sir  ? 
Vou  logger-headed  and  unpolish'd  grooms ! 
What,  no  attendance?  no  regard?  no  duty? — 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before  ? 
Gru.  Here,  sir;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 
Pet.  You  peasant  swain  !  you  whoreson  malt-horse 
drudge ! 
Did  T  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park, 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee  ? 

Gru.  Nathaniel's  coat,  sir,  was  not  fully  made, 
And  Gabriels  pumps  were  all  unpink'd  i'  the  heel ; 
There  was  no  link  to  colour  Peter's  hat. 
And  Walter's  dagger  was  not  come  from  sheathing : 
There  were  none  fine,  but  Adam.  Ralph,  and  Gregory: 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old.  and  beggarly  ; 
Yet,  as  they  are.  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 
Pet.  Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in. — 

[Exeunt  some  of  the  Servants. 
"  Wliere  is  the  life  that  late  I  .led"—      [Sings.'' 
Where  are  those — ?     Sit  downi,  Kate,  and  welcome. 
Scud,  soud,  soud.  soud  ! 

Re-enter  Servants,  with  supper. 
Why,  when,  I  say  ?— Nay,  good  sweet  Kate,  be  merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues  !  you  villains,  when  ? 
■•  It  was  the  friar  of  orders  grey,       [Sn)g-5.' 
As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way:" — 
Out,  you  rogue!  you  pluck  my  foot  awry: 
Take  that,  and  mend  the  plucking  of  the  other. — 

[Kicks  him.* 
Be  merr>-,  Kate : — some  water,  here ;  what,  ho  ! — 

Enter  Servant,  with  water. 
Where's  my  spaniel  Troilus? — Sirrah,  get  you  hence, 
And  bid  by  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither  : — 

[Exit  Servant. 
One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiB.«<.  and  be  acquainted  with. — 
Where  are  my  slippers? — Shall  I  have  some  water? 

[A  hn.ton  is  presented  to  him. 
Come,  Kate,  and  wa.sh,  and  welcome  heartily. — 

'  »  »  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦  StTxkei  kirn  :  in  f.  e.      •  Thii  word  ii  not  added 


You  whoreson  villain !  will  you  let  it  fall?  [Strikes  him. 

Kath.  Patience,  I  pray  you ;  't  was  a  fault  unwilling. 

Pet.  A  whoreson,  beetleheaded,  Hap-ear'd  knave  ! 

[Meat  served  in. 
Come.  Kate,  sit  down;  1  know  you  have  a  .stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate,  or  else  shall  I? — 
What's  I  his?  mutton? 

1  Serv.  Ay. 

Pet.  Who  brought  it? 

1  Serv.  I. 

Pet.     r  is  burnt ;  and  so  is  all  the  meat. 
What  dogs  are  these  ! — Where  is  the  rascal  cook? 
How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser, 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not? 
There,  take  it  to  you,  trenchers,  cujis,  and  all. 

[Throws  the  meat,  ire.  all  aboiC. 
You  heedless  joltheads,  and  unmanner'd  slaves  ! 
What  !  do  you  grumble?     I  '11  be  with  you  .straight. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet: 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.  I  tell  thee,  Kate,  't  was  burnt  and  dried  away, 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it. 
For  it  engenders  choler,  plant ctli  anger  : 
And  better  't  were,  that  both  of  us  did  fast, 
Since,  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  choleric. 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  't  shall  be  mended. 
And  for  this  night  we  '11  fast  for  company. 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio.  Katharina,  and  CuRTrsh 

Nath.  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like  ? 

Peter.  He  kills  her  in  her  o-wni  humour 
Re-enter  Curtis. 

Gru.  Where  is  he  ? 

Curt.  In  her  chamber. 
Making  a  sermon  of  continency  to  her ; 
And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates,  that  she,  poor  soul, 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak, 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away  !  for  he  is  coming'  hither.  [Exeunt,  running. 
Re-enter  Petrichio. 

Pet.  Thus  have  I  politicly  begtin  my  reign, 
And  'l  is  my  hope  to  end  successfully. 
My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  passing  empty, 
And,  till  she  stoop,  she  must  not  be  full-gorg'd, 
For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure. 
Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  hasigard, 
To  make  her  come,  and  know  her  keeper's  call ; 
That  is,  to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  those  kites, 
That  bate,  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 
She  ate  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  eat ; 
Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  shall  not : 
As  with  the  meat,  some  undcserA'cd  fault 
I  '11  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed. 
And  here  I  '11  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster, 
This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets : — 
Ay.  and  amid  this  hurly,  I  intend, 
Tliat  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her ; 
And.  in  conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night : 
And.  if  she  chance  to  nod.  I  '11  rail,  and  brawl, 
And  with  the  clamour  keep  her  still  awake. 
This  is  the  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness  ; 
And  thus  I  '11  curb  her  mad  and  hcad.strong  humour. 
He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew. 
Now  let  him  speak  :  't  is  charity  to  shew.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Tranio  and  Hortensio. 
Tra.  Is  't  possible,  friend  Licio,  that  mistress  Bianca 


i 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


225 


Ootb  fancy  any  other  but  Lucentio  ? 

[  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 

Hor.  Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said, 
Stand  by,  and  mark  the  mamier  of  his  teaching. 

[They  stand  aside. 
Enter  Bianca  and  Lucentio. 
Luc.  Now,  mistress,  profit  you  in  what  you  read  ? 
Bian.  What,  master,  read   you  ?    first    resolve   me 

that. 
LiK.  I  read  that  I  profess,  the  Art  to  Love. 
Bian.  And  may  you  prove,  sir,  master  of  your  art ! 
Luc.  While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove, mistress  of  my 
heart.  [They  retire. 

Hor.  [Coming  forward.]  Quick  pro'ceeders,  marry  ! 
Now,  tell  me,  I  pray. 
You  ihat  durst  swear  that  yoiu-  mistress  Bianca 
Lov'd  none  in  the  world  so  well  as  Lucentio. 

Tra.  0,  despiteful  love  !  unconstant  womankind  ! — 
I  tell  thee,  Licio,  this  is  wonderful. 

Hor.  Mistake  no  more  :  I  am  not  Licio, 
Nor  a  musician,  as  I  seem  to  be. 
But  one  that  scorns  to  live  in  this  disguise. 
For  such  a  one,  as  leaves  a  gentleman. 
And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cullion. 
Know,  sir,  that  I  am  call'd  Hortensio. 

Tra.  Signior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 
Of  your  entire  affection  to  Bianca  ; 
And  since  mine  eyes  are  witness  of  her  lightness, 
I  wU  with  you,  if  you  be  so  contented, 
Forswear  Bianca  and  her  love  for  ever. 

Hor.  See,  how  they  kiss   and  court ! — Signior  Lu- 
centio, 
Here  is  my  hand,  and  here  I  firmly  vow 
Never  to  woo  her  more  :  but  do  forswear  her, 
As  one  unworthy  all  the  former  favours 
That  I  have  fondly  flatter'd  her  withal. 

Tra.  And  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath, 
Never  to  marry  her,'  though  she  entreat." 
Fie  on  her  !  see,  how  beastly  she  doth  court  him. 
Hor.    Would  all  the  world,  but  he,  had  quite  for- 
sworn her  !^ 
For  me,  that  I  may  siirely  keep  mine  oath, 
I  will  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow, 
Ere  three  days  pass,  which  hath  as  long  lov'd  me, 
As  I  have  lov'd  this  proud,  disdainful  haggard. 
And  so  farewell,  signior  Lucentio. — 
Kindness  in  women  !  not  their  beauteous  looks. 
Shall  win  my  love  : — and  so  I  take  my  leave. 
In  resolution  as  I  swore  before. 

[Exit  Hortensio. — Lucentio  and  Bianca  aclvance.] 
Tra.  Mistress  Bianca.  bless  you  with  such  grace, 
As  'longeth  to  a  lover's  blessed  case  ! 
Nay,  I  have  ta'en  you  napping,  gentle  love 
And  have  forsworn  you.  with  Hortensio. 

Bian.  Tranio,  you  jest.     But  have   you  both  for- 
sworn me  ? 
Tra.  Mistress,  we  have. 

Luc.  Then  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.  V  faith,  he  '11  have  a  lusty  widow  now. 
That  shall  be  woo'd  and  wedded  in  a  day. 
Bian.  God  give  him  joy  ! 
2ra.  Ay,  and  he  *11  lj,me  her. 
Bian.  He  says  so.  Tranio. 

Tra.  'Faith,  he  is  gone  unto  the  taming-school. 
Bian.  The   taming-school  !    what,   is  there   such   a 

place  ? 
Ira.  Ay,  mistress,  and  Petruchio  is  the  ma.ster; 
That  teacheth  tricks  eleven  and  twenty  long. 
To  tame  a  shrew,  and  charm  her  chattering  ton  sue. 


Enter  Biondello.  runninp^. 

Bion.  0  master,  master  !  I  have  wacch'd  so  long 
That  I  'm  dog-weary :  but  at  last  1  spied 
An  ancient  ambler*  coming  doAvn  the  hill, 
Will  sei-ve  the  turn. 

Tra.  What  is  he.  Biondello  V 

Bion.  Master,  a  mercatante.  or  a  pedant, 
I  know  not  what ;  but  formal  in  apparel, 
In  gait  and  countenance  surely  like  a  father. 
Luc.  And  what  of  him,  Tranio  ? 
Tra.  If  he  be  credulous,  and  trust  my  tale, 
I  '11  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio, 
And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minoia, 
As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio. 
Take  in  your  love,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

[Exeunt  Lucentio  ahd  Bianca. 
Enter  a  Pedant. 
Fed.     God  save  you,  sir  ! 

Tra.  And  you,  sir:  you  are  welcome 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  farthest? 
Fed.  Sir,  at  the  farthest  for  a  week  or  two  ; 
Bat  then  up  farther,  and  as  far  as  Rome. 
And  so  to  Tripoly,  if  God  lend  me  life. 
Tra.  What  countryman,  I  pray  ? 
Fed.  '  Of  Mantua. 

Tra.  Of  Mantua,  sir  ? — marry,  God  forbid  ! 
And  come  to  Padua,  careless  of  your  life  ? 

Fed.  My  life,  sir  !  how,  I  pray  ?  for  that  goes  hard. 
Tra.  'T  is  death  for  any  one  in  Mantua 
To  come  to  Padua.     Know  you  not  the  cause  ? 
Your  ships  are  stay'd  at  Venice ;  and  the  duke, 
For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him, 
Hath  publish'd  and  proclaim'd  it  openly. 
'T  is  marvel;  but  that  you  are  but  newly  come, 
You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaim'd  about. 

Fed.  Alas,  sir  !  it  is  worse  for  me  than  so ; 
For  I  have  bills  for  money  by  exchange 
From  Florence,  and  must  here  deliver  them. 

Tra.  Well,  sir,  to  do  you  courtesy 
This  will  I  do,  and  this  I  wU  advise  you. — 
First,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  at  Pisa  ? 
Fed.  Ay,  sir,  in  Pisa  have  I  often  been ; 
Pisa,  renownred  for  grave  citizens. 

Tra.  Among  them,  know  you  one  Vincentio"? 
Fed.  I  know  him  not,  but  I  have  heard  of  him : 
A  merchant  of  incomparable  wealth. 

Tra.  He  is  my  father,  sir  ;  and,  sooth  to  say, 
In  countenance  somewhat  doth  resemble  you. 

Bion.  [Aside^  As  much  as  an  apple  doth  an  oyster, 
and  all  one. 

Tra.  To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity, 
This  favour  will  I  do  you  for  his  sake. 
And  think  it  not  the  worst  of  all  your  fortunes. 
That  you  are  so  like  to  Vincentio. 
His  name  and  credit  shall  you  undertake. 
And  in  my  house  you  shall  be  friendly  lodg'd. 
Look,  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should  . 
You  understand  me.  sir ; — so  shall  you  stay 
Till  you  have  done  your  business  in  the  city. 
If  this  be  courtesy,  sir,  accept  of  it. 

Fed.  0  !  sir,  I  do :  and  -w-ill  repute  you  ever 
The  patron  of  my  life  and  liberty. 

Tra.  Then  go  with  me.  to  make  the  matter  good. 
This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand  : 
My  father  is  here  look'd"  for  every  day, 
To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower  in  marriage 
'Twixt  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here  : 
In  all  these  circumstances  I  '11  instruct  you. 
Go  with  me,  to  clothe  you  a.s  becomes  you.        [Exeunt 


1  witn  ner  :  in  f. 
P 


'  would  entreat :  in  f.  e.      ^  -phij  -xoxi.  is  not  in  f.  e.      *  enjle  :  in  f. 


226 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT   IV. 


SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Petiu'chio's  House. 
Enter  Katharina  ami  Grumio. 

Gni.  No.  no,  forsooth  ;  I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 

Kath.  Tlic  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his  spite  appears. 
What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  ? 
Beugars.  that  come  unto  my  father's  door 
Upon  entreaty,  have  a  present  ahns ; 
If  not,  elsewhere  tlicy  meet  with  charity: 
But,  I,  wlio  never  knew  how  to  entreat, 
Nor  never  needed,  that  I  should  entreat, 
Am  .starv'd  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep; 
With  oatlis  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed. 
And  that  whicli  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants, 
He  docs  it  under  name  of  perfect  love  ; 
•Vs  who  should  say,  if  I  sliould  sleep,  or  eat. 
"T  were  deadly  sickness,  or  else  present  death. 
I  pr'ythce  go.  and  get  me  some  repast; 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.  What  say  you  to  a  neat's  foot  ? 

Kath.  'T  is  passing  good :  I  pr'>'thee  let  me  have  it, 

Gru.  I  fear,  it  is  too  choleric  a  meat. 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe,  finely  broil'd  ? 

Kath.  I  like  it  well  :  good  Grumio  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.  I  cannot  tell :  I  fear,  't  is  choleric. 
Wliat  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef,  and  mustard  ? 

Kath.  A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.  Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kath.  Why,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 

Gru.  Nay,   that  I  will   not :    you    shall    have   the 
mustard, 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

Kath.  Then  both,  or  one,  or  any  thing  thou  wilt. 

Gru.  Why  then,  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 

Kath.  Go.  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding  slave. 

[Beats  him. 
That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat. 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you. 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  ! 
Go  :  gei  thee  gone,  I  say. 
Enter  Petrcchio  tvith  a  dish  of  meat.,  and  Hortensio. 

Pet.  How  fares  my  Kate  ?  What,  sweeting,  all  amort  ?^ 

Hor.  Mi-stress,  what  cheer  ? 

Kath.  'Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Pet.  Pluck  up  thy  spirits :  look  cheerfully  upon  me. 
Here,  love ;  thou  seest  how  diligent  I  am, 
To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee : 

\Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 
I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What !  not  a  word  ?     Nay  then,  tliou  lov'st  it  not. 
And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proof. — 
Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Pet.  The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks, 
.\nd  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Signior  Petruehio,  fie  !  you  are  to  blame. 
Come,  mistress  Kate.  I  "11  bear  yo\i  company,      [me. — 

Pet.  [Aside]   Eat  it  up  all.  Hortensio.  if  thou  lov'st 
[To  her.\   Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart  ! 
Kate   eat  apace. — And  now.  my  honey  love, 
Wi'-l  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house. 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best. 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings, 
With  rufis.  and  cuffs,  and  farthingales,  and  diings: 
With  ricarfs.  and  fans,  and  double  chanire  of  bravery, 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knavery. 
What !  hast  tiiou  din'd  ?    The  tailor  stays  thy  lei.sure. 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling  treasure. 

>  Dirpirited.      »  Apprnof,  approbation.      '  The  criut  of  a  pie  wm 


Enter  Tailor. 
Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments  ; 

Enter  Haberdasher. 
Lay  forth  the  gown. — What  news  with  you,  sir  ? 

Hab.  Here  is  the  cap  your  wor.«hip  did  bespeak. 

Pet.  Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer  , 
A  velvet  dish  : — fie,  fie  !   't  is  lewd  and  filtliy. 
Why,  't  is  a  cockle  or  a  walnut  shell, 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap  ; 
Away  with  it  i  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 

Kath.  I  '11  have  no  bigger  :  this  doth  fit  tiic  time, 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.  When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have  one  loo  , 
And  not  till  then. 

Hor.  [Aside.]  That  will  not  be  in  haste. 

Kath.  W^hy,  sir,  I  trust,  I  may  have  leave  to  speak. 
And  speak  I  will ;  I  am  no  child,  no  babe  : 
Your  betters  have  endur'd  me  say  my  mind. 
And,  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart, 
Or  else  my  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break: 
And.  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free, 
Even  to  the  uttermost,  as  I  please,  in  words. 

Pet.  Why,  thou  say'st  true  :  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard-cotrin',  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie. 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.  Love  me,  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap. 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.  Thy  gown?  why,  ay : — come,  tailor,  let  us  see  i 
0.  mercy,  God  ! — what  masking  stuff  is  here  ? 
What 's  this  ?  a  sleeve  ?  't  is  like  a  demi-cannon  : 
What !  up  and  downi.  carv'd  like  an  apple-tart '? 
Here  's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and  slash. 
Like  to  a  censer  in  a  barber's  shop. — 
Why,  what,  o'  devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  thit:  '> 

Hor.  [Aside]  I  see,  she  's  like  to  have  neither  cap 
nor  gown. 

Tai.  You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well. 
According  to  the  fashion,  and  the  time. 

Pet.  Marry,  and  did  ;  but  if  you  be  remember'd 
I  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go.  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home. 
For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir. 
I  '11  none  of  it :  hence  !   make  your  best  of  it. 

Kath.  I  never  saw  a  better-fashion'd  gown, 
More  quaint,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  connnendable. 
Belike,  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me 

Pet.  Why,  true;    he  means  to  make  a  puppet  of 
thee. 

Tai.  She  says,  your  worship  means  to  make  a  pupixn 
of  her. 

Pet.    0.    monstrous    arrogance  '     Thou    liest,  thoa 
thread, 
Thou  thimble'. 

Thou  yard,  three-quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail  ! 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou  ! — 
Brav'd  in  mine  o\%ni  house  with  a  skein  of  thread  ? 
Away!  thou  ras.  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant, 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  thee  with  thy  yard. 
As  thou  .Shalt  think  on  prating  whilst  thou  liv'si. 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  inarr'd  her  gown. 

Tai.  Your  worship  is  doceiv'd  :  the  gown  is  made 
Just  as  my  master  had  direction. 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 

Grxi.  I  gave  liim  no  order:  I  gave  him  the  stuff. 

Tai.  But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  ? 

Gru.  Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tni.  But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  out  ? 

Gru.  Thou  hast  faced  many  things 


SCENE   IV. 


TAMmG   OF  THE   SHREW. 


227 


Tai.  I  have, 

&ru.  Face  not  me  :  thou  hast  braved'  many  men ; 
brave  not  me:  I  will  neither  be  faced  nor  braved.  I 
say  unto  thee, — I  bid  thy  master  cut  out  the  gown ; 
but  I  did  not  bid  him  cut  it  to  pieces  :  ergo,  thou  liest. 

Tai.  Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to  testify. 

Pet.  Read  it. 

Gru.  The  note  lies  in  's  throat,  if  he  say  I  said  so. 

Tai.  ••  Imprimis,  a  loose-bodied  go\A-n." 

Gru.  Master,  if  ever  I  said  loose-bodied  gown,  sew 
nae  in  the  skirts  of  it.  and  beat  me  to  death  with  a 
"^ottom  of  brow^l  thread :  I  said,  a  gowni. 

Pet.  Proceed. 

Tai.  ••  With  a  small  compassed  cape." 

Gru.  I  confess  the  cape. 

Tai.  '-With  a  trunk  sleeve." 

Gru.  I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tai.  '•'•  The  sleeves  curiously  cut." 

Pet.  Ay,  there  's  the  villany. 

Gru.  Error  i"  the  bill,  sir  ;  error  i'  the  bill.  I  com- 
manded the  sleeves  should  be  cut  out,  and  sewed  up 
again:  and  that  Til  prove  upon  thee,  though  thy  little 
nnger  be  armed  in  a  thimble. 

Tai.  This  is  true,  that  I  say  :  an  I  had  thee  in  place 
where,  thou  shouldst  know  it. 

Gru.  I  am  for  thee  straight :  take  thou  the  bilP,  give 
me  thy  mete-yard,  and  spare  not  me. 

Hor.  God-a-mercy.  Grumio ;  then  he  shall  have  no 
odds. 

Pet.  Well,  sir,  in  brief,  the  gown  is  not  for  me. 

Gru.  You  are  i"  the  right,  sir :    't  is  for  my  mistress. 

Pet.  Go,  take  it  up  unto  thy  master's  use. 

Gru.  Villain,  not  for  thy  life  !  Take  up  my  mis- 
tress' go^^^l  for  thy  master's  use  ? 

Pet.  Why,  sir,  what 's  your  conceit  in  that? 

Gm.  0.  sir,  the  conceit  is  deeper  than  you  think  for. 
Take  up  my  mistress'  gown  to  his  master's  use  ? 
0,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Pet.   [Aside]  Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see  the  tailor 
paid. — 
Go  take  it  hence ;  be  gone,  and  say  no  more. 

Ho^.  Tailor,  I  '11  pay  thee  for  thy  gown  to-morrow : 
Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words. 
Away,  I  say;  commend  me  to  thy  master. 

[Exeunt  Tailor  and  Haberdasher. 

Pet.  Well,    come,    my  Kate;    we  will   unto    your 
father's. 
Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments. 
Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor : 
For  't  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich ; 
And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 
So  honovu-  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
Wliat,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel, 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 
0  !  no,  good  Kate  ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture,  and  mean  array. 
If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me ; 
And  therefore  frolic :  we  will  hence  forthwith, 
To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house. — 
Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him ; 
And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end. 
There  vdW  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  on  foot. — 
Let 's  see  ;  I  think,  't  is  now  some  seven  o'clock, 
-And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner  time. 

Kath.  I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  't  is  almost  two, 
And   twill  be  supper  time,  ere  you  come  there. 


Pet.  It  shall  be  seven,  ere  I  go  to  horse. 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do. 
You  are  still  crossing  it. — Sirs,  let 't  alone  : 
I  will  not  go  to-day;  and,  ere  I  do. 
It  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is. 

Hor.  Why,  so  this  gallant  will  command  the  sun. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV.— Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 
Enter  Tranio,  and  the  Pedant  booted^  and  dressed 

like  ViNCENTIO. 

Tra.  Sir,  this  is  the  house  :  please  it  you,  that  I  cal'  ? 

Ped.  Ay,  what  else  ?  and,  but  I  be  deceived, 
Signior  Baptista  may  remember  me, 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa, 
Where  we  were  lodgers  at  the  Pegasus. 

Tra.  'T  is  well  ;  and  hold  your  own,  in  any  case. 
With  such  austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 
Enter  Biondello. 

Ped.  I  warrant  you.    But.  sir.  here  comes  vour  boy  : 
'T  were  good,  he  were  school'd. 

Tra.  Fear  you  not  him.     Sirrah,  Bionaello, 
Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  you  : 
Imagine  "t  were  the  right  Vincentio. 

Bion.  Tut!  fear  not  me. 

Tra.  But  hast  thou  done  thy  errand  to  Baptista? 

Bion.  I  told  hifti.  that  your  father  was  at  Venice. 
And  that  you  look'd  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 

Tra.  Thou  'rt  a  tall  fellow:  hold  thee  that  to  drink. 
Here  comes  Baptista. — Set  your  countenance,  sir. — 

Enter  Baptista  and  Lucentio. 
Signior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  met. — 
Sir,  this  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of. — 
I  pray  you.  stand  good  father  to  me  now. 
Give  me  Bianca  for  my  patrimony. 

Ped    Soft,  son  !— 
Sir,  by  your  leave :  having  come  to  Padua 
To  gather  in  some  debts,  my  son,  Lucentio, 
Made  me  acquainted  with  a  weighty  cause 
Of  love  between  your  daughter  and  himself: 
And,  for  the  good  report  I  hear  of  you. 
And  for  the  love  he  beareth  to  your  daughter, 
And  she  to  him,  to  stay  him  not  too  long, 
I  am  content,  in  a  good  father's  care. 
To  have  him  match'd  :  and,  if  you  please  to  like 
No  worse  than  I,  upon  some  agreement. 
Me  shall  you  find  ready  and  willing 
With  one  consent  to  have  her  so  bestow'd: 
For  curious*  I  cannot  be  with  you, 
Signior  Baptista,  of  whom  I  hear  so  well. 

Bap.  Sir,  pardon  me  in  what  I  have  to  say: 
Your  plaiiuiess,  and  your  shortness  please  me  well. 
Right  true  it  is,  your  son  Lucentio,  here, 
Doth  love  my  daughter,  and  she  loveth  him, 
Or  both  dissemble  deeply  their  affections ; 
And.  therefore,  if  you  say  no  more  than  tliis, 
That  like  a  father  you  will  deal  with  him. 
And  pass  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower. 
The  match  is  made,  and  all  is  happily*  done : 
Your  son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent. 

Tra.  I  thank  you,  sir.     Where,  then,  do  you  hold' 
best. 
We  be  affied.  and  such  assurance  ta'en, 
As  shall  -with  either  part's  agreement  stand  ? 

Bap.  Not  in  my  house,  Lucentio ;  for,  you  know, 
Pitchers  have  ears,  and  I  have  many  sers-ants  • 
Besides,  old  Gremio  is  hearkening  still. 
And.  happily,  we  might  be  interrupted. 


1  Bravery  was  thft  old  word  foi   Anery. 
*  taow  :  in  f.  B. 


»  An  old  weapon  like  a  pike.      3  This  word  not  in  f .  e      ♦  Particular.      ■>  This  word  not  m  i. 


223 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Tra.  Then,  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you  : 
There  doth  my  father  lie.  and  there  this  night 
We  "11  paj^s  the  business  privately  and  woll. 
Send  for  your  dau>;hter  by  your  servant  here  ; 
My  boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 
The  vorst  is  this, — that,  at  so  slender  warning. 
Von  "re  like  to  have  a  thin  and  slender  pittance. 

Blip.   It  likes  me  well  : — Cainbio.  hie  you  home, 
And  bid  Bianea  make  her  ready  straight : 
And.  if  you  -will,  tell  what  hath  happened  : 
Lucent  io"s  father  is  arrived  in  Padua, 
And  how  she  's  like  to  be  Lucentio's  wife. 

Luc.  I  pray  the  gods  she  may  with  all  my  heart. 

Tra.  Dally  not  %Wtii  the  gods,  but  get  thee  gone. 
Signior  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  tlie  way? 
Welcome  :  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer. 
tJome,  sir  :  we  -will  better  it  in  Pisa. 

Bap.  I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Tranio.  Pedant,  and  B.\ptista. 

Bion.  Cambio  ! 

Lnc.  What  say'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  You  saw  my  master  wink  and  laugh  upon  you. 

Luc.  Biondello.  what  of  that  ? 

Bion.  "Faith  nothing :  but  he  has  left  me  here 
behind,  to  expound  tlie  meaning  or  moral  of  his  signs 
and  tokens. 

Lvc.  I  pray  thee,  moralize  them. 

Bion.  Then  thus.  Baptista  is  safe,  talking  wth  the 
deceiving  father  of  a  deceitful  son. 

Ltic.  And  what  of  him  ? 

Bion.  His  daughter  is  to  be  brouglit  by  you  to  the 
sapper. 

Lm.  And  then? — 

Bion.  The  old  priest  at  St.  Lukes  church  is  at 
your  command  at  all  hours. 

Luc.  And  what  of  all  this  ? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tell :  except*,  while'  they  are  busied 
about  a  counterfeit  assurance,  take  you  assurance  of 
her,  cum  privilegio  ad  imprimendum  soliim.  To  the 
church  I — take  the  priest,  clerk,  and  some  sufficient 
honest  witnesses. 

If  this  be  not  that  you  look  for.  I  have  no  more  to  say. 
But  bid  Bianea  farewell  for  ever  and  a  day. 

Luc.  Hear'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tarr\' :  I  knew  a  wench  married  in 
an  afternoon  a,s  she  went  to  the  garden  for  parsley  to 
stuff  a  rabbit :  and  so  may  you,  sir :  and  so  adieu,  sir. 
My  master  hath  appointed  me  to  go  to  St.  Luke's,  to 
bid  the  priest  be  ready  to  come  against  you  come  with 
your  appendix.  [Exit. 

Luc.  I  may.  and  will,  if  she  be  so  contented : 
She  will  be  pleas"d.  then  wherefore  should  I  doubt? 
Hap  what  hap  may,  I  "11  roundly  go  about  her  : 
it  sliall  go  hard,  if  Cambio  go  without  her.  [Exit. 

SCENF  v.— A  public  Road. 
Enter  Petruchio.  Katharina.  and  Hortensio. 
Pet.    Come  on.  o'  God's   name  :    once  more   toward 
our  fathers. 
Good  lord  !  how  brislit  and  goodly  shines  the  moon. 
Knth    The  moon  I  the  sun  :  it  is  not  inoonlisht  now. 
Pet.  I  say,  it  is  tlie  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 
Kath.  I  know,  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  briglit. 
Pet.  Now,  by  my  mother's  son.  and  that  "s  myself. 
It  shall  be  moon,  or  .star,  or  wliat  I  list. 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  fathers  liouse. — 
1^0  one,*  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. — 
F-vermore  crossed,  and  cross'd  :  nothing  but  crossd. 
Hot.  Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

■•  I'XiH'Ct :  in  f.  e.      '  .Vol  in  f.  e.      '  on  :  in  f.  «       ♦  so  :  in  f.  «. 


Kath.  Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far, 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please. 
An  if  you  ])leasc  to  call  it  a  rush  candle. 
Henceforth,  I  vow,  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

Pit.  I  say,  it  is  the  moon. 

Kath.  I  know,  it  is  the  moon 

Pet.  Nay.  then  you  lie  :  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Kath.  Then,  God  be  bless'd.  it  is  the  blos.^ed  sun  . 
But  sun  it  i.s  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not. 
And  the  moon  changes,  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  nam'd.  even  that  it  is  : 
And  so  it  shall  be  still*  lor  Katharine. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  go  thy  ways  :  the  field  is  won. 

Pet.  Well,  forward,  forward !  thus  the  bowl  should 
run, 
And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias. — 
But  soft  !  what  company,  is  coming  here  ? 

Enter  Vincentio,  in  a  travelling  drexs. 
[To  "Vincentio.]  Good-morrow,  gentle  mistress  ;  where 

away  ? — 
Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too. 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks  I 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty. 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face? — 
Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee. — 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hor.  'A.  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a  womar 
of  him. 

Kath   Young  budding  virgin,  fair,  and  fresh,   and 
sweet, 
Whither  away,  or  where  is  thy  abode  ? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child ; 
Happier  the  man,  whom  favourable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow  ! 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  Kate  !  I  hope  thou  art  not  mad 
This  is  a  man.  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  witherd. 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  say'st  he  is. 

Kath.  Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes, 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun. 
That  every  thing  I  look  on  seemeth  green. 
Now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father  ; 
Pardon.  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking.        [kno\\-n 

Pet.    Do,   good  old   grandsire  :    and,   withal,   make 
Which  way  thou  traA'cUest :  if  along  with  us. 
We  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  company. 

Vin.  Fair  sir.  and  you  my  merry  mistre-ss, 
That  with  your  strange  encounter  nmch  amaz"d  me 
My  name  is  called  Vincentio  :  my  dwelling,  Pi.-^a, 
And  bound  I  am  to  Padua,  there  to  visit 
A  son  of  mine,  which  long  I  have  not  seen. 

Pet.  What  is  his  name? 

Vin.  Lucentio,  gentle  sir. 

Pet.  Happily  met;  the  happier  for  thy  son. 
And  now  by  law,  as  well  as  reverend  age, 
I  may  entitle  thee — my  loving  father : 
The  sister  to  my  wife,  this  gentlewoman. 
Thy  son  by  this  hath  married.     Wonder  not, 
Nor  be  not  gricv"d  :  .«hc  is  of  good  esteem. 
Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth  ; 
Beside,  .so  qualified  as  may  beseem 
The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 
Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio  ; 
And  wander  we  to  see  thy  honest  son. 
Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous. 

Vin.  But  is  this  true?  or  is  it  else  your  plea.su'». 
Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
Upon  the  company  you  overtake  ? 

Hor.  I  do  assure  thee,  father,  so  it  is. 


TAMING   OF  THE  SHREW. 


229 


Pet.  Come,  go  along,  and  see  the  truth  hereof-  j      Hor.  Well,  Petruchio,  this  has  put  me  in  heart. 

For  our  first  merriment  hath  made  thee  jealous.  Have  to  my  widow  :  and  if  she  be  froward, 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and  Vincentio.  j  Then  hast  thou  taught  Hortensio  to  be  untoward.  [Exit. 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I. — Padua.     Before  Lucentio's  House. 

Enter  on  me  side  Biondello,  Lucentio,  and  Bianca  ; 

Gremio  walking  on  the  other  side. 

Bion.  Softly  and  swiftly,  sir,  for  the  priest  is  ready. 

Luc.  I  fly.  Biondello  ;  but  they  may  chance  to  need 
thee  at  home  :  therefore,  leave  us. 

Bion.  Nay,  faith,  I  '11  see  the  church  o'  your  back  ; 
and  then  come  back  to  my  master  as  soon  as  t 
can. 

[Exetuit  Lucentio,  Bianca,  and  Biondello. 

Gre.  I  marv'el  Cambio  coines  not  all  this  while. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Vincentio,  and 

Attendants. 

Pet.  Sir.  here  's  the  door  ;  this  is  Lucentio's  house  : 
My  father's  bears  more  toward  the  market  place ; 
Thither  must  I,  and  here  I  leave  yo-n.  sir. 

y\n.  You  shall  not  choose  but  drink  before  you  go. 
I  think  I  shall  command  your  welcome  here. 
And,  by  all  likelihood,  some  cheer  is  toward.    [Knocks. 

Gre.    They  're  busy  within;  you  were  best  knock 
louder. 

Enter  Pedant  above^  at  a  window. 

Ped.  What 's  he,  that  knocks  as  he  would  beat  do^^^l 
Uie  gate  ? 

Vin.  Is  signior  Lucentio  within,  sir  ? 

Ped.  He  's  within,  sir,  but  not  to  be  spoken  withal. 

Vin.  What,  if  a  man  bring  him  a  hundred  pound  or 
two  TO  make  merry  withal  ? 

Ped.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself:  he 
shall  need  none,  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  told  you.  your  son  was  beloved  in  Padua. 
— Do  you  hear,  sir?  to  leave  frivolous  circumstances, 
I  pray  you,  tell  signior  Lucentio.  that  his  father  is  come 
from  Pisa,  and  is  here  at  the  door  to  speak  with  him. 

Ped.  Thou  liest  :  his  father  is  come  from  Pisa,  and 
liere  looking  out  at  the  window. 

Vin.  Art  thou  his  father  ? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir ;  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may  believe 
her. 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  gentleman?  [Jo  Vincentio.] 
why,  this  is  flat  knavery,  to  take  upon  you  another 
man's  name. 

Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain.     I  believe,  'a  means 
to  cozen  somebody  in  this  city  under  my  countenance. 
Re-enter  Biondello. 

Bion.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  church  together : 
God  send  'em  good  shipping  ! — But  who  is  here  ?  mine 
old  master,  Vincentio  !  now  we  are  undone,  and  brought 
to  nothing. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  crack-hemp.   [Seeing  Biondello. 

Bion.  I  hope  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue.  What,  have  you  for- 
got me  ? 

Bion.  Forgot  you  ?  no,  sir :  I  could  not  forget  you, 
for  I  never  saw  you  before  in  all  my  life. 

Yin.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou  never 
see  thy  master's  father,  Vincentio  ? 

Bion.  Wliat.  my  old,  worshipful  old  master?  yes, 
marry,  sir :  see  wliere  he  looks  out  of  the  window. 

'  Conical       >  haled  :  in  f.  e. 


Vin.  Is 't  so,  indeed  ?  [5mf5  Biondello. 

Bion.  Help,  help,  help  !  here 's  a  madman  will  mur- 
der  me.  [Exit. 

Ped.  Help,  son  !  help,  signior  Baptista  ! 

[Exit.,  from  the  window. 

Pet.  Pr'ythee,  Kate,  let 's  stand  aside,  and  see  the 
end  of  this  controversy.  [They  retire. 

Re-enter  Pedant,  belon- :  Baptista,  Tranio,  and 
Servants. 

Tra.  Sir,  what  are  you,  that  offer  to  beat  my  servant? 

Vin.  What  am  I,  sir  ?  nay,  what  are  you,  sir  ? — 0. 
immortal  Gods  !  0,  fine  villain  !  A  silken  doublet !  a 
velvet  hose  !  a  scarlet  cloak  !  and  a  copatain'  hat  I — 0. 
I  am  undone  !  I  am  undone  !  wliile  I  play  the  good 
husband  at  home,  my  son  and  my  ser^'ant  spend  all  at 
the  university. 

Tra.  How  now  !  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Bap.  What,  is  the  man  lunatic  ? 

Tra.  Sir.  you  seem  a  sober  ancient  gentleman  by 
your  habit,  but  your  words  show  you  a  madman.  Why, 
sir,  what  'cerns  it  you  if  I  wear  pearl  and  gold  ?  I 
thank  my  good  father,  I  am  able  to  maintain  it. 

Vin.  Thy  father  ?  0,  villain  !  he  is  a  sail-maker  in 
Bergamo. 

Bap.  You  mistake,  sir  :  you  mistake,  sir.  Pray, 
what  do  you  think  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  His  name  ?  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name  :  I  have 
brought  him  up  ever  since  he  was  tliree  years  old.  and 
his  name  is  Tranio. 

Ped.  Away,  away,  mad  ass  !  his  name  is  Lucentio ; 
and  he  is  mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the  lands  of  me, 
signior  Vincentio. 

Vin.  Lucentio  !  0  !  he  hath  murdered  his  master. 
— Lay  hold  on  him.  I  charge  you,  in  the  duke's  name. 
— 0,  my  son,  my  son  ! — tell  me,  thou  villain,  where  is 
my  son  Lucentio  ? 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer. 

Enter  one.  u'ith  an  Officer. 
Carry  this  mad  knave  to  the  jail. — Father  Baptista,  I 
charge  you  see  that  he  be  forthcoming. 

Vin.  Carry  me  to  the  jail  ! 

Gre.  Stay,  officer  :  he  shall  not  go  to  prison 

Bap.  Talk  not,  signior  Gremio.  I  say,  he  shall  go 
to  prison. 

Gre.  Take  heed,  signior  Baptista,  lest  you  be  cony- 
catched  in  this  business.  I  dare  swear  this  is  the  right 
Vincentio. 

Ped.  Swear,  if  thou  daresi. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it. 

Tra.  Then  thou  wert  best  say,  that  I  am  not  Lucentio. 

Gre.  Yes,  I  know  thee  to  be  signior  Lucentio. 

Bap.  Away  with  the  dotard  !  to  the  jail  with  him ! 

Vin.  Thus  s.trangers  may  be  handled'  and  abused. — 
0,  mon.«trous  villain  ! 

Re-enter  Biondello  icith  Lucentio.  and  Bianca. 

Bion.  0,  we  are  spoiled  !  and  yonder  he  is  ;  deu> 
him,  forswear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  undone. 

Luc.  Pardon,  sweet  father.  [Kneeling 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweet  eon  ? 

[Biondello,  Tranio,  ana  Pedant  run  on' 


230 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT   V. 


Bian.  Paidoii,  dear  father.  [Kneeling. 

Bap.  How  hast  tliou  ofl'cnded  ? — 

Where  is  Lncentio  ? 

Lin  Here  "s  Lucentio, 

Right  son  to  the  right  Vincentio  ; 
That  liave  by  marriage  made  thy  daugliter  mine. 
While  counterreit  supposes  blear'd  thine  eyne. 

Gre.  Here 's  packing,  with  a  -witness,  to  deceive  us  all! 

Vin.  Where  i.**  that  dannied  villain,  Tranio, 
That  fac"d  and  brav"d  me  in  this  matter  so  ? 

Bap.  Why.  tell  me.  is  not  this  my  Cambio  ? 

Bian.  Cambio  is  chang"d  into  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Love  wrought  these  miracles.     Bianca's  love 
Made  me  exchange  my  state  ^nth  Tranio. 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town ;. 
And  happily  I  have  arrived  at  the  last 
I'nto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss. 
What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforc'd  him  to : 
Then  pardon  him,  sweet  fatlier,  for  my  sake. 

Vin.  I  11  slit  the  villain's  nose,  that  would  have  sent 
me  to  the  jail. 

Bap.  [To  Lucentio.]   But  do  you  hear,  sir?     Have 
you  married  my  daughter  without  asking  my  good  will  ? 

17;!.  Fear  not.  Baptista ;  we  will  content  you:  go 
to  :  but  I  M-ill  in.  to  be  revenged  for  this  villany.    [Exit. 

Bap.  And  I.  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavery.  [Exit. 

Luc.  Look  not  pale,   Bianca ;    thy  father  will   not 
frown.  [Exeunt  Luc.  and  Bian. 

Gre.  My  cake  is  dough  :  but  I  '11  in  among  the  rest, 
Out  of  hope  of  all,  but  my  share  of  the  feast.      [Exit. 
Petruchio  and  K.\tharina  advance. 

Kath.  Husband,  let 's  follow,  to  see  the  end  of  this  ado. 

Pet.  First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will. 

Kath.  What,  in  the  midst  of  the  street  ? 

Pet.  What  I  art  thou  ashamed  of  me  ? 

Kath.  No.  sir,  God  forbid:  but  a,«haiTied  to  kiss. 

Pet.  Why,  then,   let 's  home  again. — Come,  sirrah, 
let 's  away. 

Kath.  Nay.  I  will  give  thee  a  kiss  :  now  pray  thee, 
love,  stay. 

Pet.  Is  not  this  well  ? — Come,  my  sweet  Kate  : 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. — A  Room  in  Lucentio's  House. 
A  Banquet  set  out ;  Enter  Baptista.  Vincentio,  Gre- 

.Mio.    the   Pedant.    LrcEXTio.    Bianca,    Petruchio. 

KatharinA;     Hortensio.     and     Widow.      TranioJ 

Bioxdello.  Grumio.  and  others,  attending. 

Luc.  At  last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes  agree  : 
And  time  it  is.  when  raging  war  is  gone.' 
To  smile  at  'scapes  and  perils  overbTowti. — 
My  fair  Bianca.  bid  my  father  welcome. 
While  I  wth  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine. — 
Brother  Petruchio — si.'-ter  Katharina. — 
And  thou,  Hortensio.  with  thy  loving  v^-idow. 
Feast  with  the  bc^^t.  and  welcome  to  my  house: 
My  banquet  is  to  close  our  stomachs  up. 
After  our  great  good  cheer.     Pray  you.  sit  down ; 
For  now  we  sit  to  chat,  as  well  as  eat.  [TJuy  .'^it  at  table. 

Pet.   Nothing  but  sit  and  sit.  and  eat  and  eat  ! 

Bap.  Pa<lua  affords  this  kindness,  son  Petruchio. 

Pet.  Padua  affords  nothing  but  what  ie  kind. 

Hor.   For  botli  our  sakes  I  would  that  word  were 
true. 

Pet    Now,  for  my  life.  Hortensio  fears  his  wdow. 

Uid.  Then,  never  trust  me,  if.  I  be  afeard. 

Pet.    You  are  very  sensible,  and  yet  you  miss  my 
sense : 
I  mean,  Horten.'^io  is  afeard  of  you. 

>  done  :  in  f.  •       '  Tliis  word  is  not  in  f .  e. 


Wtd.  He  that  is  giddy  thinks  the  world  turns  round 

Pet.  Roundly  replied. 

Kath.  Mistress,  how  mean  you  that' 

JVid.  Thus  I  conceive  by  him. 

Pet.  Conceives  by  me ! — How  likes  Hortensio  that? 

Hor.  My  widow  says,  thus  she  conceives  her  tale. 

Pet.    Very  well  mended.     Kiss  him  for  that,  good 
widow. 

Kath.   He   that   is   giddy   thinks    the    world   turn? 
round : — 
I  pray  you,  tell  me  what  you  meant  by  that. 

Wid    Your  husband,  being  troubled  with  a  shrew 
Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe. 
And  now  you  know  my  meaning. 

Kath.  A  very  mean  meaning. 

IJ^id.  Right,  I  mean  you. 

Kath.  And  I  am  mean,  indeed,  respecting  you. 

Pet.  To  her,  Kate  ! 

Hor.  To  her,  widow  ! 

Pet.  A  hundred  marks,  my  Kate  does  put  her  down. 

Hor.  That's  my  office. 

Pet.  Spoke  like  an  officer  : — Here 's  to  thee,  lad. 

[Driyiks  to  Hortensio. 

Bap.  How  likes  Gremio  these  quick-witted  folks  ? 

Gre.  Believe  me,  sir.  they  butt  together  well. 

Bian.  Head  and  butt  ?  an  hasty- witted  body 
Would  say.  your  head  and  butt  were  head  and  horn. 

Vin.  Ay.  mistress  bride,  hath  that  awaken'd  you  ? 

Bian.  Ay,  but  not  frighted  me  :  therefore,  I  '11  sleep 
again. 

Pet.  Nay,  that  you  shall  not ;  since  you  have  begun, 
HaA-e  at  you  for  a  better  jest  or  two. 

Bian.  Am  I  your  bird  ?     I  mean  to  shift  my  bush. 
And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow. — 
You  are  welcome  all. 

[Exeunt  Bianca,  Katharina,  and  Widow. 

Pet.  She  hath  prevented  me — Here,  signior  Tranio; 
This  bird  you  aim'd  at,  though  you  hit  her  not: 
Therefore,  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  miss'd. 

Tra.  0  sir  !  Lucentio  .slijip'd  me.  like  his  greyhound 
Which  runs  himself,  and  catches  for  his  master. 

Pet.  A  good  swift  simile,  but  something  currish. 

Tra.  'Tis  well,  sir,  that  you  hunted  for  yourself: 
'T  is  thought,  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Bap.  O  ho,  Petruchio  !     Tranio  hits  you  now. 

Luc.  I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,  good  Tranio. 

Hor.  Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you  here? 

Pet.  'A  has  a  little  gall'd  me,  I  confess  ; 
And.  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  from  me. 
'T  is  ten  to  one  it  maim'd  you  two  outright. 

Bap.  Now.  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  i^hrew  of  all. 

Pet.  Well;  I  say  no:  and  therefore,  for  assurance, 
Let 's  each  one  send  unto  his  several*  wife, 
And  he,  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her. 
Shall  ■v^^n  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.  Content.     What  is  the  wager  ? 

Luc.  Twenty  crowns 

Pet.  Twenty  crowns ! 
I  '11  venture  so  much  of  my  hawk,  or  hound. 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.  A  hundred  then. 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match  !  't  is  done 

Hor.  Who  shall  begin  ? 

Luc.  That  will  L 

Go.  Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bion.  I  go.  [Exii 


BOKira  u. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHEEW. 


231 


Bap.  Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 
Luc.  I  '11  have  no  halves ;  I  '11  bear  it  all  myself. 
Re-enter  Bionobllo. 
How  now  !  what  news  i* 

Bion.  Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  camiot  come. 

Pet.  How  !  she  is  busy,  and  she  caimot  come  ! 
Is  that  an  answer  ? 

Gre.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too  : 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 
Pet.  I  hope  better. 

Hjr.  Sirrah,  Biondello,  go  and  entreat  my  wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.  [Exit  Biondello, 

Pet.  0  ho  !  entreat  her  ! 

Nay  then  she  must  needs  come. 

Hor.  I  am  afraid,  sir, 

Do  what  you  can,  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 
Now,  where  's  my  wife  ? 

Bion.  She  says,  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in  hand  ; 
She  will  not  come  :  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Pet.  Worse  and  worse  :  she  will  not  come  ?  0  vile  ! 
Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd  ! 
Sirrah.  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress ;  say, 
I  command  her  come  to  me.  [Exit  Grumio. 

Hor.  I  know  her  answer. 
Pet.  What? 
Hor.  She  will  not. 
Pet.  The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  end. 

Enter  Katharina. 
Bap.  Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharina  ! 
Kath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me  ? 
Pet.  Where  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's  wife  ? 
Kath.  They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlour  fire. 
Pet.  Go,  fetch  them  hither  :  if  they  deny  to  come, 
Swinge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  husbands. 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight. 

[Exit  Katharina. 
Luc.  Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder. 
Hor.  And  so  it  ia.     I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 
Pet.  Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet  life. 
An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy ; 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not  that 's  sweet  and  happy. 

Bap.  Now  fair  befal  thee,  good  Petruchio  ! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won ;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns  ; 
Another  dowTy  to  another  daughter, 
For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet, 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience, 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 

Re-enter  Katharina,  with  Bianca  and  Widow. 
See,  where  she  comes,  and  brings  your  froward  vnves 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. — 
Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 
Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under  foot. 

[Katharina  pu//s  off  her  cap,  and  throws  it  down. 
Wid.  Lord  !  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh, 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass. 

Bian.  Fie  !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this  ? 
Luc.  I  would,  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too : 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Cost  me  one'  hundred  crowns  since  supper-time. 
Bian.  The  more  fool  you  for  laying  on  my  duty. 
Pet.  Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  headstrong 
women 


What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husband*. 
Wid.  Come,  come,  vou  're  mocking :  we  will  have 

no  telling. 
Pet.  Come  on,  I  say ;  and  first  begin  with  her. 
Wid.  She  shall  not. 

Pet.  I  say,  she  shall : — and  first  begin  with  her. 
Kath.  Fie,  fie  !  unknit  that  threatening  unkind  brow. 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes. 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  tliy  governor : 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  do  bite  the  meads, 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds, 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet,  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd  is  like  a  fountain  troubled, 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty ; 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Tliy  head,  thy  sovereign  ;  one  that  cares  for  thee, 
And  for  thy  maintenance ;  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labour,  both  by  sea  and  land. 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold. 
Whilst  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe  ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands. 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience. 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince. 
Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband  ; 
And  when  she  's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will. 
What  is  she  but  a  foul  contending  rebel. 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? — 
I  am  asham'd  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  offer  war  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace. 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway. 
When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth, 
Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world, 
But  that  our  soft  conditions,  and  our  hearts, 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts  ? 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms, 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours. 
My  heart  as  great,  my  reason,  haply,  more 
To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown  ; 
But  now  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws. 
Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare. 
That  seeming  most,  which  we  indeed  least  are. 
Then,  vail  your  stomachs,  for  it  is  no  boot, 
And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot : 
In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  plea.se. 
My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease. 

Pet.  Why,  there  's   a  wench  ! — Come  on,   and  kis-c 

me,  Kate. 
Luc.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  lad,  for  thou  shalt  ha  't. 
Vin.  'T  is  a  good  hearing,  when  children  are  toward. 
Luc.  But  a  harsh  hearing,  wiien  women  are  froward. 
Pet.  Come,  Kate,  we  '11  to  bed. — 
We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped. 
'T  was  I  won  the  wager,  though  you  hit  the  white; 

[7b  LUCENTIO. 

And,  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good  night. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio  and  Kath. 
Hor.  Now  go  thy  ways,  thou  hast  tam'd   a  curst 

shrew. 
Luc.  'T  is  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  sh;  will  be  tam'd 
80.  [Exturd. 


an :  m  f . 


ALLS   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


King  of  France. 

Duke  of  Florence. 

Bertram,  Count  of  Rousillon. 

Lafeu,  an  old  Lord. 

Parolles.  a  Follower  of  Bertram. 

French  Envoy,  serving  with  Bertram. 

French  Gentleman,  also  scrying  with  Bertram. 

RiNALDO.  Steward  to  the  Countess  of  Rousillon. 

Clown,  in  her  household. 

A  Page. 


Countess  of  Rousillon,  Mother  to  Bertram. 
Helena,  a  Gentlewoman  protected  by  the  Coui 

te.«s. 
A  Widow  of  Florence. 
Diana.  Daughter  to  the  Widow. 

ViOI.ENTA. 


Mariana, 


Neighbours  and  Friends  to  the  Widow 


Lord.s,  attending  on  the  King ;  Officers,  Soldiers, 
&c.,  French  and  Florentine. 


SCENE,  partly  in  France,  and  partly  in  Tuscany. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  L — Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  the  Countess  of  Rousillon,  Helena, 

and  Lafeu,  all  in  blar.k. 

Count.  In  delivering  my  son  from  me,  I  bury  a 
second  husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my  father's 
death  anew  ;  but  I  must  attend  his  niaje8ty'.s  command, 
to  whom  I  am  now  in  ward,'  evermore  in  .subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband,  madam ; 
— you,  sir,  a  father.  He  that  so  generally  is  at  all 
times  good,  must  of  necessity  hold  his  virtue  to  you. 
whose  worthiness  would  stir  it  up  where  it  wanted, 
rather  than  lack  it  where  there  is  such  abundance. 

Count.  What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's  amend- 
ment? 

Laf.  He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians,  madam; 
under  whose  practices  he  hath  persecuted  time  with 
hope,  and  finds  no  other  advantage  in  the  process,  but 
only  the  losing  of  hope  by  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father, — 0, 
t.hat  had  !  how  sad  a  pa.«sage  't  is — whose-  skill,*  almost 
a-s  great  a.s  his  honesty,  had  it  stretched  so  far  would 
have  made  nature  immortal,  and  death  should  have 
play  for  lack  of  work.  Would,  for  the  king's  sake,  he 
'vere  living  !  I  think  it  would  be  the  death  of  the 
•.ng's  disea.sc. 

Laf.  How  called  you  the  man  you  speak  of,  madam  ? 

Count.  He  wa,s  famous,  sir.  in  his  profession,  and  it 
wa.s  his  sreat  right  to  be  so.— Tierard  de  Narbon. 

Laf.  He  wa«  excellent,  indeed,  madam :  the  king 
very  lately  spoke  of  him,  admiringly  and  mourningly. 
He  wa.s  skilful  enough  to  have  lived  still,  if  knowledge 
could  be  set  up  against  mortality. 

Ber.  Wliat  is  it,  my  good  lord,  the  king  languishes  of? 

Laf.  A  fistula,  my  lord. 

Ber.  I  heard  not  of  it  before. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  not  nolorioiis. — Wa.s  this  gen- 
tlewoman the  daughter  of  Gerard  de  Narbon? 


Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord ;  and  bequeathed  to 
my  overlooking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her  good  that 
her  education  promises :  her  dispositions  she  inherits, 
which  make  fair  gifts  fairer;  for  where  an  unclean 
mind  carries  virtuous  qualities,  there  commendations 
go  with  pity ;  they  are  virtues  and  traitors  too :  in  her 
they  are  the  better  for  their  simpleness;  she  derives 
her  honesty,  and  acliievcs  her  goodness. 

Laf.  Your  commendations,  madam,  get  from  her  tears 

Count.  'T  is  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can  season  her 
praise  in.  The  remembrance  of  her  father  never 
approaches  her  heart,  but  the  t>Tanny  of  her  sorrows, 
takes  all  livelihood  from  her  cheek. — No  more  of  this. 
Helena :  go  to,  no  more ;  lest  it  be  rather  thought  you 
affect  a  sorrow,  than  to  have. 

Hel.  I  do  affect  a  sorrow,  indeed ;  but  I  have  it  too. 

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the  dead, 
excessive  grief  the  enemy  to  the  li'ving. 

Count.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess 
makes  it  soon  mortal. 

Ber.  Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.  How  understand  we  that  ? 

Count.  Be  thou  blest,  Bertram;    and   succeed    thy 
father 
In  maimers,  as  in  shape  !  thy  blood,  and  virtue. 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee ;  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birth-right !     Love  all,  trust  a  few, 
Do  MTong  to  none :  be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power  than  use ;   and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key :  be  check'd  for  silence, 
But  never  tax'd  for  speech.     What  heaven  more  will. 
That  thee  may  furnish,  and  my  prayers  pluck  down, 
Fall  on  thy  head  ! — Farewell,  my  lord  : 
'T  is  an  unseason'd  courtier :  good  my  lord, 
Advise  hira. 

Laf.  He  carmot  want  the  best 

That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Count.  Heaven  bless  him  ! — 
Farewell,  Bertram.  [Exit  CouxTKfs 


Heirs  of  largo  «Ht:it«s  were   during  their  ; 

2S2 


unority,  wards  of  the  king.      *  f.  e.  in.><crttcaj 


SCENE   I. 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


233 


Ber.  [To  Helena.]  The  best  wishes  that  can  be 
ibrged  in  your  thoughts  be  servants  to  you  !  Be  com- 
fortable to  my  mother,  your  mistress,  and  make  much 
of  her. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady :  you  must  hold  the  credit 
of  your  father.  [Exeunt  Bertram  and  Lafeu. 

Hel.  0,  were  that  all ! — I  think  not  on  my  father ; 
And  these  great  tears  grace  his  remembrance  more 
Than  those  I  shed  for  him.     What  was  he  like  ? 
I  have  forgot  him  :  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favour  in  't,  but  only'  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone :  there  is  no  living,  none. 
If  Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all  one. 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star. 
And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me : 
In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 
Th'  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself: 
The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion. 
Must  die  for  love.     'T  was  pretty,  though  a  plague. 
To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls. 
In  my  heart's  table  ;  heart,  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour : 
But  now  he  's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relics.     Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Parolles. 
One  that  goes  with  him :  I  love  him  for  his  sake, 
And  yet  I  knovs'  him  a  notorious  liar. 
Think  him  a  gieat  way  fool,  .solely  a  coward ; 
Yet  these  fix'd  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him. 
That  they  take  place,  when  virtue's  steely  bones 
Look  bleak  in  the  cold  wind :  withal,  full  oft  we  see 
Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly. 

Par.  Save  you,  fair  queen. 

Hel.  And  you,  monarch." 

Par.  No. 

Hel.  And  no. 

Par.  Are  you  meditating  on  virginity? 

Hel.  Ay.  You  have  some  stain  of  soldier  in  you ; 
let  me  ask  you  a  question :  man  is  enemy  to  virginity ; 
how  may  we  barricade  it  against  him. 

Par.  Keep  him  out. 

Hel.  Bat  he  assails  ;  and  our  virginity,  though  valiant 
in  the  defence,  yet  is  weak.  Unfold  to  us  some  war- 
like resistance. 

Par.  There  is  none :  man,  sitting  down  before  you, 
will  undermine  you,  and  blow  you  up. 

Hel.  Bless  our  poor  virginity  from  underminers,  and 
blowers  up  ! — Is  there  no  military  policy,  how  virgins 
might  blow  up  men? 

Par.  Virginity  being  blown  do"vvTi,  man  will  quicklier 
be  blown  up :  marry,  in  blowing  him  downi  again,  with 
the  breach  yourselves  made  you  lose  your  city.  It  is 
not  politic  in  the  commonwealth  of  nature  to  preserve 
virginity.  Loss  of  virginity  is  rational  increase ;  and 
there  was  never  virgin  got,  till  virginity  was  first  lost. 
That  you  were  made  of  is  metal  to  make  virgins.  Vir- 
ginity, by  being  once  lost,  may  be  ten  times  found :  by 
being  ever  kept,  it  is  ever  lost.  'T  is  too  cold  a  com- 
panion :  away  with  't. 

Hel.  I  will  stand  for  't  a  little,  though  therefore  I 
die  a  virdn. 

Par.  There  's  little  can  be  said  in  't :  't  is  against  the 
rule  of  nature.  To  speak  on  the  part  of  virginity  is  to 
accuse  your  mothers,  which  is  most  infallible  disobe- 
aJence.  He  that  hangs  himself  is  a  virgin:  virginity 
murders  itself,  and  should  be  buried  in  highways,  out 
ul  all  sanctified  limit,  as  a  desoerate  offendress  against 


nature.  Virginity  breeds  mites,  much  like  a  cheese; 
consumes  itself  to  the  very  paring,  and  so  dies  with 
feeding  his  own  stomach.  Besides,  virginity  is  peevish, 
proud,  idle,  made  of  self-love,  which  is  the  most  in- 
Inbited  sin  in  the  canon.  Keep  it  not :  you  cannot 
choose  but  lose  by  't.  Out  with  't :  within  two'  year.', 
it  will  make  itself  two,*  which  is  a  goodly  increase,  and 
tlie  principal  itself  not  much  the  worse.    Away  with  't. 

Hel.  How  might  one  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her  o;m 
liking  ? 

Par.  Let  me  see  :  marry,  ill ;  to  like  him  that  ne'er 
it  likes.  'T  is  a  commodity  will  lose  the  gloss  with 
lying  ;  the  longer  kept,  the  less  worth  :  off"  with  't,  while 
't  is  vendible  :  answer  the  time  of  request.  Virginity, 
like  a.n  old  courtier,  wears  her  cap  out  of  fashion-, 
riclily  suited,  but  unsuitable :  just  like  the  brooch  and 
the  tooth-pick,  which  wear  not  now.  Your  date  is 
better  in  your  pie  and  your  porridge,  than  in  your 
cheek :  and  your  virginity,  your  old  virginity,  is  like 
one  of  our  French  withered  pears :  it  looks  ill,  it  eats 
dryly ;  marry,  't  is  a  withered  pear :  it  was  formerly 
better ;  marry,  yet,  't  is  a  withered  pear.  Will  you  do' 
any  thing  with  it  ? 

Hel.  Not  with'  my  virginity  yet. 
There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phcenix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 
A  counsellor,  a  traitress,  and  a  dear ; 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility. 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet. 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster ;  with  a  world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptions  Christendoms, 
That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.     Now  shall  he — 
I  know  not  what  he  shall : — God  send  him  well ! — 
The  court 's  a  learning-place  : — and  he  is  one — 

Par.  What  one.  i'  faith  ? 

Hel.  That  I  wish  well.— 'T  is  pity- 
Par.  What's  pity? 

Hel.  That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in  't. 
Which  might  be  felt ;  that  we.  the  poorer  born, 
Whose  baser  .stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 
And  show  what  we  alone  must  think ;  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

Enter  a  Page. 

Page.  Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for  vou. 

[Exit  Page. 

Par.  Little  Helen,  farewell :  if  I  can  remember  thee, 
I  will  think  of  thee  at  court. 

Hel.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under  a  cha- 
ritable star. 

Par.  Under  Mars,  I. 

Hel.  I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.  Why  under  Mars  ? 

Hel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  yoa 
must  needs  be  born  vuider  Mars. 

Par.  When  he  was  predominant. 

Hel.  When  he  was  retrograde,  I  think,  rather. 

Par.  Wliy  think  you  so  ? 

Hel.  You  go  so  much  backward  when  you  fight. 

Par.  That 's  for  advantage. 

Hel.  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  proposes  the 
safety :  but  the  composition  that  your  valour  and  fear 
make  in  you  is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing,  and  I  like  the 
wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  caiuiot  answer 
thee  acutely.  I  will  return  perfect  courtier :  in  the 
which  my  instruction  shall  serve  to  naturalize  thee. 


f .  e       2  This  may  be  a  play  on  th^  word  Monarcho,  a  brags;art 


*  ten  :  in  f .  I 


»  6  Not  in  f.  n 


284 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


ACT   L 


8)  thou  wilt  be  capable  of  a  courtiers  counsel,  and 
understand  what  advice  t^hall  thrust  upon  tliee  ;  else 
tliou  dicBt  in  thine  untiiankfulncss.  and  thine  ignorance 
makes  thee  away  :  farewell.  When  thou  hast  leisure, 
say  thy  prayers ;  when  thou  hast  none,  remember  thy 
triends.  Get  thee  a  eood  husband,  and  use  him  as  he 
uses  thee  :  so  farewell.  [Exit. 

Hd.  Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven :  the  lated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope  :  only,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  dcsisMS,  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
What  power  is  "t  which  mounts  my  love  so  high ; 
That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye  ? 
The  mighiiest  space  in  nature  fortune  brings.* 
•To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. 
Impossible  be  strange  attempts  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense  :  and  do  suppose, 
What  hath  been  cannot  be.     Who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit,  that  did  miss  her  love  ? 
The  king's  disease — my  project  may  deceive  me  ; 
But  my  intents  are  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 

Flourish  of  cornets.     Enter  the  King  of  France.,  with 

letters  ;  Lords  and  others  atteiuling. 

King.  The  Florentines  and  Senoys'  are  by  th'  ears ; 
Have  Ibught  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  bra^^ng  war. 

1  Lord.  So  't  is  reported,  sir. 

King.  Nay,  't  is  most  credible  :  we  here  receive  it 
A  certainty,  vouch"d  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  ■\\'ill  move  us 
For  speedy  aid  ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
IVejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

1  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 
Approv'd  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 

For  amplest  credence. 

King.  He  hath  arm'd  our  answer, 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes : 
Vet,  for  (far  gentlemen,  that  mean  to  see 
The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 
To  stand  on  either  part. 

2  Lord.  It  may  well  serve 
A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 

For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What 's  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafku.  and  Parolles. 

1  Lord.  It  is  the  count  Rousillon,  my  good  lord. 
Young  Bertram. 

King.  Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face  : 

Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste, 
Hath  well  compos"d  tliee.     Thy  father's  moral  parts 
May'st  thou  inherit  too  !     Welcome  to  Paris. 

Ber.  My  thanks  and  duty  are  your  majesty's. 

King.  I  would  I  liad  that  corporal  soundness  now. 
As  when  thy  father,  and  my.^clf,  in  friendship 
First  tried  our  soldiership.     He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest :  he  lasted  long  ; 
But  on  us  boili  did  haugish  age  steal  on. 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father.     In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit,  which  I  can  well  observe 
To-day  in  our  young  lords  ;  but  they  may  jest, 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted. 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour : 
So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride,  or  sharpness ;  if  they  were, 

•  fortone  nature  brin^  :  in  f.  a.      •  The  people  of  Sienna.      '  To  be 


His  equal  had  awak'd  tnem :   and  his  honour, 

Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 

Exception  bid  him  speak,  and  at  this  time 

His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand  :  who  were  below  hi'n 

He  us'd  as  creatures  of  another  place. 

And  bow'd  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks, 

Making  them  proud  of  his  humility. 

In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled.     Such  a  miai 

Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times. 

Which,  follow'd  well,  would  demonstrate  them  now 

But  goers  backward. 

Bcr.  His  good  remembrance,  sir. 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts,  than  on  his  tomb . 
So  in  approof  lives  not  his  epitaph. 
As  in  your  royal  speech. 

King.  'Would  I  were  with  him  !     He  would  alway« 
say, 
(Methinks.  I  hear  him  now;  his  plausive  words 
He  scatter'd  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them, 
To  grow  there,  and  to  bear.) — '-Let  me  not  live," — 
Thus  his  good  melancholy  oft  began, 
On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime. 
When  it  was  out.  "  let  me  not  live,"  quoth  he, 
"  After  my  flame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuflf 
Of  younger  spirits,  whose  apprehensive  senses 
All  but  new  things  disdain :  whose  judgments  are 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments  ;  whose  constancies 
Expire  before  their  fashions." — This  he  wish'd  ; 
I,  after  him,  do  after  him  wish  too, 
Since  I  nor  wax  nor  honey  can  bring  home, 
I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  liive. 
To  give  some  labourers  room. 

2  Lord.  Y'ou  are  lov'd,  sir , 

They,  that  least  lend  it  you,  shall  lack  you  first. 

King.  I  fill  a  place.  I  know  't. — How  long  is 't,  coueL 
Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died  ? 
He  was  much  fam'd. 

Bcr.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord 

King.  If  he  were  living.  I  would  try  him  yet : — 
Lend  me  an  arm  : — the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications  :  nature  and  sickness 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count ; 
My  son  's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Filter  Countess,  Steward,  and  Clo^jon. 

Count.  I  will  now  hear;  what  say  you  of  this 
gentlewoman  ! 

Stew.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even  your 
content,  I  wish  might  be  found  in  the  calendar  of  my 
past  endeavours:  for  then  we  wound  our  modesty,  and 
make  foul  the  clearness  of  our  desersings,  when  of 
ourselves  w^e  publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  here?  Get  you  gone^ 
sirrah :  the  complaints  I  have  heard  of  yen.  I  do  not 
all  believe  :  't  is  my  slowness,  that  I  do  not :  fo- 1  know 
you  lack  not  folly  to  commit  them,  and  have  ability 
enough  to  make  such  knaveries  Tours. 

Clo.  'T  is  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  I  am  a  poor 
fellow. 

Count.  Well.  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam  ;  't  is  not  so  well,  that  I  am  poor, 
though  many  of  the  rich  are  damned.  But,  if  I  may 
have  your  ladyship's  good-will  to  go  to  the  worid,' 
Isbel,  the  woman,  and  I  will  do  as  we  may. 

Count.  Will  thou  needs  be  a  begsar  ? 

Clo.  I  do  beg  your  good- will  in  this  case. 

married. 


SdENE  m 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


235 


Count.  In  what  case  ? 

Cio.  In  Isbel's  case,  and  mine  own.  Service  is  no 
l.-5ritage  ;  and,  I  think.  I  shall  never  have  the  blessing 
of  God.  till  I  have  issue  of  my  body,  for  they  say, 
bairns  are  blessings. 

Count.  Tell  me  thy  reason  why  thou  wilt  marry. 

Clo.  My  poor  body,  madam,  requires  it :  I  am  driven 
OK  by  the  flesh,  and  he  must  needs  go  that  the  devil 
di-ives. 

Count.  Is  this  all  your  worship's  reason  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy  reasons,  such 
tm  they  are. 

Count.  May  the  world  know  them  ? 

Cto.  1  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature,  as  you 
nd  all  flesh  and  blood  are :  and,  indeed,  I  do  marry 
that  I  may  repent. 

Count.  Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wickedness. 

CIj.  I  am  out  o'  friends,  madam;  and  I  hope  to 
have  friends  for  my  wife's  sake. 

Count.  Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  are  shallow,  madam  ;  e'en'  great  friends  ; 
for  the  knaves  come  to  do  that  for  me,  which  I  am 
a-weary  of.  He,  that  ears  my  land,  spares  my  team, 
and  gives  me  leave  to  inn  the  crop  :  if  I  be  his  cuckold, 
he 's  my  drudge.  He  that  comforts  my  wife  is  the 
cherisher  of  my  flesh  and  blood  ;  he  that  cherishes  my 
flesh  and  blood,  loves  my  flesh  and  blood;  he  that 
loves  my  flesh  and  blood  is  my  friend  :  ergo,  he  that 
kisses  my  wife  is  my  friend.  If  men  could  be  con- 
tented to  be  what  they  are,  there  were  no  fear  in  mar- 
riage :  for  young  Charbon  the  puritan,  and  old  Poysam 
the  papist,  howsome'er  tlieir  hearts  are  severed  in 
religion,  their  heads  are  both  one  ;  they  may  joU  horns 
together,  like  any  deer  i'  the  herd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed  and  calum- 
nious knave  ? 

Clo.  A  prophet  I.  madam  :  and  I  speak  the  truth 
tlie  next"  way : 

For  I  the  ballad  will  repeat. 

Which  men  full  true  shall  find; 
Your  marriage  comes  by  destiny, 
Your  cuckoo  sings  by  kind. 

Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir  :  I  '11  talk  with  you  more 
anon. 

Stew.  May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he  bid  Helen 
come  to  you  ?  of  her  I  am  to  speak. 

Count.  Sirrah,  tell  my  gentlewoman,  I  would  speak 
with  her  :  Helen.  I  mean. 

Clo,      Was  this  fair  face,  quoth  she.  the  cause,' 
Mliy  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond*  done,  done  fond.^  good  sooth  it  was  ; 

Was  this  King  Priam's  joy  ? 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood* 

A)uJ.  gave  this  sentence  then  ; 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good,'' 
There  's  yet  one  good  in  ten. 
Count.  What !   one  good  in  ten  ?   you   corrupt  the 
song,  sirrah. 

Clo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam,  which  is  a 
purifying  o'  the  song*,  and  mending  o'  the  sex.  Would 
God  would  serve  the  world  so  all  the  year  !  we  'd  find 
no  fault  with  the  tithe-woman  if  I  were  the  parson. 
One  in  ten,  quoth  a'  !  an  we  might  have  a  good  woman 
born — ^but  one' — every  blazing  star,  or  at  an  earth- 
quake, 't  would  mend  the  lottery  well :  a  man  may 
diaw  his  heart  out,  ere  he  pluck  one. 


Count.  You  '11  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I  com- 
mand you  ? 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  command,  and 
yet  no  hurt  done  ! — Though  honesty  be  no  puritan,  yet 
it  will  do  no  hurt ;  it  will  wear  the  surplice  of  humilitj 
over  the  black  gown  of  a  big  heart. — I  am  going,  for- 
sooth :  the  business  is  for  Helen  to  come  hithor.  [Exit. 

Count.  Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  gentlewoman 
entirely. 

Count.  Faith,  I  do :  her  father  bequeathed  her  to 
me ;  and  she  herself,  without  other  advantage,  may 
lawfully  make  title  to  as  much  love  as  she  finds :  there 
is  more  owing  her  than  is  paid,  and  more  shall  be  paid 
her  than  she  '11  demand. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her  than, 
I  think,  she  wished  me  :  alone  she  was,  and  did  com- 
municate to  herself,  her  own  words  to  her  ovm  ears  , 
she  thought,  I  dare  vow  for  her,  they  touched  not  any 
stranger  sense.  Her  matter  was,  she  loved  your  son  : 
forttme,  she  said,  was  no  goddess,  that  had  pvit  such 
diflerence  betwixt  their  two  estates :  love,  no  god,  that 
would  not  extend  his  might,  only  where  qualities  were 
level :  Diana,  no  queen  of  virgins,  that  would  suffer 
her  poor  knight  to  be  surprised,  without  rescue,  in  the 
first  assault,  or  ransom  afterward.  This  she  delivered 
in  the  most  bitter  touch  of  sorrow,  that  e'er  I  heard 
virgin  exclaim  in ;  which  I  held  my  duty  speedily  to 
acquaint  you  withal,  sithence  in  the  loss  that  may 
happen  it  concerns  you  something  to  know  it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly  :  keep  it 
to  yourself.  Many  likelihoods  informed  me  of  this 
before,  which  hung  so  tottering  in  the  balance,  that  I 
could  neither  believe,  nor  misdoubt.  Pray  you,  leave 
me  :  stall  this  in  your  bosom,  and  I  thank  you  for  your 
honest  care.     I  will  speak  with  you  farther,  anon. 

[Exit  Steward. 

Count.  Even  so  it  was  with  me,  when  I  was  young: 
If  ever  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours ;  this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong  : 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born : 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth. 

Enter  Helena." 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone 
Search  we  out  faults,  for"  then  we  thought  them  none 
He*-  eye  is  sick  on  't :  I  observe  her  now. 

Hel.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 

Count.  You  know,  Helea 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

Hel.  Mine  honourable  mistress. 

Count.  Nay.  a  mothei 

Why  not  a  mother  ?     When  I  said   a  mother, 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent :  what 's  in  mother, 
That  you  start  at  it  ?     I  say,  I  am  your  mother, 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine.     'T  is  often  seen. 
Adoption  strives  with  nature  ;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds : 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan. 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care. — 
God's  mercy,  maiden  !  does  it  curd  thy  blood. 
To  say,  I  am  thy  mother  ?     Wliat  's  the  matter, 
That  this  distemper'd  messenger  of  wet. 
The  many-colour'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye? 
Why,  that  you  are  my  daushter  ? 

Hel.  '  That  I  am  not. 


'  The  old  copies  :  in.      *  Nearest.      '  the  cause,  quoth  she :  in  t.  e. 
we  repeated  in  f.  e.     8  The  rest  of  this  sentence  not  in  f.  e.     »  ere  :  in  f. 
weie    ur  faults ;  or.  &c.  •  in  f.  o. 


Foolishly.      »  The  rest  of  this  line  is  not  in  f.  e.     •  '  These  lines 
.     '0  This  stage  direction  is  giren  six  lines  above  :  in  f.  e.    i'  Sucu 


236 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


Acrr  n. 


Count.  I  say,  I  am  your  jnother. 

Hel.  Pardon,  madam; 

The  count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my  brother ; 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honourd  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble : 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is ;  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die. 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother  ? 

Hel.  You  are  my  mother,  madam :  would  you  were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother) 
indeed,  my  mother  I — or  were  you  both  our  mothers, 
I  care  no  more  for.  than  I  do  for  heaven, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister.     Cant  no  other, 
But,  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother? 

Count.  Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law. 
God  shield,  you  mean  it  not !  daughter,  and  mother, 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse.     What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catch"d  your  fondness :  Now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears"  head.     Now  to  all  sense  "t  is  gross, 
You  love  my  son :  invention  is  asham"d 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 
To  say,  thou  dost  not:  therefore,  tell  me  true: 
But  tell  me  then,  't  is  so  : — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confers  it,  th'  one  to  the  other ;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  gro8.sly  .«howu  in  thy  behaviours, 
That  in  their  kind  they  speak  it :  only  sin, 
And  hellish  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue. 
That  truth  should  be  suspected.     Speak,  is't  so? 
If  it  be  80;  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue ; 
If  it  be  not,  forswear  "t:  howe'er,  I  charge  thee, 
As  heaven  shall  wo''k  in  me  for  thine  avail. 
To  tell  me  truly. 

Hel.  Good  madam,  pardon  me. 

Count.  Do  you  love  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress. 

Count.  Love  you  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him.  madam? 

Count.  Go  not  about:  my  love  hath  int  a  bond. 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note.     Come,  come,  disclose 
The  state  of  your  affection,  for  your  pa-stions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

Hel.  Then,  I  confess,     [Kneeling.^ 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 
I  love  your  son. —  [Rising.^ 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest ;  so  's  my  love  : 
Be  not  offended,  for  it  hurts  not  him, 
That  he  is  lov'd  of  me.     I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of*  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him,  till  I  do  deser\-e  him. 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  .should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  again.st  hope  ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intcnible  sieve, 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love. 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still.     Thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 


But  knows  of  him  no  more.     My  dearest  madam, 
Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love. 
For  loving  where  you  do  :  but.  if  yourself, 
Whose  aged  honour  cites  a  virtuous  youth, 
Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking. 
Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love,  0  !  then  give  pity 
To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  caunot  choose 
But  lend  and  give  where  she  is  .sure  to  lose; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies, 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

Count.  Had  you  not  lately  an  intent,  speak  truly, 
To  go  to  Paris  ? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  Wherefore  ?  tell  true 

Hel.  I  will  tell  truth,  by  grace  itself  I  swear. 
You  know,  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  prov'd  effects,  such  as  his  reading 
And  manilbld'  experience  had  collected 
For  general  sovereignty ;  and  that  he  wilFd  me 
In  heedfull'st  reservation  to  bestow  them. 
As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive  were 
More  than  they  were  in  note.     Amongst  the  reel, 
There  is  a  remedy  approved,  set  down 
To  cure  the  desperate  languishings  whereof 
The  king  is  render'd  lost. 

Count.  This  was  your  motive 

For  Paris,  was  it  ?  speak. 

Hel.  My  lord,  your  son,  made  me  to  think  of  thip ; 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king. 
Had,  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts. 
Haply  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid. 
He  would  receive  it?     He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind  :  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him. 
They,  that  they  cannot  help.     How  shall  they  credit 
A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Einboweird  of  their  doctrine,  have  left  off 
The  danser  to  itself? 

Hel.  There 's  something  in  't, 
More  than  my  father's  skill,  -which  was  the  greatest 
Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 
Shall,  for  my  legacy,  be  sanctified 
By  the  luckiest  stars  in   heaven:    and,  would    youi 

honour 
But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I  'd  venture 
The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure, 
By  .such  a  day,  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  believe  't  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam,  kno^\"ingly. 

Count.  Why,  Helen,  thou  shalt  have  my  leave,  and 
love. 
Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court.     I  '11  stay  at  home. 
And  pray  Gods  blessing  unto  thy  attempt. 
Be  gone  to-morrow  :  and  be  sure  of  this, 
What  I  can  help  thee  to  thou  shalt  not  miss.    [Ereunt 


•ACT    II. 


SCENE  1  .—Paris.     A  Room  in  the  K  isgs  Palace.     I  ^  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^  y^^,  ._and  you.  my  lords.  fareweU. 
Flourish.     Enter  Kino,  with  young  Lords  taking  leave  Share  the  advice  betwixt  you:  if  both  sain  all, 
for  the   Florentine  tear;   Bertram,   Parolles,  and  The  L'ift  doth  stretch  itself  as 't  is  receiv'd, 
Attendants.  And  is  enough  for  both. 

iTtng.  Farewell,  young  lords.  These  warlike  principles  !      1  Lord.  'T  is  our  hope,  eir, 

•  Not  n  r.  ^.      '  inaiife«t:  in  \   e. 


SCKNE   1 


ALL'S    WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


237 


Afier  well-enter'd  soldiers,  to  return 
A.nd  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.  No.  no,  it  cannot  be  :  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.     Farewell,  young  lords  : 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Df  worthy  Frenchmen  :  let  higher  Italy 
(Those  'bated,  that  inlierit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy)  see,  that  you  come 
Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it :  when 
The  bravest  questant  shrinks,  find  what  you  seek, 
That  fame  may  cry  you  loud.     I  say,  farewell. 

2  Lord.  Health,  at  your  bidding,  serve  your  majesty  ! 

King.  Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them. 
They  say.  our  French  lack  language  to  deny, 
If  they  demand  :  beware  of  being  captives, 
Before  you  serve. 

Both.  Our  hearts  receive  your  warnings. 

King.  Farewell. — Come  hither  to  me. 

[The  King  retire.^  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.  0,  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will   stay  be- 

hind us ! 
Par.  "T  is  not  his  fault,  the  spark. 

2  Lord.  0,  't  is  brave  wars  ! 
Par.  Most  admirable  :  I  have  seen  those  wars. 
Ber.  I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil  with  ; 

"  Too  young.''  and  '•  the  next  year,"  and  '•  'tis  too  early." 
Par.  An  thy  mind  stand  to 't,  boy,  steal  away  bravely. 
Ber.  I  shall  stay  liere  the  forehorse  to  a  smock. 
Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry, 
Tiil  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn. 
But  one  to  dance  with.     By  heaven  !   I  'II  steal  away. 

1  Lord.  There  's  honour  in  the  theft. 

Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

2  Lord.  I  am  your  accessary :  and  so  farewell. 
Ber.  I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tortured 

body. 

1  Lord.  Farewell,  captain. 

2  Lord.  Sweet  monsieur  ParoUes  ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are  kin. 
Good  sparks,  and  lustrous,  a  word,  good  metals : — ^you 
shall  find  in  the  regiment  of  the  Spinii,  one  captain 
Spurio,  with  his  cicatrice,  an  emblem  of  war,  here  on 
his  sinister  cheek  :  it  was  this  very  sword  entrenched 
it :  say  to  him,  I  live,  and  observe  his  reports  of  me. 

2  Lord.  We  shall,  noble  captain.         [Exetmt  Lords. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices ! — What  will 
you  do  ? 

Ber.  Stay  ;  the  king —  [Seeing  him  rise. 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the  noble 
lords ;  you  have  restrained  yourself  within  the  lists  of 
too  cold  an  adieu  :  be  more  expressive  to  them  ;  for 
they  wear  themselves  in  the  cap  of  the  time  :  there  do 
muster  true  gait  ;  eat,  speak,  and  move  under  the 
influence  of  the  most  received  star:  and  though  the 
devil  lead  the  measure,  such  are  to  be  followed.  After 
them,  and  take  a  more  dilated  farewell. 

Ber.  And  I  \A-ill  do  so. 

Par.  Worthy  fellows,  and  like  to  prove  most  sinewy 
sword-men.  [Exeunt  Bertram  and  Parolles. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Laf.  Pardon,  my  lord,  for  me  and  for  my  tidings. 

[Kneeling. 

King.  I  '11  see  thee  to  stand  up. 

Lif.  Then  here'  a  man  stands,  that  has  brought  his 
pardon.  [Rising.^ 

I  would,  you  had  kneel'd.  my  lord,  to  ask  me  mercy, 
And  that,  at  my  bidding,  you  could  so  stand  up. 

King,  t  would  I  had ;  so  I  had  broke  thy  pate, 

'  i:«re  's  :  in  f  e.      »  Not  in  f.  e.      '  araiae  :  in  f  e. 


And  ask'd  thee  mercy  for  't. 

Im/.  Goodfaith,  across.    But,  my  good  lord,  't  is  thus 
Will  you  be  cur'd  of  your  infirmity? 

King.  No. 

Laf.  0 !  W1.11  you  eat  no  grapes,  my  royal  fox  ? 
Yes.  but  you  wiil.  ay,  noole  grapes,  an  if 
My  royal  fox  could  reach  them.     I  have  seen 
A  medicine  that 's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone, 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary 
With  spritely  fire  and  motion ;  whose  simple  touch 
Is  powerful  to  upraise^  king  Pepin,  nay. 
To  give  great  Charlemaine  a  pen  in  's  hand, 
To  ^^Tite  to  her  a  love-line. 

King.  What  her  is  this  ? 

Laf.  Why,  doctor  she.   My  lord,  there  's  one  arriv'd, 
If  you  will  see  her  : — now,  b>  my  faith  and  honour, 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one,  that  in  her  sex.  her  years,  profession, 
Wisdom,  and  constancy,  hath  amaz'd  me  more 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness.     Will  you  see  her, 
(For  that  is  her  demand)  and  know  her  business  ? 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bring  in  the  admiration,  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  toe,  or  take  off  thine 
By  wond'ring  how  thou  took'st  it. 

Laf.  Nay,  I' 11  fit  you, 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  [Exit  Lafeu. 

King.  Thus  he  his  special  nothing  ever  prologues. 
Re-enter  Lafeu,  with  Helena. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways. 

Kifig.  This  haste  hath  wings,  indeed. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways. 
This  is  his  majesty,  say  your  mind  to  him: 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like ;  but  such  traitors 
His  majesty  seldom  fears.     I  am  Cressid's  uncle, 
That  dare  leave  two  together.     Fare  you  well.    [Exit. 

King.  Now,  fair  one,  does  your  business  follow  us  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  my  good  lord.     Gerard  de  Narbon  was  my 
father ; 
In  what  he  did  profess  well  found. 

Kins.  1  knew  him. 

Hel.  The  rather  will  I  spare  my  praises  towards  him 
Knowing  him.  is  enough.     On  's  bed  of  death 
]\Iany  receipts  he  gave  me ;  chiefly  one 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  of  his  practice. 
And  of  his  old  experience  th'  only  darling. 
He  bad  me  store  up  as  a  triple  eye, 
Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear.  .  I  have  so : 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touch'd 
With  that  malignant  cause,  wherein  the  honour 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power, 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance. 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure : 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us,  and 
The  congregated  college  have  concluded 
That  labouring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate,  I  say,  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope. 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  empirics ;  or  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A  senseless  help,  when  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

Hel.  My  duty,  then,  shall  pay  me  for  my  pains  • 
I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  office  on  you  ; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 


238 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


A  inoilost  one,  to  bear  me  back  asain. 

King.  I  cannot  give  Ihce  less,  to  be  call'd  grateful. 
Thru  ihouiihtVt  to  help  me.  ami  such  tlianks  1  give 
As  one  near  di-ath  to  those  that  wisli  him  live; 
But  what  at  lull  I  know  thou  know'st  no  part, 
I  knowin;?  all  my  peril,  thou  no  art. 

Hel.  What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy. 
He  that  of  L'reatest  works  is  tinisher, 
Oft  does  them  by  the  woake.<;t  mini.sfer  : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shown. 
When  judges  have  been  babes.    Great  floods  have  flown 
From  simple  sources  :  and  great  seas  have  dried, 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied. 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises:  and  oft  it  hits. 
Where  iiope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  fits.' 

King.  I  must  not  hear  thee :  fare  thee  well,  kind  maid. 
Thy  pains,  not  us'd,  must  by  thyself  be  paid  : 
Protfers,  not  took,  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Hcl.  Inspired  merit  so  by  breath  is  barr"d. 
Ft  is  not  so  with  him  that  all  things  knows, 
As  "t  is  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  sliows  ; 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us.  when 
The  help  of  heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir.  to  my  endeavours  give  consent ; 
Of  heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 
Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim ; 
But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure, 
My  art  is  not  past  power,  nor  you  past  cure. 

King.  Art  thou  so  confident?     Within  what  space 
Hop'st  thou  my  cure  ? 

Hel.  The  greatest  grace  lending  grace, 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fier>'  torcher  his  diurnal  ring ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quench'd  hi.s  sleepy  lamp; 
Or  four  and  twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Hath  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass. 
What  is  infirm  from  your  sound  parts  shall  fly. 
Health  shall  live  free,  and  sickness  freely  die. 

King.  Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence. 
What  dar'si  thou  venture  ? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence, 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  di\Tilged  shame, 
Traduc'd  by  odious  ballads  :  my  maiden's  name 
Sear'd  othcrvWse ;  ne  worse  of  worst  extended. 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended.  [speak, 

King.    Methinks,  in  thee  some  blessed  spirit  doth 
His  powerful  sound  within  an  organ  weak  : 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
In  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way. 
Thy  life  is  dear  ;  for  all,  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life,  in  thee  hath  estimate ; 
^'outh,  beauty,  wisdom,  courage,  honour,'  all 
That  happiness  in*  prime  can  happy  call  : 
Thou  this  to  hazard,  needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrou-s  desperate. 
Sweet  practiser.  thy  physic  I  will  try, 
That  ministers  thine  owti  death,  if  I  die. 

Hel.  If  1  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 
Of  what  I  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die  ; 
And  well  deserv'd.     Not  helping,  death's  my  fee: 
But,  if  I  help,  what  do  you  promise  me? 

King.  Make  thy  demand. 

Hel.  But  will  you  make  it  even  ? 

King    Ay,  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  hopes  of  heaven. 

Hel.  Then  shalt  thou  give  me  with  thy  kingly  hand 

'  Pnj  e  reads  :  sit*.      »  Not  m  f, 


What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command : 
Exempted  be  from  me  the  arrogance 
To  choose  from  forth  the  royal  blood  of  France, 
My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 
With  any  branch  or  image  of  thy  state  : 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

King.  Here  is  my  hand  ;  the  premises  obsorv'J  ; 
Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  .serv'd  : 
So  make  the  choice  of  thy  own  time ,  for  I, 
Thy  resolv'd  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should  I  question  thee,  and  more  I  must, 
Though  more  to  know  could  not  be  more  to  trust, 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  tended  on;  but  rest, 
Unquestion'd  welcome,  and  undoubted  blest. — 
Give  ine  some  help  here,  ho  ! — If  thou  ])roceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess'S' 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir :  I  shall  now  put  you  to  the 
height  of  your  breeding. 

Clo.  I  \\-ill  show  myself  highly  fed,  and  lowly  taught 
I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court !  why,  what  place  make  you 
special,  when  you  put  ofi"  that  -with  such  contempt  ? 
But  to  the  court  ! 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  have  lent  a  man  any 
manners,  he  may  easily  put  it  off  at  court :  he  that 
caimot  make  a  leg,  put  off"'s  cap,  kiss  his  hand,  and 
say  nothing,  has  neither  leg,  hands,  lip,  nor  cap ;  and. 
indeed,  such  a  fellow,  to  say  precisely,  were  not  for  the 
court.  But,  for  me,  I  have  an  answer  will  sers'c  all 
men. 

Count.  Marry,  that 's  a  bountiful  answer,  that  fits 
all  questions. 

Clo.  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair,  that  fits  all  buttocks ; 
the  pin-buttock,  the  quatch-buttock,  the  brawTi-buttock, 
or  any  buttock. 

Count.  Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  questions? 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  of  an  attor- 
ney, as  your  French  crown  for  your  tafiata  punk,  at 
Tib's  niish*  for  Tom's  forefinger,  as  a  pancake  for 
Shrove-Tuesday,  a  morris  for  May-day,  as  the  nail  to 
his  hole,  the  cuckold  to  his  horn,  as  a  scolding  quean 
to  a  WTangling  knave,  as  the  nun's  lip  to  the  friars 
mouth  ;  nay,  as  the  pudding  to  his  skin. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such  fitness 
for  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke,  to  beneath  your  consta- 
ble, it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  an.swer  of  most  monstrous 
size,  that  must  fit  all  demands. 

Clo.  But  a  trifle  neither,  in  good  faith,  if  the  learned 
should  speak  truth  of  it.  Here  it  is,  and  all  that  be- 
longs to 't :  ask  me.  if  I  am  a  counier  ;  it  shall  do  you 
no  harm  to  learn. 

Count.  To  be  young  again,  if  we  could.  I  will  be  a 
fool  in  question,  hoping  to  be  the  wiser  by  your  answer. 
I  pray  vou,  sir.  are  you  a  courtier? 

Clo.  0  Lord,  sir !— there  's  a  simple  putting  off".— 
More,  more,  a  hundred  of  them. 

Count.  Sir,  I  am  a  poor  friend  of  yours,  that  loves 
you. 

Clo.  0  Lord,  sir  !— Thick,  thick,  spare  not  me. 

Count.  I  think,  sir,  you  can  eat  none  of  this  homely 
meat. 


'  and  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  Rush  rings  are  often  spoken  of  as  interchanged  between  ruatio  lover*. 


SOENK  in 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS    WELL. 


239 


Clo.  0  Lord,  sir  ! — Nay,  put  me  to 't,  I  warrant  you. 

Count.  You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  0  Lord,  sir  ! — Spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry,  •'  0  Lord,  sir,"  at  your  whipping, 
and  'spare  not  me?"'  Indeed,  your  "0  Lord,  sir,"  is 
rery  sequent  to  your  whipping  :  you  would  answer  very 
well  to  a  whipping,  if  you  were  but  bound  to't. 

Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  my  life,  in  my — "  0 
Lord,  sir."  I  see,  things  may  serve  long,  but  not  serve 
ever. 

Count.  I  play  the  noble  housewife  with  the  time,  to 
entertain  it  so  merrily  with  a  fool. 

Clo.  0  Lord,  sir  ! — why,  there 't  sers'-es  well  again. 

Count.  An  end,  sir  :  to  your  business.  Give  Helen  this, 
^nd  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back : 
Commend  me  to  my  kinsmen,  and  my  son. 
This  is  not  much. 

Clo.  Not  much  commendation  to  them. 

Covnt.  Not  much  employment  for  you  :  you  under- 
stand me  ? 

Clo.  Most  fruitfully :  I  am  there  before  my  legs. 

Count.  Haste  you  again.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  ni.— Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's 

Palace. 

Enter  Bertram.  Lafeu.  and  Parolles. 

Laf.  They  say,  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have  our 
philo.sophical  persons,  to  make  modern'  and  familiar 
things  supernatural  and  causeless.  Hence  is  it,  that 
we  make  trifles  of  terrors,  ensconcing  ourselves  into 
seeming  knowledge,  when  we  should  submit  ourselves 
to  an  unknowai  fear. 

Par.  Why,  't  is  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder,  that 
hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

Ber.  And  so  'tis. 

Laf.  To  be  relinquished  of  the  artists, — 

Par.  So  I  say ;  both  of  Galen  and  Paracelsus. 

Laf.  Of  all  the  learned  and  authentic  fellows, — 

Par.  Right ;  so  I  say. 

Laf.  That  gave  him  out  incurable, — 

Par.  Why,  there  'tis  ;  so  say  I  too. 

Laf.  Not  to  be  helped, — 

Par.  R  ight ;  as  't  wei-e  a  man  assured  of  an — 

Laf.  Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 

Par.  Just,  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said. 

Laf.  I  may  truly  say,  it  is  a  novelty  to  the  world. 

Par  It  is,  indeed :  if  you  will  have  it  in  showing, 
you  shall  read  it  in. — what  do  you  call  there  ? — 

Laf.  In  showing  of  a  heavenly  eifect  in  an  earthly 
actor 

Par.  That's  it  I  would  have  said ;  the  very  same. 

Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin  is  not  lustier :  'fore  me,  I 
speak  in  respect — 

Par.  Nay,  't  is  strange  ;  't  is  very  strange,  that  is  the 
brief  and  the  tedious  of  it ;  and  he  is  of  a  most  facino- 
ous  spirit,  that  will  not  acknowledge  it  to  be  the — 

Laf.  Very  hand  of  heaven. 

Par.  Ay,  so  I  say. 

Laf.  In  a  most  weak — 

Par.  And  debile  minister,  gi-eat  power,  great  tran- 
scendence ;  which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a  further  use 
to  be  made,  than  alone  the  recovery  of  the  king,  as  to 
be — 

Laf.  Generally  thankful. 

Enter  King,  Helena,  and  Attendants. 

Par.  I  would  have  said  it ;  you  say  well.  Here 
coiQCB  the  king. 

Laf.  Lustick,  as  the  Dutchman  says  :*  I  '11  like  a 

Common.      '  The  word  came  in  use  from  Holland,  about  1600.      '  A  lively  dance.      ♦  sovereign  : 
^om      '  I  had  lost  no  more  teeth.      8  writ :  in  f.  e.      s  Both  aces  ;  an  expression  for  ill  luck. 


maid  the  better,  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my  head. 
Why,  he  's  able  to  lead  her  a  coranto.' 

Par.  Mort  du  vinaigre  !  Is  not  this  Helen? 

Laf.  'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 

King.  Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court. — 
[Exit  an  Attendant 
Sit,  my  preserver,  by  thy  patient's  side  ; 
And  with  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banish'd  sense 
Thou  hast  repeal'd,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  my  promis'd  gift, 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 
Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye :  this  youthful  parcel 
Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  be-stowng, 
O'er  whom  both  sovereign's*  power  and  father's  voice 
I  have  to  use :  thy  frank  election  make. 
Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  forsake. 

Hel.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mistress 
Fall,  when  love  please  ! — marry,  to  each,  but  one.* 

Laf.  I  'd  give  bay  curtal,'  and  his  furniture, 
My  mouth  no  more  were  broken'  than  these  boys'. 
And  with*  as  little  beard. 

King.  Peruse  them  well : 

Not  one  of  those  but  had  a  noble  father. 

Hel.  Gentlemen, 
Heaven  hath  through  me  restor'd  the  king  to  health. 

All.  We  understand  it,  and  thank  heaven  for  you. 

Hel.  I  am  a  simple  maid  ;  and  therein  wealthiest. 
That,  I  protest.  I  simply  am  a  maid. — 
Please  it  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already  : 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
"  We  blush,  that  thou  shouldst  choose ;  but,  be  refus'd 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever  : 
We  '11  ne'er  come  there  again." 

King.  Make  choice,  and  see  ; 

Who  shuns  thy  love,  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

Hel.  Now,  Dian,  from  thy  altar  do  I  fly. 
And  to  imperial  Love,  that  god  most  high, 
Do  my  sighs  steam. — Sir,  will  you  hear  my  suit? 

1  Lord.  And  grant  it. 

Hel.  Thanks,  sir :  all  the  rest  is  mute. 

Laf.  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice,  and  throw  ames 

ace'  for  my  life. 

Hel.  The  honour,  sir.  that  flames  in  your  fair  eyes. 
Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  replies : 
Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 
Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love  ! 

2  Lord.  No  better,  if  you  please. 
Hel.  My  wish  receive. 

Which  great  Love  grant !  and  so  I  take  ray  leave. 

Laf.  Do  all  they  deny  her  ?  An  tliey  were  sons  of 
mine,  I'd  have  them  whipped,  or  I  would  send  them  to 
the  Turk  to  make  eunuclis  of. 

Hel.  [To   3   Lord.]  Be  not  afraid  that  I  your  hand 
should  take  ; 
I  '11  never  do  you  wrong  for  your  own  sake  : 
Blessing  upon  your  vows  !  and  in  your  bed 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed  ! 

Laf.  These  boys  are  boys  of  ice,  they  '11  none  have 
her  :  sure,  they  are  bastards  to  the  English  ;  the  French 
ne'er  got  them. 

Hel.  You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too  good, 
To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 

4  Lord.  Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

Laf.  There  's  one  grape  yet : — I  am  sure,  thy  father 
drank  wine. — But  if  thou  be'st  not  an  ass,  I  am  a  youth 
of  fourteen  :  I  have  known  thee  already.  [I  give 

Hel.  [To  Bertram.]  I  dare  not  say  I  take  you ;  but 

in  f.  e.      *  Eicept  one.      *  A  iockeii 


240 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


ACT  n. 


Me,  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live, 
Fnto  your  guiding  power. — This  is  the  man. 

King.  Why  then,  young  Bertram,  take  her:  she's 
tliy  wile.  [Bertram  draws  back} 

Bcr.  My  wile,  my  liege  ?  I  shall  beseech  your  highness, 
fn  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  oyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

What  she  has  clone  for  me  ? 

Her.  Yes.  my  good  lord  : 

But  never  hope  to  know  why  I  should  inarry  her. 

King.  Thou  know'st,  she  has  rais'd   me  from  my 
sickly  bed. 

Her.  But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  do-wTi 
Must  answer  for  your  raising  ?     I  know  her  well  : 
yhe  had  her  breeding  at  my  lather's  charge. 
A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife  ? — Disdain 
Rather  corrupt  me  ever  ! 

King.  'T  is  only  title  thou  disdain'st  in  her.  the  which 
I  can  build  up.     Strange  is  it,  that  our  bloods. 
Of  colour,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together, 
Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  off 
In  differences  so  mighty.     If  she  be 
All  that  is  -s-irtuous,  (save  what  thou  disiik'st, 
A  poor  physician's  daughter)  thou  disiik'st 
Of  virtue  for  the  name ;  but  do  not  so  : 
From  lowest  place  when  virtuous  things  proceed, 
The  place  is  dignified  by  the  doer's  deed : 
Where  great  additions  swell 's,*  and  virtue  none, 
It  is  a  drop.sied  honour:  good  alone 
Is  good,  without  a  name:  \Tleness  is  so  : 
The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go, 
Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair; 
In  these  to  nature  she  's  immediate  heir. 
And  these  breed  honour  :  that  is  honour's  scorn. 
Which  challenges  itself  as  honour's  bom. 
And  is  not  like  the  sire :  honours  thrive. 
When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive. 
Than  our  foregoers.     The  mere  word  's  a  slave, 
Debauch'd  on  every  tomb  ;  on  every  grave. 
A  h-ing  trophy,  and  as  oft  is  dumb. 
Where  dust,  and  damn'd  oblivion,  is  the  tomb 
Of  honour'd  bones  indeed.     What  should  be  said? 
If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid, 
I  can  create  the  rest.     Virtue,  and  she 
Is  her  own  dower ;  honour,  and  wealth  from  me. 

Ber.  I  cannot  love  her,  nor  -wnll  strive  to  do  't. 

King.   Thou  wTong'-st  thyself,  if  thou  shouldst  strive 
to  choose. 

Hel.  That  you  are  well  restor'd.  my  lord.  I  am  glad. 
Let  the  rest  go. 

King.  My  honour  's  at  the  stake,  which  to  defend.' 
I  must  produce  my  power.     Here,  take  her  hand. 
Proud  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  git't. 
That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 
My  love,  and  her  de.sert  :  that  canst  not  dream, 
We.  poising  us  in  her  defective  scale, 
Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam  ;  that  ■wilt  not  know. 
It  is  in  us  to  plant  thine  honour,  where 
We  please  to  have  it  grow.     Check  thy  contempt : 
Obey  our  \\i\\.  which  travails  in  thy  good  : 
Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently 
Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedimt  right. 
Which  both  thy  duty  owes,  and  our  power  claims. 
Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  for  ever 
Into  the  staggers,  and  the  careless  lapse 
Of  youth  and  ignorance  :  both  my  revenge  and  hate. 
Loosing  upon  thee  in  the  name  of  justice, 
Without  all  terms  of  pity.     Speak  :  thine  answer. 


Ber.  Pardon,  my  gracious  lord,  for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes.     When  I  consider 
What  great  creation,  and  what  dole  of  honour, 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find  that  she,  which  laie 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  prai.sed  of  the  king;  who,  so  ennobled, 
Is,  as  't  were,  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand. 

And  tell  her,  she  is  thine;  to  whom  I  promise 
A  counterpoise,  if  not  to  thy  estate, 
A  balance  more  replete. 

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.  Good  fortime,  and  the  favour  of  the  king, 
Sinilc  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now  born*  brief. 
And  be  perform'd  to-night :  the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space, 
Expecting  absent  friends.     As  thou  lov'st  her, 
Thy  love  's  to  me  religious,  else,  does  err. 

[Exevnt  King,  Bertram.  Helena,  Lords,  ow 
Attendants. 

Laf.  Do  you  hear,  monsieur?  a  word  with  you. 

Par.  Your  plea.sure,  sir? 

Laf.  Your  lord  and  ma.ster  did  well  to  make  his  re- 
cantation. 

Par.  Recantation  ! — My  lord?  my  master? 

Laf.  Ay ;  is  it  not  a  language  I  speak  ? 

Par.  A  most  harsh  one.  and  not  to  be  understood 
without  bloody  succeeding.     My  master? 

Laf.  Are  you  companion  to  the  Count  Rousillon  ? 

Par.  To  any  count ;  to  all  counts  :  to  what  is  man 

Laf.  To  what  is  count's  man  :  count's  master  is  of 
another  style. 

Par.  You  are  too  old,  sir :  let  it  satisfy  you,  you  are 
too  old. 

Laf.  I  must  tell  thee,  sirrah,  I  -write  man;  to  which 
title  age  cannot  bring  thee. 

Par.  What  I  dare  too  well  do,  I  dare  not  do. 

Laf.  I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries,*  to  be  a 
pretty  wise  fellow :  thou  didst  make  tolerable  vent  of 
thy  travel :  it  might  pass  :  yet  the  scarfs,  and  the  ban- 
nerets about  thee,  did  manifoldly  dissuade  me  from 
believing  thee  a  vessel  of  too  great  a  burden.  I  have. 
now  found  thee :  when  I  lose  thee  again,  I  care  not : 
yet  art  thou  good  for  nothing  but  taking  up,  and  that 
thou  'rt  scarce  worth. 

Par.  Hadst  thou  not  the  privilege  of  antiquity  upon 
thee. — 

Laf.  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger,  lest  thou 
hasten  thy  trial ;  which  if — Lord  have  mercy  on  thee 
tor  a  hen  !  So,  my  good  window  of  lattice,  fare  thee 
well :  thy  casement  I  need  not  open,  for  I  look  through 
thee.     Give  me  thy  hand. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious  indignity. 

Laf.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart:  and  thou  art  (sorthy 
of  it. 

Par.  I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserved  it. 

Laf.  Yes,  good  faith,  every  drachm  of  it :  and  I  will 
not  bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.  Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

Laf.  E'en  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast  to  pull 
at  a  smack  o'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou  be'st  bound 
in  thy  scarf,  and  beaten,  thou  shalt  find  what  it  is  to 
be  proud  of  thy  bondage.  I  have  a  desire  to  hold  my 
acquaintance  with  thee,  or  rather  my  knowledge,  that 
I  may  say,  in  the  default,  he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable  vexa- 
tion. 

Laf  I  would  it  were  hellpaiuB  for  thysakc.  and  my 


Not  in  f.  e.      *  rtrell  n«.      »  defeat :  in  f.  e.      ♦  Tlie  old  copies  :  borne.     *  Dining  in  your  company  twice 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


241 


poor  doing  eternal :  for  doing  I  am  past,  as  I  will  by 
thee,  in  what  motion  age  will  give  me  leave.  [Exit. 
Par.  Well,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this  disgrace 
off  me,  scurvy,  old,  filthy,  scurvy  lord  ! — Well  I  must 
be  patient;  there  is  no  fettering  of  authority.  I  '11  beat 
hira,  by  my  life,  if  I  can  meet  him  with  any  conve- 
nience, an  he  were  double  and  double  a  lord.  I  '11  have 
no  more  pity  of  his  age,  than  I  would  have  of — I  '11  beat 
him :  an  if  I  could  but  meet  him  again. 

Re-enter  Lafeu. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master  's  married  :  there  's 
news  for  you  :  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  I  most  uufeignedly  beseech  your  lordship  to 
make  some  reservation  of  your  wrongs :  he  is  my  good 
lord ;  whom  I  serve  above  is  my  master. 

Laf.  Who?  God? 

Par.  Ay,  sir. 

Laf.  The  devil  it  is,  that 's  thy  master.  Why  dost 
thou  garter  up  thy  arms  o'  this  fashion?  dost  make  hose 
of  thy  sleeves  ?  do  other  servants  so  ?  Thou  wert  best 
pet  tliy  lower  part  where  thy  nose  stands.  By  mine 
honour,  if  I  were  but  two  hours  younger  I  'd  beat  thee  : 
methinks,  thou  art  a  general  offence,  and  every  man 
should  beat  thee.  I  think,  thou  wast  created  for  men 
to  breathe  themselves  upon  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my  lord. 

Laf.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for  picking 
a  kernel  out  of  a  pomegranate  :  you  are  a  vagabond, 
and  no  true  traveller.  You  are  more  saucy  with  lords 
and  honourable  personages,  than  the  condition*  of  your 
birth  and  virtue  giv^s  you  heraldiy.  You  are  not 
worth  another  word,  else  I  'd  call  you  knave.  I  leave 
you.  [Exit. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then : — good,  very 
good.     Let  it  be  concealed  a  while. 

Ber.  Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  for  ever  ! 

Par.  What  is  the  matter,  sweetheart  ? 

Ber.  Although  before  the  solemn  priest  I  have  swors, 
I  will  not  bed  her. 

Par.  What  ?  what,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.  0,  my  ParoUes,  they  have  married  me  ! 
I  '11  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 

Par.  France  is  a  dog-hole,  and  it  no  more  merits 
The  tread  of  a  man's  foot.     To  the  wars  ! 

Ber.  There  's  letters  from  my  mother :  what  the  im- 
port is, 
I  know  not  yet. 

Par.  Ay,  that  would  be  known.     To  the  wars,  my 
boy !  to  the  wars  ! 
.       He  wears  his  honour  in  a  box,  unseen, 
I      That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy  here  at  home, 
j      Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms. 

Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed.     To  other  regions  ! 
France  is  a  stable  ;  we.  that  dwell  in  't,  jades ; 
Therefore,  to  the  wars  ! 

Ber.  It  shall  be  so :  I  '11  send  her  to  my  house, 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her, 
)      And  wherefore  I  am  fled ;  write  to  the  king 
j      That  which  I  durst  not  speak.     His  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields. 
Where  noble  fellows  strike.     War  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house,  and  the  detested  wife. 

Pit.  Will  this  capriccio  hold  in  thee,  art  sure? 

Ber.  Go  with  me  to  my  chamber,  and  advise  me. 
I  'II  send  her  straight  away :  to-morrow 
l  'II  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 


Par.  Why,  these  balls  bound,  there's  noise  in  it; 
't  is  hard. 
A  young  man  married  is  a  man  that 's  marr'd  : 
Therefore  away,  and  leave  her  :  bravely  go  ; 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong ;  but,  hush  !  't  is  so. 

[Exetmt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  Same.   Another  Room  in  the  Same 
Enter  Helena  and  Clown. 

Hel.  My  mother  greets  me  kindly:  is  she  well? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well ;  but  yet  she  has  her  health : 
she  's  very  merry ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well :  but  thank.- 
be  given,  she  's  very  well,  and  wants  nothing  i'  the 
world  ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well. 

Hel.  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail,  that  she  's 
not  very  well  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  she  's  very  well  indeed,  but  for  two  things. 

Hel.  What  two  things  ? 

Clo.  One,  that  she  's  not  in  heaven,  whither  God 
send  her  quickly  !  the  other,  that  she  's  in  earth,  from 
whence  God  send  her  quickly  ! 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Bless  you,  my  fortunate  lady ! 

Hel.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have  mine 
own  good  fortunes. 

Par.  You  had  my  prayers  to  lead  them  on ;  and  to 
keep  them  on,  have  them  still. — 0,  my  knave  !  How 
does  my  old  lady  ? 

Clo.  So  that  you  had  her  wTinkles,  and  I  her  money, 
I  would  slfe  did  as  you  say. 

Par.  Why,  I  say  nothing. 

Clo.  Marr}',  you  are  the  wiser  man :  for  many  a 
man's  tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing.  To  say 
nothing,  to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing,  and  to  have 
nothing,  is  to  be  a  great  part  of  your  title,  which  is 
within  a  very  little  of  nothing. 

Par.  Away  !  thou  'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  sai-d,  sir,  before  a  knave  thou  'rt 
a  knave ;  that  is,  before  me  thou  'rt  a  knave :  this  had 
been  truth,  sir. 

Par.  Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool :  I  have  found  thee. 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir,  or  were  you 
taught  to  find  me  ? 

Par.  Go  to,  I  say :  I  have  found  thee :  no  more ;  I 
found  thee,  a  witty  fool.' 

Clo.  The  search,  sir,  was  profitable ;  and  much  fool 
may  you  find  in  you,  even  to  the  world's  pleasure,  and 
the  increase  of  laughter. 

Par.  A  good  knave,  i'  faith,  and  well  fed. — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night ; 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  and  rite  of  love. 
Which  as  your  due  time  claims,  he  does  acknowledge, 
But  puts  it  off  to'  a  compell'd  restraint ; 
Whose  want,  and  whose  delay,  is  strew'd  with  sweet*, 
Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'erflow  with  joy, 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

Hel.  What 's  his  will  else? 

Par.  That  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  o'  the  king, 
And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding, 
Strengthen'd  with  what  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need. 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he  ? 

Par.  That  having  this  obtain'd,  you  presently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hel.  In  every  thing  I  wait  upon  his  will. 

Par.  I  shall  report  it  so. 

Hel.  I  pray  you. — Come,  sirrah.  [Exeunt 


'  ociiuii's«ion  :  in  f.  e. 

Q 


»  This  speech  is  not  in  f.  e.      '  Owing  to. 


242 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


Acrr  III. 


SCENE  v.— Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
E7iter  Lafeu  and  Bertram. 

Laf  But,  I  hope,  your  lordship  thinks  not  him  a 
so.dier. 

Ber.  Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  approof. 

Laf.  You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.  And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true.  I  took  this  lark 
for  a  bunting. 

Ber.  I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  he  is  very  great  in 
knowledge,  and  accordingly  valiant. 

Laf.  I  liave  then  sinned  against  his  experience,  and 
f.;-an.-;ure.ssed  against  his  valour;  and  my  state  that  way 
IS  dangerous,  since  I  cannot  yet  find  in  my  heart  to 
repent.  Here  he  comes.  I  pray  you,  make  us  friends: 
I  will  pursue  the  amity. 

Enter  Paroli.ks. 

Par.  [To  Bertram  ]  These  things  shall  be  done,  sir. 

Laf.  Prav  you,  sir,  who  's  his  tailor  ? 

Par.  Sir? 

Laf.  01  I  know  him  well.  Ay,  sir;  he,  sir,  is  a 
good  workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.  [A.side  to  Parolles.]  Is  she  gone  to  the  king? 

Par.  She  is. 

Ber.  Will  she  away  to-night  ? 

Par.  As  you  '11  have  her. 

Ber.  I  have  writ  my  letters,  casketed  my  treasure, 
Given  order  for  our  horses  ;  and  to-night, 
When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, 
End',  ere  I  do  begin. 

Laf.  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the  latter  end 
of  a  dinner :  but  one  that  lies  three-thirds  and  uses  a 
known  truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings  with,  should 
be  once  heard,  and  thrice  beaten. — God  save  you, 
captain. 

Ber.  Is  there  any  unkindness  between  my  lord  and 
jrou.  monsieur? 

Pur.  I  know  not  how  I  have  deserved  to  run  into  my 
lords  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  run  into  't,  boots  and 
spurs  and  all,  like  him  that  leaped  into  the  custard,* 
and  out  of  it  you  '11  run  again,  rather  than  suffer  ques- 
tion for  your  residence. 

Ber.  It  may  be.  you  have  mistaken  him,  my  lord. 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at  his 
prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord  ;  and  believe  this  of 
me,  there  can  be  no  kernel  in  this  light  nut;  the  soul 
of  this  man  is  his  clothes  :  trust  him  not  in  matter  of 
heavy  consequence;  I  have  kept  of  them  tame,  and 
Imow  their  natures. — Farewell,  monsieur :  I  have 
«poken  better  of  you,  than  you  have  or  will  deserve  at 
my  hand  :  but  we  must  do  good  against  evil.       [Exit. 

Par.  An  idle  lord.  I  swear. 


Ber.  I  think  bo. 

Par.  Why.  do  you  not  know  him  ? 
Ber.  Yes,  I  do  know  him  well ;  and  common  speech 
Gives  him  a  worthy  pass.     Here  comes  my  clog. 
Enter  Helena. 
Hel  I  have,  sir,  as  I  was  commanded  from  you, 
Spoke  with  the  king,  and  have  procur'd  his  leave 
For  present  parting ;  only  he  desires 
Some  private  speech  with  you. 

Ber.  I  shall  obey  his  wiU. 

I  You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course, 
i  Which  holds  not  colour  with  the  time,  nor  does 
The  ministration  and  required  office 
^  On  my  particular :  prepar'd  I  was  not 
,  For  such  a  business:  therefore  am  I  foimd 
I  So  much  unsettled.     This  drives  me  to  entreat  yotL 
That  presently  you  take  your  way  for  home  ; 
I  And  rather  muse  than  ask  why  I  entreat  you, 
For  my  respects  are  better  than  they  seem  ; 
I  And  my  appointments  have  in  them  a  need, 
Greater  than  shows  itself,  at  the  first  view. 
To  you  that  know  them  not.     This  to  my  mother. 
I  [  Giving  a  letter. 

'T  will  be  two  days  ere  I  shall  see  you  :  so, 
I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 

Hcl.  Sir,  I  can  nothing  say, 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 
Ber.  Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 
Hel.  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that, 
Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  fail'd 
To  equal  my  great  fortune. 

Ber.  Let  that  go  : 

My  haste  is  very  great.     Farewell :  hie  home. 
Hel.  Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Ber.  Well,  what  would  you  say? 

Hel.  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe;' 
Nor  dare  I  say,  't  is  mine,  and  yet  it  is, 
But,  like  a  timorous  thief,  most  fain  would  steal 
What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Ber.  What  would  you  have  ? 

Hel.    Something,    and    scarce    so    much : — nothing, 
indeed. — 
1  would  not  tell  you  what  I  would,  my  lord — 'faith, 

yes  ; — 
Strangers  and  foes  do  sunder,  and  not  kiss. 

Ber.  I  pray  you  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to  horse. 
Hel.  I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good  my  lord. 
Where  are  my  other  men?  monsieur,  farewell.*  [Exit. 
Ber.  Go  thou  toward  home ;  where  I  will  never  come, 
Whilst  I  can  shake  my  sword,  or  hear  the  drum. — 
Away  !   and  for  our  flight. 

Par.  Bravely,  coragio  !   [  Exettnt. 


ACT    Til. 


SCENE  I.— Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's 

Palace. 
Flourish.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  attended ; 

two  Frenchmen  and  Soldiers. 
Duke.  So  that,  from  point  to  point,  now  have  you 
heard 
The  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war. 


Whose  great  decision  hath  much  blood  let  forth. 
And  more  thirsts  after. 

1  Lord.  Holy  seems  the  quarrel. 

Upon  your  grace's  part ;  black  and  fearful 
On  the  opposer. 

Jhike.  Therefore  we  marvel  much  our  cousin  France 
Would,  in  80  ju.st  a  business,  shut  his  bo.som 
Against  our  borrowing  prayers. 


f.  e.  :  And.     The  change  ia  also  founH  in  Lord  F.  Eperton's  MS.  annotated  copy  of  the  first  folio.      *  A  frequent  exploit  of  the  lodl  ol 
lat  entPTtaiDiientf      A  custard  was  a  dish  in  ^aat  request,  and  therefore  large       '  Own.      ♦  MoJ.  eds.  give  this  line  U>  Btrtram 


flCElfE   II. 


ALL'S    WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL 


243 


Fr.  Env.  Good,  my  lord, 

The  reasons  of  our  sta^e  I  cannot  yield, 
But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man, 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion  :  therefore,  dare  not 
Say  what  1  think  of  it,  since  I  have  found 
Myself  in  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 
As  often  as  I  guess'd. 

iJuke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

Fr.  Gent.  But  I  am  sure,  the  younger  of  our  nature, 
That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will  day  by  day 
Come  here  for  physic. 

Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be, 

And  all  the  honours  that  can  fly  from  us 
Shall  on  them  settle.     You  know  your  places  well ; 
When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell. 
To-morrow-  to  the  field.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Filter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  It  hath  happened  all  as  I  would  have  had  it, 
save  that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  take  my  young  lord  to  be  a 
very  melancholy  man. 

Count.  By  what  observance,  I  pray  you? 

Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot,  and  sing  ; 
mend  his  ruff',  and  sing;  ask  questions,  and  sing;  pick 
liis  teeth,  and  sing.  I  know  a  man  that  had  this  trick 
of  melancholy^  soW  a  goodly  manor  for  a  song. 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he 
means  to  come.  [Opening  a  letter. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbel,  since  I  was  at  court. 
Our  old  ling  and  our  Isbels  o'  the  country  are  nothing 
like  your  old  ling  and  your  Isbels  o'  the  court;  the 
Drains  of  my  Cupid  's  knocked  out,  and  I  begin  to 
love,  as  an  old  man  loves  money,  with  no  stomach. 

Count.  What  have  we  here  ? 

Clo.  E'en  tliat  you  have  there.  [Exit. 

Count.  [Reads.]   "  I  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in-law: 
.Mie  hath  recovered  the  k-ing,  and  undone  me.     I  have 
wedded  her,  not  bedded  her ;  and  sworn  to  make  the 
not  eternal.     You  shall  hear,  I  am  run  away:  know  it 
before  the  report  come.    If  there  be  breadth  enough  in 
the  world,  I  will  hold  a  long  distance.  My  duty  to  you. 
"  Your  unfortunate  son, 
'■  Bertram." 
This  is  not  well :  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 
To  fly  the  favours  of  so  good  a  king ! 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head, 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid,  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire  i 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam  !  yonder  is  heavy  news  within,  be- 
tween two  soldiers  and  my  young  lady. 

Count.  What  is  the  matter? 

Clo.  Nay,  there  is  .some  comfort  in  the  news,  some 
eomfort:  your  son  will  not  be  killed  so  soon  as  I 
thought  he  would. 

Count.  Why  should  he  be  killed  ? 

Clo.  So  say  I,  madam,  if  he  run  away,  as  I  hear  he 
does  :  the  danger  is  in  standing  to  't ;  that 's  the  loss  of 
men.  thouiili  it  be  the  getting  of  children.  Here  they 
wme  will  tell  you  more  ;  for  my  part,  I  only  hear  your 
Lon  Avas  run  away.  [Exit  Clown. 

Enter  Helena  and  two  French  Gentlemen. 

Fr.  Env.  Save  you,  good  madam. 

Hel.  Madam,  my  lord  is  gone  ;  for  ever  gone. 

•  The  top  of  the  loose  boot  which  turne'"  over  was  called  the  ruff, 
->   g  as  tKe  tenure  by  which  it  wat  held.      ^  are  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  holds  ; 


Fr.  Gen.  Do  not  say  so. 

Count    Think   upon   patienct  — "Pray  you,   gentle- 
men, — 
I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief. 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start. 
Can  woman  me  unto  't : — where  is  my  son,  I  pray  you? 

Fr.  Gen.  Madam,  he  's  gone  to  serve  the  duke  of 
Florence : 
We  met  him  thitherward ;  for  thence  we  came, 
And,  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court, 
Thither  we  bend  again. 

Hel.  Look  on  his  letter,  madam :   here  's  my  pass- 
port. 

[Reads.]  "  When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my 
finger,  which  never  sliall  come  off",  and  show  me 
a  child  begotten  of  thy  body,  that  I  am  father 
to,  then  call  me  husband  :  but  in  such  a  then  1 
write  a  never  J^ 
This  is  a  dreadtul  sentence. 

Count.  Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen  ? 

Fr.  Env.  Ay,  madam, 

And  for  the  contents'  sake,  are  sorry  for  our  pains. 

Count.  I  pr'ythee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer  ; 
If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  as'  thine, 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety.     He  was  my  son, 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood. 
And  thou  art  all  my  child. — Towards  Florence  is  he' 

Fr.  Gen.  Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier  ? 

Fr.  Gen.  Such  is  his  noble  purpose  :  and,  believe  't, 
The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honour 
That  good  convenience  claims. 

Count.  Return  you  thither? 

Fr.  Env.  Ay,  madam,  with   the  s\viftest  wing  of 
speed. 

Hel.   [Reads.]   "  Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothmg 
in  France." 
'T  is  bitter. 

Count.  Find  you  that  there  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam. 

Fr.  Env.  'T  is  but  the  boldness  of  his  hand,  haply, 
Which  his  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

Count.  Nothing  in  France,  until  he  have  no  wife ! 
There  's  nothing  here  that  is  too  good  for  him, 
But  only  she  ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord, 
That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon, 
And  call  her  hourly  mistress.     Who  was  with  him? 

Fr.  Env.  A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  some  time  kno-wn. 

Courtt.  Parolles,  was  it  not  ? 

Fr.  Env.  Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count    A  verj   tainted  fellow,  and  full  of  wicked- 
ness. 
My  son  corrupts  a  well-derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

Fr.  Env.  Indeed,  good  lady. 

The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that  too  much, 
Which  'hoves*  him  much  to  leave.* 

Count.  Y'  are  welcome,  gentlemen. 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son. 
To  tell  him,  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honour  that  he  loses  :  more  I  'U  entreat  you 
Written  to  bear  along. 

Fr.  Gen.  We  serve  you,  madam, 

In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  aff"airs. 
I      Count.  Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  courtefiies. 
I  Will  you  draw  near  ? 
1  [Exeunt  Countess  and  French  Gentlemen. 

or  ruffle,      s  Old  copies  :  hoU  ;  which  Knight  retains,  understandin?  a 
in  f.  e.      5  have  :  in  f.  e. 


244 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS    V^ELL. 


ACT   LL 


Hel.  "  Till  I  have  uo  wile,  I  iuive  nothing  in  France." 
Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 
Thou  shall  have  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France ; 
Then  hast  tliou  all  again.     Poor  lord  !  is  't  I 
That  cha.>^e  thee  tVoni  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  non-sparing  war  ?  and  is  il  I 
That  drive  thee  tVom  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 
Was  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets  '     0  !  ^lOU  leaden  messengers, 
That  ride  upon  the  volant'  speed  of  fire, 
Fly  with  false  aim  ;  wound''  the  still-piercing'  air 
Tiiat  sings  with  piereing,  do  not  touch  my  lord  ! 
Whoever  shoot.s  at  hun.  I  set  him  there; 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to  it; 
And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected.     Better  't  were, 
F  met  the  ravening*  lion  when  he  roar'd 
With  sharp  con.straint  of  hunger;  better  'twere 
That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes 
Were  mine  at  once.     No,  come  thou  home,  Rousillon, 
Whence  honour  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar, 
As  oft  it  loses  all  :  I  will  be  gone. 
My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence  : 
Shall  I  stay  here  to  do  ■  t  ?  no,  no,  although 
The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 
And  angels  oflic"d  all :  I  will  be  gone. 
That  pitiful  rumour  may  report  iny  flight. 
To  consolate  thine  ear.     Come,  night  :  end,  day ; 
For  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I  '11  steal  away.     [Exit. 

SCENE   III.— Florence.      Before  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  Bertram, 
Paroi.les,  Lords,  Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Duke.  The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art;  and  we. 
Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence 
Upon  thy  promising  fortune. 

Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength ;  but  yet 
We  '11  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake, 
To  th'  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Dtike.  Then  go  thou  forth. 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm, 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress  ! 

Ber.  This  very  day, 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file : 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  her  Steward. 

Count.  Alas  !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of  her  ? 
Might  you  not  know,  she  would  do  as  she  has  done, 
''y  sending  me  a  letter?     Read  it  again. 

Stew.  [Reads.]  "I  am  Saint  Jaques'  pilgrim,  thither 
gone. 
■    Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended. 
That  bare-foot  plod  I  tlie  cold  ground  upon, 

With  sainted  vow  my  faults  to  have  amended. 
Write,  write,  that  from  the  bloody  course  of  war, 

My  dearest  master,  your  dear  son.  may  hie: 
Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  far 

His  name  with  zealous  ferv'our  sanctify. 
His  taken  labours  bid  him  me  forgive  : 

I,  his  despiteful  Juno,  sent  him  forth 
From  courtly  friends,  with  camping  foes  to  live. 

Where  death  and  danger  dog  the  heels  of  worth  : 


Tialcnt :  in  f.  e. 


f.  e.      '  »till-;)eering  :  in  f.  •.     ♦  ravin  :  ia  f. 


He  is  too  good  and  fair  for  death  and  me, 
Whom  I  my.sclf  embrace,  to  set  him  free." 

Count.  Ah,  what  sharp  stings   are   in  her  luildesi 
words  ! — 
Rinaldo,  you  did  never  lack  ad\'ice  so  much, 
As  kiting  her  pass  so :  had  I  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents, 
Which  thus  she  hath  pre'-^ntcd. 

Stiw.  Pardon  me,  madam  : 

If  I  had  given  you  th:.^  at  over-night. 
She  might  have  been  o'erta'en  ;  and  yet  she  writes, 
Pursuit  would  be  but  vain. 

Count.  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband  ?  he  cannot  thrive, 
Unless  her  jirayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear, 
And  loves  1o  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wTath 
Of  greatest  justice. — Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife  : 
Let  every  word  weigh  hcaA-y  of  her  worth, 
That  he  does  weigh  too  light:  my  greatest  grie^ 
Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  s^t  down  sharply. 
Despatch  the  most  convenient  messenger. — 
When,  haply,  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone. 
He  will  return  :  and  hope  I  may,  that  she, 
Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again. 
Led  hither  by  pure  love.     Which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me,  I  have  no  .skill  or*  sense 
To  make  distinction. — Provide  this  messenger. — 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  mine  age  is  weak ; 
Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me  speak. 

[Exeurit. 

SCENE  v.— Withoitt  the  Walls  of  Florence. 

A  tucket*  afar  off.     Enter  an  old  Widots  of  Florence, 

Diana,  Violenta,  Mariana,  and  other  Citizens. 

Wid.  Nay,  come ;  for  if  they  do  approach  the  city 
we  shall  lose  all  the  sight. 

Dia.  They  say.  the  French  count  has  done  most 
honourable  service. 

Tr«/.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  taken  their  greatest 
commander,  and  that  with  his  own  hand  he  slew  the 
Duke's  brother.  We  have  lost  our  labour;  they  are 
gone  a  contrary  way :  hark !  you  may  know  by  their 
trumpets. 

Mar.  Come  :  let 's  return  again,  and  suffice  our- 
selves with  the  report  of  it.  Well,  Diana,  take  heed  of 
this  French  earl :  the  honour  of  a  maid  is  her  name, 
and  no  legacy  is  so  rich  as  honesty. 

Wid.  I  have  told  my  neighbour,  how  you  have  been 
solicited  by  a  gentleman  his  companion. 

Mar.  I  know  that  knave  ;  hang  him  !  one  ParoUes: 
a  filthy  officer  he  is  in  those  suggestions'  for  the  young 
earl. — Beware  of  them.  Diana  ;  their  promises,  entice- 
ments, oaths,  tokens,  and  all  these  engines  of  lust,  are 
not  the  things  they  go  under:  many  a  maid  hath  been 
seduced  by  them  ;  and  the  misery  is,  example,  that  .so 
terrible  shows  in  the  wreck  of  maidenhood,  cannot  for 
all  that  dissuade  succession,  but  that  they  are  limed 
with  the  twigs  that  threaten  them.  I  hope,  I  need  not 
to  advise  you  further  ;  but  I  hope,  your  own  grace  will 
keep  you  where  you  are,  though  there  were  no  farthoi 
danger  known,  but  the  modesty  which  is  so  lost. 

Dia.  You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Enter  Helena  in  the  dress  of  a  Pilgrim. 

Wid.  I  hope  so. — Look,  here  comes  a  pilgrim  :  1 
know  she  will  lie  at  my  house ;  thither  they  send  one 
another. 

I'll  question  her. — God  save  you,  pilgrim  ! 
Whither  arc  you  bound? 

n  :  in  f.  6.      •  Flourigh  of  a,  trumpet.      '  TemptatiBM 


fl    tNE   VI. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


215 


^fel.  To  Saint  Jaques  le  Grand. 

V  'lere  do  the  palmers  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you  ? 

tVid.  At  the  Saint  Francis  here,  beside  the  port. 

Hel.  Is  this  the  way  ? 

Wid.  Ay,  marry,  is  't. — Hark  you  !  [A  march  afar  off. 
They  come  this  way. — 
If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pilgrim, 
But  till  the  troops  come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodg'd ; 
The  rather,  for  I  think  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.  If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

Hd.  I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Wid.  You  came,  I  think,  from  France  ? 

Hel.  '  I  did  so. 

Wid.  Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman  of  yours, 
That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you. 

Bia.  The  count  Rousillon:  know  you  such  a  one? 

Hel.  But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most  nobly  of  him : 
His  face  I  know  not. 

Dia.  Whatsoe'er  he  is. 

He  's  bravely  taken  here.     He  stole  from  France, 
As  't  is  reported,  for  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking.     Think  you  it  is  so  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth :  I  know  his  lady. 

Bia.  There  is  a  gentleman,  that  serves  the  count, 
Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 

Hel.  What's  his  name  ? 

Bia.  Monsieur  ParoUes. 

Hel.  0  !  I  believe  witli  him. 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated  :  all  her  deser\'ing 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examin'd. 

Bia.  Alas,  poor  lady ! 

'T  is  a  hard  bondage,  to  become  the  wife 
Of  a  detesting  lord. 

Wid.  I  write'  good  creature :  wheresoe'er  she  is. 
Her  heart  weighs  sadly.    This  young  maid  might  do  her 
A  shrewd  turn,  if  she  pleas'd. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean? 

May  be,  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed ; 

And  brokes  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honour  of  a  maid  : 
But  she  is  arm'd  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard, 
In  honestest  defence. 

E,rder  with  drum  and  colours,  a  party  of  the  Florentine 
army,  Bertram,  and  Parolles. 

Mar.  The  gods  forbid  else  ! 
Wid.  So,  now  they  come. — 

That  is  Antonio,  the  Duke's  eldest  son; 
That,  Escalus. 

Hel  Which  is  the  Frenchman  ? 

Bia.  He ; 

That  with  the  plume :  't  is  a  most  gallant  fellow ; 
I  would  he  lov'd  his  wife.     If  he  were  honester, 
He  were  much  goodlier ;  is 't  not  a  handsome  gentleman? 

Hel.  I  like  him  well. 

Bia    'T  is  pity,  he  is  not  honest.     Yond  's  that  same 
knave. 
That  leads  him  to  these  places :  were  I  his  lady, 
I  would  poison  that  vile  rasoal. 

Hel.  Which  is  he  ! 


Bia.  That  jackanapes  with  scarfs.  Why  is  he  ra& 
lancholy  ? 

Hel.  Perchance  he  's  hurt  i'  the  battle. 

Par.  Lose  our  drum  !  well. 

Mar.  He's  shrewdly  vexed  at  something.  Look,  hp 
has  spied  us. 

Wid.  Marry,  hang  you  ! 

Mar.  And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier  ! 

[Exeunt  BERTR.iM,  Parolles,  Officers,  and  Soldiers 

Wid.  The  troop  is  past.     Come,  pilgrim,  I  will  brin 
you 
Where  you  shall  host :  of  enjoin'd  penitents 
There  's  four  or  five,  to  great  saint  Jaques  bound. 
Already  at  my  house. 

Hel.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

Please  it  this  matron,  and  this  gentle  maid, 
To  eat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge  and  thanking 
Shall  be  for  me ;  and,  to  requite  you  farther, 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  of*  this  virgin. 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We  '11  take  your  offer  kindly.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  VI.— Camp  before  Florence. 
E7iter  Bertram,  and  the  two  Frenchmen. 

Fr.  Env.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  put  him  to  't :  let  him 
have  his  way. 

Fr.  Gent.  If  your  lordship  find  him  not  a  hilding,' 
hold  me  no  more  in  your  respect. 

Fr.  Env.  On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 

Ber.  Do  you  think  I  am  so  far  deceived  in  him  ? 

Fr.  Env.  Believe  it,  my  lord :  in  mine  own  direct 
knowledge,  without  any  malice,  but  to  speak  of  him  as 
my  kinsman,  he  's  a  most  notable  coward,  an  infinite 
and  endless  liar,  an  hourly  promise-breaker,  the  owner 
of  no  one  good  quality,  worthy  your  lordship's  enter- 
tainment. 

Fr.  Gent.  It  were  fit  you  knew  him,  lest  reposing 
too  far  in  his  virtue,  which  he  hath  not,  he  might,  at 
some  great  and  trusty  business  in  a  main  danger,  fail 
you. 

Ber.  I  would  I  knew  in  what  particular  action  to 
try  him. 

Fr.  Gent.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his 
drum,  which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  undertake 
to  do. 

Fr.  Env.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will  sud- 
denly surprise  him  :  such  I  will  have,  whom,  I  am 
sure,  he  knows  not  from  the  enemy.  We  will  bind 
and  hoodwink  him  .^o,  tliat  he  shall  suppose  no  other 
but  that  he  is  carried  into  tlie  leaguer*  of  the  adversa- 
ries, when  we  bring  him  to  our  own  tents.  Be  but 
your  lordship  present  at  his  examination,  if  he  do  not. 
for  the  promise  of  his  life,  and  in  the  highest  compul- 
sion of  base  fear,  offer  to  betray  you,  and  deliver  all 
the  intelligence  in  his  power  against  you,  and  that 
with  the  divine  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath,  never 
trust  my  judgment  in  any  thing. 

Fr.  Gent.  0 !  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him  fetch 
off'  his  drum  :  he  says  he  has  a  stratagem  for  't.  When 
your  lordship  sees  the  bottom  of  his  success  in 't,  and 
to  what  metal  this  counterfeit  lump  of  ores*  will  be 
melted,  if  you  give  him  not  John  Drum's  entertain- 
ment,' your  inclining  carniot  be  removed.  Here  he 
comes. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Fr.  Env.  0  !  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not  the 
honour  of  his  design :  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum  in  any 
hand. 


'  Ay,  right :  in  2d  folio.      ' 
mon  phiue  meaning  to  «rn  i 


'  Low,  oo-vrajilljr  fellow.      ♦  Camp.      »  Thii  word  is  not  in  f.  e. 


246 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


Ber.  How  now,  monsieur?  t hie  drum  sticks  sorely 
ui  your  disposition. 

Fr.  Gent.  A  pox  on  "t  !  let  it  go :  't  is  but  a  drum. 

Par.  But  a  drum  !  Is  't  but  a  drum  ?  A  drum  so 
Inst ! — There  was  an  excellent  command,  to  charge  in 
with  our  horse  upon  our  O'w'n  wings,  and  to  rend  our 
own  soldiers  ! 

Fr.  Gent.  That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  com- 
mand of  the  service:  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that 
Caisar  liiiiisclf  could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had 
been  there  to  command. 

Ber.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  success  : 
Ecme  dishonour  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that  drum ;  but 
it  is  not  to  be  recovered. 

Par.  It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.  It  might  ;  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered.  But  that  the  merit  of 
service  is  seldom  attributed  to  tlie  true  and  exact  per- 
former. I  would  have  that  drum  or  another,  or  hicjacet. 

Ber.  "V.^'hy.  if  you  have  a  stomach  to  't,  monsieur,  if 
you  think  your  mystery  in  stratagem  can  bring  this 
instrument  of  honour  again  into  his  native  quarter,  be 
magnanimous  in  the  enterprise,  and  go  on;  I  will  grace 
the  attempt  for  a  worthy  exploit:  if  you  speed  well  in 
it,  tlie  Duke  sliall  both  speak  of  it,  and  extend  to  you 
what  fartlier  becomes  his  greatness,  even  to  the  utmost 
yllable  of  your  wortliiness. 

Par.  By  the  hand  of  a  soldier.  I  will  undertake  it. 

Ber.  But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

Par.  I  '11  about  it  this  evening  :  and  I  will  presently 
pen  down  my  dilemmas,  encourage  myself  in  my  cer- 
tainty, put  myself  into  my  mortal  preparation,  and  by 
midnight  look  to  hear  farther  from  me. 

Ber.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  grace  you  are 
gone  about  it? 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my  lord  : 
but  the  attempt  I  vow. 

Ber.  I  know  thou  art  valiant,  and  to  the  possibility 
of  thy  soldiership  will  subscribe  for  thee.     Farewell. 

Par.  I  love  not  many  words.  [Exit. 

Fr.  Env.  No  more  than  a  fish  loves  water. — Is  not 
this  a  strange  fellow,  my  lord,  that  so  confidently  seems 
to  undertake  this  business,  which  he  knows  is  not  to 
be  done,  damns  himself  to  do,  and  dares  better  be 
damned  than  to  do  't  ? 

Fr.  Gent.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we  do  : 
certain  it  ia.  that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a  man's 
favour,  and  for  a  week  escape  a  great  deal  of  discove- 
ries ;  but  when  you  find  liim  out.  you  have  him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why.  do  you  think,  he  will  make  no  deed  at  all 
of  this,  that  so  seriously  he  does  address  himself  unto  ? 

Fr.  Env.  None  in  the  world,  but  return  with  an  in- 
vention, and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  probable  lies. 
But  we  have  almost  embossed'  him,  you  shall  see  his 
fall  to-night :  for,  indeed,  he  is  not  for  your  lordship's 
respect 

Fr.  hent.  We  '11  make  you  some  sport  with  the  fox, 
ere  we  ca.se'  him.  He  was  first  smoked  by  the  old 
lord  Lafeu  :  when  his  disguise  and  he  is  parted,  tell 
me  what  a  sprat  you  shall  find  him,  wliich  you  .shall 
see  this  very  night. 

Fr.  Env.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs  :  he  shall  be  caught. 

Ber.  Your  brother,  he  shall  20  along  with  me. 

Fr.  Gent.  As't  plca.se  your  lordship. 

Fr.  Env.  I'll  leave  yoa.  [Exit. 

Ber.  Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  liou.'^e,  and  show  you 
The  lass  1  spoke  of. 


( 


Fr.  Gent.  But,  you  say,  she  's  honest. 

Ber.  That's  all  the  fault.    I  spoke  with  her  but  once 
And  found  her  wondrous  cold  ;  but  I  sent  to  her, 
By  tliis  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'  the  wind, 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  re-send ; 
And  this  is  all  I  have  done.     She  's  a  fair  creature 
Will  you  go  see  her? 

Fr.  Gent.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  VII.— Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's 

Hou.se. 

Enter  Helena  and  Widow. 

Hel.  If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  farther, 
But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  1  work  upon. 

Wid.  Though  my  estate  be  fall'n,  I  was  well  bom, 
Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses, 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 

Hel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First,  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  husband,  ■ 

And  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken,  *? 

Is  so,  from  word  to  word;  and  then  you  cannot, 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow, 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

Wid.  I  should  believe  you  ; 

For  you  have  show'd  me  that,  which  well  approves 
You  are  great  in  fortune. 

Hel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold, 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far. 
Which  I  will  over-pay,  and  pay  again, 
When    I    have    found  it.     The   count  he   woos  your 

daughter, 
Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty, 
Resolved  to  carry  her  :  let  her,  in  fine,  consent, 
As  we  "11  direct  her  how  't  is  best  to  bear  it. 
Now,  his  important'  blood  will  nought  deny 
That  she  '11  demand  :  a  ring  the  county  wears, 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house 
From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  ring  he  holds 
In  most  rich  choice  :  yet.  in  his  idle  fire 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  loo  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

Wid.  Now  I  see 

The  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

Hel.  You  see  it  lawful  then.  It  is  no  more. 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won, 
Desires  this  ring;  appoints  him  an  encounter; 
In  fine,  delivers  me  to  fill  the  time. 
Herself  most  chastely  absent.  After  this. 
To  marry  her,  I  '11  add  three  thousand  crowiis 
To  what  is  past  already. 

Wid.  I  have  yielded. 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  .shall  persever. 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawful, 
May  prove  coherent.  Every  night  he  comes, 
With  musics  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  compos'd 
To  her  unworthiness  :  it  nothing  steads  us, 
To  chide  him  from  our  eaves,  for  he  persists 
As  if  his  life  lay  on  't. 

Hel.  Why  then,  to-night 

Let  us  a.ssay  our  plot ;  which,  if  it  speed, 
Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed. 
And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act; 
Where  both  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact. 
But  let 's  about  it.  [lixeuni 


ftuD  lim  dnrn  till  hi  foams  at  the  mouth.      *  Flay.      '  Importunate. 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


247 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— Without  the  Florentine  Camp. 
Efiter  French  Envoy,  with  Jive  or  six  soldiers  in  ambush. 

Fr.  Env.  He  can  come  no  other  way  but  by  this 
iiedge  corner.  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak  what 
.errib  ;  Ian2:ua2e  you  will  :  though  you  understand  it 
not  yourselves,  no  matter ;  for  we  must  not  seem  to 
understand  bun,  unless  some  one  among  us.  whom  we 
must  produce  for  an  interpreter. 

1  Sold.  Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

Fr.  Env.  Art  not  acquainted  with  him?  knows  he 
not  thy  voice? 

1  Sold.  No.  sir,  I  warrant  you. 

Fr  Env.  But  what  linsy-woolsy  hast  thou  to  speak 
to  us  asain  ? 

1  Sold.   Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

Fr.  Efiv.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers 
i'  the  adversaiy's  entertainment.  Now.  he  hath  a 
smack  of  all  neighbouring  languages ;  therefore,  we 
nmst  every  one  be  a  man  of  his  own  fancy,  not  to  know 
what  we  speak  one  to  another  :  so  we  seem  to  know  is 
to  go  straight  to  our  purpose  :  choughs  language,  gab- 
ble enough,  and  good  enough.  As  for  you.  interpreter, 
you  must  seem  very  politic.  But  couch,  ho  !  here  he 
comes,  to  beguile  two  hours  in  a  sleep,  and  then  to 
return  and  swear  the  lies  he  forges.  [They  stand  back.^ 
Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Ten  o'clock  :  within  these  three  hours  't  will  be 
time  enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I  say  1  have 
done  ?  It  must  be  a  very  plausive  invention  that  car- 
ries it.  They  begin  to  smoke  me.  and  disgraces  have 
of  late  knocked  too  ol-ten  at  my  door.  I  find,  my 
tongue  is  too  foolhardy  ;  but  my  heart  hath  the  fear  of 
Mars  before  it,  and  of  his  creatures,  not  daring  the 
reports  of  my  tongue. 

Fr.  Env.  [Aside.]  This  is  the  first  truth  that  e'er 
thine  own  tongue  was  guilty  of. 

Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  undertake 
the  recovery  of  this  drum,  being  not  ignorant  of  the 
impossibility,  and  kno\\-ing  I  had  no  such  purpose?  I 
must  give  myself  some  hurts,  and  say,  I  got  them  in 
exploit.  Yet  slight  ones  will  not  carry  it :  they  will 
say,  "  Came  you  off  with  so  little  ?"  and  great  ones  I 
dare  not  give.  Wherefore  ?  what 's  the  instance  ? 
Tongue,  I  must  put  you  into  a  butter-woman's  mouth, 
and  buy  myself  another  of  Bajazet's  mule,  if  you 
prattle  me  into  these  perils. 

Fr.  Eiiu.  [Aside.]  Is  it  possible,  he  should  know 
whai  he  is,  and  be  that  he  is? 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would 
erve  the  turn  ;  or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish  sword. 

Fr.  Env.  [Aside]  We  cannot  afford  you  so. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard  ;  and  to  say,  it  was 
n  stratagem. 

Fr.  Env.  [Aside.]  'T  would  not  do. 

Par.  Or  to  drown  my  clothes,  and  say  I  was  stripped 

Ft.  Env.   [Aside.]  Hardly  serve. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  the  window  of 
the  citadel — 

Fr.  Env.  [Aside.]   How  deep? 

Par.  Thirty  fathom. 

Fr.  Env.  [Aside.]  Three  great  oaths  would  scarce 
make  that  be  believed. 

Par.  I  would  I  had  any  drum  of  the  enemy's :  I 
would  swear  I  recovered  it. 


Fr.  Env.  [Aside.]  You  shall  hear  one  anon. 

Par.  A  drum,  now,  of  the  enemy's  ! 

[Alarum  uitain. 

Fr.  Env.  Throca  movousus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.  Cargo,  cargo,  villianda  par  corbo,  cargo. 

Par.  O !  ransom,  ransom  ! — Do  not  hide  mine  eyes. 
[They  seize  and  blindfold  him 

1  Sold.  Boskos  thromuldo  boskos. 

Par.  I  know  you  are  the  Muskos'  regiment ; 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language, 
[f  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  low  Dutch, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me  : 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado  : — 

I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue. — 
Kerelybonto. — Sir, 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par.  0 ! 

1  Sold.  0  !  pray,  pray,  pray. — 

Manka  revania  didche. 

Fr.  Env.  Oscorbidulchos  volivorcho. 

1 .  Sold.  The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet, 
And,  hoodwink'd  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  from  thee  :  haply,  thou  may'st  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  life. 

Par.  0  !  let  me  live. 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I  '11  show. 
Their  force,  their  purposes  ;  nay,  I  '11  speak  that 
Which  vou  will  wonder  at. 

1  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully  ? 

Par.  If  I  do  not.  damn  me. 

1  Sold.  Acordo  linta. — 
Come  on;  thou  art  granted  space. 

[Exit  with  Parolles  guarded 
Fr.  Env.  Go,  tell  the  count  Rousillon,  and  my  bro 
ther, 
We   have   caught   the  woodcock,  and  will   keep  him 

muffled, 
Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 

2  Sold.  Captain.  I  will. 

Fr.  Env.  A'  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves : 
Inform  on  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will.  sir. 

Fr.  Env.  Till  then,  I  'll  keep  him  dark,  and  safely 
lock'd.  [ExewiJ 

SCENE  II.— Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's 

House. 

Enter  Bertram  and  Diana. 

Ber.  They  told  me  that  yovu-  name  was  Fontibell. 

Bia.  No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Ber.  Titled  goddes.s, 

And  worth  it,  with  addition  !     But,  fair  soul, 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality  ? 
If  the  quick  fire  of  youth  light  not  your  mind, 
You  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument : 
When  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
As  you  are  now.  for  you  are  cold  and  stone ;' 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  wa.s, 
When  your  sweet  self  was  got. 

Dia.  She  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  you  be. 

Dia.  N>- 


I  Not  in  f.  e 


f.« 


248 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


My  mother  did  but  duty  ;  such,  my  lord, 
A.S  you  owe  to  your  wile. 

Bcr.  No  more  o'  that : 

[  pr'ythee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vows. 
I  was  compelld  to  lier  ;  but  I  love  tliee 
By  loves  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  for  ever 
Do  thee  all  rights  ol'  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us. 

Till  we  serve  you  ;  but  when  you  have  our  roses, 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  prick  ourselves. 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 

Ber.  How  have  I  sworn  ? 

Dia.  'T  is  not  the  many  oaths  that  make  the  truth. 
But  the  plain  single  vow,  that  is  vow'd  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by, 
But  take  the  highest  to  wit-ness  :  then,  pray  you,  tell  me. 
If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes, 
I  lov'd  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  oaths. 
When  I  did  love  you  ill  ?  this  has  no  holding. 
To  swear  by  him,  whom  I  protest  to  love. 
That  I  will  work  against  him.     Therefore,  your  oaths 
Are  words,  and  poor  conditions,  but  unseal'd. 
At  least,  in  my  opinion. 

Ber.  Change  it,  change  it. 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel :  love  is  holy. 
And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts. 
That  you  do  charge  men  with.     Stand  no  more  off, 
But  give  thyself  luito  my  sick  desires, 
Who  then  recover  :  say.  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
My  love,  as  it  begins,  shall  so  persever. 

Dia.  I  see,  that  men  make  hopes  in  such  a  suit' 
That  we  '11  forsake  ourselves.     Give  me  that  ring. 

Ber.  I  '11  lend  it  thee,  my  dear  ;  but  have  no  power 
To  give  it  from  me. 

Dia.  Will  you  not.  my  lord  ? 

Ber.  It  is  an  honour  'longing  to  our  house. 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors. 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'  the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 

Dia.  Mine  honour 's  such  a  ring : 

My  chastity 's  the  jewel  of  our  house, 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors, 
Wliich  't  were  the  greate.«t  obloquy  i'  the  world 
In  me  to  lose.     Thus,  your  own  proper  wisdom 
Brings  in  the  chamj)ion,  honour,  on  my  part 
Against  your  vain  assault. 

Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring : 

M>-  house,  mine  honour,  yea,  my  life  be  thine. 
And  I  '11  be  bid  by  thee. 

Dia.  Wiien  midnight  comes,  knock  at  my  chamber 
window  : 
I  '1!  order  take  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 
Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth. 
When  you  have  conquer'd  my  yet  maiden  bed. 
Remain  there  but  an  hour,  nor  speak  to  me. 
My  reasons  are  most  strong:  and  you  shall  know  them. 
When  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  deliver'd  : 
And  on  your  finger,  in  the  night.  I  '11  put 
.Another  ring:   that  what  in  time  proceeds 
May  tfiken  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu,  till  then  :  then,  fail  not.     You  have  won 
A  wile  of  me.  though  there  my  hope  be  none'. 

Btr.  A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won  by  wooing  thee. 

[Exit. 

Dia.  For  which    live    long  to   thank  both  heaven 
and  me  ! 
Vou  may  so  in  the  end, 
My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo. 


As  if  she  sat  in  's  heart :  she  says,  all  men 

Have  the  like  oaths.     He  had  sworn  to  marry  me. 

When  his  wife  's  dead  ;  therefore  I  '11  lie  with  him. 

When  I  am  buried.     Since  Frenchmen  are  so  braid', 

Marry  that  will,  I  live  and  die  a  maid:     * 

Only,  in  tliis  disguise,  I  think  't  no  sin. 

To  cozen  him,  that  would  unjustly  mn.  [Ezit 

SCENE    III.— The  Florentine  Camp. 

£nter  the  two  Frenchmen,  and  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

Fr.  Gent.  You  have  not  given  him  his  mother's  letter. 

Fr.  Env.  I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  since :  there  if 
sometliing  in  't  that  stings  his  nature,  for  on  the  read- 
ing it  he  changed  almost  into  another  man. 

Fr.  Gent.  He  has  much  worthy  blame  laid  upon  him, 
for  shaking  off  so  good  a  wife,  and  so  sweet  a  lady. 

Fr.  Env.  Especially  he  hath  incurred  the  everlasting 
displeasure  of  the  king,  who  had  even  tuned  his  bounty 
to  sing  happiness  to  him.  I  will  tell  you  a  thing,  but 
you  shall  let  it  dwell  darkly  within  you. 

Fr.  Gent.  When  you  have  spoken  it,  't  is  dead,  and 
I  am  the  grave  of  it. 

Fr.  Env.  He  hath  perverted  a  young  gentlewoman, 
here  in  Floretice.  of  a  most  chaste  renown,  and  this 
night  he  ficshes  his  will  in  the  spoil  of  her  honour  :  he 
hath  given  her  his  monumental  ring,  and  thinKs  him- 
self made  in  the  unchaste  composition. 

Fr.  Gent.  Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion:  as  we  are 
ourselves,  what  things  are  we  ! 

Fr.  Erw.  Merely  our  own  traitors :  and  as  in  the 
common  course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  see  them  reveal 
themselves,  till  they  attain  to  their  abhorred  ends,  so  he 
that  in  this  action  contrives  against  his  own  nobility, 
in  his  proper  stream  o'erflows  himself. 

Fr.  Gent.  Is  it  not  most*  damnable  in  us.  to  be  trum- 
peters of  our  unlawful  intents?  We  shall  not  then 
have  his  company  to  flight. 

Fr,  Env.  Not  till  after  midnight,  for  he  is  dieted  to 
his  liour. 

Fr.  Gent.  That  approaches  apace :  I  would  gladly 
have  him  see  his  companion'  anatomized,  that  he  might 
take  a  measure  of  his  own  judgment,  wherein  so  curi- 
ously he  had  set  this  counterfeit. 

Fr.  Env.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he  come, 
for  his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the  other. 

Fr.  Gent.  In  the  mean  time,  what  hear  you  of  these 
wars  ? 

Fr.  Env.  I  hear  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

Fr.  Gent.  Nay,  I  assure  you,  a  peace  concluded. 

Fr.  Env.  What  will  count  Rousillon  do  then  ?  will 
he  travel  higher,  or  return  again  into  France  V 

Fr.  Gent.  I  perceive  by  this  demand  you  are  not 
altogether  of  his  council. 

Fr.  Env.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir ;  so  should  I  be  a  great 
deal  of  his  act. 

Fr.  Gent.  Sir,  his  wife  some  two  months  since  fled 
from  his  house  :  her  pretence  is  a  pilgrimage  to  saint 
Jaques  le  Grand,  which  holy  undertaking  with  most 
austere  sanctimony  she  accomplished  :  and,  there  re- 
siding, the  tenderness  of  her  nature  became  as  a  prey 
to  her  grief;  in  line,  made  a  groan  of  her  last  breath, 
and  now  she  sings  in  heaven. 

Fr.  Env.  How  is  this  justified  ? 

Fr.  Gent.  The  stranger*  part  of  it  by  her  own  letterc, 
which  make  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point  of  her 
death  :  her  death  it.«elf.  which  could  not  be  her  office 
to  say,  is  eome,  and'  faithfully  confirmed  by  the  ri«tor 
of  the  place. 


'  r  ■  :  make  rop«i 
rtt     ID  f.  e 


inch  a  icarr*        *  done  :  in  f.  e.       >  Deceitful. 


Dtger :  It    {  e 


SCENE  m. 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENTfS    WELL. 


249 


Fr.  Env.  Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence  ? 

Fr.  Gent.  Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations,  point 
from  point,  to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 

Fr.  Env.  I  am  heartily  sorry  that  he  '11  be  glad  of  this. 

Fr.  Gent.  How  mightily,  sometimes,  we  make  us 
comforts  of  our  losses. 

Fr.  Env.  And  how  mightily,  some  other  times,  we 
drown  our  gain  in  tears.  The  great  dignity,  that  his 
valour  hath  here  acquired  for  him,  shall  at  home  be 
encountered  with  a  shame  as  ample. 

Fr.  Gent.  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn, 
good  and  ill  together  :  our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if 
our  faults  whipped  them  not :  and  our  crimes  would 
despair,  if  they  were  not  cherished  by  our  virtues. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
How  now  ?  where  's  your  master  ? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke  in  the  street,  sir,  of  whom 
he  hath  taken  a  solemn  leave :  his  lordship  will  next 
morning  for  France.  The  duke  hath  offered  him  letters 
of  commendations  to  the  king. 

Fr.  Env.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needful  there, 
if  they  were  more  than  they  can  commend. 
Enter  Bertram. 

Fr.  Gent.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the  king's 
tartness.  Here  's  his  lordship  now. — How  now,  my 
lord  !  is  't  not  after  midnight  ? 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  despatched  sixteen  businesses, 
a  month's  length  a-piece,  by  an  abstract  of  success :  I 
have  conge'd  with  the  duke,  done  my  adieu  with  his 
nearest,  buried  a  wife,  mourned  for  her,  wi-it  to  my 
lady  mother  I  am  returning,  entertained  my  convoy  ; 
and  between  these  main  parcels  of  despatch  effected 
many  nicer  needs  :  the  last  was  the  greatest,  but  that 
I  have  not  ended  yet. 

Fr.  Env.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty,  and 
this  morning  your  departure  hence,  it  requires  haste  of 
your  lordship. 

Ber.  I  mean  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing  to 
hear  of  it  hereafter.  But  shall  we  have  this  dialogue 
between  the  fool  and  the  soldier  ?  Come,  bring  forth 
this  counterfeit  medal :  he  has  deceived  me,  like  a 
double-meaning  prophesier. 

-Fr.  Env.  Bring  him  forth.  [Exeunt  Soldiers.]  He 
has  sat  i'  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  gallant  knave. 

Ber.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserved  it.  in  usurp- 
ing his  spurs  so  long.     How  does  he  carry  himself? 

Fr.  Env.  I  have  told  your  lordship  already :  the  stocks 
carry  him.  But,  to  answer  you  as  you  would  be  un- 
derstood, he  weeps,  like  a  wench  that  had  shed  her 
milk.  He  hath  confessed  himself  to  Morgan,  whom 
he  supposes  to  be  a  friar,  from  the  time  of  his  remem- 
brance, to  this  very  instant  disaster  of  his  sitting  i'  the 
stocks,  and  what  think  you  he  hath  confessed  ? 

Ber.  Nothing  of  me,  has  he  ? 

Fr.  Env.    His    confession  is  taken,  and  it  shall  be 
read  to  his  face:  if  your  lordship  be  in't,  as  I  believe 
vou  are,  you  must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it. 
Re-enter  Soldiers,  with  P.\rolles. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him  !  muffled  ?  he  can  say  no- 
thing of  me  :  hush  !  hush  ! 

Fr.  Gent.  Hoodman'  comes  ! — Portotartarossa. 
1  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures :  what  will  you  say 
without  'em  ? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  constraint : 
if  ye  pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  no  more. 
1  Sold.  Bosko  chimurko. 
Fr.  Gent.   Boblihindo  chicurmurco. 
1  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general. — Our  general 
bids  you  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  out  of  a  note. 


Par.  And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  "  First,  demand  of  him  how  many  horse  the 
duke  is  strong."     What  say  you  to  that? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand ;  but  very  weak  and  un 
serviceable  :  the  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the  com- 
manders very  poor  rogues,  upon  my  reputation  and 
credit,  and  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so  ? 

Par.  Do :  I  '11  take  my  sacrament  on 't,  how  and 
which  way  you  will. 

1  Sold.  All 's  one  to  him.' 

Ber.  What  a  past-saving  slave  is  this  ! 

Fr.  Gent.  Y'  are  deceived,  my  lord  :  this  is  monsieu 
Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist,  (that  was  his  own 
phrase)  that  had  the  whole  theorick  of  M'ar  in  the  knot  of 
his  scarf,  and  the  practice  in  the  chape'  of  his  dagger. 

Fr.  Env.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again  for  keeping 
his  sword  clean  ;  nor  believe  he  can  have  every  thing 
in  him  by  wearing  his  apparel  neatly. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said, — I  will  say 
true,— or  thereabouts,  set  down, — for  I'll  speak  truth. 

Fr.  Gent.  He 's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

Ber.  But  I  con*  him  no  tlianks  for't,  in  the  nature 
he  delivers  it. 

Par.  Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir.  A  truth  's  a  truth : 
the  rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

1  Sold.  "  Demand  of  him,  of  what  strength  they 
are  a-foot."     What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  were  to  live  this  present 
hour,  I  will  tell  true.  Let  me  see :  Spurio  a  hundred 
and  fifty,  Sebastian  so  many,  Corambus  so  many,  Jaques 
so  many ;  Guiltian,  Co.'^mo,  Lodowck,  and  Gratii,  two 
hundred  fifty  each;  mine  own  company,  Chitopher, 
Vaumond,  Bentii,  two  hundred  fifty  each  :  so  that  the 
muster-file,  rotten  and  sound,  upon  my  life,  amounts 
not  to  fifteen  thousand  poll ;  half  of  the  which  dare 
not  shake  the  snow  from  off  their  cassocks,  lest  they 
shake  themselves  to  pieces. 

Ber.  What  shall  be  done  to  him  ? 

Fr.  Gent.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks. — 
Demand  of  him  my  condition,  and  what  credit  I  have 
with  the  duke. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down.  "  You  shall  demand 
of  him,  whether  one  captain  Dumaine  be  i'  the  camp, 
a  Frenchman :  what  his  reputation  is  v/iih  the  duke, 
what  his  valour,  honesty,  and  expertness  in  wars ;  or 
whether  he  thinks,  it  were  not  possible  with  well- 
weighing  sums  of  gold  to  corrupt  him  to  a  revolt." 
What  say  you  to  this  ?  what  do  you  know  of  it  ? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the  particular 
of  the  intergatories ;  demand  them  singly. 

1  Sold.  Do  you  know  this  captain  Dumaine  ? 

Par.  I  know  him:  he  was  a  hotelier's  'prentice  in 
Paris,  from  whence  he  was  whipped  for  getting  the 
sheriff's  fool  with  child  ;  a  dumb  innocent,  that  coul^ 
not  say  him,  nay.   [Dumaine  lifts  up  his  hand  in  anger. 

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands  :  though. 
I  know,  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile  that  falls. 

1  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the  duke  of  Florence's 
camp? 

Par.  Upon  my  knowledge  he  is,  and  lousy. 

Fr.  Gent.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me  ;  we  shall  hear 
of  your  lordship  anon. 

1  Sold.  What  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke  ? 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a  pool 
ofiicer  of  mine,  and  writ  to  me  this  other  day  to  turn 


An  allusion  to  blind  man's  buff. — Knight.      '  f.  e.  give  these  words  to  Bertram.      *  Hook,  by  which  it  was  attached.     *  Owt. 


250 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


ACT  rv. 


him  out  o'  the  baud :  I  think,  I  have  his  letter  in  my 
pocket. 

1  Sold.  Marry,  we'll  pearch. 

Par.  In  good  sadness,  I  do  not  know:  eitlier  it  is 
there,  or  it  is  ui)ou  a  lile,  with  the  duke's  other  letters, 
in  my  tent. 

1  Sold.  Here  't  is  ;  here  's  a  paper :  shall  I  read  it  to 
you? 

Par.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be  it,  or  no. 

Ber.  Our  interjirt'ter  does  it  well. 

Fr.  Gent.   Excellently. 

1  Suld.  [Reads.]  '  Dian,  the  count 's  a  fool,  and  full 
Ol  gold." — 

Par.  That  is  not  the  duke's  letter,  sir :  that  is  an 
dverti!>enicnt  to  a  projjer  maid  in  Florence,  one  Diana, 
to  take  heed  of  the  allurement  of  one  count  Rousillon, 
a  fooli.sh  idle  boy,  but,  for  all  that,  very  ruttish.  I 
pray  you,  sir.  put  it  up  again. 

1  Sold.  Nay,  I  '11  read  it  first,  by  your  favour. 

Par.  My  meaning  in  't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest 
in  the  behalf  of  the  maid  ;  for  I  knew  the  young 
count  to  be  a  dangerous  and  las^civious  boy,  who  is  a 
whale  to  virginity,  and  devours  up  all  the  fry  it  finds. 

Ber.  Damnable,  both-sides  rogxie  ! 

1  Sold.  [Rcod.s.]   "When  he  swears  oatho,  bid  him 
drop  gold,  and  take  it ; 

After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score : 
Half  won  is  match  well  made;  match,  and  well  make  it : 

He  ne'er  pays  after  debts ;  take  it  before, 
And  say,  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thee  this. 
Men  are  to  mell*  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss : 
For  count  of  this,  the  count 's  a  fool,  I  know  it. 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  where  he  does  owe  it. 
"Tl'ine,  as  he  vow'd  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 
"Parolles." 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army,  with 
thi.',  rhyme  in  's  forehead. 

Fr.  Env.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir ;  the  mani- 
fold linguist,  and  the  armipotenl  soldier. 

Ber.  I  could  endure  any  thing  before  but  a  cat,  and 
now  lie  's  a  cat  to  me. 

1  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  our  general's  looks,  we 
shall  be  fain  to  hang  you. 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case  !  not  that  I  am  afraid 
to  die ;  but  that,  my  offences  being  many,  I  would 
repent  out  the  remainder  of  nature.  Let  me  live,  sir, 
in  a  dungeon,  i'  the  stocks,  or  any  where,  so  I  may  live. 

1  Sold.  We  '11  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  confess 
freely:  therefore,  once  more  to  this  captain  Dumaine. 
You  have  answered  to  his  reputation  with  the  duke, 
and  to  his  valour  :  what  is  his  honesty  ? 

Par.  He  will  steal,  sir.  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister:  for 
rapes  and  ravishments  lie  parallels  Ne.«sus.  He  pro- 
fesses not  keeping  of  oaths;  in  breaking  them  he  is 
EtrouL'er  than  Hercules.  He  will  lie.  sir,  with  such 
volubility,  that  you  would  think  truth  were  a  fool. 
Drunkenness  is  his  best  virtue  :  for  he  will  be  swine- 
drunk,  and  in  his  sleep  he  does  little  harm,  save  to  his 
bed-clothes  about  him  ;  but  tliey  know  his  conditions, 
and  lay  him  in  straw.  I  have  but  little  more  to  say. 
Bir.  of  his  honesty:  he  has  every  thing  that  an  honest 
man  should  not  iiave  ;  what  an  honest  man  should 
have,  he  has  nothinir. 

Fr.  Gent.  1  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty?  A  pox 
upon  him  !  for  me  he  is  more  and  more  a  cat. 

1  Sold.  What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in  war? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  led  the  drum  before  the 
English   tragedians, — to   belie  him,   I  will    not, — and 


more  of  his  sddiersh.p  I  know  not;  except,  in  that 
country,  he  had  the  honour  to  be  the  officer  at  a  place 
there  called  Miic-cnd.'  to  instruct  for  the  doubling  of 
files:  I  would  do  the  man  what  honour  I  can,  but  of 
this  I  am  not  certain. 

Fr.  Gent.  He  hath  out-villained  villany  so  far,  that 
the  rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.  A  pox  on  him  !  he  's  a  cat  still. 

1  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price,  I  need 
not  ask  you,  if  gold  will  corrupt  him  to  revolt. 

Par.  Sir.  for  a  quart  d'ecu'  he  will  sell  the  fee-simple 
of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it;  and  cut  the 
entail  from  all  remainders,  and  a  perpetual  succession 
for  it  perpetually. 

1  Sold.  What 's  his  brother,  the  other  captain  Du- 
maine? 

Fr.  Env.  Wliy  does  he  ask  him  of  me  ? 

1  Sold.  What's  he? 

Par.  E'en  a  crow  o'  the  same  nest ;  not  altogether 
so  great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but  greater  a  great 
deal  in  evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a  coward,  yet 
his  brother  is  reputed  one  of  the  best  that  is.  In  a 
retreat  he  out-runs  any  lackey :  marry,  in  coming  on 
he  has  the  cramp. 

1  Sold.  If  your  life  be  saved,  will  you  undertake  to 
betray  the  Florentine? 

Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  count  Rou- 
sillon. 

1  Sold.  I  '11  whisper  with  the  general,  and  know 
his  pleasure. 

Par.  [Aside.]  I  '11  no  more  drumming  ;  a  plague  of 
all  drums  !  Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to 
beguile  the  supposition  of  that  lascivious  young  boy 
the  count,  have  I  run  into  this  danger.  Yet  wiio 
w^ould  have  suspected  an  ambush,  where  I  was  taken? 

1  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir,  but  you  must  die. 
The  general  says,  you,  that  have  so  traitorously  dis- 
covered the  secrets  of  your  army,  and  made  such  pes- 
tiferous reports  of  men  very  nobly  held,  can  serve  the 
world  for  no  honest  use ;  therefore  you  must  die. 
Come,  headsman :  olT  with  his  head. 

Par.  0  Lord,  sir:  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see  my 
death  ! 

1  Sold.  That  shall  you  ;  and  take  your  leave  of  all 
your  friends.  [Unmriffiing  him 

So,  look  about  you  :  know  you  any  here  ? 

Ber.  Good-morrow,  noble  captain. 

Fr.  Env.  God  bless  you,  captain  Parolles. 

Fr.  Gent.  God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

Fr.  Env.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my 
lord  Lafeu?     I  am  lor  France. 

Fr.  Gent.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a  copy  of 
the  sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  behalf  of  the  count 
Rousillon  ?  an  1  were  not  a  very  coward,  I  'd  compel  it 
of  you  ;  but  fare  you  well. 

[E.Tciint  Bkrtram,  Frenchmei^  ffr 

1  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain  :  all  but  your  scarf, 
that  has  a  knot  on  't  yet. 

Par.  Wiio  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot  ? 

1  Sold.  If  you  could  find  cnt  a  country  whore  but 
women  were,  that  had  received  so  much  shame,  you 
might  besin  an  impudent  nation.  Fare  you  well,  sir; 
I  am  for  France  too  :  wc  shall  speak  of  you  there.  [Exit 

Par.  Yet  am  I  thankful  :  if  my  heart  were  great, 
'T  would  burst  at  this.     Captain  I  '11  be  no  more  ; 
But  1  will  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall :  simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  me  live.     Who  knows  himself  a  braggart. 
Let  him  fear  this  ;  for  it  will  come  to  pass, 


Med'lle.  do       >  A  flare  where  tb' 


Londoners  were  often  murtered  and  trained.      '  About  eiRht-pence  English. 


SCENE   "V. 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


251 


That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 

Rust,  sword  !  cool,  blushes  !  and  Parolles.  live 

Safest  in  shame  !  being  fool'd,  by  foolery  thrive  ! 

There  's  place  and  means  for  every  man  alive. 

I  '11  after  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's 

House. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana, 

Hel.  That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have  not  wrong'd 
you. 
One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall  be  my  surety  ;  'fore  whose  throne,  't  is  needful, 
Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel. 
Time  was  I  did  him  a  desired  office, 
Dear  almoBt  aa  his  life  ;  which  gratitude 
Through  flinty  Tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth 
And  answer,  thanks.     I  duly  am  inform'd, 
His  grace  is  at  Marseilles,  to  which  place 
We  have  convenient  convoy.     You  must  know, 
I  am  supposed  dead  :  the  army  breaking, 
My  husband  hies  him  home  ;  where,  heaven  aiding, 
And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 
We  '11  be  before  our  welcome. 

Wid.  Gentle  madam, 

You  never  had  a  servant,  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

Hel.  Nor  you,  mistress. 

Ever  a  friend,  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labour 
To  recompense  your  love  :  doubt  not,  but  heaven 
Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's  dower, 
As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive. 
And  helper  to  a  husband.     But  0,  strange  men  ! 
That  can  such  sweet  use  make  of  what  they  hate, 
When  saucy  trusting  of  the  cozen'd  thoughts 
Defiles  the  pitchy  night  !  so  lust  doth  play 
With  what  it  loathes,  for  that  which  is  away. 
But  more  of  this  hereafter. — You,  Diana. 
Under  my  poor  instruclions,  yet  must  suffer 
Something  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions,  I  am  yours 
Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 

Hel.  Yet;  I  pray  you  : 

But  with  the  world*  the  time  will  bring  on  summer, 
When  briars  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away ; 
Our  waggon  is  prepar'd,  and  time  reviles'  us  : 
"  All 's  well  that  ends  well  :"  still  the  fine  's  the  cro}\Ti; 
Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 
Palace. 
Enter  Countess,  Lafeu,  and  Claivn. 
Laf.  No,  no,  no  ;  your  son  was  misled  wth  a  snipt- 
taffata   fellow  there,  whose  villanous  saffron'  would 
have  made  all  the  unbaked  and  doughy  youth  of   a 
\     nation  in  his  colour :  your  daughter-in-law  had  been 
1     alive  at  this  hour,  and  your  son  here  at  home,  more 
I     advanced  by  the  king,  than  by  that  red-tailed  humble- 
I     bee  I  speak  of. 

Count.  I  would  I  had  not  kno\Mi  him.  It  was  the 
death  of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman,  that  ever 
uature  had  praise  for  creating :  if  she  had  partaken  of 
my  fiesh,  and  cost  me  the  dearest  groans  of  a  mother, 
I  <Jould  not  have  owed  her  a  more  rooted  love. 


Laf.  'T  was  a  good  lady,  't  was  a  good  lady  :  we  may 
pick  a  thousand  salads,  ere  we  light  on  such  another 
herb. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet  marjoram  of  the 
salad,  or,  rather  the  herb  of  grace. 

Laf.  They  are  not  pot-herbs*,  you  knave ;  they  arfi 
nose-herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebuchadnezzar,  sir ;  I  have  not 
much  skill  in  grass. 

Laf.  Whether  dost  thou  profess  thyself,  a  knave,  or 
a  fooi  ? 

Clo.  A  fool,  sir,  at  a  woman's  service,  and  a  knave 
at  a  man's. 

Laf.  Your  distinction  ? 

Clo.  I  would  cozen  the  man  of  his  wife,  and  do  lis 
service. 

Laf.  So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  indeed 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bauble*,  sir,  to 
do  her  ser-sace. 

Laf.  I  will  subscribe  for  thee,  thou  art  both  kn.ave 
and  fool. 

Clo.  At  your  service. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no. 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  if  I  cannot  serve  you,  I  can  serve  as 
great  a  prince  as  you  are. 

Laf.  Who  's  that  ?  a  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  a'  has  an  English  name^ ;  but  his 
phisnomy  is  more  hotter  in  France,  than  thei-e. 

Laf.  What  prince  is  that? 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sir;  alias.^  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness; alias,  the  devil. 

Laf.  Hold  thee,  there's  my  purse.  I  give  thee  not 
this  to  suggest  thee  from  thy  master  thou  talkest  of : 
serve  him  still. 

Clo.  I  am  a  woodland  follow,  sir,  that  always  loved 
a  great  fire ;  and  the  master  I  speak  of,  ever  keeps  a 
good  fire.  But,  sure,  he  is  the  prince  of  the  world ;  let 
the  nobility  remain  in  's  court.  I  am  for  the  house 
with  the  narrow  gate,  which  I  take  to  be  too  little  for 
pomp  to  enter  :  some,  that  humble  themselves,  may ; 
but  the  many  will  be  too  chill  and  tender,  and  they  '11 
be  for  the  flowery  way,  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate, 
and  the  great  fire. 

Laf.  Go  thy  ways,  I  begin  to  be  a- weary  of  thee ; 
and  I  tell  thee  so  before,  because  I  would  not  fall  out 
with  thee.  Go  thy  ways  :  let  my  horses  be  well  looked 
to,  without  any  tricks. 

Clo.  If  I  put  any  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they  shall  be 
jades'  tricks,  which  are  their  own  right  by  the  law  of 
nature.  [Exit 

Laf.  A  shrewd  knave,  and  an  unliappy'. 

Count.  So  a'  is.  My  lord,  that 's  gone,  made  himself 
much  sport  out  of  him  :  by  his  authority  he  remams 
here,  which  he  thinks  is  a  patent  for  his  sauciness  : 
and,  indeed,  he  has  no  place*,  but  runs  where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  like  him  well ;  't  is  not  amiss.  And  I  wa,s 
about  to  tell  you,  since  I  heard  of  the  good  lady's 
death,  and  that  my  lord,  your  son.  was  upon  his  return 
home,  I  moved  the  king,  my  master,  to  speak  in  tlie 
behalf  of  my  daughter  ;  which,  in  the  minority  of  thein 
both,  his  majesty,  out  of  a  self-gracious  remembrance, 
did  first  propose.  His  highness  hath  promised  me  to  do 
it ;  and  to  stop  up  the  displeasure  he  hath  conceived 
against  your  son,  there  is  no  fitter  matter.  How  does 
your  ladyship  like  it  ? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord;  and  J 
wish  it  happily  effected. 


'  word  :  in  f.  e.  »  revives  :  in  f.  e  '  Saffron  was  used  to  color  starch,  a  yellow  hue  being  then  fajshionable  in  dress.  It  was  also  u»eo 
to  color  pie-crast.  sala-*  herls  :  in  f.  e.  »  A  short  stick,  with  a  fool's  head,  or  a  small  figure,  at  the  end  of  it.  Aa  inflated  bladdei  wai 
someilices  attached       «  Old  copies  :  maine.      i  Mischievous.      Space:  in  f.e. 


252 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


ACT  V. 


haf.  His  hijjhness  comes  post  from  Marseilles,  of  as 
ible  body  as  when  he  numbered  thirty  :  a'  will  be  here 
U)-morro\v,  or  I  am  deceived  by  him  that  in  such  intel- 
ligence hath  seldom  failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me  that  I  hope  I  shall  see  him  ere 
I  die.  I  have  letters  that  my  son  will  be  here  to-night: 
[  shall  beseech  your  lordship,  to  remain  with  me  till 
they  meet  toiicthcr. 

Lm/.  Madam,  I  was  thinking  with  what  manners  I 
might  safely  be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honourable  privilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter;  but, 
I  thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 


Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  0,  madam !  yonder  's  my  lord  your  son  vfith  a 
patch  of  velvet  on 's  face:  whether  there  be  a  scar 
under  it,  or  no,  the  velvet  knows;  but  'tis  a  goodly 
patch  of  velvet.  His  left  cheek  is  a  cheek  of  two  pile 
and  a  half,  Wut  his  right  cheek  is  worn  bare. 

Laf.  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  good 
livery  of  honour  ;  so,  belike,  is  that. 

Clo.  But  it  is  your  carbonadoed  face. 

Laf.  Let  us  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you :  I  long  to 
talk  with  the  young  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  'Faith,  there  's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with  delicate  fine 
hat-s,  and  most  courteous  feathers,  which  bow  the  head, 
and  nod  at  every  man.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  L— Marseilles.  A  Street. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow.,  and  Diana,  with  two 

Attendants. 

Hel.  But  this  exceeding  posting,  day  and  night, 
Must  wear  your  spirits  low :  we  camiot  help  it ; 
But,  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights  as  one, 
To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs, 
Be  bold,  you  do  so  grow  in  my  requital, 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.     In  happy  time, 
Enter  a  Gentleman,  a  Stranger.^ 
This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear, 
If  he  would  spend  his  power. — God  save  yoH,  sir. 

Gent.  And  you. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of  France, 

Gent.  I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

Hel.  I  do  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  not  fallen 
From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  you  to 
The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  which 
I  shall  continue  thankful. 

Gent.  What 's  your  will  ? 

Hel.  That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king, 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have, 
To  come  into  his  presence.  [Giving  it  to  him. 

Gent.  The  king  's  not  here. 

Hel.  Not  here,  sir  ? 

Gent.  Not,  indeed : 

He  hence  rcmov'd  last  night,  and  with  more  haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains  ! 

Hel.  All   s  well  that  ends  well  yet. 
Though  time  seem  so  adverse,  and  means  unfit. — 
I  do  bescrch  you.  wiiither  is  he  gone  ? 

Gent.  Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon; 
Whither  I  am  going. 

Hei.  I  do  beseech  you.  sir, 

Smc€  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  me. 
Commend  tiie  pajier  to  his  gracious  hand  ; 
Which,  I  prc.'^ume,  shall  render  you  no  blame, 
But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it. 
I  will  come  alter  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means. 

Gent.  This  I  Ml  do  for  you. 

Hel.  And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be  well  thank'd, 
Whate'er  falls  more. — We  must  to  horse  again  : — 
Go,  go,  provide.  [Exeunt. 

*  a  gcntie  Attringer  ;  in  f   e       >  This  word  i<  not  added  in  f.  e. 


SCENE  n.— Rousillon.     The  inner  Court  of  the 

Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Clown,  and  Parolles,  ill-favoured.* 

Par.  Good  monsieur  Lavatch,  give  my  lord  Lafeu 
this  letter.  I  have  ere  now,  sir.  been  better  known  to 
you,  when  T  have  held  familiarity  with  fresher  clothes; 
but  I  am  now,  sir,  muddied  in  fortune's  mood,  and 
smell  somewhat  strong  of  her  strong  displeasure. 

Clo.  Truly,  fortune's  displeasure  is  but  sluttish,  if  it 
smell  so  strongly  as  thou  speakest  of :  I  will  henceforth 
eat  no  fish  of  fortune's  buttering.  Pr'ythee,  allow  the 
wind. 

Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  to  stop  your  nose,  sir :  I 
spake  but  by  a  metaphor. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I  will  stop 
my  nose ;  or  agamst  any  man's  metaphor.  Pr'ythee, 
get  thee  farther. 

Par.  Pray  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 

Clo.  Foh  !  pr'ythee.  stand  away :  a  paper  from  for. 
tune's  close-stool  to  give  to  a  nobleman  !  Look,  here 
he  comes  himself. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Here  is  a  pur  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  fortune's  cat, 
(but  not  a  musk-cat)  that  has  fallen  into  the  unclean 
fishpond  of  her  displeasure,  and,  as  he  says,  is  muddied 
withal.  Pray  you,  sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may,  for  he 
looks  like  a  poor,  decayed,  ingenious,  foolish,  rascally 
knave.  I  do  pity  his  distress  in  my  smiles  of  comfort, 
andleave  him  to  yoiu-  lordship.  [Exit  Clown. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  fortune  hath 
cruelly  scratched. 

Laf.  And  what  would  you  have  me  to  do  ?  't  is  too 
late  to  pare  her  nails  now.  Wherein  have  you  played 
the  knave  with  fortune,  that  she  should  scratch  you, 
wlio  of  herself  is  a  good  lady,  and  would  not  have 
knaves  thrive  long  under  her?  There  's  a  (piart  (Veen 
tor  you.  Let  the  justices  make  you  and  fortune  friends ; 
I  am  for  other  business. 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honour  to  hear  me  one  single 
word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more :  come,  you  shall 
ha  't ;  save  your  word. 

Par.  My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  one  word.  then. — Cox'  my 
passion!  give  mc  your  hand. — How  does  your  drum? 

Par.  0,  my  good  lord  !  you  were  the  first  that  foimd 
me.  [ihee 

Laf.  Was  1,  in  sooth  ?  and  I  was  the  first  that  lost 


SCENE  ra. 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


253 


Par.  It  lies  in  you.  my  lord,  to  bring  me  in  some 
|2?'ace,  for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave  !  do.«t  thou  put  upon  me 
at  once  both  the  office  of  God  and  the  devil  ?  one 
brings  thee  in  grace,  and  the  other  brings  thee  out. 
\Trumpets  sotmd.]  The  king  's  coming;  I  know  by  hi.s 
trumpets. — Sirrah,  inquire  farther  after  me  :  I  had  talk 
of  you  last  night.  Though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave, 
you  shall  eat :  go  to,  follow. 

Par.  I  praise  God  for  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  King,  Countess,  Lafeu,  Lords, 

Gentlemen,  Guards,  ^c. 
King.  We  lo.st  a  jewel  of  her,  and  our  esteem 
Was  made  much  poorer  by  it ;  but  your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly,  lack'd  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home. 

Count.  'T  is  past,  my  liege  ; 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'  the  blaze'  of  youth  : 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
Cyerbears  it,  and  burns  on. 

King.  My  honour'd  lady, 

1  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all. 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him, 
And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot. 

Laf.  This  I  must  say. — 

But  first  I  beg  my*  pardon, — the  young  lord 
Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady, 
Offence  of  mighty  note,  but  to  himself 
The  greatest  wTong  of  all  :  he  lost  a  wife, 
Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes ;  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive  ; 
Whose  dear  perfection  hearts  that  scorn'd  to  serve 
Humbly  call'd  mistress. 

King.  Praising  what  is  lost 

Makes    the     remembrance    dear.  —  Well,    call    him 

hither. 
We  are  reconcil'd,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition. — Let  him  not  ask  our  pardon : 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead. 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  we  do  bury 
The  incensing  relics  of  it :  let  him  approach, 
A  stranger,  no  offender :  and  inform  him, 
So  't  is  our  ^\i\\  he  should. 

Gent.  I  shall,  my  liege.     [Exit  Gentleman. 

King.  What  says  he  to  your  daughter?  have  you 

spoke  ? 
Laf.  All  that  he  is  hath   reference  to   your  high- 
ness. 
King.  Then  shall  we  have  a  match.     I  have  letters 
sent  me. 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  Bertram. 
Laf.  He  looks  well  on  't. 

King.  I  am  not  a  day  of  season, 
For  th  )u  may'st  see  a  sunshine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once  ;  but  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way :  so  stand  thou  forth  ; 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

Ber.  My  high  repented  blames, 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

King.  All  is  whole  ; 

Not  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 
Let 's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top, 
For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 


Th'  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals,  ere  we  can  effect  them.     You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord. 

Ber.  Admiringly. 

My  liege,  at  first 

I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue  : 
Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing. 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  ms, 
Which  warp'd  the  line  of  every  other  favour, 
Scorn'd  a  fair  colour,  or  express'd  it  stolen. 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions. 
To  a  most  hideous  object.     Thence  it  came, 
That  she,  whom  all  men  prais'd,  and  whom  myself 
Since  I  have  lost,  have  lov'd,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  di;st  that  did  offend  it. 

King.  Well  excus'd : 

That  thou  didst  love  her  strikes  some  scores  away 
From  the  great  compt.     But  love,  that  comes  too  late. 
Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried, 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sore'  offence. 
Crying,  that 's  good  that 's  gone.     Our  rash  faults 
Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have. 
Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave : 
Ot\.  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust, 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust ; 
Our  own  love,  waking,  cries  to  see  what 's  done,' 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon. 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudlin : 
The  main  consents  are  had;  and  here  we  '11  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

Laf.  Which  better  than  the  first,  0,  dear  heaven, 
bless  !* 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  O  nature,  cease*. 
Come  on.  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's  name 
Must  be  digested,  give  a  favour  from  you, 
To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter, 
That  she  may  quickly  come. — By  my  old  beard, 
And  every  hair  that 's  on  't,  Helen,  that 's  dead, 
Was  a  sweet  creature :  such  a  ring  as  this. 
The  last  time  ere  she*  took  her  leave  at  court, 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 

Ber.  Hers  it  was  not. 

King.  Now,  pray  you,  let  me  see  it ;  for  mine  eye. 
While  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fasten'd  to  't. — 
This  ring  was  mine ;  and,  when  I  gave  it  Helen, 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortunes  ever  stood 
Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 
I  would  relieve  her.     Had  you  that  craft  to  reave  her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most  ? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

Howe'er  it  pleases  you  to  take  it  so, 
The  ring  was  never  hers. 

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

I  have  seen  her  wear  it;  and  she  reckon'd  it 
At  her  life's  rate. 

Laf.  I  am  sure  I  saw  her  we.*  it. 

Ber.  You  are  deceiv'd  :  my  lord,  she  never  saw  it. 
In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  paper,  which  contain'd  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it.     Noble  she  was.  and  thought 
I  stood  engag'd ;  but  when  I  had  subscrib'd 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  inform'd  her  fully 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  covirse  of  honour 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceas'd. 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 


'  tlade  ;  in  f.  e.     »  soar 
next  line  to  th«  Coi  ntess. 


in  f.  e.     3  This  and  the  next  line  are  erased  by  the  MS.  emendator  of  the  folio,  1632.    ♦  f.  e.  assign  this  and  t»« 
*  Old  copies  :  cesse.      '  ere  T  :  in  f.  e. 


254 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


ACT   V. 


Kin^r.  Plutus  himself. 

Tliat  knows  the  tinct  and  nmltiplying  medicine,' 
Hath  not  in  n;uuro"s  mystcn  more  science, 
Than  I  liave  in  this  ring     'twas  mine,  'twas  Helen's, 
VVlioever  gave  it  you.     Then,  if  you  know 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  't  yourself, 
Confers  't  was  liers,  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 
Vou  got  it  from  her.     Siie  call'd  the  saints  to  surety, 
Tliiit  she  would  never  jiul  it  from  her  finger, 
rnle.<s  she  gave  it  to  your.«;elf  in  bed. 
Where  you  have  never  come,  or  sent  it  us 
Upon  her  great  disaster. 

fier.  She  never  saw  it. 

King.  Thouspeak'stitfal.sely,  as  Hove  mine  honour, 
And  inak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me, 
Which  1  would  fain  shut  out.     If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman. — 't  will  not  prove  .so  ; — 
And  yet  I  know  not: — thou  didst  hate  her  deadly, 
And  she  is  dead  : — which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe. 
More  than  to  see  this  ring. — Take  him  away. — 

[Guards  seize  Bertram. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter  fall. 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Ha\-ing  vaiiily  fear'd  too  littte. — Away  with  him  ! 
We  '11  sift  this  matter  farther. 

Ber.  If  you  shall  prove 

This  ring  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easy 
Prove  that  I  hu.^banded  her  bed  in  Florence, 
Where  yet  she  never  -was.       [Exit  Bertram,  gtianlcd. 
Enter  the  Gmtleman,  a  Stranger.' 

King.  I  am  WTapp'd  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Gent.  Gracious  sovereign, 

Whether  I  have  been  to  blame,  or  no,  I  know  not : 
Here  's  a  petition  from  a  Florentine, 
Who  hath,  for  four  or  five  removes,  come  short 
To  tender  it  herself.     I  undertook  it, 
Vanquish'd  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know, 
fs  here  attending :  her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  importing  visage :  and  she  told  me, 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Your  highness  with  herself. 

King.  [Reculs.]  "  Upon  his  many  protestations  to 
marry  me,  when  his  wife  was  dead,  I  blush  to  say  it. 
he  won  me.  Now  is  the  count  Rousillon  a  widower : 
his  vows  are  forfeited  to  me,  and  my  honour  's  paid  to 
him.  He  stole  from  Florence,  taking  no  leave,  and  I 
follow  him  to  his  country  for  ju.«tioe.  Grant  it  me,  0 
king  !  in  you  it  best  lies ;  otherwise  a  seducer  flour- 
ishes, and  a  poor  maid  is  undone.     "  Du  na  Capilet." 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and  toll' 
him  :  for  this,  I  '11  none  of  him. 

King.  The  heavens  have  thought  well  on  thee,  Lafeu, 
To  brinu  forth  this  discovery. — Seek  these  suitors. — 
Go  speedily,  and  bring  aijain  the  count. 

[Exeunt  Gmtlcmnn.  and  some  Attendants. 
r  am  afeard,  the  life  of  Helen,  lady. 
Was  foully  snatch'd. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers  ! 

Re-enter  Bertram,  guarded. 

King.  I  wonder,  sir,  for,  wives  are  monsters  to  you.* 
And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  .swear  them  lordship, 
Yet  you  desire  to  marry. — What  woman  's  that? 
Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  Widtiw.  and  Diana. 

Dia.  I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine. 
Derived  from  the  ancient  Capilet:  [Kneeling.* 


My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know, 
And  theret'ore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied, 

Wid.  I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and  honour 
Both  sufler  under  this  complaint  we  bring. 
And  both  shall  cease,  without  your  remedy. 

Ki7ig.  Come  hither,  county*.     Do  you  know  theee 
women  ? 

Ber.  My  lord.  I  neither  can,  nor  will  deny 
But  that  I  know  them.     Do  they  charge  me  farther? 

Dia.  Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your  wife? 

[Rishg^ 

Ber.  She  's  none  of  mine,  my  lord. 

Dia.  If  you  shall  marry 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine ; 
You  give  away  heaven's  vows,  and  those  are  mine : 
You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine ; 
For  I  by  vow  am  so  embodied  yours. 
That  si>e  which  marries  you  must  marry  me , 
Either  both,  or  none. 

Laf.  [To  Bertram.]  Your  reputation  com^e  i^)r> 
short  for  my  daughter :  you  are  no  husband  for  her. 

Ber.  My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate  creature. 
Whom    sometime    I    have    laugli'd  with.     Let    your 

highness 
Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honour, 
Tlian  so  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here.         [friend. 

King.  Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them  ill  to 
Till  your  deeds  gain  them  :  fairer  prove  your  honour 
Than  in  my  thought  it  lies. 

Dia.  Good  my  lord. 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  not  my  virginity. 

King.  What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 

Ber.  She  's  impudent,  my  lord 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. 

Dia.  He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord  :  if  I  were  so, 
He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price : 
Do  not  believe  him.     O  I  behold  this  ring, 
Whose  high  respect,  and  rich  validity, 
Did  lack  a  parallel:  yet,  for  all  that. 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  o'  the  camp. 
If  I  be  one. 

Count.  He  blushes,  and  't  is  his.* 

Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Cunferr'd  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue. 
Hath  it  been  ow'd  and  worn.     This  is  his  wife. 
That  ring  's  a  thousand  proofs. 

King.  Methought,  you  said. 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Dia.  I  did,  my  lord,  but  loth  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument:  his  name  's  Parolles. 

Lnf.  I  saw  the  irian  to-day,  if  man  he  be. 

Kmg.  Find  him,  and  bring  him  hither. 

Ber.  What  of  him? 

He  's  quoted  for  a  most  perfidious  slave. 
With  all  the  spots  o'  the  world  tax'd  and  debauch'd, 
Whose  nature  sickens  but  to  speak  a  truth. 
Am  I  or  that,  or  this,  for  what  he  '11  utter, 
That  will  speak  any  thing? 

King.  She  hath  that  rmg  of  yours. 

Ber.  I  think,  she  has :  certain  it  is,  I  lik'd  her, 
And  boarded  her  i'  the  wanton  way  of  youth. 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me, 
Ma/ldin2  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint, 
As  all  impeidiments  in  fancy's  course 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy;  and,  in  fine, 
i  Her  infinite  cunning,'  with  her  modern  grace. 


'  An  a.1lu!iion  to  the  Alchemiits.  *  Enter  a  GentUmnn  :  in  f.  e.  >  A  "toll"  waa  paid  for  the  priviUge  of  sellin;?  a  here*  at  »  ftit 
'  This  word  i«  inserted  in  place  of  "  »ir,"  in  L;rd  F.  Egerton'B  MS.  annotated  folio,  1623.  *  Not  in  f.  e.  •  connt  :  in  f.  e  '  Not  in  f  i^ 
O'd  copies  :  hit  (the  old  form  of  it).     »  in.suit  -.aming  :  in  t.  e 


SCEITB  m. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


255 


Subdued  me  to  her  rate :  she  got  the  ring, 
And  I  had  that,  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought. 

Dia.  I  must  be  patient : 

You,  that  turn'd*  off  a  first  so  noble  wife, 
May  justly  diet  me.     I  pray  you  yet, 
(Since  you  lack  virtue,  I  will  lose  a  husband) 
Send  for  your  ring ;  I  will  return  it  home, 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Ber.  I  have  it  not. 

King.  What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you? 

Dia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger. 

King.  Know  you  this  ring?  this  ring  was  his  of 
late. 

Dia.  And  this  was  it  I  gave  him,  being  a-bed. 

King.  The   story   then  goes   false, — ^you    tlirew    it 
him 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Dia.  T  have  spoke  the  truth. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  do  confess,  the  ring  was  hers. 

King.  You   boggle   shrewdly,  every  feather    starts 
you. — 
[s  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  but  tell  me  true,   I  charge 
you, 
Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master, 
(Which,  on  your  just  proceeding,  I  '11  keep  off) 
By  him,  and  by  this  woman  here,  what  know  you  ? 

Par.  So  please  your  majesty,  my  master  hath  been 
an  honourable  gentleman :  tricks  he  hath  had  in  him, 
which  gentlemen  have. 

King.  Come,  come ;  to  the  purpose.  Did  he  love 
this  woman  ? 

Par.  'Faith,  sir,  he  did  love  her ;  but  how? 

King.  How,  I  pray  you  ? 

Par.  He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves  a 
woman. 

King.  How  is  that  ? 

Par.  He  loved  her,  sir,  and  loved  her  not. 

King.  As  thou  art  a  Knave,  and  no  knave. — 
Wbat  an  equivocal  companion  is  this ! 

Par.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's 
command. 

Laf.  He's  a  good  drum,  my  lord,  but  a  naughty 
orator. 

Dia.  Do  you  know,  he  promised  me  marriage  ? 

Par.  'Faith,  I  know  more  than  I  '11  speak. 

King.  But  wilt  thou  not  .speak  all  thou  know'st  ? 

Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty.  I  did  go  between 
them,  as  I  said ;  but  more  than  that,  he  loved  her, — 
for,  indeed,  he  was  mad  for  her,  and  talked  of  Satan. 
and  of  limbo,  and  of  furies,  and  I  know  not  what :  yet 
I  was  in  that  credit  with  them  at  that  time,  that  I 
blew  of  their  going  to  bed,  and  of  other  motions,  as 
promising  her  marriage,  and  things  that  would  derive 
ir.e  ill  will  to  speak  of:  therefore,  I  will  not  speak 
what  I  know. 

King.  Thou  hast  spoken    all  already,  unless  thou 
canst 
Say  they  are  married.     But  thou  art  too  fine 
In  thy  evidence  ;  therefere,  stand  aside. — 
This  ring,  you  say,  was  yours  ? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Where  did  you   buy   it  ?    or  who   gave   it 
you? 

Dia.  It  was  not  given  me,  nor  T  did  not  buy  it. 

•  f.  e.  h«'«  iTin'd       '  '  .\ot  is  f.  e 


King.  Who  lent  it  you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither 

King.  Where  did  you  find  it  then  ? 

Dia.  I  found  it  not 

King.  If  it  were  yours  by  none  of  all  these  ways, 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Dia.  I  never  gave  it  him. 

Laf.  This  woman 's  an  easy  glove,  my  lord :   she 
goes  off  and  on  at  pleasure. 

King.  This   ring  was    mine:    I    gave   it   his   firs* 
wife. 

Dia.  It  might  be  yours,  or  hers,  for  aught  I  know. 

King.  Take  her  away :  I  do  not  like  her  now. 
To  prison  with  her;  and  away  with  him. — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this  ring, 
Thou  diest  within  this  hour. 

Dia.  I'll  never  tell  you. 

King.  Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I'll  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.  I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer. 

Dia.  By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  't  was  you. 

King.  Wherefore  hast  thou    accus'd  him    all    this 
whilr  ' 

Dia.  Because  he  's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty. 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he  '11  swear  to  't; 
I  '11  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life  ! 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  tliis  old  man  's  vnfe. 

[Pointing  to  Lafeu. 

King.  She  does  abuse  our  ears.      To   prison   wih 
her  ! 

Dia.  Good  mother,  fetch    my  bail. — [E.rit  Widow.] 
Stay,  royal  sir  : 
The  jeweller  that  owes  the  ring,  is  sent  for, 
And  he  shall  surety  me.     But  for  this  lord. 
Who  hath  abus'd  me,  as  he  knows  himself. 
Tliough  yet  he  never  harm'd  me,  here  I  quit  him. 
He  knows  himself  my  bed  he  hath  defil'd. 
And  at  that  time  he  got  his  wife  with  child : 
Dead  though  she  be,  she  feels  her  young  one  kick : 
So  there  's  my  riddle,  one  that 's  dead  is  quick; 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

Re-enter  Widow,  with  Helena. 

King.  Is  there  no  exorcist 

Beguiles  the  truer  office  of  mine  eyes  ? 
Is  't  real,  that  I  see  ? 

Hel.  No,  my  good  lord  : 

'T  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see ; 
The  name,  and  not  the  thing. 

Ber.  Both,  both  !  0,  pardon  !  [Kneeling. 

Hel.  0  !  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like  this  maid. 
I  found  you  wondrous  kind.     There  is  your  ring; 
And  look  you,  here  's  your  letter  :  this  it  says : 
'•  When  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this  ring, 
And  are  by  me  with  child,"  &c. — This  is  done 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won  ? 

Ber.  If   she,    my    liege,   can   make   me   know  thii. 
clearly,  [Rixing 

I  '11  love  her  dearly,  ever,  ever  dearly. 

Hel.  If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue, 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you  ! — 
0  !  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  livins  ? 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions.  I  shall  weep  anon. — 
Good' Tom  Drum,  [To  Parolles.]  lend  me  a  handker 
chief:  so,  I  thank  thee.  Wait  on  me  home,  I  '11  make 
sport  with  tiiee:  let  thy  courtesies  alone,  they  are 
scurvy  ones. 

King.  Let  us  from  point  to  point  this  stor)'  know. 
To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  flow  — 


256 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL. 


[To  Diana.]    If  thou   be'st   yet    a   fresh    uncropped 

flower, 
Choose  thou  thy  husband,  nnd  I  '11  pay  thy  dower; 
For  I  can  guess,  that  by  thy  honest  aid 
Thou  kept'st  a  wife  hersel'",  thyself  a  maid. — 


Of  that,  and  all  the  progress,  more  and  leas, 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express : 
All  yet  seems  well ;  and  if  it  end  .so  meet, 
The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet. 


[Flourish 


The  king's  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done. 

All  's  well  ended,  if  this  suit  be  won, 

Tliat  you  express  content ,  which  we  will  pay 

■  This  line  ia  uot  in  f.  e. 


EPILOGUE  BY  THE  IvING.' 

With  strife  to  please  you,  day  exceedins  day : 
Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  parts; 
Your  gentle  hai-ls  lend  us.  and  take  our  hearts. 

[Exeunt  mams 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:    OR,    WHAT    YOU    WILL, 


DKAMATIS     PEESOXJE. 


Orsino,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

Sebastian,  Brother  to  Viola. 

Antonio,  a  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Sebastian. 

A  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Viola. 

r.       '     '    '  >  Gentlemen  attending  on  the  Duke 
Curio,  j  ° 

Sir  Toby  Belch,  Uncle  to  Olivia. 
Sir  Andrew  Ague-Cheek. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers, 
SCENE,  a  City  in  Illyria: 


Malvolio,  Steward  to  Olivia. 
Servants  to  Olivia. 


Fabian. 
Clown. 


Olivia,  a  rich  Countess. 
Viola,  in  Love  with  the  Duke. 
Maria,  Olivia's  Woman. 

Musicians,  and  Attendants, 
md  the  Sea-coast  near  it. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  L— An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Curio,  Lords.     Music  playing} 

Duke.  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on : 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 
That  strain  again  ; — it  had  a  d^ing  fall : 
0  !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south,* 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets. 
Stealing,  and  giving  odour. — Enough  !  no  more  : 

[Music  ceases.^ 
'T  is  not  so  sweet  now,  as  it  was  before. 
0.  spirit  of  love  !  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou, 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  1he  sea,  nought  enters  there. 
Of  what  validity*  and  pitch  soe'er, 
But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price. 
Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 
That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord? 

Duke.  What,  Curio? 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have. 
0  !  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought  she  purg'd  the  air  of  pestilence  : 
That  instant  was  I  turn'd  into  a  hart, 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er  since  pursue  me.' — How  now  !  what  news  from  her  ? 
Enter  Valentine. 

Vol.  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted, 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : — 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat. 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine  :  all  this,  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.  0  !  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame, 


To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  ehaft 
Hath  kill'd  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her :  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart. 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  fill'd,. 
(Her  sweet  perfections)  with  one  self  king. — 
Away,  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  ; 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with  bowers. 

[Exeunz 

SCENE  n.— The  Sea-coast. 
Enter  Vioi.a,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 
Via.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap.  This  is  Tlh-ria.  lady^ 

Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  ? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Perchance,  he  is  not  drown'd : — ^what  think  you.  sailors' 
Cap.  It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were  sav'd. 
Vio.  0,  my  poor  brother  !   and  so,  perchance,  may- 
be be. 
Cap.  True,  madam  :  and,  to  comfort  you  with  chana= 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split. 
When  you,  and  those  poor  number  saved  with  you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so  there  's  gold. 

Mine  OAvn  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope. 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.     Know'st  thou  this  country  ? 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  bon\ 
I  Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 
I       Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 

j      Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature 

1  As  in  name. 


'  Musicians  attending:  in  f.  e.      »  The  old  copies  iiead  .  sound;    Pope  m&do  the  change, 
ite  hounds,  pursue  me  to  my  death. — "  DanieVs  Deliai"  159a. 


♦  Value.      »  My  tkou(fbts- 

257 


258 


TWELPTII-NIGIIT.    OR,   WHAT  YOU  AVILL. 


Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

F/o.  Orsino  !  I  have  heard  my  father  name  him : 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now.  or  was  so  very  late; 
For  but  a  month  ayo  I  went  from  hence, 
And  tlien  't  waf  fresh  in  murmur,  (as,  you  know, 
What  great  ones  do  (he  less  will  prattle  of) 
That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she? 

Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leaving  her 
Jn  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother. 
Who  shortly  also  died  :  for  whose  dear  love. 
They  siiy,  she  hath  abjur'd  the  company. 
And  sight'  of  men. 

Vio.  0  !  that  I  ser\''d  that  lady, 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world. 
Till  I  had  made  mine  ovNni  occasion  mellow, 
What  my  estate  is. 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass. 

Because  she  ^vill  admit  no  kind  of  suit, 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain, 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pr"ythee,  (and  I  '11  pay  thee  bounteously) 
Conceal  me  what  I  am,  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as  haply  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I  '11  serve  this  duke : 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him. 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains;  for  1  can  sing. 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music, 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap  to  time  I  wnll  commit ; 
Only,  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I  '11  be : 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see. 

Vio.  I  thank  thee.     Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Sir  Tobv  Belch,  and  Maria. 
Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take  the 
death  of  her  brother  thus  ?  I  am  sure  care  's  an  enemy 

to  lllfc. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in 
earlier  o'  nights:  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great 
exeeption.s  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  T?.  Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted. 

Mar.  Ay.  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within  the 
•modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine?  I  'II  confine  myself  no  finer  than 
I  am.  These  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in,  and 
«o  be  thet^e  boots  too:  an  they  be  not,  let  them  hang 
themselves  in  their  own  .straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you  :  I 
heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday,  and  of  a  foolish 
knight,  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here  to  be  her 
w^ooer. 

Sir.  To.  Who?  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek? 

M'ir.  Ay.  he. 

Sir  To.  He  's  as  tall*  a  man  as  any  's  in  lUyria. 

Mar.  What 's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.  Why.  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a 
year. 


Mir.  Ay,  but  he  '11  have  but  a  year  in  all  thsse 
ducats:  he  's  a  very  fool,  and  a  pro<ligal. 

Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you  '11  say  so !  he  plays  o'  the 
viol-de-gamboys,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages 
word  for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all  ibe  goofi 
gifts  of  nature. 

Mar.  He  hath,  indeed. — all  most  natural ;  for,  beside." 
that  he  's  a  fool,  he  's  a  great  quarreller ;  and,  but  that 
he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the  gust  he  hath 
in  quarrelling,  't  is  thought  among  the  prudent  he  would 
quickly  liave  the  gift  of  a  crave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundreis.  and  «ub- 
stractors  that  say  so  of  him.     Who  are  they? 

Mar.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he  's  drunk  nightly 
in  your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece.  I  11 
drink  to  her,  as  long  as  there  is  a  pa-«sage  in  my  throat, 
and  drink  in  Illyria.  He  's  a  coward,  and  a  coistril,^ 
that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece,  till  his  brains  turn  o' 
the  toe  like  a  parish-top.*  What,  wench  !  Ca^stiliamt 
vulgo,''  for  here  comes  Sir  Andrew  Ague-face. 
Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir.  And.  Sir  Toby  Belch  !  how  now,  sir  Toby  Bclrh  ' 

Sir  To.  Sweet  sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.  And  you  too.  sir. 

Sir  To.  Accost,  sir  Andrew,  accost. 

Sir.  And.  What's  that? 

Sir  To.  My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better  ae 
quaintance. 

Mar.  My  name  is  Mary.  sir. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Mary  Accost, — 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight:  accost  is  t>ont  het. 
board  her.  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth.  I  would  not  undertake  her  in 
this  comi'.any.     Is  that  the  meaning  of  accost  ? 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  her'  part  so.  sir  A  iidrew.  would 
thou  mishtst  never  draw  sword  again  ! 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I  miglu 
never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you  think  you 
have  fools  in  hand  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marrj',  but  you  shall  hav  and  here  's  my 
hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free.  I  pray  you,  bring 
your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar,  and  let  it  drink. 

Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweet  heart  ?  what  's  your 
metaphor? 

Mar.  It 's  dry,^  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so  :  I  am  not  such  an  a.<is,  but 
I  can  keep  my  hand  dr>'.     But  what 's  your  jest  ? 

3Iar.  A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them? 

Mar.  Ay.  .«ir;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends:  mar- 
ry, now  I  let  go  your  hand.  I  am  barren.  [E.ri*  Maru.' 

Sir  To.  0  knight !  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of  eauary. 
When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 
!  Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think;  unless  you  see 
'  canary  put  me  down.  Methinks,  sometimes  I  have  no 
more  wit  than  a  Christian,  or  an  ordinary  man  has, 
but  I  am  a  great  eater  of  beef,  and,  I  believe.  LLat  doch 
I  harm  to  my  wit. 
i      Sir  To.  No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I  'd  forswear  it.  I  "11 
,  ride  home  to-morrow,  sir  Toby. 


>  Old  tia. :  light,  and  company. 
or  towns,  for  the  une  of  the  noblic. 
tras  coDEJdercd  a  iien  of  det>ititf 


*  Fine,  brave.      >  From  kettrel.  a  monerel  kind  of  hawk 

*  Sir  Toby's  mistake,  says  Verplanck,  for  volto — Put  on  a  trave  face 


A  large  top  was  frrmerly  kept  in  pan»h»i 
'  This  word  is  act  i«  f.  •      '  Tim 


TWELFTH-MGHT :   OE,   WHAT  YOU    WILL, 


Sir  To.  Pourquoi.  my  dear  knight  ?  |  Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all :  I  have  unclasp'd 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourquoi  ?  do  or  not  do?  I  would  j  To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul 


had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues,  that  I  have 
I;  1  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting.  0,  had  I  but 
followed  the  arts  ! 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  an  excellent  head  of  hair. 

Sir  And.  Why.  would  that  have  mended  my  hair? 

Sir  To.  Past  question  ;  for,  thou  seest,  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature. 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does  't  not  ? 

Sir  To.  Excellent :  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff, 
and  I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee  between  her 
legs,  and  spin  it  off. 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby : 
your  niece  will  not  be  seen  :  or,  if  she  be.  it 's  four  to 
one  she  "11  none  of  me.  The  count  himself,  here  hard 
by,  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She  '11  none  o'  the  count:  she'll  not  match 
above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit ;  I 
have  heard  her  swear  it.     Tut.  there  's  life  in  't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I  "11  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow  o' 
the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world  :  I  delight  in  masques 
and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kick-shaws.  knight? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be, 
under  the  degree  of  my  betters:  and  yet  I  will  not 
compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  To.  "What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard,'  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to  't. 

Sir  And.  And.  I  think.  I  have  the  back-trick,  simply 
as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria.  [Dances  fantastically .^ 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  wherefore 
have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them?  are  they  like 
to  take  dust,  like  Mistress  JNIairs'  picture  ?  why  dost 
thou  not  go  to  church  in  a  galliard,  and  come  home  in 
acoranto?*  My  ver>' walk  should  be  a  jig:  I  would 
not  so  much  as  make  water,  but  in  a  sink-a-pace.* 
What  dost  tlioit  mean  ?  is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in? 
I  did  think,  by  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg,  it 
was  formed  under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  't  is  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent  well 
in  a  ditn-coloured*  stock.  Shall  we  set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?  were  we  not  born 
under  Taurus  ? 

Sir  And.  Taurus  ?  that 's  sides  and  heart.' 

Sir  To.  No.  sir,  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me  see 
thee  caper.  [Sir  Asd.  dances  again.y  Ha!  higher: 
tia.  ha  ! — excellent !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Valentine,  and  Viola  in  mail's  attire. 

Val.  If  the  duke  continue  these  favours  towards  you, 

Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced :  he  hath 

known  you  but  three  days,  and  already  you   are  no 

stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humour  or  my  negligence, 
that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of  his  love. 
Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favours  ? 
Vai    No.  believe  me. 

Enter  Duke,  Curio,  and  Attendants. 
Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 
Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario.  ho  ? 
Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord  ;  here. 
Duke.  Stand  you  aM-hile  aloof.       [Curio.  tVc.  retire.^ 
— Cesario,  I 


Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her  : 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 
And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow, 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Dvke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds. 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.  Say  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord,  what  then  ' 

Duke.  O  !  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love  ; 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes  ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth. 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.  I  think  not  so.  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  (t, 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years. 
That  say  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth,  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill,  and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know,  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair. — Some  four,  or  five,  attend  him ; 
All,  if  you  will,  for  I  myself  am  best. 
When  least  in  company. — Prosper  well  in  this. 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I  '11  do  my  best. 

To  woo  your  lady:  [Aside.]  yet,  0,-*  barful"  strife  ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Maria,  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay ;  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been,  oi 
I  will  not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may  entei 
in  way  of  thy  excuse.  My  lady  will  hang  thee  for  thy 
absence. 

Clo.  Let  her  hang  me :  he  that  is  well  hanged  in 
this  world  needs  to  fear  no  colours. 

3Iar.  Make  that  good. 

Clo.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

3Iar.  A  good  lenten  answer.  I  can  tell  thee  where 
that  saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colours. 

Clo.  Where,  good  mistress  Mary? 

Mar.  In  the  wars ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to  say 
in  your  foolery. 

Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom,  that  have  it:  and 
those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talent*. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so  Ions  ab- 
sent :  or.  to  be  turned  away,  is  not  that  as  good  as  s 
hanging  to  you  ? 

Clo.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad  marriage 
and  for  turning  away,  let  summer  bear  it  out. 

Mar.  You  are  resolute,  then  ? 

Clo.  Not  so  neither :  but  I  am  resolved  on  two  points." 

Mar.  That,  if  one  br^ak,  the  other  -svill  hold;  or,  if 
both  break,  your  gaskins'*  fall. 

Clo.  Apt.  in  good  faith ;  very  apt.  Well,  go  thy 
way :  if  sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert  a^ 
watty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue,  no  more  o'  that.  Here 
comes  my  lady:  make  your  excuse  ^^^sely;  you  were 
best.         '         '  '  '      '      [Exit. 


'  A  quick,  lively  dance.  2  Xot  in  f.  e.  '  Mary  Frith,  a  ereat  notoriety  of  the  time,  -who  went  about  in  male  attire ;  a  wooa  cat  ot  hei 
'n_J;y  be  found  prefixed  to  "The  Roaring  Girl."  in  Dodslev's  Old  Plays,  Vol.Vf..  and  in  the  Pictorial  Shakspere.  *  Quick  dance  for  two  persons. 
'iT"*  "*™^  °f  ^  dance,  the  measures  whereof  a'-e  regulated  by  the  number  five. — Sir  John  Hatvhins.  '  flame-coloured  :  in  f.  e.  '  An 
^■Insion  to  the  representation  of  man,  and  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  in  old  almanacs.  *  '  Not  in  f.  e.  '"  a  :  in  f.  e.  'i  Fv'l  of  bars  or  im- 
pediments.      "  '-  Points  were  strings  to  hold  up  the  gaskins  or  hose. 


260 


TWELFTH-NIGIIT:   OK,   WHAT   YOU  WILL. 


ACT    i. 


Enter  Olivia,  and  Mai.volio. 

Clo.  Wit,  an  "t  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good  fooliug ! 
Those  wits,  tliat  think  ihcy  iiavc  thee,  do  very  oft  prove 
tools ;  and  I.  that  am  sure  I  lack  thee,  may  pass  for  a 
wise  man:  for  what  says  Quinapalus?  Better  a  witty 
rbol.  than  a  foolish  wit. — (iod  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

OH.  Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  vou  not  hear,  fellows?  Take  away  the 
lady. 

Oil  Go  to,  you  're  a  dry  fool ;  I  "11  no  more  of  you  : 
besides,  you  grow  dishonest 


Re-enter  Maria. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  izate  a  young  gentle 
man  much  desires  to  «peak  witli  yon. 

OH.  From  the  count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  :  't  is  a  fair  young  man 
and  well  attended. 

OH.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay? 

UTar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OH.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you  :  he  speaks  nothing 
but  madman.  Fie  on  him  !  [Exit  Mauia.]  Go  you. 
Malvolio:   if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  count.  I  am  sick,  or 


Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good  coun-   not  at  home  ;  what  you  will,  to  dismiss  it.    [Exit  Mai. 

voMo]    Now  you  see,  sir,  how  your  fooling  grows  old. 
and  people  di. si  ike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  tliy 
eldest  son  should  be  a  fool,  whose  skull  Jove  cram  with 
brains ;  for  here  comes  one  of  thy  kin,  that  has  a  most 
weak  pia  mater. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Bf.i.ch. 

OH.  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk. — What  is  he  at 
the  gate,  cousin  ? 

Sir  To.  A  gentleman. 

OH.  A  gentleman  !     Wliat  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  'T  is  a  gentleman  here. — A  plague  o'  these 
pickle-herrings  ! — How  now,  sot? 

Clo.  Good  sir  Toby, — 

OH.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you'conie  so  early  b\ 
this  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  !  I  defy  lechery.  There  's  one  at 
the  gate. 

OH.  Ay.  marry ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will.  I  care  not: 
give  me  faith,  say  I.     Well,  it  '.«  all  one.  [Exit. 

OH.  What's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool? 

Clo.  Like  a  drown'd  man,  a  fool,  and  a  madman : 
one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool,  the  second 
mads  him,  and  a  third  drowns  him. 

OH.  Go  thou  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let  him  sit 
o'  my  coz,  for  he  's  in  the  third  degree  of  driiik ;  he  's 


»el  will  amend  :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink,  then  is  t 
tool  not  dry;  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend  himself, 
if  he  mend,  he  is  no  longer  dishonest :  if  he  cannot, 
let  the  botcher  mend  him.  Any  thing  that 's  mended 
IS  but  patched  :  virtue  that  transgresses  is  but  patched 
with  sin ;  and  sin  that  amends  is  but  patclied  with 
virtue.  If  that  this  simple  syllogism  will  serve,  so: 
if  it  will  not,  what  remedy?  As  there  is  no  true 
cuckold  but  calamity,  so  beauty  's  a  flower. — The  lady 
bade  take  away  the  fool ;  therefore,  I  say  again,  take 
her  away. 

OH.  Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree ! — Lady,  cv- 
cvlhi.<;  non  farit  monachum :  that  's  as  much  as  to  say, 
I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain.  Good  madonna,  give 
me  leave  to  prove  you  a  fool. 

OH.  Can  you  do  it? 

Clo.  Dcxtcriously,  good  madonna. 

OH.  Make  your  proof. 

Clo.  I  must  catechize  you  for  it,  madonna.  Good 
my  mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

OH.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness  I  '11  'bide 
your  proof. 

Clo.  Good  madonna,  why  mourn'st  thou  ? 

OH.  Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clo.  I  think,  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

OH.  I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  your 
brotlier's  soul  being  in  heaven.— Take  away  the  fool, 
gentlemen. 

OH.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio?  doth  he 
not  mend  ? 

Mai.  Yes  :  and  shall  do.  till  the  pangs  of  death  shake 
him  :  infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth  ever  make 
the  better  fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you.  sir.  a  speedy  infirmity,  for  the 
•-^tter  increasing  your  folly  !  Sir  Toby  will  be  sworn 
that  I  am  no  fox.  but  he  will  not  pass  his  word  for  two- 
pence that  you  are  no  fool. 

OH.  How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio? 

Mai  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such 
a  barren  rascal:  1  saw  him  put  down  the  other  day  ^ 
with  an  ordinary  fool,  that  has  no  more  brain  than  a; 
stone.  Look  you  now.  he  's  out  of  his  guard  already :  j 
unless  you  lauL'h  and  minister  occasion  to  him.  he  is 

gagged.     1  protest.  I  take  these  wise  men,  that  crow  l      Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner:  he 
so  at  these  set  kind  of  fools.  t<^  be  no  better  than  the  you.  or  no. 
fools'  zanies.  |      O/i.  Of  what  personage,  and  years  is  he? 

Oil.  0.  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and  taste :  flfal.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  yonne 
vsith  a  distempered  apjietitc.  To  be  irenerous,  iiuiltless.  enough  for  a  boy  ;  as  a  .«quash'  is  before  't  is  a  pea.scod, 
and  of  free  disposition,  is  to  take  those  thinus  for  bird-  or  a  codlins  when  't  is  almost  an  apple  :  't  is  with  hiiD 
bolts,   that   you    deem    cannon-bullets.     There    is    no  e'en  .standing  water,  between  boy  and   man.     He  if 

very  well-favoured,  and  he  speaks  very  shrewibhly: 
one  would  think,  his  mother's  milk  were  scarce  out  of 
him. 

OH.  Let  him  approach.     Call  in  my  gentlewoman. 
Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit 

sheriff,  to  which  proclamation!!  and  rlacards  were  affixed.      *  and  ;  in  f.  e.      '  An  unnne  r>o<l 


drown'd  :  go,  look  alter  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the  fool  shall 
look  to  the  madman.  [Exit  Clown. 

Re-enter  Mai.vot.io. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond'  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick:  he  take? 
on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore  comes  to 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  asleep  :  he  seems 
to  have  a  fore-knowledge  of  that  too,  and  therefore 
comes  to  speak  with  you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him, 
lady?  he  's  fortified  against  any  denial. 

OH.  Tell  him.  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he  '11  stand 
at  your  door  like  a  sheriffs  post.'  or"  be  the  supporter 
to  a  bench,  but  he  '11  speak  with  you. 

OH.  What  kind  of  man  is  he? 

Mai.  Why,  of  man  kind. 

OH.  What  manner  of  man  ? 

speak  with  you.  will 


•slander  in  an  allowed  fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but 
rail  ;  nor  no  railing  in  a  known  discreet  man,  though 
he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo.  Now,  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,  for  thou 
speakest  well  of  fools. 

A  post  at  the  door  of 


SCENE    V. 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:   OR,  WHAT   YOU    WILL. 


26] 


Re-enter  Maria. 

OH.  Give  mo  my  veil :  coine,  throw  it  o'er  my  face. 
We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 
Enter  Viola. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she  ? 

Oil.  Speak  to  me  ;  t  shall  answer  for  her.  Your  will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable 
beauty, — I  pray  you,  tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the 
ho'ise,  for  I  never  saw  her  :  I  would  be  loath  to  cast 
away  my  speech ;  for,  besides  that  it  is  excellently  well 
penned,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  con  it.  Good 
beauties,  let  me  sustain  no  scorn ;  I  am  very  comptible' 
even  to  the  least  sinister  usage. 

OH.  Whence  came  you,  sir? 

'  Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and 
that  question  's  out,  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give 
me  modest  assurance  if  you  be  the  lady  of  the  house, 
that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

OH.  Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart;  and  yet,  by  the  very 
fangs  of  malice  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  1  play.  Are 
you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

OH.  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp 
yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow,  is  not  yours  to 
reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commission.  I  will  on 
with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  then  show  you  the 
heart  of  my  message. 

OH.  Come  to  what  is  important  in  't :  I  forgive  you 
the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas  !  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  't  is 
poetical. 

OH.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned :  I  pray  you, 
keep  it  in.  I  heard,  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates,  and 
allowed  your  approach,  rather  to  wonder  at  you  than 
to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not  mad,  be  gone  ;  if  you  have 
reason,  be  brief:  'tis  not  that  time  of  moon  with  me 
to  make  one  in  so  skipping  a  dialogue. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber;  I  am  to  hull'  here  a  little 
longer. — Some  mollification  for  your  giant',  sweet  lady. 
Tell  me  your  mind  :  I  am  a  messenger. 

OH.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  deliver, 
when  the  com-tesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak  your 
otiice. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no  over- 
ture of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage.  I  hold  the  olive 
in  my  hand :  my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as  matter. 

OH.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ?  what 
would  you? 

Vio  The  rudeness  that  hath  appear'd  in  me,  have  I 
lea^-n'd  from  my  entertainment.  What  I  am.  and 
what  I  would,  are  as  secret  as  maidenhead :  to  your 
ears,  divinity ;  to  any  other's,  profanation. 

OH.  Give  us  the  place  alone.  We  will  hear  this 
divinity.  [Exit  Maria.]  Now,  sir;  what  is  your 
text  ? 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, — 

OH.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be  said 
i»J  it.     Where  lies  your  text  ? 

Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

OH    In  his  bosom  !     In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  ? 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his 
heart. 

OM    O  !  I  have  read  it :  it  is  heresy.     Have  you  no 
more  to  say  ? 
■   Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

OH.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your   lord  to 


negotiate  with  my  face?  you  are  now  out  of  your  text 
but  we  will  draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you  the  pic- 
ture. Look  you,  sir;  such  a  one  I  am  at  this  pre- 
sent* :  is  't  not  well  done  ?  [  UnveiHng 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

OH.  'T  is  in  grain,  sir :  't  will  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Vio.  'T  is  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on. 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruell'st  she  alive. 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave. 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

OH.  0  !  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted.  I  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty  :  it  shall  be 
inventoried,  and  every  particle,  and  utensil,  labelled 
to  my  will ;  as,  item,  two  lips  indifferent  red ;  item, 
two  grey  eyes  with  lids  to  them  ;  item,  one  neck,  one 
chin,  and  so  forth.    Were  you  sent  hither  to  praise  me' 

Vio.  I  see  what  you  are  :  you  are  too  proud  ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you  :  0  !  such  love 
Should  be  but  recompens'd,  though  you  were  crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

OH.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  fertile  tears. 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

OH.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind ;  I  cannot  lo'.-e 
him : 
Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth ; 
In  voices  well  divulg'd,  free,  learn'd,  and  valiant. 
And  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person ;  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him. 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life. 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense : 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

OH.  Why,  what  would  yon  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate. 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 
VyMte  loyal  cantons^  of  contemned  love. 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Halloo  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia  !     0  !  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth. 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

OH.  You  might  do  much.    What  is  your  parentage  "* 

Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well  • 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

OH.  Get  you  to  your  lord  : 

I  cannot  love  him.     Let  him  send  no  more, 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  mc  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well  • 
I  thanlf  you  for  your  pains.     Spend  this  for  me 

[Offering  her  purse 

Vio.  I  am  no'fee'd  post,  lady;  keep  your  purse: 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint  that  you  shall  love. 
And  let  your  fervour,  like  my  master's,  be 
Plac'd  in  conte*npt !  '  Farewell,  fair  cruelty.         [Exiu 

OH.  What  is  your  parentage  ? 
"  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman." — I  'U  be  sworn  thou  art : 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit. 
Do  give   thee  five- fold  blazon. — Not  too  fast : — soft  I 
soft! 


'  Sensitive.      »  Lie,  or  remain. 
foi  cantos.      «  N  ■;  in  f.  e. 


»  An  allusion  to  the  wardens  of  ladies  in  old  romances.      ♦  I  was  this  present  :  in  f.  e.      »  An  eld  woj- 


262 


rVVELFTlI-:MGllT :   OR,  WHAT   YOU  WILL. 


A.crr  n. 


Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now? 
Kven  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague. 
Mcthinks.  I  feel  this  youth's  pcrlections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  ai  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. — 
What,  ho  !  Mai  vol  io. — 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

OH.  Run  after  that  same  peevish'  messenger, 
The  county's  man  :  he  left  this  rius  behind  liim. 


Would  I.  or  not :  tell  him,  I'  11  none  of  it. 

Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord. 

Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  :  I  am  not  for  him. 

If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 

I  '11  give  him  reasons  for  't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 
Mai.  Madam,  1  will.  [EiU 

OH.  I  do  I  know  not  what,  and  fear  to  find 

Mine  eye  too  irreat  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 

Fate,  show  thy  force  :  ounselves  we  do  not  owe' ; 

What  is  decreed  must  be,  and  be  this  so !  [Exit 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— The  Sea-coast. 
Enter  Antoxio  a)td  Seb.\stiak. 

.int.  Will  you  stay  no  longer?  nor  will  you  not, 
that  1  go  with  you? 

Scb.  By  your  patience,  no.  My  stars  shine  darkly 
over  me  :  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might,  perhaps, 
distemper  yours ;  therefore,  I  shall  crave  of  you  your 
leave,  that  I  may  bear  my  evils  alone.  It  were  a  bad 
recompense  for  your  love,  to  lay  any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you,  whither  you  are  bound. 

Seb.  No.  'sooth,  sir.  ]\Iy  determinate  voyage  is  mere 
extravagancy ;  but  I  perceive  in  you  so  excellent  a 
touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not  extort  from  me 
what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in :  therefore,  it  charges  me 
in  manners  the  rather  to  express  myticlf.  You  must 
know  of  me  then,  Antonio,  my  name  is  Sebastian, 
which  I  called  Roderigo.  My  father  was  that  Sebastian 
of  Me.<saline.  whom,  I  know,  you  have  heard  of :  he 
left  behind  him,  myself  and  a  si.ster,  both  born  in  an 
hour,  if  the  heavens  had  been  pleased,  would  we  had 
.so  ended  !  but,  you.  sir.  altered  that ;  for  some  hour 
before  you  took  me  from  the  breach  of  the  sea  was  my 
sister  drowned. 

Ant.  Alas,  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady.  sir.  though  it  was  said  she  much  resem- 
bled me.  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful  :  but, 
though  I  could  not  with  self-estimation  wander  so  far  to 
believe  that'  :  yet  thus  far  I  will  boldly  publish  her — 
she  bore  a  mind  that  envy  could  noL  but  call  fair.  She 
is  drowned  already,  sir,  with  salt  water,  though  I  seem 
to  drown  her  remembrance  again  with  more. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

S(h.  0.  good  Antonio  !  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let  me 
be  your  servant. 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done,  that 
is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered,  desire  it  not. 
Fare  ye  well  at  once:  my  bosom  is  full  of  kindness; 
and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners  of  my  mother,  that 
upon  the  lea.«t  occasion  more,  mine  eyes  will  tell  tales 
of  me.  I  am  bound  to  the  count  Orsino's  court :  fare- 
well. [Exit. 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  sods  go  with  thee  ! 
1  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
El.se  would  I  very  shortly  .«!ce  thee  there; 
Bil.  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so. 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.         [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 
Enter  Viola;  Malvolio /o/Zoicmg. 
I^al.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  countess  Olivia? 


Vio.  Even  now,   sir :   on  a  moderate  pace  I  have 

since  arrived  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir :  you  miuht 

have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  your- 
self. She  adds,  moreover,  that  you  should  put  your 
;  lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she  will  none  of  liim. 

And  one  thing  more  :  that  you  be  never  so  hardy  to 

come  again  in  his  affairs,  unices  it  be  to  report  your 
j  lord's  taking  of  this  :  receive  it  so, 

Vio.  She  took  no*  ring  of  me  ! — I  '11  none  of  it. 
Mai.  Come,  sir ;  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her,  and 
I  her  will  is.  it  should  be  so  returned  :  if  it  be  worth 

stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye ;  if  not,  be  it  his 

that  finds  it.  [Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring-v^-ith  her:  what  means  this  lady? 

Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charm \1  her! 

She  made  good  view  of  me ;  indeed,  so  much. 

That,  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue, 

For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 

She  loves  me,  sure  :  the  cunning  of  her  passion 

Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 

None  of  my  lord's  ring  ?  why  he  sent  her  none. 

I  am  the  man  : — if  it  be  so,  as  't  is. 

Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 

Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness, 

Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it,  for  the  proper  false 

In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 
I  Alas  !  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we. 

For  such  as  we  »re  made,  if  such  we  be. 

How  will  this  fadge'.     My  master  loves  her  dearly  ; 

And  I.  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him ; 

And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dole  on  me. 

What  will  become  of  this  ?     As  I  am  man. 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  masters  love; 

As  I  am  woman,  now,  alas  the  day  ! 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ! 

O  time  !  thou  must  untangh;  this,  not  I; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  t'  untie.  [Em. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  and  Sir  A.ndrew  AcvE-rHKEK. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  sir  Andrew  :  not  to  be  a-bc/1  after 
midnight  ifi  to  be  up  betimes ;  and  diluculo  surgere* 
thou  know'st, — 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not ;  but  1 
know,  to  be  up  late,  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  fal.«e  conclusion  :  I  hate  it  as  an  unfilled 
can.  To  be  up  after  midniuht,  and  to  go  to  bed  then, 
is  earlv ;  so  that,  to  go  to  bed  after  midnight,  is  to  gc 
to  bed  betimes.  Does  not  our  life  consist  of  the  foiu 
elements  ? 


Foolish.      »  Own.      »  with  »och  estimable  -aronder  overfar  b«l;eve  that :  in  f,  • 
mt  est.     At  bdage  quo'ed   in  Lilys  Latin   Grammar. 


the  :  in  £.  f .      »  Si«i 


iilufvlo  rarger<  saiubt' 


BCEITE   m. 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:   OR,    WHAT  YOU   WH^L. 


263 


Sir  And.  'Faith,  so  they  say;  but,  I  think,  it  rather 
consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  art  a  scholar  ;  let  us  therefore  eat  and 
drink. — Marian,  I  say  ! — a  stoop  of  wine  ! 
Enter  Clown. 

Sir  And.  Here  comes  the  fool,  i'  faith. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  !  Did  you  never  see  the 
picture  of  we  three  ?' 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass.     Now  let 's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.'  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had  such  a 
leg,  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the  fool  has.  In 
Booth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious  fooling  last  night. 
when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogromitus,  of  tlie  Vapians 
passing  the  equinoctial  of  Queubus  :  't  was  very  good, 
i'  faith.     I  sent  thee  sixpence  for  thy  lemon^:  hadst  it? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticote  thy  gratuity :  for  Malvolio's 
nose  is  no  whipstock :  my  lady  has  a  white  hand,  and 
the  Mynnidons  are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent  !  Why  this  is  the  best  fooling, 
when  all  is  done.     Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on :  there  is  sixpence  for  you  ;  let 's 
have  a  song. 

Sir  And.  There's  a  testril  of  me,  too  :  if  one  knight 
give  away  sixpence  so  will  I  give  another :  go  to,  a  song.* 

Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of  good 
life? 

Sir  To.  A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ay ;  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

SONG. 

Clo.      O.  mistress  mine  !  where  are  you  roaming? 
0  !  stay.,  for  here^  your  true  love  's  coming., 

TJiat  can  sing  both  high  and  low. 
Trip  no  farther.,  pretty  sweeting  ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers''  m,eeting, 
Every  wise  man^s  son  doth  know. 
Sir  And.  Excellent  good,  i'  faith. 
Sir  To.  Good,  good. 
Clo.      What  is  love  ?   His  not  hereafter  ; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Then  come  ki.'ys  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 
Youth  \s  a  stuff  will  not  endure.    4, 
Sir  And.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight. 
Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 
Sir  And.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 
Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  conta- 
gion.    Bui  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed? 
Sliall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch,  that  will  draw 
three  souls  out  of  one  weaver  ?  shall  we  do  that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let 's  do  't :  I  am  a  dog 
at  a  catch. 

Clo.  By  'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 
Sir  And.  Most  certain.     Let  our  catch  be,  "  Thou 
Knave."* 

Clo.  <•  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,"  knight  ?  I  shall 
>'e  «:oi:.3train'd  in  't  to  call  the  knave,  knight. 

Sir  And.  'T  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrain'd 
one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool :  it  begins,  "  Hold 
thy  peace." 

Clo.  I  shall  never  begin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 


Sir  And.  Good  i'  faith.     Come,  begin. 

[They  sing  a  catch 
Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  What  a  catterwauling  do  you  keep  here  !  If 
my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward,  Malvolio,  and 
bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady  's  a  Cataian' ;  we  are  politicians ; 
Malvolio  's  a  Peg-a-Ramsey*,  and  "  Three  merrj'  men 
be  we.'"  Am  not  I  consanguineous?  am  I  not  of  her 
blood  ?  Tilly-valley,  lady  !  "  There  dwelt  a  man  in 
Babylon,  lady,  lady!""'  [Singing. 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight  's  in  admirable 
fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough,  if  he  be  disposed, 
and  so  do  I  too  :  he  does  it  with  a  better  grace,  but  \ 
do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.  "  0  !  the  twelfth  day  of  December." — 

[Singing. 

Mar.  For  the  love  0'  God,  peace  ! 
Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  ? 
Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to  gabble 
like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night?  Do  ye  make  an 
alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that  ye  squeak  out  your 
coziers'"  catches  without  any  mitigation  or  remorse  i{ 
voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place,  persons,  nor  time, 
in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches 
Snick  up  ** 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  mu.st  be  round  with  you.  My 
lady  bade  me  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbours  you 
as  her  kinsman,  she  's  nothing  allied  to  your  disorders. 
If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your  misdemeanours, 
you  are  welcome  to  the  house ;  if  not,  an  it  voul-d 
please  you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she  is  very  willing  to 
bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.  "  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs 
be  gone.'"'  [Singing.^* 

Mar.  Nay,  good  sir  Toby. 

Clo.  "  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done." 

[Singing.^* 

Mai.  Is 't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  "  But  I  will  never  die." 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  "  Shall  I  bid  him  go  ?" 

Clo.  "  What  an  if  you  do  ?" 

Sir  To.  "  Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ?" 

Clo.  "0!   no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not." 

Sir  To.  Out  0'  tune*''  ! — Sir,  ye  lie.  Art  any  more 
than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  becaufse  thou  arl 
virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale?" 

Clo.  Yes,  by  saint  Anne;  and  ginger  shall  be  hot  i' 
the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right. — Go,  sir :  rub  your 
chain  with  crumbs'*. — A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's  favour 
at  any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would  not  give 
means  for  this  uncivil  rule :  she  shall  know  of  it,  by 
this  hand.  [Ex^. 

Mar.  Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  'T  were  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when  a 


•  A  common  tavern  sign  and  print,  of  two  fools,  -with  the  inscription,  "  we  be  three"— the  spectator  forming  the  third.  '  Used  syncny- 
mously  with  voice.  '  Mistress.  *  f.  e.  end  this  speech  thus :  "  if  one  knight  give  a—"  »  and  hear  :  in  f.  e.  «  Contained  in  Ravens- 
troft'g  "  Deuteromelia,"  1G0&,  where  the  air  is  given  to  these  words  : 

"  Hold  thy  peace,  and  I  pr''ythee  hold  thy  peace. 

Thou  knave,  thou  knave!  hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave.'''' 
'  May  mean  a  sharper  or  a  Chinese.  »  A  popular  tune.  '  The  burden,  -with  variations,  as  ''Three  merry  boys,"  kc.  ri  several  old  song* 
'•  From  the  ballad  of  The  Godly  and  Constant  wvfe,  Susannah— a  stanza  is  in  Percy's  Reliques.  Vol.  I.  'i  Botchers".  »  The  derivation  of 
this  is  not  known  ;  it  means.  "  Go.  and  be  hanged."  13  The  ballad  from  which  thi.s  is  taken  is  in  Percy's  Reti/]ues,  Vol.  I  '♦  15  Not  ir 
f.  e.  16  So  the  old  copies  ;  Theobald  reads  ;  time.  "  These  dainties  were  eaten  ^n  S.aints'  days,  greatly  to  the  horror  of  the  Puritans,  io' 
whose  benefit  the  passage  may  have  been  ir  tended 


18  Stewards  wore  gold  chains,  which  were  cleaned  with  crunibs. 


264 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:   OR,   WHAT  YOU  WH^L. 


man  'a  a-hunsry,  to  challciiiic  liiiii  to  the  field,  and  then,  '■  Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 

to  break  promise  witli  him.  and  make  a  tool  of  him.      ■  That  old  and  antique  song,  we  heard  la.'^t  night; 

Sir  To.  Do  "i,  knight :  I  "11  write  thee  a  challenge,  or  i  Melhought.  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 
I  'il  deliver  thy  indiiznation  to  him  by  word  of  mouth,  j  More  than  light  airs,  and  recollected  terms, 

Mar.  Sweet  sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night.  Since  ,  Of  these  most  bri.sk  and  giddy-paced  tunes 
that  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my  lady,  she 
is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  monsieur  Malvolio,  let  me 
alone  with  him:  if  I  do  not  gull  him  into  a  nayword', 
and  make  him  a  common  recreation,  do  not  think  I 
have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight  in  my  bed.  I  know,  1 
can  do  it.  [him. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us.  possess  us :  tell  us  something  of 

Mar.  Marry,  sir.  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  Puritan. 

Sir  Ami.  O  '!  if  I  thought  that,  I  'd  beat  him  like  a  dog. 

Sir  To.  Wliat !  for  being  a  Puritan  ?  thy  exquisite 
reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for  't,  but  I  have 
reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is.  or  any  thing 
-jonstantly.  hut  a  time  pleaser  :  an  atTectioned'  ass,  that 
cons  state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great  swarths  : 
the  best  per.suaded  of  himself;  so  crammed,  as  he  thinks, 
with  excellences,  that  it  is  his  ground  of  t'aith,  that  all 
that  look  on  him  love  him ;  and  on  thai  vice  in  him 
will  mv  revenue  find  notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles 
of  love;  wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his  beard,  the  shape 
of  his  leg.  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  ex]>rossure  of  his 
eye,  forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall  find  himself 
most  feelingly  personated.  I  can  write  very  like  my 
lady,  your  niece :  on  a  forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly 
make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent !     I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.  I  have  't  in  my  nose,  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letter  that  thou  wilt  i  For,  boy.  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
drop,  that  it  comes  from  my  niece,  and  that  she  is  in  Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm 


Come  ;  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  thai 
should  8in2  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.  Feste.  the  jester,  my  lord  :  a  fool,  that  the  lady 
Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in.-  He  is  about  the 
hou.«e. 

Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while 

[Exit  Curio. — Music  again.'- 
Come  hither,  boy :  if  ever  thou  shalt  love,  [To  Viola  ' 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me ; 
For  suci;  as  I  am  all  true  lovers  are : 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else. 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd. — How  dost  thou  like  this  tune? 

Vio.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  thron'd. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly. 

My  life  upon  't.  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour*  that  it  loves ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is't? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion 

Duke.  She  is  not  worth  tL>e,  then.     What  years  i 
faith  ? 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old.  by  heaven.    Let  .still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself-  so  wear<8  she  to  him, 
bo  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart  : 


love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  colour. 
Sir  And.  A  nd  your  horse,  now,  would  made  him  an  ass. 
Mar.  Ass  I  doubt  not. 
Sir  And.  O  !  't  will  bo  admirable. 


More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  won, 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then,  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  tliv  aifcction  cannot  hold  the  bent  ; 


Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you  :  I  know,  my  physic   For  women  are  as  ro.ses,  whose  fair  flower, 


will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you  two.  and  let  the 
fool  make  a  third,  where  he  i^hall  find  the  letter :  ob- 
serve his  construction  of  it.  For  this  night,  to  bed.  and 
dream  on  the  event.     Farewell.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Good  night,  Penthesilea. 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she  's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She 's    a    beagle,  true-bred,  and    one    that 
adores  me  :  what  o'  that  ? 

Sir  And.  I  was  adored  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let 's  to  bed,  knight 
for  more  moncv. 


Being  onie  displayed,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.  And  so  they  are :  alas  !  that  they  are  so  ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 
Re-enter  Curio,  and  Clown. 
Duke.  0,  fellow  !  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night. — 
Mark  it,  Ce.sario  :  it  is  old.  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free'  maids,  that  weave  their  thread  with  boneii., 
Do  use  to  chaunt  it :  it  is  silly  sooth, 
Thou  hadst  need  .send  And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
j  Like  the  old  age. 


Clo. 


Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a  foul 
w.ay  out. 

Sir  To.  S<'nd  for  money,  knight:    if   thou  hast  her 
not  i'  tlie  end.  call  me  cut*. 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me;  take  it  how 
you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come :  I  '11  go  burn  some  sack,  't  is  too 
late  to  go  to  bed  now.     Come,  knight:  come,  knight. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  the  Dukks  Palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Viola.  Curio,  arul  others. 
Duke.  Give  me  some  music.   [Music.*] — Now,  good  ' 
morrow,  friends. — 

1  Uy-woH.  n  lnushing-%tock.     »  Affected.     '  Curtail  horse.     *  Not  in  f.  e. 
aance.     '  Chaste,  pure. 


Clo.  Are  you  ready,  sir? 
Duke.  Ay,  pr'ythee,  sing. 


[Music. 


THE    SONG. 

Come  away,  come  away,  death. 
And  in  .wrf  cypress  let  me  be  laid  j 

Fly  away,  jly  aicay.  breath  ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

0  !  prepare  it : 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  trut 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  stroum  ; 

'  time* :  in  f.  e.     •  Music  :  in  f.  e.     '  Not  in  f  ^      •  ConBti- 


SCENE   V. 


TWELFTH-KIGHT :   OK,  WHAT  YOU    WILL. 


265 


Not  a  friend^  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse.  U'here  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 
A  tiiousand  thousand  sighs  to  save^ 

Lay  me,  O  !  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

Duke.  There  's  for  thy  pains.     [Giving  him  money} 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir :  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.  I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid,  one  time 
01  another. 

Duke.  I  give  thee  now  leave  to  leave  me.' 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee,  and  the 
tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffata.  for  thy 
mind  is  a  very  opal  ! — I  would  have  men  of  such  con- 
stancy put  to  sea,  that  their  business  might  be  every- 
thing, and  their  intent  evei-y  where ;  for  that 's  it,  that 
always  makes  a  good  voyage  of  nothing. — Farewell. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Duke.  Let  all  the  rest  give  place. — 

[Exeunt  Curio  and  Attendants. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yond'  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world. 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  : 
The  parts  that  fortune  liath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune ; 
But  't  is  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.  But,  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir? 

Duke.  I  camiot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 
Ha.th  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia  :  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so  ;  must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart ;  no  woman's  heart 
So  big  to  hold  so  much  :  they  lack  retention. 
Alas  !  their  love  may  be  call'd  appetite, 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, 
That  suffers  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt ; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea. 
And  can  digest  as  much.     Make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe  : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord.     She  never  told  her  love, — 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :  she  pin'd  in  thought : 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy. 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument. 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed? 
We  men  may  say  more,  s-wear  more  ;  but,  indeed, 
■  Our  shows  are  more  than  will,  for  still  we  prove 
Much  m  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house. 
And  all  the  brothers  too ;  and  yet  I  know  not. — 
Sir,  shall  1  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 

'  Not  in  f.  e.      »  Givo  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee  :  in  f  e 


To  her  in  haste  :  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 

My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.        [Exeuiit. 


SCENE  v.— Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Aguk-cheek,  and 

Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian, 

Fab.  Nay,  I  '11  come  :  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this  sport, 
let  me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the  nig- 
gardly, rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable 
shame  ? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man :  you  know,  he  brought  me 
out  o'  favour  with  my  lady  about  a  bear-baiting  here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him,  we'll  have  the  bear  again, 
and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue ; — shall  we  not, 
sir  Andrew? 

Sir  And.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 
Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain. — How  now, 
m  r  metal  of  India  ?^ 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree.  Malvolio's 
coming  down  this  walk  :  he  has  been  yonder  i'  the  sun, 
practising  behaviour  to  his  own  shadow,  this  half  hour. 
Observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mockery  ;  for,  I  know,  this 
letter  will  make  a  contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close, 
in  the  name  of  jesting  !  [The  men  hide  theiruselves.] 
Lie  thou  there  ;  [drops  a  letter]  for  here  comes  the 
trout  that  must  be  caught  with  tickling.  [Exit  Maria. 
Enter  INIalvolio. 

Mai.  'T  is  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once 
told  me,  she  did  aifect  me  ;  and  I  have  heard  herself 
come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should  be 
one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she  uses  me  with  a 
more  exalted  respect  than  any  one  else  that  follows 
her.     What  should  I  think  on  't  ? 

Sir  To.  Here  's  an  over- weening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  Contemplation  makes  a  rare  turkey- 
cock  of  him :  how  he  jets  under  his  advanced 
plumes  ! 

Sir  And.  'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue. — 

Sir  To.  Peace  !   I  say. 

Mai.  To  be  count  Malvolio. — 

Sir  To.  All,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.  Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.  Peace  !  peace  ! 

3Ial.  There  is  example  for  't :  the  lady  of  the  Strachy 
married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardi'obe. 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel. 

Fab.  0,  peace  !  now  he  's  deeply  in  :  look,  how  ima- 
gination blows  him. 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her,  sit- 
ting in  my  state, — 

Sir  To.  0,  for  a  stone  bow*  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  1 

Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched 
velvet  gown,  having  come  from  a  day-bed,  wliere  1 
have  left  OliA'ia  sleeping  : — 

Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  0,  peace  !  peace  ! 

Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  honour'  of  state  ;  and 
after  a  demure  travel  of  regard. — telling  them,  I  know 
my  place,  as  I  would  they  should  do  theirs, — to  ask  foi 
my  kinsman  Toby — 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.  0.  peace,  peace,  peace  !  now,  now. 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  stitte 
make  out  for  him.  I  frown  the  while  :  and,  perchance 
j  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  my — some  rich  jewel. 
I  Toby  approaches  ;  court' sies  there  to  me. 

Heaxt  of  gold.      ♦  A  bow  for  throwing  stones.      *  humour  :  ,n  f.  a 


266 


'HYELFTH-XIGHT:   OR,   WHAT  YOU   WILL. 


ACT  n. 


Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ?" 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawii  from  us  by  th' 
ears'  ,  yet  peace  ! 

Mai  I  exipud  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching  my 
familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control. 

Sir  'Jo.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o'  the 
lips  then  ? 

Mat.  Saying,  "  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes,  having  cast 
me  on  vour  niece,  give  mc  tliis  prerogative  of  speech." — 

Sir  To.  What,  what ' 

.Mai.  ••  Yos  mu.<:t  amend  your  drunkemiess." 

Sir  To.  Out.  scab  I 

Fab.  Nay.  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of  our  plot. 

Mai.  ••  Beside.*,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your  time 
\»-ith  a  foolish  kiiight." 

Sir  And.  That 's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.  "One  sir  Andrew.'- 

Sir  And.  I  knew  "i  was  I  :  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 

Mai.  [Seeing  the  letter]  What  emplovment  have  we 
here? 

Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O.  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humours  inti- 
mate reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

Mai.  [Taking  up  the  letter.]  By  my  life,  this  is  my 
lady's  hand  !  these  be  her  very  Cs.  her  U's.  and  her 
Ts  ;  and  thus  makes  she  her  great  P's.  It  is,  in  con- 
tempt of  que,«tion.  her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  Cs.  her  Vs.  and  her  Ts:  Why  that? 

Mai.  [Reads.]  "  To  the  unknown  beloved,  this,  and 
my  good  wishes:"  her  ver%^  phrases  ! — By  your  leave. 
wax. — Soft  I — and  the  irapressure  her  Lucrece,  with 
which  she  uses  to  seal :  't  is  my  lady.  To  whom  should 
this  be  ? 

Fab.  This  \\ins  him.  liver  and  all. 

Mai.  [Reads.]  '•  Jove  knows.  I  love ; 
But  who  ? 
Lips  do  not  move  : 
No  man  must  know." 

"  No  man  must  know." — What  follows  ?  the  number 's 
altered. — "No  man  must  know:" — if  this  should  be 
thee.  Malvolio? 

Sir  To.  Marr)-,  hang  thee,  brock* ! 

Mai.  [Reads.]   '•  I  may  command,  where  I  adore; 
But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife. 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  : 
M.  0.  A,  L  doth  sway  my  life." 

Fab.  A  fustian  riddle. 

Str  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.  '•  M.  0.  A.  I,  doth  sway  my  life." — Nay,  but 
Srst.  let  me  see. — let  me  see. — let  me  see. 

Fab.  "What  a  dish  of  poison  has  she  dressed  him  ! 

Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  stannyel*  checks 
tt  it! 

Mai.  '•  I  may  conunand  where  I  adore."  Wliy.  she 
Diav  command  me  :  I  serve  her  :  she  is  my  lady.  Why. 
this  16  evident  to  any  formal*  capacity.  There  is  no 
obstruction  in  tliis. — And  the  end, — what  should  that 
alphabetical  position  portend  ?  if  I  cnuld  make  that 
resemble  .something  in  me. — Softly  ! — M,  0,  A,  L — 

Sir  To.  0  !  ay,  make  up  that.  He  is  now  at  a  cold 
scent. 

Fab.  So^^^e^*  ^-ill  cry  upon  't,  for  all  this,  though  it 
be  not  as  rank  as  a  fox. 

Mnl.  M. — Malvolio  : — M. — why  that  begins  my 
name. 

Fab.  Did  not  1  say,  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the  cur 
id  e\cellent  at  faults. 

Mai.  M. — But  then  there  is  no  con.<sonancy  in  the 


sequel  ;  that  suffers  under  probation  :  A  should  follow, 
but  0  does. 

Fab    And  O  !  shall  end.  I  hope. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I  '11  cudgel  him,  and  make  him  cry,  O  I 

Mai.  And  then  I  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay.  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you  might 
see  more  detraction  at  your  heels,  than  fortunes  before 
you. 

Mai.  M,  0.  A.  I  : — this  simulation  is  not  a»  the 
former  : — and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would  bow 
to  me.  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my  name. 
Soft  !  here  follows  prose. — [Reads.]  ••  If  this  fall  into 
thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars  I  am  above  thee  ;  bui 
be  not  afraid  of  greatness  :  some  are  born  great,  some 
achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upor 
them.  Thy  fates  open  their  hands  :  let  thy  blood  and 
spirit  embrace  them.  And.  to  inure  thyself  to  what 
thou  art  like  to  be.  east  thy  humble  slough,  and  appear 
fresh.  Be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants : 
let  thy  tongue  tang  arguments  of  state  :  put  thyself 
into  the  trick  of  singularity.  She  thus  advises  thee, 
that  sishs  for  thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy 
yellow  stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever  cross- 
gartered  :  I  say,  remember.  Go  to,  thou  art  made, 
if  thou  desirest  to  be  so  :  if  not.  let  me  see  thee  a  stew- 
ard still,  the  fellow  of  servants,  and  not  worthy  to  touch 
fortune's  fingers.  Farewell.  She  that  would  alter  ser- 
vices ^vith  thee. 

The  fortunate-unhappy." 
Day-light  and  champaign*  discovers  not  more  :  this  is 
open.  I  ^^•lll  be  proud.  I  will  read  politic  authors,  I 
will  baffle  sir  Toby.  I  ^^■ill  wa,«h  off  gro.ss  acquaintance, 
I  will  be  point-device'  the  very  man.  I  do  hot  now 
fool  myself,  to  let  imagination  jade  me,  for  every 
reason  excites  to  this,  that  my  lady  loves  me.  She 
did  commend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late  :  she  did 
praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered  :  and  in  this  she 
manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and  ^^ith  a  kind  of  injunc- 
tion drives  me  to  these  habits  of  her  liking.  I  thank 
my  stars  I  am  happy.  I  vsill  be  strange,  stout,  in 
yellow  stockings,  and  cross-gartered,  even  \\ith  the 
s-wil'tness  of  putting  on.  Jove,  and  my  stars  be  praised  I 
— Here  is  yet  a  postscript.  [Reads]  "  Thou  can.st  not 
choose  but  know  who  I  am.  If  thou  entertainest  my 
love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smiling  :  thy  smiles  become 
thee  well  ;  therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile,  dear 
my  sweet,  I  pr'ythee." — Jove,  I  thank  thee. — I  will 
sniile  :  I  will  do  every  thins  that  thou  v.ilt  have  me. 

[Exit 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a  pen- 
sion of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marr>-  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  vith  her,  but  such 
another  jest. 

Sir  And.  Nor  I  neither. 

Enter  Maria. 

Fab.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 

Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o"  my  neck  ? 

Sir  And.  Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  tYeedom  at  tray-trip,*  an-l 
become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.  V  faith,  or  I  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  drean., 
that  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him  he  must  run  mad 

Mar.  Nay.  but  say  true  :  does  it  work  upon  him? 

Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport 


^-^itho.n.:  inf.  e. 
3ou.-  iLte  of  dice 


»  Badger       »  A  rDwiies  nf  hawk.      •  On*  in  hi»  .ense«       '  The  name  of  a  dog.      •  An  open  countrr. 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:   OE,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


uiark  his  first  approach  before  my  lady  :  he  will  come  that  it  cannot  but  turn  him  into  a  notable  contempt 


to  her  in  yellow  stoekini^s,  and  't  is  a  colour  she  abhors 
and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  detests  ;  and  he  will 
gmile  upon  her.  which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her 
disposition,  being  addicted  to  a  melancholy  as  she  is, 


If  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartarus,  thou  most  excel- 
lent devil  of  wit  ! 

Sir  And.  I  '11  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  Viola,  and  Clown  playing  on  pipe  and  tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music.  Dost  thou 
live  by  thy  tabor  ? 

Clo.  No,  sir  :  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.  Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir:  I  do  live  by  the  church; 
for  I  do  live  at  iny  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand  by 
the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  may'st  say,  the  king  lives  by  a  beggar, 
if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him  ;  or,  the  church  stands  by 
thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the  church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir — To  see  this  age  ! — A  sen- 
tence is  but  a  cheveriP  glove  to  a  good  wit :  how 
quickly  the  wTong  side  may  be  turned  outward  ! 

Vio.  Nay,  that's  certain  :  they,  that  dally  nicely  with 
words,  may  quickly  make  them  wanton.  [sir. 

Clo.  I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no  name, 

Vio.  Why,  man  ? 

Clo.  Why.  sir,  her  name  's  a  word  ;  and  to  dally 
with  that  word,  might  make  my  sister  wanton.  But, 
indeed,  words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds  disgraced 
them. 

Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without  words ; 
and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loath  to  prove 
reason  with  them. 

Vio.  I  warrant  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and  carest 
for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir,  I  do  care  for  something  :  but  in 
my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you  :  if  that  be 
to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would  make  you 
invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir  ;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no  folly : 
she  will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married  ;  and  fools 
are  as  like  husbands,  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings,  the 
husband  's  the  bigger.  I  am,  indeed,  not  her  fool,  but 
her  corrupter  of  words. 

Fio.  1  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb.  like  the 
sun :  it  shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry,  sir, 
but  the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with  your  master,  as  with 
my  mistress :  I  think  I  saw  your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I  '11  no  more  -with 
thee.  Hold;  there's  expenses  for  thee.  [Giving  money.' 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair,  send 
thee  a  beard. 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I  '11  tell  thee  :  I  am  almost  sick 
for  one,  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on  my  chin. 
Is  thy  lady  within  ? 

Clo.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir? 

Vio.  Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir,  to 
bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.  I  understand  you,  sir  :  't  is  well  begg'd. 

[Giving  more.^ 

'  Kid.  »  »  Not  in  f.  e.  ♦  And  :  in  f.  e.  »  Wild,  untrained  hawk. 
JOit*  ti,Dt  "  '  Limit,  aim.     »  Anticipated      >  Not  in  f.  e. 


Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  begging 
but  a  beggar :  Cressida  was  a  beggar.  My  lady  is 
within,  sir.  I  will  construe  to  them  whence  you  come, 
who  you  are,  and  what  you  would,  are  out  of  my 
welkin :  I  might  say  element,  but  the  word  is  over- 
worn. [Exit 

Vio.  This  fellow  's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool. 
And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time. 
Not*  like  the  haggard*,  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 
As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art ; 
For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit. 
But  wise  men's  folly  fall'n  quite  taints*  their  wit. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew 
Ague-cheek. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde^  monneur. 

Vio.  Et  vous  aussi :  votre  servitcur. 

Sir  And.  I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece  is 
desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her, 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir  :  I  mean,  she  is 
the  list'  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.  Taste  your  legs,  sir :  put  them  to  motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than  I 
understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste  my 
legs. 

Sir  To.  I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance. 
But  we  are  prevented*. 

Enter  Olivia  ami  Maria. 
Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens  rabi 
odours  on  you  ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth  's  a  rare  courtier.  "  Rain 
odours  !"  well. 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your 
ow^^  most  pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  '•  Odours."  ''  pregnant,"  and  "  vouch- 
safed :" — I  '11  get  'em  all  three  all  ready. 

[  Writing  in  hi.i  table-book.* 

Oli.  Let  the  sarden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to 
my  hearing.  [Exeunt  SirToBX,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Marla. 
Give  me  your  hand.  sir. 

Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 

Oh.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.  Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess. 

Oli.  My  servant,  sir?     'T  was  never  merry  world, 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  called  compliment. 
You  're  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth. 

Vio.  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours : 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

Oli.  For  him,  I  think  not  on  him  :  for  his  thoughts. 
'Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill'd  with  me  1 

Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf.— 

«  So  the  old  copies,  which  Tyrwhitt  changed  to  "men,  follv-fa'o.iv 


2vi8 


TWELFTlI-^'iGilT:    Oil,   WHAT    VoLT    WILL 


ACT  rr 


OH.  O  !  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you  : 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  hiui ; 
Rut,  would  you  umiertake  another  suit, 
[  had  raiher  hear  you  to  solicit  that, 
Than  mushc  from  the  spheres. 

Via.  Dear  lady, — 

OH.  Give  me  leave,  'beseech  you.     I  did  send, 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you :  so  did  I  abu.se 
Myself,  my  servant,  and.  I  fear  me,  you. 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shamefae'd'  cunning. 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours  :  what  might  you  think  ? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake, 
And  bailed  it  wth  all  th"  unmuzzled  thoughts         [ing 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?  To  one  of  your  receiv- 
Knough  is  showni :  a  cyprus*,  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  heart.     So,  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio.  I  pity  you. 

Oli.  That  "s  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No.  not  a  grise* ;  for  't  is  a  vulgar  proof. 
That  very  ofi  we  pity  enemies. 

Oli.  Why.  then,  methinks,  't  is  time  to  smile  again, 
n  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud  ! 

I I  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 

To  fall  before  the  lion,  than  the  wolf?     [Clock  strike.';. 
The  clock  upbraids  ine  with  the  waste  of  time. — 
Re  not  afraid,  good  youth.  I  will  not  have  you  ; 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  liarvest, 
Vour  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man. 
There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Vio.  Then  westward  ho  !* 

Grace,  and  cood  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship. 
Vou  "11  nothinii.  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

OH.  Stay: 
[  pr\-thce.  tell  me.  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you  do  think  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

OH.  If  I  think  so.  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  tliink  you  right :  I  am  not  what  I  am. 

OH.  I  would,  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be  ! 

Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am  ? 
I  A-ish  it  might  :  lor  now  I  am  your  fool. 

OH.  0  !  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
[i.  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 
A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
I'lian  love  that  would  seem  hid :  love's  night  is  noon. 
Ce.>«ario.  by  the  roses  of  the  spring. 
By  maidhood.  honour,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
{  love  thee  so.  that,  maugre  all  my  pride. 
Nor  -wit.  nor  reason,  can  my  pas.sion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause. 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause  ; 
But  rather.  rea.son  thus  with  rea.son  fetter: 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  sWen  un.souglit  is  better. 

Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bo.som,  and  one  truth. 
Arid  that  no  woman  has  :  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it.  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  sood  madam  :  never  more 
Will  I  rny  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

OH.  Yet  come  again ;  for  thou,  perhaps,  may'st  move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IT.— A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Beixh.  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek, 

and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  No.  faith.  I  'II  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom :  give  thy  rea-^on. 


Fab.  You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  sir  Andrew 

Sir  Ami.  Marry.  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favours 
to  the  comit's  serving  man,  than  ever  she  bestowed 
upon  me:  I  saw't  i'  the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy?  tell 
m(!  that. 

Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of   love    in    her 
toward  you. 

Sir  And.  'Slight !  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me? 

Fab.  I  -will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths 
of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men  since 
before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your  sight 
only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dormouse  valour, 
to  put  tire  in  your  heart,  and  brimstone  in  your  liver. 
You  .should  then  have  accnstod  her.  and  with  some 
e.vcellent  jests,  fire-new  from  the  mint,  you  should  have 
banged  the  youth  into  dumbness.  This  was  looked  for 
at  your  hand,  and  this  was  baulked  :  the  double  gilt  of 
this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash  off,  and  you  are 
now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion  ;  where 
you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  beard, 
unless  you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt, 
either  of  valour,  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  An  t  be  any  way.  it  must  be  \\i\\  valour, 
for  policy  I  hate  :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brownist*  as  a 
politician. 

Sir  To.  ^AHiy  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon  the 
basis  of  valour :  challenge  nie  the  count's  youth  to  fight 
with  him  ;  hurt  him  in  eleven  places  :  my  niece  shall 
take  note  of  it  ;  and  assure  thyself,  there  is  no  love- 
broker  in  the  world  can  more  prevail  in  man's  com- 
mendation with  woman,  than  report  of  valour. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge  to 
him? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand  ;  be  curst 
and  brief ;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  eloquent, 
and  full  of  invention  :  taunt  him  wth  the  license  of 
ink  :  if  thou  thou'st  him  some  thrice,  it  shall  not  be 
amiss  ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in  tliy  sheet  of 
paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big  enough  for  the  bed 
of  Ware  in  England,  set  'em  do^^^l.  Go,  about  it. 
Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink,  though  thou 
write  with  a  soose-pen.  no  matter.     About  it. 

Sir  And.  Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  '11  call  thee  at  the  cuhicido.     Go. 

[Exit  Sir  Andrew 

Fab.  This  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you,  sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad  j  some  two 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  ;  bui 
you  '11  not  deliver  it. 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  then  :  and  by  all  means  sti^ 
on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think,  oxen  and  waifi- 
ropes  cannot  hale  them  toL'ether.  For  sir  Andrew,  it 
he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much  blood  in  hi.*^ 
liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea,  I  'II  eat  the  rest  o! 
the  anatomy.  * 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his  visage 
no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine 
comes. 

Mar.  If  you  de.sire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh  your- 
selves into  stitches,  tbllow  me.     Yond"  gull  MalvoHo  is 


•  thameful :  in  f.  e.      »  A  veil  of  cypnig  or  crape.      *  Sl^p. 
the  ladepmdents)  much  ridiculed  by  the  writers  of  the  time. 


A  commnn  phrase,  used  by  the  Thuniw  wat  jrmen.      »  A  sect  (af'eri-vd* 


SCENE   IV. 


TWELFTH-NIGIIT:   OR    WHAT  YOU   WILL. 


269 


urned  heathen,  a  very  renegado ;  for  there  is  no 
(Christian,  that  means  to  be  saved  by  believing  rightly, 
can  ever  believe  such  impossible  passages  of  grossness. 
He  's  ill  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-gartered  ? 

3Iar.  Most  villainously ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps  a 
school  i'  the  church. — I  have  dogged  him  like  his 
murderer.  He  does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter  that 
f  dropped  to  betray  him :  he  docs  smile  his  face  into 
more  lines  than  are  in  the  new  map,  with  the  aug- 
mentation of  the  Indies' .  You  have  not  seen  such  a 
thing  as  't  is ;  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling  things  at 
him.  I  know,  my  lady  will  strike  him  :  if  she  do, 
he  'II  smile,  and  take  't  for  a  great  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us.  bring  us  where  he  is.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Street. 
Enter  Sebastian  and  Antonio. 
Scb.  I  would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  you ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  farther  chide  you. 

Ant.  I  could  not  stay  behind  you  :  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth : 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  (though  so  much. 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage) 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts  :  which  to  a  stranger, 
Unguided,  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable  :  my  willing  love. 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make,  but,  thanks. 
And  thanks,  still  thanks."  and  very^  oft  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay; 
But,  were  my  wealth*,  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.     What  's  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.  To-morrow,  sir :  best  first  go  see  your  lodging. 

Seb.  I  am  not  weary,  and  't  is  long  to  night. 
I  pray  you.  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame. 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

A^it.  'Would,  you  'd  pardon  me  : 

[  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets. 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight  'gainst  the  county's  galleys 
I  did  some  service  ;  of  such  note,  indeed. 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be  answer'd. 

Scb.  Belike,  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  The  otTence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature. 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time,  and  quarrel. 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them ;  which,  for  traffick's  sake. 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out ; 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not,  then,  walk  too  open. 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.   Hold,  sir  ;  here  's  my  purse. 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge  :  I  will  bespeak  our  diet, 
Wliiles  you  beguile  the  time,  and  feed  your  knowledge, 
With  -viewing  of  the  town :  there  shall  you  have  me. 

Scb.  Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.  Haply  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 


Seb.  I  '11  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for  an 
hour. 

Ant.  To  the  Elephant.— 

Seb.  I  do  remember.  [ExeunL 

SCENE  IV.— Olivia's  Garden. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Oh.  I  have  sent  after  him :  he  says,  he  '11  come. 
How  shall  I  feast  him?  what  bestow  of*  him? 
For  youth  is  bought  more  oft.  than  begg'd,  or  borrowed. 
I  speak  too  loud. — 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? — he  is  sad,  and  civil.' 
And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes. — 
Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He  's  coming,  madam ;  but  in  very  strange 
manner.     He  is  sure  possess'd,  madam. 

OH.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam  ;  he  does  nothing  but  smile  :  your 
ladyship  were  best  to  have  some  guard  about  you,  if  he 
come,  for  sure  the  man  is  tainted  in  's  wits. 

on.  Go  call  him  hither.   [Exit  Maria.-] — I  am  as 
mad  as  he. 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. — 

Enter  Malvolio  and  Maria.* 
How  now,  Malvolio? 

Mai.  Sweet  lady,  ha,  ha  !  [Smiles  ridicidously. 

OH.  Smi!'st  thou? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady?  I  could  be  sad.  This  does  make 
some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross-gartering;  but 
what  of  that?  if  it  please  the  eye  of  one,  it  is  with  me 
as  the  very  trae  sonnet  hath  it,  "  Please  one,  and  please 
all." 

OH.  Wliy,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the  mattei 
v.ith  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow'  in  my 
legs.  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands  shall 
be  executed  :  I  think  we  do  know  the  sweet  Roman 
hand. 

OH.  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  To  bed  ?  ay,  sweet-heart,  and  I  '11  come  to  the«. 

OH.  God  comfort  thee  !  Why  dost  thou  smile  Ro, 
and  kiss  t)iy  hand  so  oft? 

Mar.  How  do  you.  Malvolio? 

Mai.  At  your  request !  Yes ;  nightingales  answer 
daws. 

Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  boldness 
before  my  lady? 

Mai.  "Be  not  afraid  of  greatness:" — 'T  was  welJ 
writ. 

OH.  What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  "  Some  are  born  great," — 

OH.  Ha? 

Mai.  "  Some  achieve  greatness," — 

OH.  What  say'st  thou> 

Mai.  "  And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  thera  " 

OH.  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.  "  Remember,  who  commended  thy  yellow 
.stockings ;" — 

OH.  Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

Mai.  "And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered." 

OH.  Cross-gartered? 

Mai.  "  Go  to :  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  b^ 

i:"— 

OH.  Am  I  made? 

Mai.  "  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  sen^ant  still.'' 

OH.  Why,  this  is  very  mid.summer  madness. 


p  engraved  for  Linschoten's  "Vovages.  a  translation  of  which  was  published  in  l.'59S.     A  portio    _  »  -      . 

^'Knisht's  Pictorial     Shakspere."        2  The  words,  "still  thanks,"  are  not  in  f.e.      '  ever  :  in  f.  e       ♦worth: 

-  -         --  -  9  There  was  an  old  ballad-tune,  called  "  Black  and  Y»'1pw 


rraved 

'  Gritve  a,  id  forrnal        '  Not  in  f 


E/iJer  Malvolio  : 


270 


TWELFTH-NIGTIT:    OE,   WHAT  YOU    WILL 


Enter  Servant.  \      Mai.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle  shalJcvi 

Sfr.    MadaiN,   the   youns    gentleman  of  the    count  things :   I   am  not  of  your  element.     You  shall  know 

[EtiI. 


OiRino's  is  returned.    I  could  hardly  entreat  him  back: 
he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

Oli.  I  '11  come  to  him.    [E.rit  Sen-ant.]   Good  Maria, 
let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.    Where  's  my  cousin  Toby?  condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 
Let  some  of  my  people  have  a  special  care  of  him.     I        Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  tl 
would  not  have  him  miscarry  for  the  half  of  my  dowry,  i  the  device,  man. 

[Exeunt  Olivia  and  Maria.  |      Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take  air, 

Mai.  Oh,  ho  !  do  you  come  near  mc  now  ?  no  worse  and  taint 


more  hereafter. 

Sir  To.  Is  't  po.ssible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I  could 


infection  of 


man  than  sir  Toby  to  look  to  me?  This  concurs 
directly  NA-iih  the  letter:  she  sends  him  on  jiurpose,  that 
I  may  appear  stubborn  to  him;  for  she  incites  me  to 
that  in  tlic  letter.  "  Cast  thy  humble  slough,"  says 
she : — "  be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  ser- 
vants.— let  thy  tongue  tang  with  argiunents  of  state. — 
put  thy.<elf  into  the  trick  of  singularity:'" — and  conse- 
quently sets  down  the  manner  how ;  as.  a  sad  face,  a 
reverend  carriage,  a  slow  tongue,  in  the  habit  of  some 
sir  of  note,  and  so  forth.  I  have  limed  her:  but  it  is 
Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me  thankful.  And  when 
she  went  away  now,  -'Let  this  fellow  be  looked  to:" 
fellow.'  not  Malvolio.  nor  after  my  degree,  but  fellow. 
Why,  every  thing  adheres  together,  that  no  dram  of  a 
scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle,  no  incred- 
ulous or  unsafe  circumstance — What  can  be  said? 
Nothing  that  can  be  can  come  between  me,  and  the  full 
prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer 
of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 
Re-enter  Maria,  with  Sir  Toby  Bki-ch,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity? 
If  all  the  devils  in  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and  Legion 
himself  possess  him.  yet  I'  11  speak  to  him. 

Fah.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is. — How  is  't  with  you,  sir  ? 
how  is  't  with  you.  man? 

Mai.  Go  off;  I  discard  you  :  let  me  enjoy  my  privacy: 
go  off. 

Mar.  Lo.  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within  him  ! 
did  not  I  tell  you? — Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays  you  to 
have  a  care  of  him. 

Mai.  Ah.  ha!  does  she  so? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to :  peace  !  peace  !  wc  must  deal 
gently  with  him;  let  me  alone. — How  do  you,  Malvo- 
lio? how  is  't  with  you?  What,  man  !  defy  the  de\'il : 
consider,  he  's  an  enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.  Do  you  know  what  you  say? 

Mar.  La,  you  !  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  how  he 
takes  it  at  heart.     Pray  God,  he  be  not  bewitched  ! 

Fab.  Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 

Mar.  Marr^-,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, if  I  live.  My  lady  would  not  lo.se  him  for  more 
than  I  '11  say. 

Mai.  How  now.  mietress  ? 

Mar.  O  lord  ! 

.Sir  To.  Prythee,  hold  thy  peace:  this  is  not  the 
/ray.  Do  you  not  see  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone 
with  him. 

Fah.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently :  the 
Hend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  ?  how  dost  thou, 
chuck  ? 

Mai  Sir! 

Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.  What,  man  I  't  is  1 
»iot  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit*  with  Satan.   Hang  •  letter,  being  so  excellently  ignorant,  will  breed  no  ter- 
him,  foul  collier  !  I  ror  in  the  youth  :  he  w  ill  find  it  comes  from  a  clodpole. 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers ;  good  sir  Toby,  gel  I  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his  challenge  by  word  of  month ; 

bim  to  pray.  I  set  upon  Ague-cheek  a  notable  report  of  valour,  and 

■l/a/.  My  prayers,  minx  !  I  drive  the  gentleman,  (as,  I  know,  his  youth  will  ajitly 

'1/ar.  No.  I  warrant  you  ;  he  will  not  hear  of  godliness. 'receive  it)  into   a   most   hideous  opinion   of  his   rage. 


Fab.  \^^^y,  we  shall  make  him  mad,  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  w-e  '11  have  him  in  a  dark  room,  and 
bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that  he's 
mad  :  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure,  and  his 
penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out  of  breath, 
prompts  us  to  have  mercy  on  him;  at  which  time,  we 
will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar.  and  crowMi  thee  for  a 
finder  of  madmen.     But  see,  but  see. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 

Sir  And.  Here  's  the  challenge  ;  read  it :  I  warrant, 
there  's  vinegar  and  pepper  in  't. 

Fab.  Is  't  so  saucy? 

Sir  And.  Ay.  is  't,  I  warrant  him  :  do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads.]  '•  Youth ,  whatsoever 
thon  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow." 

Fab.  Good,  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  "  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  hot  in  thy  mind, 
whv  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no  reason 
for  't." 

Fab.  A  good  note,  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow  of 
the  law. 

Sir  To.  "  Thou  comest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in  my 
sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest  in  thy  throat ; 
that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for." 

Fah.  Verj'  brief,  and  to  exceeding  good  sense-less. 

Sir  To.  '•  I  will  way-lay  thee  going  home;  where,  if 
it  be  thv  chance  to  kill  me," — 

Fab.  Good. 

Sir  To.  '•'•  Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a  villain." 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the  law:  good. 

Sir  To.  "  Fare  thee  well ;  and  God  have  mercy  upon 
one  of  our  souls  !  He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine ; 
but  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself.  Thy 
friend,  as  thou  usest  him.  and  thy  sworn  enemy : 
Andrew  Ague-cheek."  If  this  letter  move  him  not, 
his  legs  cannot.     I  '11  give  't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for  't :  he  is 
now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will  by  and 
by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go  to.  sir  Andrew :  scout  me  for  him  at  the 
corner  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailie.  So  soon  as 
ever  thou  seest  him,  draw,  and.  as  thou  drawest,  .<!wear 
horrible  ;  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft,  that  a  terrible  oath, 
with  a  swaggering  accent,  sharply  twanged  off.  gives 
manhood  more  approbation  than  ever  proof  itself  would 
have  earned  him.     Away  ! 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.         [Exit. 

Sir  To.  NowJ  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter:  for  the 
behaviour  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be  of 
good  capacity  and  breeding :  his  employment  between 
lord  and  mv  niece  confirms  no  less;  therefore  this 


Taken  in  the  old  sen»e  of  compani 


'  Played  by  pitching  cherry-ftonee  into  &  hole. 


i 


kit\l0i\ 


I 


SOENH   IV. 


TWELFTH-XIGHT :   OE,   WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


271 


skill,  fury,  and  impetuosity.     This  will  so  fright  them        Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.     Signior  Fabian,  stay  you  by 
both,  that  they  will  kill  one  another  by  the  look,  like  thi.s  gentleman  till  my  return.  [Exit  Sir  Toby 

cockatrices.  Vio.  Pray  you.  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fah.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece.     Give  them       Fab.  I   know,  the  knight  is   incensed   against  you, 
way.  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him.  even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement,  but  nothing  of  the  cir 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some  horrid   cunistance  more, 
message  for  a  challenge.  |       Vio.  I  beseech  you.  what  manner  of  man  is  he? 

[Exeunt  Sir  Tofy.  Fabian,  and  Maria.  !      Fab.  Nothing   of  that  wonderful   promise,  tfl    read 
Re-enter  Olivia,  with  Viola.  him  by  his  form,  as  you  are   like  to  find  him  in  the 

Oli.  I  haA-e  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone 


And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  on  't. 
There  "s  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault, 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
Tliat  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio.  With  the  same  'haA-iour  that  your  passion  bears, 
Go  on  mv  master's  sriels. 


proof  of  his  valour.     He  is.  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skil- 
ful, bloody,  and  fatal  opposite  that  you  cou.d  possibly 
have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria.     Will  you  walk  to 
wards  him  ?     I  will  make  your  peace  with  him,  if 
can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for  't :   I  am  one, 
i  that  would  rather  go  with  sir  priest,  than  sir  knisht  :  1 


Oli.  Here  ;  wear  this  jewel  for  me:  't  is  my  picture,  j  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my  mettle.       [Exeunt 


Refuse  it  not,  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me,  that  I  "11  deny. 
That,  honour  sav'd.  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.  Nothing  but  this  ;  your  true  love  for  my  master. 

Oli.  How  \A-ith  mine  honour  may  I  give  him  that. 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

Oli.  Well,  come  again  to-morrow.     Fare  thee  well : 
.\  fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.       [Exit. 
Re-enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to  't : 
of  what  nature  the  wTonss  are  thou  hast  done  him.  I 


Re-enter  Sir  Toby,  with  Sir  Andrew  hanging  back  ' 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he 's  a  very  devil,  I  have  not 
seen  such  a  firago.  I  had  a  pass  -sAith  him,  rapier, 
scabbard,  and  all.  and  he  gives  me  the  .«:tuck  in.  with 
such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is  inevitable ;  and  on  the 
answer,  he  pays  you  as  surely  as  your  feet  hit  the 
ground  they  step  on.  They  say,  he  has  been  fencer  to 
the  Sophy. 

Sir  Arul.  Pox  on 't,  I  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified  :  Fabian 
can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on't;  an  I  thought  he  had  been 
valiant,  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'd  have  seen  him 
damned  ere  I  'd  have  challenged  him.  Let  him  let 
the    matter   slip,  and  I  '11  give    him   my  horse,  grey 


know  not ;  but  thy  interceptor,  full  of  despight,  bloody  Capulet. 

as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the  orchard  end.     Dis-  Sir  To.  I  '11  make  the  motion.     Stand  here ;  make  a 

mount  thy  tuck' ;  be  yare"  in  thy  preparation,  for  thy  good  show  on  't.     This  shall  end  without  the  perdition 

assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and  deadly.  of  souls.   [Aside^  Marry,  I  '11  ride  your  horse  as  well 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir :  I  am  sure,  no  man  hath  any  as  I  ride  you. 

(uarrel  to  me.     My  remembrance  is  very  free  and  Re-enter  Fabian  and  Viola,  unwillingly.'' 

clear  from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any  man.  I  have  his  horse  [7b  Fab.]  to  take  up  the  quarrel.     I 

Sir  To.    You  '11    find   it   otherwise,    I    assure    you :  have  persuaded  him,  the  youth  's  a  devil, 

therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake  Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him :   [To  Sir 

you  to  your   guard;   for  your  opposite  hath  in  him  Toby]   and  pants,  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at 

what  youth,  strength,  skill,  and  wrath,  can  furnish  man  his  heels. 

withai.  SzV  To.  There 's  no  remedy,  sir  :  [To  Viola]  he  will 
Vio.  I  pray  you.  sir.  what  is  he  ?  finht  with  you  for  's  oath  sake.  Marry,  he  hath  bet- 
Sir  To.  He  is  a  knight,  dubbed  with  unhatch'd'  ter  bethought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that 
rapier,  and  on  carpet  consideration.*  but  he  is  a  devil  now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of:  therefore,  draw  for 
in  a  private  brawl :  souls  and  bodies  hath  he  divorced  the  supportance  of  his  vow :  he  protests,  he  will  not 
.three,  and  his  incensement  at  this  moment  is  so  im-  hurt  you. 

placable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none  but  by  pangs  of  Vio.  [Aside.]  Pray  God  defend  me  !     A  little  thing 

death  and  sepulchre.     Hob,  nob,'  is  his  word ;  give  't,  would  make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a  man. 

or  take  't.                                                                                I  Fab.  Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house,  and  desire  Sir  To.  Come,  sir  Andrew,  there's  no  remedy:  the 

some  conduct  of  the  lady :   I   am  no  fighter.     I  have  gentleman  will,  for  his  honour's  sake,  have  one  bout 

heard  of  some  kind  of  men,  that  put  quarrels  purposely  with  you  :  he   cannot  by  the  duello  avoid  it ;  but  he 

on  others  to  taste  their  valour ;   belike,  this  is  a  man  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier, 

of  that  quirk.  he  will  not  hurt  you.     Come  on  ;  to  't. 


Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out 
of  a  very  competent  injui-y :  therefore,  get  you  on,  and 
give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the  house, 
unless  you  undertake  that  with  me,  which  with  as 
much  safety  you  might  answer  him  :  therefore,  on,  strip 
your  sword  stark  naked  :  for  meddle  you  must,  that 's 
certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  iron  about  you. 


'"^1  [Thcij  drait.  atiA 
go  back  from 


Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep 

oath ' 
Vio. 
my 

Enter  Antonio. 
Ant.  Put  up  your  sword. — If  this  young  gentlemar 
Have  done  offence.  I  take  the  fault  on  me  : 


I  do  assure  you,  't  is  against  f        ^^^,^  ^^j^. 
my  will.  J 


Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil,  as  strange.     I  beseech  you,  If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.            [Drawing 

do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the  knight  Sir  To.  You,  sir  ?  why.  what  are  you  ? 

what  my  offence  to  him  is :  it  is  something  of  my  neg-  Ant.  One.  sir.  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more, 

ligence,' nothing  of  my  purpose.  Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

'  Rapier.      »  Nimble.      '  UnhacJced.      ♦  Referring 
'  &  oomip'ion  of  Aap,  or  ne  hap.      «  The  -words  ^^ hanging 


carpet-knights,  or  those  who  were  not  dubbed  on  the  feld  of  battle,  or  for  sarrir* 
tg  back"  are  not  in  f.  e.      '  This  word  is  not  adde-l  in  f.  e.     »  Draws:  m  f.  f. 


272 


TWELFTH  NIGHT:   OR,  WHAT  YOU   WILL. 


ACT    IV. 


Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,  I  am  for  you. 

[Drau'mg. 
Enter  Officers. 
Fab.  0,  aood  sir  Toby,  hold  !  here  come  the  officers. 
Sir  To.  I  '11  be  with  you  anon. 
Vio.  Pray,  sir  :  put  your  sword  up,  if  you  please. 
Sir  And.  Marry,  will   I,  sir: — and,  for  that   1   pro- 
mised you,  I  "11  be  as  good  as  my  word.     He  will  bear 
you  easily,  and  reins  well. 

1  0(f.  This  is  the  man  :  do  thy  office. 

2  Of.   Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
0.'"  count  Orsino. 

Ant  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No.  sir,  no  jot :  I  know  your  favour  well, 
riiougli  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head. — 
Take  him  away:  he  knows,  I  know  him  well. 

Ant.  I  must  obey. — [To   Vioi.a.]  This  comes  with 
seeking  you ; 
But  there  's  no  remedy  :  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  ?     Now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse.     It  grieves  me 
Much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you, 
Than  what  befalls  myself.     You  stand  amaz'd, 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.  I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 

Vio.  What  money,  sir  ? 
For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show'd  me  here, 
And  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble, 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability, 
I  '11  lend  you  something.     My  having  is  not  much: 
I'll  make  division  of  my  present  with  you. 
Hold,  there  's  half  ray  coffer. 

A7it.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is  't  possible,  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  m,y  misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man, 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature. 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man, 
Than  lying  vainness,  babbling  drunkenness, 


Or  any  taint  of  vice  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  0.  heavens  themselves  ! 

2  Off.  Come  sir :  I  pray  you,  go.  [see  here, 

A7it.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth,  that  you 
I  snatch'd  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  ; 
Hcliev'd  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 
And  to  his  image,  which,  metliought,  did  promise 
I  Most  veritable'  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

1    Off.  What 's  that  to  us  ?  The  time  goes  by :  away  : 

Ant.  But,  0.  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god ! — 
Thou  ha,st,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. 
In  nature  there  's  no  blemish,  but  the  mind ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd,  but  the  unkind  : 
Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous  evil 
Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourish'd  by  the  devil. 

1   Off.  The  man  grows  mad  :  away  with  him  ! 
Come,  come,  sir. 

A7it.  Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt  Officers.,  with  Antonio. 

Vio.  Methinks,  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly, 
That  he  believes  himself;  so  do  not  L 
Prove  true,  imagination.  6  !  prove  true, 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight;  come  hither,  Fabian; 
we  '11  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most  sage  saws. 

Vio.  He  nam'd  Sebastian  :  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  gla.ss;  even  .such,  and  .«o, 
In  favour  was  my  brother ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate.     0  !  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love!  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more  a 
coward  than  a  hare.  His  dishonesty  appears,  in  leaving 
his  friend  here  in  necessity,  and  denying  him;  and  for 
his  cowardship,  ask  Fabian.  [it. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward :  religious  in 

Sir  And.  'Slid,  I  '11  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.  Do ;  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy 
sword. 

Sir  And.  An  I  do  not, —  [Exit. 

Fab.  Come,  let 's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money 'twill  be  nothing  yet. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 


SCE.VE  I.— The  Street  before  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Sebastian  and  Clown. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not  sent 
for  you  ? 

Seb.  Go  to.  go  to :  thou  art  a  fooli.sh  fellow : 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'  faith  !  No,  I  do  not  know 
>ou ;  nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady  to  bid  you 
come  speak  with  her:  nor  your  name  is  not  master 
Cesario :  nor  this  is  not  my  nose  neither. — Nothing, 
that  is  so.  IS  so. 

Seb.  I  pr'ythee.  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else: 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly!  He  has  heard  that  word  of 
some  great  man.  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool.  Vent 
my  folly  !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubberly  world'  will 
prove  a  u)ckney.  I  pr'ythee  now.  uneird  thy  strange- 
ness, and  tell  me  what  I  shall  vent  to  my  lady.    Shall 


I  vent  to  her  that  thou  art  coming  ? 

Seb.  I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek',  depart  from  me. 
There  's  money  for  thee  :  if  yon  tarry  longer, 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand. — These 
wise  men.  that  give  fools  money,  get  themselves  a  good 
report  after  fourteen  years'  purcha-se.* 

Enter  Sir  Andrew,  Sir  Tobv,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again?  there  's 
for  you.  [Striking  SEbASTiAN. 

Seb.  Why.  there's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there. — 
Are  aW  the  people  mad?  [Beating  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I  '11  throw  your  dagger  o'er  the 
house. 

Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight.  I  would  not 
be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  two-pence.     [Exit  Clown. 

Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir:  hold!     [//oWmg  Sebastian. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone  ;  I  "11  go  another  way 
to  work  with  him:    I'll   have  an  action   of  battf^rv 


Tenerfibl*     in  f.  e.      »  thin  frreat  Inbber.  thn  world  : 
•  a  hit  -  liwelve  beine  the  arual^  rata  of  purchase- 


in  f.  e.      '  Toolish  and  merry  Greek,  were  terms  applied  to  jocular  panune 
Verplanck. 


SCENE  n. 


TWELFTII-^^IGHT:   OR,  WHAT  YOU   WILL, 


273 


against  him^  if  there  be  any  law  in  lUyria.     Though  I 
struck  him  first ;  yet  it 's  no  matter  for  that. 

Scb.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.  Come,  my 
S'oung  soldier,  put  up  your  iron :  you  are  well  fleshed. 
Come  on. 

Seb.  I  will  he  free  from  thee.     What  wouldst   thou 
now?  [Breaking  away ^ 

!f  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  farther,  draw  thy  sword. 

Sir  To.  What,  what !  Nay  then.  1  jnust  have  an 
unce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you. 

[They  draw  and  fence.' 
Enter  Olivia. 

OH.  Hold.  Toby !  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee,  hold  ! 

Sir  To.  Madam— 

OH.  Will  it  be  ever  thus?     Ungracious  wTetch  ! 
Fit  for  the  mountains,  and  the  barbarous  caves. 
Where    manners    ne"er   were    preach'd.     Out   of  my 

sight ! — 
Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario. — 
Rude.'iby.  be  gone  ! — 1  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil,  and  unjust  extent 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  rulfian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
May'st  smile  at  this.     Thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go : 
Do  not  deny.     Beshrcw  his  soul  for  me. 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.  What  relish  is  in  this?  how  runs  the  stream? 
Or  I  am  mad.  or  else  this  is  a  dream. 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep; 
[f  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep. 

Oli.  Nay.    come,    I    pr"ythee.     Would  thou  'dst    be 
rul'd  by  me  ! 

Seb.  Madam.  I  will. 

OH.  0  !  say  so,  and  so  be.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  H.— A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee.  put  on  this  gown,  and  this 
beard :  make  him  believe  thou  art  sir  Topas,  the  cu- 
rate :  do  it  quickly  ;  I  "11  call  sir  Toby  the  whilst. 

[Exit  Maria. 

Clo.  Well,  I  '11  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble  my- 
self in  't :  and  1  would  I  were  the  first  that  ever  dis- 
sembled in  such  a  go\^Ti.  [Putting  it  o»i.']  I  am  not 
tall*  enough  to  become  the  function  well,  nor  lean 
enough  to  be  thought  a  good  student;  but  to  be  said 
an  honest  man.  and  a  good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly 
as  to  say  a  careful  man,  and  a  great  scholar.  The 
competitors*  enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  sir  Toby :  for  as  the  old  hermit  of 
Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  ^^^ttily  said 
to  a  niece  of  king  Gorboduc.  "  That,  that  is,  is ;"  so  I, 
b-eing  mnstei  parson,  am  master  parson, — for  what  is 
liiat.  but  that  ?  and   is.  but  is? 

Sir  To.  To  him.  sir  Topas. 

Clo.  What,  ho  !   I  say. — Peace  in  this  prison. 

[Opening  a  door.^ 

Sir  To.  Tiie  knave  counterfeits  well;  a  good  knave. 

Mai.  [Wilhin.]   Who  calls  there? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas,  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit  Mal- 
volio  the  lunatic. 


Mai.  Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas,  good  sir  Topas.  go  to  my 
lady. 

Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou  thit. 
man.     Talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  WTonged. — 
Good  sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad.  they  havp 
laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo.  Fie.  thou  dishonest  Sathan  !  I  call  thee  by  the 
most  modest  terms :  for  I  am  one  of  those  gentle  one.v 
that  will  use  the  devil  himself  with  courtesy.  Say"s 
thou  that  hou.-e  is  dark  ? 

Mai.  As  hell,  sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows  transparem  as  bai- 
ricadoes,  and  the  clear  stories'  towardfl  the  south-north 
are  lustrous  as  ebony;  and  yet  co' "~'"'"'»st.  thou  oi 
obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  sir  Topas.  I  say  to  ^  u,  thi;- 
house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say  there  is  no  dark- 
ness but  ignorance,  in  which  thou  art  more  puzzled 
than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance,  though 
ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say,  there  was 
never  man  thus  arbused.  I  am  no  more  mad  than 
you  are ;  make  the  trial  of  it  in  any  constant  ques- 
tion. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning 
wild-fowl  ? 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply  in- 
habit a  bird. 

Clo.  What  thinkest  thou  of  liis  opinion  ? 

3Ial.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approv*- 
his  opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well  :  remain  thou  still  in  darkness 
Thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras,  ere  I  will 
allow  of  thy  wits,  and  fear  to  kill  a  woodcock,  lest 
thou  dispossess  the  soul  of  thy  grandam.  Fare  thee 
well.  [Closing  the  door.' 

Mai.  Sir  Topas  !   sir  Topas  ! — 

Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  sir  Topas. 

Clo.   Nay,  I  ain  for  all  waters. 

3Iar.  Thou  mightst  have  done  this  without  thy 
beard,  and  gown  :   he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me 
word  how  thou  findest  him  ;  I  would,  we  were  all  well 
rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently  deli- 
vered. I  would  he  were  ;  for  I  am  now  so  far  in  offence 
with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot  pursue  with  any  safety 
this  sport  to  the  upshot.  Come  by  and  by  to  my  cham- 
ber. [Ereiint  Sir  Toby  and  Maria 

Clo.   "  Hey  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does.'"      [Singing 

Mai.  Fool  ! 

Clo.  "  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy." 

3M.  Fool! 

Clo.  "  Alas,  why  is  she  so  ?" 

Mai.  Fool,  I  say. 

Clo.  "She  loves  another" — Wlio  calls,  ha? 

[Opening  the  door.^* 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well  at 
my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 
As  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be  thankful  to  thee 
for  't. 

Clo.  Ma.ster  Malvolio  ! 

Mai.  Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  five  wit«' 


»  Not  in  f.  e.      >  Droit's :  in  f.  e.      '  Not  in  f. 
a)>per  wall  above  the  aisles  having  generallv  a  i 

S 


*  Lustr/,  stout.      »  Confederates.      «  Not  in  f.  e.     'The  clere-story  of  a  o>iurch.  ii^  thi 
of  windows.      9  Not  inf.  e.      «  This  baJlad  may  be  founc.  in  Percy's  Rel.ques.       '<  No- 


274 


TWELFTH-NIGHT:   OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


ACT   V. 


Mai.  FooJ,  tliere  was  never  man  so  notoriously 
abused  :  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art. 

Clo.  But  as  well?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if  you 
be  no  bcticr  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  have  here  propertied'  me  ;  keep  me  in 
darkness,  send  ministers  to  mc,  aases  !  and  do  all  they 
can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say :  the  minister  is  here. 
[Spcakivg  a^sir  Topas.^] — Malvolio,  Malvolio.  thy  wits 
the  heavens  restore  !  endeavour  thyself  to  sleep,  and 
leave  thy  vain  bibble  babble. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas, — 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. — 
^ho,  I.  sir  ?  not  I,,  sir.  God  b'  wi'  you,  good  sir 
Topas — Marry,  amen. — I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.  Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir.  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir?  I  am 
shent^  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  some 
paper ;  I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  as  any 
man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.  Woll-a-day,  that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am.  Good  fool,  some  ink, 
paper,  and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down  to 
my  lady  :  it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than  ever  the 
bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  I  wll  help  you  to  't.  But  tell  me  true,  are  you 
not  mad  indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 

Mai.  Believe  me.  I  am  not :  I  tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I  "11  ne'er  believe  a  madman,  till  I  see  his 
brains.     I  will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  and  ink. 

Mai.  Fool;  I  "11  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree  :  I 
prythee,  be  gone. 

Clo.  [Singing.]*      I  am  gone^  sir, 
And  anon,  sir, 
Vll  be  with  you  again, 
WiOv'  a  trice, 
Like  the'  old  vice'', 
Your  need  to  sustain; 

Who  with  dagger  of  lath. 
In  hi.<!  rage  aiid  his  wrath. 
Cries,  Ah,  ha !  to  the  devil  : 


Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad, 
Adieu,  goodman  drivels. 


[Exit 


SCENE  Til.— Olivia's  Garden. 
Enter  Seb.a.stian. 
Seb.  This  is  the  air  ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun ; 
This  pearl  she  gave  mc,  I  do  feel  't,  and  sec 't ; 
And  though  't  is  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  't  is  not  madness.     Where  "s  Antonio  then' 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant  : 
Yet  there  he  was,  and  there  I  found  this  credit, 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  mc  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service  : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness. 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instaiicc,  all  discourse. 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes. 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  mc 
To  any  other  trust  but  that  I  am  mad : 
Or  else  the  lady  's  mad :  yet,  if  't  were  so. 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  followers, 
Take,  and  give  back,  and  thus  despatch  affairs. 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing. 
As,  I  perceive,  .she  docs.     There's  something  in  't, 
That  is  deceivable.     But  here  the  lady  comes. 
Enter  Olivia  and  a  Priest. 

OH.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine.    If  you  mean  vrell, 
Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry  by ;  there,  before  him, 
And  underneatli  that  consecrated  roof. 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith  ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  souJ 
May  live  at  peace  :  he  shall  conceal  it. 
Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note, 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth. — What  do  you  say? 

Seb.  I  '11  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you, 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

Oii.  Then  lead  the  way,  good  father :   and  heavens 
so  shine. 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  !    [Bxetmt 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  1— The  Street  before  Olivia's  House. 
Enter  Clown  and  Fabian. 

Fab.  Now,  as  thou  lov'.«t  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 

Clo.  Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another  request. 

Fab.  Any  thing. 

Clo.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 

Fab.  This  is,  to    give    a  dog,  and    in    recompense 
Venire  my  dog  a::ain. 

Enter  Dl'kk.  Viola,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  lady  Olivia,  friends? 

Clo.  Ay,  sir  :  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well :  how  dosi  thou,  my  good 
fellow  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,   the    better    for    my  foes,  and    the 
worse  for  my  friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy  friends. 

Clo.  No.  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 


Clo.  Marry ^  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an  a.S8 
of  me :  now,  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an  ass;  so 
that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the  knowledge  of 
myself,  and  by  my  friends  I  am  abused  ;  so  that,  con- 
clusions to  be  as  kisses,  if  your  four  neuative.>-  make 
your  two  afllrmatives,  why  then,  the  worse  for  my 
friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  [t  please  you  to 
be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  i^ie  :  there's 
2old.  [Giving  money  ' 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.  0  !  you  give  me  il!  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  thi? 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  b 
double  dealer  :  there  's  another. 


»  T&ksD  possession  of. 
una.     '  devV-  in  f.  e. 


*  Not  in  f.  e. 
»  Not  in  f.  6. 


Rebuked.    ♦  Not  in  f.  •.     »  In:  in  f.  •.     •  To  tht,  l[c.:  in  f.  e.     'A  character  in  the  oarly  Englisi 


TWELFTIl-NIGHT :   OR,  WHAT    YOU    WILL. 


275 


Clo.  Primo  secundo^  (ertio^  is  a  good  play  ;  and  the 
nld  saying  is,  the  tliird  pays  for  all :  the  triplet",  sir,  is 
a  good  tripping  measure;  or  the  bells  of  St.  Beimet, 
sir,  may  put  you  in  mind — one,  two.  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  moie  money  out  of  me  at 
this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I  am  here 
to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along  -with  you,  it 
may  awake  my  bounty  further. 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  yoiu-  bounty,  till  I  come 
again.  I  go,  sir  ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  to  think, 
tha*  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  of  covetousness : 
but  as  you  say.  sir,  let  your  bounty  take  a  nap,  I  will 
awake  it  anon.  [Exit  Clown. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Officers. 

Vio    Here  comes  the  man.  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 

Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd, 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war. 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught  and  bulk  unprizable. 
With  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 
That  very  en\^,  and  the  tongue  of  loss. 
Cried  fame  and  honour  on  him. — What 's  the  matter? 

1  Off.  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio, 
That  took  the  Ph(Enix.  and  her  fraught,  from  Candy ; 
And  this  is  he,  that  did  the  Tiger  board, 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg. 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state, 
[n  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir,  drew  on  my  side, 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me; 
I  know  not  what  't  was,  but  distraction. 

Duke.  Notable  pirate,  thou  salt-water  thief, 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies, 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody,  and  so  dear', 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Ant  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleas'd  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give  me : 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief,  or  pirate, 
Though.  1  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side. 
From  the  rude  sea's  enrag'd  and  foamy  mouth 
[Jid  I  redeem  :  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was. 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention,  or  restraint, 
A.11  his  in  dedication  :  for  his  sake. 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  ; 
Drew  to  defend  him,  when  he  was  beset: 
Wiiere  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning 
(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger) 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 
A.iid  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  thing, 
While  one  would  wink;  denied  me  mine  own  purse, 
'■Vhicl.  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Sin  lialf  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Dukf,  WHien  came  he  to  this  town? 

Ant.  To-day,  my  lord  ;  and  for  three  months  before. 
No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy. 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Here  comes  the  countess  :  now  heaven  walks 
on  earth ! — 
But  for  thee,  fellow ;  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness : 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me  ; 

'  triplex:  in  f.  e.      »  From  the  Saxon  rfere,  hurt.      '  Thvamis.  in 
En^i  ;h  near  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century.      «  of  :  inf.'  e. 


But  more  of  that  anon. — Take  him  aside. 

Oh.   What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have. 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Vio.   Madam  ? 

Duke.  Gracious  Olivia, — 

OH.  What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ? — Good  my  lord. — 

Vio.  My  lord  would  speak,  my  duty  hushes  me. 

OH.  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord. — 
It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear. 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oli.  Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.  What,  to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady. 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breath'd  out, 
That  e'er  devotion  tender'd.     What  shall  I  do?    [him 

Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  become 

Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  I  love  ?'   a  savage  jealousy. 
That  sometimes  savours  nobly. — But  hear  me  this  : 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith. 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favour, 
Live  you  the  marble-breasted  tyrant  still  ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom,  1  know,  you  love. 
And  wliom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite. — 
Come  boy,  with  me  :  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mischief : 
I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love. 
To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  \Going. 

Vio.  And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest  a  thousand  deaths  would  die.  [Following. 

Oli.  Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  tlian  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  v.ife. 
If  I  do  feign,  you  \A'itne'sses  above 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

Oli.  Ah  me  !  detested  ?  how  am  I  beguil'd  ! 

Vio.  Who  does  beguile  you  ?  who  docs  do  you  wrong? 

OH.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself?     Is  it  so  long? — 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant 

Duke.  Come  away.     [To  Viola. 

Oli.  Whither,  my  lord  ? — Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.  Husband  ? 

Oli.  Ay.  husband  :  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.  Her  husband,  sirrah? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  L 

Oli.  Alas  !  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear, 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety. 
Fear  not,  Cesario  :  take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. — 0,  welcome,  father  I 

Re-enter  Attendant  with  the  Priest. 
Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold  (thougli  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness,  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  't  is  ripe)  what  thovi  dost  know, 
Hath  newly  past  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.  A  contract  and*  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  mterchangement  of  your  rings ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  tliis  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 

the   Greek  romance,  the  "  Etniopics"  of  Heliodorus,   translated  intr 


276 


rVVEI-FTII-NIGIIT :   OR,  WHAT  YOU   WILL. 


ACT   V. 


SJnoo  •when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my  grave 
1  have  travelled  but  two  liours. 

Duke.  0,  thou  dissetnbliim  cub  !  what  wilt  thou  be, 
When  time  haih  sow"d  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ?' 
Or  will  not  el.>;o  thy  cral't  so  quickly  grow, 
That  tliine  own  trip  siiall  be  thine  overthrow? 
Farewell,  and  tala-  her;  but  direct  thy  feet, 
Wliero  thou  and  1  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio    My  lord,  I  do  protest. — 

OH.  0  !  do  not  swear : 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear, 
t'»i/cr  Sir  Anprkw  Agie-cheek.  with  his  head  broken. 

Sir  And.  Kor  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon!  send  one 
prt\»('ntly  to  Sir  Toby. 

OH.  What's  the  matter? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and  has 
given  .sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too.  For  the  love  of 
God,  your  help  !  I  had  rather  than  forty  pound  I  were 
at  home. 

Oli.  Who  has  done  this,  sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario.  We 
took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he  's  the  very  devil  incar- 
dinate. 

Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario  ? 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings  !  here  he  is. — You  broke  my 
head  for  nothing  ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set  on  to 
do 't  by  sir  Toby. 

Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?     I  never  hurt  you  : 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me,  without  cause; 
But  I  bes])ake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you  have 
hurt  me :  I  think  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody  coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  Tobv  Belch,  drunk.,  led  by  the  Clown. 
Here  comes  sir  Toby  halting  :  you   shall  hear  more  :  j 
but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  lie  would  have  tickled 
you  othergates  than  he  did. 

Dvke.  How  now.  gentleman  ;  how  is  't  with  you  ? 

Sir  To.  That's  all  one  :  he  has  hurt  me,  and  there  's 
'-he  end  on  't. — Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon,  sot? 

Clo.  0  !  he  's  drunk,  sir  TobV,  an  hour  agone  :  his 
f^yes  were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he  's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy-measures 
pavin.'     I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

Oli.  Away  with  him  !  Who  hath  made  this  havoc 
with  them  ? 

67  •  And.  I  '11  help  you,  sir  Toby,  because  we  '11  be 
drerSed  together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help?  An  a.ss-head,  and  a  cox- 
comb, and  a  knave  !   a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull  ! 

Oli.  Get  him  to  bed.  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd  to. 

[Exnmt  Clown,  Sir  Toby,  and  Sir  Andrew. 
Enter  Skbastian  (all  .'start'). 

Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kinsman ; 
But  had  it  been  the  brolhcr  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less  \\-ith  wit  and  safety. 
Vou  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and  by  that 
I  do  perceive  it  hath  ofTended  you  : 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
Wc  i/iade  each  other  but  so  late  ngo. 

Duke.  One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two  persons; 
A  natural  per8|pective,*  that  is,  and  is  not  I 

Sib.  Antonio!  0.  my  dear  Antonio  ! 
How  liave  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortur'd  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thee  ! 

Aiit.  Sebastian  are  you? 

Scb.  Fear'et  thou  that,  Antonio? 

Ant.  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself? — 


An  apple  cleft  in  two  is  not  more  twin 

Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian? 

Oli.  Most  wonderful  ! 

Scb.   Do  I  stand  there  ?     I  never  had  a  brother; 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature^ 
Of  here  and  every  where.     1  had  a  sister, 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surues  have  devour'd. — 
[To  Viola.]  Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ? 
What  countryman?  Mhat  name?  what  parentage? 

Vio.  OfMessaline:  Sebastian  was  my  father  ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too. 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  -watery  tomb. 
If  f-piriis  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 
You  come  to  fright  us 

Seb.  A  spirit  I  am  indeed  ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad. 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say-;-thrice  welcome,  drownied  Viola! 

Vio.  My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Scb.  And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.  And  died  that  day,  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  number'd  thirteen  years. 

Scb.  O  !  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul. 
He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years, 

Vio.  If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both, 
But  this  my  masculine  usurped  attire, 
Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump, 
That  I  am  Viola  :  which  to  confirm, 
I  '11  bring  you  to  a  captain's  in  this  town, 
Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds  ;  by  whose  gentle  help 
I  was  preserved  to  serve  this  noble  count. 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady,  and  this  lord. 

Seb.  So  comes  it,  lady,  [To  Olivia.]  you  have  beer. 
mistook  ; 
But  nature  to  her  bias  true'  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid, 
Nor  are  you  therem,  by  my  life,  deeciv'd  : 
You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amaz'd ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. — 
If  this  be  so.  as  yet  the  gla.ss  .seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  hap])y  wreck. 
Boy,  [7b  Vioi.A.]  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times, 
Thou  never  should.st  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear, 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul, 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent,  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  nigiit. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand  ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore, 
Hath  my  maid's  garments :  he,  upon  some  action, 
Is  now  in  durance  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

Oli.  He  shall  enlarge  him. — Fetch  Malvolio  hither  :- 
And  yet,  alas  !  now  I  remember  me. 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he  's  much  distract. 
A  most  distracting*  frenzy  of  mine  own 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish'd  his, — 

Re-enter  Clown,  with  a  letter. 
How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Beelzebub  at  the  stave'? 
end.  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  esse  may  do.    He  has  her* 


>  Skin       »  The    parin,  or  pearork  danre,  waa  ilow  and  heaTy  ;  the  passa  mezzo,  was  a  fomnal  step.      '  "  nil  start,"  not  in  1.  ".      ' 
pictnie  painted  on  a  board,  so  cut  bm  to  pretent  a  diffvreDt  acpeuaiice  when  looked  at  in  front  or  at  the  side.     '  drew  :  in  (.  e.     *  exiraet:i\r 


i 


8UEJ!fE 


TWELFTH  NIGHT :   OR,   WHAT  YOU   WILL 


277 


L 


writ  a  letter  to  you :  I  should  have  given  it  you  to-day 
morning  :  but  as  a  madman's  epistles  are  no  gospels, 
50  it  skills'  not  much  when  they  are  delivered. 

Oli    Open  it.  and  read  it. 

Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the  fool  de- 
livers rhe  madman : — [Reads.]  ■'  By  the  Lord,  ma- 
dam,"— 

OH.  How  now  ?  art  thou  mad  ? 

Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness :  an  your 
ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must  allow 
vox. 

Oli.  Pr'ythee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right  wits, 
is  to  read  thus  :  therefore  perpend,  my  princess,  and 
give  ear 

Oli.  Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [To  Fabian. 

Fab.  [Reads.]  '-By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wTong 
ine,  and  the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you  have  put 
me  into  darkne.'-s,  and  given  your  drunken  cousin  rule 
over  me,  yet  have  I  the  benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as 
your  ladyship.  I  have  your  own  letter  that  induced 
me  to  the  !-euiblance  I  put  on  :  with  the  which  I  doubt 
not  but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or  you  much  shame. 
Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I  leave  my  duty  a  little 
uuthought  of,  and  speak  out  of  my  injury. 

"  The  madly-used  M^lvolio." 

Oli.  Did  he  write  this  ? 

Clo.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.  This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 

Oli.  See  him  deliver'd,  Fabian  :  bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  Fabian. 
My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought  on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife. 
One  da>  shall  crown  the  alliance,  and'  so  please  you. 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  t'  embrace  your  offer. — 
[To  Viola.]  Your  master  quits  you;  and  for  your  ser- 
vice done  him. 
So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex. 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding. 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long. 
Here  is  my  hand  ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

Oli.  A  sister :  you  are  she. 

Re-enter  Fabian,  with  MiLVOLio,^  7i'ith  straw  about  him, 
as  from  prison. 

Duke.  Is  this  the  madman? 

OH.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

OH.  Have  I,  Malvolio  ?  no. 

Mai.  Lady,  you  have.    Pray  you,  peruse  that  letter : 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand. 
Write  from  it.  if  you  can,  in  hand,  or  phrase  ; 
Or  say,  't  is  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention  : 
You  can  say  none  of  this.     Well,  grant  it  then, 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour. 
Why  you  hav«  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour, 
Bade  me  come  smiling,  and  cross-garter'd  to  you, 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  sir  Toby,  and  the  lighter  people  ? 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope. 
Why  have  you  sufTer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 
A.nd  made  the  most  notorious  geek*  and  gull, 
That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 

OH.  Alas  !  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 


Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character ; 

But,  out  of  question,  't  is  Maria's  hand  : 

And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 

First  told  me  thou  wast  mad  ;  thou'  cam'st  in  smiling 

And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  preimpos'd' 

Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Pr'ythee,  be  content : 

This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass"d  upon  thee  ; 

But  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 

Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 

Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak  ; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come, 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.     In  hope  it  shall  not, 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself,  and  Toby, 
Set  this  device  asainst  Malvolio  here. 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  against  him.     Maria  writ 
The  letter  at  sir  Toby's  great  importance  ; 
In  recompense  whereof  ho  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  Ibllow'd, 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge. 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd. 
That  have  on  both  sides  past. 

Oli.  Alas,  poor  soul,'  how  have  they  bafHed  thee  ! 

Clo.  Why  "  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust*  upon  them." 
I  was  one.  sir,  in  this  interlude:  one  sir  Topas,  sir, 
but  that 's  all  one. — "  By  the  Lord,  fool,  I  am  not  mad;" 
— But  do  you  remember  ?  '•  Madam,  why  laugh  you 
at  such  a  barren  rascal  ?  an  you  smile  not,  he 's  gagg'd :" 
And  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges 

Mai.  I  '11  be  reveng'd  on  the  whole  pack  of  you.  [Exit. 

Oli.  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abus'd. 

Duke.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace. 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet ; 
When  that  is  known  and  golden  time  convents, 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls  : — mean  time,  sweet  sister. 
We  will  not  part  from  hence. — Cesario.  come; 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man, 
But  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.  [Exeurit 

Clown  sings,'  to  pipe  and  tabor. 

When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy. 

With  hey,  ho.  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy. 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came,  alas  !  to  wive. 

With  hei),  ho,  the  ivind  and  the  rain, 
By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the'  rain, 

With  to.'ts-pots  still  /'"  had  drunken  head^ 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  raiiij 

But  that  '5  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 

And  we  'II  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 


Signijiet.      »  the  alii inc 
in  f.  e.      '  fool :  In  t  e. 


on't:  inf. 
*  thrown  : 


3  Th£  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e.      *  Object  of  i 
f.  e.      »  The  rest  of  this  direction  not  in  f.  a.     i»  "  /"  : 


THE    WINTER'S    TALE 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Lbontes,  King  of  Sicilia. 
Mamillus,  young  Prince  of  Sicilia. 
Camil.  0,  "I 

Antigoms,  Lords  of  Sicilia. 

Cleo.menes, 

Diox  J 

RoGERO.  a  Gentleman  of  Sicilia. 

Olfictr.*  of  a  Court  of  Judicature. 

PoLixENES.  King  of  Bohemia. 

Florizei,,  Prince  of  Bohemia. 

Archidamus,  a  Lord  of  Bohemia. 

A  Mariner. 

Gaoler. 


An  old  Shepherd,  reputed  Father  of  Perdita 

Clown,  his  Son. 

Servant  to  the  old  Shepherd. 

AcTOLYcus,  a  Rogue. 

Time,  the  Chorus. 

Hermione,  Queen  to  Leontes. 

Perdita,  Daughter  to  Leontes  and  Hermiona. 

Pailina.  Wife  to  Antigonus. 

Emilia,  a  Lady  attending  the  Queen. 

DoTcAS.     !  Shepherdesses. 


Lords,  Ladie.«.  and  Attendants:  Satyr.«.  Shepherds,  Shepherdes.ses.  Guards,  &c, 
SCENE,  sometimes  in  Sicilia.  sometimes  in  Bohemia. 


ACT    1 


5(.'ENE   I. — Sicilia.     An  Antechamber  in  Leontes" 

Palace. 

Enter  Camii.lo  and  Archida-MCS. 

Arch.  If  you  should  chance.  Camillo.  to  visit  Bohemia, 
on  the  like  occa.«ion  whereon  my  .services  are  now  on 
foot,  you  shall  see,  as  I  have  .«aid.  great  difference 
betwixt  our  Bohemia  and  your  Sicilia. 

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

Arch.  Wherein  our  entertainment  shall  shaine  vm. 
we  will  be  ju.stified  in  our  loves ;  for,  indeed, — 

Cam.  Beseech  you. — 

Arch.  Verily.  I  speak  it  in  the  freedom  of  my  know- 
ledge: we  cannot  with  such  magnificence — in  so  rare 
— I  know  not  what  to  say. — We  will  give  you  sleepy 
drinks,  that  your  senses,  unintelligent  of  our  insuffi- 
cienco,  may,  though  they  camiot  praise  us,  as  little 
a*."cuse  us. 

Cam.  You  pay  a  great  deal  too  dear  for  what 's  given 
H-eely. 

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

Cam.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  over-kind  to  Bohe- 
mia They  were  trained  together  in  their  childhoods ; 
and  there  rooted  betwxt  them  then  such  an  affection, 
wli;ch  cannot  choose  but  branch  now.  Since  their 
iifore  mature  dignities,  and  royal  necessities,  made 
sfparMion  of  their  .««ciety.  their  encounters,  thouah 
not  pcr.^onal,  have  been  so'  royally  attorney"d.  with 
•ntercliaiige  of  sil'ts,  letters,  loving  emba.«sic.^.  that 
ikey  have  seemed  to  be  together,  though  absent,  shook 
hands,  as  over  a  vast,  and  embraced,  as  it  were,  from 
the  ends  of  opposed  winds.  The  heavens  continue 
their  loves! 


Tb  >  TTord  if  not  in  f.  e.      '  that  may 


1  f.  •       •  \ipping.     *  tm 


Arch.  I  think,  there  is  not  in  the  world  either 
malice,  or  matter,  to  alter  it.  You  have  an  unspeak- 
able  comfort  of  your  young  prince  RIamillius :  it  is  t 
gentleman  of  the  greatest  promise  that  ever  came  into 
1  my  note. 

Cam.  I  very  well  agree  with  you  in  the  hopes  of 
him.  It  is  a  gallant  child  :  one  that,  indeed,  physics 
the  subject,  makes  old  hearts  fresh  :  they,  that  went 
on  crutches  ere  he  was  born,  desire  yet  their  lite  to 
see  him  a  man. 

Arch.  Would  they  else  be  content  to  die  ? 

Cam.  Yes ;  if  ihere  were  no  other  excuse  why  they 
should  desire  to  live. 

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

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Room  of  State  in  the 

Palace. 
Enter  Leontes.  Pom.xenes.  Hermione,  Ma.millius, 
Camillo,  aiul  Attendants. 
Pol.  Nine  changes  of  the  watery  star  have  been 
The  shepherds  note,  since  we  have  left  our  throne 
Without  a  burden  :  time  as  long  again 
Would  be  fiird  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks; 
And  yet  we  should  for  perpetuity 
Go  hence  in  debt :  and  therefore,  like  a  cipher, 
Yet  standing  in  rich  place.  I  multiply 
With  one  we-thank-you  many  thousands  more 
I  That  go  before  it. 

!      Leon  Stay  your  thanks  awhile, 

And  pay  them  when  you  part. 

Pol.  Sir,  that 's  to-monow 

I  am  question'd  by  my  tears,  of  what  may  chance, 
Or  breed  upon  our  absence :  may  there*  blow 
No  sneaping'  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say, 
i  "This  is  put  forth  too  early*."     Besides,  I  have  K'ay'd 

ly  :  in  f.  e. 


SCENE   11, 


THE  WmTEK'S  TALE. 


279 


To  tire  your  royalty. 

Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother, 

Than  you  can  put  us  to  't. 

Pol.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.  One  seven-night  longer. 

Pol.  Very  soothy  to-morrow. 

Leon.  We  '11  part  the  time  between 's  then ;  and  in  that 
I   11  no  gain-saying. 

Pol.  Press  me  not,  beseech  you. 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves,  none,  none  i'  the  world^ 
So  soon  as  yours,  could  win  me  :  so  it  should  now, 
W(!re  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 
'T  were  needful  I  denied  it.     My  affairs 
Do  even  drag  me  homeward  ;  which  to  hinder. 
Were  in  your  love  a  whip  to  me,  my  stay 
To  you  a  charge,  and  trouble  :  to  save  both, 
Farewell,  our  brother. 

Leon.  Tongue-tied,  our  queen  ?  speak  you. 

Her.  I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my  peace,  until 
You  had  drawn  oaths  from  him,  not  to  stay.     You,  sir. 
Charge  him  too  coldly  :  tell  him,  you  are  sure 
All  in  Bohemia  's  well  :  this  satisfaction 
The  by-gone  day  proclaim'd.     Say  this  to  him. 
He  's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 

Leoii.  Well  said,  Hermione.   [He  walks  apart.' 

Her.  To  tell  he  longs  to  see  his  son  were  strong  : 
But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go  ; 
But  let  him  swear  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay. 
We  '11  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs. —  [venture 

Yet  of  your  royal  presence   [lb  Polixenes.]  I  '11  ad- 
The  borrow  of  a  week.     When  at  Bohemia 
You  take  my  lord,  I  '11  give  him  my  commission. 
To  let  him  there  a  month  behind  the  gest* 
Prefix'd  for  's  parting  ;  yet,  good  deed,^  Lcontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar*  o'  the  clock  behind 
What  lady  should  her  lord.     You  '11  stay  ? 

Pol.  No,  madam. 

Her.  Nay,  but  you  will  ? 

Pol.  I  may  not,  verily. 

Her.  Verily! 
You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows  ;  but  I, 
Though  you  would  seek  t'  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths, 
Stiould  yet  say,  "  Sir,  no  going."     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go  :  a  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet  ? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner. 
Not  like  a  guest,  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees, 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.  How  say  you  ? 
My  prisoner,  or  my  gue.st  ?  by  your  dread  verily. 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest  then,  madam  • 

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

Her.  Not  your  jailor,  then, 

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

Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen. 

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

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

Pol.  We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs,  that  did  frisk  i'  the 
sun. 
And  bleat  the  one  at  th'  other  :  what  we  chang'd, 
Was  innocence  for  innocence  ;  we  knew  not 


The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  nor  dream'd 

That  any  did.     Had  we  pursued  that  life, 

And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 

With  stronger  blood,  we  should  have  answer'd  heaven 

Boldly  "  not  guilty ;"  the  imposition  clear' d. 

Hereditary  oiirs. 

Her.  By  this  we  gather, 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 

Pol.  O  !  my  most  sacred  lady, 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  born  to 's  ;  for 
In  those  unfledg'd  days  was  my  -svife  a  girl . 
Your  precious  self  had  then  not  cross'd  the  eyes 
Of  my  young  play-fellow. 

Her.  Grace  to  boot ! 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion,  lest  you  say. 
Your  queen  and  I  are  devils  :  yet,  go  on ; 
Th'  offences  we  have  made  you  do,  we  '11  answer ; 
If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 
You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  slipp'd  not 
With  any,  but  with  us. 

Leon.  Is  he  won  yet?    [Coming forward 

Her.  He  '11  stay,  my  lord. 

Leen.  At  my  request  he  would  not, 

Hermione.  my  dearest,  thou  never  spok'st 
To  better  purpose. 

Her.  Never  ? 

Leon.  Never,  but  once. 

Her.  What  ?  have  I  twice  said  well  ?  when  was  M 
before  ? 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me.     Cram's  with  praise,  and  make's 
As  fat  as  tame  things :  one  good  deed,  dying  tongueless. 
Slaughters  a  thousand  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  you  may  ride 's 
With  one  soft  kiss  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  clear^  an  acie.     But  to  the  good^ — ■ 
My  last  good  deed  was  to  entreat  his  stay  : 
What  was  my  first  ?  it  has  an  elder  sister, 
Or  I  mistake  you  :  0,  would  her  name  were  Grace  ! 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose  :  When  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have  't ;  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves  to  death, 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand, 
And  clap^  thyself  my  love  :  then  didst  thou  utter 
"  I  am  yours  for  ever." 

Her  It  is  Grace,  indeed. — 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose  twice  : 
The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband, 
Th'  other  for  some  while  a  friend. 

[Giving  her  hand  to  Polixenes 

Leon.  Too  hot.  too  hot  !   [Aside 

To  mingle  friendship  far  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me  : — my  heart  dances. 
But  not  for  joy, — not  joy. — This  entertaimnent 
May  a  free  face  put  on  ;  derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty's  fertile'  bosom. 
And  well  become  the  agent :  't  may,  I  grant ; 
But  to  be  paddling  palms,  and  pinching  fingers. 
As  now  they  are  ;  and  making  practis'd  smiles. 
As  in  a  looking-glass  ; — and  then  to  sigh,  as  't  were 
The  mort'»  o'  the  deer  ;  0  !  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows. — Mamilliui., 
Art  thou  my  boy  ? 

Mam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  r  fecks  ? 

Why,  that 's  my  bawcock."  What !  hast  sraut'^n'''.  ch^ 
nose  ? — 


'Not  in  f.  e.  *  Period;  a  word  derived  from  the  French,  giste.  '  Indeed. 
'  To  ciap,  or  join  hands,  was  pait  of  the  betrothal.  '  from  bounty,  fertile  &c. 
'    Supposed  to  be  derived  from  beau  cog. 


*  A  tick.      «  Not  in  f.  e.     «  heat :  in  f.  e.      '  eotjl     \it  t.  e 
in  f.  e.     »»  The  \onp  blast  sonnded  at  the  deatkof  ibe  d««»: 


280 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE. 


ACT   I. 


They  say,  it  is  a  copy  out  of  niiiie. 

Come,  captain, 

We  must  be  neat  ;  not  neat,  but  cleanly,  captain  • 

A.n(i  yet  the  steer,  tlie  heifer,  and  the  calf, 

Are  all  call'd  neat. — Still  virginalling' 

[Observing  Polixenes  and  Hermioxe. 
ITpon  liis  palm  ? — How  now,  you  wanton  calf: 
Art  thou  my  calf? 

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash,*  and  the  shoots 
that  I  have, 
To  be  fulP  like  me : — yet,  they  say.  we  are 
Almost  as  like  as  eggs  :  women  say  so, 
That  will  say  any  thing  :  but  were  they  false 
As  our  dead*  blacks,  as  wind,  as  waters  ;  false 
.As  dice  are  to  be  wish"d.  by  one  that  fi.xes 
No  bourn  'twi.xt  his  and  mine  ;  yei  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me. — Come,  sir  page. 
Look  on  me  with  your  welkin'  eye  :  sweet  villain  ! 
Mo.st  dear'.st  !  my  coUop  ! — Can  thy  dam? — may't  be 
Atfection  ?*  thy  intention  stabs  the'  centre  ; 
Thou  dost  make  jmssible  things  not  so  held, 
Communicat'st  with  dreams  ; — (how  can  this  be?) — 
With  what 's  unreal  thou  coactive  art, 
And  fcllow'st  nothing.     Then,  'tis  very  credent, 
Thou  may'st  co-join  with  sometiiing  ;  and  thou  dost, 
And  that  beyond  commission  :  and  1  find  it, 
And  that  to  the  infection  of  mj  brains. 
And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia  ? 

Her.  He  something  seems  unscttleu. 

Pol.  How,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  What  cheer  ?  how  is  't  with  you,  best  brother  ? 
[Holding  his  forehead.^ 

Her.  You  look, 

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

Leon.  No,  in  good  earnest. — 

How  sometimes  nature  will  betray  its  lolly,       [Aside.* 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pasiime 
To  harder  bosoms  !     Looking  on  the  lines    [To  lliem}" 
Of  my  boy's  face,  my"  thouglits  I  did  recoil 
Twenty-three  years,  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd, 
Fn  my  green  velvet  coat ;  my  dagger  muzzled, 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove, 
.As  ornaments  oft  do.  too  dangerous. 
How  like,  methouglit.  I  then  was  to  this  kernel, 
This  .<qua.<h."  this  gentleman. — Mine  honest  friend, 
Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ?" 

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

Leon.  You  will  ?  why,  happy  man  be  his  dole  ."* — 
My  brother, 
Are  you  .«o  fond  of  your  young  prince,  as  we 
1)0  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Pol.  If  at  home,  sir, 

He  's  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter : 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy; 
My  parasite,  my  .soldier,  statesman,  all. 
He  makes  a  July's  day  siiort  as  December  ; 
And  with  his  varying  childness  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

Offic'd  with  me.     We  two  will  walk,  my  lord. 
And  leave  you  to  your  graver  steps. — Hermione, 


How  thou  lov'st  us.  show  in  our  brother's  welcome  : 
Let  what  is  dear  in  Sicily,  be  cheap. 
Nc.\t  to  thy.self,  and  my  young  rover,  he  's 
Apparent  to  my  heart. 

Her.  If  you  would  seek  'is, 

We  are  yours  i'  the  garden  :  shall 's  attend  you  there? 
].^on.  To  your  own  bents  dispose  you:    you'll  be 
found. 
Be  you  beneath  the  sky. — [Aside.]  I  am  anglmg  now. 
Though  you  perceive  me  not  how  I  give  line, 
Go  to.  go  to  ! 

How  she  holds  up  the  neb,  the  bill  to  him  ; 
And  arms  her  with  tlie  boldness  of  a  wife 
To  her  allowing  husband.     Gone  already  ! 

[Eieunt  PoLi.XENEs,  Her.mio.ne,  aiid  Attendants. 
Inch-thick    knee-deep,   o'er    head    and   ears   a  fork'd 

one  ! — 
Go  play,  boy,  play  ; — thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too,  but  so  disgrac"d  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will  hiss  me  to  my  grave  :  contempt  and  clamour 
Will  be  my  knell. — Go  play,  boy,  play. — There  have 

been, 
Or  I  am  much  decciv'd.  cuckolds  ere  now ; 
And  many  a  man  there  is.  (even  at  this  present, 
Now,  while  I  speak  this)  holds  his  wife  by  tli'  arm, 
That  little  thinks  she  has  been  sluic'd  in  's  absence, 
And  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 
!  Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour.     Nay,  there  's  comlbrt  in 't, 
[Whiles  other  men  have  gates,  and  those  gates  open'd, 
As  mine,  ogainsl  their  will.     Should  all  despair 
!  That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 
i  Would  hang  themselves.     Phy.'-ic  Ibr't  there  is  none; 
It  is  a  bawdy  planet,  that  will  strike 
;  Where  'tis  predominant :  and  't  is  powerful,  think  it, 
':  From  east,  west,  north,  and  south  :  be  it  concluded, 
I  No  barricado  for  a  belly  :  know  it; 
lit  will  let  in  and  out  the  enemy. 
!  With  bag  and  baggage.     Many  a  thousand  on  's 
Have  the  disease,  and  feel  't  not. — How  now,  boy? 
Mam.  I  am  like  you,  they  say. 
Leon.  Why,  that's  some  comfort — 

What  !  Camillo  there  ? 
Cain.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  Go  play,  Mamillius.    Thou  'rt  an  honest  man 
[Exit  Mamillivs. 
Camillo,  this  great  sir  will  yet  stay  longer. 

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

Leon.  Did.^t  note  it  ? 

Corn.  He  would  not  stay  at  your  petitions  ;  made 
His  busines^s  more  material. 

Leon.  Didst  perceive  it  ? — 

They're  here  with  me'*  already;   whisperins,  round- 
ing,'* 
"  Sicilia  is  a" — so  forth.     'T  is  far  gone, 
When  I  shall  gust"  it  last. — How  came't,  Camillo. 
That  he  did  stay  ? 

Cam.  At  the  good  queen's  entreaty. 

Leon.  At  the  queen's,  be  't :  good  should  be  pertinent 
But  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  iaken 
By  any  under.«tanding  pate  but  thine  ? 
For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,  will  draw  in 
More  than  the  common  blocks  : — not  noted,  isH, 
But  of  the  finer  natures  ?  by  some  severals, 


>  Playing  with  her  finders,  u  on  a  virginal,  which  wa«  an  oblonp  Taus-ical  instrument,  plaved  with  keys,  lilce  a  piano.     '  Head.    *  Fnlly. 
•  o'er-dyed  :  in  f.  e.      *  Blue,  like  the  sky.     '  Tlii^  pa«»age  is  usually  pointed,  with  a  period  before  atfection — which  'iiUf  commences  a  wo- 
lecvi — :•  hiis  the  sense,  taken  in  connection  with  this  readinp,  of  ima<;inalJon — intention,  that  of  intensity.     The  punctuation  of  the  levi 
The  pa.<.sa£;e  (to  the  end  of  the  fpeech)  is  cros..ied  out  by  the  ,MS.  emendatorof  the  foli 
"  Old  copies:  me:  my  is  the  AIS.  emendation  of  Lord  F    Eeerton's  folio,  16i'). 


IS  that  of  the  ^V. 

ke&rt).     8  »   10  Not  in  f.  e.     "  Old  copies:  me:  my  is  the  iNlS.  emendation  of  Lord  F    Egerton's  fol 

rerb  for  bearing  an  affront.     ^*  Portion,  ot  lol  ;  this  U  another  old  proTerb.     "  They  are  aware  of  my  condition, 

Bering      '^  r<u«,  or  be  atcare  of. 


punctu 

r  Ki:^.     'to  the  (of  -.ne 

Unripe  pea-pod.     "A  rro 

'•  An  o'd  woid  for  icm* 


SCENE  n. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


281 


Of  head-piece  extraordinary  ?  lower  messes,* 
Perchance,  are  to  this  business  purblind  :  say. 

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

Leon.  Ha  ? 

Canr..     .  Stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ay,  but  why  ? 

Ca7n.  To  satisfy  your  highness,  and  the  entreaties 
Of  our  most  gracious  mistress. 

Leon.  Satisfy 

The  entreaties  of  your  mistress  ? — satisfy  ? — 
Let  that  suffice.     I  have  trusted  thee,  Camillo, 
With  all  the  nearest  things  to  my  heart,  as  well 
My  chamber-councils,  wherein,  priest-like,  thou 
Hast  cleans'd  my  bosom  :  I  from  thee  departed 
Thy  penitent  reform'd  ;  but  we  have  been 
Deceived  in  thy  integrity,  deceiv'd 
[n  that  which  seems  so. 

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon  't, — thou  art  not  honest;  or, 
f f  thou  inclin'st  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward. 
Which  hoxes^  honesty  behind,  restraining 
From  course  requir'd  ;  or  else  thou  must  be  counted 
A  servant  grafted  in  my  serious  trust, 
And  therein  negligent ;  or  else  a  fool, 
That  seest  a  game  play'd  home,  the  rich  stake  dra\\Ti, 
And  tak'st  it  all  for  jest. 

Cam.  My  gracious  lord, 

I  may  be  negligent,  foolish,  and  fearful : 
[n  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free. 
But  tliat  his  negligence,  his  folly,  fear. 
Amongst  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world. 
Sometime  puts  forth.     In  your  affairs,  my  lord, 
If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent, 
It  was  my  folly  ;  if  industriously 
I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence. 
Not  weighing  well  the  end  ;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted. 
Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,  't  was  a  fear 
Which  oft  infects  the  wisest.     These,  my  lord. 
Are  such  allow'd  infirmities,  that  honesty 
Is  never  free  of:  but,  beseech  your  grace. 
Be  plainer  with  me  :  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage  ;  if  I  then  deny  it, 
T  is  none  of  mine. 

Leoii.  Have  not  you  seen,  Camillo, 

(But  that 's  past  doubt  ;  you  have,  or  your  eye-glass 
is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn)  or  heard, 
(For,  to  a  vision  so  apparent,  rumour 
Cannot  be  mute)  or  thought,  (for  cogitation 
Resides  not  in  that  man  that  does  not  think  it') 
My  wife  is  slippery  ?     If  thou  wilt  confess. 
Or  else  be  impudently  negative, 
To  have  nor  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  thought,  then  say. 
My  wife  's  a  hobbyhorse  ;  deserves  a  name 
As  rank  as  any  flax-wench,  that  puts  to 
Before  her  troth-plight :  say  't,  and  justify  't. 

Cam.  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by,  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  w-ithout 
My  present  vengeance  taken.     'Shrew  my  heart, 
Vou  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this  :  which  to  reiterate,  were  sin 
.\s  deep  as  that,  though  .true. 

Leon.  Is  whispering  nothing  ? 

Is  leaning  cheek  to  iheek?  is  meeting  noses  ? 
Kissing  with  inside  lip  ?  stopping  the  career 
Of  laughter  with  a  sigh  ?  (a  note  infallible 


Of  breaking  honesty)  horsing  foot  on  foot  ? 
Skulking  in  corners  ?  wishing  clocks  more  swift  ? 
Hours,  minutes  ?  noon,  midnight  ?  and  all  eyes  blind 
With  the  pin  and  web*,  but  theirs,  theirs  only. 
That  would  unseen  be  wicked  ?  is  this  nothing  ? 
Why,  then  the  world,  and  all  that  is  in  'l,  is  nothing; 
The  cohering  sky  is  nothing  ;  Bohemia  nothing  ; 
My  wife  is  nothing ;  nor  nothing  have  th«se  nothings 
If  this  be  nothing. 

Cam.  Good  my  lord,  be  ci'r'd 

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

Leon.  Say,  it  be :  't  is  "rue. 

Cam.  No,  no.  my  lord. 

Leon.  It  is;  you  lie,  y^u  he. 

I  say,  thou  liest,  Camillo,  and  I  hate  thee; 
Pronounce  thee  a  gross  lout,  a  mindless  sla-'e, 
Or  else  a  hovering  temporizer,  that 
Canst  with  thine  eyes  at  once  see  good  and  ml, 
Inclining  to  them  both  :  Were  my  wife's  liv«?r 
Infected  as  her  life,  she  would  not  live 
The  running  of  one  glass. 

Cam.  WHio  does  infect  ber  ? 

Leon.  Why  he,  that  wears  her  like  a*  medal,  hanging 
About  his  neck.  Bohemia :  who — if  I 
Had  servants  true  about  me,  that  bare  eyes 
To  see  alike  mine  honour  as  their  profits, 
Their  own  particular  thrifts,  they  would  do  t'  at 
Which  should  undo  more  doing:  ay,  and  thou. 
His  cup-bearer, — whom  I  from  meaner  form 
Have  bench'd,  and  rcar'd  to  worship,  who  ma-_  '»:,  g«e 
Plainly,  as  heaven  sees  earth,  and  earth  sees  h'^^ven, 
How  I  am  galled, — mightst  bespice  a  cup. 
To  give  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink, 
Wliich  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 

Cam.  Sure,  my  I    d, 

I  could  do  this,  and  that  with  no  rash  potion, 
But  ^^-ith  a  lingering  dram,  that  should  not  wort 
Maliciously,  like  poison ;  but  I  cannot 
Believe  this  crack  to  be  in  my  dread  mistress. 
So  sovereignly  being  honourable. 
I  have  lov'd  thee. — 

Leon.  Make  that  thy  question,  and  g(      t ! 

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

Cam.  I  must  believe  you,  sir : 

I  do  ;  and  will  fetch  off  Bohemia  for  H  ; 
Provided,  that  when  he  's  remov'd,  your  highness 
Will  take  again  your  queen,  as  yours  at  first. 
Even  for  your  son's  sake  ;  and  thereby  for  sealing 
The  injury  of  tongues,  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  allied  to  yours 

Leon.  Thou  dost  ad-vise  me, 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down. 
I  '11  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour,  none. 

Cam.  My  lord. 
Go  then  ;  and  with  a  countenance  as  clear 
As  friendship  wears  at  feasts,  keep  with  Bohemia, 
And  with  your  queen.     I  am  his  cupbearer; 
If  from  me  he  have  wholesome  beverage, 
Account  me  not  vour  servant. 


'  P'ople  sitting  at  lov 
ilie  eye»      '  his  :  iu  1   e 


r  taV'.es — the  lower  classes 
«  Start,  or  fii/  off. 


iV 


An  old 


foi  a  cataracc  in 


282 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


ACT  L 


Leon.  This  is  all : 

Do  "t.  and  thou  hast  the  one  half  of  my  heart; 
l)o  't  not,  thou  splil'st  thine  o\mi. 

Cum.  I  '11  do't.  my  lord. 

Ia'Oh.  I  wll  Rocm  friendly,  as  ihou  hast  advis'd  me. 

[Exit. 

Cam.  0.  miserable  lady  ! — But,  for  me, 
What  ease  stand  I  in  ?     I  must  be  tlie  poisoner 
Of  <.'ood  Polixcnes  ;  and  my  ground  to  do  't 
l<  llie  obcdienec  to  a  master:  one, 
Wlio.  in  rebellion  with  himself,  will  have 
All  that  are  his  .>;o  too  — To  do  this  deed. 
I'romotion  follows;  if  I  could  find  example 
Of  thousands  that  had  struck  anointed  kings. 
And  flourisii'd  after,  I  'd  not  do  't;  but  since 
Nor  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  parchment,  bears  not  one, 

et  villany  itself  forswear  't.     I  must 
Forsake  the  court :  to  do"  t.  or  no,  is  certain 
'I"o  me  a  break-neck.     Happy  star,  reign  now ! 
Here  comes  Bohemia. 

Enter  Polixenes. 

Pol.  This  is  strange.     Methinks, 

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

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir  ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  news  i'  the  court  ? 

Cam.  None  rare,  my  lord. 

Pol.  The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  countenance. 
As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region 
Lov'd  a*;  he  loves  himself:  even  now  I  met  him 
With  customary  compliment,  when  he, 
Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me,  and 
So  leaves  me  to  consider  what  is  breeding 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

Cam.  I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.  How !  dare  not  ?  do  not !     Do  you  know,  and 
dare  not 
Be  intelligent  to  me  ?     'T  is  thereabouts  ; 
For.  to  yourself,  what  you  do  know,  you  must. 
And  cannot  say,  you  dare  not.     Good  Camillo, 
Your  chang'd  complexions  are  to  me  a  mirror, 
Wliich  shows  me  mine  chang'd  too ;  for  I  must  be 
A  party  in  this  alteration,  finding 
Myself  thus  alter'd  with  't. 

Cam.  There  is  a  sickness 

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

Pol.  How  caught  of  me? 
Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basili.sk: 
I  have  look'd  on  thousands,  who  have  sped  the  better 
By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo. — 
As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman  ;  thereto 
Clerk-like,  experienc'd,  which  no  less  adorns 
Oar  gentry  than  our  parents'  noble  names. 
In  whose  success  we  are  gentle, — I  beseech  you. 
It'  you  know  aught  which  does  behove  my  knowledge 
Thereof  to  be  inform'd.  imprison  it  not 
In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  I  may  not  answer. 

Pol.  A  sickness  caught  of  mc,  and  yet  I  well  ? 
I  must  be  answer'd. — Do.st  thou  hear.  Camillo, 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man 
Which  honour  does  acknowiediie, — whereof  the  least 
Is  not  this  suit  of  mine, — that  thou  declare 
What  ineidency  thou  dost  guess  of  harm 
(s  creeping  toward  me  ;  how  far  off.  how  near  ; 
Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be  ; 


If  not,  how  best  to  bear  it. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you  ; 

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

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

Com.  I  am  appointed  him  to  murder  you. 

Pol.  By  whom,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  Bv  the  king. 

Pol.  '  For  what  ? 

Cam.  He  thinks,  nay,  with  all  confidence  he  swears, 
As  he  had  seen  't,  or  been  an  insirumcnt 
To  vice'  you  to  't — that  you  have  touch'd  his  que»in 
Forbiddcnly. 

Pul.  0  !  then  my  best  blood  turn 

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

Cam.  Swear  this  though  over 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven,  and 
By  all  their  influences,  you  may  as  well 
Forbid  the  sea  for  to  obey  the  moon. 
As,  or  by  oath,  remove,  or  counsel,  shake, 
The  fabric  of  his  folly,  whose  foundation 
Is  pil'd  upon  his  faith,  and  will  continue 
The  standing  of  hie  body. 

Pol.  How  should  this  grow  ? 

Cam.  I  know  not;  but,  I  am  sure,  't  is  safer  to 
Avoid  what 's  grown,  than  question  how  't  is  born. 
If  therefore  you  dare  trust  my  honesty. 
That  lies  enclosed  in  tliis  trunk,  which  you 
Shall  bear  along  impawn'd,  away  to-night. 
Your  followers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business  ; 
And  will,  by  twos  and  threes,  at  several  posterns, 
Clear  them  o'  the  city.     For  myself,  I  '11  put 
My  fortunes  to  your  service,  which  are  here 
By  this  discovery  lost.     Be  not  uncertain; 
For,  by  the  honour  of  my  parents,  I 
Have  utfer'd  truth,  which  if  you  seek  to  prove^ 
I  dare  not  stand  by ;  nor  shall  you  be  safer 
Than  one  condemned  by  the  king's  own  mouth, 
Thereon  his  execution  sworn. 

Pol.  I  do  believe  thee  : 

I  saw  his  heart  in  's  face.     Give  me  thy  hand : 
Be  pilot  to  me,  and  thy  places  shall 
Still  neighbour  mine.     My  ships  are  ready,  and 
My  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 
Twx)  days  ago. — This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she  's  rare. 
Must  it  be  great ;  and.  as  his  person  's  mighty, 
Must  it  be  violent ;  and  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonoured  by  a  man  which  ever 
Profcss'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 
In  that  be  made  more  bitter.     Fear  o'ershades  me : 
Good  expedition  be  my  friend  :  heaven  comfort' 
The  gracious  queen,  part  of  liis  dream',  bui  nothing 
Of  his  ill-ta'en  suspicion  !     Come,  Camillo: 
T  will  respect  thee  as  a  father,  if 
Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence      Let  us  avoid. 

Cum.  U  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 
The  keys  of  all  the  posterns.     Please  your  highness 
To  take  the  urgent  hour.     Come,  sir  :  away  ! 

[Exeunt 


Good  expedition,  be  my  friend,  and  comrort,  kc.  :  in  f.  e.      '  theme :  in  I'.  0. 


THE  WmTEE'S  TALE. 


283 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— The  Same. 
Enier  Hermione,  Mamillius,  and  Ladies. 
Her.  Take  the  boy  to  you :  he  so  troubles  me, 
T  is  past  enduriug. 

1  Ifidy.  Come,  my  gracious  lord  : 

Shall  I  be  your  play-fellow? 

Mam.  No,  I  'II  none  of  you. 

1  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

Mam.  You  '11  kiss  me  hard,  and  speak  to  me  as  if 
/were  a  baby  still. — I  love  you  better. 

2  Laxly.  And  why  so,  my  lord  ? 

Mam.  Not  for  because 

Your  brows  are  blacker;  yet  black  brows,  they  say, 
Become  some  women  best,  so  that  there  be  not 
Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semi-circle. 
Or  a  half-moon  made  Math  a  pen. 

2  Lady.  Who  taught  this  ? 

Majn.  I  learn'd  it  out  of  women's  faces. — Pray  now, 
W  hat  colour  are  your  eyebrows  ? 

1  Lady.  Blue,  my  lord. 
Mam.  Nay.  that 's  a  mock :  I  have  seen  a  lady's  nose 

That  has  been  blue,  but  not  her  eyebrows. 

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

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

1  Lady.  She  is  spread  of  late 

Into  a  goodly  bulk :  good  time  encounter  her  ! 

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

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

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam..  A  sad  tale  's  best  for  winter. 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Her.  Let 's  have  that,  good  sir. 

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

Mam.  There  was  a  man, — 

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

Mam.  Dwelt  by  a  church-yard. — I  will  tell  it  softly ; 
Yond'  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Her.  Come  on  then, 

And  give 't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  and  others. 

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

1  Lord.  Behind  the  tuft  of  pines  I  met  them :  never 
Saw  I  men  scour  so  on  their  way.     I  eyed  them 
Even  to  their  ships. 

lAon.  How  bless'd  am  I  [ Aside. ^ 

n  my  j;ist  censure  !  in  my  true  opinion  ! — 
Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge  ! — How  accurs'd, 
111  being  so  blest ! — There  may  be  in  the  cup 
A  spider  steep'd,  and  one  may  drink  a  part,* 
And  yet  partake  no  venom.'  for  his  knowledge 
Fs  not  infected  ;  but  if  one  present 
The  abhorr'd  ingredient  to  his  eye,  make  known 
How  he  hath  drunk,  he  cracks  his  gorge,  his  sides, 
With  violent  hefts.' — I  have  drunk,  and  seen  the  spider. 
Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pander. — 
There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown : 


All 's  true  that  is  mistrusted : — that  false  villaia, 

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

He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 

R  emain  a  pinch'd  thing ;  yea,  a  very  trick* 

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

[To  them. 
So  easily  open  ? 

1  Lord.  By  his  great  authority ; 

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

Leon.  I  know 't  too  well. — 

Give  me  the  boy    [2b  Hermione.]  I  am  glad,  you  did 

not  nurse  him : 
Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Her.  What  is  this  ?  sport  ? 

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

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

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

Leon.  Y'ou,  my  lords, 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well :  be  but  about 
To  say,  "  she  is  a  goodly  lady,"  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
"  'T  is  pity  she 's  not  honest,  honourable  :" 
Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without-door  form, 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserv^es  high  speech)  and  straight 
The  shrag,  the  hum,  or  ha  (these  petty  brands, 
That  calumny  doth  use, — 0,  I  am  out  ! — 
That  mercy  does,  for  calumny  will  sear 
Virtue  itself) — these  shrugs,  these  hums,  and  ha's, 
When  you  have  said,  '•  she 's  goodly,"  come  between, 
Ere  you  can  say  "  she 's  honest."     But  be 't  known, 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should  be, 
She  's  an  adult'ress. 

Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so, 

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

Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

Polixenes  for  Leontes.     0,  thou  tliijig  ! 
Which  I  '11  not  call  a  creature  of  thy  place, 
Lest  barbarism,  making  me  the  precedent, 
Should  a  like  language  use  to  all  degrees, 
And  mannerly  distinguishment  leave  out 
Betwixt  the  prince  and  beggar  ! — I  have  said 
She  's  an  adult'ress  :  I  have  said  A^nth  whom : 
More,  she's  a  traitor  :  and  Camillo  is 
A  feodary  with  her,  and  one  that  knows 
What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself. 
But  with  her  most  vile  principal,  that  she's 
A  bed  swerver,  even  as  bad  as  those 
That  vulgars  give  bold'st  titles  ;  ay,  and  privy 
To  this  their  late  escape. 

Her.  No,  by  my  life. 

Privy  to  none  of  this.     How  will  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish'd  me  ?     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  thoroughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 


»      *  (Jrini,  depart,  &c.  :  in  f.  t.      >  It  was  an  old  popnlar  belief  that  spiders  were  poisonons.     ♦  hf^aving'.     •  Pwpet 


284 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE. 


I.cou.  No  ;  if  I  mistake 

In  those  tnundatidns  which  I  build  upon, 
The  centre  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 
A  scliool-boy's  top. — Away  with  her  to  prison  ! 
He.  who  shall  speak  tor  her,  is  afar  off  guilty, 
But  that  he  speaks. 

Hir.  There  's  some  ill  planet  reigns : 

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

Lron~  Shall  I  be  heard  ?     [To  the  Guards. 

Her.  Who  is't  that  goes  with  me? — Beseech  your 
highness, 
My  women  may  be  with  me  ;  for  you  see. 
My  plight  requires  it.     Do  not  weep,  good  fools  ; 
There  is  no  cause :  when  you  shall  know,  your  mistress 
Has  descrv'd  prison,  then  abound  in  tears. 
As  I  come  out:  this  action,  I  now  go  on. 
Is  for  my  better  grace. — Adieu,  my  lord  : 
I  never  wishd  to  see  you  sorry :  now, 
I  tru.'?t,  I  shall. — My  women,  come;  you  have  leave. 

Leon.  Go,  do  our  bidding  :  hence  ! 

[Exeunt  Queen  and  ladies. 

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

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

1  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord, 

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

Ant.  If  it  prove 

She  's  otherwise,  1  '11  keep  me  stable'  where 
[  -odge  my  wife  ;  I  Ml  go  in  couples  with  her  ; 
Than  when  I  feel,  and  see  her.  no  further  trust  her; 
For  every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world, 
Av.  every  dram  of  woman's  fiesh,  is  false, 
If  she  be. 

Leon.       Hold  your  peaces  ! 

1  Lord.  Good  my  lord. 

Ant.  It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves. 
You  are  abus'd,  and  by  some  putter-on, 
That  will  be  damn'd  for  't ;  would  I  knew  the  villain, 
I  would  lamback*  him.     Be  she  honour-flaw'd, — 
I  have  three  daughters ;    the  eldest  is  eleven, 
The  second,  and  the  third,  nine,  and  .some  five; 
If  this  prove  true,  they'll  pay  fcr't:  by  mine  honour, 
I'll  L-eld  them  all:  fourteen  they  .vhall  not  see. 
To  bring  false  generations:  they  are  co-heirs, 
And  I  had  rather  glib  myself,  than  they 
Should  not  produce  fair  i8.sue. 

Lon.  Cea.ee!  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose ;  but  I  do  see  't,  and  feel 't. 
As  you  (eel  doing  thus,  and  see  withal 
The  instruments  that  feel. 

Ant.  If  it  be  so, 

Wc  need  no  grave  to  burj'  honesty  : 
There  's  not  a  grain  of  it  the  face  to  sweeten 
Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

Leon.  What  !  lack  I  credit? 

■  mT  ftftbtes  :  in  f.  «      *  land-damn  :  in  f.  e. ;  latnbark,  is  to  beat 


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

Leon.  'Wliy.  wliat  need  wn 

Commune  with  you  of  this,  but  rather  follow 
Our  forceful  instigation  ?     Our  prerogative 
Calls  not  your  counsels,  but  our  natural  goodness 
Imparts  this  ;  which,  if  you  (or  stupified. 
Or  seeming  so  in  skill)  cannot,  or  will  not, 
Relish  a  truth  like  us.  inform  yourselves. 
We  need  no  more  of  your  advice  :  the  matter, 
The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on  't,  is  all 
Properly  ours. 

Ant.  And  I  wish,  my  liege. 

You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it, 
Without  more  overture. 

Leon.  How  could  that  be? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age, 
Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.     Camillo's  flight, 
Added  to  their  familiarity^ 

(W^hich  was  as  gro.ss  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture, 
That  lack'd  sight  only,  nought  for  approbation 
But  only  seeing,  all  other  circumstances 
Made  up  to  the  deed)  doth  push  on  this  proceeding 
Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, 
(For  in  an  act  of  this  importance  't  were 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild)  I  have  de.spatch'd  in  post, 
To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stufi'd  sufficiency.     Now.  from  the  oracle 
They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  hal, 
Shall  stop,  or  spur  me.     Have  I  done  well  V 

1  Lord.  Well  done,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Though  I  am  satisfied,  and  need  no  more 
Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 
Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others;  such  as  he, 
Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 
Come  up  to  the  truth.     So  have  we  thought  it  good. 
From  our  free  person  she  should  be  contin'd, 
Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two  fled  lience 
Be  left  her  to  perform.     Come,  follow  us: 
We  are  to  speak  in  public;  for  this  business 
Will  rai.se  us  all. 

Ant.   [Aside.]  To  laughter,  as  I  take  it. 
If  the  good  truth  were  known.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     The  outer  Room  of  a  Prison. 
Enter  Paulin.\  and  Attendants. 

Paul.  The  keeper  of  the  prison, — call  to  him  : 

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

Re-eiUcr  Attavlant,  with  the  Jailor. 
You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Jailor.  For  a  worthy  lady. 

And  one  whom  much  I  honour. 

Pavl.  Pray  you  then, 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

Jailor.  I  may  not,  madam:  to  the  contrary 
I  have  express  commandment. 

Paul.  Here  's  ado. 

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

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


RCElsE  in. 


THE   WIKTEE'S  TALE. 


285 


Paul.  I  pray  now,  call  her. — 

Withdraw  yourselves.  [Exeunt  Attend. 

Jailor.  And,  madam, 

must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Paul.  Well,  be  't  so,  pr'ythee.  \Exit  Jailor. 

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

Re-enter  Jailor,  with  Emilia. 

Dear  gentlewoman. 
How  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 

Emil.  As  well  as  one  so  great,  and  so  forlorn. 
May  hold  together.     On  her  frights,  and  griefs, 
(Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater) 
She  is.  something  before  her  time,  deliver'd. 

Paul.  A  boy  ? 

Emil.  A  daughter ;  and  a  goodly  babe, 

Lusty,  and  like  to  live :  the  queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in 't,  says,  "  My  poor  prisoner, 
I  am  innocent  as  you." 

Paul.  I  dare  be  sworn  : — 

These  dangerous,  unsane*  lunes  i'  the  king,  beshrew 

them ! 
He  must  be  told  on  't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best ;  I  '11  take  't  upon  me. 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd.  let  my  tongue  blister, 
And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 
Tlie  trumpet  any  more. — Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen : 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
i  '11  show  "t  the  king,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  adv(  eate  to  the  loud'st.     We  do  not  know 
How  he  may  soften  at  tlie  sight  o'  the  child : 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails. 

Emil.  Most  worthy  madam. 

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

Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I  '11  use  that  tongue  I  have:  if  wit  flow  from  it, 
As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  let  it  not  be  doubted 
I  shall  do  good. 

Emil.  Now,  be  you  blest,  for  it  ! 

I'll  to  the  queen. — Please  you,  come  something  nearer. 

Jailor.  Madam,  if 't  please  the  queen  to  send  the  babe, 
I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur  to  pass  it. 
Having  no  warrant. 

Paul.  You  need  not  fear  it,  sir : 

The  child  was  prisoner  to  the  womb,  and  is, 
By  law  and  process  of  great  nature,  thence 
Freed  and  enfranchis'd ;  not  a  party  to 
The  anger  of  the  king,  nor  guilty  of, 
If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen. 

Jailo'-.  I  do  believe  it. 

Paul.  Do  not  you  fear :  upon  mine  honour,  I 

Will  stand  betwixt  you  and  danger.  \  Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords^  and  other 
Attendants. 
Leon.  Nor  night,  nor  day,  no  rest.     It  is  but  weak- 
ress 
To  bear  the  matter  thus,  mere  weakness.     If 

diiMf«     in  r  e       '  This  •vrorA  is  not  in  f.  e       '  Not  in  f.  e.     *  Encouraging. 


The  cause  were  not  in  being,  part  o'  the  cause, 
She,  th'  adult'ress;  for  the  harlot  king 
Is  quite  beyond  mine  arm,  out  of  the  blank 
And  level  of  my  brain,  plot-proof;  but  slie 
I  can  hook  to  me :  say,  that  she  were  gone, 
Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 
Might  come  to  me  again. — Who  's  there  ? 

1  Atten.  My  lord. 

Leon.  How  does  the  boy  ? 

1  Atten.  He  took  good  rest  to-night 

'T  is  hop'd.  his  sickness  is  discharg'd. 

Leon.  To  see  his  nobieness 

Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother. 
He  straight  declin'd,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply, 
Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on  't  in  himself, 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep. 
And  do\A-nright  languish'd. — Leave  me  soJely  : — go, 
See  how  he  fares.  {Exit  Attend.] — Fie,  fie  !  no  thought 

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

E7\ter  Paulina,  behind',  with  a  Child. 

1  Lord.  You  must  not  enter. 

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

A?it.  That 's  enough. 

1  Atten.  Madam,  he  hath  not  slept  to-night;    com 
manded 
None  should  come  at  him. 

Paul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sii  : 

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

Leon.  What  noise  there,  ho  ? 

Paul.  No  noise,  my  lord  ;  but  needful  conference. 

[  Coming  forward? 
About  some  gossips  for  your  highness. 

Le(m.  How  ? — 

Away  with  that  audacious  lady.     Antigonus, 
I  charg'd  thee,  that  she  should  not  come  about  me: 
I  knew  she  would. 

Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord, 

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

Leon.  What !  canst  not  rule  her ''' 

Paid.  From  all  dishonesty  he  can  :  in  this, 
(Unless  he  take  the  course  that  you  have  done, 
Commit  me  for  committing  honour)  trust  it, 
He  shall  not  rule  me. 

Ant.  Lo,  you  now- !  you  hear. 

When  she  will  take  the  rein,  I  let  her  run  ; 
Bat  she  '11  not  stumble. 

Paid.  Good  my  liege,  I  come, — 

And.  I  beseech  you,  hear  me.  who  professes 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  your  physician, 
Your  most  obedient  counsellor,  yet  that  dares 
Less  appear  so  in  comforting*  your  evils. 


286 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


ACT  n. 


Than  such  as  most  seem  yours, — I  say.  I  come 
From  your  good  queen  ; 

Leon.  Good  queen  ! 

Paul.  Good    queen,   my   lord,    good   queen  :    1  Bay, 
good  queen  : 
And  would  by  combai  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man.  the  worst  about  you. 

Leon.  Force  her  hence. 

I'aul.  Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes 
First  hand  me.     On  mine  own  accord  I  "11  off, 
Hut  first  I  Ml  do  my  errand. — The  good  queen, 
For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter: 
Hero  "t  1.*; :  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

[Laying  down  the  Child. 

Iron.  Out! 

.\  inankiiid'  witch  !     Hence  with  her,  out  o"  door  : 
.\  most  iiitelligencing  bawd  ! 

Paid  Not  so : 

[  am  as  ignorant  in  that,  as  you 
In  so  entitling  me.  and  no  less  honest 
Than  you  are  mad  ;  which  is  enougii,  I  '11  warrant, 
As  this  worhl  goes,  to  pass  for  honest. 

Leon.  Traitors ! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out?     Give  her  the  bastard. — 
Thou,  dotard,  [To  Antigonus.]  thou  art  woman-tir'd,' 

unroosted 
By  thy  dame  Partlet  l^cre. — Take  up  the  bastard  : 
Take  't  up,  I  say ;  give  't  to  thy  crone. 

Paid.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon  "t ! 

Leon.  He  dreads  his  wife. 

Paul.  So  I  would  you  did ;  then,  't  were  past  all  doubt, 
Vou  "d  call  your  children  yours. 

Leon.  A  nest  of  traitors  ! 

Ant.  I  am  none,  by  this  good  light. 

Paul.  Nor  I  ;  nor  any, 

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

Leon.  A  callat', 

9f  boundless  tongue,  who  late  hath  beat  her  husband, 
And  now  baits  me  ! — This  brat  is  none  of  mine: 
Ft  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes. 
Hence  with  it:  and,  together  with  the  dam, 
Commit  them  to  the  fire. 

Paul.  It  is  yours ; 

And.  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge 
So  like  you.  "t  is  the  worse. — Behold,  my  lords. 
Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father  :  eye,  nose,  lip. 
The  trick  of  his  fro\\ni,  his  forehead  ;  nay,  the  valley. 
The  pretty  dimples  of  his  chin,  and  cheek  :  his  smiles  ; 
The  ver\'  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger. — 
And.  tho»(.  good  goddess  Nature,  which  hast  made  it 
So  like  to  him  that  got  it.  if  thou  hast 
The  orderms  of  the  mind  too,  'moniist  all  colours 
No  yellow  in  't  ;  lest  she  suspect,  as  he  does, 
Her  children  not  her  husband's. 

Leon.  A  ctoss  hag  ! — 

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


Ant.  Hang  all  the  husband4 

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

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence 

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

Leon.  I  'II  ha'  thee  burn'd. 

Paul.  I  care  not 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire. 
Not  she  which  burns  in  't.     I  "II  not  call  you  tyrant; 
But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen 
(.Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation 
Than  your  own  weak  hing'd  fancy)  something  savours 
Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you, 
Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world 

Leon.  On  your  allegiance, 

Out  of  the  chamber  with  her.  Were  I  a  tyrant, 
Where  were  her  life  ?  She  durst  not  call  me  so. 
If  she  did  know  me  one.     Away  with  her  ! 

Paid.  I  prav  you,  do  not  push  me;  I  '11  be  gone. 
Look  to  your  babe,  my  lord  :  't  is  yours :  Jove  send  her 
A  better  guiding  spirit  ! — What   need  these  hands  ? — 
You.  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies, 
Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 
So,  so  : — farewell :  we  are  gone.  [Exit 

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

Ant.  I  did  not,  sir : 

Tliese  lords,  my  noble  fellows,  if  they  please, 
Can  clear  me  in  't. 

1  Lord.  We  can :  my  royal  liege. 

He  is  not  suilty  of  her  coming  hither. 

Leon.  You  're  liars  all. 

1  Lord.  Beseech  your  highness,  give  us  better  credit 
We  have  always  truly  servd  you.  and  beseech  you 
So  to  esteem  of  us ;  and  on  our  knees  we  beg, 
(As  recompense  of  our  dear  services, 
Past,  and  to  come)  that  you  do  change  this  purpose  ; 
Which,  being  so  hqrrible.  .^o  bloody,  must 
Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue.     We  all  kneel. 

Leon.  Am  I  a  feather  for  each  wind  that  blo'ft'B? 
Shall  I  live  on.  to  see  this  ba.stard  kneel 
And  call  me  father"?     Better  burn  it  now, 
Than  curse  it  then.     But,  be  it:  let  it  live: — 
It  shall  not  neither. — You,  sir,  come  you  hither ; 

[To  Antigonus 
You,  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 
With  lady  Margery,  your  midwife,  there. 
To  save  this  bastard's  life, — for  'tis  a  bastard. 
So  sure  as  thy*  beard 's  grey, — what  will  you  adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

Ant.  Any  thing,  my  lord, 

That  my  ability  may  undergo. 
And  nobleness  impose  :  at  lea.'^t.  thus  much  ; 
I  'II  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left. 
To  save  the  innocent  :  any  thing  possible 

Leon.  It  shall  be  possible.     Swear  by  this  E\»ord 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  biddmg. 


>  Ma»cnline.      '  Hen-veekrd.      '  A  irirman  nf  Imp  rhnrncter.      •  A  worthletsfelloio.      »01d  copiet :  tbii;  tby  ii  the  MS.  emend&rioo  of 
Lnri  F.  Ecerton"!  folio,  IO->3. 


SCENE  n. 


THE   WmTER'S  TALE. 


287 


Ant.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Mark,  and  perform  it,  seest  thou  ;  for  the  fail 
Of  any  point  in  't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself,  but  to  thy  lewd-tongued  -wife, 
Whom  for  this  time  yve  pardon.     We  enjoin  thee, 
As  thou  art  liegeman  to  us.  that  thou  carry 
This  female  bastard  hence :  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions ;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it, 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection, 
And  favour  of  the  climate.     As  by  strange  fortune 
It  came  to  us,  I  do  in  ju.stice  charge  thee, 
.Uu  thy  soul's  peril  and  thy  body's  torture, 
'Ihat  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place, 
Where  chance  may  nurse,  or  end  it.     Take  it  up. 

A'^.t.  I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present  death 
Had  been  more  m.erciful. — Come  on,  poor  babe  : 

[Taking  it  up.^ 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens. 
To  be  thy  nurses.     Wolves,  and  bears,  they  say, 
Casting  their  savageness  aside,  have  done 
Like  offices  of  pity. — Sir,  be  prosperous 


In  more  than  this  deed  doth  require  ! — And  blessing 

Against  this  cruelty  fight  on  thy  side. 

Poor  thing,  condemn'd  to  loss  !       [Exit  vith  the  Child 

Leon.  No ;  I  '11  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 

1  Atten.  Please  your  highness,  posts 

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

1   Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  spe 

Hath  been  beyond  account 

Leon  Twenty-three  days 

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


ACT    III. 


SCENE  L— The  Same.    A  Street  in  some  Town. 
Enter  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

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

Dion.  1  shall  report, 

For  most  it  caught  me.  the  celestial  habits, 
(Methinks,  I  so  should  term  them)  and  the  reverence 
Of  the  grave  wearers.     0,  the  sacrifice  ! 
How  ceremoniou.«,  solemn,  and  unearthly  ! 
It  was  i'  the  offering  ! 

Cleo.  ~      But,  of  all,  the  burst 

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

Dion.  If  th'  event  o'  the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen, — 0,  be  't  so  ! — 
As  it  hath  been  to  us  rare,  pleasant,  speedy^ 
Tlie  time  is  worth  the  use  on  't. 

Cleo.  Great  Apollo, 

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

Dion.  The  ^^o]ent  carriage  of  it 

Will  clear,  or  end,  the  business  :  when  the  oracle, 
(Thus  by  Apollo's  great  di-s-ine  seal'd  up) 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare, 
Even    then,    will     rush    to    knowledge.— -Go, — fresh 

horses ; — 
And  gracious  be  the  issue.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Court  of  Justice. 
Enter  Leontes,  Lords,  and  Officers. 
Leon.  This  sessions  (to  our  great  grief  we  pronounce) 
Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart :  the  party  tried. 
The  daughter  of  a  king  ;  our  wife,  and  one 
Of  us  t  )o  much  belov'd.     Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  t>Tannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice,  which  shall  have  due  course, 


Not 


^f.  e.      '  Printed  as  a  stage  direction  in  the  Ist  folio  ;  the  others  omit  it. 
-  The  -wnrHs    ■•  u  her  trial.,"  not  in  f.  e.      *  Oum 


Even  to  the  guilt,  or  the  purgation. — 
Produce  the  prisoner. 

Offi.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure,  that  the  queen 

Appear  in  person  here  in  court.  [Silence.' 

En^e-r  Hermione,  to  her  trial,^  gvarded;  Paulina  and 

Ladies  attending. 

Leon.  Read  the  indictment. 

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

Her.  Since  what  I  am  to  say,  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot  mo 
To  say  "  Not  guilty  :"  mine  integrity. 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it. 
Be  so  receiv'd.     But  thus : — If  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  (as  they  do) 
I  doubt  not,  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. — You,  my  lord,  best  know, 
(Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so)  my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true. 
As  I  am  now  unhappy :  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  de-vis'd, 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators.     For  behold  me, 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe* 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  pitnce,  here  standing 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life,  and  honour,  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would   spare :  for  honour, 
'T  is  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 
'  And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 

Mod.  eds.,  with  Malone.  usTially  add  it  to  the  previotL. 


288 


THE  WmTER'S  TALE. 


ACTT  in. 


To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace, 
How  merited  to  be  .so ;  .'^ince  he  came, 
With  what  encounter  bo  uncurrent  I 
Have  stray'd'  't  appear  thus:  if  one  jot  beyond 
The  bound  of  honour,  or,  in  act,  or  will, 
Tliat  way  incliniiii:,  hardon'd  be  the  hearts 
0,  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 
Cry.  '■  Fic  !'"  upon  my  grave. 

Lfoii.  I  ne'er  heard  yet, 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Le^s  im|iudencc  to  gainsay  what  they  did, 
Than  to  perform  it  fir.sl. 

Her.  That 's  true  enough: 

1  hough  't  is  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 

Leon.  You  will  not  ovm  it. 

Her.  More  than  mistress  of. 

Which  comes  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 
At  all  acknowledge.     For  Polixenes, 
(With  whom  I  am  accusd)  I  do  confess, 
I  lovd  him,  as  in  honour  he  rcquir'd. 
With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 
\  lady  like  me ;  with  a  love,  even  such, 
.^o  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded  : 
Which  not  to  have  done.  I  think,  had  been  in  me 
Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude 
To  you,  and  toward  your  friend,  whose  love  had  spoke, 
Kvcn  since  it  could  speak  from  an  infant,  freely, 
That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 
I  know  not  how  it  tastes,  though  it  be  dish'd 
For  me  to  try  how:   all  I  know  of  it 
Is,  that  Cainillo  was  an  honest  man; 
And  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves, 
Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leon.  You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  j'ou  know 
What  vou  have  underta'en  to  do  in  's  absence. 

Her.  Sir, 
You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not : 
My  life  stands  in  the  level'  of  your  dreams, 
Which  I  '11  lay  down. 

Leon.  Your  actions  are  my  dreams : 

You  had  a  bastard  by  Polixenes, 
And  I  but  dreanrd  it. — As  you  were  past  all  shame, 
(Those  of  your  fact  are  so)  so  past  all  truth, 
Which  to  deny  concerns  more  than  avails;  for  as 
Thy  brat  hath  been  ca.«fout,  like  to  itself, 
No  father  owning  it.  (which  is  indeed, 
More  criminal  in  thee  than  it)  so  thou 
Shalt  feci  our  justice,  in  whose  easiest  passage 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

ffer.  Sir,  spare  your  threats  : 

The  bug.  which  you  would  fright  me  with,  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity: 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
But  know  not  how  it  went.     My  second  joy. 
And  fir.'it-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barrd,  like  one  infectious.     My  third  comfort, 
Siarr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast. 
The  innocent  milk  in  it.'^  most  innocent  mouth. 
Haled  out  to  murder:   myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim'd  a  strumpet  :  with  immodest  hatred. 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion:   lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  'i  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege, 
Tcil  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?    Therefore,  proceed. 
But  yet  hear  this  ;  mistake  me  not. — No  :  life, 


I  prize  it  not  a  straw ;  biat  for  mine  honour, 
(Which  1  would  tree)  if  I  shall  be  condemned 
Upon  surmises,  all  proofs  sleeping  else 
I3ut  what  your  jealousies  avvake,  I  tell  you, 
'T  is  rigour,  and  not  law. — Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle : 
Apollo  be  my  judge. 

1    Lord.  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just.     Therefore,  bring  forth. 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle.         [Exeunt  Officers 

Her.  The  emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father: 

0  !  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial ;  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery,  yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! 

Re-enter  Officer.'^,  with  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

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

Cleo.  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.  Break  up  the  seals,  and  read. 

Offi..  [Rends.]  •'  Hermione  is  chaste,  Polixenes  blame- 
less, Camillo  a  true  subject,  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant, 
his  innocent  babe  truly  begotten;  and  the  king  shall 
live  without  an  heir,  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not 
found." 

Lords.  Now,  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo  ! 

Her.  Praised ' 

Leon.  Hast  thou  read  truth? 

Offi,.  Ay.  my  lord ;  even  so 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 

Leon.  There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle. 
The  sessions  shall  proceed  :  this  is  mere  falsehood. 
Enter  a  Servant,  in  haste. 

Serv.  My  lord  the  king,  the  king ! 

Leon.  What  is  the  busine«:* 

Serv.  0  sir!   I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it : 
The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 
Of  the  queen's  speed,^  is  gone. 

Leon.  How  !  gone  ? 

Serv.  Is  dead.   [Hermione  swoons. 

Leon.  Apollo  's  angry,  and  the  heavens  themselves 
Do  strike  at  my  injixstice.     How  now  there  ! 

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

Leon.  Take  her  hence  : 

Her  heart  is  but  o'crcharg'd  ;  she  will  recover. — 

1  have  too  much  belicv'd  mine  own  suspicion  : — 
Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 

Some  remedies  for  life. — Apollo,  pardon 

[Exeunt  Paii.ina  and  Ladies,  with  HsBtf! 
My  great  profanenefft  'gainst  thine  oracle ! — 
I  '11  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes, 
New  woo  my  queen,  recall  the  good  Camillo, 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy ; 
For.  being  tran.^portcd  by  my  jealousies 
To  iDloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge.  I  chos* 
Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 
My  friend  Polixenes:  which  had  been  don«. 
But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 
My  swift  conmiand  ;  though  I  with  death,  and  with 
Rovvard,  did  threaten  and  encourage  him. 
Not  doing  it.  and  being  done :  he,  most  humane. 
And  fill'd  with  lionour,  to  my  kingly  guest 


1  atrain'd  ;  in  f  e       '  I»  thr  obipct  at  which  aim  is  taken        '  Of  h<'w  the  queen  mar  speed — the  i»«u« 


SCENE  in. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


289 


Unclasp'd  my  practice ;  quit  his  fortunes  here, 
Whioh  you  knew  great,  and  to  the  hazard 
Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended, 
Nc  richer  than  his  honour. — How  he  glisters 
Thticugh  my  nist !  and  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deed<s  make  the  blacker  ! 

Re-enter  Paulina. 

Paul.  Woe  the  -while  ! 

0.  cut  my  lace,  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
Break  too  ! 

1   Lord.  What  fit  is  this,  good  lady? 

Paul.  What  studied  torments,  tyrant,  hast  for  me  ? 
What  wheels  ?  racks  ?  fires  ?  What  flaying  ?  burning, 

boiling 
In  lead,  or  oil  ?  what  old,  or  newer  torture 
Must  I  receive,  whose  every  word  deserves 
To  taste  of  thy  most  worst  ?     Thy  tyranny, 
Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, — 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine. — 0  !  think,  what  they  have  done. 
And  then  run  mad,  indeed;  stark  mad,  for  all 
Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 
That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes.  't  was  nothing  ; 
That  did  but  show  thee  of  a  fool,  inconstant, 
And  damnable  ungrateful :  nor  was  't  much. 
Thou  wouldst  have  poison'd  good  Camillo's  honour. 
To  have  him  kill  a  king :  poor  trespasses, 
More  monstrous  standing  by  !  wherefore  I  reckon 
The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby  daughter. 
To  be  or  none,  or  little;  though  a  devil 
Would  have  slied  water  out  of  fire,  ere  don  't : 
Nor  is  't  directly  laid  to  thee,  the  death 
Of  the  young  prince,  whose  honourable  thoughts 
(Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender)  cleft  the  heart 
That  could  conceive  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 
Blemish'd  his  gracious  dam :  this  is  not,  no. 
Laid  to  thy  answer :  but  the  last, — 0,  lords  ! 
When  I  have  said,  cry,  woe  ! — the  queen,  the  queen, 
The  sweet'st,  dear'st  creature  's  dead ;  and  vengeance 

for 't 
Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

1   Lord.  The  higher  powers  forbid  ! 

Paul.  I  say,  she  's  dead ;  I  '11  swear  't :  if  word,  nor 
oath, 
Prevail  not,  go  and  see.     If  you  can  bring 
TiHcture,  or  lustre,  in  her  lip,  her  eye. 
Heat  outwardly,  or  breath  ^vithin,  I  '11  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods. — But.  0  thou  tyrant  ! 
Do  not  repent  these  things,  for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir  ;  therefore,  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees 
Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting. 
Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter. 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

Leon.  Go  on  ;  go  on  ; 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much  :  I  have  deserv'd 
A.11  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest. 

1  Lord.  Say  no  more  : 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
F  the  boldness  of  your  speech. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry  for  't : 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 
I  do  repent.     Alas  !  I  have  show'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman.     He  is  touch'd 
To  the  noble  heart. — ^What  's  gone,  and  what 's  past  help, 
Should  be  past  grief:  do  not  receive  affliction 
At  repetition,'  I  beseech  you  ;  rather. 
Let  me  be  punish'd.  that  have  minded  you 

•  my  petition  :  in  f.  e.      '  becoming  :  in  f  e.      '  weep  :  in  f.  «, 

T 


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

Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman  ■ 

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

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

I  '11  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 

Who  is  lost  too.     Take  your  patience  to  you, 

And  I  '11  say  nothing. 

Leon.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well. 

When  most  the  truth,  which  I  receive  much  better. 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.     Pr'ythee,  bring  me 
To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen,  and  son. 
One  grave  shall  be  for  both  :  upon  them  shall 
The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 
Our  shame  perpetual.     Once  a  day  I  '11  visit 
The  chapel  where  they  lie ;  and  tears  shed  there 
Shall  be  my  recreation  :  so  long  as  nature 
Will  bear  up  with  this  exercise,  so  long 
I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come,  and  lead  me 
To  these  sorrows.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  HL — Bohemia.     A  Desert  Country  near  the 
Sea. 

Enter  Antigonus,  with  the  Babe  ;  and  a  Mariner. 

Ant.  Thou  art  perfect,  then,  our  ship  hath  touch'd  upon 
The  deserts  of  Bohemia  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  my  lord  ;  and  fear 

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

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

Mar.  Make  your  best  haste,  and  go  not 
Too  far  i'  the  land  :  't  is  like  to  be  loud  weather  : 
Besides,  this  place  is  famous  for  the  creatures 
Of  prey  that  keep  upon  't. 

Ant.  Go  thou  away  : 

I  'II  follow  instantly. 

Mar.  I  am  glad  at  heart 

To  be  so  rid  o'  the  business.  [Exit- 

Ant.  Come,  poor  babe  : — 

I  have  heard,  (but  not  believ'd)  the  spirits  o'  the  dead 
May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 
Appear'd  to  me  last  night,  for  ne'er  was  dream 
So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature. 
Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another  , 
I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow, 
So  fill'd,  and  so  o'er-running*  :  in  pure  vrhite  robes, 
Like  very  sanctity,  she  did  approach 
My  cabin  where  I  lay,  thrice  bow'd  before  me, 
And,  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 
Became  two  spouts  :  the  fury  spent,  anon 
Did  this  break  from  her. — "  Good  Antigonus, 
"  Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition, 
"  Hath  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 
"  Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath, 
"  Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 
"  There  wend.'  and  leave  it  crying ;  and,  for  the  ^abf 
''  Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita 
"  I  pr'ythee,  call 't :  for  this  ungentle  business, 
"  Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shalt  see 
"  Thy  wife  Paulina  more  :" — and  so,  with  shrieks 
She  melted  into  air.     Affrighted  much, 
I  did  in  time  collect  myself,  and  thotight 
This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.     Dreams  are  toyR 
Yet  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiously. 
I  will  be  squar'd  by  this.     I  do  believe, 
Hermione  hath  suffer'd  death  ;  and  that 


290 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE. 


ACT   IV, 


Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 
Of  king  Polixenes.  it  should  here  be  laid, 
Either  for  lite  or  deaih.  upon  the  cartli 
Of  its  right  father. — Blossom,  speed  thee  well  ! 

[  Laying  doum  the  Babe. 
There  lie  :  and  there  thy  character^  :   there  these, 

[Laying  doivn  a  Bundle. 
Wiiich  may.  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee,  pretty. 
.\nd  still  re.^t  thine. — The  storm  begins. — Poor  wretch  ! 
riiat  for  thy  mofiier's  fault  art  thus  expos'd   [Thunder. 
To  los.-;.  and  what  may  follow. — Weep  I  cannot, 
Rut  my  heart  bleeds,  and  jnost  accurs'd  am  I, 
To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this. — Farewell  ! 
The  day  frowns  more  and  more  :  thou  art  like  to  have 
.\  lullaby  too  rough.     I  never  saw  [clamour? — 

The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.   [HpMr  roars.\  A  savage 
Well  may  I  get  aboard  ! — This  is  the  chase  ; 
1  am  gone  for  ever.  [E.xit,  pursued  by  a  bear. 

Enter  an  old  Shepherd. 

Shep.  I  would  there  were  no  age  between  ten  and 
three-and-twenty.  or  that  youth  would  sleep  out  the 
rest  :  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  between  but  getting 
wenches  with  child,  wronging  the  ancientry,  stealing, 
tightinir. — Hark  you  now! — Would  any  but  these 
boiled-brains  of  nineteen,  and  two-and-twenty,  hunt 
this  weathei  ?  They  have  scared  away  two  of  my  best 
sheep  ;  which,  I  fear,  the  wolf  will  sooner  find,  than  the 
master  :  if  any  where  1  have  them,  't  is  by  the  sea-side, 
browzing  of  i\-y.  Good  luck,  an't  be  thy  will  !  what 
have  we  here?  [Taking  vp  the  Babe.]  Mercy  on 's,  a 
barn  :  a  very  pretty  barn  !  A  boy,  or  a  child.  I  wonder  ? 
A  pretty  one  :  a  ver>'  pretty  one.  Sure  some  scape  : 
though  I  am  not  bookish,  yet  I  can  read  waiting-gen- 
tlewoman in  the  scape.  This  has  been  some  stair- 
work,  some  trunk- work,  some  behind-door  work  :  they 
were  warmer  that  got  this,  than  the  poor  thing  is  here. 
I  "11  take  it  up  for  pity  ;.  yet  I  '11  tarry  till  my  son  come  : 
he  hallood  but  even  now. — Whoa,  ho  hoa  ! 
Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Hilloa,  loa  ! 

Shep.  What  !  art  so  near  ?  If  thou  'It  see  a  thing  to 
talk  on  when  thou  art  dead  and  rotten,  come  hither. 
What  air.«t  thou,  man  ? 

Clo.  I  have  seen  two  sue,h  sights,  by  sea,  and  by 
land  ! — but  I  am  not  to  say  it  is  a  sea,  for  it  is  now  the 
sky :  betwixt  the  firmament  and  it  you  cannot  thrust  a 
bodkins  point. 

Shep.  Why.  boy,  how  is  it  ? 

Clo.  I  would,  you  did  but  see  how  it  chafes,  how  it 
rages,  how  it  takes  up  the  shore  !  but  that 's  not  to  the 


point.  O,  the  most  piteous  cry  of  the  poor  souls  ! 
sometimes  to  .see  'em.  and  not  to  see  'em  :  now  the 
ship  boring  the  moon  with  her  mainmast ;  and  anon 
swallowed  with  yest  and  troth,  as  you  'd  thrust  a  cork 
into  a  hogshead.  And  then  for  the  land  service  : — to 
see  how  the  bear  tore  out  his  shoulder  bone  :  how  he 
cried  to  me  for  help,  and  said  his  name  was  Antigo- 
nus.  a  nobleman. — But  to  make  an  end  of  the  ship  : 
— to  see  how  the  sea  flap-dragoned  it' — but.  fir.*t.  how 
the  poor  souls  roared,  and  the  sea  mocked  them  : — 
and  how  the  poor  gentleman  roared,  and  the  bear 
mocked  him.  both  roaring  louder  than  the  sea,  or 
weather. 

Shep.  Name  of  mercy  !  when  was  this,  boy  ? 

Clo.  Now,  now  ;  I  have  not  winked  since  I  saw  tliese 
sights  :  the  men  are  not  yet  cold  under  water,  nor  the 
bear  half  dined  on  the  gentleman :  he's  at  it  now. 

Shep.  Would  I  had  been  by,  to  have  helped  the  old 
man  ! 

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

Shep.  Heavy  matters  !  hea^-y  matters  !  but  look  thes 
here,  boy.  Now  bless  thyself:  thou  met'st  with  things 
dying,  I  \\ith  things  new  born.  Here  's  a  sight  for 
thee  :  look  thee  :  a  bearing-cloth  for  a  squire's  child  ' 
Look  thee  here  :  take  up,  take  up.  boy  ;  open  't.  So. 
let  "s  see.  It  was  told  me  I  should  be  rich  by  the 
fairies  :  this  is  some  changeling. — Open  't :  what  s 
within,  boy  ? 

Clo.  You  're  a  made  old  man :  if  the  sms  of  your 
vouth  are  forgiven  you,  you  're  well  to  live.  Gold  !  all 
gold  ! 

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

Clo.  Go  you  the  next  way  with  your  findings  :  I  '11 
go  see  if  the  bear  be  gone  from  the  gentleman,  and  how 
much  he  hath  eaten  :  they  are  never  curst,  but  when 
they  are  hungry.  If  there  be  any  of  him  left,  111 
bury  it. 

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

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

Shep.  'T  is  a  lucky  day,  boy.  and  we  '11  do  good  decdr 
on 't.  [Exetmi 


ACT    IV. 


Enter  Time,  the  Chorus. 
Time.  I.  that  plca.«e  some,  try  all :  both  joy.  and  terror. 
Of  good  and  bad  :  that  make,  and  unfold  error, 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.     Impute  it  not  a  crime 
To  me.  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  sixteen  years,  and  leave  the  crowth  untried 
Of  that  wide  gap  ;  since  it  is  in  my  power 
To  o'erthrow  law,  and  in  one  self-born  hour 
To  plant  and  o'ervvhclm  cu.stom.     Let  me  pas« 
"Ine  oni..^  ?  am.  ere  ancient'.'^t  order  was 
Or  what  IS  now  receiv'd  :  !  witness  to 
'  DetfriptioH.     >  Swallowed  ihipi  u  drinkrn  iwa.llow  flapdrsgons— 


The  times  that  brought  them  in  :  so  shall  I  do 
To  the  freshest  things  now  reigning,  and  make  stale 
The  gli.«fering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 
Now  seems  to  it.     Your  patience  this  allowing, 
I  turn  my  glass,  and  give  my  scene  such  srowin^, 
As  you  had  slept  between.     Leonles  leaving 
Tir  efTeets  of  his  fond  jealousies,  so  grieving 
That  he  shuts  up  himself,  imaiiine  me, 
Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 
In  fair  Bohemia  ;  and  remember  well, 
I  mention'd  a  son  o'  the  king's,  which  Florizel 
I  now  name  to  you  ;  and  with  speed  so  pace 
To  speak  of  Pcrdita,  now  gro\\'n  in  grace 
(■mail  lubiUaces  floating  on  liquor,  which  wer»  rwa]!ow«d  bumilf 


SCENE    11. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


291 


SCENE  II. 


-The  Same.     A  Road  near  the  Shep- 
herd's Cottase. 


Equal  with  wondering  :  What  of  her  ensues, 

[  list  not  pr  tphesy  ;  but  let  Time's  news 

Be  known,   when  't  is  brought  forth.      A   shepherd's 

daughter, 
And  what  to  her  adheres,  which  follows  after, 
[s  th'  argument  of  Time.     Of  this  allow, 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now  : 
If  never,  yet  that  Time  himself  doth  say, 
He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  of 

POLIXE.NES. 

Enter  Polixexes  and  Camillo. 

Pol.  I  pray  Thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more  impor- 
friinate  :  't  is  a  sickness  denying  thee  anything,  a  death 
to  grant  this. 

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

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

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days  since  I  saw  the  prince. 
What  his  happier  affairs  may  be.  are  to  me  unkno\\m : 
but  I  have  musingly'  noted,  he  is  of  late  much  retired  what  am  I  to  buy  for  our  sheep-shearing  feast?  "  Three 
from  court,  and  is  less  frequent  to  his  princely  exer- '  pound  of  sugar  ;  five  pound  of  currants :  rice" — Whai 
cises  than  formerly  he  hath  appeared.  will  this  sister  of  mine  do  -with  rice?     But  my  father 

Pol.  I  have  considered  so  much,  Camillo.  and  with  hath  made  her  mistress  of  the  feast,  and  she  lays  it  on. 
some  care  :  so  far,  that  I  have  eyes  under  my  service,  She  hath  made  me  four-and-twenty  nosegays  for  the 
which  look  upon  his  removedness  :  from  whom  I  have  !?hearers  ;  three-man  song-men*  all.  and  very  good 
this  mtelligence  ;  that  he  is  seldom  from  the  house  of  ones,  but  they  are  most  of  them  means  and  bases  : 
a  most  homely  shepherd  ;  a  man.  they  say.  that  from  but  one  Puritan  amongst  them,  and  he  sings  psalms  to 
very  nothing,  and  beyond  the  imagination  of  his  neigh-  hornpipes.  I  must  have  saffron,  to  colour  the  warden' 
boors,  is  grown  into  an  unspeakable  estate.  pies  ;    mace. — dates,    none  ;    that 's  out  of  my  note  : 

Cam.  I  have  heard,  sir,  of  such  a  man.  who  hath  a  •'  nutmegs,  seven  :  a  race  or  two  of  ginger ;"  but  that 
daughter  of  most  rare  note  :  the  report  of  her  is  ex-  I  may  beg  ; — "  four  pound  of  prunes,  and  as  many  of 
tended  more  than  can  be  thought  to  besin  from  such  raisins  o'  the  sun." 


Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer. —  [  1  Tune 

With,  heigh!  the  doxy  over  the  dale, — 

Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ; 
For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 

The  U'hite  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge., — 

With,  heigh!  the  sweet  birds,  0,  how  they  sing! — 

Doth  set  my  prigging^  tooth  on  edge  ; 
For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

The  lark,  that  tirra-lirra  chants. — 

With  heigh  !  with  heigh  !  the  thrush  and  the  jay, 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  ive  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

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

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear  7  [2  Tune.* 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night ; 
And  ivhen  Ixcander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live.,  [3  Tune.* 

And  hear  the  sow-skin  budget, 
Then  jny  account  I  v:ell  may  give, 
And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 
My  traflic  is  sheets:    when  the    kite  builds,  look  to 
lesser  linen.     My  father  named  me.  Autolycus ;  who. 
being,  as  I  am,  littered  under  Mercury,  was  likewnse 
a  snapper-up  of  unconsidered  trifles.     With  die.  and 
drab,  I  purchased  this  caparison,  and  my  revenue  is 
the  silly  cheat.     Gallows,  and  knock,  are  too  powerful 
on  the  highway :  beating,  and  hanging,  are  terrors  to 
me  :  for  the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought  of  it. 
— A  prize  !  a  prize  ! 

Enter  Clown. 
Clo.  Let  me  see : — Every  'leven  wether  tods' :  ever}- 
tod  yields — pound  and  odd  shilling;   fifteen  hundred 
shorn,  what  comes  the  wool  to  ? 

Aut.  [Aside.]  If  the  springe  hold,  the  cock  's  mine. 
Clo.  I  cannot  do  't  \\-ithout  counters  — Let  me  see  : 


%  cottage. 

Pol.  That 's  likewise  part  of  my  intelligence,  but.  I 
fear,  the  angle  that  plucks  our  son  thither.  Thou  shalt 
accompany  us  to  the  place,  where  we  will,  not  appear- 
ing what  we  are,  have  some  question  ^vith  the  shep- 
herd ;  from  whose  simplicity,  I  think  it  not  uneasy  to 


Aut.  O,  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

[Grovelling  on  the  ground 
Clo.  V  the  name  of  me  ! — 

Aut.  O,  help  me,  help  me  !  pluck  but  off  these  rags, 
and  Then,  death,  death  ! 

Clo.  Alack,  poor  soul  !  thou  hast  need  of  more  rag^ 
get  the  cause  of  my  son's  resort  thither.     Pr'ythee,  be  to  lay  on  thee,  rather  than  have  these  off. 
my  present  partner  in  this  business,  and  lay  aside  the       Aut.  0.  sir  !  the  loathsomeness  of  them  offends  me 
thoughts  of  Sicilia.  more  than  the  stripes  I  have  received,  which  are  mighty 

Cam.  I  -willingly  obey  your  command.  ones,  and  millions. 

Pol.  My  best  Camillo  ! — We  must  disguise  ourselves.        Clo.  Alas,  poor  man  !   a  million  of  beating  may  come 

[Exeunt,  to  a  great  matter. 


'  Siagen 


. '  missingly  :  in  f.  e. 

songs  for  three  voices, 


'  Not  in  f.  e.      '  pu^gin^  :  in  f.  e. 
»  A  lote,  hard  pea  '. 


*  Not  in  f.  e.      'A  ttd  is  twenty-eight  pooniis  o'   rcoi 


292 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Aui.  1  am  robbed,  sir.  and  beaten  :  my  money  and 
apparel  ta'eu  from  me,  and  tliese  detestable  things  put 
upon  me. 

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

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

Cio.  Indeed,  he  should  be  a  foot -man,  by  the  gar- 
ment.s  he  hath  left  with  thcc  :  if  this  be  a  horse-man's 
coat,  it  hath  seen  verv  hot  service.  Lend  me  tliv  hand, 


help  thee :  come 


lend  me  thy  hand. 

[Helphi 

Aut.  O  !  good  sir.  tenderly,  0  I 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  soul ! 

Aut.  0.  good  sir  !  softly,  good  sir.  I  fear,  sir,  my 
shoulder-blade  is  out. 

Clo    How  now  ?  canst  stand  ? 

Aut  Softly,  dear  sir :  [Cuts  hi.'!  pur.<!e.^]  good  sir. 
.Noftly.     Vou  ha"  done  me  a  charitable  office. 

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

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

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

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir.  that  I  have  known  to  go  about 
with  trol-my-dames  :'  I  knew  liim  once  a  servant  of 
the  prince.  I  cannot  tell,  good  sir,  for  which  of  his 
virtues  it  was.  but  he  was  certainly  whipped  out  of  the 
court. 

Clo.  His  vices,  you  would  say :  there  's  no  ■s'irtue 
whipped  out  of  the  court 
Slav  there,  and  vot  it  wil 


SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Shepherd's  Cottage. 
Enter  Florizel  and  Perdit.\. 

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

Per.  Sure*,  my  gracious  lord, 

vp.  To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me  ; 
0  !  pardon,  that  I  name  tiiem  :  your  high  self 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur  d 
With  a  swain's  wearing,  and  me.  poor  lowly  maid. 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up.     But  that  our  feasts 
In  everj'  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom.  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attir"d.  so  worn',  I  think, 
To  show  myself  a  glass. 

Flo.  I  bless  the  time. 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 
Thy  father's  ground. 

Per.  Now,  Jove  afford  you  ca'.iiie  ; 

To  me  the  difference  forges  dread  ;  your  greatness 
Hath  not  been  us'd  to  fear.     Even  now  I  tremble 
To  think,  your  father,  by  some  accident, 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did.     0.  the  fates  ! 
How  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  noble. 
Vilely  bound  up?     What  would  he  say?     Or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 
The  sternness  of  his  presence  ? 

Flo.  Apprehend 


they  cherish  it.  to  make  it   Nothing  but  jollity.     The  gods  themselves, 
no  more  but  abide'.  !  Humbling  their  deities  to  love,  have  taken 


Aut.  Vices  I  would  say.  sir.  I  know  this  man  well : 
he  hath  been  since  an  ape-bearer  :  then  a  process- 
.•icrver,  a  bailiff:  then  he  compassed  a  motion*  of  the 
prodigal  .son.  and  married  a  tinker's  wife  within  a  mile 
where  my  land  and  li\ing  lies  :  and.  having  flowTi  over 
many  knavish  professions,  he  settled  only  in  rogue  : 
seme  call  him  Autolycus. 

Clo.  Out  upon  him  !  Prig,  for  my  life,  prig :  he 
haunts  wakes,  fairs,  and  bear-baitings. 

Aut.  Ver\'  true,  sir  :  he.  sir.  he :  that 's  the  rogue, 
that  put  me  into  this  apparel. 

Clo.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all  Bohemia : 
if-  you  had  but  looked  big.  and  spit  at  him.  he  'd  have 
run. 

Aut.  I  must  confess  to  you.  sir.  I  am  no  fighter :  I 
4m  false  of  heart  that  way.  and  that  he  knew,  I  wrar- 
rant  him. 

Clo.  How  do  you  now? 

Aut.  Sweet  sir.  much  better  than  I  was:  I  can 
utand.  and  walk.  I  will  even  take  my  leave  of  you. 
aad  pace  softly  towards  my  kinsman's. 

Clo.  Shall  1  bring  thee  on  the  way? 

Aut.  No.  good-faced  sir:  no.  sweet  sir. 

Clo.  Then  fare  thee  well.  I  must  go  buy  spices  for 
our  sheep-shearing.  [Exit  Clown. 

Aut.  Prosper  you,  sweet  sir  ! — Your  pur.«e  is  not 
hot  enoush  to  purcha.se  your  spice.  I  '11  be  with  you 
at  your  sheep-shearing  too.  If  I  make  not  this  ciieat 
bring  out  another,  and  the  shearers  prove  sheep,  let 
me  be  enrolled*,  and  my  name  put  in  the  book  of 
virtue ! 

Jog  on.,  jog  on.  the  foot-path  way 

And  merrily  hcnt  the  stile-a: 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day. 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mite-a. 


'  Htks  his  poeket :  in  f. 
f  e      '  attired,  iworm  :  i 


[Exit. 

>  An  old  game  re!>embling  bagatelle. 
f.  e.      *  in  a  :  in  f.  e.     *  gentle  :  in  f.  e. 


The  shapes  of  beasts  upon  them  :  Jupiter 
Became  a  bull,  and  bellow'd  :  the  green  Neptune 
A  ram,  and  bleated ;  and  the  fire-rob'd  god. 
Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain. 
As  I  seem  now.     Their  transformations 
Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer. 
Nor  any*  way  so  chaste  :  since  my  desires 
Run  not  before  mine  honour,  nor  my  lusts 
Bum  hotter  than  my  faith. 

Per.  0  !  but,  sir, 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  't  is 
Oppos'd.  as  it  must  be.  by  the  power  of  the  king. 
One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities. 
Which  then  will   speak — that  you  must  change  thi« 

purpose. 
Or  I  my  life. 

Flo.  Thou  dearest  Perdita. 

With  these  forc'd  thoughts,  I  pr'ythee.  darken  not 
The  mirth  o'  the  feast :  or  I  '11  be  thine,  my  fair. 
Or  not  my  father's ;  for  I  cannot  be 
Mine  own.  nor  any  thing  to  any.  if 
I  be  not  thine  :  to  this  I  am  most  constant. 
Though  destiny  say.  no.     Be  merry,  girl' ; 
Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these  with  any  thmg 
That  you  behold  the  while.    Your  guests  are  coming 
Lift  up  your  countenance,  as  't  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  0,  lady  fortune. 

Stand  you  auspicious  ! 
i     Enter  Shepherd,  with  Polixenes  and  Camillo,  di.'- 

guised ;  Clown.  Mopsa,  Dorc.vs.  and  otlurs. 
j      Flo.  See.  your  quests  approach  ■ 

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

Remain  for  a  time.      ^  A  puppet-show.     »  anroUed  :  )■  f  •      *Vt 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


293 


Shep.  .Fie,  daughter  !  when  my  old  -nafe  liv'd,  upon 
This  day  she  was  both  pantler.  butler,  cook ; 
Both  dame  and  servant ;  welcom'd  all ;  serv'd  all ; 
Would  sing  her  song,  and  dance  her  turn  ;  now  here. 
At  upper  end  o'  the  table,  now;  i'  the  middle  . 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his ;  her  lace  o'  fire 
With  labour,  and  the  tiling  she  took  to  quench  it, 
She  would  to  each  one  sip.     You  are  retir'd. 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting  :  pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  "s  welcome  :  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come ;  quench  your  blushes,  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'  the  feast :  come  on. 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing, 
.\s  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.  [To  Pol.]  Sir,  welcome. 

It  is  my  father's  will.  I  should  take  on  me 
The  hostess-ship  o'  the  day: — [To  C.\M.]  You  're  wel- 
come, sir. — 
Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas. — Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there  's  rosemary,  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savour  all  the  winter  long  : 
Grace,  and  remembrance,  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing  ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

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

Per.  Sir,  the  year  gro\^-ing  ancient, — 

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

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  I  have  heard  it  said, 

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

Pol.  Say,  there  be  ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean :  so.  o'er  that  art, 
Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock. 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race  :  this  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature.^hange  it  rather  ;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gilly-flowers. 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I  '11  not  put 

The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them  . 
No  more  than,  were  I  painted.  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say,  't  were  well,  and  only  therefore 
Desire  to  I  reed  by  me. — Here  's  flowers  for  you  ; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram  ; 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  wi'  the  sun, 
And  -with  him  rises  weeping :  these  are  flowers 
Oi  middle  summer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age.     You  are  very  welcome. 

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

Per.  Out,  alas  ! 

Von  'd  be  so  lean,  that  blasts  of  January 
Would   blow    you   through    and  through. — Now,    my 
fair'st  friend. 


I  would,  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring,  that  might 

Become  your  time  of  day  ;  and  yours,  and  yours, 

That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 

Your  maidenheads  gro^^^ng  : — 0  Proserpina  ! 

For  the  flowers  now.  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 

From  Dis's  waggon  !  daffodils. 

That  come  before  the  swaltow  dares,  and  take 

The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;   violets  dim 

But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 

Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses. 

That  die  unmarried  ere  they  can  behold 

Bright  Phcpbus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 

Most  incident  to  maids  ;  bold  oxlips.  and 

The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds. 

The  flower-de-luce  being  one.     0  !  these  1  lack, 

To  make  you  garlands  of,  and,  my  sweet  friend, 

To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Flo.  What !  like  a  corse  ? 

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

Flo.  ^      What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 
I  'd  have  you  do  it  ever :  when  you  sing, 
I  'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so  :  so  give  alms  ; 
Pray  so  :  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs. 
To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance.  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that  ;  move  still,  still  so, 
And  own  no  other  function  :  each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular. 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

Per.  O  Doricles  ! 

Your  praises  are  too  large  :  but  that  your  youth. 
And  the  true  blood,  which  peeps  so  fairly  through  il, 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd, 
With  "wnsdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
Yoii  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 

Flo.  I  think,  you  have 

As  little  skilP  to  fear,  as  1  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to  't. — But,  come  :  our  dance,  I  pray. 
Your  hand,  my  Perdita  :  so  turtles  pair. 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

Per.  Ill  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward  :  nothing  she  does,  or  says^, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Cam.  He  tells  her  something, 

That  wakes  her  blood  : — look  on  't.*   Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  qiieen  of  curds  and  cream, 

Clo.  Come  on.  strike  up. 

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

Mop.  Now,  in  good  time — 

Clo    Not  a  word,  a  word  :  we  stand  upon  our  man- 
ners.— 
Come,  strike  up.  [JIusic 

[Here  a  dance  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses. 

Pol.  Pray,  good  shepherd,  what  fair  swain  is  this. 
Which  dances  with  vour  daughter  ? 

Sk^p.  They  call  him  Doricles,  and  boasts  himself 
To  have  a  worthy  breeding :  but  I  have  it 
Upon  his  own  report,  and  I  lelieve  it : 
He  looks  like  sooth.     He  says,  he  loves  my  daughter 


gillyro 


f.  e.      •  That  makes  her  hlood  look  on 't :  in  f.  e. 


294 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


AOT   IV. 


I  think  so  too  :  for  never  gaz'd  the  moon 

Upon  the  water,  as  he  "11  stand,  and  read. 

As  '',  w  rt,  my  daughters  eyes  :  and,  to  be  plain. 

I  think,  there  is  not  hall'  a  kiss  to  choose, 

Who  love*  another  best. 

Pnl.  She  dances  featly. 

Shcp.  So  she  does  any  thing,  thougli  I  report  it. 
That  should  be  silent.     Il' young  Doricles 
[)«>  iiuht  upon  her.  she  shall  bring  him  that 
Which  he  not  dreams  ol'. 

Evter  a  Servant. 


fsirv.  0  master  !  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedler  at   not  a  word  more. 


'      Dor.    He  hath   promised   you   more  than   that,  or 

there  be  liars. 

Mop.  He  hath  paid  you  all  he  promised  you  :  may 
I  be,  he  has  paid  you  more,  which  will  shame  you  to 
j  give  him  again. 

Clo.  Is  there  no  manners  left  among  maids?  will 
j  they  wear  their  plackets,  where  they  should  bear  their 
I  faces  ?  Is  there  not  milking-tinie  when  you  are  going 
■■  to  bed,  or  kiln-hole,  to  whisper'"  off  these  secret.*,  but 
I  you  must  be  tittle-tattling  belbre  all  our  guests  ?  "T  i.^ 

well  they  are  whispering.     Charm"  your  tongues,  and 


the  door,  you  would  never  dance  agam  after  a  tabor 
and  pipe  ;  no,  the  bagpipe  could  not  move  you.  He 
sinas  several  tunes  faster  than  you  '11  tell  money  ;  he 
utters  them  as  he  had  eaten  ballads,  and  all  men's  ears 
grew  to  his  tunes. 

Clo.  He  could  never  come  better  :  he  shall  come  in. 
I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well ;  if  it  be  doleful  mat- 
ter, merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed. 
and  sung  lamentably. 

Sen.  He  hath  songs,  for  man.  or  woman,  of  all  sizes  : 
no  milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers  with  gloves.  He 
h;i.s  the  prettiest  love-song||for  maids  :  so  without 
bawdry,  which  is  strange  :  ■mth  such  delicate  burdens 
of  "dildos"  and  ''fadings';"  '-jump  her  and  thump 
her  ;"'   and  where  some  stretch'd-mouth'd  rascal  would. 


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

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

Av.t.  And,  indeed,  sir.  there  are  cozeners  aDroai  . 
therefore,  it  behoves  men  to  be  wary. 

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

Avt.  I  hope  so,  sir ;  for  I  have  about  me  many 
parcels  of  charge. 

Clo.  What  hast  here  ?  ballads  ' 

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

Aut.  Here 's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune,  How  a 
usurer's  wife  was  brought  to  bed  of  twenty  money- 


a«  it  were,  mean  mischief,  and  break  a  foul  jape'  in   bags  at  a  burden  ;  and  how  she  longed  to  eat  adders 
the  matter,  he  makes  the  maid  to  answer.  "  Whoop,  do   heads,  and  toads  carbonadoed 
me  no  harm,  good   man  :"  puts  him  off.  slights  him 


with  "  Whoop,  do  mc  no  harm,  good  man." 
Pol.  This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

Clo.  Believe  me.  thou  talkest  of  an   admirable-con- 
oeited  fellow.     Has  he  any  embroided'  wares  ? 

Serv.  He  hath  ribands  of  all  the  colours  i"  the  ram- 
bow :  points.*  more  than  all  the  lawTors  in  Bohemia 
can  learnedly  handle  though  they  coiiie  to  him  b.y  the 
gross :  inkles.'  caddisees,'  cambrics,  lawns :  why  he 
sings  them  over,  as  they  were  gods  or  goddesses.  You 
would  think  a  smock  were  a  she-angel,  he  so  chants  to 
the  sleeve-band',  and  the  work  about  the  square'  on 't. 
Clo.  Pr'ythee,  bring  him  in,  and  let  him  approach 
singing. 

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

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

Per.  Ay.  good  brother,  or  go  about  to  think. 
Enter  Autolvcus,  .singing. 
Lawn,  as  rrliite  as  driven  .snow  ; 
Ctfprus.  black  a.v  e'er  was  crow  ; 
(jloves.  as  sweet  as  damask  roses  ; 
Masks  for  faces,  and  for  no.ses  ; 
Biigle-bracelct.  necklace  amber. 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber  : 
Golden  quoifs.  and  .stomachers. 
For  my  tads  to  pive  their  dears  ; 
Pins  and  pokins-sticks''  of  steel. 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel: 
Come,  buy  of  me.  come  ;  come  buy,  come  buy , 
liny.  Iculs,  or  else  your  lasses  cry : 
Come,  buy. 
Clo.  If  I  were  not  in  love  with  Mopsa,  thou  shouldsf 
take  no  money  of  me:  but  being  enthralTd  as  I   am. 
It   will   also  be    the  bondage  of   certain  ribands  and 
gloves. 

M(rp    I   was  promised   them   against  the  feast,  but 
they  come  not  too  late  now. 


'  A  fading  wa*  also  a  danc«.      '  Jttt. 
u>on      '  lieere  hand     inf.*      '  Bosom 


Mop.  Is  it  true,  think  you? 

Aut.  Very  true ;  and  but  a  month  old. 

Dor.  Bless  me  from  marrying  a  usurer  ! 

Aut.  Here  's  the  midwifes  name  to  't,  one  mistre.s.* 
Talcporter.  and  five  or  six  honest  wives'  that  were 
present.     Why  should  I  carry  lies  abroad  ? 

3Iop.  'Pray  you  now,  buy  it. 

Clo.  Come  on,  lay  it  by;  and  let's  first  see  more 
ballads  :  we  '11  buy  the  other  things  anon. 

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

Dor.  Is  it  true  too,  think  you  ? 

Aut.  Five  justices'  hands  at  it,  and  witnesses  more 
than  my  pack  will  hold. 

Clo.  Lay  it  by  too :  another. 

Aut.  This  is  a  merry  balhvd,  but  a  very  pretty  one 

Mop.  Let 's  have  some  merry  ones. 

Aut.  Why  this  is  a  passing  merry  one,  and  goes  tr 
the  tune  of.  "Two  maids  wooing  a  man."  There 'f 
scarce  a  maid  westward  but  she  sings  it:  't  is  in  re- 
quest, I  can  tell  you. 

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

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

Aut.  I  can  bear  my  part;  you  must  know,  'tis  my 
occupation;  have  at  it  with  you. 

SONG. 

Aut.   Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go, 
Whither  fits  not  you  to  know. 
Dor.   Whither? 
Mop.  O  !  whither  ? 
Dor.    Whither? 

Mop.  It  becotms  thy  oath  full  well, 
I  Thou  to  me  thy  secrets  tell. 

f.  e.  :   pap       '  unbraideJ  :  in  f.  e.     ♦  Tagf  to  the  strinurs  used  to  fasten  dresses.     '  Tapt.     •  flw 
»  Used,  when  heated    to  set  the  plaits  of  ruff*.     '»  whistle  :  in  f.  e.     >'  Clamoui  :  in  f.  e 


SCENE  in. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


295 


Dor.  3Ie  too  .   let  me  go  thither. 

Mop.  Or  thou  go-st  to  the  grange,  or  mill  : 

Dor.  If  to  either,  thou  dost  ill. 

Aut.  Neither. 

Dor.   What,  neither? 

Aut.  Neither. 

Dor.   Thou  hast  sworn  my  love  to  he  ; 

Mop.  Thou  hast  sworn  it  more  to  me : 

Then.  ichitJier  go'st  ?  say,  whither  ? 
Clo.  We  '11  have  this  song  out  anon  by  ourselves. 
My  father  and  the  gentlemen  are  in  sad'  talk,  and 
we  '11  not  trouble  them :  come,  bring  away  thy  pack 
ar'ter  me.  Wenches.  I  '11  buy  for  you  both.  Pedler, 
let 's  have  the  first  choice.     Follow  me,  girls. 

[Ezeu7it  Clown,  Dorc.\s,  and  Mops.\.^ 
Ant.  And  you  shall  pay  well  for  'em.  [Aside. 

Will  you  buy  any  tape, 
Or  lace  for  your  cape. 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a  ? 
Any  silk,  any  thread, 
Any  toys  for  your  head. 
Of  the  new'st,  and  finest,  fin'st  wear-a  ? 
Coine  to  the  pedler  ; 
Money 's  a  medhr. 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a. 

[Exit  after  them. 
Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.  Master,  there  is  three  carters,  three  shep- 
herds, three  neat-herds,  three  swine-herds,  that  have 
made  themselves  all  men  of  hair  :  they  call  themselves 
saltiers  ;  and  they  have  a  dance  which  the  wenches  say 
is  a  gallimaufry'  of  gambols,  because  they  are  not  in  't ; 
but  they  themselves  are  o'  the  mind,  (if  it  be  not  too 
rough  for  some,  that  know  little  but  bowling)  it  will 
please  plentifully. 

Shep.  Away  !  we  '11  none  on  't :  here  has  been  too 
much  homely  foolery  already. — I  know,  sir,  we  weary 
you. 

Pol.  You  weary  those  that  refresh  us.  Pray,  let 's 
see  these  four  threes  of  herdsmen. 

Serv.  One  three  of  them,  by  their  own  report,  sir, 

hath  danced  before  the  king  ;  and  not  the  worst  of  the 

three,  but  jumps  twelve  foot  and  a  half  by  the  square.* 

Shep.  Leave  your  prating.     Since  these  good  men 

are  pleased,  let  them  come  in  :  but  quickly  now. 

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

Re-enter  Servant,  with  Twelve  Rustics  habited  like 

Satyrs.     They  dance,  and  then  exeunt. 
Pol.  0    father !    you  '11  know   more   of  that   here- 
after- 
Is  it  not  too  far  gone  ? — "T  is  time  to  part  them. — 
He  's  smiple,  and  tells  much.  How  now,  fair  shepherd? 
V'our  heart  is  full  of  something,  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.     Sooth,  when  I  was  young, 
And  handled  love  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks  :  I  would  have  ransack'd 
The  pedler's  silken  treasury,  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance  ;  you  have  let  him  go. 
And  nothing  marted  with  him.     If  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse,  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love,  or  bounty,  you  were  straited 
For  a  reply,  at  least,  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are. 
The  gifts  she  looks  from  me  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart,  which  I  have  given  already. 
But  not  ileliver'd. — 0  !  hear  me  breathe  my  life 


Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem, 

Hath  sometimes  lov'd  :  I  take  thy  hand ;  thie  h/md, 

As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it. 

Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow,  that 's  bolted 

By  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Pol.  What  follows  this  ">— 

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

Flo.  Do,  and  be  witness  to't. 

Pol.  And  this  my  neighboui-  too  ? 

Flo.  And  he,  and  more 

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

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

Cam.  Tliis  shows  a  sound  affection. 

Shep.  But,  my  daughter, 

Say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 

Per.  I  caimot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well ;  no.  nor  mean  better  : 
By  the  pattern  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands ;  a  bargain : — 

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

Flo.  0 !  that  must  be 

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

Shep.  Come,  your  hand  : 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

Pol.  Soft,  swain,  awhile,  beseech  you 

Have  you  a  father  ? 

Flo.  I  have  ;  but  what  of  him  ? 

Pol.  Knows  he  of  this  ? 

Flo.  He  neither  does,  nor  shall. 

Pol.  Methinks,  a  father 
Is  at  the  nuptial  of  his  son  a  guest 
That  best  becomes  the  table.     Pray  you,  once  more : 
Is  not  your  father  growni  incapable 
Of  reasonable  affairs  ?  is  he  not  stupid 
With  age,  and  altering  rheums  ?  Can  he  speak  ?  hear  ' 
Know  man  from  man  ?  dispose'  his  own  estate  ? 
Lies  he  not  bed-rid  ?  and  again,  does  nothing, 
But  what  he  did  being  childish  ? 

Flo.  No,  good  sir  : 

He  has  his  health,  and  ampler  strength,  indeed, 
Than  most  have  of  his  age. 

Pol.  By  my  white  beard. 

You  offer  him,  if  this  be  so,  a  wrong 
Something  unfilial.     Reason,  my  son 
Should  choose  himself  a  wife ;  but  as  good  reason, 
The  father,  (all  whose  joy  is  nothing  else 
But  fair  posterity)  should  hold  some  counsel 
In  such  a  business. 

Flo.  I  yield  all  this  ; 

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


.  '  Sflriooi      »  in  f.  e  these  characters  make  their  exit  with  Autolyctjs,  after  the  next 
\  foot-rule.    »  force  :  in  f.  e     6  Not  jn  f.  e.     '  dispute  :  in  f .  e 


A  dish  made  up  of 


■Fr.  ttQuif 


296 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


My  father  of  this  business. 

Pol.  Let  him  know  't. 

Flo.  He  shall  not. 

Pol.  Prythee,  let  him. 

>   Flo.  No,  he  must  not. 

Shep.  Let  him.  my  son :  he  shall  not  need  to  grieve 
At  knowng  of  thy  choice. 

Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not. — 

Mark  our  contract. 

Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

[Di.tcovering  himself. 
Whom  son  I  dare  not  call  :  thou  art  too  base 
To  be  acknowledged.     Thou  a  sceptre's  heir, 
Tiiat  thus  af!ect"st  a  sheep-hook  I — Thou  old  traitor, 
1  am  sorry,  that  by  hanging  thee  I  can 
But  shorten  thy  life  one  week. — And  thou  fresh  piece 
Of  excellent  witchcraft,  who  of  force  must  know 
The  royal  fool  thou  cop'st  with — 

Per.  0.  my  heart  ! 

Pol.  I  '11  have  thy  beauty  scratched  with  briars,  and 
made 
More  homely  than  thy  state. — For  thee,  fond  boy, 
if  I  may  ever  know,  thou  dost  but  sigh 
That  thou  no  more  slialt  never'  see  this  knack,  (as  never 
I  mean  thou  shall)  we  '11  bar  thee  from  succession; 
Not  hold  thee  of  our  blood,  no  not  our  kin, 
Far  than  Deucalion  off: — mark  thou  my  words. 
Follow  us  to  the  court. — Thou,  churl,  for  this  time. 
Though  full  of  our  displeasure,  yet  we  free  thee 
From  the  dead  blow  of  it. — And  you,  enchantment, — 
Worthy  enough  a  herdsman;  yea,  him  too, 
That  makes  himself,  but  for  our  honour  therein. 
Unworthy  thee, — if  ever  henceforth  thou 
The.se  rural  latches  to  his  entrance  open, 
Or  hoop  his  body  more  with  thy  embraces, 
I  will  devise  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee, 
As  thou  art  tender  to  't.  '  [Exit. 

Per.  Even  here  undone  ! 

I  was  not  much  afeard  ;  for  once,  or  twice, 
I  was  about  to  speak,  and  tell  him  plainly, 
TTie  self-same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court, 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike. — Will  't  please  you,  sir,  be  gone? 

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

Cam.  Why,  how  now,  father  ? 

Speak,  ere  thou  dicst. 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think, 

Nor  dare  to  know  that  which  I  know. — 0.  sir, 

[To  Florizel. 
You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore  three. 
That  thought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea. 
To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died, 
To  lie  close  by  his  honest  bones ;  but  now. 
Some  hangman  mu.ft  put  on  my  shroud,  and  lay  me 
Where  no  priest  shovels  in  dust. — 0,  cursed  wretch  ! 

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

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

I  am  but  sorry,  not  afeard  ;  delay'd, 
But  nothing  alter'd.     What  I  wa.s,  I  am : 
More  straining  on,  for  plucking  back  ;  not  following 

Sjnblinc  negati 


My  leash  unwillingly. 

Cam.  Gracious  my  lord. 

You  know  your  father's  temper:  at  this  time 
He  will  allow  no  speech,  (which,  I  do  guess, 
You  do  not  purpose  to  him)  and  as  hardly 
W^ill  he  endure  your  sight  as  yet,  I  fear  : 
Then,  till  the  fury  of  bis  highness  settle, 
Come  not  before  him. 

Flo.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think.  Camillo? 

Cam.  Even  he,  my  lord. 

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

Flo.  It  cannot  fail,  but  by 

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

Cam.  Be  advis'd. 

Flo.  I  am  ;  and  by  my  fancy* :  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason 
If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleas'd  with  madness, 
Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.  So  call  it ;  but  it  docs  fulfil  my  vow : 
I  needs  must  think  it  honesty.     Camillo, 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  belov'd.     Therefore,  I  pray  you. 
As  you  have  ever  been  my  father's  honour'd  friend, 
When  he  shall  miss  me.  (as,  in  faith,  I  mean  not 
To  see  him  any  more)  cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion  :  let  myself  and  fortune 
Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know, 
And  so  deliver. — I  am  put  to  sea 
With  her,  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore ; 
And,  most  opportune  to  our  need,  I  have 
A  vessel  rides  fast  by,  but  not  prepar'd 
For  this  design.     What  course  I  mean  to  hold 
Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 
Concern  me  the  reporting. 

Cam.  0,  my  lord  ! 

I  would  your  spirit  were  easier  for  advice, 
Or  stronser  for  your  need. 

Flo.    ^  Hark,  Perdita.— 

[To  Camillo.]  I  'II  hear  you  by  and  by.  [They  talk  apart.' 

Cam.  He 's  irremovable  • 

Resolv'd  for  flight.     Now  were  I  happy,  if 
His  going  I  could  frame  to  serve  my  turn ; 
Save  him  from  danger,  do  him  love  and  honour. 
Purchase  the  sight  asain  of  dear  Sicilia, 
And  that  unhappy  king,  my  master,  whom 
I  so  much  thirst  to  see. 

Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo, 

I  am  so  fraught  with  serious  business,  that 
I  leave  out  ceremony.  \Gotn^ 

Cam.  Sir,  I  think, 

Y''ou  have  heard  of  my  poor  services,  i'  the  love 
That  I  have  borne  your  father  ? 

Flo.  Very  nobly 

Have  you  deserv'd  :  it  is  my  father's  music, 
To  speak  your  deeds  ;  not  little  of  his  care 
To  have  them  recompens'd,  as  thought  on. 

Cam.  Well,  my  lord 

If  you  may  please  to  think  1  love  the  king, 


was  frequent  with  writers  of  the  time.     *  Love.     '  Not  in  f. 


SCENE  m. 


THE  WmTEH'S  TALE. 


297 


And,  through  him,  what's  nearest  to  him,  which  is 
V'our  gracious  self,  embrace  but  my  direction, 
,'If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 
.vlay  suffer  alteration)  on  mine  honour 
I  '11  point  you  where  you  shall  have  such  receiving 
Art  shall  become  your  highness  ;  where  you  may 
Enjov  your  mistress ;   (from  the  whom,  I  see, 
There  's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by. 
As  heavens  forefend,  your  ruin)  marry  her  ; 
And  (with  my  best  en-leavours  in  your  absence) 
Your  discontenting  father  strive  to  qualify, 
And  bring  him  up  to  liking. 

Flo.  How,  Camillo, 

May  this,  almost  a  miracle,  be  done, 
That  I  may  call  thee  something  more  than  man, 
And,  after  that,  trust  to  thee. 

Cam.  Have  you  thought  on 

A  place  whereto  you  '11  go? 

Flo.  Not  any  yet ; 

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

Cam.  Then  list  to  me  : 

This  follows.     If  you  will  not  change  your  purpose. 
But  undergo  this  flight,  make  for  Sicilia, 
And  there  present  yourself,  and  your  fair  princess, 
(For  so,  I  see,  she  mu.st  be)  'fore  Leontes : 
She  shall  be  habited,  as  it  becomes 
The  partner  of  your  bed.     Methinks,  I  see 
Leontes,  opening  his  free  arms,  and  weeping 
His  welcomes  forth  ;  asks  thee,  the  son,  forgiveness. 
As  't  were  i'  the  father's  person  ;  kisses  the  hands 
Of  your  fresh  princess;  o'er  and  o'er  divides  him 
'Twixt  his  unkindness  and  his  kindness :  th'  one 
He  chides  to  hell,  and  bids  the  other  grow 
Faster  than  thought,  or  time. 

Flo.  Worthy  Camillo, 

What  colour  for  my  visitation  shall  I 
Hold  up  before  him  ? 

Cam.  Sent  by  the  king,  your  father. 

To  greet  him,  and  to  give  him  comforts.     Sir, 
The  manner  of  your  bearing  towards  him,  with 
What  you,  as  from  your  father,  shall  deliver, 
Things  known  betwixt  us  three,  I'll  write  you  down: 
The  which  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting 
What  you  must  say,  that  he  shall  not  pei'ceive, 
But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there, 
And  speak  his  very  heart. 

Flo.  I  am  bound  to  you. 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 

Cam.  A  course  more  promising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undream'd  shores ;  most  certain. 
To  miseries  enough  :  no  hope  to  help  you. 
But,  as  you  shake  off  one,  to  take  another  : 
Nothing  so  certain  as  your  anchors,  who 
Do  their  best  office,  if  they  can  but  stay  you 
Where  you  '11  be  loth  to  be.     Besides,  you  know, 
Prosperity  's  the  very  bond  of  love, 
Whose  fresh  complexion,  and  whose  heart  together. 
Affliction  alters. 

J^er.  One  of  these  is  true  : 

I  think,  aifliction  may  .subdue  the  cheek, 
but  not  take  in  tlie  mind. 

Cdm.  Yea,  say  you  so? 

There  shall  not,  at  your  father's  house,  these  seven  yean 
Be  bom  another  such. 

^0-  My  good  Camillo, 

'  appear  in  Sicilia  :  in  f.  e.     2  mine  •  in  f.  e.       'A  ball  of  perfumes. 


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

Cam.  I  camiot  say,  't  is  pity 

Slie  lacks  instructions,  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir  ;  for  this 

I  '11  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.  My  prettiest  Perdita.— 

But,  0,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon  ! — Camillo, 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me. 
The  medicine  of  our  house,  how  shall  we  do  ? 
We  are  not  furnish'd  like  Bohemia's  son. 
Nor  shall  appear 'i'  in  Sicily. 

Cam.  My  lord, 

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

[They  talk  apart. 
Enter  Autolycus. 
Aid.  Ha.  ha  !  wliat  a  fool  honesty  is  !  and  trust,  hia 
sworn  brother,  a  very  simple  gentleman  !  I  have  sold 
all  my  trumpery,  not  a  counterfeit-stone,  not  a  riband, 
glass,  pomander,'  brooch,  table-book,  ballad,  knife,  tape, 
glove,  shoe-tie,  bracelet,  horn-ring,  to  keep  my  pack 
from  fasting  :  they  thronged  who  should  buy  first;  as  if 
my  trinkets  had  been  hallowed,  and  brought  a  bene- 
diction to  the  buyer :  by  which  means,  I  saw  whose 
purse  was  best  in  picture,  and  what  I  saw,  to  my  good 
use  I  remembered.  My  c]o^\^l  (who  wants  but  some- 
thing to  be  a  reasonable  man)  grew  so  in  love  with  the 
wenches'  song,  that  he  would  not  stir  his  pettitoes,  till 
he  had  both  tune  and  words  ;  which  so  drew  the  res; 
of  the  herd  to  me,  that  all  their  other  senses  stuck  in 
ears  :  you  might  have  pinched  a  placket,  it  was  sense- 
less ;  't  was  nothing  to  geld  a  codpiece  of  a  purse ;  I 
would  have  filed  keys  off,  that  hung  in  chains :  no 
hearing,  no  feeling,  but  my  sir's  song,  and  admiring 
the  nothing  of  it :  so  that,  in  this  time  of  letharg>^  I 
picked  and  cut  most  of  their  festival  purses,  and  had 
not  the  old  man  come  in  with  a  whoo-bub*  against  his 
daughter  and  the  king's  son,  and  scared  my  chouglie 
from  the  chaff,  I  had  not  left  a  purse  alive  in  the  whole 
army. 

[Camillo,  Florizel,  and  Perdita,  come  foinvard. 

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

Flo.  And  those  that  you  '11  procure  from  king  Leon- 
tes ? 

Cam.  Shall  satisfy  your  father. 

Per.  Happy  be  you  ! 

All  that  you  speak  shows  fair. 

Cam.  Whom  have  we  here  ? —  [Seeing  Autolycus. 
We  '11  make  an  instrument  of  this  :  omit 
Nothing  may  give  us  aid. 

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

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

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

Cam.  Why,  be  so  still ;  here  's  nobody  will  steal  that 
from  thee  :  yet,  for  the  outside  of  thy  poverty,  we  must 
make  an  exchange :  therefore,  disease  thee  instantly, 
thou  must  think,  there  's  a  necessity  in  't)  and  changt 
garments  with  this  gentleman.  Though  the  penny- 
worth on  his  side  be  the  worst,  yet  hold  thee,  there  'e 
some  boot.  [  Giving  money.' 

AAit.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. — [Aside.]  I  know  ye 
well  enough. 


298 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Cam.  Nay,  pr'yJiee,  dispatch  :  the  gentleman  is  half  I 
Oayed  already.  | 

Aut.  Are  you  in  earnest,  eir? — [Aside.]  I  smell  the 
trick  of  it. 

Flo.  Dispatch.  I  pr'j'tlice. 

Aiit.  Indeed.  I  have  had  earnest  :  but  I  cannot  with 
c«iu;cience  lake  it. 

Cam.  Unbuckle,  unbuckle. — 

[Flo.  and  Autol.  exchange  garmeiUs. 
Fortunate  mistre.<s,  (let  my  prophecy 
Come  home  to  you  !)  you  must  retire  yourself 
Into  some  covert :  take  your  sw  cetheart's  hat, 
And  pluck  it  oer  your  brows  :  muflle  your  face  ; 
Dismantle  you,  and  as  you  can.  disliken 
Tlie  truth  of  your  own  seeming,  that  you  may, 
(For  I  do  fear  eyes  ever')  to  ship-board 
fiet  undcscned. 

Per.  I  see.  the  play  so  lies, 

'I'hat  I  must  bear  a  part. 

Cam.  No  remedy. — 

Have  you  done  there? 

Flo.  Should  I  now  meet  my  father. 

He  would  not  call  me  son. 

Cam.  Nay,  you  shall  have  no  hat. 

[Gives  it  to  Perdita.* 
Come,  lady,  come. — Farewell,  my  friend. 

Aut.  Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.  0  Perdita  !  what  have  we  twain  forgot  ? 
Pray  you.  a  word.  [They  talk  apart. 

Cam.  What  I  do  next  shall  be  to  tell  the  king 
Of  this  escape,  and  whither  they  are  bound  ; 
Wherein,  my  hope  is,  I  shall  so  prevail, 
To  force  him  after :  in  whose  company 
I  shall  re\-iew  Sicilia.  for  whose  sight 
I  have  a  woman's  longing. 

Flo.  Fortune  speed  us  ! — 

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

Cam.  The  swifter  speed,  the  better. 

[Exeimt  Florizel,  Perdita,  and  Camillo. 

Ant.  I  under-stand  the  business  :  I  hear  it.  To  have 
an  open  ear.  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble  hand,  is  neces- 
sary for  a  cut-purse:  a  good  nose  is  requisite  ^Iso,  to 
smell  out  work  for  the  other  senses.  I  see.  thir,  is  the 
time  that  the  unjust  man  doth  tlirive.  What  an  ex- 
change had  this  been  witlinut  boot  !  wliat  a  boot  is 
here  with  this  exchange  !  Sure,  the  gods  do  this  year 
connive  at  us,  and  we  may  do  any  thing  extempore. 
The  prince  himself  is  about  apiece  of  iniquity:  stealing 
away  from  his  father,  with  his  clog  at  his  heels.  If  I 
thought  it  were  a  piece  of  honesty  to  acquaint  the  king 
withal.  I  would  not  do  't :  I  hold  it  the  more  knavery  to 
conceal  it,  and  therein  am  I  constant  to  my  profession. 

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

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

Shrp.  Nay.  but  hear  me. 

Clo.  Nay.  but  hear  me. 

Shep.  Go  to,  then. 

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


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

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

Ant.  [Aside.]   Very  wisely,  puppies  ! 

Shep.  Well,  let  us  to  the  king:  tiiere  is  that  in  this 
fardel  will  make  him  scratch  his  beard. 

Aut.  [Aside.]  I  know  not  what  impediment  tlia 
complaint  may  be  to  the  flight  of  my  master. 

Clo.  Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 

Avt.  [Aside]  Tliough  I  am  not  naturally  honest, 
I  am  so  sometimes  by  chance: — let  me  pocket  up  my 
pedlers  excrement'. — [Takes  off  his  false  beard.]  Ho-w 
now.  rustics  !  whither  are  you  bound  ? 

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

Aut.  Your  affairs  there  ?  what  ?  with  whom  ?  the 
condition  of  that  fardel,  the  jilace  of  your  dwelling, 
your  names,  your  ages,  of  what  having*,  breeding,  and 
any  thinir  that  is  fitting  to  be  kno\\ni?  discover. 

Clo.  We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

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

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

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

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

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

Aut.  Wiiat  advocate  hast  thou  to  him  ? 

Shep.  I  know  not,  an  't  like  you. 

Clo.  Advocate's  the  court-word  for  a  pheasant'; 
say.  you  have  none. 

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

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

Clo.  This  cannot  but  be  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears  them  not 
handsomely. 

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

Aut.  The  fardel  there?  what's  i'  the  fardel?  Where- 
fore that  box  ? 

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

Aut.  Ase.  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.  Why.  sir? 

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

'  Old  copies  :  over  ;  ever,  is  the  MS.  emendation  of  Lord  F.  Egerton'i  fo'io,  1623.    .  »  Not  in  f.  «.       •  Hair,  nails,  and  feathert,  wWi  •• 
"tiled       ♦  Estate.      »  In  the  act.      •  PuU.     '  A  pheasant  wa»  a  common  p-tsent  from  countrymen  to  great  people. 


SCENE   I. 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE. 


299 


Shep.  So  't  is  said,  sir  ;  about  his  Bon,  that  should 
have  married  a  shepherd's  daughter. 

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

Clo.  Think  you  so,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suffer  what  wit  can  make 
hea^vy'.  and  vengeance  bitter,  but  those  that  are  ger- 
mane to  him,  though  removed  fifty  times,  shall  all  come 
under  the  hangman :  which,  though  it  be  great  pity, 
yet  it  is  necessary.  An  old  sheep-whistling  rogue,  a 
ram-tender,  to  offer  to  have  his  daughter  come  into 
grace  !  Some  say,  he  shall  be  stoned  ;  but  that  death 
i§  too  soft  for  him,  say  I.  Draw  our  throne  into  a 
sheep-cote?  all  deaths  are  too  few,  the  sharpest  too 
easy. 

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

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

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  of  great  authority :  close  with 
him,  give  him  gold  ;  and  though  authority  be  a  stub- 
born bear,  yet  he  is  oft  led  by  the  nose  with  gold. 
Show  the   inside  of  your  purse  to  the  outside  of  his 


hand,  and  no  more  ado.  Remember,  stoned,  and 
flayed  alive  ! 

Shep.  An  't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the  business 
for  us,  here  is  that  gold  I  have  •  I  '11  make  it  as  much 
more,  and  leave  this  young  man  in  pawn,  till  I  bring 
it  you. 

Aid.  After  I  have  done  what  I  promised  ? 

Shep.  Ay,  sir. 

Aut.  Well,  give  me  the  moiety. — Are  you  a  party 
in  this  business  ? 

Clo.  In  some  sort,  sir:  but  though  my  case  be  a 
pitiful  one,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  flayed  out  of  it. 

Aut.  0  !  that 's  the  case  of  the  shepherd's  son: 
hang  him,  he  '11  be  made  an  example. 

Clo.  Comfort,  good  comfort !  We  must  to  the  king, 
and  show  our  strange  sights  :  he  must  know,  't  is  none 
of  yoitr  daughter  nor  my  sister ;  we  are  gone  else. 
Sir,  I  will  give  you  as  much  as  this  old  man  does,  when 
the  business  is  performed  ;  and  remain,  as  he  says, 
your  pawn,  till  it  be  brought  you. 

Aut.  I  will  trust  you.  Walk  before  toward  the  sea- 
side :  go  on  the  right  hand ;  I  will  but  look  upon  the 
hedge,  and  follow  you. 

Clo.  We  are  blessed  in  this  man,  as  1  may  say . 
even  blessed, 

Shep.  Let 's  before,  as  he  bids  us.  He  was  provided 
to  do  us  good.  [Exeunt  Shepherd  and  Cloum. 

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


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — Sicilia.  A  Room  in  the  Palace  of  Leontes. 

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

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

Li:oT\.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her,  a  ad  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them,  and  so  still  think  of 
The  WTong  I  did  myself;  which  was  so  much, 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom,  and 
Desfroy'd  the  sweet'st  companion,  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of :  true.* 

Paul.  Too  true,  my  lord  : 

If  one  by  one  you  wedded  all  the  world. 
Or  from  the  •ill  that  are  took  something  good. 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she  you  kill'd 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd  ! 

She  I  kill'd  ?  I  did  so ;  but  thou  strik'st  me 


Sorely,  to  say  I  did  :  it  is  as  bitter 

Upon  thy  tongue,  as  in  my  thought.     Now,  good  now 

Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleo.  Not  at  all,  good  lady : 

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

Paid.  You  are  one  of  those. 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so, 

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

Paul.  There  is  none  worthy, 

Respecting  her  that 's  gone.     Besides,  the  gods 
Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes  ; 
For  has  not  the  di\'ine  Apollo  said, 


>  back  :  in  f.  e. 
tils,  read  •  'tame 


"  Theobald,  and  most  mod.  eds.  transfer  thii  word  to  the  beginnine:  of  the  next  speech.       '  So  old  copies  ;   -noet 


iJO) 


THE  AVINTER'S  TALE. 


ACT  V. 


h  't  not  the  tenour  of  his  oracle. 

That  king  Leonies  shall  not  have  an  heir, 

Till  his  lost  child  be  found  ?  which,  that  it  shall, 

Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  luunau  reason, 

As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  srave, 

And  come  a  sain  to  me  :  who,  on  my  life, 

Did  perish  with  the  infant.     'T  is  your  counsel, 

My  lord  should  to  the  heavens  be  contrary, 

Oppose  against  their  wiUo. — Care  not  for  issue  ; 

The  crown  will  find  an  heir  :  Great  Alexander 

Left  his  to  the  worthiest,  so  his  successor 

Was  like  to  be  the  best. 

Leon.  Good  Paulina, — 

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

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich,  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives  ;  therefore,  no  wife  :  one  worse, 
And  better  us'd,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 
Again  possess  her  corpse ;  and,  on  this  stage, 
(Where  we  offenders  now  appear)  soul-vex'd. 
Begin,  "  And  why  to  me  ?" 

Paul.  Had  she  such  power, 

She  had  just  cause. 

Leon.  She  had  ;  and  would  incense  me 

To  murder  her  I  married. 

Paul.  I  should  so  : 

Were  I  the  ghost  that  walk'd,  I  'd  bid  you  mark 
Her  eye,  and  tell  me  for  what  dull  part  in  't 
You  chose  her  ?  then  I'd  shriek,  that  even  your  ears 
Should  rift  to  hear  me,  and  the  M'ords  that  foUow'd 
Should  be,  "  Remember  mine." 

Leon.  Stars,  stars  ! 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals. — Fear  thou  no  wife ; 
[  '11  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 

Paul.  Will  you  swear 

\ever  to  marry,  but  by  my  free  leave  ? 

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

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

Clco.  You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paul.  Unless  another, 

As  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture. 
Affront  his  eye. 

Cleo.  Good  madam,  I  have  done. 

Paul.  Yet,  if  my  lord  will  marry, — if  you  ^vill,  sir, 
No  remedy,  but  you  will — give  me  the  office 
To  choose  you  a  queen.     She  shall  not  be  so  young 
As  was  your  former ;  but  she  shall  be  such 
As,  walk'd  your  first  queen's  ghost,  it  should  take  joy 
To  see  her  in  your  arms. 

Leon.  My  true  Paulina, 

We  shall  not  marry,  till  thou  bidd"st  us. 

Paul.  That 

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

Enter  a  Gcntlcnuin. 

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

Leon.  What  !  with  him  ?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  his  father's  greatness  :  his  approach, 
So  out  of  circumstance  and  sudden,  tells  us 
'T  is  not  a  visitation  fram'd,  but  forc'd 


By  need,  and  accident.     What  train  ? 

Gent.  But  few, 

And  those  but  mean. 

Leon.  His  princess,  say  you,  "wath  him  1 

Gent.  Ay ;  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I  think 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

Paul.  0  Hermione  ! 

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

Gent.  Pardon,  madam  : 

The  one  I  have  almost  forgot,  (your  pardon) 
The  other,  when  she  has  obtain'd  your  eye. 
Will  have  your  tongue  too.     This  is  a  creature, 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else,  make  proselytes 
Of  whom  she  did  but  follow. 

Paul.  How  !  not  women  ? 

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

Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes  : 

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

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

Paul.  Had  our  Prince 

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

Leon.  Pr'ythee,  no  more :  cease  !  thou  know'st. 
He  dies  to  me  again,  when  talk'd  of :  sure. 
When  I  shall  see  this  gentleman,  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that,  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason. — They  are  come. — 

Re-enter  Cleomenes,  with  Florizel,  Perdita,  and 
Others. 
Your  mother  was  most  true  to  wed-lock,  prince, 
For  she  did  print  your  royal  father  off. 
Conceiving  you.     Were  I  but  twenty-one. 
Your  father's  image  is  so  hit  in  you. 
His  very  air,  that  I  should  call  you  brother. 
As  I  did  him  ;  and  speak  of  something,  wildly 
By  us  perform'd  before.     Most  dearly  welcome  ! 
And  your  fair  princess,  goddess  ! — 0,  alas  ! 
I  lost  a  couple,  that  'twixt  heaven  ?ind  earth 
Might  thus  have  stood,  begetting  wonder  as. 
You,  gracious  coiiple.  do.     And  then  I  lost 
(All  mine  own  folly)  the  society, 
Amity  too,  of  your  brave  father ;  whom, 
Though  bearing  misery,  I  desire  my  life 
Once  more  to  look  on  him. 

Flo.  By  his  command 

Have  I  here  touch'd  Sicilia  ;  and  from  him 
Give  you  all  greetings,  that  a  king,  as'  friend. 
Can  send  his  brother  ;  and,  but  infirmity 
(Which  waits  upon  worn  times)  hath  something  seiz'd 
His  wish'd  ability,  he  had  himself 
The  lands  and  waters  'twixt  your  throne  and  his 
Mcasur'd  to  look  upon  you.  whom  he  loves 
(He  bade  me  say  so)  more  than  all  the  sceptres. 
And  those  that  bear  them,  living. 
I      Leon.  0,  my  brother  ' 


I  Ol'l'-npies:  praye  :  grace, 
7   E^erton'i  folio,  1623 


I  tka  MS.  emendation  of  Lord  F.  Ecerton's  folio,  1623.    >  Old  copies  :  at ;  at ,  U  the  MS.  emendatioB  of  fiord      i 


SCENE  n. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


301 


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

Flo.  Good,  my  lord, 

She  came  from  Libya. 

Leon.  Where  the  warlike  Smalus, 

That  noble,  honour'd  lord,  is  fear'd,  and  lov'd  ? 

Flo.  Most  royal  sir,  from  thence ;  from  him,  whc 
daughter 
His  tears  proclaim'd  his,  parting  with  her  :  thence 
(A  prosperous  south-wind  friendly)  we  have  cross'd, 
To  execute  the  charge  my  father  gave  me. 
For  visiting  your  highness.     Rly  best  train 
I  have  from  your  Sicilian  shores  dismiss'd. 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify, 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir, 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's,  in  safety 
Here,  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air.  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here  !     Yovi  have  a  noble'  father, 
A  graceful  gentleman,  against  whose  person. 
So  sacred  as  it  is,  I  have  done  sin  ; 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angry  note. 
Have  left  me  issueless  ;  and  your  father 's  bless'd 
(As  he  from  heaven  merits  it)  with  you. 
Worthy  his  goodness.     What  might  I  have  been. 
Might  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have  look'd  on. 
Such  goodly  things  as  you  ? 

E7iter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Most  noble  sir. 

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

Leon.  Where  's  Bohemia  ?  speak. 

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

Flo.  Camillo  has  betray'd  me, 

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

Lord.  Lay 't  so  to  his  charge  : 

He  's  with  the  king  your  father. 

Leon.  Who  ?  Camillo  ? 

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

Per.  0,  my  poor  father  ! — 

The  heaven  sets  spies  upon  us,  will  not  have 
Oiir  contract  celebrated. 

Leon.  You  axe  married  ? 


I      Flo.  We  are  not,  sir,  nor  are  we  like  to  be ; 
The  stars.  I  see,  will  k'ss  the  valleys  first : 
The  odds  for  high  and  low  's  alike. 

Leo7i.  My  lord, 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  king? 

Flo.  She  is, 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 

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

Flo.  Dear,  look  up 

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

Leon.  Would  he  do  so,  I  'd  beg  your  precious  mis- 
tress. 
Which  he  counts  but  a  trifle. 

Paul.  Sir,  my  liege. 

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

Leon.  I  thought  of  her, 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made. — But  your  petition 

[To  Florizel 
Is  yet  unanswer'd.     I  will  to  your  father: 
Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 
I  am  a  friend  to  them,  and  you ;  upon  which  errand 
I  now  go  toward  him.     Therefore,  follow  me. 
And  mark  w^hat  w^ay  I  make.     Come,  good  my  lord. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  Autolycus  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.  Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this  re 
lation  ? 

1  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel,  heard 
the  old  shepherd  deliver  the  maimer  how  he  found  it : 
whereupon,  after  a  little  amazedness,  we  were  all 
commanded  out  of  the  chamber ;  only  this,  methought 
I  heard  the  shepherd    say,  he  found  the  child. 

Aut.  I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of  it. 

1  Gent.  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  business ; 
but  the  changes  I  perceived  in  the  lang,  and  Camillo, 
were  very  notes  of  admiration  :  they  seemed  almost, 
with  staring  on  one  another,  to  tear  the  cases  of  their 
eyes;  there  was  speech  in  their  dumbness,  language 
in  their  very  gesture ;  they  looked,  as  they  had  heard 
of  a  world  ransomed,  or  one  destroyed.  A  notable 
passion  of  wonder  appeared  in  them :  but  the  wisest 
beholder,  that  knew  no  more  but  seeing,  could  not  say, 
if  the  importance  were  joy,  or  sorrow,  but  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  one  it  must  needs  be. 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 
Here  comes  a  gentleman,  that,  haply,  knows  more. — 
The  news,  Rogero? 

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

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 
Here  comes  the  lady  Paulina's  steward  :  he  can  deliver 
you  more. — How  goes  it  now,  sir?     This  news,  which 


'  holy : 


if.e. 


302 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


is  called  true,  is  so  like  an  old  tale,  that  the  verity  of 
il  is  in  stronjj  suspicion.  Has  the  kinir  found  his  heir? 
3  Gent.  Most  true,  if  ever  truth  were  pregnant  by 
circuinstanec  :  that  whieh  you  liear.  you  11  swear  you 
see.  tliere  is  such  unity  in  the  proofs.  The  mantle  of 
queen  Herniione: — her  jewel  about  the  neck  of  it; — 
the  letters  of  Antiaonus  found  with  it.  which  they  know 
to  be  his  character : — the  majesty  of  the  creature,  in 
resemblance  of  the  mother: — the  aflection  of  noble- 
ness, wiiich  nature  .-^hows  above  her  breeding,  and 
many  other  evidences,  proclaim  her  with  all  certainty 
to  be  the  king's  daughter.  Did  you  see  the  meeting  of 
tJie  two  kings  ? 

2  Gent.  No. 

3  Gent.  Then  you  have  lost  a  sight,  whicli  Avag  to 
be  seen,  cannot  be  spoken  of  There  might  you  have 
belield  one  joy  crown  another ;  so.  and  in  such  man- 
ner, that,  it  seemed,  sorrow  wept  to  take  leave  of  them, 
tor  their  joy  waded  in  tears.  There  was  casting  up  of 
eyes,  holding  up  of  hands,  with  countenance  of  such 
di.straction.  that  they  were  to  be  known  by  garment, 
not  by  favour.'  Our  king,  being  ready  to  leap  ovit  of 
himself  for  joy  of  his  found  daughter,  as  if  that  joy 
were  now  become  a  loss,  cries,  "0,  thy  mother,  thy  mo- 
ther !"•  then  asks  Bohemia  forgiveness:  then  embraces 
his  son-in-law :  then  again  worries  he  his  daughter 
wth  clipping^  her:  now  he  thanks  the  old  shepherd, 
which  stands  by,  like  a  weather-beaten'  conduit  of 
many  kings'  reigns.  I  never  heard  of  such  another 
encounter,  which  lames  report  to  follow  it,  and  undoes 
description  to  show*  it. 

2  Gent.  What,  pray  you.  became  of  Antigonus,  that 
carried  hence  the  child? 

3  Gent.  Like  an  old  tale  still,  which  will  have  mat- 
ter to  rehearse,  though  credit  be  asleep,  and  not  an  ear 
open.  He  was  torn  to  pieces  with  a  bear :  this  avou- 
ches the  shepherd's  son.  who  has  not  only  his  inno- 
cence (which  seems  mueh)  to  justify  him.  but  a  hand- 
kerchief, and  rings  of  his  tliat  Paulina  knows. 

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

3  Gent.  Wrecked,  the  same  instant  of  their  master's 
death,  and  in  the  view  of  the  shepherd  :  so  that  all  the 
instruments,  which  aided  to  expose  the  child,  were  even 
then  lost,  wlien  it  was  found.  But,  0  !  the  noble  com- 
bat, that  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow  was  fought  in  Paulina  ! 
She  had  one  eye  declined  for  the  loss  of  her  husband, 
another  elevated  that  the  oracle  was  fulfilled :  she 
lifted  the  princess  from  the  earth,  and  .so  locks  her  in 
embracing,  as  if  she  would  pin  her  to  her  heart,  that 
.«he  might  no  more  be  in  danger  of  losing  her. 

1  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  wa.s  worth  the  audi- 
ence of  kings  and  princes,  for  by  such  was  it  acted. 

3  Geiit.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  and  that 
which  angled  for  mine  eyes  (caught  the  water,  though 
not  the  fish)  was.  when  at  the  relation  of  the  queen's 
death,  (with  the  manner  how  she  came  to  't,  heavily* 
confessed,  and  lamented  by  the  kinir)  how  attontiveness 
woi  nded  his  daughter:  till,  from  one  sign  of  dolour  to 
another,  she  did,  with  an  alas  !  I  would  fain  say, 
bleed  tears  :  for,  lam  sure,  my  heart  wept  blood.  Who 
wa«  most  marble  there  changed  colour:  some  swooned, 
all  sorrowed  :  if  all  the  world  could  have  seen  it,  the 
woe  had  been  universal. 

1    Gent.  Are  they  returned  to  the  court? 

3  Gent.  No :  the  princess  hearing  of  her  mother's 
statue,  which  is  in  the  keeping  of  Paulina. — a  piece 
many  years  in  doing,  and  now  newly  performed  by 
that  rare  Italian  ma,stcr,  Julio  Romano;  who,  had  he 

>  Countenance  >  Umbracing.  *  weather-bitten  :  in  f.  e  ♦  do  : 
'  Brart,  fint. 


[himself  eternity  and  could  put  breath  into  his  work, 
I  would  beguile  nature  of  her  custom,  so  perfectly  he  it 
'her  ape  :  he  so  near  to  Herniione  hath  done  Hermione, 
that,  they  say,  one  would  speak  to  her.  and  stand  in 
hope  of  answer.  Thither  with  all  greediness  of  affec- 
tion, are  they  gone,  and  there  they  intend  to  sup. 
j  2  Gent.  I  thought,  she  had  some  great  matter  there 
in  hand,  for  she  hath  privately,  twice  or  thrice  a  day, 
iever  since  the  death  ot  Hermione,  visited  that  removed 
house.  Shall  we  thither,  and  with  our  company  piece 
the  rejoicing  ? 

1  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence  that  has  the  beneht 
of  access  ?  every  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new  grace  will 
be  born  :  our  absence  makes  us  unthrifty  to  our  know- 
ledge.    Let 's  along.  \Exevnt  Gentlemen. 

Aut.  Now.  had  I  not  the  dash  of  my  former  life  iu 
me,  would  preferment  drop  on  my  head.  I  brought 
the  old  man  and  his  son  aboard  the  prince  ;  told  him 
I  heard  them  talk  of  a  fardel,  and  I  know  not  what ; 
but  he  at  that  time,  over-fond  of  the  shepherds  daugh- 
ter, (so  he  then  took  her  to  be)  who  began  to  be  much 
sea-sick,  and  himself  little  better,  extremity  of  weather 
continuing,  this  mystery  remained  undiscovered.  But 
't  is  all  one  to  me :  for  had  I  been  the  finder  out  of 
this  secret,  it  would  not  have  relished  among  my  other 
discredits. 

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

Shep.  Come,  boy  :  I  am  pa.st  more  children  ,  but  thy 
sons  and  daughters  will  be  all  gentlemen  born. 

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

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

Cio.  Ay,  and  have  been  so  anytime  these  four  hours. 

Shep.  And  so  haA'e  T,  boy. 

Clo.  So  you  have ; — but  I  was  a  gentleman  bom 
before  my  father,  for  the  king's  son  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  called  me,  brother:  and  then  the  two  kings 
called  my  father,  brother;  and  then  the  prince,  my 
brother,  and  the  princess,  my  sister,  called  my  father, 
father ;  and  so  we  wept :  and  there  was  the  first  gen- 
tleman-like tears  that  ever  we  shed. 

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

Clo.  Ay;  or  el.'^e  'twere  hard  luck,  being  in  so  pre- 
posterous estate  as  we  are. 

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

Shep.  Pr')-thee.  son,  do:  for  we  must  be  gentle,  now 
we  are  gentlemen. 

Cio.  Thou  wilt  ami-nd  thy  life? 

Aut.  Ay,  an  it  like  your  good  worship. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  wnll  swear  to  the  prince, 
thou  art  a.s  honest  a  true  fellow  as  any  is  in  Bohemia. 

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

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

Shep.  How  if  it  be  false,  .son  ? 

Clo.  If  it  be  ne'er  so  false,  a  true  gentleman  may 
swear  it  in  the  behalf  of  his  friend: — And  I  "11  swear 
to  the  prince,  thou  art  a  tall'  fellow  of  thy  hands,  and 
that  thou  wilt  not  be  drunk  ;  but  I  know,  thou  art  nc 
tall  fellow  of  thy  hands,  and  that  thou  wilt  be  drunk  j 

n  f.  e.      •  bravely  :  in  f.  e.    •  The  rest  of  this  dir«:tioB  is  not  )■  f.  • 


SCENE   III. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


303 


but  I  '11  swear  it,  and  I  would  thou  wouldst  be  a  tall 
fellow  of  tliy  hands. 

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

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

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Chapel  in  P.4Ui.in.\'s 

Hou-se. 

Enter  Leoxtes,  Pom.xexes.  Florizel,  P?:rdit.\, 

Camillo,  Paulina,  Lords.,  and  Attendants. 

Leon  0  !  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great  comfort 
That  I  nave  had  of  tliee  ! 

Paul.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

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

Leon.  0  Paulina  ! 

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

Paul.  As  she  liv'd  peerless. 

So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe, 
Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon, 
Or  hand  of  man  hath  done  ;  therefore  I  keep  it 
Lonely,  apart.     But  here  it  is  :  prepare 
To  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd,  as  ever 
Still  sleep  mock'd  death  :  behold  !  and  say,  't  is  well. 

[Paulina  xmdraws  a  curtain.,  and  discovers  a  statue.* 
Music  playing. — A  pause. 
I  like  your  silence  :  it  the  more  shows  off 
Your  wonder ;  but  yet  speak: — first  you,  my  liege. 
Comes  it  not  something  near  ? 

Leon.  Her  natural  posture. — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say,  indeed, 
Thou  art  Hermione ;  or,  rather,  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy,  and  grace. — But  yet,  Paulina, 
Hermione  was  not  so  much  wriiikled ;  nothing 
So  aged,  as  this  seems. 

Pol.  O !  not  by  much. 

Paid.  So  much  the  more  our  carvers  excellence ; 
Which  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years,  and  makes  her 
As  she  liv'd  now. 

Leon.  As  now  she  might  have  done, 

So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 
Now  piercing  to  my  soul.     0  !  thus  she  stood. 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty,  (warm  life. 
At  now  it  coldly  stands)  when  first  I  woo'd  her. 
I  am  ashttm'd :  does  not  the  stone  rebuke  n>e. 
For  being  more  stone  than  it? — O,  royal  piece  ! 
There  's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
My  evils  conjur'd  to  remembrance  ;  and 
Frora  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits. 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee. 

Per.  And  give  me  leave, 

And  do  not  say  't  is  superstition,  that  [Kneeling.' 

kneel,  and  thus  implore  her  blessing. — Lady. 
Dear  queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began. 
Give  me  that  hand  of  yours  to  kiss. 

'  Not  in  £  e.     '  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e      '  «  Not 


Patd.  0,  patience ! 

The  statue  is  but  newly  fix'd  ;  the  colour  's 
Not  dry. 

Cam.  My  lord,  your  sorrow  was  too  sore  laid  on, 
Which  sixteen  winters  cannot  blow  away, 
So  many  summers  dry  :  scarce  any  joy 
Did  ever  so  long  live  ;  no  sorrow, 
But  kill'd  itself  much  sooner. 

Pol.  Dear  my  brother, 

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

Paul.  Indeed,  my  lord. 

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

Leon  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

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

Leon.  Let  be,  let  be  ! 

Would  I  were  dead,  but  that,  methinks,  already 
I  am  but  dead,  stone  looking  upon  stone'. — 
What  was  he  that  did  make  it  ? — See,  my  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breath'd,  and  that  those  veins 
Did  verily  bear  blo^-d  ? 

Pol.  Masterly  done : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

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

Paid.  I  '11  draw  the  curtain. 

My  lord  'g  almost  so  far  transported,  that 

[Offers  again  to  draw. 
He  '11  think  anon  it  lives. 

Leon.  0,  sweet  Paulina  ! 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together. 
No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.     Let 't  alone. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'd  you  ;  but 
I  could  afflict  you  farther. 

Leon.  Do,  Paulina, 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort. — Still,  methinks. 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her:  what  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?     Let  no  man  mock  ma. 
For  I  will  kiss  her. 

Paul.  Good  my  lord,  forbear.    [She  stays  him.'' 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet : 
You  '11  mar  it,  if  you  kiss  it ,  stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting.     Shall  I  draw  the  ciirtain  ? 

Leon.  No,  not  these  twenty  years. 

Per.  So  long  could  1 

Stand  by,  a  looker  on. 

Paul.  Either  forbear. 

Quit  presently  the  chapel,  or  resolve  you 
For  more  amazement.     If  you  can  behold  it, 
I  '11  make  the  statue  move  indeed  :  descend. 
And  take  you  by  the  hand  ;  but  then  you  '11  think 
(Which  I  protest  against)  I  am  assisted 
By  wicked  powers. 

'      Leo7i.  What  you  can  make  her  do, 

I  am  content    to  look  on  :  what  to  speak, 
I  am  content  to  hear ;  for  't  is  as  easy 
To  make  her  speak,  as  move. 

Paul.  It  is  requir'd, 

You  do  awake  your  faith.     Then,  all  stand  still. 
On,  those  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 
I  am  about ;  let  them  depart. 
I      Leon.  Proceed : 

j  No  foot  shall  stir. 

in  f.  e.     s  This  line  is  not  in  f  e.     *  '  These  directions  are  not  in  f.  e 


304 


TTIE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


aOI    v. 


Paul.  Music  awake  her.     Strike  ! —  [Mtuic. 

T  is  time  ;  descend  ;  be  stone  no  more  :  approach  ; 
Striiic  all  that  look  njion  with  marvel.     Come; 
I  '11  fill  your  Erravc  up:  stir:  nay.  come  away; 
Bequeatii  to  death  your  numbness,  lor  from  him 
Hear  life  redeems  you. — '^'ou  perceive,  she  stirs. 

[Hermionk  descends  slowly  from  the  pedestal. 
Start  not :  her  actions  shall  be  holy,  as 
Vou  hear  my  spell  is  lawful  :  do  not  shun  her. 
Until  you  see  her  die  asiain.  tor  then 
Vou  kill  her  double.     Nay.  present  your  hand  : 
Wlieu  she  was  young  yoix  wood  her :  now.  in  age. 
Is  she  become  the  suitor  ? 

Leon.  O  !  she  's  warm.   [Embracing  her. 

,f  this  be  magic,  let  it  be  an  art 
Lawiul  as  eating. 

Pol.  She  embraces  him. 

Cam.  She  hangs  about  his  neck. 
If  she  pertain  to  life,  let  her  speak  too. 

Pol.  Ay:  and  make  it  manifest  where  she  has  liv'd, 
Or  how  stol'n  from  the  dead  ? 

Paul.  That  she  is  living. 

Were  it  but  told  you,  shovild  be  hooted  at 
Like  an  old  tale  :  but  it  appears  she  lives. 
Though  yet  she  speak  not.     Mark  a  little  while. — 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam  :  kneel. 
And  pray  your  mother's  blessing. — Turn,  good  lady, 
Our  Perdita  is  found.      [Perdita  kneels  to  Hermione. 

Her.  You  gods,  look  down. 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  ! — Tell  me,  mine  own. 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserv'd?  where  liv'd?  how 
found 


Thy  father's  court?  for  thou  shalt  hear,  ihat  I, 
Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hojie  thou  wast  in  being,  have  pre«erv'd 
Myself  to  sec  the  issue. 

Paul.  There  's  time  enough  for  ILr'.. 

Lest  they  desire  upon  this  push  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation. — Go  together, 
You  precious  winners  all  :  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.     L  an  old  turtle, 
Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough,  and  there , 
My  mate,  that 's  never  to  be  found  again, 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

Leon.  0  peace.  Paulina  ! 

Thou  shouldst  a  husband  take  by  my  consent, 
As  [  by  thine,  a  wife :  this  is  a  match. 
And  made  between  's  by  vows.  Thou  hast  found  mine 
But  how  is  to  be  question'd.  for  I  saw  her, 
As  T  1  bought,  dead  ;  and  have  in  vain  said  many 
A  prayer  upon  her  grave :  I  '11  not  seek  far 
(For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind)  to  find  thee 
An  honourable  husband. — Come.  Camillo, 
And  take  her  hand,'  whose  worth,  and  honcBty, 
Is  richly  noted,  and  here  justified 
By  us.  a  pair  of  kings. — Lot  "s  from  this  place. — 
What ! — Look  upon  my  brother : — both  your  pardoii.s- 
That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 
My  ill-.suspicion. — This  your  son-in-law, 
And  son  unto  the  king,  (whom  heavens  directing) 
[s  troth-plight  to  your  daughter. — Good  Paulina, 
Lead  us  from  hence,  where  we  may  leisurely 
Each  one  demand,  and  answer  to  his  part 
Pcrform'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time.  Bince  first 
We  were  dissever'd.     Hastily  lead  away.         \Exevni 


Take  her  by  the  hand  :  ib  f  e 


KING    JOHN. 


DKAMATIS    PERSON^]:. 


KiNC!  John. 

Prince  Henry,  his  Son. 
Arthur,  D.ike  of  Bretagne. 
William  Mareshall.  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
Geffrey  Fitz-Peter,  Earl  of  Essex. 
William  Loxgsavord,  Earl  of  Salisbury. 
Robert  Bigot,  Earl  of  Norfolk. 
Hubert  De  Burgh,  Chamberlain  to  the  King. 
Robert  Faulconbridge. 
Philip  Faulconbridge. 

James  Gurney,  Servant  to  Lady  Faulconbridge. 
Lords,  Ladies,  Citizens  of  Anglers,  Sheriff,  Heralds,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  Attendants, 
SCENE,  sometimes  in  England,  and  sometimes  in  France. 


Peter  of  Pomfret. 

Philip,  King  of  France. 

Lewis,  the  Dauphin. 

Archduke  of  Austria. 

Cardinal  Pandulph,  the  Pope's  Legate 

Melun,  a  French  Lord. 

Chatillon,  Ambassador  from  France. 

Elixor,  Widow  of  King  Henry  11. 

Coxstaxce.  Mother  to  Arthur. 

Blaxch.  Daughter  to  Alphonso,  King  of  Caetile. 

Lady  Faulcoxbridge. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  L — Northampton.     A  Room  of  State  in  the 

Palace. 
Enter  King  John,  Queen  Elinor,  Pembroke,  Essex, 
Salisbury,  and  Others,  with  Chatillon. 
K.  John.  Now,  say,  Chatillon,  what  would  France 

with  us  ? 
Chat.  Thus,  after  greeting,  speaks  the  king  of  France. 
In  my  beha\'iour,  to  the  majesty. 
The  borrow'd  majesty,  of  England  here. 

Eli.  A  strange  beginning  ! — borrow'd  majesty? 
K.  John.  Silence,  good  mother :  hear  the  embassy. 
Chat.  Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true  behalf 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagenet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories. 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine ; 
Desiring  thee  to  lay  aside  the  sword 
Which  sways  usurpingly  these  several  titles, 
And  put  the  same  into  young  Arthur's  hand. 
Thy  nephew,  and  right  royal  sovereign. 
K.  John.  What  follows,  if  we  disallow  of  this  ? 
Chat.  The  proud  control  of  fierce  and  bloody  war. 
To  enforce  these  rights  so  forcibly  -withheld. 
K.  John.  Here  have  we  war  for  war,  and  blood  for 
blood, 
Controlment  for  controlment :  so  ans-wer  France. 

Chat.  Then  take  my  king's  defiance  from  my  mouth. 
The  farthest  limit  of  my  embassy. 

K.  John.  Bear  mine  to  him,  and  so  depart  m  peace. 
,  Be  thou  as  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France  ; 
For  ere  thou  canst  report  I  will  be  there, 
;The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  be  heard. 
I  So,  hence  !     Be  thou  the  trumpet  of  our  wrath. 
And  sudden*  presage  of  your  own  decay. — 
A.n  honourable  conduct  let  him  have  : 
Pembroke,  look  to  't.     Farewell,  Chatillon. 

{Exeunt  Ch.atillon  and  Pembroke. 

"  snllen  :  in  f.  e       »  Conduct. 
U 


Eli.  What  now,  my  son  ?  have  I  not  ever  said, 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease, 
Till  she  had  kindled  France,  and  all  the  world, 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ? 
This  might  have  been  prevented,  and  made  whole, 
With  very  easy  arguments  of  love, 
Which  now  the  manage'  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

K.  John.  Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right  for  us. 

Eli.  Your  strong  possession,  much  more  than  your 
right, 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you,  and  me : 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear. 
Which  none  but  heaven,  and  you,  and  I,  shall  hear. 
Enter  the  Sheriff  of  Northamptonshire,  who  whispers 
EssE.x, 

Essex.  My  liege,  here  is  the  strangest  controversy 
Come  from  the  country  to  be  judg'd  by  you. 
That  e'er  I  heard  :  shall  I  produce  the  men? 

A'.  John.  Let  them  approach. —  [Exit  Sheriff. 

Our  abbeys,  and  our  priories,  shall  pay 
Re-enter  Sheriff.,  with  Robert  Faulconbridge,  aiul 
Philip,  his  bastard  Brother. 
This  expedition's  charge. — What  men  are  you? 

Bast.  Your  faithful  subject  I ;  a  gentleman 
Born  in  Northamptonshire,  and  eldest  son. 
As  I  suppose,  to  Robert  Faulconbridge, 
A  soldier,  by  the  honour- gi-ving  hand 
Of  CoBur-de-lion  knighted  in  the  field. 

K.  John.  What  art  thou? 

Rob.  The  son  and  heir  to  that  same  Faulconbridge 

K.  John.  Is  that  the  elder,  and  art  thou  the  heir? 
You  came  not  of  one  mother,  then,  it  seems. 

Bast.  Most  certain  of  one  mother,  mighty  king  , 
That  is  well  known,  and,  as  I  think,  one  father 
But,  for  the  certain  knowledge  of  that  truth, 
I  put  you  o'er  to  heaven,  and  to  my  mother  : 
Of  that  I  doubt,  as  all  men's  children  may. 

305 


306 


KING   JOII"N. 


ACT  L 


Eli.  Out  on  thee,  rude  man !  thou  dost  shame  thy 
mother. 
And  wound  her  honour  with  this  diffidence. 

Bast.  I,  madam  ?  no.  I  have  no  reaeoa  for  i^ : 
That  is  my  brother's  plea,  and  none  of  mine ; 
The  which  if  he  can  prove,  "a  pops  me  out 
At  least  from  fair  five  hundred  pound  a  year. 
Heaven  guard  my  motliers  honour,  and  my  land  ! 

K  John.  A  good  blunt  fellow. — ^V^ly,  being  younger 
bom, 
Ooth  he  lay  claim  to  thine  inheritance  ? 

Hn.':t.  I  know  not  why.  except  to  get  the  land. 
But  once  he  slander'd  me  with  bastardy  : 
Hut  wher  1  be  as  true  begot,  or  no. 
That  .«till  I  lay  upon  my  mothers  head; 
Rut,  that  I  am  as  well  begot,  my  liege, 
Fair  fall  the  bones  that  took  the  pains  for  me  !) 
Oompare  our  faces,  and  be  judge  younself. 
if  old  sir  Hobert  did  beget  us  both. 
And  were  our  father,  and  this  son  like  him, 

0  !  old  sir  Robert,  father,  on  my  knee 

1  dve  heaven  thanks.  I  was  not  like  to  thee. 

A".  John.  Why,  what  a  madcap  hath  heaven  lent  us 
here ! 

Eli.  He  hath  a  trick  of  Coeur-de-lion's  face ; 
The  accent  of  his  tongue  affecteth  him. 
I>i  you  not  read  some  tokens  of  my  son 
In  the  large  composition  of  this  man  ? 

K.  John.  Mine  eye  hath  well  examined  his  parts, 
And  finds  them  perfect  Richard. — Sirrah,  speak: 
What  doth  move  you  to  claim  your  brothers  land? 

Bast.  Because  he  hath  a  half-face,  like  my  father, 
With  that  half-face*  would  he  have  all  my  land ; 
A  half-fac'd  groat*  five  hundred  pound  a  year! 

Rob.  My  gracious  liege,  when  that  my  father  liv'd, 
Vour  brother  did  employ  my  father  much. 

Bast.  Well,  sir  :  by  this  you  cannot  get  my  land  • 
Your  tale  must  be,  how  he  employ'd  my  mother. 

Rob.  And  once  despatched  him  in  an  embassy 
To  Germany,  there,  with  the  emperor. 
To  treat  of  high  affairs  touching  that  time. 
The  advantage  of  his  absence  look  the  king. 
And  in  the  mean  time  evjournd  at  my  father's; 
Where  how  he  did  prevail  I  shame  to  speak. 
But  truth  is  truth :  large  lengths  of  seas  and  shores 
Between  my  father  and  my  mother  lay. 
As  I  have  heard  my  fatber  .«peak  himself, 
When  this  same  lu.sty  gentleman  was  got. 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  by  will  bequeath'd 
His  land 5  to  me ;  and  took  it.  on  his  death, 
That  thi.s,  my  mother's  .«on.  was  none  of  his : 
.\nd,  if  he  were,  he  came  into  the  world 
Full  fo'irteen  weeks  before  the  coarse  of  time. 
Thfn,  good  my  liege,  let  me  have  what  is  mine, 
My  father's  land,  as  wa.*;  my  father's  will. 

K.  John.  Sirrah,  your  brother  is  legitimate  : 
Your  father's  wile  did  after  wedlock  bear  him  ; 
And  if  slie  did  play  false   the  fault  was  hers, 
Which  fault  lies  on  the  hazard."^  of  all  husbands 
That  marry  wives.     Tell  me.  how  if  my  brother 
Who.  a.s  you  say,  took  pains  to  get  this  son, 
Had  of  your  father  claimed  this  son  for  his  ? 
In  sooth,  good  friend,  your  father  miiilit  have  kept 
This  calf,  bred  from  his  cow.  from  all  ilie  world  ; 
In  sooth,  he  might:  then,  if  he  were  my  brother's, 
My  brother  miaht  not  claim  him.  nor  your  father. 
Being  none  of  his,  refu.se  him. — This  concludes, — 
My  mother's  son  did  get  your  father's  heir  ; 


Yi»'ir  lather's  heir  must  have  your  father's  land. 

Rob.  Shall,  then,  my  fathers  will  be  of  no  force 
To  dispo8.<e.<s  that  child  which  is  not  his  ? 

Bast.  Of  no  more  force  to  dispossess  me,  sir, 
Than  was  his  will  to  get  me,  as  1  think. 

Eli.  Whether  hadst  thou  rather  be  a  Faulconbndge, 
And,  like  thy  brother,  to  enjoy  thy  land. 
Or  the  reputed  son  of  Coeur-de-lion, 
Lord  of  thy  presence,  and  no  land  beside  ? 

Bast.  Madam,  an  if  my  brother  had  my  shape, 
And  I  had  hi.«,  sir  Robert  his.*  like  him; 
And  if  my  legs  were  two  such  riding-rods, 
My  arms  such  eel-skins  stufi"d  :  my  face  so  thin, 
That  in  mine  ear  I  durst  not  stick  a  rose, 
Lest   men   should  say,   "  Look,  where  three-farthingb 

goes,"* 
And,  to  his  .shape,  were  heir  to  all  this  land. 
Would  I  might  never  stir  from  off  this  place, 
I  'd  give  it  every  foot  to  have  this  face : 
I  would  not  be  sir  Nob*  in  any  case. 

EH.  I  like  thee  well.    Wilt  thou  forsake  thy  fortune, 
Bequeath  thy  land  to  him,  and  follow  me  ? 
1  am  a  soldier,  and  now  bound  to  France. 

Bast.  Brother,  take  you  my  land.  I  '11  take  my  chance 
Your  face  hath  got  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
Yet  sell  your  face  for  five  pence,  and  't  is  dear. — 
Madam,  I  '11  follow  you  unto  the  death. 

Eli.  Nay,  I  would  have  you  go  before  me,  thither. 

Bast.  Our  country  manners  give  our  betters  way. 

K.  John.  What  is  thy  name? 

Bast.  Philip,  my  liege  :  so  is  my  name  begun  ; 
Philip,  good  old  sir  Robert's  wife's  eldest  son. 

K.  John.  From  henceforth   bear   his   name   whose 
form  thou  bearest. 
Kneel  thou  down  Philip,  but  arise  more  great : 

[Bast,  kneels  and  riits* 
Arise  sir  Richard,  and  Plantagenet. 

Bast.  Brother,  by  the  mother's  side,  give  me  your 
hand : 
My  father  gave  me  honour,  yours  gave  land, 
Now  blessed  be  the  hour,  by  night  or  day, 
When  I  was  got  Sir  Robert  was  away. 

Eli.  The  very  spirit  of  Plantagenet  ! — 
I  am  thy  grandame,  Richard  :  call  me  so. 

Bast.  Madam,  by  chance,  but  not  by  truth:  whal 
though  ? ' 
Something  about,  a  little  from  the  right. 

In  at  the  window,  or  else  o'er  the  hatch : 
Who  dares  not  stir  by  day.  must  walk  by  night. 

And  have  is  have,  however  men  do  catch. 
Near  or  far  off.  well  won  is  still  well  shot, 
And  I  am  I.  howe'er  I  was  begot. 

K.  John.  Go,  Faulconbridge  :    now   hast  thou  thv 
desire : 
A  landless  knight  makes  thee  a  landed  'squire. — 
Come,  madam,  and  come.  Richard  :  we  must  speed 
For  France,  for  France,  lor  it  is  more  than  ne«i. 

Bast.  Brother,  adieu  :  good  fortune  come  to  thee, 
For  thou  wast  got  i'  the  wav  of  honesty. 

[Excvnt  all  but  the  Bastard 
A  foot  of  honour  better  than  I  wa.«;. 
But  many,  ah,  many  foot  of  land  the  worse. 
Well,  now  can  I  make  any  Joan  a  lady: — 
'•Good  den',  sir  Richard."— "  God-a-mercy.  fello-w  f 
And  if  his  name  be  George,  I  '11  call  him  Peter; 
For  new-made  honour  doth  forget  men's  names : 
'T  is  too  respective,  and  too  sociable. 
For  your  diversion,  now,  your  traveller. 


>  Fo'.io  :  half  that  fare.     »  The  gro&t  of  Henry  VTT..  with  the  »OTereicn"s  head  in  profile,  then  a  new  practic«,  on  it.     »  Robert'*.     '  A  sil- 
«  coin  of  Elizabeth,  very  thm,  with  a  nwe  at  the  back  of  the  ear       ^  Head      •  Not  in  f.  e.      1  Evening 


SCENE 


KING  JOHN. 


307 


He  and  his  tooth-pick'  at  my  worship's  mess  ; 

And  when  my  kniglitly  stomach  is  suffic'd, 

Why  then  I  suck  my  teeth,  and  catechize 

My  picked'  man  of  countries  : — "  My  dear  sir," 

Thus  leaning  on  mine  elbow  I  begin, 

•'  I  shall  beseech  you" — that  is  question  now  ; 

And  then  comes  answer  like  an  ABC-book : — 

'•  0  sir,"  says  answer,  "  at  your  best  command ; 

At  your  employment :  at  your  service,  sir  :" — 

'•  No,  sir,"  says  question,  "  I,  sweet  sir,  at  yours  :" 

And  so,  ere  answer  knows  what  question  would, 

Saving  in  dialogue  of  compliment. 

And  talking  of  the  Alps,  and  Apennines, 

The  Pyreneans,  and  the  river  Po, 

It  draws  toward  supper,  in  conclusion  so. 

But  this  is  worshipful  society, 

And  fits  a  mounting  spirit,  like  myself; 

For  he  is  but  a  bastard  to  the  time, 

That  doth  not  smack  of  observation  ; 

And  so  am  I,  whether  I  smack,  or  no ; 

And  not  alone  in  habit  and  device, 

Exterior  form,  outward  accoutrement. 

But  from  the  inward  motion  to  deliver 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  poison  for  the  age's  tooth  : 

Which,  though  I  will  not  practise  to  deceive, 

Yet,  to  avoid  deceit,  I  mean  to  learn. 

For  it  shall  strew  the  footsteps  of  my  rising. — 

But  who  comes  in  such  haste,  in  riding  robes  ? 

What  woman-post  is  this  ?  hath  she  no  husband, 

That  will  take  pains  to  blow  a  horn  before  her  ? 

Enter  Lady  Faulconbridge  and  James  Guuney. 
0  me  !  it  is  my  mother. — How  no,  good  lady  ! 
What  brings  you  here  to  court  so  hastily  ? 

Lady  F.  Where  is  that  slave,  thy  brother  ?  where  is  he. 
That  holds  in  chase  mine  honour  up  and  down  ? 

Bast.  My  brother  Robert?  old  sir  Robert's  son? 
Colbrand'  the  giant,  that  same  mighty  man? 
Is  it  Sir  Robert's  son,  that  you  seek  so  ? 

Lady  F.  Sir  Robert's  son !  Ay,  thou  unreverend  boy. 
Sir  Robert's  son:  why  sconi'st  thou  at  sir  Robert? 
He  is  sir  Robert's  son,  and  so  art  thou. 

Bast.  James  Gurney,  wilt  thou  give  us  leave  awhile  ? 

Gur.  Good  leave,  good  Philip. 

Bast.  Philip?-* — sparrow! — James, 

There's  toys  abroad:  anon  I  '11  tell  thee  more. 

[Exit  Gurnet. 


Madam,  I  was  not  old  sir  Robert's  son : 

Sir  Robert  might  have  eat  his  part  in  me 

Upon  Good-Friday,  and  ne'er  broke  his  fast. 

Sir  Robert  could  do  well  :  marry,  to  confess, 

Could  not  get  me  ;*  sir  Robert  could  not  do  it : 

We  know  his  handy- work. — Therefore,  good  mother, 

To  whom  am  I  beholding  for  these  limbs  ? 

Sir  Robert  never  holp  to  make  this  leg. 

Lady  F.  Hast  thou  conspired  with  thy  brother,  too, 
That  for  thine  own  gain  shouldst  defend  mine  honour  1 
What  means  this  scorn,  thou  most  untoward  knave  ? 

Bast.    Knight,    knight,    good    mother, — Basilisco- 
like. 
What !  I  am  dubb'd  ;  I  have  it  on  my  shoulder. 
But,  mother.  I  am  not  sir  Robert's  son ; 
I  have  disci aim'd  sir  Robert,  and  my  land; 
Legitimation,  name,  and  all  is  gone. 
Then,  good  my  mother  let  me  know  my  father; 
Some  proper  man,  I  hope  ;  who  was  it,  mother  ? 

Lady  F.  Hast  thou  denied  thyself  a  Faulconbridge  r 

Bast.  As  faithfully  as  I  deny  the  devil. 

Lady  F.  King  Richard  CoEur-de-lion  was  thy  father. 
By  long  and  vehement  suit  I  was  seduc'd 
To  make  room  for  him  in  my  husband's  bed. — 
Heaven  !  lay  not  my  transgression  to  my  charge 
Thou'  art  the  issue  of  my  dear  offence. 
Which  was  so  strongly  urg'd,  past  my  defence. 

Bast.  Now,  by  this  light,  were  I  to  get  again, 
Madam,  I  would  not  wish  a  better  father. 
Some  sins  do  bear  their  privilege  on  earth, 
And  so  doth  yours  ;  your  fault  was  not  your  folly : 
Needs  must  you  lay  your  heart  at  his  di.spose, 
Subjected  tribute  to  commanding  love. 
Against  whose  fury  and  unmatched  force 
The  aweless  lion  could  not  wage  the  fight. 
Nor  keep  his  princely  heart  from  Richard's  hand. 
He,  that  perforce  robs  lions  of  their  hearts. 
May  easily  win  a  woman's.     Ay,  my  mother, 
With  all  my  heart  I  thank  thee  for  my  father. 
Who  lives,  and  dares  but  say  thou  didst  not  well 
When  I  was  got,  I  '11  send  his  soul  to  hell. 
Come,  lady,  I  will  show  thee  to  my  kin ; 

And  they  shall  say,  when  Richard  me  begot, 
If  thou  hadst  said  him  nay,  it  had  been  sin  : 

Who  says  it  was,  he  lies :  I  say,  't  was  not. 

[Exeunt 


ACT      II. 


SCENE  I.— France.     Before  the  Walls  of  Angiers. 

Enter,  on  one  side,  the  Archduke  of  Austria,  and 
Forces ;  on  the  other.  Philip,  King  of  France,  and 
Forces;  Lewis,  Constance,  Arthur,  and  Attendants. 
Lew.  Before  Angiers  well  met,  brave  Austria. — 

.\rthur,  that  great  fore-runner  of  thy  blood, 

Richard,  that  robb'd  the  lion  of  his  heart, 

And  fought  the  holy  wars  in  Palestine, 

By  this  brave  duke  came  early  to  his  grave : 

And,  for  amends  to  his  posterity, 

At  our  importance*  hither  is  he  come. 

To  spread  his  colours,  boy,  in  thy  behalf, 

And  to  rebuke  the  usurpation 

pf  thy  unnatural  uncle.  English  John : 


Embrace  him,  love  him,  give  him  welcome  hither. 

Arth.  God  shall  forgive  you  Coeur-de-lion's  death. 
The  rather,  that  you  give  his  offspring  life, 
Shadowing  his  right  under  your  wings  of  war. 
I  give  you  welcome  with  a  powerless  hand, 
But  with  a  heart  full  of  unstrained'  love  : 
Welcome  before  the  gates  of  Angiers,  duke. 

Lew.  A  noble  boy  !     Who  would  not  do  thee  right  ? 

Atist.  Upon  thy  cheek  lay  I  this  zealous  kips, 
As  seal  to  this  indenture  of  my  love  ; 
That  to  my  home  I  will  no  more  return. 
Till  Angiers,  and  the  right  thou  hast  in  France, 
Together  with  that  pale,  that  white-fac'd  shore, 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  roaring  tides, 
And  coops  from  other  lands  her  islanders. 


^Not  in  general  use  in  England,  when  the  play  wajs  written       »  Spruce,  trim.      '  The  Danish  giant,  whom  Guy  of  Warwick  cli«0OTr. 
.r.  tne  rrespnce  of  King  Athe'stan.      ■•An  old   name   given  to  a  sparrow.      *  Could  he  get  me  :  in  f.  e.     «  A  braggaaocio  character  ji 
1.  aplaycf  tne  time      He  is  often  alluded  to  bv  old  writers.     '  Folio  :  That.     »  Importunity.     9  unstained  :  in  f.  e. 


■oliman  aa  i  Persi( 


308 


KING  JOHN, 


ACT  a. 


Even  till  (hat  England.  hcdgM  in  with  the  main. 
That  water- walled  bulwark,  still  .-secure 
And  confident  from  foreign  ]>urposeB. 
Kven  till  that  utmost  corner  of  the  west 
Salute  thee  for  her  king:  till  then,  fair  boy, 
Will  I  not  think  of  home,  but  follow  arms. 

Const.  0  !  take  his  mother's  thanks,  a  widow's  thanks 
Till  your  strong  hand  shall  help  to  give  him  strength 
To  make  a  more  requital  to  your  love. 

Av.st    The  peace  of  heaven  is  theirs,  that  lift  their 
swords 
In  such  a  just  and  charitable  war. 

K.  Phi.  Well  then,  to  work.  Our  cannon  shall  be 
Against  the  brows  of  this  resi.sting  to-WTi : —  [bent 

Call  for  our  chiefest  men  of  discipline, 
To  cull  the  plots  of  best  advantages. 
We'll  lay  before  this  towni  our  royal  bones. 
Wade  10  the  market-place  in  Frenchmen's  blood. 
But  we  will  make  it  subject  to  this  boy. 

Const.  Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 
Lest  unadvised  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood. 
My  lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace  which  here  we  urge  in  war : 
And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood. 
That  hot  rash  ha^te  so  indiscreetly'  shed. 
Enter  Chatillox. 

K.  Phi.  A  wonder,  lady ! — lo,  upon  thy  wish. 
Our  messenger.  Chatillon,  is  arriv'd. — 
What  England  says,  say  briefly,  gentle  lord  : 
We  coldly  pause  for  thee  :   Chatillon,  speak. 

Chat.  Then  turn  your  forces  from  this  paltry  siege, 
And  stir  them  up  against  a  mightier  task. 
England,  impatient  of  your  just  demands. 
Hath  put  liimself  in  arms  :  the  adverse  winds, 
Whose  leisure  I  have  stay'd,  have  given  hun  time 
To  land  his  legions  all  as  soon  as  I. 
His  marches  are  expedient'  to  this  tov>-n ; 
His  forces  strong,  his  soldiers  confident. 
With  liiin  along  is  come  the  mother-queen. 
As*  Ate  stirring  him  to  blood  and  .strife : 
With  her  her  niece,  the  lady  Blanch  of  Spain; 
With  them  a  bastard  of  the  king's  deceased. 
And  all  th'  unsettled  humours  of  the  land  : 
Ra-^h,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries. 
With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleens. 
Have  sold  their  fortunes  at  their  native  homes, 
Bearing  their  birthrights  proudly  on  their  backs, 
To  make  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  here. 
In  brief,  a  braver  choice  of  daimtless  spirits, 
Than  now  the  English  bottoms  have  waft  o'er. 
Did  never  float  upon  tlie  swelling  tide, 
To  do  offence  and  scath  in  Christendom. 

[Dncms  heard. 
The  interruption  of  their  churlish  drums 
Cuts  Dfl!"more  circumstance;  they  are  at  hand, 
""o  parley,  or  to  fight ;  therefore,  prepare. 

K.  Phi.  How  much  unlook'd  for  is  this  expedition  ! 

AiM    By  how  much  unexpected,  by  so  much 
We  must  awake  endeavour  for  defence, 
P)r  anirage  mounteth  with  occa.sion  : 
Let  them  be  welcome,  then  ;  we  are  prepared. 

Enter  King  .John,  Et.isoR,  Blanch,  the  Ba.stard. 

Pembroke,  and  Forces, 

K.  .Tohn.  Peace  be  to  France,  if  France  in  peace, 

permit  I 

Our  just  and  lineal  entrance  to  our  o-vs-n  :  | 

If  nof,  bleed  France,  and  peace  ascend  to  heaven  ;  i 

Whiles  we,  God's  \>Tathful  agent,  do  correct  j 


I  Their  proud  contempt  that  beats  his  peace  to  heaven, 
I      K.  Phi.  Peace  be  to  England,  if  that  war  return 
From  France  to  England,  there  to  live  in  peace. 
Enuland  we  love ;  and.  for  that  England's  sake, 
Willi  burden  of  our  armour  here  we  sweat. 
This  toil  of  ours  should  be  a  work  of  thine; 
But  thou  from  loving  England  art  so  far. 
That  thou  hast  under-%\Tought  her  liiwful  king. 
Cut  off  the  sequence  of  posterity. 
Outfaced  infant  state,  and  done  a  rape 
Upon  the  maiden  virtue  of  the  crown. 
Look  here  upon  thy  brother  Gefi'rey's  face : 

[Pointing  to  Arthur 
These  eyes,  these  brows,  were  moulded  out  of  his  : 
This  little  abstract  doth  contain  that  large. 
Which  died  in  GefTrey.  and  the  hand  of  time 
Shall  draw  this  brief  into  as  huge  a  volume. 
That  Geffrey  M'as  thy  elder  brother  born. 
And  this  his  son  :  England  was  Geffrey's  right, 
And  this  is  GefTrey's.'     In  the  name  of  God, 
How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  call'd  a  king, 
When  living  blood  doth  in  these  temples  beat. 
Which  owe  the  crown  that  thou  o'ermasterest? 

K.  John.  From  whom  hast  thou  this  great  commis- 
sion, France, 
To  draw  my  answer  from  thy  articles  ? 

K.  Phi.  From  that  supernal  Judge,  that  stirs  gooj 
thoughts 
In  any  breast  of  strong  authority. 
To  look  into  the  blots  and  stains  of  right. 
That  .ludge  hath  made  me  guardian  to  this  boy ; 
Lender  whose  warrant  I  impeach  thy  wrong, 
And  by  whose  help  I  mean  to  chastise  it. 

K.  John.  Alack  !  thou  dost  usurp  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Excuse :  it  is  to  beat  usurping  do^^-n. 

Eli.  W^ho  is  it.  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France  ? 

Const.  Let  me  make  answer  : — thy  u.surping  son. 

Eli.  Out;  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king. 
That  thou  may'st  be  a  queen,  and  check  the  world  ! 

Const.  My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true, 
As  thine  was  to  thy  husband,  and  this  boy 
Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey, 
Than  thou  and  John,  in  manners  being  as  like. 
As  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 
My  boy  a  bastard  !     By  my  soul,  I  think, 
His  father  never  was  so  true  begot : 
It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

Eli.  There  's  a  good  mother,  boy,  that  blots  thy  father 

Const.   There 's  a  good    grandam,  boy,  that  would 
blot  thee. 

Aust.  Peace ! 

Bast.  Hear  the  crier. 

Aust.  What  the  devil  art  thou  ' 

Bast.  One  that  will  play  the  devil,  sir.  with  you, 
An  'a  may  catch  your  hide  and  you  alone. 
You  are  the  hare  of  whom  the  proverb  goes. 
Whose  valour  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard. 
I  '11  smoke  your  skin-coat,  and  I  catch  you  right  : 
Sirrah,  look  to't :  i'  faith,  I  \nll,  i'  faith. 

Blanch.  0  !  well  did  he  become  that  lion's  robe. 
That  did  disrobe  the  lion  of  that  robe. 

Bast.  It  lies  as  sightly  on  the  back  of  him, 
As  great  Alcides'  shoes  upon  an  ass. — 
But,  a8.s,  I  '11  take  that  burden  from  your  back. 
Or  lay  on  that  shall  make  your  shoulders  crack. 

Aust.  What  cracker  is  this  same,  (hat  deafs  our  ears 
With  this  abundance  of  superfluous  breath? 

K.  Phi.  Lewis,  determine  what  we  shall  do  straight ' 


*  indirectly  :  m  f.  e.     '  Ezjinditioun. 
line  ii  giren  to  Acstrm.  in  the  M\->. 


'  An  :  in  f.  e     ♦  Not  in  f.  e.     •  The  old  copies  continue  the  sentence  to  the  end  of  the  line.     '  Tlil» 


i^ 


SCENE   I. 


KING  JOHK, 


309 


J-iCW.  Women  and  fools,  break  off  your  conference. — 
King  John,  this  is  the  very  sum  of  all : 
Elngland,  and  Ireland,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine, 
In  right  of  Arthur  do  I  claim  of  thee. 
Wilt  thou  resign  them,  and  lay  down  thy  arms  ? 

K.  John.  My  life  as  soon  :  I  do  defy  thee,  France. — 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  yield  thee  to  my  hand, 
And  out  of  my  dear  love  I  '11  give  thee  more^ 
Than  e'er  the  coward  hand  of  France  can  win : 
Submit  thee,  boy. 

Eli.  Come  to  thy  grandam,  child. 

Const.  Do,  child,  go  to  it'  grandam,  child : 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it'  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig  : 
There  's  a  good  grandam. 

Arth.  Good  my  mother,  peace  ! 

I  would  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave :  [  Weeping.^ 
1  am  not  worth  this  coil  that 's  made  for  me. 

Eli.  His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he  weeps. 

Const.  Now  sliame  upon  you,  whe'r  she  does,  or  no  ! 
His  grandam's  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother's  shames, 
Draw  those  heaven-moving  pearls  from  his  poor  eyes, 
Wliich  heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee  : 
Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  shall  heaven  be  brib'd 
To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 

Eli.  Thou  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 

Const.  Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 
Call  not  me  slanderer  :  thou,  and  thine,  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights. 
Of  this  oppressed  boy,^  thy  eld'st  son's  son, 
Inforiunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee  : 
Thy  sins  are  visited  on  this  poor  child ; 
The  canon  of  the  law  is  laid  on  him. 
Being  but  the  second  generation 
Removed  from  thy  sin-conceiving  womb. 

K.  John.  Bedlam,  have  done. 

Const.  I  have  but  this  to  say, — 

That  he  is  not  only  plagued  for  her  sin. 
But  God  hath  made  her  sin  and  her,  the  plague 
On  this  removed  i.^sue,  plagu'd  for  her, 
And  with  her  plague  her  sin  :  his  injury 
Her  injury  the  beadle  to  her  sin, 
4.11  punish'd  in  the  person  of  this  child, 
And  all  for  her,  a  plague  upon  her  ! 

Eli.  Thou  unadvised  scold,  I  can  produce 
A  will,  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 

Const.  Ay,  who  doubts  that  ?  a  will!  a  wicked  will; 
A  woman's  will :  a  canker'd  grandam's  will  ! 

K.  Phi.  Peace,  lady  !  pause,  or  be  more  temperate. 
It  ill  beseems  this  presence,  to  cry  aim^ 
To  these  ill-tuned  repetitions. — 
Some  trumpet  summon  hither  to  the  walls 
I     These  men  of  Angiers :  let  us  hear  them  speak, 

Whose  title  they  admit,  Arthur's  or  John's. 
I  Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Citizens  upon  the  walls. 

•        Cit.  Who  is  it,  that  hath  warn'd*  us  to  the  walls  ? 

K  Phi.  'T  is  France,  for  England. 
I       R  John.  England,  for  itself. 

fi   You  men  of  Angiers,  and  my  loving  subjects, — 

K.  Phi.  Youlovingmenof  Angiers,  Arthur's  subjects, 
i   Our  trumpet  call'd  you  to  this  gentle  parle. 
'       K.  John.  For  our  advantage ;  therefore,  hear  us  first. — 
,   These  flags  of  France,  that  are  advanced  here 
Before  the  eye  and  prospect  of  your  town. 
Have  hither  march'd  to  your  endamagement: 
The  cannons  have  their  bowels  full  of  wrath, 
And  ready  mounted  are  they,  to  spit  forth 
,  Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walls : 


All  preparation  for  a  bloody  siege. 

And  merciless  proceeding  by  these  Ficnch, 

Come  'fore*  your  city's  eyes,  your  winking  gates , 

And,  but  for  our  approach,  those  sleeping  stones, 

That  as  a  waist  do  girdle  you  about. 

By  the  compulsion  of  their  ordnance 

By  this  time  from  their  fixed  beds  of  lime 

Had  been  dishabited,  and  wide  havoc  made 

For  bloody  power  to  rush  upon  your  peace. 

But,  on  the  sight  of  us,  your  lawful  king, 

Who  painfully,  with  much  expedient  march. 

Have  brought  a  countercheck  before  your  gates, 

To  save  unscratch'd  your  city's  threaten'd  cheeks, 

Behold,  the  French  amaz'd  vouchsafe  a  parle ; 

And  now,  instead  of  bullets  wrapp'd  in  fire, 

To  make  a  shaking  fever  in  j'our  walls. 

They  shoot  but  calm  words,  folded  up  in  smoke, 

To  make  a  faithless  error  in  your  ears : 

Which  trust  accordingly,  kind  citizens. 

And  let  us  in,  your  king ;  whose  labour'd  spirits. 

Forwearied  in  this  action  of  swift  speed, 

Crave  harbourage  within  your  city  walls. 

K.  Phi.  When  I  have  said,  make  answer  to  us  both 
Lo  !  in  this  right  hand,  whose  protection 
Is  most  divinely  vow'd  upon  the  right 
Of  him  it  holds,  stands  young  Flantagenet, 
Son  to  the  elder  brother  of  this  man. 
And  king  o'er  him,  and  all  that  he  enjoys. 
For  this  down-trodden  equity,  we  tread 
In  warlike  march  these  greens  before  your  town; 
Being  no  farther  enemy  to  you. 
Than  the  constraint  of  hospitable  zeal, 
In  the  relief  of  this  oppressed  child, 
Religiously  provokes.     Be  pleased,  then, 
To  pay  that  duty  which  you  truly  owe. 
To  him  that  owes*  it,  namely,  this  young  prince ; 
And  then  our  arms,  like  to  a  muzzled  bear. 
Save  in  aspect,  have  all  offence  seal'd  up : 
Our  cannon's  malice  vainly  shall  be  spent 
Against  th'  invulnerable  clouds  of  heaven; 
And  with  a  blessed  and  unvex'd  retire, 
With  unhack'd  swords,  and  helmets  all  unbruis'd, 
We  will  bear  home  that  lusty  blood  again, 
Which  here  we  came  to  spout  against  your  town. 
And  leave  your  children,  wives,  and  you,  in  peace. 
But  if  you  fondly  pass  our  proffer'd  offer, 
'T  is  not  the  roundure'  of  your  old-fac'd  walls 
Can  hide  you  from  our  messengers  of  war. 
Though  all  these  English,  and  their  discipline. 
Were  harbour'd  in  their  rude  circumference. 
Then,  tell  us;  shall  your  city  call  us  lord. 
In  that  behalf  which  we  have  challeng'd  it. 
Or  shall  we  give  the  signal  to  our  rage. 
And  stalk  in  blood  to  our  possession  ? 

Cit.  In  brief,  we  are  the  king  of  England's  subjects  • 
For  him,  and  in  his  right,  we  hold  this  to\\'n. 

K.  John.  Acknowledge  then  the  king,  and  let  me  in 
Cit.  That  can  we  not :  but  he  that  proves  the  king, 
To  him  will  we  prove  loyal :  till  that  time. 
Have  we  ramm'd  up  our  gates  against  the  world. 

K.  John.  Doth  not  the  cro-mi  of  England  prove  the 
And,  if  not  that,  I  bring  you  witnesses,  [king  ? 

Twice  fifteen  thousand  hearts  of  England's  breed, — 
Bast.  Bastards,  and  else.  [Aside.* 

K.  John.  To  verify  our  title  with  their  lives. 
K.  Phi.  As  many,  and  as  well-born  bloods  asthose,^ 
Bast.  Some  bastards,  too.  [Aside.^ 

K.  Phi.  Stand  in  his  face  to  contradict  his  claim. 


I  Not  in  f.  e. 

'  Koi  in  f.  e 


'  f.  e,  insert :   Thii  ( 


Give  the  word,  to  take  aim.      ♦  Summoned.    »  Comfort :  in  f.  e.      •  Oums.     ^  Fol  •  ;  rounds 


310 


KING  JOHN. 


Cit.  Till  you  compound  whose  right  is  worthiest, 
W»  for  the  wortliiest  hold  the  right  from  both. 

K.  John.  Then  God  forgive  the  sins  of  all  those  souls, 
That  to  tiieir  everlasting  residence 
Before  the  dew  of  evening  fall  shall  fleet, 
In  dreadful  trial  of  our  kiniidoni's  king  ! 

K.  Phi.  Anien_.  Amen. — Mount,  chevaliers  !  to  arms  ! 
Bast.  St.  George,  that  swing'd  the  dragon,  and  e'er 
since, 
its  on  his  horseback  at  mine  hostess'  door, 
each  us  ."some  fence  !    [7b  Austria.]    Sirrah,  were  I 
at  home, 
At  your  den.  sirrah,  with  your  lioness, 
I  would  set  an  ox-head  to  your  lion"s  hide, 
And  make  a  monsier  of  you. 

dust.  Peace  !  no  more. 

Bast.  O  !  tremble,  for  you  hear  the  lion  roar. 
A'.  John.  Up  higher  to  the  plain;  where  we'll  set 
forth 
In  best  appointment  all  our  regiments. 

Bost.  Speed,  then,  to  take  advantage  of  the  field. 
K.  Phi.  It  shall  be  so  ; — [To  Lewis.]    and  at  the 
other  hill 
Command  the  rest  to  stand. — God  and  our  right ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 

Alarums  and  Excursions  ;  then  a  Retreat.     Enter  a 

French  Herald,  with  trumpets,  to  the  gates. 

F.  Her.  You  men  of  Angiers,  open  wide  your  gates. 
And  let  young  Arthur,  duke  o*"  Bretasrne,  in. 
Who  by  the  hand  of  France  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother, 
^Vhose  sons  lie  scatter'd  on  the  bleeding  ground  : 
Many  a  widow's  husband  grovelling  lies. 
Coldly  embracing  the  discolourd  earth, 
And  victory,  with  little  loss,  doth  play 
L'pon  the  dancing  banners  of  the  French, 
Who  are  at  hand,  triumphantly  di.'^play'd, 
To  enter  conquerors,  and  to  proclaim 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  England's  king,  and  yours. 
Enter  an  English  Herald,  with  trumpets. 

E.  Her.  Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiers.  ring  your  bells  : 
King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  approach, 
Commander  of  this  hot  malicious  day. 
Their  armours,  that  march'd  hence  so  silver-bright, 
Hither  return  all  gilt  with  Frenchmen's  blood. 
There  stuck  no  plume  in  any  Enirlish  crest. 
That  is  rcmovd  by  any  staff  of  France  : 
Our  colours  do  return  in  those  same  hands, 
That  did  display  them  when  we  first  march'd  forth  ; 
And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  hunt'-men,  come 
Oar  lusty  English,  all  %Anth  purpled  hands. 
Dyed  in  the  dying  slaughter  of  their  foes. 
Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way. 

C»r'  Heralds,  from  off  our  towers  we  might  behold, 
From  first  to  last,  the  onset  and  retire 
Of  both  your  armies  ;  whose  equality 
By  our  best  eyes  cannot  be  censured  ; 
Blood  hath  bouaht  blood,  and  blows  have  answer'd  blows; 
StrcEgth  match'd  with  strength,  and  power  confronted 

power  : 
Botn  are  alike  ;  and  both  alike  we  like. 
One  must  prove  greatest  :  while  they  weigh  so  even. 
We  hold  our  town  for  neither,  yet  for  both 
Enter,  at  one.  side.  King  John,  with  kh  power,  Elinor, 

Blanch,  and  the  Bastard ;  at  the  other.  King  Philip, 

Lewis,  Austria,  and  forces. 

•  The  folio  rives  this  and  *.h«  othar  cpeeches  -with  the  prefix  Cit.  to 
tho  liege  b\-  Titus. 


K.  John.  France,  haat  thou  yet  more  blood  to  cast 
away  ? 
Say,  shall  the  current  of  our  right  roam  on  ? 
Whose  passage,  vex'd  v^-ith  thy  impediment. 
Shall  leave  his  native  channel,  and  o'er-swell 
With  course  disturbd  even  thy  confining  shores, 
Unless  thou  let  his  silver  waters  keep 
A  peaceful  progress  to  the  ocean.  [blood, 

K.  Phi.  England,  thou  hast  not  sav'd  one  drop  of 
In  this  hot  trial,  more  than  we  of  France ; 
Rather,  lost  more  :  and  by  this  hand  I  swear. 
That  sways  the  earth  this  climate  overlooks. 
Before  we  will  lay  down  our  just-borne  arms. 
We  '11  put  thee  do^^^l,  'gainst  whom  these  arms  we  bear, 
Or  add  a  royal  number  to  the  dead, 
(iracing  the  scroll,  that  tells  of  this  war's  loss, 
With  slaughter  coupled  to  the  name  of  kings. 

Bast.  Ha  !  majesty,  how  high  thy  glory  towers, 
When  the  rich  blood  of  kings  is  set  on  fire. 

0  !  now  doth  death  line  his  dead  chaps  -with  sieel ; 
The  swords  of  soldiers  are  his  teeth,  his  fangs  ; 
And  now  he  feasts,  mousing  the  flesh  of  men, 

In  undeterniin"d  differences  of  kings. — 

Why  stand  these  royal  fronts  amazed  thus  ? 

Cr\-,  havoek.  kings  !  back  to  the  stained  field, 

You  equal  potent,  firey-kindled  spirits  ! 

Then  let  confusion  of  one  part  confirm 

The  other's  peace ;  till  then,  blows,  blood,  and  death  ! 

K.  John.  Whose  party  do  the  to^^^lsmen  yet  admit? 

K.   Phi.    Speak,  citizens,  for  England  who's  your 
king? 

Cit.  The  king  of  England,  when  we  know  the  king 

K.  Phi.  Know  him  in  us,  that  here  hold  up  his  right 

K.  John.  In  us,  that  are  our  o^^^l  great  deputy. 
And  bear  procession  of  our  person  here  ; 
Lord  of  our  presence.  Angiers,  and  of  you. 

Cit.  A  greater  power  than  we  denies  all  this ; 
And.  till  it  be  undoubted,  we  do  lock 
Our  former  scruple  in  our  strong-barr'd  gates. 
Kings  of  our  fear  ;  until  our  fear,  resolv'd, 
Be  by  some  certain  king  purg'd  and  depos'd. 

Bast.  By  heaven,  these  scroyles*   of   Angiers  flout 
you,  kings, 
And  stand  securely  on  their  battlements, 
As  in  a  theatre,  whence  they  gape  and  point 
At  your  industrious  scenes  and  acts  of  death. 
Your  royal  presences  be  rul'd  by  me  : 
Do  like  the  mutines'  of  Jerusalem. 
Be  friends  awliile,  and  both  conjointly  bend 
Your  .sharpest  deeds  of  malice  on  this  town. 
By  cast  and  west  let  France  and  England  mount 
Their  battering  cannon,  charg'd  to  the  mouths, 
Till  their  soul-fearing  clamours  have  brawl'd  down 
The  flinty  ribs  of  this  contemptuous  city  : 

1  'd  play  incessantly  upon  these  jades, 
Even  till  unfenced  desolation 

Leave  them  as  naked  as  the  A-ulgar  air. 

That  done,  dissever  your  united  strengths. 

And  part  your  mingled  colours  once  again  : 

Turn  face  to  face,  and  bloody  point  to  point ; 

Then,  in  a  moment,  fortune  shall  cull  forth 

Out  of  one  side  her  happy  minion. 

To  whom  in  favour  .she  shall  give  the  day, 
I  And  kiss  him  with  a  glorious  \ictory. 
I  How  like  you  this  •w-ild  coun.sel.  mighty  states? 

Smacks  it  not  something  of  the  policy  ? 

K.  John.  Now.  by  the  sky  that  hangs  above  our  heada 
'  I  like  it  well. — France,  shall  we  knit  our  powers, 
IltrBERT.    »  Fr.  eserouillts,  scab*.    '  The  mntineera  or  factioet  duria* 


I 


SCENE   II. 


KING  JOHN. 


311 


And  Jay  this  Anglers  even  with  the  ground, 
Thei; ,  after,  fight  who  shall  be  king  of  it  ? 

Bast.  An  if  thou  hast  the  mettle  of  a  king. 
Being  wrong'd  as  we  are  bj^  this  peevish  town, 
Turn  thou  the  mouth  of  thy  artillery, 
As  we  will  ours,  against  these  saucy  walls ; 
And  when  that  we  have  dash'd  them  to  the  ground, 
Why,  then  defy  each  other,  and  pell-mell, 
Make  work  upon  ourselves  for  heaven,  or  hell. 

K.  Phi.  Let  it  be  so. — Say,  where  will  you  assault. 

K.  John.  We  from  the  west  will  send  destruction 
Into  this  city's  bosom. 

At(st.  I  from  the  north. 

K.  Phi.  0"S  thunder  from  the  south. 

Shall  rain  their  drift  of  bullets  on  this  town. 

Bast.  O,  prudent  discipline  !     From  north  to  south, 
Austria  and   France  shoot  in  each  other's   mouth. 

[Aside. 
I  '11  stir  them  to  it. — Come,  away,  away  ! 

Cit.  Hear  us,  great  kings  :  vouchsafe  a  while  to  stay, 
And  I  shall  show  you  peace,  and  fair-fac'd  league ; 
Win  you  this  city  without  stroke,  or  wound  : 
Rescue  those  breathing  lives  to  die  in  beds, 
That  here  come  sacrifices  for  the  field. 
Persever  not,  but  hear  me,  mighty  kings. 

K.  John.  Speak  on,  -v\nth  favour :  we  are  bent  to  hear. 

Cit.  That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  lady  Blanch, 
Is  niece'  to  England  :  look  upon  the  years 
Of  Lewis  the  Dauphin,  and  that  lovely  maid, 
[f  lusty  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty, 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch  ? 
tf  zealous  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blancli  ? 
[f  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth. 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  lady  Blanch  ? 
Such  as  she  is,  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth, 
[s  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete  : 
[f  itot  complete  of,'  say,  he  is  not  she  j 
And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want, 
[f  want  it  be  not,  that  she  is  not  he  : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  a'  she ; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence. 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
0  !  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join. 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in  : 
And  two  such  shores  to  two  such  streams  made  one. 
Two  such  controlling  bounds  shall  you  be,  kings. 
To  these  two  princes,  if  you  marry  them. 
This  union  shall  do  more  than  battery  can 
To  our  fast-closed  gates  ;  for,  at  this  match, 
With  swifter  spleen  than  powder  can  enforce, 
The  mouth  of  passage  shall  we  fling  wide  ope, 
And  give  you  entrance  :  but,  without  this  match, 
The  sr;a  enraged  is  not  half  so  deaf, 
Lions  more  confident,  mountains  and  rocks 
More  free  from  motion  :  no,  not  death  himself 
In  mortal  fury  half  so  peremptory, 
Ab  we  to  keep  this  city. 

Bast.  Here  's  a  stay, 

That  shakes  the  rotten  carcase  of  old  death 
•Jut  of  his  rags  !     Here 's  a  large  mouth,  indeed. 
That  spits  forth  death,  and  mountains,  rocks,  and  sea-s ; 
Talks  as  familiarly  of  roaring  lions, 
Am  maids  of  thirteen  do  of  puppy-dogs. 
Whpt  cannoneer  begot  this  lusty  blood  ? 
He  speaKs  plain  cannon-fire,  and  smoke,  and  bounce  ; 
He  gives  the  bastinado  with  his  tongue  : 
Our  ears  are  cudgell'd  ;  not  a  word  of  his, 
•  mat :  in  f.  a.     '  Complete  in  the  qualities.    »-as  :  in  f.  a. 


But  buffets  better  than  a  fist  of  France. 
Zounds  !  I  was  never  so  bethump'd  with  words, 
Since  I  first  call'd  my  brother's  father  dad. 

Eli.  Son,  list  to  this  conjunction ;  make  this  match 
Give  with  our  niece  a  dowry  large  enough. 
For  by  this  knot  thou  shalt  so  surely  tie 
Thy  now  unsur'd  assurance  to  the  crown, 
That  yond'  green  boy  shall  have  no  sun  to  ripe 
The  bloom  that  proniiseth  a  mighty  fruit. 
I  see  a  yielding  in  the  looks  of  France  ; 
Mark,  how  they  whisper  :  urge  them  while  their  souls 
Are  capable  of  this  ambition. 
Lest  zeal,  now  melted  by  the  windy  breath 
Of  soft  petitions,  pity,  and  remorse. 
Cool  and  congeal  again  to  what  it  was. 

Cit.  Why  answer  not  the  double  majesties 
This  friendly  treaty  of  our  threaten'd  lowni  ? 

K.  Phi.  Speak  England  first,  that  hath  been  forw-ard 
first 
To  speak  unto  this  city  :  what  say  you  ? 

K.  John.  If  that  the  Dauphin  there,  thy  princely  son, 
Can  in  this  book  of  beauty  read,  I  love. 
Her  dowry  shall  weigh  equal  with  a  queen  : 
For  Anjou,  and  fair  Touraine,  Maine,  Poictiers, 
And  all  that  we  upon  this  side  the  sea, 
(Except  this  city  now  by  us  besieg'd) 
Find  liable  to  our  cro\\ii  and  dignity, 
Shall  gild  her  bridal  bed,  and  make  her  rich 
In  titles,  honours,  and  promotions. 
As  she  in  beauty,  education,  blood. 
Holds  hand  with  any  princess  of  the  world.  [face 

K.  Phi.  What  say'st  thou,  boy  ?  look  in  the  ladj's 

Lew.  I  do,  my  lord  ;  and  in  her  eye  I  find 
A  wonder,  or  a  wondrous  miracle. 
The  shadow  of  myself  form'd  in  her  eye, 
Which,  being  but  the  shadow  of  your  son, 
Becomes  a  sun,  and  makes  your  son  a  shadow. 
I  do  protest,  I  've  never  lov'd  myself, 
Till  now  infixed  I  behold  myself 
Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye. 

[Whispers  with  Blanch. 

Bast.  Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye, 
Hang'd  in  the  frowning  wrinkle  of  her  brow. 
And  quarter'd  in  her  heart,  he  doth  espy 

Himself  love's  traitor  :  this  is  pity  now, 
That  hang'd,  and  drawn,  and  quarter'd,  there  should  be. 
In  such  a  love,  so  vile  a  lout  as  he. 

Blanch.  My  uncle's  will  in  this  respect  is  mine  : 
If  he  see  aught  in  you.  that  makes  him  like, 
That  any  thing  he  sees,  which  moves  his  liking, 
I  can  with  ease  translate  it  to  my  will  ; 
Or  if  you  will,  to  speak  more  properly, 
I  will  enforce  it  easily  to  my  love. 
Farther  I  will  not  flatter  you,  my  lord. 
That  all  I  see  in  you  is  worthy  love, 
Than  this, — that  nothing  do  I  see  in  you, 
Though  churlish  thoughts  themselves  should  be  yom 

judge. 
That  I  can  find  should  merit  any  hate, 

K.  John.  What  say  these  young  ones  ?     What  say 
you,  my  niece  ? 

Blanch.  That  she  is  bound  in  honour  still  to  do 
What  you  in  wisdom  still  vouchsafe  to  say. 

K.  John.  Speak  then,  prince  Dauphin  :   can  you  love 
this  lady  ? 

Lew.  Nay,  ask  me  if  I  can  refrain  from  love, 
For  I  do  love  her  most  unfeignedly. 

K.  John.  Then  do  I  give  Volquessen,  Touraine,  Maine. 
Poictiers,  and  Anjou,  these  five  provinces, 


312 


KING  JOHN. 


With  her  to  thee;  and  this  addition  more. 
Full  thirty  thousand  marks  of  English  coin. — 
Philip  ol'  France,  if  thou  be  pleas'd  withal, 
Command  thy  son  and  daujrliler  to  join  hands. 

A'.  Phi.    It    likes   us    well. — Youn-i   princes,    close 
your  hands.  [They  join  hands} 

Aiist.  And  your  lips  too  ;  for,  I  am  well-a^^sur-d, 
That  I  did  so.  when  1  was  fir.^^t  assur"d'. 

K.  Phi.  Now,  citizens  of  Anglers,  ope  your  gates, 
Let  in  tiiat  aunty  which  you  have  made; 
For  at  saint  Mary's  chapel  presently 
The  rites  of  marriage  shall  be  solemniz'd. — 
Is  not  the  lady  Constance  in  this  troop? 
I  know,  she  is  not  :  for  this  match,  made  up, 
Her  presence  would  have  interrupted  much. 
Where  is  she  and  her  son  ?  tell  me,  who  knows. 

Lew.  She  is  sad  and  passionate  at  your  highness'  tent. 

K.  Phi.  And,  by  my  faith,  this  league,  that  we  have 
Will  give  her  sadness  very  little  cure. —  [made, 

Brother  of  England,  how  may  we  content 
This  widow'd  lady  ?     In  her  right  we  came, 
Which  we,  God  knows,  have  turn'd  another  way, 
To  our  own  vantage. 

K.  John.  We  will  heal  up  all ; 

For  we  '11  create  young  Arthur  duke  of  Bretagne, 
And  earl  of  Richmond,  and  this  rich  fair  town 
We  make  him  lord  of. — Call  the  lady  Constance: 
Some  speedy  messenger  bid  her  repair 
To  our  solemnity. — I  trust  we  shall, 
[f  not  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  will, 
Yet  in  some  mea.sure  satisfy  her  so. 
That  we  shall  stop  her  exclamation. 
(Jo  we,  as  well  as  haste  mtU  suffer  us, 
To  this  unlook"d  for.  unprepared  pomp. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Bastard. — The  Citizens  retire 
from  the  walls. 

Bast.  Mad  world  !  mad  kings  !  mad  composition  ! 


John,  to  stop  Arthur's  title  in  the  whole, 

Hath  willingly  departed  with  a  i)art ; 

And  France,  whose  armour  conscience  buckled  on, 

Whom  zeal  and  charity  brought  to  the  field. 

As  God's  own  soldier,  rounded'  in  the  ear 

With  that  same  purpose-changer,  that  sly  devii, 

That  broker  that  still  breaks  the  pate  of  faith, 

That  daily  break-vow,  he  that  wins  of  all. 

Of  kings,  of  beggars,  old  men,  young  men,  maids,— 

Who  having  no  external  thing  to  lose 

But  the  word  maid, — cheats  the  poor  maid  of  that  ; 

That  smooth-faced  gentleman,  tickling  commodity, — ' 

Conuiiodity,  the  bias  of  the  world  ; 

The  world,  who  of  itself  is  poised  well, 

Made  to  run  even,  upon  even  ground. 

Till  this  advantage,  this  vile  drawing  bias. 

This  sway  of  motion,  this  commodity, 

Makcti  it  take  head  from  all  indifTerency, 

From  all  direction,  purpose,  course,  intent : 

And  this  same  bias,  this  commodity, 

This  bawd,  this  broker,  this  all -changing  word, 

Clapp'd  on  the  outward  eye  of  fickle  France, 

Hath  drawn  him  from  his  own  determin'd  aim*, 

From  a  resolv'd  and  honourable  war, 

To  a  most  base  and  vile-eoncludcd  peace. 

And  why  rail  I  on  this  commodity : 

But  for  because  he  hath  not  woo"d  me  yet : 

Not  that  I  have  no°  power  to  clutch  my  hand, 

When  his  fair  angels  would  salute  my  palm ; 

But  for  my  hand,  as  unattempted  yet. 

Like  a  poor  beggar,  raileth  on  the  rich. 

W^ell,  whiles  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail. 

And  say,  there  is  no  sin,  but  to  be  rich ; 

And  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be, 

To  say,  there  is  no  vice  but  beggary. 

Since  kings  break  faith  upon  commodity. 

Gain,  be  my  lord,  for  I  will  worship  thee.  [Exit. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     The  French  King's  Tent. 
Enter  Constance,  Arthur,  a7id  Salisburv. 

Const.  Gone  to  be  married?  gone  to  swear  a  peace? 
Fal.>^e  blood  to  false  blood  join'd  !    Gone  to  be  friends  ? 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanch,  and  Blanch  those  p^o^^nces? 
It  is  not  .'Jo:  thou  hast  mi.«spoke,  misheard; 
Be  well  advis'd,  tell  o'er  thy  tale  again  : 
It  cannot  be ;  thou  do.st  but  say  't  is  so. 
I  trust.  I  may  not  trust  thee,  for  thy  word 
Is  but  the  vain  breath  of  a  common  man: 
Believe  me.  I  do  not  believe  thee,  man : 
I  have  a  king's  oath  to  the  contrary. 
Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me, 
For  1  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears ; 
Oppressd  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears  : 
A  widow,  husbandlcss,  subject  to  fears  ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears  ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess,  thou  didst  but  jest, 
Wnh  my  vcx'd  spirits,  I  cannot  take  a  truce. 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 
Whv  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son  ? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine? 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bounds  ? 

'  Not  in  f  0.    '  BttTothtd.     '  Whisftrtd     ♦aid  •  in  f.  e.     •  the  ■  i 


Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words  ? 
Then  speak  again  ;  not  all  thy  former  tale, 
But  this  one  word,  whether  thy  tale  be  true. 

Sal.  As  true,  as,  I  believe,  you  think  them  false. 
That  give  you  cause  to  prove  my  saying  true. 

Const.  0  !  if  thou  teach  me  to  believe  this  sorrow, 
Teach  thou  this  sorrow  how  to  make  me  die ; 
And  let  belief  and  life  encounter  so, 
As  doth  the  fury  of  two  desperate  men. 
Which  in  the  very  meeting  fall,  and  die. — 
Lewis  marry  Blanch  !     0,  boy  !  then  where  art  thou? 
France  friend  witli.  f^ngland  !  what  becomes  of  me  ?— 
Fellow,  be  gone;  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight  : 
This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 

Sal.  What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done, 
But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  others  done  ? 

Const.  Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is. 
As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  8))eak  of  it. 

Arth.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.  If  thou,  that   bidd'st  me  be  content,  wen 
grim. 
Ugly,  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots,  unsightly*  stains, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with  ibul  moles,  and  cye-offcnding  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 

f.  e.    *  and  sightless  :  in  f.  a. 


SCENE   I. 


KING  JOHN. 


313 


For  then  I  should  not  love  thee ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deser^-e  a  croA^ii. 
But  thou  art  fair ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy, 
Nature  and  fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great : 
Of  nature's  gifts  thou  may'st  with  lilies  boast, 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose.     But  fortune,  O  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee : 
Sh'  adulterates  hourly  ^^^th  thine  uncle  John ; 
And  with  iier  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on  France 
To  tread  do^\^l  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
And  made  his  majesty  the  bawd  to  theirs. 
France  is  a  bawd  to  fortune,  and  king  John ; 
That  strumpet  fortune,  that  usurping  John  ! — 
Tell  me.  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn? 
Envenom  him  with  words,  or  get  thee  gone, 
And  leave  those  woes  alone,  which  I  alone 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.  Thou  may'st,  thou  shalt :  I  will  not  go  with 
thee. 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud, 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stoop. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 
Let  kings  assemble  ;  for  my  grief 's  so  great, 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up :  here  I  and  sorrows  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

[She  sits  on  the  ground. 

Enter  King  John,  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Blanch, 
Elinor,  Bastard.,  Austria,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  'T  is  true,  fair  daughter;  and  this  blessed 
Ever  in  France  shall  be  kept  festival :  [day. 

To  solemnize  this  day,  the  glorious  sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  alchymist, 
Turning,  with  splendour  of  his  precious  eye, 
The  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glittering  gold  : 
The  yearly  course,  that  brings  this  day  about. 
Shall  never  see  it  but  a  holyday. 

Const.  A  wicked  day,  and  not  a  holy  day !   [Rising. 
What  hath  this  day  deserv'd  ?  what  hath  it  done, 
That  it  in  golden  letters  should  be  set, 
Among  the  high  tides,  in  the  calendar  ? 
Nay,  rather,  turn  this  day  out  of  the  week ; 
This  day  of  shame,  oppression,  perjury  : 
Or  if  it  must  stand  still,  let  wives  with  child 
Pray^  that  their  burdens  may  not  fall  this  day, 
Lest  that  their  hopes  prodigiously  be  cross'd  : 
But  on'  this  day,  let  seamen  fear  no  wreck ; 
No  bargains  break,  that  are  not  this  day  made  ; 
This  day  all  things  begun  come  to  ill  end  ; 
Yea,  faith  itself  to  hollow  falsehood  change  ! 

K.  Phi.  By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no  cause 
To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day. 
Have  I  not  pa%\ni'd  to  you  my  majesty  ? 

Const.  You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit. 
Resembling  majesty,  which,  being  touch'd  and  tried. 
Proves  valueless.     You  are  forsworn,  forsworn ; 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood. 
But  now  in  arms  you  strengthen  it  with  yours  : 
The  grappling  A'igour,  and  rough  frown  of  war, 
fs  cold  in  amity  and  faint  in'  peace. 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league. — 
Arm.  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjur'd  kings  ! 
A  widow  cries  :  be  husband  to  me,  heavens  ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  da>  in  peace  :  but,  ere  sunset, 
I  Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings  ! 
Heaj  me!  O,  hear  me  ! 

^Except  on.     »  paintel :  in  f  e      'him:inf» 


Aust.  Lady  Constance,  peace  ! 

Const.  War  !  war  !  no  peace  !  peace  is  to  me  a  war. 
0,  Lymoges  !  0,  Austria  !  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil ;    thou   slave,    thou  wretch,   thou 

coward ; 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villainy  ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side  ! 
Thou  fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety  !  thou  art  perjur'd  too 
And  sooth'st  up  greatness.     What  a  fool  art  thou, 
A  ramping  fool,  to  brag,  and  stamp,  and  swear, 
Upon  my  party  !     Thou  cold-blooded  slave, 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  mj  side  • 
Been  sworn  my  soldier  ?  bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength  ? 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  !  doff  it  for  shame. 
And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

Aust.  0.  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words  to  me  ! 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbc 

Aust.  Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy  life. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

A'.  John.  W^e  like  not  this  :  thou  dost  forget  thyself. 
Enter  Pandulph. 

K.  Phi.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the  pope. 

Pand.  Hail,  you  anointed  deputies  of  heaven. 
To  thee,  king  John,  my  holy  errand  is. 
1  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal, 
And  from  Pope  Innocent  the  legate  here, 
Do  in  his  name  religiously  demand. 
Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother, 
So  wilfully  dost  spurn  ;  and,  force  perforce, 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see? 
This,  in  our  'foresaid  holy  father's  name, 
Pope  Imiocent,  I  do  demand  of  thee. 

K.  John.  What  earthly  name  to  interrogatories 
Can  task  tlie  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king  ? 
Thou  canst  not,  cardinal,  devise  a  name 
So  slight,  unworthy,  and  ridiculous. 
To  charge  me  to  an  answer,  as  the  pope. 
Tell  him  this  tale ;  and  from  the  mouth  of  England, 
Add  thus  much  more, — that  no  Italian  priest 
Shall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions ; 
But  as  we  under  heaven  are  supreme  head, 
So,  under  heaven,^  that  great  supremacy. 
Where  we  do  reign,  we  will  alone  uphold, 
Without  th'  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand. 
So  tell  the  pope ;  all  reverence  set  apart 
To  him,  and  his  usurp'd  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Brother  of  England,  you  blaspheme  in  this 

K.  John.  Though  you,  and  all  the  kings  of  Christen- 
dom, 
Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest, 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  may  buy  out, 
And,  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust, 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man. 
Who,  in  that  sale,  sells  pardon  from  himself; 
Though  you,  and  all  the  rest,  so  grossly  led, 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish, 
Yet  I,  alone,  alone  do  me  oppose 
Against  the  pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes. 

Pand.  Then,  by  the  lawful  power  that  I  have, 
Thou  shalt  stand  curs'd,  and  excommunicate  • 
And  blessed  shall  he  be,  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretic ; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd. 
Canonized   and  woiehipp'd  as  a  saint, 


su 


KING  joim. 


ACT  in. 


That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life. 

Const.  0  !   lawful  let  it  be, 

That  I  have  room  -svith  Rome  to  curse  awhile. 
Grood  father  Cardinal,  cry  thou  amen 
To  my  keen  curses :  for  without  my  wrong 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him  right. 

Parnl.  There  's  law  and  warrant,  lady,  for  my  curse. 

Const.  And  for  mine  too  :  when  law  can  do  no  right, 
iet  it  be  ".awful  that  law  bar  no  wrong. 
Law  cannot  iiive  my  child  his  kingdom  here, 
For  he  that  holds  his  kingdom  holds  the  law: 
Therefore,  since  law  itself  is  perfect  wrong, 
How  can  the  law  forbid  my  tongue  to  curse? 

Pand.  Philip  of  France,  on  peril  of  a  curse, 
Let  go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretic, 
And  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head, 
Unle.«s  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

Eli.  Look'st  thou  pale,  France?  do  not  let  go  thy 
hand. 

Const.  Look  to  that,  devil,  lest  that  France  repent. 
And  by  di.sjoining  hands  hell  lose  a  .soul. 

Aust.  King  Philip,  listen  to  the  cardinal. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calfs-skin  on  his  recreant  limbs. 

Aust.  Well,  ruflian,  I  must  pocket  up  these  wrongs, 
Because — 

Bast.        Your  breeches  best  may  carry  them. 

K.  John.  Philip,  what  say'st  thou  to  the  cardinal  ? 

Const.  What  should  he  say,  but  as  the  cardinal  ? 

Lew.  Bethink  you,  father ;  for  the  difference 
Is  purchase  of  a  heavy  curse  from  Rome, 
Or  the  light  loss  of  England  for  a  friend : 
Forego  the  easier. 

Blanch.  That 's  the  curse  of  Rome. 

Const.  0  Lewis,  stand  fast!   the  devil  tempts  thee 
here. 
In  likene.«s  of  a  new  uptrimmed'  bride. 

Blanch.  The  lady  Constance  speaks  not  from  her  faith. 
But  from  her  need. 

Const.  0  !  if  thou  grant  my  need, 

Which  only  lives  but  by  the  death  of  faith, 
That  need  must  needs  infer  this  principle. 
That  faith  would  live  again  by  death  of  need  : 
0  !  then,  tread  down  my  need,  and  faith  mounts  up; 
Keep  my  need  up.  and  faith  is  trodden  down. 

K.  John.  The  king  is  mov'd,  and  answers  not  to  this. 

Const.  0  !  be  remov"d  from  him,  and  answer  well. 

Aust.  Do  so,  king  Philip:  hang  no  more  in  doubt. 

Bast.  Hang  nothing  but  a  calfs-skin,  most  sweet  lout. 

K.  Phi    1  am  perplex'd.  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

Pand.  What  canst  thou  say,  but  will  perplex  thee 
more, 
If  thou  stand  excommunicate,  and  curs'd? 

K.  Phi.  Good  reverend  father,  make  my  person  yours, 
And  tell  mc  how  you  would  bestow  yourself. 
This  royal  hand  and  mine  are  newly  knit. 
And  the  conjunction  of  our  inward  souls 
.Married  in  league,  coupled  and  link'd  together 
With  all  r.  ligious  strength  of  sacred  vows  ; 
The  latest  breath  that  gave  the  sound  of  words, 
Was  deep-sworn  faith,  peace,  amity,  true  love, 
Between  our  kingdoms,  and  our  royal  selves; 
And  even  before  this  truce,  but  new  before. 
No  longer  than  we  well  could  wash  our  hands, 
To  clap  this  royal  bargain  up  of  peace. 
Heaven  knows,  they  were  besmear'd  and  overstain'd 
With  slaughter's  pencil ;  where  revenge  did  paint 
The  fearful  difference  of  incensed  kinu.s : 
And  shall  these  hands,  so  lately  purg'd  of  blood, 

'  nntritnmed  :  in  f. »   •.  which  Dyce  defines,  r'r^n.      »  cased  :  in  f. 


So  newly  join'd  in  love,  so  strong  in  both, 

Unyoke  this  seizure,  and  this  kind  regreet? 

Play  fast  and  loose  with  faith  ?  so  jest  with  heaven. 

Make  such  unconstant  children  of  our.«clves. 

As  now  again  to  snatch  our  palm  from  palm; 

Unswear  faith  sworn ;  and  on  the  marriage  bed 

Of  smiling  peace  to  march  a  bloody  host, 

And  make  a  riot  on  the  gentle  brow 

Of  true  sincerity?     0!  holy  sir. 

My  reverend  father,  let  it  not  be  so : 

Out  of  your  grace,  devise,  ordain,  impose 

Some  gentle  order,  and  then  wc  shall  be  bless'd 

To  do  your  pleasure,  and  continue  friends. 

Pand.  All  form  is  formless,  order  orderless, 
Save  what  is  opposite  to  England's  love. 
Therefore,  to  arms  !  be  champion  of  our  church, 
Or  let  the  church,  our  mother,  breathe  her  curse, 
A  mother's  curse,  on  her  revolting  son. 
France,  thou  may'st  hold  a  serpent  by  the  tongue, 
A  caged'  lion  by  the  mortal  paw, 
A  fasting  tiger  safer  by  the  tooth, 
Than  keep  in  peace  that  hand  which  thou  dost  hold, 

A'.  Phi.  I  may  di.sjoin  my  hand,  but  not  my  faith 

Pand.  So  mak'st  thou  faith  an  enemy  to  faith; 
And,  like  a  civil  war,  set'st  oath  to  oath. 
Thy  tongue  against  thy  tongue.     0  !  let  thy  vow 
First  made  to  heaven,  first  be  to  heaven  perform'd ; 
That  is,  to  be  the  champion  of  our  church. 
What  since  thou  swor'st  is  sworn  against  thyself, 
And  may  not  be  performed  by  thyself: 
For  that,  which  thou  hast  sworn  to  do  amiss, 
Is  not  amiss  when  it  is  tnily  done ; 
And  being  not  done,  where  doing  tends  to  iU, 
The  truth  is  then  most  done  not  doing  it. 
The  better  act  of  purposes  mistook 
Ts  to  mistake  again  :  though  indirect, 
Yet  indirection  thereby  grows  direct, 
And  falsehood  falsehood  cures ;  as  fire  cools  fire 
Within  the  scorched  vein.s  of  one  new  buni'd. 
It  is  religion  that  doth  make  vows  kept, 
But  thou  hast  sworn  against  religion, 
By  what  thou  swear'st,  against  the  thing  thou  swear'st, 
And  mak'st  an  oath  the  surety  for  thy  truth, 
Against  an  oath :  the  truth,  thou  art  un.sure 
To  swear,  swears  only  not  to  be  forsworn ; 
Else,  what  a  mockery  should  it  be  to  swear  ? 
But  thou  dost  swear  only  to  be  forsworn ; 
And  most  forsworn,  to  keep  what  thou  dost  swear. 
Therefore,  thy  later  vows,  against  thy  first. 
Is  in  thyself  rebellion  to  thyself; 
And  better  conquest  never  canst  thou  make, 
Than  arm  thy  constant  and  thy  nobler  parts 
Against  these  giddy  loose  suggestions : 
Upon  which  better  part  our  prayers  come  in. 
If  thou  vouchsafe  them  :  but,  if  not.  then  know, 
The  peril  of  our  curses  lights  on  thee. 
So  heavy,  as  thou  shalt  not  .shake  them  off. 
But  in  despair  die  under  their  black  weight. 

Avst.  Rebellion,  flat  rebellion  ! 

Ba.st.  Will 't  not  be? 

Will  not  a  calfs-skin  stop  that  mouth  of  thine  ? 

Lew.  Father,  to  arms  ! 

Blanch.  Upon  thy  wedding  day? 

Acainst  the  blood  that  thou  hast  married  ? 
What !  shall  our  feast  be  kept  with  slaughter'd  meo' 
Shall  braying  trumpets,  and  loud  ehurli.sh  drums, 
Clamours  of  hell,  be  measures  to  our  pomp? 
0  husband,  hear  me  ! — ah,  alack  !  how  new 
Is  husband  in  my  mouth ! — even  for  that  name, 

e.     Dyce  suggests  chaftd. 


i 


SCENTE   m. 


KING  JOHN. 


315 


Which  till  this  time  my  tongue  did  ne'er  pronounce, 
Upon  my  knee  I  beg,  go  not  to  arms  [Kneeling.^ 

A-gainst  mine  uncle. 

Const.  0  !  upon  my  knee,      [Kneeling* 

Made  hard  with  kneeling,  I  do  pray  to  thee, 
Thou  virtuous  Dauphin,  alter  not  the  doom 
Fore-thouglit  by  heaven. 

Blanch.  Now  shall  I  see  thy  love.  What  motive  may 
Be  stronger  with  thee  than  the  name  of  wife  ? 

Const.  That  which  upholdeth  him  that  thee  upholds, 
His  honour.     0  !   thine  honour,  Lewis,  thine  honour. 

Lew.  I  muse,  your  majesty  doth  seem  so  cold. 
When  such  profound  respects  do  pull  you  on. 

Pand.  I  will  denounce  a  curse  upon  his  head. 

K.  Phi.  Tliou   Shalt  not  need.— England,  I  '11  fall 

Const.  0,  fair  return  of  banish'd  majesty  !   [from  thee. 

Eli.  0.  foul  revolt  of  French  inconstancy ! 

K.  John.  France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  hour  within 
this  hour. 

Bast.  Old  Time  the  clock-setter,  that  bald  sexton  Time, 
Is  it  as  he  will  ?  well  then,  France  shall  rue. 

Blanch.  The  sun 's  o'ercast  with  blood :  fair  day, 
Which  is  the  side  that  I  must  go  withal  ?  [adieu  ! 

I  am  with  both  :  each  army  hath  a  hand, 
And  in  their  rage.  I  having  hold  of  both. 
They  whirl  asunder,  and  dismember  me. 
Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  may'st  win ; 
Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  may'st  lose ; 
Father,  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine ; 
Grandam,  I  will  not  wish  thy  washes  thrive ; 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose ; 
Assured  loss,  before  the  match  be  play'd. 

Lcvj.  Lady,  with  rae ;  with  me  thy  fortune  lies. 

Blanch.  There  where  my  fortune  lives,  there  my  life 
dies. 

K.  John.  Cousin,  go  draw  our  puissance  together. — 
[Exit  Bastard. 
France,  I  am  burn'd  up  with  inflaming  wrath; 
A  rage,  whose  heat  hath  this  condition. 
That  nothing  can  allay,  nothing  but  blood. 
The  blood,  and  dearest- valu'd  blood  of  France. 

K.  Phi.  Thy  rage  shall  burn  thee  up,  and  thou  shalt 
To  ashes,  ere  our  blood  shall  qviench  that  fire.  [turn 
Look  to  thyself:  thou  art  in  jeopardy. 

K.  John.  No  more  than  he  that  threats. — To  arms 
let's  hie!  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL— The  Same.     Plains  near  Angiers. 
Alarums.^  Excursions.     Enter  the  Bastard  ivith 
Austria's  Head. 
Bast.  Now,  by  my  life,  this  day  grows  wondrous  hot ; 
Some  fiery'  devil  hovers  in  the  sky. 
And  pours  down  mischief.     Austria's  head,  lie  there, 
While  Philip  breathes. 

Enter  King  John,  Arthur,  and  Hubert. 
K.  John.  Hubert,  keep  this  boy. — Philip,  make  up  : 
My  mother  is  assailed  in  our  tent. 
And  ta'en,  I  fear. 

Bast.  My  lord,  I  rescued  her ; 

Her  highness  is  in  safety,  fear  you  not : 
But  on,  n  y  liege ;  for  veiy  little  pains 
]     Will  bring  this  labour  to  an  happy  end.  [Exeunt. 

j  SCENE  IIL— The  Same. 

j     ilatums ;  Excursions;   Retreat.      Enter   King  JoWN, 
I       ^.LiNOR,  Arthur,  the  Bastard,  Hubert,  and  Lords. 
K.  John.    So   shall   it   be ;    your   grace    shall   stay 
behind,  [To  Elinor. 


'  *  Not  in  f.  e.       '  airy  : 
Tlilf  vord  is  not  ir  ^  e. 


in  f.  e.      ♦  This  word  not  in  f. 
•  brooded  :  in  f.  e. 


So  strongly  guarded. — Cousin,  look  not  sad : 

[To  Arthuk. 

Thy  grandam  loves  thee,  and  thy  uncle  will 
As  dear  be  to  thee  as  thy  father  was. 

Arth.  0  !  this  will  make  my  mother  die  with  grief. 

K.  John.  Cousin,   [To  the  Bastard.]  away  for  Eng- 
land :  haste  before ; 
And  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  .shake  the  bags 
Of  hoarding  abbots  :  their*  imprison'd  angels 
Set  at  liberty :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 
Must  by  the  hungry  now  be  fed  upon : 
Use  our  commission  in  his  utmost  force. 

Bast.  Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me  back, 
When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on. 
I  leave  your  highness. — Grandam.  I  will  pray 
(If  ever  I  remember  to  be  holy,) 
For  your  fair  safety :  so  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Eli.  Farewell,  gentle  cousin. 

K.  John.  Coz,  farewell.  [Exit  Bastard, 

Eli.  Come  hither,  little  kinsman ;  hark,  a  word. 

[She  talks  apart  with  Arthur..' 

K.  John.  Come  hither,  Hubert.  O!  my  gentle  Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much  :  -within  this  wall  of  flesh 
There  is  a  soul  counts  thee  her  creditor, 
And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love : 
And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 
Give  me  thy  hand.     1  had  a  thing  to  say, — 
But  I  will  fit  it  with  some  better  time. 
By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Huh.  I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty.         fyet ; 

K.  John.  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say  so 
But  thou  shalt  have :  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow, 
Yet  it  shall  come,  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say, — but  let  it  go. 
The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day, 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 
Is  all  too  wanton,  and  too  full  of  gawds. 
To  give  me  audience : — if  the  midnight  bell 
Did,  wdth  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  ear'  of  night : 
If  this  same  were  a  churchyard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wTongs ; 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy. 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy,  thick, 
(Which,  else,  runs  tingling'  up  and  down  the  veins, 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes, 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes,) 
Or  if  that  thou  couldst  see  me  without  eyes. 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone, 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words, 
Then,  in  despite  of  the'  broad'  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts. 
But  ah  !  I  will  not : — yet  I  love  thee  well  ; 
And.  by  my  troth,  I  think,  thou  lov'st  me  well. 

Hub.  So  well,  that  what  you  bid  me  undertak« 
Though  that  my  death  were  adjunct  to  my  act, 
By  heaven,  I  would  do  it. 

K.  John.  Do  not  I  know,  thou  would.'^t  f 

Good  Hubert !  Hubert — Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 
On  yond'  young  boy :  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  my  friend. 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way ; 
And  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread. 
He  lies  before  me.     Dost  thou  understand  me? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

»  She  takes  ARTmm  aside :  in  f.  e.      •  race  :  in  f.  e.      ''tickling  :  in  f  a 


316 


KING  JOHN. 


ACT  m. 


Hub.  And  I  '11  keep  him  so, 

That  he  shall  not  offend  yoirr  niajeety. 

K.  John.  Death. 

Hub.  My  lord  ? 

K.  John.  A  grave. 

Hub.  He  shall  not  live. 

R.  John.  Enough. 

[  could  be  merry  now.     Hubert,  I  love  thee ; 
Well,  I  '11  not  say  what  I  intend  for  thee : 
Remember. —  Madam,  fare  you  well: 
I  '11  send  those  powers  o'er  to  your  majesty. 

Eli.  My  blessing  go  with  thee  ! 

A'.  John.  For  England,  cousin:  go. 

Hubert  .--hall  be  your  man,  attend  on  you 
With  all  true  duty. — On  towards  Calais,  ho  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     The  French  King's  Tent. 
Enter  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Pandulph,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  So.  by  a  roaring  tempest  on  the  flood, 
A  whole  armado  of  convented'  sail 
Is  pcatterd,  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Pand.  Courage  and  comfort  !   all  shall  yet  go  well. 

K.  Phi.  What  can  go  well,  when  we  have  run  so  ill? 
Are  we  not  beaten  ?     Is  not  Angiers  lost  ? 
Arthur  ta'en  prisoner  ?  divers  dear  friends  slain  ? 
And  bloody  England  into  England  gone, 
O'erbearinii  interruption,  spite  of  France? 

Lew.  What  he  liatli  won,  that  hath  he  fortified : 
So  hot  a  speed  with  such  advice  dispos'd, 
Such  temperate  order  in  so  fierce  a  cause, 
Doth  want  example.     Who  hath  read,  or  heard, 
Of  any  kindred  action  like  to  this? 

K.  Phi.  Well  could  I  bear  that  England  had  this  praise, 
So  we  could  find  some  pattern  of  our  shame. 

Enter  Constance. 
Look,  who  comes  here  ?  a  grave  unto  a  soul ; 
Holding  th'  eternal  spirit,  against  her  will, 
In  the  \'ile  pri.«ion  of  afflicted  breath. — 
I  pr'ythee,  lady,  go  away  with  me. 

Const.  Lo  now;  now  see  the  issue  of  your  peace  ! 

K.  Phi.  Patience,  good  lady :  comfort,  gentle  Con- 
stance. 

Const.  No,  I  defy  all  counsel,  all  redress. 
But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress, 
Death,  death. — 0,  amiable  lovely  death  ! 
Thou  odoriferous  stench  !  .sound  rottenness  ! 
Arise  from  forth  the  couch  of  lasting  night. 
Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity, 
And  I  will  kiss  tliy  detestable  bones; 
And  put  my  eye-balls  in  thy  vaulty  brows ; 
And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  worms; 
And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  dus^t. 
And  be  a  carrion  monster  like  thyself: 
Come,  grin  on  me ;  and  I  will  think  thou  smil'st. 
And  buss  ihee  as  thy  wife  !     Misery's  love, 
0,  come  to  me  ! 

K.  Phi.  0,  fair  affliction,  peace  ! 

Corust.  No,  no,  I  will  not.  having  breath  to  cry. — 
0!  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder's  mouth; 
Then  with  what'  pas.^ion  I  would  shake  the  world. 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy. 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  feeble  voice, 
Which  scorns  a  widow'i'  invocation. 

Pand.  Lady,  you  utter  madness,  and  not  sorrow. 

Const.  Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so. 
I  am  not  mad  :  this  hair  I  tear,  is  mine  ; 
My  name  is  Constance:  I  was  (Jeffrey's  wife; 
Voung  Arthur  is  my  son.  and  he  is  lost! 
I  am  not  mad : — I  would  to  heaveu.     were ; 


*  coBTictod  :  in  £.  •      *  a. :  in  f  «. 


For  then,  't  is  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget  ! — 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  maJ, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad.  but  sensible  of  grief, 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 
How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes, 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself: 
If  I  were  mad.  I  should  forget  my  son. 
Or  madly  think  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he. 
I  am  not  mad :  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

A''.  Phi.  Bind  up  those  tresses.   0  !  what  love  I  not* 
In  the  fair  multitude  of  those  her  hairs  ! 
W^here  but  by  chance  a  silver  drop  hath  fallen, 
Even  to  that  drop  ten  thousand  wiry  friends 
Do  glue  themselves  in  sociable  grief; 
Like  true,  inseparable,  faithful  lovers, 
Sticking  together  in  calamity. 

Con.'^t.  To  England,  if  you  will. 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  your  hsire 

Con!;t.  Yes,  that  I  will ;  and  wherefore  will  I  do  it? 
I  tore  them  from  their  bonds,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  0,  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son. 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty !" 
But  now,  I  envy  at  their  liberty. 
And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds, 
Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner. — 
And,  father  cardinal.  I  have  heard  you  say. 
That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven : 
If  that  be  true.  I  .sliall  see  my  boy  again  ; 
For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire. 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  bom. 
But  now  yv\\\  canker  st  rrow  eat  my  bud. 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 
And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost. 
As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit. 
And  so  he  '11  die ;  and,  rising  so  again, 
When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven, 
I  shall  not  know  him :  therefore  never   never 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

Pand.  You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief. 

Const.  He  talks  to  me.  that  never  had  a  son. 

K.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief,  as  of  your  child. 

Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  do-s^ni  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form : 
Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. — 
I  ^^■ill  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

[Tearing  her  hiir  * 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
0  lord  !  my  hoy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son  ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world, 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows  cure  !  [ExU 

K.  Phi.  I  fear  some  outrage,  and  I  '11  follow  ner. 

[ExU. 

L,ew.  There  's  nothing  in  this  world  can  make  in< 
Life  is  a."?  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale^  [joy- 

Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man  ; 
And  bitter  shame  hath  spoil'd  the  sweet  world's  tMt* 
That  it  yields  nought,  but  shame,  and  bitterness, 

Pand.  Before  the  curing  of  a  strons  disease, 
Even  in  the  instant  of  rej)air  and  health, 
The  fit  is  strongest :  evils  that  take  leave. 


in  f.  •.      »  Not  in  f.  «. 


dGENE 


KTNG  JOHN". 


817 


On  their  departure  most  of  all  show  evil. 
What  have  you  lost  by  losing  of  this  day  ? 

Lew.  All  days  of  glory,  joy,  and  happiness. 

Pand.  If  you  had  won  it,  certainly,  you  had. 
No.  no :  when  fortune  neans  to  men  most  good, 
She  looks  upon  them  with  a  threatening  eye. 
'T  is  strange,  to  think  how  much  king  John  hath  lost 
In  this  which  he  accounts  so  clearly  won. 
Are  not  you  griev'd  that  Arthur  is  his  prisoner  ? 

Lew.  As  heartily,  as  he  is  glad  he  hath  him. 

Pand.  Your  mind  is  all  as  youthful  as  your  blood. 
Now  hear  me  speak  with  a  prophetic  spirit ; 
For  even  the  breath  of  what  I  mean  to  speak 
Shall  blow  each  dust,  each  straw,  each  little  rub. 
Out  of  the  path  which  shall  directly  lead 
Thy  foot  to  England's  throne  ;  and  therefore  mark. 
John  hath  seiz"d  Arthur;  and  it  cannot  be, 
That  whiles  warm  life  plays  in  that  infant's  veins, 
The  misplac'd  John  should  entertain  one  hour. 
One  minute,  nay,  one  quiet  breath  of  rest. 
A  sceptre,  snatch'd  with  an  unruly  hand. 
Must  be  as  boisterously  niaintain'd  as  gain'd ; 
And  he,  that  stands  upon  a  slipper^'  place, 
Makes  nice  of  no  vile  hold  to  stay  him  up : 
That  John  may  stand,  then  Arthur  needs  must  fall : 
So  be  it,  for  it  cannot  be  but  so. 

Lew.  But  what  shall  I  gain  by  young  Arthur's  fall  ? 

Pand.  You,  in  the  right  of  lady  Blanch  your  wife, 
May  then  make  all  the  claim  that  Arthur  did. 

Lew.  And  lose  it.  life  and  all.  as  Arthur  did. 

Pand.  How  green   you    are,  and  fresh   in  this  old 
world  ! 
John  lays  you  plots  ;  the  times  conspire  with  you. 
For  he  that  steeps  his  safety  in  true  blood 
Shall  find  but  bloody  safety,  and  untrue. 


This  act,  so  evilly  born,  shall  cool  the  hearts 

Of  all  his  people,  and  freeze  up  their  zeal, 

That  none  so  small  advantage  shall  step  fortJ> 

To  check  his  reign,  but  they  will  cherish  it 

No  natural  exhalation  in  the  sky, 

No  scape'  of  nature,  no  distemper'd  day, 

No  common  wind,  no  customed  event, 

But  they  will  pluck  away  his  natural  cause, 

And  call  them  meteors,  prodigies,  and  signs. 

Abortives,  presages,  and  tongues  of  heaven. 

Plainly  denouncing  vengeance  upon  John. 

Lew.  May  be.  he  will  not  touch  young  Arthur's  life, 
But  hold  himself  safe  in  his  prisonment. 

Pand.  0  !  sir,  when  he  shall  hear  of  your  approach. 
If  that  young  Arthur  be  not  gone  already. 
Even  at  that  news  he  dies ;  and  then  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people -shall  revolt  from  him, 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  unacquainted  change; 
And  pick  strong  matter  of  revolt,  and  wrath, 
Out  of  the  bloody  fingers"  ends  of  John. 
Methinks.  I  see  this  burly  all  on  foot : 
And.  0  !  what  better  matter  breeds  for  you. 
Than  I  have  nam'd. — The  bastard  Fauleonbridge 
Is  now  in  England  ransacking  the  church, 
Offending  charity  :  if  but  a  dozen  French 
Were  there  in  arms,  they  would  be  as  a  call 
To  train  ten  thousand  English  to  their  side ; 
Or  as  a  little  snow,  tumbled  about, 
Anon  becomes  a  mountain.     0,  noble  Dauphin  ! 
Go  with  me  to  the  king.     'T  is  wonderful, 
Wliat  may  be  wrought  out  of  their  discontent. 
Now  that  their  souls  are  topfull  of  offence, 
For  England  go ;  I  will  whet  on  the  king. 

Lew.  Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions.  Lei  us  go: 
If  you  say,  ay,  the  king  will  not  say,  no.  [Exeunl 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— Northampton.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Eyiter  Hubert  and  two  Attendants. 

Hub.  Heat  me  these  irons  hot ;  and,  look  thou  stand 
Within  the  arras  :  when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth. 
And  bind  the  boy.  which  you  shall  find  ^^■ith  me. 
Fast  to  the  chair  :  be  heedful.     Hence,  and  watch. 

1  Attend.  I  hope,  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the  deed. 

Hub.  Uncleanly  scruples:  fear  not  you :  look  to  't. — 
[Exeunt  Attendants. 
Young  lad,  come  forth ;  1  have  to  say  with  you. 
Enter  Arthur. 

Arth.  Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

Htth.  Good  morrow,  little  prince. 

Arth.  As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince,)  as  may  be. — You  are  sad. 

Hub.  Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arth.  Mercy  on  me  ! 

Methinks.  no  body  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night. 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
S<)  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  merry  as  the  day  is  long  ; 
And  so  I  would  bo  here,  but  that  I  doubt 
My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me  : 
He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him. 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geffrey's  son  ? 


No,  indeed,  is  't  not ;  and  I  would  to  heaven, 
I  were  your  son.  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Huh.  [Aside.]  If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead  : 
Therefore  I  vriU  be  sudden,  and  dispatch. 

Arth.  Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?  you  look  pale  to-day. 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick ; 
That  I  might  sit  all  night,  and  watch  with  you. 
I  warrant,  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hub.  [Aside.]  His  words  do  take  posse.ssion  of  my 
bosom. — 

Read  here,  young  Arthur.  [Showing  a  paper.] 
[Aside.]   How  now,  foolish  rheum  ! 
Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door  ? 
I  must  be  brief;  lest  resolution  drop 
Out  at  mine  eyes  in  tender  womanish  tears. — 
Can  you  not  read  it  ?  is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Arth.  Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  efFect. 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ? 

Hub.  Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arth.  And  will  you? 

Hub.  And  I  vail. 

Arth.  Have  you  the  heart  ?     When  your  head  did 
but  ache, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wTought  it  me,) 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again  : 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head, 
And,  like  the  watchful  "ninutes  to  the  hour. 


318 


KING  JOHN. 


Acrr  IV. 


Still  and  anon  cheor'il  up  the  heavy  time, 

Saying,  Wliat  luck  you?  and.  Where  lies  your  grief? 

Or,  What  good  love  may  I  pcrtorm  for  you  ? 

Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still, 

And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you; 

But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince. 

Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  wa.«  crafty  love, 

And  call  it  ciuming  :  do.  an  if  you  will. 

If  heaven  be  pleasd  ihat  you  will  use  me  ill, 

Why,  then  you  nuist  — Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes  ? 

These  eyes,  that  never  did,  nor  never  shall 

So  much  as  frown  on  you  ? 

Hub.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it, 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  Ah  !  none  but  in  this  iron  age  would  do  it. 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red-liot. 
Approaching  near  these  eyes  would  drink  my  tears, 
And  quench  this'  fiery  indignation, 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence  : 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust. 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  hamraer'd  iron  ? 
An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me. 
And  told  me  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believ'd  him  ;  no  tongue  but  Hubert's. 

Hub.  Come  forth.  [Stamps. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Cord,  Irons,  i^x. 
Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arth.  0  !  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  !  my  eyes  are  out, 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Hub.  Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 

[Taking  it.'' 

Arth.  Alas  !  what  need  you  be  so  boisterous-rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle ;  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  heaven's  sake.  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound. 
Nay.  hear  me,  Hubert ;  drive  the.^e  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  : 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly. 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hub.  Go,  stand  within :  let  me  alone  with  him. 

1  Attend.  I  am  best  pleas'd  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 
[Exeunt  Attendants. 

Arth.  Alas  !   I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend ; 
He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart, — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  Ids  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hub.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.  Is  there  no  remedy? 

Hub.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.  O  heaven  ! — that  there  were  but  a  mote  in 
yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wandering  hair, 
\.ny  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense  ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boisterous  there, 
Your  vile  intent  mu.«t  needs  seem  horrible. 

Hub.  Is  this  your  promise?  go  to;  hold  your  tongue. 

Arth.  Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes : 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue  :  let  me  not,  Hubert : 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue. 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes.     O  !  spare  mine  eyes ; 
Though  to  no  use,  but  still  to  look  on  you. 
Lo  !   by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold, 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

Hub.  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arth.  No,  in  good  sooth ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  grief. 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  us'd 


In  undeserv'd  extremes  :  see  else  yourself; 
Tiiere  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal; 
The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
And  strcw'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hub.  But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it   boy. 

Arth.  And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush, 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert ' 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes  ; 
And  like  a  dog  that  is  coinpell'd  to  fight. 
Snatch  at  his  ma.ster  that  doth  tarre'  him  on. 
All  things  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong, 
Deny  their  office  :  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy,  which  fierce  fire,  and  iron,  extend, 
Creatures  of  note  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Hub.  Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thine  eyes 
For  all  the  treasures  that  thine  uncle  owes  : 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy. 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  0  !  now  you  look  like  Hubert :  all  this  while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace  !  no  more.     Adieu. 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead  : 
I  "11  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports ; 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure, 
That  Hubert  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world 
Will  not  offend  thee. 

Arth.  0  heaven  ! — I  thank  you,  Hubert 

Hub.  Silence  !  no  more.     Go  closely  in  with  me  : 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  n.— The  Same.     A  Room  of  State  in  the 

Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  crowned;  Pembroke,  Salisbury, 

and  other  Lords.     The  King  takes  his  State. 

K.  John.  Here  once  again  we  sit,  once  again  crown'd, 
And  look'd  upon,  I  hope,  with  cheerful  eyes. 

Pern.  This  once  again,  but  that  your  highness  picas'! 
Was  once  superfluous  :  you  were  croA\Ti'd  before, 
And  that  high  royalty  was  ne'er  pluck'd  off; 
The  faiths  of  men  ne'er  stained  with  revolt ; 
Fresh  expectation  troubled  not  the  land. 
With  any  long'd-for  change,  or  better  state. 

Sal.  liherefore.  to  be  possess'd  with  double  pomp, 
To  guard*  a  title  that  was  rich  before. 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 
To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 
Is  wa.stcful,  and  ridiculous  excess. 

Pern.  But  that  your  royal  plea.'^ure  must  be  don'^. 
This  act  is  as  an  ancient  tale  new  told. 
And  in  the  last  repeating  troublesome. 
Being  urged  at  a  time  unseasonable. 

Sal.  In  this,  the  antique  and  well-noted  face 
Of  plain  old  form  is  much  disfigured ; 
And.  like  a  .shifted  wind  unto  a  sail. 
It  makes  the  course  of  thoughts  to  fetch  about, 
Startles  and  frights  consideration, 
Makes  sound  opinion  sick,  and  truth  suspected. 
For  putting  on  so  new  a  fashion'd  robe. 

Pem.  When  work-men  strive  to  do  better  than  well. 
They  do  confound  their  skill  in  covetousness ; 
And,  oftentimes,  excusing  of  a  fault 
Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse  •. 
As  patches,  set  upon  a  little  breach, 
Di.'^credit  more  in  hiding  of  the  fault, 
Than  did  the  fault  before  it  was  so  patch'd. 

Sal.  To  this  effect,  before  you  were  n«w-crown'd. 


So  the  U  lio ;  most  ed».  reid  :  his.      '  Not  in  f.  e.      '  Excitt.     *  Ornamtm 


KING  JOHK 


819 


We  broath'd  our  counsel ;  but  it  pleas'd  your  highness 
To  overbear  it,  and  we  are  all  well-pleas'd ; 
Since  all  and  every  part  of  what  we  would, 
Doth  make  a  stand  at  what  your  highness  will. 

K.  John.  Some  reasons  of  this  double  coronation 
[  have  possess'd  you  with,  and  think  them  strong ; 
And  more,  more  strong,  thus  lessening'  my  fear, 
I  Bhall  indue  you  with :  mean  time,  but  ask 
What  you  would  have  reform'd  that  is  not  well, 
And  well  shall  you  perceive,  how  willingly 
I  will  both  hear  and  grant  you  your  requests. 

Pern.  Then  I.  as  one  that  am  the  tongue  of  these, 
To  sound  the  purposes  of  all  their  hearts, 
Both  for  myself  and  them,  but,  chief  of  all. 
Your  safety,  for  the  which  myself  and  they 
Bend  their  best  studies,  heartily  request 
Th'  enfranchisement  of  Arthur  ;  whose  restraint 
Doth  move  the  murmuring  lips  of  discontent 
To  break  into  this  dangerous  argument : — 
If  what  in  rest  you  have,  in  right  you  hold. 
Why  shouW  your  fears,  which,  as  they  say,  attend 
The  steps  of  wrong,  tlien^  move  you  to  mew  up 
Your  tender  kinsman,  and  to  choke  his  days 
With  barbarous  ignorance,  and  deny  his  youth 
The  rich  advantage  of  good  exercise  ! — 
That  the  time's  enemies  may  not  have  this 
To  grace  occasions,  let  it  be  our  suit. 
That  you  have  bid  us  ask  his  liberty  ; 
Which  for  our  goods  we  do  no  farther  ask. 
Than  whereupon  our  weal,  on  yours  depending. 
Counts  it  your  weal  he  have  his  liberty. 
K.  John.  Let  it  be  so :  I  do  commit  his  youth 
Enter  Hubert. 
To  your  direction. — Hubert,  what  news  with  you  ? 

[HuBKRT  talks  apart  with  the  King. 
Pern.  This  is  the  man  should  do  the  bloody  deed : 
He  show"d  his  warrant  to  a  friend  of  mine. 
The  image  of  a  wicked  heinous  fault 
Lives  in  his  eye  :  that  close  aspect  of  his 
Doth  show  the  mood  of  a  much-troubled  breast ; 
And  I  do  fearfully  believe  't  is  done, 
Wliat  we  so  fear'd  he  had  a  charge  to  do. 

Sal.  The  colour  of  the  king  doth  come  and  go, 
between  his  purpose  and  his  conscience, 
Like  heralds  'twixt  two  dreadful  battles  set : 
His  passion  is  so  ripe,  it  needs  must  break. 

Pern.  And  when  it  breaks,  I  fear,  will  issue  thence 
The  foul  corruption  of  a  sweet  child's  death. 

K.  John.  We  cannot  hold  mortality's  strong  hand. — 
Good  lords,  although  my  yv\\\  to  give  is  living. 
The  suit  which  you  demand  is  gone  and  dead : 
He  tells  us,  Arthur  is  deceas'd  to-night. 
Sal.  Indeed,  we  fear'd  his  sickness  was  past  cure. 
Pern    Indeed,  we  heard  how  near  his  death  he  was, 
Before  the  child   him.self  felt  he  was  sick. 

!     This  must  be  answer'd  either  here,  or  hence. 

j         K.  John.  Why  do  you  bend  such  solemn  brows  on  me  ? 

I     Think  you.  I  bear  the  shears  of  destiny  ? 

i     Have  I  commandment  on  the  pulse  of  life  ? 

Siu.  It  is  apparent  foul  play;  and't  is  shame, 

I    That  greatness  should  so  grossly  offer  it. 

:    So  thrive  it  in  your  game  :  and  so  farewell. 

.        Pern.  Stay  yet.  lord  Salisbury,  I  '11  go  with  thee, 

j    And  find  th'  inheritance  of  this  poor  child. 
His  little  kingdom  of  a  forced  srave. 
That  blood  wliich  ow'd  the  breadth  of  all  this  isle, 
Three  foot  of  it  doth  hold  :  bad  world  the  while. 
This  must  not  be  thus  borne  :  this  will  break  out 
To  all  our  swrows,  and  ere  long,  I  doubt.  [Exeunt  Lords. 


K.  John.  They  burn  in  indignation.     I  repent : 
There  is  no  sure  foundation  set  on  blood, 
No  certain  life  achiev'd  by  others'  death. 

Enter  a  Messenger, 
A  fearful  eye  thou  ha^t :  where  is  that  blood, 
That  I  have  seen  inhabit  in  those  oheeks  ? 
So  foul  a  sky  clears  not  without  a  storm : 
Pour  down  thy  weather. — How  goes  all  in  France? 

Mess.  From  France  to  England. — Never  such  a  power 
For  any  foreign  preparation, 
Was  levied  in  tlie  body  of  a  land. 
The  copy  of  your  speed  is  learn'd  by  them  ; 
For,  when  you  should  be  told  they  do  prepare, 
The  tidings  come  that  they  are  all  arriv'cl. 

K.  John.  0  !  where  hath  our  intelligence  been  drunk. 
Where  hath  it  slept  ?     Where  is  my  mother's  care 
That  such  an  army  could  be  drawn  in  France, 
And  she  not  hear  of  it  ? 

Mess.  My  liege,  her  ear 

Is  stopp'd  with  dust :  the  first  of  April,  died 
Your  noble  mother  ;  and,  as  I  hear,  my  lord, 
The  lady  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died 
Three  days  before  :  but  this  from  rumour's  tongue 
I  idly  heard  ;  if  true,  or  false,  I  know  not. 

K.  John.  Withhold  thy  speed,  dreadful  Occasion  ! 

0  !  make  a  league  with  me,  till  I  have  pleas'd 
My  discontented  peers. — What  !  mother  dead? 
How  wildly,  then,  walks  my  estate  in  France  ! — 
Under  whose  conduct  come  those  powers  of  France, 
That  thou  for  truth  giv'st  out  are  landed  here  ? 

3Iess.  Under  the  Dauphin. 

Enter  the  Bastard,  and  Peter  of  Pomfret. 

K.  John.  Thou  hast  made  me  giddy 

With  these  ill-tidings. — Now,  what  says  the  world 
To  your  proceedings  ?  do  not  seek  to  stuff 
My  head  with  more  ill  news,  for  it  is  full. 

Bast.  But  if  you  be  afeard  to  hear  the  worst, 
Then  let  the  worst,  unheard,  fall  on  your  head. 

K.  John.  Bear  with  me,  cousin,  for  I  was  amaz'd 
Under  the  tide ;  but  now  I  breathe  again 
Aloft  the  flood,  and  can  give  audience 
To  any  tongue,  speak  it  of  what  it  will. 

Bast.  How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen, 
The  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express : 
But  as  I  travell'd  hither  throiigh  the  land, 

1  find  the  people  strangely  fantasied ; 
Possess'd  with  rumours,  full  of  idle  dreams. 
Not  knowing  what  they  fear,  biU  full  of  fear ; 
And  here  's  a  prophet,  that  I  brought  with  me 
From  forth  the  streets  of  Pomfret,  whom  I  found 
With  many  hundreds  treading  on  his  heels  ; 

To  whom  he  sung,  in  rude  harsh-sounding  rhjTnes, 
That  ere  the  next  Ascension-day  at  noon. 
Your  highness  should  deliver  up  your  crown. 

K.  John.  Thou  idle  dreamer,  wherefore  didst  thou  so 

Peter.  Foreknowing  that  the  truth  will  fall  out  so. 

K.  John.  Hubert,  away  with  him  :  imprison  him  j 
And  on  that  day  at  noon,  whereon,  he  says, 
I  shall  yield  up  my  cro^^^l,  let  him  be  hang'd. 
Deliver  him  to  safety,  and  return. 
For  I  must  use  thee. — 0  my  gentle  cousin  ! 

[Exit  Hubert,  tcith  Pitkb. 
H  -ar'st  thou  the  news  abroad,  who  are  arriv'd  ? 

liiist.  The  French,  my  lord  ;  men's  mouths  are  full 
B«i.-ides,  I  met  lord  Bigot,  and  lord  Salisbury,       [of  if 
Wilh  eyes  as  red  as  new-enkindled  fire, 
./^iid  others  more,  going  to  seek  the  grave 
)(  Arthur,  who,  they  say,  is  kill'd  to-night 
'  hi  your  suggestion. 


than  le&ieT  is :  in  f.  e       2  ther 


f.  e.     3  sh'-uld  :  in  f.  e 


320 


KING  JOHN. 


ACT   IV. 


K.  John.  Gentle  kinsman,  go. 

And  thrust  thyself  into  their  companies. 
I  have  a  way  to  win  their  loves  again  : 
Bring  them  before  me. 

Bnst.  I  will  seek  them  out. 

K.  John.    Nay,  but   make    haste:    the    better   foot 
before. — 
0  I  let  me  have  no  subject  enemies, 
When  adverse  foreigners  affright  my  towns 
With  dreadful  pomp  of  stout  inva,«ion. 
Be  Mercury  ;  set  foatlicrs  to  thy  licels, 
And  fly  like  thought  from  them  to  me  again. 

Host.  The  spirit  of  the  tim.e  shall  t.sach  me  speed. 

[Exit. 

K.  John.  Spoke  like  a  spriteful.  noble  gentleman. — 
Go  after  him  :  for  he,  perhaps,  shall  need 
Some  messenger  betwixt  me  and  the  peers, 
And  be  thou  he. 

Mess.  With  all  my  heart,  my  liege.     [Exit. 

K.  John.  My  mother  dead  ! 

Re-enter  Hubert. 

Huh.  My  lord,  they  say.  five  moons  were  seen  to-night : 
Four  fixed ;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four  in  wonderous  motion. 

K.  John.  Five  moons  ? 

Huh.  Old  men.  and  beldames,  in  the  streets 

Do  prophesy  upon  it  dangerously. 
Voung  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their  mouths, 
And  when  they  talk  of  him.  they  shake  their  heads, 
And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear  : 
And  he  that  speaks,  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist, 
Whilst  he  that  heans,  makes  fearful  action, 
With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 
\  saw  a  smith  stand  vdxh.  his  hammer,  thus, 
The  M-hilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool. 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news  ; 
Who,  with  liis  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand. 
Standing  on  slippers,  (which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet) 
Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French, 
That  were  embattailed  and  rank'd  in  Kent. 
Another  lean,  unwash'd  artificer 
Outs  off  his  tale,  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death. 

A'.  John.  Why  seck'st  thou  to  possess  me  with  these 
fears  ? 
Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur's  death  ? 
Thy  hand  hath  murder'd  him  :  I  had  a  mighty  cause 
To  wish  him  dead,  but  thou  hadst  none  to  kill  him. 

Hub.  Had  Hone,  my  lord  !  why,  did  you  not  provoke 
me  ? 

K.  John.  It  is  the  curse  of  kings,  to  be  attended 
By  slaves,  that  take  their  humours  for  a  wa-^ant 
To  break  into  the  bloody  house  of  life  : 
And,  on  the  winking  of  authority. 
To  understand  a  law ;  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majcity.  when,  perchance,  it  fro^Niis 
More  upon  humour  than  advis'd  respect. 

Huh.  Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I  did. 

K.  John.  O  !  when  the  last  account  'twixt  heaven 
and  earth 
l«  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  again.'Jt  us  to  damnation. 
How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds. 
Makes  ill  deeds  done'  !     Hadst  not  thou  been  by, 
A  fi'llow  by  the  hand  of  nature  mark'd, 
Quoted,  and  sitrnd.  to  do  a  deed  of  shame. 
This  murder  had  not  come  into  my  mind  ; 
But.  taking  note  of  thy  abhorr'd  a.spect, 
Finding  thee  fit  for  bloody  villainy, 


Apt,  liable  to  be  employ'd  in  damzer, 
I  faintly  broke  with  thee  of  Arthur's  death  ; 
And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a  king. 
Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a  prince. 

Hub.  My  lord,— 

K.  John.  Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head,  or  made  a 
When  I  spake  darkly  what  I  purposed  ;  [pause, 

Or  turned  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face, 
Or^  bid  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words, 
Deep  shame  had  struck  me  dumb,  made  me  break  off 
And  those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  fears  in  m«' 
But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs. 
And  did.st  in  signs  again  parley  with  sign' : 
Yea.  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent. 
And  consequently  thy  rude  hand  to  act 
The  deed  which  both  our  tongues  held  vile  to  name 
Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more  ! 
My  nobles  leave  me ;  and  my  state  is  brav'd, 
Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers  ; 
Nay.  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land. 
This  kingdom,  this  confine  of  blood  and  breath, 
Hostility  and  civil  tumult  reigns 
Between  my  conscience,  and  my  cousin's  death. 

Hub.  Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 
I  '11  make  a  peace  between  your  soul  and  you. 
Young  Arthur  is  alive  :  this  hand  of  mine 
Is  yet  a  maiden  and  an  innocent  hand, 
Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood. 
Within  this  bosom  never  enter'd  yet 
The  dreadful  motion  of  a  murderous  thought, 
And  you  have  slander'd  nature  in  my  form; 
Which,  howsoever  rude  exteriorly. 
Is  yet  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind, 
Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 

K.  John.  Doth  Arthur  live  ?    0  !  haste  thee  to  iht 
peers : 
Throw  this  report  on  their  incensed  rage, 
And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience. 
Forgive  the  comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature  ;  for  my  rage  was  blind, 
And  foul  imaginary  eyes  of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  hideous  than  thou  art. 

0  !   answer  not ;  but  to  my  closet  bring 
The  angry  lords,  with  all  expedient  ha.ste : 

1  conjure  thee  but  slowly ;  run  more  fast.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  Arthur,  on  the  Walls. 
Arth.  The  wall  is  high  :  and  yet  will  I  leap  do-wn.— 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not  ! — 
There  's  few.  or  none,  do  know  me  :  if  they  did, 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguised  me  quite. 
I  am  afraid  ;  and  yet  I  '11  venture  it. 
If  I  get  downi,  and  do  not  break  my  limbs, 
I  '11  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away: 
As  good  to  die  and  go.  as  die  and  stay.       [Leaps  down 
O  me  !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones. — 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  Enaland  keep  my  l)ones.  [  Dies. 
Enter  Pembroke.  Salisbi'rv.  and  Bigot. 
Sal.  Lords,  I  will  meet  him  at  Saint  Edmunds  Bui^' ' 
It  is  our  safety,  and  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Pern.  Who  brought  that  letter  from  the  cardinal  ' 
Sal.  Tiie  count  Melun,  a  noble  lord  of  France  ; 
Whose  private  missive*  of  the  Dauphin's  love, 
Is  much  more  g<ineral  than  these  lines  import. 
Bifr.  To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  him  then 
Sal.  Or,  rather  then  set  forward  :  for  't  will  be 
Two  long  days'  journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  meet. 


f.  e 


<  As:  in  f.  «. 


in  f.  e. 


\rith  me  :  in  f.  e. 


SCENE   m. 


KING  JOHN. 


321 


Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  Once  more  to-day  well  met,  distemper'd  lords. 
The  king  by  me  requests  your  presence  straight. 

Sal.  The  king  hath  dispossess'd  himself  of  us  : 
We  will  not  line  his  sin-bestained'  cloak 
With  our  pure  honours,  nor  attend  the  foot 
"That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where-e"er  it  walks. 
R,eturn,  and  tell  him  so :  we  know  the  worst. 

Bnst    Whate'er  you  think,  good  words,  I  think,  were 
best. 

Sal.  Our  griefs,  and  not  our  manners,  reason  now. 

Bast.  But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief; 
Therefore,  'l  were  reason  you  had  manners  now. 

Pern.  Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  his  privilege. 

Bast.  "T  is  true  :  to  hurt  his  master,  no  man  else. 

Sal.  This  is  the  prison.     What  is  he  lies  here  ? 

[Seeing  Arthur. 

Pern.  0  death  !  made  proud  with  pure  and  princely 
beauty, 
Tlie  earth  had  not  a  hole  to  hide  this  deed. 

Sa..  Murder,  as  hating  what  himself  hath  done, 
Doth  lay  it  open  to  urge  on  revenge. 

Big.  Or  when  he  doom'd  this  beauty  to  a  grave. 
Found  it  too  precious-princely  for  a  grave. 

Sal.  Sir  Richard,  what  think  you?  Have  you  beheld. 
Or  have  you  read,  or  heard?  or  could  you  think? 
Or  do  you  almost  think,  although  you  see. 
That  you  do  see  ?  could  thought,  without  this  object. 
Form  such  another  ?     This  is  the  very  top. 
The  height,  tlie  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest. 
Of  murder's  arms  :  this  is  the  bloodiest  shame, 
The  wildest  savagery,  the  vilest  stroke, 
That  ever  wall-ey'd  wrath,  or  staring  rage, 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse. 

Pern.  All  murders  past  do  stand  excused  in  this  ; 
And  this,  so  sole  and  so  unmatchable, 
Shall  give  a  holiness,  a  purity, 
To  the  yet  unbegotten  sin  of  times  ; 
And  prove  a  deadly  bloodshed  but  a  jest, 
Exampled  by  this  heinous  spectacle. 

Bast.  It  is  a  damned  and  a  bloody  work  ; 
The  graceless  action  of  a  heavy  hand, 
If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand. 

Sal.  If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand  ? — 
We  had  a  kind  of  light,  what  would  ensue : 
It  is  the  shameful  work  of  Hubert's  hand  ; 
The  practice,  and  the  purpose,  of  the  king  : 
From  whose  obedience  I  forbid  my  soul, 
Kneeling  before  this  ruin  of  sweet  life. 
And  breathing  to  his  breathless  excellence 
The  incense  of  a  vow,  a  holy  vow, 
Never  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Never  to  be  infected  with  delight, 
Nor  conversant  with  ease  and  idleness, 
Till  I  have  set  a  glory  to  this  head', 
By  giving  it  the  worship  of  revenge. 

Pern.  Big.  Our  souls  religiously  confirm  thy  words. 
Enter  Hubert. 

Hub.  Lords,  I  am  hot  with  haste  in  seeking  you. 
Arthur  doth  live;  the  king  hath  sent  for  you. 

Sal.  0  !  he  is  bold,  and  blushes  not  at  death. — 
Avaunt,  thou  hateful  villain  !  get  thee  gone. 

Hub.  I  am  no  villain. 

Sal.  Must  I  rob  the  law  ?     [Drawing  his  sword. 

Bast.  Your  sword  is  bright,  sir :  put  it  up  again. 

Sal.  Not  till  I  sheath  it  in  a  murderer's  skin. 

Hub.  Stand  back,  lord  Salisbury  ;  stand  back,  I  say : 
By  heaven,  I  think,  my  sword  's  as  sharp  as  yours. 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself, 

'  thin  bestained  :  inf.  e.     '  hand  :  in  f.  e.     '  *  Not  in  f  « 
V 


Nor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  defence  . 
Lest  I,  by  marking  but  your  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  greatness,  and  nobility. 

Big.  Out,  dunghill  I   dar'st  thou  brave  a  nobleu'atr 

Hub.    Not  for  my  life  :  but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  agamst  an  emperor. 

Sal.  Thou  art  a  murderer. 

Hub.  Do  not  prove  me  so  ; 

Yet,  I  am  none.     Whose  tongue  soe'er  speaks  fals-e. 
Not  truly  speaks ;  who  speaks  not  truly,  lies. 

Pemb.  Cut  him  to  pieces. 

Bast.  Keep  the  peace,  I  say. 

Sal.  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Faulconbridge. 

Bast.  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury  : 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot, 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I  '11  strike  thee  dead.     Put  up  thy  sword  betime. 
Or  I  '11  so  maul  you  and  your  toasting-iron. 
That  you  shall  think  the  devil  is  come  from  hell. 

Big.  What  wilt  thou  do,  renowned  Faulconbridge '' 
Second  a  villain,  and  a  murderer. 

Hub.  Lord  Bigot,  I  am  none. 

Big.  Who  kill'd  this  prince?  [Pointing  to  Art.huh 

Hub.  'T  is  not  an  hour  since  I  lelt  him  well : 
I  honour'd  him,  I  lov'd  him  :  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out  for  his  sweet  life's  loss. 

Sal.  Trust  not  those  cuiming  waters  of  his  e-es. 
For  villainy  is  not  without  such  rheum ; 
And  he,  long  traded  in  it,  makes  it  seem 
Like  rivers  of  remorse  and  iimocency. 
Away,  with  me,  all  you  whose  souls  abhor 
Th'  uncleanly  savours  of  a  slaugliter-house. 
For  I  am  stifled  with  this  smell  of  sin. 

Big.  Away,  toward  Bury:  to  the  Dauphin  there  . 

Pern.  There,  tell  the  king,  he  may  inquire  us  out 
[Exeunt  Lords 

Bast.  Here  's  a  good  world  ! — Knew  you  of  this  fair 
work? 
Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death. 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Bast.  Ha  !  I  'II  tell  thee  what ; 
Thou  art  damn'd  as  black — nay,  nothing  is  so  black  ; 
Thou  art  more  deep  damn'd  than  prince  Lucifei 
There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 
As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child. 

Hub.  Upon  my  soul, — 

Bast.  If  thou  didst  but  consent 

To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair  ; 
And  if  thou  want'st  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb 
Will  serve  to  strangle  thee  ;  a  rush  will  be  a  beam 
To  hang  thee  on :  or  wouldst  thou  drowii  thyself, 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon, 
And  it  shall  be  as  all  the  ocean, 
Enough  to  stifle  such  a  villain  up. 
I  do  suspect  thee  very  grievously. 

Hub.  If  I  in  act,  consent,  or  sin  of  thought 
Be  guilty  of  the  stealing  that  sweet  breath, 
Which  was  embounded  in  this  beauteous  clay, 
Let  hell  want  pains  enough  to  torture  me. 
I  left  him  well. 

Bast.  Go,  bear  him  in  thine  arms. — 

I  am  amaz'd,  methinks  :  and  lose  my  way 
Among  the  thorns  and  dangers  of  this  world. — 

[PuBERT  takes  up  \rthcr  ' 
How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up ! 
From  forth  this  morsel  of  dead  royalty. 


322 


KING  JOHN. 


ACT    \' 


The  life,  the  right,  and  truth  of  all  this  realm 
Is  fled  to  heaven  ;  and  Enirland  now  is  left 
To  tug  and  scramble,  and  to  part  by  the  leeth 
The  unowed  interest  of  proud  swelling  state. 
Now  for  the  bare-pick'd  bone  of  majesty 
Doth  dogged  war  bristle  his  angry  crest, 
Ajid  snarleth  in  the  gentle  eyes  of  peace  . 
Now  powers  from  home,  and  discontents  at  home. 
Meet  in  one  line  :  and  vast  confusion  waitei, 


As  doth  a  raven  on  a  sick-fallen  bea.st, 
The  iiiiiiiiiieiit  decay  of  wrested  pomp. 
Now  happy  lie.  whose  cloak  and  cincture  can 
Hold  our  ihis  lenipest. — Bear  away  that  child, 
And  follow  me  with  speed  :   I   11  to  the  king. 
A  thousand  businesses  are  brief  in  hand. 
And  heaven  itself  doth  frown  upon  the  land. 

[Exeunt .   Hubkrt  bearing  out  Arthur's  bodi^. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Joh.n.  Pandulph  with  the  Croivn.  and 
Attendants. 

K.  John.  Thus  have  I  yielded  up  into  your  hand 
The  circle  of  my  glory. 

Pand.  Take  again     [Giving  ions  the  Crown. 

From  this  my  hand.  a.s  holding  of  the  pope, 
Your  sovereign  greatness  and  authority, 

A".  John.  Now  keep  your  holy  word:  go  meet  the 
French  ; 
And  from  liis  holiness  use  all  your  power 
To  stop  their  marches,  'fore  we  are  inflara'd. 
Our  discontented  counties  do  revolt. 
Our  people  quarrel  with  obedience. 
Swearing  allegiance,  and  the  love  of  soul. 
To  stranger  blood,  to  foreign  royalty. 
This  inundation  of  mi.<;teniper"d  humour 
Rests  by  you  only  to  be  qualified  : 
Then  pau.«e  not ;  for  the  present  time  's  so  sick. 
That  present  medicine  mu.«t  be  minister'd. 
Or  overthrow  incurable  ensues. 

Pand.  It  was  my  breath  that  blew  this  tempest  up. 
Upon  your  stubborn  usage  of  the  pope  : 
But  since  you  are  a  gentle  convertite. 
My  tongue  shall  hush  again  this  storm  of  war. 
And  make  fair  weather  in  your  blustering  land. 
On  this  Ascension-day.  remember  well. 
Upon  your  oath  of  ser\nce  to  the  pope, 
(Jo  I  to  make  the  French  lay  downi  their  arms.     [Exit. 

K.  John.  Is  this  Ascension-day  ?    Did  not  the  prophet 
Say  that  before  Ascension-day  at  noon, 
My  crown  I  should  give  off?     Even  so  I  have. 
I  did  suppose  it  should  be  on  constraint  : 
But.  heaven  be  thank'd.  it  is  but  voluntary. 

Enter  the  Bastard.  [out, 

Bast.  All  Kent  hath  yielded  :  nothing  there  holds 
But  Dover  castle  :  London  hath  receiv'd, 
Like  a  kind  host,  the  Dauphin  and  his  powers. 
Your  nobles  will  not  hear  you.  but  are  gone 
To  offer  .service  to  your  enemy  : 
And  wild  amazement  hurries  up  and  down 
The  little  number  of  your  doubtful  friends. 

K.  John.  Would  not  my  lords  return  to  me  asain. 
After  they  heard  young  Arthur  was  alive  ? 

Ba'^t.  They  found  him  dead,  and  cast  into  the  streets  ; 
An  empty  casket,  where  the  jewel  of  life 
By  some  damn'd  hand  was  robb'd  and  taen  away. 

K.  John.  That  villain  Hubert  told  me  In?  did  live. 

Bast.  So.  on  my  soul,  he  did.  for  augiil  he  knew. 
But  wherefore  do  you  droop  ?  why  look  you  sad  ? 
Be  great  in  act,  a.s  you  ha-  e  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear,  and  blank*  distrust, 
(.Jovem  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye  : 

'  Exeunt :  in  f  «.      »  m^  •  in  f.  e.      I  he;  in  f.  a       ♦  Foraee  :  in  f. 


Be  Stirring  as  the  time  ;  meet'  fire  with  fire  , 
Threaten  the  threatener,  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror  :  so  shall  inferior  eyes*. 
That  borrow  their  behaviours  from  the  great, 
Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution. 
Away  !  and  glister  like  the  god  of  war, 

I  When  he  intendeth  to  become  the  field  : 

I  Show-  boldness,  and  aspiring  confidence. 

i  What !  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 
And  fright  him  there?  and  make  him  tremble  there* 

0  !  let  it  not  he  said. — Courage*,  and  run 
To  meet  displeasure  furtlier  from  the  doors, 
And  grapple  with  him  ere  he  come  so  nigh. 

K.  John.  The  legate  of  the  pope  hath  been  with  me. 
And  I  have  made  a  happy  peace  with  him  : 
And  he  hath  promis'd  to  dismiss  the  powers 
Led  by  the  Dauphin, 

Bast.  0.  inglorious  league  ! 

Shall  we,  upon  the  footing  of  our  land, 
Send  fair-play  otfers',  and  make  compromise. 
Insinuation,  parley,  and  ba.se  truce. 
To  arms  invasive  ?  shall  a  beardless  boy, 
A  cocker'd  silken  wanton,  brave  our  fields, 
And  flesh  his  spirit  in  a  warlike  soil. 
Mocking  the  air  with  colours  idly  spread. 
And  find  no  check  ?     Let  us,  my  liege,  lo  ai-ms  : 
Perchance,  the  cardinal  cannot  make  your  peace  ; 
Or  if  he  do,  let  it  at  least  be  said. 
They  saw  we  had  a  purpose  of  defence. 

K.  John.    Have   thou    the   ordering  of  this  present 
time. 

Bast.  Away  then,  with  good  courage  :  yet  I  kno-"' 
Our  party  may  well  meet  a  prouder  foe.  [Etcu- 

SCENE  11.— A  Plain,  near  St.  Edmund's  Bury 

Enter,  in  arms.  Lewis,  Salisbury.  Melun.  Pembrosk 

Bigot,  and  Soldiers. 

Lew.  My  lord  Melun.  let  this  be  copied  out, 
And  keep  it  safe  for  our  remembrance. 
Hctum  the  precedent  to  the.«e  lords  again  : 
That,  having  our  fair  order  written  down. 
Both  they,  and  we.  perusing  o'er  t1ie.se  notes, 
May  know  wherefore  we  took  the  sacrament 
And  keep  our  faiths  firm  and  inviolable. 

Sal.  Upon  our  sides  it  never  shall  be  broken 
And.  noble  Dauphin,  albeit  we  swear 
A  voluntary  zeal,  and  an  unurg'd  faith. 
To  your  proceedings  :  yet,  believe  me,  prince, 

1  am  not  glad  that  such  a  sore  of  time 
Should  seek  a  plaster  by  contcmn'd  revolt. 
And  Ileal  the  inveterate  canker  of  one  wound 
By  making  many.     0  !  it  grieves  my  soul. 
That  I  must  draw  this  metal  from  mv  sidf 

s.      >  orden  :  in  f.  a. 


i 


SOENE  n. 


KING    JOHN. 


323 


To  be  a  widow-maker  ;  O  !  and  there, 

Where  honourable  rescue,  and  defence, 

Cries  oat  upon  the  name  of  Salisbury. 

But  such  is  the  infection  of  the  time, 

That,  for  the  health  and  physic  of  our  right, 

We  cannot  deal  but  with  the  very  hand 

Of  stern  injustice  and  confused  wrong. — 

And  is  't  not  pity,  0,  my  grieved  friends  ! 

Tiiat  we,  the  sons  and  children  of  this  isle. 

Were  born  to  see  so  sad  an  hour  as  this ; 

Wherein  we  step  after  a  stranger,  march 

Upon  her  gentle  bosom,  and  fill  up 

Her  enemies'  ranks,  (I  must  withdraw,  and  weep 

Upon  the  thought'  of  this  enforced  cause) 

To  grace  the  gentry  of  a  land  remote, 

And  follow  unacquainted  colours  here  ? 

What;  here  ? — O  nation,  that  thou  couldst  remove  ! 

That  Neptune's  arms,  who  clippeth"  thee  about. 

Would  bear  thee  from  the  knowledge  of  thyself, 

And  grapple  thee  unto  a  pagan  shore : 

Where  these  two  Christian  armies  might  combine 

The  blood  of  malice  in  a  vein  of  league, 

And  not  to  spend  it  so  unneighbourly  ! 

Lew.  A  noble  temper  dost  thou  show  in  this ; . 
Ana  great  affections  wrestling  in  thy  bosom 
Do  make  an  earthquake  of  nobility. 

0  I  what  a  noble  combat  hast  thou  fought. 
Between  compulsion,  and  a  brave  respect  ! 
Let  me  wipe  off.  this  honourable  dew, 
That  silverly  doth  progress  on  thy  cheeks. 
My  heart  hath  melted  at  a  lady's  tears. 
Being  an  ordinary  inundation  ; 

But-  this  effusion  of  such  manly  drops. 

This  shower,  blown  up  by  tempest  of  the  soul. 

Startles  mine  eyes,  and  makes  me  more  amaz'd 

Than  had  I  seen  the  vaulty  top  of  heaven 

Figur'd  quite  o'er  with    urning  meteors. 

Lift  up  thy  brow,  renowned  Salisbury, 

And  with  a  great  heart  heave  away  this  storm  : 

Commend  these  waters  to  those  baby  eyes. 

That  never  saw  the  giant-world  enrag'd  ; 

Nor  met  with  fortune  other  than  at  feasts. 

Full  of  warm  blood,  of  mirth,  of  gossiping. 

Come,  come  ;  for  thou  shalt  thrust  thy  hand  as  deep 

Into  the  purse  of  rich  prosperity, 

As  Lewis  himself : — so,  nobles,  shall  you  all. 

That  knit  your  sinews  to  the  strength  of  mine. 

I  Enter  Pandulph,  attended. 

;  And  even  there,  methinks,  an  angel  spake  : 
Look,  where  the  holy  legate  comes  apace, 
To  give  us  warrant  from  the  hand  of  heaven, 

I  And  on  our  actions  set  the  name  of  right 

j  With  holy  breath. 

Pand.  Hail,  noble  prince  of  France. 

\  The  next  is  this  : — king  John  hath  reconcil'd 
Hunself  to  Rome  ;  his  spirit  is  come  in, 
That  so  stood  out  against  the  holy  church, 

1  The  great  metropolis  and  see  of  Rome  : 

;  Therefore,  thy  threat'ning  colours  now  wind  up, 

And  tame  ihe  savage  spirit  of  wild  war, 
;That.  like  a  lion  foster'd  up  at  hand. 
■It.  may  lie  gently  at  the  foot  of  peace. 

And  be  no  farther  harmful  than  in  show. 
Lew.  Your  grace  shall  pardon  me  ;  I  will  not  back  : 

I  am  too  high-born  to  be  propertied. 

To  bo  a  secondary  at  control, 

Or  useful  serving-man,  and  instrument. 

To  any  .sovereisn  state  throughout  the  a 


in  state  throughout  the  world. 


Your  breath  first  kindled  the  dead  coal  of  wars 

Between  this  chastis'd  kingdom  and  myself, 

And  brought  in  matter  tliat  should  feed  this  fire  ; 

And  now  't  is  far  too  huge  to  be  blown  out 

With  that  same  weak  wind  which  enkindled  it. 

You  taught  me  how  to  know  the  face  of  right, 

Acquainted  me  with  interest  to  this  land, 

Yea,  tlirust  this  enterprise  into  my  heart. 

And  come  ye  now  to  tell  me,  John  hath  made 

His  peace  with  Rome  '?     What  is  that  peace  to  me  ? 

I,  by  the  honour  of  my  marriage-bed, 

After  young  Arthur,  claim  this  land  for  mine  ; 

And  now  it  is  half-conquer'd,  must  I  back. 

Because  that  John  hath  made  his  peace  with  Rom©  ? 

Am  I  Rome's  slave  ?     What  penny  hath  Rome  borne, 

What  men  provided,  what  munition  sent. 

To  underprop  this  action  ?  is 't  not  1, 

That  undergo  this  charge  ?  who  else  but  I, 

And  such  as  to  my  claim  are  liable, 

Sweat  in  this  business,  and  maintain  this  war  ? 

Have  I  not  heard  these  islanders  shout  out, 

Vive  le  roy  !  as  I  have  bank'd  their  towns  ? 

Have  I  not  here  the  best  cards  for  the  game, 

To  win  this  easy  match,  play'd  for  a  crown. 

And  shall  I  now  give  o'er  the  yielded  set  ? 

No,  on  my  soul,  it  never  shall  be  said. 

Pand.  Y'ou  look  but  on  the  outside  of  this  work. 

Lew.  Outside  or  inside,  I  will  not  return 
Till  my  attempt  so  much  be  glorified. 
As  to  my  ample  hope  was  promised 
Before  I  drew  this  gallant  head  of  war, 
And  cuU'd  these  fiery  spirits  from  the  world, 
To  outlook  conquest,  and  to  win  renown 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  danger  and  of  death. — 

[Trumpet  sounds 
What  lusty  trumpet  thus  doth  summon  us  ? 
Enter  the  Bastard,  attended. 

Bast.  According  to  the  fair  play  of  the  world. 
Let  me  have  audience  :  I  am  sent  to  speak. — 
My  holy  lord  of  Milan,  from  the  king 
I  come,  to  learn  how  you  have  dealt  for  him  ; 
And,  as  you  answer,  I  do  know  the  scope 
And  warrant  limited  unto  my  tongue. 

Pand.  The  Dauphin  is  too  wilful-opposite, 
And  will  not  temporize  with  my  entreaties  : 
He  flatly  says,  he  '11  not  lay  downi  his  arms. 

Bast.   By  all  the  blood  that  ever  fury  breath'd. 
The  youth  says  well. — Now,  hear  our  English  king. 
For  thus  his  royalty  doth  speak  in  me. 
He  is  prepar'd  ;  and  reason,  too,  he  should  : 
This  apish  and  unmannerly  approach, 
This  harness'd  masque,  and  unadvised  revel, 
This  unheard^  sauciness  of*  boyish  troops. 
The  king  doth  smile  at  ;  and  is  well  prepar'd 
To  whip  this  dwarfish  war,  these  pigmy  arms, 
From  out  the  circle  of  his  territories. 
That  hand,  which  had  the  strength,  even  at  your  door 
To  cudgel  you,  and  make  you  take  the  hatch  : 
To  dive  like  buckets  in  concealed  wells  : 
To  crouch  in  litter  of  your  stable  planks  : 
To  lie  like  pawns  lock'd  up  in  chests  and  trunks  , 
To  hug  with  swine  ;  to  seek  sweet  safety  out 
In  vaults  and  prisons,  and  to  thrill,  and  shake, 
Even  at  the  crowang*  of  your  nation's  cock', 
Thinking  his  voice  an  armed  Englishman : 
Shall  that  victorious  hand  be  feebled  here. 
That  in  your  chambers  gave  you  chastisement  ? 
No  !     Know,  the  gallant  monarch  is  in  arms : 


>  spot: 


f.  e.      a  Emhraceth. 
w  :  in  f  e. 


'  So  the  folios;  Theobald,  and  moat  eda.  read  :  unhair'd  (i.  e   unbearded) 


324 


KING  JOHN. 


ACT   V. 


And  like  an  eagle  o'er  his  aiery  towers, 
To  souse  aiixioyance  that  comes  near  his  nest. — 
And  you  dcueuerate,  you  iiigratc  revolts. 
Vou  bloody  Nerocs,  rippini;  up  the  woiub 
Of  your  dear  mother  Enuland.  blu.sh  lor  shame 
For  your  own  ladies,  and  pale-visau'd  maids, 
Like  AmazoiKs  come  trippini;  alter  drums  : 
Their  thimbles  into  armed  traunllets  ehaiig'd, 
Their  needrs  to  lance.*,  and  their  gentle  hearts 
To  fierce  and  bloody  inclination. 

Lew.  There  end  thy  brave,  and  turn  thy  lace  in  peace 
We  gram  thou  canst  outscold  us.     Fare  thee  well  : 
We  hold  our  time  too  precious  to  be  spent 
Wiih  such  a  brabbler. 

Pajid.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Bcust.  No,  1  will  speak. 

Lew.  We  will  attend  to  neither.  - 

Strike  up  the  drums  !   and  let  the  tongue  of  war 
Ple."^d  lor  our  interest,  and  our  being  here. 

Bast.  Indeed,  your  drums,  being  beaten,  will  cry  out 
And  so  .shall  you.  being  beaten.     Do  but  start 
.\n  echo  with  the  clamour  of  thy  drum. 
And  even  at  hand  a  drum  is  ready  brac'd, 
That  shall  reverberate  all  as  loud  as  thine; 
Sound  but  another,  and  another  shall. 
As  loud  as  thine,  rattle  the  welkin's  ear, 
And  mock  the  deep-moutird  thunder :  for  at  hand 
iNot  trusting  to  this  halting  legate  here, 
Whom  he  hath  us'd  ratlier  for  sport  than  need) 
[s  warlike  John  ;  and  in  his  forehead  sits 
A  bare-ribb'd  death,  whose  office  is  this  day 
To  feast  upon  whole  thousands  of  the  French. 

Lew.  Strike  up  our  drums  to  find  this  danger  out. 

Bast.  And  thou  shalt  find  it,  Dauphin,  do  not  doubt. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarums.     Enter  King  John  and  Hubert. 
K.  John.  How  goes  the  day  with  us  ?     0  !  tell  me, 

Hubert. 
Hub.  Badly,  I  fear.     How  fares  your  majesty  ? 
A'.  John.  This  fever,  that  hath  troubled  me  so  long, 
Lies  hea\')'  on  me :  0  !  my  heart  is  sick. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  My  lord,  your  valiant  kinsman.  Faulconbndge, 
Desires  your  majesty  to  leaA'e  the  field. 
And  send  him  word  by  me  which  way  you  go. 

K.  John.  Tell  him,  toward  Swinstead,  to  the  abbey 

there. 
Mess,  lie  of  good  comfort ;  for  the  great  supply, 
That  was  expected  by  the  Dauphin  here, 
Are  wieck'd  three  nights  ago  on  Goodwin  sands  : 
This  news  was  brouiiht  to  Richard  but  even  now. 
The  French  fight  coldly,  and  retire  themselves. 

K.  John.  All  me  !  tliis  tyrant  fever  burns  me  up, 
.\nd  will  not  let  me  welcome  this  good  news. 
Set  on  toward  Swinstead  ;  to  my  litter  .straight : 
Weakness  po.ssesseth  me,  and  }  am  faint.  [Exeunt. 

SCE.XE  IV. — The  Same.     Another  part  of  the  Same. 

Enter  Salisbury,  Pkmbroke.  Bigot,  and  Others. 

Sal.  I  did  not  think  the  king  so  stor'd  with  friends. 

Pern    Uj)  once  aaain  ;  put  spirit  in  the  French  : 
If  they  nii.-^carry.  we  miscarry  too. 

Sal.  That  misbegotten  devil.  Faulconbridge, 
In  spite  of  sj)ite,  alone  upholds  the  day. 

Pern.  They  say,  king  John  sore  sick  hath  left  the  field. 
Enter  Melun  wounded,  and  led  Inj  Soldiers. 

Mel.  Lead  me  to  the  revolts  of  England  here. 

'  Unthread  the  rude  eye  :  in  f  e      '  Ditsolveth.     '  Right  :  in  f.  e. 


Sal.  When  we  were  happy  we  had  other  names. 

Pern.  It  is  the  count  Melun. 

Sal.  Wounded  to  deith 

Mel.  Fly,  noble  English  ;  you  are  bought  and  sold  • 
Untread  the  road-way'  of  rebellion. 
And  welcome  home  again  discarded  faith. 
Seek  out  king  John,  and  fall  before  his  feet; 
For  if  the  French  be  lords  of  tliis  loud  day. 
He  means  to  recompense  the  pains  you  take, 
By  ciittimi  ofi'your  heads.     Thus  hath  he  sv  orn, 
And  I  with  him.  and  many  more  with  me, 
Upon  the  altar  at  Saint  Edmund's  Bury; 
Even  on  that  altar,  where  we  swore  to  you 
Dear  amity  and  everlasting  love. 

Sal.  May  this  be  possible?  may  this  be  true? 

Mel.  Have  I  not  hideous  death  within  my  view. 
Retaining  but  a  quantity  of  life, 
Which  bleeds  away,  even  as  a  form  of  v/ax 
Resolveth'  from  his  figure  'gainst  the  fire  ? 
What  in  the  world  should  make  me  now  deceive. 
Since  I  must  lose  the  use  of  all  deceit? 
Why  should  I  then  be  false,  since  it  is  true 
That  I  must  die  here,  and  live  hence  by  truth  ? 
I  say  again,  if  Lcaais  do  win  the  day. 
He  is  forsworn,  if  e'er  those  eyes  of  yours 
Behold  another  day  break  in  the  east: 
But  even  this  night,  whose  black  contagious  breath 
Already  smokes  about  the  burning  crest 
Of  the  old,  feeble,  and  day-wearied  sun, 
Even  this  ill  night,  your  breathing  shall  expire, 
Paying  the  fine  of  rated  treachery. 
Even  with  a  treacherous  fine  of  all  your  lives, 
If  Lewis  by  your  assistance  vnn  the  day. 
Commend  me  to  one  Hubert,  with  your  king; 
The  love  of  him, — and  this  respect  besides, 
For  that  my  grandsire  was  an  Englishman. — 
Awakes  my  conscience  to  confess  all  this. 
In  lieu  whereof,  I  pray  you,  bear  me  hence 
From  forth  the  noise  and  rumour  of  the  field  ; 
Where  I  may  think  the  remnant  of  my  thoughts 
In  })eace,  and  part  this  body  and  my  soul 
With  contemplation  and  devout  desires. 

Sal.  We  do  believe  thee,  and  beshrew  my  soul. 
But  I  do  love  the  favour  and  the  form 
Of  this  most  fair  occasion,  by  the  which 
We  will  untread  the  steps  of  damned  flight: 
And,  like  a  bated  and  retired  flood, 
Leaving  our  rankness  and  irregular  course. 
Stoop  low  within  those  bounds  we  have  o'erlook'd. 
And  calmly  run  on  in  obedience. 
Even  to  our  ocean,  to  our  great  king  John. — 
My  arm  shall  give  thee  help  to  bear  thee  hence. 
For  I  do  see  the  cruel  pangs  of  death 
Bright'  in  thine  eye. — Away,  my  friends  !    New  flight 
Ana  happy  newness,  that  intends  old  risht. 

[Exeunt,  leading  o^  Melun 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     The  French  Camp. 
Enter  Lewis  and  his  Train. 
Lew.  The  sun  of  heaven,  methonght.  was  loath  to  set 
But  stay'd,  and  made  the  western  welkin  blush. 
When  English  measur'd  backward  their  own  ground. 
In  faint  retire.     O!  bravely  came  we  ofl!", 
When  with  a  volley  of  our  needless  shot, 
After  such  bloody  toil  we  bid  good  night. 
And  wound  our  tattered  colours  closely  up.* 
Last  in  the  field,  and  almost  lords  of  it  ! 
Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  Where  is  my  prince,  the  Dauphin? 

♦  tattering  colonm  clearly  np  :  in  f.  e. 


8CENB   VII. 


KING  JOHN. 


325 


Lew.  Here. — What  news  ? 

Mess.  The  count  Melun  is  slain :  the  English  lords, 
By  his  persuasion,  are  again  fallen  off; 
And  your  supplies,  which  you  have  wish'd  so  long, 
Are  cast  away,  and  sunk,  on  Goodwin  sands. 

Lew.  Ah,  foul    shrewd   news! — Beshrew  thv  very- 
heart  ! 
I  did  not  think  to  be  so  sad  to-night, 
As  this  hath  made  me. — Who  was  he,  that  said. 
King  John  did  fly  an  hour  or  two  before 
The  stumbling  night  did  part  our  weary  powers  ? 

Mess.  Whoever  spoke  it.  it  is  true,  my  lord. 

Lew.  Well ;  keep  good  quarter,  and  good  care  to-night : 
The  day  shall  not  be  up  so  soon  as  I, 
To  tr>'  the  fair  adventure  of  to-raorrow.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    VI.— Au  open  Place  in  the  Neighbourhood 

of  Swinstead- Abbey. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Hubert,  severally. 

Htib.  Who 's  there  ?  speak,  ho  !  speak  quickly,  or  I 
shoot. 

Bast.  A  friend.— What  art  thou  ? 

Hub.  Of  the  part  of  England. 

Bast.  Wliither  dost  thou  go  ? 

Huh.  T\Tiat  's  that  to  thee  ?  Why  may  not  I  demand 
Of  thine  affairs,  as  well  as  thou  of  mine  ? 

Bast    Hubert,  I  think. 

Hub.  Thou  hast  a  perfect  thought : 

I  wih,  upon  all  hazards,  well  believe 
Thou  art  my  friend,  that  know'st  my  tongue  so  well. 
Wlio  art  thou  ? 

Bast.  Who  thou  wilt :  and,  if  thou  please, 

Thou  may'st  befriend  me  so  much,  as  to  think 
I  come  one  way  of  the  Plantagenets. 

Hub.  Unkind  remembrance  !  thoii,  and  eyeless'  night, 
Have  done  me  shame. — Brave  soldier,  pardon  me, 
That  any  accent  breaking  from  thy  tongue 
Should  'scape  the  true  acquaintance  of  mine  ear. 

Bast.  Come,   come;    sans   compliment,  what  news 
abroad  ? 

Huh.  Why,  here  walk  I,  in  the  black  brow  of  night, 
To  find  you  out. 

Bast.  Brief,  then ;  and  what 's  the  news  ? 

Hub.  0  !  my  sweet  sir.  news  fitting  to  the  night, 
Black,  fearful,  comfortless,  and  horrible. 

Bast.  Show  me  the  very  wound  of  this  ill  news  : 
1  am  no  woman  :  I  "11  not  swoon  at  it. 

Hub.  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk  : 
t  left  him  almost  speechless,  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  e-vil,  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time. 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  kno^^ni  of  this. 

Bast.  How  did  he  take  it  ?  who  did  taste  to  him  ? 

Hub.  A  monk,  I  tell  you  :   a  resolved  villain. 
Whose  bowels  suddenly  burst  out :  the  king 
Yet  .<peaks,  and.  peradventure,  may  recover. 

Bast.  Whom  didst  thou  leave  to  tend  his  majesty  ? 

Hub.  Why,  know  you  not?  the  lords  are  all  come  back, 
And  brought  prince  Henry  in  their  company; 
At  whose  request  the  king  hath  pardon'd  them, 
And  they  are  all  about  his  majesty. 

Bast.  Withhold  thine  indignation,  mighty  heaven, 
And  tempt  us  not  to  bear  above  our  power, 
f  '11  tell  thee,  Hubert,  half  my  power  this  night. 
Passing  these  flats,  are  taken  by  the  tide ; 
These  Lincoln  washes  have  devoured  them  : 
Myself  well-mounted  hardly  have  escap'd, 
,  Away,  before  :  conduct  me  to  the  king  ; 
|f  doubt,  he  wll  be  dead  or  ere  I  come.  [Exeunt. 

'  endlBss  :  in  f.  e.    Theotald  made  the  same  change.      »  invisible  : 


SCENE  VH.— The  Orchard  of  Swinstead- Abbey. 
Enter  Prince  Henry,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot. 

P.  Hen.  It  is  too  late  :  the  life  of  all  his  blood 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly ;  and  his  pure  brain 
(Which  some  suppose  the  souls  frail  dwelling-house) 
Doth,  by  the  idle  comments  that  it  makes, 
Foretel  the  ending  of  mortality. 

Enter  Pembroke. 

Pem.  His  highness  yet  doth  speak :  and  holds  belief 
That  being  brought  into  the  open  air. 
It  would  allay  the  burning  quality 
Of  that  fell  poison  whic'i  assaileth  him. 

P.  Hen.  Let  him  be    rc^ht  into  the  orchard  here, — 
Doth  he  still  rage  ?  Exit  Bigot 

Pem.  H'.  1    more  patient 

Than  when  you  left  hiri :  even  now  he  sung. 

P.  Hen.  0.  vanity  of  sickness  !  fierce  extremes 
In  their  continuance  will  not  feel  themselves. 
Death,  having  prev'd  upon  the  outward  parts, 
Leaves  them  unvisited^ ;  and  his  siege  is  now 
Against  the  mind,  the  which  he  pricks  and  wounds 
With  many  legions  of  strange  fantasies, 
Which,  in  their  throng  and  press  to  that  last  hold. 
Confound  themselves.     'T  is  strange  that  death  should 

sing. 
I  am  the  cygnet  to  this  pale  faint  swan. 
Who  chants  a  doleful  hymn  to  his  own  death, 
And  from  the  organ-pipe  of  frailty  sings 
His  soul  and  body  to  their  lasting  rest, 

Sal.  Be  of  good  comfort,  prince,  for  you  are  born 
To  set  a  form  upon  that  indigest. 
Which  he  hath  left  so  shapeless  ajid  so  rude. 
Re-enter  Bigot  and  Attendants:    King  John  bioug/u 
in  in  a  Chair. 

K.  John.  Ay,  marry,  now  my  soul  hath  elbow-room 
It  would  not  out  at  windows,  nor  at  doors. 
There  is  so  hot  a  summer  in  my  bosom. 
That  all  my  bowels  crumble  up  to  dust : 
I  am  a  scribbled  form,  dra^^^a  wth  a  pen 
Upon  a  parchment,  and  against  this  fire 
Do  I  shrink  up. 

P.  Hen.  How  fares  your  majesty? 

K.  John.  Poison'd. — ill-fare ; — dead,  forsook,  cast  off 
And  none  of  yoit  will  bid  the  winter  come. 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw : 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  burn'd  bosom  :  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips, 
And  comfort  me  with  cold. — I  do  not  ask  you  much : 
I  beg  cold  comfort :  and  you  are  so  strait, 
And  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that. 

P.  Hen.  0,  that  there  were  some  virtue  in  my  tears 
That  might  relieve  you  ! 

K.  John.  The  salt  in  them  is  hot. — 

Within  me  is  a  hell ;  and  there  the  poison 
Is,  as  a  fiend,  confiu'd  to  tjTannize 
On  unreprievable  condemned  blood. 
Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  0  !  I  am  scalded  with  my  \'iolent  motion, 
And  spleen  of  speed  to  see  your  majesty, 

K.  John.  0  cousin !  thou  art  come  to  set  mine  eye 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  burn'd  ; 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  my  life  should  sail. 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair  : 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by. 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered. 
And  then  all  this  thou  seest  is  but  a  clod. 
And  model  of  confounded  royalty. 


526 


KING   JOHN. 


Bast.  The  Diiupliiii  is  preparing  hitherward, 
Where,  heaven  lie  knows,  how  we  shall  answer  him ; 
For,  in  a  night,  tlie  best  part  of  my  power. 
As  I  upon  advantage  did  remove, 
Were  in  the  washes,  all  unwarily, 
Devoured  by  the  unexpected  flood.       [King  John  dies. 

Sal.  Yon  breathe  these  dead  news  in  as  dead  an  ear. — 
My  liesc  !  my  lord  ! — But  now  a  king,  now  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Even  so  must  I  run  on.  and  even  so  stop. 
What  surety  of  the  world,  what  hope,  what  stay, 
When  this  was  now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay  ? 

Bast.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?     I  do  but  stay  behind. 
To  do  the  office  for  thee  of  revenge, 
And  then  my  soul  shall  wait  on  thee  to  heaven. 
As  it  on  earth  hath  been  thy  servant  still. — 
\ow.  now,  you  stars,  that  move  in  your  right  spheres, 
Where  be  your  powers  ?  Show  now  your  mended  faiths, 
And  instantly  return  witii  me  again, 
To  push  destruction,  and  perpetual  shame, 
Out  of  the  weak  door  of  our  fainting  land. 
Straight  let  us  seek,  or  straight  we  shall  be  sought : 
The  Dauphin  rages  at  our  very  heels. 

Sal.  It  seems  you  know  not,  then,  so  much  as  we. 
The  cardinal  Pandulph  is  within  at  rest, 
Who  half  an  hour  since  came  from  the  Dauphin, 
And  brings  from  him  such  offers  of  our  peace 
As  we  with  honour  and  respect  may  take. 
With  purpose  presently  to  leave  this  war. 

Bast.  He  will  the  rather  do  it,  when  he  sees 
Cbrselves  well  sinew'd  to  our  own  defence. 

Sal.  Nay,  it  is  in  a  manner  done  already; 


For  many  carriages  he  hath  despatch'd 

To  the  sea-side,  and  put  his  cause  and  quarrel 

To  the  disposing  of  the  cardinal : 

With  whom  yourself,  myself,  and  other  lords, 

If  you  think  meet,  this  afternoon  will  post 

To  eonsununate  this  business  happily. 

Ba.st.  Let  it  be  so. — And  you.  my  noble  prince, 
With  other  princes  that  may  best  be  spar'd, 
Shall  wait  upon  your  father's  funeral. 

P.  Hen.  At  Worcester  must  bis  body  be  interr'd  , 
For  so  he  will'd  it. 

Bast.  Thither  ?\i&i\  it  then. 

And  happily  may  your  sweet  self  put  on 
The  lineal  state  and  glory  of  the  land  : 
To  whom,  with  all  submission,  on  my  knee, 
I  do  bequeath  my  faithful  services, 
And  true  subjection  everlastingly. 

Sal.  And  the  like  tender  of  our  love  we  malte, 
To  rest  without  a  spot  for  evermore. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  a  kind  soul,  that  would  give  you  thankii. 
And  knows  not  how  to  do  it,  but  with  tears. 

Bast.  O  !  let  us  pay  the  time  but  needful  woe, 
Since  it  hath  been  beforehand  wth  our  griefs. — 
This  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall. 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror. 
But  when  it  Srst  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these,  her  princes,  are  come  home  again, 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  woild  in  arms, 
And  we  shall  shock  thein.     Nought  ehail  make  vis  nio. 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.  [Ext^irH 


THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH 


KING    RICHARD    II 


DRAMATIS     PEllSON^. 


Kind  Richard  the  Secont^. 

EorflUND  OF  Lanoley,  Duke  of  York. 

John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster. 

Henry  Bolingbroke,  Duke  of  Hereford. 

Duke  of  Aumerle,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York 

Thomas  Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk. 

Duke  of  Surrey. 

Earl  of  Salisbury.     Earl  Berkley. 

Bushy,    ) 

Bagot,    >  Creatures  to  King  Richard. 

Green,  ) 

Earl  of  Northumberland. 


Henry  Percy,  liis  Son. 

Lord  Ross.     Lord  Willoughbt.      Lori    Fitz- 

WATER. 

Bishop  of  Carlisle.     Abbot  of  Westmin8»^r. 
Lord  Marshal  ;  and  another  Lord. 
Sir  Pierce  of  Exton.     Sir  Stephen  Scf">op. 
Captain  of  a  Band  of  Welchmen. 


Queen  to  King  Richard. 
Duchess  of  Gloucester. 
Duchess  of  York 
Lady  attending  the  Queen. 

Lords,  Heralds,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Gardeners,  Keeper,  Messenger,  Groom,  and  other  Attendants 
SCENE,  dispersedly  in  England  and  Wales. 


ACT    1 


SCENE  L — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Richard,  attended;  John  of  Gaunt,  and 

other  Nobles,  with  him. 

K.  Rich.  Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honourd  Lanca.s- 
ter, 
Ha«t  thou,  according  to  thv  oath  and  band,' 
Brougftt  hither  Henry  Hereford,  tny  bold  son, 
Here  lo  make  good  the  boisterovis  late  appeal. 
Which  then  our  leisure  would  not  let  us  hear, 
A  gainst  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 

Gaunt.  I  have,  my  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Tell  me,  moreover,  hast  thou  sounded  him, 
[f  he  appeal  the  duke  on  ancient  malice. 
Or  worthily,  as  a  good  subject  should. 
On  some  kno\Ani  ground  of  treachery  in  him  ? 

Gaunt.  As  near  a.s  I  could  sift  him  on  that  argument. 
On  some  apparent  danger  seen  in  him. 
Aim'd  at  your  highness;  no  inveterate  malice. 

K.  Rich.  Then  call  them  to  our  presence :  face  to 
face. 
And  frowning  brow  to  brow,  ovirselves  will  hear 
Th'  accuser,  and  th'  accused,  freely  speak. — 

[Exeunt  some  Attendants. 
High  stomach'd  are  they  both,  and  full  of  ire, 
111  rage  deaf  as  the  sea,  ha.sty  as  fire. 
Re-enter  Attendants,  u'ith  Bolingbroke  and  Norfolk. 

Baling.  FulP  many  years  of  happy  days  befal 
Aly  gracious  sovereign,  my  most  loving  liege  ! 

Nor.  Each  day  still  better  other's  happiness ; 
I'atil  the  heavens,  envying  earth's  good  hap. 
Add  an  immortal  title  to  your  crown  ! 

^band  and  bond  are  used  indifferently       '  This  word  is  not 


K.  Rich.  We  thank  you  both  :  yet  one  but  A^^tes*  is, 

As  well  appeareth  by  the  cause  you  come ; 
Namely,  to  appeal  each  other  of  high  treason. — 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  what  dost  thou  object 
Against  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 

Baling.  First,  heaven  be  the  record  to  my  speed'  ' 
In  the  devotion  of  a  subject's  love. 
Tendering  the  precious  safety  of  my  prince. 
And  free  from  ■wTath  or'  misbegotten  hate, 
Come  I  appellant  to  this  princely  presence. — 
Now,  Thomas  Mowbray,  do  I  turn  to  thee, 
And  mark  my  greeting  well ;  for  what  I  speak, 
My  body  shall  make  good  upon  this  earth. 
Or  my  divine  soul  answer  it  in  heaven. 
Thou  art  a  traitor,  and  a  miscreant ; 
Too  good  to  be  so,  and  too  bad  to  live. 
Since  the  more  fair  and  crystal  is  the  sky. 
The  uglier  seem  the  clouds  that  in  it  fly. 
Once  more,  the  more  to  aggravate  the  note, 
With  a  foul  traitor's  name  stuff  I  thy  throat : 
And  wish,  (so  please  my  sovereign)  ere  I  move. 
What  my  tongue  speaks,  my  right-drawni  sword  maj 
prove. 

Nor.  Let  not  my  cold  words  here  accuse  my  zeai. 
'T  is  not  the  trial  of  a  woman's  war. 
The  bitter  clamour  of  two  eager  tongues, 
Can  arbitrate  this  cause  betwixt  us  twain: 
The  blood  is  hot  that  must  be  coord  for  this ; 
Yet  can  I  not  of  such  tame  patience  boast, 
As  to  be  hush'd,  and  nought  at  all  to  say. 
First,  the  fair  reverence  of  your  highness  curbs  me 
From  giving  rein  and  spur*  to  my  free  speech, 

f .  e      '  from  other  :  in  f.  e.     ♦  reins  and  spurs  :  in  f.  e. 

827 


328 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


ACT   I. 


Which  else  would  post,  until  it  had  rctuni'd 

Tliese  terms  of  treason  doubled  down  his  thioat. 

Setting  aside  his  high  blood's  royally, 

And  let  him  be  no  kinsman  to  my  liege, 

1  do  dety  him,  and  I  spit  at  him  ; 

Tall  him  a  slanderous  coward,  and  a  villain  : 

Which  to  maintain  I  would  allow  him  odds, 

And  meet  him.  were  I  tied  to  run  a-foot 

Kven  to  the  frozen  ridges  of  the  Alps, 

Or  any  other  ground  inhabitable' 

Where  ever  Englishman  durst  set  his  loot. 

Mean  time,  let  this  defend  my  loyalty : — 

By  all  my  hopes,  most  falsely  doth  he  lie. 

Boling.   Pale   trembling  coward,   there   I  throw  my 
Disclaiming  here  the  kindred  of  the  king  ;  [gagt. 

And  lay  aside  my  high  bloods  royalty. 
Which  fear,  not  reverence,  makes  thee  to  except : 
If  guilty  dread  have  left  thee  so  much  strength, 
As  to  take  up  mine  honour's  p;iwn.  then  stoop. 
Ry  that  and  all  the  rites  of  knighthood  else. 
Will  I  make  good  against  thee,  arm  to  arm. 
What  I  have  spoke,  or  thou  canst  worse*  devise. 

IVor.  I  take  it  up ;  and,  by  that  sword  I  swear, 
Wliich  gently  laid  my  knighthood  on  my  shoulder, 
I  '11  answer  thee  in  any  fair  degree, 
Or  chivalrous  design  of  knightly  trial : 
And,  when  1  mount,  alive  may  I  not  light, 
l(  I  be  traitor,  or  unjustly  fight ! 

K.  Rich.  What   doth  our  cousin  lay  to   Mowbray's 
charge  ? 
It  must  be  great,  that  can  inherit  us 
So  much  as  of  a  thought  of  ill  in  hiin. 

Boling.  Look,  what  I  speak*,  my  lite  shall  prove  it 
true : — 
That  Mowbray  hath  receiv'd  eight  thousand  nobles, 
fn  name  of  lendings  for  your  highness'  soldiers, 
The  which  he  hath  detain'd  for  lewd*  employments. 
Like  a  false  traitor,  and  injurious  villain. 
Besides,  I  say,  and  will  in  battle  prove, 
Or  here,  or  elsewhere,  to  the  furthest  verge 
That  ever  was  survey'd  by  English  eye, 
That  all  the  treasons,  for  these  eighteen  years 
Complotted  and  contrived  in  this  land, 
Fetch  Irom  false  Mowbray  their  first  head  and  spring. 
Farther,  I  say.  and  farther  will  maintain 
Vymn  his  bad  life  to  make  all  this  good. 
That  he  did  plot  the  duke  of  Glo.ster's  death  ; 
Suggest*  his  soon-believing  adversaries. 
And.  con.«equently.  like  a  traitor-coward, 
Sluic'd  out  his  innocent  soul  through  .streams  of  blood  : 
Which  blood,  like  sacrificing  Abel's,  cries. 
Even  from  the  longueless  caverns  of  the  earth, 
To  me  for  justice,  and  rough  chastisement  • 
And;  by  the  glorious  worth  of  my  descent 
This  arm  shall  do  it,  or  this  life  be  spent. 

K    Rich.  How  high  a  pitch  his  resolution  .soars  I — 
Thomas  of  Norfolk,  what  say'st  thou  to  this  ? 

Nor.  0  !  let  my  sovcreiiin  turn  away  his  face. 
And  bid  his  ears  a  little  while  be  deaf. 
Till  I  have  told  this  slander  of  his  blood. 
How  God,  and  good  men,  hate  so  foul  a  liar. 

A'.  Rich.  Mowbray,  impartial  arc  our  eyes,  and  ears  : 
Were  he  my  brother,  nay,  my  kingdom's  heir, 
As  he  is  but  my  father's  brother's  son, 
Now  by  my  sceptre's  awe  I  make  a  vow, 
S.ich  neighbour  nearness  to  o-jr  sacretl  blood 
iihould  nothing  privilege  him,  nor  partialize 
The  unstooping  firmness  of  my  upright  soul. 


He  is  our  subject,  Mowbray,  so  art  thou  : 
Free  speech  and  fearless.  I  to  thee  allow. 

Nor.  Then,  Bolingbroke,  as  low  as  to  thy  heart, 
Through  the  false  passage  of  thy  throat,  thou  liest. 
Three  parts  of  that  receipt  I  had  for  Calais, 
Disbursd  I  duly*  to  his  highness'  soldiers: 
The  other  jjart  re.serv'd  I  by  consent; 
For  that  my  sovereign  liege  was  in  my  debt, 
Upon  remainder  of  a  clear'  account. 
Since  last  I  went  to  France  to  fetch  his  queen. 
Now,  .swallow  dowai  that  lie. — For  Gloster's  death, 
I  slew  him  not  ;  but  to  mine  own  di.><grace. 
Neglected  my  sworn  iiuty  in  ihat  ca.se. — 
For  you.  my  noble  lord  of  Lancaster, 
The  honourable  father  to  my  foe. 
Once  did  I  lay  an  anibu.sh  for  your  life, 
A  trcspas^s  that  doth  vex  my  grieved  soul ; 
But.  ere  I  last  receiv'd  the  sacrament, 
I  did  confess  it,  and  exactly  begg'd 
Your  grace's  pardon,  and,  I  hope,  I  had  it. 
This  is  my  fault:  as  for  the  rest  appeal'd. 
It  issues  from  the  rancour  of  a  villain, 
A  recreant  and  most  degenerate  traitor ; 
Which  in  myself  I  boldly  will  defend. 
And  interchangeably  hurl  do\^-n  my  gage 
Upon  this  overweening  traitor's  foot. 
To  prove  myself  a  loyal  gentleman 
Even  in  the  best  blood  chamber'd  in  his  bosom. 
In  haste  whereof,  most  heartily  I  pray 
Your  highness  to  assign  our  trial  day. 

K.  Rich.  Wrath-kindled  gentlemen,  be  rul'd  by  m.. 
Let 's  purge  this  choler  without  letting  blood  : 
This  we  prescribe,  though  no  physician; 
Deep  malice  makes  too  deep  incision. 
Forget,  forgive  :  conclude,  and  be  agreed ; 
Our  doctors  say  this  is  no  month  to  bleed. — 
Good  uncle,  let  this  end  where  it  begun; 
We  '11  calm  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  you  your  son. 

Gaunt.  To  be  a  mak^-peace  .'^hall  become  my  age.— 
Throw  down,  my  son,  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  gage. 

K.  Rich.  And,  Norfolk,  throw  down  his. 

Gaunt.  When,  Harry?  when' 

Obedience  bids.  I  should  not  bid  again. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  throw  do\\'n  ;  we  bid  ;  there  is  nc 
boot. 

Nnr.  Myself  I  throw,  dread  sovereign,  at  thy  foot 
My  life  thou  shalt  command,  but  not  my  shame  • 
The  one  my  duty  owes  ;  but  my  fair  name. 
Despite  of  death  that  lives  upon  my  grave. 
To  dark  dishonour's  use  thou  shalt  not  have. 
I  am  disgrac'd.  impeach'd.  and  baffled  here , 
Pierc'd  to  the  soul  with  slander's  vcnom'd  spea:  . 
The  v.hich  ?io  ba'm  can  cure,  but  his  heart-blood 
Which  breath'd  this  poison. 

A'.  Rich.  Rage  must  be  withBto<Ki 

Give  me  his  gage : — lions  make  leopards'  tame. 

Nor.  Yea,  but  not  change  his  .spots :  take  but  n\\ 
shame. 
And  I  resign  my  gage.     My  dear,  dear  lord^ 
The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford 
Is  spotless  reputation  ;  that  away, 
Men  are  but  gilded  loam,  or  painted  clay. 
A  jewel  in  a  ten  times  barr'd-up  chest 
Is  a  bold  spirit  in  a  loyal  breast. 
Mine  honour  is  my  life  :  both  grow  in  one: 
Take  honour  from  me,  and  my  life  is  done. 
Then,  dear  my  liege,  mine  honour  let  me  try; 
In  that  I  live,  and  for  that  will  I  die. 


•  Uninhabitable :  often  Ro  DB«d  by  contemporary  writers.        »  From  the  qnarto.  1597.        'So  the  foli 
fncite     *  From  the  auarto.  1597       '  dear :  in  f.  e.     *  Ncrfolk't  creit  was  a  golden  leopard. 


quarto,  1597  :  $aid. 


WkJ:-^ 


SCENE   m. 


KING  EICHAKD  II. 


329 


K.  Rich.  Cousin,  thro-vi-  down  your  gage :  do  you 
begin. 

Boling.  0  !  God  defend  my  soul  from  such  deep*  sin. 
Shall  I  seem  crest-fairn  in  my  father's  sight? 
Or  •with  pale  beggar-fear  impeach  my  height 
Ifefore  this  outdar"d  dastard  ?     Ere  my  tongue 
Shall  wound  mine  honour  with  such  feeble  wrong. 
Or  sound  so  base  a  parle.  my  teeth  shall  tear 
The  slavish  motive  of  recanting  fear, 
And  spit  it  bleeding  in  his  high  disgrace, 
Where  shame  doth  harbour,  even  in  Mowbray's  face. 

[Exit  Gaunt. 

K.  Rich.  We  were  not  born  to  sue,  but  to  command  : 
Which  since  we  cannot  do  to  make  you  friends, 
Be  ready,  as  your  lives  shall  an.swer  it. 
At  Coventry,  upon  Saint  Lambert's  day. 
There  shall  your  swords  and  lances  arbitrate 
The  swelling  diflerence  of  your  settled  hate  : 
Since  we  cannot  atone^  you,  we  shall  see 
Justice  design^  the  victor's  chivalry. — 
Lord  Marshal,  command  our  officers  at  arms. 
Be  ready  to  direct  these  home-alarms.  [Exeu7it. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke  of 
Lancaster's  Palace. 
Enter  Gaunt,  and  Duchess  o/Gloster. 
Gaunt.  Alas  !  the  part  I  had  in  Gloster's  blood* 
Doth  more  solicit  me,  than  your  exclaims. 
To  stir  against  the  butchers  of  his  life : 
But  since  correction  lieth  in  those  hands, 
Which  made  the  fault  that  we  cannot  correct, 
Put  we  our  quarrel  to  the  will  of  heaven ; 
Who  when  they'  see  the  hours  ripe  on  earth. 
Will  rain  hot  vengeance  on  offenders'  heads. 

Duch.  Finds  brotherhood  in  thee  no  sharper  spur  ? 
Hath  love  in  thy  old  blood  no  living  fire  ? 
Edward's  seven  sons,  whereof  thyself  art  one, 
Were  as  seven  phials  of  his  sacred  blood. 
Or  seven  fair  branches  springing  from  one  root : 
Some  of  those  seven  are  dried  by  nature's  course. 
Some  of  those  branches  by  the  destinies  cut ; 
But  Tliomas.  my  dear  lord,  my  life,  my  Gloster, 
One  phial  full  of  Edward's  sacred  blood. 
One  flourishing  branch  of  his  mo.st  royal  root, 
Is  crack'd;  and  all  the  precious  liquor  spilt ; 
Is  hack'd  down,  and  his  summer  leaves  all  faded. 
By  en-v^-'s  hand,  and  murder's  bloody  axe. 
Ah  !  Gaunt,  his  blood  was  thine  :  that  bed,  that  womb. 
That  metal,  that  self-mould,  that  fa.«hion'd  thee. 
Made  him  a  man  :  and  though  thou  liv'st,  and  breath' st. 
Vet  art  thou  slain  in  him.     Thou  dost  consent 
In  some  large  measure  to  thy  father's  death, 
In  that  thou  seest  thy  Avretched  brother  die, 
Wtio  was  the  model  of  thy  father's  life. 
Call  it  not  patience.  Gaunt  :  it  is  despair  : 
111  suifering  thus  thy  brother  to  be  slaughter'd. 
Thou  show'st  the  naked  pathway  to  thy  life. 
Teaching  stem  murder  how  to  butcher  thee. 
T  hat  which  in  mean  men  we  entitle  patience, 
U  pale  cold  cowardice  in  noble  breasts. 
What  shall  I  say  ?  to  safeguard  thine  own  life. 
The  best  way  is  to  venge  my  Gloster's  death. 

Gaunt    God's  is  the  quarrel ;  for  God's  substitute. 
His  deputy  anointed  in  his  sight, 
\  Hath  caus'd  his  death  ;  the  which,  if  wrongfully. 
Let  heaven  revenge,  for  I  may  never  lift 
An  angry  arm  against  his  minister. 

Dut  h.  Where  then,  alas  !  may  I  complain  myself  ? 


Gaunt.  To  God,  the  widow's  champion  and  defenc«\ 
Duch.  Why  tlien,  I  will. — Farewell,  fa^e^^clt.'  oul 
Gaunt. 
Thou  go'st  to  Coventrj'.  there  to  behold 
Our  cousin  Hereford  and  fell  Mowbray  fight. 

0  !  flit  my  husband's  wrongs  on  Hereford's  spear, 
That  it  may  enter  butcher  Mowbray's  breast ; 

Or  if  misfortune  miss  the  first  career. 

Be  Mowbray's  sins  so  heavy  in  his  bosom, 

That  they  may  break  his  foaming  courser's  back, 

And  throw  the  rider  headlong  in  .he  lists, 

A  caitiff  recreant  to  my  cousai  Hereford. 

Farewell,  old  Gaunt :  thy  sometime  brother's  wife 

With  her  companion  grief  must  end  her  life. 

Gaunt.  Sister,  farewell  :  I  must  to  Coventry. 
As  much  good  stay  with  thee,  as  go  ^^^th  ne  : 

Duch.  Yet  one  word  more. — Grief  boundeth  \\  here 
it  falls, 
Not  with  the  empty  hollowness,  but  weight : 

1  take  my  leave  before  I  have  begun. 

For  sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done. 

Commend  me  to  my  brother,  Edmund  York. 

Lo  !  this  is  all : — nay,  yet  depart  not  so ; 

Though  this  be  all,  do  not  so  quickly  go  ; 

I  shall  remember  more.     Bid  him — O  !   what? — 

With  all  good  speed  at  Plashy  \asit  me. 

Alack  !  and  what  shall  good  old  York  there  see. 

But  empty  lodgings  and  unfurnish'd  walls. 

Unpeopled  offices,  untrodden  stones  ? 

And  what  hear'  there  for  welcome,  but  my  groans  ? 

Therefore  commend  me  ;  let  him  not  come  there, 

To  seek  out  sorrow  that  dwells  every  where. 

Desolate,  desperate.'  will  I  hence,  and  die : 

The  last  leave  of  thee  takes  my  weeping  eye.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Gosford  Green,  near  Coventry. 

Lists  set  out.  and  a  Throne.     Heralds,  fyc,  attending. 

Enter  the  Lord  Marshal,  and  Aumerle. 

Mar.  My  lord  Aumerle,  is  Harry  Hereford  arm'd  ? 

Aum.  Yea,  at  all  points,  and  lonss  to  enter  in. 

Mar.  The  duke  of  Norfolk,  sprightfully  and  bold, 
Stays  but  the  summons  of  the  appellant's  trumpet. 

Aum.  Why  then,  the  champions  are  prepar'd,  and 
stay 
For  nothing  but  his  majesty's  approach. 
Flourish.     Enter  King  Richard,  who  takes  his  seat  on 

his  Throne ;    Gaunt,  Bushy,   Bagot,  Green,  ana 

others,  who  take  their  places.     A  Trumpet  is  sounded. 

and  answered  by  another  Trumpet  within.   Then  enter 

Norfolk  in  armour,  preceded  by  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.  Marshal,  demand  of  yonder  champion 
The  cause  of  his  arrival  here  in  arms : 
Ask  him  his  name  ;  and  orderly  proceed 
To  swear  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  In  God's  name,  and  the  king's,  say  who  thou 
art. 
And  why  thou  com'st  thus  knightly  clad  in  arms  : 
Against  what  man  thou  com'st,  and  what  thy  quarrel. 
Speak  truly,  on  thy  knighthood,  and  thine  oath, 
As  so  defend  thee  heaven,  and  thy  valour  ! 

Nor.  My  name  is  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of  Nor- 
folk ,; 
"Who  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath. 
(Which,  God  defend,  a  knight  should  violate :; 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth. 
To  God,  my  king,  and  my'  succeeding  issue, 
Against  the  duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  this  mine  arm. 


'  So  tlie  quartos ;  the  folios  :  foul.     »  At 
sees     «Notinf.  e.     ^  So  all  old  copies 


Tie,  reconcile.     '  Designate.     ♦  My  relationship  to  him      *  So  all  the  old  copies  ;  mod.  ©ds.  rwvH  • 
mod.  eds.  read  :  cheer.     *  desolate  :  in  f.  e.     '  So  the  quartos  ,  th«  folio  :  his. 


330 


KING   RICHAKD  E. 


ACT    I. 


Vo  prove  him,  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me  : 
And.  as  I  ti-uly  fight,  defend  rne  lieaven  ! 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Bolingbroke,  in  armour, 
preceded  by  a  Herald. 

k.  Rich.   Marshal,  ask  yonder  knight  in  arms, 
Both  who  he  is,  and  why  he  cometh  hither 
Thus  plated  in  habilimeaits  of  war  ; 
And  formally,  according  to  our  law, 
Depose  him  in  tJio  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  Wliat  is  thv  name,  and  wherefore  com"st  thou 
hither. 
Before  King  Richard  in  his  royal  lists? 
Against  wliom  com'st  thou  ?  and  what  is  thy  quarrel  ? 
Speak  like  a  true  knight :  so  defend  thee  heaven  ! 

Boling.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Am  I ;  who  ready  here  do  stand  in  arms. 
To  prove  by  God's  grace,  and  my  body's  valour, 
(n  lists,  on  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of  Norfolk, 
That  he  '^  &  traitor,  foul  and  dangerous. 
To  God  of  heaven,  king  Richard,  and  to  me  : 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven  ! 

Mar.  On  pain  of  death  no  person  be  so  bold, 
Or  daring  hardy,  as  to  touch  the  list*; ; 
Except  the  mar.^hal,  and  such  officers 
Appointed  to  direct  these  fair  designs. 

Boling.  Lord   marshal,  let   me  kiss  my  sovereign's 
And  bow  my  knee  before  his  majesty  :  [hand. 

For  Mowbray  and  myself  are  like  two  men 
That  vow  a  long  and  wear>-  pilgrimage ; 
Then  let  us  take  a  ceremonious  leave, 
And  loving  farewell  of  our  several  friends. 

Mar.  The  appellant  in  all  duty  greets  your  highness, 
And  craves  to  lass  your  hand,  and  take  his  leave. 

K.  Rich.  We  will  descend,  and  fold  him  in  our  arms. 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  as  thy  cause  is  right. 
So  be  thy  fortune  in  this  royal  fight. 
Farewell,  my  blood  :  which  if  to-day  thou  shed. 
Lament  we  may,  but  not  revenge  thee  dead. 

Boling.  0  !  let  no  noble  eye  profane  a  tear 
For  me,  if  I  be  gor'd  with  Mowbray's  spear. 
As  confident  as  is  the  falcon's  flight 
Against  a  bird,  do  I  with  Mowbray  fight. — 
My  loving  lord,  I  take  my  leave  of  you  : — 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin,  lord  Aumerle  ; — 
Not  sick,  although  I  have  to  do  with  death. 
But  lusty,  young,  and  cheerly  drawing  breath. 
1  o  !  a«  at  English  feasts,  so  I  rcgreet 
Tijc  daintie.>;t  last,  to  make  the  end  most  sweet: 
0!   thou,  [7b  G.4UNT.]    the    earthly    author    of    my 
Whose  youthful  spirit,  in  me  regenerate,         [blood. — 
Doth  with  a  two-fold  vigour  lift  me  up 
To  reach  at  victory  above  my  head. 
Add  proof  unto  mine  armour  with  thy  prayers ; 
And  with  thy  blessings  steel  my  lance's  point. 
That  it  may  enter  Mnwbray's  waxen  coat. 
And  furbish  new  the  name  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
Even  in  the  lusty  'haviour  of  his  son. 

Gaunt.  God  in  thy  good  cause  make  thee  prosperous  ! 
Be  swift  like  lightning  in  tiie  execution; 
And  let  thy  blows,  doubly  redoubled. 
Fall  like  amazing  thunder  on  the  ca,sque 
Of  thy  adverse  pernicious  enemy  : 
Rouse  up  thy  youthful  blood,  be  valiant  and  live. 

Boling.  Mine  innocence,  and  Sainl  George  to  thrive  ! 

Nor.  However  God,  or  fortune,  cast  my  lot, 
There  lives  or  dies,  true  to  king  Richard's  thronr 
A  loyal,  just;  and  upright  gentleman. 

>  Jen  often  meanj  a  mistt  enWrtainment.      >  So  the  quarto.  1597; 
w  omitted  ic  the  folio.      »  So  the  qnarto  ;  the  folio  :  death.      •  »ly  : 


Never  did  captive  with  a  freer  heart 

Cast  off  his  chains  of  bondage,  and  embrace 

His  golden  uncontroll'd  enfranchisement. 

More  than  my  dancing  soul  doth  celebrate 

This  feast  of  battle  with  mine  adversary. — 

Most  mighty  liege,  and  my  companioii  peers. 

Take  from  my  mouth  the  wish  of  happy  years : 

As  gentle  and  as  jocund,  as  to  jest,' 

Go  I  to  fight.     Truth  hath  a  quiet  breast. 

A'.  Rich.  Farewell,  my  lord  :  securely  I  espy 
Virtue  with  valour  couched  in  thine  eye.— 
Order  the  trial,  marshal,  and  begin. 

Mar.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lanca.«ter,  and  Derby, 
Receive  thy  lance;  and  God  defend  the'  right ! 

Boling.  Strong  as  a  tower  in  hope.  I  cry,  amen. 

Mar.  Go  bear  this  lance  [To  an  Officer.]  to  Thomax 
duke  of  Norfolk. 

1  Her.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Stand.s  here  for  God.  his  sovereign,  and  himself, 

On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant, 

To  prove  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray, 

A  traitor  to  his  God,  his  king,  and  him  ; 

And  dares  him  to  set  forward  to  the  fight. 

2  Her.  Here  standeth  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of 

Norfolk, 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant, 
Both  to  defend  himself,  and  to  approve 
Henry  of  Hereford.  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
To  God,  his  sovereign,  and  to  him,  disloyal; 
Courageously,  and  with  a  free  desire, 
Attending  but  the  signal  to  begin. 

Mar.  Sovmd,  trumpets;  and  set  forward,  combatant.^. 
[A  Charge  sounded. 
Stay,  the  king  hath  thrown  his  warder'  down. 

K.  Rich.  Let  them  lay  by  their  helmets  and  theii 

spears. 
And  both  return  back  to  their  chairs  again. — 
Withdraw  with  us;  and  let  the  trum]iets  sound. 
While  we  return  these  dukes  what  we  decree. — 

[A  long  flourish 
Draw  near,  [To  the   Combatants.]  and  list,  what  wiU. 

our  council  we  have  done. 
For  that  our  kingdom's  earth  should  not  be  soil'd 
With  that  dear  blood  which  it  hath  fostered ; 
And  for  our  eyes  do  hate  the  dire  aspect 
Of  civil  wounds  plough'd  up  with  neighbours'  swordj 
And  for  we  think  the  eagle-winged  pride* 
Of  sky-aspiring  and  ambitious  thoughts. 
With  rival-hating  envy,  set  on  you 
To  wake  our  peace,  which  in  our  countr>-'s  cradle 
Draws  the  sweet  infant  breath  of  gentle  sleep; 
Which  so  rous'd  up  with  boisterous  untun'd  drums, 
With  harsh  re-sounding  trumpets'  dreadful  bray, 
And  grating  shock  of  wTathful  iron  arms, 
Might  from  our  quiet  confines  fright  fair  peace, 
And  make  us  wade  even  in  our  kindreds  blood  : 
Therefore,  we  banish  you  our  territories  : 
You,  cousin  Hereford,  upon  pain  of  life*. 
Till  twice  five  summers  have  enrich'd  our  fields, 
Shall  not  rcgreet  our  fair  dominioru;. 
But  tread  the  stranaer  paths  of  banishment. 

Boling.  Your  will  be  done.  This  must  my  comfort  be 
That  sun  that  warms  you  here  shall  shine  on  rac ; 
And  those  his  golden  beams,  to  you  here  lent, 
Shall  point  on  me.  and  gild  my  banishment. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  for  thee  remains  a  heavier  d.-)ora, 
Which  I  with  .some  unwillingness  pronounce  : 
The  fly'-slow  hours  shall  not  determinate 

other  ed*. :  thy.       '  Truncheon.      *  This  and  the  four  following  li«" 
in  f.  «. 


«OE»E  m. 


KING  KICHARD  H. 


331 


The  dateless  limit  of  thy  dear  exile. 
The  hopeless  word  of — never  to  return 
Breathe  I  against  thee,  upon  pain  of  life. 

Nor.  A  heavy  sentence,  my  most  sovereign  liege, 
And  all  unlook'd  for  from  your  highness'  mouth  : 
A  dearer  merit\  not  so  deep  a  maim 
As  to  be  cast  forth  in  the  common  air. 
Have  I  deser\-'d  at  your  highness'  hands. 
The  language  I  have  learn"d  these  forty  years, 
My  native  English,  now  I  must  forego  ; 
And  now  my  tongue's  use  is  to  me  no  more, 
Than  an  unstringed  viol,  or  a  harp  ; 
Or  like  a  cmming  instrument  cas'd  up, 
Or,  being  open,  put  into  his  hands 
That  knows  no  touch  to  tune  the  harmony. 
Within  my  mouth  you  have  enjail'd  my  tongue, 
Doubly  portcullis'd,  with  my  teeth  and  lips ; 
And  dull,  unfeeling,  barren  ignorance 
Is  made  my  jailor  to  attend  on  me. 
I  am  too  old  to  fawni  upon  a  nurse. 
Too  far  in  years  to  be  a  pupil  now ; 
What  is  thy  sentence,  then,  but  speechless  death, 
Which  robs  my  tongue  from  breathing  native  breath  ? 

K.  Rich.  It  boots  thee  not  to  be  compassionate : 
After  our  sentence  plaining  comes  too  late. 

Nor.  Then,  thus  I  turn  me  from  my  country's  light, 
To  dwell  in  solemn  shades  of  endless  night.  [Retirijig. 

K.  Rich.  Return  again,  and  take  an  oath  with  thee. 
Lay  on  our  royal  sword  your  banish'd  hands; 
Swear  by  the  duty  that  ye  owe  to  God, 
(Our  part  therein  we  banish  vnth  yourselves) 
To  keep  the  oath  that  we  administer  : — 
You  never  shall  (so  help  you  truth  and  God  !) 
Embrace  each  other's  love  in  banishment ; 
Nor  never"  look  upon  each  other's  face  : 
Nor  never'  write,  regreet,  nor  reconcile 
This  lowering  tempest  of  your  home-bred  hate  ; 
Nor  never  by  advised  purpose  meet, 
To  plot,  contrive,  or  coinplot  any  ill, 
'Gainst  us,  our  state,  our  subjects,  or  our  land. 

Baling.  I  swear. 

Nor.  And  I,  to  keep  all  this. 

\They  kvss  the  king^s  sword.* 

BoUng.  Norfolk,  so  fare*,  as  to  mine  enemy. — 
By  this  time,  had  the  king  permitted  us, 
One  of  our  souls  had  wander'd  in  the  air, 
Banisli'd  this  frail  sepulchre  of  our  flesh, 
As  now  our  flesh  is  banish'd  from  this  land  : 
Confess  thy  treasons,  ere  thou  fly  the  realm ; 
Since  thou  hast  far  to  go,  bear  not  along 
The  clogging  burden  of  a  guilty  soul. 

Nor.  No,  Bolingbroke  :  if  ever  I  were  traitor. 
My  name  be  blotted  from  the  book  of  life. 
And  I  from  heaven  banish'd,  as  from  hence. 
But  what  thou  art.  God,  thou,  and  I  do  know; 
And  all  too  soon,  I  fear,  the  king  shall  rue. — 
Farewell,  my  liege. — Now  no  way  can  I  stray  : 
Save  back  to  England,  all  the  world  's  my  way.  [Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Uncle,  even  in  the  glasses  of  thine  eyes 
I  see  thy  grieved  heart :  thy  sad  aspect 
Hath  from  the  number  of  his  banished  years 
Pluck'd  four  away. — [To  Bolingbrokk]     Six  frozen 

■winters  spent. 
Return  with  welcome  home  from  banishment. 

Boling.  How  long  a  time  lies  in  one  little  word  ! 
Four  lagging  winters  and  four  wanton  springs. 
End  in  a  word  :  such  is  the  breath  of  kings. 
Guunt.  I  thank  my  liege,  that  in  regard  of  me 


He  shortens  four  years  of  my  son's  exile ; 

But  little  vantage  shall  I  reap  thereby, 

For,  ere  the  six  years,  that  he  hath  to  spead. 

Can  change  their  moons,  and  bring  their  times  a.bout, 

My  oil-dried  lamp,  and  time-bewasted  light. 

Shall  be  extinct  with  age  and  endless  night : 

My  inch  of  taper  will  be  burnt  and  done, 

And  blindfold  death  not  let  me  see  my  son. 

K.  Rich.  Why   uncle,  thou  hast  many  years  to  live 

Gaunt.  But  not  a  minute,  king,  that  thou  canst  give ; 
Shorten  my  days  thou  canst  with  sullen  sorrow, 
And  pluck  nights  from  me,  but  not  lend  a  morrow. 
Thou  canst  help  time  to  furrow  me  with  age. 
But  stop  no  wrinkle  in  his  pilgrimage  : 
Thy  word  is  current  with  him  for  my  death. 
But,  dead,  thy  kingdom  cannot  buy  my  breath. 

K.  Rich.  Thy  son  is  banish'd  upon  good  advice, 
Whereto  thy  tongue  a  party-verdict  gave  : 
Why  at  our  justice  seem'st  thou,  then,  to  lower? 

Gaunt.  Things  sweet  to  taste  prove  in  digestion  soar 
You  urg'd  me  as  a  judge  :  but  I  had  rather, 
You  would  have  bid  me  argue  like  a  father. 

0  !  had  it  been  a  stranger,  not  my  child,' 

To  smooth  his  fault  I  should  have  been  more  mild : 

A  partial  slander  sought  I  to  avoid. 

And  in  the  sentence  my  own  life  destroy'd. 

Alas  !  I  look'd  when  some  of  you  should  say, 

1  was  too  strict  to  make  mine  own  away ; 
But  yoa  gave  leave  to  my  unwilling  tongue, 
Against  my  -vv-ill  to  do  myself  this  WTong. 

K.  Rich.  Cousin,  farewell  ; — and,  uncle,  bid  him  so 
Six  years  we  banish  him,  and  he  shall  go. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  King  Richard,  and  Tram- 

Aum.  Cousin,  farewell  :    what   presence   must  noi 
know. 
From  where  do  you  remain,  let  paper  show. 

Mar.  My  lord,  no  leave  take  I;  for  I  will  ride, 
As  far  as  land  will  let  me,  by  your  side. 

Gaunt.  0  !  to  what  purpose  dost  thou  hoard  thy 
words, 
That  thou  return'st  no  greeting  to  thy  friends  ? 

Boling.  I  have  too  few  to  take  my  leave  of  you. 
When  the  tongue's  office  should  be  prodigal 
To  breathe  th'  abundant  dolour  of  the  heart. 

Gaunt.  Thy  grief  is  but  thy  absence  for  a  time. 

Boling.  Joy  absent,  grief  is  present  for  that  time. 

Gaunt.  What  is  six  winters  ?  they  are  quickly  gone 

Boling.  To  men  in  joy;  but  grief  makes  one  houi 
ten. 

Gaunt.  Call  it  a  travel,  that  thou  tak'st  for  pleasure 

Boling.  My  heart  ^^^ll  sigh  when  I  miscall  it  so. 
Which  finds  it  an  enforced  pilgrimage. 

Gaunt.  The  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return. 

Boling.  Nay.  rather,  every  tedious  stride  I  make' 
Will  but  remember  me,  what  a  deal  of  world 
I  wander  from  the  jewels  that  I  love. 
Must  I  not  serve  a  long  apprenticehood 
To  foreign  passages,  and  in  the  end. 
Having  my  freedom,  boast  of  nothing  else 
But  that  I  was  a  journeyman  to  grief? 

Gaimt.  All  places  that  the  eye  of  heaven  v\siis, 
Are  to  a  wise  man  ports  and  happy  havens. 
Teach  thy  necessity  to  reason  thus  ; 
There  is  no  virtue  like  necessity  : 
Think  not  the  king  did  banish  thee, 
But  thou  the  king  :  woe  doth  the  heavier  .sit, 


Reward.      '  '  So  the  quartos  ;  ihe  folio  :  ever. 
^wo  followine  lines  are  omitted  in  thp  folio. 


*  Not  in  f.  e.      »  So  the  ol  i  copies  ;  the  9d  folio  and  mod   eds.  read  : 
This  and  the  next  speech  are  omitted  in  the  folio 


382 


Kl^G  RICHARD  H. 


ACT   II. 


Where  it  perceives  it  is  but  faintly  borne. 

Go.  say  I  .--oiit  tlice  fori.li  to  purchase  honour. 

And  not  the  kiuii  exild  thee  ;  or  suppose. 

Devouring  pestileme  hangs  in  our  air, 

And  thou  art  flying  to  a  fresher  clime: 

Look,  what  thy  soul  holds  dear,  imagine  it 

To  lie  that  way  thou  go'st.  not  whence  tiiou  com'st: 

Suppose  the  sini;ing  birds  musicians, 

The  grass  whereon  thou  tread'st  the  presence  strew'd, 

The  flowers  fair  ladies,  and  thy  .steps  no  more 

Than  a  delight tul  measure,  or  a  dance  ; 

For  gnarling  sorrow  hath  less  power  to  bite 

The  man  that  mocks  at  it,  and  sets  it  light. 

Bo!it}o;.  0  !   who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand, 
By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus  ? 
Or  cloy  the  liunnry  edge  of  appetite, 
By  bare  imagination  of  a  feast? 
Or  wallow  naked  in  December  snow, 
By  thinking  on  fanta.-^tic  summer's  heat? 
O  !  no  :  the  apprehension  of  the  good, 
(lives  but  the  greater  feeling  to  the  worse  : 
Fell  sorrow's  tooth  doth  never  rankle  more, 
Than  when  it^  bites,  but  lanceth  not  the  sore. 

Gaunt.  Come,  come,  my  son.  I  '11  bring  thee  on  thy 
way : 
Had  I  thy  youth  and  cause,  I  would  not  stay. 

Boling.  Then.  England's  ground,  farewell  :  sweet 
soil,  adieu ; 
My  mother,  and  my  nurse,  that  bears  me  yet  ! 
Where-e'er  I  wander,  boast  of  this  [  can. 
Though  banishd;  yet  a  trueborn  Englishman.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  King's 

Castle. 

Enter  King  Richard.  B.^got, a?if/  Green,  at  ane  door; 

Au.MERLE  at  another. 

K.  Rich.  We  did  obsei-ve. — Cousin  Aumerle, 

How  far  brought  you  high  Hereford  on  his  way  ? 

Aum.  I  brought  high  Hereford,  if  you  call  him  so, 
But  to  the  next  highway,  and  there  I  let't  him. 

K.  Rich.  And,  say,  what  store  of  parting  tears  were 

shed  ? 
Aum.  'Faith,  none  for  iTie;    except  the  north-east 
wind. 
Which  tlien  blew  bitterly  against  our  faces, 
Awak'd  the  sleeping  rheum,  and  so  by  chance 
Did  grace  our  hollow  parting  with  a  tear. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  our  cousin,  when  you  parted 

with  him  ? 
Aum.  Farewell  :    and,  for  my  heart   disdain'd  my 
tongue 
Should  so  jirofane  tlie  word,  that  taught  me  craft 
To  counterfeit  oppression  of  such  grief, 
That  words  seem'd  buried  in  my  sorrow'.s  grave. 


Marry,  would  the  word  '•  farewell "  have  lengthen'^ 

hours, 
And  added  years  to  his  short  banishment, 
He  should  have  had  a  volume  of  farewells : 
But,  since  it  would  not,  he  had  none  of  me. 

A'.  Rich.  He  is  yur  cousin,  cousin  ;  but  'tis  doubt, 
When  time  shall  call  him  home  from  banishti:en\ 
Whether  our  kinsman  come  to  see  his  friend.s. 
Oursclf.  and  Bushy.  Bagot  here,  and  Green, 
Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people  : 
How  he  did  seem  to  dive  into  their  hearts, 
With  humble  and  familiar  courtesy  : 
What  revere'.ice  he  did  throw  away  on  slaves  ; 
Wooing  poor  craftsmen  with  tlie  craft  :f  smiles, 
And  patient  underbcaring  of  his  fortune. 
As  'twere  to  banii:;h  their  affects  with  him. 
Off"  goes  his  bonnet  to  an  oyster  wench  ; 
A  brace  of  draymen  bid  God  speed  him  well. 
And  had  the  tribute  of  his  supple  knee 
With — ''Thanks,      my      countrymen,     my      loving 

friends  ;" — 
As  were  our  England  in  reversion  his, 
And  he  our  subjects'  next  degree  in  hope. 

Green.  Well,  he  is  gone;  and  with  him  go  thc« 
thoughts. 
Now  for  the  rebels,  which  stand  out  in  Ireland. 
Expedient*  manage  must  be  made,  my  liege. 
Ere  farther  leisure  yield  them  farther  means, 
For  their  advantage,  and  your  highness'  loss. 

A'.  Rich.  We  will  ourself  in  person  to  this  war  : 
And,  for  our  coffers  \\-ith  too  great  a  court, 
And  liberal  largess,  are  grown  somewhat  light, 
We  are  entbrc'd  to  farm  our  royal  realm  ; 
The  revenue  whereof  shall  furnish  us 
For  our  afl^airs  in  hand.     If  that  come  short. 
Our  substitutes  at  home  shall  have  blank  charters  , 
Whereto,  when  they  shall  know  what  men  are  rich, 
They  shall  subscribe  them  for  largs  sums  of  gold, 
And  send  them  after  to  supply  our  wants, 
For  we  will  make  for  Ireland  presently. 

Enter  Bushy. 
Bu.shy,  what  news  ? 

Bushy.  Old  John  of  Gaunt  is  grievous  sick,  my  lord, 
Suddenly  taken,  and  hath  sent  post-haste. 
To  entreat  your  majesty  to  visit  him. 

K.  Rich.  Where  lies  he  now  ? 

Bushy.  At  Ely-house,  my  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Now  put  if.  God,  in  his  physician's  mind, 
To  help  him  to  his  grave  immediately  ! 
The  lining  of  his  coffers  shall  make  coats 
To  deck  our  soldiers  for  these  Iri.sh  wars. — 
Come,  gentlemen,  let 's  all  go  visit  him  : 
Pray  God,  we  may  make  haste,  and  come  too  late  ! 

[Exetint 


ACT    II 


SCENE  T. — uondon.     An  Apartment  in  Ely-house. 
Gaunt  on  a  Coiuh;  the  Duke  of  York,  and  Others, 

standing  by  him. 
Gaunt.  Will  the  king  come,  that  I  may  breathe  my 
In  wholesome  coun.sel  to  his  unstaid  youth  ?  [last 

York.  Ve>  not  yourself,  nor  strive  not  with  your  breath  ; 
For  all  in  vain  comes  counsel  to  his  ear. 

Gaunt.  O  '  but  they  say.  the  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention  like  deep  harmony  • 


Where  words  are  scarce,  they  are  seldom  spent  in  vain 
For  they  breathe  fruth  that  breathe  their  words  in  pan 
He  that  no  more  may  say  is  listen'd  more. 

Than  they  whom  youth  and  case  have  taught  toglo."!- 
More  are  men's  ends  mark'd,  than  their  lives  before 

The  setting  sun  and  music  at*  tne  close. 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last, 
Writ  in  remembrance  more  than  things  long  past. 
Though  Richard  my  life's  counsel  would  not  hear. 
My  death's  sad  tale  may  yet  undcaf  his  ear. 


•  Th<!  quarto.  l.^OT,  ha<  :  he.     >  Expedmoux.      >  80  the  qnartoi ;  the  folioi  :  U. 


SCENE   1. 


KIXG  EICHAKD  H. 


383 


York.  No  :  it  is  stopp'd  vrith.  oiner  flattering  sounds. 
As  praises  of  his  state :  then,  there  are  found' 
LjLsci^'ious  metres,  to  whose  venom  sound 
The  open  ear  of  youth  doth  ahvays  listen  : 
Report  of  fashions  in  proud  Italy  : 
Whose  manners  still  our  tardy  apish  nation 
Limps  after,  in  base  imitation. 
Where  doth  the  world  thrust  forth  a  vanity. 
So  it  be  new  there  "s  no  respect  how  vile, 
That  is  not  quickly  buzz"d  into  his  ears  ? 
Then,  all  too  late  comes  counsel  to  be  heard, 
Where  \\-ill  doth  mutiny  with  wit's  regard. 
Hiiect  not  him.  whose  way  himself  will  choose: 
"T  is  breath  Uiou   lack'st,  and  that  breath  wilt  thou 
lose. 

Gaunt.  Methinks,  I  am  a  prophet  new  inspir'd. 
And  thus,  expiring,  do  foretell  of  him. 
His  rash  fierce  blaze  of  riot  cannot  last. 
For  \-iolent  fires  soon  burn  out  themselves ; 
Small  showers  last  long,  but  sudden  storms  are  short ; 
He  tires  betimes,  that  spurs  too  fast  betimes ; 
With  eager  feeding  food  doth  choke  the  feeder : 
Light  vanity,  insatiate  cormorant. 
Consuming  means,  soon  preys  upon  itself. 
This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepterd  isle, 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 
This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself, 
Against  infection,  and  the  hand  of  warj 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world, 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  en\-y  of  less  happier  lands ; 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England. 
This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 
Foard  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by*  their  birth, 
Reno\^-ned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 
For  Christian  serA-ice  and  true  chivalry', 
As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry 
Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Marj^'s  Son  : 
This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land. 
Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world, 
Is  now  leas'd  out.  I  die  pronouncing  it. 
Like  to  a  tenement,  or  pelting'  farm. 
England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea. 
Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  emious  siege 
Of  water\-  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  shame. 
With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds  : 
That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others. 
Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself. 
Ah  I  would  the  scandal  vanish  with  my  life. 
How  aappy  then  were  my  ensuing  death. 
Enter  King  Richakd.  and  Queen:  Aumerle.  Bushy, 
Green,  Bagot,  Ross,  and  Willocghev. 

York.  The  king  is  come  :  deal  midly  with  his  youth; 
For  youtig  hot  colts,  being  urg'd*,  do  rage  the  more. 

Qicen.  How  fares  our  noble  uncle,  Lancaster  ? 

A'.  Rich.  What,  comfort,  man  !    How  is  't  with  aged 
Gaitnt? 

Gaunt.  0.  how  that  name  befits  my  composition  ! 
Old  Gaunt,  indeed :   and  gaunt  in  being  old  : 
Within  me  grief  hath  Kept  a  tedious  fast  ; 
Ajtd  who  abstains  from  meat,  that  is  not  gaunt? 
For  sleeping  England  long  time  have  I  watch'd  ; 
Watching  breeds  leanness,  leaimess  is  all  gaunt : 


The  pleasure  that  some  fathers  feed  upon 
Is  my  strict  fast,  I  mean  my  children's  looks : 
And  therein  fasting  hast  thou  made  me  gaunt. 
Gaunt  am  I  for  the  grave,  gaunt  as  a  grave, 
Whose  hollow  womb  inherits  nought  but  bones. 

K.  Rich.    Can   sick  men  play  so  nicely  M-ith   then 

names  ? 
Gaunt.  No ;  misery  makes  sport  to  mock  itself : 
Since  thou  dost  seek  to  kill  my  name  in  me, 
I  mock  my  name,  great  king,  to  flatter  thee. 

K.  Rich.  Should  dving  men  flatter  with'  those  thai 

li\e? 
Gaitnt.  No.  no;  men  living  flatter  those  that  die. 
K.  Rich.  Thou,  now  a-dying.  say'st — thou  flatter" st  me 
Gaunt.  O  !  no;  thou  diest,  though  I  the  sicker  be 
K.  Rich.  I  am  in  health,  I  breathe,  and  see  thee  ill 
Gaitnt.  Now.  He  that  made  me  knows  I  see  thee  ill 
111  in  myself  to  see,  and  in  thee  seeing  ill. 
Thy  death-bed  is  no  lesser  than  the  land. 
Wherein  thou  liest  in  reputation  sick  : 
And  thou,  too  careless  patient  as  thou  art, 
Corr.mit'pt  thy  'nointed  body  to  the  cure 
Of  those  physicians  that  first  wounded  thee. 
A  thousand  flatterers  sit  within  thy  crown, 
Whose  compass  is  no  bigger  than  thy  head, 
And  yet.  incaged  in  so  small  a  verge. 
The  waste  is  no  whit  lesser  than  thy  land. 
0  I  had  thy  grandsire,  AA-ith  a  prophet's  eye. 
Seen  how  his  son's  son  should  destroy  his  sons. 
From  forth  thy  reach  he  would  have  laid  thy  shame 
Deposing  thee  before  thou  wert  possess'd. 
Which  art  possess'd  now  to  depose  thyself. 
Why,  cousin,  wert  thou  regent  of  the  world, 
It  were  a  shame  to  let  this  land  by  lease ; 
But  for  thy  world  enjoying  but  this  land. 
Is  it  not  more  than  shame  to  shame  it  so  ? 

i  Landlord  of  England  art  thou  no^v*,  not  king  ■ 

!  Thy  state  of  law  is  bondslave  to  the  law, 
And  thou — ' 

A'.  Rich.  A  lunatic  lean-witted  fool, 
Presuming  on  an  ague's  priA^ilege, 
Dar'st  with  thy  frozen  admonition 
Make  pale  our  cheek,  chasing  the  royal  blood 
With  fury  from  his  native  residence. 
Now,  by  my  seat's  right  royal  majestv". 
Wert  thou  not  brother  to  great  Edward's  son, 

!  This  tongue  that  runs  so  roitndly  in  thy  head. 

I  Should  run  thy  head  from  thy  itnreverend  shoulders. 

j      Gaitnt.  0 !  spare  me  not,  my  brother  Edward's  son 

I  For  that  I  was  his  father  Edward's  son  : 

I  That  blood  already,  like  the  pelican, 

I  Hast  thou  tapp'd  out.  and  drunkenly  carous'd. 
My  brother  Gloster,  plain  well-meaning  soul, 

I  Whom  fair  befal  in  heaven  'mongst  happy  souls 
May  be  a  precedent  and  A\'itness  good. 
That  thou  respect'st  not  spilling  Edward's  blood. 
Join  with  the  present  sickiiess  that  I  have. 
And  thy  unkindness  be  like  crooked  age. 
To  crop  at  once  a  too-long  \\-ithered  flower. 

;  Live  in  thy  shame,  but  die  not  shame  with  thee  • 

I  These  words  hereafter  thy  tormentors  be. — 
Convey  me  to  my  bed,  then  to  my  grave  : 

1  Love  they  to  live,  that  love  and  honour  have. 

j  '       [Exit,  borne  out  by  his  Attendants 

K.  Rich.  And  let  them  die,  that  age  and  sullens  have 
For  both  hast  thou,  and  both  become  the  grave 


'The  qnano,  1593.  reads  :  As  praises,  of  whose  taste  the  wise  are  found  (fondl.     '  Folio.  1623  :  for.     '  Petty,    •rag'd  :  in  f.  e.     '  The  fc! 
liti :  witK       •  The  folio :  ana.     '  So  the  quartos  :  the  folio  and  most  mod  .eds.  : 

And— 

E   Rick.  And  thou  a  Irnatir.  *c. 


o3-i 


KING  KICHARD  H. 


ACT  n. 


York.  I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  impute  his  words 
To  wayward  sickliness  and  age  in  bini  : 
He  loves  you,  on  my  life,  and  holds  you  dear 
'\s  Harry,  duke  ol  Herelord,  were  he  here. 

K.  Rich.  Hiyht.   you  say  true;  as  Hereford  :  love, 
so  his  : 
As  theirs,  so  mine  :  and  all  be  a.«  it  is. 

Enter  N'ORTHUMBERL.^ND. 

Xorth.  My  liege,  old  Gaunt  coinniend.^  him  to  your 
majesty. 

K.  Rich.  What  says  he  ? 

North.  Nay,  nothing;  all  is  said. 
His  tongue  is  now  a  stringless  instrument : 
Words,  life,  and  all,  old  Lancaster  hath  spent. 

York.  Be  York  the  next  that  must  be  bankrupt  so  ! 
Though  death  be  poor,  it  ends  a  mortal  woe. 

A'.  Rich.  The  ripest  fruit  first  falls,  and  so  doth  he : 
His  time  is  spent  ;  our  pilgrimage  must  be. 
So  much  for  that. — Now  for  our  Irish  wars. 
We  mu.st  supplant  those  rough  rug-lieaded  kerns. 
Which  live  like  venom,  where  no  venom  else, 
But  only  they,  hath  priAilege  to  live  : 
And  for  these  great  affairs  do  ask  some  charge. 
Towards  our  assistance  we  do  seize  to  us 
The  plate,  coin,  revenues,  and  movables. 
Whereof  our  uncle  Gaunt  did  stand  possess'd. 

York.  How  long  shall  I  be  patient  ?    Ah  1  how  long 
Shall  tender  duty  make  me  suffer  wrong? 
Not  Gloster's  death,  nor  Hereford's  banishment. 
Not  Gaunt"s  rebukes,  nor  England's  private  wrongs, 
Nor  the  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage,  nor  my  own  disgrace, 
Have  ever  made  me  sour  my  patient  cheek. 
Or  bend  one  WTinkle  on  my  soA'ereign's  face. 
1  am  the  la.st  of  noble  Edwards  sons. 
Of  whom  thy  father,  prince  of  Wales,  was  first : 
In  war  was  never  lion  ragd  more  fierce. 
In  peace  was  never  gentle  lamb  more  mild, 
Than  was  that  young  and  princely  gentleman. 
His  face  thou  hast,  for  even  so  look'd  he, 
.Accomplish"d  with  the  number  of  thy  hours  : 
Ihit  when  he  frown"  d.  it  was  aiiainst  the  French, 
And  not  against  his  friends  :   his  noble  hand 
Did  win  what  he  did  spend,  and  spent  not  that 
Which  his  triumphant  father's  hand  had  won  : 
His  hands  were  guilty  of  no  kind>ed  blood. 
But  bloody  with  the  enemies  of  his  kin. 
0.  llichard  !  York  is  too  far  gone  with  grief. 
Or  else  he  never  would  compare  oetween. 

A'.  Rich.  Why.  uncle,  what  "s  the  matter? 

York.  0;  my  liege  ! 

Pardon  me,  if  you  please;  if  not.  I.  pleas'd 
Not  to  be  pardon'd.  am  content  withal. 
Seek  you  to  seize,  and  gripe  into  your  hands. 
Tlie  royalties  and  rights  of  bani-shd  Hereford  ? 
Is  not  Gaunt  dead,  and  doth  not  Herelord  live  ? 
Wa.s  not  Gaunt  just,  and  is  not  Harr}-  true? 
Did  not  the  one  deserve  to  have  an  heir  ' 
!.■«  not  liis  heir  a  well-deserving  .son  ? 
Take  Hereford's  rights  away,  and  take  from  time 
His  charters  and  his  customary  rights  : 
Lei  not  to-morrow,  then,  ensue  to-day ; 
Be  not  thyself:  for  how  art  thou  a  king. 
Bnt  by  fair  sequence  and  .succession  ? 
Now.  afore  God  (God  forbid.  I  say  true  I) 
If  you  do  wrongfully  seize  Hereford's  rights. 


Call  in  the  letters  patents  that  he  hath 
By  his  attornies-general  to  sue 
His  livery,'  and  deny  his  offer'd  homage, 
I  You  pluck  a  thousand  dangers  on  your  head, 
,  You  lose  a  thousand  well-disposed  hearts, 
I  And  prick  my  tender  patience  to  those  thoughts 
i  Which  honour  and  allegiance  cannot  think. 

A'.  Rich.  Think  what  you  will :  we  seize  into  on: 
I  hands 

His  plate,  his  goods,  his  money,  and  his  lands. 

York.  I  "11  not  be  by  the  while.    My  liege,  farewell 
I  What  will  ensue  hereof,  there  's  none  can  tell ; 
i  But  by  bad  courses  may  be  understood, 
I  That  their  events  can  never  fall  out  good.  [Eiil 

K.  Rich.  Go.  Bushy,  to  the  earl  of  Wiltshire  straight 
!  Bid  him  repair  to  us  to  Ely-house. 
j  To  see  this  business.     To-morrow  next 
I  We  will  for  Ireland  ;  and  't  is  time,  I  trow  : 
I  And  we  create,  in  absence  of  ourself, 
Our  uncle  York  lord  governor  of  England, 
For  he  is  just,  and  always  lov'd  us  well. — 
Come  on,  our  queen :  to-morrow  must  we  part : 
Be  merry,  for  our  time  of  stay  is  short.  [Flovri'ih 

[EoceurU,  King,  Qcken.  Bushy,  Aumeri  k 
Green,  and  Bauot. 
North.  Well,  lords,  the  duke  of  Lancaster  is  dead. 
Ross.  And  living  too.  for  now  his  son  is  duke. 
Willo.  Barely  in  title,  not  in  revenues. 
North.  Richly  in  both,  if  justice  had  her  right. 
Ross.  My  heart  is  great ;  but  it  must  break  with  silence 
Ere  't  be  disburden 'd  with  a  liberal  tongue. 

North.    Nay,  speak  thy  mind ;    and  let  him   ne'ei 
speak  more, 
That  speaks  thy  words  again  to  do  thee  harm  ! 

Willo.  Tends  that  thou  *dst  speak,  to  the  duke  of 
Hereford  ? 
If  it  be  so,  out  with  it  boldly,  man  . 
Quick  is  mine  ear  to  hear  of  good  towards  him. 

Ross.  No  good  at  all  that  I  can  do  for  him, 
Unless  you  call  it  good  to  pity  him, 
Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony. 

North.  Now.  afore  God,  "t  is  shame  such  wTongs  are 
borne 
In  him,  a  royal  prince,  and  many  more 
Of  nobie  blood  in  this  declining  land. 
The  king  is  not  himself,  but  basely  led 
By  flatterers  :  and  what  they  will  inform, 
Merely  in  hate,  "gainst  any  of  us  all. 
That  will  the  king  severely  prosecute. 
'Gainst  us.  our  wives',  our  children,  and  our  heirs 
Ross.    The  commons  hath  he  pill'd  with  grievou- 
taxes. 
And  quite  lost  their  hearts  :  the  nobles  hath  he  fiiiM 
For  ancient  quarrels,  and  quite  lost  their  hearts 

Willo.  And  daily  new  exactions  are  devis'd  : 
As  blanks,  benevolences,  and  I  wot  not  what : 
But  what,  o"  Gods  name,  doth  become  of  this? 

North.  Wars  have  not  wasted  it,  for  warr"d  he  li.i'l 
not, 
But  basely  yielded  upon  compromise 
That  which  his  noble'  ancestors  achiev'd  with  blown 
More  hath  he  spent  in  peace,  than  they  in  wars. 
Rn.-is    The  earl  of  Wiltshire  hath  the  realm  in  farm 
Willo.  The  king's  grown  bankrupt,  like  a  broken  man 
North.  Reproach,  and  dis.solution.  hangeth  over  him 
Ross.  He  hath  not  monev  for  these  Irish  wars, 


'  On  the  d«tlh  '>f  eTery  perron  who  held  by  Knig;bt°ii  »enrice,  the  escheator  of  the  court  unmmoned  a  jury,  who  inquired  wh»t  fs1\te  h« 
died  leized.  oj-  potfesucd  of,  and  what  aje  hi»  next  heir  was.  If  he  was  under  age.  he  became  a  ward  of  the  king  ;  if  of  full  af.  h"-  h»"  » 
ricbt  to  •':•«  out  a  writ  of  ouster  la  main,  tha'  is.  hie  /«V»ry,  that  th(>  king's  hand  might  be  tnken  off.  and  th»  Isnd  delJTered  to  him  —yfil"^' 
«  lire*  :  m  f.  e      '  '  'ol  in  '.he  folio 


80EN"E    n. 


KING  RIOHAKD  II. 


385 


F^is  burdenous  taxations  notwithstanding, 
But  by  the  robbing  of  the  banish'd  duke. 

North.  His  noble  kinsman :  most  degenerate  king  ! 
But,  lords,  we  hear  this  fearful  tempest  sing, 
Vet  seek  no  shelter  to  avoid  the  storm : 
We  see  the  wind  sit  sore  upon  our  sails, 
And  j^et  we  strike  not,  but  securely  perish. 

Ross.  We  see  the  very  wreck  that  we  must  suffer ; 
And  unavoided  is  the  danger  now, 
For  suffering  so  the  causes  of  our  wreck. 

North.  Not  so  :    even   through  the    hollow  eyes  of 
death, 
I  spy  life  peering ;  but  I  dare  not  say 
How  near  the  tidings  of  our  comfort  is. 

Willo.  Nay,  let  us  share  thy  thoughts,  as  thou  dost 
ours. 

Ross.  Be  confident  to  speak,  Northumberland  : 
Wc  three  are  but  thyself;  and,  speaking  so. 
Thy  words  are  but  our^  thoughts  :  therefore,  be  bold. 

North.  Then  thus. — I  have  from  I'ort  le  Blanc,  a  bay 
In  Brittany,  receiv'd  intelligence, 
That  Harry  duke  of  Hereford.  Reginald  lord  Cobham, 
Tliat  late  broke  from  tlie  duke  of  Exeter, 
His  brother,  archbishop  late  of  Canterbury, 
Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  sir  John  Ramston, 
Sir  John  Norbery,  sir  Robert  Waterton,  and.  Francis 

Quoint, 
A 11  these  well  furnish'd  by  the  duke  of  Bretagne, 
With  eight  tall  ships,  three  thousand  men  of  war. 
Are  making  hither  with  all  due  expedience. 
And  shortly  mean  to  touch  our  northern  shore : 
Furhaps,  they  had  ere  this,  but  that  they  stay 
The  first  departing  of  the  king  for  Ireland, 
[f,  then,  we  shall  shake  off  our  slavish  yoke. 
Imp'  out  our  drooping  country's  broken  wing. 
Redeem  from  broking  pawn  the  blemish'd  crowTi. 
Wipe  off  the  dust  that  hides  our  scepter's  gilt, 
And  make  high  majesty  look  like  itself, 
Away  with  me  in  post  to  Ravenspurg  ; 
But  if  you  faint,  as  fearing  to  do  so, 
Stay  and  be  secret,  and  myself  will  go. 

Ross.  To  horse,  to  horse  !  urge  doubts  to  them  that 
fear. 

Willo.  Hold  out  my  horse,  and  I  will  first  be  there. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— The  Same.     An  Apartment  in  the 

Palace. 

Enter  Queen,  Bushy,  and  Bagot. 

Bushy.  Madam,  your  majesty  is  too  much  sad  : 
\  ou  promis'd.  when  you  parted  with  the  king, 
To  lay  aside  life^-harming  heaviness. 
And  entertain  a  cheerful  disposition. 

Queen.  To  please  the  king,  I  did  ;  to  please  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ;  yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  I  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  grief. 
Gave  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard.     Yet,  again,  methinks. 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  fortune's  womb. 
Is  coming  towards  me  :  and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembles  :  at  some  thing  it  grieves, 
-More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord,  the  king. 

Bushy.  Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty  sha- 
dows, 
Whicli  show  like  grief  itself,  but  are  not  so : 
For  sorrow's  eye.  glazed  with  blinding  tears. 


Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects  , 
Like  perspectives*,  which,  rightly  gaz'd  upon, 
Show  nothing  but  confusion  :  ey'd  awry, 
Distinguish  form  :  so  your  sweet  majesty, 
Looking  awry  upon  your  lord's  departure, 
Finds  shapes  of  grief  more  than  himself  to  wail  ^ 
Which,  look'd  on  as  it  is,  is  nought  but  shadowe 
Of  what  it  is  not.     Then,  thrice  gracious  queen. 
More  than  your  lord's  departure  weep  not :    more  . 

not  seen  ; 
Or  if  it  be,  't  is  with  false  sorrow's  eye. 
Which  for  things  true  weeps  things  imaginary. 

Queen.  It  may  be  so  ;  but  yet  my  inward  .soul 
Persuades  me,  it  is  otherwise  :  howe'er  it  be, 
I  cannot  but  be  sad  :  so  heavy  sad. 
As,  though  unthinking'  on  no  thought  I  think. 
Makes  me  with  heavy  nothing  faint  and  shrink. 

Bushy.  'T  is  nothing  but  conceit,  my  gracious  lady 

Queen.  'T  is  nothing  less  :  conceit  is  still  deriv'd 
From  some  forefatiier  grief ;  mine  is  not  so, 
For  nothing  hath  begot  my  something  woe*  ; 
Or  something  hath  the  nothing  that  I  guess' : 
'T  is  in  reversion  that  I  do  possess. 
But  what  it  is,  that  is  not  yet  known,  what 
I  cannot  name  :  't  is  nameless  woe,  I  wot. 
Enter  Green. 

Green.   God    save   your    majesty : — and  well    met, 
gentlemen. — 
I  hope,  the  king  is  not  yet  shipp'd  for  Ireland. 

Queen.  Why  hop'st  thou  so  ?  't  is  better  hope  he  is, 
For  his  designs  crave  haste,  his  haste  good  hope ; 
Then,  wherefore  dost  thou  hope,  he  is  not  shipp'd  ? 

Green.    That  he,  our  hope,  might  have  retir'd  his 
power, 
And  driven  into  despair  an  enemy's  hope, 
Who  strongly  hath  set  footing  in  this  land. 
The  banish'd  Bolingbroke  repeals  himself. 
And  with  uplifted  arms  is  safe  arriv'd 
At  Ravenspurg. 

Queen.  Now,  God  in  heaven  forbid  ! 

Green.  Ah  !  madam,  't  is  too  true :  and  what  is  worse. 
The  lord  Northumberland,  his  son  young*  Hcnr^'  Percy, 
The  lords  of  Ross,  Beaumond,  and  Willoughby, 
With  all  their  powerful  friends,  are  fled  to  him. 

Bushy.     Why  have  you  not  proclaim'd    Northum- 
berland, 
And  all  the  rest  of  the  revolted  faction,  traitors  ? 

Green.  We  have  :  whereupon  the  earl  of  Worcester 
Hath  broken  his  staff,  resign'd  his  stewardship, 
And  all  the  household  servants  fled  with  him 
To  Bolingbroke. 

Queen.  So,  Green,  thou  art  the  midwife  to  my  woe, 
And  Bolingbroke  my  sorrow's  dismal  heir  : 
Now  hath  my  soul  brought  forth  her  prodigy. 
And  I,  a  gasping  new-deliver'd  mother. 
Have  woe  to  woe,  sorrow  to  sorrow  join'd. 

Bushy.  Despair  not,  madam. 

Queen.  Who  shall  hinder  me  ? 

I  will  despair,  and  be  at  enmity 
With  cozening  hope  :  he  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper-back  of  death, 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  life. 
Which  false  hope  lingers  in  extremity. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  York,  -part-armed.^ 

Green.  Here  comes  the  duke  of  York. 

Queen.  With  signs  of  war  about  his  aged  neck. 


'  as  :  in  f.  e.  '  Insert  a  new  feather  in  place  of  a  broken  one.  '  So  the  quartos  ;  the  folios  :  self.  *  Knight  says,  .hese  "  persf  ecyivea 
we  pictures  painted  on  a  board,  so  cut  as  to  present  a  number  of  sides  or  flats,  when  Tiewed  obliquely.  When  "  rightly  gazed  upon."  :.  f 
n  front,  nothing  can  oe  seen  ;  eyed  awry,  the  picture  is  visible  »  in  thinking  :  in  f  e.  >  gnei :  in  f  e  '  grieve  :  in  f  e.  8  So  thf 
quartos  ;  the  foClo  :  hig  young  son.     '  Not  in  f.  e 


836 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


ACT  n. 


0  !  full  of  careful  business  are  his  looks. — 
Uncle,  for  God's  sake,  speak  conitortal)le  words. 

York.  Should  1  do  so,  I  sliould  belie  my  thoughts  : 
(Comfort's  in  heaven  ;  and  we  arc  on  the  earth, 
Where  nothing  lives  but  crosses,  care,  and  grief. 
Vour  husband,  he  is  gone  to  save  far  off, 
VVhil.«t  others  come  to  make  him  lose  at  home  : 
Hero  am  I  left  to  underprip  his  land. 
Who,  weak  witli  age.  cannot  supjiort  myself. 
Now  comes  the  sick  hour  that  his  surfeit  made  : 
No*v  shall  he  try  his  friends  that  flattor'd  him. 
Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  your  son  was  gone  before  I  came. 

York.  He   was  ? — Why.   so  ■ — so  all  which  way  it 

W4ll.— 

The  nobles  they  are  (led,  the  commons  cold. 
And  "N^ll,  I  fear,  revolt  on  Hereford's  side. —    . 
Sirrah,  get  thee  to  Plashy,  to  my  si.'ter  Glostcr; 
Bid  her  send  me  presently  a  thousand  pound. 
Hold  ;  take  my  ring. 

Serv.  My  lord,  I  had  forgot  to  tell  your  lordship  : 
To-day,  as  I  came  by,  I  called  there  : 
But  I  shall  grieve  you  to  report  the  rest. 

York.  What  is  't,  knave  ? 

Serv.  An  hour  before  I  came  the  duchess  died. 

York.  God  for  his  mercy  !  what  a  tide  of  woes 
Comes  rushing  on  this  woeful  land  at  once  ! 

1  know  not  wliat  to  do  : — I  would  to  God, 
(So  my  untruth  had  not  provok'd  him  to  it) 
The  king  had  cut  off  my  head  wtli  iny  brother's. — 
What  !  are  there  no'  posts  dispatch't  for  Ireland  ? — 
How  shall  we  do  for  money  for  these  wars  ? — 
Come,  sister, — cousin,  I  would  say  :  pray,  pardon  me. — 
Go,  fellow,   [To  the  Servayit.]  get  thee  home:  provide 

some  carts, 
And  bring  away  the  armour  that  is  there. — 

[Exit  Servant. 
Gentlemen,  will  you  go  muster  men  ? 
If  I  know  how,  or  which  way,  to  order  these  affairs, 
Thus  disorderly  thrust  into  my  hands. 
Never  believe  me.     Both  are  my  kinsmen : 
Th'  one  is  my  sovereign,  whom  both  my  oath 
And  duty  bids  dcfead ;  th'  other  again. 
Is  my  near^  kinsman,  whom  the  king  hath  wrong'd. 
Whom  conscience  and  my  kindred  bids  to  right. 
Well,  somewhat  we  must  do. — Come,  cousin,        [men. 
I  "11  dispose  of  you. — Gentlemen,  go  muster  up  your 
And  meet  me  presently  at  Berkley'. 
I  should  to  Plashy  too. 
But  lime  will  not  permit. — All  is  uneven. 
And  every  thing  is  left  at  six  and  seven. 

[Exeunt  York  and  Queen. 

Bushy.  The  wind  sits  fair  for  news  to  go  tor  Ireland, 
But  none  returns.     For  us  to  levy  power. 
Proportionable  to  the  enemy, 
Is  all  impossible. 

Green.  Besides,  our  nearness  to  the  king  in  love 
Is  near  the  hate  of  those  love  not  the  kinir. 

Bagot.  And  tiiat  's  the  wavering  commons  :  for  their 
love 
Lies  in  their  purses,  and  whoso  empties  them. 
By  80  much  fills  their  hearts  with  deadly  hate. 

Bxishy.    Wherein    the    king    stands    generally    con- 
demn'd. 

Bagot.  If  judgment  lie  in  them,  then  so  do  we, 
Becau.se  we  ever  have  been  near  the  king. 

Green.  Well,  I  'II  for  refuge  straight  to  Bristol  castle  : 
The  earl  of  Wiltshire  is  alreatly  there. 

Bushy.  Thither  will  I  with  you ;  for  little  office 

Not  in  the  folio.     'This  -word  i«  not  in  f.  e.     'The  folio  :  Berkley  castle 


Will  the  hateful  commons  perform  for  us. 
Except  like  curs  to  tear  us  all  to  pieces. — 
Will  you  go  along  with  us  ? 

Bagot.  No  :   I  will  to  Ireland  to  his  maje.s^ty. 
Farewell  :  if  heart's  presages  be  not  vain. 
We  three  here  part,  that  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 

Bushy.  That 's  as  York  thrives  to  beat  back  Boling. 
broke. 

Green.  Alas,  poor  duke  !  the  task  he  undertakes 
Is  numbering  sands,  and  drinking  oceans  dry  : 
Where  one  on  his  side  fights,  thousands  will  fly. 
Farewell  at  once  ;  for  once,  for  all,  and  ever. 

Bvshy.  Weil,  we  may  meet  again. 

Bagot.  I  fear  me,  never.  [ExeuwL 

SCENE  III.— The  Wilds  in  Glostershire. 
Enter  Bomnobroke  and  Northumberland, 
n-ith  Forces. 
Baling.  How  far  is  it.  my  lord,  to  Berkley  now  7 
North.  Believe  me,  noble  lord, 
I  am  a  stranger  here  in  GloL-tershire. 
These  high  wild  hills,  and  rough  uneven  ways, 
Draw  out  our  miles,  and  make  them  wearisome  ; 
And  yet  your  fair  discourse  hath  been  as  sugar, 
Making  the  hard  way  sweet  and  delectable. 
But,  I  bethink  me,  what  a  weary  way 
From  Piavenspurg  to  Cotswold  will  be  found 
In  Ross  and  Willoughby.  wanting  your  company, 
Which,  I  protest,  hath  very  much  beguil'd 
The  tediousness  and  process  of  my  travel  : 
But  theirs  is  sweetcn'd  with  the  hope  to  have 
The  present  benefit  which  I  possess ; 
And  hope  to  joy  is  little  less  in  joy. 
Than  hope  enjoy'd  :  by  this  the  weary  lords 
Shall  make  their  way  seem  short,  as  mine  hath  been 
By  sight  of  what  I  have,  your  company. 

Boling.  Of  much  less  value  is  my  company. 
Than  your  good  words.     But  who  conies  here  ? 
Enter  Harry  Percy. 
North.  It  is  my  son.  young  Harry  Percy. 
Sent  from  my  brother  Worcester,  whencesoever. — 
Harry,  how  fares  your  uncle  ? 

Percy.  I  had  thought,  my  lord,  to  have  learn'd  hu" 

health  of  you. 
North.  Why.  is  he  not  with  the  queen  ? 
Percy.    No,    my    good    lord:    he  hath    forsook    (ho 
court. 
Broken  his  staff  of  office,  and  dispersed 
The  household  of  the  king. 

North.  What  was  his  reason  ? 

He  was  not  so  resolv'd,  when  last  we  spake 
Together. 

Percy.   Because  your  lordship  was  proclaimed  trait<^>r 
But  he,  my  lord,  is  gone  to  Ravenspurg, 
To  offer  service  to  the  duke  of  Hereford ; 
And  sent  me  over  by  Berkley,  to  discoA'cr 
What  power  the  duke  of  York  had  levied  there  ; 
Then,  with  directions  to  repair  to  Ravenspurg 

North.  Have  you  forsot  the  duke  of  Herelbrd.  bo>  ? 
Percy.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  for  that  is  not  forgot, 
Which  ne'er  I  did  remember  :  to  my  knowledge 
I  never  in  my  life  did  look  on  him. 

North.  Then  learn  to  know  him  now  :  this  is  the  duke 
Pcrcy.  My  gracious  lord,  I  tender  you  my  service, 
Such  as  it  is.  being  tender,  raw,  and  young, 
Which  elder  days  shall  ripen,  and  confirm 
To  more  ajiproved  service  and  desert. 

Boling.  I  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy  ;  and  be  sure, 
I  count  mysel''  in  nothing  else  so  happy, 


8C?ENE    rV. 


KmG  PJCHAKD  n. 


33: 


A.S  in  li  soul  remeinbering  my  good  friends  ; 

And  as  my  fortune  ripens  w'ith  thy  love, 

[t  shall  be  still  thy  true  love's  recompense  : 

My  heart  this  covenant  makes,  my  hand  thus  seals  it. 

North.  How  far  is  it  to  Berkley  ?     And  what  stir 
Keeps  good  old  York  there,  with  his  men  of  war  ? 

Percy.  There  stands  the  castle,  by  yond'  tuft  of  trees, 
Mann'd  with  three  hundred  men.  as  I  have  heard  : 
And  in  it  are  the  lords  of  York.  Berkley,  and  Seymour  ; 
None  else  of  name,  and  noble  estimate. 

Enter  Ross  and  Willoughby. 

North.    Here    come    the    lords    of   Ross    and    Wil- 
loughby, 
Bloody  with  spurring,  fier>--red  with  haste. 

Baling.  Welcome,  my  lords.  I  wot,  your  love  pursues 
A  banish'd  traitor  :  all  my  treasury 
h  but  yet  unfelt  thanks,  which,  more  enrich'd. 
Shall  be  your  love  and  labour's  recompense. 

Ross.  Your  presence  makes  us  rich,  most  noble  lord. 

Willo.  And  far  surmounts  our  labour  to  attain  it. 

Baling.  Evermore  thanks,  th'  exchequer  of  the  poor  : 
Which,  till  my  infant  fortune  comes  to  years. 
Stands  for  my  bounty.     But  who  comes  here  ? 
Enter  Berkley. 

Narth.  It  is  my  lord  of  Berkley,  as  I  guess. 

Berk.  My  lord  of  Hereford,  my  message  is  to  you. 

Baling.  My  lord,  my  answer  i.s — to  Lancaster, 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  name  in  England ; 
And  I  must  find  that  title  in  your  tongue. 
Before  I  make  reply  to  aught  you  say. 

Berk.  Mistake  me  not,  my  lord  :  't  is  not  my  meaning, 
To  raze  one  title  of  your  honour  out. 
To  you,  my  lord,  I  come,  what  lord  you  will. 
From  the  most  gracious'  regent  of  this  land. 
The  duke  of  York,  to  know  what  pricks  you  on 
To  take  advantage  of  the  absent  time. 
And  fright  our  native  peace  vnX\\  self-borne  arms. 
Enter  York  attended. 

Baling.  I  shall  not  need  transport  my  words  by  you  : 
Here  comes  his  grace  in  person. — My  noble  uncle. 

[Kneels. 

York.  Show  me  thy  humble  heart,  and  not  thy  knee. 
Whose  duty  is  deceivable^  and  false. 

Baling.  My  gracious  uncle — 

York.  Tut.  tut  !     Grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me 
no  uncle^ : 
I  am  no  traitor's  uncle ;  and  that  word  "  grace," 
fn  an  ungracious  mouth,  is  but  profane. 
Why  have  those  banish'd  and  forbidden  legs 
Dar'd  once  to  touch  a  dust  of  England's  ground  ? 
But  more  than  that,* — why  have  they  dar'd  to  march 
So  many  mile.s  upon  our  peaceful  bosom. 
Frighting  her  pale-fac'd  villages  with  war, 
And  ostentation  of  despoiling*  arms  ? 
Com'st  thou  because  th'  anointed  king  is  hence  ? 
Why,  foolish  boy,  the  king  is  left  behind. 
And  in  my  loyal  bosom  lies  his  power. 
Were  I  but  now  the  lord  of  svich  hot  youth, 
As  when  brave  Gaunt,  thy  father,  and  myself. 
Rescued  the  Black  Prince,  that  young  Mars  of  men. 
From  forth  the  ranks  of  many  thousand  French, 
0  I  then,  how  quickly  should  this  arm  of  mine, 
Now  prisoner  to  the  palsy,  chastise  thee, 
And  minister  correction  to  thy  fault  ! 

Baling.  My  gracious  uncle,  let  me  know  my  fault : 
On  what  condition  stands  it,  and  wherein  ? 

York.  Even  in  condition  of  the  wor-st  degree  ; 
In  gross  rebellion,  and  detested  treason  : 


*  fto  tne  quarto,  1.597  ;  the  others  anH  th^  folio:  glorious       '  Decepti 
despised  :  in  f.  e 

W 


I  Thou  art  a  banish'd  man,  and  here  art  come 
Before  the  expiration  of  thy  time, 
I  In  braving  arms  against  thy  sovereign 
j      Baling.  As  I  was  banish'd,  I  was  banish'd  Hereford, 
j  But  as  I  come,  I  come  for  Lancaster. 
I  And,  noble  uncle,  I  beseech  your  grace, 
Look  on  my  wrongs  with  an  indifferent  eye . 
You  are  my  father,  for,  methinks,  in  you 
I  see  old  Gaunt  alive  :  0  !  then,  my  father, 
j  Will  you  permit  that  I  shall  stand  condemn'd 
A  wandering  vagabond,  my  rights  and  royalties 
Pluck'd  from  my  arms  perforce,  and  given  away 
I  To  upstart  unthrifts  ?     Wherefore  was  I  born  ? 
If  that  my  cousin  king  be  king  of  England, 
It  must  be  granted  T  am  duke  of  Lancaster. 
You  have  a  son,  Aumerle,  my  noble  kinsman; 
I  Had  you  first  died,  and  he  been  thus  trod  down. 
He  should  have  found  his  uncle  Gaunt  a  father, 
To  rouse  his  ^^Tongers,  chase  Ihem  to  the  bay. 
I  am  denied  to  sue  my  livery  here, 
And  yet  my  letters  patent  give  me  leave  : 
My  father's  goods  are  all  distrain'd,  and  sold , 
And  these,  and  all,  are  all  amiss  employ'd. 
What  would  you  have  me  do  ?     I  am  a  subject. 
And  challenge  law :  attornies  are  denied  me, 
And  therefore  personally  I  lay  my  claim 
To  my  inheritance  of  free  descent. 

Narth.  The  noble  duke  hath  been  too  much  abused, 

J?o.s5.  It  stands  your  grace  upon  to  do  him  right. 

ir7//o.  Base  men  by  his  endowments  are  made  great,. 

York.  My  lords  of  England,  let  me  tell  you  this 
I  have  had  feeling  of  my  cousin's  wrongs, 
And  labour'd  all  I  could  to  do  him  right ; 
But  in  this  kind  to  come  :  in  braving  arms, 
Be  his  owni  carver,  and  cut  out  his  way. 
To  find  out  right  with  wrong, — it  may  not  be : 
And  you,  that  do  abet  him  in  this  kind, 
Cherish  rebellion,  and  are  rebels  all. 

North.  The  noble  duke  hath  sworn,  his  coming  is^ 
But  for  his  own :  and  for  the  right  of  that. 
We  all  have  strongly  sworn  to  give  him  aid. 
And  let  him  ne'er  see  joy  that  breaks  that  oath. 

York.  Well,  well,  I  see  the  issue  of  these  arms. 
I  camiot  mend  it,  I  must  needs  confess. 
Because  my  power  is  weak,  and  all  ill  left ; 
But  if  I  could,  by  him  that  gave  me  life, 
I  would  attach  you  all,  and  make  you  stoop 
Unto  the  sovereign  mercy  of  the  king  : 
But  since  I  cannot,  be  it  known  unto  you, 
I  do  remain  as  neuter.     So,  farewell ; 
Unless  you  please  to  enter  in  the  castle. 
And  there,  my  lords,  repose  you  for  this  night. 

Baling.  An  offer,  uncle,  that  we  -VN-ill  accept : 
But  we  must  -win  your  grace,  to  go  with  us 
To  Bristol  castle  ;  which,  they  say,  is  held 
By  Bushy,  Bagot,  and  their  complices. 
The  caterpillars  of  the  commonwealth. 
Which  I  have  sworn  to  weed  and  pluck  away. 

York.  It  may  be  I  will  go  with  you ; — but  yet  I ' 
pause, 
For  I  am  loath  to  break  our  country's  laws. 
Nor  friends,  nor  foes,  to  me  welcome  you  are : 
Things  past  redress  are  now  with  me  past  care.  [Exeuta 

SCENE  IV.— A  Camp  in  Wales. 
Enter  Salisbury,  and  a  Welsh  Captain. 
Cap.  My  lord  of  Salisbury',  we  have  stay'd  ten  day.t 
And  hardly  kept  our  countrymen  together. 


'  no  uncle"  is  not  in  the  folii 


f,^ 


J 


338 


KING  RICHARD  U. 


AOT  ni 


Amd  yet  we  hear  no  tidings  from  the  king ; 
The-efore,  we  will  disperse  ourselves.     Farewell. 

Stl.  Stay  yet  another  day,  thou  trusty  Welshman: 
The  king  reposeth  all  his  confidence  in  thee. 

Cap.  'T  IS  thought,  the  king  is  dead  :  we  will  not  stay. 
The  bay-trees  in  our  country  are  all  wither'd. 
And  meteors  fright  the  tixed  stars  of  heaven  ; 
The  pale-fac'd  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth. 
And  lean-look'd  prophets  whisper  fearful  change: 
Rich  men  look  sad,  and  ruttians  dance  and  leap, 
The  one  in  fear  to  lose  what  they  enjoy. 


The  other  to  enjoy  by  rane  and  war : 
These  signs  forerun  the  death  or  fall'  of  kings. 
Farewell :  our  countrymen  are  gone  and  tied, 
As  well  aissur'd  Richard,  their  king,  is  dead.        \Ecii 
I      Sal.  Ah,  Richard  !  with  the  eyes  of  heavy  mind, 
I  see  thy  glory,  like  a  shooting  star, 
Fall  to  the  base  earth  from  the  firmament. 
Thy  sun  sets  weeping  in  the  lowly  west. 
Witnessing  storms  to  come,  woe,  and  unrest : 
Thy  friends  are  fled  to  wait  upon  thy  foc.>, 
And  crossly  to  thy  good  all  fortune  goes.  [Erit 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — Bolinrbroke's  Camp  at  Bristol. 

Enter  Bolingbroke,  York.  Northumberland,  Percy, 

WiLi.ocGHBY,  Ross  :  Bushy  and  Green,  prisoners. 

Baling.  Bring  forth  these  men. — 

[Bushy  arul  Green  stand  fonvard.''^ 
Bushy,  and  Green,  I  will  not  vex  your  souls. 
Since  presently  your  souls  must  part  your  bodies, 
With  too  much  urging  your  pernicious  lives. 
For  't  were  no  charity :  yet,  to  wash  your  blood 
From  ofT  my  hands,  here  in  the  view  of  men 
I  will  unfold  some  causes  of  your  deaths. 
You  have  misled  a  prince,  a  royal  king, 
A  happy  gentleman  in  blood  and  lineaments, 
By  you  unhappied  and  disfigur'd  clean  : 
You  have,  in  manner,  with  your  sinful  hours, 
Made  a  divorce  betwixt  his  queen  and  him, 
Broke  the  possession  of  a  royal  bed. 
And  stain'd  the  beauty  of  a  fair  queen's  cheeks 
With  tears,  dra%A-n  from  her  eyes  by  your  foul  WTongs. 
Myself,  a  prince  by  fortune  of  my  birth, 
Near  to  the  king  in  blood,  and  near  in  love, 
Till  you  did  make  him  misinterpret  me. 
Have  stoop'd  my  neck  under  your  injuries, 
And  sigh'd  my  English  breath  in  foreign  clouds. 
Eating  the  bitter  bread  of  banishment, 
Whilst  you  have  fed  upon  my  signories, 
Dispark'd  my  parks,  and  felld  my  forest  woods. 
From  mine  o\\ti  windows  torn  my  household  coat, 
Raz'd  out  my  impress,  leaving  me  no  sign, 
Save  men's  opinions,  and  my  living  blood. 
To  show  the  world  I  am  a  gentleman. 
This  and  much  more,  much  more  than  twice  all  this, 
Condemns  you  to  the  death. — See  them  deliver'd  over 
To  execution,  and  the  hand  of  death. 

Bv.thy.  More  welcome  is  the  stroke  of  death  to  me, 
Than  Holingbroke  to  England. — Lords,  farewell'. 

Greer..  My  comfort  is,  that  heaven  will  take  our  souls. 
And  plague  injustice  with  the  pains  of  hell. 

Boliniz.    My   lord   Northumberland,   see  them   dis- 
patch'd 

tExevnl  Northumberland  an//  Others,  with  Bvs^Hr  and 
Jncle.  you  say  the  queen  is  at  your  house;       [Green. 
For  God's  sake,  fairly  let  her  be  entreated  : 
Tell  her  I  send  to  her  my  kind  commends : 
Take  special  care  my  greetings  be  deliver'd 

York.  A  gentleman  of  mine  I  have  dispatch'd 
With  letters  of  your  love  to  her  at  large. 

Bolir.g.    Thanks,   gentle   uncle. — Come,    my  lords. 
To  fight  wth  Glcndower  and  his  complices 
Awhile  to  work,  and  after  holiday. 


SCENE  II.— The  Coast  of  Wales.     A  Castle  in  view 

Flourish:  Drums  and  Trumpets.  Enter  King  Richarh 

Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Aumerle,  and  Solditrs. 

K.  Rich.  Barkloughly  Ca.stle  call  they  this  at  hand 

Aum.  Yea,  my  good*  lord.     How  brooks  your  grac<- 
the  air, 
After  late'  tossing  on  the  breaking  seas? 

A'.  Rich.  Needs  must  I  like  it  well :  I  weep  for  joy. 
To  stand  upon  my  kingdom  once  again. — 
Dear  earth,  I  do  salute  thee  with  my  hand. 
Though  rebels  wound  thee  with  their  horses'  hoofs. 
As  a  long  parted  mother  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears  and  smiles  in  meeting, 
So,  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee.  iDy  earth, 
And  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hand. 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  foe.  my  gentle  earth, 
Nor  with  thy  sweets  comfort  his  ravenous  sens»e ; 
But  let  thy  spiders,  that  suck  up  thy  venom, 
And  hea^-y-gaited  toads,  lie  in  their  way, 
Doins  annoyance  to  the  treacherous  feet, 
Which  with  usurping  steps  do  trample  thee. 
Yield  stinging  nettles  to  mine  enemies: 
And  when  they  from  thy  bosom  pluck  a  flowei, 
Guard  it,  I  pray  thee,  with  a  lurking  adder. 
Whose  double  tongue  may  with  a  mortal  toucli 
Throw  death  upon  thy  sovereign's  enemies. — 
Mock  not  my  senseless  conjuration,  lords: 
This  earth  shall  have  a  feelinir.  and  these  stoncb 
Prove  armed  soldiers,  ere  her  native  king 
Shall  falter  under  foul  rebellion's  arms. 

Bishop.  Fear  not,  my  lord  :  that  power  that  made 
you  king, 
Hath  power  to  keep  you  king,  in  spite  of  all.* 
The  means  that  heavens  yield  must  be  embrac'd, 
And  not  neglected  ;  else,  if  heaven  would, 
And  we  will  not,  heaven's  offer  we  refuse, 
The  proffer'd  means  of  succour  and  redress. 

Avm.  He  means,  my  lord,  that  we  are  too  remiss; 
Whilst  Bolingbroke,  through  our  security. 
Grows  strong  and  great  in  substance,  and  in  power 

K.  Rich.  Discomfortable  cousin  !  know'st  thou  not. 
That  when  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 
Behind  the  globe,  and  lights  the  lower  world. 
Then  thieves  and  robbers  range  abroad  unseen, 
In  murders  and  in  outrage,  boldly'  here; 
But  when  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines. 
And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole, 
[away.    Then  murders,  trea.«ons,  and  detested  sins, 
[Exeunt.  The  cloak  of  night  being  pluck'd  from  off  their 


•  Tbe  folio  omits  :   or  fall       »N^tinf.  e.      >  TheM  two  words  an*  not  in  the  folios       *  Not  in  f.  •.      »  four  Ute :  in  f.  e. 
rfce  speech  it  not  in  the  folio.     '  S;  quarto.  1597;  all  other  old  copies  and  mod.  eds.  read  :  bloody. 


*TlMIH(«' 


( 


SCENE  n 


KING  EICHAKD   II. 


33f 


Stand  bare  and  naked,  trembling  at  themselves  ? 

So  when  this  thief,  this  traitor  Bolingbroke, 

Who  all  this  while  hath  revell'd  in  the  night,' 

Wliilst  we  were  wandering  with  the  antipodes, 

Shall  see  us  rising  in  our  throne,  the  east, 

His  treasons  will  sit  blushing  in  his  face, 

Not  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  day, 

But,  self-affrighted,  tremble  at  his  sin. 

Not  all  the  water  in  the  rough  rude  sea 

Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king : 

The  breath  of  worldly  men  camiot  depose 

The  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord. 

For  every  man  that  Bolingbroke  hath  press'd, 

To  lift  -«hrewd  steel  againi?t  our  golden  crown, 

God  for  his  Richard  hath  in  heavenly  pay 

A  glorious  angel :  then,  if  angels  fight, 

Weak  men  must  fall,  for  heaven  still  guards  the  right. 

Enter  S.\lisbury. 
Welcome,  my  lord.     How  far  off  lies  your  power  ? 

Sal.  Nor  near,  nor  farther  off,  my  gracious  lord. 
Than  this  weak  arm.     Discomfort  guides  my  tongue 
And  bids  me  speak  of  nothing  but  despair. 
One  day  too  late,  I  fear,  my  noble  lord, 
Hath  clouded  all  thy  happy  days  on  earth. 
0  !  call  back  yesterday,  bid  time  return, 
And  thou  shalt  have  twelve  thousand  fighting  men : 
To-day,  to-day,  unhappy  day  too  late, 
O'erthrows  thy  joys,  friends,  fortune,  and  thy  state  ; 
For  all  the  Welshmen,  hearing  thou  wert  dead. 
Are  gone  to  Bolingbroke,  dispers'd,  or  fled. 

Aitm.  Comfort,  my  liege  !  why  looks  your  grace  so 
pale  ? 

K.  Rich.  But  now,  the  blood  of  twentj'  thousand  men 
Did  triumph  in  my  face,  and  they  are  fled ; 
And  till  so  much  blood  thither  come  again. 

Have  I  not  reason  to  look  pale  and  dead  ? 
All  souls  that  will  be  safe,  fly  from  my  side : 
For  time  hath  set  a  blot  upon  my  pride. 

Aum.  Comfort,  my  liege  !  remember  who  you  are. 

K.  Rich.  I  had  forgot  myself.     Am  I  not  king  ? 
Awake,  thou  coward^  majesty  !  thou  sleepest. 
Is  not  the  king's  name  twenty*  thousand  names  ? 
Arm,  arm,  my  name  !   a  puny  subject  strikes 
At  thy  great  glory. — Look  not  to  the  ground. 
Ye  favourites  of  a  king  :  are  we  not  high  ? 
High  be  our  thoughts.     I  know,  my  uncle  York 
Hath  power  enough  to  serve  our  turn.    But  who  comes 
here? 

Enter  Scroop. 

Scroop.  More  health  and  happiness  betide  my  liege. 
Than  can  my  care-tun'd  tongue  deliver  him. 

K.  Rich.  Mine  ear  is  open,  and  my  heart  prepared : 
The  worst  is  worldly  loss  thou  canst  unfold. 
Say,  is  my  kingdom  lost?  why,  "t  was  my  care  ; 
Vnd  what  loss  is  it  to  be  rid  of  care  ? 
Strives  Bolingbroke  to  be  as  great  as  we  ? 
Greater  he  shall  not  be  :  if  he  serve  God, 
We  '11  fcsrv'e  him  too,  and  be  his  fellow  so. 
Revolt  our  subjects  ?  that  we  cannot  mend ; 
They  break  their  faith  to  God,  as  well  as  us. 
Cry  woe,  destruction,  ruin,  loss,  decay. 
The  worst  is  death,  and  death  will  have  his  day. 

Si'oop.  Glad  am  L  that  your  highness -is  so  arm'd 
To  bear  the  tidings  of  calamity. 
Like  an  unseasonable  stormy  day, 
Which  makes  the  silver  rivers  drown  their  shores. 
As  if  the  world  were  all  dissolv'd  to  tears  ; 


So  high  above  his  limits  s  veils  the  rage 

Of  Bolingbroke,  covering  your  fearful  land 

With  hard  bright  steel,  and  hearts  harder  than  steel. 

White-beards  have  arm'd  their  thin  and  hairless  scalps 

Against  thy  majesty;  and  boys,  with  women's  voices. 

Strive  to  speak  big,  and  clasp*  their  feeble*  joints 

In  stiff  unweldy  armour  'gainst^  thy  crowni : 

Thy  very  beadsmen  learn  to  bend  their  bows 

Of  double-fatal  yew  against  thy  state  ; 

Yea,  distaff-women  manage  rusty  bills 

Against  thy  seat :  both  young  and  old  rebel. 

And  all  goes  worse  than  I  have  power  to  tell. 

K.  Rich.  Too  well,  too  well,  thou  tell'st  a  tale  so  ill 
Wliere  is  the  earl  of  Wiltshire?  where  is  Bagot? 
What  is  become  of  Bushy  ?  where  is  Green  ? 
That  they  have  let  the  dangerous  enemy 
Measure  our  confines  with  such  peaceful  steps  ? 
If  we  prevail,  their  heads  shall  pay  for  it. 
I  warrant  they  have  made  peace  with  Bolingbroke. 

Scroop.  Peace  have  they  made  with  him,  indeed,  my 
lord. 

K.  Rich.  0  villains,  vipers,  daran'd  without  redemp- 
tion ! 
Dogs,  easily  won  to  fawn  on  any  man ! 
Snakes,  in  my  heart-blood  warm"d,  that  sting  my  heart ! 
Three  Judases,  each  one  thrice  worse  than  Judas ! 
Would  they  make  peace  ?  terrible  hell  make  war 
Upon  their  spotted  souls  for  this  offence  !' 

Scroop.  Sweet  love.  I  see.  changing  his  property, 
Turns  to  the  sourest  and  most  deadly  hate. 
Again  nncurse  their  .«ouls  :  their  peace  is  made 
With  heads  and  not  with  hands  :  those  whom  you  curse 
Have  felt  the  worst  of  death's  destroying  wound*, 
And  lie  full  low.  grav'd  in  the  hollow  ground. 

Aum.  Is  Bushy.  Green,  and  the  earl  of  Wiltshire,  dead' 

Scroop.  Yea,  all  of  them  at  Bristol  lost  their  heads. 

Aum.  Where  is  the  duke,  my  father,  with  his  power? 

K.  Rich.  No  matter  where.  Of  comfort  no  man  speak  : 
Let 's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs ; 
Make  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Let 's  choose  executors,  and  talk  of  wills  : 
And  yet  not  so, — for  what  can  we  bequeath. 
Save  our  deposed  bodies  to  the  ground  ? 
Our  lands,  our  lives,  and  all  are  Bolingbroke's, 
And  nothing  can  we  call  our  own  but  death. 
And  that  small  model  of  the  barren  earth. 
Which  ser\-es  as  paste  and  cover  to  our  bones. 
For  God's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings  : 
How  some  have  been  depos'd.  some  slain  in  war. 
Some  haunted  by  the  ghosts  they  have  depos'd, 
Some  poison'd  by  their  -wives,  some  sleeping  kilVd. 
All  murder'd  : — for  within  the  hollow  crown. 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king. 
Keeps  death  his  court,  and  there  the  antick  sits', 
Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp  ; 
Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene. 
To  monarchize,  be  lear'd,  and  kill  with  looks; 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit. 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  walls  about  our  life. 
Were  brass  impregnable  ;  and.  humour  d  thus. 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle  wall,  and — farewell  king  • 
Cover  your  heads,  c-nd  mock  not  flesh  and  blood 
With  solemn  reverence :  throw  away  respect. 
Tradition,  form,  and  ceremonious  duty, 

•Thj»  line  is  not  in  the  folio.  '  So  the  quartos  ;  the  folio  :  sluggard.  '  So  the  qnartos  :  the  folio  :  forty.  *  clap  :  in  f.  e.  »  female  :  la 
«.  •  (irms  leainst  :  in  f.  e.  '  This  word  is  added  in  the  folio.  8  The  folio :  hand.  '  This  image  may  have  been  taken  from  the  Mver.tr 
:  the  "  Imagines  Mortis,"  a  series  of  designs  in  the  style  of  Holbein's  Dance  of  Death.     It  is  in  Knight's  Pictorial  Shakspere. 


3i0 


KING  KICIIARD   H. 


Acr  in. 


For  you  have  but  mistook  me  all  this  while : 
(  live  -w-ith  bread  like  you,  feel  want. 
Taste  grief,  need  friends :  subjected  thus, 
How  can  you  say  to  me — 1  am  a  king? 

Bishop.  My  lord,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and'  wail  their 
But  presently  prevent  tlie  ways  to  wail.  [woes. 

To  fear  the  foe,  since  fear  oppresseth  strength, 
Gives,  in  your  weakness,  strength  unto  your  foe, 
And  so  your  follies  tight  against  yourself.* 
Fear,  and  be  slain :  no  wor.<;e  can  come  to  fight  : 
And  tiglit  and  die  is  death  destroying  death  ; 
Where  tearing  dying  pays  death  servile  breath. 

Aum.  My  father  hath  a  power,  enquire  of  him, 

nd  learn  to  make  a  body  of  a  limb. 

A'.  Rich.  Thou  chidst  me  well. — Proud  Bolingbroke, 
I  come 
To  change  blows  with  thee  for  our  day  of  doom. 
This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  over-blown : 
An  easy  task  it  is,  to  win  our  own. — 
Say,  Scroop,  where  lies  our  uncle  Mnth  his  power  ? 
Speak  sweetly,  man.  although  thy  looks  be  sour. 

Scroop.  Men  judge  by  the  complexion  of  the  sky 

The  state  and  inclination  of  the  day; 
So  may  you  by  my  dull  and  hea\-y  eye. 

My  tongue  hath  but  a  heavier  tale  to  say. 
1  play  the  torturer,  by  small  and  small, 
To  lengthen  out  the  worst  that  must  be  spoken. 
Vour  uncle  York  is  join'd  ysith  Bolingbroke  ; 
.\nd  all  your  northern  castles  yielded  up. 
And  all  your  southern  gentlemen  in  arms 
l^pon  his  party'. 

K.  Rich.  Thou  ha«t  said  enough. — 
Beshrew  thee,  cousin.  [To  Aumerle.]  which  didst  lead 

me  forth 
Of  that  sweet  way  I  was  in  to  despair ! 
What  say  you  now?     What  comfort  have  we  now? 
By  heaven.  I  "11  hate  him  everlastingly, 
That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more. 
Go  to  Flint  castle  :  there  I  '11  pine  away  ; 
A  king,  woes  slave,  shall  kingly  woe  obay. 
That  power  I  have,  discharge  :  and  let  them  go 
To  ear*  the  land  that  hath  some  hope  to  grow. 
For  I  have  none. — Let  no  man  speak  again 
To  alter  this,  for  counsel  is  but  vain. 

Axim.  My  liege,  one  word. 

A'.  Rich.  He  does  me  double  -wTong, 

That  wounds  me  vriih  the  flatteries  of  his  tongue. 
Discharge  my  followers :  let  them  hence  away, 
From  Richard's  night  to  Bolingbroke's  fair  day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Wales.     A  Plain  before  Flint  Castle. 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Bolingbroke  and 
Forces ;  York.  Northimberland,  and  Others. 

Boling.  So  that  by  this  intelligence  we  learn. 
The  Welshmen  are  dispers'd  ;  and  Salisbury 
If  gone  to  meet  the  king,  who  lately  landed 
With  .««jme  few  private  friends  upon  this  coa.st. 

North.  The  news  is  very  fair  and  sood.  my  lord : 
Richard,  not  far  from  hence,  hath  hid  his  head. 

York    It  would  beseem  the  lord  Northumberland, 
To  say,  king  Richard  : — Alack,  the  heav'v  day, 
When  .'>uch  a  sacred  king  should  hide  his  head  ! 

North.  Your  grace  mistakes  me;  only  to  be  brief, 
Left  I  his  title  out. 

York.  The  tinrje  hath  been, 

Would  vou  have  been  so  brief  with  him,  he  would 


Have  been  so  brief  with  you.  to  shorten  you, 
For  taking  so  the  head,  your  whole  heads  length. 

Boling.  Mistake  not,  uncle,  farther  than  you  should 

York.  Take  not.  good  cousin,  farther  than  >  ou  should 
Lest  you  mistake:  the  heavens  are  o'er  our  heads.' 

Boling.  I  know  it,  vnicle ;  and  opjxise  not  myself 
Against  their  will. — But  who  comes  here? 

Entfr  Percy. 
Welcome,  Harry.     What,  will  not  this  castle  yield' 

Percy.  The  castle  royally  is  maim'd,  my  lord, 
Against  thy  entran.ie 

Boling.  Royally? 
Why.  it  contains  no  king. 

Percy.  Yes.  my  good  lord  ; 

It  doth  contain  a  king:  king  liichard  lies 
Within  the  limits  of  yond'  lime  and  stone  ; 
And  \Nith  him  are  the  lord  Aumerle.  lord  Salisbury, 
Sir  Stephen  Scroop  ;  besides  a  clergNTnan 
Of  holy  reverence,  who.  I  cannot  learn. 

North.  0  !  belike  it  is  the  bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Boling.  Noble  lord,  [To  North 

Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle ; 
Through  brazen  trumpet  send  the  breath  of  parle 
Into  his  ruin'd  ears,  and  thus  deliver: 
Henry  Bolingbroke 

On  both  his  knees  doth  kiss  king  Richard's  hand. 
And  sends  allegiance,  and  true  faith  of  heart. 
To  his  most  royal  per.^on ;  hither  come 
Even  at  his  feet  to  lay  my  arms  and  power, 
Pro^-ided  that,  my  banishment  repeal'd, 
And  lands  restord  again,  be  freely  granted. 
If  not.  I  '11  use  th'  adA-antage  of  my  power, 
And  lay  the  summer's  dust  with  showers  of  blood, 
Rain'd  from  the  woiuids  of  slaughter'd  Englishmen: 
The  which,  how  far  off  from  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke 
It  is.  such  crimson  tempest  should  bedrench 
The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  king  Richard's  land, 
My  stooping  duty  tenderly  shall  show. 
Go;  signify  as  much,  while  here  we  march 
Upon  the  grassy  carpet  of  this  plain. 
Let 's  march  without  the  noise  of  threat'ning  driun, 
That  from  the  castle's  tatter' d'  battlements 
Our  fair  appointments  may  be  well  perus'd. 
Methinks.  king  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water,  when  their  thundering  shock' 
At  meeting  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven. 
Be  he  the  fire,  I  "11  be  the  yielding  water  : 
The  rage  be  his,  while  on  the  earth  I  rain 
My  waters  ;  on  the  earth,  and  not  on  him. — 
March  on,  and  mark  king  Richard  how  he  looks. 
A  parley  sotrndcd.  and  aii.txvcrcd  by  a  Trumpet    liihin 

Flouri.<!h.     Enter  on    the  u-alls  King  Richa.»d.  the 

Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Almeri.e.  Scroop.  an</  Salisbiry. 

Boling.'Sce,  see,  king  Richard  doth  himself  appear 
As  doth  the  blushing  discontented  sun 
From  out  the  fiery  portal  of  the  ea.^^t. 
When  he  perceives  the  envious  clouds  are  bent 
To  dim  his  glory,  and  to  .stain  the  track 
Of  his  brisht  passage  to  the  Occident. 

York.  Yet  looks  he  like  a  king :  behold,  his  eye. 
As  bright  as  is  the  eagle's,  lightens  forth 
Controlling  majesty.     Alack,  alack,  for  woe, 
That  any  storm'  should  stain  so  fair  a  show  ! 

K.  Rich.  We  are  amaz'd  ;  and  thus  long  have  we 

stood  [To  NORTHUMBERLAWD. 

To  watch  the  faithful'  bending  of  thy  knee. 


»  Thews  twc  ■waia  are  not  in  th«  folio.  »  This  line  if  not  in  the  folio.  >So  the  quarto ;  the  folio  :  faction.  *  Plough  ;  it  is  often  lo  ns« 
•  Ho  the  quartos,  the  folio  :  yonr  head.  •  So  the  folio  ;  part  of  the  qnartoa  read  :  tottered  ;  both  hare  the  meanins  <f  ragged.  "■  Se  :*■ 
5n»no,  1597  :  the  folio  :  smoke.     •  harm  :  in  f  e.     »  fearful  :  in  f  e. 


KING  RICHARD  H. 


341 


Because  we  thought  ourself  thy  lawful  king  : 

And  if  we  be,  how  dare  thy  joints  forget 

To  pay  their  awful  duty  to  our  presence  ? 

If  we  be  not.  show  us  the  hand  of  God 

That  hath  dismiss'd  us  from  our  stewardship : 

For  well  we  know,  no  hand  of  blood  and  bone 

Can  gripe  the  sacred  handle  of  our  sceptre. 

Unless  he  do  profane,  steal,  or  usurp. 

And  though  you  think  that  all,  as  you  have  done, 

Have  torn  their  souls  by  turning  them  from  us, 

And  we  are  barren  and  bereft  of  friends, 

Yet  know,  my  master,  God  omnipotent. 

Is  mustering  in  his  clouds  on  our  behalf 

Armies  of  pestilence  ;  and  they  shall  strike 

Yonr  children  yet  unborn,  and  unbegot. 

That  lift  your  vassal  hands  against  my  head. 

And  threat  the  glory  of  my  precious  crown. 

Tell  Bolingbroke,  for  yond',  methiidts,  he  stands, 

That  every  stride  he  makes  upon  my  land 

Is  dangerous  treason.     He  is  come  to  ope 

The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war  ; 

But  ere  the  crown  he  looks  for  live  in  peace. 

Ten  thousand  bloody  crownis  of  mothers'  sons 

Shall  ill  become  the  flower  of  England's  face, 

Change  the  complexion  of  her  maid-pale  peace 

To  scarlet  indignation,  and  bedew 

Her  pastures'  grass  with  faithful  English  blood. 

North.  The  King  of  heaven  forbid,  our  lord  the  king 
Should  so  with  civil  and  uncivil  arms 
Be  rush'd  upon.     Thy  thrice-noble  cousin, 
Harry  Bolingbroke.  doth  humbly  kiss  thy  hand  ; 
And  by  the  honourable  tomb  lie  swears, 
That  stands  upon  your  royal  grandsire's  bones, 
And  by  the  royalties  of  both  your  bloods, 
Currents  that  spring  from  one  most  gracious  head, 
And  by  the  buried  hand  of  warlike  Gaunt, 
And  by  the  worth  and  honour  of  himself, 
Comprising  all  that  may  be  sworn  or  said, 
His  coming  hither  hath  no  farther  scope. 
Than  for  his  lineal  royalties,  and  to  beg 
Enfranchisement  immediate  on  his  knees  : 
Which  on  thy  royal  party  granted  once. 
His  glittering  arms  he  will  commend  to  rust. 
His  barbed  steeds  to  stables,  and  his  heart 
To  faithful  service  of  your  majesty. 
This  swears  he,  as  he  is  a  prince,  is  just. 
And,  as  a  gentleman,  I  credit  him. 

K.  Rich.  Northumberland,  say, — thus  the  king  re- 
His  noble  cousin  is  right  welcome  hither  ;  [turns  : 

And  all  the  number  of  his  fair  demands 
Shall  be  accomplish'd  without  contradiction. 
With  all  the  gracious  utterance  thou  hast. 
Speak  to  his  gentle  hearing  kind  commends. — 

[Northumberland  retires  to  Bolingbroke. 
We  do  debase  ourself.  cousin,  [2b  Aumerle.]  do  we  not, 
To  look  so  poorly,  and  to  speak  so  fair  ? 
!      Shall  we  call  back  Northumberland,  and  send 
Defiance  to  the  traitor,  and  so  die  ? 

Aun..  No.  good  my  lord  :  let 's  fight  with  gentle  words. 
Till  time  lend  friends,  and  friends  their  helpful  swords. 

K.  Rich.  0  God  !  0  God  !  that  e'er  this  tongue  of  mine, 
That  laid  the  sentence  of  dread  banishment 
On  yond'  proud  man,  should  take  it  off  again 
I     With  words  of  sooth.     0  !  that  I  were  as  great 
!     As  is  my  grief,  or  lesser  than  my  name. 
Or  that  I  could  forget  what  I  have  been. 
Or  not  remember  what  I  must  be  now. 
Swell'st  thou,  proud   heart?     I'll  give  thee  scope  to 
beat,  [Unbuttoning} 

■  Not  in  f.  e     '  bass*  cour,  lo-wei  wirt. 


Since  foes  have  scope  to  beat  both  thee  and  me. 

Aum.  Northumberland  comes  back  from  Bolingbroke 

K.  Rich.  What  must  the  king  do  now?     Must  ht 
submit  ? 
The  king  shall  do  it.     Must  he  be  depos'd  ? 
The  king  shall  be  contented.     Must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king?  o'  God's  name,  let  it  go  : 
I  '11  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads. 
My  gorgeous  palace  for  a  hermitage. 
My  gay  apparel  for  an  alms-man's  gown, 
My  tlgur'd  goblets  for  a  dish  of  wood, 
My  sceptre  for  a  palmer's  walking  stalT, 
My  subjects  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints, 
And  my  large  kingdom  for  a  little  gra^-e, 
A  little  little  grave,  an  obscure  grave : 
Or  I  '11  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway, 
Some  way  of  common  trade,  where  subjects'  feel 
May  hourly  trample  on  tlieir  sovereign's  head ; 
For  on  my  heart  they  tread,  now  whilst  I  live, 
And,  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head  ? — 
Aumerle,  thou  weep'st ;  my  tender-hearted  cousin  ' — 
We  '11  make  foul  weather  with  despised  tears ; 
Our  sighs  and  they  shall  lodge  the  summer  corn. 
And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  land  : 
Or  shall  we  play  the  wantons  with  our  woes. 
And  make  some  pretty  match  with  shedding  tears  ? 
As  thus : — to  drop  them  still  upon  one  place, 
Till  they  have  fretted  us  a  pair  of  graves 
Within  the  earth ;  and,  therein  laid,  there  lies 
Two  kinsmen  digg'd  their  graves  with  weeping  eyes. 
Would  not  this  ill  do  well  ?— Well,  well,  I  see 
I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me. — 
Most  mighty  prince,  my  lord  Northumberland 
What  says  king  Bolingbroke  ?  will  his  majesty 
Give  Richard  leave  to  live  till  Richard  die  ? 
You  make  a  leg,  and  Bolingbroke  says  ay. 

North.  My  lord,  in  tne  base  court*  he  doth  attend 
To  speak  with  you  :  may  't  please  you  to  come  down? 

K.  Rich.  Down,    down,    I    come ;    like    glisterins 
Phaeton, 
Wanting  the  manage  of  unruly  jades. 

[North,  retires  again  to  Boling. 
In  the  base    court  ?     Base  court,  where  kings  grow 

base, 
To  come  at  traitors'  calls,  and  do  them  grace. 
In  the  base  court  ?     Come  down  ?  down,  court !  do'v\'n, 

king  ! 
For  night-owls  shriek,  where  mounting  larks  should 
sing.  [Exeicnt,  from  above. 

Boling.  What  says  his  majesty  ? 

North.  Sorrow  and  grief  of  heart 

Make  him  speak  fondly,  like  a  frantic  man : 
Yet  he  is  come. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  his  Attendants,  below. 

Boling.  Stand  all  apa.t, 
And  show  fair  duty  to  his  majesty. — 
My  gracious  lord, —  [Kneeiirg 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin,  you  debase  your  princely  ku'^ 
To  make  the  base  earth  proud  with  kissing  it : 
Me  rather  had,  my  heart  might  feel  your  love, 
Than  my  unpleas'd  eye  see  your  courtesy. 
Up,  cousin,  up :  your  heart  is  up,  I  know. 
Thus  high  at  least,  although  your  knee  be  low 

Boling.  My  gracious  lord.  I  come  but  for  mine  own 

K.  Rich.  Your  own  is  yours  :  and  I  am  yours,  and  all 

Boling.  So  far  be  mine,  my  most  redoubted  lord, 
As  my  true  service  shall  deserve  your  love. 

K.  Rich.  Well  you  deserve  : — they  well  deserve  tc 
have 


342 


KING  RICHARD  11. 


ACT  m. 


Tha*  know  the  strong'ai  and  surest  way  to  get. — 
Cncle.  give  me  your  hand  :  nay,  dry  your  eyes  : 
Tears  show  tnoi.  love,  but  want  their  remedies. — 
Cousin.  I  ain  too  youiiir  to  be  your  father, 
Though  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  heir. 
What  you  will  have  I  '11  give,  and  willing  too, 
For  do  we  must  what  force  will  have  us  do  — 
Set  on  towards  London. — Cousin,  is  it  so  ? 

Boli))s;.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Then.  I  must  not  say  no. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Langlcy.     The  Duke  of  York's  Garden. 
Enter  the  Queen,  and  two  Ladies. 

Queen.  What  sport   shall  we  devise  here   in  this 
garden, 
To  drive  away  the  heavy  thought  of  care  ? 

I   Lady.  Madam,  we  '11  play  at  bowls. 

Queen.  'T  will  make  me  think  the  world  is  full  of  rubs, 
And  that  my  fortune  runs  against  the  bias. 

1  Lady.   ^ladam,  we  '11  dance. 

Queen.  My  legs  can  keep  no  measure  in  delight, 
When  my  poor  heart  no  measure  keeps  in  grief: 
Therefore,  no  dancing,  girl  ;  some  other  sport. 

1  Lady.  Madam,  we  '11  tell  tales. 

Quee)i.  Of  sorrow,  or  of  joy  ?' 

1  Lady.  Ol  either,  madam. 

Qttecn.  Of  neiiher,  girl; 
For  if  of  joy,  being  altogether  wanting. 
It  doth  remember  me  the  more  of  sorrow  ; 
Or  if  of  grief,  being  altogether  had. 
It  adds  more  sorrow  to  my  want  of  joy  ; 
For  what  I  have  I  need  not  to  repeat, 
And  what.  I  want  it  boots  not  to  complain. 

1  Lady.  Madam,  I  '11  sing. 

Quein.  'T  is  well  that  thou  hast  cause  , 

But  thou  sliouldst  please  me  better,  wouldst  thou  weep. 

1  Lady.  I  could  weep,  madam,  would  it  do  you  good, 

Qiuen.  And  I  could  sing,  would  weeping  do  me  good, 
And  never  borrow  any  tear  of  thee. 
But  stay,  here  come  the  gardeners  : 
Let 's  step  into  the  shadow  of  these  trees. — 
My  wretchedness  unto  a  row  of  pins. 
They  '11  talk  of  state  :  for  every  one  doth  so 
Asainst  a  change.     Woe  is  forerun  with  woe. 

[Quei;n  and  Ladies  retire. 
Enter  a  Gardener  and  two  Servants. 

Gard.  Go,  bind  ihou  up  yoiid'  dangling  apricocks, 
Which,  like  unruly  children,  make  their  sire 
Stoop  with  oppies.--ion  of  their  prodigal  weight : 
Give  some  supportance  to  the  bending  twigs. — 
Go  thou,  and  like  an  executioner, 
Cut  off  the  heads  of  two-fast-growing  sprays. 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth  : 
All  must  be  even  in  our  government. — 
You  thus  employd,  I  will  20  root  away 
The  noisome  weeds,  that  without  profit  suck 
The  .soil's  fertility  from  wholesome  flowers. 

1  Scrv.  Why  sliould  we.  in  the  compa.ss  of  a  pale. 
Keep  law,  and  form,  and  due  proportion. 
Showing,  as  in  a  model,  our  firm  estate. 
When  our  sea-wallcd  garden,  the  whole  land. 
Is  full  of  weeds  :  h'lr  fairest  (lowers  cliok'd  up. 
Her  fruit-trees  all  unprun'd.  hi-r  hed-jes  ruiiiM, 
Her  knots*  disorder'd,  and  her  wholesome  herbs 
dvtrming  with  caterpillars  ? 

>  Ah  the  old  copies  read  :  grief;  Pope  made  the  change.     »  Thafigurex  formed  by  the  flower-bed*  in  the  old  formal  gardeni.      •  0  !  whu 
kc. :  in  f.e.  ♦  We  at  time  of  year 

I>o  wound,  *c.  :  in  f.  e.  .  iv    a 

8e  foe  quarto,  ISfl';  all  other  old  oop. :  with.    'So  the  quarto,  1597;  the  other  quartos  and  folio  :  drop,     l  A  l»o»o  called  in  Hnmiet,  A   IV  ,  S  L 


Gard.  Hold  thy  peace. 

He  that  hath  .'^uffer'd  this  disorder'd  spring, 
Hath  now  himself  met  with  the  fall  of  leaf, 
The  weeds  that  his  broad-spreading  leaves  did  shelter. 
That  seein'd  in  eating  him  lo  hold  him  up. 
Are  pluck'd  up,  root  and  all,  by  Bolingbroke  ; 
I  mean,  the  earl  of  W^iltshire,  Bushy,  Green. 

1  Serv.  What !  are  they  dead  ? 

Gard.  They  are ;  and  Bolingbroke 

Hath  seiz'd  the  wasteful  king. — What'  pity  is  it, 
That  he  had  not  so  trimm'd  and  dress'd  his  land, 
As  we  this  garden.     At  the  time  of  year 
We  Wound*  the  bark,  the  skin  of  our  fruit-trees, 
Lest,  being  over-proud  in*  sap  and  blood. 
With  too  mucli  riches  it  confound  itself: 
Had  he  done  so  to  great  and  growing  men, 
They  might  have  liv'd  to  bear,  and  he  to  taste 
Their  fruits  of  duty.     Superfluous  branches 
We  lop  away,  that  bearing  boughs  may  live : 
Had  he  done  so,  himself  had  borne  the  crown, 
Which  waste  and  idle  hours  have  quite  thrown  down. 

1  Serv.  What !  think  you,  then,  the  king  shall  be 
depos'd  ? 

Gard.  Depress'd  he  is  already  :  and  depos'd, 
'T  is  doubt,  he  will  be  :  letters  came  last  night 
To  a  dear  friend  of  the  good  duke  of  York's, 
That  tell  black  tidings. 

Queen.  0  !  I  am  press'd  to  death,  through  want  0? 
speaking.  {Coming  forward. 

Thou,  old  Adam's  likeness,  set  to  dress  this  garden. 
How  dares  thy  harsh,  rude  tongue  sound  this  unpleasina 
What  Eve,  what  serpent  hath  suggested  thee     [newa  ? 
To  make  a  second  fall  of  cur.sed  man  ? 
Why  dost  thou  say  king  Richard  is  depos'd  ? 
Dar'st  thou,  thou  little  iDetter  thing  than  earth. 
Divine  his  downfall  ?     Say.  where,  when,  and  how, 
Cam'st  thou  by  these  ill  tidings  ?  speak,  thou  WTetch. 

Gard.  Pardon  me,  madam  :  little  joy  have  I. 
To  breathe  these  news,  yet  what  I  say  is  true. 
King  Richard,  he  is  in  the  mighty  hold 
Of  Bolingbroke  :  their  fortunes  both  are  weigh'd  : 
In  your  lord's  scale  is  nothing  but  himself. 
And  some  few  vanities  that  make  him  light  ; 
But  in  the  balance  of  great  Bolingbroke, 
Besides  himself,  are  all  the  English  peers. 
And  with  that  odds  he  weighs  king  Richard  down. 
Post  you  to  London,  and  you  '11  find  it  so ; 
I  speak  no  more  than  every  one  doth  know. 

Queen.  Nimble  mischance,  that  art  so  light  of  ff/ot. 
Doth  not  thy  embassage  belong  to  me, 
And  am  I  last  that  knows  it  ?     0  !  thou  think'st 
To  serve  me  last,  that  I  may  longest  keep 
Thy  sorrow  in  my  breast. — Come,  ladies,  go 
To  meet  at  London  London's  king  in  woe. — 
What  !  was  I  born  to  this,  that  my  sad  look 
Should  grace  the  triumph  of  great  Bolingbroke  ? — 
Gardener,  for  telling  me  these  news  of  woe. 
Pray  God,  the  plants  thou  graft'st  may  never  grow. 

[Exeunt  Ql'een  and  Ladits. 

Gard.  Poor  queen  !  so  that  thy  state  might  be  no 
worse, 
I  would  my  skill  were  subject  to  thy  curse. 
Here  did  she  fall'  a  tear  ;  here,  in  this  place, 
I  '11  set  a  bank  of  rue,  sour  herb  of  grace  :' 
Rue.  even  for  ruth,  here  shortly  shall  be  seen 
In  the  remembrance  of  a  weeping  queen.         [Exeuni. 


KING  RICHARD  H. 


843 


ACT     IV. 


SCENE  I.— London.     Westminster  Hall. 

I  he  Lords  spiritual  on  the  right  side  of  the  Throne ; 
the  Lords  temporal  on  the  left ;  the  Commons  below. 
Enter  Bolingbroke,  Aumerle,  Surrey,  Northum- 
berland, Percy,  Fitzwater,  another  Lord,  the 
Bishop  of  Carlisle,  the  Abbot  of  Westminster,  and 
Attendants} 

Baling.  Call' forth  Bagot.— 

Enter  Bagot.  guarded.' 
NoM ,  Bagot,  freely  speak  thy  mind, 
What  thou  dost  know  of  noble  Gloster's  death ; 
Who  TATOUght  it  with  the  kmg,  and  who  perform'd 
The  bloody  office  of  his  timeless  end. 

Bagot.  Then,  set  before  my  face  the  lord  Aumerle. 

Boling.  Cousin,  stand  forth,  and  look  upon  that  man. 

Bagot.  My  lord  Aumerle,  I  know  your  darmg  tongue 
Scorns  to  unsay  what  once  it  hath  deliver'd. 
In  that  dead  time  when  Gloster's  death  was  plotted, 
I  heard  you  say, — •'  Is  not  my  arm  of  length, 
That  reacheth  from  the  restful  English  court, 
As  far  as  Calais,  to  mine  uncle's  head  ?" 
Amongst  much  otlier  talk,  that  very  time, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  had  rather  refuse 
The  offer  of  an  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
Than  Bolingbroke's  return  to  England  ; 
Adding  witlial,  how  blest  this  land  would  be 
In  this  your  cousin's  death. 

Aum.  Princes,  and  noble  lords, 

What  answer  shall  I  make  to  this  base  man  ? 
Shall  I  so  much  dishonour  my  fair  stars. 
On  equal  terms  to  give  him  chastisement  ? 
Either  I  must,  or  have  mine  honour  soil'd 
With  the  attainder  of  his  slanderous  lips. — 
There  is  my  gage,  tlie  manual  seal  of  death. 
That  marks  thee  out  for  hell  :  I  say,  thou  liest, 
And  will  maintain  vsiiat  thou  hast  said  is  false 
In  thy  heart-blood,  though  being  all  too  base 
To  stain  the  temper  of  my  knightly  sword. 

Boling.  Basoi,  forbear:  thou  shalt  not  take  it  up. 

Aum.  Excepting  one,  I  would  he  were  the  best 
In  all  this  presence,  that  hath  mov'd  me  so. 

Fitz.  If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathy^, 
There  is  my  gage,  Aumerle,  in  gage  to  thine. 
By  that  fair  sun  which  shows  me  where  thou  stand'st, 
I  heard  thee  say,  and  vauntingly  thou  spak'st  it. 
That  thou  wert  cause  of  noble  Gloster's  death. 
If  thou  deny'st  it  twenty  times,  thou  liest ; 
And  I  will  turn  thy  falsehood  to  thy  heart, 
Where  it  was  forged,  with  my  rapier's  point. 

Aum.  Thou  dar'st  not,  coward,  live  to  see  that  day. 

Fitz.  Now,  by  my  soul,  I  would  it  were  this  hour. 

Aum.  Fitzwater,  thou  art  damn'd  to  hell  for  this. 

Percy.  Aumerle,  thou  liest ;  his  honour  is  as  true 
n  this  appeal,  as  thou  art  all  unjust : 
And,  tliat  thou  art  so,  there  I  throw  my  gage, 
To  prove  it  on  thee  to  th'  extremest  point 
Of  mortal  breathing.     Seize  it  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  And  if  I  do  not,  may  my  hands  rot  off. 
And  never  brandish  more  revengeful  steel 
Over  the  glittering  helmet  of  my  foe  ! 

Lord.  I  task  the  earth  to  the  like,  forsworn  Aumerle  ;* 
And  sp\ir  thee  on  with  full  as  many  lies 

•  f.  e.  add  •  Offirers  behind,  with  Bagot. 
tbe  qutrto  of  1597,  read  :  take. 


As  may  be  hoUa'd  in  thy  treacherous  Piir 
From  sun  to  sun.     There  is  my  honour's  pawn  : 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  Who  sets  me  else '?  by  heaven,  I  '11  throw  at  all 
I  have  a  thousand  spirits  in  one  breast. 
To  answer  twenty  thousand  such  as  you. 

Surrey.  My  lord  Fitzwater.  I  do  remember  well 
The  very  time  Aumerle  and  you  did  talk. 

Fitz.  'T  is  very  true  :  you  were  in  presence  then , 
And  you  can  wntness  with  me  this  is  true. 

Surrey.  As  false,  by  heaven,  as  heaven  itself  is  true 

Fitz.  Surrey,  thou  liest. 

Surrey.  Dishonourable  boy  ! 

That  lie  shall  lie  so  heavy  on  my  sword. 
That  it  shall  render  vengeance  and  revenge. 
Till  thou,  the  lie-giver,  and  that  lie,  do  lie 
In  earth  as  quiet  as  thy  father's  skull. 
In  proof  whereof,  there  is  my  honour's  pawn  • 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Fitz.  How  fondly  dost  thou  spur  a  forward  horse  ! 
If  I  dare  eat,  or  drink,  or  breathe,  or  live, 
I  dare  meet  Surrey  in  a  wilderness, 
And  spit  upon  him,  whilst  I  say  he  lies, 
And  lies,  and  lies.     There  is  my  bond  of  faith, 
To  tie  thee  to  my  strong  correction. 
As  I  intend  to  thrive  in  this  new  world, 
Aumerle  is  guilty  of  my  true  appeal : 
Besides,  I  heard  the  banish'd  Norfolk  say. 
That  thou,  Aumerle,  didst  send  two  of  thy  men 
To  execute  the  noble  duke  at  Calais, 

Aum.  Some  honest  Christian  trust  me  with  a  gage. 
That  Norfolk  lies,  here  do  I  throw  down  this. 
If  lie  may  be  repeal'd  to  try  his  honour, 

Boling.  These  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage. 
Till  Norfolk  be  repeal'd  :  repeal'd  he  shall  be, 
And,  though  mine  enemy,  restor'd  again 
To  all  his  lands  and  signories.     When  he  's  return'd, 
Against  Aumerle  we  will  enforce  his  trial. 

Bishop.  That  honourable  day  shall  ne'er  be  seen 
Many  a  time  hath  banish'd  Norfolk  fought 
For  Jesu  Christ  in  glorious  Christian  field. 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross 
Against  black  pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens ; 
And  toil'd  with  works  of  war,  retir'd  himself 
To  Italy,  and  there,  at  Venice,  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth. 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Clirist, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long. 

Boling.  Why,  bishop,  is  Norfolk  dead  ? 

Bishop.  As  surely  as  I  live,  my  lord, 

Boling.  Sweet  peace  conduct  his  sweet  soul  to  the 
bosom 
Of  good  old  Abraham  ! — Lords  appellants, 
Your  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage. 
Till  we  assign  to  you  your  days  of  trial. 
Enter  York,  attended. 

York.  Great  duke  of  Lancaster,  I  come  to  thee 
From  plume-pluck'd  Richard,  who  with  willing  soul 
Adopts  thee  heir,  and  his  high  sceptre  yields 
To  the  possession  of  thy  royal  hand. 
Ascend  his  throne,  descending  now  from  him. 
And  long  live  Henry,  of  that  name  the  fourth  ! 

Boling    In  God's  name  I  '11  ascend  the  regal  throne. 

Bishop.  Marry,  God  forbid  ! — 

Not  in  f.  e.     '  Equality  of  rank.      *  TUs  and  the  next  speech  are  not  in  She  fallo,  all,  hn' 


'6U 


KING  KICHARD  H. 


ACT  rv. 


Wore'  in  this  royal  presence  may  I  speak, 

iTet  b»  St  beseeming  nie  to  speak  the  truth. 

Would  God,  that  any  in  this  noble  presence 

Were  enoiiijli  noble  to  be  iipriuht  judge 

Of  noble  Richard  :  then  true  nobless'  would 

Learn  hiiu  forbearance  from  so  foul  a  wrong. 

What  subject  can  give  sentence  on  his  king? 

And  who  sits  here  that  is  not  Richard's  subject  ? 

Thieves  are  not  judg'd  but  they  are  by  to  hear, 

Although  apparent  guilt  be  seen  in  them; 

And  shall  the  tisure  of  God's  majesty, 

His  captain,  steward,  deputy  elect, 

Anointed,  crowned,  planted  many  years. 

Be  jiidg'd  by  .subject  and  inferior  breath. 

And  he  not*  present  !  0  !  forefend'  it,  God, 

That,  in  a  Christian  climate,  .souls  refin'd 

Should  show  so  heinous,  black,  obscene  a  deed  ' 

I  speak  to  subjects,  and  a  subject  speaks, 

Siirr'd  up  by  God  thus  boldly  for  his  king. 

My  lord  of  Hereford  here,  whom  you  call  king, 

Is  a  foul  traitor  to  proud  Hereford's  king; 

And  if  you  crowTi  him.  let  me  prophesy 

The  blood  of  English  shall  manure  the  ground, 

And  future  ages  groan  for  this  foul  act  . 

Peace  shall  go  sleep  with  Turks  and  infidels. 

And  in  this  seat  of  peace  tumultuous  wars 

Shall  kin  with  kin.  and  kind  with  kind  confound  ; 

Disorder,  horror,  fear,  and  mutiny. 

Shall  here  inhabit,  and  this  land  be  cali'd 

The  field  of  Golgotha,  and  dead  men's  skulls. 

0  !  if  you  raise*  this  house  against  tliis  house, 

It  will  the  woefullest  division  prove. 

That  ever  fell  upon  tnis  cursed  earth. 

Prevent.'  resist  it,  let  it  be  not  so, 

Le«t  child,  child's  children,  cry  against  you — woe  ! 

North.  Well  have  you  argued,  sir  ;  and,  for  your  pains, 
Of  capital  treason  we  arrest  you  here. — 
My  lord  of  Westminster,  be  it  your  charge 
To  keep  him  safely  till  his  day  of  trial. 
May  it  please  you,  lords,  to  grant  the  commons'  suit.' 

Holing.  Fetch  hither  Richard,  that  in  common  view 
He  may  surrender  :  so  we  shall  proceed 
Without  suspicion. 

York.  I  will  be  his  conduct.  [Exit. 

Boling.  Lords,  you  that  here  are  under  our  arrest, 
Procure  your  sureties  for  your  days  of  answer. — 
Little  are  we  beholding  to  your  love.       [To  the  Bishop. 
And  look  for  little  at  your  helping  hands. 
Re-enter  York,  with  King  Richard,  and  Officers  bear- 
ing the  Crown,  Ifc. 

K.  Rich.  Alack  !  why  am  I  sent  for  to  a  king. 
Before  I  have  shook  off  the  regal  thoughts 
Wherewith  I  reisn'd  ?     I  hardly  yet  have  leam'd 
To  insinuate,  flatter,  bow.  and  bend  my  limbs : 
Gi>e  sorrow  leave  awhile  to  tutor  me 
To  this  submission.     Yet  I  well  remember 
The  favours'  of  these  men  :  were  they  not  mine? 
Did  they  not  sometime  cry.  All  hail  !  to  me  ? 
?o  Judas  did  to  Clirist  :  but  he,  in  twelve, 
Fomd  truth  in  all,  but  one  :  I,  in  twelve  thousand,  none. 
God  save  the  king  ! — Will  no  man  say,  amen? 
An  I  both  priest  and  clerk?  well  then.  amen. 
God  save  the  kins!    although  I  be  not  he  ; 
And  yet.  amen,  if  heaven  do  think  him  me. — 
To  do  what  .service  am  I  sent  for  hither? 

York.  To  do  that  ofllce  of  thine  own  good  will, 
Which  tired  majesty  did  make  thee  ofl^er  : 


The  resignation  of  thy  state  and  crown 
To  Harry  Bolingbroke. 

K.  Rich.  Give  me  the   crown. — Here,  cousin,  acizc 
the  ero-wTi ;  [  Crown  brought 

Here,  cousin,  on  this  side  my  hand,  and  on  that  side 

yours. 
Now  is  this  golden  crown  like  a  deep  well, 
That  owes'  two  buckets,  filling  one  anotlier ; 
The  emptier  ever  dancing  in  the  air. 
The  other  down,  unseen,  and  full  of  water  : 
That  bucket  down,  and  full  of  fears,  am  I, 
Drinking  my  grief,  whilst  you  mount  up  on  h.gh 

Boling.  I  thought  you  had  been  willing  to  le.-ign 

K.  Rich.  My  crown,  I  am ;  but  still  my  griefs  are  miue 
You  may  my  glories  and  my  state  depose. 
But  not  my  griefs  :  still  am  I  king  of  those.        [crown 

Boling.  Part  of  your  cares  you  give  me  with  you? 

A'.  Rich.  Your  cares  set  up  do  not  pluck  my  care* 
down. 
My  care  is  loss  of  care  by  old  care  done  ; 
Your  care  is  gain  of  care,  by  new  care  won  : 
The  cares  I  give,  I  have,  though  gi^^en  away ; 
They  tend  the  crown,  yet  still  with  me  they  stay. 


Boling.  Are  you  contented  t«  resign  the  crown  ' 
A'.  Rich.  Ay.  no ; — no.  ay ; — for  I  must  nothing  be 


Therefore  no  no,  for  I  resign  to  thee. 
Now  mark  me  how  I  will  undo  myself. — 
I  give  this  heavy  weight  from  off  my  head. 
And  tliis  unwieldy  sceptre  from  my  haxid. 
The  pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  my  keart : 
With  mine  o\A-n  tears  I  wa-sh  away  my  balm, 
With  mine  own  hands  I  give  away  my  cro\ATi, 
With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state. 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duties,  rites'" : 
jAll  pomp  and  majesty  I  do  forswear; 
I  My  manors,  rents,  revenues,  I  forego  : 
'  My  acts,  decrees,  and  statutes,  I  deny : 
God  pardon  all  oaths  that  are  broke  to  me  ! 
God  keep  all  vows  unbroke  that  swear''  to  thee ! 
Make  me.  that  nothing  have,  with  nothing  griev'd 
And  thou  with  all  pleas'd.  that  hast  all  achiev'd  ! 
Long  may'.st  thou  live  in  Richard's  seat  to  sit, 
And  soon  lie  Richard  in  an  earthy  pit ! 
God  save  king  Henry,  unking'd  Richard  says, 
And  send  him  many  years  of  sunshine  days  ! — 
What  more  remains  ? 

North.  No  more,  but  that  you  read  [Offering  a  papf 
These  accusations,  and  these  grievous  crimes. 
Committed  by  your  person   and  your  followers, 
Against  the  state  and  profit  of  this  land; 
That,  by  confessing  them,  the  souls  of  men 
May  deem  that  you  are  worthily  dcpos'd. 

A.  Rich.  Must  T  do  so?  and  must  I  ravel  oat 
My  weav"d  up  folly  ?     Gentle  Northumberland, 
If  thy  oflcnces  were  upon  record. 
Would  it  not  shame  thee,  in  so  fair  a  troop. 
To  read  a  lecture  of  them  ?     If  thou  wouldst, 
There  shouldst  thou  find  one  heinous  article, 
Containinz  the  deposing  of  a  king. 
And  cracking  the  strong  warrant  of  an  oath, 
Mark'd  with  a  blot,  damnd  in  the  book  of  heaven.— 
Nay,  all  of  you,  that  stand  and  look  upon  me. 
Whilst  that  my  -vsTetchedness  dofh  bait  myself, 
Though  some  of  you,  with  Pilate,  wash  your  hands, 
Showing  an  outward  pity  :  yet  you  Pilates 
Have  here  deliver'd  me  to  my  sour  cro.ss, 
And  water  cannot  wash  away  your  sin. 


'  Si  the  q-jarto,  l.'j!)?  ;  all  other  edition*  :  nobleness.  »  And  he  himself  not,  &c.  :  in  f.  e.  '  So  all  the  quartos;  the  folio  :  forbid.  •  * 
the  qiartos':  the  folio :  rear.  »  The  foiio  insert*  ;  and.  «  This  Line,  and  all  that  follows  to  Riciiabd"8  exit,  -rere  first  pr.nted  in  th«  iJlW' 
af  IBJrs.     '  Features.    »  Not  in  f.  e      •  Owns      "•  The  folio:  duieous  oaths      "  The  i»'^:  ■  ve  made. 


8UEKE   I. 


KING  RICHAKD  U. 


345 


North.  My  lord,  dispatch  :  read  o'er  these  articles. 
K.  Rich.  Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  I  cannot  see ; 
And  yet  salt  water  blinds  them  not  so  much, 
But  they  can  see  a  sort'  of  traitors  here. 
Nay,  if  1  turn  mine  eyes  upon  myself, 
[  find  myself  a  traitor  with  the  rest ; 
For  I  have  given  here  my  soul's  consent, 
To  undeck  the  pompous  body  of  a  king  ; 
Made  glory  base,  and*  sovereignty  a  slave. 
Proud  majesty  a  subject;  state  a  peasant. 

North.  My  lord;— 

K.  Rich.  No  lord  of  thine,  thou  haught,  insulting  man, 
Nor  no  man's  lord .  I  have  no  name,  no  title. 
No,  not  that  name  was  given  me  at  tlie  font. 
But  't  is  usurp'd. — Alack,  the  hea\T  day  ! 
That  I  have  w-orn  so  many  winters  out, 
And  know  not  now  what  name  to  call  myself. 
0  !  that  I  were  a  mockery  king  of  snow. 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke, 
To  melt  myself  away  in  water  drops  ! — 
Good  king, — great  king, — and  yet  not  greatly  good. 
And  if  my  name'  be  sterling  yet  in  England, 
Let  it  command  a  mirror  hither  straight. 
That  it  may  show  me  what  a  face  I  have, 
Smce  it  is  bankrupt  of  his  majesty. 

Boling.  Go  some  of  you,  and  fetch  a  looking-glass. 
[Exit  an  Attenda}it. 

North.  Read  o'er  this  paper,  while  the  gla.ss  doth  come. 

K.  Rich.  Fiend  !  thou  torment' st  me  ere  I  come  to  hell. 

Boling.  Urge  it  no  more,  my  lord  No'-thumberland. 

North.  The  commons  will  not  then  be  satisfied. 

K.  Rich.  They  shall  be  satisfied  :  I  '11  read  enough, 
Wlien  I  do  see  the  very  book  indeed, 
Where  all  my  sins  are  writ,  and  that 's — myself. 

Re-enter  Attendant  with  a  Glass. 
Give  me  the  glass*  and  therein  will  I  read. — 
No  deeper  wrinkles  yet  ?     Hath  sorrow  struck 
So  many  blows  upon  this  face  of  mine. 
And  made  no  deeper  wounds  ? — 0,  flattering  glass  ! 
Like  to  my  followers  in  prosperity. 
Thou  dost  beguile  me.     Was  this  face  the  face. 
That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 
Did  keep  ten  thousand  men  ?     Was  this  the  face. 
That  like  the  sun  did  make  beholder's  wink  ?* 
Was  this  the  face,  that  facd  so  many  follies, 
And  was  at  last  out-fac'd  by  Bolingbroke? 
A  brittle  glory  shineth  in  this  face  : 
As  brittle  as  the  glory  is  the  face ; 

[Da-shes  the  Glass  against  the  ground. 
For  there  it  is,  crack'd  in  a  hundred  shivers. — 


Mark,  silent  king,  the  moral  of  this  sport : 
How  soon  my  sorrow  hath  destroy'd  my  face. 

Boling.  The  shadow  of  your  sorrow  hath  destroy'd 
The  shadow  of  your  face. 

K.  Rich.  Say  that  again. 

The  shadow  of  my  sorrow  ?     Ha  !  let 's  see  ; — 
'T  is  very  true,  my  grief  lies  all  within; 
And  these  external  manners  of  lament 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief, 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortiu-'d  soul ; 
There  lies  the  substance  :  and  I  thank  thee,  king, 
For  thy  great  bomity,  that  not  only  giv'st 
Me  cause  to  wail,  but  teachest  me  the  way 
How  to  lament  the  cause.     I  '11  beg  one  boon, 
And  then  begone  and  trouble  you  no  more. 
Shall  I  obtain  it  ? 

Boling.  Name  it,  fair  cousin. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin  !   I  am  greater  than  a  king ; 
For,  when  I  was  a  king,  my  flatterers 
Were  then  but  subjects  ;  being  now  a  subject, 
I  have  a  king  here  to  my  flatterer. 
Being  so  great,  I  have  no  need  to  beg. 

Boling.  Yet  a.sk. 

K.  Rich.  And  shall  I  have  it  ? 

Boling.  You  shall. 

K.  Rich.  Why  then  give  me  leave  to  go. 

Boling.  Whither  ? 

K.  Rich.  Whither  you  will,  so  I  were  from  your  sights. 

Boling.  Go.  some  of  you  ;  convey  him  to  the  Tower. 

K.  Rich.  0,  good  !  Convey? — Conveyers'  are  you  all. 
That  rise  thus  nimbly  by  a  true  king's  fall. 

[Exeunt  K.  Richard,  and  Gttard. 

Boling.  On  Wednesday  next  we  solemnly  set  down) 
Our  coronation  :  lords,  prepare  yourselves. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Abbot,  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  and 

AUMERLE. 

Abbot.  A  woeful  pageant  have  we  here  beheld. 
Bishop.  The  woe  's  to  come  :  the  children  yet  unborn 
Shall  feel  this  day  as  sharp  to  them  as  thorn. 
Aum.  You  holy  clergymen,  is  there  no  plot 
To  rid  the  realm  of  this  pernicious  blot  ? 

Abbot.    My    lord,   before   I   freely  speak  my   mind 
herein, 
You  shall  not  only  take  the  sacrament 
To  bury  mine  intents,  but  also  to  effect 
Whatever  I  shall  happen  to  devise. 
I  see  your  brows  are  full  of  discontent, 
Your  hearts  of  sorrow,  and  your  eyes  of  tears  : 
j  Come  home  with  me  to  supper  ;  I  will  lay 
I A  plot,  shall  show  us  all  a  merry  day.  [Erj>unt 


ACT    V, 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Street  leading  to  the  Tower. 
E7iter  Queen,  and  Attendants. 
Queen.  This  way  the  king  will  come  :  this  is  the  way 
To  JulL'is  Cssar's  ill-erected  tower. 
To  whose  flint  bosom  my  condemned  lord 
Is  doom'd  a  prisoner  by  proud  Bolingbroke. 
Here  let  us  rest,  if  this  rebellious  earth 
Kave  any  resting  for  her  true  king's  queen. 
Enter  King  Richard,  ami  Guard. 
But  soft,  but  see,  or  rather  do  not  see, 
My  fair  rose  wither  :  yet  look  up,  behold. 


That  you  in  pity  may  dissolve  to  dew, 
And  wash  him  fresh  again  with  true-love  tear.s. — 
Ah  !  thou,  the  model  where  old  Troy  did  stand  ; 
Thou  map  of  honour  ;  thou  king  Richard's  tomb, 
And  not  king  Richard  ;  thou  most  beauteous  irm, 
Why  should  hard-favour'd  grief  be  lodg'd  in  thee. 
When  triumph  is  become  an  alehouse  guest  ? 

K.  Rich.  Join  not  with  grief,  fair  woman,  do  not  si< 
To  make  my  end  too  sudden  :  learn,  good  soul, 
To  think  our  former  state  a  happy  dream  ; 
From  which  awak'd,  the  truth  of  what  we  are 
Shows  us  but  th;£.     I  am  .^worn  brother,  sweet, 


'  Set,  or  company       »  The  folio  :  a.      '  The  folio  ;  word.      *  The  rest  of  th<)  line  is  added  in  the  folio, 
folio     ^  This  wot  I  wa*  ipplied  to  lawyers,  or  conveyancers,  and  thieves 


'  This  sentence  was  added  in  tn^ 


346 


KIKG   KICHARD  H. 


To  grim  necessity  ;  ami  lie  and  I 

Will  keep  a  leagiie  till  death.     Hie  thee  to  France, 

And  cloister  thee  in  some  religious  house  : 

Our  holy  lives  must  win  a  new  world's  erowTi, 

Which  our  profane  hours  here  have  stricken  down. 

Queen.  What  !  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape  and  mind 
Transformed  and  weakened  ?     Hath  this'  Bolingbroke 
Dopos'd  thine  inlcllcet  ?  hath  he  been  in  thy  heart? 
The  lion,  dying,  thrustcth  forth  his  paw, 
Afld  wounds  the  earth,  if  nothing  else,  with  rage 
To  be  o'erpower'd  ;  and  wilt  thou,  pupil-like, 
Take  thy  correction  mildly  ?  kiss  the  rod, 
And  favvni  on  rage  with  base  humility, 
Which  art  a  lion,  and  a  king  of  beasts? 

K.  Rnh.  A  king  of  bca.<5fs,  indeed  ;  if  aught  but  beasts, 
I  had  been  still  a  happy  king  of  men. 
Good  sometime  queen,  prepare  thee  hence  for  France  : 
Think  I  am  dead  ;  and  that  even  here  thou  tak'st, 
A.'-  from  my  death-bed,  my  last  living  leave. 
In  winter's  tedious  nights  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks,  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid  ; 
And,  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  grief, 
Tell  thou  the  lamentable  tale^  of  me. 
And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds. 
For  why,  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize 
The  hea\'y  accent  of  thy  moving  tongue, 
And  in  compassion  weep  the  fire  out ; 
And  some  will  mourn  in  ashes,  some  coal-black. 
For  the  deposing  of  a  rightful  king. 

Enter  Northumberland,  attended. 

North.  My  lord,  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke  is  chang'd  : 
Vou  must  to  Pomfret.  not  unto  the  Tower. — 
And.  madam,  there  is  order  ta'en  for  you  : 
With  all  swift  speed  you  must  away  to  France. 

K    Rich.  Nortliuinbcrland.  thou  ladder,  wherewithal 
The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne. 
The  time  shall  not  be  many  hours  of  age 
More  than  it  is,  ere  foul  sin  gathering  head 
Sliali  break  into  corruption.     Thou  shalt  think. 
Though  he  divide  the  realm,  and  give  thee  half, 
It  is  too  little,  helping  him  to  all: 
And  he  shall  think,  thai  thou,  which  know'st  the  way 
To  plant  unrightful  kings,  wilt  know  again. 
Being  ne'er  so  little  urg'd.  another  way 
To  j)luck  him  headlong  from  the  usurped  throne. 
The  love  of  wicked  friends  converts  to  fear  ; 
Tliat  fear  to  hate  ;  and  hate  turns  one,  or  both, 
To  worthy  danger  and  deserved  death. 

North.  My  guilt  be  on  my  head,  and  there  an  end. 
Take  leave,  and  part,  for  you  must  part  forthwith. 

K.  Rich.   Doubly  divorc'd  ! — Bad  men,  ye  violate 
A  twofold  marriage  ;  'twixt  my  crown  and  me, 
And  then,  betwixt,  me  and  my  married  wife. — 
Let  me  unkiss  the  oath  'twixt  thee  and  me  : 

[They  embrace.^ 
And  yet  not  so.  for  with  a  kiss  't  was  made.* 
Part  us,  Northumberland  :  I  towards  the  north, 
Where  shivering  cold  and  sickness  pine  the  clime  ; 
My  wife'  to  France  :  t'rom  whence,  set  forth  in  pomp. 
She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May, 
Ser.t  back  like  Hallowmas.*  or  .-shortest  day. 

Queen.   And  must  we  be  divided  ?  must  we  part  ? 

K.  Rich.   Ay,  hand  from  hand,  my  love,  and  heart 
from  heart. 

Queen.  Banish  us  both,  and  send  the  king  with  me. 

North.  That  were  some  love,  but  little  policy. 

Queen.  Then  -vbither  he  goes,  thither  let  me  go. 


K.  Rich.  So  two,  together  weeping,  make  one  woe 
Weep  thou  for  me  in  France,  I  for  thee  here 
Better  far  oil',  than  near,  being  ne'er  the  near. 
Go  ;  count  thy  way  with  sighs,  I  mine  with  groans. 

Quee7i.  So  longest  way  shall  have  the  longest  moans 

K.  Rich.  Twice  for  one  step  I  '11  groan,  the  waj 
being  short, 
And  piece  the  way  out  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Come,  come,  in  wooing  sorrow  let 's  be  brief, 
Since,  wedding  it,  there  is  such  length  in  grief. 
One  kiss  shall  stop  our  mouths,  and  dumbly  part : 
Thus  give  I  mine,  and  thus  take  I  thy  heart.    [2'hey  kiss 

Queen.  Give  me  mine  owii  again  ;  't  were  no  good  part 
To  take  on  me  to  keep,  and  kill  thy  heart. 

[They  kiss  again 
So,  now  I  have  mine  own  again,  begone, 
That  I  may  strive  to  kill  it  with  a  groan. 

A'.  Rich.  We  make  woe  wanton  with  this  fond  delay 
Once  more,  adieu  ;  the  rest  let  sorrow  say.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke 

of  York's  Palace. 

Enter  York,  and  the  Duchess. 

Duch.  My  lord,  you  told  ine,  you  would  tell  the  rest, 
When  weeping  made  you  break  the  story  off, 
Of  our  two  cousins  coming  into  London. 

York.  Where  did  I  leave  ? 

Duch.  At  that  sad  stop,  my  lord. 

Where  rude  misgovern'd  hands,  from  windows'  tops, 
Threw  dust  and  rubbish  on  king  Richard's  head. 

York.  Then,  as  I  said,  the  duke,  great  Bolingbroke, 
Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed. 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know, 
With  slow  but  stately  pace  kept  on  his  course, 
While    all   tongues   cried — "  God    save   thee,  Boling- 
broke !" 
You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spake, 
So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage  ;  and  that  all  the  walls 
With  painted  imagery  had  said  at  once, — 
"  Jesu  preserve  thee  !  welcome,  Bolingbroke  !" 
Whilst  he,  from  one  side  to  the  other  turning. 
Bare-headed,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck,, 
Bcspake  them  thus, — "  I  thank  you,  countrymen  :'' 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  pass'd  along. 

Di'ch.  Alas,  poor  Richard  !  where  rode  he  the  wliilst  ? 

York.  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men. 
After  a  well-grac'd  actor  leaves  the  stage. 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next. 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious  ; 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did  scowl  on  gentle'  Richard  :  no  man  cried,  Grod  save 

him ; 
No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home  ; 
But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head, 
Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off, 
His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles, 
The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience. 
That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steel'd 
The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted, 
And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him. 
But  heaven  hath  a  hand  in  these  events. 
To  whose  high  will  we  bound  our  calm  contents. 
To  Bolingbroke  are  we  sworn  subjects  now. 
Whose  state  and  honour  I  for  aye  allow. 

Duch.  Here  comes  my  son  Aumerle. 

York.  Aumerle  that  was 


•  Not  in  f  »       >  The  foUo  : 
'  Kot  in  the  fono. 


'  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦A  kirn  formed  put  of  the  ceremony  of   betrothal.      »  Folio  :  queen.      •  November  \ 


SCENE   III. 


KING  RICHAKD  H. 


347 


Btit  that  is  lost  for  being  Richard's  friend, 
A.ud,  madam,  you  must  call  him  Rutland  now. 
I  am  in  parliament  pledge  for  his  truth, 
And  lasting  fealty  to  the  new-made  king. 
Enter  AuMERLE. 
Diich.  Welcome,  my  son.     Who  are  the  violets  now, 
I'hat  strew  the  green  lap  of  the  new-come  spring  ? 

Aum.  Madam,  I  know  not,  nor  I  greatly  care  not : 
God  knows,  I  had  as  lief  be  none,  as  one. 

York.  Well,  bear  you  well  in  this  new  spring  of  time, 
Lt'st  you  be  cropp'd  l)efore  you  come  to  prime. 
What  news  from  Oxford  ?  hold  those  justs  and  triumphs? 
Auni.  For  aught  I  know,  my  lord,  they  do. 
York.  You  will  be  there,  I  know. 
Aum.  If  God  prevent  it  not,  I  purpose  so. 
York.    What   seal  is  that,  that  hangs  without  thy 
bosom  ? 
Yea,  look'st  thou  pale  ?  let  me  then*  see  the  writing. 
Aum.  My  lord,  't  is  nothing. 

York.  No  matter,  then,  who  sees  it : 

I  will  be  satisfied,  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
It  is  a  matter  of  small  consequence. 
Which  for  some  reasons  I  would  not  have  seen. 

York.  Which  for  some  reasons,  sir,  I  mean  to  see. 
I  fear,  I  fear, — 

Duch.  '    What  should  you  fear  ? 

'Tis  nothing  but  some  bond  he  's''  enter'd  into 
For  gay  apparel  'gainst  the  triumph  day. 

York.  Bound  to  him.self  ?  what  doth  he  with  a  bond 
That  he  is  bound  to  ?     Wife,  thou  art  a  fool. — 
Boy,  let  me  see  the  writing. 
Aum.    I   do   beseech    you,  pardon   me  :  I  may  not 

show  it. 
York.  I  will  be  satisfied  :  let  me  see  it,  I  say, 

[Snatches  it  arid  reads. 
Treason  !  foul  treason  ! — villain  !  traitor  !  slave  ! 
Duch.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 
York.  Ho  !  who  is  within  there  ?     Saddle  my  horse. 
God  for  liis  mercy  !  what  treachery  is  here  ! 
Dnch.  Why,  what  is  it,  my  lord  ? 
York.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say  :  saddle  my  horse.— 
Now  by  mine  honour,  by  my  life,  my  troth, 
I  will  appeach  the  villain. 

Duch.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Yojk.  Peace,  foolish  woman. 

Dicch.    I    will    not    peace. — What    is    the    matter, 

Aumerle  ? 
Aum.  Good  mother,  be  content :  it  is  no  more 
Than  my  poor  life  must  answer. 

Duch.  Thy  life  answer? 

York.  Bring  me  my  boots  !  I  will  unto  the  king. 

Enter  Servant  with  boots. 
Duch.   Strike   him,  Aumerle. — Poor   boy,  thou    art 
amaz'd. — 
Hence,  villain  !  never  more  come  in  my  sight. — 

[Exit  Servant. 
York.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say. 
Dach    Why.  York,  what  wait  thou  do  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hide  the  trespass  of  thine  own  ? 
!  Have  we  more  sons,  or  are  we  like  to  have  ? 
I  Is  not  my  teeming  date  drunk  up  with  time, 
'  Ano  wilt  thou  pluck  my  faix  soii  /rom  mine  age. 
And  ro  of  a  happy  mother's  name  ? 

I  Ih  he  no*^  like  tiiee  f  is  he  not  thine  own  ? 
1      York.  Thou  fond^,  mad  woman, 
'  Wilt  thou  conceal  this  dark  conspiracy  ? 
A.  dozen  of  them  here  have  ta'en  the  sacrament. 
And  interchangeably  set  down  their  hands, 

'  Not  in  f .  e      »  that  he  is  •  in  f.  e      '  Fooliih. 


To  kill  the  king  at  Oxford. 

Duck.  He  shall  be  none  ; 

We  '11  keep  him  here  :  then,  what  is  that  to  him  ? 

York.  Away,  fond  woman  !  were  he  twenty  times 
My  son,  I  would  appeach  him. 

Duch.  Hadst  thou  groan'd  for  him, 

As  I  have  done  thou  wovildst  be  more  pitiiui. 
But  now  I  know  thy  mind  :  thoit  dost  suspect, 
That  I  have  been  disloyal  to  thy  bed, 
And  that  he  is  a  bastard,  not  thy  son. 
Sweet  York,  sweet  husband,  be  not  of  that  mind  : 
He  is  as  like  thee  as  a  man  may  be. 
Not  like  to  me,  nor  any  of  my  kin. 
And  yet  I  love  him. 

York.  Make  way,  unruly  woman.   [Exit. 

Duch.  After,  Aumerle  !     Mount  thee  upon  his  horse 
Spur,  pest,  and  get  before  him  to  the  king. 
And  beg  thy  pardon  ere  he  do  accuse  thee. 
I  '11  not  be  long  behind  :  though  I  be  old, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  ride  as  fast  as  York : 
And  never  will  I  rise  up  from  the  ground. 
Till  Bolingbroke  have  pardon'd  thee.     Away  !  begone. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— Wind.^or.     A  Room  in  the  Casile. 
Enter  Bolingbroke  as  King  ;  Percy,  and  other  Lords. 

Boling.  Can  no  man  tell  me  of  my  unthrifty  son? 
'T  is  full  three  months,  since  I  did  see  him  last: 
If  any  plague  hang  over  us,  't  is  he. 
I  would  to  God,  my  lords,  he  might  be  found. 
Inquire  at  London,  'mongst  the  taverns  there. 
For  there  they  say,  he  daily  doth  frequent, 
With  unrestrained  loose  companions  ; 
Even  such,  they  say,  as  stand  in  narrow  lanes, 
And  beat  our  watch,  and  rob  our  passengers : 
While  he,  young  wanton,  and  effeminate  boy, 
Takes  on  the  point  of  honour  to  support 
So  dissolute  a  crew. 

Percy.  My  lord,  some  two  days  since  I  saw  the  prince, 
And  told  him  of  these  triumphs  held  at  Oxford. 

Boling.  And  what  said  the  gallant? 

Percy.  His  answer  was, — he  would  unto  the  stews  ; 
And  from  the  common'st  creature  pluck  a  glove, 
And  wear  it  as  a  favour  ;  and  with  that 
He  would  unhorse  the  luh;tiest  challenger. 

Boling.  As  dissolute,  as  desperate:  yet  through  botli 
I  see  some  sparks  of  better  hope,  which  elder  days 
May  happily  bring  forth.     But  who  comes  here? 
Enter  Aumerle.  in  great  haste. 

Aum.  Where  is  the  kinji  ? 

Boling.  What  means  our  cousin,  that  he  stares  and 
looks 
So  wildly  ? 

Aum.  God    save    your  grace.     I    do    beseech  your 
majesty, 
To  have  some  conference  with  your  grace  alone. 

Boling.  Withdraw  yourselves,  and    leave   us  here 
alone. —  [Exeunt  Percy  and  Lords 

I  What  is  the  matter  with  our  cousin  now? 

Aum.  For  ever  may  my  knees  grow  to  the  earth. 

[KneeL 
My  tongue  cleave  to  my  roof  within  my  moutn. 
Unless  a  pardon,  ere  I  rise,  or  speak. 

Boling.  Intended,  or  committed,  was  this  fault? 
i  If  on  the  first,  how  heinous  e'er  it  be, 
I  To  win  thy  after  love  I  pardon  thee. 

Aum.  Then  give  me  leave  that  I  may  turn  the  key, 
I  That  no  man  enter  till  my  tale  be  done. 
I      Boling.  Have  thy  desire.     [Aumerle  locks  the  door 


3  id 


KING  RICHARD  H. 


York,  \inihin.]  My  liege,  beware  !  look  to  thyself: 
Thou  hast  a  traitor  in  thy  l>rc^;cnco  there. 

BolinfT.  Villain,  I  '11  make  thee  sale.         [Drawing. 

Aum.  Stay  thy  revengeful  hand  :  thou  hast  no  cause 
to  tear. 

York.    [  Within.]  Open  the  door,  secure,  fool-hardy 
king: 
Shall  I  for  love  speak  trea.<;on  to  thy  face? 
Open  the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open. 

[BoMNGBROKE  Opens  the  door .,^  and  locks  it  again. 
Enter  York. 

Boling.  What  is  the  matter,  uncle?  speak; 
F^eeover  breath  :  tell  us  how  near  is  danger. 
That  we  may  arm  us  to  encounter  it. 

York.  Peruse  this  writing  here,  and  thou  shalt  know 
The  treason  that  my  haste  forbids  me  show. 

Aum.  Remember,  as  thou  read'st,  thy  promise  past. 
I  do  repent  me  :  read  not  my  name  there  : 
My  heart  is  not  confederate  with  my  hand. 

York.  It  was,  villain,  ere  thy  hand  did  set  it  down. — 
I  tore  it  from  the  traitor's  bosom,  king : 
Fear,  and  not  love,  begets  his  penitence. 
Forget  to  pity  him,  lest  thy  pity  prove 
A  serpent  that  will  sting  thee  to  the  heart. 

Boling.  0.  heinous,  strong,  and  bold  conspiracy  ! — 
0,  loyal  father  of  a  treacherous  son  ! 
Thou  sheer,  immaculate,  and  silver  fountain. 
From  whence  this  stream  through  muddy  passages 
Hath  held*  his  current,  and  defil'd  himself! 
Thy  overflow  of  good  converts  to  bad  ; 
And  thy  abundant  goodness  shall  excuse 
This  deadly  blot  in  thy  digressing  son. 

York.  So  shall  my  \'irtue  be  his  vice's  bawd. 
And  he  shall  spend  mine  honour  with  his  shame. 
As  thriftless  sons  their  scraping  fathers'  gold. 
Mine  honour  lives  when  his  dishonour  dies. 
Or  my  sham'd  life  in  his  dishonour  lies  : 
Thou  kilTst  me  in  his  life;  giving  him  breath, 
The  traitor  lives,  the  true  man  's  put  to  death. 

Duch.  {Within.\  What  ho  !  my  liege  !  for  God's  sake 
let  me  in. 

Boling.  What    shrill-voic'd    suppliant   makes   this 
eager  cry  ? 

Dvch.  A  woman,  and  thine  aunt,  great  king  ;  't  is  I. 
Speak  w-ith  me,  pity  me,  open  the  door : 
A  beggar  begs,  tliat  never  begg'd  before. 

Boling.  Our  scene  is  altered,  from  a  serious  thing. 
And  now  changed  to  "The  Beggar  and  the  King."* — 
My  dangerous  cousin,  let  your  mother  in  : 
1  know,  she  's  come  to  pray  for  your  foul  sin. 

York.  If  thou  do  pardon,  whosoever  pray. 
More  sins  for  this  forgiveness  prosper  may. 
This  fester'd  joint  cut  off.  the  rest  rest  sound ; 
This,  let  alone,  will  all  the  rest  confound. 
Enter  Duchess. 

Duch.  O  kmg!  believe  not  this  hard-hearted  man  : 
Love,  loving  not  itself,  none  other  can. 

York.  Thou   frantic  woman,  what  dost  thou  make 
here  ? 
Sliall  thy  old  dugs  once  more  a  traitor  rear  ? 

Dwh.  Sweet    York,  be    patient.     Hear  me.  gentle 
liege.  [kneels. 

Boling.  Rise  up,  good  aunt. 

Duch.  Not  yet,  I  thee  beseech  : 

For  ever  will  I  walk"*  upon  my  knees. 
And  never  see  day  that  the  happy  sees. 
Till  thou  give  joy  ;  until  thou  bid  me  joy, 
By  pardor;  ng  Rut  land,  my  transgressing  boy. 


Aum.  Unto  my  mother's  prayers,  I  bend  mv  knee 

[Knedi 

York.  Against  them  both,  my  true  joints  bend<^ii  be 

[KneeU 
111  may'st  thou  thrive,  if  thou  L'rant  any  grace  !* 

Duch.  Pleads  he  in  earnest  ?  look  upon  his  face; 
His  eyes  do  drop  no  tears,  his  prayers  are  in  jest ; 
His  words  come  from  his  mouth,  ours  from  our  breast. 
He  prays  but  faintly,  and  would  be  denied  ; 
We  pray  with  heart,  and  soul,  and  all  beside  : 
His  weary  joints  would  gladly  rise,  I  know; 
Our  knees  shall  kneel  till  to  the  ground  they  grow 
His  prayers  are  full  of  false  hypocrisy; 
Ours  of  true  zeal  and  deep  integrity. 
Our  prayers  do  out-pray  his ;  then,  let  them  have 
That  mercy  which  true  prayers  ought  to  have. 

Boling.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Dtich,  Nay.  do  not  say — stand  up 

But,  pardon  first,  and  afterwards,  stand  up. 
An  if  I  were  thy  nurse,  thy  tongue  to  teach. 
Pardon  should  be  the  first  word  of  thy  speech. 
I  never  long'd  to  hear  a  wo'-d  till  now ; 
Say — pardon,  king  :  let  pity  teach  thee  how  : 
The  word  is  short,  but  not  so  sliort  as  sweet ; 
No  word  like  pardon,  for  kings'  mouths  so  meet. 

York.  Speak  it  in  French,  king:  sa.\,  pa rdonrwz-moi 

Duch.  Dost  thou  teach  pardon  pardon  to  destroy? 
Ah,  my  sour  husband,  my  hard-hearted  lord, 
That  set'st  the  word  itself  against  the  word  ! 
Speak,  pardon,  as  't  is  current  in  our  land  ; 
The  chopping*  French  we  do  not  understand. 
Thine  eye  begins  to  speak,  set  thy  tongue  there, 
Or  in  thy  piteous  heart  plant  thou  thine  ear. 
That  hearing  how  our  plaints  and  prayers  do  pierce. 
Pity  may  move  thee  pardon  to  rehearse. 

Boling.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  I  do  not  sue  to  stand 

Pardon  is  all  the  suit  I  have  in  hand. 

Boliiig.  I  pardon  him,  as  God  shall  pardon  me. 

Duch.  0,  happy  vantage  of  a  kneeling  knee  ' 
Yet  am  I  sick  for  fear  :  speak  it  again  ; 
Twice  saying  pardon  doth  not  pardon  twain, 
But  makes  one  pardon  strong. 

Boling.  I  pardon  him  with  all  my  heart. 

Duch<.  A  god  on  earth  thou  art.  [Rises.'' 

Boling.  But  for  our  trusty  brother-in-law,  and  the 
abbot. 
With  all  the  rest  of  that  consorted  crew, 
Destruction  straight  shall  dog  them  at  the  heels. — 
Good  uncle,  help  to  order  several  powers 
To  Oxford,  or  where  else*  these  traitors  be  :* 
They  shall  not  live  within  this  world,  I  swear. 
But  I  will  have  them,  bo'"  I  once  know  where. 
Uncle,  farewell. — and  cousin  mine",  adieu: 
Your  mother  well  hath  pray'd,  and  prove  you  true. 

Duch.  Come,  my  old  con;  I  pray  God  make  the* 
new.  [  Etcuiit 

SCENE  [V. 
Enter  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton.  and  a  Servant. 
Exton.  Didst  thou  not  mark  the  king,  what  wor(l> 
he  spake  ? 
"  Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living  fear "''"' 
Was  it  not  so? 

Serv.  Those  were  his  very  words.  [twice 

Extan.  "Have  I  no  friend?"  quoth  he:  he  spake  i' 
And  urg'd  it  twice  together,  did  he  not? 
Serv.  He  did. 


'  The   reai  of  thi»  stage  direction  it  not  in  f.  e.       >  Foli 
Cftan^in^.     'Notinf.  e.     'where'er:  in  f.  e.     »  are  :  ii 


'  A  popular  ballaa.       ♦  Folio  :  kneel. 
>»  if:  in  f.  e.     "  too:  in  f.  •. 


This  Line  is  not  in  the  lolit 


SCENE   V. 


KING  RICHARD  H. 


349 


While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the  clock." 
This  music  mads  me  :  let  it  sound  no  more, 
For  though  it  hath  holpe  madmen  to  their  wits, 
In  me,  it  seems,  it  will  make  -wine  men  mad. 
Yet,  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me  ! 
For  't  is  a  sign  of  love,  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  strange  brooch'  in  this  all-hating  world. 
Enter  Groom. 

Groom.  Hail,  royal  prince  ! 

A'.  Rich.  Thanks,  noble  peer ; 

The  cheapest  of  us  is  ten  groats  too  dear. 
What  art  thou  ?  and  how  comest  thou  hither. 
Where  no  man  never  comes,  but  that  sad"  dcg 
That  brings  me  food  to  make  misfortune  live  ? 

Groom.  I  was  a  poor  groom  of  thy  stable,  king. 
When  thou  wert  king ;  who,  travelling  towards  York, 
With  much  ado,  at  length  have  gotten  leave 
To  look  upon  my  sometime  royal  master's  face. 
0  !  how  it  yern'd  my  heart,  when  I  beheld 
In  London  streets  that  coronation  day. 
When  Bolingbroke  rode  on  roan  Barbary  ! 
That  horse  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid, 
That  horse  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd 

K.  Rich.  Ptode  he  on  Barbary  ?  Tell  me,  gentle  friend, 
How  went  he  under  him  ? 

Groom.  So  proud,  as  if  he  had  disdain'd  the  ground 

K.  Rich,  So  proud  that  Bolingbroke  was  on  his  back'. 
That  jade  hath  eat  bread  from  my  royal  hand ; 
This  hand  hath  made  him  proud  with  clapping  hint. 
Would  he  not  stumble  ?     Would  he  not  fall  down, 
(Since  pride  must  have  a  fall)  and  break  the  neck 
Of  that  proud  man  that  did  usurp  his  back  ? 
Forgiveness,  horse  !  why  do  1  rail  on  thee, 
Since  thou,  created  to  be  aw'd  by  man. 
Wast  born  to  bear  ?     I  was  not  made  a  horse ; 
And  yet  I  bear  a  burden  like  an  ass, 
Spur-gall'd  and  tir'd  by  jauncing  Bolingbroke 
Enter  Keeper.,  with  a  Dish. 

Keep.  Fellow,  give  place  :  here  is  no  longer  .=:tay. 

[To  the  Groom. 

K.  Rich.  If  thou  love  me.  'tis  time  thou  wort  away. 

Groom.  What  my  tongue  dares  not,  that  my  heart 
shall  say.  [Exit. 

Keep.  My  lord,  will  't  please  you  to  fall  to  ? 

K.  Rich.  Taste  of  it  first,  as  thou  art  wont  to  do. 

Keep.  My  lord,  I  dare  not :  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton.  who 
lately  came  from  the  king,  commands  the  contrary. 

A'.  Rich.  The  devil  take  Plenry  of  Lancaster,  and  thee  ! 
Patience  is  stale,  and  I  am  weary  of  it. 

[Strikes  the  Keeper . 

Keep.  Help,  help,  help  ! 

Enter  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton,  and  Servants,  armr.d. 

K.  Rich.  How  now  !  what  means  death  in  thi.«  rude 
assault  ? 
Villain,  thine  own  hand  yields  thy  death's  instrument. 
[Snatching  a  weapon.^  and  killing  one. 
Go  thou  and  fill  another  room  in  hell. 

[He  kills  another :  Exton  strikes  him  doiun. 
That  hand  shall  burn  in  never-quenching  fire. 
That  staggers  thus  my  person. — Exton,  thy  fierce  hand 
Hath  with  the  king's  blood  stain'd  the  king's  own  land. 
Mount,  mount,  my  soul !  thy  seat  is  up  on  high, 
Wliilst  my  gross  flesh  sinks  downward,  here  to  dip  [  Dtes 

Exton.  As  full  of  valour,  as  of  royal  blood  ' 
Both  have  I  spilt :  0.  would  the  deed  were  good ! 
For  now  the  devil,  that  told  me  I  did  well, 
Says  that  this  deed  is  chronicled  in  hell. 

I  '  So  the  quartos,  1597  and  8  ;  two  later  ones  and  folio  :  wistly.  'So  the  quarto,  1-597  ;  other  eds.  :  "  ho-w  to  compare."  '  *  So  the  qaartoB  , 
I  the  folio  :  faith.  *  Not  in  folio  ;  need/e  is  to  be  pronounced,  as  it  often  was.  as  one  syllable.  '  Tick.  '  Dial-plate.  »  Thefig^ure  thai  struoi 
the  hours  in  old  clocks.     •  An  allusion,  say  the  commentators),  to  these  ornaments  being  out  of  fashion.     '"  Grave. 


Exton.  And,  speaking  it.  he  wishtly'  look'd  on  me ; 
As  who  should  say, — I  would  thou  wert  the  man 
That  would  divorce  this  terror  from  my  heart ; 
Meaning  the  king  at  Pomfret.     Come,  let 's  go  : 
I  am  the  king's  friend,  and  will  rid  his  foe.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Pomfret.    The  Dungeon  of  the  Castle. 
Enter  King  Richard. 
K.  Rich.  I  have  been  studying  how  [  may  compare^ 
This  prison,  where  I  live,  unto  the  world : 
And  for  because  the  world  is  populous. 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it :  yet  I  '11  hammer  't  out. 
My  brain  I  '11  pfove  the  female  to  my  soul ; 
My  soul,  the  fatlier :  and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  stiU-breeding  thoughts. 
And  these  same  tlioughts  people  this  little  world ; 
lu  huniours  like  the  people  of  this  world, 
For  no  thought  is  contented.     The  better  sort- 
As  thoughts  of  things  dn-ine,  are  intermix'd 
With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  word^  itself 
Against  the  word  ;* 

As  thus, — '  Come,  little  ones ;"  and  then  again, — 
"  It  is  as  hard  to  come,  as  for  a  camel 
To  thread  the  postern  of  a  small*  needle's  eye." 
Thoughts  tending  to  ambition,  they  do  plot 
Unlikely  wonders  :  how  these  vain  weak  nails 
May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 
Of  this  hard  world,  my  ragged  prison  walls ; 
And,  for  they  cannot,  die  in  their  o-wn  pride. 
Thoughts  tending  to  content  flatter  themselves. 
That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves. 
Nor  shall  not  be  the  last ;  like  silly  beggars, 
Wio,  sitting  in  the  stocks,  refuge  their  shame 
That  many  have,  and  others  must  sit  there : 
And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  ease. 
Bearing  their  own  misfortune  on  the  back 
Of  such  as  have  before  endur'd  the  like. 
1  hus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people. 
And  none  contented  :  sometimes  am  I  king ; 
Then,  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar. 
And  so  I  am  :  then,  crushing  penury 
Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king . 
Then,  am  I  king'd  again ;  and,  by  and  by, 
Think  that  I  am  unking'd  by  Bolingbroke, 
And  straight  am  nothing. — But  whate'er  I  am, 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  that  but  man  is, 
With  nothing  shall  be  pleas'd,  till  he  be  eas'd 
With  being  nothing. — Music  do  I  hear?  [Music. 

Ha,  ha !  keep  time. — How  sour  sweet  music  is, 
,  When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept  ! 
!  So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives  : 
'  And  here  have  ^  the  daintiness  of  ear, 
I  To  check  time  broke  in  a  disorder'd  string, 
But  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  time. 
Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 
[  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me ; 
For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numbering  clock; 
My  thoughts  are  minutes,  and  with  sighs  they  jar*, 
;  Their  watches  on  unto  mine  eyes  the  outward  watch,' 
I  Wliereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point, 
\  Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears. 
Now,  for  the  sound,  that  tells  what  hour  it  is, 
I  Are  clamorous  groans,  that  strike  upon  my  heart, 
'-  Which  is  the  bell :  so  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
]  Show  minutes,  times,  and  hours ;  but  my  time 
I  Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  joy, 


350 


KING  KICHAED  H. 


ACT   V. 


Tbib  dead  king  to  ihe  living  king  I  '11  bear  — 
Take  Lenoe  the  rrst,  and  give  them  burial  here. 

[Eictmt  with  the  bodic!. 

SCENE  VI.— Windsor.     An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Flourish      Enter  Bolingbroke.  and  York,  with  Lords 

and  Attendants. 

Baling.  Kind  iinele  York,  the  latest   news  we  hear 
Is,  that  the  rebels  have  consum'd  with  fire 
Our  town  of  Cieeter  in  Glostershiic : 
But  whether  they  be  ta'en.  or  slain,  we  hear  not. 

Enter  Northumberland. 
Welcome,  my  lord.     What  is  the  news  with  you  ?' 

North.  First,  to  thy  sacred  state  wish  I  all  happiness  : 
The  next  news  is. — I  have  to  London  sent 
The  heads  of  Salisbury,  Spencer,  Blunt,  and  Kent : 
The  manner  of  their  taking  may  appear 
At  large  discoursed  in  this  paper  here. 

[Presenting^  a  Paper. 

Baling.  We  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy,  for  thy  pains, 
And  to  thy  worth  will  add  right  worthy  gains. 
Enter  Fitzwater. 

Fitz.  My  lord.  I  have  from  Oxford  sent  to  London 
The  heads  of  Brocas,  and  Sir  Bennet  Seely, 
Two  of  the  dangerous  consorted  traitors, 
That  sought  at  Oxford  thy  dire  overthrow. 

Baling.  Thy  pains.  Fitzwater,  shall  not  be  forgot; 
Right  noble  is  thy  merit,  well  I  w^ot. 

Ejiter  Pe?vCY.  with  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Percy.  The  grand  conspirator,  abbot  of  Westminster. 
With  clog  of  conscience,  and  sour  melancholy 
Hath  yielded  up  his  body  to  the  grave ; 


But  here  is  Carlisle  living,  to  abide 

Thy  kingly  doom,  and  sentence  of  his  pride. 

Boliiig.  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  this  shall  be  your  doom* ; — 
Choose  out  some  secret  place,  some  reverend  room, 
More  than  thou  hast,  and  with  it  joy  thy  lite  ; 
So,  as  thou  liv'st  in  peace,  die  free  from  strite : 
For  though  mine  enemv  thou  hast  ever  been, 
High  sparks  of  honour  in  thee  have  1  seen. 

Elder  Exton.  with  Attendants  bearing  a  Coffin. 

E.rton.  Great  king,  within  this  coHin  I  present 
Thy  buried  fear  :  herein  all  breathless  lies 
The  mightioet  of  thy  greatest  enemies, 
riichard  of  Bordeaux,  by  me  hiilier  brought. 

Baling.  Exton,  I  thank  thee  not :  for  thou  hast  ^^TOught 
A  deed  of  slander'  wnth  thy  fatal  hand 
Upon  my  head,  and  all  this  famous  land.  [deed. 

Elian.  From  your  oaati  mouth,  my  lord,  otd   1  thif 

Baling.  They  love  not  poison  that  do  poison  need, 
Nor  do  I  thee  :  though  I  did  wish  him  dead, 
I  hate  the  murderer,  love  him  murdered. 
The  guilt  of  conscience  take  thou  for  thy  labour. 
But  neither  my  good  word,  nor  princely  favour  : 
With  Cain  go  wander  through  the  shade  of  night, 
And  never  show  thy  head  by  day  nor  light. — 
Lords.  I  protest,  my  soul  is  full  of  woe, 
That  blood  should  sprinkle  me  to  make  me  grow: 
Come,  mourn  with  me  for  that  I  do  lament, 
And  put  on  sullen  black.     Incontinent 
I  '11  make  a  voyage  to  the  Holy  land, 
To  wa^h  this  blood  off  from  my  .suilty  hand. 
March  sadly  after :  grace  my  mourning  here, 
In  weeping  after  this  vmtimely  bier.  [HixeufU 


a/e  net  in  f.  e       "  Cajrlisle,  this  i«  yoru  aocm  :  in  f  e       '80  the  quarto,  1597  ;  the  others,  and  folio  :  ilatifjbtoi 


THE   FIEST   PART 

OF 

KING    HENRY    IV 


DRAMATIS     PERSONS. 


King  Henry  the  Fourth. 

Henry.  Prince  of  Wales. 

Prince  John  of  Lancaster. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland. 

Sir  Walter  Blunt. 

Thomas  Percy,  Earl  of  Worcester. 

Henry  Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland  : 

Henry  Percy,  surnamcd  Hotspur,  his  Son. 

Edmund  IMorti.mer.  Earl  of  March. 

Scroop,  Archbishop  of  York. 

Archibald,  Earl  of  Douglas. 

Lords,  Officers,  Sheriff,  Vintner,   Chamberlain, 


Owen  Glendower. 

Sir  Richard  Vernon. 

Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Sir  Michael,  a  friend  of  the  .\rchbishop  of  York. 

POINS. 

Gadshill. 
Peto. 

Bardolph. 

Lady  Percy,  Wife  to  Hotspur. 
Lady  Mortimer,  Daughter  to  Glendower. 
Mrs.  Quickly,  Hostess  of  a  Tavern  in  Eastcheap. 
Drawers,  Carriers,  Travellers,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE,  England. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  I. — London.     An  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter   King   Henry,   Westmoreland.   Sir   Walter 
Blunt,  and  Others. 
K.  Hen.  So  shaken  as  we  are,  so  wan  with  care, 
Find  we  a  time  for  frighted  peace  to  pant, 
And  breathe  short -wnded  accents  of  new  broils 
To  be  commenc'd  in  stronds  afar  remote. 
No  more  the  thirsty  entrance'  of  this  soil 
Shall  daub  her  lips  with  her  own  children's  blood  ; 
No  more  shall  trenching  war  channel  her  fields. 
Nor  bruise  her  tiowrets  with  the  armed  hoofs 
Of  hostile  paces  :  those  opposed  eyes, 
Which,  like  the  meteors  of  a  troubled  heaven, 
All  of  one  nature,  of  one  substance  bred. 
Did  lately  meet  in  the  intestine  shock 
And  furious  close  of  civil  butchery. 
Shall  now.  in  mutual,  well-beseeming  ranks, 
March  all  one  way,  and  be  no  more  oppos"d 
■Vgainst  acquaintance,  kindred,  and  allies  : 
The  edge  of  war.  like  an  ill-sheathed  knife, 
No  more  shall  cut  his  master.     Therefore,  friends, 
As  far  as  to  the  sepulchre  of  Christ, 
Whose  soldier  now,  under  whose  blessed  cross. 
We  are  impressed,  and  engag'd  to  fight, 
Forthwth  a  power  of  English  shall  we  levy. 
Whose  arms  were  moulded  in  their  mother's  womb, 
To  chase  these  pagans,  in  those  holy  fields, 
Over  whose  acres  walk'd  those  blessed  feet, 
Which  fourteen  hundred  years  ago  were  nail'd 
For  our  advantage  on  the  bitter  cross. 
But  this  our  purpose  is  a  twelve-month  old, 


And  bootless  't  is  to  tell  you  we  will  go  : 
Therefore  we  meet  not  now. — Then,  let  me  hear 
Of  you,  my  gentle  cousin  Westmoreland, 
What  yesternight  our  council  did  decree. 
In  forwarding  this  dear  expedience'. 

West.  My  liege,  this  haste  was  hot  in  question, 
And  many  limits  of  the  charge'  set  dovna. 
But  yesternight ;  when,  all  athwart,  there  came 
A  poiit  from  Wales  loaden  with  hea^-y  news ; 
Whose  worst  was,  that  the  noble  Mortimer, 
Leading  the  men  of  Herefordshire  to  fight 
Against  the  irregular  and  wild  Glendower, 
Was  by  the  rude  hands  of  that  Welchman  taken, 
A  thousand  of  his  people  butchered  j 
Upon  whose  dead  corpse  there  was  such  misuse. 
Such  beastly,  shamele.-s  transformation. 
By  those  Welchwomen  done,  as  may  not  be 
Without  much  shame  re-told  or  spoken  of. 

K.  Hen.  It  seems,  then,  that  the  tidings  of  this  broil 
Brake  off  our  business  for  the  Holy  Land. 

West.   This,  match'd  with  other,  did,*  my  gracious 
lord  ; 
For'  more  uneven  and  unwelcome  news 
Came  from  the  north,  and  thus  it  did  import. 
On  Holy-rood  day,  the  gallant  Hotspur  there, 
Young  Harry  Percy,  and  brave  Archibald, 
That  ever-valiant  and  approved  Scot, 
At  Holmedon  met ; 

Where  they  did  spend  a  sad  and  bloody  hour, 
As  by  discharge  of  their  artillery. 
And  shape  of  likelihood,  the  news  was  told  ; 
For  he  that  brought  them,  in  the  very  heat 


Coleridsre  adopts  Theobald's  view,  that  the  "drv  penetrability"  of  the  soil  of  England  was  referred  to. 
"t  the  .ipeni  e     ♦  The  folio  :  like.    »  The  folio  :  Far. 


Expedition.     *  CaieulattovA 

351 


352 


FIRST  PART  OF 


And  pride  of  llioir  ooneiitioii  did  take  horsjc, 
Uncertain  of  tlie  issue  any  way. 

K.  Hen.  Here  is  a  dear,  a  true-industrious  friend, 
Sir  Walter  Blunt,  new  lii;hted  from  liis  horse, 
Stain'd  with  the  variation  of  each  soil 
Betwixt  that  Holinedon  and  this  scat  of  ours  : 
And  lie  liatli  brought  us  sinootli  and  welcome  jiews. 
The  earl  of  Doughis  is  discomfited  ; 
Ten  thousand  bold  Scol.s,  two-and-twenty  knights, 
Balk'd'  in  tlieir  own  blood,  did  Sir  Walter  see 
On  Holme(lun"s  plains  :  of  pri.soners,  Hotspur  took 
Mordake  earl  of  Fife,  and  eldest  son 
To  beaten  Douglas,  and  the  earl  of  Athol, 
Of  Murray.  Angus,  and  the  bold*  Menteith  ; 
And  is  not  this  an  honourable  spoil  ? 
A  gallant  prize  ?  ha  !  cousin,  is  it  not  ? 

West.  "Faith,  't  is'  a  conquest  for  a  prince  to  boast  of. 

K.  Hen.  Yea,  there  thou  mak'st  me  sad,  and  mak'st 
me  sin, 
Ir.  envy  that  my  lord  Northumberland 
Should  be  the  father  to  so  blest  a  son  : 
A  son,  wlio  is  the  theme  of  honour's  tongue  ; 
Amongst  a  grove  the  very  straightest  plant : 
Who  is  sweet  tortune's  minion,  and  her  pride  : 
Whilst  I,  by  looking  on  the  praise  of  him, 
Se-^  riot  and  dishonour  stain  the  brow 
Oi  my  young  Harry.     O  !  that  it  could  be  provM, 
That  some  night-tripping  fairy  had  exchang'd 
In  cradle-clothes  our  children  where  they  lay, 
And  calTd  mine  Percy,  his  Plantagenet : 
Then  would  I  have  his  Harry,  and  he  mine. 
But  ler  him  from  my  thoughts. — What  think  you,  coz, 
Of  this  young  Percy's  pride  ?  the  prisoners. 
Which  he  in  this  adventure  hath  surpris'd, 
To  his  own  use  ke  keeps;  and  sends  me  word, 
I  shall  have  none  but  Mordake  earl  of  Fife. 

West.  This  is  his  uncle's  teaching,  this  is  Worcester, 
Malevolent  to  you  in  all  aspects  ; 
Which  makes  him  prune  himself,  and  bristle  up 
The  crest  of  youth  against  your  dignity. 

K.  Hen.  But  I  have  sent  for  him  to  answer  this; 
And  for  this  cause  awhile  we  must  neglect 
Our  holy  purpose  to  Jerusalem. 
Cousin,  on  Wednesday  next  our  council  we 
Will  hold  at  Windsor  :  so  inform  the  lords  ; 
But  come  yourself  with  speed  to  us  again, 
For  more  is  to  be  said,  and  to  be  done, 
Than  out  of  anger  can  be  uttered. 

West.  I  wtII.  my  li  5ge.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Same.     Another  Apartment  in  the 

Palace. 

Enter  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Now,  Hal  :  what  time  of  day  is  it.  lad  ? 

P.  Hen  Tliou  art  so  fat-witted,  with  drinking  of  old 
gark,  and  unbuttoning  thee  after  sujiper,  and  sleeping 
upon  benches  after  noon,  that  thou  liast  forgotten  to 
demand  tiiat  truly,  which  thou  wouldst  truly  know. 
What  a  devil  hast  thou  to  do  with  the  time  of  the 
day?  unless  hours  were  cups  of  sack,  and  minutes 
capons,  and  clocks  the  tongues  of  bawds,  and  dials  the 
signs  of  leaping-house.?.  and  the  blessed  sun  himself  a 
fair  hot  wench  in  flame-colourd  lalfeta,  I  sec  no  reason 
why  thou  shouldst  be  so  superfluous  to  demand  the 
time  of  the  day. 


I  Fal.  Indeed  you  come  near  me,  now,  Hal  ;  for  we, 
thill  take  purses,  go  by  the  moon  and  the  seven  stars, 
and  not  by  Pha;bus, — he,  "  that  wandering  knight  so 
fair."*  And,  I  i)r'ythee,  sweet  wag,  when  thou  art 
king, — as,  God  save  thy  grace, — majesty,  I  should  say, 
for  grace  thou  wilt  have  none, — 

P.  Hen.  What,  none  ? 

Fal.  No,  by  my  troth  ;  not  so  much  as  will  serve  to 
be  proloiiuc  lo  an  egg  and  butter. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  how  then?  come,  roundly,  roundly. 

Fal.  Marry,  then,  sweet  wag,  when  thou  art  king,  lei 
not  us,  that  are  squires  of  the  night's  body,  be  called 
thieves  of  the  day's  beauty  :  let  us  be  Diana's  foresters, 
gentlemen  of  the  shade,  minions  of  the  moot)  ;  and  let 
men  say,  we  be  men  of  good  government,  being  go- 
verned as  the  sea  is,  by  our  noble  and  chaste  mistress 
the  moon,  under  whose  countenance  we  steal. 

P.  lien.  Thou  say'st  well,  and  it  holds  well,  too;  for 
the  fortune  of  us,  that  are  the  moon's  men.  doth  ebb 
and  flow  like  the  sea,  being  governed  as  the  sea  is,  by 
the  moon.  As  for  proof  now  :  a  purse  of  gold  most 
resolutely  snatched  on  Monday  night,  and  most  disso- 
lutely spent  on  Tuesday  morning ;  got  with  swearing — 
lay  by  ;  and  spent  with  crying — bring  in  ;  now,  in  as 
low  an  ebb  as  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and,  by  and  by, 
in  as  high  a  flow  as  the  ridge  of  the  gallows. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  thou  say'st  true,  lad.  And  in  not 
my  hostess  of  the  tavern  a  most  sweet  wench  ? 

P.  Hen.  As  the  honey  of  Hybla.  my  old  lad  of  the 
castle.'  And  is  not  a  bufl"  jerkin'  a  most  sweet  robe  of 
durance  ? 

Fal.  How  now,  how  now.  mad  wag  ?  what,  in  thy 
quips,  and  thy  quiddities  ?  what  a  plague  have  I  to  do 
with  a  bulf  jerkin  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  pox  have  I  to  do  with  my 
hoste.«s  of  the  tavern  ? 

Fal.  Well,  thou  hast  called  her  to  a  reckoning  many 
a  time  and  oft. 

P.  Hen.  Did  I  ever  call  for  thee  to  pay  thy  part? 

Fal.  No  :  I  '11  give  thee  thy  due  ;  thou  hast  paid  all 
there. 

P.  Hen.  Yea,  and  elsewhere,  so  far  as  my  coin  would 
stretch  ;  and,  where  it  would  not,  I  have  used  my 
credit. 

Fal.  Yea,  and  so  used  it,  that  it  is'  here  apparent 
that  thou  art  heir  apparent. — But,  I  pr'ythee,  sweet 
wag,  shall  there  be  sallows  standing  in  Ensland  when 
thou  art  king,  and  resolution  thus  fobbed,  as  it  is,  -with 
the  ru.sty  curb  of  old  father  antick,  the  law  ?  Do  not 
thou,  when  thou  art  a  king,  hang  a  thief. 

P.  Hen.  No  :  thou  shalt. 

Fal.  Shall  I  ?  0  rare  !  By  the  Lord,  I  '11  be  a  brave 
judge. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  judgest  false  already :  I  mean,  thon 
shalt  have  the  hanging  of  the  thieves,  and  so  become  a 
rare  hangman. 

Fal.  Well,  Hal,  well ;  and  in  some  sort  it  jump? 
with  my  humour,  as  well  as  waiting  in  the  court,  I  c.iti 
tell  you. 

P.  Hen.  For  obtaining  of  suits? 

Fal.  Yea,  for  obtaining  of  suits,  whereof  the  hang- 
man hath  no  lean  wardrobe.  'Sblood,  I  am  as  melan- 
choly as  a  uib*-cat,  or  a  lugged  bear. 

P.  Hen.  Or  an  old  lion  ;  or  a  lover's  lute. 

Fal.  Yea.  or  the  drone  of  a  Lincolnshire  bagpipe.* 


«  Raited  in  ridges,  heaped.      »  These  two  words  are  not  in  f.  e.      '  in  f.  e   : 

In  faich, 
Itig,  *c. 
•  TKe  Knight  nf  the  Sun.  wtione  romantic  adrentnrei  were  trannl.-ited  and  published  in  1585.     »  An  allusion  to  the  name  of  Oldcartle,  w^jcti 
FaUtaff  appear?  to  have  orieinally  bnrne.    Farmer  savR  it  i«  from,  lad  of  Castile.     »  This  was  the  dres-s  of  constabl»'«  at  the  time  of  the  /Itf 
'  were  it  not  herp  •  in  f.  e      »  Uib.  was  an  old  name  for  a  tom-cat.     '  The  Lincolnshire  bagpipe  is  often  mentioned  by  old  writers. 


jcENE  n. 


KIXG   HEXKY  lY. 


853 


P.  Hen.  ^^^lat  sayest  thou  to  a  hare,  or  the  melan- ' 
sholy  of  Moor-ditch'?'  j 

Fal.  Thou  hast  the  most  unsavoury  similes;  and  art, 
ndeed,  the  most  comparative,  rascallest,  sweet  young 
>rince. — But,  Hal,  I  pr'ythee.  trouble  me  no  more  with  ^ 
'anitv      I  would  to  God.  thou  and  I 'knew  where  a 


rill.  I  '11  tarry  at  home. 
traitor  then,  when  thou 


P.  Hen.  Well,  come  what 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  I  'II  be  : 
art  king. 

P.  Hen.  I  care  not. 

Poins.  Sir  John.  I  pr'ythee.  leave  the  prince  and  me 
alone :  I  will  lav  him  down  such  reasons  for  this  ad 


«mmodity  of  good  names  were  to  be  bought.     An  old  •  venture,  that  he  shall  go. 

ord  of  the  council  rated  me  the  other  day  in  the  street  Fal.  Well.  God  give  thee  the  spirit  of  persuasion, 
ibout  you,  sir  :  but  I  marked  him  not :  and  yet  he '  and  him  the  ears  of  profiting,  that  what  thou  speakest 
alked  very  wisely  ;  but  I  regarded  him  not,  and.  yet  may  move,  and  what  he  hears  may  be  believed,  that  the 
le  talked  wisely,  and  in  the  street  too.  true    prince  may  (for    recreation   sake)   prove  a  false 

P.  Hen.  Thou  didst  well  ;  for  wisdom  cries  out  in  thief;  for  the  poor   acases  of  the  time  want  counte* 


be  streets,  and  no  man  regards  it. 

Fal.  0  !  thou  hast  damnable  iteration,  and  art,  in- 
leed,  able  to  corrupt  a  saint.  Thou  hast  done  much 
larm  upon  me.  Hal  : — God  forgive  thee  for  it.     Before 

knew  thee.  Hal,  I  knew  nothing  ;  and  now  am  I,  if 
I  man  should  speak  truly,  little  better  than  one  of  the   manage  aloue 
kicked.     I  must  give  over  this  life,  and  I  will  give  it 
iver  ;  by  the  Lord,  an  1  do  not,  I  am  a  villain  :  1  '11  be 
iamned  for  never  a  king's  son  in  Christendom. 

P.  Hen.  Where  shall  we  take  a  purse  to-morrow, 
lack? 

Fal.  Zounds  !  where  thou  wilt,  lad,  I'll  make  one; 
m  I  do  not,  call  me  villain,  and  baffle  me. 


nance.     Farewell :  you  shall  find  me  in  Eastcheaj,. 

P.  Hen.  Farewell,  thou  latter  spring!  Farewell 
All-hallown'  summer  !  [Exit  Falstaff! 

Poins.  Now.  my  good  sweet  honey  lord,  ride  with  us 

to-morrow  :  I    have  a  J3st   to  execute,  that  I  cannot 

Falstaff.  Bardolph.  Pero,  and  Gadshill. 


.-hall  rob  those  men  that  we  have  already  way-laid : 
yourself  and  I  will  not  be  there  :  and  when  they  have 
the  booty,  if  you  and  I  do  not  rob  them,  cut  this  head 
off  from  my  shoulders. 

P.  Heii.  How  shall  we  part  with  them  in  setting  forth  ? 

Poins.  Why,  we  Mill  set  forth  before  or  after  them, 

and  appoint  them  a  place  of  meeting,  wherein  it  is  at 

P.  Hen.  I  see  a  good  amendment  of   life  in  thee  ;  I  our    plea.'^ure  to  fail:    and  then  will  they  adventure 

rom  praying,  to  purse-taking.  [  upon  the  exploit  themselves,  which  they  shall  Lave  nc 

Enter  Poins.  at  a  distance.  ;  sooner  achieved,  but  we  '11  set  upon  them. 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  't  is  my  vocation,  Hal ;  't  is  no  sin  for  '      P.  Hen.  Yea.  but  't  is  like,  that  they  will  laiow  us. 

i  man  to  labour  in  his  vocation.     Poins  ! — Now  shall !  by  our    horses,  by   our    habits,  and    by   every   other 

.ve  know  if  Gadshill  have  set  a  match'. — 0  !  if  men  !  appointment,  to  be  ourselves. 

vere  to  be  saved  by  merit,  what  hole  in  hell  were  hot  [      Poins.  Tut  !  our  horses  they  shall  not  see ;  I  '11  tie 

enough  for  him  ?     This  is  the  most  omnipotent  villain, ;  them  in  the  wood  :  our  visors  we  will  change,  after  W6 

:hat  ever  cried.  Stand  I  to  a  true  man.  leave  them ;  and,  sirrah^.  I  have  cases  of  buckram  foi 

P.  Hen.  Good  morrow,  Ned.  '  the  nonce',  to  inmask  our  noted  outward  garments. 

Poins.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hal. — What  says  mon- i      P.  Hen.  Yea,  but  I  doubt  they  will  be  too  hard  for  us. 

iieur  Remor.-e?  What  says  Sir  John  Sack^-and-Sugar?       Poins.  Well,  for  two  of  them.  1  know  them  to  be  as 

lack,  how  agrees   the  devil  and  thee  about  thy  soul, ' true-bred   cowards  as  ever  turned  back;  and  for  t)ie 

hat  thou  soldest  him  on  Good-Friday  last,  for  a  cup  third,  if  he  '11  fight  longer  than  he  sees  reason,  I  Ml  tor- 

if  Madeira,  and  a  cold  capon's  leg  ?  swear  arms.    The  virtue  of  this  jest  will  be.  the  ineom- 

P.Hen.  Sir  John  stands  to  his  word:  the  devil  shall' prehensible  lies  that  this  same  fat  rogue  will  tell  us. 

lave  his  bargain,  for  he  was  never  yet  a  breaker  of  i  when  we  meet  at  supper  :  how  thirty  at  least  he  foughi 

troverbs  ;  he  will  give  the  devil  his  due.  jwith;  what  wards,  what  blows,  what  extremities  he 

Poins.  Then,  art  thou  damned  for  keeping  thy  word  i  endured  :  and  in  the  reproof  of  this  lies  the  jest, 
vith  the  devil.  P.  Hen.  Well.   I  '11    go  wnth  thee :    provide   us    all 

P.  Hen.  Else  he  had  been  damned  for  cozening  the 'things   necessary,  and   meet    me  to-morrow  night   in 
evil.  JEastcheap.  there  I '11  sup.      Farewell, 

i   Poi/i5.  But,  my  lads,  my  lads,  to-morrow  morning.  I      Poins.  Farewell,  my  lord.  [Exit  Foiss 

y  fowr  o'clock,  early  at  Gadshill.     There  are  pilgrims  I      P.  Hen.  I  know  you  all,  and  will  a  while  uphold 
oing  to  Canterbury  with   rich  offerings,  and  traders  !  The  unyok'd  humour  of  your  idleness : 
idini;  to  London  with  fat  purses:  I  have  visors  for  you  Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun, 
11,  y>>u  have  horses  for  yourselves.     Gadshill  lies  to-  'Who  doth  permit  the  base  contagious  clouds 
ight  in  Rochester ;  I  have  bespoke  supper  to-morrow  To  smother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world, 
ight  ;n  Eastcheap :  we  may  do  it  as  secure  as  sleep.  ,  That  when  he  please  again  to  be  himself, 
i'  yoi'  will  go.  I  will  stuff  your  purses  full  of  crowns ;   Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wondered  at. 
you  will  not,  tarry  at  home,  and  be  hanged.  ;  By  breaking  through  the  foul  and  ugly  mists 

.  Fal.  Hear  ye,  Yedward  :  if  I  tarry  at  home,  and  go  Of  vapours,  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him. 
»t,  I  'li  hang  you  for  going.  jif  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 

Poins.  You  will,  chops?  JTo  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work  ; 

Fal.  Hal.  wilt  thou  make  one?  jBut  when  they  seldom  come,  they  wish'd-for  come 

i  P.  Hen    Who,  I  rob  ?  I  a  thief?  not  T,  by  my  faith.   And  nothing  pleaseth  but  rare  accidents. 
'  i'd.    There  "s  neither  honesty,  manhood,  nor   good  So,  when  this  loose  behaviour  I  throw  off. 
lio.vship  in   thee,  nor  thou  cam'st  not  of  the  blood  And  pay  the  debt  I  never  promised. 
;ya»,  if  thou  darest  not  stand  for  ten  shillings*.  By  how  much  better  than  my  word  I  am, 

[P.  Hen.  Well  then,  once  in  my  days  I  '11  be  a  madcap.  By  so  much  shall  I  falsify  men's  hopes  ; 
Fed.  Why,  that  's  well  said.  'And,  like  bright  metal  on  a  sullen  ground. 


A  fi'thy  and  stagnant  i 
s.    »Folio:  w^tch:  to 


tck,  with  a  morass  on  one  side,  and  Bedlam  Hospital  on  the  other,  extending  between  Bi^ho(>»g  itc  .ind  Cripitc 
set  a  match"  was.  to  mike  an  appointment.  '  Sharris  sac.  appe  irs  to  hare  been  dry  Sherry.  ♦Such  was  Uk 
ue  of  a  coin  called  -^  royal.  >All-hallown,  or  All-S  linu"  diy,  occurs  on  the  first  of  Novemher.  «'J'hisword  was  often  ased,  a»  hete,  U 
v>n»  not  inferiors.     ••  Sir,  ha  !"  is  snppoied  to  be  the  dariTation.     '  Derived  from,  "  for  the  once."— Oiffard. 


354 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Aor 


My  reformation,  glittering  o'er  my  fault, 

Shall  show  more  goodly,  and  attract  more  eyes, 

Than  that  -vvhicli  hath  no  foil  (o  set  it  off. 

I  '11  so  offend,  to  make  offence  a  skill, 

Redeeming  time,  when  men  think  least  I  will.     [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.    Another  Apartment  in 

the  Palace. 

"Lraer   Kmg  Henry.  Northumberland.  Worcester, 

HoTsiTR,  Sir  Walter   Blunt,  and  Others. 

K.  Hrn.  jNJv  blood  hath  been  too  cold  and  temperate. 
Unapt  to  stir  at  these  indignities, 
And  you  have  found  me;  for,  accordingly, 
Vou  tread  upon  my  patience:  but,  be  sure, 
I  will  from  henceforth  rather  be  myself. 
Mighty,  and  to  be  feared,  than  my  condition, 
Which  hath  been  smooth  as  oil,  soft  as  young  down. 
And  therefore  lost  that  title  of  respect. 
Which  the  proud  soul  ne'er  pays  but  to  the  proud. 

Wor.  Our  house,  my  sovereign  liege,  little  de.«erves 
The  scourge  of  greatness  to  be  used  on  it : 
And  that  same  greatness,  too.  which  our  own  hands 
Have  holp  to  make  so  portly. 

North.   RIy  good'  lord, — 

K.  Hen.  Lord'  Worcester,  get  thee  gone  ;  for  1  do  see 
Danger  and  disobedience  in  thine  eye. 
0,  sir !  your  ])resence  is  loo  bold  and  peremptory, 
And  majesty  might  never  yet  endure 
The  moody  frontier'  of  a  servant  brow. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us  :  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel,  we  shall  send  for  you. — 

[Exit  Worcester. 
You  were  about  to  speak.  [7b  North. 

North.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 

Those  prisoners  in  your  highness'  name  demanded, 
Which  Harry  Percy,  here,  at  Holmedon  took. 
Were,  as  he  saj's,  not  with  such  strength  denied 
As  is  deliver'd  to  your  majesty  • 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son. 

Hot.  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners  : 
But.  I  remember,  when  the  light  was  done,    . 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage,  and  extreme  toil. 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword. 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd. 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  ;  and  his  chin,  new  reap'd, 
Show"d  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home  : 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner. 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncct*-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took't  away  again; 
Who,  thcrcwiih  angry,  when  it  next  came  there. 
Took  it  in  snuff: — and  still  he  smil'd,  and  talk'd; 
And   as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 
He  call'd  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  question'd  me;  among  the  rest,  demanded 
My  pri.soners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 
To  be  so  pester'd  with  a  popinjay. 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
An.swer'd  neglectiniily,  I  know  not  what, 
He  ehoul'l;  or  he  should  not;  for  he  made  me  mad. 
To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 
And  talk  .xo  like  a  waiting  gentlewoman. 
Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds,  God  save  the  mark  ! 

•  -This  word  is  not  In  f.  e.     'A  term  of  milliary  defence,  here  used  Id  the  lense  of  oppoiitii 
Folio  •  That.     '  .M:ike  bn  indenture,  agree.     '  fears  :  in  f.  c. 


I  And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bruise; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was. 
This'  villainous  salt-pctre  should  be  digg'd 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth. 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 
So  cowardly  ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  gun», 
He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 
This  bald,  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 
I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said  ; 
And,  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 
Come  current  for  an  accusation. 
Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

Blunt.  The  circumstance  considered,  good  my  lord, 
Whate'er  Lord  Harry  Percy  then  had  said, 
To  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place. 
At  such  a  time,  with  all  the  rest  re-told. 
May  rea.sonably  die,  and  never  rise 
To  do  him  wrong,  or  any  way  impeach 
What  then  he  said,  so  he  unsay  it  now. 

A'.  Hen.  Why,  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners, 
But  with  proviso,  and  exception. 
That  we.  at  our  own  charge,  shall  ransom  straight 
His  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Mortimer ; 
Who.  on  my  soul,  hath  wilfully  betray'd 
The  lives  of  those  that  he  did  lead  to  fight 
AL'ainst  that  great  madcian.  damnM  Glendower, 
Whose  daughter,  as  we  fear,  that  carl  of  March 
Hath  lately  married.     Shall  our  coffers,  then, 
Be  emptied  to  redeem  a  traitor  home  ? 
Shall  we  buy  treason,  and  indent*  with  foes', 
When  they  have  lost  and  forfeited  themselves? 
No,  on  the  barren  mountains  let  him  starve ; 
For  I  shall  never  hold  that  man  my  friend. 
Whose  tongue  shall  ask  me  for  one  pemiy  cost. 
To  ransom  home  revolted  Mortimer. 

Hot.  Revolted  Mortimer  ! 
He  never  did  fall  off,  my  sovereign  liege, 
But  by  the  chance  of  war :  to  prove  that  true, 
Needs  no  more  but  one  tongue  for  all  those  woundi., 
Those  mouthed  wounds,  winch  valiantly  he  took. 
When  on  the  gentle  Severn's  sedgy  bank, 
In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand. 
He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower. 
Three  times  they  breathd,  and  three  times  did  they 

drink. 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood  ; 
Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks. 
Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds. 
And  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank 
Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 
Nercr  did  ba.se  and  rotten  policy 
Colour  her  working  with  such  deadly  wounds  ; 
Nor  never  could  the  )ioble  Mortimer 
Receive  so  many,  and  all  willingly: 
Then,  let  him  not  be  slander'd  with  revolt. 

A'.  Hen.  Thou  dost  belie  him,  Percy,  thou  doslheJi  i 
him  :  '  '  I 

He  never  did  encounter  with  Glendower 

I I  tell  thee, 

;  He  durst  as  well  have  met  the  devil  alone, 
'  As  Owen  Glendower  for  tn  enemy. 

Art  thou  not  asham'd  ?     But,  sirrah,  henceforth 
I  Let  me  not  hear  you  speak  of  Mortimer. 
I  Send  me  your  prisoners  with  the  specdie-st  means. 

Or  you  shall  liear  in  such  a  kind  from  me 
,  As  will  displease  you. — My  lord  Northumberland, 

A  box  of  open  work  containing  eiifut' 


6CENE   m. 


KING   HENEY  IT. 


356 


We  license  your  departure  viith  your  son. — 
Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you  '11  hear  of  it. 

[Exeunt  King  Henry,  Blunt,  and  Train. 

Hoi.  And  if  the  devil  come  and  roar  for  them, 
[  will  not  send  them. — I  will  after  straight, 
And  tell  him  so  ;  for  I  will  ease  my  heart, 
Albeit  I  make  a  hazard'  of  ray  head.        {Offers  to  go.' 

North.  What  !  drunk  with  choler  ?  stay,  and  pause 
awhile : 

ere  comes  your  uncle. 

Re-enter  Worcester. 

Hot.  Speak  of  Mortimer  ! 

Zounds  !  I  will  speak  of  him  :  and  let  my  soul 
Want  mercy,  if  I  do  not  join  with  him  : 
l:'ea,  on  his  part^,  I  '11  empty  all  these  veins, 
.\nd  shed  my  dear  blood  drop  by  drop  i'  the  dust, 
But  I  will  lift  the  down-trod  Mortimer 
A-s  high  i'  the  air  as  this  unthankful  king, 
As  this  ingrate  and  canker'd  Bolingbroke. 

North.  Brother,    [To   Worcester.]    the  king   hath 
made  your  nephew  mad. 

Wor.  Who  struck  this  heat  up  after  I  was  gone  ? 

Hot.  He  will,  forsooth,  have  all  my  prisoners  ; 
And  when  I  urged  the  ransom  once  again 
Of  my  wife's  brother,  then  his  cheek  look'd  pale, 
And  on  my  face  he  turn'd  an  eye  of  death, 
Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mortimer. 

IVor.  I  cannot  blame  him.     Was  he  not  proclaim'd. 
By  Richard,  that  dead  is.  the  next  of  blood  ? 

North.  He  was  :  I  heard  the  proclamation  : 
And  then  it  was  when  the  unhappy  king 
(Whose  wrongs  in  us  God  pardon  !)  did  set  forth 
Upon  his  Irish  expedition  ; 
From  whence  he  intercepted  did  return 
To  be  depos'd,  and  shortly  murdered. 

Wor.  And  for  whose  death,  we  in  the  world's  wide 
mouth 
Live  scandaliz'd.  and  foully  spoken  of. 

Hot.  But,  soft  !   I  pray  you,  did  king  Richard,  then, 
Proclaim  my  brother  Edmund  Mortimer 
Heir  to  the  crown  ? 

North.  He  did  :  myself  did  hear  it. 

Hot.  Nay,  then,  I  cannot  blame  his  cousin  king. 
That  w-ish'd  him  on  the  barren  mountains  starve. 
But  shall  it  be,  that  you,  that  set  the  crown 
Upon  the  hoad  of  this  forgett\il  man, 
And  for  his  sake  wear  the  detested  blot 
Of  murd'roKS  subornation,  shall  it  be, 
That  you  a  world  of  curses  undergo, 
Being  the  agents,  or  base  second  means, 
The  cords,  tlie  ladder,  or  the  hangman  rather? — 
0  !  pardon  me*,  that  I  descend  so  low, 
To  show  the  line,  and  the  predicament. 
Wherein  you  range  under  this  subtle  king. 
Shall  it  for  shame  be  spoken  in  these  days, 
Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come. 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power, 
Did  gage  them  both  in  an  unjust  behalf, 
(As  both  of  you,  God  pardon  it !  have  done) 
To  put  down  Richard,  that  sweet  lovely  rose. 
And  plant  this  thorn,  this  canker,  Boliiigbroke? 
And  shall  it,  in  more  shame,  be  farther  spoken, 
That  you  are  fool'd,  discarded,  and  shook  off 
By  him.  for  whom  these  shames  ye  underwent  ? 
^o!  yet  time  serves,  wherein  you  may  redeem 
iour  tarnish'd'  honours,  and  restore  yourselves 
nto  the  good  thoughts  of  the  world  again. 


'Folic:  Although  it  be  -vrith  hazard, 
ete  ag  a  separate  line  :  "  And  list  to  me 
!>nrie^ 


Revenge  the  jeering,  and  disdain'd  contempt. 
Of  this  proud  king ;   who  studies  day  and  night 
To  answer  all  the  debt  he  owes  to  you. 
Even  with  the  bloody  payment  of  your  deaths. 
Therefore,  I  say, — 

Wor.  Peace,  cousin !  say  no  more. 

And  now  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book. 
And  to  your  quick-conceiving  discontents 
I  '11  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous  : 
As  full  of  peril  and  adventurous  spirit, 
As  to  o"erwalk  a  current,  roaring  loud, 
On  the  unsteadfast  footing  of  a  spear. 

Hot.  If  he  fall  in,  good  night  ! — or  sink  or  swim, 
Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west, 
So  honour  cross  it,  from  the  north  to  south, 
And  let  them  grapple  : — 0  !  the  blood  more  stire. 
To  rouse  a  lion,  than  to  start  a  hare. 

North.  Imagination  of  some  great  exploit 
Drives  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience. 

Hot.  By  heaven,  methinks.  it  were  an  easy  leap 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-fac'd  rncxjn  ; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  tho  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  by  the  locks, 
So  he  that  doth  redeem  her  thence  miglit  wear 
Without  corrival  all  her  dignities  : 
But  out  upon  this  half-fac'd  fellowship  ! 

Wor.  He  apprehends  a  world  of  figures  here. 
But  not  the  form  of  what  he  should  attend. — 
Good  cousin,  give  me  audience  for  awhile.' 

Hot.  I  cry  you  mercy. 

Wor.  Those  same  noble  Scots, 

That  are  your  prisoners, — 

Hot.  I  '11  keep  them  all. 

By  God,  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot  of  them : 
No,  if  a  Scot  would  save  his  soul,  he  shall  not, 
I  '11  keep  them,  by  this  hand. 

Wor.  You  start  away, 

And  lend  no  ear  unto  my  purposes. 
Those  prisoners  you  shall  keep. 

Hot.  Nay,  I  will ;  that 's  fiat 

He  said  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer ; 
Forbad  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer ; 
But  I  will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep. 
And  in  his  ear  I  '11  holla — Mortimer  ! 
Nay,  I  '11  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it  him, 
To  keep  his  anger  still  in  motion. 

Wor.  Hear  you,  cousin,  a  word. 

Hot.  All  studies  here  I  solemnly  defy. 
Save  how  to  gall  and  pinch  this  Bolingbroke ; 
And  that  same  sword-and-buckler'  prince  of  Wales, 
But  that  I  think  his  father  loves  him  not, 
And  would  be  glad  he  met  with  some  mischance, 
I  would  have  him  poison'd*  with  a  pot  of  ale. 

Wor.  Farewell,  kinsman.     I  will  talk  to  you, 
When  you  are  better  temper'd  to  attend. 

North.  Why,  what  a  wasp-stung'  and  impatient  foo 
Art  thou  to  break  into  this  woman's  mood, 
Tying  thine  ear  to  no  tongue  but  thine  own  ! 

Hot.  Why,  look  you.  I  am  whipp'd  and  scourg'd  with 
rods, 
Nettled,  and  stung  with  pismires,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  vile  politician.  Bolingbroke. 
In  Richard's  time. — what  do  ye  call  the  place  ? — 
A  plague  upon  't — it  is  in  Gloucestershire  ; — 
'T  was  where  the  mad-cap  duke  his  uncle  kept, 


!Not  in  f.  e.      'Folio:  In   his  behalf.     ♦Folio:  if.     »bfinished  :  in  f.  e.      •  Tne  folio  ins 
'Servants  and  riotous  persona  were  thus  accoutred.    "Folio.-  poison'd  him .    'Folic:  ni 


356 


FIEST  PAET  Ur 


His  uncle  York, — where  I  first  bow'd  my  knee 
Unto  this  king  of  smiles,  this  Bolingbroke, 
Sblood  !  when  you  and  he  came  back  from  Ravenspurg. 

North.  Ai  Berkley  castle. 

Hot.  You  say  true. — 
VVliy,  what  a  candied  deal  of  courtesy 
This  fawning  greyhound  then  did  proffer  me  ! 
Look. — '•  when  his  infant  fortune  came  to  age," 
And, — "gentle  Harry  Percy," — and,  "kind  cousin," — 
O,  tlie  devil  take  such  cozeners  ! — God  forgive  me  ! — 
Good  uncle,  tell  your  tale  :  T'  have  done. 

Wor.  Nay,  if  you  have  not,  to  't  again, 
We  '11  stay  your  leisure. 

Hot.  I  have  done,  i'  faith. 

If  or.  Then  once  more  to  your  Scottish  pri.soners. 
Deliver  them  up  without  their  ransom  straight, 
And  make  the  Douglas'  son  your  only  mean 
For  powers  in  Scotland :  which,  for  divers  reasons 
Which  I  shall  send  you  written,  be  assur'd, 
Will  easily  be  granted  you. — My  lord, 

[To  Northumberland. 
^'our  son  in  Scotland  being  thus  employ'd. 
Shall  secretly  into  the  bosom  creep 
Of  that  same  noble  prelate,  well  belov'd, 
Tlie  archbishop. 

Hot.  Of  York,  is  it  not? 

IVor.  True  :  who  bears  hard 
His  brother's  death  at  Bristol,  the  lord  Scroop. 
I  speak  not  this  in  estimation, 
As  what  I  think  might  be,  but  what  I  know 
Is  ruminated,  plotted,  and  set  downi; 
And  only  stays  but  to  behold  the  face 


Of  that  occasion  that  shall  bring  it  on. 

Hot.  I  .-imell  it: 
Upon  my  life,  it  wll  do  wondrous  well. 

North.  Before  the  game  's  afoot,  thou  still  let'st  slip 

Hot.  Why,  it  cannot  choose  but  be  a  noble  plot. — 
And  then  the  power  of  Scotland,  and  of  York, 
To  join  with  Mortimer,  ha  ? 

Wor.  And  so  they  shall. 

Hot.  In  faith,  it  is  exceedingly  well  aim'd. 

Wor.  And  't  is  no  little  reason  bids  us  speed, 
To  save  our  heads  by  raising  of  a  head  ; 
For,  bear  ourselves  a^  even  as  we  can, 
The  king  will  always  think  him  in  our  debt, 
And  think  we  think  ourselves  unsatisfied, 
Till  he  hath  found  a  time  to  pay  us  home : 
And  see  already  how  he  doth  begin 
To  make  us  strangers  to  his  looks  of  love. 

Hot.  He  does,  he  does :  we  '11  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Tfbr.  Cousin,  farewell. — No  farther  go  in  this, 
Than  I  by  letters  shall  direct  your  course. 
When  time  is  ripe,  (which  will  be  suddenly) 
I  "11  steal  to  Glendower,  and  lord  Mortimer: 
Where  you,  and  Douglas,  and  our  powers  at  once, 
As  I  will  fashion  it,  shall  happily  meet. 
To  bear  our  fortunes  in  our  owni  strong  arms, 
Which  now  we  hold  at  much  uncertainty. 

North.  Farewell,  good  brother:  we  shall  thrive.  I 
trust. 

Hot.  Uncle,  adieu. — 0 !  let  the  hours  be  short, 
Till  fields,  and  blows,  and  groans  applaud  our  sport. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— Rochester.     An  Inn  Yard. 
Enter  a  Carrier,  with  a  Lantern  in  his  hand. 
1  Car.  Heigh  ho  !  An  't  be  not  four  by  the  day,  I  '11 
be  hanged  :  Charles'  wain  is  over  the  new  chimney, 
and  yet  our  horse  not  packed.     What,  ostler  ! 
O.st.  [Within.\  Anon.  anon. 

1  Car.  I  pr'ythee.  Tom.  beat  Cut's  saddle,  put  a  few- 
flocks  in  the  point;  the  poor  jade  is  wrung  in  the 
withers  out  of  all  cess*. 

Enter  another  Carrier. 

2  Car.  Pea.s  and  beans  are  as  dank  here  as  a  dog, 
and  that  is  the  next  way  to  give  poor  jades  the  bots : 
this  house  is  turned  upside  down  since  Robin  ostler 
died. 

1  Car.  Poor  fellow !  he  never  joyed  since  the  price 
of  oats  rose  :  it  was  the  death  of  him. 

2  Car.  I  think,  this  be  the  most  villainous  house  in 
all  London  road  for  fleas :  I  am  stung  like  a  tench. 

1  Car.  Like  a  tench?  by  the  mass,  there  is  ne'er  a 
king  in  Christendom  could  be  better  bit  than  I  have 
been  since  the  first  cock. 

2  Car.  Why,  they  will  allow  us  ne'er  a  Jordan,  and 
then  we  leak  in  the  chimney;  and  your  chamber-lie 
breeds  fleas  like  a  loach. 

1  Car.  What,  ostler !  come  away  and  be  hanged  ; 
come  away. 

2  Car.  I  have  a  gammon  of  bacon,  and  two  razes* 
of  ginger,  to  be  delivered  as  far  a.s  Charing-cross. 

1  Car.  'Odsbody !  the  turkeys  in  my  pannier  are 
quite  Rtar\-cd  — What,  ostler ! — A  plague  on  thee  !  hast 

•  Polio  .  for  I.     *  ileasurt.     '  Roott.     *  A  proverb  of  the  tint*. 


thou  never  an  eye  in  thy  head  ?  canst  not  hear  ?  An 
't  were  not  as  good  a  deed  as  drink,  to  break  the  pate 
of  thee,  I  am  a  very  villain. — Come,  and  be  hanged  :— 
hast  no  faith  in  thee  ? 

Enter  Gadshill. 

Gads.  Good  morrow,  carriers.     What 's  o'clock  ? 

1  Car.  I  think  it  be  two  o'clock. 

Gath.  I  pr'j^hee,  lend  me  thy  lantern,  to  see  my 
gelding  in  the  stable. 

1  Car.  Nay,  soft.  I  pray  ye :  I  know  a  trick  worth 
two  of  that,  i'  faith. 

Gads.  I  pr'jihee,  lend  me  thine. 

2  Car.  Ay,  when?  canst  tell? — Lend  me  thy  lantern, 
quoth  a  ? — marry,  I  '11  see  thee  hanged  first. 

Gads.  Sirrah  carrier,  what  time  do  you  mean  Vn 
come  to  London  ? 

2  Car.  Time  enough  to  go  to  bed  with  a  candle.  1 
warrant  thee. — Come,  neighbour  Mugs,  we  '11  call  up 
the  gentlemen :  they  will  along  with  company,  for  they 
have  great  charge.  [Exeunt  Carrie^- 

Gads.  What,  ho  !  chamberlain  ! 

Cham.   [Within.]  At  hand,  quoth  pick-purse*. 

Gads.  That 's  even  as  fair  as — at  hand,  quoth  t!  ' 
chamberlain;  for  thou  varicst  no  more  from  picking  of 
purse-s,  than  gi^^ng  direction  doth  from  labouring;  thou 
lay'st  the  plot  how. 

Enter  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  morrow,  master  Gadshill.  It  holds 
current,  that  I  told  you  yesternight :  there  's  a  franklin 
in  the  wild  of  Kent,  hath  brought  three  hundred  marb' 
with  him  in  gold :  I  heard  him  tell  it  to  one  of  i 


SCEKE  n. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


357 


company,  last  night  at  supper  ;  a  kind  of  aiiditor ;  one 
that  hath  abundance  of  charge  too,  God  knows  what. 
They  are  up  already,  and  call  for  eggs  and  butter  :  they 
will  away  presently. 

Gads.  Sirrah,  if  they  meet  not  with  saint  Nicholas' 
clerk.*',  I  '11  give  thee  this  neck. 

Cham.  No,  I  '11  none  of  it :  I  pr'ythee,  keep  that  for 
Ihe  hangman ;  for,  I  know  thou  worship'st  saint  Nicho- 
las as  truly  as  a  man  of  falsehood  may. 

Gads.  What  talkest  thou  to  me  of  the  hangman?  if 
I  hang,  I  '11  make  a  fat  pair  of  gallows;  for,  if  I  hang, 
old  sir  John  hangs  with  me,  and  thou  knowest  he  's  no 
starveling.  Tut !  there  are  other  Trojans  that  thou 
dreamest  not  of,  the  which,  for  sport  sake,  are  content 
to  do  the  prolession  some  grace,  that  would,  if  matters 
should  be  looked  into,  for  their  own  credit  sake,  make 
all  whole.  I  am  joined  with  no  foot  land-rakers,  no 
Ions-staff,  sixpenny  strikers :  none  of  those  mad,  mus- 
tachio  purple-hued  malt-worms ;  but  with  nobility  and 
sanguinity";  burgomasters,  and  great  ones — yes,'  such 
as  can  hold  in ;  such  as  will  strike  sooner  than  speak  ; 
and  speak  sooner  than  drink,  and  drink  sooner  than 
pray :  and  yet  I  lie  :  for  they  pray  continually  to  their 
saint,  the  commonwealth ;  or,  rather,  not  pray  to  her, 
but  prey  on  her,  for  they  ride  up  and  down  on  her,  and 
make  her  their  boots. 

Cham.  What!  the  commonwealth  their  boots?  will 
she  hold  out  water  in  foul  way? 

Gaib.  She  will,  she  \<i\\ ;  justice  hath  liquored  her. 
We  steal  as  in  a  castle,  cock-sure ;  we  have  the  receipt 
of  fern-seed,*  we  walk  imisible. 

Cham.  Nay,  by  my  faith,  I  think  you  are  more 
beholding  to  the  night,  than  to  fern-seed,  for  your 
walking  invisible. 

Gads.  Give  me  thy  hand :  thou  shalt  have  a  share  in 
our  purchase,*  as  I  am  a  true  man. 

Cham.  Nay,  rather  let  me  have  it,  as  you  are  a  false 
thief. 

Gads.  Go  to ;  homo  is  a  common  name  to  all  men. 
Bid  the  ostler  bring  my  gelding  out  of  the  stable. 
Farewell,  you  muddy  knave.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Road  by  Gadshill. 

Enter  Prince  Henry,  and  Poins  ;  Bardolph  and  Peto, 

at  some  distance. 

Poins.  Come,  shelter,  shelter :  I  have  removed  Fal- 
staff's  horse,  and  he  frets  like  a  gummed  velvet.' 

P.  Hen.  Stand  close. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Poins  !     Poins,  and  be  hanged  !     Poins  ! 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  ye  fat-kidneyed  rascal !  What  a 
brawlins  dost  thou  keep  ? 

Fal.  Where's  Poins,  Hal? 

P.  Hen.  He  is  walked  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill :  I  '11 
go  seek  hun.  [Pretends  to  seek  Poins. 

Fal.  I  am  accursed  to  rob  in  that  thief's  company: 
the  rascal  hath  removed  my  horse,  and  tied  him  I  know 
not  where.  If  I  travel  but  four  foot  by  the  squire' 
further  afoot  I  shall  break  my  wind.  Well,  I  doubt 
not  but  to  die  a  fair  death  for  all  this,  if  I  'scape  hang- 
ing for  killing  that  rogue.  I  have  forsworn  his  com- 
pany hourly  any  time  this  two-and-twenty  years,  and 
yet  i  am  bewitched  with  the  rogue's  company.  If  the 
rascal  have  not  given  me  medicines  to  make  me  love 
him.  I'  11  be  hanged  ;  it  could  not  be  else :  I  have  drunk 
medicines. — Poins  ! — Hal ! — a  plague  upon  you  both  ! 
— Bardolph  ! — Peto  ! — I  '11  starve,  ere  I  '11  rob  a  foot 
further.     An  't  were  not  af.  good  a  deed  as  drink,  to 

'  A  cant  name  for  robbers,    a  tranquillity  :  in  f.  e.     »  great  oneyers :  in  f.  e.    ♦Of  old,  believed  to  be  invisible,  from  its  very  minute  Hize 
•  k  cant  term,  in  frequent  use,  for  booty.     «  A  gummed  velvet,  being  very  stiff,  fretted,  or  wore  rapidly.     '  Foot-rule.    *  Trick.    »  Lot. 


turn  true  man.  and  leave  these  rogues,  I  am  the  veriest 
varlet  that  ever  chewed  with  a  tooth.  Eight  yards  of 
uneven  ground  is  three  score  and  ten  miles  afoot  with 
me.  and  the  stony-hearted  villains  know  it  well  enough. 
A  plague  upon  't,  when  thieves  cannot  be  true  to  one 
another  !  [They  whistle.]  Whew  ! — A  plague  upon  you 
all  !  Give  me  my  horse,  you  rogues  :  give  me  my 
horse,  and  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  ye  fat-guts  !  lie  down :  lay  thine  ear 
close  to  the  ground,  and  list  if  thou  canst  hear  the 
tread  of  travellers. 

Fal.  Have  you  any  levers  to  lift  me  up  again  being 
down?  'Sblood!  I'll  not  bear  mine  own  flesh  so  far 
afoot  again,  for  all  the  coin  in  thy  father's  exchequer 
What  a  plague  mean  ye  to  colt*  me  thus  ? 

P.  Hen.  Thou  liest:  thou  art  not  colted^  thou  art 
uncolted. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythee,  good  prince  HaL^  help  me  to  my 
horse;  good  king's  son. 

P.  Hen.  Out,  you  rogue  !  shall  I  be  your  ostler  ? 

Fal.  Go,  hang  thyself  in  thine  own  heir-apparent 
garters  !  If  I  be  ta'en,  I  '11  peach  for  thi.s.  An  I  have 
not  ballads  made  on  you  all,  and  sung  to  filthy  tunes, 
let  a  cup  of  sack  be  my  poison:  when  a  jest  is  so  for- 
ward, and  afoot  too. — I  hate  it. 

Enter  Gadshill. 

Gads.  Stand. 

Fal.  So  I  do,  against  my  will. 

Poins.  0  !  't  is  our  setter  :  I  know  his  voice. 
Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  What  news  ? 

Gads.  Case  ye,  case  ye ;  on  with  your  visors :  there  's 
money  of  the  king's  coming  down  the  hill;  't  is  going 
to  the  king's  exchequer. 

Fal.  You  lie,  you  rogue  :  't  is  going  to  the  king's 
tavern. 

Gads.  There  's  enough  to  make  us  all. 

Fal.  To  be  hanged. 

P.  Heyi.  Sirs,  you  four  shall  front  them  in  the  nar- 
row lane;  Ned  Poins  and  I  will  walk  lower:  if  they 
'scape  from  your  encounter,  then  they  light  on  us. 

Peto.  But  how  many  be  there  of  them  ? 

Gads.  Some  eight,  or  ten. 

Fal.  Zounds  !  will  they  not  rob  us  ? 

P.  Hen.  What,  a  coward,  sir  John  Paimch? 

Fal.  Indeed,  I  am  not  John  of  Gaunt,  your  grand- 
father ;  but  yet  no  coward.  Hal. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  we  leave  that  to  the  proof. 

Poins.  Sirrah  Jack,  thy  horse  stands  behind  the 
hedge :  when  thou  needest  him,  there  thou  shalt  find 
him.     Farewell,  and  stand  fast. 

Fal.  Now  cannot  I  strike  him,  if  I  should  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Ned,  [Aside  to  Poins.]  where  are  our  dis- 
guises ? 

Poins.  Here,  hard  by:  stand  close. 

[Exeunt  P.  Henry  ayid  Poins. 

Fal.  Now,  my  masters,  happy  man  be  his  dole',  say 
I :  every  man  to  his  business. 

Enter  Travellers. 

1  Trav.  Come,  neighbour  :  the  boy  shall  lead  oxi 
horses  do-wm  the  hill ;  we  '11  walk  afoot  aAvhilc,  anfl 
ease  our  legs. 

Thieves.  Stand  ! 

Trav  Jesu  bless  us  ! 

Fal.  Strike :  down  with  them ;  cut  the  villains' 
throats.  Ah,  whorson  caterpillars  !  bacon-fed  knaves  ! 
they  hate  us  youth  :  down  with  them  ;  fleece  them. 

1  Trav.  O  !  we  are  undone,  both  we  and  ours,  for  ever 


358 


FIRST  PART  OF 


AiTT  n. 


Fal.  Hang  ye,  gorbeliicd  knaves.     Arc  ye  undone? 

N'o.  yc  fat  chuffs :  I  would,  your  store  were  here.     On, 

bacons,  on  !     What !  ye  knaves,  young  men  must  live. 

Vou  are  grand-jurors  are  ye?     We  '11  jure  ye,  i'  failh. 

[Exeunt  Val.  ire.  driving  the  Travellers  out. 

Re-enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  The  thieves  have  bound  the  true  men. 
Now  could  thou  and  I  rob  the  thieves,  and  go  merrily 
to  London,  it  would  be  argument  for  a  week,  laughter 
for  a  month,  and  a  good  jest  for  ever. 

Poins.  Stand  close  ;  I  hear  them  coming. 
Re-enter  Thieves. 

Fal.  Come,  my  masters;  let  us  share,  and  then  to 
horse  before  day.  An  the  prince  and  Poins  be  not  two 
arrant  cowards,  tliere  's  no  equity  stirring:  there  "s  no 
more  valour  in  that  Poins,  than  in  a  wild  duck. 

P.  Hen.  Your  money.  [Rtishing  out  upon  them. 

Poins.  Villains. 
(.is  they  are  sharing,  the  Prince  and  Poins  set  upon 

them.    They  all  run  away,  and  Falstaff,  after  a  bloir 

or  two,  runs  away  too,  leaving  the  booty  behind  them.] 

P.  Jkn.  Got  with  much  ease.  Now  merrily  to  horse  : 
The  thieves  are  scatter'd.  and  pos.sessed  with  fear 
So  strongly,  that  they  dare  not  meet  each  other; 
Each  takes  his  fellow  for  an  officer. 
Away,  good  Ned.     FalstafF  sweats  to  death. 
And  lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along  : 
War  't  not  for  laughing,  I  should  pity  him. 

Poins.  How  the  rogue  roar'd  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— Warkworth.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Hotspur,  reading  a  Letter. 
— "  But  for  mine  own  part,  my  lord,  I  could  be  well 
contented  to  be  there,  in  respect  of  the  love  I  bear 
your  house." — He  could  be  contented, — why  is  he  not 
then  ?  In  respect  of  the  love  he  bears  cur  house  ; — 
ne  shows  in  this,  he  loves  his  own  barn  belter  than  he 
loves  our  house.  Let  me  see  some  more.  '•  The  pur- 
pose you  undertake,  is  dangerous  :'' — Why,  that 's  cer- 
tain :  't  is  dangerous  to  take  a  cold,  to  sleep,  to  drink  : 
but  I  tell  you,  my  lord  fool,  out  of  this  nettle,  danger. 
we  '11  pluck  this  flower,  safety.  •'  The  purpose  you 
undertake,  is  dangerous  ;  the  friends  you  have  named, 
uncertain  ;  the  time  itself  unsorted.  and  your  whole 
plot  too  light  for  the  counterpoise  of  so  great  an  opposi- 
fion." — Say  you  so,  say  you  so  ?  I  say  unto  you  again, 
you  are  a  shallow,  cowardly  hind,  and  you  lie.  What 
a  lackbrain  i.s  this  !  By  the  Lord,  our  plot  is  a  good 
plot  a,s  ever  was  laid  :  our  friends  true  and  constant : 
a  good  plot,  good  friends,  and  full  of  expectation  :  an 
excellent  plot,  very  good  friends.  What  a  frosty- 
spirited  rogue  is  this  ?  Why,  my  lord  of  York  com- 
mends the  plot,  and  the  general  course  of  the  action. 
'Zounds  !  and  I  were  now  by  this  ra-scal,  I  could  brain 
him  with  his  lady's  fan.  Is  there  not  my  father,  my 
uncle,  and  myeelf?  lord  Edmund  Mortimer,  my  lord 
of  York,  and  Owen  Giendower?  Is  there  not,  besides. 
the  Douglas?  Have  I  not  all  their  letters,  to  meet 
me  in  arms  by  the  ninth  of  the  next  month,  and  arc 
they  not.  some  of  them,  set  forward  already?  What  a 
pagan  ra.scal  is  this  !  an  infidel  !  Ha  !  you  .shall  see 
now,  in  very  sincerity  of  fear  and  cold  heart,  will  he 
to  the  kin;;,  and  lay  open  all  our  proceedings.  Oh  !  I 
could  divide  myself,  and  go  to  buffets,  for  moving  such 
a  dif.h  of  skinimal  milk  with  so  honourable  an  action. 
Hang  him  !  let  him  tell  the  king  :  we  are  prepared. 
I  will  set  forward  lo-night. 


Enter  Lady  Percy. 
How  now,  Kate  ?     I  must  leave  you  within  these  twc 
hours. 

Ixidy.  0;  my  good  lord  !  why  are  you  thus  alone  ? 
For  what  offence  have  I  this  fortnight  been 
A  banish'd  woman  from  my  Harrys  bed? 
Tell  me,  sweet  lord,  what  is  't  that  takes  from  thee 
Thy  stomach,  pleasure,  and  thy  golden  sleep  ? 
Why  dost  thou  bend  thine  eyes  upon  the  earth, 
And  start  so  often  when  thou  sit'st  alone? 
Why  hast  thou  lost  the  fresh  blood  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  given  my  treasures,  and  my  rights  of  thee. 
To  thick-ey'd  musing,  and  curs'd  melancholy  ? 
In  thy  faint  slumbers  I  by  thee  have  watch'd, 
And  heard  thee  murmur  tales  of  iron  wars  ; 
Speak  terms  of  manage  to  thy  bounding  steed  ; 
Cry,  "  Courage  ! — to  the  field  !"     And  ihou  hast  ta'.k'd 
Of  sallies,  and  retires;  of  trenches,  tents, 
Of  palisadocs,  frontiers,'  parapets  ; 
Of  basilisks'  of  camion,'  culverin  ;* 
Of  prisoners'  ransom,  and  of  soldiers  slain, 
And  all  th'  oceurrents'  of  a  heady  fight. 
Thy  spirit  within  thee  hath  been  so  at  war, 
And  thus  hath  so  bestirr'd  thee  in  thy  sleep, 
That  beads  of  sweat  have  stood  upon  thy  brow, 
Like  bubbles  on  a  late  disturbed  stream : 
And  in  thy  face  strange  motions  have  appear'd. 
Such  as  we  see  when  men  restrain  their  breath 
On  some  great  sudden  best.*     0  !  what  portents  are 
Some  .heav)-  business  hath  my  lord  in  hand,       [these  ? 
And  I  must  know  it,  else  he  loves  me  not. 

Hot.  What,  ho !  is  Gilliams  with  the  packet  gone  ? 
Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  He  is,  my  lord,  an  hour  ago. 

Hot.  Hath    Butler   brought  those   horses  from  the 
sheriff? 

Serv.  One  horse,  my  lord,  he  brought  even  now. 

Hot.  What  horse  ?  a  roan,  a  crop-ear,  is  it  not  ? 

Serv.  It  is,  my  lord. 

Hot.  That  roan  shall  be  my  throne. 

Well,  I  will  back  him  straight :  0.  esperance  .'' 
Bid  Butler  lead  him  forth  into  the  park.     [Exit  Servant. 

Lady.  But  hear  you,  my  lord. 

Hot.  What  say'st  thou,  my  lady? 

Lady.  What  is  it  carries  you  away  ? 

Hot.  Why  my  horse, 
My  love,  my  horse. 

Lady.  Out,  you  mad-headed  apo  I 

A  weasel  hath  not  such  a  deal  of  sjileen. 
As  you  are  are  toss'd  with.     In  faith, 
I  '11  know  your  business,  Harry,  that  I  will. 
I  fe^r,  my  brother  jNIortimer  doth  stir 
About  his  title ;  and  hath  sent  for  you. 
To  line  his  enterprise  :  but  if  you  go — 

Hot.  So  far  afoot,  I  shall  be  weary,  love. 

Lady.  Come,  come,  you  paraquito,  answer  me 
Directly  unto  this  question  thai  I  ask. 
In  faith,  I  '11  break  thy  little  finger,  Harry, 
An  if  thou  wilt  not  tell  mo  all  things  true. 

Hot.  Away! 
Away,  you  trifler  ! — Lovs  ? — I  love  thee  not, 
I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate.     This  is  no  world. 
To  play  with  mammets,'  and  to  tilt  with  lips: 
We  must  have  bloody  noses,  and  crack'd  crowns, 
And  pa.ss  them  current  lOO.— (iods  me.  my  horse!— 
What  say'st  thou,  Kate?  what  wouldst  thou  have  with 
me? 


'  The  fo-tificationii  protectinc  frontiera.  >  Weiphed  ninn  thousand  pounds  and  carried  a  ball  of  sixty.  '  Weighed  seven  thousand,  &■' 
juried  a  \-'.\.  cf  sixty.  *  Weighed  four  thouy-ind,  and  carried  a  ball  of  eighteen.  *  currents  :  in  f.  e.  •  So  the  quarto ;  the  folio  :  htate 
The  moll'  of  the  Percy  family.    •  Pupptti,  dolls. 


KIXG  HENRY  IV, 


859 


Lady.  Do  you  not  love  me  ?  do  you  not,  indeed  ? 
Well,  do  not  then ;  for  since  you  love  me  not, 
[  will  noi  iOve  myself.     Do  you  not  love  me  ? 
Nay,  tell  me.  if  you  speak  in  jest,  or  no  ? 

Hot  Come,  to  the  park,  Kate' ;  wilt  thou  see  me  ride  ? 
And  when  I  am  o'  horseback,  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely.     But  hark  you,  Kate ; 
I  must  not  have  you  henceforth  question  me 
Whither  I  go,  nor  reason  whereabout. 
Whither  I  must,  I  must :  and,  to  conclude. 
This  evening  must  I  leave  you,  gentle  Kate. 
I  know  you  ^\'ise ;  but  yet  no  farther  wise 
Than  Harry  Percy's  wife  :  constant  you  are ; 
But  yet  a  woman  :   and  for  secrecy. 
No  lady  closer;  for  I  well  believe 
Thou  -vvnlt  not  utter  what  thou  dost  not  know ; 
And  so  far  will  I  trust  thee,  gentle  Kate. 

Lady.  How  !  so  far  ? 

Hot.  Not  an  inch  farther.     But  hark  you,  Kate  ? 
Whither  I  go,  thither  shall  you  go  too ; 
To-day  -will  I  set  forth,  to-morrow  you. 
Will  this  content  you,  Kate  ? 

Lady.  It  must,  of  force.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Eastcheap.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's 

Head  Tavern. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  a7}d  Poixs. 

P.  Hen.  Ned,  pr'ythee,  come  out  of  that  fat  room, 
ind  lend  me  thy  hand  to  laugh  a  little. 

Poins.  Where  hast  been.  Hal  ? 

P.  Hen.  With  three  or  four  loggerheads,  amongst 
three  or  four-score  hogsheads.  I  have  sounded  the 
very  base  string  of  humility.  Sirrah,  I  am  sworn 
brother  to  a  leash  of  drawers,  and  can  call  them  all  by 
their  Christian  names,  as — Tom,  Dick,  and  Francis. 
They  take  it  already  upon  their  salvation,  that  though 
I  be  but  prince  of  Wales,  yet  I  am  the  king  of  cour- 
tesy, and  tell  me  flatly  I  am  no  proud  Jack,  like  Fai- 
staff;  but  a  Corinthian,  a  lad  of  mettle,  a  good  boy, 
(by  the  lord,  so  they  call  me.)  and  when  I  am  king  of 
England;  I  shall  command  all  the  good  lads  in  East- 
cheap.  They  call  drinking  deep,  dying  scarlet  :  and 
when  you  breathe  in  youi-  watering^  they  cry  hem  !  and 
bid  you  play  it  olF. — To  conclude,  I  am  so  good  a  pro- 
ficient in  one  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  I  can  drink  with 
any  tinker  in  his  own  language  during  my  life.  I  tell 
theo,  Ned,  thou  hast  lost  much  honour  that  thou  wert 
not  with  me  in  this  action.  But,  sweet  Ned, — to 
sweeten  which  name  of  Ned,  I  give  thee  this  penny- 
worth of  sugar,  clapped  even  now  into  my  hand  by  an 
under-skinker'  :  one  that  never  spake  other  English  in 
his  life,  than — "  Eight  shillings  and  sixpence,"  and — 
■■  You  are  welcome  ;"  with  this  shrill  addition, — "  Anon, 
anon,  sir  !  Score  a  pint  of  bastard  in  the  Half-moon," 
or  so.  But.  Ned,  to  drive  away  the  time  till  Falstaff 
come,  I  prH-thee,  do  thou  stand  in  some  by-room,  while 
1  question  my  puny  drawer  to  what  end  he  gave  me 
the  s  igar  ;  and  do  thou  never  leave  calling — Francis  ! 
that  his  tale  to  me  may  be  nothing  but — anon.  Step 
aside,  and  I  '11  show  thee  a  precedent. 

Poins.  Francis  ! 

P.  Hen.  Thou  art  perfect. 

Poins.  Francis  !  [Exit  Poins. 

Enter  Francis. 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. — Look  down  into  the  Pome- 
granate, Ralph. 

P.  Hen.  Come  hither,  Francis. 

Fran.  My  lord. 

to  the  park,  Kate  :  not  in  f .  e.    »  take  breath  in  your  drinking.    '  One  who  serves  drink,  a  drawer.    *  Having  the  hair  cut  close. 
Galloon.     '  A  strong  and  sweet  Spanish  wine.    It  was  both  brown  and  white. 


P.  Hen.  How  long  hast  thou  to  serve,  Francis  ? 

Fran.  Forsooth,  five  years,  and  as  much  as  to — 

Pains.  \Within.]  Francis  ! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  ?ir. 

P.  Hen.  Five  years  !  by  'r  lady,  a  long  lease  for  the 
clinking  of  pewter.  But,  Francis,  darest  thou  be  sn 
valiant,  as  to  play  the  coward  with  thy  indenture,  and 
to  show  it  a  fair  pair  of  heels,  and  run  from  it  ? 

Fran.  0  lord,  sir  !  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  all  the  books 
in  England.  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart. 

Poins.  [Within.]  Francis  ! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  How  old  art  thou,  Francis  ?  [be — 

Fran.  Let  me  see. — about  Michaelmas  next  I  shall 

Poins.  [Within.]  Francis! 

Fran.   Anon,  sir. — Pray  you,  stay  a  little,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Nay.  but  hark  you.  Francis.  For  the  sugai 
thou  gavest  me. — 't  was  a  pennyworth,  was  't  not  ? 

Fran.  0  lord,  sir  !   I  would  it  had  been  two. 

P.  Hen.  I  will  give  thee  for  it  a  thousand  pound: 
ask  me  when  thou  wilt,  and  thou  shalt  have  it. 

Poins.   [Within.]  Francis  ! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon. 

P.  Hen.  Anon,  Francis?  No,  Francis;  but  to-mor- 
row, Francis;  or,  Francis,  on  Thursday;  or,  indeed, 
Francis,  when  thou  wilt.     But,  Francis — 

Fran.  My  lord  ? 

P.  Hen.  Wilt  thou  rob  this  leathern-jerkin,  crystal- 
button,  knot-pated,*  agate-ring,  puke'-stocking,  caddis* 
garter,  smooth-tongue,  Spanish-pouch, — 

Fran.  0  lord,  sir,  who  do  you  mean  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why  then,  your  brown  bastard'  is  your  only 
drink :  for.  look  you,  Francis,  your  white  canvas  dou- 
blet will  sully.  In  Barbary,  sir,  it  cannot  come  to  so 
much. 

Fran.  What,  sir? 

Poins.   [Within.]  Francis! 

P.  Hen .  Away,  you  rogue  :  Dost  not  thou  hear 
them  call  ? 

[Here  they  both  call  him;  the  Drawer  stands  amazed, 
not  knowing  ichich  way  to  go. 
Enter  Vi7it7ier. 

Vint.  What  !  stand'st  thou  still,  and  hcarst  such  a 
calling?  Look  to  the  guests  within.  [Exit  Frajt.i 
My  lord,  old  sir  John,  with  half  a  dozen  more,  are  ai 
the  door  :  shall  I  let  them  in  ? 

P.  Hen.  Let  them  alone  awhile,  and  then  open  the 
door.     [Exit  Vintner.]  Poins  ! 

Re-enter  Poins. 

Poins.   Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  Falstaff  and  the  rest  of  the  thieves 
are  at  the  door.     Shall  we  be  merry  ? 

Poins.  As  merr}-  as  crickets,  my  lad.  But  hark  ye 
what  cunning  match  have  you  made  with  this  jest  of 
the  drawer  ?  come,  what 's  the  issue  ? 

P.  Hen.  I  am  now  of  all  humours,  that  have  show'd 
themselves  humours,  since  the  old  days  of  goodman 
Adam  to  the  pupil  age  of  this  pre-sent  twelve  o'clock 
at  midnight.  [Re-enter  Fr.\ncis,  with  Wine.]  What 's 
o'clock,  Francis  ? 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir.  [Exit. 

P.  Hen.  That  ever  this  fellow  should  have  fewer 
words  than  a  parrot,  and  yet  the  son  of  a  woman  !  His 
industry  is — up-stairs,  and  do\sTi-stairs  ;  his  eloquence, 
the  parcel  of  a  reckoning.  I  am  not  yet  of  Percy's 
mind,  the  Hotspur  of  the  North;  he  that  kills  me 
some  six  or  seven  dozen  of  Scots  at  a  breaktast,  washes 
his  hands,  and  says  to  his  vdfe, — '•  Fie  upon  this  quiei 


tf6U 


FIKST  PART  OF 


life?  [  want  work."  '-0  my  sweet  Harry,"  says  she, 
"  How  many  hast  thou  kil  led  to-day  ?"  '•  Give  my  roan 
horse  a  drench,"  says  lie.  and  answers,  "  .Some  four- 
teen," an  liour  after;  "atiille.  a  trifle." — I  pr'ythee, 
call  in  Falstaff;  I'll  play  Perey,  and  that  damned  brawn 
shall  play  dame  Mortimer  his  wife.  "  Rivo  !"  says  the 
drunkard.     Call  in  ribs,  call  in  tiillow. 

Enter  F.\LST.\KK,  G.\dsiiill,  Bardolph,  and  Peto. 

Pottt3.  Welcome,  Jack.     Where  hast  thou  been? 

Fal.  A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say,  and  a  vengeance 
too  !  marry,  and  amen  ! — Give  me  a  cup  of  sack.  boy. 
— Ere  I  lead  this  life  long,  I  '11  sew  nether-stocks,  and 
mend  them,  and  foot  them  too.  A  plague  of  all 
cowards  ! — Ciive  me  a  cup  of  sack,  rogue. — Is  there  no 
virtue  extant  ?  [He  drinks. 

P.  Hin.  Didst  thou  never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish  of 
butter?  pitiful-hearted  Titan,  that  melted  at  the  sweet 
tale  of  the  sun  !  if  thou  didst,  then  behold  that  com- 
pound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  here 's  lime  in  this  sack  too  :  there 
IS  nothing  but  roguery  to  be  found  in  villainous  man : 
yel  a  coward  is  worse  than  a  cup  of  sack  with  lime  in 
it ;  a  villainous  coward. — Go  thy  ways,  old  Jack  :  die 
when  thou  wilt,  if  manhood,  good  manhood,  be  not  for- 
got upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  then  am  I  a  shotten 
herring'.  There  live  not  three  good  men  unhanged  in 
England,  and  one  of  them  is  fat.  and  grows  old  :  God 
help  the  while  !  a  bad  world,  I  say.  I  would  I  were  a 
weaver ;  I  could  sing  psalms  or  any  thing.  A  plague 
of  all  cowards,  I  say  still. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  wool-sack  !  what  mutter  you? 

Fal.  A  king's  son  !  If  I  do  not  beat  thee  out  of  thy 
kingdom  with  a  dagger  of  lath,  and  drive  all  thy  sub- 
jects afore  thee  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  I  '11  never 
wear  hair  on  my  face  more.     You  prince  of  Wales  ! 

P.  Hen.  Why,  you  whoreson  round  man,  what 's  the 
(natter  ! 

Fal.  Are  you  not  a  coward  ?  answer  me  to  that  ? 
and  Poins  there  ? 

Poins.  'Zounds  !  ye  fat  paunch,  and  ye  call  me  cow- 
ird,  I  '11  stab  thee. 

Fal.  I  call  thee  coward  !  I  '11  see  thee  damned  ere  I 
call  thee  coward  ;  but  I  would  give  a  thottsand  pound. 
I  could  run  as  fast  as  thou  canst.  You  are  straight 
enough  in  the  shoulders ;  you  care  not  who  sees  your 
back.  Call  you  that  backing  of  your  friends?  A 
plague  upon  such  backing  !  give  me  them  that  will 
face  me. — Give  me  a  cup  of  sack :  I  am  a  rogue,  if  1 
drunk  to-day. 

P.  Hen.  O  villain  !  thy  lips  are  scarce  wiped  since 
thou  drunk'st  last. 

Fal.  All 's  one  for  that.  [He  drinks.]  A  plague  of  all 
cowards,  still  say  I. 

P.  Hrn.  What's  the  matter? 

Fal.  What's  the  matter?  there  be  tour  of  us  here 
have  ta'en  a  thousand  pound  this  day  morning*. 

P.  Hen.  Where  is  it.  Jack  !  where  is  it? 

Fal.  Where  is  it?  taken  from  us  it  is :  a  hundred 
«pon  poor  four  of  us'. 

P.  Hen.  What,  a  hundred,  man? 

Fal.  I  am  a  rogue,  ij'  I  were  not  at  half-sword  with 
a  dozen  of  them  two  hours  together.  I  have  "scaped  by 
miracle.  I  am  ei^rht  times  thru.st  through  the  doublet : 
four  through  the  ho.se;  my  buckler  cut  through  and 
through  ;  my  sword  hacked  like  a  hand-saw :  ecce  sig- 


num.  [Drawing  it.*]  I  never  dealt  better  since  I  was  a 
man  :  all  would  not  do.  A  plague  of  all  cowards  !— 
Let  them  speak  :  if  they  speak  more  or  less  than  tnith 
they  are  villains,  and  the  sons  of  darkness. 

P.  Hen.  Speak,  sirs  :  how  was  it  ? 

Bard.  Wo  four  set  upon  some  dozen, — 

Fal.  Sixteen,  at  least,  my  lord. 

Bard.  And  bound  them. 

Peto.  No,  no,  they  were  not  bound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  they  were  bound,  every  man  of 
them ;  or  I  am  a  Jew  else,  an  Ebrew  Jew. 

Bard.  As  we  were  sharing,  some  six  or  seven  fresh 
men  set  upon  us, — 

Fal.  And  unbound  the  rest,  and  then  come  in  the 
other. 

P.  Hen.  What  !  fought  ye  with  them  all  ? 

Fal.  All  ?  I  know  not  what  ye  call  all ;  but  if  1 
fought  not  with  fifty  of  them,  T  am  a  bunch  of  radish ; 
if  tliere  were  not  two  or  three  and  fifty  upon  poor  old 
Jack,  then  am  I  no  two-legged  creature. 

P.  Hen.''  Pray  God,  you  have  not  murdered  some  of 
them. 

Fal.  Nay,  that 's  past  praying  for  :  I  have  peppered 
two  of  them  :  two,  I  am  sure,  I  have  paid ;  two  rogues 
in  buckram  suits.  I  tell  thee  what,  Hal, — if  1  tell 
thee  a  lie,  spit  in  my  face,  call  me  horse.  Thou  know- 
est  my  old  ward  : — here  I  lay,  and  thus  I  bore  my  point. 
Four  rogues  in  buckram  let  drive  at  me, — 

P.  Hen.  What,  four  ?  thou  saidst  but  two  even  now. 

Fnl.  Four,  Hal ;  I  told  thee  four. 

Poins.  Ay,  ay,  he  said  four. 

Fal.  These  four  came  all  a-front,  and  mainly  thrnst 
at  me.  I  made  me  no  more  ado,  but  took  all  thoir 
seven  points  in  my  target,  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Seven  ?  why,  there  were  but  four  even 
now. 

Fal.  In  buckram. 

Poins.  k.j.1  four  in  buckram  suits. 

Fal.  Seven,  by  these  hilts,  or  I  am  a  villain  else. 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  let  him  alone :  we  shall  have  more 
anon.  [To  Poins.' 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal  ? 

P.  Hen.  Ay,  and  mark  thee  too.  Jack. 

Fal.  Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  the  listening  to.  These 
nine  in  buckram,  that  I  told  thee  of, — 

P.  Hen.  So,  two  more  already. 

Fal.  Their  points  being  broken, — 

Poins.  Down  fell  their  hose.'' 

Fal.  Began  to  give  me  ground ;  but  I  followed  me 
close,  came  in,  foot  and  hand,  and  with  a  thought, 
seven  of  the  eleven  I  paid. 

P.  Hen.  O  monstrous !  eleven  buckram  men  grown 
out  of  two. 

Fal.  But,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  three  misbegot- 
ten knaves,  in  Kendal-green.  came  at  my  back,  and  lei 
drive  at  mo ; — for  it  was  so  dark,  Hal,  that  thou  couldst 
not  see  thy  hand. 

P.  Hen.  These  lies  are  like  the  father  that  begeU 
them;  gross  as  a  mountain;  open,  palpable.  Why, 
thou  elay-brained  guts,  thou  knotty-pated  fool,  thou 
whoreson,  obscene,  greasy  tallow-keech.* — 

Fal.  What!  art  thou  mad?  art  thou  mad?  is  not 
the  truth,  the  truth? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  how  couldst  thou  know  these  mon  in 
Kendal  green,  when  it  was  so  dark  thou  couldst  not 


«  One  that  has  cast  his  spawn.  »  So  th«  first  two  quarto*;  the  folios  omit  :  day.  The  phra.se  is  still  in  use  in  the  eastern  coonti««of 
England,  s  So  all  old  copies;  many  mod.  eds.  omit :  of.  ♦  Not  in  f.  e.  »  All  the  quartos  but  the  last,  pive  this  speech  to  P  Hevkt;  the 
iwt  qnarV',  and  the  folio.  »/>  Poins.  «  Nrt  in  f.  e.  '  Points  is  taken  by  Poins  in  the  sense  of  ta^s,  or  xtrin^s.  by  which  the  clothes  were 
fastened.  *01d  copies:  ca«:h  ;  change<;  by  some  editions  to  "ketch,"  a  tub,  and  by  others  to  "Iceech,"  the /at  of  an  anjwia/ rolled  up  -n  « 
balL 


SCENE   IV. 


KING  HENRY  rV. 


361 


see  thy  hand  ?  ODine.  tell  us  your  reason  :  what  sayest 
thou  to  this  ? 

Poins.  Come,  your  reason,  Jack,  your  reason. 

Fal.  What,  upon  compulsion  ?  No ;  were  I  at  the 
strappado'  or  all  the  racks  in  the  world,  I  would  not 
tell  you  on  compulsion.  Xrive  you  a  reason  on  compul- 
sion !  if  reasons  were  as  plenty  as  blackberries,  I  would 
^ive  no  man  a  reason  upon  compulsion.  I. 

P.  Hen.  I  '11  be  no  longer  guilty  of  this  sin :  this  san- 
guine coward,  this  bed-presser,  this  horse-back-breaker, 
this  huge  hill  of  flesh ; — 

Fal.  Away,  you  starveling,  you  elf-skin',  you  dried 
neat's-tongue,  bull's  pizzle.  you  stock-fish, — 0.  for 
breath  to  utter  what  is  like  thee  ! — you  tailor's  yard, 
you  sheath,  you  bow-case,  you  vile  standing-tuck  : — 

P.  Hen.  Well,  breathe  awhile,  and  then  to  it  again; 
and  when  thou  hast  tired  thyself  in  base  comparisons, 
hear  me  speak  but  this. 

Poi7is.  Mark,  Jack. 

P.  Hen.  We  two  saw  you  four  set  on  four;  you 
bound  them,  and  were  masters  of  their  wealth. — Mark 
now,  how  plain  a  tale  shall  put  you  down. — Then  did 
we  two  set  on  you  four,  and,  with  a  word,  out-fac'd  you 
from  your  prize,  and  have  it :  yea,  and  can  show  it  you 
here  in  tne  house. — And,  Falstaff,  you  carried  your  guts 
away  as  nimbly,  with  as  quick  dexterity,  and  roared  for 
mercy,  and  still  ran  and  roared,  as  ever  I  heard  bull- 
calf.  What  a  slave  art  thou,  to  hack  thy  sword  as  thou 
ha«t  done,  and  then  say,  it  was  in  fight !  What  trick, 
what  de\'ice,  what  starting-hole,  canst  thou  now  find 
out,  to  hide  thee  from  this  open  and  apparent  shame  ? 

Poins.  Come,  let 's  hear.  Jack :  what  trick  hast  thou 
now? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord.  I  knew  ye,  as  well  as  he  that 
made  ye.  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters :  was  it  for  me 
to  kill  the  heir  apparent  ?  Should  I  turn  upon  the  true 
prince  ?  Why,  thou  knowest,  I  am  as  valiant  as  Her- 
cules :  but  beware  instinct :  the  lion  will  not  touch  the 
true  prince.  Instinct  is  a  great  matter  ;  I  was  a  cow- 
ard on  instinct.  I  shall  think  the  better  of  myself  and 
thee,  during  my  life ;  I,  for  a  valiant  lion,  and  thou  for 
a  true  prince.  But,  by  the  Lord,  lads,  I  am  glad  you 
have  the  money. — Hostess,  clap  to  the  doors  :  watch 
to-night,  pray  to-morrow.— -Gallants,  lads,  boys,  hearts 
of  gold,  all  the  titles  of  good  fellowship  come  to  you ! 
What  !  shall  we  be  merry  ?  shall  we  have  a  play  ex- 
tempore ? 

P.  Hen.  Content; — and  the  argument  shall  be,  thy 
running  away. 

Fal.  Ah  !  no  more  of  that,  Hal,  an  thou  lovest  me. 
Enter  Hostess. 

Host.  0  Jesu  !     My  lord  the  prince, — 

jP.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lady  the  hostess  !  what  say'st 
tJ.ou  to  me  ? 

Host.  Marry,  my  lord,  there  is  a  nobleman  of  the 
court  at  door  would  speak  with  you :  he  says,  he  ccmes 
from  your  father. 

P.  Hen.  Give  him  as  much  as  will  make  him  a  royal 
man',  and  send  him  back  again  to  my  mother. 

Fal.  What  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Host.  An  old  man. 

Fa!.  What  doth  graA-ity  out  of  his  bed  at  midnight  ? 
—Shall  I  give  him  his  answer  ? 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  do,  Jack. 

Fal.  'Faith,  and  I  '11  send  him  pecking.  [Exit. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  sirs;  by'r  lady,  you  fought  fair; — so 
did  you,  Peto ; — so  did  you,  Bardolph :  you  are  lions 


too,  you  ran  away  upon  instinct,  you  will  not  touch 
the  true  prince,  no  : — fie  ! 

Bard.  'Faith,  I  ran  when  1  saw  others  run. 

P.  Hen.  'Faith,  tell  me  now  in  earnest :  how  came 
Falstalfs  sword  so  hacked  ? 

Peto.  Why,  he  hacked  it  with  his  dagger,  and  said, 
he  would  swear  truth  out  of  England,  but  he  would 
make  you  believe  it  was  done  iu  fight;  and  persuaded 
us  to  do  the  like. 

Bard.  Yea,  and  to  tickle  our  noses  with  spear  grass, 
to  make  them  bleed :  and  then  to  beslubber  our  gar- 
ments with  it,  and  to  swear  it  was  the  blood  of  true 
men.  I  did  that  I  did  not  this  seven  year  before;  I 
blushed  to  hear  his  monstrous  devices. 

P.  Hen.  0  villain  !  thou  stolest  a  cup  of  sack  eighteen 
years  ago,  and  wert  taken  with  the  manner*,  and  ever 
since  thou  hast  blushed  extempore.  .  Thou  hadst  fire 
and  sword  on  thy  side,  and  yet  thou  ran'st  away :  what 
instinct  hadst  thou  for  it? 

Bard.  My  lord,  do  you  see  these  meteors?  do  you 
behold  these  exhalations? 

P.  Hen.  I  do. 

Bard.  What  think  you  they  portend  ? 

P.  Hen.  Hot  livers  and  cold  purses. 

Bard.  Choler,  my  lord,  if  rightly  taken. 

P.  Hen.  No,  if  rightly  taken,  halter. 
Re-enter  Falstaff. 
Here  comes  lean  Jack;  here  comes  bare-bone.     How 
now,  my  sweet  creature  of  bomba^  !'     How  long  is  't 
ago,  Jack,  since  thou  sawest  thy  owti  knee  ? 

Fal.  My  o^ti  knee  ?  when  I  was  about  thy  years, 
Hal,  I  was  not  an  eagle's  talon  in  the  waist ;  I  could 
have  crept  into  any  alderman's  thumb-ring :  a  plague 
of  sighing  and  grief !  it  blows  a  man  up  like  a  bladder. 
There  's  villainous  news  abroad :  here  was  sir  John 
Bracy  from  your  father  :  yovi  mvist  to  the  court  in  the 
morning.  That  same  mad  fellow  of  the  north,  Percy ; 
and  he  of  Wales,  that  gave  Amaimon  the  bastinado, 
and  made  Lucifer  cuckold,  and  swore  the  devil  his 
true  liegeman  upon  the  cross  of  a  Welsh  hook*, — what, 
a  plague,  call  you  him  ? — 

Poins.  0  !  Glendower. 

Fal.  Owen,  Owen :  the  same ;  and  his  son-in-law, 
IN'Iortimer  ;  and  old  Northumberland :  and  that  sprightly 
Scot  of  Scots,  Douglas,  that  runs  o'  horseback  up  a  hill 
perpendicular. 

P.  Hen.  He  that  rides  at  high  speed,  and  -with  his 
pistol  kills  a  sparrow  flying. 

Fal.  You  have  hit  it. 

P.  Hen.  So  did  he  never  the  sparrow. 

Fal.  Well,  that  rascal  hath  good  mettle  in  him;  he 
will  not  run. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  rascal  art  thou,  then,  to  praise 
him  so  for  running  ? 

Fal.  0'  horseback,  ye  cuckoo !  but,  afoot,  he  will 
not  budge  a  foot. 

P.  Hen.  Yes,  Jack,  upon  instinct. 

Fal.  I  grant  ye.  upon  instinct.  Well,  he  is  there 
too,  and  one  Mordake,  and  a  thousand  blue-caps  more. 
Worcester  is  stolen  away  to-night ;  thy  father's  beard 
is  turned  white  with  the  news  :  you  may  buy  land  now 
as  cheap  as  stinking  mackarel. 

P.  Hen.  Why  then,  it  is  like,  if  there  come  a  hot 
June,  and  this  civil  buffeting  hold,  we  shall  buy 
maidenheads  as  they  buy  hob-nails,  by  the  hundred. 

Fal.  By  the  mass,  lad,  thou  sayest  true ;  it  is  like, 
we  shall  have  good  trading  that  way. — But,  tell  me, 


This  punisi  ment  consists  in  dra-wing-  the  sufferer  up  to  an  elevatiot,  oy  a  strap  passed  under  his  elbo-ws,  and  then  letting  him  drop  imd- 
•eniy — usually  dislocating  his  shoulder  blade.  "  Hanmer  suggests  eel-ski'n.  ^  A  plav  upon  the  names  of  coins,  the  noble,  6s.  8rf,  and  thfl 
>oyal,  \Qs.      *  In  the  fact.      «  Cotton-wool,  used  for  stuffing  dresses.      '  A  pike,  with  a  hook  below  its  point.— Knight 


;62 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT  n. 


Hal.  art  thou  not  horribly  afeard  ?  thou  being  heir 
apparent,  could  the  world  pick  thee  out  three  such 
enemies  again,  a«  that  trend  Douglas,  that  spirit  Percy, 
and  that  devil  Glendnwer?  Art  thou  not  horribly 
afraid?  doth  not  thy  b.ood  tlirill  o*.  it? 

P.  Hen.  Not  a  whit,  i"  faith  :  I  lack  some  of  thy 
instinct. 

Fal.  Well,  thou  wilt  be  horribly  chid  to-morrow, 
when  thou  comc^t  to  thy  father :  if  thou  love  me, 
practise  an  answer. 

P.  Hen.  Do  thou  stand  for  my  father,  and  examine 
me  upon  tlic  particulars  of  my  life. 

Fal.  Shall  1?  content. — This  chair  shall  be  my  state, 
this  dagizer  my  sceptre,  and  this  cushion  my  crown. 

P.  Hen.  Thy  state  is  taken  tor  a  joint-stool,  thy 
golden  sceptre  for  a  leaden  dajjgcr,  and  thy  precious 
rich  crown  for  a  pitiful  bald  crown  I 

Fal.  Well,  an  the  fire  of  grace  be  not  quite  out  of 
ihee,  now  shalt  thou  be  moved. — Give  me  a  cup  of 
sack,  to  make  mine  eyes  look  red.  that  it  may  be 
thought  I  have  wept  ;  for  I  must  speak  in  passion,  and 
I  will  do  it  in  king  Cambyses"  vein. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  is  my  leg.' 

Fal.  And  here  is  my  speech. — Stand  aside,  nobility. 

Host.  0.  Jesu  !  this  is  excellent  sport,  i"  faith. 

Fal.  Weep  not,  sweet  queen,  for  trickling  tears  are 
vain. 

Host.  0,  the  father  !  how  he  holds  his  countenance. 

Fal.  For  God's  sake,  lords,  convey  my  tristfuP  queen, 
For  tears  do  stop  the  flood-gates  of  her  eyes. 

Host.  0;  Jesu !  he  doth  it  as  like  one  of  these  har- 
lotry players  as  ever  I  see. 

Fal.  Peace,  good  pint-pot !  peace,  good  tickle-brain  ! 
— Harry,  I  do  not  only  marvel  where  thou  spendest 
thy  time,  but  also  how  thou  art  accompanied :  for 
though  the  camomile,  the  more  it  is  trodden  on,  the 
faster  it  grows,  so*  youth,  the  more  it  is  wasted,  the 
sooner  it  wears  That  thou  art  my  son,  I  have  partly 
thy  mother's  word,  partly  my  own  opinion ;  but  chiefly. 
a  villainous  trick  of  thine  eye,  and  a  foolish  hanging  of 
thy  nether  lip,  that  doth  warrant  me.  If,  then,  thou 
be  son  to  mc,  here  lies  the  point — why,  being  son  to 
me,  art  thou  so  pointed  at  ?  Shall  the  blessed  sun  of 
heaven  prove  a  micher'.  and  eat  blackberries  ?  a  ques- 
tion not  to  be  asked.  Shall  the  sun  of  England  prove 
u  thief,  and  take  pur.<es?  a  question  to  be  a.«ked. 
There  is  a  thing,  Harry,  which  thou  hast  often  heard 
of,  and  it  is  kno\\Ti  to  many  in  our  land  by  the  name 
of  pitch :  this  pitch,  as  ancient  WTiters  do  report,  doth 
defile :  so  doth  the  company  thou  kcepest ;  for,  Harry, 
now  I  do  not  .speak  to  thee  in  drink,  but  in  tears ; 
not  in  plea,sure,  but  in  passion ;  not  in  words  only,  but 
in  woes  also. — And  yet  there  is  a  virtuous  man,  whom 
I  have  often  noted  in  thy  company,  but  I  know  not  his 
name. 

P.  Hen.  What  manner  of  man,  an  it  like  your 
majesty  ? 

Fal.  A  goodly*  portly  man  i'  faith,  and  a  corpulent: 
of  a  cheerful  look,  a  pleading  eye,  and  a  most  noble 
carriage:  and,  as  I  think,  his  age  some  fifty,  or,  by'r 
lady,  inclining  to  tlireescore,  and  now  1  remember  me. 
his  name  is  FalstafT:  if  that  man  should  be  lewdly 
given,  he  deeeiveth  me  ;  for,  Harry,  I  sec  virtue  in  his 
looks.  If  then  the  tree  may  be  known  by  the  fruit,  as 
the  fruit  by  the  tree  then  peremptorily  I  speak  it, 
there  is  -virtue  in  that  FalstafT:  him  keep  with,  the 


rest  banish.     And  tell  me,  now,  thou  naughty  varlet, 
tell  me.  where  ha.st  thou  been  this  month  ? 

P.  Hen.  Dost  thou  speak  like  a  king?  Do  thou 
stand  for  me,  and  I  '11  play  my  father. 

Fal.  Depose  me  ?  if  thou  dost  it  half  so  gravely,  so 
majestically,  both  in  word  and  matter,  hang  me  up  by 
the  heels  for  a  rabbit-sucker',  or  a  poulterer's  hare. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  I  am  set. 

Fal.  And  here  I  stand. — Judge,  my  masters. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  Harry  !  whence  come  you  ? 

Fal.  My  noble  lord,  from  Ea^tehcap. 

P.  Hen.  The  complaints  I  hear  of  thee  are  grievous. 

Fal.  "Sblood,  my  lord,  they  are  false. — Nay,  I  'li 
tickle  thee  for  a  young  prince,  i'  faith. 

P.  Hen.  Swearest  thou,  ungracious  boy  ?  henceforth 
ne'er  look  on  me.  Thou  art  violently  carried  away 
from  grace  :  there  is  a  devil  haunts  thee,  in  the  like- 
ness of  a  fat  old  man  :  a  tun  of  man  is  thy  companion. 
Why  dost  thou  converse  with  that  hulk*  of  humours, 
that  bolting-hutch  of  beastliness,  that  swoln  parcel  of 
dropsies,  that  huge  bombard'  of  sack,  that  stuffed 
cloak-bag  of  guts,  that  roasted  Maimingtree-ox'",  -with 
the  pudding  in  his  belly,  that  reverend  vice,  that  groy 
iniquity,  that  father  ruffian,  that  vanity  in  years  ? 
Wherein  is  he  good,  but  to  taste  sack  and  drink  it? 
wherein  neat  and  cleanly,  but  to  carve  a  capon  and 
eat  it  ?  wherein  cunning",  but  in  craft  ?  wherein  crafty, 
but  in  villainy  ?  wherein  -villainous,  but  in  all  things  ? 
wherein  worthy,  but  in  nothing  ? 

Fal.  I  would  your  grace  would  take  me  with  you;'* 
whom  means  your  grace  ? 

P.  Hen.  That  villainous  abominable  misleader  of 
youth.  FalstafT,  that  old  white-bearded  Satan. 

Fal.  My  lord,  the  man  I  know. 

P.  Hen.  I  know  thou  dost. 

Fal.  But  to  say,  I  know  more  harm  in  him  than  in 
myself,  were  to  say  more  than  I  know.  That  he  is 
I  old,  the  more  the  pity,  his  white  hairs  do  witness  it : 
but  that  he  is.  saving  your  reverence,  a  whoremaster. 
I  that  I  utterly  deny.  If  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault,  God 
help  the  wicked  !  If  to  be  old  and  merry  be  a  sin, 
j  then  many  an  old  host  that  I  know,  is  damned  :  if  to 
j  be  fat  be  to  be  hated,  then  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to 
be  loved.  No,  my  good  lord:  banish  Peto.  banish 
[  Bardolph,  banish  Poins  ;  but  for  sweet  Jack  FalstafT, 
,  kind  Jack  FalstafT,  true  Jack  FalstafT,  valiant  Jack 
FalstafT,  and,  therefore  more  valiant,  being,  as  he  is, 
old  Jack  FalstafT.  banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  company, 
banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  company:  banish  plump 
Jack,  and  banish  all  the  world. 

P.  Hen.  I  do.  I  will.  [A  knocking  heard 

[Exeunt  Hostess.  Fr.\ncis.  a7id  Bardolph. 
Re-enter  Bardolph,  running. 

Bard.  0  !  my  lord,  my  lord  !  the  sheriff,  -with  a  most 
monstrous  watch,  is  at  the  door. 

Fal.  Out,  you  rogue  !    play  out  the  play :   I  have 
much  to  say  in  the  behalf  of  that  FalstafT. 
Re-enter  Hostess. 

Host.  0  Jesu  !  my  lord,  my  lord  ! — 

P.  Hen.  Heigh,  heigh  !  the  devil  rides  upon  a  fidd!«>- 
stick.     What's  the  matter? 

Host.  The  sherifTand  all  the  watch  are  at  the  door 
they  are  come  to  search  the  house.   Shall  I  let  them  m' 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal?  never  call  a  true  piece  of 
gold  a  counterfeit :  thou  art  essentially  mad,  without 
seeming  so. 


•An  illneion  to  the  "  LamenUble  Tragedy"  of  Cambyges,  by  Thomas  Preston.  *  My  obeisance.  »  Old  copies:  tmstful;  ^°''*"^*~\ 
the  change  «  The  later  quartos  and  folio  :  yet.  »  One  who  Inrks  out  of  sight,  a  truant.  •  So  the  old  copies  ;  Malone  chanped  the  wort 
lo  "pocf"  1  A  iurlcing  rabbit.  •  trunk  :  in  '  e.  *  A.  large  barrel ;  a.\&o,  a.  drinking  vessel.  i»  An  allusion  to  the  ManniUftrre  M« 
"  Skilful.      >»  Let  me  understand  you. 


SCENE   I. 


EZN^Q    HENKY  IV. 


363 


p.  Hen.  And  thou  a  natirral  coward,  without  instinct. 

Fal.  I  deny  your  major.  If  you  will  deny  the 
sheriff,  so ;  if  not,  let  him  enter  :  if  I  become  not  a 
cart  as  well  as  another  man,  a  plague  on  my  bringing 
up.  I  hope  .^  shall  as  80on  be  strangled  with  a  halter 
as  another. 

P.  Hen.  Go,  hide  thee  behind  the  arras'  : — the  rest 
walk  up  above.  Now,  my  masters,  for  a  true  face,  and 
(t  good  conscience. 

Fal.  Both  which  I  have  had ;  but  their  date  is  out, 
and  therefore  I  '11  hide  me. 

[Exeimt  all  but  the  Prince  and  Peto.' 

P.  Hen.  Call  in  the  sheriff. 

Enter  Sheriff  and  Carrier. 
Now,  master  sheriff,  what 's  your  will  with  me? 

Sher.  First,  pardon  me,  my  lord.     A  hue  and  cry 
Hath  follow'd  certain  men  unto  this  house. 

P.  Hen.  What  men  ? 

Sher.  One  of  them  is  well  known,  my  gracious  lord ; 
A  gross  fat  man. 

Car.  As  fat  as  butter. 

P.  Hen.  The  man,  I  do  assure  you,  is  not  here, 
For  I  rnyself  at  this  time  have  employ'd  him. 
And,  sheriff,  I  will  engage  my  word  to  thee, 
That  I  will,  by  to-morrow  dinner-t^ne. 
Send  him  to  answer  thee,  or  any  man, 
For  any  thing  he  shall  be  charg'd  withal : 
And  so,  let  me  entreat  you,  leave  the  house. 

Sher.  I  will,  my  lord.     There  are  two  gentlemen 
Have  in  this  robbery  lost  three  hundred  marks. 


P.  Hen.  It  may  be  so  :  if  he  have  robb'd  these  men. 
He  shall  be  answerable  ;  and  so,  farewell. 

Sher.  Good  night,  my  noble  lord. 

P.  Hen.  I  think  it  is  good  morrow,  is  it  not  ? 

Sher.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  think  it  be  two  o'clock. 

[Excu7it  Sheriff  and  Carrier. 

P.  Hen.  This  oily  rascal  is  known  as  well  as  Paui's 
Go,  call  him  forth. 

Peto.  Falstaff! — fast  asleep  behind  the  arras,  and 
snorting  like  a  horse. 

P.  Hen.  Hark,  how  hard  he  fetches  breath.  Search 
his  pockets.   [Peto  .searches.]  What  hast  thou  found  ? 

Peto.  Nothing  but  papers,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Let 's  see  what  they  be :  read  them. 

Peto.  [Reads.]  Item,  A  capon, 2s.  2d 

Item,  Sauce       Ad. 

Item,  Sack,  two  gallons, 5s.  8d. 

Item,  Anchovies,  and  sack  after  supper,       .     .  2s.  6d. 
Item,  Bread, ob.* 

P.  Hen.  0  monstrous !  but  one  half-pennyworth  of 
bread  to  this  intolerable  deal  of  sack  ! — What  there  is 
else,  keep  close  :  we  '11  read  it  at  more  advantage.  There 
let  him  sleep  till  day.  I  '11  to  the  court  in  the  mornmg 
we  must  all  to  the  wars,  and  thy  place  shall  be  honour- 
able. I  '11  procure  this  fat  rogue  a  charge  of  foot ;  and, 
I  know,  his  death  will  be  a  march  of  twelve-score. 
The  money  shall  be  paid  back  again  with  advantage 
Be  with  me  betimes  in  the  morning;  and  so  good  mor- 
row, Peto. 

Peto.  Good  morrow,  good  aiy  lord,  [Exeimt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — Bangor.      A  Room  in  the  Archdeacon's 

House. 
Filter  Hotspur,  Worcester,  Mortimer,  and  Glen- 
dower. 

Mart.  These  promises  are  fair,  the  parties  sure, 
And  our  induction*  full  of  prosperous  hope. 

Hoi  Lord  Mortimer,  and  cousin  Glendower,  will 
you  sit  down  ? — And,  uncle  Worcester. — A  plague 
upon  it  !  I  have  forgot  the  map. 

Glend.  No,  here  it  is. 

Sit,  cousin  Percy  ;  sit,  good  cousin  Hotspur  ; 
For  by  that  name  as  oft  as  Lancaster 
Doth  speak  of  you. 

His  cheek  looks  pale,  and  with  a  rising  sigh 
He  wisheth  you  in  heaven. 

Hot.  And  you  in  hell,  as  often  as  he  hears  Owen 
Glendower  spoke  of. 

Glend.  I  cannot  blame  him :  at  my  nativity, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes,      _^ 
Of  buming  cressets* ;  and  at  my  birth. 
The  frame  and  huge"  foundation  of  the  earth 
Shak'd  like  a  coward. 

Hot.  Why,  so  it  would  have  done  .at  the  same  season, 
If  your  mother's  cat  had  but  kitten'd,  though  yourself 
had  never  been  born. 

Glend.  I  say,  the  earth  did  shake  when  I  was  born. 

Hot.  And  I  say  the  earth  was  not  of  my  mind, 
iff  you  suppose  as  fearing  you  it  shook. 
I     Glend.  The  heavens  were  all  on  fire ;  the  earth  did 
i  tremble. 


Hot.  O  !  then  the  earth  shook  to  see  the  heavens  on 
fire. 
And  not  in  fear  of  your  nativity. 
Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions :  oft  the  teeming  earth 
Is  with  a  kind  of  cholic  pinch'd  and  vex'd 
By  the  imprisoning  of  unruly  wind 
Within  her  womb  :  which,  for  enlargement  striving, 
Shakes  the  old  beldame  earth,  and  topples  down 
Steeples,  and  moss-grown  towers.     At  your  birth, 
Our  grandam  earth,  having  this  distemperature, 
In  passion  shook. 

Glend.  Cousin,  of  many  men 

I  do  not  bear  these  crossings.     Give  me  leave 
To  tell  you  once  again, — that  at  my  birth, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes  ; 
The  goats  ran  from  the  mountains,  and  the  herds 
Were  strangely  clamorous  in  the  frighted  fields. 
These  signs  have  mark'd  me  extraordinary, 
And  all  the  courses  of  my  life  do  show, 
I  am  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men. 
Where  is  he  living, — clipp'd  in  with  the  sea 
That  chides  the  banks  of  England.  Scotland,  Wales, — 
Which  calls  me  pupil,  or  hath  read  to  me  ? 
And  bring  him  out,  that  is  but  woman's  son, 
Can  trace  me  in  the  tedious  ways  of  art. 
And  hold  me  pace  in  deep  experiments. 

Hot.  I  think,  there  is  no  man  speaks  better  Welsh. 
I  'II  to  dinner. 

3Iort.  Peace,  cousin  Percy  !  you  will  make  him  mad 

Glend.  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 


I  'The  arras  was  usually  hung  at  some  distance  from  the  -wall.  ^  There  is  no  direction  in  the  old  copies,  except  Erit.  Sabsequen: 
llialogue  Peto  takes  part;  mod.  eds.  change  the  name  here  and  in  the  rest  of  the  scene,  to  Poixs.  3  Obolum.  the  old  mode  of  notini?  « 
iialf-penny.  *  Inlroffuction.  'A  small  frame-work  of  iron  filled  with  some  flaming  substance,  and  raised  on  a  pole  ;  s  a  i«acofl  or  B 
OTch.     «  From  the  quarto,  159P 


364 


FIEST  PAET  OF 


Acrr  in. 


Hot.  Why,  so  can  I,  or  so  can  any  man  ; 
But  will  they  come,  when  you  do  call  for  them  ? 

Glend.  Why.  1  can  teach  you,  cousin,  to  command 
the  devil. 

Hot.  And  I  can  teach  thee,  coz,  to  shame  the  de\il, 
By  telling  truth  .  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil. — 
If  thou  have  power  to  raise  him,  bring  him  hither, 
And  111  be  sworn,  I  have  power  to  shame  him  hence. 
0  !  while  you  live,  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil. 

Mort.  Come,  come  ; 
No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat. 

Glend.  Three  times  hath   Henry  Bolingbroke  made 
head 
\gainst  my  power  :  thrice  from  the  banks  of  Wye, 
And  sandy-bottom'd  Severn,  have  I  sent  him 
Bootless  home,  and  weather-beaten  back. 

Hot.  Home  -w-ithout  boots,  and  in  foul  weather  too  ! 
How  'scap'd  he  agues,  in  the  devil's  name  ? 

Glend.  Come,  here  's  the  map :  shall  we  divide  our 
right, 
According  to  our  three-fold  order  ta'en  ? 

Mart.  The  archdeacon  hath  divided  it 
Into  three  limits,  very  equally. 
England,  from  Trent  and  Severn  hitherto, 
By  south  and  east  is  to  my  part  assigned : 
All  westward.  Wales,  beyond  the  Severn  shore, 
And  all  the  fertile  land  within  that  bound. 
To  Owen  Glendower  : — and.  dear  coz,  to  you 
The  remnant  northward,  lying  off  from  Trent. 
And  our  indentures  tripartite  are  drawn, 
Which  being  sealed  interchangeably, 
;A  business  that  this  night  may  execute) 
To-morrow,  cousin  Percy,  you,  and  I, 
And  my  good  lord  of  Worcester,  \n\\  set  forth, 
To  meet  your  father,  and  the  Scottish  power, 
As  is  appointed  us,  at  Shrewsbury. 
My  father  Glendower  is  not  ready  yet. 
Nor  shall  we  need  his  help  these  fourteen  days. — 
Within  that  space  you  may  have  drawn  together 

[To  Glendower. 
Your  tenants,  friends,  and  neighbouring  gentlemen. 

Glend.  A  shorter  time  shall  send  me  to  you,  lords; 
.A.nd  in  my  conduct  shall  your  ladies  come  : 
From  whom  you  now  must  steal,  and  take  no  leave  ; 
For  there  wU  be  a  world  of  water  shed, 
Upon  the  parting  of  your  \vnves  and  you. 

Hot.  Metliinks,  my  moiety',  north  from  Burton  here. 
In  quantity  equals  not  one  of  yours. 
See,  how  this  river  comes  me  cranking  in. 
And  cuts  me  from  the  best  of  all  my  land 
A  huge  half-moon,  a  monstrous  cantle'  out. 
I  '11  have  the  eurrpnt  in  this  place  damm'd  up. 
And  here  the  snug  and  silver  Trent  shall  run, 
In  a  new  channel,  fair  and  evenly: 
It  shall  not  wind  with  such  a  deep  indent, 
To  rob  me  of  so  ricli  a  bottom  here. 

Glaid.  Not  wind?  it  shall ;  it  must :  you  see,  it  doth. 

Mort.  Yea,  but  mark,  how  he  bears  liis  course,  and 
runs  me  up 
With  like  advantaue  on  the  other  side ; 
Celding  the  opposed  continent,  as  much 
A«  on  the  other  side  it  takes  from  you. 

War.  Yea,  but  a  little  charge  will  trench  him  here, 
And  on  this  north  side  win  this  cape  of  land  ; 
And  then  he  runs  all  straiL'ht  and  evenly'. 

Hot.  I  '11  have  it  so :  a  little  charge  will  do  it. 


Glend.  I  will  not  have  it  altered. 

Hot.  Will  not  you  ? 

Glend.  No,  nor  yoa  shall  not. 

Hot.  Whc  shall  say  me  nav? 

Glend.  Why,  that  will  I. 

Hot.  Let  me  not  understand  you  then 

Speak  it  in  Welsh. 

Glend.  I  can  speak  English,  lord,  as  well  as  you, 
For  I  was  trained  up  in  the  English  court ; 
Where,  being  but  young,  I  framed  to  the  harp 
Many  an  English  ditty,  lovely  well, 
And  gave  the  tongue  a  helpful  ornament ; 
A  virtue  that  was  never  seen  in  you. 

Hot.  Marry,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it  with  all  my  hea 
1  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cr\-  mew, 
Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers 
I  had  rather  hear  a  brazen  can'stick*  turn'd. 
Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  the  axle-tree ; 
And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 
Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry. 
'T  is  like  the  forc'd  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 

Glend.  Come,  you  shall  have  Trent  turn'd. 

Hot.  I  do  not  care. 

I  '11  give  thrice  so  much  land  to  any  well-deserving 

friend  ; 
But,  in  the  way  of  bargain,  mark  ye  me, 
I  'II  cavil  on  the  ninth  part  of  a  hair. 
Are  the  indentures  drawn  ?  shall  we  be  gone  ? 

Glend.  The  moon  shines  fair,  you  may  away  by  night, 
I  '11  haste  the  writer,  and  withal,  I  '11  break 
With  your  young  wives'  of  your  departure  hence. 
I  am  afraid  my  daughter  will  run  mad, 
So  much  she  doteth  on  her  Mortimer.  [Exit. 

Mort.  Fie,  cousin  Percy  !   how  you  cross  my  father 

Hot.  I  cannot  choose  :  sometime  he  angers  mo 
With  telling  me  of  the  moldwarp  and  the  ant, 
Of  the  dreamer  Merlin  and  his  prophecies ; 
And  of  a  dragon,  and  a  finless  fish, 
A  clip-wing'd  griffin,  and  a  moulten  raveli 
A  couching  lion,  and  a  ramping  cat. 
And  such  a  deal  ot  skimble-skamble  stutt 
As  puts  me  from  my  faith.     I  tell  you  what. — 
He  held  me,  last  night,  at  the  least  nine  hours 
In  reckoning  up  the  several  devils^  names, 
That  were  his  lackeys:  I  cried,  "humph,"  ai>d  '•■well. 

"  go  to," 
But  mark'd  him  not  a  word.     0  !  he  's  as  tedious 
As  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife ; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house  :  I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlick  in  a  windmill,  far. 
Than  feed  on  cates,  and  have  him  talk  to  me, 
In  any  summer-house  in  Christendom. 

M(>rt.  In  faith,  he  is  a  worthy  gentleman ; 
Exceedingly  well  read,  and  profited 
In  strange  concealments:  valiant  as  a  lion. 
And  wondrous  affable,  and  as  bountiful 
As  mines  of  India.     Shall  I  tell  you,  cousin? 
He  holds  your  temper  in  a  high  respect. 
And  curbs  himself  even  of  his  natural  scope. 
When  you  do  cross  his  humour  ;  'faith,  he  does. 
I  warrant  you.  that  man  is  not  alive, 
Might  so  have  tempted  him  as  you  have  done, 
Without  the  taste  of  danger  and  reproof : 
But  do  not  use  it  oft.  let  me  entreat  y:u. 

Wor.  In  faith,  my  wilful  lord,  you  are  to  blamf 
And  since  your  coming  hither  have  done  enough 


•  Often  ns«d,  as  hcie,  as  a  general  term  for  share.      *  Portion.      *  runs  ittr&ight  and  CTen :  in  f.  «.     *  candle-itiok : 

and  withal, 
Break  -with  your  wives,  kc. 
In  faith,  my  lord,  yon  are  too  T-i.^vl-blame  ;  in  f.  e. 


folio.      •  I«  t  t 


SCENE  n. 


KnSTG  HENEY  lY. 


3(55 


To  put  him  quite  beside  his  patience. 
Vou  must  needs  learn,  lord,  to  amend  this  fault : 
Though  sometimes  it  show  greatness,  courage,  blood, 
And  that  "s  the  secret  grace  it  renders  you, 
Yet  oftentimes  it  doth  present  harsh  rage, 
Defect  of  manners,  want  of  government, 
Pride,  haughtiness,  opinion,  and  disdain : 
The  least  of  which,  haunting  a  nobleman, 
Loseth  mens  hearts,  and  leaves  behind  a  stain 
Upon  the  beauty  of  all  parts  besides. 
Beguiling  them  of  commendation. 
Hot.  Well,  I  am  schooFd  :    good  mamiers  be  your 


Here  come  our  wives,  and  let  us  take  our  leave. 
Re-enter  Glendower.  with  the  Ladies. 

Mort.  This  is  the  deadly  spite  that  angers  me  • 
My  wife  can  speak  no  English.  I  no  Welsh. 

Glend.  ^ly  daughter  weeps  :  she  \^-ill  not  part  with 
She  '11  be  a  soldier  too  ;  she  '11  to  the  wars.  [you  ; 

Mort.  Good  father,  tell  her,  that  she,  and  my  aimt 
Percy, 
Shall  follow  in  your  conduct  speedily. 

[Glendower  speaks  to  her  in  Welsh,  and  she 
aiisweis  him  in  the  same, 

Glend.  She  's  desperate  here ; 
A.  peevish^  self-will'd  harlotr)-,  and  one 

at  no  persuasion  can  do  good  upon. 

[She  speaks  to  Mortimer  in  Welsh. 

Mort.  I  understand  thy  looks  :  that  pretty  Welsh 
Which  thou  pour'st  down  from  these  welling  heavens, 
I  am  too  perfect  in ;  and,  but  for  shame, 
In  such  a  parley  would  I  answer  thee. 

[She  speaks  again. 
I  understand  thy  kisses,  and  thou  mine. 
And  that  * s  a  feeling  disputation  : 
But  I  will  never  be  a  truant,  love, 
Till  I  have  learn'd  thy  langiiage  ;  for  thy  tongue 
Makes  Welsh  as  sweet  as  ditties  highly  perm'd. 
Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer's  bower, 
With  ravishing  division,  to  her  lute. 

Glend.  Nay,  if  thou  melt,  then  will  she  e'en  run  mad. 
[She  speaks  again. 

Mort.  0  !  I  am  ignorance  itself  in  this. 

Glend.  She  bids  you  on  the  wanton  rushes*  lay  you 
And  rest  your  gentle  head  upon  her  lap,  [down, 

And  she  will  sing  the  song  that  pleaseth  you. 
And  on  your  eye-lids  crown  the  god  of  sleep, 
Charming  your  blood  with  pleasing  heaviness  : 
Making  such  difference  ''t\\ixt  wake  and  sleep. 
As  is  the  afference  betwixt  day  and  night, 
The  hour  before  the  heavenly-harness'd  team 
Begins  his  golden  progress  in  the  east. 

Mort.  With  all  my  heart  I  '11  sit,  and  hear  her  sing : 
By  that  time  will  our  book^,  1  think,  be  drawn. 

Glend.  Do  so ; 
And  those  musicians  that  shall  play  to  you, 
Hang  in  the  air  a  thousand  leagues  from  hence ; 
And  straight  they  shall  be  here.     Sit,  and  attend. 

Hot.  Come,  Kate,  thou  art  perfect  in  lying  down : 
Come,  quick,  quick ;  that  I  may  lay  my  head  in  thy 
zap. 

Lady  P.  Go,  ye  giddy  goose.  [The  music  plays. 

Hot.  Now  I  perceive,  the  de"vil  understands  Welsh  ; 
,  And  't  is  no  marvel,  he  is  so  humorous. 
By  'r  lady,  he  's  a  good  musician. 

Lcdy  P.  Then,  should  you  be  nothing  but  musical. 
For  you  are  altogether  governed  by  humours. 
Lie  still,  ye  thief,  and  hear  the  lady  sing 


In  Welsh. 

Hot.  1  had  rather  hear,  lady,  my  brach*,  howl  'i: 
Irish. 

Lady  P.  Wouldst  thou  have  thy  head  broken  ? 

Hot.  No. 

Lady  P.  Then  be  still. 

Hot.  Neither;  't  is  a  woman's  fault. 

Lady  P.  Now.  God  help  thee  ! 

Hot.  To  the  Welsh  lady's  bed. 

Lady  P.  What 's  that  ? 

Hot.  Peace  ?  she  sings.  [A  JVelsh  Song  by  Lady  M 

Hot.  Come,  Kate,  I  '11  have  your  song  too. 

Lady  P.  Not  mine,  in  good  sooth. 

Hot.  Not  yours,  in  good  sooth  !     'Heart ! 
You  swear  like  to  a  comfit-maker's  wife. 
Not  yours,  in  good  sooth ;  and,  as  true  as  I  live ; 
As  God  shall  mend  me  :  and.  as  sure  as  day: 
And  giv'st  such  sarcenet  surety  for  thy  oaths. 
As  if  thou  never  walk'dst  farther  than  Finsbury. 
Swear  me,  Kate,  like  a  lady  as  thou  art, 
A  good-mouth-filling  oath ;  and  leave  in  sooth, 
And  such  protests  of  pepper-gingerbread. 
To  velvet-guards,*  and  Sunday-citizens. 
Come,  sing. 

Lady  P.  I  will  not  sing. 

Hot.  'T  is  the  next  way  to  turn  tailor,  or  be  red- 
breast teacher.  An  the  indentures  be  drawn,  I  "U 
away  within  these  two  hours ;  and  so  come  in  wher 
ye  will.  [Exit 

Glend.  Come  on',  lord  Mortimer;  you  are. as  slow 
As  hot  lord  Percy  is  on  fire  to  go. 
By  this  our  book  is  drawn  :  we  '11  seal,  and  part' 
To  horse  immediately, 

Mort.  With  all  my  heart.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  II. — London.  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Prince  of  IVales,  and  Lords. 
K.  Hen.  Lords,  give  us  leave.     The  Prince  of  Wales 

and  I, 
Must  have  some  private  conference :  but  be  near  at 

hand, 
For  we  shall  presently  have  need  of  you. — 

[Exeunt  Lords. 
I  know  not  whether  God  will  have  it  so, 
For  some  displeasing  service  I  have  done, 
That,  in  his  secret  doom,  out  of  my  blood 
He  '11  breed  revengement  and  a  scourge  for  me 
But  thou  dost,  in  thy  passages  of  life. 
Make  me  believe,  that  thou  art  only  mark'd 
For  the  hot  vengeance  and  the  rod  of  heaven. 
To  punish  my  mistreadings.     Tell  me  else, 
Could  such  inordinate,  and  low  desires. 
Such  poor,  such  bare,  such  lewd,  such  mean  attempts, 
Such  barren  pleasures,  rude  society. 
As  thou  art  match'd  withal,  and  grafted  to, 
Accompany  the  greatness  of  thy  blood. 
And  hold  their  level  with  thy  princely  heart  ? 

P.  Hen.  So  please  your  majesty,  I  would,  I  could 
Quit  all  offences  with  as  clear  excuse 
As  well  as,  I  am  doubtless,  I  can  purge 
Myself  of  many  I  am  charg'd  withal : 
Y'et  such  extenuation  let  me  beg. 
As,  in  rep'-'^of  of  many  tales  devis'd, 
Which  oft  ine  ear  of  greatness  needs  must  hear 
By  smiling  pick  thanks  and  base  newsmongers, 
I  may,  for  some  things  true,  wherein  my  youth 
Hath  faiilty  wander'd,  and  irregular. 
Find  pardon  on  mv  true  submission. 


1  Silly.      »  Rushes  vrere  strewn  on  floors  as  a  covering.      '  Often  used,  as  here,  for  an  agreement 
9<ige»  »eem  to  have  been  a  distinguishing  peculiarity  of  the  dress  of  London  city  -wives. — Knight. 


*  Small  hov*ul.     *  VeiTet-guarfis,  ' 
<  Come,  come    in  f.  ».     '  then  :  in  £ 


^66 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT  m 


K.  Hen.  God    pardon    the©  ! — yet    let    me   wonder, 
At  tliy  atfecfions,  wliich  do  hold  a  wing  [Harry, 

Quite  from  the  llight  of  all  tliy  ancestors. 
Thy  place  in  council  tliou  hast  rudely  lost, 
Which  by  thy  younger  brotiier  is  supplied; 
And  art  almost  an  alien  to  the  hearts 
Of  all  the  court,  and  princes  of  my  blood : 
The  hope  and  expectation  of  thy  time 
Is  ruind  :  and  the  soul  of  every  man 
Prophetically  doth  fore-think  thy  fall. 
Had  I  80  lavisii  of  my  presence  been, 
So  common-hackney'd  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company. 
Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  cro-wn, 
Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession. 
And  left  me  in  repuleless  banishment, 
A  fellow  of  no  mark,  nor  likelihood. 
By  being  seldom  seen,  I  could  not  stir, 
But  like  a  comet  I  was  wonder'd  at ; 
That  men  would  tell  their  children,  "  This  is  he  :" 
Others  would  say, — •'  Where  ?  which  is  Bohngbroke  ?" 
And  then  I  stole  all  courtesy  from  heaven, 
And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility. 
That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts. 
Loud  shouts  and  salutations  from  their  mouths, 
Even  in  the  presence  of  the  crowned  king. 
Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh,  and  new  j 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical, 
Ne'er  seen  but  wonder'd  at :  and  so  my  state. 
Seldom,  but  sumptuous,  v^howed  like  a  feast. 
And  won  by  rareness  such  solemnity. 
The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 
With  shallow  jesters,  and  rash  bavin'  wnts. 
Soon  kindled,  and  soon  burn'd  ;  discarded  state  ;* 
Mingled  his  royalty  with  carping  fools  ; 
Had  his  great  name  profaned  Avith  their  scorns ; 
And  gave  his  countenance,  against  his  name, 
To  laugh  at  gibing  boys,  and  stand  the  push 
Of  every  beardless  vain  comparative : 
Grew  a  companion  to  the  common  streets, 
Enfeoff'd  nimseif  to  popularity: 
That,  being  daily  swallow'd  by  men's  eyes. 
They  surfeited  with  honey;  and  began 
To  loathe  the  taste  of  sweetness,  whereof  a  little 
More  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 
So.  when  he  had  occasion  to  be  seen. 
He  was  but  as  the  cuckoo  is  in  June, 
Heard,  not  regarded  ;  seen,  but  with  such  eyes, 
As,  sick  and  blunted  with  community. 
Afford  no  extraordinary  gaze. 
Such  as  is  bent  on  sun-like  majesty. 
When  it  shines  seldom  in  admiring  eyes : 
But  rather  drowz'd,  and  hvnig  their  eyelids  down, 
Slept  in  his  face,  and  renderd  such  aspect 
As  cloudy  men  use  to  their  adversaries. 
Being  with  his  presence  L'lutted,  gorg'd,  and  full. 
And  in  that  veiy  line,  Harry,  stand'st  thou; 
For  thou  hast  lost  thy  princely  privilege, 
With  vile  participation  :  not  an  eye 
Hut  is  a-weary  of  thy  common  sight, 
Save  mine,  which  hath  desir'd  to  see  thee  more; 
Which  now  doth  that  I  would  not  have  it  do. 
Make  blind  itself  with  foolish  tenderness. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  hereafter,  my  thrice-gracious  lord. 
Be  more  myself. 

K.  H>n.  For  all  the  world. 

As  tliou  art  to  this  hour,  was  Hichard  then, 
When  I  from  France  set  foot  at  Kavenspurg; 


'  Kfaeeiot  of  brushvBood.      »  carded  Kit  itate  ;  in  f.  »..      '  They  draw  up  articles,  or  capita 
.  •.,  ftatUTtt. 


And  even  as  I  was  then  is  Percy  now. 

Now  by  my  scepter,  and  my  soul  to  boot. 

He  hath  more  worthy  interest  to  the  state. 

Than  thou  the  shadow  of  succession  : 

For  of  no  right,  nor  colour  like  to  right. 

He  doth  fill  fields  with  harness  in  the  realm, 

Turns  head  against  the  lion's  armed  jaws, 

And.  being  no  more  in  debt  to  years  than  thou. 

Leads  ancient  lords  and  reverend  bishops  on 

To  bloody  battles,  and  to  brui.'-'ng  arms. 

What  never-dying  honour  hath  he  got 

Against  renowmed  Douglas;  whose  high  deeds, 

Whose  hot  incursions,  and  great  name  in  arms, 

Holds  from  all  soldiers  chief  majority. 

And  military  title  capital. 

Through  all  the  kingdoms  that  acknowledge  Christ. 

Thrice  hath  this  Hotspur.  Mars  in  swathing  clothee. 

This  infant  warrior,  in  his  enterprises 

Discomfited  great  Douglas;  ta'en  him  once, 

Enlarged  him,  and  made  a  friend  of  him. 

To  fill  the  mouth  of  deep  defiance  up. 

And  shake  the  peace  and  safety  of  our  throne. 

And  what  say  you  to  this?     Percy.  Northumberland, 

The  archbishop's  grace  of  York,  Douglas,  Mortimer, 

Capitulate^  against  us,  and  are  up. 

But  wherefore  do  I  tell  these  news  to  thee? 

Why,  Harry,  do  I  tell  thee  of  my  foes. 

Which  art  my  near'st  and  dearest  enemy  ? 

Thou  that  art  like  enough,  through  vassal  fear, 

Base  inclination,  and  the  start  of  spleen. 

To  fight  against  me  under  Percy's  pay. 

To  dog  his  heels,  and  court'sy  at  his  frowns, 

To  show  how  much  thou  art  degenerate. 

P.  Hen.  Do  not  think  so ;  you  shall  not  find  it  so  : 
And  God  forgive  them,  that  so  much  have  sway'd 
Your  majesty's  good  thoughts  away  from  me  ! 
I  will  redeem  all  this  on  Percy's  head, 
And  in  the  closing  of  some  glorious  day, 
Be  bold  to  tell  you  that  I  am  your  son  ; 
When  I  Avill  wear  a  garment  all  of  blood, 
And  stain  my  favour*  in  a  bloody  mask. 
Which,  wash'd  away,  shall  scour  my  shame  with  it. 
And  tnat  shall  be  the  day,  whene'er  it  lights, 
That  this  same  child  of  honour  and  renown, 
This  gallant  Hotspur,  this  all-praised  knight, 
And  your  unthought-of  Harry  chance  to  meet. 
For  every  honour  sitting  on  his  nelm, 
'Would  they  were  multitudes ;  and  on  my  head 
My  shames  redoubled  !  for  the  time  will  come. 
That  I  shall  make  this  northern  youth  exchange 
His  glorious  deeds  for  my  indignities. 
Percy  is  but  my  factor,  good  my  lord. 
To  engross  up  glorious  deeds  on  my  behalf; 
And  I  will  call  him  to  so  strict  account. 
That  he  shall  render  every  glory  up. 
Yea,  even  the  slightest  worship  of  liis  time. 
Or  I  will  tear  the  reckoning  from  his  heart. 
This,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  promise  hero : 
The  which,  if  he  be  pleas'd  I  shall  perform, 
I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  may  salve 
The  Ions-grown  wounds  of  my  intemperance : 
If  not,  the  end  of  life  cancels  all  bands  ; 
And  I  will  die  a  hundred  thousand  deaths. 
Ere  break  the  smallest  parcel  of  this  vow. 

K.  Hen.  A  hundred  thousand  rebels  die  in  this ; 
Thou  shalt  have  charse,  and  sovereign  trtist  herein. 

Enter  Bi.unt. 
How  now,  good  Blunt?  thy  looks  are  full  of  epeed. 

Countenance.    Th«  old  copiei :  raTooi> 


SCENE  in. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


367 


Blunt.  So  is^  the  business  that  I  come  to  speak  of. 
Lord  Mortimer  of  Scotland  hath  sent  word, 
That  Douglas,  and  the  English  rebels  met, 
The  eleventh  of  this  month,  at  Shrewsbury. 
A  mighty  and  a  fearful  head  they  are, 
If  promises  be  kept  on  every  hand, 
As  ever  offer'd  foul  play  in  a  state. 

K.  Hen.  The  earl  of  Westmoreland  set  forth  to-day. 
With  him  my  son,  }:rd  lohn  of  Lancaster  ; 
For  this  advertisement  is  five  days  old. — 
On  Wednesday  next.  Harry,  you  shall  set  forward  ; 
On  Thursday  we  ourselves  will  march  : 
Our  meeting  is  Bridgnorth  ;  and,  Harry,  you 
Shall  march  through  Glostershire ;  by  which  account, 
Our  business  valued,  some  twelve  days  hence 
Our  general  forces  at  Bridgnorth  shall  meet. 
Our  hands  are  full  of  business :  let 's  away  j 
Advantage  feeds  him  fat,  while  men  delay.      [Eoceunt. 

SCENE  HL— Eastcheap.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's 

Head  Tavern. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  am  I  not  fallen  away  vilely  since 
this  last  action  ?  do  I  not  bate  ?  do  I  not  dwindle  ? — 
Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  me  like  an  old  lady's  loose 
gown:  I  am  wither'd  like  an  old  apple-John.  Well, 
I  '11  repent,  and  that  suddenly,  while  I  am  in  some 
liking';  I  shall  be  out  of  heart  shortly,  and  then  I 
shall  have  no  strength  to  repent.  An  I  have  not  for- 
gotten what  the  inside  of  a  church  is  made  of,  I  am  a 
pepper-corn,  a  brewer's  horse.  The  inside  of  a  church  ! 
Company,  villainous  company,  hath  been  the  spoil 
of  me. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  you  are  so  fretful,  you  cannot  live 
long. 

Fal.  Why,  there  is  it. — Come,  sing  me  a  bawdy 
Kong;  make  me  merry.  I  was  as  virtuously  given  as  a 
eentleman  need  to  be ;  virtuous  enough  :  swore  little  ; 
diced  not  above  seven  times  a  week ;  went  to  a 
bawdy-house  not  above  once  in  a  quarter — of  an  hour  ; 
paid  money  that  I  borrowed  three  or  four  times  ;  lived 
well,  and  in  good  compass ;  and  now  I  live  out  of  all 
Jider,  out  of  all  compass. 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fat,  sir  John,  that  you  must 
needs  be  out  of  all  compass;  out  of  all  reasonable 
compass,  sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I  '11  amend  my 
life.  Thou  art  our  admiral,  thou  bearest  the  lantern 
not'  in  the  poop. — but 't  is  in  the  nose  of  thee :  thou 
:irt  the  knight  of  the  burning  lamp. 

Bard.  Why,  sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no  harm. 

Fal.  No ;  I  '11  be  sworn,  I  make  as  good  vise  of  it  as 
many  a  man  doth  of  a  death's  head,  or  a  memento  mori  : 
I  never  see  thy  face,  but  I  think  upon  hell-lire,  and 
Dives  that  lived  in  purple ;  for  there  he  is  in  his  robes, 
burning,  burning.  If  thou  wert  any  way  given  to  vir- 
tue, I  would  swear  by  thy  face:  my  oath  should  be, 
By  this  fire,  that 's  God's  angel :  but  thou  art  alto- 
gether given  over,  and  wert,  indeed,  but  for  the  light 
in  thy  face,  the  son  of  utter  darkness.  When  thou 
ran'st  up  Gadshill  in  the  night  to  catch  my  horse,  if  I 
did  not  think  thou  hadst  been  an  ignis  fatims,  or  a  ball 
of  wild-fire,  there  's  no  purchase  in  money.  0  !  thou 
art  a  perpetual  triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire-light. 
Thou  hast  saved  me  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and 
■  torches,  walking  with  thee  in  the  night  betwixt  tavern 
and  tavern :  but  the  sack  that  thou  hast  drunk  me, 
^'ould  have  bought  me  lights  as  good  cheap,  at  the 
'iearest  chandler's  in  Europe.     I  have  maintained  that 

.  aatr  •  m  f.  e       *  In  good  flesh       '  This  word  is  not  in  f.  e.      *  PoiNs,  is  not 


salamander  of  yours  with  fire  any  time  tl  is   two  ami 
thirty  years :  God  reward  me  for  it  ! 

Bard.  'Sblood  !  I  would  my  face  were  in  yoru- belly. 

Fal.  God-a-mercy  !  so  should  I  be  sure  to  be  heart- 
burned. 

Enter  Hostess. 
How  now,  dame  Partlet  the  hen?  have  you  inquired 
yet  who  picked  my  pocket  ? 

Host.  Why,  sir  John,  what  do  you  think,  sir  John  ? 
Do  you  think  I  keep  thieves  in  my  house  ?  I  have 
searched,  I  have  inquired,  so  has  my  husband,  man  \y 
man,  boy  by  boy,  servant  by  servant :  the  tithe  of  a 
hair  was  never  lost  in  my  house  before. 

Fal.  You  lie,  hostess  :  Bardolph  was  shaved,  and 
lost  many  a  hair ;  and  I  '11  be  sworn,  my  pocket  wa.-< 
picked.     Go  to,  you  are  a  woman;  go. 

Host  Who  I?  No.  I  defy  thee:  God's  light!  I 
was  never  called  so  in  mine  own  house  before. 

Fal.  Go  to  ;  I  know  you  well  enough. 

Host.  No,  sir  John ;  you  do  not  know  me,  sir  John  : 
I  know  you,  sir  John :  you  owe  me  money,  sir  John, 
and  now  you  pick  a  quarrel  to  beguile  me  of  it.  I 
bought  you  a  dozen  of  shirts  to  your  back. 

Fal.  Dowlas,  filthy  dowlas  :  I  have  given  them  away 
to  bakers'  'wives,  and  they  have  made  bolters  of  them. 

Host.  Now,  as  I  am  a  true  woman,  holland  of  eight 
shillings  an  ell.  You  owe  money  here  besides,  sii 
John,  for  your  diet,  and  by-drinkings,  and  money  lent 
you,  four  and  twenty  pound. 

Fal.  He  had  his  part  of  it :  let  him  pajy. 

Host  He  ?  alas  !  he  is  poor  :  he  hath  nothing. 

Fal.  How  !  poor  ?  look  upon  his  face  ;  what  call  you 
rich  ?  let  them  coin  his  nose,  let  them  coin  his  cheeks. 
I  '11  not  pay  a  denier.  What,  will  you  make  a  youukei 
of  me  ?  shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn,  but  ] 
shall  have  my  pocket  picked  ?  I  have  lost  a  seal-ring 
of  my  grandfather's,  worth  forty  mark. 

Host.  O  Jesu  !  I  have  heard  the  prince  tell  him.  I 
know  not  how  oft,  that  that  ring  was  copper. 

Fal.  How  !  the  prince  is  a  Jack,  a  sneak-cup, 
'Sblood  !  and  he  were  here,  I  would  cudgel  him  like  a 
dog,  if  he  would  say  so. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins*,  marching.    Falstaff 
meets  the  Prince,  playing  on  his  tmncheon,  like  a  fife. 

Fal.  How  now.  lad  !  is  the  wind  in  that  door,  i' 
faith?  must  we  all  march? 

Bard.  Yea,  two  and  two,  Newgate-fashion? 

Host.  My  lord,  I  pray  you,  hear  me. 

P.  Hen.  What  saycst  thou,  mistress  Quickly?  How 
does  thy  husband  ?  I  love  him  well :  he  is  an  honest 
man. 

Host.  Good  my  lord,  hear  me. 

Fal.  Pr'ythee  let  her  alone,  and  list  to  me. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou.  Jack  ? 

Fal.  The  other  night  I  fell  asleep,  here,  behind  the 
arras,  and  had  my  pocket  picked  :  this  house  is  turned 
bawdy-hoitse  ;  they  pick  pockets. 

P.  Hen.  What  didst  thou  lose,  Jack? 

Fal.  Wilt  thou  believe  me.  Hal?  three  or  four  bonds 
of  forty  pound  a-piece,  and  a  seal  ring  of  my  grandfa- 
ther's. 

P.  Hen.  A  trifle  :  some  eight-penny  matter. 

Host.  So  I  told  him.  my  lord :  and  I  said  I  heard 
your  grace  say  so  :  and,  my  lord,  he  speaks  most  vilely 
of  you,  like  a  foul-mouthed  man  as  he  is,  and  said,  he 
would  cudgel  you. 

P.  Hen.  What  !  he  did  not? 

Host.  There 's  neither  faith,  truth,  nor  womanhow 
in  me  else. 

the  old  copies. 


363 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT   IV, 


Fed.  There  's  no  more  faith  in  thee  tlian  in  a  stewed 
prune  ;  nor  no  more  truth  in  thee,  than  in  a  drawn  fox : 
and  for  womanhood,  maid  Marian'  may  be  the  deputy's 
wife  of  the  ward  to  thee.     Go  you  thing,  go. 

Host.  Say,  what  thing?  what  thing? 

Fal.  Whiit  tiling  ?  why,  a  tiling  to  thank  God  on. 

Host.  I  am  nothing  to  thank  God  on,  I  would  thou 
•houldst  know  it :  I  am  an  honest  man's  wife ;  and, 
setting  thy  knighthood  aside,  thou  art  a  knave  to  call 
me  so. 

Fal.  Setting  thy  womanhood  aside,  thou  art  a  beast 
lo  .say  otherwise. 

Ho.st.  Say.  what  beast,  thou  knave  thou? 

Fal.  What  bea-st  ?  why  an  otter. 

P.  Hen.  An  otter,  sir  John*  why  an  otter? 

Fal.  Why  ?  she  's  neither  fish  nor  flesh ;  a  man 
knows  not  where  to  have  her. 

Ho.-it.  Thou  art  an  unjust  man  in  saying  so :  thou  or 
any  man  knows  where  to  have  me,  thou  knave  thou ! 

P.  Hen.  Thou  sayest  true,  hostess ;  and  he  slanders 
thee  most  grossly. 

Host.  So  he  doth  you,  my  lord  ;  and  said  this  other 
day.  you  ought  him  a  thousand  pound. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah  !  do  I  owe  you  a  thousand  pound  ? 

Fal.  A  thousand  pound,  Hal !  a  million :  thy  love 
is  worth  a  million ;  thou  owest  me  thy  love. 

Host.  Nay,  my  lord,  he  called  you  Jack,  and  said  he 
would  cudgel  you. 

Fal.  Did  I,  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.  Indeed,  sir  John,  you  said  so. 

Fal.  Yea ;  if  he  said  my  ring  was  copper. 

P.  Hen.  I  say,  't  is  copper  :  darest  thou  be  as  good 
a:»  thy  word  now? 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  thou  knowest,  as  thou  art  but  man, 
I  dare  :  but  as  thou  art  prince,  I  fear  thee,  as  I  fear 
the  roaring  of  the  lion's  whelp. 

P.  Hen.  And  why  not,  as  the  lion. 

Fal.  The  king  himself  is  to  be  feared  as  the  lion. 
Dost  thou  think  I  '11  fear  thee  as  I  fear  thy  father  ?  nay, 
an  I  do.  I  pray  God,  my  girdle  break  I 

P.  Hen.  0  !  if  it  .''hould,  how  would  thy  guts  fall 
about  thy  knees!  But,  sirrah,  there's  no  room  for 
faith,  truth,  nor  honesty,  in  this  bosom  of  thine  ;  it  is 
filled  up  with  guts  and  midriff.  Charge  an  honest  wo- 
man with  picking  thy  pocket !  Why.  thou  whoreson, 
impudent,  embo.ssed  rascal,  if  there  were  anything  in 
thy  pocket  but  tavern  reckonings,  memorandums  of 
bawdy-houses,  and  one  poor  penny- wortli  of  sugar-candy 
lo  make  thee  long-winded  ;  if  thy  pocket  were  enriched 


with  any  other  injuries  but  the>ie,  I  am  a  villain ;  and 
yet  you  will  stand  to  it;  you  will  not  pocket  up  wrong. 
Art  thou  not  ashamed  ? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal?  thou  knowest  in  the 
state  of  innocence,  Adam  fell;  and  what  should  poor 
Jack  Fal.stalfdo.  in  the  days  of  villainy  ?  Thou  seest 
I  have  more  flesh  than  another  man,  and  therefore 
more  frailty.  You  confess,  then,  you  picked  my 
pocket  ? 

P.  Hen.  It  appears  so  by  the  story. 

Fal.  Hostess,  I  forgive  thee.  Go,  make  ready  break- 
fast ;  iove  thy  husband,  look  to  thy  servants,  cherish 
thy  guests  :  thou  shait  find  me  tractable  to  any  honest 
reason  :  thou  secst,  I  am  pacified. — Still  ? — Nay.  pr'y- 
thee  begone.  [Exit  Hostess.]  Now,  Hal,  to  the  news 
at  court :  for  the  robbery,  lad, — how  is  that  answered? 

P.  Hen.  0 !  my  sweet  beef,  I  must  still  be  good 
angel  to  thee. — The  money  is  paid  back  again. 

Fal.  0  !  I  do  not  like  that  paving  back  ;  't  is  a  double 
labour. 

P.  Hen.  I  am  good  friends  with  ray  father,  and  may 
do  any  thing. 

Fal.  Rob  me  the  exchequer  the  first  thins  thou  dost, 
and  do  it  with  unwashed  hands  too. 

Bard.  Do,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  procured  thee.  Jack,  a  charge  of  foot. 

Fal.  I  would,  it  had  been  of  horse.  Where  shall  I 
find  one  that  can  steal  well  ?  0  !  for  a  fine  thief,  of 
the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  or  thereabouts !  I  am 
heinously  unprovided.  Weil,  God  be  thanked  fortheee 
rebels ;  they  offend  none  but  the  virtuous :  I  laud  them, 
I  praise  them. 

P.  Hen.  Bardolph ! 

Bard.  My  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Go  bear  this  letter  to  lord  John  of  Lancaster. 
To  my  brother  John :  this  to  my  lord  of  Westmoreland.— 
Go,  Poins,  to  horse,  to  horse  !  for  thou,  and  I, 
Have  thirty  miles  to  ride  yet  ere  dinner  time. — 
Jack,  meet  me  to-morrow  in  the  Temple-hall 
At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon : 

There  shalt  thou   know  thy  charge ;  and  there  receive 
Money,  and  order  for  their  furniture. 
The  land  is  burning,  Percy  stands  on  high, 
And  either  they,  or  we.  must  lower  lie. 

[Exeu7}t  Prince,  PoiNS.  arid  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Rare  words  !  brave  world  ! — Hostess,  my  break- 
fast ;  come. — 
0  !  I  could  wish  this  tavern  were  my  drum.         [Exit. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrew.sbury. 
Enter  Hotspur,  Worcestkr,  and  Douglas. 

Hot.  Well  said,  my  noble  Scot :   if  speaking  truth, 
In  this  fine  age  were  not  thought  flattery, 
Such  attribution  should  the  Dnuiilas  have, 
Ah  not  a  soldier  of  this  season's  stamp 
Should  go  .so  general  current  through  the  world. 
By  God.  I  caimot  flatter :  I  defy 
The  tongues  of  soothers ;  but  a  braver  place 
in  my  heart's  love  hath  no  man  than  yourself. 
Nay,  task  me  to  my  word  ;  approve  me.  lord. 

Doug.  Thou  art  the  king  of  honour  : 
No  man  so  potent  breathes  upon  the  ground, 

'  r:binH.ood'i  companion — (he 


But  I  will  beard  him. 

Hot.  Do  80,  and  't  is  well. — 

Enter  a  Messenger,  with  letters. 

What  letters  hast  thou  there  ?— I  can  Uit  thank  yoH 
Me.ss.  These  letters  conic  from  your  father. 
Hot.  Lettcis  from  him  !  why  comes  he  not  himself  7 
Mess.  He  cannot  come,  my  lord  :  he  's  grievous  sick 
Hot.  'Zounds  !  how  has  he  the  leisure  to  be  sick, 

In  such  a  justling  time  ?     Who  leads  his  power  ? 

Under  who.'je  government  come  they  along? 
Me.ss.  His  letters  bear  his  mind,  not  I,  my  lord 
IJ'or.  I  pr'ythce,  tell  me.  doth  he  keep  his  bed? 
Me.-^s.  He  did,  my  lord,  four  days  ere  I  set  forth , 

And  at  the  time  of  my  departure  thence, 

often  introdnced  u  a  character  in  Morris  dancaa. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


369 


He  was  much  fear'd  by  his  physicians  i  Is  marching  hithenvards  ;  with  him.  pnnce  John. 

]Vor.  I  ^vould  tlie  state  of  time  had  first  been  whole,  '      Hot.  No  harm  :  what  more  ' 
Ere  he  by  sickness  had  been  visited  :  I       Ver.  And  farther,  I  have  learn  d. 

His  health  was  never  better  worth  than  now.  j  The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth, 

Hot.  Sick  now !  droop  now  !  this  sickness  doth  infect  Or  hitherwards  intendeth  speedily, 


The  very  life-blood  of  our  enterprise  : 

'T  is  catching  hither,  even  to  our  camp. 

He  NATites  me  here, — that  inward  sickness — 

And  that  his  friends  by  deputation  could  not 

So  soon  be  dra\A-n  :  nor  did  he  tliink  it  meet, 

To  lay  so  dangerous  and  dear  a  trust 

On  any  soul  remov'd.  but  on  his  own. 

Yet  doth  he  give  us  bold  advertisement, 

That  with  our  small  conjunction  we  should  on; 

To  see  how  foitune  is  dispos'd  to  lis  ; 

For,  as  he  \%Tites.  there  is  no  quailing  now, 

Because  the  king  is  certainly  possessed 

Of  all  our  purposes.     What  say  you  to  it  ? 

War.  Your  father's  sickness  is  a  maim  to  us. 

Hot.  A  perilous  gash,  a  very  limb  lopp'd  off: — 
And  yet,  in  faith,  'tis  not  ;  his  present  want 
Seems  more  than  we  shall  find  it. — Were  it  good, 
To  set  the  exact  wealth  of  all  our  states 
All  at  one  cast  ?  to  set  so  rich  a  main 
On  the  nice  hazard  of  one  doubtful  hour  ? 
It  were  not  good  ;  for  therein  should  we  rfead 
The  very  bottom  and  the  soul  of  hope, 
The  very  list,  the  very  utmost  bound 
Of  all  our  fortunes. 

Dong.  'Faith,  and  so  we  should, 

Where  now  remains  a  sweet  reversion  : 
We  now'  may  boldly  spend  upon  the  hope 
Of  what  is  to  come  in  : 
A  comfort  of  retirement  lives  in  this. 

Hot.  A  rendezvous,  a  home  to  fly  unto, 
If  that  the  devil  and  mischance  look  big 
Upon  the  n^aidenhead  of  our  affairs. 

Wor.  But  yet.  I  would  your  father  had  been  here. 
The  quality  and  hair*  of  our  attempt 
Brooks  no  division  :  it  will  be  thought 
By  some,  tliat  know  not  why  he  is  away, 
That  wisdom,  loyalty,  and  mere  dislike 
Of  our  proceedings,  kept  the  earl  from  hence. 
And  think,  how  such  an  apprehension 
May  turn  the  tide  of  fearful  faction. 
And  breed  a  kmd  of  question  in  our  cause  : 
For,  well  you  know,  we  of  the  ofTering  side 
Mu.st  keep  aloof  from  strict  arbitrement. 
And  stop  all  sight-holes,  every  loop  from  whence 
The  eye  of  reason  may  pr\'  in  upon  us. 
This  absence  of  your  father's  draws  a  curtain. 
That  shows  the  ignorant  a  kind  of  fear 
Before  not  dreamt  of. 

Hot.  You  strain  too  far. 

1,  rather,  of  his  absence  make  this  use  : — 
It  lends  a  lustre,  and  more  great  opinion, 
A  larger  dare  to  our  great  enterprize, 
Than  if  the  earl  were  here  :  for  men  must  think, 
If  we,  without  his  help,  can  make  a  head 
To  push  against  the  kingdom,  with  his  help. 
We  should  o'erturn  it  topsy-tur^-y  down. — 
^et  all  goes  well ;  yet  all  our  joints  are  whole. 


With  strong  and  mighty  preparation. 

Hot.  He  shall  be  welcome  too.     Where  is  hi?  son 
The  nimble-footed  mad-cap  prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades,  that  daff 'd  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass  ? 

Ver.  All  furnish'd,  all  in  arms, 

All  plum'd  like  estridges,  that  wing  the  wind, 
Bated*  like  eagles  having  lately  bath'd  ; 
Glittering  in  golden  coats,  like  images ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May. 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer , 
Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls. 
I  saw  young  Harry,  with  his  beaver  on. 
His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm'd, 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather'd  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds, 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Hot.  No  more,  no  more  :  worse  than  the  sun  in  March 
This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.     Let  them  come  ; 
They  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim. 
And  to  the  fire-ey'd  maid  of  smoky  war, 
All  hot,  and  bleeding,  will  we  offer  them  : 
The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit, 
[Ip  to  the  ears  in  blood.     I  am  on  fire. 
To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh, 
And  yet  not  ours. — Come,  let  me  taste'  my  horse, 
Who  is  to  bear  me,  like  a  thunderbolt, 
Against  the  bosom  of  the  prince  of  Wales : 
Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  horse  to  horse, 
Meet,  and  ne'er  part,  till  one  drop  down  a  corse. — 
0,  that  Glendower  were  come  ! 

Ver.  There  is  more  news  : 

I  learn'd  in  Worcester,  as  I  rode  along. 
He  cannot  draw  his  power  this  fourteen  days. 

Doug.  That 's  the  worst  tidings  that  I  hear  of  yo^ 

Wor.  Ay,   by  my  faith,  that  bears  a  frosty  sound. 

Hot.  What  may  the  king's  whole  battle  reach  unto  ' 

Ver.  To  thirty  thousand. 

Hot.  Forty  let  it  be  : 

My  father  and  Glendower  being  both  away, 
The  powers  of  us  may  serve  so  great  a  day. 
Come,  let  us  take  a  muster  speedily  : 
Doomsday  is  near ;  die  all,  die  merrily. 

Doiig.  Talk  not  of  dying  :  I  am  out  of  fear 
Of  death,  or  death's  hand,  for  this  one  half  year.  [Exe%ml 

SCENE  II. — A  public  Road,  near  Coventry. 
Enter  Falst.iff  and  Bardolph. 
Fal.  Bardolph,  get  thee  before  to  Coventry  :  fill  mf 
a  bottle  of  sack.     Our  soldiers  shall  march  through  , 
we  '11  to  Sutton-Colfield  to-night. 

Bard.  Will  you  give  me  money,  captain  ? 

Fal.  Lay  out,  lay  out. 

Bard.  This  bottle  makes  an  angel. 

Fal.  An  if  it  do.  take  it  for  thv  labour  ;  and  if  it 


Doug.  As  heart  can  think  :  there  is  not  such  a  word   make  twenty,  take  them  all,  I  '11  answer  the  coinage 


Spoke  of  in  Scotland  as  this  term^  of  fear. 
Enter  Sir  Richard  Vernon. 

Hot.  My  cousin  Vernon  !  welcome,  by  my  soul. 

Ver.  Pray  Gud  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome,  lord. 
The  earl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand  strong. 


Bid  my  lieutenant  Peto  meet  me  at  the  town's  end. 

Bard.  I  will,  captain  :  farewell.  [Exit. 

Fal.  If  I  be  not  ashamed  of  my  soldiers,  I  am  a 
soused  gurnet*.  I  have  misused  the  king's  press  damna 
bly.     I  have  got,  in  exchange  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 


'  This  word  is  not  in  f.  e.      '  Cc?nplexion,  character. 
inaj-toii  and  folio,  read  :  take  ;  which  Knight  follows.     ' 


'  dream  :  in  folio.      *  A  term  of  archery,  to  beat  tlu  air 
A  fish  of  the  piper  kind .  —  Virplanck. 


Try.    The  two  later 


I 


FTRST  PART  OF 


Nildiers.  three  hundred  and  odd  pounds.  I  pressed 
me  none  but  sood  liouscliolders,  yeomen's  sons  :  in- 
quired nie  out  coiiiracted  bachelors,  such  as  had  been 
rLskcd  twice  on  the  bans  ;  such  a  commodity  of  warm 
slaves,  as  liad  as  liet"  hear  the  devil  as  a  drum  ;  such  as 
fear  the  report  of  a  caliver,  worse  than  a  struck  fowl, 
or  a  hurl  wild-duck.  I  pressed  me  none  but  such 
toasts  and  butte:,'  with  hearts  in  their  bellies  no  bigger 
ihan  pins'  heads,  and  they  have  bought  out  their  ser- 
vices ;  and  now  my  whole  charge  consists  of  ancients, 
corporals,  lieutenants,  gentlemen  of  companies,  slaves 
a.<  ragged  as  Lazarus  in  the  painted  cloth,*  where  the 
alutton's  doi:s  licked  his  sores  :  and  such  as,  indeed, 
were  never  soldiers,  but  discarded  unjust  serving  men. 
younger  sons  to  younger  brothers,  revolted  tapsters,  and 
ostlers  trade-fallen  ;  the  cankers  of  a  calm  world,  and  a 
long  peace  ;  ten  times  more  dishonourable  ragged  than 
an  old  |iieced'  ancient :  and  such  have  I.  to  fill  up  the 
rooms  of  them  that  have  bought  out  their  services,  that 
you  would  think  that  1  had  a  hundred  and  fifty  tat- 
tered prodigals,  lately  come  from  swine-keeping,  from 
eating  draff  and  husks.  A  mad  fellow  met  me  on  the 
way,  and  told  me  1  had  unloaded  all  the  gibbets,  and 
pressed  the  dead  bodies.  No  eye  hath  seen  such 
scarecrows.  I  '11  not  march  through  Coventry  with 
them,  that 's  flat  : — nay,  and  the  villains  march  wide 
betwixt  the  legs,  as  if  they  had  gyves  on  ;  for,  indeed,  I 
had  the  most  of  them  out  of  prison.  There  's  but*  a  shirt 
and  a  half  in  all  my  company:  and  the  half  .shir  t  is 
two  napkins,  taclced  together,  and  thrown  over  the 
shoulders  like  a  herald's  coat  without  sleeves ;  and  the 
shirt,  to  say  the  truth,  stolen  from  my  host  at  St.  Al- 
ban.«  or  the  red-nosed  inn-keeper  of  Daventry.  But 
that  s  all  one  :  they  '1!  find  linen  enough  on  every  hedge. 
Enter  Prince  Hknry  and  Westmoreland. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  blown  Jack  !   how  now,  quilt  ! 

Ful.  What.  Hal  !  how  now.  mad  wag  !  what  a  de-\il 
dost  thou  in  Warwickshire? — My  good  lord  of  West- 
moreland, I  cry  you  mercy  :  I  thought  your  honour 
had  already  been  at  Shrewsbury, 

West.  'Faith,  sir  John,  'tis  more  than  time  that  I 
were  there  and  you  too  ;  but  my  jjowers  are  there 
already.  The  king,  I  can  tell  you,  looks  for  us  all :  we 
must  away  all  night*. 

Fal.  Tut,  never  fear  me :  I  am  as  vigilant  as  a  cat 
to  steal  cream, 

P.  Hen.  I  think,  to  steal  cream  indeed  :  for  thy  theft 
hath  already  made  thee  butter.  But  tell  me.  Jack; 
whose  fellows  are  these  that  come  after  ? 

Fal.  Mine,  Hal.  mine. 

P.  Hen.  i  did  never  see  such  pitiful  rascals. 

Fal.  Tut,  tut !  good  enough  to  loss*  ;  food  for  pow- 
der, food  for  powder  ;  they  '11  fill  a  pit,  as  well  as  better: 
tush,  man,  mortal  men,  mortal  men. 

M'e.st.  Ay.  but,  sir  John,  mclhinks  they  are  exceed- 
ing poor  and  bare  ;  too  beiigarly. 

Fal.  Faith,  for  their  poverty,  I  know  not  where  they 
had  that  :  and  for  their  bareness,  I  am  sure,  they  never 
learned  that  of  me. 

P.  Hen.  No,  I'll  be  sworn;  unless  you  call  three 
fingers  on  the  ribs,  bare.  But,  sirrah,  make  haste : 
Percy  is  already  in  the  field. 

Foi.  What,  is  the  king  encamped  ? 

We.<!t.  He  is,  sir  John  :  I  fear  we  shall  stay  too  long. 

Fnl.  Well, 
To  the  latter  end  of  a  fray,  and  the  beginning  of  a  feast, 
Kits  a  dull  fighter,  and  a  keen  guest.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  HI.— The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrewsbury. 
Enter  HoTspin,  Worcrster,  DoifJL.As,  aiul  Vernon. 

Hot.  We'll  fight  with  him  to-night. 

li'or.  It  may  not  be 

Dong.  You  give  him,  then,  advantage. 

Vcr.  Not  a  wliit 

Hot.  Why  say  you  so  ?  looks  he  not  for  supply? 

Ver.  So  do  we. 

Hot.  His  is  certain,  ours  is  doubtful. 

Wor.  Good  cousin,  be  advis'd :  stir  not  to-night. 

Ver.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Doug.  You  do  not  counsel  well. 

You  speak  it  out  of  fear,  and  a  cold  heart. 

Ver.  Do  me  no  slander,  Douglas :  by  my  life, 
And  I  dare  well  maintain  it  with  my  life, 
If  well-re.'?pccted  honour  bid  me  on, 
I  hold  as  little  counsel  with  weak  fear. 
As  you,  my  lord,  or  any  Scot  that  lives:' 
Let  it  be  seen  to-morrow  in  the  battle, 
Which  of  us  fears. 

Doug,  Yea,  or  to-night. 

Ver.  Content. 

Hot.  To-night,  say  I. 

Ver.  Come,  come,  it  may  not  be. 

I  wonder  much. 

Being  men  of  such  great  leading  as  you  are, 
That  you  foresee  not  what  imjiediments 
Drag  back  our  expedition  :  certain  horse 
Of  my  cousin  Vernon's  arc  not  yet  come  up : 
Your  uncle  Worcester's  horse  came  but  to-aay , 
And  now  their  pride  and  mettle  is  asleep. 
Their  courage  with  hard  labour  tame  and  dull, 
That  not  a  horse  is  half  the  half  himself. 

Hot.  So  are  the  horses  of  the  enemy. 
In  general,  journey-bated,  and  brought  low ;  ■ 

T'le  better  part  of  ours  are  full  of  rest.  ' 

I      Wor.  The  number  of  the  king  exceedeth  ours : 
For  God's  sake,  cousin,  stay  till  all  come  in. 

\The  Trnmpet  sounds  a  parky 
Enter  Sir  Walter  Blunt. 

Blunt.  I  come  with  gracious  offers  from  the  king. 
If  you  vouchsafe  me  hearing  and  re.»;pect. 

Hot.  Welcome,  sir  Walter  Blunt ;  and  would  to  God 
You  were  of  our  determination  ! 
Some  of  us  love  you  well ;  and  even  those  wme 
Envy  your  great  deservings,  and  goo/^  name, 
Because  you  are  not  of  our  quality, 
But  stand  azainst  us  like  an  enemy. 

Bhmt.  And  God  defend  but  still  I  should  stand  so 
So  long  as  out  of  limit  and  true  rule, 
You  stand  against  anointed  majesty. 
But,  to  my  charge. — The  king  hath  sent  to  know 
The  nature  of  your  griefs  ;  and  whereupon 
You  conjure  from  the  breast  of  civil  peace 
Such  boid  ho.slility,  teaching  his  duteous  land 
Audacious  cruelty  ?     If  that  the  king 
Have  any  way  your  good  deserts  forgot, 
Which  he  confesseth  to  be  manifold, 
He  bids  you  name  your  griefs,  and  with  all  speed, 
You  shall  have  your  desires  with  interest. 
And  pardon  absolute  for  yourself,  and  these, 
Herein  misletl  by  your  suggestion. 

Hot.  The  king  is  kind  ;  and,  well  we  know,  the  k\Di 
Knows  at  what  time  to  promise,  when  to  pay. 
My  father,  with*  my  uncle,  and  myself, 
Did  give  him  that  same  royalty  he  wears  ; 


'  Accordinc  to  Fynei  Moriiioii'«  Itinerary  (1617),  London*™,  were  "  in  reproach"  called  Cockneys,  and  eaten  of  buttered  toa»t«, 
fo»  •overios  walls  i  fac«d  :  in  f.  e  ♦  Old  copjes  :  not;  mod.  eds.  :  but.  •  Bo  the  quartos;  folio:  to-night.  •  Tot»  on  a  pike 
til*  day  lives:  in  f  e       •  and  :  in  f  • 


KING  HEKRY  lY. 


371 


And  when  he  was  not  six-and-twenty  strong, 

Sick  in  the  world  s  regard,  wretched  and  low, 

A  poor  unriinded  outlaw  sneaking  home, 

My  father  gavi  him  welcome  to  the  shore  : 

And.  when  he  heard  him  swear,  and  vow  to  God, 

He  came  but  to  be  duke  of  Lancaster, 

To  sue  h's  livery,'  and  beg  his  peace, 

With  tears  of  innocency.  and  terms  of  zeal. 

My  father,  in  kind  heart  and  pity  movM, 

Swore  him  assistance,  and  perform'd  it  too. 

Now,  when  the  lords  and  barons  of  the  realm 

Pcrceiv  d  Northumberland  did  lean  to  him, 

The  more  and  le.ss  came  in  with  cap  and  knee  ; 

Met  him  in  boroughs,  cities,  villages, 

Attended  him  on  bridges,  stood  in  lanes, 

Laid  gifts  before  him,  proifer'd  him  their  oaths, 

Gave  iiim  their  heir.s,  as  pages  foUow'd  him, 

Even  at  the  heels,  in  golden  multitudes. 

He  presendy.  as  greatness  knows  itself. 

Steps  me  a  little  higher  than  his  vow 

Made  to  my  father,  while  his  blood  was  poor. 

Upon  the  naked  shore  at  Ravenspurg ; 

And  now,  forsooth,  takes  on  him  to  reform 

Some  certain  edicts,  and  some  strait  decrees. 

That  lie  too  hea^-y  on  the  commonwealth  j 

Cries  out  upon  abuses,  seems  to  weep 

Over  his  country's  wrongs  ;  and,  by  this  face, 

This  seeming  brow  of  justice,  did  he  win 

The  hearts  of  all  that  he  did  angle  for: 

Proceeded  farther ;  cut  me  off  the  heads 

Of  all  the  favourites,  that  the  absent  king 

[n  deputation  left  behind  him  here. 

When  he  was  personal  in  the  Irish  war. 

Blunt.  Tut !   I  came  not  to  hear  this. 

Hot.  Then,  to  the  point. 

Ill  short  time  after  he  depos'd  the  king  ] 
Soon  after  that,  depriv'd  him  of  his  life; 
And,  in  the  neck  of  that,  task'd'  the  whole  state; 
To  make  that  worse,  suffer'd  his  kinsman  March 
(Who  is,  if  every  owner  were  due'  plac'd. 
Indeed  his  king)  to  be  engag'd*  in  Wales, 
There  without  ransom  to  lie  forfeited ; 
Disgrac'd  me  in  my  happy  victories ; 
Sought  to  entrap  me  by  intelligence  ; 
Rated  my  uncle  from  the  council-board ; 
In  rage  dismiss'd  my  father  from  the  court ; 
Broke  oath  on  oath,  committed  wrong  on  wrong. 
And.  in  conclusion,  drove  us  to  seek  out 
This  head  of  safety  ;  and.  withal,  to  pry 
Into  his  title,  the  which  we  find 
Too  indirect  for  long-continuance. 

Blunt.  Shall  I  return  this  answer  to  the  king? 

Hot.  Not  so,  oir  Walter :  we  'II  withdraw  awhile. 


Go  to  the  king ;  and  let  there  be  impawn'd 
Some  surety  for  a  safe  return  again. 
And  in  the  morning  early  shall  mine  uncle 
Bring  him  our  purposes ;  and  so  farewell. 

Blunt.  I  would  you  would  accept  of  grace  and  love 

Hot.  And,  may  be,  so  we  shall. 

Blunt.  'Pray  God  you  do  !     [ExeuTti 

SCENE  IV.— York.     A  Room  in  the  Archbishop's 
House. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  and  Sir  Mich.ml. 

Arch.  Hie,  good  sir  Michael ;  bear  this  sealed  briel 
With  winged  ha.*<te  to  the  lord  marshal : 
This  to  my  cousin  Scroop ;  and  all  the  rest 
To  whom  they  are  directed.     If  you  knew 
How  much  they  do  import,  you  would  make  haste. 

Sir  M.  My  good  lord, 
I  guess  their  tenour. 

Arch.  Like  enough,  you  do. 

To-morrow,  good  sir  Michael,  is  a  day. 
Wherein  the  fortune  of  ten  thousand  men 
Must  bide  the  touch ;  for,  sir,  at  Shrewsbury, 
As  I  am  truly  given  to  understand, 
The  king,  with  mighty  and  quick-raised  power, 
Meets  with  lord  Harry :  and.  I  fear,  sir  Michael, 
AVhat  with  th.'S  sickness  of  Northumberland, 
Whose  power  vvas  in  the  first  proportion. 
And  what  with  Owen  Glendower's  absence  thence, 
Who  with  them  was  a  rated  sinew*  too. 
And  comes  not  in,  o'er-rul'd  by  prophecies, 
I  fear,  the  power  of  Percy  is  too  weak 
To  wage  an  instant  trial  with  the  king. 

Sir  M.  Why,  my  good  lord,  you  need  not  fear , 
There  is  Douglas,  and  lord  Mortimer. 

Arch.  No,  Mortimer  is  not  there.  [Percy 

Sir  M.  But  there  is   Mordake,  Vernon,  lord  Hany 
And  there 's  my  lord  of  Worcester  ;  and  a  head 
Of  gallant  warriors,  noble  gentlemen. 

Arch.  And  so  there  is ;  but  yet  the  king  hath  drawn 
The  special  head  of  all  the  land  together : 
The  prince  of  Wales,  lord  John  of  Lancaster, 
The  noble  Westmoreland,  and  warlike  Blunt, 
And  many  more  corrivals,  and  dear  men 
Of  estimation  and  command  in  arms. 

Sir  M.  Doubt  not,  my  lord,  they  shall  be  well  oppos'd 

Arch.  I  hope  no  less,  yet  needful  't  is  to  fear; 
And,  to  prevent  the  worst,  sir  Michael,  speed ; 
For,  if  lord  Percy  thrive  not,  ere  the  king 
Dismiss  his  power,  he  means  to  visit  us, 
For  he  hath  heard  of  our  confederacy. 
And  't  is  but  -wisdom  to  make  strong  against  him  : 
Therefore,  make  haste.     I  must  go  write  again 
To  other  friends  j  and  so  farewell,  sir  Michael.    [Exetml 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I.— The  King's  Camp  near  Shrewsbury. 
^^•iter  King  Henry,   Prince  Henry,   Prince  John  of 
Lancaster.  Sir  Walter  Blunt,  a-nd  Sir  John  Fal- 

ST.iKK. 

K..  Hen.  How  bloodily  the  sun  begins  to  peer 
•ibove  yond  '  busky*  hil! :  the  day  looks  pale 
At  hiy  distemperature. 

^  Hen.  The  southern  wind 


'  1  l-n  Qdlivery  of  his  property  to  him. 
i  Quiutoa;  the  lolio  :  was  rated  firmly. 


See  Richard  n.,  t 
'  Bosky,  woodet 


I 


Doth  play  the  trumpet  to  his  purposes; 
And  by  his  hollow  whistling  in  the  leaves 
Foretels  a  tempest,  and  a  blustering  day. 

K.  Hen.  Then,  with  the  losers  let  it  syTupathise, 
For  nothing  can  seem  foul  to  those  that  win. — 

[Trumpet  sounds. 
Enter  Worcester  and  Vernon. 
How  now,  my  lord  of  Worcester  !  't  is  not  well, 
That  you  and  I  should  meet  upon  such  terms 

■  tsPd.      *  -well  :  in  f.  e.      *  Delivered  a  gage  or  kottaft.      •  &■ 


372 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT 


Kb  how  ■»*«  meet.     You  have  deeeiv'd  our  trust, 

A.iul  made  us  doiFoiir  easy  robes  of  peace, 

To  cru;-h  our  old  limbs  in  ungentle  steel : 

Tliis  IS  not  well,  my  lord  ;  this  is  not  well. 

What  say  you  to  it  ?  will  you  aiiaiii  u.'iknit 

Tiiie  churlisli  knot  of  all-abhorred  war, 

And  move  in  that  obedient  orb  a2:ain, 

Where  you  did  i;ivo  a  fair  and  natural  light, 

And  be  no  more  an  exhal'd  meteor, 

A  prodigy  of  f'-ar.  and  a  portent 

Of  broaclied  mischief  to  fhe  unborn  times? 

War     Hear  me.  my  liege. 
R)r  mine  own  part,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  entertain  the  lag-end  of  my  life 
With  quiet  hours  :  for,  I  do  protest, 
I  iiave  not  sought  the  day  of  this  dislike.  [then? 

K.  Hen.  Vou  have  not  souuht  it !  say,'  how  comes  it 

Fill.  Hebellion  lay  in  liis  way,  and  he  found  it. - 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  chewet.'  peace  ! 

M'or.  It  plea.<'d  your  majesty,  to  turn  your  looks 
Of  favour,  from  iny.^elf,  and  all  our  house ; 
And  yet  I  must  remember  you,  my  lord, 
We  were  the  first  and  dearest  of  your  friends. 
For  you  my  staff  of  office  did  I  break 
In  Richards  time  :  and  po.sted  day  and  night 
To  meet  you  on  the  way.  and  kiss  your  hand. 
When  yet  you  were  in  place,  and  in  account. 
Nothing  .so  strong  and  fortunate  as  I. 
It  was  myself,  my  brother,  and  his  son, 
That  brought  you  home,  and  boldly  did  outdare 
The  dangers  of  the  time.     You  swore  to  us, 
And  you  did  swear  that  oath  at  Donca.*tcr, 
That  you  did  nothing  purpo.«e  'gainst  the  state, 
Nor  claim  no  farther  than  your  new-fulPn  right, 
The  seat  of  Gaunt,  dukedom  of  Lanca.ster. 
To  this  we  swore  our  aid :  but,  in  short  space, 
It  raind  do\Mi  fortune  showering  on  your  head, 
And  such  a  flood  of  greatness  fell  on  you. 
What  with  our  help,  what  with  the  abjient  king, 
What  with  ihe  injuries  of  a  wanton  time, 
The  seeming  sufferances  that  you  had  borne, 
And  the  contrarious  winds  tliat  held  the  king 
So  long  in  his  unlucky  Iri.«h  wans, 
That  all  in  England  did  re]mte  him  dead  : 
And.  from  this  swarm  of  fair  advantages, 
You  took  occasion  to  be  quickly  woo'd 
To  gripe  the  general  sway  into  your  hand  ; 
Forgot  your  oath  to  us  at  Donca.'^ter, 
And,  being  t.d  by  us,  you  u«d  us  so 
A.H  that  un-entle  gull,  the  cuckoos  bird, 
I'solh  the  i-parrow.  did  oppress  our  nest, 
Grew  by  our  feeding  to  so  great  a  bulk. 
Thai  c%en  our  love  durst  not  come  near  your  sight,     • 
For  fear  of  swallowing  :  but  with  nimble  wing 
We  were  enforc'd.  for  safety  sake,  to  fly 
Out  of  your  sight,  and  raise  this  present  head  : 
Whereby  we  stand  oppos.-d  by  such  means 
As  you  your.xelf  have  fonr'd  against  yourself. 
By  unkind  usage,  dangerous  countrnanef 
And  violation  of  all  faith  and  troth 
Sworn  to  us  in  your  younger  enterprise. 

K.  Urn.  These  things,  indeed,  you  have  articulate* 
Proc'aim'd  at  markef-crosses.  read  in  churches, 
To  face  the  garment  of  rebellion 
With  s/.me  fine  colour,  that  may  fdcase  the  eye 
'^^f  fickle  ehangelini.'s.  and  poor  discontents. 
Which  gape,  and  rub  the  elbow,  at  the  news 
Of  hurlyburly  innovation : 
And  never  yet  did  insurrection  want 

'  Tku  word    i  not  in  f 


Such  water-colours  to  impaint  his  cause; 
Nor  moody  beggars,  starving  for  a  time 
Of  pellmell  havoc  and  confusion. 

P.  Hen.  In  both  our  armies,  there  is  many  a  soul  • 
Shall  pay  full  dearly  for  this  encounter. 
If  once  they  join  in  trial.     Tell  your  nephew. 
The  prince  of  Wales  doth  join  with  all  the  world 
In  praise  of  Henry  Percy:  by  my  hopes, 
This  present  enterprise  set  off  his  head, 
I  do  not  think,  a  braver  gentleman. 
More  active-valiant,  or  more  valiant-young, 
More  darins,  or  more  bold,  is  now  alive 
To  grace  this  latter  age  with  noble  deeds. 
For  my  part,  I  may  speak  it  to  my  shame, 
I  have  a  truant  been  to  chivalry, 
And  so,  I  hear,  he  doth  account  ine  too  ; 
Yet  this  before  my  father's  majesty: 
I  am  content,  that  he  shall  take  the  odds 
Of  his  great  name  and  estimation. 
And  will,  to  save  the  blood  on  either  side, 
Try  fortune  with  him  in  a  single  fight.  (thee 

A'.  He)i.  And.  prince  of  Wales,  so  dare  we  ventu"j 
Albeit  considerations  infinite 
Do  make  against  it. — No,  good  Worcester,  no, 
We  love  our  people  well ;,  even  those  we  love. 
That  are  misled  upon  your  cousin's  part ; 
And,  will  fhey  take  the  offer  of  our  grace, 
Both  he,  and  they,  and  you,  yea,  every  man 
Shall  be  my  friend  again,  and  I  '11  be  his. 
So  tell  your  cousin,  and  bring  me  word 
What  he  will  do:  but  if  he  will  not  yield, 
Rebuke  and  dread  correction  wait  on  us. 
And  they  shall  do  their  office.     So,  be  gone. 
We  will  not  now  be  troubled  with  reply: 
We  offer  fair,  take  it  advi.sedly. 

[Exeunt  Worcester  and  Ykrnon. 

P.  Hen.  It  will  not  be  accepted,  on  my  life. 
The  Douglas  and  the  Hotspur  both  together 
Are  confident  again.st  the  world  in  arms. 

K.  Hen.  Hence,  therefore,  every  leader  to  his  charge 
For,  on  their  answer,  will  we  set  on  them  ; 
And  God  befriend  us  as  our  case  Is  just  ! 

[Exeunt  King.  Blunt,  and  Prime  John 

Fal.  Hal,  if  thou  see  me  down  in  the  battle,  and 
bestride  me,  so  ;  't  is  a  point  of  f"  iendship. 

P.  Hen.  Nothing  but  a  colosnis  can  do  thee  that 
friendship.     Say  thy  prayers,  ana  farewell. 

Fnl.  I  would  it  were  bed-time,  Hal,  and  all  well. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  thou  owcst  God  a  doth.  [Exit 

Fal.  'T  is  not  due  yet:  I  wcu.d  br.  loath  to  pay  him 
before  his  day  What  need  I  bo  ac  forward  with  him 
that  calls  not  on  me?  Well,  '<  is  no  matter;  honour 
pricks  me  on.  Yea.  but  how  if  hcmour  prick  me  off 
when  I  come  on  ?  how  then '  C;m  honour  set  to  a 
leg?  No.  Or  an  arm  ?  No.  Or  take  away  the  grief 
of  a  wound  ?  No.  Honour  hath  no  skill  in  surgery 
then?  No.  What  is  honour  ?  A  word.  What  is  in 
that  word,  honour  ?  What  is  that  honour?  Air.  A 
trim  reckoning  !— Who  hath  it?  He  that  died  o'  Wed- 
nesday. Doth  he  feel  it?  No.  Doth  he  hrnr  it?  No 
Is  it  insensible,  then  ?  Yea.  to  the  dead.  But  will  it 
not  live  with  the  living?  No.  Why?  Detraction 
will  not  .suffer  it : — therefore,  I  'II  none  of  it :  honour  is 
a  mere  scutcheon,  and  so  ends  my  catechism.       [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Rebel  Camp. 
Enter  Worcester  and  Vernon. 
Wor.  0.  no  !  my  nephew  must  not  know,  sir  Richard 


•  A  dish  or  pU  of  mincu  m«»t 


The  liberal  kind  offer  of  the  king 

'  ArlicU  by  article.     ♦  So  the  first  two  quartos  ;  the  others  and  folic  tmit  : 


KmG  HENRY  lY. 


373 


Yer.  'T  were  best,  he  did. 

Wor.  Then  are  we  all  undone, 

it  is  not  possible,  it  cannot  be. 
The  king  should  keep  his  word  in  loving  us ; 
He  will  suspect  us  still,  and  find  a  time 
To  punish  this  offence  in  other  faults : 
Suspicion'  all  our  lives  shall  be  stuck  full  of  eyes ; 
For  treason  is  but  trusted  like  the  fox, 
Who,  ne'er  so  tame,  so  cherish'd,  and  lock'd  up, 
Will  have  a  wild  trick  of  his  ancestors. 
Look  how  we  can.  or  sad  or  merrily, 
Interpretation  will  misquote  our  looks  : 
And  we  shall  feed  like  oxen  at  a  stall, 
The  better  cherish'd,  still  the  nearer  death. 
My  nephew's  trespass  may  be  well  forgot, 
It  bath  the  excuse  of  youth,  and  heat  of  blood  , 
And  an  adopted  name  of  privilege, 
A  hare-brain'd  Hotspur,  govern'd  by  a  spleen. 
All  his  offences  live  upon  my  head, 
And  on  his  father's :  we  did  train  him  on  ■ 
And,  his  corruption  being  ta'en  from  us, 
.Ve,  as  the  spring  of  all.  shall  pay  for  all. 
Therefore,  good  cousin,  let  not  Harry  know 
hi  any  case  the  offer  of  the  king. 

Ver.  Deliver  what  you  will,  I  '11  say,  'tis  so. 
Here  comes  your  cousin. 

Enttr  Hotspur  and   Douglas  ;  Officers  and  Soldiers, 
behind. 
Hot.   My  uncle  is  return'd  : — Deliver  up 
«ly  lord  of  Westmoreland. — Uncle,  what  news? 
Wor.  The  king  will  bid  you  battle  presently. 
Doug.  Defy  him  by  the  lord  of  Westmoreland. 
Hot.  Lord  Douglas,  go  you  and  tell  him  so. 
Doug.  Marry,  and  shall,  and  very  willingly.    [Exit. 
Wor.  There  is  no  seeming  mercy  in  the  king. 
Hot.  Did  you  beg  any  ?     God  forbid  ! 
Wor.  I  told  him  gently  of  our  grievances, 
Of  his  oath-breaking  ;  which  he  mended  thus  ; 
By  now  forswearing  that  he  is  forsworn  : 
He  calls  us  rebels,  traitors ;  and  will  scourge 
With  haughty  arms  this  hateful  name  in  us. 
Re-enter  Douglas. 
Dong.  Arm,  gentlemen  !  to  arms  !  for  I  have  thrown 
A  brave  defiance  in  King  Henry's  teefri, 
And  Westmoreland,  that  was  engag'd,  did  hear  it, 
Which  cannot  choose  but  bring  him  quickly  on. 

Wor.  The  prince  of  Wales  stepp'd  forth  before  the 
king. 
And.  nephew,  challenged  you  to  single  fight. 

Ho*.  0  !   would  the  quarrel  lay  upon  our  heads  ; 
And  that  no  man  might  draw  short  breath  to-day, 
i^ut  I.  and  Harry  Monmouth  !     Tell  me,  tell  me. 
How  show'd  his  tasking"?  seem'd  it  in  contempt? 

Ver.  No,  by  my  soul :  I  never  in  my  life 
Did  hear  a  challenge  urg'd  more  modestly, 
Unless  a  brother  should  a  brother  dare 
To  gentle  exercise  and  proof  of  arms, 
'le  gave  you  all  the  duties  of  a  man, 
Trirnm'd  up  your  praises  with  a  princely  tongue, 
Spoke  your  deservings  like  a  chronicle. 
Making  you  ever  better  than  his  praise, 
By  still  disprai.«'.ng  praise,  valued  with  you  ; 
And.  which  became  him  like  a  prince  mdeed, 
He  made  a  blushing  citaP  of  himself; 
And  chid  his  truant  youth  with  such  a  grace. 
As  if  he  master'd  then  a  double  spirit, 
Of  teaching,  and  of  learning,  instantly. 


There  did  he  pause  :  but  let  me  tell  the  world, 
If  he  outlive  the  envy  of  this  day, 
England  did  never  owe  so  sweet  a  hope, 
So  much  misconstrued  in  his  wantonness. 

Hot.  Cousin,  I  think  thou  art  enamoured 
Upon  his  follies  :  never  did  I  hear 
Of  any  prince  so  wild  o'*  liberty. 
But  be  he  as  he  will,  yet  once  ere  night 
I  will  embrace  him  with  a  soldier's  arm. 
That  he  shall  shrink  under  my  courtesy. — 
Arm,  arm,  with  speed  ! — And,  fellows,  soldiers,  frieudi 
Better  consider  what  you  have  to  do. 
Than  I,  that  have  not  well  the  gift  of  tongue, 
Can  lift  your  blood  up  with  persuasion. 
Enter  a  Massenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  here  are  letters  for  you. 

Hot.  I  cannot  read  them  now. — 

0  gentlemen  !  the  time  of  life  is  short ; 

To  spend  that  shortness  basely,  were  too  long, 

If  life  did  ride  upon  a  dial's  point. 

Still  ending  at  the  arrival  of  an  hour. 

An  if  we  live,  we  live  to  tread  on  kings  ; 

If  die,  brave  death,  when  princes  die  with  us. 

Now,  for  our  consciences,  the  arms  are  fair, 

When  the  intent  of  bearing  them  is  just. 
Enter  another  Messenger. 
Mess.  My  lord,  prepare ;    the  king  comes  on  apace 
Hot.  I  thank  him,  that  he  cuts  me  from  my  tale 

For  I  profess  not  talking.     Only  this — 

Let  each  man  do  his  best  l  and  here  draw  I 

A  sword,  whose'  temper  I  intend  to  stain 

With  the  best  blood  that  I  can  meet  withal 

In  the  adventure  of  this  perilous  day. 

Now, — Esperance  ! — Percy  ! — and  set  on  ! — 

Sound  all  the  lofty  instruments  of  war. 

And  by  that  music  let  us  all  embrace ; 

'Fore  heaven  and  earth,"  some  of  us  never  shall 

A  second  time  do  such  a  courtesy. 

[The  Trumpets  sound.     They  embrace,  and  exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Plain  near  Shrewsbury. 

Excursions,  and  Parties  fighting .    Alarum  to  the  Battle 

Then  enter  Dougl.^s  ami  Blunt,  meeting. 

Blunt.  WTiat  is  thy  name,  that  in  battle  thus 
Thou  crossest  me  ?  what  honour  dost  thou  seek 
Upon  my  head  ? 

Doug.  Know,  then,  my  name  is  Douglas  ; 

And  I  do  haunt  thee  in  the  battle  thus, 
Because  some  tell  me  that  thou  art  a  king. 

Blunt.  They  tell  thee  true. 

Dmig.  The  lord  of  Stafford  dear  to-day  hath  bought 
Thy  likeness  ;  for,  instead  of  thee,  king  Harry, 
This  sword  hath  ended  him :  so  shall  it  thee. 
Unless  thou  yield  thee  as  my  prisoner. 

Blunt.  I  was  not  born  a  yielder,  thou  proud  Scot' ; 
And  thou  shalt  find  a  kins  that  will  revenge 
Lord  Stafford's  death.    [They  fight,  and  Blunt  is  flain 
Enter  Hotspur. 

Hot.  0  Douglas!    hadst  thou  fought  at  Holmedou 
thus, 
I  never  had  triumph'd  upon'  a  Scot. 

Doug.  AH'  s  done,  all 's  won  :  here  breathless   lies 
the  king. 

Hot.  Where? 

Doug.  Here. 

Hot.  This,  Douglas  ?  no  ;  I  know  this  face  full  well  • 

1  A  gallant  knight  he  was,  his  name  was  Bluut. 


*  Old  copies :  Supposition  ;  Pope  made  the  change.  2  The  folio,  and  all  but  first  quarto 
(naitoa ;  the  last,  and  folio  ■  at.  *  The  folio  jn.'^erts  :  -n-orthy.  «  For  heaven  to  earth:  ii 
Virn  to  yield,  ihou  haughty  Scot.      *  So  the  first  and  second  quartos  ;  the  others,  and  folio 


talki 
f.  e. 
over 


ip.     s  Mention.      *  So  the  three  earliow 
'  So  the  three  early  quartos  j    he  folio 


374 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SemWably  furnislrd  like  the  kini:  himself. 

Dtnig.   A  tool  CO  with  ihy  soul,  where'er  it  goes! 
A  borrow'd  title  hast  lliou  bought  too  dear: 
Why  diiist  thou  tell  me  that  tliou  werl  a  king? 

Hot.  The  kiii^  hath  many  masking'  in  his  coats. 

Doug.  Now.  by  my  sword,  1  M'ill  kill  all  his  coats: 
!  11  murder  all  Ins  wardrobe,  piece  by  piece, 
Until  I  meet  the  king. 

Hot.  Up,  and  away  ! 

Our  soldiers  stand  full  fairly  for  the  day.  [Exeunt. 

Alarums.     Enter  Falstakf. 

Fal.  Though  1  could  "scape  shot-free  at  London,  I 
fear  the  shot  here  ;  here  's  no  scorins,  but  upon  the 
pate.— Soft  !  who  art  thou  ?  Sir  Walter  Blunt : — 
there  's  honour  for  you  :  here  "s  no  vanity. — I  am  as  hot 
wf  molten  lead,  and  a.>!  heavy  too :  God  keep  lead  out 
of  me  !  1  need  no  more  weight  than  mine  own  bowels. 
— I  have  led  my  raggamuffins  where  they  are  peppered  : 
there  "s  not*  three  of  my  hundred  and  fifiy  left  alive, 
and  they  are  for  the  town's  end,  to  beg  during  life. 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

E7iter  Prince  Henry. 

P.  Hen.  What  I  stand'st  thou  idle  here  ?  lend  me 
Many  a  nobleman  lie.«  .stark  and  stiff  [thy  sword  : 

Cnder  the  hoofs  of  vaunting  enemies, 
Whose  deaths  are  yet  unreveng'd.     I  pr'ythee,  lend  me 
thy  sword. 

Fal.  O  Hal  !  1  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to  breathe 
a  while. — Turk  Gregory*  never  did  such  deeds  in  arms, 
an  I  have  done  this  day.  I  have  paid  Percy,  I  have 
made  him  sure. 

P.  Hen.  He  is,  indeed  ;  and  living  to  kill  thee. 
I  pr'ythee  lend  me  thy  sword. 

Fal.  Nay.  belore  God.  Hal,  if  Percy  be  alive,  thou 
get'st  not  my  sword  :  but  take  my  pistol,  if  thou  wilt. 

P.  Hen.  Give  it  me.     What,  is  it  in  the  case? 

Fal.  Ay,  Hal;  'tis  hot.  'tis  hot:  there's  that  will 
sack  a  city.  [The  Prince  draws  out  a  bottle  of  sack. 

P.  Hen.  What !  is  't  a  time  to  jest  and  dally  now? 
[Tkrou:<!  it  at  him.  and  exit. 

Fal.  Well,  if  Percy  be  alive,  [  '11  pierce  him.  If  he 
do  come  in  my  way,  so  :  if  he  do  not,  if  I  come  in  his, 
willingly,  let  liim  make  a  carbonado*  of  me.  I  like  not 
BOch  grinning  honour  as  sir  Walter  hath  :  give  me  life  ; 
which  if  I  can  save,  so ;  if  not,  honour  comes  unlooked 
for,  and  there  's  an  end.  [Exit. 

SCKNE  IV.— Another  Part -f  the  Field. 
.4larvms.    Excursions.    Enter  the  King,  Prinu  Hf^RT, 
Prince  John,  and  Westmoreland. 
K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee, 
Harry,  withdr.iw  thy.xclf ;  thou  bleed'st  too  much.— 
Lord  John  of  Lancaster,  go  you  with  him. 

P.  John.   Not  I,  my  lord,  unle.«8  I  did  bleed  too. 
P.  Hen.  I  do  be.«eech  your  majosty,  make  up, 
Leot  your  retirement  do  amaze  your  friends. 

K  Hen    I  will  do  so. — My  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
ead  him  to  bin  tent. 
Wi.ft.  Come,  my  lord.  I'll  lead  you  to  your  tent. 
P.  Hen.  Lead  me.  my  lord  '  I  do  not  nerd  your  help: 
A.:d  heaven  forbid,  a  shallow  scratch  should  drive 
The  prince  of  Wales  from  such  a  field  a-s  this. 
Where  stain'd  noniiity  lies  trodden  on. 
And  rebels'  arms  triumph  in  ma^saeres ! 

P.  John.  We  breathe  too  long. — Come,  cou.sin  West- 
moreland, 
Oor  duty  this  way  lies:  for  God's  sake.  come. 

[Erriinl  Prinrr  John  and  Westmoreland 
P.  Hen.  By  God  thou  hast  decciv'd  me,  Lancaster, 


1 1  did  not  think  thee  lord  of  such  a  spirit ' 
Before,  I  lov'd  thee  a,s  a  brother.  John, 


But  now.  I  do  respect  thee  as  my  soul. 

K.  Hen.  I  saw  him  hold  lord  Percy  at  the  point. 
With  lustier  maintenance  than  I  did  look  for 
Of  such  an  ungrowTi  warrior. 

P.  Hen.  0  !  this  boy 

Lends  mettle  to  us  all.  [Exit 

Alarums.     Enter  Douglas. 
Doug.  Another  king!  they  grow  like  Hydra's  head? 
I  am  the  Douglas,  fatal  to  all  tho.se 
That  wear  those  colours  on  them : — what  art  thou. 
That  counterfeit'st  the  person  of  a  king? 

K.  Hen.  The  king  himself;  who,  Dougla.s,  grieves 
at  heart, 
So  many  of  his  shadows  thou  hast  met. 
And  not  the  very  king.     I  have  two  boys 
Seek  Percy,  and  thyself,  about  the  field  r 
But.  seeing  thou  fall'st  on  me  so  luckily, 
I  will  assay  thee ;  and  defend  thyself. 

Doug.  I  fear  thou  art  another  counterfeit, 
And  yet,  in  faith,  thou  bear'st  thee  like  a  king  • 
But  mine  I  am  sure  thou  art,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
And  thus  I  w  in  thee. 

[They fight:  the  King  being  in  danger.,  enter 
P.  Henry. 
P.  Hen.  Hold  up  thy  head,  vile  Scot,  or  thou  art  lika 
Never  to  hold  it  up  again  !  the  spirits 
Of  valiant  Shirley.  Stafford.  Blunt,  are  in  my  arms : 
It  is  the  prince  of  Wales  that  threatens  thee. 
Who  never  promiseth,  but  he  means  to  pay. — 

They  fight-  Douglas  ^ia 
Cheerly,  my  lord  :  how  fares  your  grace  ? — 
Sir  Nicholas  Gawsey  hath  for  .«uccour  sent. 
And  so  hath  Clifton;  I  '11  to  Clifton  straight. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  and  breathe  a  while. 
Thou  hast  redcem'd  thy  lost  opinion  ; 
And  show'd  thou  mak'st  some  tender  of  my  life, 
In  this  fair  rescue  thou  hast  brought  to  me. 

P.  Hen.  0  God  !  they  did  me  too  much  injury, 
That  ever  said  I  hearken'd  for  your  death. 
If  it  were  so,  I  might  have  let  alone 
The  insultina  hand  of  Douglas  over  you  ; 
Which  would  have  been  as  speedy  in  your  end. 
As  all  the  poisonous  potions  in  the  world. 
And  sav'd  the  treacherous  labour  of  your  son. 

K.  Hen.  Make  up  to  Clifton:   Til  to  sir  Nicholas 
Gaw.sey.  [Exit  King  Henk». 

Enter  HoTSPLit. 
Hot.  If  f  nii.>t3ke  not.  thou  ar'  Harry  Monmourh. 
P.  Hen.  Thou  spcak'st  as  if  i  would  deny  my  name 
Hot.  My  name  is  Harry  Percv. 
P.  Hen.  '       Why,  then  I  see 

A  very  valiant  rebel  of  that  name. 
I  am  the  prince  of  Wales  ;  and  think  not,  Percy, 
To  share  with  me  in  clory  any  more  : 
Two  stars  keep  not  their  motion  in  one  sphere; 
Nor  can  one  England  brook  a  double  reign, 
Of  Harry  Percy,  and  the  prince  of  Wales. 

Hot.   Nor  shall  it,  Harry,  for  the  hour  is  come 
To  end  the  one  of  us  ;  and  would  to  God, 
Thy  name  in  arms  were  now  a.s  great  a5  mine  ! 

P.  Hen.  I  'II  make  it  ureater,  ere  I  part  from  thee  , 
And  all  the  budding  honours  on  thy  crest 
I  'II  crop,  to  make  a  sarland  for  my  head. 

Ho'    T  can  no  longer  brook  thy  vanities.  [They  fight 

Enter  Falstaff. 
Fal.  Well  said.   Hal  !  to  it,  \\t.  !— Nay,  you  shall 
find  no  boy's  play  here,  I  can  tell  you. 


mucticf     in  f.  •.     »  So  oM  cooie«  ;  mori.  edi.  :  but       >  Gregory  VII.      »  A  piece  of  meat  ready  for  broiling. 


KING  HENRY  IV. 


375 


L 


Enter  Dovglas-  he  fights  with  Falstaff,  who  falls  down 

as  if  he  were  dead,  and  exit  Douglas.     Hotspur  is 

wounded,  and  falls. 

Hot.  O,  Harry  I  thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  ray  youth. 
I  better  brook  the  less  of  brittle  life, 
Thau  those  proud  titles  thou  hast  won  of  me; 
They  wound  my  thoughts  worse  than  thy'  sword  my 

llesh  :— 
But  thought  "s  the  slave  of  life,  and  life  time's  fool : 
And  time,  tliat  takes  survey  of  all  the  world, 
Must  have  a  stop.     0  I   I  could  prophesy, 
Bu     aat  the  earihy  and  cold  hand  of  death 
Lies  on  mv  tongue. — No,  Percy,  thou  art  dust, 
And  food  for—  '  [Dies. 

P.  Hen.  For  worms,  brave  Percy.     Fare  thee  well, 
great  heart  I — 
Ill-weav"d  ambition,  how  much  art  thou  shrunk  ! 
When  that  this  body  did  contain  a  spirit, 
A  kingdom  fo:  it  was  too  small  a  bound  ; 
But  now.  two  paces  of  the  vilest  earth 
Is  room  enough  : — this  earth  that  bears  thee  dead, 
Bears  not  alive  so  stout  a  gentleman. 
If  thou  wert  sensible  of  courtesy, 
!  should  not  make  so  dear'  a  show  of  zeal : — 
But  let  my  favours  hide  thy  mangled  face, 
And.  even  in  thy  behalf.  I  "11  thank  myself 
For  doing  these  fair  rites  of  tenderness. 
Adieu,  and  take  thy  praise  with  thee  to  heaven  : 
Thy  ignomy  sleep  with  thee  in  the  grave. 
But  not  remember'd  in  thy  epitaph. — 

[Seeing  Falstaff  on  the  ground. 
What !  old  acquaintance  !  could  not  all  this  flesh 
Keep  in  a  little  life  ?     Poor  Jack,  farewell : 
I  could  have  better  spar'd  a  better  man. 
")  !   I  should  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee, 
If  I  were  much  in  love  \A-ith  vanity. 
Death  hath  not  struck  so  fat  a  deer  to-day. 
Though  many  dearer,  in  this  bloody  fray. — 
Embowell'd  \sill  I  see  thee  by  and  by; 
Till  then,  in  blood  by  noble  Percy  lie.  [Exit. 

Fal.  [Ri.<!ing.]  Embowelled  !  if  thou  embowel  me 
to-day,  I  '11  give  you  leave  to  powder'  me,  and  eat  me 
too,  to-morrow.  'Sblood  !  't  was  time  to  counterfeit,  or 
that  hot  termagant  Scot  had  paid  me  scot  and  lot  too. 
Counterfeit  ?  I  lie  :  I  am  no  counterfeit :  to  die,  is  to  i 
be  a  counterfeit  ;  for  he  is  but  the  coiinterfeit  of  a  | 
man.  who  hath  not  the  life  of  a  man :  but  to  counter- 1 
feit  dying,  when  a  man  thereby  liveth,  is  to  be  noj 
counterfeit,  but  the  true  and  perfect  image  of  life 
indeed.  The  better  part  of  valour  is  discretion,  in  the 
which  better  part,  I  have  saved  my  life.  'Zounds !  I 
am  afraid  of  this  gunpowder  Percy,  though  he  be  dead. ; 
Hov>-,  if  he  should  counterfeit  too,  and  rise  ?  By  my  \ 
faith,  I  am  afraid  he  would  prove  the  better  counter- 1 
feit.  Therefore  I  "11  make  him  sure  ;  yea,  and  I  '11  swear 
I  killed  him.  Why  may  not  he  rise,  as  well  as  I  ?  i 
Nothing  confu'es  me  but  eyes,  and  nobody  sees  me  :  | 
therefore,  sirrah  with  a  new  wound  in  your  thigh  come 
you  along  with  me.  [He  takes  Hotspur  on  his  back. 
Re-enter  Prince  Henry   and  Prince  John. 

P.  Hen.  Come,  brother  John;  full  bravely  hast  thou 
flesh'd 
Thy  maiden  sword. 

P.  John.  But,  soft !  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Did  you  not  tell  me  this  fat  man  was  dead  ? 

P.  Hen.    I   did  ;  I  saw  him  dead,  breathless,   and 
bleeding 
On.  the  ground. — 

>  So  «11  Irat  the  last  quarto  ;  that,  and  the  folio  :  the.     '  So  the  first 
■Miti :  again       *  Bearing  off  the  Body:  in  f  e       '  Since  not  to  be 


Art  thou  alive,  or  is  it  phantasy 
That  plays  upon  our  eyesight  ?     I  pr'^-thee,  speak; 
We  will  not  trust  our  eyes,  without  our  ears. 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem"st. 

Fal.  No,  that's  certain:  I  am  not  a  double  man. 
but  if  I  be  not  Jack  Falstaff,  then  am  I  a  Jack.  There 
is  Percy:  [Throiving  down  the  body.*]  if  youi  father 
will  do  me  any  honour,  so  ;  if  not,  let  him  kill  the  next 
Percy  himself.  I  look  to  be  either  earl  or  duko,  1  caB 
assure  you. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  Percy  I  killed  myself,  and  saw  the* 
dead. 

Fal.  Didst  thou? — Lord,  lord,  how  this  world  is 
given  to  lying  ! — I  grant  you  I  was  down  and  out  of 
breath,  and  so  was  he ;  but  we  rose  both  at  an  iostant, 
and  fought  a  long  hour  by  Shrewsbury  clock.  If  1 
may  be  believed,  .so :  if  not.  let  them  that  should  re- 
ward valour  bear  the  sin  upon  their  own  heads.  I  '11 
take  it  upon  my  death,  I  gave  him  this  wound  in  the 
thigh :  if  the  man  were  alive,  and  would  deny  it 
'zounds  !  I  would  make  him  eat  a  piece  of  my  sword. 

P.  John.  This  is  the  strangest  tale  that  e'er  I  heard. 

P.  Hen.  This  is  the  strangest  fellow,  brother  John. — 
Come,  bring  your  luggage  nobly  on  your  back : 
For  my  part,  if  a  lie  may  do  thee  grace. 
I  '11  gild  it  with  the  happiest  terms  I  have. 

[A  Retreat  is  sounded 
The  trumpet  sounds  retreat :  the  day  is  ours. 
Come,  brother,  let  us  to  the  highest  of  the  field, 
To  see  what  friends  are  living,  who  are  dead. 

[Exeunt  Prince  Henry  and  Prince  John. 

Fal.  I  '11  follow,  as  they  say,  for  reward.  He  that 
rewards  me.  God  reward  him  ;  if  I  do  grow  great,*  I  '11 
grow  less ;  for  I  '11  purge,  and  leave  sack,  and  live 
cleanly,  as  a  nobleman  should  do. 

[Exit,  dragging  out  Percy's  Body. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
The    Trumpets   sound.      Enter    King    Henry,    Princt 

Hexrv.  Prince  John   Westmoreland,  and  Others 

with  Worcester,  and  Vernon,  prisoners. 

K.  Hen.  Thus  ever  did  rebellion  find  rebuke. — 
Ill-spirited  Worcester,  did  we  not  send  grace, 
Pardon,  and  terms  of  love  to  all  of  you? 
And  wouldst  thou  turn  our  offers  contrary? 
^Misuse  the  tenour  of  thy  kinsman's  trust  ? 
Three  knights  upon  our  party  slain  to-day, 
A  noble  earl,  and  many  a  creatm-e  else, 
Had  been  alive  this  hour. 
If,  like  a  Christian,  thou  hadst  truly  borne 
Betwixt  our  armies  true  intelligence. 

Wor.  What  I  have  done,  my  safety  urg'd  me  to, 
And  I  embrace  this  fortune  patiently, 
Which  not  to  be  avoided  falls  on  me.'' 

K.  Hen.  Bear  Worcester  to  the  death,  and  Vernon 
too ; 
Other  ofienders  we  vnW  pause  upon. — 

[Exeunt  Worcester  and  Vernon,  guarded. 
How  goes  the  field  ? 

P.  Hen.  The  noble  Scot,  lord  Douglas,  when  he  saw 
The  fortune  of  the  day  quite  turn'd  from  him, 
The  noble  Percy  slain,  and  all  his  men 
Upon  the  foot  of  fear,  fled  with  the  rest ; 
And  falling  from  a  hill  he  was  so  bruis'd, 
That  the  pursuers  took  him.     At  my  tent 
The  Douglas  is,  and  I  beseech  your  grace, 
I  may  dispose  of  him. 

quarto  :  the  others,  and  foUo  :  great.     »  Salt.     «  Not  \»  f.  •■      •  Fahc 
avoided,  it  falla  on  ma- 


876 


FIRST  PART  OF    KING  HENRY   IV. 


K.  Hen  With  all  my  heart. 

P.  Hen.  Then,  brother  Jolin  of  Lancaster,  to  -<ou 
This  honoui  ibl^  Sounty  shall  belong. 
Go  to  the  Do  iglas,  and  deliver  him 
Up  to  b.ri  pleasure,  ransoiiilcss,  and  free  : 
HiB  valour,  shewn  upon  our  crests  to-day, 
Hath  taught  us  aow  to  cheneh  such  high  dee«^«. 
Even  in  ih"  bosom  of  our  adveisaries. 

P.  John,   i  thank  your  grace  for  this  high  courtesy, 
Which  I  sha.'.'  put  m  %ct  without  delay.' 

A'.  Hen.  Then  tliis  remains, — that  we   divide   our 
power.— 


You,  son  John,  and  my  cou.s.in  Westmoreland, 
Towards   York   shall   bend    you,    with    your    dearest 

speed, 
"o  meet  Northumberland,  and  the  prelate  Scroop, 
Who,  as  we  hear,  are  busi  ly  m  arms  : 
Myself,  and  you,  .'son  Harry,  will  towards  Wales, 
To  fight  with  Glendowcr  and  the  earl  of  March. 
Hebellion  in  this  land  shall  lose  his  sway. 
Meeting  the  check  of  such  another  day  : 
And  since  this  business  so  fair  is  done. 
Let  us  not  leave  till  all  our  own  be  won.  [Exeuru. 


Wbiob  1  iball  giTk  kw&y  ix.  ««d'«t«lf  :  in  f.  •      Thu  ipaaeb  u  found  id  the  four  eailiett,  but  not  in  the  two  latMt  qoanoa,  a  Jb*  HdLia 


SECOND  PAET 


KING    HENRY    IV 


DKAMATIS    PERSOiT^. 


Kino  Henry  the  Fourth. 
Henry,  Prince  of  Wales  ; 
Thomas,  Duke  of  Clarence  • 
Prince  John  of  Lancastjiir  ; 
Prince  Humphrey  of  Gloucester  ; 
Earl  of  Warwick;  )  Of  the  King's 

Party. 


•  His  Sons. 


Earl  of  Westmoreland  ; 

GowER ;   Harcourt  ; 

Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench. 

A  Gentleman  attending  on  the  Chief  Justice 

Earl  of  Northumberland  ; 

Scroop.  Archbishop  of  York ; 

Lord  Mowbray  ;  Opposites  to  the 

Lord  Hastings  ;  |      King. 

Lord  Sardolph; 

Sir  John  Coleville. 


Travers  and  Morton,  Retainers  of  Northumber 

land. 
Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Pistol,  and  a  Page. 
PoiNS  and  Peto. 

Shallow  and  Silence,  Country  Justices. 
Davy,  Servant  to  Shallow. 
Mouldy,  Shadow,  Wart,  Feeble,  and  Bulcalf, 

Recruits. 
Fang  and  Snare,  Sheriff's  Officers. 
Rumour,  the  Presenter. 

A  Porter.     A  Dancer,  Speaker  of  the  Epilogue 
Lady  Northumberland.     Lady  Percy. 
Hostess  Quickly.     Doll  Tear-Sheet. 


Lords,  and  Attendants;  Officers,    Soldiers, 
senger,  Drawers,  Beadles,  Grooms,  &c. 
SCENE,  England, 


Mes- 


INDUCTION. 


Warkworth.     Before  Northumberland's  Castle. 
Enter  Rumour,  painted  full  of  Tongues.^ 

Rum.  Open  your  ears  ;  for  which  of  you  will  stop 
The  vent  of  hearing,  when  loud  rumour  speaks  ? 
I,  from  the  orient  to  the  drooping  west. 
Making  the  wind  my  post-horse,  still  unfold 
The  acts  commenced  on  this  ball  of  earth : 
Upon  my  tongues  continual  slanders  ride, 
The  which  in  ever>'  language  I  pronounce. 
Stuffing  the  ears  of  men  with  false  reports. 
I  speak  of  peace,  while  covert  enmity. 
Under  the  smile  of  safety,  wounds  the  world : 
And  who  but  Rumour,  who  but  only  I, 
Make  fearful  musters,  and  prepar'd  defence  ; 
Whilst  the  big  year,  swoln  with  some  other  grief. 
Is  thought  with  child  by  the  stern  tyrant  war. 
And  no  such  matter?     Rumour  is  a  pipe 
Blown  by  surmises,  jealousies,  conjectures  ; 
.\nd  of  so  easy  and  so  plain  a  stop. 
That  the  blunt  monster  with  uncounted  heads, 
The  still-discordant  wavering  multitude, 


Can  play  upon  it.     But  what  need  I  thus 
My  well-known  body  to  anatomize 
Among  my  household  ?     Why  is  Rumour  here  ? 
I  run  before  king  Harry's  victory ; 
Who  in  a  bloody  field  by  Shrewsbury 
Hath  beaten  down  young  Hotspur,  and  his  troopa, 
Quenching  the  flame  of  bold  rebellion 
Even  with  the  rebels'  blood.     But  what  mean  I 
To  speak  so  true  at  first  ?  my  office  is 
To  noise  abroad,  that  Harr>'  Monmouth  fell 
Under  the  wrath  of  noble  Hotspur's  sword  ; 
And  that  the  king  before  the  Douglas'  rage 
Stoop'd  his  anointed  head  as  low  as  death. 
This  have  I  rumour'd  through  the  pleasant'  towns 
Between  that  royal  field  of  Shrewsbury 
And  this  worm-eaten  hold  of  ragged  stone. 
Where  Hotspur's  father,  old  Northumberland, 
Lies  crafty-sick  :  the  posts  come  tiring  on, 
And  not  a  man  of  them  brings  other  news 
Than  they  have  leara'd  of  me;  from  Rumour's  tongues 
They  bring  smooth  comforts  false,   worse  than   true 
wrongs.  [  Exit. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— The  Same. 
Enter  Lord  Bardolph.* 
Bard.  Who   keeps  the  gate   here  ?  ho  !     Where  is 


the  earl  ? 

'  This  direction  is  only  in  '\    imaxto,  1 
Pnftr.  *f  ;  in  f.  a      *  Not  in  I   .. 


Rumour,  or  Fame, 


Enter  Warder,  above.* 
Ward.  What  shall  I  say  you  are  ? 
Bard.  Tell  thou  the  earl, 

That  the  lord  Bardolph  doth  attend  him  here. 

Ward.  His  lordship  is  walk'd  forth  into  the  orchard  : 

s  often  so  represented.      »  peasant :  in  f  e.     •  Porltr  beforf.  tk*  Gatt  • 

377 


378 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Acrr  L 


Please  it  your  honour,  knock  but  at  the  gate, 
And  he  hinis^eir  will  answer.  [Exit  Warder} 

Enter  Northumberland. 

Bard.  Here  comes  the  earl. 

North.  What    news,   lord   Ikrdolph  ?  every  minute 
now 
Should  be  the  father  of  some  sfrafagcm. 
The  times  are  wild  :  contention,  like  a  horse 
Full  of  high  (ceding,  madly  hath  broke  loose, 
Ajid  bears  down  all  before  him. 

Bard.  Noble  earl, 

•  bring  you  certain  nev,-f>  from  Shrewsbury. 

Xortk.  Good,  an  God  will  ! 

Bard.  As  good  as  heart  can  wish. 

The  king  is  almost  wounded  to  the  death, 
And  in  the  fortune  of  my  lord,  jour  .son, 
Prince  Harry  .slain  outright ;  and  both  the  Blunts 
Kiird  by  the  hand  of  Douglas  ;  young  prince  John, 
And  Westmoreland  a. id  StafTord,  fled  the  field  ; 
And  Harry  Monmouth's  brawn,  the  hulk  sir  John, 
Is  prisoner  to  your  bon.     0  !  such  a  day, 
So  fought,  80  follow"d,  and  so  fairly  won, 
Came  not  till  now  to  dignify  the  times, 
Since  Caesar's  fortunes. 

North.  How  is  this  dcriv'd? 

Saw  you  the  field?  came  you  from  Shrewsbury? 

Bard.  I  spake  with  one,   my   lord,  that  came  from 
thence  ; 
A  gentleman  well-bred,  and  of  good  name, 
That  freely  render'd  me  these  news  for  true. 

North.  Here  comes  my  servant,  Travers,  whom  I  sent 
On  Tuesday  la.<t  to  listen  after  news. 

Bard.  My  lord.  I  over-rode  him  on  the  way, 
And  he  is  furnish'd  with  no  certainties, 
More  than  he  haply  may  retail  from  me. 
EiUer  Tr.avers. 

North.  Now,  Trarers,  what  good  tidings  come  with' 
you? 

Tra.  My  lord,  sir  John  Umfrevile  turn'd  me  back 
With  joyful  tidings  ;  and.  being  better  hors'd, 
Out-rode  me.     After  him  came  spurring  hard 
A  gentleman,  almost  forspent  with  speed. 
That  8topp"d  by  me  to  breathe  his  bloodied  horse. 
He  a-sk'd  the  way  to  Chester ;  and  of  him 
I  did  demand,  what  news  from  Shrewsbury: 
He  told  me  that  rebellion  had  bad  luck, 
And  that  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold. 
With  that  he  gave  his  able  lior.se  the  head, 
And.  bending  forward,  struck  his  armed  heels 
Against  the  panting  sides  of  his  poor  jade 
Up  to  the  rowel-head  :  and,  starting  so, 
He  seem'd  in  running  to  devour  the  way, 
Stajing  no  longer  question. 

North.  Ha ! — Again. 

Said  he,  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold? 
Of  Hotspur,  coldspur  ?  that  rebellion 
Had  mc;  ill-luck  ! 

Bard.  My  lord,  I'll  tell  you  what: 

J{  my  young  lord  your  son  have  not  the  day, 
rjKin  mine  honour,  for  a  silken  point.* 
1  11  give  my  barony  :  never  talk  of  it. 

North.  Why  should  that  gentleman,   that   rode  by 
Travers. 
Give,  then,  such  instance*  of  loss  ? 

Bard.  Who,  he  ? 

He  was  some  hilding*  fellow,  that  had  stolen 
The  horse  he  rode  on.  and,  upon  my  life. 
Sj)oke  at  a  venture.     Look,  here  comes  more  news. 


Enter  Morton. 
North.  Yea.  this  man's  brow,  like  to  a  title-leaf, 

Foretels  the  nature  of  a  tragic  volume: 

So  looks  the  strond,  whereon  th'  iinj)eriou8  flood 

Hath  left  a  wilness'd  usurpation. 

Say.  Morton,  didst  thou  come  from  Shrewsbury? 
Mor.  I  ran  from  Shrewsbury,  my  noble  lord; 

Where  hatelul  death  put  on  his  ugliest  mask, 

To  fright  our  party. 

North.  How  doth  my  son  and  brother? 

Thou  tremblcst:  and  the  whiteness  in  thy  cheek 

Is  ajiter  than'thy  tongue  to  tell  tliy  errand. 

Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spirit, ess. 

So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone. 

Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  nisht, 

And  would  have  told  him.  half  his  Troy  was  bum'd: 

But  Priam  found  the  fire,  ere  he  his  tongue. 

And  I  my  Percy's  death,  ere  thou  rnport'st  it. 

This  thou  wouldst  say. — Your  son  did  thus,  and  thuij 

Your  brother,  thus  :  .so  fouiihl  the  noble  Douglas; 

Stopping  my  greedy  ear  with  their  bold  deeds. 

But  in  the  end,  to  stop  mine  ear  indeed, 

Thou  hast  a  sigh  to  blow  away  this  praise, 

Ending  ^with — brother,  son.  and  all  are  dead. 
Mor.  Douglas  is  living,  and  your  brother,  yet; 

But  for  my  lord,  your  son, — 

North.  Why,  he  is  dead.— 

See,  what  a  ready  tongue  suspicion  hath  ! 
I  He  that  but  fears  the  thing  he  would  not  know, 
I  Hath  by  instinct  knowledge  from  others'  eyes. 

That  what  he  fear'd  is  chanced.     Yet  speak,  Morton 
[Tell  thou  thy*  earl  his  divination  lies, 
I  And  I  will  take  it  as  a  sweet  disgrace. 

And  make  thee  rich  for  doing  me  such  wTong. 
I      Mor.  You  are  too  great  to  be  by  me  gainsaid. 
I  Your  spirit  is  too  true  :  your  fears  too  certain. 

I  North.  Yet,  for  all  this,  say  not  that  Percy 's  dead.— 

I I  see  a  strange  confession  in  thine  eye: 

j  Thou  shak'st  thy  head  ;  and  hold'.st  it  fear,  or  sin, 
To  speak  the  truth.     If  he  be  slain,  say  so;* 
The  tongue  offends  not,  that  reports  his  death; 
And  he  doth  sin  that  doth  belie  the  dead. 
Not  he  which  says  the  dead  is  not  alive. 
Y'et  the  first  bringer  of  unwelcome  news 
Hath  but  a  losing  office  ;  and  his  tongue 
Sounds  ever  after  as  a  sullen  bell, 
Remember'd  knolling  a  departing  friend. 

Bard.  I  cannot  think,  my  lord,  your  .son  is  J«?-.«d. 

Mor.  I  am  .sorry  I  should  force  you  to  belifft 
That  which  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  not  seei ; 
But  these  mine  eyes  saw  him  in  bloody  state, 
Rendering  faint  quittance,  wearied  and  outb'-'j'.tVd, 
To  Harry  Monmouth  :  whose  swift  wTa„h  bejt  dutWi 
The  never-daunted  Percy  to  the  earth, 
From  whence  with  life  he  never  more  tfrra^  up. 
In  few.  his  death,  whose  spirit  lent  a  rivo 
Even  to  the  dullest  peasant  in  his  carr^ 
Being  bruited  once,  took  fire  and  he?.t  p.v.ay 
From  the  best  temperd  courage  in  hif  'rjops: 
For  from  his  metal   was  his  party  stf  ei'J  ; 
Which  once  in  him  abated,  all  thj  c.st 
Turn'd  on  thembelves,  like  dull  a.\d  \rgv-f  liiJi. 
And  as  the  thing  that's  heavy  in  ity.lf. 
Upon  enforcement  (lies  with  areai^^n  ynre^i 
So  did  our  men.  hea%->'  in  Hoispur'd  io.ss. 
Lend  to  this  weight  such  lightjicj.*^  '.r^ih  t'.ie'r  feu 
That  arrows  fled  not  swifter  lo.v.ird  t'lci/  «i'n, 
Than  did  our  soldiers,  aiming  j.t  t'.c>  ta'.'  </, 


Not  in  t.  e. 


Bo  the  qa&no ;  folio  :  from. 


String  for  {utening 


'  So  the  folio  :  the  q  auto  ; 


SCENE  n. 


KING  HEXRY  IV. 


379 


Fly  from  the  field.     Then  was  that  noble  Worcester 
Too  soon  ta'en  prisoner ;  and  that  furious  Scot, 
The  bloody  D.mglas.  whose  well-labouring  sword 
Had  three  times  sla.n  th'  appearance  of  the  king, 
'Gan  vail  his  stomach,  and  did  grace  the  shame 
Of  those  that  turn"d  their  backs  ;  and  in  his  flight 
Stuinblmg  in  fear,  was  took.     The  sum  of  all 
Is,  that  the  king  hath  won,  and  hath  sent  out 
A  speedy  power,  to  encounter  you,  my  lord, 
Under  the  conduct  of  young  Lancaster, 
And  Westmoreland.     This  is  the  news  at  full. 

North.  For  this  I  shall  have  time  enough  to  mourn. 
In  poi.^n  there  is  )  hysic  ;  and  these  news, 
Having  been  well,  that  would  have  made  me  sick, 
Being  s  ck,  have  in  some  measure  made  >^e  well : 
And  as  the  wretch,  whose  fever- weaken'd  joints, 
Like  strengthless  hinges,  buckle'  •  .nder  life, 
Impatient  of  his  fit,  breaks  like  a  fire 
Out  of  his  keeper's  arms ;  even  so  my  limbs, 
Weaken'd  with  grief,  being  now  enrag'd  with  grief, 
Are  thrice  themselves.      Hence,  therefore,  thou  nice' 

crutch  ! 
A  scaly  gauntlet  now,  with  joints  of  steel. 
Must  glove  this  hand  :  and  hence,  thou  sickly  quoif ! 
Thou  art  a  guard  too  wanton  for  the  head. 
Which  prince.5,  flesh'd  with  conquest,  aim  to  hit. 
Now  bind  my  brows  v.-ith  iron ;  and  approach 
The  rugged'.st  hour  that  time  and  spite  dare  bring, 
To  frown  upon  th"  enrag'd  Northumberland. 
Let  heaven  kiss  earth  :  now,  let  not  nature's  hand 
Keep  the  wild  flood  confin'd  :  let  order  die; 
And  let  this  world  no  longer  be  a  stage, 
To  feed  contention  in  a  lingering  act. 
But  let  one  spirit  of  the  first-born  Cain 
Reign  in  all  bosoms,  that,  each  heart  being  set 
Jn  bloody  courses,  the  rude  scene  may  end, 
Ajid  darkness  be  the  burier  of  the  dead  ! 
Tra.    This   strained   passion   doth    you  wrong,   ray 

lord.' 
Bard.    Sweet    earl,  divorce  not  wisdom  from  your 

honour. 
Mor.  The  lives  of  all  your  loving  complices 
Lean  on  your  health  ;  the  which,  if  you  give  o'er 
To  stormy  passion,  must  perforce  decay. 
You  cast  the  event  of  war.  my  noble  lord,* 
And  summ'd  the  account  of  change,  before  you  said, — 
Let  us  make  head.     It  was  your  presurmise, 
That  in  the  dole*  of  blows  your  son  might  drop : 
I'ou  knew,  he  vvalk'd  o'er  perils,  on  an  edge, 
More  likely  to  fall  in,  than  to  get  o'er : 
You  were  advis'd,  his  flesh  was  capable 

.  Of  wounds  and  scars,  and  that  his  forward  spirit 

j  Would  lift  him  where  most  trade  of  danger  rang'd; 
Yet  did  you  say. — Go  forth  ;  and  none  of  this. 
Though  strongly  apprehended,  could  restrain 
The  stirt'-borne  action  :  what  hath  then  befallen, 

.  Or  what  hath  this  bold  enterprise  brought  forth, 
More  than  that  being  which  was  like  to  be  ? 

1      Bard.  We  all,  that  are  engaged  to  this  loss, 
Knew  that  we  ventur'd  on  such  dangerous  seas, 

j  That,  if  we  wrought  out  life,  't  was  ten  to  one; 

'  And  yet  we  ventur'd,  for  the  gain  propos'd 

I  Chok'd  the  resjiect  of  likely  peril  fear'd, 
And,  since  we  are  o'erset,  venture  again. 
■  Come,  we  will  all  put  forth  ;  body,  and  goods. 

Mor.    'T  is   more  than  time  :    and,  my  most  noble 
lord, 
I  hoar  for  certain,  and  dare'  speak  the  truth. 


■  Bend      »  Weak,  petty.      '  This  1 
lHi'-ibuti<m,  alhtmeif      «  Folio  : 


is  omitted  in  the  folio. 
"<  This  and  the  twenty  li 


The  gentle  archbishop  of  York  is  up,' 

With  well-appointed  powers  :  he  is  a  man, 

Who  with  a  double  surety  binds  his  followers. 

My  lord  your  son  had  only  but  the  corps, 

But  shadows  and  the  shows  of  men.  to  fight ; 

For  that  same  word,  rebellion,  did  divide 

The  action  of  their  bodies  from  their  .souls. 

And  they  did  fight  with  queasine.s.*,  constrain'd 

As  men  drink  potions,  that  their  weapons  only 

Seem'd  on  our  side  :  but,  for  their  spirits  and  suolii, 

This  word,  rebellion,  it  had  froze  them  up, 

As  fish  are  in  a  pond.     But  now,  th'  archbishop 

Turns  insurrection  to  religion  : 

Suppos'd  sincere  and  holy  in  his  thoughts. 

He  's  follow'd  both  with  body  and  with  mind, 

And  doth  enlarge  his  rising  with  the  blood 

Of  fair  king  Richard,  scrap'd  from  Pomfret  stones ; 

Derives  from  heaven  his  quarrel,  and  his  cause; 

Tells  them,  he  doth  bestride  a  bleeding  laud, 

Gasping  for  life  under  great  Boliugbroke, 

And  more,  and  less,  do  flock  to  follow  him. 

North.  I  knew  of  this  before ;  but,  to  speak  truth, 
This  present  grief  had  wip'd  it  from  my  mind. 
Go  in  with  me  ;  and  counsel  every  man 
The  aptest  way  for  safety,  and  revenge. 
Get  posts  and  letters,  and  make  friends  with  speed : 
Never  so  few,  and  never  yet  more  need.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Sir  John  F.^lstaff,  with  his  Page  bearing  his 

Sword  and  Buckler. 

Fal.  Sirrah,  you  giant,  what  says  the  doctor  to  my 
water  ? 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  the  water  itself  was  a  good  heahhy 
water  ;  but  for  the  party  that  owed  it,  he  might  have 
more  diseases  than  he  knew  for. 

Fal.  Men  of  all  sorts  take  a  pride  to  gird  at  rac: 
the  brain  of  this  foolish-compounded  clay,  man,  is  not 
able  to  invent  any  thing  that  tends  to  laughter,  more 
than  I  invent,  or  is  invented  on  me  :  I  am  not  only 
witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men. 
I  do  here  walk  before  thee,  like  a  sow  that  hath  over- 
whelmed all  her  litter  but  one  :  if  the  prince  put  theo 
into  my  service  for  any  other  reason  than  to  set  me  off, 
why  then,  I  have  no  judgment.  Thou  whoreson  man- 
drake, thou  art  fitter  to  be  worn  in  my  cap,  than  to 
wait  at  my  heels.  I  was  never  manned  with  an  agate 
till  now  :  but  I  will  in-set*  you  neither  in  gold  nor 
silver,  but  in  vile  apparel,  and  send  you  back  again  to 
your  master,  for  a  jewel ;  the  juvenal,  the  prince  your 
master,  whose  chin  is  not  yet  fledged.  I  will  sooner 
have  a  beard  gro'w^l  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,  than  he 
shall  get  one  on  his  cheek;  and  yet  he  will  not  stick 
to  say,  his  face  is  a  face-royal.  God  may  finish  it  when 
he  will,  it  is  not  a  hair  amiss  yet :  he  may  keep  it  still 
as  a  face-royal,  for  a  barber  shall  never  earn  six-pence 
out  of  it ;  and  yet  he  will  be  crowing,  as  if  he  had 
writ  man  ever  since  his  father  was  a  bachelor.  He 
may  keep  his  own  grace,  but  he  is  almost  out  of  mine, 
I  can  assure  him. — What  said  Master  Dumbleton  about 
the  satin  for  my  short  cloak,  and  my  slops  ? 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  you  should  procure  him  better 
assurance  than  Bardolph  ;  he  would  not  take  his  bond 
and  yours  :  he  liked  not  the  security. 

Fal.  Let  him  be  damned  like  the  glutton  :  may  his 
tongue  be  hotter. — A  whoreson  Achitophel  ;  a  rascally 
yea-forsooth  knave,  to  bear  a  gentleman  in  hand,  ana 
then  stand  upon  security  ! — The  whoreson  smooth-pates 

This  and  the  thirteen  lines  followin<r.  were  first  printed  in  the  folio 
Bs  follc*ring,  were  first  printed  in  the  folio.     *  Folio  :  set. 


380 


SECOND  PART  OF 


ACT 


io  now  wear  nothing  but  hi?h  shoes,  and  bunches  of 
keys  at  Mieir  girdles  ;  ami  if  a  man  is  lliorough  with 
tlieni  in  honest  laiviiig  up,'  then  must  they  stand  upon 
Bccurity.  I  luid  a.<  lief  they  would  put  ratsbane  in 
my  mouth,  as  oH'er  to  stop  it  with  security.  I  looked 
ho  should  have  sent  mc  two  and  twenty  yards  of  satin, 
lis  I  am  a  true  knight,  and  he  sends  me  security.  Well, 
he  may  sleep  in  .security  ;  for  he  hath  the  horn  of  abun- 
dance, and  the  lii;htncss  of  hi.s  wile  shines  through  it; 
and  vet  caiuiot  he  see.  though  he  have  his  own  lantern 
lo  liiiht  him.— Where's  Bardoli)h? 

Page.  He 's  gone  into  Smithfield  to  buy  your  worship 
a  horse. 

Fal.  I  bought  him  in  Paul's,  and  he'll  buy  me  a 
horse  in  Smithfield'  :  an  I  could  get  me  but  a  •wife  in 
the  stews.  I  were  manned,  horsed,  and  wived. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  an  Attendant. 

Page.  Sir.  here  comes  the  nobleman  that  committed 
the  prince  for  striking  him  about  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Wait  close  :  I  will  not  see  him. 

Ch.  Jii.st.  What 's  he  that  goes  there  ? 

Atteii.  FalstafT.  an  't  please  your  lordship. 

Ch.  Just.  He  that  was  in  question  for  the  robbery  ? 

Atten.  He.  my  lord  ;  but  he  hath  since  done  good 
service  at  Shrewsbury,  and,  as  I  hear,  is  now  going 
with  some  cha'-ge  to  the  lord  John  of  Lancaster. 

Ch.  Jiust.  What,  to  York  ?     Call  him  back  again. 

Attcn.  Sir  John  Falstaif ! 

Fal.  Boy.  tell  him  I  am  deaf. 

Page.  You  must  speak  louder,  my  master  is  deaf. 

Ch.  Jvst.  I  am  sure  he  is,  to  the  hearing  of  any 
thing  good. — Go,  pluck  him  by  the  elbow;  I  must 
speak  with  him. 

Atten.  Sir  John, — 

Fal.  What  !  a  young  knave,  and  begsing  ?'  Is  there 
not  wars  ?  is  there  not  employment  ?  Doth  not  the  king 
.ack  subjects?  do  not  the  rebels  need*  soldiers?  Though 
it  be  a  shame  to  be  on  any  side  but  one,  it  is  worse 
shame  to  beg  than  to  be  on  the  worst  side,  were  it 
worse  than  the  name  of  rebellion  can  tell  how  to  make 
it. 

Atten.  You  mi-stake  me,  sir. 

Fal.  Why,  sir,  did  I  say  you  were  an  honest  man  ? 
setting  my  knighthood  and  my  soldiership  aside,  I  had 
lied  in  my  throat  if  I  had  said  so. 

Atten.  I  ])ray  you.  sir,  then  set  your  knighthood  and 
your  soldiersliip  aside,  and  give  me  leave  to  tell  you, 
you  lie  in  your  throat,  if  you  say  I  am  any  other  than ! 
an  honest  man. 

Fal.  I  give  thee  leave  to  tell  me  so  ?  I  lay  aside 
that  whicli  grows  to  me  ?  If  thou  get'st  any  leave  of 
me,  hang  me  :  if  thou  tak'st  leave,  thou  wert  better  be 
hanged.     You  hunt-counter',  hence  !  avaunt  ! 

Alien.  Sir.  my  lord  would  speak  with  you. 

Ch.  Jiu!t.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  a  word  with  you. 

Fal.  My  good  lord  1 — (iod  give  your  lordship  good 
time  of  day.  I  am  ghui  to  sec  your  lordship  abroad  :  I 
heard  say,  your  lordship  was  sick  :  I  hope,  your  lordship 
goes  abroad  by  advice.  Your  lordship,  though  not 
clean  past  your  youth,  hath  yet  some  smack  of  age  in 
}ou.  some  relish  of  the  saltness  of  time,  and  I  most 
humbly  beseech  your  lordship  to  have  a  reverend  care 
of  your  health. 

Ch.  Ju.st.  Sir  John,  I  sent  for  you  before  your  expe- 
dition to  Shrew.sbury. 


Fal.  An't  plea.se  your  lordship,  I  hear  his  majesty  ia 
returned  with  some  discomfort  from  Wales. 

Ch.  Ju.st.  I  talk  not  of  his  majesty. — You  would  not 
come  when  1  sent  for  you. 

Fal.  And  I  hear,  moreover,  his  highness  is  fallen 
into  this  same  whoreson  apoplexy. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  heaven  mend  him. — I  pray  you,  let 
me  speak  with  you. 

Fal.  This  apoplexy  is,  as  I  take  it,  a  kind  of  lethargj-, 
an  't  please  your  lordship  ;  a  kind  of  sleeping  in  the 
blood,  a  whoreson  tingling. 

Ch.  Just.  What  tell  you  me  of  it  ?  be  it  as  it  is. 

Fal.  It  hath  its  original  from  much  grief;  from 
study,  and  perturbation  of  the  brain.  I  have  read 
the  cause  of  his  effects  in  Galen  :  it  is  a  kird  of  deaf 
ness. 

Ch.  Ju.st.  I  think  you  are  fallen  into  the  disease,  for 
you  hear  not  what  I  say  to  you. 

Fa/.'  Very  well,  my  lord,  very  well :  rather,  an  't 
please  you,  it  is  the  disease  of  not  listening,  the  malady 
of  not  marking,  that  I  am  troubled  withal. 

Ch.  Just.  To  punish  you  by  the  heels  would  amend 
the  attention  of  your  ears ;  and  I  care  not,  if  I  do 
become*  your  physician. 

Fal.  I  am  as  poor  as  Job,  my  lord,  but  not  so  pa- 
tient :  your  lordship  may  niini.^tcr  the  potion  of  impri- 
sonment to  me,  in  respect  of  poverty  ;  but  how  I  should 
be  your  patient  to  follow  your  prescriptions,  the  wise 
may  make  some  dram  of  a  scruple,  or,  indeed,  a  scruple 
itself. 

Ch.  Just.  I  sent  for  you,  when  there  were  matters 
against  you  for  your  life,  to  come  speak  with  me. 

Fal.  As  I  was  then  advised  by  my  learned  counsel 
in  the  laws  of  this  land-service,  I  did  not  come. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  the  truth  is,  sir  John,  you  live  in 
great  infamy. 

Fal.  He  that  buckles  him  in  my  belt  cannot  live  io 
less. 

Ch.  Just.  Your  means  are  very  slender,  and  your 
waste  is  great. 

Fal.  I  would  it  were  othen,vise  :  I  would  my  meanj 
were  greater,  and  my  waist  slenderer. 

Ch.  Jvst.  You  have  misled  the  youthful  prince. 

Fal.  The  young  prince  hath  misled  me :  I  am  the 
fellow  with  the  great  belly,  and  he  my  dog. 

Ch.  Just.  Well.  L  am  loth  to  gall  a  new-hcalod 
wound.  Your  day's  service  at  Shrewsbury  hath  a  little 
gilded  over  your  night's  exploit  on  Gadshill  :  you  may 
thank  the  unquiet  time  for  your  quiet  o'er-posting  that 
action. 

Fal.  My  lord — 

Ch.  Just.  But  since  all  is  well,  keep  it  bo  :  wake  not 
a  sleeping  wolf. 

Fal.  To  wake  a  wolf,  is  as  bad  as  to  smell  a  fox. 

Ch.  Just.  What  !  you  are  as  a  candle,  the  betlex 
part  burnt  out. 

Fal.  A  wassel'  candle,  my  lord  ;  all  tallow :  if  I  did 
say  of  wax,  my  growth  would  approve  the  truth. 

Ch.  Just.  There  is  not  a  white  hair  on  your  face,  but 
should  have  his  effect  of  gravity. 

Fal.  His  effect  of  gravy,  gravy,  gravy. 

Ch.  Ju.'it.  You  follow  the  young  prince  up  and  down, 
like  his  ill"  angel". 

Fal.  Not  so,  my  lord  :  your  ill  angel'*  is  light,  but. 
I  hope,  he  that  looks  upon  me  will  take  me  without 


'  Buying  upon  rredit.  »  "  He  that  marries  a  wife  out  of  a  suspected  inn  or  ale-house,  buys  a  horse  in  Smithfield,  and  hires  a  servant  it 
Paul's,  as  the  diverb  (proverb)  is.  shall  likely  have  a  jade  to  his  horse,  a  knave  for  his  man.  an  arrant,  hnne.-l  vvornan  for  hi.«  vife.'  — 
BuTt'm't  Anatomy — quoted  by  Knipht.  The  middle  ai.xle  of  .St.  I'aul's  Cathedral  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of  general  exchanpe.  '  Folio: 
Beg.  ♦  Fe  lo:  want.  »  Following  on  a  ivrnn?  sr/-nt.  •  '-.Tn't  plea.«e  your  lordship;  a  kind  of"  :  is  omitted  in  the  folio.  'The  quarto. 
Old  —for  (  Idcaitle— the  name  which  Falstaff  seems  to  have  been  at  finit  called.  »  Folio  :  be.  •  Wassail.  "•  Folio  :  evil.  "  "  The  com 
to  oam«d. 


bCEXE  ra. 


KIKG  HENKY  IV. 


381 


weighing  :  and  yet,  in  some  respects,  I  grant.  I  cannot 
go.  1  cannot  tell ;  virtue  is  of  so  little  regard  in  these 
coeter-inonger'  days,'  that  true  valour  is  turned  bear- 
herd.  Pregnancy  is  made  a  tapster,  and  hath  his 
quick  ynt  wasted  in  giving  reckonings  :  all  the  other 
gifts  appertinent  to  man,  as  the  malice  of  this  age 
shapes  them,  are  not  worth  a  gooseberry.  You,  that 
are  old,  consider  not  the  capacities  of  us  that  are 
young  :  you  measure  the  heat  of  our  livers  with  the 
bitterness  of  your  galls  ;  and  we  that  are  in  the  vaward 
ot  our  youth,  I  must  confess,  are  wags  too. 

Ch.  Just.  Do  you  set  do^\^l  your  name  in  the  scroll 
of  youth,  that  are  written  dowm  old  with  all  the  cha- 
racters of  age  ?  Have  you  not  a  moist  eye,  a  dry  hand. 
a  yellow  cheek,  a  white  beard,  a  decreasing  leg,  an 
increasing  belly  ?  Is  not  your  voice  broken,  your  wind 
short,  your  chin  double,  your  wit  single,  and  ever}' 
part  about  you  blasted  with  antiquity,  and  will  you  yet 
call  yourself  young  ?     Fie,  fie.  fie,  sir  John  ! 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  was  born,  about^  three  of  the  clock 
in  the  afternoon,  with  a  white  head,  and  something  a 
round  belly.  For  my  voice. — I  have  lost  it  with  holla- 
ing, and  singing  of  anthems.  To  approve  my  youth 
farther,  I  will  not :  the  truth  is.  I  am  only  old  in 
judgment  and  uiaderstanding :  and  he  that  will  caper 
with  me  for  a  thousand  marks,  let  him  lend  me  the 
money,  and  have  at  him.  For  the  box  o'  the  ear 
that  the  prince  gave  you,  he  gave  it  like  a  rude  prince, 
and  you  took  it  like  a  sensible  lord.  I  have  checked 
him  for  it,  and  the  young  lion  repents  ;  marry,  not 
m  ashes,  and  sackcloth,  but  in  new  silk,  and  eld 
sack. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  God  send  the  prince  a  better  com- 
panion ! 

Fal.  God  send  the  companion  a  better  prince  !  I 
cannot  rid  my  kands  of  him. 

Ch.  Ju.ft.  Well,  the  king  hath  severed  you  and  prince 
Harry.*  I  hear  you  are  going  with  lord  John  of  Lan- 
caster against  the  archbishop,  and  the  earl  of  Nm-^h- 
umberland. 

Fnl.  Yea ;  I  thank  your  pretty  sweet  wit  for  it. 
But  look  you  pray,  all  you  that  kiss  my  lady  peace  at 
home,  that  our  armies  join  not  in  a  hot  day ;  for,  by 
the  Lord,'  I  take  but  tM-o  shirts  out  with  me,  and  I 
mean  not  to  sweat  extraordinarily  :  if  it  be  a  hot  day. 
and  I  brandish  any  thing  but  my  bottle,  I  would  I  might 
never  spit  white  again.  There  is  not  a  dangerous 
action  can  peep  out  his  head,  but  I  am  thrust  upon  it : 
well.  I  cannot  last  for*  ever.  'But  it  was  always  yet  the 
trick  of  our  English  nation,  if  they  have  a  good  thing, 
to  make  it  too  common.  If  you  will  needs  say  I 
am  an  old  man,  you  should  give  me  rest.  I  M'ould 
Co  God,  my  name  were  not  so  terrible  to  the  enemy 
as  it  is  :  I  were  better  to  be  eaten  to  death  with  rust, 
than  to  be  scoured  to  nothing  with  perpetual  motion. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  be  honest,  be  honest ;  and  God  bless 
your  expedition. 

Fal.  Will  your  lordship  lend  me  a  thousand  pound 
to  furnish  me  forth  ? 

Ch.  Just.  Not  a  penny,  not  a  penny  :  you  are  too 
impatient  to  bear  crosses*.  Fare  you  well :  commend 
me  to  my  cou.sin  Westmoreland. 

[Exeunt  Chief  Justice  and  Attendant. 

Fal.  If  I   do,  fillip  me  ^^^th   a  three-man  beetle.' 

A  mai   can  no  more  separate  age  and  covetousnes", 

;  than  he  can  part  young  limbs  and  lechery ;  but  the 


gout  galls  the  one.  and  the  pox  pinches  the  other,  and 
so  both  the  diseases"  prevent"  my  curses. — Boy  ! 

Page.  Sir? 

Fal.  What  money  is  in  my  purse  ? 

Page.  Seven  groats  and  two-pence. 

Fal.  I  can  get  no  remedy  against  this  consumption 
of  the  purse  :  borrowing  only  lingers  and  lingers  it 
out,  but  the  disease  is  incurable. — Go.  bear  this  letter 
to  my  lord  of  Lancaster ;  this  to  the  prince ;  this  to 
the  earl  of  Westmoreland  ;  and  this  to  old  mistress 
Ursula,  whom  I  have  weekly  sworn  to  marry  since  I 
perceived  the  first  white  hair  of"  my  chin.  About  it: 
you  know  where  to  find  me.  [Exit  Page.]  A  pox  of 
this  gout !  or,  a  gout  of  this  pcx  !  for  the  one.  or  the 
otlier,  plays  the  rogue  \\-ith  my  great  toe.  'T  is  no 
matter,  if  I  do  halt ;  I  have  the  wars  for  my  colour, 
and  my  pension  shall  seem  the  more  reasonable.  A 
good  wit  will  make  use  of  any  thing ;  it  will  turn  dis- 
eases to  commodity.  [Exit. 

SCENE    III.— York. 


A  Room   in  the   Archbishop's 
Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  Lords  Hastinos, 
Mowbray,  Earl  Marshal,  and  Bardolph. 

Arch.  Thus   have  you  heard  our  cause,  and  knrw 
our  means ; 
And,  my  most  noble  friends,  I  pray  you  all, 
Speak  plainly  your  opinions  of  our  hopes. — 
And  first,  lord  marshal,  what  say  you  to  it? 

Moieb.  I  well  allow  the  occasion  of  our  arms  ; 
But  gladly  would  be  better  satisfied, 
How,  in  our  means,  we  should  advance  ourselves 
To  look  with  forehead  bold  and  big  enough 
Upon  the  power  and  puissance  of  the  king. 

Hast.  Our  present  musters  grow  upon  the  file 
To  five  and  twenty  thousand  men  of  choice  : 
And  our  supplies  live  largely  in  the  hope 
0''  great  Northumberland,  whose  bosom  bums 
With  an  incensed  fire  of  injuries. 

Bard.  The  question  then,  lord  Hastings,  standeth 
thus : — 
\Vliether  our  present  five  and  twenty  thousand 
May  hold  up  head  wthout  Northumberland. 

Hast.  With  him,  we  may. 

Bard.  Ay,  marry,  there  's  the  point : 

But  if  without  him  we  be  thought  too  feeble. 
My  judgment  is,  we  should  not  step  too  far,'* 
Till  we  had  his  assistance  by  the  hand; 
For  in  a  theme  so  bloody-fac'd  as  this, 
Conjecture,  expectation,  and  .surmise 
Of  aids  incertain  should  not  be  admitted. 

Arch.  "T  is  very  true,  lord  Bardolph  ;  for,  indeed, 
It  was  young  Hotspur's  case  at  Shrewsbury'. 

Bnrd.  It  was,  my  lord :  who  lin'd  himself  with  hope 
Eating  the  air  on  promise  of  supply. 
Flattering  himself  \^-ith  project  of  a  power 
;\Iuch  smaller  than  the  smallest  of  his  thoughts  ; 
And  so.  with  great  imagination. 
Proper  to  madmen,  led  his  powers  to  death. 
And  winking  leap'd  into  destruction. 

Hast.  But,  by  your  leave,  it  never  yet  did  hurt, 
To  lay  doAAii  likelihoods,  and  forms  of  hope. 

Bard.  Yes,  in'*  this  present  quality  of  war;" 
Indeed  the  instant  act,  and  cause"  on  foot, 
Lives  so  in  hope,  as  in  an  early  spring 
We  see  th'  appearing  buds  ;  which,  to  prove  fruit, 

^  Hurksterin^.  »  times  :  in  f.  o.  *  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon:  not  in  the  folio.  «  and  jvnnce  Harry:  not  in  the  foli<-. 
The  folio  inserts  •  if.  «  Not  in  f.  e.  'The  rest  of  the  speech  is  not  in  the  folio.  8  a  cross  was  a  pier"  of  money.  *  A  beetle  rmlK 
thret  hamltrs,  requiring  three  men  to  wield  it.  '"  degrees  :  in  f.  e.  "  Anticipate.  i"  So  the  old  copies  ;  mod  eds.  :  on.  *'  The  rest  of 
th«  speech  was  first  printed  in  the  folio.  '♦  if  :  in  f  e.  "  This  and  the  twenty  lines  following,  were,  with  the  exception  of  one  'MeA 
»7  the  lis   <>raendator  of  the  folio,  1632.  first  printed  in  the  folio.      i«  instant  action,  a  cause,  &c.  :  in  f.  e. 


S8:i 


SECOm)  PART  OF 


AOT  n. 


Hope  gives  no*  so  much  warrant,  as  despair 

That  IrosLs  will  bite  thoin.     When  we  mean  to  build, 

We  firsl  Mirvcy  the  |iiot.  then  draw  the  model, 

And,  when  we  see  (he  fiijure  of  the  house, 

Tiien  mu>t  we  rate  the  cost  of  the  erection; 

Which  it  we  liiul  outweighs  ability, 

Wiiai  do  we  then,  but  draw  anew  the  model 

111  fewer  oHices.  or.  at  hu'^t',  desist 

To  build  at  all  ?     Much  more,  in  this  great  work, 

(Whieh  IS.  almost,  to  pluck  a  kingdom  down, 

And  set  another  up)  ."-liould  we  suivey 

The  plot,  the"  situation,  and  the  model ; 

Consult'  ui>on  a  sure  foundation; 

Question  surveyors,  know  our  own  estate, 

How  able  such  a  work  to  undergo. 

A  careful  leader  sums  what  force  he  brings* 

To  weigh  against  his  opjiOvSite  :  or  else, 

We  fortify  on'  paper,  and  in  figures, 

Using  the  names  of  men,  instead  of  men: 

Like  one  that  draws  the  motlel  of  a  house 

Beyond  his  power  to  build  it;  who.  half  through, 

Gives  o'er,  and  leaves  his  part-created  cost 

A  naked  subject  to  the  weeping  cioud.s, 

And  waste  lor  churlish  winters  tyranny. 

Hast.  Grant,  that  our  hopes,  yet  likely  of  fair  birth, 
Should  be  still-born,  and  that  we  now  po.ssess 
The  utmost  man  of  expectation, 
i'  think  we  are  a  body  strong  enough, 
Even  as  we  are.  to  equal  with  the  king. 

Bard.  What !  is  the  king  but  five  and  twenty  thou- 
sand ? 

Hast.  To  us.  no   more ;    nay,  not   so   much,  lord 
Bardoljih  : 
For  his  divisions,  as  the  times  do  brawl, 
Are  in  three  heads  :  one  power  against  the  French, 
And  one  against  Glendower;  perforce,  a  third 
Must  take  up  us.     So  is  the  unfirm  king 
(n  three  divided,  and  his  coflfers  sound 
With  hollow  poverty  and  emptiness. 


Arch.  That  he  should  draw  his  8e^eral   strengthi 
together. 
And  come  against  ub  in  full  puissance, 
Need  not  be  dreaded. 

IIiLst.  If  he  should  do  !>o. 

He  leaves  his  back  unarm'd.  tlie  French  and  Welsh 
Baying  him  at  the  heels:  never  fear  that. 

Bard.  Who.  is  it  like,  should  lead  his  forces  hither? 

Ha.st.  The  duke  of  Lancaster,  and  Westtnoreland 
Again.st  the  Welsh,  himself  and  Harrj'  Monmouth 
But  who  is  substituted  'gainst  the  French, 
I  have  no  certain  notice. 

Arch.  Let  us  on* 

And  publish  the  occasion  of  our  arms. 
The  commonwealth  is  sick  of  llieir  own  choice; 
Their  over-greedy  love  hath  surfeited  ; 
An  habitation  giddy  and  unsure 
Hath  he.  that  buildeth  on  the  vulgar  heart. 
O,  thou  fond  many  !  with  what  loud  applause 
Didsi  thou  beat  heaven  with  blessing  Bolingbroke, 
Before  lie  was  what  thou  wouldst  have  him  be  ; 
And  being  now  trimm'd  in  thine  own  desires. 
Thou,  beastly  feeder,  art  so  full  of  him. 
That  thou  provok'st  thyself  to  cast  him  up. 
So,  so,  thou  common  dog.  didst  thou  disgorge 
Thy  glutton  bosom  of  the  royal  Fiiehard. 
And  now  thou  wouldst  eat  thy  dead  vomit  up, 
And  howl'st  to  find  it.     What  trust  is  in  th'^^e  times? 
They  that,  when  Richard  liv'd.  would  have  him  die. 
Are  now  become  enamour d  on  his  grave  ; 
Thou,  that  threw'st  dust  upon  his  goodly  head. 
When  through  proud  London  he  came  sighing  on 
\fter  th'  admired  heels  of  Bolingbroke, 
Cry'st  now,  "O  earth,  yield  us  that  king  again. 
And  take  thou  this  !"     0,  thoughts  of  men  accurst! 
Past,  and  to  come,  seem  best ;  things  present,  worst. 

Mou'b.  Shall  we  go  draw  our  numbers,  and  set  on? 

Hast.  We  are  time's  subjects,  and  time  bids  be  gone 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Hostess;  Fang,  and  his  Boy,  with  her ;  and 
Snare  following. 

Host.  Master  Fang,  have  you  entered  the  action  ? 

Favg.  It  is  entered. 

Host.  Where  's  your  yeoman'  ?  Is  't  a  lusty  yeoman  ? 
will  he  stand  to  't  ? 

Fang.  Sirrah,  where  's  Snare? 

Host.  0  lord  !  ay :  good  master  Snare. 

Snare.  Here,  here. 

Fang.  Snare,  we  must  arrest  sir  John  FalstafT. 

Hu.it.  Yea,  good  master  Snare ;  I  have  entered  him 
and  all. 

Snare.  It  may  chance  cost  some  of  us  our  lives,  for* 
he  will  stab. 

ffos..  Alas  the  day  !  take  heed  of  him  :  he  stabbed 
me  in  mine  own  house,  and  that  mo.st  beastly.  In 
good  faith,  he  cares  not  what  mischief  he  doth,  if  his 
weapon  be  out :  he  will  foin  like  any  devil  ;  he  will 
spare  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child. 

Fang.  If  I  can  close  wth  him,  I  care  not  for  his 
thrust. 


Host.  No,  nor  I  neither :  I  '11  be  at  your  elbow. 

Fang.  An  I  but  fist  him  once ;  an  he  come  but 
within  my  vice*. — 

Host.  I  am  undone  by  his  going:  I  warrant  you.  he '» 
an  infinitive  thing  upon  my  score. — Good  master  P'anu. 
hold  him  sure  : — good  master  Snare,  let  him  not  "scape 
He  comes  continually  to  Pie-corner.  (saA'ing  your  man- 
hoods) to  buy  a  saddle  ;  and  he  's  indited  to  dinner  to 
the  lubbar"s  liead  in  Lumbcrt-street,  to  master  fSinooth'» 
the  silkman  :  I  pray  ye,  since  my  cxion  is  entered, 
and  my  case  so  openly  known  to  the  world.  let  him  be 
brought  in  to  his  answer.  A  hundred  mark  is  a  lon^ 
score'"  for  a  poor  lone  woman  to  bear  ;  and  I  have  born« 
and  borne,  and  borne  :  and  have  been  tubbed  off.  and 
fubbed  ofT.  and  fubbed  off,  from  this  day  to  that  day. 
that  it  is  a  shame  to  be  thnuglit  on.  Tiiere  is  no 
honesty  in  such  dealing,  unless  a  woman  should  be  made , 
an  a.ss,  and  a  beast,  to  bear  every  knaves  wrons. — 

Enter  Sir  John  Fai.staff,  Page,  and  Raruoi.ph 
Yonder  he  comes  ;  and  that  arrant  malmscy-nose  knavr, 
Bardolph,  with  him.     Do  your  offices,  do  your  officea, 
master  Fang  and  master  Snare :  do  me.  do  me,  do  mc 
your  offices. 


t:  ir  f.  e.      »  of :  in  f.  e.      •  Content:  ia  f.  •.      ♦This  line   i«  not  in  f.  e.      »  in 
'  Tk<  ^liff't  followen  were  M>  c^lad.      •  Not  in  the  folio.      *  The  qnaxto  :  view. 


•  Thii  ipeech  was  flr»t  printed  in  I 
:n  f.  e. 


BCEK^   I 


KING  HE^RY  lY. 


383 


Fal  How  now  !  whose  mare  's  dead ;  what 's  the 
iitatter  ? 

Fan^.  Sir  John,  I  arrest  you  at  the  suit  of  mistress 
Quickly. 

Fal.  Away,  varlets  ! — Draw.  Bardolph  :  cut  me  off 
the  \nllaiirs  head  :  throw  the  quean  in  the  channel. 

Host.  Throw  me  in  the  channel  ?  I  '11  throw  thee  in 
the  channel.'  Wilt  thou  ?  wilt  thou?  thou  bastardly  I 
rogue  ! — Murder,  murder  !  0.  thou  honey-suckle  vil- ', 
lain  !  wilt  thou  kill  God's  officers,  and  the  king's?  0. 
thou  honey-seed  rogue  !  thou  art  a  honey-.«eed  ;  a  man- 
ijueller,  and  a  woman-queller. 

Fal.  Keep  them  off.  Bardolph. 

Fang.  A  re.^cue  !  a  rescue  ! 

Host.  Good  people,  bring  a  rescue  or  rvo. — Thou 
wilt  not  ?  thou  wilt  not  ?  do,  do,  thou  rogue  !  do,  thou 
hemp-seed  ! 

Fal.  Away,  you  scullion  !  yon  rampallian  !  you  fus- 
tilarian  !     I  '11  tickle  your  catastrophe. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  attended. 

Ch.  Ju.st.  What  is  the  matter  ?  keep  the  peace  here. 
ho! 

Host.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me  !  I  beseech  you. 
Btand  to  me  ! 

Ch.  Just.  How  now,  sir  John  !  what,  are  you  brawl- 
ing here  ? 
Doth  this  become  your  place,  your  time,  and  business? 
Vou  should  have  been  well  on  your  way  to  York. — 
Stand  from  him,  fellow  :  wherefore  hang'st  on  him  ? 

Host.  0  !  my  most  worshipful  lord,  an  't  please  your 
grace,  1  am  a  poor  widow  of  Eastcheap,  and  he  is 
arrested  at  my  suit. 

Ch.  Just.  For  what  sum? 

Host.  It  is  more  than  for  some,  my  lord  ;  it  is  for  all, 
all  I  have.  He  hath  eaten  me  out  of  house  and  home  : 
be  hath  put  all  my  substance  into  that  fat  belly  of  his ; 
but  I  will  have  some  of  it  out  again,  or  I  will  ride  thee 
o'  nights,  like  the  mare. 

Fal.  I  think.  I  am  as  like  to  ride  the  mare,  if  I  have 
any  vantage  of  ground  to  get  up. 

Ch.  Just.  How  comes  this,  sir  John  ? — Fie  !  what 
man  of  good  temper  would  endaie  this  tempest  of 
exclamation? — Are  you  not  ashamed  to  enforce  a  poor 
widow  to  so  rough  a  course  to  come  by  her  own  ? 

Fnl.  What  is  the  gross  sum  that  I  owe  thee  ? 

Host.  Marry,  if  thou  wert  an  honest  man,  thyself, 

and  the  money  too.     Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a 

parcel-gilt'  goblet,  sitting  in  m.y  Dolphin-chamber,  at 

*.he  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  upon  Wednesday  in 

V\rhitsun  week,  when  the  prince  broke  thy  head  for 

likening  his  father^  to  a  singing-man  of  Windsor  :  thou 

Jidst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  washing  thy  wound, 

to  marry  me.  and  make  me  my  lady  thy  wife.     Canst 

ihou  deny  it  ?     Did  not  goodwife  Keech.  the  butcher's 

wife,   come   in   then,    and    call    me    gossip   Quickly? 

>»ming  in  to  borrow  a  mess  of  vinegar  :  tellins  us,  she 

had  a  good  dish  of  prawns,  whereby  thou  didst  desire 

j  M  eat  some,  -whereby  I  told  thee,  they  were  ill   for  a 

•  men  wound  ?    And  didst  thou  not,  when  she  was  gone 

iown  stairs,  desire  me  to  be  no  more   so  familiarity 

*ith   such   poor    people ;    savins,  that  ere   long  they 

i-hould  call  me  madam  ?     And  didst  thou  not  kiss  me, 

I  and  bid  me  fetch  thee  thirty  shillings?  I  put  thee  now 

to  thy  book-oath  :  deny  it,  if  thou  canst. 

1     Fa^    Mv  lord  this  is  a  poor  mad  soul  :  and  she  says, 

j  up  and  down  the  town,  that  her  eldest  son  is  like  you. 

\  Sie  hath  been  in  gor>d  case,  and  the  truth  is,  poverty 


hath  distracted  her.     But   for  these  foolish  offioers,  > 
beseech  you,  I  may  have  redress  against  tliem. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  sir  John,  I  am  .veil  acquainted 
■with  your  manner  of  wTencliing  the  true  cause  the 
false  way.  It  is  not  a  confident  brow,  nor  the  throng 
of  words  that  come  with  such  more  than  impudent 
sauciness  from  you,  can  thrust  me  from  a  level  consi- 
deration ;  you  have,  as  it  aj)pears  to  me.  pr-actised  upon 
the  ea.sy-yielding  spirit  of  this  woman.*  and  made  hei 
serve  your  uses  both  in  purse  and  person. 

Host.  Yes,  in  troth,  my  lord. 

Ch.  Just.  Pr'ythee,  peace. — Pay  her  the  debt  you 
owe  her,  and  unpay  the  villainy  you  have  dene  witli 
her :  the  one  you  may  do  with  sterling  money,  and  tl* 
other  with  current  rejienlance. 

Fal.  My  lord,  1  will  not  undergo  this  sneap  without 
reply.  You  call  honourable  boldness,  impudent,  sauci- 
ness; if  a  man  will  make  court'sy.  and  say  nothing,  he 
is  virtuous.  No,  my  lord,  my  humble  duty  remem- 
ber'd,  I  will  not  be  your  suitor :  I  say  to  you,  I  do 
desire  deliverance  from  these  officers,  being  upon  hasty 
employ^ment  in  the  king's  affairs. 

Ch.  Just.  You  speak  as  having  power  to  do  wTong : 
but  answer  in  the  effect  of  your  reputation,  and  satisl'y 
the  poor  w^oman. 

Fal.  Come  hither,  hostess.  [Taking  her  aside. 

Enter  Gower. 

Ch.  Just.  Now,  master  Gower  !  what  news  ? 

Gow.  The  king,  my  lord,  and  Henry  prince  of  Wah-s 
Are  near  at  hand  :  the  rest  this'  paper  tells.  [C.  J.  riatls.' 

Fal.  As  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Host.  Faith,  you  said  so  before. 

Fal.  As  I  am  a  gentleman.  Come,  no  more  words 
of  it. 

Host  By  this  heavenly  ground  I  tread  on,  I  must 
be  fain  to  pawn  both  my  plate,  and  the  tapestry  of  my 
dining-chambers. 

Fal.  Glasses,  glasses,  is  the  only  drinking :  and  for 
thy  walls, — a  pretty  slight  drollery,  or  the  story  of  the 
prodigal;  or  the  German  hunting  in  water-work',  ia 
worth  a  thousand  of  these  bed  hangings,  and  these  fly 
bitten  tapestries.  Let  it  be  ten  pound,  if  thou  canst. 
Come,  an  it  were  not  for  thy  humours,  there  is  not  a 
better  wench  in  England.  Go.  wash  thy  face,  and 
draw  thy  action.  Come,  thou  must  not  be  in  tliia 
humour  wath  me  ;  dost  not  know  me  ?*  Come,  comfi, 
I  know  thou  wa,«t  set  on  to  this. 

Host.  Pray  thee,  sir  John,  let  it  be  but  twenty 
nobles ;  i'  faith  I  am  loath  to  pawn  my  plate,  in  good 
earnest,  la. 

Fal.  Let  it  alone  ;  I  '11  make  other  shift  :  you  '11  be  a 
fool  still. 

Host.  Well,  you  f^hall  have  it.  though  I  pawn  my 
gown.  I  hope,  you  '11  come  to  supper.  You  '11  pay  me 
all  together  ? 

Fal.  Will  I  live  ? — Go,  with  her,  with  her ;  hook  on, 
hook  on. 

Host.  Will  you  have  Doll  Tear-sheet  meet  yen  at 
supper  ? 

Fal.  No  more  words:  let's  have  her. 

[Exeunt  Hostess.  Bardolph,  Officers,  and  Page 

Ch.  Just.  T  have  heard  better  news. 

Fal.  What 's  the  news,  my  good  lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.  Where  lay  the  king  last  night? 

Gow.  At  Basingstoke,  my  lord. 

Fal.  I  hope,  my  lord,  all 's  well  :  what  is  the  newn, 
my  lord  ? 
i      Ch.  Ju^t.  Come  all  his  forces  back  ? 


^\nt  there  : 


»  Partly  gilt. 


■  The  rest  of  this  speech  ig  omitted  in  the  foho.      •  the  :  in  f.  e.      •  ] 


me  :  not  i 


334 


SECOND   PART  OF 


A.CI  n. 


Gow.  No;  fifteen  hundred  foot,  five  hundred  horse, 
Are  march'd  up  to  my  lord  of  Lanca.ster. 
Asftinst  NorthuiTiborlaud  and  tlie  archbishop. 

Fal.  Comes  the  king  back  iVom  Wales,  my  noble  lord  ? 

Ck.  Just  Vou  shall  have  letters  of  me  presently: 
eonie,  20  aloii_  with  me.  good  ma.>^ter  Gower. 

Fal.^\\  lord! 

Ch.  Juxt.  What 's  the  matter? 

Fal.  Ma.stcr  Gower,  shall  I  entreat  you  with  me  to 
dinner? 

Gow.  1  mu.st  wait  upon  my  good  lord  here  :  I  thank 
ou,  good  sir  .lohn. 

Ch.  Jiist.  Sir  John,  you  loiter  hero  too  long,  being 
ou  are  to  take  .soldiers  up  in  eounties  as  you  go. 

Fal.  Will  you  sup  with  me.  master  Gower? 

Ch.  Juxt.  What  foolish  master  taught  you  those 
manners,  sir  John? 

Fal.  Master  (iower,  if  they  become  me  not.  he  was 
a  fool  that  taught  them  me. — This  is  the  right  fencing 
grace,  my  lord ;  tap  for  tap,  and  so  part  fair. 

Ch.  Just.  Now,  the  Lord  lighten  thee !  thou  art  a 
great  fool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Another  Street. 
Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins, 

P.  Hen.  Trust  me,  I  am  exceeding  weary. 

Poins.  Is  it  come  to  that?  I  had  thought,  weariness 
dur^t  not  have  attached  one  of  .so  high  blood. 

P.  Hen.  "Faith,  it  does  me,  though  it  discolours  the 
complexion  of  my  greatness  to  acknowledge  it.  Doth 
it  not  show  vilely  in  me  to  desire  small  beer? 

Poins.  Why,  a  prince  should  not  be  so  loosely  stu- 
died, as  to  remember  so  weak  a  composition. 

P.  Hen.  Belike  then,  my  appetite  was  not  princely 
got :  for,  by  my  troth,  I  do  now  remember  the  poor 
creature,  small  beer.  But.  indeed,  these  humble  con- 
eiderations  make  me  out  of  love  with  my  greatness. 
What  a  disgrace  is  it  to  me.  to  remember  thy  name? 
or  to  know  thy  face  to-morrow  ?  or  to  take  note  how 
many  pair  of  silk  .stockinirs  thou  hast:  viz.  these,  and 
those  that  were  thy  peach-coloured  ones  ?  or  to  bear 
the  inventory  of  thy  shirts  ;  as,  one  for  superfluity,  and 
one  other  for  u.se? — but  that  the  tennis-court-keeper 
knows  better  than  I,  for  it  is  a  low  ebb  of  linen  wnth 
thee,  when  thou  keepest  not  racket  there  :  as  thou  hast 
not  done  a  great  while,  because  the  rest  of  thy  low- 
counihe.x  have  made  a  shift  to  eat  up  thy  holland  :'  and 
(Jod  knows,  whether  tho.se  that  bawl  out  the  ruins  of 
lliy  linen.  .«hall  inherit  his  kinsdom  ;  but  the  mid\^^vcs 
»ay.  the  children  are  not  in  the  fault,  whereupon  the 
world  increases,  and  kindreds  are  mightily  strength- 
ened. 

Poins.  How  ill  it  follow^  after  you  have  laboured  so 
hard,  you  shouM  talk  so  idly  !  Tell  me,  how  many 
good  young  princes  would  do  so.  their  fathers  being* 
•o  sick  a«  yours  at  this  time  is? 

P.  Hen.  Shall  I  tell  thf-e  one  thing.  Poins? 

Poins.  Yea,  faith,  and  let  it  be  an  excellent  good 
tiling. 

P.  Hen.  It  shall  Ber\'e  among  wits  of  no  higher 
breeding  than  thine. 

Poins.  Cio  fn  ;  I  stand  the  push  of  your  one  thing 
that  you  will  toll. 

P.  Hen.   Marr>',  I  tell  thee. — it  is  not  meet  that  I 
should  be  sad.  now  my  father  is  sick  :  albeit  I  could  tell 
V)  thee,  (as  to  one  it  pleases  me.  for  fault  of  a  tictter,   how  he  writes. 
to  call  my  friend)  I  could  be  sad.  and  sad  indeed  too.     j      Poins.     \Ren(ls.\     "John    Falstaff,    knight," — every 

Poins.  Very  hardly  upon  such  a  subject.  man  must  know  that,  as  oft  as  he  has  occasion  to  name 

>  Th«  re«  of  (hit  ►T>««*rh  i«  not  in  the  folio       »  \j\ng  u>  tick  u  youn  ii :  in  folio.       '  pornicioiu  :  in  folio.       *  Thii  word  ii  not  in  f.  • 


P.  Hen.  By  this  hand,  thou  think'st  me  as  far  in  ihe 
de\-il's  book,  as  thou  and  Falsiaff.  for  obduracy  and 
persistency  :  let  the  end  try  the  man.  But  I  tell  thee, 
my  heart  bleeds  inwardly,  that  my  father  is  so  sick  j 
and  keeping  such  vile  company  as  thou  art.  hath  in 
reason  taken  from  me  all  ostentation  of  sorrow. 

Poins.  The  reason? 

P.  Hen.  What  wouldst  thou  think  of  me,  if  I  should 
weep  ? 

Poins.  I  would  think  thee  a  most  princely  hypo- 
crite. 

P.  Hen.  It  would  be  ever}-  man's  thought :  and  thou 
art  a  blessed  fellow,  to  think  as  every  man  thinlts : 
never  a.  man's  thought  in  the  world  keeps  the  road-way 
better  than  thine :  every  man  would  think  me  an  hypo- 
crite  indeed.  And  what  accites  your  most  worshipful 
thought  to  think  so  ? 

Poins.  ^Vhy,  because  you  have  been  so  lewd,  and  sc 
much  engraffed  to  Falstaff. 

P.  Hen.  And  to  thee. 

Poins.  By  this  light.  I  am  well  spoken  on ;  I  can 
hear  it  with  mine  own  ears  :  tlic  worst  that  they  can 
say  of  me  is,  that  I  am  a  second  brother,  and  that  I  am 
a  proper  fellow  of  my  hands,  and  those  two  things.  I 
confess,  I  cannot  help.  By  the  mass,  here  comes  Bar- 
dolph. 

P.  Hen.  And  the  boy  that  I  gave  Falstaff:  he  had 
him  from  me  christian ;  and  look,  if  the  fat  \-inain  have 
not  transformed  him  ape. 

Enter  Bardoi.ph  and  Page. 

Bard.  God  save  your  grace. 

P.  Hen.  And  yours,  most  noble  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Come,  you  virtuous'  ass,  [To  the  Page.]  you 
bashful  fool,  must  you  be  blushing?  wherefore  blurh 
you  now?  What  a  maidenly  man  at  arms  are  yon 
become  ?  Is  it  such  a  matter  to  get  a  pottlepot's 
maidenliead  ? 

Page.  He  called  me  even  now,  my  lord,  through  a 
red  lattice,  and  1  could  discern  no  part  of  his  fa«e 
from  the  wndow:  at  last.  I  .spied  his  eyes:  and,  me- 
thought,  he  had  made  two  holes  in  the  ale-wife's  new 
red*  petticoat,  and  peeped  through. 

P.  Hen.  Hath  not  the  boy  profited  ? 

Bard.  Away,  you  whoreson  upright  rabbit,  away  ! 

Page.  Away,  you  rascally  Althea's  dream,  \way  ! 

P.  Hen.  In.struct  us.  boy:  what  dream,  boy!* 

Page.  Marry,  my  lord.  Althea*  dreamed  she  was  de- 
livered of  a  fire-brand,  and  therefore  I  call  him  her 
dream. 

P.  Hen.  A  crown's  worth  of  good  interpretation. — 
There  it  is.  boy.  [ Giiing  hitn  money. 

Poins.  0,  that  this  good  blossom  could  be  kept  from 
cankers  ! — Well,  there  is  sixpence  to  preserve  thee. 

Bard.  An  you  do  not  make  him  be  hanged  among 
you.  the  gallows  shall  have  wrong. 

P.  Hen.  And  how  doth  thy  master,  Bardolph? 

Bard.  Well,  my  lord.  He  heard  of  your  grav*'« 
comins  to  town :  there's  a  letter  for  you. 

Poins.  Delivered  v^nth  good  respect. — And  how  dnh 
the  martlemas.  your  master? 

Bard.   In  bodily  health,  sir. 

Poins.  Marry,  the  immortal  part  needs  a  physician; 
but  that  tnoves  not  him  :  though  that  be  sick,  it  dies  not. 

P.  Hen.  I  do  allow  this  wen  to  be  as  familiar  wiin 
me  as  my  dos  ;  and  he  holds  his  place,  for  look  you 


SCENE  III. 


KING  HENEY  lY. 


385 


himself;  even  like  those  that  are  kin  to  the  king,  for 
th-ey  never  prick  their  finger,  but  they  say,  "  There  is 
some  of  the  king"s  blood  spilt:''  '•  How  comes  that?"" 
says  he.  that  takes  upon  him  not  to  conceive :  the  an- 
swer is,  as  ready  as  a  borrower's  cap :  "  I  am  the  king's 
poor  consin.  sir." 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  they  will  be  kin  to  us.  or  they  will 
fetch  it  from  Japheth.     But  to  the  letter : — 

Poins.  "  Sir  John  Fal.'^taff,  knight,  to  the  son  of  the 
king,  nearest  h's  father.  Harry  Prince  of  Wales,  greet- 
ing.'"— Why.  this  is  a  certificate. 

P.  Hen.  Peace ! 

Poins.  "I  will  jmitate  the  honourable  Romans  in 
revity :"' — he  sure  means  brevity  in  breath,  short- 
uinded, — "  I  commend  me  to  thee,  I  commend  thee, 
and  I  leave  thee.  Be  not  too  familiar  with  Poins  :  for 
he  misuses  thy  favours  so  much,  that  he  swears,  thou 
art  to  marry  his  sister  Nell.  Repent  at  idle  tim.es  as 
tliou  may" St.  and  so  farewell. 

'•  Thine,  by  yea  and  no,  (which  is  as  much 
as  to  say,  as  thou  usest  him.)  Jack  Fal- 
staff.  \\ith  my  farftiliars:  John,  with 
my  brothers  and  sisters ;  and  sir  John 
viiXh.  all  Europe.'"' 
My  lord,  I  win  sieep  this  letter  in  sack,  and  make  him 
eat  it. 

P.  Hen.  That's  bat'  to  make  him  eat  twenty  of  his 
words.  But  do  you  use  me  thus,  Ned  ?  must  I  marry 
>'our  sister? 

Poins.  God  send  the  wench  no  worse  fortune !  but 
I  never  said  so. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  thus  we  play  the  fools  with  the  time, 
and  the  spirits  of  the  -w-ise  sit  in  the  clouds,  and  mock 
U8. — Is  your  master  here  in  London  ? 

Bard.  Yes.  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Where  sups  he?  doth  the  old  boar  feed  in 
the  old  frank"  ? 

Bard.  At  the  old  place,  my  lord,  in  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  Wliat  company? 

Page.  Ephesians,  my  lord  :  of  the  old  church. 

P.  Hen.  Sup  any  women  with  him  ? 

Vage.  None,  my  lord,  but  old  mistress  Quickly,  and 
nustress  Doll  Tear-sheet. 

P.  Hen.  What  pagan  may  that  be? 

Page.  A  proper  gentlewoman,  sir,  and  a  kinswoman 
of  my  master's. 

P.  Hen.  Even  such  kin  as  the  parish  heifers  are  to 
the  toASTi  bull. — Shall  we  steal  upon  them.  Ned,  at 
supper  ? 

Poins.  I  am  your  shadow,  my  lord:  I  '11  follow  you. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  you  boy, — and  Bardolph  ; — no  word 
to  your  ma.ster  that  I  am  yet  come  to  town  :  there  's  for 
your  silence.  '  [Giving  money. ^ 

Bard.  I  have  no  tongue,  sir. 

Page.  And  for  nime,  sir,  I  will  govern  it. 

P.  Hen.  Fare  ye  well  ;  go.  {Exeunt  Bardolph  and 
Pagt  ] — This  Doll  Tear-sheet  should  be  some  road. 

Poins.  I  warrant  you.  as  common  as  the  way  be- 
ween  Saint  Alban's  and  London. 

P.  Hen.  How  might  we  see  Falstaff  bestow  himself 
to-night  in  his  true  colours,  and  not  ourselves  be  seen? 

Poins.  Put  on  two  leathern  jerkins,  and  aprons,  and 
"wait  upon  him  at  his  table  as  drawers. 

P.  Hen.  From  a  god  to  a  bull  ?  a  heavy  descension  !* 
i*  was  Joves  case.  From  a  prince  to  a  prentice?  a 
low  transformation  !  that  shall  be  mine  :  for  in  ever^-* 
thing  the  purpose  must  weigh  with  the  folly.  Follow 
me.  Ned.  '     [Exeimt. 

This  -word  is  not  in  f.  e.      '  Sty.      ^  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦  declension 
wai.  first  printed  in  the  foho        '  Speaking  rapidly 

7. 


SCENE  IIL— Warkworth.     Before  the  Caatlc. 

Enter  Northumberl.a.nd,  Lady  Northumberl.^nd, 

and  Lady  Percy. 

NoHh.  I  pray  thee,  loving  wife  and  gentle  daughter 
Give  even  way  unto  my  rough  affairs : 
Put  not  you  on  the  visage  of  the  times, 
And  be  like  them  to  Percy  troublesom.e. 

Lady  N.  I  have  given  over,  I  will  speak  no  more. 
Do  what  you  will ;  your  wisdom  be  your  guide. 

North.  Alas,  sweet  wife,  my  honour  is  at  pawn. 
And,  but  my  going,  nothing  can  redeem  it. 

Lady  P.  0;  yet,  for  God's  sake,  go  not  to  these  wars  ! 
The  time  was,  father,  that  you  broke  your  word, 
When  you  were  more  endear"d  to  it  than  now ; 
When  your  owni  Pe.-cy,  when  my  heart-dear  Harry' 
Threw  many  a  northward  look,  to  see  his  father 
Bring  up  his  powers;  but  he  did  long  in  vain. 
Who  then  persuaded  you  to  stay  at  home  ? 
There  were  two  honours  lost,  yours,  and  your  son's : 
For  yours, — may  heavenly  glorv*  brighten  it ! 
For  his, — it  stuck  upon  him.  as  the  sun 
In  the  grey  vault  of  heaven  :  and.  by  his  light, 
Did  all  the  chivalry  of  England  move 
To  do  brave  acts,  he  was.  indeed,  the  glass 
Wherein  the  noble  youth  did  dress  themselves.* 
He  had  no  legs,  that  practised  not  his  gait ; 
And  speaking  thick',  which  npture  made  his  blemish.. 
Became  the  accents  of  the  valiant ; 
For  those  that  could  speak  low,  and  tardily, 
Would  turn  their  own  perfection  to  abuse, 
To  seem  like  him  :  so  that,  in  speech,  in  gait. 
In  diet,  in  affections  of  delight, 
In  military  rules,  humours  of  blood. 
He  was  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book, 
That  fashion'd  others.     And  him. — 0  wondrous  him. 
O  miracle  of  men  ! — him  did  you  leave, 
(Second  to  none,  unseconded  by  you) 
To  look  upon  the  hideous  god  of  war 
In  disadvantage  :  to  abide  a  field. 
Where  nothing  but  the  sound  of  Hotspur"s  name 
Did  seem  defensible  : — so  you  left  him. 
Never,  0  !  never,  do  his  ghost  the  ^^s^ong. 
To  hold  your  honour  more  precise  and  nice 
With  others,  than  with  him  :  let  them  alone. 
The  marshal,  and  the  archbishop,  are  strong: 
Had  my  sweet  Harry  had  but  half  their  numbers, 
To-day  might  I,  hanging  on  Hotspur's  neck. 
Have  talk'd  of  Monmouth's  grave. 

North.  Beshrow  your  hean 

Fair  daughter  !  you  do  draw  my  spirits  frome  me. 
With  new  lamenting  ancient  oversights. 
But  I  must  go,  and  meet  with  danger  there, 
Or  it  will  seek  me  in  another  place. 
And  find  me  worse  provided. 

Lady  N.  0  !  fly  to  Scotland. 

Till  that  the  nobles,  and  the  armed  commons. 
Have  of  their  puissance  made  a  little  taste. 

Lady  P.  If  they  get  ground  and  vantage  of  the  kin' 
Then  join  you  with  them,  like  a  rib  of  steel, 
To  make  strength  stronger :  but,  for  all  our  loves, 
First  let  them  try  themselves.     So  did  your  son;    . 
He  was  so  suffer'd  :  so  came  I  a  widow. 
And  never  shall  have  length  of  life  enough, 
To  rain  upon  remembrance  with  mine  eyes. 
That  it  may  grow  and  sprout  as  high  as  heaven, 
For  recordation  to  my  noble  husband. 

North.  Come,  come,  go  in  with  me.     'T  is  with  m> 
mind, 

:  in  folio.      »  heart's  dear  Harrr  :  in  folio.      •  The  rest  of  this  »pe«o. 


386 


SECOND   PART  OF 


ACT  n. 


A«  with  the  tide  swclTd  up  unto  its  height. 

That  makes  a  still-stand,  running  neither  way: 

Fain  would  I  go  to  meet  tiie  arciibi.<hop. 

But  many  tliousand  reasons  liold  me  back. — 

1  will  re.-*olve  for  Scotland  :  there  am  I. 

Till  time  and  vantage  crave  my  company.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's  Head 
Tavern,  in  Ea.stcheap. 
Enter  Tu'O  Drawers. 

1  Dratr.  What  the  devil  hast  thou  brought  there  ? 
apple-Johns'  ?  thou  knowst  sir  John  cannot  endure  an 

pple-John, 

2  Draic.  Mass.  thou  sayest  true.  The  prince  once 
net  a  dish  of  apple-Johns  before  him,  and  told  him. 
there  were  five  more  sir  Johns ;  and,  putting  off  his 
hat,  said,  '•  I  will  now  take  my  leave  of  these  six  dry, 
round,  old.  withered  knights."  It  angered  him  to  the 
heart,  but  he  hath  forgot  that. 

1  Draic  Why  then,  cover,  and  set  them  dovm :  and 
.^ee  if  thou  canst  find  out  Sneak's  noise" ;  mistress  Tear- 
sheet  would  fain  hear  some  music*.  Dispatch: — the 
room  where  they  supped  is  too  hot;  they'll  come  in 
straight. 

2  Draw.  Sirrah,  here  will  be  the  prince,  and  master 
Poins  anon  :  and  they  will  put  on  two  of  our  jerkins 
and  aprons,  and  sir  John  nmst  not  know  of  it  :  Bar- 
dolph  hath  brought  word. 

1  Draw.  By  the  mass,  here  -will  be  old  utis*  :  it  will 
be  an  excellent  stratagem. 

2  Draic.  I  "11  see,  if  I  can  find  out  Sneak.         [Exit. 

Enter  Hostess  and  Doll  Tear-sheet. 

Ho.ft.  r  faith,  sweet  heart,  methinks  now  you  are  in 
an  excellent  good  temperality  :  your  puls^idge  beats  as 
ext'-aordinarily  as  heart  would  desire,  and  your  colour, 
I  warrant  you.  is  as  red  as  any  rose ;  but,  i'  faith,  you 
have  drunk  too  much  canaries,  and  that's  a  marvellous 
searching  wine,  and  it  perfumes  the  blood  ere  one  can 
say,  what  "s  this?    How  do  you  now? 

Dol.  Better  than  I  was.     Hem. 

Ho.'st.  Why,  that 's  well  said  ;  a  good  heart 's  worth 
gold.     Lo*  I  here  comes  sir  John. 

Ejiter  F.\LST.\FF.  singing. 

Fal.  "  When  Arthur  first  in  court" — Empty  the 
Jordan — ■'  And  was  a  worthy  king."*  [Exit  Drawer. 
How  now,  mistress  Doll? 

Host.  Sick  of  a  calm  :  yea.  good  sooth. 

Fal.  So  is  all  her  sex ;  an  they  be  once  in  a  calm, 
they  are  sick. 

Dol.  Vou  muddy  rascal,  is  that  all  the  comfort  you 
give  me? 

Fal.  You  make  fat  rascals,  mistress  Doll. 

Dol.  I  make  them  ?  gluttony  and  diseases  make 
then;  I  make  them  not. 

Fal.  If  the  cook  help  to'  make  the  gluttony,  you 
help  to  make  the  di-seai^c;,  Doll :  we  catch  of  you,  Doll, 
we  catch  of  you ;  grant  that,  my  pure*  virtue,  grant 
that. 

Dol.  Yea,  joy' ;  our  chains,  and  our  jewels. 

Fal.  '•  Your  broochc.-i.  y)carls,  and  owches  :'"• — for  to 
•orve  bravely,  is  to  come  halting  off,  you  know  :  to 
come  off  the  breach  with  his  pike  bent  bravely,  and  to 
•urgery  bravely;  to  venture  upon  the  charged  cham- 
bers bravely : — 

Dol.  Hang  yourself,  you  muddv  conser.  hang  your- 
Mlf!" 


Host.  By  my  troth,  this  is  the  old  fashion :  you  two 
never  meet,  but  you  fall  to  some  discord.  You  are 
both,  in  good  troth,  as  rheumatic  as  two  dry  loa.st^c 
you  cannot  one  bear  with  another's  confirmities.  What 
the  good  year  !  one  must  bear,  and  that  must  be  you 
you  arc  the  weaker  ves.^el ;  as  they  say,  the  emptier 
vessel. 

Dol.  Can  a  weak  empty  vessel  bear  such  a  huge 
full  hogshead  ?  there  's  a  whole  merchant's  venture  of 
Bourdeaux  stuff  in  him :  you  have  not  seen  a  hulk 
better  stuffed  in  the  hold. — Come,  I  "11  be  friends  with 
thee.  Jack  :  thou  art  going  to  the  wars ;  and  whether 
1  shall  ever  see  thee  again,  or  no,  there  is  nobody- 
cares. 

Re-enter  Drawer. 

Draic.  Sir,  ancient"  Pistol 's  below,  and  would  speak 
with  you. 

Dol.  Hang  him.  swaggering  ra.scal !  let  him  no« 
come  hither :  it  is  the  foul  mouth'dst  rogue  in  Eng- 
land. 

Host.  If  he  swagger,  let  him  not  come  here  :  no,  by 
my  faith  ;  I  must  live  amongst  my  neighbours  ;  I  '11  no 
swaggerers.  I  am  in  good  name  and  fame  with  the 
very  best. — Shut  the  door  ; — there  comes  no  swagger- 
ers here :  I  have  not  lived  all  this  while,  to  have  swag- 
gering now. — Shut  the  door,  [  pray  you. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  hostess  ? 

Host.  Pray  you,  pacify  yourself,  sir  Jolin :  there 
comes  no  swaggerers  here. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear  ?  it  is  mine  ancient. 

Host.  Tilly-valley,  sir  John,  never  tell  me  :  your 
ancient  swaggerer  comes  not  in  my  doors.  I  was 
before  master  Tisick.  the  deputy,  t'  other  day  ;  and,  as 
he  said  to  me. — it  was  no  longer  ago  than  Wednesday 
last. — "  Neighbour  Quickly,"'  says  he  : — master  Dumb, 
our  minister,  was  by  then : — "  Neighbour  Quickly, 
says  he.  ''  receive  those  that  are  civil ;  for,"  said  he, 
"  you  are  in  an  ill  name  :" — now,  he  said  so,  I  can  t«!l 
whereupon ;  "  for."  says  he,  "  yo\x  are  an  honest  woman, 
and  well  thought  on ;  therefore  take  heed  what  guests 
you  receive  :  '•'  receive,"  says  he.  "  no  swaggering  com- 
panions."— There  comes  none  here  : — you  would  blew 
you  to  bear  what  he  said. — No,  I  'U  no  swaggerers. 

Fa7.  He 's  no  swaggerer,  hostess;  a  tame  cheater. 
i'  faith;  you  may  stroke  him  as  gently  as  a  puppy  grey- 
hound :  he  will  not  swagger  with  a  Barbary  hen,  if  her 
feathers  turn  back  in  any  show  of  resistance. — Call 
him  up,  drawer. 

Host.  Cheater,  call  you  him  ?     I  will  bar  no  hone' 
man  my  house,  nor  no  cheater";    but  I  do  not  Ir 
swaggering:  by  my  troth,  I  am  the  worse,  when  oi 
says — swagger.    Feel,  masters,  how  I  shake  ;  look  you. 
I  warrant  you. 

Dol.  So  you  do.  hostess. 

Host.  Do  [  ?  yea.  in  verj'  truth  do  I,  an  't  were  an 
aspen  leaf.     I  cannot  abide  swaggerers. 
I  Enter  Pistol,  Bardolph,  and  Page. 

Fist.  God  save  you,  sir  John  ! 
I      Fa/.  Welcome,  ancient  Pistol.    Here,  Pistol,  I  chaut 
you  with  a  cup  of  sack  :  do  you  discharge  upon  mn 
hostess. 

j      Pi<!t.  I  will  discharge  upon  her.  sir  John,  with  t^*-! 
bullets. 

I      Fal.  She  is  pistol-proof,  sir ;  you  .shall  hardly  ofteli'^ 
her. 
,      Ho.<:t.    Come.   I  'H  drink  no  proofs^  nor  no  bullets'. 


>  A  fp«ciM  of  ipple  which  wonld  Vrep  &  lotiR  time,  md  h»d  a  ihrivelled-lookinp  exterior.      »  Band.      •  The  rest  of  the  speech  i»  not  in 
*•  Jblio      ♦  From  the  Fr.  huit.  the  ocUre  of  a  fejtiral.    Old,  here  means  great.     »  Look  :  in  folio.     •  Two  lines  from  an  old  ballad,  print*! 


ia  Percy's  Rpliqaes.  Vol.  I.      ''  help  to  :  not  in  the  qaarto. 


>■  This  sentence  is  not 


1  great.     *  Look  :  in  foli( 
'  poor  :  in  f.  e.      *  Ay.  marry  :  in  folio. 


"  Standard-btartr.  ensign.       "  Eseheator 


'•A  line  from  a  ballad,  in  Terry  ■ 


f50ENB   IV. 


KING  HENRY  lY. 


;87 


I  '11  drink  no  more  than  will  do  me  good,  for  no  man's 
pleasure,  I. 

Pist.  Then  to  you,  mistress  Dorothy  ;  I  will  charge 
you. 

Bol.  Charge  me?  I  scorn  you,  scurvy  companion. 
What  !  you  poor,  base,  rascally,  cheating,  lack-linen 
mate  !  Away,  you  mouldy  rogue,  away  !  I  am  meat 
for  your  master. 

Pist.  I  know  you,  mistress  Dorothy. 

Dol.  Away,  you  cut-purse  rascal  !  you  filthy  bung, 
away !  By  this  wine,  I  '11  thrust  my  knife  in  your 
mouldy  chaps,  an  you  play  the  saucy  cuttle  with  me. 
Away,  you  bottle-ale  rascal  !  you  basket-hilt  stale 
juggler,  you  ! — Since  when,  I  pray  you.  sir  ? — God's 
light !  with  two  points  on  your  shoulder  ?  much  ! 

Pist.  I  will  murder  your  ruff  for  this. 

Fal.  No  more,  Pistol :  I  would  not  have  you  go  off 
here.     Discharge  yourself  of  our  company.  Pistol.' 

Host.  No,  good  captain  Pistol ;  not  here,  sweet  cap- 
tain.  • 

Dol.  Captain  !  thou  abominable  damned  cheater,  art 
thou  not  ashamed  to  be  called  captain  ?  An  captains 
were  of  my  mind,  they  would  truncheon  you  out,  for 
taking  their  names  upon  you  before  you  have  earned 
them.  You  a  captain,  you  slave  !  for  what?  for  tear- 
ing a  poor  whore's  ruff  in  a  bawdy-house  ? — He  a  cap- 
tain !  Hang  him,  rogue !  He  lives  upon  mouldy 
etewed  prunes,  and  dried  cakes.  A  captain !  these 
villains  will  make  the  word  captain  as  odious'  as  the 
word  occupy,  which  was  an  excellent  good  word 
before  it  was  ill  sorted  :  therefore  captains  had  need 
look  to  't. 

Bard.  Pray  thee,  go  down,  good  ancient. 

Fal.  Hark  thee  hither,  mistress  Doll. 

Pist.  Not  I  •  I  tell  thee  what,  corporal  Bardolph;  I 
could  tear  her. — I  '11  be  revenged  of  her. 

Page.  Pray  thee,  go  down. 

Pist.  I  '11  see  her  damned  first ; — to  Pluto's  damned 
lake,  by  this  hand,  to  the  infernal  deep,  with  Erebus 
and  tortures  vile  also.  Hold  hook  and  line,  say  I. 
Down  ?  down,  dogs  !  down  fates'  !  Have  we  not  Hiren 
here? 

Host.  Good  captain  Peesel,  be  quiet ;  it  is  very  late, 
i'  faith.     I  beseek  you  now,  aggravate  your  choler. 

Pist.  These  be  good  humours,  indeed  !  Shall  pack- 
And  holiow-pamper'd  jades  of  Asia,  [horses. 

Which  cannot  go  but  thirty  miles  a  day,* 
Compare  with  Caesars,  and  with  Cannibals, 
And  Trojan  Greeks  ?  nay,  rather  damn  them  with 
King  Cerberus,  and  let  the  welkin  roar. 
Shall  we  fall  foul  for  toys  ? 

Host.  By  my  troth,  captain,  these  are  very  bitter 
words. 

Bard.  Begone,  good  ancient ;  this  will  grow  to  a 
brawl  anon. 

Pist.  Die  men,  like  dogs;  give  crowns  like  pins. 
Have  we  not  Hiren  here  ? 

Host.  On  my  word,  captain,  there  's  none  such  here. 
What  the  goodyear  !  do  you  think  I  would  deny  her  ? 
for  God's  sake,  be  quiet. 

Pist.  Then  feed,  and  be  fat,  my  fair  Calipolis.* 
Come,  give  's  some  sack. 

Se  fortuna  me  torrtienta,  il  sperare  me  contenta. — 
Fear  we  broadsides  ?  no,  let  the  fiend  give  fire  : 
Give  me  some  sack  ;  and,  sweetheart,  lie  thou  there. 
[Laying  down  his  sword. 


Come  wc  to  full  points  here,  and  are  et  ceteras  nothing ' 

Fal.  Pistol,  I  would  be  quiet. 

Pist.  Sweet  knight,  I  kiss  thy  neif.* — What !  A'e  have 
seen  the  seven  stars. 

Dol.  For  God's  sake,  thrust  him  do-wn  stairs  :  1 
cannot  endure  such  a  fustian  rascal. 

PisL  Thrust  him  down  stairs  !  know  we  not  Galloway 
nags  ? 

Fal.  Quoit  him  down,  Bardolph,  like  a  shove-groa 
shilling',  nay,  an  he  do  nothing  but  speak  nothing,  he 
shall  be  nothing  here. 

Bard.  Come,  get  you  down  stairs. 

Pist.  What  !  shall  we  have  incision?  shall  we  im- 
brue ? —  [Snatching  up  his  sivord. 
Then,  death,  rock  me  asleep,  abridge  my  doleful  days  ! 
Why  then,  let  grievous,  ghastly,  gaping  wounds 
Untwine  the  sisters  three  !     Come.  Atropos,  I  say  ! 

HoM.  Here  's  goodly  stuff  toward  ! 

Fal.  Give  me  my  rapier,  boy. 

Dol.  I  pray  thee,  Jack,  I  pray  thee,  do  not  draw. 

Fal.  Get  you  down  stairs.      •  [Drawing. 

Host.  Here  's  a  goodly  tumult !  I  '11  forswear  keeping 
house,  afore  I  '11  be  in  these  territs  and  frights.  So  ;. 
murder,  I  warrant  now. — Alas,  alas  !  put  up  your 
naked  weapons ;  put  up  your  naked  weapons. 

[Exeunt  Bardolph  and  Pistol. 

Dol.  I  pray  thee,  Jack,  be  quiet :  the  rascal  is  gone. 
Ah  !  you  whoreson  little  valiant  Aallain,  you. 

Host.  Are  you  not  hurt  i'  the  groin  ?  methought  lie 
made  a  shrewd  thrust  at  your  belly. 
Re-enter  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Have  you  turned  him  out  of  doors  ? 

Bard.  Yes,  sir  :  the  rascal 's  drunk.  You  have  liurt 
him,  sir,  in  the  shoulder. 

Fal.  A  rascal,  to  brave  me  ! 

Dol.  Ah,  you  sweet  little  rogue,  you  !  Alas,  poor 
ape,  how  thou  sweat'st !  Come,  let  me  wipe  thy  face 
— come  on,  you  whoreson  chops. — Ah,  rogue  !  i'  faith. 
I  love  thee.  Thou  art  as  valorous  as  Hector  of  Troy, 
worth  five  of  Agamemnon,  and  ten  times  better  thai4 
the  nine  worthies.     Ah,  villain  ! 

Fal.  A  rascally  slave !  I  will  toss  the  rogue  in  a 
blanket. 

Dol.  Do,  if  thou  darest  for  thy  heart :  if  thou  dost. 
I  '11  canvass  thee  between  a  pair  of  sheets. 
Enter  Music. 

Page.  The  music  is  come,  sir. 

Fal.  Let  them  play. — Play,  sirs. — Sit  on  my  knee. 
Doll. — A  rascal  bragging  slave  !  the  rogue  fled  from 
me  like  quicksilver. 

Dol.  V  faith,  and  thou  followedst  him  like  a  church. 
Thou  whoreson  little  tidy  Bartholomew  boar-pig,*  when 
wilt  thou  leave  fighting  o'  days,  and  foining  o'  nights, 
and  begin  to  patch  up  thine  old  body  for  heaven  ? 
Enter  behind,  Prince  Henry  and  Poins.  disguised  like 
Dratvers. 

Fal.  Peace,  good  Doll !  do  not  speak  like  a  death's 
head :  do  not  bid  me  remember  mine  end. 

Dol.  Sirrah,  what  humour  is  the  prince  of? 

Fal.  A  good  shallow  young  fellow:  he  would  have 
made  a  good  pantler,  he  would  have  chipped  bread 
well. 

Dol.  They  say,  Poins  has  a  good  wit. 

Fal.  He  a  good  wit  ?  hang  him,  baboon  !  his  -wit  is 
as  thick  as  Tewksbury  mustard  :  there  is  no  more  con- 
ceit in  him,  than  is  in  a  mallet. 


_'  This  speech  is  not  in  the  folio.  'The  rest  of  this  sentence,  to  the  word  '•  therefore,"  is  not  in  the  folio.  '  faters  :  in  quarto  ;  faUourt.  ci 
paitors.  ♦  A  quotation  fronn  Marlowe's  play  of  Tamerlane— they  aie  addressed  by  the  hero  to  the  captive  kings  who  draw  his  chariot.  «  A 
quotation  from  the  play  of  ''The  Battle  of  Alcanzar,"  probably  by  Peele.  «  Fist.  ' The  broad  shilling  of  Edward  VI.  ;  th»  game,  prcba. 
Wy,  resembled  shuffle  boaV.     »  Roast  pig  was  a  favourite  delicacy  at  Bartholomew  Fair, 


388 


SECOND   PART  OF 


AOT   IL 


Dol.  Wliy  does  the  prince  love  him  so.  then  ^  | 

Fal.  B'.H'ause  llioir  legs  are  both  ol"  a  bigness:  and 
h'»  plays  at  quoits  well ;  and  eats  conger  and  fennel  :j 
and  drinks  oil"  candies'  ends  for  llap-dragons' :  and  rides  | 
the  wild  mare'  with  the  boys:  and  jumps  upon  joint- 
stools;  and  swears  with  a  good  grace;  and  wears  his  I 
boot  very  smooth  like  unto  the  sign  ol"  the  leg  :  and 
breeds  no  bate'  wiili  telling  of  discreet  stories:  and 
filch  other  gambol  faculties  he  has,  that  show  a  weak 
mind  and  an  able  body,  for  the  which  the  prince  admits 
him  :  for  the  prince  himself  is  such  another  :  the  weight 
of  a  hair  will  turn  the  scales  between  their  avoirdu- 
pois. 

P.  Hen  Would  not  this  nave  of  a  wheel  have  his 
<?ars  cut  olT? 

Poms.  Let 's  beat  him  before  his  whore. 

P.  Hen.  Look,  whether*  the  withered  elder  hath  not 
his  poll  clawed  like  a  parrot. 

Pains.  Is  it  not  strange,  that  desire  should  so  many 
years  outlive  performance  ? 

Fal.  Kiss  me.  Doll. 

P.  Hen.  Saturn  and  Venus  this  year  in  conjunction  I 
what  says  the  almanack  to  that? 

Poius.  And,  look,  whether  the  fiery  Trigon*.  his  man, 
be  not  clasping  to  his  master's  old  tables,  his  note-book, 
his  oouiLsel-kceper. 

Fai.  Thou  dost  give  me  flattering  busses. 

Dol.  Nay,  truly ;  I  kiss  thee  with  a  most  constant 
heart. 

Fal.  I  am  old.  I  airi  old. 

Dol.  I  love  thee  better  than  I  love  e'er  a  scun-^- 
young  boy  of  them  all. 

Fal.  What  stuff  wilt  have  a  kirtle*  of?  I  shall  re- 
ceive money  on  Thursday  :  thou  shalt  have  a  cap  to- 
morrow. A  merry  song  I  come  :  it  grows  late  :  we  'II 
to  bed.     Thou  It  forget  ine.  when  I  am  2one. 

Dol.  By  my  troth,  thou  Tt  set  me  a  weeping,  an  thou 
say' St  so  :  i)rove  that  ever  I  dress  myself  handsome  till 
thy  return. — Well,  hearken  the  end. 

Fal.  Some  sack.  Francis  ! 

P.  Hen.  Poins.  Anon.  anon.  sir.  [Advancing. 

Fal.  Ha  !  a  bastard  son  of  the  king's. — And  art  not 
thou  Poins,  his  brother  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why.  thou  globe  of  sinful  contitxents.  what 
a.  life  dost  thou  lead. 

Fal.  A  belter  than  thou  :  I  am  a  gentleman  :  thou 
art  a  drawer. 

P.  Hen.  Very  true,  sir,  and  I  come  to  draw  you  out 
by  the  ears. 

Host.  O,  the  Lord  preserve  thy  good  grace  I  by  my 
troth,  welcome  to  London. — Now,  the  Lord  bles-s  that 
«weet  face  of  thine  !  0  Je.su  !  are  vou  come  from 
Wale*  ' 

Fal.  Thou  whore.«on  mad  compound  of  majesty. — 

ty  this  light  fle-xh  and  corrupt  blood,  thou  art  welcome. 

[Placing  his  hand  vp<m  Doll. 

Dol.  HoWj  you  fat  fool  ?     I  scorn  you. 

Poins.  My  lord,  he  will  drive  you  out  of  your  re- 
rnzfi.  and  turn  all  to  a  merriment,  if  you  take  not  the 
heat. 

P  Hen.  Vou  whnro.<on  candle-mine.  you.  how  vilely 
i:d    you    fponk  of    me  even  now.  before  this  honest, 

irtuou-s.  civil  gentlewoman. 

Host.  God'.s  bles.«ing  of  your  good  heart  !  and  so  she 
»«.  by  my  troth. 

Fal.  Didst  thou  hear  me  ? 

P.  Hm.  Ves :  and  you  knew  me,  as  you  did.  when 


you  ran  away  by  Gad's-hill :  you  knew.  I  was  at  youi 
back,  and  sjx)ke  it  on  purpose  to  try  my  patience. 

Fill.  No,  no.  no :  not  so ;  I  did  not  think  thou  wast 
within  hearing. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  drive  you.  then,  to  confe.ss  the  wilful 
abuse  :  and  then  I  know  how  to  handle  you. 

Fal.  No  abuse.  Hal,  on  mine  honour ;  no  abuse. 

P.  Hen.  Not  to  dispraise  me.  and  call  me  pantler, 
and  bread-chipper,  and  I  know  not  what  ? 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Hal. 

Poins.  No  abuse  ! 

Fal.  No  abuse.  Ned,  i'  the  world  ;  honest  Ned,  none 
I  disprais'd  him  before  the  v.icked.  that  the  wicked 
might  not  fall  in  love  with  him' — in  which  doing,  I 
have  done  the  part  of  a  careful  friend,  and  a  true  sub- 
ject, and  thy  father  is  to  give  me  thanks  for  it.  No 
abuse.  Hal; — none,  Ned.  none  : — no,  'faith  boys,  none. 

P.  Hen.  See  now,  whether  pure  fear,  and  entire 
cowardice,  doth  not  make  thee  wrong  this  virtuous 
gentlewoman  to  close  with  us?  Is  she  of  the  wicked  r 
Is  thine  hostess  here  of  the  wicked  ?  Or  is  thy  boy  of 
the  wicked  ?  Or  honest  Bardolph.  whose  zeal  burns 
in  his  nose,  of  the  wicked  ? 

Poins.  Answer,  thou  dead  elm.  answer. 

Fal.  The  fiend  hath  pricked  do^^^l  Bardolph  irreco- 
verably; and  his  face  is  Lucifer's  privj-  kitchen, 
where  he  doth  nothing  but  roast  malt-worms.  For  the 
boy. — there  is  a  good  angel  about  him.  but  the  devil 
outbids*  him  too. 

P.  Hen.  For  the  women  ? 

Fnl.  For  one  of  them,  she  is  in  hell  already,  and 
burns,  poor  soul.  For  the  other.  I  owe  her  money,  and 
whether  she  be  damned  for  that.  I  know  not. 

Host.  No.  I  warrant  you. 

Fal.  No,  I  think  thou  art  not :  I  think,  thou  art  qui. 
for  that.  Marry,  there  is  another  indictment  upon  thee, 
for  suffering  flesh  to  be  eaten  in  thy  house,  contrary  to 
the  law;  for  the  which.  I  think,  thou  wilt  howl. 

Host.  All  victuallers  do  so  :  what 's  a  joint  of  mut- 
ton or  two  in  a  whole  Lent  ? 

P.  Hen.  You.  gentlewoman, — 

Dol.  What  says  your  grace  ? 

Fal.  His  grace  says  that  which  his  flesh  rebels 
against.  [Knocking  heard. 

Host.  Who  knocks  so  loud  at  door?  look  to  the  door 
there.  Francis. 

Enter  Peto. 

P.  Hen.  Peto.  how  now!  what  news? 

Pcto.  The  king  your  father  is  at  Westminster. 
And  there  arc  twenty  weak  and  wearied  posts 
Come  from  the  north  :  and  as  I  came  along 
I  met.  and  overtook,  a  dozen  captains, 
Bare-headed,  sweating,  knocking  at  the  taverns. 
And  asking  everyone  for  sir  John  Falstaff.         [blanv^ 

P.   Hen.    By  heaven,    Poins.    I    feel    me    much  " 
So  idly  to  profane  the  precious  time, 
When  tempest  of  commotion,  like  the  south 
Borne  with  black  vapour,  doth  begin  to  melt. 
And  drop  upon  our  bare  unarmed  heads. 
Give  me  my  sword,  and  cloak. — Falstaff.  good  night. 
[Exeunt  Prince  Henry,  Poins,  Peto.  ann 

B.'lRDOI.PH. 

Fal.  Now  comes  in  the  sweetest  morsel  of  the  nigh 
and  we  must  hence,  and  leave  it  unpicked.    [A'rioc^'  :: 
heard.]  More  knocking  at  the  door? 

Re-enter  Bardolph. 
How  now  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 


^/n/omma-.^   ™4jran<«i  floninr  on   lienor,  and  iwallowed  flaminr.      »  Plari  at  »e«-Mio.      *  Debate.      ♦  if:  in  folio       *  Tngonutn 
CTI'^'J'.       a»lronomic*lj«Tm   wkenthe  apper  planet,  meet  in  a  fiery  lign.      The>ry  Trigon,  I  think.  oon»;«t«  of  ArUs,  Lee.  iii« 

in  quirto       «  blindi  :  in  quarto. 


i>nf\ttariut.—  S- •.treiu      *  Petticoat 


SCENE 


KIXG   HENRY   IV. 


389 


Bard.  You  must  away  to  court,  sir,  presently : 
A  dozen  captains  stay  at  door  for  you. 

Fal.  Pay  the  musicians,  sirrah.  [To  the  Page.] — 
Farewell,  hostess; — farewell,  Doll.  You  see,  my  good 
wenches,  how  men  of  merit  are  sought  after  :  the  unde- 
server  may  sleep,  when  the  man  of  action  is  called  on. 
Farewell,  good  wenches.  If  I  be  not  sent  away  post, 
I  will  see  you  again  ere  I  go. 

Dol.  I  cannot  speak  ; — if  my  heart  be  not  ready  to 
burst. — Well,  sweet  Jack,  have  a  care  of  thyself. 

Fal.  Farewell,  farewell.  [Exeunt  Fal.  and  Bar. 


Host.  Well,  fare  thee  well :  I  have  known  thee  these 
twenty-nine  years,  come  peascod-time  ;  but  an  honester. 
and  truer-hearted  man, — Well,  fare  thee  well. 

Bard.   [  Within.]  Mistress  Tear-sheet ! 

Host.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Bard.  [IVithin.]  Bid  Mistress  Tear-sheet  come  ic 
my  master. 

Host.  0  !  run,  Doll,  run  ;  run,  good  Doll.'  Come  — 
She  comes  blubbered. — Yea — will  you  come,  Doll  ? 

[Exeitnt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Henry  mi  his  Nightgown,  with  a  Page. 

K.  Hen.  Go,  call  the  earls  of  Surrey  and  of  Warwick  : 
But,  ere  they  come,  bid  them  o'er-read  these  letters, 
And  well  consider  of  them.     Make  good  speed. 

[Exit  Page. 
How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  ! — 0  sleep  !  0  gentle  sleep  i 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee, 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 
And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber, 
Than  in  the  perfum'd  chambers  of  the  great, 
Under  high*  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  luU'd  with  sound  of  sweetest  melody  ? 
0.  thou  dull  god !  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile. 
In  loathsome  beds,  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch, 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum  bell  ? 
Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge, 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds. 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top. 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deaf'ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  shrouds^, 
That  with  the  hurly  death  itself  awakes  ? 
Canst  thou,  0  partial  sleep  !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude : 
And  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night. 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 
Deny  it  to  a  king?     Then,  happy  low,  lie  down  !* 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 
Enter  Warwick  and  Surrey. 

War.  Many  good  morrows  to  your  majesty  ! 

K.  Hen.  Is  it  good  morrow,  lords  ? 

War.  'T  is  one  o'clock,  and  past. 

K.  Hen.  Why  then,  good  morrow  to  you    all.    my 
lords. 
Have  you  read  o'er  the  letters  that  I  sent  you  ? 

War.  We  have,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  Then  you  perceive,  the  body  of  our  kingdom 
How  foul  it  is ;  what  rank  diseases  grow. 
And  with  what  danger,  near  the  heart  of  it. 

War.  It  is  but  as  a  body,  yet,  distemper'd, 
Which  to  his  former  strength  may  be  restor'd, 
With  good  advice,  and  little  medicine. 
My  lord  Northumberland  will  soon  be  cool'd. 

K.  Hen.  0  God  !  that  one  might  read  the  book  of  fate, 


And  see  the  revolution  of  the  times 

Make  mountains  level,  and  the  continent. 

Weary  of  solid  firmness,  melt  itself 

Into  the  sea :  and.  other  times,  to  see 

The  beachy  girdle  of  the  ocean 

Too  wide  for  Neptune's  hips  ;  how  chances  mock. 

And  changes  fill  the  cup  of  alteration 

With  divers  liquors  !     0,  if  this  were  seen, 

The  happiest  youth,  viewing  his  progress  through, 

What  perils  past,  what  crosses  to  ensue,* 

Would  shut  the  book,  and  sit  him  down  and  die.' 

'T  is  not  ten  years  gone. 

Since  Richard,  and  Northumberland,  great  friends, 

Did  feast  together,  and  in  two  years  after 

Were  they  at  wars  :  it  is  but  eight  years,  since 

This  Percy  was  the  man  nearest  my  soul ; 

Who  like  a  brother  toil'd  in  my  atfairs. 

And  laid  his  love  and  life  under  my  foot ; 

Yea,  for  my  sake,  even  to  the  eyes  of  Richard, 

Gave  him  defiance.     But  which  of  you  was  by, 

(You.  aousin  Nevil,  as  I  may  remember)  [To  Wakvvicb. 

When  Richard,  with  his  eye  brimfull  of  tears. 

Then  check'd  and  rated  by  Northumberland, 

Did  speak  these  words,  now  prov'd  a  prophecy  ? 

"  Northumberland,  thou  ladder,  by  the  which 

My  cousin  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne :" — 

Though  then,  God  knows.  I  had  no  such  intent, 

But  that  necessity  so  bow'd  the  state. 

That  I  and  greatness  were  compell'd  to  kiss. 

"  The  time  shall  come."  thus  did  he  follow  it, 

"The  time  will  come,  that  foul  sin.  gathering  head, 

Shall  break  into  corruption  :" — so  went  on. 

Foretelling  this  same  time's  condition, 

And  the  division  of  our  amity. 

War.  There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives, 
Figuring  the  nature  of  the  times  deceas'd  ; 
The  which  observ'd,  a  man  may  prophesy, 
Wi+h  a  near  aim,  of  the  main  chance  of  things 
As  yet  not  come  to  life,  which  in  their  seeds, 
And  weak  beginnings,  lie  intreasured. 
Such  things  become  the  hatch  and  brood  of  time : 
And,  by  the  necessary  form  of  this. 
King  Richard  might  create  a  perfect  guess. 
That  great  Northumberland,  then  false  to  him. 
Would,  of  that  seed,  grow  to  a  greater  falseness, 
Which  should  not  find  a  ground  to  root  upon. 
Unless  on  you. 

K.  Hen.  Are  these  things,  then,  necessities'^ 

Then  let  us  meet  them  like  necessities ; 
And  that  same  word  even  now  cries  out  on  us. 
They  say,  the  bishop  and  Northumberland 


'  The  rest  of  the  ppeech  is  not  in  the  folio.     Dyce  says,  "  She  comes  blubbered,"  is  a  stage  direction.      ^  the  : 
Wdxburton  suggested  :  happy,  lowiy  clown.      *  This  sentence,  beginning  with,  "Oh,  if"   is  not  in  the  folio. 


390 


SECOND   PART  OF 


Acrr  m 


Are  fifty  thoiisand  strong. 

War.  It  cannot  be,  my  lord  . 

n  umour  doth  double,  like  the  voice  and  echo, 
The  numbers  of  the  fearM. — Please  it  your  grace 
To  20  to  bed  :  upon  my  soul,  my  lord. 
The  powers  that  you  already  have  sent  forth, 
Sliall  bring  this  prize  in  very  easily. 
To  comfort  you  the  more,  I  have  receiv'd 
A  certain  instance  that  Glendower  is  dead. 
Vour  majesty  hath  been  this  fortnight  ill, 
And  these  unscason'd  hours,  perforce,  must  add 
Unto  your  sickness. 

A'  He7i.  I  Avill  take  your  counsel : 

And  were  these  inward  wars  once  out  of  hand. 
We  would,  dear  lords,  unto  the  Holy  Land.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II — Court  before  Justice  Shallow's   House 

in  Gloucestershire. 
Enter  Shallow  mid  Silence,  meeting  ;  Mouldy.  Sha- 
dow. Wart,  Feeblf  Bull-calf,  and  Servants,  be- 
hind. 

Slial.  Come  on,  come  on.  come  on,  sir:  sive  me  your 
hand,  sir,  give  me  your  hand,  sir  :  an  early  stirrer,  by 
the  rood.     And  how  doth  my  good  cousin  Silence  ? 

Sil.  Good  morrow,  good  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  And  how  doth  my  cousin,  your  bedfellow?  and 
your  fairest  daughter  and  mine,  my  god-daughter  Ellen? 

Sil.  Alas  !  a  black  ouzel,  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  yea  and  nay.  sir.  I  dare  say.  my  cousin 
William  is  become  a  good  scholar.  He  is  at  Oxford, 
still,  is  he  not  ? 

Sil.  Indeed,  sir  ;  to  my  cost. 

Skal.  He  must  then  to  the  inns  of  court  shortly.  I 
was  once  of  Clement's  irm:  where.  I  think,  they  will 
talk  of  mad  Shallow  yet. 

Sil.  You  were  called  lusty  Shallow  then,  cousin. 

Shal.  By  the  mass.  I  was  called  anything:  and  I 
would  have  done  any  thing,  indeed,  and  roundly  too. 
There  was  I.  and  little  John  Doit  of  Staffordshire,  and 
black  George  Barnes,  and  Francis  Pickbone,  and  Will 
Squele.  a  Cotswold  man;  you  had  not  four  such 
swingebueklers  in  all  the  inns  of  court  again :  and.  I 
may  say  to  you,  we  knew  where  the  bona-robas  were, 
and  had  the  best  of  them  all  at  commandment.  Then 
was  Jack  Falstaff,  now  sir  John,  a  boy,  and  page  to 
Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of  Norfolk.' 

Sil.  This  sir  John,  cousin,  that  comes  hither  anon 
about  soldiers? 

Shal.  The  same  sir  John,  tlie  vcrA'  same.  I  saw  him 
break  Skogan's'head  at  the  court  gate,  when  he  was  a 
crack  not  thus  high:  and  the  very  same  day  did  I 
tight  with  one  Samp.son  Stockfish,  a  fruiterer,  behind 
Grays-inn.  Jesu  !  Jesu !  the  mad  days  that  I  have 
8j)ent !  and  to  see  how  many  of  mine  old  acquaintance 
are  dead  ! 

Sil.  We  shall  all  follow,  cousin. 

Shal.  Certain,  't  is  certain  :  very  sure,  very  sure  : 
death,  as  the  Psalmist  saith,  is  certain  to  all  :  all 
sliall  die.  How  a  good  voke  of  bullocks  at  Stamford 
fair  ? 

Sil.  Truly,  cousin.  I  wa.s  not  there. 

Slial.  Death  is  certain. — Is  old  Double  of  your  town 
livi:ng  vet? 

Sil    Dead,  sir. 

Shal.  Jesu  !  Jesu  !     Dead  ! — lie   drew  a  good  bow 
— and  dead  ! — he  shot   a  fine   sho<.t  : — John  o'  Gaunt 
loved  hirn  well,  and  betted   much  money  on  hi.^  head. 

'  Thi«  piuWRe  in  cited  to  prove  the  identity  of  Falstaff  with  Sir  John  01dca.xtle — the  latter  having  been  page  to  Mowbray.  '  The  bub* 
•f  a  _e«t«r.  "  Scocan'i  Jest*.'"  wa»  a  popu  ar  book  in  Shakespeare's  time  '  Hit  the  pin  which  held  up  the  target,  at  twelve  Knn  •>«««« 
*  jverywhe."*  :  in  folio.      *  Not  in  fvlio        'Ijok  •        £oIm> 


Dead  ! — he  would  have  clapped  in  the  clout  at  twelve 
score' ;  and  carried  you  a  forehand  shaft  a  fourteen  and 
fourteen  and  a  half,  that  it  would  have  done  a  man's 
heart  good  to  see. — How  a  score  of  ewes  now  ? 

Sil.  Thereafter  as  they  be ;  a  score  of  good  ewec 
may  b'?  worth  ten  pounds. 

Shal.  And  is  old  Double  dead  ! 

Enter  Bardolph.  and  one  with  him. 

Sil.  Here  come  two  of  sir  John  Falstaff's  men,  as  I 
think. 

Shal.  Good  morrow,  honest  gentlemen. 

Bard.  I  beseech  you.  which  is  justice  Shallow  ? 

Shal.  I  am  Robert  Shallow,  sir ;  a  poor  esquire  of 
this  county,  and  one  of  the  king's  justices  of  the 
peace.     What  is  your  good  pleasure  with  me  ? 

Bard.  My  captain,  sir.  commends  him  to  you;  my 
captain,  sir  John  Falstaff:  a  tall  gentleman,  by  heayen. 
and  a  most  gallant  leader. 

Shal.  He  greets  me  well,  sir:  I  k-new  him  a  good 
backsword  man.  How  doth  the  good  knight?  may  I 
ask.  how  my  lady  his  wife  doth  ? 

Bard.  Sir.  pardon  ;  a  soldier  is  better  accommodated 
than  with  a  vi-ife. 

Shal.  It  is  well  said,  in  faith,  sir  ;  and  it  is  well  said 
indeed  too.  Better  accommodated  ! — it  is  good  ;  yea. 
indeed,  is  it :  good  phrases  are  surely,  and  ever  were.' 
very  commendable.  Accommodated : — it  comes  oif 
accommodo  :  very  good  ;  a  good  phrase. 

Bard.  Pardon  me,  sir;  I  have  heard  the  word. 
Phrase,  call  you  it?  By  this  good*  day,  I  know  not 
the  phrase  :  but  I  will  maintain  the  word  yriih  my 
sword  to  be  a  soldier-like  word,  and  a  word  of  ex- 
ceeding good  command,  by  heaven.  Accommodated  ; 
that  is,  when  a  man  is,  as  they  say.  accommodated 
or.  when  a  man  is. — ^being. — whereby. — he  may  be 
thought  to  be  accommodated,  which  is  an  excellent 
thing. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Shal.  It  is  very  just. — Look,  here  comes  good  sir 
John. — Give  me  your  good  hand,  give  me  your  wor- 
ship's good  hand.  By  my  troth,  you  like'  -well,  and 
bear  your  years  very  well :  welcome,  good  sir  John. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well,  srood  master  Robert 
Shallow. — Master  Sure-card,  as  I  think. 

Shal.  No.  sir  John  ;  it  is  my  cousin  Silence,  in  com- 
mission with  me. 

Fal.  Good  master  Silence,  it  well  befits  you  should 
be  of  the  peace. 

Sil.  Your  20od  worship  is  welcome. 

Fal.  Fie!  this  is  hot  weather. — Gentlemen,  haveyou 
provided  me  here  half  a  dozen  sufficient  men  ? 

Shal.  Marry,  have  we,  sir.     Will  you  sit  ? 

Fal.  Let  me  see  them.  I  beseech  you. 

Shal.  Where's  the  roll?  where 's  the  roll?  where '« 
the  roll  ? — Let  me  see.  let  me  see  :  so,  .so,  so.  so.  Yea. 
marry,  sir. — Ralph  Mouldy  ! — let  them  appear  as  I 
call  :  let  them  do  so,  let  them  do  so. — Let  me  see : 
where  is  Mouldy? 

Mnnl.  Here,  an  it  plea.se  you. 

Shal.  What  tliink  you,  sir  John?  a  good  limbed 
fellow  :  young,  strong,  and  of  good  friends. 

Fal.  Is  thy  name  Mouldy? 

Mml.  Yea.  an  it  please  you. 

Fal.  'T  is  the  more  time  thou  wert  used. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha.  ha!  most  excellent,  i'  faith!  thin^ 
that  are  mouldy  lack  use  :  very  singular  good  ! — Id 
1  faith,  well  said,  sir  John  ;  very  well  said. 


SCENE   II. 


KING   HENRY  IV. 


891 


Fal.  Prick  him.  [To  Shallow. 

Moul.  I  was  pricked  well  enough  before,  an  you 
could  have  let  me  alone :  my  old  dame  "otII  be  undone 
now,  lor  one  to  do  her  husbandry,  and  hsr  drudgery. 
You  need  not  to  have  pricked  me ;  there  are  other  men 
fitter  to  go  out  than  I. 

Fal.  Go  to ;  peace,  Mouldy  !  you  shall  go.  Mouldy, 
it  is  time  you  were  spent. 

Moul.  Spent ! 

Shal.  Peace,  fellow,  peace  !  stand  aside  :  know  you 
where  you  are? — For  the  other,  sir  John : — let  me  see. 
— Simon  Shadow ! 

Fal.  Yea  marry,  let  me  have  him  to  sit  under  :  he  's 
like  to  be  a  cold  soldier. 

Shal.  Where  's  Shadow  ? 

Shad.  Here,  sir, 

Fal.  Shadow,  whose  son  art  thou  ? 

Slmd.  My  mother's  son,  sir. 

Fal.  Thy  mother's  son '  ]ike  enough ;  and  thy  fa- 
ther's shadow :  so  the  son  of  the  female  is  the  shadow 
of  the  male.  It  is  often  so,  indeed  ;  but  not  of  the  fa- 
ther's substance. 

Shal.  Do  you  like  him,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Shadow  will  serve  for  summer,  prick  him  ;  for 
we  have  a  number  of  shadows  to  fill  up  the  muster-book. 

Slial.  Thomas  Wart! 

Fal.  Where's  he? 

Wart.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Is  thy  name  Wart  ? 

Wart.  Yea,  sir. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  very  ragged  wart. 

Shal.  Shall  I  prick  him,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  It  were  superfluous ;  for  his  apparel  is  built 
upon  his  back,  and  the  whole  frame  stands  upon  pins : 
prick  him  no  more. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! — ^you  can  do  it,  sir  ;  you  can  do 
t:  I  commend  you  well. — Francis  Feeble  ! 

Fee.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  What  trade  art  thou.  Feeble  ? 

Fee.  A  woman's  tailor,  sir. 

Shal.  Shall  I  prick  him,  sir  ? 

Fal.  You  may ;  but  if  he  had  been  a  man's  tailor,  he 
would  have  pricked  you. — Wilt  thou  make  as  many 
holes  in  an  enemy's  battle,  as  thou  hast  done  in  a  wo- 
man's petticoat  ? 

Fee.  I  will  do  my  good  will,  sir :  you  can  have  no 
more. 

Fal.  Well  said,  good  woman's  tailor !  well  said, 
courageous  Feeble  !  Thou  wilt  be  as  valiant  as  the 
wrathful  dove,  or  most  magnanimous  mouse. — Prick 
the  woman's  tailor  well,  master  Shallow  ;  deerp  master 
Shallow. 

Fee.  I  would  Wart  might  have  gone,  sir. 

Fal.  I  would  thou  wert  a  man's  tailor,  that  thou 
mightst  mend  him.  and  make  him  fit  to  go.  I  cannot 
put  him  to  a  private  soldier,  that  is  the  leader  of  so 
nany  thousands  :  let  that  suffice,  most  forcible  Feeble. 

Fee.  It  shall  suffice,  sir. 

Fal.  I  am  bound  to  thee,  reverend  Feeble. — Who  is 
next  ? 

Shal.  Peter  Bull-calf  of  the  green  ! 

Fal.  Yea,  marry,  let  us  see  Bull-calf. 

Bull.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  'Fore  God,  a  likely  fellow  ! — Come,  prick  mc 
3ull-calf  till  he  roar  again. 

Bidl.  0  lord  !  good  my  lord  captain, — 

Fal.  What,  dost  thou  roar  before  thou  art  pr;cked  ? 

Bull.  0  Lord  !  sir,  I  am  a  diseased  man. 

Fal.  What  disease  hast  thou  ? 


i 


Bull.  A  whoreson  «old,  sir ;  a  cough,  sir ;  which  I 
caught  with  ringing  in  the  king's  afl!airs  upon  his  coro 
nation  day,  sir. 

Fal.  Come,  thou  shall  go  to  the  wars  in  a  gown 
We  will  have  away  thy  cold  ;  and  I  will  take  such 
order,  that  thy  friends  shall  ring  for  thee. — Is  here  all? 

Shal.  Here  is  two  more  called  than  your  number', 
you  must  have  but  four  here,  sir  : — and  so,  I  pray  you, 
go  in  with  me  to  dinner. 

Fal.  Come,  I  will  go  drink  with  you,  but  I  cannoi 
tarry  dinner.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  by  my  troth,  mas 
ter  Shallow. 

Shal.  0,  sir  John  !  do  you  remember  since  we  lay 
all  night  in  the  windmill  in  Saint  George's  fields  ? 

Fal.  No  more  of  that,  good  master  Shallow;  iw 
more  of  that. 

Shal.  Ha,  it  was  a  merry  night.  And  is  Jane  Night 
work  alive  ? 

Fal.  She  lives,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  She  never  could  away  with  me.' 

Fal.  N'^.ver,  never  :  she  would  always  say,  she  could 
not  abide  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  could  anger  her  to  the  heart. 
She  was  then  a  bona-roba.  Doth  she  hold  her  own 
well  ? 

Fal.  Old,  old,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Nay.  she  must  be  old  ;  she  cannot  choose  but 
be  old ;  certain  she  's  old,  and  had  Robin  Night-work 
by  old  Night-work,  before  I  came  to  Clement's-inn. 

Sil.  That 's  fifty-five  year  ago. 

Shal.  Ha,  cousin  Silence,  that  thou  hadst  seen  that 
that  this  knight  and  I  have  seen  ! — Ha,  sir  John,  said 
I  well  ? 

Fal.  We  have  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight,  master 
Shallow. 

Shal.  That  we  have,  that  we  have,  that  we  have ;  in 
faith,  sir  John,  we  have.  Our  watch-word  was,  "  Hem. 
boys  !" — Come,  let 's  to  dinner  ;  come,  let 's  to  dimier. 
— 0,  the  days  that  we  have  seen  ! — Come,  come. 

[Exeunt  Falstaff,  Shallow,  and  Silence. 

Bull.  Good  master  corporate  Bardolph,  stand  my 
friend,  and  here  is  four  Harry  ten  shillings  in  French 
crowns  for  you.  In  very  truth,  sir,  I  had  as  lief  be 
hanged,  sir,  as  go :  and  yet,  for  mine  own  part,  sir,  I 
do  not  care;  but  rather,  because  I  am  unwilling,  and, 
for  mine  own  part,  have  a  desire  to  stay  wich  my 
friends :  else,  sir,  I  did  not  care,  for  mine  own  part,  so 
much. 

Bard.  Go  to ;  stand  aside. 

Moul.  And  good  master  corporal  captain,  for  my  old 
dame's  sake,  stand  my  friend  :  she  has  nobody  to  do 
any  thing  about  her,  when  I  am  gone  ;  and  she  is  old, 
and  cannot  help  herself.     You  shall  have  forty,  su". 

Bard.  Go  to  ;  stand  aside. 

Fee.  By  my  troth,  I  care  not  ;  a  man  can  die  but 
once ; — we  owe  God  a  death.  I  '11  ne'er  bear  a  base 
mind  : — an  't  be  my  destiny,  so  ;  an  't  be  not,  so.  No 
man  's  too  good  to  serve  his  prince  ;  and  let  it  go  which 
way  it  will,  he  that  dies  this  year  i«  quit  for  the  next. 

Bard.  Well  said ;  thou  art  a  good  fellow. 

Fee.  'Faith,  I  '11  bear  no  base  mind. 

Re  enter  Falstaff,  and  Justices. 

Fal.  Come,  sir,  which  men  shall  I  have  ? 

Skal.  Four,  of  which  you  please. 

Bard.  Sir,  a  M'ord  with  you. — I  have  'Jiree  pound  U 
free  Mouldy  and  Bull-calf. 

Fal.  Go  to  ;  well. 

Shal.   Come,  sir  John,  which  four  will  you  have  ? 

Fal.  Do  you  choose  for  mc. 


392 


SECOND  PART  OF 


ACT   IT. 


Shal  Marry  then, — Mouldy,  Bull-calf,  Feeble,  and 
Shadou'. 

Fcl.  Mouldy,  and  Bull-calf. — For  you.  Mouldy,  stay 
at  homo  till  you  are  past  service  : — and,  for  your  part, 
Bull-calf,  grow  till  you  come  unto  it:  I  will  none  of 
you. 

Shal.  Sir  John,  sir  John,  do  not  youreelf  wrong. 
They  are  your  likeliest  men,  and  I  would  have  you 
scned  with  the  best. 

Fal.  Will  you  tell  ine,  master  Shallow,  how  to 
choose  a  man?  Care  I  for  the  limb,  the  thewes,  the 
•tature,  buiic  and  big  a.'jseinblance  of  a  man?  Give 
me  the  spirit,  master  Shallow. — Here  's  Wart : — you 
see  what  a  ragged  appearance  it  is :  he  shall  charge 
you,  and  discharge  you,  with  the  motion  of  a  pewtcrer's 
hammer  :  conic  off,  and  on,  swifter  than  he  that  gib- 
bets-ou  the  brewer's  bucket.  And  this  same  half-faced 
fellow.  Shadow, — give  me  this  man  :  he  presents  no 
mark  to  the  enemy  ;  the  foeman  may  with  as  great  aim 
level  at  the  edge  of  a  penknife.  And,  for  a  retreat, — 
how  swiftly  will  this  Feeble,  the  woman's  tailor,  run 
off?  0.  cive  mc  the  spare  men,  and  spare  me  the  great 
ones. — Put  me  a  caliver'  into  Wart^'s  hand,  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Hold,  Wart;  traverse:  thus,  thus,  thus. 

Fal.  Come,  manage  me  your  caliver.  So: — very 
well  : — izo  to  : — very  good  : — exceeding  good. — 0.  give 
me  always  a  little,  lean,  old,  chapped,  bald  shot. — 
Well  said,  i'  faith.  Wart:  thou 'rt  a  good  scab;  hold, 
there  "s  a  tester  for  thee. 

Shal.  He  is  not  his  craft's  ma.ster,  he  doth  not  do  it 
right.  I  remember  at  Mile-end  green,  (when  I  lay  at 
Clement's  inn)  I  was  then  sir  Dagonet  in  Arthur's 
show*,  there  was  a  little  quiver  fellow,  and  he  would 
manage  you  his  piece  thus :  and  he  would  about,  and 
about,  and  come  you  in,  and  come  you  in  :  "  rah,  tah, 
tah."  would  he  say;  '•  bounce,  '  would  he  say;  and 
away  again  would  he  go,  and  again  would  he  come. — 
I  shall  never  see  such  a  fellow. 

Fal.  These  fellows  will  do  well,  master  Shallow. — 
God  keep  you,  master  Silence  :  I  will  not  use  many 
words  with  you. — Fare  you  well,  gentlemen  both :  I 
thank  you :  I  must  a  dozen  mile  to-night. — Bardolph, 
give  the  soldiers  coats. 


Shal.  Sir  John,  the  Lord  bless  you,  and  God  prosjxjk 
your  affairs,  and  send  us  peace.  At'  your  return,  visit 
our*  house.  Let  our  old  acquaintance  be  renewed; 
peradventiire.  1  will  with  you  to  the  court. 

Fal.  "Fore  God,  I  would  you  would. 

Slial.  Go  to ;  I  have  spoke  at  a  word.  Fare  yim 
well.  [Exeunt  Shaj,lo\v  and  Sii,e.\ck. 

Fal.  Fare  you  well,  gentle  gentlemen.  On,  Bai- 
dolph  ;  lead  the  men  away.  [Exeunt  Bardolph,  Re- 
cruits, ^'c]  As  I  return,  1  will  fetch  off  these  jut^- 
ticcs  :  I  do  see  the  bottom  of  justice  Shallow.  Lord, 
lord,  how  subject  we  old  men  are  to  this  vice  ot  lying  I 
This  same  starved  justice  hath  done  nothing  bur,  prate 
to  me  of  the  wildncss  of  his  youth,  and  the  (eats  he 
hath  done  about  Turnbull-strect ;  and  every  third  word 
a  lie,  ducr  paid  to  the  hearer  than  the  Turk's  tribute. 
I  do  remember  him  at  Clement's-inn,  like  a  man  made 
after  supper  of  a  ehecse-paring :  when  he  was  naked, 
he  vv-as.  for  all  the  world,  like  a  forked  radish,  with  a 
head  fantastically  carved  upon  it  with  a  knife  :  he  was 
so  forlorn,  that  his  dimensions  to  any  thick  sight  were 
invisible' ;  he  was  the  very  genius  of  famine* :  yet 
lecherous  as  a  monkey,  and  the  whores  called  him — 
mandrake.  He  came  ever  in  the  rear-ward  cf  the 
fashion' :  and  sung  those  tunes  to  the  over-scutched" 
huswives  that  he  heard  the  carmen  whistle,  and  sware 
— they  were  his  fancies,  or  his  good-nights'.  Ajid 
now  is  this  Vice's  dagger'"  become  a  squire,  and  talks 
as  familiarly  of  John  of  Gaunt,  as  if  he  had  been  sworn 
brother  to  him  ;  and  I  '11  be  sworn  he  never  saw  him 
but  once  in  the  Tilt-yard,  and  then  he  burst"  his  head, 
for  crowding  among  the  marshal's  men.  I  saw  it;  and 
told  John  of  Gaunt,  he  beat  his  owni  name  :  for  you 
misht  have  thrust'-  him,  and  all  his  apparel,  into  aji 
eel-skin  :  the  case  of  a  treble  hautboy  was  a  mansion 
for  him,  a  court;  and  now  has  he  land  and  beeves. 
Well,  I  will  be  acquainted  with  him,  if  I  return ;  and 
it  shall  go  hard,  but  I  will  make  him  a  philosopher' .*- 
two  stones  to  me.  If  the  young  dace  be  a  bait  for  the 
old  pike,  I  see  no  rea.son  in  the  law  of  nature  but  I 
may  snap  at  him.     Let  time  shape,  and  there  an  end 

[Exit 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  L— A  Forest  in  Yorkshire. 
Enter  the  Archbishop  o/York,  Mowbray,  Hastings, 
an/l  Others. 
Arch.  What  is  this  forest  eall'd? 
Hast.  'T  is  Gaultree  forest,  an  't  .shall  plea.se  your 

grace. 
Arch.  Here  stand,  my  lords  ;  and  send   discoverers 
forth. 
To  know  the  numbers  of  our  enemies. 
Ha.'it.  We  have  sent  forth  already 
Arch.  'T  is  well  done. — 

.My  friends  and  brethren  in  these  great  affairs, 
[  must  acquaint  you,  that  I  have  rcceiv'd 
New-dated  letters  from  Northumberland  ; 
Their  cold  intent,  tenour  and  substance,  thus  : — 
Here  doth  he  wish  his  person,  with  such  powers 


As  might  hold  sortance  with  his  quality. 
The  which  he  could  not  Ica^  ;  whereupon 
He  is  retir'd,  to  ripe  his  growing  fortunes, 
To  Scotland  ;  and  concludes  in  hearty  prayers, 
That  your  attempts  may  overlive  the  hazard, 
And  fearful  meeting  of  their  opposite. 

Mowb.  Thus  do  the  hopes  we  have  in  him  touch 
ground, 
And  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Hast.  Now,  what  newn 

Me.ss.  West  of  this  forest,  scarcely  off  a  mile, 
In  goodly  form  comes  on  the  enemy : 
And,  by  the  ground  they  hide,  I  judge  their  number 
Upon,  or  near,  the  rate  of  thirty  thousand. 

Mowb.  The  just  proportion  that  we  gave  them  out. 
Let 's  away"  on,  and  face  them  in  the  field.  i 


'  A  knnd-gun.        An  exhibition  of  archeiy  at  Mile-end  preen,  where   the  archers  assumed  the  characters  of  King  Arthur's  ronnd-tMl*  I 
iir  Dagonet  waa  the  fool   or  buitoon   ..    Arthur's  court.      'As;  in  folio,      ♦my:  in  folio.      *  invincible  :  in  f.  e.     .Many  mod.  ed».  MM 
%M  in  tne  '.nxt.      'The  reKt  of  the  sentence  ending    '-mandrake."  is   not  in   the   folio.      'The  rest  of  the  sentence  is  not  in  the  fclio 
•  Scotched,  cvt  and  slashed  by  the  beadle's  whip.      •  .Small  hjriral  piece.i,  for  the  voice.      'O  The  Vice,  a  character  of  the  early  En(li*> 
dramv  reaemblinc  a  harlequin,  was  armed  with  a  dagger  of  latti.      *'  Broke.      n  trussed  :  in  folio.     '^  Let  us  B%vay  :  inf.8. 


BOENE 


KING  HENRY   IV. 


393 


Enter  Westmoreland. 

.irch.  What  well-appointed  leader  fronts  us  here  ? 

Mowb.  I  think  it  is  my  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

West.  Health  and  fair  greeting  from  our  general, 
The  prince,  lord  John  and  duke  of  Lanca.ster. 

Arch.  Say  on,  my  lord  of  Westmoreland,  in  pea-^e, 
What  doth  concern  your  coming  ? 

West.  Then,  my  lord*, 

[Into  your  grace  do  I  in  chief  address 
The  substance  of  my  speech.     If  that  rebellion 
Came  like  itself,  in  base  and  abject  routs. 
Led  on  by  bloody  youth,  guarded^  with  rags^, 
And  countenane'd  by  boys,  and  beggary  : 
I  say,  if  darnn'd  commotion  so  appear'd. 
lu  his  true,  native,  and  most  proper  shape. 
You,  reverend  father,  and  these  noble  lords, 
Had  not  been  here,  to  dress  the  ugly  form 
Of  base  and  bloody  insurrection 
With  your  fair  honours.     You.  lord  archbishop. 
Whose  see  is  by  a  civil  peace  maintaui"d  ; 
Whose  beard  the  silver  hand  of  peace  hath  touch'd  ; 
Wliof=e  learning  and  good  letters  peace  hath  tutor'd ; 
Whose  white  investments*  figure  innocence. 
The  dove  and  very  blessed  spirit  of  peace, 
Wherefore  do  you  so  ill  tran.^late  yourself. 
Out  of  the  speech  of  peace,  that  bears  such  grace, 
[uto  the  harsh  and  boisterous  tongue  of  war  ? 
Turning  your  books  to  glaives*,  your  ink  to  blood, 
Your  pens  to  lances,  and  your  tongue  divme 
To  a  loud  trumpet,  and  i-eport'  of  war  ? 

Arch.  Wherefore  do  I  this  ? — so  the  question  stands : 
Briefly  to  this  end. — We  are  all  diseas'd  ; 
And,  with  our  surfeiting,  and  wanton  hours", 
Have  brought  ourselves  into  a  burning  fever, 
And  we  must  bleed  for  it :  of  which  disease 
Our  late  king.  Richard,  being  infected,  died. 
But,  my  most  noble  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
I  take  not  on  me  liere  as  a  physician. 
Nor  do  I,  as  an  enemy  to  peace, 
Troop  in  the  throngs  of  military  men  : 
But,  rather,  show  a  while  like  fearful  war. 
To  diet  rank  minds,  sick  of  happiness. 
And  purge  th'  obstructions,  which  begin  to  stop 
Our  very  veins  of  life.     Hear  me  more  plainly. 
I  have  in  equal  balance  justly  weigh'd 
What  wrongs  our  arms  may  do,  what  wrongs  wj  suffer. 
And  find  our  griefs  heavier  than  our  offences. 
We  see  which  way  the  stream  of  time  doth  run, 
And  are  enforc'd  from  our  most  quiet  chair* 
By  the  rough  torrent  of  occasion  ; 
.\nd  haA'e  the  summary  of  all  our  griefs. 
When  time  shall  serve,  to  show  in  articles, 
Which,  long  ere  this,  we  offer'd  to  the  king. 
And  might  by  no  suit  gain  an  audience. 
When  we  are  wrong'd.  and  would  unfoid  oar  griefs, 
I  We  are  denied  access  unto  his  person, 
Even  by  those  men  that  most  have  done  us  wrong. 
I  The  dangers  of  the  days  but  newly  gone, 
:  Whose  memory  is  MTitten  on  the  earth 
Wiih  yet  appearing  blood,  and  the  examj-sles 
Of  every  minute's  instance,  present  new, 
(Have  put  us  in  these  ill-beseeming  arms, 
[Not  to  break  peace,  or  any  branch  of  .t, 
(But  to  establish  here  a  peace  indeed. 
Concurring  both  in  name  and  quality. 

West.  When  ever  yet  was  your  appeal  denied  ? 


Wherein  have  you  been  galled  by  the  king? 
What  peer  hath  been  s^aoorn'd  to  grate  on  you^ 
That  you  should  seal  this  lawless  bloody  book 
Of  forg'd  lebcllion  with  a  seal  divine, 

\  And  consejrate  comniotion's  bitter  edge  ?' 

I      Arch.  7;y  brother  general,  the  commonwealth, 

I  To  uro;j<'T  ?-crn  an  household  cruelty" 

I  f  make  my  quarrel  in  particular. 

I      West.  There  is  no  need  of  any  such  redress  ; 
Or.  if  there  were,  it  not  belongs  to  you. 

Mowb.  Why  not  to  him,  in  part,  and  to  us  all, 
That  feel  the  bruises  of  the  days  before, 
And  suffer  the  condition  of  these  times 
To  lay  a  hea\'y-  and  unequal  hand 
Upon  our  honours  ? 

West.  0  !  my  good  lord  Mowbray," 

Construe  the  times  to  thejr  necessities. 
And  you  shall  say  indeed,  it  is  the  time, 
And  not  the  king,  that  doth  you  injuries. 
Yet,  for  your  part,  it  not  appears  to  me. 
Either  from  the  king,  or  in  the  present  time. 
That  you  should  have  an  inch  of  any  ground 
To  build  a  grief  on.     Were  you  not  restor'd 
To  all  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  signiories. 
Your  noble  and  right- well-remember'd  father's  ? 

Moivh.  What  thing,  in  honour,  had  my  father  lost, 
That  need  to  be  reviv'd,  and  breath'd  in  me  ? 
The  king  that  lov'd  him,  as  the  state  stood  then. 
Was,  force  perforce,  compell'd  to  banish  him  : 
And  when  that  Harry  Bolingbroke,  and  he, 
Being  mounted,  and  both  roused  in  their  seats. 
Their  neighing  coiu-sers  daring  of  the  spur. 
Their  armed  staves  in  charge,  their  beavers  down. 
Their  eyes  of  fire  sparkling  through  sights  of  steel, 
And  the  loud  trumpet  blowing  tliem  together  ; 

I  Then,  then,  when  there  was  nothing  could  have  stay'd 
My  father  from  the  breast  of  Bolingbroke, 
0  !  when  the  king  did  throw  his  warder  down. 
His  own  life  hung  upon  the  staff  he  threw  : 
Then  threw  he  down  himself,  and  all  their  lives. 
That,  by  indictment,  and  by  dint  of  sword. 
Have  since  miscarried  under  Bolingbroke. 

West.    You    speak,  lord   Mowbray,  now  you  know 
not  what. 
The  earl  of  Hereford  was  reputed,  then, 
In  England  the  most  valiant  gentleman  : 
Who  knows,  on  whom  fortune  would  then  have  smil'd? 
But  if  your  father  had  been  victor  there, 
He  ne'er  had  borne  it  out  of  Coventry  ; 
For  all  the  country,  in  a  general  voice. 
Cried  hate  upon  him  ;  and  all  their  prayers,  and  love^ 
Were  set  on  Hereford,  whom  they  doted  on. 
And  bless'd,  and  grac'd,  indeed,  more  than  the  king. 
But  this  is  mere  digression  from  my  purpose. 
Here  come  I  from  our  princely  general. 
To  know  your  griefs  ;  to  tell  you  from  his  grace, 
That  he  will  give  you  audience  ;  and  wherein 
It  shall  appear  that  your  demands  are  just. 
You  shall  enjoy  them  ;  every  thing  set  off. 
That  might  so  much  as  think  you  enemies. 

Moicb.  But  he  hath  forcM  us  to  compel  this  offer. 
And  it  proceeds  from  policy,  not  love. 

West.  Mowbray,  you  overween,  to  take  it  so. 
This  offer  comes  from  mercy,  not  from  fear ; 
For,  lo  !  watliin  a  ken  our  army  lies. 
Upon  mine  honour,  all  too  confident 


*  Then,  my  lord  :  not  in 

eraves  :  in  f.  e.  «  a  poir 
Varburton,  from  "there" 
'larto. 


larto.  '  Bordered.  '  rage  :  in  f.  e.  *  White  line 
in  f.  e.  'This  and  the  fwenty-four  followin!^  lin 
the  fclio.       '  1*  The.se  lines  are  not  in   the  folio. 


was  the  ordinary,  as  well  as  official  ursss,  of  a  bisnop. 
i,  are  not  in  the  quarto.  '  sphere  :  in  f.  e.  Altered  I^t 
'  This  and  the  thirty-six  following  lines,  are  not  in  lb* 


8P4 


SECOND  PART  OF 


A.OT  IV. 


To  give  admittance  to  a  thought  of  fear. 
Our  b;\ttle  is  more  full  of  names  ihau  yours, 
Our  men  more  perfect  in  the  use  of  arms. 
()ur  armour  all  as  strong,  our  cause  the  best : 
Then.  rea.son  will  our  hearts  should  be  as  good ; 
S.iy  )ou  not.  then,  our  oiler  is  conipcird. 

Moicb.  Well,  by  my  wll,  we  shall  admit  no  parley. 

West.  That  arjiues  but  the  shame  of  your  offence  : 
A  rotten  ca.«ie  abides  no  handling. 

Hast.  Hatli  the  prince  John  a  full  commission, 
In  very  ample  virtue  of  h.f  lather. 
To  hear,  and  absolutely  to  determine 
0;   what  conditions  we  shall  stand  upon  ? 

M'est    That  is  intended  in  the  general's  name. 
I  m;ise  you  make  so  slight  a  question. 

Arch.    Then  take,  my  lord  of   Westmoreland,  this 
schedule, 
For  this  contains  our  general  grievances  : 
Kach  several  article  herein  redressd ; 
All  members  of  our  cause,  both  here  and  hence, 
Tbat  are  insinew'd  to  this  action. 
.\cquitted  by  a  true  substantial  form  ; 
.\nd  present  execution  of  our  wills 
To  u8,  and  to  our  purposes,  confin'd  :' 
We  come  within  our  awful  banks  again, 
.Vnd  knit  our  powers  to  the  arm  of  peace. 

West.  This  will  I  show  the  general.     Please  you, 
lords. 
In  sight  of  both  our  battles  we  may  meet: 
And  either  end  in  peace,  which  God  so  frame, 
Or  to  the  place  of  difference  call  the  swords 
Which  must  decide  it. 

Arch.  My  lord,  we  wili  do  so.   [Exit  West. 

Mowb.  There  is  a  thing  within  my  bosom  tells  me, 
That  no  conditions  of  our  peace  can  stand. 

Hast.  Fear  you  not  that :  if  we  can  make  our  peace 
Ujwn  such  large  terms,  and  so  absolute. 
As  our  conditions  shall  consist  upon. 
Our  peace  shall  stand  as  firm  as  rocky  mountains. 

Mowb.  Ay,  but  our  valuation  shall  be  such, 
Tba.t  every  slight  and  false-derived  cause, 
Yea.  every  idle,  nice,  and  wanton  reason, 
Shall  to  the  king  taste  of  this  action  : 
That,  were  our  royal  faiths  martyrs  in  love, 
We  .shall  be  ■winnow'd  with  .so  rough  a  wind, 
That  even  our  corn  shall  seem  as  light  as  chaff. 
And  good  from  bad  find  no  partition^ 

Arch.   No.  no,  my  lord.      Note    this, — ^the  king  is 
wear>- 
Of  dainty  and  such  picking  grievances  : 
For  he  hath  found,  to  end  one  doubt  by  death 
Revives  two  greater  in  the  heirs  of  life. 
And  therefore  will  lie  wipe  his  tables  clean. 
And  kf<-p  no  tell-tale  to  his  memorj', 
Tiiat  may  repeat  and  hislorj-  his  loss 
To  new  remembrance.     For  full  well  he  knows. 
He  cannot  so  precisely  weed  this  land. 
As  his  mi.-doubls  present  occasion  : 
His  foes  are  so  enrooted  with  his  friends, 
Tiiat,  plucking  to  unfix  an  enemy, 
fie  doth  unfasten  so,  and  shake  a  friend. 
So  that  thi.s  land,  like  an  offensive  wife. 
That  hath  enrag'd  her  man'  to  offer  strokes, 
A.s  he  is  striking,  nolds  his  infant  up. 
And  hangs  re.«olvd  correction  in  the  arm 
That  was  upreard  to  execution. 

Hast.  Be.-ides,  the  king  hath  wasted  all  his  ro  Is 
On  late  offenders,  that  he  now  doth  lack 
The  rer>-  instruments  of  chastisement ; 

'  Mi.'on«.  lod  rao«l  mod.  ed«.  read  :  eonmcn'd.     »  enm(j'd  him  on 


So  that  his  power,  like  to  a  fangless  lion. 
May  offer,  but  not  hold. 

Arch.  "T  is  very  true  : 

And  therefore  be  assur'd,  my  good  lord  marshal, 
If  we  do  now  make  our  atonement  well, 
Our  peace  will,  like  a  broken  limb  united, 
Grow  stronger  for  the  breaking. 

Mowb.  Be  it  so. 

Here  is  retuni'd  my  lord  of  Westmoreland. 
Re-enter  West.morelaxd. 
West.  The  prince  is  here  at  hand.     Pleaseth  your 
lordship. 
To  meet  his  grace  just  distance  'tween  our  armies  ? 
Mowb.  Your  grace  of  York,  in  God's  name  then,  set 

forward. 
Arch.    Before,  and   greet   his    grace,  my  lord :    we 
come.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter,  from  one  side,  Mowbr.a.v.  the  Archbishop.  Hast- 
ings, arid   Others :  from  the  other  side.  Prince  JoH> 
of  Lancaster,  West.mokeland,  Officers  and  AtteruL 
ants. 

P.  John.  You  are  well  encounter'd  here,  my  coubId 
Mov.bray. — 
Good  day  to  you.  gentle  lord  archbishop  ; 
And  so  to  you,  lord  Hastings, — and  to  all. — 
My  lord  of  York,  it  better  show'd  with  you. 
When  that  your  flock,  assembled  by  the  bell, 
Encircled  you  to  hear  with  reverence 
Your  exposition  on  the  holy  text, 
Than  now  to  see  you  here  an  iron  man. 
Cheering  a  rout  of  rebels  with  your  drum. 
Turning  the  word  to  sword,  and  life  to  death. 
That  man.  that  sits  within  a  monarch's  heart, 
And  ripens  in  the  sunshine  of  his  favour. 
Would  he  abuse  the  countenance  of  the  king. 
Alack  !  what  mischiefs  might  be  set  abroach, 
In  shadow  of  such  greatness.     With  you.  lord  bishop. 
It  is  even  so.     Who  hath  not  heard  it  spoken. 
How  deep  you  were  within  the  books  of  God  ? 
To  us,  the  speaker  in  his  parliament ; 
To  us,  th'  imagind  voice  of  God  himself; 
The  very  opener  and  intelligencer, 
Between  the  grace,  the  sanctities  of  heaven. 
And  our  dull  workings  :  0  !  who  shall  believe. 
But  you  misuse  the  reverence  of  your  place, 
Employ  the  countenance  and  grace  of  heaven, 
As  a  false  favourite  doth  his  prince's  name. 
In  deeds  dishonourable  ?     You  have  taken  up. 
Under  the  counterfeited  seal'  oi  God, 
The  subjects  of  his  substitute,  my  father; 
And.  both  again.st  the  peace  of  heaven  and  him, 
Have  here  up-swarm'd  them. 

Arch.  Good  my  lord  of  Lanca.^' 

I  am  not  here  against  your  father's  peace  ; 
But.  as  I  told  my  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
The  time  misorder'd  doth,  in  common  sense. 
Crowd  us.  and  crush  us  to  this  monstrous  form 
To  hold  our  safely  up.     I  sent  your  grace 
The  parcels  and  particulars  of  our  griefs  ; 
The  which  have  been  with  scorn  shov'd  from  the  court 
Whereon  this  Hydra-son  of  war  is  born  ; 
Whose  dangerous  eyes  may  well  be  charm'd  asleep, 
With  grant  of  our  mo.st  just  and  right  desires, 
And  true  obedience,  of  this  madness  curd, 
Stoop  tamely  to  the  foot  of  majesty. 

Mowb.  If  not,  we  ready  are  to  try  our  fortune* 
To  the  last  man. 

in  f.  e.      '  zeal  :  in  f.  i. 


80ENE    n.. 


KIKG  HENRY  lY. 


395 


Hast.  And  though  we  here  fall  down, 

We  have  supplies  to  second  our  attempt ; 
If  they  miscarry,  theirs  shall  second  them ; 
And  so  success  of  mischief  shall  be  born, 
And  heir  from  heir  shall  hold  this  quarrel  up, 
Whiles  England  shall  have  generation. 

P.  John.  You  are  too  shallow,  Hastings,  much  too 
shallow, 
To  sound  the  bottom  of  the  after-times. 

West.  Pleaseth  your  grace,  to  answer  them  directly. 
How  far-forth  you  do  like  their  articles. 

P.  John.  I  like  them  all,  and  do  allow  them  well  : 
And  swear,  here,  by  the  honour  of  my  blood. 
My  father's  purposes  have  been  mistook ; 
And  some  about  him  have  too  lavishly 
Wrested  his  meaning,  and  authority. — 
My  lord,  these  griefs  shall  be  with  speed  redress'd  ; 
Upon  my  soul,  they  shall.     If  this  may  please  you, 
Discharge  your  powers  unto  their  several  counties, 
As  we  will  ours  :  and  here,  between  the  armies, 
Let 's  drink  together  friendly,  and  embrace, 
That  all  their  eyes  may  bear  those  tokens  home 
Of  our  restored  love,  and  amity. 

Arch.  I  take  your- princely  word  for  these  redresses. 

P.  John.    I    give    it   you,   and    will   maintain   my 
And  thereupon  I  drink  unto  your  grace.  [word : 

Hast.  Go,  captain,  [To  an  Officer]  and  deliver  to  the 
army 
This  news  of  peace  :  let  them  have  pay,  and  part. 
I  know,  it  will  please  them  :  hie  thee,  captain. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Arch.  To  you,  ray  noble  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

[Drinks.'^ 

West.  I  pledge  your  grace  :   [Drinks.'^]  and,  if  you 
knew  what  pains 
I  have  bestow'd  to  breed  this  present  peace. 
You  would  drink  freely  :  but  my  love  to  you 
Shall  show  itself  more  openly  hereafter. 

Arch.  I  do  not  doubt  you. 

We.^t.  I  am  glad  of  it. — 

Health  to  my  lord,  and  gentle  cousin,  Mowbray. 

[Drinks.' 

Mowb.  You  ■^^^sh  me  health  in  very  happy  season  ; 
For  I  am.  on  the  sudden,  something  ill. 

Arch.  Against  ill  chances  men  are  ever  merry. 
But  hea\'iness  foreruns  the  good  event. 

West.  Therefore  be  merry,  coz  ;  since  sudden  sorrow 
Serves  to  say  thus, — some  good  thing  comes  to-mor- 
row. 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  am  passing  light  in  spirit. 

Mowb.  So  much  the  worse,  if  your  own  rule  be  true. 
[Shouts  within. 

P.  John.  The  word  of  peace  is  rendered.     Hark,  Low 
they  shout  ! 

Moiob.  This  had  been  cheerful,  after  victory. 

Arch.  A  peace  is  of  the  nature  of  a  conquest, 
For  then  both  parties  nobly  are  subdued, 
A.nd  neither  party  loser. 

P  John.  Go,  my  lord. 

And  let  our  army  be  discharged  too. — 
1  [Exit  Westmoreland. 

And  good  my  lord,  so  please  you,  let  yov.r  drains 
.March  by  us,  that  we  may  peruse  the  mei; 
jWe  should  have  cop'd  withal. 

i    Arch.  Go,  good  lord  Hastings  ; 

jAnd,  ere  they  be  dismiss'd,  let  them  march  by. 
,  [Exit  Hastings. 

P    John.    I   trust,  lords,  we  shall   lie   to- night  to- 
geihe' . — 


Re-enter  Westmoreland. 
Now,  cousin,  wherefore  stands  our  army  still  ? 

West.  The  leaders  having  charge  from  you  to  etand 
Will  not  go  off  until  they  hear  you  speak. 

P.  John.  They  know  their  duties. 
Re-enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  J\Iy  lord,  our  army  is  dispers'd  already,* 
Like  youthful  steers  uiiyok'd,  they  take  their  courses 
East,  west,  north,  south  ;  or,  like  a  school  broke  up, 
Each  hurries  towards  his  home  and  sporting-place. 

West.  Good  tidings,  my  lord  Hastings  ;  for  the  which 
I  do  arrest  thee,  traitor,  of  high  treason  : — 
And  you,  lord  archbishop, — and  you,  lord  Mowbray  ; 
Of  capital  treason  I  attach  you  both. 

Mowb.  Is  this  proceeding  just  and  honourable  ? 

West.  Is  your  assembly  so  ? 

Arch.  Will  you  thus  break  your  faith  ? 

P.  John.  I  pawn'd  thee  none 

I  promis'd  you  redress  of  these  same  grievances. 
Whereof  you  did  complain  ;  which,  by  mine  honour, 
I  will  perform  with  a  most  christian  care. 
But;  for  you.  rebels,  look  to  taste  the  due 
Meet  for  rebellion.*  and  such  acts  as  yours. 
Most  shallowly  did  you  these  arms  commence, 
Fondly  brought  here,  and  foolishly  sent  hence. — 
Strike  up  our  drums  !  pursue  the  scatter'd  stray; 
Heaven,  and  not  we,  hath  safely  fought  to-day. — 
Some  guard  these  traitors  to  the  block  of  death  : 
Treason's  true  bed,  and  yielder  up  of  breath.  [Eoceunt 


♦  '  Nrt  in  f 


In  the  folio,  this  line  ha 


SCENE  III.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Ahntms:  Excursions.   £?j/er  Falstaff  a?w:i  Colevile, 

meeting. 

Fal.  What 's  your  name,  sir  ?  of  what  condition  are 
you  ;  and  of  what  place,  I  pray? 

Cole.  I  am  a  knight,  sir;  and  my  name  is  Colevile 
of  the  dale. 

Fal.  Well  then.  Colevile  is  your  name,  a  knight  is 
your  degree,  and  your  place,  the  dale :  Colevile  shall 
still  be  your  name,  a  traitor  your  degree,  and  the  dun- 
geon your  dale*, — a  dale'  deep  enough;  so  shall  you 
be  still  Colevile  of  the  dale. 

Cole.  Are  not  you  sir  John  FalstalF? 

Fal.  As  good  a  man  as  he,  sir,  whoe'er  I  am.  Do 
ye  yield,  sir,  or  shall  I  sweat  for  you  ?  If  I  do  sweat. 
they  are  the  drops  of  thy  lovers,  and  they  weep  for 
thy  death  :  therefore,  rouse  up  fear  and  trembling,  and 
do  observ^ance  to  my  mercy. 

Cole.  I  think,  you  are  sir  John  Falstaff,  and  in  thai 
thought  yield  me. 

Fal.  I  have  a  whole  school  of  tongues  in  this  belly 
of  mine,  and  not  a  tongue  of  them  all  speaks  any  other 
word  but  my  name.  An  I  had  but  a  belly  of  any 
indifferency.  I  were  simply  the  most  active  fellow  in 
Europe :  my  womb,  my  womb,  my  womb  undoes  me. 
— Here  comes  our  general. 
Enter  Prince  John  0/ Lancaster,  Westmoreland, 
and  Others. 

P.  John.  The  heat  is  past,  follow  no  farther  now. — 
Call  in  the  powers,  good  cousin  Westmoreland. — 

[Exit  West. 
Now.  FalstafF,  where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ? 
When  every  thing  is  ended,  then  you  come : 
These  tardy  tricks  of  yours  vs-ill,  on  my  life, 
One  time  or  other  break  some  gallows'  back. 

Fal.  I  would  be  sorry,  my  lord,  but  it  should  be 
thus :  I  never  knew  yet,  but  rebuke  and  ciieek  was 
the  reward  of  valour.  Do  you  think  me  a  swallow, 
an  arrow,  or  a  bullet  ?  have  I,  in  my  poor  and  old 

Oui  army  is  dispers'd.      *The  rest  of  the  line  is  not  in  the  quarto.      •  '  place  ;  in  f.  • 


396 


SKCoND   PART  OF 


ACT    IV. 


.•notion,  the  expedition  of  thought  ';•  I  have  speeded 
hither  with  the  very  cxtreiiicet  iiieh  of  possibility  :  I 
have  foundered  nine-score  and  odd  posts  ;  and  here, 
travel-tainted  as  I  am.  have,  in  my  pure  and  immacu- 
late valour,  taken  sir  John  Colevrie  of  the  dale,  a  most 
furious  Icniuht.  and  valorous  enemy.  But  what  of  that? 
he  saw  me,  and  yielded  ;  that  I  may  justly  say  with 
the  hook-noBed  fellow  of  Rome,  I  came,  saw,  and  over- 
eame. 

F.  John.  It  was  more  of  liis  courtesy  than  your 
deserving. 

Fal.  I  know  not:  here  he  is.  and  here  I  yield  him. 
and  I  beseech  your  grace,  let  it  be  booked  with  the 
rc.st  of  this  days  deeds;  or,  by  the  lord,  I  will  have  it 
in  a  particular  ballad  else,  with  mine  own  picture  on 
the  top  of  it,  Colevile  kissing  my  foot.  To  the  which 
course  if  I  be  enforced,  if  you  do  not  all  show  like  gilt 
two-pences  to  me,  and  I,  in  the  clear  sky  of  fame, 
o'ershine  you  a.s  much  as  the  full  moon  doth  the  cin- 
ders of  the  element,  which  show  like  pins'  heads  to  her, 
believe  not  the  word  of  the  noble.  Therefore  let  me 
have  right,  and  let  desert  mount. 

P.  John.  Thine  's  too  heavy  to  mount. 

Fill  Let  it  shine  then. 

P.  John.  Thine  's  too  thick  to  shine. 

Fal.  Let  it  do  something,  my  good  lord,  that  may 
do  me  good,  and  call  it  what  you  will. 

P.  John.  Is  thy  name  Colevile  ? 

Col.  It  is,  my  lord. 

P.  John.  A  famous  rebel  art  thou,  Colevile. 

Fal.  And  a  famous  true  subject  took  him. 

Cole.  I  am,  my  lord,  but  as  my  betters  are. 
That  led  me  hither:  had  they  been  rul'd  by  me. 
You  should  liave  won  them  dearer  than  you  have. 

Fal.  I  know  not  how  they  sold  thernseh-es,  but  thou, 
like  a  kind  fellow,  gavest  thyself  away  gratis'  ;  and  I 
(hank  thee  for  thee. 

Re-enter  Westmorel.!vnd. 

P.  John.  Now.  have  you  left  pursuit? 

West.  Retreat  is  made,  and  execution  stay'd. 

P.  John.  Send  Colevile,  with  his  confederates, 
To  York,  to  present  execution. — 
Slunt,  lead  him  hence,  and  see  you  guard  him  sure. 

[Exit  Colevile.  guarded. 
And  now  despatch  we  toward  the  court,  my  lords. 
I  hear,  the  king  my  father  is  sore  sick  : 
Our  news  .shall  go  before  us  to  his  majesty. — 
Which,  cousin,  you  shall  bear. — to  comfort  him; 
And  wc  with  sober  speed  will  follow  you. 

Fal.  .My  lord.  I  beseech  you.  give  me  leave  to  go 
through  Glostershire  ;  and,  when  you  come  to  court, 
Bland  my  good  lord,  pray,  in  your  good  report. 

P.  John.  Fare  you  well,  Falstaff:  I,  in  my  condi- 
tion, 
Shall  better  speak  of  you  than  you  deserve.  \Exit. 

Fal.  I  would,  you  had  but  the  wit:  H  were  better 
han  your  dukedom. — Good  faith,  this  same  young 
•ober-blooded  boy  doth  not  love  me.  nor  a  man  cannot 
make  him  laugh  ;  but  that 's  no  mar\-el,  he  drinks  no 
wine.  There  's  never  any  of  these  demure  boys  come 
to  any  proof,  for  thin  drink  doth  .so  over-cool  their 
blood,  and  making  many  fish-meals,  that  they  fall  into 
a  kind  of  male  green-sickne.ss :  and  then,  when  they 
marry,  they  get  wenches.  They  are  generally  fools  and 
coward.s,  which  some  of  us  should  be  too,  but  for 
.nflammation.  A  gomi  sherri.s-sack  hath  a  two-fold 
operation  in  it  :  it  a.«cend8  me  into  the  brain  ;  dries  me 
there  all  the  foolish,  and  dull,  and  cruddy  vapours  which 
en^^ron  it;    makes   it  apprehensive,   quick,   forgetive. 

'      Not  :j)  the  fo.io      •  Rtn/ty 


full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delectable  shapes  :  which,  de- 
liver'd  o'er  to  the  voice,  (tlie  tongue)  which  is  th« 
birth,  becomes  excellent  wit.  The  second  property  of 
your  excellent  sherris  is.  the  warming  of  the  blood; 
which,  before  cold  and  settled,  left  tlie  liver  white  and 
pale,  which  is  the  badge  of  pusillanimity  and  c^iwardice : 
but  the  sherris  warms  it,  and  makes  it  course  from  tha 
inwards  to  the  parts  extreme.  It  illumineth  the  face, 
which,  as  a  beacon,  gives  warning  to  all  the  rest  of 
tliis  little  kingdom,  man,  to  arm  :  and  then  the  vital 
commoners,  and  inland  petty  spirits,  muster  me  all  to 
their  captain,  the  heart,  who,  great,  and  pufled  up 
with  this  retinue,  doth  any  deed  of  courage ;  and  this 
valour  comes  of  sherris.  So  that  skill  in  the  weapon 
is  nothing  without  sack,  for  that  sets  it  a-work ;  and 
learning,  a  mere  hoard  of  gold  kept  by  a  devil,  till 
sack  commences  it,  and  sets  it  in  act  and  use.  Hereof 
comes  it,  that  prince  Harry  is  valiant ;  for  the  cold 
blood  he  did  naturally  inherit  of  his  father,  he  hath, 
like  lean,  sterile,  and  bare  land,  manured,  husbanded, 
and  tilled,  with  excellent  endeavour  of  drinking  good, 
and  good  store  of  fertile  sherris,  that  he  is  become  very 
hot,  and  valiant.  If  I  had  a  thousand  sons,  the  fint 
human'  principle  I  would  teach  them  should  be,  to  for- 
swear thin  potations,  and  to  addict  themselves  to  sack. 

Filter  Bardolph. 
How  now.  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.  The  army  is  discharged  all,  and  gone. 

Fal.  Let  them  go.  I  '11  through  Glostershire ;  and 
there  will  I  visit  master  Robert  Shallow,  esquire :  1 
have  him  already  tempering  between  my  finger  and 
my  thumb,  and  shortly  will  I  seal  with  Idm.  Come 
away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Westminster.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Clarence,  Prince  Humphrey, 

Warwick,  and  Others. 
K.  Hen.  Now,  lords,  if  God  doth  give  successful  c'^ 
To  this  debate  tliat  bleedeth  at  our  doors. 
We  will  our  youth  lead  on  to  higher  fleld.s. 
And  draw  no  swords  but  what  are  sanctified. 
Our  navy  is  address'd^,  our  power  collected. 
Our  substitutes  in  absence,  well  invested, 
And  every  thing  lies  level  to  our  wish  : 
Only,  we  want  a  little  personal  strength. 
And  pause  us,  till  these  rebels,  now  afoot. 
Come  underneath  the  yoke  of  government. 

War.  Both  which,  we  doubt  not  but  your  maie«ty 
Shall  soon  enjoy. 

K.  Hen.  Humphrey,  my  son  of  Gloster, 

Where  is  the  prince  your  brother  ? 

P.  Humph.  I  think,  he  's  gone  to  hunt,  my  loid,  at 

Windsor. 
A'.  Hen.  And  how  accompanied  ? 
P.  Humph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord 

A'.  Hen.  Is  not  his  brother,  Thomas  of  Clarence,  witb 

him? 
P.  Humph.  No.  my  good  lord  :  he  is  in  presence  here 
Cla.  What  would  mv  lord  and  father? 
K.  Hen.  Nothing  but  well  to  thee,  Thoma«  of  CU 
rence. 
How  chance  thou  art  not  vvntn  the  prince  thy  bro'her 
He  loves  thee,  and  thou  dost  neglect  him,  Thoniab. 
I  Thou  hast  a  better  place  in  his  affection, 
I  Than  all  thy  brothers:  cherish  it,  my  boy 
[  And  noble  offices  thou  may'.st  effect 
Of  mediation,  after  I  am  dead, 
Retween  his  greatness  and  thy  other  brethren. 
Therefore  omit  him  not  :  blunt  not  his  love. 


BCENE   IV. 


KING   HENRr   lY. 


397 


Nor  lose  the  good  advantage  of  his  grace, 

By  seeming  cold,  or  careless  of  his  will. 

For  he  is  gracious,  if  he  be  observ'd. 

He  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 

Open  as  day  for  melting  charity : 

Yet,  notwithstanding,  being  incens"d,  he  's  flint, 

As  humorous  as  winter,  and  as  sudden 

As  flaws'  congealed  in  the  spring  of  day. 

His  temper,  therefore,  must 'be  well  obser\-'d  : 

Chide  him  for  faults,  and  do  it  reverently 

When  3'ou  perceive  his  blood  inclin"d  to  mirth. 

But.  being  moody,  give  him  line  and  scope. 

Till  that  his  passions,  like  a  whale  on  ground, 

Confound  themselves  with  working.  Learn  this,  Thomas, 

And  thou  shalt  prove  a  shelter  to  thy  friends, 

A  hoop  of  gold  to  bind  thy  brothers  in, 

That  the  united  vessel  of  their  blood, 

Mingled  with  venom  of  suggestion', 

(As,  force  perforce,  the  age  will  pour  it  in) 

Shall  never  leak,  though  it  do  work  as  strong 

As  aconitum,  or  rash  gunpowder. 

Cla.  I  shall  observe  him  with  all  care  and  love. 

K.  Hen.  Why  art  thou  not   at  Windsor  with  him. 
Thomas'? 

Cla.  He  is  not  there  to-day  :  he  dines  in  London. 

K.  Hen.  And   how    accompanied?'    canst   thou    tell 
that? 

Cla.  With  Poins.  and  other  his  continual  followers. 

K.  Hen.  Most  subject  is  the  fattest  soil  to  weeds, 
And  he,  the  noble  image  of  my  youth, 
Is  overspread  with  them  :  therefore,  my  grief 
Stretches  itself  beyond  the  hour  of  death. 
The  blood  weeps  from  my  heart,  when  I  do  shape 
In  forms  imaginary,  th'  unguided  days,  • 

And  rotten  times,  that  you  shall  look  upon 
When  I  am  sleeping  with  my  ancestors. 
For  when  his  headstrong  riot  hath  no  curb. 
When  rage  and  hot-blood  are  his  counsellors. 
When  means  and  lavish  manners  meet  together, 
0.  with  what  wings  shall  his  atfections  fly 
Towards  fronting  peril  and  oppos'd  decay  ! 

War.  My  gracious  lord,  you  look  beyond  him  quite. 
The  prince  but  studies  his  companions. 
Like  a  strange  tongue :  wherein,  to  gain  the  language, 
'T  is  needful,  that  the  most  immodest  word 
Be  look'd'upon.  and  learn'd  :  which  once  attain'd. 
Vour  highness  knows,  comes  to  no  farther  use. 
But  to  be  knoA\n],  and  hated.     So,  like  gross  terms, 
The  prince  ^vill,  in  the  perfectness  of  time. 
Cast  off  his  followers,  and  their  memory 
Shall  as  a  pattern  or  a  measure  live, 
By  which  his  grace  must  mete  the  lives  of  others, 
Turning  past  evils  to  advantages. 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  seldom,  when  the  bee  doth  leave  her  comb 
In  the  dead  carrion.    [Enter  Westmorkland.]   Who  's 
here  ?  Westmoreland  ? 

We.'it.  Health  to  my  sovereign,  and  new  happiness 
i  Added  to  that  that  I  am  to  deliver  ! 

■  Prince  John,  your  son,  doth  kiss  your  grace's  hand  : 
Mowbray,  the  bishop  Scroop,  Hastings,  and  all. 

■  Are  brought  to  the  correction  of  your  law. 

1  There  is  not  now  a  rebel's  sword  unsheath"d. 

But  peace  puts  forth  her  olive  every  where. 

The  manner  how  this  action  hath  been  borne. 
'Here  at  more  leisure  may  your  highness  read, 
I  With  every  course  in  his  particular.    [Givin^ 


a  ■paper.*  ,  Without  physic. 

1 ,2,7Y^  '"■      '  Temptation.      >  The  rest  of  this  line  is  not  in  the  quarto.      ♦  »  Not  in  f.  e. 
1595.  book  III.,  St.  116),  speaking  of  the  illness  of  Henry  TV.,  says  : 

"Wearing  the  wall  so  thin,  that  now  the  mind, 
,  ,,  .  ,  Might  -w-ell  look  thorough,  and  his  frailty  find. 

•  M&k«  me  fearful.  ' 


K.  Hen.  0  Westmoreland  !  thou  art  a  summer  bird, 
Which  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting  up  of  day.  [Enter  H,\rcourt.]  Look  !  here's 
more  news. 

Har.  From  enemies  heaven  keep  your  majesty; 
And,  when  they  stand  against  you,  may  they  fall 
As  those  that  I  am  come  to  tell  you  of. 
The  earl  Northumberland,  and  the  lord  Bardolph, 
'.Vitli  a  great  power  of  English,  and  of  Scots,    ' 
Are  by  the  sheriff"  of  Yorkshire  overthrown. 
The  manner  and  rude  order  of  the  fight. 
This  packet,  please  it  you,  contains  at  large. 

[Giving  a  packet. 

K.  Hen.    And  wherefore   should   these    good    news 
make  me  sick? 
Will  fortune  never  come  with  both  hands  full, 
But  write  her  fair  words  still  in  foulest  letters  ? 
She  either  gives  a  stomach,  and  no  food. — 
Such  are  the  poor,  in  health ;  or  else  a  feast, 
And  takes  away  the  stomach. — such  are  the  rich, 
That  have  abundance,  and  enjoy  it  not. 
I  should  rejoice  now  at  this  happy  news. 
And  now  my  sight  fails,  and  my  brain  is  giddy. — 
0  me  !  come  near  me;  now  I  am  much  ill.  [Falls  back.' 

P.  Humph.  Comfort,  your  majesty  ! 

Cla.  0  my  royal  father  ! 

West.  My  sovereign  lord,  cheer  up  yourself:  look  up  ! 

War.  Be  patient,  princes  :  you  do  Imow,  these  fits 
Are  with  his  highness  very  ordinary. 
Stand  from  him,  give  him  air;  he  '11  .straight  be  well. 

Cla.  No.  no ;  he  cannot  long  hold  out  these  pangs. 
Th'  incessant  care  and  labour  of  his  mind 
Hath  -wTought  the  mure,  that  should  confine  it  in. 
So  thin,  that  life  looks  through,  and  will  break  out.* 

P.  Humph.  The  people  fear  me  f  for  they  do  observe 
Unfather'd  heirs,  and  loathly  births  of  nature  : 
The  seasons  change  their  manners,  as  the  year 
Had  found  some  months  asleep,  and  leap'd  them  over. 

Cla.  The  river  hath  thrice  flow'd,  no  ebb  between  ; 
And  the  old  folk,  time's  doting  chronicles. 
Say,  it  did  so.  a  little  time  before 
That  our  great  grandsire,  Edward,  sick'd  and  died. 

War.  Speak  lower,  princes,  for  the  king  recovers. 

P.  Humph.  This  apoplexy  will,  certain,  be  hi"  end. 

K.  Hen.   I  pray  you,  take  me  up,  and  bear  me  hence 
Into  some  other  chamber  :  softly,  pray. 

[They  place  the  King  on  a  Bed  in  an  inner  par'. 
of  the  room. 
Let  there  be  no  noise  made,  my  gentle  friends ; 
Unless  some  dull  and  favourable  hand 
Will  whisper  music  to  my  wear\-  spirit. 

War.  Call  for  the  music  in  the  other  room. 

K.  Hen.  Set  me  the  cro^^^l  upon  my  pillow  here. 

Cla.  His  eye  is  hollow,  and  he  changes  much. 

War.  Less  noise,  less  noi.se  ! 

Enter  Prince  Henry. 

P.  Hen.  Who  saw  the  duke  of  Clareiree  * 

Cla.  I  am  here,  brother,  full  of  heaviness. 

P.  Hen .  How  now !  rain  within  doors,  and  none  abroad  ? 
How  doth  the  king  ? 

P.  Humph.  Exceeding  ill. 

P.  Hen.  Heard  he  the  good  news  yet  ? 

Tell  it  him. 

P.  Humph.  He  alter'd  much  upon  the  hearing  it. 

P.  Hen.  If  he  be  sick  with  joy,  he  will  recover 


•  Swoons :  in  f.  e. 


Daniel  {Ci-ril  W»n 


398 


SECOND  PART  OF 


AOT  vr. 


War.  Not  so  much  noise,  my  lords. — Sweet  prince, 
spoak  low : 
The  kin^  your  lather  is  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Cla.  Lei  us  withdraw  into  the  other  room. 

If'nr.   Will  't  please  your  <rrace  to  go  along  with  us  ? 

P.  Hen.  No  ;  i  will  sit  and  watch  here  by  the  king. 
[Examt  all  but  Prince  Henry. 
Why  doth  the  croAs-n  lie  there,  upon  his  pillow, 
Beina  so  troublesome  a  bedlVUow? 
0  polishd  perturbation  !  golden  care  ! 
That  keep'.'it  the  ports  of  slumber  open  wide 
To  many  a  watchful  night,  sleep  with  it  now  ! 
Vet  not  so  sound,  and  lialf  so  deeply  sweet, 
As  he.  whose  brow  with  homely  biggin  bound, 
Snores  out  the  watch  of  night.     0  majesty  ! 
When  thou  dost  pinch  thy  bearer,  thou  do.st  sit 
Like  a  rich  armour  worn  in  heat  of  day. 
That  scalds  -with  safety. — By  his  gates  of  breath 
There  lies  a  downy  feather,  which  stirs  not : 
Did  he  suspire,  that  light  and  weightless  down 
Perforce  must  move. — My  gracious  lord  I  my  father  ! — 
Tlii."  sleep  is  sound  indeed  :  this  is  a  sleep. 
That  from  this  golden  ringol'  hath  divorcd 
So  many  English  kings.     Thy  due  from  me 
Is  tears  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood. 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 
Shall.  0  dear  father  !  pay  thee  plenteously : 
My  due  from  thee  is  this  imperial  crown, 
Which,  as  inimediate  from  thy  place  and  blood, 
Derives  itself  to  me. — Lo  !  here*  it  sits, 

[Putting  it  on  his  head. 
Which  heaven  shall  guard  :  and  put  the  world's  whole 

strength 
Into  one  giant  arm,  it  shall  not  force 
This  lineal  honour  from  me.     This  from  thee 
Will  I  to  mine  leave,  as  "tis  left  to  me.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  Warwick  !   Gloster  !   Clarence  ! 
Re-enter  Warwick,  and  the  re.st. 

Cla.  '        Doth  the  king  call  ? 

War.  What  would  your  majesty '?'     How  fares  your 
grace? 

K.  Hen.  Why  did  you  leave  me  here  alone,  my  lords? 

Cla.  We  let  the  prince,  my  brother,  here,  my  liege, 
iVho  undertook  to  sit  and  watch  bv  you. 

K.  Hen.  The  prince  of  Wales?     Where  is  he?  let 
me  see  him : 
We  is  not  here.* 

War.  This  door  is  open ;  he  is  gone  this  way. 

P.  Humph.  He  came  not  through  the  chamber  where 
we  stay'd. 

K.  Hen.  'Where  is  the  crown  ?  who  took  it  from  my 
pillow? 

War.  When  we  wnthdrcw.  my  liege,  we  left  it  here. 

K.  Hen.  The  prince  hath  ta'en  it  hence: — go,  seek 
him  out. 
Is  he  so  hasty,  that  he  doth  suppose 
My  sleep  my  death  ? — 
Find  him,  my  lord  of  Warvviek  :  chide  him  hither. 

[Exit  Warwick. 
This  part  of  his  conjoins  with  my  disease. 
And  helps  to  end  me. — See.  sons,  what  things  you  are  : 
How  quickly  nature  falls  into  revolt, 
When  gold  becomes  her  object. 
For  tliis  the  foolish  over-careful  fathers 
Have  broke  their  sleeps  with  tliounhts. 
Their  brains  v^^th  care,  their  bones  with  industry  : 
For  this  they  have  cngro.«sed  and  pild  up 
The  canker'd  heaps  of  strange-achieved  gold; 


For  this  they  have  been  thoughtful  to  invest 
Their  sons  with  arts,  and  martial  exerci.ses  : 
When,  like  the  bee,  tolling*  from  every  flower 
The  virtuous  sweets,* 

Our  thighs  pack'd  with  wax,  our  months  wnth  hon«y. 
We  bring  it  to  the  hive,  and  like  the  boes, 
Are  murder'd  for  our  pains.     This  bitter  taste 
Yield  his  engrossments  to  the  ending  father. — 

Rc-cntcr  Warwick. 
Now,  where  is  he  that  will  not  stay  so  long. 
Till  his  friend  sickness"  hands'  determin'd*  me? 

War.  My  lord.  I  found  the  prince  in  the  next  room, 
Wasliing  with  kindly  tears  his  gentle  clieeks  : 
With  such  a  deep  demeanour  in  great  sorrow, 
That  tyranny,  which  never  quafT'd  but  blood. 
Would,  by  beholding  him,  have  wa.sh'd  his  knife 
W^ilh  gentle  eye-drops.     He  is  coming  hither. 

K.  Hen.  But  wherefore  did  he  take  away  the  crown? 
Re-enter  Prince  Henry. 
Lo.  where  he  comes  — Come  hither  to  me.  Harry. — 
Depart  the  chamber,  leave  us  here  alone. 

[Exeunt  Clarence,  Prince  Humphrey.  Lords,  ire 
P.  Hen.  I  never  thought  to  hear  you  speak  agaiR. 
A'.  Hen.  Thy  wsh  was  father,  Harry,  to  that  thought 
I  stay  too  long  by  thee,  I  weary  thee. 
Dost  thou  so  hunger  for  mine  empty  chair, 
That  thou  wilt  needs  invest  thee  with  mine  honourr 
Before  thy  hour  be  ripe?     0  foolish  youth, 
Thou  seeiv'st  the  greatness  that  will  overwhelm  tl.^  ■ 
Stay  but  a  little  :  for  my  cloud  of  dignity 
Is  held  from  falling  with  so  weak  a  wind, 
That  it  will  quickly  drop :  my  day  is  dim. 
Thou  hast  stoln  that,  which,  after  some  few  hours. 
Were  thine  without  offence,  and  at  my  death 
Thou  hast  seal'd  up  my  expectation: 
Thy  life  did  manifest  thoit  lov"dst  me  not, 
And  thou  wilt  have  me  die  assur'd  of  it. 
Thou  hid"st  a  thousand  daggers  in  thy  thoughts, 
Which  thou  hast  whetted  on  thy  stony  heart. 
To  stab  at  half  an  hour  of  my  life. 
What  !  canst  thon  not  forbear  me  half  an  hour  ? 
Then  get  thee  gone,  and  dig  my  grave  thyself, 
j  And  bid  the  merr\-  bells  ring  to  thine  ear 
I  That  thou  art  crowned,  not  that  I  am  dead. 
'Let  all  the  tears  that  should  bedew  my  hearse, 
I  Be  drops  of  balm  to  sanctify  thy  head  ; 
I  Only  compound  me  with  forsotten  dust: 
Give  that  which  irave  thee  life  unto  the  worms 
;  Pluck  do^^^l  my  officers,  break  my  decrees ; 
I  For  now  a  time  is  come  to  mock  at  form. 
Harry  the  fit'th  is  crown"d  ! — Up.  vanity  ! 
Down,  royal  state  !  all  you  sage  counsellors,  hence. 
'  ,\nd  to  the  English  court  assemble  now. 
From  even,-  region,  apes  of  idleness  ! 
'  Now.  neighbour  confines,  purge  you  of  your  scum  • 
I  Have  you  a  rulTnin  that  will  swear,  drink,  dance, 
I  Revel  the  night,  rob,  murder,  and  commit 
I  The  oldest  sins  the  newest  kind  of  ways? 
\  Be  happy,  he  \\\\\  trouble  you  no  more  : 
j  England  shall  double  gild  his  treble  guilt, 
I  England  shall  give  him  office,  honour,  might: 
For  the  fifth  Harry  from  curb'd  license  plucks 
The  muzzle  of  restraint,  and  the  wild  dog 
I  Shall  flesh  his  tooth  in  every'  innocent. 
0  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows  ! 
;  When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold  thy  riots 
I  What  wilt  thou  do  when  riot  is  thy  care  ' 
0  !  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again. 


in  f.  e.  ;   the  word  meanii.  &  ei'r.U.      *  where  ;  in  quarto.       *  The  reit  of  the  tpeech  i»  not  in  the  quarto       *  Ttui  line  if  ■•<  ' 
'  toHine  :  in  folio.      •  Thii     ne  u  not  in  the  quarto.     "  hath  :  in  folio       •  Ended. 


KIKG  HENKY   IV. 


399 


Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabitants. 
P.  Hen.   0,  pardon  me,  my  liege  !  hut  for  my  tears, 

[  Kneeling. 
The  moist  impediments  unto  my  speech, 
f  had  forestall'd  this  dear  and  deep  rebuke. 
Ere  you  with  grief  had  spoke,  and  I  had  heard 
The  course  of  it  so  far.     There  is  your  crown ; 
And  He  that  wears  the  crown  immortally. 
Long  guard  it  yours  !     If  I  affect  it  more. 
Than  as  your  honour,  and  as  your  renown. 
Let  me  no  more  from  this  obedience  rise. 
Which  my  most  true  and  inward  duteous  spirit 
Teacheth,  this  prostrate  and  exterior  bending. 
Heaven  witness  with  me,  when  I  here  came  in, 
And  found  no  course  of  breath  within  your  majesty, 
How  cold  it  struck  my  heart  !  if  I  do  feign, 

0  !  let  me  in  my  present  wildness  die. 

And  never  live  to  sliow  th'  incredulous  world 
T.ie  noble  change  that  I  have  purposed. 
Coming  to  look  on  you,  thinking  you  dead, 
And  dead  almost,  my  liege,  to  think  you  were, 

1  spake  unto  the  crown,  as  having  sense, 

And  thus  upbraided  it:   "The  care  on  thee  depending. 

Hath  fed  upon  the  body  of  my  father  ; 

Therefore,  thou,  best  of  gold,  art  worst  of  gold. 

Other,  less  fine  in  carat,  is  more  precious, 

Preser\^ng  life  in  medicine  potable  : 

But  thou,  most  fine,  most  honoured,  most  reuown'd, 

Hast  eat  thy  bearer  up."     Thus,  my  most  royal  liege, 

Accursing  it,  I  put  it  on  my  head  ; 

To  try  with  it,  as  with  an  enemy 

That  had  before  my  face  murder'd  my  father, 

The  quarrel  of  a  true  inheritor  : 

But  if  it  did  infect  my  blood  with  joy,    « 

Or  swell  my  thoughts  to  any  strain  ot  pride ; 

If  any  rebel  or  vain  spirit  of  mine 

Did,  with  the  least  affection  of  a  welcome, 

Give  entertainment  to  the  weight  of  it, 

Let  God  for  ever  keep  it  from  my  head, 

And  make  me  as  the  poorest  vassal  is, 

That  doth  with  awe  and  terror  kneel  to  it  ! 

K.  Hen.  0  my  son  !' 
God  put  it  in  thy  mind  to  take  it  hence, 
That  thou  mightst  win  the  more  thy  father's  love. 
Pleading  so  \\isely  in  excuse  of  it. 
Come  hither,  Harry  ;  sit  thou  by  my  bed. 
And  hear,  I  think,  the  very  latest  counsel 
That  ever  I  shall  breathe.     God  knows,  my  son, 
By  what  by-paths,  and  indirect  crook'd  ways, 
I  met  this  crown  ;  and  I  ihyself  know  well 
How  troublesome  it  sat  upon  my  head  : 
To  thee  it  shall  descend  with  better  quiet, 
Better  opinion,  better  confirmation ; 
For  all  the  soil  of  the  achievement  goes 
With  me  into  the  earth.     It  seem'd  in  me, 
But  as  an  honour  snatch'd  -with  boisterous  hand, 


And  I  had  many  living  to  upbraid 

My  gain  of  it  by  their  assistances ; 

Which  daily  grew  to  quarrel,  and  to  bloodshed. 

Wounding  supposed  peace.     All  these  bold  fears, 

j  Thou  seest.  with  peril  I  have  answered : 

I  For  all  my  reign  hath  been  but  as  a  scene 

I  Acting  that  argument,  and  now  my  death 
Changes  the  mode  :  for  what  in  me  was  purchase,* 
^alls  upon  thee  in  a  more  fairer  sort ; 
So,  thou  the  garland  wear'st  successively. 
Vet,  though  thou  stand'st  more  sure  than  I  could  do, 
A  hou  art  not  firm  enough ;  since  griefs  are  green. 
And  all  my^  friends,  which  thou  must  make  thy  frienda, 
Have  but  their  stings  and  teeth  newly  ta'en  out ; 
By  whose  fell  working  I  was  first  advanc'd, 
And  by  whose  power  I  well  might  lodge  a  fear 
To  be  again  displac'd.     Which  to  avoid, 
I  cut  some''  off;  and  had  a  purpose  now 
To  lead  out  many  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Lest  rest,  and  lying  still,  might  make  them  look 
Too  near  unto  my  state.     Therefore,  my  Harry. 
Be  it  thy  course  to  busy  giddy  minds 
With  fw-eign  quarrels  ;  that  action,  hence  borne  oat. 
May  waste  the  memory  of  the  former  days. 
More  would  I,  but  my  lungs  are  wasted  so. 
That  strength  of  speech  is  utterly  denied  me. 
How  I  came  by  the  crown,  0  God,  forgive, 
And  grant  it  may  with  thee  in  true  peace  live  ! 

P.  Hen.  My  gracious  liege,' 
You  won  it,  wore  it,  kept  it,  gave  it  me ; 

j  Then  plain,  and  right,  must  my  possession  be  : 

I  Which,  I  wdth  more  than  with  a  common  pain, 
'Gainst  all  the  world  will  rightfully  maintain. 
Enter  Prince  John   of  Lancaster,  Warwick,   Lords, 
and  Others. 
K.  Hen.  Look,   look,  here  comes   my  John  of  Lan- 
caster. 
P.  John.  Health,  peace,  and  happiness,  to  my  royal 

father  ! 
K.  Hen.  Thou  bring'st  me  happiness,  and  peace,  son 
John  : 
But  health,  alack,  with  youthful  wings  is  flown 

j  From  this  bare,  wither'd  trunk :  upon  thy  sight, 

j  My  worldly  business  makes  a  period. 

]  Where  is  my  lord  of  Warwick  ? 

i      P.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Warwick  ! 

;      A'.  Hen.  Doth  any  name  particular  belong 

!  Unto  the  lodging  v/here  I  first  did  swoon  ? 

I      War.  'T  is  call'd  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord. 

K.  Hen.  Laud  be  to  God  ! — even  there  my  life  muBt 

I  end. 

I  It  hath  been  prophesied  to  me  many  years, 
I  should  not  die  but  in  Jerusalem, 
Which  vainly  I  suppos'd  the  Holy  Land. — 
But  bear  me  to  that  chamber  ;  there  I  '11  lie : 
In  that  Jerusalem  shall  Harry  die.  [Exeunt 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— Olostershire.     A  Hall  in  Shallow's 

House. 
Enter  Shallow,  Falstaff,  Bardolph,  and  Page. 
Shal.  By  cock  and  pie,  sir,  you  shall  not  away  to- 
ri igbt.— What,  Davy,  I  say  ! 

'  Mot  in  th»  quarto      »  f.  e.  :  uTirohaa'd ; 


Fal. 


You 
low. 


must   excuse   me,  master   Robert   Shal 


5^/.  I  will  not  excuse  you  ;  you  shall  not  be  ex- 
cused ;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted  ;  there  is  no 
excuse  shall  serve ;  you  shall  not  be  excused. — Why. 
Davy  ! 

•tot  obtattud  by  inJieritamet.      '  thy  :  in  f.  e        ♦  them  :  in  f.  e,     •  This  line  ij  not  ii  th. 


400 


SECOND   PART  OF 


ACT   V. 


EiUer  Davt. 

Davy.  Here,  sir. 

Shat.  I)ii\^\  Da^'y.  Davy.  Da\->-. — let  mo  see,  Davy; 
let  me  soe  : — yea.  marry.  William  cotik.  bid  him  come 
hither. — Sir  loliii.  you  .sjiall  not  be  excused. 

Duvy.  Marry,  .'^ir,  thus  ;  tliose  jireeepts'  cauuol  be 
•erved  :  and.  ayaiii.  sir, — shall  we  sow  the  headland 
with  wheal  ? 

SImI.  With  red  wheat,  Da^^•.  But  for  William 
rook  : — arc  there  no  youns  pigeons? 

Davy.  Yt^s.  sir. — Flere  is.  now.  the  smith's  note  for 
shoeina.  and  plough  irons. 

Shal.  Let  it  be  ca.«t.  and  paid. — Sir  John,  you  shall 
ot  be  excused. 

Davy.  Now,  sir.  a  new  link  to  the  bucket  must  needs 
be  had : — and.  sir,  do  you  mean  to  stop  any  of  Wil- 
liams  wages,  about  the  sack  he  lost  the  other  day  at 
Hinckley  fair  ? 

Shal.  He  shall  answer  it. — Some  pigeons,  Da^T :  a 
eoupie  of  short-legged  hens,  a  joint  of  mutton,  and  any 
pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell  Williani  cook. 

Ihvy.  Doth  the  man  of  war  stay  all  night,  .sir  ? 

Shal.  Yea.  Davy.  I  will  use  him  well.  A  friend 
)■  tlie  court  is  better  than  a  penny  in  purse.  U'se  hie 
men  well.  Da^'>•.  for  they  are  arrant  knaves,  and  will 
backbite. 

Davy.  No  worse  than  they  are  back  bitten'  sir  :  for 
they  have  mar\-cllous  foul  linen. 

Shul.  Well  conceited.  Davy.  About  thv  business. 
Davy. 

Davy.  I  beseech  you,  sir.  to  countenance  William 
Vigor  of  Wiricot  against  Clement  Perkes  of  the  hill. 

Shal.  There  are  many  complaints,  Davy^,  against 
that  Visor  :  that  Visor  is  an  arrant  knave,  on  my 
Knowledge. 

Davy.  I  grant  your  worship,  that  he  is  a  knave,  sir; 
but  yet.  God  forbid,  sir,  but  a  knave  should  have  some 
countenance  at  his  friend's  request.  An  honest  man, 
«ir.  is  able  to  speak  for  himself,  when  a  knave  is  not. 
I  have  .served  your  worship  truly,  sir.  this  eight  years : 
and  if  I  cannot  once  or  twice  in  a  quarter  bear  out  a 
knave  against  an  honest  man.  1  have  but  a  very  little 
credit  with  your  worship.  The  knave  is  mine  honest 
friend,  sir;  therefore,  I  beseech  your  worship,'  let  him 
be  countenanced. 

Shal.  Go  to  :  I  say.  he  shall  have  no  wTong.  Look 
about.  Davy.  [Exit  Daw.]  Where  are  you,  sir  John  ? 
Come.  come,  come  ;  off  \>ith  your  boots. — Give  me 
your  hand,  master  Bardolph. 

Bard.   I  am  iilad  to  .«ce  your  worship. 

Shal.  I  thank  thee  with  all  mv  heart,  kind  master 
B.irdolpli,_And  welcome,  mv  tall  fellow.  [To  the 
Pn^^]     Come,  sir  John.  [Exit  Shallow. 

t'll.  I  II  follow  you,  good  master  Robert  Shallow. 
Bardolph.  look  to  our  horses.  [Eieiint  Bardolph  ar\d 
Pagf]  If  I  were  sawed  into  quantities,  I  should  make 
lour  dozen  of  such  bearded  hermits  staves  as  master 
Sliailow.  It  is  a  wonderful  thini;  to  sec  the  semblable 
coherence  of  his  men's  spirits  and  his  :  they,  by  observ- 
mg  him.  do  bear  themsf-lvcs  like  foolish  justices  ;  he. 
by  converf'ins  with  them,  is  turned  into  a  justice-like 
•erring  man.  Their  spirits  are  so  married  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  participation  of  .society,  that  they  flock 
together  in  consent,  like  so  many  wild  j;ee.«e.  If  I  had 
a  suit  to  master  Shallow.  I  would  humour  his  men 
with  the  imputation  of  being  near  their  master:  if  to 
his  men.  I  would  curr>-  with  master  Sliailow,  that  no 
man  could  better  command  his  .«cn-ants.  It  is  certain, 
that  either  wi.«e  bearing,  or  ignorant  carriage,  ia  caught, 

1  Wtrr^n,,       1  bitten  :  in  folio       >  I  Uie»ch  you  :  In  iu*rto       « 


as  men  take  diseases,  one  of  another  :  therefore,  lei 
men  take  heed  of  their  company.  I  will  devise  matter 
enough  out  of  this  Shallow,  to  keep  prince  Harry  in 
continual  jiiuuhtcr  the  wearing-out  of  six  fasliions, 
(which  is  lour  terms,  or  two  actions)  and  he  shall  laugh 
without  intervallums.  0  !  it  is  much,  that  a  lie  with 
a  slight  oath,  and  a  jest  with  a  sad  brow,  will  do  with 
a  fellow  that  never  had  the  ache  in  his  shoulders.  O  ! 
you  shall  see  him  laugh,  till  his  face  be  like  a  wet 
cloak  ill  laid  up. 

Shal.  [Within.]  Sir  John  ! 

Fal.  I  come,  master  Shallow :  I  come,  master  Shal 
low.  [Exit  Fat.staff. 

SCENE  II. — Westminster.     An  Apartment  in  tb* 

Palace. 

Enter  Warwick,  and  the  Lord  Chief  Jiisticf 

War.  How  now,  my  lord  chief  justice  !  whither  away  ? 

Ch.  Ju.'<t.  How' doth  the  king  ? 

War.  Exceeding  well :  his  cares  are  now  all  ended. 

Ch.  Just.  I  hope,  not  dead. 

War.  He 's  walk'd  the  way  of  nature, 

And  to  our  purposes  he  lives  no  more. 

Ch.  Just.  I  would,  his  majesty  had  call'd  me  with 
him  : 
The  service  that  I  truly  did  his  life, 
Hath  left  me  open  to  all  injuries. 

War.  Indeed,  I  think  the  young  king  loves  you  not 

Ch.  Jv.at.  I  know  he  doth  not.  and  do  arm  mysell 
To  welcome  the  condition  of  the  time  : 
Which  cannot  look  more  hideously  upon  me 
Than  I  have  drawn  it  in  my  fantasy. 

Enter  Prince  John,  Prince  Humphrey.  Clarence, 
Westmoreland,  and  Others. 

War.  Here  come  the  hea^•y  issue  of  dead  Harrj-  : 

0  !  that  the  living  Harry  had  the  temper 

Of  him,  the  worst  of  these  three  gentlemen  ! 
How  many  nobles  then  should  hold  their  place*. 
That  must  strike  sail  to  spirits  of  vile  sort. 

Ch.  Jvst.  0  God  !  I  fear  all  will  be  overturn'd. 

P.  John.  Good  morrow,  cousin  Warwick,  good  mor- 
row. 

P.  Humph.  Cla.  Good  morro"\v,  cousin. 

P.  John.  We  meet  like  men  that  had  forgot  to  speak. 

War.  We  do  remember  ;  but  our  argument 
Is  all  too  heavy  to  admit  much  talk. 

P.  John.  Well,  peace  be  with  him  that  hath  made  ui 
heavj- ! 

Ch.  Just.  Peace  be  with  us,  lest  we  be  hea^^er  ! 

P.  Humph.  0  !  good  my  lord,  you  have  lost  a  friend 
indeed  ; 
And  I  dare  swear,  you  borrow  not  that  face 
Of  seeming  sorrow  .   it  is,  sure,  your  own. 

P.  John.  Though  no  man  be  assurd  what  grace  t^^ 
You  stand  in  coldest  expectation  :  [fimi 

1  am  the  sorrier  :  'would,  't  were  otherwise. 

Cla.  Well,  you  must  now  speak  sir  John  Falstaff  fair 
Which  swims  against  your  stream  of  quality. 

Ch.  Just.  Sweet  princes,  what  I  did,  I  did  in  honour 
Led  by  th"  impartial*  conduct  of  my  soul ; 
j  And  never  shall  you  see,  that  I  will  beg 
A  ragged  and  forest al I'd  remission. 
I  If  truth  and  upright  innoceney  fail  me, 
j  I  "11  to  the  kins,  my  master,  that  is  dead. 
[  And  tell  him  who  hath  sent  me  after  him. 

War.  Here  comes  the  prince. 
j  Enter  King  Henry  V. 

Ch.    Ju.'^t.    Good    morrow,    and    heaven   save  your 
I  majesty ! 

imp»riiiJ  :  in  fou<v 


1 


ecKtsTE  m. 


KIXG  HENRY  IV. 


401 


King.  This  new  and  gorgeous  garment,  majesty, 
Sits  not  so  easy  on  me  as  you  think. — 
Brothers,  yon  mix  your  sadness  with  some  fear  : 
This  is  the  English,  not  the  Turkish  court : 
\ot  Amurath  an  Amurath  succeeds. 
But  Harry'  Harry      Yet  be  sad,  good  brothers, 
For,  to  speak  truth,  it  very  "vvell  becomes  you: 
Sorrow  so  royally  in  you  appears, 
That  I  will  deeply  put  the  fashion  on. 
And  wear  it  in  my  heart.     Why  then,  be  sad ; 
But  entertain  no  more  of  it,  good  brothers, 
Than  a  joint  burden  laid  upon  us  all. 
For  me,  by  heaven,  I  bid  you  be  assur'd, 
I  '11  be  your  father  and  your  brother  too  ; 
Let  me  but  bear  your  love,  I  '11  bear  your  cares  : 
Yet  weep,  that  Harry  's  dead,  and  so  will  I  ; 
But  Harry  lives,  that  shall  convert  those  tears. 
By  number,  into  hours  of  happiness. 

P.  John.  Sfc.  We  hope  no  other  from  your  majesty. 

King.  You  all  look  strangely  on  me  : — and  you  most. 
[To  the  Chief  Justice. 
You  are,  I  think,  assur'd  T  love  you  not. 

Ch.  Just.  I  am  assur'd,  if  I  be  measur'd  rightly, 
Your  majestv  hath  no  just  cause  to  hate  me. 

Kiiig.  No  ! 
How  might  a  prince  of  my  great  hopes  forget 
So  great  indignities  you  laid  upon  me? 
What  !  rate,  rebuke,  and  roughly  send  to  prison 
The  immediate  heir  of  England  !     Was  this  easy  ? 
May  this  be  wash'd  in  Lethe,  and  forgotten  ? 

Ch.  Just.  I  then  did  use  the  person  of  your  father  ; 
The  image  of  his  power  lay  then  in  me  : 
And,  in  th'  administration  of  his  law 
Whiles  I  was  busy  for  the  commonwealth. 
Your  nighness  plea.seQ  lo  torgei  my  piace. 
The  majesty  and  power  of  law  and  justice, 
The  image  of  the  king  whom  I  presented. 
And  struck  me  in  my  very  seat  of  judgment : 
Whereon,  as  an  offender  to  your  father, 
I  gave  bold  way  to  my  authority. 
And  did  commit  you.     If  the  deed  were  ill. 
Be  you  contented,  wearing  now  the  garland. 
To  have  a  son  set  your  decrees  at  nought ; 
To  pluck  down  justice  from  your  awful  bench  ; 
To  trip  the  course  of  law,  and  blunt  the  sword 
That  guards  the  peace  and  safety  of  your  person  : 
Nay,  more ;  to  spurn  at  your  most  royal  image. 
And  mock  your  workings  in  a  second  body. 
Question  your  royal  thoughts,  make  the  case  yours. 
Be  now  the  father,  and  propose  a  son ; 
Hear  your  o\\-n  dignity  so  much  profan'd. 
See  your  most  dreadful  laws  so  loosely  slighted, 
Behold  yourself  so  by  a  son  disdain'd, 
And  then  imagine  me  taking  your  part. 
And  in  your  power  soft  silencing  your  son. 
After  this  cold  considerance,  sentence  me  ; 
And,  as  you  are  a  king,  speak  in  your  state 
What  I  have  done,  that  misbecame  my  place, 
My  person,  or  my  liege's  sovereignty. 

King.  You  are  right,  justice :  and  you  weigh  this  well 
Therefore  still  bear  the  balance,  and  the  sword  ; 
Aid  I  do  wish  your  honours  may  increase, 
Till  you  do  live  to  see  a  son  of  mine 
Offend  you,  and  obey  you,  as  I  did. 
So  shall  1  live  to  speak  my  father's  words  : — 
"  Happy  am  I,  that  have  a  man  so  bold. 
That  dares  do  justice  on  my  proper  son ; 
And  not  less  happy,  having  such  a  son, 
That  would  deliver  up  his  greatness  so 


Into  the  hands  of  justice." — You  did  commit  me. 

For  which,  I  do  commit  into  your  hand 

Th'  unstained  sword  that  you  have  used  to  bear; 

With  this  remembrance. — that  you  use  the  same 

With  the  like  bold,  just,  and  impartial  spirit. 

As  you.  have  done  'gainst  me.     There  is  my  hand. 

You  shall  be  as  a  father  to  my  youth  : 

My  voice  shall  sound  as  you  do  prompt  mine  ear, 

And  I  will  stoop  and  humble  my  intents 

To  your  well-practis'd,  wise  directions. — 

And.  princes  all,  believe  me,  I  beseech  you  : 

My  father  is  gone  wild  into  his  grave, 

For  in  his  tomb  lie  my  affections. 

And  with  his  spirit  sadly  I  survive. 

To  mock  the  expectation  of  the  world. 

To  frustrate  prophecies,  and  to  raze  out 

Rotten  opinion,  who  hath  writ  me  down 

After  my  seeming.     The  tide  of  blood  in  me 

Hath  proudly  flow'd  in  vanity  till  now : 

Now  doth  it  turn,  and  ebb  back  to  the  sea. 

Where  it  shall  mingle  with  the  .^tate  of  floods, 

And  flow  henceforth  in  formal  majestv'. 

Now.  call  we  our  high  court  of  parliament. 

And  let  us  choose  such  limbs  of  noble  counsel, 

That  the  great  body  of  our  state  may  go 

In  equal  rank  with  the  best  govern'd  nation ; 

That  war,  or  peace,  or  both  at  once,  may  be 

As  things  acquainted  and  familiar  to  us, 

In  which  vou.  father,  shall  have  Ibremost  hand. — 

[To  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
Our  coronation  done,  we  will  accite, 
As  I  before  remember'd,  all  our  state  : 
And  (God  consigning  to  my  good  intents) 
No  prince,  nor  peer,  shall  have  just  cause  to  say, 
God  shorten  Harry's  happy  life  one  day.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Glostershire.     The  Garden  of 

Shallow's  House. 

Enter  F.\lstaff,  Shallow,  Silence,  Bardolph,  tkt 

Page,  and  Davy. 

Shal.   Nay.  you  shall  see  mine  orchard  ;  where,  in 

an  arbour,  we  will  eat  a  last  year's  pippin  of  my  own 

grafting,  with  a  dish  of  carraways,  and  so  forth. — Come. 

cousin  Silence  : — and  then  to  bed. 

Fal.  'Fore  Cod,  you  have  here  a  goodly  dwelling, 
and  a  rich. 

Shal.  Barren,  barren,  barren  ;  beggars  all,  beggars 
all,  sir  John  : — marry,  good  air. — Spread,  DaA^r ;  spread, 
Da^T  :  well  said,  Davy. 

Fal  This  Davy  serv-es  you  for  good  uses  :  he  is  your 
serving-man,  and  your  husband. 

Shal.  A  good  varlet,  a  good  varlet,  a  very  good 
varlet,  sir  John. — By  the  mass,  I  have  drunk  too  much 
sack  at  supper : — a  good  varlet.  Now  sit  down,  now 
sit  dowai. — Come,  cousin. 

Sit.  Ah,  sirrah  !  quoth-a, — we  shall 

Do  nothing  but  cat.  and  make  good  cheer.  [Singing 
And  praise  heaven  for  the  merry  year  ; 
When  flesh  is  cheap  and  females  dear, 
And  lusty  lads  roam  here  and  there, 

So  merrily. 
And  ever  among  so  merrily. 
Fal.  There  's  a  merry  heart  !-  -Good  master  Silence. 
I  '11  sive  you  a  health  for  that  anon. 

Shal.  Give  master  Bardolph  .=ome  wine,  Dav)'. 
Davy.  Sweet  sir.  sit :  I  '11  be  with  you  anon  :--mosl 
sweet  sir,  sit. — Master  page,  good   master  page,  sit: 
proface  !'   What  you  "'vant  in  meat,  wb  'U  have  in  drink. 
But  you  must  bear :  the  heart  V  all. 


[Exit. 


A  word  of  nncertain  origji 
2  A 


ih  good  may  it  do  you  " 


402 


SECOND  PAET  OF 


ACT  V 


Shal  Be  merry,  master  Bardolph ; — and  ray  little 
■oldier  there,  be  merry. 

Sil.   Be  merry,  be  7iieny,  my  ipifc  has  all ;     [Singing. 
For  women  are  shreics.  hoik  short  and  tall : 
'Tis  merry  in  Iiall,  when  beards  wag  all, 

And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide. 
Be  merry,  be  merry,  fyc. 
Fal.  I  did  not  think  master  Silence  had  been  a  man 
of  this  mettle. 

SiV,  Who  I  ?  I  have  been  merry  twice  and  once,  ere  now. 

Re-enter  Davv. 
Divy.  The\e  is  a  dish  of  leather-coats'  for  you. 

[Setting  them  before  Bardolph. 
S/ial.  Dav^',— 

Davy.  Your  worship. — I  '11  be  with  you  straight. — 
A  cup  of  -vs-ine.  sir  ? 
Sil.  A  cup  ofivine.  that 's  brisk  and  fine,      [Singing. 
And  drink  unto  the  leman  mine  ; 
And  a  merry  heart  lives  long-a. 
Fal.  Well  said,  master  Silence. 
Sil.  An  we  shall  be  merry,  now  comes  in  the  sweet 
ef  the  night. 

Fal.  Health  and  long  life  to  you,  master  Silence. 
Sil.  Fill  the  cup.  and  let  it  come; 

I '//  pledge  you  a  mile  to  the  bottom. 
Shal.  Honest  Bardolph,  welcome  :  if  thou  wante.«t 
any  thing,  and  wilt  not  call,  beshrew  thy  heart. — Wel- 
come, my  little  tiny  thief;  and  welcome,  indeed,  too. — 
I  '11  drink  to  master  Barlolph,  and  to  all  the  cavalieros 
about  London. 

Davy.  I  hope  to  see  London  once  ere  I  die. 
Bard.  An  I  might  see  you  there,  Davy, — 
Shal.  By  the  mass,  you  '11  crack  a  quart  together. 
Ha  '.  will  you  not,  master  Bardolph  ? 
Bard.  Yea,  sir,  in  a  pottle  pot. 

Shal.  By  God's  leggins  I  thank  thee. — The  knave 
will  stick  by  thee.  I  can  assure  thee  that :  he  will  not 
out:  he  is  true  bred. 

Bard.  And  I  '11  stick  by  him,  sir. 
SJial.  Why,  there  spoke  a  king.     Lack  nothing:  be 
merry.     [Kjiocking  heard.]     Look,  who  's  at  the  door 
there.     Ho!  who  knocks  ?  [Exit  Davy. 

Fal    Why  now  you  have  done  me  right. 

[To  Silence,  who  drinks  a  bumper 
Sil.  Dome  right:'  [Singing 

And  dub  me  knight: 
Samingo. 
is 't  not  so? 
Fal.  'T  is  so. 

Sil.  Is  't  so  ?  Why,  then  say,  an  old  man  can  do 
>omevvhat. 

Re-enter  Davy. 
Davy.  An  't  please  your  worship^  there  's  one  Pistol 
come  from  the  court  with  news. 

Fal.  From  the  court  ?  let  him  come  in. — 
Enier  Pistol. 
How  now,  Pistol  ? 

Pist.  Sir  John,  God  save  you,  sir. 
Fal.  What  wind  blew  you  hither,  Pistol  ? 
Pist.  Not  the  ill  •wind  which  blows  no  man'  to  good. 
Sweet  knight,  th'  art  now  one  of  the  greatest  men 
In  the  realm. 

Sil.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  he  be,  but  goodman  Puff  of 
Pi.<!t.  Puff?  [Barson. 

Puff  in  thy  tcetli.  n-.ost  recreant  coward  base  ! — 
Sir  John,  I  am  thy  Pistol,  and  thy  friend, 
And  heltci -skelter  have  1  rode  to  the<^ ; 

^  Russet  appU.f.      'A  phrase   u»ed   in   drinWinir  healths.      'none:  in  folio.       ♦A  term  of  reproach,  derived   from  the  Ttalian 
•ienifyinp  "  a  fresh,  needy  xoldier."      »  Insult,  by  puttinp  the  thumb  between  the  fore  and  middle  fircer ;  firo,  has  the  same  significatiop 
*  Thii  ouotation  if  also  made  in   ■  Taroing  of  the  Shrew."      '  these  pleasant  days  :  in  f.  e.      "  Not  in  the  quarU. 


And  tidings  do  I  bring,  and  lucky  joys. 
And  golden  times,  and  happy  news  of  price. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythce  now,  deliver  them  like  a  man  of  thi# 
world. 

Pist.  A  foutra  for  the  world,  and  worldlings  base  I 
I  speak  of  Africa,  and  golden  joys. 

Fal.  O  base  Assyrian  knight  !  what  is  thy  news  " 
Let  king  Cophotua  knoM-  the  truth  thereof. 

Sil.  And  Robin  Hood,  Scarlet,  and  John.         [Sins'*. 

Pist.  Sliall  dunghill  curs  confront  the  Helicons  ? 
And  shall  good  news  be  baffled  ? 
Then.  Pistol,  lay  thy  head  in  Furies'  lap 

Shal.  Honest  gentleman,  I  know  not  your  breed! na 

Pi.ft.  Why  then,  lament  therefore. 

Shal.  Give  me  pardon,  sir  • — if,  sir,  you  come  with 
news  from  the  court,  I  take  it.  there  is  but  two  ways, 
either  to  utter  them,  or  to  conceal  them.  I  am,  sir, 
under  the  king,  in  some  authority. 

Pist.  Under  which  king,  Bezonian  !*  speak,  or  die. 

Shal.  Under  king  Harry. 

Pist.  Harry  the  fourth  ?  or  fifth  ? 

Shal.  Harry  the  fourth. 

Pitt.  A  foutra  for  thine  office  !— - 

Sir  .John,  thy  tender  lambkin  now  is  king; 
Harry  the  fifth  's  the  man.     I  speak  the  truth  : 
When  Pistol  lies,  do  this ;  and  fig*  me,  like 
Tlie  brassing  Spaniard. 

Fal.  What  !  is  the  old  king  dead  ? 

Pist.  As  nail  in  door:  the  things  I  speak  are  ju.st. 

Fal.  Away,  Bardolph  !  saddle  my  horse. — Masiei 
Robert  Shallow,  choose  what  office  thou  wilt  in  the 
land,  't  is  thine. — Pistol,  I  will  double-charge  thee  with 
dignities. 

Bard.  0  joyful  day  ! — I  would  not  take  a  knight 
hood  for  my  fortune. 

Pist.  Wliat !  I  do  bring  good  news. 

Fal.  Carry  master  Silence  to  bed. — Master  Shallow, 
my  lord  Shallow,  be  what  thou  ^^^lt,  I  am  fortune's 
steward.  Get  on  thy  boots  :  we  '11  ride  all  night. — 0, 
sweet  Pistol  ! — Away,  Bardolph.  [Exit  Bard.] — Come. 
Pistol,  utter  more  to  me  ;  and,  withal,  devise  some- 
thing, to  do  thyself  good. — Boot,  boot,  master  Shallow 
I  know,  the  young  king  is  sick  for  me.  Let  us  lake 
any  man's  horses  ;  the  laws  of  England  are  at  my  com- 
mandment. Happy  are  they  which  have  been  my 
friends,  and  woe  unto  my  lord  chief  justice  I 

Pist.  Let  vultures  vile  seize  on  his  lungs  also  ! 
"  Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led","  say  they  ; 
Why,  here  it  is  :  welcome  this  pleasant  day  !'   [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Beadles,  dragging  in  Ho.stess  Quickly,  and  Dolc 

Tear-sheet. 

Ho.st.  No,  thou  arrant  knave  :  I  would  to  God  I 
might  die,  that  I  might  have  thee  hanged ;  thou  ha-st 
dr.awn  my  shoulder  out  of  joint. 

1  Bead.  The  constables  have  delivered  her  over  to 
me,  and  she  shall  have  whipping-cheer  enough".  1 
warrant  her.  There  hath  been  a  man  or  two  lately 
killed  about  her. 

J)ol.  Nut-hook,  nut-hook,  you  lie.  Come  on:  I'll 
tell  tlice  what,  thou  damned  tripc-visaged  ra.scal,  an 
the  child  I  now  go  with  do  uiisearry,  thou  had.st  better 
thou  hadst  struck  thy  mother,  thou  paper-faced  villain. 

Ho.st.  0  the  Lord,  that  sir  John  were  come  !  he 
would  make  this  a  bloody  day  to  somebody.  But  1 
pray  God  the  fruit  of  her  womb  miscarry  ! 


KING  HEXRY   IV. 


408 


1  Bead.  If  it  do.  you  shall  have  a  dozen  of  cushions 
again ;  you  have  but  eleven  now.  Come,  I  charge  you 
both  go  with  me,  for  the  man  is  dead,  that  you  and 
Pistol  beat  among  you. 

Dol.  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  thou  thin  man  in  a  censer,  I 
will  have  you  as  soundly  swinged  for  this, — you  blue- 
bottle rogue !  you  filthy  famished  correctioner  !  If 
you  be  not  swinged,  I  '11  forswear  half-kirtles. 

1  Bead.  Come,  come,  you  she  knight-errant,  come. 

Host.  0  God.  tliat  right  should  thus  overcome  might ! 
Well,  of  sufferance  comes  ease. 

>Dol.  Come,  you  rogue,  come:  bring  me  to  a  justice 

Host.  Ay  :  come,  you  starved  blood-hound. 

Dol.  Goodman  death  !  goodman  bones  ! 

Host.  Thou  atomy  thou. 

Dol.  Come,  you  thin  thing ;  come,  you  rascal ! 

1  Bead.  Very  well.  [Exeunt. 

SCEI^E  v.— A  public  Place  near  Westminster  Abbey. 
Enter  two  Grooms,  streiving  Rushes. 

1  Groom.  More  rushes,  more  rushes  ! 

2  Gronm.  The  trumpets  have  sounded  twice. 

1  Groom.  It  will  be  two  o'clock  ero  they  come  from 

the  coronation.     Despatch.  de.«patch.  [Exeunt  Grooms.^ 

Enter  Falstaff,  shallow,  Pistol,  Bardolph,  and  the 

Page. 

Fal.  Stand  here  by  me,  master  Robert  Shallow ;  I 

Rill  make  the  king  do  you  grace.    I  will  leer  upon  him, 

as  he  comes  by,  and  do  but  mark  the  countenance  that 

'    he  will  give  me. 

Pist.  God  bless  thy  lungs,  good  knight. 
Fal.  Come  here.  Pistol  ;  stand  behind  me. — [To 
Shallow.]  0  !  if  I  had  had  time  to  have  made  new 
liveries,  I  would  have  bestowed  the  thousand  pound  I 
borrowed  of  you.  But  't  is  no  matter  :  this  poor  show 
doth  better :  this  doth  infer  the  zeal  I  had  to  see  him. 
Shal.  It  doth  so. 

Fal.  It  shows  my  earnestness  of  affection. 
Pist.  It  doth  so. 
Fal.  My  devotion. 
Pist.  It  doth,  it  doth,  it  doth. 

Fal.  As  it  were,  to  ride  day  and  night ;  and  not  to 
I  deliberate,  not  to  remember,  not  to  have  patience  to 
j  «hift  me. 
j      Shal.  It  is  most  certain 


Fal.  But  to  stand 
with  desire   to   see 


stained  vdiY  travel,  and  sweatMis 


King.  My  lord  chief  justice,  speak  to  that  vain  man 
Ch.  Just.  Have  you  your  wits  ?  know  you  what 't  is 
you  speak? 

Fal.  My  kmg  !  my  Jove  '  I  speak  to  thee,  my  heart ' 

King.  I  know  thee  not,  old  man  .  fal.  to  thyprayer.s' 
How  ill  white  Lairs  become  a  fool,  and  jester  ! 
I  have  long  dream'd  of  such  a  kind  of  man, 
So  surfeit-swelJ'd.  so  old.  and  so  profane; 
But,  being  awake.  I  do  despise  my  dream. 
Make  less  thy  body,  hence,  and  more  thy  giace , 
Le  ve  gormandizing ;  know,  the  grave  doth  gape 
For  thee  thrice  wider  than  for  other  men, 
Reply  not  to  me  with  a  fool-born  jest  : 
Presume  not  that  I  am  the  thing  I  was ; 
For  God  doth  know,  so  shall  the  world  perceive, 
That  I  have  turn'd  away  my  former  self: 
So  will  I  those  that  kept  me  company. 
When  thou  dost  hear  I  am  as  I  have  been, 
Approach  me,  and  thou  shalt  be  as  thou  wast. 
The  tutor  and  the  feeder  of  my  riots . 
Till  then,  I  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death, 
As  I  have  done  the  rest  of  my  misleaders, 
Not  to  come  near  our  person  by  ten  mile. 
For  competence  of  life  I  will  allow  you, 
That  lack  of  means  enforce  you  not  to  e^  "1 ; 
And  as  we  hear  you  do  reform  yourselves, 
We  will,  according  to  your  strength  and  qualities, 
Give  you  advancement. — Be  it  your  charge,  my  lord. 
To  see  perform'd  the  tenor  of  our  word. — 
Set  on.  [Exeunt  King  and  his  Train 

Fal.  Master  Shallow,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  pound. 

Shal.  Ay,  marry,  sir  John  ;  which  I  beseech  you  to 
let  me  have  home  with  me. 

Fal.  That  can  hardly  be,  ma.«ter  Shallaw.  Do  not 
you  grieve  at  this  •  I  shall  be  sent  for  in  private  to 
him.  Look  you,  he  must  seem  thus  to  the  world. 
Fear  not  your  advancement ;  I  will  be  the  man  yet 
that  shall  make  you  great. 

Shal.  I  cannot  perceive  how,  unless  you  should  give 
me  your  doublet,  and  stuff  me  out  with  straw.  1 
beseech  you,  good  sir  John,  let  me  have  five  hundred 
of  my  thousand. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  will  be  as  good  as  my  word :  thip  that 
you  heard  was  but  a  colour. 

Shal.  A  colour.  I  fear,  that  you  will  die  in,  sir  John. 

Fal.  Fear  no  colours:  go  with  me  to  dinner.     Come. 


him  :    thinking  of  nothing   else  ;  !  lieutenant   Pistol ; — come,  Bardolph. — I  shall  be  sent 


putting  all  affairs  else   in  oblivion,  as  if  there  were 

nothing  else  to  be  done  but  to  see  him. 
I      Pist.  'T  is  semper  idem,  for  absque  hoc  nihil  est.  'T  is 
'.  all  in  every  part. 
I      Shal.  'T  is  so,  indeed. 

j     Pist.  My  knight,  I  will  inflame  thy  nobler  liver, 
;  And  make  thee  rage. 

Thy  Doll,  and  Helen  of  thy  noble  thoughts, 

Is  in  base  durance,  and  contagious  prison  ; 

Haul'd  thither 

By  most  mechanical  and  dirty  hand  : —  [snake. 


for  soon  at  night. 
Re-enter  Prince  John,  the  Chief  Justice.  Officers,  kc. 

Ch.  Ju.'^t.  Go.  carr>'  sir  John  Falstaff  to  the  Fleet. 
Take  all  his  company  along  with  liim. 

Fal.  My  lord,  my  lord  ! — 

Ch.  Just.  I  cannot  now  speak  :  I  will  hear  you  soon 
Take  them  away. 

Pist.  Se  fortuna  me  tormenta,  il  sperare  me  contenta. 

[Exeunt  Fal.  Shal.  Pist.  Bard.  Page,  and  Officers. 

P.  John.  I  like  this  fair  proceeding  of  the  king's. 
He  hath  intent,  his  wonted  followers 


Rouse  up  revenge  from  ebon  den  \\ith  fell  Alecto's   Shall  all  be  very  well  provided  for: 


For  Doll  is  in  ;  Pistol  speaks  nought  but  truth. 
i    Fal.  I  will  deliver  her. 

[Shouts  within,  and  trumpets  sound. 
roar'd   the   sea,   and    trumpet-clangor 


Pist.  There 
sounds. 

''^nter  King  and  his  Train,  including  the  Chief  Justice. 
Fal.  God  save  thy  grace,  king  Hal  !  my  royal  Hal  ! 


But  all  are  banish'd.  til!  their  conversations 
Appear  more  -vsise  and  modest  to  the  world. 

Ch.  Just.  And  so  they  are. 

P.  John.   The  king  hath  call'd  his  parliament,  my  lord 

Ch.  Just.  He  hath. 

P.  John.  I  will  lay  odds,  that,  ere  tins  year  expire 
We  bear  our  civil  swords,  and  native  fire, 


Pist.  The  heavens  thee  guard  and  keep,  most  royal   As  far  as  France.     I  heard  a  bird  rfo  sing, 
nip  of  fame  !  Whose  music,  to  my  thinking,  plcas'd  the  king 

Fal.  God  save  thee,  my  sweet  boy  !  Come,  will  you  hence  ?  [ExeunJ 

In  the  quarto  ed.,  the  king  and  his  train  here  pass  across  the  htf^e 


404 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY   IV. 


Aor  V. 


EPILOGUE, 

BY   ONE   THAT   CAN   DANCE.' 


First  my  fear,  then  my  courtesy,  last  my  speech. 
My  fear  is  your  disiileasure.  my  courteey  my  duty,  and 
my  speech  to  beg  your  pardons.  If  you  look  for  a 
good  speech,  now,  you  undo  me ;  for  what  I  have  to 
say,  is  of  mine  own  making,  and  what  indeed  I  should 
say,  will,  I  doubt,  prove  mine  o\^-n  marring.  But  to 
the  purpose,  and  so  to  the  venture. — Be  it  known  to 
you  (a.<  it  is  verj-  well)  I  was  lately  here  in  the  end  of 
a  displfa-vmg  play,  to  pray  your  patience  for  it,  and  to 
promise  you  a  better.  I  did  mean,  indeed,  to  pay  you 
\»nth  this ;  which,  if,  like  an  ill  venture,  it  come  un- 
luckily home,  I  break,  and  you,  my  gentle  creditors. 
lo*e.  Here,  I  promised  you,  I  would  be,  and  here  I 
commit  my  body  to  your  mercies  :  bate  me  some,  and 
I  w.U  pay  you  some  ;  and,  afi  most  debtors  do,  promise 
you  infinitely. 

If  ray  tongue  cannot  entreat  you  to  acquit  me,  will 

*  TWm  wordi  •!•  aot  in  f.  •.     •  Not  la  1.  • 


you  command  me  to  use  my  legs  ?  and  yet  that  were 
but  light  payment,  to  dance  out  of  your  debt  :  hut  a 
good  conscience  will  make  any  possible  satisfaction,  and 
so  -will  I.  All  the  gentlewomen  here  have  forgiven 
me;  if  the  gentlemen  will  not.  then  the  gentlemen  do 
not  agree  with  the  gentlewomen,  which  was  never  seen 
before  in  such  an  assembly. 

One  word  more,  I  beseech  you.  If  you  be  not  too 
much  cloyed  with  fat  meat,  our  humble  author  will 
continue  the  story,  with  sir  John  in  it.  and  make  you 
merry  with  fair  Katharine  of  France  ;  where,  lor  any 
thing  I  know,  Falstaff  shall  die  of  a  sweat,  unless  already 
he  be  killed  with  your  hard  opinions  ;  for  Oldcaetle 
died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not  the  m,an.  My  tongue 
is  weary ;  when  my  legs  are  too,  1  will  bid  you  gooc^ 
night :  and  so  kn'»el  down  before  you  :  but  indeed,  tit 
pray  for  the  queen.  1  End  wiik  a  dance  ' 


^ 


KING    HENRY    V. 


DKAMATIS    PEKSON^. 


Kino  Henry  the  Fifth. 

Duke  of  Gloucester,   }  ^^^^^^^  ^  ^^^  ^^ 

Duke  of  Bedford,  j  ° 

Duke  of  Exeter,  Uncle  to  the  King. 

Duke  of  York,  Cousin  to  the  King. 

Earls  of  Salisbury,  Westmoreland,  and  War- 
wick. 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury.     Bishop  of  Ely. 

Earl  of  Cambridge,      ) 

Lord  Scroop,  >  Conspirators, 

Sir  Thomas  Grey,  ) 

Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  Gower,  Fluellen, 
Macmorris,  Jamy,  Officers  in  King  Henry's 
army. 

Bates,  Court,  Williams,  Soldiers. 


Pistol,  Nym,  Bardolph. 

Boy,  Servant  to  them.     A  Herald. 

Chorus. 

Charles  the  Sixth,  King  of  France. 

Lewis,  the  Dauphin. 

Dukes  of  Burgundy,  Orleans,  and  Bourbon. 

The  Constable  of  France. 

Rambures,  and  Grandpre,  French  Lords. 

Montjoy.     a  French  Herald. 

Governor  of  Harfleur.     AmbassEidors  to  Englaad 

Isabel,  Queen  of  France. 
Katharine,  Daughter  of  Charles  and  IsabeL 
Alice,  a  Lady  attending  on  the  Princess. 
Mrs.  Quickly,  a  Hostess. 


Lords,  Ladies,  Officers,  French  and  English  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  Attendants. 
The  SCENE  in  England,  and  in  France. 


CHORUS. 


Enter  Choris,  as  Prologue} 

0  for  a  muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 
The  brightest  heaven  of  invention  ! 
A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene  ! 
Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself. 
Assume  the  port  of  Mars ;  and  at  his  heels, 
Lcash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword,  and  fire, 
Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles  all, 
The  flat  unraised  spirit  that  hath  dar'd, 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold,  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object :  can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  0*  the  very  casques, 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 
0  !  pardon,  since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest  ill  little  place  a  million ; 


And  let  us,  cyphers  to  this  great  accompt, 

On  your  imaginary  forces  work. 

Suppose,  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 

Are  now  confin'd  two  mighty  monarchies, 

Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts 

The  perilous,  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder. 

Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts  ; 

Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 

And  make  imaginary  puissance  : 

Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 

Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth; 

For  't  is  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our  kings, 

Cairy  them  here  and  there,  jumping  o'er  times, 

Turning  th'  accomplishment  of  many  years 

Into  an  hour-glass :  for  the  which  .«upply, 

Admit  me  chorus  to  this  history ; 

Who,  prologue-like,  your  humble  patience  pray, 

Gently  to  hear,  kindly  to  judge,  our  play.' 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I. — I  ondon.     An  Antechamber  in  the  King's 
Palace. 
Enter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Bishop  of 
Ely. 
Cant.  My  lord,  I  '11  tell  you,  that  self  bill  is  urg'd, 
Wliich  in  th'  eleventh  year  of  the  last  king's  reign 
Was  like,  and  had  indeed  again.st  us  pass'd, 
But  that  the  scambling*  and  unquiet  time 
Did  push  it  out  of  farther  question. 


Ely.  But  how,  my  lord,  shall  we  resist  it  now  ? 

Cant.  It  must  be  thought  on.     If  it  pass  against 
We  lose  the  better  half  of  our  possessions ; 
For  all  the  temporal  lands,  which  men  devout 
By  testament  have  given  to  the  church, 
Would  they  strip  from  us ;  being  valued  thus. — 
As  much  as  would  maintain,  to  the  king's  honour, 
Full  fifteen  earls,  and  fifteen  hundred  knights. 
Six  thousand  an4  two  hundred  good  esquires ; 
And,  to  relief  of  lazars,  and  weak  age. 


•  The  words,  as  Prologue :  not  in  f.  e.      >  The   Globe  Theatre,  where   the  play  waa  probably  first   icted. 
first  printed  in  the  folio.      *  Scrambling. 


>  All  the  chonueg  war* 

405 


406 


KING   HENRY   Y. 


Of  indigent  faint  souls,  past  corporal  toil, 

A  hundred  il ins-houses,  right  well  supplied; 

!\.ii(l  to  the  cotrers  of  the  king  beside, 

A  thousand  pounds  by  the  year.     Thus  runs  the  bill. 

Ely.  This  would  drink  deep. 

Cant.  "T  would  drink  the  cup  and  all. 

Ely.   But  what  provoMtion? 

Cant.  Tiie  king  is  full  of  grace,  and  fair  regard. 

Ely.  And  a  true  lover  of  the  holy  church. 

C^nt.  The  courses  of  his  youth  promis'd  it  not. 
he  breath  no  .«ooner  left  his  father's  body, 
Rut  that  his  wildness,  mortified  in  him. 
Seem'd  to  die  too :  yea,  at  that  very  moment, 
Consideration  like  an  angel  came, 
And  whipp'd  the  offending  Adam  out  of  him. 
Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise, 
T"  envelop  and  contain  cele.'^tial  spirits. 
Never  was  such  a  sudden  scholar  made : 
Never  came  reformation  in  a  flood. 
With  such  a  heady  current,'  scouring  faults; 
Nor  never  Hydra-headed  -w-ilfulness 
So  soon  did  lose  his  seat,  and  all  at  once, 
As  in  this  king. 

Ely.  We  are  blessed  in  the  change. 

Cant.  Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity, 
And.  all-admiring,  with  an  inward  wish 
Vou  would  desire  the  king  were  made  a  prelate : 
Hear  him  debate  of  commonwealth  affairs, 
Vou  would  say.  it  hath  been  all-in-all  his  study : 
List  his  discourse  of  war,  and  you  shall  hear 
.\  fearful  battle  render'd  you  in  music : 
Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy. 
The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose. 
Familiar  as  his  garter  ;  that,  when  he  speaks, 
The  air,  a  chartered  libertine,  is  still, 
And  the  nmte  wonder  lurketh  in  men's  ears, 
To  steal  his  sweet  and  honeyed  sentences; 
So  that  the  art  and  practice  part  of  life 
Must  be  the  mistress  to  this  theoric : 
Whicli  is  a  wonder,  how  his  grace  should  glean  it, 
Since  his  addiction  was  to  courses  vain ; 
His  companies  unlotter'd.  rude,  and  shallow : 
His  hours  fill'd  up  with  riots,  banquets,  sports ; 
And  never  noted  in  him  any  study. 
Any  retirement,  any  .'sequestration 
From  open  haunts  and  popularity. 

Ely.  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle, 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best, 
.Veiahbour'd  by  fruit  of  ba.ser  quality  : 
And  so  the  prince  obscur'd  his  contemplation 
Under  the  veil  of  wildness  ;  which,  no  doubt, 
Grew  like  the  summer  grass,  fastest  by  night, 
Unseen,  yet  crcscive  in  his  faculty. 

Cant.  It  must  be  so;  for  miracles  are  ceas'd, 
\nd  therefore  we  must  needs  admit  the  means. 
How  things  are  i)erfected. 

Ely.  But.  my  good  lord. 

How  now  for  mitigation  of  this  bill 
tVa'd  by  the  commons  ?     Doth  his  majesty 
(nclme  to  it,  or  no? 

Cant.  He  seems  indiflferent, 

Oi    rather,  swaying  more  upon  our  part, 
Than  cherishing  th'  exhibiters  against  us  , 
For  1  have  made  an  oflTer  to  his  majesty. — 
Upon  our  spiritual  convocation, 
And  in  reirard  of  caii.ses  now  in  hand, 
Which  I  have  opend  to  his  grace  at  large, 
.\s  touchirii;  France, — to  give  a  greater  sum 
T*ian  ever  at  one  time  the  clergy  yet 


Did  to  his  predecessors  part  withal. 

Ely.  How  did  this  offer  seem  receiv'd,  my  lord? 

Cant.  With  good  acceptance  of  his  majesty; 
Save,  that  there  was  not  time  enough  to  hear 
(As,  I  percoiv'd,  his  grace  would  fain  have  done) 
The  severals,  and  unhidden  passages 
Of  his  true  titles  to  some  certain  dukedoms, 
And.  izcnorally.  to  the  crown  and  seat  of  France 
Deriv'd  from  Edward,  his  great  grandfather. 

Ely.  What  wa«  th'  impediment  that  broke  this  olT' 

Cant.  The  French  ambassador  upon  that  ii.stant 
Crav'd  audience ;  and  the  hour,  I  think,  is  come, 
To  cive  him  hearing.     Is  it  four  oclock  ? 

Ely.  It  is. 

Cant.  Then  go  we  in,  to  know  his  embassy. 
Which  I  could  with  a  ready  guess  declare. 
Before  the  Frenchman  speak  a  word  of  it. 

Ely.  I  '11  wait  upon  you.  and  I  long  to  hear  it.  [Exi'unt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.  A  Room  of  State  in  the  Same 
Enter  JiTing^ Henry,  Gloster.  Bedford.  E.xeteu. 

Warwick,  Westmoreland,  and  Attendants. 
K.  Hen.  Where  is  my  gracious  lord  of  Canterbury- 
Eoce.  Not  here  in  presence. 

A'.  Hen.  Send  for  him,  good  untile 

West.  Shall  we  call  the  ambassador,  my  liege'' 
K.  Hen.  Not  yet,  my  cousin :  we  would  be  rcsolv'd 
Before  we  hear  him,  of  some  things  of  weight, 
Thatta.sk  our  thoughts,  concerning  us  and  France. 
Eiiter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Bishop   :, 
Ely. 
Cant.  God,  and  his  angels,  guard  your  sacred  throne 
And  make  you  long  become  it ! 

K.  Hen.  Sure,  we  thank  you. 

My  learned  lord,  we  pray  you  to  proceed, 
And  justly  and  religiously  unfold, 
Why  the  law  Salique,  that  they  have  in  France, 
Or  should,  or  should  not,  bar  us  in  our  claim. 
And  God  forbid,  my  dear  and  faithful  lord, 
That  you  should  fashion,  wrest,  or  bow  your  readuig 
Or  nicely  charge  your  understanding  soul, 
With  opening  titles  miscreate,  whose  right 
Suits  not  in  native  colours  with  the  truth ; 
For  God  doth  know,  how  many,  now  in  health, 
Shall  drop  their  blood  in  approbation 
Of  what  your  reverence  shall  incite  us  to. 
Therefore,  take  heed  how  you  impawn  our  person, 
How  you  awake  our  sleeping  sword  of  war  : 
We  charge  you  in  the  name  of  God,  take  heed  ; 
For  never  two  such  kingdoms  did  contend. 
Without  much  fall  of  blood ;  whose  guiltless  drops 
Are  every  one  a  woe.  a  sore  complaint, 
'Gainst  him  who.'se  wrongs  give  edge  unto  the  swords 
That  make  such  waste  in  brief  mortality. 
Under  this  conjuration,  speak,  my  lord, 
And  we  will  hear,  note,  and  believe  in  heart. 
That  what  you  speak  is  in  your  consr.ence  wash'd. 
As  pure  as  sin  with  baptism. 

Catit.  Then   hear  me,  gracious  sovereign,  and  you 
peers. 
That  owe  yourselves,  your  lives,  and  services, 
To  this  imperial  throne. — There  is  no  bar 
To  make  against  your  highness'  claim  to  France, 
But  this,  which  they  produce  from  Pharamond,— 
In  terram  Salicam  ttnlieres  nd  sticccdayit. 
"No  woman  shall  succeed  in  Salique  land." 
Which  Salique  land  the  French  unju.''tly  gloze, 
To  be  the  realm  of  France,  and  Pharamond 
The  founder  of  this  law.  and  female  bar  • 


S<  the  lecond  folio;  the  first :  currency       »  In  the  quarton,  the  play  comm»nce6  h«re. 


SCENE  n. 


KING  HENRY   Y. 


407 


Vet  their  o^^"n  authors  faithfully  afRrm, 

That  the  land  Salique  is  in  Germany, 

Between  the  floods  of  Sala  and  of  Elbe  ; 

Where  Charles  the  great,  having  subdued  the  Saxons, 

There  left  behind  and  settled  certain  French ; 

Who,  holding  in  disdain  the  German  women 

For  some  dishonest  manners  of  their  life, 

Kstablish'd  then  this  law. — to  wit,  no  female 

Should  be  inheritrix  in  Salique  land  : 

Which  Salique.  as  I  said,  'twixt  Elbe  and  Sala, 

Is  at  this  day  in  Germany  call'd  Meisen. 

Then  doth  it  well  appear,  the  Salique  law 

Was  not  devised  for  the  realm  of  France  ; 

Nor  did  the  French  possess  the  Salique  land 

Until  fou»  hundred  one  and  twenty  years 

After  defunction  of  king  Pharamond, 

Idly  snppos'd  the  founder  of  this  law; 

Who  died  within  the  year  of  our  redemption 

Four  hundred  twenty-six.  and  Charles  the  great 

Subdued  the  Saxons,  and  did  seat  the  French 

Beyond  the  river  Sala  in  the  year 

Eight  hundred  five.     Besides,  their  writers  say. 

King  Pepin,  which  deposed  Childerick, 

Did,  as  heir  general,  being  descended 

Of  Blithild,  which  was  daughter  to  king  Clothair, 

Make  claim  and  title  to  the  crown  of  France. 

Hugh  Capet  also, — who  usurp'd  the  crown 

Of  Charles  the  duke  of  Lorain,  sole  heir  male 

Of  the  true  line  and  stock  of  Charles  the  great, — 

To  found'  his  title  with  some  shows  of  truth. 

Though,  in  pure  truth,  it  was  corrupt  and  naught, 

Convey'd  himself  as  th'  heir  to  the  lady  Lingare, 

Daughter  to  Charlemain,  who  was  the  son 

To  Lewis  the  emperor,  and  Lewis  the  son 

Of  Charles  the  great.     Also  king  Le\^-is  the  tenth, 

Who  was  sole  heir  to  the  usurper  Capet, 

Could  not  keep  quiet  in  his  conscience, 

Wearing  the  cro^^^l  of  France,  till  satisfied 

That  fair  Queen  Isabel,  his  grandmother, 

Was  lineal  of  the  lady  Ermengare, 

Daughter  to  Charles  the  foresaid  duke  of  Lorain : 

By  the  which  marriage  the  line  of  Charles  the  gi-eat 

Was  reunited  to  the  crown  of  France. 

So  that,  as  clear  as  is  the  summer's  sun. 

King  Pepin's  title,  and  Hugh  Capet's  claim, 

King  Lewis  his  satisfaction,  all  appear 

To  hold  in  right  and  title  of  the  female. 

So  do  the  kings  of  France  unto  this  day, 

Howbeit  they  would  hold  up  this  Salique  law, 

i  To  bar  your  highness  claiming  from  the  female  ; 

I  .\nd  rather  choose  to  hide  them  in  a  net, 

i  Than  amply  to  imbare'  their  crooked  titles 

j  Usurp'd  from  you  and  your  progenitors. 

]      K.  Hen.  May  I  with  right  and  conscience  make  this 
claim? 
Cant.  The  sin  upon  my  head,  dread  sovereign; 

.  For  in  the  book  of  Numbers  is  it  writ, 

j  When  the  man  dies,  let  the  inheritance 

•  Descend  unto  the  daughter.     Gracious  lord. 
Stand  for  your  own :  unwind  your  bloody  flag  ; 

j  Look  back  into  your  mighty  ancestors  : 

■  Go,  n:v  dread  lord,  to  your  great  grandsire's  tomb, 
From  wliom  you  claim  :  invoke  his  warlike  spirit, 
And  your  great  uncle's.  Edward  the  black  prince, 
I  Who  on  the  French  ground  play'd  a  tragedy, 
I  Making  defeat  on  the  full  power  of  France, 
Whiles  his  most  mighty  father  on  a  hill 
Stood  smiling,  to  behold  his  lion's  whelp 
Forage  in  blood  of  French  nobility 

^  find :  in  f  e.      »  imbat :  in  folio.        giddy  :  in  f.  e.      '■  fame  : 


10  noble  English  !  that  could  entertain 
With  half  their  forces  the  full  pride  of  France, 
And  let  another  half  stand  laughing  by, 
All  out  of  w^ork,  and  cold  for  action 

Ely.  Awake  remembrance  of  these  valiant  dead. 
And  with  your  puissant  arm  renew  their  feats. 
You  are  their  heir,  you  sit  upon  their  throne ; 
The  blood  and  courage,  that  renowned  them, 
Rttus  in  your  veins ;  and  my  thrice-puissant  liege 
Is  in  the  very  May-morn  of  his  youth, 
Rii  >  for  exploits,  and  mighty  enterprises. 

Exe.  Your  brother  kings,  and  monarchs  of  the  eanh. 
Do  all  expect  that  you  should  rouse  yourself, 
As  did  the  former  lions  of  your  blood. 

West.  They  know  your  grace  hath  cause,  and  mean* 
and  might : 
So  hath  your  highness  : — never  king  of  England 
Had  nobles  richer,  and  more  loyal  subjects, 
Whose  hearts  have  left  their  bodies  here  in  England. 
And  lie  pavilion'd  in  the  fields  of  France. 

Cant.  O  !   let  their  bodies  follow,  my  dear  liege, 
With  blood,  and  sword,  and  fire,  to  win  your  right : 
In  aid  whereof,  we  of  the  spiritualty 
Will  raise  your  highness  such  a  mighty  sum. 
As  never  did  the  clergy  at  one  time 
Bring  in  to  any  of  your  ancestors. 

K.  Hen.  We  must  not  only  arm  t'  invade  the  French. 
But  lay  down  our  proportions  to  defend 
Against  the  Scot ;  who  will  make  road  vipon  us 
With  all  advantages. 

Cant.  They  of  those  marches,  gracious  sovereign. 
Shall  be  a  wall  sufficient  to  defend 
Our  inland  from  the  pilfering  borderers. 

K.  Hen.  We   do  not    mean  the   coursing  snatdiers 
only. 
But  fear  the  main  intendment  of  the  Scot, 
Who  hath  been  still  a  greedy'  neighbour  to  us  • 
For  you  shall  read,  that  my  great  grandfather 
Never  went  with  his  forces  into  France, 
But  that  the  Scot  on  his  unfurnish'd  kingdom 
Came  pouring,  like  the  tide  into  a  breach, 
With  ample  and  brim  fulness  of  his  force; 
Galling  the  gleaned  land  with  hot  essays, 
Girding  -with  grievous  siege  castles  and  towns ; 
That  England,  being  empty  of  defence. 
Hath  shook,  and  trembled  at  th'  ill  neighbourhood. 

Cant.  She  hath  been  then  more  fear'd  than  hann'd 
my  liege  ; 
For  hear  her  but  examplcd  by  herself : 
When  all  her  chivalry  hath  been  in  France, 
And  she  a  mourning  widow  of  her  nobles, 
She  hath  herself  not  only  well  defended, 
But  taken,  and  impounded  as  a  stray, 
The  king  of  Scots  ;  whom  she  did  send  to  France 
To  fill  king  Edward's  train*  with  prisoner  kuigs. 
And  make  their*  chronicle  as  rich  Nvith  praise. 
As  is  the  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea 
With  sunken  wreck  and  sumless  treasuries. 

West.  But  there  's  a  saying,  very  old  and  true  — 
"  If  that  you  wall  France  wan. 
Then  with  Scotland  first  begin  :" 
For  once  the  eagle,  England,  being  in  prey. 
To  her  unguarded  nest  the  weasel,  Scot, 
Comes  sneaking,  and  so  sucks  her  princely  eggs , 
Playing  the  mouse  in  absence  of  the  cat. 
To  tear  and  havoc  more  than  she  can  eat. 

Exe.  It  follows  then,  the  ca   must  stay  at  home 
Yet  that  is  not'  a  crush'd  necessity. 
Since  we  have  locks  to  safeguard  necessanes, 
inf.  e.     »  your  :  in  qo  arte,      'but:  in  f.  e. 


408 


KING  HENRY  V. 


AfTT    L 


And  pretty  traps  lo  cat  oh  the  petty  tliicves. 

Wliilc  that  the  armed  haiul  doih  ti^ht  abroad, 

Th"  advised  head  defeiul.s  itself  at  home  : 

For  sioveriiment,  tliougli  liigh,  and  low,  and  lower, 

Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  eor.sent, 

'.'ongreeing  in  a  full  aiid  iiatural  close, 

Like  music. 

Cant.  Therefore  doth  heaven  divide 

The  state  of  man  in  divers  functions. 
Setting  endeavour  in  continual  motion; 
To  which  is  lixed.  as  an  aim  or  butt, 
Obedience  :  for  so  work  the  honey  bees, 
Creatures  that  by  a  rule  in  nature  teach 
The  art  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom : 
They  have  a  king,  and  officers  of  state  ;' 
Where  some,  like  magistrates,  correct  at  home, 
Others,  like  merchants,  venture  trade  abroad, 
Hthcrs,  iike  soldiers,  armed  in  their  stings, 
Make  boot  u}K)n  the  summer's  velvet  buds; 
Which  pillage  they  with  merr>'  march  bring  home 
To  tiie  tent-royal  of  their  emperor  : 
Who,  busied  in  his  majesty,  surveys 
The  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold. 
The  civil  citizens  kneading  up  the  honey. 
The  poor  mechanic  porters  crowding  in 
Their  heavy  burdens  at  his  narrow  gate. 
The  sad-ey'd  justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 
r)elivering  o'er  to  executors  pale 
The  lazy  yaA^Tiing  drone.     I  this  infer, — 
That  many  things,  having  full  reference 
To  one  consent,  may  work  contrariously  ; 
As  many  arrows,  loosed  several  ways. 
Come  to  one  mark  ;  as  many  ways  unite  ;* 
As  many  fresh  streams  meet  in  one  salt  sea  : 
As  many  lines  close  in  the  diaPs  center; 
So  may  a  thousand  actions,  once  afoot, 
End  in  one  purpose,  and  be  all  well  borne 
Without  defeat.     Therefore,  to  France,  my  liege. 
Divide  your  happy  England  into  four  ; 
Whereof  take  you  one  quarter  into  France, 
.And  you  withal  shall  make  all  Gallia  shake. 
If  wp.  with  thrice  such  j.owers  left  at  home. 
Cannot  defend  our  own  doors  from  the  dog. 
Lei  us  be  worried,  and  our  nation  lose 
The  name  of  hardiness,  and  policy. 

K.  Hen.  Call  in  the  mes.«cngers  sent  from  the  Dau- 
phin. [Exit  an  Attendatit. 
.Now  are  we  well  resolv"d :  and.  by  God's  help, 
.\nd  yours,  the  noble  sinews  of  our  power, 
France  beini;  ours,  we  '11  bend  it  to  our  awe, 
Or  break  it  all  to  pieces  :  or  there  well  sit. 
Ruling  in  large  and  ample  emperv'. 
O'er  France,  and  all  her  almost  kingly  dukedoms, 
Or  lay  the.sc  bones  in  an  unworthy  urn. 
Toniblens.  with  no  remiint/rance  over  them: 
VAihrr  our  history  shall,  with  a  full  mouth, 
Si>eak  freoly  of  our  acts,  or  else  our  grave, 
Like  Turki.'h  mute,  shall  have  a  longueless  mouth, 
Not  worshipp'd  with  a  waxen  epitaph. 

Enter  Amhassador.'i  of  France. 
Now  are  we  well  prepar'd  to  know  the  pleasure 
Of  oar  fair  cousin  Dauphin  ;  for.  we  hear, 
Vour  creeling  is  from  him,  not  from  the  king. 

4mb.  May  't  please  your  majesty,  to  give  us  leave 
Freely  to  render  what  we  have  in  charge; 
Or  shall  we  sparingly  .show  you  far  off, 
The  Dauphin's  meaning,  and  our  embassy? 

A'.  Hen.  We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a  Christian  king, 


Unto  whose  grace  our  passion  is  as  subject. 
As  are  our  wretches  fetter'd  in  ou.r  pri.-^ons ; 
Therefore,  with  frank  and  with  uncurbed  plainnesn, 
Tell  us  the  Dauphin's  mind. 

Amb.  Thus  then,  in  few. 

Your  highness,  lately  sending  into  France, 
Did  claim  some  certain  dukedoms,  in  the  right 
Of  your  great  predecessor,  Edward  third. 
In  answer  of  which  claim,  the  prinee  our  master 
Says,  that  you  savour  too  much  of  your  youth. 
And  bids  you  be  advis'd,  there  's  nought  in  France 
That  can  be  with  a  nimble  galliard  won : 
You  cannot  revel  into  dukedoms  there. 
He  therefore  sends  you,  meeter  for  your  spirit. 
This  tun  of  treasure  ;  and,  in  lieu  of  this,  [Snowing  it. 
Desires  you,  let  the  dukedoms,  that  you  claim. 
Hear  no  more  of  you.     This  the  Dauphin  speaks. 

K.  Hen.  What  treasure,  uncle? 

Exc.  Tennis-balls,  my  liege.     [Opening  it. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  glad  the  Dauphin  is  so  pleartaul 
with  us. 
His  present,  and  your  pains,  we  thank  you  for; 
When  we  have  match'd  our  rackets  to  these  balls 
We  will,  in  France,  by  God's  grace,  play  a  set, 
Shall  strike  his  father's  crovvni  into  the  hazard. 
Tell  him.  he  hath  made  a  match  with  such  a  wrangler, 
That  all  the  courts  of  France  will  be  di^tul■b'd 
With  chases.*     And  we  understand  him  well. 
How  he  comes  o'er  us  with  our  wilder  days. 
Not  measuring  what  use  we  made  of  them. 
We  never  valu'd  this  poor  seat  of  England, 
And  therefore,  living  hence,  did  give  ourself 
To  barbarous  license  ;  as  't  is  ever  common, 
That  men  are  merriest  when  tliey  are  from  home. 
But  tell  the  Dauphin, — I  will  keep  my  state ; 
Be  like  a  king,  and  show  my  soul*  of  greatness, 
When  I  do  rouse  me  in  my  throne  of  France : 
For  here  I  have  laid  by  my  majesty. 
And  plodded  like  a  man  for  working  days. 
But  I  will  rise  there  with  so  full  a  glory, 
That  I  will  dazzle  all  the  eyes  of  France, 
Yea.  strike  the  Dauphin  blind  to  look  on  us. 
And  tell  the  pleasant  prince,  this  mock  of  his 
Hath  turn'd  his  balls  to  gun-stones  ;'  and  his  soul 
Shall  stand  sore  charged  for  the  wasteful  vengeance 
That  shall  fly  with  them  :  for  many  a  thousand  wido*i 
Shall  this  his  mock  mock  out  of  their  dear  husbands; 
Mock  mothers  from  their  .sons,  mock  Cii.stles  down, 
And  some  are  yet  ungotten,  and  unborn. 
That  shall  have  cause  to  curse  the  Dauphin's  scorn. 
But  this  lies  all  within  the  will  of  God, 
To  whom  I  do  appeal  ;  and  in  whose  name, 
Tell  you  the  Dauphin,  I  am  coming  on, 
To  venge  me  as  I  may,  and  to  put  forth 
My  rightful  hand  in  a  well  hallow'd  cause. 
So  get  you  hence  in  peace  ;  and  tell  the  Dauphin, 
His  jest  will  savour  but  of  shallow  wit. 
When  thousands  weep,  more  than  did  laugh  at  it.- 
Convey  them  with  safe  conduct. — Fare  you  well. 

[ExeuTtt  Ambassathm 

Exe.  This  was  a  merry  message. 

K.  Hen.  We  hope  to  make  the  sender  blush  »t  ii. 
Therefore,  my  lords,  omit  no  happy  hour. 
That  may  give  furtherance  to  our  expedition; 
For  we  have  now  no  thought  in  us  but  F'rance, 
Save  those  to  God,  that  run  before  our  business. 
Therefore,  let  our  proportions  for  these  wars 
Be  soon  collected,  and  all  things  thought  upon, 


>  »ort»:  in  « 


)wn  :  in  f.  e. 
ceep  up  the  bftll  the  lonfMc.      «  uil  :  in  f.  e. 


'  ♦  Not  in  f.  e.      'A  match  at  lenni»,  in  which  the  stnigg  i  coi 
Cannon  balls  were,  at  fint,  of  stone. 


J 


KLNG  HENKY   V. 


409 


That  may  with  seasonable'  swiftness  add 
More  feathers  to  our  wings  ;  for,  God  before, 
We  "11  chide  this  Dauphin  at  his  father's  door. 


Therefore,  let  every  man  now  ta-Jc  his  thought, 
That  this  fair  action  may  on  foot  be  brought 


[Exeunt 


ACT    II. 


ElUer  Chorus. 


Nym.  'Faith.  I  will  live  so  long  as  I  may.  that 's  the 
certain  of  it ;  and  when  I  cannot  live  any  longer.  I  will 
do  as  I  may:  that  is  my  rest,  that  is  the  readezvous  ol 
it. 

Bard.  It  is  certain,  corporal,  that  he  is  married  to 
Nell  Quickly ;  aud.  certainly,  she  did  you  wrong,  for 
you  were  troth-plight  to  her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  tell :  things  must  be  as  they  may : 
men  may  sleep,  and  they  may  have  their  throats  about 
them  at  that  time,  and  some  say  knives  have  edses.  It 
must  be  as  it  may:  though  patience  be  a  tired  jade% 
yet  she  will  plod.  There  must  be  conclusions.  Well^ 
I  cannot  tell. 

Enter   Pistol  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Bard.  Here  comes  ancient  Pistol,  and  his  wife. — 
Good  corporal,  be  patient  here. — How  now,  mine  host 
Pistol ? 

Pist.  Base  tike',  call'st  thou  me  host  ? 
Now,  by  this  hand  I  swear,  I  scorn  the  term ; 
Nor  shall  my  Nell  keep  lodgers. 

Quick.  No,  by  my  troth,  not  long :  for  we  cannot 
lodge  and  board  a  dozen  or  fourteen  geiitlewomen,  that 
live  honestly  by  the  prick  of  their  needles,  but  it  will 
be  thought  we  keep  a  bandy-house  straight.  [Nym 
draws  his  sword.]  0  well-a-day,  lady  !  if  he  be  not 
hewTi*  now  ! — we  shall  see  wilful  adultery  and  murder 
committed. 

Bard.  Good  lieutenant' — good  corporal,  offer  nothing 
here. 

Nym.  Pish! 

Pist.  Pish  for  thee,  Iceland  dog:  thou  prick-eared 
cur  of  Iceland  !  [Draws  his  sword.'* 

Quick.  Good  corporal  Nym,  show  thy  valour,  and 
put  up  your  sword. 

Nym.  Will  you  shog"  off?  I  would  have  you  so/iis." 

Pist.  Solus,  egregious  dog  ?     0  viper  vile  ! 
The  solus  in  thy  most  marvellous  face ; 
The  solus  in  thy  teeth,  and  in  thy  throat. 
And  in  thy  hateful  lung.s.  yea.  in  thy  maw,  perdy; 
And,  which  is  worse,  within  thy  nasiy  mouth ! 
I  do  retort  the  solus  in  thy  bowels : 
For  I  can  take,  and  Pistol's  cock  is  up, 
And  flashing  fire  "will  follow. 

Nym.  I  am  not  Barbason" ;  you  cannot  conjure  me. 
I  have  an  humour  to  knock  you  indifferently  well.  If 
you  grow  foul  with  me.  Pistol,  I  will  scour  you  wilk 
my  rapier,  as  [  may,  in  fair  terms  :  if  you  would  walk 
off,  I  would  prick  your  guts  a  little,  in  good  terms,  aa 
I  may ;  and  that  's  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.  0  braggart  vile,  and  damned  furious  wight ! 
The  grave  doth  gape,  and  doating  death  is  near; 
Therefore  exhale." 

Bard.  Hear  me;  hear  me  what  I  say:— -he  thai 
strikes  the  first  stroke,  I  "11  run  him  up  to  the  hills,  ae 
I  am  a  soldier.  [Draws 

1      Pist.  An  oath  of  mickle  might,  and  fury  shall  abate 
Give  me  thy  fist,  thy  fore-foot  to  me  give  ; 
Thy  spirits  aje  most  tall." 
I  [Pistol  and  Nyji  sheathe  their  swords.^* 

*  reafTnable  :  in  f.  e.      '  thrive  :  in  1.  e.      '  The  words  "  and  so"  :  not  in  f.  e.      ♦  smiles  :  in  f.  e.      *  and  there  s  the  humour  of  it ;  in 
qnano.      «  mare  :  in  f.  e.      "  A  common  dog,  a  mongrel.      8  Dyce  reads:  dra-wn       »  These  words  are  usually  iransferred  to  the  c?  we  of  the 

5 receding  speech — with  the  superfluous  addition  of  the  word.  Bardolph.  '"Not  in  f  e.  "jog:  in  (.  e.  '^  f.  e  here  sire  the  slagp 
irecticn  :  Sheathins^  Am  sword.  "  The  name  of  a.  JUnd  '*  f.  e.  here  give  the  direction  ■  Pistol  and  Ntm  draw.  '*  Valiant  '»  Noi 
in  f.  e 


Chor.  Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire, 
And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies  : 
Now  strive"  the  arinoarers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man. 
They  sell  the  pasture  now  to  buy  the  horse ; 
Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian  kings, 
With  winged  heels,  as  English  mercuries  : 
For  now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air  ; 
And  hides  a  sword,  from  hilts  linto  the  point. 
With  crowns  imperial,  crowns,  and  coronets, 
Promis'd  to  Harry  and  his  followers. 
The  French,  advis'd  by  good  intelligence 
Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation, 
Shake  in  their  fear,  and  with  pale  policy 
Seek  to  divert  the  English  purposes. 
0  England  !   model  to  thine  inward  greatness, 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, 
What  mighfst  thou  do,  that  honour  would  thee  do, 
Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural. 
But  see  thy  fault  !     France  hath  in  thee  found  out 
A  nest  of  hollow  bosoms,  which  he  fills 
With  treacherous  cro%A-ns,  and  three  corrupted  men. 
One,  Ftichard  earl  of  Cambridge,  and  the  second, 
Henry  lord  Scroop  of  Marsham,  and  the  third, 
Sir  Thomas  Grey,  knight  of  Northumberland, 
Have,  for  the  gilt  of  France,  (0  guilt,  indeed!) 
Confirm'd  conspiracy  with  fearful  France  : 
And  by  their  hands  this  grace  of  kings  must  die 
If  hell  and  treason  hold  their  promises, 
Ere  he  take  ship  for  France,  and  in  Southampton. 
Linger  your  patience  on  :  and  well  digest 
Th'  abuse  of  distance,  and  so'  force  a  play. 
The  sum  is  paid  ;  the  traitors  are  agreed  ; 
The  king  is  set  from  London  ;  and  the  scene 
Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton. 
There  is  the  playhouse  now,  there  must  you  sit, 
And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe, 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass ;  for,  if  we  may, 
We  '11  not  offend  one  stomach  with  our  play. 
But,  till  the  king  come  forth,  and  not  till  then, 
Unto  Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I.— London.     Eastcheap. 
Enter  Nym  and  Bardolph. 

Bard.  AVell  met,  corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  Good  morrow,  lieutenant  Bardolph. 

Bard.  What,  are  ancient  Pistol  and  you  friends  yet  ? 

Nym.  For  my  part  I  care  not :  I  say  little  ;  but 
when  time  shall  serve,  there  shall  be  smites*  ; — but 
that  shall  be  as  it  may.  I  dare  not  fight :  but  I  will 
wink,  and  hold  out  mine  iron.  It  is  a  simple  one  ;  but 
what  though  ?  it  will  toast  cheese,  and  it  will  endure 
cold  as  another  man's  sword  will ;  and  there  's  an  end.* 

Bard.  I  will  bestow  a  breakfast  to  make  you  friends, 
and  we  '11  be  all  three  sworn  brothers  to  France  :  let  it 
be  so,  good  corporal  Nym. 


410 


KING  HENRY  V. 


yym.  I  will  out  tliy  tliroiit,  one  time  or  other,  in  fair 
lerms  ;  that  is  the  liuiiiour  of  it. 

Fist  Coupe  Ic  gorge,  tliat  's  the  word  ? — I  defy  thee 
again. 

0  hound  of  Crete,  ihink'st  tliou  my  spouse  to  get? 
No  :  to  the  spital  go, 

And  from  the  powdering  tub  of  infamy 
Fetch  forth  the  lazar  kite  of  Cressid"s  kind, 
Doll  Tear-sheet  she  by  name,  and  her  espouse  : 

1  have,  and  I  will  hold,  the  quondam  Quickly 
For  the  only  she ;  and — pauca.  there  's  enough.' 

Enter  the  Boy. 

Boy.  Mine  host  Pistol,  you  must  come  to  my  master, 
and  your-  ho.-^tess. — He  is  very  sick,  and  would  to  bed. 
— Good  Bardolph,  put  thy  face  between  his  sheets, 
and  do  the  olfice  of  a  warming-pan  :  'faith,  he's  very 
ill. 

Bard.  Away,  you  rogue. 

Quick.  By  my  troth,  he  'II  yield  the  crow  a  pudding 
<me  of  these  days  :  the  king  has  killed  his  heart. — 
Good  husband,  come  home  presently. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Quickly  and  Boy. 

Bard.  Come,  shall  I  make  you  two  friends  ?  We 
must  to  France  together.  Why,  the  devil,  should  we 
keep  knives  to  cut  one  another's  throats  ? 

Pist.  Let  floods  o'erswell,  and  fiends  for  food  howl  on  ! 

Nym.  You  '11  pay  me  the  eight  shillings  I  won  of  you 
at  betting  ? 

Put.  Base  is  the  slave  that  pays. 

Nym.  That  now  I  will  have  ;  that 's  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.  As  manhood  shall  compound.     Push  home. 

[Draw  again.' 

Bard.  By  this  sword,  he  that  makes  the  first  thrust, 
'11  kill  him:  by  this  sword,  I  will. 

Pist.  Sword  is  an  oath,  and  oaths  must  have  their 
course. 

Bard.  Corporal  Nym,  an  thou  wilt  be  friends,  be 
fi lends  :  an  thou  wilt  not,  why  then  be  enemies  w-ith 
me  too.     Pr'ythee.  put  up. 

Nym.  I  shall  have  my  eight  shillings,  I  won  of  you 
at  betting?* 

Pist.  A  noble  shalt  thou  have,  and  present  pay  ; 
And  liquor  likewise  will  I  give  to  thee, 
And  friendship  shall  combine,  and  brotherhood  : 
I  '11  live  by  Nym,  and  Nym  shall  live  by  me. — 
Is  not  this  just?  for  I  shall  sutler  be 
Unto  the  camp,  and  profits  will  accrue. 

[Sheathes  his  sword.* 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Nym.  I  shall  have  my  noble? 

Pist.  In  cash  most  justly  paid. 

Nym.  Well  then,  that's  the  humour  of  it. 

[  They  shake  hands.* 
Re-enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.  As  ever  you  come  of  women,  come  in  quickly 
to  sir  John.  Ah,  poor  heart  !  he  is  so  shaked  of  a 
burning  quotidian  tertian,  that  it  is  most  lamentable  to 
behold.     Sweet  men,  come  to  him. 

Nym.  The  king  hath  run  bad  humours  on  the  knight, 
that 's  the  even  of  it. 

Pist.  .\ym.  thou  hast  spoke  the  right; 
His  heart  is  fracted  and  corroborate. 

Nym.  The  king  is  a  good  king  ;  but  it  mu.st  be  as  it 
may  :  he  passes  some  humours,  and  careers. 

Pist.  Let  us  condole  the  knight,  for  lambkins  we 
will  live.  [Exeunt. 


•  The  folio  adds     to  po  to;  which  mofl.  ed«.  usaally  print  ;  go  to. 
>nly  in  tie  quarto.      »  '  Not  in  f.  e.      '  The  practice  here  alluded  to, 


SCENE  II. — Southampton.     A  Couneil-Cliamber. 

Enter  Exeter,  Bedford,  and  Westmoreland. 

Bed.  'Fore  God.  his  grace  is  bold  to  trust  these  traitor!. 

Exe.  They  shall  be  apprehended  by  and  by. 

West.  How  smooth  and  even  they  do  bear  tliemselvcs 
As  if  allegiance  in  their  bosoms  sat. 
Crowned  with  faith,  and  constant  loyalty. 

Bed.  The  king  hath  note  of  all  that  they  intend, 
By  interception  which  they  dream  not  of. 

Kxe.  Nay,  but  the  man  that  was  his  bedfellow'. 
Whom  he  hath  dull'd  and  cloy'd  with  gracious  favourt; 
That  he  should,  for  a  foreign  purse,  so  sell 
His  sovereign's  life  to  death  and  treachery  ! 
Trumpets  sound.     Enter  King  Henry,  Scroop,  Cam- 
bridge, Grey,  Lords,  and  Attendants.  ! 

K.  Hen.  Now  sits  the  wind  fair,  and  we  will  aboard. , 
My  lord  of  Cambridge, — and   my  kind  lord  of  Mai>i 
sham, —  I 

And  you,  my  gentle  knight,  give  me  your  thoughts . 
Think  you  not,  that  the  powers  we  bear  with  us 
Will  cut  their  passage  through  the  force  of  France, 
Doing  the  execution,  and  the  act, 
For  which  we  have  in  head  assembled  them  ? 

Scroop.  No  doubt,  my  liege,  if  each  man  do  his  best. 

K.  Hen.  I  doubt  not  that :  since  we  are  well  persuaded,  i 
We  carry  not  a  heart  with  us  from  hence,  ! 

That  grows  not  in  a  fair  consent  with  ours ; 
Nor  leave  not  one  behind,  that  doth  not  wish 
Success  and  conquest  to  attend  on  us. 

Cam.  Never  was  monarch  better  fear'd,  and  Iov"d, 
Than  is  your  majesty  :  there  's  not  a  subject. 
That  sits  in  heart-grief  and  uneasiness 
Under  the  sweet  shade  of  your  government. 

Ghey.  True  :  those  that  were  your  father's  enemies 
Have  steep'd  their  galls  in  honey,  and  do  serve  you 
With  hearts  create  of  duty  and  of  zeal.  [fuhiesn, 

K.  Hen.    We  therefore  have  great  cause  of  thaiilj- 
And  shall  forget  the  otRcc  of  our  hand. 
Sooner  than  quittance  of  desert  and  merit, 
According  to  the  weight  and  worthiness. 

Scroop.  So  service  shall  with  steeled  sinews  toil, 
And  labour  shall  refresh  itself  with  hope. 
To  do  your  grace  incessant  services. 

K.  Hen.  We  judge  no  less. — Uncle  of  Exeter, 
Enlarge  the  man  committed  yesterday, 
That  rail'd  against  our  person  :  we  consider. 
It  was  excess  of  wine  that  set  him  on  ; 
And,  on  our*  more  advice,  we  pardon  him. 

Scroop.  That's  mercy,  but  too  much  security  . 
Let  hiin  be  punish'd,  sovereign  ;  lest  example 
Breed  by  his  sufferance  more  of  such  a  kind. 

K.  Hen.  0  !   let  us  yet  be  merciful,  my  lord. 

Cam.  So  may  your  highness,  and  yet  punish  too. 

Grey.  You  show  great  mercy,  if  you  give  hira  life 
After  the  taste  of  m-ich  correction. 

K.  Hen.  Alas  !  youi  too  much  love  and  care  of  mo 
Are  heavy  orisons  'gainst  this  poor  wretch 
If  little  faults,  proceeding  on  distemper. 
Shall  not  be  winkd  at.  how  slial'  we  stretch  our  eye, 
When  capital  crimes,  chcw'd.  swallow'd,  and  digested 
Appear  before  us  ? — We  '11  yet  enlarge  that  man, 
Though  Cambridge,  Scroop,  and  Grey,  in  their  dear  care 
And  tender  preservation  of  our  person. 
Would  have  him  punish'd.     And  now  to  our  Freii'  I' 

causes  : 
Wlio  are  the  state*  commissioners  ? 

Cam.  I  one.  my  lord  : 

a  you,  seems  a  better  readin?.     »  Drnwx :  in  f.  8.         TM«  ip*^*  ^ 
seems  to  have  been  not  unusual.      "*  his  :  in  f.  e.      '  late  :  in  f-  •■ 


KCENE  n. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


411 


i  our  highness  bade  me  ask  for  it  to-day. 
Scroop.  So  did  you  me,  my  liege. 
Grey.  And  I,  my  royal  sovereign. 
K.  Hen.  Then,  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge,  there  is 
yours ; — 
There  yours,  lord  Scroop  of  Marsham  : — and,  sir  knight. 
Grey  of  Northumberland,  this  same  is  yours  : — 
Read  them ;  and  know,  I  know  your  worthiness. — 

[They  read  and  start. ^ 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland,  and  uncie  Exeter, 
We  will  aboard  to-night. — Why,  how  now,  gentlemen  ! 
What  see  you  in  those  papers,  that  yoii  lose 
So  much  complexion  ? — look  ye,  how  they  change  : 
Their  cheeks  are  paper. — Why,  what  read  you  there, 
That  hath  so  cowarded  and  chas'd  your  blood 
Out  of  appearance  ? 

Cam.  I  do  confess  my  fault, 

And  do  submit  me  to  your  highness'  mercy, 
Grey.  Scroop.  To  which  we  all  appeal. 
K.  Hen.  The  mercy  that  was  quick  in  us  but  late, 
By  your  own  counsel  is  suppress'd  and  kill'd  : 
You  must  not  dare,  for  shame,  to  talk  of  mercy ; 
For  your  own  reasons  turn  into  your  bosoms, 
As  dogs  upon  their  masters,  worrying  you*. — 
See  you,  my  princes,  and  my  noble  peers, 
These  English  monsters  I  My  lord  of  Cambridge  here, — 
You  know,  how  apt  our  love  was  to  accord 
To  furnish  him  wath  all  appertinents 
Belonging  to  his  honour  ;  and  this  man 
Hath,  for  a  few  light  crowns,  lightly  conspir'd, 
And  sworn  unto  the  practices  of  France, 
To  kill  us  here  in  Hampton  :  to  the  which. 
This  knight,  no  less  for  bounty  bound  to  us 
Than  Cambridge  is,  hath  likewise  sworn. — But  0  ! 
What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  lord  Scroop  ?  thou  cruel, 
Ingrateful,  savage,  and  inhuman  creature  ! 
Thou  that  didst  bear  the  key  of  all  my  counsels, 
That  knew'st  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul, 
That  almost  mightst  have  coin'd  me  into  gold, 
Wouldst  thou  have  practis'd  on  me  for  thy  use  ? 
May  it  be  possible,  that  foreign  hire 
Could  out  of  thee  extract  one  spark  of  evil. 
That  might  annoy  my  finger  ?  't  is  so  strange, 
,  That,  though  the  truth  of  it  stands  off  as  gross 
I  As  black  and  white,  my  eye  will  scarcely  see  it. 
•  Treason  and  murder  ever  kept  together. 
'  As  two  yoke-devils  sworn  to  cither's  purpose. 
Working  so  grossly  in  a  natural  course. 
That  admiration  did  not  whoop  at  them  : 
i  But  thou,  'gainst  all  proportion,  didst  bring  in 
i  Wonder  to  wait  on  treason,  and  on  murder  : 
I  And  whatsoever  cunning  fiend  it  was, 
I  That  wTought  upon  thee  so  preposterously, 
1  Hath  got  the  voice  in  hell  for  excellence, 
j  And  other  devils,  that  suggest  by  treasons, 
I  Do  botch  and  bungle  up  damnation 
{  With  patches,  colours,  and  with  forms,  being  fetch'd 
]  From  glistering  semblances  of  piety  : 
;  But  he  that  temper"d  thee  bade  thee  stand  up, 
',  Gave  thee  no  instance  why  thou  shouldst  do  treason, 
j  Unless  to  dub  thee  with  the  name  of  traitor. 
S  [f  that  same  demon,  that  hath  gull'd  thee  thus, 
!  Should  with  his  lion  gait  walk  the  whole  world. 
He  might  return  to  vasty  Tartar  back, 
I  And  tell  the  legion.^ — I  can  never  win 
l'  A  soul  so  easy  as  that  Englishman's. 
'  0,  how  hast  thou  with  jealousy  infected 
I  The  sweetness  of  affiance  !     Show  men  dutiful  ? 


Why,  so  didst  thou  :  seem  they  grave  and  learned  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou  :  come  they  of  noble  family  ^ 
Why,  so  didst  thou  ;  seem  they  religious  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou  :  or  are  they  spare  in  diet ; 
Free  from  gross  passion,  or  of  mirth  or  anger  ; 
Constant  in  spirit,  not  swerving  with  the  blood ; 
Garnish'd  and  deck'd  in  modest  complement ; 
Not  working  with  the  eye  without  the  ear, 
AlJ  but  in  purged  judgment  trusting  neither  ? 
Such,  and  so  finely  bolted,  didst  thou  seem; 
Axi'  thus  thy  fallhath  lett  a  kind  of  blot. 
To  mark'  the  full-fraught  man,  and  best  indued. 
With  some  suspicion.     I  will  weep  for  thee. 
For  this  revolt  of  thine,  methinks,  is  like 
Another  fall  of  man.* — Their  faults  are  open ; 
Arrest  them  to  the  answer  of  the  law. 
And  God  acquit  them  of  their  practices. 

Exe.  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of 
Richard  earl  of  Cambridge. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of  Hemry 
lord  Scroop,  of  Marsham. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of  Thomas 
Grey,  knight  of  Northumberland. 

Scroop.  Our  purposes  God  justly  hath  discover'd, 
And  I  repent  my  fault  more  than  my  death : 
Which  I  beseech  your  highness  to  forgive. 
Although  my  body  pay  the  price  of  it. 

Cain.  For  me, — the  gold  of  France  did  not  seduce, 
Although  I  did  admit  it  as  a  motive. 
The  sooner  to  effect  what  I  intended  : 
But  God  be  thanked  for  prevention ; 
Which  I  in  sufferance  heartily  will  rejoice, 
Beseeching  God  and  you  to  pardon  me. 

Grey.  Never  did  faithful  subject  more  rejoice 
At  the  discovery  of  most  dangerous  treason. 
Than  I  do  at  this  hour  joy  o'er  myself. 
Prevented  from  a  damned  enterprise. 
My  fault,  but  not  my  body,  pardon,  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.  God  quit  you  in  his  mercy  !      Hear  yo« 
sentence. 
You  have  conspir'd  against  our  royal  person, 
Join'd  with  an  enemy  proclaim'd,  and  from  his  coffers 
Receiv'd  the  golden  earnest  of  our  death  ; 
Wherein  you  would  have  sold  your  king  to  slaughter. 
His  princes  and  his  peers  to  servitude. 
His  subjects  to  oppression  and  contempt. 
And  his  whole  kingdom  unto  desolation. 
Touching  our  person,  seek  we  no  revenge  ; 
But  we  our  kingdom's  safety  must  so  tender. 
Whose  ruin  you  have*  sought,  that  to  her  laws 
We  do  deliver  you.     Get  you  therefore  hence, 
Poor  miserable  wTctches,  to  your  death  ; 
The  taste  whereof,  God,  of  his  mercy,  give  you 
Patience  to  endure,  and  true  repentance 
Of  all  your  dear  offences. — Bear  them  hence. 

[Exeunt  Conspirators,  guarded 
Now,  lords,  for  France  ;  the  enterprise  whereof 
Shall  be  to  you,  as  us,  like  glorious. 
We  doubt  not  of  a  fair  and  lucky  war. 
Since  God  so  graciously  hath  brought  to  light 
This  dangerous  treason,  lurking  in  our  way 
To  hinder  our  beginnings  :  we  doubt  not  now, 
But  every  rub  is  smoothed  on  our  way. 
Then,  forth,  dear  countrymen  :  let  us  deliver 
Our  puissance  into  the  hand  of  God. 
Putting  it  straight  in  expedition. 
Cheerly  to  sea  ;  the  signs  of  war  advance  : 
No  king  of  England,  if  not  king  of  France.     [Exntnt 


I       >  Not  'n  .  e.      »  them  :  in  quarto.      ^  make  :  in  folio      Theobald  changed  the  word.      ♦  The  quartos  have  no  trace  of  this,  or  the  thirty 
; seven  previous  lines.      »   from  the  quarto. 


412 


KIKG   HENRY   V. 


ACT   U. 


SCENE  III— London.     Mrs.  Quickly's  Hou.<!e,  in 

Eai^tchcap. 

Enter  Pistol,  Mrs.  Qcickly.  Nym.  Bardolph,  and  Boy. 

Qriick.  Pr'ythee,  honey-sweet  husband,  let  me  bring 
thee  to  Staines. 

Pi.st.  No  ;  for  my  manly  heart  doth  yearn. — 
Bardolph.  be  blythe  :  Nym,  rouse  thy  vaunting  veins; 
Boy.  bristle  thy  courage  up  ;  for  Faletafi"  he  is  dead, 
A.iid  wc  must  yearn  therefore. 

Bard.  'Would  I  were  -with  him,  wheresome'er  he  is, 
cither  in  heaven,  or  in  hell. 

Quick.  Nay,  sure,  he  's  not  in  hell :  he  's  in  Arthur's 
bosom,  if  ever  man  went  to  Arthur's  bo.«om.  'A  made 
a  fine  end  and  wt-nt  away,  an  it  had  been  any  christom 
child  ;'  'a  jiarted  cvn  just  between  twelve  and  one,  ev"n 
at  the  turning  o"  the  tide  :  for  at'ter  I  saw  him  fumble 
with  the  sheets,  and  play  with  flowerg,  and  smile  upon 
his  finger's  end.  I  knew  there  was  but  one  way ;  for  his 
nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen  on  a  table  of  green  frieze.' 
How  now,  sir  John  ?  quoth  I  :  what,  man  !  be  of  good 
cheer.  So  'a  cried  out — God.  God,  God  !  three  or  four 
times  :  now  I.  to  comfort  him.  bid  him.  'a  should  not 
think  of  God  ;  I  hoped,  there  was  no  need  to  trouble 
himself  with  any  such  thoughts  yet.  So,  'a  bade  me 
lay  more  clothes  on  his  feet :  I  put  my  hand  into  the 
bed.  and  telt  them,  and  they  were  as  cold  as  any  stone  ; 
th^n  I  felt  to  his  knees,  and  so  upward,  and  upward, 
and  all  was  as  cold  as  any  stone. 

Nym.  Tiiey  say,  he  cried  out  of  sack. 

Quick.  Ay.  tiiat  'a  did. 

Bard.  And  of  women. 

Quick.  Nay.  that  'a  did  not. 

Boy.  Ye«,  that  'a  did ;  and  said,  they  were  devils 
incarnate. 

Quick.  "A  could  never  abide  carnation  ;  't  was  a 
colour  he  never  liked. 

Boy.  'A  said  once,  the  devil  would  have  him  about 
women. 

Quick.  'A  did  in  some  sort,  indeed,  handle  women  : 
but  then  he  was  rheumatic,  and  talked  of  the  whore  of 
Babylon. 

Boy.  Do  you  not  remember,  'a  saw  a  flea  stick  upon 
Rardoljih's  nose,  and  'a  said  it  was  a  black  soul  burn- 
ing in  hell  ? 

Bard.  Well,  the  fuel  is  gone  that  maintained  that 
fire  :  that  "s  all  the  riches  I  got  in  his  .<;ers'ice. 

iVym.  Shall  we  shog  ?  the  king  will  be  gone  from 
Southam|iton. 

Pist.  Come,  let 's  away. — My  love,  give  me  thy  lips. 
Look  to  my  chattels,  and  my  moveables : 
Let  senses  rule  ;  the  word  is,  "  Pitch  and  pay  ;" 
TruBt  none ; 

For  oaths  are  straws,  men's  faiths  are  wafer-cakes, 
And  hold-fa.-'t  is  the  only  do2.  ray  duck: 
Therelore,  caveto  be  thy  counsellor. 
Go,  clear  thy  cr)sial8. — Yoke-fellows  in  arms, 
Let  us  to  France  :  like  horsc-leeche.s,  my  boys, 
To  suck,  to  suck,  the  ver>  blo<Kl  to  suck  ! 

Boy.   And  that  is  but  unwholesome  food,  they  say. 

Pift.  Touch  her  soft  mouth,  and  march. 

Bartl.  Farewell,  hostc*.  (A'wstng  her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  kiw<,  that  is  the  humour  of  it ;  bHt 
Weu.  (command. 

Putt.    L^t    hon.sewifery  appear  :    keep  close.   I  thee 

Quick.  Farewell  ;  adieu.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   IV.. 


-France.      A  Room  in  the  Frenci. 
King's  Palace. 


Flourish.     Enter  the  French  King  attended ;  the  Dau 

phin.   (he    Duke   of  Burgundy,  the    Constable^  and 

Others. 

Fr.  King.  Thus  come  the  English  with  full  power 
upon  us, 
And  more  than  carefully  it  us  concerns, 
To  answer  royally  in  our  defences. 
Therefore  the  dukes  of  Berry,  and  of  Bretagne, 
Of  Brabant,  and' of  Orleans,  shall  make  forth, 
And  you,  prince  Dauphin,  with  all  swift  despatch- 
To  line,  and  new  repair,  our  towns  of  war 
With  men  of  courage,  and  with  means  defendant: 
For  England  his  approaches  makes  as  fierce, 
As  waters  to  the  sucking  of  a  gulph. 
It  fits  us.  then,  to  be  as  provident 
As  fear  may  teach  us,  out  of  late  examples 
Left  by  the  fatal  and  neglected  English 
Upon  our  fields. 

.  Dau.  My  most  redoubted  father, 

It  is  most  meet  we  arm  us  'gainst  tlie  foe  ; 
For  peace  itself  should  not  so  dull  a  kingdom, 
(Though  war,  nor  no  knowTi  quarrel,  were  in  questim,* 
But  that  defences,  musters,  preparations. 
Should  be  maintain'd.  assembled,  and  collected, 
As  were  a  war  in  expectation. 
Therefore,  I  say,  't  is  meet  we  all  go  forth, 
To  view  the  sick  and  feeble  parts  of  France ; 
And  let  us  do  it  with  no  show  of  fear ; 
No,  with  no  more,  than  if  we  heard  that  England 
Were  busied  with  a  Wliitsun  morris  dance : 
For,  my  good  liege,  she  is  so  idly  king'd. 
Her  sceptre  .so  fantastically  borne 
By  a  vain,  giddy,  shallow,  humorous  youth, 
That  fear  attends  her  not. 

Con.  0  peace,  prince  Danpluu  ' 

You  are  too  much  mistaken  in  this  king. 
Question  your  grace  the  late  aniba.'^sadors, 
With  what  great  state  he  heard  their  embassy, 
How  well  supplied  with  noble  counsellors, 
How  modest  in  exception,  and,  withal. 
How  terrible  in  constant  resolution. 
And  you  shall  find,  his  vanities  forespent 
Were  but  the  outside  of  the  Roman  Brutus, 
Covering  discretion  with  a  coat  of  folly  ; 
As  gardeners  do  with  ordure  hide  those  root* 
That  shall  first  spring,  and  be  most  delicate. 

Dau.  Well,  't  is  not  so,  my  lord  high  constable ; 
But  though  we  think  it  so,  it  is  no  matter  : 
In  ca.se8  of  defence,  't  is  best  to  weiizh 
The  enemy  more  mighty  than  he  seems, 
So  the  proportions  of  defence  are  filld  ; 
Which,  of  a  weak  and  niggardly  projection. 
Doth  like  a  miser,  spoil  his  coat  with  scanting 
A  little  cloth. 

Fr.  King.         Think  we  king  Harry  strong  ; 
And.  princes,  look,  you  strongly  arm  to  meet  him. 
The  kindred  of  him  hath  been  (lesh'd  upon  us, 
And  he  is  bred  out  of  that  bloody  strain, 
That  haunted  us  in  our  familiar  paths: 
Witness  our  too  much  memorable  shame, 
W^hen  Cressy  battle  fatally  was  struck,    • 
And  all  our  princes  captiv'd  by  the  hand 
Of  that  black  name,  Edward  black  prince  of  Wales  , 


'  ThtrAHtam.  wu  a  white  tloth  placed  upon  the  head  of  a  child  after  it  wai  anointed  with  the  chrism,  or  cacrod  oil 
aftrrward.  riren  to  the  white  cloth  in  which  the  child  wm  wrapped  at  the  ceremonv.  and  wh-ch  wa*  used  as  iu  slirond.  if  it  ded  ri 


The  name  mi 


mont^  of  lu  birth      Children  to  dring  were  called  Chni^mj.  in  the  old  bilU  of  mortality, 
which  Theobald  conjecturally  altered  to,  "  'a  babbled  of  green  fields." 


>  The  old  copiei  read  :  a  tahir  of  grei  n  fielda 


8oen:e  I. 


KING  HENEY  Y. 


413 


Whilst  that  his  mighty'  sire,  on  mountain  standing, 
Up  in  the  air,  crown'd  with  the  golden  sun, 
Saw  his  heroical  seed,  and  smil'd  to  see  him. 
Mangle  the  work  of  nature,  and  deface 
The  patterns  that  by  God,  and  by  French  fathers, 
Had  twenty  years  been  made.     This  is  a  stem 
Of  that  victorious  stock ;  and  let  us  fear 
The  native  mightiness  and  fate  of  him. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Ambassadors  from  Harry  King  of  England 
Do  crave  admittance  to  your  majesty. 

Ft.  King.  We  '11  give  them  present  audience.     Go, 
and  bring  them. 

[Exeunt  Mess,  ami  certain  Lords. 
You  see,  this  chase  is  hotly  follow'd,  friends. 

Dau.  Turn  head,  and  stop  pursuit ;  for  coward  dogs 
Most  spend   their  mouths,  when  what  they  seem  to 

tin-eaten 
Runs  far  before  them.     Good  my  sovereign, 
Take  up  the  English  short,  and  let  them  know 
Of  what  a  monarchy  you  are  the  head  : 
Self-love,  my  liege,  is  not  so  vile  a  sin 
As  self-neglecting. 

Re-enter  Lards.,  with  Exeter  and  Train. 

Fr.  King.  From  our  brother  of  England  ? 

Exe.     From  him  ;  and  thus  he  greets  your  majesty. 
He  wills  you,  in  the  name  of  God  Almighty, 
That  you  divest  yourself,  and  lay  apart 
The  borrow'd  glories,  that  by  gift  of  heaven. 
By  law  of  nature,  and  of  nations,  'long 
To  him,  and  to  his  heirs ;  namely,  the  crown. 
And  all  wide-stretched  honours  that  pertain. 
By  custom  and  the  ordinance  of  times, 
Unto  the  crown  of  France.     That  you  may  know, 
'T  is  no  sinist-er,  nor  no  awkward  claim, 
Pick'd  from  the  worm-holes  of  long-vanish'd  days. 
Nor  from  the  dust  of  old  oblivion  rak'd. 
He  sends  you  this  most  memorable  line, 

[Giving  a  pedigree. 
In  every  branch  truly  demonstrative  ; 
Willing  you  overlook  this  pedigree. 
And  when  you  find  him  evenly  deriv'd 
From  his  most  fam'd  of  famous  ancestors, 
Edward  the  third,  he  bids  you  then  resign 
Your  crown  and  kingdom,  indirectly  held 
From  liim,  the  native  and  true  challenger. 

Fr.  King.  Or  else  what  follows  ? 

Exe.  Bloody  constraint ;  for  if  you  hide  the  crown 
Even  in  your  hearts,  there  will  he  rake  for  it : 
Therefore,  in  fierce  tempest  is  he  coming, 


In  thunder,  and  in  earthquake,  like  a  Jove, 
That,  if  requiring  fail,  he  will  compel : 
And  bids  you,  in  the  bowels  of  the  Lord, 
Deliver  up  the  croMii,  and  to  take  mercy 
On  the  poor  souls,  for  whom  this  hungry  war 
Opens  his  vasty  jaws  :  and  on  your  head 
Turning  the  widows'  tears,  the  orplians'  cries 
The  dead  men's  blood,  the  pining  maidens'  groan«_ 
For  husbands,  fathers,  and  betrothed  lovers, 
That  shall  be  .swallow'd  in  this  controvensy. 
This  is  his  claim,  his  threat'ning,  and  my  message  • 
Unless  the  Dauphin  be  in  presence  here. 
To  whom  expressly  I  bring  greeting  too. 

Fr.  King.  For  us,  we  will  consider  of  this  farther . 
To-morrow  shall  you  bear  our  full  intent 
Back  to  our  brother  of  England. 

Dau.  For  the  Dauphin, 

I  stand  here  for  him :  what  to  him  from  England  ? 

Exe.  Scorn,  and  defiance,  slight  regard,  contempt 
And  any  thing  that  may  not  misbecome 
The  mighty  sender,  doth  he  prize  you  at. 
Thus  says  my  king :  and,  if  your  father's  higlniess 
Do  not,  in  grant  of  all  demands  at  large. 
Sweeten  the  bitter  mock  you  sent  his  majesty. 
He  '11  call  you  to  so  hot  an  answer  of  it, 
That  caves  and  womby  vaultages  of  France 
Shall  chide  your  trespass,  and  return  your  mock 
In  second  accent  of  his  ordinance. 

Dau.  Say,  if  my  father  render  fair  return. 
It  is  against  my  will ;  for  I  desire 
Nothing  but  odds  with  England  :  to  that  end. 
As  matching  to  his  youtii  and  vanity, 
I  did  present  him  with  the  Paris  balls. 

Exe.  He  '11  make  your  Paris  LouA-re  shake  for  it, 
Were  it  the  mistress  court  of  mighty  Europe. 
And,  be  assur'd,  you  '11  find  a  difference. 
As  we  his  subjects  have  in  wonder  found, 
Between  the  promise  of  his  greener  days. 
And  these  he  masters  now.     Now  he  weighs  time, 
Even  to  the  utmost  grain  ;  that  you  shall  read 
In  your  own  losses,  if  he  .stay  in  France. 

Fr.  King.  To-morrow  shall  you  know  our  mind  at  full 

Exe.  Despatch  us  with  all  speed,  lest  that  our  king 
Come  here  himself  to  question  our  delay, 
For  he  is  footed  in  this  land  already. 

Fr.  King.  You  shall   be  soon  despatch'd  with  fail 
conditions. 
A  night  is  but  small  breath,  and  little  pause. 
To  answer  matters  of  this  consequence. 

[  Flourish .     Exeunt . 


ACT    III. 


Enter  Chorus. 
Ckor.  Thus  with  imagin'd  wing  our  swift  scene  flies, 
In  motion  of  no  less  celerity ' 

Than  that  of  thought.     Suppose,  that  you  have  seen 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  pier 
Embark  his  royalty  ;  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamers  the  young  Phcebus  fanning : 
Play  with  your  fancies,  and  in  them  behold, 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle  ship-boys  climbing; 
Hear  the  slirill  whistle,  which  doth  order  give 
To  sounds  confus'd  :  behold  the  threaden  sails. 
Blown*  with  th'  invisible  and  creeping  wind, 

«  mountain  :  in  f.  e.      »  Borne  :  in  f.  e. 


Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrow'd  sea, 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge.     0  !  do  but  think. 
You  stand  upon  the  rivage,  and  behold 
A  city  on  th'  inconstant  billows  dancing ; 
For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical. 
Holding  due  course  to  Harfleur.     Follow,  follow  ! 
Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage  of  this  navy  ; 
And  leave  your  England,  as  dead  midnisht  still. 
Guarded  with  grandsires,  babies,  ana  oia  women, 
Either  past,  or  not  arriv'd  to.  pith  and  puissance  : 
For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  enrich'd 
With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not  follow 
These  cull'd  and  choice-drawn  cavaliers  to  France  t 


4U 


KING  HENRY  V 


A.CT  in 


Work,  work  your  flionahls,  and  therein  see  a  siege : 
HelioliI  tlic  onliiaiice  on  tlicir  carriages, 
Witli  f.ital  iiiMUtlis  CiipiiiL'  on  gmU-d  Harfleur, 
Suppose,  ih'  aiiiba.'^sador  iVoiii  tin-  French  comes  back: 
Tells  Harry  that  the  king  doth  olFcr  him 
Katharine  his  daugliler;  and  witli  her,  to  dowry, 
Some  jietty  and  unprotitalilc  diikeilome. 
The  otfer  likes  not  :  and  the  nimble  gunner 
With  linstock  now  the  devilish  cannon  touches, 

[AInrxm  ;  and  Chambers^  go  off. 
\nd  down  goes  all  before  them.     Still  be  kind, 
\nd  eke  out  our  pert'ornianco  with  your  mind.     [Exit. 

SCENE  I.— France.     Before  Harfleur. 

Alarrtm.t.     Enter  King  Hf.nuy.  Exeter,  Bedford, 
Closteu,  an/l  Soldlcr.s,  with  Scaling  Ladders. 

K.  flcn.*  Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends, 
once  more  ; 
l)r  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead  ! 
In  |M?acc.  there  "s  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 
As  modest  stillness,  and  humility; 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger: 
Stiffen  the  sinew.s,  summon  up  the  blood. 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage: 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect; 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head. 
Like  tiie  bra.«-8  cannon  ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it, 
As  fearfully,  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide; 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  his  full  hoiuht  ! — On.  on,  you  noblest^  English  ! 
Whose  blood  is  fet*  from  fathers  of  war-proof. 
Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 
Have  in  the.';e  parts  from  morn  till  even  fought. 
And  sheatird  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. 
Dishonour  not  your  mothers  :  now  attest, 
That  those  whom  you  calfd  fathers  did  beget  you. 
Be  cojjy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 
And  teach  them  how  to  war. — And  you.  good  yeomen, 
Who.sc  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture  :  let  us  swear 
Tiiat  you  are  worth  your  breeding;  which  I  doubt  not, 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 
Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game's  afoot: 
Follow  your  spirit :  and  upon  this  charge, 
Cr>- — God  for  Harry  !   En::land  !  and  Saint  George  ! 

[Exeunt.     Alarum,  and  Chambers  go  off. 

SCENE  IL— The  Same. 
Forces  pass  over  ;  thrn  enter  Ny.m,  Bardolph,  Pistol, 
and  Boy. 
Bard.    On,   on,  on,  on,  on  !    to   the  breach,   to   the 
breach  ! 

N\jm.  Pray  thee,  corporal,  stay  :  the  knocks  are  too 
hot;  and  for  mine  own  part.  I  have  not  a  case  of* 
lives ;  the  humour  of  it  is  too  hot,  that  is  the  very 
plain-fionc  of  it. 

Pu(t.  The  plain  song  If   most  just,  for  humours  do 
pix)uud  : 

Knocks  go  and  come, 
To  all  and  some* 
God's  VR.snals  feel  the  same  ; 


And  sword  and  shield, 
In  bloody  field, 
Do'  win  immortal  fame. 

Boy.  Would  I  were  in  an  alehouse  in  Londori !  I 
would  sive  all  niv  fame  for  a  jiot  of  ale,  and  safely 

PwL  And  I: 

If  wishes  would  prevail  with  me, 
My  purpose  should  not  fail  witli  me, 
But  thither  would  I  now." 

Boy.     And'  as  duly, 

But  not  as  truly. 

As  bird  doth  sing  on  bough. 
Enter  Fluei.len. 

Flu.  Up  to  the  preach,  you  dogs  !  avaunt,  you  cul 
lions  !  ( Driving  them  forward 

Pift.  Be  merciful,  great  duke,  to  men  of  mould  ! 
Abate  thy  rage,  abate  thy  manly  rage; 
Abate  thy  rage,  great  duke  ! 
Good  bawcock,  bate  thy  rage  :  use  lenity,  sxveet  chuck  ! 

Nym.  These  be  good  humours  ! — your  honour  wine 
bad  humours. 

[FiAEi-LEN  drives  out  Nym.  Pistol,  and  Bab'^olph." 

Boy.  As  young  as  I  am.  1  have  observed  snese  three 
sw^ashers.  I  am  boy  to  thein  all  three,  but  all  they 
three,  though  they  would  serve  mc,  could  not  be  man 
to  me;  for.  indeed,  three  such  antics  do  not  amount  to 
a  man.  For  Bardolph,  he  is  white-livered,  and  red- 
faced  ;  by  the  means  whereof,  'a  faces  it  out.  but  fishtg 
not.  For  Pistol,  he  hath  a  killing  tongue,  and  a  quiet 
sword  ;  by  the  means  whereof  'a  breaks  words,  and 
keeps  whole  weapons.  For  Nym,  he  hath  heard,  that 
men  of  few  words  are  the  best  men  ;  and  therefore  he 
scorns  to  say  his  prayers,  lest  'a  sliould  be  thought  a 
coward:  but  his  few  bad  words  are  nialcli'd  with  as 
few  good  deeds  ;  for  'a  never  broke  any  man's  head 
but  his  own,  and  that  was  against  a  post  when  he  was 
drunk.  They  will  steal  any  thing,  and  call  it  purchase. 
Bardolph  stole  a  lute-case  ;  bore  it  twelve  leagues,  and 
sold  it  for  three  halfpence.  Nym  and  Bardolph  are 
sworn  brothers  in  filching,  and  in  Calais  they  stole  a 
fire-shovel  :  I  knew  by  that  piece  of  service  the  men 
would  carry  coals."  They  would  have  me  as  familiar 
with  men's  pockets,  as  their  gloves  or  their  handker- 
chiefs :  which  makes  much  against  my  manhood,  if  I 
should  take  from  another's  pocket,  to  put  into  mine, 
for  it  is  jilain  ])ocketing  up  of  wrongs.  I  must  leave 
them,  and  seek  some  better  service  :  their  villainy  goes 
against  my  weak  stomach,  and  therefore  I  must  cast  it 
up.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Fia-ei.len,  Go-wer  foUowing. 

Gow.  Captain  Flucllen.  you  must  come  presently  to 
the  mines  :  the  duke  of  Glostcr  would  speak  with  you. 

Flu.  To  the  mines?  tell  you  tiie  duke,  it  is  not  M 
good  to  come  to  the  mines  :  for.  look  you,  the  mines  jr 
not  according  to  the  disciplines  of  the  war:  the  con- 
cavities of  it  is  not  suflicient  :  for,  look  you,  th'  athvcr- 
sary  (you  may  discuss  unto  the  duke,  look  you)  is  digged 
him.self  four  yards  under  the  couniermincs.  By  Chefhu, 
I  think,  'a  will  plow  up  all.  if  there  is  not  better  di- 
rections. 

Gow.  The  duke  of  Gloster.  to  whom  the  order  of  th« 
.siciie  is  given,  is  altogether  directed  by  an  Irishman;  B 
very  valiant  gentleman,  i'  faith. 

Flu.  It  is  captain  Macmorris,  is  it  not? 

Gow.  I  think  it  be. 

Flu.  By  ('heshu.  he  is  an  ass,  as  in  the  world.  I  will 
verify  as  much  in  his  peard  :  he  has  no  more  directioiw 


•  SnutU  j<tfr,»  of  OT'tnnnre.  >  Thii  fjieech  ia  not  found  in  the  quartos.  '  Knipht  reailK  :  noblftsse.  The  first  folio  has:  ncbli 
Fttktrt  »  Pnir.  •  Thin  linn  i»  not  in  f.  p  ;  the  prnr«flin)r  and  following  line  are  usuallv  (^iven  .-us  on<>.  '  doth  :  in  f.  e.  »  hie  • 
t       •  Thi»  word  ii  npl  in  f.  e.      '•  Exeunt  NVM.  ic.  followej  by  Kli-kllen  :  in  f  e.      "  This  seeim  to  have  heo.n  a  'ow.  .nenial  ort.': 


SCENE  rv. 


KING  HEXRY  Y. 


415 


in   the  true  disciplines  of  the  wars,  look  you,  of  the 
Roman  disciplines,  than  is  a  puppy-dog. 

Enter  Macmorris  and  Jamy,  at  a  distance. 

Gow.  Here  'a  comes ;  and  the  Scots  captain,  cap- 
tain Jamy,  with  him. 

Flu.  Captain  Jamy  is  a  marvellous  falorous  gentle- 
man, that  is  certain ;  and  of  great  expedition,  and  know- 
ledge in  the  ancient  wars,  upon  my  particular  knowledge 
of  his  directions :  by  Cheshu,  he  will  maintain  his  argu- 
ment as  well  as  any  military  man  in  the  world,  in  the 
disciplines  of  the  pristine  wars  of  the  Romans. 

Jamy.  I  say,  gude  day,  captain  Fluelien. 

Flu.  God-den  to  yoiir  worship,  goot  captain  James. 

Gow.  How  now.  captain  Macmorris !  have  you  quit 
the  mines  ?  have  the  pioneers  given  o'er  ? 

Mac.  By  Chrish  la,  tish  ill  done  :  the  work  ish  give 
over,  the  trumpet  sound  the  retreat.  By  my  hand,  I 
swear,  and  my  father's  soul,  the  work  ish  ill  done ;  it 
ish  give  over :  I  would  have  blowed  up  the  town,  so 
Chrish  save  me.  la,  in  an  hour.  0  !  tjsh  ill  done,  tish 
ill  done  ;  by  my  hand,  tish  ill  done. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris.  I  peseech  you  now  will  you 
vouchsafe  me,  look  you.  a  few  disputations  ^^^th  you, 
as  partly  touching  or  concerning  the  disciplmes  of  the 
wars,  the  Roman  wars,  in  the  way  of  argument,  look 
you,  and  friendly  communication  :  partly,  to  satisfy  my 
opinion,  and  partly,  for  the  satisfaction,  look  you,  of 
my  mind,  as  touching  the  direction  of  the  military  dis- 
cipline :  that  is  the  point. 

Jamy.  It  sail  be  very  gude,  gude  feith,  gude  captains 
bath :  and  [  sail  quit'  you  with  gude  leve,  as  I  may 
pick  occasion ;  that  sail  I,  marry. 

3fac.  It  is  no  time  to  discourse,  so  Chrish  save  me. 
The  day  is  hot,  and  the  weather,  and  the  wars,  and  the 
king,  and  the  dukes;  it  is  no  time  to  discourse.  The 
to\ATi  is  beseeched,  and  the  trumpet  calls  us  to  the 
breach,  and  we  talk,  and.  by  Chrish,  do  nothing:  'tis 
shame  for  us  all :  so  God  sa'  me,  't  is  shame  to  stand 
still ;  it  is  shame,  by  my  hand :  and  there  is  throats  to 
be  cut,  and  works  to  be  done,  and  there  ish  nothing 
done,  so  Chrish  sa'  me,  la. 

Jamy.  By  the  mess,  ere  these  eyes  of  mine  take 
themselves  to  slumber,  aile  do  gude  ser\'ice,  or  aile 
lig  i'  the  grund  for  it :  ay,  or  go  to  death  :  and  aile 
pay  it  as  valorously  as  I  may.  that  sail  I  surely  do.  that 
is  the  brief  and  the  long.  Marry,  I  wad  full  fain  heard 
some  question  'tween  you  tway. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  think,  look  you,  under 
your  correction,  there  is  not  many  of  your  nation — 

Mac.  Of  my  nation  !  What  ish  my  nation  ?  ish  a 
villain,  and  a  bastard,  and  a  knave,  and  a  rascal  ?  "*Vhat 
ish  my  nation  ?     Who  talks  of  my  nation  ? 

Flu.  Look  you.  if  you  take  the  matter  otherwise  than 
is  meant,  captain  Macmon-is.  peradventure.  I  shall  think 
you  do  not  use  me  with  that  affability  as  in  discretion 
you  ought  to  use  me,  look  you  :  being  as  goot  a  man 
as  >ourself,  both  in  the  disciplines  of  wars,  and  in  the 
derivation  of  m>  birth,  and  in  other  particularities. 

Mac.  I  do  not  know  you  so  good  a  man  as  myself: 
•0  Chrish  sa'  me,  I  will  cut  off  your  head. 

Goiv.  Gentlemen  both,  you  will  mistake  each  other. 

Jamy.  Au  !  that 's  a  foul  fault.     [A  Parley  sounded. 

Gow.  The  town  sounds  a  parley. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  when  there  is  more  better 

opportunity  to  be  required,  look  you,  I  will  be  so  bold 

as  to  tell  ;jou,  I  know  the  disciplines  of  wars ;  and  there 

's  an  end.  [Exeunt. 


Kequite. 


SCENE  III.— The  Same.  Before  the  Gates  of  Harfleur 
Enter  King  Henry,  his  Train  and  Forces.     The 

Governor  and  some  Citizens  on  the  Walls. 
K.  Hen.  How  yet  resolves  the  governor  of  the  town '. 
This  is  the  latest  parle  we  will  admit : 
1  nerefore,  to  our  best  mercy  give  yourselves, 
Or.  like  to  men  proud  of  destruction. 
D.  'y  us  to  our  worst ;  for.  as  I  am  a  soldier, 
A  name  that  in  my  thoughts  becomes  me  best. 
If  I  begin  the  battery  once  again. 
I  will  not  leave  the  half-achieved  Harfleur, 
Till  in  her  ashes  she  lie  buried. 
The  gates  of  mercy  shall  be  all  shut  up  ; 
And  the  flesh'd  soldier,  rough  and  hard  of  heart. 
In  liberty  of  bloody  hand  shall  range 
With  conscience  wide  as  hell,  mowing  like  grass 
Your  fresh  fair  virgins,  and  your  flowering  infants 
What  is  it  then  to  me,  if  impious  war, 
Array"d  in  flames  like  to  the  prince  of  fiends. 
Do,  with  his  smirch'd  complexion,  all  fell  feats 
Enlink'd  to  waste  and  desolation  ? 
What  is  't  to  me.  when  you  yourselves  are  cause, 
If  your  pure  maidens  fall  into  the  hana 
Of  hot  and  forcing  violation  ? 
What  rein  can  hold  licentious  wickedness, 
When  down  the  hill  he  holds  his  fierce  career? 
We  may  as  bootless  spend  our  vain  command 
Upon  th'  enraged  soldiers  in  their  spoil, 
As  send  precepts  to  the  Leviathan 
To  come  ashore.     Therefore,  you  men  of  Harfleur 
Take  pity  of  your  town,  and  of  your  people. 
Whiles  yet  my  soldiers  are  in  my  command ; 
Whiles  yet  the  cool  and  temperate  wind  of  grace 
O'erblows  the  filthy  and  contagious  clouds 
Of  heady  murder,  spoil,  and  villainy. 
If  not,  why,  in  a  moment  look  to  see 
The  blind  and  bloody  soldier  with  foul  hand 
Defile  the  locks  of  your  shrill-shrieking  daughters 
Your  fathers  taken  by  the  silver  beards, 
And  their  most  reverend  heads  dash'd  to  the  walls; 
Your  naked  infants  spitted  upon  pikes, 
Whiles  the  mad  mothers  with  their  howls  confus'd 
Do  break  the  clouds,  as  did  the  wives  of  Jewn- 
At  Herod's  bloody-hunting  slaughtermen. 
What  say  you*^  will  you  >-ield.  and  this  avoid. 
Or.  guilty  in  defence,  be  thus  destroyed  ? 

Gov.  Our  expectation  hath  this  day  an  end. 
The  Dauphin,  whom  of  succoiu"  we  entreated. 
Returns  us  that  his  powers  are  not  yet  ready 
To  raise  so  great  a  siege.     Therefore,  great  king. 
We  }-ield  our  town  and  lives  to  thy  soft  mercy. 
Enter  our  gates :  dispose  of  us,  and  ours, 
For  we  no  longer  are  defensible. 

K.  Hen.  Open  your  gates  ! — Come,  uncle  Exeter, 
Go  you  and  enter  Harfleur ;  there  remain,  [Gates  optntd 
And  fortify  it  strongly  'gainst  the  French  : 
Use  mercy  to  them  all.     For  us,  dear  uncle, 
The  winter  coming  on.  and  sickness  growing 
Upon  our  soldiers,  we  will  retire  to  Calais. 
To-night  in  Harfleur  will  we  be  your  guest : 
To-morrow  for  the  march  are  we  addrest. 

[Flourish.     The  King,  ^c.  entei  the  Towr. 

SCENE  IV.— Rouen.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Katharine  aiul  Ai  ice. 
Kath.  Alice,  tu  as  este  en  Angleterre,  et  tu  paries  hien 
le  langage. 

Alice.  Un  peu,  madame. 


416 


KIKG  HENRY  Y. 


Kath.  Jc  *e  prie,  m'cnseignfz  ;  il  fnut  gue  fapprenne\  And  overlook  their  grafters? 
i  parhr.     Comment  apiKllcz  votis  la  main,  en  Anglois  ?       Bour.    Normans,    but    bastard    Norniaus,    Nonnar 

AUct.  La  main  '  :tU  rsl  appelUe,  de  hand.  bastards. 

An/A.   I).-  hiuul.     E(  les  <loigts  1  j  Mort  dc  ma  vie!  if  they  march  along 

Alice.  Les  doi<;ts  ?  ma  foy.  je  ouhlie  les  doigts  :  mais  ]  l'nfoui:ht  witlial.  but  I  -.vill  sell  my  dukedom, 
•<  me  soiivietultai.     Les  doigts?  je  pense,  qu'ils  sont  To  buy  a  .'^lobbcry  and  a  dirty  farm 


In  that  nnok-shotten'  isle  of  Albion. 

Con.   Dieu  de  hattailes!  where  have  they  this  mcftl* 
Is  not  their  climate  foI;g^^  raw,  and  dull. 


ippellf  de  tiiinres ;  my,  de  finiircs. 

Kath.   La  main,  dc  hand :  les  doigts,  de  fingres.     Je 
vcnse.  que  je  suis  k  bon  escolier.    J' ay  gagnc  devx  mots 

'Anglois  vi.<!tcmnit.    Comment  appcllez  vous  les  onglcs?  On  whom,  as  in  despite,  the  sun  looks  pale. 
Alice.   Lsouctes?  les  oppelloiis.  de  naWs. 

ditcs   mot,    si    je  parle 


Kath.  De   nails.     Ecoutez ;    ditcs   mot,    st  je 
hicn :  dc  hand,  dc  tiniircs,  de  nails. 

Alice,  r'o-r  hien  dit,  madame  ;  U  est  fort  bon  Anglois. 

Kath.  lutes  moi  l'  Anglois  pour  le  bras. 

Alice.   De  arm,  madarae. 

Kath.  Et  le  coude. 

Alice.  De  elbow. 

Kath.  De  elbow.  Je  m'en  faitz  la  repetition  de  tons 
Its  mots,  que  vous  m'avcz  nppris  des  a  present. 

Alice.  II  est  trop  dijjicilc.  madamc.  comme  je  pense. 

Kath.  Ercusez  moi.  Alice;  ecoutez:  de  hand,  de 
fmgre.  de  nails,  de  arm.  de  bilbow. 

Alice.  De  elbow,  madame. 

Kath.  O  Seigneur  Dieu !  je  m'en  oublie ,  de  elbow. 
Comment  appelhz  vovs  le  col  ? 

Alice.  De  nick,  madame. 

Kath.  De  nick :  Et  le  menton  ? 

Alice.  Dc  chin. 

Kath.  De  sin.     Le  col,  de  nick:  le  menton,  de  sin. 

Alice,  (hii.  Sauf  vostre  honneur ;  en  verite.  vous 
prononcez  les  mots  aussi  droit  que  les  natifs  d  Angleterre. 

Kath.  Je  ne  doute  point  d'  apprendre  par  la  grace  de 
Dieu,  et  en  peu  dc  temps. 

Alice.  N'avez  vouz  pas  dcjd  oublie  ce  que  je  vous  ay 
etiseignee.  ? 

Kath.  Xon,  je  reciterai  a  vous  promptement.  De 
hand,  de  tingrc.  de  mails, — 

Alice.  De  nails,  mailame. 

Kath.  Dc  nail  J,  de  arme,  de  ilbow. 

Alice.  Sauf  vc-strc  honneur,  de  elbow 

Kath  Ain.fi  dis  je  ;  de  elbow,  de  nick,  et  de  sin : 
Commmt  appcllez  vous  le  pied  et  la  robe  ? 

Alice.  Dc  foot,  madame  ;  et  de  con. 

Kath.  De  foot,  et  de  con  ?  O  Seigneur  Dieu !  ccs 
sont  mots  de  son  mnuvais.  corruptible,  gros.tc,  et  impu- 
di/pie,  et  non  pour  les  dames  cTfic/nneur  d'u.fer.     Je  ne 


Killing  their  fruit  wilh  frowns?     Can  sodden  water, 
A  drench  for  .sur-rcin'd  jades,  their  barley  broth, 
Decoct  their  cold  blood  to  such  valiant  heat  ? 
And  shall  our  quick  blood,  spirited  with  wine, 
Seem  frosty  ?     0  !   for  honour  of  our  land, 
Let  us  not  hang  like  ropinir  icicles 
Upon  our  houses'  that-ch.  whiles  a  more  frosty  people 
Sweat  drops  of  gallant  youth  in  our  rich  fields. 
Poor  we  may  call  them,  in  their  native  lords. 

Dau.  By  faith  and  honour, 
Our  madams  mock  at  us,  and  plainly  say, 
Our  mettle  is  bred  out ;  and  they  will  give 
Their  bodies  to  the  lust  of  English  youth. 
To  new-store  France  with  bastard  warriors. 

Bour.  They  bid  us  to  the  English  dancing-schcols. 
And  teach  lavoltas'  high,  and  swift  corantos; 
Saying,  our  grace  is  only  in  our  heels, 
And  that  we  are  mo.st  lofty  runaways. 

Fr.  King.  Where  is    Montjoy,  the    herald  ?    spce>i 
him  hence; 
Let  him  greet  England  with  our  sharp  defiance. — 
Up,  princes  !  and,  with  spirit  of  honour,  edg'd 
More  sharper  than  your  swords,  hie  to  the  field. 
Charles  De-la-bret.  high  con.<;table  of  France  ; 
You  dukes  of  Orleans.  Bourbon,  and  of  Berry, 
Alencon,  Brabant.  Bar,  and  Burgundy  ; 
.laques  Chatillon.  Hambures.  Vaudcmont, 
Beaumont.  Grandpre.  Roussi,  and  Fauconberg, 
Foix,  Lestrale,  Bouciqualt,  and  Charolois, 
High  dukes,  great  princes,  barons,  lords,  and  knight*, 
For  your  great  states,  now  quit  you  of  great  shames. 
Bar  Harry  England,  that  sweeps  through  our  land 
With  pennons  painted  in  the  blood  of  Harfleur; 
Rush  on  his  host,  as  doth  the  melted  snow 
Upon  the  valleys,  whose  low  vassal  seat 
The  Alps  doth  spit  and  void  his  rheum  upon. 
Go,  downi  upon  him, — you  have  power  enough, — 


voiulrois  prononcer  ces   mots   devant   les   seigneurs   de  \  And  in  a  captive  chariot  into  Rouen 


France,  pour  tout  le  monde.  II  fan t  de  foot,  et  de  con, 
nrantmoins.  Jc  reciterai  une  autre  fois  ma  le^on  en- 
semble:  dc  hand.  d<:  fingre,  de  nails,  de  arm,  de  elbow, 
de  nick,  de  cin,  de  foot,  de  con. 

Alice.  Excellent,  ma/lame! 

Kath.  Ccrf  o-Mcr  pour  une  fois :  allons  nous  a  disner. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — The  Same.     Another  Room  in  the 

Same. 

Enter  the  French  Kino,  the  Dauphin,  Duke  o/BouR- 

BO.N,  the  Con.^table  of  France,  and  others. 

Fr.  King.  'T  is  certain,  he  hath   passed  the  river 

Somme. 
CofTt.  And  if  he  be  not  fought  withal,  my  lord. 
Let  u.s  not  live  in  France  :  let  us  quit  all, 
\iid  give  our  vinf-yards  to  a  barbarous  people. 

Dan.  0  hieii  vivant !  Shall  a  few  sprays  of  us. 
The  emptying  of  our  fathers'  luxur>'. 
Our  scions,  put  in  wild  and  savage  stock. 
Spirt  up  so  suddenly  into  the  clouds, 

*  Aa  iiUnd  thu  tkoott  oat  into  c&pei  and  promonloriei 


Bring  him  our  prisoner. 

Con.  This  becomes  the  great. 

Sorry  am  I,  his  numbers  are  so  few. 
His  soldiers  sick,  and  famish'd  in  their  march. 
For.  I  am  sure,  when  he  shall  see  our  army, 
He  '11  drop  his  heart  into  the  sink  of  fear. 
And  for  achievement  offer  us  his  ran.som. 

Fr.  King.  Therefore,  lord  constable,  hasfe  on  Monfr 
joy: 
And  let  him  say  to  England,  that  we  send 
To  know  what  willing  ran.<om  he  will  give. — 
Prince  Dauphin,  you  shall  .May  with  us  in  Rouen. 

Dau.  Not  so,  I  do  beseech  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King.  Be  patient,  for  you  shall  remain  with  ua.-- 
Now,  forth,  lord  constable,  and  princes  all. 
And  quickly  bring  us  word  of  England's  fall.  {Exnml 

SCENE  VI.— The  English  Camp  in  Picardy. 
Enter  Gower  and  Fliellen. 
Gow.  How  now,  captain  Fluellen?  come  you  from 
the  bridge? 

An  Italian  danca  refwrnbling  a  icaltz. 


SCENE   VI. 


KING  HENEY  Y. 


417 


Flu.  I  assure  you.  there  is  very  excellent  services 
committed  at  the  pridge. 

Gow.  Is  the  duke  of  Exeter  safe  ? 

Flu.  The  duke  of  Exeter  is  as  magnanimous  as 
Agamemnon;  and  a  man  that  I  love  and  honour 
with  my  soul,  and  my  heart,  and  my  duty,  and  my 
life,  and  my  living,  and  my  uttermost  power :  he  is 
not  (God  be  praised,  and  pleased  !)  any  hurt  in  the 
world ;  but  keeps  the  pridge  most  valiantly,  with  ex- 
cellent discipline.  There  is  an  ancient,  lieutenant', 
there,  at  the  pridge, — I  thinkj  in  my  very  conscience, 
he  is  as  valiant  a  man  as  Mark  Antony,  and  he  is  a 
man  of  no  estimation  in  the  world  :  but  I  did  see  him 
dc  as  gallant  service. 

Gow.  What  do  you  call  him  ? 

Flu.  He  is  called  ancient  Pistol. 

Gow.  I  know  him  not. 

Enter  Pistol. 

Flu.  Here  is  the  man. 

Pist.  Captain,  I  thee  beseech  to  do  me  favours  : 
The  duke  of  Exeter  doth  love  thee  well. 

Flu.  Ay,  I  praise  Got;  and  I  have  merited  some 
love  at  his  hands. 

Pist.  Bardolph,  a  soldier  firm  and  sound  of  heart, 
And  buxom  valour,  hath,  by  cruel  fate 
And  giddy  fortune's  furious  fickle  wheel, 
That  goddess  blind, 
That  stands  upon  the  rolling  restless  stone. — 

Flu.  By  your  patience,  ancient  Pistol.  Fortune  is 
painted  plind.  with  a  muffler  afore  her  eyes,  to  signify 
to  you  that  fortune  is  plind  ;  and  she  is  painted  also 
with  a  wheel,  to  signify  to  you,  which  is  the  moral  of 
it,  that  she  is  turning,  and  inconstant,  and  mutability, 
and  variation  :  and  her  foot,  look  you.  is  fixed  upon  a 
spherical  stone,  which  rolls,  and  rolls,  and  rolls.  In 
good  truth,  the  poet  makes  a  most  excellent  descrip- 
tion of  it :  fortune  is  an  excellent  moral. 

Pist.  Fortune  is  Bardolph's  foe,  and  frowns  on  him ; 
For  he  hath  stol'n  a  pax*,  and  hanged  must  'a  be. 
A  damned  death  ! 

Let  gallows  gape  for  dog,  let  man  go  free. 
And  let  not  hemp  his  wine-pipe  suffocate. 
But  Exeter  hath  given  the  doom  of  death, 
For  pax  of  little  price  : 

Therefore,  go  sp-iak,  the  duke  will  hear  thy  voice, 
iAnd  let  not  Bardolph's  vital  thread  be  cut 
I  With  edge  of  penny  cord,  and  ^nle  reproach  : 
'  3peak.  captain,  for  his  life,  and  I  will  thee  requite. 
'    Flu.  Ancient   Pistol,  I  do  partly  understand  your 
neaning. 

Pist.  Why  then,  rejoice  therefore. 

Flu.  Certainly,  ancient,  it  is  not  a  thing  to  rejoice 
T  ;  for  if,  look  you,  he  were  my  brother,  I  would 
jlesire  the  duke  to  use  his  goot  pleasure,  and  put  him 
0  execution,  for  discipline  ought  to  be  used. 

Pist.  Die  and  be  damn'd;  a.nd  firo  for  thy  friendship  ! 

Flu.  It  is  well. 

Pist.  The  fig  of  Spain !    [Exit  Pistol*,  making  the 

[sign*'. 

Flu.  Very  good. 

Gow.  Why,  this  is  an  arrant  counterfeit  rascal :  I 
[^member  him  now ;  a  bawd  ;  a  cutpurse. 
j  Flu.  I  '11  assure  you,  'a  utter'd  as  prave  words  at  the 
ridge,  as  you  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day.  But  it  is 
icry  well,  what  he  has  spoke  to  me ;  that  is  well,  I 
('arrant  you,  wh;n  time  is  serve. 

Gow.  Why,  't  is  a  gull,  a  fool,  a  rogue ;  that  now 


I  and  then  goes  to  the  wars,  to  grace  himself  at  his 
j  return  into  London  under  the  form  of  a  soldier.  And 
such  fellows  are  perfect  in  the  great  commanders' 
names,  and  they  will  learn  you  by  rote  where  servicee 
were  done ; — at  such  and  such  a  sconce,  at  such  a 
br(  dch.  at  such  a  convoy ;  who  came  off  bravely,  who 
was  shot,  who  disgraced,  what  terms  the  enemy  stood 
on  I  and  this  they  con  perfectly  in  the  phrase  of  war, 
j  which  they  trick  up  with  new-coined^  oaths  :  and  what 
[  a  beard  of  the  general's  cut,  and  a  horrid  suit  of  the 
[  camp,  will  do  among  foaming  bottles,  and  ale-washed 
I  wits,  is  wonderful  to  be  thought  on.  But  you  must 
learn  to  know  such  .slanders  of  the  age,  or  else  you 
may  be  marvellously  mistook. 

Flu.  I  tell  you  what,  captain  Gower ;  I  do  per- 
ceive he  is  not  the  man  that  he  would  gladly  make 
show  to  the  world  he  is :  if  I  find  a  hole  in  his  coat.  1 
will  tell  him  my  mind.  [Drum  heard.]  Hark  you,  the 
king  is  coming,  and  I  must  speak  with  him  from  the 
pridge. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  and  Soldier.s'^  sick  and 
tattered. 

Flu.  Got  pless  your  majesty  ! 

K.  Hen.  How  now",  Fluellen  ?  cam'st  thou  from  the 
bridge  ? 

Flu.  Ay,  so  please  your  majesty.  The  duke  of 
Exeter  has  very  gallantly  maintained  the  pridge  :  the 
French  is  gone  off,  look  you.  and  there  is  gallant  and 
most  prave  pas^;ages.  Marry,  th'  athversary  was  have 
possession  of  the  pridge^  but  he  is  enforced  to  retire, 
and  the  duke  of  Exeter  is  master  of  the  pridge.  I  can 
tell  your  majesty,  the  duke  is  a  prave  man. 

K.  Hen.   What  men  have  yov>  lost,  Fluellen? 

Flu.  The  perdition  of  th'  athversary  hath  been  very 
great,  rea.«onable  great :  marry,  for  my  part,  I  think 
the  duke  hath  lost  never  a  man^  but  one  that  is  like: 
to  be  executed  for  robbing  a  church  :  one  Bardolph,  if 
your  majesty  know  the  man :  his  face  is  all  bubuklcs^ 
and  whelks,  and  knobs,  and  flames  of  fire  ;  and  his  lips 
plows  at  his  nose,  and  it  is  like  a  coal  of  fire,  some- 
times  plue,  and  sometimes  red  :  but  his  nose  is  exe- 
cuted, and  his  fire  's  out. 

K.  Hen.  We  would  have  all  such  offenders  so  cut 
off:  and  we  give  express  charge,  that  in  our  marches 
through  the  country,  there  be  nothing  compelled  from 
the  villages,  nothing  taken  but  paid  for  :  none  of  .the- 
French  upbraided,  or  abused  in  disdainful  language, 
for  when  lenity  and  cruelty  play  for  a  kingdom,  the 
gentler  gamester  is  the  soonest  winner. 
Tucket.     Enter  Montjot, 

Mont.  You  know  me  by  my  habit. 

K.  Hen.  Well  then,  I  know  thee  :  what  shall  I  know 
of  thee  ? 

Mont.  My  master's  mind. 

K.  Hen.  Unfold  it. 

Mo-nt.  Thus  says  my  king  : — Say  thou  to  Harry-  of 
England.  Though  we  seemed  dead,  we  did  but  sleep  : 
advantage  is  a  better  soldier  than  rashne.ss.  Tell  him,. 
we  could  have  rebuked  him  at  Harfleur :  but  that  we 
thought  not  good  to  bruise  an  injury,  till  it  were  full 
ripe  :  now  we  speak  upon  our  cue.  and  our  voice  i? 
imperial.  England  shall  repent  his  folly,  see  his- 
weakness,  and  admire  our  sufferance.  Bid  him.  there- 
fore, consider  of  his  ransom ;  which  must  proportioa 
the  losses  we  have  borne,  the  subjects  we  have  lost, 
the  disgrace  we  have  digested :  which,  in  weight  to- 
re-answer, his  pettiness  would  bow  under.     For  our 


■'  So  the  folio;  the  -virord  is  usually  omitted  in  mod.  eds.  '  A  small  image  of  the  SaTiour  on  -which  the  kiss  of  pet,c«  -was  besto-w-ed  by 
i»  congregation  at  the  close  of  the  mass.  ^  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e.  *  The  sign  consisted  ia  putting  the  thnmb  betwiwf>- 
e  t^umb  and  middl«  fiai-«i      •  new-tuned  :  in  f.  e.      «  The  reet  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e. 

2  B 


418 


KING  HEISIEY    V. 


ACT  in. 


Insscs,  his  exchequer  is  too  poor  ;  for  the  effusion  of  ]  Dau.  And  of  tlie  heat  of  the  ginger.  It  is  a  beast 
our  bloo<l.  the  muster  of  his  kingdom  too  faint  a  for  I'erseus :  he  is  pure  air  and  fire,  and  the  dull  ele- 
number  ;  and  for  our  disgrace,  lii;*  own  person,  kneel-  nientsof  earth  and  water  never  appear  in  him,  but  onl) 
ing  at  our  feet,  but  a  weak  and  worthless  satisfaction,  j  in  patient  stillness,  while  his  rider  mounts  him  :  he  is. 
To  this  add  defiance  :  and  tell  him,  for  conclusion,  he  |  indeed,  ahorse;  and  all  other  jades  you  may  caM  beast* 


hath  betrayed  his  followers,  whose  condemnation  is 
pronounced.  So  far  my  king  and  master:  so  much 
my  office. 

K.  Urn.  What  is  thy  name  ?     I  know  thy  quality. 

Mont.  Montjoy. 

K.  Urn.  Tiiou  dost  thy  office  fairly.   Turn  thee  back, 
And  tell  tLy  kins, — I  do  not  seek  him  now, 
But  could  be  willing  to  march  on  to  Calais 
Without  impeachment;  for,  to  say  the  sooth, 
Though  't  is  no  wisdom  to  confess  so  much 
I'nto  an  enemy  of  craft  and  vantage. 
My  people  are  with  sickness  much  enfeebled  ; 
My  numbers  Icssen'd,  and  those  few  I  have. 
Almost  no  better  than  so  many  French  : 
Who,  when  they  were  in  health.  I  tell  thee,  herald, 
I  thought  upon  one  pair  of  English  legs 
Did  march  three  Frenchmen. — Yet,  forgive  me,  God, 
That  T  do  brag  thus  ! — this  your  air  of  France 
Hath  blown  that  vice  in  me  :  I  must  repent. 
Go,  therefore,  tell  thy  master,  here  I  am  : 
My  ransom  is  this  frail  and  worthle.ss  trunk, 
My  army  but  a  weak  and  sickly  guard  ; 
Yet,  God  before,  tell  him  we  will  come  on, 
Thouvh  France  himself,  and  such  another  neighbour. 
Stand  in  our  way.     There  's  for  thy  labour,  Montjoy. 
[Giving  a  chain} 
Go.  bid  thy  master  well  advise  him.self : 
If  we  may  pass,  we  will ;  if  we  be  hinder'd, 
We  r-hall  your  tawny  ground  with  your  red  blood 
Discolour:  and  so,  jMontjoy,  fare  you  well. 
The  .sum  of  all  our  answer  is  but  this  : 
We  would  not  seek  a  battle,  as  we  are. 
Nor,  as  we  are,  we  say,  we  will  not  shun  it : 
So  tell  your  master. 

MrnU.  I  shall  deliver  so.     Thanks  to  your  highness. 
[Exit  Montjoy. 

Olo.  I  hope  they  will  not  come  upon  us  now. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  in  God's  hand,  broiher,  not  in  theirs. 
March  to  the  bridge  ;  it  now  draws  toward  night. 
Beyond  the  river  we  '11  encamp  ourselves. 
And  on  to-morrow  bid  them  march  away.        [Exeunt. 

SCF>NR  VII. —The  French  Camp,  near  Agincourt." 
Enter  the  Cfmstnhh  of  Frnncr.  the  Lord  R  ambures.  the 
Dnke  o/ Orleans,  the  Dnuphin,  and  others. 
Con.  Tut !   I   have   the  best  armour  of  the  world. 
Would  it  were  day  ! 

Orl.  You    have  an  excellent  armour ;  but  let  my 
one  have  his  due. 
Con.  ]t  is  the  best  horse  of  Europe. 
Orl.  Will  it  never  bo  morning? 
A/»/.   My  lord  of  Orleans,  and  my  lord  high  consta- 
ble, you  talk  of  horse  and  armour — 

Or!.  You  are  as  well  provided  of  both  as  any  prince 
in  the  world. 

Dau.  What  a  long  night  is  this  !— I  will  not  change 
my  horse  with  any  that  treads  but  on  four  pasterns. 
Ca.  hn!     He  bounds  from  the  earth,  as  if  his  entrails 

narines 
hawk 
be  trots  the  air;  the  earth  sings  when  he  touches  it 
the  basest  horn  of  his  hoof  is  more  musical  than  the 
pipe  of  Hermes. 

Orl.  He  's  of  the  colour  of  the  nutmeg 


were  air*,  Iccfunal  rolnnt.  the  Pegasus,  (ptiales  ■ 
de  feu  I     When  I  bestride  him,  I  soar,  I  am  a 


Con.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  is  a  most  absolute  and 
excellent  horse. 

Dau.  It  is  the  prince  of  palfreys :  his  neigh  is  like 
the  bidding  of  a  monarch,  and  his  countenance  enforcer 
homage. 

Orl.  No  more,  cousin.  • 

Dau.  Nay,  the  man  hath  no  wit,  that  cannot,  from 
the  rising  of  the  lark  to  the  lodging  of  the  lamb,  var> 
deserved  praise  on  my  palfrey:  it  is  a  theme  as  fiucni 
as  the  sea;  turn  the  sands  into  eloquent  tongues,  and 
my  horse  is  argument  for  them  all.  'T  is  a  subject 
for  a  .sovereign  to  reason  on,  and  for  a  sovereign's  sovc- 
rei<in  to  ride  on ;  and  for  the  world  (familiar  to  us,  and 
unkno-WTi)  to  lay  apart  their  particular  functions,  and 
wonder  at  him.  I  once  wTit  a  sonnet  in  his  praise, 
and  began  thus:  "  Wonder  of  Nature  !" — 

Orl.  I  have  heard  a  sonnet  begin  so  to  one's  mistress. 

Dau.  Then  did  they  imitate  that  which  I  composed 
to  my  courser ;  for  my  horse  is  my  mistress. 

Orl.  Your  mistress  bears  well. 

Dau.  Me  well:  which  is  the  prescript  praise,  and 
perfection  of  a  good  and  particular  mistress. 

Con.  Nay.  for  methought  yesterday,  your  mistreRS 
shrewdly  shook  your  back. 

Dau.  So,  perhaps,  did  yours. 

Con.  Mine  was  not  bridled. 

Dau.  Oh  !  then,  belike,  she  was  old  and  gentle ;  and 
you  rode,  like  a  kern  of  Ireland,  your  French  hose  otT. 
and  in  your  strait  trossers*. 

Con.  You  have  good  judgment  in  horsemanship. 

Dau.  Be  warned  by  me,  then  :  they  that  ride  so,  and 
ride  not  warily,  fall  into  foul  bogs.  I  had  rather  have 
my  horse  to  my  mistress. 

Con.  I  had  as  lief  have  my  mistress  a  jade. 

Dau.  I  tell  thee,  constable,  my  mistress  wears  hia 
o^^^l  hair. 

Con.  I  could  make  as  true  a  boast  as  that,  if  I  had 
a  sow  to  my  mistress. 

Dau.  he  chien  est  retourne  a  son  propre  vomissemerU, 
et  la  truie  lavee  aubourbier :  thou  makest  use  of  any  thing. 

Con.  Yet  do  I  not  use  my  horse  for  my  mistress;  or 
any  such  proverb,  so  little  kin  to  the  purpose. 

Ram.  My  lord  constable,  the  armour,  that  I  saw  in 
your  tent  to-night,  are  those  stars,  or  suns,  upon  it  ? 

Con.  Stars,  my  lord. 

Dau.  Some  of  them  will  fall  to-morrow,  I  hope. 

Con.  And  yet  my  sky  shall  not  want. 

Dau.  That  may  be ;  for  you  bear  a  many  superflu 
ously,  an  't  were  more  honour  some  were  away. 

Con.  Even  as  your  horse  bears  your  praises ;  who 
would  trot  as  well,  were  some  of  your  brags  dis- 
mounted. 

Dau.  Would,  I  were  able  to  load  him  with  his  de- 
sert !  Will  it  never  be  day?  I  will  trot  to-morrow  a 
mile,  and  my  way  shall  be  paved  with  Etiglish  faces. 

Con.  I  will  not  say  so.  for  fear  I  should  be  faced  out 
of  my  way ;  but  I  would  it  were  moruing.  for  I  would 
fain  bo  about  the  ears  of  the  English. 

Ram.  Who  will  go  to  hazard  with  me  for  twenty 
prisoners  ? 

Con.  You  must  first  go  yourself  to  hazard,  ere  yoi) 
have  them. 

Dau.  'T  is  midnight:  I  '11  go  arm  myself.        [ExU 
Orl.  The  Dauphin  longs  for  morning. 


N« 


'  hiin  ;  in  t 


Bart-legged — trosseri,  or  stroMen  -were  trd/ttri . 


SOfiNE   I. 


KING  HENRY  Y. 


419 


Rain.  He  longs  to  eat  the  English. 

Con.  I  think  he  will  eat  all  he  kills. 

Orl.  By  the  white  hand  of  my  lady,  he  's  a  gallant 
prince. 

Con.  Swear  by  ner  foot,  that  she  may  tread  out  the 
oath. 

Orl.  He  is  simply  the  most  active  gentleman  of  France. 

Con.  Doing  is  activity,  and  he  will  still  be  doing. 

Orl.  He  never  did  harm,  that  I  heard  of. 

Con.  Nor  will  do  none  to-morrow :  he  will  keep  that 
good  name  still. 

Orl.  I  know  him  to  be  valiant. 

Con.  I  was  told  that,  by  one  that  knows  him  better 
than  you. 

Orl.  What 'she? 

Con.  Marry,  he  told  me  so  himself;  and  he  said,  he 
cared  not  who  knew  it. 

Orl.  He  needs  not ;  it  is  no  hidden  virttie  in  him. 

Con.  By  my  faith,  sir,  but  it  is  ;  never  any  body  saw 
it,  but  his  lackey :  't  is  a  hooded  valour,  and  when  it 
appears  it  will  bate^ 

Orl.  Ill  will  never  said  well. 

Con.  I  will  cap  that  proverb  with — there  is  flattery 
in  friendship. 

Orl.  And  I  will  take  up  that  with — give  the  devil 
his  due. 

Con.  Well  placed :  there  stands  your  friend  for  the 
devil :  have  at  the  very  eye  of  that  proverb,  with — a 
pox  of  the  devil. 

Orl.  You  are  the  better  at  proverbs,  by  how  much — 
a  fool's  bolt  is  soon  shot. 

Con.  You  have  shot  over. 

Orl.  'T  is  not  the  first  time  you  were  overshot. 


Enter  a  3Iessenger. 

Mes.  My  lord  high  constable,  the  English  lie  Mnthir 
fifteen  hundred  paces  of  your  tents. 

Con.  Who  hath  measured  the  ground  ? 

Mes.  The  lord  Grandpre. 

Con.  A  valiant  and  most  expert  gentleman. — Would 
it  were  day  ! — Alas,  poor  Harry  of  England  ! — he  longs 
not  for  the  dawning,  as  we  do. 

Orl.  What  a  wretched  and  peevish'  fellow  is  thi 
king  of  England,  to  mope  with  his  fat-brained  followers 
so  far  out  of  his  knowledge. 

Con.  If  the  English  had  any  apprehension,  they 
would  run  away. 

0/7.  That  they  lack;  for  if  their  heads  had  any 
intellectual  armour,  they  could  never  wear  such  hea\-y 
head-pieces. 

Ram.  That  island  of  England  b.-eeds  very  valiant 
creatures  :  their  mastiffs  are  of  unmatchable  courage. 

Od.  Foolish  curs  !  that  run  winking  into  the  mouth 
of  a  Russian  bear,  and  have  their  heads  crushed  like 
rotten  apples.  You  may  as  well  say  that 's  a  valiant 
flea,  that  dare  eat  his  breakfast  on  the  lip  of  a  lion. 

Con.  Just,  just ;  and  the  men  do  sympathize  with 
the  mastiffs  in  robustious  and  rough  coming  on,  leaving 
their  wits  with  their  wives  :  and,  then,  give  them  great 
meals  of  beef,  and  iron  and  steel,  they  will  eat  like 
wolves,  and  fight  like  devils. 

Orl.  Ay,  but  these  English  are  shrewdly  out  of  beef. 

Con.  Then  shall  we  find  to-morrow  they  have  only 
stomachs  to  eat,  and  none  to  fight.  Now  is  it  time  t-c 
arm  :  come,  shall  we  about  it  ? 

Orl.  It  is  now  two  o'clock  :  but,  let  me  see  ;  by  ten. 
We  shall  have  each  a  hundred  Englishmen.     [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 


Enter  Chorus. 
Cho.  Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time. 
When  creeping  murmur  and  the  poring  dark, 
Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 
From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of  mght. 
The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds. 
That  the  fix'd  sentinels  almost  receive 
The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch : 
Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  others  umber'd  face  : 
Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs 
Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear ;  and  from  the  tents, 
The  armourers  accomplishing  the  knights, 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up. 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 
The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll. 
And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning's  nam'd. 
Proud  of  their  numbers,  and  secure  in  soul. 
The  confident  and  over-lusty  French 
Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice ; 
And  chide  the  cripple,  tardy-gaited  night, 
Who,  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch,  doth  limp 
So  tediously  away.     The  poor  condemned  English, 
Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 
Sit  patiently,  and  inly  niminate 
The  morning's  danger ;  and  their  gesture  sad, 
Investing  lank-lean  cheeks,  and  war-worn  coats, 
Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 
So  many  horrid  ghosts.     0  !  now,  who  will  behold 


The  royal  captain  of  this  ruin'd  band, 
Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent  to  tent, 
Let  him  cry — Praise  and  glory  on  his  head  ! 
For  forth  he  goes,  and  visits  all  his  host, 
Bids  them  good-morrow  with  a  modest  smile. 
And  calls  them  brothers,  friends,  and  countrymen 
Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note. 
How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him. 
Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  coloiu" 
Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night ; 
But  freshly  looks,  and  over-bears  attaint, 
With  cheerful  semblance,  and  sweet  majesty; 
That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before. 
Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks. 
A  largess  universal,  like  the  sun. 
His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one, 
Thawing  cold  fear,  that  mean  and  gentle  all, 
Behold,  as  may  unworthiness  define, 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night. 
And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  fly; 
Where.  0  for  pity !   we  shall  much  disgrace — 
With  four  or  five  most  vile  and  ragged  foils, 
Right  ill-dispos'd.  in  brawl  ridiculous, — 
The  name  of  Agincourt      Yet.  sit  and  see  ; 
Minding  true  things  by  >.vhat  their  mockeries  be.  [Exit 
SCENE  I.— The  English  Camp  at  Agincourt. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Bedford,  and  Gi.oster. 
K.  Hen.  Gloster.  't  is  true  that  we  are  in  great  danger 
The  greater,  therefore,  should  our  courage  be. — 


Falcons,  when  unhooded.  bate  or  beat  the  air,  by  flappin?  their  wings. 


^ 


420 


KING  HENRY  V. 


ACT   IV. 


f;ood  morrow,  brother  Bedford.— God  Almighty! 
There  is  some  soul  of  <ioo<lness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out, 
For  our  bad  neighbour  makes  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful,  and  eood  husbandry: 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences, 
And  preachers  to  us  all ;  admonishing, 
That  wc  should  'dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 
Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed, 
\vd  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself. 

Enter  Erpingham. 
Cyood  morrow,  old  Sir  Thomas  Erpingham  : 
.A.  good  soft  pillow  for  tiiat  20od  white  head 
Were  belter  than  a  churlish  turf  of  France. 

Erp.  Not  so.  my  liege  :  this  lodging  likes  me  better; 
Since  I  may  say,  now  lie  I  like  a  king. 

A'.  Hen.  'T  is  good  for  men  to  love  their  present  pains, 
I'pon  example  :  so  the  spirit  is  ea.sed : 
.■\nd  when  the  nund  is  quicken'd.  out  of  doubt, 
The  organs,  though  defunct  and  dead  before, 
Break  up  their  drowsy  grave,  and  newly  move 
With  cafited  slough  and  fresh  legerity. 
Lend  me  thy  cloak,  sir  Thomas. — Brothers  both, 
Commend  me  to  the  princes  in  our  camp ; 
Do  my  good  morrow  lo  them  ;  and,  anon, 
Desire  them  all  to  my  pavilion. 

Gh.  We  .'.hall,  my  liege. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Bedford. 

Erp.  Shall  I  attend  your  grace  ? 

A'.  Hen.  No,  my  good  knight ; 

Go  with  my  brothers  to  my  lords  of  England : 
I  and  my  bosom  must  debate  a  while, 
.\.nd.then,I  would  no  other  company. 

Erp.  The  Lord  in  heaven  bless  thee,  noble  Harry ! 
[Exit  Erpingham. 

K.   Hen.    God-a-mercy,   old   heart !    thou   speak'st 
cheerfully. 

Ejiter  Pistol. 

Ptst.  Qiii  va  la  ?' 

K.  Hen.  A  friend. 

Pist.  Discuss  unto  me  ;  art  thou  officer? 
Or  art  thou  bai^e,  common,  and  popular? 

K.  Hen.  I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  company. 

Pist.  Trail'st  thou  the  puissant  pike? 

A'.  Hen.  Even  so.     What  are  you  ? 

Pist.  As  good  a  gentleman  as  the  emperor. 

A'  Hen.  Then  you  are  a  better  than  the  king. 

Pist.  The  king  's  a  bawcock,  and  a  heart  of  gold, 
A  lad  of  life,  an  imp  of  fame ; 
Of  parents  good,  of  fist  most  valiant : 
I  kiss  his  dirty  shoe,  and  from  heart-string 
I  love  the  lovely  bully.    What 's  thy  name  ! 

A'.  Hen.  Harry  le  Roy. 

Putt.   I^  Roy  I  a  Cornish  name  :  art  thou  of  Cornish 

K.  Hen.  No,  I  am  a  Welshman.  [crew? 

Pist    Know'nt  thou  P'luellen? 

A.  Hen.  Yes. 

Pift    Tell  him,  I  '11  knock  his  leok  about  hi.s  pate, 
Upon  Saint  David's  day. 

K.  Hen.  Do  not  you  wear  your  dagger  in  your  cap 
that  day,  lc««t  he  knock  that  about  yours. 

PiM.  Art  thou  his  friend  ? 

K.  Hen.  And  his  kinsman  too. 

Pist.  The  ^co  for  thee  then  ! 

A'.  Hen.  I  thank  you.     God  be  with  you  ! 

Pist.  My  name  is  Pistol  called.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  It  Hort.s  well  with  your  fiercenes.s. 
Enter  Fi-uei.len  and  Gower,  severally. 

Owe.  Captain  Fluellen  ! 

'  TS«  act  commencei  h«re  in  the  aavtm 


Flu.  So,  in  the  name  of  Chephu  Christ,  speak  lower. 
It  is  the  greatest  admiration  in  the  universal  world, 
when  the  true  and  ancient  prerogatifes  and  laws  of 
the  wars  is  not  kejjt.  If  you  would  take  the  pains  but 
to  examine  the  wars  of  Pompey  the  Great,  you  shai 
find,  I  warrant  you,  that  there  is  no  tiddle  taddle,  or 
pibble  pabble.  in  Pompey's  camp :  I  warrant  you,  you 
shall  find  the  ceremonies  of  the  wars,  and  the  cares  of 
it,  and  the  forms  of  it.  and  the  sobriety  of  it,  and  the 
modesty  of  it,  to  be  otherwise. 

Gow.  Why,  the  enemy  is  loud ;  you  hear  him  all 
night. 

Flu.  If  the  enemy  is  an  ass  and  a  fool,  and  a  prating 
coxcomb,  is  it  meet,  think  you,  that  we  should  also, 
look  you,  be  an  ass,  and  a  fool,  and  a  prating  cox- 
comb ?  in  your  own  conscience  now? 

Gow.  I  will  speak  lower. 

Flu.  1  pray  you,  and  beseech  you.  that  .you  will. 

[Exeunt  Gower  an/l  Fluellew. 

K.  Hen.  Though  it  appear  a  little  out  of  fashion,     . 
There  is  much  care  and  valour  in  this  Welshman. 
Enter  John  Bates.  Alexander  Court,  and  Michael 
Williams. 

Court.  Brother  John  Bates,  is  not  that  the  morning 
which  breaks  yonder? 

Bates.  I  think  it  be :  but  we  have  no  great  cause  to 
desire  the  approach  of  day. 

Will.  We  see  yonder  the  beginning  of  the  day,  but  I 
think  we  shall  never  see  the  end  of  it. — Who  goes  there? 
j      K.  Hen.  A  friend. 
I      Will.  Under  what  captain  serve  you  ? 
I      K.  Hen.  Under  sir  Thomas  Erpingham. 
I      Will.  A  good  old  commander,  and  a  most  kind  gen- 
tleman.    I  pray  you.  what  thinks  he  of  our  estate  ? 
I      K.  Hen.  Even  as   men  wrecked  upon  a  sand,  that 
1  look  to  be  washed  off  the  next  tide. 

Bates.  He  hath  not  told  his  thought  to  the  king? 

K.  Hen.  No;  nor  it  is  not  meet  he  should:  for, 
though  I  speak  it  to  you,  I  think  the  king  is  but  a 
man,  as  I  am  :  the  violet  smells  to  him.  as  it  doth  to 
me  :  the  element  shows  to  him,  as  it  doth  to  me  ;  all 
his  senses  have  but  human  conditions  :  his  ceremonies 
laid  by,  in  his  nakedness  he  appears  but  a  man,  and 
though  his  affections  are  higher  mounted  than  oars, 
yet,  when  they  stoop,  they  stoop  with  the  like  wing. 
Therefore,  when  he  sees  reason  of  fears,  as  we  do.  his 
fears,  out  of  doubt,  be  of  the  same  relish  a,s  ours  are: 
yet  in  rea.son  no  man  should  possess  him, with  any  ap- 
pearance of  fear,  lest  he,  by  showing  it,  should  dis- 
hearten his  army. 

Bates.  He  may  show  what  outward  courage  he  will : 
but,  I  believe,  as  cold  a  night  as  'tis,  he  could  wish 
himself  in  Thames  up  to  the  neck :  and  so  I  would  he 
were,  and  I  by  him,  at  all  adventures,  so  we  were  quit 
here. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  troth,  I  will  speak  my  conscience  of 
the  king:  I  think,  he  would  not  wish  himself  any  where 
but  where  he  is. 

Bates.  Then,  I  would  he  were  here  alone  ;  so  should 
he  be  sure  to  be  ransomed,  and  a  many  poor  men's 
lives  saved. 

K.  Hen.  I  dare  say.  you  love  him  not  so  ill,  to  wi.<h 
him  here  alone,  howsoever  you  speak  this,  to  feel  other 
men's  minds.  Methinks,  I  could  not  die  any  where 
so  contented  as  in  the  king's  company,  his  cause  being 
just,  and  his  quarrel  honourable. 

Will.  That 's  more  than  we  know. 

Bates.  Ay,  or  more  than  we  should  seek  after :  for 
we  know  enough,  if  we  know  we  are  the  king's  subject* 


SCENE   I. 


KIKG  HENRY   Y. 


421 


If  his  cause  be  wrong,  our  obedience  to  the  king  wipes 
the  crime  of  it  out  of  us. 

Will.  But,  if  the  cause  be  not  good,  the  king  himself 
hath  a  heavy  reckoning  to  make  .  when  all  those  legs, 
and  arms,  and  heads,  chopped  off  in  a  battle,  shall  join 
together  at  the  latter  day,  and  cry  all — "  We  died  at 
such  a  place  :"  some  swearing,  some  crying  for  a  sur- 
geon, some  upon  their  wives  left  poor  behind  them, 
some  upon  the  debts  they  owe,  some  upon  their  chil- 
dren rawly  left.  I  am  afeard  there  are  few  die  well, 
that  die  in  a  battle ;  for  how  can  they  charitably  dis- 
pose of  iny  thing,  when  blood  is  their  argument? 
Now,  if  these  men  do  not  die  well,  it  will  be  a  black 
matter  for  the  king  that  led  them  to  it,  whom  to  diso- 
bey were  against  all  proportion  of  subjection. 

K.  Hen.  So,  if  a  son,  that  is  by  his  father  sent  about 
merchandise,  do  sinfully  miscarry  upon  the  sea,  the 
imputation  of  his  wickedness,  by  your  rule,  should  be 
imposed  upon  his  father  that  sent  him :  or  if  a  servant, 
under  his  master's  command,  transporting  a  sum  of 
money,  be  assailed  by  robbers,  and  die  in  many  irre- 
conciled  iniquities,  you  may  call  the  business  of  the 
master  the  author  of  the  servant's  damnation.  But 
this  is  not  so :  the  king  is  not  bound  to  answer  tlie 
particular  endings  of  his  soldiers,  the  father  of  his  son, 
nor  the  master  of  his  servant;  for  they  purpose  not 
their  death,  when  they  purpose  their  services.  Besides, 
there  is  no  king,  be  his  cause  never  so  spotless,  if  it 
come  to  the  arbitrement  of  swords,  can  try  it  out  with 
all  unspotted  soldiers.  Some,  peradventure,  have  on 
them  the  guilt  of  premeditated  and  contrived  murder  ; 
some,  of  beguiling  virgins  with  the  broken  seals  of  per- 
jury ;  some,  making  the  wars  their  bulwark,  that  have 
before  gored  the  gentle  bosom  of  peace  with  pillage 
and  robbery.  Now,  if  these  men  have  defeated  the 
law,  and  outrun  native  punishment,  though  they  can 
outstrip  men,  they  have   no  wings  to  fly  from   God 


peacock's  feather.     You  '11  never  trust  his  word  after  ! 
come,  't  is  a  foolish  saying. 

K.  Hen.  Your  reproof  is  something  too  round':  I  should 
be  angry  with  you,  if  the  time  were  convenient. 

Will.  Let  it  be  a  quarrel  between  us,  if  you  live. 

K.  Hen.  I  embrace  it. 
'  Will.  Hov-  shall  I  know  thee  again  ? 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  any  gage  of  thine,  and  I  will  wear 
it\'n  my  bonnet:  then,  if  ever  thou  darest  acknowledge 
it,  1  will  make  it  my  quarrel. 

Will.  Here  's  my  glove  :  give  me  another  of  thine. 

K.  Hen.  There. 

Will.  This  will  I  also  wear  in  my  cap :  if  ever  thou 
come  to  me  and  say,  after  to-morrow,  "  This  is  my 
glove,"  by  this  hand,  I  will  take  thee  a  box  on  the  ear. 

A'.  Hen.  If  ever  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  challenge  it. 

Will.  Thou  darest  as  well  be  hanged. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  though  I  take  thee  in  the 
king's  company. 

Will.  Keep  thy  word  :  fare  thee  well. 

Bates.  Be  friends,  you  English  fools,  be  friends :  we 
have  French  quarrels  enow,  if  you  could  tell  how  to 
reckon. 

K.  Hen.  Indeed,  the  French  may  lay  twenty  French 
crowns  to  one  they  will  beat  us,  for  they  bear  them  on 
their  shoulders;  l3ut  it  is  no  English  treason  to  cut 
French  crowns,  and  to-morrow  the  king  himself  will  be 
a  clipper.  [Exeunt  Soldiers. 

Upon  the  king  !  let  us  our  lives,  our  souls. 
Our  debts,  our  careful  wives,  our  children,  and 
Our  sins,  lay  on  the  king  ! — we  must  bear  all. 
0  hard  condition  !  twin  born-with  greatness, 
Subject  to  the  breath  of  every  fool, 
Whose  sense  no  more  can  feel  but  his  own  wringiru; 
What  infinite  heart's  ease  must  kings  neglect, 
That  private  men  enjoy  ? 
And  what  have  kings,  that  privates  have  not  too 


is  his  beadle  :  war  is  his  vengeance  ;  so  that  here  [  Save  ceremony,  save  general  ceremony ' 


men  are  punished,  for  before-breach  of  the  king's  laws, 
in  now  the  king's  quarrel :  where  they  feared  the  death, 
they  have  borne  life  away,  and  where  they  would  be 
safe,  they  perish :  then,  if  they  die  unprovided,  no  more 
is  the  king  guilty  of  their  damnation,  than  he  was  be- 
fore guilty  of  those  impieties  for  the  which  they  are 
now  visited.  Every  subject's  duty  is  the  king's  ;  but 
every  subject's  soul  is  his  own.  Therefore,  should 
every  soldier  in  the  wars  do  as  every  sick  man  in  his 
bed,  wash  every  mote  out  of  his  conscience ;  and  dying 
so.  death  is  to  him  advantage ;  or  not  dying,  the  time 
was  blessedly  lost,  wherein  such  preparation  was 
gained :  and,  in  him  that  escapes,  it  were  not  sin  to 
think,  that  making  God  so  free  an  offer,  he  let  him  out- 
live that  day  to  see  his  greatness,  and  to  teach  others 
how  they  should  prepare. 

Will.  'T  is  certain,  every  man  that  dies  ill,  the  ill 
upon  his  own  head  :  the  king  is  not  to  answer  it. 

Bates.  I  do  not  desire  he  should  answer  for  me  :  and 
ret  I  determine  to  fight  lustily  for  him. 
I     K.  Hen.  I   myself  heard  the  king  say,  he  would  not 
'be  ransomed. 

Will.  Ay,  he  said  so  to  make  us  fight  cheerfully  ; 
b*t  when  our  throats  are  cut,  he  may  be  ransomed, 
[and  we  ne'er  the  wiser. 

j^  K.  Hen.  If  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  never  trust  his 
I  word  after. 

Will.  You  pay  him  then  !  That 's  a  perilous  shot  out 
'f  an  elder  gun,  that  a  poor  and  a  private  displeasure 


And  what  art  thou,  thou  idol  ceremony  ? 
What  kind  of  god  art  thou,  that  sufFer'st  more 
Of  mortal  griefs,  than  do  thy  worshippers  ? 
What  are  thy  rents  ?  what  are  thy  comings-in  ? 

0  ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth ! 
What  is  thy  soul  but  adulation^  ? 

Art  thou  aught  else  but  place,  degree,  and  form  ? 

Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men, 

Wherein  thou  art  less  happy,  being  fear'd. 

Than  they  in  fearing. 

What  drink'st  thou  oft,  instead  of  homage  sweet. 

But  poison'd  flattery  ?  0  !  be  sick,  great  greatness 

And  bid  thy  ceremony  give  thee  cure. 

Think'st  thou,  the  fiery  fever  will  go  out 

With  titles  blown  from  adulation  ? 

Will  it  give  place  to  flexure  and  low  bending? 

Canst  thou,  when  thou  command'st  the  beggar's  knee 

Command  the  health  of  it  ?     No,  thou  proud  dream. 

That  play'st  so  subtly  with  a  king's  repose : 

1  am  a  king,  that  find  thee  ;  and  I  know, 

'T  is  not  the  balm,  the  sceptre,  and  the  ball. 
The  sword,  the  mace,  the  crown  imperial, 
The  inter-tissued  robe  of  gold  and  pearl, 
The  farced'  title  running  'fore  the  king, 
The  throne  he  sits  on.  nor  the  tide  of  pomp 
That  beats  upon  the  high  shore  of  this  world ; 
No,  not  all  these,  thrice-gorgeous  ceremony, 
Not  all  these  laid  in  bed  majestical, 
Can  sleep  so  soundlv  as  the  wretched  slave, 


an  do  against  a  monarch.     You  may  as  well  go  about   Who,  with  a  body  fill'd,  and  vacant  mind. 
X)  turn  the  sun  to  ice  with  fanning  in   his  face  with  a  |  Gets  him  to  rest,  cramm'd  with  distasteful*  bread, 
'  Plain      »  of  adoratixm  •  in  f.  e.      •  Stuffed,  inflated.      *  distiereful :  in  f.  a. 


422 


KING  HENRY  V. 


^Jevpr  see*  horrid  night,  the  child  of  hell, 
Bat,  like  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  set, 
Swcai.o  in  the  eye  of  Pliffbus.  ami  all  night 
Sleeps  ill  El>-sium  :  next  day.  after  dawn, 
Doth  rise  anil  help  Hyperion  to  his  horse. 
And  fol!oN%-s  so  the  ever  running  year 
With  profitable  labour  to  his  grave: 
And.  but  for  ceremony,  such  a  •wTctch, 
Winding  up  days  with  toil,  and  nights  with  sleep, 
Hath  the  fore-hand  and  vantage  of  a  king. 
The  slave,  a  member  of  the  country's  peace, 
Knjoys  it.  but  in  cross  brain  little  wots. 
What  watch  the  king  keeps  to  maintain  the  peace, 
Whose  hours  the  peasant  best  advantages. 
Enter  Erpingham. 


J  To  give  each  naked  curtle-ax  a  stain, 

I  That  our  French  gallants  shall  to-day  draw  out, 

I  And  sheath  for  lack  of  sport :  let  us  but  blow  on  tUom, 

[The  vapour  of  our  valour  will  o'erturn  them. 

I'Tis  positive  'gainst  all  exceptions,  lords. 

I  That  our  superfluous  lackeys,  and  our  peasants, 

I  Who  in  unnecessary  action  swarm 

About  our  squares  of  battles,  were  enow 

To  purge  this  field  of  such  a  hilding  foe. 

Though  we  upon  this  mountain's  basis  by 

Took  .<tand  lor  idle  speculation  : 
j  But  that  our  honours  must  not.     What 's  to  say  ? 
i  A  very  little  little  let  us  do, 
!  And  all  is  done.     Then,  let  the  trumpets  sound 

The  ruckct-; 


[death. 


-sonnancc',  and  the  note  to  mount  : 
Erp.  My  lord,  your  nobles,  jealous  of  your  absence,   For  our  approach  shall  so  much  dare  the  field, 

Seek  through  your  camp  to  find  you.  That  England  shall  couch  down  in  fear,  and  yield. 

K.  Hen.  Good  old  knight,  Enter  Grandpre. 

Collect  them  all  together  at  my  tent :  i      Grand.  Why  do  you  stay  so  long,  my  lords  of  Fraiice  > 

I  "11  be  before  thee.  Yon'  island  carrions,  desperate  of  their  bones, 

Erp.  I  shall  do  't.  my  lord.  [Exit.   Ill-favour"dly  become  the  morning  field  : 

K.  Hen.  0,  God  of  battles  !  steel  my  soldiers'  hearts  :   Their  ragged  curtains  poorly  are  let  loose. 

I'<s«<ess  them  not  with  fear:  take  from  them  now 

The  .sense  of  reckoning,  if '  th'  opposed  numbers 

Pluck  their  hearts  from  them  ! — Not  to-day,  0  Lord  ! 

0 !  not  to-day.  think  not  upon  the  fault 

My  father  made  in  compassins  the  cro\\Ti. 

I  Richard's  body  have  interred  new, 

.\nd  on  it  have  bestow"d  more  contrite  tears, 

Than  from  it  issued  forced  drops  of  blood. 

Five  hundred  poor  I  have  in  yearly  pay. 

Who  twice  a  day  their  withered  hands  hold  up 

Toward  heaven,  to  pardon  blood :  and  I  have  built 

Two  chantries,  where  the  sad  and  solemn  priests 

Sing  still  for  Richard's  soul.     More  will  I  do; 

Though  all  that  I  can  do  is  nothing  worth. 

Since  that  my  penitence  comes  after  all, 

Imploring  pardon. 

ErUer  Gloster. 
Glo.  My  liege ! 
K.  Hen.  My  brother  Gloster's  voice  ? — Ay ; 

1  know  thy  errand,  I  will  go  with  thee. — 

The  day,  my  friends,  and  all  things  stay  for  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  French  Camp. 

Enter  Dauphin,  Orleans.  Rambcres,  and  others. 

Orl.  The  sun  doth  cild  our  armour  :  up,  my  lords  ! 

Dau.  Montez d  chcval  .-My  horse  !  valet !  lacquay !  ha ! 

Orl.  O  brave  spirit  ! 

Dau.    Via  ! — les  eaux  et  la  terre  ! 

Orl.  Rim  puis  ?  P  air  et  le  feu  ! 

Dau.  Cicl !  cousin  Orleans. 

Enter  Constable. 
Now,  my  lord  Countable  ! 

Con    Hark,  how  nur  steeds  for  present  service  neigh. 

Dau.   Mount  them,  and  make  incision  in  their  hides. 
That  their  hot  blood  may  spin  in  Enslish  eycK, 
And  doubt  them  with  superfluous  courage  :  Ha  ! 

A?nm.  What. will  you  have  them  weep  our  horses'  blood? 
How  shall  we  then  behold  their  natural  tears? 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Me.ts.  The  English  are  embattled,  you  French  peers. 

Con.  To  horse,  you  uallant  princes  !  straight  to  horse  ! 
Do  but  behold  yon  poor  and  starved  band. 
And  your  fair  show  shall  suck  away  their  souls, 
[..caving  them  but  the  shales*  and  husks  of  men. 
There  is  not  work  enough  for  all  our  hands  ; 
Scarce  Hood  enough  in  all  their  sickly  veins, 


And  our  air  shakes  them  passing  scornfully. 

Big  Mars  seems  bankrupt  in  their  beugar'd  host, 

And  faintly  through  a  rusty  beaver  jieeps. 

The  horsemen  sit  like  fixed  candlesticks. 

With  torch-staves  in  their  hands.*  and  their  poor  jades 

Lob  down  their  heads,  dropping  the  hides  and  hips. 

The  gum  dowai-roping  from  their  pale-dead  eyes, 

And  in  their  pale  dull  mouths  the  gimmal*  bit 

Lies,  foul  with  chew'd  grass,  still  and  motionless ; 

And  their  executors,  the  knavish  crows. 

Fly  o'er  them,  all  impatient  for  their  hour. 

Description  cannot  suit  itself  in  words. 

To  demonstrate  the  life  of  such  a  battle, 

In  life  so  lifeless  as  it  shows  itself. 

Con.  They  have  said  their  prayers,  and  they  stay  for 
Dau.  Shall  we  go  send  them  dinners,  and  fresh  suits, 

And  give  their  fasting  horses  provender. 

And  after  fight  with  them? 

Con.  I  stay  but  for  my  guard.     On,  to  the  field  ' 

I  yn\[  the  banner  from  a  trumpet  take. 

And  use  it  for  my  haste.     Come,  come  away  ! 

The  sun  is  high,  and  we  outwear  the  day.        [E.ceunt 

SCENE  III.— The  English  Camp. 
Enter  all  the  English  Host;  Gloster.  Bedford,  Exeter 
Salisbury,  and  WESTMORELA^D. 
Glo.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

Bed.  The  king  himself  is  rode  to  view  their  battle. 
West.  Of   fighting  men   they  have   full    three.'^core 

thousand. 
Exe.  There  's  five  to  one  ;  besides,  they  all  are  fresh 
Sal.  God's  arm  strike  with  us  !  't  is  a  fearful  odds. 
God  be  -m'  you.  princes  all ;  I  'II  to  my  charge : 
If  we  no  more  meet,  till  we  meet  in  heaven, 
Then,  joyfully. — my  noble  lord  of  Bedford. — 
My  dear  lord  Gloster, — and  my  good  lord  Exeter,— 
And  my  kind  kinsman. — warriors  all,  adieu  ! 

Bed.  Farewell,  good  Salisbury;    and  good  luck  gc 

with  thee  ! 
Exe.  Farewell,  kind  lord.     Fight  valiantly  to-day  : 
And  yet  I  do  thee  wrong,  to  mind  thee  of  it, 
For  thou  art  fram'd  of  the  firm  truth  of  valour. 

[Exit  Salisbcrt 
Bed.  He  is  as  full  of  valour,  as  of  kindiiess ; 
Princely  in  both. 

West.  0  !  that  we  now  had  here 


'  of :  in  folio  :  which  Sineer  retaini.  lemorine  the  period  from  the  middle  of  the  next  line  to  its  close.     »  SheUs.     »  The  blast  ot  • 
pet  Cindleeticki  were  often  made  in  the  figure  of  a  knight,  the  candle  being  set  in  the  hand.     »  DoubU 


SCENE   IV. 


KING  HEXRY  Y. 


42.3 


Enter  King  Henry. 
But  one  ten  thousand  of  those  men  in  England, 
That  do  no  work  to-day. 

K.  Hen.  What 's  he,  that  wishes  so  ? 

My  cousin  Westmoreland  ? — No.  my  fair  cousin : 
If  we  are  mark'd  to  die.  we  are  enow 
To  do  our  country  loss ;  and  if  to  live, 
The  fewer  men,  the  greater  share  of  honour. 
God's  will  !  I  pray  thee,  ^sish  not  one  man  more. 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold  ; 
Nor  care  I  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost ; 
It  yearns'  me  not  if  men  my  garments  wear ; 
Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires  : 
But,  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 
No,  'faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England  : 
God's  peace !   I  would  not  lose  so  great  an  honour. 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from  me. 


I  If  for  thy  ransom  thou  wilt  now  compound, 
j  Before  thy  most  assured  overthrow  ? 

For,  certainly,  thou  art  so  near  the  gialf, 
I  Thou  needs  mu.st  be  enslutted.     Besides,  in  mercy, 
j  The  Constable  desires  thee  thou  wilt  mind 
I  Thy  followers  of  repentance  ;  that  their  souls 

May  make  a  peaceful  and  a  sweet  retire 
I  From  off  these  fields,  where,  wretches,  their  poor  bodj-ej 
ilVVst  lie  and  fester. 

I      K.  Hen.  Who  hath  sent  thee  HOW? 

i      3Iont.  The  Constable  of  France. 
I      K.  Hen.  I  pray  thee,  bear  my  former  answer  back  : 
j  Bid  them  achieve  me,  and  then  sell  my  bojies. 

Good  God  !  why  should  they  mock  poor  fellows  thus? 


The  man,  that  once  did  sell  the  lion's  skin 
While  the  beast  liv'd,  was  kill'd  with  hunting  him. 
A  many  of  our  bodies  shall,  no  doubt. 
Find  native  graves,  upon  the  which,  I  tn.ist. 


For  the  best  hope  I  have.     0  !  do  not  wish  one  more  :  ,  Shall  \\-itness  live  in  brass  of  this  day's  work  : 


Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host, 
That  he,  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight, 
Let  him  depart ;  his  passport  shall  be  made, 
And  cro^^^ls  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse : 
We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company, 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 
This  day  is  call'd — the  feast  of  Crispian : 
He,  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 
Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  nam'd. 
And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 
He,  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see'  old  age, 
Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  friends. 
And  say — to-morrow  is  Saint  Crispian  : 
Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeve,  and  show  his  scars. 
Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot, 
But  he  '11  remember  \sath  advantages 
What  feats  he  did  that  day.     Then  shall  our  names 
Familiar  in  their  moitths  as  household  words, — 
Harry  the  king,  Bedford  and  Exeter, 
Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster, — 
Be  in  their  floAviug  cups  freshly  remember'd. 
This  stoiy  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son, 
.\nd  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by, 
From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world. 
But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered  ; 
We  few,  we  happy  few.  we  band  of  brothers  : 
For  he,  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me, 
Shall  be  my  brother :  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 
This  day  shall  gentle'  his  condition : 
And  gentlemen  in  England,  now  a-bed. 
Shall  think  themselves  accurs'd  they  were  not  here. 
And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap,  whiles' any  speaks 
That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day. 
Enter  Salisbury. 
Sal.  My  sovereign  lord,  bestow  yourself  with  speed  : 
The  French  are  bravely  in  their  battles  set. 
And  will  with  all  expedience  charge  on  us. 
K.  Hen.  All  things  are  ready,  if  our  minds  be  so. 
West.  Perish  the  man  whose  mind  is  backward  now  ! 
K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  not  wish  more  help  from  England, 

cousin  ? 
West.  God's  -n-ill !  my  liege,  would  you  and  I  alone, 
VVithoitt  more  help,  might*  fight  this  royal  battle. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  now  thou  hast  imwish'd  five  thousand 
'(^ich  liKes  me  better  than  to  wish  us  one. —      [men, 
Vou  know  your  places  :  God  be  with  you  all  ! 
Tucket.     Enter  Montjoy. 
Mmt.  Once  more   I   come   to  know  of  thee,   king 
Harry, 


And  those  that  leave  their  valiant  bones  in  France, 
Dying  like  men,  though  buried  in  your  dunghills. 
They  shall  be  fam'd  :  for  there  the  sun  shall  greet  them 
And  draw  their  honours  reeking  up  to  heaven. 
Leaving  their  earthly  parts  to  choke  your  clime. 
The  smell  whereof  shall  breed  a  plague  in  France. 
Mark,  then,  rebounding*  valour  in  our  English : 
That,  being  dead,  like  to  the  bullet's  grazing, 
Break  out  into  a  second  course  of  mischief, 
j  Killing  in  reflex'  of  mortality. 
I  Let  me  speak  proudly  : — Tell  the  Constable, 
I  We  are  but  warriors  for  the  working-day ; 
Our  gayness  and  our  gilt  are  all  besmirch'd 
With  rainy  marching  in  the  painful  field  ; 
There  's  not  a  piece  of  feather  in  our  host, 
(Good  argument,  I  hope,  we  ^^"ill  not  fly) 
And  time  hath  worn  us  into  slovenrj' : 
But,  by  the  mass,  otir  hearts  are  in  the  trim ; 
And  my  poor  soldiers  tell  me,  yet  ere  night 
They  '11  be  in  fresher  robes,  for  they  will  pluck 
The  gay  new  coats  o'er  the  French  soldiers'  heads, 
And  turn  them  out  of  service.     If  they  do  this. 
As,  if  God  please,  they  shall,  my  ransom  then 
Will  soon  be  levied.     Herald,  save  thou  thy  labour  , 
Come  thou  no  more  for  ransom,  gentle  herald  : 
They  shall  have  none,  I  swear,  by  the«e  my  joints. 
Which,  if  they  have  as  I  ^^-ill  leave  'em  them. 
Shall  >-ield  them  little,  tell  the  Constable. 

Mont.  I  shall,  king  Harry :  and  so  fare  thee  well. 
Thou  never  shalt  hear  herald  any  more.  [Exit 

K.  Hen.  I  fear,  thou  wilt  once  more  come  here  fbr  s 
ransom. 

Enter  the  Duke  o/York. 

York.  My  lord,  most  humbly  on  my  knee  1  beg 
The  leading  of  the  vaward'. 

K.  Hen.  Take  it,  brave  York,— Now,  soldiers,  march 
away : 
And  how  thou  pleasest,  God,  dispose  the  day !  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— The  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums:  Excursions.     Enter  French  Soldier,  Pistol^ 

and  Boy. 

Pist.  Yield,  cur. 

Fr.   Sol.    Je  pense,  que  vous  etes  le  gentilhomme  <U 
bonne  qualite. 

Pist.  Quality  ?    Callino,  castore  me  .'*  art  thou  a  gen- 
tleman ?     What  is  thy  name  ?  discuss. 

Fr.  Sol.  0  seigneur  Dieu  ! 

Pist.  0  !  sisnieur  Dew  should  be  a  gentleman. 


Grieves.     »  live  and  see.  are  transposed  in  the  folio.      '  Make  him  gentlema n       ♦  folio  :  conld       ^/^"""f*^  . ._  „  .eg. 
I  •       '  Yanward.      8  Thr  name  of  an  old  tune,  to  -which  a  song  was  sung,  printed  m  the  -  HaJidfuI  of  Pleasant  Uelites.    lOM 


n  f.  e.     •  relapse  :  in 


ti 


42-4 


KTN-G  HENEY  V. 


Perpend  my  -words,  0  signieur  De>»,  and  mark  : — 
0  signieur  Dow,  thou  dicst  on  point  of  fox', 
Except,  0  signieur,  thou  do  give  to  me 
Egregious  ransom. 

Fr.  Sol.   O.  prenez  mv'cricorde  !  ayez  pitv  de  mot  ! 

Pist.  Moy  shall  not  serve.  I  will  have  forty  moys; 
For  I  will  iVtoh  thy  rim*  out  at  thy  throat, 
In  drops  of  crimson  blood. 

Fr.  Sol.  E.<U  il  impossible  d'echapper  la  force  de  ton  bras  ? 

Putt.  Brass,  cur? 
Thou  damned  and  luxurious  mountain  goat, 
Offer'st  me  brass  ? 

Fr.  Sol.   O  pnnhnnez  moi  ! 

Pitt.  Say".<5t  thou  me  so?  is  that  a  ton  of  moys? — 
Come  hither,  boy  :  ask  me  this  slave  in  French, 
What  is  his  name. 

Boy.  Escoutez :  comment  etes  vans  appelle  ? 

Fr.  Sol.  Mojisieur  le  Fer. 

hoy.  }Io  says  his  name  is  master  Fer. 

Pist.  Master  Fer  !  I  '11  fer  him,  and  firk  him,  and 
ferret  him. — Discuss  the  same  in  French  unto  him. 

Boy.  I  do  not  know  the  French  for  fer,  and  ferret, 
and  &rk. 

Pist.  Bid  him  prepare,  for  I  will  cut  his  throat, 

Fr.  Sol.  Que  dit-il.  monsieur  1 

Boy.  n  me  commaiule  a  vovs  dire  que  vous  faites  vous 
pret;  car  ce  soldat  ici  est  dispose  tout  a  cette  ?teure  de 
Muper  votre  gorge. 

Pist.  Oui.  copper  le  gorge,  par  ma  foi.  peasant, 
Unles-s  thou  izive  me  crowns,  brave  crowns  ; 
Or  mangled  shalt  thou  be  by  this  my  sword. 

Fr.  Sol.  O  !  je  vous  supplie  pour  V  amour  de  Dieii,  me 
pardonrur.  Je  suis  le  gentilhomme  de  bonne  maison  : 
qnrdez  ma  vie.  et  je  vous  donnerai  deux  cents  ecus. 

Putt.  What  are  his  words  ? 

Boy.  He  prays  you  to  save  his  life  :  he  is  a  gentle- 
man of  a  good  house ;  and  for  his  ransom,  he  will  give 
vou  two  hundred  cro-wns. 

Pist.  Tell  him. — my  fury  shall  abate,  and  I 
The  crowns  \\-ill  take. 

Fr.  Sol.  Petit  monsieur,  que  dit-il  ?  I 

Boy.  Encore  qu'il  e.tt  contre  son  jurement  depardonner  ;  Loading'  the  plain  :  and  by  his  bloody  side, 
jucun  pri.tonnier  ;  neantmoins.  pour  les  ecus  que  vous  [  (Yoke-fellow  to  his  honour-owng  wounds) 
r  avez  promis,  il  est  content  a  vous  donner  la  liberie,  le  \  The  noble  earl  of* Suffolk  also  lies 


SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 

Retreat  sounded.*     Enter  Dauphin,  Orleans,  Bolrbo.n 

Constable,  Rambures,  and  others. 

Con.  Odiable! 

Orl.  0  seigneur  ! — le  jour  est  perdu  !  tout  est  perdu  ' 

Dau.  Mort  de  ma  vie  !  all  is  conJounded.  all  ! 
Reproach  and  everlasting  sname 
Sit  mocking  in  our  plumes. — 0  mechonte  fortune  ! — 
Do  not  run  away.  [A  short  Alarum 

Con.  ^^ly,  all  our  ranks  are  broke. 

Dau.  0  perdurable  shame  ! — let  's  stab  ourselvea. 
Be  these  the  WTCtches  that  we  play'd  at  dice  for  ? 

Orl.  Is  this  the  king  we  sent  to  for  his  ransom  ? 

Bour.  Shame,  and  eternal  shame,  nothing  but  shamel 
Let  us  not  fly  :* — in  ! — Once  more  back  again ; 
And  he  that  will  not  follow  Bourbon  now. 
Let  him  go  hence,  and.  with  his  cap  in  hand. 
Like  a  base  pander,  hold  the  chamber-door, 
Whilst  by  a  slave,  no  gentler  than  my  dog. 
His  fairest  daughter  is  contaminate. 

Con.  Disorder,  that  hath  spoil'd  us,  friend  us  now  ! 
Let  us  in  heaps  go  offer  up  our  lives. 

Orl.  We  are  enough,  yet  li%-ing  in  the  field, 
To  smother  up  the  Engli.*h  in  our  thronp, 
If  any  order  might  be  thought  upon. 

Bour.  The  de\-il  take  order  now.    I  '11  to  the  throng: 
Let  life  be  short,  else  shame  will  be  too  long.  {ExeurA 

SCENE  YL— Another  part  of  the  Field. 
Alarums.     Enter  King  Henry  and  Forces ;    Exeter 
and  others. 
K.  Hen.  Well,  have  we  done,  thrice  valiant  country- 
men; 
But  all 's  not  done  ;  yet  keep  the  French  the  field. 
Exe.  The   duke  of  York   commends   him  to  yoor 

majesty. 
K  Hen.  Lives  he,  good  uncle  ?  thice  within  this  hour 
I  saw  him  down,  thrice  up  again,  and  fighting ; 
From  helmet  to  the  spur  all  blood  he  was. 

Exe.  In  which  arrav.  brave  soldier,  doth  he  lie. 


franchutement 

Fr.  Sol.  Sur  mes  genoux,  je  vous  donne  mille  remer- 
ciemens  ;  et  je  m'e.ttime  heureux  que  je  suis  tomhe  entre 
les  mains  (T  un  chevalier,  je  perute.  le  plus  brave.,  valiant, 
et  tres  dittingue  .teigncur  <f  Angleterre. 

Pitt.  Expound  unto  me.  boy. 

Boy.  He  L'ives  you,  upon  his  knees,  a  thousand 
thanks :  and  he  esteems  himself  happy  that  he  hath 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  one  (as  he  thinks)  the  most 
brave,  valorous,  and  thrice-worthy  seigneur  of  England. 

Put.  As  I  suck  blood,  I  viill  some  mercy  show. — 
Follow  me  !  Exit  Pistol. 


Suffolk  fir.«t  died  :  and  York,  all  haggled  over, 
Comes  to  him,  where  in  gore  he  lay  insteep'd, 
And  takes  him  by  the  beard,  kisses  the  gashes, 
That  bloodily  did  yawn  upon  his  face ; 
He  cries  aloud. — "  Tarr>-.  dear  cousin  Suffolk  ! 
My  soul  shall  thine  keep  company  to  heaven  : 
Tarry,  sweet  soul,  for  mine  :  then  fly  a-breast, 
As  in  this  glorious  and  well-foughten  field, 
We  kept  together  in  our  chivalry  !" 
Upon  these  words  I  came  and  cheer'd  him  up  : 
He  smild  me  in  the  face,  raught  me  his  hand, 
And.  with  a  feeble  gripe,  says,  "  Dear  my  lord, 
Commend  my  service  to  my  sovereign. 


Boy.   Suivez  vous  le  grand  capitaine.     I  did  never 

[Exit  French  Soldier.   So  did  he  turn,  and  over  Suffolk's  neck 
Know  so  full  a  voice  issue  from  so  empty  a  heart :  but  j  He  threw  his  wounded  arm.  and  kiss'd  his  lips; 
the  song  is  true, — "  the  empty  ve.«sel  makes  the  great-   And  so,  espous'd  to  death,  with  blood  he  seal'd 
wt  sound."     Bardolph,  and  Nym,  had  ten  times  more  'A  testament  of  noble-ending  love. 
valour  than  thi.s  roaring  de\il  i'  the  old  play*  that  every   The  pretty  and  sweet  manner  of  it  forc'd 
one  may  pare  his  nails  with  a  wooden  daucer,  and  they   Those  waters  from  me.  which  I  would  have  stopp'd  ; 
are  both  hanged  :  and   .«o  would  this  be.  if  he  durst   But  I  had  not  so  much  of  man  in  me, 
f^teal  any  thine  adventurously.     I  must  stay  with  the^  But  all  my  mother  came  into  mine  eyes, 
lackeys,  with  the   luggage  of  our  camp:  the  French   And  gave  me  up  to  tears, 
might  have  a  gowl   prey  of  us.  if  they  knew  of  it.  for'      K.  Hen.  I  blame  you  not ; 

there  is  none  to  guard  it.  but  boys.  [Exit,  t  For,  hearing  this,  I  must  perforce  compound 


'  A  nuce  for  a  $iror<l. 
it     HaTil  osnallj  look  T>an. 


'  Tli«  eaul  in  whirh  the  bowel,  are   wrapped.— ro/«'5  JWe..  1677.      »  An  allusion  to  the  old  MoraUti««  i«  wi 
*  Alarum* :  in  f.  e.     *  Let  iu  die  intunt :  in  f.  •.    *  Lard.ng  :  in  f  • 


SCENE  vn. 


KING  HENRY    y. 


425 


With  mistful  eyes,  or  they  "will  issue  too. —     [Alarum. 
But,  hark  !  what  new  alarum  is  this  same  ? — 
The  French  have  reinforc'd  their  scatter'd  men : — 
Then,  every  soldier  kill  his  prisoners  ! 
Give  the  word  through.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarums.     Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower. 

Flu.  Kill  the  poys  and  the  luggage  !  't  is  expressly 
against  the  law  of  arms :  't  is  as  arrant  a  piece  of 
knavery,  mark  you  now,  as  can  be  offered.  In  your 
conscience  now,  is  it  not  ? 

Goto.  'T  is  certain,  there 's  not  a  boy  left  alive  ;  and 
the  cowardly  rascals,  that  ran  from  the  battle,  have 
done  this  slaughter  :  besides,  they  have  burned  and 
carried  away  all  that  was  in  the  king's  tent ;  wherefore 
the  king  most  worthily  hath  caused  every  soldier  to 
cut  his  prisoner's  throat.     0  !  't  is  a  gallant  king. 

Flu.  Ay,  he  was  porn  at  Monmouth,  captain  Gower. 
What  call  you  the  town's  name,  where  Alexander  the 
pig  was  born  ? 

Gow.  Alexander  the  great. 

Flu.  Why,  I  pray  you.  is  not  pig,  great  ?  The  pig, 
or  the  great,  or  the  mighty,  or  the  huge,  or  the  magna- 
nimous, are  all  one  reckonmgs,  save  the  phrase  is  a 
little  variations. 

Gow.  I  think,  Alexander  the  great  was  born  in 
Macedou  :  his  father  was  called  Philip  of  Macedon,  as 
I  take  It. 

Flu.  I  think,  it  is  in  Macedon,  where  Alexander  is 
porn.  I  tell  you,  captain, — if  you  look  in  the  maps  of 
the  world,  I  warrant,  you  shall  find,  in  the  comparisons 
between  Macedon  and  Monmouth,  that  the  situations, 
look  you,  is  both  alike.  There  is  a  river  in  Macedon, 
and  there  is  also  moreover  a  river  at  Monmouth  :  it  is 
called  Wye  at  Monmouth,  but  it  is  out  of  my  prains, 
what  is  the  name  of  the  other  river  ;  but  't  is  all  one, 
'tis  alike  as  my  fingers  is  to  my  fingers,  and  there  is 
salmons  in  both.  If  you  mark  Alexander's  life  well, 
Harry  of  Monmouth's  life  is  come  after  it  indifferent 
well ;  for  there  is  figures  in  all  things.  Alexander,  God 
knows,  and  you  know,  in  his  rages,  and  his  furies,  and 
his  wraths,  and  his  cholers,  and  his  moods,  and  his  dis- 
pleasures, and  his  indignations,  and  also  being  a  little 
intoxicates  in  his  prains,  did,  in  his  ales  and  his  angers, 
look  you,  kill  his  pest  friend,  Clytus. 

Gow.  Our  king  is  not  like  him  in  that :  he  never 
killed  any  of  his  friends. 

Flu.  It  is  not  well  done,  mark  you  now,  to  take  the 
tales  out  of  my  mouth,  ere  it  is  made  and  finished. 
I  speak  but  in  the  figures  and  comparisons  of  it :  as 
Alexander  killed  his  friend  Clytus,  being  in  his  ales 
and  his  cups,  so  also  Harry  Monmouth,  being  in  his 
right  wits  and  his  good  judgments,  turned  away  the  fat 
knight  with  the  great  pelly-doublet :  he  was  full  of 
jests,  and  gipes,  and  knaveries,  d  mocks;  I  have 
forgot  his  name. 

G'-w.  Sir  John  Falstaff". 

F/w.  That  is  he.  I  'II  tell  you,  there  is  goot  men 
born  at  Monmouth. 

Gow.  Here  comes  his  majesty. 
.ilarum.     Enter   King   Henry,   with  a   Part   of  the 

English  Forces  and  Prisoners  ;  Warwick,  Gloster, 

Exeter,  arid  others. 

K.  Hen.  I  was  not  angry  since  I  came  to  France 
Until  this  instant. — Take  a  trumpet,  herald  ] 
Ittde  thou  unto  the  horsemen  on  yond'  hill : 
If  they  Mdll  fight  with  us,  bid  them  come  down, 
Or  void  the  field ;  they  do  offend  our  sight 

>  book  :  in  f.  e. 


If  they  '11  do  neither,  we  will  come  to  them. 
And  make  them  skirr  away,  as  swift  as  stones 
Enforced  from  the  old  Assyrian  slings. 
Besides,  we  '11  cut  the  throats  of  those  we  have ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  that  we  shall  take. 
Shall  taste  our  mercy. — Go,  and  tell  them  so. 
Enter  Montjoy. 

Exe.  Here  comes  the  herald  of  the  French,  my 
»  liege. 

Glo-  His  eyes  are  humbler  than  they  us'd  to  be. 

K.  Hen .  How  now  !  what  means  this,  herald  ?  knoVst 
thou  not, 
That  I  have  fin'd  these  bones  of  mine  for  raasom  ? 
Com'st  thou  again  for  ransom  ? 

Mont.  No,  great  king  : 

I  come  to  thee  for  charitable  license, 
That  we  may  wander  o'er  this  bloody  field. 
To  look'  our  dead,  and  then  to  bury  them ; 
To  sort  our  nobles  from  our  common  men ; 
For  many  of  our  princes,  woe  the  while  ! 
Lie  drovvTi'd  and  soak'd  in  mercenary  blood  ; 
So  do  our  vulgar  drench  their  peasant  limbs 
In  blood  of  princes,  and  their  wounded  steeds 
Fret  fetlock  deep  in  gore,  and  with  wild  rage 
Yerk  out  their  armed  heels  at  their  dead  masters. 
Killing  them  twice.     0  !  give  us  leave,  great  king. 
To  view  the  field  in  safety,  and  dispose 
Of  their  dead  bodies. 

K.  Hen.  I  tell  thee  truly,  herald, 

I  know  not  if  the  day  be  ours,  or  no  ; 
For  yet  a  many  of  your  horsemen  peer, 
And  gallop  o'er  the  field. 

Mont.  The  day  is  yours. 

K.  Hen.  Praised  be  God,  and  not  our  strength,  foi 
it!— 
What  is  this  castle  call'd,  that  stands  hard  by  ? 

Mont.  They  call  it  Agincourt. 

K.  Hen.  Then  call  we  this  the  field  of  Agincourt, 
Fought  on  the  day  of  Crispin  Crispianus. 

Flu.  Your  grandfather  of  famous  memory,  an  't  please 
your  majesty,  and  your  great-uncle  Edward  the  plack 
prince  of  Wales,  as  I  have  read  in  the  chronicles, 
fought  a  most  prave  pattle  here  in  France. 

k.  Hen.  They  did,  Fluellen. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  says  very  true.  If  your  majesty 
is  remembered  of  it,  the  Welshmen  did  goot  service  in 
a  garden  where  leeks  did  grow,  wearing  leeks  in  their 
Monmouth  caps,  which  your  majesty  knows,  to  this 
hour  is  an  honourable  padge  of  the  ser^ace ;  and,  I  do 
believe,  your  majesty  takes  no  scorn  to  wear  the  leek 
upon  Saint  Tavy's  day. 

K.  Hen.  I  wear  it  for  a  memorable  honour : 
For  I  am  Welsh,  you  know,  good  countryman. 

Flu.  All  the  water  in  Wye  cannot  wash  your  ma- 
jesty's Welsh  plood  out  of  your  pody,  I  can  tell  you 
that :  Got  pless  it,  and  preserve  it,  as  long  as  it  pleases 
his  grace,  and  his  majesty  too  ! 

K.  Hen.  Thanks,  good  my  countryman. 

Flu.  By  Cheshu,  I  am  your  majesty's  countryman.  I 
care  not  who  know  it ;  I  will  confess  it  to  all  the  world  : 
I  need  not  to  be  ashamed  of  your  majesty,  praised  be 
God,  so  long  as  your  majesty  is  an  honest  man. 

K.  Hen.  God  keep  me  so  .'—Our  heralds  go  with  him  . 
Bring  me  just  notice  of  the  numbers  dead. 
On  both  our  parts. — Call  yonder  fellow  hither. 

[Points  to  WiLLUMs.     Exeunt  Montjoy  and  others. 

Exe.  Soldier,  you  must  come  to  the  king. 

K.  Hen.  Soldier,  why  wjar'st  thou  that  glove  in  thy 
cap? 


UQ 


KING  IIENRY   V. 


ACT    IV. 


Wii.  An 't  plcaae  your  majeaty,  't  ia  the  gage  of  one 
that  I  should  fijiht  withal,  if  he  be  alive. 

A.  Ht7i.  An  Englishman? 

H'il.  An  't  plea.>;e  your  majesty,  a  rascal  that  swag- 
gered with  me  last  night ;  who,  if  'a  live,  and  ever  dare 
to  challenge  this  glove.  I  have  sworn  to  take  him  a 
t>ox  o'  the  ear  ;  or,  if  I  can  see  my  glove  in  his  cap, 
{which  he  swore,  as  he  was  a  soldier,  he  would  wear, 
if  alive)  I  would  strike  it  out  soundly. 

A'.  Hen.  What  think  you,  captain  Fluellen?  is  it  fit 
this  soldier  keep  his  oath' 

Flu.  He  is  a  craven  and  a  ^'illain  else,  an  't  please 
our  majesty,  in  my  conscience. 

A'.  Hm.  It  may  be.  his  enemy  is  a  gentleman  of 
great  sort,  quite  from  the  answer  of  his  degree. 

Flu.  Though  he  be  as  eoot  a  sentlemen  as  the  tevil 
is,  as  Lucil'er  and  Belzebub  himself,  it  is  necessary, 
look  your  grace,  that  he  keep  his  vow  and  his  oath.  If 
he  be  perjured,  see  you  now.  his  reputation  is  as  arrant 
a  villain,  and  a  Jack-sauce,  as  ever  his  plack  shoe  trod 
upon  Got's  ground  and  his  earth,  in  my  conscience,  la. 

K.  Hen.  Then  keep  thy  vow,  sirrah,  when  thou 
meet"st  the  fellow. 

Hill.  So  I  \\-ill,  my  liege,  as  I  Jive. 

A'.  Hen.  Who  ser\-'st  thou  imder? 

Will.  Under  Captain  Gower,  my  liege. 

Flu.  Gower  is  a  goot  captain,  and  is  goot  know- 
ledge, and  literatured  in  the  wars. 

A'.  Hen.  Call  him  hither  to  me,  soldier. 

JVilt.  I  will,  my  liege.  [Exit. 

K.  H>n.  Here,  Fluellen;  wear  thou  this  favour  for 
me,  and  stick  it  in  thy  cap.  When  Alenfon  and  my- 
self were  down  together,  I  plucked  this  glove  from  his 
helm  :  if  any  man  challenge  this,  he  is  a  friend  to 
Alenfon,  and  an  enemy  to  our  person ;  if  thou  encoun- 
ter any  such,  apprehend  him,  an  thou  dost  me  love. 

Flu.  Yiiur  grace  does  me  as  great  honours,  as  can  be 
desired  m  the  hearts  of  his  subjects  :  I  would  fain  see 
the  man.  that  ha.«  but  two  legs,  that  shall  find  himself 
aggriefed  at  this  glove,  that  is  all  ;  but  I  would  fain  see 
it  once,  ami  please  Got  of  his  grace,  that  1  might  see. 

K.  Hen.  Knowest  thou  Gower? 

Flu.  He  is  my  dear  friend,  and  please  you. 

K.  Hen.  Pray  thee,  go  seek  him,  and  bring  him  to 
my  tent. 

Flu.  I  will  fetch  him.  [Exit. 

K.   Hm.    My  lord   of  Warwick,    and    my   brother 
Gloster, 
Follow  Fluellen  closely  at  the  heels. 
The  giove.  which  I  have  given  him  for  a  favour. 
May  haply  purchase  him  a  box  o'  the  ear : 
U  is  the  soldier's  ;  I,  by  bargain,  .should 
Wear  it  myself.     Follow,  good  cousin  Warwick  : 
If  that  the  .«oldier  strike  him.  (as,  I  judge 
By  his  blunt  bearing,  he  will  keep  his  word) 
8ome  sudden  mischief  may  arise  of  it, 
For  I  do  know  Fluellen  valiant, 
And.  tonch'd  \n-ith  choler,  hot  as  gunpowder. 
And  quickly  will  return  an  injury  : 
Follow,  and  see  there  be  no  harm  between  them. — 
Go  you  with  me,  uncle  of  Exeter.  [Exeunt. 

SCE.N'E  Vni.— Before  King  Henrys  Pavilion. 

Enter  Gower  and  Willia.ms. 
tf'ill.  I  warrant  it  is  to  knight  you,  captain. 

Enter  Fli'ei.le.v. 
Flu.  Got's  will  and  his  pleasure,  captain,  I  peseech 
you  now,  come  apace  to  the  king  :  there  is  more  goot 
toward  you,  peradventure,  than  ia  In  your  knowledge 
to  dream  of. 


Will.  Sir,  know  you  this  glove  ? 

Flu.  Know  the  glove  ?  I  know,  the  glove  is  a  glove 

Will.  I  know  this,  and  thus  I  challense  it. 

[Strikes  kim. 

Flu.  'Sblood  !  an  arrant  traitor,  as  any  's  in  iho  uni- 
versal world,  or  in  France,  or  in  England. 

Gvw.  How  now,  sir  !   you  villain  ! 

Will.  Do  you  think  I  '11  be  forsworn  ? 

Flu.  Stand  away,  captain  Gower :  I  will  give  treason 
his  payment  into  plows  I  warrant  you. 

Wilt.  I  am  no  traitor. 

Flu.  That  s  a  lie  in  thy  throat. — I  charge  you  in  his 
majesty's  name,  apprehend  him  :  he  is  a  Irieud  of  the 
duke  Aleufons. 

Filter  Warwick  and  Gloster. 

War.  How  now,  how  now !  what  s  the  matter? 

Flu.  My  lord  of  Warwick,  here  is.  praised  be  (Jod 
for  it  !  a  most  contagious  treason  come  to  light,  look 
you,  as  you  shall  desire  in  a  summer's  day.  Here  ia 
his  majesty. 

Enter  King  Henry  and  Exeter. 

K.  Hen.  How  now!  what's  the  matter? 

Flu.  My  liege,  here  is  a  villain,  and  a  traitor,  that, 
look  your  grace,  has  struck  the  glove  which  your  ma- 
jesty is  take  out  of  the  helmet  of  Alen9on. 

Will.  My  liege,  this  was  my  glove  :  here  is  the  fellow 
of  it :  and  he  that  I  gave  it  to  in  change  promised  to 
wear  it  in  his  cap :  I  promised  to  strike  him  if  he  did. 
I  met  this  man  with  my  glove  in  his  cap,  and  I  have 
been  as  good  as  my  word. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  hear  now,  saving  your  majesty's 
manhood,  what  an  arrant,  rascally,  beggarly,  lowsy 
knave  it  is.  I  hope  your  majesty  is  pear  me  testimony, 
and  witness,  and  avouchments.  that  this  is  the  glove  of 
Aieneon.  that  your  majesty  is  give  me,  in  your  con- 
science now. 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  thy  glove,  soldier  :  look,  here  ia 
the  fellow  of  it. 
'T  was  I,  indeed,  thou  promisedst  to  strike  ; 
And  thou  hast  given  me  most  bitter  terms. 

Flu.  An  please  your  majesty,  let  his  neck  answer  for 
it,  if  there  is  any  martial  law  in  the  world. 

K.  Hen.  How  canst  thou  make  me  satislaction? 

Will.  All  offences,  my  lord,  come  from  tlie  heart: 
never  came  any  from  mine,  that  might  offend  your 
majesty. 

K.  Hen.  It  was  ourself  thou  didst  abuse. 

Will.  Your  majesty  came  not  like  yourself:  you 
appeared  to  me  but  as  a  common  man ;  witness  the 
night,  your  garments,  your  lowliness  :  and  what  your 
highness  suffered  under  that  shape,  I  beseech  you.  taka 
it  for  your  own  fault,  and  not  mine  :  for  had  you  been 
as  I  took  you  for,  I  had  made  no  offence :  therefore,  I 
beseech  your  highness,  pardon  me, 

K.  Hen.    Here,  uncle  Exeter,  fill  this  glove  witk 
crowns. 
And  give  it  to  this  fellow. — Keep  it,  fellow. 
And  wear  it  for  an  honour  in  thy  cap. 
Till  I  do  challenge  it. — Give  him  the  crovms. — 
And,  captain,  you  must  needs  be  friends  with  him.     .1 

Flu.  By  this  day  and  this  light,  the  fellow  has  mettle 
enough  in  his  pelly. — Hold,  there  is  twelve  pence  for 
you,  and  I  pray  you  to  serve  Got,  and  keep  you  out  of 
prawls.  and  prabbles.  and  quarrels,  and  dissensions; 
and.  f  warrant  you,  it  is  the  petter  for  you. 

Will.  I  will  none  of  your  money. 

Flu.  It  is  with  a  goot  will.  I  can  tell  you,  it  will 
serve  you  to  mend  your  shoes  :  come,  wherefore  should 
you  be  so  pashful  ?  your  shoes  is  not  so  goot :  't  is  • 
goot  silling,  I  warrant  you,  or  I  will  change  it. 


aCESE  I. 


KING  HENRY   V. 


427 


Enter  a?!  English  Herald. 

K.  Hen.  Now.  herald,  are  the  dead  numberd  ? 

Her.  Here  is  the  number  of  the  slanghter'd  French. 
[Delivers  a  Paper. 

K.  Hen.  VMiat  prisoners  of  good  sort  are  taken,  uncle  ? 

Exe.  Charles  duke  of  Orleans,  nephew  to  the  king ; 
lolin  duke  of  Bourbon,  and  lord  Bouciqualt : 
Of  other  lords,  and  barons,  knights,  and  "squires, 
Full  fifteen  hundred,  besides  common  men. 

K.  Hen.  This  note  doth  tell  me  of  ten  thousand  French. 
That  in  the  field  lie  slain  :  of  princes,  in  this  number. 
A.nd  nobles  bearing  banners,  there  lie  dead       {Reads.^ 
One  hundred  twenty-six  :  added  to  these, 
Of  knights,  esquires,  and  gallant  gentlemen, 
I      Eight  thousand  and  four  hundred  :  of  the  which, 
\      Five  hundred  were  but  yesterday  dubb'd  knights : 
\      So  that,  in  these  ten  thousand  they  have  lost, 
There  are  but  sixteen  hundred  mercenaries  : 
The  rest  are  princes,  barons,  lords,  knights,  'squires. 
And  gentlemen  of  blood  and  quality. 
The  names  of  those  their  nobles  that  lie  dead — 
Charles  De-la-bret.  high  constable  of  France ; 
Jaques  Chatillon,  admiral  of  France  ; 
The  master  of  the  cross-bows,  lord  Rambures  ;  [phin  : 
Great-master  of  France,  the  brave  sir  Guischard  Dau- 
John  duke  of  Alenfon  :  Antony  duke  of  Brabant, 
The  brother  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy ; 
And  Edward  duke  of  Bar  :  of  lusty  earls, 
Grandpre.  and  Roiissi.  Fauconberg.  and  Foix, 
Beaumont,  and  Marie,  Vaudemont,  and  Lestrale. 


Here  was  a  royal  fellow.ship  of  death  I — 
Where  is  the  number  of  our  English  dead  ? 

[Herald  presents  another  Pap-^ 
Edward  the  duke  of  York,  the  earl  of  Sufiblk, 
Sir  Richard  Ketly,  Dav>'  Gam,  esquire  : 
None  else  of  name,  and  of  all  other  men 
But  five  and  twenty.     0  God  !  thy  arm  was  here. 

[Kneeling 
A  d  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  arm  alone, 
Ascribe  we  all. — [Rising.^]  When,  without  stratagem, 
But  in  plain  shock,  and  even  play  of  battle. 
Was  ever  kno\\ni  so  great  and  little  loss. 
On  one  part  and  on  th'  other  ? — Take  it,  God, 
For  it  is  only  thine  !* 

Exe.  'T  ie  wonderful ! 

K.  Hen.  Come,  go  we  in  procession  to  the  village  : 
And  be  it  death,  proclaimed  through  our  host, 
To  boast  of  this,  or  take  that  praise  from  Grod, 
Which  is  his  only. 

Flu.  Is  it  not  lawful,  an  please  your  majesty,  to  tell 
how  many  is  killed  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes.  captain  :  but  with  this  acknowledgment, 
That  God  fought  for  us. 

Flu.  Yes.  my  conscience,  he  did  us  great  goot. 

K.  Hen.  Do  we  all  holy  rites  : 
Let  there  be  sung  Non  nobis,  and  Te  Deum. 
The  dead  with  charity  enclos'd  in  clay. 
And  then  to  Calais ;  and  to  England  then, 
Where  ne'er  from  France  arriv'd  more  happy  men. 

[ExevsfU, 


ACT    V. 


Enter  Chorus. 
Chor.  Vouchsafe  alP  those  that  have  not  read  the 
story. 
That  I  may  prompt  them :  and  for*  such  as  have, 
1  humbly  pray  I  hem  to  admit  th'  excuse 
'')f  time,  of  numbers,  and  due  course  of  things, 
Which  cannot  in  their  huge  and  proper  life 
Be  here  presented.     Now,  we  bear  the  king 
Toward  Calais  :  grant  him  there  ;  there  seen, 
Heave  him  away  upon  your  ^^-iuged  thoughts. 
Athwart  the  sea.     Behold,  the  English  beach 
Pales  in  the  flood  ^-ith  men,  viith  wives,  and  boys, 
Whose  shouts  and  claps  out-voice  the  deep-mouth'd  sea. 
Which,  like  a  mighty  whifiier',  'fore  the  king 
Seems  to  prepare  his  -way.     So.  let  him  land, 
.\nd  solemnly  see  him  set  on  to  London. 
So  sM-ift  a  pace  hath  thought,  that  even  now 
You  may  imagine  him  upon  Blackheath  ; 
Where,  that  h  *  lords  desire  him.  to  have  borne 
His  bruised  helmet,  and  his  bended  sword, 
?-.efore  him,  through  the  city,  he  forbids  it, 
iJeing  free  from  vainness  and  self-glorious  pride, 
'riving  full  trophy,  signal,  and  ostent, 
liuite  from  himself,  to  God.     But  now  behold 
In  the  quick  forge  and  workinghouse  of  thought, 
How  Loudon  doth  pour  out  her  citizens 
The  mayor,  and  all  his  brethern.  in  best  sort. 
Like  to  the  senators  of  th'  antique  Rome^ 
With  the  plebeians  swarming  at  their  heels. 
Go  forth,  and  fetch  their  conquering  Caesar  in : 
As,  by  a  lower  but  by  lo\-ing  likelihood. 
Were  now  the  general  of  our  gracious  empress 

'  •  '  Not  in  f.  e       *  S;  the  quarto  ;  folio  :  none  but  thine.      »  to  ; 


I  (As  in  good  time  he  may)  from  L-eland  coming, 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword, 

i  How  many  would  the  peaceful  city  quit, 
To  welcome  him  !  much  more,  and  much  more  cause. 
Did  they  tliis  Harry.     Now.  in  London  place  him. 
As  yet  the  lamentation  of  the  French 
Invites  the  king  of  England's  stay  at  home  : 
The  emperor's  coming  in  behalf  of  France, 
To  order  peace  between  them  :  and  omit 
All  the  occurrences,  whatever  chanc'd. 
Till  Harry's  back-return  again  to  France : 
There  must  we  bring  him  ;  and  myself  have  play'd 
The  interim,  by  remembering  you.  't  is  past. 
Then  brook  abridgment,  and  your  eyes  advance, 
After  your  thoughts,  straight  back  again  to  France. 

[Erit 

SCENE  I. — France.     An  English  Court  of  Guard. 
Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower. 

Gow.  Nay,  that  's  right ;  but  why  wear  you  your 
leek  to-day  ?     Saint  Da^^^'s  day  is  past. 

Flu.  There  is  occasions,  and  causes,  why  and  where- 
fore, in  all  things  :  I  will  tell  you.  a-s  my  friend,  captain 
Gower.  The  rascally,  scald,  beggarly,  iowsy.  pragging 
knave.  Pistol,  which  you  and  yourself,  and  all  the  world, 
know  to  be  no  petter'  than  a  fellow,  look  you  now,  o*" 
no  merit",  he  is  come  to  me.  and  prings  me  pread  and 
salt  vesterday,  look  you.  and  bid  me  eat  my  leek.  It 
was  in  a  place  where  I  could  not  breed  no  contention 
^-ith  him :  but  I  ^^^ll  be  so  pold  as  to  wear  it  in  my 
cap  till  I  see  him  once  again,  and  then  I  will  tell  him 
a  little  piece  of  my  desires. 

Gow.  Why,  here  he  comes,  swelling  like  a  turkey-cock. 

in  f.  e.      «  of :  in  f.  e.      "•  Piper,  or  Uader  of  processions 


428 


KING  HENRY   V 


A(rr  V. 


Enter  Pistol. 

Fitt.  -T  is  no  mailer  for  his  swell ingrs,  nor  his  turkey- 
cocks. — Gol  ples.s  you.  aneient  PiBtol  !  you  scurvy, 
lowsy  kniive   iJot  plcss  you  ! 

Fust.  Ha  !  art  thou  bedlam  ?  dost  thou  thirst,  base 
Trojan, 
To  have  me  lold  up  Parca's  fatal  web  ? 
Hence  !   I  am  qiialmish  at  the  smell  of  leek. 

Flu.  I  pe.«eoch  you  heartily,  8curv>'  lowsy  knave,  at 
my  desires,  and  my  requests,  and  my  petitions,  to  eat, 
look  you,  Uiis  leek  :  becau.*^,  look  you,  you  do  not  love 
it,  nor  your  affections,  and  your  appetites,  and  your 
dige^stions,  does  not  agree  with  it,  I  would  desire  you 
to  eat  it. 

Pist.  Not  for  Cadwallader,  and  all  his  goats. 

Flu.  There  is  one  goat  for  you.  [Strikes  him.]  Will 
you  be  so  gool.  scald  knave,  as  eat  it? 

Pist.  Base  Trojan,  thou  shall  die. 

Flu.  You  say  very  true,  scald  knave,  when  Got's 
will  is.  I  will  desire  you  to  live  in  the  mean  time, 
and  eal  your  victuals :  come,  there  is  sauce  for  it. 
[Striking  him  again.]  You  called  me  yesterday,  moun- 
tain-squire, but  I  will  make  you  to-day  a  squire  of  low- 
degree'  . — I  pray  you.  fall  to :  if  you  can  mock  a  leek, 
you  can  eat  a  leek. 

Gow.  Enough,  captain  :  you  have  astonished  him. 

Flu.  I  say.  I  will  make  him  eat  some  part  of  my 
leek,  or  I  will  peat  his  pate  four  days. — Pile,  I  pray 
you  ;  it  is  goot  for  your  green  wound,  and  your  ploody 
coxcomb. 

Putt.  Must  I  bite? 

Flu.  Yes.  certainly,  and  out  of  doubt,  and  out  of 
question  too,  and  ambiguities. 

Pust.  By  this  leek,  I  will  most  horribly  revenge.  I 
eat.  and  cat  I  swear — 

Flu.  Eal,  I  pray  you.  Will  you  have  some  more 
■auce  to  your  leek  ?  there  is  not  enough  leek  to  swear  by. 

Pist.  Quiet  thy  cudgel  :  thou  dost  see.  I  eat. 

Flu.  Much  goot  do  you,  scald  kiiave,  heartily.  Nay, 
pray  you.  throw  none  away ;  the  skin  is  goot  for  your 
proken  coxcomb.  When  you  take  occasions  to  see  leeks 
hereafter.  I  pray  you.  mock  at  'em ;  that  is  all. 

PLit.  Good. 

Flu.  Ay.  leeks  is  goot. — Hold  you;  there  is  a  groat 
to  heal  your  pate. 

PLst.  Me  a  groat ! 

Flu.  Yes  ;  verily,  and  in  truth,  you  shall  take  it, 
or  I  have  another  leek  in  my  pocket,  which  you  shall 
eat. 

Pift.  I  take  Ihy  trroat  in  earnest  of  revenge. 

Flu.  If  I  owe  you  any  thing  I  will  pay  you  in  cud- 
gels: you  shall  bo  a  woodmonser,  and  buy  nothing  of 
me  but  cudgels.  God  be  wi'  you,  and  keep  you,  and 
heal  your  pate.  [Exit. 

Plit.     All  hell  shall  stir  for  this. 

Gmc  Go.  go  ;  you  are  a  counterfeit  cowardly  knave. 
Will  you  mock  at  an  ancient  tradition,  begun  upon  an 
honourable  respect,  and  worn  as  a  memorable  trophy 
of  pre<l<^epasod  valour,  and  dare  not  avouch  in  your 
deeds  any  of  your  words?  I  have  seen  you  eleeking" 
and  galling  at  this  gentlemen  twice  or  thrice.  Tou 
thought,  because  he  could  not  speak  Enclish  in  the 
native  garb,  he  could  not  therefore  handle  an  English 
cudgel:  you  find  it  otherwise;  and,  henceforth,  let  a 
Welsh  correefion  teach  you  a  good  English  condition. 
Fare  ye  well.  [Exit. 

Pist.  Doth  fortune  play  the  huswife  with  me  now? 
News  have  I,  that  my  Nell  is  dead  i'  the  spital 


Of  malady  of  France ; 

And  there  my  rendezvous  is  quite  cut  off. 

Old  I  do  wax,  and  from  my  weary  limbs 

Honour  is  cudgelled.     Well,  bawd  1  '11  turn. 

And  something  lean  to  cutpur.se  of  quick  hand 

To  England  will  I  steal,  and  there  I  '11  steal  : 

And  patches  will  I  get  unto  tlie.^e  cudgell'd  scar«. 

And  swear,  I  got  them  in  the  Gallia  wars.  [ExU 

SCENE  n. — Troyes  in  Champagne.     An  Apartment 

in  the  French  King's  Palace. 
Enter,  at  one  door,  King  Henry,  Bedford,  Glostbr, 

Exeter,    Warwick,    Westmoreland,    and    other 

Lords;  at  another,  the  French  King.  Queen  Isabel. 

the    Princess   Katharine,    Lords,    Ladies,    Ifc.,-  the 

Duke  o/ Burgundy,  atid  his  Train. 

K.  Hen.  Peace  to  this  meeting,  wherefore  we  are  met 
Unto  our  brother  France,  and  lo  our  sister, 
Health  and  fair  time  of  day  : — ^joy  and  good  wishea 
To  our  most  fair  and  princely  cousin  Katharine  ; — 
And,  as  a  branch  and  member  of  this  royalty. 
By  whom  this  great  assembly  is  contriv'd, 
We  do  salute  you,  duke  of  Burgundy  : — 
And,  princes  French,  and  peers,  health  to  you  all. 

Fr.  King.  Right  joyous  are  we  to  behold  your  face, 
Most  worthy  brother  England  ;  fairly  met : — 
So  are  you,  princes  English,  every  one. 

Q.  Isa.  So  happy  be  the  is.sue.  brother  England', 
Of  this  good  day,  and  of  this  gracious  meeting, 
As  w^e  are  now  glad  to  behold  your  eyes  ; 
Your  eyes,  which  hitherto  have  borne  in  them 
Against  the  French,  that  met  them  in  their  bent, 
The  fatal  balls  of  murdering  basilisks: 
The  venom  of  such  looks,  we  fairly  hope, 
Have  lo.«t  their  quality,  and  that  this  day 
Shall  change  all  griefs  and  quarrels  into  love. 

K.  Hen.  To  cry  amen  to  that  thus  we  appear. 

Q.  Isa.  You  English  princes  all.  I  do  salute  you. 

Bur.  My  duty  to  you  both,  on  equal  love, 
Great    kings   of  France   and    England,    that    I   have 

labour'd 
With  all  my  wits,  my  pains,  and  strong  endeavours 
To  bring  your  most  imjierial  majesties 
Unto  tliis  bar  and  royal  interview. 
Your  mightiness  on  both  parts  best  can  witness. 
Since,  then,  my  office  hath  so  far  prevail'd, 
That  face  to  face,  and  royal  eye  to  eye. 
You  have  congreeted,  let  it  not  disgrace  me, 
If  I  demand  before  this  royal  view, 
What  rub,  or  what  impediment,  there  is. 
Why  that  the  naked,  poor,  and  mannled  peace. 
Dear  nurse  of  arts,  plenty,  and  joyful  births, 
Should  not  in  this  best  garden  of  the  world. 
Our  fertile  France,  lift*  up  her  lovely  visage  ? 
Alas  !  she  hath  from  France  too  long  been  chas'd, 
And  all  her  husbandry  dolh  lie  on  heaps, 
Corrupting  in  its  own  fertility. 
Her  vine,  the  merry  cheerer  of  the  heart, 
Unpnmed  dies  :  her  hedges  even-pleached*, 
Like  prisoners  wildly  overgrovkTi  with  hair, 
Put  forth  disordcr'd  twigs:  her  fallow  leas 
The  darnel,  hemlock,  and  rank  fumitory. 
Do  root  upon,  while  that  the  coulter  ru.sts, 
That  should  deracinate  such  savagery  : 
The  even  mead,  that  erst  brought  sweetly  forth 
The  freckled  cowslip,  bumf  ,  and  green  clover. 
Wanting  the  sc>'the,  all  uncorrected,  rank. 
Conceives  by  idleness,  and  nothing  teems, 


'•  Tail  ii  the  title  of  an  old  Sneliih  romaoM. 
f  •       •  Plaited, 


Scoffing,  jesting.      '  Thii  and  the  fifty-five  following  lines  are  not  in  qoarto.      *  put* 


a 


SCENE  n. 


KING  HEISIKY  ^ 


429 


But  hateful  docks,  rough  thistles,  kecksies,  burs, 
Losing  both  beauty  and  utility ; 
And  as'  our  vineyards,  fallows,  meads,  and  hedges. 
Defective  in  their  natures,  grow  to  wildness  ; 
Even  so  our  houses,  and  ourselves,  and  children. 
Have  lost,  or  do  not  learn,  for  want  of  time. 
The  sciences  that  should  become  our  country. 
But  grow,  like  savages, — as  soldiers  will. 
That  nothing  do  but  meditate  on  blood, — 
To  swearing,  and  stern  looks,  diffus'd  attire. 
And  every  thing  that  seems  unnatural. 
Which  to  reduce  into  our  former  favour, 
You  are  assembled  ;  and  my  speech  entreats, 
That  I  may  know  the  let,  why  gentle  peace 
Should  not  expel  these  inconveniencies, 
And  bless  us  with  her  former  qualities. 

K.  Hen.  If,  duke  of  Burgundy,  you  would  the  peace. 
Whose  want  gives  growth  to  th'  imperfections 
Which  you  have  cited,  you  must  buy  that  peace 
With  full  accord  to  all  our  just  demands  ; 
Whose  tenours  and  particular  effects 
You  have,  enschedul'd  briefly,  in  your  hands. 

Bur.  The  king  hath  heard  them ;  to  the  which,  as  yet. 
There  is  no  answer  made. 

K.  Hen.  Well  then,  the  peace. 

Which  you  before  so  urg'd,  lies  in  his  answer. 
Fr.  King.  I  have  but  with  a  cursorary  eye 
O'er-glanc'd  the  articles  :  pleaseih  your  grace 
To  appoint  some  of  your  council  presently 
To  sit  with  us  once  more,  with  better  heed 
To  re-survey  them,  we  will  suddenly 
Pass,  or  accept*,  and  peremptory  answer. 

K.  Hen.  Brother,  we  shall. — Go,  uncle  Exeter. — 
And  brother  Clarence, — and  you,  brother  Gloster. — 
Warwick,  and  Huntingdon, — go  with  the  king ; 
And  take  with  you  free  power,  to  ratify. 
Augment,  or  alter,  as  your  wisdoms  best 
Shall  see  advantage,'  for  our  dignity, 
Any  thing  in,  or  out  of.  our  demands. 
And  we  '11  consign  thereto. — Will  you,  fair  sister. 
Go  with  the  princes,  or  stay  here  with  us  ? 

Q.  Isa.  Our  gracious  brother,  I  will  go  with  them. 
Haply  a  woman's  voice  may  do  some  good. 
When  articles,  too  nicely  urg'd,  be  stood  on. 

K.  Hen.  Yet  leave  our  cousin  Katharine  here  with  us 
She  is  our  capital  demand,  compris'd 
Within  the  fore-rank  of  our  articles. 
Q.  Isa.  She  hath  good  leave. 

[Exeunt  all  but  King  Henry,  Katharine,  and 
her  Gentlewoman. 
.    K.  Hen.  Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair  ! 

Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms. 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear, 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart  ? 

Kath.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me ;  I  cannot 
speak  your  England. 

K.  Hen.  0  fair  Katharine !  if  you  will  love  me 
soundly  with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to  hear 
you  confess  it  brokenly  with  your  English  tongue.  Do 
you  like  me,  Kate  ? 

Kath.  Pardonnez  moi.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is — like  me. 
K.  Hen.  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate ;  and  you  are 
like  an  angel. 
Kath.  Que  dit-il?  que  je  suis  semblable  a  les  anges? 
Alice.  Ouy,  vraiment,  sauf  vostre  grace.,  ainsi  dit  il. 
K.  Hen.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine,  and  I  must  not 
blush  to  affirm  it. 

Kath.  0  bon  Dieu  !  les  langues  des  hommes  sont  pleines 
de  tromperies. 


K.  Hen.  What  says  she,  fair  one  ?  that  the  tongues 
of  men  are  full  of  deceits  ? 

Alice.  Ouy  ;  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  oe  fall  of 
deceits  ;  dat  is  de  princess. 

K.  Hen.  The  princess  is  the  better  English-woman. 
I'  faith,  Kate,  my  wooing  is  fit  for  thy  understanding 
I  am  glad  thou  canst  speak  no  better  Enulish  :  for,  if 
i)\\i  couldst,  thou  wouldst  find  me  such  a  plain  king, 
thai  thou  wouldst  think  I  had  sold  my  farm  to  buy 
my  crown.  I  know  no  ways  to  mince  it  in  love,  but 
directly  to  say — I  love  you  :  then,  if  you  urge  me  far- 
ther than  to  say — Do  you  in  faith  ?  I  wear  out  my 
suit.  Give  me  your  answer ;  i'  faith,  do,  and  so  clap 
hands  and  a  bargain.     How  say  j^ou,  lady? 

Kath.   Sauf  vostre  honneur,  me  understand  well. 

K.  Hen.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses,  or  to 
dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid  me  :  for  the 
one,  I  have  neither  words  nor  measure  :  and  for  the 
other,  I  have  no  strength  in  measure,  yet  a  reasonable 
measure  in  strength.  If  I  could  wan  a  lady  at  leap- 
frog, or  by  vaulting  into  my  saddle  with  my  armour 
on  my  back,  under  the  correction  of  bragging  be  it 
spoken,  I  should  quickly  leap  into  a  wife  :  or  if  I 
might  buffet  for  my  love,  or  bound  my  horse  for 
her  favours,  I  could  lay  on  like  a  butcher,  and  sit 
like  a  jack-an-apes,  never  off;  but,  before  God.  Kate, 
I  cannot  look  greenly,  nor  gasp  out  my  eloquence, 
nor  I  have  no  cunning  in  protestation  ;  only  down- 
right oaths,  which  I  never  use  till  urged,  nor  never 
break  for  urging.  If  thou  canst  love  a  fellow  of 
this  temper,  Kate,  whose  face  is  not  worth  sun- 
burning,  that  never  looks  in  his  glass  for  love  of 
any  thing  he  sees  there,  let  thine  eye  be  thy  cook.  ] 
speak  to  thee  plain  soldier  :  if  thou  canst  love  me  for 
this,  take  me ;  if  not,  to  say  to  thee  that  I  shall  die, 
is  true;  but  for  thy  love,  by  the  Lord,  no:  yet  I 
love  thee  too.  And  while  thou  livest,  dear  Kate,  take 
a  fellow  of  plain  and  uncoined  constancy,  for  he  per- 
force must  do  thee  right,  because  he  hath  not  the  gift 
to  woo  in  other  places;  for  these  fellows  of  infinite 
tongite,  that  can  rhyme  themselves  into  ladies"  favours, 
they  do  always  reason  themselves  out  again.  What  ! 
a  speaker  is  but  a  prater;  a  rlmne  is  but  a  ballad. 
A  good  leg  will  fall,  a  straight  back  will  stoop,  a 
black  beard  will  turn  white,  a  curled  pate  will  grow 
bald,  a  fair  face  will  wither,  a  full  eye  will  wax  hol- 
low ;  but  a  good  heart,  Kate,  is  the  sun  and  the  moon ; 
or,  rather,  the  sun,  and  not  the  moon,  for  it  shines 
bright,  and  never  changes,  but  keeps  his  course  truly. 
If  thou  would  have  such  a  one,  take  me :  and  take  me, 
take  a  soldier  ;  take  a  soldier,  take  a  king,  and  what 
sayest  thou  then  to  my  love  ?  speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly, 
I  pray  thee. 

Kath.  Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  de  enemy  of 
France  ? 

K.  Hen.  No ;  it  is  not  possible  you  should  love  the 
enemv  of  France.  Kate;  but.  in  loving  me,  you  should 
love  tlie  friend  of  France,  for  I  love  France  so  well, 
that  I  will  not  part  with  a  village  of  it ;  I  will  have  it 
all  mine  :  and,  Kate,  when  France  is  mine  and  I  am 
yours,  then  yours  is  France,  and  you  are  mine. 
Kath.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No,  Kate  ?  I  will  tell  thee  in  French, 
which  I  am  sure  will  han2  upon  my  tongue  like  a  new- 
married  wife  about  her  husband's  neck,  hardly  to  be 
shook  oW.—Quand  fai  la  po,we.^.<rio«  de  France,  et  (pianu 
vous  avez  la  possession  de  moi.  (let  me  see,  what  then? 
Saint  Dennis  be  my  speed  \)—donc  vostre  est  France.,  et 
vous  etes  mienne.     It  is  as  easy  for  me,  Kate,  to  coo- 


'  til ;  in  fo.io       »  lass  our  accept :  in  f.  e.      '  advantageable  :  iu  f.  a 


430 


KIXG  HENRY  Y. 


quer  tlie  kingdom,  as  to  speak  so  much  more  French. 
I  shall  never  move  thee  in  French,  xmless  it  be  to  laugh 
At  mc. 

Kath  Sauf  vostrc  honneur,  le  Fran(OU!  que  vous  par- 
Uz.  est  meilltur  mir  rAn!^:loL'!  legiid  je  park. 

K.  Hen.  No.  (aitli.  is  t  not.  Kate:  but  thyspeakinji 
of  my  tongue,  and  I  thine,  nio.st  truly  falsely,  must  needs 
be  granted  to  be  niueli  at  one.  But.  Kate,  dost  thou 
•ndersiand  tiius  much  English?    Canst  thou  love  me? 

Kiith.  I  cannot  tell. 

A'.  Hen.  Can  any  of  your  neighbours  tell,  Kate? 
I  '\l  a.sk  them.  Conie,  I  know  thou  lovest  me  :  and  at 
aight  wlien  you  eonie  into  your  closet,  you  '11  question 
this  gentlewoman  about  me;  and  I  know,  Kate,  you 
will,  to  iier,  disvraise  those  parts  in  me,  that  you  love 
wuh  your  heart:  but,  good  Kate,  mock  me  mercifully, 
the  rather,  gentle  princess,  becau.se  I  love  thee  cruelly. 
If  ever  thou  be  ".st  mine.  Kate,  (as  I  have  a  saving  faith 
wilhip  me  tells  mc  thou  shalt)  I  get  thee  with  scam- 
bling.  and  thou  must  therefore  needs  prove  a  good 
.<oldiei -breeder.  Shall  not  thou  and  T.  between  Saint 
Demiis  and  Saint  George,  compound  a  boy,  half  French, 
half  English,  that  shall  go  to  Constantinople,  and  take 
the  Turk  by  the  beard  ?  shall  we  not  ?  what  sayest 
thou,  my  fair  flower-de-luce  ? 

Kath.  I  do  not  know  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No  ;  't  is  hereafter  to  know,  but  now  to  pro- 
mise :  do  but  now  promise,  Kate,  you  will  endeavour 
for  your  French  part  of  such  a  boy.  and  for  my  English 
moiety  take  the  word  of  a  king  and  a  bachelor.  How 
answer  you.  la  plus  belle  Katharine  du  monde,  mon  tres 
there  et  divine  dfc^.'te  ? 

Kath.  Your  majeste  have/aw-we  French  enough  to 
deceive  de  most  safre  damoiselle  dat  is  en  France. 

K.  Hen.  Now.  fie  upon  my  false  French  !  By  mine  ' 
honour,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee.  Kate :  by  which 
honour  I  dare  not  swear,  thou  lovest  me  :  yet  my  blood 
begins  to  flatter  me  that  thou  dost,  notwithstanding  the 
poor  and  untempling'  eflTect  of  my  ■visage.  Now  be-  j 
shrew  my  father's  ambition  !  he  was  thinking  of  civil 
•wars  whei.  he  got  me :  therefore  was  I  created  with  a 
stubborn  outside,  wth  an  aspect  of  iron,  that,  when  I 
come  to  woo  ladies.  I  fright  them.  But,  in  faith.  Kate, 
the  elder  I  wax,  the  better  I  shall  appear:  my  comfort 
is.  that  old  a'_'e,  that  ill  layer-up  of  beauty,  can  do  no 
more  spoil  upon  my  face :  thou  hast  me,  if  thou  hast 
me,  at  the  worst ;  and  thou  .shalt  wear  me,  if  thou  wear 
me.  better  and  better.  And  therefore  tell  me,  most 
fair  Katharine,  will  you  have  me  ?  Put  off  your  maiden 
blushes ;  avouch  the  thoughts  of  your  heart  with  the 
looks  of  an  empress  ;  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  say — 
Harry  of  England.  I  am  thine  :  which  word  thou  shalt 
no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal,  but  I  will  tell  thee 
aloud — En^rland  is  thine,  Ireland  is  thine.  France  is 
thine,  and  Henr>-  Plantagenet  is  thine  ;  who,  though  I 
speak  it  before  his  face,  if  he  be  not  fellow  with  the 
best  kins,  tliou  shalt  find  the  best  king  of  good  fellows. 
Come,  your  answer  in  broken  music,  for  thy  voice  is 
music,  and  thy  English  broken  :  theretbre,  queen  of  all, 
Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in  broken  English: 
wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Kath.  Dat  is,  as  it  shall  please  de  roi  mon  p^re. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well.  Kate:  it  shall 
plea.se  him,  Kate. 

Kath.  Den  it  shall  also  content  me. 

K.  Hen.  Upon  that  I  kiss  your  hand,  and  I  call  you 
my  queen. 

Kiith.  iMi.^.'tez.  mon  seigneur,  laissez.  laissez!  Mafoi. 
iej^  ve\ix  point  que  vous  abbaissez  vostre  grandeur,  en 

^f    '  DBMmperiDg :  in  f.  a.      *  narer  :  in  f.  e 


haisant  la  main  d'tine  vostre  indignc  servitcure:  exeusei     .> 
moi.  jc  vous  supplie.  mon  tres  puissant  seigneur. 

K.  H'-n.  Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Knth.  Les  domes,  et  damoisellcs,  pour  estre  baisees 
devant   leur  nocrs  il   nest  pas  la  coiitume   de    France. 

K.  Hen.  Madam,  my  interpreter,  what  says  she? 

Alice.  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  pour  les  ladies  of 
France. — I  cannot  tell  what  is,  baiser,  in  English. 

A'.  Hen.  To  kiss. 

Jlire.  Your  majesty  entend  bettre  que  moi. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  not  a  fashion  for  the  maids  in  France 
to  kiss  before  they  are  married,  would  she  say  ? 

Alice.  Ouy.  vraimcnt. 

K.  Hen.  O.  Kate  !  nice  customs  curtesy  to  great 
kings.  Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be  confined  wiinio 
the  weak  list  of  a  country's  fashion  :  we  are  the  makers 
of  manners,  Kate ;  and  the  liberty  that  follows  our 
places  .stops  the  mouths  of  all  find-faults,  as  I  will  do 
yours,  for  upholding  the  nice  fashion  of  your  country 
in  denying  nie  a  kiss  :  therefore,  patiently,  and  yielding;. 
[Kissing  her.]  You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips,  Kate  : 
there  is  more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them,  than 
in  the  tongues  of  the  French  council :  and  they  should 
sooner  persuade  Harry  of  England,  than  a  general  pe- 
tition of  monarchs.  Here  conies  your  father. 
Enter  the  French  King  and  Quken,  Burgundy,  Bed- 
ford. Glostkr.  Exeter.  West.morel.vnd,  and  othtr 

French  and  English  Lords. 

Bur.  God  save  your  majesty.     My  royal  cousm, 
Teach  you  our  princess  English  ? 

A'.  Hen.  I  would  have  her  learn,  my  fair  cousin,  how 
perfectly  I  love  her ;  and  that  is  good  English. 

Bur.  Is  she  not  apt  ? 

K.  Hen.  Our  tongue  is  rough,  coz,  and  my  condition 
is  not  smooth :  so  that,  having  neither  the  voice  nor 
the  heart  of  flattery  about  me,  I  cannot  so  conjure  up 
the  spirit  of  love  in  her,  that  he  -w-ill  appear  in  his  true 
likeness. 

Bur.  Pardon  the  frankness  of  my  mirth,  if  I  an.swcr 
you  for  that.  If  you  would  conjure  in  her  you  mu.-' 
make  a  circle;  if  conjure  up  love  in  her  in  his  tnie 
likeness,  he  must  appear  naked,  and  blind.  Can  you 
blame  her,  then,  being  a  maid  yet  rosed  over  with  the 
virgin  crimson  of  modesty,  if  she  deny  the  appearance 
of  a  naked  blind  boy  in  her  naked  seeing  self?  It  were, 
my  lord,  a  hard  condition  for  a  maid  to  consign  to. 

K.  Heu.  Yet  they  do  wink,  and  }ield,  as  love  i» 
blind  and  enforces. 

Bur.  They  are  then  excused,  my  lord,  when  they 
see  not  what  they  do. 

I  K.  Hen  Then,  good  my  lord,  teach  your  cousin  to 
consent  winking. 

1  Bur.  I  will  wink  on  her  to  consent,  my  lord,  if  you 
■will  teach  her  to  know  my  meaning :  for  maids,  well 
summered  and  warm  kept,  are  like  flies  at  Bartholo- 
!  nrvew-tide,  blind,  though  they  have  their  eyes  ;  and  then 
they  will  endure  handling,  which  before  would  not 
abide  looking  on. 

K.  Hen.  This  moral  ties  me  over  to  time,  and  a  hot 
summer  ;  and  so  I  shall  catch  the  fly,  your  cousin,  in 
the  latter  end,  and  she  must  be  blind  too. 
I  Bur.  As  love  is,  my  lord,  before  it  loves. 
'  K.  Hen.  It  is  so  :  and  you  may,  some  of  you,  thank 
love  for  my  blindness,  who  cannot  see  many  a  fair 
French  city,  for  one  fair  French  maid  that  .stands  in 
my  way. 

Fr.  king.  Yes,  my  lord,  you  see  them  perspectively : 
the  cities  turned  into  a  maid,  for  they  are  all  girdle"! 
with  maiden  walls,  that  war  hath  not'  entered. 


KING  HENRY   7. 


431 


K.  Hen.  Shall  Kate  be  my  wife  ? 

Fr.  King.  So  please  you. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  content,  so  the  maiden  cities  you 
talk  of,  may  wait  on  her;  so  the  maid,  that  stood  in 
the  way  of  my  wish,  shall  show  me  the  way  to  my  will. 

Fr.  King.  We  have  consented  to  all  terms  of  reason. 

K.  Hen.  Is  't  so,  my  lords  of  England  ? 

West.  The  king  hath  granted  every  article  : 
His  daughter,  first ;  and  then  in  sequel,  all, 
According  to  their  firm  proposed  natures. 

Exe.  Onxy,  he  hath  not  yet  subscribed  this : — 
Where  your  majesty  demands, — that  the  king  of  France, 
having  any  occasion  to  write  for  matter  of  grant,  shall 
name  your  highne.ss  in  this  form,  and  with  this  addition, 
in  French. — Notre  tres  cher  fils  Henry  roi  d'' Angleterre, 
heretier  de  France  ;  and  thus  in  Latin, — Prceclarissimus 
Jiiius^  noster  Hmriciis,  rex  Angha,  et  hares  Francia. 

Fr.  King.  Nor  this  I  have  not,  brother,  so  denied. 
But  your  request  shall  make  me  let  it  pass. 

K.  Hen.  I  pray  you,  then,  in  love  and  dear  alliance 
Let  that  one  article  rank  with  the  rest; 
And,  thereupon,  give  me  your  daughter. 

Fr.  King.  Take  her,  fair  son;  and  from  her  blood 
raise  up 
Issue  to  me,  that  the  contending  kingdoms 
Of  France  and  England,  whose  very  shores  look  pale. 
With  envy  of  each  other's  happiness. 
May  cease  their  hatred  ;  and  this  dear  conjunction 
Plant  neighbourhood  and  christian-like  accord 
In  their  sweet  bosoms,  that  never  war  advance 
His  bleeding  sword  'twixt  England  and  fair  France. 

All.  Amen  ! 

K  Her.    Now  welccxne,  Kate: — and  bear  me  wit- 
ness all, 

TVia  mistake  in  traaBlatio*.  is  copied  from  Holinshed's  Ohrmicle. 


That  here  I  kiss  her  as  my  sovereign  queen.  [Fhni.riak 

Q.  Isa.  God,  the  best  maker  of  all  marriages. 
Combine  your  hearts  in  one,  your  realms  in  one  ! 
As  man  and  wife,  being  two,  are  one  in  love, 
So  be  there  'twixt  your  kingdoms  such  a  spousal, 
"^hat  never  may  ill  office,  or  fell  jealousy, 
Which  troubles  oft  the  bed  of  blessed  marriage, 
Thrust  in  between  the  paction  of  these  kingdoms, 
i\j  make  divorce  of  their  incorporate  league  ; 
That  English  may  as  French,  French  Englishmen, 
Receive  each  other  ! — God  speak  this  Amen  ! 

All.  Amen  ! 

K.  Hen.  Prepare  we  for  oiir  marriage : — on  which  day 
My  lord  of  Burgundy,  we  '11  take  your  oath, 
And  all  the  peers'  for  surety  of  our  leagues. 
Then  shall  I  swear  to  Kate,  and  you  to  me; 
And  may  our  oaths  well  kept  and  prosperous  be  ! 

[Sennet.  Exeunt 
Enter  Chorus,  as  Epilogue. 
Thus  far,  with  rough  and  all  unable  pen, 

Our  bending  author  hath  pursu'd  the  story, 
In  little  room  confining  mighty  men. 

Mangling  by  starts  the  t\ill  course  of  their  glory. 
Small  time,  but  in  that  small  most  greatly  liv'd 

This  star  of  England.     Fortune  made  his  sword, 
By  which  the  world's  best  garden  he  achiev'd, 

And  of  it  left  his  son  imperial  lord. 
Henry  the  sixth,  in  infant  bands  crown'd  king 

Of  France  and  England,  did  this  king  succeed  , 
Whose  state  so  many  had  the  managing. 

That  they  lost  France,  and  made  his  England  bleed 
Which  oft  our  stage  hatii  shown,  and  for  their  sake. 
Ih  your  fair  minds  let  this  acceptance  take.  [Exil 


FIRST  PART 

OF 

KING    IIEXllY    VI. 


DRAMATIS     FERSOTT^. 


King  Henry  the  Sixth. 

Dike  of  Gloster,  Uncle  to  the  King,  and  Pro- 
tector. 

Duke  of  Bedford,  Uncle  to  the  King,  Regent  of 
France. 

Dike  of  Exeter. 

Henry  Beaifort.  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

John  Beaifort.  Earl  of  Somerset. 

Richard  Platagenet,  Duke  of  York. 

Earls  of  Warwick,  Salisbury,  and  Suffolk. 

Talbot,  aftersvards  Earl  of  Shrewsbury : 

John  Talbot,  his  Son. 

Edmund  Mortimer,  Earl  of  March. 

Mortimer's  Keeper,  and  a  Lawyer. 

Sir  John  Fastolfe.  Sir  William  Lucy.  Sir 
William  Glaxsdale.    Sir  Thomas  Gargrave. 

Woodville,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower.  Mayor 
of  London. 


Vernon,  of  the  White  Rose,  or  York  Faction. 
Basset,  of  the  Red  Rose  or  Lancaster  Faction 

Charles,    Dauphin,    and    afterwards    King    of 

France. 
Reignier.  Duke  of  Anjou,  and  King  of  Naples. 
Dukes  of  Burgundy  and  ALEN90N.     Bastard  of 

Orleans. 
Governor  of  Paris.     Master  Gunner  of  Orleans, 

and  his  Son. 
General  of  the  French  Forces  in  Bordeaux. 
A   French   Sergeant.     A   Porter.     An  old   Sliep- 

herd,  Father  to  Joan  la  Pucelle. 

Margaret,  Daughter  to  Reignier. 

Countess  of  Auvergne. 

Joan  La  Pucelle,  commonly  called  Joan  of  Are. 


Fiflnds   appearing  to   La  Pucelle,  Lords,  Warders  of  the  Tower,  Heralds,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Messengers, 
several   Attendants  both  on  the  English   and  French. 

SCENE,  partly  in  England,  and  partly  in  France. 


ACT    1. 


SCENE  1.— We,«tminster  Abbey. 
Dead  March.     The  Corpse  of  King  Henry  the  Fifth 

is  discovered,    lying   in   state;    attended   on   by   the 

Dukes   of  Bedford,  Gloster.    and   Exeter  :    the 

Earl    of    Warwick,    the    Bishop     of    Winchester, 

Heralds,  tec. 

Bed.  Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black,  yield  day  to 
niirht ! 
Comets,  importing  change  of  times  and  states, 
Brandish  your  cnstal  tresses  in  the  sky, 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  rcvoltins  stars. 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry-'s  death  ! 
Henry  the  fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long  ! 
England  ne'er  lost  a  kins  of  so  much  worth. 

Glo.  England  ne'er  had  a  kins  until  his  time. 
Virtue  he  had  deserving  to  command  : 
His  brandi.^h'd  sword  did  blind  men  with  his  beams ; 
His  arms  spread  wider  than  a  dragon's  wings : 
His  sparkling  eyes,  replete  with  \\Tathful  fire. 
More  dazzled  and  drove  back  his  enemies. 
Than  mid-day  sun  fierce  bent  again.'st  their  faces. 
What  should  I  say?  his  deeds  exceed  all  speech  : 
He  ne'er  lilt  up  his  hand,  but  conquered. 

Ext.  We  mourn  in  black :  why  mourn  we  not  in  blood  ? 
Henry  is  dead,  and  never  shall  re\ive. 
Upon  a  wooden  coffin  we  attend  ; 
\nd  death's  dishonourable  \-ictory 

432 


We  with  our  stately  presence  glorifj-, 
Like  captives  bound  to  a  triumphant  car. 
What !  shall  we  curse  the  planets  of  mishap, 
That  plotted  thus  our  glory's  overthrow? 
Or  shall  we  think  the  subtle-witted  French 
Conjurors  and  sorcerers,  that,  afraid  of  him. 
By  magic  verses  have  contriv'd  his  end  ? 

Win.  He  was  a  king,  bless'd  of  the  King  of  kings. 
Unto  the  French  the  dreadful  judgment  day 
So  dreadful  will  not  be,  as  was  his  sight. 
The  battle's  of  the  Lord  of  hosts  he  fought : 
The  church's  prayers  made  him  so  prosperous. 

Glo.   The  church!  where  is  it?     Had  not  churcl- 
men  pray'd, 
His  thread  of  life  had  not  so  soon  dccay'd : 
None  do  you  like  but  an  effeminate  prince. 
Whom,  like  a  school-boy,  you  may  over-awe. 

Win.  Gloster.  whate'er  we  like,  thou  art  protector. 
And  lookest  to  command  the  prince,  and  realm. 
Thy  wife  is  proud  ;  .«;he  holdeth  thee  in  awe. 
More  than  God,  or  relieious  churchmen  may. 

Glo.  Name  not  religion,  for  thou  lov'st  the  flesh ; 
And  ne'er  throughout  the  year  to  church  thou  go'st, 
Except  it  be  to  pray  against  thy  foes. 

Bed.  Cease,  cease  these  jars,  and  rest  your  minds  ir 
peace. 
Let 's  to  the  altar : — Heralds,  wait  on  us. — 
Instead  of  gold,  we  '11  offer  up  our  ar-^s. 


i 


SCENE 


FIKST  PART  OF 


433 


Since  arms  avail  not,  now  that  Henry  's  dead. 
Posterity,  await  for  wretched  years, 
When  at  their  mothers'  moist  eyes  babes  shall  suck, 
Our  isle  be  made  a  nourish'  of  salt  tears. 
And  none  but  women  left  to  wail  the  dead. — 
Henry  the  fifth  !  thy  ghost  I  invocate  ; 
Prosper  this  realm,  keep  it  from  civil  broils ! 
Combat  with  adverse  planets  in  the  heavens  ! 
A  far  more  glorious  star  thy  soul  will  make, 
Than  Julius  Caesar,  or  bright  Cassiope.' 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  honourable  lords,  health  to  you  all. 
Sad  tidings  bring  I  to  you  out  of  France, 
Of  loss,  of  slaughter,  and  discomfiture  : 
Guienne,  Champaignc,  Rheims,  Orleans, 
Paris,  Guysors,  Poictiers,  are  all  quite  lost. 

Bed.  What  say'st  thou,  man,  before  dead   Henry's 
corse  ? 
Speak  softly,  or  the  loss  of  those  great  townis 
VVill  make  him  burst  his  lead,  and  rise  from  death. 

Glo.  Is  Paris  lost  ?  is  Rouen  yielded  up  ? 
If  Henry  were  recall'd  to  life  again. 
These  news  would  cause   him  once   more  yield  the 
ghost. 

Exe.  How  were  they  lost  ?  what  treachery  was  used  ? 

Mess.  No  treachery ;  but  want  of  men  and  money. 
Among  the  soldiers  this  is  muttered, — 
That  here  you  maintain  several  factions ; 
And  whilst  a  field  should  be  despatch'd  and  fought, 
You  are  disputing  of  your  generals. 
One  would  have  lingering  wars  with  little  cost ; 
Another  would  fly  swift,  but  wanteth  wings; 
A  third  man  thinks,  without  expense  at  a!l, 
By  guileful  fair  words  peace  may  be  obtam'd. 
A\vake,  awake,  English  nobility ! 
Let  not  sloth  dim  your  honours  new-bcgot : 
Cropp'd  are  the  flower-de-luces  in  your  arms  ; 
Of  England's  coat  one  half  is  cut  away. 

Exe.  Were  our  tears  wanting  to  this  funeral, 
These  tidings  would  call  forth  her  flowing  tides. 

Bed.  Me  they  concern  ;  regent  I  am  of  France. — 
Give  me  my  steeled  coat !     I  '11  fight  for  France. — 
Away  with  these  disgraceful  wailing  robes  ! 
Wounds  will  I  lend  the  French  instead  of  eyes. 
To  weep  their  intermissive  miseries. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

2  Mess.  Lords,  view  these  letters,  full  of  bad  mis- 
chance. 
France  is  revolted  from  the  English  quite, 
)  Except  some  petty  towns  of  no  import : 
;  f  he  Dauphin.  Charles,  is  crowned  king  in  Rheims ; 
The  bastard  of  Orleans  with  him  is  join'd  ; 
Reignier,  duke  of  Anjou,  doth  take  his  part ; 
The  duke  of  Alencon  flieth  to  his  side. 

Exe.  The  Daupliin  crowned  king  !   all  fly  to  him  I 

0  !  whither  shall  we  fly  from  this  reproach  ? 

Glo.  We  will  not  flv,  but  to  our  enemies'  throats. — 
Bedford,  if  thou  be  slack,  I  '11  fight  it  out. 

Bed.  Gloster,  why  doubt'st  thou  of  my  forwardness? 
An  aimy  have  I  muster'd  in  my  thoughts, 
''Vherewith  already  France  is  over-run. 
Enter  a  third  Messenger. 

1  3  Mess.  My  gracious  lords,  to  add  to  your  laments, 
(Wherewith  you  now  bedew  king  Henry's  hearse, 

'[  must  inform  you  of  a  dismal  fight, 
Betwixt  the  stout  lord  Talbot  and  the  French. 


The  tenth  of  August  last,  this  dreadful  lord, 

Retiring  from  the  siege  of  Orleans, 

Having  full  scarce  six  thousand  in  his  troop, 

By  three-and-twenty  thousand  of  the  French 

Was  round  encompassed  and  set  upon. 

No  leisure  had  he  to  enrank  his  men; 

He  wanted  pikes  to  set  before  his  archers , 

Instead  whereof,  sharp  stakes,  pluck'd  out  of  hedses 

TY  y  pitched  in  the  ground  confusedly, 

To  keep  the  horsemen  off  from  breakmg  in. 

More  than  three  hours  the  figlit  continued  : 

Where  valiant  Talbot,  above  human  thought. 

Enacted  wonders  with  his  sword  and  lance. 

Hundreds  he  sent  to  hell,  and  none  durst  stand  him  ; 

Here,  there,  and  every  where,  enrag'd  lie  flow. 

The  French  exclaim'd,  the  devil  was  in  arms ; 

All  the  whole  army  stood  agaz'd  on  him. 

His  soldiers,  spying  his  undaunted  spirit, 

A  Talbot  !     A  Talbot !  cried  out  amain. 

And  rush'd  into  the  bowels  of  the  battle. 

Here  had  tlie  conquest  fully  been  seal'd  up. 

If  sir  John  Fastolfe  had  not  play'd  the  coward : 

He  being  in  the  rearward^  plac'd  behind 

With  purpose  to  relieve  and  follow  them, 

Cowardly  fled,  not  having  struck  one  stroke. 

Hence  grew  the  general  wreck  and  massacre : 

Enclosed  were  they  with  their  enemies. 

A  base  Walloon,  to  win  the  Dauphin's  grace. 

Thrust  Talbot  with  a  spear  into  the  back : 

Whom  all  France,  with  their  chief  assembled  strength. 

Durst  not  presume  to  look  once  in  the  face. 

Bed.  Is  Talbot  slain  ?  then,  I  will  slay  myself, 
For  living  idly  here  in  pomp  and  ease. 
Whilst  such  a  worthy  leader,  wanting  aid, 
Unto  his  dastard  foe-men  is  betray'd. 

3  Mess.  0,  no !  he  lives  :  but  is  lock  prisoner, 
And  lord  Scales  with  him.  and  lord  Hungerford : 
Most  of  the  rest  slaughter'd,  or  took,  likewise. 

Bed.  His  ransom,  there  is  none  but  I  shall  pay. 
I  '11  hale  the  Dauphin  headlong  from  his  throne; 
His  crovfii  shall  be  the  ransom  of  my  friend  : 
Four  of  their  lords  I  '11  change  for  one  of  ours. — 
Farewell,  my  masters;  to  my  task  will  1. 
Bonfires  in  France  forthwith  I  am  to  make. 
To  keep  our  great  Saint  George's  feast  ^vithal 
Ten  thousand  soldiers  with  me  I  will  take, 
Whose  bloody  deeds  shall  cause*  all  Europe  quake. 

3  Mess.  So  you  had  need  ;  for  Orleans  is  besieg'd 
The  English  army  is  gro\\-n  weak  and  faint ; 
The  earl  of  Salisbury  craveth  supply 
And  hardly  keeps  his  men  from  mutiny. 
Since  they,  so  few,  watch  such  a  multitude. 

E.te.  Remember,  lords,  your  oaths  to  Henry  sworn. 
Either  to  quell  the  Dauphin  utterly. 
Or  bring  him  in  obbdience  to  your  yoke. 

Bed.  I  do  remember  it :  and  here  take  my  leave. 
To  go  about  my  preparation.  [Exit 

Glo.  I  '11  to  the  Tower,  with  all  the  haste  I  can. 
To  view  th'  artillery  and  munition: 
And  then  I  will  proclaim  young  Henry  king.        [Extl 

Exe.  To  Eltham  will  I,' where  the  young  king  is. 
Being  ordain'd  his  special  governor  ; 
And  for  his  safety  there  I  '11  best  devise.  [Exit 

Win.  Each  hath  his  place  and  function  to  attend : 
I  am  left  out :  for  me  nothing  remains. 
But  long  I  will  not  be  Jack-out-of-ofiice : 
The  king  from  Eltham  I  intend  to  steal.' 


Win.  What  !  wherein  Talbot  overcame?  is  't  so? 
3  Mess.  0  !  no;  wherein  lord  Talbot  ^as  o'erthrown:  |  And  sit  at  chiefest  stern  of  public  weal 
The  circumstance  I  '11  tell  you  more  at  large.  I 

■  Pope  reads  :  marish,  marth.      '  This  -word  is  not  in  f.  e.      '  vaward  :  in  f.  e.      «  make  :  in  f.  e.      »  send  :  in  f.  •- 

:  20 


\Erit 


434 


KING   HENRY   VI. 


SCENE  II.— France.     Before  Orleans. 

Flourish.  Enter  Cii.^ri.es.  vith  his  Forces;  A1.EN90N, 

Rkicmer,  and  others. 

Ch,xr.  Man*  his  true  moving;  even  as  in  the  heavens, 
Bo  in  the  earth,  to  this  day  is  not  knoAi\'n.' 
Late  did  he  shine  upon  the  English  side; 
Now  we  arc  victors;,  upon  us  he  smiles. 
What  towns  of  any  moment  but  we  have  ? 
At  plca>nre  here  wc  lie  near  Orleans; 
The  whiles.'  the  famish'd  English,  like  pale  ghosts, 
Faintly  besiege  us  one  hour  in  a  month. 

Alen.  They  want  their  porridge,  and  their  fat  bull- 
beeves  : 
F'ither  they  must  be  dieted  like  mules, 
And  have  their  provender  tied  to  their  mouths. 
Or  piteous  they  will  look  like  dro^^^leti  mice. 

Reig.  Let  "s  raise  the  siege.  Why  live  we  idly  here? 
Talbot  is  taken  whom  we  wont  to  fear : 
Remaineth  none  but  mad-brain"d  Salisbury, 
And  he  may  well  in  fretting  spend  his  gall; 
Nor  men.  nor  money,  hath  he  to  make  war. 

Char.  &iund,  sound  alarum  !  we  will  rush  on  them. 
Now,  for  the  honour  of  the  forborne'  French  ! 
Him  I  forgive  my  death  that  killeth  me. 
When  he  sees  me  go  back  one  foot,  or  flee.*      [Exeunt. 
Alarums;   Excursions;  afterwards  a  Retreat. 
Re-enter  Charles,  ALEN90N,  Reionier,  and  others. 

Char.  Wlio  ever  saw  the  like  ?  what  men  have  1  ! — 
Dogs !  cowards  !  dastards  ! — I  would  ne'er  have  fled, 
But  that  they  left  me  'mid.st  my  enemies. 

Reig.  Salisbury  is  a  desperate  homicide; 
He  fightcth  as  one  weary  of  his  life : 
The  other  lords,  like  lions  wanting  food. 
Do  rush  upon  us  as  their  hungry  prey. 

Alen.  Froissart.  a  countryman  of  ours,  records, 
Bi»gland  all  Olivers  and  Rowlands  bred, 
burinir  thi^  time  Edward  the  third  did  reign. 
More  truly  now  may  this  be  verified ; 
For  none  but  Samsons,  and  Golia.sses, 
It  sendetli  forth  to  skirmi-^h.     One  to  ten  ! 
Lean  raw-bon"d  rascals  !  who  would  e'er  suppose 
They  had  such  courage  a)id  audacity? 

Char.  Let's  leave  this  tovsTi ;  for  they  are  hair-brain'd 
slaves, 
And  hunger  •will  enforce  them  be  more  eager: 
Of  old  I  know  them  ;  rather  with  their  teeth 
The  walls  they  '11  tear  down,  than  forsake  the  siege. 

Reig.  I  think,  by  some  odd  gimmals'  or  device, 
Their  arms  are  s.-t  like  elock.s  still  to  strike  on; 
Else  m/er  could  they  hold  out  so,  a.s  they  do. 
By  niy  con.s4.'nt.  we  11  e'en  let  them  alone. 

Alen.  Be  it  so. 

Enter  the  Bastard  of  Orleans. 

Bast    Where's  the  prince  Daujrfiin?   I   have  news 
for  him. 

Char.  Bastard  of  Orleans,  thrice  welcome  to  us. 

Bast.     Mel ii inks    your   looks    are   sad,    your   cheer 
appalld  : 
Hath  the  late  overthrow  MTousht  this  offence? 
lie  not  disinay'd.  for  succour  is  at  hand  : 
A  holy  rnaid  hither  with  me  1  bring. 
Which,  by  a  vision  sent  to  her  from  heaven, 
Ordaine<l  is  to  rai.se  this  tedious  siege, 
And  drive  the  English  forth  the  bounds  of  France. 
The  8]»irit  of  deep  prophecy  she  hath, 
Exceedmg  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Home  ; 
What  'f.  past  and  what  'a  to  come,  she  can  descry. 

'  Thii  circain«tanc«  is  ;nentioDed  in  oth>!f  imMra  of  the  time.      ' 
•  Not  in  f  e       "  our  Lmdy  eraoioui  :  in  f.  e       »  otherwiM  :  in  f  • 


Speak,  shall  I  call  her  in?     Believe  my  words, 
For  they  are  certain  and  unfallible. 

Char    Go,  call  her  in.     [Exit  Bastard.]    But  firet,  i<. 
try  her  skill. 
Reigniei,  stand  thou  as  Dauphin  in  my  place: 
Question  her  proudly,  let  thy  looks  be  .stern. 
By  this  means  shall  we  sound  what  skill  she  hath 

[Rettres 

Enter  La  Pucelle.  Bastard  of  Orleans,  and  others. 

Reig.  Fair  maid,  is  "t  thou  wilt  do  these  wond'rou* 
feats  ? 

Puc.  Reignier.  is  't  thou  that  thinkest  to  beguile  me' 
Where  is  the  Dauphin  ? — Come,  come  from  behind  • 
I  know  thee  well,  though  never  seen  before. 
Be  not  amaz"d.  there  's  nothing  hid  from  me* 
In  private  will  I  talk  with  thee  apart. — 
Stand  back,  my  lords,  and  give  us  leave  awhile. 

Reig.  She  takes  upon  her  bravely  at  fir.^t  dash. 

I  Tluy  nitre.* 

Puc.  Dauphin,  I  am  by  birth  a  shepherd's  daughter. 
My  wit  untrain'd  in  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven  and  our  gracious  Lady'  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate  : 
Lo  !  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs. 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  my  cheekN, 
God's  mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me ; 
And,  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty, 
'Will'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation. 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity. 
Her  aid  she  promis'd,  and  assured  success : 
In  complete  glorj-  she  reveal'd  herself; 
And,  whereas  I  was  black  and  swart  before, 
With  those  clear  rays  which  she  infu.-^'d  on  me^ 
That  beauty  am  I  bless'd  with,  which  you  see. 
Ask  me  what  question  thou  canst  possible, 
And  I  will  answer  unpremeditated  : 
My  courage  try  by  combat,  if  thou  dar'st, 
And  thou  shalt  find  that  I  exceed  my  sex. 
Resolve  on  this ;  thou  shalt  be  fortunate, 
If  thou  receive  me  for  thy  warlike  mate. 

Char.  Thou  hast  astonished  me  wth  thy  high  terms 
Only  this  proof  I  11  of  thy  valour  make : 
In  single  combat  thou  shalt  buckle  with  me, 
And  if  thou  vanquishest.  thy  words  are  true; 
Or,*  I  renounce  all  confidence  in  you.' 

Puc.  I  am  prepard.     Here  is  my  keen-edg'd  sword, 
Deck'd  with  five  flower-de-luces  on  each  side ; 
The  which  at  Touraine.  i-n  Saint  Katharine's  churchyard, 
Out  of  a  great  deal  of  old  iron  I  chose  forth. 

Char.  Then,  come  o"  God's  name  :  I  fear  no  woman. 

Puc.  And.  while  I  live.  I  '11  ne'er  flv  from  no  man; 

[Theyfigkt 

Char.  Stay,  stay  thy  hands !  thou  art  an  Amazon, 
And  fightest  with  the  sword  of  Deborah. 

Puc.  Christ's  mother  helps  me,  else  I  were  too  weai. 

Char.  Whoe'er  helps  thee,  'lis  thou  that  must  belr  nH> 
Impatiently  I  burn  with  thy  desire: 
My  heart  and  hands  thou  hast  at  once  subdued.  ^ 

Excellent  Pucelle,  if  tliy  name  be  so,  | 

Let  me  thy  servant,  and  not  sovereign,  be  : 
'T  is  the  French  Daujihin  sueth  thus  to  thee. 

Puc.  I  mu.st  not  yield  to  any  rites  of  love. 
For  my  profession  s  s^acred  from  above : 
When  I  have  chased  all  thy  foes  from  hence. 
Then  will  1  think  upon  a  recompense. 

Char.  Mean  time  look  gracious  on  thy  prostrate  thrall 

Reig.  My  lord,  methinks,  is  very  long  in  talk. 

[They  talk  apart  ' 


otherwhiles  :  in  f.  e 
'  in  you  :  not  in  f.  • 


'fly  :  la  f.  o.    '  Mnck**f 


I 


SCENE  in. 


KING  HENKY   Yl. 


436 


k 


Aim.  Doubtless  he  shrives  this  woman  to  her  smock, 
Else  ne'er  could  he  so  long  protract  his  speech. 

Reig.  Shall  we  disturb  him,  since  he  keeps  no  mean? 

Alen.  He  may  mean  more  than  we  poor  men  do  know : 
These  women  are  shrewd  tempters  with  their  tongues. 

Reig.  My,  lord,  where  are  you  ?  what  dev'ee  you  on? 

[3b  him} 
Shall  we  give  over  Orleans,  or  no  ? 

Puc.  Why,  no.  I  say :  distrustful  recreants  ! 
Fight  till  the  last  ga^p ;  I  will  be  your  guard. 

Char.  What  she  says,  I  '11  contirm :  we  '11  fight  it  out. 

Puc.  Assign'd  am  I  to  be  the  English  scourge. 
This  night  the  siege  assuredly  I  '11  raise : 
Expect  Saint  Martin's  summer,  halcyon  days, 
Since  I  have  entered  into  these  wars. 
Glory  is  like  a  circle  in  the  water, 
Which  never  ceaseth  to  enlarge  itself, 
Till  by  broad  spreading  it  disperse  to  nought. 
With  Henry's  death  the  English  circle  ends; 
Dispersed  are  the  glories  it  included. 
Now  am  I  like  that  proud  insulting  ship, 
Which  Ca5sar  and  his  fortunes  bare  at  once. 

Char.  Was  Mahomet  inspired  with  a  dove  ? 
Thou  with  an  eagle  art  inspired,  then. 
Helen,  the  mother  of  great  Constantine, 
Nor  yet  St.  Philip's  daughters  were  like  thee. 
Bright  star  of  Venus  fall'n  down  on  the  earth, 
How  may  I  reverent  worship  thee  enough  ? 

Alen.  Leave  off  delays,  and  let  us  raise  the  siege. 

Reig.  Woman,  do  what  thou  canst  to  save  our  honours. 
Drive  them  from  Orleans,  and  be  immortaliz'd. 

Char.  Presently  we  '11  try. — Come,  let 's  away  about  it: 
No  prophet  will  I  trust,  if  she  prove  false.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— London.     Tower  Hill. 
Enter   at  the   Gates,     the  Duke  of  Gloster,  with  his 
Serving-men. 
Glo.  I  am  come  to  survey  the  Tower  this  day : 
Since  Henry's  death,  I  fear,  there  is  conveyance. '■' 
Where  be  these  warders,  that  they  wait  not  here  ? 
Open  the  gates  !     'T  is  Gloster  that  now  calls. 

[Servants  knock. 
1    Ward   [lF«7/?m.]  Who's  there,  that  knocks  so  im- 
periously ? 

1  Serv.  It  is  the  noble  duke  of  Gloster. 

2  Ward.   [Within.]  Whoe'er  he  be,  you  may  not  be 

let  in. 
1   Serv.  Villains,  answer  you  so  the  lord  protector  ? 
1    Ward.  [  Within.]  The  Lord   protect  him !  so  we 
answer  him  : 
We  do  no  otherwise  than  we  are  will'd. 

Glo.  Who  will'd  you  so  ?  or  whose  will   stands  but 
mine  ? 
There  's  none  protector  of  the  realm  but  L — 
Break  up  the  gates,  I  '11  be  your  warrantize. 
Shall  I  be  flouted  thus  by  dunghill  grooms  ? 
Glosteh's  ilfen  rush  at  the  Tower  Gates.  Enter,  to  the 
gates,  WooDviLLE,  the  Lieutenant. 
Wood.  [Within.]  What  noise  is  this?  what  traitors 

have  we  here  ? 
Glo.  Lieutenant,  is  it  you  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 
Open  the  gates  !  here  's  Gloster  that  would  enter. 
Wood.  [Within.]  Have  patience,  noble  duke  ;  I  may 
not  open ; 
The  cardinal  of  Winchester  forbids: 
From  him  I  have  express  commandment, 
That  thou,  nor  none  of  thine,  shall  be  let  in. 

'  Not  in  f.  e.  »  Fraud,  theft.  '  This,  according  to  Stow,  -was  the  dress  of  a  bishop's  attendants.  ♦  SKpm  °  The  stews  in  Sonth- 
TEjk  were  under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Bishop  ofWinchester,  whose  palace  stood  near  by.  «  It  was  the  old  popular  belief,  that  the  site  of 
Damascus  was  fhe  place  where  Cain  killed  Abel.  '  This  was  the  usual  livery  of  servants.  *  A  title  applied  Op  those  who  had  contrac^ei 
I  malady  to  wbicVi  frequenters  of  the  stews  are  liable. 


Glo.  Faint-hearted  Woodville,  prizest  him  'fore  me? 
Arrogant  Winchester,  that  haughty  prelate. 
Whom  Henry,  our  late  sovereign,  ne'er  could  brook? 
Thou  art  no  friend  to  God,  or  to  the  king  : 
Open  the  gates,  or  I  '11  shut  thee  out  shortly. 

1   Serv.  Open  the  gates  unto  the  lord  protector  . 
We  '11  biirst  them  open,  if  you  come  not  quickly. 
Enter  Winchester,  and.  Servants  in  tawney  coats.' 

Win.  How  now,  ambitious  Humphrey  !  what  mean 
this. 

Glo.  Pill'd*  priest,  dost  thou  command  me  be  shut  out  ? 

Win.  I  do,  thou  most  usurping  proditor, 
And  not  protector,  of  the  king  or  realm. 

Glo.  Stand  back,  thou  manifest  conspirator, 
Thou  that  contriv'dst  to  murder  our  dead  lord  , 
Thou  that  giv'st  whores  indulgences  to  sin,* 
I  '11  canvass  thee  in  thy  broad  cardinal's  hat, 
If  thou  proceed  in  this  thy  insolence. 

Win.  Nay,  stand  thou  back ;  I  will  not  budge  a  foot : 
This  be  Damascus,^  be  thou  cursed  Cain. 
To  slay  thy  brother  Abel,  if  thou  wilt. 

Glo.  I  will  not  slay  thee,  but  I  '11  drive  thee  back. 
Thy  scarlet  robes,  as  a  child's  bearing-cloth 
I  '11  use  to  carry  thee  out  of  this  place. 

Win.  Do  what  thou  dar'st ;  I  '11  beard  thee  to  thy  face. 

Glo.  What !  am  I  dar'd,  and  bearded  to  my  face  ? — 
Draw,  men,  for  all  this  is  a  privileg'd  place; 
Blue  coats'  to  tawney  coats.  Priest,  beware  your  beard  I 
[Gloster  and  his  Men  attack  the  Bishop 
I  mean  to  tug  it,  and  to  cuff  you  soundly. 
Under  my  feet  I  stamp  thy  cardinal's  hat, 
In  spite  of  pope  or  dignities  of  church  ; 
Here  by  the  cheeks  I  '11  drag  thee  up  and  do'svn. 

Win.  Gloster,  thou  'It  answer  this  before  the  pope. 

Glo.  Winchester  goose  !'  I  cry — a  rope  !   a  rope  ! — 
Now  beat  them  hence ;  why  do  you  let  them  stay  ? — 
Thee  I  '11  chase  hence,  thou  wolf  in  sheep's  array. — 
Out,  tawney  coats  ! — out,  scarlet  hypocrite  ! 
Here  Gloster's  Men  beat  out  the  CardinaPs  Men,  and 

enter,  in  the  hurly-burly,  the  Mayor  of  London  ana 

his  Officers. 

May.  Fie,  lords  !  that  you,  being  supreme  magistrates 
Thus  contumeliously  should  break  the  peace  ! 

Glo.  Peace,  mayor  !  thou  knowest  little  of  my  wrongs 
Here  's  Beaufort,  that  regards  nor  God  nor  king, 
Hath  here  distrain'd  the  Tower  to  his  use. 

Win.  Here  's  Gloster  too,  a  foe  to  citizens ; 
One  that  still  motions  war,  and  never  peace, 
O'ercharging  your  free  purses  with  large  fines  ; 
That  seeks  to  overthrow  religion. 
Because  he  is  protector  of  the  realm  ; 
And  would  have  armour,  here,  out  of  the  Tower, 
To  crown  himself  king,  and  suppress  the  prince. 

Glo.  I  will  not  answer  thee  with  words,  but  blows. 
[Here  they  skir'nish  again. 

May.  Nought  rests  for  me,  in  this  tumultuous  strife, 
But  to  make  open  proclamation. — 
Come,  officer :  as  loud  as  thou  canst  cry. 
Off.  All  manner  of  men,  assembled  here  in  arms  this  day. 

against  God^s  peace,  and  the  king's,  we  charge  and 

command  you,  in  his  highness'  name,  to  repair  to  your 

several  dwelling-places ;  and  not  to  wear,  handle^  or 

use,  any   sword,  weapon,  or   dagger,    hencefonoaird, 

upon  pain  of  death. 

Glo.  Cardinal,  I  '11  be  no  breaker  of  the  law  ; 
But  we  shall  meet,  and  break  our  minds  at  large. 

Win.  Gloster,  we  '11  meet  to  thy  dear  cost  be  sure  : 


\ 


436 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT    I. 


Thy  heart  blood  I  will  have  for  this  day's  -work.  I  That  walk'd  about  me  even-  minute-while, 

haij.  1  "11  call  for  clubs'  if  you  will  not  away. —       j  And  if  I  did  but  stir  out  of  my  bed, 
This  cardinal  's  more  hauuhty  than  the  devil.  j  Ready  tlicy  were  to  shoot  me  to  the  heart. 

Glo.  Mayor,   farewell:    tliou  dost    but  what   thoa  ]      Sal    I  grieve  to  hear  what  torments  you  endur'd, 
mayst.  I  But  we  will  be  reveng'd  sufficiently. 

liln.  Abominable  Gloster  !  guard  thy  head  :  j  Now,  it  is  supper  time  in  Orleans 

For  1  intend  to  have  it  oflTerc  long.  [Ermnt.  1  Here,  through  this  grate,  I  can  count  every  one, 

May.  See  the  coast  ciear'd,  and  then  we  -will  depart. —  :  And  view  the  Frenchmen  how  they  fortify  : 
(Jood  God  !  that'  nobles  should  such  stomachs  bear  !      |  Let  us  look  in  :  the  sight  will  mucii  deiisht  thee. — 
I  myself  fight  not  once  in  forty  year.  [Exeunt.  I  Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  and  sir  William  Glansdale. 

Before  Orleans. 


SCEXE  IV.— France 
Hnfrr  on  the  H<i//a-,  the  Ma.'ster- Gunner  and  his  Son. 

M  Gun.  Sirrah,  thou  know'st  how  Orleans  is  be.sieg'd. 
And  how  the  English  have  the  suburbs  won. 

So7i.  Father.  I  know  ;  and  oft  have  shot  at  them, 
Howe'er  tmfortunate  I  miss"d  my  aim. 

]\f  Giin.  But  now  thou  shalt  not.  Be  thou  rul'd  by  me : 
Thief  master-gunner  am  I  of  this  town  : 
Something  I  must  do  to  procure  me  grace. 
The  prince's  espials  have  informed  me. 
How  the  English,  in  the  suburbs  close  entrench'd, 
Wont*  through  a  secret  grate  of  iron  bars 
In  yonder  tower,  to  overpcer  the  city  ; 
And  thence  discover,  how.  with  most  advantage. 
They  may  vex  us  vrith  shot,  or  -with  assault. 
To  intercept  this  inconvenience, 
A  piece  of  ordnance  'gainst  it  I  have  plac'd  ; 
And  fully  even  these  three  days  have  I  watch'd. 
If  I  could  see  them.     N'ow,  boy,  do  thou  watch. 
For  I  can  stay  no  longer  on  my  post. 
If  thou  ppy'st  any.  run  and  bring  me  word. 
And  thou  shalt  find  me  at  the  governor's. 


Let  me  have  your  express  opinions. 
j  Where  is  best  place  to  make  our  battery  next. 


Son.  Father,  I  warrant  you  :  take  you  no  care  : 
'  "11  never  trouble  you.  if  I  may  spy  them. 
Enter,  in  an  upper  Chamber  of  a   Tower,  the  Lords 

Salisbury  ojirf  Talbot;  Sir  William  Glansdale. 

Sir  Thomas  Garor-We.  and  others. 

Sal.  Talbot,  my  life,  my  joy  !  again  return'd  ? 
How  wert  thou  handled,  being  prisoner. 
Or  by  what  means  got'.st  thou  to  be  releas'd. 
Discourse.  I  pr'\-thee.  on  this  turret's  top. 

Tn!.  The  duke  of  Bedford  had  a  prisoner. 
Called  the  brave  lord  of  Ponton  de  Santrailes ; 
For  him  I  was  exchang'd  and  ran.«omed. 
But  wrth  a  baiser  man  of  arms  by  far. 
Once,  in  contempt,  they  would  have  barter'd  me  : 
Which  I.  disdaining,  scorn'd  ;  and  craved  death, 
Rather  than  I  would  be  so  v\\e*  esteem'd : 
In  fine,  redeemd  I  was  as  I  desir'd. 
But,  0 !  the  treacherous  Fastolfe  wounds  my  heart : 
WHiom  with  my  bare  fists  I  would  execute, 
it  I  now  had  him  brought  into  my  power. 

Sal.  Yet  tell'st  thou  not,  how  thou  wert  entertain'd. 

Tal.  With  scoffs,  and  scorns,  and  contumelious  taunts. 
Ii;  open  market-place  produc'd  they  me. 
To  be  a  public  spectacle  to  all  :  ' 

Here,  said  they,  is  the  terror  of  the  French. 
Tlie  scare-crow  that  affriiihts  our  children  so. 
Then  broke  I  from  the  officers  that  led  me. 
And  with  my  nails  digg'd  stones  out  of  the  ground. 
To  L'rrl  at  the  beholders  of  my  shame. 
My  grisly  countenance  made  others  fly  ; 
None  durst  come  near  for  fear  of  sudden  death. 
In  iron  walls  they  deem'd  me  not  secure  ; 
So  great  fear  of  my  name  'mongst  them  was  .spread. 
That  they  suppos'd  I  could  rend  bars  of  steel, 
And  .'^purn  in  pieces  posts  of  adamant. 
Wherefore  a  guard  of  chosen  shot  I  had 


Gar.  I  think,  at  the  north  gate  :  for  there  stand  lorcK 
I      Glan.  And  I,  here,  at  the  bulwark  of  the  bridge. 
I      Tal.  For  aught  I  sec.  this  city  must  be  famish'd, 
:0r  with  light  skirmishes  enfeebled.       [Gargrave /aH 
[Shot  from  the  Town.     Salisbury  and  Sir  Tuo 
Sal.  0  Lord  !  have  mercy  on  us.  wretched  sinnei- 
Gar.  0  Lord  !  have  mercy  on  me.  woeful  man. 
Tal.  What  chance  is  this,  that  suddenly  hath  cro>.- 
Speak  Salisbury-:  at  least,  if  thou  canst  speak:  [us  V — 
How  far'st  thou,  mirror  of  all  martial  men  ? 
One  of  thine  eyes,  and  thy  cheek's  side  struck  off! — 
Accursed  tower  !  accursed  fatal  hand. 
That  hath  contriv'd  this  woeful  tragedy  ! 
In  thirteen  battles  Salisbury  o'crcame  : 
Henry  the  fifth  he  first  train'd  to  the  wars : 
Whilst  any  trump  did  sound,  or  drum  struck  up. 
His  sword  did  ne'er  leave  striking  in  the  field. — 
Yet  liv'st  thou,  Salisbury?  though  thy  speech  doth  fa>l 
One  eye  thou  haM  to  look  to  heaven  for  grace  : 
The  sun  vriXh.  one  eye  •sncweth  all  the  world. — 
[Exit,  j  Heaven,  be  thou  gracious  to  none  alive.  '• 


I  If  Salisbury  want  mercy  at  thy  hands  ! 
Bear  hence  his  body.  I  will  help  to  bury  it. — 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave.  hast  thou  any  life  ? 
Speak  unto  Talbot :  nay.  look  up  to  him. 
Salisbury,  cheer  thy  spirit  ^\■^th  this  comfort : 
Thou  shalt  not  die,  whiles 


The  ojo&l  city  cry  ii»  time'.  »f  tumnlt.      »  the»e  :  in  folio 


He  beckons  ^^-ith  his  hand,  and  smiles  on  me, 

As  who  should  say,  "  When  I  am  dead  and  gone. 

Remember  to  avenge  me  on  the  French." — 

Plantagenet,  I  will :  and.  Nero-like, 

Play  on  the  lute,  beholding  the  towns  burn  : 

Wretched  shall  France  be  only  in  my  name. 

[An  Alanim  :  it  thunders  and  lighti'i:^ 
What  stir  is  this  ?     What  tumult  's  in  the  heaven-; ' 
Whence  cometh  this  alarum,  and  the  noise  ? 
Enter  a  JSIessenf^er. 

Mess.  My  lord,  my  lord  !  the  French  have  gath' 
The  Dauphin,  with  one  Joan  la  Pucelle  join'd.   [he  • 
A  holy  prophetess,  new  risen  up. 
Is  come  ^^^th  a  great  power  to  raise  the  siege. 

[Salisbury  lifts  himself  up  and  groi'^ 

Tal.  Hear.  hear,  how  dying  Salisbury  doth  groan ' 
It  irks  his  heart  he  cannot  be  reveng'd. — 
Frenchmen,  I  '11  be  a  Salisbury  to  you, 
Pucelle  or  puzzel.  dolphin  or  dogfish. 
Your  hearts  I  '11  stamp  out  with  my  horse's  heels, 
And  make  a  quasmire  of  your  mingled  brains. — 
Convey  me  Salisbury  into  his  tent 
And  then  we  '11  try  what  dastard  Frenchmen  dare. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  out  th/"  bodut 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     Before  one  of  the  Gate.=. 
Alarum.     Skirmishings.     Talbot pur-turs the  Davphi 
and  drives  him  ;  then  enter  Joan  la  Pivelle. dnn 
Englishmen  before  her.     Then  enter  Talbot. 
Tal.  Where  is  my  strength,  my  valour,  and  my  ion 

'  went  :  in  folio.      ♦  pil'd  :  in  folio. 


/ 


SCSNE   I. 


KING  HENKY  YI. 


43' 


Our  English  troops  retire,  I  cannot  stay  them  ; 
A  -vwoman  clad  in  armour  chaseth  them. 

Enter  La  Pucelle. 
Here,  here  she  comes. — I  '11  have  a  bout  with  thee  : 
Devil,  or  devil's  dam,  I  '11  conjure  thee  : 
Blood  will  I  draw  on  thee  ;  tliou  art  a  witch', 
And  straightway  give  thy  soul  to  him  thou  serv'st. 

Puc.  Come,  come ;  't  is  only  I  that  must  disgrace  thee. 

[They  fight. 

Tal.  Heavens,  can  you  suffer  hell  so  to  prevail  ? 
My  breast  I  '11  burst  with  straining  of  my  courage, 
And  from  my  shoulders  crack  my  arms  asunder. 
But  I  will  chastise  this  high-minded  strumpet. 

Puc.  Talbot,  farewell ;  thy  hour  is  not  yet  come  : 
I  must  go  victual  Orleans  forthwith. 
O'ertake  me  if  thou  canst ;  I  scorn  thy  strength. 
Go,  go,  cheer  up  thy  hungers-starved  men; 
Help  Salisbury  to  make  his  testament: 
This  day  is  ours,  as  many  more  shall  be. 

[Pucelle  enters  the  town.,  with  Soldiers. 

Tal.  My  thoughts  are  whirled  like  a  potter's  wheel  ; 
I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  what  I  do. 
A  witch  by  fear,  not  force,  like  Hannibal, 
Drives  back  our  troops,  and  conquers  as  she  lists  : 
So  bees  with  .smoke,  and  doves  with  noisome  stench, 
Are  from  their  hives  and  houses  driven  away. 
They  call'd  us  for  our  fierceness  English  dogs  ; 
Now,  like  to  whelps,  we  crying  run  away. 

[A  short  Alarum. 
Hark,  countrymen  !  either  renew  the  fight, 
■  Or  tear  the  lions  out  of  England's  coat ; 
■    Renounce  your  soil,  give  sheep  in  lions'  stead  : 
Sheep  run  not  half  so  treacherous^  from  the  w^olf, 
Or  horse,  or  oxen,  from  the  leopard. 
As  you  fly  from  your  oft-subdued  slaves. 

[Alarum.     Another  skirmish. 
It  will  not  be. — Retire  into  your  trenches  : 
You  all  consented  unto  Salisbury's  death. 
For  none  would  strike  a  stroke  in  his  revenge. — 
!   Pucelle  is  enter' d  into  Orleans 


In  spite  of  us,  or  aught  that  we  could  do. 

0  !  would  I  were  to  die  with  Salisbury. 

The  shame  hereof  will  make  me  hide  my  head. 

[Alarum.  Retreat.  Exeunt  Talbot  and  his  Forces 

SCENE  VI.— The  Same. 

Flourish.     Enter,  on  the  Walls,  Pccelle,  Charlks, 

Reignier,  ALENfON,  and  Soldiers. 

.Puc.  Advance  our  w^a^•ing  colours  on  the  walls ! 
Rescu'd  is  Orleans  from  the  Englisli  wolves*  : 
Thus  Joan  la  Pucelle  hath  pertbrm'd  lier  word 

Char.  Divinest  creature,  bright  Astra;a's  daughter 
How  shall  I  honour  thee  for  this  success  ? 
Thy  promises  are  like  Adonis'  gardens, 
That  one  day  bloom'd,  and  fruitful  were  the  next,— 
France,  triumph  in  thy  glorious  prophetess  ! — 
Recover'd  is  the  town  of  Orleans  : 
More  blessed  hap  did  ne'er  befall  our  state. 

Reig.  Why  ring  not  out  the  bells  aloud  throughout 
the  tow-n  ? 
Dauphin,  command  the  citizens  make  bonfires 
And  feast  and  banquet  in  the  open  streets. 
To  celebrate  the  joy  that  God  hath  given  us. 

Alen    All  France  will  be  replete  with  mirth  and  joy, 
When  they  shall  hear  how  we  have  play'd  the  men. 

Char.  'T  is  Joan,  not  we,  by  wliom  tlie  day  is  won. 
For  which  I  will  divide  my  crown  with  her ; 
And  all  the  priests  and  friars  in  my  realm 
Shall  in  procession  sing  her  endless  praise. 
A  statelier  pyramis  to  her  I'll  rear. 
Than  Rhodope's,  or  Memphis',  ever  was  : 
In  memory  of  her,  when  she  is  dead, 
Her  ashes,  in  an  urn  more  precious 
Than  the  rich-jewel'd  coffer  of  Darius, 
Transported  shall  be  at  high  festivals 
Before  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 
No  longer  on  Saint  Dennis  will  we  cry, 
But  Joan  la  Pucelle  shall  be  France's  saint. 
Come  in  ;  and  let  us  banquet  royally, 
After  this  golden  day  of  victory.        [Flourish.  ExeunL 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— The  Same. 
Enter  tothe  Gates,  a  French  Sergeant,  and  Two  Sentinels. 

Serg.  Sirs,  take  your  places,  and  be  vigilant. 
If  any  noise,  or  soldier,  you  perceive. 
Near  to  the  walls,  by  some  apparent  sign 
Let  us  have  knowledge  at  the  court  of  guard. 

[Exit  Sergeant. 
1  Sent.  Sergeant,  you  shall.     Thus  are  poor  servitors 
(When  others  sleep  upon  tlieir  quiet  beds) 
Constrain'd  to  watch  in  darkness,  rain,  and  cold. 
Enter  Talbot,  Bedford,  Burgundy,  and  Forces,  ivith 
scaling  Ladders :  their  Dnnns  beating  a  dead  march. 
Tal.  Lord  regent,  and  redoubted  Burgundy, 
Ry  whose  approach  the  regions  of  Artois, 
Walloon,  and  Picardy.  are  friends  to  us. 
This  happy  night  the  Frenchmen  are  secure, 
Having  all  day  carous'd  and  banqueted. 
Embrace  we,  then,  this  opportunity, 
I  As  fitting  best  to  quittance  their  deceit, 
I  Co/itriv'd  by  art,  and  baleful  sorcery. 

Bed    Coward  of  France  ! — how  much  he  wrongs  his 
fame, 

_>  It  was  an  old  populai  bslief,  that  if  a  witch  lost  blood,  her  po-wer 
li  from  ;he  second  fobo 


Despairing  of  his  own  arm's  fortitude, 

To  join  with  witches,  and  the  help  of  hell. 

Bur.  Traitors  have  never  other  company. 
But  what 's  that;  Pucelle.  whom  they  terra  so  pure  ? 

Tal.  A  maid,  they  say. 

Bed.  A  maid,  and  be  so  martial  ? 

Bur.  Pray  God,  she  prove  not  masculine  ere  long; 
If  underneath  the  standard  of  the  French, 
She  carry  armour,  as  she  hath  begun. 

Tal.  Well,  let  them  practice  and  converse  with  spirit? ; 
God  is  our  fortress,  in  whose  conquering  name 
Let  us  resolve  to  scale  their  flinty  bulwarks. 

Bed.  Ascend,  brave  Talbot  ;  we  will  follow  thee. 

Tal.  Not  all  together :  better  far,  I  guess. 
That  we  do  make  our  entrance  several  ways, 
That  if  it  chance  the  one  of  us  do  fail. 
The  other  yet  may  rise  against  their  force. 

Bed.  Agreed.     I  '11  to  yon  corner. 

Bur.  And  I  io  this. 

Tal.    And   here   will   Talbot   mount,  or   make   his 
grave. — 
Now,  Salisbury,  for  thee,  and  for  the  right 
Of  English  Henry,  shall  this  night  appear 

iras  ended.      '  hungry  :  in  f.  «       '  Pope  reads  :  tiniorons      •  woItm 


438 


FmST  EART  OF 


ACT   II. 


How  much  in  duty  I  am  bound  to  both. 

\Thc  English  scale  the  WjUs.  crying  St    George! 
a  Talbot  !  and  all  enter  the  Town. 

Sent.  [Within]    Arm,  arm!  the  enemy  doth  make 
a.-sault  ! 
Frenchmm  leap  over  tlie   Walls  in  their  shirts.     Enter, 

several  vaij.'!,  BASTAim,   AbENfON,   Reignier,  half 

really^  and  half  unready. 

Alen.  How  now,  my  lords!  what,  all  unready  so? 

Bast.  Unready  ?  ay,  and  glad  we  'seap'd  so  well. 

Reig.  'T  was  time,  I  trow,  to  wake   and  leave  our 
beds, 
Hearing  alarums  at  our  chamber  doors. 

Alen.  Of  all  exploits,  since  first  I  followed  arms, 
Ne'er  heard  I  of  a  warlike  enterprise 
More  venturous,  or  desperate  than  this. 

Ba.'^t.  I  tliink,  this  Talbot  be  a  fiend  of  hell. 

Reig.  If  not  of  hell,  the  heavens,  sure,  favour  him. 

Alen.  Here  comcth  Charles:  I  marvel,  how  he  sped. 
Enter  Charlks  and  La  Pucelle. 

Bcuit.  Tut !  holy  Joan  was  his  defen.sivc  guard. 

Char.  Is  this  thy  cxinning,  thou  deceitful  dame  ? 
Uidst  thou  at  first,  to  flatter  us  withal, 
Make  us  jiartakcrs  of  a  little  gain. 
That  now  our  lo.^s  might  be  ten  times  so  much? 

Pvc.  Wherefore  i.s  Charles  impatient  with  his  friend  ? 
At  all  times  will  you  have  my  power  alike  ? 
Sleeping  or  waking  must  I  still  prevail, 
Or  will  you  blame,  and  lay  the  fault  on  me  ? — 
Improvident  soldiers  !  had  your  watch  been  good, 
This  sudden  mischief  never  could  have  fallen. 

Char.  Duke  of  Alen^on,  this  was  your  default, 
That,  being  captain  of  the  watch  to-night. 
Did  look  no  better  to  that  weighty  charge. 

Alen.  Had  all  your  quarters  been  as  safely  kept, 
As  that  wliereof  I  had  the  government, 
We  had  not  been  thus  shamefully  surpris'd. 

Bast.  Mine  was  secure. 

Reig-  And  so  was  mine,  my  lord. 

Char.  And  for  myself,  most  part  of  all  this  night, 
Within  her  qiiarter,  and  mine  own  precinct, 
I  was  employ'd  in  passing  to  and  fro, 
About  relieving  of  the  .sentinels  : 
Then,  how,  or  which  way,  should   they  first  break  in  ? 

Puc.  Question,  my  lords,  no  further  of  the  case, 
How,  or  which  way:  'i  is  sure,  they  found  some  place 
But  weakly  guarded,  where  the  breach  was  made; 
.And  now  there  rests  no  other  shift  but  this, — 
To  gather  our  soldiers,  scattered  and  dispers'd. 
And  lay  new  platforms*  to  endamage  them. 
Alarum.     Enter  an  Engli.-<h  Soldier,  crying,  a  Talhot  ! 

a  Talbot  !     They  fly,  leaving  their  Clothes  behind. 

Sold.  1  Ml  be  so  bold  to  take  what  they  have  left. 
The  cry  of  Talbot  serves  me  for  a  sword; 
For  I  have  loarien  me  with  many  spoils, 
Using  no  other  weapon  but  his  name.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— OrIean.s.     Within  the  To\^ti. 
Enter  Talbot,  Bedford,  Burgundy,  a   Captain,  and 
others. 
Bid.  The  day  begins  to  break,  and  nisht  is  fled, 
Whose  pitchy  mantle  over-veiTd  the  earth. 
Here  sound  retreat,  and  cca«c  our  hot  pursuit. 

{Retreat  sounded. 
Tal    Bring  forth  the  body  of  old  Salisbury; 
And  here  advance  it  in  the  markct-i)l:iec, 
Tlie  middle  centre  of  this  cursed  town— 1 
Now  have  I  paid  my  vow  unto  his  soul  ; 
For  every  drop  of  blood  was  drawn  from  him, 

'  Half-dressid       '  Plots,  or  plant 


There  have  at  least  five  Frenchmen  died  to-night. 

And  that  hereafter  ages  may  behold 

What  ruin  happcn'd  in  revenge  of  him. 

Within  their  chiefcst  temple  I  '11  erect 

A  tomb,  wherein  his  corpse  shall  be  inte'-r'd  : 

Upon  the  which,  that  every  one  may  read, 

Shall  be  engrav'd  the  sack  of  Orleans, 

The  treacherous  manner  of  his  mournful  death, 

And  what  a  terror  he  had  been  to  France. 

But,  lords,  in  all  our  bloody  massacre. 

I  muse,  we  met  not  with  the  Dauphin's  grace, 

His  new-come  champion,  virtuous  Joan  of  Arc, 

Nor  any  of  his  false  confederates. 

Bed.  'T  is  thought,  lord  Talhot,  when  the  fight  began 
Hous'd  on  the  sudden  from  their  drowsy  beds, 
They  did,  amongst  the  troops  of  armed  men, 
Leap  o'er  the  walls  for  refuge  in  the  field. 

Bur.  Myself,  as  far  as  I  could  well  discern, 
For  smoke,  and  dusky  vapours  of  the  night. 
Am  sure  I  scar'd  the  Dauphin,  and  his  trull ; 
When  arm  in  arm  they  both  came  swiftly  running, 
Like  to  a  pair  of  loving  turtle-doves. 
That  could  not  live  asunder,  day  or  night. 
After  that  things  are  set  in  order  here. 
We  '11  follow  them  with  all  the  power  we  have. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  All  hail,  my  lords  !     Which  of  this  princely 
train 
Call  ye  the  warlike  Talbot,  for  his  acts 
So  much  applauded  through  the  realm  of  France  ? 

Tal.  Here  is  the  Talbot ;  who  would  speak  with 
him? 

Mess.  The  \artuous  lady,  countess  of  Auvergne, 
With  modesty  admiring  thy  renown, 
By  me  entreats,  great  lord,  thou  wouldst  vouchsafe 
To  visit  her  poor  ca-stle  where  she  lies  ; 
That  she  may  boast  she  hath  beheld  the  man 
Whose  glory  fills  the  world  with  loud  report. 

Bur.  Is  it  even  so  ?     Nay,  then.  I  see,  our  wars 
Will  turn  unto  a  peaceful  comic  sport. 
When  ladies  crave  to  be  encounter'd  with. — 
You  may  not,  my  lord,  despise  her  gentle  suit. 

Tnl.  Ne'er  trust  me  then  ;  for  when  a  world  of  men 
Could  not  prevail  with  all  their  oratory. 
Yet  hath  a  woman's  kindness  over-rul'd. — 
And  therefore  tell  her,  I  return  great  thanks. 
And  in  submission  will  attend  on  her. — 
Will  not  your  honours  bear  me  company  ? 

Bed.  No,  truly,  it  is  more  than  manners  will , 
And  I  have  heard  it  said,  unbidden  guests 
Are  often  welcomest  when  they  are  gone. 

Tal.  Well  then,  alone,  since  there  's  no  remedy, 
I  mean  to  prove  this  lady's  courtesy.  [miir 

Come  hither,  captain.  [Whispers.] — You  perceive  lu) 

Capt.  I  do,  my  lord,  and  mean  accordingly. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Auvergne.     Court  of  the  Castle. 

Enter  the  Countess  and  her  Porter. 
Count.  Porter,  remember  what  I  gave  in  charge  ; 
And.  when  vou  have  done  so.  bring  the  keys  to  me. 
Port.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit 

Count.  The  plot  is  laid  :  if  all  things  fall  out  right, 
I  shall  as  famous  be  by  this  exploit, 
As  Scythian  Thomyris  by  Cyrus'  death. 
Great  is  the  rumour  of  this  dreadful  knight, 
And  his  achievements  of  no  less  account : 
Fain  would  mine  eyes  be  witness  with  mine  earn, 
1  To  give  their  censure  of  these  rare  reports. 


y 


POENE    IV. 


KING  HENRY   YL 


439 


I 


Enter  Messenger  and  Talbot. 

Mi  55.  Madam,  according  as  yovir  lady.ship  desir'd, 
B)'  message  crav'd,  so  is  lord  Talbot  come. 

Count.  And  he  is  welcome. — ^What !  is  this  the  man  ? 

Mess.  Madam,  it  is. 

Count.  Is  this  the  scourge  of  France  ? 

Is  this  the  Talbot,  so  much  fear'd  abroad, 
That  with  his  name  the  mothers  still  their  babes  ? 
I  see  repoit  is  fabulous  and  false  : 
[  thought  I  should  have  seen  some  Hercules, 
A  second  Hector  for  his  grim  aspect, 
And  large  proportion  of  his  strong-knit  limbs. 
Alas  !  this  is  a  child,  a  silly  dwarf: 
It  cannot  be,  this  weak  and  writhled  shrimp 
Should  strike  such  terror  to  his  enemies. 

Tal.  Madam,  I  have  been  bold  to  trouble  you  ; 
But,  since  your  ladyship  is  not  at  leisure, 
I  '11  sort  some  other  time  to  visit  you. 

Count.  What  means  he  nowP-Ujo,  ask  him,  whither 
he  goes. 

Mess.  Stay,  my  lord  Talbot;  for  my  lady  craves 
To  know  the  cause  of  your  abrupt  departure. 

7a?.  Marry,  for  that  she  "s  in  a  "wrong  belief, 
\  go  to  certify  her  Talbot 's  here. 

Re-enter  Porter,  with  Keys. 

Count.  If  thou  be  he,  then  art  thou  prisoner. 

Tal.  Prisoner  !  to  whom  ? 

Count.  To  me,  blood-thirsty  lord  ; 

And  for  that  cause  I  train'd  thee  to  my  house. 
Long  time  thy  shadow  hath  been  thrall  to  me, 
For  in  my  gallery  thy  picture  hangs; 
But  now  the  substance  shall  endure  the  like, 
And  I  will  chain  these  legs  and  arms  of  thine, 
That  hast  by  t>Tanny  these  many  years, 
Wasted  our  country,  slain  our  citizens, 
And  sent  our  sons  and  husbands  captivate. 

Tal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Couni.  Laughest  thou,  wretch  ?  thy  mirth  shall  turn 
to  moan. 

Tal.  I  laugh  to  see  your  ladyship  so  fond. 
To  think  that  yc<u  have  aught  but  Talbot's  shadow, 
Whereon  to  practise  your  severity. 

Count.  Why,  art  not  thou  the  man  ? 

Tal.  I  am  indeed. 

Count.  Then  have  I  substance  too. 

Tal.  No,  no,  I  am  but  shadow  of  myself: 
You  are  deceiv'd,  my  substance  is  not  here; 
For  what  you  see,  is  but  the  smallest  part 
And  least  proportion  of  humanity. 
[  tell  you,  madam,  were  the  whole  frame  here, 
ft  is  of  such  a  spacious  lofty  pitch, 
Vour  roof  were  not  sufficient  to  conta'n  it. 

Coimt.  This  is  a  riddling  merchant'  for  the  nonce : 
He  will  be  here,  and  yet  he  is  not  here : 
Flow  can  these  contrarieties  agree  ? 

Tal.  That  will  I  show  you,  lady^,  presently. 
Ue   win/Is   his    Horn.     Drums   .strike  up ;    a   Peal  of 

Ordnance.     The  Gates  being  forced,  enter  Soldiers. 
How  say  you,  madam  ?  are  you  now  persuaded, 
Thit  Talbot  is  but  shadow  of  himself? 
These  are  his  substance,  sinews,  arms,  and  strength, 
With  which  he  yoketh  your  rebellious  necks, 
Razeth  your  cities,  and  subverts  your  towns. 
And  in  a  moment  makes  them  desolate. 

Count.  Victorious  Talbot,  pardon  my  abuse: 
I  find,  thou  art  no  less  than  fame  hath  bruited. 
And  more  than  may  be  gather'd  by  thy  shape. 
Let  my  presumption  not  provoke  thy  wrath  : 
For  I  am  sorry,  that  with  reverence 

»  This  word  wa*  ofler.  -isei  as  a  ttim  of  contempt       »  This     ird  i 


I  did  not  entertain  thee  as  thou  art. 

Tal.  Be  not  dismay'd.  fair  lady ;  nor  misconstrue 
The  mind  of  Talbot,  as  you  did  mistake 
The  outward  composition  of  his  body. 
What  you  have  done  hath  not  offended  me : 
N'^  other  satisfaction  do  I  crave. 
But  only,  with  your  patience,  that  we  may 
Tpte  of  your  wine,  and  see  what  cates  you  have; 
Foi  soldiers'  stomachs  always  serve  them  well. 

Count.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  think  me  honourtjd 
To  feast  so  great  a  warrior  in  my  house.  [ExemU 

SCENE  IV.— London.     The  Temple  Garden. 

Enter  the  Earls  of  Somerset.  Suffolk,  and  W.^rwick  , 

Richard  Plantagenet.  Vernon,  and  a  Lawyer. 

Plan.  Great  lords,  and  gentlemen,  what  means  thia 
Dare  no  man  answer  in  a  case  of  truth  ?  [bilenoe  ' 

Sitf.  Within  the  Temple  hall  we  were  too  loud : 
The  garden  here  is  more  convenient. 

Plan.  Then  say  at  once,  if  I  maintain'd  the  truth, 
Or  else  was  wrangling  Somerset  in  the  error  ? 

Svf  'Faith.  I  have  been  a  truant  in  the  law, 
And  never  yet  could  frame  my  will  to  it : 
And.  therefore,  frame  the  law  unto  my  \\-ill. 

Som.    Judge  you,  my  lord  of  Warwick,  then,  be- 
tween us. 

War.  Between  two  hawlcs,  which  flies  the  highei 
pitch. 
Between  two  dogs,  which  hath  the  deeper  mouth, 
Between  two  blades,  which  bears  the  better  temper, 
Between  two  horses,  which  doth  bear  him  best, 
Between  two  girls,  which  hath  the  merriest  eye, 
I  have,  perhaps,  some  shallow  spirit  of  judgment ; 
But  in  these  nice  sharp  quillets  of  the  law, 
Good  faith.  I  am  no  wiser  than  a  daw. 

Plan.  Tut,  tut !  here  is  a  mannerly  forbearanoft 
The  truth  appears  so  naked  on  my  side. 
That  any  purblind  eye  may  find  it  out. 

Som.  And  on  my  side  it  is  so  well  apparell'd, 
So  clear,  so  shining,  and  so  evident, 
That  it  will  glimmer  through  a  blind  man's  eye. 

Plaji.    Since  you  are   tongue-tied,  and  so  loath  to 
speak, 
In  dumb  significants  proclaim  your  thoughts. 
Let  him,  that  is  a  true-born  gentleman. 
And  stands  upon  the  honour  of  his  birth. 
If  he  suppose  that  I  have  pleaded  truth. 
From  off  this  brier  pluck  a  white  rose  vsith  me. 

Som.  Let  him  that  is  no  coward,  nor  no  flatterer 
But  dare  maintain  the  party  of  the  truth. 
Pluck  a  red  rose  from  off  this  thorn  with  me. 

War.  I  love  no  colours  ;  and,  without  all  colour 
Of  base  insinuating  flattery, 
I  pluck  this  white  rose  with  Plantagenet. 

Suf.  I  pluck  this  red  rose  -w-ith  young  Somerset; 
And  "say  withal,  I  think  he  held  the  right. 

Ver.  Stay,  lords,  and  gentlemen  :  and  pluck  no  mor« 
Till  you  conclude  that  he,  upon  whose  side 
The  fewest  roses  are  cropp'd  from  the  tree, 
Shall  yield  the  other  in  the  right  opinion. 

Som.  Good  master  Vernon,  it  is  well  objected: 
If  I  have  fewest,  I  subscribe  in  silence. 

Plan.  And  I. 

Ver.  Then,  for  the  truth  and  plainness  of  the  cu^ 
I  pluck  this  pale  and  maiden  blo.«som  here, 
Giving  m.  verdict  on  the  white  rose  side. 

Som.  I*rick  not  your  finger  as  you  pluck  it  off; 
Lest,  bleeding,  you  do  paint  the  white  rose  red, 
And  fall  on  my  side  so,  against  your  will. 
not  in  f.  • 


440 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Acrr  11. 


Ver.  If  1,  my  lord,  for  my  opinion  bleed, 
Opinion  shall  be  surgeon  to  my  hurl, 
And  keep  me  on  the  side  where  still  I  am. 

Som.  Well,  well,  come  on  :  who  el.<e? 

Late.  Unless  my  study  and  my  books  be  false, 
The  argument  you  held  wa.s  wrong  in  you  ; 
In  sign  whereof,  I  pluck  a  white  rose  too. 

Plan.  Now.  Somerset,  wlierc  is  your  argument  r 

Som.  Here,  in  my  scabbard  ;  meditating  that. 
Shall  dye  your  white  rose  in  a  bloody  red. 

Plan.  .Mean   time,  your  cheeks  do  cotmterfeit  our 
roses : 
For  pale  they  look  with  fear,  as  witnessing 
Tlie  truth  on  our  side. 

Som.  No,  Plantagenet. 

'T  is  not  for  fear,  but  anger ;  and  thy  cheeks 
Blush  for  pure  shame  to  counterfeit  our  roses, 
And  yet  thy  tongue  will  not  confess  thy  error. 

Plan.  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  canker.  Somerset? 

Som.  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  thorn,  Plantagenet  ? 

Plan.  Ay.  sharp  and  piercing,  to  maintain  his  truth, 
Whiles  thy  consuming  canker  eats  his  fal.'^eliood. 

Som.  Well.  I  "li  tind  friend.s  to  wear  my  bleeding-roses. 
That  s^hall  maintain  what  I  have  said  is  true, 
Where  false  Plantagenet  dare  not  be  seen. 

Plan.  Now,  by  this  maiden  blossom  in  my  hand, 
1  scorn  thee  and  thy  faction',  peevish  boy. 

St//.  Turn  not  thy  scorns  this  way,  Plantagenet. 

Plan.  Proud  Poole.  I  will ;  and  scorn  both  him  and 
thee, 

Suf.  I  "11  turn  my  part  thereof  into  thy  throat. 

Som.  Away,  away,  good  William  De-la-Poole. 
We  grace  the  yeoman,  by  conversmg  with  him. 

War.  Now,  by  God's  will,  thou  wrong' st  him,  Somer- 
set : 
His  grandfather  was  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence, 
Third  son  to  the  third  Edward,  king  of  England. 
Spring  crest  less  yeomen  from  so  deep  a  root  ? 

Plan,  He  braves'  him  on  the  places  privilege, 
t")r  durst  not.  for  hi.s  craven  heart,  say  thus. 

Som.  By  him  that  made  me,  I  '11  maintain  my  words 
Dn  any  plot  of  ground  in  Christendom. 
Was  not  thy  father.  Richard  earl  of  Cambridge, 
For  treason  executed  in  our  late  king's  days  ? 
And  by  his  tn-a.^on  stand'st  not  thou  attainted, 
•jorrupted.  and  exempt  from  ancient  gentry  ? 
His  trei^pa.'js  yet  lives  guilty  in  thy  blood  ; 
And  till  thou  be  restor'd,  thou  art  a  yeoman. 

Plan.  My  father  was  attached,  not  attainted, 
Condemn'd  to  die  for  trea,«on.  but  no  traitor  : 
And  that  I  '11  prove  on  better  men  than  Somerset; 
Were  growing  time  once  ripen'd  to  my  will. 
For  your  partaker  Poole,  and  you  yourself, 
I  '11  note  you  in  my  book  of  memory, 
To  scourge  you  for  this  apprehension: 
Look  to  it  well,  and  .say  you  are  well  warn'd. 

Som.  Ah  !  thou  shalt  find  us  ready  for  thee  still. 
And  know  us  by  these  crdours  for  thy  foes; 
For  the.«c  my  friends  in  spite  of  thee  shall  wear. 

Plan.  And,  by  my  soul,  this  pale  and  angr)'  rose. 
As  eognizance  of  my  blood-drinking  hate, 
Win  I  for  ever,  and  my  faction,  wear. 
Until  it  withi.T  with  me  in  my  srave, 
Or  flourish  to  the  height  of  my  degree. 

Suf.  Go  forward,  and  be  chokd  with  thy  ambition  : 
And  .so  farewell,  until  I  meet  thee  next.  [Exit. 

Som.  Have  with  thee.  Poole. — Farewell,  ambitious 
Richard.  '  [Exit. 


Plan.  How  I  am  brav'd,  and  must  perforce  endure  it 

War.  This  blot,  that  they  object  against  your  house. 
Shall  be  wip'd  out  in  the  next  parliament, 
Call'd  lor  the  truce  of  Winciie.<ter  and  Gloster, 
And  if  thou  be  not  then  created  York, 
I  will  not  live  to  be  accounted  Warwick. 
■Mean  time,  in  signal  of  my  love  to  thee, 
Ai-'aiiist  proud  Somerset,  and  W^illiam  Poole, 
Will  I  ujion  thy  party  wear  this  rose. 
And  here  I  prophesy, — this  brawl  to-day, 
Grown  to  this  faction  in  the  Temple  garden, 
Shall  send,  between  the  red  rose  and  the  white^ 
Ten^  thousand  .«ouls  to  death  and  deadly  night. 

Plan.  Good  master  Vernon.  I  am  bound  to  you, 
That  you  on  my  behalf  would  pluck  a  flower. 

Vtr.  In  your  behalf  still  will  I  wear  the  same. 

Law.  And  so  will  I. 

Plan.  Thanks,  gentle  sir: 
Come,  let  us  four  to  dinner.     I  dare  say. 
This  quarrel  will  drink  blood  another  day.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Tower. 
Enter  Morti.mer,  blind*,  brought  in  a  Chair  by  tiv- 
Keepers. 
Mor.  Kind  keepers  of  my  weak  decaying  age. 
Let  dying  Mortimer  here  rest  himself. — 
Even  like  a  man  new  haled  from  the  rack. 
So  fare  my  limbs  with  long  imprisonment ; 
And  these  grey  locks,  the  pursuivants  of  death, 
Nestor-like  aged  in  a  cage  of  care, 
Argue  the  end  of  Edward  Mortimer. 
These  eyes,  like  lamps  whose  wasting  oil  is  spent. 
W^ax  dim,  as  drawing  to  their  exigent.* 
Weak  shoulders,  overborne  w'th  burdening  grief, 
And  pithless  arms,  like  to  a  wither'd  vine 
That  droops  his  sapless  branches  to  the  ground  : 
Yet  are  these  feet,  whose  strengthless  stay  is  numb. 
Unable  to  support  thi?  lump  of  clay, 
Swift- winged  with  desire  to  get  a  grave, 
As  M-itting  I  no  other  (!«omfort  have. — 
But  tell  me,  keeper,  will  my  nephew  come  ? 

1  Keep.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  lord,  will  come  : 
We  sent  unto  the  Temple,  to  his  chamber, 
And  answer  was  return'd  that  he  will  come. 

[Exit  Keeper ' 
Mor.  Enough  ;  my  soul  shall  then  be  satisfied. — 
Poor  gentleman,  his  wrong  doth  equal  mine. 
Since  Henry  Monmouth  first  began  to  reign. 
Before  whose  glory  I  was  great  in  arms, 
This  loathsome  sequestration  have  I  had  ; 
And  even  .since  then  hath  Richard  been  obscurd, 
Dcpriv'd  of  honour  and  inheritance  : 
But  now,  the  arbitrator  of  despairs, 
Just  death,  kind  umpire  of  men's  miseries, 
W^ith  sweet  enlargement  doth  dismiss  me  hence. 
I  would  his  troubles  likewise  were  expir'd, 
That  so  he  might  recover  what  was  lost. 

Enter  Richard  Plantagenet.  and  Keeper.^ 
1  Keep.  My  lord,  your  loving  nephew  now  is  come 
Mor.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  friend,  is  he  come' 
Pla7i.  Ay,  noble  uncle,  thus  ignobly  us'd, 
i  Your  nephew,  late  despised  Richard,  comes. 
]      Mor.  Direct  mine  arms  I  may  embrace  his  neck, 
I  And  in  his  bo.som  spend  my  latter  ga.sp. 
'  O  !  tell  me,  when  my  lips  do  touch  his  cheek, 
That  I  may  kindly  give  one  fainting  kiss. — 
And  now  declare,  sweet  stem  from  York's  great  stocK 
I  Why  didst  thou  say— of  late  thou  wert  despis'd  V 


>  Cuhion  :  in  tolio.     Theobald  changed  the  word       '  bears  :  in  f  • 
Iv:  wcTtl*,  "and  kee;/er,"  are  not  in  f  • 


Thia  word  i«  not  in  t  6.      ^  End.      '"jIiKi 


KING   HENRY   Yl. 


441 


Plan.  First,  lean  thine  aged  back  against  mine  arm. 
And  in  that  ease  I  '11  tell  thee  my  disease. 
This  day.  in  argument  upon  a  case, 
Some  words  there  grew  't^^^xt  Somerset  and  me  ; 
Among  which  terms  he  us'd  his  lavish  tongue, 
And  did  upbraid  me  with  my  father's  death : 
Which  obloquy  set  bars  before  my  tongue, 
Else  with  the  like  I  had  requited  him. 
Therefore,  good  uncle,  for  my  father's  sake, 
In  honour  of  a  true  Plantagenet, 
And  for  alliance'  sake,  declare  the  cause 
My  father,  earl  of  Cambridge,  lost  his  head. 

3Ior.  That  cause,  fair  nephew,  that  imprison'd  me, 
And  hath  detain'd  me  all  my  flow'ring  youth 
Within  a  loathsome  dungeon,  there  to  pine, 
VVas  cursed  instrument  of  his  decease. 

Plan.  Discover  more  at  large  what  cause  that  was  : 
For  I  am  ignorant,  and  cannot  guess. 

Mor.  I  will,  if  that  my  fading  breath  permit, 
And  death  approach  not  ere  my  tale  be  done. 
Henry  the  fourth,  grandfather  to  this  king, 
Depos'd  his  nephew  Ricliard,  Edward's  son, 
The  first-begotten,  and  the  lawful  heir 
Of  Edward,  king  the  third  of  that  descent : 
During  whose  reign  the  Percies  of  the  north, 
Finding  his  usurpation  most  unjvist, 
Ejideavour'd  my  advancement  to  the  throne. 
The  reason  mov'd  these  warlike  lords  to  this, 
Was  for  that  s'oung  king  Richard  thus  remov'd, 
(Leaving  no  heir  begotten  of  his  body) 
I  was  the  next  by  birth  and  parentage ; 
For  by  my  mother  I  derived  am 
From  Lionel  duke  of  Clarence,  the  third  son 
To  king  Edward  the  third,  whereas  he 
From  John  of  Gaunt  doth  bring  his  pedigi-ee, 
Being  but  fourth  of  that  heroic  line. 
But  mark :  as,  in  this  haughty  great  attempt 
They  laboured  to  plant  the  rightful  heir, 
I  lost  my  liberty,  and  they  their  lives. 
Long  after  this,  when  Henry  the  fifth, 
(Succeeding  his  father  Bolingbroke)  did  reign, 
Thy  father,  earl  of  Cambridge,  then  deriv'd 
From  famous  Edmund  Langley,  duke  of  York, 
j      Marrying  my  sister,  that  thy  mother  was, 
'      Again,  in  pity  of  my  hard  distress, 


Levied  an  army,  weening  to  -cdeem, 
And  haA-e  install'd  me  in  the  diadem  ; 
But,  as  the  rest,  so  fell  that  noble  earl. 
Ami  was  beheaded.     Thus  the  Mortimers, 
In  whom  the  title  rested,  were  suppress'd. 

Plan.  Of  which,  my  lord,  your  honour  is  the  last 

Mor.  True  ;  and  thou  seest,  that  I  no  issue  have, 
.A  nd  that  my  fainting  words  do  warrant  death. 
1-  ou  art  my  heir  :  the  rest,  I  wish  thee  gather  ; 
But  yet  be  wary  in  thy  studious  care. 

Plan.  Thy  grave  admonishments  prcA-ail  with  me. 
But  yet,  mcthinks,  my  father's  execution 
Was  nothing  less  tlian  bloody  tyranny. 

Mor.  With  silence,  nephew,  be  thou  politic  : 
Strong-fixed  is  the  house  of  Lancaster, 
And,  like  a  mountain,  not  to  be  remov'd. 
But  now  thy  uncle  is  removing  hence. 
As  princes  do  their  courts,  wlien  they  are  cloy'd 
With  long  continuance  in  a  settled  place. 

Plan.  0,  uncle  !  would  some  part  of  my  young  years 
Might  but  redeem  the  passage  of  your  ase. 

3Ior.  Thou  dost,  then,  wrong  me  ;  as  the  slaughterer 
doth. 
Which  giveth  many  wounds,  when  one  \\"ill  kill. 
Mourn  not,  except  thou  sorrow  for  my  good  ; 
Only,  give  order  for  my  funeral. 
And  so  farewell ;  and  fair  be  all  thy  hopes, 
And  prosperous  be  thy  life,  in  peace,  and  war  !     [Dies 

Plan.  And  peace,  no  war,  befal  thy  partmg  soul ! 
In  prison  hast  thou  spent  a  pilgrimage, 
And  like  a  hermit  overpass'd  thy  days. — 
Well,  t  will  lock  his  counsel  in  my  breast; 
And  what  I  do  imagine,  let  that  rest. — 
Keepers,  convey  him  hence  :  and  I  myself 
Will  see  his  burial  better  than  his  life. — 

[Exeunt  Keepers,  bearing  out  jMortimer 
Here  dies  the  dusky  torch  of  Mortimer, 
Chok'd  with  ambition  of  the  meaner  sort : 
And,  for  those  wrongs,  those  bitter  injuries 
Which  Somerset  hath  ofTer'd  to  my  house, 
I  doubt  not  but  %\-ith  honour  to  redress  ; 
And  therefore  haste  I  to  the  parliament, 
Either  to  be  restored  to  my  blood, 
Or  make  my  will  th'  advancer'  of  my  good.         [fin't 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     The  Parliament-House. 
Flourish.      Enter    King    Henry,    Exeter,    Gloster, 

Warwick,  Somerset,  and  Suffolk  ;  the  Bi.'shop  of 

Winchester,  Richard    Plantagenet.  and  others. 

Gloster    offers   to  put  up   a   Bill;    Winchester 

snatches  it.  and  tears  it. 

Win.  Com'st  thou  with  deep  premeditated  lines, 
With  written  pamphlets  studiously  devis'd  ? 
Humphrey  of  Gloster,  if  thou  canst  accuse, 
Or  aught  intend'st  to  lay  unto  my  charge. 
Do  it  without  invention,  suddenly  ; 
As  I  with  sudden  and  extemporal  speech 
Purpose  to  answer  what  thou  canst  object. 

Glo.  Presumptuous  priest  !  this  place  commands  my 
patience. 
Or  thou  shouldst  find  thou  hast  dishonour'd  me. 
Thitd£  not,  although  in  writing  I  prefer 

'  advantage  ■  in  f.  « 


The  manner  of  thy  vile  outrageous  crimes, 
That  therefore  I  have  forg'd.  or  am  not  able , 
Verbatim  to  rehearse  the  method  of  my  pen  : 
No,  prelate  ;  such  is  thy  audacious  wckedness, 
Thy  lewd,  pestiferous,  and  dissentious  pranks, 
As  very  infants  prattle  of  thy  pride. 
Thou  art  a  most  pernicious  usurer, 
Froward  by  nature,  enemy  to  peace  ; 
Lascivious,  wanton,  more  than  well  beseems 
A  man  of  thy  profession,  and  degree  : 
And  for  thy  treachery,  what 's  more  manifest, 
In  that  thou  laid'st  a  trap  to  take  my  life. 
As  well  at  London  bridge,  as  at  the  Tower  ? 
Beside,  I  fear  me,  if  thy  thoughts  were  sifted, 
The  kins,  thy  sovereign,  is  not  quite  exempt 
From  envious  malice  of  thy  swelling  heart. 

Win.  Gloster,  I  do  defy  thee.— Lords,  vouchsafe 
To  give  me  hearing  what  I  shall  reply. 


U2 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT  in. 


If  I  were  covetous,  ambilioiis.  proud,' 
.\.s  he  will  Imve  me,  how  am  I  .^o  poor  ? 
Or  how  haps  it.  I  Bock  not  to  advance 
Or  raise  myself,  but  keep  my  wonted  calling? 
And  for  difiscnsion,  who  prc.«erveth  peace 
More  tiian  1  do,  except  1  be  provokd  ? 
No,  my  sood  lords,  it  is  not  that  offends: 
It  is  not  that  tliat  hath  incens'd  the  duke  : 
It  18,  because  no  one  should  sway  but  he ; 
No  one  but  he  should  be  about  the  king  ; 
And  that  ensienders  thunder  in  his  breast. 
And  makes  iiim  roar  these  accusations  forth. 
lUit  tie  shall  know,  I  am  as  good 

Glo.  As  good  ? 

Thou  bastard  of  my  grandfather  ! — 

Win.  Ay.  lordly  sir:  for  what  are  you,  I  pray. 
But  one  imperious  in  another's  throne? 

Glo.  Am  I  not  the  protector,  saucy  priest  ? 

Win.  And  am  not  I  a  prelate  of  the  church? 

Glo.  Yes.  as  an  outlaw  in  a  castle  keeps, 
And  useih  it  to  patronage  his  theft. 

Win.  Unrevereut  Gloster  ! 

Glo.  Thou  art  reverent 

Touching  thy  spiritual  function,  not  thy  life. 

Win.  Rome  shall  remedy  this. 

War.  Roam  thither  then. 

My  lord,  it  were  your  duty  to  forbear. 

Som.  Ay,  see  the  bishop  be  not  overborne, 
Methinks,  my  lord  should  be  religious. 
And  know  the  office  that  belongs  to  such. 

War.  Methinks.  his  lordship  should  be  humbler: 
It  fitteth  not  a  prelate  so  to  plead. 

Som.  Yes.  when  his  holy  state  is  touch'd  so  near. 

War.  State  holy,  or  unhallow'd,  what  of  that  ? 
Ts  not  his  grace  protector  to  the  king  r 

Plan.  Piantagenet,  I  see,  must  hold  his  tongue  ; 

[Aside. 
l^^t  it  be  said,  "  Speak,  sirrah,  when  you  should ; 
Must  your  bold  verdict  emer  talk  with  lords  ?" 
Kise  would  I  have  a  fling  at  Winchester. 

K.  Hen.  Uncles  of  Gloster,  and  of  Winchester, 
The  special  watchmen  of  our  English  weal, 
[  would  prevail,  if  prayers  might  prevail. 
To  join  your  hearts  in  love  and  amity. 
0 !  what  a  scandal  is  it  to  our  cro\\ii. 
That  two  such  noble  peers  as  ye  should  jar. 
lielieve  me,  lords,  my  tender  years  can  tell, 
t-ivil  dissension  is  a  viperous  worm, 
That  gnaws  the  bowels  of  the  commonwealth. — 

[A  noise  within  :  Down  with  the  tawney  coats  ! 
What  tumult 's  this  ? 

War.  An  uproar,  I  dare  warrant, 

Begun  through  malice  of  the  bishop's  men. 

\ A  noise  again:   Stones!  Stones! 
Enter  the  Mayor  of  London,  and  some  Citizens.* 

May.  O,  my  snod  lords,  and  virtuous  Henry, 
I'ity  the  city  of  London,  pity  us  ! 
The  bishop's  and  the  duke  of  Gloster's  men. 
Forbidden  late  to  carry  any  weapon. 
Have  filPd  their  pockets  full  of  pebble-stones  • 
And  banding  tliem.sches  in  contrary'  parts, 
I)o  pelt  so  fast  at  one  another's  pates. 
That  many  have  their  niddy  brains  knocked  out. 
Diir  windows  are  broke  down  in  every  street. 
And  we  for  fear  compell'd  to  shut  our  shops. 
Entcr^    skirmishinfT.   the    Retainers   of  Gi.oster,   and 
Winchester,  with  bloody  pates. 

K.  Hen    We  charge  you.  on  allegiance  to  ourself, 

•  or  p«r»«ir«e  :  in  f.  e.      >  Enter  tht   Mayor  of   London   atttndtd: 
•  .Vot  in  f.  e.      '  Thu  word  ii  not  in  f.  e. 


To  hold  your  slaughtering  hands,  and  keep  the  peaee. 
Pray,  uncle  Gloster,  mitigate  this  strife. 

1  Scrv.  Nay,  if  we  be 

Forbidden  stones,  we  '11  fall  to  it  with  our  teeth. 

2  Serv.  Do  what  ye  dare  ;  we  are  as  resolute. 

[Skirmish  agai* 
Glo.  You,  of  my  household,  leave  this  peevish  broil, 

And  set  this  unaccustom'd  fight  aside. 

1  Serv.  My  lord,  we  know  your  grace  to  be  a  man 

Just  and  upright  :  and.  for  your  royal  birth, 

Inferior  to  none  but  to  his  majesty  ; 

And  ere  that  we  will  suffer  such  a  prince, 

So  kind  a  father  of  the  commonweal. 

To  be  disgraced  by  an  inkhorn'  mate. 

We,  and  our  wves,  and  children,  all  will  fight. 

And  iiave  our  bodies  slaughter'd  by  thy  foes. 

3  Serv.  Ay,  and  the  very  parings  of  our  nails 
Shall  pitch  a  field,  when  we  are  dead.  [Skirmish  again. 

Glo.  Stay,  stay"! 

And,  if  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do, 
Let  me  persuade  you  to  forbear  awhile. 

K.  Hen.   0,  how  this  discord  doth  afflict  my  soul  ! — 
Can  you,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  behold 
My  sighs  and  tears,  and  will  not  once  relent  ? 
Who  should  be  pitiful,  if  you  be  not? 
Or  who  should  study  to  preserve*  a  peace. 
If  holy  churchmen  take  delight  in  broils  ? 

War.  Yield,  lord  protector  ;  and  yield,  Winchester 
Except  you  mean,  with  obstinate  repulse. 
To  slay  your  sovereign,  and  destroy  the  realm. 
You  see  what  mischief,  and  what  murder  too, 
Hath  been  enacted  through  your  enmity ; 
Then,  be  at  peace,  except  ye  thirst  for  blood. 

Win.  He  shall  submit,  or  I  ^^'ill  never  yield. 

Glo.  Compassion  on  the  king  commands  me  stoop , 
Or  I  would  see  his  heart  out,  ere  the  priest 
Should  ever  get  that  privilege  of  me. 

War.  Behold,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  the  duke 
Hath  bauish'd  moody  discontented  fury. 
As  by  his  smoothed  brows  it  doth  appear  : 
Why  look  you  still  so  stern,  and  tragical  ? 

Glo.  Here,  Winchester ;  I  offer  thee  my  hand. 

[Winchester  refuses  tt.' 

K.  Hen.  Fye,  uncle  Beaufort !      I  have  heard  you 
preach. 
That  malice  was  a  great  and  grievous  sin; 
And  will  not  you  maintain  the  thing  you  teach. 
But  prove  a  chief  offender  in  the  same  ? 

War.  Sweet  king  ! — the  bishop  hath  a  kindly  g«rd. 
For  shame,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  relent : 
What !  shall  a  child  instruct  you  what  to  do  ? 

Win.  Well,  duke  of  Gloster,  I  will  yield  to  thee, 
Love  for  thy  love,  and  hand  for  hand  I  give. 

[(3<vcs  his  hand.' 

Glo.  Ay ;  but  I  fear  me.  with  a  hollow  heart.     [Aside 
See  here,  my  friends,  and  loving  countrymen  ; 
This  token  serveth  for  a  flag  of  truce. 
Betwixt  ourselves,  and  all  our  followers. 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  dis.semble  not  ! 

1(7??.  So  help  me  God,  as  I  intend  it  not!        \A.iidt 

K.  Hen.  0,  loving  uncle,  and  kind  duke  of  Gloster. 
How  joyful  am  I  made  by  this  contract ! — 
Away,  my  masters  :  trouble  us  no  more, 
But  join  in  friendship,  as  your  lords  have  done. 

1  Serv.  Content :  I  '11  to  the  surgeon's. 

2  Serv.  And  so  vdW  I 

3  Serv.  And  I  wll  see  what  physic  the  tavern  afford* 

[Exeu7it  Mayor,  Citizens,^  Servants,  Ife 

in  f.  •.      » A  Unn   utuilly  applied  to  pedantry  prefer  -let* 


SCENE  n. 


KING  HENRY   VI. 


443 


War.  Accept  this  scroll,  most  gracious  sovereign, 
Which  in  the  right  of  Richard  Plantagenet 
We  do  exhibit  to  your  majesty. 

Glo.  Well  urg'd,  my  lord  of  Warwick  : — for,  sweet 
prince, 
And  if  your  grace  mark  every  circumstance, 
i      You  have  great  reason  to  do  Richard  right ; 
l!      Especially  for  those  occasions 

At  Eltham-place  I  told  your  majesty. 

A'.  Hen.  And  those  occasions,  uncle,  were  of  force  : 
Therefore,  my  loving  lords,  our  pleasure  is, 
That  Richard  be  restored  to  his  blood. 

War.  Let  R  ichard  be  restor'd  to  his  blood  ; 
So  shall  his  fatlier's  wrongs  be  recompens'd. 
Win.  As  will  the  rest,  so  willeth  Winchester. 
i  K.  Hen.  If  Richard  will  be  true,  not  that  eAone, 

But  all  the  whole  inheritance  I  give, 
That  doth  belong  unto  the  house  of  York, 
From  whence  you  spring  by  lineal  descent. 

Plan.  Thy  honour'd'  servant  vows  obedience, 
And  humble  service,  till  the  point  of  death. 

K.  Hen.  Sloop  then,  and  set  your  knee  against  my 
foot; 
And  in  reguerdon  of  that  duty  done, 
1  girt  thee  with  the  valiant  sword  of  York. 
fiii^e,  Richard,  like  a  true  Plantagenet, 
And  rise  created  princely  duke  of  York. 

Plan.  And  so  thrive  Richard  as  thy  foes  may  fall : 
And  as  my  duty  springs,  so  perish  they 
That  grudge  one  thought  against  your  majesty. 

uill.  Welcome,    high   prince,    the   mighty   duke   of 
York! 
;  j        Som.  Perish,  base  prince,  ignoble  duke  of  York  ! 
Ij  [Aside. 

n         Glo.  Now  will  it  best  avail  your  majesty. 
To  cross  the  seas,  and  to  be  crown'd  in  France. 
The  presence  of  a  king  engenders  love 
Amongst  his  subjects,  and  his  loyal  friends. 
As  it  disanimates  his  enemies. 

K.  Hen.  When  Gloster  says  the  word,  King  Henry 
goes ; 
For  friendly  counsel  cuts  ofT  many  foes. 
Glo.  Your  ships  already  are  in  readiness. 

[Flourish.     Exermt  all  but  Exeter. 
Exe.  Ay,  we  may  march  in  England,  or  in  France, 
Not  seeing  what  is  likely  to  ensue. 
This  late  dissension,  grown  betwixt  the  peers, 
Burns  under  feigned  ashes  of  forg'd  love. 
And  vAU  at  last  break  out  into  a  flame : 
As  fester'd  members  rot  but  by  degrees. 
Till  bones,  and  flesh,  and  sinews,  fall  away, 
,    So  will  this  base  and  envious  discord  breed. 
I    And  now  I  fear  that  faial  prophecy, 
'    Which,  in  the  time  of  Henry,  nam'd  the  fifth, 
Was  in  the  mouth  of  every  sucking  babe, — 
That  Henry,  born  at  Monmouth,  should  win  all. 
And  Henry,  born  at  Windsor,  should  lose  all : 
Wliich  is  so  plain,  that  Exeter  doth  wish 
His  days  may  finish  ere  that  hapless  time.  [Exit. 

i 

]  SCENE  H  —France.     Before  Rouen. 

'    Enter  La  Pucelle  disguised,  and  Soldiers  dressed  like 
Countrymen,  with  Sacks  ujpon  their  Backs. 
Puc.  These  are  the  city  gates,  the  gates  of  Rouen^ 
Through  which  om  policy  must  make  a  breach. 
Take  heed,  be  wary  how  you  place  your  words; 
Talk  like  the  vulgar  sort  of  market-men, 
That  come  to  gather  money  for  their  corn. 
J{  we  have  entrance,  (as  I  hope  we  shall) 

>  ouin)>.e  :  in  f.  e       •  Confederates.      '  all  •  in  £.  • 


And  that  we  find  the  slothful  watch  but  weak, 

I  '11  by  a  sign  give  notice  to  our  friends, 

That  Charles  the  Dauphin  may  encounter  them. 

1  Sold.  Our  sacks  shall  be  a  mean  to  sack  the  city. 
And  we  be  lords  and  rulers  over  Rouen ; 
Therefore  we  '11  knock.  [Knocks. 

Guard.   [Within.]   Qui  est  Id  ? 
^  Pitc.  Paisans,  les  pauvres  gens  de  France  : 
Poor  market-folks  that  come  to  sell  their  corn. 

Guard.  Enter;  go  in:  the  market-bell  is  rung. 

[Opening  the  gates 

Puc.  Now,  Rouen,  I  '11  shake  thy  bulwarks  to  the 
ground.  [Pucelle,  ^c.  enter  the  City. 

Enter  Charles,  Bastard  o/ Orleans,  ALEN90N,  am 
Forces. 

Char.  Saint  Dennis  bless  this  happy  stratagem. 
And  once  again  we  'U  sleep  secure  in  Rouen. 

Bast.  Here  enter'd  Pucelle,  and  her  practisants'. 
Now  she  is  there,  how  will  she  specify 
Where  is  the  best  and  safest  passage  in? 

Alen.  By  thrusting  out  a  torch  from  yonder  tower; 
Which,  once  discern'd,  shows,  that  her  meaning  is, — 
No  way  to  that,  for  weakness,  which  she  enter'd. 
Enter  La  Pucelle  on  a  Battlement,  holding  out  a  Torek 
burning. 

Puc.  Behold  !  this  is  the  happy  wedding  torch, 
That  joineth  Rouen  unto  her  countrymen, 
But  burning  fatal  to  the  Talbotites. 

Bast.  See,  noble  Charles,  the  beacon  of  our  friend  ; 
The  burning  torch  in  yonder  turret  stands. 

Char.  Now  shine  it  like  a  comet  of  revenge, 
A  prophet  to  the  fall  of  all  our  foes  ! 

Alen.  Defer  no  time  ;  delays  have  dangerous  ends  • 
Enter,  and  cry  The  Dauphin  !  presently, 
And  then  do  execution  on  the  watch.  [They  enter. 

Alariims.     Enter  Talbot,  and  English  Soldiers. 

Tal.  France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  treason  with  thy  tears, 
If  Talbot  but  survive  thy  treachery. 
Pucelle,  that  witch,  that  damned  sorceress, 
Hath  wrought  this  hellish  mischief  unawares. 
That  hardly  we  escap'd  the  pride  of  France. 

[Exeunt  to  the  Toum. 
Alarum :  Excur.<;ions.    Enter.,  from  the  Toum.  Bedford, 

brought  in  sick  in  a  Chair.,v'ifh  Tai.bot.  Burgundy, 

arul  the  English  Forces.     Then,  enter  on  the  Walls, 

La  Pucelle,  Charles,  Ba.stard,  ALENfON,  Reignier, 

and  others. 

Puc.  Good  morrow,  gallants.  Want  ye  corn  for  bread  ' 
I  think,  the  duke  of  Burgundy  will  fast. 
Before  he  '11  buy  again  at  such  a  rate. 
'T  was  full  of  darnel :  do  you  like  the  taste  ? 

Bur.  Scoff  on,  vile  fiend,  and  shameless  courtezan  ! 
I  trust,  ere  long,  to  choke  thee  with  thine  own, 
And  make  thee  curse  the  harvest  of  that  com. 

Char.  Your  grace  may  starve,  perhaps,  before  that 
time. 

Bed.  0  !  let  no  words,  but  deeds,  revenge  this  treason. 

Puc.  What  will  you  do.  good  grey-beard  ?  break  a 
lance. 
And  run  a  tilt  at  death  within  a  chair  ? 

Tal.  Foul  fiend  of  France,  and  hag  of  hell's'  despite, 
Encompass'd  with  thy  lustful  paramours, 
Becomes  it  thee  to  taunt  his  valiant  age. 
And  twit  with  cowardice  a  man  half  dead? 
Damsel,  I  '11  have  a  bout  witli  you  again. 
Or  else  let  Talbot  perish  with  this  shame. 

Puc.  Are  vou  so  hot,  sir?— Yet.  Pucelle,  hold  thy 

If  Talbot  do  but  thunder,  rain  wll  follow.—     [peace  : 

[Talbot,  and  the  rest,  consult  tagftkei 


444 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Acr  m. 


JJod  speed  the  parliament  !  who  shall  be  speaker? 

Tal.  Dare  ye  conic  forth,  and  meet  us  in  the  field? 

Ptic.  Belike,  your  lordship  takes  us  then  for  fools, 
To  try  if  that  our  own  be  ours,  or  no. 

7a/.  I  speak  net  to  that  railing  Hecate, 
But  unto  thee.  Alcnfon.  and  the  rest. 
Will  ye,  like  soldiers,  come  and  fight  it  out? 

Alen.  Signior,  no. 

Tal.  Signior,  hang  I — ba,«e  muleteers  of  France  ! 
Like  peasant  toot-boye  do  tiiey  keep  the  walls, 
And  dare  not  take  up  arms  like  gentlemen. 

Pitc.  Away,  caiitains  !  let  "s  get  us  from  the  walls, 
For  Talbot  means  no  goodness  by  his  looks. — 
(Jod  be  wi'  you,  my  lord     we  came,  but  to  tell  you 
That  we  are  here. 

[Exeunt  La  Picelle,  ifc.  from  the  Walls. 

Tal.  And  there  will  we  be  too,  ere  it  be  long, 
Or  else  reproach  be  Talbots  greatest  fame. — 
Vow.  Burgundy,  by  honour  of  thy  house, 
Prickd  on  by  public  wrongs  sustain'd  in  France, 
Either  to  get  the  to%\ni  asain,  or  die  ; 
And  I,  &s  sure  as  English  Henry  lives. 
And  as  his  father  here  was  conqueror. 
As  sure  as  in  this  late  betrayed  to\^^l 
Great  Cocur-de-lion's  heart  was  buried. 
So  sure  I  swear  to  get  the  towii,  or  die. 

Bur.  My  vows  are  equal  partners  -w-ith  thy  vows. 

Tal.  But  ere  we  go,  regard  this  dying  prince, 
The  valiant  duke  of  Bedford. — Come,  my  lord, 
We  M-ill  bestow  you  in  some  better  place, 
Fitter  for  sickness,  and  for  crazy  age. 

Bed.  Lord  Talbot,  do  not  so  dishonour  me  : 
Here  will  I  sit  before  the  walls  of  Rouen, 
And  will  be  partner  of  your  weal,  or  woe. 

Bur.  Courageous  Bedford,  let  us  now  persuade  you. 

Bed.  Not  to  be  gone  from  hence ;  for  once  I  read, 
That  stout  Pendragon,  in  his  litter,  sick, 
Came  to  the  field,  and  vanquished  his  foes. 
Methinks.  I  should  revive  the  soldiers'  hearts, 
Because  I  ever  found  them  as  myself. 

Tal.  Undaunted  spirit  in  a  dying  breast  I — 
Then,  be  it  so : — heavens  keep  old  Bedford  safe  ! — 
.-\nd  now  no  more  ado,  brave  Burgundy, 
But  gather  we  our  forces  out  of  hand, 
And  set  upon  our  boasting  enemy. 

[Exeunt  Blrgcndv,  Talbot,  and  Forces,  leaving 
Bedford,  and  others. 
Alarum  :  Excursions.     Enter  Sir  John  Fastolfe,  and 
a  Captain. 

Cap.  Whitlier   away,    Sir    John    Fastolfe,   in   such 
haste  ? 

Fast.  Whiihcr  away?  to  save  myself  by  flight: 
We  are  like  to  have  tlie  ovcrtiirow  again. 

Cap.  What !   at II  you  fly,  and  leave  lord  Talbot  ? 

Fast.  Ay, 

All  the  Talbot-s  in  the  world,  to  save  my  life.       [Exit. 

Cap.  Cowardly  knight!  ill  fortune  followthee  !  [ExjV. 
Retreat:     Excursions.      Enter,    from    the    Town.    La 
PucELi-E.  ALEN90N,  Chakles,  ifc.  and  exeunt,  flying. 
^  Bed.  Now,  quiet  soul,  depart  when  Heaven  please. 
For  I  have  seen  our  enemies'  overthrow. 
What  is  the  trust  or  strength  of  foolish  man  ? 
They,  that  of  late  were  daring  with  their  seofl^s, 
Are  ^.ad  and  fain  by  flight  to  save  themselves. 

[Dies,  and  i^  carried  off  in  his  Cliair. 

Alarum.     Enter  Talbot.  Buiu:uNnv,  and  others. 

Tal.  Lost,  and  rccovcrd  in  a  day  again  ! 
This  IB  double  honour.  Burirundy  : 
Yet*  heavens  have  glory  for  this  victory. 

»  Dtm  iTigBesu,  /«,  u  tk»  Tsading       >  martial :  in  f.  •       »  ScoffB. 


Bur.  Warlike  and  matchless'  Talbot,  Burgundy 
Enshrines  thee  in  his  heart;  and  there  erects 
Thy  noble  deeds,  as  valour's  monument. 

Tal.  1  hanks,  gentle  duke.     But  where   is  Pucella 
now  ? 
I  think  her  old  familiar  is  asleep : 
Now  where  's  the  Bastard's  braves,  and  CharJcs  hit 

gleeks^  ? 
What,  all  a-mort*?     Rouen  hangs  her  head  for  grief. 
That  such  a  valiant  company  are  fled. 
Now  will  we  take  some  order  in  the  towu, 
Placing  therein  some  expert  officers. 
And  then  depart  to  Paris  to  the  king ; 
For  there  young  Henry  with  his  nobles  lies. 

Bur.  What  wills  lord  Talbot  pleaseth  Burgundy. 

Tal.  But  yet,  before  we  go.  let 's  not  forget 
The  noble  duke  of  Bedford,  late  deceas'd. 
But  see  his  exequies  fulfiU'd  in  Rouen : 
A  braver  soldier  never  couched  lance, 
A  gentler  heart  did  never  sway  in  court ; 
But  kings,  and  mightiest  potentates  must  die. 
For  that 's  the  end  of  human  misery.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  HL— The  Same.     The  Plains  near  the  City 

Enter  Charles,  the  Bastard,  ALEN90N.  La  Pucellk, 

and  Forces. 

Puc.  Dismay  not,  princes,  at  this  accident, 
Nor  grieve  that  Rouen  is  so  recovered : 
Care  is  no  cure,  but  rather  corrosive, 
For  things  that  are  not  to  be  remedied. 
Let  frantic  Talbot  triumph  for  a  while. 
And  like  a  peacock  sweep  along  his  tail, 
We  '11  pull  his  plumes,  and  take  away  his  train, 
If  Dauphin  and  the  rest  will  be  but  rul'd. 

Char.  We  have  been  guided  by  thee  hitherto, 
And  of  thy  cunning  had  no  diffidence  : 
One  sudden  foil  shall  never  breed  distrust. 

Bast.  Search  out  thy  wit  for  secret  policies. 
And  we  ^^^ll  make  thee  famous  through  the  world. 

Alen.  We  '11  set  thy  statue  in  some  holy  place, 
And  have  thee  reverenc'd  like  a  blessed  saint: 
Employ  thee,  then,  sweet  virgin,  for  our  good. 

Puc.  Then  thus  it  must  be ;  this  doth  Joan  devise. 
By  fair  per.suasions,  mix'd  with  sugar'd  words. 
We  will  entice  the  duke  of  Burgundy 
To  leave  the  Talbot,  and  to  follow  us. 

Char.  Ay,  marry,  sweeting,  if  we  could  do  that. 
France  were  no  place  for  Henry's  warriors ; 
Nor  .should  that  nation  boast  it  so  with  us. 
But  be  extirped  from  our  provinces. 

Alen.  For  ever  should  they  be  expuls'd  from  France. 
And  not  have  title  of  an  earldom  here. 

Puc.  Your  honours  shall  perceive  how  I  will  work, 
To  bring  this  matter  to  the  wished  end. 

[Drums  heard  afar  off 
Hark  !  by  the  sound  of  drum  you  may  perceive 
Their  powers  are  marching  unto  Paris-ward. 
An  English  March.    Enter,  and  pass  over,  Talbot  ani 

his  Forces. 
There  goes  the  Talbot,  with  his  colours  spread. 
And  all  the  troops  of  English  after  him. 
A  French  March.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  'W 

Forces. 
Now,  in  the  rearward  comes  the  duke,  and  his  : 
Fortune  in  favour  makes  him  lag  behind. 
Summon  a  parley  ;  we  will  talk  with  him. 

[Triimpcts  .sound  a  parlei/ 

Char.  A  parley  with  the  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Bur.  Who  craves  a  parley  with  the  Burgundy? 

♦  Ditvirittd 


1 


SCENE   I. 


K.mG  HENRY  VI. 


445 


Puc.  The  princely  Charles  of  France,  thy  countryman. 

Bur.   What  say"st  thou.  Charles  ?  for  I  am  marching 
hence. 

Char.  Speak,  Pucelle,  and  enchant  him  with  thy 
words. 

Puc.  Brave  Burgundy,  undoubted  hope  of  France, 
Stay ;  let  thy  humble  handmaid  speak  to  thee. 

Bur.  Speak  on  ;  but  be  not  over-tedious. 

Puc.  Look  on  thy  country,  look  on  fertile  France, 
A.nd  see  her'  cities  and  her''  to\nis  defac'd 
By  wasting  ruin  of  the  cruel  foe. 
As  looks  the  mother  on  her  lovely*  babe, 
When  death  doth  close  his  tender  dying  eyes, 
See,  see,  the  pining  malady  of  France  : 
Behold  the  wounds,  the  most  unnatural  wounds. 
Which  thou  thyself  hast  given  her  woful  breast. 
0  !  turn  thy  edged  sword  another  way ; 
Strike  those  that  hurt,  and  hurt  not  those  that  help. 
One  drop  of  blood,  drawn  from  thy  country's  bosom. 
Should  grieve  thee  more  than  streams  of  foreign  gore : 
Return  thee,  therefore,  with  a  flood  of  tears. 
And  wash  away  thy  country's  stained  spots. 

Bur.  Either  she  hath  bcwiteh'd  me  with  her  words, 
Or  nature  makes  me  suddenly  relent. 

Puc.  Besides,  all  French  and  France  exclaims  on  thee. 
Doubting  thy  birth  and  la\\^ul  progeny. 
Whom  join'st  thou  Avith,  bixt  with  a  lordly  nation 
That  will  not  trust  thee  but  for  profit's  sake  ? 
When  Talbot  hath  set  footing  once  in  France, 
And  fashion'd  thee  that  instrument  of  ill, 
Who  then  but  English  Henry  will  be  lord. 
And  thou  be  thrust  out,  like  a  fugitive  ? 
Call  we  to  mind,  and  mark  but  this  for  proof, 
Was  not  the  duke  of  Orleans  thy  foe. 
And  was  he  not  in  England  prisoner  ? 
But.  when  they  heard  he  was  thine  enemy. 
They  set  him  free,  without  his  ransom  paid, 
Tn  spite  of  Burgundy,  and  all  his  friends. 
See,  then,  thou  fight'st  against  thy  countr\-men, 
And  join'st  with  tliem  will  be  thy  slaughter-men. 
Come,  come,  return  ;  return,  thou  wand'ring  lord  . 
Charles,  and  the  rest,  will  take  thee  in  their  arms. 

Bur.  I  am  vanquished  :  these  haughty  words  of  hers 
Have  batter'd  me  like  roaring  cannon-shot, 
'And  made  me  almost  yield  upon  my  knees. — 
Forgive  me,  country,  and  sweet  countrymen  ! 
And.  lords,  accept  this  hearty  kind  embrace : 
My  forces  and  my  power  of  men  are  yours. — 
So.  farewell,  Talbot :  I'll  no  longer  trust  thee. 

Puc.  Done  like  a  Frenchman  ;  turn,  and  turn  again  ! 

■    Char.  Welcome,  brave  duke  !  thy  friendship  makes 
us  fresh. 
Ba.^.  And  doth  beget  new  courage  in  our  breasts. 
Alen.  Pucelle  hath  bravely  played  her  part  in  this. 


And  doth  deserve  a  coronet  of  gold. 

Char.  Now  let  us  on,  my  lords,  and  join  our  powers 
And  seek  how  we  may  prejudice  the  foe.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— Paris.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  and  other  Lords,  Vbr 
■  NGN,  Basset,  Ifc.     To  them  Talbot,  and  seme  of  Aw 

Officers. 
*.^a/.  My  gracious  prince,  and  honourable  peers 
Hearing  of  youi-  arrival  in  this  realm, 
I  have  a  while  given  trace  unto  my  wars, 
To  do  my  duty  to  my  sovereign  : 
In  sign  whereof,  this  arm — that  hath  reclaim'd 
To  your  obedience  fifty  fortresses. 
Twelve  cities,  and  seven  walled  towns  of  strength. 
Beside  five  hundred  prisoners  of  esteem, — 
Lets  fall  his  sword  before  your  highness'  feet ; 
And  with  submissive  loyalty  of  hea.rt, 
Ascribes  the  glory  of  his  conquest  got, 
First4o  his  God,  and  next  unto  your  grace. 

A'.  Hen.  Is  this  the  lord  Talbot,  uncle  Gloster, 
That  hath  so  long  been  resident  in  France  ? 

Glo.  Yes.  if  it  please  your  majesty,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  Welcome,  brave  captain,  and  victorious  lord 
When  I  was  young,  (as  yet  I  am  not  old) 
I  do  rememiber  how  my  father  said, 
A  stouter  champion  never  handled  sword. 
Long  since  we  were  resolved  of  that*  truth. 
Your  faithful  service,  and  your  toil  in  war  ; 
Yet  never  have  yon  tasted  our  reward. 
Or  been  reguerdon'd  with  so  much  as  thanks. 
Because  till  now  we  never  saw  your  face  : 
Therefore,  stand  up  ;  and,  for  these  good  deserts, 
We  here  create  you  earl  of  Shrewsbury, 
And  in  our  coronation  take  your  place.        [and  Nobles 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  King  Henry,  Gloster. Talbot. 

Ver.  Now,  sir,  to  you,  that  were  so  hot  at  sea, 
Disgracing  of  these  colours,  that  I  wear 
In  honour  of  my  noble  lord  of  York, 
Dar'st  thou  maintain  the  former  words  thou  spak'st' 

Bus.  Yes,  sir  ;  as  well  as  you  dare  patronage 
The  en\'ious  barking  of  your  saucy  tongue 
Against  my  lord,  the  duke  of  Somerset. 

Ver.  Sirrah,  thy  lord  I  honour  as  he  is. 

Bas.  Why,  what  is  he  ?  as  good  a  man  as  York. 

Ver.  Hark  ye;  not  so  :  in  witness,  take  ye  that 

[Striking  htm. 

Bas.  Villain,  thou  know'st,  the  law  of  arms  is  such.. 
That,  whoso  draws  a  sword,  't  is  present  death. 
Or  else  this  blow  should  broach  thy  dearest  blood. 
But  I  '11  unto  his  majesty,  and  crave 
I  may  haA'e  liberty  to  venge  this  WTong, 
When  thou  shalt  see,  I  '11  meet  thee  to  thy  cost. 

Ver.  Well,. miscreant,  I'll  be  there  as  soon  as  you 
And  after  meet  you  sooner  than  you  would.     [Excxmt 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     A  Room  of  State. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  Exeter,  York,  Suf- 
folk, Somerset,  Winchester,  Warwick,  T.4.lbot, 
The  Governor  of  Paris,  and  others. 
Glo.  Lord  bishop,  set  the  crown  upor  his  head. 
Win.  God  save  king  Henry,  of  that  name  the  sixth  ! 
[Sound  Trumpets.^ 


Glo.  Now.  governor  of  Paris,  take  your  oath, — 

[Governor  knteti 
That  you  elect  no  other  king  but  him. 
Esteem  none  friends,  but  such  as  are  his  friends, 
And  none  your  foes,  but  such  as  shall  pretend' 
Malicious  practices  against  his  state. 
This  shall  ye  do.  so  help  you  righteous  God ! 

[Exeunt  Gov.  and  his  Tram 


the     in  f.  e.      3  lowly  :  in  f.  e. 


f.  e.      ♦  Not  in  f  e 


'h: 


44«3 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT    IV. 


Eurer  Sir  John  Fastoi.fe. 

Fast.  Mv  sracious  sovereign,  as  I  rcxle  from  Calais, 
To  hasie  uino  your  coronation, 
A  letter  was  aolivcr'd  to  my  hands, 
Writ  to  your  iiraoe  from  the  duke  of  Burn:iindy.  [Gives  it. ^ 

Tal.  Shame  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  and  thee  ! 
I  vowr"d,  base  knight,  wlien  I  did  meet  thee  next, 
To  tear  the  garter  from  thy  t>  "jven's  leg ; 

[Plucking  it  off. 
Which  I  have  done,  because  unworthily 
Thou  wast  in.-tallcd  in  tiiat  high  degree. — 
I'anlon  mc.  pc.ncciy  Henry,  and  the  rest. 
Thi.>;  dastard,  at  the  battle  of  I'atay, 
When  but  in  all  I  -wras  .«ix  thou.«and  strong. 
And  that  the  French  were  almo.«t  ten  to  one, 
Before  we  met,  or  that  a  stroke  was  given, 
Like  to  a  trusty  squire,  did  run  away: 
In  which  assault  we  lost  twelve  hundred  men; 
Myself  and  divers  gentlemen  beside, 
Were  there  surprised,  and  taken  pri.«oners. 
Then,  judge,  great  lords,  if  1  have  done  ami.«s ; 
Or  whether  that  such  cowards  ought  to  wear 
This  ornament  of  knighthood,  yea,  or  no  ? 

G!o.  To  say  the  truth,  his  fact  wa.s  infamous. 
And  ill  beseeming  any  common  man. 
Much  more  a  knight,  a  captain,  and  a  leader. 

Tal.  When  first  this  order  was  ordain'd,  my  lords 
Knights  of  the  garter  were  of  noble  birth, 
Valiant  and  virtuous,  full  of  haughty  courage, 
Such  a.s  were  grown  to  credit  by  the  wars; 
Not  fearing  death,  nor  shrinking  for  distress, 
But  always  resolute  in  worst^  extremes. 
He,  then,  that  is  not  furnish'd  in  this  sort, 
Doth  but  usurp  the  sacred  name  of  knight. 
Profaning  this  most  honourable  order ; 
And  should  (if  I  were  worthy  to  be  judge) 
Be  quite  degraded,  like  a  hedge-born  swain 
That  doth  presume  to  boast  of  gentle  blood. 

K    Hen.  Stain  to  thy  countrymen  !  ihou  hear'st  thy 
doom : 
Be  packing  therefore,  thou  that  wa»t  a  kuif^ht. 
Henceforth  we  banish  thee  on  pa.in  of  death. — 

{Exit  Fastolke. 
And.  now.  my  lord  protector,  view  the  letter 
Sent  from  our  uncle  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Glo.  What  means  his  grace,  that  he  bath  chang'd 
his  style  ? 
No  more  but.  plain  and  bluntly, — "  To  the  king !" 
Hath  he  forgot  he  is  his  sovereign? 
Or  doth  this  churlish  superscription 
Portend'  some  alteration  in  good  will? 
What 's  here  ?  [Reads.]  "  I  have  upon  especial  cause, — 
'•  Mov"d  with  compa.vsion  of  my  country's  wreck, 
'•  Together  with  the  pitiful  complaints 
"Of  .'•ucli  as  your  oppression  feeds  upon, — 
'  Forsaken  your  pernicious  faction, 
•■  And    join"d    with    Charles,    the    rightful    king    of 

P'ranee  " 
0.  monstrous  treachery  !     Can  this  be  so? 
That  in  alliance,  amity,  and  oaths. 
There  should  be  found  such  lal.«e  dis-sembling  guile? 

A'.  Urn.  What !  doth  my  uncle  Burgundy  revolt? 

G'.o.   He  doth,  my  lord  :  and  is  become  thy  foe. 

K.  Hen.   Is  that  the  worst  this  letter  doth  contain  ? 

Glo.  Ii  is  the  worst,  and  ail.  my  lord,  he  wTites. 

A'.  Hen.  Why    then,   lord   Talbot,  there,  shall  talk 
with  him, 
Ajid  give  him  chastisement  for  this  abuse. — 
How  say  you,  my  lord?  are  you  not  content? 

'  Not  ID  (   •       '  most     in  f.  e.      ^  pret<  nd  :  in  f.  e.      *  (hall  :  in 


7a/.  Content,  my  liege  ?     Yes,  but  that  I  'm   pre- 
vented, 
I  should  have  begg'd  I  might  have  been  employ'd. 

A'.  Hen.  Then  gather  strength,  and  march  unto  him 
straight. 
Let  him  jierceive  how  ill  we  brook  his  treason, 
And  what  offence  it  is  to  flout  his  friends. 

Tal.  I  go,  my  lord;  in  heart  desiring  still, 
You  may  behold  confusion  of  your  foes.  [Extt. 

Enter  Vernon  and  Basset. 

Ver.  Grant  me  the  combat,  gracious  sovereign! 

Ba.<s.  And  me,  my  lord  ;  grant  me  the  combat  too  I 

York.  This  is  my  servant ;  hear  him,  noble  prince. 

Som.  And  this  is  mine :  sweet  Henry,  favour  him. 

K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  lords,  and  give  them  leave  u 
speak. — 
Say,  gentlemen,  what  makes  you  thus  exclaim  ? 
And  wherefore  crave  you  combat?  or  with  whom? 

Ver.  With   him,  my  lord ;   for  he   hath   done   me 
wTong. 

Bas.  And  I  with  him  ;  for  he  hath  done  me  wTong 

K.  Hen.  What  is  that  WTong  whereof  you  both  com- 
plain ? 
First  let  me  know,  and  then  I'll  answer  you. 

Bas.  Crossing  the  sea  from  England  into  France 
This  fellow,  here,  with  envious  carping  tongue 
Upbraided  me  about  the  rose  I  wear ; 
Saying,  the  sanguine  colour  of  the  leaves 
Did  represent  my  master's  blushing  cheeks, 
When  stubbornly  he  did  repugn  the  truth, 
About  a  certain  question  in  the  law, 
Argu'd  betwixt  the  duke  of  York  and  him ; 
With  other  vile  and  ignominious  terms : 
In  confutation  of  which  rude  reproach, 
And  in  defence  of  my  lord's  worthiness, 
I  crave  the  benefit  of  law  of  arms. 

Ver.  And  that  is  my  petition,  royal  lord : 
For  though  he  seem,  with  forged  quaint  conceit, 
To  set  a  gloss  upon  his  bold  intent, 
Yet  know,  my  lord,  I  was  provok'd  by  him, 
And  he  first  took  exceptions  at  this  badge, 
Pronouncing,  that  the  paleness  of  this  flower 
BewTay'd  the  faintness  of  my  master's  heart. 

York.  Will  not  this  malice.  Somerset,  be  left? 

Som.  Your  private  grudge,  my  lord  of  York,  will  out, 
Though  ne'er  so  cunningly  you  smother  it. 

K.  Hen.  Good  Lord  !  what  madness  rules  in  brain- 
sick men : 
When,  for  so  slight  and  frivolous  a  cause, 
Such  factious  emulations  still*  arise. — 
Good  cousins  both,  of  York  and  Somerset, 
Quiet  yourselves.  I  pray,  and  be  at  peace. 

York.  Let  this  dissension  first  be  tried  by  fight. 
And  then  your  highness  shall  command  a  peace. 

Som.  The  quarrel  touchcth  none  but  us  alone; 
Betwixt  ourselves  let  us  decide  it,  then. 

York.  There  is, my  pledge;  accept  it,  Somerset. 
Ver.  Nay.  let  it  rest  where  it  began  at  first. 

Bas.  Confirm  it  so,  mine  honourable  lord. 

Glo.  Confirm  it  so  ?     Confounded  be  your  strife, 
And  perish  ye,  with  your  audacious  prate  ! 
Presumptuous  vassals  !  are  you  not  asham'd, 
With  this  immodest,  clamorous  outrage 
To  trouble  and  disturb  the  king  and  us  ? 
And  you,  my  lords,  mcthinks,  you  do  not  well. 
To  bear  with  their  perverse  objections; 
Much  less  to  take  occasion  from  their  mouths 
To  rai.se  a  mutiny  betwixt  your.selves  : 
Let  me  persuade  you  take  a  better  course. 


a 


SCENE   III. 


KING  HENRY  Yl. 


44: 


Eoce.  It   grieves   his   highneas:    good  my  lords,   be 
I  friends. 

I  K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  you  that -would  be  combatants. 

Henceforth,  I  charge  you,  as  you  love  our  favour. 

Quite  to  forget  this  quarrel,  and  the  cause. — 

A.nd  you,  my  lords,  remember  where  vsre  are ; 

In  France,  amongst  a  fickle  wavering  nation. 

If  they  perceive  dissension  in  our  looks, 

And  that  within  ourselves  we  disagree. 

How  will  their  grudging  stomachs  be  pr.ovok'd 

To  wilful  disobedience,  and  rebel  ? 

Beside,  what  infamy  will  there  aii.<e, 

When  foreign  princes  shall  be  certified, 

That  for  a  toy,  a  thing  of  no  regard. 

King  Henry's  peers,  and  chief  nobility, 

Destroy'd  themselves,  and  lost  the  realm  of  France  ? 

0  !  think  upon  the  conquest  of  my  father, 
My  tender  years  ;  and  let  us  not  forego 
That  for  a  trifle,  that  was  bought  with  blood. 

i(       Let  me  be  umpire  in  this  doubtful  strife. 
R       I  see  no  reason,  if  I  wear  this  rose, 
■  [Putting  on  a  red  Rose. 

That  any  one  should  therefore  be  suspicious 

1  more  incline  to  Somerset  than  York: 
Both  are  my  kinsmen,  and  I  love  them  both. 
As  well  they  may  upbraid  me  with  my  crown, 
Because,  forsooth,  the  king  of  Scots  is  crown'd. 
But  your  discretions  better  can  persuade, 
Than  I  am  able  to  instruct  or  teach : 

And  therefore,  as  we  hither  came  in  peace. 

So  let  us  still  continue  peace  and  love. — 

Cousin  of  York,  we  institute  your  srace 

To  be  our  regent  in  these  parts  of  France : 

And,  good  my  lord  of  Somerset,  unite 

Your  troops  of  horsemen  with  his  bands  of  foot ; 

And,  like  true  subjects,  sons  of  your  progenitors, 

Go  cheerfully  together,  and  digest 

Your  angry  choler  on  your  enemies. 

Ourself,  my  lord  protector,  and  the  rest. 

After  some  respite,  will  return  to  Calais ; 

From  thence  to  England  ;  where  I  hope  ere  long 

To  be  presented  by  your  victories 

With  Charles,  Alenfon,  and  that  traitorous  rout. 

[Flourish.     Exnmt  King  Henry,  Glo.,  Som., 
Win..  Suf.,  and  BasSet. 

War.  My  lord  of  York.  I  promise  you,  the  king 
Prettily,  metliought,  did  play  the  orator. 

York.  And  so  he  did  ;  but  yet  I  like  it  not. 
In  that  he  wears  the  badge  of  Somerset. 

War.  Tush  !  that  was  but  his  fancy,  blame  him  not ; 
I  dare  presume,  sweet  prince,  he  thought  no  harm. 

York.  And,  if  I  wist,  he  did. — But  let  it  rest; 
Other  affairs  mwst  now  be  managed, 

[Exeinit  York.  Warwick,  and  Vernon. 

Exe.  Well  didst  thou,  Richard,  to  suppress  thy  voice  ; 
For,  had  the  passions  of  thy  heart  burst  out, 
I  fear,  we  should  have  seen  decipher'd  there 
More  rancorous  spite,  more  furious  raging  broils. 
Than  yet  can  be  imagin'd  or  suppos'd. 
But  howsoe'r,  no  simple  man  that  sees 
This  jarring  discord  of  nobility, 
This  shoulclering  of  eacli  other  in  the  court. 
This  factious  bandying  of  their  favourites. 
But  that  it  doth  presage  some  ill  event. 
'T  is  much,  when  sceptres  are  in  children's  hands, 
But  more,  when  envy  breeds  vinkind  di-sasion  : 
There  comes  the  ruin,  ihere  begins  confusion.       [Exit. 


Sndut.      *  liike  lean,  poor  deer 


SCENE  II.— France.     Before  Bourdeaux. 
Enter  Talbot,  uith  his  Forces. 

Tal.  Go  to  the  gates  of  Bourdeaux,  trumpeter  : 
Summon  their  general  unto  the  wall. 
Trumpet  sounds  a  Parley.     Enter,  on  ttie  Walls,  lite 
General  of  the  French  Forces,  and  others. 
English  John  Talbot,  captains,  calls  you  forth, 
^''^rvant  in  arms  to  Harry  king  of  England  : 
And  thus  he  would. — Open  your  city  gates, 
Be  humble  to  us,  call  my  sovereign  yours, 
And  do  him  homage  as  obedient  subjects. 
And  I  '11  withdraw  me  and  my  bloody  power , 
But,  if  you  frown  upon  this  proffer'd  peace, 
You  tempt  the  fury  of  my  three  attendants. 
Lean  famine,  quartering  steel,  and  climbing  fire, 
Who,  in  a  moment,  even  with  the  earth 
Shall  lay  your  stately  and  air-braving  towers, 
If  you  forsake  the  offer  of  their  love. 

Gen.  Thou  ominous  and  fearful  owl  of  death, 
Our  nation's  terror,  and  their  bloody  scourge, 
The  period  of  thy  tyranny  approacheth. 
On  us  thou  canst  not  enter  but  by  death  ; 
For,  I  protest,  we  are  well  fortified, 
And  strong  enough  to  issue  out  and  fight : 
If  thou  retire,  the  Dauphin,  well  appointed. 
Stands  with  the  snares  of  war  to  tangle  thee. 
On  either  hand  thee  there  are  squadrons  pitch'd 
To  wall  thee  from  the  liberty  of  flight, 
And  no  way  canst  thou  turn  thee  for  redress. 
But  death  doth  front  thee  with  apparent  spoil, 
And  pale  destruction  meets  thee  in  the  face. 
Ten  thousand  French  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 
To  rive  their  dangerous  artillery 
Upon  no  Christian  soul  but  English  Talbot. 
Lo  !  there  thou  standst,  a  breathing  valiant  man, 
Of  an  invincible  unconquer'd  spirit : 
This  is  the  latest  glory  of  thy  praise. 
That  I,  thy  enemy,  'due'  thee  withal; 
For  ere  the  glass,  that  now  begins  to  run, 
Finish  the  process  of  his  sandy  hour, 
These  eyes,  that  see  thee  now  well  coloured, 
Shall  see  thee  wither'd,  bloody,  pale,  and  dead. 

[Drum  afar  off. 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  Dauphin's  drum,  a  warning  beil, 
Sings  heavy  music  to  thy  timorous  soul ; 
And  mine  shall  ring  thy  dire  departure  out. 

Exeunt  General,  ifc,  from  the  Walls. 

Tal.  He  fables  not ;  I  hear  the  enemy. — 
Out,  some  light  horsemen,  and  peruse  their  wings. — 
0,  negligent  and  heedless  discipline  ! 
How  are  we  park'd,  and  bounded  in  a  pale  ! 
A  little  herd  of  England's  timorous  deer. 
Maz'd  with  a  yelping  kennel  of  French  curs  ! 
If  we  be  English  deer,  be  then  in  blood ; 
Not  rascal-like"  to  fall  down  with  a  pinch. 
But  rather  moody  mad,  and  desperate  stags, 
!  Turn  on  the  bloody  hounds  with  heads  of  steel," 
i  And  make  the  cowards  stand  aloof  at  bay  : 


Sell  every  man  his  life  as  dear  as  mine, 
And  they  shall  find  dear  deer  of  us.  my  friends.— 
God,  and  Saint  George,  Talbot,  and  England's  right, 
Prosper  our  colours  in  this  dangerous  fight  !     [Ex€U*d 

SCENE  III. — Plains  in  Gascony. 
Enter  York,  with  Forces  ;  to  him,  a  Messenger . 
York.  Are  not  the  speedy  scouts  return'd  again, 
That  doug'd  the  mighty  army  of  the  Dauphin  ? 

Afe55.''They  are  return'd,  my  lord  ;  and  give  it  out. 


4Ht3 


FIRST  PAKT  OF 


ACT    IV 


Thiit  he  is  march"d  to  Bourdcaux  with  his  power, 
To  fight  with  Talbot.     As  he  marcli'd  along. 
By  your  espials  were  discovered 
Two  niiglitier  troops  than  that  the  Dauphin  led, 
Which   \o\\\\\   with   him,   and   made  their  march   for 
Bourdcaux. 

York.  A  piasue  upon  that  villain  Somerset, 
That  thus  delays  my  promised  supply 
Of  horsemen,  that  were  levied  for  this  siege  ! 
Flenowncd  Talbot  doth  expect  my  aid. 
And  I  am  lo^^■ted'  by  a  traitor  villain, 
And  cannot  help  the  noble  chevalier. 
God  comfort  him  in  this  necessity  ! 

lie  miscarry,  tarewell  wars  in  France. 
Enter  Sir  William  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Thou  princely  leader  of  our  Engli.sh  strength. 
Never  so  needt'ul  on  th<  earth  of  France, 
Spur  to  the  rescue  of  the  noble  Talbot. 
Who  now  is  girdled  wth  a  waist  of  iron, 
.\nd  hemnrd  about  with  grim  destruction. 
To  Bourdcaux.  warlike  duke  !  to  Bourdeaux.  York  ! 
El.-ic.  farewell  Talbot.  France,  and  England's  honour. 

York.  0  God  !  that  Somerset — who  in  proud  heart 
Doth  stop  my  comets — were  in  Talbot's  place  ! 
So  .should  we  save  a  valiant  gentleman. 
By  fortehing  a  traitor  and  a  coward. 
.\Iad  ire,  and  wrathful  fury,  make  me  weep, 
That  thus  we  die,  while  remiss  traitors  sleep. 

Lvcy.  O.  send  some  succour  to  the  distress'd  lord  ! 

York.  He  dies,  we  lose  :  I  break  my  warlike  word  : 
We  mourn.  France  smiles  ;  we  lose,  they  daily  get; 
All  "long  of  this  \ile  traitor  Somerset. 

Lucy.  Then,  God  take  mercy  on  brave  Talbot's  soul ! 
And  on  his  .'^on,  young  John  :  whom  two  hours  since 
I  met  in  travel  toward  his  warlike  father. 
This  seven  years  did  not  Talbot  sec  his  son. 
And  now  they  meet  where  both  their  lives  are  done. 

York.  Alas  !  what  joy  shall  noble  Talbot  have. 
To  bid  his  young  son  welcome  to  his  grave? 
Away  !  vexation  almost  stopp  my  breath. 
That  sunder'd  friends  greet  in  the  hour  of  death. — 
Lucy,  farewell :  no  more  my  fortune  can. 
But  curse  the  cause  I  cannot  aid  the  man. — 
Maine.  Blois,  Poicticrs,  and  Tours,  are  won  away. 
Long  all  of  Somerset,  and  his  delay. 

[Exit  York,  ivith  his  Forces. 

Lucy.  Thus,  while  the  vulture  of  sedition 
Feeds  in  the  bosom  of  such  great  commanders, 
Sleeping  neglection  doth  betray  to  loss 
The  conquest  of  our  scarce-cold  conqueror. 
That  ever-living  man  of  memory, 
Henry  the  fifth.     Whiles  they  each  other  cross, 
Lives,  honours,  lands,  and  all,  hurry  to  loss. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Other  Plains  of  Ga.scony. 

Enter  Somerset,  with  his  Army ;  an  Officer  of 
Talbot's  7cith  him. 

Smn.  It  18  too  late  ;  I  cannot  send  them  now. 
This  expedition  was  by  York,  and  Talbot, 
Too  ra.'ihly  plotted  :  all  our  treneral  force 
Might  with  a  sally  of  the  very  town 
Be  buckled  with.     The  ovf-r-daring  Talbot 
Hath  sullied  all  his  gloss  of  former  honour. 
By  this  unhcedful,  desperate,  wild  adventure. 
York  set  him  on  to  fislit.  and  dif  in  shame, 
That.  Talbot  dead,  great  York  mitiht  bear  the  name. 

Off.  Here  is  sir  William  Lucy,  who  with  me 
Set  from  our  o'er-match'd  forces  forth  for  aid. 

■  Retarded       >  Not  to  bt  avoided. 


Enter  Sir  William  Lucy. 

Som.  How  now,  sir  William  !  whither  were  you  sent? 

Lucy.  Whither,  my  lord  ?  Iroiu  bought  and  sold  lord 
Trlbot; 
Who,  ring'd  about  with  bold  adversity, 
Cries  out  for  noble  York  and  Somerset, 
To  beat  a.-^sailing  death  from  his  weak  legions: 
And  whiles  the  honourable  captain  there 
Drops  bloody  sweat  from  his  war-wearied  limbB, 
And,  in  advantage  lingering,  looks  for  rescue, 
You,  his  false  hopes,  the  trust  of  England's  honour, 
Keep  off  aloof  with  worthless  emulation. 
Let  not  your  private  discord  keep  away 
The  levied  succours  that  should  lend  him  aid, 
While  he,  rcno\A"ncd  noble  gentleman. 
Yields  up  his  life  unto  a  world  of  odd-s. 
Orleans  the  Bastard,  Charles,  and  Burgundy, 
Alen9on.  Reignier,  compass  him  about, 
And  Talbot  perisheth  by  your  default.  [aid. 

Som.  York  set  him  on,  York  should  have  sent  him 

Lucy.  And  York  as  fast  upon  your  grace  exclaims  : 
Swearing  that  you  withhold  his  levied  host, 
Collected  for  this  expedition.  [horse. 

Som.  York  lies :    he  might  have  sent  and  had  the 
I  owe  him  little  duty,  and  less  love, 
And  take  foul  scorn  to  fawn  on  him  by  sending. 

Lvcy.  The  fraud  of  England,  not  the  force  of  France, 
Hath  now  entrapp'd  the  noble-minded  Talbot  ! 
Never  to  England  shall  he  bear  his  life. 
But  dies  betray'd  to  fortune  by  your  strife. 

Som.  Come,    go ;    I    will    despatch    the    horsemer 
straight : 
Within  six  hours  they  will  be  at  his  aid. 

Lvcy.  Too  late  comes  rescue  :  he  is  ta'en,  or  slam. 
For  fly  he  could  not.  if  he  would  have  fled, 
And  fly  would  Talbot  never,  though  he  might. 

Som.  If  he  be  dead,  brave  Talbot,  then  adieu  ! 

Lticy.  His  fame  lives  in  the  world,  his  shame  in  you 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— The  English  Camp  near  Bourdeaux 
Enter  Talbot  and  John  his  Son. 

Tal.  0  young  John  Talbot  !     I  did  send  for  thee, 
To  tutor  thee  in  stratagems  of  war, 
That  Talbot's  name  might  be  in  thee  reviv'd. 
When  sapless  age,  and  weak  unable  limbs. 
Should  bring  thy  father  to  his  drooping  chair. 
But, — O,  malignant  and  ill-boding  stars  ! — 
Now  thou  art  come  unto  a  feast  of  death, 
A  terrible  and  unavoidcd^  danger  : 
Therefore,  dear  boy,  mount  on  my  svs-ifte.st  horse. 
And  I  '11  direct  thee  how  thou  shalt  escape 
By  sudden  flight.     Come,  dally  not;  begone. 

John.  Ts  my  name  Talbot?  and  am  I  yeur  .son  ? 
And  shall  I  fly?     0!  if  you  love  my  mother, 
Dishonour  not  her  honourable  name. 
To  make  a  ba,stard,  and  a  slave  of  me  : 
The  world  will  say  he  is  not  Talbot's  blood, 
That  basely  fled,  when  noble  Talbot  stood. 

Tal.  Fly  to  revenge  my  death,  if  I  be  slain. 

John.  lie  that  flies  so  will  ne'er  return  again. 

Tal.  If  we  both  stay,  we  both  arc  sure  to  diy. 

John.  Then  let  me  stay ;  and  father,  do  you  fly  . 
Your  loss  is  great,  so  your  regard  should  be ; 
My  worth  unkno^^^^,  no  loss  is  known  in  me. 
Upon  my  death  the  French  can  little  boast, 
In  yours  they  will,  in  you  all  hopes  are  lost. 
Flight  cannot  stain  the  honour  you  have  won, 
But  mine  it  will,  that  no  exploit  have  done  : 


SCENE  vn. 


KmG  HENRY   VI. 


443 


i 


Von  fled  for  'vantage  every  one  -will  swear, 
But  if  I  fly',  they  '11  say  it  weis  for  fear. 
There  is  no  hope  that  ever  I  will  stay, 
If  the  first  hour  I  shrink,  and  run  away. 
Here,  on  my  knee,  I  beg  mortality, 
,'lather  than  life  preserv'd  with  infamy. 

Tal.  Shall  all  thy  mother's  hopes  lie  in  one  tomb  ? 

John.  Ay,  rather  than  I  '11  shame  my  mother's  womb. 

Tal.  Upon  my  blessing  I  command  thee  go. 

John.  To  fight  I  will,  but  not  to  fly  the  foe. 

7a/.  Part  of  thy  father  may  be  sav'd  in  thee. 

John.  No  part  of  him  but  will  be  shamed  in  me. 

Tal.  Thou  never  hadst  renown,  nor  canst  not  lose  it. 

John.  Yes,  your  renowned  name ;  shall  flight  abuse  it  ? 

Tal.  Tliy  father's  charge  shall  clear  thee  from  that 
stain. 

John.  You  cannot  witness  for  me,  being  slain. 
If  death  be  so  apparent,  then  both  fly. 

Tal.  And  leave  my  followers  here,  to  fight,  and  die  ? 
My  age  was  never  tainted  with  such  shame. 

John.  And  shall  my  youth  be  guilty  of  such  blame? 
No  more  can  I  be  severed  from  your  side, 
Than  can  yourself  yourself  in  twain  divide  : 
Stay,  go,  do  what  you  will,  the  like  do  I ; 
For  live  I  will  not,  if  my  father  die. 

Tal.  Then  here  I  take  my  leave  of  thee,  fair  son, 
Born  to  eclipse  thy  life  this  afternoon. 
Come,  side  by  side  together  live  and  die, 
And  soul  with  soul  from  France  to  heaven  fly.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— A  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum :  Excursions,  wherein  Talbot's  Son  is  hemmed 

about,  and  Talbot  rescues  him. 

Tal.  Saint  George  and  victory  !  fight,  soldiers,  fight ! 
The  regent  hath  with  Talbot  broke  his  word, 
And  left  us  to  the  rage  of  France's  sword. 
Where  is  John  Talbot  ? — pause,  and  take  thy  breath  ; 
I  gave  thee  life,  and  rescued  thee  from  death. 

John.  0,  twice  my  father  !  twice  am  I  thy  son  : 
The  life  thou  gav'st  me  first  was  lost  and  done ; 
Till  with  thy  warlike  sword,  despite  of  fate, 
To  my  determin'd  time  thou  gav'st  new  date. 

Tal.    When   from   the    Dauphin's    crest   thy  sword 
struck  fire, 
It  wanned  thy  father's  heart  with  proud  desire 
Of  bold-fac'd  victory.     Then  leaden  age, 
Quicken'd  with  youthful  spleen  and  warlike  rage. 
Beat  down  Alenpon.  Orleans,  Burgundy, 
And  from  the  pride  of  Gallia  rescu'd  thee. 
The  ireful  bastard  Orleans,  that  drew  blood 
From  thee,  my  boy,  and  had  the  maidenhood 
Of  thy  first  fight.  I  soon  encountered. 
And,  interchanging  blows.  I  quickly  shed 
Some  of  his  bastard  blood  ;  and,  in  disgrace, 
Bespoke  him  thus  :   "  Contaminated,  base, 
And  misbegotten  blood  I  spill  of  thine, 
Mean  and  right  poor  ;  for  that  pure  blood  of  mine. 
Which  thou  didst  force  from  Talbot,  my  brave  boy  :'' — 
Here  purposing  the  Bastard  to  destroy, 
Came  in  strong  rescue.     Speak,  thy  father's  care, 
Art  thou  not  weary,  John  ?     How  dost  thou  fare  ? 
Wilt  thou  yet  leave  the  battle,  boy.  and  fly, 
Now  thou  art  seal'd  the  son  of  chivalry  ? 
Fly  h)  revenge  my  death,  when  I  am  dead , 
The  help  of  one  stands  me  in  little  stead. 
0 !  too  much  folly  is  it.  well  I  wot. 
To  hazard  all  our  lives  in  one  small  boat. 
If  I  to-day  die  not  with  Frenchmen's  rage, 
To-morrow  I  shall  die  with  mickle  age  : 


By  me  they  nothing  gain,  and  if  I  stay, 

'T  is  but  the  short'ning  of  my  life  one  day  : 

In  thee  thy  mother  dies,  our  household's  name, 

My  death's  revenge,  thy  youth,  and  England's  fame, 

All  these,  and  more,  we  hazard  by  thy  stay  ; 

All  these  are  sav'd,  if  thou  wilt  fly  away. 

John.    The    sword   of  Orleans    hath    not  made  me 
smart ; 
'I\f  >se  words  of  yours  draw  life-blood  from  my  heart 
On  that  advantage,  bought  with  such  a  shame, 
(To  save  a  paltry  life,  and  slay  bright  fame) 
Before  young  Talbot  trom  old  Talbot  fly. 
The  coward  horse  that  bears  me  fall  and  die  ! 
And  like  me  to  the  peasant  boys  of  France, 
To  be  shame's  scorn,  and  subject  of  mischance  ! 
Surely,  by  all  the  glory  you  have  won. 
An  if  I  fly  I  am  not  Talbot"^  son  : 
Then,  talk  no  more  of  flight,  it  is  no  boot. 
If  son  to  Talbot,  die  at  Talbot's  foot. 

Tal.  Then  follow  thou  thy  desperate  sire  of  Crete, 
Thou  Icarus.     Thy  life  to  me  is  sweet : 
If  thou  vidlt  fight,  fight  by  thy  father's  side, 
And,  commendable  prov'd,  let 's  die  in  pride.  [Exeuni 

SCENE  VII.— Another  Part  of  the  Same. 

Alarums:   Excursions.     Enter  Talbot  wounded,  sup 

ported  by  a  Soldier'. 

Tal.  Where  is  my  other  life  ? — mine  own  is  gone  : 
0.  where  's  young  Talbot?  where  is  valiant  John? — 
Triumphant  death,  smear'd  with  captivity. 
Young  Talbot's  valour  makes  me  smile  at  thee. — 
When  he  perceiv'd  me  shrink,  and  on  my  knee, 
His  bloody  sword  he  brandish'd  over  me. 
And  like  a  hungry  lion  did  commence 
Rough  deeds  of  rage,  and  stern  impatience  , 
But  when  my  angry  guardant  stood  alone, 
Tendering  my  ruin,  and  assail'd  of  none, 
Dizzy-ey'd  fury,  and  great  rage  of  heart. 
Suddenly  made  him  from  my  side  to  start 
Into  the  clust'ring  battle  of  the  French  : 
And  in  that  sea  of  blood  my  boy  did  drench 
His  overmounting  spirit :  and  there  died 
My  Icarus,  my  blossom,  in  his  pride. 

Enter  Soldiers,  bearing  the  body  of  John  Talbot. 

Sold.  0.  my  dear  lord  !  lo.  where  your  son  is  borne ! 

Tal.  Thou  antick,  death,  which  laugh'st  us  here  u? 
scorn, 
Anon,  from  thy  insulting  tyranny, 
Coupled  m  bonds  of  perpetuity, 
Two  Talbots,  winged  through  the  lither^  sky, 
In  thy  despite  shall  'scape  mortality. — 
0  !  tiiou  whose  wounds  become  hard-favour'd  death 
Speak  to  thy  father,  ere  thou  yield  thy  breath: 
Brave  death  by  speaking,  whether  he  ^^^ll  or  no  : 
Imagine  him  a  Frenchman,  and  thy  foe. — 
Poor  boy  !  he  smiles,  methinks  ;  as  who  should  say. 
Had  death  been  French,  then  death  had  died  to-day 
Come,  come,  and  lay  him  in  his  father's  arms. 
My  spirit  can  no  longer  bear  these  harms. 
Soldiers,  adieu  !  I  have  what  I  would  have, 
Now  my  old  arms  are  voung  John  Talbot's  grave. 

,Dies 
Alarums.     Exeunt    Soldier.s,    leaving   the   two   bodies 

Enter    Charles,    Alen?on,    Burgundy,    Bastard. 

La  Pucelle,  and  Forces. 

Char.  Had  York  and  Somerset  brought  rescue  in, 
We  should  have  found  a  bloody  day  of  this. 

Bast.    How  the   young  whelp   of   Talbot's,   raging 
wood,* 


bow :  in  f. 


servant :  in  f.  e.      '  Yielding 


400 


FIRST  PART  OF 


ACT    V. 


I)\d  flesh  his  puny  Bword  in  Frenchmen's  blood  ! 

Puc.  Once  I  cncounler'd  him.  and  thus  I  said, 
"  Tliou  maiden  youth  be  vaiiqiiisli'd  by  a  maid  :" 
But  with  a  proud.  maie.>'tical  liiizh  scorn, 
He  ant^wcred  thus  :  "  Young  Talbot  was  not  bom 
To  be  the  pillaiic  of  a  gislot  wench." 
So,  rushm*'  in  the  bowel.*  of  the  French, 
He  left  me  proudly,  a.*  unworthy  fight. 

Bur.  Doubt lo8.«,  he  would  have  made  a  noble  knight. 
Sec,  where  he  lies  inherscd  in  the  arms 
Of  the  «till  bleeding'  nurser  of  his  harms. 

BiiSi    Hew  them  to  pieces,  hack  their  bones  asunder, 
Whose  life  was  Kngland's  glory,  Gallia's  wonder. 

Chur.  O,  no  !  forbear;  for  that  which  we  have  fled 
During  the  life,  let  us  not  wrong  it  dead. 
Ktiler  Sir  William  Lrcv.  attended ;  a  French  Herald 
preceding. 

Lucy    Herald,  conduct  me  to  the  Dauphin's  tent, 
To  knew  who  liatli''  the  glory  of  the  day. 

Cluir.  On  what  submif^sive  message  art  thou  sent? 

Lucy.    Submission,  Dauphin  !    't  is  a  mere  French 
word  ; 
We  English  warriors  wot  not  what  it  means. 
[  come  to  know  what  prisoners  thou  hast  ta'en, 
And  to  survey  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 

Ch^jr.  For  pri.«oncrs  ask'd  thou  ?  hell  our  prison  is. 
But  tell  me  briefly'  whom  thou  seekest  now*. 

Lucy.  But  where 's  the  great  Alcides  of  the  field, 
Valiant  lord  Talbot,  earl  of  Shrewsbury  ? 
Created,  for  his  rare  success  in  arm.s, 
Great  earl  of  Wa.'^hford'.  Watcrford.  and  Valence ; 
Lord  Talbot  of  Goodrig  and  Urchinfield, 
Lord  Strange  of  Blackmere,  lord  Verdun  of  Alton; 


Lord  Cromwell  of  Wingfield,  lord  Furnival  of  Sheflleld 

The  thrice  victorious  lord  of  Falconbridgc  : 

Knight  of  the  noble  order  of  St.  George. 

Worthy  Saint  Michael,  and  the  golden  fleece 

Great  mareshal  to  Henry  thr,  sixth 

Of  all  his  wars  within  the  realms  of  Fiarce  ? 

Pvc.  Here  is  a  silly  stalely  style  indeed  : 
The  Turk,  that  two  and  fiity  kingdoms  hath, 
Writes  not  so  tedious  a  style  as  tins. — 
Him.  that  thou  magnifiest  with  all  these  tilleb, 
Stinking,  and  fly-blown,  lies  here  ai  our  feet. 

Lucy.     Is    Talbot    slain  r    the     Frenchman's    only 
scourge. 
Your  kingdom's  terror  and  black  Nemesis  ? 
0  !  were  mine  eye-balls  into  bullets  turn'd. 
That  I  in  rage  might  shoot  them  at  your  laces 
0  !   that  I  could  but  call  the-'^e  dead  to  life, 
It  were  enough  to  fright  the  realm  of  France. 
Were  but  his  picture  left  among  yon  here, 
It  would  amaze  the  proudest  of  you  all. 
Give  me  their  bodies  that  1  bear  them  forth*, 
And  give  them  burial  as  be'~eeins  their  worth. 

Puc.  I  think,  this  upstart  is  old  Talbot's  ghos». 
He  speaks  with  such  a  p-oud  commanding  spirit. 
For  God's  sake,  let  him  have  'em  ;  keep  them  here 
They  would  but  stink,  and  putrefy  the  air. 

Char.  Go,  take  their  bodies  hence. 

Lucy.  I  'II  bear  them  hence 

But  from  their  very  ashes  shall  be  rear'd 
A  phoenix  that  shall  make  all  France  afeard. 

Cluir.  So  we  be  rid  of  them,  do  what  thou  wilt. 
And  now  to  Paris,  in  this  conquering  vein : 
All  will  be  ours,  now  bloody  Talbot's  slain.    [Etcuiu 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  arul  Exeter. 

K.  Hen.  Have  you  perus'd  the  letters,  from  the  pope. 
The  emperor,  and  the  earl  of  Armagn.\c  ? 

Oh.   I  have,  my  lord  ;  and  their  intent  is  this  : — 
They  humbly  sue  unto  your  excellence. 
To  have  a  godly  peace  concluded  of 
BetN^i  en  the  realms  of  England  and  of  France. 

A'.  Hen.  How  doth  your  grace  affect  their  motion  ? 

Go>.   Well,  my  good  lord  ;  and  as  the  only  means 
To  stop  efl^ision  of  much'  Christian  blood. 
And  'stablish  quietne.'ss  on  every  side. 

K.  Hen.  Ay.  marry,  uncle  :  for  I  always  thought. 
It  was  both  impious  and  unnatural. 
Thai  such  iminanily  and  bloody  strife 
Should  reign  among  prot'-ssois  of  one  faith. 

Glo.  Bi-side.  my  lord,  the  .-sooner  to  effect. 
And  surer  bind,  this  knot  of  amity, 
The  earl  of  Armagnac,  near  kin*  to  Charles. 
A  man  of  great  authority  in  France, 
Proffers  his  only  daimhtcr  to  your  grace 
In  marriage,  with  a  large  and  sumptuous  dowTy. 

K.  Hen.  MarriaEe,  uncle  "'  alas  !  my  years  are  young, 
And  fitter  is  my  s-tudy  and  my  books. 
Than  wanton  dalliance  with  a  paramour 
Yet,  call  th'  amba.«sador8  ;  and,  as  yon  please. 
So  let  them  have  their  auMwers  every  one  : 
i  shall  be  well  content  with  any  choice.  • 


]  Tends  to  God's  glory  and  my  country's  weal. 
Enter  a  Legate,  and  two  Ambaxxadar.",  with  Winche* 
TER,  as  a  Cardinal. 

Exe.  What  !  is  my  lord  of  Wincliester  install'd, 
And  call'd  into  a  Cardinal's  degree  ? 
Then,  I  perceive  that  will  be  verified, 
Henry  the  filth  did  sometime  prophesy, — 
•'  If  once  he  come  to  be  a  cardinal. 
He  '11  make  his  cap  co-equal  with  the  crown  " 

K.  Hen.  My  lords  ambassadors,  your  several  suits 
Have  been  considerd  and  debated  on. 
Your  purpose  is  both  good  and  reasonable  ; 
And.  therefore,  are  we  certainly  re.'-olv'd, 
To  draw  conditions  of  a  friendly  peace  ; 
Which,  by  my  lord  of  Winchester,  we  mean 
Shall  be  transported  presently  to  France. 

Glo.  And  lor  the  proffer  of  my  lord,  your  ma.ster, 
I  have  inform'd  his  highness  so  at  large, 
As — liking  of  the  ladys  virtuous  gifts. 
Her  beauty,  and  the  value  of  her  dower, — 
He  doth  intend  she  shall  be  England's  queen. 

K.  Hen.  In  argument  and  proof  of  which  contrac 
Bear  her  this  jewel,  pledge  of  my  afieetion. — [Givci  i< 
And  so,  my  lord  protector,  see  them  guarded, 
And  safely  brought  to  Dover:  where  Mi.^hipp'd, 
Commit  them  to  the  fortune  of  .the  sea. 

[Exeunt  King  Henrv  and  Train  ;  Glostir 
Exeter,  and  Ambax.'<ad(>rs. 

Win.  Stay,  my  lord  legate  :  you  shall  fijst  receiTc 


»  mn«t  bloody  :  in  f.  e       '  hath  obtained  :   id  f  e. 
■tn  neoct  :  in  t.  «       i  our  :  in  f  e       *  knit  -  in  f 


The»«  two  worde  tir  not  in  f.  e. 

•  Not  ID  f.  «. 


'  The  old  nimo  of  Wexford.     •  that  \  \ 


SCEIfE   III. 


KING  HENRY    VI. 


451 


The  Slim  of  money,  which  I  promised 

Should  be  deliver'd  to  his  lioliness 

For  clotliing  me  in  these  grave  ornaments. 

Leg.  I  \\nll  attend  upon  your  lord.ship's  leisure.  [Exit.^ 
Win.  Now,  Winchester  will  not  submit,  I  trow, 
Or  be  interior  to  the  proudest,  peer. 
Humphrey,  of  Gloster,  thou  shalt  well  perceive, 
That,  neither  in  birth,  or  for  authority. 
The  bishop  will  be  overborne  by  thee  : 
I  ■il  either  make  thee  stoop,  and  bend  thy  knee, 
Or  sack  tliis  countn-  with  a  mutiny.  [Exit.' 

SCENE  II. — France.     Plains  in  Anjou. 
Enter  Charles,  Burgundy,  Alen^on,  La  Pucelle, 
and  Forces,  marching. 
Char.  These  news,  ray  lords,  may  cheer  our  drooping 
spirits. 
■'T  is  said  the  stout  Parisians  do  revolt, 
And  turn  again  unto  the  warlike  French. 

Alen.  Then  march  to  Paris,  royal  Charles  of  France, 
And  keep  not  back  your  powers  in  dalliance. 

Puc.  Peace  be  amongst  them,  if  they  turn  to  us  ; 
Else  ruin  combat  with  their  palaces  ! 
Enter  a  Scout. 
Scout.  Success  unto  our  valiant  general, 
And  liappiness  to  his  accomplices  ! 

Char.  What  tidings  send  our  scouts  ?      I  pr'ythee, 
y  speak. 

H  Scout.  The  English  army,  that  divided  was 

^''      fnto  two  parties,  is  now  conjoin'd  in  one. 
And  means  to  give  you  battle  presently. 

Char.  Somewhat  too  sudden,  sirs,  the  warning  is  ; 
But  we  will  presently  provide  for  them. 

Bur.  I  trust,  the  ghost  of  Talbot  is  not  there  : 
Now  he  is  gone,  my  lord,  you  need  not  fear. 

Puc.  Of  all  base  passions  fear  is  most  accurs'd. — 
Command  the  conquest.  Charles,  it  shall  be  thine  ; 
Let  Henr\'  fret,  and  all  the  world  repine. 

Char.  Then  on.  my  lords  ;  and  France  be  fortunate  ! 

[Exeunt. 

H  SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Before  Anglers. 

Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  La  Pucelle. 
Puc.  The  regent  conquers,  and  the  Frenchmen  fly. — 
Now  help,  ye  charming  spells,  and  periapts' ; 
A.nd  ye.  choice  spirits,  that  admonish  me, 
And  give  me  signs  of  future  accidents:  [Thunder. 

Vou  speedy  helpers,  that  are  substitutes 
Under  the  lordly  monarch  of  the  north,* 
Appear,  and  aid  me  in  this  enterprise  ! 

Enter  Fiends. 
This  speedy  and  quick  appearance  argues  proof 
Of  your  accustom'd  diligence  to  me. 
Now.  ye  familiar  spirits,  that  are  call'd 
Out  of  the  powerful  regions  under  earth, 
Help  me  this  once,  that  France  may  get  the  field. 

[They  walk,  and  speak  not. 

0  !  hold  me  not  with  silence  over-long. 
Where  I  was  wont  to  feed  you  with  my  blood, 

1  '11  lop  a  member  off,  and  give  it  you, 
In  earnest  of  a  farther  bcnetit. 

>^'  you  do  condescend  to  help  me  now. — 

[They  hang  their  heads. 

No  hope  to  have  redress  ? — My  body  shall 

l*ay  recompense,  if  yon  will  grant  my  suit. 

[They  shake  their  heads. 

'-annot  my  body,  nor  blood-sacrifice, 


Entreat  you  to  your  wonted  furtherance? 
Then  take  my  soul ;  my  body,  soul,  and  all, 
Before  that  England  give  the  French  the  foil. 

[They  depart 
See  !  they  forsake  me.     Now  the  time  is  come, 
That  France  must  vail  her  lofty-plumed  cre.st, 
And  let  her  head  fall  into  England's  lap. 
Vy  ancient  incantations  are  too  weak, 
Aiid  hell  too  strong  for  me  to  buckle  with. 
Now,  France,  thy  <rlory  droopeth  to  the  du.«t.         [Exit 
Alarums.    Enter  French  and  English.  Jighting  ;  La  Pi 

CELLE  and  York  fight  hand  to  hand.     La  Iuceli.t 

is  taken.     The  French  fly. 

York.  Damsel  ol  France,  I  think  I  have  you  fast 
Unchain  your  spirits  now  with  spelling  charms, 
And  try  if  they  can  gain  your  liberty. — 
A  goodly  prize,  fit  for  the  devil's  grace  i 
See.  how  the  ugly  -^-itch  doth  bend  her  brows. 
As  if,  with  Circe,  she  would  change  my  shape. 

Puc.   Chans'd  to  a  worser  shape  thou  canst  not  be. 

York.  0  !   Charles  the  Dauphin  is  a  proper  man  : 
No  shape  but  his  can  plea.se  your  dainty  eye. 

Ptic.  A  plaguing  mischief  li^ht  on  Charles,  and  thee  ' 
And  may  ye  both  be  suddenly  surpris'd 
By  bloody  hands,  in  sleeping  on  your  beds  ! 

York.    Fell,    banning    hag !    enchantress,    hold    thy 
tongue. 

Puc.  I  pr'}i;hee.  give  me  leave  to  curse  a  while. 

York.  Curse,  miscreant,  when  thou   coniest   to  the 

stake.  [Exeunt. 

Alarums.    Enter  Suffolk,  leading  in  Lady  Margaret 

Suf.  Be  what  thou  wilt,  thou  art  mv  prisoner. 

[Gazes  on  her. 
0.  fairest  beauty  !  do  not  fear,  nor  fly. 
For  I  will  touch  thee  but  with  reverent  hands : 
I  kiss  these  fingers  [Kissing  her  ha7id]  for  eternal  peace, 
And  lay  them  gently  on  thy  tender  side. 
Who  art  thou?  say,  that  I  may  honour  thee. 

Mar.  Margaret  my  name,  and  daughter  to  a  king. 
The  king  of  Naples,  whosoe'er  thou  art. 

Suf.  An  earl  I  am,  and  Suffolk  am  I  call'd. 
Be  not  offended,  natures  miracle, 
Thou  art  allotted  to  be  ta'en  by  me  : 
So  doth  the  swan  her  downy  cygnets  save, 
Kpeping  them  prisoners  underneath  her  wings. 
Yet.  if  this  servile  usage  once  offend. 
Go,  and  be  free  again,  as  Suffolk's  t'riend. 

[She  turns  aivay  as  going 
0.  stay  ! — I  have  no  power  to  let  her  go' ; 
My  hand  would  free  her,  but  my  heart  says — no. 
As  plays  the  sun  upon  the  glassy  stream. 
Twinkling  another  counterfeited  beam, 
So  seems  this  gorgeous  beauty  to  mine  eyes. 
Fain  would  I  woo  her,  yet  I  dare  not  speak: 
(  '11  call  for  pen  and  ink.  and  write  my  mind. 
Fie,  De  la  Poole  !  disable  not  thyself; 
Hast  not  a  tongue  ?  is  she  not  here  thy  prisoner  ?' 
Wilt  thou  be  daunted  at  a  woman's  sight  ? 
Ay  :  beauty's  princely  majesty  is  such. 
Confounds  the  tonsue,  and  mocks  the  sense  of  touch." 

Mar.  Say.  earl  of  Suffolk,  if  thy  name  be  so. 
What  ransom  must  I  pay  before  I  pass  ? 
;  For.  I  perceive.  I  am  thy  prisoner. 
I      Suf.  How  canst  thou  tell  she  will  deny  thy  suit, 
I  Before  thou  make  a  trial  of  her  love  ?  [Aside^ 

Mar.  Why  speak'st  thou  not  ?  what  ransom  must  1 
pay? 


y 


>  Not  in  f  e  »  Exeiivt  :  in  f  e.  =  Amulets.  *  Zimimar,  one  of  the  four  principal  derils  invoked  hv  witches.  The  cthere  vrtn 
\ma;mon  Gorson,  and  Goap.  kinss  of  the  East.  South,  and  West,  all  with  devil  marquisses,  dukes,  prelates,  knights,  presidents,  uid  fulu 
iod«r  them  —Douce.       »  pass  :  in  f.  e        «  These  two  words  are  from  tne  secon')  fn'i"        ■■  make*  the  spn.'es  ronch  ■  in  f  « 


452 


FIRST   PART  OF 


Suf.  She  's  beautiful,  and  therefore  to  be  woo'd  : 
She  IB  a  woman,  therefore  to  be  won.  [Asiile. 

Mar.  Wilt  tliou  accept  of  raiiM)m,  yea,  or  no  ? 

Suf.  Fond  man  !   romomber  that  thou  hast  a  wife; 
Then,  how  can  Margaret  be  thy  paramour  ?       [Aside. 

Mar.   I  were  best  to  leave  inm.  for  he  will  not  hear. 

Suf.  There  all  is  marrd ;  there  lie.s  a  cooling  card. 

Mar.  He  talks  at  random:  sure,  the  man  is  mad. 

Stif.  And  yet  a  dispensation  may  be  had. 

Aiar    And  yet  I  would  that  you  would  answer  me. 

Suf.  I  "11  win  this  lady  Margaret.     For  whom  ? 
Why.  for  my  king:  tush  !  that 's  a  wooden  thing. 

Mar.  He  talks  of  wood  :  it  is  some  carpenter. 

Suf.  Yet  so  my  fancy  may  be  satisfied.  [Aside. 

And  peace  established  between  these  realms. 
But  there  remains  a  scruple  in  that,  too; 
For  though  her  lather  be  the  king  of  Naples, 
Duke  of  Anjou  and  Maine,  yet  is  he  poor, 
And  our  nobility  \%nll  scorn  the  match. 

Mar.  Hear  ye.  captain  ?     Are  you  not  at  leisure  ? 

Suf.  It  shall  be  so,  di.sdaintheyne"ersomuch:  [Aside. 
Henry  is  youthful,  and  will  quickly  yield. — 
Madam.  I  have  a  secret  to  reveal. 

Mar.  What  though  I  be  enthrall'd  ?  he  seems  a  knight, 
And  ^^-ill  not  any  way  dishonour  me.  [Aside. 

Suf.  Lady,  vouchsafe  to  listen  what  I  say. 

Mar.  Perhaps,  I  shall  be  rescued  by  the  French, 
And  then  I  need  not  crave  his  courtesy.  [Aside. 

Suf.  Sweet  madam,  give  me  hearing  in  a  cause — 

Mar.  Tush  !  women  have  been  captivate  ere  now. 

[Aside. 

Suf.  Lady,  pray  tell  me',  wherefore  talk  you  so  ? 

Mar.  I  cry  you  mercy,  't  is  but  quid  for  quo. 

Suf.  Say.  gentle  princess,  would  you  not  then  ween' 
Vour  bondage  happy,  to  be  made  a  queen? 

Mar.  A  queen  in  bondage  is  more  vile  to  me' 
Than  is  a  slave  in  base  servility^ 
For  princes  should  be  free. 

Suf.  And  so  shall  you, 

If  happy  England's  royal  king  be  true*. 

Mar.  Why,  what  concerns  his  freedom  unto  me  ? 

Suf.  I  '11  undertake  to  make  thee  Henry's  queen ; 
To  put  a  golden  sceptre  in  thy  hand. 
And  set  a  precious  crown  upon  thy  head. 
If  thou  wilt  condescend  to  be  mv — 

Mar.  '      What? 

Suf.  His  love. 

Mar.  I  am  unworthy  to  be  Henn.  "s  wife. 

Suf.  No.  sentle  madam  :   I  unworthy  am 
To  woo  so  fair  a  dame  to  be  his  wife. 
And  have  no  portion  in  the  choice  myself. 
How  say  you,  madam  :  are  you  so  content  ? 

Mar.  An  if  my  father  please,  I  give  con.sent. 

Suf.  Then,  call  our  captains,  and  our  colours  forth  ! 
And,  madam,  at  your  fatlier's  castle  walls 
We  '11  crave  a  parley,  to  confer  with  him. 

[  Troops  come  forward. 

A  Parley  .tounded.     Enter  Rf.igmer.  on  the  Walls. 

Suf.  See.  Heimiier.  see  thv  daughter  prisoner. 

Reig.  To  whom  ? 

Suf.  To  me. 

Reig.  SufTolk,  what  remedy  ? 

I  am  a  soldier,  and  unapt  to  weep, 
Or  to  exclaim  on  fortune's  fickleness. 

Stif.  Yes,  there   is  remedy  enouL'h,  my  lord  : 
Consent,  and  for  thy  honour  give  con.sent, 
Thy  daughter  shall  be  wedded  to  my  king, 
Whom  1  with  pain  have  woo'd  and  won  thereto. 


And  this  her  easy-held  imprisonment 
Hath  gain"d  thy  dauahter  princely  liberty. 

Reig.  Speaks  Suffolk  as  he  thinks  ? 

Suf.  Fair  Margaret  knows 

That  Suffolk  doth  not  flatter,  face,  or  feign. 

Reig.  Upon  thy  princely  warrant  I  descend 
To  give  thee  answer  of  thy  just  demand. 

[Kxit.  from  the  Walk 

Suf.  And  here  I  will  expect  thy  coming  dovNTi. 
Trumpets  sounded.     Enter  Keignier,  below. 

Reig.  Welcome,  brave  earl,  into  our  territories  : 
Command  in  Anjou  what  your  honour  pleases. 

Suf.  Thanks,  Reignier,  happy  for  so  sweet  a  child. 
Fit  to  be  made  companion  wiih  a  king  : 
What  answer  makes  your  grace  unto  my  suit  ? 

Beig.  Since  thou  dost  deign  to  woo  her  little  worth, 
To  be  the  princely  bride  of  such  a  lord, 
Upon  condition  I  may  quietly 
Enjoy  mine  own.  the  county  Maine,  and  Anjou, 
Free  from  oppression  or  the  stroke  of  war. 
My  dau!:liter  shall  be  HenrA's.  if  he  plea.«;e. 

Suf.  That  is  her  ransom,  I  deliver  her ; 
And  those  two  counties.  I  will  undertake, 
Your  grace  shall  well  and  quietly  enjoy. 

Reig.  And  I  again,  in  Henry's  royal  name. 
As  deputy  unto  that  gracious  king, 
Give  thee  her  hand,  for  sign  of  plighted  faith. 

Stif.  Reignier  of  France,  I  give  thee  kingly  thanks. 
Because  this  is  in  traffic  of  a  king : 
And  yet.  methinks  I  could  be  well  content 
To  be  mine  own  attorney  in  this  ca,«e. 
I'll  over.  then,  to  England  with  this  news, 
And  make  this  marriage  to  be  .«olemniz'd. 
So,  farewell.  Reignier.     Set  this  diamond  safe 
In  golden  palaces,  a.«!  it  becomes. 

Reig.  I  do  embrace  thee,  as  1  would  embrace 
The  Christian  prince,  king  Henry,  were  he  here. 

3Iar.  Farewell,  my  lord.     Good  wishes,  prais',  and 
prayers, 
Shall  Suffolk  ever  have  of  Margaret.  [Going. 

Suf.  Farewell,  sweet  madam  !     But  hark  you.  Mar 
garet  ; 
No  princely  commendations  to  my  king  ? 

Mar.  Such  commendations  as  become  a  maid, 
A  virgin,  and  his  servant,  say  to  him. 

Suf.  W^ords  .sweetly  plac'd.  and  modestly  directed. 
But.  madam.  I  must  trouble  you  again, — 
No  loving  token  to  his  majesty? 

Mar.  Yes.  my  good  lord  ;  a  pure  unspotted  heart. 
Never  yet  taint  with  love,  I  send  the  king. 

Suf. '  And  this  M-ithal.   '  [A'mw  her. 

Mar.  That  for  thyself:  I  wnll  not  so  presume, 
To  send  such  peevish''  tokens  to  a  king. 

[E.reu7it  Reignier  and  Margaret. 

Suf  0  wert  thou  for  myself! — But.  Suffolk,  stay; 
Thou  mayst  not  wander  in  .hat  lab>Tinth  : 
There  Minotaurs,  and  ugly  .reasons,,  lurk. 
Solicit  HenrA-  with  her  wond'rous  praise  : 
Bethink  thee  on  her  virtues  that  surmount, 
Mid'  natural  graces  that  extinguish  art: 
Repeat  their  semblance  often  on  the  seas. 
That  when  thou  com'st  to  kneel  at  Henry's  feet. 
Thou  may'st  bereave  him  of  his  wits  with  wonder. 

[Exit 

SCENE  IV.— Camp  of  the  Duke  of  York,  in  Anjou. 
Enter  York.  Warwick,  and  others. 
York.  Bring  forth  that  sorceress,  condemn'd  to  bum 


•  Th*  word*, 
f.  •       •  FooliJi 


pray  toll  me,"  an  not 
*  mti  :  in  f  c 


f  •       »  not  sappoM  :  in  f.  •       '  To  be  n  queen  in  bondage  ii  more  rile  :  ia  £  e.     ♦  fte*  ' 


6CENE   rv. 


KING  HENRY    VI. 


453 


Enter  La  Pucelle,  guarded ;  and  a  Shepherd. 

Shep.  Ah,   Joan  !  this  kills  thy  father's  heart  out- 
right. 
Have  I  sought  every  country  far  and  near, 
And,  now  it  is  my  chance  to  find  thee  out, 
Must  I  behold  thy  timeless  cruel  death  ? 
Ah.  Joan  !  sweet  daughter  Joan,  I'll  die  with  thee. 

Puc.  Decrepit  miser'  !  base  ignoble  wretch  ! 
I  am  descended  of  a  gentler  blood  : 
Thou  art  no  father,  nor  no  friend,  of  mine. 

Shep.  Out,  out ! — My  lords,  an  please,  you,  t'  is  not  so; 
T  did  beget  her,  all  the  parish  knows : 
Her  mother  liveth  yet,  can  testify, 
She  was  the  first  fruit  of  my  bachelorship. 

War.  (iraceless  !  wilt  thou  deny  thy  parentage  ? 

York.  This  argues  what  her  kind  of  life  hath  been  ; 
Wicked  and  vile,  and  so  her  death  concludes. 

Shep.  Fie,  Joan  !  that  thou  wilt  be  so  obstacle'  ! 
God  knows,  thou  art  a  col  lop  of  my  flesh, 
And  for  tliy  sake  have  I  shed  many  a  tear : 
Deny  me  not,  I  pr'ythee,  gentle  Joan. 

Puc.    Peasant,    avaunt! — You    have   suborn'd   this 
man. 
Of  purpose  to  obscure  my  noble  birth. 

Shep.  'T  is  true,  1  gave  a  noble  to  the  priest, 
The  morn  that  I  was  wedded  to  her  mother. — 
Kneel  down  and  take  my  blessing,  good  my  girl. — 
Wilt  thou  not  stoop  ?     Now  cursed  be  the  time 
Of  thy  nativity  !  I  would,  the  milk 
Thy  mother  gave  thee,  when  thou  suck'dst  her  breast, 
Had  been  a  little  ratsbane  for  thy  sake  ; 
Or  else,  when  thou  didst  keep  my  lambs  a-field, 
I  wish  some  ravenous  wolf  had  eaten  thee. 
Dost  thou  deny  thy  father,  cursed  drab  ? 

0  !  burn  her,  burn  her :  hanging  is  too  good.        [Exit. 
York.  Take  her  away  ;  for  she  hath  lived  too  long, 

To  fill  the  world  with  vicious  qualities. 

Puc.    First,  let  me  tell  you   w4iom  you  have  con- 
demn'd  ; 
Not  me  begotten  of  a  shepherd  swain, 
But  issu'd  from  the  progeny  of  kings  : 
Virtuous,  and  holy :  chosen  from  above, 
By  inspiration  of  celestial  grace. 
To  work  exceeding  miracles  on  earth. 

1  never  had  to  do  with  wicked  spirits : 

But  you. — that  are  polluted  with  your  lusts, 
Stain'd  with  the  guiltless  blood  of  innocents. 
Corrupt  and  tainted  with  a  thousand  vices, — 
Because  you  want  the  grace  that  others  have, 
You  judge  it  straight  a  thing  impossible 
To  compass  wonders,  but  by  help  of  devils. 
No ;  misconceived  Joan  of  Arc  hath  been 
A  \-irgin  f.  om  her  tender  infancy. 
Chaste  and  immaculate  in  very  thought ; 
Whose  maiden  blood,  thus  rigorously  effus'd, 
Will  cry  for  vengeance  at  the  gates  of  heaven. 
York.  Ay,  ay.-r-Away  with  her  to  execution  ! 
War.  And  hark  ye,  sirs  ;  because  she  is  a  maid. 
Spare  for  no  fagots,  let  there  be  enow  : 
Place  barrels  of  pitch  upon  the  fatal  stake, 
Tliat  so  her  torture  may  be  shortened. 
)       Puc.  Will  nothing  turn  your  unrelenting  hearts  ? 
Tlien^  Joan,  discover  thine  infirmity, 
That  warranteth  by  law  to  be  thy  privilege. — 
I  am  with  child,  ye  bloody  homicides  : 
Murder  not,  then,  the  fruit  within  my  womb, 

1  Although  ye  hale  me  to  a  violent  death. 
Ydrk.  Now,  heaven  forefend  !  the  holy  maid  with 


'  Miserable  person       '  Often  cut  in  th«  mouth  s  of  uneducated  pereons,  Iot  obstinate,  bv  ■••riterii  ol 


War.  The  greatest  miracle  that  e'er  ye  wrought  I 
Is  all  your  strict  preciseness  come  to  this  ? 

York.  She  and  the  Dauphin  have  been  jugglmg  : 
I  did  imagine  what  would  be  her  refuge. 

War.  Well,  go  to  :  we  will  have  no  bastards  live  ; 
F  pecially,  since  Charles  nmst  father  it. 

Puc.  You  are  deceiv'd  ;  my  child  is  none  of  his ; 
\\  was  Alenfon,  that  enjoy'd  my  love. 

xork.   Aleiifon,  that  notorious  Machiavel  . 
It  dies,  an  if  it  had  a  thousand  lives. 

Puc.  0  !  give  me  leave;  I  have  deluded  you  . 
'T  was  neither  Charles,  nor  yet  the  duke  I  nam'd, 
But  Reignier,  king  of  Naples,  that  prevail'd. 

War.  A  married  man  :  that 's  most  intolerable. 

York.  Why,  here  's  a  girl  !  I  think  she  knows  noi 
well. 
There  were  so  many,  whom  she  may  accuse. 

War.  It's  sign  she  hath  been  liberal  and  free. 

York.  And  yet,  forsooth,  she  is  a  virgin  pure. — 
Strumpet,  thy  words  condemn  thy  brat,  and  thee  : 
Use  no  entreaty,  for  it  is  in  vain. 

Puc.  Then  lead  me  hence  : — ^with  whom  I  leave  m\ 
curse. 
May  never  glorious  sun  reflect  his  beams 
Upon  the  country  where  you  make  abode  ; 
But  darkness  and  the  gloomy  shade  of  death 
Environ  you.  till  mischief,  and  despair 
Drive  you  to  break  your  necks,  or  hang  yourselves  ! 

[Exit,  guarded 

York.  Break  thou  in  pieces,  and  consume  to  ashes. 
Thou  foul  accursed  minister  of  hell  ! 

Enter  Cardinal  Beaufort,  attended. 

Car.  Lord  regent,  I  do  greet  your  excellence 
With  letters  of  commission  from  the  king. 
For  know,  my  lords,  the  states  of  Christendom, 
Mov'd  with  remorse  of  these  outrageous  broils, 
Have  earnestly  implor'd  a  general  peace 
Betwixt  our  nation  and  the  aspiring  French  ; 
And  here  at  hand  the  Dauphin,  and  his  train, 
Approacheth  to  confer  about  some  matter. 

York.  Is  all  our  travail  turn'd  to  this  effect? 
After  the  slaughter  of  so  many  peers. 
So  many  captains,  gentlemen,  and  .soldiers, 
That  in  this  quarrel  have  been  overthrown. 
And  sold  their  bodies  for  their  country's  benefit, 
Shall  we  at  last  conclude  eff"eminate  peace  ? 
Have  we  not  lost  most  part  of  all  the  towns. 
By  treason,  falsehood,  and  by  treachery. 
Our  great  progenitors  had  conquered  ? — 
O,  Warwick,  War-wick  !   I  foresee  with  grief 
The  utter  loss  of  all  the  realm  of  France. 

War.  Be  patient.  York  !  if  we  conclude  a  peace, 
It  shall  be  with  such  strict  and  severe  covenants. 
As  little  shall  the  Frenchmen  gain  thereby. 

Enter  Charles,  attended;  Alencon,  Bastard., 
Reignier,  and  others. 

Char.  Since,  lords  of  England,  it  is  thus  agreed. 
That  peaceful  truce  shall  be  proclaimed  in  France, 
We  come  to  be  informed  by  yourselves 
What  the  conditions  of  that  league  must  be. 

York.  Speak,  Wmchester  ;  for  boiling  choler  choket 
The  hollow  passage  of  my  prison'd-  voice. 
By  sisht  of  these  our  baleful  enemies. 

Win.  Charles,  and  the  rest,  it  is  enacted  thus: — 
That,  in  regard  King  Henry  gives  consent. 
Of  mere  compassion,  and  of  lenity. 
To  ease  your  country  of  distressful  war, 
And  sufl'er  you  to  breathe  in  fi-uitful  peace, 
You  shall  become  true  liegeman  to  his  crowu. 

me.     '  poison'd  :  la  f.  * 


454 


FIRST  TART  OF 


\nd,  Charles,  upon  condition  thou  wilt  swear  I 

To  pay  iiiiii  triliutc.  and  subniit  tliysclf, 
Tliou  sliiilt  be  plac'd  a.-;  viceroy  under  him, 
And  xiill  enjoy  thy  reaal  dignity. 

AUii.  Must  he  be  th«Mi  as  shadow  of  himself  ? 
Adorn  his  leiiiph's  with  a  eoroiiet. 
And  yet.  in  substance  and  autlioritv, 
Retain  but  iinvilose  of  a  private  man? 
This  protfer  is  absurd  and  reasonless. 

Char.  "T  is  known,  already  that  I  am  possess'd 
With  more  than  half  the  Gallian  lerritories, 
And  therein  rcvennc'd  for  their  lawful  king: 
Shall  1.  for  lucre  of  the  rest  unvanquish'd, 
Detract  so  much  from  that  preroirative, 
As  to  be  calld  but  viceroy  of  the  whole? 
No.  lord  auiba.<sador ;  I'll  rather  keep 
That  which  I  have.  than,  coveting  for  more, 
Be  ca-st  from  possibility  of  all. 

York.  Insulting  Charles  !  hast  thou  by  secret  means 
Used  intercession  to  obtain  a  league, 
And  now  the  matter  grows  to  compromise, 
Stand"st  thou  aloof  upon  comparisons  ? 
Either  accept  the  title  thou  usurp'st, 
Of  benefit  proceeding  from  our  King, 
And  not  of  any  challenge  of  desert. 
Or  we  will  plague  thee  wth  incessant  wars. 

Reig.  My  lord,  you  do  not  well  in  obstinacy 
To  cavil  in  the  course  of  this  contract : 
If  once  it  be  neglected,  ten  to  one, 
We  shall  not  find  like  opportunity. 

Alen.  To  say  the  truth,  it  is  your  policy 

[A.-'ide  to  Ch AXLES. 
To  save  your  subjects  from  such  massacre, 
And  ruthless  slaughters  as  are  daily  seen 
B"  our  proceeding  in  hostility  : 
.\nd.  therefore  take  this  compact  of  a  truce. 
Although  you  break  it  when  yoi.r  pleasure  serves. 

War.  How  say'st  thou,  Charles  ?  shall  our  condition 
stand  ? 

Char.  It  shall ;  only  reserv'd,  you  claim  no  interest 
(n  any  of  our  towns  of  sarrison. 

Yftrk.  Then  swear  allegiance  to  his  majesty: 
As  thou  art  knight,  never  to  disobey. 
Nor  be  rebellious  to  the  crown  of  England. 
Thou,  nor  thy  nobles,  to  the  crown  of  Ensland. — 

[Charles,  and  his  A^ohle.<;.  give  tokeris  of  fealty. 
So;  now  dismiss  your  army  when  ye  pleafse  : 
Hang  up  your  ensisns,  let  your  drum.s  be  still. 
For  here  we  interchange'  a  solemn  peace.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Kinfc  Henry,  in  conference  with  Sl'ffolk  : 
Gi.osTER  ayid  Exr.TKK  following. 

K.  Hen.  Your  wondrous  rare  description,  noble  earl, 
Of  beauteous  Marsarel  hath  astonish'd  me: 
Her  virtues,  graced  with  external  gifts, 
Uo  breed  loves  settled  passions  in  my  heart ; 
And  like  as  rigour  of  teinprstuous  gtists 
Provoke.^  the  miiihtiest  hulk  a^'ainst  the  tide. 
So  am  I  driven  by  breath  of  her  renown, 
Either  to  suffer  shipwreck,  or  arrive 
Where  I  may  have  fruition  of  h^r  love. 

Siif.  Tush  !  my  cood  lord,  this  .superficial  tale 
Is  but  a  preface  of  her  worthy  praise  : 
The  chief  perfections  of  that  lovely  dame, 
(Had  I  sufficient  skill  to  utter  them) 
Would  make  a  volume  of  enticing  lines, 
Able  to  ravish  any  dull  conceit. 
And,  which  is  more,  she  is  not  bo  divine, 

»  stUrtajD  :   in  f.  » 


So  full  replete  with  choice  of  all  delights, 
But  with  as  humble  lowliness  of  mind, 
She  is  content  to  be  at  your  command 
Command.  I  mean,  of  virtuous  chaste  intents. 
To  love  and  honour  Henry  as  her  lord. 

A".  Hdi.  And  otherwise  will  Henry  ne'er  presume 
Therefore,  my  lord  protector,  give  consent, 
That  Margaret  may  be  England's  royal  queen. 
Glo.  So  should  I  give  con.^ent  to  flatter  sin. 
You  know,  my  lord,  your  highness  is  betroth'd 
Unto  anoiner  lady  of  esteem  ; 
How  shall  we,  then,  dispense  with  that  contract,, 
And  not  deface  your  honour  with  reproach  ? 

Suf.  As  doth  a  ruler  with  unlawful  oaths: 
Or  one  that,  at  a  trium))!!  having  vow'd 
To  try  his  streimth.  forsaketh  yet  the  lists 
By  reason  of  his  adversary's  odds. 
A  poor  earl's  daughter  is  unequal  odds, 
Anu  merefore  may  be  broke  without  offence. 

Glo.  Why,  what.  I  pray,  is  Margaret,  more  than  'hai 
Her  father  is  no  better  than  an  earl. 
Althoush  in  glorious  titles  he  excel  ? 

Svf.  Yes.  my  good  lord,  her  father  is  a  king, 
The  king  of  Naples  and  Jerusalem  : 
And  of  such  great  authority  in  France, 
As  his  alliance  will  confirm  our  peace. 
And  keep  tlie  Frenchmen  in  allegiance. 

Gin    And  so  the  earl  of  Armagnac  may  do. 
Because  he  is  near  kinsman  unto  Charles. 

Exc.  Beside,  his  wealth  dolh  warrant  a  liberal  dower 
Where  Reisnier  sooner  v\-ill  receive,  than  give. 

Siif.  A  dower,  my  lords!  disgrace  not  so  your  king, 
!  That  he  should  be  so  abject,  base,  and  poor. 
!  To  choo.-e  for  wealth,  and  not  for  perfect  love 
I  Henry  is  able  to  enrich  his  queen. 
And  not  to  seek  a  queen  to  make  him  rich. 
!  So  worthless  jieasants  bargain  for  their  wives, 
As  market-men  for  oxen,  sheep,  or  horse. 
Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth, 
Than  to  be  dealt  in  by  attorneyship : 
Not  whom  we  will,  but  whom  his  grace  affects. 
Must  be  companion  of  his  nuptial  bed  ; 
.-^nd  therefore,  lords,  since  he  aflR^cls  her  most, 
The  most  of  all  these  rea.«ons  bindoth  us. 
In  our  opinions  she  should  be  preferrd. 
For  what  is  wedlock  forced  but  a  hell. 
i  An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife  ' 
I  Whereas  the  contrary  bringeth  bliss, 
And  is  a  pattern  of  celestial  peace. 
Whom  should  we  match  with  Henry,  being  a  king, 
But  Margaret,  that  is  daughter  to  a  kina' 
Her  peerless  fea' ure,  joined  with  her  birth, 
Approves  her  fit  for  none  but  tor  a  kins  : 
Her  valiant  coura?e.  and  undaunted  spirit, 
(More  than  in  women  commonly  is  seen) 
Will  answer  our  hope  in  issue  of  a  king; 
For  Henry,  son  unto  a  conqueror,     • 
Is  likely  to  benet  more  conquerors. 
If  with  a  lady  of  so  high  resolve. 
As  is  fair  Marsaret.  he  be  link'd  in  love. 
Then  yield,  my  lords  :  and  here  conclude  with  me, 
That  Marsaret  shall  be  queen,  and  none  but  sli<* 

A'.  Hen.  Whether  it  be  throuizh  force  of  your  report 
My  noble  lord  of  Siifl^olk.  or  for  that 
My  tender  youth  was  ppver  yet  attaint 
With  any  passion  of  inflaininc  love. 
I  cannot  tell  ;  but  this  I  am  a.ssur'd, 
I  feel  such  sharp  dissension  in  my  breast, 
I  Such  fierce  alarums  both  of  hope  and  fear 


KING  HENR^   VI. 


456 


A.S  I  am  sick  with  working  of  my  thoughts. 

Take,  therefore,  shipping;  post,  my  lord,  to  France; 

Agree  to  any  covenants,  and  procure 

Tha+  lady  Margaret  do  vouchsafe  to  come 

To  cress  the  seah  to  England,  and  be  crown 'd 

King  Henry's  faithful  and  anointed  queen. 

For  your  expenses  and  sufficient  charge, 

Among  the  people  gather  up  a  tenth. 

Be  gone.  I  say  ;  for  till  you  do  return, 

I  rest  perplexed  with  a  thousand  cares. — 

And  you,  good  uncle,  banish  all  offence  ; 

If  vou  do  censure  me  by  what  you  wer^ 


Not  what  you  are,  I  know  it  wU  excuse 

This  sudden  execution  of  my  wiil. 

And  so  conduct  me,  where  from  comjiany 

I  may  revolve  and  ruminate  my  grief.  [Exit 

Glo.  Ay,  grief,  I  fear  me,  both  at  first  and  last, 

[Exeunt  Gloster  a7i(l  Exeter 

Suf.  Thus  Suffolk  hath  prevail'd ;  and  thus  he  goes. 
As  did  the  youthful  Paris  once  to  Greece, 
Wih  hope  to  find  the  like  event  in  love. 
But  prosper  better  than  the  Trojan  did. 
Margaret  shall  now  be  queen,  and  rule  the  king; 
But  I  will  rule  both  her,  the  king,  and  realm.     lEri; 


SECOND    PART 

OP 

KING    IIENllY    VI 


DRAMATIS    PERSONJi:. 


KiNfi  Henry  the  Sixth. 

HrMPHREY,  Duke  of  Gloster,  his  Uncle. 

Cardinal  Bkaifort,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

RltHARI)    Pl.ANTAGENET.    Dukc  of  York. 

EnwARn  and  Richard,  his  Sons. 

Duke  of  Somerset, 

Duke  of  Suffolk,  of  the  King's 

Duke  of  Buckingham,  Party. 

Lord  Clifford,  and  his  Son. 

Earl  of  Salisbury,  )    o^,     ^r    ,  t-    ^ 
,,  ,,r  '  >  ot  the  1  ork  1"  action. 

Earl  of  Warwick,   j 

Lord  Scales,  Governor  of  the  Tower.  Lord 
Say.  Sir  Humphrey  Stafford,  and  his  Bro- 
ther.    Sir  John  Stanley. 

Walter  Whitmore. 


A  Sea-captain,  Master  and  Ma-ster's  Mate. 
Two  Gentlemen,  Prisoners  with  Suffolk.    Vicx. 
Hu.ME  and  Southwell,  Priesls. 
BoLiNGBROKE,  a  Coiijurcr.  A  Spirit  raised  by  him 
Thomas    Horner,    an    Armourer.     Peter.    hi.« 

Man. 
Clerk  of  Chatham.     Mayor  of  Rt.  Albans. 
SiMPcox,  an  Impostor.     Two  Murderers. 
Jack  Cade. 
George,     John,     Dick,     Smith,     the    Weaver. 

Michael,  &c..  Cade's  Followers. 
Alexander   Iden,  a  Kentish  Gentleman. 
Margaret,  Queen  to  King  Heni-y. 
Eleanor,  Duchess  of  Gloster. 
Margery  Jourdain.  a  Witch.     Wife  to  Simpcox 


L/irds,  Ladiee,  and   Attendants;  Herald;  Petitioners,   Aldermen,   a   Beadle,   Sheriif,  and   Officers;  Citizens 

Prentices,  Falconers,  Guards,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  &c. 

SCENE,  in  various  Parts  of  England. 


ACT    1. 


SCENE  L— London.    A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 
Flourish  of  Trumpets :  then  Havtboys.     Enter,  on  one 
side,   king  Henry,   Duke  of  Gloster,   Salisbury, 
Warwick,  ami  Cardinal  Beaufort  ;  on  the    other, 
Queen  Margaret,  led  in  by  Suffolk;   York,  So- 
merset, Buckingham,  and  others  following. 
Suf.  As  by  your  high  imperial  majesty 
I  had  in  charge  at  my  depart  for  France, 
Afl  procurator  to  your  excellence. 
To  marry  princess  Margaret  for  your  grace; 
So,  in  the  famous  ancient  city  Tours, 
[n  presence  of  the  kinss  of  France  and  Sicil, 
The  dukes  of  Orlean.s.  Calaber,  Bretaigne,  and  Alenpon, 
Seven  earls,  twelve  barons,  and  twenty  reverend  bishops, 
'  have  pcrform'd  my  ta.'-k,  and  was  espous'd  : 
And  humbly  now  upon  my  bended  knee. 
In  sii;ht  of  England  and  her  lordly  peers, 
r>cliver  up  my  title  in  the  queen 
To  your  most  graciou.s  hands,  that  are  the  substance 
Of  that  great  shadow  I  did  represent ; 
The  happiest  gift  that  ever  marquess  gave, 
The  fairest  quf^cn  that  ever  king  receiv'd. 

K.  flen.  Suffolk,  arise. — Welcome,  queen  Margaret : 
i  can  express  no  kinder  sisn  of  love. 
Than  this  kind  k'ss. — 0  Lord  !   that  lends  me  life. 
Lend  me  a  heart  replete  with  fhcnkfulness  : 
For  thou  hast  civen  me.  in  this  beauteous  face, 
A  world  of  earthly  blessings  to  my  soul, 
If  sympathy  of  love  unite  our  thoughts. 

'  A  eomponnd  Saxon  word,  (band  in  Chaucr  •»»  <rw  nfjirfit       > 


Q.  Mar.  Great  king  of  England,   and   my  graciou- 
lord, 
The  mutual  conference  that  my  mind  haih  had 
By  day.  by  night,  waking,  and  in  my  dreams, 
In  courtly  company,  or  at  my  beads, 
With  you  mine  alderlievost'  sovereign, 
Makes  me  the  bolder  to  salute  my  king 
With  nider  terms,  such  as  my  wit  affords. 
And  over-joy  of  heart  doth  minister. 

K.  Hen.  Her  sight  did  ravish,  out  her  grace  in  speech 
Her  words  y-clad  with  wisdom's  majesty. 
Makes  me  from  wondering  fall  to  weeping  joys  • 
Such  is  the  fulness  of  my  heart's  content. 
Lords,  with  one  cheerful  voice  welcome  m>  love. 

All.  Long  live  queen  Margaret,  England's,  hai.pinefw  ! 

Q.  Mar.We  thank  you  all.  [flourish 

Siif.  My  lord  protector,  so  it  please  your  giace, 
Here  are  the  articles  of  contracted  peace. 
Between  our  sovereign,  and  the  French  king  Charles 
For  eighteen  months,  concluded  by  consent. 

Glo.  [Reads.]  "Imprimis:  It  is  aizreed  between  the 
French  kins.  Charles,  and  William  de  la  Poole,  mar- 
quess of  Suffolk,  ambassador  for  Henry,  king  of  Ens:- 
land. — that  the  said  Henry  shall  espouse  the  lady  Mar 
garet.  daughter  unto  Reignier  king  of  Nai)les,  Sicilia 
and  Jerusalem,  and  crown  her  queen  of  England  en 

the  thirtieth  of  May  next  ensuing. Item, — Thai,  iht 

duchy  of  Anjou  and  the  county  of  Maine,  shall  be  re- 
leased and  delivered  to  the  king  her  father." — [Pfl«* 

Not  in  (.  e. 


80KJNE   U. 


KING  HENRY   VI. 


457 


K.  Hen.  Uncle,  how  now  ? 

Glo.  Pardon  me,  gracious  lord  ; 

Some  sudden  qualm  hath  struck  me  at  the  heart, 
And  dimm  d  mine  eyes,  that  I  can  read  no  farther. 

K.  Hen.  Uncle  of  Winchester,  I  pray,  read  on. 

Car.  [Reads.^]  "  Item  :  It  is  farther  agreed  between 
them, — that  the  duchies  of  Anjou  and  Maine  shall  be 
released  and  delivered  over  to  the  king  her  father; 
and  she  sent  over  of  the  king  of  England's  own  proper 
cost  and  charges,  without  having  any  dowry." 

K.  Ken.  They  please  us  well. — Lord  marquess,  kneel 
thee  dov^ni : 
We  here  create  thee  the  first  duke  of  Suffolk, 
And  girt  tliee  with  the  sword. — Cousin  of  York, 
We  here  discharge  your  grace  from  being  regent 
I'  the  parts  of  France,  till  term  of  eighteen  months 
Be  fill  expir'd. — Thanks,  uncle  Winchester, 
Gloster,  York,  Buckingham,  Somerset, 
Salisbury,  and  Warwick; 
We  thank  you  all  for  this  great  favour  done. 
In  entertainment  to  my  princely  queen. 
Come,  let  us  in ;  and  with  all  speed  provide 
To  see  her  coronation  be  perform'd. 

[Exeunt  King.  Qiteen,  and  Suffolk. 

Glo.  Brave  peers  of  England,  pillars  of  the  state. 
To  you  duke  Humphrey  must  unload  his  grief, 
Your  grief,  the  common  grief  of  all  the  land. 
What !  did  my  brother  Henry  spend  his  youth, 
His  valour,  coin,  and  people,  in  the  wars  ? 
Did  he  so  often  lodge  in  open  field. 
In  winter's  cold,  and  summer's  parching  heat. 
To  conquer  France,  his  true  inheritance  ? 
And  did  my  brother  Bedford  toil  his  wits, 
To  keep  by  policy  what  Henry  got  ? 
Have  you  yourselves.  Somerset,  Buckingham, 
Brave  York,  Salisbury,  and  victorious  Warwick, 
Receiv'd  deep  scars  in  France  and  Normandy? 
Or  hath  mine  uncle  Beaufort,  and  myself, 
With  all  the  learned  council  of  the  realm 
Studied  so  long,  sat  in  the  council-house 
Early  and  late,  debating  to  and  fro 
How  France  and  Frenchmen  might  be  kept  in  awe  ? 
And  hath  his  highness  in  his  infancy 
Been*  crowned  in  Paris,  in  despite  of  foes  ? 
And  shall  these  labours,  and  these  honours  die? 
Shall  Henry's  conquest.  Bedford's  vigilance, 
Your  deeds  of  war,  and  all  our  counsel,  die  ? 
0  peers  of  England  !  shameful  is  this  league  : 
Fatal  this  marriage  ;  cancelling  your  fame. 
Blotting  your  names  from  books  of  memory, 
Razing  the  characters  of  your  renown. 
Defacing  monuments  of  conquer'd  France, 
Tndoing  all,  as  all  had  never  been. 

Car.  Nephew,  what  means  this  passionate  discourse  ? 
This  peroration  with  such  circumstance? 
For  France,  't  is  ours ;  and  we  will  keep  it  still. 

Glo.  Ay,  uncle,  we  will  keep  it,  if  we  can ; 
Bat  now  it  is  impossible  we  should. 
Suffolk,  the  new-made  duke  that  rules  the  roast, 
Hath  given  the  duchies  of  Anjou,  and  Maine, 
Unto  the  poor  king  Reignier,  who.se  large  style 
Agrees  not  with  the  leanness  of  his  purse. 

Sal.  Now.  by  the  death  of  him  that  died  for  all. 
These  counties  were  the  keys  of  Normandy. — 
But  wherefore  weeps  Warwick,  my  valiant  son  ? 

War.  For  grief,  that  they  are  past  recovery ; 
For,  were  there  hope  to  conquer  them  again. 
My  sword  should  shed  hot  blood,  mine  eyes  no  tears. 
Anjou  and  Maine  !  mvself  did  win  them  both  ; 


Those  provinces  these  arms  of  mine  did  conquer : 
And  are  the  cities  that  I  got  with  wounds, 
Deliver'd  up  again  with  peaceful  words  ? 
Mort  Dieu  ! 

York.  For  Suffolk's  duke,  may  he  be  suifocate 
'^hat  dims  the  honour  of  this  warlike  isle  ! 
France  should  have  torn  and  rent  my  very  heart, 

fefore  I  would  have  yielded  to  tliis  league. 
..ever  read  but  England's  kings  have  had 
Large  sums  of  gold,  and  dowries,  with  their  wives , 
And  our  king  Henry  gives  away  his  own, 
To  match  with  her  that  brings  no  vantages. 

Glo.  A  proper  jest,  and  never  heard  before, 
That  Suffolk  should  demand  a  whole  fil'tcenth, 
For  costs  and  charges  in  transporting  her  ! 
She  should  have  stay  d  in  France,  and  starv'd  in  France 
Before 

Car.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  now  you  grow  too  hot. 
It  was  the  pleasure  of  my  lord  the  king. 

Glo.  My  lord  of  Winchester,  I  know  your  mind  • 
'T  is  not  my  speeches  that  you  do  mislike, 
But  't  is  my  presence  that  doth  trouble  ye. 
Rancour  will  out :  proud  prelate,  in  thy  face 
I  see  thy  fury.     If  I  longer  stay. 
We  shall  begin  our  ancient  bickerings. — 
Lordings,  farewell  ;  and  say,  when  I  am  gone, 
I  prophesied,  France  will  be  lost  ere  long.  [Exit 

Car.  So,  there  goes  our  protector  in  a  rage. 
'T  is  known  to  you  he  is  mine  enemy  : 
Nay,  more,  an  enemy  unto  you  a>]. 
And  no  great  friend.  I  fear  me,  to  the  king. 
Consider,  lords,  he  is  the  next  of  blood, 
And  heir  apparent  to  the  English  crown  : 
Had  Henry  got  an  empire  by  his  marriage, 
And  all  the  wealthy  kingdoms  of  the  west, 
There  's  reason  he  should  be  displeas'd  at  it. 
Look  to  it,  lords :  let  not  his  smoothing  words 
Bewitch  your  hearts  ;  be  wise,  and  circumspect. 
What  though  the  common  people  favour  him 
Calling  him  '-Humphrey  the  good  Duke  of  Gloster;" 
Clapping  their  hands,  and  crying  with  loud  voice — 
'■  .lesu  maintain  your  royal  excellence  !"' 
With — "  God  preserve  the  good  duke  Humplirey  !" 
I  fear  me,  lords,  for  all  this  flattering  gloss. 
He  will  be  found  a  dangerous  protector. 

Buck.  Why  should  he,  then,  protect  our  sovereign, 
He  being  of  age  to  govern  of  himself? — 
Cousin  of  Somer.set,  join  you  with  me, 
And  all  together,  with  the  duke  of  Suffolk, 
We  '11  quickly  hoise  duke  Humplirey  from  his  seat. 

Car.  This  weighty  business  will  not  brook  delay  ; 
I  '11  to  the  duke  of  Suflblk  presently.  [Exit. 

Som.  Cousin  of   Buckingham,  though   Humphrey's 
pride. 
And  greatness  of  his  place  be  grief  to  us, 
Yet  let  us  watch  the  haughty  cardinal. 
His  insolence  is  more  intolerable 
Than  all  the  princes  in  the  land  beside  : 
If  Glo.«;ter  be  displac'd.  he  '11  be  protector. 

Buck.  Or  thou,  or  I,  Somerset,  will  be  protector, 
Despite  duke  Humphrey,  or  the  cardinal. 

[Exeunt  Buckingham  and  Sr).MKRSix 

Sal.  Pride  went  before,  ambition  follows  him. 
While  these  do  labour  for  their  own  preferment, 
Behoves  it  us  to  labour  for  the  realm. 
I  never  saw  but  Humphrey,  duice  of  Gloster, 
Did  bear  him  like  a  noble  gentleman. 
Ott  have  I  seen  the  haughty  cardinal. 
More  like  a  soldier,  than  a  man  o'  the  church, 


in  f.  e.      >Th;s  word  it  not  in  the  folio,— ii  added  by  the  MS   eraendator,  folio.  1638. 


45S 


SECOXD  PAET  OF 


ACT    I. 


Aj!  stout,  and  proud,  as  lie  wore  lord  of  all. 

Swear  like  a  nilliaii.  and  deiiionn  hitiiself 

Unlike  the  ruler  ol  a  eomtnon-woai. — 

Warwick,  my  son.  ilio  oouilori  dl  iny  age, 

Thy  dce«ls.  liiy  phiiunei-s.  and  tliy  house-keeping, 

Have  won  Ilio  Jin-atesl  lavoiir  ottlie  conunons, 

Excepting  none  but  L'ood  duko  Humphrey: — 

And,  broilicr  NOrk.  ihy  ac  .<;  in  Ireland, 

In  brin^inir  ihem  lo  civil  di>ciplinc  ; 

Thy  laic  exploit.-s.  done  in  the  heart  of  France, 

When  thou  %verl  rei;enl  for  our  sovereign. 

Have  made  tli«M'  tVarM.  and  honoured  of  the  people. — 

Join  we  lo'jeilicr.  for  the  public  good, 

[n  what  we  can  lo  bridle  and  supjiress 

The  pride  of  J>u(folk,  and  the  cardinal, 

With  Somer.'^et's  and  Buckingham's  ambition; 

And.  a-s  we  may.  clieri.-h  duke  Humphrey's  deeds, 

While  they  do  lend  to  profit  of  the  land. 

H'ar.  So  (Jo<l  help  \Varwiek,  as  he  loves  the  land. 
And  common  profit  of  his  country. 

York.   .\ii(!  so  say.<  York,  for  he  hath  greatest  cause. 

Siz/.  Tlien  let  's  make  ha.ste  away,  and  look  unto  the 
main. 

War.  Unto  the  main?  0  father  !   Maine  i.s  lost; 
That  iMaiiii'.  which  by  main  force  did  Warwick  win, 
And  would  have  kejit  so  long  as  breath  did  last. 
Main  chance,  father,  you   meant:  but  I  meant  Maine, 
Which  1  will  win  from  France,  or  else  be  slain. 

\ Exeunt  Warwick  aw/ Salisbury. 

York.  Anjou  and  .Maine  are  given  to  the  French; 
Paris  is  lost  :  the  state  of  Normandy 
Stands  on  a  fickle  point  now  they  are  gone. 
SuflToik  conrluilcd  on  the  articles, 
The  peers  agreed,  and  Henry  was  well  pleas'd, 
To  change  two  dukedoms  for  a  duke's  fair  daughter. 
I  camiot  blame  them  all  :  what  is  't  to  them? 
'Tis  thine  iliey  give  away,  and  not  their  own. 
Pirates  may  make  clieap  peimyworths  of  their  pillage, 
And  purcha-'^e  Iriends,  and  give  to  courtezans, 
Still  revelling,  like  lords,  till  all  be  gone; 
While  a.s  the  silly  owner  of  the  goods 
Weeps  over  them,  and  wrings  his  helpless'  hands, 
And  shakes  his  head,  and  trembling  stands  aloof, 
While  all  is  shar"d.  and  all  is  borne  away, 
Heady  to  starve,  and  dare  not  touch  his  own: 
So  York  mu^t  sit,  and  fret,  and  bite  his  tongue, 
While  his  own  lands  are  bargain'd  for,  and  sold. 
Methinks.  the  realms  of  Kngland,  France,  and  Ireland, 
Bear  that  proportion  to  my  flesh  and  blood. 
Ah  did  the  la'al  brand  Althea  burn'd 
Unto  the  prince's  heart  of  Calydon.' 
Anjo'  and  Maine,  both  siven  unto  the  French  ! 
Cold  neAN  for  me.  for  I  had  hope  of  France, 
Even  a»  I  have  of  fertile  Kngland's  soil. 
A  day  will  come  when  \ork  shall  claim  his  own; 
And  therefore  I  will  take  the  Ncvils'  parts. 
And  make  a  slif.w  of  love  to  proud  duke  Humphrey, 
And  when  I  .-py  advantase.  claim  the  crown. 
For  thai  's  the  L'oldcn  mark  I  seik  to  hit. 
.Nor  Rhall  promt  Lancaster  usurp  my  right, 
Nor  hold  ;h.-  fceplrc  in  his  childish  fi.st. 
Nor  wear  llic  diadem  upon  his  head, 
Whose  chiirch-like  hiunoiirs  fit  not  for  a  crown. 
Then.  York,  be  siill  awhile,  till  time  do  serve  : 
Watch  ihou.  and  wake,  when  others  be  asleep, 
To  pry  into  the  .>-ecrcts  of  the  state. 
Till  Henry,  snr'eiiiiig  in  joys  of  love. 
With  Irs  ji°w  bride,  and  England's  dear-bought  queen. 


And  Humphrey  with  the  peei-s  be  fall'n  at  jajs. 
Then  will  I  raise  aloft  the  milk-while  rose, 
With  whose  sweet  smell  the  air  shall  be  -lerfum'd, 
And  in  my  standard  bear  the  arms  of  York, 
To  grai)ple  with  the  house  of  Lancaster; 
And,  force  perforce,  I  'II  make  him  yield  the  crowni. 
Whose  bookish  rule  hath  puli'd  fair  England  down. 

[BxU 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Hoom  in  the  Duke  of 
Gloster's  House. 
Enter  Gi.ostkr  ami  the  Dvche.s.'!. 

Duch.  Why  droops  my  lord,  like  over-ripen'd  corn, 
Hanging  the  head  at  Ceres'  plenteous  load  ? 
Why  doth  the  great  duke  Hum})hrey  knit  his  brows, 
As  frowning  at  the  favours  of  the  world  ? 
Why  are  thine  eyes  fix'd  to  the  sullen  earth. 
Gazing  on  that  which  seems  to  dim  thy  sight? 
What  see.<;t  thou  there?  king  Henry's  diadem, 
Enchas'd  with  all  the  honours  of  the  world? 
If  so.  gaze  on,  and  grovel  on  thy  face, 
Until  thy  head  be  circled  wiih  the  same. 
Put  forth  thy  hand ;  reach  at  the  glorious  gold. — 
What,  is  't  too  short  ?  I  '11  lengthen  it  with  mine; 
And  having  both  together  heav'd  it  up, 
We  '11  both  together  lift  our  heads  to  heaven. 
And  never  more  abase  our  sight  so  low, 
As  to  vouchsafe  one  glance  unto  the  ground. 

Glo.  O  Nell  !  sweet  Nell,  if  thou  dost  love  thy  loid. 
Banish  the  canker  of  ambitious  thoughts  ; 
And  may  that  thought,  when  I  imagine  ill 
Against  my  king  and  nephew,  virtuous  Henry, 
Be  my  last  breathing  in  this  mortal  world. 
My  troublous  dream  this  night  doth  make  me  sad. 

Dtich.  What  dream'd  my  lord?  tell    me,   and    I'll 
requite  it 
With  sweet  rehearsal  of  my  morning's  dream. 

Glo.  Methought.  this  staff,  mine  office-badge  in  court 
Was  broke  in  twain  :  by  whom,  I  have  forgot, 
But.  as  I  think,  't  was  by  the  cardinal; 
And  on  the  pieces  of  the  broken  wand 
Were  plac'd  the  heads  of  Edmond  duke  of  Somerset, 
And  VVilliam  de  la  Poole,  first  duke  of  Suffolk. 
This  was  my  dream  :  what  it  doth  bode  God  knows. 

Dvch.  Tut !   this  was  nothing  but  an  argument. 
That  he  that  breaks  a  stick  of. Gloster's  grove 
Shall  lose  his  head  for  his  presumption. 
But  list  to  me,  my  Humphrey  !  my  sweet  duke : 
Methought,  I  sat  in  seat  of  maie.sty. 
In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 
And  in  that  chair  where  kin<is  and  queens  were  crowTi'd 
Where  Henry,  and  dame  Marsiarct,  kneel'd  Lo  me, 
And  on  my  head  did  set  the  diadem. 

Glo.  Nay,  Eleanor,  then  must  I  chide  outright. 
Presumptuous  dame  !  ill-nurtur'd  Eleanor! 
Art  thou  not  second  woman  in  the  realm. 
And  the  protector's  wife,  belov'd  of  him  ? 
Ha.'Jt  thou  not  w^orldly  ])ieasure  at  coinman<<. 
Above  the  reach  or  compass  of  thy  thouuht  ? 
And  wilt  thou  still  be  hammering  treachery, 
To  tumble  down  thy  hu.sband,  and  thy.self. 
From  top  of  honour  to  disgrace's  feet  ? 
Away  from  me,  and  let  me  hear  no  more. 

Ihirh.  What,  what,  my  lord  !   are  you  so  choleric 
With  Eleanor,  for  telling  but  her  dream  ? 
Next  time  I  '11  keep  my  dreams  unto  myself 
And  not  be  check'd. 

Glo.  Nay,  be  not  angry ;  I  am  pleas'd  again. 


•  hapten,  :  in  f 
^pon  Ibe  preoerva 


»  Vel^a!r*r,  prince  of  Calydon.  died  in  grett  torments,  when  hi«  mother,  Althea,  threw  into  the  flames  the  firehr»l»< 
of  which  his  life  depended.— A'niffAl. 


y 


SCENE  m. 


KING  HENEY  VI. 


459 


yet 


Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  My  lord  protector,  't  is  his  highness'  pleasure, 
Vou  do  prepare  to  ride  unto  St.  Albans, 
Whereas  the  king  and  queen  do  mean  to  hawk. 
Glo.  I  20. — Come,  Nell  :  thou  wilt  ride  with  us? 
Dicch.  Yes,  my  good  lord,  I  '11  follow  presently. 

[Exevnt  Gloster  and  Messenger. 
Follow  I  must ;  I  cannot  go  before. 
While  Glosler  bears  this  base  and  humble  mind. 
Were  I  a  man.  a  duke,  and  next  of  blood. 
I  would  remove  these  tedious  stumbling-blocks, 
Vnd  smooth  my  way  upon  their  headless  necks  : 
.And,  being  a  woman.  I  will  not  be  slack 
To  play  my  part  in  fortune's  pageant. — 
Where  are  you  there  ?    Sir  John  !^  nay.  fear  not,  man. 
We  are  alone  ;  here's  none  but  thou,  and  I. 
Enter  Hume. 
Hume.  Jesus  preserve  your  royal  majesty  ! 
Duch.  What  say'st  thou?  majesty!  I  am  but  grace. 
Hume.  But.  by  the  grace  of  God.  and  Hume's  advice. 
Your  grace's  title  shall  be  multiplied. 

Duch.  What  say'st  thou,  man?   hast   thou   i 
conferr'd 
With  Margery  Jourdain,  the  cunning  witch 
And  Roirer  Bolingbroke.  the  conjurer. 
And  will  they  undertake  to  do  me  good  ? 

Hume.    This    they   have    promised, — to    show  your 
A  spirit  rais'd  from  depth  of  under  ground,      [highness 
That  shall  make  answer  to  such  questions. 
As  by  your  grace  shall  be  propounded  him. 

Duch.   It  is  enough:   I  '11  think  upon  the  questions. 
When  from  St.  Albans  we  do  make  return, 
We'll  see  these  things  efTectcd  to  the  full. 
Here,  Hume,  take  this  reward:  make  merry,  man, 
With  thy  confederates  in  this  weighty  cause. 

[Exit  Duche.ts 
Hume.  Hume  must  make  merrj'  with  the  duchess' 
gold, 
Marry,  and  shall.     But  how  now.  Sir  John  Hume  ! 
Seal  up  your  lips,  and  give  no  words  but  mum  : 
The  business  asketh  silent  secrecy. 
Dame  Eleanor  gives  gold  to  bring  the  witch: 
Gold  cannot  come  amiss,  were  she  a  devil. 
Yet  have  I  gold  flies  from  another  coast : 
I  dare  not  say.  from  the  rich  cardinal, 
And  from  the  great  and  new  made  duke  of  Suffolk  ; 
Yet  I  do  find  it  so  :  for.  to  be  plain, 
They,  knowing  dame  Eleanor's  aspiring  humour, 
Have  hired  me  to  undermine  the  duchess, 
And  biiz  these  conjurations  in  her  brain. 
They  say.  a  crafty  knave  does  need  no  broker ; 
Yet  am  I  Suffolk's,  and  the  cardinal's  broker. 
Hume,  if  you  take  not  heed,  you  shall  go  near 
To  call  them  both  a  pair  of  crafty  knaves. 
Well,  so  it  stands :   and  thus,  I  fear,  at  last, 
Hume's  knavery  will  be  the  duchess'  wreck, 
^nd  her  attainture  will  be  Humphrey's  fall. 
Sort*  how  it  will,  I  shall  have  gold  for  all.  [Exit. 

SCENE  HI.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Peter,  and  others,  ivith  Petitions. 

1  Pet.  My  masters,  let's  stand  close:  my  lord  pro- 
tector will  come  this  way  by  and  by.  and  then  we  may 
deli  -er  our  supplications  in  .'*equel'. 

2  Pet.  Marry  the  lord  protect  him,  for  he  's  a  good 
maE.     Jesu  bless  him  . 

Enter  Suffolk  and  Qimn  Marg.\ret. 
1  Pet.  Here  'a  comes,  methinks,  and  the  queen  with 
him.     I'll  be  the  tirst,  sure. 

;        '  Aiinuti  "  8  rjohn"  as  a  priest. 


2  Pet.  Come  back,  fool  !  this  is  the  duke  of  Suffolk, 
and  not  my  lord  protector. 

Sitf.  How  now,  fellow  !  wouldst  any  thin?  with  me? 

1  Pet.  I  pray  my  lord,  pardon  me  :  I  took  ye  for  my 
lord  protector. 

Q.  3Iar.  "To  my  lord  protector  !"  are  your  siipph- 
cations  to  his  lordship  ?  Let  me  see  them.  What  i? 
t^ine  ? 

..  Pet.  Mine  is,  an  't  please  your  grace,  against  John 
Goodman,  my  lord  cardinal's  man.  lor  keejnng  my 
house,  and  lands,  and  wife,  and  all,  from  me. 

Svf.  Thy  wife  too  I  that  is  some  wrong  indeed. — 
What 's  yours? — W^hat  's  here  ?  [Reads]  '•  Asainst  the 
duke  of  Suffolk,  for  enclosing  the  commons  of  Melford.' 
— How  now\  sir  knave  ? 

2  Pet.  Alas  !  .sir,  I  am.  but  a  poor  petitioner  of  our 
wiiole  township. 

Peter.  [Presenting  his  petition.]  Against  my  mastei, 
Thomas  Horner,  for  saying,  that  the  duke  of  York  was 
rightful  heir  to  the  crowni. 

Q.  Mar.  What  say'st  thou?  Did  the  duke  of  Yo>k 
say.  he  w^as  rightful  heir  to  the  crown? 

Peter.  That  my  master  was?  No.  forsooth:  my 
master  said,  that  he  was ;  and  that  the  king  was  an 
usurper. 

Siif.  Who  is  there  ?  [Enter  Servants.]— Tnke  this 
fellow  in,  and  send  for  his  master  with  a  pursuivant 
presently. — We  '11  hear  more  of  your  matter  before  the 
king.  [Exeunt  Servn7ifs  with  Peter. 

Q.  Mar.  And  as  for  you,  that  love  to  be  proiecle^ 
Under  the  wings  of  our  protector's  grace, 
Besin  your  suits  anew,  and  sue  to  him.  f  Tears  the  Petition. 
Away,  base  cullions  ! — Suffolk,  let  them  20. 

AIL   Come,  let's  be  2one.  [Exeunt  Pttitionirs 

Q.  Mar.  My  lord  of  Suffolk,  say.  is  this  the  guise, 
Is  this  the  fashion  in  the  court  of  England  ? 
Is  this  the  government  of  Britain's  isle. 
And  this  the  royalty  of  Albion's  kina? 
What !  shall  king  Henry  be  a  pupil  still, 
Under  the  surly  Gloster's  governance  ? 
Am  I  a  queen  in  title  and  in  style. 
And  must  be  made  a  subject  to  a  duke  ? 
I  tell  thee,  Poole,  wiien  in  the  city  Tours 
Thou  ran'st  a  tilt  in  honour  of  my  love. 
And  stol'st  away  the  ladies'  hearts  of  France, 
I  thought  king  Henry  had  resembled  thee. 
In  courage,  courtship,  and  proportion; 
But  all  his  mind  is  bent  to  holiness. 
To  number  Ave- Marias  on  his  beads: 
His  champions  are  the  prophets  and  apostles ; 
His  weapons,  holy  saws  of  sacred  wTit ; 
His  study  is  his  tilt-yard,  and  his  loves 
Are  brazen  images  of  canoniz'd  saints. 
I  would,  the  college  of  the  cardinals 
Would  choose  him  pope,  and  carry  him  to  Rome, 
And  set  the  triple  crown  upon  his  head : 
That  were  a  state  tit  for  his  holiness, 

Suf.  Madam,  be  patient  :  as  I  was  cause 
Your  highness  came  to  England,  so  will  I 
In  Eniiland  work  your  grace's  full  content. 

Q.  "Mar.    Beside   the   haught   protector,    have    -*•« 
Beaufort, 
The  imperious  churchman  ;  Somerset.  Buckingham, 
And  grumbling  York :  and  not  the  least  of  these, 
But  can  do  more  in  Enuland  than  the  king. 

Suf.  And  he  of  these  that  can  do  most  of  all, 
Cannot  do  more  in  England  than  the  Nevils  : 
Salisbury  and  Warwick  are  no  simple  peers. 

Q.  Mar.  Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half  so  much 


Happen.      '  in  the  quill :  -i  f.  e. 


460 


SECOND  PART  OF 


ACT  n. 


A.8  that  proud  dame,  the  lord  protector's  wife : 

She  sweeps  it  throu^li  the  court  with  troops  of  ladies, 

More  like  an  empress  than  duke  Humphrey's  wife. 

Strangers  in  court  do  lake  her  lor  the  queen  : 

She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back, 

And  in  her  lieiirt  xhe  scorns  our  po%'erly. 

Shall  I  not  live  to  ^c  avengd  on  her? 

Contemptuous  base-born  caliat'  as  she  is. 

She  vaun'od  "niouL'st  her  minions  t'  other  day, 

The  very  tram  of  her  worst  wearina  gown 

Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's  lands. 

Til!  Suffolk  uave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 

Siif.  Madam,  my.^ieif  iiave  limd  a  bu.«h  for  her; 
And  plac'd  a  quire  of  sucli  enticing  birds. 
That  she  will  liirlit  to  listen  to  their  lays, 
And  never  mount  to  trouble  you  again.. 
So.  let  her  re>t  :  and.  madam,  list  to  me. 
For  I  am  bold  to  counsel  you  in  this. 
Although  we  fancy  not  the  cardinal. 
Yet  must  we  join  with  him,  and  with  the  lords. 
Till  we  have  brougtit  duke  Humphrey  in  disgrace. 
As  for  the  duke  of  York,  this  late  complaint 
Will  make  but  little  for  his  benefit: 
So,  one  by  one.  we  will  weed  all  the  realm,* 
And  you  yourself  shall  steer  the  happy  helm. 
ErUer  King  Henry.  York,  mul  Somerset  ;  Ditke  and 

Ditchess  of  Gloster,  Cardinal  Beaufort,  Bucking- 
ham. Sai.isburv.  and  Warwick. 

K.  Hen.  For  my  part,  noble  lords,  I  care  not  which; 
Or  Somerset,  or  York,  all's  one  to  me. 

York.  If  York  have  ill  demean'd  himself  in  France, 
Then  let  him  be  denay'd'  the  regentship. 

Som.  If  Somerset  be  unworthy  of  the  place, 
Let  York  be  regent :  I  will  yield  to  him. 

War.  Whether  your  grace  be  w^orthy,  yea,  or  no, 
Dispute  not  that  York  is  the  worthier. 

Car.  Ambitious  Warwick,  let  thy  betters  speak. 

War.  A  cardinal 's  not  my  better  in  the  field. 

Buck.  All  in  this  presence  are  thy  betters.  Warwick. 

War.  Warwick  may  live  to  be  the  best  of  all. 

Sal.  Peace,  .son  ! — and  show  some  reason, Buckingham, 
Why  Somerset  should  be  preferr'd  in  this. 

Q.  Mnr.  Because  the  king,  forsooth,  will  have  it  so. 

Glo.  Madam,  the  king  is  old  enough  himself 
To  give  his  censure.     These  are  no  women's  matters. 

Q.  sMnr.  If  he  be  old  enough,  what  needs  your  grace 
To  be  protector  of  his  excellence  ? 

Glo.  Madam.  I  am  protector  of  the  realm. 
And,  at  his  pleasure,  will  resign  my  place. 

Suf.  Resign  it,  then,  and  leave  thine  insolence. 
Since  thou  wert  kine,  (a.s  who  is  king  but  thou  ?) 
The  conmionwealth  hath  daily  run  to  wreck  : 
The  Dauphin  hath  prcvail'd  beyond  the  seas. 
And  ail  the  peers  and  nobles  of  the  realm 
Have  been  as  bondmen  to  thy  sovereignty. 

Car.    The  commons  hast  thou  rack'd  ;  the  clergy's 
bass 
Are  lank  and  lean  with  thy  extortions. 

Som.  Thy  Bumptuous  buildings,  and  thy  wife's  attire, 
Have  cost  a  ma>8  of  public  trea.sury. 

Biick.  Thy  cruelly,  in  execution 
Upon  ofTcnrlors  hiilli  exceeded  law, 
And  left  ihee  to  the  mercy  of  the  law. 

3-  Mar.  Thy  sale  of  offices,  and  toxNiis  in  France, 
If  they  were  known,  as  the  suspect  is  srreat. 
Would  make  thee  quickly  hop  without  thy  head. 

I  Exit  Gi.osTER.     The  Quern  drop.s  her  Fan. 
Give  me  my  lan  :  what,  minion  !  can  you  not? 

[Giving  the  Dvxhets  a  box  on  the  ear. 

'  A  oomroon  ibaiive  ej  ithet  applied  to  women      '  w«  ".'.  weed  them  aJl  at  la«t 


I  cry  you  mercy,  madam  :  was  it  you  ? 

Dnch.  Wa«  't  I  ?  yea,  I  it  was,  proud  French-woman 
Could  I  come  near  your  beauty  with  my  nails, 
I  'd  set  my  ten  commandments  in  your  face. 

K.  Hen.  Sweet  aunt,  be  quiet :  'twas  against  her  will 

Diich.  Again.st  her  will.  Good  king,  look  to  't  in  time 
She  '11  hamper  thee,  and  dandle  thee  like  a  baby 
ThouL'h  in  this  place  most  master  wear  no  breeches 
She  shall  not  strike  dame  Eleanor  unreveng'd.    [Aside 

[Exit  Diuhess 

Buck.  Lord  Cardinal,  I  will  follow  Eleanor, 
And  listen  after  Humphrey,  how  he  proceeds  : 
She  's  tickled  now  ;  her  fume  can  need  no  .spurs. 
She  '11  gallop  fast*  enough  to  her  destruction. 

[Exit  Buckingham. 
Re-enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Now,  lords,  my  choler  being  over-blown 
"With  walking  once  about  the  quadrangle, 
I  come  to  talk  of  commonwealth  affairs. 
As  for  your  spiteful  false  objections, 
Prove  tlicm,  and  I  lie  open  to  the  law ; 
But  God  in  mercy  so  deal  M-ith  my  soul. 
As  I  in  duty  love  my  king  and  country. 
But  to  the  matter  that  we  have  in  hand. — 
I  say,  my  sovereign,  York  is  meetest  man 
To  be  your  regent  in  the  realm  of  France. 

Svf.  Before  we  make  election,  give  me  leave 
To  show  some  reason,  of  no  little  force. 
That  York  is  most  unmeet  of  any  man. 

York.  I  '11  tell  thee,  Suffolk,  why  I  am  unmeet. 
Fir.st,  for  I  cannot  flatter  thee  in  pride  : 
Next,  if  I  be  appointed  for  the  place. 
My  lord  of  Somerset  will  keep  me  there. 
Without  discharge,  money,  or  furniture. 
Till  France  be  won  into  the  Dauphin's  hands. 
Last  time  I  dane'd  attendance  on  his  will, 
Till  Paris  was  besieg'd,  famish'd.  and  lost. 

War.  That  can  I  witness  :  and  a  fouler  fact 
Did  never  traitor  in  the  land  commit. 

S'if.  Peace,  headstrong  Warwick  ! 

liar.  Image  of  pride,  why  should  I  hold  my  pea<e? 
Enter  Servants  of  Suffolk,  bringing  in  Horner  and 
Peter. 

Svf.  Because  here  is  a  man  accus'd  of  treason  : 
Pray  God.  the  duke  of  York  excuse  himself  ! 

York.  Doth  any  one  accuse  York  for  a  traitor  ? 

K.  Hen.  What  mean'st  thou,  Suffolk?  tell  me,  whal 
are  these  ? 

Suf.  Please  it  your  majesty,  this  is  the  man 
That  doth  aecu.«e  his  mas-.er  of  high  trea.«on. 
His  words  were  these  : — that  Hichard,  duke  of  York, 
Was  rightful  heir  unto  the  English  crown. 
And  that  your  majesty  was  an  usurjier. 

A'.  Hen.  Say,  man,  were  these  thy  words? 

Hor.  An  't  shall  please  your  majesty,  I  never  said 
nor  thought  any  such  matter.  God  is  my  witne.'^'i,  I 
am  falsely  accu.-sed  by  the  villain. 

Pet.  By  these  ten  bones,  my  lords,  [Holding  vp  hu 
hand.s.]  he  did  speak  them  to  me  in  the  irarret  one 
night,  as  we  were  scouring  my  lord  of  York's  armour. 

York.  Biise  duns-hill  villain,  and  mechanical, 
I  '11  have  thy  head  for  tl,is  thy  traitor's  speech. — 
I  do  beseech  your  royal  majesty, 
Let  him  have  all  the  rigour  of  the  law. 

Hor.  Alas  !  my  lord,  hang  me.  if  ever  I  spake  the 
words.  My  accuser  is  my  prentice:  and  when  I  did 
correct  him  for  his  fault  the  other  day,  he  did  vow 
upon  his  knees  he  would  be  even  with  me.  I  have 
good  witness  of  this  :  therefore,  I  beseech  your  majesty 

..     *  Denied      »  far  :  in    f.  e.    Pope  aluo  rta  J» /»*' 


SCENE    1 


KING  HEXRY    VI. 


461 


ao  not  cast  away  an  honest  man  for  a  villain's  accusa- 
tion. 

K.  Hen.  Uncle,  what  shall  we  say  to  this  in  law  ? 

GIo.  This  doom,  my  gracious  lord,  if  I  may  judge. 
Let  Somerset  be  regent  o'"er  the  French, 
Because  in  York  tliis  breeds  suspicion ; 
And  let  these  have  a  day  appointed  them 
For  single  combat  in  convenient  place, 
For  he  hath  witness  of  his  sers'ant's  malice. 
This  is  the  law,  and  this  duke  Humphrey's  doom. 

Som.  I  humbly  thank  your  royal  majesty. 

Hor.   And  I  accept  the  combat  willingly. 

Pet.  Alas  !  my  lord.  I  cannot  fight  :  for  God's  sake, 
pity  my  case  !  the  spite  of  this  man  prevaileth  against 
me.  0,  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me  !  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  fisht  a  blow.     0  Lord,  my  heart  ! 

GIo.  Sirrah,  or  you  must  fight  or  else  be  hang'd. 

K.  Hen.  Away  with  them  to  prison  ;  and  the  day 
Of  combat  shall  be  the  last  of  the  next  month. — 
Come,  Somerset,  we'll  see  thee  sent  away.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     The  Duke  of  Gloster's 

Garden. 
Enter  Margery  Jourdain,  Hume,  Southwell,  and 

BOLINGBROKE. 

Hvme.  Come,  my  masters  :  the  duchess.  I  tell  you, 
expects  performance  of  your  promises. 

Boling.  Master  Hume,  we  are  therefore  provided. 
Will  her  ladyship  behold  and  hear  our  exorcisms  ? 

Hinne.  Ay  ;  what  else  ?  fear  you  not  her  courage. 

Boling.  I  have  heard  her  reported  to  be  a  woman  of 
an  invincible  spirit :  but  it  shall  be  convenient,  master 
Hume,  tliat  you  be  by  her  aloft,  while  we  be  busy 
below  ;  and  so,  I  pray  you.  go  in  God's  name,  and  leave 
us.  [Exit  Hl'me.]  Mo'her  Jourdain,  be  you  prostrate, 
and  grovel  on  the  earth  : — John  Southwell,  read  you, 
and  let  us  to  our  work. 

Enter  Duchess  above. 

Ditch.  Well  said,  my  masters,  and  welcome  all.  To 
this  geer  :  the  sooner  the  better. 

Boling.  Patience,  good  lady;  wizards  know  their  times, 
Deep  night,  dark  night,  and  silence'  of  the  night. 
The  time  of  night  when  Troy  was  set  on  fire  ; 
The  time  when  screech-owls  cry,  and  ban-dogs  howl, 
And  spirits  walk,  and  ghosts  break  ope'  their  graves. 
That  time  best  fits  the  work  we  have  in  hand. 
Madam,  sit  you,  and  fear  not :  whom  we  raise. 
We  will  make  fast  within  a  hallow'd  verge. 

[Here  they  perform  the  Ceremonies  belonging,  aiul 
make  the  Circle  :  Bolingbroke,  rends.  Conjuro. 
te,  kc.  It  thunders  and  lightens  terribly;  then 
the  Spirit  riseth. 

Spir.  AJsum. 

M.  Jourd.  Asmath  ! 
By  the  eternal  God,  whose  name  and  power 
fhou  tremblest  at,  answer  that  I  shall  ask  ; 
For  till  thou  speak  thou  shalt  not  pass  from  hence. 

Spir.  Ask  what  thou  wilt. — That  I  had  said  and  done  ! 

Boling.  First  of  the  king  :  what  shall  of  him  become  ? 


Spir.  The  duke  yet  lives  that  Heniy  shall  depose  ; 
But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death. 

[As  the  Spirit  speaks.,  Southwell  writes  the  aruteer 

Boling.  What  fates  await  the  duke  of  Suffolk  ? 

Spir.  By  water  shall  he  die,  and  take  his  end. 

Baling.  What  shall  befall  the  duke  of  Somerset  ? 

Spir.  Let  him  shun  castles  : 
Safer  shall  he  be  on  the  sandy  plains 
1.  an  where  castles  mounted  stand. 
Have  done,  for  more  I  hardly  can  endure. 

Boling.  Descend  to  darkness,  and  the  burning  lake  : 
Foul'  fiend,  avoid  ! 

[Thunder  and  lightning.     Spirit  desceruif. 
Enter  York  and  Buckingham,  ha.stily,  icith  their  Ckmrds. 

York.  Lay  hands  upon  these  traitors,  and  their  trash. 
Beldame.  I  think,  we  walch'd  you  at  an  inch. — 
What  !  madam,  are  you  there  ?  the  king  and  common- 
weal 
Are  deeply  indebted  for  this  piece  of  pains : 
My  lord  protector  will,  I  doubt  it  not. 
See  you  well  guerdon'd  for  these  good  deserts. 

Duch.  Not  half  so  bad  as  thine  to  England's  king. 
Injurious  duke,  that  threat'st  where  is  no  cause. 

Buck.   True,  madam,  none  at  all.     What  call  yoa 
this  ?  [Showing  her  the  Papers. 

Away  with  them  !  let  them  be  clapp'd  up  close. 
And  kept  asunder. — You,  madam,  shall  with  us  : 
Stafford,  take  her  to  thee. —  [Exit  Duchess  from  above. 
We  '11  see  your  trinkets  liere  are  all  forth-euming  ; 
All. — Away!  [Exeunt  Guards,  with  South.,  Boling.,  &c 

York.  Lord  Buckingham,  methinks,  you  watch'd  her 
A  pretty  plot,  well  chosen  to  build  upon  !  [well  : 

Now,  pray,  my  lord,  let 's  see  the  devil's  -wTit. 
What  have  we  here  ?  [Reads. 

'■'•  The  duke  yet  lives  that  Henry  shall  depose  ; 
But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death." 
Why.  this  is  just 

Aio  te.  JEacida.  Romanos  vincere  posse. 
Well,  to  the  rest : 

'•  Tell  me,  what  fate  awaits  the  duke  of  Suffolk  ? — 
By  water  shall  he  die.  and  take  his  end." — 
'•What  shall  betide  the  duke  of  Somerset? — 
Let  him  shun  ca-stles  ; 
Safer  shall  he  be  on  the  sandy  plains. 
Than  where  castles  mounted  stand." 
Come.  come,  my  lords  ; 
These  oracles  are  hardly  attain'd, 
And  hardly  understood. 

The  king  is  now  in  progress  towards  Saint  Albans  ; 
With  him  the  husband  of  this  lovely  lady  : 
Thither  go  these  news,  as  fast  as  horse  can  carry  them  ■ 
A  sorry  breakfast  for  my  lord  protector. 

Buck.  Your  grace  shall  give  me  leave,  my  lord  of  York, 
To  be  the  post  in  hope  of  his  reward. 

York.    At   your   pleasure,   my  good   lord. — Who  '? 
within  there,  ho  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Imnte  my  lords  of  Salisbury,  and  Warwick, 
To  sup  vnih.  me  to-morrow  night. — Away  !      [Exrini 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— Saint  Albans. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Qi.een  Margaret.  Gloster,  Car- 
dinal, and  Suffolk,  icith  Falconers,  hollaing. 
Q.  Mar.  Beiieve  me,  lords,  for  flying  at  the  brook,* 
'  silent :  in  f.  e.      »  up  :  in  f.  e.      «  faUo  :  in  f.  e.      *  Birds  of  the  brook 


1  saw  not  better  sport  these  .seven  years'  day  • 
Yet.  by  your  leave,  the  wind  was  very  hiah, 
And,  ten  to  one.  old  Joan  had  not  gone  out 

K.  Hen.  But  what  a  point,  my  lord,  your  (jlcon  mad^ 
And  what  a  pitch  she  flew  above  the  rest. 


462 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Vf\  sop  how  Ood  in  all  his  creatures  -works  ! 
Yea.  man  an.l  birds  are  lain  of  cliriibinij  high. 

S,if.   No  marvel,  an  it  like  your  majesty, 
My  lord  prolei-lor's  hawks  do  tower  so  well : 
They  know  llieir  (iia.sier  loves  to  be  aloft, 
And  bearf!  iiis  lliou^lii.^  above  his  falcon's  pitch. 

(ilo.   My  lord,  "i  is  imi  a  ba.se  isnobie  mind, 
That  mounts  no  liiiiiier  lliaji  a  bird  can  soar. 

Cnr.   I  thouslit  as  much  :  he  "d  be  above  the  clouds. 

(tin.  Ay.  my  lord  cardinal  :  how  think  you  by  that  ? 
Were  il  not  uochI  your  iirace  could  fly  to  heaven  ? 

A'.  Ucn.  I'hc  treasury  of  everlasting  joy  ! 

Car.  Thy  heaven  is  on  earth  :  thine  eyes  and  thoughts 
Beat  on  a  crown,  the  treasure  of  thy  heart : 
Pernicious  |>rotcclor,  dangerous  peer, 
That  siiiootirst  It  so  with  king  and  commonweal  ! 

Glo.  What,  cardinal,   is   your  priesthood  grown  so 
pon-mptory  ? 
Tntitctnf'  auimix  calestibus  ira? 
Churclimcn  so  hot?  good  uncle,  hide  such  malice; 
And  with  such  holine.<^8  you  well  can  do  it.* 

Sitf.  No  malice,  sir  ;  no  more  than  well  becomes 
So  good  a  quarrel,  and  so  bad  a  peer. 

Glo.  As  who,  my  lord  ? 

Suf.  Why.  as  you,  my  lord  ; 

An 'I  like  your  lordly  lord-protectorship. 

Glo.  Why.  Suflolk,  Kngland  knows  thine  insolence. 

Q.  Mtir.  And  thy  ambition,  Gloster. 

A'.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee,  peace, 

Good  queen  ;  and  whet  not  on  these  furious  peers, 
For  ble.-^sed  are  the  peacemnkers  on  earth. 

Cnr.   Let  me  he  blessed  for  the  peace  I  make 
Against  this  jjroud  protector  with  my  sword. 

Glo.  'Faith,  holy  uncle,  would  'twere  come  to  that! 
[Aside  to  the  Cardinal. 

Car.  Marry,  wheu  thou  dar'st.  [A.'^ide. 

Glo.  Make  u])  no  factious  numbers  for  the  matter  ; 
In  thine  own  person  answer  thy  abuse.  [A.mle. 

Car.  Ay.  where  thou  dar'st  not  peep  :  an  if  thou  dar'st. 
This  evening  on  the  east  side  of  the  grove.         [Aside. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lords  ! 

Car.  Believe  me,  cousin  Gloster, 

Had  not  your  man  put  up  the  fowl  .so  suddenly, 
We  had  had  more  sport. — Come  with  thy  two-hand 
sword.  [Aside  to  Glo. 

Glo.  True,  uncle. 

Car.  Are  you  advis'd,  the  east  side  of  the  grove. 

Glo.  Cardinal,  1  am  with  you.'  [A.tide. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  how  now,  uncle  Glo.^ter  ! 

Glo.  Talking  of  hawkinu;  nothing  else,  my  lord. — 
Now,  by  Gods  mot  her.  priest,  I'  11  shave  your  crowm 
For  this,  or  all  my  fence  shall  fail.  [Aside. 

Car.  Mid  ice  tiipsnm  : 
rotector,  see  to  "t  well,  protect  yourself.  [Aside. 

K.  Heii.  The  winds  grow  high  :  so  do  your  stomachs, 
lords. 
How  irksome  is  this  music  to  my  heart  ! 
When  such  string's  jar,  what  hope  of  harmony? 
[  pray,  my  lords,  let  me  comprmnd  this  strife. 
Enter  one.  crying.  "  A  Miracle  .'" 

Glo.  What  means  this  noi.«e  ? 
Fellow,  what  miracle  dost  thou  proclaim? 

f^ine.   A  miracle  '   a  miracle  ! 

Svf.  Come  to  the  kins  :  tell  him  what  miracle. 

One    For.«ooth.  a  blind  man  at  Saint  Alban's  shrine, 
Within  this  half  hour  hath  receivd  his  sight; 
A  man  that  neer  saw  in  his  life  before. 

jr.  Hen.  Now,  God  be  praisd,  that  to  believing  souls 


Gives  light  in  darkness,  comfort  in  despair  *" 

Enter  the  Mayor  of  St.  .Ilbat.s.  and  his  Brethren  ;  ana 

SiMPCov.  hornc  between  two  persons  in  a  Cluiir ;  hi.' 

Wife  and  the  Multitude  following. 

Car.   Here  come  the  townsmen  on  procesfeion, 
To  present  your  highness  with  the  man. 

A'.  Hen.  Great  is  his  comfort  in  this  earthly  vale, 
Though  by  his  sight  his  sin  be  multiplied. 

Glo.  Stand  by.  my  masters  :  bring  him  near  the  king 
His  highness'  plea.sure  is  to  talk  with  hitn. 

A'.  Hen.  Good  fellow,  tell  us  here  the  circums'ance. 
That  we  for  thee  may  glorify  the  Lord. 
What  !  hast  thou  been  long  blind,  and  now  restor'-i  ' 

Simp    i^orii  blind,  an  't  please  yoiir  grace. 

Wife.  Ay,  indeed,  was  he. 

Siif.  What  woman  is  this? 

JVife.  His  wife,  an  't  like  your  worship. 

Glo.  Hndst  thou  been  his  mother,  thou  could"sth.ive 
belter  told. 

K.  Hen.  Where  wert  thou  born? 

Simp.  At  Berwick  in  the  north,  an  't  like  your  grace. 

K.  Hen.  Poor  soul  !  God's  goodness  hath  been  great 
to  thee : 
Let  never  day  mr  night  unhallow'd  pa,ss. 
But  still  remember  what  the  Lord  hath  done. 

Q.  Mar.  Tell  me,  good  fellow,  cam'st  thou  here  by 
chance. 
Or  of  devotion,  to  this  holy  shrine  ? 

Simp.  God  knows,  of  pure  devotion  ;  being  call'd 
A  hundred  times,  and  oft'ner,  in  my  sleep, 
By  good  Saint  Alban  :  who  .«aid, — '•  Samlet^  come 
Come,  offer  at  my  shrine,  and  I  will  lielp  thee." 

Wife.  Most  true,  forsooth;  and  many  time  and  oft 
Myself  have  heard  a  voice  to  call  him  so. 

Car.  What!  art  thou  lame? 

Simp.  Ay,  God  Almighty  help  me  I 

Suf.-  How  cam'st  thou  so  ? 

Simp.  A  fall  off  of  a  tree. 

Wife.  A  plum-tree,  master. 

Glo.  How  long  ha.st  thou  been  blind  ? 

Sijnp.  0  !  born  so.  master. 

Glo.  What  I  and  wouldst  climb  a  tree' 

Sirnp.  But  that  in  all  my  life,  when  I  was  a  youth. 

Wife.  Too  true  ;  and  bought  his  climbing  very  dear 

Glo.  'Mass,  thou   lov'dst  plums  well,  that  wouldst 
venture  so.  [sons, 

Simp.  Alas,  good  master,  my  wife  desird  some  dam- 
And  made  me  climb  with  danger  of  my  life. 

Glo.  A  subtle  knave  :  but  yet  it  shall  not  serve. — 
Let  me  see  thins  eyes  : — wink  now  ; — now  open  thcin. — 
In  my  opinion  yet  thou  see^st  not  well. 

Simp.  Yes,  master,  clear  as  day;  I  thank  God,  and 
Saint  Alban. 

Glo.  Say'st  tkou  meso?  What  colour  is  this  cloak  of ' 

Simp.  Bed,  master  ;  red  as  blood. 

Glo.  Why,  that 's  well   said.      What  colour  is  my 
gown  of? 

Simp.  Black,  fonsooth  ;  coal-black  as  jet.  (of? 

K.  Ken.  Why  then,  thou  know'st  what  colour  jet  is 

Suf.  And  yet,  I  think,  jet  did  he  never  see. 

Gio.  But  cloaks,  and  gowns,  before  this  day  a  many 

Wife.  Never,  before  this  day,  in  all  his  life. 

Glo.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  what 's  my  name  ? 

Simp.  Ala.s  !  master.  I  know  not. 

Glo.  What 's  his  name?  [Pointing  to  ont  ' 

Simp.   I  know  not. 

Glo.  Nor  his  ? 

Simp.  No,  indeed,  master. 


th  •nch  hnlinew  can  you  do  il :  ia  f.  •.     »  In  the  folio.  Uii«  and  the  two  preceding  apeechea  are  given  to  Gloater.  Theobald 
»  No!  in  f.  «. 


SCENE  n. 


KING  HENRY    VL 


-IBS 


Glo.  What's  thine  ovni  name  ? 

Snnp.  Sander  Simpcox,  an  if  it  please  you,  master. 

Glo.   Then,  Sander,  sit  thou  there,  the  lyingest  knave 
In  Christendom.     It  thou  hadst  been  born  blind, 
Thou  miglilst  as  well  liave  known  all  our  names,  as  thus 
To  name  ihe  several  coiours  we  do  Avear. 
Sight  may  distinguish  of  colours  ;  but  suddenly 
To  nominate  them  all,  it  is  impossible. — 
My  lords.  Saint  Alban  here  hath  done  a  miracle; 
And  would  ye  not  think  his  cunning  to  be  great,    . 
That  could  restore  this  cripple  to  his  legs  ?' 

Simp.  0.  master,  that  you  could  ! 

Glo.  My  masters  of  Saint  Albans,  have  you  not  bea- 
dles in  your  town,  and  things  called  whips  ? 

May.  V'es,  my  lord,  if  it  please  your  grace. 

Glo.  Then  send  for  one  presently. 

May    Sirrah,  go  fetch  the  beadle  hither  straight. 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

Glo.  Now  fetch  me  a  stool  hither  by  and  by.  [A 
ttool  brought  out.]  Now,  sirrah,  if  you  mean  to  save 
yourself  from  whipping,  leap  me  over  this  stool,  and 
run  away. 

Simp.  Alas !  master,  I  am  not  able  to  stand  alone  : 
You  go  about  to  torture  me  in  vain. 

Rc-euter  Attendant^  and  a  Beadle  ivith  a  tohip. 

Glo.  Well,  sir,  we  must  have  you  find  your  legs. 
Sirrah  beadle,  whip  him  till  he  leap  over  that  same  stool. 

Bead.  I  will,  my  lord. — Come  on,  sirrah;  ofF  with 
your  doublet  quickly. 

Si7np.  Alas  !  master,  what  shall  I  do?  I  am  not  able 
'0  stand. 

[After  the  Beadle  hath  hit  him  once,  he  leaps 
over  the  .stool,  and  rttn.s  away  ;  and  the  People 
follovj  and  cry,  "  A  Miracle  .'" 

K.  Hen.  0  God  !  seest  thou  this,  and  bearest  so  long  ? 

Q.  Mar.  It  made  me  laugh  to  see  the  villain /un. 

Glo.  Follow  the  knave  ;  and  take  this  drab  away. 

Wife.  Alas  !  sir,  we  did  it  for  pure  need. 

Glo.  Let  them  be  whipp'd  through  every  market  town, 
Till  they  come  to  Berwick,  from  whence  they  came. 

[Exeunt  Mayor,  Beadle,  Wife,  Ifc. 

Car.  Duke  Humphrey  has  done  a  miracle  to-day. 

Suf.  True,  made  the  lame  to  leap,  and  fly  away. 

Glo.  But  you  have  done  more  miracles  than  I  ; 
You  made  in  a  day,  my  lord,  whole  towns  to  fly. 
Enter  Buckingham. 

K.  Hen.  What  tidings  with  our  cousin  Buckinsham  ? 

Buck.  Such  as  my  heart  doth  tremble  to  unfold. 
A  sort'  of  naughty  persons,  lewdly  bent, 
Under  the  countenance  and  confederacy 
Of  lady  Eleanor,  the  protector's  wife, 
The  ringleader  and  head  of  all  this  rout. 
Have  practic'd  dangerously  against  your  state. 
Dealing  with  witches,  and  with  conjurers. 
Whom  we  have  apprehended  in  the  fact :' 
Raising  up  wicked  spirits  from  under  ground, 
Demanding  of  king  Henry's  life  and  death. 
And  other  of  your  highness'  privy  council, 
As  more  at  large  your  grace  shall  understand. 

[Giving  a  paper. ^ 

Car.  And  so,  my  lord  protector,  by  this  means 
Your  lady  is  forthcoming  yet  at  London. 
This  news,  I  think,  hath  turn'd  your  weapon's  edge; 
'T  is  like,  my  lord,  you  will  not  keep  your  hour. 

Glo.  Ambitious  churchman,  leave  t'  aiflict  my  heart. 
Sorrow  and  grief  ha^e  vanquish'd  all  my  powers; 
And,  vanquish'd  as  1  am,  I  yield  to  thee, 
Or  to  the  meanest  groom.  [ones  ; 

K.  Hen.  O  God  !  what  mischiefs  work  tlie  wicked 

'  This  speed    s  printed  as  prose  in  the  folio.      '  Company.      -  N( 


Heaping  confusion  on  their  own  neads  thercbv. 

Q.  Alar.  Gloster,  .^ee  here  the  tainture  of  thy  noct ; 
And  look  thyself  be  faultless,  thou  wert  be  t. 

Glo.   Madam,  for  myself,  to  heaven  I  do  ajjpcal, 
How  I  have  lov'd  my  kmg,  and  comiuoiiweal ; 
A nd,  for  my  wife.  I  know  not  how  it  stands. 
Sorry  I  am  to  hear  what  1  have  heard  ; 

Soble  she  is,  but  if  she  have  forgot 
uaour,  and  virtue,  and  convers'd  with  such 
As,  like  to  pitch,  defile  nobility, 
1  banish  her,  my  bed,  and  company, 
And  give  he-,  as  a  prey  to  law,  and  shame. 
That  hath  dishonour'd  Glo.^ter's  honesi  name. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  for  this  night,  we  will  repose  us  here. 
To-morrow,  toward  London,  back  again. 
To  look  into  this  business  thoroughly, 
And  call  theve  foul  offenders  to  their  answers  ; 
And  poise  the  cause  in  justice'  equal  scales. 
Whose  beam  stands  sure,  whose  rightful  cause  prevails 
[Flourish.     ExeurU 
SCENE  n.— London.    The  Duke  of  Youk's  Garden. 
Enter  Y'ork,  Salisbury,  and  Warwick. 

York.  Now,  my  good  lords  of  Salisbury  and  Warvnck 
Our  simple  supper  ended,  give  me  leave, 
In  this  close  walk,  to  satisfy  myself 
In  craving  your  opinion  of  my  title. 
Which  is  infallible,  to  England's  crown. 

Sil.  My  lord,  I  long  to  hear  it  at  the  full. 

War.  Sweet  Y'ork,  begin,  and  if  thy  claim  be  good 
The  Nevils  are  thy  subjects  to  command. 

York.  Then  thus  :— 
Edward  the  third,  my  lords,  had  seven  sons  ; 
The  first,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  prince  of  Wales; 
The  second,  William  of  Hatfield  ;  and  the  third, 
Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence  ;  next  to  whom, 
Was  John  of  Gaunt,  the  duke  of  Lancaster; 
The  fifth  was  Edmond  Lan^dey.  duke  of  York ; 
The  sixth  was  Thomas  of  Woodstock,  duke  of  Gloster  , 
William  of  Windsor  was  the  seventh,  and  last. 
Edward,  the  Black  Prince,  died  before  his  father, 
And  left  behind  him  Richard,  his  only  son; 
Who,  after  Edward  the  third's  death,  reign'd  as  king, 
Till  Henry  Bolingbroke,  duke  of  Lancaster, 
The  eldest  .«on  and  heir  of  John  of  Gauut, 
Crown'd  by  the  name  of  Henry  the  tourth. 
Seized  on  the  realm;  depos'd  the  rightful  kini; 
Sent  his  poor  queen  to  France,  from  whence  she  came 
And  him  to  Pomfret ;  where,  as  all  you  know, 
Harmless  Richard  was  murder'd  traitorously. 

War.  Father,  the  duke  hath  told  ihe  very  truth  : 
Thus  got  the  house  of  Lancaster  the  crown.        [rigiit ; 

York.  Which  now  they  hold  by  force,  and  not  by 
For  Richard,  the  firsst  son's  heir  being  dead. 
The  issue  of  the  next  son  should  have  reign'd. 

Sol.  But  William  of  Hatfield  died  without  an  heir 

York.  The  third  son,  duke  of  Clarence,  from  whose 
line 
I  claim  the  crown,  had  issue — Philippe,  a  daughter, 
Who  married  Edmond  Mortimer,  earl  of  March ; 
Edmond  had  issue — Roger,  earl  of  March  : 
Roger  had  issue — Edmond,  Anne,  and  Eleanor. 

Sal.  This  Edmond,  in  the  reign  of  Bolingbroke, 
As  I  have  read,  laid  claim  luito  the  cro\\-n  : 
And  but  for  Owen  Glendower.  had  been  king, 
Who  kept  him  in  captivity,  till  he  died. 
But  to  the  rest. 

York.  His  eldest  sister.  Anne, 

My  mother,  being  heir  luito  the  crown, 

inf.  e 


464 


SECOND   PART   OF 


ACT  n. 


Married  Richard   car!  of  Cambridge  ;  who  was 

To  Edinoiul  Laimlcy.  Kiiward  tlie  third's  f;fth  son,  son. 

By  lier  I  claim  tlie  Kiii?dom  :  she  was  heir 

To  Roucr.  earl  of  March  :  who  was  the  son 

Of  Edmond  Mortimer  :  who  married  Philii)pe, 

Sole  dauiihter  unto  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence  ; 

So.  if  the  i.xsue  of  the  elder  son 

Succeed  before  the  younger,  I  am  king. 

War.  Wiiat  plain  proceeding  is  more  plain  than  this  ? 
Henry  doth  claim  the  crown  from  .lohn  of  Caunt, 
The  fourth  son  ;   York  claims  it  from  tlie  third. 
Till  Lionel's  i.>;sue  fails,  liis  should  not  reign: 
It  fails  not  yet.  but  flourishes  in  thee, 
And  in  thy  sons,  fair  slips  of  such  a  stock. — 
Then,  father  Salisbury,  kneel  we  together; 
And.  in  this  private  plot'  be  we  the  first, 
That  shall  salute  our  rightful  sovereign 
With  honour  of  his  birthright  to  the  crown. 

Both.  Long  live  our  sovereign  Richard,  England's 
king  ! 

lari.  We  thank  you.  lords.    But  1  am  not  your  king, 
Till  I  be  crown'd,  and  that  my  sword  be  stain'd 
With  heart-blood  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  : 
And  that 's  not  suddenly  to  be  pcrform'd, 
But  with  advice,  and  silent  secrecy. 
Do  you,  as  I  do,  in  these  dangerous  days, 
Wink  at  the  duke  of  Suffolk's  insolence. 
At  Beaufort's  pride,  at  Somerset's  ambition, 
At  Buckingham,  and  all  the  crew  of  them, 
Till  they  have  snar'd  the  she])herd  of  the  flock. 
That  virtuous  prince,  the  good  duke  Humphrey. 
'T  is  that  they  seek  :  and  they,  in  seeking  that, 
Shall  find  their  deaths,  if  York  can  prophesy. 

Sal.  My  lord,  break  we  oflT:  we  know  your  mind  at 
full. 

War.  My  heart  assures  me,  that  the  earl  of  Warwick 
Shall  one  day  make  the  duke  of  York  a  king. 

York.  And.  i\e\il,  this  I  do  assure  myself, 
Richard  shall  live  to  make  the  earl  of  Warwick 
The  greatest  man  in  England,  but  the  king.      [Exetmt. 

SCENE  HI.— The  Same.     A  Hall  of  Ju.stice. 
Trvmpets  sounded.     Enter  Kinfr  Henry,  Queen  Mar- 
garet. Gi.osTER,  YouK.  Suffolk,  and  Salisbury  ; 
the  Duchc.s.i  of  Ghof^TKR.  Margery  Jourdain,  South- 
well. Hume,  aiid  Bolingbroke,  under  guard. 
K.  Hen.  Stand  forth,  dame   Eleanor  Cobham,  GIos- 
ter's  wife. 
In  fight  of  God  and  us,  your  guilt  is  great : 
Receive  the  sentence  of  the  law,  for  sin 
Such  as  by  God's  book  ig  adjudg'd  to  death. — 
You  four,  from  hence  to  prison  back  again  : 

[7b  Jourd.,  ^c. 
rrom  thence,  unto  the  place  of  execution : 
The  witch  in  Smithfield  shall  be  burn'd  to  ashes. 
And  you  three  shall  be  strangled  on  the  gallows. — 
fou,  madim,  for  you  are  more  nobly  born, 
Despoiled  of  your  honour  in  your  life, 
Shall,  after  three  days'  open  penance  done. 
Live  in  your  country  here,  in  banishment. 
With  Sir  .lohn  Stanley  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Ihich.  Welcome  is  banishment;  welcome  were  my 

death. 
Glo.  Eleanor,  the  law,  thou  seest,  hath  judged  thee: 
1  cannot  justify  whom  the  law  condemns — 
[Exeunt  the  Ditrhex.i.  and  the  other  Priynncr.t.  guarded. 
Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  grief. 
Ah,  Humphrey  '  this  dishonour  in  thine  age 


Will  bring  thy  head  with  sorrow  to  the  ground  — 
I  beseech  your  majesty,  give  me  leave  to  go  ; 
Sorrow  would  solace,  and  mine  age  would  ease. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  Humphrey,  duke  of  Gloster.  Ere  thou 
Give  up  thy  staff;  Henry  will  to  himself  [go 

Protector  be  ;  and  God  sliall  be  my  hope. 
My  stay,  my  guide,  and  lantern  to  my  feet. 
And  go  in  peace,  Humphrey  ;  no  less  belov'd, 
Than  when  thou  wert  protector  to  thy  king. 

Q.  Mar.  1  .see  no  reason  why  a  king  of  years 
Shoulil  be  protected  like  a  child  by  peers.' 
God  and  king  Henry  govern  England's  helm.* 
Give  up  your  staff,  sir,  and  the  king  his  realm. 

Glos.  My  staff? — here,  noble  Henry,  is  my  staff; 
To  think  1  fain  would  keep  it  makes  me  laugh.* 
As  willingly  do  I  the  same  resign, 
As  e'er  thy  father  Henry  made  it  mine  : 
And  even  as  willingly  at  thy  feet  I  leave  it, 
As  others  would  ambitiously  receive  it. 
Farewell,  good  king  .  when  I  am  dead  and  gone. 
May  honourable  peace  attend  thy  throne.  [Exil 

Q.  Mar.  Why,    now  is  Ircnry  king,   and  Margaret 
queen; 
And  Humphrey,  duke  of  Gloster,  scarce  himself. 
Thai  bears  so  shrewd  a  maim:  two  pulls  at  once, — 
His  lady  banish'd,  and  a  limb  lopp'd  off'; 
This  staff  of  honour  raughl' — there  let  it  stand. 
Where  it  best  fits  to  be,  in  Henry's  hand. 

Svf.  Thus  droops  this  lofty  pine,  and  hangs  his  sprays 
Thus  Eleanor's  pride  dies  in  her  proudest'  days. 

York.  Lords.  let  him  zo. — Please  it  your  majesty. 
This  is  the  day  appointed  for  the  combat ; 
And  ready  are  the  appellant  and  defendant. 
The  armourer  and  his  man  to  enter  lists, 
So  plea.se  your  highness  to  behold  the  fight. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  good  my  lord ;  for  purposely,  therefore 
Left  I  'the  court  to  see  this  quarrel  tried. 

K.  Hen.  0'  God's  name,  see  the  lists  and  all  things 
Here  let  them  end  it,  and  God  defend  the  right !      [fit 

York.  I  never  saw  a  fellow  worse  bestead. 
Or  more  afraid  to  fight,  than  is  the  appellant, 
The  servant  of  this  armourer,  my  lords. 
Enter^  on  one  side,  Horner,  and  his  Neighbours,  drink- 
ing to  him  .fo  much  timt  he  is  drunk;  and  he  enters 
bearing  his  staff  with  a  sand-bag  fd.ttmed  to  it ;  a 
drum  before  him :  at  the  other  side.  Peter,  with  n 
drujn  and  a  similar  staff;  accompanied  by  Prentices 
drinking  to  him. 

1  Neigh.  Here,  neighbour  Horner.  I  drink  to  you  in 
a  cup  of  sack.  And  fear  not,  neighbour,  you  shall  do 
well  enough. 

2  Neigh.  And  here,  neighbour,  here 's  a  cup  of 
charneco.' 

3  Neigh.  And  here  's  a  pot  of  good  double  beer 
neighbour  :  drink,  and  fear  not  your  man. 

Hor.  Let  it  come,  i'  faith,  and  I  '11  pledge  you  all  . 
and  a  fig  for  Peter  ! 

1  Fren.  Here,  Peter,  I  drink  to  thee  ;  and  be  not 
afraid. 

2  Pren.  Be  merry,  Peter,  and  fear  not  thy  master  • 
fight  for  credit  of  the  prentices. 

Peter.  I  thank  you  all  :  drink,  and  pray  for  me,  I 
pray  you,  for,  I  think,  I  have  taken  my  last  draught  in 
this  world. — Here,  Robin,  an  if  I  die,  I  give  thee  my 
apron  :  and.  Will,  thou  shall  have  my  hammer  : — and 
here.  Tom,  take  all  the  money  that  I  have. — 0  Lord, 
bless  me  !  I  pray  God,  for  1  am  never  able  to  deal 
with  my  master,  he  hath  learnt  so  much  fence  already. 


Spot       >  The  word.  «'  by  peem."  are  not  in  f.  e.      >  realm  :  in  folio  ;  Johnwn  miJe  the  change. 
ly       •  Toungest  :  in  f.  e.      '  A  «in<  made  at  a  place  of  that  name  near  Lisbon. 


♦  This  line  is  not  in  f.  e.     •  TaktP 


SCENE    IV. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


465 


Sal.   Como,    leave  your  drinking  both,  and  fall  to 
blows. — 
Sirrah,  what 's  thy  name  ? 
Peter.  Peter,  forsooth. 
Sal.  Peter  !  wha.t  more  ? 
Peter.  Thump. 

Sal.  Thump  !  then  see  thou  thump  thy  master  well. 
Hor.  Masters,  I  am  come  hither,  as  it  were,  upon 
•ny  man's  instigation,  to  prove  him  a  knave  and  myself 
I  an  honest  man  :  and  touching  the  duke  of  Yoa-k,  I  will 
I  take  my  doath,  I  never  meant  him  any  ill,  nor  the 
I  king,  nor  the  queen.  A.nd  therefore,  Peter,  have  at 
j      thee  with  a  downright  blow.' 

York.  Despatch  :  this  knave's  tongue  begins  to  double. 
Sound,  trumpets,  alarum  to  the  combatants. 

[Alarum.     TJiey  fight,  and  Peter  strikes  down  his 
Master. 
Hor.  Hold.  Peter,  hold.  T  confess,  I  confess  treason. 

[Dies. 
York.  Take  away  his  weapon. — Fellow,  thank  God, 
and  the  good  wine  in  thy  master's  way. 

Peter.  0  God !  have   I   overcome  mine  enemies  in 
this  presence?     0  Peter  !  thou  hast  prevailed  in  right. 
K.  Hen.  Go,  and  take   hence  that  traitor  from  our 
sight ; 
For  by  his  death  we  do  perceive  his  guilt : 
A.nd  God  in  justice  hath  reveal'd  to  us 
The  truth  and  innocence  of  this  podr  fellow. 
Which  he  had  thought  to  have  murder'd  wTongfuUy. — 
Gome,  fellow  ;  follow  us  for  thy  reward.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Gloster  aiid  Servants,  in  mourning  Cloaks. 
Glo.  Thus,  sometimes  hath  the  brightest  day  a  ©loud  ; 
And  after  summer  evermore  succeeds 
:    Barren  winter,  with  his  wrathful  nipping  cold  : 
i    So,  cares  and  joys  abound,  as  seasons  fleet. — 
Sirs,  what 's  o'clock  ? 

Serv.  Ten,  my  lord. 

Glo.  Ten  is  the  hotir  that  was  appointed  me 
To  watch  the  coming  of  my  punish'd  duchess : 
Tneath'  may  she  endure  the  flinty  streets, 
To  tread  them  with  her  tender-feeling  feet.. 
j   Sweet  Nell,  ill  can  thy  noble  mind  abrook 
!   The  abject  people,  gazing  on  thy  face 
I   With  envious'  looks,  laughing  at  thy  shame. 
I   That  erst  did  follow  thy  proud  chariot  wheels, 
j   When  thou  didst  ride  in  triumph  through  the  streets. 
But,  soft  !  I  think,  she  comes ;  and  I  '11  prepare 
My  tear-stain' d  eyes  to  see  her  miseries. 
Enter  the  Duchess  of  Gloster,  in  a  ivhite  sheet,  wit-h 
verses  written  upon  her  back,  her  feet  bare,  and  a  taper 
burning  in  her  hand  ;  Sir  John  Stanley,  a  Sheriff, 
j      ami  Officers. 
Ml       Serv.  So  please  your  grace,  we'll  take  her  from  the 
■j  sheritf. 

(tIo.  No,  stir  not  for  your  lives:  let  her  pass  by. 
[h.ich.   Come  you,  my  lord,  to  see  my  open  shame  ? 
Now  thou  dost  penance  too.     Look,  how  they  gaze : 
j  See,  how  the  giddy  multitude  do  point. 
And  nod  their  heads,  and  throw  their  eyes  on  thee. 
Ah,  Gloster !  hide  thee  from  their  hateful  looks  ; 
And  in  thy  closet  pent  up  rue  my  shame. 
And  ban  thine  enemies,  both  mine  and  thine. 
Glo.  Be  patient,  gentle  Nell  :  forget  this  grief. 
Duch.  Ah.  Gloster  !  teach  me  to  forget  myself; 
For,  whilst  I  think  I  am  thy  married  \A-ife, 
And  thou  a  prince,  protector  of  this  land. 


J 


Methinks,  I  should  not  thus  be  led  along, 

Maifd  up  in  shame,  with  papers  on  my  back, 

And  follow'd  with  a  rabble,  that  rejoir« 

To  see  my  tears,  and  hear  my  deep-fef  groans. 

The  ruthless  flint  doth  cut  my  tender  leet ; 

^  nd  when  I  start  the  envious  people  laugh. 

And  bid  me  be  advised  how  I  tread. 

Ah,  Humphrey  !  can  I  bear  this  shameful  yoke' 

Tijw"st  thou,  that  e"er  I  '11  look  upon  the  world. 

Or  count  them  happy  that  enjoy  the  sun  ? 

No :  dark  shall  be  my  liglit,  and  night  my  day  ; 

To  think  upon  my  pomp,  shall  be  my  hell. 

Sometime  I  '11  say  I  am  duke  Humphrey's  wife, 

And  he  a  prince,  and  ruler  of  the  land  : 

Yet  so  he  rul'd,  and  such  a  prince  he  was, 

As  he  stood  by,  whilst  I.  his  forlorn  duchess. 

Was  made  a  wonder,  and  a  pointing-stock. 

To  every  idle  rascal  follower. 

But  be  thou  mild,  and  blush  not  at  my'shame  : 

Nor  stir  at  nothing,  till  the  axe  of  death 

Hang  over  thee,  as,  sure,  it  shortly  will  : 

For  Suffolk, — he  that  can  do  all  in  all 

With  her,  that  hateth  thee,  and  hates  us  all. — 

And  York,  and  impious  Beaufort,  that  false  priest, 

Have  all  lim'd  bushes  to  betray  thy  wings ; 

And,  fly  thou  how  thou  canst,  they  '11  tangle  thee. 

But  fear  not  thou,  until  thy  foot  be  snar'd. 

Nor  never  seek  prevention  of  thy  foes. 

Glo.  Ah,  Nell!  forbear;  thou  aimest  all  a^^Ty  : 
I  must  oifend  before  I  be  attainted  ; 
And  had  I  twenty  times  so  many  foes, 
And  each  of  them  had  twenty  times  their  power, 
All  these  could  not  procure  me  any  scathe. 
So  long  as  I  am  loyal,  true,  and  crimeless. 
Wouldst  have  me  rescue  thee  from  this  reproach  ' 
Why,  yet  thy  scandal  were  not  wip'd  away. 
But  I  in  danger  for  the  breach  of  law. 
Thy  greatest  help  is  cfuiet,  gentle  Nell ; 
I  pray  thee,  sort  thy  heart  to  patience  : 
These  few  days'  wonder  will  be  quickly  worn. 
Enter  a  Herald. 

Her.  I  summon  your  g'-ace  to  his   majesty's  parlia 
ment,  holden  at  Bury  the  first  of  this  next  month. 

Glo.  And  my  consent  ne'er  ask'd  herein  before  ? 
This  is  close  dealing. — Well,  I  will  be  there. 

[Exit  Hera'xn 
My  Nell,  I  take  my  leave  : — and,  master  sherift". 
Let  not  her  penance  exceed  the  king's  commission. 

Sher.  An't  please  your  grace,  here  my  commissi'^r) 
And  Sir  John  Stanley  is  appointed  now  [stays 

To  take  her  -with  him  to  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Glo.  Must  you,  sir  John,  protect  my  lady  here  ? 

Stan.  So  am  I  given  in  charge,  may  't  please  youi 
grace. 

Glo.  Entreat  her  not  the  worse,  in  that  I  pray 
You  use  her  well.     The  world  may  laugh  again  ; 
And  I  may  live  to  do  you  kindness,  if 
You  do  it  her :   and  so.  sir  John,  farewell. 

Duch.  What !  gone,  my  lord,  and  bid  me  not  farewell  ' 

Glo.  Witness  my  tears,  I  cannot  stay  to  speak. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Servanti 

Duch.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?    All  comfort  go  with  the<^ 
For  none  abides  with  me :  my  joy  is  death  : 
'  Death,  at  whose  name  I  oft  have  been  afear'd. 
,  Because  I  wish'd  this  world's  eternity. — 

I  Stanley,  I  pr'ythee.  go,  and  talce  me  hence  ; 

I I  care  not  whither,  for  I  beg  no  favour, 
i  Only  convey  me  where  thou  art  commanded. 

'  Some  mod.  eds.  add  :  "  a-s  Bevis,  of  Southampton,  fell  upon   Ascapart,"  from  the  old  play  of  the  "  First  Part  of  the  Contention  "  or 
"hich  the  present  drama  -wa*  founded.      '  Scarcely,  not  easily.      '  Malicious. 

■IE 


■^66 


SECOND   TART  OF 


ACT    111. 


5iltan.  Wliy.  madam,  that  is  to  the  Isle  of  Man  : 
There  to  be  us'd  according  to  your  state. 

Duch.  That 's  bad  enough,  for  I  am  but  rcproacli : 
And  shall  I.  then,  he  us'd  reproachfully  ? 

Stati.  Like  to  a  duche.«8.  and  duke  Humphreys  lady  : 
Accorduig  to  that  .state  you  shall  be  used. 

Ihich.  Slieriir.  farewell,  and  better  than  I  fare 
Although  thou  hast  been  conduct  of  my  .^hame  I 

Sher.  It  is  my  otficc  ;  and.  madam,  pardon  me. 


Ikcch.  Ay,  ay,  farewell :  thy  office  is  discharged  — 
Come,  Stanley,  shall  we  go  ? 

Stan.  Madam,  your  penance  done.  Ihrowoff  this  she^u 
An!  go  we  to  attire  you  for  our  journey. 

Duch.  My  shame  will  not  be  shifted  with  my  sheaj 
No.  it  will  hang  upon  my  richest  robes, 
And  show  itself,  attire  me  how  I  can. 
Go.  lead  the  way :  I  long  to  see  my  prison. 


ACT     III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Abbey  at  Bury. 
A    Seniict.^     Enter  to  the  Parliament,    King  Henry. 

Queen   Marg.^ret,    Cardinal   Be.iufort,    Suffolk. 

York,  Bi'CKiNCH.iM,  and  others. 

K.  Hen.  I  muse,  my  lord  of  Gloster  is  not  come : 
T  is  not  his  wont  to  be  the  hindmost  man. 
Whate'er  occasion  keeps  him  from  us  now. 

Q.  Mar.  Can  you  not  see,  or  will  you  not  observe 
The  strangeness  of  his  alter'd  countenance  ? 
With  what  a  majesty  he  bears  himself ; 
How  insolent  of  late  he  is  become. 
How  proud,  how  peremptory-,  and  unlike  himself? 
We  know  the  time  since  he  was  mild  and  affable  ; 
•And  if  we  did  but  glance  a  far-off  look, 
Immediately  he  was  upon  his  knee, 
That  all  the  court  admir'd  him  for  submission : 
But  meet  him  now,  and,  be  it  in  the  morn. 
When  ever>-  one  will  give  the  time  of  day, 
He  knits  his  brow,  and  shows  an  angry  eye, 
And  passeth  by  with  stiff  unbowed  knee, 
Disdaining  duty  that  to  us  belongs. 
Small  curs  are  not  regarded  when  they  grin, 
But  great  men  tremble  when  the  lion  roars  ; 
And  Humphrey  is  no  little  man  in  England. 
First  note,  that  he  is  near  you  in  descent. 
And  should  you  fall,  he  is  the  next  will  mount. 
Me  seemeth,  then,  it  is  no  policy, 
Respecting  what  a  rancorous  mind  he  bears. 
And  his  advantage  following  your  decease. 
That  he  should  come  about  your  royal  person, 

0  be  admitted  to  your  highness'  council. 

By  flatter}'  hath  he  won  the  commons'  hearts. 

And,  when  he  please  to  make  commotion, 

'T  is  to  be  fear'd.  they  all  will  follow  him. 

Now  't  is  the  spring,  and  weeds  are  shallow-rooted ; 

Suffer  them  now,  and  they'll  o'ergrow  the  garden, 

And  choke  the  herbs  for  want  of  husbandry. 

The  reverend  care  I  bear  unto  my  lord 

Made  me  collect  these  dangers  in  the  duke. 

If  it  be  fond,'  call  it  a  woman's  fear  : 

Which  fear  if  better  reai^ons  can  supplant. 

1  will  subscribe  and  say.  I  wrong'd  the  duke. 
My  lords  of  Suffolk.  Buckingham,  and  York. 
Reprove  my  allegations  if  you  can. 

*>  else  conclude  my  words  effectual. 

Si//.  Well  hath  your  highness  seen  into  this  duke; 
And  had  I  first  been  put  to  speak  my  mind, 
I  think,  I  .should  have  told  your  grace's  tale. 
The  duchess  by  his  subornation, 
Upon  my  life,  began  her  devilish  practices  : 
Or  if  he  were  not  pri-vy  to  those  faults. 
Yet.  by  reputing  of  his  high  descent, 
As  next  the  king  he  was  successive  heir, 

^  Sounding  of  trumpets.      *  Foolitk.      '  Folio  :  ej«—wolvek.      ' 


And  such  high  vaunts  of  his  nobility, 
Did  instigate  the  bedlam  brain-sick  duchess, 
By  wicked  means  to  frame  our  sovereign's  fall. 
Smooth  runs  the  water  where  the  brook  is  deep, 
And  in  his  simple  show  he  harbours  treason. 
The  fox  barks  not  when  he  would  .steal  the  lamb  : 
No,  no.  my  sovereign:  Glo.ster  is  a  man 
Unsounded  yet,  and  full  of  deep  deceit. 

Car.  Did  he  not,  contrary  to  form  of  law, 
DcA-ise  strange  deaths  for  small  offences  done  ? 

York.  And  did  he  not.  in  his  protectorship. 
Levy  great  sums  of  money  through  the  realm 
For  .«ioldiers'  pay  in  France,  and  never  sent  it? 
By  means  whereof  the  towns  each  day  revoltea. 

Buck.  Tut  !  these  are  petty  faults  to  faults  unknown, 
Which  time  will  bring  to  light  in  smooth  duke  Hm; 
phrey. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords,  at  once  :  the  care  you  have  of  ii- 
To  mow  down  thorns  that  would  annoy  our  foot. 
Is  worthy  praise ;  but  shall  I  speak  my  conscience  '^ 
Our  kinsman  Gloster  is  as  innocent 
From  meaning  treason  to  our  royal  person. 
As  is  the  sucking  lamb,  or  harmless  dove. 
The  duke  is  virtuous,  mild,  and  too  well  given 
To  dream  on  evil,  or  to  work  my  downfall. 

Q.  Mar.  AJi  !  what 's  more  dangerous  than  this  tend 
affiance  ? 
Seems  he  a  dove  ?  his  feathers  are  but  borrow'd, 
For  he  's  disposed  as  the  hateful  raven. 
Is  he  a  lamb?  his  skin  is  surely  lent  him, 
For  he  's  inclin'd  as  is  the  ravenous  wolf,' 
Who  cannot  steal  a  shape,  that  means  deceit  ? 
Take  heed,  my  lord ;  the  welfare  of  us  all 
Hangs  on  the  cutting  short  that  fraudful  man. 
Enter  Somerset. 

Sam.  All  health  unto  my  gracious  sovereign  ! 

K.  Hen.  Welcome,  lord  Somerset.     What 's  the  newt 
from  France  '•' 

Som.  That  a'l  your  interest  in  those  territories 
Is  utterlv  bereft  you  .  all  is  lost. 

K.  Hen.  Cold  ncw.s,  lord  Somer<:ct  •  but  God's  will 
be  done. 

York.  Cold  news  for  me  :  for  I  had  hope  of  Franc*, 

[Asxdt 
'  As  firmly  as  I  hope  for  fertile  England. 
Thus  are  my  blos.'^oms  bla.*tcd  in  the  bud, 
'  And  caterpillars  eat  my  leaves  away  ; 
But  I  will  remedy  this  gear*  ere  long, 
'  Or  sell  my  title  for  a  glorious  grave. 
j  Enter  Gi.oster. 

!      Glo.  All  happine.'is  unto  my  lord  the  king  ! 
I  Pardon,  my  liege,  that  I  have  stay'd  so  long. 

Svf.  Nay.  Gloster.  know,  thai  thou  art  come  too  MX* 
I  Unless  thou  wert  more  loyal  than  thou  art. 

Affair. 


i 


bCENE   1. 


KTN^G  HENRY    VI. 


467 


that 


I  do  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  here. 

Glo.  Well,  Suffolk,  yet  Hhou  shalt  not  see  me  blush, 
Nor  change  my  countenance  for  this  arrest ; 
A  heart  unspotted  is  not  easily  daunted. 
The  purest  spring  is  not  so  free  from  mud. 
As  I  am  clear  from  treason  to  my  sovereign. 
Who  can  accuse  me  ?  M'herein  am  I  guilty  ? 

York.  'T  is  thought,  my  lord,  that  you  took  bribes  of 
France, 
And,  being  protector,  stay'd  the  soldier's  pay  ; 
By  means  whereof  his  highness  hath  lost  France. 

Glo.  Is  i(    but  thought  so?     What   are   they 
think  it  r 
1  never  robb'd  the  soldiers  of  tlieir  pay. 
Nor  ever  had  one  penny  bribe  from  France. 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  have  watch'd  the  night. 
Ay,  night  by  night,  in  studying  good  for  England. 
That  doit  that  e'er  I  wrested  from  the  king. 
Or  any  groat  f  boarded  to  my  use, 
Be  brought  against  me  at  my  trial  day. 
Vo :  many  a  pound  of  mine  own  proper  store, 
Because  I  would  not  tax  the  needy  commons, 
Have  1  disbursed  to  the  garrisons, 
And  never  ask'd  for  restitution. 

Car.  It  serves  you  well,  my  lord,  to  say  so  much. 

Glo.  I  say  no  more  than  truth,  so  help  me  God  ! 

York.  In  your  protectorship  you  did  devise 
Strange  tortures  for  offenders,  never  heard  of. 
That  England  was  defam'd  by  tyranny. 

Glo.  Why,   'tis  well    known   that,    whiles    I    wa 
protector. 
Pity  was  all  the  fault  that  was  in  me  ; 
For  I  should  melt  at  an  offender's  tears, 
And  lowly  words  were  ransom  for  their  fault : 
Unless  it  were  a  bloody  murderer, 
I    Or  foul  felomous  thief  that  fleec'd  poor  passengers, 
I  never  gave  them  condign  punishment. 
Murder,  indeed,  that  bloody  sin,  I  tortur'd 
Above  the  felon,  or  what  trespass  else. 

Suf.  My  lord,  these   faults  are   easily,  quickly  an 
swer'd ; 
But  mightier  crimes  are  laid  unto  your  charge. 
Whereof  you  cannot  easily  purge  yourself. 
I  do  arrest  you  in  his  highness'  name  ; 
And  here  commit  you  to  my  lord  cardinal 
To  keep,  until  your  farther  time  of  trial. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  't  is  my  special  hope, 
.,  That  you  will  clear  yourself  frorr  all  suspect' : 
j  My  conscience  tells  me  you  are  in  nocent. 

Glo.  Ah,  gracious  lord  !  these  days  are  dangerous  : 
Virtue  is  chok'd  with  foul  ambition, 
And  charity  chas'd  hence  by  rancour's  hand  ;. 
Foul  subornation  is  predominant. 
And  equity  exil'd  your  highness'  land. 
I  know,  their  complot  is  to  have  my  life  ; 
And  if  my  death  might  make  this  island  happy. 
And  prove  the  period  of  their  tyranny, 
I  would  expend  it  with  all  willingness  ; 
But  mine  is  made  the  prologue  to  their  play. 
For  thousands  more,  that  yet  suspect  no  peril. 
Will  not  conclude  their  plotted  tragedy. 
Beaufort's  red  sparkling  eyes  blab  his  heart's  malice, 
And  Suffolk's  cloudy  brow  his  stormy  hate  ; 
Sharp  Buckingham  unburdens  with  his  tongue 
j  Th^,  envious  load  that  lies  upon  his  heart ; 
I  And  dogged  York,  that  reaches  at  the  moon, 
;  Wliose  overweening  arm  I  have  pluck'd  back, 
;  By  false  accuse  doth  level  at  my  life. — 
Anl  you,  my  sovereign  lady,  with  the  rest, 

'  From  the  second  foiio.      '  suspense  :  in  f.  e.      ^  Dearest 


I  Causeless  have  laid  disgraces  on  my  head. 
And  with  your  best  endeavour  have  stirr'd  op 
j  My  liefest-  liege  to  be  mine  enemy. — 
Ay,  all  of  you  have  laid  your  heads  together  : 
I  Myself  had  notice  of  your  conventicles. 
j  Aiid  all  to  make  away  my  guiltless  life. 
I  shall  not  want  false  witness  to  condemn  me, 
N»  -  store  of  treasons  to  augment  my  guilt ; 
The  ancient  proverb  will  be  well  effected, — 
A  staff  is  quickly  found  to  beat  a  dog. 

Car.  My  liege,  his  railing  is  intolerable. 
If  those  that  care  to  keep  your  royal  person 
From  treason's  secret  knife,  and  traitor's  rage. 
Be  thus  upbraided,  chid,  and  rated  at. 
And  the  offender  granted  scope  of  speech, 
T  will  make  them  cool  in  zeal  unto  your  grace. 

Suf.  Hath  he  not  twit  our  sovereign  lady,  here 
With  ignominious  words,  though  clerkly  couch'd, 
As  if  she  had  suborned  some  to  swear 
False  allegations  to  o'erthrow  his  state  ? 

Q.  Mar.  But  I  can  give  the  loser  leave  to  chide. 

Glo.  Far  truer  spoke,  than  meant:  I  lose,  indeerl 
Beshrew  the  winners,  for  they  played  me  false  : 
And  well  such  losers  may  have  leave  to  speak. 

Buck.  He  '11  WTcst  the  sense,  and  hold  us  here  all 
day. — 
Lord  Cardinal,  he  is  your  prisoner. 

Car.  Sirs,  take  away  the  duke,  and  guard  him  sure. 

Glo.  Ah  !  thus  king  Henry  throws  away  his  cmrch. 
Before  his  legs  be  firm  to  bear  his  body : 
Thus  is  the  shepherd  beaten  from  thy  side. 
And  wolves  are  gnarling  who  shall  gnaw  thee  first. 
Ah.  that  my  fear  were  false  !  ah,  that  it  were  ! 
For,  good  king  Henry,  thy  decay  I  fear. 

[Exeunt  Attendants  tvith  Glostkr. 
j  K.  Hen.  My  lords,  what  to  your  wisdoms  seemeih  best. 
Do,  or  undo,  as  if  ourself  were  here.  [Rising.* 

Q.  Mar.  What !   will  your  highness  leave  the  par- 
liament ? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  Margaret,  my  heart  is  drown'd  with 
grief, 
Whose  flood  begins  to  flow  within  mine  eyes  ; 
My  body  round  engirt  with  misery. 
For  what 's  more  miserable  than  discontent  ? 
Ah,  uncle  Humphrey  !  in  thy  face  I  see 
The  map  of  honour,  truth,  and  loyalty ; 
And  yet,  good  Humphrey,  is  the  hour  to  come, 
That  e'er  I  prov'd  thee  false,  or  fear'd  thy  faith. 
What  lowering  star  now  envies  thy  estate. 
That  these  great  lords,  and  INIargaret  our  queen. 
Do  .seek  subversion  of  thy  harmless  life? 
Thou  never  didst  them  wTong,  nor  no  man  vsTong 
And  as  the  butcher  takes  away  the  calf. 
And  binds  the  wretch,  and  beats  it  when  it  .strays. 
Bearing  it  to  the  bloody  slaughter-house  ; 
Even  so,  remorseless,  have  they  borne  him  hence  : 
And  as  the  dam  runs  lowing  up  and  down. 
Looking  the  way  her  harmless  young  one  went, 
And  can  do  nought  but  wail  her  darling's  loss  : 
Even  so  myself  bewails  good  Gloster's  case. 
With  sad  unhelpful  tears  ;  and  wiih  dimm'd  eyes 
Look  after  him,  and  cannot  do  him  good. 
So  mighty  are  his  vowed  enemies. 
His  fortunes  I  will  weep  ;  and  'tvk-ixt  each  groan. 
Say — "  Who  's  a  traitor  ?     Gloster  he  is  none.'    [Exit 

Q.  Mar.  Fair  lords,  cold  snow  melts  with  the  f-nn't 
hot  beams. 
Henrv  my  lord  is  cold  in  great  affairs. 
!  Too  full  of  foolish  pity  :  and  Gloster's  show 

*  Not  in  1.  e. 


463 


SECOND   PART  OF 


ACT  ni. 


Bosuilcs  him,  as  the  mournful  crocodile 

W.lh  sorrow  snares  reicntin£r  passengers  : 

i)r  as  the  snake,  roild  in  a  flowering  bank. 

With  sliining  chequerd  slough,  doth  sting  a  child. 

That  tor  the  beauty  thinks  it  excellent. 

Bclr.  vo  me.  lords,  were  none  more  wise  than  I. 

(.Vni  yet  herein  I  judge  mine  own  wit  good) 

This  (Jloster  should  be  quickly  rid  the  world. 

To  rid  us  from  the  fear  we  have  of  him. 

Car.  That  he  should  die  is  worthy  policy. 
But  yet  .vo  want  a  colour  for  his  death  : 
T  is  moct  he  be  condemn'd  by  course  of  law. 

.*s(/^.  But.  in  my  mind  that  were  no  policy  : 
The  kins  will  labour  still  to  save  his  life  : 
The  commons  haply  rise  to  save  his  life  : 
As  yet  we  have  but  trivial  argument. 
More  than  mistrust,  that  shows  him  worthy  death. 

York.  So  that,  by  this,  you  would  not  have  him  die. 

.Suf.  Ah  !   York,  no  man  alive  so  fain  as  I. 

York.  'T  is  York   that   hath   most   reason    for   his 
death.— 
But.  my  lord  cardinal,  and  you.  lord  Suffolk. 
Say.  as  you  think,  and  speak  it  from  your  souls. 
Wer  "t  not  all  one  an  empty  eagle  were  set 
To  guard  the  chicken  from  a  hungry  kite. 
As  place  duke  Humphrey  for  the  king's  protector  ^ 

Q.  Mar.  So  the  poor  chicken  should  be  sure  of  death. 

S>if.  Madam,  "  t  is  true  :    and  wer  "t  not  madness, 
then. 
To  make  the  fox  surveyor  of  the  fold  ? 
Who.  being  accus"d  a  crafty  murderer, 
His  guilt  should  be  but  idly  posted  over. 
Because  his  purpose  is  not  executed  ? 
No  :  >t  him  die.  in  that  he  is  a  fox. 
By  nature  provd  an  enemy  to  the  flock. 
Before  his  chaps  be  stain"d  with  crimson  blood. 
As  Humphreys  prov'd  by  reasons  to  my  liege. 
And  do  not  stand  on  quillets  how  to  slay  him  : 
Be  it  by  gins,  by  snares,  by  subtilty 
Sleeping,  or  waking,  "t  is  no  matter  how, 
So  he  be  dead :  for  that  is  good  deceit 
Which  mates'  him  first,  that  first  intends  deceit. 

Q.  Mar.  Thrice  noble  Suffolk,  resolutely  spoke. 

Suf.  Not  resolute,  except  so  much  were  done, 
For  things  are  often  spoke,  and  seldom  meant ; 
But.  that  my  heart  accordeth  with  my  tengue. — 
Seeing  the  deed  is  meritorious. 
And  to  preserve  my  sovereign  from  his  foe. — 
Say  but  the  word,  and  I  will  be  his  priest. 

Car.  But  I  would  have  him  dead,  my  lord  of  Suffolk. 
Ere  you  can  take  due  order  for  a  priest. 
Say,  you  consent,  and  censure  well  the  deed, 
A  3d  I  Ml  provide  his  executioner: 
I  tender  so  the  ,safety  of  my  liege. 

Suf.  Here  is  my  hand ;  the  deed  is  worthy  doing. 

Q.  Mar.  And  so  say  I. 

York.  And  I  :  and  now  we  three  have  spoke  it, 
t  skills'  not  greatly  who  impugns  our  doom. 
Enter  a  Me.s.senger. 

Melts.  Great  lords,  from  Ireland  am  I  come  amain, 
To  signify  that  rebels  there  are  up. 
And  put  the  Knglishmen  unto  the  sword. 
Send  succours,  lords,  and  stop  the  rage  betime. 
Before  the  wound  do  grow  incurable  : 
For.  beins  green,  there  is  great  hope  of  help. 

Car.  A  breach  that  craves  a  quick  expedient'  .slop. 
What  counsel  give  you  in  this  weighty  cause? 

York.  Thai  Somerset  be  sent  as  regent  thither. 
T  ig  meet  that  lucky  ruler  be  cmploy'd  ; 

^  Drstroyi  confoundt.    ^  Mattert       ^  Erffditic 


Witness  the  fortune  he  hath  had  in  France. 

Sorn.   If  York,  with  all  his  far-fet  policy. 
Had  been  the  regent  there  instead  of  me, 
He  never  would  have  stay'd  in  France  so  long. 

York.  No.  not  to  los/^  it  all,  as  thou  ha.st  done. 
I  rather  would  have  lost  my  life  betimes. 
Than  bring  a  burden  of  dishonour  home. 
By  staying  there  so  long,  till  all  were  lost. 
Show  me  one  scar  charaoter'd  on  thy  .skin  : 
Men's  flesh  preserved  so  whole  do  seldom  win. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay  then,  this   spark  will   prove   a  ragiuf 
fire. 
If  wind  and  fuel  be  brought  to  feed  it  with. — 
No  more,  good  York  : — sweet  Somerset,  be  still  :— 
Thy  fortune.  York,  hadst  thou  been  regent  there, 
Might  happily  have  prov'd  far  worse  than  his. 

York.  What,    worse    than    nought?    nay.    then    a 
shame  take  all. 

Som.  And.  in  the  number,  thee,  that  wishest  shame 

Car.  My  lord  of  York,  try  what  your  fortune  is. 
The  uncivil  kernes  of  Ireland  are  in  arms. 
And  temper  clay  with  blood  of  Englishmen  • 
To  Ireland  will  you  lead  a  band  of  men, 
Collected  choicely,  from  each  county  some, 
And  try  your  hap  against  the  Irishmen? 

York.  I  will,  my  lord,  .so  please  his  majesty. 

Suf.  Why  our  authority  is  his  consent, 
And  what  we  do  establish,  he  confirms  : 
Then,  noble  York,  take  ihou  this  task  in  hand. 

York.  I  am  content.     Provide  me  soldiers,  lords, 
Whiles  I  take  order  for  mine  o^^•n  affairs. 

Suf.  A  charge,  lord  York,  that  I  ^^^ll  see  perform' i 
But  now  return  we  to  the  false  duke  Humphrey. 

Car.  No  more  of  him  :  for  I  will  deal  with  him. 
That  henceforth,  he  shall  trouble  us  no  more  : 
And  so  break  off;  the  day  is  almost  spent. 
Lord  Suffolk,  you  and  I  must  talk  of  that  event. 

York.  My  lord  of  Suffolk,  within  fourteen  days. 
At  Bristol  I  expect  my  soldiers. 
For  there  I  "II  ship  them  all  for  Ireland. 

Suf.  I  "11  sec  it  truly  done,  my  lord  of  York. 

[Excimt  all  hut  York 

York.  Now,  York,  or  never,  steel  thy  fearful  thoughts, 
And  change  misdoubt  to  resolution  : 
Be  that  thou  hop'st  to  be,  or  what  thou  art 
Resign  to  death:  it  is  not  worth  the  enjoying. 
Let  pale-fac'd  fear  keep  with  the  mean-born  man, 
And  find  no  harbou'  in  a  royal  heart. 
Faster   than  sprin^  -time  showers   comes    thought  on 

thought, 
And  not  a  thought  but  thinks  on  dignity. 
My  brain,  more  busy  than  the  labouring  spider. 
Weaves  tedious  snares  to  trap  mine  enemies. 
Well,  nobles,  well ;  't  is  politicly  done, 
To  send  me  packing  \\'ith  an  host  of  men  : 
I  fear  me  you  but  warm  the  starved  snake. 
Who.  cherish'd  in  your  breasts,  will  sting  your  hearts 
"T  was  men  I  lack'd,  and  you  will  give  them  r.-*: 
I  take  it  kindfy  :  yet.  be  well  a-ssur'd. 
You  put  shar])  weapons  in  a  madman's  hands. 
Wniiles  I  in  Ireland  march*  a  mighty  band. 
I  will  stir  up  in  England  some  black  .storm, 
Shall  blow  ten  thousand  souls  to  heaven,  or  hell  ; 
And  this  fell  tempest  shall  not  cea.se  to  rage 
Until  the  golden  circuit  on  my  head. 
Like  to  the  glorious  sun's  transparent  beams. 
Do  calm  the  fury  of  this  mad-bred  flaw.'' 
And.  for  a  minister  of  my  intent, 
I  have  seduc'd  a  headstrons  Kentishman, 


A'oun'jA        »  Sudden  gust  of  wind. 


BOENE   n. 


KING  HENRY    VI. 


469 


John  Cade  of  Ashford, 

To  make  commotion,  as  full  well  he  can, 

Under  the  title  of  John  Mortimer. 

In  Ireland  have  I  seen  this  stubborn  Cade 

Oppose  himself  against  a  troop  of  kernes  j 

And  fought  so  long,  till  that  his  thighs  witn  darts 

Were  almost  like  a  sharp-quill'd  porcupine : 

And,  in  the  end  being  rescu'd,  I  have  seen 

Him  caper  upright,  like  a  wild  Monsco'. 

Shaking  the  bloody  darts,  as  he  his  bells. 

Full  often,  like  a  shag-hair'd  crafty  kerne, 

Hath  he  conversed  with  the  enemy. 

And  undiscover'd  come  to  me  again. 

And  given  me  notice  of  their  villainies. 

This  devil  here  shall  be  my  substitute  ; 

For  that  John  Mortimer,  which  now  is  dead. 

In  face,  in  gait,  in  speech,  he  doth  resemble : 

By  this  I  shall  perceive  the  commons'  mind, 

How  they  affect  the  house  and  claim  of  York. 

Say,  he  be  taken,  rack'd,  and  tortured, 

I  know,  no  pain  they  can  inflict  upon  him 

Will  make  him  say  I  mov'd  him  to  those  arms. 

Say,  that  he  thrive,  as  't  is  great  like  he  will. 

Why,  then  from  Ireland  come  I  with  my  strength. 

And  reap  the  harvest  which  that  rascal  sow'd  ; 

For,  Humphrey  being  dead,  as  he  shall  be. 

And  Henry  put  apart,  then  next  for  me.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— Bury.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  certain  Murderers^  running  over  the  Stage.' 

1  Mtir.  Run  to  my  lord  of  Suffolk  ;  let  him  know, 
We  have  despatch'd  the  duke,  as  he  commanded. 

2  Miir.  0.  that  it  were  to  do  ! — What  have  we  done  ? 
Didst  ever  hear  a  man  so  penitent  ? 

1   Mur.  Here  comes  my  lord. 

Enter  Suffolk. 

Suf.  Now,  sirs,  have  you  dispatch'd  this  thing? 

1  Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  he  's  dead. 

Suf.  Why,  that 's  well  said.  Go,  get  you  to  my  house  ; 
I  will  reward  you  for  this  venturous  deed. 
The  king  and  all  the  peers  are  here  at  hand. 
Have  you  laid  fair  the  bed  ?  are  all  things  well, 
According  as  I  gave  directions  ? 

1  Mur.  'T  is,  my  good  lord. 

Suf.  Away  !  be  gone.  [Exeunt  Murderers. 

Sound  Trumpets.     Enter   King  Henry,   Queen   Mar- 
garet,   Cardinal  Beaufort,  Somerset,  Lords  and 

others. 

K.  Hen.  Go,  call  our  uncle  to  our  presence  straight : 
Say,  we  intend  to  try  his  grace  to-day, 
1  If  he  be  guilty,  as  't  is  published. 

I      Suf.  I  '11  call  him  presently,  my  noble  lord.     [Exit. 
1      K.  Hen.  Lords,  take  your  places  ;  and,  1  pray  you  all, 
'  Proceed  no  straiter  'gainst  our  uncle  Gloster, 
Than  from  true  evidence,  of  good  esteem, 
He  be  approv'd  in  practice  culpable. 

Q.  Mar.  God  forbid  any  malice  should  prevail. 
That  faultless,  may  condemn  a  noble  man  ! 
Pray  God  he  may  acquit  him  of  suspicion  ! 

K.  Hen.  I  thank  thee,  Meg ;  these   words  content 
me  much. — 
j  Re-enter  Suffolk. 

|Hownow  !  why  look'st  thou  pale  ?  why  tremblest  thou  ? 
'Where  is  our  uncle?  what 's  the  matter,  Suffolk  ? 

Suf.  Dead  in  his  bed,  my  lord  ;  Gloster  is  dead. 

Q.  Mar.  Marry,  God  forefend  ! 

Car.  God's  secret  judgment! — I  did  dream  to-nigli(, 
The  duke  was  dumb,  and  could  not  speak  a  word. 

[TJie  King  swoons. 

,        Mtrrit-danctt       a  Murderers,  hastily     in  f.  e       '  Not  in  folios. 


Q.  Mar.  How    fares  my  lord? — Help,     ords  '     tht 
king  is  dead. 

Som.  Rear  up  his  body:  wring  him  by  ll.e  no.'-e. 

Q.  Mar.  Run,  go  ;  help,  help  ! — 0,  Henry,  ope  thine 
eyes ! 

Suf.  He  doth  revive  again. — Madam,  be  iiatieiit. 

K.  Hen.  0  lieavenly  God  ! 
,  Q.  Mar.  How  fares  my  gracious  lord  ? 

Suf.  Comfort,  my  sovereign !  gracious  Henry,  corn- 
fort  ! 

K.  Hen.  What !  doth  my  lord  of  Suffolk  comfort  me? 
Came  he  right  now  to  sing  a  raven's  note. 
Whose  dismal  tune  bereft  my  vital  powers. 
And  thinks  he,  that  the  chirping  of  a  MTcn. 
By  crying  comfort  from  a  liollow  breast. 
Can  chase  away  the  first-conceived  sound  ? 
Hide  not  thy  poison  with  such  sugar'd  words. 
Lay  not  thy  hands  on  me ;  forbear.  I  say  : 
Their  touch  affrights  me  as  a  serpent's  sting 
Thou  baleful  messenger,  out  of  my  siglit ! 
Upon  thine  eye-balls  murderous  tyranny 
Sits  in  grim  majesty  to  fright  the  world. 
Look  not  upon  me,  for  thine  eyes  are  wounding. — 
Yet  do  not  go  away  : — come,  basilisk, 
And  kill  the  innocent  gazer  with  thy  sight  , 
For  in  the  shade  of  death  I  shall  find  joy. 
In  life,  but  double  death,  nowGloster's  dead. 

Q.  Mar.  Why  do  you  rate  my  lord  of  Suffolk  thus  ? 
Although  the  duke  was  enemy  to  him. 
Yet  he,  most  Christian-like,  laments  his  death  ; 
And  for  myself,  foe  as  he  was  to  me. 
Might  liquid  tears,  or  heart-offending  groans, 
Or  blood-consuming  sighs  recall  his  life, 
I  would  be  blind  with  weeping,  sick  -with  groans 
Look  pale  as  primrose  with  blood-drinking  sighs. 
And  all  to  have  the  noble  duke  alive. 
What  know  I  how  the  world  may  deem  of  me  ? 
For  it  is  known,  we  were  but  hollow  friends  : 
It  may  be  judg'd,  I  made  the  duke  away  : 
So  shall  my  name  with  slander's  tongue  be  wounded. 
And  princee'  courts  be  fill'd  with  my  reproach 
This  get  I  by  his  death.     Ah  me.  unhappy. 
To  be  a  queen,  and  crowai'd  with  infamy  ! 

K.  Hen.  Ah,  woe  is  me  for  Gloster   wretched  man  ! 

Q.  Mar.  Be  woe  for  me.  more  wretoJied  than  he  is 
What  !  dost  thou  turn  away,  and  hide  thy  face? 
I  am  no  loathsome  leper  !   look  on  me. 
What,  art  thou,  like  the  adder,  waxen  deaf? 
Be  poisonous  too,  and  kill  thy  forlorn  queen. 
Is  all  thy  comfort  shut  in  Gloster's  tomb  ? 
Why,  then  dame  Margaret  was  ne'er  thy  joy : 
Erect  his  statue,  then^  and  worship  it. 
And  make  my  image  but  an  alehouse  sign. 
Was  I  for  tliis  nigh  wreck'd  upon  the  sea. 
And  twice  by  awkward  wind  from  England's  baiik 
Drove  back  again  unto  my  native  clime? 
What  boded  this,  but  well-tbrewarning  wind 
Did  seem  to  say. — Seek  not  a  scorpion's  nest, 
Nor  set  no  footing  on  this  unkind  shore. 
What  did  I  then,  but  curs"d  th'  ungentle'  gusts, 
And  he  that  loosed  them  from  their  brazen  caves  : 
And  bade  them  blow  towards  England's  blessed  shore 
Or  turn  our  stern  upon  a  dreadful  rock. 
Yet  J^olus  would  not  be  a  murderer, 
But  left  that  hateful  office  unto  ihee  ■ 
The  pretty  vaulting  sea  refus'd  to  drown  me, 
Knowing  that  thou  wouldst  have  me  drosvn'don  shore 
With  tears  as  salt  as  sea  through  thy  unkindne.^* 
The  splitting  rocks  cower'd  in  the  sinking  sands 

*  the  gentle  :  in  f.  e 


470 


SECOND  PART  OF 


ACT  m. 


And  would  nol  dash  mr  with  their  ragged  sides, 
Because  thy  Hiiity  heart,  more  hard  than  they. 
Might  in  tliy  pahice  perish  Margaret. 
An  far  a«  I  could  ken  thy  chalky  cliffs. 
When  from  the  !>hore  the  tempest  beat  us  back, 
1  stood  upon  the  hatches  in  the  storm; 
And  when  the  dusky  sky  began  to  rob 
My  earnest-gaping  sight  of  thy  land's  view, 
took  a  costly  jewel  from  my  neck, — 

heart  it  was.  bound  in  with  diamonds, — 
nd  threw  it  towards  thy  land.     The  sea  receiv'd  it, 
.\ud  so  I  \\-islrd  thy  body  might  my  heart : 
And  even  with  this  I  lost  fair  England's  view, 
And  bade  mine  eyes  be  packing  with  my  heart. 
And  call'd  them  blind  and  du.<ky  spectacles. 
For  losing  ken  of  Albions  wished  coast. 
How  often  have  I  tempted  Suffolk's  tongue 
(The  agent  of  the  foul  inconstancy) 
To  sit  and  witch'  me,  a.s  Ascanius  did, 
When  he  to  madding  Dido  would  unfold 
His  father's  acts,  commenc'd  in  burning  Troy  ? 
Am  I  not  witch'd  like  her,  or  thou  not  false  like  him  ? 
Ah  me  !  I  can  no  more.     Die,  Margaret, 
For  Henry  weeps  that  thou  dost  live  so  long. 
Noise  u-ithin.     Enter  W.arwick  and  Salisbury.     Tlie 
Commons  press  to  the  door. 

War.  It  is  reported,  mighty  sovereign, 
That  good  duke  Humphrey  traitorously  is  murder'd 
By  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal  Beaufort's  means. 
The  commons,  like  an  angry  hive  of  bees 
That  want  their  leader,  scatter  up  and  do'mi. 
And  care  not  who  they  sting  in  his  revenge. 
Myself  have  calm'd  their  spleenful  mutiny, 
Until  they  hear  the  order  of  his  dcaih. 

K.  Hen.  That  he  is  dead,  good  Warwick,  't  is  too  true  : 
But  how  he  died,  God  knows,  not  Henry. 
Enter  his  cliamber,  view  his  breathless  corpse, 
And  comment  then  upon  his  sudden  death. 

H'ar.  That  I  shall  do,  my  liege. — Stay.  Salisbury. 
With  the  rude  multitude,  till  I  return. 

[Warwick  goes  into  an  inner  Room,  and 
Salisbury  retires. 

K.  Hen.   0  thou  that  judge^t  all  tilings,   stay  my 
thoughts  ! 
My  thoughts  that  labour  to  persuade  my  soul, 
Some  violent  hands  were  laid  on  Humphrey's  life. 
If  my  suspect  be  fal^^e.  forgive  me.  God. 
For  judgment  only  doth  belong  to  thee. 
Fain  would  I  go  to  chafe  his  paly  lips 
With  twenty  thousand  kisses,  and  to  rain* 
I  pon  his  face  an  ocean  of  salt  tears, 
To  tell  my  love  unto  his  dumb  deaf  trunk, 
And  with  my  Ansers  feel  his  hand  unfeeling  ; 
But  all  in  vain  arc  these  mean  obsequies, 
And  to  survey  his  dead  and  earthy  image. 
What  were  it  but  to  make  my  sorrow  greater  ? 
"^  D.-}rs  of  an  inner  Chamber  arc  thrown  open,  and 

Gloster   15  dv!roi-ered  dead  in  his  Bed ;  Warwick 

and  others  standing  by  it. 

U'ar.   Come  hither,  gracious  sovereign  :    view  this 
body. 

K.  Hen.  That  is  to  see  how  deep  my  grave  is  made  : 
Fjr  with  his  .^oul  fled  ail  my  worldly  solace. 
And,  .seeing  him.  I  see  my  life  in  death. 

War.   As  surely  as  my  soul  intends  to  live 
With  that  dread  King,  that  took  our  state  upon  him 
To  free  us  from  his  Fathers  wrathful  curse, 
I  do  believe  that  violent  hands  were  laid 
Upon  the  life  of  this  thrice-famed  duke. 

'•  wa.l:h  ;  in  folio       '  drain  :  in  t.  «. 


Suf.  A  dreadful  oath,  sworn  ^^^th  a  solemn  tongue 
What  instance  gives  lord  Warwick  for  his  vow  ? 

War.  See,  how  the  blood  is  settled  in  his  lace 
Oft  have  I  seen  a  timely-parted  ghost, 
Of  ashy  semblance,  meagre,  pale,  and  bloodless, 
Being  all  descended  to  the  labouring  heart  ; 
Who.  in  the  conflict  that  it  holds  with  death. 
Attracts  the  same  for  aidance  'gainst  the  enemy  : 
Which  with  the  heart  there  cools,  and  ne'er  returneth 
To  blush  and  beautify  the  check  again. 
But  see.  his  face  is  black,  and  full  of  blood  : 
His  eye-balls  farther  out  than  when  he  liv'd, 
Staring  full  ghastly  like  a  strangled  man  : 
His  hair  uprear'd,  his  nostrils  stretch'd  with  struggling 
His  hands  abroad  displayed,  as  one  tliat  grasp'd, 
And  tugg'd  for  life,  and  was  by  strength  subdued. 
Look  on  the  sheets  his  hair,  you  see,  is  sticking  ; 
His  well-proportion'd  beard  made  rough  and  rugged 
Like  to  the  summer's  corn  by  tempest  lodg'd. 
It  cannot  be  but  he  was  murder'd  here ; 
The  least  of  all  these  signs  were  probable. 

Suf.    Whv.  'V\'^ar\\nck,  who   should   do  the  duke  tc 
death? 
Myself,  and  Beaufort,  had  him  in  protection, 
And  we,  I  hope,  sir,  are  no  murderers. 

War.  But  both  of  you  were  vow'd  duke  Humphrey  a 
foes. 
And  you,  forsooth,  had  the  good  duke  to  keep : 
'T  is  like,  you  would  not  feast  him  like  a  friend. 
And  't  is  well  .seen  he  found  an  enemy. 

Q.  Mar.  Then  you.  belike,  suspect  these  noblemen 
As  guilty  of  duke  Humphreys  timeless  death. 

War.  Who  finds  the  heifer  dead,  and  bleeding  fresh 
And  sees  fa,st  by  a  butcher  with  an  axe. 
But  will  suspect  't  was  he  that  made  the  slaughter  ' 
Who  finds  the  partridge  in  the  puttock's  nest. 
But  may  imagine  how  the  bird  was  dead. 
Although  the  kite  soar  -with  unbloodied  beak  ? 
Even  so  suspicious  is  this  tragedy. 

Q.  Mar.  Are  you  the  butcher,  Suffolk^  where  s  youi 
knife  ? 
Is  Beaufort  term'd  a  kite  ?  where  are  his  talons  ? 

Suf.  I  wear  no  knife,  to  slaughter  sleeping  men  ; 
But  here  "s  a  vengeful  sword,  rusted  with  ease, 
That  shall  be  scoured  in  his  rancorous  heart. 
That  slanders  me  with  murder's  crimson  badge. — 
Say,  if  thou  dar'st.  proud  lord  of  Warwickshire, 
That  I  am  faulty  in  duke  Humphrey's  death. 

[Exeunt  Cardinal.  SoM.,  and  other.f 

War.  What  dares  not  Warwick,  if  false  Suffolk  darf 
him  ? 

Q.  Mar.  He  dares  not  calm  his  contumelious  spirit 
Nor  cease  to  be  an  arrogant  controller, 
Though  Suffolk  dares  him  twenty  thousand  time.<<. 

M'ar.  Madam,  be  still,  with  reverence  may  I  say , 
For  every  word  you  speak  in  his  behalf 
Is  slander  to  your  royal  dignity. 

Suf.  Blunt-witted  lord,  ignoble  in  demeanour, 
If  ever  lady  wrong'd  her  lord  so  much. 
Thy  mother  took  into  her  blameful  bed 
Some  stern  untutor'd  churl,  and  noble  stock 
Was  graft  with  crab-tree  slip  ;  whose  fruit  thou  art. 
And  never  of  the  Nevils"  noble  race. 

If'ar.  But  that  the  guilt  of  murder  bucklers  the«, 
And  I  should  rob  the  dcathsman  of  his  fee, 
Quitting  thee  thereby  of  ten  thousand  shames, 
And  that  my  sovereign's  presence  makes  me  rnild, 
I  would,  false  murderous  coward,  on  thy  knee 
Make  thee  beg  pardon  for  thy  passed  speech 


J 


BOKNE   II. 


KDsG  HEIS'RY    \"L 


471 


And  say,  it  was  thy  mother  that  thou  meant'st , 
That  thou  thyself  wast  born  in  bastardy  : 
And,  after  all  this  fearful  homage  done, 
Rive  thee  thy  hire,  and  send  thy  soul  to  hel. 
Pernicious  bloodsucker  of  sleeping  men. 

5m/.  Thou  shalt  be  waking  while  I  shed  ihy  blood, 
If  from  this  presence  thou  dar'st  go  with  me. 

War.  Away  even  now.  or  I  will  drag  thee  hence. 
Unworthy  though  thou  art,  I  '11  cope  with  thee, 
And  do  some  service  to  duke  Humphrey's  ghost. 

[Exeunt  Suffolk  and  Warwick. 

K.   Hen.    What  stronger  breast-plate  than  a  heart 
untainted  ? 


£.  Hen.  Go,  Salisbury,  and  tell  them  all  from  me. 

I  thank  thein  for  their  tender  lovijig  care, 

And  had  1  not  been  'cited  so  by  them, 
I  Yet  did  I  purpose  as  they  do  entreat , 

For  sure,  my  thoughts  do  hourly  prophesy 

I^lischance  unto  my  state  by  Suifolk's  means  : 

And  therefore,  by  his  majesty  I  swear, 

Y'hose  far  unworthy  deputy  I  am. 

Hfc  shall  not  breathe  infection  in  this  air 

But  three  days  longer,  on  the  pam  of  death.  [Exit  Sai- 
Q.  Mar.  0  Henry  !  let  me  plead  for  gentle  Suffolk 
K.  Hen.  Ungentle  queen,  to  call  him  gentle  Suffolk 

No  more,  I  say  :  if  thott  dost  plead  for  him. 

Thou  wilt  but  add  increase  unto  my  wratli 


Thrice  is  he  arm'd,  that  hath  his  quarrel  just ; 

And  he  but  naked,  though  lock'd  up  in  steel,      within. '  Had  I  but  said.  I  would  have  kept  my  word, 

Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted.   [A  noise  Bitt,  when  I  swear,  it  is  irrevocable. — 

Q.  Mar.  What  noise  is  this  ?  If  after  three  days'  space  thou  here  be'st  found 

Re-enter  Suffolk  and  Warwick,  with  their   Weapojis  On  any  ground  that  1  am  ruler  of, 

dratcn.  |  The  world  shall  not  be  ransom  for  thy  life. — 

A'.  Hen.  Why.  how  now,  lords  !  your  wrathful  weap- :  Come,  Warwick,  come  :  good  Warwick,  go  with  me. 


ons  drawn 

Here  in  our  presence  !  dare  you  be  so  bold  ? — 
Why,  what  tumultuous  clamour  have  we  here  ? 

Stif.  The  traitorous  Warwick,  with  the  men  of  Bury, 
Set  all  upon  me,  mighty  sovereign. 

Noise  of  a  Crowd  within.     Re-enter  Salisbury. 
Sal.  Sirs,  stand   apart ;    [Speaking  to  those  within. 

the  king  shall  know  your  mind. — 
Dread  lord,  the  commons  send  you  word  by  me, 
Unless  lord  Stiffolk  straight  be  done  to  death, 
Or  banished  fair  England's  territories, 
They  will  by  violence  tear  him  from  your  palace, 
And  torture  him  with  grievous  lingering  death. 
They  say,  by  him  the  good  duke  Humphrey  died  ; 
They  say,  in  him  they  fear  your  highness'  death ; 
And  mere  instinct  of  love,  and  loyalty, 
Free  from  a  stubborn  opposite  intent, 
As  being  thought  to  contradict  your  liking. 
Makes  them  thus  forward  in  his  banishment. 
They  say,  in  care  of  your  most  royal  person. 
That,  if  your  highness  shoitld  intend  to  sleep, 
And  charge,  that  no  man  should  disturb  your  rest, 
In  pain  of  your  dislike,  or  pain  of  death,    . 
Vet  notwithstanding  such  a  strait  edict, 
Were  there  a  serpent  seen,  with  forked  tongxie, 
That  slily  glided  towards  your  majesty. 
It  were  bttt  necessary  you  were  wak'd  ; 
Lest,  being  suffer'd  in  that  harmful  slumber, 
The  mortal  worm  might  make  the  sleep  eternal : 
And  therefore  do  they  cry,  though  you  forbid, 
That  they  will  guard  you.  whe'r  you  will  or  no. 
From  such  fell  serpents  as  false  Suffolk  is  ; 
With  whose  envenomed  and  fatal  sting, 
Your  loving  uncle,  twenty  times  his  worth, 
They  say,  is  shamefully  bereft  of  life. 

Commons.   [Within.]  An  answer  from  the  king,  my 

lord  of  Salisbury  ! 
Si(f.  'T  is  like  the  commons,  rude  unpolish'd  hinds, 
Could  send  such  message  to  their  sovereign  ; 
But  you,  my  lord,  were  glad  to  be  employ'd, 
To  show  how  quaint  an  orator  you  are  : 
But  all  the  honour  Salisbury  hath  won, 
Is,  that  he  was  the  lord  ambassador. 
Sent  from  a  sort'  of  tinkers  to  the  king. 

Cmimons.  [Within.]  An  answer  from  the  king,  or 

we  will  all  break  in  I 


I  have  great  matters  to  impart  to  thee 

[Exeunt  K.  Henry.  Warwick,  Lords,  Ifc 

Q.  Mar.  Mischance,  and  sorrow,  go  along  with  you  ! 
Heart's  discontent,  and  sour  affliction, 
Be  playfellows  to  keep  you  company. 
There  's  two  of  you  :  the  devil  make  a  third, 
And  threefold  vengeance  tend  upon  your  steps  ! 

Suf.   Cease,  gentle  queen,  these  execrations. 
And  let  thy  Suffolk  take  his  heavy  leave. 

Q.    Mar.    Fie,    coward    woman,    and    soft-hearted 
wretch  ! 
Hast  thou  not  spirit  to  curse  thine  enemy  ? 

St(f.  A  plague  upon  them  !  wherefore  should  I  cuise 
them  ■? 
Would  curses  kill,  as  doth  the  mandrake's  groan,' 
I  would  invent  as  bitter-searching  terms. 
As  curst,  as  harsh,  and  horrible  to  hear, 
Deliver'd  strongly  through  my  fixed  teeth, 
With  full  as  many  signs  of  deadly  hate, 
As  lean-fac'd  En%y  in  her  loathsome  cave. 
My  tongue  should  stumble  in  mine  earnest  words ; 
Mine  eyes  should  sparkle  like  the  beaten  flint ; 
My  hair  be  fix'd  on  end,  as  one  distract  : 
Ay,  every  joint  should  seem  to  ciu^se  and  ban  : 
And  even  now  my  burden'd  heart  would  break. 
Should  I  not  curse  them.     Poison  be  their  drink  I 
Gall,  worse  than  gall,  the  daintiest  that  they  taste  ' 
Their  sweetest  shade,  a  grove  of  cypress  trees  ! 
Their  chiefest  prospect,  murdering  basilisks  ! 
Their  softest  touch,  as  sharp^  as  lizard's  stings  ! 
Their  music,  frightful  as  the  serpent's  hiss, 
And  boding  screech-owls  make  the  concert  full  ! 
All  the  foul  terrors  in  dark-seated  hell — 

Q.   Mar.    Enough,  sweet  Suffolk  :    thou  torment'st 
thyself; 
And  these  dread  curses,  like  the  sun  'gainst  glass, 
Or  like  an  overcharged  gun,  recoil, 
And  turn  the  force  of  them  upon  tliyself. 

Suf.  You  bade  me  ban.  and  will  you  bid  me  leave  ? 
Now,  by  the  ground  that  I  am  banish'd  from. 
Well  could  I  (^urse  away  a  winter's  night, 
Though  standing  naked  on  a  mountain  top, 
Where  biting  cold  would  never  let  grass  grow, 
And  think  it  but  a  minute  spent  in  sport. 

Q.  Mar.  0  !  let  me  entreat  thee,  cease.     Give  me 
thy  hand, 


'  Ciympany.  >  "They  do  affTrme  that  this  herbe  cometh  of  the  seed  of  some  convicted  dead  men,  and  also  withoot  the  death  of  ijome 
.yvinge  thinge,  it  cannot  be  dra^en  out  of  the  earth  to  man's  use.  Therefore,  they  did  tye  some  dogge  or  ->t.her  .yvingebea^te  unto  .h« 
roote  thereof  w.th  a  corde.  and  digged  the  earth  in  compasse  round  about,  and  in  the  mear.tynce  stoppea 


bl«  shriek  and  cry  of  this  Mandrack     In  w 


it  ont  of  the  es.nh.''—Eu Heine 


compasse  rouna  aoouc,  ana  in  tne  raeaiivyiu^  ^.^^.y^^  .heir  own  earos  for  feare  of  the  toin 
hich  cry  it  doth  not  only  die  itselfe.  but  the  feare  thereof  killeth  the  dogge  or  beast  which  pulwU 


licarke  of  Defei 


Sickness^'  :  folio,  1579  ;  quoted  by  Reed.      '  smart  : 


f.  e. 


472 


SECOND  PART  OF 


ACT  m. 


That  I  may  dew  it  witli  my  mournful  tears ; 
Nor  let  the  rain  of  heaven  wet  this  place, 
fo  wash  away  my  woeful  monuments 

0  I  could  this  kiss  be  printed  in  thy  hand, 
That  thou  might'st  think  upon  tlicse  by  the  seal. 
Throuch  whom  a  thousand  siiihs  are  breath'd  for  thee. 
So.  get  thee  gone,  that  1  may  know  my  grief; 

T  is  but  surmis'd  whilst  thou  art  standing  by. 
As  one  that  surfeits,  thinking  on  a  want. 

1  will  repeal  thee,  or,  be  well  assur'd, 
.Adventure  to  be  banished  myself ; 
And  banished  I  am,  if  but  from  thee. 

Go  :  speak  not  to  me  :  even  now  be  gone. — 

0  !  go  not  yet. — Even  thus  two  friends  condemned 
Kmbrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand  leaves, 
Loather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die. 

Vet  now  farewell ;  and  farewell  life  with  thee. 
Suf.  Thus  is  poor  Suffolk  ten  times  banished. 
Once  by  the  king,  and  three  times  thrice  by  thee. 
T  is  not  the  land  I  care  for,  wert  thou  thence  : 
.A.  wilderness  is  populous  enough, 
So  Suffolk  liad  thy  heavenly  company ; 
For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 
With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world, 
And  where  thou  art  not.  desolation. 

1  can  no  more. — Live  thou  to  joy  thy  life  ; 
Myself  to'  joy  in  nought,  but  that  thou  liv'st. 

Enter  Vaux. 

Q.  Mar.  Whither  goes  Vaux  so  fast  ?  what  news,  I 
pr"ythee  ? 

Vaux.  To  signify  unto  his  majesty, 
That  cardinal  Beaufort  is  at  point  of  death ; 
For  suddenly  a  grievous  sickness  took  him. 
That  makes  him  gasp,  and  stare,  and  catch  the  air, 
Blaspheming  God,  and  cursing  men  on  earth. 
Sometime  he  talks  as  if  duke  Humphrey's  ghost 
Were  by  his  side  ;  sometime  he  calls  the  king. 
And  whispers  to  his  pillow,  as  to  him, 
The  secrets  of  his  overcharged  soul  : 
And  I  am  .sent  to  tell  his  majesty. 
That  even  now  he  cries  aloud  for  him. 

Q.  Mar.  Go,  tell  this  heavy  message  to  the  king. 

[Exit  Vaux. 
Ah  me  !  what  is  this  world  ?  what  news  are  these  ? 
But  wheretbrc  grieve  I  at  an  hour's  poor  loss, 
fhnitting  Suffolk's  e.xile.  my  soul's  trea.sure  ? 
Why  only,  Suffolk,  mourn  I  not  for  thee. 
And  with  the  southern  clouds  contend  in  tears  ? 
Theirs  for  the  earth's  increase,  mine  for  my  sorrows. 
Now,  get  thee  hence  :  the  king,  thou  know'.st.  is  coming : 
If  thou  be  found  by  me,  thou  art  but  dead. 

Suf.  If  I  depart  from  thee,  I  cannot  live ; 
.And  in  thy  sight  to  die,  what  were  it  else. 
But  like  a  pleasant  slumber  in  thy  lap  ? 
Here  could  I  breathe  m.y  soul  ir.to  the  air, 
A.s  mild  and  gentle  as  the  cradle-babe. 
Dying  with  mother's  dug  between  its  lips; 
Where,  from  thy  sinht,  1  should  be  raging  mad, 
And  cry  out  for  thee  to  cl^se  ud  mine  eyes. 
To  have  thee  ^vilh  thy  lips  to  stop  my  mouth  : 

>  ne  :  ia  t  •.        Kot  is  i.  a. 


So  shouldst  thou  either  turn  my  flying  soul. 

Or  I  sliould  breathe  it  so  into  thy  body, 

And  then  it  liv'd  in  sweet  Elysium. 

To  die  by  thee,  were  but  to  die  in  jc.<T  . 

From  thee  to  die,  were  torture  more  than  death 

0  !   let  me  stay,  befal  what  may  bei'al. 

Q.  Mar.  Away  !  though  parting  be  a  fretful  c<'itj 
give. 
It  is  applied  to  a  deathful  wound. 
To  France,  sweet  Suffolk :  let  me  hear  from  thee 
For  wheresoe'r  thou  art  in  this  world's  globe. 

1  '11  have  an  Iris  that  shall  find  thee  out. 

Suf.  I  go. 

Q.  Mar.         And  take  my  heart  with  thee. 

Suf.  A  jewel,  loek'd  into  the  woeful'st  casKet 
That  ever  did  contain  a  thing  of  worth. 
Even  as  a  splitted  bark,  so  sunder  we : 
This  way  fall  I  to  death. 

Q.  Mar.  This  way  for  me. 

[Exeunt,  severally. 

SCENE    III. — London.      Cardinal    Beaufort's    Bed- 
chamber. 
Enter  King  Henry,  Samssuky,  Warwick,  and  others 
The  Cardinal  in  bed ;  Attendants  with  him. 
K.  Hen.  How  fares  my  lord  ?  speak.  Beaufon,  totny 

king. 
Car.  If  thou  be'st  death.  I  '11  give  thee  England's 
treasure. 
Enough  to  purchase  such  another  island, 
So  thou  wilt  let  me  live,  and  feel  no  pain. 

K.  Hen.  Ah.  what  a  sign  it  is  of  evil  life. 
Where  death's  approach  is  seen  so  terrible  ! 

War.  Beaufort,  it  is  thy  sovereign  speaks  to  thee. 
Car.  Bring  me  unto  my  triai  wnen  you  will. 
Died  he  not  in  his  bed  ?  where  should  he  die  ? 
Can  I  make  men  live,  whe'r  they  will  or  no  ?— 

0  !  torture  me  no  more,  I  will  conress. — 
Alive  again  ?  then  show  me  where  he  is : 

1  '11  give  a  thousand  pound  to  look  upon  him. — 
He  hath  no  eyes,  the  dust  hath  blinded  them. — 
Comb  down  his  hair:  look  !   look  !   it  stands  upright, 
Like  Itmc-twigs  set  to  catch  my  winged  soul. — 
Give  me  some  drink;  and  bid  the  apothecary 
Bring  the  strong  poi.son  that  I  bought  of  him. 

K.  Hen    O,  thou  eternal  mover  of  the  heavens. 
Look  with  a  gentle  eye  upon  this  wretch  ! 
0  !  beat  away  the  busy  meddling  fiend, 
That  lays  strong  siege  unto  this  wretch's  soul, 
And  from  his  bosom  purge  this  black  despair. 

War.  See.  how  the  pangs  of  death  do  make  him  grm 

Sal.  Disturb  him  not;  let  him  pass  peaceably. 

K.  Hen.  Peace  to  his  soul,  if  "t  God's  good  pleasure  b« 
Lord  cardinal,  if  thou  think'st  on  heaven'.s  bliss. 
Hold  up  thy  hand,  make  signal  of  thy  hope. — Car.  die* 
He  dies,  and  makes  no  sign. — 0  God,  forgive  him  : 

War.  So  bad  a  death  argues  a  monstrous  life. 

K.  Hen.  Forbear  to  judge,  for  we  are  sinners  ail  — 
Close  up  his  eyes,  and  draw  the  curtain  close, 
And  let  us  all  to  meditation.  \Eifv% 


i 


KING  HENEY    VI. 


473 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— Kent.     The  Sea-shore  near  Dover. 
Firing  heard  at  Sea.     Then  enter  from  a  Boat,  a  Cap- 
tain,   a   Master,  a  Master's- Mate,  Walter    Whit- 
more,  and  others;  ivith  them  Suffolk,  disguised; 
and  other  Gentlemen,  prisoners. 
Cap.  The  gaudy,  blabbing,  and  remorseful  day 
Is  crept  into  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
And  now  loud-howling  wolves  arouse  the  jades 
That  drag  the  tragic  melancholy  night ; 
Who  with  their  drowsy,  slow,  and  flagging  wings  ' 
Clip'  dead  men's  graves,  and  from  their  misty  jaws 
Breathe  foul  contagious  darkness  in  the  air. 
Therefore,  bring  forth  the  soldiers  of  our  prize  ; 
For  whilst  our  pinnace  anchors  in  the  Downs. 
Here  shall  they  make  their  ransom  on  the  sand. 
Or  with  their  blood  stain  this  discolour'd  shore. — 
Master,  this  prisoner  freely  give  I  thee  ; — 
And,  thou  that  art  his  mate,  make  boot  of  this  : — 
The  other,  [Pointing  to  Suffolk,]  Walter  Whitmore, 
is  thy  share. 
1  Gent.  What  is  my  ransom,  master  ?  let  me  know. 
Mast.  A  thousand   crowns,  or  else  lay  down  your 

head. 
Mate.  And  so  much  shall  you  give,  or  off  goes  yours. 
Cap.  Wha/. !  think  you  much  to  pay  two  thousand 
crowns. 
And  bear  the  name  and  port  of  gentlemen  ? — 
Cut  both  the  villains'  throats  ! — for  die  you  shall : 
Can'  lives  of  those  which  we  have  lost  in  fight. 
Be  counterpois'd  with  such  a  petty  sum  ? 

1  Gent.  I  '11  give  it,  sir  ;  and  therefore  spare  my  life. 

2  Gent.  And  so  will  I,  and  write  home  for  it  straight. 
U%it.  I  lost  mine  eye  in  laying  the  prize  aboard, 

And,  therefore,  to  revenge  it  shalt  thou  die ;    [To  Suf. 
And  so  should  these,  if  I  might  have  my  will. 

Cap.  Be  not  so  rash  :  take  ransom  ;  let  him  live. 

Suf.  Look  on  my  George  :  I  am  a  gentlenian. 
Rate  me  at  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  be  paid. 

JVhit.  And  so  am  I  ;  my  name  is  Walter  Whitmore. 
How  now  !  why  start' st  thou  ?  what,  doth  death  affright  ? 

Suf.  Thy  name  affrights  me,  in  whose  sound  is  death. 
A  cunning  man  did  calculate  my  birth. 
And  told  me  that  by  water  I  should  die  : 
Yet  let  not  this  make  thee  be  bloody  minded  ; 
Thy  name  is  Gaultier,  being  rightly  sounded. 

Whit.   Gaultier,  or  Walter,  which  it  is,  I  care  not; 
Never  yet  did  base  dishonour  blur  our  name, 
But  with  our  sword  we  wip'd  away  the  blot : 
Therefore,  when  merchant-like  1  sell  revenge. 
Broke  be  my  sword,  my  arms  torn  and  defac'd, 
And  I  proclaim'd  a  coward  through  the  world  ! 

[Lays  hold  on  Suffolk. 

Suf.  Stay,  Whitmore  :  for  thy  prisoner  is  a  prince, 
The  duke  of  Suffolk,  William  de  la  Poole. 

Whit.  The  duke  of  Suffolk  muffled  up  in  rags  ! 

Suf.  Ay,  but  these  rags  are  no  part  of  the  duke  : 
Jove  sometime  went  disguis'd,  and  why  not  I  ?^ 

Cap.  But  Jove  was  never  slain,  as  thou  shalt  be. 
1     Suf.  Obscure  and  lowly  swain,  king  Henry's  blood, 
The  honourable  blood  of  Lancaster, 
Must  not  be  shed  by  such  a  jaded  groom. 
Hast  thou  not  kiss'd  thy  hand,  and  held  my  stirrup  ? 


[  Bare-headed  plodded  by  my  foot-cloth  mule. 
And  thought  thee  happy  when  I  shook  my  head  ? 
How  often  hast  thou  waited  at  my  cup, 
Ftl  from  my  trencher,  kneel'd  down  at  the  board, 
Wtien  I  have  feasted  with  queen  Margaret? 
Remember  it,  and  let  it  make  thee  crest-fall'n ; 
Ay,  and  allay  this  thy  abortive  pride. 
How  in  our  voiding  lobby  hast  thou  stood. 
And  duly  waited  for  my  coming  forth. 
This  hand  of  mine  hath  writ  in  thy  behalf, 
And  therefore  shall  it  charm  thy  riotous  tongue. 

Whit.  Speak,  captain,  shall  I  stab  the  foul-tongi' 
slave?*  ' 

Cap.  First  let  my  words  stab  him.  as  he  hath  me. 

Suf.  Base  slave,  thy  words  are  blunt,  and  *so  art  lliou. 

Cap.  Convey  him  hence,  and  on  our  long  boat's  side 
Strike  off  his  head. 

Suf.  Thou  dar"st  not  for  thy  own. 

Cap.  Yes.  Poole.' 

Suf  Poole  ? 

Cap.  Poole,  Sir  Poole,  lord  ? 

Ay,  kennel,  puddle,  sink ;  whose  filth  and  dirt 
Troubles  the  silver  spring  where  England  drinks. 
Now,  will  I  dam  up  this  thy  yawning  mouth, 
For  swallowing  the  treasure  of  the  realm  : 
Thy  lips,  that  kiss'd  the  queen,  shall  sweep  the  ground  ; 
And  thou,  that  smil'st  at  good  duke  Humphrey's  death, 
Against  the  senseless  winds  shalt  grin  in  vain, 
Who  in  contempt  shall  hiss  at  thee  again : 
And  wedded  be  thou  to  the  hags  of  hell, 
For  daring  to  affy  a  mighty  lord 
Unto  the  daughter  of  a  worthless  king, 
Having  neither  subject,  wealth,  nor  diadem 
By  devilish  policy  art  thou  grown  great. 
And.  like  ambitious  Sylla,  overgorg'd 
With  gobbets  of  thy  mother's  bleeding  heart. 
By  thee  Anjou  and  Maine  were  sold  to  France: 
The  false  revolting  Normans  thorough  thee 
Disdain  to  call  us  lord  ;  and  Picardy 
Hath  slain  their  governors,  surpris'd  our  forts. 
And  sent  the  raaged  soldiers  wounded  home. 
The  princely  Warwick,  and  the  Nevils  all, 
Whose  dreadful  swords  were  never  drawn  in  vain. 
As  hating  thee,  are  rising  up  in  arms  : 
And  now  the  house  of  York — thrust  from  the  crown, 
By  shameful  murder  of  a  guiltless  king. 
And  lofty,  proud,  encroaching  tyranny, — 
Burns  with  revenging  fire :  whose  hopeful  colours 
Advance  our  half-fac"d  sun,  sfrivinii  to  shine.' 
LTnder  the  which  is  writ — Invitis  nubibus. 
The  commons,  here  in  Kent,  are  up  in  arms  : 
And  to  conclude,  rejiroach,  and  beggary. 
Are  crept  into  the  palace  of  our  king. 
And  all  by  thee, — Away  I — Convey  liiiu  hence 

Suf.  0,  that  1  were  a  god,  to  shoot  forth  thucder 
Upon  these  paltry,  servile,  abject  drudges  ! 
Small  things  make  base  men  proud :  this  villain,  neie. 
Being  captain  of  a  pinnace,  threatens  more 
Than  Bargulus  the  strong  Illyrian  pirate.' 
Drones  suck  not  eagles'  blood,  but  rob  bee-hives. 
It  is  impossible,  that  1  should  die 
By  such  a  lowly  vassal  as  thyself. 
Thy  words  move  rage,  and  not  remorse,  in  me : 


'  Embrace.  2  The  :  in  f.  e.  '  This  line,  not  in  the  folio. 
''  These  words  and  the  following  Poole,  are  from  the  "  Contpntion 
111  uf  a  cloud.'" — Camden.     '  Bargulus,  lUyrius  latro. — Cieeronis  Officia.  Lib.  III., 


from  the  old  play  of  the  "  Contention."      ♦  the  forlorn  swain  :  in  f.  o. 
The  device  of  Edward  III.,  "  the  rays  of  tne  sun  disDersine  themgelve- 


474 


SECOND  PART  OF 


A.OT    V. 


I  go  of  mesisagc  from  the  queen  to  France  ; 

I  charge  thee,  waft  me  salely  cross  the  channel. 

Cap.  Walter!— 

Whit.  Come,  Suffolk,  I  must  waft  thee  to  thy  death. 

Suf.  Pene  gelidus  timor  occupat  artus : — it  is  thee  I 
fear.  [thee. 

Whit.  Thou  Shalt  have  cause  to  fear  before  I  leave 
What  !  are  ye  daunted  now?  now  will  ye  stoop  ? 

1  Gent.  Mv  gracious  lord,  entreat  him;  speak  him 
ftir. 

Suf.  Suffolk's  imperial  tongue  is  stem  and  rough, 
Us"d  to  command,  untaught  to  plead  for  favour. 
Far  be  it  we  should  honour  such  as  these 
With  liumble  suit :  no,  rather  let  my  head 
Stoop  to  the  block,  than  these  knees  bow  to  any, 
Save  to  (he  God  of  heaven,  and  to  my  king ; 
And  sooner  dance  upon  a  bloody  pole. 
Than  stand  uncover"d  \o  the  Anilgar  groom. 
True  nobil'ity  is  exempt  fiom  fear  : 
More  can  I  bear,  than  you  dare  execute. 

Cap.  Hale  hini  away,  and  let  him  talk  no  more. 

Svf   Come,  soldiers,  show  what  cruelty  ye  can. 
That  this  my  death  may  never  be  forgot. — 
lireat  men  oft  die  by  vile  bezonians*  : 
A  Roman  swordci  and  banditto  slave 
Murder'd  sweet  Tully  ;  Brutus'  bastard  hand 
Stabbd  Julius  Caesar;  savage  islanders 
Pompey  the  great,  and  Suffolk  dies  by  pirates. 

[Exit  Si'F..  with  Whit.,  aiid  others. 

Cap.  And  as  for  these  whose  ransom  we  have  set, 
It  is  our  pleasure  one  of  them  depart : 
Therefore,  come  you  \s-ith  us,  and  let  him  go. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  first  Gentleman. 
Re-enter  Whitmore,  with  Suffolk's  body. 

Whit.  There  let  his  head  and  lifeless  body  lie, 
Until  the  queen,  his  mistress,  bury  it.  [Exit. 

1  Gent.  0.  barbarous  and  bloody  spectacle ! 
His  body  will  I  bear  unto  the  king : 
If  he  revenge  it  not,  yet  will  his  friends  ; 
So  will  the  queen,  that  living  held  him  dear. 

[Exit,  with  the  Body. 

SCENE  n.— Blackheath. 
Enter  George  Bevis  and  John  Holland. 

Geo.  Come,  and  get  thee  a  sword,  though  made  of  a 
lath  :  they  have  been  up  these  two  days. 

Johri.  Tiioy  have  the  more  neexl  to  sleep  now  then. 

Geo.  I  tell  tiiee,  Jack  Cade,  the  clothier,  means  to 
dress  the  commonwealth,  and  turn  it,  and  set  a  new- 
nap  upon  it. 

John.  So  he  had  need,  for  't  is  threadbare.  Well,  I 
8<iy.  it  was  never  merry  world  in  England,  since  gen- 
tlemen came  up. 

Geo.  0  mi.'^erable  age  !  Virtue  is  not  regarded  in 
haadicrafis-men. 

John.  The  nobility  think  scorn  to  go  in  leather  aprons. 

Geo.  Nay  more ;  the  king's  council  are  no  good  work- 
men. 

John.  Tnie;  and  yet  it  is  said, — labour  in  thy  voca- 
tion :  which  is  as  much  as  to  say. — let  the  magistrates 
be  labouring  men  ;  and  therefore  should  we  be  magis- 
lrate«. 

Geo.  Thou  ha.'^t  hit  it:  for  there  's  no  better  sign  of 
a  brave  mind,  than  a  hard  hand. 

John.  I  see  them  I  I  sec  them  I  There  's  Best's  son, 
the  tanner  of  Wingham. 

Geo.  He  shall  have  the  skins  of  our  enemies  to  make 
dog's  leather  of. 

John.  And  Dick,  the  butcher. 


Geo.  Then  is  sin  struck  down  like  an  ox  and  ini- 
quity's tiiroat  cut  like  a  calf. 

John.  And  Smith,  the  weaver. 

Geo.  Argo.  their  thread  of  life  is  spun. 

John.  Come,  come;  let's  fall  in  with  them. 

Drum.     Enter  Cade,  Dick  the  Butcher.  Smith  Oh 
Weaver,  and  others  in  great  number". 

Cade.  We  John  Cade,  so  termed  of  our  supposed 
father, — 

Dick.  Or  rather,  of  stealing  a  cade'  of  herrings. 

[Aside 

Cade.  —  For  our  enemies  shall  fall  before  us,  in- 
spired with  the  spirit  of  putting  down  kings  and  princes. 
— Command  silence.  [Noise.* 

Dick.  Silence  ! 

Code.  .My  father  was  a  Mortimer, — 

Dick.  He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  good  bricklavcr. 

Cade.  My  mother  a  Plantagenet, — 

Dick.  I  knew  her  well :  she  was  a  midwife.   [Aside 

Cade.  My  wife  descended  of  the  Lacic?. — 

Dick.  She  was,  indeed,  a  pedlar's  daughter,  and  solJ 
many  laces.  [Asii:' 

Smith.  But.  now  of  late,  not  able  to  travel  with  ! 
furred  pack,  she  washes  bucks  here  at  home.      [A.':!-: 

Cade.  Therefore  am  I  of  an  honourable  house. 

Dick.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  the  field  is  honourable,  and 
there  was  he  born  under  a  hedge ;  for  his  father  had 
never  a  house,  but  the  cage.  [Aside. 

Cade.  Valiant  I  am. 

Smith.  'A  must  needs,  for  beggary  is  valiant.  [Aside. 

Cade.  I  am  able  to  endure  much. 

Dick.  No  question  of  that,  for  I  have  seen  liini 
whipped  three  market  days  together.  [Asa. 

Cade.  I  fear  neither  sword  nor  fire. 

Smith.  He  need  not  fear  the  sword,  for  his  coat  is  oi 
proof. 

Dick.  But.  methinks,  he  should  stand  in  fear  of  fire, 
being  burnt  i'  the  hand  for  stealing  of  sheep.       [A.sidt. 

Cade.  Be  brave  then  ;  for  your  c-aptain  is  brave,  and 
vows  reformation.  There  shall  be  in  England  seven 
half-penny  loaves  sold  for  a  penny:  the  three-hooped 
pot  shall  have  ten  hoops :  and  I  will  make  it  felony,  tc 
drink  small  beer.  All  the  realm  shall  be  in  common, 
and  in  Cheapside  shall  my  palfrey  go  *o  grass.  And. 
when  I  am  king,  (as  king  1  will  be) — 

All.  God  save  your  majesty ! 

Cade.  1  thank  you,  good  people  : — tl  ere  shall  be  no 
money:   all  shall  eat  and  drink  on  my  score:  and  ' 
will   apparel  them  all  in  one  livery,   that   they  ni;i 
agree  like  brothers,  and  worship  me  their  lord. 

Dick.  The  first  thing  we  do.  let 's  kill  all  the  la-w)*  r- 

Cade.  Nay,  that  I  mean  to  do.  Is  not  this  a  l»mi  ' 
able  thing,  that  the  skin  of  an  innocent  laml  .'^hoi. 
be  made  parchment?  that  parchment,  being  si.-nbbU*i 
o'er,  should  undo  a  man?  Some  say,  the  bee  stinjnt: 
but  I  say,  't  is  the  bee's  wax,  for  I  did  but  seal  once  i" 
a  thing,  and  I  was  never  mine  own  man  since.  How 
now  !  who  's  there  ? 

Enter  .tome,  bringing  in  the  Clerk  of  Chatham. 

Smith.  The  clerk  of  Chatham:  he"  can  write  and 
read,  and  ea.st  aecompt. 

Cade.  0  monstrous  ! 

Smith.  Wc  took  him  setting  of  boys'  copies. 

Code.   Here  's  a  villain  ! 

Smith.  H*  as  a  book  in  his  pocket,  with  red  letters  \n  ' 

Cade.  Nay  then,  he  is  a  conjurer. 

Dick.  Nay,  he  can  make  obligations,  and  writ'  ooort 
hand. 


A  Urm  ot  contemp*        '  tcilh  injinitt  numbers  : 


folio. 


Latin,  cadus,  a,  cask.      *  Not  in  f.  «. 


J 


SdCNE    IV. 


KING  HENKY    VI. 


iiO 


Cade.  I  am  sorry  for 't :  the  man  is  a  proper  man, !  to   span-counter  lor  French  crowns.  I   am  content  iie 
or  mine  honour;  unless  I  find  him  guilty,  he  shall  not   shall  reign  ;  but  I  '11  be  protector  over  him. 
die. — Come  hither,  sirrah,  I  must  examine  thee  :  what  I      Dick.  And.  furthermore,  we  '11  have  the  lord  Say's 
is  thv  name  ?  head,  for  selling  the  dukedom  of  Maine. 


Clerk.  Emmanuel. 

Dick.  They  use  to  WTite  it  on  the  top  of  letters. — 
'T  will  go  hard  with  you. 

Cade.  Let  me  alone. — Dost  thou  use  to  write  thy 
name,  or  hast  thou  a  mark  to  thjTself,  like  an  honest  j  aV  3unuch  ;  and  more  than  that,  he  can  speak  Frejieh 


Cade.  And  good  reason ;  for  thereby  is  England 
maimed,  and  fain  to  go  with  a  staff,  but  that  my  puis- 
sance holds  it  up.  Fellow  kings.  I  lell  you  that  thai 
Ic'-d  Say  hath  gelded  the  commonwealth,  and  made  ii 


r 


plain-dealing  man  ? 

Clerk.  Sir,  I  thank  God,  I  have  been  so  well  brought 
up  that  I  can  write  my  name. 

All.  He  hath  confessed :  away  with  him  !  he  's  a 
villain,  and  a  traitor. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  I  say !  hang  him  with  his 
pen  and  ink-horn  about  his  neck. 

[Exeunt  some  with  the  Clerk. 
Enter  Michael. 

Mich.  "Where  's  our  general  ? 

Cade.  Here  I  am,  thou  particular  fellow. 

Mich.  Fly,  fly.  fly!  sir  Humphrey  Stafford  and  his 
brother  are  hard  by,  with  the  king's  forces. 

Cade.  Stand,  villain,  stand,  or  I  '11  fell  thee  down. 
He  shall  be  encountered  with  a  man  as  good  as  him- 
self :  he  is  but  a  knight,  is  'a  ? 

Mich.  No. 

Cade.  To  equal  him,  I  will  make  myself  a  knight 
presently.  [Kneels.]  —  Rise  up  sir  John  Mortimer. 
fiJiies.]'   Now  have  at  him. 

Enter  Sir  Humphrey  Stafford,  and  "William  his 
Brother,  U'ith  Drum  and  Forces. 

Staf.  Rebellious  hinds,  the  filth  and  scum  of  Kent, 
Mark'd  for  the  gallows,  lay  your  weapons  down : 
Home  to  your  cottages,  forsake  this  groom. 
The  king  is  merciful,  if  you  revolt. 

W.  Staff.  But  angr>,  wTathful.  and  inclin'd  to  blood, 
If  you  go  forward  :  therefore  yield,  or  die. 

Cade.  As  for  these  silken-coated  slaves,  I  pass'  not ; 
It  is  to  you,  good  people,  that  I  speak. 
O'er  whom  in  time  to  come  I  hope  to  reign : 
For  I  am  rightful  heir  unto  the  crown. 

Staf.  Villain  !  thy  father  was  a  plasterer ; 
And  thou  thyself  a  shearman,  art  thou  not  ? 

Cadi.  And  Adam  was  a  gardener. 

W  Staff.  And  what  of  that  ? 

Cmie.    Marry,    this  : — Edmund    Mortimer,    earl   of 
March, 
Married  the  duke  of  Clarence's  daughter,  did  he  not  ? 

Staf.  Ay,  sir. 

Cade.  Bv  her  he  had  two  children  at  one  birth. 

W.  Staff  That 's  false. 

Cade.  Ay,  there  's  the  question  ;  but,  I  say,  't  is  true. 
The  elder  of  them,  being  put  to  nurse. 
Was  by  a  beggar-woman  stol'n  away  ; 
And,  ignorant  of  his  birth  and  parentage, 
Became  a  bricklayer  when  he  came  to  age. 
His  son  am  I :  deny  it,  if  you  can. 

Di:i.  Nay,  't  is  too  true :  therefore,  he  shall  be  king. 

Smitn.  Sir,  he  made  a  chimney  in  my  father's  house, 
nd  the  bricks  are  alive  at  this  day  to  testify  it :  there- 
fore, deny  it  not. 

Staf  And  will  you  credit  this  base  drudge's  words. 
That  speaks  he  knows  not  what  ? 

All.  Ay,  marry,  \Nill  we  ;  therefore,  get  ye  gone. 


and  therefore  he  is  a  traitor. 

Staf.  0.  gross  and  miserable  ignorance  I 

Cade.  Nay,  answer,  if  you  can :  the  Frenchmen  are 
our  enemies :  go  to,  then,  I  ask  but  this ;  can  he  thai 
speaks  with  the  tongue  of  an  enemy  be  a  good  coun- 
sellor, or  no  ? 

All.  No,  no  ;  and  therefore  we  '11  have  his  head. 

W.  Staff.  Well;  seeing  gentle  words  vrill  not  prevail 
Assail  them  with  the  army  of  the  king. 

Staf.  Herald,  away :  and,  throughout  every  tt.^\-n. 
Proclaim  them  traitors  that  are  up  with  Cade , 
That  those  which  fly  before  the  battle  ends, 
May,  even  in  their  wives'  and  children's  sight, 
Be  hang'd  up  tor  example  at  their  doors. — 
All  you.  that  be  the  king's  friends,  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  the  two  Staffords  and  Forcts. 

Cade.  And  you,  that  love  the  commons,  follow  me. — 
Now  show  yourselves  men :  't  is  for  liberty. 
"We  will  not  leave  one  lord,  one  gentleman : 
Spare  none  but  such  as  go  in  clouted  shoon, 
For  they  are  thrifty  honest  men,  and  such 
As  would  (but  that  they  dare  not)  take  our  parts. 

Dick.  They  are  all  in  order,  and  march  toward  us. 

Cade.  But  then  are  we  in  order,  when  we  are  most 
out  of  order.     Come :  march  !  forward  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  HI 
Alarums 


-Another  Part  of  Blackheath. 


The  two  Parties  enter,  and  fight,  and  both  the 
Staffords  are  slain. 

Cade.  "Where  's  Dick,  the  butcher  of  Ashford  ? 

Dick.  Here,  sir. 

Cade.  They  fell  before  thee  like  sheep  and  oxen, 
and  thou  behavedst  thyself  as  if  thou  hadst  been  in 
thine  own  slaughter-house :  therefore,  thus  will  I  re- 
ward thee, — The  Lent  shall  be  as  long  again  as  it  i«  : 
and  thou  shalt  have  a  license^  to  kill  for  a  hundred 
years,  lacking  one. 

Dick.  I  desire  no  more. 

Cade.  And.  to  speak  the  truth,  thou  desen"est  no  less. 
This  monument  of  the  victory  will  I  bear :  [Putting  on 
Stafford's  armour*]  and  the  bodies  shall  be  dragged 
at  my  horses'  heels,  till  I  do  come  to  London,  where  we 
will  have  the  mayor's  sword  borne  before  us. 

Dick.  If  we  mean  to  thrive  and  do  good,  break  open 
the  jails,  and  let  out  the  prisoners. 

Cade.  Fear  not  that,  I  warrant  thee.  Come  :  let 's 
march  towards  London.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace 
Enter  A^zng  Henry,  reading  a  Supplication  :  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  and  Lord  Sai  with  him:  at  a  di.ttaiuf, 
Queen  Margarf.t  mourning  over  Suffolk  s  Head. 
Q.  Mar.  Oft   have    I    heard   that  grief  softens  the 
mind,  [Aside.' 


i 


W.  Staff  Jack  Cade,  the  duke  of  York  hath  taught   And  makes  it  fearful  and  degenerate: 

you  this.  I  Think,  therefore,  on  revenge,  and  cease  to  weep. 

Cade.  He  lies,  for  I  invented  it  myself.     [Aside.] —  But  who  can  cease  to  weep,  and  look  on  this  ? 
Go  to.   sirrah :   tell  the  king  from  me,   that  for  his   Here  may  his  head  lie  on  my  throbbing  brea,«:t ; 
father's  sake,  Henry  the  fifth,  in  whose  time  boys  went   But  where  's  the  body  that  I  should  embrace  7 

'  Not  in  f.  e       «  Care       '  Bitchere  -were  only  allowed  to  kill  in  Lent,  by  special  license.      *  '  Not  in  f.  e. 


476 


SECOND   PART  OF 


ACT    IV. 


Btuk.  What  answer  makes  your  grace  to  the  rebels' 
lupplication? 

K.  Hen.  I  '11  send  some  holy  bishop  to  entreat; 
For  God  forbid,  so  many  simple  souls 
Should  perish  by  the  sword  !     And  I  myself, 
Rather  tlian  bloody  war  shall  cut  them  short, 
Will  parley  with  .lack  Cade  their  general. — 
But  stay,  I  "11  read  it  over  once  again. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah,  barbarous  villains !   hath  this   lovely 
face  [Aside} 

Rul'd  like  a  wandering  planet  over  me, 
And  could  it  not  enforce  them  to  relent, 
That  were  unworthy  to  behold  the  same? 

A".  Hen.  Lord  Say,  Jack  Cade  hath  sworn  to  have 
thy  head. 

Say.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  your  highness  shall  have  his. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  madam  ! 
Lamenting  still,  and  mourning  Suffolk's  death  ? 
I  fear  me,  love,  if  that  I  had  been  dead. 
Thou  wouldest  not  have  mourn'd  so  much  for  me. 

Q.  Mar.  No,  my  love ;  I  should  not  mourn,  but  die 
for  thee. 

E7iter  a  Messenger. 

K.  Hen.  How  now!  what  news?  why  com'st  thou 
in  such  haste? 

Mess.  The  rebels  are  in  Southwark  :  fly,  my  lord  ! 
Jack  Cade  proclaims  himself  lord  Mortimer, 
Descended  from  the  duke  of  Clarence'  house, 
And  calls  your  grace  usurper  openly, 
And  vows  to  crown  himself  in  Westminster. 
His  army  is  a  ragged  multitude 
Of  hinds  and  peasants,  rude  and  merciless: 
Sir  Humphrey  Stafford  and  his  brother's  death 
Hath  given  them  heart  and  courage  to  proceed. 
All  scholars,  lawyers,  courtiers,  gentlemen, 
They  call  false  caterpillars,  and  intend  their  death. 

K.  Hen.    0   graceless   men  !    they  know  not  what 
they  do. 

Buck.  My  gracious  lord,  retire  to  Kenilworth', 
Until  a  power  be  rais'd  to  put  them  down. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah  !  were  the  duke  of  Suffolk  now  alive. 
These  Kentish  rebels  would  be  soon  appeas'd. 

K.  Jten.  Lord  Say,  the  traitors  hate  thee. 
Therefore  away  -with  us  to  Kenilworth. 

Say.  So  might  your  grace's  person  be  in  danger. 
The  sisht  of  me  is  odious  in  their  eyes ; 
And  therefore  in  this  city  will  I  stay. 
And  live  alone  a.s  secret  as  I  may. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

2  Mess.  Jack  Cade  hath  gotten  London-bridge :  the 
Fly  and  forsake  their  houses.  [citizens 

The  ra.'^cal  people,  thirsting  after  prey. 
Join  with  the  traitor;  and  they  jointly  swear. 
To  spoil  the  city,  and  your  royal  court. 

Buck.  Then  linger  not,  my  lord  :  away,  take  horse. 

K.  Hen.  Come,  Margaret:  God.  our  hope,  will  suc- 
cour us. 

Q.  Mar.  My  hope  is  gone,  now  Suffolk  is  deceas'd. 

K.  Hen.  Farewell,  my  lord  ;  [To  Lord  Say.]  trust 
not  the  Kentish  rebels. 

Buck.  Trust  no  body,  for  fear  you  be  betray'd. 

Say.  The  trust  I  have  is  in  mine  innocence, 
\nd  therefore  am  I  bold  and  resolute.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     The  Tower. 
Enter  Lord  Scales,  arul  others,  walking  on  the  WaUs. 
Then  enter  certain  Citizens,  below. 
Scales.  How  now!  is  Jack  Cade  slain? 


j      1  Cit.  No.  my  lord,  nor  likely  to  be  slain  ;  for  they 
'have  won   the   bridge,  killing  all  those  that  withs*"nd 

them.     The  lord  mayor  craves  aid  of  your  honour  irono 

the  Tower,  to  defend  the  city  from  the  rebels 

Scales.  Such  aid  as  I  can  spare,  you  shall  commai^ 

But  I  am  troubled  here  with  them  myself: 

The  rebels  have  assayd  to  win  the  Tower. 

But  get  you  to  Smithfield,  and  gather  head. 

And  hither  I  will  send  you  Matthew  Gough. 

Fight  for  your  king,  your  country,  and  your  lives ; 

And  so  farewell  :  rebellion  never  thrives.^        [Exeunt 

SCENE  VL— The  Same.     Cannon  Street. 

Enter  Jack  Cade,  and  his  Followers.     He  strikes  his 

Staff  on  London-stone. 

Cad,e.  Now  is  Mortimer  lord  of  this  city.     And  here,      j, 

sitting   upon    London-stone,  I   charge  and   command, 

that,  of  the  city's  cost,  the  pi.ssing-eonduit  run  nothing 

but  claret  wine  this  first  year  of  our  reign.     And  now, 

henceforward,  it  shall  be  treason  for  any  that  calls  me 

other  than  lord  Mortimer. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  running. 
Sold.  Jack  Cade  !  Jack  Cade  ! 
Cade.  Knock  him  down  there.  [They  kill  him. 

Smith.  If  this  fellow  be  wise,  he 'il  never  call  you 
Jack  Cade  more  :  I  think,  he  hath  a  very  fair  warning. 

Dick.  My  lord,  there  's  an  army  gathered  together     I 
in  Smithfield. 

Cade:  Come.  then,  let 's  go  fight  with  them.  But, 
first,  go  and  set  London-bridge  on  fire ;  and.  if  you 
can,  burn  down  the  Tower  too.     Come,  let 's  away. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  VIT.— The  Same.     Smithfield. 
Alarum.     Enter,  on  one  side,  Cape  and  his  Compam 

on  the  other,   the  Citizens,  and  the  King\s    For  as, 

headed  by  yikiTWY.w  Gov  G\i.     They  fight :  the  Citi 

zens  are  routed,  and  Matthew  Gough  is  slain. 

Cade.  So,  sirs. — Now  go  some  and  pull  down  the 
Savoy ;  others  to  the  inns  of  court :  down  with  them 
all. 

Dick.  I  have  a  suit  unto  your  lordship. 

Cade.  Be  it  a  lordship,  thou  shalt  have  it  for  tlij>i 
word. 

Dick.  Only,  that  the  laws  of  England  may  come  om 
of  your  mouth. 

John.  Mass,  't  will  be  sore  law,  then  ;  for  he  wa.« 
thrust  in  the  mouth  with  a  spear,  and  't  is  not  whole 
yet.  [A.<;i(ie 

Smith.  Nay,  John,  it  will  be  stinking  law;  for  h\> 
breath  stinks  with  eating  toasted  cheese.  [Astdr 

Cade.  I  have  thought  upon  it;  it  shall  be  so.  Awiu 
burn  all  the  records  of  the  realm:  my  mouth  shall  ! 
the  parliament  of  England. 

John.  Then  we  are  like  to  have  biting  statutes, 
unless  his  teeth  be  pulled  out.  [A.fitlt 

Cade.  And  henceforward  all  things  shall  be  in 
common. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Me.ss.  My  lord,  a  prize,  a  prize  !  here  's  the  lord  Say 
which  sold  the  towns  in  France  ;  he  that  made  us  pay 
one  and  twenty  fifteens*,  and  one  shilling  to  the  pouinl 
the  la.st  subsidy. 

Enter  George  Bevis,  with  the  Lord  Say. 

Cade.  Well,  he  .«hall  be  beheaded  for  it  ten  times   - 
Ah.  thou   say.  thou  serge,  )iay,  thou   buckram   lord 
now  art  thou  within  point-blank  of  our  jurifdiction  regal 
What  canst  thou  answer  to  my  majesty,  for  giving  u| 


'  Not  in  f. , 
•■e- fifteenth 


•  Fob' :  Killiagworth  ;   the  old   pronunciation  of  the  name.      •  Farewell,  for  I  must  hence  again  :  in  f.  ••      *  A  t»z  • 


i 


80ENE   vm. 


KING  HENRY   YL 


477 


of  Normandy  unto  monsieur  Basimecu,  the  dauphin  of  j      Cade.  Nay.  he  iio.ls  at  us  :  as  who  should  sav,  I  "11  be 

France?     Be  it  known  unto  thee  by  these   presents,   even  with  you.     I  Ml  see  if  his  head  \Nill  stand  ateadiei 

even  the  presence   of  Lord   Mortimer,  that  I  am  the  ^  on  a  pole,  or  uo.     Take  him  away,  and  behead  hini 

besom  that  must  sweep  the  court  clean  of  such  filth  as  'i      Say.  Tell  me,  wherein  have  I  ofiended  most  ? 

thou  art.     Thou  hast  most  traitorously  corrupted  the   Have  I  affected  Avealth,  or  honour  :  speak  ? 

youth  of  the  realm  in  erecting  a  grammar-school :  and   Are  my  chests  fill'd  up  with  extorted  gold  ? 

whereas,  before,  our  fore-fathers  had  no  other  books   Is  my  apparel  sumptuous  to  behold  ? 

but  the  score  and  the  tally,  thou  hast  caused  printing  Whom  have  I  injur'd,  that  ye  seek  my  death? 

to  be  used ;  and.  contrary  to  the  king,  his  crown,  and   Tli  se  hands  are  free  from  guiltless  blood-shedding, 

dignity,  thou  hast  built  a  paper-mill.     It  will  be  proved   This  breast  from  harbouring  foul  deceitful  thoughtd. 

to  thy  face,  that  thou  hast  men  about  thee,  that  usually  0,  let  me  live. 

talk  of  a  noun,  and  a  verb,  and  such  abominable  words        Cade.  I  feel  remorse  in  myself  with  his  words  :  biA 

as  no  Christian  ear  can  endure  to  hear.     Thou  hast  j  I  '11  bridle  it :  he  shall  die.  an  it  be  but  for  pleadings© 

appointed  justices  of  peace,  to  call  poor  men  before  i  well  for  his  life. — Away  with  him  !  he  has  a  familiar 

them   about  matters  they  were   not   able  to  answer :   under  his  tongue  :  he  speaks  not  o' God"s  name.     Go, 

moreover,  thou  hast  put  them  in  prison  ;  and  because  j  take  him  away,  1  say,  and  strike  off  his  head  presently; 

they  could  not  read,  thou   hast  hanged  them  :  when,    and  then  break  into  his  son-in-law's  house,  sir  James 

indeed,  only  for  that  cause  they  have  been  most  worthy   Cromer,  and  strike  off  his  head,  and  bring  them  both 

to  live.     Thou  dost  ride  in  a  foot-cloth,  dost  thou  not?  upon  two  poles  hither. 

Say.  What  of  that  ?  i      All.  It  shall  be  done. 

Cade.  Marry,   thou  oughtest  not  to   let  thy   horse '      Say.  Ah,   countrymen  !    if   when    you    make    your 
wear  a  cloak,  when  honester  men  than  thou  go  in  their  !  prayers, 

hose  and  doublets.  j  God  shall  be  so  obdurate  as  yourselves. 

Lick.  And  work  m  their  shirt  too  ;  as  myself,  for  How  would  it  fare  with  your  departed  souls  ? 
sample,  that  am  a  butcher.  1  And  therefore  yet  relent,  and  save  my  life. 

Say.  You  men  of  Kent, —  j      Cade.  Away  with  him,  and  do  as  I  command  ye. 

Dick.  What  say  you  of  Kent  ?  |  [Exnmt  scnne  with  Lord  Say. 

Say.  Nothing  bitt  this  :   "t  is  bonna  terra,  mala  gens.  \  The  proudest  peer  in  the  realm  shall  not  wear  a  head 

Cade.  Away  with  him!  away  with  him  !  he  speaks  on  his  shoulders,  unle.'js  he  pay  me  tribute :  there  shall 
Latin.  I  not  a  maid  be  married,  but  she  shall  pay  to  me  her 

Say.  Hear  me  but  speak,  and  bear  me  where  you  J  maidenhead,  ere  they  have  it.     Men  shall  hold  of  me 


Kent,  in  the  commentaries  Csesar  writ. 

Is  term'd  the  civil'st  place  of  all  this  isle : 

Sweet  is  the  country,  because  full  of  riches  ; 

The  people  liberal,  valiant,  active,  worthy. 

Which  makes  me  hope  you  are  not  void  of  pity. 

I  sold  not  Maine,  I  lost  not  Normandy ; 

Yet,  to  recover  them,  would  lose  my  life. 

Justice  with  favoitr  have  I  always  done  ; 

Prayers  and  tears  have  mov'd  me,  gifts  could  never. 

When  have  I  aught  exacted  at  your  hands 

Kent,  to  maintain  the  king,  the  realm,  and  you  ? 

Large  gifts  have  I  bestow'd  on  learned  clerks, 

Because  my  book  preferr'd  me  to  the  king : 

And,  seeing  ignorance  is  the  curse  of  God, 

Knowledge  the  wing  wherewith  we  fly  to  heaven. 

Unless  you  be  possess'd  with  de\ilish  spirits. 

You  cannot  but  forbear  to  murder  me. 

This  tongue  hath  parley'd  unto  foreign  kings 

For  your  behoof. — 

Cade.  Tut:  when  struck'st  thou  one  blow  in  the 
field? 

Say.  Great  men  have  reaching  hands :  oft  haA'e  I 
struck 
Those  that  I  never  saw,  and  struck  them  dead. 

Geo.  0  monstrous  coward  !  what,  to  come  behind 
folks  ? 

Say.  These  cheeks  are   pale  for  watching  for  your 
good. 

Cade.  Give  him  a  box  o'  the  ear,  and  that  will  make 
'em  red  again. 

Say.  Long  sitting,  to  determine  poor  men's  causes. 
Hath  made  me  full  of  sickness  and  diseases. 

Cade.  Ye  shall  have  a  hempen  caudle,  then,  and  the 
iKilp'  of  hatchet. 

Dick.  Why  dost  thou  quiver,  man? 

Say.  The  palsy,  and  not  fear,  provoketh  me. 


in  capite  ;    and  we  charge  and  command,   that  their 
wives  be  as  free  as  heart  can  wish,  or  tongite  can  tell. 

Dick.  My  lord,  when  shall  we  go  to  Cheapside.  and 
take  up  commodities  upon  our  bills^  ? 

Cade.  Marry,  presently. 

All.  0  brave  ! 
Re-enter  Rebels,  uith  the  Heads  of  Lord  Say  and  his 
Son-in-laio . 

Cade.  But  is  not  this  braver? — Let  them  kiss  one 
another,  for  they  loved  well,  when  they  were  alive 
[Joud  them  together.^]  Now  part  them  again,  lest  they 
consult  about  the  giving  up  of  some  more  towns  in 
France.  Soldiers,  defer  the  spoil  of  the  city  until 
night ;  for  with  these  borne  before  us,  instead  of  maces. 
will  we  ride  through  the  streets  :  and  at  every  corner 
have  them  kiss.— Aw^ay  !  [Exeunt 

SCENE  Vin.— Southwark. 
Alarum.     Enter  Cade,  and  all  his  Rabblement. 

Cade.  Up  Fish-street  !  down  Saint  Masnus'  corner  ' 
kill  and  knock  doAAm  !  throw  them  into  Thames  ^-^A 
Parley  soinukd,  then  a  Retreat.]  What  noise  is  this  i 
hear  ?  Dare  any  be  so  bold  to  sound  retreat  or  parley, 
when  I  command  them  kill  ? 
Enter  Buckingham,  aiid  Old  Clifkoro.  irith  Forces. 

Bmk.  Ay,  here  they  be  that  dare,  and  will  disturfc 
thee  ; 
Know.  Cade,  we  come  ambassadors  from  the  king 
Unto  the  commons  whom  thou  hast  misled ; 
And  here  pronounce  free  pardon  to  them  all. 
That  wll  forsake  thee,  and  20  home  in  peace. 

Clif.  What  say  ye,  countrymen  ?  will  ye  repent*  ' 
And  yield  to  mercy,  whilst  't  is  offer'd  you, 
Or  let  a  rebel*  lead  you  to  your  deaths  ? 
Who  loves  the  king,  and  \\\\\  embrace  his  pardon. 
Fling  up  his  cap,  and  say — God  save  his  majesty  ' 
Who  hateth  him.  and  honours  not  his  father. 


•  Fanner  reads : 
'  r»bbl8  ■  in  f,  e 


'pap  of  hatchet."  a  colloquial  phrase  of  the  time.      »  Weapons,  resembling  pikes.      'Not  ia  f.  e. 


478 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Henry  the  fifth,  that  made  all  France  to  quake, 
Shake  he  his  weapon  at  us,  and  pass  by. 

All.  Go<l  save  the  kin?  !  (lod  save  the  king  ! 

Cade.  What  !  Buckingliani,  and  Clifford,  are  ye  so 
brave  ? — And  you.  base  peasants,  do  ye  believe  him  ? 
^nll  you  needs  be  hanged  with  your  pardons  about 
your  nocks?  Hath  my  sword  therefore  broke  tlirough 
London  Gates,  that  you  should  leave  me  at  the  White 
Hart  in  Southwark  ?  I  thouglit  ye  would  never  have 
^ven  out  these  arms,  till  you  had  recovered  your 
ancient  freedom  :  but  you  are  all  recreants,  and  da?;- 
tards,  and  delight  to  live  in  slavery  to  the  nobility. 
Let  tliein  break  your  backs  with  burdens,  take  your 
houses  over  your  heads,  ravish  your  wives  and  daugh- 
ters before  your  faces.  For  me. — I  will  make  shift  for 
one  :  and  so — Gods  curse  'light  upon  vou  all  I 

All.  We  "11  follow  Cade:  we  '11  follow  Cade. 

Clif.  Is  Cade  the  son  of  Henry  the  fifth. 
That  thus  you  do  exclaim,  you  "11  go  vnih  him  ? 
Will  lie  conduct  you  through  the  heart  of  France, 
And  make  the  meanest  of  you  earls  and  dukes  ? 
Alas,  he  hath  no  home,  no  place  to  fly  to : 
Nor  kTiows  he  how  to  live,  but  by  the  spoil. 
Unless  by  robbing  of  your  Iricnds.  and  us. 
Wer  't  not  a  shame,  that  whilst  you  live  at  jar. 
The  fearful  French,  whom  you  late  vanquished. 
Should  make  a  start  o'er  seas,  and  vanquish  you  ? 
Methinks,  already,  in  this  civil  broil, 
I  see  tliem  lording  it  in  London  streets, 
Crying — Villagcois!  unto  all  they  meet. 
Better  ten  thousand  base-born  Cades  miscarry. 
Than  you  should  stoop  unto  a  Frenchman's  mercy. 
To  France,  to  France  !   and  get  what  you  have  lost : 
Spare  England,  for  it  is  your  native  coast. 
Henry  hath  money,  you  are  strong  and  manly  : 
God  on  our  side,  doubt  not  of  victory. 

All.  A  Clifford  !  a  Clifford  !  we  'II  follow  the  king, 
and  Clifford. 


Or  is  he  but  retir'd  to  make  him  strong  ? 
Enter,  helmc,  a  number  of  C,Ai>E'f^  Followers,  ui'h  HaUtri 
about  their  Nceh. 

Clif.  He  's  fled,  my  lord,  and  all  his  powers  do  yield, 
And  humbly  thus,  witli  halters  on  their  necks, 
Expect  your  highness"  doom,  of  life,  or  death 

A'.  Hen.  Then,  heaven,  set  ope  thy  cverla,<!t.ng  gate* 
To  entertain  my  vows  of  thanks  and  prai.^e  ! — 
Soldiers,  this  day  have  you  redeem'd  your  lives. 
And  show'd  how  well  you  love  your  prince  and  country 
Continue  still  in  this  s-o  good  a  mind. 
And  Henry,  though  he  be  inl'ortunate, 
Assure  yourselves,  will  never  be  unkind  : 
And  so,  with  thanks,  and  pardon  to  you  all, 
I  do  dismiss  you  to  your  several  countries. 

All.  God  save  the  king  !  God  save  the  king  I 
Enter  a  Me.<!senger. 

3/r."tf.  Please  it  your  grace  to  be  adverti.s'd. 
The  duke  of  York  is  newly  eome  from  Ireland. 
And  with  a  puissant,  and  united'  power 
Of  Gallowglas.<!es,*  and  stout  Irish*  kernes. 
Is  marching  hitherward  in  proud  array; 
And  still  proclaimetli.  as  he  comes  along. 
His  arms*  are  only  to  remove  from  thee 
The  duke  of  Somerset,  whom  he  terms  a  traitor. 

A'.  He)}.  Thus  stands  my  state,  'twixt  Cade  and  York 
distress'd, 
Like  to  a  ship,  that,  having  scap'd  a  tempest. 
Is  straightway  ealm'd.  and  boarded  with  a  pirate. 
But  now  is  Cade  driven  back,  his  men  dispers'd. 
And  now  is  York  in  arms  to  second  him. — 
I  pray  thee.  Buckingham,  then  go  and  meet  him. 
And  ask  him.  what 's  tlie  reason  of  ihese  arms? 
Tell  him,  I  '11  send  duke  Edmund  to  the  tovrer : — 
And,  Somerset,  we  will  commit  thee  thither, 
Until  his  army  be  dismissd  from  him. 

Som.  My  lord, 
1 1  '11  yield  myself  to  prison  willingly. 


Cade.  Was  ever  feather  so  lightly  blown  to  and  fro,  |  Or  unto  death  to  do  my  country  good. 


a-s  this  multitude  ?  the  name  of  Henry  the  fifth  hales 
them  to  an  hundred  mischiefs,  and  makes  them  leave 
me  desolate.  I  see  them  lay  their  heads  together,  to 
surprise  me :  my  sword,  make  way  for  me.  for  here  is 
no  staying. — In  despite  of  the  devils  and  hell,  have 
through  the  very  midst  of  you ;  and  heavens  and 
honour  be  witness,  that  no  want  of  resolution  in  me, 
but  only  my  followers'  base  and  ignominious  treasons, 
makes  me  betake  me  to  my  heels.  [Exit. 

Buck.  What  !  is  he  fled  ?  go  some,  and  follow  him  ; 
And  he,  that  brings  his  head  unto  the  king. 
Shall  have  a  thousand  crowns  for  his  reward. 

[Exeunt  some  of  them. 
Follow  me.  soldiers :  we  '11  de^nse  a  mean 
To  reconcile  you  all  unto  the  king.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.— Kenilworth  Castle. 
Sound  trumpets.  Enter  King  Husky,  Queen  M.kRG.knr.T, 
and  Somerset,  on  the  Terrace  of  the  Castle. 
K.  Hen.  Wa.s  ever  king  that  joy'd  an  earthly  throne. 
And  could  command  no  more  content  than  I  ? 
No  sooner  was  I  crept  out  of  my  cradle. 
But  I  was  made  a  king,  at  nine  months  old  : 
Was  never  subject  long'd  to  be  a  kins. 
As  I  do  long  and  wish  to  be  a  subject. 

Entrr  BvcKiNHHAM  and  Clifford. 
Bitek.  Health,  and  glad  tidings,  to  your  majesty  ! 
A'.  Hen.  Why,   Buckingham,   is  the   traitor.    Cade, 
surpris-;"d? 


K.  Hen.  In  any  case,  be  not  too  rough  in  terms. 
For  he  is  fierce,  and  cannot  brook  hard  language. 

Buck.  I  will,  my  lord  :  and  doubt  not  so  to  deal, 
As  all  things  shall  redound  unto  your  good. 

A'.  Hen.  Come.  wife,  let  's  in.  and  learn  to  govern 
better  ; 
For  yet  may  England  curse  my  \vTetched  reign.  [E-uunt 

SCENE  X.— Kent.     Iden's  Garden. 
Enter  Cade. 

Cade.  Fie  on  ambition  !  fie  on  myself:  that  have 
sword,  and  yet  am  ready  to  famish  !     These  five  dav- 
have  I  hid  me  in  these  woods,  and  durst  not  peep  ou 
for  all  the  country  is  laid  tor  me  :  but  now  am  1  ^" 
hungry,  that  if  I  might  have  a  lease  of  my  lite  lor 
thousand  years.  I  could  stay   io  longer.   Wherefore,  ocr 
a  brick- wall  have  I  climbed  .nto  this  garden,  to  see  if  I 
can  eat  grass,  or  pick  a  sallet  another  while,  which  if 
not   amiss  to  cool  a  man"s  stomach  this  hot  weather. 
And.   I    think,  this  word    sallet  was    born  to  do  n:e 
good  :  for,  many  a  time,  but  for  a  sallet,'  my  brain-pan 
had  been  cleft  with  a  brown  bill :  and,  many  a  time, 
when  I  have  been  dry  and  bravely  marching,  it  haiii 
served  me  instead  of  a  quart-pot  t<i  drink  in  ;  and  now 
the  word  sallet  must  serve  me  to  teed  on. 
Enter  Idex.  vith  Servants. 

Men.  Lord  !  wiio  would     ve  turmoiled  in  the  o#ult 
And  may  enjoy  such  quiet  walks  a.s  these  "• 
This  small  inheritance,  my  father  left  me, 


f  •.     >  Tall,  able-bodiad  m 
■*■&»  a  common  fo"t  loldier. 


n,  irmed  {»ay»  Banaby  Rich's  Irelmd,  1610),  with  "  a  »cull,  a  ihirt  of  mail,  and  a  «ii.  owjlM 
'  Thi»  word  ii  not  in  f  ••      ♦  Pyce  reads     aima.      *  Thia  word  aleo  meaoc  a  helmet 


J 


ridOTE  I. 


KING  HENRT    VI. 


Contenteth  me,  and  's  worth  a  monarchy. 
I  seek  not  to  wax  great  by  others"  waning'. 
Or  gather  wealth  I  care  not  M-ith  what  en\-y  : 
SufRoeth  that  I  have  maintains  my  state, 
And  sends  \^e  poor  well  pleased  from  my  gate. 

Cade.  Here  's  the  lord  of  the  soil  cnme  to  seize  me 
for  a  stray,  for  entering  his  fee-simple  ^^^thout  leave. 
A  villain  I  thou  ^\•ilt  betray  me,  and  get  a  thousand 
crowns  of  the  king  by  carr^-ing  my  head  to  him  :  but 
I  '11  make  thee  eat  iron  like  an  ostrich,  and  swallow  my 
Bword  like  a  great  pin,  ere  thou  and  I  part. 

Iden.  ^Vliy,  rude  companion,  whatsoe'er  thou  be, 
1  know  thee  not ;  why  then  should  I  betray  thee  ? 
Is  't  not  enough,  to  break  into  my  garden. 
And  like  a  thief  to  come  to  rob  my  grounds. 
Climbing  my  walls  in  spite  of  me,  the  0A\Tier. 
But  thou  wilt  brave  me  with  these  saucy  terms  ? 

Cade.  Brave  thee  ?  ay,  by  the  best  blood  that  ever 
was  broached,  and  beard  thee  too.  Look  on  me  well : 
I  have  eat  no  meat  these  five  days  ;  yet,  come  thou  and 
thy  fine  men,  and  if  I  do  not  leave  you  all  as  dead  as 
a  door  nail,  I  pray  God  I  may  never  eat  gra.^s  more. 

Iden.  Nay.  it  shall  ne'er  be  said,  while  England  stands, 
That  Alexander  Iden,  squire  of  Kent, 
Took  odds  to  combat  a  poor  famish'd  man. 
Oppose  thy  steadfast-gazing  eyes  to  mine  ; 
See  if  thou  canst  outface  me  \A-ith  thy  looks. 
Set  limb  to  limb,  and  thou  art  far  the  lesser  : 
Thy  hand  is  but  a  finger  to  my  fist ; 
Thy  leg  a  stick,  compared  with  this  truncheon : 
My  foot  shall  fight  with  all  the  strength  thou  hast ; 
And  if  mine  arm  be  heaved  in  the  air. 
Thy  grave  is  digg'd  already  in  the  earth. 
As  for  words,  whose  greatness  answers  words, 
Let  this  my  sword  report  what  speech  forbeare. 


Cade.  By  my  valour,  the  most  complete  chanijiion 
that  ever  I  heard. — Steel,  if  thou  turn  the  edge,  or  cut 
not  ovtt  the  burly-boned  clown  in  chines  of  beef  ere 
thou  sleep  in  thy  sheath,  I  beseech  Jove  on  my  kTiee*;. 
thou  mayest  be  turned  to  hobnails.  [Thetj  fight.  Cadk 
falls.]  0  !  I  am  slain.  Famine,  and  no  other,  hath 
slam  me  :  let  ten  thousand  de^^l8  come  against  me. 
and  give  me  but  the  ten  meals  I  have  lost,  and  I  "d 
def,  them  all.  Wither,  garden:  and  be  henceforth  a 
bun,nng-place  to  all  that  do  dwell  in  this  hou.'<e,  be- 
cause the  unconquered  .soul  of  Cade  is  fled. 

Iden.  Is  't  Cade  that  I  have  slain,  that  monstrous 
traitor  ? 
Sword,  I  wnll  hallow  thee  for  this  thy  deed, 
And  hang  thee  o'er  my  tomb,  when  I  am  dead  : 
Ne'er  shall  this  blood  be  wiped  from  thy  point. 
But  thou  shalt  wear  it  as  a  herald's  coat. 
To  emblaze  the  honour  that  thy  master  got. 

Cade.  Iden,  farewell :  and  be  protid  of  thy  A-ictory. 
Tell  Kent  from  me,  she  hath  lost  her  best  man,  and 
exhort  all  the  world  to  be  cowards:  for  1.  that  never 
feared  anv.  am  vanqitished  by  famine,  not  bv  valour. 

[Dies. 

Iden.  How  much  thou  wrongest  me.  heaven  be  my 
judge. 
Die,  damned  wretch,  the  curse  of  her  that  bare  thee  I 
And  as  I  thrust  thy  body  with  my  sword. 
So  wi.sh  I,  I  might  thrust  thy  soul  to  hell. 
Hence  will  I  drag  thee  headlong  by  the  heels 
Unto  a  dunghill,  which  shall  be  thy  grave, 
And  there  cut  ofi'  thy  most  ungracious  head ; 
"Which  I  will  bear  in  triumph  to  the  king. 
LeaA'ing  thy  trunk  for  crows  to  feed  upon. 

[Exit,  dragging  out  the  Botiy 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.    The  Fields  between  Dartford 

and  Blackheath. 
The  King's  Camp  on  one  side  :  on  the  other,  enter  York 
attended.,  U'ith   Drum  and  Colours  ;  his  Irish  For<-es 
at  some  distance. 

York.  From  Ireland  thus  comes  York,  to  claim  liis 
right, 
And  pluck  the  crown  from  feeble  Henry's  head  : 
Ring  bells,  aloud  :  burn,  bonfires,  clear  and  bright. 
To  entertain  great  England's  lawfitl  king. 
Ah,  sanda  majestas !  who  would  not  buy  thee  dear  ? 
Let  them  obey,  that  know  not  how  to  rtile : 
This  hand  was  made  to  handle  nought  but  gold  : 
1 1  cannot  give  due  action  to  my  words, 
i  Except  a  sword,  or  sceptre,  balance  it. 
i  A  sceptre  shall  it  have,  have  I  a  soul, 
jOn  which  I  '11  toss  the  flower-de-luce  of  France. 
j  Enter  Buckingham. 

VVhom  have  we  here?  Buckingham,  to  disturb  me? 
The  king  hath  sent  him,  sure  :  I  must  dissemble. 
BfjLck.    York,   if  thou   meanest   well.   I    greet   thee 

well. 
York.    Humphrey   of    Buckingham,    I    accept    thy 
greeting. 
Art  thou  a  messenger,  or  come  of  pleasure  ? 

Biick.  A  messenger  from  Henry,  our  dread  liege, 
To  know  the  reason  of  these  arms  in  peace ; 
5r  why,  thou — ^being  a  subject,  as  I  am, — 

f.  e      warning  •  the  correction  w«jj  made  bv  Pope 


Against  thy  oath  and  true  allegiance  sworn, 
Should'st  raise  so  great  a  power  without  his  leave, 
Or  dare  to  bring  thy  force  so  near  the  court. 
York.  Scarce  can  I  speak,  mv  choler  is  so  great 

[Atu 

0  :  I  could  hew  up  rocks,  and  fight  with  flint, 

1  am  so  angry  at  these  abject  terms ; 
And  now.  like  Ajax  Telamonius. 

On  sheep  or  oxen  could  I  .^pend  my  iwry. 
I  am  far  better  born  than  is  the  king, 
More  like  a  king,  more  kingly  in  my  thoughts ; 
But  I  must  make  fair  weather  yet  a  while, 
Till  Henry  be  more  weak,  and  I  more  strong. — 
0  Buckingham.  I  pr'ythee  pardon  me, 
That  I  have  given  no  answer  all  this  while : 
My  mind  was  troubled  with  deep  melancholy. 
The  cause  why  I  have  brought  this  army  hither, 
Is  to  remove  proud  Somerset  from  the  king, 
Seditions  to  his  grace,  and  to  the  state. 

Buck.  That  is  too  much  presumption  on  thy  part ; 
But  if  thy  arms  be  to  no  other  end. 
The  king  hath  yielded  unto  thy  demand  ; 
The  duke  of  Somerset  is  in  the  Tower. 

York.  Upon  thine  honour,  is  he  prisoner? 

Buck.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  is  prisoner. 

York.  Then.  Buckinsham.  I  do  dismiss  my  powf  ra 
Soldiers,  I  thank  you  all :  disperse  yourselves : 
Meet  me  to-morrow  in  Saint  George's  field, 
You  shall  have  pay,  and  every  thing  you  wiFh 


430 


SECOND  TAUT  OF 


ACT    V. 


And  let  my  sovereign,  virtuous  Henry, 
Comniaiid  my  eldest  son, — nay.  all  my  sons. 
As  pledges  ol'  my  loalty  and  love  ; 
I  11  send  them  ail.  as  willing  as  I  live  : 
Lands,  goods,  hor.-^e.  armour,  any  thing  I  have 
]s  his  to  Use.  .<o  Somerset  may  die. 

Hack.  York.  I  commend  this  kind  submission  : 
We  twain  will  go  into  his  highness'  tent. 
Eiitcr  King  Henry  attended. 
K    Hen.    Buckingham,  doth   York  intend   no    harm 
to  us, 
That  thus  he  marciieth  with  thee  arm  in  arm? 

York.  In  all  submission  and  numility, 
York  doth  present  himself  unto  your  highness. 

K.  Hen.  Then  what  intend  these  forces  thou  dost 

bring  ? 
York.  To  heave  the  traiJor  Somerset  from  hence: 
And  fight  against  that  monstrous  rebel.  Cade. 
\Vlkf»  since  I  heard  to  be  discomfited. 

Enter  Idhn,  with  Cade's  Head. 
Iden.  If  one  so  rude,  and  of  so  mean  condition. 
May  pa.ss  into  the  presence  of  a  king. 
Lo  I  I  present  your  grace  a  traitor's  head. 
The  head  of  Cade,  whom  I  in  combat  slew. 

K.  Hen.  The  head  of  Cade  ?— Great  God.  how  just 
art  thou  ! — 
< ) !  let  me  view  his  visage  being  dead. 
That  living  ■WTought  me  such  exceeding  trouble. 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  art  thou  the  man  that  slew  him? 
Iden.  I  was,  an  't  like  your  majesty. 
A'.  Hen.  How  art  thou  call'd.  and  what  is  thv  de- 
gree? 
Iden.  Alexander  Iden,  that 's  my  name  : 
A  poor  esquire  of  Kent,  that  loves  his  king. 

lirtck.  So  please  it  you.  my  lord,  't  were  not  amiss. 
He  were  created  knight  for  his  good  service. 

K.  Hen.  Iden,  kneel  downi:  [He  kneels.]  rise  up  a 
knight. 
We  give  thee  for  reward  a  thousand  marks ; 
And  will,  that  thou  henceforth  attend  on  us. 

Iden.  May  Iden  live  to  merit  such  a  bounty.  [Ri.fing.^ 
And  never  live  but  true  unto  his  liege. 

K   Hen.  See.  Buckingham  !    Somerset    comes  with 
the  queen  : 
Go.  bid  her  hide  him  quickly  from  the  duke. 

Enter  Queen  Makgaret  and  Somerset. 
Q.  Mar.  For  thousand  Yorks  he  shall  not  hide  his 
head, 
But  boldly  stand,  and  front  him  to  his  face. 
York.  How  now  !  is  Somerset  at  liberty  ? 
Then,  York,  unloose  thy  Jong-imprison'd  thoughts. 
-And  let  thy  tongue  be  equal  with  thy  heart. 
Shall  I  endure  the  sitrht  of  Somerset? — 
False  king,  why  hast  thou  broken  faith  with  me. 
Knowins  liow  hardly  1  can  brook  abuse? 
King  did  I  call  thee  ?  no,  thou  art  not  king  : 
Not  fit  to  govern  and  rule  multitudes. 
Which  dar'st  not,  no.  nor  canst  not  rule  a  traitor. 
That  head  of  thine  doth  not  become  a  cro^\■Tl  ; 
Thy  hand  is  made  to  crasp  a  palmer's  staff. 
And  not  to  grace  an  awful  princely  sceptre. 
That  gold  must  round  cuL'irt  these  brows  of  mine; 
Whose  smile  and  frown,  like  to  Achilles'  spear. 
Is  able  with  the  change  to  kill  and  cure. 
Here  in  a  hand  to  hold  a  sceptre  up. 
And  with  the  same  to  act  controlling  laws. 
Give  place:  by  heaven,  thou  shalt  rule  no  more 
O'or  him  whom  heaven  created  for  thy  riiler. 
Som    O  monstrous  traitor! — I  arrest  thee,  York, 
»  Not  ia  f.  e.      »  thejr     Ib  folio.     Theobald  made  the  cotTecUoii. 


Of  capital  treason  'gainst  the  king  and  crown. 
Obey,  audacious  traitor :  kneel  for  grace. 

York.  Wouldst  have  me  kneel  ?  f.r.si  let  me  ask  of 
the.sc,' 
If  they  can  brook  I  bow  a  knee  to  man? 
Sirrah,  call  in  my  sons  to  be  my  bail  : 

[Exit  an  Attaidant 
I  know,  ere  they  will  have  me  go  to  ward. 
They  '11  pawn  their  swords  for  my  enfranchisement. 

Q.  Mar.  Call  hither  Cliflbrd;  bid  him  come  amain. 
To  say,  if  that  the  bastard  boys  of  York 
Shall  be  the  surety  for  their  traitor  father. 

York.  0  blood-bespotted  Neapolitan. 
Outcast  of  Naples.  England's  bloody  scourge, 
The  .sons  of  York,  thy  betters  in  their  birth, 
Shall  be  their  father's  bail;  and  bane  to  those 
That  for  my  surety  will  refuse  the  boys. 
Enter    Edward    and    Richard    Plantacenet,    with 
Forces,  at  one  side;    at  the  other,  with  Forces  also, 
old  Clifford  and  his  Son. 
See  where  they  come:  I'll  warrant  they'll   make  it 
good. 
Q.  Mar.  And  here  comes  Clifford,  to  deny  their  ba 
CUf.  Health  and  all  happiness  to  my  lord  the  ki/  . 

[Knt'i- 
York.  I  thank  thee,  CliflTord :  say.  what  news  wrL 
thee  ? 
Nay,  do  not  fright  us  with  an  angry  look : 
We  are  thy  .sovereign,  Clifford  :  kneel  agai-i; 
For  thy  mistaking  so,  we  pardon  thee. 

Clif.  This  is  my  king,  York  :  I  do  not  mistake; 
But  thou  mistak'st  me  much,  to  think  I  do. — 
To  bedlam  with  him  !  is  the  man  grown  mad  ? 

A'.  Hen.    Ay,    Clifford :    a   bedlam    and    ambit imw 
humour 
Makes  him  oppose  himself  against  his  king. 

Cif.  He  is  a  traitor :  let  him  to  the  Tower. 
And  chop  away  that  factious  pate  of  his. 

Q.  Mar.  He  is  arrested,  but  will  not  obey : 
His  sons,  he  says,  shall  give  their  words  for  him. 
York.  Will  you  not,  sons  ? 

Edw.  Ay,  noble  father,  if  our  words  will  .serve. 
Rich.  And  if  words  will  not.  then  our  weapons  shall 
Clif.  Why,  what  a  brood  of  traitors  have  wc  here  I 
York.  Look  in  a  glass,  and  call  thy  image  so  : 
I  am  thy  king,  and  thou  a  false-heart  traitor. — 
Call  hither  to  the  stake  my  two  brave  bears. 
That  with  the  very  shaking  of  their  chains 
They  may  astonish  these  fell-looking'  curs  : 
Bid  Salisbury,  and  Warwick,  come  to  me. 
Drums.     Enter  Warwick  and  Salisbury,  with  Forces 
Clif.  Are  these  thy  bears  ?  we  '11  bait  thy  bears  w 
death. 
And  manacle  the  bear-ward  in  their  chains. 
If  thou  dar'.st  bring  them  to  the  baiting-place. 
Rich.  Oft  have  I  .seen  a  hot  o"erweeniiig  cur 
Run  back  and  bite,  because  he  was  withheld ; 
Who.  having*  sufrei*'d  with  the  bear's  fell  paw. 
Hath  clapp'd  his  tail  between  his  le2s.  and  cry'd  : 
And  such  a  piece  of  service  will  you  do. 
If  you  oppo.se  yourselves  to  match  lord  Warv\'ick. 

Clif.  Hence,  heap  of  wrath,  foul  indigested  lump, 
As  crooked  in  thy  manners  as  thy  shape  ! 

York.  Nay,  we  shall  heat  you  thoroughly  anon. 
Clif.  Take  heed,  lest  by  your  heat  you  burn  your- 
selves. 
K.  Hen.  Why,   Warwick,    liaili   thy  knee  forgot  tr 
bow  ? — 
Old  Salisbur}-; — shame  to  thy  silver  hair, 
'  fell-lur'  ViK  :  in  f.  •.      ♦  beine  :  in  f.  «. 


SCENE   n. 


KING  HENRY   YI. 


481 


Thou  mad  misleader  of  thy  brain-sick  son  ! — 
What,  wilt  thou  on  thy  death-bed  play  the  ruffian, 
And  seek  for  sorrow  with  thy  spectacles  ? 
0  !  where  is  faith  ?  0  !  where  is  loyalty  ? 
If  it  be  banish'd  from  the  frosty  head, 
Where  shall  it  find  a  harbour  in  the  earth  ? — 
Wilt  thou  go  dig  a  grave  to  find  out  war, 
A.nd  shame  thine  honourable  age  with  blood  ? 
Why  art  thou  old,  and  want'st  experience  ? 
Or  wherefore  dost  abuse  it,  if  thou  hast  it  ? 
For  shame  !  in  duty  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 
That  bows  unto  the  grave  with  mickle  age. 

Sal.  My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  with  myself 
The  title  of  this  most  renowned  duke  ; 
And  in  my  conscience  do  repute  his  grace 
The  rightful  heir  to  England's  royal  seat. 

K.  Hen.  Hast  thou  not  sworn  allegiance  unto  me  ? 

Sal.  I  have. 

K.  Hen.  Canst  thou  dispense  with  heaven  for  such 
an  oath  ? 

Sal.  It  is  ^reat  sin  to  swear  unto  a  sin, 
But  greater  sin  to  keep  a  sinful  oath. 
Who  can  be  bound  by  any  solemn  vow 
To  do  a  murderous  deed,  to  rob  a  man, 
To  force  a  spotless  virgin's  chastity. 
To  reave  the  orphan  of  his  patrimony, 
To  w'ng  the  widow  from  her  custom'd  right, 
And  have  no  other  reason  for  this  wrong, 
bnt  that  he  was  bound  by  a  solemn  oath  ? 

Q.  Mar.  A  subtle  traitor  needs  no  sophister. 

K.  Hen.  Call  Buckingham,  and  bid  him  arm  himself. 

York.  Call  Buckingham,  and  all  the  friends  thou  hast, 
[  am  resolv'd  for  death,  or'  dignity. 

Clif.  The  first  I  warrant  thee,  if  dreams  prove  true. 

War.  You  were  best  to  go  to  bed,  and  dream  again, 
To  keep  thee  from  the  tempest  of  the  field. 

Clif.  I  am  resolv'd  to  bear  a  greater  storm, 
Thau  any  thou  canst  conjure  up  to-day ; 
And  that  I  '11  write  upon  thy  burgonet, 
Might  I  but  know  thee  by  thy  household  badge. 

iVar.  Now,  by  my  father's  badge,  old  Nevil's  crest, 
Tl^e  rampant  bear  chain'd  to  the  ragged  staff, 
This  day  I'll  wear  aloft  my  burgonet, 
:  (As  on  a  mountain-top  the  cedar  shows. 
Thai  keeps  his  leaves  in  spite  of  any  storm) 
\  Even  to  affright  thee  with  the  view  thereof. 
I      Clif.  And  from  thy  burgonet  I  '11  rend  thy  bear 
And  tread  it  underfoot  with  all  contempt. 
Despite  the  bear-ward  that  protects  the  bear 

Y.  Clif.  And  so  to  arms,  victorious  father, 
To  quell  the  rebels,  and  their  'complices 

Rich.  Fie  !  charity  !  for  shame  !  speak  not  in  spite. 
For  you  shall  sup  with  Jesu  Christ  to-night. 

Y.  Clif.  Foul  stigmatic,  that 's  more  than  thou  canst 

tell.    ■ 
Rich.  If  not  in  heaven,  you  '11  surely  sup  in  hell. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.— Saint  Albans. 
Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  "Warwick. 
War.  Clifford  of  Cumberland  !  't  is  Warwick  calls : 
And  if  thou  dost  not  hide  thee  from  the  bear, 
Now,  when  the  angry  trumpet  sounds  alarm, 
And  dead  men's  cries  do  fill  the  empty  air, 
Clifford,  I  say,  come  forth  and  fight  with  me  ! 
Proud  northern  lord,  Clifford  of  Cumberland, 
Warwick  is  hoarse  with  calling  thee  to  arms. 

Enter  York. 
How  now,  my  noble  lord  !  what  all  a-foot  ? 

I        and  :  in  folio. 
2F 


York.  The  deadly-handed  Clifford  slew  my  steed ; 
But  match  to  match  I  have  encounter'd  him. 
And  made  a  prey  for  carrion  kites  and  crows 
Even  of  the  bonny  beast  he  lov'd  so  well. 
Enter  Clifford. 

War.  Of  one  or  both  of  us  the  time  is  come. 

York.  Hold,    Warwick  !    seek  thee  out   some  othe 
»  chace, 

Foi  I  myself  must  hunt  this  deer  to  death. 

War.    Then,   nobly,  York ;  't  is  for    a   crown  tboa 
As  [  intend,  Clifford,  to  thrive  to-day,  [fight'st. — 

It  grieves  my  soul  to  leave  thee  unassail'd. 

[Exit  Warwick, 

Clif.  What  seest  thou  in  me,  York?    why  dost  thou 
pause  ? 

York.  With  thy  brave  bearins  should  I  be  in  love, 
But  that  thou  art  so  farst  mine  enemy. 

Clif.  Nor  should  thy  prowess  want  praise  and  est.ecni 
But  that  't  is  shown  ignobly,  and  in  treasou. 

York.  So  let  it  help  me  now  against  thy  sword, 
As  I  in  justice  and  true  right  express  it. 

Clif.  My  soul  and  body  on  the  action  both  ! — 

York.  A  dreadful  lay  ! — address  thee  instantly 

Clif.  La  fill  couronne  les  ceuvres. 

[They  fight,  and  Clifford  falls  a7id  duji 

York.  Thus  war  hath  given  thee  peace,  for  Uiou  arl 
still. 
Peace  with  his  soul,  heaven,  if  it  be  thy  will  '.      [Exit 
Enter  young  Clifford. 

Y.  Clif.  Shame  and  coiifu.sion  !  all  is  on  the  rout : 
Fear  frames  disorder,  and  disorder  wounds 
Where  it  should  guard.     0  war  !  thou  son  of  hell, 
Whom  angry  heavens  do  make  their  ministw, 
Throw  in  the  frozen  bosoms  of  our  part 
Hot  coals  of  vengeance  ! — Let  no  soldier  fly : 
He  that  is  truly  dedicate  to  war, 
Hath  no  self-love ;  nor  he,  that  loves  himself, 
Hath  not  essentially,  but  by  circumstance, 
The  name  of  valour. — 0  !  let  the  x\le  world  end. 

[Seeing  his  Father^ s  bodi/. 
And  the  premised  flames  of  the  last  day 
Knit  earth  and  heaven  together  ! 
Now  let  the  general  trumpet  blow  his  blast, 
Particularities  and  petty  sounds 
To  cease  ! — Wast  thou  ordain'd,  dear  lather. 
To  lose  thy  youth  in  peace,  and  to  achieve 
The  silver  livery  of  advised  age, 
And,  in  thy  reverence,  and  thy  cha'r-da>s.  thus 
To  die  in  rutfian  battle  ? — Even  at  this  siuht, 
My  heart  is  turn'd  to  stone  :  and  while  "t  is  mi  no. 
It  shall  be  stony.     York  not  our  old  men  spares ; 
No  more  will  I  their  babes  :  tears  virginal 
Shall  be  to  me  even  as  the  dew  to  fire  ; 
And  beauty,  that  the  tjTant  oft  reclaims, 
Shall  to  my  flaming  wrath  be  oil  and  fiax. 
Hencetbrth  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  pity  • 
Meet  I  an  infant  of  the  house  of  York, 
Into  as  many  gobbets  will  I  cut  it, 
As  wild  Medea  young  Absyrtus  did : 
In  cruelty  will  I  seek  out  my  fame. 
Come,  thou  new  ruin  of  old  Clifford's  house  . 

[Taking  up  the  Bwly 
As  did  ^neas  old  Anchises  bear. 
So  bear  I  thee  upon  my  manly  shoulders  ; 
But  then,  iEneas  bare  a  living  loail, 
Nothing  so  hea^T  as  th<»se  woes  of  mme.  [ErU 

Enter  Richard  Plantagenet  and  So^^iF^ni^ET,  fighting 
Somerset  is  slain. 
1      Rich.  So,  lie  thou  there ; — 


482 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING   HENRY    VI. 


Por,  unilerneath  aai  alehouse'  paltry  sign, 
riie  Castle  in  Saint  Albans,  Somerset 
Hath  made  the  wizard  famous  in  his  death. 
Swrord.  hold  thy  tem]>er  ;  heart,  be  wrathful  still  : 
Pric.'>t>i  jiruy  for  enemies,  but  prinees  kill.  [Exit. 

Alarums:   Excursions      Eiiter  King  HiiyRY.  Queen 
Margaret,  and  others,  flying. 

Q.  Mtir.  Away,  my  lord  !  you  are  slow :  for  shame, 
away  ! 

K.  Hen.  Can  we  outrun  the  heavens?  good  Marga- 
ret, stay. 

Q.  Mar.  What  are  you  made  of?  you'll  nor  fight, 
nor  fly : 
Now  is  it  manhood,  wisdom,  and  defence, 
To  give  the  enemy  way  ;  and  to  secure  us 
By  what  we  can,  which  can  no  more  but  fly. 

[Alarum  afar  off. 
If  you  be  ta'en,  we  then  should  see  the  bottom 
Of  ail  our  fortunes  ;  but  if  we  haply  scape. 
As  well  we  may,  if  not  through  your  neglect) 
We  shall  to  London  get ;  where  you  are  lov'd, 
And  where  this  breach,  now  in  our  fortunes  made. 
May  readily  be  .«topp'd. 

Enter  young  Clifford. 

Y.  Clif.  But  that  my  heart 's  on  future  mischief  set, 
I  would  speak  blasphemy  ere  bid  you  fly ; 
But  fly  you  must :  uncurable  discomfit 
Reigns  in  the  hearts  of  all  our  present  friends.' 
Away,  for  your  relief;  and  we  will  live 
To  see  their  day,  and  them  our  fortune  give. 
Away,  my  lord,  away !  "  Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Field*  near  Saint  Albans. 
Alarum:  Retreat.  Flourish;  fA^n  enter  York,  Richard 
Flantagenet,  Warwick,  and  Soldiers,  with  Drum 
and  Colours. 
York.  Old'  Salisb  iry.  who  can  report  of  him? 


That  winter  Hon,  who  in  rage  forgets 
A^'ed  contusions  and  all  bruise^  of  tirre. 
Ami.  like  a  gallant  in  the  bloom*  of  youth, 
Hepnirs  him  with  occasion?  this  happy  day 
Is  not  itself,  nor  have  we  won  one  foot. 
If  Salisbury  be  lost. 

Rich  My  noble  father. 

Three  times  to-day  I  liolp  him  to  his  horse. 
Three  times  bestrid  him;  thrice  I  led  him  olf^ 
Persuaded  him  from  any  farther  act : 
But  still,  where  danger  was.  still  there  I  met  lum 
And  like  rich  hangings  in  a  homely  house, 
So  was  his  will  in  his  old  feeble  body. 
But,  noble  as  he  is.  look  where  he  comes. 

Enter  Salisbury. 

Sal.  Now,  by  my  sword,  well  hast  thou  fought  to 
day; 
By  the  mass,  so  did  we  all. — I  th^nk  you.  Richara  . 
God  knows  how  long  it  is  I  have  to  live. 
And  it  hath  pleas'd  him,  that  three  times  to-daf 
You  have  defended  me  from  imminent  death. — 
Well,  lords,  we  have  not  got  that  which  we  have 
'T  is  not  enough  our  foes  are  this  time  fled, 
Being  opposites  of  such  repairing  nature. 

York.  I  know  our  safety  is  to  follow  them  ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  king  is  fled  to  London, 
To  call  a  present  court  of  parliament : 
Let  us  pursue  him.  ere  the  writs  go  forth. — 
What  says  lord  Warwick?  shall  we  after  them? 

War.  After  thein  ?  nay,  before  them,  if  we  can. 
Now,  by  my  hand,  lords,  "t  was  a  glorious  day  : 
Saint  Albans'  battle  won  by  famous  York, 
Shall  be  eterniz'd  in  all  age  to  come. — 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets  ! — and  to  London  nl) ; 
And  more  such  days  as  these  to  us  befall  '. 

[Hawu 


Tarts  :  in  f.  e  :  altered  by  Btaevens.  to  parti, 


Of: 


f  e.      '  brush  :  in  f 


btow  :  ir.  f. 


i 


THIRD    PART 


KING    HENRY    VT 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


King  Henry  the  Sixth. 

Edward,  Pr.ince  of  Wales,  his  Son. 

Lewis  XL,  King  of  France. 

Duke  of  Somerset, 

Duke  of  Exeter, 

Earl  of  Oxford, 

Earl  of  Northumberland, 

Earl  of  Westmoreland, 

Lord  Clifford, 

Richard  Plantagenet,  Duke  of  York. 

Edward,  Earl  of  March,  afterwards  King " 

Edward  IV., 
Edmund,  Earl  of  Rutland, 
George,  afterwards  Duke  of  Clarence, 
Richard,  afterwards  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
Duke  of  Norfolk, 
Marquess  of  Montague, 
Earl  of  Warwick, 
Earl  of  Pembroke, 
Lord  Hastings, 
Lord  Stafford, 

SCENE,  during  part  of  the  Third  Act,  in  France; 


on  King  Henry's 
side. 


his 

Sons. 


of  the  Duke  of 
York's  party. 


Sir  John  Mortimer,    )  Uncles  to  the  Duke  of 

Sir  Hugh  Mortimer,  j      York. 

Henry,  Earl  of  Richmond,  a  Youth. 

Lord  Rivers.  Brother  to  Lady  Grey  Sir  Wil- 
liam Stanley.  Sir  John  Moxtgomek-^.  Sik 
John  Somerville.  Tutor  to  Rutland.  Mayor 
of  York.  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower.  A  Noble- 
man. Two  Keepers.  A  Huntsman.  A  Son 
that  has  killed  his  Father.  A  Father  thai  has 
killed  Ins  Son. 

Queen  Margaret. 

Lady  Grey,  afterwards  Queen  to  Edward  IV. 

Bona,  Sister  to  the  French  Queen. 

Soldiers,  and  other  Attendants  on  King  Henry 
and  King  Edward,  Messengers,  Waichmen 
&c. 


during  the  rest  of  the  Play  in  England, 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.— London.     The  Parliament-House. 
tht,ms.  Smne  Soldiers  of  York's  party  break  in.  Then, 
enter  the   Duke  of  York,  Edward,  Richard,  Nor- 
folk, Montague,  Warwick,  and  others,  with  white 
Roses  in  their  Hats. 

War.  I  wonder  how  the  king  escap'd  our  hands. 
York.  While  we  pursued  the  horsemen  of  the  north, 
He  silly  stole  away,  and  left  his  men  : 
Wlicreat  the  great  lord  of  Northumberland, 
Whose  warlike  ears  conhl  never  brook  retreat, 
Cheer'd  up  the  drooping  army  ;  and  himself, 
Lord  Clifford,  and  lord  Stafford,  all  abreast, 
Charg'd  our  main  battle's  front,  and,  breaking  in. 
Were  by  the  swords  of  common  soldiers  slain. 

Edw.  Lord  Stafford's  father,  duke  of  Buckingham, 
Is  either  slain,  or  wounded  dangerously  :' 
I  cleft  his  beaver  with  a  downright  blow  ; 
Tliat  this  is  true,  father,  behold  his  blood. 

[Showing  his  bloody  Sword. 
Mont.  And,  brother,  here's  the  earl  of  Willshire's 
blood.  [To  York,  showing  his. 

Whom  I  encounter'd  as  the  battles  joined. 

Rich.  Speak  thou  for  me.  and  tell  them  what  I  did. 
[Throwing  down  the  Duke  of  Somerset's  Head. 
York.  Richard  hath  best  deserv'd  of  all  my  sons. — 
B\it,  is  your  grace  dead,  my  lord  of  Somerset  ? 

'  Dangerous  :  in  f.  e 


Norf.  Such  hope  have  all  the  line  of  John  of  Gaunt ! 

Rich.  Thus  do  I  hope  to  shake  king  Henry's  head. 

War.  And  so  do  I. — Victorious  prince  of  York. 
Before  I  see  thee  seated  in  that  throne. 
Which  now  the  house  of  Lancaster  usurps, 
I  vow  by  heaven  these  eyes  shall  never  close. 
This  is  the  palace  of  the  fearful  king. 
And  this  the  regal  seat :  possess  it,  York  ; 
For  this  is  thine,  and  not  king  Henry's  heirs'. 

York.  Assist  me.  then,  sweet  Warwick,  and  I  will ; 
For  hither  we  have  broken  in  by  force. 

Norf.  We  '11  all  assist  you  :  he,  that  flies,  shall  die. 

York.    Thanks,   gentle  Norfolk. — Stay   by  me.  my 
lords  : — 
And,  soldiers,  stay,  and  lodge  by  me  this  night. 

War.    And,    when   the    king    comes,  offer    him   no 
violence. 
Unless  he  seek  to  thrust  you  out  by  force.  [They  retire 

York.    The   queen   this  day  heic  holds  her  parlia- 
ment, 
Rut  little  thinks  we  shall  be  of  her  council. 
By  words  or  blows  here  let  us  win  our  right. 

Rich.  Arm'd  as  we  are,  let 's  stay  within  this  house 

War.  The  bloody  parliament  .«hall  this  be  cali'd, 
Unless  Plantagenet,  duke  of  York,  be  king, 
And  bashful  Henry  depos'd,  whose  cowardice 
Hath  made  us  by-words  to  our  enemies. 

483 


484 


THIRD   PART  OF 


ACT  1. 


York.  Then  leave  me  not,  my  lords :  be  resolute, 
1  mean  to  lake  possession  of  my  riuht. 

War.  Neither  the  kini;,  nor  he  that  loves  him  best, 
The  proudest  he  that  holds  up  Lancaster, 
Dares  stir  a  win?   if  Warwick  shake  his  bells.' 
1  11  plant  IMantajjenet,  root  him  up  who  dares. — 
Resolve  thee,  iiichard  ;  claim  the  English  crowii. 

fW.^iRwicK  hails  York  to  the  Throne,  who  seat.s  himself. 
'  nmtrish.     Enter  King  He.nrv,  Clifford,  Northum- 

BKRLAND.  Wkstmokkland,  Exeter.  uud others,  with 

red  Ro.'^es  in  their  Hats. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords,  look  where  the  sturdy  rebel  sits, 
Even  in  the  chair  of  state  !  belike,  he  means, 
Rack'd  by  the  power  of  Warwick,  that  false  peer, 
To  aapire  unto  the  crown,  and  reign  as  king. — 
Karl  of  Northumberland,  he  slew  thy  father  ; — 
And  thine,  lord  ClitTord  :  you  have  vow'd  revenge 
On  him.  his  sons,  his  favourites,  and  his  friends. 

North.  If  I  be  not,  heavens  be  reveng'd  on  me ! 

Clif.  The  hope  thereof  makes  Clifford  mourn  in  steel. 

West.  What !  shall  we  suffer  this  ?  let  "s  pluck  him 
down : 
My  heart  for  anger  burns  :  I  cannot  brook  it. 

A.'.  Hen    Be  patient,  gentle  earl  of  Westmoreland. 

Clij.  Patience  is  for  poltroons,  such  as  he  : 
He  durst  not  .<it  there  had  your  father  liv'd. 
My  gracious  lord,  here  in  the  parliament 
Let  u8  assail  the  family  of  York. 

North.  Well  hast  Ihou  spoken,  cou.-in  :  be  it  so. 

K.  Hen.  Ah  !  know  you  not,  the  city  favours  them, 
Anil  they  have  troops  of  soldiers  at  their  beck  ? 

Exe.  But  when  the  duke  is  slain,  they  "11  quickly  fly. 

K.  Hen.   Far  be  the  thought  of  this  from  Henry's 
heart, 
To  make  a  shambles  of  the  parliament-house  ! 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  frowns,  words,  and  threats, 
Sliall  be  the  war  that  Heiu-y  means  to  use. 

[They  advance  to  the  Duke. 
Thou  factious  duke  of  York,  descend  my  throne, 
And  kneel  for  grace  and  mercy  at  my  feet : 
I  am  thy  sovereign. 

York.  I  am  thine. 

Exe.  For  shame  !  come  down  :  he  made  thee  duke 
of  York. 

York.  'T  was  my  inheritance,  as  the  earldom'  was. 

Exe.  Thy  father  was  a  traitor  to  the  crowm. 

War.  Exeter,  thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  crown 
In  following  this  usurping  Henry. 

Clif.  Whom  sliould  he  follow,  but  his  natiu-al  king? 

War.  True,  Clifford  ;  that  is  Richard,  duke  of  York. 

A'.  Hen.    And    shall    I   stand,  and   thou   sit  in  my 
throne  ? 

York.   It  must  and  shall  be  so.     Content  thyself. 

War.  Be  duke  of  Lancaster  :  let  liim  be  king. 

West.  He  is  both  kins  and  duke  of  Lanca.<tcr  : 
And  that  the  lord  ol   Westmoreland  shall  maintain. 

War.  And  Warwick  shall  disprove  it.     You  forget. 
That  we  are  those  which  chas'd  you  from  tlie  field. 
And  slew  your  fathers,  and  with  colours  spread 
Marchd  through  the  city  to  the  palace  gates. 

North.  Yes,  Warwick,  I  remember  i/  to  my  grief; 
And.  by  his  sonl.  thou  and  thy  house  shall  rue  it. 
West.  Plantagenet,  of  thee,  and  these  thy  .sons. 
Thy  kinsmen,  and  thy  friends,  I  'II  have  more  lives, 
Than  drops  of  blood  were  in  my  fathers  veins. 

Clif.  Urge  it  no  more  ;  lest  that  instead  of  words 
I  send  thee.  Warwick,  such  a  me.s.sen2er, 
As  shall  revenge  his  death  before  I  stir. 


War.    Poor    Clifford  !    how   I    scorn   his   worthies? 
threats. 

York.  Will  you,  we  show  our  title  to  tlie  crown  ? 
If  not.  our  swords  shall  plead  it  in  the  field 

K.  Hen.  What  title  hast  thou,  traitor,  to  the  crown? 
Thy  father  was,  as  thou  art,  duke  of  York  ; 
Thy  grandfather,  Roger  Mortimer,  earl  of  March. 
I  am  the  son  of  Henry  the  fifth, 
Who  made  the  Dauphin  and  the  French  to  sloop, 
And  seiz'd  upon  their  towns  and  provinces. 

War.  Talk  not  of  France,  sith  thou  hast  lost  it  ail 

K.  Hen.  The  lord  protector  lost  it,  and  not  I  : 
When  I  was  crown'd,  I  was  but  nine  months  old. 

Rich.  You  are  old  enough  now,  and  yet,  methinks 
you  lose. 
Father,  tear  the  crown  from  the  usurper's  head. 

Edw.  Sweet  father,  do  so  :  set  it  on  your  head. 

Mont.  Good  brother,  [To  York,]  as  thou  lov"st  and 
honour'st  arms, 
Let 's  fight  it  out,  and  not  stand  cavilling  thus.       [fly 

Rich.  Sound  drums  and  trumpets,  and  the  king  win 

York.  Sons,  peace  ! 

K.  Hen.  Peace  thou,  and  give  king  Henry  leave  to 
speak. 

War.  Plantasenet  shall  speak  first :  hear  him,  lords  ; 
And  be  you  silent  and  attentive  too, 
For  he  that  interrupts  liim  shall  not  live. 

K.  Hen.  Think'st  thou,  that  I  will  leave  my  kingly 
throne, 
Wlicrein  my  grandsire,  and  my  father,  sat  ? 
No  :  first  shall  war  unpeople  this  my  realm  ; 
Ay.  and  their  colours — often  borne  in  France, 
And  now  in  England,  to  our  heart's  great  sorrow, — 
Shall  be  my  winding  sheet. — W^hy  faint  you,  lords? 
My  title  's  good,  and  belter  far  than  his. 

War.  Prove  it.  Henry,  and  thou  shalt  be  king. 

K.  Hen.    Henry    the   fourth   by   conquest    got  the 
crown. 

York.  'T  was  by  rebellion  against  his  king. 

K.  Hen.    I    know    not  what  to   say  :    my   title  'a 
weak. —  [Aside.' 

Tell  me,  may  not  a  king  adopt  an  heir  ? 

York.  What  then  ? 

K.  Hen.  An  if  he  may,  then  am  I  lawful  king; 
I  For  Richard,  in  the  view  of  many  lords, 
Resign'd  the  crown  to  Henry  the  fourth. 
Whose  heir  my  father  was.  and  I  am  his. 

York.  He  rose  against  him,  being  his  sovereign. 
And  made  him  to  resign  his  crown  perforce. 

War.  Suppose,  my  lords,  he  did  it  unconstrain'd, 
Think  you,  'twere  prejudicial  to  his  crown? 

Exe.  No  :  for  he  could  not  so  resign  his  crown, 
But  tliat  the  next  heir  should  succeed  and  rei^n. 

K.  Hen.  Art  thou  against  us.  duke  of  Exeter? 

Exe.  His  is  the  right,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 

York.  Why  whisper  you.  my  lords,  and  answer  not 

Exe.  My  conscience  tells  me  he  is  lawful  king. 

K.  Hen.  All  will  revolt  from  me,  and  turn  to  him. 

North.  Plantawnet,  for  all  the  claim  thou  lay'st, 
Think  not,  that  Henry  shall  be  so  depos'd. 

If'nr.   Depos'd  he  shall  be  in  de>^pite  of  all. 

North.    Thou  art  deceiv'd  :    't  is   not   thy  soulhcri. 
pow(;r. 
Of  Essex,  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  nor  of  Kent, 
Which  makes  thee  thus  presumptuous  and  proud, 
Can  set  the  duke  up  in  despite  of  me. 

Clif.  King  Henry,  be  thy  title  right  or  wrong, 
Lord  "Clifford  vows  to  fight  in  thy  defence  : 


•  An  LUnnon  to  the  itlcoB 
kingdom.      *  Not  in  f.  •. 


>The  ''Tnie  Tragedy  o(  Richard,  Duke  of  York,"  the  old  play  on  which   this  diama   wan  founded,  ha" 


SCENE   II. 


KING  HENRY  VI. 


485 


May  that  ground  gape,  and  swallow  me  alive, 
Where  1  shall  kneel  to  him  that  slew  my  father  ! 

K.  Hen.  0  Clifibrd,  how  thy  words  revive  my  heart ! 

York.  Henry  of  Lancaster,  resign  my'  crown. — 
W'hat  mutter  you,  or  what  conspire  you,  lords  ? 

War.  Do  right  unto  this  princely  dvke  of  York, 
Or  I  will  fill  the  house  with  armed  men, 
And,  o'er  the  chair  of  state,  where  now  he  sits, 
Write  up  his  title  with  usurping  blood. 

\He  stnmp.s,  and  the  Soldiers  shoiv  themselves. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Warwick,  hear  me  but  one  word. 
Let  me  for  this  my  life-time  reign  as  king. 

York.  Confirm  the  crown  to  me,  and  to  mine  heirs. 
And  thou  shalt  reign  in  quiet  while  thou  liv'st. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  content :  Richard  Plantagenet, 
Enjoy  the  kingdom  after  my  decease. 

Clif.  What  wrong  is  this  unto  the  prince  your  son  ? 

War.  What  good  is  this  to  England,  and  himself? 

West.  Base,  fearful,  and  despairing  Henry  ! 

Clif.  How  hast  thou  injur'd  both  thyself  and  us  ! 

We.st.  I  cannot  stay  to  hear  these  articles. 

North.  Nor  L 

Clif.  Come,  cousin,  let  us  tell  the  queen  these  news. 

West.  Farewell,  faint-hearted  and  degenerate  king, 
[u  whose  cold  blood  no  spark  of  honour  bides. 

North.  Be  thou  a  prey  unto  the  house  of  York, 
And  die  in  bands  for  this  unmanly  deed  ! 

Chf.  In  dreadful  war  may"st  thou  be  overcome, 
Or  live  in  peace,  abandon"d  and  despis'd  ! 

[Eoceunt  Northumberland,   Clifford,  and 
Westmoreland. 

War.  Turn  this  way,  Henry,  and  regard  them  not. 

Exe.  They  seek  revenge,  and  thei'cfore  will  not  yield. 

K.  Hen.  Ah,  Exeter  ! 

War.  Why  should  you  sigh,  my  lord  ? 

K.  Hen.  Not  for  myself,  lord  Warwick,  but  my  son, 
Whom  I  unnaturally  shall  disinherit. 
But  be  it  as  it  may,  I  here  entail 

The  cro-vsni  to  thee,  and  to  thine  heirs  for  ever  :  [To  York. 
Conditionally,  that  here  thou  take  an  oath 
To  cease  this  civil  war,  and  whilst  I  live. 
To  honour  me  as  thy  king  and  sovereign ; 
And  neither  by  treason,  nor  hostility, 
To  seek  to  put  me  down  and  reign  thyself. 

York.  This  oath  I  willingly  take,  and  will  perform. 
[Coming  from  the  Throne.  \ 

War.   Long    live    king  Henry  ! — Plantagenet,  em- 
brace him.  I 

K.  Hen.  And  long  live  thou,  and  these  thy  forward 
sons  ! 

York.  Now  York  and  Lancaster  are  reconcil'd.  1 

Exe.  Accurs'd  be  he,  that  seeks  to  make  them  foes  ! 
[Sennet.     The  Lords  come  forward. 

York.  Farewell,  my  gracious  lord  ;  I  '11  to  my  castle. 

War.  And  I  'II  keep  London  with  my  soldiers. 

Norf.  And  I  to  Norfolk  with  my  followers.  i 

Mont.  And  I  unto  the  sea,  from  whence  I  came. 
[Exeunt  York,  and  his  Sons,  Warwick,  Norfolk, 
Montague.  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  And  I,  -w-ith  grief  and  sorrow,  to  the  court. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Exe.  Here  comes  the  queen,  whose  looks  bewray  her 
anger ; 
I   II  steal  away 

K.  Hen.  Exeter,  so  will  L  [Going. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  go  not  from  me  ;  I  will  follow  thee. 

K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  gentle  queen,  and  I  will  stay. 

Q.  Mar.  Who  can  be  patient  in  such  extremes  ? 
Ahj  wretched  man  !  would  I  had  died  a  moid.  I 

thy  :  in  f  e.      '  Pre^t 


And  never  seen  thee,  never  borne  thee  son, 

Seeing  thou  hast  prov"d  .so  unnalural  a  father! 

Hath  he  de.*erv'd  to  lose  his  birthright  thus  ' 

Hadsi  thou  but  lov'd  him  half  so  well  as  I, 

Or  felt  that  pain  which  I  did  for  him  once. 

Or  nourish'd  him,  as  I  did  with  my  blood. 

Tliou  wouldst  have  left  thy  dearest  heart-blood  there 

Rather  than  have  made  that  savage  duke  thine  heir, 

And  disinherited  thine  only  son. 

Prince.  Father,  you  cannot  disinherit  me. 
If  you  be  king,  why  should  not  I  succeed  ! 

K.  Hen.  Paiaon  me,  Margaret; — pardon  me,  swe^'t 
son : — 
The  earl  of  Warwick,  and  the  duke,  enforc'd  me. 

Q   Mar.  Enforc'd  thee  !   art  thou  king,  and  wilt  be 
forc'd  ? 
I  shame  to  hear  thee  speak.     Ah,  timorous  wretch  ! 
Thou  hast  undone  thyself,  thy  son,  and  me. 
And  given  unto  the  house  of  York  such  head. 
As  thou  shalt  reign  but  by  their  sufferance. 
T'  entail  him  and  his  lieirs  unto  the  crown, 
What  is  it,  but  to  make  thy  sepulchre. 
And  creep  into  it  far  before  thy  time  ? 
Warwick  is  chancellor,  and  the  lord  of  Calais ; 
Stern  Faulconbridge  commands  the  narrow  seas  , 
The  duke  is  made  protector  of  the  realm  : 
And  yet  shalt  thou  be  safe  ?  such  safety  finds 
The  trembling  lamb,  environed  with  wolves. 
Had  I  been  there,  which  am  a  silly  woman, 
The  soldiers  should  have  toss'd  me  on  their  pikes, 
Before  I  would  have  granted  to  that  act : 
But  thou  preferr'st  thy  life  before  thine  honour : 
And  seeing  thou  dost,  I  here  divorce  myself. 
Both  from  thy  table,  Henry,  and  thy  bed. 
Until  that  act  of  parliament  be  repeal'd. 
Whereby  my  son  is  disinherited. 
The  northern  lords,  that  have  forsworn  thy  colours, 
Will  follow  mine,  if  once  they  see  them  spread  ; 
And  spread  they  .shall  be,  to  thy  Ibul  disgrace, 
And  utter  ruin  of  the  house  of  York. 
Thus  do  I  leave  thee. — Come,  son,  let 's  away : 
Our  army  is  ready  ;  come,  we  "11  after  them. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  gentle  Margaret,  and  hear  me  speak. 

Q.  Mar.  Thou  hast  spoke  too  much  already:  get  thee 
gone. 

K.  Hen.  Gentle  son  Edward,  thou  wilt  stay  wth  me ' 

Q.  Mar.  Ay.  to  be  murderd  by  his  enemies. 

Prince.  When  I  return  with  victory  from  the  field. 
I  '11  see  your  grace  :  till  then.  I  '11  follow  her. 

Q.  Mar.  Come,  son  ;  av^ay  !  we  may  not  linger  thus. 
[Exevnt  Queen  Margaret,  and  the  Prince. 

K.  Hen.  Poor  queen  !  how  love  to  me.  and  to  her  .son. 
Hath  made  her  break  out  into  terms  of  rage. 
Reveng'd  may  she  be  on  that  hateful  duke, 
Whose  haughty  spirit,  winged  with  desire, 
Will  cost  my  crown,  and  like  an  empty  eagle 
Tire*  on  the  flesh  of  me,  and  of  my  son  ! 
The  loss  of  those  three  lords  torments  my  heart : 
I  '11  write  unto  them,  and  entreat  them  fair. — 
Come,  cousin  ;  you  shall  be  the  messenger. 

Exe.  And  I,  I  "hope,  shall  reconcile  them  all.   [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Sandal  Castle,  near  Wakefield 
Enter  Edward,  Richard,  arul  Montague. 
Rich.  Brother,  though  I  be  youngest,  give  me  leave 
Edw.  No  ;  I  can  better  play  the  orator. 
Mont.  But  I  have  reasons  strong  and  forcible. 

Enter  York. 
Y(yrk.  Why,  how  now,  sons,  and  brother  !  a!  a  strife  '. 


486 


TTIIKD  PART  OF 


ACT    I. 


What  is  your  quarrel  ?  how  began  it  first.  ? 

Edw.  No  quarrel,  but  a  sliuht  contention. 

York.  About  what  ? 

Rich.  About  flint  which  concerns  your  grace,  and  us ; 
The  crown  of  Eimlnnd.  tnthcr.  which  ie  yours. 

Torit    Mine,  boy  ?  not  till  king  Hem y  be  dead. 

Rich.  Your  right  depends  not  on  his  life,  or  death. 

Edw.  Now  you  are  heir,  therefore  enjoy  it  now: 
Ry  givinu  the  house  of  Lancaster  leave  to  breathe, 
li  will  outrun  you,  father,  in  the  end. 

York.   I  took  an  oath  that  he  should  quietly  reign. 

Edw.  But  tor  a  kiimdoin  any  oath  may  be  broken: 
I  would  break  a  Ihnusand  oaths  to  reign  one  year. 

Rich.  No  :  God  forbid,  your  grace  should  be  forsworn. 

York.  I  shall  be.  if  I  claim  by  open  war. 

Ri'-h.  I  "11  prove  the  contrary,  if  you  'II  hear  me  speak. 

Yo)k.  Thou  canst  not,  son  :  it  is  impossible. 

Ri(h.  An  oath  is  of  no  moment,  being  not  took 
Before,  a  true  and  lawful  magistrate, 
That  hath  authority  over  him  that  swears  : 
Henry  had  none,  but  did  usurp  the  place  : 
Then   seeing  't  was  he  that  made  you  to  depose, 
Your  oath,  my  lord,  is  vain  and  frivolous. 
Therefore,  to  arms  !     And,  father,  do  but  think. 
How  sweet  a  thing  it  is  to  wear  a  crown, 
Within  whose  circuit  is  Elysium, 
And  all  that  poets  feign  of  bliss  and  joy. 
Why  do  we  linger  thus  ?     I  cannot  rest, 
Tiitil  the  white  rose,  that  I  wear,  be  dyed 
Eeen  in  the  lukewarm  blood  of  Henry's  heart. 

York.  Richard,  enough  :  I  will  be  king,  or  die. — 
Brother,  thou  shalt  to  London  presently, 
And  whet  on  Warwick  to  this  enterprise. — 
Thou,  Richard,  shalt  to  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 
And  tell  him  privily  of  our  intent. — 
You.  Edward,  shall  unto  my  lord  Cobham, 
With  whom  the  Kentishmen  will  willingly  rise  : 
In  them  I  trust ;  for  they  are  soldiers. 
Witty,  courteous,  liberal,  full  of  spirit. — 
While  you  are  thus  employ'd.  what  resteth  more, 
But  that  I  seek  occasion  how  to  rise, 
And  yet  the  king  not  privy  to  my  drift, 
Nor  any  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
But.  stay. — What  news  ?  Why  coni'st  thou  in  such  post? 

Mess.  The  queen,  -with  all  the  northern  earls  and  lords, 
Intends  here  to  besiege  you  in  your  castle. 
She  is  hard  by  with  twenty  thousand  men, 
.\nd  therefore  fortify  your  hold,  my  lord. 

Yyrk.  Ay.  with    my  sword.     What,    think'st  thou, 
that  we  fear  them  ? — 
Edward  and  Richard,  you  shall  stay  with  me; 
My  brother  Montague  shall  post  to  London. 
Let  noble  Warwick.  Cobham.  and  the  re.st. 
Whom  we  have  left  protectors  of  the  king. 
W.th  powerful  poliey  strenirthen  themselves. 
And  trust  not  .simple  Henry,  nor  his  oaths. 

Mont.  Brother.  I  so  :   I  Ml  win  them,  fear  it  not: 

And  thus  most  humbly  T  do  take  my  leave.         [Exit. 

Evter  Sir  .InuN  and  Sir  Htoir   Mortimkr. 

York.  .Sir  John,  and  sir  Huirh  Mortimer,  mine  uncles. 
You  arc  come  to  Sniiflal  in  a  happy  hour: 
The  army  of  the  queen  mean  to  bi^siese  us. 

.^iV  John.  She  .shall  not  need,  we  '11  meet  her  in  the 
field. 

Y(/rk.  What,  with  five  thousand  men  ? 

Rich.  Ay.  •with  five  hundred,  father,  for  a  need. 
A  woman's  general  ;  what  should  we  fear? 

[A  March  afar  off. 

>  Ovid-Epist.  PhyllU  to  Demophocm. 


Edw.  I  hear  their  drums  :  let 's  set  our  men  in  order. 
And  issue  forth,  and  bid  them  battle  straight. 

York.  Five  men  to  twenty  ! — though  the  odds  be  great, 
I  doubt  not,  luicle.  of  our  victory. 
Many  a  battle  have  I  won  in  France, 
When  as  the  enemy  hath  been  ten  to  one  : 
Why  should  I  not  now  have  the  like  success  ? 

[Alarum.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  HL— Plains  near  Sandal  Castle. 
Alannns  :  Excursions.    Enter  Rvt\.a^T),  and  his  Ttitot . 

Rut.  Ah  !  whither  shall  I  fly  to  'scape  their  hands' 
Ah,  tutor  !   look,  where  bloody  Cliflc>rd  comes. 
Enter  Clifford  and  Soldiers. 

Clif.  Chaplain,  away  :  thy  priesthood  saves  thy  life. 
As  for  the  brat  of  this  accursed  duke, 
Whose  father  slew  my  father,  he  shall  die. 

Tut.  And  I,  my  lord,  will  bear  him  company. 

Clif.  Soldiers,  away  with  him. 

Tut.  Ah,  Clifford  !  murder  not  this  innocent  child, 
Lest  thou  be  hated  both  of  God  and  man. 

[Exit.,  forced  off  by  Soldiers. 

Clif.  How  now  !  is  he  dead  already  ?  Or,  is  it  fear, 
That  makes  him  close  his  eyes  ? — I  '11  open  them. 

Rut.  So  looks  the  pent  up-lion  o'er  the  viTctch 
That  trembles  under  his  devouring  paws  : 
And  so  he  walks,  insulting  o'er  his  prey, 
And  so  he  comes  to  rend  his  limbs  asunder. — 
Ah,  gentle  Clifford  !   kill  me  with  thy  sword, 
And  not  with  such  a  cruel  threatening  look. 
Sweet  Clifford  !  hear  me  speak  before  1  die  : 
I  am  too  mean  a  subject  for  thy  wrath  : 
Be  thou  reveng'd  on  men,  and  let  me  live. 

Clif.  In  vain  thou  speak'st,  poor  boy  :  my  father's 
blood 
Hath  stopp'd  the  passage  where  thy  words  should  enter 

Rvt.  Then  let  my  father's  blood  open  it  again  : 
He  is  a  man,  and,  Clifford,  cope  with  him. 

Clif.  Had  I  thy  brethren  here,  their  lives,  and  thine, 
Were  not  revenge  sufficient  for  me. 
No  :  if  I  digg'd  up  thy  Ibrefathers'  graves. 
And  hung  their  rotten  coffins  up  in  chains. 
It  could  not  slake  mine  ire,  nor  ease  my  heart. 
The  sight  of  any  of  the  house  of  York 
Is  as  a  fury  to  torment  my  soul ; 
And  till  I  root  out  their  accursed  line. 
And  leave  not  one  alive,  I  live  in  hell. 
Therefore — 

Rut.  0  !  let  me  pray  before  I  take  my  death.— 
To  thee  I  pray  :  sweet  Clifford,  pity  me  ! 

Clif.  Such  pity  as  my  rapier's  point  affords. 

Riit.  I  never  did  thee  harm  :  why  wilt  thou  slay  me? 

Clif  Thy  father  hath. 

Rut.  But  't  was  ere  I  wa.s  bom. 

Thou  hast  one  son.  for  his  sake  pity  me, 
Lest,  in  revenge  thereof,  sith  God  is  just. 
He  be  as  miserably  slain  as  I. 
Ah  !  let  me  live  in  prison  all  my  days. 
And  when  I  give  oeca,sion  of  oflcnce. 
Then  let  me  die,  for  now  thou  hast  no  cause. 

Clif.  No  cause  ? 
Thy  father  slew  my  father  :  therefore,  die. 

[Clifford  .itobfi  him. 

Rut.   Dii  faciant,  laudis  summa  sit  i.';ta  tua!^    [Dies 

Clif.  Plantagenet!     I  come,  Plantagenet  ! 
And  this  thy  son's  blood  cleaving  to  my  blade, 
Shall  rust  upon  my  weapon,  till  thy  blood 
Congeal'd  with  this  do  make  me  wipe  off  both.  [Fxit. 


SCENE  rv. 


KING  HENRY  YI 


457 


SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 
Alarum.     Enter  York. 
York.  The  army  of  the  queen  hath  got  the  field  : 
My  uncles  both  are  slain  in  rescuing  me  ; 
And  all  my  followers  to  the  eager  foe 
Turn  back,  and  fly  like  ships  before  the  wind, 
Or  lambs  pursu'd  by  hunger-starved  wolves. 
My  sons — -God  knows,  what  hath  bechanced  them, 
But  this  I  know, — they  have  demean'd  themselves 
Like  men  born  to  renown  by  life  or  death. 
Three  times  did  Richard  make  a  lane  to  me, 
And  thrice  cried. — "Courage,  father  !  fight  it  out:" 
And  full  as  oft  came  Edward  to  my  side, 
With  purple  falchion,  painted  to  the  hilt 
In  blood  of  those  that  had  encounterd  him  : 
And  when  the  hardiest  warriors  did  retire, 
Richard    cried,  — "  Charge !    and     give     no    foot    of 

ground  !" 
And  cried, — •'  A  crown,  or  else  a  glorious  tomb  ! 
A  sceptre,  or  an  earthly  sepulchre  !'' 
With  this,  we  charg'd  again :  but,  out  alas  ! 
We  bodg'd  again  :  as  I  have  seen  a  swan 
With  bootless  labour  swim  against  the  tide, 
Aud  spend  her  strength  with  over-matching  waves. 

[A  short  Alarum  tcithin. 
Ah.  hark  !  the  fatal  followers  do  pursue. 
And  I  am  faint,  and  cannot  fly  their  fury ; 
And,  were  I  strong.  I  would  not  shun  their  fury. 
The  sands  are  number'd  that  make  up  my  life ; 
Here  must  I  stay,  and  here  my  life  must  end. 
Enter  Queen  Margaret,  Clifford,  Northumberland, 

and  Soldiers. 
Come,  bloody  Clifford, — rough  Northumberland. — 
I  dare  your  quenchless  fury  to  more  rage. 
I  am  your  butt,  and  I  abide  your  shot. 

North.  Yield  to  our  mercy,  proud  Plantagenet. 
Clif.  Ay,  to  such  mercy,  as  his  ruthless  arm 
With  downright  payment  show'd  unto  my  father. 
Now  Phaeton  hath  tumbled  from  liis  car. 
And  made  an  evening  at  the  noon-tide  prick. 

York.  My  ashes,  as  the  phoenix,  may  bring  forth 
A  bird  that  will  revenge  upon  you  all : 
And  in  that  hope  I  throw  mine  eyes  to  heaven, 
Scorning  whate'er  you  can  afflict  we  -with. 
Why  come  you  not '? — what !  multitudes,  and  fear  ? 

Clif.  So  cowards  fight  when  they  can  fly  no  farther  : 
So  doves  do  peck  the  falcon's  piercing  talons ; 
■So  desperate  thieves,  all  hopeless  of  their  lives. 
Breathe  out  invectives  'gainst  the  officers. 

York.  O,  Clifford  !  but  bethink  thee  once  again. 
And  in  thy  thought  o'er-run  my  former  time  : 
And,  if  thou  canst  for  blushing,  view  this  face, 
And  bite  thy  tongue,  that  slanders  him  with  cowardice, 
Whose  frown  hath  made  thee  faint  and  fly  ere  this. 
Clif.  I  will  not  bandy  with  thee  word  for  word. 
But  buckle  with  thee  blows,  twice  two  for  one. 

Q.  Blar.  Hold,  valiant  Clifford  !  for  a  thousand  causes 
I  would  prolong  awhile  the  traitor's  life. — 
Wrath  makes  him  deaf:  speak  thou,  Northumberland. 
North.  Hold,  Clifford  !  do  not  honour  him  so  much 
To  prick  thy  finger,  though  to  wound  his  heart : 
What  valour  were  it,  when  a  cur  doth  grin, 
For  one  to  thrust  his  hand  between  his  teeth, 
When  he  might  spurn  him  with  his  foot  i-'^ay? 
It  is  war's  prize  to  take  all  vantages. 
And  ten  to  one  is  no  impeach  of  valoui. 

[They  lay  hands  on  York,  tcho  struggles. 
Clif   Ay,  ay ;  so  strives  the  woodcock  with  the  gin. 

•  Rearhed      *  Not  in  f.  e       *  Impale^  encircU 


North.  So  doth  the  coney  struggle  in  the  net. 

[York  is  taken  prisoner 

York.  So  triumph  thieves  upon  their  conquer'd  booty 
So  true  men  yield,  with  robbers  so  o"er-matcii'd. 

North.  What  would  your  grace  have  done  umo  him 
now? 

Q.  Mar.  Brave  warriors,  Clifford  and  Northumber- 
land, 
Come,  make  him  stand  upon  this  molehill  here, 
That  raught'  at  mountains  -mth  outstretched  anns, 
Yet  parted  but  the  shadow  with  his  hand. — 
What  !  was  it  you,  that  would  be  England's  king  ! 
Was  't  you  that  revell'd  in  our  parliament. 
And  made  a  preachment  of  your  high  descent? 
Where  are  your  mess  of  sons  to  back  you  now, 
The  wanton  Edward,  and  the  lusty  George  ? 
And  where  's  that  valiant  crook-back  prodigy, 
Dicky  your  boy,  that,  with  his  grumbling  voice, 
Was  wont  to  cheer  his  dad  in  mutinies  ? 
Or,  with  the  rest,  where  is  your  darling  Rutland  ? 
Look,  York  :  I  stain'd  this  napkin  with  the  blood 
That  valiant  Clifford  with  his  rapier's  point 
Made  issue  from  the  bosom  of  the  boy ; 
And,  if  thine  eyes  can  water  for  his  death. 
I  give  thee  this  to  dry  tliy  cheeks  withal.  [Tlirowing it . 
Alas,  poor  York  !  but  tliat  I  hate  thee  deadly, 
I  should  lament  thy  miserable  state. 
I  pr'ythee.  grieve  to  make  me  merry,  York  : 
What,  hath  thy  fiery  heart  so  parch'd  thine  entrails. 
That  not  a  tear  can  fall  for  Rutland's  death? 
Why  art  thou  patient,  man  ?  thou  shouldst  be  mad  ; 
And  I,  to  make  thee  mad,  do  mock  thee  thus. 
Stamp,  rave,  and  fret,  that  I  may  sing  and  dance 
Thou  wouldst  be  fee'd,  I  see,  to  make  me  sport : 
York  cannot  speak,  unless  he  wear  a  croM'n. — 
A  crown  for  York  ! — and.  lords,  bow  low  to  him 
Hold  you  his  hands,  whilst  I  do  set  it  on. — 

[Putting  a  Paper  Crown  on  his  Head' 
Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  looks  he  like  a  king. 
Ay,  this  is  he  that  took  king  Henry's  chair  : 
And  this  is  he  was  his  adopted  heir. — 
But  how  is  it,  that  great  Plantagenet 
Is  cro\\ii'd  so  soon,  and  broke  his  solemn  oath? 
As  I  bethink  me,  you  should  not  be  king. 
Till  our  king  Henry  had  shook  hands  ynth  death.  • 
And  will  you  pale'  your  head  in  Henry's  glory. 
And  rob  his  temples  of  the  diadem. 
Now  in  his  life,  against  your  holy  oath  ? 

0  !  't  is  a  fault  too,  too  unpardonable. — 

Off  witn  the  crown :  and,  with  the  crown,  his  head  ; 
And  ^^hilst  we  breathe  take  time  to  do  him  dead. 

Clif.  That  is  my  office  for  my  father's  sake. 

Q.'Mar.  Nay,  stay  :  let 's  hear  the  orisons  he  makes. 

York.  She- wolf  of  France,  but  worse  than  wolves  of 
France ; 
Whose  tongue  more  poisons  than  the  adder's  tooth. 
How  ill-beseeming  is  it  in  thy  sex. 
To  triumph,  like  an  Amazonian  trull. 
T^pon  their  woes  whom  fortune  captivates? 
But  that  thy  face  is,  visor-like,  unchanging, 
j  Made  impudent  -with  use  of  e\i\  deeds, 

1  would  essay,  proud  queen,  to  make  thee  blush  : 
To  tell  thee  whence  thou  cam'st,  of  whom  deriv'd, 
Were  shame  enough  to  shame    thee,  wert    thou  not 

shameless. 
Thy  father  bears  the  type  of  King  of  Naples, 
Of  both  the  Sicils.  and  Jerusalem. 
Yet  not  so  wealthy  as  an  English  ^-«oman. 
Hath  that  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult ' 


488 


THIRD   PART  OF 


It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen ; 
Unless  the  adiiije  must  bo  verified, 
That  beL'uars  mounted  run  their  horse  to  death. 
T  is  beauty  tliat  doth  ol't  make  women  proud ; 
But.  God  he  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small. 
T  is  virtue  that  ddtli  make  them  most  admir"d  ■ 
The  contrary  doth  make  thee  wondcr'd  at. 
'T  is  government  that  makes  them  seem  divine  ; 
The  want  tliercot"  makes  thee  abominable. 
Thou  art  as  opposite  to  every  good, 
As  the  antipodes  are  unto  us. 
Or  as  the  south  to  the  septontrion. 
0.  tiger's  heart,  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide  ! 
How  eouidst  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child, 
To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  eyes  withal. 
And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a  woman's  face? 
Women  are  soft,  mild,  pitiful,  and  flexible : 
Thou  stern,  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless. 
Bid'st  thou  mo  rage  ?  wliy.  now  thou  hast  thy  wish : 
Would.«t  have  me  weep  ?  why,  now  thou  hast  thy  will ; 
For  raging  wind  blows  up  incessant  showers, 
And,  when  the  rage  allays,  the  rain  begins. 
Theee  tears  are  my  sweet  Rutland's  obsequies. 
And  every  drop  cries  vengeance  for  his  death, 
Gainst  thee,  fell  Clifford,  and  thee,  false  French-woman. 

North.  Bc'shrew  me.  but  his  passions  move  me  so, 
That  hardly  can  I  check  my  eyes  from  tears. 

York.  '     '  That  face  of  his 

The  hungry  cannibals  would  not  have  touchM, 
Would  not  have  stain'd  the  rose's  hues'  vsnth  blood  : 
But  you  are  more  inhuman,  more  inexorable, 


0  !  ten  times  more,  than  tigers  of  Hyrcania. 
See,  ruthless  queen,  a  hapless  falher'p  tear.s  : 
This  cloth  thou  dipp'dst  in  blood  of  my  sweet  boy, 
And  I  with  tears  do  wa.sh  the  blood  away. 

Keep  thou  the  napkin,  and  go  boast  of  this; 

[Throxi'ing  it  ba/.k  to  tir 
And  if  thou  tell'st  the  heavy  story  right. 
Upon  my  soul,  the  hearers  will  shed  tears  • 
Yea.  even  my  foes  will  shed  fast-falling  tears, 
And  say, — "  Alas  !  it  was  a  piteous  deed." — 
There,  take  the  cro-vvn,  and  with  the  crown   my  cur-' 
And  in  thy  need  such  comfort  come  to  thee. 
As  now  I  reap  at  thy  too  cruel  hand  ! 
Hard-hearted  Clifford,  taiie  me  from  the  world  : 
My  .soul  to  heaven,  my  riood  upon  your  heads ! 
North.  Had  he  been  siaughtcr-man  to  all  my  km 

1  should  not.  for  my  life,  but  weep  with  him, 
To  see  how  inly  sorrow  gripes  his  soul. 

Q.  Mar.  What  !  weeping-ripe,  my  lord  Northum!  • 
land  ? 
Think  but  upon  the  wrong  he  did  us  all. 
And  that  will  quickly  dry  thy  melting  tears. 

Clif.  Here 's  for  my  oath ;  here  's  for  Hiy  father'? 

death.  [StabbiDg  him 

Q.  Mar.  And  here's  to  right  our  gentle-hearted  king 

[Stahhing  him 
York.  Open  thy  gate  of  mercy,  gracious  God  ! 
My  soul  flies  through  these  wounds  to  seek  out  thee. 

[Difs 
Q.  Mar.  Off  with  his  head,  and  set  it  on  York  gate* : 
So  York  may  overlook  the  town  of  York. 

[Fhuru<;h.     ExetirU 


ACT    TI 


SCENE  I. — A   Plain  near  Mortimer's  Cross  in  Here- 
fordshire. 
.-/  March.     Enter  Edward  and  Richard,  leith  their 
Power. 

EaI\c.  I  wonder,  how  our  princely  father  'scaped  : 
Or  whether  he  be  'scaped  away,  or  no. 
From  Clifford's  and  Northumberland's  pursuit. 
Had  he  been  ta'en,  we  should  have  heard  the  news  ; 
Had  he  been  slain,  we  should  have  heard  the  news ; 
Or  had  he  'scaped,  methinks,  we  .should  have  heard 
The  hapjiy  tidini's  of  his  aood  escape. — 
How  fares  my  brother?  why  is  he  so  sad? 

Rich.  I  cannot  joy,  until  I  be  resolv'd 
Where  our  right  valiant  father  is  become. 
I  saw  him  in  the  battle  range  about, 
And  watch'd  him  how  he  singled  Clifford  forth. 
Mcthought.  he  bore  him  in  the  thickest  troop. 
As  doth  a  lion  in  a  herd  of  neat : 
Or  aa  a  bear  ericompass'd  round  with  dogs, 
Who  havini.'  pinch'd  a  few,  and  made  them  cry, 
The  rest  stand  all  aloof,  and  bark  at  him. 
So  far'd  our  father  with  his  enemies  :  j 

So  ficd  his  enemies  my  warlike  father  : 
Methinks.  't  is  prize*  enough  to  be  his  son. 
See,  how  the  morning  oprs  hf-r  gnlden  gat<- 
And  takes  her  farewell  of  the  ulorious  sun  : 
How  well  re-sembles  it  the  pnme  of  youth. 
Trimm'd  like  a  younker,  prancing  to  his  love  !  j 

FAxr.  Dazzle  mine  eyes,  or  do  I  .'^ee  three  suns  ! 

Rich.  Three  glorious  suns,  each  one  a  perfect  su-.,     ! 

»  Would   not  haTe  tonch'd,  wonld  not  hare  rtain'd  with  :  in  f  e. 
'ttovnng"     U  the  direction  in  the  "  True  Tragedy." 


Not  separated  wnth  the  racking  clouds. 

But  .sever'd  in  a  pale  clear-shining  sky. 

See,  see  !  tliey  join,  embrace,  and  seem  to  ki.^p. 

As  if  they  vow'd  some  league  inviolable  : 

Now  are  they  but  one  lamp,  one  light,  one  sim  ! 

In  this  the  heavens  figure  some  event. 

Edw.  'T  is  wondrous  strange ;  the  like  yot  iic 
heard  of. 
I  think,  it  cites  us.  brother,  to  the  field. 
That  we,  the  sons  of  brave  Plantagenet, 
Each  one  already  blazing  by  our  meeds, 
Should,  notwithstanding,  join  our  lights  together. 
And  over-shine  the  earth,  as  this  the  world. 
Wliate'er  it  bodes,  henceforward  will  I  bear 
Upon  my  target  three  fair  shining  suns. 

Rich.  Nay.  bear  three  daughters  :  by  your   leave  I 
speak  it : 
You  love  the  breeder  better  tlian  the  male. 
Eitter  a  Messenger  in  haste.* 
But  what  art  thou,  whose  hca^-y  looks  foretell 
Some  dreadful  story  hanging  on  thy  tongue  ? 

Mess.  Ah  !  one  that  was  a  woful  looker  on. 
When  as  the  noble  duke  of  York  was  slain, 
Your  princely  father,  and  my  loving  lord. 

E'lw.  0  !  speak  no  more,  for  I  have  heard  too  in.H  ; 

Rich.  Say.  how  he  died,  for  I  will  hear  it  all. 

Me.is.  En^ironcd  he  was  with  many  foes; 
And  stood  against  them,  as  the  hope  of  Troy 
Against  the  Greeks,  that  would  have  enter'd  Troy 
But  Hercules  himself  must  yield  to  odds  ; 
And  many  strokes,  though  with  a  little  axe, 


"  True  Tragedy"  :  pride. 


haste :  not  in  I   e 


'y 


eCENE    1. 


KING  HENEY    VI. 


489 


H°"W  down,  and  fell  the  hardest-timber'd  oak. 

By  many  hands  your  father  was  .^ubdu'd ; 

But  only  slaughtei-'d  by  the  ireful  arm 

Of  uni-elenting  Clifford,  and  the  queen. 

Who  crown'd  the  gracious  duke  in  higli  de^;piIe: 

Laugh'd  in  his  face;  and,  when  with  grief  he  wept. 

The  ruthless  queen  gave  him,  to  dry  his  cheeks. 

A  napkin  steeped  in  the  harmless  blood 

Of  sweet  young  Rutland,  by  rough  Clifford  slain : 

And,  after  many  scorns,  many  foul  taunts, 

They  took  his  head,  and  on  the  gates  of  York 

They  set  the  same  :  and  there  it  doth  remain. 

The  saddest  spectacle  that  e'er  I  view'd. 

Edw.  Sweet  duke  of  York  !  our  prop  to  lean  iipon, 
^fow  thou  art  gone,  we  have  no  staff,  no  stay. 

0  Clifford  !  boisterous  Clifford  !  thou  luist  slain 
The  flower  of  Europe  for  his  chivalry; 

And  treacherously  hast  thou  vanquish'd  him. 

For  hand  to  hand  he  would  have  vanquish'd  thee. 

Now,  my  soul's  palace  is  become  a  prison : 

Ah !  would  she  break  from  hence,  that  this  my  body 

Might  in  the  ground  be  closed  up  in  rest, 

For  never  henceforth  shall  I  joy  again ; 

Never.  0  !  never,  shall  T  see  more  joy. 

Rich.  I  cannot  weep,  for  all  my  body's  moisture 
Scarce  serA'es  to  quench  my  furnace-burning  heart  : 
Nor  can  my  tongue  unload  my  heart's  great  burden, 
For  self-same  wind,  that  I  should  speak  withal. 
Is  kindling  coals  that  fire  all  my  breast. 
And  burn  me  up  with  flames  that  tears  would  quench. 
To  weep  is  to  make  less  the  depth  of  grief. 
Tears,  then,  for  babes ;  blows,  and  revenge,  for  me  ! — 
Richard,  1  bear  thy  name ;  I'll  venge  thy  death. 
Or  die  renowned  by  attempting  it. 

Edw.    His  name  that  valiant  duke  hath  left  with 
thee; 
His  dukedom  and  his  chair  with  me  are  left. 

Rich.  Nay,  if  thou  be  that  princely  eagle's  bird. 
Show  thy  descent  by  gazing  'gainst  the  sun: 
For  chair  and  dukedom,  throne  and  kingdom  say ; 
Either  that  is  thine,  or  else  thou  wert  not  his. 

March.  Enter  Warwick  and  Montague,  icith  their 
Army. 

War.  How  now,  fair  lords  !    What  fare  ?  what  news 
abroad  ? 

Rich.  Great  lord  of  Warwick,  if  we  should  recount 
Our  baleful  news,  and  at  each  word's  deliverance, 
Stab  poniards  in  our  flesh  till  all  were  told. 
The  words  would  add  more  anguish  than  the  wounds. 

0.  valiant  lord  !  the  duke  of  York  is  slain. 

Edw.  0,  Warwick  !  Warwick  !  that  Plantagenet, 
Which  held  thee  dearly  as  his  soul's  redemption. 
Is  by  the  stern  lord  Clifford  done  to  death. 

War.  Ten  days  ago  I  drown'd  these  news  in  tears  : 
And  now,  to  add  more  measure  to  your  woes, 

1  come  to  tell  you  things  sith  then  befallen. 
After  the  cloody  fray  at  Wakefield  fought. 
Where  your  bra-'e  father  breath'd  his  latest  gasp. 
Tidings,  as  swiftly  a»  the  posts  could  run, 

Were  brought  me  of  your  loss,  and  his  depart. 

1,  then  in  London,  keeper  of  the  king, 
Muster'd  my  soldiers,  gather'd  flocks  of  friends.' 
March'd  towards  Saint  Albans  to  intercept  the  queen. 
Bearing  the  king  in  my  behalf  along ; 

For  by  my  scouis  I  was  advertised, 
That  she  was  coming  with  a  full  intent 
To  dash  our  late  decree  in  parliament, 


'Touching  king  Henry's  oath,  and  your  succession. 
Short  tale  to  make. — we  at  Saint  Albai;s  met; 
Our  battles  join'd,  and  both  sides  fiercely  fought , 
H.ut.  whether  't  was  the  coldness  of  the  king, 
Who  look'd  full  gently  on  his  warlike  queen. 
,  That  robb'd  my  soldiers  of  their  heated  spleen, 
^  Or  whether  't  was  report  of  her  success. 
Or  more  than  common  fear  of  Clifford's  rigour, 
j  Who  thunders  to  his  captives  blood  and  dcnth 
1 1  cannot  judge  :  but,  to  conclude  with  trutli, 
'  Their  weapons  like  to  lightning  came  and  went : 
Our  soldiers',  like  the  night-owl's  lazy  flight, 
Or  like  a  lazy  thrasher  with  a  flail. 
Fell  gently  down,  as  if  they  struck  their  friends. 
I  cheer'd  them  up  with  justice  of  our  cause. 
j  With  promise  of  high  pay,  and  great  rewards, 
I  But  all  in  vain  :  they  had  no  heart  to  fight, 
I  And  we  in  them  no  hope  to  win  the  day; 
So  that  we  fled :  the  king  unto  the  queen. 
!  Lord  George  your  brother,  Norfolk,  and  myself, 
In  haste,  poste-haste,  are  come  to  join  with  you ; 
For  in  the  marches  here,  we  heard,  you  were, 
Making  another  head  to  fight  again. 

Edw.  Where  is  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  gentle   War 
wick  ? 
And  when  came  George  from  Burgundy  to  England' 

JJar.  Some  six  miles  off  the  duke  is  with  the  soldiers , 
And  for  your  brother,  he  was  lately  sent 
From  your  kind  aunt,  duchess  of  Burgundy, 
With  aid  of  soldiers  to  this  needful  war. 

Rich.  'T  was  odds,  belike,  when  valiant  Warwick  fled : 
Oft  have  I  heard  his  praises  in  pursuit, 
But  ne'er,  till  now,  his  scandal  of  retire. 

War.  Nor  now  my  scandal.  Richard,  dost  thou  hear; 
For  thou  shalt  know,  this  strong  right  hand  of  mine 
1  Can  pluck  the  diadem  from  faint  Heni-y's  head, 
And  wring  the  awful  sceptre  from  his  fist, 
Were  he  as  famous,  and  as  bold  in  war, 
As  he  is  fam'd  for  mildness,  peace,  and  prayer. 

Rich.  I  know  it  well,  lord  Warwick ;  blame  me  not  ; 
'T  is  love,  I  bear  thy  glories,  makes  me  speak. 
But  in  this  troublous  time  what's  to  be  done  ? 
Shall  we  go  throw  away  our  coats  of  steel. 
And  MTap  our  bodies  in  black  mourning  gowns. 
Numbering  our  Ave-Maries  with  our  beads? 
Or  shall  we  on  the  helmets  of  our  foes 
Tell  our  devotion  with  revengeful  arms? 
If  for  the  last,  say — Ay.  and  to  it,  lords. 

War.   Why,   therefore  Warwick  came  to  seek   you 
out. 
And  therefore  comes  my  brother  Montague. 
Attend  me,  lords.     The  proud  insulting  queen. 
With  Clifford,  and  the  haught  Northumberland, 
And  of  tlieir  feather  many  more  proud  birds. 
Have  wrought  the  easy-melting  king  like  war. 
He  swore  consent  to  your  succession, 
His  oath  enrolled  in  the  parliament : 
And  now  to  London  all  the  crew  are  gone, 
To  frustrate  both  his  oath,  and  what  beside 
]\Lay  make  against  the  house  of  Lancaster : 
Their  power,  I  think,  is  thirty  thousand  strong. 
Now.  if  the  help  of  Norfolk,  and  m>sclf, 
With  all  the  friends  that  thou,  brave  earl  of  March 
Amongst  the  loving  Welshmen  canst  procure, 
Will  but  amount  to  five  and  twenty  thousand, 
Why,  Via!  to  London  viiW  we  march  amain,' 
I  And  once  asain  bestride  our  foaming  steeds, 


Some  mod.  eds.  insert  the  line : 

And  very  well  appointed,  as  I  thoueht, 
n  the    •  fnie  Tragedy  '"      2  From  the  "  True  Tragedy." 


490 


THIRD  PAPwT  OF 


Acn  n, 


A.nd  once  again  cry — Charge  !  upon  our  foes;  | Offering  their  ovra  lives  in  their  young's  defence? 

But  never  once  a^ain  turn  back,  and  fly.  JFor  shamo,  my  liege  !  make  iheni  your  precedent. 

Rich.  Ay,   now,   methinks,   I   hear  great  Warwick  i  Were  it  not  pity,  that  tliis  goodly  boy 


speak. 
Ne'er  may  he  live  to  see  a  sun.«hine  day, 
That  cries — Retire,  if  Warwick  bid  hitn  stay. 

Edw.  Lord  Wiir-wick,  on  tliy  siioulder  will  I  lean; 
And  when  tlion  faifst'.  (as  God  forbid  the  hour!) 
Must  Edward  fall,  wliicJi  peril  heaven  Ibrefend  ! 

War.  No  longer  earl  of  March,  but  duke  of  York : 
The  next  degree  is,  England's  royal  throne; 
For  king  of  England  shalt  thou  be  proclaim'd 
In  ever)'  boroui;h  as  we  pass  along ; 
And  he  that  throws  not  up  his  cap  for  joy, 
Siiali  for  the  fault  make  forfeit  of  his  head. 
King  Edward, — valiant  Richard, — Montague, — 
Stay  wc  110  louder  dreaming  of  renown, 
But  sound  the  trumpets,  and  about  our  task. 

Rich.  Then,  Clifford,  were  thy  heart  as  hard  as  steel, 
As  thou  hast  shown  it  flinty  by  thy  deeds, 
I  come  to  pierce  it,  or  to  give  thee  mine. 

Edw.    Then  strike    up,   drums  !  —  God,   and   Saint 
George,  for  us  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.  How  now  :  what  news  ? 

Mess.  The  duke  of  Norfolk  sends  you  word  by  me, 
The  queen  is  coming  with  a  puissant  host, 
And  craves  your  company  for  speedy  counsel. 

War.  Why  then,  it  sorts:  brave  warriors,  let 's  away. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Before  York. 
Flourish.     Enter  King  Henry,  Quecyi  Margaret,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  Clifford,  and  Northumberland, 
with  Drums  and  Trumpets. 

Q.  Mar.  Welcome,  my  lord,  to  this  brave  town  of 
York. 
Yonder  's  the  head  of  that  arch-enemy, 
That  sought  to  be  encompass'd  with  your  crown  : 
Doth  not  the  object  cheer  your  heart,  my  lord 


Should  lose  his  birthright  by  his  father's  fault, 

And  long  hereafter  say  unto  his  child, — 

■•  What  my  great-grandfather  and  grandsire  got, 

My  careless  father  fondly'  gave  away." 

Ah  !   what  a  shame  were  this.     Look  on  the  boy; 

And  let  his  manly  face,  which  promiscth 

Succes.'jful  fortune,  steel  thy  melting  heart 

To  hold  thine  own,  and  leave  thine  own  with  him. 

A'.  Hen.  Full  well  hath  Clitford  play"d  the  orator. 
Inferring  arguments  of  mighty  force. 
But,  Clifford,  tell  me,  didst  thou  never  hear, 
That  things  ill  got  had  ever  bad  success? 
And  happy  always  was  it  for  that  son. 
Whose  father  for  his  hoarding  went  to  hell  ? 
I  '11  leave  my  son  my  virtuous  deeds  behind, 
And  woiild  my  father  had  left  me  no  more ; 
For  all  the  rest  is  held  at  such  a  rate, 
As  brings  a  thousand-fold  more  care  to  keep, 
Than  in  possession  any  jot  of  pleasure. — 
Ah.  cousin  York  !  would  thy  best  friends  did  know 
How  it  doth  grieve  me  that  thy  head  is  here  ! 

Q.  3Iar.  My  lord,  cheer  up  your  spirits :  our  loeg 
are  nigh, 
And  this  soft  carriage^  makes  your  followers  faint. 
You  promis'd  knighthood  to  our  forward  son : 
Unsheath  your  sword,  and  dub  him  presently. — 
Edward,  kneel  down. 

K.  Hen.  Edward  Plantagenet.  arise  a  knight; 
And  learn  this  lesson, — Draw  thy  sword  in  right. 

Prince.  My  gracious  father,  by  your  kingly  leave, 
I  '11  draw  it  as  apparent  to  the  crowTi, 
And  in  that  quarrel  use  it  to  the  death. 

Clif.  Why,  that  is  spoken  like  a  toward  prince. 
Enter  a  Mes.fenger. 

Mess.  Royal  commanders,  be  in  readiness : 
For.  with  a  band  of  thirty  thousand  men, 
Comes  Warwick,  backing  of  the  duke  of  York; 


K.  Hen.  Ay,  as  the  rocks  cheer  them  that  fear  their  1  And,  in  the  towns,  as  tliey  do  march  along. 


wreck : 

To  see  this  sight,  it  irks  my  very  soul. — 
Withhold  revenge,  dear  God  !  't  is  not  my  fault : 
Not  wittingly  have  I  infring'd  my  vow. 

Clif.  My  gracious  liege,  this  too  much  lenity 
And  harmful  pity,  mu.st  be  laid  aside. 
To  whom  do  lions  cast  their  gentle  looks? 
Not  to  the  beast  that  would  usurp  their  den. 
Whose  hand  is  that  the  forest  bear  doth  lick  ? 
Not  his  that  spoils  her  young  before  her  face. 
Who  'scapes  the  lurking  serpent's  mortal  sting? 
Not  he  that  sets  liis  foot  upon  her  back. 
The  smallest  worm  will  turn,  being  trodden  on; 
And  doves  will  peck  in  safeguard  of  their  brood. 
Ambitious  York  did  level  at  thy  croww  ; 
Thou  smiling,  while  he  knit  his  angry  brows; 
He,  but  a  duke,  would  have  his  son  a  king. 
And  raise  his  issue  liKe  a  loving  sire; 
Thou,  being  a  king,  bhss'd  with  a  goodly  son. 
Didst  yield  consent  to  disinherit  him. 
Which  argued  thee  a  most  unloving  father. 
Unreasonable  creatures  feed  their  young ; 
And  though  man's  face  be  fearful  to  their  eyes, 
Y'et,  in  protection  of  their  tender  ones. 
Who  hath  not  seen  them,  even  with  those  wings 
Which  sometime  they  have  us'd  in  fearful  flight, 
Make  war  with  him  that  climb'd  unto  their  ne.st, 


j  Proclaims  him  king,  and  many  fly  to  him 
Darraign*  your  battle,  for  they  are  at  hand. 

Clif.  I  would,  your  highness  would  depart  the  field 
The  queen  hath  best  success  wiien  you  are  absent. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay.  my  good  lord,  and  leave  us  to  our  for- 
tune. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  that 's  my  fortune  too ;  therefore  I'll 
stay. 

North.  Be  it  with  resolution,  then,  to  fight. 

Prince.  My  royal  father,  cheer  these  noble  lord^. 
And  hearten  those  that  fight  in  your  defence. 
Unsheath    your    sword,    good    father :    cry,     •'  Saint 

George  !" 
March.   Enter  Edward,  George,  Richard,  Warwkb 
Norfolk,  Montague,  aiul  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Now.  perjur'd  Henry,  wilt  thou  kneel  for  i;rac« 
And  set  thy  diadem  upon  my  head. 
Or  bide  the  mortal  fortune  of  the  field  ? 

Q.  il/ar.  Go,  rate  thy  minions,  proud  insulting  boy 
Becomes  it  thee  to  be  thus  bold  m  terms. 
Before  thy  sovereign,  and  thy  lawful  king? 

Edw.  I  am  his  king,  and  he  should  bow  his  knee  : 
I  was  adopted  heir  by  his  consent ; 
Since  when,  his  oath  is  broke ;  lor,  as  I  hear, 
You.  that  are  king,  though  he  do  wear  the  crown. 
Have  caus'd  him,  by  new  act  of  parliament. 
To  blot  out  me,  and  put  his  own  son  in. 


>Th«  old  olay; 
mosnini;  of  th?  woi 


faint'it.     .Malone  and   most  edi. 
d  in  the  text 


fall'it.      •  Foolishti/.      '  courage  :  in  f.  e.      ♦The  old  play  :  Prepare  ;  the 


nwdeif^jH 

m 


SCENE  in. 


KING  HENRY   VI. 


491 


Clif.  And  reason  too  : 
Who  should  succeed  the  fathe  •,  but  the  son  ? 

Rich.  Are  you  there,  butcher? — 0  !   I  cannot  speak. 
Clif.  Ay,  crook-back ;  here  I  stand,  to  answer  thee, 
Or  any  he  the  proudest  of  thy  sort. 

Rich.  'T  was  you  that  kill'd  young  Rutland,  was  it 

not? 
Clif.  Ay,  and  old  York,  and  yet  not  satisfied. 
Rich.  For  God"s  sake,  lords,  give  signal  to  the  fight. 
War.  What  say'st  thou,  Henry,  wilt  thou  yield  the 

crown  ? 
Q.  Mar.  Why,   how  now,   long-tongu'd  Warwick  ! 
dare  you  speak  ? 
When  you  and  I  met  at  Saint  Albans  last, 
Vour  legs  did  better  service  than  your  hands. 

War.  Then  't  was  my  turn  to  fly,  and  now  't  is  thine. 
Clif.  You  said  so  much  before,  and  yet  you  fled. 
War.  'T  was   not  your  valour,  Clifford,  drove    me 

thence. 
North.  No,  nor  your  manhood  that  durst  make  you 

stay. 
Rich.  Northumberland,  I  hold  thee  reverently. 
Break  off  the  parley;  for  scarce  I  can  refrain 
The  execution  of  my  big-swoln  heart 
Upon  that  Clifford,  that  cruel  child-killer. 

Clif.  I  slew  thy  father  :  call'st  thou  him  a  child  ? 
Rich.  Ay,  like  a  dastard,  and  a  treacherous  coward, 
As  thou  didst  kill  our  tender  brother  Rutland ; 
But  ere  sun-set  I  '11  make  thee  curse  the  deed. 

K.  Hen.  Have  done  with  words,  my  lords,  and  hear 

me  speak. 
Q.  3Iar.  Defy  them  then,  or  else  hold  close  thy  lips. 
K.  Hen.  I  pr"ythee,  give  no  limits  to  my  tongue  : 
I  am  a  king,  and  privileg'd  to  speak. 

Clif.  My  liege,  the  wound,  that  bred  this  meeting 
here. 
Cannot  be  cur'd  by  words  :  therefore  be  still. 

Rich.  Then,  executioner,  unsheath  thy  sword. 
By  him  that  made  us  all,  I  am  resolv'd, 
'  That  Clifford's  manhood  lies  upon  his  tongue. 

Edw.  Say,  Henry,  shall  I  have  my  right,  or  no  ? 
A  thousand  men  have  broke  their  fasts  to-day. 
That  ne'er  shall  dine,  unless  thou  yield  the  crovsna. 

War.  If  thou  deny,  their  blood  upon  thy  head ; 
For  York  in  justice  puts  his  armour  on. 
'      Prince.  If  that  be  right,  which  Warwick  says  is  right. 
There  is  no  wrong,  but  every  thing  is  right. 
!      Rich.  Whoever  got  thee,  there  thy  mother  stands  ; 
I  For,  well  I  wot,  thou  hast  thy  mother's  tongue. 
I      Q.  Mar.  But  thou  art  neither  like  thy  sire,  nor  dam ; 
But  like  a  foul  mis-shapen  stigmatic', 
1  Mark'd  by  the  destinies  to  be  avoided, 
]  A.S  venom  toads,  or  lizards'  dreadful  stings. 
I      Rich.  Iron  of  Naples,  hid  with  English  gilt, 
i  Whose  father  bears  the  title  of  a  king, 
I  (As  if  a  channel"  should  be  call'd  the  sea) 
]  Sham'st  thou  not,  knowing  whence  thou  art  extraught, 
I  To  let  thy  tongue  detect  thy  base-born  heart  ? 
1     Edw.  A  wisp  of  straw'  were  worth  a  thousand  crowTis, 
[To  make  this  shameless  callat*  know  herself. — 
Helen  of  Greece  was  fairer  far  than  thou, 
1  Although  thy  husband  may  be  Menelaus  : 
I  And  ne'er  was  Agamemnon's  brother  wrong'd 
By  that  false  woman    as  this  king  by  thee. 
His  father  revell'd  in  the  heart  of  France, 
And  tam'd  the  king,  and  made  the  Dauphin  stoop  ; 
And,  had  he  match'd  according  to  his  state. 
He  might  have  kept  that  glory  to  this  day ; 


i 


But.  when  he  took  a  beggar  to  his  bed, 

And  grac'd  thy  poor  sire  with  his  bridal  day. 

Even  then  that  sunshine  brew'd  a  shower  for  him, 

That  wa.sh'd  his  father's  fortunes  forth  of  France, 

And  heap'd  sedition  on  his  crown  at  home. 

For  what  hath  broach'd  this  tumult,  but  thy  pride  ' 

Hadst  thou  been  meek,  our  title  still  had  slept, 

And  we,  in  pity  of  the  gentle  king, 

Had  slipp'd  our  claim  until  another  age. 

Geo.  But  when  we  saw  our  sunshine  made  thy  f  pring 
And  that  thy  summer  bred  us  no  increase. 
We  set  the  axe  to  thy  usurping  root  : 
And  though  the  edge  hath  something  hit  ourselves, 
Yet,  know  thou,  since  we  have  begun  to  .strike, 
We  '11  never  leave,  till  we  have  hewn  thee  do'«^l, 
Or  bath'd  thy  growing  with  our  heated  bloods. 

Edw.  And  in  this  resolution  I  defy  thee  ; 
Not  willing  any  longer  conference, 
Since  thou  deniedst  the  gentle  king  to  speak. — 
Sound  trumpets  ! — let  our  bloody  colours  wave, 
And  either  victory,  or  a  welcome  grave.* 

Q.  Mar.  Stay.  Edward. 

Ediv.  No,  wrangling  woman  ;  we  '11  no  longer  stay : 
These  words  will  cost  ten  thousand  lives  to-day. 

[ExetuU 

SCENE  III.— A  Field  of  Battle  near  Towton. 
Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  Warwick. 

War.  Forspent  with  toil,  as  runners  win  a  race, 
I  lay  me  down  a  little  while  to  breathe; 
For  strokes  receiv'd,  and  many  blows  repaid, 
Have  robb'd  my  strong-knit  sinews  of  their  strength. 
And,  spite  of  spite,  needs  must  I  rest  awhile. 
Enter  Edward,  running. 

Edw.  Smile,  gentle  heaven,  or  strike,  ungentle  death  ; 
For  this  world  frowns,  and  Edward's  sun  is  clouded. 

War.  How  now,  my  lord  !  what  hap  ?  what  hope  of 
good  ? 

Enter  George. 

Geo.  Our  hap  is  loss,  our  hope  but  sad  despair : 
Our  ranks  are  broke,  and  ruin  follows  ms. 
What  counsel  give  you?  whither  shall  we  fly? 

Edw.  Bootless  is  fliirht  ;  they  follow  us  with  wing? 
And  weak  we  are,  and  cannot  shun  pursuit. 
Enter  Richard. 

Rich.  Ah,   Warwick !    why   hast   thou  withdrav^Ti 
thyself? 
Thy  brother's  blood  the  thirsty  earth  hath  dnink, 
Broach'd  with  the  steely  point  of  Clifford's  lance  ; 
And,  in  the  very  pangs  of  death  he  cried, 
Like  to  a  dismal  clangor  heard  from  far, 
"  Warwick,  revenge  !  brother,  revenge  my  death  !" 
So,  underneath  the  bellies  of  their  steeds, 
That  stain'd  their  fetlocks  in  his  smoking  blood, 
The  noble  gentleman  gave  up  the  ghost. 

War.  Then  let  the  earth  be  drunken  with  our  blood. 
I  '11  kill  my  horse,  because  I  will  not  fly. 
Why  stand  we  like  soft-hearted  women  here, 
Wailing  our  losses,  whiles  the  foe  doth  rage, 
And  look  upon,  as  if  the  tragedy 
Were  play'd  in  jest  by  counterfeiting  actors  ? 
Here  on  my  knee  I  vow  to  God  above.         [Kneeling 
I  '11  never  pause  again,  never  stand  still. 
Till  either  death  hath  clos'd  these  eyes  of  mine. 
Or  fortune  given  me  measure  of  revenge. 

Edw.  0  Warwick  !  I  do  be  d  my  knee  with  thine, 

[Kneeling 
And  in  this  vow  do  chain  my  soul  to  thine. 


'  One  marlted  -with  a  sUgma. 
^handoHtti  woman  or  else  a 


»  Formerly  synonymous,  .ays  Malone,  with  kennel.     »  Often  applied  to  an  abandoned  woman      '  A  low 
crave  :  iu  f.  e.      '  ''  Not  in  f.  e 


492 


THIRD  PART  OF 


AOT   0 


And,  ere  my  knee  rise  from  the  earth's  cold  face, 
[  throw  my  liands.  mine  eyes,  my  heart  to  thee, 
Thou  setter  up  and  plucker  down  of  kings  ; 
Be«erching  thee. — if  with  thy  will  it  stands, 
That  to  my  foes  this  body  must  be  prey. — 
Yet  that  thy  brazen  gates  of  heaven  may  ope. 
\nd  give  .<weet  passage  to  my  sinful  soul. —  [Rising.^ 
Now,  lords,  take  leave  until  we  meet  again, 
^Vhcre'er  it  be.  in  heaven,  or  in  earth. 

Rich.  Brother,    give    me    thy   hand ; — and.    gentle 
Warwick, 
Let  me  embrace  thee  in  my  weary  arms. 
J.  that  did  never  weep,  now  melt  -wnth  woe. 
Thai  winter  should  cut  off  our  spring-time  so. 

War.  Awav.  away  !     Once  more,  sweet  lords,  fare- 
well. 

Geo.  Yet  let  us  all  together  to  our  troops, 
And  give  them  leave  to  fly  that  will  not  stay. 
And  call  them  pillars  that  will  stand  to  us: 
And  if  we  thrive  promise  them  such  rewards 
.\s  victors  wore  at  the  Olympian  games. 
This  may  plant  courage  in  their  quailing  breasts; 
For  yet  is  hope  of  life,  and  victory. — 
Foreslow'  no  longer ;  make  we  hence  amain.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Excursions.     Enter  Richard  and  Clifford. 

Rich.  Now.  Clifford,  I  have  singled  thee  alone. 
Suppose,  this  arm  is  for  the  duke  of  York, 
And  this  for  Rutland  :  both  bound  to  revenge. 
Wert  thou  en\-iron"d  -with  a  brazen  wall. 

Clif.  Now,  Richard.  I  am  with  thee  here  alone. 
This  "is  the  hand  that  stabb'd  thy  father  York. 
And  this  the  hand  that  slew  thy  brother  Rutland  ; 
And  here  's  the  heart  that  triumphs  in  their  death. 
.And  cheers  these  hands,  that  slew  thy  sire  and  brother, 
To  execute  the  like  upon  thyself: 
And  so,  have  at  thee. 

[Thfyfi^ht.    Warwick  enters;  Clifford /ics. 

Rich.  Nay,  Warwick,  single  out  some  other  chase ; 
For  I  myself  will  hunt  this  wolf  to  death.       [Exeunt.^ 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarum.     Enter  King  Henry. 


How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete, 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day, 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year, 
How  mnny  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  timcb . 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock; 
So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate  ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself: 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young  ; 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean; 
So  many  months  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece  : 
So  minutes,  hours,  days,  months  and  years, 
Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 
Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 
Ah.  what  a  life  were  this  !  how  sweet  !  how  lovely 
Gives  not  the  hawihorn  bush  a  sweeter  shade 
To  shepherds  looking  on  their  silly  sheep. 
Than  doth  a  rich  embroider'd  canopy 
To  kings  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachen,-  ? 
0  !  yes  it  doth  :  a  thousand  fold  it  doth. 
And  to  conclude. — the  shepherd's  homely  curds, 
His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  his  leather  bottle, 
His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade, 
All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys, 
Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates, 
His  ^^ands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup. 
His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed. 
When  care,  mistrust,  and  treason  wait  on  h.m. 
Alarum.     Enter  a  Son  that  hath  killed  his  Father,  vrt/ 
the  dead  Body. 
Son.  Ill  blows  the  wind  that  profits  no  body. 
This  man  whom  hand  to  hand  I  slew  in  fight, 
May  be  possessed  with  some  store  of  crowns  ; 
And  T.  that  haply  take  them  from  him  now. 
May  yet  ere  night  yield  both  my  life  and  them 
To  some  man  else,  as  this  dead  man  to  me. — 
Who  's  this  ? — 0  God  !  it  is  my  father's  face. 
Whom  in  this  conflict  I  unwares  have  kilTd. 
O  heavy  times,  begetting  such  events  I 
From  London  by  the  king  was  I  press'd  forth  ; 
My  father,  being  the  earl  of  Warwick's  man. 
Came  on  the  part  of  York,  press'd  by  his  master  ; 
And  I.  who  at  his  hands  receiv'd  mv  life, 


K.  Hen.  Tliis  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war.   Have  by  my  hands  of  life  bereaved  him. — 


When  dying  clouds  contend  \\-ith  growing  liirht ; 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails, 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day  nor  night. 
Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea 
Forcd  by  the  tide  to  combat  "w-ith  the  wind  : 
Now  sways  it  that  way.  like  the  self-same  sea 
Forc'd  to  retire  by  fury  of  the  wind  : 
Sometime,  the  flood  prevails  ;  and  then,  the  wind 
Now,  one  the  better,  then,  another  best : 
Both  tusging  to  be  victors,  brea-st  io  breast, 
Yet  neither  conqueror,  nor  conquered  : 
So  is  the  equal  poi.se  of  this  fell  war. 
Here,  on  this  molehill,  will  I  sit  me  do\A-n. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory : 
For  Marizaret  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too. 
Have  chid  me  from  the  battle,  swearing  both, 
They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thf^nee. 
Would  [  were  dead  !  if  God's  good  will  were  so  ; 
For  what  is  in  this  world  but  grief  and  woe? 
0  God  !  methinks.  it  were  a  happy  life. 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain  ; 
To  sit  upon  a  hill.  a,s  I  do  now. 
To  car\-e  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point. 
Thereby  to  ^ee  the  mniutes  how  they  run  : 


Pardon  me.  God.  I  knew  not  what  I  did 

And  pardon,  father,  for  I  knew  not  thee. — 

My  tears  shall  wpe  away  these  bloody  marks. 

And  no  more  words,  till  they  have  flow'd  their  till 
A'.  Hen.  0  piteous  spectacle  !  0  bloody  times  ! 

Whiles  lions  war  and  battle  for  their  dens. 

Poor  harmless  lambs  abide  their  enmity. 
•Weep,  w-retched  man.  I  'II  aid  thee,  tear  for  teai  . 
i  And  let  our  hearts,  and  eyes,  like  civil  war, 
1  Be  blind  M-ith  tears,  and  break  o'ercharg'd  with  sricf 
Elder  a  Father,  who  has  killed  hu  Sci,  bearing  the 

Body. 
Fath.  Thou  that  so  stoutly  ha.^t  resisted  me, 

Give  me  thy  gold,  if  thou  ha.st  any  eold. 
!  For  I  have  bought  it  with  an  hundred  blows. — 

But  let  me  see : — is  this  a  foeman's  face  ? 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  !  it  is  mine  only  son  ! — 

Ah.  boy  !  if  any  life  be  left  in  thee. 

Throw  up  thine  eye  :  see,  see.  what  showers  arise 
I  Blown  with  the  windy  tempest  of  my  heart 

Tpon  thy  wounds,  that  kill  mine  eye  and  heart  !— 

O.  pity,  God.  this  miserable  aire  ! — 

What  stratagems,  how  fell,  how  butcherly. 

Erroneous,  mutinous,  and  unnatural, 


Delay. 


Two  »iniilaT  lines  are  found  in  the  Swsond  part  of  Henry  VI.,  Act  iv.,  8e.  ii. 


i 


SCENE   VI. 


KING  HENKY   YI. 


493 


This  deadly  quarrel  daily  doth  beget ! — 

0  boy  !  thy  father  gave  thee  life  too  soon, 
And  hath  bereft  thee  of  thy  life  too  lafe. 

K.  Hen.  Woe  above  woe  !  grief  more  than  common 
grief ! 
0.  that  my  death  would  stay  these  ruthful  deeds  ! — 
0.  pity,  pity  !  gentle  heaven,  pity  ! — 
The  red  rose  and  the  white  are  on  his  face, 
The  fatal  colours  of  our  striving  houses  : 
The  one  his  purple  blood  right  well  resembles, 
The  other  his  pale  cheeks,  methinks,  presenteth ; 
Wither  one  rose,  and  let  the  other  flourish  ! 
If  you  contend,  a  thousand  lives  must  wither. 

Son.  How  will  my  mother,  for  a  father's  death, 
Take  on  with  me,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied  ? 

Fath.  How  will  my  wife,  for  slaughter  of  my  son. 
Shed  seas  of  tears,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied  ? 

K.  Hen.  How  will    the    country,    for   these   woful 
chances, 
Misthink  the  king,  and  not  be  satisfied  ? 

Son.  AVas  ever  son  so  rued  a  father's  death? 

Fath.  Was  ever  father  so  bemoan'd  a  son  ? 

K.  Hen.  Was  ever  king  so  grieA^'d  for  subjects'  woe? 
Much  is  your  sorrow;  mine,  ten  times  so  much. 

Son.  I  '11  bear  thee  hence,  where  I  may  weep  my  fill. 
[  Exit  wiih  the  Body. 

Fath.  These  arms  of  mine  shall  be  thy  winding- 
sheet  ; 
My  heart,  sweet  boy,  shall  be  thy  sepulchre. 
For  from  my  heart  thine  image  ne'er  shall  go. 
My  sighing  breast  shall  be  thy  funeral  bell ; 
And  so  obsequious  will  thy  father  be, 
F/en'  for  the  loss  of  thee,  having  no  more, 
Vs  Priam  was  for  all  his  valiant  sons. 

1  '11  bear  thee  hence  ;  and  let  them  fight  that  will, 
For  I  have  murder'd  where  I  should  not  kill. 

[Exit  with  the  Body. 

K.  Hen.  Sad-hearted  men.  much  overaone  with  care. 
Here  sits  a  king  more  woful  than  you  are. 
Alarums :  Excursions.  Enter  Queen  Margaret,  Prince 
of  Wales,  and  Exeter. 

Prince.  Fly,  father,  fly  !  for  all  your  friends  are  fled. 
And  Warwick  rages  like  a  chafed  bull. 
Away !  for  death  doth  hold  us  in  pursuit. 

Q.  3Iar.  Mount  you.  my  lord  :  towards  Berwick  post 
amain. 
Edward  and  Richard,  like  a  brace  of  greyhounds, 
Having  the  fearful  flying  hare  in  sight. 
With  fiery  eyes,  sparkling  for  very  wrath, 
And  bloody  steel  grasp'd  in  their  ireful  hands. 
Are  at  our  backs  ;  and  therefore  hence  amain. 

Exe.  Away  !  for  vengeance  comes  along  with  them. 
Nay,  stay  not  to  expostulate  ;  make  speed, 
Or  else  come  after  :  I  '11  away  before. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  take  me  with  thee,  good  sweet  Exeter  : 
Not  that  I  fear  to  stay,  but  love  to  go 
Whither  the  queen  intends.     Forward  !  away  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— The  Same. 
A  loud  Alarum.     Enter  Clifford,  ivounded. 
Clif.  Here  burns  my  candle  out ;  ay,  here  it  dies, 
Which,  while  it  lasted,  gave  King  Henry  light. 
0.  Lancaster  !  I  fear  thy  overthrow. 
More  than  my  body's  parting  with  my  soul. 
My  love,  and  fear,  glued  many  friends  to  thee  ; 
And  now  I  fall  thy  tough  commixtures  melt. 
Lnpairing  Henry,  strengthening  mis-proud  York. 

»  sad  :  in  f.  e.  ;  change.l  by  Ro-we.  from  '•  men,"  in  the  folio.      »  This  line  wa.<  inserted  by  Theobald,  from  the  "  True  Tragedy."     *  t  i 
»dd  :  and  iies ;  and  omit  the  stage  direction  a  few  lines  below       *  Attendants :  in  i.  a 


I  The  common  people  swarm  like  summer-flies  :' 
I  And  whither  fly  the  gnats,  but  to  the  sun? 
i  And  who  shines  now  but  Henry's  enemies  ? 

0  Phoebus  !  hadst  thou  never  given  consent 
i  That  Phaeton  should  check  thy  fiery  steeds, 

I  T'hy  burning  car  never  had  scorch'd  the  earth ; 
I  And,  Henry,  hadst  thou  s«way'd  as  kings  should  do, 
I  Or  as  thy  father,  and  his  father,  did. 

Giving  no  ground  unto  the  house  of  York. 

They  never,  then,  had  sprung  like  summer  flies ; 

I,  and  ten  thousand  in  this  luckless  realm. 

Had  left  no  mourning  widows  for  our  death, 

And  thou  this  day  hadst  kept  thy  chair  in  peaw. 

For  what  doth  cherish  weeds  but  gentle  air  ? 

And  what  makes  robbers  bold  but  too  much  lenity  ? 

Bootless  are  plaints,  and  cureless  are  my  wounds. 

No  way  to  fly,  nor  strength  to  hold  out  flight : 

The  foe  is  merciless,  and  will  not  pity ; 

For  at  their  hands  I  have  deserv'd  no  pity. 

The  air  hath  got  into  my  deadly  wounds, 

And  much  efluse  of  blood  doth  make  me  famt. — 

Come,  York,  and  Richard.  Warwick,  and  the  rest ; 

1  stabb'd  your  fathers'  bosoms,  split  my  breast. 

[Hefaint.<i 
Alarum  and  Retreat.  Enter  Edward.  George,  Richard 
Montague,  Warwick,  and  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Now  breathe  we,  lords  :  good  fortune  bids  us 
pause. 
And  smooth  the  frowns  of  war  with  peaceful  looks. — 
Some  troops  pursue  the  bloody-minded  queen. 
That  led  calm  Henry,  though  he  were  a  king, 
As  doth  a  sail,  filPd  with  a  fretting  gust, 
Command  an  argosy  to  stem  the  waves. 
But  think  you,  lords,  that  Clifford  fled  with  them? 

War.  No,  't  is  impossible  he  should  escape  ; 
For,  though  before  his  face  I  speak  the  words, 
Your  brother  Richard  mark'd  him  for  the  grave, 
And  wheresoe'er  he  is,  he  's  surely  dead. 

[Clifford  groans. 

Rich.  Whose  soul   is  that  which  takes  her   hea\-y 
leave  ? 
A  deadly  groan,  like  life  and  death's  departing : 
See  who  it  is. 

Edw.  And,  now  the  battle  's  ended, 

If  friend,  or  foe,  let  him  be  gently  used. 

[Clifford  dies 

Rich.  Revoke  that  doom  of  mercy,  for  't  is  CliflTord  ; 
Who  not  contented  that  he  lopp'd  the  branch 
In  hewing  Rutland  when  his  leaves  put  forth, 
But  set  his  murdering  knife  unto  the  root 
From  whence  that  tender  spray  did  sweetly  spring ; 
I  mean,  our  princely  father,  duke  of  York. 

War.  From  off"  the  gates  of  York  fetch  down  the 
head, 
Your  father's  head,  which  Clifford  placed  there , 
Instead  whereof,  let  this  supply  the  room : 
JNIeasure  for  measure  must  be  answered. 

Edw.  Bring  forth  that  fatal  screech-owl  to  our  hous^ 
That  nothing  sung  but  death  to  us  and  ours  : 
Now  death  shall  stop  his  dismal  threatening  sound. 
And  his  ill-boding  tongue  no  more  shall  speak. 

[Soldiers*  bring  Ike  Body  forward 

War.  I  think  his  understanding  is  bere/i  — 
Speak,  Clifford,  dost  thou  know  who  speak.s  to  thee? 
Dark  cloudy  death  o'ershades  his  beams  of  life, 
And  he  nor  sees,  nor  hears  us,  what  we  say. 

Rich.  0.  would  he  did  !  and  so,  perhaps,  he  doth  : 
'T  is  but  his  policy  to  counterfeit. 


494 


THIRD    PART   OF 


ACT  m. 


Because  he  would  avoid  such  bitter  taunts 
VVliich  in  tlic  time  of  death  he  gave  our  father. 

Geo.  If  so  thou  think'st,  vex  him  wih  eager'  words. 

Rich.  Cl.fford  !  ask  mercy,  and  obtain  no  grace. 

[They  pull  him  to  and  fro.* 

Elite.  Clifford  !  repent  in  bootless  ])cnitcnce. 

War.  Cliffo-d  !  devise  excifflos  for  thy  faults. 

Geo.  While  we  devise  tell  tortures  for  thy  faults. 

A'jcA.  TIjou  didst  love  York,  and  I  am  son  to  York. 

Edw.  Tliou  pitiedst  Rutland;  I  will  pity  thee. 

Geo.  Where  's  captain  Margaret  to  fence  you  now? 

liar.  They  mock  thee,  Cliflbrd  :  swear  as  thou  waat 
wont. 

Rich.  What !  not  an  oath?  nay  then,  the  world  goes 
hard, 
When  Clitford  camiot  spare  his  friends  an  oath. — 
I  know  by  that,  he  's  dead ;  and,  by  my  soul, 
\f  this  right  hand  would  buy  two  hours'  life, 
Tliat  I  in  all  despite  might  rail  at  him,  [blood 

This  hand  should  chop  it  off;  and  with  the  issuing 
Stitie  the  villain,  whose  unstaunched  thirst 
York  and  young  Rutland  could  not  satisfy. 

War.  Ay,  but  he 's  dead.  Off  with  the  traitor's  head. 
And  rear  it  in  the  place  your  father's  stands. — 


And  now  to  London  wth  triumphant  march, 

There  to  be  cro-wned  England's  royal  king  : 

From  whence  shall  Warwick  tut  the  sea  to  Fiance, 

And  ask  the  lady  Bona  for  tiiy  queen. 

So  shall  thou  sinew  both  thrst-  lauds  together; 

And,  having  France  thy  friind.  thou  shalt  not  Jtead 

The  scattered  foe  that  hopes  to  rise  again  : 

For  though  they  caimot  greatly  stini.'  to  hurt. 

Yet  look  to  have  them  buz.  t'  offend  thine  ears. 

First,  will  I  see  the  coronation, 

And  then  to  Brittany  I  '11  cross  the  sea, 

To  effect  this  marriage,  so  it  please  my  lord. 

Edw.  Even  as  thou  wilt,  sweet  Warwick,  lee  it  be 
For  in  thy  shoulder  do  I  build  my  seat, 
And  never  will  I  undertake  the  thing. 
Wherein  thy  counsel  and  consent  is  wanting  — 
Richard,  I  will  create  thee  duke  of  Gloster  ; 
And  George,  of  Clarence  : — Warwick,  as  ourself, 
Shall  do,  and  undo,  as  him  pleaseth  best. 

Rich.  Let  me  be  duke  of  Clarence,  George  of  Gloetoi . 
For  Gloster's  dukedom  is  too  ominous. 

War.  Tut !  that 's  a  foolish  observation  : 
Richard,  be  duke  of  Gloster.     Now  to  London, 
To  see  these  honours  in  possession.  [Exeuni 


ACT     III. 


SCENE  L— A  Chace  in  the  North  of  England. 
Enter  two  Keepers,  with  Cross-bows  in  their  Hands. 

1  Keep.  Under  this  thick-grown  brake  we  'II  shroud 

ourselves : 
For  through  this  lawn  anon  the  deer  will  come. 
And  in  this  covert  will  we  make  our  stand, 
Culling  the  principal  of  all  the  deer. 

2  Keep.  I  '11  stay  above  the  hill,  so  both  may  shoot. 

1  Keep.  That  cannot  be  ;  the  noise  of  thy  cross-bow- 
Will  scare  the  herd,  and  so  my  shoot  is  lost. 

Here  stand  we  both,  and  aim  we  at  the  best : 

And,  for  the  time  shall  not  seem  tedious, 

I  "11  tell  thee  what  befel  me  on  a  day, 

In  this  self-place,  where  now  we  mean  to  stand. 

2  Keep.  Here  comes  a  man :  let 's  stay  till  he  be  past. 
Enter  King  Henry,  disguised  ns  a  churchman,'  with  a 

Prayer-book. 
K.  Hen.  From  Scotland  am  I  stol'n,  even  of  pure  love, 
To  greet  mine  own  laud  with  my  wishful  sight. 
No.  Harry,  Harry,  't  is  no  land  of  thine  ; 
Thy  place  is  filld,  thy  sceptre  WTung  from  thee. 
Thy  balm  wa^h'd  off  wherewith  thou  wast  anointed  : 
No  bending  knee  will  call  thee  Cre.sar  now, 
No  humble  suitors  prei^s  to  speak  for  right, 
No   not  a  man  comes  for  redress  of  thee, 
For  how  can  I  help  them,  and  not  myself? 

1  Keep.  Ay,  here 's  a  deer  whose  skin 's  a  keeper's  fee. 
This  is  the  quondam  king  :  let  "s  seize  upon  him. 

A'.  Hen.  Let  me  embrace  these  sour  adversities* ; 
For  wise  men  say.  it  is  the  wisest  cour.ee. 

2  Keep.  Why  linger  we?  let  us  lay  hands  upon  him. 
\  Kerp.  Forbear  awhile:  we'll  hear  a  little  more. 
K  Hen.  My  queen  and  son  are  gone  to  France  for  aid : 

And,  as  I  hear,  the  great  commanding  Warwick 
Is  thither  gone,  to  crave  the  French  king's  sister 
To  wife  for  Edward.     If  this  news  be  true, 
Poor  queen  and  son,  your  labour  is  but  lost ; 
For  Warwick  is  a  subtle  orator. 


And  Lewis  a  prince  soon  won  ^vith  moving  wordg. 

By  this  account,  then,  Marsaret  may  win  him, 

For  she  's  a  woman  to  be  pitied  much  : 

Her  sighs  will  make  a  battery  in  his  brea«t, 

Her  tears  will  pierce  into  a  marble  heart ; 

The  tiger  will  be  mild  whiles  she  doth  mourn, 

And  Nero  will  be  tainted  with  remorse. 

To  hear,  and  see,  her  plaints,  her  brinish  tears. 

Ay,  but  she  's  come  to  beg  ;  Warwick,  to  give  : 

She  on  his  left  side  craving  aid  for  Henry, 

He  on  his  right  asking  a  wife  for  Edward. 

She  weeps,  and  says — her  Henry  is  depos'd  ; 

He  smiles,' and  says — his  Edward  is  install'd  ; 

That  she.  poor  WTctch.  for  grief  can  speak  no  more, 

Wliiles  Warsvick  tells  his  title,  smooths  the  wrong, 

Tnterreth  arguments  of  mighty  strength  ; 

And,  in  conclusion,  wins  the  king  from  her. 

With  promise  of  his  sister,  and  awAii  el.<;e. 

To  strengthen  and  support  king  Edward's  place. 

0  Margaret  !  thus  't  will  be  :  and  thou,  poor  soul, 

Art  then  forsaken,  as  thou  wentst  forlorn. 

2  Keep.  Say,   what   art  thou   talkest  of  kings  and 
queens?  [Comvig  forward.' 

K.  Hm.  More  than  I  seem,  and  less  than  I  wa* 
born  to  : 
A  man  at  least,  for  less  I  should  not  be  ; 
And  men  may  talk  of  kings,  and  why  not  I  ? 

2  Keep.  Ay.  but  thou  talk'st  as  if  thou  wert  a  king. 

A'.    Hvn.   Why,  so  I  am.  in  mind  ;  and  that 's  enou^k 

2  Keep.  But,  if  thou  be  a  king,  w^here  is  thy  crown.' 

A'.    Hen.  My  crown  is  in  my  heart,  not  on  my  hca/1, 
Not  deck'd  with  diamonds,  and  Indian  stones,  • 
Nor  to  be  seen :  my  crown  is  calld,  content: 
A  crown  it  is,  that  seldom  kings  enjoy. 

2  Kerp.  Well,  if  you  be  a  king  crown'd  with  couteirt, 
Your  crown,  content,  and  you,  must  be  contented 
To  go  along  with  us ;  for,  a-s  we  think. 
You  are  the  king,  king  Edward  hath  depos'd; 
And  we  his  subjects,  sworn  in  all  allegiance. 


Sour,  iharp     »  Not  Id  f.  e.     '  The  word«.  as  a  churchman  :  not  in  f.  •.     *  adversaries  :  in  folio.    I'ope  changed  the  word      •  Sol  id  f  » 


BOEXE  n 


KIKG   HENRY  VI. 


495 


Will  apprehend  you  as  his  enemy. 

K.  Hen.  But  did  you  never  swear,  and  break  an  oath  ? 

2  Keep.  No,  never  such  an  oath ;  nor  will  not  now. 

K.  Hen.  Where  did  you  dwell  when  I  was  king  of 
England  ? 

2  Keep.  Here  in  this  country,  where  we  now  remain. 

K.  Hen.  I  was  anointed  king  at  nine  mouths  old, 
My  father  and  my  grandfather,  were  kings, 
A.nd  you  were  sworn  true  subjects  unto  me  ; 
And  tell  me,  then,  have  you  not  broke  your  oaths  ? 

1  Keep.  No ; 
For  we  were  subjects,  but  while  you  were  king. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  am  I  dead?  do  I  not  breathe  i.  man? 
Ah,  simple  men  !  yon  know  not  what  you  swear. 
Look,  as  I  blow  this  feather  from  my  face, 
And  as  the  air  blows  it  to  me  again. 
Obeying  with  my  wii  d  when  I  do  blow. 
And  yielding  to  another  when  it  blows. 
Commanded  always  by  the  greater  gi>st. 
Such  is  the  lightness  of  you  common  men. 
But  do  not  break  your  oaths ;  for  of  that  sin 
My  mild  entreaty  shall  not  make  you  guilty. 
Go  where  you  will,  the  king  shall  be  commanded. 
And  be  you  kings  ;  command,  and  I  '11  obey. 

1  Keep.  We  are  true  subjects  to  the  king,  king  Ed- 
ward. 

K.  Hen.  So  would  you  be  again  to  Henry, 
If  he  were  seated  as  king  Edward  is. 

1  Keep.  We  charge  you,  in  God's  name,  and  in  the 
king's. 
To  go  with  us  unto  the  officers. 

K.  Hen.  In  God's  name,  lead  :  your  king's  name  be 
obey'd  : 
And  what  God  will,  that  let  your  king  perform  ; 
And  what  he  will,  I  humbly  yield  unto.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Edward,  in  state,  crowned,^  Gloster.  Cla- 
rence, and  Lady  Grey. 
K.  Edw.  Brother  of  Gloster,  at  Saint  Albans'  field 
This  lady's  husband,  sir  John  Grey,  was  slain. 
His  land  then  seiz'd  on  by  the  conqueror : 
Her  suit  is  now  to  repossess  those  lands. 
Which  we  in  justice  cannot  well  deny. 
Because  in  quarrel  of  the  house  of  York 
The  worthy  gentleman  did  lose  his  life. 

Glo.  Your  highness  shall  do  well,  to  grant  her  suit: 
It  were  dishonour  to  deny  it  her. 
A'.  Edw.  It  were  no  less ;  but  yet  I  '11  make  a  pause. 
&o.  Yea;  is  it  so?  [Aside. 

I  see,  the  lady  hath  a  thing  to  grant, 
I  Before  the  king  will  grant  her  humble  suit. 
I      Clar.  He  knows  the  game :  how  true  he  keeps  the 
wind  !  [Aside. 

Glo.  Silence!  [Aside. 

K.  Edw.  Widow,  we  will  consider  of  your  ^lit, 
■  And  come  some  other  time  to  know  our  mind. 

L   Grey.  Right  gracious  lord.  I  cannot  brook  delay : 
May  it  please  your  highness  to  resolve  me  now. 
And  what  your  pleasure  is  shall  satisfy  me. 

Glo.  Ay,  widow?  then  I'll  warrant  you  all  your 
lands. 

An  if  what  pleases  him  shall  pleasure  you, 

Fight  closer,  or,  good  faith,  you  '11  catch  a  blow.    [Aside. 

Clar.  I  fear  her  not,  unless  she  chance  to  fall.  [J.sjrfe. 

Glo  God  forbid  that,  for  he'll  take  vantages.  [Aside. 

K.  Edw.  How  many  children  hast  thou,  widow  ?  tell 

me 
I'Uir.  I  think,  he  means  to  beg  a  child  of  her.  [Aside. 

I       '  Tfce  voTds   in  state,  crowned  ■   not  in  f.  e 


Glo.  Nay  then,  whip  me ;  he  '11  rather  give  her  two. 

[Aside. 
L.  Grey.  Three,  my  most  gracious  lord. 
Glo.  You  shall  have  four,  if  you  '11  be  nil  d  by  him 

[Aside 
K.  Edw.  'T  were  pity,  they  should  lose  their  father's 

lands. 
L.  Grey.  Be  pitiful,  dread  lord,  and  grant  it  then. 
K.  Edw.  Lords,  give  us  leave:  I'll  try  this  widow'? 

wit. 
Glo.  Ay,  good  leave  have  you ;  for  you  will  have  leave 
Till  youth  take  leave,  and  leave  you  to  the  crutch. 

[Gloster  and  Clarence  stand  back 
K.  Edv).  Now  tell  me.  madam,   do  you  love  your 

children  ? 
L.  G-rey.  Ay.  full  as  dearly  as  I  love  myself. 
K.  Edw.  And  would  you  not  do  much,  to  do  them 

good? 
L.  Grey.  To  do  them  good  I  would  sustain   some 

harm. 
K.  Edw.  Then,  get  your  hu.^band's  lands  to  do  them 

good. 
L.  Grey.  Therefore  I  came  unto  your  majesty. 
K.  Edw.  I  '11  tell  you  how  these  lands  are  to  be  got. 
L.  Grey.  So  shall  you  bind  me  to   yoiu-  highness' 

service. 
K.  Edw.  What  service  wilt  thou  do  me,  if  I  give 

them  ? 
L.  Grey.  What  you  command,  that  rests  in  me  to  do. 
K.  Edw.  But  you  will  take  exceptions  to  my  boon. 
L.  Grey.  No,  gracious  lord,  except  I  cannot  do  it. 
K.  Edw.  Ay,  but  thou  canst  do  what  I  mean  to  ask 
L.  Grey.  Why  then,  I  will  do  what  your  grace  com- 
mands. 
Glo.  He  plies  her  hard;  and  much  rain  wears  the 

marble.  [Aside. 

Clar.  As  red  as  fire  !  nay  then,  her  wax  must  melt. 

[Asiile. 
L.  Grey.  Why  stops  my  lord  ?  shall  I  not  hear  my 

task  ? 
K.  Edw.  An  easy  task :  't  is  but  to  love  a  king. 
L.  Grey.  That 's  soon  perform'd,   because   I   am  a 

subject. 
K.  Edw.    Why  then,  thy  husband's  lands  I  freely 

give  thee. 
L.  Grey.  I  take  my  leave  with  many  thousand  thanks. 
Glo.  The  match  is  made:  she  seals  it  with  a  curtVy. 

[A.'^e. 
K.  Edw.  But  stay  thee  :  't  is  the  fruits  of  love  I  mean. 
L.  Grey.  The  fruits  of  love  I  mean,  my  loving  liege. 
K.  Edw.  Ay,  but  I  fear  me.  in  another  sense. 
What  love,  think'st  thou,  I  sue  so  much  to  get  ? 

L.  Grey!  My  love  till  death;  my  humble  thanks,  my 

prayers : 
That  love  which  virtue  begs,  and  virtue  grants. 

K.  Edw.  No,  by  my  troth,  I  did  not  mean  such  love. 
L.  Grey.  Why  then,  you  mean  not  as  I  thought  yo« 

did. 
K.  Edw.  But  now  you  partly  may  perceive  my  mind. 
L.  Grey.  My  mind  will  never  grant  what  I  perceive 
Your  hisrhness  aims  at,  if  I  aim  aright. 

A'.  Edw.  To  tell  thee  plain.  I  aim  to  lie  with  thee. 
L.  Grey.  To  tell  vou  plain.  1  had  rather  lie  in  prison. 
K.  Edw.  Wliy  then,  thou  -^halt  not  have  thy  hus- 
band's lands. 
L     Grey.    Why  then,    mine   honesty   shall   be   my 

dower ; 
For  by  that  loss  I  will  not  purchase  them. 

K.  Edw.  Therein  thou  wTong'st  thy  children  miebJilv 


496 


THIRD  PAIIT  OF 


A.CT  m. 


L   Grey.  Herciu   your  highness  wrongs  botlj  them 
and  me. 
R\it.  mighty  lord,  thia  merry  inclination 
Accords  not  with  the  sadnees'  of  my  suit; 
Please  you  dismiss  me,  either  with  ay.  or  no. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  if  tliou  wilt  say  ay,  to  my  request; 
No.  if  tliou  dost  say  no,  to  my  demand. 

L.  Grey.  Then.  no.  my  lord.     My  suit  is  at  an  end. 
Glo.  The  widow  likes  him  not,  she  knits  her  brows. 

[Aside. 
Clar.  He  is  the  bluntest  wooer  in  Clirisiendom. 

[A.tide. 
K.  Edw.  Her  looks  do  argue  her  replete  with  mo- 
desty :  [Asuie. 
Her  words  do  show  her  wit  incomparable  , 
yVU  her  perfections  challenge  sovereignty  : 
One  way.  or  other,  she  is  for  a  king. 
And  she  shall  be  my  love,  or  else  my  queen. — 
Say,  that  king  Edward  take  thee  for  his  queen  ? 

L.  Grey.  'T  is  better  said  than  done,  my  gracious  lord : 
I  am  a  subject  fit  to  jest  withal, 
But  far  unfit  to  be  a  .sovereign. 

K.  Edw.  Sweet  widow,  by  my  state  I  swear  to  thee. 
I  speak  no  more  than  what  my  soul  intends; 
••Vnd  that,  is  to  enjoy  thee  for  my  love. 

L.  Grey.  And  that  is  more  than  I  will  yield  unto. 
1  know.  I  am  too  mean  to  be  your  queen, 
And  yet  too  good  to  be  j-our  concubine. 

K.  Edw.  You  cavil,  widow  ;  I  did  mean,  my  queen. 
L.  Grey.  'T  will  grieve  your  grace,  my  sons  should 

call  you  father. 
K.  Edw.    No  more,    than  when  my  daughters  call 
thee  mother. 
Thou  art  a  widow,  and  thou  ha-^t  some  children  : 
.\nd,  by  God's  mother,  I.  being  but  a  bachelor, 
Have  other  some:  why,  'i  is  a  happy  thing 
To  be  the  father  unto  many  sons. 
Answer  no  more,  for  thou  shalt  be  my  queen. 

Glo.  The  ghostly  father  now  hath  done  his  shrift. 

[A.side . 
Clar    When  he  was  made  a  shriver.  't  was  for  shift. 

[Aside. 
K.  Edw.  Brothers,  you  muse  what  chat  we  two  have 
had.  [Gloster  and  Clarence  come  forward.^ 
Glo.  The  widow  likes  it  not,  for  slie  looks  very  sad. 
K.  Edw.  You  'd  think  it  strange  if  I  should  marry  her. 
Clar.  To  whom,  my  lord  ? 

K.  Edw.  Why,  Clarence,  \o  myself? 

Glo.  That  would  be  ten  days'  wonder,  at  the  least. 
Clar.  That 's  a  day  longer  ihan  a  wonder  hvsts. 
Glo.  By  so  much  is  the  wonder  in  extremes. 
K.  Edw.  Well,  jest  on,  brothers:  I  can  tell  you  both. 
Her  suit  is  granted  for  her  hu.sband's  lands. 
Enter  a  Nobleman. 
Nob.  My  graciou.«  lord,  Henry  your  foe  is  taken, 
And  brought  your  pri.soner  to  your  palace  gate. 

K.  Edw.  See,  that  he  be  convey'd  unto  the  Tower: — 
And  go  we,  brothers,  to  the  man  that  took  him, 
To  question  of  his  apprehension. — 
Widow,  go  you  along. — Lords,  use  her  honourably. 

[Exeunt  King  Ki)w.\rd,  Lady  Grev,  Cla- 
KE.NCK.  and  jAjrd. 
Glo    Ay,  Edward  will  use  women  honourably. 
Would  he  were  wa.sted,  marro  a-,  bones,  and  all, 
1  liat  from  his  loins  no  hopi-ful  branch  may  spring. 
To  cro.ss  me  from  the  golden  time  I  look  for  ! 
And  yet,  between  my  soul'i.  de.'-ire,  and  me, 


The  lustful  Edward's  title  buried. 

Is  Clarence,  Henry,  and  his  son  young  Edward, 

And  all  the  unlook'd-tor  issue  of  their  bodies. 

To  take  their  rooms,  ere  I  can  place  my.self : 

A  cold  premeditation  for  my  purpose. 

Why  then,  I  do  but  dream  on  .sovereignty; 

Like  one  that  stands  upon  a  promontory, 

And  spies  a  far-offshore  where  he  v.ould  tread. 

Wishing  his  foot  were  equal  with  his  eye : 

And  chides  the  sea  that  sunders  him  from  thence, 

Saying — he  '11  lade  it  dry  to  have  his  way: 

So  do  I  wish  the  crown,  being  so  far  off, 

And  so  I  chide  the  means  that  keep  me  from  it ; 

And  so  I  say  I  '11  cut  the  cau.ses  off. 

Flattering  me  wth  impossibilities. — 

My  eye  's  too  quick,  my  heart  o'erweens  too  much. 

Unless  my  hand  and  strength  could  equal  them. 

Well,  say  there  is  no  kingdom,  tiien,  for  liichard 

What  other  pleasure  can  the  world  afford  ? 

I  '11  make  my  heaven  in  a  lady's  lap, 

And  deck  my  body  in  gay  ornaments. 

And  witch  sweet  ladies  with  my  words  and  looks 

0  miserable  thought  !  and  more  unlikely, 
Than  to  accomplish  twenty  golden  crowns. 
Why,  love  forswore  me  in  my  mother's  womb  ; 
And.  for  I  should  not  deal  in  her  soft  laws, 
She  did  corrupt  frail  nature  with  some  bribe 
To  shrink  mine  arm  up  like  a  withered  shrub  , 
To  make  an  envious  mountain  on  my  back. 
Where  sits  deformity  to  mock  my  body ; 

To  shape  my  legs  of  an  unequal  size ; 
To  disproportion  me  in  every  part. 
j  Like  to  a  chaos,  or  an  unlick'd  bear-wholp. 
That  carries  no  impression  like  the  dam. 
And  am  I,  then,  a  man  to  be  belov'd  ? 
O,  mon.strous  fault,  to  harbour  such  a  thought ! 
Then,  since  this  earth  affords  no  joy  to  me 
But  to  command,  to  che^k,  to  o'erbear  such 
As  are  of  better  person  ihan  myself, 

1  '11  make  my  heaven  to  dream  upon  the  crown  : 
And.  whiles  I  live,  t'  account  this  w^orld  but  hell, 
Until  my  mis-shap'd  trunk  that  bears  this  head, 
Be  round  impaled  with  a  glorious  crown. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  get  the  crown. 

For  many  lives  stand  between  me  and  home  . 

And  I,  like  one  lost  in  a  thorny  wood, 

That  rends  the  thorns,  and  is  rent  with  the  tlionia, 

Seeking  a  way.  and  straying  from  the  way. 

Not  knowing  how  to  find  the  open  air. 

But  toilmg  desperately  to  find  it  out. 

Torment  myself  to  catch  the  English  crown  : 

And  from  that  torment  I  will  free  my.self, 

Or  hew  my  way  out  with  a  bloody  axe. 

Why,  I  can  .^mile,  and  murder  while  I  smile, 

And  cry,  content,  to  that  which  grieves  my  hear;, 

And  wet  my  cheeks  with  artificial  tears. 

And  frame  my  face  to  all  occasions. 

I  '11  drown  more  sailors  than  the  mermaid  shall, 

I  '11  slay  more  gazers  than  the  basilisk  ; 

I  '11  play  the  orator  as  well  as  Nestor. 

Deceive  more  slily  than  Uly.sses  could. 

And  like  a  Sinon  take  another  Troy. 

I  can  add  colours  to  the  carneleon, 

Chanire  shapes,  with  Proteus,  for  advantages. 

And  send  the  murderous  Machiavcl  to  schoo!. 

Can  I  do  thi.s,  and  cannot  get  a  crown  ? 

Tut !  were  it  further  off.  I  'd  pluck  it  down.         |  /"J* 


KING  HENRY  YL 


491 


SCENE  III.— France.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Flourish.     Enter  Lewis  the  French  King^  and  Lady 
Bona,    attended;    the  King  takes  his  State.      Then, 
enter   Queen  Margaret,  Prince  Edward,   and  the 
Earl  of  Oxford. 

K.  Lew.  Fair  qi>een  of  England,  worthy  Margaret, 
Sit  down  with  us  :  it  ill  befits  thy  state, 
And  birth,  that  thou  shouldst  stand,  while  Lewis  doth 
sit. 
Q.  Mar.  No,  mighty  king  of  France ;  now  Margaret 
Must  strike  her  sail,  and  learn  a  while  to  serve, 
Where  kings  command.     I  was,  I  must  confess. 
Great  Albion's  queen  in  former  golden  days ; 
But  now  mischance  hath  trod  my  title  down, 
And  with  dishonour  laid  me  on  the  ground, 
Where  I  must  take  like  seat  unto  my  fortune, 
And  to  my  humble  seat  conform  myself. 

K.  Lew.  Why,  say,  fair  queen,  whence  springs  this 

deep  despair  ? 
Q.  Mar.  From  such  a  cause  as  fills  mine  eyes  with 
tears, 
And  stops  my  tongue,  while  heart  is  drown'd  in  cares. 

K.  Lew.  Whate'er  it  be,  be  thou  still  like  thyself, 
And  sit  thee  by  our  side  :  yield  not  thy  neck 

[Seats  her  by  him. 
To  fortune's  yoke,  but  let  thy  dauntless  mind 
Still  ride  in  triumph  over  all  mischance. 
Be  plain,  queen  Margaret,  and  tell  thy  grief; 
It  shall  be  eas'd,  if  France  can  yield  relief. 

Q.  3Iar.  Those  gracious  words  revive  my  drooping 
thoughts, 
And  give  my  tongue-tied  sorrows  leave  to  spea^k. 
Now,  therefore,  be  it  known  to  noble  Lewis, 
That  Heiiry^  sole  possessor  of  my  love. 
Is  of  a  king  become  a  banish'd  man, 
And  forc'd  to  live  in  Scotland  all  forlorn  , 
While  proud  ambitious  Edward,  duke  of  York, 
Usurps  the  regal  title,  and  the  seat 
Of  England's  true-anointed  lawful  king. 
This  is  the  cause,  that  I,  poor  Margaret, 
With  this  my  son,  prince  Edward,  Henry's  heir, 
Am  come  to  crave  thy  just  and  lawful  aid ; 
And  if  thou  fail  us  all  our  hope  is  done. 
Scotland  hath  will  to  help,  but  cannot  help ; 
Our  people  and  our  peers  are  both  misled, 
Our  treasure  seiz'd,  our  soldiers  put  to  fhght, 
And,  as  thou  seest,  ourselves  in  heavy  plight. 

K.  Lew.  Renowned  queen,  with  patience  calm  the 
storm, 
While  we  bethink  a  means  to  break  it  off. 

Q.  Mar.  The  more  we  stay,  the  stronger  grows  our 

foe. 
K.  Lew.  The  more  I  stay,  the  more  I  '11  succour  thee. 
Q.  3Iar.  0  !  but  impatience  waiteth  on  true  sorrow: 
And  see  where  comes  the  breeder  of  my  sorrow. 
Enter  Warwick,  attended. 
K.  Lew.  What 's  he,  approacheth  boldly  to  our  pre- 
sence ? 
Q.  Mar.  The  earl  of  Warwick,  Edward's  greatest 

friend. 
K.  Lew.    Welcome,  brave  Warwick.     What  brings 
thee  to  France  ? 

{He  descends.     Queen  Margaret  rises. 
Q.  Mar.  Ay,  now  begins  a  second  storm  to  rise ; 
For  this  is  he  that  moves  both  wind  and  tide. 

War.  From  worthy  Edward,  king  of  Albion, 
My  lord  and  sovereign,  and  thy  vowed  friend, 
|>  oorae  in  kindness,  and  unfeigned  love, 

Thy  :  i>  f.  e. 
2  0 


First,  to  do  greetings  to  thy  royal  pereon. 
And,  then,  to  crave  a  league  of  amity ; 
And,  lastly,  to  confirm  that  amity 
With  nuptial  knot,  if  thou  vouchsafe  to  grant 
That  virtuous  lady  Bona,  thy  fair  sister. 
To  England's  king  in  lawful  marriage. 

Q.  Mar.  If  that  go  forward,  Henry's  hope  is  done 

War.    And,  gracious    madam,    [To   Bona.]    in   our 
king's  behalf, 
I  am  commanded,  with  your  leave  and  favour. 
Humbly  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  with  my  tongue 
To  tell  the  passion  of  my  sovereign's  heart ; 
Where  fame,  late  entering  at  his  heedful  ears, 
Hath  plac'd  thy  beauty's  image,  and  thy  virtue. 

Q.  Mar.  King  Lewis,  and  lady  Bona,  hear  me  speak 
Before  you  answer  Warwick.     His  demand 
Springs  not  from  Edward's  well-meant  honest  love 
But  from  deceit,  bred  by  necessity  ; 
For  how  can  tyrants  safely  govern  home. 
Unless  abroad  they  purchase  great  alliance? 
To  prove  him  tyrant  this  reason  may  sutTic«. — 
That  Henry  liveth  still :  but  were  he  dead. 
Yet  here  prince  Edward  stands,  kins  Henry's  son. 
Look  therefore,  Lewis,  that  by  this  league  and  marriage 
Thou  draw  not  on  thee'  danger  and  dishonour  ; 
For  though  usurpers  sway  the  rule  awhile, 
Yet  heavens  are  just,  and  time  suppresseth  wrongs. 

War.  Injurious  Margaret ! 

Prince.  And  why  not  queen  ? 

War.  Because  thy  father  Henry  did  usurp. 
And  thou  no  more  art  prince  than  she  is  queen. 

Oxf.  Then,  Warwick  disannuls  great  John  of  Gaunl 
Which  did  subdue  the  greatest  part  of  Spain  ; 
And,  after  John  of  Gaunt,  Henry  the  fourth, 
Whose  wisdom  was  a  mirror  to  the  wisest : 
And  after  that  wise  pnnce,  Henry  the  fifth. 
Who  by  his  prowess  conquered  all  France  : 
From  these  our  Henry  lineally  descends. 

War.  Oxford,  how  haps  it,  in  this  smooth  discourse. 
You  told  not,  how  Henry  the  sixth  hath  lost 
All  that  which  Henry  the  fifth  had  gotten  ? 
Methinks,  these  peers  of  France  should  smile  at  that 
But  for  the  rest, — you  tell  a  pedigree 
Of  threescore  and  two  years  ;  a  silly  time 
To  make  prescription  for  a  kingdom's  worth. 

0.rf.  Why,  Warwick,  canst  thou  speak  against  thy 
liege, 
Whom  thou  obeyedst  thirty  and  six  years. 
And  not  bewTay  thy  treason  with  a  blush  ? 

War.  Can  Oxford,  that  did  ever  fence  the  right, 
Now  buckler  falsehood  with  a  pedigree  ? 
For  shame  !   leave  Henry,  and  call  Edward  king. 

Oxf.   Call  him  my  king,  by  whose  injurious  doon. 
My  elder  brother,  the  losd  Aubrey  Vere. 
Was  done  to  death  ?  and  more  than  so,  my  father, 
Even  in  the  downfall  of  his  mellow'd  years, 
When  nature  brought  him  to  the  door  of  death  '^ 
No.  Warwick,  no  ;  while  life  upholds  this  arm, 
Thi.'*  arm  upholds  the  house  of  Lanca.ster. 

War.  And  I  the  house  of  York. 

K.  Lew.  Queen  Margaret,  prince  Edward,  and  O? 
ford. 
Vouchsafe  at  our  request  to  stand  aside. 
While  I  use  farther  conference  with  Warwick. 

Q.  Mar    Heaven  srant,  that  Warwick's  words  be 
witch  him  nof !  [They  stand  apart 

K.  Lew.  Now,  Warwick,  tell  me,  even  upon  thy  con 
science. 
Is  Edward  your  true  king  ?  for  I  were  loatL, 


493 


THIRD  PART  OF 


AOT  m. 


To  link  with  him  that  were  not  la'w'ful  chosen. 

War.  Thoroon  I  pawn  my  credit,  and  mine  honour. 

A'.  Iav.  Hut  i.<  lu'  irracious  in  the  people's  eye? 

War.  The  more,  tliat  Henry  was  unfortunate. 

K.  Lrw.  Tlien  liirlher.  all  dissembling  set  aside, 
Tell  me  lor  truth  the  measure  of  his  love 
Unto  our  sister  Bona. 

War.  Such  it  seems, 

\8  may  beseem  a  monarch  like  himself. 
Myself  have  often  heard  him  ."^ay.  and  swear, 
That  this  his  love  was  an  eternal  plant  : 
Whereof  the  root  v.as  tixd  in  virtue's  ground, 
The  leaves  and  fruit  maintain'd  with  beauty's  sun, 
Kxcmpt  from  envy,  but  not  from  disdain, 
I'nlesB  the  lady  Bona  quit  his  pain. 

K.  Lcic.  Now,  sister,  let  us  hear  your  firm  resolve. 

Bona.  Your  crant.  or  your  denial,  shall  be  mine. — 
Vet  I  confess.  [To  W.\r.]  that  often  ere  this  day, 
When  1  have  heard  your  kings  desert  recounted, 
Mine  ear  hath  tempted  judgment  to  desire. 

A'.  Letc.  Tlien.  Warwick,  thus  : — our  sister  shall  be 
Edward's  : 
.\nd  now  t'orthwith  shall  articles  be  drawn 
Touching  the  jointure  that  your  king  must  make, 
Which  with  her  dowry  shall  be  counterpois'd. — 
Draw  near,  queen  Margaret,  and  be  a  witness, 
That  Bona  shall  be  witc  to  the  English  kina. 

Prince.  To  Edward,  but  not  to  the  English  king. 

Q.  Mar.  Deceitful  Warwick  !  it  was  thy  device 
By  this  alliance  to  make  void  my  suit : 
Before  thy  coming.  Lewis  was  Henry's  friend. 

K.  Lew.  And  still  is  friend  to  him  and  Margaret : 
But  if  your  title  to  the  crown  be  weak, 
As  may  appear  by  Edward's  good  success, 
Then  't  is  but  reason,  that  1  be  rcleas'd 
From  giving  aid  which  late  I  promised. 
Vet  shaii  you  have  all  kindness  at  my  hand. 
That  your  c^iaie  requires,  and  mine  can  yield. 

War.  Henry  now  lives  in  Scotland,  at  his  ease, 
Where  ha\ing  nothing,  nothing  can  he  lose. 
And  as  for  you  yourself,  our  quondam  queen, 
Vou  have  a  father  able  to  maintain  you. 
And  better  'twere  you  troubled  him  than  France. 

Q.  Mnr.  Peace,  impudent  and  shameless  Warwick  ! 
Proud  setter-up  and  pul'.er-down  of  kines, 
I  will  not  hence,  till  with  my  talk  and  tears. 
Both  full  of  truth,  I  make  king  Lewis  behold 
Thy  sly  conveyance,'  and  thy  lord's  false  love  ; 
For  both  of  you  are  birds  of  self-same  feather. 

[A  horn  .founded  within. 

K.  Lew.  Warwck.  this  is  some  post  to  us,  or  thee. 
Kntcr  the  Post. 

Pa^t.  My  lord  ambassador,  these  letters  are  for  you, 
S<'nt  from  your  brother,  marquess  Montaene. — 
The»e  from  our  king  unto  your  majesty. — 
And,  madam,  tJiese  for  you  ;  from  whom  I  know  not. 
\Thry  all  read  their  Icltfrs. 

Ozf.  I  like  it  well,  that  onr  fair  queen  and  mistress 
Smiles  at  her  news,  while  Warwick  frowns  at  his. 

Prince.  Nay,  mark  how  Lewis  stamps  as  he  were 
nettled  : 
'  hope  all  's  for  the  best. 

K.  Lew.  Warwick,  what  are  thy  news  ?  and  yours, 
fair  queen  ?  'f  joyp. 

Q.  Mar.   Mine,  such   as  fill  my  heart  with  unho|Vd 

War    Mine,  full  of  sorrow  and  heart's  diseontcnt. 

K.  Lfw.  What  !  ha.s  yourkina  married  the  lady  Grey. 
And  now,  to  soothe  your  forgery  and  his. 
Sends  me  a  paper  to  persuade  me  patience  ? 

»  Ar\\fift       >  Frighten.      »  Thin  word  in  not  in  I.  •. 


Is  this  th'  alliance  that  he  seeks  with  France  ? 
Dare  he  presume  to  scorn  us  in  this  manner? 

Q.  Mar.  I  told  your  majesty  as  much  belbre 
This  proveth  Edward's  love,  and  Warwick's  honesty. 

Jfar.  King  Lewis,  I  here  protest,  in  sight  of  heaven, 
And  by  the  hope  I  have  of  heavenly  bliss. 
That  I  am  clear  from  this  misdeed  of  Edward's  • 
No  more  my  king,  for  he  dishonours  me, 
But  most  him.self,  if  he  could  see  his  shame. 
Did  1  forget,  that  by  the  house  of  York 
My  father  came  untimely  to  his  death  ? 
Did  I  let  pass  th'  abuse  done  to  my  niece  ? 
T)i<l  I  impale  him  with  the  regal  crown  ? 
Did  I  put  Henry  from  his  native  right. 
And  .irn  I  guerdon'd  at  the  last  with  shame? 
Shame  on  himself,  for  my  desert  is  honour  : 
And  to  repair  my  honour  lost  for  him, 
I  here  renounce  him,  and  return  to  Henry. 
My  noble  queen,  let  former  grudges  pass, 
And  henceforth  I  am  thy  true  servitor. 
I  will  revenge  his  wrong  to  lady  Bona, 
And  replant  Henry  in  his  former  state. 

Q.  Mar.  Warwick,  these  words  have  turn'd  my  bate 
to  love ; 
And  I  ibrgive  and  quite  forget  old  faults, 
And  joy  that  thou  becom'st  king  Henr\'s  friend. 

War.  So  much  his  friend,  ay,  his  unfeigned  friend. 
That  if  king  Lewis  vouchsafe  to  furnish  us 
With  some  few  bands  of  chosen  soldiers, 
I  '11  undertake  to  land  them  on  our  coast. 
And  force  the  tyrant  from  his  seat  by  war. 
'Tis  not  his  new-made  bride  shall  succour  him. 
And  as  for  Clarence,  as  my  letters  tell  me, 
He  's  very  likely  now  to  fall  from  him. 
For  matching  more  for  wanton  lust  than  honour. 
Or  than  for  strength  ajid  safety  of  our  country. 

Bo7ia.  Dear  brother,  how  shall  Bona  be  reveng'd, 
But  by  thy  help  to  this  distressed  queen  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Renownied  prince,  how  shall  poor  Henry  live. 
Unless  thou  rescue  him  from  foul  despair  ? 

Bona.  My  quarrel  and  this  English  queen's  are  one 

War.  And  mine,  fair  lady  Bona,  joins  with  yours 

A'.  Lew.  And  mine,  with  hers,  and  thine,  and  Mar- 
garet's 
Therefore,  at  last  I  firmly  am  resolv'd 
You  shall  have  aid. 

Q.  Mar.  Let  me  give  humble  thanks  for  all  at  once. 

A'.  Leiv.  Then.  England's  messenger,  return  in  post , 
And  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king, 
That  Lewis  of  France  is  sending  over  maskers. 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride  : 
Thou  seest  what 's  pa.«t :  go,  fear*  thy  king  withal. 

Bo7ia.  Tell  him,  in  hope  he  '11  prove  a  widower  short Iv 
I  '11  wear  the  willow  garland  for  his  sake. 

Q.  Mnr.  Tell  him,  my  mourning  weeds  are  laid  as^d-- 
And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on. 

War.  Tell  him  from  me,  that  he  hath  done  me  -faoua, 
And  therefore  I  '11  uncrown  him  ere  't  be  long. 
There  's  thy  reward  :  be  gone.  [Exit  Post 

K.  Lew.  But,  Warwick;  thou 

And  Oxford,  with  five  thousand  warlike'  men. 
Shall  cross  the  seas,  and  bid  false  Edward  battle  : 
I  And.  as  occasion  serves,  this  noble  queen 
I  .'\nd  prince  shall  follow  with  a  fresh  supply. 
I  Yet,  ere  thou  so,  but  answer  me  one  doubt  : 
I  What  pledge  have  we  of  thy  firm  loyalty? 

I  War.  This  shall  assure  my  constant  loyalty  :- 
That  if  our  queen  and  this  young  prince  agree, 

I I  '11  join  mine  eldest  daughtnr  and  my  joy, 


KING  HEI^KY  VI. 


499 


To  him  forth-with  in  holy  wedlock  hands. 

Q.  Mar.  Yes,  I  agree,  and  thank  you  for  your  mo- 
tion.— 
Bon  Edward,  she  is  fair  and  virtuous, 
Therefore  delay  not,  give  thy  hand  to  Warwick  ; 
And  with  thy  hand  thy  faith  irrevocable, 
That  only  Warwick's  daughter  shall  be  thine. 

Pnnce.  Yes,  I  accept  her,  for  she  well  deserves  it ; 
And  here,  to  pledge  my  vow,  I  give  my  hand. 

[He  gives  his  hand  to  Warwick. 
K.  Lew.  Why  stay  we  now?     These  soldiers  shall 
be  levied. 
And  thou,  lord  Bourbon,  our  high  admiral, 
Shall  waft  them  over  with  our  royal  fleet. — 


I  long,  till  Edward  fall  by  war's  mischance. 
For  mocking  marriage  with  a  dame  of  France. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Warwick 
War.  I  came  from  Edward  as  ambassador, 
But  I  return  his  sworn  and  mortal  foe  : 
Matter  of  marriage  was  the  charge  he  gave  me, 
But  dreadful  war  shall  answer  his  demand. 
Had  he  none  else  to  make  a  stale'  but  me? 
Then  none  but  I  shall  turn  his  jest  to  sorrow. 
I  was  the  chie-f  that  rais'd  him  to  the  cro%>"n. 
And  I  '11  be  chief  to  bring  him  dowii  again  : 
Not  that  I  pity  Henry's  misery. 
But  seek  revenge  on  Edward's  mockery.  [Ex%t 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  I.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Gloster,  Clarence,  Somerset,  Montague. 

Glo.  Now  tell  me,  brother  Clarence,  whet  think  you 
Of  this  new  marriage  with  the  lady  Grey  ? 
Hath  not  our  brother  made  a  worthy  choice  ? 

Clar.  Alas  !  you  know,  'tis  far  from  hence  to  France  : 
How  could  he  stay  till  Warwick  made  return  ? 

Som.  My  lords,  forbear  this  talk  :  here  comes  the  king. 
Flourish.  Enter  King  Edward,  attended  ;  Lady  Grey, 

05  Queen;  Pembroke,  Stafford,  and  Hastings. 

Glo.  And  his  well-chosen  bride. 

Clar.  I  mind  to  tell  him  plainly  what  I  think. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  brother  of  Clarence,  how  like  you 
our  choice. 
That  you  stand  pensive,  as  half  malcontent? 

Clar.  As  well  as  Lewis  of  France,  or  the  earl  of 
Warwick ; 
Which  are  so  weak  of  courage,  and  in  judgment. 
That  they  '11  take  no  offence  at  our  abuse. 

K.  Edw.  Suppose  they  take  offence  without  a  cause. 
They  are  but  Lewis  and  Warwick :  I  am  Edward, 
Your  king  and  Warwick's,  and  must  have  my  will. 

Glo.  And  you'  shall  have  your  will,  because  our  king; 
Yet  hasty  marriage  seldom  proveth  well. 

K.  Edw.  Yea,  brother  Richard,  are  you  offended  too? 

Glo.  Not  L 
No ;  God  forbid,  that  I  should  wish  them  sever'd 
Whom  God  hath  join'd  together :  ay,  and  't  were  pity, 
To  sunder  them  that  yoke  so  well  together. 

K.  Edw.  Setting  your  scorns  and  your  mislike  aside. 
Tell  me  some  reason  why  the  lady  Grey 
Should  not  become  my  wife,  and  England's  queen. — 
And  you  too,  Somerset,  and  Montague, 
Speak  freely  what  you  think. 

Clar.  Then  this  is  mine  opinion — that  king  Levns 
Becomes  your  enemy,  for  mocking  him 
About  the  marnage  of  the  lady  Bona. 

Glo.  And  Warwick,  doing  what  you  gave  in  charge, 
IS  now  dishonoured  by  this  new  marriage. 

K.  Edw.  What,  if  both  Le\\'is  and  Warwick  be  ap- 
peas'd 
By  such  invention  as  I  can  devise  ? 

Mont.  Yet  to  have  join'd  with  France  in  such  alliance, 
*Vould  more  have  strengthen'd  this  our  commonwealth, 
*^ainst  foreign  storms  than  any  home-bred  marriage. 

Hast.  Why,  knows  not  Montague,  that  of  itself 
Sngland  is  safe,  if  true  within  itself? 

Mont.  But  the  safer,  wheu  't  is  back'd  with  France. 

'  Stalking-horte       *  Added  by  Rowe 


Hast.  'T  is  better  using  France,  than  trusting  France. 
Let  us  be  back'd  with  God,  and  with  the  seas, 
Which  he  hath  given  for  fence  impregnable, 
And  with  their  helps  only  defend  ourselves  : 
In  them  and  in  ourselves  our  safety  lies. 

Clar.  For  this  one  speech  lord  Hastings  well  deserves 
To  have  the  heir  of  the  lord  Hungerford. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  what  of  that?  it  was  my  will,  and 
grant ; 
And  for  this  once  my  will  shall  stand  for  law. 

Glo.  And  yet,  methinks,  your  grace  hath  not  done 
well, 
To  give  the  heir  and  daughter  of  lord  Scales 
Unto  the  brother  of  your  loving  bride  : 
She  better  would  have  fitted  me,  or  Clarence ; 
But  in  your  bride  you  bury  brotherhood. 

Clar.  Or  else  you  would  not  have  bestow'd  the  lieir 
Of  the  lord  Bonville  on  your  new  wife's  son. 
And  leave  your  brothers  to  go  speed  elsewhere. 

K.  Edw.  Alas,  poor  Clarence  !  is  it  for  a  wife. 
That  thou  art  malcontent  ?     I  will  provide  thee. 

Clar.  In  choosing  for  yourself  you  show'd  your  judg- 
ment : 
Which  being  shallow,  you  shall  give  me  leave 
To  play  the  broker  in  mine  owai  behalf; 
And  to  that  end  I  shortly  mind  to  leave  you. 

K.  Edui.  Leave  me,  or  tarry,  Edward  will  be  king, 
And  not  be  tied  unto  his  brother's  will. 

Q.  Eliz.  j\Iy  lords,  before  it  pleas'd  his  majesty 
To  raise  my  state  to  title  of  a  queen. 
Do  me  but  right,  and  you  must  all  confess 
That  I  was  not  ignoble  of  descent ; 
And  meaner  than  myself  have  had  like  fortune. 
But  as  this  title  honours  me  and  mine. 
So  your  dislikes,  to  whom  I  would  be  pleasing. 
Do  cloud  my  joys  with  danger  and  with  sorrow. 

K.  Edw.  My  love,  forbear  to  fawn  upon  their  frowns 
What  danger,  or  what  sorrow  can  befal  thee, 
So  long  as  Edward  is  thy  constant  friend. 
And  their  true  sovereign  whom  they  must  obey  ? 
Nay,  whom  they  sharll  obey,  and  love  thee  too. 
Unless  they  seek  for  hatred  at  my  hands ; 
Which  if  they  do,  yet  will  I  keep  thee  safe. 
And  they  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  my  wrath. 

Glo.  I  hear,  yet  say  not  much,  but  think  the  more. 

[Aside. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  messenger,  what  letters,  or  what  news 
From  France  ? 


500 


THIRD  PART  Ob 


Mess.  My  soveroicn  liege,  no  letters,  and  few  wordB ; 
But  such  as  I,  without  your  special  pardon, 
Dare  not  relate. 

K.  Edw.  Go  to,  we  pardon  thee  :  therefore,  in  brief. 
Tell  ine  their  words  as  near  as  thou  canst  guess  them. 
VVliat  answer  makes  king  Lewis  unto  our  letters  ? 

Mess.  At  my  depart  these  were  his  very  words : — 
"  Go  fell  I'alse  Edward,  thy  supposed  king, 
That  Lewis  of  France  is  sending  over  maskers, 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride." 

K.  Edw.  Is  Lewis  so  brave?  belike,  he  thinks  me 
Honrj-. 
But  what  said  lady  Bona  to  my  marriage? 

Mtss.  These  were  her  words,  utter'd  with  mild  dis- 
dain : — 
''  Tell  him.  in  hope  he'll  prove  a  widower  shortly, 
{ "11  wear  the  willow  garland  for  his  sake." 

A'.  EdiD.  I  blame  not  her,  she  could  say  little  less  ; 
She  had  the  wTong.     But  what  said  Henry's  queen? 
For  I  iiave  heard,  that  she  was  tTiere  in  place. 

Mess.  "Tell  him,"  quoth  she,  ''  my  mourning  weeds 
are  done, 
And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on." 

A'.  Edw.  Belike,  she  minds  to  play  the  A^mazou. 
But  what  said  Warwick  to  these  injuries  ? 

Mess.  He,  more  incens'd  against  your  majesty 
Than  all  the  rest,  discharg'd  me  with  these  words : — 
'•  Tell  him  from  me,  that  he  hath  done  me  wTong, 
And  therefore  I  "11  uncrown  him  ere  't  be  long." 

K.  Edw.  Ha  !  durst  the  traitor  breathe  out  so  proud 
words  ? 
Well,  I  will  arm  me,  being  thus  forewarn'd : 
They  shall  have  wars,  and  pay  for  their  presumption. 
But  say,  is  Warwick  friends  with  Margaret  ? 

Mess.  A.y,  gracious  sovereign  :  they  are  so  link'd  in 
friendship, 
That  young  prince  Edward  marries  Warwick's  daughter. 

Clar.  Belike,  the   elder;    Clarence  will   have   the 
younger.  [Aside.^ 

Now,  brother  king,  farewell,  and  sit  you  fast. 
For  I  -will  hence  to  Warwick's  other  daughter  ; 
That,  though  I  want  a  kingdom,  yet  in  marriage 
I  may  not  prove  inferior  to  yourself. — 
You,  that  love  me  and  Warwick,  follow  me. 

[Exit  Clarence,  a7id  Somerset /oWou-s. 

Glo.  Not  I.  [Aside. 

My  thoughts  aim  at  a  farther  matter  :  I 
SUy  not  for  the  love  of  Edward,  but  the  crown. 

A'.  Edw.  Clarence  and  Somerset  both  gone  to  War- 
wick ! 
Yet  am  I  arm'd  against  the  worst  can  happen, 
And  haste  is  needful  in  this  desperate  case. — 
Pembroke  and  Stafford,  you  in  our  behalf 
Go  levy  men,  and  make  prepare  for  war : 
They  arc  already,  or  quickly  will  be  landed  : 
Myself  in  person  will  straight  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Pembroke  and  Stafford. 
But,  ere  I  go,  Hastings,  and  Montague, 
Resolve  my  doubt  :  you  twain,  of  all  the  rest. 
Are  near  to  Warwick  by  bloo<l,  and  by  alliance : 
Toll  me  if  you  love  Warwick  more  than  me' 
If  it  be  so,  then  both  depart  to  him  : 
I  rather  wish  you  foes,  than  hollow  friends  : 
But,  if  you  mind  to  hold  your  true  obedience, 
Give  me  assurance  with  some  friendly  vow, 
That  I  may  tiever  have  you  in  suspect. 

Mont.  So  God  help  Montague  as  he  proves  true  ! 

Hast.  And^  Hastings  as  he  favours  Edward's  cause  I 

A'.  Edw.  Now,  brother  Richard,  will  you  stand  by  us  ? 

Hot   n  f  •.      >e«A<r;  in  f.  • 


Glo.  Ay,  in  despite  of  all  that  shall  withstand  yoa 
A'  Edw.  Why  so  ;  then,  am  I  sure  of  victory. 
Now.  therefore,  let  us  hence ;  and  lose  no  hour, 
Till  we  meet  Warwick  with  his  foreign  power. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— A  Plain  in  War^vickshire. 
Ejiter  Warwick  and  Oxford  with  French  and  English' 

Forces. 

War.  Trust  me.  my  lord,  all  hitherto  goes  well  : 
The  common  people  by  numbers  swarm  to  us. 

Enter  Clarence  and  So.merset. 
But.  .see,  where  Somerset  and  Clarence  come  ! 
Speak  suddenly,  my  lords;  are  we  all  friends? 

Clar.  Fear  not  that,  my  lord. 

War.  Then,  gentle  Clarence,  welcome  unto  Warwick 
And  welcome,  Somerset. — [  hold  it  cowardice, 
To  rest  mistrustful  where  a  noble  heart 
Hath  pawn'd  an  open  hand  in  sign  of  love ; 
Else  might  I  think,  that  Clarence.  Edward's  brother, 
Were  but  a  feigned  friend  to  our  proceedings  : 
But  welcome,  sweet  Clarence;  my  daughter  shall  b* 

thine. 
And  now  what  rests,  but  in  night's  coverture, 
Thy  brother  being  carelessly  encamp'd, 
His  soldiers  lurking  in  the  towns  about, 
And  but  attended  by  a  simple  guard, 
We  may  surprise  and  take  him  at  our  pleasure  ? 
Our  scouts  have  found  the  adventure  very  easy  ■ 
That  as  Ulysses,  and  stout  Diomede, 
With  sleight  and  manliood  stole  to  Rhesus'  tents, 
And  brought  from  thence  the  Tliracian  fatal  steeds ; 
So  we,  well  cover'd  with  the  night's  black  mantle. 
At  unawares  may  beat  down  Edward's  gviard, 
And  seize  himself;  I  say  not  slaughter  him. 
For  I  intend  but  only  to  surprise  him. — 
You.  that  will  follow  me  to  this  attempt, 
Applaud  the  name  of  Henry  with  your  leader. 

[They  all  cry,  Henrt 
Why,  then,  let 's  on  our  way  in  silent  sort : 
For  Warwick  and  his  friends,  God  and  Saint  George 

[Excu 

SCENE  III.— Edward's  Camp  near  Warwick. 
Enter  certain  Watchmen^  to  guard  the  King's  ten! 
1  Watch.  Come  on,  my  masters,  each  man  take  ii.» 
I  stand : 

The  king  by  this  is  set  him  down  to  sleep. 
'      2  Tfarc^.' What,  will  he  not  to  bed? 

1  Watch.  Why,  no ;  for  he  hath  made  a  solemn  vow 
Never  to  lie  and  take  his  natural  rest. 

Till  Warsvick  or  himself  be  quite  suppress'd. 

2  Watch.  To-morrow  then,  belike,  shall  be  the  d  > 
If  Warwick  be  so  near  as  men  report. 

3  Watch.  But  say,  I  pray,  what  nobleman  is  that. 
That  with  the  king  here  resteth  in  his  tent  ? 

1  Watch.  'T  is  the  lord  Hastings,  the  king's  chiefe«i 

friend. 
3  Watch.  0  !  is  it  so?    But  why  commands  the  kii.« 
That  his  chief  followers  lodge  in  towns  about  him, 
While  he  himself  keeps  in  the  cold  field  ? 

2  Watch.  'T  is  the  more  honour,  because  more  dan- 

gerous. 

3  Watch.  Ay,  but  give  me  worship  and  quietue« ; 
I  like  it  better  than  a  dangerous  honour. 

j  If  Warwick  knew  in  what  estate  he  stands, 
j  'T  is  to  be  doubted,  ho  would  waken  him. 

1   Watch.  Unless  our  halberds  did  shut  up  his  p.v 
1  sage. 


SCENE   V. 


KmG  HENKY   YI. 


501 


2  Watch.  Ay ;  wherefore  else  guard  we  his  royal  tent, 
But  to  defend  his  person  from  night-foes  ? 
Enter  Warwick,  Clarence,  Oxford,  Somerset,  and 
Farces. 
Wat.  This  is  his  tent;    and  see,  where  stand  his 
guard. 
'Jourage,  my  masters  !  honour  now,  or  never  . 
But  follow  me,  and  Edward  shall  be  ours. 

1  Watch.  Who  goes  there  ? 

2  Watch.  Stay,  or  thou  diest. 

[Warwick,  and  the  rest,  cry  all — Warwick  ! 
Warwick  !  and  set  upon  the  Guard;  who  fly, 
crying — Arm!  Arm!  Warwick,  and  the 
rest,  following  them.^     Shouts  and  confusion. 

Drums  beating,  and  Trumpets  sounding,  re-enter  War- 
wick, and  the  rest,  bringing  the  King  out  in  his  Gown, 
sitting  in  a  Cluiir :  Gloster  and  Hastings  fly  over 
the  stage. 

Som.  What  are  they  that  fly  there? 

War.  Richard,  and  Hastings :  let  them  go ;  here  's 

the  duke. 
K.  EdsT.  The  duke  !  why,  Warwick,  when  we  parted 
last, 
Thou  call'dst  me  king  ? 

War.  Ay,  but  the  case  is  alter'd  : 

When  you  iisgrac'd  me  in  my  embassade. 
Then  I  degraded  you  from  being  king, 
And  come  now  to  create  you  duke  of  York. 
Alas  !  how  should  you  govern  any  kingdom, 
That  know  not  how  to  use  ambassadors, 
Nor  how  to  be  contented  with  one  wile. 
Nor  how  to  use  your  brothers  brotherly. 
Nor  how  to  study  for  the  people's  welfare, 
Nor  how  to  shroud  yourself  from  enemies  ? 

K.  Edw.   Yea,  brother  of  Clarence,  art  thou  here  too  ? 
Nay  then,  I  see  that  Edward  needs  mu-st  down. — 
Yet,  Warwick,  in  despite  of  all  mischance. 
Of  thee  thyself,  and  all  thy  complices, 
Edward  will  always  bear  himself  as  king : 
Though  fortune's  malice  overthrow  my  state, 
My  mind  exceeds  the  compass  of  her  wheel. 

War.  Then,  for  his  mind  be  Edward  England's  king : 
[Takes  off  his  Crown. 
But  Henry  now  shall  wear  the  English  crown, 
And  be  true  king  indeed ;  thou  but  the  shadow. — 
My  lord  of  Somerset,  at  my  request. 
See  that  forthwith  duke  Edward  be  convey'd 
Unto  my  brother.  Archbi.«hop  of  York. 
When  I  have  fought  with  Pembroke  and  his  fellows, 
I  '11  follow  you.  and  tell  what  answer 
Lewis,  and  the  lady  Bona,  send  to  him  : — 
Now,  for  a  while  farewell,  good  duke  of  York. 

K.  Edw.   What  fates  impose,  that  men  must  needs 


i 


It  boots  not  to  resist  both  wind  and  tide. 

{Exit  King  Edward,  led  out  forcibly  ;  Somerset 
with  him. 
Oxf.  Wliat  now  remains,  my  lords,  for  us  to  do. 
Bat  march  to  London  with  our  soldiers  ? 

Wz'     Ay,  that 's  the  first  thing  that  we  have  to  do ; 
To  free  King  Henry  from  imprisonment. 
And  see  him  seated  in  the  regal  throne  [Eoceunt. 

SCENE  TV.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace 

Enter  Qiieen  Elizabeth  and  Rivers.     . 
Riv.  Madam,  what  makes  in  you  this  sudden  change  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  Why,  brother  Rivers,  are  you  yet  to  learn, 
''^at  late  misfortune  is  befallen  king  Edward  ? 
Tke  leat  cf  this  direction  i»  not  ia  1  » 


'      Riv.  What !  loss  of  some  pitch'd  battle"  against  War- 
wick ? 
Q.  Eliz.  No,  but  the  loss  of  his  own  royal  person. 
Riv.  Then,  is  my  sovereign  slain? 
Q.  Eliz.  Ay,  almost  slain,  for  he  is  taken  prisoner ; 
;  Either  betray'd  by  falsehood  of  his  guard, 
I  Or  by  his  foe  surprised  at  unawares  : 
I  And,  as  I  farther  have  to  understand, 
;  Is  new  committed  to  the  bishop  of  York, 
I  Fell  Warwick's  brother,  and  by  that  our  foe. 
j      Riv.  These  news,  I  must  confess,  are  full  of  grief, 
I  Yet,  gracious  madam,  bear  it  as  you  may  : 
Warwick  may  lo.se,  that  now  hath  won  the  day. 

Q.  Eliz.  Till  then,  fair  hope  must  hinder  life's  decay; 
And  I  the  rather  wean  me  from  despair, 
I  For  love  of  Edward's  offspring  in  my  womb : 
This  is  it  that  makes  me  bridle  passion, 
And  bear  with  mildness  my  misfortune's  cross : 
Ay,  ay.  for  this  1  draw  in  many  a  tear, 
And  stop  the  rising  of  blood-sucking  sighs, 
Lest  with  my  sighs  or  tears  I  blast  or  drown 
King  Edward's  fruit,  true  heir  to  th'  English  crown. 
Riv.  But,  madam,  where  is  War^vick  then  become  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  I  am  informed  that  he  comes  towards  Lon- 
don, 
To  set  the  crown  once  more  on  Henry's  head. 
Guess  thou  the  rest ;  king  Edward's  friends  must  down : 
But  to  prevent  the  tyrant's  violence, 
(For  trust  not  him  that  hath  once  broken  faith) 
I  '11  hence  forthwith  unto  the  sanctuary. 
To  save  at  least  the  heir  of  Edward's  right : 
There  shall  I  rest  secure  from  force  and  fraud. 
Come  therefore  ;  let  us  fly  while  we  may  fly  : 
If  Warwick  take  us  we  are  sure  to  die.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— A  Park  near  Middleham  Castle  in 

Yorkshire. 
Enter  Gloster,  Hastings,  Sir  William  Stanley,  and 
others. 
Glo.  Now,  my  lord  Hastings,  and  sir  William  Stanley, 
Leave  off  to  wonder  why  I  drew  you  liither. 
Into  this  chiefest  thicket  of  the  park. 
Thus  stands  the  case.    You  know,  our  king,  my  brother. 
Is  prisoner  to  the  bishop  here,  at  whose  hands 
He  hath  good  usage  and  great  liberty. 
And  often,  but  attended  with  weak  guard, 
Comes  hunting  this  way  to  disport  himself. 
I  have  advertis'd  him  by  secret  means, 
That  if  about  this  hour  he  make  this  way, 
Under  the  colour  of  his  usual  game, 
He  shall  here  find  his  friends,  with  horse  and  men, 
To  set  him  free  from  his  captivity. 

Enter  King  Edward,  arid  a  Huntsman. 
Hunt.  This  way,  my  lord,  for  this  way  lies  the  game. 
K.  Edw.  Nay,  this  way,  man :  «ee,  where  the  hunts- 
men stand. — 
Now,  brother  of  Gloster,  Hastings,  and  the  rest, 
Stand  you  thus  close  to  .'iteal  the  bishop's  deer  ? 

Glo.  Brother,  the  time  and  case  requireth  haste: 
Your  horse  stands  ready  at  the  park  corner. 
K.  Edw.  But  whither  shall  we  then? 
Hast.  To  Lynn,  my  lord ;  and  ship  from  thence  to 

Flanders. 
Glo.  Well  guess'd,  believe  me;    for  that  was  my 

meaning. 
K.  Edw.  Stanley,  I  will  requite  thy  forwardness. 
Glo.  But  wherefore  stay  we  ?  't  is  no  time  to  talk. 
K.  Edio.  Huntsman,  what  say'st  thou  ?  "v^ilt  thou  gc 
along  ? 


602 


THIRD  PART  OF 


A.CT   IV. 


Hunt.  Bett6r  do  so,  thnn  tarry  and  be  hang'd. 
Glo.  Come  ilu-n  ;  away  !  let 's  have  no  more  ado. 
K.  Kdir    Bishop,  farewell  :  sliicld   thee  irom  War- 
wick's fro\ra, 
And  oray  that  I  may  repossess  tlic  crown.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— A  Room  in  the  Tower. 
Enter-  Kinp  Henrv,  Clarenck,  Warwick,  Somerset, 

young  Henr}i  of  Hkhmond.   Oxford,    Montague, 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tou'cr.  and  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Master  lieutenant,  now  that  God  and  friends 
Hare  shaken  Edward  from  the  regal  s«at. 
And  turn"d  my  captive  state  to  liberty, 
My  fear  to  hope,  my  sorrows  unto  joys. 
At  our  enlargement  what  are  thy  due  fees? 

Lieu.  Subjects  may  challenge  nothing  of  their  sove- 
reigns ; 
But  if  an  humble  prayer  may  prevail, 
I  then  crave  pardon  of  your  inajesty. 

A'.  Hen.  For  what,  lieutenant  ?  for  well  using  me? 
Nay,  be  thou  sure,  I  '11  well  requite  thy  kindness, 
For  that  it  made  my  imprisonment  a  pleasure : 
Ay,  such  a  pleasure  as  incaged  birds 
Conceive,  when,  after  many  moody  thoughts, 
.\t  last  by  notes  of  household  harmony 
They  quite  forget  their  loss  of  liberty. — 
But.  Warwick,  after  God,  thou  .set'st  me  free, 
And  <:hieny  therefore  I  thank  God,  and  thee ; 
He  wj*  the  author,  thou  the  instrument. 
Therolbre,  that  I  may  conquer  fortune's  spite, 
By  living  low,  where  fortune  cannot  hurt  me, 
And  that  the  people  of  this  blessed  land 
May  not  be  punish'd  with  my  thwarting  stars, 
Warwick,  although  my  head  still  wear  the  crown, 
[  here  resign  my  government  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  fortunate  in  all  thy  deeds. 

ll'ar.  Your  grace  hath  still  been  fam'd  for  virtuous, 
And  now  may  seem  as  wise  as  virtuous, 
By  spying,  and  avoiding,  fortune's  malice  ; 
For  few  men  rightly  temper  with  the  stars  : 
Yet  in  this  one  thing  let  me  blame  your  grace, 
For  choosing  me  when  Clarence  is  in  place. 

Clar.  No,  Warwick,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  sway, 
To  whom  the  heavens  in  thy  nativity 
Adjud-i'd  an  olive  branch,  and  laurel  crown, 
As  likely  to  be  blest  in  peace,  and  war ; 
And,  therefore,  I  yield  thee  my  free  consent. 

War.  And  I  choose  Clarence  only  for  protector. 

K.  Urn.  Warwick,  and  Clarence,  give  me  both  your 
hands. 
Now  join  your  hands,  and  with  your  hands  your  hearts. 
That  no  dissension  hinder  government  : 
I  make  you  both  protectors  of  this  land, 
While  I  myself  will  lead  a  private  life, 
AjuI  in  devotion  sjund  my  latter  day.s. 
"^0  sin's  rebuke,  and  my  Croatr)r'R  praise. 

War.    What   answers    Clarence   to   his   sovereiffn's 
will  ? 

Cltir.  That  he  consents,  if  Warwick  yield  consent ; 
For  on  thy  fortune  I  rcpo.se  myself. 

War.  Why  then,  though  loath,  yet  must  I  be  con- 
tent. 
We  11  yoke  locether,  like  a  double  shadow 
To  Henr>'8  bwly,  and  supply  his  place  ; 
I  mean,  in  beannL'  weight  of  government, 
JVhile  he  enjoys  the  honour,  and  his  ea-se. 
And,  Clarence,  now  then,  it  is  more  than  needful. 
Forthwith  that  Edward  be  pronounc'd  a  traitor. 
And  all  his  lands  and  goods  confiscated.' 

'  Malom  tomU  :  b«  confiscate.      >  Thu  word  U  not  in  f.  •. 


Clar.   What   else?   and  that   succession  be  deter- 

mind. 

War.   \y,  therein  Clarence  shall  not  want  his  part. 

K.  Hen.  But,  with  the  first  of  all  your  chief  affair^ 
Let  me  entreat,  (for  I  command  no  more) 
That  Margaret  your  queen,  and  my  son  Edv^-ard, 
Be  sent  for  to  return  from  France  with  speed  ; 
For,  till  I  see  them  here,  by  doubtful  fear 
My  joy  of  liberty  is  half  eclips'd. 

Clar.    It    shall   be   done,  my  sovereign,    with    all 
speed. 

A'.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Somerset,  what  youth  is  that. 
Of  w  hoiii  you  seem  to  have  so  tender  care  ? 

Som.  My  liege,  it  is  young  Henry,  earl  of  Richmond. 

K.  Hen.    Come  hither,  England's    hope :    if  secret 
powers  {Lays  his  Hand  on  his  Head 

Suggest  but  truth  to  my  divining  thoughts, 
This  pretty  lad  will  prove  our  country's  bliss. 
His  looks  are  full  of  peaceful  majesty  ; 
His  head  by  nature  fram'd  to  wear  a  crowTi, 
His  hand  to  wield  a  sceptre  :  and  himself 
Likely  in  time  to  bless  a  regal  throne. 
Make  much  of  him,  my  lords  ;  for  this  is  he, 
Must  help  you  more  than  you  are  hurt  by  me. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.  What  news,  my  friend  ? 

Mess.  That  Edward  is  escaped  from  your  brother, 
And  fled,  as  he  hears  since,  to  Burgundy. 

War.  Unsavoury  news  !  but  how  made  he  escape  ? 

Mess.  He  was  convey'd  by  Richard  duke  of  Gloster, 
And  the  lord  Hastings,  who  attended  him 
In  secret  ambush  on  the  forest  side, 
And  from  the  bishop's  huntsmen  rescued  him, 
For  hunting  was  his  daily  exercise. 

War.  My  brother  was  too  careless  of  his  charge. — 
But  let  us  hence,  my  sovereign,  to  provide 
A  salve  for  any  sore  that  may  betide. 

[Exeunt  King  Henry,  Warwick,  Claremce. 
Lieutenant.,  and  Attendants. 

Som.  My  lord,  I  like  not  of  this  tlipht  of  Edward's, 
For,  doubtless.  Burgundy  will  yield  him  help. 
And  we  shall  have  more  wars,  before  't  be  long. 
As  Henry's  late  presaging  prophecy 
Did    glad   my  heart  -with   hope  of  this  young  Rich- 
mond, 
So  doth  my  heart  misgive  me,  in  these  conflicts 
What  may  befal  him,  to  his  harm  and  ours: 
Therefore,  lord  Oxford,  to  prevent  the  w^orst, 
Forthwith  we  '11  send  him  hence  to  Brittany, 
Till  storms  be  past  of  civil  enmity. 

Oxf.  Ay ;  for  if  Edward  repossess  the  crown, 
'T  is  like  that  Richmond  with  the  rest  shall  down. 

Sam.  It  .shall  be  .so ;  he  shall  to  Brittany. 
Come  therefore ;  let 's  about  it  speedily.  [Eieuni 

SCENE  VII.— Before  York. 
Enter  King  Edward,  Gloster,  Hastings,  andforcip' 
Forces. 
K.  Edw.  Now,  brother  Richard,  lord  Hastings,  and 
the  rest. 
Yet  thus  far  fortune  maketh  us  amends. 
And  says  that  once  more  I  shall  interchange 
My  waned  state  for  Henry's  regal  crown. 
Well  have  we  pass'd,  and  now  repass'd  the  seas, 
And  brought  desired  help  from  Burgundy: 
What. then  remains,  we  being  thus  arriv'd 
From  Ravenspurg  haven  be  tore  the  gates  of  York, 
But  that  we  enter  as  into  our  dukedom? 

Glo.  The  gates  made  fast.— Brother,  I  like  not  this 


8CKNE  Vm. 


KING  HEJ^RY   VI. 


503 


For  many  men,  that  stumble  at  the  threshold, 
Are  well  foretold  that  danger  lurks  within. 

K.  Edw.  Tush,  man  !    abodements    must   not   now 
affright  us  : 
By  fair  or  foul  means  we  must  enter  in, 
For  hither  will  our  friends  repair  to  us. 

Hast.  My  liege,  I  '11  knock  once  more  to  summon 
them.  [Knocks} 

Enter,  on  the  Walls^  the  Mayor  of  York,  and  his 

Brethren. 
May.  My  lords,  we  were  forewarned  of  your  coming. 
And  shut  the  gates  for  safety  of  ourselves; 
For  now  we  owe  allegiance  unto  Henry. 

K.  Edw.  But,  master  mayor,  if  Henry  be  your  king, 
Yet  Edward,  at  the  least,  is  duke  of  York. 
May.  True,  my  good  lord  ;  I  know  you  for  no  less. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  and  I  challenge  nothing  but  my  duke- 
As  being  well  content  with  that  alone.  [dom, 

Glo.  But  when  the  fox  hath  once  got  in  his  nose. 
He']]  soon  find  means  to  make  the  body  follow.  [Aside. 
Hast.    Why,  master   mayor,  why  stand    you    in    a 
doubt  ? 
Open  the  gates  :  we  are  king  Henry's  friends. 

May.  Ay,  say  you  so  ?  the  gates  shall  then  be  open'd. 
[Exeunt  from  above. 
Glo.  A  wise  stout  captain  he',  and  soon  persuaded. 
Hast.  The  good  old  man  would  fain  that  all  were 
well, 
So  't  were  not  'long  of  him  ;  but,  being  enter'd, 
I  doubt  not,  I,  but  we  shall  soon  persuade 
Both  him  and  all  his  brothers  unto  reason. 

Re-enter  the  Mayor,  and  Two  Aldermen,  below. 
K.  Edw.  So,  master  mayor  :  these  gates  must  not  be 
shut, 
But  in  the  night,  or  in  the  time  of  war. 
What  !  fear  not,  man,  but  yield  me  up  the  keys, 

[Takes  his  Keys. 
For  Edward  will  defend  the  town,  and  tliee. 
And  all  those  friends  that  deign  to  follow  me. 

March.     Enter  Montgomery,  and  Forces. 
Glo.  Brother,  this  is  sir  John  Montgomery, 
Our  trusty  friend,  unless  I  be  deceiv'd. 

K.  Edw.  Welcome,  sir  John ;  but  why  come  you  in 

arms  ? 
Mont.  To  help  king  Edward  in  his  time  of  storm, 
As  every  loyal  subject  ought  to  do. 
K.  Edw.  Thanks,  good  Montgomery ;    but  we  now 
forget 
Our  title  to  the  crown,  and  only  claim 
Our  dukedom,  till  God  please  to  send  the  rest. 

Mont.  Then  fare  you  well,  for  I  will  hence  again  : 
I  came  to  serve  a  king,  and  not  a  duke. — 
Drummer,  strike  up,  and  let  us  march  away. 

[A  March  began. 
K.  Edw.  Nay,  stay,  sir  John,  a  while  ;  and  we  '11 
debate. 
By  what  safe  means  the  crown  may  be  recover'd. 

Mont.  What  talk  you  of  debatmg  ?  in  few  words. 
If  you  '11  not  here  proclaim  yourself  our  king, 
I  '11  leave  you  to  your  fortune,  and  be  gone 
To  keep  them  back  that  come  to  succour  you. 
Why  shall  we  fight,  if  you  pretend  no  title  ? 

'^x>.  Why,  brother,  wherefore    stand   you  on    nice 

points  ? 
K.  Edw.  When  we  grow  stronger,  then  we'll  make 
our  claim  : 
nil  then,  't  is  wisdom  to  conceal  our  meaning. 
Hast.  Away  with  scrupulous  wit,  now  arms  must  rule. 
Glo.  And  fearless  minds  climb  soonest  unto  crowns. 
»  Not  in  f.  e.    a  This  word  it  not  in  f.  e.     '  Some  mod.  ed«.  have  n 


Brother,  we  will  proclaim  you  out  of  hand  : 
The  bruit  thereof  will  bring  you  many  friends. 

A'.  Edw.  Then  be  it  as  you  will ;  for  't  is  my  light. 
And  Henry  but  usurps  the  diadem. 

Mont.  Ay,  now  my  sovereign  speaketh  like  himself 
And  now  will  I  be  Edward's  champion. 

Hast.  Sound,  trumpet !  Edward  shall  be  here  pro- 
ciaim'd. — 
Come,  fellow-soldier,  make  thou  proclamation. 

[Gives  him  a  Paper.     Flourish 

Sold.  [Reads.]  '•  Edward  the  fourth,  by  the  grace 
of  God.  king  of  England  and  France,  and  lord  of  Ire- 
land. &c." 

Mont.  And  whosoe'er  gainsays  king  Edward's  right, 
By  this  I  challenge  him  to  single  fight. 

[Throws down  his  Gauntlet. 

All.  Long  live  Edward  the  fourth  ! 

K.  Edw.  Thanks,  brave    Montgomery,  and    thanks 
unto  you  all  : 
If  fortune  serve  me,  I  '11  requite  this  kindness. 
Now,  for  this  night,  let 's  harbour  here  in  York, 
And  when  the  morning  sun  shall  raise  his  car 
Above  the  border  of  this  horizon, 
We  '11  forward  towards  Warwick,  and  his  mates : 
For,  well  I  wot,  that  Henry  is  no  soldier. — 
Ah,  froward  Clarence  !  how  evil  it  beseems  thee, 
To  flatter  Henry,  and  forsake  thy  brother  ! 
Yet,  as  we  may.  we  '11  meet  both  thee  and  War.vicX    - 
Come  on,  brave  soldiers  :  doubt  not  of  the  day  : 
And,  that  once  gotten,  doubt  not  of  large  pay.   [Erf  U. 

SCENE  VIII.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  King  Henry,  Warwick,  Clarence. 

Montague,  E.xeter,  and  Oxford. 

War.  Wliat  counsel,  lords  ?     Edward  from  Be'gia, 
With  hasty  Germans,  and  blunt  Hollanders, 
Hath  pass'd  in  safety  through  the  narrow  seas, 
And  with  his  troops  doth  marcli  amain  to  London ; 
And  many  giddy  people  flock  to  him. 

A'.  Hen.^  Let 's  levy  men.  and  beat  him  back  again 

Clar.  A  little  fire  is  quickly  trodden  out. 
Which,  being  sufTer'd,  rivers  cannot  quench. 

War.  In  Warwickshire  I  have  true-hearted  friends. 
Not  mutinous  in  peace,  yet  bold  in  war  : 
Those  will  I  muster  up : — and  thou,  son  Clarence, 
Slialt  stir  up  in  Suffolk,  Norfolk,  and  in  Kent. 
The  knights  and  gentlemen  to  come  with  thee : — 
Thou,  brother  Montaizue.  in  Buckingham. 
Northampton,  and  in  Leicester.*hire,  shalt  find 
Men  well  inclin'd  to  hear  what  thou  command'st : — 
And  thou,  brave  Oxford,  wondrous  well  belov'd 
In  Oxfordshire  shalt  muster  up  thy  friends. — 
My  sovereign,  with  the  loving  citizens, 
Like  to  his  island  girt  in  with  the  ocean, 
Or  modest  Dian  circled  with  her  nymphs, 
Shall  rest  in  London,  till  we  come  to  him. — ■ 
Fair  lords,  take  leave,  azid  stand  not  to  reply. — 
Farewell,  my  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.  Farewell,  my  Hector,  and  my  Troy's  tru« 
hope. 

Clar.  In  sign  of  truth  I  kiss  your  highness'  hand. 

K.  Hen.  Well-minded  Clarence,  be  thou  fortunate. 

Mont.  Comfort,  my  lord  : — and  so  I  take  my  leave 

Qxf.  And  thus  [Kissing  Henry's  hand  ]  I  seal  my 
truth,  and  bid  adieu. 

K.  Hen.  Sweet  Oxford,  and  my  loving  Montague, 
And  all  at  once,  once  more  a  happy  farewell. 

War.  Farewell,  sweet  lords  :  let  's  meet  at  Coventry 
[Exeunt  War.  Clar.  Oxf.  and  Mont 

eedlessly  transferred  this  speech  to  Oxforb. 


ik>i 


TlirRD   PART  OF 


K.  Hen.  Here  at  the  palace  will  I  rest  a  while. 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  what  thinks  your  lordsliip  ? 
Methinks.  the  |)ower,  that  Edward  hath  in  field, 
Should  not  be  able  to  encounter  mine. 

Eie.  The  doubt  is.  that  lie  will  .^^educe  the  rest. 

A".  Hen.  That  "snot  my  fear  :  my  mind'  hath  got  me 
I  have  not  stoppd  mine  cars  to  their  demands,    [fame. 
Nor  posted  otf  their  .>iui!s  wiih  slow  delays  ; 
.My  pity  hath  been  balm  to  heal  their  wounds, 
.My  mildnes.«i  hath  allay  d  their  swelling  griefs. 
My  meri'y  dryd  their  bitter-Uowing'  tears: 
I  have  not  been  desirous  of  their  wealth, 
\or  much  oppre.<s'd  them  with  great  subsidies. 
Nor  forward  of  revenge,  though  they  much  err'd 
Tiicn.  why  should  they  love  Edward  more  than  me  ? 
No.  Exeter,  these  graces  challenge  grace; 
And.  when  the  lion  fawns  upon  the  lamb, 
The  Iamb  will  never  cease  te  follow  him. 

[Shout  within.     A  Lancaster!     A  Lancaster! 


Exc.  Hark.  hark,  my  lord  !   what  shouts  are  these? 

Enter  King  Edward,  Glostf.r   and  Soldiers. 
K.  Edw.  Seize  on  the  slianic-facd  Heur7  !  bear  him 
hence. 
And  once  again  proclaim  us  king  of  England. — 
You  are  the  fount  that  makes  .small  brooks  to  flow : 
Now  stops  thy  spring ;  my  sea  shall  suck  them  dry. 
And  swell  so  much  the  higher  by  their  ebb. — 
Hence  ■with  him  to  the  Tower  !  let  him  not  speak. 

[Exeunt  some  with  King  Henry 
And,  lords,  towards  Coventry  bend  we  our  course, 
Where  peremptory  Warwick  now  remains. 
The  sun  shines  hot,  and,  if  we  use  delay, 
Cold  biting  winter  mars  our  hop'd-for  hay. 

Gh'j.  Away  betimes,  before  his  forces  join, 
And  take  the  great-grown  traitor  unawares. 
Brave  warriors,  march  amain  towards  Coventry. 

[Exeunt 


ACT     V. 


SCENE  I.— Coventry. 
Enter  upon  the  Walls.  Warwick,  the  Mayor  of  Coventry. 
Two  Messengers,  and  others. 
iror.Where  is  the  post  that  came  from  valiant  Oxford  ? 
How  far  hence  is  thy  lord,  mine  honest  fellow  ? 

1  Mess.  By  this  at  Dunsmore,  marching  hitherward. 
War.  How  far  off  is  our  brother  Montague? — 

Where  is  the  post  that  came  from  Montague  ? 

2  Mess.  By  this  at  Daintry.  with  a  puissant  troop. 

Enter  Sir  .Iohn  Somerville. 

War.  Say.  Somcr\nlle,  what  says  my  lovins  son? 
.And,  by  thy  guess,  how  nigh  is  Clarence  now? 

Som.  At  Southam  I  did  leave  him  with  his  forces, 
And  do  expect  him  here  some  two  hours  hence. 

[Drvm  heard. 

W(r.  Then  Clarence  is  at  hand.  I  hear  his  drum. 

Som.  It  is  not  his,  my  lord  ;  here  Southam  lies : 
The  drum  your  honour  hears  marcheth  from  Warwick. 

War.  Who    should    that  be  ?    belike,    unlook'd-for 
friends. 

Som.  They  arc  at  hand,  and  you  shall  quickly  know. 

March.     Flourish.     Enter  King  Edward,    Gloster, 

and  Forces.  [parle. 

K.  Edw.  Go,  trumpet,  to  the  walls,  and    sound   a 

Glo.  See.  how  the  surly  Warwick  mans  the  wall. 

War.  0,  unbid  spite!   is  sportful  Edward  come? 
Where  slept  our  scouts,  or  how  are  they  seduc'd. 
That  wc  could  hear  no  news  of  his  repair  ?        [gates  ? 

K.  Edw.  Now,   Warwick,  wilt   thou   ope    the  city 
Speak  gentle  word.s,  and  humbly  bend  thy  knee, 
Call  Exlward  king,  and  at  his  hands  beg  mercy, 
And  he  shall  pardon  thee  the.<ie  outrages. 

War.   Nay.  rather,  wilt  thou  draw  thy  forces  hence, 
Confc-w  who  set  thee  up  and  pluck'd  thee  down  ? 
''all  Warwick  patmn.  and  be  penitent. 
.And  thou  shalt  still  remain — the  duke  of  York. 

Glo.  1  thoushf.  at  least,  he  would  have  ."said  the  king: 
Or  did  he  make  the  jest  agaimt  his  will  ? 

War.  Is  not  a  dukedom,  sir,  a  goodly  gift' 

Glo.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  for  a  poor  carl  to  give  . 
I  "1!  do  thee  service  for  so  good  a  gift. 

War.  'T  was  I.  that  gave  the  kingdom  to  thy  brother. 

K.  Edw.  Why  then,  't  is  mine,  if  but  by  Warwick's  gift. 

War    Thou  art  no  Atlas  for  so  great  a  weight : 

'  tCMd  :    in  f.  e.      >  wHeT-floirinj  :  in  f.  •       >  Pock  ^f  card*. 


And,  weakling,  Warwick  takes  his  gift  again  ; 
And  Henry  is  my  king,  Warwick  his  subject. 

K.  Edw.  But  Warwick's  king  is  Edward's  prisoner: 
And.  gallant  Warwick,  do  but  answer  this  ; 
What  is  the  body,  when  the  head  is  off? 

Glo.  Alas  !  that  War\Wck  had  no  more  forecast. 
But.  whiles  he  thought  to  steal  the  single  ten. 
The  king  was  slily  tinger'd  from  the  deck  !' 
You  left  poor  Henry  at  the  bishop's  palace, 
And.  ten  to  one.  you  '11  meet  him  in  the  Tower. 

K.  Edw.  'T  is  even  so:  yet  you  are  Waniviek  still. 

Glo.  Come,  Warwick,  take  the  time ;  kneel  down, 
kneel  down. 
Nay.  when?  strike  now,  or  else  the  iron  cools. 

War.  I  had  rather  chop  this  hand  off  at  a  blow. 
And  with  the  other  fling  it  at  thy  face. 
Than  bear  so  low  a  sail  to  strike  to  thee. 

K.  Edw.  Sail   how  thou   can.st;  have  wind  and  tide 
thy  friend, 
This  hand,  fast  wound  about  thy  coal-black  hair. 
Shall,  whiles  thy  head  is  warm,  and  new  cut  off. 
Write  in  the  dust  this  sentence  with  thy  blood, — 
'■Wind-changing  Warwick  now  can  change  no  more 
Filter  O.XFORD,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

War.  0  cheerful  colours  !  see.  where  Oxford  comos 

Oxf.  Oxford,  Oxford,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[Oxford  and  his  Forces  enter  the  Ci>y. 

Glo.  The  gates  are  open,  let  us  enter  too. 

K.  Edw.  So  other  foes  may  set  upon  our  backs. 
Stand  we  in  good  array  :  for  they,  no  doubt. 
Will  issue  out  again,  and  bid  us  battle: 
If  not.  the  city  being  but  of  small  defence, 
We  '11  quickly  rouse  the  traitors  in  the  same. 

War.  0  !  welcome  Oxford,  for  we  want  thy  help. 
Enter  Montague,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

Mont.  Montague,  Montague,  for  Lancaster ! 

[He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  Cilif 

Glo.  Thou  and  thy  brother  both  shall  buy  this  trear 
son. 
Even  with  the  dearest  blood  3'our  bodies  bear. 

K.  Edw.  The  harder  match'd,  the  greater  nciory- 
My  mind  presagcth  happy  sain,  and  conquest. 
Enter  Somerset,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

Som.  Somerset.  Somerset,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City 


SCENE   III. 


KING  HENRY  Yl. 


505 


Glo.  Two  of  thy  name,  both  dukes  of  Somerset, 
Have  sold  their  lives  unto  the  house  of  York  ; 
Aud  thou  shalt  be  the  third,  if  this  sword  hold. 
Enter  Clarence,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 
War.  And  lo  !  where  George  of  Clarence  sweeps 
along, 
Of  force  enough  to  bid  his  brother  battle : 
With  whom  an  upright  zeal  to  right  prevails, 
More  than  the  nature  of  a  brother's  love. — 

[Gloster  and  Clarence  whisper. 
Come,  Clarence,  come;  thou  wilt,  if  Warwick  calls. 
Clar.  Father   of  Warwick,    know    you    what    this 
means  ?      [Taking  the  red  Rose  out  of  his  Hat. 
Look  here,  I  throw  my  infamy  at  thee : 
[  will  not  ruinate  my  father's  house, 
Who  gave  his  blood  to  lime  the  stones  together, 
Aud  set  up  Lancast'^r.     Why,  trow'st  thou.  Warwick, 
That  Clarence  is  so  harsh,  so  blunt,  unnatural. 
To  bend  the  fatal  instruments  of  war 
Against  his  brother,  and  his  lawful  king  ? 
Perhaps,  thou  wilt  object  my  holy  oath  : 
To  keep  that  oath,  were  more  impiety 
Than  Jephtha's,  when  he  sacrific'd  his  daughter. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  my  trespass  made. 
That  to  deserve  well  at  my  brother's  hands, 
I  here  proclaim  myself  thy  mortal  foe  ; 
With  resolution,  wheresoe'er  I  meet  thee, 
(As  I  will  meet  thee,  if  thou  stir  abroad) 
To  plague  thee  for  thy  foul  misleading  me. 
And  so,  proud-hearted  Warwick.  I  defy  thee, 
And  to  my  brother  turn  my  blushing  cheeks. — 
Pardon  me,  Edward,  I  will  make  amends ; 
And,  Richard,  do  not  frown  upon  my  faults, 
For  I  will  henceforth  be  no  more  unconstant. 
K.  Edw.  Now  welcome  more,  and  ten  times  more 
belov'd. 
Than  if  thou  never  hadst  deserv'd  our  hate. 

Gh,  Welcome,  good  Clarence  :  this  is  brother-like. 
War.  0  passing  traitor,  perjur'd,  and  unjust ! 
K.  Edw.  What,  Warwick,  wilt  thou  leave  the  town 
and  fight, 
Or  shall  we  beat  the  stones  about  thine  ears  ? 

War.  Alas  !  I  am  not  coop'd  here  for  defence  : 
I  will  away  towards  Barnet  presently, 
And  bid  thee  battle,  Edward,  if  thou  darst. 
K.  Edw.  Yes,  Warwick,  Edward  dares,  and  leads 

the  way. — 
Lords,  to  the  field  !     Saint  George,  and  victory  ! 

[March.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL— A  Field  of  Battle  near  Barnet. 

Alarums.^  ami  Excursions.     Enter  King  Edward, 
bringing  in  Warwick  woujided. 

K.  Edw.  So,  lie  thou  there  :  die  thou,  and  die  our  fear. 
For  Warwick  was  a  bug,'  that  fear'd^  us  all. — 
Now,  Montague,  sit  fast  :  I  seek  for  thee. 
That  Warwick's  bones  may  keep  thine  company.  [Exit. 

War.  Ah  !  who  is  nigh?  come  to  me,  friend  or  foe, 
Aud  tell  me,  who  is  victor,  York,  or  Warwick  ? 
Why  a«k  I  that?  my  mangled  body  shows, 
\Iy  blood,  my  want  of  strength,  my  sick  heart  shows, 
That  I  muot  yield  my  body  to  the  earth. 
And  by  my  fall  the  conquest  to  my  foe. 
Thus  yields  the  cedar  to  the  axe's  edge. 
Whose  arms  gave  shelter  to  the  princely  eagle, 
I'nder  whose  shade  the  ramping  lion  slept : 
Whose  top-branch  overpeer'd  Jove's  spreading  tree, 
And  kept  low  shrubs  from  winter's  powerful  wind. 
These  eyes,  that  now  are  dimm'd  with  death's  black  veil, 


Have  been  as  piercing  as  the  mid-day  sun, 
To  search  the  secret  treasons  of  the  world : 
The  wrinkles  in  my  brows,  now  fill'd  with  blood. 
Were  liken'd  oft  to  kingly  sepulchres ; 
For  who  liv'd  king,  but  I  could  dig  his  grave  ? 
And  who  durst  smile  when  Warwick  bent  his  brow? 
Lo,  now  my  glory  smear'd  in  dust  and  blood  ! 
I\'Iy  parks,  my  walks,  my  manors  that  I  had. 
Even  now  forsake  me  ;  and,  of  all  my  lands, 
Is  nothing  left  me,  but  my  body's  length. 
Why,  what  is  pomp,  rule,  reign,  but  earth  and  dust' 
And,  live  we  how  we  can.  yet  die  we  must. 
Enter  Oxford  and  Somerset. 
Som.  Ah,  Warwick.  Warwick  !  wert  thou  as  we  are 
We  might  recover  all  our  loss  again. 
The  queen  from  France  hath  brought  a  puissant  power; 
Even  now  we  heard  the  news.    Ah,  couldst  thou  fly ! 
War.  Why,  then  I  would  not  fly. — Ah,  Montague  ! 
If  thou  be  there,  sweet  brother,  take  my  hand. 
And  with  thy  lips  keep  in  my  soul  awhile. 
Thou  lov'st  me  not  ;  for,  brotlier,  if  thou  didst, 
Thy  tears  would  wash  this  cold  congealed  blood. 
That  glues  my  lips,  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 
Come  quickly,  Montague,  or  I  am  dead. 

Som.  Ah,  Warwick !    Montague  hath   breath'd   his 
last; 
And  to  the  latest  gasp,  cried  out  for  Warwick, 
And  said — '■  Commend  me  to  my  valiant  brother." 
And  more  he  would  have  said ;  and  more  he  spoke 
Wliich  sounded  like  a  cannon  in  a  vault, 
That  might  not  be  distinguish'd  :  but,  at  last, 
I  well  might  hear,  deliver'd  with  a  groan, — 
•'  Oh,  farewell  Warwick  !" 

War.  Sweet  rest  his  soul ! — Fly,   lords,   and  sas'e 
yourselves  : 
For  Warwick  bids  you  all  farewell,  to  meet  in  heaven. 

[Dies. 

Oxf.  Away,  away,  to  meet  the  queen's  great  power  ! 

[Exeunt.^  bearing  off  Warwick's  Boily. 

SCENE  IIL— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Flourish.     Enter  King  Edward  in  triumph;  with 
Clarence,  Gloster,  and  the  rest. 

K.  Edw.  Thus   far   oui-   fortune   keeps  an  upward 
course. 
And  we  are  grac'd  with  wreaths  of  \actory. 
But  in  the  midst  of  this  bright  shining  day, 
I  spy  a  black,  suspicious,  threat'ning  cloud. 
That  will  encounter  with  our  glorious  sun. 
Ere  he  attain  his  easeful  western  bed : 
I  mean,  my  lords,  those  powers,  that  the  qiieen 
Hath  rais'd  in  Gallia,  have  arriv'd  our  coast, 
And,  as  we  hear,  march  on  to  fight  with  us. 

Clar.  A  little  gale  will  soon  disperse  that  cloud, 
And  blow  it  to  the  source  from  whence  it  came  ; 
Thy  very  beams  will  diw  those  vapours  up, 
For  every  cloud  engenders  not  a  storm. 

Glo.  The  queen  is  valu'd  thirty  thousand  strong, 
And  Somerset,  with  Oxford,  fled  to  her : 
If  she  have  time  to  breathe,  be  well  assurd. 
Her  faction  will  be  full  as  strong  as  ours. 

K.  Edw.  We  are  advertis'd  by  our  loving  triends, 
That  they  do  hold  their  course  toward  Tewksbury. 
We,  having  now  the  best  at  Barnet  field. 
Will  thither  straight,  for  willingness  rids  way; 
And.  as  we  march,  our  strength  will  be  augmenttfd 
In  every  county  as  we  go  along. — 
Strike  up  the  drum  !  cr>- — Courage  I  and  away. 

[Flourish       KxeurU 


Bugbtar 


Made  us  afraid. 


606 


THIRD   PATIT  OF 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  IV.— Plains  near  Tewkesbury. 

March.     Killer  Qwrn  M.\rgaret.  Prince  Edward, 
SoMKRSKT,  Oxford,  atid  Ssldicrs. 

Q.  Mar.  Great  lords,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and  wail 
their  lo.'^s, 
But  eheorly  seek  liow  to  redress  tlieir  harms. 
What  thou::h  I  he  mast  be  now  blown  over-board, 
The  cable  broke,  the  lioldini;  anchor  lost, 
And  half  our  sailors  swallow'd  in  the  flood. 
Yet  lives  our  pilot  still :  ifs  't  meet  that  he 
Should  leave  the  helm.  and.  like  a  fearful  lad. 
With  tearlul  eyes  add  water  to  the  sea, 
And  give  more  strenath  to  that  which  hath  too  much: 
While;-  in  his  moan  the  ship  splits  on  the  rock. 
Which  industr>-  and  courage  might  have  sav'd  ? 
Ah  !  what  a  sliame,  ah  I  what  a  fault  were  this. 
Say.  Warwick  was  our  anchor  ;  wliat  of  that? 
.Vnd  Montague  our  top-mast ;  what  of  him  ? 
i^ur  slaughter'd  friends  the  tackles:  what  of  these? 
Why,  is  not  0.\ford  here  another  anchor. 
And  Somerset  another  goodly  mast? 
The  friends  of  France  our  shrouds  and  f  acklings  ? 
And,  though  unskilful,  why  not  Ned  and  I 
For  once  allow"d  the  skilful  pilot's  charge? 
We  \N-ill  not  from  the  helm  to  sit  and  weep. 
But  keep  our  course,  thouiih  the  rough  wind  say  no, 
From  shelves  and  rocks  that  threaten  us  with  wreck. 
As  good  to  chide  the  waves,  as  speak  them  fair. 
And  what  is  Edward  but  a  ruthless  sea? 
What  Clarence  but  a  quicksand  of  deceit? 
And  Richard  but  a  ragged  fatal  rock  ? 
All  these  the  enemies  to  our  poor  bark. 
Say,  you  can  swim  :  alas  !  't  is  but  a  while : 
Tread  on  the  sand  ;  why,  there  you  quickly  sink  : 
Bestride  the  rock  ;  the  tide  will  wash  you  off. 
Or  else  you  famish  :  that  "s  a  threefold  death. 
This  speak  I,  lords,  to  let  you  understand, 
[f  case  some  one  of  you  would  fly  from  us. 
That  there  's  no  hop'd-for  mercy  with  the  brothers. 
More  than  \>-iih  ruthless  waves,  with  sands,  and  rocks. 
Why,  couraze.  tlien  !  what  cannot  be  avoided, 
"T  were  childish  weakness  to  lament,  or  fear. 

Prince.  Methinks,  a  woman  of  this  valiant  spirit 
Should,  if  a  coward  heard  her  sjieak  these  words. 
Infuse  his  breast  with  magnanimity, 
.And  make  him,  naked,  foil  a  man  at  arms. 
I  speak  not  this,  as  doubting  any  here  ; 
Kor,  did  I  but  suspect  a  fearful  man, 
Ife  should  have  leave  to  go  away  betimes, 
I.est  in  our  need  he  might  infect  another. 
And  make  him  of  like  spirit  to  himself. 
!f  any  such  be  liere,  as  God  forbid  I 
Let  him  depart  before  we  need  his  help. 

Oxf.  Women  and  children  of  so  high  a  courage, 
And  warriors  faint  !  why,  't  were  perpetual  shame. — 
O.  brave  young  prince  !  thy  famous  grandfather 
Doth  live  again  in  thee  :   long  may'st  thou  live. 
To  bear  his  image,  and  renew  his  glories  ! 

Som.  And  he.  that  will  not  fieht  for  such  a  hope, 
Go  home  to  bed.  and.  like  the  owl  by  day. 
If  he  arise,  be  mock'd  and  wondered  at. 

Q.  Mar.  Thanks,  gentle  Somerset : — .sweet  0.vford, 
thanks. 

Prince.  And  take  his  thanks,  that  yet  hath  nothing 
else. 

Enter  a  Mf.i.senser. 

Mess.  Prepare  you.  lords,  for  Edward  is  at  hand, 
Re«dy  to  fi^ht :  therefore,  be  resolute. 


Oxf.  I  thought  no  less :  it  is  his  policy 
To  ha.stc  thus  fast,  to  find  us  unprovided. 

Som.  But  he  "s  deceived  :  we  are  in  readiness. 

Q.  Mar.  This  cheers  my  heart  to  see  > our  forwaidnew 

Orf.  Here  pitch  our  battle  :  hence  we  will  not  budge 

Flourish  and  March.   Enter  Kin<r  Edward.  Clarenck, 

Gloster,  and  Forces. 

K.  Edw.  Brave  followers,  yonder  stands  the  thorny 
■wood. 
Which,  by  the  heavens'  assistance  and  your  strer4;th 
Must  by  the  roots  be  hewn  up  yet  ere  night 
I  need  not  add  more  fuel  to  your  iire, 
For.  well  I  wot,  ye  blaze  to  burn  them  out. 
Give  signal  to  the  fight,  and  to  it,  lords. 

Q.  Mar.    Lords,    knights,    and   gentlemen,   what    I 
should  say, 
My  tears  gainsay ;  for  every  word  I  sneak, 
Ye  see,  I  drink  the  water  of  my  eye. 
Therefore,  no  more  but  this : — Henry.  yo;ix  sovereign, 
Is  prisoner  to  the  foe:  his  state  usurp'd, 
His  realm  a  slaughterhouse,  his  .subjects  slain. 
His  statutes  canccll'd,  and  his  trea.«ure  .spent. 
And  yonder  is  the  wolf  that  makes  this  spoil. 
You  fight  in  justice  :  then,  in  God's  name,  lordsj 
Be  valiant,  and  give  signal  to  the  fight. 

{Exeunt  both  Arvxir^. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Same. 
Alarums:     Excursions:     and    afterwards    a    Retreat.    \ 

Then   enter   King   Edward,    Clarf.nce.   Glostkh,    j 

and  Forces  :   with  Queen  INIargarzt,  Oxford,  oiib    i 

Somerset.  Prisoners.  | 

K.  Edw.  Now.  here  a  period  of  tumultuous  broils.       ' 
Away  with  Oxford  to  Hammes'  ca.stle  straight  • 
For  Somerset,  off  with  his  guilty  head. 
Go,  bear  them  hence  :  I  will  not  hear  them  speak. 

Oxf.  For  my  part,  I  '11  not  trouble  thee  with  word*. 

Som.  Nor  I:  but  stoop  with  patience  to  my  fortune 
[Exeunt  Oxford  and  Somerset,  guarded. 

Q.  Mar.  So  part  we  sadly  in  this  troublous  world. 
To  meet  with  joy  in  sweet  Jerusalem. 

K.  Edw.    Is   proclamation    made,    that   who  finds 
Edward 
Shall  have  a  high  reward,  and  he  his  life  ? 

Glo.  It  is  :  and.  lo  !  where  youthful  Edward  conif 
Enter  Soldiers,  with  Prince  Edward. 

K.  Edw.  Bring  forth  the  gallant:  let  us  hear  Iih 
speak.  [K.  Edward  5i/.> 

What  !  can  so  young  a  thorn  begin  to  prick  ? 
Edward,  what  satisfaction  canst  thou  make. 
For  bearing  arms,  for  stirring  up  my  siibjects, 
And  all  the  trouble  thou  hast  turn'd  me  to  ? 

Prince.  Speak  like  a  subject,  proud  ambitious  York. 
Suppose  that  I  am  now  my  father's  mouth: 
Resign  thy  chair,  and  where  I  stand  kneel  thou. 
Whilst  I  propose  the  self-same  words  to  thee. 
Which,  traitor,  thou  wouldst  have  me  answer  to. 

Q.  Mnr.  Ah,  that  thy  father  had  been  .so  resolvd  ! 

Glo.  That  you  might  still  have  worn  the  petticoat, 
And  ne'er  have  stol'n  the  breech  from  Lancaster. 

Prince.  Let  iE.sop  fable  in  a  winters  night : 
His  currish  riddles  sort  not  with  this  place. 

Glo.  By  heaven,  brat,  I  '11  ]ilague  you  for  thJ.t  word 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  thou  wast  born  to  be  a  plague  to  meu 

Glo.  For  God's  .sake,  take  away  this  capHve  scold 

Prince.   Nay,  take  away  this  scolding   crook-back 
rather. 

K.  Edw.  Peace  I  wilful  boy,  or  I  will  charm  youi 
tongue. 


SCENE    VI. 


KING  HENEY   VI. 


507 


Clar.  Untutor'd  lad,  thou  art  too  malapert. 

Prince.  I  know  my  duty :  you  are  all  undutiful. 
Lasc/vious  Edward, — and  thou  pcrjur'd  George, 
And  ihou  mis-shapen  Dick, — I  tell  ye  all, 
I  am  your  better,  traitors  as  ye  are ; 
And  thou  usurp'st  my  father's  right  and  mine. 

K.  Edw.  Take  that,  the  likeness  of  this  railer  here. 

[Stabs  him. 

Glo.  Sprawl'st  thou  ?  take  that,  to  end  thy  agony. 
[Glo.  stabs  him. 

Clar.  And  there  's  for  twitting  me  with  perjury. 

[Clar.  stabs  him. 

Q.  Mar.  0,  kill  me  too  ! 

Glo.  Marry,  and  shall.  [Offers  to  kill  her. 

K.  Edw.  Hold,  Richard,  hold  !    for  we   have  done 
too  much. 

Glo.  Why  should  she  live,  to  fill  the  world  with  words  ? 

K.  Edw.  What !    doth  she  swoon  ?    use  means  for 
her  recovery. 

Glo.  Clarence,  excuse  me  to  the  king,  my  brother. 
I'll  hence  to  London  on  a  serious  matter  : 
Ere  ye  come  there,  be  sure  to  hear  some  news. 

Clar.  What?  what? 

Glo.  The  Tower  !  the  Tower  !  [Exit. 

Q.  Mar.  0,  Ned  !  sweet  Ned  !  speak  to  thy  mother, 
boy: 
Canst  thou  not  speak? — 0  traitors  !  murderers  ! — 
They,  that  stabb'd  Caesar  shed  no  blood  at  all, 
Did  not  offend,  nor  were  not  worthy  blame, 
If  this  foul  deed  were  by  to  sequel'  it : 
He  was  a  man  :  this,  in  respect,  a  child  ; 
And  men  ne'er  spend  their  fury  on  a  child. 
What 's  worse  than  murderer,  that  I  may  name  it  ? 
No,  no  ;  my  heart  will  burst,  an  if  I  speak  ; 
And  I  will  speak,  that  so  my  heart  may  burst. — 
Butchers  and  villains !  bloody  cannibals  ! 
How  sweet  a  plant  have  you  untimely  cropp'd  ! 
You  have  no  children,  butchers  !  if  you  had. 
The  thought  of  them  would  have  stirr'd  up  remorse  : 
But,  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child. 
Look  in  his  youth  to  have  him  so  cut  off. 
As,  deathsmen,  you  have  rid  this  sweet  young  prince ! 

K.  Edw.  Away  with  her !  go,  bear  her  hence  perforce. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  never  bear  me  hence,  despatch  me  here ; 
Here  sheath  thy  sword,  I  '11  pardon  thee  my  death. 
What !  wilt  thou  not? — then,  Clarence,  do  it  thou. 

Clar.  By  heaven,  I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  ease. 

Q.  Mar.  Good  Clarence,  do ;  sweet  Clarence,  do  thou 
do  it. 

Clar.  Didst  thou  not  hear  me  swear  I  would  not  do  it  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  but  thou  usest  to-forswear  thyself: 
'T  was  sin  before,  but  now  't  is  charity. 
What !  wilt  thou  not?  where  is  that  devil's  butcher, 
Hard-favour'd  Richard  ?     Richard,  where  art  thou  ? 
Thou  art  not  here  :  murder  is  thy  alms-deed  ; 
e*itioners  for  blood  thou  ne'er  put  'st  back- 

K.  Edw.  Away,  I  say  !  I  charge  ye,  beai  her  hence. 

Q.  Mar.  So  come  to  you,  and  yours,  as  to  this  prince  ! 

[Exit. 

K.  Edw.  Where  's  Richard  gone  ? 

Clar.  To  London,  all  in  post ;  and,  as  I  guess, 
To  make  a  bloody  supper  in  the  Tower. 

K.  Edw.  He  's  sudden,  if  a  thing  comes  in  his  head. 
Now  maich  we  hence  :  discharge  the  common  sort 
With  pay  and  thanLs,  and  let 's  away  to  London, 
And  see  our  gentle  queen  how  well  she  fares  : 
By  this,  I  hope,  she  hath  a  son  for  me.  [Exeani. 


SCENE  VL— London.     A  Room  in  the  Tower.' 

King  Henry  is  discovered  reading^.     Enter  Gloster 

and  the  Lieutenant. 

Glo.  Good  day,  my  lord.  What,  at  your  book  so  hard  ? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  my  good  lord :  my  lord,  I  should  Bay 
rather : 
'T  is  sin  to  flatter ;  good  was  little  better : 
Good  Gloster,  and  good  devil,  were  alike, 
And  both  preposterous ;  therefore,  not  good  lord. 

Glo.  Sirrah,  leave  us  to  ourselves  :  we  must  confer. 
[Exit  Lietitenaid, 

K.  Hen.  So  flies  the  reckless  shepherd  from  the  wolf 
So  first  the  harmless  sheep  doth  yield  his  fleece, 
And  next  his  throat  unto  the  butcher's  knife. — 
What  scene  of  death  hath  Roscius  now  to  act  ? 

Glo.  Suspicion  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind : 
The  thief  doth  fear  each  bush  an  oflicer. 

K.  Hen.  The  bird,  that  hath  been  limed  in  a  bush, 
With  trembling  wings  misdoubteth  every  bush ; 
And  I,  the  hapless  male  to  one  sweet  bird. 
Have  now  the  fatal  object  in  my  eye. 
Where  my  poor  young  was  lim'd,  was  caught,  and  kill  d 

Glo.  Why,  what  a  peevish*  fool  was  that  of  Crete, 
That  taught  his  son  the  office  of  a  fowl  ? 
And  yet,  for  all  his  wings,  the  fool  was  drown'd. 

K.  Hen.  L  Daedalus  ;  my  poor  boy,  Icarus ; 
Thy  father,  Minos,  that  denied  our  course  ; 
The  sun,  that  sear'd  the  wings  of  my  sweet  boy, 
Thy  brother  Edward  ;  and  thyself,  the  sea, 
Whose  envious  gulf  did  swallow  up  his  life. 
Ah  !  kill  mc  with  thy  weapon,  not  with  words. 
My  breast  can  better  brook  thy  dagger's  point, 
Than  can  my  ears  that  tragic  history. 
But  wherefore  dost  thou  come  ?  is  't  for  my  life  ? 

Glo.  Think'st  thou  I  am  an  executioner  ? 

K.  Hen.  A  persecutor,  I  am  sure,  thou  art : 
If  murdering  innocents  be  executing. 
Why,  then  thou  art  an  executioner. 

Glo.  Thy  son  I  kill'd  for  his  presumption. 

K.  Hen.    Hadst    thou   been  kill'd,  when  first  thoa 
didst  presume, 
Thou  hadst  not  liv'd  to  kill  a  son  of  mine. 
And  thus  I  prophesy, — that  many  a  thousand, 
Which  now  mistrust  no  parcel  of  my  fear  ; 
And  many  an  old  man's  sigh,  and  many  a  vridow'Bj 
And  many  an  orphan's  water-standing  eye, — 
Men  for  their  sons',  wives  for  their  husbands', 
Orphans  for  their  parents'  timeless  death, 
Shall  rue  the  hour  that  ever  thou  wast  born. 
The  owl  shriek'd  at  thy  birth,  an  evil  sign : 
The  night-crow  cried,  a  boding  luckless  tune  ;* 
Dogs  howl'd,  and  hideous  tempest  shook  down  trees  ■ 
The  raven  rook'd*  her  on  the  chimney's  top. 
And  chattering  pies  in  dismal  discords  sung. 
Thy  mother  felt  more  than  a  mother's  pain. 
And  yet  brought  forth  less  than  a  mother's  hope  ; 
To  wit, — an  indigest  deformed  lump. 
Not  like  the  fruit  of  such  a  goodly  tree. 
Teeth  hadst  thou  in  thy  head,  when  thou  wast  born. 
To  signify,  thou  cam'st  to  bite  the  woi-kl : 
Ana,  if  the  rest  be  true  which  I  have  heard, 
Thou  cam'st 

Glo.  I  '11  hear  no  more. — Die,  prophet,  in  thy  speecli 

[Stabs  him. 
For  this,  amongst  the  rest,  was  I  ordain'd. 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  and  for  much  more  slaughter  after  this. 
0  !  God  forgive  my  sins,  and  pardon  thee.  [Dies 


>  equal  :  in  f.  e.      2  The  scene  in  the  folio,  is  "  on  the  -walls  of  the  Tower" ;   th.at  of  the  text  from  the  "  True  Tragedy  "      '  In  f. 
»be  rest  of  this  stage  direction  is  :  the  Lieutenant  attending.     Enter  Gloster.      *  Silly.      '  abodine  luckless  time  ■  in  f.  o       •  Rnoit 


508 


THIED  PART  OF  KING  HEKRY  VI. 


Arr    V. 


Glo.  Wlial  !  \\\\\  the  a.spiriiig  blood  of  LancMter 
Bink  in  the  ltouikI  ?    I  thousht  it  would  liavo  mounted. 
See,  how  uiy  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death  ! 

0,  may  such  purple  tears  be  always  shed 

From  those  tiiat  wish  the  downfall  of  our  house  ! — 

If  any  spark  of  life  be  yet  remaining, 

Down,  down  to  hell ;  and  say  I  sent  thee  thither, 

[Stabs  him  again. 

1,  that  have  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear. 
Indeed,  't  is  true,  that  Henry  toLtl  me  of; 
For  I  have  often  heard  my  mother  say, 

\  came  into  the  world  with  my  legs  forward. 

Hid  I  not  reason,  think  ye,  to  make  haste. 

And  seek  their  ruin  that  usurp'd  our  right? 

The  midwife  wonderd  ;  and  the  women  cried, 

"0,  Jesus  bless  us  I    he  is  born  with  teeth:" 

And  so  I  wa5  :  which  phiinly  signified 

That  I  should  snarl,  and  bite,  and  play  the  dog. 

Then,  since  the  heavens  have  sJiap'd  my  body  so, 

Let  hell  make  crook'd  my  mind  to  answer  it. 

I  have  no  brother.  I  am  like  no  brother  ; 

And  this  word  love,  which  greybeards  call  divine. 

Be  resident  in  men  like  one  another, 

And  not  in  me :  I  am  myself  alone. — 

Clarence,  beware  :  thou  keep'st  me  from  the  light; 

But  I  will  .<ort  a  pitchy  day  for  thee  : 

For  I  will  buz  abroad  such  prophecies, 

That  Edward  shall   be  fearful  of  his  life; 

And  then,  to  purge  his  fear,  I  '11  be  thy  death. 

King  Henry,  and  the  prince  his  son,  are  gone: 

Clarence,  thy  turn  is  next,  and  then  the  rest ; 

Counting  myself  but  bad.  till  I  be  best. — 

I  "11  throw  thy  body  in  another  room, 

And  triumph,  Henry  in  thy  day  of  doom. 

[Exit  with  the  Body. 

SCENE  VII.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

King    Edward  i.-;   discovered  sitting  on   his  Throne.^ 
Queen  Elizabeth  ;  a  Nurse  with  the  Infant  Prince. 
Clarence,  Hasti.ngs,  and  others. 
K.  Edw.    Once   more   we   sit    in  England's  royal 
throne. 

Re-purchas'd  with  the  blood  of  enemies. 

What  valiant  foe-men,  like  to  autumn's  corn. 

Have  we  mow'd  down,  in  tops  of  all  their  pride  ? 

Three  dukes  of  Somerset,  threefold  renown"d 

Pot  hardy  and  redoubted^  champions : 


Two  ClifTords.  as  the  father  and  the  son ; 
And  two  Nortliumberlands ;  two  braver  men 
Ne'er  spurr  d  their  coursers  at  the  trumpet's  sound: 
With  them,  the  two  brave  bears,  Warwick  and  Men- 

tague, 
That  in  their  chains  fetter'd  the  kingly  lion, 
And  made  the  forest  tremble  when  they  roar'd. 
Thus  have  wc  swept  suspicion  from  our  s«at, 
And  made  our  footstool  of  security. — 

Enter  Gloster  behind.* 
Come  hither,  Bess,  and  let  me  kiss  my  boy. — 
Young  Ned,  for  thee,  thine  uncles,  and  myself. 
Have  in  our  armours  watch'd  the  winter's  night ; 
Went  all  a-foot  in  summer's  scalding  heat, 
That  lliou  mightst  repossess  the  crown  in  peace ; 
And  of  our  labours  thou  shalt  reap  the  gain. 

Glo.  I  '11  blast  his  harvest,  if  your  head  were  laid  , 

[Aside. 
For  yet  I  am  not  look'd  on  in  the  world. 
This  shoulder  was  ordain'd  so  thick,  to  heave  ; 
And  heave  it  shall  some  weight,  or  break  my  back. — 
Work  thou  the  way,  and  that  shall  execute. 

K.  Edw.  Clarence,  and  Gloster,  love  my  lovely  queen 
And  kiss  your  princely  nephew,  brothers  both. 

Clar.  The  duty  that  I  owe  unto  your  maje^sty. 
I  seal  upon  the  lips  of  this  sweet  babe.       [Kissing  it.* 
K.  Edw.  Thanks,  noble  Clarence ;  worthy  brother, 

thanks. 
Glo.  And.  that   I  love  the  tree  from  whence  thou 
sprang'st,  [Kissing  the  infant.* 

Witness  the  loving  kiss  I  give  the  fruit. — 
[Aside.]  To  say  the  truth,  so  Judas  kiss'd  his  master, 
And  cried — all  hail !  when  as  he  meant — all  harm. 
K.  Edw.  Now  am  I  seated  as  my  soul  delights, 
Having  my  country's  peace,  and  brothers'  loves. 

Clar.  What  will  your  grace  have  done  with  Marga» 
Reignier,  her  father,  to  the  king  of  France 
Hath  pawn'd  the  Sieils  and  Jerusalem. 
And  hither  have  they  sent  it  for  her  ransom. 

A'.   Edw.  A^vay  v^nth  her,  and  waft  her  hence  tc 
France. — 
And  now  what  rests,  but  that  we  spend  the  time 
With  stately  triumphs,  mirthful  comic  shows, 
Such  as  befit  the  pleasure  of  the  court  ? 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets  ! — farewell,  sour  annoy; 
For  here,  I  hope,  begins  our  lasting  joy. 

[Exeunt. 


«  Tl^  rwt  of  tbii  lUgf  iirection  ii  thus  given  in  f  o.  :  ''Queen  Eu7.abeth  ici'.h  tht  infant  Prinu,  CLARr;*CE,  Glosth   Habtisob,"*o 
» ta^abud  ;  ia  f  •.     »  *  •  Not  ia  f.  •. 


I 


LIFE   AND   DEATH 


KING    RICHARD    III 


DKAMATIS    PERSOIS'^. 


Sons  to  the  King. 

Brothers  to  the 
King. 


King  Edward  the  Fourth. 

Edward,  Prince  of  Wales ; 

Richard.  Duke  of  York  ; 

George,  Duke  of  Clarence  ; 

Richard,  Duke  of  Gloster  ; 

A  young  Son  of  Clarence. 

Henry,  Earl  of  Richmond. 

Cardinal  Bouchier,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Thojias  Rotheram,  Archbishop  of  York. 

John  Morton,  Bishop  of  Ely. 

Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Duke  of  Norfolk  :  Earl  of  Surrey,  his  Son. 

Earl  Rivers.  Brother  to  King  Edward's  Queen  : 

Marquess    of   Dorset,  and   Lord  Grey,  her 

Sons. 
Earl  of  Oxford.     Lord  Hastings. 

Lords,  and  other  Attendants  ;    two  Gentlemen,  a  Pursuivant,  Scrivener,  Citizens,  Murderers,  Messengers. 

Ghosts,   Soldiers,  &c. 

SCENE,  England. 


Lord  Stanley.     Lord  Lovel. 
Sir  Thomas  Vaughan.     Sir  Richard  RAXCLirr. 
Sir  William  Catesby.     Sir  James  Ttrrel. 
Sir  James  Blount.     Sir  Walter  Herbert. 
Sir    Robert    Brakenbury,    Lieutenant    of    th^ 

Tower. 
Christopher  Urswick.  a  Priest.    Another  Priest. 
Lord  Mayor  of  London.     Sheriff  of  Wiltshire. 

Elizabeth,  Queen  of  King  Edward  IV. 
Margaret.  Widow  of  King  Henry  VL 
Duchess  of  York,  Mother  to  King  Edward  IV.. 

Clarence,  and  Gloster. 
Lady  Anne,  Widow  of  Edward  Prince  of  Wales, 
A  voung  Daughter  of  Clarence. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— London.     A  Street. 
Enter  Gloster. 
Glo.  Now  is  the  \\-inter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun'  of  York ; 
And  all  the  clouds  that  lower'd  upon  our  house, 
Tn  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried. 
Now  are  our  brows  bound  with  victorious  wreaths  ; 
Our  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments ; 
Our  stern  alarums  changed  to  merry  meetings. 
Our  dreadful  marches  to  delightful  measures. 
Grim-vi.sag'd  war  hath  smooth"d  his  wrinkled  front  ; 
And  now,  instead  of  mounting  barbed^  steeds, 
To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adversaries, 
H«  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  chamber, 
To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute.^ 
But  I,  that  am  not  shap'd  for  sportive  tricks, 
Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass  ; 
I,  that  am  rudely  stamp'd,  and  want  love's  majesty. 
To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling  nymph  ; 
I,  that  am  curta:l'd  thus  of*  fair  proportion, 
Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 
A.nd  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable. 
That  dogs  bark  at  me,  as  I  halt  by  them ; 
Why  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace. 


Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time, 

Unless  to  see*  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 

And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity : 

And  therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 

To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 

I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain, 

And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days. 

Plots  have  I  laid,  inductions  dangerous. 

By  dnmken  prophecies,  libels,  and  dreams. 

To  set  my  brother  Clarence,  and  the  king. 

In  deadly  hate  the  one  against  the  other  : 

And.  if  king  Edward  be  as  true  and  just, 

As  I  am  subtle,  false,  and  treacherous, 

This  day  should  Clarence  closely  be  mew'd  up, 

About  a  prophecy,  which  says — that  G 

Of  Edward's  heirs  the  murderer  shall  be. 

Dive,  thoughts,  do"vsTi  to  my  soul :  here  Clarence  cornea 

Enter  Clarence,  gttart/ecZ,  and  Brakenbury. 
Brother,  good  day.     What  means  this  armed  guard, 
That  waits  upon  your  grace  ? 

Clar.  His  majesty, 

Tendering  my  person's  safety,  hath  appointed 
This  conduct  to  convey  me  to  the  Tower. 

Glo.  Upon  what  cause  ? 

Clar.  Because  my  name  is  George 

Glo.  Alack  !  my  lord,  that  fault  is  none  of  yours ; 
He  should,  for  that,  commit  your  godfathers. 


'  The  cognizance  of  Edward  IV.,  concisted  of  three 
auarto 


>  Caparisoned.      '  Iot*  :  in  quartos. 


^  cnrtail'd  of  this :  in  f.  e.     »  epy :  in 

509 


510 


KING   RICIIAllD   m. 


ACT    I. 


0  I  belike,  his  majesty  hath  some  intent. 

That  you  sljould  be  new  christen'd  in  the  Tower. 
But  wliat  "s  the  matter,  Clarence?  may  I  know? 

Clar.  Vea.  Richard,  when  I  know;  but  I  protest, 
A.s  yet  I  do  not :  but,  as  1  can  learn. 
He  hearki*M.>s  after  jinphecie.-;  and  dreams  : 
And  from  the  cros,<-row  plucks  the  letter  G, 
And  say.*,  a  wizard  told  him.  that  by  G 
His  issue  disinherited  should  be  ; 
And,  for  my  name  of  George  begins  with  G, 
It  follows  in  his  thought  that  I  am  he. 
These,  as  I  learn,  and  such  like  toys  as  these^ 
Have  raovM  his  highness  to  commit  me  now. 

Glo.  Why.  this  it  is,  when  men  are  ruld  by  women. 
'T  is  not  the  king  that  sends  you  to  the  Tower  : 
My  lady  Grey,  his  wile.  Clarence,  't  is  she, 
That  tempts  him  to  this  harsh'  extremity. 
Was  it  not  she.  and  that  gootl  man  of  worship, 
Antony  Wobdevilie.  her  same*  brother  there. 
That  made  him  send  lord  Hastings  to  the  Tower, 
From  whence  this  present  day  he  is  deliverd  ? 
We  are  not  safe,  Clarence  ;  we  are  not  safe. 

Chr.  By  heaven,  I  think,  there  is  no  man  secure, 
But  the  quoen's  kindred,  and  night-walking  heralds 
That  trudge  betwixt  the  king  and  mistress  Shore. 
Heard  you  not,  what  an  humble  suppliant 
Lord  Ha-^tings  was  to  her  for  his  deliver}'  ?' 

Glo.  Humbly  complaining  to  her  deity 
Got  my  lord  chamberlain  his  liberty. 

1  "11  tell  you  what ;  I  think,  it  is  our  way, 
If  we  will  keep  in  favour  with  the  king. 
To  be  her  men,  and  wear  her  livery  : 
The  jealous  o'er- worn  widow,  and  herself, 
Since  that  our  brother  dubb'd  them  gentlewomen, 
Are  mighty  gossips  in  our  monarchy. 

Brak.  I  beseech  your  graces  both  to  pardon  me  : 
His  majesty  hath  straitly  given  in  charge, 
That  no  man  shall  have  private  conference, 
Of  what  degree  soever,  ■with  your  brother. 

Glo.  Even  so  ;  an  please  your  worship,  Brakenbury, 
You  may  partake  of  any  thing  we  say. 
We  speak  no  treason,  man  :  we  say.  the  king 
Is  wise  and  virtuous ;  and  his  noble  queen 
Well  struck  in  years  ;  fair,  and  not  jealous  : — 
We  say  that  Shore's  wife  hath  a  pretty  foot. 
k  cherry  lip,  a  bonny  eye.  a  pa,<;siug  pleasing  tongue  : 
And  the  queen's  kindred  are  made  gentlefolks. 
How  gay  you,  sir  ?  can  you  deny  all  this  ? 

brak.  With  this,  my  lord,  myself  have  nouaht  to  do. 

Glo.  Nought  to  do  with  mistress  Shore?   I  "tell  thee, 
fellow, 
He  that  doth  naught  with  her,  excepting  one. 
Were  b^st  to  do  it  secretly,  alone. 

Brak.  What  one.  my  lord  ? 

Glo.  Her  hu.sband.  knave.    W'ouldst  thou  betray  me  ? 

B'-Jc.  I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me;  and 
withal. 
Fofocar  your  conference  with  the  noble  duke. 

Clar.  We  know  thy  charge.  Brakenburv,  and  will 
obey. 

Glo.  Wc  are  the  qtieen's  abjects,  and  must  obev. — 
Brother,  farcweil  :   I  will  unto  the  king ; 
.And  whatsoe'er  you  will  employ  me  in, 
Were  it  to  call  king  Kdwards  widow  sister, 
I  will  perform  it  to  enfranchise  you. 
Mean  time,  thi.o  deep  disiiracc  in  brotherhood 
Touches  me  deeper  than  you  can  imagine. 

Clar.  I  know,  it  plea.seth  neither  of  us  well. 


Glo.  'Well,  your  imprisonment  shall  not  be  long ; 
I  will  deliver  you,  or  else  lie  for  you.* 
Mean  time,  have  patience.  [Embracing  htm.' 

Clar.  I  must  pertbrce  :  farewell. 

[Exeunt  Clarence,  Brakenbirt,  and  Guard 

Glo.  Go,  tread  the  path  that  thou  shalt  ne'er  return. 
Simple,  plain  Clarence. — I  do  love  thee  so, 
That  I  will  shortly  send  thy  soul  to  heaven, 
If  heaven  vriW  take  the  present  at  our  hands. 
But  who  comes  here  ?  the  new-deliver'd  Hasting.""  ? 
Enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  Good  time  of  day  unto  my  gracious  lord. 

Glo.  As  much  unto  my  good  lord  chamberlain. 
Well  are  you  welcome  to  this  open  air. 
How  liath  your  lordship  brook'd  imprisonment  ? 

Hnst.  With  patience,  noble  lord,  as  prisoners  must 
But  I  shall  live,  my  lord,  to  give  them  thanks, 
That  were  the  cause  of  my  imprisonment. 

Glo.  No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  and  so  shall  Clarence  too, 
For  they  that  were  your  eiiemies  are  his. 
And  have  prevailed  as  much  on  him  as  you. 

Hast.  More  pity,  that  the  eagles  should  be  mewd, 
While  kites  and  buzzards  prey'  at  liberty. 

Glo.  What  news  abroad  ? 

Hast.  No  news  so  bad  abroad,  as  this  at  home  : — 
The  king  is  sickly,  weak,  and  melancholy. 
And  his  physicians  fear  him  mightily. 

Glo.  Now,  by  Saint  Paul',  that  news  is  bad  indee4 

0  !  he  hath  kept  an  evil  diet  long, 

And  over-much  consum'd  his  royal  person  : 
"T  is  very  grievous  to  be  thought  upon. 
Where  is  he  ?  in  his  bed  ?• 

Hast.  He  is. 

Glo.  Go  you  before,  and  I  will  follow  you. 

[Exit  Hastincjs 
He  cannot  live,  I  hope  ;  and  must  not  die. 
Till  George  be  pack'd  \\\X\\  posthaste'  up  to  hea-ven 

1  "11  in,  to  urge  his  hatred  more  to  Clarence. 
With  lies  well  steel'd  with  weighty  arguments; 
And,  if  I  fail  not  in  my  deep  intent, 
Clarence  hath  not  another  day  to  live  : 

Which  done,  God  take  king  Edward  to  his  mercy. 

And  leave  the  world  for  me  to  bustle  in. 

For  then  1  '11  marry  Warvtick's  youngest  daughter. 

What  though  I  kill'd  her  husband,  and  her  father  ? 

The  readiest  way  to  make  the  wench  amends, 

Is  to  become  her  husband,  and  her  father : 

The  which  will  I  :  not  all  so  much  for  love. 

As  for  another  secret  close  intent. 

By  marrying  her  which  I  mus-t  reach  unto. 

But  yet  I  run  before  my  horse  to  market : 

Clarence  still  breathes  ;  Edward  still  lives  and  reignf 

When  they  are  gone,  then  must  I  count  my  gains. 

[Exil 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Another  Street. 
Enter  the  Corpse  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  borne  in  an 

open  Coffin.  Gentlemen,  bearing  Halberds,  to  guard  it , 

and  Lady  Anne  as  mourner. 

Anne.  Set  dow^l,  set  do-«-n  your  honourable  load." 
If  honour  may  be  shrouded  in  a  hearse, 
Whil.«t  I  a  while  ob.sequiously  lament 
Th'  untimely  fall  of  virtuous  Lancaster. — 
Poor  key-cold  figure  of  a  holy  king  ! 
Pale  a.shes  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  ! 
Thou  bloodless  remnant  of  that  royal  blood, 
Be  it  lawful  that  I  invocate  thy  ghost, 
To  hear  the  lamentations  of  poor  Anne, 


'  tainpen  h;m  to  tbii  extremity 
ti      'Not  ta  f  e.      *  play  :  in 


:  in  quarto*, 
folio.     '  John 


»  Not  in  f.  e 
in  fol 


*  So  the  quartos:  folio:  Haitings  wa«!  for  her.      ♦LieinpnioB   in  fO« 
quartos  :  What :  is  he  in  his  bed  ?    »  posthorse  :  in  f.  e.      '<>  lord  ;  in  qoarto 


y 


KING  KICHAED  m. 


511 


Wife  to  thy  Edward,  to  thy  slaughter'd  son, 

Stabb'd  by  the  self-same  hand  that  made  these  wounds  ! 

Lo,  in  these  windows,  that  let  forth  thy  life, 

I  pour  th(  helpless  balm  of  my  poor  eyes  : — 

0,  cursed  be  the  hand  that  made  these"  holes  ! 

Cursed  the  heart,  that  had  the  heart  to  do  it ! 

Cursed  the  blood,  that  let  this  blood  from  hence  !" 

More  direful  hap  betide  that  hated  wi-etch, 

That  makes  us  wretched  by  the  death  of  thee, 

Than  I  can  wish  to  adders,  spiders,  toads, 

Or  any  creeping  venom'd  thing  that  lives  ! 

If  ever  he  have  child,  abortive  be  it. 

Prodigious,  and  untimely  brought  to  light, 

Whose  ugly  and  uimatural  aspect 

May  fright  the  hopeful  mother  at  the  view; 

And  that  be  heir  to  his  unhappiness  !' 

If  ever  he  have  wife,  let  her  be  made 

More*  miserable  by  the  death  of  him. 

Than*  I  am  made  by  my  young  lord,  and  thee  ! — 

Come,  now  toward  Chertsey  with  your  holy  load, 

Taken  from  Paul's  to  be  interred  there  ; 

And  still,  as  you  are  wearj'  of  this  weight, 

Rest  you.  whiles  I  lament  king  Henry's  corse. 

[The  Bearers  take  up  the  Corpse  and  advance. 
Enter  Glostkr. 
Glo.  Stay  you,  that  bear  the  corse,  and  set  it  down. 
Anne.  What  black  magician  conjures  up  this  fiend. 
To  stop  devoted  charitable  deeds  ? 

Glo.  Villains,  set  down  the  corse  ;  or,  by  Saint  Paul, 
I  '11  make  a  corse  of  him  that  disobeys. 

1  Gent.  My  lord,  stand  back,  and  let  the  coffin  pass. 
Glo.  Unmanner'd  dog  !  stand  thou  when  I  command : 
Advance  thy  halberd  higher  than  my  breast. 
Or.  by  Saint  Paul,  I  '11  strike  thee  to  my  foot. 
And  spurn  upon  thee,  beggar,  for  thy  boldness. 

[The  Bearers  set  down  the  Coffin. 
Anne.  What  !  do  you  tremble  !  are  you  all  afraid  ? 
Alas  !  I  blame  you  not;  for  you  are  mortal. 
And  mortal  eyes  cannot  endure  the  devil. — 
Avaunt,  thou  dreadful  minister  of  hell  ! 
Thou  hadst  but  power  over  his  mortal  body, 
His  soul  thou  canst  not  have  :  therefore,  be  gone. 
Glo.  Sweet  saint,  for  charity,  be  not  so  curst. 
Anne.  Foul  devil,  for  God's  sake,  hence,  and  trouble 
us  not ; 
For  thou  hast  made  the  happy  earth  thy  hell, 
!      Fill'd  it  with  cursing  cries,  and  deep  exclaims. 
;      If  thou  delight  to  view  thy  heinous  deeds, 
\     Behold  this  pattern  of  thy  butcheries. — 
I     0,  gentlemen  !  see,  see  !  dead  Henry's  wounds 
I     Open  their  congeal'd  mouths,  and  bleed  afresh  ! — 
Blush,  blush,  thou  lump  of  foul  deformity, 
For  'tis  thy  presence  that  exhales  this  blood 
From  cold  and  empty  veins,  where  no  blood  dwells : 
Thy  deed,  inhuman  and  unnatural, 
Provokes  this  deluge  most  unnatural. — 
0  God,  which  this  blood  mad'st,  revenge  his  death  ! 
0  earth,  wluch  this  blood  drink'st,  revenge  his  death  ! 
Either,  heaven,  with  lightning  strike  the  murderer  dead. 
Or,  ffar4h,  gape  open  wide,  and  eat  him  quick, 
V?  ^hou  dost  swallow  up  this  good  king's  blood, 
Wnich  his  hcll-govern"d  arm  hath  butchered  ! 

(Glo.  Lady,  you  know  no  rules  of  charity, 
Which  renders  good  for  bad,  blessings  for  curses. 
1        Anne.  Villain,  thou  know'st  nor  law  of  God  nor  man  : 
No  beast  so  fierce,  but  Imows  some  touch  of  pity. 
Glo.  But  I  know  none,  and  therefore  am  no  bea.st. 
.inr^.  0  wonderful  !  when  devils  tell  the  truth  ! 


Glo.  More  wonderful,  when  angels  are  so  angry. 

Vouchsafe,  divine  perfection  of  a  woman. 
Of  these  supposed  evils  to  give  me  leave 
By  circumstance  but  to  acquit  myself. 

Anne.  Vouchsafe,  diffus'd  infection  of  a  man, 
For  these  known  evils  but  to  give  me  leave 
By  circumstance  to  curse  thy  cursed  self. 

Glo.  Fairer  than  tongvie  can  name  thee,  let  me  have 
Some  patient  leisure  to  excuse  myself. 

Anne.  Fouler  than  heart  can  think  thee,  thou  can?t 
make 
No  excuse  current,  but  to  hang  thyself. 

Glo.  By  such  despair  I  should  accuse  myself. 

Anne.  And,  by  despairing,  shalt  thou  stand  excusa 
For  doing  worthy  vengeance  on  thyself. 
That  didst  unworthy  slaughter  upon  others. 

Glo.  Say,  that  I  slew  them  not  ? 

Anne.  Then  say  they  were  not  slain.* 

But  dead  they  are,  and,  devilish  slave,  by  Ihee. 

Glo.  I  did  not  kill  your  husband. 

Anne.  Why,  then  he  is  alive. 

Glo.  Nay,  he  is  dead  ;  and  slain  by  Edward's  hand. 

Anne.  In  thy  foul  throat  thou  liest :  queen  Margaret 
saw 
Thy  murderous'  falchion  smoking  in  his  blood ; 
The  which  thou  once  didst  bend  against  her  bvesist, 
But  that  thy  brothers  beat  aside  the  point. 

Glo.  I  was  provoked  by  her  sland'rous  tongue. 
That  laid  their  guilt  upon  my  guiltless  shoulders. 

Anne.  Thou  wast  provoked  by  thy  bloody  mind, 
That  never  dreamt  on  aught  but  butcheries. 
Didst  thou  not  kill  this  king  ? 

Glo.  I  grant  ye. 

Anne.  Dost  grant  me,  hedge-hog?  then,  God  grant 
me  too. 
Thou  may'st  be  damned  for  that  wicked  deed  ! 
O  !  he  was  gentle,  mild,  and  virtuous. 

Glo.  The  fitter*  for  the  King  of  heaA-en  that  hath  him 

Anne.  He  is  in  heaven,  where  thou  shalt  never  come. 

Glo.  Let  him  thank  me,  that  holp  to  send  him  thuher  . 
For  he  was  fitter  for  that  place  than  earth. 

Anne.  And  thou  unfit  for  any  place  but  hell. 

Glo.  Yes,  one  place  else,  if  you  -vsall  hear  me  name  it. 

Anne.  Some  dungeon. 

Glo.  Your  bed-chamber. 

Anne.  Ill  rest  betide  the  chamber  where  thou  liest. 

Glo.  So  will  it,  madam,  till  I  lie  with  you. 

Anne.  I  hope  so. 

Glo.  1  know  so. — But.  gentle  lady  Amie, — 

To  leave  this  keen  encounter  of  our  wits. 
And  fall  something*  into  a  slower  method, 
Is  not  the  causer  of  the  timeless  deaths 
Of  these  Plantagenets,  Henry,  and  Edward. 
As  blameful  as  the  executioner? 

Anne.  Thou  wast  the  cause,  and  most  accurs'd  effect 

Glo.  Your  beauty  was  the  cause  of  that  effect ; 
Your  beauty,  that  did  haunt  me  in  my  sleep. 
To  undertake  the  death  of  all  the  world, 
So  I  might  liA'-e'*  one  hour  in  your  sweet  bosom. 

Anne.  If  I  thought  that,  1  tell  thee,  homicide. 
These  nails  should  rend  that  beauty  from  my  cheeks. 

Glo.  These  eyes  could  not"  endure  that'*  beaaUy 
wreck ; 
You  should  not  blemish  it,  if  I  stood  by  : 
As  all  the  world  is  cheered  by  the  sun, 
So  I  by  that :  it  is  my  day,  my  life. 

Anne.  Black  night  o'ershade  thy  day,  and  death  thy 
life! 


'  fatal ;  in  quartos.     »  3  These  lines  ar?  not  in  the  quartos.     *  »  as  :  in  quartos.      •  Why,  then,  they 
Q  quartos,     e  better  :  in  folio.     9  somewhat :  in  quanos.     i'  rest  :  in  quartos      "  never  :  in  quartos. 


I  not  dead  :  in  qnartos.     '  bloodi 
i-vrect :  in  quartoi. 


512 


KING  RICHARD  Ul. 


Glo.  Curse  not  thyself,  fair  creature:  thou  art  both. 

Anne.  I  would  I  were,  to  be  rcvcng'd  on  thee. 

Glo.  It  is  a  quarrel  most  unnatural, 
To  be  reveiig'd  on  him  that  loveth  thee. 

Anne.  It  is  a  quarrel  just  and  reasonable, 
To  be  revenc'd  on  him  that  kill'd'  my  husband. 

Glo.  He  that  bereft  tliee.  lady,  of  thy  husband, 
Did  it  to  help  thee  to  a  better  husband. 

Anne.  His  better  doth  not  breathe  upon  the  earth. 

Glo.  He  live.^  that  loves  you  better  than  he  could. 

Anne.  Name  him. 

Glo.  Plant  agenet. 

Anne.  Why,  that  was  he. 

Glo.  The  self-same  name,  but  one  of  better  nature. 

AnTie.  Where  is  he  ? 

Glo.  Here:   [She  spits  at  him.]     Why 

dost  thou  spit  at  me  ? 

Anne.  'Would  it  were  mortal  poison,  for  thy  sake  ! 

Glo.  Nefer  came  poi.son  from  so  sweet  a  place. 

Aime.  Never  hung  poison  on  a  fouler  toad. 
Out  of  my  sight !  thou  dost  infect  mine  eyes. 

Glo.  Thine  eyes,  sweet  lady,  have  infected  mine. 

Anne.  Would  they  were  basilisks,  to  strike  thee  dead  ! 

Glo.  I  would  they  were,  that  I  might  die  at  once. 
For  now  they  kill  me  wth  a  living  death. 
Those  eyes  of  thine  from  mine  have  drawn  salt  tears, 
Sham'd  their  aspects  with  store  of  chiklisli  drops  : 
These  eyes,  which  never  shed  remorseful  tear ; 
No.  when  my  father  York,  and  Edward  wept 
To  hear  the  piteous  moan  that  Rutland  made, 
When  black-fac'd  Clifford  shook  hi.s  sword  at  him; 
Nor  when  thy  warlike  father,  like  a  child, 
Told  the  sad  story  of  my  fathers  death. 
And  twenty  times  made  pause  to  sob  and  weep, 
That  all  the  standers-by  had  wet  their  cheeks, 
Like  trees  bedash'd  with  rain ;  in  that  sad  time 
My  manly  eyes  did  scorn  an  humble  tear : 
And  what  these  sorrows  could  not  thence  exhale, 
Thy  beauty  hath,  and  made  them  blind  with  weeping.^ 
I  never  sued  to  friend,  nor  enemy ; 
My  tongue  could  never  learn  sweet  smoothing'  word; 
But  now  thy  beauty  is  propos'd  my  fee, 
My  proud  heart  sues,  and  prompts  my  tongue  to  speak. 
[She  looks  scornfully  at  him. 
Teach  not  thy  lip  such  scorn :  for  it  was  made 
For  kissing,  lady,  not  for  such  contempt. 
If  thy  revengeful  heart  cannot  forgive, 
Lo  !  here  I  lend  thee  this  sharp-pointed  .sword  ; 
Which  if  thou  please  to  hide  in  this  true  breast,* 
And  let  the  soul  forth  that  adoreth  thee, 
I  lay  it  naked  to  the  deadly  stroke, 
And  humbly  beg  the  death  upon  my  knee. 

[He  lays  his  Breast  open :  she  offers  at  it  with  his 
Swnrd. 
Nay.  do  not  pan.se  :   for  I  did  kill  king  Henry'  : — 
But  't  was  thy  beauty  that  provoked  me. 
Nay,  now  despatch  ;   'twas  I  that  stabbed'  young  Ed- 
ward : — 
But  'twas  thy  heavenly  face  that  set  me  on. 

[She  lets  fall  the  Sword. 
Fake  up  the  sword  again,  or  fake  up  me. 

Anne.  Arise,  di6.scmbler  :  though  I  wish  thy  death, 
I  will  not  be  thy  executioner. 

Glo.  Then  bid  rae  kill  my.self.  and  I  will  do  it. 

[TaJting  up  the  Sword.'' 

Anne.  I  have  already. 

Glo.  That  was  in  thy  rage  : 

'slew;  in  anartoi.      'This  and  the  eleven   precedin?   lines,  are 
t  was  I  that  Itill'd  yonr  hiuband  ;  in  qnartos       «  kiWd  :  in  quartos. 
peditious.      n  The  quarto*  insert  :  "  Olos    Take  up  the  corse,  sirs  ■' 
*  dsbsM  :  in  I 


Speak  it  again,  and  even  with  the  word. 

This  hand,  which  for  thy  love  did  kill  thy  love, 

Sliall  for  thy  love  kill  a  far  truer  love  : 

To  both  their  deaths  shalt  thou  be  acccssarv 

Anne.  I  would  I  knew  thy  heart. 

Glo.  'T  is  figur'd  in  my  tongue. 

Anne.  I  fear  me,  both  are  false. 

Glo.  Then,  never  man  was  true. 

Anne.  Well,  well,  put  up  your  sword. 

Glo.  Say.  then,  my  peace  is  made. 

Anne.  That  shalt  thou  know  hereafter. 

Glo.  But  shall  I  live  in  hope  ?  [Sheathing  his  Swwd  * 

Anne.  All  men,  I  hope,  live  so. 

Gin.  Vouchsafe  to  wear  this  ring. 

Anne.  To  take,  is  not  to  give.  [She  puts  on  the  Rtng. 

Glo.  Look,  how  my  ring  encompasscth  thy  finger, 
Even  so  thy  breast  encloselh  my  poor  heart ; 
Wear  both  of  them,  for  both  of  them  are  thine. 
And  if  thy  poor  devoted  suppliant'  may 
But  beg  one  favour  at  thy  gracious  hand, 
Thou  dost  confirm  his  happiness  for  ever. 

Anne.  What  is  it  ? 

Glo.  That  it  may  please  you  leave  these  sad  design* 
To  him  that  hath  most*"  cause  to  be  a  mourner, 
And  presently  repair  to  Crosby-place. 
Where  (after  I  have  solemnly  intcrr'd, 
At  Chertsey  mona.stery,  this  noble  king. 
And  wet  his  grave  with  my  repentant  tears) 
I  will  with  all  expedient"  duty  see  you: 
For  divers  unknowTi  reasons,  I  beseech  you, 
Grant  me  this  boon. 

Anne.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  much  it  joys  me  too, 
To  see  you  are  become  so  penitent. — 
Tressel,  and  Berkley,  go  along  with  me. 

Glo.  Bid  me  farewell. 

Anne.  'T  is  more  than  you  deserve  • 

But  since  you  teach  me  how  to  flatter  you, 
Imagine  I  have  said  farewell  already. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Anne,  Tressel,  awrf  Berkley. 

Gent.^^  Towards  Chertsey,  noble  lord? 

Glo.  No,  to  White-Friars ;  there  attend  my  coming. 
[Exeunt  the  rest.,  with  the  Corse. 
Wa.s  ever  woman  in  this  humour  woo'd  ? 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  won  ? 
I  '11  have  her,  but  I  will  not  keep  her  long.  ' 

What  !  I  that  kill'd  her  husband,  and  his  father, 
To  take  her  in  her  heart's  extremest  hate  ; 
With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes. 
The  bleeding  witness  of  my"  hatred  by, 
Having  God,  her  conscience,  and  these  bars  against  m^ 
And  [  no  friends'*  to  back  my  suit  withal", 
But  the  plain  devil,  and  dis.sembling  looks. 
And  yet  to  win  her, — all  the  world  to  nothing  !     Ha  I 
Hath  she  forgot  already  that  brave  prince, 
Edward,  her  lord,  whom  I,  some  three  months  since, 
Stabb'd  in  my  angry  mood  at  Tcwksbury  ? 
A  sweeter  and  a  lovelier  gentleman. — 
Framed  in  the  prodigality  of  nature. 
Young,  valiant,  wise,  and,  no  doubt,  right  royal, — 
The  spacious  world  cannot  again  aflxjrd  : 
And  will  she  yet  abase"  her  eyes  on  me. 
That  ciopp'd  the  golden  prime  of  this  .':weet  prince. 
And  made  her  widow  to  a  woful  bed  '? 
On  me,  whose  all  not  equals  Edward's  moiety  ? 
On  me,  that  halt,  and  am  ini.s-shp.pcii  thus? 
My  dukedom  to  a  beggarly  denier. 
I  do  mistake  my  person  all  this  while  : 

not    in  the  auartos.      '  soothini;  :  in  quanos.      ♦  bosom  :  in  4aarto» 

'  9  Not  in  f.  e.     '  servant  :  in  f.  e.      '<•  more  :  in  qnartos.      "  E» 

"  her  :  in  quartos.      '♦  nothing  :  in  quartos       "  at  all :  in  quartos 


SCEiTE  in. 


KmG  RICHAED  IH. 


il3 


Upon  my  life,  she  finds,  although  I  cannot. 

Myself  to  be  a  marvellous  proper  man. 

I  "11  be  at  charges  for  a  looking-glass  : 

And  entertain  a  score  or  two  of  tailors, 

To  study  fashions  to  adorn  my  body: 

Since  I  am  crept  in  favour  with  myself, 

I  will  maintain  it  with  some  little  cost. 

But.  first,  I  "11  turn  yon'  fellow  in  his  grave. 

And  then  return  lamenting  to  my  love. — 

Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass. 

That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Queen  Elizabeth.  Lord Hivbrs.  and  Lord  Grv.y. 

Riv.  Have  patience,  madam  :  there  "s  no  doubt,  his 
majesty 
Will  soon  recover  his  accustom'd  health. 

Grey.  In  that  you  brook  it  ill.  it  makes  him  worse  : 
Therefore,  for  God's  sake,  entertain  good  comfort. 
And  cheer  his  grace  with  quick  and  merry  words.' 

Q.  EUz.  If  he  were  dead,  what  would  betide  on  me  ' 

Grey.  No  other  harm,  but  loss  of  such  a  lord. 

Q.  Eliz.  The  loss  of  such  a  lord- includes  all  harms. 

Grey.  The  heavens  have  bless'd  you  with  a  goodly  son. 
To  be  your  comforter  when  he  is  gone. 

Q.  EUz.  Ah  !  he  is  young  :  and  his  minority 
I.s  put  unto  the  trust  of  Richard  Gloster. 
A  man  that  loves  not  me.  nor  none  of  you. 

Riv.  Is  it  concluded,  he  shall  be  protector  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  It  is  determined,  not  concluded  yet : 
But  so  it  must  be.  if  the  king  miscarry. 

Enter  BucKiNGH-i.M  and  Staxley". 

Grey.  Here    come  the    lords    of   Buckingham    and 
Stanley. 

Buck.  Good  time  of  day  unto  your  royal  grace. 

Stan.  God  make  your  majesty  joyful  as  you  have  been  ! 

Q.  EUz.  The  countess  Richmond,  good  my  lord  of 
Stanley, 
To  your  good  prayer  will  scarcely  say  amen. 
Yet.  Stanley,  notwithstanding  she  's  your  ^^^fe. 
And  loves  not  me,  be  you.  good  lord,  assur'd, 
I  hate  not  you  for  her  proud  arrogance. 

Stan.  I  do  beseech  you.  either  not  believe 
The  envious  slanders  of  her  false  accusers  : 
Or.  if  she  be  accus'd  on  true  report, 
Bear  wath  her  weakness,  which,  I  think,  proceeds 
From  wa}-\vard  sickness,  and  no  grounded  malice. 

Q.  EUz.  Saw  you  the  king  to-day,  my  lord  of  Stanley  ? 

Stan.  But  now,  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  and  I. 
Are  come  from  -visiting  his  majesty. 

Q.  EUz.  What^  likelihood  of  his  amendment,  lords  ? 

Hvck.  Madam,  good  hope :  his  grace  speaks  cheer- 
fully. 

Q.  EUz.  God  grant  him  health  !  Did  you  confer  with 
him  ? 

Buck.  Ay.  madam  :  he  desires  to  make  atonement 
Between  the  duke  of  Gloster  and  your  brothers. 
A.nd  between  them  and  my  lord  chamberlain  : 
And  sent  to  warn  them  to  his  royal  presence.  [be : 

Q.  EUz.  Would  all  were  well ! — But  that  will  never 
I  fear,  oitr  happiness  is  at  the  height.* 
Enter  Gloster,  stamping  angrily.^  with  Hastings,  and 
Dorset. 

Gh.  They  do  me  wrong,  and  I  will  not  endure  it. — 
Who  are  they,  that  complain  unto  the  king. 
That  I,  forsooth,  am  stern,  and  love  them  not  ^ 
,  By  koly  Paul,  they  love  his  grace  but  lightly. 


I  That  fill  his  ears  with  such  dissentious  rumours 
'Because  I  rannot  flatter,  and  speak  fair. 
Smile  in  n.en's  faces,  smooth,  deceive,  and  cos, 
Duck  with  French  nods  and  apish  courtesy. 
I  must  be  held  a  rancorous  enemy. 
Cannot  a  plain  man  live,  and  think  no  harm, 
But  thus  his  simple  truth  must  be  abus'd 
With  silken,  sly,  insinuating  Jacks  ? 

Grey.  To  whom  in   all  this  presence  speaks  your 

grace  ? 
Glo.  To  thee,  that  hast  nor  honesty,  nor  grace. 
When  have  I  injur'd  thee  ?  when  done  thee  wrong  ?-- 
Or  thee  ? — or  thee  ? — or  any  of  your  faction  ? 
A  plague  upoR  you  all  !     His  royal  grace. 
(Whom  God  preserve  better  than  you  would  wish  !) 
Cannot  be  quiet  scarce  a  breathing-while. 
Bitt  you  must  trouble  him  with  lewd*  complaints. 

Q.  EUz.  Brother  of  Gloster.  you  mistake  the  mattex 
The  king,  on  his  o\A"n  royal  disposition. 
And  not  provok"d  by  anv  suitor  else. 
Aiming,  belike,  at  your  interior  hatred, 
That  in  your  outward  action  shows  itself. 
Against  my  children,  brothers,  and  myself. 
Makes  him  to  send  :  that  thereby  he  may  gather 
The  ground^  of  your  ill-will,  and  so  remove  it. 

Glo.  I  cannot  tell ; — the  world  is  grown  so  bad. 
That  wrens  make*  prey  where  eagles  dare  not  perch 
Since  every  Jack  became  a  gentleman. 
There  "s  many  a  gentle  person  made  a  Jack. 

Q.  Eliz.  Come.  come,  we  know  your  meaning,  bro- 
ther Gloster : 
You  cm->-  my  advancement,  and  my  friends. 
God  grant,  we  never  may  haA'c  need  of  you  ! 

Glo.  Meantime.  God  grants  that  I  have  need  of  you 
Our  brother  is  imprison'd  by  vour  means; 
Myself  disgrae"d.  and  the  nobility 
Held  in  contempt ;  while  many  great'  promotions 
Are  daily  given,  to  ennoble  those 
That  scarce,  some  two  days  since,  were  worth  a  noble 
Q.  EUz.  By  him  that  rais"d  me  to  this  careful  heighi 
From  that  contented  hap  which  I  enjoy'd, 
I  never  did  incense  liis  majesty 
Against  the  duke  of  Clarence  :  but  have  been 
An  earnest  advocate  to  plead  for  him. 
My  lord,  you  do  me  shameful  injury. 
Falsely  to  draw  me  in  these  ^-ile  suspects. 

Gh.  You  may  deny,  that  you  were  not  the  mean'' 
Of  my  lord  Hastings'  late  imprisonment. 
Riv.  She  may.  my  lord  :  for — 
Glo.  She  may.  lord  Rivers. — why.  who  loiows  not  so' 
She  may  do  more.  sir.  than  denying  that : 
She  may  help  you  to  many  fair  preferments. 
And  then  deny  her  aiding  hand  therein. 
And  lay  those  honours  on  your  high  desert. 
What  may  she  not  ?    She  may. — ay.  marrj-,  may  slie,— 
Riv.  Wliat,  marry,  may  she? 
Glo.  What;  marry,  may  she  ?  marry  with  a  king, 
A  bachelor,  and  a  handsome  stripling  too. 
I  wis,  your  grandam  had  a  worser  match. 

Q.  EUz.  My  lord  of  Gloster.  I  have  too  long  bom? 
Your  blunt  upbraidings.  and  your  bitter  scoffs  : 
By  heaven,  I  will  acquaint  his  majesty. 
Of  those  gross  taunts  that  oft  I  have  endur'd 
I  had  rather  be  a  country  serving-maid. 
Than  a  great  queen,  with  this  condition. 
To  be  thus  taunted,  scorn'd.  and  baited  at :" 
Small  joy  have  I  in  being  England's  queen. 


«7«a  :  in  folio.  ^  Derby:  in  old  copies.  'With:  in  quartos,  ♦highest:  in  quartos 
[tjl/t  f  Wicked.  "The  ren  of  the  line  is  not  in  the  folio.  9  The  quartos  of  1G02.  and  la 
(■Mf^rto        '■  So  ail  the  qiisrtr^  :   'olio  :  so  bai'ed.  scom'cl  and  stormed  at. 


»The 
r :  may. 


rords  "  stamping  angrily"  .  nr 
9  fair  :  in  quarto       ••  cmiw 


514 


KING  RICHARD  m. 


Acrr  I. 


Enter  Queen  Marorkt,  behind. 

Q.  Mar.  And  lesseii'd  be  that  small.  God,  I  beseech 
him !  [Aside. '^ 

Vhy  honour,  state,  and  seat,  is  due  to  me. 

Glo.  What  !  threat  you  me  with  telling  of  the  king? 
Tell  him.  and  spare  not :  look,  what  I  have  said,' 
I  will  avouch  in  presence  of  the  king  : 
[  dare  adventure  to  be  sent  to  the  Tower.* 
"T  18  time  to  speak ;  m>  pains  are  quite  forgot. 

Q.  Mar.  Out,  devil !     I    do    remember    them    too 
well  :  [Aside.* 

Thou  kill'dst'  my  husband  Henry  in  the  Tower, 
And  Edward,  my  poor  son,  at  Tewksbury. 

Glo.  Ere  you  were  queen,  ay,  or  your  husband  king. 
[  waa  a  pack-iiorse  in  his  great  affairs ; 
.\  weeder-out  of  his  proud  adversaries. 
A  liberal  rewarder  of  his  friends  : 
To  royalize  his  blood,  I  spent  mine  own. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay.  and  much  better  blood    than  his,  or 
thine.  [Aside.* 

Glo.  In  all  which  time,  you,  and  your  husband  Grey. 
vVere  factious  for  the  house  of  Lancaster  ; — 
.\nd.  Rivers,  so  were  you. — Was  not  your  husband 
In  Margaret's  battle  at  Saint  Alban's  slain  ' 
Let  me  put  in  your  minds,  if  you  forget, 
What  you  have  been  ere  this',  and  what  you  are  ; 
Withal,  what  I  have  been,  and  what  I  am. 

Q.  Mar.  A    murd'rous    villain,  and    so    still   thou 
art.  [Asiilc* 

Glo.  Poor  Clarence  did  forsake  his  father  Warwick. 
Ay,  and  forswore  himself — which  Jesu  pardon  ! — 

Q.  Mar.  Which  God  revenge  !  [Aside.^ 

Glo.  To  fight  on  Edward's  party,  for  the  crowTi ; 
And,  for  his  meed,  poor  lord,  he  is  mew'd  up. 
[  would  to  God,  my  heart  were  flint  like  Edward's, 
Or  Edward's  soft  and  pitiful,  like  mine : 
[  am  too  childi.^h-fooli.sh  for  this  world. 

Q.  Mar.  Hie  thee  to  hell  for  shame,  and  leave  this 
world,  [Aside.^" 

Thou  cacodaemon !  there  thy  kingdom  is. 

Riv.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  in  those  busy  days. 
Which  here  you  urge  to  prove  us  enemies. 
We  followed  then  our  lord,  our  sovereign"  king; 
So  should  we  you,  if  you  should  be  our  king. 

Glo.  If  I  should  be? — I  had  rather  be  a  pedlar. 
Far  be  it  from  my  heart  the  thought  thereof ! 

Q.  Eliz.  As  little  joy,  my  lord,  as  you  suppose 
Vou  should  enjoy,  were  you  this  country's  king, 
.\s  little  joy  you  may  suppose  in  me. 
That  I  enjoy,  being  the  queen  thereof. 

Q.  Mar.  A  little  joy  enjoys  the  queen  thereof  .[Aside. ^* 
For  I  am  .'^he.  and  altogether  joyless. 
I  can  no  longer  hold  me  patient. — 

[Coming  forward.     They  all  start}^ 
Hear  me,  you  wrangling  pirates,  that  fall  out 
In  sharing  that  which  you  have  pill'd  from  me  ! 
Which  of  you  trembles  not.  that  looks  on  me  ? 
If  not,  that,  I  being  queen,  you  bow  like  subjects. 
Yrt  that,  by  you  depos'd.  you  quake  like  rebels?— 
Ah  !  gentle  villain,  do  not  turn  away.  ["ight  ? 

Glo.  Foul  wrinkled  wit<;h,  what  mak'st  thou  in  my 

Q.  Mar.  But  repetition  of  what  thou  hast  marr'd  ; 
That  will  I  make,  before  I  let  tliee  go. 

Glo.  Wert  thou  not  banished,  on  pain  of  death? 

Q.  Mar.  I  was ;  but  I  do  find  more  pain  in  banish- 
ment. 
Than  death  can  yield  me  here  by  my  abode. 

»  Not  in  f.  e.      >  This  line  ii  only  in  the  quarto*.      '  Tki»  line  ii 
'  now  :  in  qnartos       e  •  lo  Xot  in  f  e.      "  lawful  :  in  quartoi.      n 


A  husband,  and  a  son,  thou  ow'st  to  me, — 
And  thou,  a  kingdom  ; — all  of  you,  allegiance 
This  sorrow  that  I  have,  by  right  is  yours, 
And  all  the  pleasures  you  usurp  are  mine. 

Glo.  The  curse  my  noble  father  laid  on  thee, 
When  thou  didst  crown  his  warlike  brows  with  paper 
And  with  thy  sconis  drew'st  rivers  from  his  eyes  ; 
And  then,  to  dry  them,  gav'st  the  dvike  a  clout 
Steep'd  in  the  faultless  blood  of  pretty  Rutland  , — 
His  curses,  then  from  bitterness  of  .«oul 
Denounc'd  against  thee,  are  all  fallen  upon  thee. 
And  God;  not  we,  hath  plagu'd  thy  bloody  deed 

Q.  Eliz    So  just  is  God,  to  right  the  innocent 

Hast.  0  !  't  was  the  foulest  deed  to  slay  that  babe, 
And  the  most  merciless,  that  ere  was  heard  of. 

Riv.  Tyrants  themselves  wept  when  it  was  reported 

Dors.  No  man  but  prophesied  revenge  for  it. 

Buck.  Northumberland,  then  present,  wept  to  see  it. 

Q.  3Iar.  What !  were  you  snarling  all,  before  I  came, 
Ready  to  catdi  each  other  by  the  throat. 
And  turn  you  all  your  hatred  now  on  me  ? 
Did  York's  dread  curse  prevail  so  much  with  heaven. 
That  Henry's  death,,  my  lovely  Edward's  death, 
Their  kingdom's  loss,  my  woful  banishment, 
Should  all  but  answer  for  that  peevish  brat  ? 
Can  cunses  pierce  the  clouds,  and  enter  heaven ''' — 
Why,  then  give  way,  dull  clouds,  to  my  quick  curses  I— 
Though  not  by  war,  by  surfeit  die  your  king, 
As  ours  by  murder,  to  make  him  a  king  ! 
Edward,  thy  son,  that  now  is  prince  of  Wales. 
For  Edward,  our  son,  that  was  prince  of  Wales.     • 
Die  in  his  youth  by  like  untimely  violence ! 
Thyself  a  queen,  for  me  that  was  a  queen, 
Outlive  thy  glory,  like  my  wretched  self! 
Long  may'st  thou  live,  to  wail  thy  children's  death;'* 
And  see  another,  as  I  see  thee  now, 
Deck'd  in  thy  rights,  as  thou  art  stall'd  in  mine ! 
Long  die  thy  happy  days  before  thy  death; 
And,  after  many  lengthen'd  hours  of  grief, 
Die  neither  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  queen  I 
Rivers,  and  Dorset,  you  were  standers  by, 
And  so  wast  thou,  lord  Hostiiics,  when  my  son 
Was  stabb'd  witn  bloody  daggers:  God,  I  pray  hini. 
That  none  of  you  may  live  his  natural  age. 
But  by  some  unlook"d  accident  cut  off! 

Glo.  Have  done  thy  charm,  thou  hateful  wither'd  h«^ 

Q.  Mar.  And  leave  out  thee  ?  stay,  dog,  for  thou 
shalt  hear  me. 
If  heaven  have  any  grievous  plague  in  store, 
Exceeding  those  that  I  can  wish  upon  thee, 
0  !  let  them  keep  it,  till  thy  sins  be  ripe. 
And  then  hurl  down  their  indignation 
On  thee,  the  troublcr  of  the  poor  world's  peace  I 
The  worm  of  con.scicnce  still  be-gnaw  thy  soul ! 
Thy  friends  suspect  for  traitors  while  thou  liv'rt. 
And  take  deep  traitors  for  thy  dearest  friends  ' 
No  sleep  close  up  that  deadly  eye  of  thine, 
Unless  it  be  while  some  tormenting  dream 
Affrights  thee  with  a  hell  of  ugly  de\nls  ! 
Thou  elvish-mark'd.  abortive,  rooting  hog  ! 
Thou  that  wast  .seal'd  in  thy  nativity 
The  stain"  of  nature,  and  the  scorn'*  of  hell  ! 
Thou  slander  of  thy  heavy  mother's  womb  ! 
Thou  loathed  i.ssue  of  thy  father's  loins  ! 
Thou  rag  of  honour  !  thou  detested — 

Glo.  Margaret. 

Q.  Mar.  Richard  ! 


only  in  the  folio.      «  Net  in  f .  < 
Not  m  f.  e.      "  Advancing :  in 


in  f.  e.      •  Not  in  .'  « 
in  qnartoe.      '•  »!«»• 


I 


SCENE    m. 


Kli^G  EICHAED  IH. 


OiO 


Ha? 


Gh. 

Q.  Mar.  I  call  thee  not. 

Glo.  I  en-  thee  mercy  then  :  for  I  did  think, 
That  thou  hadst  call'd  me  all  these  bitter  names. 

Q.  Mar.  Why,  so  I  did ;  but  look'd  for  no  reply. 
0  !  let  me  make  the  period  to  my  curse. 

Glo.  'T  is  done  by  rae,  and  ends  in — Margaret. 

Q.  Eliz.  Thus  have  you  breath'd  your  curse  against 
yourself. 

Q.  Mar.  Poor  painted  queen,  vain  flourish  of   my 
fortune ; 
Why  strew'st  thou  sugar  on  that  bottle'  spider. 
Whose  deadly  web  ens>:areth  thee  about  ? 
Fool,  fool  !  thou  whet'st  a  knife  to  kill  thyself. 
The  day  -will  come,  that  thou  shalt  wish  for  me 
To  help  thee  curse  this  pois'nous  bunch-back'd  toad. 

Hast.  False-boding  woman,  end  thy  frantic  curse. 
Lest  to  thy  harm  thou  move  our  patience. 

Q.  Mar.  Foul  shame  upon  you  ;  you  have  all  mov"d 
mine. 

Riv.  Were  yoiT  well  serv'd.  you  would   be  taught 
your  duty. 

Q.  Mar.  To  serve  me  well,  vou  all  should  do  me 
duty, 
Teach  me  to  be  your  queen,  and  you  my  subjects. 
0  !  serve  me  well,  and  teach  yourselves  that  duty. 

Dor.  Dispute  not  with  her.  she  is  lunatic. 

Q.  Mar.    Peace,  master  marquess  !    you  are  mala- 
pert: 
Your  tire-new  stamp  of  honour  is  scarce  current. 
0,  that  your  young  nobility  could  judge. 
What  't  were  to  lose  it,  and  be  miserable  ! 
They  that  stand  high  have  many  blasts  to  shake  them, 
\nd  if  they  fall  they  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

Gh.  Good  counsel,  marry: — learn  it,  learn  it,  mar- 
quess. 

Dor.  It  touches  you.  my  lord,  as  much  as  me. 

Glo.  Ay,  and  much  more :  but  I  was  born  so  high : 
Our  eyry  buildeth  in  the  cedar's  top. 
And  dallies  -viith  the  -n-ind,  and  scorns  the  sun. 

Q.  Mar.  And  turns  the  sun  to  shade, — alas  !  alas  ! — 
Witness  my  son,  now  in  the  shade  of  death  : 
Whose  bright  out-shining  beams  thy  cloudy  wrath 
Hath  in  eternal  darkness  folded  up. 
Your  e>Ty  buildeth  in  our  eyry's  nest. — 
0  God  !  that  seest  it,  do  not  suffer  it : 
As  it  was  won  with  blood,  lost  be  it  so  ! 

Buck.  Peace,  peace  !  for  shame,  if  not  tor  charity. 

Q.  Mar.  Urge  neither  charity  nor  shame  to  me: 
Uncharitably  with  me  have  you  dealt, 
And  shamefully  my  hopes  by  you  are  butcher'd. 
My  charity  is  outrage,  life  my  shame, 
And  in  that  shame  still  live  my  sorrow's  rage  ! 

Buck.  Have  done,  have  done. 

Q.  Mar.  0,  princely  Buckingham  !  I  '11  kiss  thy  hand. 
In  sign  of  league  and  amity  with  thee  : 
Now,  fair  befal  thee,  and  thy  noble  house  ! 
Thy  garments  are  not  spotted  -wath  our  blood. 
Nor  thou  within  the  compass  of  my  curse. 

Buck.  Nor  no  one  here :  for  cur.ses  never  pass 
The  lips  of  those  that  breathe  them  in  the  air. 

Q.  Mar.  I  will  not  think'  but  they  ascend  the  st\', 
And  there  awake  God's  gentle-sleeping  peace. 
0  Buckingham  !  take  heed  of  yonder  dog  : 
Look,  when  he  fawnis.  he  bites :  and.  when  he  bites, 
His  venom  tooth  \A-ill  rankle  to*  the  death  : 
Have  not  to  do  with  him,  beware  of  him  : 
Sin,  death   and  hell,  have  set  their  marks  on  him, 


And  all  their  ministers  attend  on  him. 

Glo.  What  doth  she  say,  my  lord  of  Buckingham  ? 

Buck.  Nothing  that  I  respect,  ray  gracious  lord. 

Q.  Mar.  What !  dost  thou  scorn  me  for  my  gentle 
counsel, 
And  soothe  the  devil  that  I  warn  thee  from  ? 

0  !  but  remember  this  another  day. 

When  he  shall  split  thy  ver>-  heart  with  sorrow. 

And  say,  poor  Margaret  was  a  prophetess. — 

Live  each  of  you  the  subjects  to  his  hate. 

And  he  to  yours,  and  all  of  you  to  God"s  !  [Exit. 

Hast.  My  hair  doth  stand  on  end  to  hear  her  curses. 

Riv.  And  so  doth  mine.     I  muse*,   why   she  "s   at 
liberty. 

Glo.  I  cannot  blame  her  :  by  God's  holy  mother. 
She  hath  had  too  much  \\Tong.  and  I  repent 
My  part  thereof,  that  I  have  done  to  her.' 

Q.  Eliz.  I  never  did  her  any,  to  my  knowledge. 

Glo.  Yet  you  have  all  the  vantage  of  her  -vsTong. 

1  was  too  hot  to  do  somebody  good. 
That  is  too  cold  in  thinking  of  it  now. 
Marr\',  as  for  Clarence,  he  is  well  repaid  : 
He  is  frank'd*  up  to  fatting  for  his  pains : — 
God  pardon  them  that  are  the  cause  thereof ! 

Riv.  A  virtuous  and  a  Christian-like  conclusion, 
To  pray  for  them  that  have  done  scath  to  us. 

Glo.  So  do  I  ever,  being  well  advis'd ;  [Asvde. 

For  had  I  curs'd  now,  I  had  curs'd  myself. 
Enter  C.\tesbt. 
Cates.  Madam,  his  majesty  doth  call  for  you. — 
And  for  your  grace,  and  you,  my  noble  lords. 

Q.  Eliz.  Catesby.  I  come. — Lords,  will  you  go  with 

me? 
Riv.  We  wait  upon  your  grace. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Gloster 
Glo.  I  do  the  wTong,  and  first  begin  to  brawl. 
The  secret  mischiefs  that  I  set  abroach, 
I  lay  unto  the  grievous  charge  of  others. 
Clarence,  whom  I,  indeed,  have  cast  in  darkness. 
I  do  beweep  to  many  simple  gulls  : 
Namely,  to  Stanley,  Hastings,  Buckingham ; 
And  tell  them,  't  is  the  queen  and  her  allies. 
That  stir  the  king  against  the  duke  my  brother. 
Now,  they  believe  it ;  and  withal  whet  me 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Rivers,  Vaughan.  Grey ; 
But  then  I  sigh,  and,  with  a  piece  of  scripture, 
Tell  them,  that  God  bids  us  do  good  for  evil : 
And  thus  I  clothe  my  naked  villainy 
With  odd  old  ends  stol'n  forth  of  holy  writ. 
And  seem  a  saint  when  most  I  play  the  devil. 

Enter  tu-o  Murderers. 
But  soft !  here  come  my  executioners. — 
How  now,  my  hardy,  stout  resolved  mates  ! 
Are  you  now  going  to  dispatch  this  thing'  ? 

1  Murd.  We   are,  my  lord ;  and  come  to  have  ih 
warrant. 
That  we  may  be  admitted  where  he  is. 

Glo.  Well  thought  upon :  I  have  it  here  about  me. 
[Gives  the  Warrant 
When  you  have  done,  repair  to  Crosby -place. 
But.  sirs,  be  sudden  in  the  execution. 
Withal  obdurate  :  do  not  hear  him  plead  : 
For  Clarence  is  well  spoken,  and,  perhaps. 
May  mo^e  your  hearts  to  pity,  if  you  mark  him. 
1  Murd.  Tut.  tut !  my  lord,  we  will  not  stand  u 
prate  : 
!  Talkers  are  no  good  doers  :  be  assur'd, 
i  We  20  to  use  our  hands,  and  not  our  tongues. 


'  bottled  :  ;n  f.  e.      »  I  'II  not  believe  :  is  qnartos. 
not  in  quarto       •  Stytd.      '  deed  :  in  quartos 


5  rackle  thee  to  death  :  in  qnarto,  1397.      ♦  I  wonder  she  's  :  in  quartoe. 


516 


KING  RICHARD  IH. 


ACT   L 


Glo.  Your  eves  drop  mill-stones',  when  fools'  eyes 
fall*  tear?  • 
I  like  you,  lads  ■. — about  your  business'  straight : 
.'ro.  20,  despatch. 

1  Mura.  We  will,  my  noble  lord.        [Exeunt. 

SCKNE  TV.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Tower. 
Entci  Clarence  and  Bkakenburv. 

Brak.  Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day  ? 

Clar.  O !   I  have  passd  a  miserable  night. 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights.* 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man. 
would  not  spend  another  such  a  night. 
Though  "t  were  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days. 
^>  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 

firak.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?  I  pray  you. 
tell  me. 

Clnr.  Methought.  that  I  had  broken  from  the  Tower. 
And  wa,*i  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy  ; 
And.  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster. 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Ipon  the  hatches:  thence  we  look'd  toward  England. 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  hea%-y  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
That  had  befall'n  us.     As  we  pac'd  along 
\'\K>n  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought,  that  Gloster  stumbled  :  and.  in  falling'. 
Struck  me  (that  thought  to  stay  him)  over-board. 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 
0  Lord  !  methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears  ! 
What  sights  of  ugly'  death  wthin  mine  eyes  I 
Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks  : 
.A.  thousand  men  that  fishes  gnaw'd  upon: 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchor.<.  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels. 
.\I1  scatter'd  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea:' 
S'jmelay  in  dead  mens  skulls  :  and  in  the  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 
;  As  "t  were  in  scorn  of  eyes)  reflecting  gems. 
That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep. 
And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure,  in  the  time  of  death. 
To  gaze  upon  these  .«ecrets  of  the  deep? 

Clar.  Methought  I  had.  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  %-ield  the  ghost;'  but  still  the  envious  flood 
S'opt'  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  find"  the  empty,  vast,  and  wanderins  air  : 
B-it  smotlierd  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.   Awakd  you  not  in"  this  sore  agony  ^ 

Clar.  No.  no:  my  dream  was  lengthened  after  life. 

0  I  then  beean  the  tempest  to  my  soul  I 

1  pas.s'd.  methought.  the  melancholy  flood. 
With  that  sour"  fcrr>-man  which  poets  write  of. 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 

The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul. 
Was  my  great  father-in-law.  renowned  Warwick. 
Who  cried"  aloud. — ••  What  scourse  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  fal.«c  Clarence  '^" 
And  so  he  vanish'd.     Then,  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood  :  and  he  .xhriek'd  out  aloud. — 
'  Clarence  is  come. — fal.se.  fleetins.  perjur'd  Clarence. — 
That  stabb'd  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury : — 
Seize  on  him,  fiu-ies  !  take  him  unto  torment  !' 


I  With  that,  methr.ucht.  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that  with  the  very  noise, 

I I  trembling  wakd.  and,  for  a  season  after. 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell  ; 

(Such  terrible  impression  made  my'*  dream. 

I      Brak.  No  marvel,  lord,  though  it  affrighled  you  , 

jl  am  afraid,  methinks'*,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  Ah.  keeper,  keeper  !   I  have  done  thee"  thirji 

That  now  give"  evidence  against  my  soul. 

For  Edward's  sake  ;  and,  see,  how  he  requites  me  ! — 

0  God  I  if  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  be  aveng"d  on  my  mi.«deeds. 

Yet  execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone  : 
lO,  spare  my  guiltless  "wife  and  my  poor  children  I —  ' 
Keeper,  I  pr'ythee.  sit  by  me  awhile  ; 
1  My  soul  is  hea-\'y.  and  [  fain  would  sleep. 
I      "  '  [Sitting  dovn.^* 

I      Brak.  I   will,  my  lord  :  God  give  your  grace  good 
I  rest. —  [Clarence  sleeps.'* 

'■  Sorrow  breaks  seasons,  and  reposing  hours. 
^  iNIakes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noon-tide  night 
I  Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories. 
I  An  outward  honour  for  an  inward  toil : 
I  And  for  unfelt  imaginations, 
I  They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares : 
j  So  tiiat.  between  their  titles,  and  low  name, 
1  There  's  nothing  difl"ers  bi»t  the  outward  fame. 
Enter  the  tivo  Murderers. 
1  Murd.  Ho  !  who  "s  here  ? 
Brak.  What  wouldst  thou,  fellow  ?  and  how  cam'st 

thou  hither  ? 
1  Murd.  I  would  speak  with  Clarence  :  and  1  cams 
hither  on  my  leas. 

Brak.  What  !  so  brief? 

1  2  Murd.  "T  is  better,  sir,  than  to  be  tedious. — 
i  Let  him  see  our  commission  .  and  talk  no  more. 

j  [A  Paper  delivered  to  Brakenburt.  who  reads  it. 

I      Brak.  I  am.  in  this,  commanded  to  deliver 

The  noble  duke  of  Ckrence  to  your  hands. 

I  will  not  reason  what  is  meant  hereby. 
;  Because  I  Mill  be  guiltless  from  the  meaning  : 

I  There  lies  the  duke  asleep,  and  mere  the  keys 

I I  '11  to  the  king,  and  signify  to  him, 

That  thus  I  have  resign'd  to  you  my  charge. 

1  Murd.  You  may,  sir ;  "t  is  a  point  of  wi.sdom  . 
Fare  you  well.  [Exit  Brakenb»  pt 

2  Murd.  What,  shall  we  stab  him  as  he  slorjis  ' 

1  Murd.  No:  he'll  say.  "t  was  done  cowardly,  wi 

he  wakes. 

2  Murd.  Why.  he  shall  never  wake  until  the  great 
judgment  day. 

1  Murd.  \^^ly,  then  he  "11  say,  we  stabb"d  him  sleeping. 

2  Murd.  The  urging  of  that  word,  judgment,  hath 
bred  a  kind  of  remorse  in  me. 

1  Murd.  What!  art  thou  afraid ? 

2  Murd.  Not  to  kill  him,  having  a  warrant :  but  to 
be  damn"d  for  killing  him,  from  the  which  no  warran- 
can  defend  me. 

1  Murd.  I  thought,  thou  hadst  been  resolute.** 

2  Murd.  So  I  am,  to  let  him  live. 

1  Murd.  I  '31  back  to  the  duke  of  Gloster.  and  ; 
him  so. 

2  Murd.  Nay.  I  pr'ythee,  stay  a  little  :  I  hope,  thi* 
compassionate*'  humour  of  mine  will  change :  it  wa* 
wont  to  hold  me  but  while  one  tells  twenty. 


'  A  common  proverb.     *  drop  :  in  qtiiruw.     '  Here  the  .scene  ffnJ.'s.  in  the  quarto*.     *  uply  sipht«.  of  ehMtly  dream.^  :  in  quarto?.     •  ftnmk 
in?  :  in  quartos.     •  What  uply  si-rhti  of  death  :  in  qaartos      "  This  line  is  not  in  the  quartoe.     *  The  line'from  "  had,"  not  in  the  qnwtj* 

Ke^t :  in  quartos.      •»  reek  :  in  hrrt  quartoK.      •'  with  ;  in  quartos.      -^  prim  :  in  quartos.     "  spake  :  in  folio.      i«  the  :  in  quartos. 

'>miM  yon  '  am  afcaid  :  in  quartos.       '•bear:  in  quartos.       i' This  and  the  three  preceding  lines,  are  not  in  the  quartos. 
'  Cl.*.RK.\cv  '■rr'ons  hirmtlf  on  a  rhiir  :  in  f  •.     »«  Th.s  and  tl.»  nex»  line,  not  in  the  quartos.     *'  passionate  :  in  f  • 


Not  iBf 


u 


BCBNE   ni. 


KIXG   RICHAKD   IH. 


517 


1  Murd.  How  dost  thou  feel  thyself  now? 

2  Murd.  'Faith,  some  certain  dregs  of  conscience  are 
yet  within  me. 

1  Murd.  Remember  our  reward,  when  the  deed 's 
Jone. 

2  Murd.  Zounds  !  he  dies :  I  had  forgot  the  reward. 

1  Murd.  Where  's  thy  conscience  now  ? 

2  Murd.  0  !  in  the  duke  of  Gloster's  purse. 

1  Murd.  When  he  opens  his  purse  to  give  us  our 
reward,  thy  conscience  flies  out. 

2  Murd.  'T  is  no  matter ;  let  it  go :  there  "s  few  or 
none,  will  entertain  it. 

1  Murd.  What,  if  it  cone  to  thee  again  ? 

2  Murd.  I  '11  net  meddle  with  it  ;  it  is  a  dangerous 
thing',  it  makes  a  man  a  coward  :  a  man  cannot  steal, 
but  it  accuseth  him  ;  a  man  cannot  swear,  but  it  checks 
him ;  a  man  cannot  lie  with  his  neighbour's  wife,  but 
it  detects  him  :  't  is  a  blushing  shame-faced  spirit,  that 
mutinies  in  a  man's  bosom ;  it  fills  a  man  full  of  obsta- 
cles :  it  made  me  once  restore  a  purse  of  gold,  that  by 
chance  I  found  :  it  beggars  any  man  tliat  keeps  it :  it 
is  turned  out  of  all  towns  and  cities  for  a  dangerous 
thing ;  and  every  man  that  means  to  live  well,  endea- 
vours to  trust  to  himself,  and  live  without  it. 

1  Murd.  Zounds  !  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow,  per- 
suading me  not  to  kill  the  duke. 

2  Murd.  Take  the  devil  in  thy  mind,  and  believe 
him  not :  he  would  insinuate  with  thee,  but  to  make 
thee  sigh. 

1  Murd.  I  am  strong-frara'd ;  he  cannot  prevail  with 
me. 

2  Murd.  Spoke  like  a  tall  man,  that  respects  his 
reputation.     Come,  shall  we  fall  to  work  ? 

1  Murd.  Take  him  on  the  costard  with  the  hilts  of 
thy  sword,  and  then  throw  him  into  the  malmsey-butt 
in  the  next  room. 

2  Murd.  0.  excellent  device  !  and  make  a  sop  of  him. 

1  Murd.  Soft !  he  wakes. 

2  Murd.  Strike. 

1  Murd.  No ;  we  '11  reason  with  him. 

Clar.  [  Waking  ]  Where  art  thou,  keeper  ?  give  me 

a  cup  of  wine. 
1  Murd.  You  shall  have  wine  enough,  my  lord,  anon. 
CJar.  In  God's  name,  what  art  thou  ? 
1  Murd.  A  man,  as  you  are. 
Clar.  But  not,  as  I  am,  royal. 
1  Murd.  Nor  you,  as  we  are,  loyal. 
Clar.  Thy  voice  is  thunder,  but  thy  looks  are  humble. 

1  Murd.  My  voice  is  now  the  king's,  my  looks  mine 

own. 

Chr.  How  darkly,  and  how  deadly  dost  thou  speak. 
Your  eyes  do  menace  me  :  why  look  you  pale  ?' 
Who  sent  you  hither  ?     Wherefore  do  you  come  ? 

Both  Murd.  To,  to,  to— 

Clar.  To  murder  me  ? 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  Ay. 

Clar.  You  scarcely  have  the  hearts  to  tell  nie  so, 
And  therefore  cannot  have  the  hearts  to  do  it. 
Wherein,  my  friends,  have  I  offended  you  ? 
I     1  Murd.  Offended  us  you  have  not,  but  the  king. 

Clar.  I  shall  be  reconcil'd  to  him  again. 

2  Murd.  Never,  my  lord  ;  therefore,  prepare  to  die. 
Clar.  Are  you  drawn  forth  among  a  world  of  men, 

Tc  slay  the  innocent  ?     What  is  my  offence  ? 
Where  is  the  evidence  that  doth  accuse  me  ? 
What  lawful  quest  have  given  their  verdict  up 
Unto  the  frowning  judge  ?  or  who  pronounc'd 
The  bitter  sentence  of  poor  Clarence'  death  ? 


Before  I  be  convict  by  course  of  law, 
To  threaten  me  with  death  is  n-ost  unlawful. 
I  charge  you,  as  you  hope  to  have  redemption* 
By  Christ's  dear  blood  shed  for  our  grievous  sins. 
That  you  depart,  and  Jay  no  hands  on  me  : 
The  deed  you  undertake  is  damnable. 

1  Murd.  What  Ave  will  do,  we  do  upon  command 

2  Murd.  And  he,  that  hath  commanded,  is  our  king 
Clar.  Erroneous  vassals  !  the  great  King  of  kings 

Hath  in  the  table  of  his  law  commanded. 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder  :  will  you,  then, 
Spurn  at  his  edict,  and  fulfil  a  man's? 
Take  heed ;  for  he  holds  vengeance  in  his  hand. 
To  hurl  upon  their  heads  thai;  break  his  law. 

2  Murd.  And  that  same  vengeance  doth  he  hurl  on 
thee. 
For  false  forswearing,  and  for  murder  too. 
Thou  didst  receive  the  sacrament,  to  fight 
In  quarrel  of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

1  Murd.  And,  like  a  traitor  to  the  name  of  God. 
Didst  break  that  vow ;  and,  with  thy  treacherous  blade 
Unripp'dst  the  bowels  of  thy  sovereign's  son. 

2  Murd.    Whom   thou  wast    sworn  to  cherish  and 

defend. 
1  Murd.  How  canst  thou  urge  God's  dreadful  law 
to  us. 
When  thou  hast  broke  it  in  such  dear  degree  ? 

Clar.  Alas  !  for  whose  sake  did  I  that  ill  deed  ? 
For  Edward,  for  my  brother,  for  his  sake  : 
He  sends  you  not  to  murder  me  for  this  ; 
For  in  that  sin  he  is  as  deep  as  I. 
If  God  will  be  avenged  for  the  deed, 

0  !  know  you  yet.  he  doth  it  publicly.* 
Take  not  the  quarrel  from  his  powerful  arm  : 
He  needs  no  indirect  or  lawless  course. 

To  cut  off  those  that  have  offended  him. 

1  Murd.  Who  made  thee.  then,  a  bloody  minister, 
When  gallant-springing,  brave  Plantagenet. 
That  princely  novice,  was  struck  dead  by  thee  ? 

Clar.  My  brother's  love,  the  devil,  and  my  rage. 

1  Murd.  Thy  brother's  love,  our  duty,*  and  thy  fault*. 
Provoke*  us  hither  now  to  slaughter  thee. 

Clar.  If  you  do  love  my  brother,  hate  not  me ; 

1  am  his  brother,  and  I  love  him  well. 

If  you  are  hir'd  for  meed,  go  back  again, 
And  I  will  send  you  to  my  brother  Gloster. 
Who  shall  reward  you  better  for  my  life, 
Than  Edward  will  for  tidings  of  my  death. 

2  Murd.    You    are  deceiv'd  :    your  brother  Gloster 

hates  you. 

Clar.  O  !  no  ;  he  loves  me.  and  he  holds  me  dear. 
Go  you  to  him  from  me. 

Both  Murd.  Ay.  so  we  will. 

Clar.  Tell  him,  when  that  our  princely  father  York 
Bless'd  his  three  sons  with  his  victorious  arm, 
And  charg'd  us  from  his  soul  to  love  each  other." 
He  little  thought  of  this  divided  friendship  : 
Bid  Gloster  think  on  this,  and  he  will  weep. 

1  Murd.  Ay,  mill-stones  ;  as  he  lesson'd  us  to  weep. 

Clar.  0  !  do  not  slander  him,  for  he  is  kind. 

1  Murd.    Right  ;   as  snow  in  harvest. — Come,  you 
deceive  yourself; 
'T  is  he  that  sends  us  to  destroy  you  here. 

Clar.  It  cannot  be  :  for  he  bewept  my  fortune, 
And  hugg'd  me  in  his  arms,  and  swore,  with  sobs, 
That  he  would  labour  ray  delivery. 

1  Mmd.  Why,  so  he  doth,  when  he  delivers  yon 
From  this  earth's  thraldom  to  the  joys  of  heaven. 


*  "  it  i«  a  dangerous  thing,"  is  not  in  the  folio.     *  This  line  is  not  in  the  quartos.      »  for  any  goodnes 
h*  folia     *  the  devil :  in  quartos.      '  Have  brought :  in  quartos.     '  This  line  is  not  in  tha  folio. 


♦This  liBS  is  only  -ii 


513 


KmG  RICHARD  HI. 


AOT  n. 


2  Murd.   Make  peace  with  God,  for  you  must  die, 
my  lord. 

Clar.  Have  you  that  holy  feeling  in  your  souls, 
To  counsel  me  to  make  my  peace  with  God. 
And  are  you  yet  to  your  own  souls  so  blind. 
That  you  will  war  with  God  by  murdering  me  ? — 
0  !  sirs,  consider,  they  that  set  you  on 
To  do  litis  deed,  will  hate  you  for  the  deed. 

2  Murd.  What  shall  we  do  ? 

Clar.  Relent,  and  save  your  souls. 

Which  of  you,  if  you  were  a  prince's  son. 
Being  pent  from  liberty,  as  I  am  now. 
If  two  such  murderers  as  yourselves  came  to  you. 
Would  not  entreat  for  life  ?     As  you  would  beg 
Were  you  in  my  distress,  so  pity  me.' 

1  Murd.  Relent?  no:  'tis  cowardly,  and  womanish. 
Clar.  Not  to  relent,  is  beastly,  savage,  devilish. — 

My  friend,  I  spy  some  pity  in  thy  look.s  ; 
0  !   if  thine  eye  be  not  a  flatterer, 
Come  thou  on  my  side,  and  entreat  for  me. 
A  begging  prince  what  beggar  pities  not? 

2  Murd.  Look  behind  you.  my  lord. 


1  Murd.  Take  that,  and  that :  if  all  this  wnll  not  do 

[Stabs  hm. 
I  '11  drown  you  in  the  malmsey-butt  within. 

[Exit  with  the  Body. 

2  Murd.  A  bloody  deed,  and  desperately  defipatch'd  . 
How  fain,  like  Pilate,  would  I  wash  my  liands 

Of  this  most  grievous  guilty  murder  done.' 
Re-enter  Jir.<tt  Murderer. 

1  Murd.  How  now  !  what  mean'st  thou,  that  thou 

help'st  me  not  ? 
By  heaven,  the  duke  shall  know  how  slack  you  have 
been. 

2  Murd.    I  would    he  knew,  that  I  had  sav'd  hn 

brother. 
Take  thou  the  fee,  and  tell  him  what  I  say. 
For  I  repent  me  that  the  duke  is  slain.  [Exit. 

1  Murd.  So  do  not  1  :  go,  coward,  as  thou  art. — 
Well.  I  '11  go  hide  the  body  in  some  hole. 
Till  that  the  duke  give  order  for  his  burial : 
And  when  I  have  my  meed,  I  will  away ; 
For  this  will  out.  and  then  I  must  not  stay.  [Ej:«f 


ACT    II 


SCEiNE  I. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  King  Edward,  led  in  sick.  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Dorset,    Rivers,    Hastings,    Buckingham,    Grey, 
and  others. 

K.  Edw.  Why,  so  : — now  have  I  done  a  good  day's 
work. — 
You  peers,  continue  this  united  league  : 
[  every  day  expect  an  embassage 
From  my  Redeemer  to  redeem  ine  hence  ; 
.\nd  more  at  peace^  my  soul  shall  part  to  heaven. 
Since  I  have  made  my  friends  at  peace  on  earth. 
Rivers,  and  Hastings,  take  each  other's  hand  ; 
Dis.semble  not  your  hatred,  swear  your  love. 

Riv.  By  heaven,  my  soul  is  purg'd  from  grudging 
hate  ; 
And  with  my  hand  I  seal  my  true  heart's  love. 
Hast.  So  thrive  I,  as  I  truly  swear  the  like. 
K.  Edw.  Take  heed,  you  dally  not  before  your  king  : 
Lest  he,  that  is  the  supreme  king  of  kings. 
Confound  your  hidden  falsehood,  and  award 
Either  of  you  to  be  the  others  end. 

Ha^t.  So  prosper  I,  as  I  swear  perfect  love. 
Riv.  And  I,  as  I  love  Hastings  with  my  heart. 
K.Edw.  Madam.  your.«elf  are  not  exempt  from  liiis. — 
Nur  you.  son  Dorset. — Buckingham,  nor  you  : — 
You  have  been  liictiou.«:  one  against  the  other. 
Wife,  love  lord  Hastings,  let  him  kiss  your  hand  : 
And  what  you  do.  do  it  unfeignedly. 

Q.  Eliz.   There,  Hastings  : — I  will  never  more  re- 
member 
•>ur  former  hatred,  so  thrive  I,  and  mine. 

K.  Edw.  Dorset,  embrace  him  ; — Hastings,  love  lord 

marquess. 
Dor.  This  interchange  of  love,  I  here  protest, 
Upon  my  part  shall  be  inviolable. 
Hast.  And  so  swear  L 

K.  Edw.  Now,  princely  Buckingham,  seal  thou  this 
league 
With  thy  embriicements  to  my  wife's  allies. 


And  make  me  happy  in  your  unity. 

Buck.  Whenever  Buckingham  doth  turn  his  hate 
Upon  your  grace,  [To  the  Queen.]  but  with  all  duteoui 

love 
Doth  cherish  you,  and  yours.  God  punish  me 
With  hate  in  those  where  I  expect  most  love. 
When  I  have  most  need  to  employ  a  friend, 
And  most  assured  that  he  is  a  friend. 
Deep,  hollow,  treacherous,  and  full  of  guile, 
Be  he  unto  me.     This  do  I  beg  of  heaven. 
When  I  am  cold  in  love*  to  yon,  or  yours. 

A'.  Edw.  A  pleasing  cordial,  princely  Buckingham, 
Is  this  thy  vow  unto  my  sickly  heart. 
There  wantctb  now  our  brother  Gloster  here, 
To  make  the  blessed'  period  of  this  peace. 

Buck.  And.  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  noble  duke 
Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Good-morrow  to  my  sovereign  king,  and  queen 
And.  princely  peers,  a  happy  time  of  day  ! 

A'.  Edw.  Happy,  indeed,  as  we  have  spent  the  day.— 
Gloster,  we  have  done  deeds  of  charity  ; 
Made  peace  of  enmity,  fair  love  of  hate. 
Between  these  swelling  wrong-incensed  peers. 

Glo.  A  blessed  labour,  my  most  sovereign  lord  — 
Among  this  princely  heap,  if  any  here, 
By  false  intelligence,  or  wrong  surmise, 
Hold  mc  a  foe  ; 

If  I  unwittingly,  or  in  my  rage. 
Have  aui,'ht  committed  that  is  hardly  borne 
To  any  in  this  presence.  I  desire 
To  reconcile  me  to  his  friendly  peace  : 
T  IS  death  to  me.  to  be  at  enmity  ; 
I  hate  it,  and  desire  all  good  men's  love. — 
Fir.«t.  madam,  I  entreat  true  peace  of  you, 
Which  I  will  purchase  with  my  duteous  service  : 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin  Buckingham, 
If  ever  any  grudge  were  lodg'd  between  us  ; 
'  Of  you,  and  you,  lord  Rivers,  and  of  Dorset, 
I  That  all  without  desert  have  frown'd  on  me  : 
1  Of  you,  lord  Wood\-ille,  and  lord  Scales,  of  you  : 


■  Tne  'wordi 
•oj  a  urder. 


'•  so  pity  me,"  are  not  in  f.  e.     This  and  the  four  previous  lines,  are  not  in  t'le  quart-s.      •  The  folio  has  •  Of  toii  ino«l  gTi" 
1.0-W  -n  :  iji  quartos.      ♦  zeal  :  in  quartos.      »  perfect  :  in  quartos. 


n. 


KING  RICHARD  lU. 


519 


Dukes,  earls,  lords,  gentlemen  ]  indeed,  of  all. 

I  do  not  know  that  Englishman  alive. 

With  whom  my  soul  is  any  jot  at  odds, 

More  than  the  infant  that  is  bora  to-night. 

I  thank  my  God  for  my  humility.  {Aside} 

Q.  Eliz.  A  holy  day  shall  this  be  kept  hereafter  : — 
{  would  to  God,  all  strifes  were  well  compounded. — 
My  sovereign  lord,  I  do  beseech  your  highness 
To  take  our  brother  Clarence  to  your  grace. 

Glo.  Why,  madam,  have  I  offer'd  love  for  this. 
To  be  so  flouted  in  this  royal  presence  ? 
Who  knows  not,  that  the  gentle  duke  is  dead  ? 

\They  all  start. 
Vou  do  him  injury  to  scorn  his  corse. 

K.  Edw.  Who  knows  not.  he  is  dead  !  who  knows 
he  is  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  All-seeing  heaven,  what  a  world  is  this  ! 

Buck.  Look  I  so  pale,  lord  Dorset,  as  the  rest  ? 

Dor.   Ay,  my  good  lord ;  and  no  man  in  the  pre- 
sence. 
But  his  red  colour  hath  forsook  his  cheeks. 

A'.  Edw.  Is  Clarence  dead?  the  order  was  reversed. 

Glo.  But  he,  poor  man.^  by  your  first  order  died. 
And  that  a  winged  Mercury  did  bear  ; 
Some  tardy  cripple  bare  the  countermand, 
That  came  too  lag  to  see  him  buried. 
God  grant,  that  some,  less  noble,  and  less  loyal, 
Nearer  in  bloody  thoughts,  and  not  in  blood. 
Deserve  not  worse  than  WTetched  Clarence  did. 
And  yet  go  current  from  suspicion. 
Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.  A  boon  my  sovereign,  for  my  service  done  ! 

[Kneels.^ 

K.  Edw.  I  prythee,  peace :  my  soul  is  full  of  sorrow. 

Stii,i.  I  will  not  rise,  unless  your  highness  hear  me. 

K.  Edw.   Then   say  at   once,  what   is  it  thou  re- 
questest. 

Stan.  The  forfeit,  sovereign,  of  my  servant's  life ; 
Who  slew  to-day  a  riotous  gentleman, 
Lately  attendant  on  the  duke  of  Norfolk. 

K.  Edw.  Have  I  a  tongiTC  to  doom  my  brother's  death. 
And  shall  that  tongxie*  give  pardon  to  a  slave  ? 
My  brother  kill'd  no  man,  his  fault  was  thought. 
And  yet  his  punishment  was  bitter  death. 
Who  sued  to  me  for  him?  who,  in  my  wrath, 
Kneel'd  at  my  feet,  and  bade  me  be  advis'd  ? 
Who  spoke  of  brotherhood  ?  who  spoke  of  love  ? 
Who  told  me.  how  the  poor  soul  did  forsake 
The  mighty  Warwick,  and  did  fight  for  me  ? 
Who  told  me,  in  the  field  at  Tewksbury, 
When  Oxford  had  me  down,  he  rescu'd  me, 
And  said,  "Dear  brother,  live,  and  be  a  king?" 
Who  told  me,  when  we  both  lay  in  the  field, 
Frozen  almost  to  death,  how  he  did  lap  me 
Ever,  in  liis  garments;  and  did  give  himself, 
All  thm  and  naked,  to  the  numb-cold  night  ? 
All  tfiis  from  my  remembrance  brutish  wrath 
Sinfully  pluck'd,  and  not  a  man  of  you 
Had  so  much  grace  to  put  it  in  my  mind. 
But  when  your  carters,  or  your  waiting- vassals, 
Have  done  a  drunken  slaughter,  and  defac'd 
The  precious  image  of  our  dear  Redeemer, 
You  straight  are  on  your  knees  for  pardon,  pardon ; 
A.nd  I,  unjustly  too,  must  grant  it  you. 
But  for  my  brother  not  a  man  would  speak. 
Nor  I,  ungracious,  speak  unto  myself 
For  him,  poor  soul. — The  proudest  of  you  all 


I  Have  been  beholding  to  him  in  his  life, 
j  Yet  none  of  you  would  once  beg°  for  his  life. — 
j  0  God  !  I  fear,  thy  justice  will  take  hold 
j  On  me,  and  you,  and  mine,  and  yours,  for  this. — 
I  Come,  Hastings,  prithee^  help  me  to  my  closet. 
Ah.  poor  Clarence  ! 

[Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Hastings,  Rivers,  DoasET. 
and  Grey. 
Glo.  This  is  the  fruit  of  rashness. — Mark'd  you  noi. 
How  that  the  guilty  kindred  of  the  queen 
Look"d  pale,  when  they  did  hear  of  Clarence'  death  r 

0  !  they  did  urge  it  still  unto  the  king : 

God  will  revenge  it.     Come,  lords ;  will  you  go. 
To  comfort  Edvrard  with  our  company  ? 

Buck.  We  wait  upon  your  grace.  [Eztmd 

SCENE  n.— London. 

Enter  the  Duchess  of  York,  with  a  Son  and  Daughter 

of  Clarence. 

Son.  Good  grandam.  tell  us,  is  our  father  dead? 

Duch.  No,  boy. 

Daugh.  Why  do  you  weep   so"  ?   and  oft  beat  youi 
breast : 
And  cry — "  0  Clarence,  my  unhappy  son  !" 
Why  do  you  look  on  us,  and  shake  your  head. 
And  call  us — orphans,  wretches,  cast-aways, 
If  that  our  noble  father  were  alive  ? 

Dvch.  My  pretty  cousins,  you  mistake  me  bo'.h*, 

1  do  lament  the  sickness  of  the  king, 

As  loath  to  lose  him,  not  your  fathers  death. 
It  were  lost  sorrow  to  waiP  one  that 's  lost. 

Son.  Then  you  conclude,  my  grandam,  he  is  dead 
The  king  mine  uncle  is  to  blame  for  it : 
God  will  revenge  it ;  whom  I  will  importune 
With  earnest  prayers  all  to  that  effect. 

Dau^h.  And  so  will  I. 

Duch.  Peace,  children,  peace  !    the   king  doth  love 
you  well. 
Incapable  and  shallow  innocents. 
You  camiot  guess  who  caus'd  your  father's  death. 

Son.  Grandam.  we  can :  for  my  good  imcle  Gloster 
Told  me,  the  king,  provok'd  to  it  by  the  queen, 
Devis'd  impeachments  to  imprison  him : 
And  when  my  uncle  told  me  so,  he  wept. 
And  pitied  me,  and  kindly  kiss"d  my  cheek ; 
Bade  me  rely  on  him,  as  on  my  father, 
And  he  would  love  me  dearly  as  a  child. 

Duch.  Ah  !  that  deceit  should  steal  such  gentle  shape 
And  with  a  virtuous  vi.sor  hide  deep  vice  !" 
He  is  my  son,  ay.  and  therein  my  shame, 
Yet  from  my  dugs  he  drew  not  this  deceit. 

Scm.  Thiiik  you,  my  uncle  did  dissemble,  grandam" 

Duch.  Ay,  boy. 

Son.  I  cannot  think  it. — Hark !  what  noise  is  this  I 

Enter  Queen  Elizabeth,  distractedly;  Rivers  and 
Dorset,  following  her. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah  !  who  shall  hinder  me  to  wail  and  weep, 
To  chide  my  fortune,  and  torment  myself? 
I  '11  join  with  black  despair  against  my  soul, 
And  to  mvself  become  an  enemy. 

Duch.  What  means  this  scene  of  rude  impertmenoc  : 

Q.  Eliz.  To  make  an  act  of  tragic  \-iolence. 
Edward,  my  lord,  thy  son,  our  king,  is  dead  ! — 
Whv  srow  the  branches,  when  the  root  is  gone?" 
Why  wither  not  the  leaves,  that  want  their  sap?" 
If  you  will  live,  lament :  if  die,  be  brief; 
That  our  swift- winged  souls  may  catch  the  king  s  : 


•  Not  in  f.  e.      »  soul :  in  quaxtos.      a  Not  in  f-  e.      *  the  same  :  in  quartos, 
yonr  nandi     in  -jnartos.     8  much  :  in  quartos.    »  lost  labonr  to  weep  for  :  in  quartos 
in  qnartoi      ^»  tlie  sap  being  gone  :  in  quartos. 


plead  :  in  quartos. 
■-  gui 


I  qo 
lile 


•  This  -word  is  not  in  i.  J.      '  »t!  ut 
lartos.      "  now  the  root  is  wiiher'4 


0-20 


KING   RICHARD  IE. 


A.OT   U. 


Or.  like  obedient  subjects,  follow  him 

To  his  new  kingdom  ol  ne'er  chanyini:  liuht'. 

DuQi.  Ah  !  St?  niueli  inieretii  have  1  in  thy  sorrow- 
As  I  had  tale  in  thy  noble  huhbaiid. 
!  have  bewept  a  worthy  husband's  death, 
And  liv'd  with  looking  on  his  iniaiics; 
But  now.  two  mirrors  of  his  pnneely  semblance 
Are  crackd  in  jiK-ees  by  malignant  death. 
And  I  for  comfort  have  but  one  false  glass, 
That  grieves  me  when  I  see  my  shame  in  liim. 
Thou  art  a  widow  ;  yet  thou  art  a  mother, 
And  hast  the  comfort  of  thy  children  left: 
But  death  hath  snaieh"d  my  husband  from  mine  arms, 
And  pluck  d  two  crutches  from  my  feeble  hands, 
Clarence,  and  Edward.     0  !   what  cause  have  I, 
(Thine  being  but  a  moiety  of  my  moan) 
To  over-go  thy  woes,  and  drown  thy  cries  ? 

Son.  Ah.  aunt!  you  wept  not  tor  our  father's  death; 
How  can  we  aid  you  with  our  kindred  tears? 

Daugh.  Our  fatherless  distress  was  left  unmoan'd; 
Vour  widow-dolour  likewise  be  unwept. 

Q.  Eli:.  Give  me  no  help  in  lamenlation  ; 
I  am  not  barren  to  bring  forth  complaints^. 
All  springs  reduce  their  currents  to  mine  eyes, 
That  I,  being  governd  by  the  wal'ry  moon, 
May  send  forth  plenteous  tears  to  drown  the  world  ! 
Ah,  for  my  husband,  for  my  dear  lord,  Edward  ! 

Chil.  Ah,  for  our  father,  for  our  dear  lord  Clarence! 

Duch.  Alas,  for  both  !  both  mine,  Edward  and  Cla- 
rence. 

Q.  Eliz.  What  stay  had  I.  but  Edward  ?  and  he 's  gone. 

Chil.  What  stay  had  we,  but  Clarence?  and  he's  gone. 

Duch.  What  stays  had  I.  but  they?  and  they  are  gone. 

Q.  Eliz.  Was  never  widow  had  so  dear  a  loss. 

Chil.  Were  never  orphans  had  so  dear  a  loss. 

Duch.  Was  never  mother  had  so  dear  a  loss. 
.■\las  !   I  am  tlie  mother  of  these  griefs^ : 
Their  woes  are  parcell'd,  mine  are  general. 
She  for  an  Edward  weeps,  and  so  do  I ; 
I  for  a  Clarence  weep,  so  doth  not  she : 
These  babes  for  Clarence  weep,  and  so  do  I : 
I  lor  an  Edward  weep,  so  do  not  they: — * 
Alas  !  you  three  on  me.  threefold  distress'd, 
Pour  all  your  tears,  I  am  your  sorrow's  nurse, 
.And  I  will  pamper  it  with  lamentation. 

Dor.  Comlort.  dear  mother:  God  is  much  displeas'd, 
That  you  take  with  unthankfulness  his  doing. 
In  common  worldly  things,  't  is  calfd  ungrateful, 
With  dull  unwillingness  to  repay  a  debt. 
Which  with  a  bounteous  hand  wa.s  kindly  lent; 
Much  more  to  bo  thus  opposite  with  heaven, 
For  it  requires  the  royal  debt  it  lent  you. 

Riv.  Madam,  bethink  you.  like  a  careful  mother, 
Of  the  young  prince  your  son  :  send  straight  for  him. 
Let  him  \>e  crown"d  ;  in  him  your  comfort  lives. 
Drown  desperate  sorrow  in  dead  Edward's  grave, 
Aid  plant  your  joy.s  in  living  Edwards  throne.* 

Enter  GLmiER.  Ikt  kinoha.m.  Stanley,  Hastings, 
Ratci.ikfk,  and  others. 

Glo.  Si.^tcr*,  liave  comlort :  all  of  us  have  cause 
To  wail  the  dimmmg  ol  our  shining  star; 
But  none  can  help  our  harms  by  wailing  them. — 
Madam,  my  mother,  I  do  cry  you  mercy ; 
I  did  not  see  your  grace. — Humbly  on  my  knee 
I  crave  your  blessing.  [Kneels.'' 

D\ich.  God  bles.s  thee  :  and  put  meekness  in  thy  breast. 
Love,  charity,  obedience,  and  true  dutv. 


Glo.  Amen ;  [Aside.]  and  make  me  die  a  go.d  old 
man  ! — 
That  is  the  bult-end  of  a  mother's  blessing, 
I  marvel,  that  her  grace  did  leave  it  ouu 

Buck.  You  cloudy  princes,  and  heart-scrrcvnng  peerK 
That  bear  this  heavy  mutual  load  of  moan, 
Now  cheer  each  other  in  each  other's  love : 
Though  we  have  spent  our  harvest  of  this  king, 
We  are  to  reap  the  harvest  of  his  son. 
The  broken  rancour  of  your  high-svvoln  hates*. 
Rut  lately  .'splinterd,  knit,  and  join'd  together, 
Must  gently.be  preserv'd.  cherishd,  and  kept: 
Me  seemeth  good,  that,  with  some  little  train, 
Forthwith  from  Ludlow  the  young  prince  be  let 
Hither  to  London,  to  be  crowii'd  our  king. 

Riv.  Why  with  some  little  train,  my  lord  of  Buck 
ingham  ? 

Buck.  Marry,  my  lord,  lest,  by  a  multitude, 
The  new-heal'd  wound  of  malice  should  break  out , 
Which  would  be  so  much  the  more  dangerous. 
By  how  much  the  estate  is  green,  and  yet  ungovernd 
j  Where  every  horse  bears  his  commanding  rein, 
And  may  direct  his  course  as  please  himself, 
I  As  well  the  fear  of  harm,  as  harm  apparent. 
In  my  opinion,  ought  to  be  prevented. 

Glo.  i  hope  the  king  made  peace  with  all  of  us  : 
And  the  compact  is  firm  and  true  in  me. 

Riv.  And  so  in  me ;  and  so,  I  think,  in  all : 
Yet.  since  it  is  but  green,  it  should  be  put 
To  no  apparent  likelihood  of  breach. 
Which,  haply,  by  n.uch  company  might  be  urg'd : 
Therefore,  I  say  with  noble  Buckingham, 
That  it  is  meet  so  few  .should  fetch  the  prince. 

Hast.  And  so  say  I.' 

Glo.  Then  be  it  so ;  and  go  we  to  determine 
Who  they  shall  be  that  straight  shall  post  to  Ludlow. 
Madam, — and  you  my  sister, — will  you  go 
To  give  your  censures  in  this  business? 

[Exeunt  all  but  Bi;ckingha.m  and  Glostek 

Buck.  My  lord,  whoever  journeys  to  the  prince, 
For  God's  sake,  let  not  us  two  stay  at  home ; 
For  by  the  way  I  '11  sort'"  occasion. 
As  index"  to  the  story  we  late  talk'd  of, 
To  part  the  queen's  proud  kindred  from  the  prince. 

Glo.  My  other  sell",  my  counsel's  consistory. 
My  oracle,  my  prophet ! — My  dear  cousin, 
L  as  a  child,  will  go  by  thy  direction. 
Towards  Ludlow  then,  for  we  '11  not  stay  behind. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  two  Citizens.,  meeting. 

1  Cit.  Good  morrow,  neighbour:  whither  away  so  fast? 

2  Cit.  I  promise  you,  I  scarcely  know  myself. 
Hear  you  the  news  abroad  ? 

1  Cit.  Yes  :  that  the  king  is  dead 

2  Cit.  Ill  news,  by  'r  lady :  seldom  comes  the  better. 
I  fear,  I  fear,  't  will  prove  a  giddy'*  world. 

Enter  another  Citizen. 

3  Cit.  Neighbours,  God  speed  ! 

1  Cit.  Give  you  good  morrow,  sit. 
3  Cit.  Doth  the   news  hold  of  good  king  Edward's 

death  ? 

2  Cit.  Ay,  sir,  it  is  too  true  ;  God  help,  the  v,-hile  ' 

3  Cit.  Then,  ma,st<-rs.  look  to  see  a  troublous  world 
1  Cit.  No,  no ;  by  God's  good  grace,  his  son  shall  reign 
3  Cit.  Woe  to  that  land  that 's  govern'd  by  a  child  ' 


>  ni^ht:  in  f  e 
uvea. 7  in  tb«  folio 
U*  folio      i*  HeUct. 


»  lamenu  :  in  quarto*.  >  moani :  in  quartos.  *This  tin*  ig  not  in  the  folio.  »  This  and  the  eleven  precediag  line* 
*  Madam  :  in  quarto*.  '  .Not  in  f.  e.  •  heart*  :  in  quartos.  »  This  and  the  leventeen  preceding  lines,  are  only  i* 
"  inlroduclion.     •'  troublous  :  in  quarto. 


6CENE   IV. 


KING  EICHAED  HI. 


521 


2  at.  lu  him  there  is  a  hope  of  government, 
'A'ith,'  in  his  nonage,  council  under  him; 
And,  in  his  full  and  ripen'd  years,  himself. 
No  doubt,  shall  then,  and  till  then,  govern  well. 

1  Cit.  So  stood  the  state,  when  Henry  the  Sixth 
Was  crowu'd  in  Paris  but  at  nine  months  old. 

3  Cit.  Stood  the  state  so  ?  no,  no.  good  friends,  God 

wot ; 
For  then  this  land  was  famously  enrich'd 
With  politic  grave  counsel :  then  the  king 
Had  virtuous  uncles  to  protect  his  grace. 

1  Cit.  Why,  so  hath  tliis.  both  by  his  father  and 
mother. 

3  Cit.  Better  it  were  they  all  came  by  his  father. 
Or  by  his  father  there  were  none  at  all ; 
For  emulation,  who  shall  now  be  nearest, 
Will  touch  us  all  too  near,  if  God  prevent  not. 

0  !  full  of  danger  is  the  duke  of  Gloster  ; 
And  the  queen's  sons,  and  brothers,  haught  and  proud : 
And  were  they  to  be  rulM,  and  not  to  rule. 
This  sickly  land  might  solace  as  before. 

1  Cit.  Come,  come ;  we  fear  the  worst :  all  will  be 

well. 
3  Cit.  Wlien  clouds  are  seen,  wise  men  put  on  their 

cloaks ; 
When  great  leaves  fall,  then  winter  is  at  hand : 
When  the  sun  sets,  who  doth  not  look  for  night  ? 
Untimely  storms  make  men  expect  a  dearth. 
All  may  be  well ;  but.  if  God  sort  it  so, 
'T  is  more  than  we  deserve,  or  I  expect. 

2  Cit.  Truly,  the  hearts  of  men  are  full  of  fear  : 
You  cannot  reason  almost  with  a  man 
That  looks  not  heavily,  and  full  of  dread. 

3  Cit.  Before  the  days  of  change,  still  is  it  so. 
By  a  divine  instinct  men's  minds  mistrust 
Pursuing  danger ;  as  by  proof  we  see 
The  water  swell  before  a  boisterous  storm. 
But  leave  it  all  to  God.     Whither  away? 

2  Cit.  Marry,  we  were  sent  for  to  the  justices. 

3  Cit.  And  so  was  I :  I  '11  bear  you  company. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  young  Duke  of  York, 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  Duchess  of  York. 
Arch.  Last  night,  I  heard,  they  lay  at  Stony-S'  rat- 
ford, 
And  at  Northampton  they  do  rest  to-night : 
To-morrow,  f--r  next  day,  they  will  be  here. 

Duch.  1  long  with  all  my  heart  to  see  the  prince  : 

1  hope,  he  is  much  grown  since  last  I  saw  him.  j 

Q.  Eliz.  But  I  hear,  no  :  they  say,  my  son  of  York    , 
"lath  almost  overta'en  him  in  his  growth.  | 

York.  Ay,  mother,  but  I  would  not  have  it  so. 

Duch.  Why.  my  young  cousin  ?  it  is  good  to  grow. 

York.  Grandam,  one  night,  as  we  did  sit  at  supper, 
My  uncle  Ptivers  talk'd  how  I  did  grow 
More  than  my  brother  ;  '•  Ay/'  quoth  my  uncle  Gloster, 
'■  Small  herbs  have  grace,  great  weeds  do  grow  apace  :" 
A.nd  since,  methinks,  T  would  not  grow  so  fast. 
Because  sweet  flowers  are  slow,  and  weeds  make  haste. 
,|  Duch.  'Good  faith,  'good  faith,  the  savins  did  not 
[  nold 

lln  Mm  that  did  object  Ihe  same  to  thee  : 
'^e  was  the  v^Tetclied'st  thing  when  he  was  young. 


So  long  a  growing,  and  so  leisurely. 

That,  if  his  rule  were  true,  he  should  be  gracious. 

Arch.   And  so,  no  doubt,  he  is,  my  gracious  madam. 

Duch.  I  hope,  he  is  ;  but  yet  let  mothers  doubt. 

York.  Now,  by  my  troth,  if  I  had  been  remember'd, 
I  could  have  given  my  uncle's  grace  a  flout. 
To  touch  his  growth  nearer  than  he  touch'd  mine. 

Duch.  How,  my  young  York?     I  pr'ythee,  let  m 
hear  it. 

York.  Marry,  they  say,  my  uncle  gi-ew  so  fast. 
That  he  could  gnaw  a  crust  at  two  hours  old  . 
'T  was  full  tw9  years  ere  I  could  get  a  tooth. 
Grandam,  this  would  have  been  a  biting  jest. 

Duch.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  York,  who  told  thee  this  ? 

York.  Grandam,  his  nurse. 

Duck.  His  nurse  !  why,  she  was  dead  ere  thou  wast 
born. 

York.  If  'twere  not  she,  I  cannot  tell  who  told  me. 

Q.  Eliz.  A  parlous  boy.   Go  to,  you  are  too  shrewd. 

Arch.  Good  madam,  be  not  angry  with  the  child. 

Q.  Eliz.  Pitchers  have  ears. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Arch.  Here  comes  a  messenger :  what  news  with  you  ? 

Mess.  Such  news,  my  lord,  as  grieves  me  to  report. 

Q.  Eliz.  How  doth  the  prince  ? 

Mess.  Well,  madam,  and  in  health. 

Diwh.  Wliat  is  thy  news  ? 

Mess.  Lord  Rivers  and  lord  Grey  are  sent  to  Pom- 
fret, 
And  with  them  sir  Thomas  Vaughan,  prisoners. 

Duch.  Who  hath  committed  them  ? 

Mess.  The  mighty  dukes, 

Gloster  and  Buckingham. 

Arch.  For  what  offence  ? 

Mess.  The  sum  of  all  I  can  I  have  disclos'd  : 
Why.  or  for  what,  the  nobles  were  committed. 
Is  all  unknown  to  me,  my  gracious  lady. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah  me  !  I  see  the  ruin  of  my  house. 
The  tiger  now  hath  seiz'd  the  gentle  Innd  : 
Insulting  tyranny  begins  to  jet* 
Upon  the  iimocent  and  awless'  throne : — 
I  Welcome,  destruction,  blood,  and  massacre  ! 
j  I  see.  as  in  a  map,  the  end  of  all. 
!      Duch.  Accursed  and  unquiet  wrangling  days. 
How  many  of  you  have  mine  eyes  beheld  ? 
My  husband  lost  his  life  to  get  the  crown  ; 
!  Too  often  up  and  down  my  sons  were  tost. 
For  me  to  joy,  and  weep,  their  gain,  and  loss : 
And  being  seated,  and  domestic  broils 
Clean  over-blown,  themselves,  the  conquerors, 
Make  war  upon  themselves  :  brother  to  brother 
Blood  to  blood,  self  against  self: — 0  !  preposterous 
And  frantic  outrage,  end  thy  damned  spleen; 
Or  let  me  die,  to  look  on  death  no  more. 

Q.  Eliz.  Come,  come,  my  boy  ,    we  will   to  .sanc- 
tuary.— 
Madam,  farewell. 

Duch.  Stay,  T  will  go  with  you. 

Q.  Eliz.  You  have  no  cause. 

Arch.  My  gracious  lady.  go.     [7b  tlie  Quem. 

And  thither  bear  your  treasure  and  your  goods. 
For  my  part,  1  '11  resign  unto  your  grace 
The  seal  I  keep :  and  so  betide  to  me, 
As  well  I  tender  you,  and  all  of  yours. 
Go;  I  '11  conduct  you  to  the  sanctuary.  [Exewa 


I 


T\i»t,  wl  ich  :  in  f  e       >  Encroach.      '  lawless: 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


ACT     III. 


to  London,  to    your 
my   thoughts'    sove- 


SCENK  I.— London.     A  Street. 
Tke    Trumpets   soinui.     Enter   the    Prince    of  Wales. 

(Ji.osTER,  BucKiNtiHAM.   Cardinal    Bourchieu,  ami 

others. 

Buck.  Welcome,  sweet  prince 
chamber.' 

frlo.    Welcome,    dear    cousin, 
reign  : 
Tlie  weaiy  wny  hath  made  you  melancholy. 

Prince.  No.  uncle ;  but  our  crosses  on  the  way 
Have  made  it  tedious,  wearisome,  and  heavy : 
\  want  more  uncles  here  to  welcome  me. 

Glo.  Sweet  prince,  the  untainted  virtue  of  your  years 
Hath  not  yet  div'd  into  the  world's  deceit : 
\o  more  can  you  distinguish  of  a  man, 
Than  of  his  outward  show;  which.  God  he  knows, 
Seldom,  or  never,  jumpeth  with  the  heart. 
Those  uncles,  which  you  want,  were  dangerous ; 
Your  grace  attended  to  their  sugard  words. 
But  look'd  not  on  the  poison  of  their  hearts : 
God  keep  you  from  them,  and  from  such  false  friends  ! 

Prince.  God  keep  me  from  false  friends  !  but  they 
were  none. 

Glo.  My  lord,  the  mayor  of  London  comes  to  greet 
you. 
Enter  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  his  Train. 

May.  God  bless  your  grace  with  health  and  happy 
days  ! 

Prince.  I  thank  you,  good  my  lord ;  and  thank  you 
all. —  [Exeunt  Mayor,  ^c. 

.  thought  my  mother,  and  my  brotlier  York. 
Would  long  ere  this  have  met  us  on  the  way  : 
Fie  !  what  a  slug  is  Hastings,  that  he  comes  not 
To  tell  us  whether  they  will  come  or  no. 
Enter  Hasting?. 

Buck.  And  in  good  time  here  comes  the  sweating  lord. 

Prince.  Welcome,  my  lord.     What,  will  our  mother 
come? 

Hast.  On  what  occasion.  God  he  knows,  not  I, 
The  queen  your  mother,  and  your  brother  York, 
Have  taken  sanctuary :  the  tender  prince 
Would  fain  have  come  with  me  to  meet  your  grace, 
But  by  his  mother  was  perforce  withheld. 

Buck.  Fie  !  what  an  indirect  and  peevish  course 
l.s  this  of  hers. — Lord  cardinal,  will  your  grace 
Her.suadc  the  queen  to  send  the  duke  of  York 
L'nto  his  princely  brother  presently? 
If  she  deji)  ,  lord  Ha.«tin2s.  go  with  him. 
And  from  lier  jealous  arms  jiluck  him  perforce. 

Card    My  lord  of  Buekiniiham,  if  my  weak  oratory 
Can  from  his  moiiier  win  the  duke  of  York. 
Anon  expect  him  here  ;  but  if  she  be  obdurate 
To  mild  entreaties,  God  in  heaven  forbid 
We  should  infringe  the  holy  privilege 
Of  blessed  sanctuary  !  not  for  all  this  land. 
Would  I  be  guilty  of  so  great  a  sin. 

fiuck.  Y(ki  are  too  strict  and  abstinent',  my  lord. 
Too  ceremonious,  and  traditional  : 
Weigh  it  but  with  the  goodness'  of  his*  age, 
You  break  not  sanctuary  in  seizing  him. 
The  benefit  thereof  is  always  granted 
To  tho.'^e  whose  dealings  have  deserv'd  the  place, 
And  those  who  have  the  wit  to  claim  the  place  : 


'  Camtra    Regis,  a  title  of  London.      '  in  f.  e.  :  MORelest-obitinate 
EnelUh  Mirtatiei      *  Usually.     '  dear  ;  in  quarto,  16<J-2.  and  folio. 


This  prince  hath  neither  claim'd  it.  nor  deserv'd  it; 
Therefore,  in  mine  opinion,  cannot  have  it  : 
Then,  taking  him  from  thence,  that  is  n»i  there. 
You  break  no  privilege  nor  charter  there 
Oft  have  I  heard  of  sanctuary  men, 
But  sanctuary  children,  ne'er  til)  now. 

Card.  My  lord,  you  .shall  o'cr-rule  my  mind  for  once  — 
Come  on,  lord  Hastings;  will  you  go  with  me? 

Hast.  I  go,  my  lord. 

Prince.  Good  lords,  make  all  Ibe  speedy  haste  yon 
jiiay. —  [Exeunt  Cardipal  and  Hastings. 

Say,  uncle  Gloster,  if  our  brother  coine, 
Where  shall  we  sojourn  till  our  coronation  ? 

Glo.  Where  it  seems  best  unto  your  royal  self. 
If  I  may  counsel  you,  some  day,  or  two. 
Your  highness  shall  repose  you  at  the  Tower 
Then,  where  you  please,  and  shall  be  thought  most  fi. 
For  your  best  health  and  recreation. 

Prince.  I  do  not  like  the  Tower,  of  any  place.— 
Did  Julius  Cse.sar  build  that  place,  my  lord? 

Buck.  He  did.  my  gracious  lord,  begin  that  place, 
Which,  since,  succeeding  ages  have  re-edified. 

Prince.  Is  it  upon  record,  or  else  reported 
Successively  from  age  to  age,  he  built  it? 

Buck.  It  is  upon  record,  my  gracious  lord. 

Prince.  But  say,  my  lord,  it  were  not  register'd, 
Methinks,  the  truth  should  live  from  age  to  age, 
As  'twere  retail'd  to  all  posterity, 
Even  to  the  general  all-ending  day. 

Glo.  So  wise  so  young,  they  say,  do  ne'er  live  long 

[A.fide 

Prince.  What  say  you,  uncle? 

G!o.  I  say  without  characters  fame  lives  long. 
Thus,  like  the  formal  Vice,  Iniquity*,  [A.';ide 

I  moralize  two  meanings  in  one  word. 

Prince.  That  Julius  Caesar  was  a  famous  man 
W^ith  what  his  valour  did  enrich  his  wit, 
His  wit  set  down  to  make  his  valour  live : 
l)eath  makes  no  conquest  of  his  conqueror, 
For  now  he  lives  m  fame,  though  not  in  life. — 
I  "11  tell  you  what,  my  cousin  Buckingham. 

buck.  What,  my  gracious  lord  ! 

Prince.  An  if  I  live  until  I  be  a  man, 
I  'II  win  our  ancient  right  in  France  again, 
Or  die  a  soldier,  as  I  liv'd  a  king. 

Glo.  Short  summers  lightly'  have  a  forward  spring. 

Enter  York,  Hastings,  and  the  Cardinal. 
Buck.  Now.  in  good  time  here  comes  the  duke  of 

York.  ' 
Prince.    Richard    of  York!    how   fares   ou"-   .iobl« 

brother? 
York.  Well,  my  dread' lord  ;  so  must  I  call  >ou  now. 
Prince.  Ay.  brother ;  to  our  grief,  as  it  is  yoiu-B. 
Too  late  he  died  that  might  have  kept  that  title, 
Which  by  his  death  halh  lost  much  majesty. 
Glo.  How  fares  our  cousin,  noble  lord  of  York  ? 
York.  I  thank  you,  gentle  uncle.     0  !  my  lord, 
You  said,  that  idle  weeds  arc  fast  in  growth  : 
The  prince  my  brother  hath  outgrown  me  far. 
Glo.  He  hath,  my  lord  ! 

York.  And  therefore  is  he  idle  ' 

Glo.  0  !  my  fair  cousin,  I  must  not  say  so. 
Y'ork.  Then  he  is  more  beholding  to  you,  than  I. 
grossness  :  in  f.  e.      «  tlii«  :  in  f.  e.      "A  character  in  a  1  th* 


KING  EICHAKD  HI. 


Glo.  He  lUiy  command  me  as  my  soYcreign, 
But  you  have  power  o'er  me  as  a  kinsman. 

i'ork.  I  pray  you,  uncle,  give  me  this  dagger. 

Glo.  My  dagger,  little  cousin  ?  with  all  my  heart. 

Prince.  A  beggar,  brother? 

York.  Of  my  kind  uncle,  that  I  know  will  give ; 
And,  being  but  a  toy.  wliich  is  no  grief  to  give. 

Glo.  A  greater  gift  than  that  I  '11  give  my  cousin. 

York.  A  greater  gift  !     0  !  that 's  the  sword  to  it. 

Glo.  Ay,  gentle  cousin,  were  it  light  enough. 

York.  6  !  then,  I  see.  you  '11  part  but  with  light  gifis : 
In  weightier  things  you  '11  say  a  beggar,  nay. 

Glo.  It  is  too  weighty  for  your  grace  to  wear. 

York.  I  weigh  it  lightly,  were  it  heavier. 

Glo.  What !  would  you  have  my  weapon,  little  lord  ? 

York.  I  would,  that  I  might  thank  you  as  you  call  me. 

Glo.  How? 

York.  Little. 

Prince.    My  lord   of  York  will   still   be    cross    in 
talk.— 
Uncle,  your  grace  knows  how  to  bear  with  him. 

York.  You  mean,  to  bear  me,  not  to  bear  with  me. — 
ihicle,  my  brother  mocks  both  you  and  me  : 
Because  that  I  am  little,  like  an  ape. 
He  thinks  that  you  should  bear  me  on  your  shoulders. 

Buck.  With  what  a  sharply  pointed'  wit  he  reasons  : 
To  mitigate  the  scorn  he  gives  his  uncle, 
He  prettily  and  aptly  taunts  himself. 
So  cunning,  and  so  young,  is  wonderful. 

Glo.  My  lord,  will 't  please  your  grace  to  pass  along  ? 
Myself,  and  my  good  cousin  Buckingham, 
Will  to  your  mother,  to  entreat  of  her 
To  meet  you  at  the  Tower,  and  welcome  you. 

York.  What  ?  will  you  go  unto  the  Tower,  my  lord  ? 

Prince.  My  lord  protector  needs  will  have  it  so. 

York.  I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Tower. 

Glo.  Why,  what  should  you  fear  ? 

York.  Marry,  my  uncle  Clarence'  angry  ghost : 
My  grandam  told  me  he  was  murder'd  there. 

Prince.  I  fear  no  uncles  dead. 

Glo.  Nor  none  that  live,  I  hope. 

Prince.  An  if  they  live,  I  hope,  I  need  not  fear. 
But  come,  my  lord,  and,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
Thinking  on  them,  go  I  unto  the  Tower. 

[A  sennet.     Exeunt  Prince,  York,  Hastings, 
Cardinal.,  and  Attendants. 

Buck.  Think  you,  my  lord,  this  little  prating  York 
Was  not  incensed  by  his  subtle  mother 
To  taunt  and  scorn  you  thus  opprobriously  ? 

Glo.  No  doubt,  no  doubt.     O  !  't  is  a  perilous  boy  ; 
Bold,  quick,  ingenious,  forward,  capable  : 
He"s  all  the  mother's  from  the  top  to  toe. 

Buck.  Well,  let  them  rest. — Come  hither,  Catesby. 
Thou  art  sworn  as  deeply  to  effect  what  we  intend. 
As  closely  to  conceal  what  we  impart. 
Thou  know'st  our  reasons  urg'd  upon  the  way  : — 
What  think'st  thou  ?  is  it  not  an  easy  matter 
To  make  William  lord  Hastings  of  our  mind. 
For  the  instalment  of  this  noble  duke 
[n  the  seat  royal  of  this  famous  isle  ? 

Cate.  He  for  his  father's  sake  so  loves  the  prince, 
That  he  will  not  be  won  to  aught  against  him. 

Buck.  What   think'st   thou  Ihen  of   Stanley?   will 
not  he  ? 

Cate.  He  will  do  all  in  all  as  Hastings  doth. 

Buck.  Well,  then,  no   more   but    this.     Go,  gentle 
Catesby, 
And,  as  it  were  far  off,  sound  thou  lord  Hastings. 


How  he  doth  stand  aflected  to  our  purpose ; 
And  summon  him  to-morrow  to  the  Tower, 
To  sit  about  the  coronation.^ 
If  thou  dost  find  him  tractable  to  us. 
Encourage  him,  and  tell  him  all  our  reason* : 
If  he  be  leaden,  icy,  cold,  unwillins. 
Be  thou  so  too,  and  so  break  off  tlie  talk, 
And  give  us  notice  of  his  inclination ; 
For  we  to-morrow  hold  divided'  councils, 
Wherein  thyself  shalt  highly  be  employ'd, 

Glo.  Commend    me   to    lord   William :    tell    him 
Catesby, 
His  ancient  knot  of  dangerous  adversaries 
To-morrow  are  let  blood  at  Pomfret-castle  ; 
And  bid  my  lord,  for  joy  of  this  good  news, 
Give  mistress  Shore  one  gentle  kiss  the  more. 

Buck.  Good  Catesby,  go ;  effect  this  business  soundly. 

Cate.  My  good  lords  both,  with  all  the  heed  I  can. 

Glo.  Shall  we  hear  from  you,  Catesby,  ere  we  sleep  ' 

Cate.  You  shall,  my  lord. 

Glo.  At  Crosby-place,  there  shall  you  find  us  both. 
[Exit  Catesbt. 

Buck.  Now,  my  lord,  what  shall  we  do,  if  we  per 
ceive 
Lord  Hastings  will  not  yield  to  our  complots  ? 

Glo.  Chop  off  his  head,  man; — somewhat  wc  will 
do:— 
And,  look,  wheii  I  am  king,  claim  thou  of  me 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  all  the  moveables 
Whereof  the  king,  my  brother,  was  possess'd. 

Buck.  I  '11  claim  that  promise  at  your  grace's  hand 

Glo.  And  look  to  have  it  yielded  with  all  kindness. 
Come,  let  us  sup  betimes,  that  afterwards 
We  may  digest  our  complots  in  some  form.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Before  Lord  Hastings"  House. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord  !  my  lord  ! —  [Knocking  at  the  dnnj 

Ilast.   [Within.] — Who  knocks? 

Mess.  One  from  the  lord  Stanley. 

Hast.   [Within.]  What  is 't  o'clock  ? 

Mess.  Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  Cannot  lord  Stanley  sleep  these  tedious  nights  ? 

Mess.  So  it  appears'  by  that  I  have  to  say. 
First,  he  commends  him  to  your  noble  self. 

Hast.  What  then? 

Mess.  Then  certifies  your  lordship,  that  tliis  night 
He  dreamt  the  boar  had  rased  off  liis  helm  : 
Besides,  he  says,  there  are  two  councils  kept; 
And  that  may  be  determin'd  at  the  one. 
Which  may  make  you  and  him  to  rue  at  th'  other. 
Therefore,  he  sends  to  know  your  lordship's  pleasure,— 
If  you  will  presently  take  horse  with  him, 
And  with  all  speed  po.st  with  him  toward  the  north, 
To  shun  the  danger  that  his  soul  divines. 

Ha.';t.  Go.  fellow,  go  :  return  unto  Ihy  lord. 
Bid  him  not  fear  the  separated  council : 
His  honour  and  myself  are  at  the  one. 
And  at  the  other  is  my  good  friend  Catesby ; 
j  Where  nothing  can  proceed  that  toucheth  us, 
j  Whereof  I  shall  not  have  intelligence. 
Tell  him.  his  fears  are  shallow,  without  instanee  . 
j  And  for  his  dreams — I  wonder  he  's  so  simple* 
To  trust  the  mockery  of  unquiet  slumbers. 
To  fly  the  boar,  before  the  boar  pursues, 
Were  to  incense  the  boar  to  follow  us, 
And  make  pursuit,  where  he  did  mean  no  chase. 


'  sharp  provided  :  in  f.  e. 
itn  •  in  quaxtos      '  loud  : 


5  This  a 
in  Quart" 


are  not  in  the  quartos. 


'  Private.     ♦  willingness  :  in  quartos.     »  So  it  should 


524 


KING  RICHARD  HI. 


A.CT   HL 


Go,  bid  fby  master  rise  and  come  to  me  ; 
And  we  will  l)otli  toL'tMlier  (o  the  Tower. 
WlaTc.Mie  sliall  see.  tlio  boar  will  use  us  k  ndly. 

Mess    I  11  go,  my  lord,  and*  tell  him  what  von  say. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Catksby. 

Cate.  Many  good  morrow.s  to  my  noble  lord  ! 

Hast.  Good  morrow.  Cat r-sby :  you  are  early  stirring. 
What  iiew.<,  what  new.-;,  in  this  our  tottering  state? 

Cate.  It  is  a  reeling  world,  indeed,  my  lord; 
And.  I  believe,  will  never  stand  upright, 
i  .11  Kichard  wear  the  garland  of  the  realm. 

Hast.  How?  wear  the  garland  !  dost  thou  mean  the 
crown  ? 

Cate.  Ay.  my  good  lord. 

Hast.  I  '11  have   this  crown  of  mine  cut  from   my 
shoulders. 
B'  lore  I  "11  see  the  crown  so  foul  misplac'd. 
But  canst  thou  guess  that  he  doth  aim  at  it  ? 

Cate.  Ay,  on  my  life' :  and  hopes  to  find  you  forward 
I'pon  his  party  for  the  gain  thereof  : 
And  thereupon  he  sends  you  this  good  news. — 
That  this  same  very  day  your  enemies, 
The  kmdred  of  the  qneen,  must  die  at  Pomfret. 

Hi.<!t.  Indeed,  I  am  no  mourner  for  that  news, 
Because  they  have  been  still  my  adversaries  :* 
But.  'hat  I  "11  give  my  voice  on  Richard's  side, 
To  bar  my  ma.ster's  heirs  in  true  descent. 
God  knows,  I  will  not  do  it,  to  the  death. 

Citte.  God  keep  your  lordship  in  that  gracious  mind. 

Hast.  But  I  shall  laugh  at  this  a  twelve-month  hence. 
That  they  which  brought  me  in  my  master's  hate, 
I  live  to  look  upon  their  tragedy. 
Well.  Catesby,  ere  a  fortnight  make  me  older. 
Ill  send  some  packing  that  yet  think  not  on  't. 

Cate.  'T  is  a  vile  thing  to  die,  my  gracious  lord, 
When  men  are  unprepard,  and  look  not  for  it. 

Hast.  0  monstrous,  monstrous  !  and  so  falls  it  out 
With  liivers.  Vau-ihan,  Grey;  and  so  'twill  do 
With  some  men  else,  who  think  themselves  as  safe 
.\s  thou,  and  I ;  who,  as  thou  know'st.  are  dear 
To  princely  Richard,  and  to  Buckingham. 

Cate.  The  princes  both  make  high  account  of  you  ; 
For  they  account  hi8  head  upon  the  bridge.         [Aside. 

Hast.  I  know  they  do.  and  I  have  well  deserv'd  it. 
Enter  Stanlky. 
Come  on,  come  on  ;*  where  is  your  boar-spear,  man  ? 
Fear  you  the  boar,  and  go  so  unprovided  ? 

Stan.    My    lord,    good    morrow :  —  good    morrow, 
Catesby. — 
Vou  may  jest  on.  but,  by  the  holy  rood, 
I  do  not  like  these  several  councils,  I. 

Hast.  My  lord,  I  hold  my  life  as  dear  as  yours;.* 
.\nd  never,  in  my  days,  I  do  protest. 
Was  it  so  precious  to  me  as*  't  is  now. 
Think  you,  but  that  I  know  our  state  secure, 
!  would  be  so  triumphant  as  I  am  ? 

Stan.  The   lords  at   Pomfret,  when  they  rode  from 
London, 
Were  jocund,  and  suppos'd  their  states  were  sure, 
And  they,  indeed,  haid  no  cause  to  mistrust; 
I'.ut  yet,  you  see,  how  soon  the  day  o'er-ca.st. 
This  sudden  stab  of  rancour  I  mi.sdoubt  : 
Pray  God,  I  say,  I  prove  a  needle.«s  coward  ! 
What,  shall  we  toward  the  Tower?  the  day  is  spent. 

Hast.  Come,  come,  have  vsnth  you. — Wot  you  what, 
my  lord  ? 


To-day,  the  lords  you  talk  of  are  beheaded. 

Stan.  They  for  their  truth  might  better  wear  thcj 
heads, 
Than  some  that  have  accus'd  them  wear  their  hats. 
But  come,  my  lord,  let's  away. 

Enter  a  Pursuivant. 

Hast.  Go  on  before;   I  '11  talk  with  this  good  fellovr. 
[Exeunt  Stanley  and  Catesby 
How  now,  sirrah  !  how  goes  the  world  with  thee  ? 

Purs.  The  better,  that  your  lordship  plea^^e  to  ask. 

Hast.  I  tell  thee,  man,  't  is  better  with  me  now. 
Than  when  thou  met'st  me  last,  where  now  we  meei 
Then,  was  I  going  prisoner  to  the  Tower, 
By  the  suggestion  of  the  queen's  allies  ; 
But  now,  I  tell  thee,  (keep  it  to  thyself) 
This  day  those  enemies  are  put  to  death. 
And  I  in  better  state  than  ere  I  was. 

Purs    God  hold  it  to  your  honour's  good  content. 

Hast.  Gramercy,  fellow.     There,  drink  that  for  me 
[Throu-ing  his  Purse. 

Purs.  I  thank  your  honour.  [Exit  Pursuivant. 

Enter  a  Priest. 

Pr.  Well  met.  my  lord  :  I  am  glad  to  see  your  honoar. 

Hast.  I  thank  thee,  good  sir  John,  with  all  my  heart. 
I  'm  in  your  debt  for  your  last  exercise  ; 
Come  the  next  Sabbath,  and  I  will  content  you. 

Pr.  I  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship. 
Enter  Buckingham. 

Buck.  What,  talking  with  a  priest,  lord  chamberlain  ! 
Your  friends  at  Pomfret,  they  do  need  the  priest : 
Your  honour  hath  no  shriving  work  in  hand. 

Hast.  'Good  faith,  and  when  I  met  this  holy  man. 
The  men  you  talk  of  came  into  my  mind. 
What,  go  you  toward  the  Tower  ? 

Buck.  I  do,  my  lord  :  but  long  I  cannot  stay  there  • 
I  shall  return  before  your  lordship  thence. 

Hast.  Nay,  like  enough,  for  I  stay  dinner  there. 

Buck.  And  supper  too,  although  thou  know'st  it  no; 

[Aside. 
Come,  will  you  go  ? 

Hast.  I '11  wait  upon  your  lordship.    [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Pomfret.     Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  Ratcliff,  with  a  Guard.,  conducting  Rivers, 

Grey,  and  Vaughan,  to  execution. 
Riv.  Sir  Richard  Ratclifl",  let  me  tell  thee  this  : — 
To-day  shalt  thou  behold  a  subject  die 
For  truth,  for  duty,  and  for  loyalty. 

Grey.  God  bless  the  prince  from  all  the  pack  of  you  ! 
A  knot  you  are  of  damned  blood-suckers. 

Vaugh.  You  live,  that  shall  cry  woe  for  this  here- 
after. 
Rat.  Despatch  !  the  limit  of  your  lives  is  out.' 
Riv.  0  Pomfret,  Pomtret !  O,  thou  bloody  prisoi, 
Fatal  and  ominous  to  noble  peers  ! 
Within  the  guilty  closure  of  thy  walls, 
Richard  the  Second  here  was  hack'd  to  death  . 
And,  for  more  slander  to  thy  dismal  seat'. 
We  give  to  thee  our  guiltless  blood  to  drink. 

Grey.  Now   Margaret's  curse    is    fallen   upon   our 
heads, 
When  she  exclaim'd  on  Ha,stings,  you,  and  me'. 
For  standing  by  when  Hiehard  stabb'd  her  son. 

Riv.  Then  curs'd  she  Richard,  then  curs'd  she  Buc  k- 
ingham. 
Then  curs'd  she  Hastings. — O,  remember,  God, 
To  hear  her  prayer  for  them,  as  now  for  us  ! 


My  ^acioDii  loid,  I  'II  : 
en  do  youra  :  in  qaarUw. 
:  im  f.  a 


n  quarto*.     '  Upon  my  life,  my  lord  :  in  quartos.     »  mine  enemies  :  in  quartos.     ♦  What,  my  lord  ; 
*  more  preciooa  to  me  than  :  in  qnartos.     '  This  and  the  previoui  line,  are  not  in  the  quarto*.     >  soul  :  is  qn«to» 


80ENE    r 


KDS^G    EIOHAED  ILL 


525 


\ud  for  my  sister,  and  her  princely  sons. 
Re  satisfied,  dear  God.  with  our  true  blood. 
Which,  as  thou  know"st,  unjustly  must  be  spilt. 

Rat.  Make  haste,  the  hour  of  death  is  expiate^ 

Riv.  Come,   Grey. — come,   Vaushan  : — let  us  here 

embrace :  i 

Farewell,  until  we  meet  again  in  heaven.        [Exeirnt. ! 

SCENE  IV.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Tower.       j 
Bctckingu.a:'   Stanley,  H.a.stings,  the  Bishop  of  Ely,  \ 
C.iTESBV.   LovEL,   a7ul   otheis,   sitting   at  a   Table. -^ 
Officers  of  the  Council  attending. 
Hast.  Now,  noble  peers,  the  cause  why  we  are  met 
Is  to  determine  of  the  coronation  : 
In  God's  name,  speak,  when  is  this  royal  day? 
Bvck.  Are  all  things  ready  for  the  royal  time  ? 
Stan.  They  are  :  and  want  but  nomination. 
Ely.   To-morrow,  then.  I  judge'  a  happy  day. 
Bvck.  Who  knows  the  lord  protector's  mind  herein  ? 
Who  is  most  inward^  with  the  noble  duke  ? 

Ely.  Your  grace,  we  think,  should  soonest  know  his 

mind. 
Buck.  We  know  each  other's  faces ;  for  our  hearts. 
He  knows  no  more  of  mine,  than  I  of  yours  : 
Nor  I  of  his,  my  lord,  than  you  of  mine. 
Lord  Hastings,  you  and  he  are  near  in  love. 

Hast.  I  thank  his  grace,  I  know  he  loves  me  well; 
But  for  his  purpose  in  the  coronation. 
I  have  not  sounded  him,  nor  he  deliver'a 
His  gracious  pleasure  any  way  therein  : 
But  you,  my  honourable*  lords,  may  name  the  time  : 
And  in  the  duke's  behalf  I  "11  give  my  voice. 
Which.  I  presume,  he  "11  take  in  gentle  part. 
Eiiter  Gloster. 
Ely.  In  happy  time  here  comes  the  duke  himself. 
Gio.  My  noble  lords  and  cousins,  all,  good  morrow    [ 
I  have  been  long  a  sleeper  :  but.  I  trust. 
My  absence  doth  neglect  no  great  design. 
Which  by  my  presence  might  have  been  concluded. 
Buck.   Had  you  not  come  upon  your  cue.  my  lord. 
William  lord  Hastings  had  pronounc'd  your  part. 
I  mean,  your  voice,  for  crowning  of  the  king. 

Glo.  Than  my  lord    Hastings,   no   man    might  be 
bolder : 
His  lordship  knows  me  well,  and  loves  me  well. 
My  lord  of  Ely.  when  I  was  last  in  Holborn. 
I  saw  good  strawberries  in  your  garden  there  : 
I  do  beseech  you.  send  for  some  of  them. 

Ely.  Marrv.  and  will,  mv  lord,  with  all  mv  heart. 

[Exit  Ely. 
Glo.  Cousin  of  Buckingham,  a  word  with  you. 

[Taking  him  aside. 
Catesby  hath  sounded  Hastings  in  our  business. 
And  finds  the  testy  gentleman  so  hot, 
That  he  will  lose  his  head,  ere  give  consent, 
His  master's  child,  as  worshipfully  he  terms  it. 
"^hall  lose  the  royalty  of  England"s  throne. 

Buck.  Withdraw  yourself  awhile  ;  I  "11  go  with  you. 
[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Buckingham. 
Stan.  We  have  not  yet  set  down  this  day  of  triumph. 
To-morrow,  in  my  judgment,  is  too  sudden  : 
For  I  myself  am  not  so  well  provided, 
.\s  else  I  would  be,  were  the  day  prolonged. 
Re-enter  Bishop  of  Ely. 
Ely.  "Where  is  my  lord,  the  duke  of  Gloster  ? 
I  nave  sent  for  these  strawberries. 

Hast.  His  grace   looks   cheerfully  and  smooth  this 
morning : 

'  i«  nivr  expir'd  :  in  folio.      *  euess  :  in  quartos.      '  Intimal'..      ♦  noble  :  in  quartos.      »  likelihood  : 
smviaTu  lines,  not  in  f.  e.      '  rotun  :  in  folio.      *  Xhi"  -vrords  -and  in  hatte,"  are  not  in  f.  e. 


There  "s  some  conceit  or  other  likes  him  well, 
When  that  he  bids  good  morrow  with  such  spirit. 
I  think,  there  "s  never  a  man  in  Christendom 
Can  lesser  hide  his  love,  or  hate,  than  he  : 
For  by  his  face  straight  shall  you  know  his  heart. 

Stan.  What  of  his  heart  perceive  you  in  his  face^ 
By  any  livelihood'  he  show"d  to-day  ? 

Ha.^t.  Marry,  that  with  no  man  here  he  is  offendfd-. 
Fo%  were  he.  hie  had  shown  it  in  his  looks. 

Re-enter  Gloster  and  Buckingham. 

Glo.  I  pray  you  all,  tell  me  what  they  deserv'e, 
That  do  conspire  my  death  witli  devilish  plots 
Of  damned  witchcraft "?  and  that  have  prevail'd 
Upon  my  body  with  their  hellish  charms  ? 

Hast.  The  tender  love  I  bear  your  grace,  my  lord, 
Makes  me  most  forward  in  this  princely  presence 
To  doom  th"  offenders  :  whosoe'er  they  be, 
I  say,  my  lord,  they  have  deserved  death. 

Glo.  Then,  be  your  eyes  the  witness  of  their  evil. — 
Look  how  I  am  bewitch'd  ;  behold  mine  arm 
Is  like  a  blasted  sapling  witherd  up : 
And  this  is  Edward's  wife,  that  monstrous  ^'^^tch, 
Consorted  %\ith  that  harlot,  strumpet  Shore. 
That  by  their  witchcraft  thus  have  marked  me. 

Hast.  If  they  have  done  this  deed,  my  noble  lord^ — 

Glo.  If  I  thou  protector  of  this  damned  strumpet, 
Talk"st  thou  to  me  of  its  ? — Thou  art  a  traitor  . — 
Ofi"  -vnth  his  head  ! — now.  by  Saint  Paul  I  swear. 
I  will  not  dine  until  I  see  the  same. — 
Lovel,  and  RatelifF.  look  that  it  be  done  : 
The  rest,  that  love  me,  rise,  and  follow  me 

[Evevnt  Council,  with  Gloster  and  Buckinghas. 

Hast.  Woe,  woe,  for  England  !  not  a  whit  for  me; 
For  I,  too  fond,  might  have  prevented  this. 
Stanley  did  dream  the  boar  did  rase  his  helm ; 
And  I  did  scorn  it.  and  disdained  to  fly. 
Three  times  to-day  my  foot-cloth  horse  did  stiimble, 
And  started  when  he  look'd  upon  the  Tower. 
As  loath  to  bear  me  to  the  slaughter-house. 

0  I  now  I  need  the  priest  that  spake  to  mt  : 

1  now  repent  I  told  the  pursuivant. 
As  too  triumphing,  how  mine  enemies. 
To-day  at  Pomfret  bloodily  were  butcherd. 
And  I  myself  secure  in  grace  and  favour. 
0.  Margaret,  Margaret  !  now  thy  hea-v^  curse 
Is  lighted  on  poor  Hastings'  wretched  head. 

Rat.  Come,  come  ;  despatch,  the  duke  would  be  at 
dinner: 
Make  a  short  shrift ;  he  longs  to  see  your  head. 

Hast.  O.  momentary  grace  of  mortal  men. 
Which  we  more  hunt  for  tlian  the  grace  of  God  ! 
Who  builds  his  hope  in  air  of  your  good  looks, 
Lives  like  a  drunken  sailor  on  a  mast : 
Ready  ^^■ith  even.-  nod  to  tumble  down 
Into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep. 

Loi:.  Come,  come,  despatch  :  't  is  bootless  to  exclaim 

Hast.  0,  bloody  Richard  ! — miserable  England  I 
[  prophesy  the  fearfuU'st  time  to  thee. 
That  ever  wretched  age  hath  look'd  upon.' 
Come,  lead  me  to  the  block  ;  bear  him  my  head  ; 
They  smile  at  me.  who  shortly  shall  be  dead.   [Exeuid 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     The  Tower  Walls. 
Enter  Gloster  and  Buckingham,  in  rvsty''  dmumr, 

marvellous  ill-favoured,  and  in  haste.* 
Glo.  Come,  cousin,  canst  thou  quake,   and  changr 
thy  colour. 
Murder  thy  breath  in  middle  of  a  w:rd, 

quartoe       •  TliiJ  aid  Ihe  ihrs* 


526 


KING   RICHARD   IIL 


4.CT  ra 


\nd  then  again  beirin.  and  stop  a2:ain, 

Ab  it'  thou  wert  distraught,  and  mad  witli  terror  ? 

Buck.  Tut  !'   I  can  couiitcrffit  the  deep  tragedian  ; 
Si>eak  and  look  back,  and  pry  on  every  side. 
Tremble  and  start  at  waguing  of  a  straw.' 
fntcndinu'  ileej)  suspicion  :  gliastly  looks 
.■\.ro  at  my  .>-ervice,  like  enforced  smiles  ; 
And  both  are  ready  in  their  ollices, 
At  any  time  to  grace  my  stratagems. 
Uut  what,  is  Catcsby  gone  ? 

Glo.  He  is:  and,  see,  he  brings  the  mayoj  along. 
Enter  the  iMrd  Mayor  and  Catesby. 

Rnck.   Lord  Mayor. — 

Glo    Look  to  the  drawbridge  there  I 

Buek.  Hark  I  a  drum. 

Glo.  Catesby.  o'crlook  the  walls. 

Ruck.  Lord  Mayor,  the  reason  we  have  sent. — 

Glo.  Look  back,  defend  thee  :  here  arc  enemies. 

Buck.  God  and  our  innocency  defend  and  guard  us  ! 

Enter  Lovel  and  R.\tcliff,  icitk  Hastings"  Head,  on  a 

Spear. 

Glo.  Be  patient,  they  are  friends  ;  Ratcliff.  and  Lovel. 

Lov.  Here  is  the  head  of  that  ignoble  traitor. 
The  dangerous  and  unsuspected  Hastings. 

Glo.  So  dear  I  lovd  the  man.  that  I  must  -weep. 
I  took  him  for  the  plainest  harmless  creature, 
That  breath'd  upon  the  earth  a  Christian: 
Made  him  my  book,  wherein  my  soul  recorded 
riic  history  of  all  her  secret  thoughts  : 
.<.)  smooth  he  daub'd  his  vice  vrith  show  of  virtue, 
That,  his  apparent  open  guilt  omitted. 
I  mean  his  conversation  with  Shore's  wife. 
He  liv"d  from  all  attainder  of  .suspects. 

Ruck.  Well,   well,   he  was    the    covert'st  shelterd 
traitor 
That  ever  liv'd. — 

Would  you  imagine,  or  almost  believe. 
Were  "t  not  that  by  ireat  preserv'ation 
We  live  to  tell  it,  that  the  subtle  traitor 
This  day  had  plotted,  in  the  council  house. 
To  murder  me,  and  my  good  lord  of  Gloster? 

May.  Had  he  done  so  ? 

Glo.  What !  think  you  we  are  Turks,  or  infidels  ? 
Or  that  we  would,  against  the  form  of  law, 
F^rocecd  thus  ra.shly  in  the  villain's  death. 
Rut  that  the  extreme  peril  of  the  case, 
The  p<  ace  of  England,  and  our  persons'  safety, 
Knforr'd  us  to  this  execution  ? 

May.  Now.  fair  befal  you  !  he  deserv'd  his  death  ; 
.\nd  your  good  i.Taccs  both  have  well  proceeded, 
To  warn  fal.se  traitors  from  the  like  attempts. 

Buek.  I  never  look'd  for  better  at  his  hands. 
After  lie  once  fell  in  with  mistress  Shore  ; 
Vet  had  we  not  determin'd  he  should  die, 
f'ntil  your  lordship  came  to  see  his  end*. 
Which  now  the  lovins  li.-iste  of  these  our  friends, 
N»mcthing  again.'-t  our  meanings,  hath  prevented  : 
IV"cau.«c.  my  lord,  I  would  have  had  you  hear 
The  traitor  speak,  and  timorously  confess 
The  manner  and  the  purpose  of  his  trea.sons  ; 
That  you  miaht  well  have  signified  the  same 
Unto  the  citizen.s,  who.  haply,  may 
Misconstrue  us  in  him.  and  wail  his  death. 

May.'Bnt,  my  good   lord,  your  grace's  words  shall 
serve. 
As  well  as  I  had  seen,  and  heard  him  speak: 
And  do  not  doubt,  right  noble  princes  both,  I 

>  Tut !  fear  lot  me  :  in  qn».rto«.      »  Thit  line  ii  not  in  the  quartos.      >  Pretending.      *  death  :  in  quartos.      »  lustful  :  in  f 
tad  th«  two  prehona  lines,  are  not  in  the  qaartos.      '  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e.     •  blind  :  in  quartos.       »  in  :  in  i 


But  I  '11  acquaint  our  duteous  citizens 
With  all  your  just  proceedings  in  this  ca,se. 

Glo.  And  to  that  end  we  wish'd  your  lordship  here 
To  avoid  the  censures  oi  the  carping  world. 

Buck.  But  since  you  come  too  late  of  our  intent. 
Yet  witness  what  you  hear  we  did  intend  : 
And  so,  my  good  lord  mayor,  we  bid  farewell. 

[Exit  Lord  Mayo^ 

Glo.  Go,  after,  after,  cousin  Buck-ingham. 
The  mayor  towards  Guildhall  hies  him  in  all  post  ; 
There,  at  your  meetest  vantage  of  the  time, 
Infer  the  bastardy  of  Edward's  children  : 
Tell  them,  how  Edward  put  to  death  a  citizen. 
Only  for  saying — he  would  make  his  son 
Heir  to  the  crown ;  meaning,  indeed,  his  house. 
Which  by  the  sign  thereof  was  termed  so. 
Moreover,  urge  his  hateful  luxury. 
And  bestial  appetite  in  change  of  lust  : 
Which  stretch'd  unto  their  servants,  daughters,  wii'ea 
Even  where  his  raging*  eye.  or  savage  heart. 
Without  control  lusted  to  make  a  prey. 
Nay,  for  a  need,  thus  far  come  near  my  person: 
Tell  them,  when  that  my  mother  went  with  child 
Of  that  insatiate  Edward,  noble  York, 
My  princely  father,  then  had  wars  in  France  : 
And  by  true  computation  of  the  time, 
Found  that  the  issue  was  not  his  begot  ; 
Which  well  appeared  in  his  lineaments, 
Being  nothing  like  the  noble  duke  my  father. 
Yet  touch  this  sparingly,  as  't  were  far  off: 
Because,  my  lord,  you  know,  my  mother  lives. 

Buck.  Doubt  not.  my  lord,  I  "11  play  the  oratoi 
As  if  the  golden  fee,  for  which  I  plead, 
Were  for  myself:'  and  .so,  my  lord,  adieu, 

Glo.  If  you  thrive  well,  bring  them  to  Baynards  ca«tle. 
Where  you  shall  find  me  well  accompanied. 
With  reverend  fathers,  and  well-learned  bishops. 

Buck.  I  go  ;  and,  towards  three  or  four  o'clock. 
Look  for  the  news  that  the  Guildhall  affords. 

[Exit    BlCKINGHA.M 

Glo.  Go,  Lovel,  with  all  speed  to  doctor  Shaw  : — 
Go  thou  [To  C.A.T.]  to  friar  Penker  : — bid  them  both 
Meet  me  within  this  hour  at  Baj-nard's  castle.* 

[E.reunt  Lovel  and  Catfsbt 
Now  will  I  go.  to  take  some  privy  order, 
To  draw  the  brats  of  Clarence  out  of  sight : 
And  to  give  order,  that  no  manner  person 
Have  any  time  recourse  unto  the  princes  [EjU. 

SCENE  YI.— A  Street 
Enter  a  Scrivener'',  with  a  writing. 
Scriv.    Here    is    the    indictment    of    the    good   loisl 
Hastings  ; 
Which  in  a  set  hand  fairly  is  engro.ss'd, 
That  it  may  be  to-day  read  o'er  in  Paul's  : 
And  mark  how  well  the  sequel  hangs  together 
P21even  hours  I  have  spent  to  Avriie  it  over, 
For  yesternisht  by  Catesby  was  it  sent  me. 
The  precedent  was  full  as  long  a  doing  ; 
And  yet  within  these  five  hours  Hastings  liv'd. 
Untainted,  unexamin'd.  free,  at  liberty. 
Here  's  a  good  world  the  while  I — Who  is  so  grof^!*, 
That  cannot  see  this  palpable  device  ? 
Yet  who  so  bold*,  but  says  he  sees  it  not  ? 
Bad  is  the  world  ;  and  all  will  come  to  nought. 
When  such  ill  dealing  must  be  seen  or*  thought.  (fc"J«' 


TVu 


I  .A 


KING   PJCHAED  III. 


.27 


SCENE  VII.— The  Same.     The  Court  of  Bayiiard's 
Castle. 

Enter  Glostir  at  one  Door,  and  Buckingham  at 
another. 

Glo.  How  now,  how  now  !  what  say  the  citizens  ? 

Buck.  Now  by  the  holy  mother  of  our  Lord, 
The  citizens  are  mum.  say'  not  a  word. 

Glo.  Touch'd  you  the  bastardy  of  Edward's  children  ? 

Buck.  I  did ;  with  his  contract  with  Lady  Lucy, 
And  his  contract  by  deputy  in  France  :^ 
Til'  insatiate  greediness  of  his  desires. 
And  his  enforcement  of  the  city  wives : 
His  tyranny  for  trifles  ;  his  o\A'n  bastardy. 
As  being  got,  your  father  then  in  France ; 
And  dis-resemblance',  being  not  like  the  duke. 
Withal  I  did  infer  your  lineaments, 
Being  the  right  idea  of  your  father. 
Both  in  your  form  and  nobleness  of  mind  : 
Laid  open  all  your  victories  in  Scotland. 
Your  discipline  in  war,  wisdom  in  peace. 
Your  bounty,  virtue,  fair  humility  ; 
Indeed,  left  nothing  fitting  for  your  purpose 
Untouch'd,  or  slightly  handled  in  discourse  : 
And,  when  my  oratory  drew  toward  end, 
I  bade  them  that  did  love  their  country's  good, 
Cry — '-God  save  Richard,  England's  royal  king  !" 

Glo.  And  did  they  so  ? 

Buck.  No,  so  God  help  me,  they  spake  not  a  word  : 
But,  like  dumb  statues,  or  breathing  stones, 
Star'd^  each  on  other,  and  look'd  deadly  pale. 
Which  when  I  saw.  I  reprehended  them. 
And  ask'd  the  mayor,  what  meant  tliis  wilful  silence? 
His  answer  was,  the  people  were  not  us'd 
To  be  spoke  to,  but  by  the  recorder. 
Then,  he  was  urg'd  to  tell  my  tale  again  : — 
'•  Thus  saith  the  duke,  thus  hath  the  duke  inferr'd ;" 
But  nothing  spoke  in  warrant  from  himself. 
When  he  had  done,  some  followers  of  mine  owti. 
At  lower  end  of  the  hall,  hurl'd  up  their  caps. 
And  some  ten  voices  cried.  "God  save  king  Richard  !" 
And  thus  I  took  the  vantage  of  those  few. — ' 
"Thanks,  gentle'  citizens,  and  friends."  quoth  I; 
"  This  general  applause,  and  cheerful*  shout, 
Argues  your  ^^■isdom,  and  your  love  to  Richard :" 
And  even  here  brake  off,  and  came  away. 

Glo.  What  tongueless  blocks  were  they  !  would  they 
not  speak  ? 
Will  not  the  mayor,  then,  and  his  brethren,  come  ? 

Buck.  The  mayor  is  here  at  hand.    Intend  some  fear  ; 
Be  not  you  spoke  with,  but  by  mighty  suit : 
And  look  you  get  a  prayer-book  in  your  hand. 
And  stand  between  two  churchmen,  good  my  lord  ; 
For  on  that  ground  I  '11  make  a  holy  descant : 
A  nd  be  not  easily  won  to  our  requests  : 
Play  the  maid's  part,  still  answer  nay.  and  take  it. 

Glo.  I  go  ;   and  if  you  plead  as  well  for  them. 
As  I  can  say  nay  to  thee  for  myself. 
No  doubt  we  bring  it  to  a  happy  issue. 

[Knocking  heard.* 

Buck.  Go,    go.  up   to   the    leads  !    the    lord    mayor 
knocks.  [Exit  Gloster. 

Enter  the  Lord  Mayor.,  Aldermen,  and  Citizens. 
Welcome,  my  lord  :  I  dance  attendance  here  ; 
I  think  the  duke  will  not  be  spoke  withal. — 

Enter  from  the  Castle,  Catesbt. 
Now,  Catesby  !  what  says  your  lord  to  my  request  ? 


spake  not  :  in  quartos.  '•^  This  and  the  pre'v 
f  e.  '  This  line  is  not  in  the  quartos.  *  G;iz'd  : 
"  eitizens  :  in  quartos.  "i  day-bed  :  in  quartos. 
•*  This  imd  the  previous  Line,  wo  not  in  thn  nuart 


Cate.  He  doth  entreat  your  grace,  my  noble  lord, 
To  visit  him  to-morrow,  or  next  day. 
He  is  within,  with  two  right  reverend  fathers, 
Divinely  bent  to  meditation ; 
And  in  no  worldly  suits  would  he  be  mov'd. 
To  draw  him  from  his  holy  exercise. 

Buck.  Return,  good  Catesby,  to  the  giacioue  duke  . 
Tell  him,  myself,  the  mayor,  and  aldermen.'* 
In  deep  designs,  in  matter  of  great  moment, 
No  less  importing  than  our  general  good. 
Are  come  to  have  some  conference  with  his  grace. 

Cate.  I  '11  signify  so  much  unto  him  straight.    [Exit 

Buck.  Ah,  ha  !  my  lord,  this  prince  is  not  an  Edward 
He  is  not  lulling  on  a  lewd  love-bed,'- 
But  on  his  knees  at  meditation  ; 
Not  dallying  with  a  brace  of  courtezans, 
But  meditating  with  two  deep  divines  ; 
Not  sleeping  to  engross  his  idle  body, 
But  praying  to  enrich  his  watchful  soul. 
Happy  were  England,  would  this  virtuous  prince 
Take  on  his  grace' ^  the  sovereignty  thereof: 
But  sore'^  I  fear,  we  shall  not  win  him  to  it. 

May  Marry,  God  defend  his  grace  should  say  up  nay 

Buck.   I  fear,  he  will.     Here  Catesby  comes  again  — 
Re-enter   Catesby. 
Now,  Catesby.  what  says  his  grace? 

Cate.  He  wonders  to  what  end  you  have  assembled 
Such  troops  of  citizens  to  come  to  him  : 
His  grace  not  being  warn'd  thereof  before, 
He  fears,  my  lord,  you  mean  no  good  to  him. 

Buck.  Sorry  I  am.  my  noble  cousin  should 
Suspect  me.  that  I  mean  no  good  to  him  : 
By  heaven,  we  come  to  him  in  perfect  love  ; 
And  so  once  more  return,  and  tell  his  grace. 

[Exit  Cate<b7 
When  holy  and  devout  religious  men 
Are  at  their  beads,  't  is  much  to  draw  them  thence  ; 
So  sweet  is  zealous  contemplation. 
Elder  Gloster,  uith  a  book,^*  in  a  Gallery  above,  be- 
tii'een  two  Bishops.     Catesby  returns. 

May.  See.  where  his  grace  stands  'tween  two  clergy 
men  ! 

Buck.  Two  props  of  virtue  for  a  Christian  prince. 
To  stay  him  from  the  fall  of  vanity ; 
And.  see.  a  book  of  prayer  in  his  hand ; 
True  ornament  to  know  a  holy  man. — '* 
Famous  Plantagenet,  most  gracious  prince. 
Lend  favourable  ear  to  our  requests. 
And  pardon  us  the  interruption 
Of  thy  devotion,  and  right-christian  zeal. 

Glo.  My  lord,  there  needs  no  such  apology ; 
I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
Who,  earnest  in  the  service  of  my  God, 
Deferr'd  the  visitation  of  my  friends. 
But,  leaving  this,  what  is  your  grace's  pleasure  ? 

Buck.  Even  that.  I  hope,  which  pleaseth  God  above 
And  all  good  men  of  this  ungovern'd  isle. 

Glo.  I  do  suspect.  I  have  done  some  offence. 
That  seems  disgracious  in  the  city's  eye  : 
And  that  you  come  to  reprehend  my  ignorance. 

Buck.  You  have,  my  lord  :  would  it  might  plea.-^f 
your  grace. 
On  our  entreaties  to  amend  yoi\r  fault. 

Glo.  Else  wherefore  breathe  I  in  a  Christian  land  ? 

Buck.  Know  then,  it  is  your  fault  that  you  resign 
The  supreme  seat,  the  throne  majestical, 
The  scepter'd  office  of  your  ancestors, 

ine,  and  also  the  next  but  one  after,  are  not  in  the  quartos.     '  his  resemblance  :    ii 


luartos.       «  This  line  is  not  in  the  quartos, 
himself:  in  quartos.     ■'  sure  :  in  f.  e.     '♦ 


loving  .  in  quartos. 
The  words,  •'  witk  a  book,"  are 


52S 


KING   RICHARD  III. 


ACT    lit 


Vour  state  of  fortune,  nnd  your  due  of  birtli.' 

Tlie  lineal  ulory  of  your  royal  house. 

To  the  coiruption  of  a  bloinish'd  stock  : 

Whiles,  in  the  mildness  of  your  sleepy  thoughts, 

Which  here  we  waken  to  our  country's  good. 

This  noble  isle  doth  want  her  proper  limbs  ; 

Her  face  defac'd  with  scars  of  infamy, 

Her  royal  stock  gralt  with  ignoble  plants. 

And  almost  shoulder"d  in  the  swallowing  gulf 

Of  dark'  forgetful iiess.  and  deep^  oblivion. 

Which  to  rceure.  we  heartily  solicit 

^"<Hlr  gracious  self  to  take  on  you  the  charge 

.\nd  kingly  government  of  this  your  land  : 

Not  as  protector,  steward,  .substitute, 

Or  lowly  factor  for  anothers  gain : 

But  as  successively  from  blood  to  blood. 

Vour  right  of  birth,  your  empery.  your  own. 

For  this,  consorted  with  the  citizens, 

Vour  very  worshipful  and  loving  friends. 

And  by  their  vehement  instigation, 

In  this  just  cause  come  I  to  move  your  grace. 

Glo.  I  cannot  tell,  if  to  depart  in  silence, 
Or  bitterly  to  speak  in  your  reprool^. 
Best  fitteth  my  degree,  or  your  condition  : 
If.  not  to  answer. — you  might  haply  think. 
Tongue-tied  ambition,  not  replying,  yielded. 
To  bear  the  golden  yoke  of  sovereignty, 
Which  fondly  you  would  here  impose  on  me  : 
If  to  reprove  you  for  this  suit  of  yours. 
8-5  seasond  yr{\\\  your  faithful  love  to  me. 
Then,  on  the  other  side.  I  checkd  my  friends, 
riiereforc.  to  speak,  and  to  avoid  the  first, 
And  then,  in  speaking,  not  to  incur  the  last. 
Definitively  thus  I  answer  you* 
Vour  love  deserves  my  thanks,  but  my  desert, 
Unmeritable,  shuns  your  high  request. 
First,  if  all  obstacles  were  cut  away. 
And  that  my  path  were  even  to  the  crown, 
As  the'  ripe  revenue  and  due  of '  birth  ; 
Vet  so  much  is  my  poverty  of  spirit. 
So  mighty,  and  so  many,  my  defects. 
That  I  would  rather  hide  me  from  my  greatness, 
B.«ing  a  bark  to  brook  no  mighty  sea. 
riian  in  my  greatness  covet  to  be  hid. 
.\nd  in  the  vapour  of  my  glory  smotherd. 
Hut.  God  be  thank"d.  there  is  no  need  of  me  : 
And  much  I  need  to  help  you,  were  there  need  : 
The  royal  tree  hath  left  ua  royal  fruit. 
Which,  mellow'd  by  the  stealing  hours  of  time. 
Will  well  become  the  seat  of  maiesty, 
And  make,  no  doubt,  us  happy  by  his  reign. 
On  him  I  lav  that  you  would  lay  on  me. 
The  right  and  fortune  of  his  happy  stars  : 
Which  God  defend  that  I  should  wrin2  from  him. 

Hnrk.  .My  lord,  this  argues  conscience  in  vour  srace 
But  the  respects  thereof  are  nice  and  trivial. 
All  circumstances  well  considered. 
Vou  say.  that  Eilward  is  your  brother's  son  : 
So  say  we  too.  but  not  by  Edwards  wife  : 
For  first  was  he  contract  to  lady  Lucy  ; 
Vour  mother  lives  a  witness  to  his  vow  : 
And  afterward  by  sut)>titute  betroth"d 
To  Bona,  si.ster  to  the  king  of  France. 
These  both  put  off.  a  poor  petitioner. 
\  carc-craz'd  mother  to  a  many  sons. 
A  beauty- waning  and  distressed  widow, 
Kven  in  the  afternoon  of  her  best  days. 

-  Thi.'i  line  is  not  in  the  qnarton.  '  blind  :  in  qnu-to!!  '  dark  :  i 
'  my  :  in  qnarto*  •  by  :  in  quartos.  "  Booty.  •  all  his  thoughts 
"Come:  in  f.  e.  >*  This  line  is  only  found  in  the  quarto*,  (it 
*  <■  •   aild  :  ani  Citizent.     •*  f.  e.  add  t  and  lH«  rtst      '•'  'n»  l--no%»-s 


Made  prize  and  purcha.se'  of  his  wanton  eye. 

Sedue'd  the  pitch  and  height  of  his  degree* 

To  ba-se  declension  and  loath"d  bigamy. 

By  her,  in  his  unlawful  bed,  he  got 

This  Edward,  whom  our  manners  call  the  prince. 

More  bitterly  could  I  expostulate, 

Save  that,  for  reverence  to  some  alive, 

I  give  a  .sparing  limit  to  my  tongue. 

Then,  good  my  lord,  take  to  your  roYal  self 

This  proffer'd  benefit  of  dignity  ; 

If  not  to  bless  us  and  the  land  withal, 

Yet  to  draw  forth  your  noble  ancestry 

From  the  corruption  of  abusimi  times, 

Unto  a  lineal  true-derived  course. 

May.  Do.  good  my  lord :  your  citizens  entreat  you 

Buck.  Refuse  not,  mighty  lord,  this  profferd  love.' 

Cote.  0  !  make  them  joyful  :  grant  their  lawful  sui*. 

Glo.  Alas  !  why  would  you  heap  this  care  on  me  ' 
I  am  unfit  for  state  and  majesty  :'* 
I  do  beseech  you,  take  it  not  amiss ; 
I  cannot,  nor  I  ^^"^ll  not.  yield  to  you. 

Buck.  If  you  refuse  it. — as  in  love  and  zeal, 
Loath  to  depose  the  child,  your  brother's  son  ; 
As  well  we  know  your  tenderness  of  heart. 
And  gentle,  kind,  effeminate  remorse. 
Which  we  have  noted  in  you  to  your  kindred, 
And  equally,  indeed,  to  all  estates. — 
Yet  know,  whe'r  you  accept  our  suit  or  no. 
Your  brother's  son  shall  never  reign  our  king  ; 
But  we  will  plant  some  other  in  your  throne. 
To  the  disgrace  and  downfall  of  your  house. 
And.  in  this  resolution,  here  we  leave  you. — 
Zounds."  citizens  !  we  will  entreat  no  more. 

Glo.  0  !  do  not  swear,  my  cousin  Buckingham.' ' 

[Exit  Buckingham." 

Cate.  Call  him  again,  sweet  prince ;  accept  their  suit . 
If  you  deny  them,  all  the  land  \\\\\  rue  it. 

Glo.  Will  you  enforce  me  to  a  world  of  cares  ? 
Call  him  again  :  I  am  not  made  of  stone. 
But  penetrable  to  your  kind  entreaties,   [E'xit  Catfsbt. 
Albeit  against  my  conscience,  and  my  soul. — 

Re-enter  Buckingham.'* 
Cousin  of  Buckinsham.  and  sage,  grave  men. 
Since  you  will  buckle  fortune  on  my  back. 
To  bear  her  burden,  whe'r  I  will,  or  no, 
I  must  have  patience  to  endure  the  load  : 
But  if  black  scandal,  or  foul-fae'd  reproach, 
Attend  the  sequel  of  your  imposition. 
Vour  mere  enforcement  shall  acquittance  me 
Y\om  all  the  impure  blots  and  .stains  thereof; 
For  God  doth  know."  and  you  may  partly  see, 
How  tar  I  am  from  the  desire  of  this. 

May.    God  bless  your  grace  !    we  see  it,  and  will 
say  it. 

Glo.  In  saying  so,  you  shall  but  say  the  truth. 

Buck.  Then  I  salute  you  with  this  royal  title. — 
Long  live  king  Richard,  England's  worthy  king  ' 

All.  Amen. 

Buck.  To-morrow  may  it  please  you  to  be  crown'd  ' 

Glo.   Even  when  you  please,  for  you  \^\\\  have  it  S'^ 

Buck.  To-morrow,  then,  we  will  attend  your  grace 
And  so.  most  joyfully,  we  take  our  leave. 

Glo.  Come,  let  us  to  our  holy  work"  again. 

[To  the  Bishofpx 
Farewell,  my  cou.sin  : — farewell    gentle  friends. 

[Exttcni 


n  quartos  *  This  and  the  nine  preceding  lines,  are  not  in  the  quartu* 
in  quartos.     »  This  line  is  not  in  the  (quartos.     »o  dignity  :  in  qnait^« 

there  reads,  "  my  lord  of  Buckingham.  )  and  is  not  given  in  mod.  oda 
:  m  Quartos      i«  task  :  in  Quartos. 


KING  EICHAKD  m. 


529 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Tower. 
Ei^er.  on  one  side,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of  York. 

and  Marquess  0/ Dorset  ;  on  the  other.  Anne,  Duchess 

o/Gloster.  leading  Lady  Margaret  Plantagenet. 

Clarences  young  Daughter. 

Duch.  Who  meets  us  here  ? — my  niece  Plantagenet, 
Led  in  the  hand  of  her  kind  aunt  of  Gloster  ! 
\ow.  for  m>  life,  she  's  wandering  to  the  Tower. 
In  pure  heart's  love,  to  greet  the  tender  prince. — 
Daughter,  well  met. 

Anne.  God  give  your  graces  both 

A  happy  and  a  joyful  time  of  day. 

Q.  Eliz.  A.s  much  to  you,  good  sister  :  whither  away  ? 

Anne.  No  farther  than  the  Tower ;  and,  as  I  guess, 
Upon  the  like  devotion  as  yourselves, 
To  gratulate  the  gentle  princes  there. 

Q.  Eliz.  Kind  sister,  thanks ;  we  '11  enter  all  together  : 
Enter  Braxenbury. 
And  in  good  time  here  the  lieutenant  comes. — 
Master  lieutenant,  pray  you,  by  your  leave. 
How  doth  the  prince,  and  my  young  son  of  York  ?' 

Brak.  Right  well,  dear  madam.     By  your  patience," 
1  may  not  suffer  you  to  visit  them  : 
The  king  hath  strictly  charg'd  the  contrary. 

Q.  Eliz.  The  king  !  who 's  that  ? 

Brak.  I  mean  the  lord  protector. 

Q.  Eliz.  The  Lord  protect  me  from  that  kingly  title  ! 
Hath  he  set  bounds  between  their  love,  and  me  ? 
I  am  their  mother  ;  who  shall  bar  me  from  them  ? 

Duch.  I  am  their  father's  mother :  I  will  see  them. 

Anne.  Their  aunt  1  am  in  law,  in  love  their  mother: 
Then,  bring  me  to  their  sights  ;^  I  '11  bear  thy  blame. 
And  take  thy  office  from  thee,  on  my  peril. 

Brak.  No,  madam,  no ;  I  may  not  leave  it  so  :* 
f  am  bound  by  oath,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 

[Exit  Brakenbury. 
Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.  Let  me  but  meet  you,  ladies,  one  hour  hence, 
And  I  '11  salute  your  grace  of  York  as  mother. 
And  reverend  looker-on  of  two  fair  queens. — 
Come,  madam,  you  must  straight  to  Westminster, 

[To  the  Duchess  of  Gloster. 
There  to  be  cro\\Tied  Richard's  royal  queen. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah  !  cut  my  lace  asunder. 
That  my  pent  heart  may  have  some  scope  to  beat. 
Or  else  I  swoon  with  this  dead-killing  news. 

Anne.  Despiteful  tidings  !  0,  unpleasing  news  !' 

Dor.    Be  of   good  cheer  : — mother,  how  fares  your 
grace? 
'        Q.  Eliz.  0  Dorset  !  speak  not  to  me.  get  thee  gone  ; 
Death  and  destruction  dog  thee  at  thy  heels  : 
Thy  mother's  name  is  ominous  to  her  children. 
j   If  thou  wilt  outstrip  death,  go  cross  the  seas, 
\  And  live  with  Richmond  from  the  reach  of  hell. 
Go,  hie  thee,  hie  thee,  from  this  slaughter-house. 
Lest  thou  increase  the  number  of  the  dead, 
And  make  me  die  the  thrall  of  Margaret's  curse, — 
Nor  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  counted  queen. 

Stan.  Full  of  wise  care  is  this  your  counsel,  madam. — 
Take  all  the  swift  advantage  of  the  hours* : 


You  shall  have  letters  from  me  to  my  son 
In  your  behalf,  to  meet  you  on  the  way :' 
Be  not  ta'en  tardy  by  unwise  delay. 

Duch.  0  ill-dispersing  wind  of  misery  ! — 
O,  my  accursed  womb,  the  bed  of  death  ! 
A  cockatrice  hast  thou  hatch'd  to  the  world, 
Whose  unavoided  eye  is  murderous  ! 

Stan.  Come,  madam,  come  :  I  in  all  haste  was  sent 

Anne.  And  I  with  all  unwillingness  will  go. — 
0  !  would  to  God,  that  the  inclusive  verge 
Of  golden  metal,  that  must  round  my  brow, 
Were  red-hot  steel  to  sear  me  to  the  brain ! 
Anointed  let  me  be  with  deadly  venom  ; 
And  die,  ere  men  can  say — God  save  the  queen 

Q.  Eliz.  Go,  go,  poor  soul,  I  en\'y  not  thy  glory , 
To  feed  my  humour,  wish  thyself  no  harm.  [now, 

Anne.  No  !  why  ? — When  he,  that  is  inv  husband 
Came  to  me,  as  I  follow'd  Henry's  corse  : 
When   scarce    the    blood  was  well  wash'd    from   his 

hands, 
Which  issu'd  from  my  other  angel  husband, 
And  that  dear'  saint  which,  then,  I  weeping  follow'd : 

0  !  when,  I  say,  I  look'd  on  Richard's  fac*. 

This  was  my  wish, — ■'  Be  thou."'  quoth  I,  '-accurs'd, 

For  making  me,  so  young,  so  old  a  widow ! 

And,  when  thou  wedd'st.  let  sorrow  haunt  thy  bed  j 

And  be  thy  wife  (if  any  be  so  mad) 

More  miserable  by  the  life  of  thee', 

Than  thou  hast  made  me  by  my  dear  lord's  death  I'* 

Lo  !  ere  I  can  repeat  this  curse  again. 

Within  so  small  a  time'"  my  woman's  heart 

Grossly  grew  captive  to  his  honey  words, 

And  prov'd  the  svibject  of  mine  owm  soul's  curse  : 

Which  hitherto  hath  held  mine  eyes  from  rest ; 

For  never  yet  one  hour  in  his  bed 

Did  I  enjoy  the  golden  dew  of  sleep, 

But  with  his  timorous  dreams  was  still  awak'd. 

Besides,  he  hates  me  for  my  father  Warwick  ; 

And  will,  no  doubt,  shortly  be  rid  of  me. 

Q.  Eliz.  Poor  heart,  adieu.  1  pity  thy  complaining. 

Anne.  No    more    than  with    my  soul  I  mourn  loi 
yours. 

Dor.  Farewell,  thou  woeful  welcomer  of  glory. 

Anne.  Adieu,  poor  soul,  that  tak'st  thy  leave  of  it. 

Duch.  Go  thou  to  Richmond,  and  good  fortune  guide 
thee  ! —  [To  Dorset. 

Go  thou  to  Richard,  and  good  angels  tend"  thee ! — 

[To  Anne. 

Go    thou    to    sanctuary,  and    good    thoughts  posse.<s» 

thee  !  [To  Qiiecn  Elizabeth 

1  to  my  grave,  where  peace  and  rest  lie  with  me  ! 
Eighty  odd  years  of  sorrow^  have  I  seen. 

And  each  hour's  joy  wreck'd  with  a  week  of  teen". 
Q  Eliz.  Stay  yet;    look   back,  with    me.  unto  the 
Tower. — 
Pity,  you  ancient  stones,  those  tender  babes, 
Wliom  en^'J^  hath  immur'd  wathin  your  walls ; 
Rough  cradle  for  such  little  pretty  ones  ! 
Rude  ragged  nurse,  old  sullen  play-fellow 
For  tender  princes,  use  my  babies  well  I 
So  foolish  sorrow  bids  your  stones  farewell.     [Ereun' 


*  Hc-w  fares  the  prince  :  in  quartos.     »  Well,  madam,  and  in  health  but  by  your  leave  :  in  quartos.      '  Then,  fear  not  thou  :  in  <1^>'^ 
I  do  beseech  your  graces  all,  to  pardon  me  :  in  quartos       '  Not  in  quartos.      •  time  :  in  quartos.      '  The  quartos,  for  this  line,  read  :  T' 
■iwt  yon  on  the  way,  and  welcome  you.     e  dead  :  in  quartos.      »  death  :  in  quartos.      '«  Even  in  so  short  a  space  :  in  quartos       "  gusrd 
In  quartos.     '2  Sorrow. 
21 


530 


KING   RICHARD  IH. 


SCENE  II —A  Room  of  Slate  in  the  Palace. 

'iound  a  Sennet.     RiniARn.  croicned  vpon  his  Throne 

PrrKiNOHAM.  Catesby,  a  Page,  and  others. 

K.  Rich.  Stand  all  apari. — Cousin  of  Buckingham 

Rurlc.  My  gracioiis  sovereign. 

K.  Rich.' Give  me  thy  hand.     Thus    high,  by  thy 
advice,  [Trumpets  sound. 

And  thy  assistance,  is  king  Richard  seated  : 
But  shall  we  wear  those  glories'  for  a  day. 
•Or  shall  ihey  la^t,  and  we  rejoice  in  them? 

Buck    Still  live  they,  and  for  ever  let  them  last! 

A'.  Jiirh.  Ah !    Buckingham,    now    do    I    play   the 
touch, 
To  try  if  thou  be  current  gold,  indeed. — 
Youna  E.dward  lives. — Think  now  what  I  would  speak. 

Bucli.  Say  on,  my  loving  lord. 

K.  liirh.  Why.  Buckingham,  I  say.  I  would  be  king. 

Buck.  Why,  so  you  are,  my  thrice-renowned  lord. 

A'.  Rich.  Ha  !  am  I  king  ?  "T  is  so  ;  but  Edward  lives. 

Buck.  True,  noble  prince. 

K.  Rich.      '  0  bitter  consequence  ! 

Tliat  Edward  still  should  live, — true,  noble  prince. — 
Cousin,  thou  wast  not  wont  to  be  so  dull  : — 
Sliall  I  be  plain? — I  wish  the  bastard."?  dead; 
And  I  would  have  it  suddenly  perform'd. 
What  say"st  thou  iiow?  speak  suddenly;  be  brief. 

Buck.  Your  grace  may  do  your  pleasure. 

K.  Rich.  Tut,  tut !    thou  art  all  ice,  thy  kindness 
freezes. 
Say,  have  I  thy  consent  that  they  shall  die  ? 

Buck.  Give    me    some    little    breath,  some   pause, 
dear  lord, 
Before  I  po.'^itively  speak  in  this: 
I  will  re.<5olve  you  herem  preseniiy*.  [E.zit  Bcckinghaw. 

Cate.  The  king  is  angry  :  see,  he  gnaw.s*  his  lip. 

[Aside. 

K.  Rich.  I  will  converse  vinth  iron-witted  fools, 

[Descends  from  his  Throne. 
And  unrcspective  boys :  none  are  for  me, 
That  look  into  me  with  considerate  eyes. 
Hi:.'h-reaching  Buckingham  grows  circumspect. 
Boy!- 

Pao^e.  My  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Know'st  thou  not  any,  whom    corrupting 
gold 
Will*  tempt  unto  a  close  exploit  of  death  ? 

Pntrc.  I  know  a  discontented  gentleman. 
Whose  humble  means  match  not  his  haughty  spirit : 
rjold  were  as  good  as  twenty  orators, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  tempt  him  to  any  thing. 

K.  Rich.  What  Ls  his  name? 

Pagf-  His  name,  my  lord,  is  Tyrrel. 

K.  Rich.  I  partly  know  the  man  :  go,  call  him  hither. 

[Exit  Page. 
The  deep-revolvins,  witty  Buckingham 
No  more  Hhall  be  the  neighbour  to  my  counsels. 
Hath  lie  so  long  held  out  with  me  untir'd, 
And  stops  he  now  for  breath? — Well,  be  it  so. — 

Enter  Stanley. 
How  now,  lord  Stanley  ?  what 's  the  news  with  you  ? 

Stan.   Know,  my  loving  lord, 
The  marfpiis  Dor.sct.  a.s  I  hear,  is  (led 
To  Richmond,  in  the  parts  where  he  abides. 

K.  Rich.  Come  hither,  Catesby :  rumour  it  abroad. 
That  Anne,  my  wife,  is  very  grievous  sick ;  j 

I  will  take  order  for  her  keeping  close. 

'  Not  in  f.  •  »  honoan  :  in  qoartr 
•t  •- hare  on'.y  "  Whitptri.'^  »th» 
a*t  ia  ui«  qoaitM. 


I  Inquire  me  out  some  moan  poor*  gentleman. 
Whom  I  will  marry  straight  to  Clarence'  daughter  -• 
The  boy  is  foolish,  and  I  fear  not  him. — 
Look,  how  thou  dreanVst  ! — I  say  again,  give  out, 
That  Aime  my  queen  is  sick,  and  like  to  die: 
About  it;  for  it  stands  me  much  upon. 
To  stop  all  hopes  whose  growth  may  damage  me. — 

[Exit  Catssbt 
I  must  be  married  to  my  brother's  daughter, 
Or  else  my  kingdom  stands  on  brittle  glass. — 
Murder  her  brotliers.  and  then  marry  her? 
Uncertain  way  of  gain  !   Rut  I  am  in 
So  far  in  blood,  that  sin  will  pluck  out  sin. 
Tear-falling  pity  dwells  not  in  this  eye. — 
Re-enter  Page,  with  Tyrrel. 
Is  thy  name  Tyrrel  ? 

Tyr.  James  Tyrrel,  and  your  most  obedient  subject 
K.  Rich.  Art  thou,  indeed? 

Tyr.  Trove  me,  my  gracious  lord 

K.  Rich.  Dar'st  thou  resolve  to  kill  a  friend  of  nunc  - 
Tyr.  Please  you  ;  but  I  had  rather  kill  two  enemies 
K.  Rich.  Why.  then  thou  hast  ii :  two  deep  enemico. 
Foes  to  my  rest,  and  my  sweet  sleep's  disturbers, 
Are  they  that  I  would  have  thee  deal  upon. 
Tyrrel.  I  mean  those  bastards  in  the  Tower. 

Tyr.  Let  me  have  open  mears  to  come  to  them, 
And  soon  I  '11  rid  you  from  the  fearof  them.   |  Kneeling.' 
K.  Rich.  Thou    sing'st    sweet  music.     Hark,  come 
hither,  Tyrrel  : 
Go,  by  this  token. — Rise,  and  lend  thine  ear. 

[Tyrrel  riscsy  and  Richard  whispers  ' 
There  is  no  more  but  so  : — say,  it  is  done. 
And  I  will  love  tliec,  and  prefer  thee  for  it ' 

Tyr.  I  will  despatch  it  straight.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Blckixgham. 
Buck.  My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  in  my  mind 
The  late  demand  that  you  did  sound  me  in. 

K.  Rich.  Well,    let   that  rest.     Dorset    is    fled    fo 

Richmond. 
Buck.  I  hear  the  news,  my  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Stanley,  he  is  your  ^vife's  son : — well  look 

unto  it. 
Buck.  My  lord,  I  claim  the  gift,  my  due  by  promise, 
For  which  your  honour  and  your  faith  are  pawn'd; 
Th'  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  the  moveables, 
Which  you  have  promised  I  shall  possess. 

K.  Rich.  Stanley,  look  to  your  wife:  if  she  conve\ 
Letters  to  Richmond,  you  sliall  answer  it. 

Buck.  What  says  your  highness  to  my  just  request  ' 
K.  Rich.  I  do  remember  me. — Henry  the  sixth 
Did  prophecy  that  Richmond  should  be  kijig, 
When  Richmond  was  a  little  peevish  boy. 
A  king  ! — perhaps — 
Buck.  My  lord — " 

K.  Rich.  How  chance,  the  prophet  could  not  Ht  that 
time 
H.avc  told  me,  I  being  by.  that  1  should  kill  him  ? 
Buck.  My  lord,  your  promise  for  the  earldom,-- 
K.  Rich.  Richmond  ! — When  last  I  was  at  Exeter 
The  mayor  in  courtesy  shew'd  me  the  castle, 
And  call'd  it — Rouge-mont :  at  which  name  I  starteu 
Because  a  bard  of  Ireland  told  me  once, 
I  should  not  live  long  after  I  saw  Richmond. 
Buck.  My  lord, — 
K.  Rich.  Ay ;  what 's  o'clock  ? 
Buck.  I  am  thus  bold  to  put  your  grace  in  mind 
Of  what  you  promis'd  me. 


*  Immediately.     *  bit«K  :  in  qnartoa.     •Would  :  in  quartos.     •  mean-born  :  in  quaj 
MO  :  in  quarto!,.     lo  demand  :  in  quartox.     "  The  linuR  frnm    this  to  "  the  eivine 


luartos.     '  Not  in  I 
■ein  to-dav  ■'  » 


SCENE  rv. 


KING  RICHAEU   III. 


i31 


K.  Rich.  Well,  but  what 's  o'clock  ? 

Buck.  Upon  the  stroke  of  ten. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  let  it  strike. 

Buck.  WTiy,  let  it  strike  ? 

K.  Rich.  Because  that,  like  a  Jack,'  thou  keep'stthe 
stroke 
Betwixt  thy  begging  and  my  meditation. 
r  am  not  in  the  giving  vein  to-day. 

Buck.  Why  tlien  re.«olve  me  whether  you  will  or  no.' 

K.  Rich    Thou  troublest  me  :   I  am  not  in  the  vein. 
Exeunt  King  Richard  angrily.,^  and  his  Train. 

Buck.  And  is  it  thus  ?  repays  he  my  deep  service 
With  such  contempt  ?  made  I  him  king  for  this  ? 

0  !  let  me  think  on  Hastings,  and  be  gone 

To  Brecknock,  while  my  fearful  head  is  on.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same. 
Enter  Tyrrel. 
Tyr.  The  t^Tamious  and  bloody  act  is  done  : 
The  most  arch  deed  of  piteous  massacre, 
That  ever  yet  this  land  was  guilty  of. 
Dighton  and  Forrest,  wliom  I  did  suborn 
To  do  this  piece  of  ruthful  butchery. 
Albeit  they  were  fiesh'd  villains,  blooded*  dogs, 
Melted  with  tenderness  and  mild  compassion, 
Wept  like  two*  children  in  their  death's  sad  story. 
'■0  !   thus,"  quoth  Dighton,  ''lay  the  gentle  babes," — 
"Thus,  thus,"  quoth  Forrest,  -'girdling  one  another 
Within  their  alabaster  innocent  arms  : 
Their  lips  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk. 
And  in  their  summer  beauty  kiss'd  each  other. 
A  book  of  prayers  on  their  pillow  lay  ;  [mind  ; 

Which  once,"    quoth    Forrest,   "  almost    chang'd    my 
But,  0  !  the  devil" — there  the  villain  stopp'd  ; 
When  Dighton  thus  told  on. — "we  smothered 
The  most  replenished  sweet  work  of  nature. 
That,  from  the  prime  creation,  e'er  she  fram'd." 
Hence  both  are  gone :  with  conscience  and  remorse, 
They  could  not  speak  ;  and  so  I  left  them  both, 
To  bear  this  tidings  to  the  bloody  king. 
Enter  King  Richard. 
And  here  he  comes. — All  health,  my  sovereign  lord  ! 
K.  Rich.  Kind  Tyrrel.  am  I  happy  in  thy  news  ? 
I        Tyr.  If  to  have  done  the  thing  you  gave  in  charge 
I    Beget  your  happiness,  be  happy  then, 
j    For  it  is  done. 

j        K.  Rich.         But  didst  thou  see  them  dead  ? 
i        Tyr    I  did,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  And  buried,  gentle  Tyrrel  ? 

Tyr.  The  chaplain  of  the  Tower  hath  buried  them  : 
But  where^  to  say  the  truth.'  I  do  not  know. 
!       K.  Rich.  Come  to  me.  T^Trel,  soon,  and  after  supper, 
I   When  thou  shalt  tell  the  process  of  their  death. 
Mean  time  but  think  how  I  may  do  thee  good. 
And  be  inheritor  of  thy  desire. 
Farewell,  till  then. 

Tyr.  I  humbly  take  my  leave.     [Exit. 

K  Rich.  The  son  of  Clarence  have  I  pent  up  close  : 
His  daughter  meanly  have  I  match'd  in  marriage  : 
i  The  sonfe  of  Edward  sleep  in  Abraham's  bosom. 
And  Anne  my  wife  hath  bid  this  world  good  night. 

1  Mow,  for  I  know  the  Bretagne  Richard  aims 
I  At  young  Elizabeth,  my  brother's  daughter, 

And  by  that  knot  looks  proudly  on'  the  cro\vn; 
To  her  go  I,  a  jolly  thriving  wooer. 

Enter  Catesby,  in  haste. 
.     Cote.  My  lord  !— 


news,  that  thou  cora'st  in  sc 


A'.  Rich.  Good 

bhinlly? 

Catc.  Bad  news,  my  lord  :   Morton  is  fled  to  Rich 
mond ; 
And  Buckingham,  back'd  with  the  hardy  Welshmen. 
Is  in  the  field,  and  still  his  power  encreaseth. 

K.  Rich.  Ely  with  Richmond  troubles  i.ie  more  near. 
Than  Buckingham  and  his  rash-levied  strengih." 
Come;  I  have  learn'd,  that  fearful  commenting 
Is  leaden  servitor  to  dull  delay ; 
Delay  leads  impotent  and  snail-pac'd  beggary  : 
Then,  fiery  expedition  be  my  wing. 
.Iove"s  Mercury,  and  herald  for  a  king. — 
Go,  muster  men  :  my  counsel  is  my  shield  : 
We  must  be  brief,  when  traitors  brave  the  field. 

[Exeunl. 

SCENE  IV.— The  same.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  Queen  Margaret. 

Q.  Mar.   So,  now.  prosperity  begins  to  mellow, 
And  drop  into  the  rotten  mouth  of  death. 
Here  in  these  confines  slily  have  I  lurk'd, 
To  watch  the  waning  of  mine  enemies.' 
A  dire  induction  am  I  witness  to. 
And  will  to  France  ;  hoping,  the  consequence 
Will  prove  as  bitter,  black,  and  tragical. 
Withdraw  thee,  wretched  Margaret :  who  cOmes  here  ' 

[She  stands  back. 
Enter  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Duchess  of  York. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah.  my  poor  princes  !  ah,  my  tender  babes  ! 
My  unblowni  flowers,  new-appearing  sweets  ! 
If  yet  your  gentle  souls  fly  in  the  air. 
And  be  not  fix'd  in  doom  perpetual, 
Hover  about  me  with  your  aiiy  wings. 
And  hear  your  mother's  lamentation. 

Q.  Mar.  Hover  about  her  ;  say,  that  right  for  right 
Hath  dimm'd  your  infant  morn  to  aged  night.  [Aside.^'^ 

Duch.  So  many  miseries  have  craz'd  my  voice. 
That  my  woe-wearied  tongue  is  still  and  mute. — 
Edward  Plantagenet !  why  ;  art  thou  dead  ? 

Q.3Iar.  Plantagenet  doth  quit  Plantagenet;  [Aside.^^ 
Edward  for  Edward  pays  a  dying  debt." 

Q.  Eliz.  Wilt  thou,  0  God  !   fly  from  such  gentle 
Iambs. 
And  throw  them  in  tlie  entrails  of  the  wolf? 
When  didst  thou  sleep,  when  such  a  deed  was  done  ? 

Q.  Mar.  When   holy  Harry   died,    and    my    sweei 
son.  [Aside. 

Duch.    Dead    life,   blind   sight,  poor    mortal    living 
ghost, 
AVoe's  scene,  world's  shame,  grave's  due  by  life  usurp'd 
Brief  abstract  and  record  of  tedious  days," 
Rest  thy  unrest  on  England's  la^-ful  earth.  [Si'.ting  dovm 
Unlawfully  made  drunk  with  innocent  blood  . 

Q.  Eliz  Ah  !  that  thou  wouldst  as  soon  a.^ori  x  grave 
As  thou  canst  yield  a  melancholy  seat ; 
Then  would  I  hide  my  bones,  not  rest  them  here. 
Ah  !  who  hath  any  cause  to  mourn,  but  we  '^ 

[Sitting  dotm  by  her. 

Q.  Mar.  If  ancient  sorrow  be  most  reverent, 

[  Com  ing  forward 
Give  mine  the  benefit  of  seniory, 
And  let  my  griefs  frown  on  the  upper  hand. 
If  sorrow  can  admit  society,         [Sitting  down  by  them 
Tell  o'er  your  woes  again  bv  viewing  mine  : — '* 
I  had  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him ; 
I  had  a  husband,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him: 


i 


>  Th«  figure  that  struck  the  hours  in  the  old  clocks.  2  May  it  please  you  to  resolve  me  in  my  suit :  in  folio.  '  This  word  is  1 
blood)  :  in  f.  e.  *  to  :  in  f.  e.  «  But  how,  or  in  what  place  :  in  quartos.  ■>  o'er  :  in  quartos.  »  army  :  in  quartos.  »  adver 
Wirtot      '0  u  Not  in  f.  e.     12  This  and  the  four  preceHinj:  lines,  are  not  in  the  quartos.     '3  »*  These  lines  are  not  in  the  ouart«« 


632 


KING  RICHARD  III. 


ACT  rv. 


Thou  had»t  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him  ; 
Thou  liadst  a  Richard,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him. 

Duck.  I  had  a  Richard  too,  and  thou  didst  kill  him  : 
!  had  a  Rutland  too  ;  thou  hoipstto  kill  him. 

Q.  Mar.  Thou  ha<lst   a  Clarence  too,  and  Richard 
kilTd  him. 
rrom  forth  the  kennel  of  thy  woinb  hath  crept 
A  hell-hound,  that  doth  hunt  us  all  to  death ; 
Thai  dog,  that  had  his  teeth  before  his  eyes, 
To  worry  lambs,  and  lap  their  gentle  blood  : 
That  foul  defacer  of  God's  handy- work, 
That  reigns  in  galled  eyes  of  weeping  souls, 
That  excellent  grand  tyrant  of  the  earth' 
TIt  womb  let  loose,  to  chase  us  to  our  graves. — 

0  ;  upright,  just,  and  true-disposing  God. 
How  do  I  thank  thee,  that  this  carnal  cur 
Preys  on  the  issue  of  his  mother's  body. 

And  makes  her  pew-fellow*  with  others'  moan  ! 

Ihich.  0,  Harry's  wife  !  triumph  not  in  my  woes  : 
God  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thine. 

Q.  Mar.  Bear  with  me :  I  am  hungry  for  revenge, 
And  now  I  cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 
Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  kill'd  my  Edward  ; 
Thy  other  Edward  dead,  to  quit  my  Edward ; 
Voung  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 
Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss. 
Thy  Clarence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb'd  my  Edward  ; 
.\nd  the  beholders  of  this  frantic'  play, 
Th'  adulterate  Ha.stings,  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey, 
Untimely  smother'd  in  their  du.sky  graves. 
Richard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer, 
Only  reserv'd  their  factor,  to  buy  souls, 
.And  send  them  thither  ;  but  at  hand,  at  hand. 
Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end  : 
Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar,  saints  pray, 
To  have  him  suddenly  convey'd  from  hence*. — 
Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  dear  God  !  I  pray. 
That  I  may  live  and  say,  the  dog  is  dead. 

Q.  Ehz.  0  !  thou  didst  prophesy,  the  time  would 
come, 
That  I  should  wish  for  thee  to  help  me  curse 
That  bottle  spider,  that  foul  bunch-back'd  toad. 

Q.  Mar.    I   call'd    thee  then,  vain   flourish  of  my 
fortune ; 

1  call'd  thee  then,  poor  shadow,  painted  queen; 
The  presentation  of  but  what  I  was, 

The  flattering  index  of  a  direful  pageant, 

One  hcav'd  o'  high,  to  be  hurl'd  down  below : 

A  mother  only  mock'd  with  two  fair  babes  ; 

A  dream  of  what  thou  wast ;  a  garish  flag, 

To  be  the  aim  of  every  dangerous  shot  : 

A  si:;n  of  dignity,  a  breath,  a  bubble  ; 

A  queen  in  jest,  only  to  fill  the  .scene. 

Where  is  thy  husband  now?  where  be  thy  brothers? 

Wliere  be  thy  two  sons  ?'  wherein  dost  thou  joy  ? 

Who  (<uc8,  and  kneels,  and  says — God  save  the  queen  ? 

Where  be  the  bending  peers  that  flattcr'd  thee  ? 

Where  be  the  thronging  troops  that  follow'd  thee  ? 

Dt'cline  all  this,  and  see  what  now  thou  art. 

For  happy  wife,  a  most  distressed  widow; 

For  joylul  mother,  one  that  wails  the  name  ; 

For  one  being  sued  to,  one  that  humbly  sues  ; 

For  queen,  a  very  caitiff  crown'd  with  care  : 

For  one  that  scorn'd  at  me,  now  scorn'd  of  me  ; 

For  one  being  fear'd  of  all,  now  fearing  one; 

For  one  commanding  all,  obey'd  of  none. 

Thu«  hath  the  course  of  justice  whirl'd'  about, 


And  letl  thee  but  a  very  prey  to  time  ; 

Having  no  more  but  thought  of  what  thou  wast 

To  torturt  thee  the  more,  being  what  thou  art. 

Thou  didst  usurp  my  place,  and  dost  thou  not 

Usurp  the  just  proportion  of  my  sorrow  ? 

Now,  thy  proud  neck  bears  half  my  burdcn'd  yoke  ; 

From  which,  even  here,  I  slip  my  wearied  head, 

And  leave  the  burden  of  it  all  on  thee. 

Farewell,  York's  wife,  and  queen  of  sad  mischance: 

These  English  woes  shall  make  me  smile  ii  France. 

Q.  Eliz.  0  !  thou  well  skill'd  in  curses,  stay  a  while 
And  teach  me  how  to  cur.se  mine  enemies. 

Q.  Mar.  Forbear  to  sleep  the  night,  and  fast  the  day 
Compare  dead  happiness  with  living  woe  : 
Think  that  thy  babes  were  fairer'  than  they  were. 
And  he  that  slew  them  fouler  than  he  is  : 
Bettering  thy  loss  makes  the  bad-causer  worse: 
Revolving  this  will  teach  thee  how  to  cur.se. 

Q.  Eliz.  My  words  are  dull  ;  0  !  quicken  them  with 
thine. 

Q.  Mar.    Thy   woes   will    make   them   sharp,  and 
pierce  like  mine.  [Exit  Queen  Margaret. 

Di(ch.  Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words? 

Q.  Eliz.  Windy  attorneys  to  their  client  woes. 
Airy  succeeders  of  intestate*  joys, 
Poor  breathing  orators  of  miseries ! 
Let  them  have  scope :  though  what  they  do'  impart 
Help  nothing  else,  yet  do  they  ease  the  heart. 

iMch.  If  so,  then  be  not  tongue-ty'd  :  go  with  me, 
And  in  the  breath  of  bitter  words  let 's  smother 
My  damned  son,  that  thy  two  sweet  sons  smother'd. 

[A  Trumpet  heard. 
The  trumpet  sounds ;"  be  copious  in  exclaims. 
Enter  King  Richard,  and  his  Train,  marching. 

K.  Rich.  Who  intercepts  me  in  my  expedition  ^ 

Diich.  0!  she,  that  might  have  intercepted  thee. 
By  strangling  thee  in  her  accursed  womb. 
From  all  the  slaughters,  wretch,  that  thou  hast  done. 

Q.  Eliz.  Hid'st  thou  that  forehead  with  a  golden  crown. 
Where  't  should  be  branded,  if  that  right  were  right. 
For  slaughter  of  the  prince  that  ow'd  that  crowii. 
And  the  dire  death  of  my  poor  sons  and  brothers  ? 
Tell  me,  thou  villain-slave,  where  are  my  children  ? 

Duck.  Thou  toad,  thou  toad,  where  is  thy  brother 
Clarence. 
And  little  Ned  Plantagenet,  his  son? 

Q.  Eliz.  Where  is  the  gentle  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey* 

JMich.  Where  is  kind  Hastings  ? 

K.  Rich.  A  flourish,  trumpets  ! — .strike  alarum,  drums' 
Let  not  the  heavens  hear  tliese  tell-tale  Avomen 
Rail  on  the  Lord's  anointed.     Strike,  I  say  ! — 

[Flonrish.     Alarums 
Either  be  patient,  and  entreat  me  fair. 
Or  with  the  clamorous  report  of  war 
Thus  will  I  drown  your  exclamations. 

Dvch.   Art  thou  my  son  ? 

K.  Rich.  Ay ;  I  thank  God,  my  father,  and  yourselJ 

Jhich.  Then  patiently  bear"  my  impatience. 

A'.  Rich.  Madam,  I  have  a  touch  of  your  condition 
That  cannot  brook  the  accent  of  reproof. 

Duch.  0  !   let  me  speak. 

K.  Rich.  Do  then  ;  but  I  '11  not  hear." 

Ihtch.  I  will  be  mild  and  gentle  in  my  words. 

K.  Rich.  And  brief,  good  mother,  for  I  am  in  haste 

Duch.  Art  thou  so  hasty?     I  once'*  stay'd  for  thee, 
God  knows,  in  torment  and  in  agony'*. 

K.  Rich.  And  came  I  not  at  last  to  comfort  you? 


'  Thii  lina  U  not  in  the  qnartoa.      »  CompanUm.     »  tngie  :  in  quartos.      ♦  away  :  in  quartos.      •  Where  are  thy  children  :  ia  q«»rt» 
wh««rd  :  in  qnartot.      '  iweeter  :  in  folio.      »  intestine :  in  folio.      »  will :  in  folio.      »"  I  hear  his  drum  :  in  quartos.     "  hxnx  •  inf.* 


^  Tkii  and  the  pjtceding  speooh,  are  not  in  the  quarto*.      »»  have  :  in  (.  •. 


in  anguish,  pain  and  agony  :  in  ouarti« 


i 


s(;exe  rv. 


KING  EICHAED  IH. 


533 


Diuh.  No,  by  the  holy  rood,  thou  know'st  it  well; 
Thou  cam'st  on  earth  to  make  the  earth  my  hell. 
A  grievous  burden  was  thy  birth  to  me  ; 
Tetchy  and  M^ayward  was  thine  infancy  : 
Thy  school-days,  frightful,  desperate,  wild  and  furious ; 
Thy  prime  of  manliood,  daring,  bold,  and  venturous  : 
Thy  age  confirm'd,  proud,  subtle,  sly,  and  bloody, 
More  mild,  but  yet  more  harmful,  kind  in  hatred  : 
What  comfortable  hour  canst  thou  name. 
That  ever  grac'd  me  with  thy  company  ? 

K.  Rich.   'Faith,  none,  but  Humphrey  Hour,  that 
call'd  your  grace 
To  breakfast  once  forth  of  my  company. 
If  I  be  so  disgracious  in  your  eye. 
Let  me  march  on,  and  not  offend  you,  madam. — 
Strike  up  the  drum  ! 

Duck.  I  pr'ythee,  hear  me  speak. 

K.  Rich.  You  speak  too  bitterly. 

Duch.  Hear  me  a  word  ; 

For  I  shall  never  speak  to  thee  again. 

K.  Rich.  So. 

Duch.  Either  thou  wilt  die  by  God's  just  ordinance. 
Ere  from  this  war  thou  turn  a  conqueror  ; 
Or  I  with  grief  and  extreme  age  shall  perish, 
And  never  look  upon'  thy  face  again. 
Therefore,  take  with  thee  my  most  grievous  curse  ; 
Which  in  the  day  of  battle  tire  thee  more, 
Than  all  the  complete  armour  that  thou  wear'st. 
My  prayers  on  the  adverse  party  figlit ; 
And  there  the  little  souls  of  Edward's  children 
Whisper  the  spirits  of  thine  enemies, 
And  promise  them  success  and  victory. 
Bloody  thou  art,  bloody  will  be  thy  end  ; 
Shame  serves-thy  life,  and  doth  thy  death  attend.   [Exit. 

Q.  Eliz.  Though  far  more  cause,  yet  much  less  spu'it 
to  curse 
Abides  in  me :  I  say  amen  to  her.  [Going. 

K.  Rich.  Stay,  madam  ;  I  must  talk  a  word  with  you. 

Q.  Eliz.  I  have  no  more  sons  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  thee  to  slaughter' ;  for  my  daughters,  Richard, 
They  shall  be  praying  nuns,  not  weeping  queens ; 
And  therefore  level  not  to  hit  their  lives. 

K.  Rich.  You  have  a  daughter  call'd  Elizabeth, 
Virtuous  and  fair,  royal  and  gracious. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  must  she  die  for  this  ?    0  !  let  her  live, 
And  I  '11  corrupt  her  manners,  stain  her  beauty; 
Slander  myself  as  false  to  Edward's  bed  : 
Throw  over  her  the  veil  of  infamy  : 
So  she  may  live  unscarr'd  of  bleeding  slaughter, 
I  will  confess  she  was  not  Edward's  daughter. 

K.  Rich.  Wrong  not  her  birth ;  she  is  a  royal  princess.' 

Q.  Eliz.  To  save  her  life,  I  '11  say  she  is  not  so. 

K.  Rich.  Her  life  is  safest  only  in  her  birth. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  only  in  that  safety  died  her  brothers. 

A'.  Rich.  Lo  !  at  their  birth  good  stars  were  opposite. 

Q.  Eliz.  No,  to  their  lives  ill  friends  were  contrary. 

K.  Rich.  All  unavoided  is  the  doom  of  destiny. 

Q.  Eliz.  True,  when  avoided  grace  makes  destiny. 
My  babes  were  destin'd  to  a  fairer  death, 
[f  grace  had  bless'd  thee  with  a  fairer  life. 

K.  Rich.  You  speak,  as  if  that  I  had  slain  my  cousins. 

Q.  Eliz.  Cousins,  indeed ;  and  by  their  uncle  cozen'd 
Of  comfort,  kingdom,  kindred,  freedom,  life. 
Whose  hands  soever  lanc'd  their  tender  hearts, 
Thy  head,  all  indirectly,  gave  direction  : 
No  doubt  the  murderous  knife  was  dull  and  blunt, 
rill  it  wa«  whetted  on  thy  stone-hard  heart, 
Tc  revel  ii.  the  entrails  of  my  lambs. 


But  that  still  use  of  gri>^f  makes  wild  grief  tamo, 
My  tongue  should  to  thy  ears  not  name  my  boys, 
Till  that  my  nails  were  anchor'd  in  thine  eyes; 
And  T,  in  such  a  desperate  bay  of  death, 
Like  a  poor  bark,  of  sails  and  tackling  reft. 
Rush  all  to  pieces  on  thy  rocky  bosom.* 

K.  Rich.  Madam,  so  thrive  I  m  my  enlirprise, 
And  dangerous  success  of  bloody  wars. 
As  I  intend  more  good  to  you  and  yours. 
Than  ever  you  or  yours  by  me  were  harm'd  ! 

Q.  Eliz.  What  good  is  cover'd  with  the  face  of  heaven. 
To  be  discover'd  that  can  do  me  good  ? 

K.  Rich.  Th'  advancement  of  your  children  gentle- 
lady. 

Q.  Eliz.  Up  to  some  scaffold,  there  to  lose  their  heads 

K.  Rich.  Unto  the  dignity  and  height  of  honour'. 
The  high  imperial  type  of  this  earth's  glory. 

Q.  Eliz.  Flatter  my  sorrow  \\ith  report  of  it: 
Tell  me,  what  state,  what  dignity,  what  honour, 
Canst  thou  demise  to  any  child  of  mine  ? 

K.  Rich.  Even  all  I  have ;  ay,  and  myself  and  all 
Will  I  withal  endow  a  child  of  thine ; 
So  in  the  Lethe  of  thy  angry  soul 
Thou  drown  the  sad  remembrance  of  those  wrongs, 
Which,  thou  supposest,  I  have  done  to  thee. 

Q.  Eliz.  Be  brief,  lest  that  the  process  of  thy  kindness 
Last  longer  telling  than  thy  kindness'  date. 

K.  Rich.  Then  know,  that  from  my  soul  I  love  th> 
daughter. 

Q.  Eliz.  My  daughter's  mother  thinks  it  with  her  soul 

K.  Rich.  What  do  you  think? 

Q.  Eliz.  That  thou  dost  love  my  daughter  from  thy 
soul. 
So,  from  thy  soul's  love  didst  thou  love  her  brothers ; 
And  from  my  heart's  love  I  do  thank  thee  for  it. 

K.  Rich.  Be  not  so  hasty  to  confound  my  meaning. 
I  mean,  that  with  my  soul  1  love  thy  daughter. 
And  do  intend  to  make  her  queen  of  England. 

Q.  Eliz.  Well,  then,  who  dost  thou  mean  shall  be 
her  king? 

K.  Rich.  Even  he  that  makes  her  queen  :  who  else 
should  be  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  What !  thou  ? 

K.  Rich.  Even  so  :  how  think  you  of  it  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  How  canst  thou  woo  her  ? 

K.  Rich.  That  I  would  learn  of  you, 

As  one  being  best  acquainted  ■vv'ith  her  humour. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  wilt  thou  learn  of  me  ? 

K.  Rich.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart. 

Q.  Eliz.    Send  to  her   by  the  man  that  slew  hei 
brothers, 
A  pair  of  bleeding  hearts  ;   thereon  engraven 
Edward  and  York;  then,  haply  will  she  weep  : 
Therefore  present  to  her, — as  sometime  Margaret 
Did  to  thy  father,  .steep'd  in  Rutland's  blood. — 
A  handkerchief;  which,  say  to  her,  did  drain 
The  purple  sap  from  her  sweet  brother's  body, 
And  bid  her  wipe  her  weeping  eyes  withal. 
If  this  inducement  move  her  not  to  love, 
Send  her  a  letter  of  thy  noble  deeds ;' 
Tell  her  thou  mad'st  away  her  uncle  Clarence, 
Her  uncle  Rivers ;  ay,  and,  for  her  sake, 
Mad'st  quick  conveyance  with  her  good  a\mt  Anne 

K.  Rich.  You  mock  me,  madam  :  this  is  not  the  way 
To  win  your  daughter. 

Q.  Eliz.  There  is  no  other  way. 

Unless  thou  couldst  put  on  some  other  shape, 
And  not  be  Richard  that  hath  done  all  this. 


«  more  behold  :  in  folio.      2  murder  :  in  quartos.     »  of  royal  blood  :  in  quartos.     *  Thi«  and  the  preceding  speech    <in  oR.r  in  th*  foliot 
mighty  r  in  quartos.      *  fortune  :  in  folio.      '  a  story  of  thy  nobl*  acts  :  in  quarto*. 


534 


K1iN(t   ItlCIlARD  111. 


K.  Rich    Say,  that  I  did  all  this  lor  love  of  her. 

Q.  Eliz.  Nay,  then  indeed,  she  cannot  choose  but 
hate  thee. 
Havins  bou-iht  love  with  such  a  bloody  spoil. 

K.  Rich.  Look,  what  is  done  cannot  be  now  amended. 
Men  .>ihall  ocii  unadvisedly  soinoiimes, 
Which  alter-hrmrs  give  Icipure  to  rcjient : 
If  I  did  take  the  kinudom  from  your  .sons, 
To  make  amends  1   U  give  it  to  your  daughter, 
f  I  have  kiil'd  the  issue  of  your  womb, 
To  quieken  your  increase,  I  will  beget 
Mine  i.-.-iie  of  your  blood  upon  your  djiughter. 
A  graiidam's  name  is  little  less  in  love. 
Than  is  the  doting  title  of  a  mother: 
They  are  as  children,  but  one  step  below, 
Kven  of  your  mettle,  of  your  very  blood  ; 
Of  all  one  pain,  .^ave  for  a  night  of  groans 
Kiuiur'd  of  her,  for  whom  you  bid  like  sorrow. 
Vour  children  were  vexation  to  your  youth  ; 
But  mine  shall  be  a  comfort  to  your  age. 
The  loss  you  have  is  but  a  .son.  being  king, 
.\nd  by  that  lo.ss  your  daughter  is  made  queen: 
I  cannot  make  you  what  amends  I  would, 
Therefore,  accept  such  kindness  as  I  can. 
rv.rset.  your  son,  that  with  a  fearful  soul 
Treads'  discontented  steps  in  foreign  soil, 
This  lair  alliance  quickly  shall  call  home 
To  hiiih  promotions  and  great  dignity  : 
The  king,  that  calls  your  beauteous  daughter  wife, 
Familiarly  shall  call  thy  Dorset  brother ; 
.•\gain  shall  you  be  mother  to  a  king. 
A.nd  all  the  ruins  of  distressful  times 
Repaird  with  double  riciies  of  content. 
What !  we  have  many  goodly  days  to  see  : 
The  liquid  drops  of  tears  that  you  have  shed, 
Shall  come  again  transform'd  to  orient  pearl, 
.\dvaiitaging  their  loan  with  interest 
Of  ten-times-double  gain  of  happiness, 
(to  then,  my  mother:  to  thy  daughter  go  : 
Make  bold  her  ba.«hful  years  with  your  ex])erience  : 
Prepare  her  ears  to  hear  a  wooer's  tale : 
Put  in  her  tender  heart  th"  aspiring  flame 
Of  golden  sov'reignty ;  acquaint  the  princess 
With  the  sweet  silent  hours  of  marriage  joy.s  : 
And  when  this  arm  of  mine  hath  cha.';ti.«ed 
The  petty  rebel,  dull-brain'd  Buckingham. 
Bound  with  triumphant  garlands  will  I  come. 
.\nd  lead  thy  daughter  to  a  conqueror's  bed  : 
To  whom  I  will  retail  my  conquest  won. 
And  she  shall  be  sole  victress.  Ccesar's  Cae.sar. 

Q.  KHz.  What  were  I  best  to  say?  her  father's  brother 
Would  be  her  lord?     Or  shall  I  say,  her  uncle? 
Or  he  that  slew  her  brothers,  and  her  uncles? 
I'nder  what  title  shall  I  woo  for  thee, 
That  (iod.  the  law,  my  honour,  and  her  love, 
"^an  make  seem  pleasing  to  her  tender  years?' 

A".  lii(h.  Infer  fair  England's  peace  by  this  alliance. 

Q.  Eliz.  Which  she  shall  purchase  with  still  lasting 
war. 

A'.  Rich    Tell  her,  the  king,  that  may  command,  en- 
treats. 

Q.  Eliz.  That  at  her  hands,  which  the  king's  King 
forbids. 

A'.  Rich.  Say.  she  shnll  be  a  high  and  mighty  queen. 

Q.  Eliz.  To  wail  the  title,  as  her  mother  doth. 

A'.  Rich.  Say.  I  will  love  her  everlastingly. 

Q.  Eliz.  But  how  long  shall  that  title,  ever,  last? 


A'.  Rich.  Sweetly  in  force  unto  her  fair  life's  end. 

Q.  Eliz.  But  how  long  fairly  shall  her  s  wect  life  last ' 

A'.  Ricl>.  As  long  as  heaven,  and  nature,  lengthen  it 

Q.  Eliz.   As  long  as  hell,  and  Kichard,  like  of  it. 

A'.  Rich.  Say  I.  her  sovereign,  am  her  subject  low 

Q.  Eliz.  But  she,  your  subject,  loaths  such  sovereignly 

K.  Rich.  Be  eloquent  in  my  behalf  to  her. 

Q.  Eliz.  An  honest  tale  .speeds  best,  being  plainly  told 

A.  Rich.  Then,  plainly  to  her  tell*  my  loving  tale. 

Q.  Eliz.  Plain,  and  not  honest,  is  too  harsh  a  style 

A'.  Rich.  Your  reasons  are  too  shallow  and  too  quick. 

Q.  Eliz.  0  I  no,  my  reasons  are  too  dee]>  and  dead ; — 
Too  deep  and  deatl.  poor  infants,  in  their  graves. 

A.  Rich.  Harp  not  on  ihat  .string,  madam  :  ihatisj)apt 

Q.  Eliz.  Harp  on  it  .still  shall  I,  till  heart-strings  break. 

K.  Rich.  Now.  by  my  George,  my  garter,  and  my 
crown. — 

Q.  Eliz.  Profan'd.  dishonoured,  and  the  third  UBurpd. 

A'.  Rich.  I  swear — 

Q.  Eliz.  By  nothing  ;  for  this  is  no  oath. 

Thy  George,  profan'd.  hath  lost  its  lordly*  honour; 
Thy  garter,  blemished,  pawn'd  his  knightly  virtue  ; 
Thy  crown,  usurpd,  disgraed  his  kingly  glory. 
If  sometliing  thou  wouldst  .'^wear  to  be  believ'd. 
Swear  then  by  something  that  thou  hast  not  wrong'd. 

A".  Rich.  Now  by  the  world, — 

Q.  Eliz.  'T  is  full  of  thy  foul  wrongs 

K.  Rich.  My  father's  death, — 

Q.  Eliz.  Thy  life  hath  it  di.shonour'd 

A'.  Rich.  Then,  by  myself—' 

Q.  Eliz.  Thvself  is  self-mis-ue'd. 

K.  Rich.  Why  then,  by  God.— 

Q.  Eliz.  God's  wrong  is  mo.st  of  all. 

If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  wfh  him, 
The  unity,  the  kins  my  husband  made. 
Thou  hadst  not  broken,  nor  my  brothers  died. 
If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him, 
The  imperial  metal,  circling  now  thy  head, 
Had  gracd  the  tender  temples  of  my  child  ; 
And  both  the  princes  had  been  breathing  here, 
Which  now.  two  tender  bed-fellows  for  dust. 
Thy  broken  faith  hath  made  the  prey  for  worma. 
What  canst  thou  swear  by  now?* 

A'.  Rich.  The  time  to  come 

Q.  Eliz.  That  thou  hast  wronged  in  the  time  o'er- 
past ; 
For  I  myself  have  many  tears  to  wash 
Hereafter  time,  for  time  pa.^^t  wrong'd  by  thee. 
The  children  live  whose  fathers  thou  hast  slaughter'd, 
Ungovernd  youth,  to  wail  it  witli  their  age  : 
The  parents  live,  whose  children  thou  hast  butcher'd, 
Old  barren  plants,  to  wail  it  with  their  age. 
Swear  not  by  time  to  come  :  for  that  thou  ha-^t 
Misus'd  ere  us"d,  by  times  ill-usd  o'er-past. 

K.  Rich.  As  I  intend  lo  prosper,  and  repent, 
So  thrive  I  in  my  dangerous  attempt' 
or  hostile  arms  !  my.«elf  myself  confound  ! 
Heaven  and  fortune  bar  me  happy  hours  ! 
Day.  yield  me  not  thy  light,  nor,  night,  thy  re«t ! 
Be  opposite  all  planets  of  good  luck. 
To  my  proceeding,  if.  v»nth  pure*  heart's  love. 
Immaculate  devotion,  holy  thoughts, 
I  tender  not  thy  beauteous  princely  daughter  ! 
In  her  consists  my  happinc-^s  and  thine  , 
Without  her.  follows  to  myself,  and  thee. 
Herself,  the  land,  and  many  a  Christian  soul, 
Death,  desolation,  ruin,  and  decay  : 


'•iAd»  :  in  f.  a.  »  The  precedinir  fifty-flve  lines  are  only  in  the  folio.  '  Then,  in  plain  terms,  tell  her  in  qnartos,  *  holy  :  in  qovtot 
;So  tbe  qaartw ;  tbe  folio  :  he  iwean  firrt  by  himself,  next  by  the  world,  and  then  by  his  father's  death.  This  line  is  not  in  the  ?u»rW 
'  tfuik  :  in  (lao.    *  dear  :  in  folio. 


SCENE  rv. 


KI:N'G  RICHAED  III. 


535 


It  cannot  be  avoided,  but  by  this ; 
!t  will  not  be  avoided,  but  by  this. 
There.'ore,  dear  mother,  (I  must  call  you  so) 
Be  the  attorney  of  my  love  to  her. 
Plead  what  I  will  be,  not  what  I  have  been  ; 
Not  my  desert.s,  but  what  [  will  deserve  : 
Urge  the  necessity  of  state  and  times.' 
And  be  not  peevish'  fond'  in  great  designs. 

Q.  Eliz.  Shall  T  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus  ? 

K.  Rich.  Ay.  if  the  devil  tempt  thee  to  do  good. 

Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  forget  myself,  to  be  myself  ? 

K.  Rich.  Ay,    if    your   self  s   remembrance   wrong 
yourself. 

Q.  Eliz.  Yet  thou  didst  kill  my  children. 

K.  Rich.  But  in  your   daughter's  womb  I  '11  bury 
them  : 
Where,  in  that  nest  of  spicery,  they  will  breed 
Selves  of  themselves,  to  your  recomforture. 

Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  go  win  my  daughter  to  thy  will  ? 

K.  Rich.  And  be  a  happy  mother  by  the  deed. 

Q.  Eliz.  I  go. — Write  to  me  Richard,  very  shortly, 
And  yon  shall  understand  from  me  her  mind*. 

K.  Rich.  Bear  her  my  true  love's  kiss,  and  so  fare- 
well. \Kissing  her..    Exit  Q.  Elizaseth. 
Relenting  fool,  and  shallow,  changing  woman  I — 
How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Enter  Ratcliff  in  haste  ;*  Catesby  folloiving. 

Rat.  Most  mighty  sovereign,  on  the  western  coast 
R  ideth  a  puissant  navy :  to  our  shores 
Throng  many  doubtful  hollow-hearted  friends, 
Unarm'd,  and  unresolv'd  to  beat  them  back. 
'T  is  thought  that  Richmond  is  their  admiral  : 
And  there  they  hull,  expecting  but  the  aid 
Of  Buckingham  to  welcome  them  a.shore. 

K.  Rich.  Some  light-foot  friend  post  to  the  duke  of 
Norfolk  :— 
Ratcliff.  thyself. — or  Catesby;  where  is  he? 

Cate.  Here,  my  good  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Cate.sby,  fly  to  the  duke. 

Cate.  I  will,  my  lord,  with  all  convenient  haste.* 

K.  Rich.  Ratclitf.  come  hither.     Post  to  Salisbury: 
When  thou  com'st  thither, — Dull,  unmindful  \'illain, 

[To  Catesby. 
Why  stay'st  thou  here,  and  go'st  not  to  the  duke  ? 

Cate.  First,   mighty  liege,   tell    me    your  highness' 
plea.sure, 
What  from  your  grace  I  shall  deliver  to  him. 

K.  Rich.  0  !    true,  good    Catesby. — Bid    him   le\-y 
straight 
The  greatest  strength  and  power  he  can  make, 
And  meet  me  suddenly  at  Salisbury. 

Cate.  I  go.  '  [Exit. 

Rat.  What,  may  it  please  you,  shall  I  do  at  Salis- 
bury? 

K.  Rich.  Why,  what  wouldst  thou  do  there,  before 
I  go? 

Rat.  Your  highness  told  me,  I  should  post  before. 
Enter  Stanley. 

K.  Rich.  My  mind  is  chang'd. — Stanley,  what  news 
with  you? 

Stall.  None  good,  my  liege,  to  please  you  with  the 
hearing  ; 
Ncr  none  so  bad,  but  well  may  be  reported. 

K  Rich.  Heyday,  a  riddle  !  neither  good  nor  bad  ? 
What  need'st  thou  run  so  many  miles  about, 
Wlien  thou  may'st  tell  thy  tale  the  nearest  way  ? 
Once  more,  what  news  ? 


Stan.  ^  Richmond  is  on  the  seas. 

K.  Rich.  There  let  him  sink,  and  be  the  seaH  on  him 
White-liver'd  runagate  !   what  doth  he  there  ? 

Stan.  I  know  not,  mighty  sovereign,  but  by  guess, 

K.Rich.  Well,' as  you  guess? 

Stan.  Stirr'd  up  by  Dorset,  Buckingham,  and  Mortou 
He  makes  for  England,  here,  to  claim  the  crown. 

K.  Rich.  Is  the  cliair  empty  ?  is  the  sword  unsway'd  • 
Is  the  king  dead  ?  the  empire  unpossess'd  ? 
What  heir  of  York  is  there  alive,  but  we, 
And  who  is  England's  king,  but  great  York's  heir  ? 
Then,  tell  me,  what  makes  he  upon  the  seas  ? 

Stan.  Unless  for  that,  my  liege,  I  cannot  guess. 

K.  Rich.   Unless  for  that  he  comes  to  be  your  liege, 
You  cannot  guess  wherefore  the  Welshman  comes. 
Thou  wilt  revolt,  and  fly  to  him,  I  fear. 

Stan.  No,  my  good  lord:  therefore,  mistrust  me  not. 

K.  Rich.  Where   is  thy  power,   then,  to  beat  him 
back  ? 
Where  be  thy  tenants,  and  thy  followers  ? 
Are  they  not  now  upon  the  western  shore, 
Safe-conducting  the  rebels  from  their  ships? 

Stan.  No.  my  good  lord,  my  friends  are  in  the  north. 

K.  Rich.  Cold  friends  to  me:  What  do  they  in  the 
north, 
When  they  should  serve  their  sovereign  in  the  west  ? 

Stan.  They  have  not  been  commanded,  mighty  king 
Pleaseth  your  majesty  to  give  me  leave, 
I  '11  muster  up  my  friends,  and  meet  your  grace. 
Where,  and  what  time,  your  majesty  shall  please. 

K.  Ricr„.  Ay,   thou   wouldst   be   gone  to  join  will* 
Richmond : 
But  I  '11  not  trust  thee. 

Stan.  Most  mighty  sovereign. 

You  have  no  cause  to  hold  my  friendship  doubtful. 
I  never  was.  nor  never  will  be  false. 

K.  Rich.  Go,  then,  and  muster  men :  but  leave  behind 
Your  son,  George  Stanley.  Look  your  heart*  be  fiim. 
Or  else  his  head's  assurance  is  but  frail. 

Stan.  So  deal  with  him,  as  I  prove  true  to  you. 

[Exit  Stanley. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  gracious  sovereign,  now  in  Devonshire, 
As  I  by  friends  am  well  advertised. 
Sir  Edward  Courtney,  and  the  haughty  prelate. 
Bishop  of  Exeter,  his'  elder  brother. 
With  many  more  confederates  are  in  arms. 
Enter  another  Messenger. 

2  Mess.  In  Kent,  my  liege,  the  Guildfords  are  in  arms 
And  every  hour  more  competitors 

Flock  to  the  rebels,  and  their  power  grows  strong. 
Enter  a  third  Me.tsenger. 

3  3Ie.<<s.   My  lord,  the  army  of  great  Buckingham — 
K.  Rich.  Out  on  ye,  owls  !  nothing  but   songs  oJ 

death  ?  [He  strikes  hitn 

There,  take  thou  that,  till  thou  bring  better  news. 

3  3Iess.  The  news  I  have  to  tell  your  majesty 

[Kneeling.^ 
Is  that  by  sudden  floods  and  fall  of  waters, 
Buckingham's  army  is  dispersed  and  scattcr'd ; 
And  he  himself  wander'd  away  alone, 
No  man  knows  whither. 

K.  Rich.  I  cry  thee  mercy 

There  is  my  purse,  to  cure  that  blow  of  thiue.    Rising  ' ' 
Hath  any  well-advised  friend  procKiim'd  ^ 
Reward  to  him  that  brings  the  traitor  in  " 

3  Mess.  Such  proclamation  hath  been  made,  my  lord 


A  I  »nd  state  of  times  :  in  f.  e.      >  Foolish.      '  found  :  in  f .  e.      ♦  This  line,  only  in  the  folio.      »  The  words,  "  tn  has,,"  •.-,  po'  j"  ^ 

M       'Thishneisnotin  the  quartos.      •»  Sir,  aa  you   guess,  as  you  guess  :   in  quartos.      »  faith  :  m  quartos.      »  his  brother  there     m  quartpt 
'        •  •'  Not  in  f  e. 


536 


KING   KICHARD  III. 


Enter  a  fourth  Messenger. 

4  Mess   Sir  Thomas  Lovel.  and  lord  Marquess  Dorset. 
T  is  said,  my  liege,  in  Yorkshire  are  in  arms  ; 
But  this  iiood  comfort  bring  I  to  your  highness, — 
The  Bretagne  navy  is  dispers'd  by  tempest. 
Richmond,  ii;  Dorsetshire,  sent  out  a  boat 
Unto  the  shore,  to  ask  those  on  the  banks, 
[f  they  were  his  assistant*,  yea,  or  no ; 
Who  answer'd  him,  they  came  from  Buckingham 
Upon  his  party:  lie,  mistrusting  them, 
Hois'd  sail,  and  made  his  course  again  for  Bretagne. 

K.  Rich.  March  on,  march  on,  since  we  are  up  in 
arms; 
ff  not  to  fight  with  foreign  enemies. 
Vet  to  beat  down  these  rebels  here  at  home. 
Enter  Catesby. 

Cate.  My  liege,  the  duke  of  Buckingham  is  taken  ; 
That  is  the  best  news  :  that  the  earl  of  Richmond 
Is  with  a  mighty  power  landed  at  Milfoid, 
I.s  colder  news,  but  yet  they  must  be  told. 

A'.  Rich.  Away  towards  Salisbury !  while  we  reason 
here, 
.\  royal  battle  might  he  won  and  lost. — 
Some  one  take  orclcr.  Buckingham  be  brought 
To  Salisbury;  the  rest  march  on  with  me.       [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  Lord  Stanley's  House. 
Enter  Stanley  and  Sir  Christopher  Urswick 
Stan.  Sir  Christopher,  tell  Richmond  this  from  me  . — 
That,  in  the  sty  of  the  most  bloody  boar. 
My  son  George  Stanley  is  frank'd  up  in  hold : 
If  I  revolt,  off  goes  young  George's  head  : 
The  fear  of  that  holds  off*  my  present  aid. 
So,  get  thee  gone:  commend  me  to  thy  lord. 
Withal,  say  that  the  queen  hath  heartily  consented, 
He  should  espouse  Elizabeth  her  daughter. 
But,  tell  mc.  where  is  princely  Richmond  now'" 

Chris    At  Pembroke,  or  at  Ha'rlord-west,  ij  Wales 
Stan.   What  men  of  name  and  mark'  resort  to  him " 
Chru>.  Sir  Walter  Herbert,  a  renowned  soldier; 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbot,  sir  William  Stanley : 
Oxford,  redoubted  Pembroke,  sir  James  Blunt, 
And  Rice  ap  Thomas,  with  a  valiant  crew. 
And  many  other  of  great  name  and  worth  ; 
And  toward^  London  do  they  bend  their  power. 
If  by  the  way  they  be  not  fought  withal. 

Stan.  Well,  hie  thee  to  thy  lord  ;  I  kiss  his  hand  : 
My  letter  will  resolve  him  of  my  mind. 
Farewell.  [Giving  Pupers  to  Sir  Christopher.  Exeunt 


ACT    V. 


SCE.\E  I. — Salisbury.     An  open  Place. 

inter  the  Sheriff,  and  Guard,  with  Buckingham  led  to 

Execution. 

Ruck.  Will  not  king  Richard  let  me  speak  with  him  ? 

Sher.  No,  my  good'  lord ;  therefore,  be  patient. 

Buck.  Hastings,  and  Edward's  children.  Grey,  and 
Rivers, 
Holy  king  Henry,  and  thy  fair  son  Edward, 
Vaughan.  and  all  that  have  mi.scarried 
?y  underhand  corrupted  foul  injustice, 
;f  that  your  moody  discontented  souls 
Do  through  the  clouds  behold  this  present  hour. 
Even  for  revenge  mock  my  destruction  ! — 
TYiis  is  All-Souls'  day,  fellow,  is  it  not? 

Sher.  It  is. 

Buck.  Why,  then  All-Souls'  day  is  my  body's  dooms- 
day. 
This  is  the  day,  which,  in  king  Edward's  time, 
I  wish'd  might  fall  on  me,  when  I  was  found 
False  to  his  children,  or  his  wife's  allies: 
This  is  the  day,  wherein  I  wish'd  to  fall 
By  the  false  faith  of  him  whom  mo.st  I  trusted  : 
Tins,  this  All-Souls' day  to  my  fearful  soul 
Ifi  the  determin'd  respite  of  my  wrongs. 
That  high  All-Seer,  which  I  dallied  with, 
Haih  turn  d  my  feign'd  prayer  on  my  head, 
And  given  in  earnest  what  [  bciigd  in  jest. 
Thus  doth  he  force  the  swords  of  wicked  men 
To  turn  their  own  points  in  their  masters'  bo.<!omR. 
Thns  Margaret's  curse  falls  heavy  on  my  neck* : — 
"  When  he."  quoth  she,  "  shall  split  thy  heart  with 

sorrow, 
Remember  Margaret  was  a  prophete.«8." — 
Come,  h-ad  me.  officers,  to  the  block  of  shame ; 
Wrong  hath  but  wrong,  and  blame  the  due  of  blame. 
[Exeunt  Buckingham  and  Officers. 


SCENE  II.— A  Plain  near  Tamworth. 
Enter.,  with  Drum  and  Colours.  Richmond,  O.vford 

Sir  James  Blunt.  Sir  Walter  Herbert,  and  others 

with  Forces,  marching. 

Richm.  Fellows  in  arms,  and  my  most  loving  friends. 
Bruis'd  underneath  the  yoke  of  tyranny, 
Thus  far  into  the  bowels  of  the  land 
Have  we  march'd  on  without  impediment; 
And  here  receive  we  from  our  father  Stanley 

[Showing  a  Paper.' 
Lines  of  fair  comfort  and  encouragement. 
The  reckless.*  bloody,  and  usurping  boar. 
That  spoild  your  summer  fields,  and  fruitful  vines. 
Swills  your  warm  blood  like  wash,  and  makes  his  trough 
In  your  embowell'd  bosom.s,  this  foul  swine 
Is'  now  even  in  the  centre  of  this  isle. 
Near  to  the  town  of  Leicester,  as  we  learn; 
From  Tamworth  thither,  is  but  one  day's  march. 
In  God's  name,  cheerly  on,  courageous  friends, 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  perpetual  peace 
By  this  one  bloody  trial  of  sharp  war. 

Oxf.  Every  man's  conscience  is  a  thousand  men.* 
To  fi^ht  against  this  guilty  homicide. 

Herh.  I  doubt  not,  but  his  friends  will  turn  to  us. 

Bhnit.  He  hath  no  friends,  but  what  are  friends  for 
Which  in  his  dearest  need  will  fly*  from  him.        [fear 

Richm.  All  lor  our  vantage:  then,  in  God's  name  march 
True  hope  is  swift,  and  flies  with  swallow's  wings. 
Kings  it  makes  gods,  and  meaner  creatures  kinus. 

[Exeunl 

SCENE  III.— Bosworth  Field. 
Enter  King  Richard,  and  Forces;  the   Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, Earl  0/ Surrey,  ami  others. 
K.  Rich.  Here  pitch  our  tent,  even  here  in  Boswoitb 
field.— 


withhold!  :  in  qrnrtoB.      »  The  words,  "  and  mark."  are  not  in  f.  e.      '  Not  in  quartoii.      *  now— i.«  fallen  upon  my  hea^  :  in  ouano. 
ax  in  f  e.      '  wretched  :  in  f.  e.      '  liei  :  in  quartos.      •  »word»  :  in  quarto*.      *  greatest  need  will  shrink  :  in  qaarti  i. 


BCENE  m. 


KING  RICHARD  HI. 


53: 


My  lord  of  Surrey,  why  look  you  so  sad  ? 

Sur.  My  heart  is  ten  times  lighter  than  my  looks. 

K.  Rich.  My  lord  of  Norfolk,— 

Nor.  Here,  most  gracious  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  we  must  have  knocks ;  ha !  must 
we  not? 

Nor.  We  must  both  give  and  take,  my  loving  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Up  with  my  tent !  here  will  I  lie  to-niglit; 
[Soldiers  begin  to  set  up  the  King^s  Tent. 
But  where  to-morrow? — Well,  all 's  one  for  that. — 
Who  hath  descried  the  number  of  the  traitors  ? 

Nor.  Six  or  seven  thousand  is  their  utmost  power. 

K.  Rich.  Why,  our  battalia  trebles  that  account : 
Besides,  the  king's  name  is  a  tower  of  strength, 
Which  they  upon  the  adverse  faction  want. 
Up  with  the  tent ! — Come,  noble  gentlemen, 
Let  us  survey  the  vantage  of  the  ground. — 
Call  for  some  men  of  sound  direction. — 
Let 's  lack  no  discipline,  make  no  delay, 
For,  lords,  to-morrow  is  a  busy  day.  [Exeunt. 

Enter,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Field,  Richmond,   Sir 

William    Brandon,    Oxford,    and   other    Officers. 

Some  of  the  Soldiers  pitch  Richmond's  Tent. 

Richm.  The  weary  sun  hath  made  a  golden  set. 
And  by  the  bright  track  of  his  fiery  car. 
Gives  token  of  a  goodly  day  to-morrow. — 
Sir  William  Brandon,  you  shall  bear  my  standard. — 
Give  me  some  ink  and  paper  in  my  tent  : 
I  '11  draw  the  form  and  model  of  our  battle. 
Limit  each  leader  to  his  several  charge, 
And  part  in  just  proportion  our  small  power. 
My  lord  of  Oxford, — you.  Sir  William  Brandon,— 
And  you,  sir  Walter  Herbert,  stay  with  me.' 
The  earl  of  Pembroke  keeps  his  regiment : 
Good  captain  Blunt,  bear  my  good  night  to  him, 
And  by  the  second  hour  in  the  morning 
Desire  the  earl  to  see  me  in  my  tent. — 
Yet  one  thing  more,  good  captain,  do  for  me : 
Where  is  lord  Stanley  quarter'd,  do  you  know  ? 

Blunt.  Unless  I  have  mista'en  his  colours  much, 
(Which,  well  I  am  assur'd,  I  have  not  done) 
His  regiment  lies  half  a  mile,  at  least. 
South  from  the  mighty  power  of  the  king. 

Richm.  If  without  peril  it  be  possible. 
Sweet  Blunt,  make  some  good  means  to  speak  with 

him. 
And  give  him  from  me  this  most  needful  note. 

Blunt.  Upon  my  life,  my  lord,  I  '11  undertake  it: 
And  so,  God  give  you  quiet  rest  to-night.' 

Richm.    Good  night,  good  Captain  Blunt.  —  Come, 
gentlemen. 
Let  us  consult  upon  to-morrow's  business. 
In  to  my  tent,  the  dew"  is  raw  and  cold. 

[They  withdraw  into  the  Tent. 
Enter,  to  his  Tent,  King  Richard,  Norfolk,  Ratcliff, 
and  Catf,sbt. 

K.  Rich.  What  is  't  o'clock. 

Cate.  It 's  supper  time,  my  lord  ;  it 's  nine  o'clock. 

K.  Rich.  I  will  not  sup  to-night. — 
Give  me  some  ink  and  paper. — 
What,  is  my  beaver  easier  than  it  was. 
And  all  my  armour  laid  into  my  tent? 

Cote.  It  is,  my  liege  ;  and  all  things  are  in  readiness. 

K.  Rich.  Good  Norfolk,  hie  thee  to  thy  charge. 
Use  careful  watch ;  choose  trusty  sentinels. 

Nor.  I  go,  my  lord 

K.  Rich.  Stir  with  the  lark  to-morrow,  gentle  Nor- 
folk. 

Nor.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

'  Thes»  lines  are  not  in  tne  quai'os.      '  air  :  in  quartos.      *  Not 


K.  Rich.  Ratcliff! 

Rat.  My  lord  ? 

K.  Rich.  Send  out  a  pursuivant  at  arms 

To  Stanley's  regiment :  bid  him  bring  liis  power 
Before  sun-rising,  lest  his  son  George  fall 
Into  the  blind  cave  of  eternal  night. — 
Fill  me  a  bowl  of  wine. — Give  me  a  watch : 
Saddle  white  Surrey  for  the  field  to-morrow. — 
Look  that  my  staves  be  sound,  and  not  too  heavy. 
Ratcliff!— 

Rat.  My  lord? 

K.  Rich.  Saw'st  thou  the  melancholy  lord  Northum- 
berland ? 

Rat.  Thomas  the  earl  of  Surrey,  and  himself. 
Much  about  cock-shut  time,  from  troop  to  troop 
Went  through  the  army,  cheering  up  the  soldiers. 

K.  Rich.    So :  I  am  satisfied    Give  me  a  bowl  of 
wine : 
I  have  not  that  alacrity  of  spirit. 
Nor  cheer  of  mind,  that  I  was  wont  to  nave. — 

[Wine  brought* 
Set  it  down. — Is  ink  and  paper  ready? 

Rat.  It  is,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Bid  my  guard  watch.     Leave  me. 
R-atcliff,  about  the  mid  of  niglit.  come  to  my  tent 
And  help  to  arm  me. — Leave  me,  I  say. 

[King  Richard  retires  into  his  Tent.     Exeunt 
Ratcliff  and  Catesby. 
Richmond's    Tent    opens,  and  discovers   him   and   his 
Officers,  ^c. 
Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.  Fortune  and  victory  sit  on  thy  helm  ! 

Richm.  All  comfort  that  the  dark  night  can  afford, 
Be  to  thy  person,  noble  father-in-law  ! 
Tell  me,  I  pray,  how  fares  our  loving  mother  ? 

Stan.  I,  by  attorney,  bless  thee  from  thy  mother. 
Who  prays  continually  for  Richmond's  good : 
So  much  for  that. — The  silent  hours  steal  on, 
And  flaky  darkness  breaks  within  the  east. 
In  brief,  for  so  the  season  bids  us  be. 
Prepare  thy  battle  early  in  the  morning ; 
And  put  thy  fortune  to  the  arbitrement 
Of  bloody  strokes,  and  mortal-staring  war. 
I,  as  I  may,  (that  which  I  would  I  cannot) 
With  best  advantage  will  deceive  the  time, 
And  aid  thee  in  this  doubtful  shock  of  arms ' 
But  on  thy  side  I  may  not  be  too  forward. 
Lest,  being  seen,  thy  brother,  tender  George, 
Be  executed  in  his  father's  sight. 
Farewell.     The  leisure  and  the  fearful  time 
Cuts  off  the  ceremonious  vows  of  love, 
And  ample  interchange  of  sweet  discourse, 
Wliich  so  long  sunder'd  friends  should  dwell  upon. 
God  give  us  leisure  for  these  rites  of  love  ! 
Once  more,  adieu. — Be  valiant,  and  speed  well  ! 

Richm.  Good  lords,  conduct  him  to  his  reigment. 
I  '11  strive,  with  troubled  thoughts,  to  take  a  iiti| 
Lest  leaden  slumber  pcise'  me  downi  to-morrow, 
When  I  should  mount  with  wings  of  victory. 
Once  more,  good  night,  kind  lords,  and  gentlemen 

[Exeunt  Lords,  itc.  with  Stanley. 
O  !  Thou,  whose  captain  I  account  myself,  [Kneeling.* 
Look  on  my  forces  with  a  gracious  eye ; 
Put  in  their  hands  thy  bruising  irons  of  wTath 
That  they  may  crush  down  wth  a  hea^T  'al' 
Th'  usurping  helmets  of  onr  adversaries  ! 
Make  us  thy  ministers  of  cha.stisement,  _ 

That  we  may  praise  thee  in  thy  victor^' !  [Rising. 

To  thee  I  do  commend  my  watchful  soul, 


inf. 


5  Weish.      «  '  Not  in  f.  e. 


538 


KUNCt   RICHARD   HI. 


ACT 


Ere  I  let  fall  the  windows  of  mine  eyes : 
Sleepini!,  and  waking,  0,  defend  me  still  ! 

[Lies  (ioiru  ami  sleeps. 
ITu  Ghost  of  Prince  Edwarp.  San  to  Henry  the  Sixth, 
rtsci  ■vttrrcn  the  two  Tents. 
Ghost.  Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow! 

\To  Killfr  KiCHARD. 

Think  how  thou  stabb'dst  me,  in  my  prime  of  youth, 
At  Tewksbury :  despair,  therefore,  and  die. — 

Be  eiieoilul.  Richmond  :  for  the  wroiig'd  souls 
Of  butclier"d  princes  fiiiht  in  thy  behalf: 
King  Henry's  issue.  Hiclimond.  comforis  thee. 

7"/k   Gho.'it  uf  King  Henry  the  Sixth  rises. 
Ghost.  When  I  was  mortal,  my  anointed  body 

To  King  RicHARP. 
By  thee  was  punched  full  of  deadly'  holes. 
Think  on  the  Tower,  and  me:  despair,  and  die  ; 
Harry  the  sixth  bids  tlicc  despair  and  die. — 
Virtuous  and  holy,  be  thou  conqueror  ! 

\To  Richmond. 
Harry,  that  prophcsy'd  thou  should'st  be  kine, 
Doth  comfort  thee  in  sleep:  live  thou,^  and  flouri.sh. 
The  Ghost  of  Clarence  riies. 
Ghost.  Let  me  sit  hea\Tr  on  thy  soul  to-morrow. 

[7b  King  Richard. 
[,  that  was  wash'd  to  death  with  fulsome  wine. 
Poor  Clarence,  by  thy  gruile  betray'd  to  death  ! 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword.     Despair,  and  die. — 
Thou  offspring  of  the  house  of  Lancaster, 

[7b  Richmond. 
The  wronged  heirs  of  York  do  pray  for  thee  ; 
Good  angels  guard  thy  battle  !     Live  and  flourish. 
The  Gho.'its  of  Rivers,  Grey,  and  Vavghan  ri.se. 
Riv.  Let  me  sii  hea^-y  on  thy  soul  to-morrow : 

[To  King  Richard. 
Rivers,  that  died  at  Pomfret.     Despair,  and  die. 
Grey.  Think  upon  Grey,  and  let  thy  soul  despair. 

[To  King  Richard. 
laugh.  Think  upon  Vaughan,  and  with  jruilty  fear 
Let  fall  thy  pointless'  lance      Despair,  and  die. — 

]7b  A';n<r  Richard. 
All.  Awake  !  and   think  our  wrongs    in    Richard's 
bosom  [To  Richmond. 

Will  conquer  him. — Awake,  and  win  the  day  ! 
The  Ghfj.st  of  Hastinos  rises. 
Ghost.  Bloody  and  guilty,  guiltily  awake  ; 

[7b  King  Richard. 
And  in  a  bloody  battle  end  thy  days, 
riimk  oil  lord  Hastings:  so*  depair,  and  die. 
Quiet  untroubled  soul,  awake,  awake  ! 

[To  Richmond. 
-\rm,  fight,  and  conquer,  for  fair  England's  sake. 
The  Ghosts  of  the  two  young  Princes  rise. 
Ghosts.    Dream   on   thy   cousins   smothcrd    in    the 
Tower : 
Let  us  be  lead*  within  thy  bosom,  Richard. 
And  weigh  thee  down  to  ruin,  shame,  and  death. 
Thy  nephews'  .'iouis  bid  thee  despair,  and  die. — 

Sieeji.  Richmond,  sleep  in  peace,  and  wake  in  joy : 
Good  angels  guard  thee  from  the  boar's  annoy  ! 
Live,  and  beget  a  happy  race  of  kinus. 
Fxiward".s  uniia|ipy  sons  do  bid  thee  flourish. 
The  Ghost  of  Queen  Anne  rises. 
Ghost.  Richard,  thy  wife,  that  wretched  Anne  thy 
•w-ifc. 
'Ihat  never  slept  a  quiet  hour  with  thee, 
Now  fllhs  thy  sleep  with  perturbations: 


fjlio.    «  'Notinf.  e.      «and:  in  f.  e. 
•  Zonnds,  who  "•  there  :  in  quartos. 


To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me. 

And  fall  thy  powerless  arm.*     Despair,  and  die. — 

Thou,  quiet  soul,  sleep  thou  a  quiet  sleep: 

[To  Rl    HMOND 

Dream  of  success  and  happy  victory : 
Thy  adversary's  wife  doth  pray  for  thee. 

The  Ghost  o/ Buckingham  rises. 

Ghost.  The  first  was  I  that  helpd  thee  to  the  crown  , 
[7b  King  Richaui) 
The  la,«;t  was  I  that  felt  thy  tyranny. 
0  !  in  the  battle  think  on  Buckingham, 
And  die  in  terror  of  thy  guiltiness. 
Dream  on.  dream  on.  of  bloody  deeds  and  death  : 
Fainting,  despair  ;  despairing,  yield  thy  breath. — 

I  died  for  hope  ere  I  could  lend  thee  aid ; 

\To  RlCHtWOM) 

But  cheer  thy  heart,  and  be  thou  not  dismay'd  : 
God.  and  20od  angels  fight  on  Richmonds  side; 
And  Richard  fall  in  height  of  all  his  pride. 

[The  Ghosts  vanish.     King  K\cha%d  starti 
out  of  his  dream. 
K.  Rich.    Give   me    another   horse ! — bind    up   my 
wounds  ' — 
Have  mercy,  Jesu  ! — Soft !     I  did  but  dream. — 
O.  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afilict  me  ! — 
The  lights  burn  blue. — It  is  now  dead  midnight. 
Cold  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembling  flesh. 
What  do  I  fear?  myself?  there  "s  none  else  by : 
Richard  loves  Richard  :  that  is,  I  am  L 
Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?     No  : — yes  :  I  am  : 
Then  fly. — What,  from  myself?  Great  reason:  why 
Lest  I  revenge.     What!   Myself  upon  myself? 
Alack  !  I  love  my.self.     "Wherelbre  ?  tor  any  good. 
That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself? 

0  !  no  :  alas  !   I  rather  hate  myself. 
For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  myself. 

1  am  a  villain.     Yet  I  lie  :  I  am  not. 

Fool,  of  thyself  speak  well : — Fool,  do  not  flatter. 
My  conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues, 
And  every  tongue  brinus  in  a  several  tale, 
And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. 
Perjury^  fouP  perjury,  in  the  hii;h"st  degree ; 
Murder,  stern  murder,  in  the  dir'st  desree : 
All  several  sins,  all  us'd  in  each  degree. 
Throng  to  the  bar.  crying  all, — Guilty  !  guilty  ! 
I  shall  despair. — There  is  no  creature  loves  me; 
And  if  I  die.  no  soul  shall  pity  me: — 
Nay.  wherefore  should  they  ?  since  that  I  myself 
Find  in  myself  no  pity  to  myself. 
Methought,  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  murder'd 
Came  to  my  tent ;  and  every  one  did  threat 
To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Richard. 
Enter  Ratcliff. 

Rat.  Mv  lord.— 

K.  Rich"  Who  's  there  ? 

Rat.  Ratcliff.  my  lord  :  'tis  I.   The  early  village  c< 
Hath  twice  done  salutntion  to  the  morn: 
Your  friends  are  up.  and  buckle  on  their  armour. 

K.  Rich.    0    Ratcliff!     I    have    dream'd    a   fear' 
dream. — 
What  think'st  thou  ?  will  our  friends  prove  all  true 

Rnt.  No  doubt,  mv  lord.* 

K.Rirh.  0  Ratcliff!  I  fear,  I  fear- 

Rat.  Nay.  20od  my  lord,  be  not  afraid  of  shadown. 

K.  Rich.  By  the  apostle  Paul,  shadows  to-night 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard, 
Than  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldier», 
Armed  in  proof,  and  led  by  shallow  Richmond. 

laid.      •  edgeless  sword  :  i«  f .  •      '('" 


*  This  and  the  prerions  soeech.  an  not  in  the  folioa. 


bCENB   in. 


KING  EICHAED   III. 


539 


[t  is  not  yet  near  day.  Come,  go  with  me  : 
Under  our  tents  I  "11  play  the  eaves-dropper. 
To  hear  if  any  mean  to  shrink  from  me. 

[Exeunt  King  Richard  and  Ratcliff. 
Enter  Oxford  and  others. 

Lords.  Good  morrow,  Ftichmond. 

Richm.  Cry  mercy,  lords,   [Waking.]  and  wateliful 
gentlemen, 
That  you  have  ta'en  a  tardy  sluggard  here. 

Lords.  How  have  you  slept,  my  lord  ? 

Richm.  The  sweetest  sleep,  and  fairest-boding  dreams. 
That  ever  enter' d  in  a  drowsy  head, 
Have  I  since  your  departure  had,  my  lords. 
Melhought,  their  souls,  whose  bodies  Richard  nmrder'd, 
Came  to  my  tent,  and  cried — On  !  victory  ! 
I  promise  yoii,  my  heart'  is  very  jocund 
[n  the  remembrance  of  so  fair  a  dream. 
How  far  into  the  morning  is  it,  lords? 

Lord"    Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 

Richm.  Why,  then  't  is  time  to  arm,  and  give  direc- 
tion.—  [He  advances  to  the  Troops. 
More  than  I  have  said,  loving  countrymen. 
The  leisure  and  enforcement  of  the  time 
Forbids  to  dwell  on  :  yet  remember  this. — 
God  and  our  good  cause  fight  upon  our  side  : 
The  prayers  of  holy  saints,  and  wronged  souls. 
Like  high-rear'd  bulwarks  stand  before  our  faces. 
Richard  except,  those  whom  we  fight  against 
Had  rather  have  us  win,  tnan  him  they  follow. 
For  what  is  he  they  follow?  truly,  gentlemen, 
A  bloody  tATant,  and  a  homicide  ; 
Que  rais'd  in  blood,  and  one  in  blood  establish'd  ; 
One  that  made  means  to  come  by  what  he  hath, 
And  slaughter'd  those  that  were  the  means  to  help  him  ; 
A  base  foul  stone,  made  precious  by  the  foil 
Of  England's  chair,  where  he  is  falsely  set : 
One  that  hath  ever  been  God's  enemy. 
Then,  if  you  fight  against  God's  enemy, 
God  will,  in  justice,  ward  you  as  his  soldiers  : 
If  you  do  sweat  to  put  a  t\Tant  down. 
You  sleep  in  peace,  the  tyrant  being  slain  ; 
If  you  do  fight  against  your  country's  foes, 
Your  country's  fat  shall  pay  your  pains  the  hire  ; 
If  you  do  fight  in  safeguard  of  your  wives, 
\our  wives  shall  welcome  home  the  conquerors; 
If  you  do  free  your  children  from  the  sword, 
Your  children's  children"  quit  it  in  your  age. 
Then,  in  the  name  of  God,  and  all  these  rights. 
Advance  your  standards,  draw  your  willing  swords. 
For  me,  the  ransom  of  my  bold  attempt 
Shall  be  this  cold  corpse  on  the  earth's  cold  face ; 
But  if  I  thrive,  the  gain  of  my  attempt, 
The  least  of  you  shall  share  his  part  thereof. 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets,  boldly,  cheerfully ; 
God,  and  Saint  George  !  Richmond,  and  victory ! 

[Exeunt,  j 

Re-e»'erXz'ng  Richard,  Ratcliff,  y4<JeWani5,  and    I 
Forces.  I 

K..  Rich.  'VYhat  said   Northumberland,  as  touching 
Richmond  ? 

R'U.  -That  he  was  never  trained  up  in  arms. 
,     K.  Rich.  He  said  the  truth  :  and  what  said  Surrey 
i  then  ? 

I     Rat.  He  smil'd  and  said,  the  better  for  our  purpose. 
'     K.  Rich.  He  was  i'  the  right ;  and  so,  indeed,  it  is. 

[Clock  .strikes. 
Tell  the  clock  there. — Give  me  a  calendar. 

[Calendar  brought.' 


Who  saw  the  sun  to-day  ? 

Rat.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Then  he  disdains  to  shine ;  for.  by  the  book, 
Ke  should  have  brav'd  the  east  an  hour  ago : 
A  black  day  will  it  be  to  somebody. — 
Ratclifi-!— 

Rat.  My  lord. 

K.  Rich.  The  sun  will  not  be  seen  to-day : 

The  sky  doth  frown  and  lour  upon  our  army. 
I  would,  these  dewy  tears  were  from  the  ground. 
Not  shine  to-day  !     Why,  what  is  that  to  me. 
More  than  to  Richmond?  for  the  self-same  heaven. 
That  frowns  on  me,  looks  sadly  upon  him. 
Enter  Norfolk. 

Nor.  Arm,  arm,  my  lord  !  the  foe  vaunts  in  the  field. 

K.    Rich.    Come,    bustle,    bustle. — Caparison    my 
horse. — 
Call  up  lord  Stanley,  bid  him  bring  his  power. 
I  will  lead  forth  my  soldiers  to  the  plain. 
And  thus  my  battle  shall  be  ordered. 
My  foreward*  shall  be  dra\\ni  out  in  length, 
Consisting  equally  of  horse  and  foot: 
Our  archers  shall  be  placed  in  the  midst, 
John  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  earl  of  Surrey, 
Shall  have  the  leading  of  the  fool  and  horse. 
They  thus  directed,  we  will  follow  them 
In  the  main  battle ;  whose  puissance  on  either  smc 
Shall  be  well  winged  with  our  chiefest  horse. 
This,  and  Saint  George  to  boot  ! — What  think'st  thou, 
Norfolk  ? 

N'oi:    A  good  direction,  warlike  sovereigh. — 
This  found  I  on  my  tent  this  morning. 

[Giving  a  Papet. 

K.  Rich.  "  Jocky  of  Norfolk  be  not  too'  bold. 

[Re'ph 
For  Dickon  thy  master  is  bought  and 
sold." 
A  thing  devised  by  the  enemy. — 
Go.  gentlemen ;  every  man  to  his  charge. 
Let  not  our  babbling  dreams  affright  our  sf>uls  , 
For  conscience  is  a  word  that  cowards  use, 
Devis'd  at  first  to  keep  the  strong  in  awe : 
Our  strong  arms  be  our  conscience,  swords  our  law 
March  on,  join  bravely,  let  us  to  't  pell-mell ; 
If  not  to  heaven,  then  hand  in  hand  to  hell. — 
What  shall  I  say  more  than  I  have  inferr'd? 
Remember  who  you  are  to  cope  withal  ; — 
A  sort  of  vagabonds,  rascals,  and  run-aways, 
A  scum  of  Bret  agues,  and  base  lackey  peasants, 
Whom  their  o'er-cloyed  country  vomits  forth 
To  desperate  ventures  and  assur'd  destruction. 
You  sleeping  safe,  they  brin^;  you  to  unrest ; 
Y'ou  having  lands,  and  bless'd  with  beauteous  wives, 
They  would  distrain*  the  one,  distain  the  other. 
And  who  doth  lead  them  but  a  paltry  fellow. 
Long  kept  in  Bretagne  at  our  mother's  cost  ; 
A  milk-sop,  one  that  never  in  his  life 
Felt  so  nuich  cold  as  over  shoes  in  snow? 
Let's  whip  these  stragglers  o'er  the  seas  again  ; 
Lash  hence  these  over-weening  rags  of  France, 
These  famish'd  beggars,  weary  of  their  lives  ; 
Who,  but  for  dreaming  on  this  fond  exploit, 
For  want  of  means,  poor  rats,  had  hang'd  themselves 
If  we  be  conquer'd.  let  men  conquer  us. 
And  not  these  bastard  Bretagnes;  whom  our  fathers 
Have  in  their  own  land  beaten,  bobb'd,  and  ihump  d, 
And.  on  record,  left  them  the  heirs  of  shame. 
Shall  these  enjoy  our  lands  ?  lie  with  our  ^vives  ? 


'  soul :  in  quartos.      '  Requite.     '  Not  i 
S51.  read     so       '  restrain  :  in  f.  e- 


My  foreword  shall  be  drawn  out  all  in  length  :    n  f.  e.      •  All  old  copies  bat  quartr 


540 


KING  RICHAKD  HI. 


ACT   V. 


Ravish  our  daughters  ? — Hark,  I  hear  thoir  drum. 

[Dnun  afar  off. 
Fight,  gentlemen  of  Enghind  !  fight,  bold'  yeomen  ! 
Draw,  archers,  draw  your  arrows  to  the  head  ; 
Spur  your  proud  horses  hard,  and  ride  in  blood  : 
Amaze  the  welkin  with  your  broken  staves. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
What  says  lord  Stanley?  will  he  bring  his  power? 

Mess.  My  lord,  he  doth  deny  to  come. 

A'.  Rick.  OfTwith  his  son  George's  head. 

Nor.  My  lord,  the  enemy  is  pass'd  the  marsh : 
After  the  battle  let  George  Stanley  die. 

K.  Rich.  A  thousand   hearts  are  great  within   my 
bosom. 
Advance  our  standards  !  set  upon  our  foes  ! 
Our  ancient  word  of  courage,  fair  Saint  George, 
Inspire  us  with  the  spleen  of  fiery  dragons  ! 
Upon  them  !     Victory  sits  on  our  helms  !         [Exeitnt. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum:    Excursions.     Enter  Norfolk,  aiid   Forces; 

to  him  Catesby. 

Cate.  Rescue,  my  lord  of  Norfolk  !  rescue,  rescue  ! 
The  king  enacts  more  wonders  than  a  man. 
Daring  an  opposite  to  every  danger. 
His  horse  is  slain,  and  all  on  foot  he  fights. 
Seeking  for  Richmond  in  the  throat  of  death. 
Rescue,  fair  lord,  or  else  the  day  is  lo.st  ! 

Alarum.     Enter  King  Richard. 

K.  Rich.  A  horse  !  a  hor.«e  !  my  kingdom  for  a  horse ! 

Cate.  Withdraw,  my  lord  ;  I  '11  help  you  to  a  horse. 

K.  Rich.  Slave  !   I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast, 
And  I  will  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die. 
I  think  there  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field  ; 
Five  have  1  slain  to-day,  instead  of  him. — 
A  horse  !  a  horse  !  my  kingdom  for  a  horse  !      [Exevnt. 
Alantms.     Kilter  King  Richard  aiid  Richmond  ;  and 

exeunt,  fighting.     Retreat  and  flourish.     Then  enter 

Richmond.  Stanley  bearing  the  Crown^  with  divers 

other  Lords,  and  Forces. 

Richm.  God,  and  your  arms,  be  prais'd.  victorious 
friends, 

■  boldlv  :  in  (iaii'      >  theM  roT&ltiei :  in  folio.     '  enjoy  it  :  not  in  f 


The  day  is  ours,  the  bloody  dog  is  dead. 

Stan.  Courageous  Richmond,  well  hast  thou  acqiiir 
thee. 
Lo  !  here,  this*  long-usurped  royalty. 
From  the  dead  temples  of  this  bloo<Iy  wretch 
Have  1  pluck'd  off,  to  grace  thy  brows  withal  : 
Wear  it,  enjoy  it,^  and  make  much  of  it. 

Richm.  Great  God  of  heaven,  say,  amen,  to  all  ! — 
But.  tell  me,  is  young  George  Stanley  living? 

Stan.  He  is,  my  lord,  and  safe  in  Leicester  towi:  : 
Whither,  if  you  please,  we  may  withdraw  us. 

Richm.  What  men  of  name  are  slain  on  either  side? 

Stan.  John  duke  of  Norfolk.  Walter  lord  Ferrers. 
Sir  Robert  Brakenbury,  and  Sir  William  Brandon. 

Richm.   Inter  their  bodies  as  becomes  their  birthe 
Proclaim  a  pardon  to  the  soldiers  fled, 
That  in  submission  will  return  to  us ; 
And  then,  as  we  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 
We  ^^■ill  unite  the  white  rose  and  the  red : — 
Smile  heaven  upon  this  fair  conjunction. 
That  long  hath  froN\'n'd  upon  their  enmity  I — 
W^hat  traitor  hears  me.  and  says  not.  amen  ? 
England  hath  long  been  mad.  and  scarr'd  herself  j 
The  brother  blindly  shed  the  brother's  blood, 
The  father  rashly  slaughter'd  his  o\\-n  son. 
The  son,  compell"d,  been  butcher  to  the  sire : 
All  this  divided  York  and  Lancaster, 
Divided  in  their  dire  division.* 
0  !  now,  let  Richmond  and  Elizabeth, 
The  true  succeeders  of  each  royal  house, 
By  God's  fair  ordinance  conjoin  together  : 
And  let  their  heirs,  (God,  if  thy  •will  be  so) 
Enrich  the  time  to  come  with  smooth-fac'd  peace. 
With  smiling  plenty,  and  fair  prosperous  days  ! 
Rebate'  the  edge  of  traitors,  gracious  Lord, 
That  would  reduce  these  bloody  days  again, 
And  make  poor  England  wt-ep  in  streams  of  blooU : 
Let  them  not  live  to  taste  this  land's  increase, 
That  would  with  treason  wound  this  fair  land's  pea<e' 
Now  civil  wounds  are  stopp'd,  peace  lives  again : 
That  she  may  long  live  here,  God  say,  amen ! 

[Exeunt 

iio      *  {  e.  place  t.  fu'.l  ttop  at  th«  and  of  this  !  ne      *  AMre  :  ir.  f  t 


KING    HENRY    VIII 


DRAMATIS     PERSONS. 


Porter, 


King  Henry  the  Eighth. 

Cardinal  Wolsey.     Cardinal  Campeius. 

Capucius,  Ambassador  from  Charles  V. 

Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Duke  of  Norfolk.     Earl  of  Surrey. 

Duke  of  Suffolk.     Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Lord  Chamberlain.     Lord  Chancellor. 

Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

Bishop  of  Lincoln.    Lord  Abergavenny.    Lord 

Sands. 
Sir  Henry  Guildford.     Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 
Sir  Anthony  Denny.     Sir  Nicholas  Vaux. 
Secretaries  to  Wolsey. 
Cromwell,  Servant  to  Wolsey. 

Several  Lords  and  Ladies  in  the  Dumb  Shows  ;  Women  attending  upon  the  Queen;  Spirits,  which  appear 
to  her  J  Scribes,  Officers,  Guards,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,  chiefly  in  London  and  Westminster ;  once,  at  Kimbolton. 


Griffith,  Gentleman-Usher  to  Queen  Katharine 
Three  other  Gentlemen.     Garter,  King  at  Arms. 
Doctor  Butts,  Physician  to  the  King. 
Surveyor  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 
Brandon,  and  a  Sergeant  at  Arms. 
Door-keeper   of   the    Council-Chamber. 

and  his  Man. 
Page  to  Gardiner.     A  Crier. 

Queen  Katharine,  Wife  to  King  Henry. 
Anne  Bullen,  her  Maid  of  Honour. 
An  old  Lady.  Friend  to  Anne  Bullen. 
Patience,  Woman  to  Queen  Katharine. 


PROLOGUE, 


I  come  no  more  to  make  you  laugh  :  things  now. 
That  bear  a  weighty  and  a  serious  brow. 
Sad,  high,  and  working,  full  of  state  and  woe. 
Such  noble  scenes  as  draw  the  eye  to  flow. 
We  now  present.     Those  that  can  pity,  here 
May,  if  they  think  it  well,  let  fall  a  tear  ; 
The  subject  will  deserve  it :  such,  as  give 
Their  money  out  of  hope  they  may  believe, 
May  here  find  truth  too :  those,  that  come  to  see 
Only  a  show  or  two,  and  so  agree 
The  play  may  pass,  if  they  be  still  and  willing. 
I  '11  undertake,  may  see  away  their  shilling 
Richly  in  two  short  hours.     Only  they, 
That  come  to  hear  a  merry,  bawdy  play, 
A  noise  of  targets,  or  to  see  a  fellow 
In  a  long  motley  coat,  guarded'  with  yellow. 


Will  be  deceiv'd  ;  for,  gentle  hearers,  know, 

To  rank  our  chosen  truth  \^^th  such  a  show 

As  fool  and  fight  is,  beside  forfeiting 

Our  own  brains,  and  the  opinion  that  we  bring, 

To  make  that  only  true  we  now  intend, 

Will  leave  us  never  an  understandmg  friend. 

Therefore,  for  goodness-  sake,  and  as  you  are  known, 

The  first  and  happiest  hearers  of  the  town, 

Be  sad  as  we  would  make  ye  :  think,  ye  see 

The  very  persons  of  our  noble  story, 

As  they  were  living ;  think,  you  see  them  great, 

And  follow'd  wilh  the  general  throng,  and  sweat 

Of  thousand  friends  ;  then,  in  a  moment,  see 

How  soon  this  mightiness  meets  misery  : 

And,  if  you  can  be  merry  then,  I  'II  say, 

A  man  may  weep  upon  his  wedding  day. 


ACT    1 


^ 


SCENE  I. — London.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 

Palace. 

I    Enter  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  at  one  door  ;  at  the  other, 

I       the    Duke   of  Buckingham,    and   the    Lord   Aber- 

I  GAVENNY. 

Buck.  Good    morrow,    and   well    met.     How    have 
1  you  done, 

j   Since  last  we  saw  in  France  ? 
i       Nor.  I  thank  your  grace. 

Healthful ;  and  ever  since  a  fresh  admirer 
Of  what  I  saw  there 

Bvck.  An  untimely  ague 


Stay'd  me  a  prisoner  in  my  chamber,  when 
Those  suns  of  glory,  those  two  lights  of  men. 
Met  in  the  vale  of  Andren. 

Nor.  'Twixt  Guatics  and  Anle  . 

I  was  then  present,  saw  them  salute  on  horseback ; 
Beheld  them,  when  they  lighted,  how  they  clung. 
In  their  embracement,  as  they  grew  together ; 
Which  had  they,  what  foiu-  thron'd  ones  could  have 

weigh'd 
Such  a  compounded  one  ? 

Buck.  All  the  whole  time 

I  waa  my  chamber's  prisoner. 

Nor.  Then  you  lost 

641 


o42 


KING  HENEY    VIII. 


The  view  of  earthly  glory  :  men  might  say, 
Till  this  time,  pomp  wa«  single  ;  but  now  married 
To  one  above  itself.     Each  following  clay 
Became  the  next  day's  master,  till  the  hust 
Made  former  wonders  it"s  ;  to-day  the  French 
All  clinquant,  all  in  gold,  like  heathen  gods, 
Shone  down  the  English  ;  and  to-morrow  they 
Made  Briiain,  India  :  every  man  that  stood 
Show'd  like  a  mine.     Their  dwarfish  pages  were 
As  cherubins,  all  cilt:  the  madams,  too, 
Not  as"d  to  toil,  did  almost  sweat  to  bear 
The  pride  upon  them,  that  their  very  labour 
Was  to  them  as  a  painting  :  now  this  mask 
Was  cried  incomparable  ;  and  the  en.suing  night 
Made  it  a  fool,  and  beggar.     The  two  kings, 
Equal  in  lustre,  were  now  best,  now  worst, 
As  presence  did  present  them  ;  him  in  eye, 
Siill  him  in  praise  :  and,  being  present  both, 
T  was  said,  they  saw  but  one  :  and  no  discerner 
Durst  wag  his  tongue  in  censure.     When  these  suns 
(For  so  they  praise  'em)  by  their  heralds  challeng'd 
The  noble  spirits  to  arms,  they  did  perform 
Beyond  thought's  compass  ;  that  former  fabulous  story, 
Being  now  seen  possible  enough,  got  credit, 
That  Bevis'  was  bcliev'd. 

Buck.  0  !  you  go  far. 

Nor.  As  I  belong  to  worship,  and  affect 
In  honour  hon(\«iy.  the  tract  of  every  thmg 
Would  by  a  good  discourser  lose  some  life. 
Which  action's  self  was  tongue  to.     All  was  royal  : 
To  the  disposing  of  it  nought  rebell'd  ; 
Order  gave  each  thing  view. 

Bvck.  The  office  did 

Distinctly  his  full  function.*     Who  did  guide, 
I  mean,  who  set  the  body  and  the  limbs 
Of  this  great  sport  together,  as  you  guess  ? 

Nor.  One,  certcs,  that  promises  no  element 
In  such  a  business. 

Buck.  I  pray  you,  who,  my  lord  ? 

Nor.  All  this  was  order'd  by  the  good  discretion 
Or  the  right  reverend  cardinal  of  York. 

Buck.  The  devil  speed  him  !  no  man's  pie  is  freed 
From  his  ambitious  finger.     What  had  he 
To  do  in  these  fierce  vanities  ?     I  wonder. 
That  such  a  keech'  can,  with  his  very  bulk. 
Take  up  the  rays  o'  the  beneficial  sun, 
\nd  keep  it  from  the  earth. 

Nor.  Surely,  sir. 

There  's  in  him  stuff  that  puts  him  to  these  ends  ; 
For,  being  not  propp'd  by  ancestry,  whose  grace 
Chalks  succes.s<irs  their  way,  nor  call'd  upon 
For  high  feats  done  to  the  crown  ;  neither  allied 
To  eminent  assistants,  but,  spider-like, 
Out  of  his  self-drawing  web,  he*  gives  us  note, 
The  force  of  his  ovv-n  merit  makes  his  way  ; 
A  gift  that  heaven  gives  him,  and  which  buys 
A  place  next  to  the  king. 

Aber.  I  cannot  tell 

What  heaven  hath  given  him  :  let  some  graver  eye 
Pierce  into  that :  but  I  can  see  his  pride 
Peep  through  each  part  of  him  :  whence  has  he  that  ? 
If  not  from  hell,  the  devil  is  a  niggard  : 
Or  has  given  all  before,  and  he  begins 
A  new  hell  in  himself. 

Buck.  Why  the  devil, 

Upon  this  French  going-out.  took  he  upon  him, 
(Without  the  privity  o'  the  kins)  t'  appoint 
Who  should  attend  on  him  ?     He  makes  up  the  file 


Of  all  the  gentry  ;  for  the  most  part  such 
Too,*  whom  as  great  a  charge  as  little  honour 
He  meant  to  lay  upon  :  and  his  own  letter, 
The  honourable  board  of  council  out, 
Must  fetch  him  in  the  papers. 

Aber.  I  do  know 

Kinsmen  of  mine,  three  at  the  least,  that  have 
By  this  so  sicken'd  their  estates,  that  nev.er 
They  shall  abound  as  formerly. 

Buck.  0  !  many 

Have  broke  their  backs,  with  laying  manors  on  '.bem 
For  this  great  journey.     What  did  this  vanity. 
But  minister  the  consummation'  of 
A  most  poor  issue  ? 

Nor.  Grievingly  I  think, 

The  peace  between  the  French  and  us  not  values 
The  cost  that  did  conclude  it. 

Buck.  Every  man, 

After  the  hideous  storm  that  followed,  was 
A  thing  inspir'd  :  and,  not  consulting,  broke 
Into  a  general  prophecy. — that  this  tempest, 
Dashing  the  garment  of  this  peace,  abodcd 
The  sudden  breach  on  't. 

Nor.  'Wliich  is  budded  out ; 

For  France  hath  flaw'd  the  league,  and  hath  atiach'd  • 
Our  merchants'  goods  at  Bordeaux. 

Aber.  Is  it  therefore 

Th'  ambassador  is  silenc'd  ? 

Nor.  Marry,  is"t. 

Aber.  A  proper  title  of  peace,  and  purchas"d 
At  a  superfluous  rate. 

!      Buck.  \Vhy,  all  this  business 

Our  reverend  cardinal  carried. 

Nor.  'Like  it  your  grac«, 

The  state  takes  notice  of  the  private  difference 
Betwixt  you  and  the  cardinal.     I  advi.se  you. 
(And  take  it  from  a  heart  that  wishes  towards  you 
Honour  and  plenteous  safety)  that  you  read 
The  cardinal's  malice  and  his  potency 
Together  :  to  consider  farther,  that 
What  his  hiah  hatred  would  effect  wants  not 
<  A  minister  in  his  power.     You  know  his  nature, 
:  That  he  's  revengeful  ;  and.  I  know,  his  sword 
i  Hath  a  sharp  edge  :  it 's  long,  and  'i  may  be  said, 
It  reaches  far  ;  and  where  't  will  not  extend. 
Thither  he  darts  it.     Bosom  up  my  counsel ; 
You  '11  find  it  wholesome.     Lo  !  where  comes  that  rock. 
That  1  advise  your  shiinninu. 
Enter  Cardinal  Wolsf.y  (the  Purse  borne  before  him) 

cetiuin    of    the    Guard,    and    two    Secretaries    wvk 

Papers.     The  Cardinal  in  his  passage  fiicth  his  eye 

on  BrcKiNOHAM,  and  Bickingham  on  him.  both  full 

of  di.idain. 

Wol.  The  duke  of  Buckingham's  surveyor  ?  ha  ! 
Where  's  his  examination  ? 

1  Seer.  Here,  so  please  you. 

Wol.  Is  he  in  person  ready  ? 

1  Seer.  Ay.  please  your  grace 

Wnl.  Well,  we  .shall  then  know  more;  and   Buck 
insham 
Shall  lessen  this  big  look.  [Ereimt  Woi.skv,  and  Train 
I      Buck.  This  butchers  cur  is  venom-mouth'd.  and  J 
I  Have  not  the  power  to  muzzle  him  ;  therefore,  be.«l 
'  Not  wake  him  in  his  slumber.     A  beggars  brood' 
Out-worths  a  noble's  blood. 

i      iVw.  What,  are  you  chaf'd? 

Ask  God  for  temperance  ;  that  's  th'  ap|)iiance  only, 
'  Which  your  disease  requires. 


•  Of  Southampton,  the  hero  of  an  old  romance.     »  This  sentence  U  assigned  to  Norfolk,  in  f.  e.     'A  ball  of  fat,  rolled  up  by  bntcberi 
'  O  :  in  l>lio.     Steerens  made  the  change.      •  To  :  in  folio  ;  which  Knight  retains.     •  minister  communiration  •  in  f.  e      '  book  :  in  f.  e.  .- 


3CKNE  II. 


KING   HENKY   VIII. 


543 


Btick.  I  read  in  's  looks 

Matter  against  me  ;  and  his  eye  revird 
Me,  as  his  abject  object :  at  this  instant 
He  bores  me  with  some  trick.     He 's  gone  t'  the  king  : 
'11  follow,  and  out-stare  him 
Nor.  Stay,  my  lord, 

A.nd  let  your  reason  with  your  choler  question 
What  't  is  you  go  about.     To  climb  steep  hills. 
Requires  slow  pace  at  first :  anger  is  like 
A  full-hot  horse,  who  being  allow'd  his  way, 
Self-mettle  tires  him.     Not  a  man  in  England 
Can  advise  me  like  you  :  be  to  yourself, 
As  you  would  to  your  friend. 

Buck.  I  '11  to  the  king ; 

And  from  a  mouth  of  honoua^  quite  cry  down 
This  Ipswich  fellow's  insolence,  or  proclaim 
There 's  difference  in  no  persons. 

Nor.  Be  ad\as'd; 

Heat  not  a  furnace  for  your  foe  so  hot 
That  it  do  singe  yourself  :  we  may  outrun 
By  violent  swiftness  that  which  we  run  at. 
And  Ivjse  by  over-runmng.     Know  you  not, 
The  fire  that  mounts  ihe  liquor  till  't  run  o'er, 
In  seeming  to  augment  it  wastes  it  ?     Be  advis'd  : 
[•say  again,  there  is  no  English  soul 
More  stronger  to  direct  you  than  yourself, 
If  with  the  sa]j  of  reason  you  would  quench, 
Or  but  allay,  the  fire  of  passion. 

Buck.  Sir, 

I  am  thankful  to  you,  and  I  '11  go  along 
By  your  prescription  ;  but  this  top-proud  fellow, 
Wliom  from  the  flow  of  gall  I  name  not,  but 
From  sincere  motions,  by  intelligence. 
And  proofs  as  clear  as  founts  in  July,  when 
We  see  each  grain  of  gravel,  I  do  know 
To  be  corrupt  and  treasonous. 

Nor.  Say  not,  treasonsus. 

Buck.  To  the  king  I  'II  say  't,  and  make  my  vouch 
as  strong 
As  shore  of  rock.     Attend  :  this  holy  fox, 
Or  wolf,  or  both,  (for  he  is  equal  ravenous, 
As  he  is  subtle,  and  as  prone  to  mischief. 
As  able  to  perform  't,  his  mind  and  place 
Infecting  one  another,  yea,  reciprocally) 
Only  to  show  his  pomp,  as  well  in  France 
As  here  at  home,  suggests  the  king,  our  master. 
To  this  last  costly  treaty,  th'  interview 
That  swallow'd  so  much  treasure,  and  like  a  glass 
Did  break  i'  the  rinsing. 

Nor.  Faith,  and  so  it  did. 

Buck.    Pray,  give   me    favour,  sir.      This    cunning 
cardinal 
The  articles  o'  the  combination  drew. 
As  himself  pleas'd  ;  and  they  were  ratified, 
J    As  he  cried,  "  Thus  let  be,"  to  as  much  end. 
;    As  give  a  crutch  t'  the  dead.     But  our  count-cardinal 

Has  done  this,  and  't  is  well  ;  for  worthy  Wolsey, 
:    Wlu)  cannot  err,  he  did  i-t.     Now  this  follows, 
I    (Which^  as  I  take  it,  is  a  kind  of  puppy 
j   To  the  old  dam,  treason)  Charles  the  emperor, 
'    Under  pretence  to  see  the  queen,  his  aunt. 
(For  't  was,  indeed,  ♦lis  colour,  but  he  came 
To  whisper  Wolsey)  here  makes  visitation  : 
His  fears  were,  that  the  interview  betwixt 
',   England  and  France  might,  through  their  amity, 
'    Breed  him  some  prejudice  ;  for  from  this  league, 
Peep'd  harms  that  menac'd  him.     He  privily 
Deals  \sith  our  cardinal,  and,  as  I  trow. 
Which  I  do  well  ;  for,  I  am  sure,  the  emperor 
I  Paid  ere  he  promis'd,  whereby  his  .suit  was  granted. 


Ere  it  was  ask'd :  but  when  the  way  was  made, 
And  pav'd  with  gold,  the  emperor  thus  desir'd : — 
That  he  would  plea.se  to  alter  the  king's  course, 
And  break  the  foresaid  peace.     Let  the  king  know, 
(As  soon  he  shall  by  me)  that  thus  the  cardinal 
Does  buy  and  sell  his  honour  as  he  pleases. 
And  for  his  own  advantage. 

Nor.  I  am  sorry 

To  hear  this  of  him  :  and  could  wish  he  were 
Something  mistaken  in't. 

Buck.  No,  not  a  syllable  : 

I  do  pronounce  him  in  that  very  shape, 
He  shall  appear  in  proof. 

Er}ter  Brandon  ;   a  Sergeant  at  Arms  before  him.  ana 
two  or  three  of  the   Guard. 

Bran.  Your  office,  sergeant ;  execute  it. 

Serg.  Sir. 

My  lord  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  and  earl 
Of  Hereford,  Stafford,  and  Northampton,  I 
Arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  in  the  name 
or  our  most  sovereign  king. 

Buck.  Lo,  you,  my  lord  ! 

The  net  has  fall'n  upon  me  :  I  shall  perish 
Under  device  and  practice. 

Bran.  I  am  sorry 

To  see  you  ta'en  from  liberty,  to  look  on 
The  business  present.     'T  is  his  highness'  pleasure, 
You  shall  to  the  Tower. 

Buck.  It  will  help  me  nothing 

To  plead  mine  innocence ;  for  that  die  is  on  me, 
Which   makes   my  whit'st  part  black.      The  will  of 

heaven 
Be  done  in  this  and  all  things. — I  obey. — 

0  !  my  lord  Abergan'y,  fare  you  well. 

Bran.  Nay,  he  must  bear  you  company. — The  king 
[To  Abergavenn-v 
Is  pleas'd  you  shall  to  the  Tower,  till  you  know 
How  he  determines  farther. 

Aher.  As  the  duke  said, 

The  will  of  heaven  be  done,  and  the  king's  pleasure 
By  me  obey'd. 

Bran.  Here  is  a  warrant  from 

Ttie  king  t'  attach  lord  Montacute ;  and  the  bodies 
Of  the  duke's  confessor,  John  de  la  Car, 
And  Gilbert  Peck,  his  chancellor. — 

Buck.  So,  so ; 

These  are  the  limbs  o'  the  plot. — No  more.  I  hope. 

Bran.  A  monk  o'  the  Chartreux. 

Buck.  O!  Nicholas  Hopkins? 

Bran.  He. 

Buck.  My  surveyor  is  false  :  the  o'er-great  cardinal 
Hath  show'd  him  gold.     My  life  is  spanu'd  already  : 

1  am  the  shadow  of  poor  Buckingham, 
Whose  figure  even  this  instant  cloud  puts  on, 
By  darkening  mv  clear  sun. — My  lord,  farewell. 

[Exeuni 

SCENE  II.— The  Council-Chamber. 
Cornets.     Enter  King  Henry,  leaning  on  the  Cardinars 

shoulder;    Wolsey.  the    Lords   of  the  Council.   Sir 

Thomas  Lovell,  Officers.,  Secretary. 

K.  Hen.  My  life  itself,  and  the  best  heart  of  it, 
Thanks  you  for  this  great  care.     I  stood  i'  the  level 
Of  a  full  charg'd  confederacy,  and  sive  thanks 
To  you  that  chok'd  it.— Let  be  call'd  before  us 
That  gentleman  of  Buckingham's  :  in  person 
I  "11  hear  him  his  confessions  justify. 
And  point  by  point  the  treasons  of  his  master 
He  shall  asain  relate. 
The  King  "takes  his  State.     The  Lords  of  the  Council 


544 


KING  HENRY   VIII. 


ACT 


occvpy  their  seiv  ml  Places :  '.he  Cardinal  places  him- 

self  under  the  King's  Feet  on  his  right  Side. 
A  Noise  within,  crying  I\oom  for  the  Queen  !     Enter 

the  Qiteen,  ushered  by  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and 

St'FroLK  :    she   kruels.      Tlie    King    rises   from  his 

State,  lakes  her  up.  kisses  her,  and  places  her  by  him. 

Q.  Kath.  Nay,  we  must  longer  kneel :  I  am  a  suitor. 

A'.  Hen.  Arise,  and  take  place  by  us. — Half  your  suit 
Never  name  to  us  ;  you  have  half  our  power  ; 
The  otlier  moiety,  ere  you  ask,  is  given  ; 
Repeat  your  will,  and  take  it. 

Q.  Kath.  Thank  your  majesty. 

That  you  would  love  yourself,  and  in  that  love 
Not  unconsidered  leave  your  honour,  nor 
The  dignity  of  your  office,  is  the  point 
Of  my  petition. 

K.  Hen.  Lady  mine,  proceed. 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  solicited,  not  by  a  few, 
And  those  of  true  condition,  thac  your  subjects 
Are  in  great  grievance.    There  have  been  commissions 
Sent  down  among  them,  which  hath  flaw'd  the  heart 
Of  all  their  loyalties:  wherein,  although. 
My  good  lord  cardinal,  they  vent  reproaches 
Most  bitterly  on  you,  as  putter-on 
Of  these  exactions,  yet  the  king  our  master. 
Whose  honour  heaven  shield  from  soil !  even  he  escapes 

not 
Language  unmannerly  ;  yea,  such  which  breaks 
The  ties'  of  royalty,  and  almost  appears 
In  loud  rebellion. 

Nor.  Not  almost  appears, 

ft  doth  appear  ;  for  upon  these  taxations, 
The  clothiers  all,  not  able  to  maintain 
The  many  to  them  "longing,  have  put  off 
The  spinsters,  carders,  fullers,  weavers,  who, 
Unfit  for  other  life,  compelFd  by  hunger 
And  lack  of  other  means,  in  desperate  manner 
Daring  th'  event  to  the  teeth,  are  all  in  uproar, 
And  danger  serves  among  them. 

K.  Hen.  Taxation  ! 

Wherein,  and  what  taxation  ? — My  lord  cardmal, 
Vou  that  are  blam'd  for  it  alike  with  us. 
Know  you  of  this  taxation  ? 

Wo/.  Please  you,  sir, 

F  know  but  of  a  single  part,  in  ought 
Pertains  to  the  state  ;  and  front  but  in  that  file 
Where  others  tell  steps  with  me. 

Q.  Kath.  No.  my  lord, 

Vou  know  no  more  than  others ;  but  you  frame 
Things,  that  are  known,  belike',  which  are  not  whole- 
some 
To  those  which  would  not  know  them,  and  yet  must 
Perforce  be  their  acquaintance.     These  exactions, 
Whereof  my  sovereign  would  have  note,  they  are 
Most  pestilent  to  the  hearing;  and.  to  bear  them, 
The  back  is  sacrifice  to  the  load.     They  say. 
They  are  devis'd  by  you.  or  else  you  suffer 
Too  hard  an  exclamation. 

K.  Hen.  Still  exaction  ! 

The  nature  of  it  ?     In  what  kind,  let  'b  know. 
Is  this  exaction? 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  much  too  venturous 

In  tempting  of  your  patience  ;  but  am  bolden'd 
Under  your  promis'd  pardon.     The  subjects'  grief 
Comes  through  commissions,  whicii  compel  from  each 
The  sixth  part  of  his  substance,  to  be  levied  | 

Without  delay  ;  and  the  pretence  for  this 
Ib  nam'd,  your  wars    in    France.     This    makes   bold 
mouths : 


In  :  in  f.  a.      >  alike  : 


{.  t       '  baMnea     in 


Tongues  spit  their  duties  out,  and  cold  hearts  (retTt 

Allegiance  in  them  :  their  cunscs  now. 

Live  where  their  prayers  did  ;  and  it 's  come  to  oas*. 

Their  tractable  obedience  is  a  .slave 

To  each  incensed  will.     I  would,  your  highness 

Would  give  it  quick  consideration,  for 

There  is  no  primer  business.' 

K.  Hen.  By  my  life, 

This  is  against  our  pleasure. 

Jfol.  And  for  me, 

I  have  no  farther  gone  in  this,  than  by 
A  single  voice,  and  that  not  passd  me  but 
By  learned  approbation  of  the  judges.     If  I  am 
Traduc'd  by  ignorant  tong\ies,  which  neither  know 
My  faculties,  nor  person,  yet  will  be 
The  chronicles  of  my  doing,  let  me  say, 
"T  is  but  the  fate  of  place,  and  the  rough  brake 
That  virtue  must  go  through.     We  must  not  stini 
Our  necessary  actions,  in  the  fear 
To  cope  malicious  censurers  ;  which  ever. 
As  ravenous  fishes,  do  a  vessel  follow 
That  is  new  trimm'd,  but  benefit  no  farther 
Than  vainly  longing.     What  we  oft  do  best, 
By  sick  interpreters  (once*  weak  ones)  is 
Not  ours,  or  not  allow'd  ;  what  worst,  as  oft, 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
For  our  best  act.     If  we  shall  stand  still. 
In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mock'd  or  carp'd  at, 
We  should  take  root  here,  where  we  sit.  or  sit 
State  statues  only. 

K.  Hen.  Things  done  well, 

And  with  a  care,  erempt  themselves  from  fear : 
Things  done  without  example,  in  their  issue 
Are  to  be  fear'd.     Have  you  a  precedent 
Of  this  commission?     I  believe,  not  any. 
We  must  not  rend  our  subjects  from  our  laws, 
And  stick  them  in  our  will.     Sixth  part  of  each  ? 
A  trebling*  contribution  !    Why,  we  take. 
From  every  tree,  lop,  bark,  and  part  o'  the  timber  , 
And,  thou2h  we  leave  it  with  a  root,  thus  hack'd. 
The  air  will  drink  the  sap.     To  every  county 
Where  this  is  qucstion'd  send  our  letters,  with 
Free  pardon  to  each  man  that  has  denied 
The  force  of  this  commission.     Pray,  look  to't; 
I  put  it  to  your  care. 

Wol.  A  word  with  you.     [To  the  Secretary 

Let  there  be  letters  -WTit  to  every  shire, 
Of  the  king's  grace  and  pardon.    The  griev'd  common 
Hardly  conceive  of  me  :  let  it  be  noisd. 
That  through  our  intercession  this  revokement 
And  pardon  comes.     I  shall  anon  advise  you 
Farther  in  the  proceeding.  [Exit  Secretary. 

Enter  Surveyor. 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  sorry  that  the  duke  of  B-iokuighara 
Is  one*  in  your  displeasure. 

K.  Hen.  It  grieves  many  : 

The  gentleman  is  leam'd,  and  a  most  rare  speaker: 
To  nature  none  more  bound  ;  his  training  such, 
That  he  may  furnish  and  instruct  great  teachers. 
And  never  seek  for  aid  out  of  himself:  yet  see. 
When  these  so  noble  benefits  shall  prove 
Not  well  disposed,  the  mind  growing  once  corrupt, 
They  turn  to  vicious  forms,  ten  times  more  ugly 
Than  ever  they  were  fair.     This  man  so  complete. 
Who  was  enroil'd  'mongst  wonders,  and  when  we, 
Almost  with  ravish'd  listening,  could  not  find 
His  hour  of  speech  a  minute  ;  he,  my  lady, 
Hath  into  monstrous  habits  put  the  graces 
That  once  were  his,  and  is  become  as  black 
met.      •  tremblini; :  in  f.  e.      •  run  :  i»  f.  e 


1 


SCENE  in. 


KING  HENRY  VIH. 


545 


A.S  if  besmear'd  in  hell.     Sit  by  us  ;  you  shall  hear 
(This  was  his  gentleman  in  trust)  of  him 
Things  to  strike  honour  sad. — Bid  him  recount 
The  fore-recited  practices,  whereof 
We  cannot  feel  too  little,  hear  too  much. 

Wol.  Stand  forth;  and  with  bold  spirit  relate  what 
you. 
Most  like  a  careful  subject,  have  collected 
Out  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  freely. 

Surv.  First,  it  was  usual  with  him,  every  day 
It  would  infect  his  speech,  that  if  the  king 
Should  without  is.-;ue  die,  he  'd'  carry  it  so 
To  make  the  sceptre  his.     These  very  words 
I  've  heard  him  utter  to  his  son-in-law, 
Lord  Aberga'ny,  to  whom  by  oath  he  menac'd 
Revenge  upon  the  cardinal. 

Wol.  Please  your  highness,  note 

This  dangerous  conception  in  this  point. 
Not  friended  by  his  wish,  to  your  high  person 
His  will  is  most  malignant ;  and  it  stretches 
Beyond  you,  to  your  friends. 

Q.  Kath.  My  learn'd  lord  cardinal, 

Deliver  all  with  charity. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  on. 

How  grounded  he  his  title  to  the  crown, 
Upon  our  fail  ?     To  this  point  hast  thou  heard  him 
At  any  time  speak  aught  ? 

Surv.  He  was  brought  to  this 

By  a  vain  prophecy  of  Nicholas  Hopkins. 

K.  Hen.  What  was  that  Hopkins  ? 


It  was  much  like  to  do  :  He  answered,  "  Tush  I 
It  can  do  me  no  damage  :"  adding  farther. 
That  had  the  king  in  his  last  sickness  fail'd. 
The  cardinal's  and  sir  Thomas  Lovell's  heads 
Should  have  gone  off. 

A'.  Hen.  Ha  !  what,  so  rank  ?   Ah.  ha  ! 

There  "s  mischief  in  this  man. — Canst  thou  say  farther  7 

Surv.  I  can,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  Proceed. 

Surv.  Being  at  Greenwic+\, 

After  your  highness  had  reprov'd  the  duke 
About  sir  William  Blomer, — 

A'.  Hen.  I  remember, 

Of  such  a  time :  being  my  sworn  servant. 
The  duke  retain'd  him  his. — But  on  :  what  hence  ? 

Surv.  ''If."   quoth  he,  "I  for  this  had  been  com- 
mitled, 
As,  to  the  Tower,  I  thought,  I  woi;ld  have  play'd 
The  part  my  father  meant  to  act  upon 
Th'  usurper  Richard;  who,  being  at  Salisbury-, 
Made  suit  to  come  in  's  presence^  which  if  granted- 
As  he  made  semblance  of  his  duty,  would 
Have  put  his  knife  into  him." 

A'.  Hen.  A  giant  traitor  ! 

Wol.  Now,  madam,  may  his  highness  live  in  freedom 
And  this  man  out  of  prison? 

Q.  Kath.  God  mend  all  ! 

K.  Hen.  There 's  something  more  would  out  of  thee 
what  say'st  ? 

Surv.  After  ''the  duke  his  father."  with  "the  knfe." 
He  stretch'd  him,  and  witli  one  hand  on  his  dagger, 


Surv.  Sir,  a  Chartreux  friar,  I  Another  .spread  on's  breast,  mounting  his  eyes 

His  confessor ;  who  fed  him  every  minute  |  He  did  discharge  a  horrible  oath ;  whose  tenor 

With  words  of  sovereignty,  j  Was, — were  he  evil  us'd,  he  would  out-go 


K.  Hen.  How  know'st  thou  this  ? 

Surv.  Not  long  before  your  highness  sped  to  France, 
The  duke  being  at  the  Rose,  within  the  parish 
Saint  Lawrence  Poultney,  did  of  me  demand 
What  was  the  speech  among  the  Londoners 
Concerning  the  French  journey?     I  replied, 
Men  fear'd  the  French  would  prove  perfidious. 
To  the  king's  danger.     Presently  the  duke 
Said,  't  was  the  fear,  indeed ;  and  that  he  doubted, 
'T  would  prove  the  verity  of  certain  words 
Spoke  by  a  holy  monk ;  "  that  oft,"  says  he, 
'"Hath  sent  to  me,  wishing  me  to  permit 
John  de  la  Car,  my  chaplain,  a  choice  hour 
To  hear  from  him  a  m.atter  of  some  moment : 
Whom  after,  under  the  confession's  seal. 
He  solemnly  had  sworn,  that  what  he  spoke 
My  chaplain  to  no  creature  living,  but 
To  me,  should  utter,  with  demure  confidence 
This  pausingly  ensu'd. — Neither  the  king,  nor  's  heir, 
(Tell  you  the  duke)  shall  prosper  :  bid  him  strive 
To  gain  the  love  o'  the  commonalty :  the  duke 
Shall  govern  England. 

Q.  Kath.  If  I  know  you  well, 

You  were  the  duke's  surveyor,  and  lost  your  office 
On  the  complaint  o'  the  tenants.     Take  good  heed, 
You  charge  not  in  your  spleen  a  noble  person, 
And  spoil  your  nobler  soul :  I  say,  take  heed  ; 
Yes.  heartily  beseech  you. 

K.  Hen.  Let  him  on. — 

Go  forward. 

Surv.  On  my  soul,  I  '11  speak  but  truth. 

I  told  my  lord  the  duke,  by  the  devil's  illusions 
The  monk  might  be  deceiv'd  ;  and  that  'twas  dangerous 
From  this  to  ruminate  on  it  so  far.  until 
ft  forg'd  him  some  design,  which,  being  believ'd. 


His  father,  by  as  much  as  a  performance 
Does  an  irresolute  purpose. 

K.  Hen.  There  's  his  period, 

To  sheathe  his  knife  in  us. — He  is  attach'd  ; 
Call  him  to  present  trial :  if  he  may 
Find  mercy  in  the  law,  't  is  his  :  if  none. 
Let  him  not  seek't  of  us.     By  day  and  night. 
He  is  a  daring  traitor  to  the  height.'  [Exetinf. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain.,  and  Lord  Sands. 

Cham.  Is 't  possible,  the  spells  of  France  should  juggle 
Men  into  such  strange  mysteries  ? 

Sands.  New  customs, 

Though  they  be  never  so  ridiculous. 
Nay,  let  'em  be  unmanly,  yet  are  foUow'd. 

Cham.  As  far  as  I  see,  all  the  good  our  English 
Have  got  by  the  late  voyage  is  but  merely 
A  fit  or  two  o'  the  face  ;  but  they  are  shrewd  ones, 
For  when  they  hold  'em.  you  would  swear  directly, 
Their  very  noses  had  been  counsellors 
To  Pepin  or  Clotharius,  they  keep  state  so. 

Sands.  They  have  all  new  legs,  and  lame  ones  :  on 
would  take  it. 
That  never  saw  'em  pace  before,  the  spavin, 
Or  springhalt  reign'd  among  them. 

Cham.  Death  !  my  lord, 

Their  clothes  are  after  such  a  pagan  cut  too, 
That,  sure,  they've  worn  out  Clirisiendom. — Howno\>  I 
What  news,  Sir  Thomas  Lovell  ? 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 

Lov.  'Faith,  my  lord, 

I  hear  of  none,  but  the  new  proclamation 
That 's  clapp'd  upon  the  court-gate. 

Cham.  What  is 't  for? 


he  '11 :  in  folio 
2K 


The  chiings  -wa*  made  by  Kc 


^  He  's  traitor  to  the  height .  in  f.  e. 


t; 


5A6 


KING  HENRY  VIE. 


ACT   I. 


Lov    The  reformation  of  our  travell'd  gallants, 
That  fill  the  court  vrilh  quarrels,  talk,  and  tailors. 

Cham.  I  am  glad  't  is  there  :  now,  I  woum  pray  our 
mon.sieurs 
To  think  an  Ensli-^h  courtier  may  be  wise, 
And  never  see  the  Louvre. 

Lov.  They  must  either 

(For  BO  run  the  conditions)  leave  those  remnants 
Of  fool,  and  feather,  that  they  got  in  France, 
With  all  their  lionourable  points  of  ignorance 
Pertaining  thereunto,  as  fights  and  fireworks  ; 
Abusing  better  men  than  they  can  be, 
Out  of  a  foreign  wisdom  ;  renouncing  clean 
The  faith  they  have  in  tenni.«,  and  tall  stockings. 
Short  blisterM  breeches,  and  those  types  of  travel, 
And  understand  again  like  honest  men, 
Or  pack  to  their  old  playfellows  ;  there,  I  take  it 
They  may,  cum  privilegio.  wear  away 
The  lag  end  of  their  lewdness,  and  be  laugh'd  at. 

Sands.  "T  is  time  to  give  "em  physic,  their  diseases 
Aire  grown  so  catching. 

Cham.  What  a  loss  our  ladies 

Will  have  of  these  trim  vanities. 

Lov.  Ay,  marry. 

There  will  be  woe  indeed,  lords  :  the  sly  whoresons 
Have  got  a  speeding  trick  to  lay  down  ladies; 
A  French  .«ong  and  a  fiddle  have  no  fellow. 

Sands.  The  devil  fiddle  them  !  I  am  glad  they  're  going, 
For,  sure,  there  "s  no  converting  of  them  :  now, 
An  honest  country-  lord,  as  I  am,  beaten 
A  long  time  out  of  play,  may  bring  hia  plain-song. 
And  have  an  hour  of  hearing,  and  by'r-lady, 
Held  current  music  too. 

Cham.  Well  said,  lord  Sands: 

Your  colt's  tooth  is  not  cast  yet. 

Sands.  No,  my  lord ; 

Nor  shall  not.  while  I  have  a  stump. 

Cham.  Sir  Thomas, 

Whither  were  you  a  going  ? 

Lov.  To  the  cardinal's. 

Vour  lordship  is  a  guest  too. 

Cham.  0  !  't  is  true  : 

This  night  he  makes  a  supper,  and  a  great  one, 
To  many  lords  and  ladies  :  there  will  be 
The  beauty  of  this  kingdom,  I  '11  assure  you. 

Lov.  That  churchman  bears  a  bounteous  mind  indeed  ; 
A  hand  as  fruitful  as  the  land  that  feeds  us  : 
His  dews  fall  every  where. 

Cham.  No  doubt,  he  's  noble  ; 

He  had  a  black  mouth  that  said  other  of  him. 

Sands.  He  may,  my  lord,  he  has  wherewithal  :  in  him. 
Sparing  would  show  a  worse  sin  than  ill  doctrine. 
Wen  of  his  sway'  ahould  be  most  liberal ; 
They  are  sent*  here  for  examples. 

Cham.  True,  they  are  so ; 

But  few  now  give  so  great  ones.     My  barge  stays ; 
Your  lordship  shall  alonL'. — Come,  good  sir  Thomas. 
We  shall  be  late  else  ;  which  I  would  not  be. 
For  I  was  spoke  to,  with  sir  Henry  Guildford, 
This  night  to  be  comptrollers. 

Sands.  I  am  your  lord.ship's.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Presence-Chamber  in  York-Place. 

Hautboyx.  A  .small  Table  under  a  State  for  the  Cardinal, 
a  longer  Table  for  the  Guests  ;  then  enter  Anne  Bul- 
LKN,  and  divers  Lords,  Lfulies,  arul  Gentlewomen,  as 
Guests,  at  one  door  ;  at  another  door,  enter  Sir  Henry 
Guildford. 
Guild.  Ladies,  a  general  welcome  from  his  grace 

'  wiy  :  in  f.  <».      >  let :  in  f  t.      '  StioII  pieeei  of  ordnanet. 


Salutes  ye  all :  this  night  he  dedicates 

To  fair  content,  and  you.     None  here,  he  hopes, 

In  all  this  noble  bevy,  has  brought  with  her 

One  care  abroad:  he  would  have  all  as  merry 

As,  first,  good  company,  good  wine,  good  welcome 

Can  make  good  people. — 0,  my  lord  !  y'  are  tardy ; 

Ejitcr  Lord  Chamberlain,  Lord  Sands,  and  Sir  Thomas 

LOVELI.. 

The  very  thought  of  this  fair  company 
Clapp'd  wings  to  me. 

Cham.  You  are  young,  sir  Harry  Guild  for* 

Sands.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  had  the  cardinal 
But  half  my  lay-thoughts  in  him,  some  of  these 
Should  find  a  running  banquet  ere  they  rested, 
I  think,  would  better  please  'em  :  by  my  life, 
They  are  a  sweet  society  of  fair  ones. 

Lov.  0  !  that  your  lordship  were  but  now  confessor 
To  one  or  two  of  these. 

Sands.  I  would,  I  were ; 

They  should  find  easy  penance. 

Lov.  Faith,  how  easy  ? 

Sands.  As  easy  as  a  down-bed  would  afford  it. 

Cham.  Sweet  ladies,  will  it  please  you  sit?  Sir  Harry. 
Place  you  that  side,  I  '11  take  the  charge  of  this. 
His  grace  is  entering. — Nay,  you  must  not  freeze; 
Two  women  plac'd  together  makes  cold  weather: — 
My  lord  Sands,  you  are  one  will  keep  'em  waking  ; 
Pray,  sit  between  these  ladies. 

Sands.  By  my  faith, 

And  thank  your  lordship. — By  your  leave,  sweet  ladies  : 
[Seats  himself  between  Anne  BvLJ^t^a  and  another  Lady. 
If  I  chance  to  talk  a  little  wild,  forgive  me ; 
I  had  it  from  my  father. 

Anne.  Was  he  mad.  sir  ? 

Sands.  0  !  very  mad,  exceeding  mad  ;  in  love  too  ; 
But  he  would  bite  none  :  just  as  I  do  now. 
He  would  kiss  you  twenty  with  a  breath.    [Kissesher. 

Cham.  Well  said,  my  lord. — 

So,  now  you  are  fairly  seated — Gentlemen, 
The  penance  lies  on  you,  if  these  fair  ladies 
Pass  away  frowning. 

Sands.  For  my  little  cure, 

Let  me  alone. 

Hautboys.     Enter  Cardinal  Wolset,  attended,  and 
takes  his  State. 

Wol.  Y'  are  welcome,  my  fair  guests :  that  noble  lady. 
Or  gentleman,  that  is  not  freely  merry, 
Is  not  my  friend.     This,  to  confirm  my  welcome ; 
And  to  you  all  good  health.  [Drinfcy 

Sands.  Your  grace  is  noble  : 

Let  me  have  such  a  bowl  may  hold  my  thanks, 
And  save  me  so  much  talking. 

Wol.  My  lord  Sands, 

I  am  beholding  to  you :  cheer  your  neighbours. — 
Ladies,  you  are  not  merry  : — gentlemen, 
Whose  fault  is  this  ? 

Saruls.  The  red  wine  first  must  ri.^ 

In  their  fair  cheeks,  my  lord;  then,  we  shall  have  'em 
Talk  us  to  silence. 

Anne.  You  are  a  merry  gamester, 

My  lord  Sands. 

Sands.  Yes,  if  I  make  my  play. 

Here  's  to  your  ladyship ;  and  pledge  it,  maxlam, 
For  't  is  to  such  a  thing, — 

Anne.  You  cannot  show  me. 

Sands.  I  told  your  grace  how  they  would  talk  an^n. 

f  Drum  and  Trumpets  within  ;  Chambers'  dischargfl 

Wol.  What  'b  that? 

Cham.  Look  out  there,  some  of  you.    [Exit  a  Servant 


SCENE    I. 


KING  HENRY  VHI. 


647 


Wol.  What  warlike  voice,  I 

And  to  -what  end  is  this? — Nay,  ladies,  fear  not;  ! 

By  all  the  laws  of  war  y'  are  privileg'd. 
Re-enter  Servant. 
Cham.  How  now  !  what  is  't  ? 

Serv.  A  noble  troop  of  strangers. 

For  so  they  seem  :  they  've  left  their  barge,  and  landed  ; 
And  hither  make,  as  great  ambassadors 
From  foreign  princes. 

ff^ol.  Good  lord  chamberlain. 

Go,  give  them  welcome ;    you  can  speak  the  French 

tongue  : 
And,  pray,  receive  them  nobly,  and  conduct  them 
Into  our  presence,  where  this  heaven  of  beauty 
Shall  shine  at  full  upon  them. — Some  attend  him. — 
[Exit  Chamberlain  attended.     All  arise.,  and 
Tables  removed. 
You  have  now  a  broken  banquet ;  but  we  '11  mend  it. 
A  good  digestion  to  you  all ;  and,  once  more, 
I  shower  a  welcome  on  ye. — Welcome  all. 
Hautboys.      Enter  the  King.,  and   others,  as  Maskers, 
habited  like  Shepherds,  ushered  by  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain.     They  pass  directly  before  the  Cardinal,  and 
gracefully  salute  him. 
A  noble  company !  what  are  their  pleasures  ? 

Cham.    Because  they  speak  no  English,  thus  they 
piay'd  me' 

To  tell  your  grace  : — That,  having  heard  by  fame 
Of  this  so  noble  and  so  fair  assembly 
This  night  to  meet  here,  they  could  do  no  less, 
Out  of  the  great  respect  they  bear  to  beauty. 
But  leave  their  flocks,  and  under  your  fair  conduct, 
Crave  leave  to  view  these  ladies,  and  entreat 
An  hour  of  revels  with  them. 

fVol.  Say,  lord  chamberlain. 

They  have  done  my  poor  house  grace ;  for  which  I  pay 

tkem 
A  thousand  thanks,  and  pray  t^iem  take  their  pleasures. 
[Ladies  chosen  for  the  Dance.     The  King 
takes  Anne  Bullen. 
K.  Hen.  The  fairest  hand  I  ever  touch'd.  0,  beauty  ! 
Till  now  I  never  knew  thee.  [Music.     Dance. 

Wol.  My  lord  !— 
Cham.  Your  grace  ? 


Wol.  Pray  tell  them  thus  much  from  me 

There  should  be  one  amongst  them,  by  Ins  person. 
More  worthy  this  place  than  myself ;  to  whom, 
If  I  but  knew  him,  with  my  love  and  duty 
I  would  surrender  it. 

Cham.  [  will,  my  lord. 

[Cham,  whispers  the  Maskers,  and  returns 
Wol.  What  say  they  ? 

Cham.  Such  a  one.  they  all  confeee 

There  is,  indeed  ;  which  they  would  have  your  gract 
Find  out,  and  he  will  take  it. 

Wcrl.  Let  me  see  then.     [Comes  from  his  Statt. 

By  your  good  leaves,  gentlemen,  here  I  '11  make 
My  royal  choice. 

K.  Hen.  You  have  found  him,  cardinal.  [Unmasking. 
You  hold  a  fair  assembly:  you  do  well,  lord: 
You  are  a  churchman,  or,  I  '11  tell  you,  cardinal, 
I  should  judge  now  unhappily. 

Wol.  I  am  glad, 

Your  grace  is  growTi  so  pleasant. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  chamberlain, 

Pr'ythee,  come  hither.     What  fair  lady 's  that  ? 

Cham.  An  't  please  your  grace,  sir  Thomas  Bullen's 
daughter, — 
The  viscount  Rochford, — one  of  her  highness'  women. 
K.  Hen.  By  heaven,  she  is  a  dainty  one. — Sweetheart., 
I  were  unmannerly  to  take  you  out, 
And  not  to  kiss  you. — [Kissesher.y  Ahealth,  gentlemen" 
Let  it  go  round. 

Wol.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  is  the  banquet  ready 
I'  the  privy  chamber  ? 

Lov.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Wol.  Your  grace, 

I  fear,  with  dancing  is  a  little  heated. 
K.  Hen.  I  fear,  too  much. 

Wol.  There 's  fresher  air,  my  lord. 

In  the  next  chamber. 

K.  Hen.   Lead   in   your  ladies,  every  one. — Sweet 
I  must  not  yet  forsake  you. — Let's  be  merry :  [partner, 
Good  my  lord  cardinal :  I  have  half  a  dozen  healths 
To  drink  to  these  fair  ladies,  and  a  measure 
To  lead  them  once  again;  and  then  let 's  dream 
Who  's  best  in  favour. — Let  the  music  knock  it. 

[Exeunt,  with  Trumpets 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  L— A  Street. 
Enter  two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

1  Gent,  Whither  away  so  fast  ? 

2  Gent.  0  ! — God  save  you. 
E'en  to  the  hall,  to  hear  what  shall  become 

Of  the  great  duke  of  Buckingham. 

1  Gent.  I  '11  save  you 
That  labour,  sir.     All 's  now  done,  but  the  ceremony 
-Of  bringiag  back  the  prisoner. 

2  Gent.  Were  you  there  ? 

1  Gent.  Y'es,  indeed,  was  L 

2  Gent.  Pray,  speak  what  has  happen'd. 

1  Gent.  You  may  guess  quickly  what. 

2  Gent.  Is  he  found  guilty  ? 

1  Gent.  Yes,  truly  is  he,  and  condemn'd  upon  it. 

2  Gent.  I  am  sorry  for  't. 

1  Gent.  So  are  a  number  more. 

2  Gent.  But,  pray,  how  pass'd  it  ? 

■TM«irordiiDotin  f.  e.     •  Not  in  f.  a. 


1  Gent.  I  '11  tell  you  in  a  little.     The  great  duke 
Came  to  the  bar;  where,  to  his  accusations 

He  pleaded  still  not  guilty,  and  alleged 

Many  sharp  reasons  to  defeat  the  law. 

The  king's  attorney,  on  the  contrary, 

Urg'd  on  the  examinations,  proofs,  confessions 

Of  divers  witnesses,  which  the  duke  desir  d 

To  have  brought,  viva  voce,  to  his  face  : 

At  which  appeared  against  him.  his  surveyor ; 

Sir  Gilbert  Peck  his  chancellor ;  and  John  Car, 

Confessor  to  him  ;  with  that  devil-monk, 

Hopkins,  that  made  this  mischief. 

2  Gent.  That  wa«  he. 
That  fed  him  with  his  prophecies  ? 

1  Gent.  The  same. 

All  these  accus'd  him  strongly ;  which  he  fain 
Would  have  flung  from  him,  but,  indeed,  he  could  not 
And  so  his  peers,  upon  this  evidence, 
Have  found  him  guilty  of  high  treason.     Much 


548 


KING  HENRY   VIE. 


ACT  n. 


He  spoke,  and  learnedly,  for  life  ;  but  all 
W«j8  either  pitied  in  him.  or  forjiotten. 

2  Gent.  After  all  this,  how  did  he  bear  himself? 

1  Genl.  When  he  was  brought  again  to  the  bar,  to 

hear 
His  knell  rung  out.  his  judgment,  he  was  stirred 
With  such  an  agony,  !ic  sweat  extremely. 
And  sonietliing  8|)okc  in  choler.  ill,  and  hasly  : 
But  he  fell  to  liimself  again,  and  sweetly 
In  all  the  rest  show'd  a  most  noble  patience. 

2  Gent.  I  do  not  think,  he  fears  death.  j 

1  Genl.  Sure,  he  does  not : 
He  wa."?  ucv-er  so  womanish  :  the  cause 

He  may  a  little  grieve  at. 

2  Gent.  Certainly. 
The  cardinal  is  the  end  of  this. 

1  Gent.  'T  is  likely 
By  all  conjectures :  first,  Kildare's  attainder. 
Then  deputy  of  Ireland  :  who  remov"d. 

Karl  Surrey  wa.s  sent  thither,  and  in  haste  too. 
Lest  he  should  help  his  father. 

2  Gent.  That  trick  of  state 
Was  a  dceji  envious  one. 

1  Gent.  At  his  return, 
No  doubt,  he  will  requite  it.     This  is  noted, 
And  generally  : — whoever  the  king  favours, 
The  cardinal  in.^tantly  will  find  employment. 
And  far  enough  from  court  too. 

2  Gent.  All  the  commons 
Hate  him  perniciously,  and.  o'  my  conscience. 
Wish  him  ten  fathom  deep :  this  duke  as  much 
They  love  and  dote  on ;  call  him.  bounteous  Bucking- 
ham, 

The  mirror  of  all  courtesy — 

1  Geiit.  Stay  there,  sir; 
And  see  the  noble  ruin'd  man  yon  speak  of. 

Enter  Bickixgu.\m  from  hi.<;  Arraignment ;  Tipstaves 
before  him;  the  Axe  with  the  edse  toivards  him; 
Halberds  on  each  side  :  accompanied  with  Sir  Thomas 
LovELL.  Sir  Nicholas  Vaux,  Sir  William  Sands, 
and  common  People. 

2  Gent.  Let  's  stand  close,  and  behold  him. 

Buck.  AH  good  people. 

You  that  thus  far  have  come  to  pity  me. 
Hear  what  I  saj'.  and  then  go  home  and  lose  me. 
I  have  this  day  receiv'd  a  traitor's  judgment. 
And  by  that  name  must  die  :  yet.  heaven  bear  witness, 
And  if  I  Ijavc  a  conscience  let  it  sink  me. 
Even  as  the  axe  falls,  if  I  be  not  faithful. 
The  law  I  bear  no  malice  for  my  death, 
It  has  done  upon  the  premises  but  justice  : 
But  tho.'^e  that  sought  it  I  could  wish  more  Christians: 
Be  what  they  will,  I  heartily  forgive  them. 
Yet  let  them  look  they  glory' not  in  mij^chief, 
Nor  build  their  e\-ils  on  the  graves  of  great  men  : 
F«r  then  my  guiltless  blood  must  cry  against  them. 
For  farther  life  in  this  world  I  ne'er  hope. 
Nor  will  I  sue,  althouirh  tlif  king  have  mercies 
More  than  I  dare  make  faults.     You  few  that  lov'd  me, 
And  dare  be  bold  to  weep  for  Buckingham. 
His  noble  friends  and  fellows,  whom  to  leave 
l.s  only  bitter  to  him,  only  dying. 
Go  ^^-ith  me,  like  good  angels,  to  my  end  : 
And,  as  the  long  divorce  of  steel  falls  on  me. 
Make  of  vour  prayers  one  sweet  sacrifice. 
And  lift  my  soul  to  heaven. — Lead  on.  o'  God's  name. 

Lov.  I  do  beseech  your  grace,  for  charity, 
If  ever  any  malice  in  your  heart 
Were  liid  against  me,  now  to  forgive  me  frankly. 

■  vhera  *  is  f.  »• 


Buck.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  I  a.s  free  forgive  you, 
As  I  would  be  forgiven  :  I  forgive  all : 
There  cannot  be  those  numberless  offences 
'Gainst  me,  that  I  cannot  take  peace  with :  no  black 

envy 
Shall  make  my  grave.     Commend  me  to  his  grace  ; 
And.  if  he  ."speak  of  Buckingham,  pray,  tell  him, 
Yc*i  met  him  half  in  heaven.     My  vows  and  prayers 
Yet  are  the  king's  ;  and.  till  my  soul  forsake. 
Shall  cry  for  blessings  on  him  :  may  he  live 
Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years. 
Ever  bclov'd.  and  loving,  may  his  rule  be: 
And  when  old  time  shall  lead  him  to  his  end, 
Goodness  and  he  fill  up  one  monument ! 

Lov.  To  the  water  side  I  must  conduct  your  grace, 
Then,  give  my  charge  up  to  Sir  Nicholas  Vaux, 
Who  undertakes  you  to  your  end. 

Vaux.  Prepare  there  I 

The  duke  is  coming :  see,  the  barge  be  ready  ; 
And  fit  it  with  such  furniture,  as  suits 
The  greatness  of  his  person. 

Buck.  Nay.  sir  Nicholas, 

Let  it  alone :  my  state  now  will  but  mock  me. 
When  I  came  hither  I  was  lord  high  constable. 
And  duke  of  Buckingham  :  now.  poor  Edward  Bohun 
Yet  I  am  richer  than  my  base  accusers, 
j  That  never  knew  what  truth  meant.     I  now  seal  it : 
'  And  wnth  that  blood  wiU  one  day  make  them  groan  for\ 
I  My  noble  father,  Henry  of  Buckingham. 
j  Who  first  rais'd  head  against  usiu-ping  Richard. 
]  Flying  for  succour  to  his  servant  Banister, 
I  Being  distress'd,  was  by  that  -sATctch  bctray'd, 
I  And  without  trial  fell :  God's  peace  be  "w-ith  him  ! 
I  Henry  the  seventh  succeeding,  truly  pitying 
i  My  father's  loss,  like  a  most  royal  prince, 
I  Bestor'd  me  to  my  honours,  and  out  of  ruins 
Made  my  name  once  more  noble.     Now,  his  son. 
Henry  the  eighth,  life,  honour,  name,  and  all 
That  made  me  happy,  at  one  stroke  has  taken 
For  ever  from  the  world.     I  had  my  trial. 
And,  must  needs  say,  a  noble  one  ;  which  makes  m^ 
A  little  happier  than  my  wretched  father; 
Yet  thus  far  we  arc  one  in  fortunes, — both 
Fell  by  our  servants,  by  those  men  we  lov'd  most  : 
A  most  unnatural  and  faithless  service. 
Heaven  has  an  end  in  all ;  yet,  you  that  hear  me. 
This  from  a  dying  man  receive  as  certain: 
Where  you  are  liberal  of  your  loves  and  counsels. 
Be  sure,  you  be  not  loose ;  for  those  you  make  friends 
And  give  your  hearts  to.  when  they  once  perceive 
The  least  rub  in  your  fortunes,  fall  away 
Like  water  from  ye,  never  found  again 
But  when'  they  mean  to  sink  ye.     All  good  people. 
Pray  for  me.     I  must  now  forsake  ye :  the  last  hour 
Of  my  long  weary  life  is  come  upon  me. 
Farewell :  and  when  you  would  say  something  that  it 

sad. 
Speak  how  I  fell. — I  have  done,  and  God  forgive  nie 
[ExetiJit  BrcKiNGHAM,  Ife 

1  Gent.  O  !  this  is  full  of  pity. — Sir.  it  calls. 
1  fear,  too  many  curses  on  their  heads 

That  were  the  authors. 

2  Gent.  If  the  duke  be  guiltless, 
'T  is  full  of  woe :  yet  I  can  give  you  inkling 
Of  an  ensuing  evil,  if  it  fall. 

Greater  than  this. 

1  Gmt.  Good  angels  keep  it  from  us  ! 
What  may  it  be?    You  do  not  doubt  my  faith,  sir 

2  Getit.  This  secret  is  so  weighty,  't  will  require 


i 


II. 


KING  HENRY  Yin. 


549 


i 


A  strong  faith  to  conceal  it. 

1  Gent.  Let  me  have  it : 
I  do  not  talk  much. 

2  Gent.  I  am  confident  : 

Tou  shall,  sir.     Did  you  not  of  late  days  hear 
A  buzzing  of  a  separation 
Between  the  king  and  Katharine  ^ 

1  Gent.  Yes,  but  it  held  not ; 
For  when  the  king  once  heard  it,  out  of  anger 

He  sent  command  to  the  lord  mayor  straight 
To  stop  the  rumour,  and  allay  those  tongues 
That  durst  disperse  it. 

2  Gent.  But  that  slander,  sir, 
Is  found  a  truth  now;  for  it  grows  again 
Fresher  than  e'er  it  was,  and  held  for  certain 
The  king  will  venture  at  it.     Either  the  cardinal, 
Or  some  about  him  near,  have  out  of  malice 

To  the  good  queen  pos.^ess'd  him  with  a  scruple. 
That  will  undo  her  :  to  confirm  this,  too. 
Cardinal  Campeius  is  arriv'd,  and  lately, 
As  all  think,  for  this  business. 

1  Gent.  'T  is  the  cardinal ; 
And  merely  to  revenge  him  on  the  emperor. 

For  not  bestowing  on  him,  at  his  asking, 

The  archbishoprick  of  Toledo,  this  is  purpos'd. 

2  Gent    I  think,  you  have  hit  the  mark :  but  is  't  not 

cruel. 
That  she  should  feel  the  smart  of  this  ?     The  cardinal 
Will  have  his  will,  and  she  must  fall. 

1  Gent.  'T  is  woful. 

We  are  too  open  here  to  argue  this  ; 
Let 's  think  in  private  more.  [Exetint. 

SCENE  IL — An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  reading  a  Letter. 

Cham.  "  My  lord, — The  horses  your  lordship  sent 
for,  with  all  the  care  I  had.  I  saw  well  chosen,  ridden, 
and  furnished.  They  were  young,  and  handsome,  and 
of  the  best  breed  in  the  north.  When  they  were 
ready  to  set  out  for  London,  a  man  of  my  lord  cardi- 
nal's, by  commission  and  main  power,  took  them  from 
me ;  with  this  reason. — his  master  would  be  served 
before  a  subject,  if  not  before  the  king  ;  which  stopped 
our  mouths,  sir." 

I  fear,  he  -^'iill,  indeed.     Well,  let  him  have  them  : 
He  will  have  all,  I  think. 

Enter  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 

Nor.  Well  met,  my  lord  chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  day  to  both  your  graces. 

Suf.  How  is  the  king  employ'd  ? 

Cham.  I  left  liim  private, 

Full  of  sad  thoughts  and  troubles. 

Nor.  What 's  the  cause  ? 

Cham.  It  seems,  the  marriage  with  his  brother's  wife 
Has  crept  too  near  his  conscience. 

Suf.  No  ;  his  conscience 

Has  crept  too  near  another  lady. 

Nor.  'Tis  so. 

ITiis  is  the  cardinal's  doing,  the  king-cardinal  : 
That  blind  priest,  like  the  eldest  son  of  fortune, 
Turns  what  he  list.     The  king  will  know  him  one  day. 

Suf.  IVay  God,  he  do :  he  '11  never  know  himself  else. 

Nor.  How  holily  he  works  in  all  his  business. 
A.nd  with  what  zea^ ;  for,  now  he  has  crack'd  the  league 
Between  us  and  the  emperor,  the  queen's  great  nephew, 
He  dives  into  the  king's  soul ;  and  there  scatters 
Dangers,  doubts,  wringing  of  the  conscience. 
Fears,  and  despairs,  and  all  these  for  his  marriage : 
And.  out  of  al-  these,  to  restore  the  king, 

>  N«t  i«  f.  •. 


He  counsels  a  divorce ;  a  loss  of  her, 
That  like  a  jewel  has  hung  twenty  years 
About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre ; 
Of  her.  that  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good  men  with ;  even  of  her 
That  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls, 
Will  bless  the  king.     And  is  not  this  course  pious  ? 

Cham.  Heaven  keep  me  from  such  counsel !     'T  is 
most  true, 
These  news  are  every  where :  every  tongue  speaks  them, 
And  every  true  heart  weeps  for  't.     All,  that  daro 
Look  into  these  affairs,  see  this  main  end, — 
The  French  king's  sister.     Heaven  will  one  day  open 
The  king's  eyes,  that  have  so  long  slept  upon 
This  bold  bad  man. 

Sttf.  And  free  us  from  his  slavery. 

Nor.  We  had  need  pray. 
And  heartily,  for  our  deliverance. 
Or  this  imperious  man  will  work  us  all 
From  princes  into  pages.     All  men's  honours 
Lie  like  one  lump  before  him,  to  be  fashion'd 
Into  what  pitch  he  please. 

Sitf.  For  me,  my  lords, 

I  love  him  not,  nor  fear  him ;  there  's  my  creed. 
As  I  am  made  without  him,  so  I  '11  stand, 
If  the  king  please  :  his  curses  and  his  blessings 
Touch  me  alike,  they  're  breath  I  not  believe  in. 
I  knew  him,  and  I  know  him  •  so  I  leave  him 
To  him  that  made  him  proud,  the  pope. 

Nor.  Let 's  in, 

And  with  some  other  business  put  the  king 
From  these  sad   thoughts,  that  work  too  much  upon 
My  lord,  you  '11  bear  us  company  ?  [him. — 

Cham.  Excuse  me ; 

The  king  hath  sent  me  other-where  :  besides, 
You  '11  find  a  most  unfit  time  to  disturb  liim. 
Health  to  your  lordships. 

Nor.  Thanks,  my  good  lord  chamberlain. 

[Exit  Lord  Chamberlair^ 

Curtain  drawn :  the  King  is  discovered  sitting,  arul 
reading  pensively. 

Suf.  How  sad  he  looks  :  sure,  he  is  much  afflicted. 

K.  Hen.  Who  is  there  ?  ha! 

Nor.  Pray  God,  he  be  not  angry 

K.  Hen.  Who  's  there,  I  say  ?    How  dare  you  thru.M 
■  yourselves 
Into  my  private  meditations  ? 
Who  am  I  ?  ha  ! 

Nor.  A  gracious  king,  that  pardons  all  offences. 
Malice  ne'er  meant :  our  breach  of  duty  this  way 
Is  business  of  estate,  in  which  we  come 
To  know  your  royal  pleasure 

K.  Hen.  Ye  are  too  bold. 

Go  to  :  I  '11  make  ye  know  your  times  of  business  : 
Is  this  an  hour  for  temporal  affairs  ?  ha  ! — 

[  Raising  his  book  ' 
Enter  Wolsey  and  Campeius. 
WTio  's  there  ?  my  good  lord  cardinal  ? — 0  !  my  Wolsey 
The  quiet  of  my  wounded  conscience  : 
Thou  art  a  cure  fit  for  a  king. — You  're  welcome, 

\T0  C.\MPEIIS 

Most  learned  reverend  sir,  into  our  kingdom  : 

Use  us,  and  it. — Mv  eood  lord,  have  great  care 

I  be  not  found  a  talker.  [To  WoLsir 

Wol.  Sir,  you  cannot. 

I  would,  your  grace  would  give  us  but  an  hour 
Of  private  conference. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  busy ;  go. 

[To  NoRKOLS  and  Suffoli 


550 


KING  HENRY  YUL 


ACT   II. 


Nor.  Tha  prio*t  hon  uo  pride  in  him. 

Suf.  Not  to  speak  of 

T  would  not  be  so  sick  though  lor  his  place 
But  this  caunot  continue.  i-  Aside. 

Ifor.  If  it  do, 

'II  venture  one  heave  at  him. 

Suf.  I  another. 

[Excmit  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 

Wol.  Your  grace  has  given  a  precedent  of  wisdom 

bove  all  princes,  in  committing  freely 
our  scruple  (o  the  voice  of  Christendom. 
Who  can  be  angry  now  ?  what  euvy  reach  you  ? 
The  Spaniard,  tied  by  blood  and  favour  to  her, 
Must  now  confess,  if  they  have  any  goodne.ss, 
The  trial  just  and  noble.     All  the  clerks, 
{  mean  the  learned  ones,  in  Christian  kingdoms 
Have  their  free  voices  :  Rome,  the  nurse  of  judgment. 
Invited  by  your  noble  self,  hath  sent 
One  general  tongue  unto  us,  this  good  man, 
This  just  and  learned  priest.  Cardinal  Campeius; 
Whom  once  more  I  present  unto  your  highness. 

K.  Hen.  And  once  more  in   mine  crms  I  bid  him 
welcome, 
And  thank  the  holy  conclave  for  their  loves  : 
They  have  .'*cnt  me  such  a  man  I  would  have  wish'dfor. 

Cam.  Your  grace  must  needs  deserve  all  strangers' 
loves, 
Vou  are  so  noble.     To  your  highness'  hand 

[Kneeling  and  rising  again.^ 
I  tender  my  commission:  by  whose  virtue, 
(The  court  of  Rome  commanding)  you,  my  lord 
Cardinal  of  York,  are  join'd  with  me.  their  servant, 
In  the  unpartial  judging  of  this  business. 

K.  Hen.  Two  equal  men.     The  queen  shall  be  ac- 
quainted 
Forthwith  for  what  you  came. — Where  's  Gardingr? 

Wol.  I  know,  your  majesty  has  always  lov'd  her 
So  dear  in  heart,  not  to  deny  her  that 
A  woman  of  less  place  might  ask  by  law, 
Scholars,  allow'd  freely  to  argue  for  her. 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  and  the  best,  she  shall  have;  and  my 
favour 
To  him  that  does  best :  God  forbid  else.     Cardinal, 
Pr'ythce,  call  Gardiner  to  me,  my  new  .secretary  : 
I  find  him  a  fit  fellow.  [Exit  Wolsey. 

Re-enter  Wolsey,  viith  Gardiner. 

Wol.  Give  me  your  hand :  much  joy  and  favour  to 
you; 
You  are  the  king's  now. 

Gard.  But  to  be  commanded 

For  ever  by  your  grace,  whose  hand  has  rais'd  me. 

K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  Gardiner. 

[  They  walk  and  whisper. 

Cam.  My  lord  of  York,  was  not  one  doctor  Pace 
n  this  man's  place  before  him  ? 

Wol.  Yes,  he  was. 

Cam.  Was  he  not  held  a  learned  man? 

Wot.  Yes,  surely. 

Cam    Believe  me.  there  's  an  ill  opinion  spread,  then, 
ven  of  youmclf,  lord  cardinal. 

Wol.  How  !  of  me  ? 

Cam.  They  will  not  stick  to  say,  you  envied  him; 
And  fearing  he  would  rise,  he  was  so  virtuous, 
Kept  him  a  foreign  man  still ;  which  so  griev'd  him, 
That  he  ran  mad,  and  died. 

Wol.  Hcaven'.H  peace  be  with  him  ! 

That's  Christian  care  enough  :  for  living  murmurcrs 
There  's  places  of  rebuke.     He  was  a  fool, 
For  he  would  needs  be  virtuous:  that  good  fellow, 

•  Not  tn  f.  e,        »  if  that  quarrel,  fortune,  do  divorce,  <tc. :  in  f. 


If  I  command  him,  follows  my  appointment : 

1  will  have  none  so  near  else.     Learn  this,  brother, 

Wo  live  not  to  be  grip'd  by  meaner  persons. 

A'.  Hen.  Deliver  this  with  modesty  to  the  queen. — 
[£xj7  Gardiner 
The  most  convenient  place  that  I  can  think  of, 
For  such  receipt  of  learning,  is  Black- Friars  : 
There  ye  shall  meet  about  this  weighty  business. 
My  Wolsey.  see  it  furnish'd. — O  my  lord  ! 
Would  it  not  grieve  an  able  man,  to  leave 
So  sweet  a  bedfellow?     But,  conscience,  conscience.^ 

0  !  't  is  a  tender  place,  and  I  must  leave  her.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  III. — An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Queen's 

Apartments. 

Eiiter  Anne  Bullen,  and  an  old  Lady. 

Anne.  Not  for  that  neither : — here 's  the  pang  thu 
pinches ; 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her.  and  she 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonour  of  her  :  by  my  life, 
She  never  knew  harm-doing. — 0  !  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron'd, 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and  pomp,  the  which 
To  leave  's  a  thousand-fold  more  bitter,  than 
Sweet  at  first  t'  acquire, — after  this  process. 
To  give  her  tdie  avaunl !  it  is  a  pity 
Would  move  a  monster. 

Old  L.  Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 

Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

Anne.  0,  God's  will !  much  better, 

She  ne'er  had  known  pomp :  though  it  be  temporal 
Yet.  if  that  cruel  fortune  do  divorce' 
It  from  the  bearer,  't  is  a  suflierance  panging 
As  soul  and  body's  severing. 

Old.  L.  Alas,  poor  lady ! 

She  's  a  stranger  now  again  ? 

Anne.  So  much  the  more 

Must  pity  drop  upon  her.     Verily, 

1  swear,  't  is  better  to  be  lowly  born. 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content. 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief. 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Old  L.  Our  content 

Is  our  best  having. 

Anne.  By  my  troth,  and  maidenhead, 

I  would  not  be  a  queen. 

Old  L.  Bc'shrew  me,  I  would, 

And  venture  maidenhead  for  't ;  and  -so  would  you, 
For  all  this  spice  of  your  hypocrisy. 
You  that  have  so  fair  parts  of  woman  on  you. 
Have,  too,  a  woman's  heart;  which  ever  yet 
Aflfected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty  : 
Which,  to  say  sooth,  are  blessings,  and  which  gift.s 
(Saving  your  mincing)  the  capacity 
Of  your  soft  cheveril'  conscience  would  receive, 
If  you  might  please  to  stretch  it. 

Anne.  Nay,  good  troth. 

Old  L.  Yes,  troth,  and  troth. — You  would  not  l<  • 
queen  ? 

Anne.  No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 

Old  L.  'T  is  strange :  a  three-pence  bowed  would  hir« 
me. 
Old  as  I  am,  to  queen  it.     But,  T  pray  you. 
What  think  you  of  a  duchess?  have  vou  limbs 
To  bear  that  load  of  title? 

Anne.  No,  in  troth. 

Old  L.  Then  you  are  weakly  made.    Pluck  off*  •    \M^ 
little :  \m^ 


SCENE   IV. 


KING  HENEY  Yin. 


551 


I  would  not  be  a  yoimg  count  in  your  way, 
For  more  than  blushing  comes  to.     If  your  back 
Caimot  vouchsafe  this  burden,  't  is  too  weak 
Ever  to  get  a  boy. 

An7ie.  How  you  do  talk  ! 

[  swear  again,  I  would  not  be  a  queen 
For  all  the  world. 

Old  L.  In  faith,  for  little  England 

Fou  'd  venture  an  emballing  :'  I  myself 
Would  for  Carnarvonshire,  although  there  'long'd 
No  more  to    the   crown  but   that.     Lo  !    who  comes 
here? 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  morrow,  ladies.     What  were  't  worth 
to  know 
The  secret  of  your  conference  ? 

Anne.  My  good  lord, 

Not  your  demand :  it  values  not  your  asking. 
Our  mistress'  sorrows  we  were  pitying. 

Cham.  It  was  a  gentle  business,  and  becoming 
The  action  of  good  women :  there  is  hope 
All  will  be  well. 

Anne.  Now,  I  pray  God,  amen  ! 

Cfiam.  You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heavenly  bless- 
ings 
Follow  such  creatures.     That  you  may,  fair  lady, 
Perceive  I  speak  sincerely,  and  high  notes 
Ta'en  of  your  many  virtues,  the  king's  majesty 
Commends  his  good  opinion  of  you  to  you,  and 
Does  purpose  honour  to  you,  no  less  flowing 
Than  marchioness  of  Pembroke  ;  to  which  title 
A  thousand  pound  a  year,  aimual  support, 
Out  of  his  grace  he  adds. 

Anne.  I  do  not  know, 

WhaX  kind  of  my  obedience  I  should  tender : 
More  than  my  all  is  nothing ;  nor  my  prayers 
Are  not  words  duly  hallow'd,  nor  my  wishes 
More  worth    than  empty  vanities  :  yet    prayers,  and 

wishes, 
Are  all  I  can  return.     Beseech  your  lordship, 
Vouchsafe  to  speak  my  thanks,  and  my  obedience, 
As  from  a  blushing  handmaid,  to  his  highness ; 
Whose  health,  and  royalty,  I  pray  for. 

Cham.  Lady, 

r  shall  not  fail  t'  improve*  the  fair  conceit. 
The  king  hath  of  you. — I  have  perus'd  her  well :  [Aside. 
Beauty  and  honour  in  her  are  so  mingled. 
That  they  have  caught  the  king  :  and  who  knows  yet, 
But  from  this  lady  may  proceed  a  gem 
To  lighten  all  this  isle  ?—[To  her.]  I  '11  to  the  king. 
And  say,  I  spoke  with  you. 
I        Anne.  My  honour'd  lord.     [Exit  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Old  L.  Why,  this  it  is  :  see,  see  ! 
!    I  have  been  begging  sixteen  years  in  court, 
(Am  yet  a  courtier  beggarly)  nor  could 
Come  pat  betwixt  too  early  and  too  late 
For  any  suit  of  pounds ;  and  you.  0  fate  ! 
j    K  very  fresh-fish  here,  (fie,  fie,  fie  upon 
j   Tins  compell'd  fortune!)  have  your  mouth  fiU'd  up^ 

3efore  you  open  it. 
I       Anne.  This  is  strange  to  me. 

I       Old  L.  How  tastes  it  ?  is  it  bitter  ?  forty  pen«e,  no. 
'■  There  was  a  lady  once,  ('t  is  an  old  story) 
That  would  not  be  a  queen,  that  would  she  not, 
For  all  the  mud  in  Egypt : — have  you  heard  it  ? 

Anne.  Come,  you  are  pleasant. 

Old  L.  With  your  theme  I  could 

O'ermount  the  lark.     The  marchioness  of  Pembroke  ! 
I  A  thousand  pounds  a  year  for  pure  respect ; 

»  Referring  to  the  ball,  one  of  the  royal  insignia.      '  approve  :  in  i 


No  other  obligation.     By  my  life, 
That  promises  more  thousands  :  honour's  train 
Is  longer  than  his  foreskirt.     By  this  time, 
I  know,  your  back  will  bear  a  duchess. — Say, 
Are  you  not  stronger  than  you  were  ? 

^nyie.  Good  lady, 

Make  yourself  mirth  with  your  particular  fancy, 
And  leave  me  out  on  't.     Would  I  had  no  being, 
If  this  elate^  my  blood  a  jot :  it  faints  me, 
To  think  what  follows. 
The  queen  is  comfortless,  and  we  forgetful 
In  our  long  absence.     Pray,  do  not  deliver 
What  here  you  've  heard,  to  her. 

Old  L.  What  do  you  think  me  ?     [ExeurU 

SCENE  IV.— A  Hall  in  Black-Friars 
Trurnpets,  Sennet,  and  Cornets.  Enter  two  Vergerx, 
with  short  silver  Wands ;  next  them,  two  Scribes,  jr. 
the  habit  of  Doctors;  after  them,  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  alone  ;  after  him,  the  Bishops  of  Lin- 
coln, Ely,  Rochester,  and  Saint  Asaph  :  next 
them,  u'ith  some  small  distance,  follows  a  Gentleman 
bearing  the  Purse,  ivith  the  Great  Seal,  and  a  Car- 
dinal's Hat ;  then  tu'o  Priests,  bearing  each  a  silver 
Cross;  then  a  Gentleman-Usher  bare-headed,  accotn- 
panied  with  a  Sergeant  at  Arms,  bearing  a  silvet 
Mace ;  then  two  Gentlemen,  bearing  two  great  silver 
Pillars ;  after  them,  side  by  side,  the  two  Cardinals 
WoLSEY  and  Campeius  :  two  Noblemen  with  the 
Simrd  and  Mace.  The  King  takes  place  under  the 
cloth  of  state  ;  the  two  Cardinals  sit  under  him  a.^ 
judges.  The  Queen  takes  place  at  some  distance  from 
the  King.  TJie  Bishops  place  themselves  on  each  side 
the  court,  in  manner  of  a  consistory  ;  below  them,  the 
Scribes.  The  Lords  sit  next  the  Bishops.  The  rest 
of  the  Attendants  .stand  in  convenient  order  about  the 
stage. 

Wol.  Whilst  our  commission  from  Rome  is  read, 
Let  silence  be  commanded. 

K.  Hen.  What 's  the  need  ? 

It  hath  already  publicly  been  read, 
And  on  all  sides  th'  authority  allow'd ; 
You  may,  then,  spare  that  time.  ' 

Wol.  ■  Be  't  so. — Proceed. 

Scribe.   Say,  Henry  king  of  England,  come  into  the 

court. 
Crier.  Henr>'  king  of  England,  &c. 
A'.  Hen.  Here. 
Scribe.  Say,  Katharine  queen  of  England,  come  into 

the  court. 
Crier.  Katharine,  queen  of  England.  &c. 

[The  Queen  makes  no  answer,  rises  out  of  her  chair, 
goes  about    the  court,  comes  to    the  King,  and 
kneels  ai  his  feet ;  then  speaks.] 
Q.  Kath.  Sir,  I  desire  you,  do  me  right  and  jui^tioe^ 
And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me  ;  for 
I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger, 
Born  out  of  your  dominions  ;  having  here 
No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 
Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.     Alas  !  sir, 
In  what  have  I  offended  you  ?  what  cause 
Hath  my  behaviour  given  to  your  displea,«ure, 
That  thus  you  should  proceed  to  put  me  off. 
And  take  your  good  grace  from  me  ?     Heaven  wimew 
I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
At  all  times  to  your  will  conformable; 
Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike, 
Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance  ;  glad,  or  sorry, 
As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.     When  was  the  hour 
e.      '  galute  :  in  f.  e. 


552 


IvING  HENRY    VUl. 


ACT  n. 


i  ever  contradicted  your  desire, 

Or  made  it  not  mine  too  ?  or  which  of  your  friends 

Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  altliough  1  knew 

He  were  mine  enemy  ?  wlial  friend  of  mine, 

That  liad  to  liini  deriv"d  your  anger,  did  I 

Continue  in  my  likini;?  nay,  uave  notioc 

He  was  from  tlienee  discliarg'd.     Sir.  call  to  mind 

That  I  have  been  your  wile,  in  lliic  obedience. 

[Ipward  of  twenty  year.-;,  and  have  been  blest 

With  many  chihiren  by  you:  if  in  the  course 

And  proce.'^s  of  thi.s  time  you  can  report. 

And  prove  it  too.  against  mine  honour  aught, 

My  bond  to  wedlock,  or  my  love  and  duty. 

Against  your  .«acred  person,  in  Gods  name, 

Turn  mc  away;  and  let  the  foul'st  contempt 

.Sliut  door  upon  me,  and  so  give  me  up 

To  the  eharp'st  knife'  of  justice.     Please  you.  sir, 

The  king,  your  father,  was  reputed  for 

\  prince  most  prudent,  of  an  excellent 

An  uninateird  wit  and  judgment:   Ferdinand. 

My  father,  king  of  Spain,  was  rcckon'd  one 

The  wisest  prince,  that  there  had  reign'd  by  many 

A  year  before :  it  is  not  to  be  question'd 

That  they  had  gather'd  a  wise  council  to  them 

Of  every  realm,  that  did  debate  this  bu-^iness. 

Who  dcemd  our  marriage  lawful.  Wherefore  I  humbly 

Beseech  you,  sir.  to  spare  me.  till  I  may 

Be  by  my  friends  in  Spain  advis'd,  Avhose  counsel 

I  will  implore  :  if  not,  i'  the  name  of  God, 

Your  pleasure  be  fultiird  ! 

Wol.  You  have  here,  ifidy, 

(And  of  your  choice)  these  reverend  fathers;  men 
Of  singular  integrity  and  learning, 
Yea,  the  elect  o'  the  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  plead  your  cause.     It  shall  be  therefore  bootless, 
That  longer  you  defcr^  the  court,  as  well 
For  your  o^^^l  quiet,  as  to  rec'ify 
What  i.s  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Cam.  His  grace 

Hath  spoken  well,  and  ju.stly  :   therefore,  madam. 
It 's  fit  this  royal  .session  do  proceed. 
And  that,  without  delay,  their  arguments 
Be  now  producd  and  heard. 

Q.  Kath.  Lord  cardinal, 

To  you  I  speak. 

Wci/.  Your  plea.sure.  madam  ? 

Q  Kath.  '  Sir, 

I  am  about  to  weep ;  but.  thinking  that 
We  are  a  queen,  (or  long  have  dream'd  so)  certain 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  my  drops  of  tears 
F  Ml  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Wol.  Be  patient  yet. 

Q.  Kath.  I  will,  when  you  are  humble  :  nay,  before. 
Or  God  will  puni.<ih  me.     I  do  believe, 
(iiduc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  are  mine  enemy,  and  make  my  challenge  • 
You  hhaii  not  be  my  judge ;  for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me. 
Which  Gwls  dew  quench. — Therefore,  I  say  again, 
I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul, 
Refuse  you  for  my  judge  ;  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  noi 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Wol.  I  do  profess. 

You  speak  not  like  yourself:  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  display'd  th'  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopping  woman's  power.    Madam,  you  do  me  wrong : 
I  have  no  spleen  against  you,  nor  injustice 

'•  kind     in  f.  •  desire  :  in  f.  •.      •  In  some  mod.  cd».  this  tpeech 


For  you,  or  any  :  how  far  I  have  prooeed^d. 

Or  how  far  farther  sliall.  is  warranted 

By  a  commission  from  the  consistor>-, 

Yea,  the  whole  consistory  of  Rome.     You  char^b  me 

That  I  have  blown  this  coal  :   I  do  deny  it. 

The  king  is  present :  if  it  be  known  to  him. 

That  I  gainsay  my  deed,  how  may  he  wound, 

And  worthily,  my  falsehood  :  yea,  as  nmch 

As  you  have  done  my  truth.     If  he  know 

That  I  am  free  of  your  report,  he  knows, 

I  am  not  of  your  wrong :  therclbre.  in  him 

It  lies  to  cure  mc ;  and  the  cure  is.  to 

liemove  these  thoughts  from  you:  the  which,  before 

His  highness  shall  speak  in,  I  do  beseech 

You.  gracious  madam,  to  unthink  your  speaking. 

And  10  say  so  no  more. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
To  oppo.se  your  cunning.     Y"  are  meek  and  humble 

mouth'd  ; 
Y'ou  sign  your  place  and  calling  in  full  seeming, 
With  meekness  and  humility  ;  but  your  heart 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy.  spleen,  and  pride. 
You  have,  by  fortune  and  his  highness'  favour.^, 
Gone  slightly  o  er  low  steps,  and  now  are  mounted 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers ;  and  your  words. 
Domestics  to  you,  serve  your  w^ill,  as  't  please 
Y^ounself  pronounce  their  oflice.     I  mu.st  tell  you. 
You  tender  more  your  j-erson's  honour,  than 
Your  high  jirofession  spiritual;  that  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge,  and  here, 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  pope. 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  'fore  his  holiness, 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him. 

[She  curtsies  to  the  King,  and  offers  to  (hpurt. 
Cam.  The  queen  is  obstinate, 

Stubborn  to  justice,  apt  to  accuse  it,  and 
Disdainful  to  be  tried  by  't :  "l  is  not  well 
She  's  going  away. 

K.  Hen.  Call  her  again. 

Crier.  Katharine,  queen  of  England,  come  into  the 

court. 
Gent.  Ush.*  Madam,  you  are  calld  back. 
Q.  Kath.  What  need  you  note  it?   pray  you,  ker; 
your  way : 
Wh<*n  you  are  call'd,  return. — Now  the  Lord  help ! 
I  They  vex  me  past  my  patience. — Pray  you,  pass  on. 
j  I  will  not  tarry  :  no,  nor  ever  more, 
1  Upon  this  business,  my  appearance  make 
j  In  any  of  their  courts. 

[Excu7it  Queen,  and  her  Attendants 
K.  Hen.  Go  thy  ways,  Kate  : 

i  That  man  i'  the  world  who  shall  report  he  has 
:  A  better  wife,  let  him  in  nought  be  trusted, 
j  For  speaking  fal.se  in  that.     Thou  art  alone 
I  (If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 
I  Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government, 
Obeying  in  commanding,  and  thy  parts 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out) 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens. — She  's  nobly  bora  ; 
And,  like  her  true  nobility,  she  has 
Carried  herself  towards  rae 

Wol.  Most  gracious  sir. 

In  humblest  manner  I  require  your  highness. 
That  it  shall  plea.se  you  to  declare,  in  hearing 
Of  all  these  ears,  (for  where  I  am  robb'd  and  bound, 
There  must  I  be  unloosed,  althouah  not  there 
At  once,  and  fully  satisfied)  whether  ever  I 
Did  broach  this  business  to  your  highness,  or 


given,  without  warrant,  to  (JBIFFITH. 


KING  IIEKRY    Via. 


5c  3 


Laid  any  scruple  in  your  way.  which  might 

[nduce  you  to  the  question  on  't  ?  or  ever 

Have  to  you,  but  wirh  thanks  to  God  for  such 

A  royal  lady,  spake  one  the  least  word,  that  might 

Re  to  the  prejudice  of  her  present  state, 

Or  touch  of  her  good  person  ? 

K.  Iltn.  My  lord  cardinal, 

[  do  excuse  you ;  yea.  upon  mine  honour, 
I  free  you  from  't.     You  are  not  to  be  taught 
That  you  have  many  enemies,  that  know  not 
Why  they  are  so,  but,  like  to  village  curs, 
Bark  when  their  fellows  do  :  by  some  of  these 
The  queen  is  put  in  anger.     Y'  are  excus'd  : 
But  will  you  be  more  justified  ?     You  ever 
Have  wish'd  the  sleeping  of  this  business  :  never 
Desir'd  it  to  be  stirr'd  ;  but  oft  have  hinder'd.  oft, 
The  passages  made  toward  it. — On  my  honour, 
I  speak  my  good  lord  cardinal  to  this  point. 
And  thus  far  clear  him.     Now,  what  mov'd  me  to't, 
I  -will  be  bold  with  time,  and  your  attention : — 
Then,   mark   th'    inducement.     Thus  it  came ; — give 

heed  to't. 
My  conscience  first  receiv'd  a  tenderness. 
Scruple,  and  prick,  on  certain  speeches  utter'd 
By  the  bishop  of  Bayomie,  then  French  ambassador, 
Who  had  been  hither  sent,  on  the  debating 
A'  marriage  'twixt  the  duke  of  Orleans  and 
Our  daughter  Mary.     I'  the  progi-e.ss  of  this  business, 
Ere  a  determinate  resolution,  he 
(I  mean,  the  bishop)  did  require  a  respite  ; 
Wherein  he  miglit  the  king  his  lord  advertise 
Whether  our  daughter  were  legitimate. 
Respecting  this  our  marriage  with  the  dowager, 
Sometime  our  brother's  wife.     This  respite  shook 
I      The  bottom  of  my  conscience.  enter"d  me. 

Yea,  with  a  splitting  power,  and  made  to  tremble 

The  region  of  my  breast  :  which  tbrc'd  such  way. 

That  many  maz"d  considerings  did  throng. 

And  press  in  vrith  this  caution.     First,  methought, 

I  stood  not  in  the  smile  of  heaven  ;  who  had 

Commanded  nature,  that  my  lady's  womb, 

If  it  conceiv'd  a  male  child  by  me.  should 

Do  no  more  offices  of  life  to  't,  than 

The  grave  does  to  the  dead ;  for  her  male  issue 

Or  died  where  they  were  made,  or  shortly  after  i 

This  world  had  air'd  them.     Hence  I  took  a  thought, 

This  was  a  judgment  on  me  ;  that  my  kingdom,  j 

Well  worthy  the  best  heir  o'  the  world,  should  not         j 

Be  gladded  in  't  by  me.     Then  follows,  that  | 

I  weigh'd  the  danger  which  my  realms  stood  in  | 


j  By  this  my  issue's  fail ;  and  that  gave  to  me 
I  Many  a  groaning  throe.     Thus,  hulling'  in 
The  wild  sea  of  my  conscience.  I  did  steer 
I  Toward  this  remedy,  whereupon  we  are 
I  Now  present  here  together  ;  that 's  to  say, 
j  I  meant  to  rectify  my  conscience. — which 
I  then  did  feel  full  sick,  and  yet  not  well. — 
I  By  all  the  reverend  fathers  of  the  land. 
And  doctors  Icarn'd.     First,  I  began  in  private 
With  you,  my  lord  of  Lincoln :  you  r«'member 
How  under  my  oppression  I  did  reek. 
When  I  first  mov'd  you. 

Lin.  Very  well,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  I  have  spoke  long:  bepleas'd  your.>elf  to  sa^ 
How  far  you  satisfied  me. 

Lin.  So  please  your  highno-s 

The  question  did  at  first  so  stagger  me, — 
Bearing  a  state  of  mighty  moment  in  't. 
And  consequence  of  dread, — that  I  committed 
I  The  daring'st  counsel  which  I  had  to  doubt, 
And  did  entreat  your  highness  to  this  course, 
j  Which  you  are  ruimmg  here. 
I      K.  Hen.  I  then  mov'd  you, 

j  My  lord  of  Canterbury  ;  and  got  your  leave 
To  make  this  present  summons. — Un.*olicited 
I  left  no  reverend  person  in  this  court ; 
But  by  particular  consent  proceeded, 
Under  your  hands  and  seals :  therefore,  go  on  , 
For  no  dislike  i'  the  world  against  the  person 
Of  the  good  queen,  but  the  sharp  thorny  points 
Of  my  alleged  reasons  drive  this  forward. 
Prove  but  our  marriage  lawful,  by  my  life. 
And  kingly  dignity,  we  are  contented 
To  wear  our  mortal  state  to  come  with  her, 
Katharine  our  queen,  before  the  primest  creature 
That 's  paragon'd  o'  the  world. 

Cam.  So  please  your  highness, 

The  queen  being  absent,  't  is  a  needful  fitness 
That  we  adjourn  this  court  till  farther  day  : 
Meanwhile  must  be  an  earnest  motion 
Made  to  the  queen,  to  call  back  her  appeal 
She  intends  unto  his  holiness. 

K.  Hen.  I  may  perceive,     [Aside. 

These  cardinals  trifle  with  me :  I  abhor 
This  dilatory  sloth,  and  tricks  of  Rome. 
My  learn'd  and  well-belov'd  servant,  Cranmer, 
Pr'ythee,  return  !  wth  thy  approach.  I  know. 
My   comfort   comes    along.    [AIoiuL] — Break   up    tlie 

court  : 
I  say,  set  on.  [Exeunt,  in  manner  as  they  entered. 


ACT    111. 


SCENE  I.— The  Palace  at  Bridewell. 

A  Room  in  the  Queen's  Apartment. 
The  Queen,  and  her  Women,  as  at  work 
Q.  Kath.  Take  thy  lute,  wench  :  my  soul  grows  sa 
with  troubles  ; 
ing,  and  disperse  them,  if  thou  canst.  Leave  working 

SONG. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  mide  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops,  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves,  when  he  did  siiig  : 
To  his  music,  plants,  and  flowers. 
Ever  sprung  :  as  sun,  and  .showers, 

There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 

'  And  :  m  o'd  copies      Pope  made  tht  change.     *  Driven  to  and  I 


Every  thing  that  heard  him  play, 
Even  the  billoivs  of  the  .'=ca. 

Hung  their  heads,  and  tlien  lay  by. 
In  siueet  music  is  such  art. 
Killing  care  and  grief  of  heart 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 
Q.  Kath.  How  now  ! 

Gent.  An 't  please  your  grace,  the  two  great  cardinais 
Wait  in  the  presence. 

Q.  Kath.  Would  they  speak  with  me  ? 

Gent.  They  ^U'd  me  say  so,  madam. 

Q.  Kath.  Pray  *^^^^^  graces 

by  tke  -n-aves. 


55-L 


XING   HENRY  YUl. 


ACT  ni. 


To  oorae  near.  [Erit  Gent.]  What  can  be  their  business 
With  me,  a  poor  weak  woman,  fallen  from  favour  ? 
I  do  not.  like  their  coining   now  I  think  on't. 
They  should  be  good  men,  their  affairs  as  righteous; 
But  all  hoods  make  not  monks. 

Enter  Woi.sey  and  C.\mpeius. 
Wol.  Peaec  to  your  highness. 

Q.  Kuth.  Your  graces  find  me  here  part  of  a  house- 
wife ; 
would  be  all,  against  the  worst  may  happen. 
»Vhat  are  your  pleasures  with  me,  reverend  lords? 

Wol.  May  it  piea.^e  you,  noble  madam,  to  withdraw 
'nto  your  private  chamber,  we  shall  give  you 
The  full  cause  of  our  coming. 

Q.  Kara.  Speak  it  here. 

There  's  nothing  I  have  done  yet,  o'  my  conscience, 
Desers'es  a  corner  :  would  all  other  women 
<  'ould  speak  this  with  as  free  a  soul  as  I  do  ! 
My  lords,  I  care  not,  (so  much  I  am  happy 
Above  a  number)  if  my  actions 
Were  tried  by  every  tongue,  every  eye  saw  them. 
Envy  and  base  opinion  set  against  them, 
I  know  my  life  so  even.     If  your  business 
■Seek  me  out,  and  that  way  I  am  wile  in, 
>ut  with  it  boldly  :  truth  loves  open  dealing. 
Wol.   Tanta  est  crga  te  mentis  integritas,  regina  sere- 

Tu'.wtwa, — 
Q.  Kath.  0,  good  my  lord,  no  Latin  : 
am  not  such  a  truant  since  my  coming, 
A.S  not  to  know  the  language  I  have  liv'd  in : 
A  strange  tongue  makes  my  cause  more  strange,  sus- 
picious ; 
Pray,  speak  in  English.    Here  are  some  will  thank  you, 
If  you  speak  truth,  for  their  poor  mistres.s'  sake  : 
Relieve  me,  she  has  had  much  wrong.     Lord  cardinal, 
The  willing'st  sin  I  ever  yet  committed 
May  be  absolv'd  in  English. 

Wol.  Noble  lady, 

I  am  sorry,  my  integrity  should  breed, 
(And  service  to  his  majesty  and  you) 
So  deep  suspicion,  where  all  faith  was  meant. 
We  come  not  by  tlie  way  of  accusation, 
To  taint  that  honour  every  good  tongue  blesses, 
-Nor  to  betray  you  any  way  to  sorrow ; 
Vou  have  too  much,  good  lady  ;  but  to  know 
How  you  stand  minded  in  the  weighty  difference 
JJ'Hwcen  the  king  and  you,  and  to  deliver, 
I. ike  free  and  honest  men,  our  just  opinions, 
.And  comforts  to  your  cause. 

Cam.  Most  honour'd  madam, 

My  lord  of  York, — out  of  his  noble  nature, 
Xeal  and  obedience  he  still  bore  your  grace, 
I'orgetting.  like  a  good  man.  your  late  ccnstirc 
Hoth  of  his  truth  and  him,  (which  was  too  far) — 
Offers,  as  I  do,  in  a  sign  of  peace. 
His  service  and  his  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  To  betray  me.        [A.side. 

My  lords,  I  thank  you  boih  for  your  good  wills. 
Ve  speak  like  honest  men.  (pray  God.  ye  prove  so  !) 
But  how  to  make  ye  .suddenly  an  answer. 
In  such  a  point  of  weight,  so  near  mine  honour, 
I  More  near  my  life,  I  fear.)  witli  my  weak  wit. 
And  to  such  men  of  gravity  and  learning. 
rti  trulh,  I  know  not.     I  was  set  at  work 
Among  my  maids  ;  full  little.  God  knows,  looking 
Hither  for  such  men,  or  such  business. 
For  her  sake  that  I  have  been,  for  I  feel 
The  la^t  fit  of  my  greatness,  good  your  graces. 
Let  me  have  time  and  eoun.<!cl  for  my  cause. 
Alas  !  I  am  a  woman,  friendless,  hopeless.  I 


the  king's  love  with  lhe«« 

nfinite. 


Wol.  Madam,  you  wron< 
fears  : 
Your  hopes  and  friends  are 

Q.  Kath.  In  England, 

But  little  for  my  profit  :  can  you  think,  lords. 
That  any  Englishman  dare  give  me  eoun.sel  '■' 
Or  be  a  known  friend,  'gainst  his  hinhness'  ple.isnre, 
(Though  he  be  grown  so  des];erate  to  be  honest) 
And  live  a  subject  ?     Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends, 
They  that  must  weigh  out  my  afflictions. 
They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to.  live  not  here 
They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence. 
In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

Cam.  I  would,  your  grace 

Would  leave  your  griefs,  and  take  my  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  How,  sir? 

Cam.   Put   your   main   cause   into  the  king's    pro 
tection  ; 
He  's  loving,  and  most  gracious  :  't  will  be  much 
Both  for  your  honour  better,  and  your  cause  j 
For  if  the  trial  of  the  law  overtake  you, 
You  '11  part  away  disgrac'd. 

Wol.  He  tells  you  rightly. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  tell  me  what  ye  wish  for  both. — my  ruin. 
Is  this  your  Christian  counsel  ?  out  upon  ye  ! 
Heaven  is  above  all  yet  :  there  sits  a  Judge 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

Cam.  Your  rage  mistakes  us. 

Q.  Kath.    The    more   shame    for   ye  !    holy  men  I 
thought  ye. 
Upon  my  .soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues  ; 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I  fear  ye. 
Mend  them  for  shame,  my  lords.     Is  this  your  com- 

fort? 
The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a  wTetched  lady  ? 
A  woman  lost  amosg  ye,  laugh'd  at.  scorn'd  ? 
I  will  not  wish  ye  half  my  miseries, 
I  have  more  charity  ;  but  say,  I  warn'd  ye  : 
Take  heed,  for  heaven's  sake,  take  heed,  lest  at  once 
The  burden  of  my  sorrows  fall  upon  ye. 

Wol.  Madam,  this  is  a  mere  distraction  ; 
You  turn  the  good  we  offer  into  envy. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  turn  me  into  nothing.     Woe  upon  ye, 
And  all  such  false  professors  !     Would  ye  have  mo 
(If  ye  have  any  justice,  any  pity, 
If  ye  be  any  thing  but  churchmen's  habits) 
Put  my  sick  cause  into  his  hands  that  hates  me? 
Ala,s  !  he  has  banish'd  me  his  bed  already  ; 
His  love,  too  long  ago  :  I  am  old,  my  lords. 
And  all  the  felloTV'ship  I  hold  now  with  him 
Is  only  my  obedience.     What  can  happen 
To  me  above  this  wretchedness  ?  all  your  studies 
Make  me  a  curse  like  this. 

Catn.  Your  fears  arc  worse. 

Q.  Kath.   Have   I    liv'd   thus   long — (let  me  sptik 
myself. 
Since  virtue  finds  no  friends.) — a  wife,  a  true  on*  7 
A  woman  (I  dare  say  without  vain-glory) 
Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ? 
Have  I  with  all  my  full  affections 
Still  met  the  king  ?   lov'd  him  next  heaven  ?   obey'ii 

him  ? 
Been,  out  of  fondness,  superstitious  to  him  ' 
Almo.st  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him? 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded  ?  't  is  not  well,  lords. 
Bring  me  a  constant  woman  to  her  husband, 
One  that  ne'er  dream'd  a  joy  beyond  his  plea*ure, 
And  to  that  woman,  when  she  has  done  most. 
Yet  will  I  add  an  honour. — a  ^reat  patience. 

Wol.  Madam,  you  wander  fro;n  the  good  we  aim  at 


i 


yiENE  11. 


K[NG  HEIs^RT  Vin 


555 


Q.  Kuth.  My  lord,  I  dare  not  make  myself  so  guilty, 
To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title 
Your  master  wed  me  to  :  nothing  but  death 
Shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities. 

Wol.  Pray,  hear  me. 

Q.  Kath.  Would  I  had  never  trod  this  English  earth, 
It  feit  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it  ! 
Te  have  angels'  faces,  but  heaven  knows  your  hearts. 
What  will  become  of  me  now.  wretched  lady  ? 

am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. — 
Alas  !  poor  wenches,  where  are  now  your  fortunes  ! 

[To  her  Women. 
Shipwreck'd  upon  a  kingdv^m.  where  no  pity\ 
\o  friends,  no  hope,  no  kindred  weep  for  me, 
Almost  no  grave  allow'd  me. — Like  the  lily. 
That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field  and  flourish'd, 
[  '11  hang  my  head,  and  perish. 

Wol.  If  your  grace 

Could  but  be  brought  to  know  our  ends  are  honest, 
You  'd  feel  more  comfort.     Why  should  we.  good  lady 
I  'pon  what  cause,  wrong  you  ?  alas  !  our  places, 
The  way  of  our  profes.<ion  is  against  it : 
We  are  to  cure  such  sorrows,  not  to  sow  them  : 
For  goodness"  sake,  consider  what  you  do  ; 
How  you  may  hurt  yourself,  ay,  utterly 
Grow  from  the  king's  acquaintance,  by  this  carriage. 
The  hearts  of  princes  kiss  obedience, 
•So  much  they  love  it ;  but  to  stubborn  spirits. 
They  swell,  and  grow  as  terrible  as  storms. 
I  know,  you  have  a  gentle,  noble  temper, 
A  soul  as  even  as  a  calm :  pray,  thinJt  us 
Those  we  profess,  peace-makers,  friends,  and  servants. 

Cavi.  Madam,  you  'II  find  it  so.     You  wrong  your 
virtues 
With  these  weak  women's  fears  :  a  noble  spii'it, 
As  yours  was  put  into  you,  ever  casts 
.Such  doubts,  as  false  coin,  from  it.     The  king  loves  ycu  ; 
Beware,  you  lose  it  not :  for  us,  if  you  please 
To  trust  us  in  your  business,  we  are  ready 
To  use  our  utmost  study  in  your  service. 

Q.  Kath.    Do  what  ye  will,  my  lords  :    and,  pray, 
forgive  me, 
If  I  have  us'd  myself  unmannerly  : 
You  know  I  am  a  woman,  lacking  wit 
To  make  a  seemly  answer  to  such  persons. 
Pray  do  my  service  to  his  majesty  : 
He  has  my  heart  yet,  and  shall  have  my  prayers. 
While  I  shall  have  my  life.     Conie^  reverend  fathers ; 
Bestow  your  counsels  on  me  :  she  now  begs. 
That  little  thought,  when  she  set  looting  here, 
She  should  have  bought  her  dignities  so  dear.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IT. — Ante-chamber  to  the  King's  Apartment. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  the 

Earl  of  Surrey,  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Nor.  If  you  will  now  unite  in  your  complaint.^, 
And  force  them  with  a  constancy,  the  cardinal 
Cannot  stand  under  them  :  if  you  omit 
The  offer  of  this  time,  I  cannot  promise. 
But  that  you  shall  sustain  more  new  disgraces 
With  these  you  bear  already. 

Sur.  I  am  joyful 

To  meet  the  least  occasion,  that  may  give  me 
Remembrance  of  my  father-in-law,  the  duke. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Suf.  Which  of  the  peers 

Have  uncontemn'd  gone  by  him.  or  at  least 
Strangely  neglected  ?  when  did  he  regard 
The  stamp  of  nobleness-  in  any  person, 

I  Now  ftl.  my  joy  :  in  f.  •• 


Out  of  himself? 

Cham..  My  lords,  you  speak  your  pLeafeur9.<t 

What  he  deserves  of  you  and  me.  I  know  . 
What  we  can  do  to  him,  (though  now  the  time 
Gives  way  to  us)  I  much  tear.     If  you  cannot 
Bar  his  access  to  the  king,  never  attempt 
Any  thing  on  him,  for  he  hath  a  witchcraft 
Over  the  king  in 's  tongue. 

iYor.  0  !  fear  him  not , 

His  spell  in  that  is  out :  the  king  hath  found 
Matter  against  him,  that  for  ever  mars 
The  honey  of  his  language.     No,  he  's  settled, 
Not  to  come  off.  in  his  displeasure. 

Sur.  Sir, 

I  should  be  glad  to  hear  such  news  as  this 
Once  every  hour. 

Nor.  Believe  it,  this  is  true. 

In  the  divorce  his  contrary  proceedings 
Are  all  unfolded  ;  wherein  he  appears, 
As  I  could  wish  mine  enemy. 

Sur.  ■  How  came 

His  practices  to  light  ? 

Suf.  Most  strangely. 

Sur.  0  !  how  ?  how  ? 

Suf.  The  cardinal's  letter  to  the  pope  miscarried, 
And  came  to  the  eye  o'  the  king  ;  wherein  was  read, 
How  that  the  cardinal  did  entreat  his  holiness 
To  stay  the  judgment  o'  the  divorce  ;  for  if 
It  did  take  place,  •'•  I  do."'  quoth  he,  "  perceive,   ■ 
My  king  is  tangled  in  affection  to 
A  creature  of  the  queen"s,  lady  Anne  Bullen." 

Sur.  Has  the  king  this  ? 

Suf.  Believe  it. 

Sur.  Will  thi.s  worlr? 

Cham.  The  king  in  this  perceives  him,  how  he  coaslA, 
And  hedges,  his  own  way.     But  in  this  point 
All  his  tricks  founder,  and  he  brings  his  physic 
After  his  patient's  death  :  the  king  already 
Hath  married  the  fair  lady. 

Sur.  Would  he  had  ! 

Suf.  May  you  be  happy  m  your  wish,  my  lord ; 
For,  I  profess,  you  have  it. 

Sur.  Now  may  all  joy' 

Trace  the  conjunction  ! 

Suf.  My  amen  to  't. 

Nor.  All  men's. 

Suf.  There  's  order  given  for  her  coronation  ; 
Marry,  tliis  is  yet  but  young,  and  may  be  left 
To  some  ears  unrecounted. — Bat,  my  lords, 
!  Slie  is  a  gallant  creature,  and  complete 
In  mind  and  feature :  I  persuade  me,  from  her 
Will  fall  .some  blessing  to  tliis  land,  which  shall 
In  it  be  memoriz'd. 

Sur.  But.  will  the  king 

Digest  this  letter  of  the  cardinal's  ? 
The  lord  forbid  ! 

Nor.  Marry,  amen  ! 

Suf.  No,  no  : 

There  be  more  wa.'^ps  than  buz  about  his  nose, 
Will  make  this  sting  the  sooner.     Cardinal  Campe  us 
Is  stolen  away  to  Rome  :  hath  ta'en  no  leave, 
Has  left  the  cause  o"  the  king  unliandled,  and 
Is  posted  as  the  agent  of  our  oardinal. 
To  second  all  his  plot.     I  do  assure  you 
The  king  cried,  ha !  at  this. 

Cham.  Now.  God  incense  liira. 

i  And  let  him  cry  ha !  louder. 
j      iYor.  But,  my  lord. 

"When  returns  Cranmer  ? 


.56 


KING  HENRY    \rin. 


ACT    II 


Suf.  He  is  rem  mil  ir  hin  opinioiip,  which 
Have  satisfied  ilie  king  tor  his  divorce. 
Together  witli  all  famous  colleaes 
Almost  ill  Ciiristondoin.     Shortly,  I  believe, 
His  second  marriaue  .^hall  be  publislrd,  and 
Her  coronal  ion.     Katharine  no  more 
Shall  be  ealTd  queen,  but  princess  dowager, 
And  widow  to  prince  Arthur. 

Nor.  This  same  Cranmer  's 

A  worthy  fellow,  and  hath  ta'en  much  pain 
In  the  kin^'\s  business. 

Suf  He  has  ;  and  wc  shall  see  him 

For  it  an  archbishop. 

Nor.  So  I  hear. 

Suf.  'T  IS  so. 

The  cardinal —  {They  stand  back.^ 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Cro.mwell. 

Nor.  Observe,  observe  ;  he  's  moody. 

li'ol.  The  packet,  Cromwell,  gave  it  you  the  king? 

Cram.  To  his  own  hajid,  in  his  bedchamber. 

Wol.  Look'd  he  o'  th'  inside  of  the  paper  ? 

Crom.  Presently 

He  did  unseal  them,  and  the  first  he  viewd. 
He  did  it  with  a  serious  mind ;  a  heed 
Was  in  his  countenance :  you  he  bade 
Attend  him  here  this  morning. 

Wol.  Is  he  ready 

To  come  abroad  ? 

Crom.  I  think,  by  this  he  is. 

Wol.  Leave  mc  awhile. —  [Exit  Cromwell. 

It  shall  be  to  the  duchess  of  Alenpon, 
The  French  kind's  sister  :  he  .shall  marry  her. — 
Anne  BuUen?  No  :  I  '11  no  Anne  Bullens  for  him  : 
There  's  more  in  "t  than  fair  visasre. — Bullen  ! 
No,  wc  '11  no  Bullens. — Speedily  I  wish 
To  hear  from  Rome. — The  marchioness  of  Pembroke  ! 

Nor.  He 's  discontented. 

Suf.  May  be,  he  hears  the  king 

Does  whet  his  anger  to  him. 

Sur.  Sharp  enough, 

Lord  !  for  thy  iu.<itice. 

Wol.    The   late    queen's    gentlewoman,    a    knight's 
daughter, 
1  0  be  her  mistre.«s'  mistress  !  th§  queen's  queen  ! — 
This  candle  burns  not  clear  :  't  is  I  must  snuff  it : 
Then,  out  it  iioes. — What  though  I  know  her  virtuous, 
And  well  de.';crvm2,  yet  I  know  her  for 
A  spleeny  Lutheran  ;  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause,  that  she  .should  lie  i'  the  bo.^om  of 
Our  hard-rul'd  king.     Again,  there  is  sprung  up 
An  heretic,  an  arch  one.  Cranmer  ;  one 
Hath  crawl'd  into  the  favour  of  the  kins, 
And  is  his  oracle.  [Retires,  musing.' 

Nor.  He  is  vex'd  at  something. 

Suf.  I  would,  't  were  something  that  would  fret  the 
string. 
The  master-chord  on  's  heart. 

Enter  the  King,  reading  a  Schedule  ;  and  Lovell. 

Suf  The  kin?,  the  king  ! 

K.  Hen.  What  piles  of  wealth  hath  he  accumulated, 
To  his  own  portion  !  and  what  expense  by  the  hour 
Seems  to  flow  from  him  !     How,  i"  the  name  of  thrift, 
Docs  he  rake  this  tosether  ? — Now,  my  lords  : 
Saw  you  the  cardinal  ? 

Nor.  My  Uird.  wc  have  [Coming  forward.* 

Stood  here  observins  him.     Some  straniie  commotion 
[»  in  his  brain  :  he  bites  his  lip.  and  starts; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  tipon  the  uround. 
Then,  lays  his  finger  on  his  temple ;   straight, 

'  '  '  *  Not  in  f.  «.      •  leiture  :  is  f.  e. 


I  Springs  out  into  fa.st  gait :  then,  stops  again. 
Strikes  his  breast  hard ;  and  anon  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon.     In  most  strange  posture* 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself. 

A'.  Hen.  It  may  well  be  • 

There  is  a  mutiny  in  's  mind.     This  morning 
Papers  of  state  he  sent  me  to  peruse, 
As  I  requir'd;  and,  wot  you,  what  I  found 
There,  on  my  conscience,  put  unwittingly? 
Forsooth  an  inventory,  thus  importing, — 
The  several  parcels  of  his  plate,  his  trea.sure. 
Rich  stuffs,  and  ornaments  of  household  ;  which 
I  find  at  such  proud  rate,  that  it  out-speaks 
Possession  of  a  subject. 

Nor.  It 's  heaven's  will : 

Some  spirit  put  this  paper  in  the  packet. 
To  bless  your  eye  withaL 

K.  Hen.  If  we  did  think 

His  contemplation  were  above  the  earth. 
And  fix'd  on  spiritual  object,  he  should  still 
Dwell  in  his  musings  ;  but,  I  am  afraid. 
His  thinkings  are  below  the  moon,  not  worth 
His  serious  considering. 

[He  takes  his  .seat,  and  whispers  Lovell.  wki 

goes    to  WoLSEY. 

Wol.  Heaven  forgive  me  !   [AmazcdJy  ' 

Ever  God  bless  your  highness. 

K.  Hen.  Good  my  lord, 

You  are  full  of  heavenly  stuff,  and  bear  the  inventory 
Of  your  best  graces  in  your  mind,  the  which 
You  were  now  running  o'er  :  you  have  scarce  time 
To  .steal  from  spiritual  labour*  a  brief  span. 
To  keep  your  earthly  audit.     Sure,  in  that 
I  deem  you  an  ill  husband,  and  am  glad 
To  have  you  therein  mv  companion. 

Wol.  '  Sir, 

For  holy  offices  I  have  a  time  :  a  time 
To  think  upon  the  part  of  business,  which 
I  bear  i'  the  state  ;  and  nature  does  require 
Her  times  of  preservation,  which,  perforce. 
I  her  frail  son.  amongst  my  brethren  mortal, 
Must  give  my  tendance  to. 

K.  Hen.  You  have  said  well. 

Wol.  And  ever  may  your  highress  yoke  together, 
As  I  will  lend  you  cause,  my  doing  well 
With  my  well  saying! 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  well  said  again; 

And  't  is  a  kind  of  good  deed  to  say  well : 
And  yet  words  are  no  deeds.     My  father  lov'd  ymi  ; 
He  said  he  did,  and  with  his  deed  did  crown 
His  word  upon  you  :  since  J  had  my  otTice, 
I  have  kept  you  next  my  heart  ;  have  not  alone 
Employ"d  you  where  high  profits  might  come  home. 
But  par'd  my  present  havings,  to  bestow 
My  bounties  upon  you. 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean?  [.ism 

Sur.  The  Lord  increase  this  business  !         [Hfhiiui 

K.  Hen.  Have  I  not  ma>lc  yon 

The  prime  man  of  the  state  ?  I  pray  you.  tell  me, 
!f  what  I  now  pronounce  you  have  found  true ; 
And.  if  you  may  confess  it,  say  withal. 
If  you  are  bound  to  us,  or  no.     What  say  you  ? 

Wol.  My  sovereign,  I  confess,  your  royal  graces, 
Shower'd  on  me  daily,  have  been  more  than  could 
My  studied  purposes  requite  :   which  went 
Beyond  all  man's  endeavours:  my  endeavours 
Have  ever  come  too  short  of  my  desires, 
Yet  fild  with  my  abilities.     Mine  own  ends 
;  Have  been  mine  so,  that  evenr.ore  they  pointed 


60BNE   n. 


KING  HENRY   VIH 


55^ 


To  the  good  of  your  most  sacred  person,  and 
The  profit  of  the  state.     For  your  great  graces 
Heap'd  upon  me,  poor  undeserver.  I 
Can  nothing  render  but  allegiant  thanks  ; 
My  prayers  to  heaven  for  you ;  my  loyalty, 
Which  ever  has,  and  ever  shall  be  growmg. 
Till  death,  that  winter,  kill  it. 

K.  Hen.  Fairly  answer'd  : 

A  loyal  and  obedient  subject  is 
Therein  illustrated.     The  honour  of  it 
Does  pay  the  act  of  it  :  as.  i'  the  contrary, 
The  foulness  is  the  punishment.     I  presume, 
That  as  my  hand  has  open'd  bounty  to  you, 
My  heart  dropp'd  love,  my  power  rain'd  honour,  more 
On  you  than  any  •  so  your  hand,  and  heart. 
Your  brain,  and  every  function  of  your  power. 
Should,  notwithstanding  that  your  bond  of  duty. 
As  't  were  in  love's  particular,  be  more 
To  me,  your  friend,  than  any. 

Wol.  I  do  profess. 

That  for  your  highness'  good  I  ever  labour'd 
More  than  mine  own :  that  am,  have,  and  will  be — 
(Though  all  the  world  should  crack  their  duty  to  you. 
And  throw  it  from  their  soul :  though  perils  did 
Abound,  as  thick  as  thought  could  make  them,  and 
Appear  in  forms  more  horrid)  yet  my  duty. 
As  doth  a  rock  against  the  chiding  flood, 
Should  the  approach  of  this  wild  river  break. 
And  stand  unshaken  yours. 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  nobly  spoken. 

Take  notice,  lords,  he  has  a  loyal  breast. 
For  you  have  seen  him  open  't. — Read  o'er  this: 

[Giving  him  Papers. 
And.  after,  this  :  and  then  to  breakfast,  with 
What  appetite  you  have. 

[Exit  King,  frowning  upon  Carf/i/m/ Wolsev:  the 
Nobles  throng  after  him.  smiling,  and  luhispering . 
Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

What  sudden  anger  's  this  ?  how  have  I  reap'd  it  ? 
He  parted  frowning  from  me,  as  if  ruin 
Lcap'd  from  his  eyes :  so  looks  the  chafed  lion 
Upon  the  daring  huntsman  that  has  gall'd  him. 
Then,  makes  him  nothing.     I  must  read  this  pajier  : 
I  fear,  the  story  of  his  anger. — 'T  is  so  : 

[Opens  the  Paper  and  reads.,  tremhling.'^ 
This  paper  has  undone  me  ! — 'T  is  th'  accot^nt 
Of  all  that  world  of  wealth  I  liave  drawn  together 
For  mine  own  ends  ;  indeed,  to  gain  the  popedom, 
And  fee  my  friends  in  Rome.     0  negligence  ! 
Fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by.     What  cross  devil 
Made  me  put  this  main  secret  in  the  packet 
1  sent  the  king  ?     Is  there  no  way  to  cure  this  ? 
^fo  new  device  to  beat  this  from  his  brains  ? 
I  know  't  will  stir  him  strongly  :  yet  I  know 
A  way,  if  it  take  right,  in  spite  of  fortune 
Will  bring  me  off  again.     What 's  this  ? — "  To  the 

Pope?" 
The  letter,  as  I  live,  with  all  the  business 
1  I  writ  to  his  holiness.     Nay  then,  farewell  ! 
;  I  have  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness, 

And  from  that  fu.l  meridian  of  my  glory, 
:  1  haste  now  to  my  setting :  I  shall  fall 
I  Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
4  And  no  man  see  me  more.  [Sinks  in  a  chair.'' 

'      Re-enter  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  the 
Earl  o/ Surrey,  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
Nor.    Hear    the    king's    pleasure,    cardinal  ^     who 
commands  you 
To  render  up  the  great  seal  presently 

'  '  Not  in  f.  e       J  Esh^r       *  Not  in  f.  e.      »  LarV?  are  tared  by  small 


Into  our  hands,  and  to  confine  yourself 
To  Asher^-house,  my  lord  of  U'inchester's, 
Till  you  hear  farther  from  his  liighncss. 

Wol.  Stay:   [Hisinn.' 

Where  's  your  commission,  lord.-;  '^  words  cannot  carry 
Authority  so  weighty. 

Svf.  Wlio  dare  cross  them. 

Bearing  the  king's  will  from  his  mouth  expressly? 

Wol.  Till  I  find  more  than  will,  or  words,  to  do  u, 
(I  mean  your  malice)  know,  officious  lords, 
I  dare,  and  must  deny  it.     Now,  I  feel 
Of  what  coarse  metal  ye  are  moulded, — envy  ; 
Hovy  eagerly  ye  follow  my  disgraces. 
As  if  it  fed  ye  :  and  how  sleek  and  wanton 
Ye  appear  in  every  thing  may  bring  my  ruin. 
Follow  your  en^-ious  courses,  men  of  malice  : 
You  have  Christian  warrant  for  them,  and,  no  doubt, 
In  time  will  find  their  fit  rewards.     That  seal, 
You  ask  witli  such  a  violence,  the  king. 
(Mine,  and  your  master)  with  his  o^^^l  hand  gave  rne 
Bade  me  enjoy  it,  with  the  place  and  honours. 
During  my  life,  and  to  confirm  his  goodness. 
Tied  it  by  letters  patent      Now,  Avho  '"11  take  it  ? 

Siir.  The  king  that  gave  it. 

Wol.  It  must  be  himself,  then. 

Sur.  Thou  art  a  proud  traitor,  priest. 

Wol.  Proud  lord,  thou  lieet . 

Within  these  forty  hours  Surrey  durst  better 
Have  burnt  that  tongue,  than  said  so. 

Sur.  Thy  ambitio\ 

Thou  scarlet  sin,  robb'd  this  bewailing  land 
Of  noble  Buckingham,  my  father-in-law  : 
The  he'^.ds  of  all  thy  brother  cardinals, 
(With  thee,  and  all  thy  best  parts  bound  together) 
Weigh'd  not  a  hair  of  his.     Plague  of  your  policy 
You  sent  me  deputy  for  Ireland, 
Far  from  his  succour,  from  the  king,  from  all 
That  might  have  mercy  on  the  fault  thou  gav'st  hitr 
Whilst  your  great  goodness,  out  of  holy  pity, 
Absolv'd  him  with  an  axe. 

Wol.  This,  and  all  else 

This  talking  lord  can  lay  upon  my  credit. 
I  answer,  is  most  false.     The  duke  by  law 
Found  his  deserts  :  how  innocent  I  was 
From  any  private  malice  in  liis  end. 
His  noble  jury  and  foul  cause  can  witness. 
If  I  lov'd  many  words,  lord,  I  should  tell  you, 
You  have  as  little  honesty  as  honour. 
That  in  the  way  of  loyalty  and  truth 
Toward  the  king,  my  ever  royal  master. 
Dare  mate  a  sounder  man  than  Surrey  can  be, 
And  all  that  love  his  follies. 

Sur.  By  my  soul, 

Your  long  coat,  priest,  protects  you  :  thou  should.-;!  (eel 
My  sword  i'  the  life-blood  of  thee  else. — My  lord.^, 
Can  ye  endure  to  hear  this  arrogance? 
And  from  this  fellow?     If  wc  live  thus  tamely, 
To  be  thus  jaded  by  a  piece  of  scarlet. 
Farewell  nobility;  let  his  grace  go  forward. 
And  dare  us  with  his  cap,  like  larks'. 

Wol.  All  goodues. 

Is  poison  to  thy  itomach. 

Sur.  Yes,  that  goodness 

Of  gleaning  all  the  land's  wealth  into  one, 
Into  your  own  hand.<5.  cardinal,  by  extortion; 
The  soodness  of  your  intercepted  packets. 
You  wit  to  the  pope,  against  the  king;  your  goodies? 
Since  you  provoke  me,  shall  be  most  notorious. 
1  My  lord  of  Norfolk, — as  you  are  tru.y  noble, 

attached  to  scar'.e;  c'.oth 


558 


KING   IIENllY   VIIL 


ACT   UL 


A«  you  respect  the  common  gootl,  the  state 

Of  our  dcsjiis'd  n>  bility,  our  issues, 

(Who,  il  ho  live,  vill  seiiree  be  gentlemen) 

Pn-duce  the  graml  sum  of  his  sins,  the  articles 

ColVcted  from  his  life. — I  '11  startle  you 

Woi  <c  than  the  sacring  bell,  when  the  brown  wench 

Lay  kissing  in  your  arms,  lord  cardinal. 

M'ol.  How  much,  mothinks,  I  could  despise  this  man, 
But.  that  I  am  bound  in  charily  against  it. 

Xor.  Those  articles,  my  lord,  are  in  the  king's  hand; 
B  It.  thus  much,  they  are  foul  ones. 

Jf'ol.  So  much  fairer. 

\nd  spotless,  shall  mine  innocence  arise, 
*\1icn  the  king  knows  my  truth. 

Sur.  This  cannot  save  you. 

I  thauk  my  memory,  I  yet  remember 
Some  of  the.se    articles  ;  and  out  they  shall. 
NoM-,  if  you  can  blush,  and  cry  guilty,  cardinal, 
You  '11  show  a  little  honesty. 

Wol.  Speak  on,  sir ; 

1  dare  your  worst  objections  :  if  I  blush. 
It  is  to  see  a  nobleman  want  manners. 

Sur.  I  had  rather  want  those,  than  my  head.     Have 
at  you. — 
First,  that  without  the  king's  assent  or  knowledge, 
You  wrought  to  be  a  legate  :  by  whicli  power 
Vou  inaim"d  the  jurisdiction  of  all  bishops. 

Nor.  Then,  that  in  all  you  writ  to  Rome,  or  else 
To  foreign  princes,  Ego  d  Rex  meuft 
Was  still  inscribed  ;  in  which  you  brought  the  king 
To  be  your  servant. 

Suf.  Then,  that  without  the  knowledge 

Either  of  king  or  council,  when  you  went 
Amba.ssador  to  the  emperor,  you  made  bold 
To  carry  into  Flanders  tlie  great  seal. 

Siir.  Item,  you  sent  a  large  commission 
To  Gregory  de  Cassalis,  to  conclude. 
Witiiout  the  king's  will  or  the  state'.s  allowance, 
A  league  between  his  highness  and  Ferrara. 

Suf.  That  out  of  mere  ambition  you  have  caus'd 
Your  holy  hat  to  be  stamp'd  on  the  king's  coin. 

Sur.  Then,  that  you  have   sent  innumerable  sub- 
stance, 
(By  what  means  got  I  leave  to  your  own  conscience) 
To  furnish  Home,  and  lo  prepare  the  ways 
You  have  for  dignities  ;  to  the  mere'  undoing 
Of  all  the  kingdom.     Many  more  there  are_; 
Which,  since  they  are  of  you,  and  odious, 
I  will  not  taint  my  mouth  with. 

Chum  O  my  lord  ! 

Pre,-«s  not  a  falling  man  too  far;  't  is  virtue. 
His  faults  lie  open  to  the  laws  :  let  them, 
Not  you,  correct  him.     My  heart  weeps  to  see  him 
So  little  of  his  great  self. 

Sur.  I  forgive  him. 

Suf.  Lord  cardinal,  tlie  king's  farther  pleasure  is. — 
Because  all  those  things,  you  have  done  of  late 
By  your  power  legatine  within  this  kingdom. 
Fall  into  the  compji.'is  of  a  prcemynirc. — 
That  therefore  such  a  writ  be  sued  against  you  ; 
To  forfeit  all  your  gootls.  lands,  tenements. 
Chattels,  and  whatsoever,  and  to  be 
•  hit  of  the  king's  protection. — This  is  my  charge. 

Nor.  And  so  we  '11  leave  you  to  your  meditations. 
How  to  live  belter.     For  your  stubborn  answer. 
About  the  giving  back  the  great  seal  to  us, 
The  kin4  •''hall  know  it,  and,  no  doubt,  shall  thank  you. 
So.  fare  you  well,  my  little  good  lord  cardinal. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Wolsey. 


Wol.  So,  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  roe 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  grcntness  ' 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes,  to-morrow  blos.soms, 
And  beats  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost  ; 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man.  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening. — nips  his  root. 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  tliat  swim  on  bladders. 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory. 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high  blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me  :  and  now  has  lefi  me. 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the  incrcy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye  : 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd.     0  !   how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man,  that  hangs  on  princes'  tavours. 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  i^angs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer. 
Never  to  hope  again. — 

Enter  Cromwell,  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now.  CroiDwell 

Crom.  I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol.  What  !  a.n  I.. 

At  my  misfortunes  ?  can  thy  spirit  wonder, 
A  great  man  should  decline?     Nay.  an  you  weep. 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Wol.  Why,  well 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now ;  and  I  feel  within  nie 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  curd  ::  ■ 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace,  and  from  these  shoulder 
These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  na\'\' — too  much  honour. 
0  !  't  is  a  burden,  Cromwell,  't  is  a  burden, 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Crom.  I   am  glad   your  grace  has  made  that  r:;;ht 
u.se  of  it. 

Wol.  I  hope  I  have  :  I  am  able  now,  methinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  f<'el) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far. 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
Wliat  news  abroad  ? 

Crom.  The  heaviest,  and  the  worst, 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

Wol.  God  bless  him  ! 

Crom.  The    next    is,    that    sir    Thomas    Mor(     •■ 
chosen 
Lord  Chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.  That  's  .somewhat  sudden 

But  he's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favour,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  ?ake,  and  his  conscience  :  that  his  bone.- 
When  he  has  run  his  course  and  sleeps  in  blessinfij. 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em  I 
What  more? 

Crom.  That  Cranmer  is  returned  with  welcome. 
In.stalKd  lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wol.     That 's  news  indeed  ! 

Crom.  Last,  that  the  lady  Ar  • 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married. 
This  dav  was  view'd  in  open,  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  cliapel:  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 


SCENE  I. 


KING  HENRY    Vm. 


5o9 


Wol.  There  was  the  weight  that  pulled  me  down. 
0  Cromwell  ! 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me  :  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever. 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me.  Cromwell ; 
I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master.     Seek  the  king  ; 
(That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !)  I  have  told  him 
What,  and  how  true  thou  art :  he  will  advance  thee. 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, 
^f  know  his  noble  nature)  not  to  let 
Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too.     Good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not ;  make  use'  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  O,  my  lord  ! 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?  must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  .so  true  a  master  ? 
Bear  witness  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. — 
The  king  shall  have  riy  service  ;  but  my  prayers, 
For  ever  and  for  ever,  shall  bo  yours. 

Wol.  Cromwell.  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries  ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me, 
Dut  of  thy  honcet  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
Let 's  dry  our  eyes  ;  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell : 
And, — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be. 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 


Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of. — say,  I  taui,l.t  lh«e 

Suy,  Wolsey,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour, 

Found  thee  a  way.  out  of  his  wTeck,  to  rise  in ; 

A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin"d  me. 

Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  • 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  ;  how  can  man,  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  "t  ? 

Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee 

Corritption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 

To  silence  envious  tongues  :  be  ju.<t.  and  fear  not 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's. 

Thy  God's,  and  truth's  :  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  0  Crom 

well ! 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 
Serve  the  king  ;  and, — Pr'ythee,  lead  me  in 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have. 
To  the  last  pemiy ;  't  is  the  king's  :  my  robe. 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     0  Cromwell,  Cromwell  ! 
Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

Crom.  Good  sir,  have  patience. 

Wol.  So  I  have. — Fare  we  1 ! 

The  hopes  of  court :  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  dwell. 

[ExeiuU. 


ACT    IV. 


4 


SCENE  L— A  Street  in  Westminster. 
Eyitcr  two  Gentlemen^  meeting. 

1  Gt^it.  You  're  well  met  once  again. 

2  Gent.  So  are  you. 

1  Gent.  You    come    to    take   your  stand  here,  and 

behold 
The  lady  Anne  pass  from  her  coronation  ? 

2  Gent.  'T  is  all  my  business.  At  our  last  encounter. 
The  duke  of  Buckingham  came  from  his  trial. 

1  Gent.  'T  is  very  true;  but  that  time  offer'd  sorrow. 
This,  general  joy. 

2  Gent.  'T  is  well :  the  citizens, 

I  am  sure,  have  shown  at  full  their  royal  minds  : 
As,  let  'em  have  their  rights,  they  are  ever  forward 
In  celebration  of  this  day  with  shows. 
Pageants,  and  sights  of  honour. 

1  Gent.  Never  greater  ; 
Nor,  I  '11  assure  you,  better  taken,  sir. 

2  Gent.  May  I  be  bold  to  ask  what  that  contains, 
That  paper  in  your  hand  ? 

\  Gent.  Yes  ;  't  is  the  list 

Of  those  thftt  claim  their  offices  this  day, 
By  custom  of  the  coronation. 
The  duke  of  Suffolk  is  the  first,  and  claims 
To  bo  high  steward  :  next,  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 
He  to  be  earl  marshal.     You  may  read  the  rest. 

2  Gent.  I  thank  you,  sir;    had  I  not  known  those 
customs. 
I  should  have  been  beholding  to  your  paper. 
But,  I  beseech  you,  what 's  become  of  Katharine, 
The  princess  dowager?  how  goes  her  business? 

1  Gent.  That  I  can  tell  you  too.     The  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  accompanied  with  other 
Interest. 


Learned  and  reverend  fathers  of  his  order, 
Held  a  late  court  at  Dunstable,  six  miles  off 
From  Ampthill,  where  the  princess  lay  ;  to  which 
She  was  often  cited  by  them,  but  appeared  not : 
And,  to  be  short,  for  not  appearance,  and 
I  The  king's  late  scruple,  by  the  main  assent 
jOf  all  these  learned  men  she  was  divorc'd, 
I  And  the  late  marriage  made  of  none  effect : 
Since  which  she  was  removed  to  Kimbolton, 
Where  she  remains  now,  sick. 

2  Gent.  Alas,  good  lady  ! — 

[Trumpets. 
The  trumpets  sound  :  stand  close,  the  queen  is  coming. 

[Hautboys. 

THE    ORDER    OF    THE    CORONATION. 

A  licely  flourish  of  Trumpets. 

1 .  Then,  two  Judges. 

2.  Lord  Chancellor,  with  purse  and  mace  before  him. 

3.  Choristers  singing.  [Music. 

4.  Mayor  of  London  bearing  the  mace.     Then,  Garter 

in  his  coat  of  arms  ;  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a 
gilt  copper  crown. 

5.  Marquess  Dorset,  bearing  a  sceptre  of  gold;  on  hi.f 

head  a  dcmi-coronal  of  gold.  With  him  the  Earl 
of  Surrey,  hearing  the  rod  of  silver  u-ith  the  dove  : 
crowned  with  an  earl's  coronet.     Collars  of  SS. 

6.  Duke  of  Suffolk,  in  his  robe  of  e.-<tatc.  his  coronet  on 

his  head,  bearing  a  long  ichite  wand,  as  high- 
steward.  With  him.  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  with 
the  rod  of  marshalship  ;  a  coronet  on  his  head. 
Collars  of  SS. 

7.  A  canopy  borne  by  four  of  the  Cinoue-ports  ;  unde*  it, 

the  Queen  in  her  robe;  in  her  hair,  richly  adorned 


560 


KING  HENKY  YUL 


with  pcnrl.    crowiud.      On    each   side    het  ^    the 

Bishops  of  Lowlon  ntid  Wiuchrsler. 
8.   The  old  jhichiss  of  Norfolk,  in  a  coronal  of  gold, 

wrought  with  flowers,  bearing  the  Queen^s  train. 
d.   Certain  Ladies  or  Countesses,  with  plain  circlets  of 

gold  without  flou-ers. 
2  Gent.  A  royal  train,  believe  me. — These  I  know: 
Who  "s  that,  that  bears  the  sceptre  ? 

1  Gent.  Marquess  Dorset  : 
And  that  the  earl  of  Surrey,  with  the  rod. 

2  Gent.  A  bold  brave  gentleman.     That  should  be 
Tlie  duke  of  Suffolk. 

1  Gent.  'T  is  the  same:  high-steward. 

2  Gent.  And  that  my  lord  of  Norfolk  ? 

1  Gent.  Yes. 

2  Gent.  Heaven  bless  thee  !   [Looking  on  tlie  Queen. 
Thou  hast  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  Iook"d  on. — 

Sir.  as  I  have  a  soul,  .she  is  an  angel  : 

Our  king  has  all  the  Indies  in  his  arms, 

And  more,  and  richer,  when  he  strains  that  lady. 

I  cannot  blame  his  conscience. 

1  Gent.  They,  that  bear 
The  cloth  of  honour  over  her,  are  four  barons 
or  the  cinque-ports. 

2  Gent.  Those  men  are  happy ;  and  so  are  all.  are 

near  her. 
I  take  it.  she  that  carries  up  the  train 
Is  tliat  old  noble  lady,  duchess  of  Norfolk. 

1  Gent.  It  is  ;  and  all  the  rest  are  countesses. 

2  Gent.    Tlieir  coronets  say  so.      These  are  stars, 

indeed ', 
And  sometimes  falling  ones. 

1  Geiit.  No  more  of  that. 

[Exit  Procession,  with  a  great  flourish  of 

Trumpets. 
Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 
God  save  you.  sir  !     Where  have  you  been  broiling  ? 

3  Gent.  Among  the  crowd  'i  the  abbey  ?  where  a 

finger 
Could  not  be  wedg'd  in  more  :  I  am  stifled 
With  the  mere  rankness  of  their  joy. 

2  Gent.  You  saw  the  ceremony? 

3  Gent.  That  I  did. 

1  Gent.  How  was  it? 

3  Gent.  Well  worth  the  .seeing. 

2  Gent.  Good  sir.  .^peak  it  to  us. 

3  Gent.  As  well  as  I  am  able.     The  rich  stream, 
Of  lords  and  ladies,  having  brought  the  queen 

To  a  prcpar'd  place  in  the  choir,  fell  off 

.V  distance  from  her ;  while  her  grace  sat  down 

To  rest  a  while,  some  half  an  hour  or  so, 

In  a  ricii  chair  of  state,  opposing  freely 

The  beauty  of  her  person  to  the  people. 

Believe  me^  sir.  slie  is  the  goodliest  woman 

That  ever  lay  by  man  :  whicli  when  the  people 

Had  the  full  view  of,  such  a  noise  arose 

As  the  .shrouds  make  at  sea  in  a  stiff  tempest 

As  loud,  and  to  a.s  many  tunes :  hats,  cloaks. 

(Doublet.*,  I  think)  flew  up;  and  had  their  faces 

Been  loose,  lliis  day  they  had  been  lost.     Such  joy 

I  P.rfver  saw  before.     Grcat-beliicd  women, 

That  had  not  half  a  week  to  go,  like  rams 

In  the  old  time  of  war,  would  shake  the  press. 

And  make  them  reel  before  them.     No  man  living 

Could  say,  "  This  is  my  wife,"  there ;  all  were  woven 

So  strangely  in  one  piece. 

2  Gent.  But,  what  follow'd  ? 

3  Gent.  At  length  her  grace  arose,  and  with  modest 

paces 


Came  to  the  altar ;  where  she  kneel'd,  and  saint  lik« 
Cast  her  fair  eyes  to  heaven,  and  pray"d  devoutly. 
Then  rose  again,  and  bowed  her  to  the  people : 
When  by  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury 
She  had  all  the  royal  makings  of  a  queen ; 
As  holy  oil,  Edward  Confes.sor"s  crown, 
The  rod.  and  bird  of  peace,  and  all  such  emblems 
Laid  nobly  on  her:  which  performed,  the  choir. 
With  all  the  choicest  music  of  the  kingdom. 
Together  sung  Te  Dcum.     So  she  parted, 
And  with  the  same  lull  state  pac"d  back  again 
To  York-place,  where  the  feast  is  hei"S. 

1  Gent.         '  Sir, 

You  must  no  more  call  it  York-place,  that 's  past ; 
For.  since  the  cardinal  fell,  that  title  's  lost: 
'"T  is  now  the  king's,  and  call'd — Whitehall. 

3  Gent.  1  know  it 

But  't  is  so  lately  alter'd,  that  the  old  name 
Is  fresh  about  me. 

2  Gent.  What  two  reverend  bishops 
Were  those  that  went  on  each  side  of  the  queen? 

3  Gent.  Stokesley  and  Gardiner ;  the  one  of  Win- 

Chester, 
Newly  pieferrd  from  the  king's  secretary; 
The  other.  London. 

2  Gent.  He  of  Winchester 

Is  held  no  great  good  lover  of  the  archbishop's, 
The  virtuous  Cramner. 

3  Gent.  All  the  land  knows  that. 
However,  yet  there  's  no  great  breach  .  when  it  comes, 
Cranmer  will  find  a  friend  will  not  shrink  from  hi/ii. 

2  Gent.  Who  may  thai  be,  I  pray  you  ? 

3  Gent.  Thomas  Cromwell, 
A  man  in  much  esteem  wth  the  king,  and  truly 

A  worthy  friend. — The  king  has  made  him 

Master  o'  the  jewel-house. 

And  one.  already,  of  the  pri\7^-council. 

2  Gent.  He  will  deserve  more. 

3  Gent.  Yes,  without  all  doubt 
Come,  gentlemen,  ye  shall  go  my  way,  which 

Is  to  the  court,  and  there  ye  shall  be  my  guests : 
Something  I  can  command.  As  I  walk  thither, 
I  '11  tell  ye  more. 

Both.  You  may  command  us,  sir.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— Kimbolton. 
Enter  K.\tharine.  Doivager.  sick;  led  between  GiUF- 

FITH  and  P.^TIE.NCE. 

Grif.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Kath.  0,  GriflSth  !  si.  k  to  death 

My  legs,  like  loaden  branches,  bow  to  the  earth, 
Willing  to  leave  their  burden.     Reach  a  chiir. — 

[Sits  down 
So, — now,  methii.ks,  I  feel  a  little  ease. 
Didst  thou  not  tell  me.  Griflith,  as  thou  led'st  me. 
That  the  great  child  of  honour,  .cardinal  Wolfcey, 
Was  dead  ? 

Grif.         Yes,  madam  ;  but,  I  think,  your  grace, 
Out  of  the  pain  you  suffered,  gave  no  ear  to  't. 

Kath.  Pr'ythee.  good  Griflith.  tell  me  how  he  died 
If  well,  he  stepp'd  before  me,  happily, 
For  my  examp!-e. 

Grif.  Well,  the  voice  goes,  madam  ; 

For  after  the  stout  carl  Northumberland 
Arrested  him  at  York,  and  brought  him  forv/ard, 
As  a  man  sorely  tainted,  to  his  an.'jwer, 
He  fell  .'jick  suddenly,  and  grew  so  ill. 
He  could  not  sit  his  mule. 

Kath.  Alas,  poor  man  I 


SCENE   n. 


KING  HENRY   Yin. 


561 


Grif.  At  last,  with  easy  roads,  he  came  to  Leicester 
Lodg'd  in  the  abbey,  where  the  reverend  abbot. 
With  all  his  convent,  honourably  receiv'd  him ; 
To  whom  he  gave  these  words. — "  0  father  abbot 
An  old  man.  broken  with  the  storms  of  state, 
Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  ye : 
Give  him  a  little  earth  tor  charity  !'- 
So  went  to  bed.  where  eagerly  his  sickness 
Pur.su"d  him  still  ;  and  three  nights  after  this, 
About  the  hour  of  eight,  which  he  himself 
Foretold  should  be  his  last,  full  of  repentance, 
Continual  meditations,  tears,  and  sorrows, 
He  gave  his  honours  to  the  world  again. 
Hi.-  blessed  part  to  heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

Kath.  So  may  he  rest :  his  faults  lie  lightly'  on  him  : 
Yet  thus  far.  Grithth.  give  me  leave  to  speak  him. 
And  yet  with  charity. — He  was  a  man 

Of  an  unbounded  stomacli.  ever  ranking 
Himself  with  princes  ;  one,  that  by  suggestion 

Tied  all  the  kingdom  :  simony  was  fair  play : 

His  own  opinion  was  his  law :  i'  the  presence 

He  would  say  untruths,  and  be  ever  double. 

Both  in  his  words  and  meaning.     He  was  never. 

But  where  he  meant  to  ruin,  pitiful  : 

His  promises  w^ere.  as  he  then  was.  mighty; 

But  his  performance,  as  he  is  now,  nothing. 

Of  his  own  body  he  was  ill,  and  gave 

The  clergy  ill  example. 

G-rif.  Noble  madam, 

Mens  evil  manners  live  in  bra-ss :  their  virtues 

We  write  in  water.     May  it  please  your  highness 

To  hear  me  speak  his  good  now  ? 
Kath.  Yes,  good  Griffith  : 

I  were  malicious  else. 

Grif.  This  cardinal. 

Though  from  an  humble  stock,  undoubtedly 

Was  fa.shion'd  to  much  honour  from  his  cradle. 

He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe,  and  good  one  ; 

Exceeding  wise,  fair  spoken,  and  persuading : 

Lofty  and  sour  to  them  that  lov'd  him  not : 

But.  to  those  men  that  sought  him,  sweet  as  summer : 

And  though  he  were  unsatisfied  in  getting. 

(Which  was  a  sin)  yet  in  bestowing,  madam. 

He  was  most  princely.     Ever  witness  for  him 

Those  t\\-ins  of  learning,  that  he  rais'd  in  you. 

Ipswich,  and  Oxford  !  one  of  which  fell  with  him. 

Unwilling  to  outlive  the  good  man'  did  it : 

The  other,  though  unfinish'd.  yet  so  famous. 

So  excellent  in  art.  and  still  so  rising. 

That  Christendom  shall  ever  speak  his  virtue. 

His  overthrow  heap'd  happiness  upon  hirn  ; 

For  then,  and  not  till  then,  he  felt  himself. 

And  found  the  blessedness  of  being  little  : 

And,  to  add  greater  honours  to  his  age 

Than  man  could  give  him.  he  died  fearing  God. 
^  Kath.  After  ray  death  I  wish  no  other  herald. 

No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions. 

To  keep  mine  honour  from  corruption. 

But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 

Whom  I  most  hated  living,  thou  hast  made  me. 

With  thy  religious  truth  and  modesty. 

Now  in  his  ashes  honour.     Peace  be  with  him  I — 

Patience,  be  near  me  still :  and  set  me  lower  : 

I  have  not  long  to  trouble  thee. — Good  Griffith. 

Cause  the  musicians  play  me  that  sad  note 

I  nam'd  my  knell,  whilst  I  sit  meditating 

On  that  celestial  harmony  I  go  to. 

[Sad  and  solemn  inii.sic. 
Grif.  She  is  asleep.  Good  wench,  let 's  sit  do-mi  quiet. 

'  ?en'„y  :  in  f.  e.      '  that  :  in  f.  e.      '  cold  -  in  f  e       *  Not  in  f.  < 

2L 


For  fear  we  wake  her  : — softly,  gentle  Patience. 
The  Vision.  Enter,  solemnly  tripping  one  after  another 
six  Perso7iages.  clad  in  tchite  robes,  wearing  on  their 
Jieads  garlands  of  bays,  and  golden  vizards  on  theit 
faces  ;  branches  of  bays,  or  palm,  in  their  hands.  Jluy 
first  congae  unto  her.  ihen  dance;  and.  at  certain 
changes,  the  first  two  hold  a  spare  garland  over  ha 
head;  at  ivhich.  the  other  four  make  reverend  curtesies 
then,  the  two  that  held  the  garland  deliver  the  .same 
to  the  other  next  two.  who  observe  the  same  order  ir 
their  changes,  arid  holding  the  garland  over  hir  head 
Which  done,  they  deliver  the  same  garland  to  the  last 
tivo,  who  likewise  observe  the  same  order:  at  tchich, 
(as  it  were  by  inspiration)  she  makes  in  her  sleep  signs 
of  rejoicing,  and  holdeth  up  her  hands  to  heaven.  And 
so  in  their  dancing  they  vanish,  carrying  the  garland 
with  them.  The  music  continues. 
Kath.  Spirits  of  peace,  where  are  ye?  Are  ye  all 
gone,  [IVakino. 

And  leave  me  here  in  -wTetchedness  behind  ye  ;" 
Grif.  Madam,  wc  are  here. 
Kath.  It  is  not  you  I  call  for 

Saw  ye  none  enter,  since  I  slept  ? 

Grif.  None,  madam. 

Kath.  No  !  saw  you  not.  even  now,  a  blessed  troop 

Invite  me  to  a  banquet ;  whose  bright  faces 

Cast  thousand  beams  upon  me.  like  the  sun? 

They  promis'd  me  eternal  happiness, 

And  brought  me  garlands.  Griffith,  which  I  feel 

I  am  not  worthy  yet  to  wear :  I  shall,  assuredly. 
Grif.  I  am  most  joyful,  madam,  such  good  dreams 

Possess  your  fancy. 

Kath.  Bid  the  music  leave. 

They  are  harsh  and  heavy  to  me.  [3Iusic  cea.'^cx 

Pat.  Do  you  note. 

How  much  her  grace  is  alter'd  on  the  sudden  ? 

How  long  her  face  is  drawn  ?     How  pale  slie  looks. 

And  of  an  earthy  coldness  ?'     Mark  her  eyes  ! 
Grif.  She  is  going,  wench.     Pray.  pray. 
Pat.  Heaven  comfort  her 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  An  't  like  your  grace. — 
Kath.  You  are  a  saucy  fellow. 

Deserve  we  no  more  reverence  ^ 

Grif.  You  are  to  blame. 

Knowing  she  will  not  lose  her  wonted  greatness, 

To  use  so  rude  behaviour :  go  to  :  kneel. 

Mess.  I  humbly  do  entreat  your  liighness'  pardon 

[Kneeling' 

My  haste  made  me  unmannerly.     There  is  staying 

A  gentleman,  sent  from  the  king  to  see  you. 

Kath.  Admit  him  entrance.  Griffith  :  but  this  fellow 

Let  me  iie"er  sec  again. 

[Excu>it  Griffith,  nnrf  Me.s.iens-:' 
Re-enter  Griffith,  u-ith  C.\PLTirs. 
If  my  sight  fail  not, 

You  should  be  lord  ambassador  from  the  emperor. 

My  royal  nephew:  and  your  name  Capucius. 
Cap.  Madam,  the  same,  your  servant. 
Kath.  0  my  lord  ! 

The  times,  and  titles,  now  are  alter'd  strangely 

With  me,  since  first  you  knew  me.     But,  I  pray  yoj 

What  is  your  pleasure  \^-ith  me  ? 

Cap.  Noble  lady. 

First,  mine  own  service  to  your  grace:  the  next. 

The  king's  request  that  I  would  visit  you  ; 

Who  grieves  much  for  your  weakness,  and  by  rae 

S^uds  you  his  princely  commendations. 

And  heartilv  entreats  vou  take  good  comfort 


562 


KING  HENEY  VHI. 


Kalh.  0  !  my  good  lord,  that  comfort  comes  too  late  : 
'T  is  like  a  pardon  after  execution. 
That  gentle  physic,  given  in  time,  had  cuWd  me; 
But  now  I  am  past  all  comforts  here,  but  prayers. 
How  does  his  highne.^s  ? 

Cap.  Madam,  in  good  health 

kath.  So  may  he  ever  do ;  and  ever  flourish, 
When  I  .«hall  dwell  with  worms,  and  my  poor  name 
Banish'd  the  kingdom. — Patience,  is  that  letter, 
I  caus'd  you  write,  yet  sent  away? 

Pat.  No.  madam.     [Givi?ig  it  to  Katharine. 

Kath    Sir,  I  most  humbly  pray  you  to  deliver 
This  to  my  lord  the  king. 

Cap.  Most  willing,  madam. 

Kath.  In  which  I  have  commended  to  his  goodness 
The  motiel  o*'  our  chaste  loves,  his  young  daughter  : — 
The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on  her  ! 
Beseeching  him  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding. 
She  is  young,  and  of  a  noble  modest  nature, 
I  hope,  she  will  deserve  well ;  and  a  little 
To  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake,  that  lov"d  him. 
Heaven  knows  how  dearly.     My  next  poor  petition 
Is.  that  his  noble  grace  would  have  some  pity 
Upon  my  \\Tetched  women,  that  so  long. 
Have  follow'd  both  my  fortunes  faithfully: 
Of  which  there  is  not  one.  I  dare  avow, 
(And  now  I  should  not  lie)  but  will  deserve. 
For  virtue,  and  true  beauty  of  the  soul. 
For  honesty,  and  decent  carriage, 


A  right  good  husband,  let  him  be  a  noble; 

And,  sure,  those  men  are  hapi)y  that  shall  have  them 

The  laat  is,  for  my  men: — they  are  the  poorest. 

But  poverty  could  never  draw  them  from  me  : — 

That  they  may  have  their  wages  duly  paid  them, 

And  something  over  to  remember  me  by : 

If  heaven  had  pleas'd  to  have  given  me  longer  life. 

And  able  means,  we  had  not  parted  thus. 

These  are  the  whole  contents : — and,  good  my  lord. 

By  that  you  love  the  dearest  in  this  world. 

As  you  wish  Christian  peace  to  souls  departed. 

Stand  these  poor  people's  friend,  and  urge  the  king 

To  do  me  this  last  right. 

Cap.  By  heaven,  I  will, 

Or  let  me  lose  the  fashion  of  a  man  ! 

Kath.  I  thank  you.  honest  lord.     Remember  me 
In  all  humility  unto  his  highness  : 
Say.  his  long  trouble  now  is  passing 
Out  of  this  world :  tell  him,  in  death  I  ble.ss"d  him, 
For  .so  I  will. — Mine  eyes  grow  dim. — Farewell, 
My  lord. — Griffith,  farewell. — Nay,  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet  :  I  must  to  bed  : 
Call  in  more  women. — When  I  am  dead,  good  wench 
Let  me  be  us'd  with  honour  :  strew  me  over 
"With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  kno^^ 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave.     Embalm  me  ; 
Then  lay  me  forth :  although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more. —  [Exeimt,  leading  Katha^lsk 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Gallery  in  the  Palace. 

Entrr  Gardiner.  Bishop  of  Winchester,  a  Page  with  a 

Torch  before  him;  met  by  Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 

Gar.  It 's  one  o'clock,  boy,  is  't  not  ? 

Boy.  It  hath  struck. 

Gar.  These  should  be  hours  for  necessities, 
.Not  for  delights  ;  times  to  repair  our  nature 
With  comforting  repo.«e.  and  not  for  us 
To  waste  these  times. — Good  hour  of  nisht.  sir  Thomas  : 
Whither  so  late  ? 

Lov.  Came  you  from  the  king,  my  lord? 

Gar.  I  did,  sir  Thomas :  and  left  him  at  primero 
\\  ith  the  duke  of  Suffolk. ' 

Lov.  I  must  to  him  too. 

Before  he  go  to  bed.     I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Gar.  Not  yet.  sir  Thomas  Lovell.  What's  the  matter? 
It  .«eems  you  are  in  ha.ste  :  an  if  there  be 
No  great  offence  belongs  to  't.  give  your  friend 
Some  touch  of  your  late  business.     Affairs  that  walk 
(As.  they  say,  .spirits  do)  at  midnight  have 
In  them  a  wilder  nature,  than  the  business 
That  seeks  despatch  by  day. 

Lov.  My  lord.  I  love  you, 

.A.nd  durst  commend  a  secret  to  your  ear 
Much    weightier   than    this   work.      The  queen  's  in 

labour; 
They  say,  in  creat  extremity,  and  fear'd. 
She  '11  with  the  labour  end. 

Gar.  The  fruit  she  goes  with 

I  pray  for  heartily;  that  it  may  find 
Good  time,  and  live :  but  for  the  stock,  sir  Thomas, 
I  wish  it  grubb'd  up  now.  • 

Lov.  Methinks.  I  could 

'  ii  :  in  folio.     Theobald  made  the  change.      >  Svmmotud. 


Cry  thee  amen ;  and  yet  my  conscience  saye 
She  's  a  good  creature,  and.  sweet  lady,  does 
Deserve  our  better  -wishes. 

Gar.  But.  sir.  sir, — 

Hear  me,  sir  Thomas  :  y'  are  a  gentleman 
Of  mine  own  way  :  I  know  you  wise,  religiou.* : 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  it  will  ne'er  be  well, 
'T  will  not,  sir  Thomas  Lovell,  take  't  of  me. 
Till  Cranmer,  Cromwell,  her  two  hands,  and  shi*. 
Sleep  in  their  graves. 

Lov.  Now.  sir,  you  speak  of  two 

The  most  remark'd  i'  the  kingdon^.  As  for  Cromw 
Beside  that  of  the  jewel-house,  he  's'  made  master 
0'  the  rolls,  and  the  king's  secretarj' ;  farther,  sir. 
Stands  in  the  gap  and  trade  of  more  preferments. 
With  which  the  time  will  load  him.  Th'  archbis! ' 
Is  the  king's  hand,  and  tongue  ;  and  who  dare  sp<^; 
One  .syllable  against  him  ? 

Gar.  Yes,  yes.  sir  Thomas 

There  are  that  dare  :  and  I  myself  have  ventur'd 
To  speak  my  mind  of  him  :  and.  indeed,  this  day, 
Sir,  (I  may  tell  it  you)  I  think.  I  have 
Incensd  the  lords  o'  the  counsel,  that  he  is 
(For  so  I  know  he  is,  they  know  he  is) 
A  most  arch  heretic,  a  pestilence 
That  does  infect  the  land  :  with  which  they  nr  v' 
Have  broken  with  the  king  :  who  hath  so  far 
'Given  car  to  our  complaint,  (of  his  great  grace 
And  princely  care,  foreseeing  those  fell  mischiefs 
Our  reasons  laid  before  him)  hath  commanded. 
To-morrow  morning  to  the  council-board 
He  be  convented*.     He  's  a  rank  weed,  sir  Thomw 
And  we  must  root  him  out.     From  your  afl^airs 
I  hinder  you  too  long:  good  night,  sir  Thomas. 


SCKNE  I. 


KING  HENEY  VIII. 


563 


Lev.  Many   good    nights,    my   lord.      I   rest   your 
servant  [Exeimt  Gardiner  and  Page. 

As  Lowell  is  going  out,  enter  tJie  King,  and  the  Duke 
0/ Suffolk. 
K.  Hen    Charles,  I  will  play  no  more  to-night : 
IV!v  mind  's  not  on  't ;  you  are  too  hard  for  me. 
Suf.  Sir,  I  did  never  win  of  you  before 
K.  Hen.  But  little,  Charles  . 
Nor  shall  not  when  my  fancy  's  on  my  play. — 
Now,  Lovell,  from  the  queen  what  is  the  news? 

Lov.  I  could  not  personally  deliver  to  her 
What  you  commanded  me,  but  by  her  woman 
[  sent  your  message  ;  who  return'd  her  thanks 
fii  tlie  greatest  humbleness,  and  desir'd  your  highness 
Most  heartily  to  pray  for  her. 

K.  Hen.  What  say'st  thou  ?  ha  ! 

To  pray  for  her  ?  what  !  is  she  crying  out  ? 

Lov.  So  said  her  woman ;  and  that  her  sufferance 
made 
Almost  each  pang  a  death. 
K.  Hen.  Alas,  good  lady  ! 

Suf.  God  safely  quit  her  of  her  burden,  and 
With  gentle  travail,  to  the  gladding  of 
Vour  highness  with  an  heir  ! 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  midnight,  Charles  : 

Pi'ythee,  to  bed;  and  in  thy  prayers  remember 
Til'  estate  of  my  poor  queen.     Leave  me  alone. 
For  I  must  think  of  that,  which  company 
Would  not  be  friendly  to. 

Suf.  I  ^^^sh  your  highness 

A  quiet  night ;  a,nd  my  good  mistress  will 
Remember  in  my  prayers. 
K.  Hen.       Charles,  good  night. —     [Exit  Suffolk 
Enter  Sir  Anthony  Denny. 
Well,  sir,  what  follows  ? 

Den.  Sir,  I  have  brought  my  lord  the  archbishop. 
As  you  commanded  me. 
K.  Hen.  Ha!  Canterbury? 

Den.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  true  :  where  is  he,  Denny? 

Den.  He  attends  your  highness'  pleasure. 
K.  Hen.  Bring  him  to  us.     [Exit  Denny. 

Lov.  This  is  about  that  which  the  bishop  spake  : 

[Aside. 
I  am  happily  come  hither. 

Re-enter  Denny,  with  Cranmer. 
K.  Hen.  Avoid  the  gallery.     [Lovell  seems  to  stay. 
Ha  ! — I  have  said. — Be  gone. 

What ! —  [Exeunt  Lovell  and  Denny. 

Cran.  I  am  fearful. — Wherefore  frowns  he  thus  ? 

[A.nde.' 
•  T  is  his  aspect  of  terror  :  all 's  not  well. 
K.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lord  !  You  do  desire  to  know 
■  Wherefore  I  sent  for  you. 

Cran.  It  is  my  duty     [Kneeling." 

T'  attend  your  highness'  pleasure. 

K.  Hen.  Pray  you.  arise. 

My  good  and  gracious  lord  of  Canterbury. 
Come,  you  and  I  must  walk  a  turn  together  ; 
I  have  news  to  tell  you.     Come,  come,  give  me  your 

hand. 
Ah,  my  good  lord,  I  grieve  at  what  I  speak, 
And  am  right  sorry  to  repeat  what  follows. 
I  have,  and  most  unwillingly,  of  late 
Heard  many  grievous,  I  do  say.  my  lord, 
Grievous  complaints  of  you  ;  which  being  consider^ 
Have  mov'd  us  and  our  council,  that  you  shall 
This  morning  come  before  us  :  where,  I  know, 
Vou  cannot  with  such  freedom  purge  yourself, 

;  '  No*  in  f.  e.      '  you  :  in  f.  e       ♦  '  Not  in  f.  e.      '  good  :  in  f.  e. 


But  that,  till  farther  trial  in  those  charges 

Which  will  require  your  answer,  you  m\ist  take 

Your  patience  to  you,  and  be  well  contented 

To  make  your  house  our  Tower :  to'  a  brother  of  m. 

It  fits  me  thus  proceed,  or  else  no  witness 

Would  come  against  you. 

Cran.  I  humbly  thank  your  higIii,e.-# 

And  am  right  glad  to  catch  this  good  occasion 

[Kneeling 
Most  thoroughly  to  be  winnow'd,  where  my  chaff 
I  And  corn  shall  fly  asunder;  for,  I  know, 
There  's  none  stands  under  more  calumnious  tongues 
Than  I  mj^self  poor  man. 

-S".  Hen.  Stand  up,  good  Canterbury 

Thy  truth,  and  thy  integrity,  is  rooted 
In  us,  thy  friend.     Give  me  thy  hand,  stand  up  . 

[Rising. 
Pr'ythee,  let 's  walk.     Now,  by  my  holy  dame, 
What  manner  of  man  are  you  ?     My  lord.  I  looked 
You  would  have  given  me  your  petition,  that 
I  should  have  ta'en  some  pains  to  bring  together 
Yourself  and  your  accusers ;  and  to  hLve  heard  you. 
Without  indurance,  farther. 

Cran.  Most  dread  liege, 

The  ground*  I  stand  on,  is  my  truth,  and  honesty  ; 
If  they  shall  fail,  I,  with  mine  enemies. 
Will  triumph  o'er  my  person,  which  I  weigh  not. 
Being  of  those  virtues  vacant.     I  fear  nothing 
What  can  be  said  against  me. 

K.  Hen.  Know  you  not 

How  your  state  stands  i'  the  world,  with  the  M'}:o!e 

world  ? 
Your  enemies  are  many,  and  not  small ;  their  practices 
Must  bear  the  same  proportion  :  and  not  ever 
The  justice  and  the  truth  0'  the  question  carries 
The  due  0'  the  verdict  with  it.     At  what  ease 
Might  corrupt  minds  procure  knaves,  as  corrupt, 
To  swear  against  you  :  such  things  liave  been  done  ; 
You  are  potently  oppos'd,  and  ^^•ith  a  malice 
Of  as  great  size.     Ween  you  of  better  luck. 
I  mean  in  perjur'd  witness,  than  your  Master, 
Whose  minister  you  are,  whiles  here  he  liv'd 
Upon  this  naughty  earth  ?     Go  to,  go  to  : 
You  take  a  precipice  for  no  leap  of  danger. 
And  woo  your  own  destruction. 

Cran.  God,  and  your  majesty. 

Protect  mine  innocence,  or  I  fall  into 
The  trap  is  laid  for  me  ! 

K.  Hen.  Be  of  good  cheer  : 

They  shall  no  more  prevail,  than  we  give  way  to. 
Keep  comfort  to  you ;  and  this  morning,  see 
You  do  appear  before  them.     If  they  shall  chance. 
In  charging  you  with  matters,  to  commit  you, 
The  best  persuasions  to  the  contrary 
Fail  not  to  use,  and  with  what  vehemency 
The  occasion  shall  instruct  you  :  if  entreaties 
Will  render  you  no  remedy,  this  ring 
Deliver  them,  and  your  appeal  to  us 
There  make  before  fhem. — Look,  the  good  man  weeps 
He  's  honest,  on  mine  honour.     God's  blest  mother  ! 
I  swear,  he  is  true-hearted  ;  and  a  soul 
None  better  in  my  kingdom. — Get  you  gone. 
And  do  as  I  have  bid  you. — [Exit  Cranmer  ]  He  !isu- 

strangled 
His  language  in  his  tears. 

Enter  an  old  Lady,  in  haste. 
Gent.  [Withinl\   Comeback:  what  mean  you? 
Ladij.  I  '11  not  come  back;  the  tidings  that  I  bring 
Will  make  my  boldness  manners  — Now,  good  angels 


/ 


564 


KING  HENRY   VIII. 


Fly  O'er  ll.y  royal  head,  and  shade  thy  person 
Under  their  ble«»ed  wings  ! 

K.  Hen.  Now.  by  thy  looks 

1  sui-sB  thy  message.     Is  the  queen  deliver'd  ? 
Say.  ay  ;  and  of  a  hoy. 

Lady.  Ay.  ay.  my  liege  ; 

Anil  of  a  lovely  boy  :  the  God  of  lieaveii 
Both  now  and  ever  ble.'^s  lier  ! — "t  is  a  girl, 
IVoniLses  boys  hereafter.     Sir.  your  queen 
Desires  your  visitation,  and  to  be 
Acquainted  with  this  stranger:  "t  is  as  like  you 
^ji  cherrv  is  to  cherrv. 

K   Hen  Lovell  ! 

Re-enter  Lovei.l. 

Ln:  Sir. 

K.  Hen    Give  her  an  hundred   marks      I  "II   to   the 
queen.  [Exit  King. 

Lady.  An  hundred   marks  !     By  this  light,  I  '11  ha' 
more. 
\n  ordinary  groom  is  for  sueh  payment : 
I  will  have  more,  or  scold  it  out  of  him. 
Said  I  for  this  the  girl  was  like  to  him  ? 
i  will  have  more,  or  else  unsay  't :  and  now, 
While  it  is  hot.  I  '11  put  it  to  the  issue.  [Exeimt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Lobby  before  the  Council-Chamber. 
Enter  Cranmer  :   Servants.  Door-Kecper.  Ifc.  attending. 

Cran.  I  hope  I  am  not  too  late  ;  and  yet  the  gentle- 
man. 
That  was  sent  to  me  from  the  council,  pray'd  me 
To  make  great   haste.     All    fa.st  !  what   means  this  ? 

Hoa! 
Who  waits  there  ? — Sure,  yon  know  me  ? 

i).  Keep.  Yes.  my  lord  ; 

But  yet  I  cannot  help  vou. 

Cran.  '  Why  ^ 

D.  Keep.  Your  grace  mast  wait  till  you  be  caii'd  for. 
Enter  Doctor  Butts. 

Cran.  So. 

Butts.  This  is  a  piece  of  malice.     I  am  glad,  \Aside. 
I  came  this  way  .'^o  happily :  the  king 
Shall  understand  it  presently.  [Exit  Butts. 

Cran.  'T  is  Butts. 

The  king's  physician.     As  he  pa.st  along. 
How  earnestly  he  ea.st  his  eyes  upon  me. 
Pray  heaven,  he  sound  not  my  disgrace !     For  certain. 
This  is  of  purpose  laid  by  some  that  hate  me. 
(fjod  turn  their  hearts  !  1  never  .sought  their  malice) 
To  quench  mine  honour:  they  would  shame  to  make  me 
Wait  else  at  door,  a  fellow-coun.«ellor 
Mong  boys,  irrooms,  and  lackeys.   But  their  pleasures 
Must  be  fnlfiird.  and  I  attend  with  patience. 

Enter  the  King  and  Bitts.  at  a  vindow  above. 

Rjitts.  1  "11  hhow  your  grace  the  .«trange.st  sight. — 

K.  Hen.  What  "s  that,  Butt.«  ;^ 

Hutts.  I  think,  your  highne.^s  saw  this  many  a  day. 

K.  Hen.  Bf)dy  o"  me.  where  is  it? 

Hutix.  Tliere.  my  lord  : 

The  hish  promotion  of  his  grace  of  Canterbury  : 
Who  holds  his  state  at  door,  "monsst  ]lur8uivan1^, 
Pages,  and  foot  boys. 

K.  Hen.  Ha  !  'T  is  he,  indeed 

Is  this  the  honour  they  do  one  another  "•' 
'T  IS  well,  there  's  one  above  "em  yet.     I  had  tliriight. 
They  had  parted  so  much  honesty  among  'em, 
'At  least  good  manners)  as  not  thus  to  suffer 
A  man  of  his  place,  and  so  near  our  favour, 
To  dance  attendance  on  their  lordships'  pleasures 
A:id  at  the  door  too.  like  a  post  with  packets 


By  holy  Mary,  Butts,  there  's  knaveiy: 

Let  "em  alone,  and  draw  the  curtain  close  : 

We  shall  hear  more  anon. —  [Exeunt 

THE    COUNCIL-CHAMBER. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Ihike  of  Suffolk.  Ear, 
o/ Surrey.  Lord  C homberlain,  Gakvikkv.  and  Gro^^ 
WELL.  The  Chancellor  places  himself  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  table  on  the  left  hand ;  a  .scat  being  left  void 
above  him.  as  for  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbirv 
The  rest  scat  themselves  in  order  on  each  side.  Crom- 
well at  the  lou'er  end,  as  secretary. 
Chan.  Speak  to  the  business,  master  secretary  : 
Wliy  are  we  met  in  council  ? 

Crom.  Please  your  honours. 

The  chief  cause  concerns  his  grace  of  Canterburj-. 
Gar.  Has  he  had  knowledge  of  it  ? 
Crom.  Yes. 

Nor.  Who  waits  there  ' 

J).  Kcrp.  Without,  riiv  noble  lords? 
Gar.  Yes. 

D.  Keep.  My  lord  archbishop; 

And  has  done  half  an  hour,  to  know  your  pleasures. 
Chnn.  Let  him  come  in. 

D.  Keep.  Your  grace  may  enter  now. 

[Cranmer  approaches  the  Council-table 
Chan.  My  good  lord  archbishop.  I  am  very  sorry 
To  sit  here  at  this  present,  and  behold 
That  chair  stand  empty:  but  we  all  are  men. 
In  our  own  natures  frail,  and  culpable' 
Of  our  flesh  .  few  are  angels  :  out  of  which  frnilty. 
And  want  of  wisdom,  you.  that  best  should  teach  us, 
Have  misdemean'd  yourself,  and  not  a  little. 
Toward  the  king  first,  then  his  laws,  in  filling 
The  whole  realm,  by  your  teaching,  and  your  chaplains 
(For  so  we  are  inform'd)  with  new  opinions. 
Divers,  and  dangerous  :  which  are  heresies. 
And.  not  reform'd,  may  prove  pernicious. 

Gar.  Which  reformation  must  be  sudden  too. 
My  noble  lords  :  for  those  that  tame  wild  horses 
Pace  them  not  in  their  hands  to  make  them  gentle, 
But  stop  their  mouths  with  stubborn  bits,   and  spur 

them. 
Till  they  obey  the  manage.     If  we  suffer. 
Out  of  our  easiness  and  childish  pity 
To  one  man's  honour,  this  contagious  sicknes.s. 
Farewell  all  physic  :  and  what  follows  then? 
Commotions,  uproars,  with  a  general  taint 
Of  the  whole  state  :  as.  of  late  days,  our  neighbours, 
The  upper  Germany,  can  dearly  witness. 
Yet  freshly  pitied  in  our  memories. 

Cran.  My  good  lords,  hitherto,  in  all  tiie  progress, 
Both  of  my  life  and  olliec.  I  have  labour'd. 
And  with  no  little  study,  that  my  teaching, 
And  the  strong  course  of  my  authority, 
Might  go  one  way,  and  safely:  and  the  end 
Was  ever,  to  do  well :  nor  is  there  living 
(I  .speak  it  with  a  single  heart,  my  lords,, 
A  man.  that  more  detests,  more  .strives*  against 
Both  in  his  private  eonscience  and  his  place, 
Defacers  of  the'  public  peace,  than  I  do. 
Pray  heaven,  the  king  may  never  find  a  heart 
With  less  allegiance  in  it !     Men,  that  make 
Pmvy  and  crooked  malice  nourishment, 
Dare  bite  the  best.     I  do  beseech  your  lordships, 
That  in  this  ca.«c  of  justice,  my  accusers, 
Be  what  they  will,  may  stand  forth  face  to  face. 
.\nd  freely  urge  against  me. 

Hnf.  Nay,  my  lord. 

That"  cannot  be  :  you  are  a  counsellor. 


:t;»*tl«;  in  f. 


•tini  ■-  in  f.  "> 


SCENE  II. 


KING  HENRY   VHl. 


565 


And  by  that  virtue  no  man  dare  accuse  you.  I      Stif.  'T  is  the  right  ring,  by  heaven  !     1  told  ye  ai: 

Gar.  My  lord,  because  we  have  business  of  more  |  Wlien  we  first  put  this  dangerous  stone  a  rolling, 


moment, 

We  will  be  short  -with  you.  '  T  is  his  highness"  pleasure. 
And  our  consent,  for  better  trial  of  you. 
From  hence  you  be  committed  to  the  Tower : 
Where,  being  but  a  private  man  again. 
\'ou  shall  know  many  dare  accuse  you  boldly, 
More  than,  I  fear,  you  are  provided  for. 

Cran.  Ah  !  my  good  lord  of  Winchester,  I  thank  you : 
You  are  always  my  good  friend  :  if  your  will  pass, 
1  shall  both  find  your  lordship  judge  and  juror, 
You  are  so  merciful.     I  see  your  end  : 
'"T  is  my  undoing.     Love  and  meekness,  lord, 
Become  a  churchman  better  than  ambition  : 
Win  straying  souls  with  modesty  again, 
Cast  none  away.     That  I  shall  clear  myself, 
Lay  all  the  weight  ye  can  upon  my  patience. 
[  make  as  little  doubt,  as  you  do  conscience 
In  doing  daily  wrongs.     I  could  say  more, 
But  reverence  to  your  calling  makes  me  modest. 

Gar.  My  lord,  my  lord,  you  are  a  sectary : 
That 's  the  plain  truth  :  your  painted  gloss  discovers. 
To  men  that  understand  you,  word.s  and  weakness. 

Crom.  My  lord  of  Wincheyter,  you  are  a  little. 
By  your  good  favour,  too  sharp  :  men  so  noble. 
However  faulty,  yet  should  find  respect 
For  what  they  have  been  :  't  is  a  cruelty, 
To  load  a  falling  man. 

Gar.  Good  master  secretary 

I  cry  your  honour  mercy  :  you  may,  worst 
Of  all  this  table,  say  so. 

Crom.  Why,  my  lord  ? 

Gar.  Do  not  I  know  you  for  a  favourer 
Of  this  new  sect  ?  ye  are  not  sound. 

Crom.  Not  sound  ? 

Gar.  Not  sound,  I  say. 

Crom.  Would  you  were  half  so  honest ; 

Men's  prayers,  then,  would  seek  you,  not  their  fears. 

Gar.  I  shall  remember  this  bold  language. 

Crom.  Do : 

Remember  your  bold  life  too. 

Chan.  This  is  too  much  : 

Forbear,  for  shame,  my  lords. 

Gar.  I  have  done. 

Crom.  And  I. 

Chan.  Then  thus  for  you,  my  lord. — It  stands  agreed, 
I  take  it,  by  all  voices,  that  forthwith 
You  be  conveyM  to  the  Tower  a  prisoner  : 
There  to  remain,  till  the  king's  farther  plea.sure 
Be  known  unto  us.     Are  you  all  agreed,  lords  ^ 

All.  We  are. 

Cran.  Is  there  no  other  way  of  mercy. 

But  I  must  needs  to  the  Tower,  my  lords  ? 

Gar.  "  What  other 

Would  you  expect  ?     You  are  strangely  troublesome. 
L"t  some  o'  the  guard  be  ready  there. 

Cran.  For  me? 

Must  I  go  like  a  traitor  thither  ? 
Enicr  Guard. 

Gar.  Receive  him, 

A.nd  see  him  safe  i'  the  Tower. 

Cr2n.  Stay,  good  my  lords  ; 

t  have  a  little  yet  to  say. — Look  there,  my  lords  : 
Ry  virtue  of  that  ring  I  take  my  cause 
Out  of  the  gripes  of  cruel  men,  and  give  it 
To  a  most  noble  judge,  the  king  my  master. 

Chan.  This  is  the  king's  ring. 

Sur.  'T  is  no  counterfeit. 


T  would  fall  upon  ourselves. 

^or.  Do  you  think,  my  lord.-; 

The  king  will  suffer  but  the  little  finger 
Of  this  man  to  be  vex'd  ? 

Cltam.  'T  is  now  too  certain, 

How  much  more  is  his  life  in  value  with  him. 
Would  I  were  fairly  out  on  "t. 

Crom.  My  mi)id  gave  me. 

In  seeking  tales,  and  informations. 
Against  this  man,  whose  honesty  the  devil 
And  his  disciples  only  eu'vy  at. 
Ye  blew  the  fire  that  burns  ye.     Now.  have  at  ye 
Enter  the  King,  frowning  on  them :  he  take.i  his  sn.t. 

Gar.  Dread  sovereign,  how  much  are  we  bound  ■< 
heaven 
In  daily  thanks,  that  gave  us  such  a  prince ;' 
Not  only  good  and  wise,  but  most  religious: 
One  thac  in  all  obedience  makes  the  church 
The  chief  aim  of  his  honour  :  and,  to  strengthen 
Tliat  holy  duty,  out  of  dear  respect. 
His  royal  self  in  judgment  comes  to  hear 
Tlie  cause  betwixt  her  and  this  great  offender. 

K.  Hen.  You  were  ever  good  at  sudden  oommenda.- 
tions. 
Bishop  of  Winchester  ;  but  know.  I  come  not 
To  hear  such  flattery  now.  and  in  my  presence : 
They  are  too  thin  and  base  to  hide  offences. 
To  me  you  cannot  reach.     You  play  the  spaniei. 
And  think  with  wagging  of  your  tongue  to  win  me 
But,  v/hatsoe'er  thou  tak'st  me  for.  I  'm  sure. 
Thou  hast  a  cruel  nature,  and  a  bloody. — 
Good  man,  [To  Craxmer.]  sit  do\\-n.    Now,  let  me  see- 
the proudest.  [Cranmer  sit.y.- 
He  that  dares  most,  but  wag  his  finger  at  thee  : 
By  all  that 's  holy,  he  had  better  starve, 
Than  but  once  think  this*  place  becomes  thee  not. 

Sur.  May  it  please  your  grace, — 

A'.  Hen.  No,  sir,  it  does  not  please  nie 

I  had  thoitght,  I  had  had  men  of  some  understanding 
And  wasdom  of  my  council ;  but  I  find  none. 
Was  it  discretion,  lords,  to  let  this  man. 
This  good  man,  (few  of  you  deserve  that  title) 
This  honest  man,  wait  like  a  lousy  footboy 
At  chamber  door  ?  and  one  as  great  as  you  are  ? 
Wliy,  what  a  shame  was  this  I     Did  my  commission 
Bid  ye  so  far  forget  yourselves  '^     I  gave  ye 
Power,  as  he  was  a  counsellor  to  try  him. 
Not  as  a  groom.     There  's  some  of  ye,  I  see, 
More  out  of  malice  than  integrity, 
Would  try  him  to  the  utmost,  had  ye  mean ; 
Wliich  ye  shall  never  have  the  while  I  live. 

Chan.  Thus  la/ 

My  most  dread  sovereign,  may  it  like  your  grace 
To  let  my  tongue  excuse  all.     What  was  purpos'd 
Concerning  his  imprisonment,  was  rather 
(If  there  be  faith  in  men)  meant  for  his  trial. 
And  fair  purgation  to  the  world,  than  maLcc, 
I  'm  sure,  in  me. 

K.  Hen.  ■  Well,  well,  my  lords,  respect  liim  : 

Take  him,  and  use  him  well  ;  he  's  worthy  of  it. 
I  will  say  thus  much  for  him :  if  a  prince 
May  be  beholding  to  a  subject,  I 
Am,  for  his  love  and  service,  so  to  him. 
Make  me  no  more  ado.  but  all  embrace  him: 

[They  embrace  him:  Gardiner  lasl. 
Be  friends,  for  shame,  my  lord?  —My  lord  of  Canter 
bury. 


Noi  IB  f  «.      »  his     in  fo! 


^owe  made  the  change.       =  -phis  directinn  not  in  f. 


566 


KING  HENRY   VIII. 


ACT    V. 


[  have  a  suit  which  you  must  not  deny  nic  ;  I 

That  is,  a  fair  yonn?  maid  that  yet  wants  baptism, 
Vou  must  bo  jiodfathcr.  and  answer  for  her,  i 

Cran.  The  ercatcst  munaroli  now  alive  may  glory      ' 
In  such  an  honour:  how  may  I  deserve  it, 
Tliat  am  a  poor  and  liumble  subject  to  you?  [ 

K.  Unu  Come,  come,  my  lord,  you'd    spare  your 
spoons' .  I 

Vou  shall  have  two  noble  partners  with  you  ; 
The  old  duchess  of  Norfolk,  and  lady  marquess  Dorset :  | 
Will  these  pjeaae  you? 

Once  more,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  I  charge  jou, 
m brace  and  love  this  man.  j 

Gar.  With  a  true  heart. 

And  brother's  love,  I  do  it.  [Embrace  again.' 

Crau.  And  let  heaven 

Witness,  how  dear  I  hold  this  confirmation. 

A'.  Hen.  Gootl  man  !  those  joyful  tears  show  thy  , 
The  connnon  voice,  I  see,  is  verified  [true  heart. 

Jf  thee,  which  says  thus,  '•  Do  my  lord  of  Canlerbury  [ 
A  shrewd  turn,  and  he  is  your  friend  for  ever." — 
Come,  lords,  we  trifle  time  away  :  I  long 
To  have  this  young  one  made  a  Christian. 
As  I  have  made  yc  one,  lords,  one  remain  : 
So  f  grow  stronger,  you  more  honour  gain.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Palaee  Yard. 
N^oise  and  Tumult  within.     Enter  Porter  and  hi.^  Man. 

Part.  You  "11  leave  your  noise  anon,  ye  rascals  :  do 
you  take  the  court  for  Paris-garden'  ?  ye  rude  slaves, 
leave  your  gaping. 

[Within.]  Good  master  porter.  I  belong  to  the  larder. 

Port.  Belong  to  the  gallows,  and  be  hanged,  you 
rogue  !  Is  this  a  place  to  roar  in? — Fetch  me  a  dozen 
crab-tree  staves,  and  strong  ones  :  these  are  but  switches 
lo  them. — I  '11  scratch  your  heads  :  you  must  be  seeing 
christenings?  Do  you  look  for  ale  and  cakes  here. 
you  rude  rascals?  [Ttimvlt7nthin.*] 

Man.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient :  't  is  as  much  impossible. 
Unless  we  sweep  'em  from  the  door  with  cannons. 
To  scatter  'em,  as  't  is  to  make  'em  sleep 
On  May-day  morning  :  which  will  never  be. 
We  may  as  well  push  against  Paul's,  as  .stir  'em. 

Port.  How  got  they  in,  and  be  hanu'd  ? 

.Man.  Alas.  I  know  not :  how  gets  the  tide  in  ? 
As  much  as  one  sound  cudgel  of  four  foot 
(Vou  sec  the  poor  remainder)  could  disstribute, 
I  made  no  spare,  sir. 

Port.  You  did  nothing,  sir. 

Man.  I  am  not  Samson,  nor  sir  Guy,  nor  Colbrand, 
To  mow 'em  down  before  me;  but  if  I  spared  any. 
That  had  a  head  to  hit.  either  youns  or  old. 
He  or  she.  cuckold  or  cuckold-maker. 
Let  me  ne'er  hope  to  see  a  queen*  airain  : 
And  that  I  would  not  for  a  crown,*  God  save  her. 

[Within.]   Do  you  hear,  master  Porter? 

Port.  I  shall  be  with  you  presently,  good  master 
puppy. — Keep  the  door  close,  sirrah. 

.Man.  What  would  you  have  me  do? 

Port.  What  .-should  you  do,  but  knock  'em  down 
by  the  dozens?  Is  this  Moorfields  to  muster  in?  or 
have  we  some  strange  Indian  with  the  great  tool  come 
lo  court,  the  women  so  besiege  us?  [Noii^e.'']  Bless  me, 
what  a  fry  of  fornication  is  at  door  !  On  my  Christian 
ronscience.  this  one  christcjiing  will  beget  a  thou.sand  : 
here  will  be  father,  godfather,  and  all  together. 


Man.  The  spoons  will  be  the  bigger,  sir.  There  is  a 
fellow  somewhat  near  the  door,  he  should  be  a  braziei 
by  his  face,  for,  o'  my  conscience,  twenty  of  the  dog 
days  now  reign  in  's  nose  :  all  that  stand  about  him  are 
under  the  line  :  they  need  no  other  penance.  That 
fire-drake*  did  I  hit  three  times  on  the  head,  and  three 
times  was  his  nose  discharu'd  against  me :  he  stands 
there,  like  a  mortar-piece,  to  blow  us.  There  was  a 
haberdasher's  wife  of  small  wit  near  him,  that  railed 
upon  me  till  her  pink'd  porringer'  fell  off  her  head. 
for  kindling  such  a  combuslion  in  the  state.  I  miss'd 
tlie  meteor  once,  and  hit  that  woman,  who  cried  out, 
club^"  !  when  I  might  see  from  far  some  forty  trun- 
cheoners  draw  to  her  succour,  which  were  the  hope  o' 
the  Strand,  where  she  was  quartered.  They  fell  on  : 
I  made  good  my  place  :  at  length  they  came  to  the 
broomstaff  with  me  :  I  defied  'em  still :  when  suddenly 
a  file  of  boys  behind  'em.  loose  shot,  delivered  such  a 
shower  of  pebbles,  that  I  was  fain  to  draw  mine  honour 
in.  and  let  'em  win  the  work.  The  devil  was  amongs- 
'em.  I  think,  surely.  [Shouts.^ 

Port.  These  are  the  youths  that  thunder  at  a  play 
house,  and  fight  for  bitten  apples  :  that  no  audience 
but  the  Tribulation"  of  Tower-hill,  or  the  limbs  oi 
Limehouse",  their  dear  brothers,  are  able  to  endure.  . 
have  some  of  'em  in  Limbo  Patnim,  and  there  they 
are  like  to  dance  these  three  days,  besides  the  running 
banquet  of  two  beadles,  that  is  to  come. 

[Tumult  and  Shout.t'* 
Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Mercy  o'  me,  what  a  multitiide  are  here  ! 
They  grow  still,  too :  from  all  parts  they  are  coming, 
As  if  we  kept  a  fair  I     Where  are  these  porters, 
These   lazy   knaves  ? — Ye   have    made    a   fine   hand, 

fellows  ; 
There  's  a  trim  rabble  let  in.     Are  all  these 
Your  faithful  friends  o'  the  suburbs  ?     We  shall  have 
Great  store  of  room,  no  doubt,  left  for  the  ladies, 
When  they  pass  back  from  the  christening. 

Port.  An  't  please  your  bono  ;i 

We  are  but  men :  and  what  so  many  may  do. 
Not  being  torn  a  pieces,  we  have  done : 
An  army  cannot  rule  'em. 

Cham.  As  I  live. 

If  the  king  blame  me  for  't,  I  '11  lay  ye  all 
By  the  heels,  and  suddenly;  and  on  your  heads 
Clap  round  fines  for  neglect.     Y'  are  lazy  knaves  : 
And  here  ye  lie  baiting  of  bombards,"  when  [Trumpit.i  ' 
Ye  should  do  service.     Hark  !  the  trumpets  sound  ; 
They  're  come  already  from  the  christening. 
Go,  break  among  the  press,  and  find  a  way  out 
To  let  the  troop  pass  fairly,  or  I  '11  find 
A  Marshalsea  shall  hold  ye  play  these  two  months. 

Port.  Make  way  there  for  the  princess. 

Man    You  great  fellow,        [Tu?nult  end  confusiju.^ 
Stand  close  up,  or  I  '11  make  your  head  ache. 

Port.  You  i'  the  camblet.  get  up  o'  the  rail : 
I  '11  peek  you  o'er  the  pole"  else.  [Emm; 

SCENE  IV.— The  Palace  at  Greenwich. 
Enter  Trumpets,  .sounding;  then  two  Aldermen.    L> 
Mayor,   Garter,  Cranmer.  Duke  of  Norfolk,  with  i 
his  Mar.slmV.s  .staff.  Duke  of  Suffolk,  two  Noblemen  I 
bearing  great  .standing  howl.s  for  the  christening  gif'' 
tfien.  four  Noblemen  bearing  a  canopy,  under  v' 
the    Duchess   of  Norfolk,   godmother,    bearing 


•  .K  cnrtora  u  here  referred  to,  of  iponnors  i>re»entinc  spoons   to  &  child  at  baptism.     They  were  called  Apostle  spoons,  from  the  ficnr' 
c»rved  at  the  top  of  their  handles.      »  These  words  ar«  not  in  f.  e.     J  A  bear-sarden  on  the  Bank-side  ;  also  used  for  dramatic  perforrn.in"- 
•Th*?e -words  are  not  in  f.  e.      »  chine  :  in  f.  e.      •cow:inf.  e.      ■»  Not  in  f.  e.      8  A  «rpcnf  ;  also,  a  kind  of /reu;or/fc.     »rap,  so  sl.si  ^ 
•  .  ne  nnia.  city   cry.      n  Not   in   f.  e.      »  "  A   reference  to  some  Puritan  set.  or  place  of  assembly.      '♦  Not  in  f.  e.      f    f.arp*  ttntUf 
»<iw..  roj  noidiTg  liquo-.     >•  >'  Not  in  f.  e.      >«  palex  •  in  f  • 


SOENE   IV 


KING  HENRY    VIll. 


567 


child  richly  habited  in  a  mantle,  fyc.     Train  borne  by 
a  Lady:  then  follows  the  Marchioness  of  Dorset. 
the  other  godmother,  and  Ladies.     The   Troop  pass 
once  aboict  the  stage,  and  Garter  speaks. 
Gart.  Heaven, 
From  thy  endless  goodness,  send  prosperous  life, 
Long,  and  ever  happy,  to  the  high  and  mighty 
Princess  of  England,  Elizabeth  ! 

Flourish.     Enter  King,  and  Train. 
Cran.  And  to  your  royal  grace,  and  the  good  queen, 

[Kneeling. 
My  noble  partners,  and  myself,  thus  pray : — 
All  comfort,  joy,  in  this  most  gracious  lady, 
Heaven  ever  laid  up  lo  make  parents  happy. 
May  hourly  fall  upon  ye  ! 

K  Hen.  Thank  you,  good  lord  archbishop. 

What  is  her  name  ? 

Cran.  -       Elizabeth. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  up,  lord. —  [Cran.  rises.^ 

With  this  kiss  take  my  blessing :  God  protect  thee  ! 
into  whose  hand  I  give  thy  life.         [Kissing  the  child. 
Cran.  Amen ! 

K.  Hen.  My  noble  gossips,  ye  have  been  too  prodigal. 
I  thank  ye  heartily :  so  shall  this  lady, 
When  she  has  so  much  English. 

Cran.  Let  me  speak,  sir, 

For  Heaven  now  bids  me  ;  and  the  words  I  utter 
Let  none  think  flattery,  for  they  '11  find  them  truth. 
This  royal  infant, — heaven  still  move  about  her  ! — 
Though  in  her  cradle,  yet  now  promises 
Upon  this  land  a  thousand  thousand  blessings, 
Which  time  shall  bring  to  ripeness.     She  shall  be 
(But  few  now  living  can  behold  that  goodness) 
A  pattern  to  all  princes  living  with  her, 
And  all  that  shall  succeed  :  Sheba  was  never 
More  covetous  of  wisdom,  and  fair  virtue. 
Than  this  pure  soul  shall  be :  all  princely  graces. 
That  mould  up  such  a  mighty  piece  as  this  is, 
With  all  the  virtues  that  attend  the  good, 
Shall  still  be  doubled  on  her  :  truth  shall  nurse  her; 
Holy  and  heavenly  thoughts  still  counsel  her : 
She  .shall  be  lov'd.  and  fear'd :  her  own  shall  bless  her  : 
Her  foes  shake  like  a  field  cf  beaten  corn. 
And  hang  their  heads  with  sorrow :  good  grows  with 
her. 


In  her  days  every  man  shall  eat  in  safety 

Under  his  o-WTi  vine  what  he  plants,  and  sing 

The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  all  his  neighbours. 

God  shall  be  truly  known ;  and  those  about  her 

From  her  shall  read  the  perfect  ways  of  honour. 

And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by  blood 

Nor  shall  this  peace  sleep  with  her':  but  as  when 

The  bird  of  wonder  dies,  the  maiden  phoenix. 

Her  ashes  new  create  another  heir. 

As  great  in  admiration  as  herself ; 

So  shall  she  leave  her  blessedness  to  one.  [new) 

(When  heaven  shall  call  her  from  this  cloud  of  dark- 

Who.  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  her  honour. 

Shall  star-like  rise,  as  great  in  fame  as  she  was, 

And  so  stand  fix'd.     Peace,  plenty,  love,  truth,  terror, 

That  were  the  servants  to  this  chosen  infant, 

Sliall  then  be  his,  and  like  a  \'ine  grow  to  him  : 

Wherever  the  bright  sun  of  heaven  shall  shine. 

His  honour  and  the  greatness  of  his  name 

Shall  be,  and  make  new  nations  :  he  shall  flourish. 

And,  like  a  mountain  cedar,  reach  his  branches 

To  all  the  plains  about  him.     Our  children's  childern 

Shall  see  this,  and  bless  heaven. 

K.  Hen.  Thou  speakest  wonders 

Cran.  She  shall  be,  to  the  happiness  of  England. 
An  aged  princess  ;  many  days  shall  see  her, 
And  yet  no  day  without  a  deed  to  crown  it. 
Would  I  had  know^l  no  more  !  but  she  must  die : 
She  must;  the  saints  must  have  her:  yet  a  virgin, 
A  most  unspotted  lily  shall  she  pass 
To  the  ground,  and  all  the  world  shall  mourn  her. 

K.  Hen.  0.  lord  archbishop  ! 
Thou  hast  made  me  now  a  mi,n  :  never,  before 
This  happy  child,  did  I  get  any  thing. 
This  oracle  of  comfort  has  so  pleased  me. 
That  when  I  am  in  heaven  I  shall  desire 
To  see  what  this  child  does,  and  praise  my  Maker. — 
I  thank  ye  all. — To  you,  my  good  lord  mayor. 
And  you,  good  brethren,  I  am  much  beholding: 
I  have  receiv'd  much  honour  by  your  presence. 
And  ye  shall  find  me  thankful. — Lead  the  way,  lords  .— 
Ye  must  all  see  the  queen,  and  she  must  thank  ye  ■ 
She  will  be  sick  else.     This  day,  no  man  think 
He  has  business  at  his  house,  for  all  shall  stay : 
This  little  one  shall  make  it  holiday.  [fiixunf 


EPILOGUE. 


T  IS  ten  to  one,  this  play  can  never  please 
All  that  are  here.     Some  come  to  take  their  ease. 
And  sleep  an  act  or  two  ;  but  those,  we  fear. 
We  have  frighted  with  our  trumpets  ;  so,  't  is  clear, 
They  '11  say,  't  is  naught :  others,  to  hear  the  city 
Abua'd  extremely,  and  to  cry, — '•  that 's  witty," 
Which  we  have  not  done  neither :  that,  I  fear, 


All  the  expected  good  we  're  like  to  hear 
For  this  play,  at  this  time,  is  only  in 
The  merciful  construction  of  good  wcmen  ; 
For  such  a  one  we  show'd  'em.     If  they  smile. 
And  say,  '£  will  do,  I  know,  within  a  while 
All  the  best  men  are  ours ;  for  't  is  ill  hap, 
If  they  hold,  when  their  ladies  bid  'em  clap. 


TROILUS    AND    CRESSIDA 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


PRiJiM,  King  of  Troy. 

Hr.CTOR, 

Troilus, 

Paris. 

Deiphobus, 

Helenus, 

.Eneas. 

Antenor, 

Calciias.  a 

Greeks. 

Pandarus.  Uncle  to  Cressida. 
Makgarelon,  a  Bastard  Sou  of  Priam 
Agamemnon,  the  Grecian  General. 
Menelaus,  his  Brother. 


his  Sons. 

[  Trojan  Commanders. 
Trojan   Priest,  taking  part  with  the 


Grecian  Commanderp 


Achilles, 
Aja.x, 

Ulysses, 
Nestor. 

DiOMEDES. 

Patroclus. 

Thersites.  a  deformed  and  scunilous  Grecian. 
Alexander,  Servant  to  Cressida. 
Servant  to  Troilus  ;  Servant  to  Paris  ;   Servant  t^ 
Diomcdes. 


Helen,  Wife  to  Menelaus. 
Andromache,  Wife  to  Hector. 
Cassandra,  Daughter  to  Priam  ; 
Cressida.  Daughter  to  Calchas. 
Trojan  and  Greek  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE.  Troy,  and  the  Grecian  Camp  before  it. 


a  Prophetess 


THE    FnOLO GVW  (mArmmir^). 


In  Troy,  there  lies  the  scene.     From  isles  of  Greece, 

The  princes  orgulous,  their  high  blood  chaf  d, 

Have  to  the  port  of  Athens  sent  their  ships, 

Fraught  with  the  ministers  and  in.'itruments 

Of  cruel  war  :  sixty  and  nine,  that  wore 

Their  crowncts  regal,  from  th'  Athenian  bay 

Put  forth  toward  Phrygia  ;  and  their  vow  is  made, 

To  ranjtack  Troy,  within  whose  strong  immures 

The  ravish'd  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen. 

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

To  Tenedos  they  come, 

And  the  deep-drawing  barks  do  there  disgorge 

Their  warlike  fraughtage  :  now  on  Dardan  plains 

The  fresh  and  yet  unbruised  Greeks  do  pitch 

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

Dardan,  and  Tymbria,  Ilias,  Chetaj;,  Trojan, 


And  Antenorides,  with  massy  staples 

And  corresponsive  and  fulfilling  bolts, 

Sperr'  up  the  sons  of  Troy. 

Now  expectation,  tickling  skittish  spirits 

On  one  and  otlier  side,  Trojan  and  Greek, 

Sets  all  on  hazard. — And  hither  am  I  come 

A  Prologue  arm'd, — but  not  in  confidence 

Of  authors  pen,  or  actor's  voice,  but  suited 

In  like  conditions  as  our  argument, — 

To  tell  you,  fair  beholders,  that  our  play 

Leaps  o'er  the  vaunt*  and  firstlings  of  those  broils, 

Beginning  in  the  middle ;  starting  thence  away 

To  what  may  be  digested  in  a  play. 

Like,  or  find  fault  ;  do  as  your  pleasures  are  ; 

Now.  good  or  bad,  't  is  but  the  chance  of  war. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I— Troy.     Before  Priam's  Palace. 
Enter  Troilus  armed,  and  Pandarus. 
Tro.  Call  here  my  varlet' :  I  '11  unarm  again  : 
Why  should  I  war  without  the  walls  of  Troy, 
That  find  such  cruel  battle  here  within  ? 
Kach  Trojan,  that  is  master  of  his  heart. 
Let  him  to  the  field  ;  Troilus,  alas  !  hath  none. 
Pan.  Will  this  gear  ne'er  be  mended  ? 
Tro.   The   Greeks    are   strong,  and   skilful  to  their 
strength, 
Pierce  to  their  skill,  and  to  their  fierceness  valiant ; 


'  Fiit  printed  in  the  folio 
Van.      »  Hireling,  tervmnt 

r)68 


»  The  ■wordt  in   psrenthevii 
mu«t  needs  :  in  folio. 


But  I  am  weaker  than  a  woman's  tear, 
Tamer  than  sleep,  fonder  than  isnorance  , 
Less  valiant  than  the  virgin  in  the  night, 
And  skill-less  as  unpractis'd  infancy. 

Pan.  Well,  I  have  told  you  enough  of  thk  .  for  my 
part,  1  '11  not  meddle  nor  make  no  farther.  He  thai 
will  have  a  cake  out  of  the  wheat  must*  tarry  the 
grinding. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried  ? 

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

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried  ? 


foli 


Theobald  made  the  cha«ee  (o  »K^r,  or  I 


TROILUS   AND   CKESSIDA. 


569 


Pan.    Ay,  the    bolting  :    but    you    must    tarry  the  1 
leavoning. 

Tro.  Still  have  I  tarried.  ' 

Pan.  Ay,  to  the  leavening  :  but  here  "s  yet;  in  the 
word  hereafter,  the  kneading,  the  making  of  the  cake, 
the  heating  the  oven,  and  the  baking  :  nay,  you  must 
stay  the  cooling  too,  or  you  may  chance  burn  yovir  lips.  ' 

Tro.  Patience  herself,  what  godde-^s  e'er  she  be,  | 
Doth  lesser  blench  at  sufferance  than  I  do.  j 

At  Priam's  royal  table  do  I  sit ;  ' 

And  when  fair  Cressid  comes  into  my  thoughts. —  | 

So,  traitor  ! — when  she  comes  I — When  is  she  thence  ?  i 

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

Tro.  I  was  about  to  tell  thee, — when  my  heart, 
As  wedged  with  a  sigh,  would  rive  in  twain. 
Lest  Hector  or  my  father  should  perceive  me, 
I  have  (as  when  the  sun  doth  light  a  storm) 
Bury'd  this  sigh  in  -WTinkle  of  a  smile  : 
But  sorrow,  that  is  couch'd  in  seeming  gladness. 
Is  like  that  mirth  fate  turns  to  sudden  sadness. 

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

Tro.  0  Pandarus  !  I  tell  thee,  Pandarus. — 
When  I  do  tell  thee,  there  my  hopes  lie  dro^^'n"d, 
Re^ly  not  in  how  many  fathoms  deep 
They  lie  indrench'd.     I  tell  thee,  I  am  mad 
In  Cressid's  love  :  thou  answer'st,  slie  is  fair  : 
Pour'st  in  the  open  ulcer  of  my  heart 
Her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheek,  her  gait,  her  voice  ; 
Handiest  in  thy  discourse,  0  !  that  her  hand. 
In  whose  comparison  all  whites  are  ink. 
Writing  their  own  reproach :  to  whose  soft  seizure 
The  cygnet's  down  is  harsh,  and  spirit  of  sense 
Hard  as  the  palm  of  ploughman  !     This  thou  tell'st  me. 
As  true  thou  tell'st  me,  when  I  say — I  love  her ; 
But,  saying  thus,  instead  of  oil  and  balm, 
Thou  lay'st  in  every  gash  that  love  hath  given  me 
The  knife  that  made  it. 

Pan.  I  speak  no  more  than  truth. 

Tro.  Thou  dost  not  speak  so  much. 

Pan.  'Faith,  I  '11  not  meddle  in  't.  Let  her  be  as  she 
is  :  if  she  be  fair,  't  is  the  better  for  her  ;  an  she  be 
not,  she  has  the  'mends  in  her  own  hands. 

Tro.  Good  Pandarus.     How  now,  Pandarus  ! 

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

Tro.  What,  art  thou  angr>-,  Pandarus  ?  what,  \\ith  me  ? 

Pan.  Because  she  's  kin  to  me,  therefore,  she  's  not 
6o  fair  as  Helen  :  and  she  were  not  kin  to  me,  she 
would  be  as  fair  on  Friday,  as  Helen  is  on  Sunday. 
But  what  care  I  ?  I  care  not,  an  she  were  a  black-a- 
moor  ;  't  is  all  one  to  me. 

Tro.  Sa/  I,  she  is  not  fair  ? 

Pan.  I  do  not  care  whether  you  do  or  no.  She's  a 
fool  to  stay  behind  her  father  :  let  her  to  the  Greeks  : 
and  so  I  '11  tell  her  the  next  time  I  see  her.  For  my 
part,  I  '11  meddle  nor  make  no  more  i'  the  matter. 

Tro.  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Not  I. 

Tro.  Sweet  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Pray  you,  speak  no  more  to  me  :  I  will  leave  all 
as  I  found  it,  and  there  an  end.  [  Exit  Pan.    An  Alarum. . 

'  U  fitting. 


Tro.  Peace,  you  ungracious  clamours  !  peace,  rude 

sounds ! 
Fools  on  both  sides  !  Helen  must  needs  be  fair, 
When  with  your  blood  you  daily  paint  her  thus. 
I  cannot  fight  upon  this  argument : 
It  is  too  starv'd  a  subject  for  my  sword. 
But  Pandarus  ! — 0  gods,  how  do  you  plague  me ' 
I  cannot  come  to  Cressid,  but  by  Pandar ; 
And  he 's  as  tetchy  to  be  woo'd  to  woo, 
And  she  is  stubborn-chaste  against  all  suit. 
Tell  me,  Apollo,  for  thy  Daphne's  love, 
What  Cre-ssid  is,  what  Pandar,  and  what  we  ? 
Her  bed  is  India  ;  there  she  lies,  a  pearl ; 
Between  our  Ilium,  and  where  she  resides, 
Let  it  be  call'd  the  wild  and  wandering  flood  : 
Ourself  the  merchant,  and  this  sailing  Pandar, 
Our  doubtful  hope,  our  convoy,  and  our  bark. 
Alarum.     Eater  ^Eneas. 

Mm.    How    now,    prince    Troilus  !    wherefore   not 
afield  ? 

Tro.  Because  not  there  :  this  woman's  answer  sorts.' 
For  womanish  it  is  to  be  from  thence. 
What  news.  ^Eneas,  from  the  field  to-day  ? 

J^ne.  That  Paris  is  returned  home,  and  hurt. 

Tro.  By  whom,  iEneas  ? 

Mne.  Troilus,  by  Menelaus. 

Tro.  Let  Paris  bleed  :  't  is  but  a  scar  to  scorn  : 
Paris  is  gor'd  with  Menelaus'  horn.  [Alarxm. 

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

Tro.    Better   at    home,   if   "  would  I  might,"  were 
'■  may." — 
But  to  the  sport  abroad  : — are  you  bound  thither  ? 

JEne.  In  all  swift  haste. 

Tro.  Come  ;  go  we,  then,  together.  [Extimt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Cressida  and  Alexander. 

Cres.  Who  were  those  went  by  ? 

Alex.  Queen  Hecuba,  and  Helen 

Cres.  And  whither  go  they  ? 

Alex.  Up  to  the  eastern  tower 

Whose  height  commands  as  subject  all  the  vale, 
To  see  the  battle.     Hector,  whose  patience 
Is  as  a  virtue  fix'd.  to-day  was  mov'd  : 
He  chid  Andromache,  and  struck  his  armourer  ; 
And,  like  as  there  were  husbandry  in  war, 
Before  the  sun  rose  he  was  harness'd  light. 
And  to  the  field  goes  he :  where  every  flower 
Did.  as  a  prophet,  weep  what  it  foresaw 
In  Hector's  wrath. 

Cres.  What  was  his  cause  of  anger  * 

Alex.    The    noise    goes,   thus  :    there  is  among  the 
Greeks 
A  lord  of  Trojan  blood,  nephew  to  Hector; 
They  call  him,  Ajax. 

Cres.  Good  ;  and  what  of  him  ? 

Alex.  They  say  he  is  a  very  man  per  se, 
And  stands  alone. 

Cres.  So  do  all  men ;  unless  they  are  drunk,  .«;iek; 
or  have  no  legs. 

Alex.  This  man,  lady,  hath  robbed  many  beasts  of 
their  particular  addition*  :  he  is  as  valiant  as  the  lion, 
churlish  as  the  bear,  slow  as  the  elephant :  a  man  into 
whom  nature  hath  so  crowded  humours,  that  his  valour 
is  crushed  into  folly,  his  folly  sauced  with  discretion  : 
there  is  no  man  hath  a  virtue  that  he  hath  not  a 
glimpse  of.  nor  any  man  an  attaint  but  he  carries  some 
stain  of  it.  He  is  melancholy  \^-ithout  cause,  and 
meriy  against  the  hair :    he  hath  the  jomts  of  every 


570 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


tiling  ;  but  every  thing  so  out  of  joint,  that  he  is  a 
^nuty  Briarcus.  many  liands  ajid  no  use  ;  or  purblind 
Argus,  all  eyi-s  and  no  sight. 

Cres.  But  how  shouUF  this  man,  that  makes  me 
•mile,  make  Hector  angry  ? 

Alex.  They  say.  lie  yesterday  coped  Hector  in  the 
battle,  and  struck  him  down;  the  disdain  and  shame 
whereof    hath    ever    since    kept    Hector   fastinjj   and 

aking. 

Enter  Pandarus. 

Crex.  Who  come.s  here  ? 

Alex.  Madam,  your  uncle  Pandarus. 

Cres.  Hector  "s  a  galhmt  man. 

Alex.  As  may  be  in  the  world,  lady. 

Pun.  What  s  tliat  ?  what  's  that  ? 

Cics.  Good  morrow,  uncle  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Good  morrow,  cousin  Cressid.  What  do  you 
talk  of? — Good  morrow,  Alexander. — How  do  you, 
cousin  ?     When  were  you  at  Ilium  ?' 

Cres.  This  morning,  uncle. 

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

Cres.  Hector  was  gone  ;  but  Helen  was  not  up. 

Pan.  Ecu  so  :  Hector  was  stirring  early. 

Cres.  That  were  we  talking  of.  and  of  his  anger. 

Pan.  Was  he  angry? 

Cres.  So  he  says,  here. 

Pan.  True,  he  was  so  ;  I  know  the  cause  too.  He  '11 
lay  about  him  to-day,  I  can  tell  them  that;  and  there  's 
Troilus  will  not  come  far  behind  him  :  let  them  take 
need  of  Troilus.  I  can  tell  them  that  too. 

Cres.  What,  is  he  angry  too  ? 

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

Cres.  0.  Jupiter  !  there  's  no  comparison. 

Pan.  What,  not  between  Troilus  and  Hector  ?  Do 
\ou  know  a  man  if  you  see  him  ? 

Cres.  Ay:  if  I  ever  saw  him  before,  and  knew  him. 

Pan.  Well,  I  say,  Troilus  is  Troilus. 

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

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

Cres.  "T  is  just  to  each  of  them  ;  he  is  himself. 

Pan.  Himself?  Alas,  poor  Troilus!  I  would,  he 
were. — 

Cres.  So  he  is. 

Pan.  — Condition,  I  had  gone  bare-foot  to  India. 

Cres.  He  is  not  Hector. 

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

Cres    Excuse  me. 

Pan.  He  is  cider. 

Cres.  Pardon  mc,  pardon  me. 

Pan.  Th'  other's  not  come  to 't :  you  shall  tell  me 
another  tale,  when  th'  other  's  come  to  't.  Hector  shall 
not  have  his  wit  this  year. 

Ctes.  He  shall  not  need  it,  if  he  have  his  own. 

Pan.  Nor  liis  qualities. 

Cres.  No  matter. 

Pan.  Nor  his  beauty. 

Cres.  'T  would  not  become  him  ;  his  own  's  better. 

Pan.  You  have  no  judgment,  niece.  Helen  herself 
swore  th'  other  day.  that  Troilus,  for  a  brown  favour, 
(for  so  't  is,  I  must  confess) — not  brown  neither — 

Cres.  No,  but  brown. 


Pan.  'Faith,  to  say  truth,  brown  and  not  brown. 

Cres.  To  say  the  truth,  true  and  not  true. 

Pan.  She  prais'd  his  complexion  above  Paris. 

Cres.  Why,  Paris  hath  colour  enough. 

Pan.  So  he  has. 

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

Pan.  I  swear  to  you,  I  think  Helen  loves  him  befti  r 
than  Paris. 

Cres.  Then  she's  a  merry  Greek,  indeed. 

Pan.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  does.  She  came  to  him 
th'  otiicr  day  into  the  compassed  window^  ;  and,  you 
know,  he  has  not  past  three  or  four  hairs  on  his  cliin. 

Cres.  Indeed,  a  tapster's  arithmetick  may  soon  bring 
his  particulars  therein  to  a  total. 

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

Cres.  Is  he  so  young  a  man,  and  so  old  a  lifter  ?' 

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

Cres.  Juno  have  mercy  !     How  came  it  cloven  ? 

Pan.  Why,  you  know,  't  is  dimpled.  I  think  his 
smiling  becomes  him  better  than  any  man  in  all 
Phrygia. 

Cres.  0  !  he  smiles  valiantly. 

Pan.  Does  he  not? 

Cres.  0  !  yes,  an  't  were  a  cloud  in  autumn. 

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

Cres.  Troilus  will  stand  to  the  proof,  if  you  '11  prove 
it  so. 

Pan.  Troilus  ?  why,  he  esteems  her  no  more  than  I 
esteem  an  addle  egg. 

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

Pan.  I  cannot  choose  but  laugh,  to  think  how  she 
tickled  his  chin  : — indeed,  she  has  a  marvellous  white 
hand,  I  must  needs  confess. 

Cres.  Without  the  rack. 

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

Cres.  Alas,  poor  chin  !  many  a  wart  is  richer. 

Pan.  But,  there  was  such  laughing  :  queen  Hecuba 
laughed,  that  her  eyes  ran  o'er. 

Cres.  With  mill-stones. 

Pan.  And  Cassandra  laughed. 

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

Pan.  And  Hector  laughed. 

Cres.  At  what  was  ail  this  laughing? 

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

Cres.  An't  had  been  a  green  hair  I  should  hav(* 
laughed  too. 

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

Cres.  What  was  his  answer  ? 

Pan.  Quoth  she,  "  Here  's  but  two  and  fifty  hairs  on 
your  chin,  and  one  of  them  is  white." 

Cres.  This  is  her  question. 

Pan.  That 's  true  ;  make  no  question  of  that.  ''Tw- 
and  fifty  hairs,"  quoth  he,  "and  one  white  :  that  whii< 
hair  is  my  father,  and  all  the  rest  are  his  sons."  "J« 
piter  !"  quoth  she,  "which  of  these  hairs  is  Paris,  m^ 


Th«  p&I.v:e  of  rriam  w.x.i  no  ca1I»d  by  the  romance  wTiten.      >  Bow-window. 


Thief. 


i 


SCENE  n. 


TKOILUS   AND  CRESSIDA. 


571 


liusbaud?"  "The  forked  one,"  quoth  he;  "  pluck  H 
out.  and  give  it  him."  But  there  was  such  laughing, 
and  Helen  so  blushed,  and  Paris  so  chafed,  and  all  the 
rest  so  laughed,  that  it  passed' . 

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

Pan.  "Well,  cousin.  I  told  you  a  thing  yesterday; 
think  on  "t. 

Cres.  So  I  do. 

Pan.  I  '11  be  sworn,  't  is  true  :  he  will  weep  you,  an 
•t  were  a  man  boru  in  April. 

Cres.  And  I  '11  spring  up  in  his  tears,  an  't  were  a 
nettle  against  May.  [A  retreat  sounded. 

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

Cres.  At  your  pleasure. 

Pan.  Here,  here;  here's  an  excellent  place:  here 
we  may  see  most  bravely.  T  '11  tell  you  them  all  by 
their  names,  as  they  pass  oy,  but  mark  Troilus  above 
the  rest. 

Cres.  Speak  not  so  loud. 

yEneas  passes  over  the  Stage. 

Pan.  That 's  iEneas.  Is  not  that  a  brave  man  ?  he  's 
one  of  the  flowers  of  Troy.  I  can  tell  you  :  but  mark 
Troilus  :  you  shall  see  anon. 

Cres.  Who  's  that  ? 

Antenor  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Antenor  :  he  has  a  shrewd  wit,  I  can 
tell  you  ;  and  he  's  a  man  good  enough :  he  's  one  o'  the 
soundest  judgment  in  Troy,  whosoever,  and  a  proper 
man  of  his*  person. — When  comes  Troilus  ? — I  '11  show 
you  Troilus  anon  :  if  he  see  me,  you  shall  see  him 
Hod  at  me. 

Cres.  Will  he  give  you  the  nod  ? 

Pan.  You  shall  see. 

Cres.  If  he  do,  the  rich  shall  have  more. 
Hector  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Hector ;  that,  that,  look  you,  that ; 
there  's  a  fellow  ! — Go  thy  way.  Hector. — There 's  a 
brave  man,  niece. — 0  brave  Hector  ! — Look  how  he 
looks;  there  's  a  countenance.     Is  't  not  a  brave  man? 

Cres.  0  !  a  brave  man. 

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

Cres.  Be  those  with  swords  ? 

Paris  passes  over. 

Pan.  Swords  ?  any  thing,  he  cares  not;  an  the  devil 
come  to  him,  it 's  all  one  :  by  god's  lid,  it  does  one's 
heart  good. — Yonder  comes  Paris  ;  yonder  comes  Paris: 
look  ye  yonder,  niece  :  is  't  not  a  gallant  man  too,  is  't 
net  ?— Why,  this  is  brave  now. — Who  sail  he  came 
burt  home  to-day  ?  he  's  not  hurt  :  why,  this  will  do 
Helen's  heart  good  now.  Ha  !  would  I  could  see 
Troilus  now. — You  shall  see  Troilus  anon. 

Cres.  Who  's  that  ? 

Helenus  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Helenus. — I  marvel,  where  Troilus  is. 
That  "s  Helenus. — I  think  he  went  not  forth  to-day. — 
That 's  Helenus. 


Pan.  Where?  yonder?  that's  Deiphobus.  —  'T  is 
Troilus  !  there  "s  a  man,  niece  ! — Hem  I — Brave  Troi- 
lus, the  prince  of  chivalry  ! 

Cres.  Peace  !  for  shame  :  peace  ! 

Pan.  Mark  him ;  note  him. — 0  brave  Troilus ! — 
look  well  upon  him,  niece :  look  you  how  his  .^word  is 
bloodied,  and  his  helm  more  hack'd  than  Hectors; 
and  how  he  looks,  and  how  he  goes  ! — 0  admirable 
youth  !  he  ne'er  saw  three  and  twenty.  Go  thy  way, 
Troilus,  go  thy  way ;  had  I  a  sister  were  a  grace,  or  a 
daughter  a  goddess,  he  should  take  his  choice.  0  ad- 
mirable man  !  Paris  ? — Paris  is  dirt  to  him  ;  and,  I 
warrant.  Helen,  to  change,  would  give  an  eye*  to  boot. 
SoldL  •■  vass  over  the  Stage. 

Cres.  Here  come  more. 

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

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

Pan.  Achilles  ?  a  drayman,  a  porter,  a  very  camel. 

Cres.  Well,  well. 

Pan.  Well,  well  ? — ^Why,  have  you  any  discretion  ? 
have  you  any  eyes  ?  Do  you  know  what  a  man  is  ? 
Is  not  birth,  beauty,  good  shape,  discourse,  manhood, 
learning,  gentleness,  wtue,  youth,  liberality,  and  such 
like*,  the  spice  and  salt  that  season  a  man  ? 

Cres.  Ay,  a  minced  man  ;  and  then  to  be  baked 
with  no  date  in  the  pye, — for  then  the  man's  date  'f 
out. 

Pan.  You  are  such  a  M-onian  !  one  knows  not  a< 
what  ward  you  lie. 

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

Pan.  Say  one  of  your  watches. 

Cres.  Nay,  I  '11  watch  you  for  that  :  and  that 's  one 
of  the  chiefest  of  them  too :  if  I  cannot  ward  what 
would  not  have  hit.  I  can  watch  you  for  teiling  how  1 
took  the  blow,  unless  it  swell  past  hiding,  and  then  it 's 
past  vratching. 

Pan.  You  are  such  another  ! 

Enter  Troilus'  Boy. 

Boy.  Sir.  my  lord  would  instantly  speak  with  you. 

Pan.  Where? 

Boy.  At  your  own  house"  :  there  he  unarms  him. 

Pan.  Good  boy.  tell  him  I  come.  [Exit  Bay 

I  doubt  he  be  hurt. — Fare  ye  well,  good  nie«e. 

Cres.  Adieu,  uncle 

Pan.  I  11  be  with  you,  niece.,  by  and  b} . 

Cres.  To  bring,  uncle. — 

Pan.  Ay,  a  token  from  Troilus. 

Cres.  By  the  same  token,  you  are  a  bawd. — 

[Exit  Pandabps 
Words,  vows,  gifts,  tears,  and  love's  full  sacrifice. 
He  offers  in  another's  enterprise  : 
But  more  in  Troilus  thousand  fold  I  see. 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Pandar's  praise  may  be. 
Yet  hold  I  off.     Women  are  angels,  wooing : 
Things  won  are  done,  joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing  : 


Cres.  Can  Helenus  fight  uncle? 

Pa?i.  Helenus  ?  no  : — ves,  he '11  fight  indifferent  well.  ^  

-I  marvel,  where  Troilus  is.— Hark  !  do  you  not  hear  j  That  she  belov'd  knows  noueht.  tliat  kno^^-s  not  this,- 
the  people  cry,  Troilus  ?— Helenus  is  a  priest.  i  Men  prize  the  thing  ungaui'd  more  than  it  is  : 

Cres.  What  sneaking  fellow  comes  yonder  ?  That  she  was  never  yet,  that  ever  knew 

Troilus  passes  over.  \  Love  got  so  sweet  as  when  desire  did  sue. 

•  Pwsed  eTpT«ssion       »  Thi,  word  is  not  in  1.  e.      3  money  :  in  foho.      ♦  so  forth  :  in  folic.      •  The  rest  of  tho  line  ■*  not  in  the  folia 


572 


TEOILUS   AND  CRESSLDA. 


ACT   I. 


rhwefore,  this  inaxim  out  of  love  I  teach, — 
Achieved  racn  still  command  ;'  unaain'd,  bcseecii  : 
Tlien,  thouL'li  my  lu-arts  content  firm  love  dotii  bear, 
Nothiuii  ol  that  shall  from  mine  eyes  appear.       [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — The  Grecian  Camp.     Before  Agamim- 

non"s  Tent. 

Scnuet.     Enter  Ag.\memnon,  Nestor,  Ulysses. 

Menei-ai'?,  and  others. 

Agam.  Prineo.-;. 
tVhat  iirief  hath  t^et  the  jaundice  on  your  cheeks? 
The  ample  pioposition,  that  liopc  makes 
In  all  desiiins  begun  on  earth  below, 
Fails  in  the  promis'd  largeness:  checks  and  disasters 
lirow  in  the  veins  of  actions  highest  rear'd  : 
As  knots,  by  the  conflux  of  meeting  sap. 
Infect  the  sound  pine,  and  divert  his  grain 
Tortive  and  errant  from  his  course  of  growth. 
Nor.  princes,  is  it  matter  new  to  us. 
I'haf  we  come  short  of  our  suppose  so  far, 
That  at'ier  seven  years'  siege  yet  Troy  walls  stand  ; 
Sitli  every  action  that  hath  gone  before, 
Whereof  we  have  record,  trial  did  draw 
Bias  and  thwart,  not  answering  the  aim, 
.\nd  that  unbodied  figure  of  the  thought 
That  gave  't  surmised  shape.     Why  then,  you  princes. 
Do  you  with  cheeks  aba.sh'd  behold  our  wrecks', 
.\nd  call'  them  shames,  which  are,  indeed,  nought  else 
But  the  protractive  trials  of  great  Jove, 
To  find  persistive  constancy  in  men? 
The  fineness  of  which  metal  is  not  found 
In  fortune's  love;  for  then,  the  bold  and  coward, 
The  wi.se  and  fool,  the  artist  and  unread, 
The  hard  and  soft,  seem  all  affin'd  and  kin : 
But.  in  the  wnd  and  tempest  of  her  frown. 
Distinction,  with  a  broad'*  and  powerful  fan, 
Putting  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away: 
And  what  hath  mass,  or  matter,  by  itself 
Lic-s  rich  in  virtue,  and  unmingled. 

Nest.  With  due  observance  of  thy  godlike  seat, 
fireat  Agamemnon,  Nestor  shall  apply 
Thy  latest  words.     In  the  reproof  of  chance 
Li&s  the  true  proof  of  men.     The  sea  being  smooth. 
How  many  shallow  bauble  boats  dare  sail 
Upon  her  patient  breast,  making  their  way 
With  those  of  nobler  bulk: 
But  |iM  the  ruffian  Boreas  once  enrage 
The  t.'enile  Thetis,  and,  anon,  behold. 
The  sirong-ribb'd  bark  through  liquid  mountains  cut, 
Bounding  between  the  two  moist  elements. 
Like  Perseus'  horse:  where  "s  then  the  saucy  boat. 
Whose  weak  untimber'd  sides  but  even  now 
Co-rivafd  greatness 'r"  either  to  harbour  fled, 
Or  matle  a  toa.<t  lor  .N'cptune.     Even  so 
I>5th  valour's  show,  and  valours  worth,  divide 
In  storms  of  fortune  :  for,  in  her  ray  and  brightness, 
The  hird  Jiath  more  annoyance  by  the  brize*. 
Than  by  the  tiger;  but  when  the  splitting  wind 
Makes  flexible  the  knees  of  knotted  oaks, 
And   flies   fled   under  shade,  why  then,  the  thing   of 

courage, 
As  rous'd  with  rage.  >*ith  rage  doth  sympathize, 
.\nd  •w-ith  an  accent  tun'd  in  self-same  key, 
Pi-eplies*  to  chiding  fortune. 

Uly-'"'.  Agamemnon. 

Thou  great  commander,  nerve  and  bone  of  Greece, 
fleart  of  our  numbers,  soul  and  only  spirit, 
In  whom  the  tempers  and  the  minds  of  all 


Should  be  shut  up,  hear  what  Ulyss'^.R  speaks. 

Besides  the  applause  and  approbation 

The  which, — most  mighty  for  thy  place  and  sway. — 

[To  AOAME.MNEN. 

And  thou  most  reverend  for  thy  stretch"d-out  life. — 

[To  NiSTOB 

I  give  to  both  your  speeches,  which  were  such. 
As  Agamemnon  and  the  hand  of  Greece 
Should  hold  up  high  in  brass ;  and  such  again, 
As  Venerable  Nestor,  hatch'd'  in  silver, 
Should  with  a  bond  of  air  (strong  as  the  axleiree 
On  whicli  heaven  rides)  knit  all  the  Greekish  ears 
To  his  expericnc'd  tongue, — yet  let  it  please  both, — 
Thou  great, — and  wise, — to  hear  Ulysses  speak. 
Agam.*  Speak,  prince  of  Ithaca;   and  be  't  of  lees 
expect 
That  matter  needless,  of  importless  burden, 
Divide  thy  lips,  than  we  are  confident. 
When  rank  Thersitcs  opes  his  mastiff  jaws. 
We  shall  hear  music,  wit,  and  oracle. 

Ulyss.  Troy,  yet  upon  his  basis,  had  been  down, 
And  the  great  Hector's  sword  had  lack'd  a  master. 
But  for  these  instances. 
The  specialty  of  rule  hath  been  neglected  : 
And  look,  how  many  Grecian  tents  do  stand 
Hollow  upon  this  plain,  so  many  hollow  factions. 
When  that  the  general  is  not  like  the  hive, 
To  whom  the  foragers  shall  all  repair. 
What  honey  is  expected?     Degree  being  vizarded, 
Th'  unworthiest  shows  as  fairly  in  the  mask. 
The  lieavens  themselves,  the  planets,  and  this  centre, 
Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place, 
Insisture,  course,  proportion,  season,  form. 
Office,  and  custom,  in  all  line  of  order: 
And  therefore  is  the  glorious  planet,  Sol, 
In  noble  eminence  enthron'd  and  spher'd 
Amid.st  the  other;  who.sc  med'cinable  eye 
Corrects  the  ill  aspects  of  planets  evil. 
And  posts,  like  the  commandment  of  a  king, 
Sans  check,  to  good  and  bad.     But  when  the  planeta, 
In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander. 
What  plagues,  and  what  portents  !  what  mutiny ! 
What  raging  of  the  sea,  shaking  of  earth, 
Commotion  in  the  winds,  frights,  changes,  horrors. 
Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate 
The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states 
Quite  from  their  fixure  !     0  !  when  degree  is  shak'd, 
Which  is  the  ladder  to  all  high  designs, 

I  The  enterprise  is  sick.     How  could  communities, 
Degrees  in  schools,  and  brotherhoods  in  cities, 
Peaceful  commerce  from  dividable  shores. 
The  primogenitive  and  due  of  birth, 

I  Prerogative  of  age.  crowns,  sceptres,  laurels, 
Bvit  by  degree  stand  in  authentic  place? 
Take  but  degree  away,  untune  that  strini', 
And,  hark,  what  discord  follows!  each  thing  meetx' 
In  mere  oppugnancy :  the  bounded  waters 
Should  lift  their  bosoms  higher  than  the  shores. 
And  mii-ke  a  sop  of  all  this  solid  globe: 
Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility. 
And  the  rude  son  should  strike  his  father  dead  : 
Force  should  be  right;  or,  rather,  right  and  wTong, 

I  (Between  whose  endless  jar  justice  resides) 
Should  lose  their  names,  and  .«o  should  justice  loo. 
Then  every  thing  includes  lis^eU  in  power, 
Power  into  will,  will  into  appetite; 

,  And  appetite,  an  universal  wolf, 

I  So  doubly  seconded  with  will  and  powe^, 


'  Achievement  is  rommand  :  in  f.  e.      »  workii  :  in  f.  e. 
■T  Pope,  o'  "  relires."  in  the  old  oopiei       '  Ornamented. 


'  think  •  in  folio.     ♦  loud  :  in  folio, 
•  This  speech  is  not  in  the  quartoi. 


Gatifly.    *  Retnmi :  ia  f  e 
'  mclu  :  Ml  quartoi 


ihnnir 


SCENE  ni. 


TKOILUS   AND  CRESSIDA. 


573 


Must  make  perforce  an  universal  prey, 

And  last  eat  up  himself.     Great  Agamemnon, 

This  chaos,  when  degree  is  suffocate, 

Follows  the  choking ; 

And  this  neglection  of  degree  it  is. 

That  by  a  pace  goes  backward,  with  a  purpose 

It  hath  to  climb.     The  general  "s  disdain'd 

By  him  one  step  below;  he,  by  the  next : 

That  next,  by  him  beneath  :  so.  every  step. 

Exampled  by  the  first  pace  that  is  sick 

Of  his  superior,  grows  to  an  envious  fever 

Of  pale  and  bloodless  emulation : 

And  "t  is  this  fever  tliat  keeps  Troy  on  foot. 

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

Troy  in  our  weakness  stands,^  not  in  her  strength. 

Nest.  Most  wisely  hath  Ulysses  here  discover" d 
The  fever  whereof  all  our  power  is  sick. 

Agam.  The  nature  of  the  sickness  found.  IHysses. 
What  is  the  remedy? 

Ulyss.  The  great  Achilles,  whom  opinion  crowns 
The  sinew  and  the  forehand  of  our  host, 
Having  his  ear  full  of  his  airy  fame. 
Grows  dainty  of  his  worth,  and  in  his  tent 
Lies  mocking  our  designs.     With  him,  Patroclus, 
Upon  a  lazy  bed  the  livelong  day 
Breaks  seurril  jests ; 

And  with  ridiculous  and  awkward^  action 
(Which,  slanderer,  he  imitation  calls.) 
He  pageants  us  :  sometime,  great  Agamemnon, 
Thy  topless  deputation  he  puts  on ; 
And.  like  a  strutting  player, — ^whose  conceit 
Lies  in  his  hamstring,  and  doth  think  it  rich 
To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 
■'Twixt  his  stretch'd  footing  and  the  scaffoldage. — 
Such  to-be-pitied  and  o'er-\A'rested  seeming 
He  acts  thy  greatness  in  :  and  when  he  speaks. 
'T  is  like  a  chime  a  mending;  with  terms  unsquar'd 
Which,  from  the  tongue  of  roaring  Typhon  dropp'd, 
Would  seem  hyperboles.     At  this  fusty  stutf 
The  large  Achilles,  on  his  press'd  bed  lolling. 
From  his  deep  chest  laughs  out  a  loud  applause  ; 
Cries — '•  Excellent  ! — 't  is  Agamemnon  right.' — 
Now  play  me  Nestor : — hem,  and  stroke  thy  beard 
As  he,  being  'drest  to  son'e  oration." 
That 's  done ; — as  near  as  the  extremest  ends 
Of  parallels — as  like  as  Vulcan  and  his  wife; 
Yet  god  Achilles  still  cries,  '•  Excellent  ! 
'T  is  Nestor  right !     Now  play  him  me.  Patroclus. 
Arming  to  answer  in  a  night  alarm." 
And  then,  forsooth,  the  faint  defects  of  age. 
Must  be  the  seene  of  mirth  :  to  cough,  and  spit. 
And  with  a  palsy,  fumbling  on  his  gorget. 
Shake  ui  and  out  the  rivet : — and  at  this  sport. 
Sir  Valour  dies  ;  cries  "  0  ! — enough,  Patroclus, 
Or  give  me  ribs  of  steel  !     I  shall  split  all 
In  pleasure  of  my  spleen."     And  in  this  fashion. 
All  our  abilities,  gifts,  natures,  shapes, 
Severals  and  generals,  all  grace  extract,* 
Achievements,  plots,  orders,  preventions. 
Excitements  to  the  field,  or  speech  for  truce, 
Succe.ss.  or  loss,  what  is,  or  is  not,  serves 
As  .stuff  for  these  two  to  make  paradoxes. 

iVe.sf.  And  in  the  imitation  ofthe.se  twain, 
(Whom,  as  Ulysses  says,  opinion  crowns 
With  an  imperial  voice)  many  are  infect. 
Ajax  is  grown  self-will'd  ;  and  bears  his  head 
In  such  a  rein,  in  full  as  proud  a  place 
As  broad  Achilles  :  keeps  his  tent  like  him  : 
Makes  factious  feasts ;  rails  on  our  state  of  war. 


Uvea  •  in  foli»       »  silly  :  in  qaartos 


'  just 


Bold  as  an  oracle  ;  and  sets  Thersites, 

A  slave  whose  gall  coins  slanders  like  a  mint, 

To  match  us  in  comparisons  with  dirt ; 

To  weaken  and  discredit  our  exposure. 

How  rank  soever  rounded  in  with  danger. 

Ulyss.  They  tax  our  policy,  and  call  it  cowardice , 
Count  wisdom  as  no  member  of  the  war : 
Forestall  prescience,  and  esteem  no  act 
But  that  of  hand :  the  still  and  mental  parts, — 
That  do  contrive  how  many  hands  shall  strike. 
When  fitness  calls  them  on,  and  know,  by  measure 
Of  their  obscr\tint  toil,  the  enemies'  weight, — 
Why,  this  hath  not  a  finger's  dignity. 
They  call  this  bed-work,  mappery,  closet-war : 
So  tliat  the  ram.  that  batters  down  the  wall, 
For  the  great  swing  and  rudeness  of  his  poise, 
They  place  before  his  hand  that  made  the  engine, 
Or  those  that  with  the  fineness  of  their  souls 
By  reason  guide  his  execution. 

Nest.  Let  this  be  granted,  and  Achilles'  horse 
Makes  many  Thetis'  sons.  [A  Tticket 

Again.  What  trumpet?  look,  Menelaua 

Enter  ^neas. 

Men.  From  Troy. 

Agam.  W^hat  would  you  "fore  our  tent. 

^ne.  Is  ihii 

Great  Agamemnon's  tent,  I  pray  you  ? 

Agam.  Even  this, 

JEne.  May  one,  that  is  a  herald  and  a  prince. 
Do  a  fair  message  to  his  kingly  ears  ? 

Agam.  With  surety  stronger  than  Achilles'  arm, 
'Fore  all  the  Greekish  heads,  which  with  one  voice 
Call  Agamemnon  head  and  general. 

jEne.  Fair  leave,  and  large  security.     How  may 
A  stranger  to  those  most  imperial  looks 
Know  them  from  eyes  of  other  mortals  ? 

Agam.  How? 

Mne.  Ay ;  I  ask,  that  I  might  waken  reverence, 
And  bid  the  cheek  be  ready  with  a  blush, 
Modest  as  morning  when  she  coldly  eye ; 
The  youthful  Phoebus. 
Which  is  that  god  in  ofl'ice.  guiding  men? 
Which  is  the  high  and  mighty  Agamemnon  ? 

Agam.  This  Trojan  scorns  us,  or  the  men  of  Troy 
Are  ceremonious  courtiers. 

Mne.  Courtiers  as  free,  as  debonair,  unarm'd. 
As  bending  angels  :  that 's  their  fame  in  peace  : 
But  when  they  would  seem  soldiers,  they  have  galls, 
Good    arms,  strong   joints,  true  swords  :    and.  Jove'? 

accord. 
Nothing  .so  full  of  heart.     But  peace.  .(Eneas  ! 
Peace,  Trojan  !  lay  thy  finger  on  thy  lips. 
The  worthiness  of  praise  distains  his  worth. 
If  that  the  prais'd  himself  bring  the  praise  forth; 
What'  the  repining  enemy  commends. 
That  breath  fame  blows ;  that  praise,  soul-pure.*  tran- 
.scends. 

Agam.  Sir,  you  of  Troy,  call  you  yourself  ^Eneas ' 

Mne.  Ay,  Greek,  that  is  my  name. 

Agam.  What 's  your  affair,  I  pray  you  ? 

uEne.  Sir,  pardon :  't  is  for  Agamenmon"s  ears. 

Agam.  He  hears  nought  privately  that  comes  frorr 
Troy. 

JEne.  Nor  I  from  Troy  came  not  to  whisper  him 
I  bring  a  trumpet  to  awake  his  ear, 
To  set  his  sense  on  the  attentive  bent, 
And  then  to  speak. 

Agam.  Speak  frankly  as  the  wind. 

It  is  not  Agamemnon's  sleeping  hour : 

>f  "Ta;:*  exact  :  in  f  e.      '  But  what  :  in  f.  e.      «  sole  pure     .n  .'.  « 


574 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


ACT    I. 


Ihat  thou  shalt  know,  Trojan,  he  is  awake. 
He  tells  thee  so  hini.sclf. 

J£ne.  Trumpet,  blow  loud, 

Send  thy  bra.«s  voice  through  all  these  laz>-  tents; 
And  every  Greek  of  mettle,  let  him  know. 
What  Troy  meau.s  fairly  shall  be  spoke  aloud. 

[Trumpet  sounds 
We  have,  ereaf  Agamemnon,  here  in  Troy, 
A  prince  calld  Hector.  Pi  lam  i.«;  his  father. 
Who  in  this  dull  and  long-continu'd  truce 
Is  rusty  grown  :  he  bade  me  take  a  trumpet. 
\nd  to  this  purpo.«e  .«peak. — Kings,  princes,  lords, 
If  tiiere  be  one  among  the  fairst  of  Greece, 
That  holds  his  honour  higher  than  his  ea.se; 
That  seeks*  his  prai.se  more  than  he  fears  his  peril  ; 
That  knows  his  valour,  and  knows  not  his  fear ; 
That  loves  his  mistress  more  than  in  confession 
With  truant  vows  to  her  own  lips  he  loves. 
And  dare  avow  her  beauty  and  her  worth 
In  other  arms  than  hers. — to  him  this  challenge. 
Hector,  in  view  of  Trojans  and  of  Greeks. 
Shall  make  it  good,  or  do  his  best  to  do  it. 
He  hath  a  lady,  wiser,  fairer,  truer. 
Than  ever  Greek  did  couple-  in  his  arms; 
And  will  to-morrow  with  his  trumpet  call. 
Mid- way  between  yotir  tents  and  walls  of  Troy, 
To  rouse  a  Grecian  that  is  true  in  love. 
If  any  come,  Hector  shall  honour  him  ; 
If  none,  he  "II  .say  in  Troy,  when  he  retires. 
The  Grecian  dames  are  sun-burnt,  and  not  worth 
The  splinter  of  a  lance.     Even  so  much. 

Agam.  This  shall  be  told  our  lovers,  lord  ^Eneas : 
If  none  of  them  have  soul  in  such  a  kind. 
We  left  them  ail  at  home  ;  but  we  are  soldiers, 
And  may  that  soldier  a  mere  recreant  prove, 
That  means  not,  hath  not.  or  is  not  in  love  ! 
If  then  one  is.  or  hath,  or  means  to  be. 
That  one  meets  Hector ;  if  none  else,  I  am'  he. 

Nest.  Tell  him  of  Nestor,  one  that  was  a  man 
When  Hector's  grandsire  suck'd  :  he  is  old  now ; 
But  if  there  be  not  in  our  Grecian  host* 
Due  noble  man  that  hath  one  spark  of  fire, 
To  answer  for  his  love,  tell  him  from  me. 
I  '11  hide  my  silver  beard  in  a  gold  beaver. 
And  in  my  vantbraee  put  this  AWtherd  brawn ; 
And.  meeting  him,  will  tell  him,  that  my  lady 
Was  fairer  than  his  grandam,  and  as  chaste 
As  may  be  in  the  world.     His  youth  in  flood. 
■U  prove*  this  truth  wth  my  three  drops  of  blood. 

jEne.  Now  heavens  forbid  such  scarcity  of  youth  ! 

Ulyss.  Amen. 

Af^am.  Fair  lord  i^.neas.  let  me  touch  your  hand; 
To  our  pavilion  shall  I  lead  you,  sir. 
Achilles  shall  have  word  of  this  intent, 
So  shall  each  lord  of  Greece,  from  tent  to  tent ; 
Your.'^clf  shall  fea.st  with  us  before  you  go. 
And  find  the  welcome  of  a  noble  foe. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Ulysses  ami  Xkstor. 

Ulyxs.  Nestor ! 

Nest.  What  says  Ulysses? 

Uhjss.  I  have  a  young  conception  in  my  brain  : 
Be  you  mv  time  to  bring  it  to  .'-ome  shape. 

Ne.'^t.  What  is 't? 

L7i/.w.  This  't  is. 
Blunt  wedges  rive  hard  knot.s :  the  seeded  pride. 
That  hath  to  this  maturity  srown  up 
111  rank  Achilles,  must  or  now  be  eroppd, 
Or,  shedding,  breed  a  nursery  of  like  evil. 


To  overbulk  us  all. 

Nest.  Well,  and  how  ? 

Ulyss.  This  challenge  that  the  gallant  Hector  sencs. 
However  it  is  spread  in  general  name, 
Relates  in  purpose  only  to  Achilles. 

Nest.  The  purpose  is  perspicuous  even  as  subst^Pi*, 
Whose  grossne.ss  little  characters  sum  up  : 
!  And  in  the  publication  make  no  strain, 
But  that  Achilles,  were  his  brain  as  barren 
As  banks  of  Libya,  (though,  Apollo  knows, 
'T  is  dry  enough)  will,  with  great  speed  of  judgnie'iC 
Ay,  with  celerity,  find  Hector's  purpose 
Pointing  on  him. 

IJyss.  And  wake  him  to  the  answer,  think  yc  u  ? 

Nest.  Why*,  't  is  most  meet :  whom  may  you  else 
oppose. 
That  can  from  Hector  bring  his  honour  oflf". 
If  not  Achilles  ?     Though  't  be  a  sportful  combat. 
Yet  in  the  trial  much  opinion  dwells ; 
For  here  the  Trojans  taste  our  dear'st  repute 
With  their  fin'st  palate  :  and  trust  to  me,  Ulysses, 
Our  reputation  shall  be  oddly  pois'd 
In  this  wild  action  :  for  the  success, 
Although  particular,  shall  give  a  scantling 
Of  good  or  bad  unto  the  general : 
And  in  such  indexes  (although  small  pricks 
To  their  subsequent  volumes)  there  is  seen 
The  baby  figure  of  the  giant  mass 
Of  things  to  come  at  large.     It  is  suppos'd. 
j  He  tjiat  meets  Hector  issues  from  our  cnoice  : 
And  choice,  being  mutual  act  of  all  our  souls, 
I  Makes  merit  her  election,  and  doth  boil, 
As  "t  were  from  forth  us  all,  a  man  distill'd 
Out  of  our  virtues  ;  who  miscarrying, 
What  heart  receives  from  hence  the  conquering  part 
To  steel  a  strong  opinion  to  themselves? 
Which  entertain'd.  limbs  are  his  instruments, 
In  no  less  working,  than  are  swords  and  bows 
Directive  by  the  limbs. 

Ulyss.  Give  pardon  to  my  speech : — 
Therefore  't  is  meet  Achilles  meet  not  Hector. 
Let  us,  like  merchants,  show  our  foulest  wares, 
And  think,  perchance,  they  '11  sell ;  if  not, 
The  lu.stre  of  the  better  shall  exceed.' 
By  showing  the  worst  first.*     Do  not  consent, 
That  ever  Hector  and  Achilles  meet ; 
For  both  our  honour  and  our  shame,  in  this. 
Are  dogg"d  with  two  strange  followers. 

Nest.  I  see  them  not  with  my  old  eyes :  what  art 
they  ? 

Z7/1/.W.  What  glory  our  Achilles  shares  from  Hector. 
Were  he  not  proud,  we  all  should  share'  with  him 
But  he  already  is  too  insolent ; 
And  we  were  better  parch  in  Afric  sun. 
Than  in  the  pride  and  salt  scorn  of  his  eyes, 
Should  he  'scape  Hector  fair.     If  he  were  foil'd. 
Why.  then  we  did  our  main  opinion  crush 
In  taint  of  our  be.st  man.     No  ;  make  a  lottery. 
And  by  device  let  blockish  Ajax  draw 
The  sort  to  fight  with  Hector :  among  ourselves 
Give  him  allowance  for  the  better  man,'" 
For  that  will  physic  the  great  Myrmidon, 
Who  broils  in  loud  applause:  and  make  him  fall 
His  crest,  that  prouder  than  blue  Iris  bends. 
If  the  dull,  brainle.^s  Ajax  come  safe  off, 
We  '11  dress  him  up  in  voices  :  if  he  fail. 
Yet  go  we  under  our  opinion  .still. 
That  we  have  better  men.     But,  hit  or  miss, 


Meedi:  in  qnartoi.      »  compaa  :  in  folio.      'I'll  be:  in  folio,      ♦mould:  in  folio.      »  pawn  :  in  folio. 
Lw  ;  IE  fo..o.      'Shall  show  the  better  :  in  folio.      »  wear  :  in  folio.      ^*  As  tht  worthier. 


SCENE  I. 


TEOILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Oar  project's  life  this  shape  of  sense  assumes. — 
Ajax  employ'd  plucks  down  Achilles'  plumes! 

Nest.  Now  I  begin  to  relish  thy  advice ; 
And  I  will  give  a  taste  of  it  forthwith 


>75 


To  Agamemnon :  go  we  to  him  straight. 
Two  curs  shall  tame  each  other  •  pride  alone 
Must  tarre'  the  mastiffs  on,  as  'twere  their  bone. 

[Exatnl 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— Another  Part  of  the  Grecian  Camp. 
Enter  Aj.a.x  and  Thersites. 

■djax.  Thersites  ! 

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

Ajax.  Thersites  ! 

T%er.  And  those  boils  did  run  ? — Say  so. — did  not 
the  general  run  then  ?  were  not  that  a  botcliy  sore  ? 

Ajax.  Dog ! 

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

Ajax.  Thou  bitch- volf's  son,  canst  thou  not  hear  ? 
Feel  then.  [Strikes  him. 

Ther.  The  plague  of  Greece  upon  thee,  thou  mon- 
grel beef-witted  lord  ! 

Ajax.  Speak  then,  thou  vinewd'st^  leaven,  speak :  I 
will  beat  thee  into  handsomeness. 

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

Ajax.  Toads-stool,  learn  me  the  proclamation. 

Tlicr.  Dost  thou  think  I  have  no  sense,  thou  strtk'st 
me  thus  ? 

Ajax.  The  proclamation. — 

Ther.  Thou  art  proclaimed  a  fool.  I  think. 

Ajax.  Do  not.  porcupine,  do  not :  my  fingers  itch. 

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

Ajax.  I  say,  the  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  grumblest  and  railest  every  hour  on 
Achilles  ;  and  thou  art  as  full  of  envy  at  his  greatness. 


I  How  now,  Thersites  !  what 's  ihe  matter,  man  ? 

Ther.  You  see  him  there,  do  you  ? 

Achil.  Ay  :  what 's  the  matter? 

Ther.  Nay,  look  upon  him. 

Achil.  So  I  do  :  what  "s  the  matter  ? 

Ther.  Nay.  but  regard  him  well. 

Achil  Weil,  why  J  do  .so. 

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

Achil.  I  know  that,  fool. 

Ther.  Ay,  but  that  fool  knows  not  himself 

Ajax.  Therefore  I  beat  thee. 
;  Ther.  Lo.  lo.  lo.  lo,  what  modicums  of  wit  he  utters  ! 
his  orations  have  ears  thus  long.  I  have  bobbed  his 
brain,  more  than  he  has  beat  my  bones  :  I  will  buy 
nine  sparrows  for  a  penny,  and  his  pia  mater  is  noi 
worth  the  ninth  part  of  a  sparrow.  This  lord,  Achilles. 
Ajax,  who  wears  his  wit  in  his  belly,  and  his  guts  in 
his  head,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  say  of  him. 

Achil.  Wliat? 

Ther.  I  say,  this  Ajax — 

Achil.  Nay,  good  Ajax.      [Aj.iX  offers  to  strike  him. 

Ther.  Has  not  so  much  wit — 

Achil.  Nay.  I  must  hold  you. 

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

Achil.  Peace,  fool  ! 

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

Ajax.  0,  thou  damned  cur  !     I  shall — 

Achil.  Will  you  set  your  wit  to  a  fool's  ? 

Ther.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  for  a  fool's  wiil  shame  it. 

Patr.  Good  words,  Thersites. 

Achil.  What 's  the  quarrel  ? 

Jjax.  I  bade  the  vile  owl  go  learn  me  the  tenour  of 


as  Cerberus  is  at  Proserpina's  beauty,  ay,  that   thou  the  proclamation,  and  he  rails  upon  me. 


barkest  at  him. 

Ajax.  Mistress  Thersites ; 

Ther.  Thou  shouldest  strike  him. 

Ajax.  Cobloaf  ! 

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

Ajax.  You  whoreson  cur  !  [Beating  him. 

Ther.  Do,  do. 

Ajax.  Thou  stool  for  a  witch  ! 

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

.4;ax.  You  dog  ! 

Ther.  You  scurvy  lord  ! 

^'ax.  You  cur  !  [Beating  him. 

Ther.  Mar's  idiot  !  do,  rudeness;  do,  camel;  do,  do. 
Enter  Achilles  and  Patroclus 


i 


Achil.  Why,  how  now,  Ajax  !  wherefore  do  you  this  ?  bids  me,  shall  I ' 
Se  on.      »  Most  mouldy       '  phe  rest  of  the  tpeech  is  only  in  the  quartos. 


Th^r.  I  serve  thee  not. 

Ajax.  Well,  go  fo.  go  to. 

Ther.  I  serve  here  voluntary. 

Achil.  Your  last  service  was  suff'erance,  't  was  not 
voluntary;  no  man  is  beaten  voluntary:  Ajax  was 
here  the  voluntary,  and  you  as  under  an  impress. 

Ther.  Even  so  ? — a  great  deal  of  your  AA"lt.  too,  lie* 
in  your  sinews,  or  else  there  be  liars.  Hector  shall 
have  a  great  catch,  if  he  knock  out  either  o^  yonr 
brains :  he  were  as  good  crack  a  fusty  nut  with  no  kernel 

Achil.  What,  with  me  too,  Thersites  ? 

Ther.  There  's  Ulysses,  and  old  Nestor. — whose  ^nt 
was  mouldy  ere  your  grandsire>s  had  nails  on  their  toc-j, 
— yoke  you  like  draught  oxen,  and  make  you  plough 
up  the  war. 

Achil.  What?  what? 

Ther.  Yes.  good  sooth  :  to  Achilles  !  to  Ajax  !  to — 

Ajax.  I  shall  cut  out  your  tongue. 

Ther.  'T  is  no  matter;  I  shall  speak  as  much  a* 
thou,  afterwards. 

Patr.  No  more  words,  Thersites  ;  peace  ! 

Ther.  I  \A-ill  hold  my  peace  when  AchiliCe'  braoh* 


Pound.      *  X  tmall  ass.      •  Dos 


576 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


ACT    II. 


Achil.  There  's  for  you,  Patroclus. 

Tker.  I  will  see  you  hanged,  likf  clotpoles.  ere  I 
.v)me  any  more  1o  your  tents :  I  will  keep  where  there 
IS  wit  stirrinir,  and  leave  the  faction  of  fools.       [Exit. 

Piitr.  A  good  riddance. 

Achil.  Marry,  this.  sir.  is  proclaimed  through  all  our 
liost  :— 
That  Hector,  by  the  fifth  iiour  of  the  sun, 
Will,  witii  a  trumpet,  'twixt  our  tents  and  Troy. 
To-morrow  morning  call  some  knight  to  arms. 
That  hath  a  stomach  ;  and  such  a  one.  that  dare 
Maintain — I  know  not  what:  "t  is  trash.     Farewell. 

AjiM.  Farewell.     Who  shall  answer  him  ? 

Arhil.  I  know  not:  it  is  put  to  lottery:  otherwise. 
He  knew  his  man. 

Ajnx.  0!  meaning  you. — I  will  go  learn  more  of  it. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Troy.     A  Room  in  Priam^s  Palace. 
Enter  Priam,  Hector.  Troilus,  Paris,  and  Helenus. 

Pn.  After  so  many  hours,  lives,  speeches  spent, 
Thus  once  again  says  N'estor  from  the  Greeks  : — 
•  Deliver  Helen,  and  all  damage  else — 
.\s  honour,  loss  of  time,  travail,  expence. 
Wounds,  friends,  and  what  else  dear  that  is  consum'd 
111  hot  digestion  of  this  cormorant  war, — 
Shall  be  struck  off:'' — Hector,  what  say  you  to't  ? 

lierj.  Though  no  man  lesser  fears  tlie  Greeks  than  I. 
As  far  as  toucheth  my  particular. 
Vet.  dread  Priam, 

There  is  no  lady  of  more  softer  bowels. 
More  spungy  \a  suck  in  the  sense  of  fear. 
More  ready  to  cry  out — '"  Who  knows  what  follows?" 
Than  Hector  is.     The  wound  of  peace  is  surety. 
Surety  secure  ;  but  modest  doubt  is  call'd 
The  beacon  of  the  wise,  the  tent  that  searches 
To  the  bottom  of  the  worst.     Let  Helen  go  : 
Since  the  fir.'Jt  sword  was  drawn  about  this  question. 
Every  tithe  soul,  'mongst  many  thousand  dismes', 
Hath  been  as  dear  as  Helen :  I  mean,  of  ours  : 
If  we  have  lost  so  many  tenths  of  ours. 
To  guard  a  thing  not  ours,  nor  worth  to  us. 
Had  it  our  name,  the  value  of  one  ten. 
What  merit 's  in  that  reason  which  denies 
The  yielding  of  her  up  ? 

Tro.  Fie,  fie  !   my  brother 

Weigh  you  the  worth  and  honour  of  a  king. 
So  great  a.s  our  dread  father,  in  a  scale 
Of  common  ounces?  will  you  with  counters  sum 
The  pa.«t-proportion  of  his  infinite  ? 
And  buckle  in  a  wai.st  most  fathomless. 
With  spans  and  inches  so  diminutive 
A«  fears  and  rea-^ons  ?  fie,  for  godly  shame  ! 

Hel.  No  marvel,  though  you  bite  so  sharp  at  reasons. 
You  are  bo  emjity  of  them.     Should  not  our  faliier 
Boar  the  great  sway  of  his  affairs  with  reasons. 
Becau.se  your  speex;h  hath  none,  thai  tells  him  so  ? 

Tro.  You    are    for   dreams    and    slumbers,    brother 
priest  : 
You  fur  your  sloves  with  rca,«on.     Here  are  your  rea- 
sons • 
You  know,  an  enemy  intends  you  harm. 
You  know,  a  .sword  employ'd  is  perilous. 
And  rea.<on  flies  the  object  of  all  harm. 
Wi.o  marvels,  then,  when  Helenus  beholds 
A  Grecian  and  his  sword,  if  he  do  set 
The  very  wings  of  rea.«on  to  hie  heels. 
And  fly  like  chidden  Mercury  from  Jove. 
Or  like  a  star  dis-orb'd  ? — Nay.  if  we  talk  of  reason, 

Ttntks.      »  uttributiTe  :  in  quartos.      '  Start  away       ♦  ipoi'.'d  : 


Let 's  shut  our  gates,  and  sleep  :  manhood  and  honuui 
Should  have  liare    hearts,  would  they   but    fat    Ibeii 

thoughts 
With  this  eiamm'd  reason  :  rea.son  and  respect 
Make  livers  pale,  and  lustihood  deject. 

Hi'ct.  Brother,  she  is  nf  t  worth  what  she  doth  cost 
The  holding. 

Tro.  What  is  aught,  but  as  't  is  valued  ? 

Hect.  But  value  dwells  not  in  particular  will  ; 
It  holds  his  estim-ate  and  dignity, 
As  well  wherein  't  is  precious  of  itself, 
As  in  the  prizer.     "T  is  mad  idolatry, 
To  make  the  service  greater  than  the  god  ; 
And  the  will  dotes,  that  is  inclinable' 
To  what  infectiously  it.^elf  affects, 
Without  .some  image  of  th'  affected  merit. 

Tro.  I  take  to-day  a  wife,  and  my  electio: 
Is  led  on  in  the  conduct  of  my  will ; 
My  will  enkindled  by  mine  eyes  and  ears, 
Two  traded  pilots  "twixt  the  dangerous  shores 
Of  will  and  judgment.     How  may  I  avoid, 
Althougii  my  will  distaste  what  it  elected. 
The  wife  I  cho.se?  there  can  be  no  evasion 
To  blench'  from  this,  and  to  stand  fir^n  by  honour. 
We  turn  not  back  the  silks  upon  the  merchant. 
When  we  have  soil'd*  them  ;  nor  the  remainder  viand 
We  do  not  throw  in  unrespective  sieve, 
Because  we  now  are  full.     It  was  thought  meet, 
Paris  should  do  some  vengeance  on  the  Greeks  : 
Your  breath  of  full  consent  bellied  his  sails  : 
The  seas  and  winds  (old  wranglers)  took  a  truce. 
And  drd  him  ser^'ice  ;  he  touch'd  the  ports  desir'd  ; 
And  for  an  old  aunt,  whom  the  Greeks  held  captive, 
He  brought  a  Grecian  queen,  whose  youth  and  fres> 

ness 
Wrinkles  Apollo's,  and  makes  pale'  the  morning. 
Why  keep  we  her  ?  the  Grecians  keeps  our  aunt. 
Is  she  worth  keeping?  why.  she  is  a  pearl, 
Whose  price" hath  launched  aboA'c  a  thousand  ships, 
And  turu'd  crown'd  kings  to  merchants. 
If  you'll  avouch  'twas  wisdom  Paris  went, 
As  you  must  need,  for  you  all  cry'd — "'  Go,  go ;" 
If  you  '11  confess,  he  brought  home  noble  prize, 
As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  clapp'd  your  hands, 
And  cry'd — "  Inestimable  !"  why  do  you  now 
The  issue  of  your  proper  wisdoms  rate. 
And  do  a  deed  that  fortune  never  did. 
Beggar  the  estimation  which  you  priz'd 
Richer  than  sea  and  land?     0.  theft  most  base. 
That  we  have  stolen  what  we  do  fear  to  keep  ! 
But.  thieves,  unworthy  of  a  thing  so  stolen. 
That  in  their  country  did  them  that  disgrace. 
We  fear  to  warrant  in  our  native  place  ! 

Cos.  [Within.]   Cry,  Trojans,  cry  ! 

Pri.  What  noise  ?  what  shriek  is  ilii!«  ? 

Tro.  'T  is  our  mad  sister  :  I  do  know  her  voice. 

Cas-.  [Within.]   Cry,  Trojans! 

Hrct.  It  is  Cassandra. 

Enter  Cassandra,  rni'ing. 

Ca.-i.  Cry.  Trojans,  cry  !  lend  me  ten  thous.md  cy^t 
And  I  will  fill  liiem  with  prophetic  tears. 

Hect.  Peace,  sister,  peaeff  ! 

Ca.s.  Virgins  and  boys,  mid-ase  and  wrinkled  eld. 
Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry. 
Add  to  my  clamours!  let  us  pay  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
I  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  practise  your  eyes  with  tears 
'  Troy  must  not  be.  nor  goodly  Ilion  stand : 
iOur  fire-brand  brother.  Paris,  bums  us  all. 


st^ii-fE  ni. 


TROILUS   AND  CKESSIDA. 


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

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

Hect.    Now,  youthful    Troilus,    do  not   these   higlj 
strains 
Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  touches  of  rernor.se  ?  or  is  your  blood 
So  madly  hot.  that  no  discourse  of  reason, 
Nor  I'eai  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause. 
Can  qualify  the  same  ? 

Tro.  Why,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 
Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  forn;  .c ; 
Nor  once  deject  the  courage  of  our  minds, 
Because  Cassandra  's  mad  :  her  brain-sick  raptures 
Cannot  di.staste  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel, 
Which  hath  our  several  honours  all  engag'd 
To  make  it  gracious.     For  my  private  part, 
I  am  no  more  touch'd  tliaii  all  Priam's  sons; 
And  Jove  forbid,  there  should  be  done  amongst  us 
Such  things  as  might  offend  the  weakest  spleen 
To  fight  for,  and  maintain. 

Par.  Else  might  the  world  convince'  of  levity, 
As  well  my  undertakings,  as  your  counsels ; 
But,  I  attest  the  gods,  your  full  consent 
Gave  wings  to  my  propension.  and  cut  off 
All  fears  attending  on  so  dire  a  project : 
For  what,  alas  !  can  these  my  single  arms  ? 
What  propugnation  is  in  one  man's  valour, 
To  stand  tlie  push  and  enmity  of  those 
This  quarrel  would  excite  ?     Yet.  I  protest, 
Were  I  alone  to  poise'  the  difficullies. 
And  had  as  ample  power  as  I  have  will, 
Paris  should  ne'er  retract  what  he  hath  done, 
Nor  faint  in  the  pursuit. 

Pri.  Paris,  you  speak 

Like  one  besotted  on  your  sweet  delights  : 
You  have  the  honey  still,  but  these  the  gall. 
So  to  be  valiant  is  no  praise  at  all. 

Par.  Sir,  I  propose  not  merely  to  myself 
The  pleasures  such  a  beauty  brings  with  it. 
But  I  would  have  the  soil  of  her  fair  rape 
Wip'd  off  in  honourable  keeping  her. 
What  treason  were  it  to  tlie  ransack'd  queen. 
Disgrace  to  your  great  worths,  and  shame  to  me. 
Now  to  deliver  her  ))ossession  up. 
On  terms  of  base  compulsion  ?     Can  it  be, 
That  so  degenerate  a  strain  as  this. 
Should  once  set  footing  in  your  generous  bosoms  ? 
There  's  not  the  meanest  spirit  on  our  party. 
Without  a  heart  to  dare,  or  sword  to  draw, 
When  Helen  is  defended  :  nor  none  so  noble. 
Whose  life  were  ill  bestow'd,  or  death  unfam'd, 
Where  Helen  is  the  subject :  then,  I  say. 
Well  may  we  figbt  for  her,  whom,  we  know  well. 
The  world's  large  spaces  cannot  parallel. 

Hect.  Paris,  and  Troilus,  you  have  both  said  well ; 
And  on  the  cause  and  question  now  in  hand 
Have  gloz'd, — but  superficially  ;  not  much 
Unlike  young  men,  whom  Aristotle  thought 
Unlit  to  hear  moral  philosophy. 
The  reasons  you  allege  do  more  conduce 
.  To  the  hot  passion  of  di.steijiper'd  blood. 
Than  to  make  up  a  free  determination 
'Twixt  right  and  wrong  :  for  pleasure,  and  revenge. 
Have  ears  more  deaf  than  adders  to  the  voice 
Of  any  true  decision.     Nature  craves. 
All  dues  be  render'd  to  their  owners:  now, 
What  nearer  debt  in  all  humanity 
Than  wife  is  to  the  husband  ?  if  this  law 


'  CoTiviet.      »  pass  : 
2M 


"  Not  in  f.  e.      *  Dyce  reads 


Of  nature  be  corrupted  through  affection. 

And  that  great  minds,  of  partial  indulgence 

To  their  benumbed  wills,  resist  the  same. 

There  is  a  law  in  each  well-orderd  nation. 

To  curb  those  raging  appetites  that  are 

Most  disobedient  and  refractory. 

If  Helen,  then,  be  wife  to  Sparta's  king. 

As  it  is  known  she  is,  these  moral  laws 

Of  nature,  and  of  nation,  speak  aloud 

To  have  her  back  return'd  :  thus  to  persist 

In  doing  wrong  extenuates  not  wron2. 

But  makes  it  mucii  more  heavy.     Hector's  opinion 

Is  this,  in  way  of  truth  :  yet,  ne'ertheless. 

My  spritely  brethren.  I  propend  to  you 

In  resolution  to  keep  Helen  still ; 

For  't  is  a  cause  that  hath  no  mean  dependance 

Upon  our  joint  and  several  dignities. 

Tro.  Why,  there  you  touch'd  the  life  of  our  design 
Were  it  not  glory  that  we  more  affected, 
Than  the  performance  of  our  heaving  spleerL«, 
I  would  not  wish  a  drop  of  Trojan  blood 
Spent  more  in  her  defence.     But,  worthy  Hector. 
She  is  a  theme  of  honour  and  renown ; 
A  spur  to  valiant  and  magnanimous  deeds  ; 
Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes. 
And  fame  in  time  to  come  canonize  us  : 
For,  I  presume,  brave  Hector  would  not  lose 
So  rich  advantage  of  a  promis'd  glory, 
As  smiles  upon  the  forehead  of  this  action. 
For  the  wide  world's  revenue. 

Hect.  I  am  yours, 

You  valiant  offspring  of  great  Priamus. — 
I  have  a  roisting  challenge  sent  amongst 
The  dull  and  factious  nobles  of  the  Greeks. 
Will  strike  amazement  to  their  drowsy  spirits. 
I  was  advertis'd,  their  great  general  slept. 
Whilst  emulation  in  the  army  crept: 
This,  I  presume,  will  wake  him.  [Exeiinl 

SCENE  III.— The  Grecian  Camp.     Before  Achili.es' 
Tent. 

Enter  Thersites. 
Ther.  How  now,  Thersites  !  what !  lost  in  the  laby- 
rinth of  thy  fury  ?  Shall  the  elephant  Ajax  carry  il 
thus  ?  he  beats  me,  and  I  rail  at  hiin  :  OM-orthy  satis- 
faction !  would,  it  were  otherwi.<e ;  that  I  could  beat 
him,  whilst  he  railed  at  me.  'Sfoot,  I  '11  learn  to  con- 
jure and  raise  devils,  but  I  'II  see  some  issue  of  my 
spiteful  execrations.  Then,  there  's  Achilles. — a  rare 
engineer.  If  Troy  be  not  taken  till  these  two  under- 
mine it,  the  walls  will  stand  till  they  fall  of  themselves. 
[Kneels.^]  0,  thou  great  thunder-darter  of  Olympus  I 
forget  that  thou  art  Jove  the  king  of  gods  :  and.  Mer- 
cury, lose  all  the  serpentine  craft  of  thy  Caduceus,  if  ye 
take  not  that  little,  little,  les.s-than-littie  wit  from  them 
that  they  have  ;  which  short-armed*  ignorance  itself 
knows  is  so  abundant  scarce,  it  will  not  in  circum- 
vention deliver  a  fly  from  a  spider,  without  drawing 
their  massy  irons  and  cutting  the  web.  After  this,  the 
vengeance  on  the  whole  camp  !  or,  rather  the  Nea- 
politan' bone-ache :  for  that,  methinks.  is  the  curse 
dependant  on  those  that  war  for  a  placket.  [/??>«.•] 
I  have  said  my  prayers,  and  devil,  en\-j',  say  Amen 
What,  ho  !  my  lord  Achilles  ! 

Enter  Patroclus. 
Pair.  Who's   there?     Thersites?     Good  Thersites, 
come  in  and  rail. 

Ther.  If  I  could  have  remembered  a  gilt  counterfeit, 
thou  wouldest  not  have  slipped  out  of  n:y  contempla- 

im'd.      »  «  Not  in  f  «. 


.78 


TR0ILU8  AND  CRESSIDA. 


ACT   II. 


.mn  :  but  it  is  no  matter  :  thyself  upon  thyself !  The 
common  curse  of  mankind,  folly  ami  ii^norance,  be 
thine  in  irreat  revenue  !  lu-aven  bkss  ilioo  Iroin  ii  tutor, 
anil  di.-ciiiiine  come  not  near  tLce  !  Let  tliy  blood  be 
Iby  direction  till  thy  death  !  then,  if  she.  that  lays  tlieoi 
out.  says  thou  art  a  fair  corse.  I  "11  be  sworn  and  sworn 
upon  't  she  n.'ver  shrouded  any  but  lazars.  Amen. 
Where  V  Arhilles? 

Piitr.   What  !  art  thou  devout?  wast  thou  in  prayer  ? 

ITier.  Ay,  the  heavens  hear  me  ! 
Kilter  Achilles. 

Achil.  Who  's  there? 

Pair.   Thersites,  my  lord, 

A(hil.  Where,  where  ? — Art.  thou  come  ?  Why,  my 
rhec.'-c,  my  digestion,  wliy  hast  thou  not  served  thyself 
III  to  my  table  so  many  meals  ?  Come  ;  what 's  Aga- 
inemnun  ? 

Ther  Thy  commander,  Achilles.  Then,  tell  me, 
Patrocl'is,  what 's  Achilles? 

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

Tlwt.  Thy  knower,  Patroclus.  Then  tell  me,  Patro- 
clu.s,  what  art  thou  ? 

Patr.  Thou  must  fell,  that  knowest. 

Achil.  0!   tell.  tell. 

Ther.  I  '11  decline  the  whole  que.stion.  Agamemnon 
commands  Achilles  :  Achilles  is  my  lord  :  I  am  Patro- 
clus" knower ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool. 

Patr.  You  rascal  ! 

Tfwr.  Peace,  fool  !   I  have  not  done. 

Achil.  He  is  a  privileged  man. — Proceed,  Thersites. 

Ther.  Againeiiinon  is  a  fool:  Achilles  is  a  fool: 
Thersites  is  a  fool ;  and,  as  aforesaid,  Patroclus  is  a  fool. 

Achil.  Derive  this  :  come. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool  to  offer  to  command 
\ohilles  ;  Achilles  is  a  fool  to  be  commanded  of  Aga- 
memnon ;  Thersites  is  a  fool  to  serve  such  a  fool  ;  and 
Patroclus  is  a  fool  positive. 

Patr.   Wliy  am  I  a  fool  ? 

Tlier.  Make  that  demand  of  thy  Creator.' — It  suffices 
me.  thou  art.     Look  you,  who  comes  here? 
Enter  Aca.mkmnon.  Ulysses,  Nestor,  DroMEDES,  and 
Ajax. 

Achil.  Patroclus,  I  '11  speak  with  nobody. — Come  in 
with  me,  Thersites.  [Exit. 

Ther.  Here  is  such  patchery,*  such  juggling,  and 
•uch  knavery !  all  the  argument  is  a  cuckold,  and  a 
whole  ;  a  good  quarrel,  to  draw  emulous  factions,  and 
blcul  to  death  upon.  Now,  the  dry  serpigo'  on  the 
subject,  and  war  and  lechery  confound  all  !  [Exit. 

Apnm.  Whore  is  Achilles? 

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

Agnm.  Let  it  be  known  to  him  that  wc  are  here. 
We  sent*  our  messengers  ;  and  we  lay  by 
(hn  appcrtainmcnts  visiting  of  him  : 
I/Ct  him  be  told  so,  lest,*  perchance,  he  think 
We  dare  not  move  the  question  of  our  place. 
Or  know  not  what  wc  are. 

Pntr.  I  j«hall  say  so  to  him.  \Exit. 

Ulijxx.  Wc  saw  him  at  the  opening  of  his  tent: 
He  is  not  sick. 

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

(7bii/ijg  AfJAME.MNON  aside. 

Nest.  What  mo\cs  Ajax  thus  to  bay  at  him  ? 

Vlyss.  Achilles  hath  loveigled  his  fool  from  him. 


'  of  the  prov»r  : 


qua 


Patching  op  to  deceive  \   roguery 
Ijoeo  :  ID  fulio. 


Nest.  Who?  Thersites? 

Vhps.   He. 

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

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

Nest.  All  the  better;  their  fraction  is  more  om 
wish,  than  their  faction:  but  it  was  a  strong  com 
posure.  a  fool  could  disunite. 

Vlyss.  The  amity  that  wisdom  knit,'  not,  folly  maj 
easily  untie.     Here  comes  Patroclus. 

Nest.  No  Achilles  with  him. 

Re-enter  Patroclus. 

Vlyss.  The  elephant  hath  joints,  but  none  for  cour 
tesy:  his  legs  are  legs  for  necessity,  not  for  flexure. 

Patr.  Achilles  bids  me  tay,  he  is  much  sorry, 
If  any  thing  more  than  your  sport  and  pleasure 
Did  move  your  greatness,  and  this  noble  state, 
To  call  upon  him  :  he  hopes,  it  is  no  other, 
But,  for  your  health  and  your  digestion  sake, 
An  after-dinner's  breath. 

Agam.  Hear  you,  Patroclus. 

We  are  too  well  acquainted  with  these  answen* ; 
But  his  evasion,  wing'd  thus  swift  with  scorn, 
Cannot  outtly  our  apprehensions. 
Much  attribute  he  hath,  and  much  the  reason 
Why  we  ascribe  it  to  him  ;  yet  all  his  virtues. 
Not  virtuously  on  his  own  part  beheld. 
Do  in  our  eyes  begin  to  lose  their  gloss  ; 
Yea.  like  fair  fruit  in  an  unwholesome  dish, 
Are  like  to  rot  untastcd.     Go  and  tell  him, 
We  come  to  speak  with  him  ;  and  you  shall  not  sin 
If  you  do  say,  we  think  hiin  over-proud. 
And  under-honest;  in  self-as.sumption  greater, 
Than   in  the  note  of  judgment ;    and   worthier  thar 
Here  tend  the  savage  strangeness  he  puts  on,    [himsell 
Disguise  the  holy  strength  of  their  command, 
And  underwrite  in  an  observing  kind 
His  humorous  predominance  ;  yea,  watch 
His  pettish  lunes,*  his  ebbs,  his  flows,  as  if 
The  passage  and  whole  carriage  of  this  action 
'  Rode  on  his  tide.     Go,  tell  him  this  :  and  add, 
I  That,  if  he  overbold  his  price  so  much, 
I  We  '11  none  of  him  :  but  let  him,  like  an  engine 
Not  portable,  lie  under  this  report — 
Bring  action  hither,  this  cannot  go  to  war. 
!  A  stirring  dwarf  we  do  allowance  give 
Before  a  sleeping  giant  : — tell  him  so. 

Patr.  I  shall :  and  bring  his  answer  presently.  [En! 

Agam.  In  second  voice  we  '11  not  be  satisfied. 
We  come  to  speak  with  him. — Ulysses,  enter  you. 

[Exit  Ul.TSSK.o 

Ajax.  What  is  he  more  than  another  ? 

Agam.  No  more  than  what  he  thinks  he  is. 

Ajax.  Is  he  so  much  ?  Do  you  not  think,  he  thinl-i' 
himself  a  better  man  than  I  am  ? 

Agam.  No  question. 

Ajax.  Will  you  subscribe  his  thought,  and  say  he  i 

Agam.    No,    noble    Ajax  :    you    are    as   strong.    ■ 
valiant,  as  wise,  no  less  noble,  much  more  gentle,  rikI 
altonether  more  tractable. 

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

Agam.  Your  mind  is  the  clearer.  Ajax,  and  you' 
virtues  the  fairer.  He  that  is  proud,  eats  up  himsell 
pride  is  his  own  glass,  his  own  trumpet,  liis  own  chron 
icle;  and  whatever  praises  itself  but  in  the  deed,  de 
I  vours  the  deed  in  the  praise. 

•  A  Innd  of  tetter.     ♦  He  lent :  In  folio.    Theobald  read.     H.  "bent 


SCENE   m. 


TROILUS   AND   CKESSIDA. 


Ajax.  I  do  hate  a  proud  man.  as  I  hate  the  cngen- 
icring  of  toads. 
Nest.  Yet  he  loves  himself:  is  't  not  strange  ?  [Aside. 

Re-enter  Ulysses. 
Uivss.  Achilles  will  not  to  the  field  to-morrow. 
Agam.  What 's  his  excuse  ? 

Vly.ss.  He  doth  rely  on  none ; 

But  carries  on  the  stream  of  his  dispose 
Without  observance  or  respect  of  any, 
In  will  peculiar,  and  in  self-admission. 

Agnm.  Why  will  he  not,  upon  our  fair  request, 
Untent  his  person,  and  share  the  air  with  us? 

Ulyss.  Things  small  as  nothing,  for  request's  sake 
only. 
He  makes  important.     Possess'd  he  is  with  greatness  ; 
And  speaks  not  to  himself,  but  with  a  pride 
That  quarrels  at  self-breath :  imagin'd  worth  ' 

Holds  in  his  blood  such  swoln  and  hot  discourse. 
That,  'twixt  his  mental  and  his  active  parts, 
Kingdom'd  Achilles  in  commotion  rages. 
And  batters  down  himself.'     What  should  I  say  ? 
He  is  so  plaguy  proud,  tliat  the  death  tokens  of  it 
Cr}' — "No  recovery." 

Agam.  Let  Ajax  go  to  him. — 

Dear  lord,  go  you  and  greet  him  in  his  tent : 
'T  is  said,  he  holds  you  well  ;  and  will  be  led, 
At  your  request,  a  little  from  himself. 

Vlyss.  0  Agamemnon  !  let  it  not  be  so  : 
We  '11  consecrate  the  steps  that  Ajax  makes 
When  they  go  from  Achilles.     Shall  the  proud  lord. 
That  bastes  his  arrogance  with  his  own  seam,' 
And  never  suffers  matter  of  the  world  j 

Enter  his  thoughts, — save  such  as  doth  revolve 
And  ruminate  himself, — shall  he  be  worshipp'd 
Of  that  we  hold  an  idol  more  than  he  ?  1 

No,  this  thrice  worthy  and  right  valiant  lord 
Must  not  so  stale  his  palm,  nobly  acquir'd  ; 
Nor,  by  my  will,  assubjugate  his  merit. 
As  amply  titled'  as  Achilles  is,  by  going  to  Achilles  : 
That  were  to  enlard  his  fat-already  pride ; 
And  add  more  coals  to  Cancer,  when  he  burns 
With  entertaining  great  Hyperion. 
This  lord  go  to  him  ?     Jupiter  forbid  ; 
And  say  in  thunder — '■  Achilles,  go  to  him." 

Nest.Ol  this  is  well;   he  rubs  the  vein  of  him. 

[Aside. 

Dio.  And  how  his  silence  drinks  up  this  applause  ! 

[Aside. 

Ajax.  If  I  go  to  him,  "with  my  armed  fist 
I'll  pash  him  o'er  the  face. 

Agam.  O,  no  !  you  shall  not  go. 

Ajax.  An  a'  be  proud  with  me,  I  '11  pheeze*  his  pride. 
Let  me  go  to  him. 

Uhjss.  Not  for  the  worth  that  hangs  upon  our  quarrel. 

Ajax.  A  paltry,  insolent  fellow  ! 

Nest.  How  he  describes 

Himself?  [Aside. 

Ajax.  Can  he  not  be  sociable  ? 

iflyss.  The  raven 

Hhidesi  blackness.  [Aside. 

Ajax.  1  '11  let  his  humours  blood. 


Agam.  He  -will  be  the  physician,  that  should  be  th< 
patient.  .  '  [Asiik 

Ajax.  An  all  men  were  o'  my  mind, — 
Vlyss.  Wit  would  be  out  of  fashion.   [Asmt 

Ajax.  'A  should  not  bear  it  so, 
'A  should  eat  swords  first:  shah  pride  carrj-  it' 
Nest.  An  'twould,  you  'd  carry  half.  [Asuk 

Ulyss.  'A  would  have  ten  shares.   [Aside 

Ajax.  T  will  knead  him ;  I  will  make  him  supple. 
Nest.  He  's  not  yet  thorough  warm:  force  him  will. 


Pour  in,  pour  in  ;  his  ambition  is  dry.  [Aside. 

Ulyss.  My  lord,  you  feed  too  much  on  this  dislike 

[To  Aga.memnon. 

Nest.  Our  noble  general,  do  not  do  so. 

Dio.  You  must  prepare  to  fight  without  Achilles. 

Ulyss.  Why,  't  is  this  naming  of  him  does  him  harwi. 
Here  is  a  man — but  't  is  before  hi«  face; 
I  will  be  silent. 

Nest.  Wherefore  should  you  so  ? 

He  is  not  emulous,  as  Achilles  is. 

Ulyss.  Know  the  whole  world,  he  is  as  valiant. 

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

Nest.  What  a  vice 

Were  it  in  Ajax  now — 

Ulyss.  If  he  were  proud  ? 

Dio.  Or  covetous  of  praise  ? 

Ulyss.  Ay,  or  surly  borne  ? 

Dio.  Or  strange,  or  self-afTected  ? 

Ulyss.  Thank  the  heavens,  lord,  thou  art  of  bwwi 
composure ; 
Praise  him  that  got  thee,  her  that  gave  thee  suck  : 
Fam'd  be  thy  tutor,  and  thy  parts  of  nature 
Thrice-fam'd,  beyond  all  erudition  ; 
But  he  that  disciplin'd  thine  arms  to  fight. 
Let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  twain, 
And  give  him  half ;  and  for  thy  vigour, 
Bull-bearing  Milo  his  addition  yield 
To  sinewy  Ajax.     I  will  not  praise  thy  wisdom, 
Which,  like  a  bourn,  a  pale,  a  shore,  confines 
Thy  spacious  and  dilated  parts  :  here  's  Nestor, 
Instructed  by  the  antiquary  times, 
He  must,  he  is,  he  cannot  but  be  wise ; 
But  pardon,  father  Nestor,  were  your  days 
As  green  as  Ajax.  and  your  brain  so  temper'd, 
You  should  not  have  the  eminence  of  him, 
But  be  as  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Shall  I  call  you  father  ? 

Ncst.^  Ay,  my  good  son. 

Dio.  Be  ruKd  by  him,  lord  .\jax 

Ulyss.  There  is  no  tarrying  here  ;  the  hart  Achiltc? 
Keeps  thicket. — Please  it  our  great"  general 
To  call  together  all  his  state  of  war  : 
Fresh  kings  are  come  to  Troy;  to-morrow, 
We  must  wth  all  our  main  of  power  stand  fast : 
And  here  's  a  lord, — come  kniglits  from  east  to  west. 
And  cull  tlieir  flower,  Ajax  shall  cope  the  bc^^t. 

Agam.  Go  we  to  council :  let  Achilles  sleep. 
Light  boats  sail'  swift,  though  greater  hulk.s'   drav 
deep.  [Exeunl 


■'  bulk 


>  Srease       'liked:  in  quarto.     *  Humble.      »  Ulysses:    in  folio.      'Not  io   fo)io.      'may  sail:  in  fohc 


i 

i 


580 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


ACT     III 


SCENE  I— Troy.     A  Hoom  in  Priam's  Palace. 
Enter  Panparl's  aiid  a  Servant. 

Pan.  Friend  you  ;  pray  you,  a  word.  Do  not  you 
follow  the  young  lord  Puris? 

Scrv.  Ay,  sir,  when  he  goes  before  me. 

Pan.   Vou  depend  upon  him,  I  mean  ? 

Serv.  Sir,  I  do  depend  upon  the  lord. 

Pan.  Vou  depend  upon  a  noble  gentleman  :  I  must 
seeds  praise  him. 

Serv.  The  lord  be  praised  ! 

Pan.  Vou  know  me,  do  you  not? 

Serv.   Faith,  sir.  superficially. 

Pan.  Friend,  know  me  better.  I  am  the  lord  Pan- 
darus. 

Serv.  I  hope,  I  shall  know  your  honour  better. 

Pan.  I  do  desire  it. 

Scrv.  You  are  in  the  state  of  grace.    [Mii.sic  ivithin. 

Pan.  Grace  !  not  so.  friend  ;  honour  and  lord.ship 
are  my  titles. — What  music  is  this? 

Scrv.  I  do  but  partly  know,  sir ;  it  is  music  in  parts. 

Pan.  Know  you  the  musicians? 

Serv.  Wholly,  sir. 

Pan.  Who  play  they  to? 

Serv.  To  the  hearers,  sir. 

Pan.  At  whose  pleasure,  friend  ? 

Serv.  At  mme,  sir ;  and  theirs  that  love  music. 

Pan.  Command,  I  mean,  friend. 

Serv.  Who  shall  I  command,  sir? 

Pan.  Friend,  we  understand  not  one  another:  I 
am  too  courtly,  and  thou  art  too  cunning.  At  whose 
request  do  these  men  play? 

Serv.  That 's  to  't.  indeed,  sir.  Marry,  sir,  at  the 
request  of  Paris,  my  lord,  who  is  there  in  person ;  with 
him.  the  mortal  Venus,  the  heart-blood  of  beauty,  love's 
invisible  soul — 

Pan.  Who  ?  my  cousin  Cressida  ? 

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

Pan.  It  should  seem,  fellow,  that  thou  hast  not  seen 
the  lady  Cres.sida.  I  come  to  speak  witli  Paris  from 
the  prince  Troilus:  I  will  make  a  complimental  as- 
•ault  upon  him,  for  my  business  seefhs. 

Serv.  Sodden  business:  there's  a  stewed  jthrase. 
indeed. 

Enter  Paris  and  Hf.len,  attended. 

Pan.  Fair  be  to  you.  my  lord,  and  to  all  this  fair 
company  !  fair  desires,  in  all  fair  measure,  tairly  guide 
them  :  c«p.-cially  to  you,  fair  queen  :  fair  thoughts  be 
your  fair  pillow  ! 

Helen.   Dear  lord,  you  are  full  of  fair  words. 

P(tn-  You  speak  your  fair  pleasure,  sweet  queen. — 
Fair  priiice,  here  is  good  broken  music. 

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

Pan.  Truly,   lady,  no. 

Helen    O,  sir  ! — 

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

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

Pan.  I  have  business  to  my  lord,  dear  queen. — My 
.ord,  will  you  vouchsafe  me  a  word  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  thi.s  shall  not  hedge  us  out :  wc  'II  hear 
vou  sing,  certainly. 

'  Tbeu  wordi  are  only  in  the  quartot.      »  '  •rvi.or  ■  in  f.  e 


Pan.  Well,  sweet  queen,  you  are  pleasant  with  me 
But,  marry,  thus,  my  lord. — My  dear  lord,  and  lu^jsi 
esteemed  friend,  your  brother  Tioilus — 

Helen.  i\Iy  lord  Pandiirus  ;  honey-sweet  lord, — 

Pan.  Go  to,  sweet  queen,  go  to  : — commends  himseL 
most  afieetionately  to  you. 

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

Pan.  Sweet  queen,  sweet  queen;  that's  a  sweet 
queen, — i'  faith — 

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

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

Helen.  My  lord  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen, — my  very  ver) 
sweet  queen  ? 

Par.  What  exploit 's  in  hand  ?  wliere  sups  he  to 
night  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  but  my  lord, — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen? — My  cousin  will 
fall  out  with  you.     You  must  not  know  where  he  sups. 

Par.  I  '11  lay  my  life,'  with  my  dispraiser.''  Cressida 

Pan.  No,  no;  no  such  matter,  you  are  wide.  Come 
your  dispraiser  is  sick. 

Par.  Well,  I  '11  make  excuse. 

Pan.  Ay,  good  my  lord.  Why  should  you  say 
Cressida?  no,  your  poor  dispraiser 's  sick. 

Par.  I  spy. 

Pan.  You  spy  !  what  do  you  spy  ? — Come,  give  m« 
an  instrument. — Now,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Why,  this  is  kindly  done. 

Pan.  My  niece  is  ^lorribly  in  love  with  a  thing  yow 
have,  sweet  queen. 

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

Pan.  He  !  no.  she  '11  none  of  him  ;  they  two  are  twain 

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

Pan.  Come,  come,  I  '11  hear  no  more  of  this.  I  'II 
sing  you  a  song  now. 

Helen.  Ay.  ay,  pr'ythee  now.  By  my  troth,  swei't 
lord,  thou  hast  a  fine  forehead. 

Pa/1.  Ay,  you  may,  you  may. 

Helen.  Let  thy  song  be  love  :  this  love  will  undo  u» 
all.     0,  Cupid,  Cupid,  Cupid  ! 

Pan.  Love?  ay.  that  it  shall,  i'  faith. 

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

Pan.  In  good  troth,  it  begins  so : 

Love,  love,  nothing  Intt  love,  still  more! 

For.  oh  !  love.t  bow 

Shoot.f  buck  and  doe  : 

The  .shaft  confounds, 

Not  that  it  wounds 
But  tickles  .still  the  .sore. 
These  lovers  cry — Oh!  oh!  thcij  die! 

Yet  that  vhirh  seems  a  woximl  to  kill, 
Doth  turn  oh  !  oh  !  to  hn  !  ha  !  he  ! 

So  dying  love  lives  .still  : 
Oh !  oh  !  a  while,  but  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ? 
Oh  !  oh  !  groans  out  for  ha!  ha!  ha  !— 

Hey  ho  ! 


BOEITE   n. 


TROILUS  AND  CKESSIDA. 


581 


Helen.  In  love,  i'  faith,  to  the  very  tip  of  the  nose. 

Far.  He  eats  nothing  but  doves,  love. 

Pan.  And  that  breeds  hot  blood,  and  hot  blood  be- 
gets hot  thoughts,  and  hot  thoughts  beget  hot  deeds, 
and  hot  deeds  is  love. 

Helen.  Ts  this  the  generation  of  love?  hot  blood, 
not  thoughts,  and  hot  deeds  ? — Why,  they  are  vipers : 
is  love  a  generation  of  vipers  ? 

Pan.  Sweet  lord,  who  "s  a-field  to-day? 

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

Helen.  He  hangs  the  lip  at  something. — You  know 
all,  lord  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Not  I,  honey-sweet  queen. — I  long  to  hear 
how  they  sped  to-day. — You  '11  remember  your  brother's 
excuse  ? 

Par.  To  a  hair. 

Pan.  Farewell,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Commend  me  to  your  niece. 

Pan.  I  will,  sweet  queen.  [Exit. 

[A  Retreat  sounded. 

Helen.  They  're  come  from  field :  let  us  to  Priam's 
hall. 
To  greet  the  warriors. 

Par.  Sweet  Helen,  I  must  woo  you 
To  help  unarm  our  Hector  :  his  stubborn  buckles, 
With  these  your  white  enchanting  fingers  touch'd, 
Shall  more  obey  than  to  the  edge  of  steel, 
Or  force  of  Greekish  sinews  :  you  shall  do  more. 
Than  all  the  island  kings,  disarm  great  Hector. 

Helen.  'T  will    make  us   proud  to  be  his  servant, 
Paris : 
Yea,  what  he  shall  receive  of  us  in  duty. 
Gives  us  more  palm  in  beauty  than  we  have : 
Yea,  overshines  ourself. 

Par.  Sweet,  above  thought  I  love  thee.         [Exeunt. 


SCENE  n.— The  Same.     Pandarus'  Orchard. 
Enter  Pandarus  and  a  Servant,  meeting. 


That  I  shall  lose  distinction  in  my  joys. 

As  doth  a  battle,  when  they  charge  on  heaps 

The  enemy  flying. 

Re-enter  Pandarus. 

/u..\  She  's  making  her  ready ;  she  '11  come  vlraight 
you  must  be  witty  now.  She  does  so  blush,  and 
fetches  her  wind  so  short,  as  if  she  were  frayed  with  a 
sprite:  I  '11  fetch  her.  It  is  the  prettiest  villain  :  she 
fetches  her  breath  so  short  as  a  new-ta'en  sparrow. 

[Exit  Pandaros 

Tro.  Even  such  a  passion  doth  embrace  my  bosoir  : 
My  heart  beats  thicker  than  a  feverous  pulse, 
And  all  my  powers  do  their  bestowing  lose, 
Like  vassalage  at  unawares  encountering 
^The  eye  of  majesty. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  what  need  you  blush  ?  shame  'sh 
baby. — Here  she  is  now  :  swear  the  oaths  now  to  her. 
that  you  have  sworn  to  me. — What !  are  you  gone 
again?  you  must  be  watched  ere  you  be  made  tame, 
must  you  ?  Come  your  ways  come  your  ways  :  an  you 
draw  backward,  we  '11  put  you  i'  the  fills.' — Why  do 
you  not  speak  to  her? — Come,  draw  this  curtain,  and 
let 's  see  your  picture.  [Unveiling  her.*]  Alas  the  day. 
how  loath  you  are  to  offend  daylight !  an  't  were  dark, 
you  'd  close  sooner.  So.  so;  rub  on.'  and  kiss  the  mis- 
tress.* How  now!  a  kiss  in  fee-farm'?  build  there, 
carpenter,  the  air  is  sweet.  Nay,  you  shall  fight youi 
hearts  out,  ere  I  part  you.  The  falcon  as  the  tercel.' 
for  all  the  ducks  i'  the  river :  go  to,  go  to. 

Tro.  You  have  bereft  me  of  all  words,  lady. 

Pan.  Words  pay  no  debts,  give  her  deeds  ;  but  she  '11 
bereave  you  of  the  deeds  too,  if  she  call  your  activity 
in  question.  What  !  billing  again  ?  Here  's — "  In  wit- 
ness whereof  the  parties  interchangeably" — Come  in. 
come  in  :  I  '11  go  get  a  fire.  [Exit  Pandarcs. 

Cres.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Tro.  0  Cressida  !  how  often  have  I  wished  me  thus '' 

Cres.  Wished,  my  lord  ?— The  gods  grant !— 0  my 
lord  ! 

Tro.  What   should  they  grant?   what   makes  this 


Pan.  How  now!  where 's  thy  master  ?  at  my  cousin  pretty  abruption?  What  too  curious  dreg  espies  my 
Cressida's  ?  i  sweet  lady  in  the  fountain  of  our  love  ? 

Serv.  No,  sir ;  he  stays  for  you  to  conduct  him  Cres.  More  dregs  than  water,  if  my  fears  have  eyes, 
thither.  i      Tro.  Fears  make  devils  of  cherubins ;    they  never 

Enter  Troilus.  j  see  truly. 

Pan.  0  !  here  he  comes. — How  now,  how  now  !        |      Cres.  Blind  fear,  that  seeing  reason  leads,  finds  safer 

Tro.  Sirrah,  walk  off.  [Exit  Servant,  footing  than  blind  reason,  stumbling  without  fear  :  to 


Pan.  Have  you  seen  my  cousin  ? 

Tro.  No,  Pandarus  :  I  stalk  about  her  door. 
Like  a  strange  soul  upon  the  Stygian  banks 
Staying  for  waftage.     0  !  be  thou  my  Charon, 
And  give  i;ie  swift  transportance  to  those  fields. 
Where  I  may  wallow  in  the  lily  beds 
Propos'd  for  the  deserver.     0.  gentle  Pandarus  ! 
From  Cupid's  shoulder  pluck  his  painted  wings, 
A  lid  fly  \\ith  me  to  Cressid. 

Pan.    Walk   here   i'  the    orchard  :    I  'U    bring 


fear  the  worst,  oft  cures  the  worse. 

I      Tro.  0  !  let  my  lady  apprehend  no  fear:  in  all  Cu- 

■  pid's  pageant  there  is  presented  no  monster. 

j      Cres.  Nor  nothing  monstrous  neither? 

j  Tro.  Nothing,  but  our  undertakmgs :  when  we  vow 
to  weep  seas,  live  in  fire,  eat  rocks,  tame  tigers ;  tliink- 
ing   it   harder    for   our   mistress  to  devise  imposition 

!  enough,  than  for  us  to  undergo  any  difficulty  imiwsed. 

i  This  is  the  monstrosity  in  love,  lady. — that  the  will  m 
her  infinite,  and  the  execution  confined  ;  that  the  desire  ii 


straight.  [Exit  Pandarus. 

T\  0.  I  am  giddy:  expectation  whirls  me  round. 
1  h'  .maginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
.That  it  enchants  my  sense ;  what  will  it  be, 
VVhen  that  the  watery  palate  tastes  indeed 
Love's  thrlce-repured'  nectar?  death,  I  fear  me; 
Swooning  destruction  ;  or  some  joy  too  fine. 
Too  subtle-potent,  tun'd'  too  sharp  in  sweetness, 
For  the  capacity  of  my  ruder  powers. 
I  fear  it  much  ;  and  I  do  fear  besides, 


v«pnt6d 


Thills,  f hafts 


y 


'ick       1  Perpetuity.      8  The  falcon,  or  ftmale,  is  as  good  as  the  tercel,  or  male  hatek 


boundless,  and  the  act  a  slave  to  limit. 

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

Tro. 'Are  there  such?  such  are  not  we.  Praise  us 
as  we  are  tasted  :  allow  us  as  we  prove  :  our  head  shall 
go  bare,  till  merit  crown  it.  No  perfection  in  reversion 

»  «  Terms  used   in   the  game  of  bowis;  lh«    alter  efflr»  to  ttu 


681 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


aliail  have  a  praiec  in  present:  we  will  not  name  de- 
sert, beloro  his  birth  ;  and,  bein-^  born,  his  addition  sliall 
be  hiiiiiblc.  Few  words  to  fi<ir  faith  :  Troilus  shall  be 
sMch  to  Cressid,  a-s  what  envy  cjin  say  worst,  si.:.  1  be 
a  mock  for  his  truth ;  and  what  truth  can  speak  truest, 
not  truer  than  Troilus. 

Cres.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord? 
Re-enter  Pandarus. 

Part.  What!  blushing  still?  have  you  not  done 
•ikini;  yot  ? 

Cns.  Well,  uncle,  what  folly  t  couuiiit.  I  dedicate 
lo  you. 

Pan.  I  thank  you  for  that:  if  my  lord  get  a  boy  of 
^'ou,  you  '11  give  him  me.  Be  true  to  my  lord  ;  if  he 
flinch  chide  me  for  it. 

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

Pan.  Nay.  1  "11  give  my  word  for  her  too.  Our  kin- 
dred, though  they  be  long  ere  they  are  wooed,  they  are 
constant,  being  won :  they  are  burs,  1  can  tell  you; 
they  "11  stick  wliere  they  are  thrown. 

Cres.  Boldness  comes   to  me    now.  and  brings  me 
heart. — 
Prince  Troilus,  I  have  lov'd  you  night  and  day 
for  many  weary  months. 

Tro.  Why  was  my  Cressid,  then,  so  hard  to  win  ? 

Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won  ;  but  I  was  won,  my  lord, 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever  — Pardon  me, — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 
I  love  you  now;  but  not,  till  now.  so  much 
But  I  might  master  it. — In  faith.  I  lie  : 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother  :  see,  we  fools  ! 
Why  have  I  blabb'd  ?  who  shall  be  true  to  us, 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? — 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well.  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet.  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man, 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  sj)eaking  first.     Sweet,  hid  me  hold  my  tongue  ; 
For,  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.     See.  see  !  your  silence, 
Cunning'  in  dumbness,  from  my  weakness  draws 
My  very  soul  of  counsel.'     Stop  my  mouth. 

Tro.  And  shall,  albeit  sweet  music  issues  hence.        i 

[Kissing  her',  j 

Pan.  Pretty,  i'  faith. 

Cres.  My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me  ; 
'T  was  not  my  purpose  thus  to  beg  a  kiss. 
I  am  .'Lshanrd  : — 0  heavens  !  what  have  I  done? — 
For  this  time  will  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

Tro.  Your  leave,  sweet  Cressid  ? 

Pan.  Leave  !  an  you  take  leave  till  to-morrow  morn- 
ing.— 

Cres.  Pray  you,  content  you. 

Tro.  What  offends  you.  lady  ? 

Cres.  Sir,  mine  own  company. 

Tro.  You  cannot  shun 

Yourself. 

Cres.  Lot  me  go  and  try. 
I  have  a  kind  self*  that  resides  with  you  ; 
But  an  unkind  self,  that  itself  will  leave 
To  hi.  another's  fool.     I  would  be  gone. — 
Where  is  my  wit  ?     I  know  not  what  I  speak*. 


'  Coming:  in  old  copiai.     Pope   made  tlie  change. 
•  lo  folio 


My 


Tro.  Well  know  they  what  they  speak,  that  speak 
so  wisely. 

Crc.-!.  Perchance,  my  lord.  I  show  more  craft  than  love 
And  fell  so  roundly  to  a  large  confessiot^, 
To  angle  for  your  thoughts  :  but  you  arc  wipe, 
Or  else  you  love  not,  for  to  be  wise,  and  love. 
Exceeds  man's  might:  that  dwells  with  gods  above. 

Tro.  O  !  that  1  thought  it  could  be  in  a  \Voman, 
(As,  if  it  can.  I  will  presume  in  you) 
To  feed  for  aye  her  hmip  and  flame  of  love; 
To  keep  her  constancy  in  plight  and  youth. 
Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays  : 
Or.  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me, 
That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 
Might  be  atfionled  with  the  match  and  weight 
Of  such  a  winnow"d  purity  in  love  ; 
How  were  I  then  uplifted  !   but,  alas  ! 
I  am  as  true  as  truth"s  simplicity. 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth. 

Cres.  In  that  I  '11  war  with  you. 

Tro.  0.  virtuous  fight 

When  right  with  right  wars  who  shall  be  most  right. 
True  swains  in  love  shall,  in  the  world  to  come. 
Approve  their  truths  by  Troilus  :  when  their  rhynics, 
Full  of  protest,  of  oath,  and  big  compare, 
Want  similes,  truth  tir'd  with  iteration, — 
As  true  as  steel,  as  plantage'  to  the  moon, 
As  sun  to  day,  as  turtle  to  her  male, 
As  iron  to  adamant,  as  earth  to  the  centre, — 
Yet,  after  all  comparisons  of  truth, 
As  truth's  authentic  author  to  be  cited, 
As  true  as  Troilus  shall  crown  up  the  verse, 
And  sanctify  the  numbers. 

Cres.  Prophet  may  you  be  ! 

If  I  be  false,  or  swerve  a  hair  from  truth. 
When  time  is  old  and  halh  forgot  itself. 
When  walerdrops  have  worn  the  stones  of  Troy, 
And  blind  oblivion  swal]()w"d  cities  up. 
And  mighty  states  characterless  are  grated 
To  du.sty  nothing;  yet  let  memory, 
From  false  to  false  amonsi  false  maids  in  love. 
Upbraid  my  falsehood.     When  they  have  said — as  t'alse 
As  air,  as  water,  wind,  or  sandy  earth. 
As  fox  to  lamb,  as  wolf  to  heifer"s  calf, 
Pard  to  the  hind,  or  stepdame  to  her  son  , 
Yea,  let  them  say,  to  stick  the  heart  of  falsehood, 
As  false  as  Cressid.  [Troilus  kis.scs  her.' 

Pan.  Go  to,  a  bargain  made  :  seal  it,  .seal  it ;  I  'II  be 
the  witness. — Here   I   hold   your  hand  :  hero,  my  con- 
sin  's :  if  ever  you  prove  false  one  to  another,  since  ! 
have  taken   such   pains  to   bring   you  together,  let   : 
pitiful  goers-between  be  called  to  the  world's  end  atf 
my  name,  call  them  all — Pandars:  let  all  constant  mm 
be  Troiluses,  all  false  women  Cressids,  and  all  broke; 
between  Pandars  !  say,  amen. 

Tro.  Amen. 

Cres.  Amen. 

Pan.  Amen.  Whereupon  I  will  show  you  a  chiti 
ber  :  which  bed,  becau.se  it  shall  not  sjieak  of  yi 
pretty  encounters,  press  it  to  death  :  away!     \KrciiT); 

And  Cupid  grant  all  tongue-tied  maidens  here. 

Bed,  chamber,  Pandar  to  provide  this  gear !    [Exit ' 

J.      '  Not  in  f.  e.     *  kind  of  self :  in  f  • 


loui  ol  counsel    from  me  :  in 
Where  is  my  wit  ? 
I  would  be  gone.     T  upeak  I  know  not  what. 
•  The  poore  hn»baBdma.n  perceiveth  that  the  increane  of  the  moone   maketh  plants  fruitfull,  »o  as  in  the  full  moone  they  ur  'n  the  (><•< 
rtrength;  decai'ing  in  the  wane;  and  in  the  conjunction,  do  utterlie  wither  and  vade. — ScotVs  DiscoverUof  WitckcTaft,\i'A      '"  Notiof  • 
'  Rxertnt  :  in  f  e. 


SCENE  m. 


TEOILUS    AKD  CRESSIDA. 


583 


SCENE  III.— The  Grecian  Camp. 
Enter  Agamemnon.  Ulysses,  Diomedes.  Nestor, 

Ajax,   Menelaus,  and  Calchas. 
Cal.  Now,  princes,  for  the  service  I  have  done  you, 
Th'  advantage  of  the  time  prompts  me,  aloud 
To  call  for  recompense.     Appeal'  it  to  your  mind, 
That,  through  the  sight  I  bear  in  things  above', 
I  have  abandoned  Troy,  left  my  possession, 
Incurr'd  a  traitor's  name  :  expos'd  myself. 
From  certain  and  possess'd  conveniences. 
To  doubtful  fortunes  ;  sequestering  from  me  all 
That  time,  acquaintance,  custom,  and  condition, 
Made  tame  and  most  familiar  to  my  nature ; 
And  here,  to  do  you  service,  am  become 
..\s  new  into  the  world,  strange,  unacquainted  : 
I  do  beseech  you.  as  in  way  of  taste, 
To  give  me  now  a  little  benefit. 
Out  of  those  many  register'd  in  promise, 
Which,  you  say,  live  to  come  in  my  behalf. 

Agam.  What  wouldst  thou  of  us,  Trojan?      Make 

demand. 
Cal.  You  have  a  Trojan  prisoner,  call'd  Antenor, 
Yesterday  took  :  Troy  holds  him  very  dear. 
Oft  have  you,  (often  have  you  thanks  therefore) 
Desir'd  my  Cressid  in  right  great  exchange, 
Whom  Troy  hath  still  denied  ;  but  this  Antenor, 
I  know,  is  such  a  wrest^  in  their  affairs, 
That  their  negotiations  all  must  slack, 
Wanting  his  manage  :  and  they  will  almost 
Give  us  a  prince  of  blood,  a  son  of  Priam. 
In  change  of  iiim  :  let  him  be  sent,  great  princes, 
And  he  shall  buy  my  daughter;  and  her  presence 
Shall  quite  strike  off  all  service  I  have  done 
In  most  accepted  pain. 

Agam.  Let  Diomedes  bear  him. 

And  bring  us  Cressid  hither  :   Calchas  shall  have 
What  he  requests  of  us. — Good  Diomed, 
Furnish  you  fairly  for  this  interchange  : 
Withal,  bring  word,  if  Hector  will  to-morrow 
Be  answer'd  in  his  challenge.     Ajax  is  ready. 

Dio.  This  shall  I  undertake  :  and  't  is  a  burden 
Which  I  am  proud  to  bear. 

[Exeunt  Diomedes  and  Calchas. 
Enter  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  before  their  Tent. 
Ulyss.  Achilles  stands  i'  the  entrance  of  his  tent  : 
Please  it  our  general  to  pass  strangely  by  him, 
As  if  he  were' forgot  ;  and  princes  all. 
Lay  negligent  and  loose  regard  upon  him. 
I  will  come  last :  't  is  like,  he  'II  question  me, 
Why  such  unplausive  eyes  are  bent,  why  turn'd  on  him  ? 
^    If  so.  I  have  derision  medicinable, 
I   To  use  between  your  strangeness  and  his  pride, 
I   Which  his  own  will  shall  have  desire  to  drink. 
j   It  may  do  good  :  pride  hath  no  other  glass 
:   To  show  itself,  but  pride  ;  for  supple  knees 
<   Feed  arrogance,  and  are  the  proud  man's  fees. 
1       Agam.  We  '11  execute  your  purpose,  and  put  on 
1   A  form  of  strangeness  as  we  pass  along : 
So  do  each  lord  ;  and  either  greet  him  not. 
Or  else  disdainfully,  which  shall  shake  him  more 
Than  if  not  look'd  on.     I  will  lead  the  way.  I 

Achil.  What !  comes  the  general  to  speak  with  me  ? 
You  know  my  mind  :  I  '11  fight  no  more  'gainst  Troy.  ' 
Agam.  What  says  Achilles?  would  he  aught  with  us? 
N'est.  Would  you,  my  lord,  aught  with  the  general?} 
Achil.  No.  I 

Nest.  Nothing,  my  lord.  i 


Agam.  The  better.  [Exeunt  Agamemnov  and  N  kstor 

Achil.  Good  day,  good  day. 

Men.  How  do  you  ?  how  do  you  ?  [Exit  Menelai's 

Achil.  What !  does  the  cuckold  scorn  me  ? 

Ajax.  How  now,  Patroclus  ! 

Achil.  Good  morrow,  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Ha? 

Achil.  Good  morrow. 

Ajax.  Ay.  and  good  next  day  too.  [Exit  Ajai 

Achil.  What  me^in  these  fellows?     Know  they  no» 

Achilles  ? 
Patr.  They  pass  by  strangely ;  they  were  us'd  to  bend, 
To  send  their  smiles  before  them  to  Achilles ; 
To  come  as  humbly,  as  they  us"d  to  creep 
To  holy  altars. 

Achil.  What !  am  I  poor  of  late  ? 

'T  is  certain,  greatness,  once  fallen  out  with  fortune. 
Must  fall  out  with  men  too  :  what  the  declin'd  is, 
He  shall  as  soon  read  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
As  feel  in  his  own  fall ;  for  men,  like  butterfliee, 
Show  not  their  mealy  wings  but  to  the  summer 
And  not  a  man,  for  being  simply  man. 
Hath  any  honour ;  but  honour  for  those  honours 
That  are  without  him,  as  place,  riches,  favour, 
Prizes  of  accident  as  oft  as  merit : 
Which,  when  they  fall,  as  being  slippery  standers, 
The  love  that  lean'd  on  them,  as  slippery  too, 
Doth  one  pluck  down  another,  and  together 
Die  in  the  fall.     But  't  is  not  so  with  me  : 
Fortune  and  I  are  friends :   I  do  enjoy 
At  ample  point  all  that  I  did  possess, 
Save  these  men's  looks  ;  who  do,  methinks.  find  out 
Something  not  worth  in  me  such  rich  beholding 
As  they  have  often  given.     Here  is  Ulysses : 
I  '11  interrupt  his  reading. — 
How  now,  Ulysses  ! 

Ulyss.  Now,  great  Thetis'  son  ! 

[Looking  up  from  his  hnok  ' 
Achil.  What  are  you  reading  ? 
TJlyss.  A  strange  fellow  here 

Writes  me.  that  man — how  dearly  ever  parted*, 
How  much  in  having,  or  without  or  in, — 
Cannot  make  boast  to  have  that  which  he  hath, 
Nor  feels  not  what  he  owes,  but  by  reflection  ; 
As  when  his  virtues  shining  upon  others 
Heat  them,  and  they  retort  that  heat  again 
To  the  first  giver. 

Achil.  This  is  not  strange,  Ulysses. 

The  beauty  that  is  borne  here,  in  the  face, 
The  bearer  knows  not,  but  commends  itself 
To  others'  eyes  :  nor  doth  the  eye  itself, 
That  most  pure  spirit  of  sense,  behold  itself.* 
Not  going  from  itself :  but  eye  to  eye  oppos'd 
Salutes  each  other  with  each  otlier's  form  : 
For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself, 
Till  it  hath  traveird,  and  is  mirror'd'  there 
Where  it  may  see  itself.     This  is  not  strange  at  all 

TJlys.-^.  I  do  not  strain  at  the  position. 
It  is  familiar,  but  at  the  author's  drift : 
Who  in  his  circumstance  expressly  proves, 
That  no  man  is  the  lord  of  any  thing, 
Though  in  and  of  him  there  be  much  consisting, 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others : 
Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them  for  aught 
Till  he  behold  them  form'd  in  the  applause 
Where  they  are  extended  ;  -which,  like  an  arch,  rever 

berates 
The  voice  again  ;  or  like  a  gate  of  steel. 


>  Appeal  :  in  f.  e.      »  to  Jove  :  in  f.  e.      ^  A  tuner  of 
nens  line  are  not  in  the  folio.      '  married  :  in  f.  e. 


;  instruments.— Douce.      ♦  Not  in  f.  e.      »  Endowed.     •  ThU  and  tne  pre 


554 


TROILUS  AND  CTIESSIDA. 


ACT  m. 


Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  rentiers  back 

His  fiiiurc  and  his  heat.     I  was  much  wrapt  in  this  ; 

And  apprehended  here  immediately 

The  unknown  Ajax. 

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

That  lias  he  knows  not  what.     Nature  !  what  things 

there  arc, 
.Most  abject  in  regard,  and  dear  in  use  : 
What  thiniiB,  again,  most  dear  in  the  esteem, 
And  jxK)r  ni  worth.     Now.  shall  we  see  to-morrow. 
An  act  that  very  chance  doth  throw  upon  him, 
Ajax  renowned.     O  heavens  !  what  some  men  do, 
While  some  men  leave  to  do. 
How  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune's  hall, 
Whiles  others  play  the  idiots  in  her  eyes  ! 
How  one  man  eats  into  another's  pride, 
While  pride  is  feasting  in  his  wantonness  ! 
To  see  these  Grecian  lords  ! — why,  even  already 
They  clap  the  lubber  Ajax  on  the  shoulder, 
As  if  his  foot  were  on  brave  Hector's  breast, 
Aiid  great  Troy  shrieking*. 

AchU.  I  do  believe  it  ;  for  they  pass'd  by  me, 
As  misers  do  by  bcugars,  neither  gave  to  me, 
Good  word,  nor  look.     What  !   are  my  deeds  forgot? 

Ulyss.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back. 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion  ; 
.\  great-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes  : 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ;  which  are  devoured 
As  faat  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 
As  done.     Perseverance,  dear  my  lord. 
Kcei  8  honour  briuht  :  to  have  done,  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 
In  monumental  mockery.     Take  the  instant  way; 
For  honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow, 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast  :  keep,  then,  the  path 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons. 
That  one  by  one  pursue  :  if  you  give  way. 
Or  edge'  a.side  from  the  direct  forthright, 
Like  to  an  enter'd  tide,  they  all  rush  by, 
And  leave  you  hindmost  : 
Or.  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first  rank, 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear. 
O'er-run  and   trampled  on.      Then,  what  tlicy   do  in 

pre.«ent. 
Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'ertop  yours  ; 
For  time  is  like  a  fa.shionable  host, 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the  hand, 
.\nd  with  his  arms  out-stretch'd,  as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps-in  the  comer  :  welcome  ever  smiles. 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.     Let  not  virtue  seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was  ;  for  beauty,  wit, 
High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service, 
Lov«;,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin, — 
I  hat  all.  with  one  consent.  prai.<e  new-born  gawds, 
riiough  they  arc  made  and  moulded  of  things  past, 
\nd  irive  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt, 
.VIore  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dustcd. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  present  object : 
riicn,  marvel  not.  thou  great  and  complete  man 
That  all  llie  Greeks  bciiin  to  worship  Ajax, 
S  ncc  things  in  motion  quicklier*  catch  the  eye, 
Mian  what  not  stirs.     The  cry  went  once  on  thee. 
And  still  V  might,  and  yet  it  may  a^ain, 
'f  thou  wouids,  nor  entomb  thyself  alive. 
And  ea.«c  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent: 
Whose  gloricns  deeds,  but  in  these  fields  of  late, 
Made  emulous  missions  'mongsl  the  gods  themselves, 


my  privHr5 


'  tbriDtioe  : 


'  turn  :  in  quartos      '  sooner  :  in  f.  e.     ♦  place  :  in  f.  e.     »  crad 


And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction. 

Achil.  Of; 

I  have  strong  rea.sons. 

Ulyss.  But  'gainst  your  privacy 

The  reasons  are  more  potent  and  lieroical. 
'T  is  k.nown,  Achilles,  that  you  are  in  love 
With  one  of  Priam's  daughters. 

Achil.  Ha  I   known  ? 

Ulyss.  Ls  that  a  wonder  ? 
The  providence  that 's  in  a  watchful  state 
Knows  almost  every  grain  of  Plums'  gold, 
Finds  bottom  in  th'  uncomprehensive  deeps, 
Keeps  pace*  with  thought,  and  almost,  like  the  gods, 
Does  thoughts  unveil  in  their  dumb  crudities.* 
There  is  a  mystery  (with  whom  relation 
Durst  never  meddle)  in  the  soul  of  state, 
Which  hath  an  oi)eration  more  divine 
Than  breath,  or  pen,  can  give  expre.-sure  to. 
All  the  commerce  that  you  have  had  with  Troy 
As  perfectly  is  ours,  as  yours,  my  lord ; 
And  better  would  it  fit  Achilles  much 
To  throw  down  Hector,  than  Polyxena: 
But  it  must  grieve  young  Pyrrlius,  now  at  home. 
When  fame  shall  in  our  islands  sound  her  trump, 
And  all  the  Greekish  girls  shall  tripping  sing, — 
"  Great  Hector's  sister  did  Achilles  win. 
But  our  great  Ajax  bravely  beat  down  him." 
Farewell,  my  lord  ;  I  as  your  lover  speak  : 
The  fool  slides  o'er  the  ice  that  you  should  break. 

[Kxit 

Patr.  To  this  effect.  Achilles,  have  I  mov'd  you. 
A  woman  impudent  and  mannish  grown 
Is  not  more  loath'd,  than  an  efTeminate  man 
In  time  of  action.     I  stand  condemn'd  for  this: 
They  think,  my  little  stomach  to  the  war, 
And  youi  great  love  to  me,  restrains  you  thus. 
Swift',  rouse  yourself:  and  the  weak  wanton  Cupiu 
Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  air'. 

Achil.  Shall  Ajax  fight  with  Hector? 

Patr.  Ay:  and,  perhaps,  receive  much   honour   by 
him. 

Achil.  I  see,  my  reputation  is  at  stake; 
My  fame  is  shrewdly  gord. 

Pair.  0  !  then  beware  : 

Those  wounds  heal  ill  that  men  do  give  themselve«. 
Omission  to  do  what  is  necessary 
Seals  a  commission  to  a  blank  of  danger; 
And  danger,  like  an  ague,  subtly  taints. 
Even  then,  when  we  sit  idly  in  the  sun. 

Achil.  Go  call  Thersites  hither,  sweet  Patroclus. 
I  '11  send  the  fool  to  Ajax,  and  desire  him 
T'  invite  the  Trojan  lords,  after  the  combat, 
To  see  ns  here  unarm'd.     I  have  a  woman's  longing, 
An  pppetite  that  I  am  sick  withal. 
To  see  great  Hector  in  his  weeds  of  peace ; 
To  talk  with  him.  and  to  behold  his  visaue. 
Even  to  my  full  of  view. — A  labour  sav'd  I 
E7iter  TiiEKSiTES. 

Thcr.  A  wonder ! 

Achil.  What? 

Ther.  Ajax  goes  up  and  down  the  field  asking  foi 
himself. 

Achil.  How  so  ? 

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

Achil.   How  can  that  be  ? 

r.  o.     »  Sweet  :  in  f.  ».     '  airr  ui     in  fol'o 


BOENB   I. 


THOILUS  a:N'D  ceessida. 


55S 


Thir.  Why,  he  stalks  up  and  dowii  like  a  peacock ; 
a  slride,  and  a  stand :  ruminates,  like  an  hostess,  that 
hath  10  arithmetic  but  her  brain  to  set  down  her  reck- 
oning: bites  his  lip  with  a  politic  regard,  as  who 
should  say — "  there  were  wit  in  this  head,  an  't  would 
out. ;"  and  so  thei-e  is :  but  ii  lies  as  coldly  in  him  as 
fire  in  a  flint,  wliich  will  not  show  without  knocking. 
The  man  's  undone  tor  ever ;  for  il'  Hector  break  not 
his  neck  i"  the  combat,  he  "11  break  't  himself  in  vain- 
glory. He  knows  not  me :  I  said,  "  Good-morrow. 
Ajax;'"'  and  he  replies,  '•  Thanks,  Agamemnon."  What 
think  you  of  this  man,  that  takes  me  for  the  general  ? 
He  's  grown  a  very  land-fish,  languageless,  a  monster. 
A  plague  of  opinion  !  a  man  may  wear  it  on  both  sides. 
like  a  leather  jerkin. 

Achil.  Thou  must  be  my  ambassador  to  him,  Ther- 
sites. 

Ther.  Who,  1  ?  why,  he  '11  answer  nobody;  he  pro- 
fesses not  answering :  speaking  is  for  beggars ;  he 
wears  his  tongue  in  his  arms.  I  will  put  on  his  pre- 
sence :  let  Patroclus  make  his  demands  to  me,  you 
shall  see  the  pageant  of  Ajax. 

Achil.  To  him,  Patroclus :  tell  him, — I  humbly  de- 
sire the  valiant  Ajax  to  invite  the  most  valorous  Hector 
to  come  unarmed  to  my  tent ;  and  to  procure  safe  con- 
duct for  his  person  of  the  magnanimous,  and  most  il- 
lustrious, six-or-seven-times-honoured,  captain-general 
of  the  Grecian  army,  Agamemnon.     Do  this. 

Fair.  Jove  bless  great  Ajax. 

Ther.  Humph! 

Pair.  I  come  from  the  worthy  Achilles, — 


Ther.   Ha! 

Patr.  Who  most  humbly  desires  you  to  invite  Heet</. 
to  his  tent. — 

TJier.  Humph  ! 

Patr.  And  to  procure  safe  conduct  from  Agamemnoa 

Ther.  Agamemnon'^ 

Patr.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ther.  Ha! 

Patr.  What  say  you  to  't  ? 

Ther.  God  be  wi"  you  wth  all  my  heart. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  If  to-morrow  be  a  fair  day.  by  eleven  :  'c'ocb 
it  will  go  one  way  or  other :  howsoever,  he  shall  pas 
for  me  ere  he  has  me. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  Fare  you  well  with  all  my  heart. 

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

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

Achil.  Come,  thou  shalt  bear  a  letter  to  him  straight. 

Ther.  Let  me  bear^  another  to  his  horse,  for  that  "• 
the  more  capable  creature. 

Achil.  My  mind  is  troubled,  like  a  fountain  stirr'd , 
And  I  myself  pee  not  the  bottom  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Achilles  and  Patroclcs 

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

[Exit. 


ACT    IV, 


SCENE  I.— Troy.     A  Street. 
Enter,  at  one  side,  ^xe.\s.  and  Servant,  with  a  Torch; 

at  the  other,  Paris.  Deiphobus,  Antexor,  Dio.medes, 

and  others,  with  Torches. 

Par.  See,  ho  !  who  is  that  there  ? 

Dei.  It  is  the  lord  ^Eneas. 

JEne.  Is  the  prince  there  in  person? — 
Had  I  so  good  occasion  to  lie  long. 
As  you.  prince  Paris,  nothing  but  heavenly  business 
Should  rob  my  bed-mate  of  my  company. 

Dio.    That's   my  mind  too.  —  Good  morrow,   lord 
^iieas. 

Par.  A  valiant  Greek,  ^neas,  take  his  hand. 
Witness  the  process  of  your  speech,  wherein 
•You  told  how  Diomed,  a  whole  week  by  days. 
Did  haunt  you  in  the  field. 

£ne.  Health  to  you.  valiant  sir, 

Oaring  all  question  of  the  gentle  truce  ; 
But  when  I  meet  you  arm'd.  as  black  defiance. 
As  heart  can  think,  or  courage  execute. 

Dio.  The  one  and  otlier  Diomed  embraces. 
Our  bloods  are  now  in  calm,  and  so  long  health ; 
Bui  when  contention  and  occasion  meet. 
By  Jo.e.  I  '11  play  the  hunter  for  thy  life. 
With  all  my  fierce^  pursuit,  and  policy. 

^7ie.  And  thou  shalt  hunt  a  lion,  that  will  fly 
With  his  face  backward. — In  humane  gentleness, 
Welcimie  to  Troy:  now.  by  Anchises'  life. 
Welcome,  indeed.     By  Venus'  hand  I  swear, 
No  man  alive  can  love,  in  such  a  sort, 
The  thing  he  means  to  kill,  more  excellently. 


Dio.  We  sympathize. — Jove,  let  iEneas  live, 
If  to  my  sword  his  fate  be  not  the  glory, 
A  thousand  complete  courses  of  the  sun  ! 
But,  in  mine  emulous  honour,  let  him  die 
With  every  joint  a  wound,  and  that  to-morrow  I 

^ne.  We  know  each  other  well. 

Dio.  We  do ;  and  long  to  know  each  other 

Par.  This  is  the  most  despiteful'  gentle  greetmg, 
The  noblest  hateful  love,  that  e"er  I  heard  of.— 
What  business,  lord,  so  early  "J" 

^Ene.  I  was  sent  for  to  the  king  :  but  why,  I  know  not. 

Par.   His  purpose  meets  you.     'T  was  to  bring  this 
To  Calchas'  house  ;  and  there  to  render  him,      [Greek 
For  the  enfreed  Antenor.  the  fair  Crcssid. 
Let 's  have  your  company ;  or,  if  you  please, 
Haste  there  before  us.     I  constantly  do  think. 
(Or,  rather,  call  my  thought  a  certain  knowledge) 
My  brother  Troilus  lodges  there  to-night : 
Rouse  him,  and  give  him  note  of  our  approach, 
With  the  whole  quality  wherefore :  I  fear. 
We  shall  be  much  unwelcome. 

jEne.  That  I  assure  you  : 

Troilus  had  rather  Troy  were  borne  to  Greece, 
Than  Cressid  borne  from  Troy. 

Par.  There  is  no  help ; 

The  bitter  disposition  of  the  time 
Will  have  it  so.     On,  lord ;  we '11  follow  you. 

JEne.  Good  morrow,  all.  f^^ 

Par.  And  tell  me.  noble  Diomed  ;  'faith,  tell  me  true 
Even  in  the  soul  of  sound  good-fellow.<ship, 
Who,  in  your  thoughts,  merits  fair  Helen  best*, 
Myself,  or  Menelau-s  ? 


•urr  :  in  folio      »  force,  pursuit,  ic 


f.  e       »  despitefuU'st :  in  folio       *  mos' 


'M 


TROILUS   AND   OKESSIDA. 


A.CT   iV. 


D\o.  Both  alike : 

He  nierilB  well  to  Iiave  her,  that  dotli  seek  lier 
Not  making  any  seniple  of  her  soilure. 
With  siicii  a  iall  of  paiii,  and  world  of  charge  : 
And  you  a*  well  to  keeii  her.  that  defend  her 
Not  i)alating  tlie  liusic  of  her  dislionour. 
With  such  a  costly  loss  of  wealth  and  friends. 
He.  like  a  piling  enckohl,  would  drink  up 
The  lees  and  dregs  of  a  llat  tamed  piece; 
Vou,  like  a  lecher,  out  of  whorish  loins 
Are  plea.s"d  to  hreed  out  your  inheritors; 
Both. merits  poisd,  each  weighs  nor  less  nor  more; 
But  he  as  he.  each'  heavier  for  a  whore. 

Par.  You  are  too  bitter  to  your  countrywoman. 

Dio.  She  's  bitter  to  her  country.  Hear  me,  Paris: — 
For  every  false  droj)  in  her  bawdy  veins 
A  Grecian's  lite  hath  .^^uiik  :  for  every  scruple 
Of  her  contaminated  carrion  weight, 
A  Trojan  hath  been  slain.     Since  she  could  speak, 
She  hath  not  given  so  many  good  word.s  breath, 
As  for  her  Greeks  and  Trojans  sufTer'd  death. 

Par.  Fair  Dioined,  you  do  a,s  chapmen  do, 
Dispraise  the  thing  that  you  desire  to  buy; 
But  we  in  silence  hold  this  virtue  well, — 
We  '11  not  commend  what  we  intend  not  sell. 
Here  lies  our  way.  .  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Court  before  the  House 

of  Pandarl's. 

Enter  Troilus  and  Cres'^ida. 

Tro.  Dear,  trouble  not  yourself:  the  morn  is  cold. 

Cres.  Then,  .sweet  my  lord,  I  '11  call  mine  uncle  down : 
He  shall  unbolt  the  gates. 

Tro.  Trouble  him  not; 

To  bed.  to  bed:  sleep  kill  those  pretty  eyes, 
And  give  as  soft  attachment  to  thy  senses, 
As  infants'  empty  of  all  thought  ! 

Cres.  Good  morrow,  then. 

Tro.  Pr'ythee  now,  to  bed. 

Cres.  Are  you  aweary  of  me  ? 

Tro.  0  Cre.ssida  I  but  that  the  busy  day, 
Wak'd  by  the  lark,  liath  rous'd  the  ribald  crows, 
And  dreaming  night  will  hide  our  joys*  no  longer, 
1  would  not  from  thee. 

Cres.  Night  hath  been  too  brief. 

Tro.  Beshrcw  the  witch  !  with  venomous  wights  she 
Btays, 
As  tediously'  as  hell  ;  but  flies  the  grasps  of  love, 
With  wini;s  more  momentary-swift  than  thought. 
You  will  catch  cold,  and  curse  me. 

Cres.  Pr'ythee,  tarry. — 

You  men  will  never  tarry. 

0  foolish  CrcRsid  ! — I  miizht  have  still  held  off, 

nd,  then,  you  would   have  tarried.     Hark  !   there 's 

one  up. 
Pan.  \  Within.]  What!  are  all  the  doors  open  here? 
t'ro.  It  is  your  uncle. 

Enter  Pandarus. 
Tret.  A  pestilence  on  him  !  now  will  he  be  mocking  : 

1  shall  have  such  a  life. — 

Pan.  How  now.  how  now!  how  go  maidenheads? — 
Here,  yon  maid  :  where  's  my  cousin  Cressid? 

Cres.  (Jo  han^'  your.sclf.  you  naughty  mocking  uncle  ! 
You  bring  me  to  do. — and  then  you  flout  me  too. 

Pan.  To  do  what  .■•  to  do  what? — let  her  say  what: 
— what  have  I  brought  you  to  do? 

Crrs.  C<tme.  come;  beshrew  your  heart  !  you  '11  ne'er 
be  "rood, 
Nor  suff'er  others. 


Pan.  Ha,  ha  !  Alas,  poor  "vrretch  !  a  poor  capocchio  !* 
— ha.st  not  slept  to-night?  would  he  not,  a  naughty  man. 
let  it  sleep?  a  bugbear  take  him  !  '^Knocking 

Cres.  Did  not  1  tell  you  ? — 'would  he  were  knocked 
o'  the  head  ! — 
Who  's  that  at  door  ?  good  uncle,  go  and  see. — 
My  lord,  come  you  again  into  my  chamber  : 
You  smile,  and  mock  me,  as  if  I  meant  naughtily. 

Tro.  Ha,  ha  ! 

Cres.  Come,  you  arc  deeeiv'd  ;  I  think  of  no  such 
thing. —  [Knocking. 

How  earnestly  they  knock. — Pray  you,  come  in  : 
1  would  not  for  half  Troy  have  you  seen  here. 

lExer(nt  Troii.ls  and  Cressida. 

Pan.  [Going  to  the  door.]  Who  "s  there  ?  what 's  the 
matter?  will  you  beat  down  the  door?  How  now! 
what 's  the  matter  ?  [Openiiig  it.* 

Enter  ^Eneas. 

jEne.  Good  morrow,  lord,  good  morrow. 

Pan.  Who  's  there  ?  my  lord  .^.neas  !  By  my  troth, 
I  knew  you  not :  what  news  with  you  so  early? 

jEnc.  Is  not  prince  Troilus  here  ? 

Pan.  Here  !  what  should  he  do  here' 

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

Pan.  Is  he  here,  say  you  ?  t  is  more  than  I  know, 
I  '11  be  sworn  : — for  my  ow^n  part,  I  came  in  late.  What 
should  he  do  here? 

jEne.  Who  ! — nay,  then  : — come,  come,  you  '11  do 
him  wrong  ere  y'  are  'ware.  You  '11  be  so  true  to  him, 
to  be  false  to  him.  Do  not  you  know  of  him,  but  yet 
go  fetch  him  hither  :  go. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Tro.  How  now  I  what 's  the  matter  ? 

jEne.  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  leisure  to  salute  you, 
My  matter  is  so  rash.     There  is  at  hand 
Paris  your  brother,  and  Deijihobus, 
The  Grecian  Dionied.  and  our  Antenor 
Delivcr'd  to  us;  and  for  him,  forthwith. 
Ere  the  first  sacrifice,  within  this  hour, 
We  must  give  up  to  Diomedes"  hand 
The  lady  Cressida. 

Tro.  Is  it  so  concluded  ? 

jEne.  By  Priam,  and  the  general  state  of  Troy: 
They  are  at  hand,  and  ready  to  effect  it. 

Tro.  How  my  achievements  mock  me  ! 
I  will  go  meet  them  : — and.  my  lord  i^^neas. 
We  met  by  chance  ;  you  did  not  find  me  here. 

JEne.  Good,  good,  my  lord  ;  the  secret  laws  of*  natnr-^ 
Have  not  more  gift  in  taciturnitv    [  Exeunt  Tro.  cV  j^n  k 

Pan.  Is  't  possible  '^  no  sooner  got,  but  lo.st  ?     Tin 
devil  take  Antenor  !  the  younu  prince  will  go  mad.    A 
plague  upon  Antenor  !    I  would,  tliey  had  broke  's  neck  ' 
Enter  Cressida. 

Cres.  Hownow  I  What  is  the  matter  ?  Who  was  hert 

Pan.  Ah  !  ah  ! 

Cres.    Why  sigh  you  so  profoundly  ?    where  'a  n^ 
lord  ?  gone  ! 
Tell  me.  sweet  uncle,  what's  the  matter? 

Pan.  Would  I  were  as  deep  under  the  earth  as  I  am 
above  ! 

I      Cres.  O  the  gods  ! — what 's  the  matter  ? 
1      Pan.  Pr'ytliee,  get  thee  in.     Would  thou  nadst  wtr 
been  born!       I    knew,   thou  wouidst   be  his  death.— 
O  poor  gentleman  ! — A  plague  upon  Antenor  ' 

Cres.  Good  uncle,  I  beseech  you,  on  my  knees  I 
beseech  you,  what 's  the  matter? 

I      Pan.    Thou   must  be   gone,  wench      thou  must  b« 
'  gone :  thou  art  changed  for  Antenor 


Tiiou  must  It 


eyei:  in  loli 


hideooKly  :  in  folio.      *  Doli 


the  secrets  of  :   it  f.  •. 


i 


SCENE  rv. 


TEOILUS   AND  CRESSIDA. 


587 


thy  father,  and  be  gone  from  Troilus  :  'twill  be  his 
death  ;  't  will  be  his  bane  ;  he  cannot  bear  it. 

Cres.  0,  you  immortal  gods  ! — I  will  not  go. 

Pan.  Thou  must. 

Cres.  I  will  not,  uncle  :  I  have  forgot  my  father ; 
I  know  no  touch  of  consanguinity ; 
No  kin,  no  love,  no  blood,  no  soul  so  near  me, 
As  the  sweet  Troilus. — 0,  you  gods  divine. 
Make  Cressid"s  name  the  very  crown  of  falsehood. 
If  ever  she  leave  Troilus  !     Time,  force,  and  death, 
Do  to  this  body  what  extremes  you  can, 
But  the  strong  base  and  building  of  my  love 
Is  as  the  very  centre  of  the  earth, 
Drawing  all  things  to  it. — I  '11  go  in,  and  weep. — 

Pan.  Do,  do. 

Cres.  Tear  my  bright  hair,  and  scratch  my  praised 
cheeks : 
Crack  my  clear  voice  with  sot'S,  and  break  my  heart 
With  sounding  Troilus.     I  will  not  go  from  Troy. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Before  Pandarus'  House. 

Enter  Paris,  Troilus,  tEneas,  Deiphobus,  Antexor, 

and  Diomedes. 

Par.  It  is  great  morning,  and  the  hour  prefix'd 
Of  her  delivery  to  this  valiant  Greek 
Comes  fast  upon. — Good  my  brother  Troilus, 
Tell  you  the  lady  what  she  is  to  do, 
And  haste  her  to  the  purpose. 

Tro.  Walk  into  her  house, 

f  '11  bring  her  to  the  Grecian  presently; 
And  to  his  hand  when  I  deliver  her, 
Think  it  an  altar,  and  thy  brother  Troilus 
A  priest,  there  offering  to  it  his  own  heart. 

Par.  I  know  what  't  is  to  love  ; 
And  would,  as  I  shall  pity,  I  could  help  !— 
Please  you,  walk  in,  my  lords. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 


i 


[Exeunt. 
A  Room  in  Pandarus' 


Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 
Pan.  Be  moderate,  be  moderate. 
Cres.  Why  tell  you  me  of  moderation  ? 
The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  that  I  taste, 
And  violenteth'  in  a  sense  as  strong 
As  that  which  causeth  it :  how  can  I  moderate  it  ? 
If  I  could  temporize  with  my  affection. 
Or  brew  it  to  a  weak  and  colder  palate. 
The  like  allayment  could  I  give  my  grief : 
My  love  admits  no  qualifying  dross," 
No  more  my  grief,  in  such  a  precious  loss. 
Enter  Troilus. 
Pan.  Here,  here,  here  he  comes. — A  sweet  duck  ! 
Cres.  0  Troilus  !   Troilus  !  [Embracing  kirn. 

Pan.  What  a  pair  of  spectacles  is  here  !     Let  me 
embrace  too.     O  heart. — as  the  goodly  saying  is, — 
0  heart,  O  heart.  0  heavy  heart  ! 
Why  sigh'st  thou  without  breaking  ? 
where  he  answers  again. 

Because  thou  canst  not  ease  thy  smart, 
By  silence*  nor  by  speaking- 
There  was  never  a  truer  rhyme.     Let  us  cast  away 
nothing,  for  we  may  live  to  have  need  of  such  a  verse  : 
we  see  it,  we  see  it. — How  now,  lambs  ! 

Tro.  Cressid,  I  love  thee  in  so  strain'd*  a  purity. 
That  the  bless'd  gods — as  angry  with  my  fancy, 
More  bright  in  zeal  than  the  devotion  which 
Cold  lips  blow  to  their  deities, — take  thee  from  me. 


Cres.  Have  the  gods  envy  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ay  :  'tis  too  plain  a  case. 

Cres.  And  is  it  true,  that  I  must  go  from  Troy  V 

Tro.  A  hateful  truth. 

Cres  What !  and  from  Troilus  to.  f 

Tro.  From  Troy,  and  Troilus. 

Cres.  Is  it  possible? 

Tro.  And  suddenly  ;  where  injury  of  chance 
Puts  back  leave-taking,  justles  roughly  by 
All  time  of  pause,  rudely  beguiles  our  lipg 
Of  all  rejoindure,  forcibly  prevents 
Our  lock'd  embrasures,  strangles  our  dear  vows 
Even  in  the  birth  of  our  own  labouring  breath. 
We  two,  that  with  so  many  thousand  sighs 
Did  buy  each  other,  must  poorly  sell  ourselves 
With  the  rude  brevity  and  discharge  of  one. 
Injurious  time,  now,  with  a  robber's  ha-ste. 
Crams  his  rich  thievery  up,  he  knows  not  how. 
As  many  farewells  as  be  stars  in  heaven, 
With  distinct  breath  and  consign'd  kisses  to  them, 
He  fumbles  up  into  one  loose  adieu  : 
And  scants  us  with  a  single  famish'd  kiss, 
Di.stasting  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears. 

JS/ifi.  [Within.]   My  lord  !  is  the  lady  ready  ? 

Tro.  Hark  !  you  are  call'd :  some  say.  the  Genius  fso 
Cries,  "  Come !"  to  him  that  instantly  must  die. — 
Bid  them  have  patience ;  she  shall  come  anon. 

Pan.  Where  are  my  tears  ?  rain,  to  lay  this  wind  or 
my  heart  will  be  blown  up  by  the  root^  !    [Exit  Pand 

Cres.  I  must  then  to  the  Grecians  ? 

Tro.  No  remedy. 

Cres.  A  woeful  Cressid  'mongst  the  merry  Greeks  ! 
When  shall  we  see  again  ? 

Tro.  Hear  me.  my  love.     Be  thou  but  true  of  heai-t-— 

Cres.  I  true  ?  how  now  !  what  wicked  deem  is  this  '' 

Tro.  Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly, 
For  it  is  parting  from  us. 
I  speak  not,  "  be  thou  true,"  as  fearing  thee ; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  death  himself, 
That  there  's  no  maculation  in  (hy  heart ; 
But,  "  be  thou  true,"  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation.     Be  thou  true. 
And  I  will  see  thee. 

Cres.  0  !  you  shall  be  expos'd.  my  lord,  to  dangers 
As  infinite  as  imminent  :  but  I  '11  be  true. 

Tro.  And  I  '11  grow  friend  ^\^th  danger.     Wear  ihie 
sleeve. 

Cres.  And  you  this  glove.     When  shall  I  see  you  ' 

Tro.   I  will  corrupt  the  Grecian  sentinels. 
To  give  thee  nightly  visitation. 
But  yet,  be  true. 

Cres.  O  heavens  ! — be  true,  again  ? 

Tro.  Hear  why  I  speak  it,  love. 
The  Grecian  youths  are  full  of  quality. 
Their  loving  svell  com|)Os'd  with  gilt  of  nature, 
Flo^^^ng  and  swelling  o'er  with  arts  and  exercise- 
How  novelties  may  move,  and  jjarts  with  person, 
Alas  !  a  kind  of  goodly  jealousy 
(Which,  I  beseech  you,  call  a  virtuous  sin) 
Makes  me  afraid. 

Cres.  O  heavens  !  you  love  me  not. 

Tro.  Die  I  a  villain,  then  ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question, 
So  mainly  as  my  merit :   I  cannot  sing, 
Nor  heelthe  high  lavolt',  nor  sweeten  lalk. 
Nor  play  at  subtle  games;  fair  virtues  all. 
To  which  the  Grecians  are  most  prompt  and  pregnant : 
But  I  can  tell,  that  in  each  grace  of  these 


1  And  no  lets  :  in  folio.      The  word   is  found  in  Fuller  and  Latimer. 
'  tliToat     in  quartos.      ^  A  quick  dance. 


folio. 


I  friendship :  in  f.  e.      ♦  gtianga  .  in 


688 


TllOILUS  AND  CKESSIDA. 


There  lurks  a  still  and  dunib-di.«coursive  devil, 
That  tciupis  iiu  St  cumiiiii.'ly.     But  be  not  tempted. 

Cres.  Do  you  think.  1  will? 

Tro.  No  : 
But  sometliins;  may  be  done,  that  wc  will  not: 
And  .»oinetiincs  we  arc  devihs  to  ourselves. 
When  we  will  tempt  the  frailty  of  our  powers, 
Prcsumini.'  on  thoir  cliainful'  potency. 

Jiiu.   [Uithin.]   Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Tro.  Come,  kiss  ;  and  let  us  part. 

Par.  [Within.]  Brother  Troilus  ! 

Tro.  Good  brother,  come  you  hither; 

And  bring  iEnea.«.  and  the  Grecian,  with  you. 

Cres.  My  lord,  will  you  be  true? 

Tro.   Who,  I  ?  al;x.»!,  it  is  my  vice,  my  fault: 
Whiles  others  lish  with  craft  for  great  opinion, 
I  with  great  truth  catch  mere  simjilicity  : 
Whilst  some  wuh  cunning  gild  their  copper  crowns. 
With  truth  and  plaiiuicss  I  do  wear  mine  bare. 
Fear  not  my  truth  :  the  moral  of  my  wit 
Is  plain,  and  true. — there's  all  the  reach  of  it. 

Enter  ^Eneas,  Paris.  Antenor,  Deiphobis.  and 

OlO.MERES. 

Welcome,  sir  Diomed.     Here  is  the  lady. 
Which  for  Antenor  we  deliver  you  : 
At  the  port,  lord,  I  Ml  give  her  to  thy  hand, 
Ajid  by  the  way  po.ssess  thee  what  she  is. 
Entreat  her  fair ;  and,  by  my  soul,  fair  Greek, 
[f  e'er  thou  stand  at  mercy  of  my  sword. 
Name  Cressid,  and  thy  life  shall  be  as  safe, 
As  Priam  is  in  Ilion. 

Dio.  Fair  lady  Cressid, 

So  please  you,  save  the  thanks  this  prince  expects  : 
The  lustre  in  your  eye,  heaven  in  your  cheek, 
Pleads  your  tair  usage  ;  and  to  Diomed 
You  shall  be  mistre.^s.  and  command  him  wholly. 

Tro.  Grecian,  thou  dost  not  use  me  courteously. 
To  shame  the  zeal  of  my  petition  to  thee, 
In  praising  her.     I  tell  tliee,  lord  of  Greece, 
She  is  as  far  high-soaring  o'er  thy  praises. 
As  thou  unworthy  to  be  call'd  her  servant. 
I  charge  thee,  u.se  her  well,  even  for  my  charge; 
For,  by  the  dreadful  Pluto,  if  thou  dost  not. 
Though  the  great  bulk  Achilles  be  thy  guard, 
I  '11  cut  thy  throat. 

Dio.  0  !  be  not  mov'd,  prince  Troilus. 

Let  me  be  priviles'd  by  my  place,  and  message, 
To  be  a  speaker  free  :  when  I  am  hence. 
I  '11  answer  to  thy  last^  ;  and  know  you,  lord, 
I  '11  nothins  do  on  charge.     To  her  own  worth 
She  shall  be  prizd  :  but  that  you  say — be  't  so, 
I  '11  speak  it  in  my  spirit  and  honour. — no. 

Tro.  Come  to  the  port. — I  'II  tell  thee.  Diomed, 
This  brave  shall  oft  make  thee  to  hide  thy  head. — 
Lady,  give  me  your  hand  :  and,  as  we  walk, 
""o  our  own  selves  bend  we  our  needful  talk. 

[Ezfunt  Tro.  Cres.  mul  Diom.     Trumpet  sounded. 

Par.  Hark  !     Hectors  trumpet. 

.£ru.  How  have  we  spent  this  morning  ! 

The  prince  must  think  mc  tardy  and  remiss, 
That  swore  to  ride  before  him  to  the  tield.  [him. 

Par.  "T  is  Troilus'  fault.    Come,  come,  to  field  with 

D(i.  Let  us  make  ready  straisht. 

^j7ic.  Yea.  with  a  bndeirroonrB  fresh  alacrity, 
Let  us  address  to  tend  on  Hector's  heels. 
The  glor>-  of  our  Troy  doth  this  day  lie 
On  Lis  fair  worth,  and  single  chivalry.  [Exeunt 


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

Enter  Ajj-V,  armed ;  Aoameihnon,  Achii.i.es,  Patro 

CLLS,  Menelal's,  Ulysses,  Nestor,  arul  others. 

Agam.  Here  art  thou  in  appointment  fresh  and  fair 
i  Anticipating  time.     With  startling  courage 
Give  with  thy  trumpet  a  loud  note  to  Troy, 
Thou  dreadful  Ajax  ;  that  the  appalled  air 
May  pierce  the  liead  of  the  great  combatant, 
And  hale  him  hither. 

Ajax.  Thou,  trumpet,  there  's  my  purse 

Now  craek  thy  lungs,  and  split  thy  brazen  pipe  . 
Blow,  villain,  till  thy  sphered  bias  cheek 
Out-swell  the  colic  of  pulTd  Aquilon. 
Come,  stretch  thy  chest,  and  let  thy  eyes  spout  blood  ; 
Thou  blow'.st  for  Hector.  [Trumpet  sounds 

Ulyss.  No  trumpet  answers. 

Achil.  'T  is  but  early  day. 

Agnm.  Is  notyond"  Diomed  with  Calchas' daughter? 

Uly.ss.  'T  is  he,  I  ken  the  manner  of  his  gait ; 
He  ri.ses  on  the  toe  :  that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth. 

Enter  Diomed.  with    Cressida. 

Agam.  Is  this  the  lady  Cres^sid  ? 

Dio.  Even  she. 

Agam.  Most  dearly  welcome   to  the  Greeks,  sweet 
lady.  [Kvs.sing  ner.' 

Nest.  Our  general  doth  salute  you  with  a  kiss. 

Ulyss.  Yet  is  the  kindness  but  particular; 
'Twere  better  she  were  kiss'd  in  general. 

Nest.  And  very  courtly  counsel :  I  '11  hesin. — 

[Kissing  her.' 
So  much  for  Nestor. 

Achil.  I  '11  take  that  winter  from  your  tips,  fair  lady  • 


Achilles  bids  you  welcome. 


Ki.ising  her 


»  ohangefol  •   in  f.  i 


my   lurt  :    in   f. 


Men.  I  had  good  argument  for  kissing  once. 

Pair.  But  that 's  no  argument  for  kissing  now  : 

[Putting  nim  buck. 
For  thus  popp'd  Paris  in  his  hardiment. 
And  parted  thus  you  and  your  argument."  [Kissing  her  * 

Ulyss.  0  !   deadly  gall,  and  theme  of  all  our  scorns 
For  which  we  lose  our  heads,  to  gild  his  horns. 

Patr.  The  first  was  Menelaus'  kiss  : — this,  mine  : 
Patroclus  kisses  you.  [Kissing  her  again.*' 

Men.  0  !  this  is  trim. 

Patr.  Paris,  and  I,  kiss  evermore  for  him. 

3Ien.  I  'II  have  my  ki.ss,  sir. — Lady,  by  your  leave. 

Cres.  In  kissing  do  you  render  or  receive  ? 

Patr.  Both  take  and  give. 

Cres.  I  '11  make  my  match  to  live. 

The  kiss  you  take  is  better  than  you  give  ; 
Therefore  no  kiss. 

Men.  I'll  give  you  boot ;  I  '11  give  you  three  for  one. 

Cres.  You  're  an  odd  man  :  give  even,  or  give  none. 

Men.  An  odd  man,  lady  ?  every  man  is  odd. 

Cres.  No,  Paris  is  not ;  for,  you  know,  't  is  true, 
That  you  are  odd,  and  he  is  even  with  you. 
I      Men.  You  fillip  me  o'  the  head. 

Cres.  No,  I  '11  be  swnrn 

Uly.ss.  It  were  no  match,  your  nail  against  his  horn — 
May  I,  sweet  lady,  beg  a  kiss  of  you  ? 

Cres.   You  may. 
i      Ulyss.  I  do  desire  it. 

Cres.  Why,  beg  then. 

{      Wi/.M.  Why  then,  for  Venus'  sake,  give  me  a  kisa. 
When  Helen  is  a  maid  again,  and  his. 

Cres.  I  am  your  debtor;  claim  it  when  'tis  due. 

Ulyss.  Never  's  my  day,  and  then  a  kiss  of  you. 

young  .    in  folio       ♦  »  •  '  Not  in   f.  «        •  Thi«  Une  ii  net  in  the  folio.      »  M  !*«» 


i 


TEOILUS   AXD  CRESSIDA. 


589 


Dio.  Lady,  a  word  : — I  '11  bring  you  to  your  father.  ] 
[DiOMED  leads  out  Cressida. 

Nest.  A  woman  of  quick  sense. 

Ulyss.  Fie,  fie  upon  her  ! 

There  "s  language  in  her  eye.  her  cheek,  her  lip. 
Nay.  her  foot  speaks  ;  her  wanton  spirits  look  out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
0  !  these  eucounterers.  so  glib  of  tongue. 
That  give  occasion'  welcome  ere  it  comes, 
And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  tickling'  reader,  set  them  down 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity, 
And  dau<ihters  of  the  game.  [Trumpet  within. 

All.  The  Trojans'  trumpet. 

Again.  Yonder  comes  the  troop. 

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

AEne.  Hail,  all  yon  state  of  Greece  !  what  shall  be  done 
To  him  that  \actory  commands  ?     Or  do  you  pttrpose, 
A  victor  siiall  be  known  ?  will  you,  the  knights 
Shall  to  the  edge  of  all  extremity 
Pursue  each  other;  or  shall  be  divided 
By  any  voice  or  order  of  the  field  ? 
Hector  bade  ask. 

Asam.  Which  way  would  Hector  have  it  ? 

JEne.  He  cares  not :  he  '11  obey  conditions. 

Achil.  'T  is  done  like  Hector;  but  securely  done, 
A  little  proudly,  and  great  deal  misprizing 
The  knight  oppos'd. 

Mne.  If  not  Achilles,  sir, 

What  is  your  name? 

Achil.  If  not  Achilles,  nothing. 

JEne.  Therefore  Achilles  ;  but.  whate'er,  know  this  : — 
In  the  extremity  of  great  and  little, 
Valour  and  pride  excel  themselves  in  Hector ; 
The  one  almost  as  infinite  as  all, 
The  other  blank  as  nothing.     Weigh  him  well. 
And  that  which  looks  like  pride  is  courtesy. 
This  Ajax  is  half-made  of  Hector's  blood  : 
In  love  whereof  half  Hector  stays  at  home  : 
Half  heart,  half  hand,  half  Hector  comes  to  seek 
This  blended  knight,  half  Trojan,  and  half  Greek. 

Achil.  A  maiden  battle,  then? — 0  !   I  perceive  you. 
Re-enter  Diomed. 

Agam.  Here  is  sir  Diomed. — Go.  gentle  knight, 
Stand  by  our  Ajax  :  as  you  and  lord  ^Eneas 
Consent  upon  the  order  of  their  fight. 
So  be  it  ;  either  to  the  utterance', 
Or  else  a  breach  :  the  combatants  being  kin, 
Half  stints  their  strife  before  their  strokes  begin. 

[Ajax  and  Hector  enter  the  lists. 

Vlyss.  They  are  oppos'd  already. 

Again.  What  Trojan  is  that  .same  that  looks  so  heavy? 

Ulyss.  The  youngest  son  of  Priam,  a  true  knight ; 
Not  yet  mature,  yet  matchless;  firm  of  word, 
Spealdng  in  deeds,  and  deedless  in  his  tongue  ; 
Not  soon  provok'd.  nor  being  provok'd  soon  calm'd  : 
His  heart  and  hand  both  open,  and  both  free : 
i  For  what  he  has,  he  gives,  what  thinks,  he  shows ; 
'  Yet  gives  he  not  till  judgment  guide  his  bounty. 
,  Nor  dignifies  an  impure*  thought  with  breath. 
\  Manly  as  Hector,  but  more  dangerous  ;  ' 

'.  For  Hector,  in  his  blaze  of  wTath.  subscribes 
To  tender  abjects ;  but  he,  in  heat  of  action. 
Is  more  vindicative  than  jealous  love. 
They  call  him  Troilus  ;  and  on  him  erect 
A  second  liope.  as  fairly  built  as  Hector.  { 

Thus  says  /Eneas ;  one  that  knows  the  youth, 
Kven  to  his  inches,  and  with  private  soul  ' 

'  &  ooaating  :  in  f.  e       '  ticklish  ;  in  quartos      '  uttermost  :  in  f.  e 


Did  in  great  Ilion  thus  translate  him  to  me. 

[Alarum.     Hector  and  As.ki.  fight 

Agam.  They  are  in  action. 

i\W.  Now,  Ajax,  hold  thine  own. 

^>'0.  Hector  thou  sleep'st 

Awake  thee  ! 

Agam.  His  blows  are  well  di.spos'd  : — there,  Ajax  ! 

Dio.  You  must  no  more.  [Trumpets  cease. 

AUne.  Princes,  enough,  so  please  you. 

Ajax.  I  am  not  warm  yet :  let  us  fight  agam. 

Dio.  As  Hector  pleases. 

Hect.  Why  then,  will  I  no  nic-e.- 

Thou  art,  great  lord,  ray  father's  sister's  son. 
A  cousin-german  to  great  Priam's  seed ; 
The  obligation  of  ottr  blood  forbids 
A  gory  emulation  'twixt  us  twain. 
Were  thy  commixtion  Greek  and  Trojan  so. 
That  thou  couldst  say — "  This  hand  is  Grecian  all, 
And  this  is  Trojan ;  the  sinews  of  this  leg 
All  Greek,  and  this  all  Troy  ;  my  mother's  blood 
Runs  on  the  dexter  cheek,  and  this  sinister 
Bounds  in  my  father's  :"  by  Jove  tnultipotent, 
Thou  shouldst  not  bear  from  me  a  Greekish  member 
Wherein  my  sword  had  not  inipressure  made 
Of  our  rank  feud.     But  the  just  gods  gainsay. 
That  am-  drop  thou  borrow'dst  from  thy  mother. 
My  sacred  aunt,  should  by  my  mortal  sword 
Be  drain'd.     Let  me  embrace  thee,  Ajax. — 
By  him  that  thunders,  thou  hast  lusty  arras. 
Hector  would  have  them  fall  upon  him  thus : 
Cousin,  all  honour  to  thee  !  [They  embrace.* 

Ajax.  I  thank  thee,  Hector : 

Thou  art  too  gentle,  and  too  free  a  man. 
I  came  to  kill  thee,  cousin,  and  bear  hence 
A  great  addition  earned  in  thy  death. 

Hcct.  Not  Neoptoiemus  so  mirable 
On  whose  bright  crest  Fame  with  her  loud'st  Oyez 
Cries,  '•  This  is  he  !"  could  promise  to  himself 
A  thought  of  added  honour  torn  from  Hector. 

JEne.  There  is  expectance  here  frora  both  the  sides, 
What  farther  you  will  do 

Hect.  We  '11  answer  it ; 

The  issue  is  embraceraent. — Ajax.  farewell. 

Ajax.  If  I  raight  in  entreaties  find  success. 
As  seld  I  have  the  chance,  I  would  desire 
My  famous  cousin  to  our  Grecian  tents. 

Dio.  'T  is  Agamemnon's  wish  :  and  great  Achillea 
Doth  long  to  see  unarni'd  the  valiant  Hector. 

Hect.  /Eneas,  call  ray  brother  Troilus  to  me  ; 
And  signify  this  loving  interview 
To  the  expecters  of  our  Trojan  part : 
Desire  them  horae. — Give  rae  thy  hand,  my  couein ; 
I  will  go  eat  with  thee,  and  see  your  kniglits. 

Ajax.  Great  Agamemnon  comes  to  meet  us  here. 

Hect.  The  worthiest  of  them  tell  rae.  name  by  name; 
But  for  Achillea,  mine  own  setrchinsi  eyes 
Shall  find  him  by  his  large  and  portly  size. 

Agam.  Worthy  of  arms  !  as  welcome  as  to  one 
That  would  be  rid  of  such  an  enemy. 
But  that 's  no  welcome  :  understand  more  dear. 
What 's  past,  and  what 's  to  come,  is  strew'd  m  ith  huski 
And  formless  ruin  of  oblivion  : 
But  in  this  extant  moment,  faith  and  troth, 
Strain'd  purely  from  all  hollow  bias-driiw-iug, 
Bids  thee,  with  most  divine  intosriiy. 
From  heart  of  ver>'  heart,  great  Hector,  welcome. 

Hect.  I  thank  thee,  mo.«t  imperious  Agamemnon. 

Agam.  My  well-fam'd  lord  of  Troy,  no  less  to  you. 

[To  Troilus. 

*  impair  :  in  folio.    Johnson  suggested  the  change.    •  Mot  ia  f  « 


of'O 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


ACT  rr. 


Mm    Let  me  confirm  my  princely  brother's  greeting: 
You  brace  ol  warlike  brothers,  welcome  hither. 

Hect.  Wlioin  imi.>;t  wo  an.swer? 

.f!nc.  The  noble  Menelau.s. 

fleet.  O  I  jou.  my  lord  ?  by  Mars  his  gauntlet,  thauks. 
Mock  not.  that  I  affect  th'  untradoil  oath  : 
Vour  quunilain  wile  swears  still  by  Venus'  glove; 
Slie  "s  well,  but  bade  nie  not  coinineiid  her  to  you. 

Mm.   Name  h<T  not  now,  .«ir  ;  she  's  a  deadly  theme. 

If-rt.  ()  !   pardon:   I  olFeiid. 

iWist.   I  have.  iIk^u  irallant  Trojan,  .<!ecn  thee  oft, 
I.,«bonrini;  lor  des'iny.  make  cruel  way 
Through  ranks  ol  (Jreekish  youth :  and  I  have  seen  thee, 
Ai  hot  as  Per.-cus.  spur  thy  Phyrgian  steed, 
De-'pisini;  many'  I'orfeits  and  .subduement.«i, 
When  thou  hast  hung  thy  advanced  sword  i'  th'  air, 
Not  letting  it  decline  on  the  declin'd  ; 
That  I  have  said  unto  my  standers-by, 
"  Lo  !  Jupiter  is  yonder,  dealing  life." 
And  I  have  seen  thee  pause,  and  take  thy  breath, 
When  that  a  ring  of  Greeks  have  hemm'd  thee  in. 
Like  an  Olympian  wrestling:  this  have  I  seen; 
But  this  thy  countenance,  still  lockd  in  steel. 
I  never  saw  till  now.     I  knew  thy  grand  si  re, 
And  once  fouiiht  with  him  :  he  was  a  .soldier  good : 
But.  by  great  Mars  the  captain  of  us  all. 
Never  like  thee.     Let  an  old  man  embrace  thee  ; 
And,  worthy  warrior,  welcome  to  our  tents. 

jEne.  'T  is  the  old  Nestor. 

Hect.  Let  me  embrace  thee,  good  old  chronicle. 
That  ha.st  so  long  walk'd  hand  in  hand  with  time. 
Most  reverend  Nestor,  I  am  glad  to  cla.«p  thee. 

Nest.  I  would  my  arms  could  match  thee  in  conten- 
tion. 
As  they  contend  with  thee  in  courtesy. 

Hect.  I  would  they  could. 

Nest.  Ha  !  by  this  white  beard.  I  'd  fight  with  thee 
to-morrow. 
Well,  welcome,  welcome  !     I  have  seen  the  time. 

Uhjss.  I  wonder  now  how  yonder  city  stands. 
When  we  have  here  her  base  and  pillar  by  us. 

Hect.  I  know  your  favour,  lord  Ulysses,  well. 
Ah,  sir  !  there  V  many  a  Greek  and  Trojan  dead. 
Since  first  I  saw  yourself  and  Diomed 
In  Ilion.  on  your  Greekish  emba.ssy. 

Ulyss.  Sir.  I  foretold  you  then  what  would  ensue  • 
My  prophecy  is  but  half  his  journey  yet: 
For  yonder  walls,  thai  portly  front  your  town, 
Yond"  towers,  wliose  wanton  tops  do  buss  the  clouds. 
Must  kiss  their  own  feet. 

Hect.  I  must  not  believe  you. 

There  they  stand  yet :  and  modestly  I  think. 
The  fall  of  ever>-  Phrygian  stone  will  cost 
A  drop  of  Grecian  blood  :  the  end  crowns  all; 
And  that  old  common  arbitrator,  Time, 
Will  one  day  end  it. 

Vlys.s.  So  to  him  we  leave  it. 

Most  gentle,  and  most  valianl  Koetor,  welcome. 
After  the  sencral.  F  beseech  you   next 
To  feast  with  me    and  scp  me  at  mv  t^nt. 

Achil.   I  shall  (orostall  thee,  lord  Ulv.sses,  then. — 
Now.  Hector.  I  have  fed  mine  eyes  on  thee  : 
I  have  witli  exact  view  perus'd  thee.  Hector, 
And  quoted'  joint  by  joint. 

Hect.  Is  this  Achilles? 

Achil.  I  am  Achilles. 

Hect.  Stand  tair,  I  pray  thee  :  let  me  look  on  thee 


Achil.  Behold  thy  fill. 

Hect.  Nay,  I  have  done  already. 

Achil.  Thou  art  too  brief:   I  ^^•ill  the  second  time, 
As  I  would  buy  thee,  view  thee  limb  by  limb. 

Hect.  0  !  like  a  book  of  sport  thou  'It  read  me  o'er; 
But  there  's  more  in  me  than  thou  undersland'st. 
Why  dost  thou  so  oppress  me  with  thine  eye? 

Achil.  Tell  me.  you  heavens,  in  which  part  of  hi<- 
body 
Shall  I  destroy  him.  whether  there,  the  «.  or  there  ? 
That  I  may  give  the  local  wound  a  name, 
And  make  distinct  the  very  breach,  whereout 
Hector's  great  spirit  flew.     Answer  me.  heavens  ! 

Hect.  It  would  discredit  the  bless'd  gods,  proud  maa. 
To  answer  .such  a  question.     Stand  again  ; 
Think'.st  thou  to  catch  my  life  so  ])lea.'^antly. 
As  to  predominate  in  nice  conjecture. 
Where  thou  wilt  hit  me  dead  ? 

Achil.  I  tell  thee,  yea. 

Hect.  Wert  thou  an'  oracle  to  tell  me  so, 
I'd  not  believe  thee.     Henceforth  guard  thee  well, 
For  I'll  not  kill  thee  there,  nor  there,  nor  there ; 
But.  by  the  forge  tliat  stithied*  Mars  his  helm. 
I'll  kill  thee  every  where,  yea,  o'er  and  oer. — 
You,  wisest  Grecians,  pardon  me  this  brag . 
His  insolence  draws  folly  from  my  lips  : 
But  I'll  endeavour  deeds  to  match  these  words. 
Or  may  I  never — 

Ajax.  Do  not  chafe  thee,  cousin : — 

And  you,  Achilles,  let  these  threats  alone. 
Till  accident,  or  purpose,  bring  you  to  't : 
You  may  have  every  day  enough  of  Hector. 
If  you  have  stomach.     The  general  state,  I  fear, 
Can  scarce  entreat  you  to  be  odd  with  him. 

Hect.  I  pray  you,  let  us  see  you  in  the  field  : 
W^e  have  had  pelting'  wars,  since  you  refus'd 
The  Grecians'  cause. 

Achil.  Dost  thou  entreat  me,  Hector  ? 

To-morrow,  do  I  meet  thee,  fell  as  death ; 
To-night,  all  friends. 

Hect.  Thy  hand  upon  that  match. 

Agam.  First,  all  you  peers  of  Greece,  go  to  my  tent , 
There  in  the  full  convive  we*  afterwards, 
As  Hector's  leisure  and  your  bounties  shall 
Concur  together,  severally  entreat  him. — 
Beat  loud  the  tabourines,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
That  this  great  soldier  may  his  welcome  know. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Troilvs  and  Ulyssk* 

Tro.  My  lord  Ulysses,  tell  me.  I  beseech  you. 
In  what  place  of  the  field  doth  Calchas  keep  ? 

Ulyss.  At  Menelaus'  tent,  most  princely  Troiluu : 
There  Diomed  doth  fea.st  with  him  to-night; 
Who  neither  looks  upon  the  heaven,  nor  earth, 
But  gives  all  gaze  and  bent  of  amorous  view- 
On  the  fair  Cressid. 

Tro.  Shall  L  sweet  lord,  be  bound  to  you  so  much, 
After  we  part  from  Agamemnon's  tent. 
To  bring  me  thither  ? 

Ulyss.  You  shall  command  me,  sir. 

As  gentle  tell  me.  of  what  honour  waa 
This  Cressida  in  Troy  ?     Had  she  no  lover  there 
That  wails  her  absence? 

Tro.  O.  sir  !  to  such  a.s  boasting  show  their  scan 
A  mock  is  due.     Will  you  walk  on,  my  lord? 
She  was  belov'd,  she  lov'd  ;  she  is,  and  doth : 
But  still  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tooth.  [Erevi 


And  i««D  thse  i 


Noted. 


ith,  LB  an  anvil. 


Petty 


TKOILUS   AND   CEESSIDA. 


591 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — The  Grecian   Camp.     Before    Achilles' 

Tent. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Patroclus. 

Achil.  I  '11  heat  his  blood  with  Greekish  wine  to-night, 
Which  with  my  scimitar  I  '11  cool  to-morrow. 
Patroclus.  let  us  feast  him  to  the  height. 

Patr.  Here  comes  Thersites. 

Enter  Thersites. 

Achil.  How  now,  thou  cur'  of  en\-y  ! 

riiou  crusty  batch  of  nature,  what 's  the  news  ? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  picture  of  what  thou  seemest,  and 
idol  of  idiot- worshippers,  here  's  a  letter  for  tliee. 

Achil.   From  whence,  fragment  ? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  full  dish  of  fool,  from  Troy. 

Patr.  Who  keeps  the  tent  now? 

Ther.  The  surgeon's  box.  or  the  patient's  wound. 

Patr.WeW  said,  adversity!  and  what  need  these  tricks? 

Ther.  Pr'ythee  be  silent,  boy ;  I  profit  not  by  thy 
talk  ;  thou  art  thought  to  be  Achilles'  male  varlet. 

Patr.  Male  varlet,  you  rogue  !  what 's  that. 

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

Patr.  Why,  thou  damnable  box  of  en\'y,  tliou,  what 
meanest  thou  to  curse  thus  ? 

Ther.  Do  I  curse  thee  ? 

Patr.  Why  no.  you  ruinous  butt,  you  whoreson  in- 
distinguishable cur,  no. 

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

Patr.  Out,  gall  ! 

Ther.  Finch  egg! 

Achil.  My  sweet  Patroclus,  I  am  thwarted  quite 
From  my  great  purpose  in  to-morrow's  battle. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  queen  Hecuba  ; 
A  token  from  her  daughter,  my  fair  love ; 
Both  taxing  me.  and  'gaging  me  to  keep 
An  oath  that  I  have  sworn.     I  will  not  break  it: 
Fall  Greeks,  fail  fame,  honour,  or  go,  or  stay, 
My  major  vow  lies  here  :  this  I'll  obey. — 
Come,  come,  Thersites,  help  to  trim  my  tent; 
This  night  in  banqueting  must  all  be  spent. — 
I  Away,  Patroclus.     [Exetmt  Achilles  and  Patroclus. 
I       Ther.  With  too    much    blood,  and  too  little  brain, 
'  these  two  may  run  mad :    but  if  with  too  much  brain, 
[  and  too  little  blood,  they  do.  I  '11  be  a  curerof  madmen. 
;  Here  's    Agamemnon. — an  honest  fellow  enough,  and 
one  that  loves  quails  :   but  he  has  not  so  much  brain  as 
ear-wax  :    and   the  goodly   transformation  of   Jupiter 
I  there,  his  brother,  the  bull, — the  primitive  statue,  and 
'.oblique  memorial  of  cuckolds,  a  thrifty  shoeing-horn 
'  in  a  chain,  hanging    at    his  brother's    leg, — to  what 
;  form,  but  that  he  is,  should  wit  larded  with  malice,  and 
malice  forced  with  wit,  turn  him  to  ?     To  an  ass,  were 
'  nothing:  he  is  both  ass  and  ox  :  to  an  ox  were  nothing  ; 
he  is  both  ox  and  ass.     To  be  a  dog,  a  mule,  a  cat,  a 
fitchew  a  toad,  a  lizard,  an  owl,  a  puttoek,  or  a  her- 


ring without  a  roe,  I  would  not  care ;  out  to  be  Mene- 
laus, — I  would  conspire  against  destiny.  Ask  mf,  noJ 
what  I  would  be,  if  I  were  not  Ther.-ites,  for  1  care  not 
to  be  the  louse  of  a  lazar,  so  I  were  not  Mcnclaus. — 
Hey-day  !  sjiirits  and  fires  ! 

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

Agam.  We  go  wrong;  we  go  wrong. 

^jax.  No,   yonder  'tis 

There,  where  we  see  the  lights. 

Hect.  I  trouble  you. 

Ajax.  No,  not  a  whit. 

Ulyss.  Here  comes  himself  to  guide  you 

Enter  Achilles. 

Achil.  Welcome,  brave  Hector,  welcome,  princes  all. 

Agam.  So  now,  fair  prince  of  Troy,  1  bid  good  night. 
Ajax  commands  the  guard  to  tend  on  you. 

Hect.  Thanks,  and  good  night,  to  the  Greeks'  general. 

Men.  Good  night,  my  lord. 

Hect.  Good  night,  sweet  lord  Menelaus. 

Ther  Sweet  draught:  sweet,  quoth  'a!  sweei  sin'-;, 
sweet  sewer. 

Achil.  Good  night,  and  welcome,  both  at  once  to  tho-^^e 
That  go,  or  tarry. 

Agam.  Good  night.  [Exeunt  Agam.  and  Mk.n 

Achil.  Old  Nestor  tarries ;  and  you  too,  Diomed, 
Keep  Hector  company  an  hour  or  two. 

Dio.  I  cannot,  lord ;  I  have  important  business, 
The  tide  whereof  is  now. — Good  night,  great  Hector. 

Hect.  Give  me  your  hand. 

Vlyss.  Follow  his  torch,  he  goi  s 

To  Calchas'  tent :  I  '11  keep  you  company. 

[Aside  to  Troilis. 

Tro.  Sweet  sir.  you  honour  me. 

Hect.  And  so  good  ni^ht. 

[Exit  Diomed;  Ulysses  and  Troilvs  following. 

Achil.  Come,  come;  enter  my  tent. 

[Exeunt  Achilles,  Hector.  Ajax,  and  Nestor. 

Ther.  That  same  Diomed  's  a  false-hearted  rogue,  a 
most  unjust  knave :  I  will  no  more  trust  him  when  he 
leers,  than  I  will  a  serpent  when  he  hisses.  He  will 
.spend  his  mouth,  and  promise,  like  Brabler  the  hound ; 
but  when  he  performs,  astronomers  foretel  it :  it  is  pro- 
digious, there  will  come  some  change  :  the  sun  borrows 
of  the  moon  when  Diomed  keeps  his  word.  I  will 
rather  leave  to  see  Hector,  than  not  to  dog  him  :  tiiey 
say,  he  keeps  a  Trojan  drab,  and  uses  the  traitor  Cal- 
chas'tent.  I  "11  after. — Nothing  but  lechery:  all  in- 
continent varlets.  [Krii. 

SCENE  n.— The  Same.     Before  Calchas'  Tent. 

Enter  Diomedes. 
Dio.  What  are  vou  up  here,  ho  ?  speak. 
Cal.  [Within.]  Who  calls? 

Dio.  Diomed. — Calchas,  I  think. — Where  's  your 
daughter  ? 

Cal.   [Within.]  She  comes  to  you. 
Enter  Troilus  and  Ulysses,  at  a  distance  ;  after  the-  \ 
Thersites. 
Ulyss.  Stand  where  the  toreii  may  not  discover  ub. 

Enter  Cressida. 
Tro.  Crcssid  comes  forth  to  him. 
Dio.  How  now,  my  charge  ! 

Cres.  Now,  my  .'^weet  guardian — Hark  !  a  word  with 
you.  [Whispers 


i 


in  fo^io.      *  discoveries  :  in  f. 


592 


TROILITS    AND   CRESSIDA. 


Tro.  Yea,  so  familiar  ! 

lllyss.  Sh«  will  sing  any  man  at  first  sight. 

Thcr.  And  any  man  may  find   her  key,'  if  he  can 
fake  her  elet't :'  she  's  notod. 

I)io.  Will  you  remember? 

Crts.   iJcmeinbery  yes. 

Dio.    Nay,    but  do   llicn;    and    let   your   mind   be 
coupled  with  your  words. 

Tro.  Wliat  should  she  remember  ? 

Jilyss.  List. 

Cics.  Sweet  honey  Greek,  tempt  mo  no  more  to  folly. 

Tlier.   Ilouuery? 

Dio.  Nay,  then, — 

Cres.  ril  tell  you  what— 

Dio.  Pho  !  pho  !  come  tell,  a  pin ;  you  are  forsworn. — 

Cres.  In  faith,  I  cannot.  \Yliat  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

Ther.  A  juggling  trick, — to  be  secretly  open. 

Dio.  What  did  you  swear  you  would  bestow  on  me? 

Cres.  1  pr"ytliee,  do  not  hold  me  to  mine  oath; 
Bid  me  do  any  thing  but  that,  sweet  Greek. 

Dio.  Good  night. 

Tro.  Hold,  patience  ! 

Ulyss.  How  now,  Trojan  ? 

Cres.  Diomed  ! — 

Dio.  No,  no  :  good  night :  I  '11  be  your  fool  no  more. 

Tro.  Thy  better  must. 

Cres.  Hark !  one  word  in  your  ear. 

Tro.  0.  plague  and  madness  ! 

Ulyss.  You  are  mov'd,  prince :  let  us  depart,  I  pray 
you, 
L*st  your  displeasure  should  enlarge  itself 
To  wrathful  terms.     This  place  is  dangerous; 
The  time  right  deadly:  I  beseech  you,  go. 

Tro.  Behold,  I  pray  you  ! 

JJlyss.  Nay,  my  good  lord,  go  off" : 

Vou  flow  to  great  distraction ;  come,  my  lord. 

Tro.  I  prythee,  stay. 

Ulyss.  You  have  not  patience;  come. 

Tro   1  pray  you,  stay.  By  hell,  and  all  hell's  torments. 
I  will  not  speak  a  word. 

Dvi  And  so,  good  night. 

Cres.  Nay,  but  you  part  in  an<:er. 

Tro  Doth  that  grieve  thee  ? 

0,  A^-ither'd  truth  ! 

Ulyss.  Why,  how  now,  lord  ! 

Tro.  By  Jove, 

I  will  be  patient. 

Cres.  Guardian  ! — why,  Greek  ! 

Dio.  Pho.  pho  I  adieu  ;  you  palter. 

Cres.  In  taith,  I  do  not :  come  hither  once  again. 

Ulyss.  You  shake,  my  lord,  at  something :  will  you  go  ? 
y<Mt  will  break  out. 

Tro.  She  strokes  his  cheek  ! 

Ulyss.  Coine,  come. 

Tro.  Nay.  stay:  by  Jove.  I  will  not  speak  a  word. 
There  is  between  my  will  and  all  offences 
A  guard  of  patience. — Slay  a  little  while. 

Ther.  How  the  devil  luxury,  with  his  fat  rump  and 
potatoe  finger,  tickles  these  together  !    Fr>',  lechery,  fry  ! 

Dio.  But  will  you  then? 

Cres.  In  faith,  I  will,  lord:'  never  trust  me  else. 

Dio.  Give  me  some  token  for  the  surety  of  it. 

Cres.  I  11  feich  you  one.  [Exit. 

Ulyss.  You  have  sworn  patience. 

Tro.  Fear  me  not,  sweet  lord  ; 

1  will  not  be  myself,  nor  have  cognition 
Of  what  I  ieel  :  I  am  all  patience. 

Re-enter  Crkssida. 

Ther.  Now  the  pledge  !  now,  now,  now  ! 

«  m*y  sing  her  :  ia  f.  e.      »  cliff  •  in  f  o       '  la  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  »  Nc 


Cres.  Here,  Diomed,  keep  this  sleeve.      [Giving  u 

Tro.  0  beauty  !  where  is  thy  faith  ? 

Uly.'is.  My  lord, — 

Tro.  I  will  be  patient;  outwardly  I  will. 

Cres.  You  look  upon  that  sleeve;  behold  it  well.- 
He  lovd  me — 0  false  wench  ! — Give  't  me  again. 

Dio.  Whose  was 'l? 

Cres.  It  is  no  matter,  now  I  have  't  agaia 

I  will  not  meet  with  you  to-morrow  night. 
I  pr'ythee.  Diomed,  vi.sit  me  no  more. 

Ther.  Now  she  sliarpens. — Well  said,  whetstone. 

Dio.  I  shall  have  it. 

Cres.  What,  this? 

Dio.  Ay,  that. 

Cres.  0,  all  you  gods  ! — 0  pretty,  pretty  pledge  ! 
Thy  master  now  lies  thinking  in  his  bed 
Of  thee,  and  me  ;  and  sighs,  and  takes  my  glove, 
And  gives  memorial  dainty  kif-ses  to  it, 
As  I  kiss  thee. — Nay,  do  not  snatch  it  from  me; 
He  that  takes  that  doth  take  my  heart  withal. 

Dio.  I  had  your  heart  before ;  this  follows  it. 

Tro.  I  did  swear  patience. 

Cres.    You  shall   not   have   it,  Diomed;  'faith  you 
shall  not: 
I  '11  give  you  something  else.  [They  strive .' 

Dio.  I  vnll  have  this.     \^niose  was  it  ? 

Cres.  'T  is  no  matter. 

Dio.  Come,  tell  me  whose  it  was. 

Cres.  'T  was  one's  that  lov'd  me  better  than  you  vnW. 
But.  now  you  have  it,  take  ii. 

Dio.  Whose  was  it? 

Cres.  By  all  Diana's  waiting- women  yond', 
And  by  herself,  I  will  not  tell  you  whose. 

Dio.  To-morrow  will  I  wear  it  on  my  helm, 
And  grieve  his  spirit  tJiat  dares  not  challenge  it. 

Tro.  Wert  thou  the  devil,  and  wor'st  it  on  thy  horn, 
It  .should  be  challens'd. 

Cres.  Well,  well,  't  is  done,  't  is  past ; — and  yet  it  is 
not : 
I  will  not  keep  my  word. 

Dio.  Why  then,  farewell. 

Thou  never  shall  mock  Diomed  again. 

Cres.  You  shall  not  go. — One  cannot  speak  a  word. 
But  it  straight  starts  you. 

Dio.  I  do  not  like  this  fooling. 

Ther.  Nor  I,  by  Pluto  :  but  that  that  likes  not  you.' 
pleases  me  best. 

Dio.  What!  shall  I  come?  the  hour? 

Cres.  Ay,  come : — 0  Jove  I — 

Do  come: — I  shall  be  plagu'd. 

Dio.  Farewell  till  then. 

Cres.  Good  night :  I  pr'ythoe,  come. —       [Exit  Dio 
Troilus.  farewell  !  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee, 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah,  poor  our  sex!  this  fault  in  us  I  find. 
The  error  of  our  eye  directs  our  mind. 
What  error  leads  mutt  err:  0  I  then  conclude. 
Minds,  swayd  by  eyes,  arc  full  of  turpitude. 

[Exit  Cressida 

Ther.  A  proof  of  .strength,  she  could  not  publish  niorf 
Unless  she  said.  "  my  mind  is  now  turn'd  whore." 

Ulyss.  Ail  's  done,  my  lord. 

7'ro.  I<  is. 

Ulyss.  Why  stay  we  then' 

Tro.  To  make  a  recordation  to  my  soul 
Of  every  syllable  that  here  was  .-spoke. 
But  if  I  tell  how  these  two  did  co-act. 
Shall  I  not  lie  in  publishing  a  truth? 
Sith  yet  there  is  a  credence  in  my  heart, 


SCENE   m. 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


593 


A.U  esperance  so  obstinately  strong, 

That  doth  invert  th'  attest  of  eyes  and  ears: 

\s  if  those  organs  had  deceptions  functions, 

Created  only  to  calumniate. 

W  as  Cressid  here  ? 

Ulyss.  I  cannot  conjure,  Trojan. 

Tro.  She  was  not,  sure. 

Ulyss.  Most  sure,  she  was. 

Tto.  Why.  my  negation  hath  no  taste  of  madness, 

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

Tro.  Let  it  not  be  believ'd  for  womanhood  ! 
Think  we  had  mothers  :  do  not  give  advantage 
To  stubborn  critics — apt,  without  a  theme, 
For  depravation, — to  square  the  general  sex 
By  Cressid's  rule :  rather  think  this  not  Cressid. 

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

Tro.  Nothing  at  all,  unless  that  this  were  she. 

Ther.  Will  he  .swagger  himself  out  on  's  own  eyes? 

Tro.  This  she?  no;  this  is  Diomed's  Cressida. 
If  beauty  have  a  soul,  this  is  not  she : 
If  souls  siiide  vows,  if  vows  be  sanctimony. 
If  sanctimony  be  the  gods'  delight, 
[f  there  be  rule  in  unity  itself, 
This  is  not  she.     0  madness  of  discourse, 
That  cause  sets  up  with  and  against  itself !' 
Bi-fold  authority  !  where  reason  can  revolt 
Without  perdition,  and  loss  assume  all  reason 
Without  revolt :  this  is,  and  is  not,  Cressid. 
Within  my  soul  there  doth  conduce  a  fight 
Of  this  strange  nature,  that  a  thing  inseparate 
Divides  more  wider  than  the  sky  and  earth  : 
And  yet  the  spacious  breadth  of  tliis  division 
Admits  no  orifice  for  a  point,  as  subtle 
As  Arachne's  broken  woof,  to  enter. 
Instance  ?  0  instance  !  strong  as  Pluto's  gates  . 
Cressid  is  mine,  tied  with  the  bonds  of  heaven  : 
Instance?  0  instance  !  strong  as  heaven  itself; 
The  bonds  of  heaven  are  slipp'd,  dissolv'd,  and  loos'd  ; 
And  with  another  knot,  five-finger-tied. 
The  fractions  of  her  faith,  orts  of  her  love, 
The  fragments,  scraps,  the  bits,  and  greasy  reliques 
Of  her  o'er-eaten  faith,  are  given^  to  Diomed. 

Ulyss.   May  worth/  Troilus  be  half  attach'd 
With  that  which  here  his  passion  doth  express? 

Tro.  Ay,  Greek ;  and  that  shall  be  divulged  well 
In  characters  as  red  as  Mars  his  heart 
Inflam'd  with  Venus :  never  did  young  man  fancy 
With  so  eternal  and  so  fix'd  a  soul. 
Hark,  Greek: — as  much  as  I  do  Cressid  love, 
So  ir.uch  by  weight  hate  I  her  Diomed. 
That  sleeve  is  mine,  that  he  '11  bear  on  his  helm  : 
Were  it  a  casque  composed  by  Vulcan's  skill, 
My  sword  should  bite  it.     Not  the  dreadful  spout. 
Which  shipmen  do  the  hurricano  call, 
Const!  ing'd  m  mass  by  the  almighty  sun, 
Shall  dizzy  with  more  clamour  Neptune's  ear 
In  his  descent,  than  shall  my  prompted  sword 
Falling  on  Diomed. 

Ther.  He  '11  tickle  it  for  his  concupy. 

Tro.  0  Cressid  !  0  false  Cressid  '   false,  false,  false  ! 
I  Let  all  untruths  stand  by  thy  stained  name. 
jAnd  they  '11  seem  glorious. 

'      Uly.ss.  O!  contain  yourself; 

'Vour  passion  draws  ears  hither. 

Enter  .^neas. 

Mne.  I  have  been  seeking  you  this  hour,  my  lord. 


Hector,  by  this,  is  arming  him  in  Troy: 
Ajax,  your  guard,  stays  to  conduct  you  home. 

Tro.  Have  with    you,  prince. — My  courteous  lord, 
adieu. — 
Farewell,  revolted  fair  ! — and.  Diomed. 
Stand  fast,  and  wear  a  castle  on  thy  head  ! 

Ulyss.  I  '11  bring  you  to  the  gates. 

Tro.  Accept  distracted  thanks. 

[Exeunt  Troilus,  .(Eneas,  and  Ulysses. 

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

SCENE  III.— Troy.     Before  Priam's  Palace. 
Enter  Hector  and  Andromache. 

And.  When  was  my  lord  so  mu  ;h  ungently  temper'd 
To  stop  his  ears  against  admonishment? 
Unarm,  unarm,  and  do  not  fight  to-day. 

Hect.   You  train  me  to  offend  you ;  get  you  in' : 
By  air  the  everlasting  aods,  I  '11  go. 

And.  My  dreams  will,  sure,  prove  ominous  to-day. 

Hect.  No  more,  I  say. 

Enter  Cassandra. 

Cas.  Where  is  my  brother  Hector 

And.  Here,  sister ;  arm'd,  and  bloody  in  intent. 
Consort  with  me  in  loud  and  dear  petition  : 
Pursue  we  him  on  knees  ;  for  I  have  dream'3 
Of  bloody  turbulence,  and  this  whole  night 
Hath  nothing  been  but  shapes  and  forms  of  slaughter. 

Cas.  0  !  't  is  true. 

Hect.  Ho!  bid  my  trumpet  sound. 

Cas.  No  notes  of  sally,  for  the  heavens,  sweet  brothty 

Hect.   Begone,  I  say  :  the  gods  have  heard  me  sweat 

Cas.  The  gods  are  deaf  to  hot  and  peevish'  vows . 
They  are  polluted  offerings,  more  abhorr'd 
Than  spotted  livers  in  the  sacrifice. 

And.  O!  be  persuaded:  do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  being  just:  it  is  as  lawful 
For  us  to  give  much  count  to  violent  thefts,* 
And  rob  in  the  behalf  of  charity. 

Cas.  It  is  the  purpose  that  makes  strong  the  vow  ; 
But  vows  to  every  purpose  must  not  hold. 
Unarm,  sweet  Hector. 

Hect.  Hold  you  still,  1  say; 

Mine  honour  keeps  the  weather  of  my  fate : 
Life  every  man  holds  dear ;  but  the  dear  man 
Holds  honour  far  more  precious-dear  than  lite. — 

Enter  Troilus. 
How  now.  young  man  !  mean'st  thou  to  fight  to-day  ' 

And.  Cassandra,  call  my  father  to  persuade. 

[Exit  Cassa.n-dra 

Hect.  No,  'faith,   young   Troilus;  doff  thy  harnes 
youtn ; 
I  am  to-day  i'  the  vein  of  chivahy. 
Let  grow  thy  sinews  till  their  knots  be  strong, 
And  tempt  not  yet  the  brushes  of  the  war. 
j  Unarm  tliee,  go:  and  doubt  thou  not,  brave  bo\. 
I  '11  stand  to-day  for  thee,  and  m^".  and  Tr<  y. 

Tro.  Brother,  you  have  a  vice  tf  mercy  in  you. 
Which  better  fits  a  lion  than  a  man. 

Hect.  What  vice  is  that,  good  Troilus  ?  chide  me  for  i; 

Tro.  When  many  times  the  captive  Greci-'ns  fall, 
Even  in  the  fan  and  wind  of  your  fair  sword, 


^  thyself  :  in  folio.  =  bound  .  in  folio.  '  g-one  :  in  folio.  *  Not  in  folio, 
lo  as  violent  thefts."  The  line  has  been  variously  arranged  by  modern  editors. 
>ne  of  the  best 

2N 


'  The  folio  :  "For  we  would  conntgive  mBc 
lid  give  much,  to  »•  ■•.<  unt  vioienl  fiiefts.,'"  u 


594 


TROILUS   AND  CKESSIDA. 


ACT  V. 


Vou  bid  them  rise,  and  live. 

Hect.  0  !  't  is  fair  play. 

Tro.  Fool's  play,  by  heaven,  Hector. 

Hcct.  How  now !  how  now  ! 

Tro.  For  the  love  of  all  the  god.«, 

Let  's  leave  the  hermit  pity  with  our  mothers, 
.A.nd  when  we  have  our  armours  buckled  on, 
The  venonid  vengeance  ride  upon  our  swords ; 
Spur  them  to  ruthful  work,  rein  them  from  ruth. 

Hect.  Fie,  savage,  fie  ! 

Tro.  Hector,  then  't  is  wars. 

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

Tro.  Who  should  withhold  me? 
Not  fate,  obedience,  nor  the  hand  of  Mars 
Beckoning  with  fiery  truncheon  my  retire  ; 
Not  Priamus  and  Hecuba  on  knees, 
Their  eyes  o'ergalled  with  recourse  of  tears  ; 
Nor  you,  my  brother,  with  your  true  sword  drawn, 
Oppos'd  to  hinder  me.  should  stop  my  way, 
But  by  my  ruin. 

Re-enter  Cassandra  with  Priam. 

Cos.  Lay  hold  upon  him,  Priam,  hold  him  fast : 
He  is  thy  crutch ;  now,  if  thou  lose  thy  stay, 
Thou  on  him  leaning,  and  all  Troy  on  thee, 
Fall  all  together. 

Pri.  Come,  Hector,  come  :  go  back. 

Thy  wife  hath  dreamd,  thy  mother  hath  had  visions, 
Cassandra  doth  foresee;  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt. 
To  tell  thee  that  this  day  is  ominous : 
Therefore,  come  back. 

Hect.  ^neas  is  a-field  : 

And  I  do  stand  engag'd  to  many  Greeks, 
Even  in  the  faith  of  valour,  to  appear 
This  morning  to  them. 

Pri.  Ay,  but  thou  shalt  not  go. 

Hect.  1  must  not  break  my  faith. 
Vou  know  me  dutiful ;   therefore,  dear  sir, 
Let  me  not  shame  respect,  but  give  me  leave 
To  take  that  course  by  your  consent  and  voice. 
Which  you  do  here  forbid  me,  royal  Priam. 

Cos.  0  Priam  !  yield  not  to  him. 

And.  Do  not,  dear  father. 

Hect.  Andromache,  I  am  ofiended  with  you  : 
Upon  the  love  you  bear  me,  get  you  in. 

[Exit  Anpromache. 

Tro.  This  fooli.sh,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cos-  O  farewell,  dear  Hector  ! 

Look,  how  thou  diest !  look,  how  thine  eye  turns  pale  ! 
Look,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents ! 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars  !  how  Hecuba  cries  out  ! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolour  forth  ! 
Behold,  di.straction,  frenzy,  and  amazement. 
Like  witless  antics,  one  another  meet, 
And  all  cry — Hector  !   Hector  's  dead  !  0  Hector  ! 

Tro.  Away  ! — Away  ! — 

Cos.  Farewell. — Yet.  soft ! — Hector,  I  take  my  leave  : 
Thou  dost  thyself  and  all  our  Troy  deceive.  [Exit. 

Hect.  You  are  amaz'd,  my  liege,  at  her  exclaim. 
Go  in,  and  cheer  the  town  :  we  U  forth,  and  fisht ; 
Do  deeds  worth  praise,  and  tell  you  them  at  night. 

Pri.  Farewell :  the  gods  with  safety  stand  about  thee  ! 
[Exmnt  severally  Priam  and  Hector.     Alnntm.-i. 

Tro.  They  are  at  it;  hark  ! — Proud  Diomed,  believe. 


T  come  to  lose  mine  arm,  or  win  my  sieeve.       [Going 
Enter  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Do  you  hear,  my  lord?  do  you  hear? 

Tro.  What  now' 

Pan.  Here  's  a  letter  come  from  yond'  poor  girl. 

[Giving  it. 

Tro.  Let  me  read. 

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

Tro.  Words,  words,  mere  words,  no  matter  from  the 
heart ;  [Tearing  the  letter. 

Tlr  effect  doth  operate  another  way. — 
Go,  wind  to  wind,  there  turn  and  change  together. — 
My  love  with  words  and  air  still  she  feed&, 
But  edifies  another  with  her  deeds*.    [Exeunt  severally 

SCENE   IV.— Between  Troy  and  the  Grecian  Camp 
Alarums:  Excursions.     Enter  Thersites. 

Tlier.  Now  they  are  clapper-clawing  one  another: 
I  '11  go  look  on.  That  dissembling  abominable  A'arlei, 
Diomed,  has  got  that  same  scurvy  doting  foolish  young 
knave's  slee-\-B,  of  Troy  there,  in  his  helm :  I  would 
fain  see  them  meet ;  that  same  young  Trojan  ass,  that 
loves  the  whore  there,  might  send  that  Greekisli 
whoremasterly  villain,  with  the  sleeve,  back  to  the  dis- 
sembling luxurious  drab  of  a  sleeveless  errand.  0'  the 
other  side,  the  policy  of  those  crafty  swearing  rascals. 
— that  stale  old  mouse-eaten  dry  cheese.  Nestor,  and 
that  same  dog-fox,  Ulysses, — is  not  proved  worth  a 
blackberry  : — they  set  me  up  in  policy  that  mongrel 
cur,  Ajax,  against  that  dog  of  as  bad  a  kind,  Achilles: 
and  now  is  the  cur  Ajax  prouder  than  the  cur  Achilles, 
and  will  not  arm  to-day  :  whereupon  the  Grecians 
begin  to  proclaim  barbarism,  and  policy  grows  into  an 
ill  opinion.     Soft  !  here  come  sleeve,  and  sleeveless'. 

[Stands  back.* 
Enter  Diomedes,  Troilvs  following. 

Tro.  Fly  not ;  for  shouldst  thou  take  the  river  Styx, 
I  would  swim  after. 

Dio.  Thou  dost  miscall  retire  : 

I  do  not  fly,  but  advantageous  care 
Withdrew  me  from  the  odds  of  multitude. 
Have  at  thee  ! 

Ther.    Hold    thy    whore,    Grecian  ! — now   for    thy 
whore.  Trojan  ! — now  the  sleeve  !  now  the  sleeveles.s  I* 
[Exeunt  Troilus  and  Diomedes,  fighting 
Enter  Hector. 

Hect.  What  art  thou.  Greek  ?  art  thou  for  Hectoi's 
match  ? 
Art  thou  of  blood,  and  honour? 

[Dragging  T hk'R.  fonmrd. 

Ther.  No,  no; — I  am  a  rascal;  a  scurvy  isiliny 
knave,  a  very  filthy  rogue. 

Hect.  I  do  believe  thee  : — live.  [Ei*i. 

Ther.  God-a-mercy,  that  thou  wilt  believe  me  :  but 


a  plairue  break  thv  neck,  for  frishtm" 


What  8 


;  become  of  the  wenching  rogues  ?  I  think,  tney  have 
Bw.allowed  one  another:  I  would  laugh  at  that  miracle;, 
yet,  in  a  sort,  lechery  eats  itself.     I  '11  seek  them. 

I      '  '  [Etitl 


Not: 


*  The  f}lio  &ddi : 


Pan.  Why,  but  hear  you  ' 
Tro.  Hence,  brother  lackey  !  ignomy  and  shame, 
Pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy  name. 


Aj  tkoj  ooour  again  near  tk*  clot*  of  the  play,  they  are  omitted  in  this  place,  by  most  mod.  eds.      »  th'  other.     ♦  Not  in  f.  •• 
r.  e.      •  Not  i»   f  e 


SCENE  vm. 


TEOILUS  AND  CEESSIDA. 


595 


SCENE  v.— The  Same. 
Enter  Diomedes  and  a  Servant. 

Dio.  Go.  go,  my  servant,  taJce  thou  Troilus'  horse  : 
Present  the  fair  steed  to  my  lady  Cressid. 
FelloM-,  commend  my  service  to  her  heauty : 
Tell  her,  t  have  chastis'd  the  amorous  Trojan, 
And  am  her  knight  by  proof. 

Serv.  I  go,  my  lord.     [Exit  Servant 

Enter  Agamemnon. 

Agam.  Renew,  renew !     The  fierce  Polydamus 
flath  beat  dowai  Menon :  bastard  Margarelon 
Hath  Doreus  prisoner. 

And  stands  colossus- wise,  waving  his  beam, 
I'pon  the  pashed  corses  of  the  kings 
Epistrophus  and  Cedius  :  Polixenes  is  slain  ; 
Amphimachus,  and  Thoas,  deadly  hurt ; 
Patroclus  ta'en.  or  slain ;  and  Palamedes 
Sore  hurt  and  bruis'd  :  the  dreadful  Sagittary 
Appals  our  numbers.     Haste  we,  Diomed. 
To  reinforcement,  or  we  perish  all. 
Enter  Nestor. 

Nest.  Go,  bear  Patroclus'  body  to  Achilles, 
And  bid  the  snail-pac'd  Ajax  arm  for  shame. — 
There  is  a  thousand  Hectors  in  the  field  : 
.\ow,  here  he  fights  on  Galathe  his  horse. 
And  there  lacks  work ;   anon,  he  's  there  afoot. 
And  there  they  fly,  or  die,  like  scaled  sculls' 
Before  the  belching  whale  :  then,  is  he  yonder. 
And  there  the  straw^''  Greeks,  ripe  for  his  edge, 
Fall  dowTi  before  him,  like  the  mower's  swath. 
Here,  there,  and  every  where,  he  leaves,  and  takes ; 
Dexterity  so  obeying  appetite. 
That  what  he  will,  he  does  ;  and  3oes  so  much. 
That  proof  is  call'd  impossibility. 
Enter  Ulysses. 

Uly.ss.  0,  courage,  courage,  princes  !  great  Achilles 
[s  arming,  weeping,  cursing,  vowing  vengeance. 
Patroclus'  wounds  have  rous'd  his  drowsy  blood. 
Together  with  his  mangled  Myrmidons, 
That  noseless,  handless,  hack'd  and  chipp'd,  come  to 

him, 
Cr^-ing  on  Hector.     Ajax  hath  lost  a  friend. 
And  foams  at  mouth,  and  he  is  arm'd,  and  at  it. 
Roaring  for  Troilus :  who  hath  done  to-day 
Mad  and  fantastic  execution, 
Engaging  and  redeeming  of  himself. 
With  such  a  careless  force,  and  forceless  care. 
As  if  that  luck,  in  very  spite  of  cunning, 
Bade  him  win  all. 

Enter  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Troilus  !  thou  coward  Troilus  !  [Exit. 

Dio.  Ay,  there,  there. 

Nest.  So,  so,  we  draw  together. 

Enter  Achilles 
Achil.  Where  is  this  Hector? 

Come,  come,  thou  boy-queller,  show  thy  face ; 
Know  what  it  is  to  meet  Achilles  angry. 
Hector  !  where  's  Hector?     I  will  none  but  Hector. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  Ajax. 
Ajax.  Irjilus  !  thou  coward  Troilus,  show  thy  head  ! 

Enter  Diomedes. 
THu.  Troilus,  I  say  !  where 's  Troilus  ? 
Ajax.  What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Dio.  I  would  correct  him. 

Ajax.  Were   [  the  general,  thou  shouldst  have  my 
office, 

tkoai  of  fish       '  straying  :  in  folio       '  Be  a  looker  on. 


Ere  that  correction.— Troilus,  I  say  !   what,  Troilus ! 
Enter  Troilus. 
Tro.  0,  traitor  Diomed  ! — turn  thy  false  face^  thou 
traitor. 
And  pay  the  life  thou  ow'st  me  for  n^y  horse. 
Dio.  Ha  !  art  thou  there  ? 
Ajax.  1  '11  fight  with  him  alone  :  stand,  Diomed. 
Dio.  He  is  my  prize  ;  I  will  not  look  upon^ 
Tro.  Come  both,  you  cogging*  Greeks ;  have  at  yo 
both.  [Exeunt  fighiirtc 

Enter  Hector. 
Hect.  Yea,  Troilus.     O  '  well  fought,  my  youngcs* 
brother 

Enter  Achilles 
Ackil.  Now  dc   I  see  thee.     Ha ! — Have    it   ibee 

Hector 
Hect.  Pause,  if  thou  wilt 

Achil.  I  do  disdain  thy  courtesy,  proud  Trojt„n. 
Be  happy  that  my  arms  are  out  of  use  : 
My  rest  and  negligence  befriend  thee  now, 
But  thou  anon  shalt  hear  of  me  again ; 
Till  when,  go  seek  thy  fortune,  [Extf 

Hect.  Fare  thee  well. 

I  would  have  been  much  more  a  fresher  man. 
Had  I  expected  thee. — How  now,  my  brother  ! 
Re-enter  Troilus. 
Tro.  Ajax  hath  ta'en  ^Eneas :  shall  it  be  ? 
No,  by  the  flame  of  yonder  glorious  heaven. 
He  shall  not  carry  him  :  I  '11  be  taken  too, 
Or  bring  him  off. — Fate,  hear  me  what  I  say ! 
I  reck  not  though  P  end  my  life  to-day.  [Exit 

Enter  one  in  goodly  Armour. 
Hect.  Stand,  stand,  thou  Greek  :  thou  art  a  goodly 
mark. — 
No  !  wilt  thou  not  ? — T  like  thy  armour  well  ; 
I  '11  frush*  it,  and  unlock  the  rivets  all. 
But  I  '11  be  master  of  it. — Wilt  thou  not,  beast,  abide 
Why  then,  fly  on,  I  '11  hunt  thee  for  thy  hide.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  Vn.— The  Same. 
Enter  Achilles,  with  Myrmidons. 
Achil.  Come  here  about  me,  you  my  Myrmidons  ; 
Mark  what  I  say. — Attend  me  where  I  wheel  : 
Strike  not  a  stroke,  but  keep  yourselves  in  breath  ; 
And  when  I  have  the  bloody  Hector  found. 
Empale  him  with  your  weapons  round  about ; 
In  fellest  manner  execute  your  aims'. 
Follow  me,  sirs,  and  my  proceedings  eye. — 
It  is  decreed — Hector  the  great  must  die.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  VIII.— The  Same. 
Enter  Menelaus  and  Pa3is,  fighting :  then,  Thersitks 

TJier.  The  cuckold  and  the  cuckold-maker  are  at  it 
Now,  bull  !  now,  dog  !  'Loo,  Paris,  'loo  !  now,  m 
double-henned  sparrow  !  'loo,  Paris,  'loo  !  The  bul 
has  the  game  : — 'ware  horns,  ho  ! 

[Exeunt  Paris  and  Menklaus 
Enter  Margarelon. 

Mar.  Turn,  slave,  and  fight. 

Ther.  What  art  thou  ? 

3Iar.  A  bastard  son  of  Priam's. 

Ther.  I  am  a  bastard  too.  I  love  bastards ;  I  am  a 
bastard  begot,  bastard  instructed,  ba.«tard  in  mind,  bas- 
tard in  valour,  in  every  thing  iilegitimate.  One  bear 
will  not  bite  another,  and  wherefore  should  one  bas- 
tard ?  Take  heed,  the  quarrel 's  most  ominous  to  us  : 
if  the  son  of  a  whore  fight  for  a  whore,  he  tempts 
judgment.     Farewell,  bastard. 

Maf.  The  devil  take  thee,  coward  !  [Exeunt 

Cheating.      »  thou  :  in  folio.      •  Break  «.?  pieces-        arm  :  in  folio 


1^ 


596 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


SCENE  IX —Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
En'cr  Hector. 
Hcct.  Most  putrificd  core,  so  fair  without, 
Tny  goodly  armour  thus  hath  cost  thy  life. 
.Vow  is  my  days  work  done  ;  I  '11  take  good  breath  : 
Rest,  sword  :  thou  hast  thy  fill  of  blood  and  death  ! 

[Puts  off  his  Hehnct,  and  lays  down  his  Sword. 
Enter  Achili.es  and  Mijrmuions. 
Achil.  Look,  Hector,  how  the  sun  begins  to  set ; 
How  ugly  night  comes  breathing  at  his  heels  : 
Even  with  the  vail'  and  darking  of  the  sun, 
lb  c.'osc  the  day  up.  Hector's  life  is  done. 
Hed.  I  am  unarni'd  :  forego  this  vantage,  Greek. 
Achil.  Strike,  fellows,  strike  !  this  is  the  man  I  seek. 
[Hector  i^  slain. 
•80,  nion.  fall  thou  next  !*  now,  Troy,  sink  down ; 
Here  lies  thy  heart,  thy  sinews,  and  thy  bone. — 
On,  Myrmidons  :  and  cry  you  all  amain, 
Achille,s  hath  the  mighty  Hector  slain. 

[A  Retreat  sounded. 
Hark  !  a  retire*  upon  our  Grecian  part. 

Myr.  The  Trojan  trumpets  sound  the  like,  my  lord. 
Achil.  The  dra2on\\'ing  of  night  o'erspreads  the  earth, 
.\nd.  stickler*  like,  the  armies  separates. 
My  half-supp'd  sword,  that  frankly  would  have  fed, 
Pleas'd  with  this  dainty  bit,*  thus  goes  to  bed. — 

[Sheathes  his  Sword. 
Oome,  tie  his  body  to  my  horse's  tail ; 
Along  the  field  1  vnW  the  Trojan  trail.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  X.— The  Some. 

Enter   Aoamemnon,  Ajax,  Menelais,  Nestor,  Dio- 

MEDEs.  and  others,  marching.    Shouts  within. 

Agam.  Hark  !  hark  !  what  shout  is  that  ? 

N'st.  Peace,  drums ! 

[Voices  Wtthir.  \  Achilles  ! 

Achilles  !   Hector's  slain  !   Achilles  ! 

Dio.  The  bruit  is,  Hector  's  slain,  and  by  Achilles. 

Ajax.  If  it  be  so,  yet  bragless  let  it  be  : 
'Jreat  Hector  was  a  man  as  good  as  he. 

Agam.  March  patiently  along. — Let  one  be  sent 
To  pray  Achilles  see  us  at  our  tent. — 
tf  in  his  death  the  gods  have  us  befriended, 
(aieat  Troy  is  ours,  and  our  sharp  wars  are  ended. 

[Eoceunt,  marching. 

SCENE  XT.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  i^NEAS  and  Trojan  Forces. 
jEne.  Stand,  ho  !  yet  are  we  masters  of  the  field, 
"fenrer  go  home  :  here  starve  we  out  the  night. 
Enter  Troilus. 
Tro.  Hector  is  slain. 

^11-  Hector  ?— The  gods  forbid  ! 

Tro.  He  'b  dead  ;  and  at  the  murderer's  horse's  tail. 
In  beastly  sort  dragg'd  through  the  shameful  field. — 


Frown  on,  you  heavenB,  effect  your  rage  with  spee»l 
Sit,  gods,  upon  your  thrones,  and  smile  at  Troy  ' 
I  say,  at  once  let  your  brief  plagues  be  mercy, 
And  linger  not  our  sure  destructions  on  ! 

^ne.  My  lord,  you  do  discomfort  all  the  host. 
Tro.  You  understand  n.e  not.  that  tell  me  bo. 
I  do  not  speak  of  flight,  of  fear,  of  death  ; 
But  dare  all  imminence,  that  gods  and  men 
Address  their  dangers  in.     Hector  is  gone  ! 
Who  shall  tell  Priam  so,  or  Hecuba  ? 
Let  him,  that  will  a  screech-owl  aye  be  call'd, 
Go  in  to  Troy,  and  say  there — Hector  's  dead : 
There  is  a  word  will  Priam  turn  to  stone, 
Make  wells  and  Niobes  of  the  maids  and  wives. 
Cold*  statues  of  the  youth  ;  and,  in  a  word, 
Scare  Troy  out  of  itself.     But,  inarch,  away : 
Hector  is  dead  ;  there  is  no  more  to  say. 
Stay  yet. — You  vile  abominable  tent-s. 
Thus  proudly  pight'  upon  our  Phrygian  plains, 
Let  Titan  rise  as  early  as  he  dare, 
I  'II  through  and  through  you  ! — And,  thou  great-siz'd 

coward. 
No  space  of  earth  shall  sunder  our  two  hates  : 
I  '11  haunt  thee  like  a  wicked  conscience  .still. 
That  mouldeth  goblins  swift  as  frenzy's  thought*. — 
Strike  a  free  march  to  Troy  ! — with  comfort  go  : 
Hope  of  revenge  shall  hide  our  inward  woe. 

[Exeunt  ^Eneas  and  Trojan  forces 
As  Troilus  is  going  out,  enter,  from  the  other  side, 

Pandarus. 
Pan.  But  hear  you.  hear  you  ! 
Tro.  Hence,  brothel-lackey''  !  ignomy  and  shame 
Pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy  name! 
I  [Exit  Troilus. 

I  Pan.  A  goodly  medicine  for  mine  aching  bones  ! — 
I  [Left  alone,  let  him  say  this  by  way  of  Epilogue.*]  0 
[world!  world!  world!  thus  is  the  poor  agent  despised. 
jO.  traitors  and  bawds,  how  earnestly  are  you  set '» 
I  work,  and  how  ill  requited  !  why  should  our  endeavour 
be  so  loved'",  and  the  performance  so  loathed?  wbai. 
verse  for  it?  what  instance  for  it? — Let  me  see. — 

"  Full  merrily  the  humble-bee  doth  sing, 
Till  he  hath  lost  his  honey,  and  his  sting  ; 
!  And  being  once  subdued  in  armed  tail, 

j  Sweet  honey  a      sweet  notes  together  fail."— 

Good  traders  in  the  flesh,  set  this  in  your  painted  cloths  '' 

As  many  as  be  here  of  Pander's  Hall, 
Your  eyes,  half  out,  weep  out  at  Pandar's  fall ; 
Or,  if  you  cannot  weep,  yet  give  some  groans. 
Though  not  for  me.  yet  for  your  aching  bones. 
Brethren,  and  si.sters,  of  the  hold-door  trade, 
Some  two  months  hence  my  will  shall  here  be  mad*- 
It  should  be  now.  but  that  my  fear  is  this, — 
Some  galled  goose  of  Winchester"  would  hiss. 
Till  then  I  '11  sweat,  and  seek  about  for  eases  ; 
And  at  that  time  bequeath  you  my  diseases.         [ExU 


Ltnpering.      »  Not  in  folio 
ftt«rmi 


'  retreat  :  in  folio. 


,        ,         . ,     .  t    ,      ,.  *  One  yr\io  stands  by  in  a  contest,  to  part  the  combatants  when  vict  nr  conM  bs 

terminf.l  without  bloodshed.  He  carried  a  stick  for  this  purpose.  »  bed  :  in  folio.  •  Cool  :  in  folio.  '  Pitrh'-I  »  broke.,  I'ackeT  :  »D 
■  *■  .  *7"'» '^"^^<^"°n  '»  "ojj"  •■  "desired:  in  folio.  "  Used  like  tapestry,  to  corer  the  walls  of  rooms.  Tb»y  often  had  "  wise  *awi" 
TMCnbed  upop  theiu.      i>  The  neighborhood  of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester's  palace  was  in  bad  repute 


I 


COEIOLAIslJS 


DRAMATIS     PERSONiE. 


Caius  Marcius  CcRiOLANUs,  a  noble  Roman. 

Tixrs  Lartius,  )  ^         ,         •    i.  iu    ^r  i    • 
p  '  >  Generals  against  the  Volscians. 

Menenius  Agrippa,  Friend  to  Coriolanus. 
SiciNius   Velutus,      ^^.^^^^^  ^f  ^^^  p       ^^ 
Junius  Brutus,       j  '^ 

Young  Marcius,  Son  to  Coriolanus. 
A  Roman  Herald. 

TuLLUs  AuFiDius,  General  of  the  Volscians. 
Lieutenant  io  Aufidius. 


Conspirators  with  .^  ».idiuB. 
A  Citizen  of  Antium. 
Two  Volscian  Guards. 

VoLUMNiA.  Mother  to  Coriolanus. 
Virgilia,  Wife  to  Coriolanus, 
Valeria,  Friend  to  Virgilia. 
Gentlewoman,  attending  on  Virgilia 

Roman  and  Volscian  Senators,  PatriciaiL«,  itdil'^- 
Lictors,  Soldiers,  Citizens,  Messengers,  Ser- 
vants to  Aufidius,  and  other  Attendants 


SCENE,  partly  in  Rome;  and  partly  in  the  Territories  of  the  Volscians  and  Antiates. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.— Rome.     A  Street. 
Writer  a  Company  of  mutinous  Citizens^  with  Staves, 

Clubs,  and  other  W&apons. 
1  Cit.  Before  we  proceed  any  farther,  hear  me  speak. 
All.  Speak,  speak. 

1  Cit.  You  are  all  resolved  rather  to  die,  than  to  famish? 
All.  Re.solved,  resolved. 

1  Cit.  First  you  know,  Caius  Marcius  is  chief  enemy 
to  the  people. 
All     We  know  't,  we  know  't. 

1  Cit.  Let  us  kill  him,  and  we  '11  have  corn  at  our 
own  price.     Is  't  a  verdict? 

All.  No  more  talking  on 't ;  letitbedone.  Away,  away! 

2  Cit.  One  word,  good  citizens. — 

1  Cit.  We  are  accounted  poor  citizens  ;  the  patri- 
cians good.  What  authority  surfeits  on,  would  relieve 
us :  if  they  would  yield  us  but  the  superfluity,  while  it 
were  wholesome,  we  might  guess  they  relieved  us 
humanely ;  but  they  think,  we  are  too  dear  :  the  lean- 
ness that  afflicts  us.  the  abjectness'  of  our  misery,  is  as  an 
inventory  to  particularize  their  abundance  ;  our  suffer- 
ance is  a  gain  to  them. — Let  us  revenge  this  with  our 
pikes,  ere  we  become  rakes :  for  the  gods  know,  I 
speak  this  in  hunger  for  bread,  not  in  thirst  for  revenge. 

2  Cit.  Would  you  proceed  e.specially  against  Caius 
Marcius  ? 

All.  Against  him  first :  he  's  a  very  dog  to  the  com- 
monalty. 

2  Cit.  Consider  you  what  services  he  has  done  for 
Ills  country  ? 

1  Cit.^  Very  well ;  and  could  be  content  to  give  him 
good  report  for 't,  but  that  he  pays  himself  with  being 
proud. 

2  Cit,  Nay,  but  speak  not  maliciously. 

I      1  Cit.  I  say  unto  you,  what  he  hath  done  famously, 

i  h«  did  it  to  that  end  :    though   soft-conscienced   men 

K  can  be  content  to  say  it  was  for  his  country,  he  did  it 

F  to  please  his  mother,  and  partly  to  be  proud ;  which  he 

I     "8,  even  to  the  altitude  of  his  virtue. 

'  object :  i«  f.  e       >  All. :  in  foho. 


2  Cit.  What  he  cannot  help  in  his  nature,  you  acooam 
a  vice  in  him.     You  must  in  no  way  say  he  is  covetous. 

1  Cit.  If  I  must  not,  I  need  not  be  barren  of  accusa- 
tions :  he  hath  faults,  with  surplus,  to  tire  in  repetition. 
[Shouts  within.]  What  shouts  are  these  ?  The  other 
side  o'  the  city  is  risen  :  why  stay  we  prating  here  ?  to 
the  Capitol  ! 

All.  Come,  come. 

1  Cit.  Soft !  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Menenius  Agrippa. 

2  Cit.  Worthy  Menenius  Agrippa  ;  one  that  hath 
always  loved  the  people. 

1  Cit.  He 's  one  honest  enough  :  would,  all  the  reel 
were  so  ! 

Men.  What  work 's,  my  countrymen,  in  hand  ?  Where 
go  you 
With  bats  and  clubs  ?  The  matter  ?  Speak,  I  pray  you. 

2  Cit.  Our  business  is  not  unknown  to  the  senate  : 
they  have  had  inkling  this  fortnight  what  we  intend 
to  do,  which  now  we  '11  show  'em  in  deeds.  They  say. 
poor  suitors  have  strong  breaths  :  they  shall  know,  we 
have  strong  arms  too. 

Men.  Why,  masters,  my  good  friends,  mine  honeto 
neighbours, 
Will  you  undo  yourselves? 

2  Cit.  We  cannot,  sir ;  we  are  undone  already. 

3Ien.  I  tell  you,  friends,  most  cliaritable  care 
Have  the  patricians  of  you.     For  your  wants, 
Your  suffering  in  this  dearth,  you  may  a.«  well 
Strike  at  the  heaven  with  your  staves.  a,s  lift  thera 
Against  the  Roman  state ;  whose  course  will  on 
The  way  it  takes,  cracking  ten  thousand  curbs 
Of  more  strong  link  asunder,  than  can  ever 
Appear  'n  your  impediment.     For  the  dearth, 
The  gods,  not  the  patricians,  make  it ;  and 
Your  knees  to  them,  not  arms,  must  help.     Alack  ! 
You  are  transported  by  calamity. 
Thither  where  more  attends  you  ;  and  you  slander 
The  helms  o'  the  state,  who  care  for  you  like  father, 
When  you  curse  them  as  enemies. 

597 


598 


COmOLANUS. 


ACT    L 


8  Ctt.  Care  for  us  ?_True,  indeed  !— They  ne'er 
mred  lor  us  yet.  Suflor  us  to  rarnisli.  and  their  store- 
houses  craiiuiied  with  grain  ;  make  edicts  for  usury,  to 
Mipporl  usurers ;  repeal  daily  any  wholesome  act  esta- 
klisiied  against  the  rich,  and  provide  more  piercing 
statutes  daily  to  chain  up  and  restrain  the  poor.  If 
the  wars  eat  us  not  up,  tiiey  will ;  and  there  's  all  the 
love  they  bear  us. 

Mai.  Either  you  must 
Confers  youniclves  wondrous  malicious, 
Or  be  aci-iis  d  of  folly.     I  shall  tell  you 
A  pretty  talo  :  it  may  be,  you  have  heard  it; 
But,  since  it  serves  my  purpose,  I  will  veature 
To  scale'    t  a  little  more. 

2  Ctt.  Well, 
I  "11  hear  it.  sir:  yet  you  must  not  think 
To  fob  ofl'  our  disgraces  with  a  tale ; 
But,  an  "t  please  you,  deliver. 

Men.  There  was  a  time,  when  all  the  body's  members 
flebelld  against  the  belly  ;  thus  accused  it : — 
That  only  like  a  gulf  it  did  remain 
I'  the  midst  o'  the  body,  idle  and  unactive, 
Still  cupboarding  the  viand,  never  bearing 
Like  labour  with  the  re^^t ;  where  th'  other  instruments 
Did  see,  and  hear,  devise,  instruct,  walk,  feel, 
And.  mutually  participate,  did  minister 
Unto  the  appetite,  and  affection  common 
Of  the  whole  body.     The  belly  answered. — 

2  Ctt.  Well,  sir.  what  answer  made  the  belly  ? 

Men.  Sir.  I  shall  tell  you. — With  a  kind  of  .smile. 
Which  ne'er  came  from  the  lungs,  but  even  thus, 
'For,  look  you,  I  may  make  the  belly  smile, 
As  well  as  speak)  it  tauntingly  replied 
To  the  discontented  members,  the  mutinous  parts 
That  envied  his  receipt ;  even  so  most  fitly 
As  you  malign  our  senators,  for  that 
They  are  not  such  as  you. 

2  CU.  Your  belly's  answer  ?     What  ! 

The  kingly  crowned  head,  the  vigilant  eye, 
The  counsellor  heart,  the  arm  our  soldier. 
Our  steed  the  leg,  the  tongue  our  trumpeter. 
With  other  muniments  and  petty  helps 
In  this  our  fabric,  if  that  they — 

Men.  What  then  ? 

'Fore  me.  this  fellow  speaks  ! — what  then  ?  what  then  ? 

2  Cit.  Should  by  the  cormorant  belly  be  restrain'd. 
Who  is  the  sink  o'  the  body. — 

Mm.  Well,  what  then  ? 

2  CU.  The  former  agents,  if  they  did  complain, 
What  could  the  belly  answer  ? 

Men.  I  will  tell  you, 

If  you  "li  be-stow  a  small  (of  what  you  have  little) 
Patience  a  while,  you  'II  hear  the  belly's  answer. 

2  Cit    Y'  are  long  about  it. 

Men.  Note  me  this,  good  friend  ; 

our  moKt  grave  belly  was  deliberate. 
Not  iaj*h  like  his  accusers,  and  thus  answer'd  : — 
"  True  is  it,  my  incorporate  friends."  quoth  he. 

That  I  receive  the  general  food  at  first. 
Which  you  do  live  upfin  ;  ami  fit  it  is, 
Becaufe  I  am  the  store-house,  and  the  shop 
Of  the  whole  body  :  but  if  you  do  remember, 
I  send  it  throush  the  rivers  of  your  blood, 
Even  to  the  court,  the  heart,  the  .senate,  brain  ;* 
And  through  the  ranks*  and  offices  of  man  : 
The  strongest  nerves,  and  small  inferior  veins. 
From  me  receive  that  natural  competency 
Whereby  they  live.     And  though  that  all  at  once, 
Vou,  my  gooa  friends,"  this  says  the  belly,  mark  inc. — 

Th<><)b«.ld  rewU  •  i.aJ»      »1    the  ital  o   the  biain  :  in  f.  e.     'cranks; 


2  Cit.  Ay,  sir;  well,  well. 

Men.  "  Though  all  at  once  cannot 

See  what  I  do  deliver  out  to  each, 
Yet  I  can  make  my  audit  up,  that  all 
From  ine  do  back  receive  the  flour  of  all. 
And  leave  me  but  the  bran."     What  say  you  to 't  ? 

2  Cit.  It  was  an  answer.     How  apply  you  this  ? 

Men.  The  senators  of  Rome  are  tliis  good  belly, 
And  you  the  mutinous  members  :  for  examine 
Their  counsels,  and  their  cares  ;  digest  things  rightiy 
Touching  the  weal  o'  the  common,  you  shall  find. 
No  public  benefit  which  you  receive, 
But  it  proceeds,  or  comes,  from  them  to  you. 
And  no  way  from  yourselves. — What  do  you  think. 
You,  the  great  toe  of  this  assembly? — 

2  Cit.  I  the  great  toe  ?     Wliy  the  great  foe  ' 

Men.  For  that  being  one  o'  the  lowest,  basest,  poorest. 
Of  this  most  wise  rebellion,  thou  go'st  foremost : 
Thou  rascal,  that  art  worst  in  blood  to  run, 
Leadst  first  to  win  some  vantage. — 
But  make  you  ready  your  stiff  bats  and  clubs, 
Rome  and  her  rats  are  at  the  point  of  battle  : 
The  one  side  must  have  bale.* — Hail,  noble  MarciuB ! 
Enter  Caics  Marcils.  i 

Mar.  Thanks. — What 's  the  matter,  you  di.<sentious 
rogues. 
That  rubbing  the  poor  itch  of  your  opinion, 
Make  yourselves  scabs  ? 

2  Cit.  We  have  ever  your  good  word. 

Mar.  He  that  will  give  good  words  to  ye.  will  flatter 
Beneath  abhorring. — What  would  you  have,  you  curs, 
That  like  nor  peace,  nor  war  ?  the  one  affrights  you , 
The  other  makes  you  proud.     He  that  trosts  to  you, 
W^here  he  should  find  you  lions,  finds  you  hares  ; 
Where  foxes,  gee.se  :  you  are  no  surer,  no, 
Than  is  the  coal  of  fire  upon  the  ice, 
Or  hailstone  in  the  sun.     Your  virtue  is 
To  make  him  worthy,  whose  offence  suddues  him. 
And  curse  that  justice  did  it.     Who  deserves  greatnesn. 
Deserves  your  hate  ;  and  your  aflections  are 
A  sick  man's  appetite,  who  desires  most  that 
Which  would  increase  his  evil.     He  that  depends 
Upon  your  favours  swims  with  fins  of  lead. 
A  nd  hews  down  oaks  with  rushes.  Hang  ye  !  Trust  ye ' 
With  every  minute  you  do  change  your  mind, 
And  call  him  noble,  that  was  now  your  hate. 
Him  vile,  that  was  your  garland.     What  "s  the  matter 
That  in  these  several  places  of  the  city 
You  cry  against  the  noble  senate,  who. 
Under  the  gods,  keep  you  in  awe,  which  else 
Would  feed  on  one  another  ? — What 's  their  seeking  ? 

Men.  For  corn  at  their  own  rates  ;  whereof,  they  laj 
The  city  is  well  stor'd. 

Mar.  Hang  'em  !     They  say  ? 

They  '11  sit  by  the  fire,  and  presume  to  know 
What 's  done'i'  the  Capitol ;  who  's  like  to  rise, 
Who  thrives,  and  who  declines;  side  factions,  anc  - 

out 
Conjectural  marriages  ;  making  parties  strong, 
And  feebling  such  as  stand  not  in  their  liking 
Below  their  cobbled  shoes.     They  say,  there  fi  grai 

enough  ? 
Would  the  nobility  lay  aside  their  ruth, 
And  let  me  u.se  my  sword,  I  'd  make  a  quarry' 
With  thousands  of  these  quarter'd  slaves,  as  high 
As  I  could  pick'  my  lance.  ^ 

Men.  Nay.  these  are  all  most'  thorouchly  persua.. 
For  though  abundantly  they  lack  discretion, 
Yet  are  they  passing  cowardly.     But,  I  beseech  y^ 

in  f  e.     *  Evil      ^  Heap  of  lead  game .     *  Throw,     'almortir.  ■ 


SOENE  n. 


COEIOLANUS. 


599 


What  says  uhe  other  troop  ? 

Mar.  They  are  dissolved.     Hang  'em  ! 

They  said,  they  were  an-hungry ;   sigh'd   forth   pro- 
verbs.— 
That  hunger  broke  stone  walls  ;  that  dogs  must  eat ; 
That  meat  was  made  for  mouths  ;  that  the  gods  sent  not 
Com  for  the  rich  men  only. — With  these  shreds 
They  vented  their  complainings  :  which  being  answer'd, 

nd  a  petition  granted  them,  a  strange  one, 
(To  break  the  heart  of  generosity. 
And  make  bold  power  look  pale)  they  threw  their  caps 
As  they  would  hang  them  on  the  horns  o'  the  moon, 
Shouting  their  exultation'. 

Men.  What  it  granted  them  ? 

Mar.  Five  tribunes,  to  defend  their  vulgar  wisdoms, 
Of  their  own  choice  :  one  's  Junius  Brutus, 
Sicinius  Velutus,  and  I  know  not — 'Sdeath  ! 
The  rabble  should  have  flr-st  unroof'd  the  city, 
Ere  so  prevail'd  with  me  :  it  will  in  time 
Win  upon  power,  and  throw  forth  greater  themes 
For  insurrection's  arguing. 

Men.  This  is  strange. 

Mar.  Go ;  get  you  home,  you  fragments  ! 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Where  's  Caius  Marcius  ? 

Mar.  Here.     What 's  the  matter  ? 

Mess.  The  news  is,  sir,  the  Volsces  are  in  arms. 

Mar.  I  am  glad  on  't :  then,  we  shall  have  means  to 
vent 
Our  musty  superfluity. — See,  our  best  elders. 
Enter  Cominius,  Titus  L.\rtius,  and  other  Senators ; 
Junius  Brutus,  and  Sicinius  Velutus. 

1  Sen.  Marcius,  't  is  true  that  you  have  lately  told  us ; 
The  Volsces  are  in  arms. 

Mar.  They  have  a  leader, 

luUus  Aufidius,  that  will  put  you  to  't. 
f  sin  in  envying  his  nobility. 
And,  were  I  any  thing  but  what  I  am, 
Would  wish  me  only  he. 

Com.  You  have  fought  together. 

Mar.  Were  half  to  half  the  world  by  th'  ears,  and  he 
Upon  my  party,  I  'd  revolt,  to  make 
Only  my  wars  with  him  :  he  is  a  lion 
That  I  am  proud  to  hunt. 

1  Sen.  Then,  worthy  Marcius, 

Attend  upon  Cominius  to  these  wars. 

Com.  It  is  your  former  promise. 

Mar.  Sir.  it  is ; 

And  I  am  constant. — Titus  Lartius,  thou 
Shalt  see  me  once  more  strike  at  Tullus'  face. 
What!  art  thou  stiff?  stand'st  out? 

Tit.  No,  Caius  Marcius- 

f  '11  lean  upon  one  crutch,  and  fight  -with  the  other, 
Ere  stay  behind  this  business. 

Men.  O.  true  bred  ! 

1  Sen.  Your  company  to  the  Capitol;  where,  I  know, 
Our  greatest  friends  attend  us. 

Tit.  Lead  you  on  : 

Follow,  Cominius  ;  we  must  follow  you, 
^ight  worthy  your  priority. 
j    Com.  Noble  Marcius  I 

1  Sen.  Hence  !     To  your  homes  !  be  sone. 

[To  the  Citizens. 

Mar.  Nay,  let  them  follow, 

^tie  Volsces  have  much  corn :  take  these  rats  thither, 
'o  gnaw  their  garners. — Worshipful  mutineers, 
'our  valour  puts  well  forth  :  pray,  follow. 
i«i  [Exeunt  Senators,  Com.  Mar.  Tit.  and  Menen. 

Ml  Citizens  steal  away. 


Sic.  Was  ever  man  so  proud  as  is  this  Marcius? 

Bru.  He  has  no  equal. 

Sic.  When  we  were  chosen  tribunes  for  the  people, — 

Bni.  Mark'd  you  his  lip,  and  eyes  ? 

Sic.  Nay,  but  his  taunts 

Bru.  Being  mov'd,  he  will  not  spare  to  gird*  the  goda 

Sic.  Bemock  the  mode.st  moon. 

Bru.  The  present  wars  devour  him  :  he  is  gro\s-n 
Too  proud  to  be  so  valiant. 

Sic.  Such  a  nature, 

Tickled  with  good  success,  disdains  the  shadow 
Which  he  treads  on  at  noon.     But  I  do  wonder. 
His  insolence  can  brook  to  be  commanded 
Under  Cominius. 

Bru.  Fame,  at  the  which  he  aim». 

In  whom  already  he  is  well  grac'd,  cannot 
Better  be  held,  nor  more  attain'd,  than  by 
A  place  below  the  first ;  for  what  miscarries 
Shall  be  the  general's  fault,  though  he  perform 
To  tiie  utmost  of  a  man ;  and  giddy  censure 
Will  then  cry  out  of  Marcius,  "  0,  if  he 
Had  borne  the  business  !" 

Sic.  Besides,  if  things  go  well. 

Opinion,  that  so  sticks  on  Marcius,  shall 
Of  his  demerits'  rob  Cominius. 

Bru.  Come: 

Half  all  Cominius'  honours  are  to  Marcius, 
Though  Marcius  earn'd  them  not :  and  all  his  faults 
To  Marcius  shall  be  honours,  though,  indeed. 
In  aught  he  merit  not. 

Sic.  Let 's  hence,  and  hear 

How  the  despatch  is  made  ;  and  in  what  fashion, 
More  than  his  singularity,  he  goes 
Upon  his  present  action. 

Bru.  Let 's  along.  [Exeunl 

SCENE  II.— Corioli.     The  Senate-House. 
Enter  Tullus  Aufidius,  and  Senators. 

1  Sen.  So,  your  opinion  is,  Aufidius, 
That  they  of  Rome  are  enter'd  in  our  counsels, 
And  know  how  we  proceed. 

Aiif.  Is  it  not  yours  ? 

What  ever  have  been  thought  on  in  this  state. 
That  could  be  brought  to  bodily  act  ere  Rome 
Had  circumvention  ?     'T  is  not  four  days  gone. 
Since  I  heard  thence :  these  are  the  words  :  I  think. 
I  have  the  letter  here;  yes,  here  it  is  : —  [Reads 

•'  They  have  press'd  a  power,  but  it  is  not  knoviTi 
Whetlier  for  east,  or  west.     The  dearth  is  great ; 
The  people  mutinous ;  and  it  is  rumour'd, 
Cominius.  Marcius  your  old  enemy, 
(Who  is  of  Rome  worse  hated  than  of  you) 
And  Titus  Lartius,  a  most  valiant  Roman, 
These  three  lead  on  this  preparation 
Whither  't  is  bent :  most  likely,  't  is  for  you. 
Consider  of  it." 

1  Sen.  Our  army  's  in  the  field. 
We  never  yet  made  doubt  but  Rome  was  ready 
To  answer  us. 

Auf.  Nor  did  you  think  it  folly. 

To  keep  your  great  pretences  veil'd.  till  when        [ing 
They  needs  must  show  themselves  ;  which  in  the  hatcli. 
It  seem'd,  appeared  to  Rome.     By  the  discovery. 
We  shall  be  shorten'd  in  our  aim ;  which  was. 
To  take  in  many  to\sTis,  ere,  almost,  Rome 
Should  know  we  were  afoot. 

2  Sen.  Noble  Aufidius. 
Take  your  commission ;  hie  you  to  your  bands. 

\G\t<tng  1/ 


t)00 


CORIOLANUS. 


Acrr  L 


Let  ui  alone  to  ^lard  Corioli : 
If  they  set  down  before  'b,  for  the  remove 
Brine  up  your  army  ;  but,  I  think,  you  'II  liud 
Thev  'vo  not  prepar'd  for  ub. 

4'uf.  0  !  doubt  not  that ; 

I  speak  from  certainties.     Nay,  more  ; 
Som»»  parcels  of  ihcir  power  arc  forth  already. 
And  only  hithcrward.     I  leave  your  honours. 
If  wc  and  Caiu.s  Marcius  chance  to  meet, 
'T  is  sworn  between  us,  we  shall  ever  strike 
Till  one  can  do  no  more. 

^11.  The  gods  assist  you  ! 

Aiif.  And  keep  your  honours  safe  ! 

1  Sen.  Farewell. 

a  Sen.  Farewell. 

All.  FarewoL.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Rome.     An  Apartment  in  Marcius' 

House. 

Enter  Volumnia,  arid  Virgilia.     They  .nt  down  on 

two  lou<  Stools,  and  sew. 

Vol.  I  pray  you.  daughter,  sing  :  or  express  yourself 
in  a  more  comfortable  sort.  If  my  son  were  my  hus- 
band. I  should  freelier  rejoice  in  that  absence  wherein 
hi^  won  honour,  than  in  the  embracements  of  his  bed. 
where  he  would  show  most  love.  When  yet  he  was 
but  tender-bodied,  and  the  only  son  of  my  womb  ;  when 
youth  with  comeliness  plucked  all  gaze  his  way :  when, 
for  a  day  of  king's  entreaties,  a  mother  should  not  sell 
him  an  hour  from  her  beholding :  I, — considering  how 
honour  would  become  such  a  person  ;  that  it  was  no 
better  than  picture-like  to  hang  by  the  wall,  if  renown 
made  it  not  stir. — was  pleased  to  let  him  seek  danger 
where  he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a  cruel  war  I  sent 
him ;  from  whence  he  returned,  his  brows  boiuid  with 
oak.  I  tell  thee,  daughter,  I  sprang  not  more  in  joy 
at  first  hearing  he  wa.s  a  man-child,  than  now  in  first 
.seeing  he  had  proved  himself  a  man. 

Vir.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam  ?  how 
then? 

Vol.  Then,  his  good  report  should  have  been  my 
son  :  I  therein  would  have  found  issue.  Hear  me  pro- 
fe.s,s  sincerely  : — had  1  a  dozen  sons. — each  in  my  love 
alike,  and  none  less  dear  than  thine  and  my  good 
Marciun. — I  had  rather  had  eleven  die  nobly  for  their 
country,  than  one  voluptuously  surfeit  out  of  action. 
Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 

Gent.  Madam,  the  lady  Valeria  is  come  to  visit  you. 

Vir.  'Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire  myself. 

Vol.  Indeed,  you  shall  not. 
Melhinks.  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum, 
See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair; 
As  children  from  a  bear  the  Volsce?  shunning  him  : 
Mcthink.x.  I  sec  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus, — 
"  Come  on,  you  cowards  !  you  were  got  in  fear. 
Though  you  were  born  in  Rome."     His  bloody  brow 
With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes, 
Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that 's  task'd  to  mow 
Or  all.  or  lose  his  hire. 

Vir.  HiH  bloody  brow?  O.  Jupiter!  no  blood. 

Vol.  Away,  you  ff»ol  !  it  more  becomes  a  man, 
Thar,  gilt  his  trophy  :  the  brea.sts  of  Hoeuba, 
When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector's  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords  contemning.' — Tell  Valeria, 
tVe  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [Exit  Gent. 

Vir.  Heavens-bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufidius! 


Vol.  He  'II  beat  Aufidius'  head  below  his  knee. 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 
Re-enter  Gentlewoman,  with  Valeria  and  her  Usher. 

Val.   My  ladies  both,  good  day  to  you. 

Vol.  Sweet  madam. 

Vir.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  ladyship. 

Val.  How  do  you  both  ?  you  are  manifest  houM- 
keepers.  Wiiat  are  you  sewing  here  ?  A  fine  spot,  'a 
good  faith. — How  does  your  little  son  ? 

Vir.  I  thank  your  ladyship;  well,  good  madam. 

Vol.  He  had  rather  see  swords,  and  hear  a  druin, 
than  look  upon  his  school-master, 

Val.  0'  my  word,  the  father's  son  :  1  '11  swear,  't  is  a 
very  pretty  boy.  O'  my  troth,  I  looked  upon  him  o' 
Wednesday  half  an  hour  together  :  he  has  such  a  con- 
firmed countenance.  I  saw  him  run  after  a  gilded  but- 
tertly ;  and  when  he  caught  it,  he  let  it  go  again ;  and 
after  it  again ;  and  over  and  over  he  comes,  and  up 
again  ;  catched  it  again  :  or  whether  his  fall  enraged 
him,  or  how  't  was,  he  did  so  set  his  teeth,  and  tear  it; 
0  !   I  warrant,  how  he  mammocked  it  ! 

Vol.  One  of  his  father's  moods, 

Val.  Indeed  la,  't  is  a  noble  child. 

Vir.  A  crack',  madam. 

Val  Come,  lay  aside  your  stitchery ;  I  must  hav« 
you  play  the  idle  huswife  with  me  this  afternoon. 

Vir.  No.  good  madam  ;  I  will  not  out  of  doors. 

VaL  Not  out  of  doors  ? 

Vol.  She  shall,  she  shall. 

Vir.  Indeed,  no,  by  your  patience  :  I  will  not  over 
the  threshold,  till  my  lord  return  from  the  wars. 

Vol.  Fie  !  you  confine  yourself  most  unreasonably. 
Come  ;  you  must  go  visit  the  good  lady  that  lies  in. 

Vir.  I  will  wish  her  speedy  strength,  and  visit  her 
with  my  })rayers  :  but  I  cannot  go  thither. 

Vol.  Why,  I  pray  you  ? 

Vir.  'T  is  not  to  save  labour,  nor  that  I  want  love. 

Val.  You  would  be  another  Penelope  ;  yet.  they  say 
all  the  yarn  she  spun  in  Ulysse.s'  absence  did  but  fill 
Ithaca  full  of  moths.  Come :  I  would,  your  cambric 
were  sensible  as  your  finger,  that  you  miulit  leave 
pricking  it  lor  pity.     Come,  you  shall  go  with  us. 

Vir.  No,  good  madam,  pardon  me  ;  indeed,  I  will 
not  forth. 

Val.  In  truth,  la,  go  with  me;  and  I'll  tell  you  ex- 
cellent news  of  your  husband. 

Vir.  0  !  good  madam,  there  can  be  none  yet. 

Val.  Verily,  I  do  not  jest  with  you,  there  came 
news  from  him  last  night, 

Vir.  Indeed,  madam  ? 

Val.  In  earnest,  it  's  true  :  I  heard  a  senator  speak  ii. 
Thus  it  is  : — The  Volsces  have  an  army  Ibrth,  against 
whom  Cominius  the  general  is  gone,  with  one  part  of 
our  Roman  power  :  your  lord,  and  Titus  Lartius,  are 
set  down  before  their  city  Corioli  ;  they  nothing  donM 
prevailing,  and  to  make  it  brief  wars.  This  is  true  on 
mine  honour ;  and  so.  I  pray,  go  with  us. 

Vir.  Give  me  excuse,  good  madam  ;  I  will  obey  y 
in  every  thing  hereafter. 

Vol.  Let  her  alone,  lady  :  as  she  is  now,  «he  v 
but  di.sea.se  our  better  mirth. 

Val.  In  troth,  I  think,  she  would.— Fare  you  ^ 
then. — Come,  good  sweet  lady. — Pr'>-thec.  Virti 
turn  thy  solemness  out  o'  door,  and  go  along  with  i 

Vir.  No,  at  a  word,  madam:   wideed,  I   must  nu 
I  I  wish  you  much  mirth. 
i      Val  Well  then,  farewell.  (£,««•« 


coDlending  -  io  f. 


A  fine  boy. 


COEIOLANUS. 


601 


SCENE  IV.— Before  Corioli. 

Enter,  with.  Drum  and  Colours,  Marcius',  Titus  Lar- 

Tius.  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 

Mar.  Yonder  comes  news  : — a  wager,  they  have  n^et. 

Lart.  Mj'  horse  to  yours,  no. 

Mar.  'T  is  done. 

Lart.  Agreed. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mar.  Say,  has  our  general  met  the  enemy  ? 

Mess.  They  lie  in  view,  but  have  not  spoke  as  yet 

Lart.  So,  the  good  horse  is  mine. 

Mar.  I  '11  buy  him  of  you. 

Lart.  No,  I  '11  nor  sell,  nor  give  him  :  lend  you  him 
I  will. 
For  half  a  hundred  years. — Summon  the  town. 

Mar.  How  far  off  lie  these  armies  ? 

Mess.  Within  this  mile  and  half. 

Mar.  Then  shall  we  hear  their  "larum,  and  they  ours. 
>'ow,  Mars.  I  pr'"\-thee,  make  us  quick  in  work, 
1  hat  we  with  smoking  swords  may  march  from  hence. 
To  help  our  fielded  friends  ! — Come,  blow  thy  blast. 
A  Parky  sounded.     Enter,  on  the  Walls,  two  Senators, 

and  others. 
Tullus  Aufidius,  is  he  within  your  walls  ? 

1  Se7i.  No,  nor  a  man  that  fears  you  less  than  he. 
That 's  lesser  than  a  little.     Hark,  our  drums 

[Drums  afar  off. 
.\re  bringing  forth  our  youth  :  we'll  break  our  walls, 
R  ather  than  they  shall  pound  us  up.     Our  gates. 
Which  yet  seem  shut,  we  have  but  pinn'd  with  rushes  : 
They  '11  open  of  Ihemselves.     Hark  you.  far  off: 

[Alarum  afar  off. 
There  is  Aufidius :  list,  what  work  he  makes 
Amongst  your  cloven  army. 

Mar.  0  !  they  are  at  it. 

Lart.  Their  noise  be  our  instruction. — Ladders,  ho  ! 
The  Volsces  enter,  and  pass  over  the  Stage. 

Mar.  They  fear  us  not,  but  issue  forth  their  city. 
^ow  put  your  shields  before  your  hearts,  and  fight 
With  hearts  more  proof  than  shields. — Advance,  brave 

Titus : 
They  do  disdain  us  much  beyond  our  thoughts, 
Which  makes  me  sweat  with  wrath. — Come  on,  my 
He  that  retires,  I  '11  take  him  for  a  Volsce,       [fellows  : 
And  he  shall  feel  mine  edge. 
Alarum,  and  exeunt  Romans  arul  Volsces,  fighting.     The 

Romans  are  beaten  back  to  their  Trenches.     Re-enter 

M.\RCius  enraged. 

Mar.  All  the  contagion  of  the  south  lisht  on  you, 
You  shames  of  Rome  !     Unheard-of  boils  and  plagues^ 
Plaster  you  o'er,  that  you  may  be  abliorr'd 
Farther  than  seen,  and  one  infect  another 
Against  the  wind  a  mile  !     You  souls  of  geese. 
That  bear  the  shapes  of  men,  how  have  you  run 
Fiom  slaves  that  apes  would  beat !     Pluto  and  hell  ! 
All  hurt  behind  ;  backs  red,  and  faces  pale 
With  riight  and  agued  fear  !     Mend,  and  charge  home. 
Or,  by  the  fires  of  heaven,  I  '11  leave  the  foe. 
And  make  my  wars  on  you.     Look  to  't :  come  on, 
If  you  '11  stand  fast,  we  '11  beat  them  to  their  wives, 
As  they  us  to  our  trenches  follow. 
Another   Alarum.     The    Volsces  and   Romans  re-enter, 

and  the  Fight  is   renewed.     The    Volsces  retire   into 

Corioli,  and  MkKcw:?.  follows  them  to  the  Gates. 
3o,  now  the  gates  are  ope  : — now  prove  good  seconds. 
T  is  for  the  followers  fortune  ■widens  them, 
N«»t  for  the  fliers :   mark  me,  and  do  the  like. 

[He  enters  the  Gates,  and  is  shut  in. 

add  :  •'  to  them  a  Messenger,"  and  omit  the  stage  direction 


1  Sol.  Fool-hardiness  !  not  I. 

2  Sol.  Nor  . 

3  Sol.  See.  they  have  shut  him  in.  [Alarum  continites 
All.  To  the  port'  I  warrant  him 

Enter  Titus  LiRTUs. 
Lart.  What  is  become  of  Marciiis  ? 
All.  Slain,  .«ir.  doubtless 

1  Sol.  Following  the  fliers  at  the  very  heels, 
j  With  them  he  enters  ;  who,  upon  the  sudden, 
!  Clapp'd-to  their  gates:  he  is  himself  alone, 
I  To  answer  all  the  city. 
I      Lart.  O  noble  fellow  ! 

Who  sensibly  outdares  his  senseless  sword, 
And.  when  it  bows,  stands  up.  Thou  art  left,  Marcius 
I A  carbuncle  entire,  as  big  as  thou  art. 
Were  not  so  rich  a  jewel.     Thou  wast  a  soldier 
I  Even  to  Cato's  -wdsh,  not  fierce  and  terrible 
j  Only  in  strokes ;  but,  with  thy  grim  looks,  and 
The  thunder-like  percussion  of  thy  sounds. 
Thou  mad'st  thine  enemies  shake,  as  if  the  world 
'Were  feverous,  and  did  tremble. 

The  Gates  open.     Re-enter  Marcius.  bleeding,  assaulttd 
by  the  Enemy. 
1  Sol.  Look,  sir  ! 

Lart.  0,  't  is  Marcius  ! 

Let's  fetch  him  off,  or  make  remain  alike. 

[They  fight,  and  all  enter  the  City 

SCENE  v.— Within  the  Tovm.     A  Street. 
Enter  certain  Roirmits.  with  Spoils. 

1  Rom.  This  will  I  carry  to  Rome. 

2  Rom.  And  I  this. 

3  Rom.  A  murrain  on  't  !     I  took  this  for  silver. 

[Alarum  continues  still  afar  off. 
Enter  Marcius,  and  Titus  Lartius,  with  a  Trumpet. 

Mar.  See  here  these  movers,  that  do  prize  their  hours 
At  a  crack"d  drachm  !      Cushions,  leaden  spoons. 
Irons  of  a  doit,  doublets  that  hangmen  would 
Bury  with  those  that  wore  them,  these  base  slaves. 
Ere  yet  the  fight  be  done,  pack  up.- — Down  with  them  ' — 
And  hark,  what  noise  the  general  makes. — To  him  ! 
There  is  the  man  of  my  soul's  hate.  Aufidius, 
Piercing  our  Romans  :  then,  valiant  Titus,  take 
Convenient  numbers  to  make  good  the  city. 
Whilst  I,  -with  those  that  have  the  spirit,  will  haste 
To  help  Cominius. 

Lart.  Worthy  sir.  thou  bleed'st ; 

Thy  exercise  hath  been  too  violent 
For  a  second  course  of  fight. 

Mar.  Sir.  praise  me  not : 

My  work  hath  yet  not  warm'd  me.     Fare  you  well. 
The  blood  I  drop  is  rather  physical 
Than  dangerous  to  me.     To  Aufidius  thus 
I  will  appear,  and  fight. 

Lart.  Now  the  fair  goddess.  Fortuni^ 

Fall  deep  in  love  with  thee ;  and  her  great  charms 
Misguide  thy  opposers'  swords  !  Bold  gentleman, 
Prosperity  be  thy  page  ! 

Mar.  Thy  friend  no  le.«s 

Than  those  she  placeth  hisiiest.     Sj,  farewell. 

Lart.  Thou  worthiest  Marcius  !—     |  Exit  Marcics 
Go.  sound  thy  trumpet  in  the  market-place  ; 
Call  thither  all  the'officers  of  the  town, 
Where  they  shall  know  our  mind.     Away  !     [Exeuut 

SCENE   VI.— Near  the  Camp  of  Comimus. 
Enter  Cominius  and  Forces,  as  in  retreat. 
Com.  Breathe  you,  my  friends.     Well  fought :  vi ; 
are  come  off 
below.      »  y"n  herd  of— BoiU  and  plagues  :  in  f  ».      '  pot :  m  f .  e 


602 


CORIOLANUS. 


ji^CT   1. 


Like  Romans,  neither  foolish  in  our  stands, 
Nor  cowardly  in  retire  :  believe  ine,  sirs. 
We  shall  be  cliargd  asain.     Whiles  we  have  struck, 
By  interims  and  conveyins:  gusts  we  have  heard 
The  charjit's  of  our  fncmls  : — yc.  Roman  jjods, 
L- ad  their  suoivsses  a.s  we  wisli  our  own. 
riiat  both  our  |iowers,  with  smiling  fronts  encountering 
May  give  you  thanklul  sacritice  ! — 
Enter  a  Mcssengrr. 

Thy  ne-wB? 

3/f.tJ.  The  citizens  of  Corioli  have  issued, 
And  n;/en  to  Lartius  and  to  Marcius  battle: 
I  saw  our  party  to  their  trenches  driven. 
And  then  I  came  away. 

Com.  Though  thou  speakst  truth, 


Methinks,  thou  speak'st  not 


How  long  is't  since' 


Mfss.  Above  an  hour,  my  lord. 

Com.  'T  is  not  a  mile  ;  briefly  we  heard  their  drums  : 
Mow  eouldsi  thou  m  a  mile  contbund  an  hour, 
And  bring  thy  nevrs  so  late? 

Mess.  Spies  of  the  Vol.sces 

Held  me  in  chase,  that  I  was  forc'd  to  wheel 
Three  or  four  miles  about ;   else  had  I,  sir, 
Half  an  hour  since  brought  my  report. 
EtUer  Marcius. 

Com.  Who  's  yonder, 

That  docs  appear  as  he  were  flay"d  ?     0  gods  ! 
He  ha5  the  stamp  of  Marcius,  and  I  have 
Before-time  seen  him  thus. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late? 

Com.  The  shepherd  knows  not  thunder  from  a  tabor. 
More  than  I  know  the  sound  of  Marcius'  tongue 
From  every  meaner  man. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late  ? 

Com.  Ay.  if  you  come  not  in  the  blood  of  others, 
But  mantled  in  your  own. 

Mar.  O  !  let  me  clip  you 

In  arms  as  sound,  as  when  I  woo'd ;  in  heart 
As  merry,  as  when  our  nuptial  day  was  done, 
And  tapers  burn'd  to  bedward. 

Com.  Flower  of  warriors, 

How  is  't  with  Titus  Lartius' 

Mar    As  with  a  man  busied  about  decrees  : 
Condemning  .some  to  death,  and  some  t^  exile  ; 
Ran.somiii2  him.  or  pitying,  threatening  the  other; 
Holdini;  Conoli.  in  the  name  of  Rome, 
Kven  like  a  fawning  greyhound  in  the  leash, 
To  let  him  slip  at  will. 

Com  Where  is  that  slave, 

Which  told  me  they  had  beat  you  to  your  trenches? 
Where  is  he  ! — Call  him  hither. 

^^^'''-  Let  him  alone. 

He  did  inform  the  truth  :  but  for  our  ccntlemcn. 
The  common  file.  (A  plasue  ! — Tribunes  for  them?) 
The  rnou.ve  neer  shunn'd  the  cat,  as  they  did  budge 
From  rascals  worse  than  they. 

Com.  Hut  how  prevail'd  you  ? 

M(.r.  Will  thp  time  serve  to  tell  ?  I  do  not  think  it. ' 
Where  is  the  enemy  ?  Are  you  lords  o'  the  field  ?  I 
If  not.  why  cease  you  till  you  are  f-o  '  ] 

Com.   Marcius,  we  have  at  disadvantage  fought, 
And  did  retire  to  win  our  purposes.  ] 

Mar.  How  lies  their  battle?  Know  you  on  which  side 
They  have  plac'd  their  men  of  trust  ? 

Com.  As  I  pue.sR,  Marcius, 

Tho8€  uands  i'  the  va\-M-ard  are  the  Antiates,  | 

')f  Ineir  best  trust  :  oer  them  Aufidius,  I 

Their  ver>-  heart  of  hope. 

Mar.  I  do  beseech  you. 

'  to  mani  •  •■  f.  •.      i  four  :  in  f  e.      »  and  •  in  I.  o. 


By  all  the  battles  wlierein  we  have  fought, 
By  the  blood  we  have  shed  together,  by  the  vows 
We  have  made  to  endure  friends,  that  you  directly 
Set  me  against  Aufidius.  and  his  Antiates  ; 
And  that  you  not  delay  the  present,  but. 
Filling  the  air  with  swords  advanc'd  and  darts. 
We  prove  thTs  very  hour. 

Com.  Though  I  could  wish 

You  were  conducted  to  a  gentle  bath, 
And  balms  applied  to  you,  yet  dare  I  never 
Deny  your  asking.     Take  your  choice  of  thoBe 
That  best  can  aid  your  action 

Alar.     ■  Those  are  they 

That  most  are  willing. — If  any  such  be  here, 
(As  it  were  sin  to  doubt)  that  love  this  painting 
Wherein  you  see  me  smeard :  if  any  fear 
Lesser  his  person  than  an  ill  report ; 
If  any  think  brave  death  outweighs  bad  life, 
And  that  his  country  's  dearer  than  himself; 
Let  him,  alone,  or  so  many  so  minded. 
Wave  thus,  to  express  his  disposition. 
And  follow  Marcius. 

[They  all  .fhoiit,  and  wave  their   Swords;  takr 
him  vp  in  their  arms,  and  cast  vp  their  Caps 
0  me,  alone  !     Make  you  a  sword  of  me  ? 
If  these  shows  be  not  outward,  which  of  you 
But  is  four  Volsces  ?     None  of  you.  but  is 
Able  to  bear  against  the  great  Aufidius 
A  shield  as  hard  as  his.     A  certain  number. 
Though  thanks  to  all.  must  I  select  from  all :  the  rest 
Shall  bear  the  business  in  some  other  fight. 
As  cause  will  be  obey'd.     Please  you.  march  before', 
And  P  shall  quickly  draw  out  my  command. 
Which  men  are  best  inclin'd. 

Com.  March  on,  my  fellows : 

Make  good  this  ostentation,  and  you  shall 
Divide  in  all  with  us.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  VII.— The  Gates  of  Corioli. 
Titus  Lartius,  having  set  a  Guard  upon  Corioli,  going 

with  Drum  and  Trumpet  toward  Co.viiNius  and  Caiu? 

Marcius,  enters  with  a  Lieutenant.^  a  party  of  Soldiers, 

and  a  Scout. 

Lart.  So  ;  let  the  ports  be  guarded  :  keep  your  duties, 
As  I  have  set  them  dowTi.     If  I  do  send,  despatch 
Those  centuries  to  our  aid  ;  the  rest  will  serve 
For  a  short  holding  :  if  v/e  lose  the  field. 
We  cannot  keep  the  town. 

Lieu.  Fear  not  our  care.  sir. 

Lart.  Hence,  and  shut  your  gates  upon  us. — 
Our  guider,  come ;  to  the  Roman  camp  conduct  us. 

[Exe'inl. 

SCENE  VIII.— A  Field  of  Battle  between  the  Roman 

and  the  Vol.scian  Camps. 

Alarum.     Enter  Marcus  and  Aufidius. 

Mar.  I  '11  fight  with  none  but  thee  ;  for  I  do  hate  tlic« 
Worse  than  a  promise-breaker. 

Auf.  We  hate  alike: 

Not  Afric  owns  a  serpent  I  ablior 
More  than  thy  fame  I'  envy.     Fix  thy  foot. 

Mar.  Let  the  first  budacr  die  the  other's  slave, 
And  the  gods  doom  him  after  ! 

Auf.  If  I  fly,  Marcius, 

Halloo  me  like  a  hare. 

Mar.  Within  these  three  hours.  TuUus, 
Alone  I  fousht  in  your  Corioli  walls. 
And  made  what  work  I  pleas'd.     'T  is  not  my  blood 
Wherein  thou  seest  me  mask'd :  for  thy  revenge, 


BCElfE    X. 


CORIOLANUS. 


603 


Wrench  up  thy  power  to  the  highest. 

Auj.  Were  thou  the  Hector, 

That  was  the  whip  of  your  bragg'd  progeny, 
Thou  shouldst  not  scape  me  here. — 

\They  fight.,  and  certain  Volsces  come  to  the  aid  of 

AUFIDIUS. 

Officious,  and  not  valiant — you  have  sham'd  me 
[n  your  condemned  seconds. 

[Exeunt  fighting,  all  driven  in  by  M.\rcius. 

SCENE  IX.— The  Roman  Camp. 
Alarum.      A    Retreat  sounded.      Flourish.      Enter   at 
one  side,  Comixius,  and  Romaris  ;   at  the  other  side, 
Marcius,  with  his  Arm  in  a  Scarf,  and  other  Romans. 
Com.  If  I  should  tell  thee  o'er  this  thy  day's  work. 
Thou  'It  not  believe  thy  deeds ;  but  I  '11  report  it, 
Where  senators  shall  mingle  tears  with  smiles. 
Where  gxeat  patricians  shall  attend,  and  shrug. 
I'  the  end,  admire  :  where  ladies  shall  be  frighted, 
And,  gladly  quak'd,  hear  more ;  where  the  dull  Tribunes, 
That  with  the  fusty  plebeians  hate  thine  honours, 
Shall  say,  against  their  hearts, — 

"  We  thank  the  gods  our  Rome  hath  such  a  soldier  !" — 
Yet  cam'st  thou  to  a  morsel  of  this  feast, 
Having  fully  dined  before. 
Enter  Titus  Lartius  with  his  Power,  from  the  pursuit. 

Lart.  0  general, 

Here  is  the  steed,  we  the  caparison : 
Hadst  thou  beheld — 

Mar.  Pray  now,  no  more  :  my  mother. 

Who  has  a  charter  to  extol  her  blood, 
When  she  does  praise  me.  grieves  me.     I  have  done. 
As  you  have  done  ;  that  "s  what  I  can  ;  induc'd 
As  you  have  been :  that  "s  for  m.y  country : 
He  that  has  but  effected  his  good  viiW 
Hath  overta'en  mine  act. 

Com.  You  shall  not  be 

The  grave  of  your  deserving :  Rome  must  know 
The  value  of  her  own  :  't  were  a  concealment 
Worse  than  a  theft,  no  less  than  a  traducement. 
To  hide  your  doings  ;  and  to  silence  that, 
Which,  to  the  spire  and  top  of  praises  vouch'd, 
Would  seem  but  modest.     Therefore,  I  beseech  you, 
In  sign  of  what  you  are,  not  to  reward 
What  you  have  done,  before  our  army  hear  me. 

Mar.  I  have  some  wounds  upon  me,  and  they  smart 
To  hear  themselves  remember'd. 

Com.  Should  they  not, 

Well  might  they  fester  'gainst  ingratitude, 
And  tent  themselves  with  death.     Of  all  the  hor.ses, 
(Whereof  we  have  ta'en  good,  and  good  store)  of  all 
The  treasure,  in  this  field  achiev'd  and  city, 
We  render  you  the  tenth :  to  be  ta'en  forth, 
Before  the  common  distribution, 
At  your  only  choice. 

Mar.  I  thank  you,  general ; 

But  cannot  make  my  heart  consent  to  take 
A  bribe  to  pay  m^  sword  :  I  do  refuse  it ; 
And  stand  upon  my  common  part  with  those 
That  have  beheld  the  doing. 

[A  long  flourish.   They  all  cry,  March's  !  Marcius  ! 
cast  up  their  Caps  and  Lances :  Cominius  and  Lar- 
tius stand  bare. 
Mar.  May  these  same  instruments,  which  you  profane, 
Never  sound  more  :  when  drums  and  trumpets  shall 
I'  the  field  prove  flatterers,  let  courts  and  cities  be 
.Made  all  of  false-fac'd  soothing: 
When  steel  grows  soft  as  the  parasite's  silk, 
Let  it'  be  made  a  coverture'  for  the  wars. 

-  thesn :  in  f.  e.      '  oyerture  •  in  f.  e. 


No  more,  I  say.     For  that  I  have  not  wash'd 

My  nose  that  bled,  or  foil'd  some  debile  wret:h, 

Which  without  note  here  's  many  else  have  done, 

\o\\  shout  me  forth 

In  acclamations  hyperbolical ; 

As  if  I  loved  my  little  should  be  dieted 

In  praises  sauc'd  with  Lies. 

Com.  Too  modest  are  you  : 

More  cruel  to  your  good  report,  than  grateful 
To  us  that  give  you  truly.     By  your  patience, 
If  'gainst  yourself  you  be  incens'd,  we  '11  put  you 
(Like  one  that  means  his  proper  harm)  in  manaciee 
Then  reason  safely  with  you. — Therefore,  be  it  known. 
As  to  us,  to  all  the  world,  that  Caius  Marcius 
Wears  this  war's  garland  :  in  token  of  the  which 
My  noble  steed,  known  to  the  camp,  I  give  him, 
With  all  his  trim  belonging :  and,  from  this  time, 
For  what  he  did  before  Corioli.  call  him., 
With  all  th'  applause  and  clamour  of  the  host, 
Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  — 
Bear  the  addition  nobly  ever  ! 

[Flourish.     Trumpets  sound,  and  Drums 

All.  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  ! 

Cor.  I  will  go  wash  : 
And  wlien  my  face  is  tair,  you  shall  perceive 
Whether  I  blush,  or  no  :  howbeit,  I  thank  you. — 
1  mean  to  stride  your  steed  :  and,  at  all  times, 
To  undercrest  your  good  addition 
To  the  fairness  of  my  power. 

Com.  So,  to  our  tent ; 

Where,  ere  we  do  repose  us,  we  will  write 
To  Rome  of  our  success. — You,  Titus  Lartius, 
Must  to  Corioli  back :  send  us  to  Rome 
The  best,  with  whom  we  may  articulate, 
For  their  own  good,  and  ours. 

Lart.  I  shall,  my  lord. 

Cor.  The  gods  begin  to  mock  me.     I,  that  now 
Refus'd  most  princely  gifts,  am  bound  to  beg 
Of  my  lord  general. 

Com.  Take  it :  't  is  yours.— What  is  'I  ? 

Cor.  I  sometime  lay,  here  in  Corioli, 
At  a  poor  man's  house  ;  he  us'd  me  kindly : 
He  cried  to  me  ;  I  saw  him  prisoner  ; 
But  then  Aufidius  was  within  my  view, 
And  wrath  o'erwhelm'd  my  pity.     I  request  you 
To  give  my  poor  host  freedom. 

Com.  0,  well-begg'd  ! 

Were  he  the  butcher  of  my  son,  he  should 
Be  free  as  is  the  wind.     Deliver  liim,  Titus. 

Lart.  Marcius,  his  name  ? 

Cor.  By  Jupiter,  forgot : — 

I  am  weary;  yea,  my  memory  is  tir'd. — 
Have  we  no  wine  here? 

Corn.  Go  we  to  our  tent. 

The  blood  upon  your  visage  dries ;  't  is  time 
It  should  be  look'd  to.     Come.  [EjcexfU. 

SCENE  X.— The  Camp  of  the  VoIslvS. 

A  Flourish.     Cornets.     Enter  Tcllus  Aufidius, 
bloody,  with  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

Auf.  The  town  is  ta'en. 

1  Sold.  'T  will  be  deliver'd  back  on  good  condition. 

Auf  Condition! — 
I  would  I  were  a  Roman;  for  I  cannot, 
Being  a  Volsce.  be  that  I  am. — Condition  ! 
What  good  condition  can  a  treaty  find 
r  the  part  that  is  at  mercy?— Five  times,  Marcins. 
I  have  foucht  with  thee :  so  often  iiast  thou  beai  me 
And  wouldst  do  so,  I  think,  should  we  encounter 


f?04 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT  n. 


As  often  as  we  eat. — By  the  element*. 

Ile'er  ufiain  1  infot  luni  bt-ard  to  beard. 

He  IB  inin<>,  or  I  am  Ins.     Muu-  emulation 

flath  not  thai  lionoiir  in  "t,  it  had:  lor  where 

I  thouiiht  lo  crush  hirn  in  an  equal  force, 

True  sNvord  to  sword,  1  '11  poteh'  at  him  some  way. 

')r  wrath,  or  croft,  may  get  him. 

1  Sold.  He  's  the  devil. 

Aiif.  Bolder,  though   not  so  subtle.     My  valour 
poi.'iond, 
vVith  only  sullering  stain  by  him:   for  him 
T  .«ihall  (ly  out  of  itself:  nor  sleep,  nor  sanctuary, 
Btini;  naked,  sick  ;  nor  fane,  nor  Capitol, 
"^iie  prayers  ol  prie^ts,  nor  times  of  sacrifice, 


Embargmcnts'  all  of  fury,  shall  lift  up 

Their  rotten  privilege  and  custom  'gaiimt 

My  hate  to  Marcius.     Where  I  find  him,  were  it 

At  home,  upon  my  brother's  guard,  even  there. 

Against  the  hospitable  canon,  would  I 

Wa.sh  my  fierce  hand  in  's  heart. — Go  you  to  the  city 

Learn,  how  't  is  held;  and  what  they  are,  that  must 

Be  hostages  for  Rome. 

1  Sold.  Will  not  you  go  ? 

Auf.  I  am  attended  at  the  cypress  grove  :  I  pray  you. 
('T  is  south  the  city  mills)  bring  me  word  thither 
How  the  world  goes,  that  to  the  pace  of  it 
I  may  spur  on  my  journey. 

1  Sold.  I  hhall,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— Rome.     A  Public  Place. 
Enter  Mk.nenius,  Sicinius,  and  Brutus. 

Men.  The  augurer  tells  me,  we  shall  have  news  to- 
mght. 

Bru.  Good,  or  ba<l  ? 

Men.  Not  according  to  th«  prayer  of  the  people,  for 
they  love  not  Marcius. 

Sic.  Nature  teaches  beasts  to  know  their  friends. 

Men.  Pray  you,  whom  does  the  wolf  love  ? 

Sic.  The  iamb. 

Men.  Ay,  to  devour  him  ;  as  the  hungry  plebeians 
would  the  noble  Marcius. 

lirtt.  He  's  a  lamb,  indeed,  that  baes  like  a  bear. 


allaying  Tiber  in  't :  said  to  be  something  imperfect  in 
favouring  the  thirst*  complaint;  hasty,  and  tinder-like, 
upon  too  trivial  motion :  one  that  converses  more  with 
the  buttock  of  the  night,  than  with  the  forehead  of  the 
morning.  What  I  think  I  utter,  and  spend  my  malice 
in  my  breath.  Meeting  two  such  weals-men  as  you 
are,  (I  cannot  call  you  Lycurguses)  if  the  drink  you 
give  me  touch  my  palate  adversely,  I  make  a  crooked 
face  at  it.  I  cannot  say,  your  worships  have  delivered 
the  matter  well,  when  I  find  the  ass  in  compound  witt 
the  major  part  of  your  syllables  :  and  though  I  must  be 
content  to  bear  with  those  that  say  you  are  reverend 
grave  men,  yet  they  lie  deadly,  that  tell  you,  you  have 
good  faces.     If  you  see  this  in  the  map  of  my  micro- 


A/f/i.  He 's  a  bear,  indeed,  that  lives  like  a  lamb.   You  !  cosm,  follows  it,  that  T  am  known  well  enough,  too' 


two  are  old  nien  :  tell  me  one  thing  that  I  shall  ask  you. 

Ihth  Trib.  Well,  sir. 

.Men.  In  what  enormity  is  Marcius  poor  in,  that  you 
t  .•>  have  not  in  abundance? 

liru.   He  's  I'oor  in  no  one  fault,  but  stor'd  with  all. 

.Sir.  Especially  in  pride. 

Hru.   And  topping  all  others  in  boasting. 

Men.  This  is  strange  now.  Do  you  two  know  how 
you  are  een.'^urcd  here  in  the  city,  I  mean  of  us  o'  the 
right-hand  file  ?     Do  you  ? 

lioth  Trih.  Why,  how  are  we  cen.sured? 

Men.  Bt-cause  you  talk  of  pride  now. — W^ill  you  not 
\>e  aniirv  ? 

liothTrih.  Well,  well,  sir:  well. 


What  harm  can  your  bisson*  conspectuities  glean  ou 
of  this  character,  if  I  be  known  well  enough,  too  ? 

Bru.  Come,  sir,  come;  we  know  you  well  enough. 

Men.  You  know  neither  me.  yourselves,  nor  any 
thing.  You  are  ambitious  for  poor  knaves'  caps  and 
legs :  you  wear  out  a  good  wholesome  forenoon  in  hear- 
ing a  cause  between  an  orange-^'  'fe  and  a  fosset -seller, 
and  then  adjourn*  the  controveisy  of  three-])ence  to  a 
second  day  of  audience. — When  you  are  licaring  a 
matter  between  party  and  party,  if  you  chance  tp  be 
pinched  with  the  colic,  you  make  faces  like  mummers. 
set  up  the  bloody  flag  against  all  patience,  and,  in  roar- 
ing for  a  chamber-pot,  dismiss  the  controversy  plead- 
ing', the  more  entangled  by  your  hearing:  all  the  peace 


iVf/i.  Why, 't  is  no  great  matter;  for  a  very  little  thief  !  you   make   in   their  cause  is  calling  both  the  partie 
of  occjision  will  rob  you  of  a  great  deal  of  patience:  ^  knaves.     You  are  a  pair  of  .strange  ones. 
give  your  dispositions  the  reins,  and  be  angry  at  your       Bru.  Come,  come,  you  are  well  understood  to  be  a 
pleasures  ;  at  the  leajJt,  if  you  take  it  as  a  pleasure  to  perfecter  giber  for  the  table,  than  a  necessary  beacher 


you,  in  being  ho.  You  blame  Marcius  for  being  proud 

Bru.  Wfe  do  it  not  ah  ne,  sir. 

Mm.  I  know,  you  can  do  very  little  alone ;  for  your 
h••lp^  are  many,  or  else  your  actions  would  grow  won- 
ilrou.H  single  :  your  abilities  arc  too  infant-like  for  doing 


le  Capitol. 

Men.  Our  very  priests  must  become  mockers,  if  they 
shall  encounter  such  ridiculous  subjects  as  you  are. 
When  you  speak  best  unto  the  purpose,  it  is  not  worth 
the  wagging  of  your  beards  ;  and  your  beards  de.servr 


much  alone.     You  talk  of  pride:  0!    that  you  could  j  not  .so  honourable  a  grave  as  to  stuff  a  botcher's  cushioii. 
turn  your  eyes  toward  the  napes  of  your  necks,  and  j  or  to  be  entombed  in  an  ass's  pack-saddle.     Yet  yon 


make  but  an  interior  survey  of  your  good  selves 
that  )T)u  could  ! 

firu.   Wliat  then,  sir? 

Mm.  Why,  then  you  should  di.scover  a  brace  of  un- 
meriting.  proud,  violent,  testy  magistrates,  (alias,  fools) 
M  any  in  Home. 

Sic.  Mcnenius.  you  are  known  well  enoush.  too. 

Men.  I  am  known  to  be  a  humorous  patrician,  and 
SMie  that  loves  a  cup  of  hot  wino,  without*  a  drop  of 

'  Thnu  at  teith  a  poinud  initrumtnt.      »  Embargott. 
In(:    ID  f.  a. 


must  be  saying,  Marcius  is  proud  ;  who,  in  a  cheap 
estimation,  is  worth  all  your  predecessors  since  Deuca- 
lion, though,  peradventure,  some  of  the  best  of  'em  werf 
hereditary  hangmen.  Good  drn  to  your  worships  more 
of  your  conversation  would  infect  my  brain,  being  tlie 
herdsmen  of  the  beastly  plebeians.  1  will  be  bold  io  tak* 
my  leave  of  you.         [Brutus  and  Skimus  stind  hath 

Enter  Volumnia,  Virgilia.  Valk.ua,  ^c. 
How  now,  my  as  fair  as  noble  ladies,  (and  the  moon 
with  not :  in  f.  a.      «  ftret :  in  f.  e.      »  Blind.      *  rejourn  :  in  f.  e.     'bleed 


COEIOLANUS. 


605 


no  nobler)  whither  do  you  follow  j  Within  Corioli's  gates :  where  he  hath  won 


ap. 


were  she  earlhh 
your  eyes  so  fast ' 

Vol.  Honourable    Menenius,   my   boy   Marcius 
proaches  :  for  the  love  of  Juno  let 's  go. 

Me7i.  Ha  !   Marcius  coming  home  ? 

Vol.  Ay,  worthy  Menenius,  and  witL  most  prosper- 
ous approbation. 

Men.  Take  my  cap,  Jupiter,  and  I  thank  thee. — Ho  ! 
Marcius  coming  home?  [Throwing  up  his  Cap.^ 

Both  Ladies.  Nay,  't  is  true. 

Vol.  Look,  here  's  a  letter  from  him  :  the  state  hath 
another,  his  wife  another;  and.  I  think,  there  's  one  at 
home  for  you. 

Men.  I  will  make  my  ver>'  house  reel  to-night. — A 
letter  for  me  ? 

Vir.  Yes.  certain,  there  's  a  letter  for  you ;  I  saw  it. 

Men.  A  letter  for  me  ?  It  gives  me  an  estate  of 
seven  years'  health;  in  which  time  I  will  make  a  lip 
at  the  physician  :  the  most  sovereign  prescription  in 
Galen  is  but  empiric  physic",  and.  to  this  preservative, 


of  no   better  report  than   a  horse-drench.     Is    he  not 
wounded  ?  he  was  wont  to  come  home  wounded. 

Vir.  0  !  no.  no,  no. 

Vol.  0  !  he  is  wounded ;  I  thank  the  gods  for  't. 

Men.  So  do  I  too,  if  it  be  not  too  much. — Brings  'a 
victory  in  his  pocket,  the  wounds  become  him. 

Vol.  On 's  brows :  Menenius.  he  comes  the  third 
lime  home  with  the  oaken  garland. 

Men.  Has  he  disciplined  Aufidius  soundly? 

Vol.  Titus  Lartius  writes,  they  fought  together,  but 
Aufidius  got  off. 

Men.  And  't  was  time  for  hira  too  ;  I  '11  warrant  him 
that :  an  he  had  stay'd  by  him.  I  would  not  have  been 
so  fidiused  for  ail  the  chests 
that 's  in  them.     Is  the  senate  possessed  of  this? 

Vol.  Good  ladies,  let 's  go. — Yes.  yes,  yes :  the  se- 
nate has  letters  from  the  general,  wherein  he  gives  my 
son  the  whole  name  of  the  war.  He  hath  in  this  ac- 
tion outdone  his  former  deeds  doubly. 

Val.   In  troth,  there's  wondrous  things  spoke  of  him. 

Men.  Wondrous:  ay,  I  warrant  you.  and  not  with- 
out his  true  purchassin 


With  fame,  a  name  to  Caius  Marcius ;  these 

In  honour  follows,  Coriolanus  : — 

Welcome  to  Rome,  renowned  Coriolanus!       [Flouittk 

All.  Welcome  to  Rome,  renowned   Coriolanus  ! 

Cor.  No  more  of  this ;  it  does  offend  my  heart : 
Pray  now,  no  more. 

Com.  Look,  sir,  your  mother. — 

Cor.  0 ! 

You  have,  I  know,  petition'd  all  the  gods 
For  my  prosperity.  \  Kneel 

Vol.  Nay,  my  good  soldier,  up ; 

My  gentle  Marcius.  worthy  Caius.  and 
By  deed-achieving  honour  newly  nan  d, 
What  is  it  ?     Coriolanus.  must  I  call  thee  ? 
But  0  !  thy  wife — 

Cor.  My  gracious  silence,  hail  !   [Risins-' 

Would,st  thou  have  laugh'd,  had  I  come  coffiu'd  hom'e. 
That  weep'st  to  see  me  triumph  ?     Ah  !  my  dear, 
Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear, 


And  mothers  that  lack  sons. 

Men.  Now,  the  gods  crown  thee  I 

Cor.  And  live  you  yet  ? — 0  my  sweet  lady,  pardon 
[To  Valeria 

Vol.  I  know  not  where  to  turn  : — 0  !  welcome  home  , 
And  welcome,  general; — and  you  are  welcome  all. 

Men.  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes:  I  could  weep 
And  I  could  laugh;  I  am  light,  and  heavy.  Welcome' 
A  curse  begin  at  very  root  on  's  heart, 
That  is  not  glad  to  see  thee  ! — You  are  three. 
That  Rome  should  dote  on:  yet,  by  the  faith  of  men, 
We  have  some  old  crab-trees  here  at  home,  that  will  not 
Be  grafted  to  your  relish.     Yet  welcome,  warriors  i 
Corioli,  and   the  gold  ,  We  call  a  nettle,  but  a  nettle;  and 
The  faults  of  fools,  but  folly. 

Com.  Ever  right. 

Cor.  Menenius,  ever,  ever. 

Her.  Give  way  there,  and  go  on  I 

Cor.  Your  hand, — and  yours. 

[To  his  Wife  and  Mother. 
Ere  in  our  owm  house  I  do  shade  my  head, 
j  The  good  patricians  must  be  visited  ; 


Vir.  The  gods  grant  them  true !  1  From  whom  I  have  receiv'd.  not  only  greetings, 

Vol.  True  I  pow.  wow.  |  But  with  them  charge  of  honours. 

Men.  1  rue  !   1  '11  be  sworn  they  are  true. — ^Where  is        Vol.  I  have  lived 

he  wounded  ? — God  save  your  good  worships  !   [To  the  \  To  see  inherited  my  very  wishes, 
Tribunes,  who  come  forword.]  Marcius  is  coming  home  :  j  And  the  buildings  of  my  fancy: 
he  has  more  cause  to  be  proud. — Where  is  hewoinided?   Only  there  's  one  thing  w-anting.  which  I  doubt  not, 

Vol.   r  the  shoulder,  and  i'  the  left  arm  :  there  will    But  our  Rome  will  cast  upon  thee, 
be  large  cicatrices  to  show  the  people,  wiien  he  shall 
Ffand  for  liis  place.     He    received  in  the  repulse  of 
Tarquin  .«even  hurls  i'  the  body. 

Men.  One  i'  the  neck,  and  two  i'  the  thigh, — there  's 
nine  that  I  know. 

Vol.  He  had,  before  this  last  expedition,  twenty-five 
wounds  upon  him. 

Me)i.  Now  it's  twenty-seven:  every  gash  was  an 
enemy's  grave.     [A   Shout  and  Flotirish.]     Hark  !  the  i 


trumpets. 

Vol.  These  are  the  ushers  of  Marcius:  befoTe  him 
He  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves  tears. 
Death,  that  dark  spirit,  in  's  nerv'y  arm  doth  lie. 
Which,  being  advanc'd,  declines,  and  then  men  die. 
A  Sennd.   Tnnnpets  sound.  Ejiter  CoMi^ivs  and  Tirvs 

Lartil's  :  between  them,   Coriolanus,  croiencd  icith 

an   oaken    Garland ;  with   Captains,  Soldiers,  and  a 

Herald. 


Cor.  Know,  good  mother, 

I  had  rather  be  their  servant  in  my  way. 
Than  sway  with  them  in  theirs. 

Com..  On,  to  the  Capitol ! 

[Flourish.     Comets.     Exeunt   in  state,  as  before 
The  Tribunes  remain. 
Bru.  All  tongues  speak  of  him,  and  the  bleared  sight* 
Are  spectacled  to  see  him  :  your  prattling  nurse 
Into  a  rapture*  lets  her  baby  cry 


While  -she  cheers'  him  :  the  kitchen  malkin*  pins 
Her  richest  lockram*  'bout  her  reecliy"  neck, 
Clambering  the  walls  to  eye  him:  stalls,  bulks,  windo-wu 
Are  smother'd  up,  leads  filfd,  and  ridges  hors'd 
With  variable  complexions,  all  agreeing 
In  earnestness  to  see  him  :  seld-shown  flamens 
Do  press  among  the  popular  thronss.  and  puff 
To  win  a  vulgar  station  :  our  veiTd  dames 
Commit  the  war  of  white  and  dama.-^k. 


Her.  Know,  Rome,  that  all  alone  Marcius  did  fight  I  Their  nicely-gauded  cheeks,  to  the  wanton  spoil 


'Not   in  f. 
of  Mill  or  Ma 


'  IS  but  empiricutic  :  in  f.  e. ;    emperick|utique  :  in  folio.      '  Not  in  f.  e. 
usfd  as  ''■wench."     It  also  means  a  mop,  a  clout.      ''  A  kind  of  cheap  lirien. 


*  Fit.      •  chats  :  in  f.  • 
*  Smoky,  dirty. 


'  The  di  ninau* 


606 


CORIOLANUS. 


Of  Phopbus'  burning  kissea  :  Buch  a  pjther, 
\s  if  that  whatsoever  god.  who  leads  him. 
Were  slily  crept  into  his  human  powers, 
And  gave  liim  graceful  posture. 

Sic.  On  the  sudden 

I  warrant  him  consul. 

Bru.  Then  our  office  may. 

During  his  power,  go  sleep. 

Sic.  He  cannot  totnperately  transport  his  honours 
From  where  he  should  begin,  and  end ;  but  will 
Los*  those  he  hath  won. 

Bru.  In  that  there  's  comfort. 

Sic.  Doubt  not.  the  commoners,  for  whom  we  stand. 
But  they,  upon  their  ancient  malice,  will 
Forget,  with  the  least  cause,  these  his  new  honours  : 
Wliich  that  he  "11  give  them,  make  I  as  little  question 
As  he  is  proud  to  do  't. 

Bru.  I  heard  him  swear. 

Were  he  to  stand  for  consul,  never  would  he 
Appear  i'  the  market-place,  nor  on  him  put 
The  napless  vesture  of  humility  : 
Nor,  showng  (as  the  manner  is)  his  wounds 
To  the  people,  beg  their  stinking  breaths. 

Sic.  '  "  'T  is  right. 

Bru.  It  was  his  word.     O  !  he  would  miss  it,  rather 
Than  carry  it  but  by  the  suit  o'  the  gentry  to  him. 
.\nd  the  desire  of  the  nobles. 

Sic.  I  wish  no  belter. 

Than  have  him  hold  that  purpose,  and  to  put  it 
In  execution. 

Bni.  'T  is  most  like,  he  will. 

.9jc.  It  shall  be  to  him,  then,  at  our  good  wills, 
.V  sure  destruction. 

Bru.  So  it  must  fall  out 

To  him.  or  our  authorities,  for  an  end. 
We  must  suggest  the  people,  in  what  hatred 
He  still  hath  held  them  :  that  to  his  power  he  would 
Have  made  them  mules,  silenc'd  their  pleaders,  and 
Dispropertied  their  freedoms  :  holding  them. 
In  human  action  and  capacity. 
Of  no  more  soul,  nor  fitne.ss  for  the  world 
Than  camels  in  the  war ;  who  have  their  provand 
Only  for  bearing  burdens,  and  sore  blou's 
For  sinking  under  them. 

Sic.  This,  as  you  say,  suggested 

.At  some  time  when  his  soaring  insolence 
Shall  touch'  the  people,  (whiah  time  shall  not  want. 
If  he  be  put  upon  H :  and  that  s  as  easy. 
Ki  to  set  dogs  on  sheep)  will  be  his  fire 
To  kindle  their  dry  stubble;  and  their  blaze 
.'^tlall  darken  him  for  ever. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Bru.  What  's  the  matter? 

Mess.  You  are  sent  for  to  the  Capitol.  'T  is  thought. 
That  Marcius  shall  be  consul.     I  have  seen 
The  dumb  men  throng  to  see  him,  and  the  blind 
To  hear  him  speak:   matrons  flung  gloves. 
Ladies  and  maids  their  scarfs  and  handkerchiefs, 
I'pon  him  a."  he  paj*«d  ;  the  noMes  bended, 
As  to  JoveV  .statue,  and  the  commons  made 
A  shower,  and  thunder,  with  their  caps,  and  shouts. 
I  never  saw  the  like. 

Bni.  Let 's  to  the  Capitol : 

.And  carry  wi\h  us  ears  and  eye*  for  the  time. 
But  hearts  for  the  event. 

Sic.  Have  ^^^th  you.     [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— The  Same.     The  Capitol. 
Enter  tivo  Officers,  to  lay  Cushions. 

1  Off.  Come,  come  ;  they  are  almost  here,  iirm 
many  stand  for  consulships  ? 

2  Off.  Three,  they  say ;  but 't  is  thought  of  ever>-  one 
Coriolanus  will  carry  it. 

1  Off.  That 's  a  brave  fellow  ;  but  he  t  vengeance 
proud,  and  loves  not  the  common  people. 

2  Off.  Faith,  there  have  been  many  great  men  thai 
have  ilattercd  the  people,  who  ne'er  loved  them  :  and 
there  be  many  that  they  have  loved,  they  know  not 
wherefore:  so  that,  if  they  love  they  know  not  why, 
they  hate  upon  no  better  a  ground.  Therefore,  for  Cori- 
olanus neither  to  care  whether  they  love  or  hate  him 
manifests  the  true  knowledge  he  has  in  their  disposi- 
tion :  and.  out  of  his  noble  carelessness,  lets  tl>em 
plainly  see  't. 

1  Off.  If  he  did  not  care  whether  he  had  their  .ove 
or  no,  he  wav'd  indifferently  'twixt  doing  them  neither 
good,  nor  harm ;  but  he  seeks  their  hate  with  greater 
devotion  than  they  can  render  it  him,  and  leaves 
nothing  undone  that  may  fully  discover  him  their  oppo- 
site. Now,  to  seem  to  affect  tlie  malice  and  displea- 
sure of  the  people  is  as  bad  as  that  which  he  dislikes, 
to  flatter  them  for  their  love. 

2  Off.  He  hath  deserved  worthily  of  his  country; 
and  his  ascent  is  not  by  such  easy  degrees  as  those, 
who,  having  been  supple  and  courteous  to  the  people, 
bonneted,  without  any  farther  deed  to  have  them  at 
all  into  their  estimation  and  report:  but  he  hath  so 
planted  his  honours  in  their  eyes,  and  his  actions  in 
their  hearts,  that  for  their  tongues  to  be  silent,  and 
not  confess  so  much,  were  a  kind  of  ingrateful  injury . 
to  report  otherwise  were  a  malice,  that,  giving  itself 
the  lie,  would  pluck  reproof  and  rebuke  from  every  ear 
that  heard  it. 

1  Off.  No  more  of  him :  he  is  a  worthy  man.  Make 

way,  they  are  coming. 

A  Sennet.     Enter,  with  Lidors  before  th^em.  Cominiv? 
the  Consul.  Menesius.  Coriolanus.  many  other  Sena- 
tors, SiciNius  aiul  Brx'Tis.     The  Senators  take  thtii 
places  ;  the  Tribunes  take  theirs  o/.vo  by  themselves. 
Men.  Having  determin'd  of  the  Volsccs,  and 

To  send  for  Titus  Lartius.  it  remains. 

As  the  main  point  of  this  our  after-meeting. 

To  gratify  his  noble  service  that 

Hath  thus  stood  for  his  country.  Therefore,  please  yo» 

Most  reverend  and  grave  elders,  to  desire 

The  present  consul,  and  last  general 

In  our  well-found  successes,  to  report 

A  little  of  that  worthy  work  perform"d 

By  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  ;  whom 

We  meet  here,  both  to  thank,  and  to  remember 

With  honours  like  himself. 

1  Sen.  Speak,  good  CominJus 

Leave  nothing  out  for  length,  and  make  us  think, 

Rather  our  state  's  defective  for  requitnl. 

Than  we  to  stretch  it  out. — Masters  o"  the  people, 

We  do  request  your  kindest  ears  :  and,  after, 

Your  loving  motion  toward  the  common  body. 

To  yield  what  passes  here. 

Sic.  We  are  convented 

Upon  a  pleasing  treatise*  ;  and  have  hearts 

Inclinable  to  honour  and  advance 

The  theme  of  our  assembly. 

Bru.  Which  the  rather 

We  shall  be  prest*  to  do,  if  he  remember 

A  kinder  value  of  the  people,  than 


\m(  f       »  treaty  :  in  f 


>  blest  :  ID  r  e 


scKXE  rrr. 


CORIOLANUS. 


607 


4e  hath  hereto  priz'd  them  at. 

Men.  That  ■  s  oif,  that 's  off: 

[  would  you  rather  had  been  silent.     Please  you 
To  hear  Comiaius  sy'jak  ? 

Bru.  Most  willingly ; 

But  yet  my  caution  was  more  pertinent, 
Than  the  rebuke  you  give  it. 

Men.  He  loves  your  people  : 

But  tie  him  not  to  be  their  bed-fellow. — 
Worthy  Cominius,  speak. — Nay,  keep  your  place. 

fCoRiOLANUS  rises,  and  offers  to  go  away. 

1  Sen.  Sit,  Ooriolanus :  never  shame  to  hear 
What  you  have  nobly  don^. 

Cor.  Your  honours'  pardon  : 

I  had  rather  have  m)  wounds  to  heal  again, 
Than  hear  say  how  I  got  them. 

Bru.  Sir,  I  hope, 

My  words  dis-bench'd  you  not. 

Cor.  No,  sir :  yet  oft, 

When  blows  have  made  me  stay,  I  fled  from  words. 
Vou  sooth'd  not,  therefore  hurt  not.    But,  your  people, 
I  love  them  as  thery  weigh. 

Men.  Pray  now,  sit  down. 

Cor.  I  had  rather  have  one  scratch  my  head  i'  the  sun. 
When  the  alarum  were  struck,  than  idly  sit 
To  hear  my  nothings  monstered.  [Exit. 

Men.  Masters  of  the  people. 

Your  multiplying  spawn  how  can  he  flatter, 
(That 's  thou.sand  to  one  good  one)  when  you  now  see, 
He  had  rather  venture  all  his  limbs  for  honour, 
Than  one  on  's  ears  to  hear  it  ? — Proceed,  Cominius. 

Com.  I  shall  lack  voice  :  the  deeds  of  Coriolanus 
Should  not  be  utterd  feebly. — It  is  held, 
That  valour  is  the  chiefest  \artue,  and 
Most  dignifies  the  haver  :  if  it  be, 
The  man  I  speak  of  camiot  in  the  world 
Be  singly  counterpois'd.     At  sixteen  years. 
When  Tarquin  made  a  head  for  Rome,  he  fought 
Beyond  the  mark  of  others  :  our  then  dictator, 
Whom  with  all  praise  I  point  at,  saw  him  fight, 
When  with  his  Amazonian  chin  he  drove 
The  bristled  lips  before  him.     He  bestrid 
An  o'er-pressed  Roman,  and  i'  the  consul's  view 
Slew  three  opposers  :  Tarquin's  self  he  met. 
And  struck  him  on  his  knee.     In  that  day's  feats. 
When  he  might  act  the  woman  in  the  scene, 
He  prov'd  best  man  i'  the  field  ;  and  for  his  meed 
Was  brow-bound  with  the  oak.     His  pupil  age 
Man-enter'd  thus,  he  waxed  like  a  sea  ; 
And  in  the  brimt  of  seventeen  battles  since. 
He  lurch'd'  all  swords  of  the  garland.     For  this  last, 
Before  and  in  Corioli,  let  me  say, 
I  cannot  speak  him  home  :  he  stopp'd  the  fliers. 
And  by  his  rare  example  made  the  coward 
Turn  terror  into  sport.     As  weeds  before 
A  vessel  under  sail,  so  men  obey'd, 
And  fell  below  his  stem  :  his  sword,  death's  stamp. 
Where  it  did  mark,  it  took  :  from  face  to  foot 
He  was  a  thing  of  blood,  whose  every  motion 
Was  tuned"  with  dying  cries.     Alone  he  enter'd 
The  mortal  gate  of  the  city,  which  he  painted 
With  shunless  destiny,  aidless  came  off, 
And  with  a  sudden  re-inforcement  struck 
Corioli  like  a  planet.     Now  all 's  his  ; 
When  by  and  by  the  din  of  war  'gan  pierce 
Hia  ready  sense  :  then,  straight  his  doubled  spirit 
He-quicken'd  what  in  flesh  w-as  fatigate. 
And  to  the  battle  came  he  ;  where  he  did 
Kun  reeking  o'er  the  lives  of  men,  as  if 


'T  were  a  perpetual  spoil  ;  and  till  we  call'd 
Both  field  and  city  ours,  he  never  stood 
To  ease  his  breast  with  panting. 

Men.  Worthy  man  ! 

1  Sen.  He  cannot  but  with  measure  fit  the  honours 
Which  we  devise  him. 

Co7n.  (hir  spoils  he  kick'd  at ; 

And  look'd  upon  things  precious,  as  they  were 
The  common  muck  o'  the  world  :  he  covets  less 
Than  misery  itself  would  give,  rewards 
His  deeds  with  doing  them,  and  is  content 
To  spend  the  time  to  end  it. 

Men.  He  's  right  noble  : 

Let  him  be  called  for. 

1  Sen.  Call  Coriolanus. 

Off.  He  doth  appear. 

Re-enter  Coriolanus. 

3Ien.  The  senate,  Coriolanus,  are  well  pleas'd 
To  make  thee  consul. 

Cor.  I  do  owe  them  still 

My  life,  and  services. 

3Icn.  It  then  remains, 

That  you  do  speak  to  the  people. 

Cor.  I  do  beseech  you, 

Let  me  o'erleap  that  custom  :  for  I  camiot 
Put  on  the  gown,  stand  naked,  and  entreat  them. 
For  my  wounds'  sake,  to  give  their  suffrage :  please  you. 
That  I  may  pass  this  doing. 

Sic.  Sir,  the  people 

Must  have  their  voices  ;  neither  will  they  bate 
One  jot  of  ceremony. 

Men.  Put  them  not  to  't . 

Pray  you,  go  fit  you  to  the  custom,  and 
Take  to  you,  as  your  predecessors  have. 
Your  honour  with  your  form. 

Cor.  It  is  a  part 

That  I  shall  blush  in  acting,  and  might  well 
Be  taken  from  the  people. 

Bru.  Mark  you  that  ?  [To  Sicinius. 

Cor.  To  brag  unto  them. — thus  I  did,  and  thus  ; — 
Show  them  th'  unaching  scars  which  I  should  hide, 
As  if  I  had  receiv'd  them  for  the  hire 
Of  their  breath  only. — 

Men.  Do  not  stand  upon  't. — 

We  recommend  to  you,  tribunes  of  the  people, 
Our  purpose  : — to  them,  and  to  our  noble  consul, 
Wish  we  all  joy  and  honour. 

Sen.  To  Coriolanus  come  all  joy  and  honour  ! 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  Senators. 

Bru.  You  see  how  he  intends  to  use  the  people. 

Sic.  May  they  perceive 's  intent !  He  will  require  thenv 
As  if  he  did  contemn  what  he  requested 
Should  be  in  them  to  give. 

Bru.  Come  ;  we  '11  inform  them 

Of  our  proceedings  here  :  on  the  market-place, 
I  know  they  do  attend  us.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     The  Forum. 
Enter  several  Citizens. 

1  Cit.  Once,  if  he  do  require  our  voices,  we  ought 
not  to  deny  him. 

2  Cit.  We  may,  sir,  if  we  will. 

3  Cit.  We  have  power  in  ourselves  to  do  it,  but  it  is 
a  power  that  we  have  no  power  to  do  :  for  if  he  sliow 
us  his  wounds,  and  tell  us  his  deeds,  we  are  to  put  oui 
tongues  into  those  wounds,  and  speak  for  them  ;  so.  if 
he  tell  us  his  noble  deeds,  we  must  also  tell  him  our 
noble  acceptance  of  them.  Ingratitude  is  m'^nst.^oue, 
and  for  the  multitude  to  be  ingrateful  were  to  make  a 


Gained  >iy  an  easT  victonr- 


;:m«d  : 


f.  e. 


608 


COlilOLANUS. 


moitf'pr  of  the  multitude  :  of  the  which  we.  being  mem- 
bers, hhouKi  brinj!  ourselves  to  be  moustrous  members. 

1  Cii.  And  to  make  us  no  better  thought  of,  a  little 
help  w\\[  serve  :  lor  once,  when  we  stood  up  about  the 
porn,  he  himself  stuck  not  to  call  us  the  many-headed 
multitude. 

3  Cit.  We  have  been  called  so  of  many;  not  that 
our  heads  are  stuiie  bro^^•n.  some  black,  some  auburn. 
.«oine  bald,  but  that  our  wits  arc  so  diversely  coloured : 
and  truly,  1  lliink.  if  all  our  wits  were  to  issue  out  of 
one  skull,  they  would  tly  ea>-t,  west,  north,  south;  and 
iheir  coiuicnt  of  one  direct  way  should  be  at  once  to  ail 
he  points  o"  the  coInpa^s. 

2  Cit.  Think  you  so?  Which  way.  do  you  judge, 
my  wit  would  tly  ? 

3  Cit.  Nay,  your  wit  will  not  so  soon  out  as  another  j 
man's  will  :  't  is  strongly  wedged  up  in  a  block-head  ; : 
but  if  it  were  at  libertv,  'twould,  sure,  southward. 

2  Cit.  Why  that  way?  | 

3  Cit.  To  iose  it.'jcif  in  a  fog;  where,  being  three] 
parts  melted  away  with  rotten  dews,  the  fourth  would' 
return,  for  conscience  sake,  to  help  to  get  thee  a  wife 

2  (it.  You  are  never  without  your  tricks: — you 
may,  you  may. 

3  Cit.  Are  you  all  resolved  to  give  your  voices  ? 
But  that  "s  no  matter  ;  the  greater  part  carries  it.  I 
Bay,  if  he  would  incline  to  the  people,  there  was  never 
a  worthier  man. 

Enter  Coriolaxcs  and  Menenics. 
Here  he  come.«.  and  in  the  gown  of  humility :  mark 
his  behaviour.  We  are  not  to  stay  altogether,  but  to 
come  by  him,  where  he  stands,  by  ones,  by  twos,  and 
by  threes,  fie  's  to  make  his  requests  by  particulars  ; 
wherein  every  one  of  us  has  a  single  honour,  in  giving 
him  our  own  voices  with  our  own  tongues  :  therefore, 
follow  me,  and  I  "11  direct  you  how  you  shall  go  by  him. 

All.  Content,  content.  [Exeunt. 

Men.  O  sir  !  you  are  not  right :  have  you  not  known 
The  worthiest  men  have  done  't  ^ 

Cor.  What  must  I  say  ?— 

I  pray,  sir. — Plague  upon  "t !  I  cannot  bring 
My  tongue  to  such  a  pace. — Look,  sir; — my  wounds; — 
I  got  therh  in  my  country's  ser\'ice,  when 
Some  certain  of  your  brethren  roar'd,  and  ran 
From  the  noise  of  our  own  drums. 

Men.  0  me,  the  gods  ! 

You  must  not  speak  of  that :  you  must  desire  them 
To  think  upon  you. 

Cor.  Think  upon  me  ?     Hang  'em  ! 

[  would  they  would  forget  me,  like  the  virtues 
Which  our  divines  lose  by  'em. 

Men.  You  '11  mar  all  : 

I  'U  leave  you.     Pray  you.  speak  to  them.  I  pray  you, 
[n  wholesome  manner.  [Exit. 

Enter  two  Citizens. 

Cor.  Hid  tliem  wa,«h  their  faces, 

And  keep  their  teeth  cl<-an. — So.  here  come.s  a  brace. — 
Vou  know  the  cause,  sir.  of  my  standins  here. 

1  Cit.  We  do.  .'•ir  :  tell  us  what  hath  brought  you  to  't. 

Cor.  Mine  own  desert. 

t  Cit.  Your  own  desert  ? 

Ctw'-  Ay.  not 

Mine  own  desire. 

1  Cit.  How  !  not  your  o'wn  desire? 

Cor.  No,  sir:   'l  vbr  never  my  desire  yet, 
To  trouble  the  poor  with  bogfrjng. 

1  Cit.  Vou  rmi.-.t  think,  if  we  give  you  any  thing, 
we  hope  \n  gam  by  you. 

Cor.  Well  then,  I  pray,  your  price  o'  the  consuLship  ? 

woolTiih  :  in  f.  •. 


1  Cit.  The  price  is,  to  ask  it  kindlv. 

Cor.  '      Kindly? 

Sir.  I  pray,  let  nie  ha't :  I  have  wounds  lo  show  yon. 
Which  shall  be  yours  in  private. — Your  good  voice,  sir; 
What  say  you  ? 

2  Cit.  You  shall  ha  't,  worthy  sir. 
Cor.  A  match,  sir. — 

There  is  in  all  two  worthy  voices  begg'd. — 
I  have  your  aims  :  adieu. 

1  Cit.  But  this  is  something  odd. 

2  Cit.  An  't  were  to  give  again, — but  't  is  no  mailer. 

[Exeunt  the  two  Citizen*. 
Enter  two  other  Citizetis. 
Cor.  Pray  you  now,  if  it  may  stand  with  the  tu/io 
of  your  voices  that  I  may  be  consul,  I  have  here  the 
custoiriary-  gown. 

3  Cit.  Vou  have  desers'cd  nobly  of  your  country, 
and  you  have  not  deserved  nobly. 

Cor.  Your  enigma  ? 

3  Cit.  You  have  been  a  scourge  to  her  enemies,  you 
have  been  a  rod  to  her  friends :  you  have  not,  indeed, 
loved  the  common  people. 

Cor.  You  should  account  me  the  more  virtuous,  that 
I  have  not  been  common  in  my  love.  I  will  not,  sir, 
flatter  my  sworn  brothers,  the  people,  to  earn  a  dearer 
estimation  of  them  :  't  is  a  condition  they  account 
gentle  ;  and  since  the  wisdom  of  their  choice  is  rather 
to  have  my  hat  than  my  heart.  I  will  practise  the  in- 
sinuating nod,  and  be  off  to  them  most  counterfeitly  : 
that  is,  sir,  I  will  counterfeit  the  bewitchment  of  some 
popular  man,  and  give  it  bountifully  to  the  desirers. 
There  tore,  beseech  you.  I  may  be  consul. 

4  Cit.  W^e  hope  to  find  you  our  friend,  and  there- 
fore give  you  our  voices  heartily. 

3  Cit.  You  have  received  many  wounds  for  your 
country. 

Cor.  I  will  not  stale  your  knowledge  with  showing 
them.  I  \Nill  make  much  of  your  voices,  and  so 
trouble  you  no  farther. 

Both  Cit.  The  gods  give  you  joy,  sir,  heartily. 

[Ercimi 

Cor.  Most  sweet  voices  ! — 
Better  it  is  to  die,  better  to  starve. 
Than  crave  the  hire  which  first  we  do  deserv'e. 
Why  in  this  woolless'  toge  should  I  stand  here, 
To  beg  of  Hob  and  Dick,  that  do  appear, 
Their  needless  vouches.?     Custom  calls  me  to  't  :- 
What  custom  wills,  in  all  things  should  we  do  't. 
The  dust  on  antique  time  would  lie  unswept, 
And  mountainous  error  be  too  hii:liiy  heap"d 
For  truth  to  o"er-peer. — Rather  than  fool  it  so, 
Let  the  high  office  and  the  honour  go 
To  one  that  would  do  thus. — I  am  half  through  . 
The  one  part  sufTerd.  the  other  will  I  do. 
Enter  three  other  Citizens. 
Here  come  more  voices. — 
Your  voices  :  for  your  voices  I  have  fought  ; 
Watch"d  for  your  voices  ;  for  your  voices  bear 
Of  wounds  two  dozen  odd  ;  battles  thrice  six 
I  have  .seen,  and  heard  of:  for  your  voices. 
Have  done  many  things,  some  less,  some  more. 
Your  voices  ;  for  indeed,  I  would  be  consul. 

5  Cit.  He  has  done  nobly,  and  cannot  go  without 
any  honest  man's  voice. 

6  Cit.  Therefore,  let  him  be  consul.  The  gods  give 
him  joy,  and  make  him  good  friend  to  the  people. 

All.  Amen,  amen. — 
God  save  thee,  noble  consul  !  [Exeiint  Citixfr**- 

Cor.  Worthy  voice*  ! 


"•  i: 

4 


SCKSfE   ni. 


COPJOLANITS. 


609 


Re-enter  Menenius,  with  Brutus,  and  Sicinius. 

Men.  You  have  stood  yoiir  limitation;  and  the  tribunes 
Endue  you  with  the  people's  voice  :  remains 
That,  in  th'  official  marks  invested,  you 
Anon  do  meet  the  senate. 

Car.  Is  this  done  ? 

Sic.  The  custom  of  request  you  have  discharg'd  : 
The  people  to  admit  you  :  and  are  summon'd 
To  meet  anon  upon  your  approbation. 

Cor.  Where  ?  at  the  senate-house  ? 

Sic.  There.  Coriolanus. 

Cor.  May  I  change  these  garments  ? 

Sic.  You  may,  sir. 

Cor.  That  I'll  straight  do  :  and,  knownng  myself  again, 
Repair  to  the  senate-house. 

Men.  I  '11  keep  you  company. — Will  you  along? 

Bru.  We  stay  here  for  the  people. 

Sic.  Fare  you  well. — [Exeunt  Coriol.  and  Menen. 
He  has  it  now  ;  and  by  his  looks,  methinks, 
'T  is  warm  at 's  heart. 

Bru.  With  a  proud  heart  he  wore 

His  humble  weeds.     Will  you  dismiss  the  people  ? 
Re-enter  Citizens. 

Sic.  How  now,  my  masters  !  have  you  chose  this  man  ? 

1  Cit.  He  has  our  voices,  sir. 

Bru.  We  pray  the  gods  he  may  deser^-e  your  loves. 

2  Cit.  Amen,  sir.     To  my  poor  unworthy  notice, 
He  mock'd  us  when  he  begg'd  our  voices. 

3  Cit.  Certainly, 
He  flouted  us  down-right. 

1  Cit.  No,  't  is  his  kind  of  speech  :  he  did  not  mock  us. 

2  Cit.  Not  one  amongst  us.  save  your.self,  but  says. 
He  us'd  us  scornfully  :  he  should  have  show'd  us 
His  marks  of  merit,  wounds  receiv'd  for  's  country. 

Sic.  Why,  so  he  did,  I  am  sure. 

All.  No,  no  ;  no  man  .saw  'em. 

3  Cit.  He  said,  he  had  wounds,  which  he  could  show 

in  private  ; 

And  with  his  hat  thus  waving  it  in  scorn. 

''I  would  be  consul,"  says  he  :   ■'•  aged  custom, 

But  by  your  voices,  will  not  .«o  permit  me ; 

Your  voices  therefore."     When  we  granted  that, 

Here  was, — "  I  thank  you  for  your  voices, — thank  you, — 

Your  most  sweet  voices : — now  you  have  left  your  voices, 

I  have  no  farther  with  you." — Was  not  this  mockerj'? 
Sic.  Why,  either,  were  you  ignorant  to  see  't, 

Or,  seeing  it,  of  such  childish  friendliness 

To  yield  your  voices  ? 

Bru.  Could  you  not  have  told  him. 

As  you  were  lesson'd,  when  he  had  no  power. 

But  was  a  petty  servant  to  the  state, 

He  was  your  enemy ;  ever  spake  against 
\   Your  liberties,  and  the  charters  that  you  bear 
I    I'  the  body  of  the  weal :  and  now,  arriving 
I   A  place  of  potency,  and  sway  i'  the  state, 
I   If  he  should  still  malignantly  remain 
'  Fast  foe  to  the  plebeii,  your  voices  might 
;  Be  curses  to  yourselves.     You  should  have  said. 
I   That,  as  his  worthy  deeds  did  claim  no  less 
:  Than  what  he  stood  for,  so  his  gracious  nature 
I  Would  think  upon  yoti  for  your  voices,  and 
,  Translate  his  malice  towards  you  into  love. 

Standing  your  friendly  lord. 

^dc.  Thus  to  have  said. 

.  A.S  you  were  fore-advis'd,  had  touch'd  his  spirit. 
!  And  tried  his  inclination ;  from  him  pluck'd 
\  Either  his  gracious  promise,  which  you  might. 

iAs  cause  had  called  you  up.  have  held  him  to, 
Or  else  it  would  have  sall'd  his  surlv  nature. 


Which  easily  endures  not  article 
Tying  him  to  aught :  so,  putting  him  to  rage 
You  should  have  ta'en  th''  advantage  of  his  choler, 
And  pass'd  him  unelected. 

Bn(..  Did  you  perceive. 

He  did  solicit  you  in  free  contempt, 
When  he  did  need  your  loves,  and  do  you  think. 
That  his  contempt  shall  not  be  bruising  to  you, 
When  he  hath  power  to  crush  ?  Why,  had  your  bodies 
No  heart  among  you  ?  or  had  you  tongues  to  cry 
Against  the  rectorship  of  judgment? 

Sic.  Have  you. 

i  Ere  now,  denied  the  asker ;  and.  now  again, 
'  OP  him.  that  did  not  ask,  but  mock,  bestow 
Your  sued-for  tongues  ? 

3  Cit.  He  's  not  confirmed  :  v.-e  may  deny  him  yet. 

2  Cit.  And  will  deny  him  : 
I  11  have  five  hundred  voices  of  that  sound. 

1  Cit.  Ay,  twice  five  hundred,  and  their  friends  tf> 
piece  'em. 

Bru.  Get  you  hence  instantly,  and  tell  those  friendt^. 
They  have  chose  a  consul  that  will  from  them  take 
Their  liberties  :  make  them  of  no  more  voice 
Than  dogs,  that  are  as  often  beat  for  barking, 
As  therefore  kept  to  do  so. 

Sic.  Let  them  assemble  ; 

And,  on  a  safer  judgment,  all  revoke 
Your  ignorant  election.     Enforce  his  pride, 
And  his  old  hate  unto  you :  besides,  forget  not 
With  what  contempt  he  wore  the  humble  weed  , 
How  in  his  suit  he  scorn'd  you  ;  but  your  loves, 
Thinking  upon  his  services,  took  from  you 
The  apprehension  of  his  present  portance. 
Which  most  gibingly,  ungravely.  he  did  fashion 
After  the  inveterate  hate  he  bears  you. 

Bru.  Lay 

A  fault  on  us,  your  tribunes;  that  we  labour'd 
(No  impediment  between)  but  that  you  must 
Cast  your  election  on  him. 

Sic.  Say,  you  chose  him 

More  after  our  commandment,  than  as  guided 
By  your  owti  true  affections ;  and  that,  your  mind.s, 
Pre-occupy'd  with  what  you  rather  must  do, 
Than  what  you  should,  made  you  against  the  grain 
To  voice  him  consul.     Lay  the  fault  on  us. 

Bru.  Ay,  spare  us  not.  Say,  we  read  lectures  to  you. 
How  youngly  he  began  to  serve  his  country. 
How  long  continued,  and  what  stock  he  springs  of, 
The  noble  house  o'  the  Marcians  :  from  whence  came 
That  Ancus  Marcius.  Numa's  daughter's  son. 
Who,  after  great  Hostilius,  here  was  king. 
Of  the  same  house  Publius  and  Quintus  were, 
That  our  best  water  brought  by  conduits  hither  , 
And  Censorinus.  darling  of  the  people,' 
And  nobly  nam'd  so.  twice  being  censor, 
Was  his  great  ancestor. 

Sic.  One  thus  descended, 

That  hath  beside  well  in  his  person  -wrought 
To  be  set  high  in  place,  we  did  commend 
To  your  remembrances  :  but  you  have  foimd. 
Scaling  his  present  bearing  with  his  past. 
That  he  's  your  fixed  enemy,  and  revoke 
Your  sudden  approbation. 

Bru.  Say,  you  ne'er  had  done  *t. 

(Harp  on  that  still)  but  by  our  putting  on ; 
And  presently,  when  you  have  drawn  your  number, 
Ptepair  to  the  Capitol. 

All.  We  will  so  :  almost  all 

Repent  in  their  election.  [Exeunt  Citizens 


'  On       £  This  line  was  adoed  br  Popa 

20 


tUO 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT   lU. 


Bru.  Let  them  go  on  : 

This  mutiny  were  better  put  in  hazard, 
Than  stay.  pa.<;t  doubt,  lor  greater. 
If,  as  his  nature  is.  be  fall  in  rage 
With  their  refusal,  both  observe  and  answer 


1  The  vantage  of  his  anger. 

Sic.  To  the  Capitol: 

Come,  we  '11  be  there  before  the  stream  o'  the  people: 
And  this  shall  seem,  as  partly  'i  is,  their  own, 

I  Which  we  have  goaded  onward.  \  Exeunt 


ACT    111. 


SCKXE  I.— The  Same.     A  Street. 

Comets.     Enter  Coriol.\ms.  Menenils.  Comi.nks. 
Tins  Lartiis,  Senators,  and  Patricians. 

Cor.  TuUus  Aufidius,  then,  had  made  new  head? 

Lart.  He  had,  my  lord  :  and  that  it  was,  whieh  caus'd 
Our  switlcr  composition. 

Cor.  So  then,  the  Volsces  stand  but  as  at  first: 
Ready,  when  time  shall  prompt  them,  to  make  road 
Upon  us  again. 

Com.  They  arc  worn,  lord  consul,  so, 
That  we  shall  hardly  in  our  ages  see 
Their  banners  wave  again. 

Cor.  Saw  you  Aufidius  ? 

Ixirt.  On  safe-guard  he  came  to  me ;  and  did  curse 
Against  the  Volsces.  for  they  had  so  Ailely 
Yielded  the  town  :  he  is  retird  to  Autium. 

Cor.  Spoke  he  of  me  ? 

Lart.  He  did.  my  lord. 

Cor.  '  How?  what? 

Lart.  How  often  he  had  met  you,  sword  to  sword  ; 
That  of  all  things  upon  the  earth  he  hated 
Your  person  most;  that  he  would  pawn  his  fortunes 
To  hopeless  restitution,  so  he  might 
Be  call'd  your  vanquisher. 

Cor.  At  Antium  lives  he  ? 

Lart.  At  Antium. 

Cor.  I  wisli,  I  had  a  cause  to  seek  him  there. 
To  oppose  his  hatred  fully. — Welcome  home. 

[To  Lartius. 
Enter  Sicinius  and  Brutus. 
Behold  !  these  are  the  tribunes  of  the  people. 
The  tongues  o'  the  common  mouth.    1  do  despise  them. 
For  they  do  prank  them  in  authority. 
Against  all  noble  suflerance. 

Sic.  Pass  no  farther. 

Cor    Ha  !  what  is  that  ? 

Brxi.  It  will  be  dangerous  to  go  on :  no  farther. 

Cor.  What  makes  this  change  ? 

Men.  The  matter? 

Com.  Hathhe  not  pass'd  the  nobles,  and  the  commons? 

Bru.  Cominius,  no. 

Cor.  Have  I  had  children's  voices  ? 

Sen.  Tribunes,  give  way:  he  shall  to  the  market-place. 

Bru.  The  people  are  incens'd  against  him. 

Sic-  Stop. 

Or  all  will  fall  in  broil. 

Cor.  Are  these  your  herd? — 

Must  these  havf  voices,  that  can  yield  them  now, 
And  straight  disclaim  their  tongues  ? — What  are  your 

offices  ? 
You  being  their  mouths,  why  rule  you  not  their  teeth? 
Have  you  not  set  them  on  ? 

Men.  Be  calm,  be  calm. 

Cor.  It  is  a  purpos'd  thing,  and  grows  by  plot, 
To  curb  the  will  of  the  nobility: 
Suffer  't.  and  live  with  such  as  cannot  rule, 
Nor  ever  will  be  rul'd. 


I      Bru.  Call  "t  not  a  plot. 

The  people  en,',  you  mock'd  them  ;  and,  of  late. 
When  corn  was  given  them  gratis,  you  repin'd  ; 
'  Scandal'd  the  suppliants  for  the  people,  call'd  them 
1  Timc-pleasers,  flatterers,  foes  to  nobleness. 
i      Cor.  Why.  this  was  known  before. 
I      Bru.  Not  to  them  all. 

I      Cor.  Have  you  inform'd  them  since  ? 
1      Bru.  How!  I  inform  them r 

!      Com.  You  are  like  to  do  such  business. 
I      Bru.  Not  unlike, 

Each  way.  to  better  yours. 

Cor.  Wiiy,  then,  should  I  be  consul  ?  By  yond'  clouds, 
Let  me  deserve  so  ill  as  you.  and  make  me 
Your  fellow  tribune. 

Sic.  You  show  too  much  of  that. 

For  wliich  the  people  stir.     If  you  will  pass 
To  where  you  are  bound,  you  mu.st  inquire  your  way. 
Which  you  are  out  of,  with  a  gentler  spirit  ; 
Or  never  be  so  noble  as  a  consul. 
Nor  yoke  with  him  for  tribune. 

Men.  Let 's  be  calm. 

Com.  The  people  are  abus'd  :  set  on. — Tliis  palterin;: 
Becomes  not  Rome  ;  nor  has  Coriolanus 
Deserved  this  so  dishonour'd  rub,  laid  falsely 
r  the  plain  way  of  his  merit. 

Cor.  Tell  me  of  corn  ! 

This  was  my  speech,  and  I  will  speak  't  again — 

Men.  Not  now,  not  now. 

1  Sen.  Net  in  this  heat.  sir.  now 

Cor.  Now,  as  I  live.  I  will. — My  nobler  friends, 
I  crave  their  pardons  : — 

For  the  mutable,  rank-scented  many,  let  them 
Regard  me  as  [  do  not  flatter,  and 
Therein  behold  themselves.     I  say  again, 
In  soothing  tliem  we  nourish  'gainst  our  senate 
The  cockle  of  rebellion,  insolence,  sedition, 
Which  we  ourselves    have  plough'd    for,  sow'd.   an.I 

scatter'd. 
By  mingling  them  with  us,  the  hononr'd  number : 
Who  lack  not  virtue,  no,  nor  power,  but  that 
Which  they  have  given  to  beggars. 

Men.  Well,  no  rai.rr. 

Sen.  No  more  words,  we  beseech  you. 

Cor.  How  !  no  more  '.' 

As  for  my  country  I  have  shed  my  blood. 
Not  fearing  outward  force,  so  shall  my  lungs 
Coin  words  till  they  decay  against  those  meazelcV 
Which  we  disdain  should  tetter  us.  yet  sought 
The  very  way  to  catch  them. 

Brxi.  '  You  speak  o'  the  peopl", 

As  if  you  were  a  god  to  punish,  not 
A  man  of  their  infirmity. 

Sic.  'T  were  well. 

We  let  the  people  know  't. 

Mm.  What,  what?  his  choJcj' 

Cor.  Choler! 
Were  I  as  patient  as  the  midnight  sleep, 


SCENE   I. 


CORIOLANUS. 


611 


By  Jove,  't  would  be  my  mind. 

b'te.  It  is  a  mind, 

That  shall  remain  a  poison  where  it  is. 
Not  poison  any  farther. 

Cor  Shall  remain  ! — 

Hear  you  this  Triton  of  the  minnows  ?  mark  you 
His  absolute  "  shall  ?" 

Com.  'T  was  from  the  canon. 

Cor.  -'Shall!"' 

0,  good  but  most  unwise  patricians  !  why. 
You  grave  but  reckless  senators,  have  you  thus 
Given  Hydra     ave'  to  choose  an  officer, 
That  with  his  peremptory  -  shall,"  being  but 
The  horn  and  noise  o'  the  monster*,  wants  not  spirit 
To  say,  he  '11  turn  your  current  in  a  ditch. 
And  make  your  channel  his  ?     If  he  have  power. 
Then  vail  your  impotence' :  if  none,  revoke* 
Your  dangerous  bounty*.     If  you  are  learned, 
Be  not  as  common  fools ;  if  you  are  not, 
Let  them  have  cushions  by  you.     You  are  plebeian.*. 
If  they  be  senators  :  and  they  are  no  less. 
When  both  your  voices  blended,  the  great'st  taste 
Most  palates  theirs.     They  choose  their  magistrate  ; 
And  such  a  one  as  he,  who  puts  his  "  shall," 
His  popular  "shall,"  against  a  graver  bench 
Than  ever  frow^l'd  in  Greece.     By  Jove  himself. 
It  makes  the  consuls  base ;  and  my  soul  aches 
To  know,  when  two  authorities  are  up, 
Neither  supreme,  how  soon  confusion 
May  enter  'twixt  the  gap  of  both,  and  take 
The  one  by  the  other. 

Com.  Well — on  to  the  market-place. 

Cor.  Whoever  gave  that  counsel,  to  give  forth 
The  corn  o'  the  store-house  gratis,  as  't  was  used 
Sometime  in  Greece. — 

Men.  Well,  well ;  no  more  of  that. 

Cor.  Though  there  the  people  had  more  absolute 
power, 
1  say,  they  nourish'd  disobedience,  fed 
The  ruin  of  the  state. 

Bru.  Why,  shall  the  people  give 

One  that  speaks  thus  their  voice  ? 

Cor.  I  '11  give  my  reasons, 

More  worthier  than  their  voices.     They  know  the  corn 
Was  not  their'  recompence,  resting  well  assured 
They  ne'er  did  service  for  't.     Being  pressed  to  the  war, 
Even  when  the  navel  of  the  state  was  toueh'd, 
They  would  not  thread  the  gates :  this  kind  of  service 
Did  not  deserve  corn  gratis  :  being  i'  the  war, 
Their  mutinies  and  revolts,  wherein  they  show'd 
Most  valour,  spoke  not  for  them.     Th'  accusation 
Which  they  have  often  made  against  the  senate, 
All  cause  unborn,  could  never  be  the  motive' 
Of  our  so  frank  donation.     Well,  what  then  ? 
How  shall  this  bisson*  multitude'  digest 
The  senate's  courtesy?     Let  deeds  express 
What 's  like  to  be  their  words  : — ••  We  did  request  it ; 
We  are  the  greater  poll,  and  in  true  fear 
They  gave  us  our  demands." — Thus  we  debase 
The  nature  of  our  seats,  and  make  the  rabble 
Call  our  cares,  fears  :  which  will  in  time  break  ope 
The  locks  o'  the  senate,  and  bring  in  the  crows 
To  peck  the  eagles. — 

Men.  Come,  enough. 

Bru.  Enough.  A\ith  over-measure. 

Cor.  No,  take  more  : 

What  may  be  sworn  by,  both  divine  and  human. 
Seal  what  I  end  withal ! — This  double  worship, — 


Where  one  part  does  disdain  with  cause,  the  other 
Insult  without  all  reason  :  where  gentry,  title,  wisdom. 
'  Cannot  conclude,  but  by  the  yea  and  no 
I  Of  general  ignorance. — it  jnust  omit 
Real  necessities,  and  give  way  the  while 
I  To  unstable  slightness.     Purpose  so  barr'd.  it  follows 
1  Nothing  is  done  to  purpose  :  therefore,  beseech  you, 
:  "^■|a  that  will  be  less  fearful  than  discreet, 
j  1  nat  love  the  fundamental  part  of  state, 
!  More  than  you  doubt  the  change  on  't ;  that  prefer 
!  A  noble  life  before  a  long,  and  wish 
[  To  jump"  a  body  with  a  dangerous  physic 
That 's  sure  of  death  without  it,  at  once  pluck  out 
!  The  multitudinous  tongue  :  let  them  not  lick 
!  The  sweet  which  is  their  poison.     Your  dishonour 
Mangles  true  judgment,  and  bereaves  the  state 
Of  that  integrity  which  should  become  it. 
Not  having  the  power  to  do  the  good  it  would. 
For  th'  ill  which  doth  control  if. 

Bru.  He  has  said  enough. 

Sic.  He  has  spoken  like  a  traitor,  and  shall  answer 
As  traitors  do. 

Cor.  Thou  wTetch  !  despite  o'erwhelm  thee  ! — 
What  should  the  people  do  with  these  bald  tribunes? 
On  whom  depending,  their  obedience  fails 
To  the  greater  bench.     In  a  rebellion. 
When  what 's  not  meet,  but  what  must  be,  was  law. 
Then  were  they  chosen :  in  a  better  hour. 
Let  what  is  meet  be  said,  it  must  be  meet. 
And  throw  their  power  i'  the  dust. 
Bru.  Manifest  treason. 
Sic.  This  a  consul  ?  no. 

Bru.  The  ^diles,  ho  ' — Let  him  be  apprehended. 

Enter  an  JEdile. 
Sic.  Go,  call  the  people :    [Exit  jEdile.]    in  whose 
name,  myself 
Attach  thee  as  a  traitorous  innovator, 
A  foe  to  the  public  weal.     Obey.  I  charge  thee. 
And  follow  to  thine  answer. 

Cor.  Hence,  old  goat ! 

Sen.  We  'II  surety  him. 
Com.  Aged  sir,  hands  off. 

Cor.  Hence,  rotten  thing,  or  I  shall  shake  thy  bones 
Out  of  thy  garments. 
I      Sic.  Help,  ye  citizens  ! 

'  Re-enter  the  jEdile,  with  others.,  and  a  Rabble  of  Citizens. 
I      Men.  On  both  sides  more  respect. 
I      Sic.  Here  's  he,  that  would 

I  Take  from  you  all  your  power. 
i      Bru.  Seize  him,  ^diles. 

Cit.  Down  with  him!  down  ^^-ith  him  !  [Several  sfeak. 
2  Sen.  Weapons  !  weapons  !  weapons  : 

[They  all  bustle  about  Coriol.4NI's. 
Tribunes,  patricians,  citizens  ! — what  ho  ! — 
Sieinius,  JBrutus,  Coriolanus,  citizens  ! 

Cit.  Peace,  peace,  peace  !  stay,  hold,  peace  ! 
Men.  What  is  about  to  be ":' — I  am  out  of  breath  ; 
Confusion  's  near  :  I  cannot  speak. — You,  tribunes 
To  the  people, — Coriolanus.  patience  : — 
Speak,  good  Sieinius. 

Sic.  Hear  me  !  people,  peace  ! 

Cit.  Let 's  hear  our  tribune :— Peace  !  Speak,  speak. 

speak. 
Sic.  You  are  at  point  to  lose  your  liberties  : 
Marcius  would  have  all  from  you  ;  Marcius. 
Whom  late  you  have  nam'd  for  consul. 

Men.  Fie,  fie,  fie' 

This  is  the  way  to  kindle,  not  to  quench. 


n  f.  e.      '  monsters  :  in  f.  e. 
bosom  multiplied  :  in  f.  e. 


'  ignorance  :  in  f.  e. 
Risk 


awake  :  in  f. 


lity  :  in  f. 


our  :  in  f.  e 


612 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT  nr 


Sen.  To  unbuild  the  city,  and  to  lay  all  flat. 

Sic.  What  is  the  city,  but  the  people  ? 

Cit.  True ; 

The  people  are  the  city. 

Rru.  By  the  consent  of  nil.  we  were  e.';tablish"d 
The  j>eoplc's  magi.^t rates. 

Cit.  Vou  80  remain 

Men.  And  so  arc  like  to  do. 

Coin.  That  is  the  way  to  lay  the  city  Hat 
To  bring  the  roof  to  the  foundation, 
And  bury  all.  which  yet  distinctly  ranges. 
In  heaps  and  piles  of  ruin. 

Sic.  This  deserves  death. 

Rru.  Or  let  us  stand  to  our  authority. 
Or  let  us  lose  it. — We  do  here  pronounce, 
i'pon  the  part  o'  the  people,  in  whose  power 
We  were  elected  theirs.  Marcius  is  worthy 
')f  present  death. 

.Sic.  Therefore,  lay  hold  of  him. 

B'-ar  him  to  the  rock  Tarpeian,  and  from  thence 
into  destruction  ca.«t  him. 

Hru.  JEdi\es.  seize  him. 

Cit.  Yield,  Marcius,  yield. 

Men.  Hear  me  one  word. 

B'^seech  you,  tribunes,  hear  me  but  a  word. 

.Edi.  Peace,  peace  ! 

Men.  Be  that  you  seem,  truly  your  country's  friend, 
.Vnd  temperately  proceed  to  what  you  would 
Thus  violently  redress. 

Brv.  Sir.  those  cold  ways. 

That  seem  like  prudent  helps,  are  very  poisonous 
Where  the  di.sease  is  violent. — Lay  hands  upon  him. 
.\nd  bear  him  to  the  rock. 

Cor.  No  :  I  '11  die  here.     [Drawing  his  Sword. 

There  's  some  among  you  have  beheld  me  fighting  : 
Come,  try  upon  yourselves  what  you  have  seen  me. 

Af'm.   Ilown  with  that  sword  ! — Tribunes,  \^^thd^aw 
a  while. 

Rru.  Lay  hands  upon  him. 

Men.  Help  Marcius,  help. 

You  that  be  noble:  help  him.  young  and  old! 

Cit.  Down  ^^^th  him  !  down  with  him  ! 

[In  thi.<;  mutiny,  the  Tribunes,  the  JEdilcs.  and 
the  People,  are  beat  in. 

Men.  (Jo,  get  you  to  your  house  :  be  gone,  away  ! 
All  will  be  naught  else. 

2  Sen.  Get  you  gone. 

Com.  Stand  fast : 

We  have  as  many  friends  a«  enemies. 

Men.  Shall  it  be  put  to  that? 

1  Sen.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

I  pr'ythee,  noble  friend,  home  to  thy  house  ; 
Leave  us  to  cure  this  cause. 

Men.  For  't  is  a  sore  upon  us, 

You  cannot  tent  yourself.     Begone,  'beseech  you. 

Com.  Come,  sir.  along  with  us. 

Cor.  I  would  they  were  barbarians,  as  they  are. 
Though  in  Rome  litt'»r'd.  not  Romans,  as  they  are  not, 
Though  calv'd  i'  the  porch  o'  the  Capitol  ! 

Men.  Be  gone ; 

P'lt  not  your  worthy  rase  into  your  tongue: 
""^ne  time  will  owe  another. 

Cor.  On  fair  ground, 

I  could  beat  forty  of  them. 

Men.  I  could  my.self 

Take  up  a  brace  of  the  bestoffhem;  yea,  the  two  tribunes. 

Com.  But  now  "t  is  odds  beyond  arithmetic  ; 
And  manhood  is  cali'd  fooler^',  when  it  Btands 
V^ainst  a  falling  fabric. — Will  you  liTCfl, 

•  lM»r»«d  :  in  '  *. 


Before  the  tag  return,  who.sc  rage  doth  rend 
Like  interrupted  waters,  and  o'erbear 
What  they  are  used  to  bear? 

Men.  Pray  you,  be  gone. 

I  "11  try  whether  my  old  wit  be  in  request 
With  those  that  have  but  little  :  this  must  be  patch'd 
With  cloth  of  any  colour. 

Com.  Nay,  come  away. 

[Exe^mt  CoRioLANis,  Cominius.  and  :^theri 

1  Pat.  This  man  has  marr'd  his  fortune. 
Men.  His  nature  is  too  noble  for  the  world  : 

He  would  not  (latter  Neptune  for  his  trident, 

Or  Jove  for  's  power  to  thunder.  His  heart  '"s  Ids  mouth  ; 

What  his  breast  forges,  that  his  tongue  must  vent  ; 

And,  being  angry,  does  forget  that  ever 

He  heard  the  name  of  death.  [A  noise  within 

Here  's  goodly  work  ! 

2  Pat.  I  would  they  were  a-bed  ! 
Men.  I    would    they   were  in    Tyber  ! — W^hat.  th« 

vengeance, 
Could  he  not  speak  thena  fair  ? 

Re-enter  Brutus  and  Sicixius,  with  the  Rabble. 

Sic.  Where  is  this  viper. 

That  would  depopulate  the  city,  and 
Be  every  man  himself? 

Men.  You  worthy  tribunes, — 

Sic.  He  shall  be  thrown  down  the  Tarpeian  rock 
With  rigorous  hands  :  he  hath  resisted  law, 
And  therefore  law  shall  scorn  him  farther  trial 
Than  the  severity  of  the  public  power. 
Which  he  so  sets  at  nought. 

1  Cit.  He  shall  well  know. 

The  noble  tribunes  are  the  people's  mouths. 
And  we  their  hands. 

Cit.  He  shall,  sure  on  't. 

Men.  Sir,  sir, — 

Sic.  Peace  ! 

3Ien.  Do  not  cry  havock,  where  you  should  but  hun- 
With  modest  warrant. 

Sic.  Sir,  how  comes  't,  that  you 

Have  holp  to  make  this  rescue  ? 

Men.  Hear  me  speak. — 

As  I  do  know  the  consul's  worthiness, 
So  can  I  name  his  faults. — 

Sic.  Consul  ! — what  consul  ? 

3Ien.  The  consul  Coriolanus. 

Bru.  He  a  consul ! 

Cit.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 

Men.  If,  by  the  tribunes'  leave,  and  yours,  good  pecpU 
I  may  be  heard.  I  would  crave  a  word  or  two ; 
The  which  shall  turn  you  to  no  farther  harm. 
Than  .«o  much  loss  of  time. 

Sir..  Speak  briefly  then  ; 

For  we  are  peremptory  to  despatch 
This  viperous  traitor.     To  eject  him  hence, 
Were  but  one  danger,  and  to  keep  him  here. 
Our  certain  death  :  therefore,  it  is  decreed 
He  dies  to-night. 

Men.  Now  the  good  gods  forbid. 

That  our  renowned  Rome,  whose  gratitude 
Towards  her  deserving'  children  is  enroU'd 
In  .love's  own  book,  like  an  unnatural  dam 
Should  now  eat  up  her  ow^n  ! 

Sic.  He's  a  disease,  that  must  be  cut  away. 

Men.  O !  he  's  a  limb,  that  has  but  a  disease  : 
Mortal,  to  cut  it  off:  lo  cure  it,  easy. 
What  has  he  done  to  Rome  that 's  worthy  death  ' 
Killing  our  enemies?     The  blood  he  hath  lost, 
(Which.  I  dare  vouch,  is  more  than  he  hath, 


SCENE  n. 


CORIOLAKUS. 


613 


By  many  an  ounce)  he  dropp'd  it  for  his  country : 
And  what  is  left,  to  lose  it  by  his  country, 
Were  to  us  all,  that  do  't  and  suffer  it, 
A  brand  to  th'  end  of  the  world. 

Sic.  This  is  clean  kam'. 

Bru.  Merely  awry.     When  he  did  love  his  country, 
It  honour'd  him. 

Men.  The  service  of  the  foot. 

Being  once  gangren'd,  is  not  then  respected 
For  what  before  it  was. 

Bru.  We  '11  hear  no  more. — 

Pursue  him  to  his  house,  and  pluck  him  thence, 
Lest  his  infection,  being  of  catching  nature. 
Spread  farther. 

Men.  One  word  more,  one  word. 

This  tiger-footed  rage,  when  it  shall  find 
Tlie  harm  of  unscann'd  swiftness,  will,  too  late. 
Tie  leaden  pounds  to  's  heels.     Proceed  by  process  ; 
Lest  parties  (as  he  is  belov'd)  break  out, 
And  sack  great  Rome  with  Romans. 

Bru.  If  it  were  so. — 

Sic.  What  do  ye  talk  ? 
Have  we  not  had  a  taste  of  his  obedience  ? 
Our  iEdiles  smote  '?  ourselves  resisted  ? — Come  1 — 

Men.  Consider  this  : — he  has  been  bred  i'  the  wars 
Since  he  could  draw  a  sword,  and  is  ill  school'd 
In  boulted  language  ;  meal  and  bran  together 
He  throws  without  distinction.     Give  me  leave. 
I  "11  go  to  him.  and  undertake  to  bring  him  in  peace 
Where  he  shall  answer,  by  a  lawful  form, 
In  peace,  to  his  utmost  peril. 

1  Sen.  Noble  tribunes, 

It  is  tlie  humane  way :  the  other  course 
Will  prove  too  bloody,  and  the  end  of  it 
Unknown  to  the  beginning. 

Sic.  Noble  Menenius, 

Be  you,  then,  as  the  people's  officer. — 
Masters,  lay  down  your  weapons. 

Bni.  Go  not  home. 

Sic.  Meet  on  the  market-place. — We  '11  attend   you 
there : 
Where,  if  you  bring  not  Marcius,  we  '11  proceed 
In  our  first  way. 

Men.  I  '11  bring  him  to  you. — 

Let  me  desire  your  company.     [To  the  Senator.s.]     He 

must  come. 
Or  what  is  worst  will  follow. 

1  Sen.  Pray  you,  let 's  to  him.      [Exeunt,  i 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Coriolanus's  House.        \ 
Enter  Coriolanus,  aiid  Patricians. 
Cor.  Let  them  pull  all  about  mine  ears :  present  me 
Death  on  the  wheel,  or  at  wild  horses'  heels  : 
Or  pile  ten  hills  on  the  Tarpeian  rock. 
That  the  precipitation  might  down  stretch 
Below  the  beam  of  sight,  yet  will  I  still 
Be  thus  to  them." 

1  Pat.  You  do  the  nobler. 

Cor.  I  muse  my  mother 
Does  not  approve  me  farther,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  woollen  vassals ;  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats  :  to  show  bare  heads 
In  congregations,  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder, 
When  one  but  of  my  ordinance  stood  up 
To  speak  of  peace,  or  war. 

Enter  Volumnia'. 

I  talk  of  you  : 
Why  did  you  wish  me  milder  ?     Would  you  have  me 


False  to  my  nature  ?     Rather  say.  I  play 
The  man  I  am. 

Vol.  0,  son,  son,  son  !♦ 

I  would  have  had  you  put  your  power  well  on. 
Before  you  had  worn  it  out. 

Car.  Let  go. 

Vol.  You  might  have  been  enough  the  man  you  are 
With  striving  less  to  be  so :  lesser  had  been 
The  thwartings  of  your  dispositions,  if 
You  had  not  show'd  them  how  you  were  dispos'd, 
Ere  they  lack'd  power  to  cross  you. 

Cor.  Let  them  hang. 

Vol.  Ay,  and  burn  too. 

Enter  Mesexius,  and  Senators. 

Men.   Come,  come  ;  you  have  been  too  rough,  some- 
thing too  rough : 
You  must  return,  and  mend  it. 

1  Sen.  There  's  no  remedy; 

Unless,  by  not  so  doing,  our  good  city 
Cleave  in  the  midst,  and  perish. 

Vol.  Pray,  be  counsell'd 

I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  yours 
To  brook  control  without  the  use  of  anger.' 
But  yet  a  brain,  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage. 

Men.  Well  said,  noble  woman  I 

Before  he  should  thus  stoop  o'  the  heart,'  but  that 
The  violent  fit  o'  the  time  craves  it  as  physic 
For  the  whole  st^te,  I  would  put  mine  armour  on, 
Which  I  can  scarcely  bear. 

Cor.  What  must  I  do  ? 

Men.  Pteturn  to  the  tribunes. 

Cor.  Well,  what  then  ?  what  then  r 

Men.  Repent  what  you  have  spoke. 

Cor.  For  them  ? — I  cannot  do  it  to  the  gods  ; 
Must  I  then  do  't  to  them  ? 

Vol.  You  are  too  absolute  ; 

Though  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble. 
But  when  extremities  speak.     I  have  heard  you  say, 
Honour  and  policy,  like  nnsever'd  friends, 
I'  the  war  do  grow  together  :  grant  that,  and  tell  \m. 
In  peace  what  each  of  tliem  by  th'  other  lose. 
That  they  combine  not  there  ? 

Cor.  Tush,  tush ! 

Men.  A  good  demand 

Vol.  If  it  be  honour  in  your  wars  to  seem 
The  same  you  are  not.  (which  for  your  best  ends 
You  adopt  your  policy)  how  is  it  less,  or  worse. 
That  it  shall  hold  companionship  in  peace 
W^ith  honour,  as  in  war,  since  that  to  both 
It  stands  in  like  request  ? 

Cor.  Why  force  you  this  ? 

Vol.  Because  that  now  it  lies  you  on  to  speak 
To  the  people ;  not  by  your  own  instruction, 
Nor  by  the  matter  which  your  heart  prompts  yor 
But  with  such  words  that  are  but  roted'  in 
Your  tongue,  though  but  bastards,  and  syllables 
Of  no  allowance  to  your  bosom's  truth. 
Now,  this  no  more  dishonours  you  at  all, 
Than  to  take  in  a  town  with  gentle  words. 
Which  else  would  put  you  to  your  fortune,  and 
The  hazard  of  much  blood. — 
I  would  dissemble  \\"ith  my  nature,  where. 
My  fortunes  and  my  friends  at  stake,  requir'd 
I  should  do  so  in  honour :  I  am  in  this, 
Your  wife,  your  .son,  these  senators,  the  nobles  ; 
And  you  will  rather  show  our  general  lo-wta 
How  you  can  frown,  than  spend  a  fa^v^l  upon   em. 


-  Crooked.      »  Enter  Volumnia  :  in  f.  e.      '  Not  in  f.  e. 
changed  by  Iheobald,  from  heart,  in  the  folio.      '  roated  :  ii 


sir,  sir  :  in  f.  e.      •  This  line  is  not 
Dyce  reads :  rooted 


to  tb<  herd  :  in  f 


fiU 


CORIOLANUS. 


AOT  in. 


For  the  inhcrifnncc  of  their  lovet,  and  safeguard 
Of  what  that  want  might  ruin. 

Men.  Noble  lady  ! — 

Oome.  go  with  us:  speak  fair;  you  may  salve  so, 
Not  what  is  daiigerouB  present,  but  the  loss 
Of  what  is  pa.»;t. 

Vol.  I  pr'ythee  now.  my  .son, 

'Jo  to  them,  with  this  bonnet  in  tliy  hand  ; 
And  thus  far  having  slretcn'd  it.  (here  be  with  them) 
Thy  knee  bufssing  the  stones,  (for  in  sucli  bu.sincs« 
.\clion  is  eloquence,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant 
More  learned  than  the  cars)  waving  thy  head, 
Winch  otten.  tiius.  correcting  thy  stout  heart, 
Now  s  humble  as  the  ripest  mulberry 
i'hat  will  not  hold  the  handling.     Or  say  to  them, 
Phou  art  their  .«oldier.  and  being  bred  in  broil.'*, 
Hast  not  the  soft  way,  which  thou  dost  confess, 
Were  fit  for  thee  to  use  as  they  to  claim, 
In  asking  their  good  loves;  but  thou  wilt  frame 
Thyself,  forsootli.  hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
As  thou  hast  power,  and  person. 

Mm.  This  but  done, 

Kven  as  she  speaks,  why.  their  liearts  were  yours ; 
For  they  have  pardons,  being  ask'd,  as  free 
.\s  words  to  little  purpose. 

Vol.  Pr"ythee  now. 

Go,  and  be  rul'd ;  although,  I  know,  thou  hadst  rather 
Follow  (hine  enemy  in  a  fiery  gulf. 
Than  flatter  him  in  a  bower.     Here  is  Cominius. 
Enter  Ccminiis. 

Com.  1  have  been  i'  the  market-place ;  and.  sir.  't  is  fit 
Vou  make  strong  party,  or  defend  yourself 
By  calmness,  or  by  absence  :  all 's  in  anger. 

Men.  Only  fair  speech. 

Com.  I  think,  't  will  serve  :  if  he 

t'an  thereto  frame  his  spirit. 

Vol.  He  mu.st.  and  will. — 

PHythee  now,  say  you  will,  and  go  about  it. 

Cor.  Must  I  go  show  them  my  unbarbed  sconce  ? 
Must  I  with  my  ba-^e  tongue  give  to  my  noble  heart 
.\  he.  that  it  mu.«t  bear?'  Well,  I  will  do  't: 
Vet  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose. 
This  mould  of  Marcius.  they  to  dust  should  grind  it. 
A.nd  tlirow  "t  against  the  wind. — To  the  market-place  ! 
You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part,  which  never 
1  shall  discharge  to  the  life. 

Com.  Come,  come,  we  'U  prompt  you. 

Vol.  I  pr'>-thee  now.  sweet  son  :  as  thou  hast  said. 
My  praises  made  thee  first  a  soldier,  so, 
To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a  part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

Cor.  Well,  I  must  do  't. 

Away,  my  disposition,  and  po.«sess  me 
Some  harlot's  spirit  !     My  throat  of  war  be  tunrd. 
Which  quired  with  my  drum,  into  a  pipe 
Sfnall  a.s  an  eunuch,  or  the  virgin  voice 
That  babies  lulls  imleep  !     The  smiles  of  knaves 
Tent  in  my  checks;  and  school-boys'  tears  take  up 
The  i.'la.«sc8  of  my  siqht !     A  brsL'ar's  tongue 
Make  motion  through  my  lips:  nml  my  arm'd  knees. 
Who  bow'd  but  in  my  stirrup,  bend  like  his 
That  hath  rcc^ivd  an  alms! — I  will  not  do  't, 
Lest  I  surcease  to  honour  mine  own  truth, 
\nd  by  my  body's  action  teach  my  mind 
\  most  inherent  baseness. 

Vol.  At  thy  choice,  then  : 

To  beg  of  thee  it  is  my  more  dishonour, 
Fhan  tliou  of  them.     Come  all  to  ruin  :  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride,  than  fear 

■  oTrr  :  in  f  e       >  HatTid.      *  worth  :  in  f.  •. 


Thy  dangerous  stoutness ;  for  I  mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thou.     Do  as  thou  list. 
Thy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck'dst  it  from  mp. 
But  ow'st'  thy  pride  thyself. 

Cor.  Pray,  be  content : 

Mother.  I  am  going  to  the  market-place  ; 
Chide  me  no  more.     I  '11  mountebank  their  loves, 
Cog  their  hearts  from  them,  and  come  home  helov'd 
I  Of  all  the  trades  in  Rome.     Look,  I  am  going. 
Commend  me  to  my  wife.     I  '11  return  consul, 
Or  never  trust  to  what  my  tongue  can  do 
I'  the  way  of  flattery  farther. 

Vol.  Do  your  will.         [Exit. 

Com.  Away !  the  tribunes  do  attend  you :  arm  yourselt 
To  answer  mildly;  for  they  are  prepar'd 
With  accusations,  as  I  hear,  more  strong 
Than  are  upon  you  yet. 

Cor.  The  word  is,  mildly : — pray  you,  let  us  go. 
Let  them  accuse  me  by  invention.  I 
Will  answer  in  mine  honour. 

Men.  Ay.  but  mildly. 

Cor.  Well,  mildly  be  it  then ;  mildly.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  HL— The  Same.     The  Forum. 
Enter  Sicinius  and  Brutus. 

Bru.  In  this  point  charge  him  home ;  that  he  affects 
Tyrannical  power :  if  he  evade  us  there, 
Enforce  him  with  his  envy'  to  the  people ; 
And  that  the  spoil  got  on  the  Antiates 
Was  ne'er  distributed. — 

Enter  an  JEdile. 
What  !  w  ill  he  come  ? 

JEd.  He  's  commg. 

Bru.  How  accompanied  ? 

JEd.  With  old  Menenius.  and  those  senators 
That  always  favour'd  him. 

Sic.  Have  you  a  catalogue 

Of  all  the  voices  that  we  have  prociu-'d,. 
Set  down  by  the  poll  ? 

JEd.  I  have ;  't  is  ready. 

Sic.  Have  you  collected  them  by  tribes'? 

JEd.  I  have. 

Sic.  Assemble  presently  the  people  hither : 
And  when  they  hear  me  say,  "  It  shall  be  so. 
I'  the  riaht  and  strength  o'  the  commons,"  be  it  either 
For  death,  for  fine,  or  banishment,  then  let  them, 
If  I  say,  line,  cry  '"  fine  ;"  if  death,  cry  "  death  ;'' 
Insisting  on  their  old  prerogative 
And  power  i'  the  truth  o'  the  cause. 

Md.  I  shall  inform  them. 

Bru.  And  when  such  time  they  have  begun  to  cry. 
Let  them  not  cease,  but  with  a  din  confus'd 
Enforce  the  present  execution 
Of  what  we  chance  to  sentence. 

Md.  Very  well. 

Sic.  Make  them  be  strong,  and  ready  lor  this  hint. 
When  we  shall  hap  to  give  't  them. 

Bru.  Go;  about  it. — 

{Exit  JEiUlf 
Put  him  to  choler  straight.     He  hath  been  u.s'd 
Ever  to  conquer,  and  to  have  his  mouth' 
Of  contradiction:  being  once  chaf'd,  he  cannot 
Be  rein'd  again  to  temperance :  then  he  speaks 
What 's  in  his  heart ;  and  that  is  there,  which  looks 
With  us  to  break  his  neck. 

Enter  Coriolanus.  Menenius,  Cominius,  Senators,  am 
Patricians. 

Sic.  Well,  here  he  comes. 

Men.  Calmly,  I  do  beseech  you 


SOEITE  ni. 


CORIOLANLTS. 


615 


Cor.  PlJ,  as  an  ostler,  that  for  the  poorest  piece 
vVill  bear  the  knave  by  the  volume. — The  honour'd  gods 
Keep  Rome  in  safety,  and  the  chairs  of  justice 
Supplied  with  worthy  men  !  plant  love  among  us  ! 
Throng  our  large  temples  with  the  shows  of  peace, 
And  not  our  streets  with  war  ! 

1  Sen.  Amen,  amen. 

Men.  A  noble  wish. 

Re-enter  JEdile,  with  Citizens. 

Sic    Draw  near,  ye  people. 

jEd.  List  to  3'our  tribunes.  Audience  :  peace  !  I  say. 

Cor.  First,  hear  me  speak. 

Both  Tri.  Well,  say.— Peace,  ho  ! 

C(yr.  Shall  I  be  charg'd  no  farther  than  this  present  ? 
Must  all  determine  here  ? 

Sic.  I  do  demand. 

If  you  submit  you  to  the  people's  voices, 
Allow  their  officers,  and  are  content 
To  suffer  lawful  censure  for  such  faults 
As  shall  be  prov'd  upon  you  ? 

Cor.  I  am  content. 

Men.  Lo,  citizens  !  he  says,  he  is  content. 
The  warlike  service  he  has  done,  consider  : 
Think  upon  the  wounds  his  body  bears,  which  show 
Like  graves  i'  the  holy  churchyard. 

Cor.  Scratches  with  briars  : 

Scars  to  move  laughter  only. 

Men.  Consider  farther. 

That  when  he  speaks  not  like  a  citizen, 
You  find  him  like  a  soldier.     Do  not  take 
His  rougher  accents  for  malicious  sounds, 
But,  as  I  say,  such  as  become  a  soldier, 
Rather  than  envy  you. 

Com.  Well,  well ;  no  more. 

Cor.  What  is  the  matter. 
That  being  pass'd  for  consul  with  full  voice, 
I  am  so  dishonour'd.  that  the  very  hour 
Yon  take  it  off  again  ? 

Sic.  Answer  to  us. 

Cor.  Say  then  :  't  is  true.  I  ought  so. 

Sic.  We  charge  you,  that  you  have  contriv'd  to  take 
From  Rome  all  season^'d  office,  and  to  wind 
Yourself  into  a  power  tyrannical : 
For  which  you  are  a  traitor  to  the  people. 

Cor.  How!  Traitor? 

Men.  Nay.  temperately;  your  promise. 

Cor.  The  fires  i'  the  lowest  hell  fold  in  the  people  ! 
Call  me  their  traitor  ? — Thou  injurious  tribune. 
Within  thine  eyes  sat  twenty  thousand  deaths. 
In  thy  hands  clutch'd  as  many  millions,  in 
Thy  lying  tongue  both  numbers,  I  would  say. 
Thou  liest,  unto  thee,  with  a  voice  as  free 
As  I  do  pray  the  gods. 

Sic.  Mark  you  this,  people  ? 

Cit.  To  the  rock  !  to  the  rock  with  him  ! 

Sic.  Peace  ! 

We  need  not  put  new  matter  to  his  charge  : 
What  you  have  seen  him  do,  and  heard  him  speak. 
Beating  your  officers,  cursing  yourselves. 
Opposing  laws  with  strokes,  and  here  defying 
Those  whose  great  power  must  try  him:  even  this. 
So  criminal,  and  in  such  capital  kind, 
Deserves  th'  extremest  death. 

Bru.  But  since  he  hath 

Serv'd  well  for  Rome. — 

Cor.  '     What  do  you  prate  of  service  ? 

Bru.  I  talk  of  that,  that  know  it. 

Cor.  You? 

Men.  Is  this 

courage  :  in  1   e       *  but :  in  folio.     Capell  made  the  change 


The  promise  that  you  made  your  mother  ? 

Com.  Know, 

I  pray  you, — 

Cor.  I  '11  know  no  farther. 

Let  them  pronounce  the  steep  Tarpeian  death, 
Vagabond  exile,  flaying,  pent  to  linger 
But  with  a  grain  a  day,  I  would  not  buy 
Their  mercy  at  the  price  of  one  fair  word. 
Nor  check  my  carriage'  for  what  they  can  give. 
To  have 't  with  saying,  good  morrow. 

Sic.  For  that  he  Imis 

(As  much  as  in  him  lies)  from  time  to  time 
Envied  against  the  people,  seeking  means 
To  pluck  away  their  power ;  as  now  at  last 
Given  hostile  strokes,  and  that  not  in  the  presence 
Of  dreaded  justice,  but  on  the  mini.^ters 
That  do  distribute  it ;  in  the  name  o'  the  people. 
And  in  the  power  of  us,  the  tribunes,  we. 
Even  from  this  instant,  banish  him  our  city, 
In  peril  of  precipitation 
From  off  the  rock  Tarpeian,  never  more 
To  enter  our  Rome  gates.     I'  the  people's  name, 
I  say,  it  shall  be  so. 

Cit.  It  .shall  be  so,  it  shall  be  so  :  let  him  away. 
He's  banish'd,  and  it  shall  be  so. 

Com.    Hear   me,    my    masters,    and   my    commou 
friends  ; — 

Sic.  He  's  sentenc'd :  no  more  hearing. 

Com.  Let  me  speak 

I  have  been  consul,  and  can  show  for  R.ome, 
Her  enemies'  marks  upon  me.     I  do  love 
My  country's  good,  with  a  respect  more  tender, 
More  holy  and  profound,  than  mine  o^\^l  life. 
My  dear  -wife's  estimate,  her  womb's  increase, 
And  treasure  of  my  loins ;  then,  if  I  would 
Speak  that — 

Sic.  We  know  your  drift.     Speak  what? 

Bru.  There  's  no  more  to  be  said ;  but  he  is  banish'd 
As  enemy  to  the  people,  and  his  country. 
It  shall  be  so. 

Cit.  It  shall  be  so  :  it  shall  be  so. 

Cor.  You  common  cry  of  curs  !  whose  breath  I  hate 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air,  I  banish  you  : 
And  here  remain  with  your  uncertainty. 
Let  every  feeble  rumour  shake  your  hearts  ! 
Your  enemies,  with  nodding  of  their  plumes, 
Fan  you  into  despair  !     Have  the  power  still 
To  banish  your  defenders  ;  till,  at  length. 
Your  ignorance,  (which  finds  not,  till  it  feels) 
Making  not*  reservation  of  yourselves, 
(Still  your  own  foes)  deliver  you  as  most 
Abated  captives,  to  some  nation 
That  won  you  without  blows  !     Despising, 
For  you,  the  city,  thus  I  turn  my  back. 
There  is  a  world  elsewhere. 

[Exetmt  CoRiOL.iNrs.  CoMixirs,  MKNENiUb, 
Seimtors,  and  Patricians. 

JEd.  The  people's  enemy  is  gone,  is  gone  ! 

Cit.  Our  enemy  is  banish"d  !  he  is  gone  !  Hoo  !  hoc 
[The  People  shout,  and  throw  up  their  Capi 

Sic.  Go,  see  him  out  at  gates  ;  and  follow  him, 
As  he  hath  follow'd  you.  with  all  despite  : 
Give  him  deserv'd  vexation.     Let  a  guard 
Attend  us  through  the  city. 

Cit.  Come,  come  :  let  us  see  him  out  at  gates :  come. — 
The  gods  preserve  our  noble  tribunes  ! — Come.  [£kevnt 


616 


OORIOLANUS. 


ACT     IV. 


SC  ENE  I.— The  Same.     Before  a  Gate  of  the  City. 

Enttr  CoRioLANis.   Volimma,  Virgilia,   Menenius. 

Co.MiNius,  and  several  young  Patricians. 

Cor.  Conic,  leave  your  tears  :  a  brief  farewell. — The 
beast 
With  many  heads  biitl.s  nie  away. — Nay,  mother, 
Where  is  your  ancient  couraue  ?  you  were  us"d 
To  say,  extremity  was  the  trier  of  spirits; 
That  common  chances  common  men  could  bear  ; 
Tliat,  when  the  sea  was  calm,  all  boats  alike 
Showd  mastership  in  floating  :  fortunes  blows. 
When  most  struck  liome,  being  gentle  minded'  craves 
A  noble  cunning.     You  were  us'd  to  load  me 
With  precepts,  that  would  make  in\-incible 
The  heart  that  conn'd  them. 

V'ir.  0  heavens  !     0  heavens  ! 

Cor.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  woman. — 

Vol.  Now,  the  red  pestilence  strike  ail  trades  m  Rome, 
.\nd  occupations  perish  ! 

Cor.  What,  what,  what  ! 

1  shall  be  lov'd  when  I  am  lack'd.     Nay.  mother, 
Resume  that  spirit,  when  you  were  wont  to  say, 
If  you  had  been  the  wife  of  Hercules, 
Six  of  his  labours  you  'd  have  done,  and  sav'd 
Your  hu.-band  so  much  sweat. — Con^inius, 
Droop  not :  a<lieu. — Farewell,  my  wife  !  my  mother  ! 
I  "11  do  well  yet. — Thou  old  and  true  Menenius, 
Thy  tears  are  Salter  than  a  younger  man's, 
And  venomous  to  thine  eyes. — My  sometime  general, 
I  have  seen  thee  stern,  and  thou  hast  oft  beheld 
Heart-hardening  spectacles  ;  tell  these  sad  women, 
T  is  fond  to  wail  inevitable  strokes, 
As  't  is  to  laugh  at  'em. — My  mother,  you  wot  well, 
My  hazards  still  have  been  your  solace ;  and 
Believe 't  not  lightly,  though  I  go  alone, 
Like  to  a  lonely  dragon,  that  his  fen 
.Makes  feard,  and  talk'd  of  more  than  seen,  your  son 
Will  or  exceed  the  common,  or  be  caught 
With  eautelous  baits  and  practice. 

Vol.  My  first  son. 

Whither  wilt  thou  go?     Take  good  Cominius 
With  thee  a  while  :  determine  on  some  course 
More  than  a  wild  exposure'  to  each  chance, 
That  starts  i'  the  way  before  thee. 

Cor.  0  the  gods  ! 

Com.  I  '11  follow  thee  a  month  :  devise  with  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  rest,  that  thou  may'st  hear  of  us, 
And  we  of  thee  :  so,  if  the  time  thrust  forth 
A  cau.se  for  thy  repeal,  wc  shall  not  send 
O'er  the  va-xt  world  to  seek  a  single  man, 
And  lose  aflvantagc,  which  doth  ever  cool 
r  the  absence  of  the  necder. 

(^or.  Fare  ye  well : 

Thou  hast  years  upon  thee  ;  and  thou  art  too  full 
Of  the  wars'  8urfeit,s  to  no  rove  with  one 
That's  yet  unbruisd  :   bring  me  but  out  at  gaie. — 
t'ome.  my  sweet  wife,  my  dearest  mother,  and 
My  friend.-^  of  noble  touch,  when  I  am  forth, 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  smile.     I  pray  you.  come. 
'Vhilc  I  remain  above  the  ground,  you  shall 
Hear  from  nie  still ;  and  never  of  me  aught 
But  what  is  like  me  formerly. 

Men.  That  's  worthily 

^s  any  ear  can  hear. — Come  ;  let 's  not  weep. — 

'  weorde<:  :  in  f.  e.      »  exposture  :  io  folio. 


It  I  could  shake  off  but  one  seven  years 
From  these  old  arms  and  legs,  by  the  good  gods, 
I  'd  with  thee  every  foot. 

j      Cor.  Give  me  thy  hand. — 

Come.  [Ezeunl. 

I    SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Street  near  the  Gate. 
j  Enter  SiciNius,  Brutus,  and  an  .^Edile. 

Sic.  Bid  them  all  home:  he's  gone,  and  we'll  uc 
farther. — 
The  nobility  are  vex'd,  who,  we  see,  have  sided 
In  his  behalf. 

Bru.  Now  we  have  shown  our  power, 

Let  us  seem  humbler  after  it  is  done, 
I  Than  when  it  was  a  doing. 

Sic.  Bid  them  home  : 

I  Say,  their  great  enemy  is  gone,  and  they 
I  Stand  in  their  ancient  strength. 

Bru.  Dismiss  them  home. 

[Exit  JEdik 
Enter  Volumnia,  Virkilia.  and  Mene.mus. 
Here  comes  his  mother. 

Sic.  Let 's  not  meet  her. 

Bru.  Why  r 

Sic.  They  say,  she  's  mad. 

Bru.  They  have  ta'en  note  of  us  :  keep  on  your  way. 

Vol.  0  !  y'are  well  met.     The  hoarded  plague  o'  the 
Requite  your  love  !  [gods 

Men.  Peace,  peace  !  be  not  so  loud. 

Vol.  If  that  I  could  for  weeping,  you  should  hear, — 
Nay,  and  you  shall  hear  some. — Will  you  be  gone? 

[To  Brutus 

Vir.  You  shall  stay  too,   [To  SiciN.]   I  would.  I  had 
the  power 
To  say  so  to  my  husband. 

Sic.  Are  you  mankind  ? 

Vol.  Ay,  fool ;  is  that  a  shame  ? — Note  but  this  fool. 
Was  not  a  man  my  father  ?     Hadst  thou  foxship 
To  banish  him  that  struck  more  blows  for  Rome, 
Than  thou  hast  spoken  words  ? 

Sic.  0.  blessed  heavens  ! 

Vol.  More  noble  blows,  than  ever  thou  wise  words 
And  for  Rome's  good. — I'll  tell  thee  what — yet  go  :— 
Nay,  but  thou  shalt  stay  too. — I  would  my  son 
Were  in  Arabia,  and  thy  tribe  before  him. 
His  good  sword  in  his  hand. 

Sic.  What  then? 

Vir.  What  then  ! 

He  'd  make  an  end  of  thy  posterity. 

Vol.  Bastards,  and  all. — 
Good  man,  the  wounds  that  he  does  oear  for  Rome ! 

Men.  Come,  come  :  peace  ! 

Sic.  I  would  he  had  continued  to  his  countr)', 
As  he  began  ;  and  not  unknit  himself 
The  noble  knot  he  made. 

Bru.  I  would  he  had. 

Vol.  I  would  he  had.  'T  wa.s  you  incens'dthe  rabbit 
Curs,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth, 
As  I  can  of  those  mysteries,  which  heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 

Bru.  Pray,  let  us  go. 

Vol.  Now,  pray,  sir,  get  you  yone . 
You  have  done  a  brave  deed.    Ere  you  go,  hear  Ihis  .— 
As  far  a.s  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 
The  meanest  house  in  Rome,  so  far  my  son. 


CORIOLANUS. 


6i: 


This  lady's  husband  here,  this,  do  you  see. 
Whom  you  have  banish'd,  does  exceed  you  all. 

Bru.  Well,  well;  we'll  leave  you. 

Sic.  Why  stay  we  to  be  baited 

With  one  that  wants  her  wits? 

Vol.  Take  my  prayers  with  you. — [Exeunt  Tribunes. 
I  would  the  gods  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
But  to  confirm  my  curses.     Could  I  meet  "em 
But  once  a  day,  it  M-ould  unclog  my  heart  ! 

Of  what  lies  heavy  to  't.  ! 

Men.  You  have  told  them  home,      ; 

And,  by  my  troth,  you  have  cause.  You  '11  sup  with  me  ? 

Vol.  Anger 's  my  meat :  I  sup  upon  myself.  I 

And  so  shall  starve  with  feeding. — Come,  let  "s  go.        | 
Leave  this  faint  pulLiig.  and  lament  as  I  do. 
[n  anger,  Juno-like      Come,  come,  come. 

Men.  Fie,  fie.  fie  !  [Eoceunt. 

SCENE  III. — A  Highway  between  Rome  and  Antium.  | 
Enter  a  Roman  and  a  Volsce^  meeting.  ! 

Rom.  I  know  you  well,  sir;  and  you  know  me. 
Your  name,  I  think,  is  Adrian. 

Vol.  It  is  so,  sir :  truly,  I  have  forgot  you. 
Rom.  I  am  a  Roman :  and  my  services  are.  as  you 
are,  against  'em.     Know  you  me  yet  ? 
Vol.  Nicanor  ?     No. 
Rom.  The  same,  sir. 

Vol.  You  had  more  beard,  when  I  last  saw  you  :  but 
your  favour  is  well  approved'  byyoiu-  tongue.  What 's 
the  news  in  Rome  ?     I  have  a  note  from  the  Volscian  | 
state,  to  find  you  out  there :  you  have  well  sav'd  me  a 
day's  journey. 

Rom.  There  hath  been  in  Rome  strange  insurrection : 
the  people  against  the  senators,  patricians,  and  nobles. 

Vol.  Hath  been  !  Is  it  ended  then  ?  Our  state  thinks 
not  so  :  they  are  in  a  most  warlike  preparation,  and 
hope  to  come  upon  them  in  the  heat  of  tlieir  division. 

Rom.  The  main  blaze  of  it  is  past,  but  a  small  thing 
would  make  it  flame  again  :  for  the  nobles  receive  so 
to  heart  the  banishment  of  that  wortliy,  Coriolanus, 
that  they  are  in  a  ripe  aptness  to  take  all  power  from  the 
people,  and  to  pluck  from  them  their  tribunes  for  ever. 
This  lies  glowing,  I  can  tell  you,  and  is  almost  mature 
for  the  violent  breaking  out. 
Vol.  Corialanus  banished  ? 
Rom.  Banished,  sir. 

Vol.  You  will  be  welcome  with  this  intelligence, 
Nicanor. 

Rom.  The  day  serves  well  for  them  now.  I  have 
heard  it  said,  the  fittest  time  to  corrupt  a  man's  wife  is 
when  she  's  fallen  out  with  her  husband.  Your  noble 
TuUus  Aufidius  will  appear  well  in  these  wars,  his 
great  opposer,  Coriolanus,  being  now  in  no  request  of 
nis  country. 

Vol.  He  cannot  choose.  1  am  most  fortunate,  thus 
accidentally  to  encounter  you:  you  have  ended  my 
business,  and  I  will  merrily  accompany  you  home. 

Rom.  I  shall  between  this  and  supper  tell  you  most 
strange  things  from  Rome,  all  tending  to  the  good  of 
their  adversaries.  Have  you  an  army  ready,  say  you? 
Vol.  A  most  royal  one  ;  the  centurions  and  their 
fharges  distinctly  billeted,  already  in  the  entertain- 
ment, and  to  be  on  foot  at  an  hour's  warning. 

Rom.  I  am  joyful  to  hear  of  their  readiness,  and  am  the 

man.  I  think,  that  shall  set  them  in  present  action.     So, 

sir,  heartily  well  met,  and  most  glad  of  your  company. 

Vol.  You    take  my  part  from  me,  sir :  I  have  the 

most  cause  to  be  glad  of  yours. 

Rom,.  Well,  let  us  go  together.  [Exeunt. 

'  k.PT»eared  :  in  f.  e.     2  hours  :  in  f.  e.     '  have  :  in  foho.     Steevens 


SCENE  IV. — Antium.  Before  the  House  of  Aufidus. 

Enter   Coriolanus,   in  mean   Apparel.,    disguised  aim 

muffled. 

Cor.  A  goodly  city  is  this  Antium. — City, 
'T  is  I  that  made  thy  widows :  many  an  heir 
Of  these  fair  edifices  'fore  my  wars 
Have  I  heard  groan,  and  drop  :  then,  know  me  not. 
Lest  that  thy  wives  with  spits,  and  boys  with  stone*. 

Enter  a  Citizen. 
In  puny  battle  slay  me. — Save  you,  sir. 

Cit.  And  you. 

Cor.  Direct  me,  if  it  be  your  will. 

Where  great  Aufidius  lies.     Is  he  in  Antium  ? 

Cit.  He  is,  and  feasts  the  nobles  of  the  state 
At  his  house  this  night. 

Cor.  Which  is  his  house,  beseech  you  ? 

Cit.  This,  here  before  you. 

Cor.         Thank  you,  sir.    Farewell.     [Exit  Citizeii. 

0  world,  thy  slippery  turns  !  Friends  now  fast  sworn. 
Whose  double  bosoms  seem  to  wear  one  heart. 
Whoso  house*,  who.se  bed,  whose  meal,  and  exercise. 
Are  still  together,  who  twin,  as  't  were,  in  love 
Unseparable,  shall  within  this  hour. 

On  a  dissension  of  a  doit,  break  out 

To  bitterest  enmity :  so,  fellest  foes. 

Whose  passions  and  whose  plots  have  broken  their  sleep 

To  take  the  one  the  other,  by  some  chance. 

Some  trick  not  worth  an  egg.  shall  grow  dear  friends. 

And  interjoin  their  issues.     So  with  me : — 

My  birth-place  hate'  I,  and  my  love  's  upon 

This  enemy  to^vn.     I  '11  enter  :  if  he  slay  me, 

He  does  fair  justice ;  if  he  give  me  way, 

1  '11  do  his  country  semce.  [£xlt 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.  A  Hall  in  Aufidius's  House. 
Music  within.     Enter  a  Servant. 

1  Scrv.  Wine,  wine,  wine  !     What  service  is  here  V 
I  think  our  fellows  are  asleep.  [Exit- 
Enter  a  second  Servant. 

2  Serv.  Where  's  Cotus?  My  master  calls  for  him. — 
Cotus !  [Exit 

Enter  Coriolanus. 
Cor.  A  goodly  house.    The  feast  smells  well ;  but  I 
Appear  not  like  a  guest. 

Re-enter  the  first  Servant. 

1  Serv.  What  would  you  have,  friend  ?  Whence  are 
you  ?    Here  's  no  place  for  you :  pray,  go  to  the  door. 

Cor.  I  have  deserv'd  no  better  entertainment, 
In  being  Coriolanus. 

Re-enter  second  Servant. 

2  Serv.  Whence  are  you,  sir?  Has  the  porter  his 
eyes  in  his  head,  that  he  gives  entrance  to  such  com- 
panions* ?     Pray,  get  you  out. 

Cor.  Away  f 

2  Serv.  Away?     Get  you  away. 

Cor.  Now,  th'  art  troublesome. 

2  Serv.  Are  you  so  brave?  I  "11  have  you  talked 
with  anon. 

Enter  a  third  Servant :  the  first  meets  him. 

3  Serv.  What  fellow  's  this  ? 

1  Serv.  A  strange  one  as  ever  I  looked  on:  I  cannot 
get  him  out  o'  the  house.     Pr'ythee,  call  my  master  tr 

him. 
!      3  Serv.  What  have  you  to  do  here,  fellow?     Pray 
I  you.  avoid  the  house. 

Cor.  Let  me  but  stand  ;  I  will  not  hurt  your  hearth 
I      3  Serv.  What  are  you? 
I      Cor.  A  gentleman. 

made  the  change.     ♦  Often  used  in  a  di-sparpgins  sense,  like  fellows 


bis 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT  rv 


3  Serv.  A  marvellous  poor  one. 

Cor    True,  so  1  am. 

n  Serv.  Pray  you.  poor  genii eman,  take  up  some  other 
station  ;  lure  "s  no  piiice  for  you.  Pray  you.  avoid  :  come. 

Cor  Follow  your  function  ■  go, 
.\nd  batten  on  cold  bits.  [Pushes  him  away. 

3  Serv.  What,  will  you  not  ?  Prjlhee.  tell  my  master 
what  a  straiiue  ^uest  he  has  here. 

2  Serv.  And  1  Pliall.  [Exit. 

3  Sen'.  Where  dwellst  thou? 
Cor.   I'nder  the  eanojiy. 

3  Serv.  I'nder  the  canopy? 

Cor.  Ay. 

3  .9m-.  Where's  that? 

Cor.  r  the  city  of  kites  and  crows. 

:i  Scn\  V  the  city  of  kites   and  crows? — What  an 
88.*  it  is! — Then,  thou  dwellest  with  daws  too? 

Cor.  No  :  I  serve  not  thy  master. 

3  Serv.  How,  sir  !   Do  you  meddle  with  my  master? 

Cor.  Ay :  't  is  an  honesler  service  than  to  meddle 
with  thy  mistress. 

Thou  prat'st,  and    prat'st:  serve  with    thy  trencher. 
Hence  !  [Beats  him. 

Enter  AuFiDius  and  the  second  Servant. 

Auf.  Where  is  this  fellow? 

2  Serv.  Here.  sir.     I  'd  have  beaten  him  like  a  dog, 
but  for  disturbing  the  lords  within. 

Axif.  Whence   coni'st    thou?  what  wouldst   thou? 
Thy  name  ? 
Why  spcak'st  not  ?     Speak,  man  :  what 's  thv  name  ? 

Cor.  ^  If,  Tullus.  [Unmvffling. 

Not  yet  thou  know'st  me,  and  seeing  me.  dost  not 
Think  me  for  the  man  I  am.  necessity 
Commands  me  name  myself. 

Auf.  What  is  thy  name?     [Servants  retire. 

Cor.  A  name  unmusical  to  the  Volscians'  ears, 
And  har.sh  in  sound  to  thine. 

Auf.  Say,  what  's  thy  name  ? 

Thou  hast  a  grim  appearance,  and  thy  face 
Bears  a  command  in  't:  though  thy  tackle's  torn, 
Thou  show'st  a  noble  vessel.     What 's  thy  name? 

Cor.  Prepare  thy  brow  to  frown.     Know'st  thou  me 
yet? 

Auf.  I  know  thee  not. — Thy  name  ? 

Cor.  My  name  is  Cains  Marcius,  who  hath  done 
To  thee  particularly,  and  to  all  the  Volsces 
Great  hurt  and  mischief;  thereto  witness  may 
My  surname.  Coriolanus.     The  painful  service. 
The  extreme  dangers,  and  the  drops  of  blood 
Shed  for  my  thankless  country,  are  requited 
But  with  that  surname  :  a  good  memory, 
And  witness  of  the  malice  and  displeasure 
Which  thou  .shouldst  bear  me.     Only  that  name  re- 
mains: 
The  cruelty  and  envy  of  the  people. 
Permitted  by  our  dastard  nobles,  who 
Have  all  forsook  me.  hath  dcvour'd  the  rest; 
And  BUtfercd  me  by  the  voice  of  slaves  to  be 
Whoop'd  out  of  Rome.     Now,  this  extremity 
Hath  brought  me  to  thy  hearth  :  not  out  of  hope, 
Mistake  me  not.  to  save  my  life;  for  if 
1  had  fear'd  death,  of  all  the  men  i'  the  world 
I  would  have  'voided  thee  ;  but  in  mere  spite, 
To  be  full  quit  of  those  my  banishcrs, 
Stand  I  before  thee  here.     Then,  if  thou  ha.'-t 
A  heart  of  wreak  in  ihcc.  that  will  revense 
Thine  own  particular  wrongs,  and  stop  those  maims 
or  shame  seen  through  thy  country,  speed  thee  straight, 
And  make  my  misery  senc  thy  turn:  so  use  it, 

'  Mur'd  :  ID  folio.      »  Ktnhmcc.      »  Out  and  out;  compltfly.      ♦ 


That  my  revengeful  services  may  prove 

As  benefits  to  thee  ;  for  I  will  fight 

Against  my  eanker'd  country  with  the  spleen 

Of  all  the  under  fiends.     But  if  so  be 

Thou  dar.st  not  this,  and  that  to  prove  more  fortunf-^ 

Thou  art  tir'd ;  then,  in  a  word,  I  al.«o  am 

Longer  to  live  most  weary,  and  i)resent 

My  throat  to  thee,  and  to  thy  ancient  malice : 

Which  Hot  to  cut  would  show  thee  but  a  fool. 

Since  I  have  ever  followed  thee  with  hate 

Drawn  tuns  of  blootl  out  of  thy  country's  breast, 

And  cannot  live  but  to  thy  shame,  unless 

It  be  to  do  thee  service. 

Auf.  0  Marcius.  Marcius ! 

Each  word  thou  hast  spoke  hath  weeded  from  my  heart 
A  root  of  ancient  envy.     If  Jupiter 
Should  from  yond'  cloud  speak  divine  things. 
And  say,  '"T  is  true ;"  I  'd  not  believe  them  more 
Than  thee,  all  noble  Marcius. — Let  me  twine 
Mine  arms  about  that  body,  where  against 
My  grained  ash  an  hundred  times  hath  broke. 
And  scard'  the  moon  with  splinters  !     Here  I  clip' 
The  anvil  of  my  sword  ;  and  do  contest 
As  hotly  and  as  nobly  with  thy  love. 
As  ever  in  ambitious  strength  I  did 
Contend  against  thy  valour.     Know  thou  first, 
I  lov'd  the  maid  I  married  :  never  man 
Sighed  truer  breath  :  but  that  I  see  thee  here, 
Thou  noble  thing,  more  dances  my  rapt  heart, 
Than  when  I  first  my  wedded  mi.'^trcss  saw 
I  Bestride  my  threshold.     Why,  thou  Mars,  I  tell  thee. 
i  We  have  a  power  on  foot ;  and  I  had  purpose 
I  Once  more  to  hew  thy  target  from  thy  brawn, 
1  Or  lose  mine  arm  for  't.     Thou  hast  beat  me  out' 
i  Twelve  several  times,  and  I  have  nightly  since 
j  Dreamt  of  encounters  'twixt  thyself  and  me  : 
I  We  have  been  down  together  in  my,  sleep. 
Unbuckling  helms,  fisting  each  other's  throat, 
And  wak'd  half  dead  with  nothing.     Worthy  Marcius 
Had  we  no  other  quarrel  else  to  Rome,  but  that 
Thou  art  thence  banish'd,  we  would  muster  all 
From  twelve  to  seventy :  and.  pouring  war 
Into  the  bowels  of  ungrateful  Rome, 
Like  a  bold  flood  o'ei-bear.*     0  !  come :  go  in, 
And  take  our  friendly  senators  by  the  hands, 
Who  now  are  here,  taking  their  leaA-es  of  me. 
Who  am  prepar'd  against  your  territories, 
Though  not  for  Rome  itself. 

Cor.  You  bless  me,  gods  ! 

Auf.  Therefore,  mo.st  absolute  sir.  if  thou  wilt  hare 
The  leading  of  thine  own  rcvenge.«,  take 
Th'  one  half  of  my  commission  :  and  set  down. — 
As  best  thou  art  expericjic'd,  since  thou  know'st 
Thy  country's  strength  and  weakness, —  thine  own  ways , 
Whether  to  knock  against  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Or  rudely  visit  them  in  parts  remote. 
To  fright  them,  ere  destroy.     But  come  in  : 
Let  me  commend  thee  first  to  those,  that  shall 
Say.  "yea,"  to  thy  desires.     A  thousand  welcomes  ! 
And  more  a  friend  than  e'er  an  enemy; 
Yet,  Marcius.  that  was  much.    Your  hand  :  most  wel- 
come !  [Exrvnt  Coriol.^nis  and  Aufipu'^ 

1  Serv.   [Advancing]   Here 's  a  strange  alteration  ' 

2  Srrv.  By  my  hand,  I  had  thought  to  have  struck' 
him  with  a  cuduel  :  and  yet  my  mind  gave  me,  In- 
clothes  made  a  false  report  of  him. 

1  Serv.  What  an  arm  he  has  !      He  turned  me  aboif 
with  his  finger  and  his  thumb,  as  one  would  ."ctup  a  top 

2  Serv.  Nay,  I  knew  by  his  face  that  there  was  some- 
beat  :  in  folio. 


SOKNE   VI. 


COEIOLANUS. 


619 


Ihiiig  in  him :  he  had,  sir,  a  kind  of  face,  methought, — 
i  cannot  tell  how  to  term  it. 

1  Serv.  He  had  so;  looking  as  it  were, — Would  I 
were  hanged,  but  I  thought  there  was  more  in  him 
than  I  could  think. 

2  Serv.  So  did  I,  I  '11  be  sworn.  He  is  simply  the, 
rarest  man  i'  the  world. 

1  Serv.  I  think,  he  is ;  but  a  greater  soldier  than  he, 
you  wot  one. 

2  Serv.  Who  ?  my  master  ? 

1  Serv.  Nay,  it 's  no  matter  for  that. 

2  Serv.  Worth  six  on  him. 

1  Serv.  Nay,  not  so  neither ;  but  I  take  him  to  be 
the  greater  .soldier. 

2  Serv.  'Faith,  look  you,  one  cannot  tell  how  to  say 
(hat :  for  the  defence  of  a  town,  our  general  is  excellent. 

1  Serv.  Ay,  and  for  an  assavxlt  too. 
Re-enter  third  Servant. 

3  Serv.  0,  slaves  !  I  can  tell  you  news ;  news,  you  ras- 
1.  2.  Serv.  What,  what,  what  ?  let's  partake,  [cals. 
3  Serv.  I  would  not  be  a  Roman,  of  all  nations  ;  I 

had  as  lieve  be  a  condemned  man. 

1.  2.  Serv.  Wherefore?  wherefore? 

3  Serv.  Why,  here  's  he  that  was  wont  to  thwack 
our  general. — Caius  Marcius. 

1  Serv.  Why  do  you  say  thwack  our  general  ? 

3  Serv.  I  do  not  say,  thwack  our  general ;  but  he 
was  always  good  enough  for  him. 

2  Serv.  Come,  we  are  fellows,  and  friends  :  he  was 
ever  too  hard  for  him  ;  I  have  heard  him  say  so  himself. 

1  Serv.  He  was  too  hard  for  him  directly,  to  say  the 
truth  on  't :  before  Corioli,  he  scotched  him  and  notched 
him  like  a  carbonado'. 

2  Serv.  An  he  had  been  cannibally  given,  he  might 
have  broiled"  and  eaten  him  too. 

1  Serv.  But,  more  of  thy  news  ? 

3  Serv.  Why,  he  is  so  made  on  here  within,  as  if  he 
were  son  and  heir  to  Mars  :  set  at  upper  end  o'  the 
table ;  no  question  asked  him  by  any  of  the  senators. 
but  they  stand  bald  before  him.  Our  general  himself 
makes  a  mistress  of  him  ;  sanctifies  himself  with 's  hand, 
and  turns  up  the  white  o'  the  eye  to  his  discourse.  But 
the  bottom  of  the  news  is,  our  general  is  cut  i'  the 
middle,  and  but  one  half  of  what  he  was  yesterday,  for 
the  other  has  half,  by  the  entreaty  and  grant  of  the 
whole  table.  He  '11  go,'  he  says,  and  sowle'  the  porter 
of  Rome  gates  by  the  ears.  He  will  mow  do-wai  all  be- 
fore him,  and  leave  his  passage  polled*. 

2  Serv.  And  he  's  as  like  to  do  't,  as  any  man  I  can 
imagine. 

3  Serv.  Do  't !  he  will  do  't;  for,  (look  you,  sir.)  he 
has  as  many  friends  as  enemies;  wh-ch  friends,  sir,  (as 
it  were,)  durst  not  (look  you,  sir)  .low  themselves  (as 
we  term  it)  his  friends,  whilst  he  's  in  dejectitude*. 

1  Serv.  Dejectitude*  !  what 's  that  ? 

3  Serv.  But  when  they  shall  see,  sir,  his  crest  up 
a§ain,  and  the  man  in  blood,  they  will  out  of  their 
burrows,  like  conies  after  rain,  and  revel  all  with  him. 

1   Serv.  But  when  goes  this  forward  ? 

3  Serv.  To-morrow  ;  to-day  ;  presently.  You  shall 
have  the  drum  struck  up  this  afternoon :  't  is.  as  it  were. 
A  parcel  of  their  feast,  and  to  be  executed  ere  they  wipe 
their  lips. 

2.  Serv.  Why,  then  we  shall  have  a  stirring  world 
again.  This  peace  is  nothing,  but  to  rust  iron,  increase 
tailors,  and  breed  ballad-makers. 

1  Serv.  Let  me  have  war,  say  I  :  it  exceeds  peace, 
as  far  as  day  does  night ;  it 's  spritely,  waking,  audible, 


'  A  piece  of  meat  cut  and  hacked  for  broiling 
'  time  i'  •  in  f.  e. 


boiled  ; 


and  full  of  vaunt.''  Peace  is  a  verj  apoplexy,  lethargj" 
mulled,  deaf,  sleepy,  insensible :  a  getter  of  more  ba« 
tard  children,  than  wars  a  destroyer  of  men. 

2  Serv.  'T  is  so:  and  as  wars  in  some  sort  may  be 
said  to  be  a  ravisher,  so  it  cannot  be  denied,  but  peace 
is  a  great  maker  of  cuckolds. 

1  Serv.  Ay.  and  it  makes  men  hate  one  another. 

3  Serv.  Reason  ;  because  they  then  less  need  one 
another.  The  wars,  for  my  money.  I  hope  to  see 
Romans  as  cheap  as  Volscians. — They  are  rising,  they 
are  rising. 

All.  In,  in,  in.  in.  [Etetml. 

SCENE  VI.— Rome.     A  Public  Place. 
Enter  Sicinius  and  Brutus. 

Sic.  We  hear  not  of  him,  neither  need  we  fear  hini 
His  remedies  are  tamed  by*  the  present  peace 
And  quietness  o'  the  people,  which  before 
Were  in  wild  hurry.     Here  do  we  make  his  friends 
Blush  that  the  world  goes  well  ;  who  rather  had, 
Though  they  themselves  did  suffer  by 't,  behold 
Dissentious  numbers  pestering  streets,  than  see 
Our  tradesmen  singing  in  their  shops,  and  going 
About  their  functions  friendly. 

Enter  Menenius. 

Bru.  We  stood  to't  in  good  time.    Is  th>s  Menenius? 

Sic.  'T  is  he,  'tis  he.     O  !  he  is  grown  mo.st  kind 
Of  late.— Hail,  sir  ! 

Men.  Hail  to  you  both  I 

Sic.  Your  Coriolanus  is  not  much  miss'i, 
But  with  his  friends :  the  common- wealth  doth  stand, 
And  so  would  do,  were  he  more  angry  at  it. 

Men.  All 's  well ;  and  might  have  be^n  much  bet- 
ter, if 
He  could  have  temporiz'd. 

Sic.  Where  is  he,  'xear  you? 

Men.  Nay,  I  hear  nothing  :  his  mothei  and  his  wife 
Hear  nothing  from  him. 

Enter  three  or  four  Citizens. 

Cit.  The  gods  presei-ve  you  both  ! 

Sic.  Good-den,  our  neighbours. 

Bru.  Good-den  to  you  jail,  good-den  to  you  all 

1  Cit.  Ourselves,  our  wives,  and  children,  on  our  knees. 
Are  bound  to  pray  for  you  both. 

Sic.  Live,  and  thrive. 

Brv.  Farewell,  kind  neighbours.  We  wish'd  Corio 
Had  lov'd  you  as  we  did.  [lanus 

Cit.  Now  the  gods  keep  you  ! 

Both  Tri.  Farewell,  farewell.  [Exeunt  CitiTanf 

Sic.  This  is  a  happier  and  more  comely  time. 
Than  when  these  fellows  ran  about  the  streets, 
Crying  confusion. 

Bru.  Caius  Marcius  was 
A  worthy  officer  i'  the  war  ;  but  insolent, 
O'ercome  with  pride,  ambitious  past  all  thinking, 
Self-loving, — 

Sic.  And  affecting  one  sole  throne, 

Without  assistance. 

Men.  I  think  not  so. 

Sic.  We  should  by  this,  to  all  our  lamentation. 
If  he  had  gone  forth  consul,  found  it  so. 

Bru.  The  gods  have  well  prevented  it ;  and  Rome 
Sits  safe  and  still  without  him. 

Enter  an  jEdilr. 

Md.  Worthy  tribunes. 

There  is  a  slave,  whom  we  have  put  in  prison, 
Reports,  the  Volsces  with  two  several  powers 
Are  enter'd  in  the  Roman  territories ; 

'  PuU  out.      •  Cleared.      »  »  directitude  :  in  f.  e.      ^  vent :  ib  f  •• 


620 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT    IV. 


And  with  the  deepest  malice  of  the  war 
Destroy  what  lies  before  them. 

Men.  'Tis  Aufidiii.-. 

Who,  hearing  of  our  Mareiiis"  banishment. 
Tlinists  forth  Ins  liorii.s  again  into  tiie  world  : 
Wliich  were  in.-<lieird  when  Marciu.'<  .'^tood  for  Rome, 
.Aiul  durst  nol  once  peep  out. 

Sic.  Come,  what  talk  you 

Of  Marcius  ? 

Bru.  Go  sec  this  rumourer  "whipp'd. — It  cannot  be, 
The  Volsces  dare  break  with  us. 

Men.  Camiot  be ! 

We  have  record  that  very  well  it  can ; 
And  three  examples  of  the  like  have  been 
Within  my  age.     But  reason  with  the  fellow. 
Before  you  punish  him,  where  he  heard  this. 
Lest  you  shall  chance  to  whip  your  information. 
And  beat  the  messenger  who  bids  beware 
Of  what  is  to  be  dreaded. 

Sic.  Tell  not  me  : 

I  know,  this  camiot  be. 

Bru.  Not  possible. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  nobles  in  great  earnestness  are  going 
All  to  the  senate  house :  some  news  is  come  in. 
That  turns  their  countenances. 

Sic.  'T  is  this  slave. 

Go  whip  him  'fore  the  people's  eyes : — ^his  raising ; 
Nothing  but  his  report. 

Mess.  Yes,  worthy  sir. 

The  slave's  report  is  seconded  ;  and  more. 
More  fearful,  is  deliver'd. 

Sic.  What  more  fearful  ? 

Mess.  It  is  spoke  freely  out  of  many  mouths. 
How  probable  I  do  not  know,  that  Marcius, 
Join'd  with  Aufidius.  leads  a  power  'gainst  Rome. 
And  vows  revciiiie  as  spacious,  as  between 
The  young'st  and  oldest  thing. 

Sic.  This  is  most  likely  ! 

Bru.  Rais'd  only,  that  the  weaker  sort  may  wish 
God'  Marcius  home  again. 

Sic.  The  very  trick  on  "t. 

Men.  This  is  unlikely  : 
He  and  Aufidius  can  no  more  atone.' 
Than  violentest  contrariety. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Me.'!s.  You  are  sent  for  to  the  senate. 
A  fearlul  army,  led  by  Caius  Marcius, 
Associated  -w-ith  Aufidius,  rages 
Upon  our  territories;  and  have  already 
O'erborne  their  way,  consum'd  with  fire,  and  took 
What  lay  before  them. 

Enter  CoMiNit's. 

Com.  0  !  you  have  made  good  work. 

Men.  What  news?  what  news? 

Com.  You  have  holp  to  ravish  your  own  daughters,  and 
To  melt  the  city  leads  upon  your  pates  : 
To  see  your  wives  dislirmour'd  to  your  noses  : — 

Men.  What 's  the  news  ?  what 's  the  news  ? 

Coin.  Your  temples  bumexl  in  their  cement ;  and 
Your  franchises,  whereon  you  stood,  confined 
Into  an  auger's  bore. 

Men.  Pray  now.  your  news? — 

You  have  made  fair  work,  I  fear  me. — Pray,  your  news  ? 
If  Marcius  should  be  join'd  with  Volscians. — 

Cotn.  If! 

He  is  their  god  .  he  leads  them  like  a  thing 
Made  by  some  other  deity  than  nature. 
That  shapes  man  better;  and  they  follow  him 

■  &ovd  :  ID  f.  •.      *  At  one.  aftt       '  Thii  word  is  not  in  f.  e 


Against  us  brats,  with  no  less  confidence 
Tlian  boys  jnir.suing  summer  butterflies. 
Or  butchers  killing  flies. 

Men.  You  have  made  good  work. 

You,  and  your  apron-men  :  you  that  stood  so  much 
Upon  the  voice  of  occupation,  and 
The  breath  of  garlic-eaters  ! 

Com.  He  will  shake 

Your  Rome  about  your  ears. 

Men.  As  Hercule* 

Did  shake  down  mellow  fruit.  You  have  made  fair  work 

Bru.  But  is  this  true,  sir  ? 

Com.  Ay  :  and  you  ''U  look  pale 

Before  you  find  it  other.     All  the  legions 
Do  smilingly  revolt,  and  who  resist 
Are  tnock'd  for  valiant  ignorance. 
And  perish  constant  fools.     Who  is't  can  blame  him  ; 
Your  enemies,  and  his,  find  something  in  him. 

Men.  We  are  all  undone  unless 
The  noble  man  have  mercy. 

Com.  Who  shall  ask  it  ? 

The  tribunes  cannot  do 't  for  shame  ;  the  people 
Deserve  such  pity  of  him,  as  the  wolf 
Does  of  the  shepherds  :  for  his  best  friends,  if  tliey 
Should  say.  •'  Be  good  to  Rome."  they  charged  him.  even 
As  those  should  do  that  had  deserv'd  his  hate. 
And  therein  show'd  like  enemies. 

Men.  'Tis  true  : 

If  he  were  putting  to  my  house  the  brand 
That  should  consume  it,  I  have  not  the  face 
To  say,  "Beseech you,   cease." — You  have  made  fair 
You,  and  your  handy^  crafts  have  crafted  fair,   [hands. 

Com.  You  have  brought 

A  trembling  upon  Rome,  such  as  was  never 
So  incapable  of  help. 

Tri.  Say  not.  we  brought  it. 

Men.  How  !    Was  it  we  ?    We  lov'd  him  ;  but.  like 


And  cowardly  nobles,  gave  way  unto  your  clusters, 
Who  did  hoot  him  out  o'  the  city. 

Com.  But  I  fear 

They'll  roar  him  in  again.     Tullus  Aufidius, 
The  second  name  of  men.  obeys  his  points 
As  if  he  were  his  oflScer.     Desperation 
Is  all  the  policy,  strength,  and  defence, 
That  Rome  can  make  against  them. 

Enter  a  Troop  of  Citizens. 

Men.  Here  come  the  clusters.— 

And  is  Aufidius  vsnth  him? — You  are  they 
That  made  the  air  unwholesome,  when  you  cast 
Your  stinking,  greasy  caps,  in  hooting  at 
Coriolanus'  exile.     Now  he's  coming; 
And  not  a  hair  upoi.  a  soldier's  head, 
Which  will  not  prove  a  whip:  as  many  coxcombs, 
As  you  threw  ca[is  up.  will  he  tumble  down. 
And  pay  you  for  your  voices.     'T  is  no  matter : 
If  he  could  burn  us  all  into  one  coal, 
Wc  have  deserv'd  it. 

Cit.  Faith,  we  hear  fearful  news. 

1  Cit.  For  mine  own  pari, 
When  I  .said,  banish  him.  I  said,  't  was  pity. 

2  Cit.  And  so  did  I. 

3  Cit.  And  .so  did  I  ;  and.  to  say  the  truth,  so  did 
very  many  of  us.  That  we  did,  we  did  for  the  best 
and  though  we  willingly  consented  to  his  banishment, 
yet  it  was  against  our  will. 

Com.  Y'  are  goodly  things,  you  voices ! 
Men.  You  have  nade 

Good  work,  you  and  your  cry- !— Shall  's  to  the  Capitol .' 


SCENE' 


COEIOLANUS. 


621 


Com.  O  !  ay,  what  else  ?      [Exeunt  Com.  and  Men. 

Sic.  Go,  masters,  get  you  home  ;  be  not  dismay'd  : 
riiese  are  a  side  that  would  be  glad  to  have 
This  true,  which  they  so  seem  to  fear.     Go  home, 
And  show  no  sign  of  fear. 

1  Cit.  The  gods  be  good  to  us  I  Come,  masters, 
let  '8  home.  I  ever  said,  we  were  i'  the  wrong,  when 
we  banished  him. 

2  Cit.  So  did  we  all.     But  come,  let 's  home. 

[Exeunt  Citizens. 
Bru.  I  do  not  like  this  news. 
Sic.  Nor  I. 

Bru.  Let's  to  the  Capitol. — Would  half  my  wealth 
Would  buy  this  for  a  lie  ! 

Sic.  Pray,  let  us  go.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — A  Camp;  at  a  small  distance  from 

Rome. 

Enter  Ai'fidius,  and  his  Lieutenant. 

Auf.  Do  they  still  fly  to  the  Roman? 

Lie^i.  1  do  not  know  what  witchcraft 's  in  him,  but 
Your  soldiers  use  him  as  the  grace  'fore  meat. 
Their  talk  at  table,  and  their  thanks  at  end ; 
And  you  are  darken'd  in  this  action,  sir. 
Even  by  your  own. 

Auf.  I  cannot  help  it  now. 

Unless,  by  using  means,  I  lame  the  foot 
Of  our  design.     He  bears  himself  more  proudlier. 
Even  to  my  person,  than  I  thought  he  would 
When  first  I  did  embrace  him ;  yet  his  nature 
In  that 's  no  changeling,  and  I  must  excuse 
What  cannot  be  amended. 

Lieu.  Yet  I  wish,  sir, 

(I  mean,  for  your  particular)  you  had  not 
Join'd  in  commission  with  him ;  but  either 
Had  borne  the  action  of  yourself,  or  else 
To  him  had  left  it  solely. 

Auf.  I  understand  thee  well :  and  be  thou  sure. 
When  he  shall  come  to  his  account,  he  knows  not 
What  I  can  urge  against  him.     Though  it  seems. 


And  so  he  thinks,  and  is  no  less  apparent 
To  the  ^-ulgar  eye,  that  he  bears  all  thmgs  fairly, 
And  shows  good  husbandry  for  the  Volscian  state. 
Fights  dragoii-like,  and  does  achieve  as  soon 
As  draw  liis  sword  ;  yet  he  hath  left  undone 
That,  which  shall  break  his  iieck,  or  nazard  mme, 
Whene'er  we  come  to  our  account. 

Lieu.  Sir,  I  beseech  you,  think  you  he  '11  carry  Rome! 

Auf.  All  places  yield  to  him  ere  he  sits  Aovn\ ; 
And  the  nobility  of  Rome  are  his: 
The  senators  and  patricians  love  him  too. 
The  tribunes  are  no  soldiers ;  and  their  people 
Will  be  as  rash  in  the  repeal,  as  hasty 
To  expel  him  thence.     I  think,  he'll  be  to  Rome, 
As  is  the  osprey  to  the  fish,  who  takes  it 
By  sovereignty  of  nature.'     First  he  was 
A  noble  servant  to  them,  but  he  could  not 
Carry  his  honours  even;  whether  't  was  pride, 
Which  out  of  daily  fortune  ever  taints 
The  happy  man ;  whether  defect  of  judgment, 
To  fail  in  the  disposing  of  those  chances 
Which  he  was  lord  of :  or  whether  nature. 
Not  to  be  other  than  one  thing,  not  moving 
From  the  casque  to  the  cushion,  but  commanding  peace. 
Even  with  the  same  austerity  and  garb 
As  he  controll'd  the  war  ;  but  one  of  these 
(As  he  hath  spices  of  them  all,  not  all. 
For  r  dare  so  far  free  him)  made  him  fear'd. 
So  hated,  and  so  banish'd  :  but  he  has  a  merit. 
To  choke  it  in  the  utterance.     So  our  virtues 
Live^  in  the  interpretation  of  the  time, 
And  power,  in^  it.'^elf  most  commendable, 
Hath  not  a  tomb  so  evident  as  a  cheer* 
To  extol  what  it  hath  done. 
One  fire  drives  out  one  fire  ;  one  nail,  one  nail : 
Rights  by  rights  suffer',  strengths  by  strengths  do  fail. 
Come,  let 's  away. — When,  Caius,  Rome  is  thine. 
Thou  art  poor'st  of  all  ;  then,  shortly  art  thou  mine. 

[Exeunt 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I.— Rome.     A  Public  Place. 

Enter   Menenius,   Cominius,  Sicinius,    Brutl's.  and 

others. 

Men.  No,  I  '11  not  go  :  you  hear  what  he  hath  said 
To  one  sometime  his  general  :  who  lov'd  him 
In  a  most  dear  particular.     He  call'd  me  father. 
But  what  o'  that  ?     Go,  you  that  banish'd  him, 
A  mile  before  his  tent  fall  down,  and  kneel 
The  way  into  his  mercy.     Nay,  if  he  coy'd 
To  hear  Cominius  speak,  I  '11  keep  at  home. 

Com.  He  would  not  seem  to  know  me. 

Men.  Do  j^ou  hear  ? 

Com.  Yet  one  time  he  did  call  me  by  my  name. 
I  urg'd  our  old  acquaintance,  and  the  drops 
That  we  have  bled  together.     Coriolanus 
He  would  not  answer  to  ;  forbad  all  names  : 
He  was  a  kind  of  nothing,  titleless, 
Till  he  had  forg'd  himself  a  name  o'  the  fire 
Of  burning  Rome. 

Men.  Why,  so  ;  you  ha^»e  made  good  work  : 

A  pair  of  tribunes,  that  have  wTeck'd'  for  Rome, 
To  make  coals  cheap,  a  noble  memory  ! 

Com.  I  minded  him,  how  royal  't  was  to  pardon 


When  it  was  least  expected :  he  replied. 
It  was  a  bare  petition  of  a  state 
To  one  whom  they  had  punish'd. 

Men.  Very  well :  could  he  say  less  ? 

Com.  I  offer'd  to  awaken  his  regard 
For  his  private  friends :  his  answer  to  me  was, 
He  could  not  stay  to  pick  them  in  a  pile 
Of  noisome,  musty  chaff.     He  said,  'twas  folly 
For  one  poor  grain  or  two,  to  leave  unburnt. 
And  still  to  nose  th'  offence. 

Men.  For  one  poor  grain  or  two 

I  am  one  of  those  ;  his  mother,  wife,  his  child. 
And  this  brave  fellow  too ;  we  are  the  grains  : 
You  are  the  musty  chaff,  and  you  are  smelt 
Above  the  moon.     We  must  be  burnt  for  yau. 

Sic.  Nay,  pray,  be  patient :  if  you  refuse  your  aid 
In  this  so  never-needed  help,  yet  do  not 
Upbraid  's  with  our  distress.     But,  sure,  if  you 
Would  be  your  country's  pleader,  your  good  tongue. 
More  than  the  instant  army  we  can  make, 
Might  stop  our  countryman. 

]^gn  No  :  I  '11  not  meddle. 

Sic.  Pray  you,  go  to  him. 

Men.  What  should  I  do  ? 


'  An  old  popalar  belief  is  referred  to.     '  Li 


f.  e.     '  unto 


♦  chair  :  in  f.  e.     •  fouler: 


f.  e.     '  Most  mod.  "di.  read  :  r%ck't 


622 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT   V 


Bru.  Only  make  trial  what  your  love  can  do 
For  Rome  towards  Marcius. 

Men.  Well  ;  and  say  that  Marcius 

Return  me.  as  Cominius  is  return'd. 
I'nlicard.  what  tlieii? — 
Bui  as  a  di^conlenlcd  Jriend,  grief-shot 
With  his  unkindiicss?  say  't  be  so  ? 

Sir.  Yet  youlr  good  will 

Must  have  that  thanks  from  Home,  after  the  measure 
As  you  intended  well. 

Mill.  I  Ml  undertake  it : 

I  think,  he'll  hear  me.     Yet  to  bite  his  lip. 
A:ul  iium  at  good  Cominius.  much  unhearts  me. 
He  was  not  taken  well  :  he  had  not  din'd  : 
The  veins  untill'd.  our  blood  is  cold,  and  then 
We  pout  upon  tiic  morning,  are  unapt 
To  give  or  to  forgive  :  but  when  we  have  stutfd 
I'hese  pipes,  and  tliese  conveyances  of  blood 
With  wine  and  feeding,  we  have  suppler  souls 
Than  in  our  prie.st-likc  fa.sts:  therefore.  I  '11  watch  him 
Till  he  be  dieted  to  my  request. 
And  then  I  'II  set  upon  him. 

BrH.  You  know  the  very  road  into  his  kindness, 
And  cannot  lose  your  way. 

Men.  Good  faith.  I  '11  prove  him. 

Speed  iiow  it  ^^^ll.    You  shall  ere  long  have  knowledge 
Of  my  success.  [Exit. 

Com.  He'll  never  hear  him.  " 

Sic.  Not? 

Com.  I  tell  you.  he  does  sit  in  gold,  his  eye 
Red  as  't  would  burn  Rome,  and  his  injury 
The  gaoler  to  his  pity.     I  kneel'd  before  hiin  ; 
T  was  very  faintly  he  said.  '•  Rise:"  dismiss'd  me 
Thus,  with  his  speechless  hand.     What  he  would  do. 
He  .sent  in  writing  after  me;  what  he  would  not, 
Bound  with  an  oath  to  yield  to  his  conditions : 
So  that  all  hope  is  vain, 
I'nlegs  his  noble  mother,  and  his  wife  ; 
Who,  as  I  hear,  mean  to  solicit  him 
Kor  mercy  to  his  country.     Therefore,  let 's  hence, 
.\nd  with  our  fair  entreaties  haste  them  on.      [Exeunt. 

t^^ESK  II.— The  Volscian  Camp  before  Rome.     The 
Guards  at  their  Sations. 
Enter  to  them,  Menenil's. 

1  G.  Stay  !     Whence  are  you  ? 

2  G.  Stand,  and  go  back. 
Men.  You  guard  like  men:  't  is  well;  but.  by  your 

leave, 
F  am  an  officer  of  state,  and  come 
To  gpeak  with  Coriolanus. 

1  G.  From  whence  ? 

Meit-  From  Rome. 

1  G.  You  may  not  pass  ;  you  must  return :  our  general 
Will  no  more  hoar  from  thence. 

2  G.  You  'II  sec  your  Rome  ernbrae'd  with  fire,  before 
You  'II  speak  with  Coriolanus. 

Men.  Good  my  iVicnds, 

If  you  have  heard  your  general  talk  of  Rome, 
.\nd  of  liis  friends  there,  it  is  lots  to  blanks. 
My  name  hath  touch'd  your  ears  :  it  is  Mencnius. 

1  G.  Be  it  so ;  go  back  :  the  virtue  of  your  name 
Is  not  here  pa.ssable. 

Men.  I  tell  thee,  fellow, 

Thy  geheral  is  my  lover'  :  I  have  been 
The  book  of  hi.s  sood  acts,  whence  men  have  read 
His  fame  unparalleld,  haply,  amplified; 
For  I  have  ever  magnified'  my  friend^^, 
Of  whom  he  "s  chief)  with  all  the  size  that  verity 

■  Thu  wori"  WW  ■>f:»n  u%ti  for  fritnd.      »  Terified  :  in  f.  «       >  f 


W^ould  without  lapsing  suffer  :  nay,  sometimes, 
Like  to  a  bowl  upon  a  subtle  ground, 
I  have  tumbled  past  the  throw,  and  in  his  praise 
Have  almost  stamp'd  the  leasing'.     Therefore,  fellow, 
1  nuist  have  leave  to  pass. 

1  G.  'Faith,  sir.  if  you  had  told  asmany  lies  in  his 
behalf,  as  you  have  uttered  words  in  your  own,  you 
siiould  not  pass  here:  no.  though  it  were  as  virtuous 
to  lie,  as  to  live  chastely.     Therefore,  go  back. 

Men.  Pr'ythce,  fellow,  remember  my  name  is  Mene- 
nius,  always  factionary  on  the  party  of  your  general. 

2  G.  Howsoever  you  have  been  his  liar^  as  you  say 
you  have,  I  am  one  that,  telling  true  under  him,  must 
say,  you  cannot  pass.     Therefore,  go  back. 

Men    Has  he  dined,  can.st  thou  tell?    for  I   would 
not  speak  with  liim  till  after  dinner. 
1  G.  You  are  a  Roman,  are  you? 
Men.  I  am.  as  thy  general  is. 

1  G.  Then  you  should  hate  Rome,  a.s  he  docs.  Can 
you,  when  you  have  pushed  out  your  gates  the  very 
defender  of  them,  and,  in  a  violent  popular  ignorance, 
given  your  enemy  your  shield,  think  to  front  his  re- 
venges with  the  queasy  groans  of  old  women,  the  virginal 
palms  of  your  daughters,  or  with  the  palsied  interces- 
sion of  such  a  decayed  dotard  as  you  seem  to  be  ?  Can 
you  think  to  blow  out  the  intended  fire  your  city  is 
ready  to  flame  in  with  such  weak  breath  as  this?  No, 
you  are  deceived:  therefore,  back  to  Home,  and  pre- 
pare for  your  execution.  You  are  condemned,  our 
general  has  sworn  you  out  of  reprieve  and  pardon. 

Men.  Sirrah,  if  thy  captain  knew  1  were  here,  he 
would  use  Die  with  estimation. 

2  G.  Come,  my  captain  knows  you  not. 
Men.  I  mean,  thy  general. 

1  G.  My  general  cares  not  for  you.  Back,  I  say: 
go,  lest  I  let  forth  your  half  pint  of  b'lood, — back. — 
that 's  the  utmost  of  your  having : — back. 

Men.  Nay,  but  fellow,  fellow, — 

A'jf.'r  CoRioLANLS  and  Aufidius. 

Cor.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Men.  Now,  you  companion,  I  '11  say  an  errand  for 
you  :  you  shall  know  now  that  I  am  in  estimation  :  you 
shall  perceive  that  a  Jack  guardant  cannot  olhce  me, 
from  my  son  Coriolanus  :  guess,  but  by  my  entertain- 
ment with  him,  if  thou  stand'st  not  i'  the  state  of 
hanging,  or  of  some  death  more  long  in  spectatorsliip. 
and  crueller  in  .suffering:  behold  now  presently,  and 
.swoon  for  what's  to  come  upon  thee. — The  glorious 
gods  sit  in  hourly  synod  about  thy  particular  pros- 
perity, and  love  thee  no  worse  than  thy  old  fathci 
Mencnius  docs  !  O,  my  son  !  my  son  !  thou  art  pre- 
paring fire  for  us  :  look  thee,  here  "s  water  to  quench  it 
I  was  hardly  moved  to  come  to  thee  ;  but  being  assured, 
none  but  myself  could  move  thee.  I  have  been  blown 
out  of  your  gates  with  sisihs.  and  conjure  thee  to 
pardon  Rome,  and  thy  petitionary  countrymen.  The 
good  gods  as.'iuage  thy  \\Tath,  and  turn  the  drcijs  ol  it 
upon  this  varlet  here  :  thi.^,  who,  like  a  block,  hath 
denied  my  access  to  thee. 

Cor.  Away  ! 

Men.  How?  away? 

Cor.  Wife,  mother   child,  I  know  not.     My  affair-s 
Are  sers'antcd  to  others:  though  I  owe 
My  revenge  properly,  my  remission  lies 
In  Volscian  breasts.     That  we  have  been  familiar. 
Ingrate  forgetful ne.^s  shall  poison,  rather 
Than  pity  note  how  much. — Therefore,  be  gone: 
Mine  ears  against  your  suits  are  stronger  than 
Your  gates  against  my  force.     Yet,  for  I  lov'd  thee, 


^^uuiiiif^vjmmimunrr.m^AiuwH^^fiu^^^^^^^ 


.\^%. 


!  ' 


I 


6CEKE  m. 


CORIOLANUS. 


623 


Take  this  along;  I  \™t  it  for  thy  sake,  [Gives  a  Paper. 
And  would  have  sent  it.     Another  word,  Menenius, 
I  will  not  hear  thee  speak. — This  man,  Aufidius, 
Was  my  belov'd  m  Ptome  ;  yet  thou  behold'st — 
Auf.  You  keep  a  constant  temper. 

[Exeunt  Corxolanus  and  Aufidius. 

1  G.  Now,  sir,  is  your  name  Menenius? 

2  G.  'T  is  a  spell,  you  see.  of  much  power.  You  knoM' 
the  way  home  again. 

1  G.  Do  you  hear  how  we  are  shent'   for  keeping 
your  greatness  back  ? 

2  G.  What  cause,  do  you  think,  I  have  to  swoon  ? 
Men.  J  neither  care  for  the  world,  nor  your  general : 

for  such  things  as  you,  I  can  scarce  think  there  's  any, 
you  are  so  slight.  He  that  hath  a  will  to  die  by  himself, 
fears  it  not  from  another.  Let  your  general  do  his 
worst.  For  you,  be  that  you  are.  long :  and  your 
misery  increase  with  your  age.  I  say  to  you.  as  I  was 
said  to,  away  !  [Exit. 

1  G.  A  noble  fellow,  I  warrant  liim. 

2  G.  The  worthy  fellow  is  our  general :  he  is  the 
rock,  the  oak  not  to  be  wind-shaken.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Tent  of  Coriolanus. 
Enter  Coriolanus,  Aufidius,  aitd  others. 

Cor.  We  will  before  the  walls  of  Rome  to-morrow 
Set  down  our  host. — My  partner  in  this  action, 
You  must  report  to  the  Volscian  lords,  how  plainly 
I  have  borne  this  business. 

Auf.  Only  their  ends 

You  have  respected  ;  stopp'd  your  ears  against 
The  general  suit  of  Rome  ;  never  admitted 
A  private  whisper,  no,  not  with  such  friends 
That  thought  them  sure  of  you. 

Cor.  This  last  old  man. 

Whom  with  a  crack'd  heart  I  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Loved  me  above  the  measure  of  a  father  : 
Nay,  godded  me,  indeed.     Their  latest  refuge 
Was  to  send  him  ;  f     whose  old  love,  I  have 
(Though  I  show'd  sourly  to  him)  once  more  offer'd 
The  first  conditions,  which  they  did  refuse. 
And  cannot  now  accept,  to  grace  him  only 
That  thought  he  could  do  more.     A  ver>'  little 
I  have  yielded,  too  :  fresh  embassies,  and  suits, 
Nor  from  the  state,  nor  private  friends,  hereafter 
Will  I  lend  ear  to.— Ha  !  what  shout  is  this  ?      [Shout 
Shall  I  be  tempted  to  infringe  my  vow  [within. 

In  ihe  same  time  't  is  made  ?     I  will  not. — 
Enter,    in    mourning    Habits.^    Virgilia,    Volumnia, 

leading  young  Marcius,  Valeria,  and  Attendants. 
My  wife  comes  foremost ;  then,  the  honour'd  mould 
Wherein  this  trunk  was  fram'd,  and  in  her  hand 
The  grand-child  to  her  blood.     But,  out,  affection  ! 
All  bond  and  privilege  of  nature,  break  ! 
Let  it  be  virtuous,  to  be  obstinate. — 
What  is  that  curt'sy  worth  ?  or  those  doves'  eyes. 
Which  can  make  gods  forsworn  ? — I  melt,  and  am  not 
Of  stronger  earth  than  others. — My  mother  bow.*. 
As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  should 
In  supplication  nod  ;  and  my  young  boy 
Hath  an  aspect  of  intercession,  which 
Great  nature  cries,  "  Deny  not." — Let  the  Volsces 
Plough  Rome,  and  harrow  Italy;  I'll  never 
Be  such  a  gosling  to  obey  instinct,  but  stand 
As  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself, 
And  knew  no  other  kin. 

^ir.  My  lord  and  husband  ! 

Cor.  Tliese  eyes  are  not  the  same  I  wore  in  Rome. 


Vir.  The  sorrow,  that  delivers  us  thus  chang'd 
Makes  you  think  so. 


Cor. 


Like  a  dull  actor,  noM-, 


I  have  forgot  my  part,  and  I  am  out, 

Even  to  a  full  disgrace.     Best  of  my  flesli. 

Forgive  my  tyranny;  but  do  not  say 

For  that.  •■  Forgive  our  Romans." — 0  !  a  kiss 

Long  as  my  exile,  sweet  as  my  revenge  ! 

Now,  by  the  jealous  queen  of  heaven,  that  kiss 

1  carried  from  thee,  dear;  and  my  true  lip 

Hath  virgin'd  it  e'er  since. — You  gods  !  I  prate', 

And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 

Leave  unsaluted.  Sink,  my  knee,  i'  the  earth ;    [Kmij 

Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 

Than  that  of  common  sons. 

Vol.  0,  stand  up  bless'd  ! 

Whilst,  with  no  softer  cushion  than  the  flint, 
I  kneel  before  thee,  and  unproperly 
Show  duty,  as  mistaking^  all  this  while 
Between  the  child  and  parent.  [Kneels 

Cor.  ^\niat  is  this  ? 

Your  knees  to  me  ?  to  your  corrected  son  ? 
Then,  let  the  pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach 
Fillip  the  stars ;  then,  let  the  mutinous  winds 
Strike  the  proud  cedars  'gainst  the  fiery  sun. 
Murd'ring  impossibility,  to  n;ake 
What  cannot  be  slight  work.  [Rising  and  raising  her 

Vol.  Thou  art  my  warrior 

I  holp*  to  frame  thee.     Do  you  know  this  lady  ? 

Cor.  The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle, 
That 's  curdled  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple  :  dear  Valeria  ! 

Vol.  This  is  a  poor  epitome  of  yours. 
Which,  by  the  interpretation  of  full  time, 
May  show  like  all  yourself. 

Cor.  The  god  of  soldiers, 

With  the  consent  of  .supreme  Jove,  inform 
Thy  thoughts  with  nobleness  ;  that  thou  may'st  prcv: 
To  shame  un\ailnerable,  and  stick  i'  the  wars 
Like  a  great  sea-mark,  st;:nding  every  flaw 
And  saving  those  that  eye  thee  ! 

Vol.  Your  knee,  sirrah. 

Cor.  That 's  my  brave  boy  ? 

Vol.  Even  he.  your  \s-ife,  this  lady,  and  myself, 
Are  suitors  to  you. 

Cor.  I  beseech  you,  peace ; 

Or,  if  you  'd  ask,  remember  this  before : 
The  things  I  have  forsworn  to  grant  may  never 
Be  held  by  you  denials.     Do  not  bid  me 
Dismiss  my  soldiers,  or  capitulate 
Again  with  Rome's  mechanics :  tell  me  not 
Wherein  I  seem  unnatural :  desire  not 
To  allay  my  rages  and  revenges  with 
Your  colder  rea,sons. 

Vol.  0  !  no  more,  no  more  ! 

You  have  said,  you  will  not  grant  us  any  thing , 
For  we  have  nothing  else  to  ask.  but  that 
Which  you  deny  already :  yet  we  will  ask : 
Tliat,  if  wo  fail  in  our  request,  the  blame 
May  hang  upon  your  hardness.     Therefoiie,  hear  us. 

Cor.  Aufidius,  and  you  Volsce.s,  mark;  for  we  '11 
Hear  nought  from  Rome  in  private.       [Takes  his  sea:. 
— Your  request  ? 

Vol.  Should  we  be  silent  and  not  speak,  our  raiment 
And  state  of  bodies,  would  bewray  what  life 
We  have  led  since  thy  exile.     Think  with  thyself. 
How  more  unfortunate  than  all  li^^ng  women 


«  Rebuked 
'  No'  in  f.  «. 


'  pray  :  in  folio.     Theobald  made  the  changr.      '  mistaken 


I",  e.     *Not  in  f.  e. 


hope  : 


Corrected  bT  Vcv 


f)24 


CORIOLANUS. 


Are  we  come  hither  :  since  that  Ihy  sight,  which  should 

Make  our  oyps  flow  with  joy,  hcarfsdance  withcomfortsi, 

<  oiistrains  them  weep,  and  shake  with  fear  and  sorrow ; 

Milking  tlio  inotlicr,  wife,  and  child,  to  sec 

The  son.  tho  husband,  and  tho  father,  tearing 

Hi.s  country's  bowels  out :  and  so  poor  we. 

Thine  enemies  most  capita!.'     Thou  barr'st  us 

Our  prayers  to  the  gods,  wiiieh  is  a  comfort 

That  all  but  we  enjoy ;  for  liow  can  we. 

Alas  !  how  can  we.  for  our  country  pray, 

'.Vhereto  we  are  bound,  together  with  thy  victory. 

"Whereto  wc  arc  bound?     Alack  !  or  we  must  lose 

Tlie  country,  our  dear  nurse;  or  else  thy  person. 

Our  comfort  in  the  country.     We  must  find 

An  evident  calamity,  though  we  had 

Our  wish,  which  side  should  win  :  for  either  thou 

Must,  as  a  foreign  recreant,  be  led 

With  manacles  through  our  i^treeti!.  or  else 

Triumphantly  tread  on  thy  countrj-'s  ruin. 

And  bear  the  palm,  for  having  bravely  shed 

Thy  wife  and  children's  blood.     For  myself,  son. 

t  purpose  not  to  wait  on  fortune,  till 

These  wars  determine  :  if  I  cannot  persuade  thee 

liather  to  show  a  noble  grace  to  both  parts. 

Than  seek  the  end  of  one,  thou  shalt  no  sooner 

March  to  assault  thy  country,  than  to  tread 

(Trust  to  't.  thou  shalt  not)  on  thy  mother's  womb, 

That  brought  thee  to  this  world. 

y'ir.  Ay,  and  mine. 

That  brought  you  forth  this  boy,  to  keep  your  name 
Lning  to  time. 

Boy.  He  shall  not  tread  on  me : 

I  'II  run  away  till  I  am  bigger,  but  then  I  '11  fight. 

Cor.  Not  of  a  woman's  tenderness  to  be,        [Asifle.^ 
Requires  nor  child  nor  woman's  face  to  see. 
I  have  sat  too  long.  [Ri.sing. 

Vol.  Nay.  go  not  from  u.^  thus. 

If  it  were  so,  that  our  request  did  tend 
To  save  the  Romans,  thereby  to  destroy 
The  Volsces  whom  you  serve,  you  might  condemn  us, 
As  poisonous  of  your  honour  :  no  :  our  suit 
Is.  that  you  reconcile  them  :  while  the  Volsces 
May  say.  "  This  mercy  we  have  show'd  :"  the  Romans. 
•  This  we  received  :"  and  each  in  either  side 
Give  the  all-hail  to  thee,  and  cry.  '•  Be  blcss'd 
For  making  up  this  peace  I  "    Thou  know'st.  great  son, 
1  he  end  of  war  's  uncertain  :  but  this  certain. 
That  if  thou  conquer  Rome,  the  benefit 
Which  thou  shalt  thereby  reap  is  such  a  name. 
Whose  repetition  shall  be  dosg'd  with  curse.*. 
Whose  chronicle  thus  wTit. — ''  The  man  was  noble, 
But  with  his  last  attempt  he  wip'd  it  out. 
Destroy'd  his  countn-.  and  his  name  remains 
To  each  ensiiini;  ase  abhorr'd."'     Speak  to  me.  .^on  I 
Thou  ha*t  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honour. 
Fo  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods  : 
To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 
And  yet  to  charge  thy  sul])liur  with  a  bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.     Why  dost  not  .speak  ^ 
riimk'st  thou  it  honourable  tor  a  noble  man 
Still  to  rememV>er  wrongs? — I)aui;liter.  speak  you; 
He  cares  not  for  your  weeping. — Speak  thou,  boy  : 
P'Thaps.  thy  childishness  will  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  rea-sons.     There  is  no  muti  in  the  world 
More  bound  to  's  mother ;  yet  here  he  lets  me  prate 
I.ike  opr  :'  the  stocks. — Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy ; 


j  Wlien  .she.  (poor  hen  !)  fond  of  no  second  brood, 
j  Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  honie^ 
Loaden  with  honour.     Say.  my  request  's  unjust, 
i  And  spurn  me  back:  but,  if  it  be  not  so, 
I  Thou  art  not  honest,  and  the  gods  will  plague  thee. 
That  thou  restrain'st  from  me  the  duty,  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs. — He  turns  away : 
Down,  ladies ;  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 

[All  kneel 
To  his  surname,  Coriolanus.  'longs  more  pride. 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers.     Down  :  an  end  ; 
This  is  the  last; — .so  we  will  home  to  Rome. 
And  die  among  our  neighbours. — Nay.  behold  us: 
This  boy.  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have. 
But  kneels  and  holds  up  hands  for  fellowship, 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strength 
Than  thou  hast  to  deny  't. — Come,  let  us  go. 
This  fellow  had  a  Volscian  to  his  mother : 
His  wife  is  in  Corioli.  and  his  child 
Like  him  by  chance. — Yet  give  us  our  despatch 
I  am  hush'd  until  our  city  be  afire. 
And  then  I'll  speak  a  little.  [struggling' 

[He  holds  Volu.mni.\  by  the  hand,  long,  and  self- 

Cor.  O  mother,  mother  ! 

What  have  you  done  ?     Behold  !  the  heavens  do  ope. 
The  gods  looK  dowii,  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.     0  my  mother  !  mother  !  0  ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Rome ; 
But.  for  your  son, — believe  it.  O  !  believe  it. — 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail'd, 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him.     But  let  it  come. — 
Aufidius,  though  I  cannot  make  true  wars, 
I  '11  frame  convenient  peace.     Now.  good  Aufidius, 
Were  you  in  my  stead,  would  you  have  heard 
A  mother  less,  or  granted  less,  Aufidius? 

Avf.  I  was  mov'd  \sithal. 

Cor.  I  dare  be  sworn,  you  were 

And,  sir.  it  is  no  little  thing  to  make 
Mine  eyes  to  sweat  compassion.     But,  good  sir. 
What  peace  you  '11  make,  advise  me.     For  my  part, 
I  '11  not  to  Rome,  I  '11  back  with  you  ;  and  pray  you, 
Stand  to  me  in  this  cause. — 0  mother  !  wife  ! 

Auf.  [Aside]    I   am   glad,  thou  hast  set  thy  merer 
and  thy  honour 
At  difference  in  thee  :  out  of  that  I'll  work 
Myself  a  firmer  fortune. 

[The  Ladies  make  signs  to  Coriolanis 

Cor.  Ay,  by  and  by; 

[To  Voi.UMNU,  VlRGILU,   Ift. 

But  we  will  drink  together  :  and  you  shall  bear 

A  better  witness  back  than  words,  which  we 

On  like  conditions  will  have  couuter-seal'd. 

Come,  enter  with  us.     Ladies,  you  deserv^e 

To  have  a  temple  built  you  :  all  the  swords 

In  Italy,  and  her  confederate  arms. 

Could  not  have  made  this  peace.  [Ercunt 

SCENE  IV.— Rome.     A  Public  Place. 
Enter  Menenius  and  SiciNius. 

Men.  See  you  yond'  coign  o'  the  Capitol  ;  yond. 
corner-stone  ? 

Sic.  Why,  what  of  that? 

Men.  If  it  be  possible  for  you  to  displace  it  with 
your  litttle  finger,  there  is  some  hope  the  ladies  of 
Rome,  especially  his  mother,  may  prevail  with  him 
but  I  say,  there  is  no  hope  in  't.  Our  throats  are  sen- 
tenced, and  stay  upon  execution. 


•  L  e.  h&Tt : 
>  Mm  ia  f.  c. 


He  Koldi  VoLC*f 


And  to  poor  vr*, 
Thine  enmity's  raont  capiUl. 
'ly  the  hand,  nilent :  in  f.  «. 


SCFNE   r. 


CORIOLANUS. 


625 


Sic.  Is  't  possible,  that  so  short  a  time  can  alter  the 
oondition  of  a  man  ? 

Men.  There  is  differency  between  a  grub,  and  a  but- 
terfly; yet  your  butterfly  was  a  grub.  This  Marcius  is 
grown  from  man  to  dragon :  he  has  wings ;  he  's  more 
than  a  creeping  thing. 

Sic.  He  loved  his  mother  dearly. 

Men.  So  did  he  me ;  and  he  no  more  remembers  his 
mother  now,  than  an  eight  year  old  horse.  The  tart- 
ness of  his  face  sours  ripe  grapes :  when  he  walks,  he 
moves  like  an  engine,  and  the  ground  shrinks  before 
his  treading.  He  is  able  to  pierce  a  corslet  with  his 
eye :  talks  like  a  knell,  and  his  hem  !  is  a  battery.  He 
sits  in  his  state  as  a  thing  made  for  Alexander.  What 
he  bids  be  done,  is  finished  with  his  bidding :  he  wants 
nothing  of  a  god  but  eternity,  and  a  heaven  to  throne  in. 

Sic.  Yes,  mercy,  if  you  report  him  truly. 

Men.  I  paint  him  in  the  character.  Mark  what 
nvercy  his  mother  shall  bring  from  him :  there  is  no 
more  mercy  in  him,  than  there  is  milk  in  a  male  tiger  ; 
that  shall  our  poor  city  find  :  and  all  this  is  'long  of  you. 

Sic.  The  gods  be  good  unto  us  ! 

Men.  No,  in  such  a  case  the  gods  ■will  not  be  good 
unto  us.  When  we  banished  him,  we  respected  not 
them,  and  he  returmng  to  break  our  necks,  they 
respect  not  us. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Sir,  if  you  'd  save  your  life,  fly  to  your  house. 
The  plebeians  have  got  your  fellow-tribune, 
And  hale  him  up  and  down;  all  swearing,  if 
The  Roman  ladies  bring  not  comfort  home, 
They  '11  give  him  death  by  inches. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Sic.  What 's  the  news  ? 

Mess.  Good  news,  good  news  ! — The  ladies  have  pre- 
]      The  Volscians  are  dislodg'd.  and  Marcius  gone,    [vail'd, 
i      A  merrier  day  did  never  yet  greet  Rome, 
No,  not  the  expulsion  of  the  Tarquins. 

Sic.  Friend, 

Art  thou  certain  this  is  true?  is  it  most  certain? 

3Iess.  As  certain,  as  I  know  the  sun  is  fire  : 
Where  have  you  lurk'd,  that  you  make  doubt  of  it? 
Ne'er  throngh  an  arch  so  hurried  the  blown  tide, 
As  the  recoiuforted  through  the  gates.    Why,  hark  you  ! 
I  [Shouts,  Trumpets  and  Hautboys  sounded,  and 

Drums  beaten,  all  together. 
1    The  trumpets,  sackbuts,  psalteries,  and  fifes, 
i    Tabors,  and  cymbals,  and  the  shouting  Romans, 
Make  the  sun  dance.     Hark  you  !         [Shouting  again. 

Men.  This  is  good  news. 

I  will  go  meet  the  ladies.     This  Volumnia 
Is  worth  of  consuls,  senators,  patricians, 
,  A  city  full ;  of  tribunes,  such  as  you, 
A  sea  and  land-full.     You  have  pray'd  well  to-day : 
This  morning  for  ten  thousand  of  your  throats 
I  'd  not  have  given  a  doit.     Hark,  how  they  joy ! 

[shouting  aiid  Music. 

Sic.  First,  the  gods  bless  you  for  the  tidings  :  next, 
Accept  my  thankfulness. 

Mess.  Sir,  we  have  all 

Gr'>at  cause  to  give  great  thanks. 

Sic.  They  are  near  the  city. 

Mess.  Almost  at  point  to  enter. 

Sic.  We  will  meet  them, 

And  help  the  joy.  [Going. 

Enter  the  Lulies,  accompanied  by  Senators,  Patricians, 
and  People.     They  pass  over  the  Stage. 

1  Sc?i.  Behold  our  patroness,  the  life  of  Rome  ! 
3all  all  your  tribes  together,  praise  the  gods, 

'end  •  in  f.  e.      >  Paid. 


[  And  make  triumphant  fires  :  strew  flowers  before  them 
Unshout  the  noi.sc  that  banish'd  Marcius; 
P>ej)eal  him  with  the  welcome  of  his  mother 
Cry, — Welcome,  ladies,  welcome  ! 

^/^-  Welcome,  ladies  . 

Welcome  !  [A  Flourish  with  Drums  and  Trumpets 

[  Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— Antium.     A  Public  Place 
Enter  Tullus  Aufidh  s,  with  Attendants 
Auf.  Go  tell  the  lords  of  the  city,  I  am  here. 
Deliver  them  tliis  paper  :  having  read  it. 
Bid  them  repair  to  the  market-place  :  where  [, 
Even  in  theirs  and  in  the  commons'  ears, 
Will  vouch  the  truth  of  it.     Him  I  accuse 
The  city  ports  by  this  hath  enter'd.  and 
Intends  t'  appear  before  the  people,  hopins  [AttrndarOs 
To  purge  himself  with  words.     Despatch.  [Exeurc 

Enter  Conspirators  of  Aufidius"  Faction. 
Most  welcome ! 

1  Con.  How  is  it  with  our  general  ? 

Auf.  Even  so, 

As  with  a  man  by  his  own  alms  empoison'd. 
And  with  his  charity  slain. 

2  Con.  Most  noble  sir. 
If  you  do  hold  the  same  intent,  wherein 
You  wish'd  us  parties,  we  '11  deliver  you 
Of  your  great  danger. 

Auf.  Sir,  I  cannot  tell  : 

We  must  proceed,  as  we  do  find  the  people. 

3  Con.  The  people  will  remain  uncertain,  whib* 
'Twixt  you  there  's  difference  ;  but  the  fall  of  either 
Makes  the  survivor  heir  of  all. 

Auf.  I  know  it ; 

And  my  pretext  to  strike  at  him  admits 
A  good  construction.     I  rais'd  him.  and  I  pawn'd 
Mine  honour  for  his  truth :  who  being  so  heighteii'i. 
He  water'd  his  new  plants  with  dews  of  flattery, 
Seducing  so  my  friends;  and  to  this  end 
He  bow'd  his  nature,  never  known  before 
But  to  be  rough,  unswayable,  and  fierce. 

3  Con.  Sir.  his  stoutness. 
When  he  did  stand  for  consul,  which  he  lost 
By  lack  of  stooping. — 

Auf.  That  I  would  have  spoke  --' 

Being  banish'd  for  't,  he  came  unto  my  hearth  ; 
Presented  to  my  knife  his  throat :  I  took  him  ; 
Made  him  joint-servant  with  me ;  gave  him  way 
In  all  his  own  desires ;  nay,  let  him  choose 
Out  of  my  files,  his  projects  to  accomplish, 
My  best  and  freshest  men  :  serv'd  his  dcsignmente 
In  mine  own  person  ;  holp  to  reap  the  fame 
Which  he  did  ear'  all  his;  and  took  some  pride 
To  do  myself  this  wrong :  till,  at  the  la.'Jt, 
I  seem'd  his  follower,  not  partner;  and 
He  "vaged'  me  with  his  countenance,  as  if 
I  had  been  mercenary. 

1  Con.  So  he  did,  my  loi-d  ; 

The  army  marvell'd  at  it;  and,  in  the  last. 
When  he  had  carried  Rome,  and  that  we  look'd 
P'or  no  less  spoil,  than  glory. — 

Auf.  There  was  it; 

For  which  my  sinews  shall  be  stretcliM  upon  him 
At  a  few  drops  of  women's  rheum,  which  are 
As  cheap  as  lies,  he  sold  the  blood  and  labour 
Of  our  great  action  :  therefore  siiall  he  die. 
And  I  '11  renew  me  in  his  fall.     But,  hark  ! 

'Drums  and  Trumpets  sound,  u'iih  great  Shouts  oj 
the  People. 


2P 


ill 


626 


CORIOLANUS. 


ACT  V. 


1  Con.  Your  native  town  you  enter'd  like  a  post, 
And  had  no  welcomes  home;  but  he  returns, 
Splitliug  the  air  witli  noise. 

i  Con.  And  patient  fools, 

Who«e  children  he  hath  slain,  their  base  throats  tear 
With  giviiuj  him  glory. 

3  Con.  Therefore,  at  your  vantage, 

Ere  he  express  himself,  or  move  the  people 
With  what  he  would  say,  let  him  feel  your  sword, 
Which  we  will  second.     W^hen  he  lies  along, 
Aft«r  your  way  his  tale  proiiouncd  shall  bury 
His  reivsons  with  his  body 

Auf.  Say  no  more. 

Here  come  the  loids. 

Enter  the  Lords  oj  the  City. 

Lords.  You  are  most  welcome  home. 

Auf.  I  have  not  deserved  it. 

But.  worthy  lord.s,  have  you  with  heed  perusd 
What  1  liava  written  to  you  ? 

Lords.  We  have. 

1  Lord.  And  grieve  to  hear  it. 

What  faults  he  made  before  the  last,  I  think. 
Might  have  found  easy  tines ;  but  there  to  end. 
Where  he  was  to  begin,  and  give  away 
The  benelil  of  our  levies,  answering  us 
With  our  own  charge,  making  a  treaty  where 
There  was  a  yielding:  this  admits  no  excuse. 

Auf.  He  approaches:  you  shall  hear  him. 
EnUr  CoRioLANUs,  with  Drums  and  Colours  ;  a  crowd 
of  Citizens  with  him. 

Cor.  Hail,  lords  !     I  am  return'd  your  soldier  ; 
No  more  intected  with  my  country's  love, 
Than  when  I  parted  hence,  but  still  subsisting 
Under  your  great  command.     You  are  to  know. 
That  prosperously  I  have  attempted,  and 
With  bloody  passage  led  your  wars,  even  to 
The  gates  of  Rome.     Our  .'spoils  we  have  brought  home, 
Do  more  than  counterjioise,  a  full  third  part. 
The  charges  of  the  action.     We  have  made  peace, 
With  no  less  honour  to  the  Antiates, 
Than  shame  to  the  Romans  ;  and  we  here  deliver, 
Subscribed  by  the  consuls  and  patricians, 
Togciher  with  the  seal  o'  the  senate,  what 
We  have  compounded  on. 

-■'w/  Read  it  not,  noble  lords ; 

Bat  tell  the  traitor  in  the  highest  degree 
He  hath  abus'd  your  powers. 

Cor.  Traitor  ! — how  now  ! — 

•^"/-  Ay,  traitor,  Mareius. 

^^f^-  Mareius  ! 

^  Auf.  Ay,  Mareius,  Caius  Mareius.     Dost  thou  think 
I  '11  grace  thoe  with  that  robbery,  thy  stoPn  name 
Cor.olanu*  in  (Jorioli? — 
You  lords  and  heads  of  the  state,  perfidiously 
He  ha*  betray'd  your  busines,",  and  given  up 
For  certain  drops  of  salt  your  city,  Rome; 
I  «ay  your  city,  to  his  wne  and  mother, 
Breaking  hia  oath  and  resolution,  like 
A  twist  of  rotten  silk  ;  never  iulmittin!! 
Counsel  o'  the  war,  but  at  his  nun-^es  tears 
He  whin'd  and  roar'd  away  your  victory. 
That  pages  blush'd  at  him,  and  men  of  heart 
Lookd  wondering  each  at  other. 

Cor.  Hear'st  thou,  Mars  ? 

Auf.  Name  not  the  god.  thou  boy  of  tears. 

Cor.  Ha  ! 

Auf.  No  more 

T^»  rwi  cf  tbii  itkge  dire-tion  m  not  is  f.  •. 


Cor.  Mea.«;ureless  liar,  thou  hast  made  my  heart 
Too  great  lor  what  contains  it.     Boy  !  O  slave  ! — 
Pardon  me,  lords,  't  is  the  first  time  that  ever 
I  was  forcd  to  scold.     Your  judgments,  my  grave  lords. 
Must  give  this  cur  the  lie :  and  his  own  notion 
(Who  wears  my  stripes  impressed  upon  him.  that 
Must  bear  my  beating  to  his  grave)  shall  join 
To  thrust  the  lie  unto  him. 

1  Lord.  Peace  both,  and  hear  me  speak 
Cor.  Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volsces;  men  and  lads, 

Stain  all  your  edges  on  nie. — Hoy  !     Fal.'^e  hound  ! 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  't  is  there, 
That  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Fluiter'd  your  Volscians  in  Corioli : 
Alone  I  did  it.— Boy  ! 

Auf  WHiy,  noble  lords, 

Will  you  be  put  in  mind  of  his  blind  fortune, 
Which  was  your  shame,  by  this  unholy  braggart, 
'Fore  your  own  eyes  and  ears? 

All  Con.  Let  him  die  for  't. 

All  People.  Tear  him  to  pieces  ;  do  it  presently.  H« 
killed  my  son ; — my  daughter : — he  killed  my  cousin 
Marcus  : — he  killed  my  father. — 

2  Lord.  Peace,  ho  ! — no  outrage  : — peace  ! 
The  man  is  noble,  and  his  fame  folds  in 
This  orb  o'  the  earth.     His  last  otfences  to  us 
Shall  have  judicious  hearing. — Stand,  Aufidius, 
And  trouble  not  the  peace. 

Cor.  0  !  that  I  had  him. 

With  six  Aufidiuses,  or  more,  his  tribe, 
To  u.«;e  my  lawful  sword  ! 

Auf.  Insolent  villain  ! 

All  Con.  Kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill  him  ! 

[Aufidius  and  the  Coiisptrators  draw,  and  kill  Co 
RiOL.\NUS,  who  falls  :   Aufidius  stands  on  him. 

Lords.  Hold,  hold,  hold,  hold  ! 

Auf.  My  noble  masters,  hear  me  speak. 

1  Lord.  OTullus!— 

2  Lord.  Thou  hast  done  a  deed  whereat  valour  wiJJ 

weep. 

3  Lord.    Tread    not   upon    him. — Masters    all,    l>« 

quiet. — 
Put  up  your  swords. 

Auf.  My  lords,  when  you  shall  know  (as  in  this  rage, 
Provok'd  by  him.  you  cannot)  the  great  danger 
Which  this  man's  life  did  owe  you.  you  '11  rejoice 
That  he  is  thus  cut  off.     Please  it  your  honours 
To  call  me  to  your  senate,  I  '11  deliver 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  or  endure 
Your  heaviest  censure. 

1  Lord.  Bear  from  hence  his  bodv, 
And  mourn  you  for  him.     Let  him  be  regarded, 
As  the  most  noble  corse  that  ever  herald 

Did  follow  to  his  urn. 

2  Lord.  His  own  impatience 
Takes  from  Aufidius  a  great  part  of  blaine 
Let  's  make  the  best  of  it. 

Auf.  My  rage  is  gone, 

And  I  am  struck  with  sorrow. — Take  him  up  • — 
Help,  three  o'  the  chiefest  soldiers:  I  '11  be  one. — 
Beat  thou  the  drum,  that  it  speak  mournfully  : 
Trail  your  steel  spikes. — Though  in  this  city  li« 
Hath  widow'd  and  unchilded  many  a  one, 
Which  to  this  hour  bewail  the  injury. 
Yet  he  shall  have  a  noble  mciiiory. — 
Assist.  [Exeunt,  bearing  the  /^fx/i/ o/ Corioi.aNFB 

A  dead  March\  while  they  pass  round  the  Stag* 


TITUS    ANDRONICUS. 


DEAMATIS     PERSONS. 


Saturninus,  Son   to   the  late  Emperor  of  Rome, 

and  afterwards  declared  Emperor. 
Bassianus,    Brother  to  Saturninus;    in  love  with 

Lavinia. 
Titus    Andronicds,    a   noble    Roman,    General 

against  the  Goths. 
Marcus    Andronicus,    Tribune   of   the    People; 

and  Brother  to  Titus. 
Lucius,        ] 
Ql'intus, 
Mautius 

MUTIUS,         J 

Young  Lucius,  a  Boy,  Son  to  Lucius. 

Kinsmen  of  Titus.  Senators,  Tribunes,  Officers.  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE.  Rome ;  and  the  Country  near  it. 


Sons  to  Titus  Andronicus. 


PuBLiuS;  Son  to  Marcus  the  Tri.ane. 

/Emilius,  a  noble  Roman. 

Alarbus,         ) 

Demetrius,     >  Sons  to  Tamora 

Chiron,  ) 

Aaron,  a  Moor,  beloved  by  Tamora. 

A  Captain,  Tribune,  Messenger,  and   Clo?W!. 

Goths  and  Romans. 

Tamora,  Queen  of  the  Goths. 

Lavinia,  Daughter  to  Titus  Andronicus. 

A  Nurse,  and  a  black  Child. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  I.— Rome.  Before  the  Capitol. 
The  Tomb  of  the  Andronici  appearing ;  the  Tribunes 
and  Senators  aloft^  as  in  the  Capitol.  Enter,  below. 
Saturninus  and  his  Followers,  on  one  side  j  and 
Bassianus  and  his  Followers,  on  the  other ;  with 
Drum  and  Colours. 

Sat.  Noble  patricians,  patrons  of  my  right, 
Defend  tlie  justice  of  my  cause  with  arms  ; 
And,  countrymen,  my  loving  followers. 
Plead  my  successive  title  with  your  swords. 
I  am  the  first-born  son,  of  him  the  last 
That  wore  the  imperial  diadem  of  Rome: 
Then,  let  my  father's  honours  live  in  me. 
Nor  wrong  mine  age  with  this  indignity. 
Bos.  Romans, — friends,  followers,  favourers  of  my 
right. 
If  ever  Bassianus,  Caesar's  son. 
Were  gracious  in  the  eyes  of  royal  Rome, 
Keep  then  this  passage  to  the  Capitol ; 
,    And  suffer  not  dishonour  to  approach 

Th'  imperial  seat,  to  virtue  consecrate, 
j   To  justice,  conscience,'  and  nobility, 
i   But  let  desert  in  pure  election  shine  ; 
;   And.  Romans,  fight  for  freedom  in  your  choice. 

Enter  Marcus   Andronicus,  aloft,  with  the  Crown. 
Mar.  Princes,  that  strive  by  factions,  and  by  friends, 
Ambitiously  for  rule  and  empery, 
Kn  w,  that  the  people  of  Rome,  for  whom  we  stand 
A  special  party,  have  by  common  voice 
I  In  election  for  the  Roman  empery, 

Chosen  Andronicus.  surnamed  Pius, 
j  For  many  good  and  great  deserts  to  Rome  : 
I  A  nobler  man,  a  braver  warrior, 
!  Lives  not  this  day  within  the  city  walls. 
He  by  the  senate  is  accited'  home,  ] 

From  weary  wars  against  the  barbarous  Goths  ^ 
That,  with  his  sons,  a  terror  to  our  foes,  I 

1  f .  •  :  oontinenoe       »  Sent  for.     '  Confid* 


Hath  yok'd  a  nation  strong,  train'd  up  in  arms. 
Ten  years  are  spent  since  first  he  undertook 
This  cause  of  Rome,  and  chastised  with  arms 
Our  enemies'  pride :  five  times  he  hath  return'd 
Bleeding  to  Rome,  bearing  his  valiant  sons 
In  coffins  from  the  field  : 
And  now  at  last,  laden  with  honour's  spoils, 
Returns  the  good  Andronicus  to  Rome, 
Renowned  Titus,  flourishing  in  arms. 
Let  us  entreat, — by  honour  of  his  name, 
Whom  worthily  you  would  have  now  succeed. 
And  in  the  Capitol  and  senate's  right, 
Whom  you  pretend  to  honour  and  adore, — 
That  you  withdraw  you,  and  abate  your  strength : 
Dismiss  your  follo'ft-ers,  and,  as  suitors  should, 
Plead  your  deserts  in  peace  and  humbleness. 

Sat.  How  fair  the  tribune  speaks  to  calm  my  thought 

Bos.  Marcus  Andronicus,  so  I  do  afi'y' 
In  thy  uprightness  and  integrity. 
And  so  I  love  and  honour  thee  and  thine. 
Thy  noble  brother  Titus,  and  his  sons. 
And  her,  to  whom  my  thoughts  are  humbled  all, 
Gracious  Lavinia,  Rome's  rich  ornament. 
That  I  will  here  dismiss  my  loving  friends  ; 
And  to  my  fortunes,  and  the  people's  favour, 
Commit  my  cause  in  balance  to  be  weigh'd. 

[Exeunt  the  Followers  of  Bassiantjs. 

Sat.  Friends,  that  have  been  thus  forward  in  my  right, 
I  thank  you  all  and  here  dismiss  you  all  ; 
And  to  the  love  and  favour  of  my  country 
C'^mmit  myself,  my  person,  and  my  cau.^e. 

[Ezeunt  the  Followers  of  Saturxinub. 
Rome,  be  as  just  and  gracious  unto  me. 
As  I  am  confident  and  kind  to  thee. — 
Open  the  brazen  gates,  and  let  me  in. 

Bas.  Tribunes,  and  me,  a  poor  competitor. 

[Sat.  and  Bas.  go  into  the  Capitol  ;  and  exen^l  vrith 
Senators,  Marcus,  fyc. 

827 


62a 


TITUS   ANDEONICUS. 


SCENE  II.— The  Same. 
Enter  a  Captain,  and  others. 

Cap.  Romans  !  make  way  !     The  good  Andronicus. 
Patron  of  virtue,  Romc'.s  best  champion. 
Successful  in  the  battles  (liat  he  fights, 
With  honour,  and  with  fortune,  is  rcturn'd, 
Front  when"  he  circumscribed  with  his  sword, 
And  brought  to  yoke,  the  enemies  of  Rome. 
Sot  mi  Drums  and  Trnmprt.s.  Ifc.     Enter  M.\RTius  and 

'MfTirs  :    after   them,    two    Men    hearing    a    Coffin 

covered  with  black  ;  /Ac?)  Lucius  ohc/ Qui ntus.    After 

thenu  Titus  Andronkus  ;    and  then  Tamora,  with 

Ai.ARBrs.   Chiron,   Dkmktrics,   Aaron,  and  other 

Goths.   pri..';oner.<!  ;     Soldiers   and   People,  following. 

The  ]leiirer.<!  set  down  the  Coffin. 

Tit.  Hail,  Rome,  victorious  in  thy  mourning  weeds  ! 
Lo  !  <u<  the  bark  thai  hath  discharg'd  her  fraught 
Returns  with  preejous  lading  to  the  bay, 
From  whence  at  first  she  weigh'd  her  anchorage, 
Cometh  Andronicus.  bound  with  laurel  boughs, 
To  re-salute  his  country  with  his  tears; 
Tears  of  true  joy  for  his  return  to  Rome 
Tliou  great  defender  of  this  Capitol. 
Stand  gracious  to  the  rites  that  we  intend  ! 
iiomans.  of  five-and-twenty  valiant  sons, 
Half  of  the  number  that  king  Priam  had. 
Hf-hoid  the  j>oor  remains,  aliA'c.  and  dead  ! 
These  thai  surs'ive  let  Rome  reward  with  love; 
These  iliat  I  bring  unto  their  latest  home, 
With  burial  amongst  their  ancestors  : 
Here  Goths  have  given  m.e  leave  to  slieath  my  sword. 
Titus,  unkind,  and  careless  of  thine  own, 
Why  suffcr'st  thou  thy  sons,  unburied  yet, 
To  hover  on  the  dreadful  shore  of  Styx  ? — 
Make  way  to  lay  them  by  their  brethren. 

[The  Tomb  is  opened. 
There  greet  in  silence,  as  the  dead  are  wont, 
And  sleep  in  peace,  slain  in  your  country's  wars  ! 
0  sacred  receptacle  of  my  joys. 
Sweet  cell  of  virtue  and  nobility, 
How  many  sons  hast  thou  of  mine  in  store, 
That  thou  wilt  never  render  to  me  more? 

Lvc.  Give  us  the  proudest  prisoner  of  the  Goths, 
That  we  may  hew  his  limbs,  and  on  a  pile 
.■id  numes  fratrum  sacrifice  his  flesh, 
B'"fore  this  earthy'  prison  of  their  bones; 
Thai  »o  their  shadows  be  not  unappeas'd. 
Nor  we  dLsturb'd  with  prodigies  on  earth. 

Tit.  I  give  him  you;  the  noblest  that  survives. 
The  eldest  son  of  this  distrc.«.sed  queen. 

Tarn.  Stay.  Roman  brethren  !— -Gracious  conqueror. 
Victorious  Titus,  rue  the  tears  I  shed. 
A  mother's  t<;arB  in  passion  for  her  son; 
Aid,  if  ihy  Bon.s  were  ever  dear  to  thee. 
0  '  think  my  son  to  be  as  dear  to  me. 
Bitfioeth  not.  that  we  are  brought  to  Rome, 
To  beautily  thy  triumphs,  and  return, 
Capiive  to  thee,  and  to  thy  Roman  yoke  ; 
But  must  my  .sons  be  slaushter'd  in  the  streets, 
For  vahaiit  doings  in  their  country's  cau.se? 
0  I   if  to  fight  for  king  and  common  weal 
Were  piety  in  thine,  it  is  in  the.se. 
Andronicu.s,  stain  not  thy  tomb  with  blood. 
Wilt  thou  draw  near  the  nature  of  the  jrods? 
Draw  near  them,  then,  in  being  merciful  : 
Sweet  mercy  is  nobility's  true  bad^'e. 
Tl.rice-noble  Titus,  spare  my  first-born  son. 

Tit.  Patient  yourself,  madam,  ajid  pardon  me. 

•••rthly  :  lo  folio.      «  ^one      in  f  e       '  ♦  Nr.t  in  f  • 


These  are  their  brethren,  whom  you  Goths  beheld 
Alive,  and  dead  ;  and  for  their  brethren  slain, 
Religiously  they  ask  a  sacrifice  : 
To  this  your  son  is  marked  ;  and  die  he  must. 
T'  appease  their  groaning  shadows  that  are  dust.» 

Lvc.  Away  with  him  !  and  make  a  fire  straight ; 
And  with  our  swords,  upon  a  pile  of  wood, 
Let 's  hew  his  limbs,  till  they  he  clean  consum'd. 

[Examt  Lucits,  Quintus,  Martu's.  und  MuTina 
with  Ala  REUS. 

Tarn.  O  cruel,  irreligious  piety  ! 

Chi.  Was  ever  Scythia  half  so  barbarous? 

Dem.  Oppose  not  Scythia  to  ambitious  Rome. 
Alarbus  goes  to  rest ;  and  we  survive 
To  tremble  under  Titus'  threatening  look. 
Then,  madam,  stand  re.solv'd  ;  but  hope  withal, 
The  selfsame  gods,  that  arm'd  the  queen  of  Troy 
With  opportunity  of  sharp  revenge 
Upon  the  Thracian  tyrant  in  his  tent. 
May  favour  Tamora,  the  queen  of  Goths, 
(When  Goths  were  Goths,  and  Tamora  was  queen) 
To  quit  the  bloody  wrongs  upon  her  foes. 

Re-enter  Lucius,  Quintus,  Martius.  and  Mutiis, 
wiih  their  Swords  bloody. 

Luc.  See.  lord  and  father,  how  we  have  perform'd 
Our  Roman  rites.     Alarbus'  limbs  are  lopp'd, 
And  entrails  feed  the  sacrificing  fire. 
Whose  smoke,  like  incense,  doth  perfume  the  sky. 
Remaineth  nought,  but  to  inter  our  brethren, 
And  with  loud  'larums  welcome  them  to  Rome. 

J'it.  Let  it  be  so  ;  and  let  Andronicus 
Make  this  his  latest  farewell  to  their  souls. 

[Trumpets  sounded  ;  and  the  Coffins  laid  in  the  tomb 
In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons  :  [Kneeling' 
Rome's  readiest  champions,  repose  you  here  in  rest, 
Secure  from  worldly  chances  and  mishaps  ! 
Here  lurks  no  treason,  here  no  envy  swells. 
Here  grow  no  damned  grudges  ;  here  no  storms. 
No  noise,  but  silence  and  eternal  sleep. 
In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons  !  [Rising.' 
Enter  Lavinia. 

Lav.  In  peace  and  honour  live  lord  Titus  long  ; 
My  noble  lord  and  father,  live  in   tame. 
Lo  !  at  this  tomb  my  tributary  tears 
I  render,  for  my  brethren's  obsequies  ; 
And  at  thy  feet  I  kneel,  with  tears  of  joy 
Shed  on  the  earth  for  thy  return  to  Rome  : 
O  !  bless  me  here  with  thy  victorious  hand, 
Whose  fortunes  Rome's  best  citizens  applaud. 

Tit.  Kind  Rome,  that  hast  thus  lovingly  reserv'd 
The  cordial  of  mine  age  to  glad  my  heart ! — 
Lavinia,  live  :  outlive  thy  father's  days. 
And  fame's  eternal  date,  lor  virtue's  prai.se  ! 
Enter  Marcus  Andronicus.   Saturninus,  BASsiANro 
and  others.- 

Mar.  Long  live  lord  Titus,  my  beloved  brother. 
Gracious  triumpher  in  the  eyes  of  Rome  ! 

Tit.  Thanks,  gentle  tribune,  noble  brother  Marcus. 

Mar.  And  welcome,  nei)i)ews.  from  successful  wan 
You  that  survive,  and  you  that  sleep  in  fame. 
Fair  lords,  your  fortunes  are  alike  in  all. 
That  in  your  country's  service  drew  your  swords  ; 
But  safer  triumph  is  this  funeral  pomp. 
That  hath  asjiir'd  to  Solon's  happiness. 
And  triumphs  over  chance  in  honour's  bed. — 
Titus  Andronicus,  the  people  of  Rome, 
Whose  friend  in  justice  thou  hast  ever  been, 
Send  thee  by  me.  their  tribune  and  their  trust, 
This  palliament  of  white  and  spotless  hue  ; 


i 


8CENE    n. 


TITUS    ANDROMCUS. 


629 


And  name  thee  in  election  for  the  empire, 
With  these  our  late-deceased  emperor's  sons. 
Be  candidatus  then,  and  put  it  on, 
And  help  to  set  a  head  on  headless  Rome. 

Tit.  A  better  head  her  glorious  body  fits. 
Than  his  that  shakes  for  age  and  feebleness  : 
What  !  should  I  don  this  robe,  and  trouble  you  ? 
Be  chose'  with  acclamations"  to-day  ; 
To-morrow,  yield  up  rule,  resign  my  life. 
And  set  abroach^  new  business  for  you  all  ? — 
Rome,  I  have  been  thy  soldier  forty  years. 
And  led  my  country's  strength  successfully, 
And  buried  one-and-twenty  valiant  sons, 
Knighted  in  field,  slain  manfully  in  arms, 
In  right  and  service  of  their  noble  country. 
Give  nie  a  staff  of  honour  for  mine  age. 
But  not  a  sceptre  to  control  the  world  : 
Upright  he  held  it,  lords,  that  held  it  last. 

Mar.  Titus,  thou  shalt  obtain  the  empery. 

Sat.  Proud  and  ambitious  tribune,  canst  thou  tell  ? — 

Tit.  Patience,  prince  Saturninus. 

Sat.  Romans,  do  me  right. — 

I'atricians,  draw  your  swords,  and  sheath  them  not 
Till  Saturninus  be  Rome's  emperor. — 
Audronicus,  would  thou  wert  shipp'd  to  hell, 
Rather  than  rob  me  of  the  people's  hearts. 

Luc.  Proud  Saturnine,  interrupter  of  the  good 
That  noble-minded  Titus  means  to  thee  ! 

Tit.  Content  thee,  prince  :  I  will  restore  to  thee 
The  people's  hearts,  and  wean  them  from  themselves. 

Bas.  Andronicus.  I  do  not  flatter  thee. 
But  honour  thee,  and  will  do  till  I  die  : 
My  faction  if  thou  strengthen  with  thy  friends, 
I  will  most  thankful  be  ;  and  thanks,  to  men 
Of  noble  minds,  is  honourable  meed. 

Tit.  People  of  Rome,  and  people's  tribunes,  here 
I  ask  your  voices,  and  your  suffrages  : 
Will  you  bestow  them  friendly  on  Andronicus  ? 

Trib.  To  gratify  the  good  Andronicus, 
And  gi'atulate  his  safe  return  to  Rome. 
The  people  \\\\\  accept  whom  he  admits. 

Tit.  Tribunes.  I  thank  you  ;  and  this  suit  I  make. 
That  you  create  your  emperor's  eldest  son. 
Lord  Saturnine,  whose  virtues  will,  I  hope. 
Reflect  on  Rome,  as  Titan's  rays  on  earth, 
And  ripen  ju.<tice  in  this  common- weal  : 
Then,  if  you  will  elect  by  my  advice, 
Crown  him.  and  say, — "  Long  live  our  emperor  !" 

yiar.  With  voices  and  applause  of  every  sort, 
Patricians,  and  plebeians,  we  create 
Lord  Saturninus.  Rome's  great  emperor, 
And  say, — "  Long  live  our  Emperor  Saturnine  !" 

[A  long  Flourish.     Shoiits. 

Sat.  Titus  Andronicus,  for  thy  ftivours  done 
To  us  in  our  election  this  day, 
I  give  thee  thanks  in  part  of  thy  deserts 
And  will  with  deeds  requite  thy  gentleness  : 
And,  for  an  onset,  Titus,  to  advance 
Thy  name  and  honourable  family, 
Laviuia  will  I  make  my  empress, 
Rome's  royal  mistress,  mistress  of  my  heart. 
And  in  the  sacred  Pantheon  her  espouse. 
Tell  me.  Andronicus   doth  this  motion  please  thee? 
Tit.  It  doih,  my  worthy  lord  ;  and  in  this  match 
I  hold  me  highly  honour'd  of  your  grace  : 
And  here,  in  sight  of  Rome,  to  Saturnine, 
King  and  commander  of  our  common-weal. 
The  wide  world's  emperor,  do  I  consecrate 
My  sword,  my  chariot,  and  my  prisoners ; 

•  ohoien     ia  f  a       *  proo" amotions  :  in  f.  e.      '  ebroad  :  in  f.  e. 


]  Presents  well  worthy  Rome's  imperial  lord  : 
Receive  them,  then,  the  tribute  that  I  owe, 
Mine  honour's  ensigns  humbled  at  thy  feet. 

Sat.  Thanks,  noble  Titus,  father  of  my  life  ! 
How  proud  I  am  of  thee,  and  of  thy  gifts, 
Rome  shall  record  ;  and.  when  I  do  forget 
The  least  of  these  unspeakable  deserts, 
Romans,  forget  your  fealty  to  me. 

Tit.  Now,  madam,  are  you  prisoner  to  an  emperor ; 

[To  I'.VMORA 

To  him.  that  for  your  honour  and  your  state, 
Will  use  you  nobly,  and  your  followers. 

Sat.  A  goodly  lady,  trust  me  ;  of  the  hue      [.iside  * 
That  I  would  choose,  were  I  to  choose  anew. — 
[To  her.]  Clear  up,  fair  queen,  that  cloudy  countenance  : 
Though  chance  of  war  hath  wrought  this  change  of 

cheer. 

Thou  com'st  not  to  be  made  a  scorn  in  Rome  : 
Princely  shall  be  thy  usage  every  way. 
Rest  on  my  word,  and  let  not  discontent 
Daunt  all  your  hopes  :  madam,  he  comforts  you, 
Can  make  you  greater  than  the  queen  of  Goths.— 
Lavinia,  you  are  not  displeas'd  with  this  ? 

Lav.  Not  I,  my  lord  ;  sith  true  nobility 
Warrants  these  words  in  princely  courtesy. 

Sat.  Thanks,  sweet  Lavinia. — Romans,  let  us  go. 
Ransomless  here  we  set  our  prisoners  free : 
Proclaim  our  honours,  lords,  with  trump  and  drum. 

Bas.  Lord  Titus,  by  your  leave,  this  maid  is  mine. 
[Seizing  Lavinu. 

Tit.  How,  sir  !     Are  you  in  earnest,  then,  my  lord  ? 

Bas.  Ay,  noble  Titus  :  and  resolv'd  withal, 
To  do  myself  this  reason  and  this  right. 

[The  Emperor  courts  Tamora  in  dumb  show 

Mar.  Suitm  cuique  is  our  Roman  justice  : 
This  prince  in  justice  seizeth  but  his  own. 

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

Tit.  Traitors,  avaunt !    W^here  is  the  emperor's  guard  ' 
Treason,  my  lord  !  Lavinia  is  surpris'd. 

Sat.  Surpris'd  !     By  whom  ? 

Bas.  By  him  that  justly  may 

Bear  his  bethroth'd  from  all  the  world  away. 

[Exeunt  Marcus  and  Bassianus.  uith  Lavinia. 

Mut.  Brothers,  help  to  convey  her  hence  away, 
And  wdth  my  sword  I  '11  keep  this  door  safe. 

[Exeunt  Lucius.  Quintus,  and  Martius. 

Tit.  Follow,  my  lord,  and  I  '11  soon  briflg  her  back. 

Mut.  My  lord,  you  pass  not  here. 

Tit.  What,  -villain  boy  ' 

Barr'st  me  my  way  in  Rome  ?        [Titus  kills  Muthjs 

Mut.  Help,  Lucius,  help  ! 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  My  lord,  you  are  unjust ;  and,  more  than  so. 
In  wrongful  quarrel  you  have  slain  your  son. 

Tit.  Nor  thou,  nor  he,  nor  any  sons  of  mine : 
My  sons  would  never  so  dishonour  me. 
Traitor,  restore  Lavinia  to  the  emperor. 

Luc.  Dead,  if  you  will ;  but  not  to  be  his  wife. 
That  is  another's  lawful  promis'd  love.  [Etit 

Sat.  No,  Titus,  no  ;  the  emperor  needs  her  no^ 
Nor  her.  nor  thee,  nor  any  of  thy  stock  : 
I  '11  trust  by  leisure  him  that  mocks  me  once ; 
Thee  never,  nor  thy  traitorous  haughty  sons, 
Confederates  all  thus  to  dishonour  me. 
Was  there  none  else  in  Rome  to  make  a  stale', 
But  Saturnine  "?     Full  well,  Andronicus. 
Agree  these  deeds  with  that  proud  brag  of  thine, 
That  said'st,  I  begg'd  the  empire  at  thy  hands. 

Tit.  O  monstrous  !  what  reproachful  words  are  these  ? 

♦  Not  in  f.  e.      »  ^  stalking  horse. 


^ 


630 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


ACT   I. 


Sat.  Rut  go  (hy  ways  ;  go,  give  lliat  changing  piece 
To  hitn  tliai  tlouri.-h'd  for  licr  with  his  sword. 
A  valiaiu  son-iii-law  thou  slialt  enjoy  ; 
One  tit  to  band)  witli  thy  lawh'ss  sons. 
To  riitlli-  in  the  coniiiionwealtli  of  Rome. 

Tit.  These  wordx  arc  razor.-^  to  my  wounded  heart. 


Mar.  Renowned  Titus,  more  tlian  lialf  my  goul, — 
Luc.  Dear  lather,  soul  and  .sub.^^tance  of  ue  all, — 
Mar    Sutler  thy  brother  Marcus  to  inter 
His  noble  nephew  liere  in  virtue's  nest, 
That  died  in  honour  and  Lavinia's  cause. 
iThou  art  a  Homan,  be  not  barbarous  : 


Sat.  And  therefore,  lovely  Tainora,  queen  of  Goths,    [  The  Greeks  upon  advice  did  bury  Ajax, 


That,  like  the  .-stalely  Phoebe  'monust  her  nymphs, 
Dost  overshine  the  gailant'st  dames  of  Home, 
1    thou  be  ploas'd  with  tliis  my  sudden  choice, 
B'hold    I  choo.se  thee.  Tamora.  for  my  bride, 
And  wiU  create  thee  empress  of  Rome. 

p:iak.  queen  of  Goths,  dost  tliou  applaud  my  choice  ? 
Ami  Ikic  I  swear  by  all  tlie  Roman  gods, — 
Sith  prie.-t  and  holy  water  are  so  near, 
And  tapers  burn  so  bright,  and  every  thing 
[n  readiness  for  Hymcneus  stand. — 
I  will  not  re-salute  the  streets  of  Rome, 
Or  climb  my  palace,  till  from  forth  this  place 
1  lead  espous'd  my  bride  along  with  me. 

Tarn.  And  here,  in  sight  of  heaven,  to  Rome  I  swear, 
If  Saturnine  advance  the  queen  of  Goths, 
She  will  a  handmaid  be  to  his  desires, 
A  loving  nurse,  a  mother  to  his  youth. 

Sat.  Ascend,  fair  queen.  Pantheon. — Lords,  accom- 
pany 
Your  noble  emperor,  and  his  lovely  bride. 
Sent  by  the  heavens  for  prince  Saturnine. 
Whose  wisdom  hath  her  fortune  conquered  : 
There  shall  we  consummate  our  spousal  rites. 

[Excinit  Saturmnus  and  his  Followers ;    Tamora, 
and  her  sons  ;  Aaron  and  Goths. 

Tit.  I  am  not  bid  to  wait  upon  this  bride. 
Titus.  whiMi  wert  thou  wont  to  walk  alone, 
Dishonour'd  thus,  and  cljallenged  of  wrongs? 

Re-enrer  Marcus,  Lucils,  Qlintus,  and  Martius. 

Mar.  0,  Titus,  see,  0,  see  what  thou  hast  done  ! 
In  a  bad  quarrel  slain  a  virtuous  son. 

Tit.  No.  foolish  tribune,  no  ;  no  son  of  mine, 
Nor  thou,  nor  these,  confederates  in  the  deed 
That  hath  dishonour'd  all  our  family  : 
rnworthy  brother,  and  unworthy  sons  ! 

Luc    But  let  us  give  him  burial,  as  becomes  : 
Give  Mutius  burial  with  our  brethren. 

Tit.  Traitors,  away  !  he  rests  not  in  this  tomb. 
This  monument  five  hundred  years  hatli  stood, 
Which  [  have  sumjituously  re-edified  : 
Here  iKine  but  soldiers,  and  Rome's  servitors, 
RffKPSP  in  fame  ;  none  ba>ely  slain  in  brawls. 
Bury  him  wliere  you  can,  he  comes  not  here. 

J\Jar.  My  lord,  this  is  impiety  in  you. 
My  nephew  Mutius'  deeds  do  plead  for  him  : 
He  mu.'-t  be  buried  •with  his  brethren. 

Qiiin.  Mart.  And  shall,  or  him  we  will  accompany 

Tit.  And  shall  !  What  villain  was  it  spoke  that  word  ? 

Qinn.  He  that  would  vouch  't  in  any  place  but  here. 

Tit    What  !   would  you  bury  him  in  my  despite? 

Mar.  No,  noble  Titus  ;  but  entreat  of  thee 
To  jiardoii  Mutius,  and  to  bury  him. 

Til.  Marcus,  even  thou  hast  struck  upon  my  cre.st, 
And.  with  these  boys,  mine  honour  thou  hast  wounded  : 
My  foes  1  do  repute  you  every  one  : 
Bo.  trouble  me  no  more,  but  get  you  sone. 

Mnr.  \]o  is  not'  liimself :  let  us  withdraw  awhile. 

Qutn.  Not  I,  till  Mutius'  bones  be  buried. 

[M.vRcus  and  the  Son.s  of  Titus  kneel. 

Mnr.  Brother,  for  in  that  name  doth  nature  plead. 

Quin.  Father,  and  in  that  name  doth  nature  speak. 

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

•  oot  with  :  in  f.  «.      »  folio  ;  sullen  •  a  dump  wa»  oripinally  a  st.-ain  of  music,  or 


That  slew  himself,  and  wise  Laerte.s'  son 
Did  graciously  plead  for  his  funerals. 
Let  not  young  Mutius,  then,  that  was  thy  joy, 
Be  barrd  his  entrance  here. 

Tit.  Rise,  MarcuSj  rise.— 

The  disinall'st  day  is  this,  that  e'er  I  saw, 
To  be  dishonour'd  by  my  sons  in  Rome  ! — 
Well,  bury  him,  and  bury  me  the  next. 

[Mutius  is  put  into  the  Tomb 
Luc.  There  lie  thy  bones^  sweet  Mutius,  with   th| 
friends. 
Till  we  with  trophies  do  adorn  thy  tomb  ! 

All.  No  man  shed  tears  for  noble  Mutius; 
He  lives  in  fame  that  died  in  virtue's  cause. 

Mar.  My  lord, — to  step  out  of  these  dreary'  dumps, — 
How  comes  it  that  the  subtle  queen  of  Goths 
Is  of  a  sudden  thus  advanc'd  in  Rome  ? 

Tit.  I  know  not,  Marcus,  but  I  know  it  is  : 
Whether  by  device  or  no,  the  heavens  can  tell. 
Is  she  not,  then,  beholding  to  the  man 
That  brought  her  for  this  high  good  turn  so  far  ? 
Yes,  and  will  nobly  him  remunerate.^ 
Flourish.     Re-enter,  at  one  side.  Saturninus,  attended , 
Tamora.  Demetrius.  Chiron,  and  Aaron  :    at  tht 
other  side.  Bassianus.  Lavinia.  and.  others. 
Sat.  So  Bassianus,  you  have  play'd  your  prize  ? 
God  give  you  joy,  sir,  of  your  gallant  bride. 

Bas.  And  you  of  yours,  my  lord.     I  say  no  more. 
Nor  wish  no  less  ;  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Sat.  Traitor,  if  Rome  have  Iaw\  or  we  have  power 
Thou  and  thy  faction  shall  repent  this  rape. 

Bas.  Rape,  call  you  it,  my  lord,  to  seize  my  own, 
My  true-betrothed  love,  and  now  my  wife  ? 
But  let  the  laws  of  Rome  determine  all  : 
Mean  while,  I  ain  possess'd  of  that  is  mine. 

Sat.  'T  is  good,  sir  :  you  are  very  short  with  us; 
But,  if  we  live,  we  '11  be  as  sharp  with  you. 

Bas.  My  lord,  what  I  have  done,  as  best  I  may, 
Answer  I  must,  and  shall  do  with  my  'ife  : 
Only  tlius  much  I  give  your  grace  to  know. 
By  all  the  duties  that  I  owe  to  Rome, 
This  noble  gentleman,  lord  Titus  here. 
Is  in  opinion,  anil  in  honour,  wrongd  ; 
That  in  the  rescue  of  Lavinia 
With  his  own  hand  did  slay  his  youngest  .«on, 
In  zeal  to  you.  and  highly  mov'd  to  wratii. 
To  be  controll'd  in  that  he  frankly  gave 
Receive  him,  then,  to  favour.  Saturnine, 
That  hath  express'd  himself,  in  all  his  deeds, 
A  father,  and  a  friend,  to  thee,  and  Rome. 

Tit.  Prince  Ba.ssianus,  leave  to  plead  my  deeds 
'T  is  thou,  and  tho.se,  that  have  dishonour'd  mo. 
Rome  and  the  righteous  heavens  be  my  judge, 
How  I  have  lov'd  and  lionour'd  Saturnine. 
Tarn.  My  worthy  lord,  if  ever  Tamora 
Were  eracious  in  those  i)rinccly  eyes  of  thine, 
Then  hear  me  speak  indifferently  for  all  ; 
And  at  my  suit,  sweet,  pardon  what  is  pnst. 

Sat.  What,  madam  !  be  dishonour'd  openly, 
And  ba.sely  put  it  up  without  revenge  ? 

Tarn.  Not  so.  my  lord  :  the  gods  of  Rome  forefend, 
I  should  be  author  to  dishonour  you  ! 


,  poem.      '  Thw  lin«  i*  not  in  the  quarto*. 


1 


SCENE    I. 


TITUS   ANDEONICUS. 


631 


But,  on  mine  honour,  dare  I  undertake 

For  good  lord  Titus'  innocence  in  all. 

Whose  fury,  not  dissembled,  speaks  his  griefs. 

Then,  at  my  suit  look  graciously  on  him ; 

Lose  not  so  noble  a  friend  on  vain  suppose, 

Nor  with,  sour  looks  afflict  his  gentle  heart. — 

My  lord,  be  rul'd  by  me.  be  ^on  at  last ;  [Aside  to  Sat. 

Dissemble  all  your  griefs  and  discontents  : 

Von  are  but  newly  planted  in  your  throne ; 

Lest,  then,  the  people,  and  patricians  too, 

Upon  a  just  survey,  take  Titus"  part. 

And  so  supplant  you  for  ingratitude. 

Which  Rome  reputes  to  be  a  heinous  sin, 

Yield  at  entreats,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

f  '11  find  a  day  to  massacre  them  all. 

And  raze  their  faction,  and  their  family. 

The  cruel  father,  and  his  traitorous  sons, 

To  whom  I  sued  for  my  dear  son's  life  ; 

And  make  them  know  what  't  is  to  let  a  queen 

Kneel  in  the  streets,  and  beg  for  grace  in  vain. — 

Come,  come,  sweei  emperor. — come,  Andronicus, — 

[Alotul. 
Take  up  this  good  old  man,  and  cheer  the  heart 
That  dies  in  tempest  of  thy  angry  frown. 

Sat.  Rise,  Titus,  rise :  my  empress  hath  prevail'd. 

Tit.  I  thank  your  majesty,  and  her.  my  lord. 
These  words,  these  looks,  infuse  new  life  in  me. 

Tarn.  Titus,  I  am  incorporate  in  Rome, 
A  Roman  now  adopted  happily, 
And  must  advise  the  emperor  for  his  good. 
This  day  all  quarrels  die,  Andronicus ;  I 


And  let  it  be  mine  honour,  good  my  lord 

That  I  have  reconcil'd  your  friend.s  and  you. 

For  you.  prince  Bassianus.  I  have  pass'd 
My  word  and  promise  to  tlie  emperor. 

That  you  will  be  more  mild  and  tractable 

And  fear  not,  lords, — and  you,  Lavinia.— 
By  my  advice,  all  humbled  on  your  Imees, 
You  shall  ask  pardon  of  his  majesty. 

Luc.  We  do  ;  and  vow  to  heaven,  and  to  his  IngKness. 
That  what  we  did  was  mildly,  as  we  might.  [They  kneel.'] 
Tendering  our  sister's  honour,  and  our  own. 
Mar.  That  on  mine  honour  here  I  do  protest. 
Sat.  Away,  and  talk  not :  trouble  us  no  more, — 
Tarn.  Nay,  nay,  sweet  emperor,  we  must  all  be  frieuda. 
The  tribune  and  his  nephews  kneel  for  grace : 
I  will  not  be  denied.     Sweet  heart,  look  back. 

Sat.  Marcus,  for  thy  sake,  and  thy  brother's  here, 
And  at  my  lovely  Tamora's  entreats, 
I  do  remit  these  young  men's  heinous  faults. 

[They  stand  up.*] 
La\'inia,  though  you  left  me  like  a  churl, 
I  found  a  friend ;  and  sure  as  death  I  swore, 
I  would  not  part  a  bachelor  from  the  priest. 
Come  ;  if  the  emperor's  court  can  feast  two  brides, 
You  are  my  guest,  Lavinia,  and  your  friends. — 
This  day  shall  be  a  love-day,  Taniora. 

Tit.  To-morrow,  an  it  please  your  majesty, 
To  hunt  the  panther  and  the  hart  with  me, 
With  horn  and  hound  we  '11  give  your  grace  bonjour. 
Sat.  Be  it  so,  Titus,  and  gramerey  too. 

[Trumpets.     Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  Aaron. 
Aar.  Now  climbeth  Tamora  Olympus'  top, 
Safe  out  of  fortune's  shot ;  and  sits  aloft. 
Secure  of  thunder's  crack,  or  lightning  flash, 
Advanc'd  above  pale  envy's  threatening  reach. 
As  when  the  golden  sun  salutes  the  morn. 
And  having  gilt  the  ocean  with  his  beams, 
Gallops  the  zodiac  in  his  glistering  coach, 
.'^.nd  overlooks  the  highest-peering  hills ; 
So  Tamora. — 

Upon  her  will  doth  earthly  honour  wait, 
And  virtue  stoops  and  trembles  at  her  frown. 
Then,  Aaron,  arm  thy  heart,  and  fit  thy  thoughts. 
To  mount  aloft  with  thy  imperial  mistress ; 
And  mount  her  pitch,  whom  thou  in  triumph  long 
Hast  prisoner  held,  fetter'd  in  amorous  chains, 

,    And  faster  bound  to  Aaron's  charming  eyes. 
Than  was  Prometheus  tied  to  Caucasus. 
Away  with  slavish  weeds,  and  servile  thoughts  ! 

'    i  "A-ill  be  bright,  and  shine  in  pearl  and  gold, 

,  To  wait  upon  this  new-made  empress. 
To  wait,  said  I  ?  to  wanton  with  this  queen, 
This  goddess,  this  Semiramis,  this  nymph, 

j  This  syren,  that  will  charm  Rome's  Saturnine, 

)  And  see  his  shipwreck,  and  his  commonweal's. 
Holla  !  what  storm  is  this  ? 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Chiron,  braving. 
Dem.  Chiron,  thy  years  want  wit.  thy  wit  wants  edge 
And  manners,  to  intrude  where  I  am  grac'd, 
And  may,  for  aught  thou  know'st,  affected  be. 
Chi.  Demetrius,  thou  dost  over-ween  in  all, 

r  I       *  »  Nut  in  t  •.      •  The  usual  London  cry,  in  time  of  tnmult. 


I  And  so  in  this,  to  bear  me  down  with  braves. 
'T  is  not  the  difference  of  a  year,  or  two, 
Makes  me  less  gracious,  thee  more  fortunate  : 
I  am  as  able,  and  as  fit,  as  thou, 
To  serve,  and  to  deserve  my  mistre.«s'  grace; 
And  that  my  sword  upon  thee  shall  approve. 
And  plead  my  passions  for  Lavinia's  love. 

Aar.  Clubs,  clubs  !*  these  lovers  will  not  keep  the 
peace. 

Dem.  Why,  boy,  although  our  mother,  unadvis'd, 
Gave  you  a  dancing  rapier  by  your  side. 
Are  you  so  desperate  grown,  to  threat  your  friends? 
Go  to  ;  have  your  lath  glued  within  your  sheatL, 
Till  A'ou  know  better  how  to  handle  it. 

Chi.  Mean  while,  sir,  with  the  little  skill  I  have, 
Full  well  shalt  thou  perceive  how  much  I  dare. 

Dem.  Ay,  boy;  grow  ye  so  brave?  [Thty  drato 

Aar.  Why,  how  now,  lords  . 

So  near  the  emperor's  palace  dare  you  draw. 
And  maintain  such  a  quarrel  openly? 
Full  well  I  wot  the  ground  of  all  this  grudge  : 
I  would  not  for  a  million  of  gold. 
The  cause  were  kno\^^l  to  them  it  most  concern*  j 
Nor  would  your  noble  mother  for  much  more 
Be  so  dishouour'd  in  the  court  of  Rome. 
For  shame  !  put  up. 

Dem.  '       Not  I ;  till  I  have  sheath'd 

My  rapier  in  his  bosom,  and,  withal. 
Thrust  those  reproachful  speeches  do^^^x  his  throat, 
That  he  hath  breath'd  in  my  dislionour  here. 

Chi.  For  that  I  am  prcpar'd  and  full  resolv'd, 
Foul-spoken  coward,  that  thunder'st  with  thy  tongue 
And  with  thy  weapon  nothing  dar'st  perform. 


632 


TITUS   ANDHONICUS. 


Aar    Away,  I  say  ! 
Now  by  the  uiods  that  warlike  Goths  adore, 
This  petty  brabble  will  undo  us  all. — 
Why,  lords. — and  tliink  you  not  how  dangerous 
It  is  to  jet'  upon  a  prince's  right  ? 
What  !  is  Lavinia  then  become  so  loose. 
Or  Ba»sianiis  so  de:;enerate, 

Tliat  for  her  love  such  quarrels  may  be  broach'd, 
Without  conlrolinent,  justice,  or  revenge? 
Vounjr  lords,  beware  ! — an  should  the  empress  know 
This  discord's  srround,  the  music  would  not  please. 

Chi.  I  care  not.  I.  knew  she  and  all  the  world: 

love  Lavinia  more  than  all  the  world. 
Dftn.  Yonniiling,  learn  thou  to  make  some  meaner 
choice : 
I.^Tinia  is  thine  elder  brother's  hope. 

Aar.  Why,  are  ye  mad?  or  know  ye  not,  in  Rome 
How  furious  and  impatient  they  be, 
And  cannot  brook  competitors  in  love  ? 
(  tell  you.  lords,  you  do  but  plot  your  deaths 
By  this  device, 

Chi.  Aaron,  a  thousand  deaths 

Would  I  propose,  to  achieve  her  whom  I  love. 

Aar.  To  achieve  her  ! — How  ? 

Dem.  Why  mak'st  thou  it  so  strange  ? 

Slie  is  a  woman,  tlierefore  may  be  woo'd ; 
She  is  a  woman,  tlierefore  may  be  won  :' 
She  is  Lavinia.  therefore  must  be  lov'd. 
What,  man  !  more  water  glideth  by  t!ie  mill 
Than  wots  the  miller  of;  and  easy  'tis 
Of  a  cut  loaf  to  steal  a  shive,'  we  know  : 
Though  Ba,s,>-ianus  be  the  emperor's  brother, 
Better  than  he  have  worn  Vulcan's  badae. 

Aar.  Ay.  and  as  good  as  Saturninus  may.       [Aside. 

Dem.  Then,  why  should  he  despair,  that  knows  to 
court  it 
With  words,  fair  looks,  and  liberality  ? 
What  !  liast  thou  not  full  often  struck  a  doe. 
And  borne  her  cleanly  by  the  keeper's  nose? 

Aar.  Why  then,  it  seems,  some  certain  snatch  or  so 
Would  serve  your  turns, 

Chi.  Ay,  so  the  turn  were  serv'd, 

Dem.  Aaron,  thou  hast  hit  it. 

Aar.  W^ould  you  had  hit  it  too  ; 

Then  should  not  we  be  tir'd  with  this  ado. 
A'hy.  hark  ye.  hark  ye. — and  are  you  such  fools, 
To  .'.qiiarf  for  this?     Would  it  offend  you,  then, 
rhat  both  .<hould  speed  ?* 

CAi.  Faith,  not  me. 

Dem.  Nor  me,  so  I  were  one. 

Aar.  For  shame  !  be  friend-s,  and  join  for  that  you  jar. 
"Tis  policy  and  stratagem  must  do 
That  you  affect ;  and  so  must  you  resolve. 
That  what  you  cannot  as  you  would  achieve, 
You  mn.-^t,  perforce,  accomplish  as  you  may. 
Take  this  of  me:  Lncrece  was  not  more  chaste  | 

Than  this  Lavinia.  Ba.«sianus'  love. 
A  spec<lier  course  than  limzerins  lan!rui.>^hment 
Must  we  pursue,  and  I  have  found  the  path. 
My  lords,  a  solemn  hunting  is  in  hand  ; 
There  will  the  lovely  Roman  ladies  troop: 
The  forest  walks  are  wide  and  spaeiovis, 
And  many  unfrequented  plot**  there  are, 
Fitted  by  kind  for  rape  and  \-illainy. 
!^inL'le  yr.ii  ttiiiher,  then,  this  dainty  doe.  | 

^nd  stnkf  her  home  by  force,  if  not  by  words :  i 

Phis  way,  or  not  at  all.  stand  you  in  hope.  j 


Come,  come;  our  empress,  with  her  sacred  -wit, 
To  villainy  and  vengeance  consecrate, 
Will  we  acquaint  with  all  that  we  intend; 
And  she  shall  file  our  engines  with  advice. 
That  will  not  suffer  you  to  square  you^^  elves, 
But  to  your  wishes'  height  advance  you  both. 
The  emperor's  court  is  like  the  house  of  fame, 
The  palace  full  of  tongues,  of  eyes,  and*  ears  : 
The  woods  are  ruthless,  dreadlcss,*  deaf,  and  dull ; 
There  speak,  and  strike,  brave  boys,  and  take  your  turns 
There  serve  your  lust,  shadow'd  from  heaven's  eye, 
And  revel  in  Lavinia's  treasury. 

Chi.  Thy  counsel,  lad,  smells  of  no  cowardice, 
Dem.  Sit  fas  aut  nefas,  till  I  find  the  stream 
To  cool  this  heat,  a  charm  to  calm  these  fits, 
Per  Styga.  per  manes  vehor.  [ExeurU 

SCENE  n. — A  Forest  near  Rome.     Horns,  and  crj 

of  Hounds  heard. 

Enter  Titus  Andronicus.  with  Hunters,  ifc.    Marcus 

Lucius,  Quintis.  and  Martius, 

Tit.  The  hunt  is  up.  the  morn  is  bright  and  gay 
The  fields  are  fragrant,  and  <he  woods  are  wide.' 
Uncouple  here,  and  let  us  make  a  bay, 
And  wake  the  emperor  and  his  lovely  bride, 
And  rouse  the  prince,  and  sing'  a  hunters  round.' 
That  all  the  court  may  echo  with  the  sound." 
Sons,  let  it  be  your  charge,  and  so  w-ill  I,'' 
To  attend  the  emperor's  person  carefully: 
I  have  been  troubled  in  my  sleep  this  night. 
But  dawning  day  brought,  comfort  and  delight." 

[Horns  wind  :^*  they  sing  '•  The  hunt  is  up.'^ 

Enter  Saturninus,  Tamora,  Bassianus,  Lavinu, 
Demetrius.  Chiron,  and  Attendants. 

Tit.  Many  good  morrows  to  your  majesty  : — 
Madam,  to  you  as  many  and  as  good. — 
I  promised  your  grace  a  hunter's  peal. 

Sat.  And  you  have  rung  it  lustily,  my  lords, 
Somewhat  too  early  for  new-married  ladies. 

Bas.  Lavinia,  how  say  you  ? 

Lav.  I  say,  no ; 

I  have  been  broad'*  awake  two  hours  and  more. 

Sat.  Come  on,  then  :  horse  and  chariots  let  us  have 
And  to  our  sport. — Madam,  now  shall  ye  see 
Our  Roman  hunting,  [To  Ta.mora 

Mar.  I  have  dogs,  my  lord. 

Will  rou.«e  the  proudest  panther  in  the  chase, 
And  climb  the  highest  promontory's  top. 

Tit.  And  I  have  horse  will  follow  where  the  game 
Makes  way.  and  run  like  swallows  o'er  the  plain, 

Dem.  Chiron,  we  hunt  not.  we.  with  horse  nor  hound , 
But  hope  to  pluck  a  dainty  doe  to  ground,        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  in.— A  desert  Part  of  the  Forest, 
Enter  Aaron,  with  a  Bag  of  Gold. 
Aar.  He,  that  had  wit.  would  think  that  I  had  nono, 
To  bury  so  much  uold  under  a  tree. 
And  never  after  to  inherit  it. 
Let  him  that  thinks  of  me  so  abjectly, 
Know  that  this  gold  must  coin  a  stratagem, 
Which,  cunningly  effected,  will  beget 
A  very  excellent  piece  of  villainy  : 
And  so  repo.se,  sweet  gold,  for  their  unrest 

[HkIcs  the  Gold 
That  have  their  alms  out  of  the  empre.s.s'  cliest. 
Entrr  Tamora. 
Tarn.  My  lovely  Aaron,  wherefore  look'st  tliou  sal. 


I  S«n.f.  la  folio:  »et.  »  A  aimilar  couplet  i»  foond  in  Hrnry  VI  ,  Pt.  1.  A.  v.,  Sc.  iii.  ^  Slire. 
'n  qcutc,  Kill,  and  m  folio.  «  dreadful  :  in  f.  e.  '  crey  :  in  f.  p.  •  preen  :  in  f.  e.  »  rinc  :  in  f.  e 
'»  &»  It  U  t:,;i  .  ID  f.  «.     iJ  new  connfort  hath  iof  nired  :  in  f  e.     '♦  The  rest  of  thin  utaee  direction  is 


ine  is  not  in  thn  folio  '  »' 
I  :  in  f,  e.  "  noiae  in  f  • 
e.     '*  No'  io  folio. 


BIJENE    m. 


TITUS   ANDKONICUS. 


633 


Wken  every  thing  doth  make  a  gleeful  boast  ? 

The  birds  chaniit  melody  on  every  bush  ; 

The  snake  lies  coiled  in  the  cheerful  sun; 

The  green  leaves  quiver  with  the  cooling  wind, 

And  make  a  cheequer'd  shadow  on  the  ground. 

Under  their  sweet  shade,  Aaron,  let  us  sit,    • 

And,  whilst  the  babbling  echo  mocks  the  hounds., 

Replying  shrilly  to  the  well-tun'd  horns, 

As  if  a  double  hunt  were  heard  at  once, 

Let  us  sit  down,  and  mark  their  yelling  noise: 

And — after  conflict,  such  as  was  suppos'd 

Tlie  wandering  prince  and  Dido  once  enjoy'd. 

When  with  a  happy  storm  they  were  surpris'd, 

And  curtain'd  with  a  counsel-keeping  cave. — 

We  may,  each  wreathed  in  the  other's  arms, 

Our  pastimes  done,  possess  a  golden  slumber  ; 

While  hounds,  and  horns,  and  sweet  melodious  birds. 

Be  unto  us,  as  is  a  nurse's  song 

Of  lullaby  to  bring  her  babe  asleep. 

Aar.  Madam,  though  Venus  govern  your  desires, 
Saturn  is  dominator  over  mine. 
What  signifies  my  deadly-standing  eye. 
My  silence,  and  my  cloudy  melancholy  ? 
My  fleece  of  woolly  hair  that  now  uncurls, 
Even  as  an  adder,  when  she  doth  unrol 
To  do  some  fatal  e.xecuTion  ? 
No,  madam,  these  are  no  venereal  signs : 
Vengeance  is  in  my  heart,  death  in  my  hand, 
Blood  and  revensre  are  hammering  in  my  head. 
Hark,  Tamora,  the  empress  of  my  soul. 
Which  never  hopes  more  heaven  than  rests  in  thee, 
This  is  the  day  of  doom  for  Bassianus  ; 
His  Philomel  must  lose  her  tongue  to-day: 
Thy  sons  make  pillage  of  her  chastity. 
And  wash  their  hands  in  Bassianus'  blood. 
Seest  thou  this  letter  ?  take  it  up,  I  pray  thee, 
And  give  the  king  this  fatal-plotted  scroll. — 
Now  question  me  no  more ;  we  are  espied  : 
Here  comes  a  parcel  of  our  hopeful  booty. 
Which  dreads  not  yet  their  lives'  destruction. 

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

Aar.  No  more,  great  empress.     Bassianus  comes  : 
Be  cross  with  him  ;  and  I  '11  go  fetch  thy  sons 
To  back  thy  quarrels,  whatsoe'er  they  be.  [Exit. 

Enter  Bassianus  and  Lavinia. 

Bas.  Whom  have  we  here?     Rome's  royal  empress, 
Unfurnish'd  of  her'  well-beseeming  troop? 
Or  is  it  Dian,  habited  like  her; 
Who  hath  abandoned  her  holy  groves, 
To  see  the  general  huntmg  in  this  forest? 

Tam.  Saucy  controller  of  my  private  steps  ! 
Had  I  the  power,  that,  some  say,  Dian  had, 
Thy  temples  should  be  planted  pre^ently 
With  horns,  as  was  Actscon's  ;  and  the  hounds 
Should  dine'  upon  thy  new-transformed  limbs. 
Unmannerly  intruder  as  thou  art ! 

Lav.  Under  your  patience,  gentle  empress, 
T  is  thought  you  have  a  goodly  gift  in  horning; 
And  to  be  doubted,  that  your  Moor  and  you 
Are  singled  forth  to  try  experiments. 
Jove  shield  your  husband  from  his  hounds  to-day  ! 
T  is  pity,  they  should  take  him  for  a  stag. 

Bas.  Be'iieve  me.  queen,  your  swarth  Cimmerian 
Doth  make  your  honour  of  his  body's  hue, 
Spotted,  detested,  and  abominable. 
Why  are  you  sequcster'd  from  all  your  train, 
Dismouftteil  from  your  snow-white  goodly  steed, 
And  wander'd  hither  to  an  obscure  plot. 
Accompanied  but  with  a  barbarous  Moor, 

>  So  th«  auirto,  1(>0U  ;  other  old  eopies  :  oar.      '  drive  :  in  f.  e.      ' 


If  foul  desire  had  not  conducted  you? 

Lav.  And  being  intercepted  in  your  sport, 
Great  reason  that  my  noble  lord  be  rated 
For  sauciness  ! — I  pray  you,  let  us  hence. 
And  let  her  'joy  her  raven-coloured  love  : 
This  valley  fits  the  purpose  passing  well. 
'  Bas.  The  king,  my  brother,  shall  have  note  of  this. 

Lav.  Ay,  for  these  slips  have  made  him  noted  long, 
Good  kinir !  to  be  so  mightily  abus'd. 

Tam.  Wliy  have  I  patience  to  endure  all  this? 
Enter  Demetrius  and  Chiron. 

Dem.  How,  now,  dear  sovereign,  and  our  gracious 
mother  ! 
Why  doth  your  highness  look  so  pale  and  wan  ? 

7am.  Have  I  not  reason,  think  you,  to  look  pale? 
These  two  have  'tic'd  me  hither  to  this  place, 
A  barren  detested  vale,  you  see,  it  is : 
The  trees,  though  summer,  yet  forlorn  and  lean, 
O'ercome  with  moss,  and  baleful  misletoe. 
Here  never  shines  the  sun  ;  here  nothing  breeds. 
Unless  the  nightly  owl.  or  fatal  raven, 
And.  when  they  show'd  me  this  abhorred  pit. 
They  told  me,  here,  at  dead  time  of  the  night, 
A  thousand  fiends,  a  thousand  hissing  snakes. 
Ten  thousand  swelling  toads,  as  many  urchins,* 
Would  make  such  fearful  and  confused  cries. 
As  any  mortal  barely  hearing  it, 
Should  straight  fall  mad.  or  else  die  suddenly 
No  sooner  had  they  told  this  hellish  tale. 
Bat  straight  they  told  me.  they  would  bind  me  here 
Unto  the  body  of  a  dismal  yew, 
And  leave  me  to  this  miserable  death  : 
And  then  they  call'd  me,  foul  adulteress, 
Lascivious  Goth,  and  all  the  bitterest  terms 
That  ever  ear  did  hear  to  such  effect ; 
And,  had  you  not  by  wondrous  fortune  come, 
This  vengeance  on  me  had  they  executed. 
Revenge  it,  as  you  love  your  mother's  life. 
Or  be  ye  not  henceforth  call'd  my  children. 

Dem.  This  is  a  witness  that  I  am  thy  son. 

[Stabs  Bassianus. 

Chi.  And    this    for  me,  struck   home  to  show  my 
strength.  [Stabbing  him  likewise. 

Lav.  Ay.  come,    Semiramis ! — nay,  barbarous  Ta- 
mora : 
For  no  name  fits  thy  nature  but  thy  owii. 

ra?H.  Give  me  thy  poniard  :  you  shall  know,  tny  boys, 
Your  mother's  hand  shall  right  your  mother's  wTong. 

Dem.  Stay,  madam;  here  is  more  belongs  to  her: 
First,  thrash  the  corn,  then  after  burn  the  straw. 
This  minion  stood  upon  her  chastity. 
Upon  her  nuptial  vow.  her  loyalty. 
And  with  that  painted  shape  she  braves  your  might : 
And  shall  she  carry  this  unto  her  grave? 

Chi.  An  if  she  do.  I  would  I  were  an  eunuch. 
Drag  hence  her  husband  to  some  secret  hole, 
And  make  his  dead  tnmk  pillow  to  our  lust. 

Tam.  But  when  ye  have  the  honey  ye  desire. 
Let  not  this  wasp  outlive  us  both  to  stin^. 

Chi.  I  warrant  you,  madam,  we  will  make  that  sure.— 
Come,  mistress,  now  perforce,  we  will  enjoy 
That  nice  preserved  honesty  of  yours. 

Lav.  0  Tamora  I  thou  bear'st  a  woman's  face. — 

Tam.  I  will  not  hear  her  speak  :  away  with  her! 

Lav.  Sweet  lords,  entreat  her  hear  me  but  a  word 

Dem.  Listen,  fair  madam  :   let  it  be  yi.ur  glory 
To  see  her  tears :  but  be  your  heart  to  them, 
As  unrelenting  flint  to  drops  of  rain. 

Lav.  When  did  the  tiger's  young  ones  teach  the  dam  ? 

Hedge-kogs  ;  also,  evil  spirits. 


634 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


0 !  do  not  learn  her  wrath ;  she  taught  it  thee. 

The  milk,  thou  suckdst  iVom  her.  did  turn  lo  marble; 

Even  at  her  teat  ihou  hadst  thy  tyranny. 

Yet  every  mother  breeds  not  sons  alike  : 

Do  thou  eniroat  lier  show  a  woman  pity.   [To  Chiron. 

Chi.  What !  wouldst    thou  have  me  prove  myseif 
a  baistard  ? 

Lav.  'T  is  true  :  the  raven  doth  not  hatch  a  lark : 
Yet  have  I  heard.  0.  coulu  I  find  it  now  I 
Tiie  lion,  mov'd  with  pity,  did  endure 
To  have  his  princely  claws'  pard  all  away. 
Some  say  that  ravens  foster  lorlorn  children, 
The  whil.»;t  their  own  birds  tarnish  in  their  nests: 
01  be  to  me.  though  thy  hard  heart  say  no, 
Nothing  so  kind,  but  .something  pitiful. 

Tom.  I  know  not  what  it  means.     Away  with  her  ! 

Lav.  0  !  let  me  teach  tliee:  for  my  father's  sake, 
That  gave  thee  life,  when  well  he  might  have  slain  thee, 
Be  not  obdurate.     Open  thy  deaf  ears. 

Tarn.  Hadst  thou  in  person  ne'er  offended  me, 
Even  for  his  sake  am  I  pitiless. — 
Remember,  boys,  I  jiour'd  forth  tears  in  vain, 
To  .<5ave  your  brother  from  the  sacrifice : 
But  fierce  Andronicus  would  not  relent. 
Therefore,  away,  and  use  her  as  you  will: 
The  worse  to  her,  the  better  lovd  of  me. 

Lav.  0  Tamora  !  be  call'd  a  gentle  queen.  [Kneeling.* 
.\nd  with  thine  own  hands  kill  me  in  this  place; 
For  't  is  not  life  that  I  have  begg"d  so  long : 
Poor  I  "A-as  slain  when  Bassianus  died.  [go. 

Tarn   What  begg'.^t  thou  then  ?  fond'  woman,  let  me 

Lav.  'T  is  present  death  I  beg ;  and  one  thing  more, 
That  womanhood  denies  my  tongue  to  tell. 
0  !   keep  me  from  their  worse  than  killing  lust. 
And  tumble  me  into  some  loathsome  pit, 
Where  never  man's  eye  may  behold  my  body: 
Do  this,  and  be  a  charitable  murderer. 

Jam.  So  should  I  rub  my  sweet  sons  of  their  fee  : 
No  :  let  them  satisfy  their  lust  on  thee. 

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

Lav.  No  grace  ?  no  womanhood  ?    Ah,  beastly  crea- 
ture, [Rising.* 
The  blot  and  enemy  to  our  general  name  I 
Confusion  fall — 

Chi.  Nay,  then.   Til  stop  your  mouth. — Brmg  thou 

her  husband  :  [Dragging  off  L.winia. 

This  is  the  hole  where  Aaron  bid  us  hide  him.  [Exeunt. 

Tarn   Farewell,   my  sons:    see,  that  you  make  her 
sure 
.Ne'er  let  my  heart  know  merry  cheer  indeed, 
Till  all  the  Andronici  be  made  away. 
Now  will  I  hence  to  see  my  lovely  Moor, 
And  let  my  spleenful  sons  this  trull  deflour.         [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 
Enter  Aaron,  with  Quixtls  and  Martius. 

Aar.  Come  on.  my  lord.s,  the  better  foot  before : 
Straight  will  I  bring  you  to  the  lone.^ome  pit, 
Where  I  c.«py'd  the  panther  fa.st  asleep. 

Quin.  My  sight  is  very  dull,  whateer  it  bodes. 

Mart.  And  mine,  I  promise  you  .  wer  "t  not  for  shame, 
Well  could  I  leave  our  sport  to  sleep  awhile. 

[Martiis/,;//.^  into  the  Pit. 

Quin.  What  !  art  thou  fallen  ?  What  subtle  hole  is  thi.s. 
Whose  mouth  is  cover'd  with  rude-growina  briars, 
Upon  wliosc  leaves  are  drops  of  new-shed  blood, 
As  fre.-li  as  morning's  dew  distill'd  on  flowers? 
A  very  latal  place  it  seems  to  me. — 
Speak,  brother,  ha.st  thou  hurt  thee  with  the  fall? 


p»wa  •  IB  f. 


>  Fooliih.      ♦  »  Not  in  f.  e. 


Mart.  [  Under  the  stage.'']  0,  brother !  with  the  di* 
mall'st  object  hurt. 
That  ever  eye  with  sight  made  heart  lament. 

Aar.    [Aside.]    Now  will  I   fetch  the    king    to  fiii 
them  here; 
That  he  thereby  may  give  a  likely  guess, 
How  these  were  they  that  made  away  his  brother. 

['Exit  Aaron 
Mart.  Why  dost  not  comfort  me,  and  help  me  out 
From  this  unhallow'd  and  blood-stained  hole  ? 
Quin.  I  am  surprised  with  an  uncouth  fear; 
I  A  chilling  sweat  o'er-runs  my  trembling  joints  : 
i  My  heart  suspects  more  than  mine  eye  can  see. 
i      31art.  To  prove  thou  hast  a  true-divining  heart, 
;  Aaron  and  thou  look  down  into  this  den, 
'  And  see  a  fearful  sight  of  blood  and  death. 

Quin.  Aaron  is  gone  ;   and  my  compassionate  heart 
Will  not  permit  mine  eyes  once  to  behold 
!  The  thing  whereat  it  trembles  by  surnii.se. 
I  0  !  tell  me  how'  it  is  ;  for  ne'er  till  now 
I  Was  I  a  child,  to  fear  I  know  not  what. 

Mart.  Lord  Bassiauus  lies  embrewed  here, 
I  All  on  a  heap,  like  to  a  slaugljter"d  lamb, 
I  In  this  detested,  dark,  blood-drinking  pit. 
I      Quin.  If  it  be  dark,  how  dost  ihou  know  't  is  he? 
I      Mart.  Upon  his  bloody  finger  he  doth  wear 
A  precious  ring,  that  lightens  all  the  hole, 
;  Wliich.  like  a  taper  in  some  monument, 
;  Doth  shine  upon  the  dead  man's  earthy  cheeks, 
And  shows  the  ragged  entrails  of  the  pit : 
So  pale  did  shine  the  moon  on  Pyramus, 
When  he  by  night  lay  bath'd  in  maiden  blood. 
'  0  brother  !  help  me  with  thy  fainting  hand, — 
I  If  fear  hath  made  thee  faint,  as  me  it  haih, — 
j  Out  of  this  fell  devouring  receptacle. 
I  As  hateful  as  Coeytus'  misty  mouth. 
!      Quin.  Reach  me  thy  hand  that  I  may  help  thee  out , 

I  Or,  wanting  strength  to  do  thee  so  much  good, 

I I  may  be  pluck'd  into  the  s^^•ullowing  womb 
Of  this  deep  pit,  poor  Bassianus'  grave. 

I  have  no  strength  to  pluck  thee  to  the  brink. 
'      Mart.  Nor  I  no  strength  to  climb  without  thy  help. 
j      Quin.  Thy  hand  once  more:   I  will  not  loose  again, 
!  Till  thou  art  here  aloft,  or  I  below. — 
Thou  canst  not  come  to  me  ;  I  come  to  thee.   [Falls  in. 
I  Enter  Satcrnixus  and  Aaron. 

i      Sat.  Along  with  me  : — I  '11  see  what  hole  is  here. 
And  what  he  is  that  now  is  leap'd  into  it. 
Say.  who  art  thou,  that  lately  did  descend 
Into  this  gaping  hollow  of  the  earth  ? 

Mart.  The  unhappy  son  of  old  Andronicus, 
Brought  hither  in  a  most  unlucky  hour. 
To  find  thy  brother  Bassianus  dead. 

Sat.  My  brother  dead  !  1  know,  thou  dost  but  jest 
He  and  his  lady  both  are  at  the  lodge. 
Upon  the  north  side  of  this  pleasant  chase; 
'T  is  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  there. 

Mart.  We  know  not  where  you  left  him  all  alive, 
But,  out  ala.s !  here  have  we  found  liim  dead. 
Enter  Takok A,  with  Attendants;  Titvs  Androniccs 
and  Lucius. 
Tarn.  Where  is  my  lord,  the  king  ? 
Sat.  Here.  Tamora  ;  though  sriev'd  with  killing  gric' 
Tarn.  Where  is  thy  brother  Bassianus? 
Sat.  Now  to  the  bottom  dost  thou  search  my  wound 
Poor  Bassianus  here  lies  murdered. 

Tain.  Then,  all  too  late  I  bring  this  fatal  writ. 

[Giving  a  Lcttff 
The  complot  of  this  timeless  tragedy; 

rho  :  in  quarto,  1600 


SCENE   I. 


TITUS   A^^DROXICUS. 


HP>5 


Aiid  wonder  greatly,  that  man's  face  can  fold 
In  pleasing  smiles  such  murderous  tyranny. 

Sat.  [Reads.]   -'An   if  we  miss  to  meet  him   hand- 
somely,— 
Sweet  huntsman,  Bassianus  't  is,  we  mean, — 
Do  thou  so  much  as  dig  the  grave  for  him. 
Thou  know'st  our  meaning :  look  for  thy  reward 
Among  the  nettles  at  the  elder-tree. 
Which  overshades  the  mouth  of  that  same  pit, 
Where  we  decreed  to  bury  Bassianus. 
Do  this,  and  purchase  us  thy  lasting  friends." 
0,  Tamora !  was  ever  heard  the  like  ? 
This  is  the  pit,  and  this  the  elder-tree. 
Look,  sirs,  if  you  can  find  the  huntsman  out. 
That  should  have  miirder'd  Bassianus  here. 

Aar.  My  gracious  lord,  here  is  the  bag  of  gold. 

[Showing  it. 

Sat.    Two  of  thy  whelps,   [To  Titus]  fell  curs  of 
bloody  kind. 
Have  here  bereft  my  brother  of  his  life. — 
Sirs,  drag  them  from  the  {)it  vnito  the  prison : 
There  let  them  bide,  until  we  have  devis'd 
Some  never-heard-of  torturing  pain  for  them. 

Turn.  What !  are  they  in  this  pit?  0  wondrous  thing  ! 
How  easily  murder  is  discovered. 

Tit.  High  emperor,  upon  my  feeble  knee 
I  beg  this  boon  with  tears  not  lightly  shed ; 
That  this  fell  fault  of  my  accursed  sons. 
Accursed,  if  the  fault  be  prov'd  in  them, — 

Sat.  If  it  be  prov'd  !   you  see,    t  is  apparent. — 
Who  found  this  letter?     Tamora,  was  it  you? 

Tarn.  Andronicus  himself  did  take  it  up. 

Tit.  I  did,  my  lord  :  yet  let  me  be  their  bail ; 
For  by  my  father's  reverend  tomb  I  vow, 
They  shall  be  ready  at  your  highness',  will 
To  anwer  this  suspicion  with  their  lives. 

Sat.  Thou  shalt  not  bail  them  :  see,  thou  follow  me. 
Some  bring  the  murder'd  body,  some  the  murderers  : 
Let  them  not  speak  a  word,  their  guilt  is  plain : 
For,  by  my  soul,  were  there  worse  end  than  death. 
That  end  upon  them  should  be  executed. 

Ta7n.  Andronicus.  I  will  entreat  the  king: 
Fear  not  thy  sons,  they  shall  do  well  enough. 

Tit.    Come,   Lucius,   come ;   stay  not  to  talk  with 
them.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  v.— The  Same. 

Ertter  Demetrius  and  Chiron,  with  Lavinia,  ravished; 

her  Hands  cut  off.  and  her  Tongue  cut  out. 

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

Who  't  was  cut  out  thy  tongue,  and  ravish'd  thee. 

Chi.  Write  down  thy  mind,  bewTay  thy  meaning  so ; 
And,  if  thy  stumps  will  let  thee,  play  the  scribe. 
Dem.  See  how  with  signs  and  tokens  she  can  scrowl.' 


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

Dem.  She  hath  no  tongue  to  call,  nor  hands  to  wash; 
And  so  let 's  leave  her  to  her  silent  walks. 

Chi.  An  't  were  my  case,  I  should  go  Imng  myself 

Dein.  If  thou  hadst  hands  to  help  thee  knil  the  cord. 
[Exeunt  Demetrius  and  Chiron. 
Wind  Horns.     Enter  Marcus, //-om  hunting. 

Mar.  Who  's  this, — my  niece,  that  flies  away  so  fast  ? 
Cousin,  a  word  :  where  is  your  husband  ? — 
If  I  do  dream,  'would  all  my  wealth  would  wake  me. 
If  I  do  wake,  some  planet  strike  me  down, 
That  I  may  slumber  in  eternal  sleep  ! — 
Speak,  gentle  niece,  what  stern  ungentle  hands 
Have  lopp'd,  and  hew'd,  and  made  thy  body  bare 
Of  her  two  branches  ;  those  sweet  ornaments. 
Whose  circling  shadows  kings  have  sought  to  sleep  in 
And  might  not  gain  so  great  a  happiness. 
As  have  thy  love?     Why  dost  not  speak  to  me? — 
Alas  !  a  crimson  river  of  warm  blood, 
Like  to  a  bubbling  fountain  .stirr"d  with  wind. 
Doth  rise  and  fall  between  thy  roseate  lips, 
Coming  and  going  with  Uiy  honey  breath. 
But,  sure,  some  Tereus  hath  defloured  thee, 
And,  lest  thou  shouldst  detect  him,'  cut  i,hy  tongu 
Ah  !  now  thou  turn'st  away  thy  face  for  shame ; 
And,  notwithstanding  all  this  loss  of  blood, — 
As  from  a  conduit  with  three'  issuing  spouts, — 
Yet  do  thy  cheeks  look  red.  as  Titan's  face 
Blushing  to  be  encounter'd  with  a  cloud. 
Shall  I  speak  for  thee  ?  shall  I  say,  't  is  so  ? 
0  !  that  I  knew  thy  heart ;  and  knew  the  beast, 
That  I  might  rail  at  him  to  ease  my  mind. 
Sorrow  concealed,  like  an  oven  stopp'd. 
Doth  burn  the  heart  to  cinders  where  it  is. 
Fair  Philomela,  she  but  lost  her  tongue, 
And  in  a  tedious  sampler  sew'd  her  mind  ; 
But,  lovely  niece,  that  mean  is  cut  from  thee* 
A  craftier  Tereus.  cousin,*  hast  thou  met. 
And  he  hath  cut  those  pretty  fingers  off. 
That  could  have  better  sew'd  than  PhilomeL 
0  !  had  the  monster  seen  those  lily  hands 
Tremble,  like  aspen  leaves,  upon  a  lute, 
And  make  the  silken  strings  delight  to  kiss  them, 
He  would  not  then  have  touch'd  them  for  his  life, 
Or,  had  he  heard  the  heavenly  harmony. 
Which  that  sweet  tongue  hath  made  in  minstrelsy,* 
He  would  have  dropp'd  his  knife,  and  fell  asleep, 
As  Cerberus  at  the  Thracian  poet's  feet. 
Come :  let  us  go,  and  make  thy  father  blind  ; 
For  such  a  sight  will  blind  a  lather's  eye. 
One  hour's  storm  will  drown  the  fragrant  meads ; 
What  will  whole  months  of  tears  thy  father's  eyes? 
Do  not  draw  back,  for  we  will  mourn  with  thee 
0,  could  our  mourning  ease  thy  misery !  [Ezcunt, 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— Rome.     A  Street. 
&iter  Senators,   Tribunes,  and  Officers  of  Justice,  U'ilh 
Martius  and  Quintus,  bound,  pa.'ising  on  to  the  Place 
of  Execution  ;  Titus  going  before,  pleading. 
Tit.  Hear  me,  grave  fathers  !  noble  tribunes,  stay  ! 
For  pity  of  mine  age,  whose  youth  was  spent 
In  dang  Tius  wars,  whilst  you  securely  slept; 


For  all  my  blood  in  Rome's  great  quarrel  shed , 
For  all  the  frosty  nights  that  I  have  watch'd , 
And  for  these  bitter  tears,  which  now  you  see 
Filling  the  aged  wrinkles  in  my  cheeks ; 
Be  pitiful  to  my  condemned  sons. 
Whose  souls  are  not  corrujoted  as  't  is  thought. 
For  two  and  twenty  sons  I  never  wept. 
Because  they  died  in  honour's  lofty  bed  : 


*  KO-wl     in  folio.      'them  :  in  old  copies. 
wUch  adds  •'  withal"  to  the  end  of  tne  line 


Rowe  made   the   chanje.       3  their  :  in   old  copies;    Hanmer's  correction.     'Not   .D    folio 
5  These  two  words  are  not  in  f.  e. 


636 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


ACT  m. 


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

[Throwing  himself  on  the  ground. 
My  heart's  deep  anguish  in  my  soufs  sad  tears. 
Let  my  loars  sianch  the  earths  dry  appetite; 
My  sons'  sweet  blood  will  make  it  shame  aud  blush. 
[ICxcinit  Sauilors.  'I'rihinus.  Ifc.  villi  the  Prisoners. 

0  earth  !  I  will  belVioiid  thee  with  more  rain, 
That  siiall  distil  from  these  two  ancient  urns', 
Than  youlhlul  April  Bhali  with  all  his  showers: 
In  summer's  drouuht  I  '11  drop  upon  thee  still ; 
In  winter  with  warm  tears  I  '11  melt  the  snow, 
And  keep  eternal  sprinir-time  on  thy  lace. 

So  thou  refuse  to  drink  my  dear  sons'  blood. 

Enter  Lurius.  vith  his  Sword  draivn. 
0,  reverend  tribunes  !  iientle,  aged  men  ! 
Unbind  my  .sons,  reverse  the  doom  of  death ; 
Aud  let  me  say.  that  never  wept  before, 
My  tears  are  now  prevailing  orators. 

Luc.  0,  noble  father  !  you  lament  in  vain : 
The  tribunes  hear  you  not.  no  man  is  by, 
And  you  recount  your  sorrows  to  a  i^toiie. 

Tit.  Ah.  Lucius!  for  thy  brothers  lei  me  plead. — 
Grave  tribunes,  once  more  I  entreat  of  you. 

Luc.  My  gracious  lord,  no  tribune  hears  you  speak. 

Tit.  Why,  "t  is  no  matter,  man  :  if  they  did  hear, 
They  would  not  mark  me  ;  or  if  they  did  mark, 
They  would  not  pity  me.  yet  plead  I  must, 
And  bootless  unto  them.* 
Thcrelbre.  I  tell  my  sorrows  to  the  stones ; 
Who,  though  they  cannot  answer  my  distress. 
Yet  in  some  sort  they  are  better  than  the  tribunes. 
For  that  they  will  not  intercept  my  tale  [Rising. 

When  I  do  weep,  they  humbly  at  my  feet 
Receive  my  teare.  and  seem  to  weep  with  me ; 
And  were  they  but  attired  in  grave  weeds, 
Rome  could  atl'ord  no  tribune  like  to  the.'se. 
A  stone  is  soft  as  wax,  tribunes  more  liard  than  .stones  ; 
A  stone  is  silent,  and  offendelh  not. 
And  tribunes  with  their  tongues  doom  men  to  death. 
But  wherefore  stand'st  thou  with  thy  weapon  drawn? 

Luc.  To  rescue  my  two  brothers  from  their  death  ; 
For  which  attempt  the  judges  have  prouounc'd 
My  everlasting  doom  of  banishment. 

Tit.  O  hapi)y  man  !   they  have  befriended  thee. 
Why,  fdolish  Lucius,  dost  thou  not  perceive, 
That  Rome  is  but  a  wilderness  of  tigers? 
Tigers  must  prey ;  and  Kome  affords  no  prey, 
But  me  and  mine :  how  happy  art  thou,  then, 
From  these  devourers  to  be  banished  ? 
But  who  comes  with  our  brother  Marcus  here? 
Enter  Marcus  ond  Lavinia. 

Mar.  Titus,  prej'are  thy  aged'  eyes  to  weep; 
Or,  if  not  so.  tby  noble  heart  to  break  : 

1  bring  consuming  sorrow  to  thine  age. 

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

Mar.  This  wax  thy  dauizhter. 

Tit.   Why,  Marcus,  so  she  is. 

Luc.  Ah  mc  !  this  object  kills  me. 

Tit.  Faint-hearted  boy.  arise,  and  look  upon  her. — 
Speak,  iny  Lavinia,  what  accursed  hand 
Hath  made  thee  h:indle.>;s  in  thy  father's  sight? 
What  fool  hath  ailded  water  to  the  sea. 
Or  brought  a  faggot  to  bright-burning  Troy? 
My  grief  was  at  the  hei-jht  before  thou  cam'-st, 
And  now.  like  \iliis,  it  di-^daincth  bounds. — 
Give  me  a  sword,  I  Ml  chop  ofTmy  hands  too. 
For  they  have  fought  for  Rome,  and  all  in  vain, 


j  And  they  have  nursVl  this  woe  in  feeding  life; 
In  hootle^~;s  prayer  have  they  been  held  up. 
And  they  have  serv'd  me  to  eircclless  use : 
Now,  all  the  service  I  require  of  them 
Is.  that  the  one  will  help  to  cut  the  other. — 
'T  is  well,  Lavinia,  that  thou  hast  no  liande^ 
For  hands  to  do  Home  service  are  but  vain. 

Luc.  Speak,  gentle  si.ster,  who  hath  martyr'd  Ihee  ? 

Mar.  0  !   that  delightful  engine  of  her  thoaghrs.' 
Thai  blabb  d  them  with  sMch  pleasing  eloquence, 
Is  torn  from  forth  that  pretty  hollow  cage, 
Where,  like  a  sweet  melodious  bird,  it  sung 
Rich  varied  notes,  enchanting  old  and  youns. 

Luc.  Q  !  say  thou  for  her,  who  hath  done  this  deed? 

Mar.  O  !   thus  I  found  her  straying  in  the  park 
Seeking  to  hide  herself,  as  doth  the  deer. 
That  hath  receiv'd  some  unrccuring  wound. 

Tit.  It  was  my  deer ;  and  he  that  wounded  her 
Hath  hurt  me  more,  than  had  he  kill'd  me  dead: 
For  now  I  stand  as  one  upon  a  rock, 
Environ'd  willi  a  wilderness  of  sea  ; 
Who  marks  the  waxing  tide  grow  wave  by  wave, 
ExpectiuL^  ever  when  some  envious  surge 
Will  in  his  brinish  bowels  swallow  him. 
This  way  to  death  my  wretched  sons  are  gone, 
Here  stands  my  other  son,  a  banish'd  man. 
And  here  my  brother,  weeping  at  rny  woes ; 
But  that  wliich  gives  my  soul  the  greatest  spurn, 
Is  dear  Lavinia,  dearer  than  my  soul. — 
Had  I  but  seen  thy  picture  in  this  plight. 
It  would  have  madded  me:  what  shall  I  do 
Now  I  behold  thy  living  body  so  ? 
Thou  hast  no  hands  to  wipe  away  thy  tears, 
Nor  tongue  to  tell  me  who  hath  martyrd  thee: 
Thy  husband  he  is  dead  ;  and  for  his  death. 
Thy  brothers  are  condemn'd,  and  dead  by  this. 
Look,  Marcus :  ah  !  son  Lucius,  look  on  her : 
When  I  did  name  her  brotliers,  then  tresh  tears 
Stood  on  her  cheeks,  as  doth  the  honey  dew 
Upon  a  gather'd  lily  almost  withered. 

Mar.  Perchance,  she  weeps  because  they  killd  he? 
husband ; 
Perchance,  because  she  knows  them  innocent. 

Tit.  If  they  did  kill  thy  husband,  then  be  joyful, 
Because  the  law  hath  ta'cn  revenge  on  them.-^ 
No.  no.  they  would  not  do  so  foul  a  deed  ; 
Witness  the  sorrow  that  their  sister  makes. — 
Gentle  Lavinia.  let  me  kiss  thy  lips, 
Or  make  isome  .sign  how  I  may  do  thee  ease. 
Shall  thy  good  uncle,  and  thy  brother  Lucius, 
And  thou,  and  I.  sit  round  about  some  tbunlain, 
Looking  all  downwards,  to  behold  our  cheeks 
How  they  are  stain'd,  as*  meadows  yet  not  dry, 
With  miry  slime  left  on  them  by  a  flood  ? 
And  in  the  fountain  shall  we  gaze  so  long, 
Till  the  fresh  taste  be  taken  from  that  cleariess, 
And  made  a  brine-pit  with  our  bitter  tears? 
Or  shall  v.e  cut  away  our  hands,  like  thine  ? 
Or  shall  we  bile  our  tonsues,  and  in  dumb  shows 
Pass  the  remainder  of  our  hateful  days  ? 
What  shall  we  do?  let  us,  that  have  our  tongues, 
Plot  some  device  of  farther  misery. 
To  make  us  wonder'd  at  in  time  to  come. 

Luc.  Sweet  father,  cease  your  tears  ;  lor  at  your  gnef, 
See.  how  my  wretched  sister  sobs  and  weeps. 

Mar.  Patience,  dear  niece. — Good  Titus,  dry  th  ne 
eves. 


'  niins:  in  old  copies.     Hanmer  made  the  change.      »  So  the  quarto.  tOOO;  the  folio: 

Oh  :  if  they  did  hear, 
Thev  wonid  not  pitv  me. 
noble  :  ii    quajto.  IGIl,  and  folio.     ♦  Thm  phras«  i»  also  found  in  Venus  and  Adonis. 


I 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


637 


Tit.  Ah.  Marcus,  Marcus  !  brother,  well  I  wot, 
Thy  napkin  cannot  dnnk  a  tear  of  mine, 
For  thou,  poor  man,  hast  drown'd  it  with  thine  own. 
Lvc.   Ah,  my  Lavinia  !   I  will  wipe  thy  cheeks. 
Tit.  Mark,  Marcus,  mark  !   I  understand  her  signs 
Had  she  a  tongue  to  speak,  now  would  she  say 
That  to  her  brother  which  I  said  to  thee  : 
His  napkin,  with  his  true  tears  all  bewet. 
Can  do  no  service  on  her  sorrowful  cheeks. 
0  !  what  a  sympathy  of  woj  is  this  ; 
As  far  from  help  as  limbo  is  from  bliss. 
Enter  Aaron. 

Aar.  Titus  Andronicus,  my  lord  the  emperor 
Swids  thee  this  word, — that,  if  thou  love  thy  sons, 
Let  Marcus,  Lucius,  or  thyself,  old  Titus, 
Or  any  one  of  you,  chop  off  your  hand, 
And  send  it  to  the  king :  he  for  the  same. 
Will  send  thee  hither  both  thy  sons  alive. 
And  that  shall  be  the  ransom  for  their  fault. 

Tit.  0.  gracious  emperor  !  O,  gentle  Aaron  ! 
Did  ever  raven  sing  so  like  a  lark 
That  gives  sweet  tidings  of  the  sun's  uprise  ? 
With  ail  my  heart.  I  '11  send  my  hand  to  him. 
Good  Aaron,  wilt  thou  help  to  chop  it  off? 

Luc.  Stay,  father  !  for  that  noble  hand  of  thine. 
That  hath  thrown  down  so  many  enemies. 
Shall  not  be  sent :  my  hand  will  serve  the  turn. 
My  youth  can  better  spare  my  blood  than  you. 
And  therefore  mine  shall  save  my  brothers'  lives. 

Mar.  V,'hich  of  your  hands  hath  not  defended  Rome, 
And  rear'd  aloft  the  bloody  battle-axe. 
Writing  destruction  on  the  enemy's  castle  ?' 
0  !  none  of  both  but  are  of  high  desert. 
My  hand  hath  been  but  idle  :  let  it  serve 
To  ransom  my  two  nephews  from  their  death. 
Then,  have  I  kept  it  to  a  worthy  end. 

Aar.  Nay,  come  agree,  whose  hand  shall  go  along. 
For  fear  they  die  before  their  pardon  come. 

Mar.   My  hand  sliall  go. 

Luc.  By  heaven,  it  sliall  not  go. 

Tit.  Sirs,  strive  no  more :  such  wither'd  herbs  as  these 
Are  meet  for  plucking  up,  and  theretbre  mine. 

Luc.  Sweet  father,  if  I  shall  be  thought  thy  son. 
Let  me  redeem  my  brothers  both  from  death. 

Mar.  And,  for  our  father's  sake,  and  mother's  care, 
Now  let  me  show  a  brother's  love  to  thee. 

Tit.  Agree  between  you  ;  I  will  spare  my  hand. 

Luc.  Then  I  'II  go  fetch  an  axe. 

Mar.  Lut  I  will  use  it.  [Exeunt  Lucius  and  Marcus. 

Tit.  Come  hither,  Aaron  ;  I  '11  deceive  them  botli  : 
Lend  me  thy  hand,  and  I  will  give  thee  mine. 

Aar.  If  that  be  calFd  deceit,  1  will  be  honest.  [Aside. 
And  never,  whilst  I  live,  deceive  men  so  : — 
But  I  '11  deceive  you  in  another  sort, 
Vnd  that  you  '11  say,  ere  half  an  hour  pass. 

[He  cuts  off"  Titus's  Hand  with  his  Sword. 
Re-enter  Lucius  with  an  Axe,^  and  Marcus. 

Tit    Now,  stay  your  strife  :    what   shall  be    is  de- 
spatch'd. — 
^od  Aaron,  give  his  majesty  my  hand  : 
Tell  him,  it  was  a  hand  that  warded  him 
From  thousand  dangers.     Bid  him  bury  it : 
More  hath  it  merited  ;  that  let  it  have. 
As  for  my  sons,  say.  I  account  of  them 
As  jewels  purchas'd  at  an  easy  price  ; 
And  yet  dear  too,  because  I  bought  mine  own. 

Aar.  I  go,  Andronicus ;  and  for  thy  hand. 
Look  by  and  by  to  have  thy  sons  with  thee. — 
[Aside]  Their  heads,  I  mean. — 0,  how  this  %allainy 

'  Ft  catguetd,  a  close  helmet.      '  the  words.  "  with  an  Axe,^'  are 


Doth  fat  me  with  the  very  thought  of  it ! 

Let  fools  do  good,  and  fair  men  call  for  grace, 

Aaron  will  have  his  soul  black  like  his  face.        [Exit 

Tit.  0  !  here  I  lift  this  one  hand  up  to  heaven, 
And  bow  this  feeble  ruin  to  the  earth : 
If  any  jjower  pities  wretched  tears. 
To  that  I  call. — What !  wilt  thou  kneel  with  me? 

['J'o  Lavinia. 
Do  then,  dear  heart :  for  heaven  shall  hear  our  prayers 
Or  with  our  sighs  we  '11  breathe  the  welkin  dim 
And  stain  the  sun  with  fog.  as  sometime  cloudt 
When  they  do  hug  him  in  their  melting  borome. 

Mar.  0!  brother,  speak  with  po.s.'^ibili ties, 
And  do  not  break  into  these  deep  extremes. 

Tit.  Ls  not  my  sorrow  deep,  having  no  bottom  ? 
Then,  be  my  passions  bottomless  with  them. 

fllar.  But  yet  let  reason  govern  thy  lament. 

Tit.  If  there  were  reason  for  these  miseries, 
Then  into  limits  could  I  bind  my  woes. 
When  heaven  doth  weep,  doth  not  the  earth  o'erflow  ' 
If  the  winds  rage,  doth  not  the  sea  wax  mad. 
Threat'ning  the  welkin  with  his  big-swoln  face? 
And  wilt  thou  have  a  reason  for  this  coil  ? 
I  am  the  sea ;  hark,  how  her  sighs  do  blow  ! 
She  is  the  weeping  welkin,  I  the  earth  : 
Then,  must  my  sea  be  moved  with  her  sishs  ; 
Then,  must  my  earth  with  her  continual  tears 
Become  a  deluge,  oA^erflow'd  and  drown'd. 
For  why  ?  my  bowels  cannot  liide  her  woes, 
But  like  a  drunkard  must  I  vomit  them. 
Then,  give  me  leave,  for  losers  will  have  leave 
To  ease  their  stomachs  with  their  bitter  tongues. 

Enter  a  Me.'isenger^  with  Two  Heads  and  a  Hand. 

3'Iess.  Worthy  Andronicus,  ill  art  thou  repaid 
For  that  good  hand  thou  sent'st  the  emperor. 
Here  are  the  heads  of  thy  two  noble  sons; 
And  here 's  thy  hand,  in  scorn  to  thee  sent  back : 
Thy  griefs  their  sports,  thy  resolution  mockd. 
That  woe  is  me  to  think  upon  thy  woes. 
More  than  remembrance  of  my  fatlier's  death.      [Exii 

Mar.  Now,  let  hot  iEtna  cool  in  Sicily, 
And  be  my  heart  an  ever-burning  hell  ! 
These  miseries  are  more  than  may  be  borne. 
To  weep  with  tliem  that  weep  doth  ease  some  deal. 
But  sorrow  flouted  at  is  double  death. 

Luc.  Ah,  that  this  sight  should  make  so  deep  a  wound 
And  yet  detested  life  not  shrink  thereat  ! 
That  ever  death  should  let  life  bear  his  name. 
Where  life  hath  no  more  interest  but  to  breathe  ! 

[Lavjxia  kisses  him 

Mar.  Alas,  poor  heart !  that  kiss  is  comlbrt less. 
As  frozen  water  to  a  starved  snake. 

Tit.  When  will  this  fearful  slumber  have  an  end  ? 

Mar.  Now,  farewell,  flattery :  die,  Andronicus. 
Thou  dost  not  slumber  :  see,  thy  two  sons'  heads ; 
Thy  warlike  hand  :  thy  mangled  daughter  here ; 
Thy  other  banish'd  son,  with  this  dear  si?ht 
Struck  pale  and  bloodless ;  and  thy  brother,  I, 
Even  like  a  stony  image,  cold  and  numb. 
Ah  I   now  no  more  wll  I  control  my  griefs : 
Rend  off  thy  silver  hair,  tiiy  other  hand 
Gnawing  with  thy  teeth  ;  and  be  this  dismal  sight 
The  closing  up  of  our  most  wretched  eyes  ! 
Now  is  a  time  to  storm;  why  art  thou  still  ? 

Tit.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mar.  Why  dost  thou  laugh  ?  it  fits  not  v,-\\h  this  houi 

Tit.  Why,  I  have  not  another  tear  to  shed : 
Besides,  this  sorrow  is  an  enemy. 
And  would  usurp  upon  my  watery  eyes 


i 


638 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


ACT  m 


And  make  them  blind  with  tributary  tears  ; 

Then,  wliich  way  shall  I  find  rcvcnire's  cave? 

For  those  two  heads  do  seem  to  speak  to  inc, 

And  threat  me.  I  shall  never  come  to  bliss, 

Till  all  these  inisoliiet's  be  return'd  ngiiin, 

Even  ill  their  throats  that  have  comniitted  them. 

Come,  let  me  see  what  task  I  have  to  do. — 

Von  hea\-A-  |>eople.  circle  me  about, 

Tliat  I  may  turn  me  to  each  one  of  you. 

And  swear  unto  my  soul  to  right  your  wrongs. — 

The  vow  is  made. — Come,  brother,  take  one  head  ; 

And  in  this  hand  the  other  will  I  bear  : 

Lavinia.  thou  slialt  be  employed  in  these  things'  ; 

Bear  thou  my  hand,  sweet  wench,  between  thy  teeth. 

As  for  thee.  boy.  go,  set  thee  from  my  sight: 

Thou  art  an  exile,  and  thou  must  not  stay. 

Hie  to  the  Goths,  and  raise  an  army  there  ; 

And,  if  you  love  me,  as  I  think  't  is  true.' 

Let  's  kis.s  and  part,  for  we  have  tuuch  to  do. 

[Exeunt  Trrus.  M.^VRri's,  and  L.avinia. 
Luc.  Farewell.  Andronicus.  tny  noble  father; 
The  woeful'st  man  that  ever  liv'd  in  Rome. 
Farewell,  proud  Home  :  till  Lucius  come  again, 
He  leaves'  his  pledges  dearer  than  his  life. 
Farewell.  La^'inia.  my  noble  sister; 
0,  would  thou  wort  as  thou  'tofore  hast  been  ! 
But  now  nor  Lucius,  nor  La-vinia  lives. 
But  in  oblivion,  and  hateful  griefs. 
If  Lucius  live,  he  will  requite  your  wrongs, 
And  make  proud  Saturnine,  and  his  empress, 
Beg  at  the  gates,  like  Tarquin  and  his  queen. 
Now  will  I  to  tlie  Goths,  and  raise  a  power. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  Rome  and  Saturnine.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IL* — A  Room  in  Titus's  House.    A  Banquet 

set  out. 
Enter  TiTfs.  Marcus.  Lavinia.  and  voxins  Lucius,  a 
Boy.  ^       ° 

Tit.  So.  so,  now  sit ;  and  look,  you  eat  no  more 
Than  will  preserve  just  so  much  strength  in  us 
As  -vN-ill  revenire  these  bitter  woes  of  ours. 
Marcus,  unknit  that  sorrow-wreathen  knot  : 
Thy  niece  and  I,  poor  creatures,  want  our  hands, 
And  cannot  pa.s8ionate  our  tenfold  srief 
With  folded  arms.     This  poor  right  hand  of  mine 
Is  left  to  tyrannize  upon  my  breast : 
And'  when  my  heart,  all  mad  with  misery, 
Beats  in  this  hollow  prison  of  my  flesh, 
Then,  thus  I  thump  it  down. — 
Thou  map  of  woe,  that  thus  dost  talk  in  sisns. 

[To  Lavinia. 
When  thy  poor  hea.-t  beats  with  oulragecns  beating 
Thou  canst  not  strike  it  thus  to  make  it  still. 
Wound  it  ^^^lh  siuliinc.  girl,  kill  it  -with  groans; 
Or  set  some  little  knife  between  thy  teeth, 
And  just  aL'ainst  thy  heart  make  thou  a  hole, 
That  all  the  tears  that  thy  poor  eyes  let  fall, 
May  run  info  that  sink,  and  soaking  in, 
Drown  the  lamenting  fool  m  .sea-salt  tears. 

Mar.   Fie.  brother,  fie  !   teach  her  not  thus  to  lay 
Such  ■\  iolent  hands  ujxm  her  tender  lite. 

Tit.  How  now  !  has  sorrow  made  thee  dote  already? 
Why,  Marcus,  no  man  should  be  mad  but  L 


•  trmi  :   in  qnarto*      A  mirpnnt,  nayi  Dyce,  for  aims.       '  I  think  you  do  : 
Thi«  loane  u  only  in  the  folio.      •  Who  :  in  folio.     Kowe's  correctioB. 


What  violent  hands  can  she  lay  on  her  life  ? 

Ah  !  wherefore  dost  thou  urge  the  name  of  hands' 

To  bid  yEneas  tell  the  tale  twice  o'er. 

How  Troy  was  burnt,  and  he  made  miserable? 

0  !  handle  not  the  theme,  to  talk  of  hands, 
Lest  we  remember  still,  tliai  we  have  none. 
Fie.  fie  !  how  franticly  I  square  my  talk! 
As  if  we  should  forget  we  had  no  hands, 

If  Marcus  did  not  name  the  word  of  hands. — 
Come,  let's  fall  to;  and.  gentle  girl,  eat  this. — 
Here  is  no  drink.     Hark,  Marcus,  what  she  says  ; 

1  can  interpret  all  her  martyr'd  signs : 

She  says,  she  drinks  no  other  drink  but  tears, 

Brew'd  with  her  sorrow,  mesh'd  upon  her  cheeks. — 

Speechless  complainer,  I  will  learn  thy  thought; 

In  thy  dumb  action  will  I  be  as  perfect, 

As  begging  hermits  in  their  holy  prayers : 

Thou  shalt  not  sigh,  nor  hold  thy  stumps  to  heaven, 

Nor  wink,  nor  nod,  nor  kneel,  nor  make  a  sign, 

But  I  of  tiiese  will  wrest  an  alphabet, 

And  by  still  practice  learn  to  know  thy  meaning. 

Boy.     Good    grandsire,    leave     tiiese    bitter    deef 
laments : 
Make  my  aunt  merry  with  some  pleasing  tale. 

Mar.  Alas !  the  tender  boy,  in  passion  mov'd, 
Doth  weep  to  see  his  grand.sire's  heaviness. 

Tit.  Peace,  tender  sapling  ;  thou  art  made  of  tears, 
And  tears  will  quickly  melt  thy  life  away. — 

[Marcus  strikes  the  Disk  with  a  Knife. 
What  dost  thou  strike  at.  Marcu.s.  with  thy  knife? 

Mar.  At  that  that  T  haA^e  kill'd,  my  lord — a  fly. 

Tit.  Out  on  thee,  murderer  !  thou  kill'st  my  heart  • 
Mine  eyes  are  cloy'd  with  view  of  tyranny  : 
A  deed  of  death,  done  on  the  innocent, 
Becomes  not  Titus'  brother.     Get  thee  gone  ; 
I  see,  thou  art  not  for  my  company. 

Mar.  Alas !  my  lord,  I  have  but  kill'd  a  fly. 

Tit.  But  how,  if  that  fly  had  a  father  and  mothei, 
How  would  he  hang  his  slender  gilded  wings, 
And  bnz  lamenting  doings  in  the  air? 
Poor  harmless  fly  ! 

That  with  his  pretty  buzzing  melody, 
Came  here  to  make  us  merry  ;  and  thou  hast  kill'd  him 

Mar.  Pardon  me,  sir  :  it  was  a  black  ill-favour'd  fly 
Like  to  the  empress'  Moor:  therefore,  I  kill'd  him. 

Tit.  0,  0.  0  ! 
Then  pardon  me  for  reprehending  thee, 
For  thou  hast  done  a  charitable  deed. 
Give  me  thy  knife,  I  will  insult  on  him  ; 
Flatterins  myself,  as  if  it  were  the  Moor 
Come  hither  purposely  to  poison  me. — 

<^re'.-i  lor  thyself  and  that's  forTumora.  Ah, sirrah  '— 

■t  I  think  we  are  not  brought  so  low, 
But  that  between  us  wc  can  kill  a  fly, 
That  comes  in  likeness  of  a  coal-black  Moor. 

Mar.  Alas,  poor  man  !  grief  has  so  wrought  on  hii» 
He  takes  false  shadows  for  true  sub.stances. 

Tit.  Come,  take  away. — Lavinia.  go  with  me: 
I  '11  to  thy  closet;  and  l'o  read  with  thee 
Sad  stories  chanced  in  the  times  of  old. — 
Come,  boy,  and  go  with  me :  thy  siL'ht  is  young, 
And  thou  shalt  read,  when  mine  begins  to  dazzle. 

[  E.Tnint 

*  lovM  :  in  old  copien.     Rowe  madn  »b»  chaafi- 


TITUS   ANDROIvTICUS. 


689 


ACT     IV. 


SCENE  I— The  Same.     Before  Titus's  House. 

Enter  Titus  and  Marcus.     Tlien  enter  young  Lucius, 

Lavinia  running  after  him. 

Boy.  Help,  grandsire,  help  !  my  aunt  Lavinia 
Follows  me  every  where,  I  know  not  why. — 
Good  uncle  Marcus,  see  how  swift  she  comes. — 
Alas  I  sweet  aunt,  I  know  not  wliat  you  mean. 

Mar.  Stand  by  me,  Lucius  :  do  not  fear  thine  aunt. 

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

Boy.  Ay,  when  my  father  was  in  Rome,  she  did. 

Mar.  Wliat  means  my  niece  Lavinia  by  these  signs  ? 

Tit.  Fear  her  not,  Lucius  :  somewhat  doth  she  mean. 
See,  Lucius,  see.  how  much  she  makes  of  thee : 
Somewhither  would  she  have  thee  go  with  her. 
Ah,  boy  !   Cornelia  never  with  more  care 
Read  to  her  sons,  than  she  hath  read  to  thee. 
Sweet  poetry,,  and  Tully's  Orator. 
Canst  thou  not  guess  wherefore  she  plies  thee  thus  ? 

Boy.  My  lord,  I  know  not,  I,  nor  can  I  guess. 
Unless  some  fit,  or  frenzy  do  possess  her ; 
For  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say  full  oft. 
Extremity  of  griefs  would  make  men  mad  ; 
And  I  have  read  that  Hecuba  of  Troy 
Ran  mad  through  sorrow :  that  made  me  to  fear  ; 
Although,  my  lord,  I  know,  my  noble  aunt 
Loves  me  as  dear  as  e'er  my  mother  did, 
And  would  not,  but  in  fury,  fright  my  youth  : 
Which  made  me  down  to  throw  my  books,  and  fly, 
Causeless,  perhaps. — But  pardon  me,  sweet  aunt; 
And,  madam,  if  my  uncle  Marcus  go, 
I  will  most  willingly  attend  your  ladyship. 

Mar.  Lucius,  I  will. 

[Lavinia  turns  over  the  books  which  Lucius  had 
let  fall. 

Tit.  How  now,  Lavinia  ! — Marcus,  what  means  this  ? 
Some  book  there  is  that  she  desires  to  see. — 
Which  is  it,  girl,  of  these? — Open  them,  boy. — 
But  thou  art  deeper  read,  and  better  skill'd; 
Come,  and  take  choice  of  all  my  library, 
And  so  beguile  thy  sorrow,  till  the  heavens 
Reveal  the  damn'd  contriver  of  this  deed. — 
What  book  ?' 
Why  lifts  she  up  her  arms  in  sequence  thus  ? 

Mar.  I  think,  she  means,  that  there  was  more  than  one 
Confederate  in  the  fact. — Ay,  more  there  was  ; 
Or  else  to  heaven  she  heaves  them  to  revenge. 

Tit.  Lucius,  what  book  is  that  she  to«seth  so  ? 

Boy.  Grandsire,  't  is  Ovids  Metamorphosis  : 
My  mother  gave  H  me. 

Mar.  For  love  of  her  that 's  gone. 

Perhaps,  she  cull'd  it  from  among  the  rest. 

Tit.  Soft  !  see  how  busily  she  turns  the  leaves  ! 
Help  her  :  what  would  she  find  ? — Lavinia,  shall  I  read  ? 
This  '.s  the  trairic  tale  of  Philomel, 
And  treats  of  Tereus'  treason,  and  his  rape  ; 
And  rape.  I  fear,  was  root  of  thine  annoy. 

Mar.  See,  brotner,  see  !   note,   how  she  quotes  the 
leaves. 

Tit.  Lavinia,  wert  thou  thus  surprised,  sweet  girl, 
Ravish'd  and  wrong'd,  as  Philomela  was, 
Forc'd  in  the  ruthless,  vast,  and  gloomy  woods? — 
See.  see  ! — 

Ay,  such  a  place  there  is,  where  we  did  hunt, 
(0,  had  we  never,  never  hunted  there  !) 

'  No   in  the  quartos       »  Not  in  f.  •       *  Companion.      ♦  Not  in  f.  •. 


Pattern'd  by  that  the  poet  here  describes, 
By  nature  made  for  murders,  and  for  rapes 

Mar.  0  !  why  should  nature  build  so  foul  a  den, 
Unless  the  gods  delight  in  tragedies  ? 

Tit.  Give  signs,  sweet  girl,  for  here  are  none  but 
friends. 
What  Roman  lord  it  was  durst  do  the  deed : 
Or  slunk  not  Saturnine,  as  Tarquin  erst, 
That  left  the  camp  to  sin  in  Lucrece'  bed  ? 

Mar.  Sit  down,  sweet  niece : — brother,  sit  down  ft 
me. — 
Aj)ollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  or  Mercury, 
Inspire  me,  that  I  may  this  treason  find  ! — 
My  lord,  look  here  ; — look  here,  Lavinia  : 
This  sandy  plot  is  plain  ;  guide,  if  thou  canst, 
This  after  me,  where  I  have  vrrit  my  name 

[He  writes  his  Name  with  his  Staff,  and  guides  ii 
with  Feet  and  Month. 
Without  the  help  of  any  hand  at  all. 
Curs'd  be  the  heart,  that  forc'd  us  to  this  shift  ! — 
Write  thou,  good  niece ;  and  here  display,  at  la,st, 
What  God  will  have  discover'd  for  revenge. 
Heaven  guide  thy  pen  to  print  thy  sorrows  plain. 
That  we  may  know  the  traitors,  and  the  truth  ! 

[She  takes  the  Staff  in  her  mouth,  and  guides  it 
with  her  stiimps,  and  writes. 

Tit.  0  !  do  you  read,  my  lord,  what  she  hath  writ  ? 
Stvpriim — Chiron — Demetrius. 

Mar.  What,  what  ! — the  lustful  sons  of  Tamora 
Performers  of  this  heinous,  bloody  deed  ? 

Tit.  Magni  dominator  poli., 
Tarn  lentus  audis  scelera  ?  tarn  kntus  vides  ? 

Mar.  0  !  calm  thee,  gentle  lord,  although.  I  know, 
There  is  enough  written  upon  this  earth. 
To  stir  a  mutiny  in  the  mildest  thoughts. 
And  arm  the  minds  of  infants  to  exclaims. 
My  lord,  kneel  down  with  me ;  Lavinia.  kneel, 
And  kneel,  sweet  boy,  the  Roman  Hectors  hope, 

[They  kneel. 
And  swear  with  me, — as  with  the  woful  feere,- 
And  father,  of  that  chaste  dishonoured  dame. 
Lord  Junius  Brutus  sware  lor  Lucrece'  rape, — 
That  we  will  prosecute,  by  good  advice. 
Mortal  revenge  upon  these  traitorous  Goths, 
And  see  their  blood,  or  die  with  this  reproach. 

[Ilify  rise. 

Tit.  'T  is  sure  enoush,  an  you  knew  how  to  do  it; 
But  if  you  hurt  these  bear-whelps,  then  beware  : 
The  dam  will  wake,  and  if  she  wind  j'ou  once, 
She's  with  the  lion  deeply  still  in  league. 
And  lulls  him  whilst  she  playeih  on  her  back; 
And  when  he  sleeps  will  she  do  what  she  list. 
You  're  a  young  huntsman  :   Marcus,  let  it  alone  ; 
And,  come,  I  will  go  get  a  leaf  of  brass. 
And  with  a  gad  of  steel  will  write  these  words. 
And  lay  it  by.     The  angry  northern  wind 
Will  blow  these  sands,  like  Sybil's  leaves,  abroad. 
And  where 's  your  lesson  then  ? — Boy.  what  say  ywa  ' 

Boy.   I  say,  my  lord,  that  if  I  were  a  man, 
Their  mother's  bed-chamber  should  not  be  safe 
For  these  bad  bondmen  to  the  yoke  of  Rome. 

Mar.  Ay.  that 's  my  boy  !   tliy  father  hath  full  flft 
For  his  ungrateful  country  done  the  like. 

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

Tit.  Come,  go  with  me  into  mine  armoury , 


li. 


^40 


TITUS  AXDROXICUS. 


AOT   IV. 


LuciuB,  I  '11  fit  thee  :  and  witliai.  my  boy 
Shall  carry  from  mc  to  the  empress'  sons 
Present*,  that  1  inleml  to  semi  tliem  both. 
Come,  come  :  thou  "it  do  thy  me.s.<age,  wilt  thou  not? 

Boy.  Ay.  wth  my  dagger  in  their  bosom?,  grandsire. 

Tii.  No.  boy,  not  so:   I  "11  teach  another  course. 
Lavinia,  come. — Marcus,  look  to  my  house  : 
Lucius  and  I  '11  go  bravo  it  at  the  court  ; 
Ay,  marry,  will  we,  sn- :  and  we  'II  he  waited  on. 

[Ei(unt  Titus.  Lavinia,  and  Boy. 

Mar.  0  heavens  !  can  you  hear  a  good  man  groan, 
And  not  relent,  or  not  conipnssion  him? 
Marcus,  attend  him  in  his  ccstacy. 
That  hatli  more  scars  of  sorrow  in  his  heart, 
Tlian  foe-men's  marks  upon  his  batter'd  shield  ; 
But  yet  so  just,  that  he  will  not  revenge. — 
Revenge,  ye  heavens,  for  old  Andronicus  !  [Exit. 

SCENE  TL— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Aaron.  Demetrh-s.  njirf  Chiron,  atone  Door; 

at  another  door.,  young  Lucius,   and  an  Attendant, 

with  a  Binulle  of  Weapons,  and  Verses  writ  upon  them. 

Chi.  Pemetriu.*,  here  "s  the  son  of  Lucius  ; 
He  hath  .^ome  message  lo  deliver  us. 

Aar.  Ay.  some  mad   me.«sage  from  his   mad  grand- 
father. 

Boy.  My  lords,  -with  all  the  humbleness  I  may, 
I  greet  your  honours  from  Andronicus: — 
\ Aside.]  And  pray  the  Roman  gods,  confound  )oi\  both. 

Dem.  Gramercy.  lovely  Lucius.     What's  the  TCft's? 

Boy.  [A.<:z(le.]  That  you  are  both   decipher'd,  that's 
tlie  news,' 
For  villains  mark'd  \\ithrape.  [To  them.]  May  it  please 

you. 
My  grandsire,  well  ad\is'd.  hath  sent  by  me 
The  goodliest  weapons  of  his  armoury. 
To  gratify  your  honourable  youth. 
The  hope  of  Rome :  for  so  he  bade  me  say, 
And  so  I  do.  and  with  his  gifts  present 
Your  lordships,  that  whenever  you  have  need, 
\ou  may  be  armed  and  appointed  well. 
And  so  I  leave  you  both,  [A.'^ide.]  like  bloody  villains. 


At  such  a  bay.  by  turn  to  serve  our  lu.^t. 

Chi.   A  charitable  wish,  and  full  of  love. 

Aar.  Here  lacks  but  your  mother  lor  to  say  amen. 

Chi.  And  lliat  would  she  for  twenty  thousand  more 

Dem.  Come,  let  us  go,  and  pray  to  all  the  gods 
For  our  beloved  mother  in  her  pam.s. 

Aar.  Pray  to  the  devils;  the  gods  have  given  ui 
over.  [Tnnnpets  sound 

Dem.  Why  do  the  emperor's  trumpets  flourish  thus? 

Chi.  Belike,  for  joy  the  emperor  haih  a  son. 

Dem.  Soft  !  who  comes  here  ? 
Enter  a  Nur.'se.  hiding  a  Black-a-moor  Child  in  her  Amu. 

Niir.  Good  morrow,  lords.     0  !  tell  me.  did  you  se^ 
Aaron  the  Moor. 

Aar.  Well,  more,  or  less,  or  ne'er  a  whit  at  all, 
Here  Aaron  is:  and  what  with  Aaron  now? 

Nur.  0,  gentle  Aaron,  we  are  all  undone  ! 
Now  help,  or  woe  betide  thee  evermore. 

Aar.  Why,  what  a  caterwauling  dost  thou  keep. 
What  dost  thou  wrap  and  fumble  in  thine  arms? 

Ni'T.  0  !  that  which  I  would  hide  from  heaven's  eye, 
Our  empress'  shame,  and  .stately  Rome's  disgrace. — 
She  is  deliver'd.  lords ;  she  is  deliver'd. 

Aar.  To  whom  ? 

Nur.  I  mean  she  's  broudit  to  bed. 

Aar.  ~      Well,  God 

Give  her  good  rest !     What  hath  he  sent  her? 

Nur.  A  devil. 

Aar.  "\Miy,  then  she  's  the  devil's  dam  :  a  joyful  is»uc. 

Nur.  A  joyless,  dismal,  black,  and  sorrowl'ul  issue. 
Here  is  the  babe,  as  loathsome  as  a  toad    [Showing  it.* 
Amongst  the  fairest  burdens*  of  our  clime. 
The  empress  sends  it  thee,  thy  stamp,  thy  seal. 
And  bids  thee  christen  it  with  thy  dagger's  point. 

Aar.  Zounds  !  ye  whore,  is  black  so  base  a  hue  ? — 
Sweet  blowse.  you  are  a  beauteous  blossom,  sure. 

Dem.  Villain,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Aar.  That  which  thou  can.st  not  undo. 

Chi.  Thou  hast  undone  our  mother. 

Aar.  Villain.  I  have  done  thy  mother.* 

Dem.  And  therein,  hellish  dog.  thou  hast  undone. 
Woe  to  her  chance,  and  damn'd  her  loathed  choice  ! 


[Exeinit  Hoy  a)}d  Attendant.  I  Aceurs'd  the  offspring  of  so  foul  a  fiend  ! 


A  scroll,   and  written  round 
[about. 


I  know  it  well 


-right,    you 


Dem.  What's  here? 
Let  "s  see  ; 

Integer  vita,  scelerisque  purus. 
Non  eget  Mauri  jaculvs,  nee  arcu. 

Chi.  0  1  'T  is  a  ver.se  in  Horace 
I  read  it  in  the  gratnmar  long  ago. 

Aar.  Ay,   just! — a  verse   in    Horace 
have  it. 

[Aside]  Now,  what  a  thins  it  is  to  be  an  a.s8  ! 
Here  's  no  sound  jest  !  the  old  man  hath  found  their  guilt, 
And  .sends  them*  weajions  wrapp'd  abovtt  \\\\\\  lines, 
That  wound,  beyond  their  fceiins,  to  the  quick; 
But  were  our  witty  empress  well  a-foot, 
She  would  a[>plau<l  Andronicu.'s'  conceit: 
But  let  hf  r  re.'-t  in  her  unrest  awhile. — 
[To  them]  And  now.  young  lords,  was  "t  not  a  happystar 
Led  us  to  Rome,  strangers,  and  more  than  so. 
Captives,  to  be  advanced  to  this  heiglit  ? 
It  did  me  good,  before  the  palace  gate. 
To  brave  the  tribune  in  his  brother's  hearing. 

Dem.  But  me  more  good,  to  see  so  great  a  lord 
Barely  msinuate.  and  send  us  sifts. 

Aar.   Hath  he  not  rea.son.  lord  Demetrius? 
D-d  you  not  u.se  his  daushter  very  friendly? 

Dem..  1  would,  we  had  a  thousand  Roman  dames 


Chi.  It  shall  not  live. 

Anr.  It  shall  not  die. 

Nur.  Aaron,  it  must :  the  mother  wills  it  so. 

Aar.  What  !  must  it.  nurse  ?  then  let  no  man  but  I, 
Do  execution  on  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Dem.  I'll  broach  the  tadpole  on  my  rapier's  point. 
Nurse,  give  it  me  :  my  sword  shall  soon  despatch  it. 

Aar.  Sooner  this  sword  shall  plow  thy  bowels  up. 
[Takes  the  Child  from  the  Nurse,  and  dra.j^ 
Stay,  murderous  villains  !  will  you  kill  your  brother ' 
Now,  by  the  burning  tapers  of  the  sky. 
That  shone  .so  brightly  when  this  boy  was  got, 
He  dies  upon  my  scimitar's  sharp  point. 
That  touches  this  my  first-born  son  and  heir. 
I  tell  you.  younglings,  not  Enceladus. 
With  all  his  threatening  band  of  Typhon's  brood. 
Nor  sreat  Alcides,  nor  the  god  of  war, 
Shall  seize  this  prey  out  of  his  father's  hands. 
What,  what,  ye  sanguine,  shallow-hearted  boys  ! 
Ye  white-lim'd*  wall.s!  ye  alehou.-^e  painted  signs  I 
Coal-black  is  better  than  another  hue, 
In  that  it  scorns  to  bear  another  hue  ; 
For  all  the  water  in  the  ocean 
Can  never  turn  the  swan's  black  legs  to  white, 
Although  she  lave  them  hourlv  in  the  flood. 


Thii  line  if  not  in  the  folio.      >  the  : 
jof'ln      SieeveDi  ma^le  th«  cbaDga 


qnarto,  1611,  and  folio       >  Not  in  f.  •      ♦  bfeederi : 


Not  in  folio.     •  limb'd  :  Id  ' 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


tJ4l 


Tell  the  empress  from  me,  I  am  a  man  [To  the  Nurse} 
To  keep  mine  own ;  excuse  it  how  she  can. 

Dern.   Wiit  thou  betray  thy  noble  mistress  thus? 

Jar.  My  mistress  is  my  mistress;  this,  myself; 
The  vigour,  and  the  picture  of  my  youth: 
This,  before  all  the  world,  do  I  prefer , 
This,  niaugre  all  the  world,  will  I  keep  safe. 
Or  .some  of  you  shall  smoke  for  it  in  Rome. 

Dcm.  By  this  our  mother  is  for  ever  shamed. 

Chi.  Rome  will  despise  her  for  this  foul  escape. 

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

Chi.  I  blush  to  think  upon  this  ignomy. 

Aar.  Why.  there  's  the  privilege  your  beauty  bears. 
Fie !  treacherous  hue.  that  will  betray  with  blushing 
The  close  enacts  and  counsels  of  the  heart  : 
Here 's  a  young  lad  fram'd  of  another  leer-. 
Look,  how  the  black  slave  smiles  upon  the  father, 
As  who  should  say,  "Old  lad.  I  am  thine  own." 
He  is  your  brother,  lords,  sensibly  fed 
Of  that  self-blood  that  first  gave  life  to  you  ; 
And,  from  that  womb,  where  you  imprisou'd  were. 
He  is  enfranchised  and  come  to  light  : 
lilay,  he  is  your  brother  by  the  surer  side. 
Although  my  seal  be  stamped  in  his  face. 

Nur.  Aaron,  what  shall  I  say  unto  the  empress  ? 

Dem.  Advise  thee,  Aaron,  what  is  to  be  done, 
And  we  will  all  subswibe  to  thy  advice  : 
Save  thou  the  child,  so  we  may  all  be  safe. 

Aar.  Then  sit  we  down,  and  let  us  all  consult. 
My  son  and  I  will  have  the  wind  of  you  : 
Keep  there ;  now  talk  at  pleasure  of  your  safety. 

[  They  sit  at  a  distance. 

Dem.  How  many  women  saw  this  child  of  his  ? 

Aar.  Why,  so,  brave  lords  :  when  we  all  join  in  league, 
I  am  a  lamb  ;  but  if  you  brave  the  Moor, 
The  chafed  boar,  the  mountain  lioness. 
The  ocean  swells  not  so  as  Aaron  storms. — 
But  say  again,  how  many  saw  the  child? 

Nur.  Cornelia  the  midwife,  and  myself: 
And  no  one  else,  but  the  delivered  empress. 

Aar.  The  empre.-<s.  the  midwfe,  and  yourself; 
Two  may  keep  counsel,  when  the  third  's  away. 
Go  to  the  empress;  tell  her,  this  I  said. — 

[Stabbing  her :  she  screams. 
Weke,  weke  ! — so  cries  a  pig.  prepared  to  the  spit. 

Dcm.  What  mean'st  thou,  Aaron  ?     Wherefore  didst 

Aar.  0  lord  !  sir,  't  is  a  deed  of  policy,     [thou  this? 
Shall  she  live  to  betray  this  guilt  of  ours, 
A  long-tongu"d  babbling  gossip?  no,  lords,  no. 
And  now  be  it  known  to  you  my  full  intent. 
Not  far  hence  Muli  lives,'  my  countryman; 
His  wife  but  yesternight  was  brought  to  bed. 
His  child  is  like  to  her,  fair  as  you  are  ; 
Go  pack*  with  him,  and  give  the  mother  gold. 
And  tell  them  botli  tiie  circumstance  of  all; 
'l  And  how  by  this  their  ciiild  shall  be  advanc'd 
And  be  received  for  the  emperor's  heir, 
And  sub>;ituted  in  the  place  of  mine, 
To  calm  this  tempest  whirling  in  the  court, 
.\nd  let  the  emperor  dandle  him  for  his  own. 
Hark  ye,  lords;  ye  see,  I  have  given  her  physic. 

[Pointing  to  the  Nurse. 
\  And  yoi\  must  needs  bestow  her  funeral  : 
I  The  fields  are  near,  and  you  are  gallant  grooms. 
'  This  done,  see  that  you  make  no  long  delays,* 
But  send  the  midwife  presently  to  me: 
The  midwife,  and  the  nurse,  well  made  away, 
Then,  let  the  ladies  tattle  what  they  may. 


Chi.  Aaron,  I  see,  thou  wilt  not  trust  the  air 
With  secrets. 

Dem.  For  this  eare  of  Tamora, 

Herself  and  hers  are  highly  bound  to  Ihee. 

I  [Exeunt  Dk.m.  and  Chi.  bearing  off  the  Nurse 

Aar.  Now  to  the  Goths,  as  swift  as  swallow  flies  ; 
There  to  dispose  this  treasure  in  mine  arms. 
And  secretly  to  greet  the  empress"  friends- 
Come  on,  thou  thick-lipp"d  slave  ;   I  '11  bear  vou  hencr» 

{  For  it  is  you  that  puts  us  to  our  shifts  : 

:  I  '11  make  you  thrive  on  berries  and  on  root.N, 
And  feed  on  curds  and  whey,  and  suck  the  goat, 
And  cabin  in  a  cave;  and  bring  you  up 
To  be  a  warrior,  and  command  a  camp. 

I  [Exit  with  the  chilO. 

I  SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  public  Place. 

Enter  Titus,  bearing  Arrows,  with  Letters  on  the  emU 
of  them  ;  with  him  Marcus,  young  Lucius,  and  other 
Gentlemen,  tvith  Bows. 

Tit.  Come,    Marcus,    come. — Kinsmen,    this   is  the 
way. — 
Sir  boy,  now  let  me  see  your  archery  : 
Look  ye  draw  home  enough,  and  't  is  there  straight. 
Terras  Astrcea  reliquit  : 

Be  you  remember'd,  Marcus,  she  's  gone,  she  's  fled. 
Sirs,  take  you  to  your  tools.     You,  cousins,  shall 
Go  sound  the  ocean,  and  cast  your  nets ; 
Happily  you  may  catch*  her  in  the  sea. 
Yet  there  's  as  little  justice  as  at  land. — 
No  ;  Publius  and  Sempronius,  you  must  do  it ; 
'T  is  you  must  dig  with  mattock,  and  with  spade, 
And  pierce  the  inmost  centre  of  the  earth  : 
Then,  when  you  come  to  Pluto's  region, 
I  pray  you,  deliver  him  this  petition  ; 
Tell  him,  it  is  for  justice,  and  for  aid, 

i  And  that  it  comes  from  old  Andronicus, 
Shaken  with  sorrows  in  ungrateful  Rome. — 
Ah,  Rome  ! — Well,  well :  I  made  thee  miserable, 
What  time  I  threw  the  people's  suffrages 

i  On  him  that  thus  doth  tyrannize  o'er  me. — 
Go,  get  you  gone ;  and  pray  be  careful  all, 
And  leave  you  not  a  man  of  war  unsearch'd  : 
This  wicked  emperor  may  have  shipp'd  her  hence, 

1  And,  kinsmen,  then  we  may  go  pipe  for  justice. 

'      Mar.  0,  Publius  !  is  not  this  a  heavy  case, 
To  .see  thy  noble  uncle  thus  distract  ? 

j      Pub.  Therefore,  my  lord,  it  highly  us  concerns, 

I  By  day  and  night  t'  attend  him  carefully; 

j  And  feed  his  humour  kindly  as  we  may, 

'Till  time  beget  some  careful  remedy. 

I      Mar.  Kinsmen,  his  sorrows  are  past  remedy, 

I  Join  with  the  Goths  ;  and  with  revengeful  war 

j  Take  wreak  on  Rome  for  this  ingratitude. 
And  vengeance  on  the  traitor  Saturnine. 

1      Tit.  Publius,  how  now  !  how  now,  my  masters  !  What 
Have  you  met  with  her  ? 

Pub.  No,  my  good  lord;  but  Pluto  sends  you  word. 
If  you  will  have  revenge  from  hell,  you  shall. 
Marry,  for  Justice,  she  is  so  eniploy'd. 
He  thinks  with  Jove,  in  Heaven,  or  somewhere  else. 
So  that  perforce  you  must  needs  stay  a  time. 

Tit.  He  doth  me  wrong  to  feed  me  with  delays. 
I  '11  dive  into  the  burning  lake  below. 
And  pull  her  out  of  Acheron  by  t4ie  heels. — 
Marcus,  we  are  but  shrubs,  no  cedars  we  ; 
No  big-bon'd  men.  fram'd  of  the  Cyclops'  size, 
But  metal,  Marcus,  steel  to  the  very  back ; 


'  Not  in  f.  e.      >  Skin,  or  complexion. 
find  :  in  quartos,  1611,  and  folio. 


Not  far,  one  Muliteus  lires :  in  f.  e.      ♦  Contrive,  agree.      »  take  nc   longer  day*  :  i>  ( 


^ 


642 


TITUS   ANDROxVICUS. 


Y^et  wrung  with  wrongs,  more  than  our  backs  can  bear  : 
And.  silh  no  justice  is  in  earth  nor  hell, 
We  will  solicit  heaven,  and  move  the  ^ods 
To  send  down  justice  for  to  wreak  our  wronss. 
Come,  to  this  gear.     You  are  a  L'ood  archer.  Marcus. 

[He  gives  them  the  Arrows. 
Ad  Jovem.  that  '.s  for  you  : — here,  ad  Apollincm : — 
Ad  Martcm.  that  s  for  myself: — 
Here,  boy.  to  Pallas: — here,  to  Mercury. 
To  Saturn.  Caiu.s  not  to  Saturnine; 
You  were  as  good  to  shoot  against  the  wind. — 
To  it,  boy  :   Marcus,  loose  when  I  bid. 
Of  my  word.  I  have  written  to  etTect : 
There  's  not  a  god  left  unsolicited. 

Mar.  Kinsmen,  .<hoot  all  your  shafts  into  the  court : 
We  will  afflict  the  emperor  in  his  pride. 

Tit.  Now,  masters,  draw.  [They  shoot.]  O.  well  said' 
Lucius  ! 
Good  boy.  in  Virgo's  lap  :  give  it  Pallas. 

Mar.  My  lord,  I  aim'd  a  mile  beyond  (he  moon  : 
Your  letter  is  with  Jupiter  by  this. 

Tit.  Ha  !   Publius,  Publius,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 
See,  see  !  thou  ha'^t  shot  off  one  of  Taurus'  horns. 

Mar.  This  was  the  sport,  my  lord  :  when  Publius  shot, 
The  bull,  being  galFd.  gave  Aries  such  a  knock 
That  down  fell  both  the  ram's  horns  in  the  court; 
And  who  should  find  them  but  the  empress'  villain. 
She  laugh'd.  and  told  the  Moor,  he  should  not  choose 
But  give  them  to  his  master  for  a  present. 

Tit.  Why,  there  it  goes ;  God  give  his'  lordship  joy. 

Enter  the  Clown,  with  a  Basket  and  Two  Pigeons. 
News  !  news  from  heaven  !   Marcus,  the  post  is  come. 
Sirrah,  what  tidings  ?  have  you  any  letters  ? 
Shall  I  have  justice?  what  says  Jupiter? 

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

Tit.  But  what  says  Jupiter,  I  ask  thee? 

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

Tit.  Why,  villain,  art  not  thou  the  carrier? 

Clo.  Ay.  of  my  pigeons,  sir  ;  nothing  else. 

Tit.  Why.  didst  thou  not  come  from  heaven  ? 

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

Mar.  Why,  sir,  that  is  as  fit  as  can  be,  to  scrs'e  for 
your  oration;  and  let  him  deliver  the  pigcc-ris  to  the 
emperor  from  you. 

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

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

Tit.  Sirrah,  come  hither.     Make  no  more  ado, 
But  give  your  piseons  to  the  emperor  ; 
By  me  thou  shall  haVe  ju.stice  at  his  hands. 
Hoid.  hold  :  mean  while,  here  's  money  for  thy  charges. 
Give  me  pen  and  ink. — 
Sirrah,  can  you  with  a  grace  deliver  a  supplication  ? 

Clo.  Ay,  sir. 

Tit.  Then  here  is  a  supplication  for  you.  And  when 
you  come  to  him.  at  the  first  approach  you  nnist  kneel  ; 
then  kiss  his  foot;  then  deliver  up  your  pigeons,  and 
then  look  for  your  reward.  I  '11  be  at  hand,  sir;  see 
yon  do  it  bravely. 

Clo.  1  warrant  you,  sir  ;  let  me  alone. 

Tit.  Sirrah,  ha-sl  lh)u  a  knife  ?  Come,  let  me  see  it. — 


Here,  Marcus,  fold  it  in  the  oration. 
For  thou  hast  made  it  like  an  humble  suppliant. — 
And  when  thou  hast  given  it  to  the  emperor, 
Knock  at  my  door,  and  tell  me  what  he  says. 

Clo.  God  be  wfth  you,  sir:   1  will. 

Tit.  Come,  Marcus,  let  us  go. — Publius,  follow  me 

[ExeinU 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     Before  the  Palace. 
£/?fcr  Saturninus.Tamora,  Demetrrs.  Chiro.n,  Lor(i.t 
and  others  :  Satcr.m.nus  with  the  arrows  in  his  harui 
that  had  been  shot. 

Sat.  Why,  lords,  what  wrongs  are  these?     Was  ev^r 
seen 
An  emperor  of  Rome  thus  overborne, 
Troubled,  confronted  thus  :  and,  for  the  extent 
Of  equal  justice,  us'd  in  such  contempt  ? 
My  lords,  you  know,  the  mightful  gods  no  less,' 
(However  these  disturbers  of  our  peace 
Buz  in  tlie  people's  ears)  there  nought  hath  pass'd. 
But  even  with  law,  against  the  will'ul  sons 
Of  old  Andronicus.     And  what  an  if 
His  sorrows  have  so  ovcrwhelin'd  his  wits, 
Shall  we  be  thus  afflicted  in  his  freaks. 
His  fits,  his  frenzy,  and  his  bitterness? 
And  now  he  writes  to  heaven  for  his  redress  : 
See,  here  's  to  Jove,  and  tliis  to  Mercury  ; 
This  to  Apollo  ;  this  to  the  god  of  war  ; 
Sweet  scrolls  to  fly  about  the  streets  of  Rome  ' 
What 's  this  but  libelling  against  the  state, 
And  blazoning  our  injustice  every  where  ? 
A  goodly  humour,  is  it  not.  my  lords  ? 
A.s  who  would  say,  in  Rome  no  justice  were. 
Rut  if  I  live,  his  feigned  ecstacies 
Shall  be  no  shelter  to  these  outrages; 
But  he  and  his  shall  kniow,  that  justice  lives 
In  Saturninus'  health :  whom,  if  she  sleep. 
He  '11  so  awake,  as  .she  in  fury  shall 
Cut  ofl'the  proud'st  con.«piratorthat  \ives.[Tak€s  his  seta 

Tarn.  My  gracious  lord,  my  lovely  Saturnine, 
Lord  of  my  lite,  commander  of  my  thoughts. 
Calm  thee,  and  bear  the  faults  of  Titus'  age, 
Th'  effects  of  sorrow  for  his  valiant  sons. 
Whose  loss  hath  pierc'd  him  deep,  and  scarr'd  his  heart 
And  rather  comfort  his  distressed  plight. 
Than  prosecute  the  meanest,  or  the  best. 
For  these  contempt***.  [Aside.]  Why,  thus  it  shall  becoii. 
High-witted  Tamora  to  gloze  with  all  : 
But,  Titus,  I  have  touohd  thee  to  the  quick. 
The  life-blood  on  't.     if  Aaron  now  be  wi.se. 
Then  is  all  safe,  the  anchor's  in  the  port. — 

Enter  Clown. 
How  now,  good  fellow  I  wouldst  thou  speak  with  us? 

Clo.  Yea.  forsooth,  an  your  mistresship  be  imperial 

Tarn.  Empress  I  am,  but  yonder  sits  'he  emperor. 

Clo.  'Tis  he. — God,  and  Saint  Stephen, 
Give  you  good  even. 
I  have  brought  you  a  letter. 
And  a  couple  of  pigeons,  for  want  of  better. 

Saturninus  reads  the  Lett'^ 

Sat.  Go,  take  him  away,  and  hang  him  presently. 

Clo.  How  much  money  must  I  have  ? 

7am.   Come,  sirrah  :  you  must  be  hang'd. 

Clo.  Hang'd  !     By'r  lady,  then,  friend. 
I  have  brought  my  neck  to  a  fair  end.     [Exit,  guarded 

Snt.   Despiteful  and  intolerable  WTongs  ! 
Shall  I  endure  this  monstrous  villainy  ? 
I  know  from  whence  this  same  device  proceeds. 
Mav  this  be  borne  ? — as  if  his  traitorous  soon 


»  Well  done 


ID  qa&no,  1611,  &Hd  foil 


the  raightfal  godg 


inf. 


80ENE    I. 


TITCrS   ANDRONICUS. 


643 


Thai  died  by  law  for  murder  of  our  brother, 
Have  by  iiiy  means  been  butcher'd  wrongfully. — 
Go,  drag  the  villain  hither  by  the  hair  : 
Nor  age.  nor  honour,  shall  have  privilege. — 
For  this  proud  mock.  I  '11  be  thy  slauuhter-man  ; 
Sly  frantic  wretch,  that  holp'.st  to  make  me  great, 
In  hope  thyself  should  govern  Rome  and  me. 

Enter   ^milius. 
What  news  with  thee,  ^Emilius  ? 

.F.mil.  Arm,  my  lords  !    Rome  never  had  more  cause. 
The  Goth.s  have  gather'd  head,  and  with  a  power 
Of  high-resolved  men.  bent  to  the  spoil. 
They  hither  march  amain,  under  conduct 
Of  Lucius,  son  to  old  Andronicus  ; 
Who  ihreats,  in  course  of  this  revenge,  to  do 
As  much  as  ever  Coriolaiius  did. 

Sat.  Is  warlike  Lucius  general  of  the  Goths  ? 
These  tidings  nip  me  :  and  I  hang  the  head 
As  flowers  with  frost,  or  grass  beat  dowii  with  storms. 
Ay.  now  begin  our  sorrows  to  approach. 
'T  Is  he  the  common  people  love  so  much  : 
Myself  hath  very  often  heard  them  say, 
When  I  have  walked  like  a  private  man, 
That  Lucius'  banishment  was  wrongfully, 
And  wish'd  that  Lucius  were  their  emperor. 

Tom.  Why  should  you  fear?  is  not  our  city  strong  ? 

Sat.  Ay,  but  the  citizens  favour  Lucius, 
And  will  revolt  from  me  to  succour  him. 

Tam.  King,  be  thy  thoughts  imperious,  like  thy  name. 
Is  the  sun  dirnm'd.  that  gnats  do  fly  in  's  flame  ? 
The  eagle  suffers  little  birds  to  sing, 
And  is  not  careful  what  they  mean  thereby ; 


Knowing  that  with  the  tnadow  of  his  wing, 
He  can  at  pleasure  stint  their  melody: 
Even  so  may'st  thou  the  giddy  men  of  Rome. 
Then  cheer  thy  spirit ;  for  know,  thou  emperor, 
I  will  enchant  the  old  Andronicus, 
With  words  more  sweet,  and  yet  more  dangerous, 
Than  baits  to  fish,  or  honey-stalks  to  sheep; 
When  as  the  one  is  wounded  with  the  bait, 
The  other  rotted  with  delicious  food. 

Sat.  But  he  will  not  entreat  his  son  for  us. 

Tam.  If  Tamora  entreat  him.  then  he  will ; 
For  I  can  smooth,  and  fill  his  aged  ear 
With  golden  promises,  that  were  his  heart 
Almost  impregnable,  his  old  ears  deaf, 
Yet  should  both  ear  and  heart  obey  my  tongue. — 
Go  thou  before  :  be  our  embassador  :        [To  iEMii-itT 
Say  that  the  emperor  requests  a  parley 
Of  warlike  Lucius,  and  appoint  the  meeting, 
Even  at  his  father's  house,  the  old  Andronicus. 

Sat.  .(Emilius,  do  this  message  honourably: 
And  if  he  stand  on  hostage  for  his  safety. 
Bid  him  demand  what  pledge  will  please  him  best. 

JEinil.  Your  bidding  shall  I  do  effectually. 

\Eiit  tEmilius 

Tam.  Now  will  I  to  that  old  Andronicus, 
And  temper  him  with  all  the  art  I  have. 
To  pluck  proud  Lucius  from  the  warlike  Goths. 
And  now,  sweet  emperor,  be  blithe  again. 
And  bury  all  thy  fear  in  my  devices. 

Sat.  Then  go  successfully,  and  plead  'fore  him. 

[Exmnt 


ACT    V. 


oi^T-ixTT-.  T      TO   •  r,  I  Did  not  thy  hue  bewray  whose  brat  thou  art, 

SCENE  I.-Plains  near  Rome.  |  ^^^  ^^^^^^^  j^^^  ^1^^^  ^^^^  ^,,^.  ,^^^^,,^^,g  ,^^^.^' 

Enter  Lucius,  and  an  Army  of  Goths,  with  Drum  ani;  villain,  thou  mightst  have  been  an  emperor  : 

But  where  the  bull  and  cow  are  both  milk-white, 


Colours 

Luc.  Approved  warriors,  and  my  faithful  friends, 
I  have  received  letters  from  great  Rome, 
Which  signify  what  hate  they  bear  their  emperor. 
And  how  desirous  of  our  sight  they  are. 
Therefore,  great  lords,  be.  as  your  titles  witness, 
Imperious,  and  impatient  of  your  wrongs  ; 
And,  wherein  Rome  hath  done  you  any  scath, 
Let  him  make  treble  satisfaction. 

1  Goth.  Brave  slip,  sprung  from  the  great  Andronicus. 
Who.-e  name  was  once  our  terror,  now  our  comfort ; 
Who.«e  high  exploits,  and  honourable  deeds, 
Ingratcful  Rome  requites  ^^-ith  foul  contempt. 
Be  bold  in  us  :  we  '11  follow  where  thou  lead'st, 
Like  stinging  bees  in  hottest  .svmimer's  day, 
Led  by  their  master  to  the  flower'd  tields,' 
And  be  aveng'd  on  cursed  Tamora. 

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

Luc.  I  humbly  thank  him.  and  I  thank  you  all. 
But  who  comes  here,  led  bv  a  lustv  Goth  ? 


They  never  do  beget  a  coal-black  calf. 

Peace,  villain,  peace  !" — even  thus  he  rates  the  babe, — 

"  For  I  must  bear  thee  to  a  trusty  Goth  ; 

Who,  when  he  knows  thou  art  the  empress'  babe, 

Will  hold  thee  dearly  for  thy  mother's  sake." 

With  tliis.  my  weapon  drawn,  I  rush'd  upon  him, 

Surpris'd  him  suddenly,  and  brought  him  hither, 

To  use  as  you  think  needful  of  the  man. 

Luc.  0  worthy  Goth  !  this  is  the  incarnate  devil, 
That  robb'd  Andronicus  of  his  good  hand  : 
This  is  the  pearl  that  pleas'd  your  empress'  eye, 
And  here  's  the  ba.«e  fruit  of  his  burnin<i  lust. — 
Say,  wall-ey'd  slave,  whither  wouldst  thou  convey 
This  growing  image  of  thy  fiend-like  face  ? 
Why  dost  not  speak  ?     What !  deaf?  no.  not  a  word  ' 
A  halter,  soldiers  !  hang  him  on  this  tree, 
And  by  his  side  his  fruit  of  bastardy. 

Aar.  Touch  not  the  boy :  he  is  of  royal  blood 
Ia(c.  Too  like  the  sire  for  ever  being  good. — 


Evteru  Goth,  leading  A. >lV.os,  u'ith  his  Childin  his  Arms.   First,  hang  the  child,  that  he  may  see  it  sprawl ; 
2  Goth.   Renowned  Lucius,  from  our  troops  I  stray'd,   A  .«ight  to  vex  the. father's  soul  withal, 
ruinous  monastery 


To  gaze  up 

And  as  I  earnestly  did  fix  mine  eye 

Upon  the  wasted  building,  suddenly 

1  heard  a  child  cry  underneath  a  wall. 

I  made  unto  the  noise  ;  when  soon  I  heard 

Tht  crying  babe  controll'd  with  this  discourse  : — 

"  Ppace,  tawny  slave ;  half  me,  and  half  thy  dam  ! 


[A  Ladder  bro'ifrhi 


Get  me  a  ladder.' 

Aar.  Lucius,  save  the  child  ; 
And  bear  it  from  me  to  the  empress. 
If  thou  do  this,  I  'II  show  thee  wond'rous  things, 
That  highly  may  advantage  thee  to  hear  : 
If  thou  wilt  not,  befall  what  may  befall, 
I  '11  speak  no  more  ;  but  vengeance  rot  you  all .' 


(■  old  cooiei  th;g 


given  to  Aaron      Theobald  made  the  change. 


644 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


Lvc.  Say  on :  and  if  it  pica*:e  me  wliieh  f  hou  speak'st, 
Thy  oliild  fIiuH  live,  and  I  will  sec  it  nourish'd. 

Aar.   An  if  i<  ploasc  tliec?  why.  a.<8urc  thee,  Ludii.s, 
[Speaking  on  ihe  Ladder.^ 
'T  will  vex  thy  soul  to  hear  what  I  shall  .speak  : 
For  I  mu-st  talk  of  murders,  rapes,  and  massacre.s. 
Acts  of  black  ni^ht.  abominable  deeds, 
Complots  of  mi.scliief.  treason,  villainies 
Ruthful  to  hear,  dispiteously'  perform'd  : 
And  thi.s  shall  all  be  buried  in  my  death, 
Unless  thou  swear  to  me,  my  child  shall  live. 

Luc.  Tell  on  thy  mind  :  1  say,  thy  child  shall  live. 

Aar.   Swear  that  he  shall,  and  then  I  will  hejjiin. 

Luc.  Whom  should  1  swear  by  ?  thou  believ'.st  no  god  : 
That  gratited.  how  canst  thou  believe  an  oath  ? 

Aar.  What  if  I  do  not,  as,  indeed,  I  do  no  not : 
Y'ct.  for  I  know  thou  art  religious. 
And  hast  a  thing  within  thee,  called  conscience. 
With  twenty  popi.«h  tricks  and  ceremonies. 
Which  I  have  seen  thee  careful  to  observe, 
Theret'orc  I  urge  thy  oath  : — for  that,  I  know, 
An  idiot  holds  his  bauble  tor  a  god. 
And  keeps  the  oath  which  by  that  god  he  swears, 
To  that  I  '11  urge  him. — Therefore,  thou  shalt  vow 
By  that  same  sod.  what  god  soe'er  it  be. 
That  thou  ador'st  and  hast  in  reverence. 
To  save  my  boy.  to  nourish,  and  bring  him  up, 
Or  else  I  will  discover  nought  to  thee. 

Luc.  Even  by  my  god  I  swear  to  thee,  I  will. 

Aar.  First,  know  thou,  I  begot  him  on  the  empress. 

Luc.  0  most  insatiate,  luxurious  woman  ' 

Aar.  Tut  !  Lucius,  this  was  but  a  deed  of  charity, 
To  that  which  thou  shalt  hear  of  me  anon. 
'T  was  her  two  .sons  that  murder'd  Bassianus  : 
They  cut  thy  sisters  tongue,  and  ravish'd  her, 
Cut  her  hands  off.  and  trimnvd  her  as  thou  saw'.st. 

Lnc.  0.  detestable  villain  !  calTst  thou  that  trimming? 

Aar.  Why,  she  was  wash'd.  and  cut,  and  trimm'd ; 
and  't  was 
Trim  sport  for  them  that  had  the  doing  of  it. 

Luc.  O,  barbarous,  beastly  villains,  like  thyself! 

Aar.  Indeed.  I  was  their  tutor  to  instruct  them. 
That  codding  spirit  had  they  from  their  mother, 
A^  sure  a  card  as  ever  won  the  set : 
That  bloody  mind,  I  think,  they  Icarn'd  of  me. 
As  true  a  dog  as  ever  fought  at  head. 
Well,  let  my  deeds  be  witness  of  my  worth. 
I  traind  thy  brethren  to  that  guileful  hole, 
Where  the  dead  corpse  of  Bassianus  lay  ; 
I  wrote  the  letter  that  thy  father  found, 
And  hid  the  gold,  within  the  letter  mentioned, 
Confederate  with  the  queen,  and  her  two  sons  ; 
And  what  not  done,  that  thou  hast  cause  to  rue, 
Wherein  F  had  no  stroke  of  mischief  in  it? 
I  playd  the  cheater  for  thy  father's  hand, 
And,  when  I  had  it.  drew  myself  apart, 
And  almost  broke  my  heart  with  extreme  laughter. 
I  pr>'d  nie  Ihrouuh  the  crevice  of  a  wall, 
When  for  hi.s  hand,  he  had  his  two  sons'  heads  ; 
Beheld  his  tear.«.  and  laugh'd  so  heartily, 
That  both  mine  eyes  were  rainy  like  to  his: 
And  when  I  told  the  empress  of  this  sport. 
She  swooned  almost  at  my  pleasing  tale, 
And  for  my  tidings  gave  me  twenty  kisses. 

Goth.  What  !  canst  thou  say  all  this,  and  never  blu.sh? 

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

Lnc.  Art  thou  not  sorry  for  the.se  heinous  deeds? 

Aar.  Ay,  that  I  had  not  done  a  thousand  more. 
Even  now  I  curse  the  day,  (and  yet,  1  think, 

'  Not  in  f.  e.      >  yet  pitrously  :  in  f.  e      •  The  rest  of  this  sta^e  direction  it  not  in  f.  e 


!  Few  come  within  the  compass  of  my  curse) 
Wherein  I  did  not  some  notorious  ill  : 
'  As  kill  a  man,  or  else  devise  his  death  ; 
Havish  a  maid,  or  plot  the  way  to  do  it ; 
'Accuse  some  innocent,  and  forswear  my.self; 
I  Set  deadly  enmity  between  two  friends  : 
I  Make  poor  men's  cattle  ofttimes  break  their  necks 
I  Set  fire  on  barns  and  hay-stacks  in  the  night, 
And  bid  the  owners  quench  them  with  their  tears. 
Ot't  have  I  digg'd  up  dead  men  from  their  graves, 
And  set  them  upright  at  their  dear  friends'  doors, 
Even  when  their  sorrows  almost  were  forgot ; 
And  on  their  skins,  as  on  the  bark  of  trees, 
Have  with  my  knife  carved  in  Roman  letters. 
'•  Let  not  your  sorrow  die.  though  I  am  dead." 
Tut !   I  have  done  a  thousand  dreadful  things, 
As  willingly  as  one  would  kill  a  fly  : 
.And  nothing  grieves  me  heartily  indeed, 
But  that  I  cannot  do  ten  thousand  more. 

Lnc.  Bring  down  the  devil,  for  he  must  not  die 
So  sweet  a  death  as  hanging,  presently. 

Aar.  If  there  be  devils,  would  I  were  a  devil, 
To  live  and  burn  in  everlasting  fire, 
So  1  might  iiave  your  company  in  hell, 
But  to  torment  you  with  my  bitter  tongue  ! 

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

Enter  a  Goth. 
Goth.  My  lord,  there  is  a  messenger  from  Rome, 
Desires  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 
Luc.  Let  him  come  near. 

Enter  iE.MiLius. 
Welcome,  JEmilius  !  what 's  the  news  from  Rome? 
^mil.  Lord  Lucius,  and  you  princes  of  the  Goths, 
The  Roman  emperor  greets  you  all  by  me  : 
And,  for  he  understands  you  are  in  arms, 
He  craves  a  parley  at  your  father's  house, 
Willing  you  to  demand  your  hostages. 
And  they  shall  be  immediately  deliver'd. 
1  Goth.  What  says  our  general  ? 
Luc.  j^milius,  let  the  emperor  give  his  pledges 
Unto  my  father  and  my  uncle  Marcus, 
And  we  will  come. — March  !  away  !  •    [EteuiU 

SCENE  IL— Rome.     Before  Titus's  House. 

Enter  Tamor.\.  Demetrius,  and  Chiron,  disguised*  at 

Revenge.  Rapine.,  and  Murder. 

Tarn.  Thus,  in  this  strange  and  sad  habiliment, 
I  will  encounter  with  Andionicus, 
And  say,  I  am  Revenue,  sent  from  below, 
To  join  with  him,  and  right  his  heinous  wTongs. — 
Knock  at  his  study,  where,  they  say,  he  keeps, 
To  ruminate  strange  plots  of  dire  revenge  : 
Tell  him.  Revenge  is  come  to  join  with  him. 
And  work  confusion  on  his  enemies.  [Thcij  hnxl 

Tins  opens  his  study  door  above. 

Tit.  Who  doth  molest  my  contemplation? 
Is  it  your  trick  to  make  me  ojie  the  door, 
That  so  my  sad  decrees  may  fly  away. 
And  all  my  study  be  to  no  effect? 
You  are  dcceiv'd  ;  for  what  I  mean  to  do. 
See  here,  in  bloody  lines  I  have  set  down, 

\ShmL'ing  a  Paper 
And  what  is  written  shall  be  executed. 

7am.  Old*  Titus,  I  am  come  to  talk  with  thee. 

Tit.  No  ;  not  a  word.     How  can  I  grace  my  talk, 
Wanting  a  hand  to  give  it  action  ? 
Thou  hast  the  odds  of  me  ;  therefore  no  more. 

Tarn.    If   thou   didst  know  me,  thou  wouldst   Ulh 
with  me. 

»  Not  in  f.  e. 


SCENE   II. 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS. 


645 


Tit.  I  ara  not  mad  ;  I  know  thee  well  enough  : 
Witness  this  wretched  stump,  witness  these  crimson 

lines  ; 
Witness  these  trenches  made  by  grief  and  care  ; 
Witness  the  tiring  day,  and  heavy  night ; 
Wiiness  all  sorrow,  that  I  know  thee  well 
For  our  proud  empress,  mighty  Tamora. 
Is  not  thy  coming  for  my  other  hand  ? 

Tam.  Know,  thou  siid  man,  I  am  not  Tamora : 
She  is  thy  enemy,  and  I  ihy  friend. 
I  am  Revenge  ;  sent  from  th'  infernal  kingdom, 
To  ease  the  gnawing  vulture  of  thy  mind. 
By  working  wreakful  vengeance  on  thy  foes. 
Come  dowr,  and  welcome  me  to  this  world's  light ; 
Confer  with  me  of  murder  and  of  death. 
There  's  not  a  hollow  cave,  or  lurking-place, 
No  vast  obscurity,  or  misty  vale. 
Where  bloody  iiuirder,  or  detested  rape, 
Can  couch  for  fear,  but  I  will  find  them  out ; 
And  in  their  cars  tell  them  my  dreadful  name. 
Revenge,  which  makes  the  foul  offender  quake. 

Tit.  Art  thou  Revenge  ?  and  art  thou  sent  to  me, 
To  be  a  torment  to  mine  enemies  ? 

Tam.  I  am  ;  therefore  come  down,  and  welcome  me. 

Tit.  Do  me  some  service,  ere  1  come  to  thee. 
Lo  !  by  thy  side  where  Rape,  and  Murder,  stand  ; 
Now,  give  some  'surance  that  thou  art  Revenge  : 
Stab  them,  or  tear  them  on  thy  chariot  wheels, 
A.nd  then  I  '11  come,  and  be  thy  waggoner. 
And  whirl  along  with  thee  about  the  globes. 
Provide  two  proper  palfries,  black  as  jet. 
To  hale  thy  vengeful  waggon  swift  away. 
And  find  out  murderers'  in  their  guilty  caves  : 
And  when  thy  car  is  loaden  with  their  heads, 
I  will  dismount,  and  by  the  waggon  wheel 
Trot  like  a  servile  footman  all  day  long, 
Even  from  Hyperion's  rising  in  the  east, 
Until  his  very  downfall  in  the  sea: 
And  day  by  day  I  '11  do  this  hea\'y  task, 
So  thou  destroy  Rapine  and  Murder  there. 

Tam.  These  are  my  ministers,  and  come  with  me. 

Tit.  Are  they  thy  ministers  ?  what  are  they  call'd  ? 

Tam.  Rapine,  and  Murder  ;  therefore  called  so, 
'Cause  they  take  vengeance  of  such  kind  of  men. 

Tit.  Good  lord  !  how  like  the  empress'  sons  they  are ; 
And  you.  the  empress  :  but  we  worldly  men 
Have  miserable,  mad,  mistaking  eyes. 

0  sweet  Revenge  !  now  do  I  come  to  thee  ; 
And,  if  one  arm's  embracement  will  content  thee, 

1  will  embrace  thee  in  it  by  and  by.  [Exit  Titus  above. 

Tam.  This  closing  with  him  fits  his  lunacy. 
Whate'er  I  forge,  to  feed  his  brain-sick  fits. 
Do  you  uphold  and  maintain  in  your  speeches. 
For  now  lie  firmly  takes  me  for  Revenge  ; 
And  being  credulous  in  this  mad  thought, 
I  '11  make  him  send  for  Lucius,  his  son. 
And,  whi.s.  I  at  a  banquet  hold  him  sure, 
['11  find  some  canning  practice  out  of  hand, 
lo  scatter  and  disperse  the  giddy  Goths, 
Of,  at  the  least,  make  them  his  enemies. 
See !  here  he  comes,  and  I  must  ply'  my  theme. 
Enter  Titus,  below. 

Tit.  Long  have  I  been  forlorn,  and  all  for  thee. 
Welcome,  dread  fury,  to  my  woeful  house. — 
Rapine,  and  Murder,  you  are  welcome  loo  — 
How  like  the  empress  and  her  sons  you  are  ! 
Well  are  you  fitted,  had  you  but  a  Moor  : — 
Could  not  all  hell  afford  you  such  a  devil? 
For,  well  I  wot,  the  empress  never  wags, 

■  murder  :  in  old  copies.     Steevens  made  the  change       '  play  :  in 


But  in  her  company  there  is  a  Moor; 
And  would  you  represent  our  queen  aright. 
It  were  convenient  you  had  such  a  devil. 
But  welcome  as  you  are.     W^hat  .^hall  we  do? 

Tnm.  What  wouldst  thou  have  us  do,  AndronicuB  "♦ 

Dem.  Show  me  a  murderer,  1  '11  deal  with  him. 

Chi.  Show  me  a  villain  that  hath  done  a  rape. 
And  I  am  sent  to  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Tam.  Show  me  a  thousand  that  have  done  thee  wrong 
And  1  will  be  revenged  on  them  all. 

Tit.  Look  round  about  the  wicked  streets  of  RomCs 
And  when  thou  find'st  a  man  that 's  like  thyself, 
Good  Murder,  stab  him;  he's  a  murderer. — 
Go  thou  with  him ;  and  when  it  is  thy  hap 
To  find  another  that  is  like  to  thee. 
Good  Rapine,  stab  him  :  he  is  a  ravisher. — 
Go  thou  with  them  ;  and  in  the  emperor's  eoiirt 
There  is  a  queen,  attended  by  a  Moor : 
Well  may'.st  thou  know  her  by  thine  own  proportion, 
For  up  and  down  she  doth  resemble  thee. 
I  pray  thee,  do  on  them  some  violent  death ; 
They  have  been  violent  to  me  and  mine. 

Ta77i.  Well  hast  thou  lesson'd  us :  this  shall  we  do 
But  would  it  please  thee,  good  Andronicus, 
To  send  for  Lucius,  thy  thrice  valiant  son, 
Who  leads  towards  Rome  a  band  of  warlike  Goths. 
And  bid  him  come  and  banquet  at  thy  house, 
When  he  is  here,  even  at  thy  solemn  feast, 
I  will  bring  in  the  empress  and  her  sons, 
The  emperor  himself,  and  all  thy  foes. 
And  at  thy  mercy  shall  they  stoop  and  kneel. 
And  on  them  shalt  thou  ease  thy  angry  heart. 
Wiiat  says  Andronicus  to  this  device? 

Tit.  Marcus,  my  brother  ! — 't  is  sad  Titus  calls. 
Enter  Marcus. 
Go,  gentle  Marcus,  to  thy  nephew  Lucius ; 
Thou  shalt  inquire  him  out  among  the  Goths  : 
Bid  him  repair  to  me,  and  bring  with  him 
Some  of  the  chiefest  princes  of  the  Goths ; 
Bid  him  encamp  his  soldiers  where  they  are. 
Tell  him,  the  emperor,  and  the  empress  too. 
Feast  at  my  house,  and  he  shall  feast  with  them. 
This  do  thou  for  my  love,  and  so  let  him. 
As  he  regards  his  aged  father's  life. 

Mar.  This  will  I  do,  and  soon  return  again.     [Exit 

Tam.  Now  will  I  hence  about  thy  business, 
And  lake  my  ministers  along  with  me. 

Tit.  Nay,  nay,  let  Rajie  and  Murder  stay  with  me. 
Or  else  I  '11  call  my  brother  back  again. 
And  cleave  to  no  revenge  but  Lucius. 

Tam.   [A.side   to  theiri.]    What  say  you,   boys?  will 
you  abide  with  him, 
Whiles  I  go  tell  my  lord  the  emperor. 
How  I  have  govern'd  our  determin'd  .je?t? 
Yield  to  his  humour,  smooth  and  speak  him  fair, 
And  tarry  with  him,  till  I  turn  again. 

Tit.  [A.<;ide.]    I   know  them  all,   though   they  sup 
pose  me  mad  ; 
And  will  o'er-reach  them  in  their  own  devices, 
A  pair  of  cursed  hell-hounds,  and  their  dam. 

Dem.  Madam,  depart  at  pleasure  :  leave  us  here. 

Tam.  Farewell,  Andronicus  :  Revenge  now  goes 
To  lay  a  complot  to  betray  thy  foes.  [Ezii 

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

Chi.  Tell  us,  old  man,  how  shall  we  be  eiiiploy'd? 

Tit.  Tut !   I  have  work  enough  for  yon  to  do  — 
Publius,  come  hither,  Cains,  and  Valentine  ! 
Enter  Publius,  and  others. 

Pub.  What's  your  will? 


646 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 


ACT    V. 


Tit.  Know  you  these  two? 

Pub.  Tlie  empress'  sons 
I  lake  lliem  ;  Chiron,  and  I^mctrins. 

Tit.  Kie,  Publius,  fie  !  thon  art  too  much  deceiv'd ; 
The  one  is  Mwrdor,  J{ape  is  the  others  name: 
And  iherelorc  bind  them,  penile  I'ublius ; 
Cams,  and  Valentine,  lay  hands  on  them. 
Ol't  have  you  heard  me  wisli  lor  .such  an  liour, 
And  now  I  find  it  :  therefore,  bind  them  sure. 
And  stop  their  mouths,  if  they  begin  to  cry.' 

[Erit    TiTCs. — PuBLius,    ifc.  seize    Chiron,   and 
Demetru-s. 

Clit.  Villains,  forbear  !  we  are  the  empress'  sons. 

Pub.  And  therefore  do  we  what  we  are  commanded. 

Cain.'!.  Stop  close  their  mouths ;  let  them  not  speak 
a  word. 
U  he  sure  bound  ?  look,  that  you  bind  them  fast. 

Re-enter  Titus  Andronicis,  with   Lavinia  ;   she 
bearing  a  Bason,  and  he  a  Knife. 

Tit.  Come,  come,  Lavinia;  look,  thy  foes  arc  bound. — 
Sirs,  stop  their  mouths  ;  let  them  not  speak  to  me, 
But  let  them  hear  what  fearful  words  I  utter. — 
0  villains  !   Chiron  and  Demetrius, 
Here  stands  the  spring  whom  you  havestain'd  with  mud : 
This  goodly  summer  with  your  winter  mix'd. 
You  killd  her  husband,  and  for  that  vile  fault 
Two  of  her  brothers  were  condemn'd  to  death. 
My  hand  cut  ofl^,  and  made  a  merry  jest : 
Both  her  sweet  hands,  her  tonijue,  and  that  more  dear 
Than  hands  or  tongue,  her  spotless  chastity, 
inhuman  traitors,  you  const rain'd  and  forc'd. 
What  would  you  say.  if  I  should  let  you  speak  ? 
Villains,  for  sliame  you  could  not  beg  for  grace. 
Hark,  wretches,  how  I  mean  to  martyr  you. 
This  one  hand  yet  is  left  to  cut  your  throats, 
Whilst  that  Lavinia  'tween  her  stumps  doth  hold 
The  bason,  that  receives  your  guilty  blood. 
You  know,  your  mother  means  to  feast  with  nae. 
And  calls  herself  Revenge,  and  thinks  me  mad. 
Hark,  villains  !  I  will  grind  your  bones  to  dust, 
And  wiih  your  blood  and  it.  I  11  make  a  paste; 
And  of  the  paste  a  coffin=  1  will  rear, 
And  make  two  jiasties  of  your  shameful  heads  ; 
And  bid  that  strumpet,  your  unhallow'd  dam. 
Like  to  tlie  earth,  swallow  lier  own'  increase! 
Thi.s  is  the  feast  that  I  have  bid  her  to. 
And  this  the  banquet  she  shall  surfeit  on; 
For  wor^e  than  Philomel  you  us'd  my  daughter, 
And  worse  than  Progne  I  will  be  revens  d. 
And  now  prepare  your  throats. — Lavinia  come, 

[He  cuts  their  Throats,*  and  .she  catches  the  Blood. 
Receive  the  blood  :  and  when  that  they  arc  dead, 
Let  me  go  urind  their  bones  to  powder  small. 
And  with  this  hateful  liquor  temper  it: 
And  iu  that  paste  let  their  vile  heads  be  bak'd.— 
Come,  come,  be  every  one  ofiicious 
To  make  this  banquet :  which  I  wish  may  prove 
More  stern  an<l  bloody  than  thr-   Tentaurs'  fea,st. 
So,  now  bring  them  in,  for  I  will  play  the  cook. 
And  sec  them  ready  'gainst  their  mother  comes. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  the  dead  Bodies. 
8CP:NE  III— The  Same.    A  Pavilion,  with  Tables,  &o. 

EfJci  Lucas,  Marcus,  and  Goths;  with  Aaron, 
Prisoner. 

Iaic.  Uncle  Marcus,  since  'tis  my  fathers  mind. 
That  I  repair  to  Rome.  I  am  content. 

1  Goth.  And  ours,  with  thine,  befall  what  fortune  will. 


Luc.  Good  uncle,  take  you  in  this  barbarou.«  Mooi 
This  ravenous  tiger,  this  accursed  devil. 
Let  him  receive  no  sustenance ;  fetter  him. 
Till  he  be  brought  unto  the  empress'  face, 
For  testimony  of  her  foul  i)rocecdinL's. 
And  see  the  ambush  of  our  friends  be  strong: 
I  fear  the  emperor  means  no  good  to  us. 

Aar.  Some  devil  whi.sper  cur.ses  in  mine  ear, 
And  prompt  me,  that  my  tongue  may  utter  forth 
The  venomous  malice  of  my  swelling  heart ! 

Luc.  Away,  inhuman  dog  !  unhallow'd  slave  ! — 
Sirs,  help  our  uncle  to  convey  him  in. — 

[Exeunt  Goths  with  Aaro's.     Trumpets  sound 
The  trumpets  show  the  cmjeror  is  at  hand. 

Enter  Saturmnus  and  Tamora,  with  Tribunes^ 
Senators,  and  others. 

Sat.  What !  hath  the  firmament  more  suns  than  one  ? 

L'ic.  What  boots  it  thee  to  call  thyself  a  sun  ? 

3Iar.  Rome's  emperor,  and  nephew,  break  the  parle , 
These  quarrels  must  be  quietly  debated. 
The  feast  is  ready,  which  the  careful  Titus 
H.ith  ordain'd  to  an  honourable  end, 
For  peace,  for  love,  for  league,  and  good  to  Rome 
Piense  you,  therefore,  draw  nigh,  and  take  your  places. 

Sat.   Marcus,  \fe  will. 

[Hautboys  sound.     The  Company  .sit  down  at  table. 
Enier   Titus,    dressed    like   a    Cook,    Lavinia,    veiled.^ 

young  Lucius,  and  otiurs.     Titus  places  the  disks* 

on  the  table. 

Tit.  Welcome,  my  gracious  lord ;   welcome,  dread 
queen : 
Welcome,  ye  warlike  Goths  ;  and  welcome,  Lucius  ; 
And  welcoma,  all.     Although  the  cheer  be  poor, 
'Twill  fill  your  stomachs  :  please  you  eat  of  it. 

Sat.  Why  art  thou  thus  attir'd,  Andronicus  ? 

Tit.  Because  I  would  be  sure  to  have  all  well, 
To  entertain  your  hi.,hness.  and  your  empress. 

Tarn.  We  are  beholding  to  you,  good  Andronicus. 

Tit.  An  if  your  highness  knew  my  heart,  you  weie 
My  lord  the  emperor,  resolve  me  this : 
Was  it  well  done  of  rash  Virginius, 
To  slay  his  daughter  with  his  own  right  hand, 
Because  she  was  enforc'd.  stain"d,  and  dellour'd  ? 

Sit.  It  was,  Andronicus. 

Tit.  Your  reason,  mighty  lord  ! 

Sat.  Because  the  girl  should  not  sur^dve  her  shamei, 
And  by  her  presence  still  renew  his  sorrows. 

Tit.  A  rea.son  mighty,  strong,  and  effectual; 
A  pattern,  precedent,  and  lively  warrant, 
For  me,  most  wretched,  to  perforin  tlie  like. — 
Die,  die,  Lavinia,  and  Ihy  shame  with  thee: 

[Jk  kills  Lavinm 
And  with  thy  shame  thy  father's  .sorrow  flee. 

Sat.  What  hast  thou  done ?  unnatural  and  unkind! 

Tit.  Kill'd  her,  for  whom  my  tears  have  made  me  blind 
I  am  as  woful  as  Virginius  was, 
And  have  a  thousand  times  more  cause  than  he 
To  do  this  outrase  : — and  it  is  now  done.* 

Sat.  What !  was  she  ravish'd?  tell  who  did  the  deed 

Tit.  Will 't  please  you  eat?  will 't  plea.se  your  high 
ness  feed  ? 

Tarn.  Why  hast  thou  slain  thine  only  daughter  thus  F 

Tit.  Not  I:  'twas  Chiron,  and  Demetrius: 
They  ravish'd  her,  and  cut  away  her  tongue. 
And' they,  't  was  they,  that  did  her  all  this  wTong. 

Sat.  Go,  fetch  them  hi»hei  lo  us  presently. 

Tit.  Why,  there  they  are  both,  baked  in  that  pie; 
Whereof  their  mother  daintily  hath  fed, 


'  Th..  .in*  II  not  in  the  foli 
*  I'his  I  ne  u  oot  in  the  foUo. 


»  The  crust  of  a.  pie.  waji  often  called  a  coftn.      '  Nbt  i 


^  The  rest  of  this  d.rectioa  ik  ».ot 


■B  \i 


TITUS   ANDBONICUS. 


647 


Eating  the  flesh  that  she  herself  hath  bred 

T  is  true,  't  is  true  ;  witness  my  knife's  sharp  point. 

[Killing  Tamora. 

Sat.  Die,  frantic  wretch,  for  this  accursed  deed. 

[Killir.g  Titus. 

Luc.  Can  the  son's  eye  behold  his  father  bleed  ? 
Tliere's  meed  for  meed,  death  for  a  deadly  deed. 

[Killing  Saturninus.  A  great  Tumult.  The  People 
in  confusion  disperse.  Marcus.  Lucius,  and  their 
Partisans,  ascend  the  Steps  before  Titus's  House. 

Mar.  You  sad-fac'd  men,  people  and  sons  of  Home, 
By  uproar  sever'd.  like  a  flight  of  fowl 
Scattered  by  winds  and  high  tempestuous  gusts, 
0 !  let  me  teach  you  liow  to  knit  again 
This  scatter'd  corn  into  one  mutual  sheaf, 
These  broken  limbs  again  into  one  body.' 
Lest  Rome  herself  be  bane  unto  herself. 
And  she,  who  mighty  kingdoms  court"sy  to, 
Like  a  forlorn  and  desjierate  cast-away. 
Do  shameful  execution  on  herself. 
But  if  my  frosty  signs  and  chaps  of  age, 
Grave  witnesses  of  true  experience. 
Cannot  induce  you  to  attend  my  words. 
Speak,  Rome's  dear  friend  ;  as  erst  our  ancestor, 
When  with  his  solemn  tongue  he  did  discourse. 
To  love-sick  Dido's  sad  attending  ear, 
The  story  of  that  baleful  burning  night, 
When  subtle  Greeks  surpris'd  king  Priam's  Troy. 
Tell  us,  what  Siiion  hath  bewitch'd  our  ears. 
Or  who  hath  brought  the  fatal  engine  in. 
That  gives  our  Troy,  our  Home,  the  civil  wound. 
My  heart  is  not  compact  of  flint,  nor  steel. 
Nor  can  I  utter  all  our  bitter  grief; 
But  floods  of  tears  w  uJ  drown  my  oratory, 
And  break  my  very  utierance,  even  \'  the  time 
When  it  should  move  you  to  attend  me  most. 
Lending  your  kind  commiseration. 
Here  is  a  captain,  let  him  tell  the  tale ; 
Your  hearts  will  throb  and  weep  to  hear  him  speak. 

Luc.  Then,  noble  auditory,  be  it  known  to  you. 
That  cursed  Chiron  and  Demetrius 
Were  they  that  murdered  our  emperor's  brother; 
And  they  it  was  that  ravished  our  sister. 
For  their  fell  faults  our  brothers  were  beheaded, 
Oui  father's  tears  despis'd,  and  basely  cozen'd 
Of  that  true  hand,  that  fought  Rome's  quarrel  out. 
And  sent  her  enemies  unto  the  grave. 
Lastly,  myself  unkindly  banished, 
The  gates  shut  on  me,  and  turn'd  weeping  out, 
To  beg  relief  among  Rome's  enemies; 
Who  drown'd  Iheir  enmity  in  my  true  tears, 
And  op'd  tiieir  arms  to  embrace  me  as  a  friend : 
And  I  am  the'  turn'd-forth,  be  it  known  to  you. 
That  have  preserv'd  her  welfare  in  my  blood ; 
And  from  her  bosom  took  the  enemy's  point. 
Sheathing  the  steel  in  my  adventurous  body. 
Alas  !  you  know,  I  am  no  vaunter.  I ; 
My  scars  can  witness,  dumb  although  they  are, 
That  my  report  is  just,  and  full  of  truth. 
But,  soft !  methinks,  I  do  digress  too  much. 
Citing  my  worthless  praise.     0  !  pardon  me ; 
For  when  no  friends  are  by  men  praise  themselves. 

Mar.  Now  is  my  turn  to  speak.     Behold  this  child; 
Of  this  was  Tamora  delivered  ; 
The  issue  of  an  irreligious  Moor, 
Chief  architect  and  plotter  of  these  woes. 
The  villain  is  alive  in  Titus'  house, 
And,  as  he  is,  to  witness  this  is  true. 


Now  judge  what  cause  had  Titus  to  revenge 

These  wrongs,  unspeakable,  past  patience, 

Or  more  than  any  living  man  could  bear. 

Now  you  have  heard  the  truth,  wliat  say  you,  Romans" 

Have  we  done  aught  amiss  ?     Show  us  wherein, 

And  from  the  place  where  you  behold  us  now, 

The  poor  remainder  of  Andronici 

Will,  hand  in  hand,  all  headlong  cast  us  down. 

And  on  the  ragged  stones  beat  forth  our  brains, 

And  make  a  mutual  closure  of  our  house. 

Speak,  Romans,  speak  !  and,  if  you  say,  we  shall, 

Lo!  hand  in  hand.  Lucius  and  I  will  fall. 

J^mil.  Come,  come,  thou  reverend  man  of  Rome. 
And  bring  our  emperor  gently  in  thy  hand, 
Lucius  our  emperor ;  for,  well  I  know, 
The  common  voice  doth  cry,  it  shall  be  so. 

Mar.  Lucius,  all  hail !  Rome's  royal  emperor. — 
Lucius,  4*C-  descend. 
Go,  go  into  old  Titus'  sorrowful  house.  [To  an  Attendant 
And  hither  hale  that  misbelieving  Moor, 
To  be  adjudg"d  some  direful  lingering  death, 
As  punishment  for  his  mo,st  wicked  life. — 
Lucius,  all  hail !     Rome's  gracious  governor. 

Luc.  Thanks,  gentle  Romans:  may  I  govern  so, 
To  heal  Rome's  harms,  and  wipe  away  her  woo ; 
But,  gentle  people,  give  me  aim  awhile. 
For  nature  puts  me  to  a  heavy  style. — 
Stand  al:  aloof; — but.  uncle,  draw  you  rear, 
To  shed  obsequious  tears  upon  this  bier. — 
O  !  take  this  warm  kiss  on  thy  pale  cold  lips, 

[A'tssc5  Titus 
These  sorrowful  drops  upon  thy  blood-stain'd  face. 
The  last  true  duties  of  thy  noble  son  ! 

Mar.  Tear  for  tear,  and  loving  kiss  for  kiss, 
Thy  brother  Marcus  tenders  on  thy  lipa  : 
0  !   were  the  sum  of  these  that  I  should  ;)ay 
Countless  and  infinite,  yet  would  I  pay  tliem. 

Luc.  Come  hither,  boy:  come,  come,  and  learn  of  u* 
To  melt  in  showers.     Thy  grandsire  lord  thee  well : 
Many  a  time  he  dane'd  thee  on  his  knee, 
Sung  thee  asleep,  his  loving  breast  thy  pillow ; 
Many  a  matter  hath  he  told  to  thee, 
Meet  and  agreeing  with  thine  infancy : 
In  that  respect,  then,  like  a  loving  child. 
Shed  yet  some  small  drops  from  thy  tender  spring, 
Because  kind  nature  doth,  require  it  so : 
Friends  should  associate  friends  in  grief  and  woe. 
Bid  hira  farewell;  cr-mmit  him  to  the  grave; 
Do  him  that  kindness,  all  that  he  can  have' 

Boy.  O  grandsire.  grandsire  !  even  with  all  my  hean 
Would  I  were  dead,  so  you  did  live  again. — 

0  lord  !  I  cannot  speak  to  him  for  weeping; 
My  tears  will  choke  me.  if  I  ope  my  mouih. 

Enter  Attendants,  with  Aaron. 

1  Rom.  You  sad  Andronici.  have  done  with  woe.-- 
Give  sentence  on  this  execrable  wretch. 
That  hath  been  breeder  of  these  dire  events. 

Luc.  Set  him  breast-deep  in  earth,  and  famish  liim 
There  let  him  stand,  and  rave  and  cry  for  food: 
If  any  one  relieves,  or  pities  him, 
For  the  offence  he  dies.     This  is  our  doom : 
Some  stay  to  see  him  fa.sten'd  in  the  earth. 

Aar.  0  !  why  should  wrath  be  mute,  and  fury  dumb ' 

1  am  no  baby,  I,  that  with  base  prayers 
I  should  repent  the  evils  I  have  done. 
Ten  thousand  worse  than  ever  yet  I  did 
Would  I  perform,  if  I  might  have  my  will : 
If  one  good  deed  in  all  my  life  I  did, 


'  The  rest  cf  this  gp«ecb  is  usually  given  to  a  Roman  lord.     »  Not  in  the  folio.     '  and  take  leave  of  him  :  m  f.  e 


648 


TITUS   ANDRO:N'ICirS. 


Acrr  V. 


I  do  repent  it  from  my  vciy  soul. 

Liic.  Some  loving  friends  convey  the  emneror  bence, 
Knd  give  him  bnrial  in  his  fatlier's  gra  "e. 
Wy  father,  and  Lavinia,  shall  forthwith 
/je  olfised  ii   our  liousehold  s  monument. 
As  for  that  raven.ms  tii^er,  Tamora, 
No  funeral  rite,  nor  mai  in  mournful  weeds 
fio  mournful  bell  shalJ  wring  her  burial : 


But  throw  her  forth  to  beasts,  and  birds  of  prey 

Her  life  was  beasi.-like.  and  devoid  of  pay; 

And,  being  so,  shall  have  like  want  of  pity. 

See  Justiec  done  on  Aaron,  that  damn'd  Moor, 

By  whom  our  heavy  haps  had  their  beu'inning: 

Then,  afterwards,  to  order  well  the  state, 

That  like  events  may  ne'er  it  ruinate.  (jExcutU 


ROMEO    AND   JULIET, 


DEAMATIS    PERSONS. 


EscALus,  Prince  of  Verona. 

Paris,  a  young  Nobleman,  Kinsman  to  the  Prince. 

Capulet    '  1  ^^^'^^  ^^  ^'^'^  hostile  Houses. 

Uncle  to  Capulet. 

Romeo,  Son  to  Montague. 

JVIercutio,  Kinsman  to  the  Prince,  and  Friend  to 

Komeo. 
Benvolio,  Nephew  to  Montague,  and  Friend  to 

Romeo. 
Tybalt,  Nephew  to  Lady  Capulet. 
Friar  Laurence,  a  Franciscan. 
Friar  John,  of  the  same  Order. 


Servant  to  Romeo. 
Servants  to  Capulet. 


Bat.thasar, 

Sampson,    i 

Gregory,  ) 

Peter,  Another  Servant  to  Capulet. 

Abram,  Servant  to  Montague. 

An  Apothecary. 

Musicians. 

Chorus.     Boy;  Page  to  Paris;  an  Officer. 

Lady  Montague,  Wife  to  Montague. 
Lady  Capulet,  Wife  to  Capulet. 
Juliet,  Daughter  to  Capulet. 
Nurse  to  Juliet. 


Citizens  of  Verona ;  male  and  female  Relations  to  both  Houses ;  Maskers,  Guards,  Watchmen,  ai.d 

Attendants. 
SCENE,  during  the  greater  Part  of  the  Play,  in  Verona :  once,  in  the  fifth  Act,  at  Mantua. 


PROLOGUE. 


Chorus. 
Tmw  households,  both  alike  in  dignity, 

In  fair  Verona,  where  we  lay  our  scene, 
From  ancient  grudge  break  to  new  mutiny, 

Wticre  civil  blood  makes  civil  hands  unclean. 
From  forth  the  fatal  loins  of  these  two  foes 

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


"Whose  misadventur'd  piteous  overthrows 

Do,  with  their  death,  bury  their  parents'  strife. 

Thr  fearful  passage  of  their  death-mark'd  love, 
And  the  continuance  of  their  parents'  rage. 

Which,  but  their  children's  end,  nought  could  remcvra 
Is  now  the  two  hours'  traffic  of  our  stage  ; 

The  which  if  you  with  patient  ears  attend. 

What  here  shall  miss,  our  toil  shall  strive  t<>  mend. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— A  public  Place. 

Enter  Sampson  and  Gregory,  armed  with  Swords  and 

Bucklers. 

Sam.  Gregory,  on  my  word,  we  '11  not  carry  coals.* 

Gre.  No,  for  then  we  should  be  colliers. 

Sam.  I  mean,  an  we  be  in  choler.  we  '11  draw, 

Gre.  Ay,  while  you  live,  draw  your  neck  out  of  the 
C(41ar. 

Sam.  I  strike  quickly,  being  moved. 

Gre.  But  thou  art  not  quickly  moved  to  strike. 

Sam.  A  dog  of  the  house  of  Montague  moves  me. 

Gre.    To  move   is  to  stir,  and  to  be  valiant  is  to 
stand;*  therefore,  if  thou  art  moved,  thou  run'st  away. 

Sam.  A  dog  of  that  house  shall  move  me  to  stand. 
I  will  take  the  wall  of  any  man  or  maid  of  Montasue's. 

Gre.  That  shf^ws  thee  a  weak  slave ;  for  the  weakest 
goes  to  the  waU. 

Sam.  'T  is  true  ;  and  therefore   women,  being  the 
weaker  vessels,  are  ever  thrust  to  the  wall : — therefore, 


11  will  push  Montague's  men  from  the  wall,  and  thru.st 
I  his  maids  to  the  wall. 

I      Gre.    The  quarrel  is  between  our  masters,  and  uh 
their  men. 

Sam.  'T  is  all  one,  I  will  show  myself  a  tyrant  : 
when  I  have  fought  with  the  men.  I  will  be  cruel'  with 
the  maids  ;  I  will  cut  off  their  heads. 

Gre.  The  heads  of  the  maids  ? 

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

Gre.  They  must  take  it  in*  sense,  that  feel  it. 

Sam.  Me  they  shall  feel,  while  I  am  able  to  stand  ; 
and,  't  is  known,  I  am  a  pretty  piece  of  flesh. 

Gre.  'T  is  well,  thou  art  not  fish  :  if  Ihou  hadst,  thou 
hadst  been  poor  John.*  Draw  ihy  tool;  here  come 
two*  of  the  house  of  the  Monta'rnes. 

Enter  Abram  and  Bai.thasar. 

Sam.  My  naked  weapon  is  out :  quarrel,  I  will  back 
thee. 
I      Gre    How !  turn  thy  back,  and  run  ^ 


•  Thia  was  legarded  as  a  low.  dej^rading 
!087      »  civil  :  in  f.  a       *  Only  in  quarto, 


J  ortice. 
quarto,  1597. 


2  stand  to  it ;    therefore  (of  ray  word)  if  ttiou  be  mov'd,  thou  "It  run  a^-a^  : 
Salted  and  dried  fish.      '  Only  in  the  quarto,  1597. 

649 


1  (^naiBi 


650 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


ACT  1. 


Sam.  Fear  me  not. 

Gre.  No  marry:   I  fear  tlice  ! 

Sam.  Lei  ur  take  tlie  law  of  our  sides;  let  them  begin. 

Ore.  I  will  Irowu  as  I  pas*  by,  and  let  tbcin  take  it 
u  tbey  list. 

Sam.  iNay.  as  they  dare      I  will  bite  my  thumb  at 
lliein;  which  i.<  a  di.-^grace  to  them,  if  they  bear  it.' 

Abr.  Yk>  you  bite  your  ihumb  at  us.  sir? 

Sam.  I  do  bite  my  thumb,  .«ir. 

Abr.  Do  you  bite  your  thumb  at  us,  sir? 

&.m.  I.<  the  law  of  our  side,  if  I  say — ay? 

Grc.  No. 

Sam.  No.  sir.  I  do  not  bite  my  thumb  at  you,  sir; 
ut  I  bite  my  Ihutnb.  sir. 

Gre.  Po  you  quarrel,  sir? 

Abr.  Quarrel,  sir?  no,  .'^ir. 

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

Abr.  No  better. 

Sam.  Well,  sir. 

Enter  Benvolio,  at  n  Distance. 

Gre.  Say — better :  here  comes  one  of  my  master's 
kinsmen. 

Sam.  Yes,  better,  sir, 

Abr.  '\'ou  lie. 

Sam.  Draw,  if  you  be  men. — Gregory,  remember  thy 
^waslling'  blow.  [Thry  fight. 

Ben.  Fart,  fools!  put  up   your  swords;  you  know 
not  what  you  do.       f  Heats  dnini  their  swords  with  his. 
Enter  Tvbalt. 

Tyb.  "What  !  art  thou  drawn  among  these  heartless 
hinds?  [Draws.^ 

Turn  thee.  Benvolio;  look  upon  thy  death. 

Ben.  I  do  but  keep  the  peace:  put  up  thy  sword, 
Or  manage  it  to  part  these  men  with  me. 

Tyb.  Wliat !  drawn,*  and  talk  of  peace?    I  hate  the 
word, 
As  I  hate  hell,  all  Montagues,  and  thee. 
Have  at  thee,  coward.  [They  fight. 

Enter  xeveral  persons  of  both  Hovses,  who  Join  the  Fray  ; 
then  enter  Citizens,  with  Clubs  or  Partisans. 

1  Cit.  Clubs,  bills*,  and  partisans  !  strike  !  beat  them 
down  ! 
Down  with  the  Capulcts  !  down  with  the  Montagues! 


Have  thrice  disturb'd  the  quiet  of  our  streets ; 

And  made  Verona's  ancient  citizens 

Ca.st  by  their  grave  beseeming  ornaments, 

To  wield  old  partisans,  in  hands  as  old. 

Cankcrd  with  peace,  to  part  your  canker'd  hate.''' 

If  ever  you  disturb  our  streets  again, 

Your  lives  shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  the  peace:" 

For  this  time  all  the  rest  depart  away.'* 

You.  Capulct,  shall  go  along  with  me  ; 

And  Montanuc,  come  you  this  afternoon. 

To  know  our  farther'*  pleasure  in  this  case. 

To  old  Free-town,  our  common  judgment-place. 

Once  more,  on  pain  of  death,  all  men'*  depart. 

[Exfinit    the   Prince,  and  Atttndants ;    Oapolet 
Lady  Capui.et,  Tybalt.  Citizens,  and  Servants 

Mon.   Who  set  this  ancient  (juarrel  new  abroach  ? — 
Speak,  nejihew,  were  you  by  when  it  began  ? 

Ben.  Here  were  the  servants  of  your  adversary, 
And  yours,  close  iighting  ere  I  did  appro:ich." 
I  drew  to  part  them  :  in  the  instant  came 
The  fiery  Tybalt,  with  his  sword  prepared; 
Which,  as  he  breath'd  defiance  to  my  cars, 
He  swung  about  his  head,  and  cut  the  winds, 
Who.  nothing  hurt  withal.  hiss"d  him  in  sco'a. 
While  we  were  interchanging  thru.-ts  and  blows, 
Came  more  and  more,  and  fought  ^i\  part  and  part, 
Till  the  prince  came,  who  parted  either  part. 

La.  Mon.  O  !  where  is  Romeo  ?  saw  you  him  to-day  ? 
Right  glad  1  am  he  was  not  at  this  fray. 

Ben.  Madam,  an  hour  before  the  worshipp'd  SlUii 
Peer'd  Ijorlh"  the  golden  windows  of  the  east, 
A  troubled'''  mind  drave  me  to  walk  abroad; 
Where,  underneath  the  grove  of  sycamore 
That  westward  rooteth  from  the  city's  side. 
So  early  walking  did  I  see  your  son. 
Towards  him  I  made  ;  but  he  was  'ware  of  me, 
And  stole  into  the  covert  of  the  wood  : 
I,  measuring'*  his  affections  by  my  o\ati. 
Which  then  most   sought  where    most  might  not  bf 

found," 
Being  one  too  many  by  my  wearj'  self,'" 
Pursu'd  my  humour,  not  pur.<uing  his, 
And  gladly  shunn'd  who  gladly  tied  from  me. 

Mon.  Manv  a  morning  hath  he  there  been  seen, 


Enter  Capui.et,  in  hif  Gown  ;  and  Lady  Capoi.kt.    I  With  tears  augmenting  the  fresh  morning'.--  de 
Caj).  What  noise  is  this? — (iive  me  my  long  sword,  ho  !    Adding  to  clouds  more  clouds  with  his  deep  sighs 
La.  Cap    A  crutch,  a  crutch  ! — Why  call  you  for 
sword  ? 


Cap.  My  sword.  I  say  ! — Old  Montague  is  come, 
And  nourishes  his  blade  in  S|iite  of  me. 

Enter  Montaci'e  and  Uuly  Montague. 

iVon.  Thou  villain  Capulet ! — Hold  me  not:  let  me  go. 

La.  Mon.  Thou  shall  not  stir  one'  foot  to  seek  a  foe. 
Enter  the  Prince,  with  his  Train. 

Prin.  Rebellious  suhjecis,  enemies  to  peace, 
Profaners  of  this  n'-iu'libour-stained  steel  ! — 
Will  they  not  hear? — what  ho!  you  men,  you   beasts, 
That  quench  the  fire  of  your  pernicious  rage 
With  piirjile  fountains  issuing  from  your  veins,' 
On  pain  of  torture,  from  iho.'^e  bloody  hands 
Throw  your  mis-temper'd  weafions  to  the  ground, 
And  hear  the  Kcntenee  of  your  moved  prince. — 
Three  civil  brawls,"  bred  of  an  angry'  word, 
liy  thee,  old  Capulet,  and  Montague, 


I  But  all  so  soon  as  the  all-cheering  sun 
Should  in  the  farthest  east  begin  to  draw 
The  shady  curtains  from  Aurora's  bed. 
Away  from  light  steals  home  my  heavy  son, 
And  private  in  his  chamber  pens  himself; 
Shuts  up  his  windows,  locks  fair  daylight  out. 
And  makes  himself  an  artificial  night. 
Black  and  portentous  must  this  humour  prove. 
Unless  good  coun.-^el  may  the  cause  remove. 

Ben.  My  noble  uncle,  do  you  know  the  cause? 

Mon.  I  neither  know  it.  nor  can  learn  of  him. 

Brn.  Ha\e  you  importun"d  him  by  any  meaiisr'' 

Mon.  Both  by  myself,' and  many  other  friends* 
But  he.  his  own  affections'  counsellor. 
Is  to  himself — I  will  not  say,  how  true — 
But  to  himself  so  secret  and  so  ciose. 
So  far  from  sounding  and  discovery, 
As  is  the  bud  bit  with  the  envious  worm, 


>  "What  j^erine,  what  bilinffrf  lhamh«  U)  bepet  quarrels."— Z)ctt<r"5  Dfnd  Tern.  16'*!,  o  lol  i  >•  Malone.  »  To  sirn**.  is  to  mak*  » 
noiM  with  a  iword  acainM  a  hurkler.  >  Not  in  f.  e.  •  draw  :  in  folio  '  The  weapon  of  the  London  "prentices :  hiUs.  were  pikes  wilfc 
hook»  ittirhed  bpjow  the  pninm  *  h  :  \n  folio.  '  This  and  the  three  precedinj;  lines,  are  not  in  the  quarto.  I')97.  "  b-oil«  :  in  folio 
•airy:  in  f.  «  '•  Thm  and  the  three  precedinj  line-,  are  not  in  the  quarto,  I  ■<!>7  >'  Uie  ransom  of  your  fault  :  in  quario.  I  •)!I7  i»  everj 
m.\n  depart  in  peace  in  quarto.  I'.<I7  "  f.ither'i. :  in  quarto,  ItilHl,  and  folio  <«  each  man:  in  quarto,  l.')<)7  is 'I'he  rpsi  ..f  this  speeeh  :i 
not  ID  the  quarto.  |;>»»7.  '•  I'eep'd  Ihroufih  in  quarto,  1597.  n  thoucht  drew  me  from  company  :  in  quarto,  l.W?  >"  notinR  :  in  quarto. 
\'M  <»  That  mr..!  are  busied  when  they  'n  most  alone  :  in  qnarto,  1397.  >«  This  line  is  not  in  quarto,  1597.  "  This  and  the  at  Jit  speech 
u»  Dot  in  the  quarto,  lo97 


SCENE  rr. 


EOMEO   ANjy  JULIET. 


651 


fire  he  can  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun.' 
Could  we  but  learn  from  whence  his  sorrows  grow, 
We  would  as  w'ilingly  give  cure,  as  know. 
Enter  HoMEo.  at  a  distance. 

Ben.  See.  where  he  comes  :  so  please  you,  step  aside; 
I  '11  know  his  grievance,  or  be  nmch  denied. 

Mon.  I  would,  (liou  wert  so  happy  by  thy  stay, 
To  hear  true  shritt. — Come,  madam,  let 's  away. 

[Exeunt  Montague  and  Lady. 

Ben.  Good  morrow,  cousin. 

Rom.  Is  the  day  so  young  ? 

Ben.  But  new  struck  nine. 

Rom.  Ah  me  !  sad  hours'  seem  long. 

Was  thai  my  father  that  went  hence  so  fast? 

Ben.  It  was.  What  sadness  lengthens  Romeo's  hours? 

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

Ben.  In  love  ? 

Rom.  Out. 

Ben.  Of  love  ? 

Rom.  Out  of  her  favour  where  I  am  in  love. 

Ben.  Alas,  that  love,  so  gentle  in  his  view, 
Slioald  be  so  tyrannous  and  rough  in  proof! 

Rom.  Alas,  that  love,  whose  view  is  muffled  still. 
Should  without  eyes  see  pathways  to  his^  wiil  ! 
Where  shall  we  dine  ? — 0  me  ! — What  fray  was  here  ? 
Vet  tell  me  not,  for  I  have  heard  it  all. 
Here 'c  much  to  do  with  hate,  but  more  with  love; — 
Why  then,  O  brawling  love  !     0  loving  hate  ! 
0  any  thing,  of  nothing  first  created*  ! 
0  heavy  lightness  !  serious  vanity  ! 
Mis-shapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms  !* 
Feather  of  lead,  bright  smoke,  cold  lire,  sick  health ! 
Still-waking  sleep,  that  is  not  what  it  is  ! — 
This  love  feel  I.  that  feel  no  love  in  this. 
Dost  thou  not  laugh  •? 

Ben.  No,  coz  ;  I  rather  weep. 

Rom.  Good  heart,  at  what? 

Ben.  At  thy  good  heart's  oppression. 

Rom.  Why,  such.  Benvolio,  is  love's  transgression. — 
Griefs  of  mine  own  lie  heavy  in  my  breast : 
Which  thou  wilt  propagate,  to  have  it  press'd 
With  more  of  thine :  this  love,  that  thou  hast  shovm. 
Doth  add  more  grief  to  too  much  of  mine  own. 
Love  is  a  smoke,  made*  with  the  fume  of  sighs  ; 
Being  pviff'd'.  a  fire  sparkling  in  lovers'  eyes; 
Being  vex'd.  a  sea  nourish'd  with  lovers'  tears : 
What  is  it  else  ?  a  madness  most  discreet, 
A  choking  gall,  and  a  preserving  sweet. 
Farewell,  my  coz.  [Going. 

Ben.  Soft,  I  will  go  along: 

An  if  you  leave  me  so,"  you  do  me  -v\Tong. 

Rom.  Tut  !  I  have  lost  myself;  I  am  not  here  : 
"his  is  not  Romeo  :  he  's  some  other  where. 

Ben.  Tell  me  in  sadness,  who  is  't  that'  you  love. 

Rom.  What !  shall  I  groan,  and  tell  thee  ? 

Ben.  Groan!  why,  no  ; 

But  sadly  tell  me,  who. 

Rom.  Bid  a  sick  man  in  sadness  make  his  will  !'" 
A.  word  ill  tirg'd  to  one  that  is  so  ill. — 
In  sadness,  cousin.  I  do  love  a  woman. 

Ben.  I  ainrd  so  near."  when  I  suppos'd  you  lovM. 

Rom.  A  right  good  mark-man  ! — and  she  'sfair  I  love. 

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


Rom.  Well,  in  that  hit  you  miss;  she  '11  not  be  hii 
With  Cupid's  arrow.     She  hath  Dian"s  wit ; 
And  in  strong  proof  of  chastity  well  arm'd, 
From  love's  weak  childish  bow  she  lives  encharm'd.'* 
She  will  not  sta>  tlie  sie;.e  of  loving  terms, 
Nor  bide  th'  encounter  of  a.'sailing  eyes,'' 
Nor  ope  her  lap  to  saint-seducing  gold ; 
0  !  she  is  rich  in  beauty  ;  only  poor. 
That  when  she  dies  with  beauty  dies  her  store.'* 

Ben.  Then  she  hath  sworn,  that  she  will  still  live 
chaste  ? 

Rom.  She  hath,  and  in  that  sparing  makes  huge  waate 
For  beauty,  starv'd  with  her  severity. 
Cuts  beauty  off  from  all  posterity. 
She  is  too  fair,  too  wise ;  too  wisely  fair, 
To  merit  bliss  by  making  me  desi)air ; 
She  hath  forsworn  to  love,  and  in  that  vow 
Do  I  live  dead,  that  live  to  tell  it  now. 

Ben.  Be  rul'd  by  me;  forget  to  think  of  her. 

Rom.  0  !   teach  me  how  I  should  forget  to  think. 

Ben.  By  giving  liberty  unto  thine  eyes: 
Examine  other  beauties. 

Rom.  'T  is  the  way 

To  call  hers,  exquisite,  in  question  more. 
These  happy  masks,  that  kiss  fair  ladies'  brows, 
Being  black,  put  us  in  mind  they  hide  the  fair: 
He,  that  is  stricken  blind,  cannot  forget 
The  precious  treasure  of  his  eyesiglit  lost. 
Show  me  a  mistress  that  is  passing  fair; 
What  doth  her  beauty  serve,  but  as  a  note 
Where  I  may  read  who  pass'd  that  passing  fair? 
Farewell  ;  thou  canst  not  teach  me  to  forget. 

Ben.  I  '11  pay  chat  doctrine,  or  else  die  in  debt. 

[Exiun'.. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 

Enter  Capulet.  Paris,  and  Servant. 

Cap.  But"  Montague  is  bound  as  well  as  I, 
In  penalty  alike  j  and  't  is  not  hard,  I  think, 
For  men  so  old  as  we  to  keep  the  peace. 

Par.  Of  honourable  reckoning  are  you  both ; 
And  pity  't  is,  you  liv'd  at  odds  so  long. 
But  now,  my  lord,  wliat  say  you  to  my  suit  ? 

Cap.  But  saying  o'er  what  I  have  said  before. 
My  child  is  yet  a  stranger  in  the  world, 
She  hath  not  seen  the  change  of  fourteen  years : 
Let  two  more  summers  wither  in  their  pride, 
Ere  we  may  think  her  ripe  to  be  a  bride. 

Par.  Younger  than  she  are  happy  mothers  made 

Cap.  And  too  soon  marrd  are  those  so  early  married.' 
Earth  up"  hath  swallowed  all  my  hopes  but  she, 
She  is  the  hopeful  lady  of  my  earth:'* 
But  woo  her,  gentle  Paris,  get  her  heart. 
My  will  to  her  consent  is  but  a  part  ; 
An  she  agree,  within  her  scope  of  choice 
Lies  my  consent  and  lair  according  voice.'* 
This  night  I  hold  an  old  accustoin"d  feast, 
Whereto  I  have  invited  many  a  guest, 
Such  as  I  love :  and  you,  among  the  store, 
One  more  most  welcome  makes  my  number  more. 
At  my  poor  house  look  to  beliold  this  niglit 
Earth-treading  stars,  that  make  dark  heaven  light 
Such  comfort,  as  do  lusty  young  men  feel, 
When  well-apparel'd  April  on  the  heel 
Of  limping  winter  treads,  even  such  delight 


'  same  :  in  old  co.-.ies.  Theotjald  made  the  change.  »  hopes  :  in  quarto,  1.597.  '  laws  give  pathways  to  our  :  in  quarto.  1.597.  <=re»V« 
10  quarto,  1.597.  »  best-seem, n^  things:  in  quarto.  1.507.  Other  quartos,  and  first  folio:  well-seeing  forms.  «  rai.-^  d  :  in  quarto,  loiU 
■  p-Jrg'd  :  in  f  e  »  hinder  me  :  in  quirto,  1597.  «  whom  she  is  you  :  in  quarto.  1.597.  '»  So  the  quarto,  1597.  Other  old  copies  omit  :  bid 
"  light  :  in  quarto.  1.597.  '-^  unharmed  :  in  f.  e.  'Gainst  Cupid's  childish  bow  she  lives  uncharm'd  :  in  quarto,  l.)97  |»  .Not  in  qnarto. 
1597      I*  The  rest  r,f  this,  and  hrst  speech  of  next  scene   not  in  quarto,  1597.      >s  Not  in  folio.      >«  made  :  in  f.  e.      "  Not  in  f  e  IJui 

end  th*  preceding  Una,  are  not  in  the  quarto,  1.597       i'  This  and  previous  line,  are  not  in  quarto,  1597. 


6o2 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


Vmong  frc8h  female  buds  sluill  you  iliis  night 
inherit  at  my  house:  hear  all,  all  see. 
And  like  h>r  mosi,  whose  nifit  most  shall  be: 
Which,  on  more  view'  of  many,  mine  being  one, 
May  .-taiul  in  number,  though  in  reckoning  none, 
('ome,  t;o  with  me. — Go,  sirrah,  trudge  about 
Through  fair  Verona;   find  those  persons  out, 
Whose  names  are  written  there,  and  to  them  say. 

[Giving  a  Paper. 
My  house  and  welcome  on  their  plea.'sure  stay. 

[Exeunt  Capulet  and  Paris. 

Serv.  Find  them  out,  wiiose  names  are  written  here? 
It  is  writle:i.  iliat  the  shoemaker  should  meddle  with 
his  )ard.  and  the  tailor  wiih  his  la.«t,  the  fisher  with 
hts  pencil,  and  the  painter  with  his  nets  :  but  I  am  sent 
to  tind  I  hose  persons,  whose  names  are  here  writ,  and 
can  never  lind  what  names  the  writing  person  hath 
here  writ.  I  must  to  the  learned  : — in  good  time. 
Enter  Benvolio  a7id  Romeo. 

Ben.  Tut,  man  I  one  fire  burns  out  anotliers  burning, 

One  pain  is  le.^sen"d  by  another's  angui.^h  ; 
Turn  giddy,  and  be  help  by  backward  turning; 

One  desperate  grief  cures  with  another's  languish: 
Take  thou  some  new  infection  to  thy  eye, 
And  the  rank  poison  of  the  old  will  die. 

Rom.  Your  plantain  leaf  is  excellent  for  that. 

Ben.  For  what,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Rom.  For  your  broken  shin. 

Ben.  Why,  Romeo,  art  thou  mad  ? 

Rom.  Not  mad,  but  bound  more  than  a  madman  is  : 
Shut  up  in  prison,  kept  without  my  food, 
Whipp'd.  and  tormented,  and — Good-den,  good  fellow. 

Serv.  God  gi'  good  den. — {  pray,  sir.  can  you  read  ? 

Rom.  Ay.  mine  own  fortune  in  my  misery. 

Serv.  Perhaps  you  have  learn"d  it  w^ithout  book;  but, 
I  pray,  can  you  read  any  thing  you  see  ? 

Rom.  Ay,  if  I  know  the  letters,  and  the  language. 

Serv.  Ye  say  honestly.     Rest  you  merry.      [Going. ^ 

Rom.  Stay,  fellow  ;  I  can  read.  [Rends. 

"  Siriiior  Martino.  and  his  wife,  and  daughters  ; 
County  Anselme,  and  his  beauteous  sisters;  the  lady 
widow  of  Vitruvio ;  Sii/nior  Placentio.  and  his  lovely 
nieces;  Mercutio,  and  his  brother  Valentine;  mine 
uncle  Capulet,  his  wife,  and  daughters  ;  my  fair  niece 
Rosaline;  Li\  a;  Signior  Valentio,  and  his  cousin 
Tybalt :  Lucio,  and  the  lively  Helena." 
A  fair  as.>;embly  ;  whither  should  they  come  ? 

Serv.  Up. 

Rom.  Whither?  to  supper? 

Serv.  To  our  house. 

Rom.  Whose  house? 

Serv.  .My  ma.'^ter's. 

Rom.  Ind<ed,  I  sliould  have  a.'sked  you  that  before. 

Serf.  Now,  I  Ml  tell  you  without  asking.  My  master 
18  the  great  rich  Capulet :  and  if  you  be  not  of  the  house 
of  Montague.'!,  I  pray,  come  and  cru.sh'  a  cup  of  wine. 
Rest  you  merry.  [Exit. 

Ben.  At  this  same  ancient  feaist  of  Capulet's 
Sups  the  !air  Rosaline,  whom  thou  so  lovest, 
With  all  the  admin-d  beauties  of  Verona: 
Go  thitlier:  and.  with  unatiainted  eye. 
•  'omparehrr  fact  wiih  .•^ome  that  I  shall  show, 
And  I  will  make  Uiee  think  thy  swan  a  crow. 

Rom.  When  the  devout  religion  of  mine  eye 

Miiiiitains  such  falsehood,  ihen  turn  tears  to  fires: 
And  till  «e.  who.  often  drowti'd,  could  never  die, 

Transparent  heretics,  be  burnt  for  liars. 


One  fairer  than  my  love  !  the  all-seeing  sun 
Ne'er  saw  her  match  since  first  the  world  begxtn. 

Ben.  Tut  !  you  saw  her  fair,  none  else  being  by. 
Herself  pois'd  with  herself  in  either  eye  : 
But  in  those*  crystal  scales  let  there  be  weigh'd 
Your  lady's  love*  against  some  other  maid. 
That  I  will  show  you  shining  at  this  feast. 
And  she  shall  scant  show  well,  that  now  shows*  best. 

Rom.  I  '11  go  along,  no  such  sight  to  be  showni. 
But  to  rejoice  in  splendour  of  mine  own.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  ni. — A  Room  in  Capui.et's  House. 
Enter  Lady  Capulet  and  Nur.se. 

La.    Cap    Nurse,  where 's   my  daughter?  call   hei 
forth  to  me. 
!      Ntose.  Now,  by  my  maiden-head  at  twelve  year  old, 
'  I  bade  her  come. — What,  lamb  !  what,  lady-bird  ! — 
God  forbid  ! — where 's  this  girl  ? — what.  Juliet! 
Enter  Juliet. 

/((/.  How  now  !  who  calls  ? 

Nurse.  Your  mother. 

/(//.  Madam,  I  am  here* 

What  is  your  will  ?  • 

La. Cap.  This  is  the  matter. — Nurse,  give  leave  awhile 
We  must  talk  in  secret. — Nurse,  come  back  again : 
I  have  remcmber'd  me,  thou  shalt  hear  our  counsel. 
Thou  know'st  my  daughter's  of  a  pretty  age. 

Nur.se.  'Faith,  I  can  tell  her  age  unto  an  hour. 

La.  Cap.  She  's  not  fourteen. 

Nurse.  I  "11  lay  fourteen  of  my  teelh, 

And  yet  to  my  teen'  be  it  spoken  I  have  but  four, 
She  is  not  fourteen.     How  long  is  it  now 
To  Lammas-tide  ? 

La.  Cap.  A  fortnight,  and  odd  days. 

Nur.te.  Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year. 
Come  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen. 
Susan  and  she. — God  rest  all  Christian  souls  ! — 
Were  of  an  age. — Weil,  Susan  is  with  God  ; 
She  wa,s  too  good  for  me.     But.  as  I  said, 
On  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen: 
That  .shall  she,  marry  :  I  remember  it  well. 
'T  is  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years  : 
And  she  was  wean'd, — I  never  shall  forget  it, — 
Of  all  the  days  of  the  year,  upon  that  day  ; 
For  I  had  then  laid  wormwood  to  my  dug. 
Sitting  in  the  sun  under  the  dove-house  wall : 
My  lord  and  you  were  then  at  Mantua. — 
Nay.  I  do  bear  a  brain  : — but.  as  I  said. 
When  it  did  taste  the  wormwood  on  t!ie  nipple 
Of  my  dug,  and  felt  it  bitter,  pretty  foci. 
To  see  if  tetchy,  and  fail  out  with  the  dug  ! 
Shake,  quoth  the  dove-house  :  't  was  no  need,  I  trow, 
To  bid  me  trvidge. 

And  since  that  time  it  is  eleven  years: 
For  then  she  could  stand  alone" ;  nay.  by  the  rood, 
She  could  have  run  and  waddled  all  about. 
For  even  the  day  before  she  broke  her  brow: 
And  then  my  husband — God  be  with  his  soul! 
'A  was  a  merry  man* — took  up  the  child  : 
"  Yea,"  quoth  he,   '-dost  thou  fall  upon  thy  face? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward,  when  thou  hast  more  wit 
Wilt  thou  not,  Jule?"  and.  by  my  holy-dam. 
The  pretty  wretch  left  cryinir,  and  said — "Ay.'" 
To  see,  now,  how  a  jest  shall  come  about ! 
I  warrant,  an  I  should  live  a  thousand  years. 
I  nevershould  forget  it:  "  Wilt  thmi  not  Jule-"" quoth  he 
And,  pretty  fool,  it  stinted,'*  and  said — "  Ay." 


»  8o;h  •monpit  »i«w  ;  in  qniuto,  1597.  »  No'  >  t.  *.  >  An  exprewion  often  met  with.  ♦  that :  in  old  copie*.  »  Dvce  suppe«t»  :  ladj 
Km.  •  >«ern>  :  in  quarto*.  1597-9.  '  Sorrou  *  hich  lone  :  in  quarto,  1597.  »  Tb«  re«t  of  this,  and  half  of  the  aext  1  ne,  not  .1 
4-jarto,  1697.     »•  Stopptd. 


8CENK  IV. 


KOMEO   AND  JULIET. 


6bS 


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

Nurse.  Ves,  madam.     Yet  I  cannot  choose  but  laugh, 
To  think  it  should  leave  crying,  and  .say — "  Ay:" 
A.nd  yet.  I  warrant,  it  had  upon  its  brow 
A  bump  as  bi;i  as  a  young  cockrel's  stone, 
A  perilous  knock  ;  and  it  cried  bitterly. 
"  Yea,"  quoth  my  husband.   •'  falTst  upon  thy  face? 
Thou  wilt  fail  backward,  when  thou  com'st  to  age; 
Wilt  thou  not,  Jule?"'  it  stinted,  and  said — "  Ay." 

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

Nurse.   Peace !     I   have  done.'     God  mark   thee  to 
his  grace, 
Thou  wast  tlie  prettiest  babe  that  e'er  I  nurs'd: 
An  I  might  live  to  see  thee  married  once. 
I  have  my  wi.-h. 

La.  Cap.  Marry,  that  marry  is  the  very  theme 
I  came  to  talk  of. — Tell  me,  daughter  .Tuliet, 
How  stands  your  di.«position  to  be  married? 

Jul.  It  IS  an  honour  that  I  dream  not  of. 

Nurse.  An  honour  !  were  not  I  thine  only  nurse, 
[  would  say,  thou  hadst  suck'd  wisdom  from  thy  teat. 

La.    Cap.    Well,   think  of  marriage  now ;    younger 
than  you. 
Here  in  Verona,  ladies  of  esteem, 
Are  made  already  mothers  :  by  my  count, 
I  was  your  mother,  much  upon  these  years 
That  you  are  now  a  maid.     Thus,  then,  in  brief: — 
The  valiant  Paris  seeks  you  for  his  love. 

Nurse.  A  man,  young  lady  !  lady,  such  a  man, 
.Vs  all  the  world — Why,  he's  a  man  of  wax. 

La.  Cap.   Verona's  summer  hath  not  such  a  flower. 

Nurse.  Nay,  he  's  a  flower ;  in  faith,  a  very  flower. 

La.  Cap.  What  say  you  ?  can  you  love  the  gentle- 
man ? 
This  night  you  shall  behold  him  at  our  feast :' 
Read  o'er  the  volume  of  young  Paris'  face. 
And  find  delight  writ  there  with  beauty's  pen. 
Examine  every  married*  lineament, 
And  see  how  one  an  other  lends  content: 
And  what  obscur'd  in  this  fair  volume  lies, 
Find  written  in  the  margin  of  his  eyes. 
This  precious  book  of  love,  this  unbound  lover, 
To  beautily  him  only  lacks  a  cover : 
The  fish  lives  in  the  sea  ;  and  't  is  much  pride. 
For  fair  without  the  fair  within  to  hide. 
That  book  in  many's  eyes  doth  share  the  glory, 
That  in  gold  clas|:s  locks  in  the  golden  story; 
So  shall  you  share  all  that  he  doth  possess 
By  having  him,  making  yourself  no  less. 

Nurse.  No  lei-s?  nay,  bigger  women  grow  by  men. 

Im.  Cap.  Speak  briefly,  can  you  like  of  Pans'  love  ? 

Jul    1  '11  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move; 
But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart"  mine  eye, 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it  fly. 
Enter  a  Servant. 

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

La.  Cap.  We  follow  thee. — Juliet,  the  county  stays. 

Nurse.  Go,  girl,  seek  happy  nights  to  happy  days. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Street. 
Enter  Romeo,   Mercutic,  Benvolio,   with  Jive  or  sia 

Maskers,    Torch-Bearers,  and  others,^  precedeil  liy  a 

Drum. 

Rom.  What,   shall    this    speech   be   spoke    for   our 
excuse, 
Or  shall  we  on  without  apology? 

Ben.  The  date  is  out  of  such  prolixity: 
We  '11  have  no  Cupid  hood-wink'd  with  a  scarf, 
Bearing  a  Tartar's  painted  bow  of  lath. 
Scaring  the  ladies  like  a  crow-keeiier' ; 
Nor  no  without-book  prolognie,  faintly  spoke 
After  the  prompter,  for  our  entrance  :' 
But,  let  them  measure  us  by  what  they  will. 
We'll  measure  them  a  measure,  and  be  gone. 

Ro7n.  Give  me  a  torch ;'  I  am  not  for  this  ambling 
Being  but  heav>',  I  will  bear  tiie  light. 

Mer.  Nay,  gentle  Homeo,  we  must  have  you  dance 

Rom.  Not  I,  believe  me.     You  have  dancing  shoes. 
With  nimble  soles  ;  I  have  a  soul  of  lead. 
So  stakes  me  to  the  ground,  1  cannot  move. 

Mer.  You  are  a  lover  :  borrow  Cupids  wings," 
And  soar  with  them  above  a  common  bound. 

Rom.   I  am  too  sore  enpierced  with  his  shaft, 
To  soar  with  his  light  feathers  ;  and  so"  bound, 
I  cannot  bound  a  pitch  above  dull  woe  : 
Under  love's  heavy  burden  do  1  sink. 

Ben.  And.  to  sink  in  it,  should  you  burden  love; 
Too  great  oppression  for  a  tender  thing. 

Rom.  Is  love  a  tender  thing  ?  it  is  too  rough, 
Too  rude,  too  boisterous  ;  and  it  pricks  like  thorn. 

Mer.  If  love  be  rough  with  you,  be  rough  with  love: 
Prick  love  for  pricking,  and  you  beat  love  down. — 
Give  me  a  case  to  put  my  visage  iji : 

[Putting  on  a  Mask. 
A  visor  for  a  visor  ! — what  care  1, 
What  curious  eye  doth  quote"  deformities? 
Here  are  the  beetle-brows  shall  blush  for  me. 

Ben.  Come,  knock,  and  enter  ;  and  no  sooner  in. 
But  every  man  betake  him  to  his  legs. 

Roni.  A  torch  for  me  :  let  wantons,  light  of  heart, 
Tickle  the  senseless  rushes'^  with  their  heels; 
For  I  am  proverb'd  with  a  grandsire  phrase. — 
I  "11  be  a  candle-holder,  and  look  on  : 
The  game  was  ne'er  so  fair,  and  I  am  done. 

Mer.  Tut  !  dun's'*  the  mouse,  the  constable's  ow» 
word. 
If  thou  art  dun,  we'll  draw  thee  from  the  mire'* 
Of  this  save-reverence'*  love,  wherein  thou  stick'st 
Up  to  the  ears. — Come,  we  burn  day-light,  ho  ! 

Ro7n.  Nay,  that 's  not  so. 

Mer.  I  mean,  sir.  in  delay 

We  waste  our  lights  in  vain,'^  like  lam)is  by  day. 
Take  our  good  meaning,  for  our  judgment  hits 
Five  times  in  that,  ere  once  in  our  five  wits. 

Ram.  And  we  mean  well  in  going  to  this  ma«k, 
But  't  is  no  wit  to  go. 

Mer.  Why,  may  one  ask  ? 

Rom.  I  dreamt  a  dream  to-night. 

Mer.  And  so  did  I. 

Rom.  Well,  what  was  yours  ? 

Mer.  That  dreamers  often  he 

Rom.  In  bed  asleep,  wliile  they  do  dream  things  true. 


«  This  and  the  next  speech,  not  in  the  quarto.  1.597.  »  Well,  go  thy  ways  :  in  quarto,  1597.  '  This  and  the  following  lines  to  JrLiBl;f 
ipeoch,  are  not  in  the  quarto.  15'J7.  *  several  :  in  quarto,  U>09,  and  folio,  s  engage  :  in  quarto.  I ')97^  'The  rest  of  this  direction  is  rM  lo 
te.  'Like  a  person  set  lo  scare  crows.  «  This  and  the  previous  line,  are  only  in  the  quarto.  I. ')!)7.  '  ■•  tH  is  ju.<l  like  a  lnrcn-beii.er  to 
maskers ;  he  wears  good  cloathes.  and  is  ranked  in  good  company,  but  he  doth  nothing. ■"—Dirter'.v  irc.^npar//  Ho'.  HiH-  :  quoted  l>v  Mecveni 
W  This  and  ihe  eleven  lines  'olluwing,  are  not  in  the  quarto,  1597.  n  to  :  in  folio.  '»  0«.wt»«.  '^  The  ordinary  coverine  for  rtooni.  '♦  A 
phraaie  olien  met  with  ;  it  may  mean,  "  dumb  as  a  mouse."  "  '  Dun  is  in  the  mire,"  is  a  game  which  consists  in  seeing  who  can  Lit  & 
W"?  Jog  of  -wood.— Criff'ord       i°  From  salvd  reverentid,  an  old  apologetic  form  of  expression.     "  by  night:  in  quarto,  1597. 


054 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


ACT    I. 


But  he,  tliat  hath  the  steerage  of  my  course, 
Direct  my  sail." — On,  In.sty  gentlemen. 

Ben.  Strike,  drum.  [Exeuni 

SCENE  v.— A  Hall  in  Capulet's  House. 
Musicians  waiting.     Enter  Servants. 

1  SeriK  Wlicre  's  Potpan,  that  he  helps  not  to  tak« 
away  ?  he  shilt  a  trencher  I  he  scrape  a  trencher  : 

2  Serv.  When  good  manners  shall  lie  all"  in  cnc  or 
two  men's  hands,  and  they  unwashed  too;  'tis  a  fo'il 
thing. 

1  Serv.  Away  with  the  joint-stools,  remove  the  court 
cupboard,'""'  look  to  the  plate. — Good  thou,  save  me  <i 
piece  of  marchpane'"  ;  and,  as  thou  lovcst  me.  let  the 
porter  let  in  Susan  Grindstone,  and  Nell. — Antony  ! 
and  Potpan  ! 

2  Serv.  Ay.  boy;  ready. 

1  Serv.  You  are  looked  for,  and  called  for,  asked  for, 
and  sought  for.  in  the  great  elianiber. 

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

\They  retire. 
Enter"  Capulet,  ^c.  with  the  Gve.sts.  and  the  Whiskers 

Cap.  Welcome,  gentlemen  !  ladie.-^,  that  have  their  toen 
Un plagued  with  corns,  will  have  a  bout"  with  you  : — 
Ah,  ha,  my  mistresses!  which  of  j-ou  all 
Will  now  deny  to  dance?  she  that  makes  dainty,  ^he, 
I  '11  swear,  halh  corns.     Am  I  come  near  you  now' 
You  are  welcome,  gentlemen  !     1  have  seen  the  day, 
That  I  have  worn  a  visor,  and  could  tell  [To  Ro.meo,  ifc.** 
A  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady"s  ear, 
Such  as  would  please  : — "t  is  gone,  't  is  gone,  't  is  gone. 
You  are  welcome,  gentlemen  ! — Come,  musicians,  play. 
A  hall  !  a  hall  !  give  room,  and  foot  it,  girls."* 

[Mu.'^it  ploys,  anil  they  dance. 
More  light,  ye  knaves,  and  turn  the  tables  up. 
And  quench  the  fire,  the  room  is  grown  too  hot. — 
Ah  !  sirrah,  this  unlook'd-f'or  sjiort  comes  well. 
Nay,  sit,  nay,  sit,  good  cousin  Capulet, 
For  you  and  I  are  past  our  dancing"'  days  : 
How  long  is  't  now,  since  last  yourself  and  I 
Were  in  a  mask? 

2  Cap.  By  'r  lady,  thirty  years. 

1  Cap.  What,  man !  't  is  not  so  m.uch,  't  is  not  so  much . 
'T  is  since  the  nuptial  of  Lueentio, 
Come  i)entecost  as  quickly  as  it  will, 
Some  five  and  twenty  years;  and  then  we  mask'd. 

2  Cap.  'T  is  more,  't  is  more  :  his  son  is  elder,  sir  , 
His  son  is  thirty. 

1  Cap.  Will  you  tell  me  that?" 

His  son  was  but  a  ward  two  yi^ars  ago. 

Rom.  What  lady  is  that,  which  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight?  [Pointing  to  Jlm.iet." 

Serv.  I  know  not.  sir. 

Rom.  O  !  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  briehl. 
It  seems  she-'  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear ; 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear  ! 
So  shows  a  sno\\'y  dove"  trooping  with  crows, 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows. 
The  mea.'^ure  done,  I  '11  watch  her  place  of  stand, 

'  bargomanter  :  in  quarto,  1597.     *  Atnwart :  in  qaarto,  1.597.     '  This  and  the  two  preceding  lines,  in  the  quarto,  1597,  read : 

The  traces  are  the  moonshine  watery  beams, 

The  collarV  cricket's  bones,  the  la-sh  of  films, 
»  iii\id  :  in  f.  e.  »  This  and  the  two  l>f*e*dinc  lines,  are  not  in  the  quarto,  1597.  'up  and  down  :  in  quarto,  1.597.  '  This  line  is  not  tt 
,uano,  ]:,'.>~  0  courtier'.  ;  in  f.  e.  :  lawyer'h  lap  :  in  quarto,  1.597.  »  callops  o'er  n  foldiers  nose  :  in  quarto,  1597.  '»  counierinine»_ii. 
quarto.  I.W/.  "  These  three  wordf.  are  not  in  quarto,  1.j97.  'a  bakes :  in  f.  e.  ;  plaits  :  in  quarto,  1.597.  13  breeds  :  in  quarto,  1.597.  '♦  Th» 
whole  speech,  except  the  last  four  lines,  \*  printed  in  all  old  eds..  except  the  qnarto,  1.597,  as  prose.  "  in  haate  :  in  quarto.  1.597  '*  fact 
in  f.  e.  "  ontirr.ely  forfeit  of  vile  :  in  quarto,  1.597.  i"  So  the  quarto,  1.597;  other  old  copies  :  stiit.  '»  Not  in  folio.  '"  Sit/e-hoard.  "  A 
roAe.  similar  to  a  macaroon.  "  The  scene  in  quarto,  1.597.  commences  here,  "go  the  quarto.  1.597;  other  old  copies:  will  walk  abot" 
»♦  Not  in  f  e.  "This  and  the  lines  from.  "  I  have  seen,"  not  in  f.  e.  >•  standinR  :  in  quarto.  1.597.  ="  The  quarto,  1597,  adds :  "itcai 
»ot  be  M,"  and  after  tne  next  line,  ••  ijood  youths,  i"  faith  I  O  youth  '»  a  jolly  thing  !"  »*  Not  in  f.  e.  »»  Her  beautv  :  in  seoMi  foil- 
••  5«  ifce  quarto,  1597,  "So  shinei  a  inow-wiiite  awan." 


Mfr  0  !  then.  I  ^ce.  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
>i'.e  is  liic  fairies"  iniilwile  :  and  ."^he  comes 
In  shape  no  bmser  tlian  an  agate  stone 
On  tin-  fore-tinger  of  an  aldermau 
')r;i\vn  with  a  it>am  of  little  atoinii* 
Over'  mens  nosi-s  as  they  lie  asleep: 
Her  wagg(m->pekes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 
Tiie  cover,  of  the  wuigs  of  grasshoppers  ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web  ; 
riie  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams  :* 
Hit  whip,  of  cricket's  bone  ;  the  lash,  of  tilrn  : 
Her  wai!goner.  a  small  grey-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  .><o  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Pick'd  iVoin  I  he  lazy  finger  of  a  milkmaid.* 
Her  cliaiiot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
M.ade  h\  the  joiner  .«quirrel,  or  old  grub. 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers.' 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  nii;ht* 
Througli  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love  : 
On  courtiers"  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies  straight: 
O'er  lawyers"  fingers,  who  straii'lit  dream  on  fees:' 
•^"er  la^lies"  lips,  who  .straight  on  kisses  dream  ; 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues. 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweet-meats  tainted  are. 
Sf)metime  she  gallo|:8  o'er  a  counsellor'.'^*  nose. 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit: 
And  sometime  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep. 
Then  lie  dreanis  of  another  benefice. 
Sometime  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck.' 
And  (hen  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats. 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades," 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts,  and  wakes ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted."  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab, 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night : 
Akd  makes'*  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs. 
Which,  once  untangled,  much  misfortune  bodes." 
This  is  the  hag.  when  maids  lie  on  their  backs, 
That  presses  them,  and  learns  them  first  to  bear, 
Makini.'  them  women  of  good  carriage. 
Tins,  is  she—'* 

Rom.  Peace,  peace  !  Mercutio,  peace  ! 

Thou  talk'st  of  nothing. 

Mer.  True.  I  talk  of  dreanis. 

Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Be^'ot  of  nothing'  but  vain  fanta.«y  ; 
Which  is  as  thin  of  substance  as  the  air, 
And  more  incoiistanl  than  the  wind,  who  woos 
Even  now  the  f'rozen  bosom  of  the  north, 
And.  being  anL'erd,  puffs  away  from  tl"^*-      '* 
Turning  his  tide'*  to  the  dew-dropi    ,  ^^  ^uth. 

Ben.  This  wind,  you  talk  of.  bloif^iLsfrom  ourselves; 
Supper  is  done,  and  we  shall  come  too  late. 

Rom.  I  fear,  too  early;  for  my  mind  misgives, 
Some  consequence,  yet  hanging  in  the  stars. 
Shall  bitterly  begin 'his  fearful  date 
With  this  night's  revels:  and  ex\>\re  the  term 
Of  a  despisi-d  life,  clos'd  in  my  breath, 
By  some  vile  forfeit  of  untimely"  death  : 


SCEIVE    V. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


6- 


A.ntl,  touching  hers,  make  blessed'  ray  rude  hand. 
Did  my  heart  love  till  now  ?  forswear  it,  sight  ! 

never  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night. 

Tyb.  This,  by  hi«  voice,  should  be  a  Montague. 
Fetch  me  my  rapier,  boy. — [Exit  Boy'.]   What  I    dares 

the  slave 
Come  hiiher.  cover'd  with  an  antic  face, 
To  fleer  and  scorn  at  our  solemnity  ? 
Now,  by  the  stock  and  honour  of  my  kin, 
To  strike  him  dead  I  hold  it  not  a  sin. 

1  Cap.  Why,  how  now,  kinsman?  wherefore  storm 
you  so  ? 

Tyb.  Uncle,  this  is  a  Montague,  our  foe  ; 
A  nllain,  that  is  hither  come  in  spite, 
To  scoi*n  at  our  solemnity  this  night. 

1  Cap.   Young  Romeo  is  it  ? 

Tyb.  'T  is  he,  that  villain  Romeo. 

1  Cap.  Content  thee,  gentle  coz,*  let  him  alone. 
He  bears  him  like  a  portly  gentleman  ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  Verona  brags  of  him, 
To  be  a  virtuous  and  well-govern'd  youth. 
I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  all  this  town, 
Here,  in  my  house,  do  him  disparagement; 
Therefore,  be  patient,  take  no  note  of  him  : 
[t  is  my  will;  the  which  if  thou  respect, 
Show  a  fair  presence,  and  put  off  these  frowns, 
An  ill-beseeming  semblance  for  a  feast. 

Tyb.  It  fits,  when  such  a  villain  is  a  guest. 
I  '11  not  endure  him. 

1  Cap.  He  shall  be  endur'd  : 

What,  goodman  boy*  ! — I  say,  he  shall ; — go  to  ; 
Go  to  :  am  I  the  master  here,  or  you  ? 
You'll  not  endure  him  ! — God  shall  mend  my  soul — 
Yon  '11  make  a  mutiny  among  my  guests. 
Yon  will  set  cock-a-hoop  :  you  '11  be  the  man. 

Tyb.  Why,  uncle,  't  is  a  shame. 

1  Cap.  Go  to.  go  to  , 

You  are  a  saucy  boy. — Is  't  so.  indeed  ? — 
This  trick  may  chance  to  scath  you ; — I  know  what. 
I       You  must  contrary  me  !  marry,  't  is  time' — 
[       Well  said,  my  hearts  ! — You  are  a  princox';  go  : — 
Be  quiet,  or — More  light,  more  light ! — for  shame  ! 
I  '11  make  you  quiet ;  What  ! — Cheerly,  my  hearts  ! 

Tyb.  Patience  perforce  with  wilful  choler  meeting. 
Makes  my  flesh  tremble  in  their  different  greeting. 
I  will  -withdraw,  but  this  intrusion  shall, 
J      Now  seeming  sweet,  convert  to  bitter  gall.  [Exit. 

Rom    If  I  profane  with  my  unworthicst  hand 

\To  Juliet. 
This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  fine'  is  this, — 
My  Lps,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand 

To  smooth  that  rough  touch  with  a  tender  ki.^s. 

Jill.  Good  pilgrim,  you  do  wrong  your  hand  too  much, 
Which  mannerly  devotion  shows  in  this  ; 
For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrims'  hands  do  touch.* 
And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmers"  kiss. 

Rom.  Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers  too? 

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

Rom.  0  !  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  do  wliat  hands  do  ; 
They  pray,  grant  thou,  lest  faith  turn  to  despair. 

Jul.  Saints  do  not  move,  though  grant  for  prayers' 
sake. 

Rnm.  Then  mov&  not,  while  my  prayer's  effect  I  take. 


Thus  from  my  lips,  by  thine,  my  sin  is  purL''d. 

[Ki.s.fing  I 

Jul.  Then  have  my  lips  the  sin  that  tliey  have  took. 

Rom.  Sin  from  my  lips  ?    0,  trespass  sweetly  urg'd  ! 
Give  me  my  sin  again. 

Jul.  You  kiss  by  the  book.  [Kissing  her  again.* 

Nurse.  Madam,  your   mother   craves    a  word  with 
you.  [Juliet  rilires.^ 

Rom.  What  is  her  mother? 

Nurse.  Marr\-,  bachelor, 

Her  mother  is  the  lady  of  the  house. 
And  a  good  lady   and  a  wise,  and  virtuous. 
I  nurs'd  her  daugnter.  that  you  talk'd  withal ; 
I  tell  you — he  that  can  lay  hold  of  her 
Shall  have  the  chinks. 

Rom.  Is  she  a  Capulet  ? 

0,  dear  account !  my  life  is  my  foe's  debt." 

Ben.  Away,  begone  :  the  sport  is  at  the  best. 

Rom.  Ay.  so  I  fear  ;  the  more  is  my  unrest."[GotVig'" 

1  Cap.  Nay,  gentlemen,  prepare  not  to  be  gone ; 
We  have  a  trifling  foolish  banquet  towards. — 
[s  it  e'en  so?     Why  then,  I  thank  you  all : 
I  thank  you,  honest  gentlemen ;  good  night. — 
More  torches  here ! — Come  on.  then  let's  to  bed. 
Ah,  sirrah,  by  my  fay,  it  waxes  late ; 
I  '11  to  my  rest.  [Exit 

Jul.  Come  hither,  nurse      What  is  yond  gentleman  ' 
[The  Guests  retire  severally.- 

Nurse.  The  son  and  heir  of  old  Tiberio. 

Jul.  What 's  he,  that  now  is  going  out  of  door  ? 

Nurse.  Marry,  that.  I  think,  be  young  Petruchio. 

Jul.  What 's  he,  that  follows  here,  that  M-ould  not 
dance  ? 

Nurse.  I  know  not. 

Jul.  Go,  ask  his  name. — If  he  be  married, 
!\Iy  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding-bed. 

Nurse.  His  name  is  Romeo,  and  a  Montagiie  ; 

[Going  and  returning.^ 
The  only  son  of  your  great  enemy. 

Jul.  My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate  ! 
Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late  ! 
Prodigious  birth  of  love  it  is  to  me. 
That  I  must  love  a  loathed  enemy.  [Exc^int  all  Crue.tts.* 

Nurse.  What 's  this  ?  what  "s  this  ? 

Jul.  A  rhyme  I  learn'd  even  now 

Of  one  I  danc'd  withal.        [One  calls  within,  Juliet  ; 

Nurse.  Anon   anon. — 

Come,  let 's  away  :  the  strangers  all  are  gone.  [Exeunt 

Enter  Chorus.'* 
Now  old  desire  doth  in  his  death-bed  he, 

And  young  affection  gapes  to  be  his  lieir  : 
That  fair,  for  which  love  groan'd  tor,  and  would  die, 

With  tender  Juliet  matched,  is  now  not  fair. 
Now  Romeo  is  belov'd,  and  loves  again, 

Alike  bewitched  by  the  charm  of  looks  ; 
But  to  his  foe  suppos"d  he  must  complain. 

And  she  steal  love's  sweet  bait  from  fearful  hooks : 
Being  held  a  foe.  he  may  not  have  access 

To  breathe  such  vows  as  lovers  use  to  swear ; 
And  she  as  much  in  love,  lier  means  much  le.'^s 

To  meet  her  new-beloved  any  where  : 
But  passion  lends  them  power,  time  means  to  meet.^ 
Tempering  extremities  with  extreme  sweet.         [Exit 


'  hippy  :  in  qnarto.  ir97.    '  Not  in 
Une  IS  not  in  quarto.  1;p!  '        •  Cox 
■J597.     »  10  Not  in  f.  e      "  thrall :  i 
vmi  ScRSK  ;  in  f.  e      >•  »»  i'  Not  i 


inf.  e.     3  These  four  lines,  are  not  in  quarto,  1597.    4  These  three  words,  are  not  in  qnarto.  1.597.     »Thit 
o»»-  '  sin  :  in  old  copiPs.     Warburton  made  the  change.       8  „hich  holy  palmers  touch  :  in  quarto^ 

n  quarto,  1597.      '^  Theit  CMO  lii.es  are  mt  in  quarto,  1597.      >'  Not  in  f.  e.      "  Exeunt  all,  but  JouKl 


19  Not  in  quarto,  1597. 


656 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


ACT     II. 


SnENE  I — An  open  Place,  adjoining  Capulet's 

Garden. 

Enter  KoMEO. 

Rom.  Can  T  go  forward,  when  my  heart  is  here? 
Turn  back,  dull  earth,  and  tiud  thy  centre  out. 

[//(■  climhs  tlu  Hall,  and  leaps  doicn  within  it. 
Kndr  Benvolio  and  Mercutio. 

Ben.  Romeo  !  my  cousin  Romeo  !  Romeo  ! 

Mcr.  He  is  wise  ;' 

And.  on  my  life,  hath  stolen  him  home  to  bed. 

Ben.  He  ran  tliis  way,  and  Icap'd  this  orchard  wall. 
Call,  good  Mercutio. 

Mir.  Nay,  I  '11  conjure  too. — 

Romeo,  humours,  madman,  passion,  lover ! 
Appear  thou  in  the  Jikenc.s.s  of  a  sigh  : 
Speak  but  one  rnyme.  and  I  am  satisfied  ; 
Cry  but — Aii  me  I  pronounce'  but — love  and  dove ; 
Speak  to  my  gossip  Venus  one  fair  word. 
One  nick-name  for  her  purblind  son  and  heir, 
Young  .Adam'  Cupid,  he  that  shot  so  true,* 
When  king  Cophetua  lov'd  the  beggar-maid. — 
He  heareth  not,'  he  stirreth  not.  he  moveth  not ; 
The  ape  is  dead,  and  I  must  conjure  him. — 
I  conjure  tiiee  by  Iiosaline's  bright  eye.<, 
By  her  high  forehead,  and  her  scarlet  iip, 
By  her  fine  foot,  straight  leg,  and  quivering  thigh. 
And  the  demesnes  that  there  adjacent  lie, 
That  in  thy  likeness  thou  appear  to  us. 

Ben.  An  if  he  hear  thee,  thou  wilt  anger  him. 

Mcr.  This  cannot  anger  him:  't  would  anger  him 
To  rai.'-e  a  spirit  in  his  mistress'  circle 
Of  some  strange  nature,*  letting  it  there  stand 
Till  she  had  laid  it.  and  conjur'd  it  down  ; 
That  were  some  spite.     My  invocation 
Is  fair  and  honest,  and,  in  his  mistress"  name, 
I  conjure  only  but  to  raise  up  him. 

Ben.  Come,  he  hath  hid  himself  among  these  trees, 
To  be  consorted  with  the  humorous'  niuht  : 
Blind  is  his  love,  and  best  befits  the  dark. 

Mer.  If  love  be  blind,  love  cannot  hit  the  mark. 
Now  will  he  sit  under  a  medlar  tree. 
And  wish  his  mi.stre.ss  were  that  kind  of  fruit, 
As  maids  call  medlars  when  they  laugh  alone. — 
0  Romeo  !  that  she  were.  0  !  that  she  were 
An  np<Mi  et  calerii.  thou  a  poprin  pear  ! 
Ilnmro.  L'ooil  niuht  : — I  '.II  to  my  truckle-bed; 
This  field-bed  is  too  cold  for  me  to  sleep. — 
Come,  shall  we  go  ? 

Ben.  Go,  then;  for  'tis  in  vain 

To  seek  him  here,  that  means  not  to  be  found.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Capulet's  Garden. 
Enter  Ho.meo. 
Rom.  He  jest-s  at  scars,  that  never  felt  a  wound. — 
(.Il'liet  appcar.s  above,  at  a  window. 
But.  Rofl !  what  lisht  through  yonder  window  breaks  ? 
It  is  Ihc  ea.-t.  and  Juliet  is  the  sun. — 
Arise,  lair  sun.  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  iirief. 
Thai  thou,  her  maid,  art  far  more  fair  than  she  : 


Be  not  her  maid,  since  she  is  en%'ious  ; 

Her  vestal  livery  is  but  while*  and  graen. 

And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it ;  cast  it  off. — 

It  is  my  lady  ;  0  !  it  is  my  love : 

0,  that  she  knew  she  were  !' — . 

She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing  :  what  of  that  ? 

Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. — 

I  am  too  bold,  't  is  not  to  me  she  speaks: 

Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 

Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 

To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 

What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head? 

The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those  stare. 

As  daylight  doth  a  lamp:  her  eyes'"  in  heaven 

Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright. 

That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not  night 

See.  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 

0  !  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch"  that  check. 

/;//.  Ah  me  I 

Rom.  She  speaku  • 

0,  speak  again,  bright  ansel  !  for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wond'ring  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him. 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-passing"  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

Jul.  0  Romeo,  Romeo  !  wherefore  art  thou  Romeo ' 
Deny  thy  father,  and  refuse  thy  name  : 
Or.  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I  '11  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Rom.  Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I  speak  at  th.'fl  ' 

Jul.  'T  is  but  thy  name  tliat  is  my  enemy: 
Thou  art  thyself,  although'^  a  Montague. 
What 's  Montagvie?  it  is  nor  hand,  nor  foot, 
Nor  arm.  nor  face,  nor  any  other  part 
Belonging  to  a  man.     0  !  be  some  olher  name. 
What's  in  a  name?  that  which  we  call  a  rose. 
By  any  other  name"  would  smell  as  sweet; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  call'd, 
Retain  that  dear'*  perfection  which  he  owes 
Without  that  title — Romeo,  dolf"  thy  name; 
And  for  thy  name,  which  is  no  part  of  tliee. 
Take  all  myself'^" 

Rom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

[Starting  fonrara.  ' 
Call  me  but  love,  and  I  '11  be  new  baptiz'd; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

Jul.  What  man   art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreen'd   m 
night, 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

Ro7n.  By  a  name 

1  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am : 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Becaube  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee: 

Had  I  it  written,  I  would  tear  the  word. 

Jt'l.  My  ears  have  yet  not  drunk  a  hundred  words 
Of  that  tongue's  utterance,"  yet  I  know  the  sound. 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague? 

Rom.  Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  displeaBC. 


»  Dott  thoo  hear?    He.  kc.  :  in  quarto.  1.097.      »conply  :  in  folio  ICoupU).     'Abraham  :  in  old  copies.    The  allnsion  i»  snpfosed  ♦©  b« 
.u.  1.-11- 1    <■  f i-^L y.i-r.  .     '.,'  .'        *;    '  „  ..        e  ^L — •■'^ L '  •"— •  ^n  qoarto.  1S97 


to  the  balU'J  of  King  CophKtga  and  ihe  Bejrpar-maid      Dyce  says  the  word  is  "  acorruption  of 

•  He  h»ar»  me  not  :  in  quarto.  I.VJT ;  the  rest  of  this  and  the  next  line,  wanting'     ♦  tajihion  :  in  ijuailo 

f.  e.      •  This  and  the  previous  line,  are  not  in  quarto,  I.')!)".       '<>  eye  •   in  later  quartos  and  folio       '■  !;•> 

in  f.  e. .  pDiting  :  in  folio.      "  though,  not:  in  f  e.      '*  word  :  in    later  quartos,  and   folio.      '*  the  d 

quarto,  I JUT.      "  I  hare  :  in  quarto,  ISl'T.     >•  Not  in  f.  e.     "  thy  lonpue's  uttering  :  in  Liter  quartos,  and  folio. 


crn«*MrH. 
i  J97.     '  Vapory,  dewy.     "  «iclt  : 
•  in  quarto.  1.5!)*.      n'lazv-pacinp 


SCENE  n. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


657 


Jul  How  cam'st  thou  hither,  tell  me  ?  and  wherefore  ?  I 
The  orchard  walls  are  high,  and  hard  to  climb.  j 

And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art. 
[f  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'erperch  these ' 
walls :  I 

For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out : 
And  what  love  can  do.  that  dares  love  attempt :  ! 

Therefore,  thy  kinsmen  are  no  let'  to  me.  | 

Jul.  If  they  do  see  thee,  they  \iiU  murder  thee  j 

Ruin.  Alack  !  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye,  | 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords :  look  thou  but  sweet,  ■ 
.\nd  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity.  | 

.ful.  I  would" not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee  here.    | 
Rom.  I  have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from  their  eyes  : ' 
And  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here  : 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate,  \ 

Than  death  prorogued,  wanting  of  thy  love.  i 

Jul.  By  whose  direction  foimd'st  thou  out  this  place  ?  - 
Rom.  By  love,  that  first  did  prompt  me  to  inquire  ;    I 
He  lent  me'  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes.  ! 

1  am  no  pilot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far  | 

As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  ^nth  the  farthest  sea.  i 

I  would  adventiire  for  such  merchandise.  ' 

Jul    Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face  :  ■ 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek. 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke :  but  farewell  compliment. 
Do.^t  thou  love  me  ?     I  know  thou  ^^^lt  say — Ay  : 
And  I  will  take  thy  word ;  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  may'st  prove  false :   at  lovers"  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     0,  gentle  Romeo  ! 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I  '11  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay. 
So  thou  wilt  woo;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  JNIontaguo,  I  am  too  fond, 
And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  haviour  light: 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I  '11  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning'  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange.  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  over-heard'st,  ere  I  was  ware. 
My  true  love's  passion :  therefore,  pardon  me  : 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

Rom.  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear*. 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops. — 

Jul.  0  !  swear  not  by  the  moon,  th'  inconstant  moon 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Le.st  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variarble. 
Rom.  What  shall  I  swear  by? 

Jvl.  Do  not  swear  at  all 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious*  self. 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry. 
And  I  '11  believe  thee. 

Rom.  If  my  heart's  dear  love' — 

Jul.  Well,  do  not  swear.     Although  I  joy  in  thee. 
have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis"d.  too  sudden: 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be. 
Ere  one  can  say  it  lightens.     Sweet,  good  nigbt.'' 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath. 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Grood  night,  good  night !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! 


Rom.  0  !  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied? 

.fid.  What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night? 

Rom.  Th'  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow  for  mine, 

Jul.  I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  request  it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.  Wouldst  thou  withdraw  it?  for  what  purpos-, 
love  ? 

Jul.  But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again ; 
And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have. 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea. 
My  love  as  deep ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee. 
The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite.  [Nurse  call.'!  within 
T  hear  some  noise  within  :  dear  love,  adieu  !  — 
Anon,  good  nurse  ! — Sweet  Montague,  be  true. 
Stay  but  a  little.  I  \^^ll  come  again.  [Exit 

Rom.  0  blessed,  blessed  night!  I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream. 
Too  flattering-sweet*  to  be  substantial. 
Re-enter  Juliet  above. 

Jul.    Three    words,  dear   Romeo,  and  good    night, 
indeed. 
If  that  thv  bent  of  love  be  honourable. 
Tliy  piir[)Ose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow. 
By  one  that  I  '11  procure  to  come  to  thee. 
Wliere,  and  what  time,  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite  : 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  focTt  I  '11  lay. 
And  follow  thee  my  lord  throughout  the  world'. 

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam! 

Jul.  I  come.  anon. — But  if  thou  mean'st  not  well. 
I  do  beseech  thee, — 

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam! 

Jul.  By  and  by:  I  come.— 

To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief: 
To-morrow  ^nll  I  send. 

Rom.  So  thrive  my  soul, — 

Jul.  A  thousand  times  good  night.  [Exit 

Rom.    A  thousand  times  the  worse,  to  want  thy 
light.— 
Love  goes  toward  love,  as  school- boys  from  their  books  : 
But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  hea-vw  looks. 

[Going 
Re-enter  Juliet,  above. 

Jul.  Hist !  Romeo,  hist !— O.  for  a  falconer's  voice. 
To  lure  this  terceP"  gentle  back  again  ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud  ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  voice"  more  hoarse  than  mine 
AVith  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name". 

Rom.  It  is  my  soul,  that  calls  upon  my  name  : 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night. 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears". 

Jul.  Romeo  ! 

Rom.  My  dear.'* 

I      Jul.  At  what  o'clock  to-morro  < 

I  Shall  I  send  to  thee  •:> 

I      Rnm..  By  the  hour  of  nine. 

1      /;//.  1  will  not  fail  :  't  is  twenty  years  till  then. 
]  I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back. 
I      Rom.  Let  me  stand  here,  till  thou  remember  it. 
Jul.  I  shall  forget  to  have  thee  still  stand  there. 
'  Remembering  how  I  love  thy  company. 
I      Rovi.  And  I  '11  still  stay,  'to  have  thee  still  forget. 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 
i      Jul.  'T  is  almost  morning.  I  would  have  thee  gore 
And  yet  no  farther  than  a  wanton's  bird. 
.Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand. 


Hi 


'  Hindranre       >  ga.ve  :  in  quarto,  1597.     '  coving  :  in  later  quartos,  and  folio.      ♦  vender  moon  I  vow  :  in  folio.     »  f  J^L"''"?  _'°  Hi^rio. 
1-M7.     «  my  true  heart's  love  :  in  quarto.  1.597.     '  The  quarto,  1597,  omits  all  to  the  Nurse's  call.     '  true  :  in  quarto.  1,>9(.        I  he  qutrto 
1397,  umits  all  to.  "  Love  goes,"  &c      ■»  Male-hawk.     "  '^  tongue  :  in  later  quaitos.  and  folio  ;  they  also  omit  (i')  "  name 
ae;  '.n  v.!»^rto.  1597.     '*  Ho  the  undated  quarto;    that  of  1-597  :  Madam  :    firet  folio:    My  neice;   second  foho  :  -swe.. 
2R 


'  This  Ubo  : 


<:58 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  g>-ves,  I      Rom.  I  '11  tell  thee,  ere  thou  ask  it  me  again 

And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  asain.  ,1  have  been  feasting  with  mine  enemy; 

^^o  loving-jcaloiis  of  his  liberty.  i  Where,  on  a  sudden,  one  hatli  wounded  me, 

Rnm.  I  would,  I  were  thy  bird.  i  Tiiat  's  by  me  wounded:   both  our  remedies 

Jul.  Sweet,  BO  would  I :   Within  (hy  help  and  holy  physic  lies  : 

Vet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing.  1 1  bear  no  hatred,  blessed  man:  for,  lo  ! 

Hood  nisht.  unod  night:   parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow,  I  M\  intercession  likewise  steads  my  foe. 

Thai  i  shall  say  good  night,  till  it  be  morrow.     [Exit. '      Fri.  Be  plain,  good  son,  and  liomely"  in  thy  drift; 
Rom.    Sleep  dwell    upon    thine  eyes,  peace  in  thy  ]  Riddling  confession  finds  but  riddling  shrift. 

brea-st  I —  i      Rvm.  Then  plainly  know,  my  heart's  dear  love  is  tet 

Would  1  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest  I  On  the  fair  daughter  of  rich  Capulet : 

Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  father's'  cell ;  |  As  mine  on  hers,  so  hers  is  set  on  mine ; 

Hi«!  help  to  crave,  and  my  good  hap  to  tell.  [Exit.  |  And  all  combiu'd,  save  what  thou  must  combine 


SCENE  III.— Friar  L.aurence's  Cell. 
Enter  Friar  Lairenxe,  with  a  ba.fkct. 

Fri.    The   grey-ey'd   morn  smiles  on  the  frowning 
night, 
Checquering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light; 
.■\nd  flecked  darkness  like  a  drunkard  reels 
From  forth  day's  patli  and  Titan's  fiery^  wheels. 
Now.  ere  the  sun  advance  his  burning  eye 
The  day  to  cheer,  and  nights  dank  dew  to  dry, 
I  must  up-fill  this  osier  cage  of  ours. 
With  baleful  weeds,  and  precious-juiced  flowers. 
The  earth,  thai 's  nature's  mother,  is  her  tomb^ : 
What  is  her  burying  grave,  that  is  her  womb: 
And  from  her  womb  children  of  divers  kind 
We  sucking  on  her  natural  bo.som  fmd : 
.Many  for  many  virtues  excellent. 
None  but  for  some,  and  yet  all  different. 
0  !  mickle  is  the  powerful  grace  that  lies 
In  herb.s.  plants,  stones,  and  their  true  qualities : 
For  nought  so  vile  that  on  the  earth  doth  live 
But  to  the  earth  some  special  good  doth  give ; 
Nor  aught  so  Kood.  but  strain'd  from  that  fair  use, 
Revolts  from  true  birth,  stumbling  on  abuse:* 
Virtue  itself  turns  vice,  being  misapplied, 
.4.nd  vice  sometime  "s  by  action  dignified. 
Within  the  infant  rind  of  this  weak*  flower 
Poison  hath  residence,  and  medicine  power : 
For  this,  being  smelt,  with  that  act  cheers  each  part : 
Being  ta.'U.ed,  slays  all  senses  with  the  heart. 
Two  such  opposed  kings'  encamp  them  still 
In  man  as  well  as  herbs,  grace,  and  rude  will ; 
And  where  the  worser  is  predominant. 
Full  soon  the  canker  death  eats  up  that  plant. 
Enter  Romeo. 

Rom.  Good  morrow,  father. 

Fri.  Bcncdicite ! 

^  hat  early  tongue  so  sweet  saluteth  me  ? — 
Young  son.  it  argues  a  distemper'd  head, 
5k)  soon  to  bid  good  morrow  to  thy  bed  : 
Care  keeps  his  watch  in  every  old  man's  eye 
And  where  care  lodges,  sleep  will  never  lie; 
But  where  unbusied'  youth,  with  unstuff"d  brain, 
Doth  couch  his  limbs,  there  golden  sleep  doth  reign. 
Therefore,  thy  earliness  doth  me  assure, 
Thou  art  up-rous'd  by  some  di.stpmjicrature: 
Or  if  not  so.  then  here  I  hit  it  riL'ht — 
Our  Romeo  hath  not  been  in  bed  to-night. 

Rom.  That  last  is  true ;  the  sweeter  rest  was  mine. 

fri.  God  pardon  sin  !  wert  thou  with  Hosaline? 

Kom.  With  Rosaline,  my  uhostly  father?  no: 
I  have  forgot  that  name,  and  that  n;ime's  woe. 

Fri.  Thai 's  my  good  son  :  but  where  ha.st  thou  been, 
then? 

»  friir'i  clote  :  in  laUr  qnarto*.  and  folio.     »  burning  :  in  tat*r  quartos,  and  folio.      '  This  and  the  five  foliowinp  lines,  are  not  in  qi 
lfi*7.     ♦  Rerolu  to  Tice.  and  ttuonblei  on   abase  :  in  qnano,  1097.      »  imail  :  in  quarto,  1507.      "  foes  :  in  later  quartos,  rnd  ff  lio. 
kraiMj  :  in  f.  e.     •  rest  :  in  folio       »  her  I  :  in  later  quartos,  and  folio.      ••  The  regt  of  the  line,  not  in  quarto,  1597.      "  Why,  what 
Mine  of  Romeo  :  in  quarto,  1507.     >'  if  he  be  challenged  :  in  quarto.  1597 


By  holy  marriage.     When,  and  where,  and  how. 
Wc  met,  we  woo'd.  and  made  excliaiwe  of  vow, 
1  "11  teil  thee  as  we  pass :  but  this  T  pray. 
That  thou  consent  to  marry  us  to-day. 

Fri.  Holy  Saint  Francis  !  what  a  change  is  here  ! 
Is  Rosaline,  whom  tliou  didst  love  so  dear. 
So  soon  forsaken  ?  young  men's  love,  then,  lies 
Not  truly  in  their  hearts,  but  in  their  eyes. 
Jcsii  Maria  !  what  a  deal  of  brine 
Hath  wash"d  thy  sallow  checks  for  Rosaline  ! 
How  much  salt  water  thrown  away  in  waste 
To  season  love,  that  of  it  doth  not  taste  ! 
The  sun  not  yet  thy  sighs  from  heaven  clears, 
Thy  old  groans  ring  yet  in  my  ancient  ears ; 
Lo  !  here  upon  thy  cheek  the  stain  doth  sit 
Of  an  old  tear  that  is  not  wash'd  off  yet. 
If  e'er  thou  wa.st  thyself,  and  these  woes  thine. 
Thou  and  these  woes  were  all  for  Rosaline  : 
And  art  thou  chang'd  ?  pronounce  this  sentence,  then  -- 
Women  may  fall,  when  there  's  no  strength  in  men. 

Rom.  Thou  chidd'st  me  oft  for  loving  Rosaline. 

Fri.  For  doting,  not  for  loving,  pupil  mine. 

Rom.  And  bad'st  me  burj-  love. 

Fri.  Not  in  a  grave. 

To  lay  one  in,  another  out  to  have. 

Rom.  I  pray  thee,  chide  not :  she,  whom'  I  love  now 
Doth  grace  for  grace,  and  love  for  love  allow : 
The  other  did  not  so. 

Fri.  O  I  she  knew  well, 

Thy  love  did  read  by  rote,  and  could  not  spell. 
But  come,  young  waverer,  come,  go  with  me, 
In  one  respect  I  '11  thy  assistant  be  , 
For  this  alliance  may  so  happy  prove, 
I  To  turn  your  households'  rancour  to  pure  love. 

Rom.  0  !  let  us  hence  ;   I  stand  on  sudden  ha.sle. 

Fri.  Wisely,  and  slow  :'°  thev  stumble  that  run  last 

[Exev^n 

SCENE   IV.— A  Street. 
Enter  Benvolio  and  Mercltio. 
Mer.  Where  the  devil  should  this  Romeo  be  ?"— 
Came  he  not  home  to-niaht  ? 

Ben.  Not  to  his  father's  :  I  .spoke  with  his  man. 
Mer.  Why,  that  same  pale  hard-hearted  wench,  tlml 
Rosaline, 
Torments  him  so,  that  he  will  sure  run  mad. 
Ben.  Tybalt,  the  kinsman  to  old  Capulet, 
:  Hath  sent  a  letter  to  his  father's  house. 
!      Mer.  A  challenge,  on  my  life 
I      Ben.  Romeo  will  answer  it. 

I      Mer.  Any  man  that  can  write  may  an.swer  a  leilcr. 
i      Ben.  Nay,  he  will  answer  the  letter's  master,  how 
he  dares,  being  dared." 
I      Mer.  Alas,  poor  Romeo  !  he  is  already  dead  !  stab- 


SCENE    IV. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET. 


659 


bed  with  a  white  wench's  black  eye  ;  run  thorough  the 
ear  with  a  love-song  ;  the  very  pin'  of  his  heart  cleft 
with  the  blind  bow-boy's  butt-shaft ;  and  is  he  a  man 
t<»  encounter  Tybalt  ? 

Ben.  Why,  what  is  Tybalt  ? 

Mer.  More  than  prince  of  cats,'  I  can  tell  you.     O  ! 
he  is  a  courageous  captain  of  compliments.     He  fights 
as  you  sing  prick-song',  keeps  time,  distance,  and  pro- 
portion :  rests  me  his  minim  rest,  one,  two.  and  the  I  added  to  the  goose,  proves  thee  far  and  wide  abroad- 
third  in  your  bosom  :  the  very  butcher  of  a  silk  button,   goose.'" 

a.  duellist,  a  duellist;  a  gentleman  of  the  very  first  j  Mer.  Why,  is  not  this  better  now  than  groaning  for 
h'tuse,  of  the  first  and  second  cause.  Ah,  the  imnior- 1  love  ?  now  art  thou  sociable,  now  art  thou  Romeo  :" 
tal  passado  !  the  punto  riverso  !  the  hay  ! —  '    "  ,    .    .. 

Ben.  The  what  ? 

Mer.  The  pox  of  such  antic,  lisping,  affecting  fan 


Rom.  Nay,  good  goose,  bite  not. 

Mer.  Thy  wit  is  a  very  bitter  sweeting  ;"  ii  is  s  mo,".-i 
sharp  sauce. 

Rom.  And  is  it  not  well  served  in  to  a  swee; 
goose  ? 

Mer.  0  !  here  's  a  wit  of  cheverel,'*  that  stretches 
from  an  inch  narrow  to  an  ell  broad. 

Rom.  I  stretch  it  out  for  that  word — broad  :  which 


lasticoes,  these  new  tuners  of  accents  ! — "  By  Jesu,  a 
very  good  blade  ! — a  very  tall  man  ! — a  very  good 
whore  !" — Why.  is  not  this  a  lamentable  thing,  grand- 
sire,  that  we  should  be  thus  afflicted  with  these  .strange 
flies,  these  fashion-mongers,  these  pardonnez-mois*,  who 
stand  so  much  on  the  new  form,  that  they  cannot  sit  at 
ease  on  the  old  bench  ?  0.  their  bons,  their  bon.t ! 
Enter  koMEO. 

Ben.  Here  comes  Romeo,  here  comes  Romeo. 

Mer.  Without  his  roe,  like  a  dried  herring. — 0  flesh, 
flesh,  how  art  thou  fishified  ! — Now  is  he  for  the  num- 
bers that  Petrarch  flowed  in  :  Laura,  to  his  lady,  was 
a  kitchen- wench  ; — marry,  she  had  a  better  love  to 
be-rhyme  her :  Dido,  a  dowdy ;  Cleopatra,  a  gipsy  ; 
Helen  and  Hero,  hildings'  and  harlots  ;  Thisbe,  a  grey' 
eye  or  so,  but  not  to  the  purpose. — Signior  Romeo,  ban 
jour  !  there 's  a  French  salutation  to  your  French  slop.' 
You  gave  us  the  counterfeit  fairly  last  night. 

Rom.  Good  morrow  to  you  both.  What  counterfeit 
did  T  give  you  ? 

Mer.  The  slip,  sir.  the  slip  ;•   can  you  not  conceive  ? 

Rom.  Pardon,  good  Mercutio,  my  business  was 
great  :  and  in  svich  a  case  as  mine,  a  man  may  strain 
courtesy. 

Mer.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say — such  a  case  as  yours 
constrains  a  man  to  bow  in  the  hams. 

Rom.  Meaning — to  courtesy. 

Mer.  Thou  hast  most  kindly  hit  it.' 

Rom.  A  most  courteous  exposition. 

Mer.  Nay,  I  am  the  very  pink  of  courtesy. 

Rom.  Pink  for  flower. 

Mer.  Right. 

Rom.  Why,  then  is  my  pump  well  flowered." 

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

Rom.  O  single-soled  jest !  solely  singular  for  the  sin- 
gleness. 

Mer.  Come  between  us,  good  Benvolio.  for  my  wits 
fail.i» 

Rom.  Switch  and  spurs,  switch  and  spurs  ;  or  I  '11 
orj'  a  match 

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

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

Mer.  I  will  bite  thee  by  the  ear  for  that  jest. 


now  art  thou  what  thou  art,  by  art  as  well  as  by 
nature  :  for  this  driveling  love  is  like  a  great  natural, 
that  runs  lolling  up  and  down  to  hide  his  bauble  in  a 
hole. 

Ben.  Stop  there,  stop  there. 

Mer.  Thou  desirest  me  to  stop  in  my  tale  againhl 
the  hair. 

Ben    Thou  wouldst  else  have  made  thy  tale  large. 

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

Rom.  Here  's  goodly  geer  ! 

Enter  Nurse  and  Peter. 

Mer.  A  sail,  a  sail  ! 

Ben.  Two,  frsvo ;  a  shirt,  and  a  smock. 

Nurse.  Peter,  pr'ythee  give  me  my  fan. 

Mer.  Pr'ythee,  do,  good  Peter,  to  hide  her  face  :  for 
her  fan  's  the  fairer  of  the  two.'' 

Nurse.  God  ye  good  morrow,  gentlemen. 

Mer.  God  ye  good  den,  fair  gentlewoman. 

Nurse.  Is  it  good  den  ? 

Mer.  'T  is  no  less.  I  tell  you  ;  for  the  bawdy  hand  of 
the  dial  is  now  upon  the  prick  of  noon. 

Nurse.  Out  upon  you  !  what  a  man  are  you. 

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

Nurse.  By  my  troth,  it  is  well  said  ; — for  himself  Ui 
mar,  quoth  'a  ? — Gentlemen,  can  any  of  yon  tell  m«- 
where  I  may  find  the  young  Romeo  ? 

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

Nurse.  You  say  well. 

Mer.  Yea !  is  the  worst  well  ?  very  well  took,  i'  faith  ; 
wisely,  wisely. 

Nurse.  If  you  be  he.  sir,  1  desire  some  confidence" 
with  you. 

Ben.  She  will  invite  him  to  some  supper. 

3Ier.  A  bawd,  a  bawd,  a  bawd  !     So  ho  ! 

Rom.  What  hast  thou  found  ? 

Mer.  No  hare,  sir  ;  unless  a  hare,  sir,  in  a  lenten 
pie,  that  is  something  stale  and  hoar  ere  it  be  spent. 
An  old  hare  hoar,  and  an  old  hare  hoar.[Singing.** 

Is  very  good  meat  in  lent  : 
But  a  hare  that  is  hoar,  is  too  much  for  a  score. 
When  it  hoars  ere  it  be  spent. — 
Romeo,  will  you  come  to  your  father's  ?  we  '11  to  dinner 
thither. 

Rom.  I  will  follow  yon. 

3Ier.  Farewell,  ancient  lady  ; 

Farewell,  lady,  lady,  lady.'^^  [Singing.^ 

[Exeunt  Mercutio  and  Bknvolio 


'  The  pf^  by  which  the  target  was  attached.  =  The  cat,  in  the  old  story  of  Reynard  the  Fox,  is  calleJ,  Tybert.  '  Music  by  note.  *  Sn 
the  undated  quarto  ;  the  other  old  copies  :  pardon-mecs.  '  A  low  person.  '  Often  used  for  a  fine,  blue  eye.  '  Loose  b'-firHes.  '  A  atran- 
terfeit  piece  of  money,  was  often  so  called.  '  This  and  the  previous  speech,  are  not  in  quarto,  1-597.  '•  Th'  khoe-riDbons  were  cat  .k» 
flewers.  h  gure  wit :  in  later  quartos,  and  folio.  1=  faint :  in  later  quartos^  and  folio.  >3  iVoOT«  o/ an  nppfe.  ^*  Kid  slcin.  "»  a  hrogif 
coose  :  in  qiartos.  !«  thyself:  in  quarto,  1597.  l'  Later  quartos,  and  folio,  read  -.—Nurse.  My  fan,  Peter?  Mer.  Good  Peter,  to  hi&e  h«i 
face  ?  For  her  fan  's  the  fairer  face.  is  Nou  m  later  quartos,  and  folio.  '«  conference  :  in  quarto.  1.^97  »  N^t  in  f.  e.  '•  Thi 
favorite  tune.     "  Not  in  f.  e. 


quarto. 


660 


ROMEU   AM)   JULIET. 


ACT    II. 


ffurse.  Marry,  farewell  ! — I  pray  you.  sir.  M-hat  saucy  J  Nurse.  Ah,  mocker  !  that  's  the  dog's  name.  R  is 
merchant'  was  this,  that  was  so  full  of  his  ropery*  ?      |  for  thee?  no.'    I  know  it  bccins  with  .^onie  other  letter  • 

Rom  A  irentlenian.  nurse,  thai  loves  to  hear  himself  j  and  she  hath  the  prettiest  sententious  of  it,  of  you  and 
laik;  and  will  speak  more  in  a  immite.  than  he  will   rosemary,  that  it  would  do  you  good  to  hear  it. 


[ExU 


Rom.  Commend  me  to  thy  lady. 

Nurse.  Ay,  a  thou.'^and  times  — Peter 

Pet.  Anon? 

Nurse.  Peter,  take  my  fan.  and  go  before.     [Exiunt. 

SCENE  v.— Capulet-s  Garden. 
E7Uer  Juliet. 


*'and  to  in  a  month. 

Nurse.  An  "a  speak  any  thing  again.st  me,  I  '11  take 
iimi  down,  an  'a  were  lustier  than  he  is.  and  twenty 
such  Jacks  :  and  if  I  cannot.  I  '11  lind  those  that  shall. 
Scurvy  knave  I  1  am  none  of  his  flirt-gills  ;  I  am  none 
of  hisskains-mates. — .Viid  thou  must  stand  by.  too,  and 
HUtler  every  knave  to  use  me  at  his  pleasure  ? 

Pt't.  I  saw  no  man  use  you  at  his  pleasure  :  if  I  had,j      Jul.  The  clock  struck  nine,  when  I  did  send  the  nurse  . 

my  weapon  should  quickly  have  been  out,  I  warrant  I"  half  an  hour  she  promis'd  to  return, 

you.     I    dare  draw  as  .'^oon  as  another  man,  if  J  see  Perchance,  she  cannot  meet  him  :  that 's  not  so. — 
tH'ca.<ion  in  a  pood  quarrel,  and  the  law  on  my  side.       |  0  !   she  is  lame  ;'  love's  herald.s  should  be  thoughts/* 

Nttrse.  Now.  afore  (iod.  I  am  so  vexed,  that  every  Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  tlie  sun's  beams 

part  about  me  quivers. — Scurvy  knave  ! — Pray  you.  sir,  Driving  black  shadows  over  lowering  hills  : 

a  word  •  and  as  I  told  you,  my  young  lady  bade  nie  Therefore  do  nimble-pinion'd  doves  draw  love, 

inquire  you  out :  what  she  bid  me  say,  I  will  keep  to  And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings 

myself;  but  first  let  me  tell  ye,  if  ye  should  lead  her  Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 

in  a  fool's  paradise,  as  they  say,  it  were  a  very  gross ,  Of  this  day's  journey  ;  and  from  nine  till  twelve 

kind  of  behaviour,  as  they  say.  for  the  gentlewoman  Is  three  long  liours. — yet  she  is  not  come. 

i>  young;    and.  therefore,  if  you  should  deal  double  ^  Had  she  affection.s.  and  warm  youthful  blood, 

with  her,  Truly,  ii  were  an  ill  thing  to  be  ofTered  to  She  'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball  ; 

my  gentlewoman,  and  very  wicked^  dealing.  My  words  would  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love, 

Rom.  Nurse,  commend  me  to  thy  lady  and  mistress.  And  his  to  me  :  but  old  folks,  seem  .as  dead  : 

I  protest  unto  thee.* —  L  nwieldy,  slow,  heavy,  and  dull  as  leatl. 

\vrse.  Good  heart  !  and.  i'  faith,  I  will  tell  her  as  Enter  Nurse  ami  Peter. 

much.     Lord,  lord  !  she  will  be  a  joyful  woman.  0  God  I  she  comes. — 0  honey  nurse  !  what  news  ' 

Rom.  What  wilt  thou  tell  her,  nurse  ?  thou  dost  not  Hast  thou  met  with  him  ?"     Send  thy  man  away, 

mark  me.  Nurse.  Peter,  stay  at  the  gate.                [Ejit  Petkp. 

Nurse.  I   will   tell  her,   sir, — that  you   do  protest  :  Jul.  Now,  good  sweet  nurse. — 0  lord  !  why  look'si 

which,  as  I  take  it.  is  a  gentlemanlike  offer.  thou  sad  ? 

Rom.  Bid  her  devise  some  means  to  come  to  .-hrift  Though  news  be  sad.  yet  tell  them  merrily  ; 


This  afternoon  ; 

.And  there  she  shall  at  friar  Lawrence'  cell 

B«;  .<hriv'd.  and  married.     Here  is  for  thy  pains.' 

Nurse.  No,  truly,  sir ;  not  a  penny. 

Rom.  Go  to  :  I  say,  you  shall.   [Giving  her  money.' 

Nurse.  This  afternoon,  sir?  well,  .she  shall  be  There. 

Rom.  And  stay,  good  nurse,  behind  the  abbey-wall : 
W'thin  this  hour  my  man  shall  be  with  thee. 
And  bring  thee  cords  made  like  a  tackled  stair  : 
Which  to  the  high  top-gallant  of  my  joy 
Must  be  my  convoy  in  the  .secret  night. 
Farewell  ! — Be  trusty,  and  I  '11  'quite  thy  pains. 
Farewell  ! — Commend  me  to  thy  mistress. 

Nurse.  Now.  God  in  heaven  bless  thee  I" — Hark  you. 
sir. 

Rom.   What  say'st  thou,  my  dear  nurse  ? 

Nurse.  Is  your  man  secret  ?  Did  you  ne'er  hear  sav. 
Two  may  keep  counsel,  putting  one  away  ? 

Rom.   I  warrant  thee  :  my  man  is  true  as  steel. 

Nitrse.  Well,  sir  ;  my  mistress  is  the  sweetest  lady — 
Lord  lord  I — wiien  't  was  a  little  prating  thing. — 0  ! — 
There  's  a  nobleman  in  town,  one  Paris,  tliat  would  fain 
lay  knife  aboard  ;  but  she,  good  soul,  had  as  lieve  .see  a 
toad,  a  very  toad,  ob  see  him.  I  anger  her  sometimes, 
and  tell  her  that  Paris  is  the  properer  man  ;  but,  I  Ml 
warrant  you,  when  I  say  so,  she  looks  as  pale  as  any 
olout  in  the  vandal  world.  Doth  not  rosemary  and 
Romeo  begin  both  with  a  letter? 


If  good,  thou  sham'st  the  music  of  sweet  news 
By  playing  it  to  me  with  so  sour  a  face. 

Nur.se.  I  am  weary,  give  me  leave  awhile. — 
Fie.  how  my  bones  ache  !     What  a  jaunt  have  I  had  ; 

Jul.  I  would,  thou  hadst  my  bones,  and  I  thy  news  : 
Nay,  come,  I  pray  thee,   speak  : — good,    good    nurse, 
speak. 

Nurse.  Jesu,  what  haste  !  can  you  not  stay  awhile' 
Do  you  not  see,  that  I  am  out  ot  breath  ? 

/('/.  How  art  thou  out  of  breath,  when  thou  hast  breath 
To  say  to  me — that  thou  art  out  of  breath  '.^ 
The  excuse  lliat  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay 
Is  longer  than  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 
Is  thy  news  good,  or  bad  ?  answer  to  that ; 
Say  either,  and  I '-11  stay  the  circum.stance. 
Let  me  be  satisfied,  is  't  good  or  bad  ? 

Nvrse.  Well,  you  have  made  a  simple  choice ;  you 
know  not  how  to  choose  a  man  :  Komco  !  no,  not  he: 
though  his  face  be  better  than  any  mans,  yet  his  lea 
excels  all  men's  ;  and  lor  a  hand,  and  a  foot,  and  a 
body. — though  they  be  not  to  be  talked  on.  yet  they 
are  past  compare.  He  is  not  the  flower  of  courtesy, — 
but,  I  '11  warrant  him,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb. — Go  thy 
ways,  wench:  serve  God.  What,  have  you  dined  at 
home? 

Jul.  No,  no  :  but  all  this  did  I  know  before. 
What  says  he  of  our  marriage  ?  what  of  that  ? 

Nur.te.    Lord;  how  my  head    aches  !   what    a    head 
have  I  : 


Rom.  Ay,  nurse  :  What  of  that  ?  both  with  an  R 

'  Thit  word  wa«  often   u«d   a»   a  contempfnon*  term.  a.«  distinpiiisheJ  from  "  pentleman."      »  roperipe  :  in  quarto,  1.W7;  lo'h    »  oidf 
m<aa,  rogntrt/.      '  weak  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  Tell  her,  I  protest:   in  quarto,  l.WT.      »  The  quarto,  l-VJ",  has  in  place  of  this  Kpeech  : — 
Bid  her  pet  leave  to-morrow  morning 
To  come  to  shrift  at  friar  Lawrence'n  cell  ; 
kii4  omita  all  to,  '■  And  stay  "     •  Not  in  f  e      '  The  quarto.  1.W7,  omits  all  to.  "  Commend  me."  ,Vc.     9 -R,  j»  the  dog's  letter  and  hirr«iM» 
tht  ttv.ni.''—Ben  Jon.fims  Eitf    firnmnuir       Old   copies  read  :"  R  is  for  the"  ;    whicF  Warhurton  chanjed  to  "  thee."      Some  rood.  odi. 
n»4.  with  Tjrrwhitt  :    •  R  i«  for  the  dog  "     *  lazy  :  in  quarto,  l-WT.      '»  The  quarto.  I.W".  haji  in  place  of  this  and  the  nei'  iwcWe  '.">»• 
And  run  more  swift,  than  hasty  powder  fir'd 
Doth  hurry  from  the  fearful  cannon's  mouth 
The  quarto,  1597.  omits  s"  to.  •'  I  <ni  n-v^ary  "' 


SCENE   1. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


661 


[t  beat*  as  it  -would  fall  in  twenty  pieces. 

My  back  !  o'  t'  other  side. — 0,  my  back,  my  back  I — 

Beshrew  your  heart  for  sending  me  about, 

To  catch  my  death  with  jaunting  up  and  down. 

Jul.  V  faith,  I  am  sorry  that  thou  art  not  well. 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says  my  love  ? 

Nurse.  Your  love  says  like  an  honest  gentleman, 
And  a  courteous,  and  a  kind,  and  a  handsome, 
And,  I  warrant,  a  virtuous. — Where  is  your  mother  ? 

Jul.  Where  is  my  mother  ? — why,  she  is  within  : 
Where  should  she  be  ?     How  oddly  thou  reply'st ; 
'•  Your  love  says  like  an  honest  gentleman, — 
Where  is  your  mother  ?" 

Nurse.  0,  God's  lady  dear  ! 

Are  you  so  hot  ?     Marry,  come  up,  I  trow ; 
Is  this  the  poultice  for  my  aching  bones  ? 
Henceforward  do  your  messages  yourself. 

Jul.  Here  's  such  a  coil — Come,  what  says  Romeo  ?> 

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

Jul.  I  have. 

Nurse.  Then,  hie  you  hence  to  friar  Laurence'  cell. 
There  stays  a  husband  to  make  j-ou  a  wife ; 
Now  comes  the  wanton  blood  up  in  your  cheeks  ; 
They  '11  be  in  scarlet  straightway^  at  my'  news. 
Flie  you  to  church ;  I  must  another  way. 
To  fetch  a  ladder,  by  the  which  your  love 
Must  climb  a  bird's  nest  soon,  when  it  is  dark: 
[  am  the  drudge,  and  toil  in  your  delight. 
But  you  shall  bear  the  burden  soon  at  night. 
Go  ;  I  '11  to  dinner;  hie  you  to  the  cell. 

Jul.  Hie  to  high  fortune  ! — Honest  nurse,  farewell. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.«— Friar  Laurence's  CelL 
Enter  Friar  Laurence  and  Romeo. 
Fri.  So  smile  the  heavens  upon  this  holy  act, 
That  after  hours  with  sorrow  chide  us  not ! 


j      Rom.  Amen,  amen  !  but  come  what  sorrow  caa 
I  It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy 
That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sisht : 
;  Do  thou  but  close  our  hands  with  holy  words, 
i  Then  love-devouring  death  do  what  he  dare ; 
It  is  enough  I  may  but  call  her  mine. 

Fri.  These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends. 
And  in  their  triumph  die  :  like  fire  and  powder, 
Which  as  they  kiss  consume.     The  sweetest  hone\ 
Is  loathsome  in  his  own  deliciousness, 
And  in  the  taste  confounds  the  appetite : 
Therefore,  love  moderately  ;  long  love  doth  so  ; 
Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow. 

Enter  Juliet. 
Here  comes  the  lady. — 0  !  so  light  a  foot 
Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint : 
A  lover  may  bestride  the  gossamers 
That  idle  in  the  wanton  summer  air, 
And  yet  not  fall ;  so  light  is  vanity. 

Jul.  Good  even  to  my  ghostly  confessor. 

Fri.  Romeo  shall  thank  thee,  daughter,  for  us  both 

/(//.  As  much  to  him.  else  are  his  thanks  too  much 

Rom.  Ah,  Juliet!  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heap'd  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbour  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness,  that  both 
Receive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Jtd.  Conceit,  more  rich  in  matter  than  in  words, 
Brags  of  his  substance,  not  of  ornament : 
They  are  but  beggars  that  can  count  their  worth ; 
But  my  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  the  sum*  of  half  my  wealth. 

Fri.  Come,  come  with  me,  and  we  will  make  short 
work; 
P'or,  by  your  leaves,  you  shall  not  stay  alone. 
Till  holy  church  incorporate  two  in  one.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Public  Place. 

Enter  Mercutio,  Benvolio,  Page,  and  Servants. 

Ben.  I  pray  thee,  good  Mercutio,  let 's  retire  : 
The  day  is  hot,  the  Capulets  abroad. 
And  if  we  meet  we  shall  not  'scape  a  brawl  ; 
For  now,  these  hot  days,  is  the  mad  blood  stirring.' 

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

Ben.  Am  I  like  such  a  fellow? 

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

Ben.  And  what  to  ? 

Mer.  Nay,  an  there  were  two  such,  we  should  have 
none  shortly,  for  one  would  kill  the  other.  Thou  !  why 
thou  wilt  quarrel  with  a  man  that  hath  a  hair  more, 
or  a  hair  less,  in  his  beard,  than  thou  hast.  Thou  wilt 
quarrel  with  a  man  for  cracking  nuts,  having  no  other 
reason,  but  because  thou  hast  hazel  eyes :  what  eye, 


I  but  such  an  eye,  would  spy  out  such  a  quarrel  ?  Thy 
i  head  is  as  full  of  quarrels,  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat : 
j  and  yet  thy  head  hath  been  beaten  as  addle  as  an  egg 
j  for  quarrelling.  Thou  hast  quarrelled  ^^^th  a  man  for 
I  coughing  in  the  street,  because  he  hath  wakened  thy 
I  dog  that  hath  lain  asleep  in  the  sun.  Didst  tliou  not 
I  fall  out  with  a  tailor  for  wearing  his  new  doublet  be- 
I  fore  Easter  ?  with  another,  for  tying  his  new  shoe.*- 
with  old  riband  ?  and  yet  thou  wilt  tutor  me  from 
I  quarrelling  ! 

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

Mer.  The  fee-simple  ?     0  simple  ! 

Ben.  By  my  head,  here  come  the  Capulets. 
Enter  Tybalt,  and  others. 

Mer.  By  my  heel,  I  care  not. 

Tyb.  Follow  me  close,  for  I  will  speak  to  them  — 
Gentlemen,  good  den  !  a  word  with  one  of  you. 

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

Tyb.  You  will  find  me  apt  enough  to  that.  sir.   if 
you  will  give  me  occasion. 


'  In  plax;e  of  this  question,  the  quarto,  1597,  has  : 

Nay  stay,  sweet  nurse  ;  I  do  entreat  thee,  now. 
What  says  my  love,  my  lord,  my  Romeo  ? 
'  straight :  in  f.  e.     '  any  :  in  f  e.     *  This  scene  was  entirely  re-formed  in  the  quarto.  1599.     It  may  b«  found  as  it  arpeare  m  the  qaa-xo 
1597,  in  the  notes  to  Verplanck's  pdition.     *  sum  up  some  :  in  folio.     Steevens  made  the  change.     •  This  and  the  prtrjous  bn«,  aic  not  i» 
quarto,  1597.     ">  This  and  the  next  speech,  'je  not  in  the  quarto,  1597. 


6^2 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET. 


ACT  lU. 


iMifr.   Could   you   not  take  some  occasion  without '  cat,  to  scratch  a  man  to  death  !  a  braggart,  a  rogue,  a 
giving?  villain,  thai  fights  by  the  book  of  arithmetic  ! — Why. 

Tyb.  Mercutio.  thou  consort'st  with  Romeo. —  |  the  devij.  came  you  between  us?     I  was  hurt  under 

Incr.  Consort !  what  !  dost  thou  make  us  minstrels  ?  '  your  arm. 
an  thou  make  minstrels  of  us.  look  to  hear  nothing  but        Rom.  I  thought  all  for  the  best, 
di.scords  :  hero  's  my  fiddlej^tick  :  here's  that  shall  make        Mer.  Help  me  into  some  house,  Benvolio, 
you  dance.      Zounds,  consort  !  [Striking  his  hilt.'  j  Or  I  shall  faint. — A  plague  o'  both  your  houses  : 

Bt-n.  \Vc  talk  here  in  the  public  haunt  of  men  :  They  have  made  worms'  meat  of  me  : 

Either  withdraw  unto  .<omo  private  place,  i  I  have  it,  and  soundly  too  : — your  houses  ! 

.And  reason  coldly  of  your  grievances,  j  [Exeunt  Mercutio  a7id  Bbnvolic 

l)r  else  depart:  here  all  eyes  gaze  on  us.'  |      Rom.  This  gentleman,  the  princes  near  ally, 

Mer.  Men's  eves  were  made  to  look,  and  let  them 


gaze  : 
I  will  not  budge  for  no  man's  pleasure,  I. 
Enter  Romeo. 

Tyb.  Well,  peace  be  with  you,  ."^ir.     Here  comes  my 
man. 

Mer.  But,  I  '11  be  hang'd,  sir.  if  he  wear  your  livery: 
Marry,  go  before  to  field,  he  '11  be  your  follower  ; 
Your  worship,  in  that  sense,  may  call  him — man. 

Tyh.  Romeo,  the  hate  I  bear  thee,  can  afford 
.\o  better  term  than  thi.<i — thou  art  a  villain. 

Rom.  Tybalt,  the  reason  that  I  have  to  love  thee 
Dotii  much  exceed  the  appertaining  rage 
To  .•^uch  a  greeting  :* — villain  am  I  none  ; 
Therefore  farewell :  I  see,  thou  know'st  me  not. 

Tyb.  Boy.  this  shall  not  excuse  the  injuries 
That  thou  hast  done  me  :  therefore,  turn  and  draw. 

Rom.  I  do  protest,  I  never  injur'd  thee  ; 
But  love  thee  better  than  tliou  canst  devise, 
Till  thou  shah  know  the  reason  of  my  love : 
And  so.  good  Capulet. — which  name  I  tender 
As  dearly  as  mine  own. — be  satisfied. 

Mer.  0  calm,  dishonourable,  vile  submission  I 
.<  la  .<!toccata  carries  it  away. 

[Driju'.s  a.s  Tyb.vlt  is  going. 
Tybalt,  you  rat-catcher,  will  you  walk? 

Tyb.  What  wouldst  thou  have  with  me  ? 

Mer.  Good  king  of  cats,  nothing,  but  one  of  your 
tune  lives:  that  I  mean  to  make  bold  withal,  and.  as 
you  shall  u.^e  me  hereafter,  dry-beat  the  rest  of  the 
-ight.  Will  you  pluck  your  sword  out  of  his  pilcher* 
by  the  ears  ?  make  haste,  lest  mine  be  about  your  ears 
ere  it  be  out. 

Tyb.  I  am  for  you.'  [Drawing. 

Rom.  Gentle  Mercutio,  put  thy  rapier  up. 

.Mer.  Come,  sir,  your  passado.  [They  fight. 

Rom.  Draw,  Benvolio ; 
Beat  down  their  weapons. — (gentlemen,  for  shame. 
Forbear  this  outrage  ! — Tybalt — Mercutio — 
The  prince  expressly  hath  forbid  this  bandying 
In  Verona  streets. — Hold,  Tybalt ! — good  Mercutio  ! 

[Exeunt  Tybalt  and  his  Parti-'ian.'!. 

Mer.  I  arn  hurt: —  |I{omko  supports  Mkrc' 

A  plague  o'  both  the  houses  I — I  am  sped  : — 
'.•^  he  gone,  and  hath  nothing  V 

Ben.  What!  art  thou  hurt ^ 

Mer.    Ay,    ay, 
enouch. — 
Where  is  my  page 


My  very  friend,  hath  got  his  mortal  hurt 
j  In  my  behalf:  my  reputation  stain'd 
I  With  Tybalt's  slander,  Tybalt,  that  an  hour 
I  Hatli  been  my  cousin.     0  sweet  .luliet  ! 
Thy  beauty  hath  made  me  effeminate. 
And  in  my  temper  soften'd  valour's  steel. 
Re-enter  Benvolio. 
Ben.  0  Romeo,  Romeo  !  brave  Mercutio  's  dead  : 
That  gallant  spirit  hath  aspir'd  the  clouds, 
Which  too  untimely  here  did  scorn  the  earth. 

Rom.    This    day's    black    fate   on  more  days    doth 
deppnd  : 
This  but  begins  the  woe  others  must  end. 
Re-enter  Tybalt. 
Ben.  Here  comes  the  furious  Tybalt  back  again. 
Rom.  Alive  !  in  triumph  !*  and  Mercutio  slam  I 
Away  to  heaven,  respective  lenity, 
And  fire-ey'd'  fury  be  my  conduct  now  ! — 
Now,  Tybalt,  take  the  villain  back  again, 
That  late  thou  gav'st  me ;  for  Mercutio's  soul 
Is  but  a  little  way  above  our  heads. 
Staying  for  thine  to  keep  him  company  : 
Either  thou,  or  I.  or  both,  must  go  with  him. 

Tyb.   Thou.  -ftTctched   boy,   that  didst  consort   hirr 
here, 
Shalt  with  him  hence. 

Rom.  This  shall  determine  that. 

[They  fight ;  Tybalt  falls 
Ben.  Romeo,  away  !  begone  ! 
The  citizens  are  up,  and  Tybalt  slain  ; — 
Stand  not  amaz'd: — the  prince  will  doom  thee  death. 
If  thou  art  taken. — Hence  ! — be  gone  ! — away  ! 
Rom.  0  !   I  am  fortunes  fool. 
Ben.  W^hy  dost  thou  stay  ?     [Exit  Royis.n 

Enter  Citizens,  kc. 
1  Cit.  Which  way  ran  he  that  kill'd  Mercutio? 
Tybalt,  that  murderer,  which  way  ran  he  ? 
Ben.  There  lies  that  Tybalt. 

1  Cit.  You.  sir  : — go  with  me  . 

I  cliarge  thee  in  the  prince's  name,  obey. 
Enter  Prince,  attended  ;  Montague.  Capulet,  thfi'^ 
Wives,  and  others. 
Prin.  W^here  are  the  vile  beginners  of  this  fray  ' 
Ben.  0  noble  prince  !     I  can  discover  all 
The  unlucky  manage  of  this  fatal  brawl  : 
There  lies  the  man,  slain  by  young  Romeo, 


a   scratch,  a   scratch  ;    marry,  't  is  |  That  slew  thy  kinsman,  brave  Mercutio. 


villain,  fetch  a  isurceon. 

[Exit  Page. 

Rom.  Courage,  man;  the  hurt  cannot  be  much. 
Mer.  No.  't  is  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as 
&  church^  door;  but  'tis  enough,  'twill  serve:  ask  for 
mo  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  find  me  a  grave  man.  I 
im  peppered.  I  warrant,  for  this  world: — a  plague  o' 
V)th  y»ur  hoases  I — 'Zounds  !  a  dog,  a  rat,  a  mouse,  a 


La.  Cap.  Tybalt,  my  cousin  ! — O  my  brother's  child  1 
O  prince  !  O  cousin  !  hu.>^band  !  0,  the  blood  is  spill'd 
Of  my  dear  kinsman  I — Prince,  as  thou  art  true, 
For  blood  of  ours  shed  blood  of  Montague. 
0  cousin,  cou.sin  ! 

Prm.  Who  began  this  bloody  fray? 

Ben.   Tybalt,  here  slain,  whom  Romeo's  hand   diiJ 
slay  : 
Romeo,  that  spoke  him  fair,  bode  him  bethink 


'  Nrt  10  f.  e.      *  Thi»  and  the  next  iipeerh.  are  not  in  quarto, 
rotd  :  in  rnarto,  159".    ♦  ncabbard  :  in  quarto,  1.597.     »The 
fcar»     in  quarto.     '  S<  the  quarto,  1597  ;  other  old  cofiea  : 


'  the  lore  I  bear  thee  drh  excuse  the  appertaining  race  ^  f 
a&sa^es  from  this  to  the  exit  of  Tybalt,  are  not  in  quarto,  "■""  '  ""*  " 
e  cone  vn  triumph      '  and  :  in  all  old  :onies,  but  the  u.« 


597      «  Not  ia  f 
597. 


J 


SOENE  n. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET. 


663 


How  nice'  the  quarrel  was ;  and  urg'd  withal 
Your  high  displeasure: — all  ihis.  uttered 
With  gentle  breath,  calm  look,  knees  humbly  bow'd, 
Could  not  take  truce  M-ith  the  unruly  spleen 
Of  Tybalt,  deaf  to  peace,  but  that  he  tilts 
With  piercing  steel  at  bold  Mercutio's  breast ; 
Who,  all  as  hot,  turns  deadly  point  to  point, 
And,  with  a  martial  scorn,  with  one  hand  beats 
Cold  death  aside,  and  with  the  other  sends 
t  back  to  Tybalt,  whose  dexterity 
Retorts  it  home.*     Romeo  he  cries  aloud, 
"  Hold,  friends  !  friends,  part  !"'  and,  swifter  than  his 

tongue. 
His  agile  arm  beats  down  their  fatal  points. 
And  'twixt  them  rushes :  underneath  whose  arm, 
An  envious  thrust  from  Tybalt  hit  the  life 
Of  stout  Mercutio,  and  then  Tybalt  fled ; 
But  by  and  by  comes  back  to  Romeo, 
Who  had  but  newly  entertain'd  revenge. 
And  to 't  they  go  like  lightning  :  for  ere  I 
Could  draw  to  part  them  was  stout  Tybalt  slain. 
And  as  he  fell  did  Romeo  turn  and  fly. 
This  is  the  truth,  or  let  Benvolio  die. 

La.  Cap.  He  is  a  kinsman  to  the  Montagiie : 
AiTection  makes  him  false,  he  speaks  not  true :' 
Some  twenty  of  them  fought  in  this  black  strife, 
And  all  those  twenty  could  but  kill  one  life. 
I  beg  for  justice,  which  thou,  prince,  must  give  ; 
Romeo  slew  Tybalt,  Romeo  must  not  live. 

Prin.*  Romeo  slew  him,  he  slew  Mercutio ; 
Who  now  the  price  of  his  dear  blood  doth  owe  ? 

Mon.  Not  Romeo,  prince,  he  was  i\Iercutio's  friend; 
His  fault  concludes  but  what  the  law  should  end, 
The  life  of  Tybalt. 

Prin.  And  tor  that  offence, 

Immediately  we  do  exile  him  hence  : 
[  have  an  interest  in  your  hate's  proceeding. 
My  blood  for  your  rude  brawls  doth  lie  a  bleeding; 
But  I  "11  amerce  you  with  so  strong  a  fine, 
That  you  shall  all  repent  the  loss  of  mine. 
[  will  be  deaf  to  pleadmir  and  excuses. 
Nor  tears,  nor  prayers,  shall  purchase  out  abuses ; 
Therefore,  use  none :  let  Romeo  hence  in  haste. 
Else,  when  he's  found,  that  hour  is  his  last. 
Bear  hence  this  body,  and  attend  our  will : 
Mercy  but  murders,  pardoning  those  that  kill.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Capulet's  House. 
Enter  Juliet. 
Jnl.  Gallop  apace,  you  fiery-footed  steeds, 
Towards  Phoebus'  mansion*  :  such  a  waggoner 
As  Phaeton  would  whip  you  to  the  west, 
And  bring  in  cloudy  night  immediately." — 
Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  night. 
That  enemies"  eyes  may  wink,  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  itntalk'd  of,  and  unseen  ! — 
Lovers  can  see  to  do  their  amorous  rites 
By  their  o\\ni  beauties :  or  if  love  be  blind, 
It  best  agrees  with  night. — Come,  civil  night, 
Thou  sober-suited  matron,  all  in  black. 
And  learn  me  how  to  lose  a  winning  match, 
Play'd  for  a  pair  of  stainless  maidenhoods  ; 
Flood  my  unmann'd*  blood,  bating'  in  my  cheeks. 
With  thy  b'ack  mantle  ;  till  strange  love,  grown  bold. 
Think  true  lOve  acted  simple  modesty. 
Come  night,  come  Romeo,  come  thou  day  in  night ; 
For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 

1  Trifling.     »  This  Tvord  is  not  in  f.  e.     »  This  line  »s  not  in  quarto,  1597.     *  This  and  the  next  speech,  are  not  in  quarto,  1.597.     »  So  tht 
■  JUarlo,  1597  :  other  old  copies  :  dwelling.     «  The  rest  of  the  foliloquv.  is  not  in  quarto,  1597.     '  -Most  f.  e.  :  runaways    Dyce  reads  rrorii.g 
*  ♦  Terms  of  falconry— to  man  a  hawk,  is  to  accustom  her  to  the  pei^on  who  trains  her;  bating  is  beatinfr  the  air  with  the  win^s,  in  itfir 
ng  o  "p.t  away.     >0The  old  spelling  of  aij.     'i  So  the  quarto.  1597  ;  other  old  copies  :  dearest      "  serpents  hate  •  ir  quarto.  1597 


I  Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back. — 
Come,  gentle  night;  come,  loving,  black-brow'd  n  ghi, 
Give  me  my  Romeo:  and,  when  he  shall  die, 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars. 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  line. 
That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  night, 
'  And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun. — 
,  0,  I  have  bought  the  mansion  of  a  love. 
But  not  possessed  it ;  and  though  I  am  sold. 
Not  yet  enjoy 'd.     So  tedious  is  this  day. 
As  is  the  night  before  some  festival 
To  an  impatient  child  that  hath  new  robes. 
And  may  not  wear  them.     O  !  here  comes  my  nurse. 

Enter  Nurse,  ivith  a  Ladder  of  Cords. 
And  she  brings  news  :  and  ev"ry  tongue,  that  speaks 
But  Romeo's  name,  speaks  heavenly  eloquence. — 
i  Now,  nurse,  what  news  ?     What  hast  thou  there?  the 

cords 
That  Romeo  bade  thee  fetch  ? 

Nurse.  Ay,  ay,  the  cords.     [Throws  them  down. 

Jul.  Ah  me  !  what  news  ?  why  dost  thou  wring  thy 
hands? 

Nurse.  Ah  well-a-day  !   he's  dead,  he's  dead,  he's 
dead  ! 
We  are  undone,  lady,  we  are  undone  ! — 
Alack  the  day  ! — he  's  gone,  he  's  kill'd,  he  's  dead  ! 

Jul.  Can  heaven  be  so  envious? 

Nurse.  Romeo  can, 

Though  heaven  cannot. — 0  Romeo,  Romeo  ! — 
Who  ever  would  have  thought  it  ? — Romeo  ! 

Jul.  What  de\'il  art  thou,  that  dost  torment  me  thus  ' 
This  torture  should  be  roar'd  in  dismal  hell. 
Hath  Romeo  slain  himself?  say  thou  but  /.'"' 
And  that  bare  vowel,  /,  shall  poison  more 
Than  the  death-darting  eye  of  cockatrice : 
I  am  not  I,  if  there  be  such  an  I ; 
Or  those  eyes  shut,  that  make  thee  answer,  /. 
If  he  be  slain,  say — I ;  or  if  not — no  : 
Brief  sounds  determine  or  my  weal  or  woe. 

Nurse.  I  saw  the  wound,  I  saw  it  with  mine  eyes,— 
God  save  the  mark  ! — here  on  his  manly  breast : 
A  piteous  corse,  a  bloody  piteous  corse  ; 
Pale,  pale  as  ashes,  all  bedaub'd  in  blood, 
All  in  gore  blood ; — I  swounded  at  the  sight. 

Jul.  0  break,  my  heart  I — poor  bankrupt,  break  ai 
once  ! 
To  prison,  eyes  :  ne'er  look  on  liberty  : 
Vile  earth,  to  earth  resign  ;  end  motion  here. 
And  thou,  and  Romeo,  press  one  hca^'y-  bier  ! 

Nurse.  O  Tybalt,  Tybalt  !  the  best  friend  I  had  ■ 
0  courteous  Tybalt,  honest  gentleman  ! 
That  ever  I  should  live  to  see  thee  dead  ! 

Jul.  What  storm  is  this  that  blows  so  contrarj*  ? 
Is  Romeo  slaughter'd  ?  and  is  Tybalt  dead  ? 
My  dear-lov'd"  cousin,  and  my  dearer  lord  '^ — 
Tlien,  dreadful  trumpet,  sound  the  general  doom  ; 
For  who  is  living,  if  those  two  are  gone  ? 

Nurse.  Tybalt  is  sone,  and  Romeo  banished : 
Romeo,  that  kill'd  him,  he  is  banished. 

Jul.    0  God!— did    Roraeo"s     hand    shed    Tybalt -■* 
blood  ? 

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

Jul.  0  serpent  heart."  hid  with  a  flowering  face  ! 
I  Did  ever  dragon  keep  .so  fair  a  cave  ? 
Beautiful  t>Tant ;  fiend  angelical  I 
]  Dove-feather'd  raven  !  wolvish-ravening  lamb  ' 
I  Despised  substance  of  divinest  show  ! 


6«4 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


Jnst  opposite  to  what  thou  justly  seem'st; 
A  damned'  saint,  an  honourable  villain  ! — 
0.  nature  !   what  hadst  tliou  to  do  in  iiell, 
When  thou  didst  jwur'  the  spirit  of  a  tiend 
In  mortal  paradise  of  such  sweet  flesh? — 
\Va^  ever  book  contaiiiniii;  such  vile  matter, 
So  fairly  bound  ?     O.  that  deceit  should  dwell 
In  sucli  a  gorgeous  palace  ? 

Xursc.  There  "s  no  trust, 

No  faith,  no  honesty  in  men  ;  all  porjur'd, 
All  loi-sworn.  all  nauL'ht,  all  disscmbleis. — 
Ah  I  where  's  my  man  ?  give  me  some  aqtia  vita  : — 
These  griefs,  these  woes,  these  sorrows  make  me  old. 
Shame  come  to  Romeo  ! 

JiU.  Blister'd  be  thy  tongue, 

For  such  a  wish  !  he  was  not  born  to  shame  : 
Upon  his  brow  shame  is  asliam'd  to  sit : 
For  't  is  a  throne  where  honour  may  be  crown'd 
Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth. 
0,  what  a  beast  was  I  to  chide  at  him  ! 

Nurse.  Will  you  speak  well  of  him  that  killd  your 
cousin  ? 

/(//.  Shall  I  speak  ill  of  him  that  is  my  husband  ? 
Ah,  poor  Miy  lord,  what  toiicue  shall  smooth  thy  name, 
When  I.  thy  three-hours  m  ifc,  have  mangled  it? — 
But,  wherefore,  villain,  didst  thou  kill  my  cousin  ? 
That  villain  cousin  would  have  kill'd  my  husband: 
Back,  foolish  tears,  back  to  your  native  spring  ; 
Your  tributary  drops  belong  to  woe. 
Which  you,  mistaking,  offer  up  to  joy. 
My  husband  lives,  that  Tybalt  would  have  slain  ; 
.\nd  Tybalt 's  dead,  that  would  have  slain  my  husband  : 
All  this  is  comfort ;  wherefore  weep  I  then  ? 
Some  word  there  was.  worscr  than  Tybalt's  death, 
That  murder"d  me.     I  would  forget  it  fain ; 
But,  0  !  it  jiresses  to  my  memory. 
Like  damned  guilty  deeds  to  sinners'  minds  : 
Tybalt  is  dead,  and  Romeo — banished  ! 
That — banished,  that  one  word — banished, 
Hath  slain  ten  thousand  Tybalts.     Tybalts  death 
Was  woe  enough,  if  it  had  ended  there  : 
Or, — if  sour  woe  delights  in  fellowship. 
And  needly  will  be  rank'd  with  other  griefs. — 
Why  follow'd  not,  when  she  said — Tybalt 's  dead. 
Thy  father,  or  thy  mother,  nay.  or  both. 
Which  modern'  lamentation  might  have  mov'd? 
But,  with  a  rear-ward  following  Tybalt's  death, 
Romeo  is  banished  ! — to  sjjeak  that  word. 
in  father,  mother,  Tybalt,  Romeo,  Juliet, 
All  slain,  all  dead  : — Romeo  is  banished  ! — 
There  is  no  end,  no  limit,  measure,  bound, 
In  that  word  "s  death:  no  words  can  that  woe  sound. — 
Where  is  my  father,  and  my  mother,  nurse? 

Nurse    Weepinu  and  wailing  over  Tybalt's  corse  : 
Will  you  go  to  them?     I  will  bring  you  thither. 

Jul.  Wash  they  his  wounds  with  tears?  mine  shall 
be  spent. 
When  theirs  arc  dry,  for  Romeo's  banishment. 
Take  up  those  cords. — Poor  ropes,  you  are  beguil'd. 
Both  you  and  I.  for  Ilomcois  cxil'd  :   [Taking  them  v p.* 
He  made  you  for  a  highway  to  my  bed, 
But  I,  a  maid,  die  maiden-widowed. 
Come,  eord.s  ;  come,  nurse  :  I  '11  to  my  wedding  bed  ;. 
And  death,  not  Romeo,  lake  my  m.iidenhead  ! 

Nurse.  Mic  to  your  chamber:  I  'II  find  Romeo 
To  comfort  you  : — I  wot  well  where  he  is. 
Hark  ye,  your  Romeo  will  be  here  at  night : 
I  '11  to  him  ;  he  is  hid  at  Laurence'  cell. 

I 

'  8o  the  at  jated  qnarto  :  othen  and  folio  :  dim      *  So  the  undated 
ud  the  frtTious  line,  are  not  in  folio 


Jul.  0,  find  him  !  give  this  ring  to  my  true  Icnight, 
And  bid  hiin  come  to  take  his  last  farewell.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— Friar  L.m.uence's  Cell. 
Enter  Friar  L.iirence  am!  Homko. 

Fri.  Romeo,  come  forth  ;    come  forth,  thou  fearful 
Affliction  is  enamour'd  of  thy  parts,  [man  : 

And  thou  art  wedded  to  calamity. 

Rovi.  Father,  what  news?  what  is  the  prince's  doom? 
What  sorrow  craves  acquaintance  at  my  hand, 
That  I  yet  know  not  ? 

Fri.  Too  familiar 

Is  my  dear  son  with  such  sour  company: 
I  bring  thee  tidings  of  the  prince's  doom. 

Rom.  What   less   than   dooms-day   is   the    prince « 
doom? 

Fri.  A  gentler  judgment  parted  from  his  lips, 
Not  body's  death,  but  body's  banishment. 

Rom.  Ha  !  banishment  ?  be  merciful,  say — death  ; 
For  exile  hath  more  terror  in  his  look. 
Much  inore  than  death :  do  not  say — banishment. 

Fri.  Hence  from  Verona  art  thou  banished  : 
Be  patient,  for  the  world  is  broad  and  wide. 

Rom.  There  is  no  world  without  Verona  walls, 
But  purgatory,  torture,  hell  itself. 
Hence  banished  is  banish'd  from  the  world. 
And  world's  exile  is  death : — then,  banished 
Is  death  niis-term'd  :  calling  death  banishment, 
Thou  cut'st  my  head  off  with  a  golden  axe, 
And  smil'st  upon  the  stroke  that  murders  me. 

Fri.  0  deadly  sin  !     0  rude  unthankfulne.ss  ! 
Thy  fault  our  law  calls  death ;  but  the  kind  prince, 
Taking  thy  part,  hath  bnish'd  aside  the  law. 
And  turn'd  that  black  word  death  to  banishment : 
This  is  dear  mercy,  and  thou  seest  it  not. 

Rom.  'T  is  torture,  and  not  mercy  :  heaven  is  here. 
Where  .Juliet  lives :  and  every  cat,  and  dog. 
And  little  mouse,  even.'  unworthy  thing, 
Live  here  in  heaven,  and  may  look  on  her ; 
But  Romeo  may  not. — More  validity, 
More  honourable  state,  more  courtship  lives 
In  carrion  flies,  than  Romeo  :  they  may  seize 
On  the  white  wonder  of  dear  Juliet's  hand, 
And  steal  immortal  blessing  fVom  her  lips  ; 
Who,  even  in  pure  and  vestal  modesty. 
Still  blu.sh,  as  thinking  their  own  kisses  sin  ; 
This  may  flies  do.  when  I  from  this  must  fly. 
And  say'st  thou  yet,  that  exile  is  not  death  ? 
But  Romeo  may  not;  he  is  bani.shed. 
Flies  may  do  this,  but  I  from  this  must  fly  : 
They  are  free  men,  but  I  am  banished.' 
Hadst  thou  no  poison  mix'd,  no  sharp-ground  knife, 
No  sudden  mean  of  death,  though  ne'er  so  mean, 
But — banished — to  kill  me;  banished? 
O  friar  !   the  damned  used  that  word  in  hell ; 
Howling  attends  it :  how  hast  thou  the  heart. 
Being  a  divine,  a  ghostly  confessor, 
A  sin-absolver.  and  my  friend  profess'd, 
To  mangle  me  witli  that  word — bani.shed? 

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

Rmn.  0!  thou  wilt  speak  again  of  banishment. 

Fri.   I  '11  give  thee  armour  to  keep  off  that  word  ; 
Adversity's  .sweet  milk,  philosophy. 
To  comfort  thee,  thousih  thou  art  banished. 

Rom.  Yet  banished  ? — Hang  up  philosophy  : 
Unless  philosophy  can  make  a  Juliet, 
Displant  a  towni.  reverse  a  prince's  doom, 
It  helps  not,  it  prevails  not.     Talk  no  more 

other  old  copies  :  bower.    '  Common      »  Net  in  f  e     *  tntf 


SCENE   IV. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


Fri.  O  !  then  I  see  that  iiiadmen  have  no  ears. 
Rov:.  How  should  they,  when  that  wise  men  have 

no  eyes  ? 
Fri.  Let  me  dispute  with  thee  of  thy  estate. 
Rom.  Thou  canst  not,  speak  of  that  thou  dost  not  feel. 
Wert  thou  as  younyr  as  I,  Juliet  thy  love, 
\ii  hour  but  married.  Tybalt  murdered, 
Doting  like  me,  and  like  me  banished, 
["hen  mightst  thou  speak,  then  might.st  thou  tear  thy 

hair, 
A.iid  fall  upon  the  ground,  as  I  do  now, 
I'aking  the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave.        {Falling.^ 
Fri.  Arise  ;  one  knocks :  good  Romeo,  hide  thyself. 
[Knocking  within. 
Rom.  Not  I :  unless  the  breath  of  heart-sick  groans. 
Mist-like,  infold  me  from  the  search  of  eyes.  [Knocking. 
Fri.    Hark,    how    they    knock  ! — who  's    there  ? — 
Romeo,  arise  ; 
Thou  wilt  be  taken. — Stay  a  while. — Stand  up  : 

[Knocking. 
Run  to  my  study. — By  and  by. — God's  will  ! 
What  wilfulHcss  is  this ! — I  come,  I  come.  [Knocking. 
Who  knocks  so  hard  ?  whence  come  you  ?  what 's  your 
will  ? 
Nurse.   [Within.]    Let    me    come  in  and  you  shall 
know  my  errand : 
I  come  from  lady  Juliet. 
Fri.  Welcome,  then. 

Enter  Nurse. 
Nurse.  O  holy  friar  !  0  !  tell  me,  holy  friar, 
Where  is  my  lady's  lord  ?  where  's  Romeo  ? 

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

drunk. 
Nurse.  0  !  he  is  even  in  my  mistress'  case ; 
Just  in  her  case. 

Fri.  0  woful  sympathy  ! 

Piteous  predicament ! 

Nurse.  Even  so  lies  she, 

Blubbering  and  weeping,  weeping  and  blubbering. — 
Stand  up,  stand  up ;  stand,  an  you  be  a  man : 
For  Juliet's  sake,  for  her  sake,  rise  and  stand  ; 
Why  should  you  fall  into  so  deep  an  0  ?  [Romeo  groans.'^ 
Rom.  Nurse  !  [Rising  suddenly.' 

Nurse.  Ah  .sir  !  ah  sir  ! — Death  is  the  end  of  all. 
Rom.  Spak'st  thou  of  Juliet?  how  is  it  with  her? 
Doth  she  not  think  me  an  old  murderer. 
Now  I  have  stain'd  the  childhood  of  our  joy 
With  blood  remov'd  but  little  from  her  own? 
Where  is  she?  and  how  doth  she?  and  what  says 
My  conceal'd  lady  to  our  cancell'd  love? 

Nurse.  0,  she  says  nothing,  sir,  but  weeps  and  weeps  ; 
And  now  falls  on  her  bed ;  and  then  starts  up. 
And  Tybalt  calls ;  and  then  on  Romeo  cries, 
And  then  down  falls  again. 

Rom.  As  if  that  name. 

Shot  from  the  deadly  level  of  a  gun, 
Did  murder  her  ;  as  that  name's  cursed  hand 
Murder'd  her  kinstnan. — 0  !  tell  me,  friar,  tell  me, 
In  what  \'ile  part  of  this  anatomy 
Dolh  my  name  lodge  ?  tell  me,  that  I  may  sack 
The  hateful  mansion.  [Drawing  his  Sword. 

Fri.  Hold  thy  desperate  hand  I 

A  rt  thou  a  man  ?  thy  form  cries  out,  thou  art ; 
Thy  tears  are  womanish:  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast : 
Unseemly  woman,  in  a  seeming  man  ; 
Or  ill-beseeming  beast,  in  seeming  both  ! 
Thou  hast  amaz'd  me :  by  my  holy  order, 


!  I  thought  thy  disposition  better  temper'd. 
Hast  thou  slain  Tybalt?  wilt  thou  slay  thyself, 
I  And  slay  thy  lady,  too,  that  lives  in  thee, 
By  doing  damned  hate  upon  thyself?* 
Why  rail'st  thou  on  thy  birth,  the  heaver.,  and  eanli 
Since  birth,  and  heaven,  and  earth,  all  three  do  m<.-ei 
In  thee  at  once,  which  thou  at  once  wouldst  lose. 
Fie.  fie  !  thou  sham'st  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy  wit, 
Which,  like  an  usurer,  abound'st  in  all, 
]  And  usest  none  in  that  true  use  indeed 
;  Which  should  bedeck  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy  wit. 
Thy  noble  shape  is  but  a  form  of  wax. 
Digressing  from  the  valour  of  a  man  : 
j  Thy  dear  love,  sworn,  but  hollow  perjury, 
i  Killing  that  love  which  thou  hast  vow'd  to  clierish, 
I  Thy  wit,  that  ornament  to  shape  and  love, 
;  Mis-shapen  in  the  conduct  of  them  both, 
j  Like  powder  in  a  skill-less  soldier's  flask, 
I  Is  set  afire  by  thine  own  ignorance, 
'  And  thou  dismember'd  with  thine  owni  defence. 
I  What  !  rouse  thee,  man  :  thy  Juliet  is  alive. 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  wast  but  lately  dead  ; 
There  art  thou  happy :   Tybalt  would  kill  thee. 
But  thou  slew'st  Tybalt;    there  art  thou  happy  too  • 
The  law,  that  threaten'd  death,  becomes  thy  friend,' 
And  turns  it  to  exile  ;  there  art  thou  happy : 
A  pack  of  blessings  lights  upon  thy  back ; 
Happiness  courts  thee  in  her  best  array  : 
But,  like  a  mis-behav'd  and  sullen  wench. 
Thou  pout'st  upon  thy  fortune  and  thy  love. 
Take  heed,  take  heed,  for  such  die  miserable. 
Go,  get  thee  to  thy  love,  as  was  agreed. 
Ascend  her  chamber,  hence  and  comfort  her ; 
But,  look,  thou  stay  not  till  the  watch  be  .«et, 
For  then  thou  canst  not  pass  to  Mantua  ; 
Where  thou  shalt  live,  till  we  can  find  a  time* 
To  blaze  your  marriage,  reconcile  your  friends, 
Beg  pardon  of  the  prince,  and  call  thee  back. 
With  twenty  hundred  thousand  times  more  joy 
Than  thou  went'st  forth  in  lamentation. — 
Go  before,  nurse  :  commend  me  to  thy  lady, 
And  bid  her  hasten  all  the  house  to  bed. 
Which  heavy  sorrow  makes  them  apt  unto  : 
Romeo  is  coming. 

Nurse.  0  Lord  !  I  could  have  stay'd  here  all  the  night, 
To  hear  good  counsel :  0,  what  learning  is  ! — 
My  lord,  I  '11  tell  my  lady  you  \s-ill  come. 

Rom.  Do  .so,  and  bid  my  sweet  prepare  to  chide. 
Nurse.   Here  is  a  ring  she  bid  me  give  you,  sir. 
Hie  you,  make  haste,  for  it  grows  very  late.  [Exit  Nurse. 
Ram.  How  well  my  comfort  is  reviv'd  by  this  ! 
Fri.  Go  hence.     Good  night:  and  here  stands  all 
Either  be  gone  before  the  watch  be  set,   [your  state  :— 
Or  by  the  break  of  day  disguised  from  hence. 
Sojourn  in  Mantua  ;  I  '11  find  out  your  man, 
And  he  shall  signify  from  time  to  time 
Every  good  hap  to  you  that  chances  here. 
Give  me  thy  hand :  't  is  late  ;  farewell  :  good  night 
j      Rom.  But  that  a  joy  pa.st  joy  calls  out  on  me. 
I  It  were  a  grief  so  brief  to  part  with  thee  : 
Farewell.  [ExruiU 

SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Capi'let's  House. 
Enter  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  and  Paris. 
Cap.  Things  have  fallen  out.  sir,  so  unluckily, 
That  we  have  had  no  time  to  move  our  daughter. 
Look  you.  she  lov'd  her  kinsman  Tybalt  dearly, 
And  so  did  I : — well,  we  were  born  to  die  — 


'  '  -Not  in  f  e      *This  and   the   sixteen  follo-wlf^ 
'  This  and  the  next  four  lines,  are  not  in  qui. to.  159" 


are  no'  ii    -narto,  1597.      «  This  and  the  next  line,  are  not  in  quarto 


660 


iiUMEO   AND   JULIET. 


'T  is  ver5  late,  she  '11  not  come  down  to-night : 
I  promise  you,  but  for  your  company, 
I  would  have  been  a-bcd  an  hour  aco. 

Par.  These  times  ol  woe  afiord  no  time  to  woo. — 
Ma  am.  good  niijht :  commend  me  to  your  daughter. 

La.  Cap.  I  will,  and  know  her  mind  early  to-morrow  : 
To  niiiht  she  "s  mowd  up  in  her  heavinese. 

Cap.  Sir  Pari.-^.  1  will  make  a  desperate  lender 
»)|  iny  child's  love  :  I  think,  she  will  be  ruFd 
III  all  respects  by  me:  nay  more.  1  doubt  it  not. 
Vile,  go  you  to  her  ere  you  go  to  bed ; 
Acquaint  her  here  of  my  son  Paris'  love. 
And  bid  her.  mark  you  me.  on  Wednesday  next — 
But.  solt  !  what  day  is  this  ? 

Par.  Monday,  my  lord. 

Cap.  Monday?  ha!  ha!     Well,   Wednesday  is  too 
O'  Thursday  let  it  be: — o'  Thursday,  tell  her,     [soon: 
She  shall  be  married  to  this  noble  earl. — 
Will  you  be  ready?  do  5'ou  like  this  haste? 
We  '11  keep  no  great  ado  : — a  friend,  or  two; — 
For  hark  you.  Tybalt  being  slain  so  late. 
It  may  be  thought  we  held  him  carelessly. 
B'*ing  our  kinsman,  if  we  revel  much. 
Theretore,  we  '11  have  some  half  a  dozen  friends. 
.\nd  there  an  end.     But  what  say  you  to  Thursday  ? 
Par.  My  lord,  I  would  that  Thursday  were  to-morrow. 
Cap.   Well,  get  you  gone  :  o'  Thursday  be  it  then. — 
Go  you  to  Juliet,  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
Prepare  her,  wife,  against  this  wedding-day. — 
Farewell,  my  lord. — Light  to  my  chamber,  ho  ! 
AtVire  me  !  it  is  so  very  late,  that  we 
May  call  it  early  by  and  by. — Good  night.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Julist's  Chamber. 
E7iter  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Jul.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near  day  : 
If  wa.s  the  nishtingale.  and  not  the  lark, 
That  piere'd  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear 
Niizhtly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree 
B''!ieve  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

Rom.  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn. 
No  nightingale:  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east. 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tijttoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops : 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Jul.  Yon  light  is  not  day-light :  I  know  it.  I  : 
h  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales. 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  lisht  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua: 
Therefore,  stay  yet  ;  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone. 

Rom.  Let  me  be  ta'en.  let  me  be  put  to  death  ; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  .so. 
I  "11  fay,  yon  grey  is  not  the  morning's  eye. 
'T  is  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  bow;' 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vanity  heaven  .«o  high  above  our  heads: 
I  have  more  care  to  stay,  than  \n]\  to  l'O  : — 
Come,  death,  and  welcome:  Juliet  wills  it  so  — 
How  is  't,  my  soul  ?  let 's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

Jul.  It  is.  it  is  ;  hie  hence,  be  iione.  away ! 
It  is  the  lark  thai  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  unpieasing  sharps. 
Some  say,  the  lark  makes  sweet  division; 
This  doth  not  so.  for  slie  dividcth  us  : 
Some  say,  the  lark  and  loathed  toad  chan^'c  eyes; 
O  !  now  I  would  they  had  chang'd  voices  too, 


I  Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us  affray. 
'Hunting  thee  hence  with  hunts-up'  to  the  day. 

0  !  now  be  gone:  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 
I      Rom.  More  light  and    light,  more    dark    and  dark 

our  woes. 

Enter  Nurse. 
I      Ni(r.se.  Madam  ! 
Jul.  Nurse. 

Nurse.  Your  lady  mother  's  coming  to  your  chambcT 
The  day  is  broke  ;  be  wary,  look  about.      [Exit  Nhix- 
Jul.  Then,  window,  let  day  in.  and  let  life  out. 
Rom.  Farewell,  farewell  !  one  kiss,  and  I  '11  deseer  i 

[De.scendite 
Jul.  Art  thou  gone  so?  love,   lord!    ay,  husbai.d. 

1  must  hear  from  thee  every  hour  in  the  day,   [friend  I 
For  in  a  minute  there  arc  many  days  : 

0  !  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo. 

Ro7n.  Farewell  !  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 

Jul.  0  !  think'st  ^^ou,  wc  shall  ever  meet  igain  ? 

Rom.  I  doubt  it  r.ot  f  and  all  these  woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Jul.  0  God  !   I  have  an  ill-divining  soul  : 
Methinks,  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  so  low, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb  : 
Either  my  eyesight  fails,  or  thou  look'st  pale. 

Rom.  And  trust  me,  love,  in  my  eye  so  do  you : 
Dry  sorrow  drinks  our  blood.     Adieu  !   adieu  ! 

[Exit  RoMvr 

Jul.  0  fortune,  fortune  !  all  men  call  thee  fickle  :* 
If  thou  art  fickle,  what  dost  thou  with  him 
That  is  renown'd  for  faith  ?     Be  fickle,  fortune  : 
For,  then,  I  hope  thou  wilt  not  keep  him  long, 
But  send  him  back. 

La.  Cap.  [Within.]  Ho  !  daughter,  are  you  up? 

Jul.  Who  is  't  that  calls  ?  is  it  my  lady  mother  ? 
Is  she  not  down  so  late,  or  up  so  early  ? 
What  unaccustom'd  cause  procures  her  hither  ? 
Enter  iMcly  Capilet. 

La.  Cap.  Why,  how  now,  Juliet  ' 

Jul.  Madam,  i  am  not  well 

La.  Cap.  Evermore  weeping  for  your  cousin's  death 
What !  wilt  thou'  wash  him  from  his  grave  with  tears  " 
An  if  thou  wouldst.  thou  couhlst  not  make  him  live  : 
Therefore,  have  done.    Some  grief  shows  much  of  love 
But  much  of  grief  shows  .«till  some  want  of  wit. 

Jul.  Yet  let  me  weep  for  such  a  feeling  loss. 

La.  Cap.  So  shall  you  feel  the  loss,  but  not  the  friew 
Which  you  weep  for. 

Jul.  Feeling  so  the  loss, 

1  cannot  choose  but  ever  weep  the  friend. 
La.  Cap.  Well,  girl,  thou  weep'st  not  so  much  l(v 

his  death, 

As  that  the  villain  lives  which  slaughter'd  hnn. 
Jul.  What  villain,  madam  ? 

La.  Cap.  That  same  villain.  Rnmoo 

Jul.  Villain  and  he  are  many  miles  asunder. 

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

And  yet  no  man,  like  him,  doth  grieve  my  heart. 
La.  Cap.  That  is,  because  the  traitor  murderer*  liv.-." 
Jul.  Ay,  madam,  from  the  reach  of  those  my  hand* 

Would  none  but  I  might  venge  my  cousin's  death  ' 
La.  Cap.  We  will  have  vengeance  for  it.  tear  thou  not 

Then,  weep  no  more.     I  'II  send  to  one  in  Mantua,— 

Where  that  same  banish'd  rnn;igatc  doth  live, — 

Shall  give  him  such  an  unaccustom'd  dram' 

'  hrow :  in  f.  e       '  The   name  of  a  tune  <.o  rommon   hunters.      »  No  doubt,   no  doubt  :  in  quarto.   I.TO7.      *  This  and  the  next  two 
fx^che*.  are  wantinc  in  the  quarto,  1.597  I   think,   thou  'It:  in   quarto,  1597.      The  scene  was  much  altered  subsequentlr       'Notm 

5Qu-'f>»       '  Thflt  sb-^uld  besUiw  on  htm  to  nrf  i  draught  :  auarto.  1.597. 


SvENE    V. 


ROMEO   AKD   JULIET. 


66/ 


riiat  he  shall  soon  keep  Tybalt  company; 
And  then.  I  hope,  thou  wilt  be  satisfied. 

Jul.  Indeed,  I  never  shall  be  satisfied 
With  Romeo,  till  I  behold  him — dead — 
Is  my  poor  heart  so  for  a  kinsman  vex'd. — 
Madam,  if  you  could  find  out  but  a  man 
To  bear  a  poison,  I  would  temper  it, 
That  Romeo  should,  upon  receipt  thereof. 
Soon  sleep  in  quiet. — 0  !  how  my  heart  abhors 
To  hear  him  nam'd, — and  cannot  come  to  him, — 
To  wreak  the  love  I  bore  my  cousin  Tybalt 
Upon  his  body  that  hath  slaughter'd  him  ! 

Iji.  Cav.  Find  thou  the  means,  and  I'll  find  such  a 
man. 
5ut  now  I  '11  tell  thee  joyful  tidings,  girl. 

Jul.  And  joy  comes  well  in  such  a  needy  time. 
What  are  they,  I  beseech  your  ladyship  ? 

La.  Cap.  Well,  well,  thou  hast  a  careful  father,  child  ; 
One  who,  to  put  thee  from  thy  heaviness, 
Hath  sorted  oui  a  sudden  day  of  joy. 
That  thou  expect'st  not,  nor  I  look'd  not  for. 

Jul.  Madam,  in  happy  time,  what  day  is  that  ?' 

La.  Cap.  Marry,  my  child,  early  next  Thursday  morn, 
The  gallant,  young,  and  noble  gentleman. 
The  county  Paris,  at  Saint  Peter's  church 
Shall  happily  make  thee  a  joyful  bride. 

.ful.  Now,  by  Saint  Peter's  church,  and  Peter  too, 
He  shall  not  make  me  there  a  joyful  bride. 
1  wonder  at  this  haste  ;  that  I  must  wed 
Ere  he,  that  should  be  husband,  conies  to  woo. 
I  pray  you,  tell  my  lord  and  father,  madam, 
[  \\'ill  not  marry  yet ;  and.  when  I  do.  I  swear, 
It  shall  be  Romeo,  whom  you  know  I  hate. 
Rather  than  Paris. 

La.  Cap.  These  are  news  indeed  !' 

Here  comes  your  father  ;  teli  him  so  yourself. 
And  see  how  he  will  take  it  at  your  hands. 
Enter  Capulet  and  Nurse. 

Cap.  When  the  sun  sets,  the  earth  doth  drizzle  dew  ; 
But  for  the  sunset  of  my  brother's  son 
U  rains  downright. — 

How  now  !  a  conduit,  girl  ?  what  !  .still  in  tears  ? 
Evermore  showering  ?     In  one  little  body 
Thou  counterfeit'st  a  bark,  a  sea,  a  wind  : 
For  still  thy  eyes,  which  I  may  call  the  sea, 
Do  ebb  and  flow  with  tears  ;  tlie  bark  thy  body  is. 
Sailing  in  this  salt  flood  ;  the  winds,  thy  sighs  : 
Who.  raging  with  thy  tears,  and  they  with  ihem, 
Without  a  sudden  calm,  will  overset 
Thy  tempest-tossed  body. — How  now,  wife  ! 
Have  you  delivered  to  her  our  decree  ? 
•    La.  Cap.  Ay,  sir;  but  she  will  none,  she  giA'es  you 

thanks. 
I  would,  the  fool  were  married  to  her  grave. 

Cap.  Soft,  take  me  with  you,  take  me  with  you,  wife. 
How  !  will  she  none  ?  doth  she  not  give  us  thanks  ? 
i*    Is  she  not  proud  ?  doth  she  not  count  her  bless"d, 
Unworthy  as  she  is,  that  we  have  wrought 
So  worthy  a  gentleman  to  be  her  bridegroom  ? 

Jul.  Not  proud  you  have,  but  thankful  that  you  have  : 
Proud  can  f  never  be  of  what  I  hate ; 
But  thankful  even  for  hate,  that  is  meant  love. 

Cap.  How  now,  how  now,  chop-logic  !    What  is  this  ? 
Proud, — and,  I  thank  you, — and,  I  thank  you  not ; — 
And  yet  not  proud  ? — Mistress  minion,  you.' 
Thank  me  no  thankings,  nor  proud  me  no  prouds, 
Rut  settle  your  fine  joints  'gainsf.  Thursday  next 

•  this  :  in  quaxto.  1597.      '  f.  e.  give  this  line  to  Juliet.      '  Not 
day.      '  God's  blessed  mother,  wife,  it  mads  me  :  in  quarto,  1597. 
hts  bal   ine  line  in  place  of  tllis  soeech. 


To  go  with  Paris  to  Saint  Peters  church. 

Or  1  will  drag  thee  on  a  hurdle  thither 

Out,  you  green-sickness  carrion  !  oui,  you  baggage  ' 

You  tallow  face  ! 

La.  Cap.  Fie,  fie  !  what,  are  you  mad  : 

Jul.  Good  father,  [  beseech  you  on  my  knees, 
Hear  me  with  patience  but  to  speak  a  word. 

Cap.  Hang  thee,  young  baggage  !  disobedient  "WTe'cl; 
I  tell  thee  what, — get  thee  to  church  o'  Thursday, 
Or  never  after  look  me  in  the  face. 
Speak  not,  reply  not,  do  not  answer  me  ; 
i\Iy  fingers  itch. — Wife,  we  scarce  thought  us  bless'd 
That  God  had  lent  us  but  this  only  child  ; 
But  now  I  see  this  one  is  one  too  much. 
And  that  we  have  a  curse  in  having  her. 
Out  on  her,  hilding  !* 

Nurse.  God  in  heaven  bless  her  ! 

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

Cap.  And  why.  my  lady  wisdom  ?  hold  your  tongue 
Good  prudence  :  smatter  with  your  gossips ;  go. 

Nurse.  I  speak  no  treason. 

Cap.  0  !  God  ye  good  den.* 

Nurse.  May  not  one  speak  ? 

Cap.  Peace,  you  mumbling  fool  '. 

Utter  your  gravity  o'er  a  gossip's  bowl, 
For  here  we  need  it  not. 

La.  Cap.  You  are  too  hot. 

Cap.  God's  bread  !  it  makes  me  mad.' 
Day,  night,  hour,  tide,  time,  work,  play, 
Alone,  in  company,  still  my  care  hath  been 
To  have  her  match'd  :  and  having  now  prodded 
A  gentleman  of  noble  parentage, 
Of  fair  demesnes,  youthful,  and  nobly  train' d,' 
Stuff 'd  (as  they  say)  with  honourable  parts, 
Proportion'd  as  one's  thought  would*  ^^-ish  a  man, — 
And  then  to  have  a  wretclied  puling  fool, 
A  whining  mammet,  in  her  fortune's  tender, 
To  answer — "  I  'il  not  wed," — "  I  cannot  love." 
■•  I  am  too  young," — "  I  pray  you,  pardon  me." — 
But,  an  you  will  not  wed,  I  '11  pardon  you  ; 
Graze  where  you  will,  you  shall  not  house  with  me  : 
Look  to't,  think  on  't,  I  do  not  use  to  jest. 
Thursday  is  near  ;  lay  hand  on  heart,  advise. 
An  you  be  mine,  I  '11  give  you  to  my  friend  ; 
An  you  be  not,  hang,  beg,  starve,  die  i"  the  streets, 
For,  by  my  soul,  I  '11  ne'er  acknowledge  thee, 
Nor  what  is  mine  shall  never  do  thee  good. 
Trust  to  't,  bethink  you  :  I  '11  not  be  forsworn.     [Eri: 

Jul.  Is  there  no  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds, 
That  sees  into  the  bottom  of  my  grief  ? — 
0,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away  ! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month,  a  week ; 
Or,  if  you  do  not,  make  the  bridal  bed 
In  that  dim  monument  where  Tybalt  lies. 

La.  Cap.  Talk  not  to  me,  for  I  '11  not  speak  a  wor-^ 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  have  done  with  thee.  [Es'' 

Jul.  0  God  !—0 nurse  !  how  shall  this  be  prevenlt-d "■ 
My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven ; 
How  shall  that  faith  return  ag.ain  to  earth. 
Unless  that  husband  send  it  me  from  heaven 
Bv  leaving  earth  ? — Comfort  me.  counsel  me. — 
Alack  !  that  heaven  should  practise  stratagems 
Upon  80  soft  a  subject  as  myself ! — 
What  say'st  thou  ?  hast  thou  not  a  word  of  joy  ' 
Some  comfort,  nurse. 

Nurse.  Faith,  here  't  is.     Romeo 

Is  banished,  and  all  the  world  to  nothing, 

in  folio.      ♦  A  low,  disreputable  pfrxon.      •  God  give  yon  good  e^ en  r 
'  illied  :  in  folio.      »  heart  could  :  in  quirto,  1597.      »  Ihe  qnarto  IX 


t>bS 


KUMEU    A>;D  JULIET. 


ACT  rv. 


That  he  dares  ne'er  come  back  to  challenge  you  ; 
Or,  if  he  do,  it  needs  must  be  by  stealth. 
Then,  since  the  case  so  stands  as  now  it  doth, 
1  think  it  best  you  married  with  the  county. 

0  I  he  's  a  lovely  gentleman  ; 

Komeo  's  a  dishcloui  to  him  :  an  eagle,  madam, 
Haih  not  .•^o  jrreen,  so  quick,  so  lair  an  eye, 
A.*-  I'an.s  haih.     He.-^hrew  my  very  heart, 

1  ihiiik  you  arc  happy  in  this  second  match, 
For  It  excels  your  lirst  :  or  if  it  did  not, 
Vour  tirst  is  dead  :  or  't  were  as  good  he  were, 
As  living  here  and  you  no  use  of  him. 

Jul.  Speake«t  thou  from  thy  heart  ? 
Nurse.  And  from  my  soul  too ; 

Or  else  beshrew  them  both. 

Jul.  Amen  ! 


Nurse.  What  ? 

Jul.  Well,  tliou  hast  comforted  me  marvellous  much 
Go  in  :  and  tell  my  lady  I  am  gone. 
Having  di.>^i)lea.<d  my  lather,  to  Laurence'  cell, 
To  make  confession,  and  lo  be  absolv'd. 

Nurse.  Marry.  I  will  ;  and  this  is  wisely  done. 

[Exu 

Jul.  Ancient  damnation  !     0,  most  wicked  fiend  ! 
Is  it  more  sin  to  wish  me  thus  forsworn, 
Or  to  di^;praise  my  lord  with  that  same  tongue 
Which  t-he  hath  praised  him  with  above  compare 
So  many  thou.<and  times  ? — Go,  counsellor  ; 
Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain. — 
I  '11  to  the  friar,  tD  know  his  remedy  ; 
U  all  else  fail,  myself  have  power  to  die.  [Exit. 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  I.— Friar  Lacrence's  Cell. 
Enter  Friar  L.wrence  and  Paris. 

Fri.  On  Thursday,  sir  ?  the  time  is  very  short. 

Par.  My  father  Capulet  will  have  it  so ; 
And  I  am  nothing  slow  to  slack'  his  haste. 

Fri.  You  say,  you  do  not  know  the  lady's  mind  : 
I'neven  is  the  course  ;  I  like  it  not. 

Par.  Immoderately  she  weeps  for  Tybalt's  death, 
And,  therefore,  have  I  little  talk'd  of  love ; 
For  Venus  smiles  not  in  a  house  of  tears. 
Now.  sir,  her  father  counts  it  dangerous, 
That  she  doth  give  her  sorrow  so  much  way,' 
.\nd  in  his  wisdom  hastes  our  marriage. 
To  stop  the  inundation  of  her  tears  ; 
Which,  too  much  minded  by  herself  alone, 
May  be  put  from  her  by  society. 
Now  do  you  know  the  reason  of  this  haste  ? 

Fri.  I  would  I  knew  not  why  it  should  be  slow'd. 

[Aside. 
Look,  sir,  here  comes  the  lady  towards  my  cell. 
Enter  Juliet. 

Par.  Happily  met.'  my  lady,  and  my  wife. 

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

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

Jul.  WTiat  must  be  shall  be. 

Fri.  That  's  a  certain  text. 

Par.  Come  you  to  make  confession  to  this  father  ? 

Jul.  To  an.-Nver  that.  I  should  confess  to  you. 

Par.  Do  not  deny  to  him  that  you  love  me. 

Jul.  1  will  confe.'^s  to  you  that  I  love  him. 

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

Jul.  If  I  do  so.  it  will  be  of  more  price. 
Being  sfioke  behind  your  back,  than  to  your  face. 

Par.  Poor  soul,  thy  face  is  niuch  abus'd  with  tears. 

Jvd.  The  tears  have  got  small  victory  by  that; 
For  it  wa-s  bad  enough  before  their  spile. 

Par.  Thou  MTong'st  it,  more  than  tears,  with  that 
.  report. 

Jul.  That  is  no  slander,  sir,  which  is  a  truth  , 
.^nd  what  I  spake.  I  spake  it  to  my  face. 

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

Jtd.  It  may  be  so,  for  it  is  not  mine  n%\n. — 
Are  you  at  leisure,  holy  father,  now. 
Or  shall  I  come  to  you  at  evening  mas.v '' 


Fri.  My  leisure  serves  me.  pensive  daughter,  now. — 
My  lord,  we  must  entreat  the  lime  alone. 

Par.  God  shield.  I  should  disturb  devotion  ! — 
Juliet,  on  Thursday  early  will  I  rouse  you  : 
Till  then,  adieu  ;  and  keep  this  holy  kiss.  [Exit  Paris. 

Jul.  0  !  shut  the  door  ;  and  when  thou  hast  done  so. 
Come  weep  with  me  ;  past  hope,  past  cure,*  past  help  ! 

Fri.  0  Juliet  !   I  already  know  thy  grief; 
It  strains  me  past  the  compass  of  my  -wits  ;* 
I  hear  thou  must,  and  nothing  must  prorogue  it. 
On  Thursday  next  be  married  to  this  Count. 

Jul.  Tell  me  not.  friar,  that  thou  hear'st  of  this, 
Unless  thou  tell  me  how  I  may  prevent  it : 
If  in  thy  wisdom  thou  canst  give  no  help,' 
Do  ihon  but  call  my  resolution  wse, 
And  with  this  knife  I  '11  help  it  presently.  [Showing  il. 
God  join'd  my  heart  and  Romeo's,  thou  our  hands  ; 
And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd,* 
Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed. 
Or  my  true  heart  with  treacherous  revolt 
Turn  to  another,  this  shall  slay  them  both. 
Therefore,  out  of  thy  long-experienc'd  time. 
Give  me  some  present  counsel  :  or,  behold, 
'Twixt  my  extremes  and  me  this  bloody  knife 
Shall  play  the  umpire  ;  arbitrating  that. 
Which  the  commission  of  thy  years  and  art 
Could  to  no  issue  of  true  honour  bring. 
Be  not  so  long  to  speak  ;  I  long  to  die.  [Offers  lo  .'ilnkt ' 
If  what  thou  speak  St  speak  not  of  remedy. 

Fri.  Hold,  daughter  !     I  do  spy  a  kind  of  hope. 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desperate  which  we  would  prevent. 
If.  rather  than  to  marry  county  Paris, 
Thou  hast  the  strength  of  will  to  slay  thyself. 
Then  is  it  likely  thou  wilt  undertake 
A  thing  like  death  to  cliide  away  this  shame, 
That  cop' St  with  death  himself  to  scape  from  it , 
And.  if  thou  dar"st.  I  "11  give  thee  remedy. 

Jul.  O!  bid  me  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder'"  tower; 
Or  walk  in  thievish  ways  ;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are ;  chain  me  with  roaring  bears  '' 
Or  hide  me  nightly  in  a  charnel-house. 
Oer-cover'd  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling  bones, 
With  reeky  shank.s,  and  yellow  chapless  .skulls; 


1  tlteV  to  ilo 
I  XT. 
'*»<!«.      •  .Not  in  f.  e. 

"  Or  •hain  me  to  •: 


1°  any  :  in  foiio 
»teepy  mounlain'i 


*  Welcome,  my  love  :  in  quarto,  1597.     ♦  can-  :  in  folio.     »  Thi; 


Wh«T«  roaring  Ma.-*  and  savage  lioni  are  :  in  quarto,  1^7. 


I  not  in  quutf 


SOENE  m. 


EOMEO   AND  JULIET. 


669 


Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave. 

And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud  :' 

Things  that  to  hear  them  told  have  made  me  tremble ; 

And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt, 

To  live  an  unstain'd  wife  to  my  sweet  love.' 

Fri.  Hold,  then  :  go  home,  be  merry,  give  consent 
To  marry  Paris.     Wednesday  is  to-morrow ; 
To-morrow  night  look  that  thou  lie  alone. 
Let  not  thy  nurse  lie  with  thee  in  thy  chamber : 
Take  thou  this  phial,  being  then  in  bed. 
And  this  distilled  liquor  drink  thou  off: 
When,  presently,  through  all  thy  veins  shall  run 
A  cold  and  drowsy  humour  ;  for  no  pulse 
Shall  keep  his  native  progress,  but  surcease  :■■ 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  livest  ; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  paly''  ashes ;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall. 
Like  death  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life  ; 
Each  part,  depriv'd  of  supple  government. 
Shall  stiff  and  stark  and  cold,  appear  like  death  : 
And  in  this  borrowed  likeness  of  shrunk  death 
Thou  shalt  continue  two  and  forty  hours. 
And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep. 
Now,  when  the  bridegroom  in  the  morning  comes 
To  rouse  thee  from  thy  bed,  there  art  thou  dead  : 
Then,  as  the  manner  of  our  country  is. 
In  thy  best  robes  uneover'd  on  the  bier. 
Be  borne  to  burial  in  thy  kindred's  grave  : 
Thou  shalt  he  borne  to  that  same  ancient  vault, 
Where  all  the  kindred  of  the  Capulets  lie. 
In  the  meantime,  against  thou  shalt  awake. 
Shall  Romeo  by  my  letters  know  our  drifl  ; 
And  hitlier  shall  he  come,  and  he  and  I 
Will  watch  thy  waking,  and  that  very  night 
Shall  Romeo  bear  thee  hence  to  Mantua. 
And  this  shall  free  thee  from  this  present  shame, 
If  no  unconstant  toy,  nor  womanish  fear. 
Abate  thy  valour  in  the  acting  it. 

Jnl.  Give  me,  give  me  !     0  !   tell  me  not  of  fear. 

Fri.  Hold :  get  you  gone :  be  strong  and  prosperous 
j    In  this  resolve.     I  '11  send  a  friar  with  speed 
To  Mantua,  with  my  letters  to  thy  lord. 

Jul.    Love,  give    me    strength,  and    strength    shall 
help  afford. 
Farewell,  dear  father.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Capulets  House. 
Enter  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  Niirse,  and  Servants. 

Cap.  So  many  guests  invite  as  here  are  \ATit. — 

[Exit  Servant. 
Sirrah,  go  hire  me  twenty  cunning  cooks. 

2  Serv.  You  shall  have  none  ill,  sir;  for  I  '11  try  if 
they  can  lick  their  fingers. 

Cap.  How  canst  thou  try  them  so  ? 

2  Serv.  Marry,  sir,  't  is  an  ill  cook  that  cannot  lick 
hia  own  fingers :  therefore  he  that  cannot  lick  his 
fiugjrs  goes  not  with  me. 

Cap.  Go,  begone. —  [Exit  Servant. 

We  shall  be  much  unfurnish'd  for  this  time. — 
WV^t,  is  my  daughter  gone  to  Friar  Laurence  ? 

Kvrse.  Ay,  forsooth. 


Cap.  Well,  he  may  chance  to  do  some  good  on  her : 
A  peevish  self-will'd  harlotry  it  is. 
Enter  Juliet. 

Ntirse.  See,  where  she  comes  from  shrift  with  merry 
look. 

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

/'//.  Where  I  have  learn'd  me  to  repent  the  sin 
Of  disobedient'  opposition 
To  you.  and  your  behests;  and  am  enjoin"d 
By  holy  Laurence  to  fall  prostrate  here,       [Kneeling. 
And  beg  your  pardon. — Pardon,  I  beseech  you  : 
Henceforward  I  am  ever  rul'd  by  you. 

Cap.  Send  for  the  County;  go  tell  him  of  this. 
I  '11  have  this  knot  knit  up  to-morrow  morninir. 

Jul.  I  met  the  youthful  lord  at  Laurence'  cell  ; 
And  gave  him  what  becoming'  love  I  might, 
Not  stepping  o'er  the  bounds  of  modesty. 

Cap.  Why,  I  am  glad  on  't ;  this  is  well. — .stnnd  up  : 
This  is  as  't  should  be. — Let  me  see  the  County : 
Ay.  marry,  go,  I  say,  and  fetch  him  hither. —  ' 
Now,  afore  God,  this  reverend  holy  friar. 
All  our  whole  city  is  much  bound  to  liim. 

Jul.  Nurse,  will  you  go  with  me  into  my  closet, 
To  help  me  sort  such  needful  ornaments 
As  you  think  fit  to  furnish  me  to-morrow  ? 

La.  Cap.  No.  not  till  Thursday :  there  is  time  enough 

Cap.  Go,  nurse,  go  with  her. — We  '11  to  church  to- 
morrow. [Exeunt  Juliet  ami  Nurse 

La.  Cap.  W«  shall  be  short  in  our  provision  : 
'T  is  now  near  night. 

Cap.  Tush  !  I  will  stir  about. 

And  all  things  shall  be  well,  I  warrant  thee,  wife, 
Go  thou  to  Juliet ;  help  to  deck  up  her  : 
I  '11  not  to  bed  to-night ; — let  me  alone  ; 
I  '11  play  the  housewife  for  this  once. — What  ho  ! — 
They  are  all  forth  :  well,  I  will  walk  myself 
To  county  Paris,  to  prepare  him  up 
Against  to-morrow.     My  heart  is  won'drous  light. 
Since  this  same  wayward  girl  is  so  reclaim'd.  [Exeunt 
SCENE  III.— Juliet's  Chamber. 
Enter  Juliet  and  Nurse. 

Jul.  Ay,  those  attires  are  besf; — but,  gentle  nurse. 
I  pray  thee  leave  me  to  myself  to-night ; 
For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state, 
Which,  well  thou  know'st,  is  cross  and  full  of  sin. 
Enter  Lady  Capulet. 

La.  Cap.  What,  are  you  busy,  ho?  need  you  my  help  ' 

Jul.  No,  madam  ;  we  have  cull'd  such  necessaries 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  stal  e  to-morrow : 
So  please  you.  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you  : 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  have  your  hands  full  all. 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 

La.  Cap.  Good  night : 

Get  thee  to  bed.  and  re.st ;  for  thou  hast  need. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Capulet  and  Nurx 

Jul.  Farewell  !' — tjod  knows  when  we  siiall  m'^et 
again. 


'  Or  lay  me  in  a  tomb  with  ope  new  dead  :  in  quarto,  l.')97  ;  the  undated  quarto  has  :  shroud  ;  the  folio  :  grave. 
■  To  keep  myself  a  faithful,  unstained  wife.     To  mv  dear  lord,  my  dearest  Romeo  :  in  quarto,  1597. 

'  A  dull  and  heavy  slumber,  which  shall  seize,     Each  vital  spirit ;  for  no  pulse  shall  keep     His  natural  progress  but  surcease  to  b'lt  :  i? 
quarto,  1597.     *  So  the  undated  quarto  ;  others,  and  folio  :  many.      »  forward,  wilful :  in  quarto.  1597.      •  Not  in  f.  e.        becomed  ;    r  l  f 
"  Ic  the  quarto,  1597,  this  speech  is  thus  /riven  ; 

Farewell,  God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again. 

Ah,  I  do  take  a  fearful  thing  in  hand — 


.  quarto. 
I  will  not  entertain  i 


bad  I 


What  if  this  potion  should  not  work  at  all, 
Must  I  of  force  be  married  to  the  county  ? 
This  shall  forbid  it.     Knife,  lie  thou  there. 
What  if  the  friar  should  give  me  this  drink 
To  poison  me,  for  fear  I  .should  disclose 
Our  former  marriage?     Ah.  I  wrong  bvm  mii 
He  is  »  holv  and  relisious  man  : 


thought. 
What  if  I  should  be  stifled  in  the  tomb? 
Awake  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time  ? 
Ah  ;  then  1  fear  I  shall  be  lunatick. 
And  plaving  with  my  dead  forefather's  bone«. 
Dash  out  mv  frantic  brains.     Methinks  1  se* 
My  cousin  Tybalt,  weltering  in  his  blood. 
Seeking  for  Romeo  :  stay,  Tybalt,  stay,- 
Romeo,  T  -^ome.  this  do  I  drink  to  thf «. 


670 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET. 


have  a  fnint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
Thai  nliiiost  froozes  up.  tlic  heat  of  life  : 
I  '11  call  tliom  back  again  to  comfort  mc. — 
Nurse  I — What  should  she  do  here? 
My  Jismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. — 
C'ome,  phial. — 

\Vhat  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all, 
Shall  1  be  married,  then,  to-morrow  morning  ' — 
No.  no  : — this  shall  forbid  it: — lie  thou  there. — 

[Laying  dmrn  a  Dasger. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead, 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonour  d, 
Hecau.^e  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo  ? 
F  (ear.  it  i.s  :  and  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man  : 
I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought. — 
How  if.  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Otme  to  redeem  me  ?  there  's  a  fearful  point. 
Shall  I  not,  then,  be  stiHed  in  the  vault. 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healtli.«ome  air  breathes  in. 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Homeo  comes  ? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  veiy  like, 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night. 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place. — 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle, 
Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  packed  ; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth. 
Lies  festering  in  his  shroud  ;  where,  as  they  say, 
M  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort : — 
Alack,  alack  !   is  it  not  Tike,  that  I, 
So  early  waking. — what  with  loathsome  smells. 
And  shrieks  like  mandrakes'  torn  out  of  the  earth. 
That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad  ; — 
0  !  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught. 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears, 
\nd  madly  play  with  my  forefathei-s'  joints. 
\nd  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud  ? 
\nd,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone. 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  ? 
0.  look  !  methinks,  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Si'eking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Tpon  a  rapier's  point. — Stay,  Tybalt,  stay! — 
Homeo  !   Romeo  !   Romeo  I — here  's  drink — I  drink  to 
thee.  [She  throu's  herself  on  the  bed. 

SCENE  IV.— Capulet's  Hall. 
Enter  Lady  Capulet  and  Nurse. 

La.  Cap.    Hold  ;   take   these  keys,  and   fetch   more 
spices,  nnr.«e. 

Nurte.  They  call  for  dates  and  quinces  in  the  pastrN'. 
Enter  Capulet. 

Cap.    Come,  stir,  stir,  stir  !    the  second  cock  hath 
crow"d. 
The  curfew  bell  hath  rung,  't  is  three  o'clock. — 
Look  to  the  bak'd  meats,  good  Angelica: 
v-^pare  not  for  cost. 

Nur.fc.'  Go,  go,  you  cot-quean,»  go. 

Get  you  to  bed  :  'faith,  you  '11  be  sick  to-morrow 
For  thi?  night's  watching. 

Cap.  No,  not  a  whit.    What !  I  have  watch'd  ere  now 
Ml  night  for  lesser  cause,  and  ne'er  been  sick. 

La.  Cap.  Ay.  you  have  been  a  mouse-hunt'  in  your 

Rtu  I  will  waich  you  from  such  watching  now.   flime; 

[Exeunt  Lady  Capulet  and  Nurse. 


[      Cap.  A  jealous-hood,  a  jealous-hood  I — Now,  fellow 
What  's  there  ? 

Enter  Servants,  with  Spits,  Logs,  and  Baskets. 

1  Se-rv.  Things  for  the  cook,  sir ;  but  1  know  not  what . 
Cap.  Make  haste,  make  haste.   [Exit  1  Serv.] — Sir- 
rah, fetch  drier  logs : 

Call  Peter,  he  will  show  thee  where  they  are. 

2  Sc7-v.  I  have  a  head,  sir,  that  will  find  out  logs, 
And  never  trouble  I'eter  for  the  matter.  [Exit. 

Cap.  'Mass,  and  well  .said  ;  a  merry  whoreson,  ha  ' 
Thou  slialt  be  logger-head. — Good  faith  !  't  is  day  : 
The  County  will  be  here  wilh  music  straiiiht. 

[iMusic  wilhtn 
For  so  he  said  he  would. — I  hear  him  near. — 
Nurse  ! — Wife  ! — what,  ho  ! — what,  nurse.  I  say  ! 

Enter  Nurse. 
Go,  waken  Juliet ;  go,  and  trim  her  up  : 
I  '11  go  and  chat  wilh  Paris. — Hie,  make  haste. 
Make  haste  :  the  bridegroom  he  is  come  already. 
Make  haste,  I  say.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  V. — Juliet's  Chamber;  Juliet  on  the  Bed, 
Enter  Nxirse. 

Nurse.    Mistress  ! — what,   mistress  ! — Juliet ! — fa.-*!, 
[  warrant : — 
Why,  lamb  ! — why,  lady  ! — fie,  you  slug-a-bed  ! — 
Why,    love,    I    say  ! — madam  !    sweet-heart  ! — why. 

bride  ! — 
What !  not  a  word  ? — You  take  your  pennyworths  now : 
Sleep  for  a  week ;  for  the  next  night,  I  warrant. 
The  county  Paris  hath  set  up  his  rest, 
That  you  shall  rest  but  little. — God  forgive  me, 
Marry  and  amen,  how  sound  is  she  asleep ! 
I  needs  must  wake  her. — Madam,  madam,  madam  ! 
Ay,  let  the  County  take  you  in  your  bed: 
He  'U  fright  you  up,  i'  faith. — Will  it  not  be  ? — 
What,  drest  !  and  in  your  clothes  !  and  down  again ! 
I  must  needs  wake  you.     Lady  !  lady,  lady  ! — 
Alas!  alas! — Help!  help!   my  lady 's  dead  ! — 
O,  well-a-day,  that  ever  I  was  born  ! — 
Some  aqua-vitae,  ho  ! — my  lord  !  my  lady  ! 
Enter  Lady  Capulet. 

La.  Cap.  What  noise  is  here  ? 

Nurse.  0  lamentable  day  ! 

La.  Cop.  What  is  the  matter? 

Nurse.  Look,  look!  0  heavy  day  ! 

Jyi.  Cap.  O  mc  !  O  me  ! — my  child,  my  only  lil'r. 
Revive,  look  up,  or  I  will  die  with  thee  ! — 
Help,  help  !— call  help. 

Enter  Capulet. 

Cap.  For  shame  !  bring  Juliet  forth  ;  her  lord  is  come. 

Nurse.  She  's  dead,  deceas'd  :  she  's  dead  :  alack  the 
day! 

La.  Cap.  Alack  the  day  !   she  's  dead,  she  's  dead. 
she  's  dead. 

Cap.  Ha  !*  let  me  see  her. — Out,  alas  !  she  's  cold  I 
Her  blood  is  settled,  and  her  joints  are  stifl'; 
Life  and  these  lips  have  long  been  separated  : 
Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  llower  of  all  the  field. 

Nurse.  0  lamentable  day  ! 

La.  Cap.  0  woful  time  ! 

Cap.  Death,  that  hath  ta'cn  her  hence  to  maife  me 
wail, 
Ties  up  my  tongue,  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 
Enter  Friar  Laurence  and  Paris,  uith  Musiciau 

Fri.  Come,  is  the  bride  ready  to  go  to  church? 


Lady  Cap 


int»>rfer«ii  in  women's  business.       '  A 
Stay,  let  me  see,  all  pale  and  wan, 
Accurud  time,  unfortunate  old  man. 


In  quarto,  1597,  this  speech  i 


EOMEO    A.ND  JULIET. 


671 


Cap.  Ready  to  20,  but  never  to  return. — 
0  son  !  the  mght  before  thy  wedding  day 
Hath  deatn  lain  with  thy  wife  :  there  she  lies, 
Flower  as  she  was,  deflowered  by  him. 
Death  is  my  son-in-law,  death  is  my  heir ; 
My  daughter  be  hath  wedded.     I  will  die, 
And  leave  him  all  :  life,  living',  all  is  death's  ! 

Par.  Have  I  thought  long  to  see  this  morning's  face,^ 
And  doth  it  give  me  such  a  sight  as  this  ? 

La.  Cap.  Accurs'd,  unhappy,  wretched,  hateful  day! 
Most  miserable  hour,  that  e'er  time  saw 
In  lasting  labour  of  his  pilgrimage  ! 
But  one.  poor  one.  one  poor  and  loving  child. 
But  one  thing  to  rejoice  and  solace  in, 
And  cruel  death  hath  catch'd  it  from  my  sight.' 

Nurse.  0  woe.  0  woful,  woful,  woful  day  I 
Most  lamentable  day  !  most  woful  day. 
That  ever,  ever.  I  did  yet  behold  ! 
0  day  !  0  day  !'  0  day  !  O  hateful  day  ! 
Never  was  seen  so  black  a  day  as  this  : 
0  woful  day.  0  woful  day  ! 

Par.  Beguil'd,  divorc'd.  wrong'd.  spited,  slain  ! 
Most  detestable  death,  by  thee  beguird, 
By  cruel  cruel  thee  quite  overthrown  ! — 
0  love  !  0  life  ! — not  life,  but  love  in  death  1 

Cap.  Despis'd,  distressed,  hated,  martj-rd,  kill'd  ! 
Uncomfortable  time,  why  cam'st  thou  now 
To  murder,  murder  our  solemnity  ? — 
0  child  !  0  child  ! — my  soul,  and  not  my  child  ! — 
Dead  art  thou  ! — alack  !  my  child  is  dead  ; 
And  with  my  child  my  joys  are  buried. 

Fri.  Peace,  ho  !  for  shame  !  confusion's  cure*  lives  not 
In  these  confusions.     Heaven  and  yourself 
Had  part  in  this  fair  maid,  now  heaven  hath  all  ; 
And  all  the  better  is  it  for  the  maid  : 
Your  part  in  her  you  could  not  keep  from  death, 
But  heaven  keeps  his  part  in  eternal  life. 
!      The  most  you  sought  was  her  promotion, 

For  't  was  your  heaven  she  should  be  advanc'd  ; 
And  weep  ye  now,  seeing  she  is  advanc'd 
Above  the  clouds,  as  high  as  heaven  itself? 
0  !  in  this  love  you  love  your  child  so  ill, 
That  you  nm  mad,  seeing  that  she  is  well : 
She  's  not  well  married  that  lives  married  long, 
But  she  's  best  married  that  dies  married  young. 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  stick  your  rosemary 
On  this  fair  corse  :  and,  as  the  custom  is. 
In  all'  her  best  array  bear  her  to  church  ; 
For  though  fond  nature  bids  us  all  lament, 
Yot  nature's  Tears  are  reason's  merriment. 

Cap.  All  things,  that  we  ordained  festival, 
I'urn  from  their  office  to  black  funeral  : 
I    Our  instruments  to  melancholy  bells  ; 
1    Our  wedding  cheer  to  a  sad  burial  feast  : 
I    Our  solemn  hymns  to  sullen  dirges  change  ; 
I    Our  bridal  flowers  serve  for  a  buried  corse, 
*ind  all  things  change  them  to  the  contrary. 
Fri.  Sir.  you  go  in, — and.  madam,  go  with  him ; — 


I  And  go,  sir  Paris  : — evei-y  one  prepare 
i  To  follow  this  fair  corse  unto  her  grave. 
The  heavens  do  lo^y'r  upon  you,  for  some  ill : 
Move  them  no  more,  by  crossing  their  high  will. 
[Exeunt  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  Paris,  and  Fri>ir.* 
1  Mus.  'Faith,  we  may  put  up  our   pipes,   and  1)6 
gone. 

Nurse.  Honest  good   fellows,   ah  !  put  up,  put  uy , 

for,  well  you  know,  this  is  a  pitiful  case.  [Exit  Nunc 

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

Enter  Peter. 
Pet.    Musicians,    0,    musicians  !     "  Heart's     ea.'-e.' 
Heart" .-^  ease  :''  0  I  an  you  will  have  me  live,  play — 
■■  Heart's  ea.se." 

1  ]\[u^.  Why  ••  Heart's  ease  ?" 

Pet.  0,  musicians  !  because  my  heart  itself  plays 
'•  My  heart  is  full  of  woe* :"    0  !  play  me  some  merry 
dump,'  to  comfort  me. 

2  Mus.  Not  a  dump  we :  't  is  no  time  to  play  nov/. 
Pet.  You  will  not,  then  ? 

3Ius.  No. 

Pet.  I  will,  then,  give  it  you  soundly. 

1  Mus.  Wliat  vdll  you  give  us  ? 

Pet.  No  money,  on  my  faith;  but  the  gleek'"  :  I  -will 
give  you  the  minstrel. 

1  Mus.  Then,  will  I  give  you  the  serving-creature. 

Pet.  Then,  will  I  lay  the  ser-\'ing-creature's  daggei 
on  your  pate.  I  will  carry  no  crotchets  :  I  "11  re  yo\L 
I'  11  fa  you.    Do  you  note  me^  [Draicing  his  Dagger.'-^ 

1  3Ius.  An  you  re  us,  and  fa  us,  you  note  us. 

2  3Ius.  Pray  you,  put  up  your  dagger,  and  put  out 
your  wit. 

Pel.  Then  have  at  you  with  my  vnt.  I  viill  dry- 
beat  you  viith  my  iron  wit,  and  put  up  my  iron  dagger. 
— Answer  me  like  men  : 

When  griping  grief  the  heart  doth  U'ound,^' 

And  doleful  dumps  the  mind  oppress^ 
Then  music,  with  her  silver  sound; 
Why,  "  silver  sound  ?"  why,  ''  music  with  her  silver 
sound?"     What  say  you,  Simon  Catling  ? 

1  Mus.  Marry,  sir,  because  silver  hath  a  sweet 
sound. 

Pet.  Thou  pratest"  !— What  say  you,  Hugh  Rebeck? 

2  Mus.  I  say  "silver  sound."  because  musicians 
sound  for  silver. 

Pet.  Thou  pratest  too !— What  say  you,  James 
Soundpost  ? 

3  Mus.  'Faith,  I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Pet.  0  !  I  cry   you  mercy ;  you  are  the   singer  :  1 
^\^1I  say  for  you.     It  is  •'  music  with  her  silver  sound." 
becai^se  musicians'*  have  seldom  gold  for  sounding  : — 
TTien  music  with  her  .-nlver  sound, 
With  .speedy  help  doth  lend  redress. 

[Exit. 

1  Mus.  What  a  pestilent  knave  is  this  same. 

2  Mus.  Hang  him.  Jack  T  Come,  we  '11  in  here  ; 
tarry  for  the  mourners,  and  stay  dinner.  [Exeunt 


I 


'  So  all  old  copies.     Steevens  reads  :  leaTing. 
And  doth  it  now  present  such  prodi^ie 
Accurst,  unhappy,  miserable  man  1 
Forlorn,  forsaken,  destitute,  I  am; 
Born  to  the  world  to  be  a  slave  in  it : 
/he  qnaxto,  1597.  adds— with  the  prefix,  All  : 


>  The  quarto,  1597,  adds 


Distrest.  remedile**  and  unfortunate. 

0  he.avens  I  O  nature  !  wherefore  did  yon  make  m« 

To  live  so  vile,  so  wretched  as  I  shall  ? 


And  all  our  joy,  and  all  our  hope  is  dead  ; 

Dead,  lost,  undone,  absented,  wholly  fled. 
»  oaxe     in  old  copies.     Theobald  made  the  change.      s  So  the  quarto,  1597  ;  folio  :  And  in.      «  The  direction. 
iut  the  Nurse  no  forth,  raxting  rosemanj  on  her.  and  shutting  the  curtains.      '  »_Names  of  popular  f 
ulio,  0  nit :  of  Voe.      '  A  strain,  or  a  poem;  also,  a  dance.     '<>  A  jeer.     "  Not 
iae  of  T)%in:7  Devices  "      i'  pretty  :  in  quarto,  1597.      !♦  such  fellows  as  you  : 


in  f.  e.     "  From  a  poem, 
in  quarto,  1597. 


n  quarto,  1597,  is  :  Tkev  »ll 
All  old  copies,  but  and&ted 
R.  Edwards,  in  the  "P»r» 


i 


«72 


ROMKO    AND  JL;LIET. 


ACT    V 


SCF.NE  I.— Mantua.     A  Street. 
Enter  HoMEO. 

Rom.  If  I  may  trust  tlic  flaflerins;  death'-  of  sleep, 
My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news  at  hand.= 
My  bosom's  lord  sits  liiihlly'  in  his  throne; 
And.  all  this  day,  an  unaccustom'd  spirit 
Litis  mc  above  the  ground  ^vith  cheerful  thoughts. 
I  dreamt,  my  lady  came  and  found  me  dead  : 
Strange  dream  !  tiiat  gives  a  dead  man  leave  to  think) 
And  breath'd  such  life  with  kisses  in  my  lips. 
That  I  reviv'd,  and  was  an  emperor. 
Ah  me  !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  possess'd,* 
When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy  '^ 

Enter  Baltiias.\r. 
News  from  Verona  ! — How  now,  Baliiiasai  ? 
Dost  thou  not  bring  me  letters  from  the  friar' 
How  doth  my  lady  ?     Is  my  father  well  ? 
How  fares  my'  Juliet'?     That  I  ask  again  ; 
F'>r  nothing  can  be  ill  if  .she  be  well. 

H(il.  Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill  : 
Her  body  sleeps  m  Capulet's  monument. 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 
I  .-aw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault, 
And  presently  took  post  to  tell  it  you. 
I )  pardon  me  tor  bringing  these  ill  nevvs, 
Since  you  did  leave  it  for  my  office,  sir. 

Rom  Is  it  e'en  so '?  then,  I  defy'  you.  stars  I — 
Thou  know'st  my  lodging:  get  me  ink  and  paper. 
And  hire  po.-t  honses ;  I  will  hence  to-night. 

Bnl.  I  do  be.-^cech  you,  sir.  have  patience : 
YoMT  looks  are  pale  and  wild,  and  do  import 
S-^me  misadventure. 

Rom.  Tush  !  thou  art  deceiv'd 

L'*ave  me.  and  do  the  thing  I  bid  thee  do. 
Ha.sf  thou  no  letters  to  me  from  the  friar  ? 

Hill.  No,  my  good  lord. 

Rom.  No  matter  ;  get  thee  gone. 

Anil  hire  those  horses  :  I  '11  be  with  thee  straight. 

[Exit  Balthas.ar. 
Well.  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night. 
Ket  "s  .see  for  means  : — 0,  mischief  !  thou  art  swift" 
To  enter  in  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men. 
I  do  remember  an  apothecary. 
And  hereabouts  he  dwells,  wliich  late  I  noted 
In  taiterd  weeds,  with  overwhelming  brows, 
•  'iilhng  of  simples  :  meagre  were  his  looks. 
Sharp  misery  ha<l  worn  him  to  the  bones: 
And  in  hi.s  needy  shop  a  tortoi.se  hung. 
An  alligator  stuiPd.  and  other  skins 
Hi  ill-shap'd  fishf's  :  and  about  liis  shelves 
.K  begsarly  account  of  empty  boxes, 
fircen  earthen  jwts.  bladders  and  musty  seeds. 
Remnants  of  packthread,  and  old  cakes  of  ro^e^. 
Were  thinly  scatl<'r'd  to  make  up  a  show. 
Nfting  this  penury,  to  my.sf If  I  said — 
An  if  a  man-  did  need  a  jwison  now, 

troth  :  in  f.  e. ;  eye  :  in  guano,  1597.      >  pood 


I  Who.-e  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua, 

I  Here  lives  a  caititT -wretch  would  sell  it  him. 

|0  !  this  same  thought  did  but  forerun  my  need, 

j  And  this  same  needy  man  must  sell  it  me. 

:  As  I  remember,  this  should  be  the  house  : 

j  Being  holiday,  the  beggar's  shop  is  shut. — 

I  What,  ho  !  apothecary  ! 

'  Enter  Apothecary. 

Ap.  Who  calls  so  loud? 

Rom.  Come  hither,  man. — I  see,  tliat  thou  art  poof 
Hol:l,  there  is  forty'  ducats:  let  me  have 
A  dram  of  poison  ;  such  soon-speeding  geer 
As  will  disperse  itself  through  all  the  veins. 
That  the  life- weary  taker  may  fall  dead  : 
And  that  the  trunk  may  be  discharg'd  of  breath 
As  violently,  as  hasty  powder  fir'd 
Doth  hurry  from  the  fatal  cannon's  womb. 

Ap.  Sucli  mortal  drugs  I  have;  but  Mantua's  biw 
Is  death  to  any  he  that  utters  them. 

Rom.  Art  thou  so  bare,  and  full  of  wretchedness.'" 
And  fearst  to  die  ?  famine  is  in  thy  cheeks. 
Need  and  oppression  starveth  in  thy  eyes." 
Contempt  and  beggary  hang  on  thy  back, 
The  v/orld  is  not  thy  friend,  nor  the  world's  law  : 
The  world  afTords  no  law  to  make  thee  rich  : 
Then,  be  not  poor,  but  break  it,  and  take  this. 
Ap.  My  poverty,  but  not  my  will,  consents. 

[Exit  and  return.';  '•' 

l^om.  I  pay  thy  poverty,  and  not  thy  will 

Ap.  Put  this  in  an''  liquid  tliini.'  you  will. 

And  drink  it  olT:  and.  if  you  had  the  strength 

Of  twenty  men,  it  would  despatch  you  straight. 

Rom.  There    is   thy    gold:    wor.se   poison   to  men'? 
souls. 
Doing  more  murders  in  this  loathsome  world. 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  may'st  not  sell  : 
I  sell  thee  poison,  thou  hast  sold  me  none. 
Fare-well  ;  buy  food,  and  get  thyself  in  flesh. — 
Come,  cordial,  and  not  poison,  go  with  me 
To  Juliet's  grave,  for  there  must  I  use  thee.     [Exe^itit 

SCENE  II.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell. 
Enter  Friar  John. 

John.  Holy  Franciscan  friar  !  brother,  ho  ! 
Enter  Friar  Laurence. 

La'i.  Tiiis  same  should  be  the  voice  of  friar  John.-- 
Welcome  from  Mantua  :  what  says  Romeo? 
Or.  if  his  mind  be  -WTit,  give  mc  his  letter. 

John.  Going  to  find  a  bare-foot  brother  out, 
One  of  our  order,  to  a.s.«ociate  me. 
Here  in  this  city  visiting  the  sick. 
And  finding  him,  the  searchers  of  the  to-wn. 
Suspecting  that  we  both  -«'cre  in  a  house 
Where  the  infectious  pestilence  did  reign. 
Seal'd  up  the  doors,  and  would  not  let  us  forth  ; 
So  that  my  speed  to  Mantua  there  was  stay'd. 

Lav.  Who  bare  my  letter,  then,  to  Romeo? 


eye  :  in  quuto,  1597. 
U>«.  Bot  in  quarto.  1.097.      »  Thin  line   not 
(«.;."       •  The  quarto,  1.097,  readt : 

An  I  do  remember. 
HfTf  dwelli  upotbecary,  whom  <ifl  i  not»d 
An  I  pajit  by,  trhoiie  needy  shop  ■■  ntufft 
With  bejftjarly  accounts  of  empty  boxe»  : 
And  in  the  name  an  alligator  hanp«, 
Old  enda  of  packthread,  and  cakes  of  roii»i. 
Are  thinly  strewed  to  make  up  a  show. 
n*i9  '•  twenty  :  in  quarto,  1507.      >•  poverty  :  in  quarto. 


vent  to  come  :  in  quarto,  1597.      '  cheerful  :  in  quarto, 
quano.  1.097       •  doth  my  lady  :  in  later  quartos,  and  folio. 


1597.      ♦  This  and  the  n«>> 
'  deny  :  in  later  quartos.  arJ 


:a  f 


Upon  thy  back  hang?  ragged  misery. 

And  starv'J  famine  JweTle'.h  :n  thv  cheeVi. 


Him.  as  I  noted,  thus  with  myself  I  thought, 
An  if  a  man  should  need  a  poison  now, 
(■Whose  present  rale  is  death  in  Mantua.) 
Here  he  might  buy  it.     This  thoucht  of  mine 
Did  but  forerun  my  need  :  and  hereabout  he  dwelU 
Being  holiday  the  beggar's  shop  is  shut. 
What  Ko  !  apothecary  '.  come  forth,  1  say— 
luarto,  1.597,  has  in  place  of  this,  and  next  li 


place  < 


EOMEO  AND  JULIET. 


673 


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

[Giving  it} 
Nor  get  a  messenger  to  bring  it  thee. 
So  fearful  were  they  of  infection. 

Lau.  Unhappy  fortune  !  by  my  brotherhood, 
The  letler  was  not  nice,'  but  full  of  charge 
Of  dear  import;  and  the  neglecting  it 
May  do  much  danger.     Friar  John,  go  hence  ; 
Get  me  an  iron  crow,'  and  bring  it  straight 
Unto  my  cell. 

John.  Brother,  I  '11  go  and  bring  it.  [Exit. 

Lau.  Now  must  I  to  the  monument  alone. 
Within  this  three  hours  will  fair  Juliet  wake ) 
She  will  beshrew  me  much,  that  Romeo 
Hath  had  no  notice  of  these  accidents  ; 
But  I  will  write  again  to  Mantua, 
And  keep  her  at  my  cell  till  Romeo  come  : 
Poor  living  corse,  clos'd  in  a  dead  man's  tomb  !    [Exit. 

SCENE    III.— A  Churchyard;  in  it  the  Monument 

of  the  Capulets. 
Enter  Paris,  and  his  Page,  bearing  Flowers,  and  a  Torch. 

Par.  Give  me   thy  torch,    boy :    hence,    and   stand 
Vet  put  it  out,  for  1  would  not  be  seen.  [aloof; — 

Under  yond'  yew-trees  lay  thee  all  along. 
Holding  thine  ear  close  to  the  hollow  ground; 
So  shall  no  foot  upon  the  churchyard  tread. 
Being  loose,  unfirm  with  digging  up  of  graves, 
But  thou  shalt  hear  it :  whistle  then  to  me. 
As  signal  that  thou  hear'st  something  approach. 
Give  me  those  flowers.     Do  as  I  bid  thee ;  go. 

[Giving  a  basket.* 

Page.  I  am  almost  afraid  to  stay*  alone 
Here  in  the  churchyard  ;  yet  I  will  adventure.  [Retires. 

Par.  Sweet  flower,   with  flowers  thy  bridal   bed  I 
0  woe  !  thy  canopy  is  dust  and  stones,  [strew. 

Which  with  sweet  water  nightly  I  will  dew. 
Or  wanting  that  with  tears  distill'd  by  moans : 
The  obsequies,  that  I  for  thee  will  keep, 
Nightly  shall  be  to  strew  thy  grave  and  weep  ! ' 

[The  Boy  whistles. 
The  boy  gives  warning  something  doth  approach. 
What  cursed  foot  wanders  this  way  to-niglit. 
To  cross  my  obsequies,  and  true  love's  rite  ? 
What  !  with  a  torch  ? — muffle  me,  night,  a  while. 

[Retires. 
Enter  Romeo  and  Balthasar,  with  a  Torch, 
Mattock,  Sfc. 

Rom.  Give  me  that  mattock,  and  the  wrenching  iron. 
Hold,  take  this  letter :  early  in  the  morning 
See  thou  deliver  it  to  my  lord  and  father. 
Give  me  the  light.     Upon  thy  life  I  charge  thee, 
Whate'er  thou  hear'st  or  seest,  stand  all  aloof. 
And  do  not  interrupt  me  in  my  course. 
Why  1  descend  into  this  bed  of  death 
Is  partly  to  behold  my  lady's  face  ; 
But  chiefly  to  take  thence  from  her  dead  finger 
A  precious  ring,  a  ring  that  I  must  use 
In  dear  employment.     Therefore  hence,  be  gone  : 
But  if  thou,  jealous,  dost  return  to  pry 
In  what  1  faither  shall  intend  to  do. 
By  heaven.  1  will  tear  thee  joint  by  joint, 

I  a  spade  and  mattock 


'  Not  -D  f.  e.      ^  A  trifling  matter 
fives  instead  of  these  lines  : 

Sweet  tomb,  that  in  thy  circuit  dost  contain, 
The  perfect  model  of  eternity, 
Fiir  Juliet,  that  wiih  angels  dost  remain, 
'The  next  »wo  lines,  not   in   quarto,   1597.      8  Not  in  f.  e. 
'  Heap  :  in  quarto,  1597.       12  By  shedding  of  thy  blood  :   ii 
Hon*  (entreaty) :  in  quarto,  1597.      '»  The  quarto,  1597,  has  in  place 

tisfy  th  y 


And  strew  this  hungry  churchyard  with  thy  limbu. 
The  time  and  my  intents  are  savage,  wild ;' 
More  fierce,  and  more  inexorable  far, 
Than  empty  tigers,  or  the  roaring  sea. 

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

Rom.  So  shalt  thou  show  me  friendship. — Take  thou 
that :  [  Giving  his  Purs>: ' 

Live,  and  be  prosperoue ;  and  farewell,  good  fellow 

Bal.  For  all  this  same,  I'll  hide  me  here  about: 
His  looks  I  fear,  and  his  intents  I  doubt.  [Exit  ' 

Rom.  Thou  detestable  maw,  thou  womb  of  death, 
Gorg'd  with  the  dearest  mor.sel  of  the  earth, 
Thus  I  enforce  thy  rotten  jaws  to  open, 

[Breaking  oj)en  the  Monument 
And,  in  despite,  I  '11  cram  thee  with  more  food  ! 

Par.  This  is  that  banish'd  haughty  Montague. 
That  murder'd  my  love's  cousin, — with  which  grief,' 
It  is  supposed,  the  fair  creature  died, — 
And  here  is  come  to  do  some  villainous  shame 
To  the  dead  bodies  :  I  will  apprehend  hinn  — 

[Advancine 
Stop  thy  unhallow'd  toil,  vile  Montagoe. 
Can  vengeance  be  pursu'd  farther  than  death? 
Condemned  villain,  I  do  apprehend  thee: 
Obey,  and  go  with  me;  for  thou  must  die. 

Rom.  I  must,  indeed;  and  therefore  came  I  hither.— 
Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  de-sperate  man: 
Fly  hence  and  leave  me  : — think  upon  these  gone  ; 
Let  them  aff'right  thee. — I  beseech  thee,  youth. 
Put"  not  another  sin  upon  my  head, 
By  urging  me  to  fury" : — 0  !  be  gone. 
By  heaven,  I  love  thee  better  than  myself, 
For  I  come  hither  arm'd  against  myself. 
Stay  not,  be  gone  ; — live,  and  hereafter  say — '• 
A  madman's  mercy  bade  thee  run  away. 

Par.  I  do  defy  commiseration,'* 
And  apprehend  thee  for  a  felon  here. 

Rom.  Wilt  thou   provoke  me?   then,  have   ai  thea. 
boy.  [They  fight 

Pag:.  0  Lord  !  thev  fight :  I  will  go  call  the  watch. 

[Exit  Page 

Par.  O  !  I  am  slain.     [Falls.] — If  thou  be  merciful^ 
Open  the  tomb,  lay  me  with  Juliet.  [Dies. 

Rom.  In  faith,  I  will. — Let  me  peruse  this  face  — 
Mercutio's  kinsman,  noble  county  Paris  ! — 
What  said  my  man  when  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him  as  we  rode  ?     I  think, 
He  told  me,  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet  • 
Said  he  not  so  ?  or  did  I  dream  it  so  ? 
Or  am  I  mad,  hearing  him  talk  of  Juliet,'* 
To  think  it  was  so  ? — 0  !  give  me  thy  hand.  [  Taking  it.** 
One  writ  with  me  in  .sour  misfortune's  book  ! 
I  'II  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave, — 
A  grave  ?     O,  no  !  a  lantern,  slaughter'd  youth, 
For  here  lies  Juliet ;  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light. 
Death,  liu  thou  there,  by  a  dead  man  intcrr'd. 

[Laying  Paris  in  the  Monttmerti. 
How  oft.  when  men  are  at  the  poilit  of  death. 
Have  they  been  merry."  which  their  keepers  call 
A  lightning  before  death  :  0  !  how  may  1 
Call  this  a  lightning  ? — 0,  my  love  !  my  wife  ! 

'stand:  in   f.  e.       «  Tl.  •   qu%rtc.    1397 


n  quarto,  1597. 


Not 


»•  Not  in  t.  e. 


For  thou  hast  priz'd  thy  love  above  thy  Ufa 
Been  blith  and  pleaamt  :  in  quarto,  1597. 


Accept  this  latest  favour  at  my  haads, 
That  living  honoured  thee,  and  being  deaJ, 
With  funeral  praises  do  adorn  thy  tomh. 
»  Retires :  in  f.  e.     '»  This  and  the  next  three  lines,  are  not  in  quart*/,  ;«•» 
quarto,  1597.     '^  This  and  the  next  line,  not  in  quarto,  15U7.     '♦thy  coniur* 
ace  of  this  and  the  six  following  lines  : 
II  satisfy  thy  last  request. 


«;74 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


ACT   V. 


ikath.  that  hath  suck'd  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 

nath  hail  no  power  yet  ujwn  thy  beauty: 

Thou  art  not  conquer'd  ;  beauty's  ensign  yet 

Is  crimson  in  thy  lips,  and  in  thy  cheeks. 

And  death's  pnle  flag  is  not  advanced  there. — ' 

Tybalt,  lio.^t  thou  there  in  thy  bloody  sheet? 

0  !  wli;it  more  favour  can  I  do  to  thee. 

Than  wiih  that  hand  that  cut  thy  youth  in  twain, 

To  sunder  hi.s  that  was  thine  enemy  ? 

Forgive  me.  cousin  ! — Ah  !  dear  Juliet. 

Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair?     I  will  believe 

That  unsubstantial  death  is  amorous  ; 

And  tlial  the  lean  abhorred  monster  keeps 

Thee  here  in  dark  to  be  his  paramour. 

For  fear  of  thai  I  still  will  ."^tay  with  thee, 

And  never  from  this  palace  of  dim  night 

Depart  aiiain  :  here,  here  will  I  remain 

With  worms  that  are  tliy  chambermaids  ;  0  !   here 

Will  1  set  uji  my  everlasting  rest, 

And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 

From  this  world-weaned  Hcsli. — Eyes,  look  your  last: 

Arms,  take  your  last  embrace  :  and  lips,  0  !  you. 

Tlie  doors  of  breath,  seal  with  a  righteous  kiss 

A  datele.^s  bargain  to  engrcssing  death. — 

Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavoury  guide  ! 

Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 

The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark. 

Here's  to  my  love! — [Drinks.]  O.  true  apothecary  ! 

riiy  drugs  are  quick. — Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die. 

[Dies  near  Juliet." 
Enter,  at  the  other  End  of  the  Churchyard,  Friar  Lau- 
rence, u'ithh.  Lantern,  Crow,  and  Spade  ;'  and  Bal- 

THASAR  following. 

Fri.  Saint  Francis  be  my  speed  !  how  oft  to-night 
Have  my  old  feet  stumbled  at  graves  V — Who  's  there  ?* 

Bo/.  Here  's  one,  a  friend,  and  one  that  knows  you  well. 

Fri.  Hliss  be  upon  you  !   Tell  me,  good  my  friend. 
What  torch  is  yond',  that  vainly  lends  his  light 
i'o  grubs  and  eyeless  skulls"?  a.«  I  discern. 
It  burneih  in  the  Capulets'  monument. 

Bal.   It  doth  so,  holy  sir;  and  there  's  my  master, 
One  that  you  love. 

Fri.  Who  is  it  ? 

Bal.  Romeo. 

Fri.   How  long  hath  he  been  there  ? 

Hal.  Full  half  an  hour. 

Frt   (io  with  me  to  the  vault. 

Bal.  I  dare  not,  sir. 

My  master  knows  not,  but  I  am  gone  hence  ; 
And  fearluUy  did  menace  me  with  death. 
If  I  did  stay  to  look  on  his  intents. 

Fri.  Stay,  then,  I   11  go  alone. — Fear  comes  upon  me  ; 

0  !  much  F  fear  some  ill  unthrifty'  thing. 
Bal.  As  1  did  sleep  under  this  yew-tree  here, 

1  dreamt  my  ma,stcr  and  another  fought. 

And  that  my  master  slew  him.  [Exit.* 

Fri.  Romeo  ! — [Advanci7ig. 

Alack  !  alack  !  what  blood  i.<»  this,  which  stains 
The  Ftony  entrance  of  this  .Kcpulehre? — 
What  mean  these  masterless  and  gory  swords 
To  lie  discolour'd  by  this  plac*-  ol   peace  ! 

[Etitcrinp;  the  Monument. 
Romeo  !  O,  pale  ! — Who  else  ?  what,  i^aris  too  ? 


•  And  stecp'd  in  blood  ? — Ah  !  what  an  unkind  hour 
'  Is  guilty  of  this  lamentable  chance  ! — ' 
The  lady  stirs.  [Juliet  wakes 

Jul.  0.  comfortable  friar !  where  is  my  lord  ? 
I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be. 
And  there  I  am. — Where  is  mv  Honieo  ?  [Noise  within 
Fri.  1  hear  some  noise. — Lady,  come  from  that  nest 
Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep. 
A  greater  power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents:  come,  come  away. 
Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  there  lies  dead  ; 
And  Paris  too:  come.  I  '11  dispose  of  thee 
Among  a  sisterhood  of  holy  nuns. 
Stay  not  to  question,  for  the  watch  is  coming; 
Come,    go,    good    Juliet. — [Noise  again.]     I   dare    no 
longer  stay.  I  Exit 

Jul.  Go,  get  thee  hence,  for  I  will  not  away. — ' 
What's  here?  a  cup,  clos'd  in  my  true  love's  hand  ? 
Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end. — ' 
0  churl  !  drink  all,  and  left  no  friendly  drop, 
To  help  me  after? — I  will  kiss  thy  lips  ;" 
Haply,  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them. 
To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative.  [Kisses  him 

Thy  lips  are  warm  ! 

1  Watch.  [Withi7i.]  Lead,  boy  : — which  way  ? 
Jul.  Yea,  noise  ? — then  I  '11  be  brief. — 0  happy  dag 
ger  !  [Srmtching  Romeo's  Dagget 

This  is  thy  sheath:   [Stabs  herself ;]  there  rest,",  and 
let  me  die.''  [Diet 

Enter  Watch,  with  the  Page  of  Paris. 
Page.  This  is  the  place  :  there,  where  the  torch  doth 
burn. 

1  Watch.  The  ground  is  bloody,  search  about   tlm 

churchyard. 
Go,  some  of  you  ;  whoe'er  you  find,  attach.  [Exeunt  sonu 
Pitiful  sight  !  here  lies  the  County  slain  ; — 
And  Juliet  bleeding;   warm,  and  newly  dead. 
Who  here  hath  lain  these  two  days  buried. — 
Go,  tell  the  Prince, — run  to  the  Capulets. — 
Raise  up  the  Montagues,  .some  others  search. — 

[£■.177/71/  other  U'atchtien 
We  see  the  ground  whereon  these  woes  do  lie  , 
But  the  true  ground  of  all  these  piteous  woes 
We  cannot  witliout  circumstance  descry. 

Enter  some  of  the  Watch,  with  BAi.THASAR. 

2  Watch.  Rere'ii  Romeo's  man;    we   found   him  iti 

the  churchyard. 
1   Watch.  Hold  him   in  safety,  till  the  Prince  come 

hither. 
Enter  another  Watchmen,  with  Friar  Latrence. 

3  Watch.  Here  is  a  friar,  that  trembles.  sighs,and  weeps : 
We  took  this  mattock  and  this  spade  from  him. 

As  he  was  coming  from  this  churchyard  side. 
1    Watch.   A  great  .suspicion  :   stay  the  friar  too. 

Enter  the  Prince  and  Attendants. 
Prince.  What  misadventure  is  so  early  up. 
That  calls  our  person  from  our  morning  rest  ? 

Enter  Capi'let,  Lady  Capui.et,  ami  othvrs 
Cap.  What  should  it  bo,  that  tliey  so  shriek  abrond  . 
/>*;.  Cap.  O  !   the  people  in  the  street  cry  Komeo, 
;Some  Juliet,  and  .some  Paris;  and  all  run 
I  With  open  outcry  toward  our  monument. 
I      Prince.  What  fear  is  this  which  utartles  in  your  ears  ? 


'  Thu  and  the  four  prcTJons  linei,  am  not  in  qoarto,  1.597.  '  Dies:  in  f.  t.  '  The  re«  of  this  it&ge  direction,  in  not  in  f.  e.  ♦  V  i1ob» 
/i6t,  from  quarto,  1597,  (which  has  the  line  after  Baltiiasah's  speech) :  Who  is  it  that  so  late  coniiorts  the  dead  ?  »  unlucky  •  ii  la**' 
[•arlos,  and  folio.      •  Not  in  f.  e.      '  In  quarto,  1793  : 

vhat  unlucky  hour 
I»  acceiwary  to  so  foul  a  ain  ? 
•   '•  The»«  ^inet  and  the  real  of  th«  ipeecb,  are  not  in  quarto,  l.VM.       "  ruKt  :  in  all  but  quarto,  l.')97        '»  In  quarto,  1597  : 
Ay.  nome  ?  then  nr  jut  1  be  resolute. 
O,  happy  dagper  !  thou  shah  end  my  fear  ; 
Re»t  ID  ray  bonom      Thus  I  come  to  thee. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 


675 


1  Watch.  Sovereign,  here  lies  the  county  Paris  slain  ; 
And  Romeo  dead  ;  and  Juliet,  dead  before, 
Warm  and  new  kill'd. 

Prince.  Search,  seek  and  know  how  this  foul  murder 
comes. 

1  Watch.  Here  is  a  friar,  and  slaughter'd  Romeo's 
man. 
With  instruments  upon  them,  fit  to  open 
These  dead  men's  tombs. 

Cap.  O.  heaven  ! — 0,  wafe  !   look  how  our  daughter 
bleeds  ! 
This  dagger  hath  mista'en. — for,  lo  !  his  house' 
[s  empty  on  the  back  of  Montague, 
And  is  mis-sheathed  in  my  daughter's  bosom.' 

La.  Cap.  0  me  !  this  sight  of  death  is  as  a  bell, 
That  warns  my  old  age  to  a  sepulchre. 

Enter  Montague  and  others. 

Prince.  Come,  Montague ;  for  thou  art  early  up, 
To  see  thy  son  and  heir  more  early  down. 

Mon.  Alas,  my  liege,  my  wife  is  dead  to-night  :' 
Grief  of  my  .son"s  exile  has  stopp'd  her  breath. 
What  farther  woe  conspires  again.«t  mine  age? 

Prince.  Look,  and  thou  shalt  see. 

Mon.  O  thou  untaught  !  what  manners  is  in  this, 
To  press  before  thy  father  to  a  grave  ? 

Prince.  Seal  up  the  mouth  of  outcry*  for  a  while. 
Till  we  can  clear  these  ambiguities. 
And  know  their  spring,  their  head,  their  true  descent:' 
And  then  will  I  be  general  of  your  woes, 
And  lead  you  even  to  death.     Mean  time  forbear, 
And  let  mischance  be  slave  to  patience. — 
Bring  forth  the  parties  of  suspicion. 

Fri.  I  am  the  greatest,  able  to  do  least, 
Yet  most  sttspected.  as  the  time  and  place 
Do  make  against  me.  of  this  direful  murder : 
And  here  I  stand,  both  to  impeach  and  purge 
Myself  condemned,  and  myself  excus'd. 

Prince.  Then,  say  at  once  what  thou  dost  know  in  this. 

Fri.  I  will  be  brief,  for  my  short  date  of  breath 
Is  not  so  long  as  is  a  tedious  tale. 
Romeo,  there  dead,  was  husband  to  that  Juliet ; 
And  she,  there  dead,  that  Romeo's  faithful  wife  : 
I  married  them;  and  their  stolen  marriage-day 
Was  Tybalt's  dooms-day,  whose  untimely  death 
Banish'd  the  new-made  bridegroom  from  this  city; 
For  whom,  and  not  for  Tybalt.  Juliet  pin'd. 
You,  to  remove  that  siege  of  grief  from  her, 
Betroth'd,  and  would  have  married  her  perforce, 
To  county  Paris  :  then,  comes  she  to  me. 
And,  with  wild  looks,  bid  me  devise  some  means 
To  rid  her  from  this  second  marriage. 
Or  in  my  cell  there  would  she  kill  herself. 
Then  gave  I  her,  (so  tutor'd  by  my  art) 
A  .sleeping  potion  ;  which  so  took  effect 
As  I  intended,  for  it  wrought  on  her 
The  form  of  death.     Meantime,  I  -^Tit  to  Romeo, 
That  he  .should  hither  come,  as  this  dire  night, 
To  help  to  take  her  from  her  borrow'd  grave, 
Being  the  time  the  potion's  force  should  cease  : 
But  he  which  bore  my  letter,  friar  John, 
Was  stay'd  by  accident,  and  yesternight 


I  Return'd  my  letter  back.     Then,  all  alone, 
i  At  the  prefixed  hour  of  her  waking. 
Came  I  to  take  her  from  her  kindred's  vault, 
Meaning  to  keep  her  closely  at  my  cell. 
Till  I  conveniently  could  send  to  Romeo : 
But,  when  I  came,  (some  minute  ere  the  time 
Of  her  awakening)  here  untimely  lay 
The  noble  Pari.s,  and  true  Romeo,  dead. 
!  She  waked  ;  and  I  entreated  her  come  fortli. 
And  bear  this  work  of  heaven  with  patience : 
But  then  a  noise  did  scare  me  from  the  to;  ib, 
And  she,  too  desperate,  would  not  go  wit!)  me, 
But  (as  it  seems)  did  violence  on  herself. 
All  this  I  know,  and  to  the  marriage 
Her  nurse  is  pri^-y  ;  and,  if  aught  in  this 
Miscarried  by  my  fault,  let  my  old  life 
Be  sacrificed  some  hour  before  the  time. 
Unto  the  rigour  of  severest  law. 

Prince.  We  still  have  known  thee  for  a  holyrnan  — 
Where  's  Romeo's  man  ?  what  can  he  say  in  this  ? 

Bal.  I  brought  my  master  news  of  Juliet's  death. 
And  then  in  post  he  came  from  Mantua, 
To  this  same  place,  to  this  same  monument. 
This  letter  he  early  bid  me  give  his  father; 
And  threaten'd  me  with  death,  going  in  the  vault, 
If  I  departed  not,  and  left  him  there. 

Prince.  Give  me  the  letter,  I  will  look  on  it. — 
Where  is  the  county's  page,  that  rais'd  the  watch  ' — 
Sirrah,  what  made  your  master  in  this  place  ? 

Page.  He  came  with  flowers  to  t  trew  his  lady's  grave 
And  bid  me  stand  aloof,  and  so  I  did  : 
Anon,  comes  one  with  light  to  ope  the  tomb, 
And,  by  and  by,  my  master  drew  on  him ; 
And  then  I  ran  away  to  call  the  watch. 

Prince.  This  letter  doth  make  good  the  friar's  words. 
Their  course  of  love,  the  tidings  of  her  death ; 
And  here  he  writes,  that  he  did  buy  a  poison 
Of  a  poor  'pothecary ;  and  therewithal 
Came  to  this  vault  to  die,  and  lie  with  Juliet. — 
Where  be  these  enemies  ?     Capulet !   Montague  !* 
See,  what  a  scourge  is  laid  upon  your  hate, 
That  heaven  finds  means  to  kill  your  joys  with  love  ; 
And  I,  for  winking  at  your  discords  too, 
Have  lost  a  brace  of  kinsmen  : — all  are  punish'd. 

Cap.  0,  brother  Montague  !  give  me  thy  hand  : 
This  is  my  daughter's  jointure  ;  for  no  more 

[They  shake  han't'. 
Can  I  demand. 

Mon.  But  I  can  give  thee  more ; 

For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold, 
That,  while  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  such  rate  be  set, 
As  that  of  fair*  and  faithful  Juliet' 

Cap.  As  rich  shall  Romeo  by  his  lady  lie; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity. 

Prince.  A  glooming"  peace  this  morning  \rith  it  brings, 
The  sun  for  sorrow  \\\\\  not  show  his  liead. 
Go  hence,  to  have  more  talk  of  these  sad  things  ; 
Some  shall  be  pardon'd,  and  some  punislied  : 
For  never  was  a  story  of  more  woe, 
Than  this  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo.  ( F.Tnmt 


Slw.ath       »  And  it  is  sheathed  in  our  daughter's  breast : 
♦  outrage  :  in  f.  e.      '  In  quarto,  1597 


quarto,  1597.      »  The  quarto,  1597,  adds  .    And  Tonnp  Benvo'ic  is  d«;»*W 


And  let  us  seek  to  find  the  authors  out 
Of  such  a  heinous  and  seld-seen  mischance. 
•  The  quarto,  1597,  has  in  place  of  this  and   the  next  four  lines  :     Where  are  :hese  enemies  ' 
'  true  :  in  f.  e       'In  quarto,  1597  : 

There  shall  no  statue  at  such  price  be  set, 
As  that  of  Romeo  and  loved  Juliet. 
"•  eloomj  :   im  quaj-to,  1597. 


Pee  nrhat  hat-*  Kath  done  ' 


d 


TIMON   OF    ATHENS 


DRAMATIS     PERSONJE. 


TnioK,  a  noble  Athenian. 

Locius.  ) 

LucrLLUs,       >  Three  flattering  Lords. 

Sempronius,  ) 

Ventidius,  one  of  Timon's  false  Friends. 

Ape.mantus,  a  churlish  Philosopher. 

Alcibiades,  an  Athenian  Captain. 

Klavils,  Steward  to  Timon. 

Flaminius,     ) 

Lccii.iDS,       >  Servants  to  Timon. 

Skrvilius,     \ 


>  Servants  to  Timon's  Creditors. 


Caphis, 

Philotus, 

Titus, 

Lucius, 

hortensius, 

Servants  of  Varro,  Ventidius,  and  Isidore :  two  of 

Timon's  Creditors. 
Cupid  and  Maskers.     Three  Strangers, 
Poet,  Pamter,  Jeweller,  and  Merchant. 
An  old  Athenian.     A  Page.     A  Fool. 


Phrynia, 

TiMANDRA, 


Mistresses  to  Alcibiades. 


Lords,  Senators^  Officers,  Soldiers,  Thieves,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE,  Athens  ;  and  the  Woods  adjoining. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I —Athens.     A  Hall  in  Timon's  House. 

Enter  Poet,  Painter,  Jeweller,  Merchant,  and  others,  at 

several  Doors. 

Poet.  Good  day,  sir. 

Pain.  I  am  glad  you  're  well. 

Poet.  1    have   not  seen   you    long.     How  goes  the 
world  ? 

Pain    It  wears,  sir,  as  it  grows. 

Port.  Ay,  that 's  well  kno\iTi; 

But  what  particular  rarity?  what  strange^ 
Which  manifold  record  not  matches?     See, 
Magic  nf  bounty  !  all  these  spirits  thy  power 
f+ath  conjur'd  to  attend.     I  know  the  merchant. 

Piiiii.  I  know  them  both  :  th'  other  's  a  jeweller. 

tMcr    0  !  't  is  a  worthy  lord. 

Jew.  Nay,  that 's  most  fix'd. 

Met.  A  most  incomparable  man ;  breath'd.'  as  it  were, 
To  an  untirable  and  continuate  goodness : 
He  paiwes.* 

Jew.  I  have  a  jewel  here —  [Showing  it.* 

Mer    0  !  pray,  let 's  .see  't.    For  the  lord  Timon,  sir  ? 

Jew.   \f  he  will  touch  the  estimate  ;  but,  for  that^ — 

Poet.    '  When  we  for  recompense  have  prais'd  the 
vile, 
It  Btaini«  the  glory  in  that  happy  verse 
Which  aptly  sings  the  good." 

Mer.  'T  is  a  good  form. 

Jew    And  rich  :  here  is  a  water,  look  ye. 

Pain.   Vou  are  rapt,  sir,  in  some  work,  some  dedi- 
ciition. 
To  the  great  lord. 

Poet.  A  thing  slipp'd  idly  from  me. 

Our  pwny  is  as  a  gum.*  which  issues* 
From  whence  't  is  nourish'd  :  the  fire  i'  the  flint 
Shows  not.  till  it  be  struck  ;  our  gentle  flame 


Provokes  itself,  and,  like  the  current,  flies 
Each  bound  it  chafes.     What  have  you  there  ? 

Pain.  A  picture,  sir. — When  comes  your  book  forth 

Poet.  Upon  the  heels  of  my  presentment,  sir. 
Let 's  see  your  piece. 

Pain.  'T  is  a  good  piece.  [Showing  it 

Poet.  So  't  is  :  this  comes  off"  well,  and  excellent. 

Pai7i.  Indifferent. 

Poet.  Admirable  !     How  this  grace 

Speaks  his  own  standing ;  what  a  mental  power 
This  eye  shoots  forth  ;  how  big  imagination 
Moves  in  this  lip;  to  the  dumbness  of  the  gesture 
One  might  interpret. 

Pain,  It  is  a  pretty  mocking  of  the  life. 
Here  is  a  touch ;  is  't  good  ? 

Poet.  I  '11  say  of  it, 

It  tutors  nature  :  artificial  strife 
Lives  in  these  touches,  livelier  than  life. 

Enter  certain  Senators,  who  pnss  over  the  Stage. 

Pain.  How  this  lord  is  follow'd  ! 

Poet.  The  senators  of  Athens : — happy  men  ! 

Pain.  Look,  more  ! 

Poet.  You  see    this  confluence,  this  great  flood  of 
visitors. 
I  have  in  this  rough  work  shap'd  out  a  man, 
Whom  this  beneath  world  doth  embrace  and  hug 
With  amplest  entertainment :  my  free  drift 
Halts  not  particularly,  but  moves  itself 
In  a  wide  sea  of  verse  :'  no  levell'd  malice 
Infects  one  comma  in  the  course  I  hold, 
But  flies  an  eagle  flight,  bold,  and  forth  on, 
Leaving  no  tract  behind. 

Pain.  How  shall  lainderstand  you? 

Poet.  I  will  unbolt  to  you. 

You  see  how  all  conditions,  how  all  minds, 
(As  well  of  glib  and  slippery  creatures,  as 


Invrtd  •>y  prai-tic 

676 


*  Exrtti      '.NotiDf.  6.     •  gown  :  in  folio.    Pope  made  the  change.     •  oozes  ;  in  f.  e.     •  Not  in  t  a.     'wax:iB'.« 


TIMON    OF  ATHENS. 


Of  grave  and  austere  quality)  tender  down 
Their  services  to  lord  Timon  :  his  large  fortune, 
Upon  his  good  and  gracious  nature  hanging, 
Subdues,  and  properties  to  his  love  and  tendance, 
All  sorts  of  hearts ;  yea,  from  the  glass-fac'd  flatterer 
To  Apemantus,  that  few  things  loves  better 
Than  to  abhor  himself:  even  he  drops  down 
f  he  knee  before  him,  and  returns  in  peace 
Most  rich  in  Timon's  nod. 

Pain.  I  saw  them  speak  together. 

Poet.  Sir,  I  have  upon  a  high  and  pleasant  hill 
Feign'd  Fortune  to  be  thron'd :  the  base  o'  the  mount 
Is  ranked  with  all  deserts,  all  kind  of  natures, 
That  labour  on  the  bosom  of  this  sphere 
To  propagate  their  states  :  amongst  them  all, 
Whose  eyes  are  on  this  sovereign  lady  fix'd, 
One  do  I  personate  of  lord  Timon's  frame ; 
Whom  Fortune  with  her  ivory  hand  wafts  to  her. 
Whose  present  grace  to  present  slaves  and  servants 
Translates  his  rivals. 

Pain.  'T  is  conceiv'd  to  scope. 

This  throne,  this  Fortune,  and  this  hill,  methinks. 
With  one  man  beckon'd  from  the  rest  below, 
Bowing  his  head  against  the  steepy  mount. 
To  climb  his  happiness,  would  be  well  express'd 
In  our  condition. 

Poet.  Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me  on. 

All  those  which  were  his  fellows  but  of  late, 
(Some  better  than  his  value)  on  the  moment 
Follow  liis  strides ;   his  lobbies  fill  with  tendance. 
Rain  sacrificial  whisperings  in  his  ear. 
Make  sacred  even  his  stirrup,  and  through  him 
Drink  the  free  air. 

Pain.  Ay,  marry,  what  of  these? 

Poet.  When  Fortune,  in  her  shift  and  change  of  mood. 
Spurns  down  her  late  belov'd,  all  his  dependants. 
Which  labour'd  after  him  to  the  mountain's  top. 
Even  on  their  knees  and  hands,  let  him  slip'  down. 
Not  one  accompanying  his  declining  foot. 

Pain.  'T  is  common  : 
A  thousand  moral  paintings  I  can  show. 
That  shall  demonstrate  these  quick  blows  of  Fortune's 
More  pregnantly  than  words.     Yet  you  do  well, 
To  show  lord  Timon  that :  mean  eyes  have  seen 
The  foot  above  the  head. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Timon,  attended;  the  Servant 
of  Ventidius  talking  with  him. 

Tim.  Imprison'd  is  he,  say  you  ? 

Ven.  Serv.  Ay,  my  good  lord  :  five  talents  is  his  debt ; 
His  means  most  short,  his  creditors  most  strait: 
Your  honourable  letter  he  desires 
Tci  those  have  shut  him  up ;  which  failing, 
Periods  his  comfort. 

Tim.  Noble  Ventidius  !     Well ; 

I  am  not  of  that  feather,  to  shake  off 
My  friend  when  he  most  needs  me.     I  do  know  him 
A  gentleman  that  well  deserves  a  help, 
Which  he  shall  have.     I  '11  pay  the  debt,  and  free  him. 

Ven.  Serv.  Your  lordship  ever  binds  him. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  him  :  I  will  send  his  ransom ; 
And,  being  enfranchis'd.  bid  him  come  to  me. — 
'T  is  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up. 
But  to  support  him  after. — Fare  you  well. 

Ven.  Serv.  All  happiness  to  your  honour  !         [Exit. 
Enter  an  old  Athenian. 

Old  Afh.  Lord  Timon,  hear  me  speak. 

Tim.  Freely,  good  father. 

Old  Ath.  Thou  hast  a  servant  nam'd  Lucilius. 

Tim.  I  have  so:  what  of  him  ? 

'  sit :  in  folio      Eowe  made  tl  e  cnangs 


Old  Ath.  Most  noble  Timon,  call  the  man  before  thee. 

Tim.  Attends  he  here,  or  no  ? — Lucilius  ! 
Enter  Lucilius. 

Luc.  Here,  at  your  lordship's  service.  [creature 

Old  Ath.  This    fellow  here,  lord    Timon,  this  thy 
By  night  frequents  my  house.     I  am  a  man 
That  from  my  first  have  been  inclin'd  to  thrift. 
And  my  estate  deserves  an  heir,  more  rais'd 
Than  one  which  holds  a  trencher. 

Tim.  Well ;  what  farthe. » 

Old  Ath.  One  only  daughter  have  I ;  no  kin  else, 
On  whom  I  may  confer  whai  1  have  got : 
The  maid  is  fair,  o'  the  youngest  for  a  bride, 
And  I  have  bred  her  at  my  dearest  cost 
In  qualities  of  the  best.     This  man  of  thine 
Attempts  her  love :  I  pr'ythee.  noble  lord, 
Join  with  me  to  forbid  him  her  resort ; 
Myself  have  spoke  in  vain. 

Tim.  The  man  is  honest. 

Old  Ath.  Therefore  he  will  be,  Timon  : 
His  honesty  rewards  him  in  itself; 
It  must  not  bear  my  daughter. 

Tim.  Does  she  love  him  ? 

Old  Ath.  She  is  young,  and  apt : 
Our  own  precedent  passions  do  instruct  us 
Wliat  levity  's  in  youth. 

Tim.  [To  Lucilius.]  Love  you  the  maid? 

Luc.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  and  she  accepts  of  it. 

Old  Ath.  If  in  her  marriage  my  consent  be  misaiug. 
I  call  the  gods  to  witness,  I  will  choose 
Mine  heir  from  forth  the  beggars  of  the  world, 
And  dispossess  her  all. 

Tim.  How  shall  she  be  endow'd. 

If  she  be  mated  with  an  equal  husband  ? 

Old  Ath.  Three  talents  on  the  present ;  in  future  all 

Tim.  This  gentleman  of  mine  hath  serv'd  me  long 
To  build  his  fortune  I  will  strain  a  little. 
For  't  is  a  bond  in  men.     Give  hira  thy  daughter ; 
What  you  bestow,  in  him  I  '11  counterpoise. 
And  make  him  weigh  with  her. 

Old  Ath.  Most  noble  lord, 

Pa-v\Ti  me  to  this  your  honour,  she  is  his. 

Tim.  My  hand  to  til     ;  mine  honour  on  my  promise 

Luc.  Humbly  I  tha      your  lordship.     Never  may 
That  state  or  fortune  1;      into  my  keeping, 
Which  is  not  ow'd  to  y<     ! 

\E.reunt  Lucilius  and  old  Atheni/in 

Poet.  Vouf'         my  labour,  and  long  live  your  lordship 

Tim.  I  th.       you;  you  shall  hear  from  me  anon  • 
Go  not  away. — What  have  you  there,  my  friend  ? 

Pain.  A  piece  of  painting,  which  I  do  beseech 
Your  lordship  to  accept. 

Tim.  Painting  is  welcome. 

The  pamting  is  almost  the  natural  man  ; 
For  since  dishonour  traflics  \nth  man's  nature, 
He  is  but  outside  :  these  pencil'd  figures  are 
Even  such  as  they  give  out.     I  like  your  work. 
And  you  'shall  find,  I  like  it :  wait  attendance 
Till  you  hear  farther  from  me. 

Pain.  The  gods  preserve  you  . 

Tim.  Well  fare  you,  gentleman  :  give  me  your  hand 
We  must  needs  dine  together. — Sir,  your  jewel 
Hath  sufl!er'd  under  praise. 

Jew.  What,  my  lord,  dispraise  ' 

Tim.  A  mere  satiety  of  commendations. 
If  I  should  pay  you  for  't  as  't  is  extoU'd, 
It  would  unclew  me  quite. 

Jew.  My  lord,  't  is  rated 

As  those  which  sell  would  give :  but  vou  well  know 


678 


TIMON   OF   ATHENS. 


ACT    L 


Tliiiiiis  of  like  value,  differina  iii  the  owners, 

Are  i-rized  by  their  mosiers.     Believe  't,  dear  lord, 

Von  mend  the  jewel  by  the  wearing  it. 

Tim  Well  mock'd. 

Mci.  No,  my  jiood  lord  ;  he  speaks  the  common 
SVhi"h  all  men  speak  with  him.  [tongue, 

Tim.  Look,  who  comes  here.     Will  you  be  chid  ? 
Enter  Ape.mantis. 

Jnr.  We  '11  boar,  w  ith  your  lordship. 

Mcr.  He  '11  spare  none. 

7i»i.  Good  morrow  to  thee,  gentle  Apemantus. 

Apcm.  Till  I  be  identic,  stay  thou  for  thy  good  morrow  : 
when  thou  art  Tinion's  dog,  and  these  knaves  honest. 

Tim.  Why  dost  thou  call  them  knaves?  thou  know'st 
them  not. 

.Ipan.  Arc  they  not  Athenians  ? 

Tim.  Yes. 

Api-m.  Then  I  repent  not. 

.1'  ic.  You  know  me,  Apemantus. 

A}tem.  Thou  know'st,  I  do ;  I  call'd  thee  by  thy  uame. 

Tim.  Thou  art  proud,  Apemantus. 

ipem.  Of  nothing  so  much,  as   that  I  am  not  like 
Timon. 

Tim.  Whither  art  going  ? 

Apcm.  To  knock  out  an  honest  Athenian's  brains. 

Tim.  That  's  a  deed  thou  'It  die  for. 

Apcm.  Right,  if  doing  nothing  be  death  by  the  law. 

Tim.  How  likest  thou  this  picture,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  The  best,  for  the  innocence. 

Tim.  Wrought  he  not  well  that  painted  it? 

Apem.  He  wrought  better  that  made  the  painter ; 
and  yet  he  's  but  a  filthy  piece  of  work. 

Pain.  Y'  are  a  dog. 

Apem.  Thy  mother  's  of  my  generation  :  what 's  she, 
if  I  be  a  dog  ? 

Tim.  Wilt  dine  with  me,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  No  ;   I  eat  not  lords. 

Tim.  An  thou  shouldst,  thou  'dst  anger  ladies. 

Apem.  O  !  they  eat  lords ;  so  they  come  by  great 
bellies. 

Tim.  That 's  a.  lascivious  apprehension. 

Apem.  So  thou  apprehend'stit.  Take  it  for  thy  labour. 

Tim.  How  dost  thou  like  this  jewel,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Not  so  well  as  plain-dealing,  which  will  not 
c-«t  a  man  a  doit. 

Tim.  What  dost  thou  think  't  is  worth  ? 

Apem.  Not  worth  my  thinking. — How  now,  poet  ! 

Poet.  How  now.  philosopher  ! 

Apem.  Thou  liest. 

Poet.  Art  not  one  ? 

Apem.  Yes. 

Poet.  Then,  I  lie  not. 

Apem.  Art  not  a  poet? 

Poet.  Yes. 

Apem.  Then,  thou  liest :  look  in  thy  last  work,  where 
tfiou  hai^t  feign'd  him  a  worthy  fellow. 

Poet.  That 's  not  feign'd  ;  he  is  so. 

Apem.  Yes,  he  is  worthy  of  thee,  and  to'pay  thee 
tbr  thy  labour  :  he  that  loves  to  be  flattered  is  worthy 
n   the  flatterer.     Heavens,  tliat  I  were  a  lord  ! 

Tim    What  would-^t  do  then,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  F^ven  as  A|)emantus  does  now,  hate  a  lord 
with  mv  heart. 

Tim.'  What,  thyself  ? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  Wherefore? 

Apem.  That  1  ha<l  so  hungry  a  wish'  to  be  a  lord. — 
.Art  not  thou  a  merchant? 

Mer.  Ay.  Apemantire. 

'  That  I  had  □.  incry  wii     m  f    a        >  Merit. 


Apem.  Traffic  confound  thee,  if  the  gods  will  not  ! 

Mer.  If  traffic  do  it,  the  gods  do  it. 

Apcm.  Traffic 's  thy  god ;  and  thy  god  confound  thee  '■ 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  a  Servant. 
Tim.  What  trumpet 's  that? 

Serf.  'T  is  Alcibiades,  and 

Some  twenty  horse,  all  of  companionship. 

Tim.  Pray,  entertain  them  ;  give  them  guide  to  us.— 
[Exeunt  some  AttetidantM. 
You  must  needs  dine  with  me. — Go  not  you  hence. 
Till  I  have  thank'd  you  ;  and  when  dinner  's  done 
Show  me  this  piece. — I  am  joyful  of  your  sights. — 

Enter  Alcibiades,  with  his  Company. 
Most  welcome,  sir ! 

Apem.  So,  so,  there. — 

Aches  contract  and  starve  your  supple  joints  ! — 
That  there  should  be  small  love  'mongst  these  sweet 

knaves. 
And  all  this  courtesy.     The  strain  of  man  's  bred  out 
Into  baboon  and  monkey. 

Alcib.  Sir,  you  have  sav'd  my  longing,  and  I  feed 
Most  hungerly  on  your  sight. 

Tim.  Right  welcome,  sir  : 

Ere  we  depart,  we  '11  share  a  bounteous  time 
In  different  pleasures.     Pray  you.  let  us  in. 

[Exermt  all  but  Apemantds 
Enter  two  Lords. 
1  Lord.  What  time  o'  day  is  't,  Apemantus  ? 
Apnn.  Time  to  be  honest. 

1  Lord.  That  time  serves  still. 

Apem.  The  more  accursed  thou,  that  still  omit'st  it. 

2  Lord.  Thou  art  going  to  lord  Timon's  feast. 
Apem.  Ay ;  to  see  meat  fill  knaves,  and  wine  heat 

fools. 

2  Lord.  Fare  thee  well  ;  fare  thee  well. 

Apem.  Thou  art  a  fool  to  bid  me  farewell  twice. 

2  Lord.  Why,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Shouldst  have  kept  one  to  thyself,  for  I  mean 
to  give  thee  none. 

i  Lord.  Hang  thyself. 

Apem.  No,  I  will  do  nothing  at  thy  bidding  :  make 
thy  requests  to  thy  friend. 

2  Lord.  Away,  unappeasable  dog,  or  I  '11  spurn  the< 
hence. 

Apcm.  I  will  fly,  like  a  dog,  the  heels  of  the  ass.  [Exii. 

1  Lord.  He 's  opposite  to  humanity.  Come,  shall  we  in, 
And  ta.ste  lord  Timon's  bounty  ?  he  outgoes 

The  very  heart  of  kindness. 

2  Lord.  He  pours  it  out  ;  Plutus,  the  god  of  gold, 
Is  but  his  steward  :  no  meed'  but  he  repays 
Sevenfold  above  itself:  no  gift  to  him, 

But  breeds  the  giver  a  return  exceeding 
All  use  of  quittance. 

1  Lord.  The  noblest  mind  he  carries. 
That  ever  govern'd  man. 

2  Lord.  Long  may  he  live  in  fortunes  !    Shall  we  in' 
1  Lord.  I  '11  keep  you  company.  [ElxeHnt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Room  of  State  in  Timor's 
House. 

Hautboys  playing  loud  Music.  A  great  banquet  served 
in  ;  Flavus  and  others attenamg  .  then,  enter  Tuio.*. 
Alcibiades.  Lucius,  Lucullus,  Skmpronius,  mhd 
other  Athenian  Senators,  with  Ventidius,  whom 
Timon  ndeemcd  from  pri-ion.  and  Attendants:  then 
comes,  dropping  afttr  all,  Apemantus,  discorUcniedly. 
like  himself. 

Ven.  Most  honour'd  Timon,  it  hath  pleas'd  the  god» 
to  renf»eniber 


SCENE  n. 


TIMON    OF  ATHENS. 


67{> 


My  fathei's  age,  and  call  him  to  long  peace. 

He  is  gone  happy,  and  hast  left  me  rich  : 

Then,  as  in  gratelul  virtue  I  am  bound 

To  your  free  heart,  I  do  return  those  talents, 

Doubled  with  thanks  and  service,  from  whose  help 

I  deriv'd  liberty. 

Tim.  0  !  by  no  means. 

Honest  Ventidius  :   you  mistake  my  love. 
[  gave  it  freely  ever ;  and  there  's  none 
Can  truly  say,  he  gives,  if  he  receives. 
If  oar  betters  play  at  that  game,  we  must  not  dare 
To  imitate  them :  faults  that  are  rich  are  fair. 

Ven.  A  noble  spirit ! 

Tim.  Nay,  my  lords, 

Ceremony  was  but  devis'd  at  first, 
To  set  a  gloss  on  faint  deeds,  hollow  welcomes, 
Recanting  goodness,  sorry  ere  't  is  showni ; 
But  where  theie  is  true  friendship,  there  needs  none. 
Pray,  sit :  more  welcome  are  ye  to  my  fortunes. 
Than  my  fortunes  to  me.  [They  sit. 

1  Lord.  My  lord,  we  always  have  confessed  it. 
Apem.  Ho,  ho  !  confess'd  it  ?  hang'd  it,  have  you  not  ? 
Tim.  0,  Apemantus! — you  are  welcome. 

Apem.  No,  you  shall  not  make  me  welcome : 
I  come  to  have  thee  thrust  me  out  of  doors.  [there 

Tim.  Fie !  thou  'rt  a  churl :  you  have  got  a  humour 
Does  not  become  a  man  :  't  is  much  to  blame. — 
They  say,  my  lords,  ira  furor  brevis  est, 
But  yond'  man  is  ever'  angry. 
Go,  let  him  have  a  table  by  himself ; 
For  he  does  neither  affect  company, 
Nor  is  he  fit  for  't,  indeed. 

Apem.  Let  me  stay  at  thine  apperil,'  Timon : 
I  come  to  observe  :   I  give  thee  warning  on  't. 

Tim.  I  take  no  heed  of  thee  ;  thou  art  an  Athenian, 
therefore,  welcome.  I  myself  would  have  no  power; 
pr'ythee,  let  my  meat  make  thee  silent. 

Apem.  I  scorn  thy  meat ;  't  would  choke  me,  for  I 
should  ne'er  flatter  thee. — 0  you  gods  !  what  a  number 
of  men  eat  Timon.  and  he  sees  them  not !     It  grieves 
me,  to  see  so  many  dip  their  meat  in  one  man's  blood; 
and  all  the  madness  is,  he  cheers  them  up  too. 
I  wonder,  men  dare  trust  themselves  with  men  : 
Methinks,  they  should  invite  them  without  knives, 
Good  for  their  meat,  and  safer  for  their  lives. 
There  's  much  example  for  't ;  the  fellow,  that  sits  next 
him  now,  parts  bread  with  him,  and  pledges  the  breath 
of  him  in  a  divided  draught,  is  the  readiest  man  to  kill 
him  :  it  has   been   proved.     If  T  were  a  huge  man,  I 
should  fear  to  drink  at  meals, 

Lest  they  should  spy  my  windpipe's  dangerous  notes : 
lireat  men  should  drink  with  harness  on  their  throats. 

Tim.  My  lord,  in  heart;  and  let  the  health  go  round. 

2  Lord.  Let  it  flow  this  way,  my  good  lord. 
Apem.  Flow  this  way  ?     A  brave  fellow  ! — he  keeps 

his  tides  well.     Those  healths  will  make  thee  and  thy 
state  look  ill,  Timon. 

Here  's  that,  which  is  too  weak  to  be  a  fire,' 
Honest  water,  which  ne'er  left  man  i'  the  mire : 
This  and  my  food  are  equals,  there  's  no  odds  ; 
Feasts  are  too  proud  to  give  thanks  to  the  gods. 
Apemantus'  Grace. 

Immortal  gods,  I  crave  no  pelf; 

I  pray  for  no  man,  but  myself. 

Grant  I  may  never  prove  so  fond. 

To  trust  man  on  his  oath  or  bond : 

Or  a  harlot  for  her  weeping  ; 

Or  a  dog  that  seems  a  sleeping ; 


Or  a  keeper  with  my  freedom  ; 

Or  my  friends,  if  I  should  need  'em. 

Amen.     So  fall  to  't : 

Rich  men  sin,  and  I  eat  root. 

[Eats  and  drtnk* 
Much  good  do  't  thy  good  heart,  Apemantus  I 

Tim.  Captain  Alcibiades,  your  heart 's  in  the  field 

now. 
Alcib.  My  heart  is  ever  at  your  service,  my  lord. 
Tim.  You  had  rather  be  at  a  breakfast  of  enemies 
than  a  dinner  of  friends. 

Alcib.  So  they  were  bleeding  new,  my  lord,  there  'i" 
no  meat  like  'em :  I  could  wish  my  best  friend  at  such 
a  feast. 

Apem.  'Would  all  those  flatterers  were  thine  enemie* 
then,  that  then  thou  mightst  kill  'em,  and  bid  me  to  'em 

1  Lord.  Might  we  but  have  that  happiness,  my  lord. 
that  you  would  once  use  our  hearts,  whereby  we  might 
express  some  part  of  our  zeals,  we  should  think  our 
selves  for  ever  perfect. 

Tim.  0  !  no  doubt,  my  good  friends ;  but  the  gods 
themselves  have  provided  that  I  shall  have  much  help 
from  you :  how  had  you  been  my  friends  else  ?  why 
have  you  that  charitable  title  from  thousands,  did  you 
not  chiefly  belong  to  my  heart  ?  I  have  told  more  of 
you  to  myself,  than  you  can  with  modesty  speak  m 
your  owTi  behalf;  and  thus  far  I  confirm  you.  0,  you 
gods  !  think  I,  what  need  we  have  any  friends,  if  we 
should  ne'er  have  need  of  'em?  they  were  the  mosi 
needless  creatures  living,  should  we  ne'er  have  use  foi 
'em  ;  and  would  most  resemble  sweet  instruments  hung 
up  in  cases,  that  keep  their  sounds  to  themselves. 
Why,  I  have  often  wished  myself  poorer,  that  I  mighi 
come  nearer  to  you.  We  are  born  to  do  btnetits;  and 
what  better  or  properer  can  we  call  our  own,  than  the 
riches  of  our  friends  ?  0  !  what  a  precious  comfort 
't  is,  to  have  so  many,  like  brothers,  commanding  one 
another's  fortunes.  0  joy,  e'en  made  away  ere  't  can 
be  born  !  Mine  eyes  cannot  hold  out  water,  methinks ; 
to  forget  their  faults,  I  drink  to  you. 

Apem.  Thou  weep'st  to  make  them  drink,  Timon. 

2  Lord.  Joy  had  the  like  conception  in  our  eyes. 
And  at  that  instant,  like  a  babe,  sprung  up. 

Apem.  Ho,  ho  !  I  laugh  to  think  that  babe  a  ba.'jtard. 

3  Lord.  I  promise  you,  my  lord,  you  mnv"d  me  much. 
Apem.  Much!  [Tucket  .•^ountled. 
Tim.  What  means  that  trump  ? — How  now  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Please  you,  my  lord,  there  are  certain  ladies 
most  desirous  of  admittance. 

Tim.  Ladies  !     What  are  their  wills  ? 

Serv.  There  comes  with  them  a  forerunner,  my  lord. 
which  bears  that  office  to  signify  their  pleasures. 

Ttm.  I  pray,  let  them  be  admitted. 
Enter  Cupid. 

Cup.  Hail  to  thee,  worthy  Timon:  and  to  all 
That  of  his  bounties  taste  I — The  five  best  senses 
Acknowledge  thee  their  patron  ;  and  come  freely 
To  gratulate  thy  plenteous  bosom.     The  ear. 
Taste,  touch,  smell.* pleas'd  from  thy  table  rise; 
They  only  now  come  but  to  feast  thine  eyes. 

Tim.  They  're  welcome  all.     Let  them   have   kind 
admittance: 
Music,  make  their  welcome  [Exit  Cupid 

1  Lord.  You  see,  my  lord,  how  amply  y'  are  belov'd 
Music.     Re-enter  Cupid,  with  a  masque  of  Ladies  a* 

Amazons,  with  Lutes  in  their  Hands,  dancing,  aivl 

playing. 


»ery  :  in  folio 
the  change 


Rowe  made  the  change.      '  Peril.      '  sinner  :  in  f. 


^  There  taste,  touch,  all  pleas'd  :  in  .'olio.     Waiborton  uio-e 


680 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


Apcn.  Hey  day  !  what  a  sweep  of  vanity  comes  this 
way  ! 
They  dance  :  they  are  mad  women. 
Like  iiiadiu-ss  is  the  ulory  of  this  life. 
Ab  iln.«  pon)]i  shows  to  a  little  oil.  and  root. 
We  make  ourselves  foole,  to  disport  ourselves; 
.And  Bi>end  our  flatteries,  to  drink  those  men, 
l'[>on  whose  ai;e  we  void  it  up  again, 
With  poi.>ionous  spite,  and  en%y. 
Who  lives,  that's  not  depraved,  or  deprave.*  ? 
Who  (lies,  that  hears  not  one  spurn  to  their  graves 
W  their  friends'  gift  ? 

\  should  fear,  those,  that  dance  before  me  now, 
Would  one  dny  .stamp  upon  me:  't  has  been  done. 
Men  shut  their  doors  against  the'  setting  sun. 
The  Lords  rise  from  Table,  with  much  adoring  of  Timon  ; 

»nd.  to  show  their  loves,  each  singles  out  an  Amazon., 

and  all  dance.  Men  with  Women^  a  lofty  Strain  or 

two  to  thi  Hautboys,  and  cease. 

Tim.  You  have  done  our  pleasures  much  grace,  fair 
ladies. 
Set  a  fair  fa,shion  on  our  entertainment. 
Which  was  not  half  so  beautiful  and  kind  : 
Y'ou  have  added  worth  unto  't.  and'  lustre. 
And  entertain"d  me  with  mine  owu  device  ; 
I  am  to  thank  you  for  it. 

1  Ljdy.  My  lord,  you  take  us  ever  at  the  best. 

Apem.    Faith,  for  the  worst  is  filthy  ;  and  would  not 
hold  taking.  I  doubt  me. 

Tim.  Ladies,  there  is  an  idle  banquet 
Attends  you  :  please  you  to  dispose  yourselves. 

All  Lad.  Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Cupid  and  Ladies. 

Tim.  Flavins  ! 

Flav.  My  lord. 

Tim.  The  little  casket  bring  me  hither. 

Flav.  Yes.  my  lord.   [Aside]   More  jewels  yet! 
There  is  no  crossing  him  in  his  humour; 
Else  I  should  tell  him,— well.— i'  faith,  I  should, 
When  all  s  spent  he  'd  be  cross'd  then :  and  he  could, 
'T  IS  pity  bounty  had  not  eyes  behind. 
That  man  might  ne'er  be  wretched  for  his  mind. 

[Exit,  and  returns  with  the  Casket. 

1  Lord.  Where  be  our  men  ? 

Serv.  Here,  my  lord,  in  readiness. 

S  Ijord.  Our  horses  ! 

Tim.  O;  my  friends! 

I  have  one  word  to  say  to  you.     Look  you,  my  good  lord, 
I  muct  entreat  you,  honour  me  so  much. 
A»  10  advance  this  jewel;  accept  it  and  wear  it, 
Kind  my  lord. 

1  Lord.  I  am  so  far  already  in  your  gifts. — 

All.  So  are  we  all. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  there  are  certain  nobles  of  the  senate 
newly  alighted,  and  come  to  visit  you. 

Tim.  They  are  fairly  welcome. 

Flav.  I  beseech  your  honour, 

Vouchsafe  me  a  word  :  it  docs  concern  you  near. 

Tim.  Near'  why  then  another  time  I  '11  hear  thee  : 
\  pr'ythrf.  let 's  be  provided  to  show  them  entertainment. 

Flav.  I  scarce  know  how.  [Aside. 

Enter  another  Servant. 

t  Serv.  May  it  please  your  honour,  lord  Lucius, 
Out  of  his  free  love,  hath  presented  to  you 
Koiir  niilk-white  hor8e.«,  trappd  in  silver. 

Tim.   \  shall  accept  them  fairly:   let  the  presents 
Enter  a  third  Servant. 
Be  worthily  entertain'd. — How  now  !  what  news? 

*  • :  in  f  e       »  Second  folio  inserU  ;  lively        '  Boxes. 


3  Serv.  Please  you.  my  lord,  that  honourable  gen- 
tleman, lord  Lucullus,  entreats  your  coni}>aiiy  to-mor- 
row to  hunt  with  him;  and  has  sent  your  honour  twc 
brace  of  greyhounds. 

Tim.  I  '11  hunt  with  him  ;  and  let  them  be  receiv"d, 
Not  without  fair  reward. 

Flav.  [A.fide.]  What  will  this  come  to? 

He  commands  us  to  provide,  and  give  great  giftn, 
And  all  out  of  an  empty  coffer: 
Nor  will  he  know  his  purse  ;  or  yield  me  this, 
To  show  him  what  a  beggar  his  heart  is, 
Being  of  no  power  to  make  his  v^-ishes  good. 
His  promises  fly  so  beyond  his  state. 
That  what  he  speaks  is  all  in  debt ;  he  owes 
For  every  word :  he  is  so  kind,  that  he  now 
Pays  interest  for  't ;  his  land  's  put  to  their  bocks. 
Well,  would  I  were  gently  put  out  of  office, 
Before  I  were  forc'd  out ! 
Happier  is  he  that  has  no  friend  to  feed 
Than  such  a«  do  even  enemies  exceed. 
I  bleed  inwardly  for  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Tim.  You  do  yourselves 

Much  wrong :  you  bate  too  much  of  your  own  merits. 
Here,  my  lord,  a  trifle  of  our  hive. 

2  Lord.  With    more    than    Common   thanks    I    iviil 

receive  it. 

3  Lord.  O  !  he 's  the  very  soul  of  bounty. 
Tirn.  And  now  [  remember,  my  lord,  you  gave 

Good  words  the  other  day  of  a  bay  courser 
I  rode  on :  it  is  yours,  because  jou  lik'd  it. 

2  Lord.  0  !  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me  !  my  lord,  in 
that. 

Tim.  You  may  take  my  word,  my  lord  :  1  know  no 
man 
Can  justly  praise,  but  what  he  does  afl^'ect : 
I  weigh  my  friend's  affection  with  mine  own ; 
I  '11  tell  you  true.     I  '11  call  to  you. 

All  Lords.  O  !  none  so  welcome. 

Tim.  I  take  all.  and  your  several  visitations. 
So  kind  to  heart,  't  is  not  enough  to  give  : 
Methinks,  I  could  deal  kingdoms  to  my  friends, 
And  ne'er  be  weary. — Alcibiades, 
Thou  art  a  soldier,  therefore  seldom  rich  : 
It  comes  in  charity  to  thee :  for  all  thy  living 
Is  'mongst  the  dead,  and  all  the  lands  thou  ha«t 
Lie  in  a  pitchd  field. 

Alcib.  Ay,  defil'd  land,  my  lord. 

1  Lord.  We  are  so  virtuously  bound. — 

Tim.  And  bo 

Am  I  to  you. 

2  Lord.         So  infinitely  endeard, — 
Tim.  All  to  you.— Ligh'ts  !  more  lights  ! 

1  Lord.  The  best  of  happinew, 

Honour,  and  fortunes,  keep  with  you,  lord  Timon. 

Tim.  Ready  for  his  friends. 

[Exeunt  Alcibiades.  Lords.  Sn 

Apem.  What  a  coil 's  here 

Serving  of  becks,  and  jutting  out  of  bums  ! 
I  doubt  whether  their  leg.s'  be  worth  the  sums 
That  are  given  for  'em.     Friendship  "s  full  of  dregs. 
Methinks,  false  hearts  should  never  have  sound  legs. 
Thus  honest  fools  lay  out  their  wealth  on  court  sies. 

Tim.  Now,  Apemantus.  if  thou  wert  not  sullen, 
I'd  be  good  to  thee. 

Apem.  No,  1  '11  nothing  :  for  if  I  should  be  brib'd 
too.  there  would  be  none  left  to  rail  upon  thee,  and 
then  thou  wouldst  sin  the  fa.<:ter.  Thou  giv'st  sc  long. 
Timon,  I  fear  me,  thou  wilt  give  away  thyself  in  papei 
shortly :  what  need  these  feasts,  pomps,  and  vaiu  glories  1 


SOEirE  II. 


TIMON.  OF  ATHENS. 


681 


Tim.  Nay,  an  you  begin  to  rail  on   society  once,  I   Thou  shall  not  then  ;  I  '11  lock  thy  heaven  from  thee. 
«m  sworn  not  to  give  regard  to  you.     Farewell  ;  and  lO,  that  men's  ears  should  be 
come  with  better  music,  [Exit.   To  counsel  deaf,  but  not  to  flattery  !  [Ejcii 

Apem.  So ; — thou  wilt  not  hear  me  now ; —  1 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  a  Senator's 

House. 

Enter  a  Senator.,  with  Papers  in  his  Hand. 

Sen.  And  late,  five  thousand  to  Varro;  and  to  Isidore 
He  owes  nine  thousand,  besides  my  former  sum. 
Which  makes  it  five-and-twenty — Still  in  motion 
Jf  raging  waste  ?     It  cannot  hold  ;  it  will  not. 
if  I  want  gold,  steal  but  a  beggar's  dbg, 
And  give  it  Timon.  why,  the  dog  coins  gold  : 
if  I  would  sell  my  horse,  and  buy  twenty  more 
Better  than  he,  why.  give  my  horse  to  Timon  ; 
Ask  nothing,  give  it  him,  it  foals  me  straight 
A  stable  o'  horses.     No  porter  at  his  gate ; 
But  rather  one  that  smiles,  and  still  invites 
All  that  pass  by.     It  cannot  hold  ;  no  reason 
Can  sound  his  state  in  safety.     Caphis,  ho  ! 
Caphis,  I  say  ! 

Enter  Caphis. 

Caph.  Here,  sir  :  what  is  your  pleasure  ? 

Sen.  Get  on  your  cloak,  and  haste  you  to  lord  Timon  : 
Importune  him  for  my  moneys  ;  be  not  ceas'd 
With  slight  denial ;  nor  then  silenc'd,  when — 
"  Commend  me  to  your  master" — and  the  cap 
Plays  in  the  right  hand,  thus  : — but  tell  him,  sirrah, 
My  uses  cry  to  me.     I  must  serve  my  turn 
Out  of  mine  own  :  his  days  and  times  are  past, 
And  my  reliances  on  his  fracted  dates 
Have  smit  my  credit.     I  love,  and  honour  him, 
But  must  not  break  my  back  to  heal  his  finger. 
Immediate  are  my  needs  ;  and  my  relief 
Must  not  be  toss'd  and  turn'd  to  me  in  words, 
But  find  supply  immediate.     Get  you  gone : 
Put  on  a  most  importunate  aspect, 
A  visage  of  demand  ;  for,  I  do  fear. 
When  every  feather  sticks  in  his  own  wing, 
Lord  Timon  will  be  left  a  naked  gull, 
Which  flashes  now  a  phosnix.     Get  you  gone. 

Caph.  I  go,  sir. 

Sen.  Ay,  go,  sir. — Take  the  bonds  along  with  you, 
And  have  the  dates  in  compt.' 

Caph.  I  will,  sir. 

Sen.  Go.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XL-  The  Same.     A  Hall  in  Timon's  House. 
Enter  Flavius,  with  many  Bills  in  his  Hand. 

Flavins.  No  care,  no  stop  :  so  senseless  of  expense 
That  he  will  neither  know  how  to  maintain  it. 
Nor  cease  his  flow  of  riot ;  takes  no  account 
How  things  go  from  him  ;  no  reserve ;  no  care* 
2)f  what  is  to  continue.     Never  mind 
Was  surely  so  unwise',  to  be  so  kind. 
What  shall  be  done?     He  will  not  hear,  till  feel. 
I  must  be  round*  with  him,  now  he  comes  from  hunting. 
Fie,  fie.  fie,  fie! 
Enter  Caphis,  and  the  Servants  of  Isidore  and  Varro. 

Caph.  Good  even,  Varro.     What ! 

V^ou  come  for  money  ? 


Var.  Serv.  Is  't  not  your  business  too  ? 

Caph.  It  is. — And  yours  too,  Isidore  ? 

Md.  Serv  It  is  so. 

Caph.  Would  we  were  all  discharg'd  ! 

Var.  Serv.  I  tear  it 

Caph.  Here  comes  the  lord. 
Enter  Timon,  Alcibiades,  and  Lords,  ^c*.,  as  from 
hunting. 

Tim.  So  soon  as  dinner  's  done,  we  '11  forth  again, 
My  Alcibiades. — With  me  !  what  is  your  will  ? 

Caph.  My  lord,  here  is  a  note  of  certain  dues. 

Tim.  Dues  !     Whence  are  you  ? 

Caph.  Of  Athens  here,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Go  to  my  steward. 

Caph.  Please  it  your  lordship,  he  hath  put  me  oft' 
To  the  succession  of  new  days  this  month : 
My  master  is  awak'd  by  sreat  occasion 
To  call  upon  his  o'wm.  and  humbly  prays  you, 
That  with  your  other  noble  parts  you  '11  suit, 
In  giving  him  his  right. 

Tim.  Mine  honest  friend, 

I  pr'ythee,  but  repair  to  me  next  morning. 

Caph.  Nay,  my  good  lord. — 

Tim.  Contain  thyself,  good  friend. 

Var.  Serv.  One  Varro's  servant,  good  my  lord. — 

hid.  Serv.  From  Isidore  : 

He  humbly  prays  your  speedy  payment, — 

Caph.    if  you   did    know,    my   lord,    my   master's 
wants, — 

Var.  Serv.    'Twas  due  on  forfeiture,  my  lord,  six 
weeks. 
And  past. — 

Isid.  Serv.  Your  steward  puts  me  oflf.  my  lord  ; 
And  I  am  sent  expressly  to  your  lordship. 

Tim.  Give  me  breath. — 
I  do  beseech  you,  good  ny  lords,  keep  on  ; 

\Exeiint  Alcibiades  and  Lord.f. 
I  '11  wait  upon  you  inp'  intly. — Come  hither  :  pray  you, 

[To  Flavus. 
How  goes  the  world,  that  I  am  thus  encounter'd 
With  clamorous  demands  of  debt,  broken*  bonds, 
And  the  detention  of  long-since-due  debts. 
Against  my  honour  ? 

Flav.  Please  you,  gentlemen. 

The  time  is  unagreeable  to  this  business : 
Your  importunacy  cease  till  after  dinner. 
That  I  may  make  his  lordship  understand 
Wherefore  you  are  not  paid. 

Tim.  Do  so,  my  friends. 

See  them  well  entertain'd  [E.rit  Timon 

Flav.  Pray,  draw  near.   [Exit  Fiavus 

Enter  Apemantus  and  a  Fool. 

Caph.    Stay,  stay  ;  here  comes  the  fool   with  Apr. 
mantus  :  let 's  have  some  sport  with  'em. 

Var.  Serv.  Hang  him,  he  '11  abuse  us. 

I.sid.  Serv.  A  plague  upon  him,  dog  ! 

Var.  Serv.  How  dost,  fool? 

Apem.  Dost  dialogue  with  thy  shadow? 


'Come:  tn  foiio.     Theobald  made  the  change.      »  nor  resumes  no  care,  &;o.  :^inf. 
Tbe  rest  ol  this  stage  direction,  is  no'  in  f.  e.      '  Malone  chanees  to  "date-bixiken." 


an  irise  :  ib  t 


*  Plain 


682 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


AOT  n. 


Var.  Serv.  I  s^icak  not  to  tla-e. 

Apem.  No;  'tis  to  thyself. — Come  away.  [To  the  Fool. 

Isid.  Serv.  [To  V'ak.  Scrv.]  There's  the  fool  hangs 
•HI  your  back  already. 

Apem  No,  thou  stand's)  single;  thou 'rt  not  on  him  yet. 

f'ltph    Where's  the  fool  now? 

Apem.  He  last  asked  the  question. — Poor  rogues, 
md  usurers"  men;  bawds  between  gold  and  want. 

All  St-rr.   What  are  we,  Apemantus? 

Apem.  Asse.';. 

All  Serv.  Why  ? 

Apem.  That  you  ask  me  what  you  are,  and  do  not 
know  yourselves. — Speak  to  'em,  fool. 

Fool.  How  do  you,  gentlemen? 

All  Serv.  Gramercies,  good  fool.  How  does  yeur 
mistress' 

fool.  She 's  e'en  setting  on  water  to  scald  such 
diickens  as  you  are.  Would,  we  could  see  you  at 
Corinth  ! 

Apem.  Good :  gramcrcy. 

Enter  Page. 

Fool.  Look  you.  here  comes  my  mistress'  page. 

Page.  [To  the  Fool.]  Why.  how  now.  captain  !  what 
do  you  in  this  wise  company  ? — How  dost  thou,  Ape- 
mantus? 

Apem.  Would  I  had  a  rod  in  my  mouth,  that  I 
might  answer  thee  profitably. 

Page.  Pr'ythee,  Apemantus,  read  me  the  superscrip- 
tion of  these  letters  :  1  know  not  which  is  which. 

Apem.  Canst  not  read  ? 

Page.  No. 

Apem.  There  will  little  learning  die.  then,  that  day 
thou  art  hanged.  This  is  to  lord  Timon  ;  this  to  Alci- 
biades.  Go  :  thou  wast  born  a  bastard,  and  thou  'It 
dve  a  bawd. 

Pagf  Thou  wast  whelped  a  dog;  and  thou  shalt 
laraish.  a  dog's  death.     Answer  not;  I  am  gone. 

[Exit  Page. 

Apem.  Even  so  thou  out-run'st  grace.  Fool,  I  will 
go  with  you  to  lord  Timon's. 

Fool.  Will  you  leave  me  there? 

Apem.  If  Timon  stav  at  home. — You  three  sei-ve 
three  usurers? 

All  Serv.  I  would  they  served  us. 

Apem.  So  would  I, — as  good  a  trick  as  ever  hang- 
man servod  thief. 

Fool.  Are  you  three  usurers'  men? 

All  Serv.  Ay.  fool. 

Fool.  1  think,  no  usurer  but  has  a  fool  to  his  ser- 
vant: my  mistress  is  one,  and  I  am  her  fool.  When 
men  come  to  borrow  of  your  masters,  they  approach 
sadly,  and  go  away  merrily  ;  but  they  enter  my  mis- 
tress' house  merrily,  and  go  away  sadly.  The  reason 
of  this? 

Var.  Serv.  I  ceuld  render  one. 

Apem.  \)o  it.  then,  that  we  may  account  thee  a 
whoremastor,  and  a  knave ;  which  notwithstanding, 
Ibou  fihalt  be  no  less  esteemed. 

Var.  Serv.   What  is  a  wlioremaster,  fool  ? 

Fool.  A  fool  in  good  clothes,  and  something  like  thee. 
'T  is  a  spirit :  sometime,  it  appears  like  a  lord  ;  some- 
time like  a  lawyer;  sometime  like  a  philosojjlier,  with 
two  stones  more  than  his  artificial  one.  He  is  very 
often  like  a  knight;  and  generally  in  all  shapes,  that 
man  goes  uj.  and  down  in  from  fourscore  to  thirteen, 
this  spirit  walks  in. 

Var.  Serv.  Thou  art  not  altogether  a  fool. 

Funl.  Nor  thou  altogether  a  wise  man:  as  much 
loolery  as  I  have,  so  much  wit  thou  lackeet. 


Apem.  That  answer  might  have  become  Apemantun 

All  Serv.  Aside,  a«ide  :  here  comes  lord  T'lnon. 
Re-enter  Timon  and  Flavius. 

Apem.  Come,  with  me,  fool ;  come. 

Fool.  I  do  not  always  follow  lover,  elder  brother,  and 
woman  ;  sometime,  the  philosopher. 

[Exeunt  Apemantus,  and  Fool  after  him 

Flav.  Pray  you,  walk  near :  I  '11  speak  with  you  anoi. 

[Exeunt  Serv 

Tim.  You  make  me  marvel.  Wherefore,  ere  this  iime, 
Had  you  not  fully  laid  iny  state  before  me, 
That  I  might  so  liave  rated  my  expense 
As  I  liad  leave  of  means  ? 

Flav.  You  would  not  hear  me : 

At  many  leisures  I  propos'd. 

Tim.  Goto: 

Perchance,  some  single  vantages  you  took, 
W^hen  my  indisposition  put  you  back ; 
And  that  unaptness  made  you  minister, 
Thus  to  excuse  yourself. 

Flav.  O,  my  good  lord  ! 

At  many  times  I  brought  in  my  accounts. 
Laid  them  before  you  :  you  would  throw  them  off, 
And  say,  you  found  them  in  mine  honesty. 
When  for  some  trifling  present  you  have  bid  me 
Return  so  much,  I  have  shook  my  head,  and  wept ; 
Yea,  'gainst  the  authority  of  manners,  pray'd  you 
To  hold  your  hand  more  close :   I  did  endure 
Not  seldom,  nor  no  slight  checks,  when  1  have 
Prompted  you,  in  the  ebb  of  your  estate. 
And  your  great  flow  of  debts.     My  loved  lord. 
Though  you  hear  now,  yet  now  's  a  time  loo  late, 
The  greatest  of  your  having  lacks  a  half 
To  pay  your  present  debts. 

Tim.  Let  all  my  land  be  sold. 

Flav.  'T  is  all  engag'd.  some  forl'eiled  and  gone  ; 
And  what  remains  will  hardly  stop  the  mouth 
Of  present  dues.     The  future  comes  apace  ; 
What  shall  defend  the  interim  ?  and  at  length 
How  goes  our  reckoning? 

Tim.  To  Lacedseinon  did  my  land  extend. 

Flav.  0,  my  good  lord  !  the  world  is  bu^.  a  word ; 
Were  it  ali  yours  to  give  it  in  a  breath. 
How  quickly  were  it  gone  ? 

Tirn.  You  tell  me  true. 

Flav.  If  you  suspect  my  husbandry,  or  falsehood, 
Call  me  before  th'  exactest  auditors, 
And  set  me  on  the  proof.     So  the  gods  bless  me, 
When  all  our  offices  have  been  ojipress'd 
With  riotous  feeders:  when  our  vaults  have  wept 
With  drunken  spilth  of  wine  ;  when  every  room 
Hatii  blaz'd  with  lights,  and  bray'd  with  minstrelsy, 
I  have  retir'd  ine  to  a  wasteful  nook,' 
And  set  mine  eyes  at  flow. 

Tim.  Pr'ythee.  no  more. 

Flav.  Heavens,  have  I  said,  the  bounty  of  this  lord! 
How  many  prodigal  bits  have  slaves,  and  peasants. 
This  night,  cnglutted  !     W^ho  is  not  Timon's? 
What   lieart.    head,  sword,  force,  means,   but  is  lord 

Timon's, 
Great  Timon's.  noble,  worthy,  royal  Timon's? 
Ah  !  when  the  means  are  gone  that  buy  this  prai*e, 
The  breath  is  gone  whereof  this  praise  is  made  : 
Feast- won.  fast-lost :  one  cloud  of  winter  showers, 
These  flies  are  couch'd. 

Tim.  Come,  sermon  me  no  farllur. 

No  villainous  bounty  yet  hath  pass'd  my  heart; 
Unwisely,  not  ignobly,  have  I  given. 
Why  dosl  thou  weep  ?    Canst  thou  the  conscience  lack. 


TIMON   OF   ATHENS. 


688 


To  think  I  shall  lack  friends  ?     Secure  thy  heart, 
.!'  I  would  broach  the  ves^sels  of  my  love, 
And  try  the  argument  of  hearts  by  borrowing, 
Men,  and  men's  tbrtunes,  could  I  frankly  use, 
As  I  can  bid  thee  speak. 

Flav.  Assurance  bless  your  thoughts  ! 

Tim.  And,   in  some  sort,   these  wants  of  mine  are 
crown'd, 
That  I  account  them  blessings :  for  by  these 
Shall  I  try  friends.     You  shall  perceive  how  you 
Mistake  my  fortunes :  I  am  wealthy  in  my  friends. 
Within  there  ! — Flaniinius  !  Servilius  ! 

Enter  Fl.\minius,  Servilius,  and  other  Servants. 

Serv.  My  lord,  my  lord, — 

Tim.  I  will  despatch  you  severally. — You,  to  lord 
Lucius; — to  lord  Lucullus  you;  I  hunted  with  his 
honour  to-day; — you,  to  Sempronius.  Commend  me 
to  their  loves ;  and,  I  am  proud,  say,  that  my  occa- 
sions have  found  time  to  use  them  toward  a  supply  of 
money:   let  the  request  be  fifty  talents. 

Flam.  As  you  have  said,  my  lord. 

Flav.  Lord  Lucius,  and  Lucullus  ?  humph  ! 

Tim.  Go  you,  sir,  [To  another  Serv.]  to  the  senators, 
(Of  whom,  even  to  the  state's  best  health,  I  have 
bcserv'd  this  hearing)  bid  'em  send  o'  the  instant 
A  thousand  talents  to  me. 

Flav.  I  have  been  bold, 

(For  that  I  knew  it  the  most  general  way) 
To  them  to  use  your  signet,  and  your  name  ; 
But  they  do  .shake  their  heads,  and  I  am  here 
No  richer  in  return. 

Tim.  Is  't  true  V  can  't  be  ? 

Flav.  They  answer,  in  a  joint  and  corporate  voice. 


That  now  they  are  at  fall,  want  treasure,  cannot 

Do  what  they  would  ;  are  sorry — you  are  honourable,-- 

But  yet  they  could  have  wish'd — they  know  not — 

Something  hath  been  amiss — a  noble  nature 

May  catch  a  wrench — would  all  were  well — 'tis  pity. — 

And  so,  intending  other  serious  matters, 

Alter  distasteful  looks,  and  these  hard  fractions, 

Vk^ith  certain  half-caps,  and  cold-moving  nods, 

They  froze  me  into  silence. 

Tim.  You  gods,  reward  them   — 

Pr'ythee,  man,  look  cheerly  ;  tliese  old  fellows 
Have  their  ingratitude  in  them  hereditary  : 
Their  blood  is  cak'd,  't  is  cold,  it  seldom  flows  ; 
'T  is  lack  of  kindly  warmth  they  are  not  kind, 
And  nature,  as  it  grows  again  toward  earth. 
Is  fashion'd  for  the  journey,  dull,  and  hea\'y. — 
Go  to   Ventidius,— [To  a  Serv.]     Pr'ythee,  [To  Fla- 

vius,]  be  not  sad  ; 
Thou  art  true,  and  honest :  ingeniously'  I  speak, 
No  blame  belongs  to  thee. — [To  Serv.]    Ventidius  lately 
Buried  his  father  ;  by  whose  death,  he  's  stepp'd 
Into  a  great  estate  :  when  he  was  poor, 
Imprison'd,  and  in  scarcity  of  friends, 
I  clear'd  him  with  five  talents  :  greet  him  from  me  ; 
Bid  him  suppose  some  good  necessity 
Touches  his  friend,  which  craves  to  be  remember'd 
With  those  five  talents  : — that  had,  [To  Flav.]  give  it 

these  fellows 
To  whom  't  is  instant  due.     Ne'er  speak,  or  think, 
That  Timon's  fortunes  'mong  his  friends  can  sink. 
Flav.  I  would,  I  could  not  think  it ;  that  thought  is 

bounty's  foe  : 
Being  free  itself,  it  thinks  all  others  so.  [Exeunt. 


ACT     III. 


SCENE  I. — The  Same.     A  Room  in  Lucullus's 

House. 

Flaminius  waiting.     Enter  a  Servant  to  him. 

Serv.    I   have  told   my  lord  of  you  ;   he  is  coming 
down  to  you. 

Flam.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Enter  Lucullus. 

Serv.  Here  's  my  lord. 

Lticul.  [Aside.]  One  of  lord  Timon's  men  ?  a  gift,  I 
warrant.  Why,  thir  hits  right ;  I  dreamt  of  a  silver 
basin  and  ewer  to-ni,?ht. — Flaminius,  honest  Flaminius, 
you  arc  very  respc'ctively  welcome,  sir. — Fill  me  some 
wine. — [Exit  Servant.]  And  how  does  that  honourable, 
complete,  free-hearted  gentleman  of  Athens,  thy  very 
Sountiful  good  lord  and  master? 

Flam.  His  health  is  well,  sir. 

Luad.  I  am  right  glad  that  his  health  is  well,  sir. 

nd  what   hast   thou    there   under   thy  cloak,  pretty 

laminius  ? 

Flam.  'Faith,  nothing  but  an  empty  box,  sir,  which, 
m  ray  lord's  behalf,  I  come  to  entreat  your  honour  to 
supply  ;  who,  having  great  and  instant  occasion  to  use 
fifty  talents,  hath  sent  to  your  lordship  to  furnish  him, 
nothing  doubting  your  present  a.'^sistance  therein. 

Lvxid.  La,  la,  la,  la, — nothing  doubting,  says  he  ? 
alas,  good  lord  !  a  noble  gentleman  't  is,  if  he  would  not 
ieep  so  good  a  house.  Many  a  time  and  often  I  have 
dined  vntli  him,  and  told  him  on  't ;  and  come  again  to 
supper  to  him  ol  purpose  to  have  him  spend  less,  and 

'  (ngettaovil'y       '  Not  in  f.  •. 


yet  he  would  embrace  no  counsel,  take  no  w.^rning  by 
my  coming.  Every  man  has  his  fault,  and  honesty  is 
his:  I  have  told  him  on't,  but  I  could  ne'er  get  him 
from  it. 

Re-enter  Servant  with  fJ'ine. 

Serv.  Please  your  lordship,  here  is  the  wine. 

Lucul.  Flaminius,  I  have  noted  thee  always  wi^e. 
Here  's  to  thee. 

Flam.  Your  lordship  speaks  your  pleasure. 

Lucul.  I  have  observed  thee  always  for  a  towardly 
prompt  spirit. — give  thee  thy  due, — and  one  that  knows 
what  belongs  to  reason  ;  and  canst  use  the  time  well, 
if  the  time  use  thee  well :  good  parts  in  thee. — Get  you 
gone,  sirrah. — [To  the  Servant,  who  exit.] — Draw 
nearer,  honest  Flaminius.  Thy  lord  "s  a  bountiful  gen- 
tleman ;  but  thou  art  wise,  and  thou  knowcst  well 
enough,  although  thou  coinest  to  me,  tbal  this  is  no 
time  to  lend  money,  especially  upon  bare  friendship, 
without  security.  Here 's  three  solidares  for  thee  :  good 
boy,  wink  at  me,  and  say,  thou  saw'st  me  not.  Fare 
th«  well.  [Giving  money.* 

Flam.  Is't  possible,  the  world  should  .so  much  di/fer, 
And  we  alive  that  liv'd  ?     Fly,  damned  ba.«enes8, 
To  him  that  worships  thee.  [Throwing  the  money  away. 

Lucul.  Ha !  now  I  see  thou  art  a  fool,  and  tit  lor  thy 
master.  [E.iit  Lici  llus. 

Flam.  May  these  add  to  the  number  that  may  scold 
thee  ! 
Let  molten  coin  be  thy  damnation. 
Thou  disease  of  a  friend,  and  not  himself ! 


684 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


ACT  ra. 


Hfu  friomiship  bucIi  a  faint  and  rn'lky  heart, 
It  tunis  in  less  than  two  niiihts  ?     0  you  gods  ! 
[  feel  my  master's  passion.     This  slave 
["nto  hi.s  humour  lias  my  lord's  meat  in  him  : 
Why  should  it  thrive,  and  turn  to  nutriment, 
When  hf  is  turn'd  to  poison? 

0  !   may  diseases  only  work  upon 't, 

And.  when  he  "s  sick  to  death,  let  not  that  part  of  nature, 

Which  my  lord  paid  for.  be  of  any  power 

To  expel  sickne.'ss,  but  prolong  his  hour!  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Public  Place. 
Enter  Licius,  with  three  Strangers. 
Luc.  Who  '  the  lord  Timon  ?  he  is  my  very  good 
riend.  and  an  honourable  gentleman. 

1  Stran.  We  know  him  for  no  less,  though  we  are 
but  strangers  to  him.  But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing, 
my  lord,  and  which  I  hear  from  common  rumours  : 
now  lord  Timon  s  happy  hours  are  done  and  past,  and 
his  estate  shrinks  from  him. 

Luc.  Fie  !  no,  do  not  believe  it;  he  cannot  want  for 
money. 

2  Strnn.  Rut  believe  you  this,  my  lord,  that  not 
long  ago  one  of  his  men  was  with  the  lord  Lueullus, 
to  borrow  .«;o  many  talents:  nay,  urged  extremely  for't. 
and  showed  what  necessity  belonged  to 't,  and  yet  was 
denied. 

Luc.  How  ? 

2  Stran.  I  tell  you,  denied,  my  lord. 

Lvc.  What  a  strange  case  was  that !  now,  before 
the  gods.  I  am  ashamed  on  't.  Denied  that  honourable 
man  ?  there  was  very  little  honour  showed  in " t.  For 
my  own  part,  I  must  needs  confess,  1  have  received 
some  small  kindnesses  from  him,  as  money,  plate, 
jewels,  and  such  like  trifles,  nothing  comparing  to  his; 
yet.  had  he  mistook  him,  and  sent  to  me,  I  should 
ne'er  have  denied  his  occasion  so  many  talents. 
Eiiter  Servilius. 

Ser.  See,  by  good  hap,  yonder 's  my  lord ;  I  have 
Fweat  to  see  his  honour. — My  honoured  lord. — 

[To  Lucius. 

Luc.  Servilius  !  you  are  kindly  met.  sir  Fare  thee 
well :  commend  me  to  thy  honourable-virtuous  lord. 
my  ven,"  exquisite  friend. 

Ser.  May  it  please  your  honour,  my  lord  hath  sent — 

Luc.  Ha!  what  has  he  sent?  I  am  so  much  endear- 
ed to  that  lord,  he  's  ever  sending  :  how  shall  I  thank 
him,  Ihinke.sl  thou?     And  what  has  he  .sent  now? 

Ser.  He  has  only  sent  his  present  occasion  now,  my 
lord  ;  requesting  your  lordship  to  supply  his  instant 
use  with  five  hundred  talents.' 

Lttc.  I  know,  his  lordship  is  but  merry  with  me: 
He  cannot  w;int  five  hundred  talents. 

Ser.  But  in  the  mean  time  he  wants  less,  my  lord. 
If  his  occa.sion  were  not  virtuous, 
should  not  urge  it  half  so  faithfully. 

Luc.  Dost  thou  speak  seriously,  Servilius? 

Ser.  U]^rtn  my  soul,  'tis  true,  sir, 

Luc.  What  a  wieked  beast  was  I.  to  disfurnish  my- 
pelf  against  such  a  good  time,  when  I  niiiiht  have 
shoMTi  my.«clf  honourable  !  how  unluckily  it  happened, 
that  I  should  purclia.sc  the  day  before  for  a  little  part, 
and  undo  a  great  deal  of  honour  ! — Servilius,  now 
before  the  gods,  I  am  not  able  to  do :  the  more  beast  I, 

1  say. — [  was  sending  to  u.se  lord  Timon  my.self,  these 
eentlemen  can  witness;  but  I  would  not,  for  the 
wealth  of  Athen.s,  I  ha<l  done  it  now.  Commend  me 
aountifully  to  his  good  lordship;  and  I  hope,  his  hon- 
aar  will  conceive  the  fairest  of  me,  becau.se  I  have  no 

'  with  M  muy  talenu  :  inf.* 


'  »pirit :  in  f.  «  ;  changed  from  '  sport,"  of  the  folio.      '  Thrive: 


power  to  be  kind  : — and  tell  him  this  fro'n  me,  I  count 
it  one  of  my  greatest  afflictions,  say,  that  I  cannot 
pleasure  such  an  honourable  gentleman.  Good  Ser 
villus,  will  you  befriend  me  so  far,  as  to  use  mine  own 
words  to  him  ? 

Ser.  Yes.  sir,  I  shall. 

Luc.   1  '11  look  you  out  a  good  turn,  Servilius. — 

[Exit  Skrvii.i.'s 
True,  as  you  said,  Timon  is  shrunk  indeed  ; 
And  he  that 's  once  denied  will  hardly  speed. 

[Exit  LiHiv.-i 

1  Stran.   Do  you  observe  this,  Hostilius  ? 

2  Stran.  Ay.  too  well. 
1  Stran.  Why  this 

Is  the  world's  soul ;  and  just  of  the  same  piece 
Is  every  flatterer's  port.*     Who  can  call  him 
His  friend,  that  dips  in  the  same  dish  ?  for.  in 
My  knowing,  Timon  has  been  this  lord's  father, 
And  kept  his  credit  with  his  pur.se. 
Supjiorled  his  estate;  nay,  Timon's  money 
Has  paid  his  men  their  wages  :  he  ne'er  drinks, 
But  Timon's  silver  treads  upon  his  lip; 
And  yet,  (0,  see  the  monstrousncss  of  man, 
When  he  looks  out  in  an  ungrateful  shape  !) 
He  does  deny  him,  in  respect  of  his, 
W^hat  charitable  men  afford  to  beggars. 

3  Stran.  Religion  groans  at  it. 

1  Stran.  For  mine  own  part_ 

I  never  tasted  Timon  in  my  life, 
Nor  came  any  of  his  bounties  over  me, 
To  mark  nie  for  his  friend ;  yet,  I  protest. 
For  his  right  noble  mind,  illustrious  virtue. 
And  honourable  carriage. 
Had  his  necessity  made  use  of  me, 
I  would  have  put  my  wealth  into  donation. 
And  the  best  half  should  have  return'd  to  him, 
So  much  1  love  his  heart.     But  I  perceive. 
Men  must  learn  now  with  pity  to  dispense : 
For  policy  sits  above  conscience.  [Exetint. 

SCENE  III. — The  Same. — A  Room  in  Sempromfs's 

House. 

Enter  Sempronius,  and  a  Servant  of  Timon's. 

Sem.    Must    he    needs    trouble    me    in 't,    humph  ! 
'bove  all  others  ? 
He  might  have  tried  Lord  Lucius,  or  Lucullus ; 
And  now  Ventidius  is  wealthy  too, 
Whom  he  redeem'd  from  prison  :  all  these 
Owe  their  estates  unto  him. 

Scrv.  My  lord, 

They  have  all  been  touch'd,  and  found  base  metal ; 
For  they  have  ail  denied  him. 

Sem.  How  !   have  they  ienied  him? 

Have  Ventidius  and  Lucullus  denied  him, 
And  does  he  send  to  me?     Three-'  liuiiii)li ! 
It  shows  but  litlle  love  or  judgment  in  him  : 
Must  I  be  his  last  refuge?  His  friends,  like  physicians 
Thrice'  give  him  over:  must  I  take  the  cure  upon  nic  ^ 
He  has  much  disgrac'd  me  in  't  :  I  am  angry  at  him. 
That  might  have  known  my  place.     I  see  no  sense  for  "l, 
But  his  occasions  might  have  woo'd  me  first ; 
For,  in  my  conscience,  I  was  the  first  man 
That  e'er  received  gift  from  him  : 
And  does  he  think  .so  backwardly  of  me  now. 
That  I  "II  requite  it  last?     No  :  so  it  may  p'ove 
An  argument  of  laughter  to  the  rest. 
And  amongst  lords  I  be  thought  a  fool. 
I  had  rather  than  the  worth  of  thrice  the  sum, 
He  had  sent  to  me  first,  but  for  my  mind's  sake  • 

folio      Johnaon  ra»de  the  ■>!nn|f« 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


685 


[  d  such  a  courage  to  do  him  good.     But  now  return, 
And  with  their  faint  reply  this  answer  join; 
Who  bates  mine  honour  shall  not  know  my  coin.   [Exit. 
Serv.  Excellent !     Your  lordship  's  a  goodly  villain. 
The  devil  knew  not  what  he  did,  when  he  made  man 
politic  ;   he  crossed  himself  by 't :  and  I  cannot  think, 
but,  in  the  end,  the  villainies  of  man  will  set  him  clear! 
How  fairly  this  lord  strives  to  appear  foul?  takes  vir- 
tuous co])ies  to  be  wicked  ;  like  those  that,  under  hot 
ardent  zeal,  would  set  whole  realms  on  fire.     Of  such 
a  nature  is  his  politic  love. 
This  was  my  lord's  best  hope ;  now  all  are  fled, 
Save  only  the  sods.     Now  his  friends  are  dead. 
Doors,  that  were  ne'er  acquainted  with  their  wards 
Many  a  bounteous  year,  nmst  be  employ'd 
Now  to  guard  sure  their  master : 
And  this  is  all  a  liberal  course  allows; 
Who  cannot  keep  his  wealth  must  keep  his  house.     [  Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Hall  in  Timon's  House. 
Enter   two    Servants   of  Varro,  and  the    Servant   of 

Lucius,  meeting  Titus,  Hortensius.  and  other  Ser- 
vants to  Timon's  Creditors,  waiting  his  coming  out. 
Var.  Serv.  Well  met ;  good-morrow,  Titus  and  Hor- 
tensius. 

Tit.  The  like  to  you,  kind  Varro. 

Hot.  Lucius  ? 

What,  do  we  meet  together  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay  ;  and  I  think. 

One  business  does  command  us  all,  for  mine 
Is  money. 

Tit.         So  is  theirs,  and  ours. 

Enter  Philotcs. 

Luc.  Serv.  And,  sir, 

Philotus  too ! 

Phi.  Good  day  at  once. 

Luc.  Serv.  Welcome,  good  brother. 

What  do  you  think  the  hour  ? 

Phi.  Labouring  for  nine. 

Luc.  Serv.  So  much  ? 

Phi.  Is  not  my  lord  seen  yet  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Not  yet. 

Phi.  I  wonder  on  't :  he  was  wont  to  shine  at  seven. 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  but  the  days  are  waxed  shorter  with 
him : 
You  must  consider,  that  a  prodigal  course 
Is  like  the  sun's  ;  but  not.  like  his.  recoverable. 
I  fear  'tis  deepest  winter  in  Lord  Timon's  purse  ; 
That  is,  one  may  reach  deep  enough,  and  yet 
Find  little. 

Phi.  I  am  of  your  fear  for  that. 

Tit.  I  '11  show  you  how  t'  observe  a  strange  event. 
Your  lord  sends  now  for  money. 

Hot.  Mo.st  true,  he  does. 

Tit.  And  he  wears  jewels  now  of  Timon's  gift, 
"^r  which  I  wait  for  money. 

Hor.  It  is  against  my  heart. 

Luc.  Serv.  Mark,  how  strange  it  shows, 

Timon  in  this  should  pay  more  than  he  owes  : 
And  e'ex  as  if  your  lord  should  wear  rich  jewels, 
.And  send  for  money  for  'em. 

Hor.  I  'm  weary  of  this  charge,  the  gods  can  witness  : 
I  know,  my  lord  hath  sjent  of  Timon's  wealth, 
A  nd  now  ingratitude  makes  it  worse  than  stealth. 

1   Var.  Serv.  Yes,    mine 's  three   thousand    crowns ; 
what 's  yours  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Five  thousand  mine. 

1  Var.  Serv.  'T  is  much  deep :  and  it  should  seem  by 
the  st  m, 

'  A  MU  was  slso  a  weapon 


IS  my 


Your  master's  confidence  was  above  min«  • 
Else,  surely,  his  had  equall'd. 

Enter  Fl.\minius. 

Tit.  One  of  lord  Timon's  men. 

Luc.  Serv.  Flaminius  !     Sir,  a  word.     Pray, 
lord  ready  to  come  forth? 

Flam.  No,  indeed,  he  is  not. 

Tit.  We  attend  his  lorship  :  pray,  signify  so  much 

Flam.  I  need  not  tell  him  that  ;  he  knows,  you  are 
too  diligent.  [Exit  FiiMiaius 

Enter  Flavius  in  a  Cloak,  muffled. 

Luc.  Serv.  Ha  !  is  not  that  his  Steward  muffled  so? 
He  goes  away  in  a  cloud  :  call  him,  call  him. 

Tit.  Do  you  hear,  sir  ? 

1   Var.  Serv.  By  your  leave,  sir. — 

Flav.  What  do  you  ask  of  me,  my  friend  ? 

Tit.  We  wait  for  certain  money  here,  sir. 

Flav.  Ay, 

If  money  were  as  certain  as  your  waitins, 
'T  were  sure  enough.     Why  then  preferred  you  not 
Your  sums  and  bills,  when  your  fal.'^e  masters  ate 
Of  my  lord's  meat  ?  Then,  they  could  smile,  and  fawn 
Upon  his  debts,  and  take  down  the  interest 
Into  their  gluttonous  maws.     You  do  yourselves  but 

wrong. 
To  stir  me  up  ;  let  me  pass  quietly : 
Believe  't,  my  lord  and  I  have  made  an  end 
I  have  no  more  to  reckon,  he  to  spend. 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  but  this  answer  will  not  serve. 

Flav.  If  't  will  not  serve, 

'T  is  not  so  base  as  you  ;  for  you  serv^e  knaves.     [Exit. 

1  Var.  Serv.  How  !  what  does  his  cashier"d  worship 
mutter  ? 

2  Var.  Serv.  No  matter  what :  he  's  poor,  and  that  s 
revenge  enough.  W' ho  can  speak  broader  than  he  that 
has  no  house  to  put  his  head  in  ?  such  may  rail  against 
great  buildings. 

Enter  Servilius. 

Tit.  0  !  here  *8  Servilius  ;  now  we  shall  know  some 
answer. 

Ser.  If   I  might  beseech   you,  gentlemen,  to  repair 
some  other  hour,  I  should  derive  much   from  't ,    for, 
take  't  of  my  soul,  my  lord   leans  wondrously  to  dis- 
content.     His   comfortable    temper   has    forsook   hira 
he  's  much  out  of  health,  and  keeps  his  chamber. 

Luc.  Serv.  Many  do  keep  their-chambers,  are  not  sick 
And  if  he  be  so  far  beyond  his  health, 
Methiuks,  he  should  the  sooner  pay  his  debts, 
And  make  a  clear  way  to  the  gods. 

Ser.  Good  gods ! 

Tit.  We  cannot  take  this  for  an  answer,  sir. 

Flam.  [Wilhin.]  Servilius,  help  ! — my  lord  !  my  lord  ' 
Enter  Timon,  in  a  rage  ;  Fla.minius.  following. 

Tim.  What !  are  my  doors  oppos'd  against  my  passage' 
Have  I  been  ever  free,  and  must  my  house 
Be  my  retentive  enemy,  my  gaol  ? 
The  place  which  I  have  feasted,  does  it  now, 
Like  all  mankind,  show  me  an  iron  heart? 

Luc.  Serv.   Put  in  now,  Titus. 

Tit.  My  lord,  here  is  my  bill. 

Luc.  Serv.  Here  's  mine. 

Hor.  Serv.  And  mine,  my  lord. 

Both  Var.  Serv.  And  ours,  my  lord. 

Phi.  All  our  bills. 

Tim.  Knock  me  down  with  'em ;  cleave  me  to  tht 
girdle.* 

Luc.  Serv.  Alas  !  my  lord, — 

Tim.  Cut  my  heart  in  sums 

Tit.  Mine,  fifty  talents 


686 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


ACT  m. 


Tim.  Tell  out  my  blood. 
Luc.  Serv.  Five  thousand  crowns,  my  lord. 
Tim.  Five  tliouBand  drops  pays  that. — 
What  yours  ? — and  yours  ? 

1  Var.  Serv.  My  lord, — 

2  far    Serv.  My  lord. — 

Tim.  Tear  me,   take  me ;    and   the   gods   fall   upon 
you !  [Exit. 

Hor.  Faith,  I  perceive  our  masters  may  throw  their 
raps  at  their  money :  these  debts  may  well  be  called 
dc«perate  ones,  tor  a  madman  owes  'em.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Timon  and  Flavius. 

Tim.  They  liave  e'en  put  my  breath   from   me,  the 
slaves  : 
Creditors  ? — devils  ! 

Flav.  My  dear  lord, — 

Tim.  What  if  it  should  be  so  ? 

Flav.  My  lord. — 

Tim.  I  '11  have  it  .«o. — My  steward  ! 

Flav.  Here,  my  lord. 

Tim.  So  tiily?     Go.  bid  all  my  friends  again. 
Lucius.  Lucullus,  and  Sempronius'  ;   all : 
I  "11  once  more  least  the  rascals. 

Flav.  0  my  lord  ! 

You  only  speak  from  your  distracted  soul : 
There  is  not  so  much  left  to  furnish  out 
A  moderate  table. 

Tim.  Be  't  not  in  thy  care  :  go, 

1  charge  thee ;  invite  them  all :  let  in  the  tide 
Of  knaves  once  more  ;  my  cook  and  1  "il  provide. 

[Exeunt. 

SCEXE  v.— The  Same.     The  Senate-House. 
The  Senate  silting.     Enter  Alcibiades,  attended. 

1  Sen.  My  lord,  you  have  my  voice  to  't :  the  fault's 
bloody;  't  is  necessary  he  should  die. 

Nothing  emboldens  sin  .«o  much  a,s  mercy. 

2  .Sen.   Most  true:  the  law  shall  bruise  him. 
Alcib.    Honour,    health,    and    compassion     to     the 

senate  ! 

1  Sen.  Now.  captain? 

Alcib.   I  am  an  humble  suitor  to  your  ^^rtues ; 
For  pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law, 
And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruelly. 
It  pleases  time  and  fortune  to  lie  heavy 
Upon  a  Iri.nd  of  mine  :  who,  in  hot  blood. 
Hatii  8tc|>pd  inro  the  law.  which  is  past  depth 
To  those  that  without  heed  do  plunge  into  't. 
He  is  a  man.  setting  his  fault  aside, 
Of  comely  virtues: 

-Nor  did  he  soil  the  fact  with  cowardice: 
(An  honour  in  him  which  buys  out  his  fault) 
But.  with  a  iiolde  lury,  and  fair  spirit. 
Seeing  his  rfputation  touchd  to  death. 
He  did  opjK«e  his  foe  : 
And  wiih  .-uch  sober  and  unnoted  passion 
He  did  reprove'  his  anaer.  ere  't  wa.s  spent, 
As  if  he  had  but  inov'd'  an  arsument. 

1  Sen.   Voii  iiiKhrso  too  strict  a  paradox, 
Strivina  to  make  an  ugly  deed  look  fair: 
Vour  words  have  look  such  pains,  as  if  they  labour'd 
To  bring  manslaughter  into  form,  and  set  quarrelling 
Upon  the  head  of  valour ;  which,  indeed, 
Is  valour  nii.>-beL'ot.  and  came  into  the  world 
When  scctx  and  tactions  were  newly  born. 
He  \  truly  valiant,  that  can  wisely  sulfer 
I  he  worst  that  man  can  breathe,  and  make  his  wrongs 
His  outsides  ;  to  wear  them  like  his  raiment,  careleeslv, 


And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart, 
To  bring  it  into  danger. 
If  wrongs  be  evils,  and  enforce  us  kill. 
What  folly  't  is  to  hazard  life  for  ill? 
Akib.  My  lord,— 

1  Sen.  You  cannot  make  gross  sins  look  clear 
To  revenge  is  no  valour,  but  to  bear. 

Akib.  My  lords,  then  under  favour,  pardon  me, 
If  I  speak  like  a  captain. 
Why  do  fond  men  expose  themselves  to  battle, 
And  not  endure  all  threats?  sleep  upon  't, 
And  let  the  foes  quietly  cut  their  throats, 
Without  repugnancy?  if  there  be 
Such  valour  in  the  bearing,  what  make  we 
Abroad  ?  why  then,  women  are  more  valiant, 
That  stay  at  home,  if  bearing  carry  it. 
And  the  ass  more  captain  than  the  lion:  the  fellor, 
Loaden  with  irons,  wiser  than  the  judge. 
If  wisdom  be  in  suffering.     0,  my  lords  ! 
As  you  are  great,  be  pitifully  good  : 
Who  cannot  condemn  rashness  in  cold  blood? 
To  kill,  I  grant,  is  sin's  extremest  gust; 
But  in  delence.  by  mercy,  't  is  most  just. 
To  be  in  anger,  is  impiety; 
But  who  is  man,  that  is  not  angry  ? 
Weigh  but  the  crime  with  this. 

2  Sen.  You  breathe  in  vain. 

Akib.  In  vain  ?  his  service  doi»e 

At  Laced.Tmon,  and  Byzantium, 
Were  a  sutficient  briber  for  his  life. 

Sen.  What's  that? 

Alcib.  Why,  say*  my  lords,  he  has  done  fair  service. 
And  slain  in  fight  many  of  your  enemies. 
How  full  of  valour  did  he  bear  himself 
In  the  last  conflict,  and  made  plenteous  wounds  ' 

2  Sen.  He  has  made  too  much  plenty  with  'em,* 
He  's    a  sworn  rioter:  he  has  a  sin,  iliat  often 
i  Drowns  him,  and  takes  his  valour  prisoner. 
'  Were  there  no  foes,  that  were  itsell  enough* 
To  overcome  hiin  :  in  that  beastly  fury 
I  He  has  been  known  to  commit  outrages. 
And  chcri.sh  factions.     'T  is  inferr"d'  to  us. 
His  days  are  foul,  and  his  drink  dangerous. 

1  Sen.  He  dies. 

Akib.  Hard  fate  !  he  might  have  died  in  war. 
My  lords,  if  not  for  any  parts  in  him. 
Though  his  right  arm  might  purchase  his  own  tunc. 
And  be  in  debt  to  none,  yet,  more  to  move  you, 
Take  my  deserts  to  his,  and  join  them  both : 
And  for.  I  know,  your  reverend  ages  love 
Security,  I  '11  pawn  my  victories,  all 
My  honour  to  you.  upon  his  good  returns. 
If  by  this  crime  he  owes  the  law  his  life. 
Why,  let  the  war  recoiv  't  in  valiant  gore ; 
For  law  is  strict,  and  war  is  nothing  more. 

1  Sen.  We  arc  for  law :  he  dies :  urge  it  no  more. 
On  height  of  our  displeasure.     Friend,  or  brother. 
He  forfeits  bis  own  blood  that  spills  another. 

Alcib.  Must  il  be  so?  it  must  not  be.     My  lords. 
I  do  beseech  you.  know  me. 

2  Sen.   How  ! 

Akib.  Call  me  to  your  remembrances. 

3  Sen.  What  ' 
Akib.  I  cannot  think,  but  your  age  has  forgot  me 

It  could  not  else  be,  I  should  prove  so  ba.se, 
I  To  sue,  and  be  denied  such  common  grace. 

My  wounds  ache  at  you. 
!      1  Sen.  I>o  you  dare  our  an^'er  ? 


'  FiiW  folio  inacru  :   trilorxa- 
•o  foe^  tbftt  were  enough  :   in  f. 


beharc:  in  f.  e 
'  BrovgKl 


pro»-d  : 


*\n.j  : 


in  leconi 


folio       •  him  :  Lb  fim  folio       •  Ef  thew 


(SCENE    VT. 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


687 


T  is  in  few  words,  but  specious  in  effect : 
We  banish  thee  for  ever. 

Alcib.  Banish  me  ! 

Banish  your  dotage,  banish  usury, 
That  makes  the  senate  ugly. 

1  Sen.  If,  after  two  days'  shine  Athens  contain  thee, 
Attend  our  weightier  judgment.     And,  not  to  swell  our 

spirit, 
Flo  shall  be  executed  presently.  [Exeunt  Senators. 

Alcib.  Now  the  gods  keep  you  old  enough ;  that  you 
may  live 
Only  in  bone,  that  none  may  look  on  you. 
[  am  worse  than  mad :  I  have  kept  back  their  foes, 
While  they  have  told  their  money,  and  let  out 
Their  coin  upon  large  interest;  I  myself, 
Rich  only  in  large  hurts: — all  those,  for  this? 
Is  this  the  balsam  that  the  usuring  senate 
Pours  into  captains'  wounds  ?     Banishment ! 
It  comes  not  ill ;  I  hate  not  to  be  banish'd  : 
It  IS  a  cause  worthy  my  spleen  and  fixry, 
That  I  may  strike  at  Athens.     I  '11  cheer  up 
My  discontented  troops,  and  lay*  for  hearts. 
'T  is  honour  with  most  lands  to  be  at  odds ; 
Soldiers  should  brook  as  little  wrongs  as  gods.      [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.— A  Banquet-hall  in  Timon's  House. 

Music.     Tables  set  out :  Servants  attending.     Enter 

divers  Lords^  at  several  Doors. 

1  Lord    The  good  time  of  day  to  you,  sir. 

2  Lord.  I  also  wish  it  to  you.  I  think,  this  honour- 
able lord  did  but  try  us  this  other  day. 

1  Lord.  Upoii  that  were  my  thoughts  tiring,*  when 
we  encountered.  I  hope,  it  is  not  so  low  with  him,  as 
he  made  it  seem  in  the  trial  of  his  several  friends. 

2  lA)rd.  It  should  not  be,  by  the  persuasion  of  his 
new  feasting. 

1  Lord.  I  should  think  so.  He  hath  sent  me  an 
earnest  inviting,  which  many  my  near  occasions  did 
urge  me  to  put  off;  but  he  hath  conjured  me  beyond 
them,  and  I  must  needs  appear. 

2  Lord.  In  like  manner  was  I  in  debt  to  my  impor- 
tunate business,  but  he  would  not  hear  my  excuse.  I 
am  sorry,  when  he  sent  to  borrow  of  me,  that  my  pro- 
vision was  out. 

1  Lord.  I  am  sick  of  that  grief  too,  as  I  understand 
how  all  things  go. 

2  Lord.  Every  man  here 's  so.  What  would  he 
have  borrowed  of  you  ? 

1  Lord.  A  thousand  pieces. 

2  Lord.   A  thousand  pieces  ! 
1  Lord.   What  of  you  ? 

3  Lord.  He  sent  to  me,  sir. — Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Timon,  and  Attendants. 
Tim.  With  all  my  heart,  gentlemen  both  : — And  how 
fare  you  ? 

1  Lord.  Ever  at  the  best,  hearing  well  of  your  lord- 
chip. 

2  Lord  The  swallow  follows  not  summer  more  wil- 
lingly, than  we  your  lordship. 

Till.  [A.'iide.]  Nor  more  v\-illingly  leaves  winter; 
such  summer-birds  are  men.  [To  them.]  Gentlemen, 
our  dinner  will  not  recompense  this  long  stay  :  feast 
your  ears  with  the  music  awhile,  if  they  will  fare  so 
harshly  o'  the  trumpet's  sound  ;  we  shall  to  't  presently. 

1  Lord.  I  hope,  it  remains  not  unkindly  with  your 
lordshi}).  liiat  1  returned  you  an  empty  messenger. 

Tim.  0  !  sir,  let  it  not  trouble  you. 

2  Lord.  My  noble  lord, — 


Tim.  Ah  !  my  good  friend,  what  cheer  ? 

[The  Banquet  brought  in 

2  Lord.  My  most  honourable  lord,  I  am  e'en  sick  of 
shame  that,  when  your  lordship  this  other  day  sent  m 
me,  I  was  so  unfortunate  a  beggar. 

Tm.  Think  not  on  't,  sir. 

2  Lord.  If  you  had  sent  but  two  hours  before, — 

Tim.  Let  it  not  cumber  your  better  remembrance 
— Come,  bring  in  all  together.  [To  the  Servant;.' 

2  Lord.  All  covered  dishes  ! 

1  Lord.  Royal  cheer.  I  warrant  you. 

3  Lord.  Doubt  not  that,  if  money,  and  the  ueadoH 
can  yield  it. 

1  Lord.  How  do  you  ?     What 's  the  news  ? 
3  Lord.  Alcibiades  is  banished  :   hear  you  of  it  ? 
1^2  Lord.  Alcibiades  banished  ! 
3  Lord.  'T  is  so ;  be  sure  of  it. 

1  Lord    How?  how? 

2  Lard.  I  pray  you,  upon  what? 

Tim.  My  worthy  friends,  will  you  draw  near? 

3  Lord.  I'll  tell  you  more  anon.  Here's  a  noble 
feast  toward. 

2  Lord.  This  is  the  old  man  still. 

3  Lord.  Will 't  hold?  will  't  hold? 

2  Lord.  It  does ;  but  time  will  show. 

3  Lord.  I  do  conceive. 

Tim.  Each  man  to  his  stool,  with  that  spur  as  he 
would  to  the  lip  of  his  mistress  :  your  diet  shall  be  in 
all  places  alike.  Make  not  a  city  feast  of  it,  to  let  the 
meat  cool  ere  we  can  agree  upon  the  lirst  place  :  sit, 
sit.     The  gods  require  our  thanks. 

"  You  great  benefactors,  sprinkle  our  society  with 
thankfulness.  For  your  own  gifts  make  yourselves 
praised,  but  reserve  still  to  give,  lest  your  deities  be 
despised.  Lend  to  each  man  enough,  tliat  one  need 
not  lend  to  another ;  for,  were  your  godheads  to  bor- 
row of  men,  men  would  forsake  the  gods.  Make  the 
meat  be  beloved,  more  than  the  man  that  gives  it. 
Let  no  assembly  of  twenty  be  without  a  score  of  vil- 
lains:  if  there  sit  twelve  women  at  the  table,  let  a 
dozen  of  them  be — as  they  are. — The  rest  of  your 
foes  *  0  gods  !  the  senators  of  Athens,  together  with 
the  common  tag'  of  people. — what  is  ami.ss  in  them, 
you  gods  make  suitable  for  destruction.  For  these, 
my  present  friends, — as  they  are  to  me  nothing,  so  in 
nothing  bless  them,  and  to  nothing  are  they  welcome. "■ 
Uncover,  dogs,  and  lap. 

[The  Dishes  uncovered  are  full  of  warm  water. 

Some  speak.  What  does  his  lordship  mean  ? 

Some  other.  I  know  not. 

Tim.  May  you  a  better  feast  never  behold, 
You  knot  of  mouth-friends !   smoke,   and   luke-wanr 

water 
Is  your  perfection.     This  is  Timon's  last; 
Who  stuck  and  spangled  you  vriih  flatteries. 
Washes  it  off,  and  sprinkles  in  your  faces 

[Throwing  water  in  their  fac^^ 
Your  reeking  villainy.     Live  loath'd  and  long, 
Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites, 
Courteous  destroyers,  affable  wolves,  meek  bear« ; 
You  fools  of  fortune,  trencher-friends,  time's  flies, 
Cap  and  knee  slaves,  vapours,  and  minute-jackB ! 
Of  man,  and  beast,  the  infinite  malady 
Crust  you  quite  o'er  ! — What !  dost  thou  go? 
Soft,  take  thv  physic  (irsi— thou  too.— and  thou  :— 

[Throws  the  Dishes  at  them,  anil  drives  them  out 
Stay,  I  will  lend  thee  money,  borrow  none. — 
What,  all  in  motion?     Henceforth  be  no  fca-^t, 


lag: 


Lay  out 


2  To  tire  on.  is  to  fasten  on,  like  a  bird  of  prey  on  its  victim.     Z.  Jackson  reads  : 
Altered  from  leg,  in  folio. 


>  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦  fee*-,  ia  t.» 


688 


TIMON   OF  ATIIE:N'S. 


ACT  rv. 


Whereat  a  villain  '■  not  a  welcome  guest. 

liurit,  house  !  Miik.  Athens  !  hciicctorih  hated  be 

0(  Tnnon.  man.  and  all  humanity  !  [Exit. 

Re-entet  the  Lords,  vith  other  Lords  and  Senators. 

\  Lord.   How  now,  my  lords  ! 

2  Lord.  Know  you  the  quality  of  lord  Timon's  fury? 

3  Lord.  Push  !  did  you  see  my  cap? 

4  Lord.   I  have  lost  my  gown. 

3  Lord.   He  's  but  a  m;id  lord,  and  noucht  but  hu- 
our  sways  him.     He  gave  me  a  jewel  the  other  day, 


and  now  he  has  beat  it  out  of  my  hat : — did  you  see 
my  jewel  ? 

4  Lord.  Did  you  see  my  cap  ? 

2  Lord.  Here  't  is. 

4  Lord.  Here  lies  my  gown. 

1  Lord.  Let 's  make  no  stay. 

2  Lord.  Lord  Timon  's  mad. 

3  Lord.  I  feel  't  upon  my  bones 
4.  Lord.    One  day  he  gives  us  diamonds,  next  da^ 

stones.  [Exeunt 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  [.—Without  the  Walls  of  Athens. 
Enter  Timon. 
TTrm.  Let  me  look  back  upon  thee,  0  thou  wall. 
That  girdlest  in  tiiose  wolves  !     Dive  in  the  earth, 
And  fence  not  Athens  !     Matrons,  turn  incontinent ; 
ObedRiKC  fail  in  children  !  slaves,  and  fools. 
Pluck  the  grave  %\Tinklcd  senate  from  the  bench, 
And  minister  in  their  steads  !  to  general  filths 
Convert  o'  the  instant  grreen  virginity  ! 
Do  't  in  your  par-^nts'  eyes.     Bankrupts,  hold  fast ; 
Rather  than  render  back,  out  with  your  knives, 
And  cut  your  trusters"  throats  '  bound  servants,  steal  ! 
Large-handed  robbers  your  grave  masters  are. 
And  pill  by  law.     Maid,  to  thy  ma.stcr"s  bed  ; 
Thy  mistress  is  o'  the  brothel  !  son  of  sixteen, 
Pluck  the  lin'd  crutch  from  thy  old  limping  sire, 
With  it  beat  out  his  brains  !  piety,  and  fear, 
Religion  to  the  gods,  peace,  justice,  truth, 
Domestic  awe,  night-rest,  and  neighbourhood, 
Instruction,  manners,  mysteries,  and  trades, 
Degrees,  obser^'ances,  customs,  and  laws, 
Decline  to  your  confounding  contraries, 
\nd  let  confusion  live  ! — Plagues,  incident  to  men. 
Your  potent  and  infectious  fevers  heap 
On  Athens,  ripe  for  stroke  !  tltou  cold  sciatica, 
Cripple  our  senators,  that  their  limbs  may  halt 
As  lamely  as  their  manners  !   lust  and  liberty 
Creep  in  the  minds  and  marrows  of  our  youth, 
That  'gainst  the  stream  of  virtue  they  may  strive, 
.And  drown  themselves  in  riot  !  itches,  blains, 
Sow  all  tlie  Athenian  bosoms,  and  their  crop 
Be  general  leprosy  !  breath  infect  breath, 
That  their  society,  as  their  friendship,  may 
Be  merely  poison  !     Nothing  I  '11  bear  from  thee, 
But  nakedness,  thou  detestable  town. 

[Casting  away  his  Clothes.' 
Take  thou  that  too,  with  multiplying  bans. 
Timon  will  to  the  woods:  where  he  shall  find 
Th'  unkinde.st  beaet  more  kinder  than  mankind. 
The  gods  confound  (hear  me,  you  good  gods  all) 
The  Athenians,  botji  within  and  out  that  wall  ! 
.\nd  grant,  as  Timon  grows,  his  hate  may  grow 
To  the  whole  race  of  mankind,  high,  and  low! 
Amen.  [Exit. 

SCENE  H— Athens.     A  Room  in  Ti.mon"s  House. 

Enter  Flavics,  vith  two  or  three  Servants. 
1  Serv.  Hear  you,    master   steward !    where 's   our 
master? 
Are  we  undone?  ca.st  off?  nothing  remaining? 

Flav.  Alack !  my  fellows,  what  should  I  say  to  you  ? 
Let  me  be  reco'ded  by  the  righteous  gods, 


I  am  as  poor  as  you. 

1  Serv.  Such  a  house  broke  ! 
So  noble  a  master  fallen  '     All  gone,  and  not 
One  friend  to  take  his  fortune  by  the  arm, 
And  go  along  with  him  ! 

2  Serv.  As  we  do  turn  our  backs 
From  our  companion,  thrown  into  his  grave. 

So  his  familiars  to  his  buried  fortunes 
Slink  all  away;  leave  their  false  a-ows  with  him, 
Like  empty  purses  pick'd  ;  and  his  poor  self, 
A  dedicated  beggar  to  the  air. 
With  his  disease  of  all-shunn"d  poverty, 
Walks,  like  contempt,  alone. — More  of  our  fellows. 
Enter  other  Servants. 
Flav.  All  broken  implements  of  a  ruin'd  house. 

3  Serv.  Yet  do  our  hearts  wear  Timon's  livery. 
That  see  I  by  our  faces  :  we  are  fellows  still, 
Serving  alike  in  sorrow.  Leak"d  is  our  bark  ; 
And  we.  poor  mates,  stand  on  the  dying  deck, 
Hearing  the  surges  threat :  we  must  all  part 
Into  this  sea  of  air. 

Flav.  Good  fellows  all. 

The  latest  of  my  wealth  I  '11  share  amongst  you. 
Wherever  we  shall  meet,  for  Timon's  sake, 
Let 's  yet  be  fellows ;  let 's  shake  our  heads,  and  say, 
As  't  were  a  knell  unto  our  master's  fortunes, 
'•  We  have  seen  better  days."     Let  each  take  some ; 

[Giving  them  money 
Nay,  put  out  all  your  hands.     Not  one  word  more  : 
Thus  part  we  rich  in  sorrow,  parting  poor. 

[They  embrace,  and  part  several  icayt 
0.  the  fierce  wTetchedne.ss  that  glory  brings  us  ! 
Who  would  not  wish  to  be  from  wealth  exempt, 
Since  riches  point  to  misery  and  contempt  ? 
Wlio  'd  be  so  mock'd  with  glory  as'  to  live 
But  in  a  dream  of  friend.«;hip  ?  and  revive' 
To  have  his  pomp,  and  all  state  comprehends,* 
But  only  painted,  like  his  varnishd  I'riends? 
Poor  honest  lord  !  brought  low  by  his  own  heart  ; 
Undone  by  goodness.     Strange,  unusual  blood,* 
When  man's  worst  sin  is.  he  does  too  much  good  ! 
Who,  then,  dares  to  be  half  so  kind  again  ? 
For  bounty,  that  makes  gods,  does  still  mar  men. 
My  dearest  lord, — bless'd.  to  be  most  accurs'd. 
Rich,  only  to  be  wretched, — thy  great  fortunes 
I  Are  made  thy  chief  afflictions.     Alas,  kind  lord  ! 
He  's  flung  in  rage  from  this  ingrateful  seat 
!  Of  mon.<trous  friends  : 
Nor  hath  he  with  him  to  supply  his  life, 

I  Or  that  which  can  command  it. 

I I  '11  follow,  and  inquire  him  out : 

T  '11  ever  serve  his  mind  with  my  best  will ; 
I  Whilst  I  have  gold  I  '11  be  his  steward  still'.         [Etu 


Net  ID  f 


f-  ».      '  The  wordk,  "and  reriTe,'"  are  not  in  f.  e       *  all  what  state  corapoundi  :  in  f.  •       •  l>i.rposit%tm 


SCENE  III. 


TIMON    OF  ATHENS. 


689 


SCENE  III.— The  Woods. 
Enter  Timon,  with  a  Spade. 
Tim.  O,  blef^sed  breeding  sun  !  draw  from  the  earth 
Rotten  humidity  ;  below  thy  si.<ter's  orb 
Infect  tlie  air.     Twinn'ci  brothers  of  one  womb, 
Whose  procreation,  residence,  and  birth, 
Scare  is  dividant,  touch  them  with  several  fortunes. 
The  greater  scorns  the  lesser  :  not  nature, 
(To  whom  all  sores  lay  siege)  can  bear  great  fortune, 
But  by  contempt  of  nature. 
Raise  me  this  beggar,  and  decline'  that  lord ; 
The  senator  shall  bear  contempt  hereditary, 
The  beggar  native  honour, 
[t  is  the  pasture  lards  the  rother's^  sides. 
The  want  that  makes  him  lean.  Who  dares,  who  dares 
In  purity  of  manhood  stand  upright, 
And  say,  '-This  man  's  a  flatterer  ?"     If  one  be, 
So  are  they  all  ;  for  every  grise'  of  fortune 
Is  smooth'd  by  that  below  :  the  learned  pate 
Ducks  to  the  golden  fool.     All  is  oblique  ; 
Tliere  's  nothing  level  in  our  cursed  natures. 
But  direct  villainy.     Therefore,  be  abhorr'd 
All  feasts,  societies,  and  throngs  of  men  ! 
His  semblable,  yea,  himself,  Timon  disdains  : 
Destruction  fang  mankind  ! — Earth,  yield  me  roots  ! 

[Digging. 
Who  seeks  for  better  of  thee,  sauce  his  palate 
With  thy  most  operant  poison — What  is  here  ? 

[Finding  gold.* 
Gold  ?  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold  ?     No,  gods, 
I  am  no  idol*  votarist.     Roots,  you  clear  heavens  ! 
Thus  much  of  this  will  make  black,  white  ;  foul,  fair; 
Wrong,  right;  ba.se,  noble;  old,  young;  coward, valiant. 
Ha  !  you  gods,  why  this  ?     What  this  ?     You  gods  ! 

why,  this 
Will  lug  j-our  priests  and  servants  from  your  sides. 
Pluck  stout*  men's  pillows  from  below  their  heads'. 
This  yellow  slave 

Will  knit  and  break  religions  ;  bless  th'  accurs'd; 
Make  the  hoar  leprosy  ador'd  :  place  thiev^es. 
And  give  them  title,  knee,  and  approbation, 
With  senators  on  the  bench  :  this  is  it, 
That  makes  the  wappen'd  widow  wed  again  : 
She,  whom  the  spital-house,  and  ulcerous  sores 
Would  cast  the  gorge  at.  this  embalms  and  spices 
To  the  April  day  again.     Come,  damned  earth. 
Thou  common  whore  of  mankind,  that  put'st  odds 
Among  the  rout  of  nations,  I  will  make  thee 
Do    thy   right    nature. — [March   afar    off.\ — Ha  !     a 

drum  ? — Thou  'rt  quick. 
But  yet  I  '11  bury  thee  :  thou  'It  go,  strong  thief, 
When  gouty  keepers  of  thee  cannot  stand. — 
Nay,  stay  thou  out  for  earnest.      [Resennng  some  gold. 
Enter  Alcibiades,  icith  Drum  and  Fife.,  in  warlike 

manner ;  and  Phrynia  and  Timandra. 
Alcih.  What  art  thou  there  ? 

Speak. 

Tim.   k  beast,  as  thou  art.     The  canker  gnaw  thy 
^eart. 
For  showing  me  again  the  eyes  of  man  ! 

Alcib.  What  is  thy  name?  Is  man  so  hateful  to  thee 
That  art  thyself  a  man  ? 

Tim.  I  am  mi.santhropos,  and  hate  mankind. 
For  thy  part,  I  do  wish  thou  wert  a  dog, 
That  I  might  love  thee  something. 

Alcib.  I  know  thee  well ; 

But  in  thy  fortunes  am.  unlearn'd  and  strange. 


Tim.  I  know  thee  too  ;  and  more,  than  tiiat  I  knew 
thee. 
I  not  desire  to  know.     Follow  thy  drum  ; 
With  man's  blood  paint  the  ground,  gules,  gules  : 
Religious  canons,  civil  laws  are  cruel : 
Then  what  should  war  be?     This  fell  whore  of  thiw 
Hath  in  her  more  destruction  than  thy  sword, 
For  all  her  cherubin  look. 

Phnj.  Thy  lips  rot  off ! 

Tim.  I  will  not  kiss  thee ;  then,  the  rot  returns 
To  thine  own  lips  again. 

Alcib.  How  came  the  noble  Timon  to  this  change  ' 
Tim.  As  the  moon  does,  by  wanting  liaht  to  give 
But  then,  renew,  I  could  not,  like  the  moon ; 
There  were  no  suns  to  borrow  of. 

Alcib.  Noble  Timon. 

What  friendship  may  I  do  thee  ? 

Tim.  None,  but  to 

Maintain  my  opinion. 

Alcib.  What  is  it,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  Promise  me  friend.ship,  but  perform  none  .  if 
thou  wilt  not  promise,  the  gods  plague  thee,  tor  thou 
art  a  man  !  if  thou  dost  perform,  confound  thee,  foi 
thou  art  a  man  ! 

Alcib.  I  have  heard  in  some  sort  of  thy  miseries. 
Tim.  Thou  saw'st  them,  when  I  had  prosperity. 
Alcib.  I  see  them  now;  then  was  a  blessed  time. 
Tim.  As  thine  is  now,  held  with  a  brace  of  harlots 
Timan.  Is  this  th'  Athenian  minion,  whom  the  world 
Voic'd  so  regardfully  ? 

Tim.  Art  thou  Timandra? 

Timan.  Yes. 

Tim.  Be  a  whore  still  !  they  love  thee  not,  that  use 
thee : 
Give  them  diseases,  leaving  with  thee  their  lust. 
Make  use  of  thy  salt  hours  ;  season  the  slaves 
For  tubs,  and  baths ;  bring  down  rose-cheeked  youth 
To  the  tub*-fast,  and  the  diet. 

Timan.  Hang  thee,  monister  ! 

Alcib.  Pardon  him,  sweet  Timandra,   for  his   wits 
Are  drown'd  and  lost  in  his  calamities. — 
I  have  had  but  little  gold  of  late,  brave  Timon, 
The  want  whereof  doth  daily  make  revolt 
In  my  penurious  band  :  I  have  heard  and  griev'd, 
How  cursed  Athens,  mindless  of  thy  worth, 
Forgetting  thy  great  deeds,  when  neighbour  states, 
But  for  thy  sword  and  fortune,  trod  upon  them, — 
Tim.  I  pr')i:hee.  beat  thy  drum,  and  get  ihee  gone. 
Alcib.  I  am  thy  friend,  and  pity  thee,  dear  Timon. 
Tim.  How  dost    thou   pity  him,   whom   thou    dos\ 
trouble  ? 
1  had  rather  be  alone. 

Alcib.  Why,  fare  thee  well  : 

Here  is  some  gold  for  thee. 

Tim.  Keep  it.  I  cannot  eat  it 

Alcib.  "When  I  have  laid  proud  Athens  on  a  heap,— 
Tim.  Warr'st  thou  'gainst  Athens? 
Alcib.  Ay  Timon,  and  have  cause. 
Tim.  The  gods  confound  them  all  in  thy  conquest 
And  thee  after,  when  thou  hast  conquered  : 
Alcib.  Why  me,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  '  That,  by  killing  of  villaine 

I  Thou  wast  born  to  conquer  my  country-. 
I  Put  up  thy  gold  :  go  on. — here  's  gold,—  go  on  ; 
Be  as  a  planetary  plague,  when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  higli-vic'd  city  hang  his  poison 
'  In  the  sick  air :  let  not  thy  sword  skip  one. 
I  Pitv  not  honour'd  age  for  his  white  beard  ; 


i 


inf.  e.     '  A  horned  beast,    brother  .  in  folio.    Singer  made  the  chan 
I  done  to  the  dying,  to  shorten  their  death  agonies.       »  fub  :  in  folio. 


ge.     '  Degree.     *  Not  in  f.  e.     *  idle  : 
Warburton  made  the  change. 


690 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


ACT    IV 


He  is  an  usurer.     Strike  me  the  counterfeit  matron ; 

It  is  her  habit  only  that  is  honest, 

Hcrselt  'h  a  bawd.     Let  not  the  virgin's  cheek 

Make  soft  thy  trencliant  sword;  lor  those  niilk-paps, 

That  through  the  window-bars  bore  at  men's  eyes, 

Are  not  witli:n  ihe  leaf  ot"  pity  writ, 

But  set  them  down  horrible  traitors.  Spare  not  the  babe, 

Whose  dimpled  smiles  trom  tools  exhaust  their  mercy: 

Think  it  a  bastard,  whom  the  oraele 

Haih  doubtlully  pronouncd  thy  throat  shall  cut, 

And  Miiiice  it  sans  remorse;  swear  aiiainst  abjects;' 

Put  armour  on  thine  ears,  and  on  thine  eyes, 

Whose  proof,  nor  yells  of  mothers,  maids,  nor  babes, 

Nor  siuht  of  priests,  in  hoi>  vosiments  bleeding. 

Shall  pierce  a  jot.     There  "s  gold  to  pay  thy  ."^oldiers  : 

[Throwing  it.* 
Make  larce  confusion  ;  and  thy  fury  spent, 
Confounded  be  thyself  !  Speak  not ;  be  gone. 

Al.ib.  Hast  thou  gold  yet?     I  '11  take  the  gold  thou 
givst  me, 
Not  all  thy  counsel. 

Ttm     E)o.<t  thou,  or  dost  thou  not,  heaven's  curse 
U|xin  thee  ! 

Phr.  if  Timan.  Give    us   some    gold,    good  Timon : 
hast  thou  more  ? 

Tim.   Enough  to  make  a  whore  forswear  her  trade, 
.\nd  to  make  whores  abhorrd'.     Hold  up,  you  sluts, 
Your  aprons  mountant :  you  are  not  oathable. — 
Altiiough  I  know,  you  '11  swear,  terribly  swear, 
Into  strong  shudders,  and  to  heavenly  agues. 
The  immortal  gods  that  hear  you, — spare  your  oaths, 
I  '11  trust  to  your  conditions  :  be  whores  still; 
And  he  whose  pious  breath  seeks  to  convert  you. 
Be  strong  in  whore,  allure  him.  burn  him  up; 
Let  your  close  fire  predominate  his  smoke. 
.\nd    be    no   turncoats.      Yet    may   your    pains,    six 

months. 
Be  quite  contrary :  and  thatch  your  poor  thin  roofs 
Witli  burdens  of  the  dead  : — some  that  were  hang'd. 
No  matter  : — wear  them,  betray  with  them  :  whore  still ; 
Paint  till  a  horse  may  mire  upon  your  face  : 
A  pox  of  wrinkles  ! 

Pkry    if  Timan.  Well,  more  gold.— What  then?— 
Believe  t,  that  we  '11  do  any  thing  for  gold. 

Tim.  Consumptions  .«ow 
In  hollow  bones  of  man  ;  strike  their  sharp  shins, 
.A.nd  mar  men's  spurring.     Crack  the  lawyers  voice, 
That  he  may  never  more  fal.^e  title  plead. 
Nor  ,«ound  his  quillets  shrilly  :  hoar  the  flamen, 
That  scolds  against  the  quality  of  flesh, 
.\nd  not  believes  himself:  down  with  the  nose, 
Down  with  it  dat ;  take  the  bridge  quite  away 
Of  him.  that  his  particular  to  foresee. 
Smells    from    the    general    weal  :    make    curl'd-pate 

ruffians  bald  ; 
\nd  let  the  un.'^carr'd  braggarts  of  the  war 
Derive  some  pain  from  you.     Plague  all, 
That  your  activity  may  defeat  and  quell 
The  source  of  all  erection. — There  's  more  gold  : 

[Throwing  it.* 
Do  you  damn  others,  and  let  this  damn  you. 
And  ditches  crave  you  all  ! 

Phr    It  Timan.    More   coun.«el    with    more    money, 
bounteous  Timon. 

Tim.   More  whore,  more  mischief  first :  I  have  given 
you  earnest. 

Alcib.  Strike  up  the  drum  towards  Athens  I     Fare- 
well. Timon  : 


If  I  thrive  well,  I  '11  visit  thee  again. 

Tim.  If  I  hope  well.  I  '11  never  see  thee  more. 

Alcih.  I  never  did  thee  harm. 

Tim.  Y'es,  thou  spokst  well  of  me. 

Akib.  Callst  thou  that  harm  * 

Tim.  Men  daily  find  it.     Get  thee  away. 
And  take  thy  beagles  with  thee. 

Alcib.  We  but  offend  him. — 

Strike  ' 

[Drum  beats.     Exeunt  Alcibiades,  Phrynu, 

and  TlMANDR.\. 

Tim.  That  nature,  being  sick  of  man's  unkindnca*. 
Should  yet  be  hungry  ! — Common  mother,  tliou, 

Wliose  womb  unmeasurable,  and  infinite  breast. 
Teems   and  feeds  all  ;  whcse  self-same  mettle, 
Whereof  thy  proud  child,  arrogant  man.  is  puff'd, 
Engenders  the  black  toad,  and  adder  blue, 
The  gilded  newt,  and  eyele.-s  venom'd  worm, 
With  all  the  abhorred  births  below  crisp  heaven 
Whereon  Hyperion's  quickening  fire  doth  shine  ; 
Yield  him.  who  all  the  human  sons  doth  hate, 
From  forth  thy  plenteous  bosom,  one  poor  root ! 
Ensear  thy  fertile  and  conceptions  womb  ; 
Let  it  no  more  bring  out  ingratefui  man  ! 
Go  great  with  tigers,  dragons,  wolves,  and  bears  ; 
Teem  with  new  monsters,  whom  thy  upward  face 
Hath  to  the  marbled  mansion  all  above 
Never  presented  ! — 0  !  a  root  : — dear  thanks  ! 
Dry  up  thy  meadows',  vines,  and  plough-torn  leas 
Whereof  ingratefui  man.  with  liquorish  drafts, 
And  morsels  unctuous,  greases  his  pure  mind. 

That  from  it  all  consideration  slips . 

Enter  Apemantus. 
More  man  ?     Plague  !  plague  ! 

Apem.  I  was  directed  hither  :  men  report. 
Thou  dost  afi"ect  my  maimers,  and  dost  use  them. 

Tim.  'Tis.  then,  because  thou  dost  not  keep  a  dog 
WTiom  I  would  imitate.     Consumption  catch  thee  I 

Apem.  This  is  in  thee  a  nature  but  infected  ; 
A  poor  unmanly  melancholy,  sprung 
From  change  of  fortune.*     Why  this  spade  ?  this  place  > 
This  slave-like  habit,  and  tliese  looks  of  care  ? 
Thy  flatterers  yet  wear  silk,  drink  wine,  lie  sofl,    . 
Hug  their  diseasd  perfumes,  and  have  forgot 
That  ever  Timon  wa.s.     Shame  not  these  woods, 
By  putting  on  the  cunning  of  a  carper. 
Be  thou  a  flatterer  now.  and  seek  to  thrive 
By  that  which  has  undone  thee  :  hinge  thy  k-nee, 
And  let  his  very  breath,  wnom  thou  "It  observe. 
Blow  oft'  thy  cap  :  praise  his  most  vicious  strain. 
And  call  it  excellent.     Thou  wast  told  thus  ; 
Thou  gav'st  thine  ears,  like  tapsters  that  bade  welcome. 
To  knaves,  and  all  approachcrs  ;  't  is  most  just, 
That  thou  turn  rascal  :  hadst  thou  wealth  again, 
Rascals  should  have  't.     Do  not  assume  my  likenew 

Tim.  Were  I  like  tliee,  I  'd  throw  away  myself. 

Apem.  Thou  hast  cast  awav  thyself,  being  like  th}- 
self  ; 
A  madman  so  long,  now  a  fool.     "What  !  think'st 
That  the  bleak  air,  thy  boisterous  chamberlain, 
Will  put  thy  shirt  on  warm  ?     Will  these  moist'  trees, 
That  have  outliv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  point  st  out  ?     Will  the  cold  brook. 
Candied  \\\i\\  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste. 
To  cure  thy  o'er-night's  surfeit  ?  call  the  creatur.-«  - 
Wliose  nakexi  natures  live  in  all  the  spite 
Of  wreakful  heaven,  whose  bare  unhoused  trunks, 


BftailMT  rvadt  : 


IB  f.  «. 


'  1.  bawd  :  IB  f.  •.      ♦  Not  in  f.  •       »  mwrowi :  in  f.  e.     •  future  :  in  folio.    Rowe  made  th«  eb«n»» 


SCENE   m. 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


691 


To  the  conflicting  elements  expos'd, 
Answer  mere  nature, — bid  them  flatter  thee ; 

0  '  thou  shalt  find — 

Tim.  A  fool  of  thee.     Depart. 

Apem.  I  love  thee  better  now  than  e'er  I  did. 

Tim.  I  hate  tliee  worse. 

Apem.  Why  ? 

Tim.  Thou  flatter'st  misery. 

Apem.  I  flatter  not,  but  say  thou  art  a  caitiff". 

Tim.  Why  dost  thou  seek  me  out  ? 

ipem.  To  vex  thee. 

Tim.  Always  a  villain's  ofiice.  or  a  fool's. 
Oost  please  thyself  m.  't  ? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  What  !  a  knave  too  ? 

Apem.  If  thou  did.st  put  this  sour  cold  habit  on 
To  castigate  thy  pride,  'twere  well ;  but  thou 
Dost  it  enforcedly  :  thou  'dst  courtier  be  again, 
Wert  thou  not  beggar.     Willing  misery 
Outlives  incertain  pomp,  is  crown'd  before  : 
The  one  is  filling  still,  never  complete  : 
The  other,  at  high  wish,  best  state,  contentless, 
Hath  a  distracted  and  most  wretched  being. 
Worse  than  the  worst  content. 
Thou  shouldst  desire  to  die,  being  miserable. 

Tim.  Not  by  his  breath,  that  is  more  miserable. 
Tliou  art  a  slave,  whom  Fortune's  tender  arm 
With  favour  never  clasp'd,  but  bred  a  dog. 
Hadst  thou,  like  us,  from  our  first  swath,  proceeded 
The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  aflbrds 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  dugs'  of  it 
Freely  command,  thou  wouldst  have  plung'd  thyself 
In  general  riot ;  melted  down  thy  youth 
In  different  beds  of  lust ;  and  never  learn'd 
The  icy  precepts  of  respect,  but  foUow'd 
The  sugar'd  game  before  thee.     Bat  myself. 
Who  had  the  world  as  my  confectionary  ; 
The  mouths,  the  tongues,  the  eyes,  and  hearts  of  men 
At  duty,  more  than  I  could  frame  employment ; 
That  numberless  upon  me  stuck,  as  leaves 
Do  on  the  oak,  have  with  one  winter's  brush 
Fell  from  their  boughs,  and  left  me  open,  bare 
For  every  storm  that  blows ; — I,  to  bear  this, 
That  never  knew  but  better,  is  some  burden  : 
Thy  nature  did  commence  in  sufferance,  time 
Hath  made  thee  hard  in  't.   Why  shouldst  thou  hate  men? 
They  never  flatter'd  thee  :  what  hast  thou  given  ? 
If  thou  wilt  curse,  thy  father,  that  poor  rag, 
Must  be  thy  subject;  who,  in  spite,  put  stuff" 
To  some  she  beggar,  and  compounded  thee 
Poor  rogue  hereditary.     Hence  !  be  gone  ! — 
If  thou  hadst  not  been  born  the  worst  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  knave,  and  flatterer. 

Apem.  Art  thou  proud  yet  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  that  I  am  not  thee. 

Apem.  I,  that  I  was 

^fo  prodigal. 

Tim.  I,  thut  I  am  one  now : 

Were  all  the  wealth  I  have  shut  up  in  thee, 

1  'd  give  thee  leave  to  hang  it.     Get  thee  gone. — 
That  the  whole  life  of  Athens  were  in  this  ! 

Thus  would  I  eat  it.  [Eating  a  root. 

Apem.  Here  ;  I  will  mend  thy  feast. 

[Oy'ering  something 
Tim.  First  mend  my'  company,  take  away  thyself. 
Apem.  So  I  shall  mend  mine  own,  by  the  lack  of 

thme. 
rim.  'T  is  not  well  mended  so,  it  is  but  bolch'd  ; 
ir  not,  I  would  it  were. 

>  drugs :  in  f  e       '  thy  :  in  folio      Rowe  made  the  cKangs. 


[      Apem.  What  wouldst  thou  have  to  Athens  ? 

Tim.  Thee  thither  in  a  whirlwind.     If  ihou  wilt, 
Tell  them  there  I  have  'gold  :  look,  so  I  have. 

Apem.  Here  is  no  use  for  gold. 

Tim.  The  best,  and  truest 

For  here  it  sleeps,  and  does  no  hired  harm. 

Apem.  Where  ly'st  o'  nights,  Tiinon  ? 

Tim.  Under  that 's  above  me 

Where  feed'st  thou  o'  days,  Apemantus? 

Apem.  Where  my  stomach  finds  meat;  or,  rather, 
where  I  eat  it. 

Tim.  Would  poison  were  obedient,  and  knew  n;j 
mind  ! 

Apem.  Where  wouldst  thou  send  it  ? 

Tim.  To  sauce  thy  dishes. 

Apem.  The  middle  of  humanity  thou  never  knewest, 
but  the  extremity  of  both  ends.  When  thou  wast  in 
thy  gilt,  and  thy  perfume,  they  mocked  thee  for  toe 
much  curiosity ;  in  thy  rags  thou  knowest  none,  but 
art  despised  for  the  contrary.  There  's  a  medlar  for 
thee;  eat  it. 

Tim.  On  what  I  hate  I  feed  not. 

Apem.  Dost  hate  a  medlar  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  though  it  look  like  thee. 

Apem.  An  thou  hadst  hated  meddlers  sooner,  thou 
shouldst  have  loved  thyself  better  now.  What  man 
didst  thou  ever  know  unthrift,  that  was  beloved  after 
his  means  ? 

Tim.  Who.  without  those  means  thou  taikeet  of, 
didst  thou  ever  know  beloved  ? 

Apem.  Myself. 

Tim.  I  understand  thee  :  thou  hadst  some  means  to 
keep  a  dog. 

Apem.  What  things  in  the  world  canst  thou  nearest 
compare  to  thy  flatterers? 

Ti7n.  Women  nearest ;  but  men,  men  are  the  things 
themselves.  What  wouldst  thou  do  with  the  world, 
Apemantus,  if  it  lay  in  thy  power  ? 

Apem.  Give  it  the  beasts,  to  be  i  id  of  the  men. 

Tim.  Wouldst  thou  have  thyself  fall  in  the  conl"u- 
sion  of  men,  and  remain  a  beast  with  the  beasts  ? 

Apem.  Ay,  Timon. 

Tim.  A  beastly  ambition,  which  the  gods  grant  thee 
to  attain  to.  If  thou  wert  the  lion,  the  fox  would 
beguile  thee:  if  thou  wert  the  lamb,  the  fox  would 
eat  thee ;  if  thou  wert  the  fox,  the  lion  would  suspect 
thee,  when,  peradventure,  thou  wert  accused  by  the 
ass  :  if  thou  wert  the  ass,  thy  dulness  would  torment 
thee,  and  still  thou  livedst  but  as  a  breakfast  to  the 
wolf:  if  thou  wert  the  wolf,  thy  greediness  would 
afflict  thee,  and  oft  thou  shouldst  hazard  thy  life  for 
thy  dinner  :  wert  thou  the  unicorn,  pride  and  wrath 
would  confound  thee,  and  make  thine  own  self  the  con- 
quest of  thy  fury  :  wert  thou  a  bear,  thou  wouldst  be 
killed  by  the  horse  :  wert  thou  a  horse,  thou  would.-t 
be  seized  by  the  leopard  :  wert  thou  a  leopard,  thou 
wert  germane  to  the  lion,  and  the  spots  of  thy  kindred 
were  jurors  on  thy  life  ;  all  thy  safety  were  remotion, 
and  thy  defence,  absence.  What  beast  couldst  thou 
be,  that  were  not  subject  to  a  beast  ?  and  what  a  boast 
art  thou  already,  that  seest  not  thy  loss  in  transfor- 
I  mation. 

I  Apem.  If  thoa  couldst  please  me  ^^^th  speaking  to 
i  me,  thou  mightst  have  hit  upon  it  here  :  the  common- 
j  wealth  of  Athens  is  become  a  forest  of  beasts. 

Tim.  How  has  the  ass  broke  the  wall,  that  thou  ari 
out  of  the  city  ? 

Apem.  Yonder  comes  a  poet,  and  apaintei.  The 
I  plague  of  company  light  upon  thee  !     I  will  fepr  tc 


J 


692 


TIMON    OF   ATHENS. 


ACT  rv. 


oalcri  it,  and  pivc  way.     Wlien  I  know  not  what  else 
to  do,  I  Ml  see  tlice  ajjniii. 

Tim.  When  there  is  nothin>  living  but  thee,  thou 
Bhalt  be  welcome.  I  had  rather  be  a  bcgi^ars  dog 
than  Apeinanlu8. 

Apem.  Thou  art  the  c.-vp  of  all  the  fools  alive. 
Tim.  Would  lliou  Wert  clean  enough  to  spit  upon. 
Apem.  A  plague  on  thee,  thou  art  too  bad  to  curse. 
nm.   All  villain.s,  that  do  stand  by  thee,  are  pure. 
Apein.  There  is  no  leprosv  but  what  thou  speak'st. 
Tim.   I(  1  name  thee. — 
'd  beat  thee,  but  I  should  infect  my  hands. 
Apem.  I  would,  my  tongue  could  rot  them  off. 
Tim.  Away,  thou  is.sue  of  a  mangy  dog  ! 
Choler  does  kill  me,  that  thou  art  alive ; 
I  ewoon  to  sec  thee. 
Apem.  Would  thou  wouldst  burst  ! 

Tim.  Away. 

Thou  tedious  rogue  !   I  am  sorry,  I  shall  lose 
A  stone  by  thee.  [Throws  a  stone  at  him. 

Apem.  Beast ! 

Tim.  Slave  ! 

Apem.  Toad ! 

rim.  Rogue,  rogue,  rogue  ! 

[Ape.mantvs  retreats  backward.,  as  going. 
I  am  sick  of  this  false  world,  and  will  love  nought 
Rut  even  the  mere  necessities  upon  't. 
Then.  Tiinon.  presently  prepare  thy  grave  : 
Lie  where  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  may  beat 
Thy  grave-stone  daily;  make  thine  epitaph. 
That  death  in  me  at  others'  lives  may  laugh. 
0.  thou  sweet  king-killer,  and  dear  divorce 

[Looking  on  the  gold. 
Twixt  natural  son  and  sire!'  thou  bridit  defiler 
Of  Hymen's  purest  bed  !  thou  valiant  Mars  ! 
Thou  ever  young,  fresh,  lov'd.  and  delicate  wooer, 
Wliose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow 
Tliat  lies  on  Dian's  lap  !  thou  visible  god, 
That  solder's!  close  impo.<sibilities, 
And  mak'st  them  kiss  !  that  speak'st  with  every  tongue, 
To  every  purpose  !     0  thou  touch*  of  hearts  ! 
Think,  thy  slave  man  rebels ;  and  by  thy  virtue 
Set  them  into  confounding  odds,  that  bea.sts 
May  have  the  world  in  empire  ! 

Apem.  Would  'twere  .so  ; 

But  not  till  I  am  dead. — I  '11  say,  thou  'st  gold  : 
Thou  will  be  throng'd  to  shortly 

Tim.  Throng'd  to? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  Thy  back,  I  pr'ythee. 

^[p«n.  Live,  and  love  thy  misery  ! 

Tim.  Long  live  so,  and  so  die  ! — I  am  quit  — 

[Exit  Apemantus. 
More  things  like  men  ? — Eat,  Timon,  and  abhor  them. 
Enter  Banditti. 

1  Band.  Where  should  he  have  this  gold?  It  is 
Bon.e  poor  frasment.  some  slender  ort  of  his  remainder. 
The  mere  want  of  gold,  and  the  fallins  from  him'  of 
his  friends,  drove  him  into  this  melancholy. 

2  Hand.   It  is  noised,  he  hath  a  ina.ss  of  treasure. 

.■?  Band.  Let  us  make  the  a.««ay  upon  him  :  if  he  care 
not  for't.  he  will  supply  us  easily;  if  he  covetously 
reserve  it.  how  shall  "s  net  it? 

2  Bond.  True,  for  he  bears  it  not  about  him  ;  t  is  hid. 

1  H<ii,d.  Is  not  this  he? 
All    Where? 

2  finyul.  'T  is  his  dc«cription. 

3  Band.  He:  I  know  him. 
All.  Save  thee.  Timon. 


rs  knd  fire  :  in  folio.      »  Touckttont       >  Thii  word  u  not  in  f  •.     »  Hanmer  read.:  men.     »  •  N 


Tim.  Now.  thieves? 

All.  Soldiers,  not  thieves. 

Tim.   Bolh  two;  and  women's  sons. 

All.  We  are  not  thieves,  but  men  that  much  do  wauV 

Tim.  Your  greatest  want  is,  you  want  much  of  meat 
Why  should  you  want?    Behold,  the  earth  hath  roots 
Within  this  mile  break  forth  a  hundred  springs  ; 
The  oaks  bear  mast,  tiie  briars  scarlet  hips; 
The  bounteous  housewife,  nature,  on  each  bush 
Lays  her  full  mf.ss  before  you.     Want!  why  want? 

1   Band.  We  cannot  live  on  grass,  on  berries,  watei 
As  beasts,  and  birds,  and  fishes. 

Tim.  Nor  on  the  beasts  themselves,  the  birds,  and 
fi-shes ; 
You  must  eat  men.     Yet  thanks  I  must  you  con. 
That  you  are  thieves  profess'd,  that  you  work  no*. 
In  holier  .shapes  ;  for  there  is  boundless  theft 
In  limited  professions.     Rascal  thieves, 
Here  's  gold.     Go,  suck  the  subtle  blood  o'  the  grape. 

[ Throwing  gola  ' 
Till  the  high  fever  seethe  your  blood  to  froth, 
And  .so  'scape  hanging:  trust  not  the  physician; 
His  antidotes  are  poison,  and  he  slays 
More  than  you  rob  :  take  wealth  and  lives  together; 
Do  villainy,  do,  since  you  protest  to  do  't, 
Like  workmen:  I  '11  example  you  with  thievery^  : 
The  sun's  a  thief,  and  with  his  great  attraction 
Robs  the  vast  sea  :  the  moon  's  an  arrant  thief. 
And  her  pale  fire  she  snatches  from  the  sun : 
The  sea's  a  thief,  whose  liquid  surge  resolves 
The  moon  into  salt  tears  :  the  earth  's  a  thief, 
Tliat  feeds  and  breeds  by  a  composture  stolen 
From  general  excrement  :  each  thing's  a  thief. 
The  laws,  your  curb  and  whip,  in  their  rough  power 
Have  unchecked  theft.     Love  not  yourselves  ;  a-way! 
Rob  one  another.     There  's  more  gold  :  cut  throats  ; 

[  Throwing  it.* 
All  that  you  meet  are  thieves.     To  Athens,  go  : 
Break  open  shops;  nothing  can  you  steal. 
But  thieves  do  lose  it.     Steal  no'  less  for  this 
I  give  you;  and  gold  confound  you  howsoe'er  !   Amen 
[Timon  retires  to  his  Cav 

3  Band.  He  has  almost  charmed  me  from  my  profej> 
sion,  by  persuading  me  to  it. 

1  Band.  'T  is  in  the  malice  of  mankind,  that  he  thu 
advises  us ;  not  to  have  us  thrive  in  our  mystery. 

2  Hand.  I  '11  believ.e  him  as  an  enemy,  and  give  ove« 
my  trade. 

1  Band.  Let  us  first  see  peace  in  Athens :  there  if 
no  time  so  miserable,  but  a  man  may  be  true. 

[Exeu7it  BandiiU. 
Enter  Flavius. 

Flav.  0  you  gods ! 
Is  yond'  de.spis'd  and  ruinous  man  my  lord? 
Full  of  decay  and  failing?     0  monument, 
.\nd  wonder  of  good  deeds  evilly  bestow'd  ! 
What  an  alteration  of  honour  has  desperate  want  made 
What  viler  thing  upon  the  earth,  than  friend* 
Who  can  bring  noblest  minds  to  ba.sest  ends  ? 
How  rarely  does  it  meet  with  this  time's  guise, 
When  man  was  wish'd  to  love  his  enemies  : 
Grant.  I  may  ever  love,  and  rather  woo 
Those  that*  would  mischief  me.  than  those  that  do  ! 
He  ha.s  caught  me  in  his  eye  :   I  will  present 
My  honest  srrief  unto  him  ;  and.  a.s  my  lord. 
Still  serve  him  wnth  my  life. — My  dearest  master  ! 
Ti.MON  comes  forward  from  his  Cave. 

Tim.  Away  !   what  art  thou  ? 

jF7af.  Have  you  forgot  me,  Bir  ? 

>.    »  not :  i»  f.  " 


BOENE   I. 


TIMON   OF  ATHEISMS. 


698 


Tim.  Why  dost  ask  that  ?     I  have  forgot  all  men  : 
J'ben,  >f  thou  grant' st'  thou  'rt  a  man,  I  have  forgot  thee. 

Flav.  An  honest  poor  servant  of  yours. 

Tim.  Then.  I  know  thee  not : 
I  never  had  honest  man  about  me,  I  ; 
All  I  kept  were  knaves  to  serve  in  meat  to  villains. 

Flav.  The  gods  are  witness, 
Ne'er  did  poor  steward  wear  a  truer  grief 
For  his  undone  lord,  than  mine  eyes  for  you. 


Tim.   What !    dost   thou 


weep  ] 


-Come   nearer  :- 


then,  I  love  thee. 
Because  thou  art  a  woman,  and  disclaim'st 
Flinty  mankind  ;  whose  eyes  do  never  give, 
But  thorough  lust,  and  laughter.     Pity's  sleeping: 
Strange   times,   that  weep  with    laughing,   not   with 

weeping ! 
Flav.  I  beg  of  you  to  know  me.  good  my  lord, 
T'  accept  my  grief,  and,  whilst  this  poor  wealth  lasts, 
To  entertain  me  as  your  steward  still. 

Tim.  Had  I  a  steward 
So  true,  so  just,  and  now  so  comfortable? 
It  almost  turns  my  dangerous  nature  mild. 
Let  me  behold  thy  face.     Surely,  this  man 
Was  born  of  woman. — 
Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness. 
You  perpetual-sober  gods!     I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man, — mistake  me  not. — but  one  ; 
No  more,  I  pray, — and  he  's  a  steward. — 
How  fain  would  I  have  hated  all  mankind. 
And  thou  redeem'st  thyself:  but  all,  save  thee, 
I  fell  with  curses. 

Methinks,  thou  art  more  honest  now,  than  wise ; 
For  by  oppressing  and  betraying  me, 
Thou  mightst  have  sooner  got  another  service. 
For  many  so  arrive  at  second  masters, 


Upon  their  first  lord's  neck.     But  tell  me  true, 
(For  I  must  ever  doubt,  though  ne'er  so  sure) 
Is  not  thy  kindness  subtle,  covetous. 
Is  't  not  a  usuring  kindness  as  rich  men  deal  gilts, 
Expecting  in  return  twenty  for  one  ? 

Flav.  No,  my  most  worthy  master;  in  whose  hreasi 
Doubt  and  suspect,  alas  !  are  plac'd  too  late. 
You  should  have  fear'd  false  tunes,  when  you  did  feast 
Suspect  still  comes  when  an  estate  is  least. 
That  which  I  show,  heaven  knows,  is  merely  love. 
Duty  and  zeal  to  your  unmatched  mind, 
Care  of  your  food  and  living  :  and.  believe  it. 
My  most  honoured  lord, 
For  any  benefit  that  points  to  me. 
Either  in  hope,  or  present,  I  'd  exchange 
Fx)r  this  one  wish, — that  you  had  power  and  wealth 
To  requite  me  by  making  rich  yourself. 

Tim.  Look  thee,  't  is  so. — Thou  singly  honest  man. 
Here,  take  : — the  gods  out  of  my  misery  [Giving  gold.* 
Have  sent  thee  treasure.     Go.  live  rich,  and  happy ; 
But  thus  condition'd  : — thou  shalt  build  from  men  ; 
Hate  all.  curse  all ;  show  charity  to  none, 
But  let  the  famish'd  flesh  slide  from  the  bone, 
Ere  thou  relieve  the  beggar  :  give  to  dogs 
What  thou  deny'st  to  men  ;  let  prisons  swallow  'em, 
Debts  wither  'em  to  nothing.   Be  men  like  blasted  wxmIs, 
And  may  diseases  lick  up  their  false  bloods  ! 
And  so,  farewell,  and  thrive. 

Flav.  O  !  let  me  stay. 

And  comfort  you,  my  master. 

Tim.  If  thou  hat'st 

Curses,  stay  not :  fly,  whilst  thou  'rt  bless'd  and  froo. 
Ne'er  see  thou  man.  and  let  me  ne'er  see  thee. 

[Exit  Flavius  ;  and  Timon  into  his  Cave  ' 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Before  Timon's  Cave. 

Enter  Poet  and  Painter. 
Pain.  As  I  took  note  of  the  place,  it  cannot  be  far 
where  he  abides. 

Poet.  What's  to  be  thought  of  him?  Does  the 
rumour  hold  for  trvte,  that  he  is  so  full  of  gold  ? 

Pain.  Certain  :  Alcibiades  reports  it ;  Phrynia  and 
Timandra  had  gold  of  him  :  he  likewise  enriched  poor 
straggling  soldiers  with  great  quantity.  'T  is  said,  he 
gave  unto  his  steward  a  mighty  sum. 

Poet.  Then  this  breaking  of  his  has  been  but  a  try 
for  his  friends. 

Pain.  Nothing  else  ;  you  shall  see  him  a  palm  in 
Athens  again,  and  flourish  with  the  highest.  There- 
fcre,  't  is  not  amiss  we  tender  our  loves  to  him  in  this 
supposed  distress  of  his  :  it  will  show  honestly  in  us, 
and  is  very  likely  to  load  our  purses*  with  what  we' 
travail  for,  if  it  be  a  just  and  true  report  that  goes  of 
liJR  having. 

Poet.  What  have  you  now  to  present  unto  him  ? 

Fain.  Nothing  at  this  time  but  my  visitation  ;  only, 
I  will  promise  him  an  excellent  piece. 

Poer.  I  must  serve  him  so  too ;  tell  him  of  an  intent 
that 's  coming  toward  him. 

Pain.  Good  as  the  best.  Promising  is  the  very  air 
o'  the  time  :  it  opens  the  eyes  of  expectation  :  perform- 
ance is  ever  the  duller  for  his  act ;  and,  but  in  the 
plamer  and  simpler  kind  of  peojile,  the  deed  of  saying 

'  ginnt'Bt :  in  folio.     Southern  made  the  chanffc.      »  Not  in  f.  e. 


is  quite  out  of  use.  To  promise  is  mo.st  courtly  and 
fashionable  :  performance  is  a  kind  of  will,  or  testa- 
ment, which  argues  a  great  sickness  in  his  judgment 
that  makes  it. 

Evter  TiMON,  behind,  from  ht.i  Cave. 

Tim.  Excellent  workman  !  Thou  canst  not  paint  a 
man  so  bad  as  is  thyself. 

Poet.  I  am  thinking,  what  I  shall  say  I  have  pro- 
vided for  him.  It  must  be  a  personating  of  himself; 
a  satire  against  the  softness  of  prosperity,  with  a  dis- 
covery of  the  infinite  flatteries  that  follow  youlli  and 
opulency. 

Tim.  Must  thou  needs  stand  for  a  villain  in  thine 
own  work  ?     Wilt  thou  whip  thine  own  faults  in  other 


Do 


I  have  gold  for  thee. 


Poet.  Nay,  let 's  seek  him  : 
Then  do  we  sin  against  our  own  e.«tate. 
When  we  may  profit  meet,  and  come  too  late. 

Pain.  True  ; 
When  the  day  serves,  before  black-cover'd  night, 
Find  what  thou  want'st  by  free  and  offer'd  light. 
Come. 

Tim.  I  '11  meet  you  at  the  turn.     What  a  god  's  gold, 
That  he  is  worshipp'd  in  a  baser  temple. 
Than  where  swine  feed  ! 

'Tis  thou  that  rigg'st  the  bark,  and  plough'st  the  foam; 
Settlest  admired  reverence  in  a  slave  : 
To  thee  be  worship  :  and  thy  saints  for  aye 
Be  crown'd  with  plagues,  that  thee  alone  obey  :' 

s  Fr^uni  severally:  i»  f  e       ♦  purposet  :  in  f  •       » ihoT  :  i»  t » 


kl 


^94 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


ACT   V. 


Fit  I  meet  them.  [Advancing. 

Port.  Hail,  -wortliy  Timon  ! 

Pain.  Our  late  noble  master. 

Tim.  Have  I  once  liv'd  to  see  two  honest  men  ? 

Foct.  Sir, 
Having  often  of  your  open  bounty  tasted, 
Hraring  you  were  retir'd,  your  friend's  fall'n  ofT, 
Whose  tliankiciB  nature.s— O.  abhorred  spirits  ! 
Not  all  the  whips  of  heaven  are  large  enough — 
What  !  to  you, 

Who.'ie  star-like  nobleness  gave  life  and  influence 
To  tlieir  whole  being  ?     I  am  rapt,  and  cannot  cover 
The  iiion.strous  bulk  of  this  ingratitude 
With  any  size  of  words. 

I'im.  Let  it  go  naked,  men  may  see  't  the  better  : 
Vou,  that  are  honest,  by  being  what  you  are. 
Make  them  best  seen,  and  known. 

Pain.  He,  and  myself, 

Have  travell'd  in  the  great  shower  of  your  gifts, 
And  sweetly  felt  it. 

Tim.  Ay,  you  are  honest  men. 

Pain.  We  are  hither  come  to  olTer  you  our  service. 

Tim.  Most  honest  men  !  Why,  how  shall  I  requite  you? 
Can  you  eat  roots,  and  drink  cold  water  ?  no. 

Both.  What  can  we  do,  we  '11  do,  to  do  you  service. 

Tim.  You  are  honest  men.     You  have  heard  that  I 
have  gold  : 
I  am  sure  you  have  :  speak  truth  ;  you  are  honest  men. 

Pai)i.  So  it  is  said,  my  noble  lord  :  but  therefore 
Came  not  my  friend,  nor  I. 

Tim.  Good  honest  men  ! — Thou  draw'st  a  counterfeit 
Best  in  all  Athens  :  thou  art,  indeed,  the  best ; 
Thou  counterfeit'st  most  lively. 

Pain.  So,  so,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Even  so.  sir,  as  I  say. —  \nd  for  thy  fiction, 
Why.  thy  verse  swells  with  stiifrso  fine  and  smooth, 
That  thou  art  even  natural  in  thine  art. — 
But,  for  all  this,  my  honest-natur'd  friend.s, 
I  must  needs  say,  you  have  a  little  fault : 
Marr)-,  't  is  not  monstrous  in  you  ;  neither  wish  I, 
You  take  much  pains  to  mend. 

li'jth.  Beseech  your  honour, 

To  make  it  known  to  us. 

Tim.  You  '11  take  it  ill. 

Bolh.  Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Will  you,  indeed  ? 

Roth.  Doubt  it  not,  worthy  lord. 

Tim.  There  's  never  a  one  of  you  but  trusts  a  knave, 
ITiat  mightily  deceives  you. 

Both.  Do  we,  my  lord  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  and  you  hear  him  cog,  see  him  dissemble, 
Know  his  gro.'^s  patchery.  love  him,  feed  him, 
Koep  in  your  bo.soni ;  yet  remain  a.><8ur'd, 
That  he  's  a  made-up  villain. 

Piiin.  I  know  none  such,  my  lord. 

Poet.  Nor  I. 

Tim.   Look  you.  I  love  you  well ;   I  'II  give  you  gold, 
Rid  mc  these  villains  from  your  companies: 
Hans  them,  or  stab  them,  drown  them  in  a  draught, 
Confound  them  by  some  course,  and  come  to  me 
'  'II  cive  you  gold  enoush. 

Both.  Name  them,  my  lord  ;  let 's  know  them. 

Jtni.   ^ou  that  way,  and  you  this  ;  but  two  is'  eom- 
Eac'h  man  apart,  ail  single  and  alone.  [pany  : — 

Yet  an  arch-villain  keeps  hiui  company, 
[f,  where  thou  art,  two  villains  shall  not  be, 

( To  the  Painter. 
Come  not  near  him. — If  thou  wouldsl  not  reside 

[To  the  Poet. 

«  ID     in  f.  e       •  Not  in  folio      A'ded  bjr  M»lon«. 


But  where  one  villain  is,  then  him  abandon. — 
Hence  I  pack  !  there  's  gold ;  ye  came  for  gold,  ye  slaves 
You  have  done'  work  lor  me.  there  's  payment :  hence  ! 
You  are  an  alchymisl,  make  gold  of  tliat. 
Out,  rascal  dogs  !  [Exit,  beating  them  ou 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 
Enter  Flavius,  and  trco  Senator.'!. 
Flat'.  It  is  in  vain  that  you  would  speak  \\\i\\  Timon 
For  he  is  .set  so  only  to  himself. 
That  nothing  but  himself,  which  looks  like  man, 
Is  friendly  with  him. 

1  Sen.  Bring  us  to  his  cave  : 
It  is  our  part,  and  promise  to  the  Athenians, 
To  speak  with  Timon. 

2  Sen.  At  all  times  alike 

Men  are  not  still  the  same.     'T  was  time,  and  griefe, 
That  fram'd  him  thus  :  time,  with  his  fairer  hand 
Offering  the  fortunes  of  his  former  days, 
The  former  man  may  make  him.     Bring  us  to  him, 
And  chance  it  as  it  may. 

Flav.  Here  is  his  cave. — 

Peace  and  content  be  here  !  Lord  Timon  !   Timon  ! 
Look  out,  and  speak  to  friends.     Th'  Athenians, 
By  two  of  their  most  reverend  senate,  greet  thee : 
Speak  to  them,  noble  Timon. 

Enter  TtMON. 

Tim.  Thou  sun,  that  comfort'st,  burn  ! — Speak,  ana 
be  hang'd  : 
For  each  true  word,  a  blister;  and  each  false 
Be  as  a  cauterizing  to  the  root  o'  the  tongue. 
Consuming  it  with  speaking; 

1  Sen.  Worthy  Timon,— 
Tim.  Of  none  but  such  as  you,  and  you  of  Timon. 

2  .Sen.  The  senators  of  Athens  greet  thee,  Timon. 
Tim.  I  thank  them  ;  and  would  send  them  back  the 

plague, 
Could  I  but  catch  it  for  them. 

1  Sen.  0  !  forget 
What  we  are  sorry  for  ourselves  in  thee. 
The  senators,  with  one  consent  of  love, 
Entreat  thee  back  to  Athens ;  who  have  thought 
On  special  dignities,  which  vacant  lie 

For  thy  best  use  and  wearing. 

2  Sen.  They  confess 
Toward  thee  forgetfulness,  too  general,  gross ; 
Which  now  the  public  body,  which  doth  seldom 
Play  the  recanfer,  feeling  in  itself 

A  lack  of  Timon's  aid.  hath  sense  withal 
Of  its  own  fall,  re.straininur  aid  to  Tiinon  ; 
And  send  forth  u.<,  to  make  their  sorrowed  render. 
Together  with  a  recompense-,  more  fruitful 
Than  their  offence  can  weigh  down  by  the  dram; 
Ay,  even  such  heaps  and  sums  of  love  and  wealth, 
As  shall  to  thee  blot  out  what  wrongs  were  theirs, 
And  write  in  thee  the  figures  of  their  love, 
Ever  to  read  them  thine. 

Tim.  You  \Nitch  me  in  it  • 

Surprise  me  to  the  very  brink  of  tears  : 
Lend  me  a  fool's  heart,  and  a  woman's  eyes, 
And  I  '11  beweep  these  comforts,  worthy  senators. 

1  Sen.  Therefore,  so  please  thee  to  return  with  ui. 
And  of  our  Athens,  thinp  and  ours,  to  take 
The  captainship,  thou  shalt  be  met  with  thanks, 
Allow'd  with  absolute  power,  and  thy  good  name 
Live  with  authority: — so,  soon  we  shall  drive  back 
Of  Alcibiades  th'  approaches  wild  ; 
Who,  like  a  boar  too  savage,  doth  root  up 
His  country's  peace. 


SCE2JE    V. 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


695 


2  Sen  And  shakes  his  threat'ning  sword 

Against  the  walls  of  Athens. 

1  Sen.  Therefore,  Timon, — 

Tim.  Well,  sir,  I  will ;  therefore,  I  vs^ill,  sir  ;  thus, — 
I:"  Alcibiades  kill  my  countrymen, 
Let  Alcibiades  know  this  of  Timon, 
That  Timon  cares  not.     But  if  he  sack  fair  Athens, 
And  take  our  goodly  aged  men  by  the  beards, 
Giving  our  holy  virgins  to  the  stain 
Of  contumelious,  beastly,  mad-brain'd  war, 
Then,  let  him  know. — and  tell  him,  Timon  speaks  it, 
In  pity  of  our  aged,  and  our  youth, 
{  cannot  choose  but  tell  him. — that  I  care  not. 
And  let  him  take  "t  at  worst ;  for  their  knives  tare  not, 
While  you  have  throats  to  answer  :  for  myself, 
There  's  not  a  whittle  in  th'  unruly  camp, 
But  I  do  prize  it  at  my  love,  before 
The  reverend'st  throat  in  Athens.     So  I  leave  you 
To  the  protection  of  the  prosperous  gods. 
As  thieves  to  keepers. 

t'lav.  Stay  not :  all 's  in  vain. 

Tim.  Why,  I  was  wTiting  of  my  epitaph, 
It  will  be  seen  to-morrow.     My  long  sickness 
Of  health,  and  living,  now  begins  to  mend, 
And  nothing  brings  me  all  things.     Go ;  live  still 
Be  Alcibiades  your  plague,  you  his. 
And  la.'-t  so  long  enough  ! 

1  Sen.  We  speak  in  vain. 

Tim.  But  yet  I  love  my  country ;  and  am  not 
One  that  rejoices  in  the  common  wreck. 
As  common  bruit  doth  put  it. 

1  Se7i.  That 's  well  spoke. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  my  loving  countrymen, — 

1  Sen.  The.<e  words  be  ?ome   your  lips  as  they  pass 

through  them. 

2  Sen.  And  enter  in  our  ears,  like  great  triumphers 
In  their  applauding  gates. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  them ; 

And  tell  them,  that  to  ease  them  of  their  griefs. 
Their  fears  of  hostile  strokes,  their  aches,  losses, 
Their  pangs  of  love,  and  other  incident  throes 
That  nature's  fragile  vessel  doth  sustain 
In  life's  uncertain  voyage.  I  will  some  kindness  do  them. 
I  '11  teach  them  to  prevent  wild  Alcibiades'  wrath. 

2  Sen.  I  like  this  well :  he  will  return  again. 

Tim.  I  have  a  tree,  which  grows  here  in  my  close. 
That  mine  o^^^l  use  invites  me  to  cut  down. 
And  shortly  must  I  fell  it :  tell  my  friends. 
Tell  Athens,  in  the  sequence  of  degree. 
From  high  to  low  throughout,  that  whoso  please 
To  stop  affliction,  let  him  take  his  halter,* 
Come  hiiiier.  ere  my  tree  hath  felt  the  axe. 
And  hang  himself. — I  pray  you.  do  my  greeting. 

Flav.  Trouble  him  no  farther;  thus  you  still  shall 
find  him. 

Tim.  Come  not  to  me  again;  but  say  to  Athens, 
Timon  hath  made  his  everlasting  mansion 
Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood  ; 
Whom  once  a  day  with  his  emboshed^  froth 
The  turbulent  surge  shall  cover  :  thither  come. 
Hud  let  my  grave-stone  be  your  oracle. — 
Lips,  let  sour  words  go  by,  and  language  end : 
What  is  ami.^s.  plague  and  infection  mend  : 
Graves  only  be  men's  works,  and  death  their  gain. 
Sun,  hide  thy  beams  :  Timon  hath  done  his  reign. 

[Exit  Timon. 

1  Sen.  His  discontents  are  unremovably  coupled  to 
nature. 

2  Sen.  Our  hope  in  him  is  dead.     Let  us  return. 


And  strain  what  other  means  is  left  unto  ub 
In  our  dear*  peril. 

1  Sen.  It  requires  swift  foot.         [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— The  Walls  of  Athens. 
Enter  two  Senators,  and  a  Messenger. 

1  Sen.  Thou  hast  painfully  discovered  :  are  his  filet 
As  full  as  they  report? 

Mess.  I  have  spoke  the  least ; 

Besides,  his  expedition  promises 
Present  approach. 

2  Sen.  We  stand  much  hazard,  if  they  bring  noi 

Timon. 

Mess.  I  met  a  courier,  one  mine  ancient  friend, 
Whom,  though  in  general  part  we  were  oppos'd, 
Yet  our  old  love  made  a  particular  force. 
And  made  us  speak  like  friends :  this  man  was  riding 
From  Alcibiades  to  Timon's  cave. 
With  letters  of  entreaty,  which  imported 
His  fellowship  i'  the  cause  against  your  city. 
In  part  for  his  sake  mov'd. 

Eyiter  Senators  from  Timon. 

1  Sen.  Here  come  our  brothers 

3  Sen.  No  talk  of  Timon  ;  nothing  of  him  expect. — 
The  enemies'  drum  is  heard,  and  fearful  .scouring 
Doth  choke  the  air  with  dust.     In.  and  prepare  : 
Ours  is  the  fall,  I  fear,  our  foes  the  snare.         [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— The  Woods.     TiMon's  Cave,  and  a 

Tomb-stone  seen. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  seeking  Timon. 

Sold.  By  all  description  this  should  be  the  place 
Who  's  here  ?  speak,  ho  ! — No  answer  ? — What  is  this  '' 
Timon  is  dead,  who  hath  outstretch'd  his  span  . 
Some  beast  rear'd^  this  ;  there  does  not  live  a  man. 
Dead,  sure,  and  this  his  grave. — V\1iat  's  on  this  to^l^ 
I  cannot  read  ;  the  character  I  '11  take  with  wax : 
Our  captain  hath  in  every  figure  skill ; 
An  ag'd  interpreter,  though  young  in  days 
Before  proud  Athens  he  's  set  down  by  this, 
Whose  fall  the  mark  of  his  ambition  is.  [Eiit 

SCENE  v.— Before  flie  Walls  of  Athene 

Tntm-pets  sound.     Enter  Alcibiades.  ar.d  Forces 

Alcib.  Sound  to  this  coward  and  lascivious  town 

Our  terrible  approach.  [.-i  Parley  sounded 

Eider  Senators,  on  the  Walls. 
Till  now  you  have  gone  on,  and  fill'd  the  time 
With  all  licentious  measure,  making  your  wills 
The  scope  of  justice:  till  now  myself,  and  foch 
As  slept  within  the  shadow  of  your  power. 
Have  wander'd  with  our  travers'd  arms,  and  breath'd 
Our  sutferance  vainly.     Now  the  time  is  flush, 
When  crouching  marrow,  in  the  bearer  strong, 
Cries  of  itself.  '-No  more  :"  now  breathless  wronp 
Shall  sit  and  pant  in  your  great  chairs  of  ea.se; 
Aitd  pursy  insolence  shall  break  his  wind 
With  fear,  and  horrid  flight. 

1  Sen.  '  "         Noble,  and  yoimg, 

When  thy  first  griefs  were  but  a  mere  conceit, 
Ere  thou  hadst  power,  or  we  had  cause  of  fear, 
We  sent  to  thee,  to  give  thy  rages  balm, 
To  wipe  out  our  ingratitude  with  loves 
Above  their  quantity. 

'      2  Sen.  So  did  we  woo 

!  Transformed  Timon  to  our  city's  love. 
By  humble  message,  and  by  proinis'd  means: 

I  We  were  not  all  unkind,  nor  all  deserve 

I  The  common  stroke  of  war. 


•mboss'd : 


»  Dirt.      '  read  :  in  folio.     The^hsld  made  the  change.        ♦  la  formei  editions,'  haste.' 


696 


TIMON   OF  ATHENS. 


ACT   V. 


1  Sen.  These  walls  of  ours 
\Verc  not  erected  by  their  hands,  from  whom 
Vou  have  rcoeiv'd  your  griiM":  nor  arc  they  such, 
Phai  ihesc  i;re;it  towers,  trojihies.  and  schools  should 

fall   ^ 
For  private  faults  in  them. 

2  Sen.  Nor  are  they  living, 
Who  were  the  motives  that  you  first  went  out: 
Shame,  that  ihcy  wanted  cunning'  in  excess 
Hatli  liicke  their  hearts.     March,  noble  lord, 
Into  our  city  witii  thy  banners  spread: 

By  decimation,  and  a  tithed  death 

(If  thy  revenges  hunger  for  that  food 

Which  nature  loaths)  take  thou  the  destiu'd  tenth; 

A  nd  by  the  hazard  of  the  spotted  die 

Let  die  the  spotted. 

1  Sen.  All  have  not  offended ; 
For  those  that  were,  is  't  not  severe'  to  talce, 
Qu  those  that  are,  revenge?  crimes,  like  lands, 
Are  not  inherited.     Then,  dear  countryman. 
Bring  in  thy  ranks,  but  leave  without  thy  rage  : 
Spare  thy  Athenian  cradle,  and  those  kin. 
Which  in  the  bluster  of  thy  wrath  must  fall 
With  those  that  have  otTended.     Like  a  shepherd 
.\pj)roach  the  fold,  and  cull  th'  infected  forth, 
But  kill  not  all  together. 

2  Sai.  What  thou  wilt. 
Thou  rather  shalt  enforce  it  with  thy  smile. 
Than  hew  to 't  with  thy  sword. 

1  Sen.  Set  but  thy  foot 
Against  our  rampir'd  gates,  ind  they  shall  ope, 
So  thou  wilt  send  thy  gentle  \ieart  before, 

To  say,  thou  'It  enter  friendly. 

2  S,n.  Throw  thy  glove, 
Or  any  token  of  thine  honour  else, 

That  thou  wilt  use  the  wars  as  thy  redress, 
And  not  as  our  confusion,  all  thy  powers 
Shall  make  their  harbour  in  our  towni,  till  we 
Have  seal'd  thy  full  desire. 


Alcib.  Then,  there's  my  glove 

Descend,  and  open  your  uncharged  ports. 
Those  enemies  of  Timon's,  and  mine  own. 
Whom  you  yourselves  shall  set  out  for  reproof, 
Fall,  and  no  more :  and. — to  atone'  your  fears 
With  my  more  noble  meaning, — not  a  man 
Shall  pass  his  quarter,  or  offend  the  stream 
Of  regular  justice  in  your  city's  bounds, 
But  shall  be  remedied  by*  your  public  laws 
At  heaviest  answer. 

Both.  "T  is  most  nobly  spoken. 

Alcib.  Descend,  and  keep  your  words. 

[7'Ae  Senators  descend,  ami  open  the  Gate* 
Enter  a  Soldier. 

Sold.  My  noble  general,  Timon  is  dead, 
Entomb"d  upon  the  very  hem  o'  the  sea  ; 
And  on  his  grave-stone  this  insculpture,  which 
With  wax  I  brought  away,  wliose  soft  impression 
Interprets  for  my  poor  ignorance. 

Alcib.     [Read.s.]     "Here   lies   a  wretched  corse,  of 
wretched  soul  bereft : 
Seek  not  my  name.     A  plague  consume  you  wicked 

caitiffs  left ! 
Here  lie  I  Timon ;  who,  alive,  all  living  men  did  hate  . 
Pass  by,  and  curse  thy  fill ;  but  pass,  and  stay  not  here 

thy  gait." 
These  well  express  in  thee  thy  later  spirits  : 
Though  tiiou  abhorr'dsi  in  us  our  humun  griefs, 
Scorn'dsl  our  brain's  flow,  and  those  our  droplets,  which 
From  niggard  nature  fall,  yet  rich  conceit 
Taught  thee  to  make  vast  Neptune  weep  for  aye 
On  thy  low  grave  on  faults  forgiven.     Dead 
Is  noble  Timon ;  of  whose  memory 
Hereafter  more. — Bring  me  into  your  city, 
And  I  will  use  the  olive  with  my  sword : 
Make  war  breed  peace :  make  peace  stint  war ;  make 

each 
Prescribe  to  other,  as  each  others  leech. — 
Let  our  drums  strike.  '  E.Teunf 


Witd»m       »  it 


;  iq-iare  :  :n  f.  e 


At  on*.  TieimciU. 


Dtm  reads  :  rendar'd  to. 


jJtiJtJiLA 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


lULIUS   Cj.sar. 

OCTAVIUS    CiESAR, 

Marcus  Antonius, 

M.  ^MiL.  Lepidus, 

Cicero,  Publius,  Popilius  Lena;  Senators 

Marcus  Brutus, 

Cassius, 

Casca, 

Trebonius, 

Ligarius. 

Decius  Brutus, 

Meteli.us  Cimber, 

Cinna, 

Flavius  and  Marullus,  Tribunes 


Triumvirs,  after  the  Death 
of  Julius  Caesar. 


Conspirators  against  Julius 
Caesar. 


Arte.midorus.  a  Sophist  of  Cnidos. 

A  Soothsayer. 

Cinna,  a  Poet.     Another  Poet. 

LuciLius,     TiTiNius,     Messala,     young     Cato, 

Vjlumnius  ;  Friends  to  Brutus  and  Cassius. 
Varro,  Clitus,  Claudius.  Strato,  Lucius.  Dar- 

danius  ;  SerA'ants  to  Brutus. 
Pindar  us.  Servant  to  Cassius. 

Calphurnia,  Wife  to  Caesar. 
Portia,  Wife  to  Brutus. 

Senators,  Citizens,  Guards,  Attendants,  &o. 


SCENE,  during  a  great  part  of  the  Play,  at  Rome :  afterwards  at  Sardis ;  and  aear  Philippi. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— Rome.     A  Street. 
Enter  Flavius,  Marullus,  and  a  body  of  Citizens. 
Flav.   Hence !    home,    you   idle    creatures,    get   you 
home. 
Is  this  a  holiday?     What  !  know  you  not. 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk 
Upon  a  labouring  day  without  the  sign. 
Of  your  profession  ? — Speak,  what  trade  art  thou  ? 

1  Cit.  Why.  sir,  a  carpenter. 

Mar.  Where  is  thy  leather  apron,  and  thy  rule  ? 
What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on  ? — 
You,  sir;  what  trade  are  you  ? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  workman,  I  am 
but,  as  you  would  say,  a  cobbler. 

Mar.  But  what  trade  art  thou  ?    Answer  me  directly. 

2  Cit.  A. trade,  sir,  that,  I  hope,  I  may  use  with  a 
safe  conscience ;  which  is,  indeed,  sir,  a  mender  of  bad 
soles. 

Flav.  MHiat  trade,  thou  knave?  thou  naughty  knave, 
what  trade  ? 

2  Cit.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out  with  me  : 
yet.  if  you  be  out,  sir.  I  can  mend  you. 

Mar.  What  mean'st  thou  by  that  ?  Mend  me,  thou 
•aucy  fellow  ? 

2  Cit.  Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 

Flav.  Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou  ? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is,  with  the  awl ; 
I  meddle  with  no  tradesman's  matters,  nor  women's 
matters,  but  with  all.  I  am,  indeed,  sir,  a  surgeon  to 
old  shoes  ;  when  they  are  in  great  danger,  I  re-cover 
them.  As  proper  men  as  ever  trod  upon  neats-leather 
have  gone  upon  my  handywork. 

Flav.  But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to-day? 
Why  dosi  ihou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets  ? 

2  Cit.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to  get  my- 
self into  more  work.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we  make  holi- 
day, to  see  Caesar,  and  to  rejoice  in  his  triumph. 


3Iar.  Wherefore  rejoice  ?     What  conquest  brings  nc 
home  ? 
What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot  wheels  ? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless  ihmgh  ! 
0  !  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 
Knew  you  not  Pompey  ?     Many  a  time  and  oft 
HaA^e  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops. 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  live-long  day,  with  patient  expectation, 
To  see  great  Pomjtey  pa.ss  the  streets  of  Rome: 
And  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appea."-, 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout. 
That  Tyber  trembled  underneath  her  banks, 
To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds 
Made  in  her  concave  shores  ? 
And  do  you  now  j)ut  on  your  best  attire  ? 
And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday  ? 
And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way, 
That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood  ? 
Be  gone  ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees. 
Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 
That  needs  must  lisht  on  this  ingratitude. 

Flav.  Go,  go,  good  countrymen  :  and  for  this  fault 
Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort : 
Draw  them  to  Tyber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 
Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all.   [Exeunt  Ciliztnt 
See,  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  mov'd; 
They  vanish  tontrue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  the  Capitol ; 
This  way  will  I.      Disrobe  the  images. 
If  you  do  find  them  deck'd  with  ceremonies. 

Mar.  May  we  do  so? 
You  know,  it  is  the  feast  of  LupercaL 

Flav    It  is  no  matter;  let  no  images 

697 


698 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


ACT    1. 


Be  hung  with  Caesar's  Irophies.     I  "11  about, 

And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets: 

S<)  do  you  too,  where  you  inTcoive  them  thick. 

Thc,>;c  growing  teaihors  pluck"d  from  Casar'e  ■wing, 

Will  make  him  lly  an  ordinary  pitch, 

Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 

And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearlulness.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Some.     A  Public  Place. 
Enter,  in   Prorcssiim.  irilh   Tntmpcts  ami  other  Music. 

CiF-SAR  :  Antony. /or  the  course  ;  Cai.phi'rni.\,  1'or- 

TiA.   Dkciis.  Cukro.  Brl'ti's,  Cassil's,  a7i</  Casca  ; 

a  Soothsayer,  and  a  crowd  following  them. 

Cces.  Calphuriiia, — 

Casca.         Peace,  ho  !  Caesar  speaks.    [Mii.tic  ceases. 

Cos.  Calphurnia, — 

Cal.  Here,  my  lord. 

Cas.  Stand  you  directly  in  Antonius'  way, 
When  he  doth  run  his  course. — Antonius. 

Ant.  Caesar,  my  lord. 

Cos.  Forget  not,  in  your  speed.  Antonius, 
To  touch  Calphurnia  :  for  our  ciders  say, 
The  barren,  touched  in  this  holy  chase, 
Shake  off  their  etcril  curse. 

Ard.  I  shall  remember: 

When  Cresar  says,  '•  Do  this,"  it  is  perform'd. 

Cos.  Set  on  :  and  leave  no  ceremony  out.       [Music. 

Sooth.  Capsar! 

Ccts.  Ha!  who  calls? 

Casca.  Bid  every  noise  be  still. — Peace  yet  again  ! 

[Music  ceases. 

Cos.  Who  is  it  in  the  press  that  calls  on  me? 
i  hear  a  tongue,  shriller  than  all  the  music, 
Cry,  Casar  !     Sjieak  :   Caesar  is  turn'd  to  hear. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cos.  What  man  is  that? 

Bru.  A  .soothsayer  bids  you  beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cos.  Set  him  before  me;  let  ine  see  his  face. 

Cas.    Fellow,   come    from    the    throng:    look  upon 
Cajsar. 

C(Bs.  What    say'st  thou  to  nie   now?     Speak  once 
again. 

Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

Cas.  He  is  a  dreamer;   let.  us  leave  him. — Pa.«s. 

[Sennet.     Exeunt  all  but  Bru.  and  Cas. 

Cas.  Will  you  go  to  see  the  order  of  the  course  ? 

Bru.  Not.  I. 

Cas.  I  pray  you.  do. 

Bru.  I  am  not  L'amesome :  I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cussius,  your  desires; 
I   11  leave  you. 

Cas.  Brut  U.S.  I  do  ob.«erve  you  now  of  late ; 
1  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness. 
And  show  of  love,  a.s  1  was  wont  to  have : 
You  bear  too  siiihhorn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
(>/er  your  friend  thai  loves  you. 

liru.  Ca.«sius, 

Bf  noi  decciv'd  :  if  I  have  veifd  my  look, 
I  lurn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
.Merch  upon  myself.     Vexed  1  am 
Of  late  wiih  pa.s.-ions  of  some  difTerence, 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself. 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhaps,  to  my  behaviours  ; 
But  let  not  tlicrefore  my  good  friends  be  griev'd, 
(Among  which  number.  Ca.>>siuH,  be  you  one) 
Nor  con>truc  any  farther  my  neglect. 
Than  ihai  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 


Cos.  Then  Brutus,  I  have  much  mistook  your  passion ; 
By  means  whereof,  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me.  good  Brutos.  can  you  see  your  face? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius  ;  for  the  eye  sees  not  itself, 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.  "T  is  ju.st ; 
And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors,  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  ■worthine.*B  into  your  eye, 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.     I  have  heard. 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome. 
(Except  immortal  Cassar)  speaking  of  B.utus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wish'd  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.  into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me,  Casf-iuB, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  nie  ? 

Cas.  Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepar'd  to  hear 
And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I  your  glass, 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself,  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  on  me.  gentle  Brutus: 
Were  I  a  common  laugher.'  or  did  use 
To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 
To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 
That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 
And  after  scandal  them  :  or  if  you  know 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting. 
To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous. 

[Flouri.sh.  and  Sh(nd 

Bru.  What   means  this  shouting?      I  do  fear.  Ihf 
people 
Choose  Cajsar  for  their  king. 

Cas.  Ay,  do  you  fear  it? 

Then,  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.  !  would  not,  Cassius ;  yet  I  love  him  well. 
But  wherelore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honour  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indiirercntly ; 
For,  let  the  gods  so  speed  me.  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  1  fear  death. 

Cas.  I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favour. 
Well,  honour  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life  ;  but  for  my  single  self 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Ca-sar,  so  were  you ; 
We  both  have  fed  as  well,  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he : 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day. 
The  troubled  Tyber  chafing  with  her  shores. 
Caesar  said  to  me,  '•  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood. 
And  swim  to  yonder  point?'" — Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 
And  bade  him  follow:  so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roard,  and  we  did  buff*et  it 
With  lusty  sinews,  throwing  it  aside, 
And  stemming  it,  with  hearts  of  controversy ; 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  propos'd. 
Ca?sar  cried.    '  Help  me,  Cassiu.s,  or  1  sink." 
I,  as  jEneas.  our  great  ancestor, 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Trov  upon  his  shoulder 


l»oghi 


foli 


Pope  made  tha  chanK*. 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


695) 


The  old  Anchises  bear,  so  from  the  waves  of  Tyber 

Did  I  the  fired  Ose.«ar.     And  this  man 

Is  now  become  a  god  ;  and  Caf^sius  is 

A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 

If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 

He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 

And,  when  tlie  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 

How  he  did  shake  :  't  is  true,  this  god  did  shake : 

His  coward  lips  did  trom  their  colour  fly ; 

And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 

Did  lose  his  lustre.     I  did  hear  him  groan ; 

Ay.  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 

Mark  him.  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 

Alas  !  it  cried,  "  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius," 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  snch  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 

And  bear  the  palm  alone.  [Shout.     Flourish. 

Bru.  Another  general  shout ! 

I  do  believe  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honours  that  are  heap'd  on  Caesar. 

Cos.  Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world, 
Like  a  Colossus  :  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonourable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates: 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus,  and  Caesar:  what  should  be  in  that  Caesar? 
Why  sliould  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours? 
Write  them  together,  yotirs  is  as  fair  a  name; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy;  conjure  with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar. 
Now,  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  tliis  our  Caesar  feed. 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  ?     Age,  thou  art  sham'd  : 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods. 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood. 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man  ? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walls'  encompass'd  but  one  man  ? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough. 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 

0  !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 

There  was  a  B-utus  once,  that  would  have  brook'd 
Th'  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Bru.  That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous  ; 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim; 
How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 

1  shall  recount  hereafter :   for  this  present, 

1  w^ould  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 
Be  any  farther  mov'd.     What  you  have  said, 

will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  will  with  patience  hear,  and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear,  and  answer,  such  high  things. 
Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this: 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager, 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  such^  hard  conditions,  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Cas.  I  am  glad,  that  my  weak  words 

Have  struck  but  thus  much  show  of  fire  from  Brutvts. 

Bru.  The  games  are  done,  and  Ceesar  is  returning. 
Re-enter  C/F.sar,  and  his  Train. 

Cas    As  they  pass  by  pluck  Casca  by  the  sleeve; 
And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 

'  walks  ;  in  f  e.      '  these  :  in  f.  8. 


Bru.  I  will  do  so.— But,  look  vou,  Cassius; 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Cje'sar's  brow, 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train. 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fierv  eyes, 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol', 
Being  cross'd  in  conference  by  some  senators. 

Cas.  Casca  v/il!  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

CcEs.  Antonius  ! 

Ant.  CsBsar. 

Cas.  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights. 
Yond'  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look"; 
He  thinks  too  much  :  such  men  are  dangerous. 

Aiit.  Fear  him  not,  Caesar,  he  's  not  dangeroiw 
He  is  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given. 

Cas.  'Would  he  were  fatter;  but  I  fear  him  no: 
Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much  , 
He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men  :  he  loves  no  plays, 
As  thou  dost,  Antony;  he  hears  no  music  : 
Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort. 
As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scorn'd  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  any  thing. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease, 
Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves, 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd. 
Than  what  I  fear,  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 
Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf. 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think"si  of  him. 

[Exeunt  C.5:sar  a-nd  his  Train.     Casca  stajjs  bthiiid 

Casca.  You  pull'd  me  by  the  cloak  :  would  you 
speak  with  me  ? 

Bru.  Ay,  Casca;  tell  us  what  hath  chanc'd  to-day. 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad. 

Casca.  Why  you  were  with  him,  were  you  not? 

Bru.  T  should  not.  then,  ask  Casca  what  liath  chanc'd. 

Casca.  Why.  there  was  a  cro\4Ti  offered  him  :  and, 
being  offered  him,  he  put  it  by  with  the  back  o(  his 
hand,  thus  ;  and  then  the  people  fell  a  shouting. 

Bru.  What  was  the  second  noise  for  ? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Cas.  They  shouted  thrice :  what  was  the  last  cry  for  ? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Bru.  Was  the  crown  offer'd  him  thnce  ? 

Casca.  Ay,  marry,  was  't.  and  he  put  it  by  thrice, 
every  time  gentler  than  other ;  and  at  every  puttini* 
by  mine  honest  neighbours  shouted. 

Cas.  Who  offer'd  him  the  crowTi  ? 

Casca.  Why,  Antony. 

Bru.  Tell  us  the  manner  of  it.  gentle  Casca. 

Casca.  I  can  as  well  be  hanged,  as  tell  the  maimer 
of  it :  it  was  mere  foolery,  I  did  not  mark  it.  I  saw 
Mark  Antony  offer  him  a  crown : — yet  "t  was  not  a 
crown  neither,  't  was  one  of  these  coronets  : — and.  as  I 
trtld  you,  he  put  it  by  once  :  but,  for  all  that,  to  my 
thinking,  he  would  fain  have  had  it.  Then  he  offered 
it  to  him  again;  then  he  put  it  by  again,  but,  to  my 
thinking,  he  was  very  loath  to  lay  his  lingers  off  it. 
And  then  he  offered  it  the  third  time:  he  put  it  the 
third  time  by ;  and  still  as  he  refused  if,  f lie  rabble- 
men  shouted,  and  clapped  their  chapped  hands,  and 
threw  up  their  sweaty  night-caps,  and  uttered  such  a 
deal  of  stinking  breath,  because  Csesur  refused  the 
crown,  that  it  had  almost  choked  Caesar ;  for  he 
swooned,  and  fell  down  at  it.    And  for  miue  own  part 


700 


JULIUS   C^SAR 


ACT    L 


I  durst  not  lauyh,  for  fear  of  opening  my  lips,  and  re- 
ceiving the  bad  air. 

Cas.  Hut.  f^olt.  I  prayyon.  What!  did  Ca;sar  swoon  ? 

Casca.  He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and  foamed 
at  mouth,  and  was  speecliless. 

lint.  'Tis  very  like  lie  hath  the  fallins-sickness. 

Cos.  No,  Ca"6ar  hath  it  not :  but  you,  and  I, 
And  lione.si  Ca.>iea,  we  have  the  falling-Bickncss. 

Ctisca.  I  ki.ow  not  what  you  mean  by  that  ;  but.  I 
am  8ure,  Ca^^ar  fell  down.  If  the  tag-rag  people  did 
not  clap  liim.  and  his.s  him,  according  as  he  plea.'ied, 
and  di.spleased  them,  a.^  they  use  to  do  the  players  in 
the  theatre.  I  am  no  trm^  man. 

Bru.  What  said  he.  when  he  came  unto  himself? 

Casca.  Marry,  bc.'ore  he  fell  down,  when  he  pc'r- 
coiv'd  the  common  herd  was  glad  he  refused  tlie  crown. 
he  plucked  me  ope  his  doublet,  and  offered  them  his 
throat  to  cut. — An  I  had  been  a  man  of  any  occupa- 
tion, if  1  would  not  have  taken  him  at  a  word.  I  would 
I  might  go  to  hell  among  the  rogues  : — and  .=0  he  fell. 
When  he  came  to  him.<elf  again,  he  said,  if  he  had 
done  or  said  any  thing  amis,si.  he  desired  their  worships 
to  think  it  was  his  infirmity.  Three  or  four  wenches, 
where  I  stood,  cried.  "  Alas,  good  soul  !'" — and  forgave 
him  with  all  their  hearts.  But  there  's  no  heed  to  be 
taken  of  them:  if  Cajsar  had  stabbed  their  mothers, 
they  would  have  done  no  less. 

Bru.  And  alter  that  he  came  thus  sad  away  ? 

Ca.'!ca.  Ay. 

Cas.  Did  Cicero  say  any  thing  ? 

Casca.  Ay.  he  spoke  Greek. 

Cas.  To  what  effect  ? 

Casca.  Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that,  I'll  ne'er  look  you  i' 
the  face  again :  but  tho.'^c  that  understood  him  smiled 
It  one  another,  and  shook  their  heads  :  but.  for  mine 
ewn  part,  it  was  Greek  to  me.  I  could  tell  you  more 
news,  too  :  Marullus  and  Flavius,  for  pulling  scarfs  off 
Ca?sar"s  images,  are  put  to  silence.  Fare  you  well :  there 
wa.s  more  foolery  yet.  if  I  could  remember  it. 

Cas.  Will  you  «up  with  me  to-night,  Casca? 

Casca.  No.  !  am  promised  forth. 

Cas.  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow? 

Casca.  Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  your  mind  hold,  and 
your  dinner  wor'h  the  eating. 

Cas.  (lood  ;  I  will  e.xpecl  you. 

Casca.  Do  so.     Farewell,  both.  [Exit  Casca. 

Bru.  What  a  blunt  lellow  is  this  grown  to  be. 
He  was  quick  mettled  when  he  went  to  school. 

Cas.  So  is  he  now,  in  execution 
Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprise, 
However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 
This  rudeneis  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit. 
Which  sjives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 
With  better  appetite. 

Bru    And  so  it  is.     For  this  time  1  will  leave  you : 
To-morrow,  if  you  plea.-e  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  liome  to  you  ;  or.  if  you  will, 
Cime  home  to  me.  and  I  will  wait  for  vou. 

Cas.  1  will  do  so  :— till  ihen,  think  of  the  world. 

[Exit  Brutus. 
Well.  Brutus,  thou  art  noble ;  yet.  I  see, 
Thy  honourable  mettle  may  be  wrousht 
From  that  it  is  di.-pfsd:  therefore,  'tis  meet 
That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes; 
For  who  so  firm  that  cannot  be  seduc"d  ? 
VxMnr  doth  bear  nie  hanl.  but  he  loves  Brutus: 
If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Ca^isius. 
He  should  not  humour  me.     I  will  this  night, 
In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw,^ 

'  gl&zd  :  IB  fj'io      Bteereni  made  th  •  :haii|;e 


As  if  they  came  from  several  citizens, 

Writings,  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 

That  Rome  holds  of  his  name  ;  wherein  obscurely 

Cirsar's  ambition  shall  be  glanced  at : 

And.  after  this,  let  Cscsar  seat  him  sure. 

For  we  will  shake  him.  or  worse  days  endure.      [Eiit 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Street. 

Thunder  and  Lightning.     Enter,  from  ojrposite  sides, 

Casca,  with  his  Sword  drawn,  and  Cicero. 

Cic.  Good  even.  Casca.    Brought  you  Caesar  home' 
Why  are  you  breathless,  and  why  stare  you  so  ? 

Casca.  Are  not  you  mov'd.  when  all  the  sway  of  earlL 
Shakes  like  a  thing  unfirm?     0,  Cicero  ! 
I  have  s'een  tempests,  when  the  scolding  -winds 
Have  riv'd  the  knotty  oaks  ;  and  I  have  seen 
The  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threatening  clouds; 
But  never  till  to-night,  never  till  now, 
Did  I  go  through  a  tempest  dropping  fire. 
Either  there  is  a  civil  strife  in  heaven, 
Or  else  the  world,  too  saucy  with  the  gods, 
Incenses  them  to  send  destruction. 

Cic.  Why.  saw  you  any  thing  more  wonderful? 

Casca.  A  common  slave  (you  know  him  well  by  sight 
Held  up  his  left  hand,  which  did  flame,  and  burn 
Like  twenty  torches  join'd  ;  and  yet  his  hand, 
Not  sensible  of  fire,  remain'd  unscorch'd. 
Besides,  (I  have  not  since  put  up  my  sword) 
Against  the  Capitol  I  met  a  lion, 
Who  glar'd'  upon  me,  and  went  surly  by. 
Without  annoying  me :  and  there  were  drawn 
Upon  a  heap  a  hundred  ghastly  women. 
Transformed  with  their  fear,  who  swore  they  saw 
Men,  all  in  fire,  walk  up  and  down  the  streets. 
And  yesterday  the  bird  of  night  did  sit. 
Even  at  noon-day.  upon  the  market-place. 
Hooting,  and  shrieking.     When  these  prodigies 
Do  so  conjointly  meet,  let  not  men  say, 
"  These  are  their  seasons, — they  are  natural ;'' 
For,  I  believe,  they  are  portentous  things 
Unto  the  climate  that  they  point  upon. 

Cic.  Indeed,  it  is  a  strange-disposed  time: 
But  men  may  construe  things  alter  their  lashion. 
Clean  from  the  purpose  of  the  things  themselves. 
Comes  Caesar  to  the  Capitol  to-morrow? 

Casca.  He  doth:  for  he  did  bid  Antonius 
Send  word  to  you.  he  would  be  there  to-morrow. 

Cic.  Good  night  then,  Casca  :  this  disturbed  sky 
Is  not  to  waik  in. 

Casca.  Farewell,  Cieero.        [Exit  Cicero 

Enter  Cassils. 

Cns.  Who's  there? 

Casca.  A  Roman. 

Cas.  Ca.«ca.  by  your  voice^ 

Casca.  Your  ear  is  good.  Cassius.  what  night  is  this  ' 

Cas.  A  very  pleasing  night  to  honest  men. 

Casca.  Who  ever  knew  the  heavens  menace  so? 

Cas.  Those  'hat  have  known  the  earth  so  full  of  faults 
For  my  part,  >  have  walk'd  about  the  streets, 
Submitting  me  unto  the  perilous  niuht; 
And.  thus  unbraced.  Ca.«ca.  as  you  see. 
Have  bard  my  bosom  to  the  thunder-stone  : 
And,  when  the  cross  blue  lightning  .«eem'd  to  open 
The  breast  of  heaven.  I  did  present  myself 
Even  in  the  aim  and  very  flash  of  it. 

Casca.  But  wherefore  did  you   so  much  tempi  the 
heavens? 
It  is  the  part  of  men  to  fear  and  tremble, 


SCENE   I. 


JULIUS   CAESAR 


701 


When  the  most  mighty  gods  by  tokens  send 
Such  dreadful  herakis  to  astonish  us. 

Cas.  You  are  dull,  Casca  ;  and  those  sparks  of  life. 
That  should  be  in  a  Roman,  you  do  want, 
Or  else  you  use  not.     You  look  pale,  and  gaze, 
And  put  on  fear,  and  cast  yourself  in  wonder. 
To  see  the  strange  impatience  of  the  heavens  ; 
But  if  you  would  consider  the  true  cause. 
Why  all  these  fires,  why  all  these  gliding  ghosts, 
Why  birds,  an  1  beasts,  from  quality  and  kind  ; 
Why  old  men,  fools,  and  children  calculate; 
Why  all  these  things  change  from  their  ordinance, 
Theii  natures,  and  i)re-formed  faculties, 
To  monstrous  quality :  why,  you  shall  find, 
That  heaven  hath  infus'd  them  with  these  spirits, 
To  make  them  instruments  of  fear,  and  warning. 
Unto  some  monstrous  state. 
Now  could  I,  Casca,  name  to  thee  a  man 
Most  like  this  dreadful  night  ; 
That  thunders,  lightens,  opens  graves,  and  roars 
As  doth  the  lion  in  the  Capitol  : 
A  man  no  mightier  than  thyself,  or  me, 
In  personal  action  ;  yet  prodigious  growTi, 
And  fearful,  as  these  strange  irruptions  are. 

Casca.  'T  is  Caesar  that  you  mean ;  is  it  not,  Cassius? 

Cas.  Let  it  be  who  it  is  :  for  Romans  now 
Have  thewes  and  limbs  like  to  their  ancestors, 
But,  woe  the  while  !  our  fathers'  minds  are  dead, 
And  we  are  govern'd  with  our  mothers'  spirits; 
Our  yoke  and  sufferance  show  us  womanish. 

Casca.  Indeed,  they  say,  the  senators  to-morrow 
Mean  to  establish  Caesar  as  a  king  : 
And  he  shall  wear  his  crown  by  sea,  and  land, 
In  every  place,  save  here  in  Italy. 

Cas.  I  know  where  I  will  wear  this  dagger,  then; 
Cassius  from  bondage  will  deliver  Cassius. 
Therein,  ye  gnds.  you  make  the  weak  most  strong  ; 
Therein,  ye  gods,  you  tyrants  do  defeat : 
Nor  stony  tower,  nor  walls  of  beaten  brass. 
Nor  airless  dungeon,  nor  strong  links  of  iron, 
Can  be  retentive  to  the  strength  of  .spirit ; 
But  life,  being  weary  of  these  worldly  bars, 
Never  lacks  power  to  dismiss  itself, 
[f  I  know  this,  know  all  the  w^orld  besides. 
That  part  of  tyranny,  that  I  do  bear, 
[  can  shake  off  at  pleasure.  [Thunder  still. 

Casca.  So  can  I : 

So  every  bondman  in  his  own  hand  bears 
The  power  to  cancel  his  captivity. 

Cas    And  why  should  Ca;sar  be  a  tyiant,  then? 
Poor  man  !   I  know,  he  would  not  be  a  wolf. 
But  that  he  sees  the  Romans  are  but  sheep  : 
He  were  no  lion,  were  not  Romans  hinds. 
Those  that  with  haste  will  make  a  mighty  fire. 
Begin  it  with  weak  straws  :  what  trash  is  Rome, 
What  rubbish,  and  what  offal,  when  it  serves 
For  the  base  matter  to  illuminate 
So  vile  a  thing  as  CjEsar  ? — But,  0  grief! 


Where  hast  thou  led  me?     I,  perhaps,  speak  this 
Before  a  willing  bondman  :  then  I  know 
My  answer  must  be  made ;  but  I  am  arin'd. 
And  dangers  are  to  me  indifferent. 

Casca.  You  speak  to  Casca ;  and  to  such  a  man, 
That  IS  no  fleering  tell-tale.     Hold,  my  hand: 
Be  factious  for  redress  of  all  these  griefs, 
And  I  will  set  this  foot  of  mine  as  far, 
As  who  goes  farthest. 

Cas.  There  's  a  bargain  made. 

Now  know  you,  Casca,  I  have  mov'd  already 
Some  certain  of  the  noblest-minded  Romans, 
To  undergo  with  me  an  enterprise 
Of  honourable,  dangerous  consequence  ; 
And  I  do  know,  by  this,  they  stay  for  me 
In  Pompey's  porch  :  for  now,  this  fearful  night, 
There  is  no  stir,  or  walking  in  the  streets, 
And  the  complexion  of  the  element 
In  favour 's'  like  the  work  we  have  in  hand. 
Most  bloody,  fiery,  and  most  terrible. 
Enter  Cinna. 

Casca.  Stand  close  awhile,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste 

Cas.  'Tis  Cinna,  I  do  know  him  by  his  gait : 
He  is  a  friend. — Cinna,  where  haste  you  so? 

Cin.  To  find  out  you.  Who's  that?  Metellus  Cimber' 

Cas.  No,  it  is  Casca ;  one  incorporate 
To  our  attempts.     Am  I  not  stay'd  for,  Cinna  ? 

Cin.  1  am  glad  on  't.     What  a  fearful  night  is  this  • 
There  's  two  or  three  of  us  have  seen  strange  sights. 

Cas.  Am  I  not  stay'd  for?     Tell  me. 

Cin.  Yes,  you  arp 

O,  Cassius  !  if  you  could  but  win  the  noble  Brutus 
To  our  party — 

Cas.  Be  you  content.     Good  Cinna,  take  this  paper. 
And  look  you  lay  it  in  the  praetor's  chair, 
Where  Brutus  may  but  find  it  ,  and  throw  this 
In  at  his  window ;  set  this  up  with  wax 
Upon  old  Brutus'  statue  :  all  this  done. 
Repair  to  Pompey's  porch,  where  you  shall  find  us.     ^ 
Is  Decius  Brutus,  and  Trebonius,  there  ? 

Cin.  All  but  Metellus  Cimber,  and  he's  gone 
To  seek  you  at  your  house.     Well,  I  will  hie, 
And  so  bestow  these  papers  as  you  bade  me. 
Cas.  That  done,  repair  to  Pompey's  theatre. 

[Exit  ClN.V.X 
Come,  Casca,  you  and  I  will  yet,  ere  day. 
See  Brutus  at  his  house  :  three  parts  of  him 
Is  ours  already :  and  the  man  entire. 
Upon  the  next  encounter,  yields  him  ours. 

Casca.  0  !  he  sits  high  in  all  llie  people's  hearts  ; 
And  that  which  would  appear  offence  in  us, 
His  countenance,  like  richest  alciiyniy. 
Will  change  to  virtue,  and  to  worihiness. 

Cas.  Him.  and  his  worth,  and  our  great  need  of  him 
You  have  right  well  conceited.     Let  us  go. 
For  it  is  after  midnight ;  and.  ere  day. 
We  will  awake  him,  and  be  sure  j1  him.  [Ezevnl 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Brutus's  Orchard. 
Enter  Brutus. 
Bni.  What.  Lucius  !  ho  ! — 
1  canjiot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
G've  ^uess  how  near  to  day. — Lucius,  I  say  ! — 

tifarcir's  :  in  foli« 


I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  .so  soundly  —  ^ 

When,  Lucius,  when?    Awake.  I  say  :  what,  Luciua 

Enter  Lic'-i. 

Luc.  Call'd  you,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 


•|)2 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


ACT  n. 


Lvc.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Bnt.  It  mii>l  be  by  bis  death:  and,  for  my  part, 
'  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  biin. 
Hut  tor  the  general.     He  would  be  crowud  : 
How  thai  iiu::bt  change  bis  nature,  tbere  "s  the  question. 
I    is  the  brii-bt  day  that  brings  lort.b  the  adder, 
And  tliat  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  liiin  ? — tliat; 
And  liien.  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  iiiin. 
That  at  bis  will  be  may  do  danger  with. 
Tb"  abuse  of  greatness  is.  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  Ironi  |iower  ;  and.  to  sjieak  truth  of  Ciesar, 
1  have  nm  known  when  bis  affection.s  swaj'd 
More  than  bis  reaaon.     But  'tis  a  common  proof, 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder. 
Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  bis  face  ; 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  upmost  round, 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  bis  back, 
Looks  in  the  cloud.s,  .'^coming  the  base  degrees 
By  wliieb  be  did  a.-cend.     So  CfEsar  may  : 
Then,  lest  be  may,  prevent :  and,  since  the  quarrel 
Will  bear  no  colour  for  the  thing  he  is, 
Fashion  it  thus  :  that  what  he  is.  augmented, 
Would  run  to  lbe,<c,  and  these  extremities  ; 
And  llieicfore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg, 
Which,  haich'd.  would,  as  his  kind,  grow  mischievous, 
And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 

Rt-enter  Lucius. 

Lvc.  The  taper  burneth  in  your  closet,  sir. 
Searching  the  window  tor  a  flint,  I  found 
This  paper,  thus  seai'd  up ;  and,  I  am  sure. 
It  did  not  lie  there  when  1  went  to  bed. 

[  Giving  him  the  paper. 

Bru.  Get  you  to  bed  again  ;  it  is  not  day. 
Ifi  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides'  of  March  ? 

Lvc.  1  know  not.  sir. 

Bru.  Look  in  the  calendar,  and  bring  me  word. 

Luc.  1  will.  sir.  [Exit. 

Bru.  Tiie  exhalations,  whizzing  in  the  air, 
Give  so  much  light  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

( Opens  the  puper,  and  reads. 
'•  Brutus,  thou  sleep'st  :  awake,  and  see  thyself. 
Shall  Rome,  kc.     Speak,  strike,  redress  ! 
Brutus,  thou  sleeji'st :  awake  !'"' — 
Such  insi  gal  ions  have  been  often  dropp'd 
Where  I  have  took  them  up. 
"  Shall  Rome,  ice."     Thus  must  I  piece  it  out ; 
Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe?  W^hat !  Rome? 
My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 
The  Tarquin  drive   when  he  was  calTd  a  king. 
'  S[>eak.  strike.  redres.s  !" — Am  I  entreated 
To  speak,  and  strike?  0  Rome  !  I  make  thee  promise, 
If  the  redress  will  follow,  thou  receiv'st 
Thy  full  petition  at  the  band  of  Brutus  ! 
Rr-enter  Lucius. 

Lw.  Sir,  March  is  wasted  fourteen*  days. 

[Knockinsr  within. 

Bru.  'T  is  good.     Go  to  the  gate  :  somebody  knocks. 

[Exit  Lucius. 
Since  Ca.«8ius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caj.sar, 
I  have  not  slej.t. 

Retw.-en  liie  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing, 
And  the  fiisl  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma.  or  a  hideous  dream  : 
The  Genius,  and  the  mortal  instruments. 
Are  tlien  in  council  ;  and  the  state  of  a'  maji, 
Lik."  to  a  little  kingdom,  Buffers  then 
rh«  tature  of  an  insurrection. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 


Luc.  Sir,  't  is  your  brother  Cassius  at  the  door, 
Who  doth  desire  io  see  you. 

Bru.  Is  he  alone  ' 

Luc.  No,  sir,  there  are  more  with  him. 

Bru.  Do  you  know  them  ? 

Luc.  No,  sir ;  their  hats  are  pluckd  about  their  eang, 
And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks. 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favour. 

Bru.  Let  them  enter.     [Exit  Lucius. 

They  are  the  faction.     O  conspiracy  ! 
Sbam'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by  mgnt, 
When  evils  are  most  free  ?     0  !  then,  by  day 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enougli 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage  ?  Seek  none,  conspiracy 
Hide  it  in  smiles,  and  affability  : 
For  if  thou  i)ath*  thy  native  semblance  on. 
Not  Erebus  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  Cassius.  Casca,  Decius,  Cinna.  Metellus 
Ci.MBER,  and  Trkbomus. 

Cas.  I  think  we  are  too  bold  upon  your  rest : 
Good  morrow,  Brutus  ;  do  we  trouble  you? 

Bru.  I  have  been  up  this  hour  ;  awake,  all  night. 
Know  1  these  men  that  come  along  with  you  ? 

Cas.  Yes,  every  man  of  them  :  and  no  man  here. 
But  honours  you  :  and  every  one  doth  wish. 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself. 
Which  every  noble  Roman  bears  of  you. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  hither. 

Cas.  This  Decius  Brutus. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  too. 

Cas.  This  Casca;  this  Cinna; 
And  this  Metellus  Cimber. 

Bru.  They  are  all  welcome. 

What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Betwixt  your  eyes  and  night  ? 

Cas.  Shall  I  entreat  a  word?  [They  ivhisper. 

Dec.  Here  lies  the  east :  doth  not  the  day  break  here  ^ 

Casca.  No. 

Cin.  O  !  pardon,  sir,  it  doth  ;  and  yond'  grey  lines, 
That  fret  the  clouds,  are  messengers  of  day. 

Casca.  You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both  decov'd 
Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  ari.ses  ; 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south. 
Weighing  the  youthi^ul  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence,  up  higher  toward  the  north 
He  fir.st  presents  his  fire  :  and  the  high  east 
Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

Bru.  Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  one.* 

[He  lakes  their  hana\ 

Cas.  And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 

Bru.  No,  not  an  oath  :   if  not  the  face  of  men, 
The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse, 
If  the.se  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes, 
And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed  : 
So  let  high-sighted  tyranny  range  on, 
Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.     But  if  these, 
As  T  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 
To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valour 
The  melting  spirits  of  women  ;  then,  countrymen. 
j  What  need  we  any  spur,  but  our  own  cause, 
I  To  ]irick  us  to  redress  ?  what  other  iiond, 
I  Than  secret  Romans,  that  have  spoke  the  word, 
I  And  will  not  palter?  and  what  other  oath. 
Than  honesty  to  honesty  engag'd. 
!  That  this  shall  be,  or  we  will  fall  for  it? 


'  flret :  in  folio.  Theobald  made  the  change. 
<  vt»d  by  Dryden       •  Not  io  f  •. 


fifteen  ;  m  old  oopiei.  Theobald  made  the  rhange      '  Some  mod.  edi.  omit :  a 


bOKNE   1. 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


703 


Swear  priests,  and  cowards;  and  men  cautelous, 

Old  feeble  carrions,  and  such  suffering  souls 

That  yvelcoine  wrontjs  :  unto  bad  causes  swear 

Such  creatures  as  men  doubt ;  but  do  not  stain 

The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprise. 

Nor  th'  insupprcssive  mettle  of  our  spirits, 

To  think  that,  or  our  cause,  or  our  performance. 

Did  need  an  oath,  when  every  drop  of  blood, 

That  every  Roman  bears,  and  nobly  beare, 

Is  guilty  of  a  several  bastardy, 

[f  he  do  break  the  smallest  particle 

Of  any  promise  tliat  hath  pass'd  from  him. 

Cas.  But  what  of  Cicero?     Shall  we  sound  hiin  ? 
I  think  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us. 

Casca.  Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 

Cin.  No,  by  no  means 

Met.  0  !  let  us  have  him  ;  for  his  silver  hairs 
Will  purchase  us  a  good  opinion, 
And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds  : 
It  shall  be  said,  his  judgment  rul'd  our  hands  ; 
Our  youths,  and  wildness,  shall  no  whit  appear, 
But  all  be  buried  in  his  gravity. 

Bru.  0  !  name  him  not ;  let  us  not  break  with  him, 
For  he  will  never  follow  any  thing 
That  other  men  begin. 

Cas.  Then,  leave  him  out. 

Casca.  Indeed  he  is  not  tit. 

Dec.  Shall  no  man  else  be  touch'd,  but  only  Cfesar  ? 

Cas.  Decius,  well  urg'd. — I  think  it  is  not  meet, 
Mark  Antony,  so  well  belov'd  of  Ca3sar, 
Should  outlive  Caesar  :  we  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver  ;  and,  you  know,  his  means, 
If  he  improve  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far 
As  to  annoy  us  all  ;  which  to  prevent. 
Let  Antony  and  Caisar  fall  together. 

Bru.  Oar  course  will  seem  too  bloody.  Caius  Cassius, 
To  cut  the  head  off.  and  then  hack  the  limbs. 
Like  wrath  in  death,  and  en\'y'  afterwards  ; 
For  Antony  is  but  a  limb  of  Csesar. 
Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  not  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar, 
And  in  the  spirit  of  men  there  is  no  blood  : 
0,  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit. 
And  not  dismember  Caesar  !     But,  alas  I 
Caisar  must  bleed  for  it.     And,  gentle  friends, 
Let 's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfuUy  ; 
Let 's  crave  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods, 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcass  fit  for  hounds . 
And  let  our  hearts,  as  subtle  masters  do, 
Stir  up  their  servants  to  an  act  of  rage. 
And  after  seem  to  chide  'em.     This  shall  mark* 
Our  purpose  necessary,  and  not  envious  ; 
Which  so  appearing  to  the  common  eyes, 
We  shall  be  call'd  purgers,  not  murderers. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him. 
For  he  can  do  no  more  than  Caesar's  arm, 
When  Caesar's  head  is  off. 

Cas                                      Yet  I  fear  him  : 
For  in  the  ingrafted  love  he  bears  to  Caesar 

Bru.  Alas  !  good  Cassius,  do  not  think  of  him. 
If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do 
Is  to  himself;  take  thought,  and  die  for  Caesar: 
And  that  were  much  he  should  ;  for  he  is  given 
To  sports,  to  wildness,  and  much  company. 

Treb.  There  is  no  fear  in  him  ;  let  him  not  die, 
For  he  will  live,  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter.  [C/oc^'  strikes. 


Cos.  But  it  is  doubtful  yei 

Whether  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day,  or  no; 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  late, 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceiemonies. 
It  may  be,  these  apparent  prodigies, 
The  unaccustom'd  terror  of  this  night, 
And  the  persuasion  of  his  augurers, 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 

Dec.  Never  fear  that .  if  he  be  so  resolVd, 
I  can  o'ersway  him  ;  for  he  loves  to  hear. 
That  unicorns  may  be  betrayed  with  trees, 
And  bears  with  g'ia.sses,  elephants  with  holes, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers ; 
But,  when  I  tell  him,  he  hates  flatterers, 
He  says,  he  does,  being  then  most  flattered. 
Let  me  work  ; 

For  I  can  give  his  humour  the  true  bent, 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 

Cas.  Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch  him. 

Bru.  By  the  eighth  hour  :  is  that  the  uttermost? 

Cin.  Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  tlicn. 

Met.  Caius  Ligarius  doth  bear  Ca;sar  hard. 
Who  rated  him  for  speaking  well  of  Ponipey : 
I  wonder,  none  of  you  have  thought  of  him. 

Bru.  Now,  good  Metellus,  go  along  by  him  . 
He  loves  me  well,  and  1  have  given  him  reasons  , 
Send  him  but  hither,  and  I  '11  fashion  him. 

Cas.  The  morning  comes  upon  's  :  we  '11  leave  y'^u 
Brutus. — 
And,  friends,  disper.><e  yourselves  ;  but  all  remembei 
What  you  have  said,  and  show  yourselves  true  Romans 

Bru.  Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily. 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes ; 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untir'd  spirits,  and  formal  constancy : 
And  so,  good-morrow  to  you  every  one. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Bruti's 
Boy  !  Lucius  ! — Fast  asleep.     It  is  no  matter  ; 
Enjoy  the  heavy  honey-dew^  of  slumber  : 
Thou  hast  no  figures,  nor  no  fantasies. 
Which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men  ; 
Therefore,  thou  sleep'st  so  sound. 
Enter  Portia. 

Por.  Brutus,  my  lord  ! 

Bru.  Portia,  what  mean  you?  Wherefore  rise  younorv' 
It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw  cold  morning. 

Por.  Nor  for  yours  neither  You  have  ungently,  Brulua 
Stole  from  my  bed  :  and  yesternight,  at  supper^ 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walk'd  about, 
Musing  ana  sighing   with  your  arms  across  ; 
And  when  I  ask'd  you  wtiat  the  inatier  was,     • 
You  star'd  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks. 
I  urg'd  you  farther  ;  then,  you  scratch'd  your  head, 
And  too  impatiently  stamp'd  with  your  foot : 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not ; 
But,  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand, 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you.     So  I  did, 
Fearing  to  strengthen  that  impatience, 
Which  .seenvd  too  much  enkindled  :  and.  ^^^thal, 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  effect  of  humour. 
Which  sometime  hath  his  h.nir  with  every  man. 
It  will  not  let  you  eat,  nor  talk,  nor  sleep  : 
And,  could  it  work  so  much  ujon  your  shape. 
As  it  hath  much  prevailed  on  your  condition, 
I  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.     Dear  my  lord. 


Bru.  Peace  !  count  the  clock 

Ca^.  The  clock  hath  stricken  three.  I  Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Treb.  'T  is  time  to  part.  Bru.  I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is  all 

'  Used  as  often,  in  the  sense  o'  ha'.red.      »  make  :  in  f  e.      '  honey-heary  dew  :  in  f.  «. 


ro4 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


ACT  n. 


Por.  Brutus  is  wise,  and  were  he  not  in  health, 
Ho  woiihl  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Bru.   Wliy.  so  I  do. — Good  Purtia.  go  to  bed. 

Por.   Is  Hrutus  sick,  and  is  it  physical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  the  humour^ 
Of  the  dank  morning?     What  !   is  Brutus  sick, 
-Vnd  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholef^ome  bed, 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night, 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  unpurgcd  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness  ?     No.  my  Brutus  . 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind. 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of:  and  upon  my  knees       [Kjieeling} 
I  charm  you.  by  my  once  commended  beauty. 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me.  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy,  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you ;  for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  t'rom  darkness. 

Bru.  Kneel  not.  gentle  Portia.   [Raisiyig  her* 

Por    I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle  Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted,  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you?     Am  I  yourself 
But.  afi  it  were,  in  sort,  or  limitation: 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed. 
And  tnlk  to  you  sometimes  ?  Dwell  I  but  in  the  suburbs 
Of  your  good  pleasure  ?     If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  -wife. 

Bru.  You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife  ; 
As  dear  to  me.  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

Por.  If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know  this  secret. 
I  grant.  I  am  a  woman  :  but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  lord  Brutus  took  to  wife: 
I  grant,  I  am  a  woman  ;  but.  wthal. 
A  woman  well-reputed,  Cato's  dauahter. 
Think  you,  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex. 
Being  so  father'd,  and  so  husbanded  ? 
Tell  me  your  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  them. 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy. 
Giving  myself  a  voluntar\'  wound 
Here,  in  the  thigh  :  can  1  bear  that  with  patience. 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets  ? 

^'■'<-  O  ye  gods  ! 

Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble -wife.  \Knockinfr  within. 
Hark,  hark  !  one  knocks.     Portia,  go  in  a  while  ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bo.xom  shall  partake 
The  secret*  ol  my  heart. 
All  my  engagements  i  will  construe  to  thee, 
All  the  charncicry  of  my  sad  brows. 
Leave  me  with  haste.  [Exit  Portia. 

Enter  Lrcius  and  Lif:ARiiis. 

Lucius,  who  is  't  that  knocks? 

Luc.  Here  is  a  sick  man,  that  would  speak  with  you. 

Bru.   Caius  Lisarius.  that  Metellus  spake  of. — 
Bty,  stand  aside. — Caius  Ligarius  !  how? 

Lig.  Vouchsafe  sood  morrow  from  a  feeble  toneue. 

Bru.  O  !  what  a  time  have  you  chose  out,  brave  Caius  i 
To  wear  a  kerchief.     WVjuld  you  were  not  sick  !  ] 

Lig.  I  am  not  sick,  if  Brutus  have  in  hand 
Any  exploit  worthy  the  name  of  honour.  I 

Bnt.  Such  an  exploit  have  I  in  hand.  Ligariua, 
Had  you  a  healthhil  ear  to  hear  of  it. 

Lig.  By  all  the  gods  that  Romans  bow  before, 
\  here  discard  my  sickness.     Soul  of  Rome  ! 

[Throwing  away  his  bandage.* 

»  »  •  Not  in  f  .. 


Brave  son,  deriv'd  from  honourable  loins, 
Thou,  like  an  exorcist,  hast  conjurd  up 
My  mortilied  s|)irit.     Now  bid  me  run. 
And  I  will  strive  with  things  impossible; 
Yea.  get   the  better  of  them.     What's  to  do? 

Bru.  A  piece  of  work  that  will  make  sick  men  whole 

Lig.  But  are  not  some  whole  that  we  must  make  sick  ? 

Bnt.  That  must  we  also.     What  it  is,  my  Caiu.s, 
I  shall  unlold  to  thee,  as  we  are  going, 
To  whom  it  must  be  done. 

Lig.  Set  on  your  foot, 

And  with  a  heart  new-fir'd  1  follow  you, 
To  do  I  know  not  what;  but  it  sutficeih. 
That  Brutus  leads  me  on. 

Bru.  Follow  me.  then.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.    A  Room  m  C;f.sar's  Palace 
Thunder  and  Lightning.     Enter  C^sar,  in  his  Night- 
gown. 

Cos.  Nor  heaven,  nor  earth,  have  been  at  peace  to- 
night : 
Thrice  hath  Calphurnia  in  her  sleep  cried  out, 
"  Help,  ho  !     They  murder  Caesar  !'" — Who  's  within' 
Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord. 

Cos.  Go  bid  the  priests  do  present  sacrifice, 
And  bring  me  their  opinions  of  success. 

Serv.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Enter  Calphurnia. 

Cal.  What  mean  you,  Caesar?     Think  you  to  walk 
forth  ? 
You  shall  not  stir  out  of  your  house  to-day. 

CcBs.  Caesar  shall  forth  :  the  things  that  threaten'd  me, 
Ne^er  lookd  but  on  my  back  ;  when  they  shall  see 
The  face  of  Csesar.  they  are  vanished. 

Cal.  Caesar.  I  never  stood  on  ceremonies. 
Yet  now  they  fright  me.     There  is  one  within. 
Besides  the  things  that  we  have  heard  and  seen, 
Recounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 
A  lioness  hath  whelped  in  the  streets  ; 
And  graves  have  yawn'd,  and  yielded  up  their  dead; 
Fierce  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds 
In  ranks,  and  squadrons,  and  risht  form  of  war. 
Which  drizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol : 
The  noise  of  battle  hurtled  in  the  air: 
Horses  did  neigh,  and  dying  men  did  groan; 
And  ghosts  did  shriek,  and  squeal  about  the  streetji. 
0  Capsar  !  these  things  are  beyond  all  use. 
And  I  do  fear  them. 

CcEs.  Wliat  can  be  avoided. 

Whose  end  is  purpos'd  by  the  mighty  gods? 
Yet  Ca?sar  shall  go  forth  ;  for  these  predictions 
Are  to  the  world  in  general,  as  to  Caesar. 

Cal.  When  beggars  die  there  are  no  comets  seen 
The  heavens  themselvesblaze  forth  thedcatho'"  princ« 

Ca^f.  Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths, 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard, 
It  .seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear, 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end. 
Will  come,  when  it  will  come. 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 

What  say  the  augurer*  ' 

.'serv.  They  would  not  have  you  to  stir  forth  to-dav 
Plucking  the  entrails  of  an  oflering  forth. 
They  could  not  find  a  heart  within  the  bea.st. 

Cees.  The  iiods  do  this  in  shame  of  cowardice : 
Caesar  should  be  a  beast  without  a  heart, 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  feai 


SOENE  IV. 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


705 


No,  Caesar  shall  not :  danger  knows  full  well, 
That  Caesar  js  more  dangerous  than  he 
We  are'  two  lions  litter'd  in  one  day, 
And  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible  ; 
And  Caesar  shall  go  forth. 

Cal.  Alas  !  my  lord, 

Your  wisdom  is  consum'd  in  confidence. 
Do  not  go  forth  to-day :  call  it  my  fear 
That  keeps  you  in  the  house,  and  not  your  own. 
We  '11  send  Mark  Antony  to  the  senate-house. 
And  he  shall  say,  you  are  not  well  to-day : 
Let  me,  upon  my  knee,  prevail  in  this.         [Kneeling^ 

Cas.  Mark  Antony  shall  say,  I  am  not  well  ; 
And,  for  thy  humour,  I  will  stay  at  home.  [Rauing  her} 

Enter  Decius. 
Here  's  Decius  Brutus,  he  shall  tell  them  so. 

Dec.  Csesar,  all  hail !  Good  morrow,  worthy  Caesar  : 
I  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  senate-house. 

Cas.  And  you  are  come  in  very  happy  time 
T©  bear  my  greeting  to  the  senators, 
And  tell  them  that  I  will  not  come  to-day. 
Cannot  is  false  ;  and  that  I  dare  not,  falser  : 
I  will  not  come  to-day.     Tell  them  so,  Decius. 

Cal.  Say,  he  is  sick. 

Cas.  Shall  Caesar  send  a  lie  ? 

Have  I  in  conquest  stretch'd  mine  arm  so  far, 
To  be  afeard  to  tell  grey-beards  the  truth? 
Decius,  go  tell  them,  Caesar  will  not  come. 

Dec.  Most  mighty  Caesar,  let  me  know  some  cause, 
Lest  I  be  laugh'd  at  when  I  tell  them  so. 

Cas.  The  cause  is  in  my  will ;  I  will  not  come  : 
That  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  senate  ; 
But,  for  your  private  satisfaction, 
Because  I  love  you,  I  will  let  you  know. 
Calphurnia  here,  my  wife,  stays  me  at  home  : 
She  dream'd  to-night  she  saw  my  statue. 
Which,  like  a  fountain  with  a  hundred  spouts, 
Did  run  pure  blood ;  and  many  lusty  Romans 
Came  smiling,  and  did  bathe  their  hands  in  it. 
And  these  does  she  apply  for  warnings,  and  portents 
Of  evils  imminent ;  and  on  her  knee 
Hath  begg'd,  that  I  will  stay  at  home  to-day. 

Dec.  This  dream  is  all  amiss  interpreted: 
[t  was  a  vision,  fair  and  fortunate. 
Your  statue  spouting  blood  in  many  pipes. 
In  which  so  many  sn^iiling  Romans  bath'd. 
Signifies  that  from  you  great  Rome  shall  suck 
Reviving  blood ;   and  that  great  men  shall  press 
For  tinctures,  stains,  relics,  and  cognizance. 
This  by  CaljAurnia's  dream  is  signified. 

Cas.  And  this  way  have  you  well  expounded  it. 

Dec.  I    have,   wlien    you   have    heard   what  I   can 
say  : 
And  know  it  now.     The  senate  have  concluded 
fo  give  this  day  a  croM'n  to  mighty  Caesar  : 
If  you  shall  send  them  word  you  will  not  come. 
Their  minds  may  change.     Besides,  it  were  a  mock 
Apt  to  be  render'd,  for  some  one  to  say, 
''  Break  up  the  senate  till  another  time, 
When  Caesar's  wife  shall  meet  with  better  dreams." 
If  Caesar  hide  himself,  shall  they  not  whisper, 
"Lo  !   Caesar  is  afraid?" 
Pardon  me,  Caesar  ;  for  my  dear,  dear  love 
To  your  proceeding  bids  me  tell  you  this. 
And  reason  to  my  love  is  liable. 

Cas.  How   foolish   do   your    fears  seem  now,   Cal- 
phurnia ! 
I  am  aiihamed  I  did  yield  to  them. — 
(rive  me  my  robe,  for  I  will  go  : — 

1  '  were  •  in  f.  e.     ChanyeJ  by  Theobald  from  "  heare"  :  in  folio. 

2U 


Enter  Publius.  Brutus.  Ligarius,  Meteli.us,  Casca 

Trebonius,  and  Cinna. 
And  look  where  Publius  is  come  to  fetch  me. 

Pub.  Good  morrow,  Caesar. 

Cos.  Welcome,  Publius  — 

What,  Brutus,  are  you  stirr'd  so  early  too  ? — 
Good-morrow,  Casca. — Caius  Ligarius, 
Caesar  was  ne'er  so  much  your  enemy, 
As  that  same  ague  which  hath  made  you  lean. — • 
What  is  't  o'clock  ? 

Bru.  Caesar,  't  is  stricken  eight. 

Cas.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  courtesy. 
Enter  Antony. 
See  !  Antony,  that  revels  long  o'  nights. 
Is  notwithstanding  up. — Good  morrow,  Antony. 

Ant.  So  to  most  noble  Caesar. 

Cas.  Bid  them  prepare  within 

I  am  to  blame  to  be  thus  waited  for. — 
Now,  Cinna  : — Now,  Metellus  : — What,  Trebonius  ! 
I  have  an  hour's  talk  in  store  for  you. 
Rennember  that  you  call  on  me  to-day : 
Be  near  me,  that  I  may  remember  you. 

Treb.  Caesar,  I  will : — and  so  near  will  I  be,  {Aside 
That  your  best  friends  shall  wish  I  had  been  farther. 

C«5.Good  friends,  go  in,  and  taste  some  -wine  with  me, 
And  we,  like  friends,  will  straightway  go  together. 

Bru.  That  every  like  is  not  the  same,  0  Csesar!  [.45w/e.* 
The  heart  of  Brutus  yearns  to  think  upon.        {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Street  near  the  Capitol 

Enter  Artemidorus,  reading  a  Paper. 
Art.    '-Caesar,    beware  of  Brutus;     take   heed   of 
Cassius ;  come  not  near  Casca  ;  have  an  eye  to  Cinna  , 
trust   not   Trebonius ;    mark  well  Metellus  Cimber , 
Decius    Brutus   loves   thee   not;    thou  hast  wronged 
Caius  Ligarius.     There  is  but  one  mind  in  all  these 
men,  and  it  is  bent  against  Csesar.     If  thou  be'st  not 
immortal,  look  about  you  :  security  gives  way  to  con- 
spiracy.    The  mighty  gods  defend  thee  !     Thy  lover, 
"  Artemidoros.'" 
Here  will  I  stand  till  Caesar  pass  along, 
And  as  a  suitor  will  I  give  him  this. 
My  heart  laments  that  virtue  cannot  live 
Out  of  the  teeth  of  emulation. 
If  thou  read  this,  0  Caesar  !  thou  may'st  live  ; 
If  not,  the  fates  with  traitors  do  contrive.  {Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the  same 
Street,  before  the  House  of  Bkutus. 
Enter  Portia  and  Lucius. 
Por.  I  pr'ythee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate-house  : 
Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  gel  thee  gone. 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

Luc.  To  know  my  errand,  madam 

Por.  I  would  have  had  thee  there,  and  here  again. 
Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  shouldst  do  there. — 

0  constancy  !  be  strong  upon  my  side  : 

Set  a  huge  mountain  'tween  my  heart  and  tongue ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  inigiit. 
How  hard  it  is  for  women  to  keep  counsel  ! 
Art  thou  here  yet? 

Luc.  Madam,  what  should  I  do  ? 

Run  to  the  Capitol,  and  nothing  else. 
And  so  return  to  you,  and  nothing  else  ? 

Por.  Yes.  bring  me  word,  boy.  if  thy  lord  look  well, 
For  he  went  sickly  forth :   and  take  good  note, 
What  Csesar  doth,  what  suitors  press  to  bim. 
Hark,  boy  !   what  noise  is  that? 

Luc.   I  hear  none,  madam. 

a  5  *  Not  in  f.  f 


706 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


AOT  in. 


Por.  Pr'y-thee,  listen  well : 

I  hoard  a  bustling  rumour,  like  a  fray, 
A.iul  tlie  wind  brinjjs  it  trom  the  Capitol. 

Luc.  Sooth,  niadaiu,  I  hear  nothing. 

Enter  the  Soothsayer. 

Po.-.  Come  hither,  fellow. 

W  hicli  way  ha.-^t  thou  been  ? 

S(n)lh.  At  mine  own  house,  good  lady. 

Por.  What  is 't  o'clock  ? 

Sooth.  About  the  ninth  hour,  lady. 

Por.  Is  Caesar  yet  gone  to  the  Capitol  ? 

Sooth.  Mailain,  not  yet :   I  go  to  take  my  stand. 
To  see  him  pa.ss  on  to  the  Capitol. 

Por.  Thou  hast  some  suit  to  Caesar,  ha«t  thou  not  ? 

Sooth.  That  I  have,  lady  :   if  it  will  please  Caesar 
To  be  .so  cood  to  Caesar,  as  to  hear  me, 
t  shall  beseech  him  to  befriend  himself. 


Por.  Why,  know' st  thou  any  harm  'b  intended  towards 
him  ? 

Sooth.  None  that  I  know  will  be,  much  that  I  leat 
may  chance. 
Good  morrow  to  you.     Here  the  street  is  narrow  : 
.The  throng'  that  follows  Caesar  at  the  heels, 
Of  senators,  of  praetors,  common  suitors. 
Will  crowd  a  feeble  man  almo.st  to  death  : 
I  '11  get  me  to  a  place  more  void,  and  there 
Speak  to  great  Crcsar  as  he  comes  along.  \Exit 

Por.  I  nmst  go  in. — Ah  me  !  how  wr^'ik  a  thiiig 
The  heart  of  woman  is.     0  Brutus  ! 
The  heavens  speed  thee  in  thine  enterpri.se  ! 
Sure,  the  boy  heard  me: — Brutus  hath  a  suit, 
That  Caesar  will  not  grant. — O  '   I  grow  faint. — 
Run,  Lucius,  and  commend  me  to  my  lord  ; 
Say,  lam  merry :  come  to  me  again, 
And  bring  me  word  what  he  doth  say  to  thee.     [Exeunt 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     The  Capitol ;  the  Senate 
sitting. 
.4  crowd  of  People  in  the  Street  leading  to  the  Capi- 
tol;  among  them  Artemidorus,  and  the  Soothsayer. 

Flourish.     Enter  Ca:sar,  Brutus,  Cassius,  Casca, 

Decks,   Metellus,   Trebonius,    Cinna,   Antony, 

Lepidi'8,  Popilius,  PiBLius,  and  others. 

Cos.  The  ides  of  March  are  come. 

Sooth.  Ay.  Caesar  :  but  not  gone. 

Art.  Hail.  Cac.sar  !     Read  this  schedule. 

Dec.  Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er-read, 
At  your  best  leisure,  this  his  humble  suit. 

Art.  0.  Caesar!  read  mine  first:  for  mine's  a  suit 
That  touclies  Caesar  nearer.     Read  it,  great  Caesar. 

CcEs.  That  touches  us  ?  ourself  shall  be  last  serv'd.' 

Art.  Delay  not,  Caesar:  read  it  instantly. 

Cos.  What  !  is  the  fellow  mad  ? 

Pub.  Sirrah,  give  place. 

Cas.  What !  urge  you  your  petitions  in  the  street? 
Come  to  the  Capitol. 

C«SAR  enters  the  Capitol,  the  rest  following.     All  the 
Setiators  ruse. 

Pop.  I  wish,  your  eiiterpri.se  to-day  may  thrive. 

Cns.  What  enterprise,  Popilius  ? 

Pop.  Fare  you  well.     [Advances  to  Cksar. 

Bru.  What  said  Popilius  Lena? 

Cas.  He  wish'd,  to-day  our  enterprise  might  thrive. 
I  fear,  our  purpose  is  discovered. 

Bru.  Look,  how  he  makes  to  Caesar:  mark  him. 

Cas.  Ciisca,  be  sudden,  for  we  fear  prevention. — 
Br\Uus,  what  shall  be  done?     If  this  be  known, 
Ca.>^sius  or  Caesar  never  shall  turn  back, 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  constant : 

Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Caesar  doth  not  change. 

Cas.    Trebonius   knows    his   time ;    for,    look    you, 
Brutus, 
He  draA*-B  Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way. 

[Efcunt  Antony  and  Trehonhs.     Cksar 
and  the  Senators  lake  their  Seats. 

Dec.  Where  is  Metellus  Cimber?     Let  him  go, 
And  pre-xenlly  prefer  his  suit  to  Caesar. 

Bru.  He  is  addrcss'd';  press  near,  and  second  him. 

Cin.  Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your  hand. 


Casca.*  Are  we  all  ready  ? 

Cces.  What  is  now  amissi, 

That  Caesar  and  his  senate  must  redress? 

Met.    Mo.st   high,  most   mighty,  and  most  puissani 
Caesar, 
Metellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
An  humble  heart. —  [Kneeling 

Cces.  I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber 

These  crouchings,*  and  these  lowly  courtesies, 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men. 
And  turn  pre-ordinance,  and  first  decree. 
Into  the  law*  of  children.     Be  not  fond, 
To  think  that  Caesar  bears  such  rebel  blood, 
That  will  be  thaw'd  from  the  true  quality 
With  that  which  melteth  fools ;  I  mean,  sweet  words 
Low-crouched'  curtesies,  and  base  spaniel  fawning. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished : 
If  thou  dost  bend,  and  pray,  and  fawn  for  him, 
I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 
Know,  Caesar  doth  not  wrong;  nor  without  cause 
Will  he  be  satisfied. 

Met.  Is  there  no  voice,  more  worthy  than  my  own, 
To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Caesar's  ear, 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banish'd  brother? 

Bni.  I  kiss  thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery,  Caesar  : 
Desiring  thee,  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 

Cces.  What,  Brutus  ! 

Cas.  Pardon,  Caesar  ;  Caesar,  pardon  ; 

As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Ca.ssius  fall. 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

C(es.  I  could  be  well  mov'd,  if  I  were  as  yon  ; 
If  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move  me ; 
But  I  am  constant  as  the  northern  star, 
Of  whose  true,  fix'd,  and  resting  quality. 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 
The  skies  are  painted  with  unnumbcr'd  sparks, 
They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine; 
But  there's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place. 
So,  in  the  world  :  't  is  furnish'd  well  with  men. 
And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive ; 
Yel  in  the  number  1  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Unshak'd  of  motion  :  and,  that  I  am  he, 
Let  me  a  little  show  it,  even  in  this, 
That  I  wa.s  constant  Cimber  should  bo  banish'd. 


'  Wb&t  U  ichm  \\»  ouruir,  he.  :  in  f.  e. 


Ready. 


couchinps  :  in  f.  e.     »  lane  : 


foli 


•  I  -w-orooked  :  in  . 


^^*'^  WRIHHHHIH^^OSBSIf : 


8^H«tffnal^pWHP^^gHT^Haf^^tt)Jmim^muvy^^n^fff^t^Htot;rr?!T^^«^T;>?myw 


[WS 


SOKITE   I. 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


707 


A.n<i  coijstant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so. 
Cin.  O  Csesar  !— 

C/es.  Hence  !  Wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus 

Dec.  Great  Caesar, — 

Cas.  Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  kneel  ? 

Casca.  Speak,  hands,  for  me. 

[Casla  stabs  C^SAR  in  the  Neck.     C«sar  catches 
hold  of  his  Arm.      He  is  then  stabbed  by  several 
other  Conspirators,  and  last  by  Marcus  Brutus. 
Cces.  Et  tu.  Brute  ?— Then  fall,  Csesar. 
[Dies.     The  Senators  and  People  retire  in  confusion. 
Cin.  Liberty  !     Freedom  !     Tyranny  is  dead  ! — 
Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets. 

Cas.  Some  to  the  common  pulpits,  and  cry  out, 
"  Liberty,  freedom,  and  enfranchisement !" 

Bru.  People,  and  senators  !  be  not  affrighted. 
Fly  not ;  stand  still : — ambition's  debt  is  paid. 
Casca.  Go  to  the  pulpit,  Brutus. 
J^ec.  And  Cassius  too. 

Bru.  Where 's  Publius  ? 

Cin.  Here,  quite  confounded  with  this  mutiny. 
Met.  Stand  fast  together,  lest  some  friend  of  Caesar's 
Should  chance — 

Bru.  Talk  not  of  standing. — Publius,  good  cheer: 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person, 
Nor  to  no  Roman  else  ;  so  tell  them,  Publius. 

Cas.  And  leave  us,  Publius ;  lest  that  the  people, 
Rushing  on  us,  should  do  your  age  some  mischief. 

Biu.  Do  so : — and  let  no  man  abide  this  deed, 
But  we,  the  doers. 

Re-enter  Trebonius. 
Cas.  Where  's  Antony  ? 

Tre.  Fled  to  his  house  amaz'd. 

Men,  wives,  and  children,  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 
As  it  were  doomsday. 

Bru.  Fates,  we  will  know  your  pleasures. — 

That  we  shall  die,  we  know ;  't  is  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  upon. 

Casca.  Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of  life, 
Cuts  off  so  many  years  of  fearing  death. 

Bru.  Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit : 
So  are  we  Caesar's  friends,  that  have  abridg'd 
His  time  of  fearing  death. — Stoop,  Romans,  stoop, 
And  let  us  batlie  our  hands  in  Caesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  our  swords ; 
Then  walk  we  forth,  even  to  the  market-place, 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads, 
Let 's  all  cry.  Peace  !  Freedom  !  and  Liberty  ! 

Cas.  Stoop  then,  and  wash. — How  many  ages  hence, 
Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over, 
In  states  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown? 

Bru.  How  many  times  shall  Caesar  bleed  in  sport. 
That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along. 
No  worthier  than  the  dust  ? 

Cas.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be. 

So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  call'd 
The  men  that  gave  their  country  liberty. 
Dec.  What  (  shall  we  forth  ? 

Cm.  Ay,  every  man  away : 

Brutus  shall  lead ;  and  we  will  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  best  hearts  of  Rome. 
Enter  a  Servant. 
Bru.  Soft !  who  comes  here  ?    A  friend  of  Antony's. 
Serv.  Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me  kneel  ; 

[Kiieeling.^ 
Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down, 
And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say. 
Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest; 
Oajsar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving  : 


Say,  I  love  Brutus,  and  I  honour  h  m ; 

Say,  I  fear'd  Caesar,  honour'd  him,  and  lov'd  him 

If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe,  that  Antony 

May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolv'd 

How  Cae.sar  hafh  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 

Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Cajsar  dead' 

So  well  as  Brutus  living  ;  but  will  follow 

The  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus, 

Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state, 

With  all  true  faith.  So  says  my  master  Antony.  [R^sin^ 

Bru.  Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman: 
I  never  thought  him  worse. 
Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 
He  shall  be  satisfied ;  and,  by  my  honour, 
Depart  untouch'd. 

Serv.  ril  fetch  him  presen'-ly.     [Exit  Servant 

Bru.  I  know,  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to  friend. 
Cas.  I  wish,  we  may ;  but  yet  1  ave  I  a  mind, 
That  fears  him  much,  and  my  misgiving  still 
Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 

Enter  Antony. 
Bru.    But   here    comes    Antony. — Welcome,    Mark 

Antony. 
Ant.  0  mighty  Caesar  !  dost  thou  lie  so  low  ? 

[Kneeling  over  the  Body' 
Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils. 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure  ?     Fare  theo.  well.— 
I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend,  [Rising 

Who  else  mu.st  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank  : 
If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 
As  Caesar's  death  hour;  nor  no  instrument 
Of  half  that  worth,  as  those  your  swords,  made  rich 
With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 
I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard, 
Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and  smoke, 
Fulfil  your  pleasure.     Live  a  thousand  years, 
I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die  ; 
No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death, 
As  here  by  Caesar,  and  by  you  cut  off, 
The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 

Bru.  O  Antony  !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel, 
As,  by  our  hands,  and  this  our  present  act, 
You  see  we  do  ;  yet  see  you  but  our  hands, 
And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done. 
Our  hearts  you  see  not :  they  are  pitiful ; 
And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 
(As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity,  pity) 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.     For  your  part, 
To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark  Antony 
Our  arms,  in  strength  of  welcome,  and  our  hearts. 
Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in 
With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 

Cas.  Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  man's, 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 

Bru.  Only  be  patient,  till  we  have  appeas'd 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear. 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause, 
Why  I,  that  did  love  Caisar  when  I  struck  him. 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

Aiit.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wis  Join 

Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand  : 

[One  after  the  :><W. 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  wiih  you  : — 
Next,  Caius  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand  : — 
Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours  ; — now  yours,  Metellus;— 
Yours.  Cinna  ; — and,  my  valiant  Cai^ca.  yours  : — 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours   good  Trebonius. 
Gentlemen  all,— alas  !  what  shall  I  say  ? 


108 


JULIUS  C^SAR 


My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground. 
Tliat  one  of  two  bad  wa>'s  you  must  conceit  me, 
Either  a  coward,  or  a  flatterer. — 
That  I  did  love  thee.  Ca>sar  !  0.  'tis  true: 

[Tumiug  to  the  Body,  and  bending  over  it} 
It,  then,  thy  spirit  look  upon  u.«  now, 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thee,  dearer  than  thy  death, 
Tr  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace. 
Shaking  the  bloody  ^inge^.^  of  thy  foes, 
Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds, 
Weejiing  as  last  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood. 
It  would  become  me  better,  than  to  close 
In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies.     . 
Panlon    nie,  Julius  !      Here  wa.st  thou   bay'd,    brave 

hart : 
Here  didst  thou  fall  :  and  here  thy  hunters  etand. 
Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  and  cnmson'd  in  thy  death. 

0  world  !  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart : 
And  this,  indeed,  0  world  !  the  heart  of  thee. — 
How  like  a  deer,  stricken  by  many  princes, 
Do.>st  thou  here  lie? 

Cos.  Mark  Antony  I 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius : 

The  enemies  of  Csesar  shall  say  this; 
Then,  in  a  friend  it  is  cold  modesty. 

Cos.  I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Caesar  so. 
But  -what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us? 
Will  you  be  prick'd  in  number  of  our  friends. 
Or  shall  we  on.  and  not  depend  on  you  ? 

Ant.  Therefore  I  took  your  hands  :  but  was,  indeed, 
Sway'd  from  the  point  by  looking  down  on  Caesar. 
Friends  am  I  with  you  all.  and  love  you  all, 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons. 
Why,  and  wherein,  Caesar  was  dangerous. 

Bru.  Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle. 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard. 
That  were  you.  Antony,  the  son  of  Caesar. 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

Ant.  That  's  all  I  seek : 

And  am  moreover  suitor,  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place  : 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend. 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 

Bru.  You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 

Cos.  Brutus,  a  word  with  you. — 

You  know  not  what  you  do  :  do  not  consent.       [Apart. 
That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral. 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd 
By  that  which  he  will  utter  ? 

Bru.  By  your  pardon  : 

f  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first. 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Caesar's  death  : 
What  Antony  shall  speak.  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permi.'jsion  , 
And  that  we  are  contented,  Caesar  shall 
Have  all  due  rites,  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  «hall  idvantaL'c  more,  than  do  us  wrong. 

Ca.\.  I  know  not  what  may  tall  :   I  like  it  not. 

Bni.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caesar's  body. 
You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Caesar ; 
And  say,  you  do't  by  our  permission, 
El."«e  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 
About  his  funeral  :  and  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going, 
After  my  •pecch  it  ended. 

Ant.  Be  it  so; 

1  do  desire  no  more. 

*  N->t  ia  r.  e 


Bru    Prepare  the  body,  then,  and  follow  us. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Antonk 

Ant    O  !  pardon  me.  thou  bleeding  piece  of  earth. 
That  1  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers. 
Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man. 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood  ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy. 
(Which,  like  dumb  mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby  lips, 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue) 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  loins  of  men: 
Domestic  fury,  and  fierce  civil  strife, 
Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy  : 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  he  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  .«o  familiar, 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile,  when  they  behold 
Their  infants  quarterd  with  the  hands  of  war, 
All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds  ; 
And  Caesar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge. 
With  Ate  by  bis  side,  come  hot  from  hell, 
Shall  in  these  confines,  with  a  monarch's  voice, 
Cry  '■  Havock  !"  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war, 
That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth 
With  carrion  men,  groaning  for  burial. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
You  serve  Octavius  Caesar,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.  Caesar  did  -vrrite  for  him  to  come  to  Rome. 

Serv.  He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  coming. 

And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth. 

0  Caesar  !  [Seeing  the  Body. 

Ant.  Thy  heart  is  big,  get  thee  apart  and  weep. 
Passion.  I  see,  is  catching  :  for  mine  eyes, 
Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 
Began  to  water.     Is  thy  master  coming  ? 

Serv.  He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues  of  Piome. 

Ant.  Post  back  with  speed,  and  tell  him  what  hath 
chanc'd. 
Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome, 
No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet : 
Hie  hence,  and  tell  him  so.     Yet.  stay  a  while  ; 
Thou  shall  not  back,  till  I  have  borne  this  corse 
Into  the  market-place  :  there  shall  I  try. 
In  my  oration,  how  the  people  take 
The  cruel  issue  of  these  bloody  men  : 
According  to  the  which,  thou  shalt  discourse 
To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  thinss. 
Lend  me  your  hand.  [Exeunt,  with  C*;sar's  Body. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     The  Forum. 
Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius,  and  a  throng  of  Citizens. 

Cit.  We  will  be  satisfied  :  let  us  be  satisfied. 

jBru. Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience,  friendji  — 
Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street. 
And  part  the  numbers. — 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  them  stay  here; 
Those  that  will  follow  Cassius.  go  with  him  : 
And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 
Of  Caesar.s  death. 

1  Cit.  I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2  Cit.  I  will  hear  Cassius;  and  compare  their  reasons, 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

[Exit  Cassius,  u-ith  .some  of  the  Citizens 
Brutus  goes  info  thr  Rostrum. 

3  Cit.  The  noble  Brutus  is  a.'^cended.     Silence  ! 
Bru.  Be  patient  till  the  last 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers  !  hear  me  for  my 
cause,  and  be  silent  that  you  may  hear  :  believe  me  for 
mine  honour,  and  have  respect  lo  mine   honour,  tli*t 


BCENa   11. 


JULIUS   CvESAR. 


709 


you  may  believe  censure  me  in  your  wisdom,  and 
awake  your  senses  that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If 
there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of 
Caesar's,  to  him  I  say,  that  Brutus'"  love  to  Csesar  was 
no  less  than  his.  If,  then,  that  friend  demand,  why 
Brutus  rose  against  Caesar  ?  this  is  my  answer, — not 
that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved  Rome  more. 
Had  you  rather  Caesar  were  living,  and  die  all  slaves, 
than  that  Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all  free  men  ?  As 
Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep  for  him  ;  as  he  was  fortunate, 
I  rejoice  at  it ;  as  he  was  valiant,  t  honour  him ;  but, 
a5  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew  hira.  There  is  tears  for 
his  love ;  joy  for  his  fortrme  ;  honour  for  his  valour  ; 
and  death  for  his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base,  that 
would  be  a  bondman'  If  any,  speak  ;  for  him  have  I 
offended.  Who  is  here  so  rude,  that  would  not  be  a 
Roman  ?  If  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I  offended. 
Who  is  here  so  vile,  that  will  not  love  his  country  ? 
If  any,  speak  ;  for  him  have  I  offended.  I  pause  for  a 
reply. 

All.  None,  Brutus,  none. 

Bni.  Then,  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done  no 
more  to  Caesar,  than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The 
question  of  his  death  is  enrolled  in  the  Capitol;  his 
glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy,  nor  his 
offences  enforced,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

Enter  Antony  and  others,  with  Cesar's  Body. 
Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony  :  who, 
though  he  had  no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  receive  the 
benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in  the  commonwealth ;  as 
which  of  you  shall  not  ?  With  this  I  depart ;  that,  as 
I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the 
same  dagger  for  myself,  when  it  shall  please  my  coun- 
try to  need  my  death. 

All.  Live,  Brutus  !  live  !  live  I 

1  Cit.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto  his  house. 

2  Cit.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

3  Cit.  Let  him  be  Caesar. 

4  Cit.  Caesar's  better  parts 
Shall  now  be  croMTi'd  in  Brutus. 

1  Cit.  We  '11  bring  him  to  his  house  with  shouts  and 

clamours. 
.  Bru.  My  countrymen, — 

2  Cit.  Peace !  silence  !  Brutus  speaks. 
1  Cit.  Peace,  ho  ! 

Brii.  Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone ; 
A  nd,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony : 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories,  which  Mark  Antony, 
By  our  permission,  is  allowed  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart, 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  [Exit. 

1  Cit.  F'tay,  ho  !   and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 

3  Cit.  Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair : 
We  '11  hear  him. — Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Ant.  For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholding  to  you, 

4  Cit.  What  does  he  say  of  Brutus  ? 

3  Cit.  He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake, 
He  finds  himself  beholding  to  us  all. 

4  Cit.  'T  were  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

1  Cit.  This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3  Cit.  Nay,  that 's  certain  : 

We  are  bless'd,  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2  Ci  .  Peace  !  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 
Ant.  You  gentle  Romans. — 

Cit.  Peace,  ho  !  let  us  hear  him. 

Ant.  Friends,   Romans,   countrymen,   lend  me  your 
ears: 
I  come  t(  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  li^es  after  them, 


j  The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones  : 
1  So  let  it  be  with  Csesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
I  Hath  told  you.  Caesar  was  ambitious : 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault. 

And  grievously  hath  Ca'sar  answer'd  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brut  us  and  the  rest, 
:  (For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man, 
j  So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men) 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
j  He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me : 

But  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious  : 

And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
I  Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill . 

Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious? 

When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept ; 

Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff: 

Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 

You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown. 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition? 
!  Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious : 
'  And,  sure,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 
\  I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
j  But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 

Yo      -    --- 


ou  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause : 
What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to  mourn  for  him  ? 

0  judgment !  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason. — Bear  with  me  ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 

And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1  Cit.  Methinks.  there  is  mitch  reason  in  his  sayings 

2  Cit.  If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

3  Cit.  Has  he,  masters? 

1  fear,  there  wnll  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4  Cit.  Mark'd  ye  his  words  ?     He  would  not  take  thr 

crowni : 
Therefore,  't  is  certain,  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1  Cit.  If  it  be  foimd  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

2  Cit.  Poor  soul  !  his  eyes    are   red   as    fire  with 

weeping. 

3  Cit.  There's  not   a   nobler   man  in  Rome  than 

Antony. 

4  Cit.  Now  mark  him ;  he  begins  again  to  speak. 
Ant.  But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world :  now,  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters  !  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  \\Tong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honourable  men. 

I  will  not  do  tliem  -wTong :  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you. 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 

But  here  's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar  ; 

I  found  it  in  his  closet,  't  is  his  will  : 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 

(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read) 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  .n  his  sacred  blood; 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  witliin  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy, 

Unto  their  issue. 

4  Cit.  We  '11  hear  the  will.     Read  it.  MarK  Antony 
All.  The  will,  the  will !  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will 
Ant.    Have   patience,    gentle    friends;    I   must   not 
read  it : 


710 


JULIUS   CJi:SAK 


ACT  m. 


It  if  not  meet  you  know  Low  Caesar  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  arc  not  etoncs,  but  men, 
And,  bein^  mt-n.  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you.  it  will  make  you  mad. 
'T  is  good  you  know  not  that  yon  are  his  heirs; 
For  if  you  should.  O  !  what  would  come  of  it  ? 

4  Cit.  |{ead  the  will  !  we'll  hear  it,  Antony; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will:   Caesar's  will  ! 

A\it.  Will  you  be  patient?     Will  you  stay  a  while? 
1  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  tear.  I  wrong  the  honourable  men, 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar  :  I  do  fear  it. 

4  Cit.  Tliey  were  traitors  :  honourable  men  ! 

All.  The  will  !  the  testament  ! 

2  Cit    They  were  villains,  murderers.     The  will  ! 
read  the  will. 

Ar.t.  You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will? 
Then   make  a  ring  about  the  corp.se  of  Csesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend?  and  will  you  give  me  leave? 

All.  Come  down. 

2  Cit.  Descend.  [He  comes  down. 

3  Cit.  You  shall  have  leave. 

4  Cit.  A  ring !  stand  round. 

1  Cit.  Stand    from    the    hearse ;    stand    from    the 

body. 

2  Ctt.  Room  for  Antony : — most  noble  Antony  ! 
Ant.  Na> .  press  not  so  upon  me  ;  stand  far  off. 
All    Stand  back  !  room  !  bear  back  ! 

Aiit.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :   I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  j)ut  it  on  ; 
'T  was  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 
Tliat  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 
Look  !  in  this  place,  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through : 
See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Ca.sca  made ; 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd  ; 
And  as  he  pluck"d  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Ca;sar  foUow'd  it, 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel  : 
Judge.  0  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  lov'd  him  ! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 
yiiite  variqui.'^hd  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart; 
And  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 
Even  at  the  ba,se  of  Pompey's  statue. 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  CsBsar  fell. 
3,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down. 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 
0  !  now  you  weep  :  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity  :  these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kmd  souls  !  what  !  weep  you,  when  you  but  behold 
Our  CsDsar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here, 
Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1  Cit.  0  piteous  spectacle  ! 

2  Cit.  0  noble  Caesar  ! 

3  Cit.  0  woful  day  ! 

4  Ctl    0  traitors  !   villains! 
1  Cit    O  most  bloody  sight ! 

All.  We  will  be  revenged.     Revenge!  about, — seek, 
—bum. — fire, — kill. — slay  ! — let  not  a  traitor  live. 
Ant.  Stay,  countrymen.  [They  are  rushing  out.^ 

1  Cit.  Peace  there'  hear  the  noble  Antony 
%  Cit.  We  'II  hear  him,  we  '11  follow  him,  we  'U  die 
with  l.im. 

'  Not  int.*       »  So  KCJtd  folio  ;   vrrit  :  in  firet  foUo. 


Ant.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stii 

you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honourable : 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas !   I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do  it;  they  are  wise  and  lionourabio, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts : 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is. 
But,  a.s  you  know  me  all.  a  plain  blunt  man. 
That  love  my  friend  ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,''  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood  :  I  only  speak  right  on  ; 
I  tell  you  that,  which  you  yourselves  do  know, 
Show  >ou  sweet   Caesar's  wounds,  poor,   poor  dumb 

mouths. 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :  but  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  woimd  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
All.  We  '11  mutiny. 

1  Cit.    We  '11  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 

3  Cit.  Away  then  !  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 
Ant.  Yet  hear  me.  countrymen;  yet  hear  me  speaJi 
All.  Peace,  ho  !     Hear  Antony  ;  most  noble  Antony 
Ant.  Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not  what 

Wherein  hath  Caesar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves? 

Ala5  !  you  know  not ; — 1  must  tell  you,  then. 

You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

All.  Most  true ; — the  will : — let 's  stay,  and  hear  the 

will. 
Ant.  Here  is  the  ■will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 

To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives. 

To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2  Cit.  Most  noble  Caesar  ! — we  '11  revenge  his  death 

3  Cil.  O  royal  Caesar  ! 

Ant.  Hear  me  with  patience. 

All.  Peace,  ho  ! 

Ant.  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbours,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tyber :  he  hath  left  them  you. 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever  ;  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar;  when  comes  such  another? 

1  Cit.  Never,  never  ! — Come,  away,  away  ! 
We  '11  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  i)lace. 

And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

2  Cit.  Go,  fetch  fire. 

3  Cit.  Pluck  down  benches. 

4  Cit.  Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  any  thing. 

[Exeunt  Citizens,  with  the  Bat^ 

Ant.  Now  let  it  work.     Mischief,  thou  art  atbot. 

Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt. — How  now,  lellow 

Filter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir.  Octavius  is  already  come  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Where  is  he  ? 

Serv.  He  and  Lepidus  are  at  Caesar's  house. 

Ant.  And  thither  will  I  straight  to  visit  hira. 
He  comes  upon  a  wish  :  Fortune  is  merry, 
And  in  this  mood  will  give  us  any  thing. 

Serv.  I  heard  them  say,  Brutus  and  Ca.sBius 
Are  rid  like  madmen  through  the  gates  of  liome. 

Ant.  Belike,  they  had  some  notice  of  the  people 
How  I  had  mov'd  them.  Bring  me  to  Octavius.  [Kxfi'TU 


sosNs  n. 


JULIUS   C^SAK. 


711 


SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
En';r  Cinna,  the  Poet. 
Cin.  I  dreamt  to-night,  that  I  did  feast  with  Caesar, 
A.nd  things  unlikely'  charge  my  fantasy. 
I  have  no  will  to  wander  forth  of  doors, 
Vet  something  leads  me  forth. 

Enter  Citizens. 

1  Cit.  What  is  your  name  ? 

2  Cit.  Whither  are  you  going? 

3  Cit.  Where  do  you  dwell  ? 

4  Cit.  Are  you  a  married  man,  or  a  bachelor? 

2  Cit.  Answer  every  man  directly. 

1  Cit.  Ay,  and  briefly. 
4  Cit.  Ay,  and  wisely. 

3  Cit.  Ay.  and  truly ;  you  were  best. 

Cin.  What  is  my  name?  Whither  am  I  going? 
Where  do  I  dwell  ?  Am  I  a  married  man,  or  a  bache- 
lor? Tlien,  to  answer  every  man  directly,  and  briefly, 
wisely,  and  truly,  wisely  I  say,  I  am  a  bachelor. 

2  Cit.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  they  are  fools  that 


marry : — you  '11  bear  me  a  bang  for  that,  I  fear.     Pro- 
ceed :  directly. 

Cin.  Directly,  I  am  going  to  Casar's  funeral. 

1  Cit.   As  a  friend,  or  an  enemy? 
Ci)i.   As  a  friend. 

2  Cit.  That  matter  is  answered  directly, 
4  Cil.   For  your  dwelling, — briefly. 
Cin.  Briefly,  I  dwell  by  the  Capitol. 

3  Cil.  Your  name,  sir,  truly. 
Cin.  Truly,  my  name  is  Cinna. 

1  Cit.  Tear  him  to  pieces  :  he  's  a  conspirator. 
Cin.  I  am  Cinna,  the  poet ;  I  am  Cinna,  the  poet. 

4  Cit.  Tear  him  for  his  bad  verses  ;  tear  him  for  hib 
bad  verses, 

Cin.  I  am  not  Cinna  the  conspirator. 

2  Cit.  It  is  no  matter:  his  name  's  Cinna:  pluck  bui 
his  name  out  of  his  heart,  and  turn  him  going. 

3  Cit.  Tear  him,  tear  him  !  Come  :  brands,  ho  !  fire- 
brands !  To  Brutus,  to  Cassius  ;  burn  all.  Some  ir 
Decius'  house,  and  some  to  Casca's  ;  some  to  Liirarius 
Away  !  go  !  [Exeunt.*  forcing  out  Cinna 


ACT   ly. 


SCENE  I. — The  Same.    A  Room  in  Antony's  House. 
Antony,  Octavius,  and  Lepidus,  seated  at  a  Table. 

Ant.  These  many,  then,  shall  die  ;  their  names  are 
prick'd. 

Oct.  Your  brother,  too,  must  die :  consent  you,  Le- 
pidus ? 

Lep.  I  do  consent. 

Oct.  Prick  him  downi,  Antony. 

Ijep.  Upon  condition  Publius  shall  not  live, 
Who  is  your  sister's  son,  Mark  Antony. 

Am.  He  shall  not  live;  look,  with  a  spot  I  damn  him. 
But,  Lepidus,  go  you  to  Caesar's  house  ; 
Fetch  the  will  hither,  and  we  will  determine 
How  to  cut  off"  some  charge  in  legacies. 

Lcp.  What,  shall  I  find  you  here  ? 

Oct.  Or  here,  or  at  the  Capitol.  [Exit  Lepidus. 

Ant.    This  is  a  slight  unmeritable  man, 
Meet  to  be  sent  on  errands  ;  is  it  fit. 
The  threefold  world  divided,  he  should  stand 
One  of  the  three  to  share  it  ? 

Oct.  So  you  thought  him ; 

And  took  his  voice  who  should  be  prick'd  to  die 
^n  our  black  sentence  and  proscription. 

Ant.  Octavius,  I  have  seen  more  days  than  you  : 
And  though  we  lay  these  honours  on  this  man, 
To  ease  ourselves  of  divers  slanderous  loads. 
He  shall  but  bear  them  as  the  ass  bears  gold, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  the  business, 
Either  led  or  driven,  as  we  point  the  way ; 
And  having  brought  our  treasure  where  we  will, 
Then  take  we  down  his  load,  and  turn  him  off, 
Like  to  the  empty  ass,  to  shake  his  ears, 
And  graze  en  commons. 

Oct.  You  may  do  your  will ; 

But  he  's  a  tried  and  valiant  soldier. 

Ant.  So  is  my  horse,  Octavius  ;  and  for  that 
1  do  appoint  him  store  of  provender  ; 
!t  is  a  creature  that  I  teach  to  fight. 
To  wind,  to  stop,  to  run  directly  on, 
His  corporal  motion  govern'd  by  my  spirit : 

•  nnluckily  :  in  f.  a.     »  The  reit  of  this  direction  is  not  in 
tnaaD.-  'tretcb'J 


And,  in  some  taste,  is  Lepidus  but  so  : 

He  must  be  taught,  and  traiii'd,  and  bid  go  forth. 

A  barren-spirited  fellow  ;  one  that  feeds 

On  objects,  arts,  and  imitations. 

Which,  out  of  use  and  staled  by  other  men, 

Begin  his  fashion  •  do  not  talk  of  him, 

But  as  a  property.     And  now,  Octavius, 

Listen  great  things.     Brutus  and  Cassius. 

Are  levying  powers  :  we  must  straight  make  head  ; 

Therefore,  let  our  alliance  be  combin'd, 

Our  best  friends  made,  and  our  best  means  stretch'd 

out;' 
And  let  us  presently  go  sit  in  council. 
How  covert  matters  may  be  best  disclos'd. 
And  open  perils  surest  answered. 

Oct.  Let  us  do  so,  for  we  are  at  the  stake, 
And  bayed  about  with  many  enemies ; 
And  some,  that  smile,  have  in  their  heart-s,  I  fear, 
Millions  of  mischiefs.  [Exetint. 

SCENE  II.— Before  Brutus'  Tent,  in  the  Camp  near 

Sardis. 

Drum.    Enter  Brutus.  Lucilius,  Lucius,  and  Soldiers 

TiTiNius  and  Pindarus  rneet  them. 

Bru.  Stand,  ho  ! 

Luc.  Give  the  word,  ho  !  and  stand. 

Brit.  What  now,  Lucilius  ?  is  Cassius  near  ? 

Luc.  He  is  at  hand  ;  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

[Pindarus  gives  a  Letter  to  Brutu«. 

Bru.  He  greets  me  well. — Your  master,  Pindarus, 
In  his  own  change,  or  by  ill  oflicers. 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done,  undone ;  but,  if  he  be  at  hand, 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Pin.  I  do  not  doubt, 

But  that  my  noble  master  will  appear 
Such  as  he  is,  full  of  regard  and  honour. 

Bni.  He  is  not  doubted. — A  wortl.  Luciliua: 
How  he  receiv'd  you  let  me  be  rcsolv'd. 

Luc.  With  courtesy  and  with  respect  enough  ; 

So  the  folio,  IftlS  ;  firat  folio  gives  the  line  ■  Oti.  Vert  irien  \»  nade.  ooi 


712 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


A.CT    IV. 


But  not  wnth  such  familiar  instances, 

Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference, 

As  he  hath  used  of  old. 

Bru.  Thou  ha«t  describ'd 

A  hot  friend  cooling.     Ever  note.  Lucilius, 
Whin  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 
ii  useth  an  enlorced  ceremony. 
Tiiere  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith ; 
But  hollow  men.  like  horset  hot  at  hand. 
Make  ijallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle, 
Hut  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur, 
fhey  fall  their  crests,  and.  like  deceitful  jades, 
Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on? 

Liu.   They  mean  this  night  in  Sardis  to  be  quar- 
terd  : 
The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general. 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  [March  within. 

Bru.  Hark  !  he  is  arriv'd. — 

March  gently  on  to  meet  him. 

Enter  Cassius  and  Soldiers. 

Cas.  Stand,  ho  ! 

Bru.  Stand,  ho  !     Speak  the  word  along. 

Withiri.  Stand. 

Within.  Stand. 

Within.  Stand.         [One  after  the  other.,  and  fainter.^ 

Cax.  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong. 

Bru.  Judge  me,  you  gods  !   Wrong  I  mine  enemies  ? 
And,  if  not  so.  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother  ? 

Cas.  Brutus,  this  sober  form  of  yours  hides  WTongs  ; 
And  when  you  do  them 

Bru.  Cassius.  be  content ; 

Speak  your  griefs  softly :  I  do  know  you  well. 
Bel'ore  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  here, 
Which  should  perceive  nothing  but  love  from  us. 
Let  us  not  wrangle  :  bid  them  move  away; 
Then  in  my  tent,  Ca«sius,  enlarge  your  griefs, 
And  1  will  give  you  audience. 

Cas.  Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
.\  little  from  this  ground. 

Bru.  Lucilius.  do  you  the  like  :  and  let  no  man 

Come  to  our  tent,  till  we  have  done  our  conference. 

Let  Lucius  and  Titinius  guard  our  door.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Within  the  Tent  of  Brutus. 

Lucius  and  Titinius  at  sojiie  distance  from  it. 

Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius. 

Cas.  That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  in  this : 
Vou  have  coridemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardiansj 
Wherein  my  letters,  itraying  on  his  side, 
B.'cause  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.  You  wrong'd  yourself  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.  In  buch  a  lime  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice'  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.   Let  rue  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
\re  much  condemnd  to  have  an  itching  palmj 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  that  you  are  Bnittis  that  speak  this, 
O  by  the  i;nds  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Brn.  The  name  of  Cassius  honours  this  corruption, 
An;l  chasiiseineiil  does  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cns.   Cha'-ri.'-emctit  ! 

Bru.  Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember. 
Did  not  irreat  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  toueh'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  tor  ju.nice  ?     What  !  shall  one  of  us, 

•  Not  IB  f.  •       *^Tri/ling.      >  noblo  :  in  f.  ». 


That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world. 
But, for  supporting  robbers,  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  ba.se  bribes. 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honours, 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me, 

I  '11  not  endure  it :  you  torgel  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in.     I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to  ;  you  are  not,  Cassius 

Cas.  I  am. 

Bru.  1  say,  you  are  not. 

Cas.  Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself: 
Have  mind  upon  your  health ;  tempt  me  no  farther. 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cas.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted,  when  a  madman  stares  ? 

Cas.  0  ye  gods  !  ye  gods  !     Must  I  endure  all  this? 

Bru.  All  this  ?    ay,  more.      Fret,  till   your   proud 
heart  break  ; 
Go   show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  1  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humour  ?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split  you  ;  for  from  this  day  forth, 
I  '11  use  you  for  iny  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  r 

Bni.  You  say,  you  are  a  better  soldier  : 
Let  it  appear  so  ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well.     For  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  abler^  men. 

Cas.  You  wrong  me  every  way ;    you   wrong   me. 
Brutus ; 
I  said,  an  older  soldier,  not  a  better  : 
Did  I  say,  better  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did.  I  care  not. 

Cas.    When    CsDsar   liv'd,  he  durst  not  thus   havj 
mov'd  me. 

Bru.  Peace,  peace !  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him 

Cas.  I  durst  not  ? 

Bru.  No. 

Cas.  What  !  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love  : 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats, 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty. 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind. 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me ; 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means  : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart. 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  WTing 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash, 
By  any  indirection.     I  diil  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  le^'ions, 
Which  you  denied  me  :  was  that  done  like  Cassias  f 
Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Ca.ssius  so? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts 


..*.  .d  \ 


BCENB   m. 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


71c 


Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cos.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cos.  I  did  not :  he  was  but  a  fool, 

1  hat  brought  my  answer  back. — Brutus  hath  riv'd  my 

heart : 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities, 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.  I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.  A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  did  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.  Come.  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come. 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world  : 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  brav'd  by  his  brother  ; 
Check'd  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observ'd. 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learn'd,  and  conn"d  by  rote. 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     0  !  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes. — There  is  my  dagger. 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  withm,  a  heart 
DeB,rer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth  ; 
I.  that  denied  thee  gold  will  give  my  heart. 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar  ;  for,  I  know. 
When  thou   didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst  him 

better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheath  your  dagger. 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope  : 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonour  shall  be  humour. 
0  Cassius  !  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb, 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire. 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark. 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-temperd,  vexeth  him  ? 

Bru.  When  I  spoke  that.  I  was  ill-temper'd  too. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  nmch  ?    Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.  And  my  heart,  too. 

Cas.  0  Brutus  !— 

Bra.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 
When  that  rash  humour,  which  my  mother  gave  me, 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius  ;  and,  from  henceforth, 

When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He  '11  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 

[Noise  within. 

Poet.  [Within^  Let  me  go  in  to  see  the  generals. 
There  is  some  grudge  between  them ;  't  is  not  meet 
They  be  alone. 

Luc.  [Within.]   You  shall  not  come  to  them. 

Poet.   [Within.]  Nothing  but  death  shall  stay  me. 
Enter  Poet. 

Cas.  How  now  !     What 's  the  matter  ? 

Poei    F  )r  shame,  you  generals  !     What  do  you  mean  ? 
Love,  and  be  friends,  as  two  such  men  should  be, 
For  I  have  seen  more  years,  I  am  sure,  than  ye. 

Cas.  Ha,  ha  !  how  vilely  doth  this  cynic  rhyme. 

Bru.  Get  you  hence,  sirrah  :  saucy  fellow,  hence. 

Cas.  Bear  with  him,  Brutus  ;  't  is  his  fashion. 

Bru.  I  '11  know  his  humour,  when  he  knows  his  time. 
What  should  the  wars  do  with  these  jigging  fools  ? 
Companion,'  hence. 

Ca.s  Away,  away  !  be  gone.  [Exit  Poet. 

'  FeHcw. 


Enter  Lucilius  and  Titinics. 

Bru.  Lucilius  and  Titinius,  bid  the  commanders 
Prepare  to  lodge  their  companies  to-night. 

Cas.  And  come  yourselves,  and  bring  Messala  with 
you. 
Immediately  to  us.        [Exeunt  Luciliis  and  Titinius. 

Bru.     .  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine. 

Cas.  I  did  not  think  you  could  have  been  .so  angry. 

Bru.  0  Cassius  !  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 

Cas.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use. 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better. — Portia  is  dead. 

Cas.  Ha!  Portia? 

Bru.  She  is  dead. 

Cas.  How  scap'd  I  killing,  when  I  cross'd  you  so  ? — 
0,  insupportable  and  touchmg  loss  ! — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence. 

And  grief,  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong  ; — for  with  her  death 
That  tidings  came. — With  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow'd  fire. 

Cas.  And  died  so  ? 

Bru.  Even  so. 

Cas.  0,  ye  immortal  gods  ! 

Enter  Lucius,  with  Wine  and  Tapers. 

Bru.  Speak  no  more  of  her. — Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine  : 
In  tills  I  bury  all  unkiiidness,  Cassius.  [Drinht. 

Cas.  My  heart  is  thirsty  for  that  iwble  pledge. — 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  vrine  o'erswell  the  cup ; 
I  cannot  drink  too  much  of  Brutus"  love.  [Drinks- 

Re-enter  Titinius,  with  ]Mess.\la. 

Bru.  Come  in.  Titinius. — Welcome,  good  Messala. — 
Now  s't  we  close  about  this  taper  here. 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 

Cas.  Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 

Bru.  No  more,  I  pray  you.— 

Messala.  I  have  here  received  letters. 
That  young  Octavius,  and  Mark  Antony, 
Come  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power, 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Philippi. 

Mes.  Myself  have  letters  of  the  self-same  tenour. 

Bru.  With  what  addition  ? 

Mes.  That  by  proscription,  and  bills  of  outlawry, 
Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus, 
Have  put  to  death  an  hundred  senators. 

Bru.  Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree  : 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators,  that  died 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cicero  being  one. 

Cas.  Cicero  one  ? 

Mes.  Cicero  is  dead. 
And  by  that  order  of  proscription. — 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  my  lord? 

Bru.  No,  Messala. 

Mes.  Nor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her  ? 

Bru.  Nothing,  Messala. 

Mes.  That,  methinks,  is  strange 

Bru.  Why  ask  you  ?    Hear  you  aught  of  her  in  yours : 

3Ics.  No,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Now.  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 

Mes.  Then  like  a  Roman  bear  tlie  truth  I  tell : 
For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 

Bru.  Why,  farewell,  Portia.— We  must  die,  Messala 
With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  the  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

Mes.  Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should  endure. 

Cas.  1  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you, 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

Bru.  Well,  to  our  work  alive.— "N^Tiat  do  you  think 


714 


JULIUS   C^SATl. 


ACT   IV. 


Of  maroliMig  to  Pliilippi  presently? 

Cos.  I  do  not  think  it  good. 

Bnt.  Your  reason  ? 

C(u.  This  it  is. 

■T  is  better,  that  tlic  enemy  seek  us: 
So  sliall  he  wa.sie  liis  means,  weary  his  soldiers, 
Doin?  hmi.>iclt  ofleiice  ;  whilst  we,  lying  still-, 
Are  lull  of  rest,  deleiice.  and  nimbleness. 

Hni.  GtKtd  rea.'^ons  must,  of  force,  give  place  to  better. 
The  pe(.|ile.  'twixt  I  hili|ipi  and  this  ground, 
Do  stand  but  in  a  lo'cd  alfection. 
For  they  have  griidyd  us  contribution  : 
The  enemy,  niarciiing  along  by  them, 
By  them  sliall  make  a  fuller  number  up, 
Come  on  refresh'd.  new-hearlcd',  and  encourag'dj 
From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  off, 
If  at  Plulippi  we  do  lace  him  there, 
The.'-e  people  at  our  back. 

Cds.  Hear  me,  good  brother. 

Bni.  Under  your  pardon. — You  must  note  beside, 
That  we  have  tried  the  utmost  of  our  friends. 
Our  legions  are  brim-full,  our  cause  is  ripe  : 
The  enemy  increa.sclh  every  day  : 
We,  at  the  height,  are  ready  to  decline. 
There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune  , 
Omitted,  all  the  voya^'e  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  mi.«eries. 
On  such  a  lull  sea  are  wc  now  afloat. 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 
Or  lose  our  ventures. 

Cas.  Then,  with  your  will,  go  on  : 

We  will  alons  ourselves,  and  meet  them  at  Philippi. 

firu.  The  deep  of  night  has  crept  upon  our  talk, 
.\nd  nature  must  obey  necessity. 
Which  we  will  ni^'gard  with  a  little  rest. 
There  is  no  more  to  say  ? 

C'ls.  No  more. — Good  night : 

Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise,  and  hence. 

Bnt.  Lucius,  my  gown.  [Exit  Lucius.] — Farewell, 
good  Mes.sala  : — 
Good  night,  Titinius. — Xoble,  noble  Cassius, 
Good  night,  and  good  repose. 

Cas.  0  !  my  dear  brother, 

This  was  an  ill  beginning  of  the  night. 
Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls  ! 
Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Every  thing  is  well. 

Cas.  Good  night,  my  lord. 

^'^-  Good  night,  good  brother. 

Tit.  Mcs.  Good  night,  lord  Brutus. 

Bru.  Farewell,  every  one. 

[Exnint  Cas.  Tit.  and  Mks. 
Rc-entrr  Lufiis.  with  the  Gown. 
Give  me  the  gown.     Where  is  thy  instrument  ? 

Luc.  Here  in  the  tent. 

^''«-  What  !  thou  speak'st  drowsily? 

Poor  knave.  I  blame  thee  not ;  thou  art  o'er-watch'd. 
Call  Claudius,  and  some  other  of  my  men; 
I  "II  have  them  jileep  on  cushions  in  my  tent. 

Luc.   Varro.  and  Claudius  ! 

Enter  Vakro  and  Claudii's. 

Var.  Calls  my  lord? 

lini.  I  pray  you.  sirs,  lie  in  my  tent,  and  sleep  : 
It  may  be.  I  shall  raise  you  by  and  by 
On  business  to  my  brother  Ca.«8iu8. 

Vat.  So  plea.se  you,  we  will  stand,  and  watch  your; 
pleasure.  | 

Bru    I  will  not  have  it  so  ;  lie  down,  good  sirs  : 


It  may  be,  I  shall  otherwise  bethink  me 

Look,  Lucius,  here  's  the  book  I  sought  for  so . 

I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gown.    [Servants  lie  down 

Luc.  I  was  sure,  your  lordship  did  not  uive  it  me. 

Bnt.  Bear  with  me,  good  boy,  I  am  much  forgetful. 
Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awiiilc, 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two  ? 

Lxic.  Ay.  my  lord,  an  't  please  you. 

Bru.  It  does,  my  boy 

I  trouble  thee  too  much,  but  thou  art  willing. 

Lvc.  It  is  my  duty,  sir. 

Bru.  I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy  nught: 
I  know,  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 

Lxic.  I  have  slept,  my  lord,  already. 

Bru.  It  was  well  done,  and  thou  shait  sleep  again ; 
I  will  not  hold  thee  long ;  if  I  do  live. 
I  will  be  good  to  thee.  [Music,  and  a  SoTig. 

This  is  a  sleepy  tune. — 0  murderous  slumber  ! 

(Licii's  falls  asleep.* 
Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  upon  my  boy. 
That  plays  thee  music  ? — Gentle  knave,  good  night ; 
I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee. 
If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument : 
I  '11  take  it  from  thee;  and,  good  boy,  good  night. — 
Let  me  see.  let  me  see  :  is  not  the  leaf  turn'd  down, 
Where  I  left  reading?     Here  it  is.  I  think. 

[He  sits  down  to  read. 
Enter  the  Ghost  of  C^.sar. 
How  ill  this  taper  burns. — Ha  !  who  comes  here' 
I  think,  it  is  the  weakne.ss  of  mine  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  ine. — Art  thou  any  thing? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  mak'st  my  blood  cold,  and  my  hair  to  stare  ? 
Speak  to  me,  what  thou  art. 

Ghost.  Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bru.  Why  com'st  thou  7 

Ghost.  To  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  see  me  at  Philippi. 

Bru.  Well;  then  I  shall  see  thee  again  ? 

Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi 

[Gho.st  vanishes. 

Bru.  Why,  I  will  see  thee  at  Philippi  then. — 
Now  I  have  taken  heart,  thou  A^anishest  : 
111  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee. — 
Boy!   Lucius! — Varro!   Claudius!  Sirs,  awake  ! — 
Claudius  ! 

Luc.  The  strings,  my  lord,  are  false. 

Bru.  He  thinks,  he  still  is  at  his  instrument. — 
Lucius,  awake  ! 

Luc.  My  lord. 

Bru.  Didst  thou  dream,  Lucius,  that  thou  so  criedst 
out? 

Luc.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  cry. 

Bru.    Yes,  that  thou   didst.      Didst   thou   see  a.nv 
thing  ? 

Luc.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Sleep  again,  Lucius. — Sirrah,  Claudius  ! 
Fellow  thou  :  awake  ! 

Var.  My  lord. 

Clau.  My  lord. 

Bru.  Why  did  you  so  cry  out,  sirs,  in  your  sleep? 

Var.  Clau.  Did  we,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Ay  :  saw  you  any  thing? 

Var.  No,  my  lord,  I  saw  nothing. 

Clau.  Nor  I,  my  loid. 

Bru.  Go,  and  commend  me  to  my  brother  Cassiiw  : 
Bid  him  set  on  his  powers  betimes  before, 
And  we  will  follow. 

Var.  Clau.  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord    [Exc^tn:. 


added  :  ir  f.  e.     Dyca  read*  :  new-aided. 


Noti 


JULIETS  C^SAR. 


715 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I.— The  Plains  of  Philippi. 
Enter  Octavius,  Antony,  and  their  Army. 

Oct.  Now,  Antony,  our  hopes  are  answered. 
Vou  said,  the  enemy  would  not  come  down, 
But  keep  the  hills  and  upper  regions ; 
It  proves  not  so  :  their  battles  are  at  hand  ; 
They  mean  to  warn'  us  at  Philippi  here, 
Answering  before  we  do  demand  of  them. 

Ant.  Tut  !   I  am  in  their  bosoms,  and  I  know 
Wherefore  they  do  it :  they  could  be  content 
To  visit  other  places  ;  and  come  down 
With  fearful  bravery,  thinking  by  this  face 
To  fasten  in  our  thoughts  that  they  have  courage  ; 
But  't  is  not  so. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Prepare  you,  generals  j 

The  enemy  comes  on  in  gallant  show  : 
Their  bloody  sign  of  battle  is  hung  out, 
And  something  to  be  done  immediately. 

Ant.  Octavius.  lead  your  battle  softly  on, 
Upon  the  left  hand  of  the  even  field. 

Oct.  Upon  the  right  hand  I  :  keep  thou  the  left. 

Ant.  Why  do  you  cross  me  in  this  exigent  ? 

Oct.  I  do  not  cross  you  ;  but  I  will  do  so.       [March. 

Drum.     Enter  Brutus,  Cassius,  a7}d  their  Army  ; 
LuciLius.  TiTiNius,  Messala,  and  others. 

Bru.  They  stand,  and  would  have  parley. 

Cas.  Stand  fa.st,  Titinius  :  we  must  out  and  talk. 

Oct.  Mark  Antony,  shall  we  give  sign  of  battle  ? 

Ant.  No,  Csesar,  we  will  answer  on  their  charge. 
Make  forth  :  the  generals  would  have  some  words. 

Oct.  S'ir  not  until  the  signal. 

Bru.  Words  before  blows  ;  is  it  so,  countrymen  ? 

Oct.  Not  that  we  love  words  better,  as  you  do. 

Bru.  Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes,  Oc- 
tavius. 

Ant.    In   your   bad  strokes,  Brutus,  you  give  good 
words : 
Witness  the  hole  you  made  in  Csesar's  heart, 
Crying,  "  Long  live  !  hail,  Csesar  !" 

Cas.  Antony, 

The  posture  of  your  blows  is  yet  unknown ; 
But  for  your  words,  they  rob  the  Hybla  bees, 
And  leave  them  honeyless. 

Ant.  Not  stingless,  too. 

Bru.  0  !  yes,  and  soundless  too  ; 
For  you  have  stol'n  their  buzzing,  Antony, 
And  very  wisely  threat  before  you  sting. 

Ant.  Villains  !  you  did  not  so  when  your  vile  daggers 
Hack'd  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Csesar  : 
You  show'd  your  teeth  like  apes,  and  fawn'd  like  hounds. 
And  bow'd  like  bondmen,  kissing  Ceesar's  feet ; 
While  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur,  behind 
Struck  Caesar  on  the  neck.     0,  you  flatterers  ! 

Cas.  Flatterers  ! — Now,  Brutus,  thank  yourself: 
This  tongue  had  not  offended  so  to-day, 
If  Cassius  might  have  rul'd. 

Oct.    Cotne,  come,  the  cause  :    if  arguing  make  us 
sweat. 
The  proof  of  it  vrill  turn  to  redder  drops. 
Look ;  I  draw  sword  against  conspirators  ; — 
When  think  you  that  the  sword  goes  up  again  ? — 
Never,  till  (.Caesar's  three  and  thirty  wounds* 


Be  well  aveng'd  ;  or  till  another  Caesar 
Have  added  slaughter  to  the  word  of  traitor.' 

Bru.  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  die  by  traitors'  hand.-* 
Unless  thou  bring'st  them  with  thee. 

Oct.  So  I  hope  : 

I  was  not  born  to  die  on  Brutus'  sword. 

Bru.  0  !  if  thou  wert  the  noblest  of  thy  strain 
Young  man.  thou  couldst  not  die  more  honourable. 

Cas.  A  pee\ish  schoolboy,  worthles^of  such  hououi 
Join'd  with  a  masker  and  a  reveller. 

Ant.  Old  Cassius  still. 

Oct.  Come.  Antony  ;  away  ! — 

Defiance,  traitors,  hurl  we  in  your  teeth. 
If  you  dare  fight  to-day,  come  to  the  field ; 
If  not,  when  you  have  stomachs. 

[Exeunt  Octavius.  Antony,  and  their  Army 

Cas.  Why  now,  blow  wind,  swell  billow,  and  swim 
bark! 
The  storm  is  up,  and  all  is  on  the  hazard. 

Bru.  Ho.  Lucilius  !  hark,  a  word  with  you. 

Luc.         My  lord.  [Brutus  and  Lucilius  talk  apart. 

Cas.  Messala  ! 

Mes.  What  says  the  general  ? 

Cas.  Messala, 

This  is  my  birth-day  ;  as  this  very  day 
Was  Cassius  born.     Give  me  thy  hand,  Messala  : 
Be  thou  my  witness,  that  again.^t  my  will, 
As  Pompey  was.  am  I  compell'd  to  set 
Upon  one  battle  all  oar  liberties. 
You  know,  that  I  held  Epicurus  strong. 
And  his  opinion  :  now.  I  change  my  mind, 
And  partly  credit  things  that  do  presage. 
Coming  from  Sardis,  on  our  for>vard*  ensign 
Two  mighty  eagles  fell :  and  there  they  pereh'd, 
Gorging  and  feeding  from  our  soldiers'  liands ; 
Who  to  Philippi  here  consorted  us  : 
This  morning  are  they  fled  away,  and  gone. 
And  in  their  steads  do  ravens,  crows,  and  kites, 
Fly  o'er  our  heads,  and  do\\-nward  look  on  us, 
As  we  were  sickly  prey :  their  shadows  seem 
A  canopy  most  fatal,  under  which 
Our  army  lies  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost. 
Mes.  Believe  not  so. 

Cas.  I  but  believe  it  partly, 

For  I  am  fresh  of  spirit,  and  resolv'd 
To  meet  all  perils  very  constantly. 

Bru.  Even  so,  Lucilius.  [Lucilius  siat^ds  ixuk. 

Cos..  Now.  most  noble  Brutus, 

The  gods  to-day  stand  friendly  !  that  we  may. 
Lovers  in  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age  : 
But  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  still  incertam, 
Let 's  reason  -with  the  worst  that  may  befal. 
If  we  do  lo.se  this  battle,  then  is  this 
The  ver>'  \3ist  time  we  shall  speak  together  : 
What  are  you  then  determined  to  do? 

Bru.  Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy. 
By  which  I  did  blame  Cato  for  the  death 
Which  he  did  give  himself.     I  know  not  how, 
But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile. 
For  fear  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 
The  term*  of  life. — arming  myself  with  patience. 
To  stay  the  pro^^dence  of  those'  high  powers, 
That  govern  us  below. 

Cas.  Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle, 


SHtntnon. 
*  f  jrmei 


>  So  old  copies.    Theobald  changed,  to  three  and  twenty,  to 
in  f.  a.      '  Not  in  f.  e.      •  time  :  in  f.  ».      '  some  :  in  f.  e. 


zorrespond  with  the  claaiic  historiaof.      >»word  oi  tr».M 


716 


JCLIUS   CAESAR. 


ACT  y 


You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  iriurnph 
Thorough  the  streets  of  Koine  ? 

Bnt.  No.  Cassius.  no:  think  not.  thou  noble  Roman, 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome  ; 
He  bears  U>o  great  a  mind  :  but  this  same  day 
Must  end  that  work  the  ides  of  March  began. 
And  whether  we  shall  meet  again,  I  know  not. 
Therefore,  our  everlasting  fiireweil  take: — 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius. 
It   we  do  meet  again,  why  we  shall  smile  ; 
If  not,  why  then,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Cas.  For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Brutus, 
[f  we  do  meet  again,  we  '11  smile  indeed  ; 
If  not,  't  is  true,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Bni.  Why  then,  lead  on. — 0.  that  a  man  might  know 
The  end  of  this  days  busine.<s.  ere  it  come  ! 
But  it  BUtiiccth.  that  the  day  will  end. 
And  then  the  end  is  kno\\Ti. — Come,  ho  !  away ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     The  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarum.     Enter  Brutvs  and  Messala. 
Bru.  Ride,  ride,  Messala.  ride,  and  give  these  bills 
Unto  the  legions  on  the  other  side.  [Loud  Alarum. 

Let  them  set  on  at  once :  for  I  perceive 
But  cold  demeanour  in  Octavius'  wing, 
And  sudden  push  gives  them  the  overthrow. 
Ride,  ride,  Messala:  let  them  all  come  down.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarum.     Enter  Cassius  and  Titinius. 

Cas.  0.  look,  Titinius.  look  !  the  villains  fly. 
Myself  have  to  mine  own  turn'd  enemy : 
This  ensign  here  of  mine  wa*  turning  back  : 
I  slew  the  coward,  and  did  take  it  from  him. 

Tit.  0  Ca.'jsius  !  Brutus  gave  the  word  too  early ; 
Who  ha^•^ng  some  advantage  on  Octavius, 
Took  it  too  eagerly  :  his  soldiers  fell  to  spoil. 
Whilst  we  by  Antony  are  all  enclos'd. 
Enter  Pindarvs. 

Pin.  Fly  farther  off.  my  lord,  fly  farther  off-, 
Mark  Antony  is  in  your  tents,  my  lord  : 
Fly.  therefore,  noble  Cassius.  fly  far  off. 

Cos.  This  hill  is  far  enough.     Look,  look,  Titinius ; 
Are  those  my  tents  where  I  perceive  the  fire  ? 

Tit.  They  are,  my  lord. 

Cas.  Titinius,  if  thou  lov'st  me, 

Mount  thou  my  horse,  and  hide  thy  spurs  in  him, 
Till  he  have  brought  thee  up  to  yonder  troops, 
And  here  again ;  that  I  may  rest  assur'd. 
Whether  yond'  troops  are  friend  or  enemy. 

Tit.  I  -wili  be  here  again,  even  wth  a  thought.  [Exit. 

Cas.  Go.  Pindarus,  get  higher  on  that  hill : 
My  sicht  was  ever  thick  ;  regard  Titinius. 
And  tell  me  what  thou  not'st  about  the  field. — 

[Exit  Pindarus. 
Th>  day  1  breathed  first .  time  is  come  round, 
And  where  I  did  begin,  there  shall  I  end  : 
My  life  is  run  his  compa.«;s. — Sirrah,  what  news  ? 

Pin.  [.ibrjve.]  0  my  lord  ! 

Cas.  What  news  ? 

Pin.  Titinius  is  enclosed  round  about 
With  horsemen,  that  make  to  him  on  the  spur: — 
Yet  he  spurs  on  : — now  they  are  almost  on  him. 
Now.  Titinius  ! — now  some  'light : — O  !  he  'lishts  too : — 
He's  ta'en:  and,  hark  !   [Shout.]  they  shout  for  joy. 

Cas.  Come  down  ;  behold  no  more. — 

0,  coward  that  I  am.  to  live  so  long. 
To  see  my  best  friend  ta  en  before  my  face ! 


Enter  Pindarl's. 
Come  hither,  sirrah. 
In  Parthia  did  I  take  thee  prisoner; 
And  then  I  swore  thee,  saving  of  thy  life 
That  whaf.'^oever  I  did  bid  thee  do, 
Thou  shouldst  attempt  it.  Come  now,  keep  tl  ine  oath 
Now  be  a  freeman  ;  and  with  this  good  sword. 
That  ran  through  Caesar's  bowels,  search  this  bosom 
Stand  not  to  answer  :  here,  take  thou  the  hilis: 
And  when  my  face  is  coverd.  as  'tis  now 
Guide  thou  the  sword. — Ca?sar.  thou  art  reveng'd. 
Even  with  the  sword  that  killd  thee.  [/^wu 

Pin.  So.  I  am  free  ;  yet  would  not  so  have  been. 
Durst  I  have  done  my  will.     0  Cassius  ! 
Far  from  this  country-  Pindarus  shall  run. 
Where  never  Roman  shall  take  note  of  him.  [Exit 

Re-enter  Titinius.  with  Messala. 

Mes.  It  is  but  change,  Titinius  ;  for  Octavius 
Is  overthrown  by  noble  Brutus"  power, 
As  Cassius'  legions  are  by  Antony. 

Tit.  These  tidings  will  well  comfort  Cassius 

Mes.  Where  did  you  leave  him  ? 

Tit.  All  disconsoiaie 

With  Pindarus,  his  bondman,  on  this  hill. 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he,  that  lies  upon  the  ground  ? 

Tit.  He  lies  not  like  the  liATng. — 0  ray  heart ! 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he  ? 

Tit.  No,  this  was  he,  Messala, 

But  Cassius  is  no  more. — 0  setting  sun  ! 
As  in  thy  red  rays  thou  dost  sink  to-night, 
So  in  his  red  blood  Cassius'  day  is  set  : 
The  sun  of  Rome  is  set.     Our  day  is  gone ; 
Clouds,  dews,  arxd  dangers  come :  our  deeds  are  done. 
Mistrust  of  my  success  hath  done  this  deed. 

Mes.  Mistrust  of  good  success  hath  done  this  deed 
0  hateful  error  !  melancholy's  child. 
Why  dost  thou  show  to  the  apt  thoughts  of  men 
The  things  that  are  not  ?     0  error  !  soon  conceiv'd, 
Thou  never  com"st  unto  a  happy  birth. 
But  kill'.'it  the  mother  that  engender"d  thee. 

Tit.  What.  Pindarus  !     Where  art  ihou.  Pindarus' 

Mes.  Seek  him,  Titinius,  whilst  I  go  to  meet 
The  noble  Brutus,  thru.sting  this  report 
Into  his  ears  :  I  may  say,  thrusting  it ; 
For  piercins  steel,  and  darts  envenomed, 
Shall  be  as  welcome  to  the  ears  of  Brutus, 
As  tidings  of  this  sight. 

Tit.  Hie  you.  Messala. 

And  I  will  seek  for  Pindarus  the  while.  [Exit  Messala. 
Why  didst  thou  send  mc  forth,  brave  Cassius  ? 
Did  I  not  meet  thy  friends  ?  and  did  not  they 
Put  on  my  brows  this  wreath  of  victory. 
And  bid  me  give  it  thee  ?     Didst  not  thou  hear  their 

shouts  ? 
Alas  !  thou  hast  misconstrued  every  thing. 
But  hold  thee;  take  this  garland  on  thy  brow : 
Thy  Brutus  bid  me  give  it  thee,  and  I 
Will  do  his  bidding. — Brutus,  come  apace. 
And  see  how  1  regarded  Caius  Ca.ssiu8. — 
By  your  leave,  gods : — This  is  a  Homan's  part  : 
Come.  Cassius"  sword,  and  find  Titinius'  heart.   [Ihts 
Alarum.  Re-enter  Messala.  wa/A  Britus.  young  Cmo 
Strato.  VoLUMMis.  and  Lrcn.ius. 

Bru.  Where,  where.  M<>ssala.  doth  his  body  lie? 

Mes.  Lo  !  yonder;  and  Titinius  mourning  it 

Bru.  Titinius'  face  is  upward. 

Goto.  He  is  slam. 

Bru.  0  Julius  Caj.'iar  !  thou  art  mighty  yet: 
1  Thy  spirit  walks  abroad,  and  turns  our  swords 
I  In  our  own  proper  entrails.  [Low  Alaruvu. 


SCENE    V 


JULIUS    C^SAR. 


717 


Cato.  Brave  Titinius  ! 

Look,  whe'r  he  have  not  crown'd  dead  Cassius ! 

Bru.  Are  yet  two  Romans  living  such  as  these? — 
The  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well  ! 
It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome 
Should  breed  thy  fellow. — Friends,  I  owe  more  tears 
To  this  dead  man,  than  you  shall  see  me  pay. — 
[  shall  find  time,  Cassius,  I  shall  find  time. — 
Come,  therefore,  and  to  Thassos  send  his  body : 
His  funerals  shall  not  be  in  our  camp, 
Lest  it  discomfort  us. — Lucilius,  come  ; — 
And  come,  young  Cato  ;  let  us  to  the  field. — 
Labeo,  and  Flavius,  set  our  battles  on  ! — 
'T  is  three  o'clock :  and,  Romans,  yet  ere  night 
We  shall  try  fortune  in  a  second  fight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarum.  Enter,  fighting.  Soldiers  of  hath  Armies  ;  tJien 
Brutus,  Cato,  Lucilius.  and  others. 
Bru.  Yet,  countrymen,  0  !  yet  hold  up  your  heads. 
(\ato.  What  bastard  doth  not  ?  Who  will  go  with  me  ? 
I  will  proclaim  my  name  about  the  field. — 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho  ! 
A  foe  to  tyrants,  and  my  countiy's  friend. 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho  !  [Charges  the  Enemy. 

Bru.  And  [  am  Brutus,  Marcus  Brutus,  I ; 
Brutus,  my  country's  friend :  know  me  for  Brutus. 
[Exit,  charging  the  Eiiemy.     Cato  is  overpowered., 
and  falls. 
Luc.  0,  young  and  noble  Cato  !  art  thou  down? 
Why,  now  thou  diest  as  bravely  as  Titinius, 
And  may'st  be  honour'd  being  Cato's  son. 
1  Sold.  Yield,  or  thou  diest. 

Luc.  Only  I  yield  to  die . 

There  is  so  much  that  thou  wilt  kill  me  straight 

[Off e ring  money. 
Kill  Brutus,  and  be  honour^  in  his  death. 

1  Sold    We  must  not. — A  noble  prisoner  ! 

2  Sold.  Room,  ho  !     Tell  Antony,  Brutus  is  ta'en. 

1  Sold.  I  '11  tell  the  news  : — Here  comes  the  gene- 
ral.— 

Enter  Antony. 
Brutus  is  ta'en,  Brutus  is  ta'en,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  is  he? 

Luc.  Safe,  Antony  ;  Brutus  is  safe  enough. 
I  dare  assure  thee,  that  no  enemy 
Sliall  ever  take  alive  the  noble  Brutus  : 
The  gods  defend  him  from  so  great  a  shame  ! 
When  you  do  find  him,  or  alive,  or  dead, 
He  will  be  found  like  Brutus,  like  himself. 

Ant.  This  is  not  Brutus,  friend  ;  but,  I  assure  you. 
A  prize  no  less  in  worth.     Keep  this  man  safe. 
Give  him  all  kindness  :  I  had  rather  have 
Such  men  my  friends,  than  enemies.     Go  on, 
And  see  whe'r  Brutus  be  alive,  or  dead  , 
And  bring  us  word  unto  Octavius'  tent, 
How  every  thing  is  chanc'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  Brutus,  Dardanius,  Clitus,  Strato,  and 

VOLUMNIUS. 

Bru.  Come,  poor  remains  of  friends,  rest  on  this  rock. 

Cli.  Statilius  show'd  the  torch-light;  but,  my  lord, 
He  came  not  back :  he  is  or  ta'en  or  slain. 

Bru.  Sit  thee  down,  Clitus  ;  slaying  is  the  word; 
It  is  a  deed  in  fashion.     Hark  thee,  Clitus. — 

[  Whispering. 

Cli.  What !  L  my  lord  ?     No,  not  for  all  the  world. 

Bru    Peace  then  :  no  words. 


Cli.  I  '11  rather  kill  myself. 

Bru.  Hark  thee,  Dardanius  !  [MHiispfrs  him . 

I^ar.  Shall  I  do  such  a  deed  ? 

Cli.  O,  Dardanius  ! 

Dar.  0,  Clitus  ! 

Cli.  What  ill  request  did  Brutus  make  to  thee  ' 

Dar.  To  kill  him,  Clitus.     Look,  he  meditates. 

Cli.  Now  is  that  noble  vessel  full  of  grief, 
That  it  runs  over  even  at  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Come  hither,  good  Volumnius :  list  a  word. 

Vol.  What  says  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Why,  this,  Volumnius 

The  ghost  of  Caesar  hath  appear'd  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night :  at  Sardis  once  ; 
And,  this  last  night,  here  in  Philippi'  fields. 
I  know  my  hour  is  come. 

I'oL  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Nay,  I  am  sure  it  is,  Volumnius. 
Thou  seest  the  world,  Volumnius,  how  it  goes ; 
Our  enemies  have  beat  us  to  the  pit :      [Low  Alarums 
It  is  more  worthy  to  leap  in  ourselves, 
Than  tarry  till  they  push  us.     Good  Volumnius, 
Thou  know'st  that  we  two  went  to  school  together; 
Even  for  that  our  love  of  old,  I  pray  thee, 
Hold  thou  my  sword-hilts  whilst  I  run  on  it 

Vol.  That 's  not  an  office  for  a  friend,  my  lord. 

[Alarum  still. 

Cli.  Fly,  fly,  my  lord  !  there  is  no  tarrying  here. 

Bru.  Farewell  to  you  ; — and  you  ; — and  you,  Volum- 
nius.—  [Shaking  hands  severally.' 
Strato,  thou  h-ast  been  all  this  while  asleep : 
Fa'-ewell  to  thee  too,  Strato. — Countrymen, 
My  heart  doth  joy,  that  yet  in  all  my  life 
I  found  no  man,  but  he  was  true  to  me. 
I  shall  have  glory  by  this  losing  day. 
More  than  Octavius,  and  Mark  Antony, 
By  this  vile  conquest  shall  attain  unto. 
So,  fare  you  well  at  once  ;  for  Brutus'  tongue 
Hath  almost  ended  his  life's  history. 
Night  hangs  upon  mine  eyes ;  my  bones  would  rest 
That  have  but  labour'd  to  attain  this  hour. 

[Alarum.     Cry  within;  Fly,  fly,  fly  ! 

Cli.  Fly,  my  lord,  fly  ! 

Bru.  Hence:  I  will  follow. 

[Exexmt  Clitus,  Dardanius.  and  Volumnius. 
r  pr'ythee,  Strato,  stay  thou  by  thy  lord. 
Thou  art  a  fellow  of  a  good  respect ; 
Thy  life  hath  had  some  snatch  of  honour  in  it : 
Hold,  then,  my  sword,  and  turn  away  thy  face, 
While  I  do  run  upon  it.     Wilt  thou.  Strato  ? 

Stra.  Give  me  your  hand  first :  fare  you  well,  my  lord 

Bru.  Farewell,  good  Strato. — Cirsar,  now  be  still: 
I  kill'd  not  thee  with  half  so  good  a  will. 

[He  runs  on  his  Sword,  and  dies. 
Alarum.     Retreat.     Enter   Octavius,    Anton  v.    Mi:«- 
SALA,  Lucilius,  and  their  Army. 

Oct.  What  man  is  that  ? 

Mes.  My  master's  man. — Strato,  where  is  thy  master? 

Stra.  Free  from  the  bondage  you  are  in,  Messala: 
The  conquerors  can  but  make  a  fire  of  him  ; 
For  Brutus  only  overcame  himself, 
And  no  man  else  hath  honour  by  his  death. 

Luc.  So   Brutus  should    be   found. — I    thank   thee 
Brutus, 
That  thou  hast  prov'd  Lucilius'  .saying  true. 

Oct.  All  that  serv'd  Brutus  I  will  entertain  them. 
Fellow,  wilt  thou  bestow  tiiy  time  with  me  ? 

Stra.  Ay,  if  MessaJa  will  prefer  me  to  you. 

Oct.  Do  so,  good  Me«sala. 


ri3 


JCJLIDS   C^SAR. 


ACT  7. 


lfe».  Ho\»  died  my  nia«ter,  Strato? 

.'itra.   1  lirld  ilic  s^word,  and  he  did  run  on  it. 

Mes.   Octaviiis.  llien  lake  him  to  follow  thee, 
That  did  I  lie  liiiesi  service  to  my  master. 

Ant.    riii.s  \va>  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all 
\ll  the  eoaspirators.  save  onl>  h«, 
Did  thai  they  did  in  envy  of  great  CiEsar; 
lie,  only,  in  a  generous'  honest  thoughl 
(.H*  eonimou  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 


'  ^arr&l  :  m  i 


And  :  in  f 


His  life  wa.s  gentle  ;  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him,  that  Nature  might  stand  up. 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  "  This  was  a  man  !^ 
'Oct.   According  to  his  virtue  let  us  use  liim, 
With  ail  respect,  and  rites  of  burial. 
Within  my  tent  his  bones  lo-niclit  shnll  He, 
Most  like  a  soldier,  ordcr'd  honourably. — 
So,  call  the  field  to  rest ;  and  let's  away, 
Tc  part  tho  glories  of  this  happv  day. 


[Excieni. 


MACBETH 


DRAMATIS     PERSONS. 


Duncan,  King  of  Scotland. 
Malcolm, 

DoNALBAIN. 

Macbeth, 
Banquo, 


his  Sons. 

Generals  of  his  Army. 


Thanes  of  Scotland. 


Macduff, 
Lenox, 

ROSSE, 

Menteth, 

Angus, 

Cathness, 

Fleance,  Son  to  Banquo, 


SiwARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  General  of  th 

English  Forces. 
Young  Sp.vard,  his  Son. 
Seyton,  an  Officer  attending  Macbeth. 
Son  to  Macduff. 

An  English  Doctor.     A  Scotch  Doctor. 
A  Soldier.     A  Porter.     An  Old  Man. 

Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  Macduff. 

Gentlewoman  attending  Lady  Macbeth 

Hecate,  and  Witches. 


Lords,  Gentlemen,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Murderers,  Attendants,  and  Messengers, 

The  Ghost  of  Banquo,  and  other  Apparitions. 

SCENE,  in  the  end  of  the  fourth  Act,  in  Enslar.d  :  through  the  rest  of  the  Play,  in  Scotland. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— An  open  Place. 
Thunder  and  lightning.     Enter  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  When  shall  we  three  meet  again, 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain? 

2  W  itch.  When  the  hurlyburly  's*  done, 
When  the  battle  's  lost  and  won. 

3  Witch.  That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

1  Witch.  Where  the  place? 

2  Witch.  Upon  the  heath  : 

3  Witch.  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 
1  Witch.  I  come,  Graymalkin  ! 

All.  Paddock'  calls  : — Anon. — 
Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair  : 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.     [  Witches  vanish. 

SCENE  IL— A  Camp  near  Fores. 
Sennet  within.     Enter  King  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Do- 

nalbain,  Lenox,  with  Attendants^  meeting  a  bleeding 

Soldier. 

Dun.  What  bloody  man  is  that  ?     He  can  report, 
As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  siate. 

Mai.  This  is  the  sergeant, 

Who,  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier,  fought 
'Gainst  my  captivity. — Hail,  brave  friend  ! 
Say  to  the  king  thy  knowledge  of  the  broil. 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sold.  Doubtful  it  stood  ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together 
\nd  choke  their  art.     The  merciless  Macdonwald 
(Worthy  to  be  a  rebel,  for  to  that 
The  multiplying  villainies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him)  from  the  western  isles 


Of  Kernes  and  Gallowglasses'  is  supplied  ; 

And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarrel*  smiling, 

Show'd  like  a  rebel's  whore  :  but  all  's  too  weak ; 

For  brave  Macbeth  (well  he  deserves  that  name) 

Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandish'd  steel, 

Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution, 

Like  valour's  minion,  carv'd  out  his  pa.ssage, 

Till  he  fac'd  the  slave  ; 

Which  ne"er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him. 

Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps. 

And  fi'xd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 

D\tn.  0,  valiant  cousin  !  worthy  gentleman  ! 

Sold.  As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflexion 
Shipwrecking  storms  and  direful  thunders  break,* 
So  from  that  spring,  whence  comfort  seem'd  to  come, 
Discomfort  swells.     Mark,  king  of  Scotland,  mark: 
No  sooner  justice  had,  with  valour  arm"tl, 
Compell'd  these  .«kipping  Kernes  to  trusi  their  heels. 
But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  furbish'd  arms,  and  new  supplies  of  men, 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dun.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ? 

Sold.  Yes , 

As  sparrows  eagles,  or  the  hare  the  lion. 
If  I  say  sooth,  I  must  report  they  were 
As  cannons  overcharg'd  witli  double  cracks; 
So  they  doubly  redoubled  strokes  upon  the  foe: 
Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds^ 
Or  memorize  another  Golgotha, 
I  cannot  tell. — 
But  I  aui  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Dun.    So    well    thy    words    become    thee,    ae    thy 
wounds : 


'  A  nai  le  intimatiti"'  the  sownd  of  that  it  sifrnifieth,  as  hurly  burly,  for  an  uprore  and  turoulraons  siynfi.—  PrnehnnCt  Garden  of  Bio- 
qumce,  15/7.  2  A  toad.  '  Vide  .Second  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  Act  iv.,  So.  ix.  *  quarry  :  in  folio.  Johnson  made  the  change.  »  Not  iu 
first  folio.     I'ope  changed '•  breaking"  of  second,  to  "  break."  71(4 


720 


MACBETH. 


They  smack  of  honour  both. — Go.  get  him  surgeons. 
[Krit  Soldier,  attended, 
Enter  Rosse  and  Animus. 
Who  cotnc.s  licre  ? 

M(tl.  Tho  worthy  thane  of  Ros.<!e. 

Lni.  What  haste  looks  through  his  eyes  ! 
So  should  he  look,  that  coine.s'  to  sjieak  things  strange. 

Rosse.  God  save  the  king  ! 

/>i//j.  Whence  cani'st  thou,  worthy  thane? 

Rosse.  From  Fife,  great  king : 
Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  jicojile  cold. 
Norway  himself,  with  terrible  numbers, 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor, 
The  thane  of  Cawdor,  began  a  dismal  conflict, 
I'ill  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,  lapp'd  in  proof, 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons. 
Point  against  point,  rebellious  arm  'gainst  arm, 
Curbing  his  lavish  spirit:  and,  to  conclude, 
The  victory  fell  on  us  ; — 

Dun.  Great  happiness  ! 

Ros.'se.  That  now 
Bweno,  the  Norway's  king,  craves  composition  ; 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men, 
Till  he  disbursed  at  Saint  Colmes'  Inch 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Dun.   No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 
Our  bosom  interest. — Go.  pronounce  his  present  death. 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Rosse    I  "11  see  it  done. 

Dun.  What  he  hath  lost  noble  Macbeth  hath  won. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— A  Heath. 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister  ? 

2  Witch.  Killing  .«wine. 

3  Witch    Sister,  where  thou  ? 

1  Witch.  A  sailor's  \nfe  had  chesnuts  in  her  lap, 
And  mounch'd.  and  mounch'd,  and  mounch'd  :     "  Give 

me.'  quoth  I  : — 
"  Aroint'  thee,  witch  !"  the  rump-fed  ronyon*  cries. 
Her  husband  's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the  Tiger : 
Rut  in  a  sieve  I  "11  thither  sail. 
And.  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 

ri:  do.  rii  (\».  and  rii  do. 

2  Witch,  ru  give  thee  a  wind. 
1   Wifch.  Thou  art  kind. 

3  Witcn.  And  I  another. 

1  Witch.  I  my.«elf  have  all  the  other; 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 

All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
r  the  shipman-B  card  to  show.* 
I   11  dram  him  dry  as  hay  : 
Sleep  shall,  neitiicr  night  nor  day, 
Hang  uf>or'.  hia  pent-house  lid  ; 
Fie  shall  h\:  t  man  forbid. 
Weary  scv'n-nights,  nine  times  nine, 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine  : 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost. 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-toss'd. — 
Look  wliat  I  have. 

2  Witch.  Show  me,  .show  me. 

1   Witch.  Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 
Wreck'd  a.«  homeward  he  did  come.  [Drum  within. 

3  Witch    A  drum  !  a  drum  ! 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

All.  The  weird*  si.sters,  hand  in  hand. 


Posters  of  the  sea  and  land, 
Thus  do  go  about,  about : 
Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine, 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine. 
Peace  ! — the  charm  's  wound  up. 

Enter  Macbeth  and  Banquo. 

Mach.  So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 

Ban.  How  far  is't  called  to  Fores  ? — What  are  these, 
So  witherd,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire. 
That  look  not  like  th'  inhabitants  o"  the  earth. 
And  jet  are  on  't?     Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question?  You  seem  to  understand  me, 
By  each  at  once  her  chappy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips.     You  should  be  women, 
And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  arc  so. 

Macb.  Speak,  if  you  can. — What  are  you  ? 

1  Witch.  All  hail  !  Macbeth  !  hail  to  thee,  thane  of 

Glamis  ! 

2  Witch.  All  hail,  Macbeth  !    hail  to  thee,  thane  of 

Cawdor  ! 

3  Witch.  All   hail,   Macbeth !    that   shalt    be    kin^ 

hereafter. 
Ban.  Good  sir.  why  do  you  start,  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair? — I'  the  name  of  truth, 
Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show?     My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace,  and  great  prediction 
Of  noble  having,  and  of  royal  hope. 
That  he  seems  rapt  withal  :  to  me  you  speak  not. 
If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time, 
And  say  which  grain  will  grow,  and  which  will  not, 
Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg.  nor  fear, 
Your  favours,  nor  your  hate. 

1  Witch.  Hail  ! 

2  Witch.  Hail  ! 

3  Witch.  Hail  ! 

1  Witch.  Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

2  Witch.  Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

i      3  Witch.  Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  thou  be  nom. 
So.  al!  hail.  Macbeth,  and  Banquo  ! 

1   Witch.  Banquo,  and  Macbeth,  all  hail  ! 

Macb.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  teli  n.e  more. 
By  Sinel's  death,  I  know.  I  am  thane  of  Glamis  ; 
But  how  of  Cawdor  ?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  Ines, 
A  prosperous  gentleman  ;  and  to  be  king 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief. 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say,  from  whence 
Y'ou  owe  this  strange  intelligence?  or  why 
LTpon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 
With  such  prophetic  greeting? — Speak,  1  charge  yon. 

[  Witches  vanish 

Ban.  The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  ha.s 
And  these  are  of  them. — Whither  have  they  vanish'd  ? 

Macb.  Into  the  air  :  and  what  seem'd  corporal,  melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind. — "Would  they  iiad  stay'd  I 

Ban.  Were  such  things  here,  as  we  do  speak  about. 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root', 
That  takes  the  rea.son  prisoner  ? 

Mach.  Your  children  shall  be  kings. 

Ban.  You  shall  be  king. 

Mach.   And  thane  of  Cawdor  too:  went  it  not  .10? 

Ban.  To  the  self-same  tune,  and  words.  Who's  here' 
Enter  Rosse  and  Anois. 

Rosse.  The  king  hath  happily  receiv'd,  Macbeth, 
The  news  of  thy  success  ;  and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels  fiiiht, 
i  His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend, 


•  Memi :  in  f.  e.      '  Ptill  nw>d  in  the  ««nu  of  driving  aipay.  or  impreentton,  in  parts  of  Enpland 
U)  eowf,  by  niilkraud»,  when  milking.     >  Fr.  rogneux,  Bcurf.    ♦  The  word*  "  to  show,'  are  not  in  f  e. 


'  rrnt  fnee,     is  a  pnrase  addre«oU 
'  Saxon,  wyrd,  fatal.     *  HtrnJcrlr 


SCENE   IV. 


MACBETH. 


721 


Which  should  be  thine,  or  his.     Silenc'd  with  that, 
[li  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  self-same  day, 
He  finds  Ihee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks. 
\othing  a/eard  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 
Strange  images  of  death.     As  thick  as  tale,* 
Came''  post  with  post  ;  and  every  one  did  beaj 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 
.\nd  pourd  them  down  before  him. 

Ang.  We  are  sent, 

To  give  thee  from  our  royal  master  thanks ; 
Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight, 
.\ot  pay  thee. 

Rosse.  And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour, 
Ke  bade  me  from  him  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor  : 
In  which  addition,  hail,  mo.st  worthy  thane, 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.  What  !  can  the  devil  speak  true? 

Macb.    The  thane   of  Cawdor   lives:  why  do  you 
In  borrow'd  robes  ?  [dress  me 

Ang.  Who  was  the  thane,  lives  yet; 

But  under  hea^nir  judgment  bears  that  life 
Which  he  deserves  to  lose.    Whether  he  was  combin'd 
With  those  of  Norway,  or  did  line  the  rebel 
With  hidden  help  and  vantage,  or  that  with  both 
He  labour'd  in  his  country's  wreck,  I  know  not; 
But  treasons  capital,  confess'd  and  prov'd, 
Have  overtlirown  him. 

Macb.  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor: 

The  greatest  is  behind.  [  J.s/Je.]  Thanks  for  your  pains. — 
Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings. 
When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me, 
Proinis'd  no  less  to  them? 

Ban.  That,  thrusted'  home, 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown. 
Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.     But  't  is  strange : 
And  oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths  ; 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us 
[u  deepest  consequence. — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macb.  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  t©  the  swelling  act 
(;f  the  imperial  theme.    [Aside.]    I  thank  you,  gentle- 
men.— 
This  supernatural  soliciting  [Aside. 

Cannot  be  ill ;  camiot  be  good  : — if  ill. 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success. 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?     I  am  thane  of  Cawdor  : 
[f  good,  why  do  I  )-ield  to  that  suggestion. 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair, 
.\nd  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs. 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings. 
My  thought,  where  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical. 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man.  that  function 
Is  smother'd  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is. 
But  what  is  not. 

Ban.  Look,  how  our  partner  's  rapt. 

Macb.  If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why.  chance 
may  crown  me, 
Without  mv  stir. 

Ban.  New  honours  come  upon  him, 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to  their  mould. 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macb.  Come  what  come  may. 

Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 

Ban.  Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Macb.  Give  me   your  favour :   my  dull    brain  was 


wrousht 


I  reads  :   hail. 

2V 


With  things  forgotten. — Kind  gentlemen,  your  paini 
Are  regi-ster'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them. — Let  us  toward  the  king. — 
[To  B.iNQuo.]    Think  upon  what  hath  chanc'd  ;  and 

at  more  time. 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speaK 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban.  Very  gladly. 

Macb.  Till  then,  enough. — Come,  friends.    [Exe\inl 

SCENE  IV.— Fores.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  Duncan,  MALcoLsr,  Donalbam, 
Lenox,  arid  Attendants. 

Bun.  Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor?     Are  not 
Those  in  commission  yet  retum'd  ? 

Mai.  '  My  liege, 

They  are  not  yet  come  back ;  but  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  saw  him  die,  who  did  report. 
That  very  frankly  he  confess'd  his  treasons, 
Implor'd  your  highness'  pardon,  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance.     Nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him  like  the  leaving  it :  he  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death. 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  ow'd. 
As  't  were  a  careless  trifle. 

Ihrn.  There  's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face : 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust. — 

Enter  M.acbeth,  Banquo,  Rosse,  and  Angus. 

0  worthiest  cousin  !  [Embrace 
The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 

Was  hea-vy  on  me.     Thou  art  so  far  before, 
That  swiftest  wind*  of  recompense  is  slow 
To  overtake  thee :  would  tliou  hadst  less  deserv'd. 
That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  payment 
Might  have  been  more*  i  only  I  have  left  to  say. 
More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 

Macb.  The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 
In  doing  it  pays  itself.     Your  highnes.^'  part 
Is  to  receive  our  duties  :  and  our  duties 
Are  to  your  throne  and  state,  children,  and  servants: 
Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  every  thinv 
Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour. 

Dun.  Welcome  hither : 

1  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour 
To  make  thee  full  of  gro\Anng. — Noble  Banquo, 
That  hast  no  less  deserv'd.  nor  must  be  known 
No  less  to  have  done  so  :  let  me  infold  thee, 

And  hold  thee  to  my  heart.  [Embrax^r. 

Ban.  There  if  I  grow. 

The  harvest  is  your  owti. 

Dun.  My  plenteous  joys. 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  .sorrow, — Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes, 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know, 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm  ;  whom  we  name  hereafter 
The  prince  of  Cumberland  :  which  honour  musi 
Not,  unaccompanied,  invest  him  only. 
But  signs  of  noblene.-s.  like  stars,  shall  shme 
On  all  deserve rs. — From  hence  to  Inverness. 
And  bind  us  farther  to  you. 

Macb.  The  rest  is  labour,  which  is  not  us'd  foi  v.  i 
I  '11  be  myself  the  harbinger,  and  make  joyt'ul 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach  ; 
So,  humbly  take  my  leave. 

Dun.  My  worthy  Cawdor  ! 

Macb.  The  prince  of  Cumberland  ! — That  is  a  »u-\ 


in  f.  e 


722 


MACBETH. 


ACT    I. 


Oil  Mhich  1  m  ist  fall  down,  or  else  o'er-leap,     [Aside.  I 

For  in  my  way  it  lies.     Stars,  hide  your  fires 

Let  not  lipht  sec  my  blaek  and  deep  desires  ; 

Tlie  eye  wink  at  tlie  hand  :  yet  let  that  be, 

Whieh  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see         [Exit. 

lh:n.    True,  worthy  Banquo  :  he  is  full  so  valiant, 
And  in  his  commendations  I  am  fed  ; 
It  is  a  banquet  to  me.     Let  us  after  him, 
Whose  eare  is  pone  before  to  bid  us  welcome  : 
It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.  [Flourv^h.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Inverness.  A  Room  in  Macbkth's  Castle. 
Enter  lAidy  M.\cbeth.  with  a  letter. 

Lady  M.  [Rcaih.\   ■■  They  met  me  in  the  day  of  suc- 

oe-<!6  ;  and  I  have  learned  by  tlie  perfectest  report,  they 

have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge.     \Yhen  I 

burned  in  desire  to  question  them  farther,  they  made 

themselves  air.  into  which  they  vanished.     Whiles  I 

«tooti  rapt  in  the  wonder  of  it,  came  missives  from  the 

king,  who  all-hailed  me.  '  Thane  of  Cawdor  :'  by  which 

Me.  belbre,  these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and  re- 

•  rred  me  to  the  coining  on  of  time.  with.  '  Hail,  king 

hat  shall  be  !'     This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver 

h.^e.  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness,  that  thou  might- 

-t  not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of 

what  greatness  is  promised  thee.     Lay  it  to  thy  heart, 

and  farewell." 

(JIamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor  :  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promisd  — Yet  I  do  fear  thy  nature  : 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 
To  catcii  the  nearest  way.     Thou  wouldst  be  great ; 
Art  not  without  ambition  ;  but  without 
1  he  illness  should  attend  it:  what  thou  wouldst  highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily:  wouldst  not  play  false, 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win:  thou  'dst  have,  great 

Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  "  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it : 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do. 
riiMU  wi.she.'it  should  be  undone."     Hie  thee  hither, 
Tliiit  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear, 
\  n  1  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue. 
A  1  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 
Aiiich  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
lo  have  thee  crown'd  withal. — 

Etiter  an  Attendant. 

What  is  your  tidings? 

Atten.  The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

i^y  ^f-  Thou  "rt  mad  to  say  it. 

!s  not  thy  ma-ster  with  him  ?  who,  were  t  so, 
Would  have  informd  for  preparation. 

Attfn.  So  please  you.  it  is  true  :  our  thane  is  coming. 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him  ; 
Who.  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

^A  M.  Give  him  tending  : 

He  brniL's  great  news.     [Exit  Attendant.]     The  raven 

him.^elf  is  hoarse, 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoushts,  unsex  me  here. 
And  fill  me.  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  :  make  thick  my  blood 
Stop  up  th'  access  and  pa,«sage  to  remorse  ; 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
Th    effect  and    .      Come  to  my  woman's  breasts. 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sishtles.s  substances 


You  wait  on  nature's  mischief.     Come,  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell. 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blankness'  of  the  dark 
To  cry,  '•  Hold,  hold  !"— 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Great  Glamis  !  worthy  C-awdoi  ' 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter  ! 

[TJiey  embrace  ' 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macb.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  And  when  goes  ..enoe  ' 

Macb.  To-morrow,  as  he  purposes. 

Lady  M.  O  !  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see. 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters:  to  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time  :  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 
Your  hand,  your  tongue  :  look  like  the  innocent  flower 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it.     He  that  s  coming 
Must  be  provided  for :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  despatch, 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macb.  We  will  speak  farther. 

Lady  M.  Only  look  up  clear  : 

To  alter  favour  ever  is  to  fear, 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  VL— The  Same.    Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Duncan.  Malcolm.  Donalbain.  Banqco.  Lenox. 

Macduff,  Rosse.  Angus,  and  Attendants. 

Dun.  This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat :  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Ban.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve. 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry.  tliat  the  heavens  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here  :  no  jutty,  frieze. 
Buttress,  nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed.  and  procreant  cradle  : 
Where  they  much'  breed  and  haunt.  I  have  observ'd. 
The  air  is  delicate. 

Erder  Lady  Macbeth. 

Bun.  See,  see  I  our  honour'd  hostess.-  • 

The  love  that  follows  us  sometime  is  our  trouble. 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love :  herein  I  teach  you. 
How  you  shall  bid  God  yield  us  for  your  pains. 
And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 

Lady  M.  All  our  ser^-ice. 

In  every  point  twice  done,  and  then  done  double. 
Were  poor  and  single  business  to  contend 
Against  tho.se  honours  deep  and  broad,  wherewith 
Your  majesty  loads  our  house.     For  those  of  old. 
And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them. 
We  rest  your  hermits.* 

Dvn.  Where  's  the  thane  of  Cawdor  ' 

We  cours'd  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 
To  be  his  pur^-eyor:  but  he  rides  well, 
And  his  sreat  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  him 
To  his  home  before  us.     Fair  and  noble  hostess, 
We  are  your  giiesl  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Your  ser%  ants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  and  what  is  theirs,  in  c"mpt 
To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 


Mblanket  •  la  f  e      >  Not  in  f.  «.      3  moM :  io  f.  e.  ;  altered  by  Rowe,  from  "  miut,"  of  folio.      ♦  PeodjwKn— bonnd  to  pray  for  a  >■'■'"• 


SCENE   I. 


MACBETH. 


723 


^till  to  return  your  own. 

Dun.  Give  me  yoiir  hand  ; 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host :  we  love  hiin  highly, 
.\nd  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him. 
By  your  leave,  hostess.  [Ex€U7U. 

SCENE  VII.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Hmitboys  and  torches.     Enter,  and  pass  over  the  stage, 

a  Sewer.'  and  divers  Servants  with  dishes  and  service. 

Then.,  enter  M.^cbeth. 

Macb.   [f  it  were  done,  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were 
well 
It  were  done  quickly  :  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch 
With  his  surcease  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here. 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal"''  of  time. 
We  'd  jump  the  life  to  come. — But  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here  ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  th'  mventor :  thus^  even-handed  justice 
Commends  th'  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He  's  here  in  double  trust : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject : 
Strong  both  against  the  deed:  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead,  like  angels  trampet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off : 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe. 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  hors'd 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air. 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye. 
That  tears  shall  dro\Aqi  the  wind. — I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'er-leaps  itself. 
And  falls  on  the  other. — 

Enter  Lady  M.^cbeth. 

How  now  !  W'hat  news  ? 

Lady  M.  He  has  almost  supp'd.    Why  have  you  left 
the  chamber? 

Mach.  Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not,  he  has  ? 

Macb.  We  will  proceed  no  farther  in  this  business  : 
He  hath  honour'd  me  of  late;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss. 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M.  Was  the  hope  drunk, 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yourself  ?  hath  it  slept  since. 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 


At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?     From  this  time, 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valour. 
As  thou  art  in  desire?     Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'et  the  ornament  of  iil'e 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem. 
Letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  I  would, 

I  Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ?* 

!      Macb.  Pr'ytliec.  peace. 

I I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man  ; 
'  Who  dares  do"  more  is  none. 

Lady  M.  What  boast*  was  't.  lhe«, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And.  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time,  nor  place, 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  no",«r 
Does  unmake  you.     I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me; 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face. 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums. 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Macb.  If  we  should  fail  ? 

Lady  M.  We  fail  •" 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking-place, 

j  And  we  '11  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, 

[  (Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him)  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  with  wine  and  wassel  so  con^ance,' 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain, 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  rea.son 
A  limbeck  only :  when  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  lie.  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
Th'  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers,  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 

:  Of  our  great  quell  ?' 

I      Macb.  Bring  forth  men-children  only  '. 

i  For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.     Will  it  not  be  receiv'd 
When  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy  two 

i  Of  his  own  chamber,  and  us'd  their  very  daggers, 
That  they  have  done  't  ? 

Lady  M.  Who  dares  receive  it  other. 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamour  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

Macb.  I  am  settled  ;  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  -with  fairest  show : 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know. 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Court  within  the  Castle. 
Enter  Banquo,  and  Fleance,  with  a  torch  before  him. 
Ban.  How  goes  the  night,  boy  ? 
Fie.  The  moon  is  down ;  I  have  not  heard  the  clock. 
Ban.  And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 
Fie.  I  take  't,  't  is  later,  sir. 

Ban.  Hold,  take  my  sword. — There  's  husbandry  in 
heaven ; 


Their  candles  are  all  out. — Take  thee  That  too 
A  hea\'y  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep  :  merciful  powers  1 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts,  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose  ! — Give  me  my  sword. — 
Enter  Macbeth,  and  a  Servant  with  n  torch 
Who 's  there  ? 

Macb.  A  friend. 

Ban.  What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest?    The  king  's  a-bcd 


'  An  officer  who  placed  and  reraoTed  dishes.  '  schoole  :  in  folio.  Theobald  made  the  change. 
mx  dares  not  wet  her  feet."'  »  no  :  in  folio.  «  bea-'t  :  in  f.  e.  '  Some  eds.  place  an  exclaniation 
point;  such,  Dyce  informs  us,  was  Mrs.  Siddons'  deliverv  of  the  passage— as  if  "  we  fail."  waj 
'  Overpower.      »  Mut'le.' 


J  this  :  in  f.  e.  ♦  "  The  cat  loves  fish. 
or  comma,  in  place  of  the  interroeatio* 
the  conclusion  of  M  ubktr>  lomtrlr 


724 


MACBETH. 


ACT   n. 


He  hotb  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  offiees*. 
This  diauiond  he  jrreets  your  wife  withal, 
By  the  name  of  mof.t  kind  hostess,  and  shut  up 
In  measureless  content. 

Macb.  Being  unprepar'd 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect, 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

Han.  All 's  well. 

1  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters : 
io  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 

Macb.  I  think  not  of  them  : 

Vet.  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve. 
We  would  spend  't  in  some  words  upon  that  business, 
It  you  would  eraiii  the  time. 

Han.  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macb.  If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent,  when  't  is, 
it  .'shall  make  honour  for  you. 

Ban.  So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd,  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  ^hall  be  counsell'd. 

Macb.  Good  repose,  the  while. 

Ha?}.  Thanks,  sir:  the  like  to  you. 

[Exeunt  Banquo  and  Fleance. 

Macb.  Go  ;  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 
Sin-  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed. — 

[Exit  Servant. 
I.s  this  a  dagger,  which  1  see  before  me, 
The  handle  toward  my  hand?     Come,  let  me  clutch 

thee : — 
I  liave  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still, 
.\rt  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
i  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going; 
And  sucii  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. — 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
.And  on  iliy  blade,  and  dudgeon',  gouts  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before. — There  's  no  such  thing  : 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
\aturf  seems  dead,  and  -wncked  dreams  abuse 
The  eurtain'd  sleeper:'  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offcrincs ;  and  wither'd  murder, 
Alanim'd  by  his  sentinel  the  wolf, 
Whose  liowl  's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,'  towards  his  design 
Moves  like  a  chost. — Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps,  whieii  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
IVhich  now  sqius  with  it. — Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives  : 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

[A  bell  rings. 
I  2o,  and  It  is  done  :  the  bell  invites  me. 
Hear  it  not,  fhmcan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell. 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  M.  That  which   hath   made  them  drunk  hath 
made  me  bold  :  [Peace  ! 

What  hath  quench'd  them  hath  given  me  fire. — Hark  ! — 

'  lUct  cfbox-trood.  of  which  dapgar  handles  were  made       >  iileep  : 


It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman. 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good-night.     He  is  about  it. 
The  doors  are  open;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores  :  I  have  drugg'd  then 

possets. 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live,  or  die. 

Macb.   [Within.]   Who 's  there?— what,  ho  ! 

Lady  M.  Alack  !   I  am  afraid  they  have  awak'd, 
And  't  is  not  done: — the  attempt,  and  not  the  deed. 
Confounds  us. — Hark  ! — I  laid  their  dag^'crs  ready. 
He  could  not  miss  them. — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done  't. — My  husband? 
Enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.  I  have  done  the  deed. — Didst  thou  not  hear  v 
noise  ? 

Lady  M.  I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  vou  speak  ? 

Macb'.  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended  ? 

Ladii  M.  Ay. 

Mnib.  Hark!— 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M.  Don al bain. 

Macb.  This  is  a  sorry  sight.        [Showing  his  hands. 

Lady  M.   A  foolish  thought  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.  There  's   one  did   laugh   in  's  sleep,  and  one 
cried,  "  murder  !" 
That  they  did  wake  each  other :  I  stood  and  heard  them ; 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.  There  are  two  lodg'd  together. 

Macb.  One  cried  -'God  bless  us  !"  and  '•  Amen,"  the 
other. 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  amen, 
When  they  did  say  God  bless  us. 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply 

Macb.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  amen  ? 
I  iiad  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

After  these  ways:  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 
/ 1  Macb.  Methought,  I  heard   a  voice  cry,  "  Sleep  no 

more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep." — the  innocent  sleep  ; 
Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleave*  of  care. 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath. 
Balm  of  liurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast. — 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ' 

Macb.  Still   it   cried,  "Sleep  no  more!"  to  all  the 
house  : 
"Glninis  hath  murder'd  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more:  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  !'' 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried?  Why  worthy 
thane. 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength.  .«  ihinK 
So  brainsickly  of  thin-is.     Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wa.sh  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. — 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place' 
They  must  lie  there :  go,  carry  them,  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I  '11  go  no  more  : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done  ; 
Look  on  't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  ! 

>  «ide»  :   in  folio.     Pope  made  the  change.      *  7*ieramt* 


SCENE    in. 


MACBETH. 


72t) 


Trive  me  the  daggers.     The  sleeping,  and  the  dead, 

Are  but  as  pictures  :  't  is  the  eye  of  childhood 

That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 

I   11  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 

For  It  must  seem  thek  guilt.  [Exit. — Knocking  within. 
Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? — 

How  is  't  with  me.  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 

What  hands  are  here  !  Ha !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes. 

Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 

Clean  from  my  hand  ?     No  ;  this  my  hand  will  rather 

The  multitudinous  seas.incamardine, 

Making  the  green  one  red.' 

Re-enter  Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  31.  My  hands  are  of  your  colour ;  but  I  shame 

To  wear  a  heart  so  white.  [Knock.]  I  hear  a  knocking 

At  the  south  entry : — retire  we  to  our  chamber. 

A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed :     •: 

How  easy  is  it,  then  ?     Your  constancy 

Hath   left   you    unattended. — [Knock.]    Hark  !    more 
knocking. 

Get  on  your  nightgowni,  lest  occasion  call  us, 

And  show  us  to  be  watchers. — Be  not  lost 

So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macb.  To  know  my  deed,  't  were  best  not  know  my- 
self. [K7iock. 

Wake    Duncan    with    thy    knocking  :     I   would    thou 
couldst  !  [Exeunt. 


boilt 


y\ 


SCENE  m.— The  Same. 

Enter  a  Porter.     [Knocking  within. 

Porter.  Here  's  a  knocking,  indeed  !  If  a  man  were 
porter  of  hell-gate,  he  should  have  old-  turning  the  key. 
[Knocking.]  Knock,  knock,  knock.  Who  's  there, 
ii'  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ? — Here  's  a  farmer,  that 
hanged  himself  on  the  expectation  of  plenty  :  come  in 
r.ime  ;  have  napkins  enough  about  you :  here  you  '11 
sweat  for 't.  [A'jiocijng.]  Knock,  knock.  Who's  there, 
in  the  other  devil's  name  ? — "Faith,  here  's  an  equivo- 
cator,  that  could  swear  in  both  the  scales  against  either 
scale  ;  who  committed  treason  enough  for  God's  sake, 
yet  could  not  equivocate  to  heaven  :  O  !  come  in,  equi- 
vocator.  [Knocking.]  Knock,  knock,  knock.  Who's 
there  ? — 'Faith,  here  's  an  English  tailor  come  hither 
for  stealing  out  of  a  French  hose  :  come  in.  tailor ; 
here  you  may  roast  your  goose,  [Knocking.]  Knock, 
knock.  Never  at  quiet  !  What  are  you  ? — But  this 
place  is  too  cold  for  hell.  I  '11  devil-porter  it  no  far- 
ther :  I  had  thought  to  have  let  in  some  of  all  pro- 
fessions, that  go  the  primrose  way  to  the  everlasting 
bonfire.  [Knocking.]  Anon,  anon  :  I  pray  you,  re- 
mpniber  the  porter.  [Opens  the  gate. 

Enter  Macduff  and  Lenox. 

Macd.  Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed. 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 

Port.  'Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  second 
cock  ;  and  drink,  sir,  is  a  great  provoker  of  three  things. 

Macd.  What  three  things  does  drink  especially  pro- 
voke? 

Port.  Marry,  sir,  nose-painting,  sleep,  and  urine. 
Lechery,  sir,  it  provokes,  and  unprovokes  :  it  provokes 
the  desire,  but  it  takes  away  the  performance.  There- 
fore, much  drink  may  be  said  to  be  an  equivocator 
with  lechery :  it  makes  him,  and  it  mars  him  ;  it  sets 
him  on,  and  it  takes  him  off;  it  persuades  him.  and 
disheartens  him;  makes  him  stand  to,  and  not  stand 
U) :  in  (inclusion,  equivocates  him  a-sleep,  and,  giving 
him  the  lie,  leaves  him. 

Macd.  I  believe,  drink  gave  thee  the  lie  last  night.    I 


Port.  That  it  did,  sir,  i'  the  very  throat  on  me  :  b«t 
I   requited   him  for  his  lie;  and.   I  think,  being  toe 
strong  for  him,  though  he  took  up  my  legs  somelime. 
yet  I  made  a  shift  to  cast  him. 
Macd.  Is  thy  master  stirring  ? — 

Enter  M.^cbeth,^  in  his  night-gown,. 
Our  knocking  has  awak'd  him  ;  here  he  comes. 
Len.  Good-morrow,  noble  sir, 
Macb.  Good -morrow, 

Macd.  Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane  ' 
Macb.  xot 

Macd.  He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  hii.. 
I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 

Macb.  I  '11  bring  you  to  hnu. 

Macd.  I  know,  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you  : 
But  yet,  't  is  one. 

Macb.  The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macd.  I  '11  make  so  bold  to  call. 

For  'tis  my  limited  service.  [Exit  MArniKr. 

Len.  Goes  the  king  hence  to-day  ? 
Macb.  He  does  : — he  did  appoint  so 

Len.  The  night  has  been  unruly  •  where  we  lay. 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down ;  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air  ;  strange  screams  of  death 
And  prophesying  with  accents  terrible 
Of  dire  combustion,  and  confus'd  events. 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time.     The  obscure  bird 
Clamour'd  the  livelong  night :  some  say,  the  earth 
Was  feverous,  and  did  shake. 

Macb.  *  'T  was  a  rough  night. 

Len.  My  young  remembrance  camiot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 
Macd.  0  horror  !  horror  !  horror  !  Tongue,  nor  heart. 
Cannot  conceive,  nor  name  thee. 

Macb.  Len.  What 's  the  matter !' 

Macd.  Confusion  now  hath  made  his  masier-piecc. 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building. 

Macb.  What  is  't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 
Len.  Mean  you  his  majesty  ? 

Macd.  Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  siyht 
With  a  new  Gorgon. — Do  not  bid  me  speak : 
See,  and  then  speak  yourselves. — Awake  !  awake  ! — 
[Exeunt  Macbeth  and  Lenox 
Ring  the  alarum-bell  ! — Murder,  and  treason  ! 
Banquo.  and  Donalbain  !     Malcolm,  awake  ! 
Shake  off  this  do\^iiy  sleep,  deaths  counterfeit, 
And  look  on  death  itself:  up,  up,  and  see 
The  great  doom's  image  ! — Malcolm  !  Banquo  ! 
As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprites 
To  countenance  this  horror.  Ring  the  bell !  [Bell  rings 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  M.  What 's  the  business. 
That  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 
The  sleepers  of  the  house  ?  speak,  speak  ! 

Macd.  0,  gentle  laiiy 

'T  is  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak : 
The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  ear, 

Enter  Ba.nqio  unready.* 
Would  murder  as  it  fell. — 0  Baniuo'I  Banquo .' 
Our  royal  master  's  murder'd  ! 

Lady  M.  Woe,  alas  ! 

What  !  in  our  house  ? 

Ban.  Too  cruel,  any  where. 

Dear  Duff,  I  pr'ythee,  contradict  thyself. 


'  So  thf  old  copies;  som?  mod.  eds.  read  :  the  green- 
Oft  in  f.  e.      *  This  word  is  not  in  f.  «. 


3ne  red.      >  Used,   as  often,  as  an   angmentatire.      >  The  rest  of  this  iinotioo  ii 


72« 


MACBETH. 


AOT'n. 


\iui  say,  it  i.**  not  so. 

Re-erter  Macbeth  and  Lenox. 

Mach.  Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance, 
I  .uid  li\M  a  ble.sKcd  time,  tor  from  this  instant 
There  's  nothing  serious  in  mortality  ; 
.\11  is  but  toys  :   renown  and  grace  are  dead  ; 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 

left  tills  vault  to  brag  of. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  Donalbain. 

Don.  What  is  amiss  ? 

Much.  Vou  are,  and  do  not  know  't : 

Tiic  spring,  the  liead,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 
s  siopivd  ;  the  very  .'^ource  of  it  is  stopped. 

Macd.  Your  roval  father  's  murder'd. 

Mai.  '  0!  by  whom? 

Lcn.  Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had  done  "t. 
Their  hands  and.  faces  were  all  badg'd  with  blood  ; 
So  were  their  daggers,  which,  uuwip'd,  we  found 
I'pon  their  pillows  :  they  star'd,  and  were  distracted. 
Xo  man's  life  was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macb.  0  !  yet  [  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 
Ti.ut  I  did  kill  them. 

Macd.  Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macb.  Who  can  be  wise,   amaz'd,  temperate   and 
furious, 
Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment  ?     No  man  : 
The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
i)ut-rau  the  pauser  reason. — Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood  ; 
And  his  ga«h'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature 
For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance  »  there,  the  murderers, 
Steep'd  in  the  colours  of  their  trade,  their  daggers 
Unmannerly  breech'd  with  gore.     Who  could  refrain. 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make  's  love  known  ? 

Lady  M.  Help  me  hence,  ho  ! 

Ma^.  Look  to  the  lady.      [I-^y  Macbeth  swoons.^ 

Mai.  Wh)'  do  we  hold  our  tongues, 

That  most  may  claim  this  argument  for  ours  ? 

Don.  What  should  be  spoken 
Here,  where  our  fate,  hid  in  an  auger-hole. 
May  ru.sh,  and  seize  us?     Let's  away  :  our  tears 
.\Tr  not  yet  brew'd. 

Mai.  Nor  our  strong  sorrow 

Ipon  tho  foot  of  motion. 

lian.  Look  to  the  lady. —  [Lady  Macb.  is  borne  out. 
And  when  we  have  our  naked  frailties  hid, 
Tiiat  suffer  in  exposure,  let  us  meet, 
And  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work. 
To  know  it  farther.     Fears  and  scruples  shake  us  : 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand  ;  and,  thence. 
Against  the  undivnilg'd  pretence*  I  fight 
Of  treasonous  malice. 

Macd.  And  so  do  L 

All.  So  all. 

Mach.  Let  'b  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness, 

nd  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 

At..  Well  contented. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Mai.,  and  Don. 

Mnl.  What  will  you  do?  Let's  not  consort  with  them  : 
I'o  .-ihow  an  unfelt  sorrow  is  an  oHice 
Which  the  false  man  does  easy.     I  '11  to  England. 

Dan.  To  Ireland,  I  :  our  separated  Ibrtune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer  ,  where  we  are, 
There  's  daggers  in  men's  smiles  :  the  near  in  blood. 
Tlie  nearer  bloody. 


Mai.  This  murderous  shaft  that 's  shot 

Hath  not  yet  lighted,  and  our  safest  way 
Is  to  avoid  the  aim  :  therefore,  to  horse ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking. 
But  shift  away.     There  "s  warrant  in  that  theft 
Which  steals  itself,  when  there  's  no  mercy  left. 

[Exeuni. 

SCENE  IV.— Without  the  Castle. 
Enter  Rosse  and  an  Old  Man. 

Old  M.  Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well ; 
Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I  have  j^een 
Hours  dreadful,  and  thinus  strange,  but  this  sore  nighl 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Ros.^e.  Ah  !  good  father, 

Tliou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act, 
Threaten  his  bloody  stage  :  by  the  clock  't  is  day, 
And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  travailing'  lamp. 
Is  't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  entomb, 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it  ? 

Old  M.  'T  is  unnatural, 

Even  like  the  deed  that 's  done.     On  Tuesday  la«t, 
A  falcon,  towering  in  her  pride  of  place. 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at,  and  kill'd. 

Rosse.  And  Duncan's  horses  (a  thing  most  strange 
and  certain) 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  .stalls,  flung  out, 
Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would 
Make  war  with  mankind. 

Old  M.  'T  is  said,  they  ate  each  other. 

Ro.sse.  They  did  so ;  to  th'  amazement  of  mine  eyes. 
That  look'd  upon  't.     Here  comes  the  good  Macdufl". — 

Enter  Macduff. 
How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now  ? 

Macd.  Why.  see  you  not  ? 

Rosse.  Is  't  known  who  did  this  more  than  bloody  deed  ? 

Macd.  Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 

Rosse.  Alas,  the  day  ! 

What  good  could  they  pretend  ? 

Macd.  They  were  suborn'd. 

Malcolm,  and  Donalbain.  the  king's  two  sons, 
Are  stol'n  away  and  fled ;  which  puts  upon  them 
Suspicion  of  the  deed. 

Rosse.  'Gainst  nature  still : 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  will  ravin  up 
Thine  own  life's  means  ! — Then,  't  is  mo.st  like. 
The  sovereignty  will  fall  upon  Macbeth. 

Macd.  He  is  already  nam'd,  and  gone  to  Scoue 
To  be  invested. 

Rosse.  Where  is  Duncan's  body  ? 

Macd.  Carried  to  Colme-kill  ; 
The  sacred  store-house  of  his  predecessors. 
And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

Ros.ie.  Will  you  to  Scone  ? 

Macd.  No.  cousin  ;  I  '11  to  Fife. 

Rosse.  Well.  I  will  thithei 

Macd.  Well,  may  you  see  things  well  done  there  ;— 
adieu — 
Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new  ! 

Ros.te.  Farewell,  father. 

Old  M.  God's  benison  go  with  you  ;  and  with  those, 
That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of  foes  ! 

[Exewa 


Intfniinn       '  So  old  copiei ;  most  mod  ed«.  read  •  travelling. 


MACBETH. 


727 


ACT     III 


SCENE  I.— Fores,      A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
E^iter  Banquo. 

Ban.  Thou  hast  it  now,  king,  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all, 
iVs  the  weird  women  proniis'd  ;  and,  I  fear. 
Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for  't :  yet  it  was  said, 
It  should  not  &tand  in  thy  posterity  ] 
But  that  myself  should  be  the  root,  and  father 
Qf  many  kings.     If  there  come  truth  from  them, 
(As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  show) 
Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 
May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well, 
And  set  me  up  in  hope  ?     But,  hush  !  no  more. 
Sennet.     Enter   Macbeth,  as  King ;  Lady  Macbeth, 

as    Queen;     Lenox,    Rosse,     Lords,    Ladies,    and 

Attendants. 

Macb.  Here 's  our  chief  guest. 

Lady  M.  If  he  had  been  forgotten. 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast. 
And  all  things  unbecoming. 

Mach.  To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir, 
And  I  '11  request  your  presence. 

Ban.  Lay  your  highness" 

Command  upon  me,  to  the  which  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
For  ever  knit. 

Mach.  Ride  you  this  afternoon? 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  We  should  have  else  desir'd  your  good  advice 
(Which  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosperous) 
In  this  day's  council  ;  but  we  '11  take  to-morrow. 
Is  't  far  you  ride  ? 

Ban.  As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 
Twixt  this  and  supper :  go  not  my  horse  the  better, 
[  must  become  the  borrower  of  the  night 
For  a  dark  hour,  or  twain. 

Mach.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

Ban.  My  lord,  I  will  not. 

Mach.  We  hear,  our  bloody  cousins  are  bestow'd 
In  England,  and  in  Ireland  ;  not  confessing 
Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 
With  strange  invention.     But  of  that  to-morrow ; 
When^  therewithal   we  shall  have  cause  of  state 
Craving  us  jointly.     Hie  you  to  horse  :  adieu, 
Till  you  retui-n  at  night.     Goes  Fleance  with  you  ? 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  our  time  does  call  upon  us. 

Macb.  I  wish  your  horses  swift,  and  sure  of  foot; 
And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 
Farewell. —  [Exit  Banquo. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 
Till  seven  at  night.     To  make  society 
The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 
Till  supper  time  alone  :   while  then,  God  be  with  you. 
{Exeunt  Lady  Macbeth,  Lords,  Ladies,  ^c. 
Sirrah,  a  word  with  you.     Attend  those  men 
Our  pleasure  ? 

Atten.  They  ate,  my  lord,  without  the  palace  gate. 

Mach.  Bring  them  before  us. — [Exit  Atten.]    To  be 
thus  is  nothing. 
But  to  be  safely  thus. — Our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep,  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature 
Reigns  that  which  would  be  fear'd  :  't  is  much  he  dares  ; 
And  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind, 
He  halh  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valour 
f  o  act  in  safety.     There  is  none  but  he 
^hose  being  I  do  fear,  and  under  him 


My  genius  is  rebuk'd,  as.  it  is  said, 

Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar.     He  chid  the  sisters. 

When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon  me, 

And  bade  them  speak  to  him ;  then,  prophet-likei, 

They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings. 

Upon  my  head  they  plac'd  a  fruitless  crown. 

And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe. 

Thence  to  be  ^^Tencll'd  with  an  unlineal  hand, 

No  son  of  mine  succeeding.     If 't  be  so, 

For  Baiiquo's  issue  have  I  fil'd''  my  mind. 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  mm-der'd  ; 

Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 

Only  for  them  ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 

Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man. 

To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings  ! 

Rather  than  so,  come,  fate,  into  the  li.'^t, 

And  champion  me  to  the  utterance'. — Who's  there? 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  two  Murderers. 
Now,  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 

[Exit  Attendant 
Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 

1  Mur.  It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 

Mach.  Well  then,  now 

Have  you  consider'd  of  my  speeches  ?     Know. 
That  it  was  he,  in  the  times  past,  which  held  you 
So  under  fortune ;  which,  you  thought,  had  been 
Our  innocent  se  if.     This  I  made  good  to  you 
In  our  last  conference ;  pass'd  in  probation  with  you. 
How  you  were  borne  in  hand ;  how  cross'd  ;  the  iuBtru- 

ments  ; 
Who  vsTought  with  them  ;  and  all  things  else,  that  might. 
To  half  a  soul,  and  to  a  notion  craz'd, 
Say,  •''  Thus  did  Banquo." 

1  3Iur.  You  made  it  known  to  up 

Macb.  I  did  so ;  and  went  farther,  which  is  now 
Our  point  of  second  meeting.     Do  you  find 
Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature, 
That  you  can  let  this  go?     Are  you  so  gospell'd 
To  pray  for  this  good  man,  and  for  his  issue. 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bow'd  you  to  the  grave, 
And  beggar'd  yours  for  ever  ? 

1  3Iur.  We  are  men.  my  liegc 
3Iacb.  Ay,  in  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men. 

As  hounds,  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels,  curs. 
Shoughs,  water-rugs,  and  demi-wolves.  are  clcped 
All  by  the  name  of  dogs  :  the  valued  file 
Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle, 
The  house-keeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 
According  to  the  gift  which  bounteous  nature 
Hath  in  him  clos'd,  whereby  he  does  receive 
Particular  addition,  from  the  quill 
That  writes  them  all  alike  ;  and  so  of  men. 
Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file 
Not  i'  the  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say  it, 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms^ 
Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off. 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us. 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life. 
Which  in  his  death  were  perfect. 

2  3Iiir.  I  am  one.  m}  l>eg». 
Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incens'd,  that  I  am  reckless  what 

I  do  to  spite  the  world. 

1  Mur.  And  I  another. 

So  wearied  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fo^tune^ 
That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 


1/tt  your  highness  :  in  f.  e.      '  Defiled.      '  Fr.  d  Voutrance,  extremity. 


728 


MACBETH. 


To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on  'l. 

Macb.  Both  ot  you 

Know  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 

2  Mur.  True,  my  lord. 

Miub.  So  i.''  he  mine  :  and  in  sueli  bloody  distance, 
That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
.\_'ainst  my  near'st  of  lite.     And  thouijh  I  could 
With  bare-lac'd  power  sweep  liim  from  my  sight, 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,  yet  I  must  not, 
Far  certain  friends  that  arc  both  his  and  mine, 
Who.sc  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  his  fall 
Whom  I  myself  .struck  down  :  and  thence  it  is, 
That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love, 
Masking  the  business  from  the  conamon  eye 
For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

2  Mur.  We  shall,  my  lord, 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

1  Mur.  Though  our  live.« — 
Macb.  Your  spirits  shine  through  you.     Within  this 

hour,  at  most, 
will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves. 
Acquaint  you.  with  a  perfect  spy,  o'  the  time, 
The  moment  on  't :  for 't  must  be  done  to-night, 
.\nd  something  from  the  palace  :  always  thought, 
That  I  require  a  clearness  :  and  with  him. 
(To  leave  no  rubs,  nor  botches,  in  the  work) 
Fleance  hi.s  .son.  that  keeps  him  company, 
Wliose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 
Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 
Of  that  dark  hour.     Resolve  yourselves  apart: 
r  '11  come  to  you  anon. 

2  Mur.  We  are  resolv'd.  my  lord, 
Macb.  I  '11  call  upon  you  straight :  abide  within. 

[Exeunt  Murderers. 
it  is  concluded  :  Banquo.  thy  soul's  flight, 
If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.      Another  Room. 
Enter  LaiJy  Macbeth  and  a  Servant. 

Lady  M.  Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

f^rv.  Ay.  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

fjjdy  M.  Say  to  the  king,  I  would  attend  his  leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

>^rv.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Lidy  M.  Nought 's  had,  all 's  spent, 

V^Tiere  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy. 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  Macbeth. 
How  now,  my  lord  !  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making. 
I'sing  those  thou:.'hUs.  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on  ?     Things  without  remedy. 
Should  be  without  resard  ;  what 's  done,  is  done. 

Macb.  We  have  sw.tcli'd  the  snake,  not  kill'd  it : 
She  'II  close,  and  be  herself,  whilst  our  poor  malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  ]"t  the  eternal  frame  of  things  disjoint, 
B^ith  the  worlds  suffer, 
Kre  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  the.se  terrible  dreams, 
That  shake  us  nightly.     Better  be  with  the  dead. 
Whom  we  to  gain  otir  peace  have  sent  to  peace, 
Tlian  on  (he,  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave  ; 
After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well; 
Treason  ha.s  done  his  worst :  nor  .steel,  nor  poison, 
.Milice  domestic,  foreiirn  le\-y,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  farther  ! 

'  Scah  winged       >  Blinding       '  neaj  :  in  t   o. 


I      Lady  M.  Come  on : 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  loo'-.s  : 
Be  bri:;ht  and  jovial  'mong  your  gue.s:«  tonight 

Much.  So  shall  I,  love  ;  and  so.  I  pray,  be  vow 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo: 
Present  him  eminence,  both  with  eye  and  tongue 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we  nui.^^t  lave  oir  honoura 
In  these  flattering  streams,  and  make  our  faces 
Vizards  to  our  hearts,  disguising  what  they  are. 

Lady  M.  You  must  leave  this. 

Macb.  0  !  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife 
Thou  know'st  that  Banquo  and  his  Fleance  live. 

Lady  M.  But  in  them  nature's  copy  's  not  eterne. 

Macb.  There  's  comfort  yet  ;  they  are  assailable  . 
Then,  be  thou  jocund.     Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloisterd  flight;  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
The  shard-borne"  beetle,  with  his  drowsy  hums. 
Hath  rung  nights  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.  What 's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.  Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  d^cd.     Come,  seeling'  night, 
Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day. 
And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand, 
Cancel,  and  tear  to  pieces,  that  nreat  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale  ! — Light  thickens  ;  and  the  crov. 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood  : 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse. 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse. 
Thou  marvell'st  at  my  words :  but  hold  thee  still  : 
Things,  bad  begun,  make  strong  themselves  by  ill. 
So,  pr'ythee,  go  with  me.  [Exe>"it 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Park,  with  a  road  l<^ad. 

ing  to  the  Palace. 

Enter  tnree  Murderers. 

1  iJ/wr.  But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us  ? 

3  Mur.  MacDolh 

2  Mur.  He  needs  not  our  mi.strust;  since  he  delivers 
Our  oflices,  and  whai  we  have  to  do, 

To  thy  direction  just. 

1  Mur.  Then  stand  wth  us. 

The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  aay . 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  anace. 
To  gain  the  timely  inn ;  and  here'  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch. 

3  Mur.  Hark  !  I  hear  horses. 
Ban.   [Within.\  Give  us  a  light  there,  ho  ! 

2  Mur.  Then,  't  is  he  :  the  rest 
That  are  within  the  note  of  expectation. 

Already  are  i'  the  court. 

1  Mur.  His  horses  go  about. 

3  Mur.  Almost  a  mile  :  but  he  does  usually. 
So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 
Make  it  their  walk. 

Enfer  Baxquc  and  Fi.eance.  with  a  torch. 

2  Mur  A  light,  a  light ! 

3  Mui .  'Tis  he. 
1  Mur.  Stand  tr  't. 

Ban.  It  will  be  rain  to-night. 

1  Mur.  Let  it  come  down.     [Strikes  Banqio 

Ban.  0.  treachery  !    Fly.  good  Fleance,  fly.  fly.  fly  ! 
Thou  may'st  revenge. — O  slave  !   [Dies.     Fle.  escapes 
3  Mur.  Who  did  strike  out  the  li-jht? 

1  Mur.  Was  't  not  the  way  > 
3  Mur.  There  's  but  one  down  :   the  .son  is  fled. 

2  Mur.  We  have  lost  best  half  of  our  afl^air. 

1  Mur.  Well,  let 's  away,  and  say  how  much  is  done 

[Exeunl 


SCENE  rv. 


MACBETn. 


729 


SCENE  IV.— A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

A  Banquet  prepared.  Enter  Macbeth.  Lady  Macbeth, 

Plosse,  Lenox,  Lords^  and  Attendants. 

Macb.  You  imow  your  own  degrees  ;  sit  down  :  at  first 
\nd  last  the  hearty  welcome. 

Lords.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Mach.  Ourself  will  mingle  with  society, 
And  play  the  humble  host. 
Our  hostess  keeps  her  state  ;  but  in  best  time 
We  will  require  her  welcome. 

Ladij  M.  Pronounce  it  lor  me,  sir,  to  all  our  friends; 
For  my  heart  speaks,  they  are  welcome. 

Macb.  See,  they  encounter  thee  with  their  hearts' 
thanks. 
Both  sides  are  even  :  here  I  '11  sit  i'  the  midst. 
Be  large  in  mirth  :  anon,  we  '11  drink  a  measure 

Enter  first  Murderer^  to  the  door. 
The  table  round. — There  's  blood  upon  thy  face. 

Mur.  'T  is  Banquo's  then. 

Macb.  'T  is  better  thee  without,  than  him  within, 
is  he  despatch'd  ? 

Mur.  My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did  for  hun. 

Macb.  Thou  art  the  best  o'  the  cut-throats ; 
Yet  he  is  good,  that  did  the  like  for  Fleance  : 
If  thou  didst  it,  thou  art  the  nonpareil. 

Mur.  Most  royal  sir,  Fleance  is  'scap'd. 

Mncb.  Then  comes  my  fit  again  :  I  had  else  been 
Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock,        [perfect ; 
As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  air  ; 
But  now,  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confin'd,  bound  in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears. — But  Banquo's  safe  ? 

Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 
With  twenty  trench'd  gashes  on  his  head, 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macb.  Thanks  for  that.— 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies  :  the  worm,  that 's  fled, 
Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed, 
\o  teeth  for  the  present. — Get  thee  gone  :  to-morrow 
We  '11  hear  ourselves  again.  {Exit  Murderer. 

Lady  M.  My  royal  lord. 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer  :  the  feast  is  sold, 
That  is  not  often  vouch'd  the  while  't  is  making' ; 
'T  is  given  with  welcome.     To  feed  were  best  at  home ; 
From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony  ; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macb.  Sweet  remembrancer  ! — 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
And  health  on  both  ' 

Len.  May  it  please  your  highness  sit  ? 

[The  Ghost  of  Banquo  enters,  and  sits  in 
Macbeth's  place. 

Macb.  Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour  roof'd. 
Were  the  grac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present  : 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness, 
Than  pity  for  mischance  ! 

Rosse.  His  absence,  sir, 

l-ays  blame  upon  his  promise.     Please  it  your  highness 
1^1^.  grace  us  with  your  royal  company  ? 
^^Macb.  The  table  's  full. 

Len.  Here  is  a  place  reserv'd,  sir. 

[Poi7iting  to  the  Ghost.' 

Macb.  Where  ? 

Len.    Here,  my  good  lord.     What  is 't  that  moves 
your  highness  ? 

3Iacb.  Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 
Lords.  What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macb.  Thou  canst  not  say,  I  did  it :  never  shake 
TLf  gory  locks  at  me. 

▼ouch  .  wnile  't  is  a  makinp  :  in  f.  «.      »  '  *  These  directions  not 


Ro.'t.ie.  Gentlemen,  ri.se  ;  his  .highness  is  not  well. 

Lady  M.  Sit,  worthy  friends.     My  lord  is  often  thus 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth  :  pray  you,  keep  Boai. 
The  fit  is  momentary  ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well.     If  much  you  note  hiin 
You  shall  offend  him,  and  extend  his  passion  ; 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not. — Are  you  a  man  ? 

[Coming  to  Macbeth  :  aside  to  him 

Macb.  Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  tluti 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  M.  0,  proper  stuff  ! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear  ; 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which,  you  sail, 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     O  !  these  flaws,  and  starU, 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire. 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself  ! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?     When  all 's  done, 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  see  there  !  behold  !  look  !  lo  !  how 
say  you  ? — 
Why,  what  care  I  ?     If  thou  can.st  nod.  speak  too. — 
If  charnel-houses,  and  our  graves,  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  [Exit  Ghnsi. 

Lady  M.  What  !  quite  unmann'd  in  folly  ? 

Macb.  If  1  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  M.  Fie  !  for  shame  ! 

Macb.  Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  th'  oKlcn 
time. 
Ere  human  statute  purg'd  the  gentle  w^eal  ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  perform'd 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear  :  the  times  have  been. 
That  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end  ;  but  now.  they  rise  again 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns. 
And  push  us  from  our  stools.     This  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murder  is. 

Lady  M.  My  worthy  lord,   [Going  back  to  her  state.* 
Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macb.  I  do  forget. — 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends  ; 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.     Come,  love  and  health  to  all ; 
Then.  I  '11  sit  down. — Give  me  some  wine  :  fill  full. — 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  of  the  whole  table. 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo.  whom  we  miss  : 

Re-enter  Ghost. 
Would  he  were  here  !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst 
And  all  to  all. 

Lords.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

3Iacb.  Avaunt  !  and  quit  my  sight.     Let  the  eanh 
hide  thee  ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes, 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with. 

Lady  M  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom  :  't  is  no  oilier ; 
Only  it  spoils  the  pleii,«ure  of  the  time 

Macb.  What  man  dare,  I  dare  : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Hu.'sian  bear, 
The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger  ; 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 
Shall  never  tremble  :  or,  be  alive  again. 
And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword  ; 
If  trembling  I  exhibit,*  then  i>rotest  me 
The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow ! 

[ExU  Ghost 
Unreal  mockery,  hence  ! — Why,  so  -—being  gone, 


f.  s.      •  inhabit :  in  f. 


JM 


MACBETH. 


AOT  in. 


1  am  a  iflan  again. — Pray  you,  sit  Btill. 

Lady  M.  You   have  displac'd  the  mirth,  broke  the 
gootl  moeiiiitr. 
With  most  admird  disorder. 

Macb.  Can  such  things  be, 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?     You  make  me  strange, 
Kven  to  the  disposition  that  1  owe, 
When  no\\  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks, 
Wiien  mine  are  blanch 'd  with  fear. 

Rosse.  What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

Lady  M.    I  pray  you,  speak  not :  he  grows  worse 
and  wort^e  ; 
Quesuon  cr.rages  him.     At  once,  good  night : 
Siand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going. 
Hut  go  at  once. 

Lcn.  Good  night  ;  and  better  health 

Attend  his  majesty. 

Lady  M.  A  kind  good  night  to  all  ! 

[Exeunt  Lords  and  Attendants. 

Macb.  It  will  have  blood,  they  say;  blood  will  have 
blood  : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to  speak  ; 
Augurs,  and  understood  relations,  have 
By  magot-pies,  and  choughs,  and  rooks,  brought  forth 
The  secrct'st  man  of  blood. — What  is  the  niglit  ? 

Lady  M.  Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is 
which. 

Macb.   How  say'st    thou,  that   Macduff  denies  his 
person. 
At  our  great  bidding? 

Lady  M.  Did  you  send  to  him.  sir  ? 

Macb.  I  hear  it  by  the  way ;  but  I  will  send. 
There  's  not  a  one  of  them,  but  in  his  house 
I   11  keep  a  servant  feed.     I  will  to-morrow.^ 
And  betimes  I  will)  to  the  weird  sisters  : 
More  shall  they  speak  ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 
By  the  worst  means,  the  worst.     For  mine  own  good, 
All  causes  shall  give  way:  I  am  in  blood 
Slept  in  so  far.  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
llcturniiiir  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er. 
Siraniic  things  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand, 
Which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scann'd. 

l/idy  M.  You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep. 

Macb.  Come,  we  '11  to  sleep.     My  strange  and  self- 
abuse 
(s  the  initiate  fear,  that  wants  hard  use  : 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— The  Heath. 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches,  meeting  Hecate. 

1   Witch.  W^hy.  how  now.  Hecate!  you  look  angerly. 

Hec.  Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are, 
iSaucy,  and  over-bold  ?     How  did  you  dare 
To  trade  and  traffic  wiih  Macbeth, 
In  riddles,  and  affairs  of  death  ; 
\nd  I.  the  mistre.»<s  of   your  charms, 
The  close  contriver  «f  all  harms. 
Was  never  call'd  to  bear  my  part, 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 
And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son, 
Spiteful,  and  wrathful  ;  who.  a.s  others  do, 
Lnves  for  hi.s  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
Rut  make  amends  now :  get  you  gone, 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron 
Meet  me  i'  the  morning  :  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny. 
Vour  vcs.sels,  and  your  spells,  provide, 


Your  charms,  and  every  thing  beside. 

I  am  for  the  air  ;  this  night  I  '11  spend 

Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end  : 

Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon. 

Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 

There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound  ; 

I  '11  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground  : 

And  that,  distill'd  by  magic  sleights, 

Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprites. 

As  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion, 

Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion. 

He  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  bear 

His  hopes  "bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear; 

And,  you  all  know,  security 

Is  mortals'  chiefest  enemy. 

Song.  [Within.]   Come  away,  come  aivay,  Sfc. 
Hark  !  I  am  call'd :  my  little  spirit,  see. 
Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.   [Exit  Hecatb. 

1   Witch.    Come,  let 's  make  haste :  she  '11  soon  bo 
back  again.  [Exeunt  Witches 

SCENE  VI.— Fores.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Lenox  and  another  Lord. 

Len.  My  former  speeches  have  but  hit  your  thoughts, 
Which  can  interpret  farther :  only.  I  say. 
Things   have    been    strangely    borne.      The    gracious 

Duncan 
Was  pitied  of  Macbeth  : — marry,  he  was  dead  ; 
And  the  right  valiant  Banquo  walk'd  too  late  ; 
Wliom,  you  may  say,  if 't  please  you,  Fleance  kilTd, 
For  Fleance  fled.     Men  must  not  walk  too  late. 
Who  cannot  want  the  thought,  how  monstrous 
It  was  for  Malcolm,  and  for  Donalbain, 
To  kill  their  gracious  father  ?  damned  fact ! 
How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth  !  did  lie  not  straight. 
In  pious  rage  the  two  delinquents  tear, 
That  were  the  slaves  of  drink,  and  thralls  of  sleep? 
Was  not  that  nobly  done  ?     Ay,  and  wi.sely,  too  ; 
For  'twould  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive. 
To  hear  the  men  deny  't.     So  that.  I  say, 
He  has  borne  all  things  well  ;  and  I  do  think, 
That  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key, 
(As,  an  't  please  heaven,  he  shall  not)  they  should  find 
What  't  were  to  kill  a  father  ;  so  should  Fleance. 
But,   peace  ! — for    from  broad   words,   and    cause   li« 

fail'd 
His  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear, 
Macduff  lives  in  disgrace.     Sir,  can  you  tell 
Where  he  bestows  himself  ? 

Lord.  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  birth, 
Lives  in  the  English  court  ;•  and  is  rocciv'd 
Of  the  most  pious  Edward  with  such  grace. 
That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 
Takes  from  his  high  respect.     Thither  Macduff 
Ks  gone,  to  pray  the  holy  king  upon  his  aid 
To  wake  Northumberland,  and  warlike  Siward; 
That  by  the  help  of  these,  (with  Him  above 
To  ratify  the  work)  we  may  again 
Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights, 
Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives. 
Do  faithful  homage,  and  receive  free  honours, 
All  which  we  pine  for  now.     And  this  report 
Hath  so  exasperate  the  king,  that  he 
Prepares  for  some  attempt  of  war. 

Len.  Sent  he  to  Macdnfl ' 

Lord.  He  did  :  and  with  an  absolute,   "  Sir,  not  1  .' 
The  cloudy  messenser  turns  me  his  bac'c. 
And  hums,  as  who  should  say,   ''  You  '11  rue  the  tjiie 
That  clogs  me  with  this  answer." 


SCENE    I. 


MACBETH. 


731 


Lm.  And  that  well  might 

A.dvise  him  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 
His  wisdom  can  provide.     Some  holy  angel 
Fl)'  to  the  court  of  England,  and  unfold 


His  message  ere  he  come,  that  a  swift  blessing 
May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 
Under  a  hand  accurs'd  ! 

Lord.         I '11  send  my  prayers  with  him  !    \^Ex€U7U. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  T. — A  dark  Cave.     In  the  middle,  a  Cauldron 
Th'Mnde*      Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  ThriceJJie^briiidfid^at  hath  mew'd. 

2  Witch.  Thrice  ;  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whin'd. 

3  Witch.  Harper'  ci'ies, — "T  is  time,  't  is  time. 

1  Witch.  Round  about  the  cauldron  go  ; 
In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. — 

Toad,  that  under  cold  stone, 
Day  and  uiglits  has  thirty-one 
Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot. 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

2  IVitch.  Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake : 
Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, 

For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble. 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble, 
Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

3  Witch.  Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf ; 
Witches'  mummy  ;  maw.  and  gulf 

Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark ; 
Root  of  hemlock,  digg'd  i'  the  dark ; 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew  ; 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 
Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse ; 
Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips  ; 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe, 
Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab, 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  : 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  ehaudron*, 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron, 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

2  Witch.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood  ; 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

Enter  Hecate,  and  other  Witches. 
Hec.  0,  well  done  !   I  commend  your  pains, 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gains. 
And  now  about  the  cauldron  sing, 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 
Enchanting  ail  that  you  put  in. 
Mv.iic,and  a  Song.  ^^  Black'spirits,"  Ifc.^  Exit  Hecate. 
2  Witch.  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs. 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes. —  [Knocking. 

Open,  locks,  whoever  knocks. 

Enter  Macbeth. 
Mach.  How  now,  you   secret,  black,  and  midnight 
hags  ! 
What  is 't  you  do  ? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Macb.  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess, 


(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it)  answer  me  : 

Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 

Against  the  churches;  though  the  yesty  waves 

Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up  ; 

Though  bleaded*  corn  be  lodg'd,  and  trees  b]o\\-n  down  , 

Though  castles  topple  o'er*  their  warders'  heads ; 

Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  stoop^ 

Their  heads  to  their  foundations ;  though  the  treasure 

Of  nature's  germins'  tumble  all  together, 

Even  till  destruction  sicken,  answer  me 

To  what  I  ask  you 

1  Witch.  Speak. 

2  Witch.  Demand. 

3  Witch.  We  '11  answer 

1  Witch.   Say,  if  thou'dst  rather  hear  it  from  oui 

mouths. 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

3Iacb.  Call  'em  :  let  me  see  'cm. 

1  Witch.  Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that,  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow ;  grease,  that 's  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet,  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come  high,  or  low ; 

Thyself,  and  office,  deftly  show. 

Thunder.     1  Apparition,  an  armed  Head. 
Macb.  Tell  me,  thou  unknown!  power, — 

2  Witch.  '  He  knows  thy  tliouglit 
Hear  his  .^^peech.  but  say  thou  nought. 

1    App.     Macbeth  !    Macbeth !    Macbeth  !    beware 
Macduff; 
Beware  the  thane  of  Fife. — Dismiss  me  : — enough. 

[Dcsccuils. 

Macb.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution  thanks  : 
Thou   hast   harp'd    my  fear   aright. — But   one    word 
more. — 

1  Witch.  He  will  not  be  commanded.  Here's  another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

TImnder.     2  Apparition,  a  bloody  Child. 

App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  I  Macbeth  I — 

Macb.  Had  I  three  ears,  1  'd  hear  thee. 

App.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute  :  laugli  to  scorn 
The  power  of  man.  for  none  of  woman  born 
Shall  harm  Macbeth.  [IkscenSs. 

Macb.  Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fea.  of  the*? 
But  yet  I  '11  make  assurance  double  sure. 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate  :  thou  shalt  not  live  , 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies. 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. — Wliat  is  this, 
Thunder.     3  Apparition,  a  Child  crowned,  with  a  TVet 

in  his  Hand. 
That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king ; 
And  wears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty  ? 

All.  Listen,  but  speak  not  to't. 

App.  Be  lion-metfled,  proud,  and  take  no  care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are  : 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be,  until 


Harpier  :  in  f   e.     '  Entrails.     '  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  : 
Black  spirits  and  white, 
Red  spirits  and  grey  ; 
laded  :  in  f.  e       B  on  :  in  f.  e       '  slope  :  in  f.  e.      '  Germinat 


ot  in  f.  e.   The  sone  is  proKibly  the  same  as  that  in  Middleton's  Witob 
Minple.  minsrle.  minple, 
You  that  mincle  may. 
rig-  seeds.     Folio  reads  :   rermaius. 


732 


MACBETH. 


A(.rr  TV. 


l*reat  liirnam  wood  to  high  Diinsinane  hill 

Shall  coinc  a^alnst  h'm.  [Descends. 

Macb  That  will  never  be  : 

Who  can  iini)reHs  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Infix  liis  fiirtli-boiiiui  root  ?  sweet  bodements  !  good  ! 
Rebellion's'  head,  rise  never,  till  the  wood 
Of  Biriiam  rise  :  and  our  liii;li-piac'd  Maebeth 
Shall  live  the  lea.-e  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time  and  mortal  cusioin. — Vet  my  heart 
Throbs  lo  know  one  thing:  tell  me.  (if  your  art 
Tan  tell  so  much)  shall  IBanquo's  issue  ever 
Reiiin  in  this  kingiioni  ? 

All.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Mach.   I  will  be  satisfied:  deny  me  this. 
And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you  !     Let  me  know. — 
Why  sinks  thai  cauldron?  and  what  noi.se  is  this? 

\Tlie  cauhhon  descends.*     Havthoys  sound. 

1  H'l/r//.  Show!    2  HV/cA.  Show!    3  Witch.  ^\\o\\  \ 

All.  Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart; 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart. 

A  show  of  eight  Kings,  and  B\sq.vo  first  and  last.'  with 
a  Gla.ss  in  his  Hand. 

Mach.  Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo  :  down  ! 
Thy  crown  d^es  sear  mine  eye-balls; — and  thy  hair 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow  art  like  the  first : — 
A  third  is  like  the  former  : — Filthy  hags  ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this? — A  fourth? — Start,  eyes  ! 
What  !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ? 
Another  yet  ? — A  seventh  ?  I  '11  see  no  more  : 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass, 
Which  shows  me  many  more ;  and  some  I  see, 
Tliat  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry. 
Horrible  sight ! — Now,  I  see,  't  is  true ; 
For  the  blood-bolter'd''  Banquo  smiles  upon  me. 
And  points  at  them  for  liis. — What !  is  this  so? 

1   Witch.  Ay.  sir,  all  this  is  so  :  but  why 
Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ? — 
Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprites, 
And  show  the  best  of  our  delishts. 
I  "II  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound, 
While  you  perform  your  antic  round; 
That  this  groat  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

[Music.     The  witches  dance,  and  vanish. 

Mach.  Where  are  they?  Gone? — Let  this  pernicious 
hour 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  ! — 
Come  in  !  without  there  ! 

Enter  Lenox. 

J-'^-  What 's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Macb.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

i^"^-  No.  my  lord. 

Mach.  Came  they  not  by  you  ? 

L'^-  No.  indeed,  my  lord. 

Mach.  Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride. 
And  darim"d  all  tho.se  that  trust  them  ! — I  did  hear 
Thp  galloping  of  horse  :  who  was  't  came  by  ? 

Len.  'T  is  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word, 
MardufT  is  fled  to  England. 

Mncb.  Fled  to  England  ? 

I^n.  Ay.  my  good  lord. 

Mnch    Time,  thou  anticipat'st  my  dread  exploits: 
The  flighty  purpo-^c  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it.     From  this  moment, 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now, 
To  cTov> ..  my  thous'his  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done  : 
The  castle  of  Macdufl"  I  will  surprise  ; 


Seize  upon  Fife ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  eword 

His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 

That  trace  him  in  his  line.     No  boasting  like  a  fool; 

This  deed  1  '11  do,  before  this  purpcse  cool  : 

But  no  more  flights'. — Where  arc  the.<e  gentlemen  ■:* 

Come  ;  bring  me  where  they  are.  [ExeiuU 

SCENE  II.— Fife.     A  Room  in  Macduff's  Castle. 
Enter  Lady  Macduff,  her  Son,  and  Rosse. 

L.  Macd.  Wliat  had  he  done  to  make  him  fly  il.u 
land? 

Ros.se.  You  must  have  patience,  madam. 

L.  Macd.  He  had  ni  nc* 

His  flight  was  madness.     When  our  actions  do  noi. 
Our  fears  do  maKe  us  traitors. 

Ros.se.  You  know  not, 

Whether  it  was  his  wisdom,  or  his  fear. 

L.  Macd.  Wi.'^dom  !  to  leave  his  wife,  to  leave  his 
His  mansion,  and  his  titles,  in  a  place  [babi-s, 

From  whence  himself  does  fly  ?     He  loves  us  not  : 
He  wants  the  natural  touch  ;  for  the  poor  wren, 
The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight, 
Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  again.st  the  owl. 
All  is  the  fear,  and  nothing  is  the  love  : 
As  little  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 
So  runs  against  all  reason. 

Ros.se.  My  dearest  coz', 

I  pray  you,  school  yourself:  but,  for  your  husband. 
He  is  noble,  wise,  judicious,  and  best  knows 
The  fits  o'  the  season.    1  dare  not  speak  much  farlln  r 
But  cruel  are  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors, 
And  do  not  know't"  ourselves  :  when  we  hold  ruimair 
From  what  we  fear,  yet  know  not  what  we  fear, 
But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea. 
Each  way  and  move. — I  take  my  leave  of  you  : 
'T  shair  not  be  long  but  I  '11  be  here  again. 
Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb  upward 
To  what  they  were  before. — My  pretty  cousin. 
Blessing  upon  you  ! 

L.  Macd.  Fathered  he  is,  and  yet  he  's  fatherless. 

Rosse.  I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay  longer, 
It  would  be  my  disgrace,  and  your  discomfort. 
I  take  my  leave  at  once.  [Exit  Rossk 

L.  Macd.  Sirrah,  your  father  's  dead  : 

And  what  will  you  do  now?     How  will  you  live? 

Son.  As  birds  do,  mother. 

L.  Macd.  What,  with  worms  and  lli-s  ? 

Son.  With  what  I  get,  I  mean;  and  so  do  they. 

L.  Macd.  Poor  bird!    thou 'dst  never  fear   the   ii«i. 
nor  lime. 
The  pit-fall,  nor  the  gin. 

Son.  Why  should  I,  mother?     Poor  birds   they  are 
not  set  for. 
My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 

L.  Macd.   Yes,  he  is  dead  :  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a 
father? 

Son.  Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband  ? 

L.  Macd.  Why,  I  can  buy  me  twenty  at  any  market 

Son.  Then  you'll  buy  'em  to  .sell  again. 

L.  Macd.  Thou  speak'st  with  all  thy  wit; 
And  yet  i'  faith,  with  wit  enough  for  thee. 

Son.  Was  my  father  a  traitor,  mother? 

L.  Macd.   Ay,  that  he  was. 

Son.  What  is  a  traitor? 

L.  Macd.  Why,  one  that  swears  and  lies. 

Son.   And  be  all  traitors  that  do  .so  ? 

L.  Macd.  Every  one  that  does  so  is  a  traitor.  xi\a 
must  be  hanged. 


'Rebellions  :  in  f.  e.     «  Th«  firat  part  of  this  directi( 
\m  f  e.      1  Shall  •  in  f  e. 


f.  e.    >  Banquo  last:  in  f.  e.     ♦  Besmeared. 


(iOENE   m. 


MACBETH. 


733 


ii 


Son.  And  must  they  all  be  hanged  that  swear  and  lie? 

L.  Macd.   Every  one. 

Scm.  Who  must  hang  them? 

L.  Macd.  Why,  tlie  lionest  men. 

Son.  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools  ;  for  there 
a,e  liars  and  swearers  enow  to  beat  the  honest  men, 
and  hang  up  them. 

L.  Macd.  Now  God  help  thee,  poor  monkey  !  But 
how  wilt  thou  do  tor  a  lather? 

So7i,  If  he  were  dead,  you  'd  weep  for  him :  if  you 
would  not.  it  were  a  good  sign  that  I  should  quickly 
liiive  a  new  father. 

L.  Macd.  Poor  prattler,  how  thou  talk'st ! 
Enter  a  Messeng.r. 

Mess.  Bless  you,  fair  dame.   I  am  not  to  you  kno\^^l, 
Though  in  your  state  of  honour  I  am  perfect. 
I  doubt  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly ; 
It  you  will  take  a  homely  man's  advice, 
Be  not  found  here ;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 
To  fright  you  tlius,  metliinks.  I  am  too  savage, 
To  do  wor.-<e  to  you  were  fell  cruelty. 
Which  is  too  nigh  your  per.^on.  Heaven  preserve  you  ! 
1  dare  abide  no  longer.  [Exit  Messenger. 

L.  Macd.  Whither  should  I  fly  ? 

I  have  done  no  harm  ;  but  I  remember  now 
i  am  in  this  earthly  world,  where  to  do  harm 
Is  often  laudable :  to  do  good  sometime 
Accounted  dangerous  folly  !  why  then,  alas  ! 
Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence. 
To  say,  I  have  done  no  harm  ? — What  are  these  faces  ? 
Eriter  Murderers. 

Mur.  Whei-e  is  your  hu.«band  ? 

L.  Macd.  I  hope,  in  no  place  so  unsanctified, 
Where  such  as  thou  may'st  find  him. 

Mur.  He  's  a  traitor. 

Son.  Thou  liest,  thou  shag-ear'd'  \'illain. 

Mur.  Wliat,  you  egg  !  [Stabbing  him. 

Voung  fry^  of  treachery. 

Son.  He  has  kill'd  me,  mother  : 

Run  away,  I  pray  you.  [Dies. 

[Exit  Lady  Macduff,  crying  murder,  and 
pursued  by  the  Murderers. 

SCENE  III.— England.     A  Room  in  the  King's 

Palace. 

Enter  M.\lcolm  and  Macduff. 

Mai.  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and  there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 

Macd.  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword,  and  like  good  men 
Bestride  our  down-falTn  birthdom.     Each  new  morn 
New  -widows  howl,  new  orphans  cry;  new  sorrows 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  ^^ath  Scotland,  and  yell'd  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolour. 

Mai.  What  I  believe,  I  '11  wail ; 

What  know,  believe  ;  and  what  I  can  redress, 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will : 
What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so,  perchance. 
Tlus  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  bli-sters  our  tongues, 
Was  once  thought  honest :  you  liave  lov'd  him  well ; 
He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet.     I  am  young ;  but  some- 
thing 
Vou  may  deserve"  of  him  through  me,  and  wisdom 
To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor,  innocent  lamb 
To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macd.  I  am  not  treacherous. 

Mai.  But  Macbeth  is. 


A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil 
In  an  imperial  charge.    But  I  shall  crave  youi  pardon 
That  which  you  are  my  ihoughts  cannot  transpose; 
Angels  are  briglit  still,  though  tlie  brightest  feil : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macd.  1  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Mai.  Perchance,  even   there,  where   I  did  find   m> 
doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife,  and  child 
Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of  love, 
Without  leave-taking? — I  pray  you, 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours, 
But  mine  own  safeties :  you  may  be  rightly  jusl, 
Whatever  I  shall  think. 

Macd.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  . 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 
For  goodness  dares    not  check    thee  !    wear  thou  rliy 

wrongs ; 
Thy  title  is  alTeer'd'  ! — Fare  thee  well,  lord  : 
I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st. 
For  the  whole  space  that 's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp. 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

3Ial.  Be  not  ofiended  : 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  tlie  yoke  ; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds ;  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wounds :  I  think,  wthal. 
There  wouid  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right; 
And  here,  from  gracious  England,  have  I  offer 

[Showing  a  Paper 
Of  goodly  thousands  ;  but,  for  all  this, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head. 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before. 
More  suffer,  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
Bv  him  that  shall  succeed. 
'Macd.  What  should  he  be ? 

Mai.  It  is  myself  I  mean :  in  wliora  I  know 
All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted. 
That,  when  they  shall  be  ripen"d\  black  Macbeth 
Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow;  and  the  poor  state 
Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  oompar'd 
With  my  confineless  harms. 

3Iacd'.  Not  in  the  legionfl 

Of  horrid  hell  can  come  a  devil  more  dainn'd 
In  evils  to  top  Macbeth. 

3Ial.  I  grant  him  bloody, 

Luxurious,  avaricious,  fal.-^e.  deceitful. 
Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name ;  but  there  's  no  bottom,  none, 
In  my  voluptuousness  :  your  wives,  your  daughters 
Your  matrons,  and  your  maids,  could  not  till  up 
The  cistern  of  my  lust ;  and  my  desire 
All  continent  impediments  would  o'er-bear. 
That  did  oppose  my  will.     Better  Macbeth, 
Than  such  a  one  to  reign. 

Macd.  Boundless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny ;  it  liath  been 
Th'  untimely  emptying  of  the  happy  throne, 
And  fall  of  many  kings.     But  fear  not  yet 
To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours  :  you  may 
Enjoy'  your  pleasures  in  a  spaaious  plenty. 
And  yet  seem  cold,  the  time  you  may  so  hoodwink 
We  have  willing  dames  enough  ;  there  cannot  be 
That  viilture  in  you  to  devour  so  many 
As  will  to  greatness  dedicate  themselves. 
Finding  it  so  inclin'd. 


'  Probably  a.  m' sprint  foi 
'o    i  affinn'     ♦  .Not  in  f  e 


hair'd,' 
*  open' 


n  folio.     Theobald  madi 
Convey  :  in  f.  » 


the  change       '  affear'd  :  in  folio      To  affcer,  ii  s  l^w  ph'a"* 


734 


MACBETH. 


ACT    TV 


M"\.  With  this,  there  grows 

'n  my  most  ill-compos'd  affection  such 
k  stanchless  avarice,  that,  wore  I  king. 
I  should  cut  ofttlie  nobles  lor  tlicir  lands: 
Desire  his  jewels,  and  this  other's  houKc  : 
And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 
To  make  me  hunger  more  ;  that  I  should  forge 
Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good  and  loyal, 
Hcst roving  them  tor  wealth. 

Maid.  This  avarice 

Sticks  deeper,  grows  with  more  pernicious  root, 
Than  sunimcr-sconiing  lust :  and  it  hath  been 
The  sword  of  our  slain  kings  :  yet  do  not  fear ; 
Scotland  hath  foison'  to  till  up  your  will. 
Of  your  mere  oww.     All  these  are  portable 
With  other  graces  weigh'd. 

Mai.  But  I  have  none.     The  king-becoming  graces^ 
\s  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stablcness, 
Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness, 
Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 
I  have  no  relish  of  them ;  but  abound 
In  the  division  of  each  several  crime. 
Acting  it  many  ways.     Nay,  had  I  power,  I  should 
Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell, 
Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Mad.  0  Scotland,  Scotland !       • 

Mai.  If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak : 
F  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macd.  Fit  to  govern  ! 

No.  not  to  live. — O.  nation  miserable  ! 
With  an  untitled  tyrant,  bloody-scepter'd. 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again. 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  ot  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs"d. 
And  does  blaspheme  his  breed  ? — Thy  royal  father 
Was  a  most  sainted  king :  the  queen,  that  bore  thee, 
Oft"ner  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 
Died  every  day  she  lived.     Fare  thee  well. 
The.<e  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself 
Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland.^3,  my  breast ! 
Thy  hope  end?  here. 

Mai.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Cnild  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wip'd  the  black  scruples,  reconcild  my  thoughts 
»  o  thy  good  truth  and  honour.     Devilish  Macbeth 
By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  win  me 
Into  his  power,  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 
From  over-credulous  haste  ;  but  God  above 
Deal  between  thee  and  me,  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
I'nspeak  mine  own  detraction  :  here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself, 
For  sirani;ers  to  my  nature.     I  am  yet 
Unknown  to  woman  :  never  was  forsworn  : 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own ; 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith  ;  would  not  betray 
The  devil  to  his  fellow,  and  delight 
No  less  in  truth,  than  life  :  my  first  false  .speaking 
Was  this  upon  myself.     What  I  am  truly 
Is  thine   and  my  poor  country's,  to  command  : 
Whither,  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach. 
Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 
Already  at  a  point,  wa.«!  setting  forth. 
Now.  we  Ml  together ;  and  the  chance  of  goodness 
Re  like  our  warranted  quarrel.     Why  are  you  silent? 

Macd.    Such   welcome    and    unwelcome   things    at 
once, 
T  IS  hard  to  reconcile. 

•  fniwiia  :  in  f.  •    ;  pUnty.      '  Overrnmrf 


Enter  a  Doctor. 

Mai.  Well ;  more  anon. — Comes  the  king  forth,  I 
pray  you  ? 

Doct.  Ay,  sir  :  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched  souIh, 
That  stay  his  cure  :  their  malady  convinces' 
The  great  assay  of  heart ;  but  at  his  touch, 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand, 
They  presently  amend. 

Mai.  I  thank  you,  doctor. 

[Exit  Doctor, 

Macd    What 's  the  disease  he  means  ? 

Mnl.  'T  iscall'd  the  evil- 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king, 
AVhich  often,  since  my  liere  remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.     How  he  solicits  heaven, 
Himself  be.st  knows;  but  strangely-visited  people. 
All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye, 
The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures ; 
Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their  necks, 
Put  on  w-ith  holy  prayers :   and  't  is  spoken. 
To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 
The  healing  benediction.     With  this  strange  virtue. 
He  hath  a  heavenly  gift  of  prophecy, 
And  sundry  blessings  hang  about  his  throne, 
That  speak  him  full  of  grace. 

Enter  Rosse. 

Macd.  See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  My  countryman ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not. 

3Iacd.  My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai.  I  know  him  now.     Good  God,  betimes  remove 
The  means  that  make  us  strangers  ! 

Ro.s.<!e.  Sir.  amen. 

Macd.  Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Rosse.  Alas,  poor  country ! 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself.     It  cannot 
Be  calld  our  mother,  but  our  grave  ;  where  nothing. 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile : 
Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rend  the  air 
Are  made,  not  mark'd ;  where  \nolent  sorrow  seems 
I  A  modern  ecstasy  :  the  dead  man's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  ask'd,  for  whom  :  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps. 
Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macd.  0.  relation, 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true  ! 

Mai.  What  is  the  newest  grief? 

Rosse.  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hi.ss  the  speaker. 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macd.  How  does  my  wife' 

Ro.^se.  Why,  well. 

Macd.  And  all  my  children? 

Ro.t.fC.  Well,  too 

Macd.  The  tyrant  has  not  batterd  at  their  peace'' 

Rosse.  No ;  they  were  well,  at  peace,  when   I   dul 
leave  them. 

Macd.  Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech  :  how  sees  ii 

Rosse.  When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings 
Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out : 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witnc.ss'd  the  rather. 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot. 
Now  is  the  time  of  help.     Your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  woiYien  fight. 
To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

Mai.  Be  it  their  comfon. 

We  are  coming  thither.     Gracious  England  hnt^ 
Lent  us  good  Siward.  and  ten  thousand  men : 
An  older,  and  a  better  soldier,  noi'e 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 


MACBETH. 


735 


Rosse.  Would  I  could  answer 

is  comfort  with  the  like  !     But  I  have  words, 
xhat  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch'  them. 

Macd.  What  concern  they  ? 

The  general  cause,  or  is  it  a  fee-grief, 
Due  to  some  single  breast? 

Rosse.  No  mind  that 's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe,  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone. 

3Iacd.  If  it  be  mine. 

Keep  it  not  from  me  ;  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

Rosse.  Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  for  ever, 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound, 
Tliat  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macd.  Humph  !  I  guess  at  it. 

Rosse.  Your  castle  is  surpris'd  ;  your  wife,  and  babes. 
Savagely  slaughter'd  :  to  relate  the  manner 
Were,  on  the  quarry'  of  these  murder'd  deer, 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Mai.  Merciful  heaven  ! — • 

What,  man  !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows : 
Give  sorrow  words  ;  the  grief,  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macd.  My  children  too  ? 

Rosse.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all 

That  could  be  found. 

Macd.  And  I  must  be  from  thence  ! 

My  wife  kill'd  too? 

Rosse.  ■  I  have  said. 


I      ^^"l-  Be  comforted  • 

Let 's  make  us  medicines  of  our  great  revenge, 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

3Iacd.  He  has  n®  children. — All  m.y  pretty  ones? 
Did  you  say,  all  ?— O,  hell-kite  !— AH? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens,  and  their  dam, 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 

Mai.  Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

Macd.  I  shall  do  so  ; 

But  1  must  also  feel  it  like  a  man : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. — Did  heaven  look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part?     Sinful  Macduff! 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee.     Nauglit  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine. 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls.     Heaven  rest  them  now! 

Mai.  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword:  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it. 

Macd.  0  !   I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes. 
And  braggart  with  my  tongue. — But.  gentle  Heavens, 
Cut  short  all  intermission  :  front  to  front, 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland,  and  myself; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him  :  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too  ! 

Mai.  This  tune'  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  tlie  king :  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave.     Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above  [may ; 

Put  on   their  instruments.     Receive  what  cheer  you 
The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day.       [Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — Dunsinane.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic,  and  a  waiting  Gentleivoman. 

Doct.  I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but  can 
perceive  no  truth  in  your  report.  When  was  it  she 
la.st  walked? 

Gent.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have 
seen  ner  rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her  night-gown  upon 
her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth  paper,  fold  it,  write 
upon  it,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return 
to  bed  ;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doct.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  to  receive  at 
once  the  benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of  watch- 
ing. In  this  slumbery  agitation,  besides  her  walking 
and  other  actual  performances,  what  at  any  time  have 
you  heard  her  say  ? 

Gent.  That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

Doct.  You  may,  to  me ;  and  't  is  most  meet  you 
should. 

Gent.  Neither  to  you,  nor  any  one,  having  no  wit- 
«es8  to  confirm  my  speech. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  Taper. 
Lo  you  !  here  she  comes.     This  is  her  very  guise,  and 
upon  my  life  fast  asleep.     Observe  her  :  stand  close. 

Doct.  How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gent.  Why,  it  stood  by  her :  she  has  light  by  her 
continually  ;  't  is  her  command. 

Doct.  You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gent.  Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doct.  'What  is  it  she  does  now?  Look,  how  she 
rubs  her  hands. 

Gent.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her  to  seem 
thus  washing  her  hands:  I  have  known  her  continue 
in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

'  Catrh       1  Hena>  of  dead  game.      '  time  :  in  folio.     Rowe  made 


Lady  M.  Yet  here  's  a  spot. 

Doct.  Hark  !  she  speaks.  1  will  set  down  what 
comes  from  her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the  more 
strongly.  [Taking  out  his  Tahks.* 

Lady  M.  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say  ! — One  : 
two  :  why,  then  't  is  time  to  do  't. — Hell  is  murky  ! — 
Fie,  my  lord,  fie  !  a  soldier,  and  afeard  r"  What  need 
we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can  call  our  power 
to  account? — Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man 
to  have  had  so  much  blood  in  him  ? 

Doct.  Do  you  mark  that?  [Writing.^ 

Lady  M.  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife:  where  is 
she  now"? — What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean? — 
No  more  o'  that,  my  lord  ;  no  more  o'  that  :  you  mnr 
all  with  this  starting. 

Doct.  Go  to,  go  to :  you  have  know^^  what  you 
should  not. 

Gent.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am  sure 
of  that :  Heaven  knows  what  she  ha.s  known. 

Lady  M.  Here  's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still :  ail  The 
perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  liand. 
Oh!  oh!  oh! 

Doct.  What  a  sigh  is  there  !  The  heart  is  s<irely 
charged. 

Gent.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom, 
for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Doct.  Well,  well,  well.— 

Gent.  Pray  God,  it  be.  sir. 

Doct.  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice :  yet  I  have 
known  those  which  have  walked  in  their  sleep,  who 
have  died  holily  in  their  beds. 

Lady  M.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  night-gown . 
look  not  so  pale. — I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo  't 
buried  :  he  cannot  come  out  on  's  grave. 

the  change.      ♦  •  Not  in  f.  • 


r36 


MACBETH. 


Doet.  Even  so  ? 

La4y  M.  To  bed,  to  bed  :  there  "s  knocking  at  the 
jiite.  Come,  eoine,  come,  come,  give  mc  your  band. 
What  'a  done,  cannot  be  undone :  to  bed,  (o  bed.  lo 
bed.  [Exit  Lady  Macbeth. 

Dnct.  Will  she  go  now  to  bed? 

G'rnt.   Directly. 

Dixt.  Foul  whisperinss  are  abroad.  Unnatural  deeds 
Do  breed  \uuialural  troubles:  infected  minds 
To  llieir  deaf  pillows  will  dischariie  their  secrets. 
More  needs  s!:e  tlie  divine,  than  the  physician.- — 
^'tO^\.  God,  forgive  us  all  !     Look  after  her; 
llemove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her. — So.  good  night: 
My  mind  she  has  mated*,  and  amazd  my  sight. 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

(,'ait.  Good  night,  good  doctor.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Country  near  Dunsinane. 

Fitter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Menteth,  Cathness, 

Angus,  Lenox,  and  Soldiers. 

Merit.  The  English  power  is  near,  led  on  by  Malcolm, 
His  uncle  Siward,  and  the  good  MacdufT. 
licvenges  burn  in  them  ;  for  their  dear  causes 
Would,  to  the  bleeding  and  the  grim  alarm, 
F.xcite  the  mortified  man. 

Aug.  Near  Birnam  wood 

.-Miall  we  well  meet  them:  that  way  are  they  coming. 

Cath.  Who  knows,  if  Donalbainbe  with  his  brother? 

Len.  For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not.     I  have  a  file 
()•'  all  the  aentry:  there  is  Siward's  sun. 
And  many  untough  youths,  that  even  now 
i'rotcst  their  first  of  manhood. 

Mcrd.  What  does  the  tyrant? 

Cath.  Great  Dunsinane  he  strongly  fortifies. 
Sfjme  say,  he 's  mad  :  others,  that  lesser  hate  him, 
Do  call  it  valiant  fury;  but,  for  certain. 
He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  course' 
Within  the  belt  of  rule. 

Ang.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murders  sticking  on  his  hands  ; 
Now  minutely  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach : 
Tho.«e  he  commands  move  only  in  command. 
Nothing  in  love:  now  does  he  feel  his  title 
Hang  loo."!e  about  him.  like  a  giant's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 

Mmt.  Who,  then,  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  senses  to  recoil  and  start. 
When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 
Itself,  for  being  there? 

Cath.  Well ;  march  we  on, 

To  give  obedience  where  't  is  truly  ow'd  : 
Meet  we  llic  medicine  of  the  sickly  wea!  ; 
.And  with  him  pour  we,  in  our  country's  purge, 
Each  drop  of  us. 

Men.  Or  so  much  as  it  needs 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower,  and  droNN-n  the  weeds. 
Make  we  our  march  towards  Birnam. 

[  Exeunt,  marching. 

SCENE  III.— Dunsinane.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Macbeth.  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 
Mad).  Brin<:  me  no  more  rejwrts:   let  them  fly  all  : 
Till  Birnam  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane. 
I  cannot  taint  with  fear.     What 's  the  boy  Malcolm? 
Was  he  not  born  of  woman  ?     The  spirits  tliat  know 
Ml  mortal  consequences  have  pronounc'd  me  thus: — 
•'  Fear  not,  Macbeth  ;  no  man  that 's  born  of  woman 


Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee.'- — Then    fly,  false 
And  mingle  with  the  Eni-ii.-^li  epicures:  [thanes. 

The  mind  I  sway  by,  and  tlm  heart  I  bear. 
Shall  never  sag  with  doubt,  nor  shake  with  fear. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  crcam-fac'd  loon  ! 
Where  got's^t  thou  that  goose  look? 

Serv.  There  is  ten  thousand — 

3Iacb.  Geese,  villain? 

Serv.  Soldiers,  sir. 

Macb.  Go,  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  tliy  fear. 
Thou  lily-liver'd  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ?* 
Death  of  thy  soul  !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.     What  soldiers,  whey-face? 

Serv.  The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macb.  Take  thy  face  hence. — [Exit  Serv.*]  Seyton  ! — 
I  am  sick  at  heart. 
When  I  behold — Seyton.  1  say  ! — This  push 
Will  chair'*  me  ever,  or  dissent  me  now. 
I  have  liv'd  long  enoui;h  :  my  May'  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yeilow  leaf; 
And  that  which  should  aceonipany  old  age. 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have  :  but,  in  their  stead. 
Curses,  not  loud,  but  deeji,  mouth-honour,  breath. 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not. 
Seyton ! — 

Enter  Seyton. 

Sey.  What  is  your  gracious  pleasure? 

Macb.  Whlat  news  more? 

Sey.  All  is  confirm'd.  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 

Macb.  I  '11  fii'ht,  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be  hack'd. 
Give  me  my  armour. 

Sey.  'T  is  not  needed  yet. 

Macb.  I  '11  put  it  f^n 
Send  out  more  horses,  skirr'  tne  country  round ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear.    Give  me  mine  armour. — 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord. 

A.<  she  is  troubled  with  thick -coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cure  her  of  that. 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseas'd, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  .sorrow. 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And  M-ith  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuff 'd  bosom  of  that  perilouo  grief,* 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  unto  himself. 

I      Macb.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs  ;  I  '11  none  of  it. — 
;  Come,  put  mine  armour  on  :  give  rne  my  staff". — 
j  Seyton,  send  out. — Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me. — 
I  Come,  sir,  despatch. — It  thou  eouldst.  doctor,  cast 
i  The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease, 
j  And  purge  it  to  a.«ound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo. 
That  should  applaud  again. — Pull  't  otT,  I  say. — 
'What  rhubarb,  senna',  or  what  purgative  drug, 
Would  .scour  these  English  hence? — Hear'st  thou  of 
I  them? 

I      Doct.  Ay,  my  good  lord :  your  royal  preparation 
Makes  us  hear  something. 

Macb.  Brinsr  it  after  me. — 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane. 
Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.  [Exit 

Doct.  Were  I  from  Dunsinane  away  and  clear, 
Profit  a^ain  should  hardly  draw  me  here.  [Exit 


■  AMonifhrd.      *  canM 
■  UrouT       •  ituff  :  in  f.  e. 


in   f.  e. 
•  orme 


>  Fnol.      •  Not   in   f.  e.      »  ch*er  ; 
in  folio.     Rowe  made  the  change. 


•way 


Johnt.on  also  siigijested   the  change 


MACBETH. 


SCENE  IV.— Country  near  Dunsinam  :   a  Wood  in !      3Iess.  Gracious  my  lord, 

^i®'*^-  f  I  should  report  that  which'  I  say  I  saw, 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Malcolj^i,  old  Siward,   But  know  not  how  to  do't. 


and  his  Son,  Macduff,  Menteth,  Cathness,  Angus! 
Lenox,  Rosse,  and  Soldiers  marching 
Mai.  Cousins,  J  hope,  the  days  are  nesar  at  hand, 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 
Ment.  We  doubt  it  nothing 
Siw.  What  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 
Ment.  The  wood  of  Birnam 

Mai.  Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough, 
And  bear  't  before  him :  thereby  shall  we  shadow 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Sold.  It  shall  be  done. 

Siw.  We  learn  no  other  but  the  confident  tyrant 
Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before  't. 

Mai.  'T  is  his  main  hope; 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  gotten,' 
Both  more'  and  le.'^s  have  given  him  the  revolt. 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

Macd.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership. 

Siw.  The  time  approaches, 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 
What  we  shall  say  we  have,  and  what  we  owe. 
Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate, 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate; 
Towards  which,  advance  the  war.   [Exeunt,  marching. 
SCENE  v.— Dunsinane.     Within  the  Castle. 
Enter,  with  Drums  and  Colours,  Macbeth.  Setton. 

and  Soldiers. 
Macb.  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls; 
The  cry  is  still,  "They  come  !"     Our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn  :  here  let  them  lie. 
Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up. 
Were  they  not  farc'd^  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 

[A  cry  within,  of  Women. 
And  beat  them  backward  home.     What  is  tliat  noise  ? 
Sey.  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord.      [Exit.* 
Macb.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fear. 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  quail'd* 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell'  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir. 
As  life  were  in  't.     I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors  : 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts. 
Cannot  once  start  me. — 

Re-enter  Seyton.' 

Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 
Sey.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 
Macb.  She  should  have  died  hereafter  : 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  ; 
A.nd  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;  a  poor  player. 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 
Signifying  nothing. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Thou  comst  to  use  thy  tongue ;  thy  story,  quickly. 

' /riTen     in  f.  e.      '  Great ei .      3  forc'd  :  in  f.  e.      ♦  Not  in  f.  « 
2W 


^1^oc6.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macb.  Liar,  and  slave  ! 

Mess.  Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not  bo 
Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming  ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

^  Macb.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive. 
Till  famine  cling  thee :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. — 
I  pull  in  resolution ;  and  begin 
To  doubt  th'  equivocation  of  the  fiend, 
That  lies  like  truth  :  •'  Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane ;" — and  now  a  wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane. — Arm,  arm,  and  out  ! — 
If  this,  which  he  avouches,  does  appear. 
There  is  nor  flying  hence,  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 

And  wish  th'  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  undone  — 
Ring  the  alarum  bell  ! — Blow,  wind  !  come,  wrack  ! 
At  least  we  '11  die  with  harness  on  our  back.    [Examf 

SCENE  VI.— The  Same.     A  Plain  before  the  Castle 
Enter,  with  Drums  and  Colours,  Malcolm,  old  SiWAP.n, 
Macduff,  ^c,  and  their  Army  with  Boughs. 
Mai.  Now  near  enough  :  your  leafy  screens  thiv>-w 
down. 
And  show  like  those  you  are. — You,  worthy  ucole. 
Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son, 
Lead  our  first  battle :  worthy  Macduff,  and  we, 
Shall  take  upon 's  what  else  remains  to  do, 
According  to  our  order. 

Siw.  Fare  you  well. — 

Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night. 
Let  .us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 

Macd.  Make  all  our  trumpets  speak  ;  give  them  all 
breath. 
Those  clamorous  harbingers  of  blood  and  death. 

[Exeunt.   Alarums  continued 

SCENE  VII.— The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the  Plain 
Enter  Macbeth. 
Macb.  They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake :  1  cannot  fly 
But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course. — What 's  he, 
That  was  not  born  of  woman  ?     Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 

Enter  young  Siward. 
Yo.  Siw.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Macb.  Thou  'It  be  afraid  to  hear  it 

Yo.  Siio.  No ;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a  hotter 
name. 
Than  any  is  in  hell, 

Macb.  My  name 's  Macbeth. 

Yo.  Siw.  The  devil  himself  could  not  pronounce  a  VJ\e 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

Macb.  No.  nor  more  fearful. 

Yo.  Siiv.  Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant .  with  my  sword 
I  '11  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st. 

[They  fight,  and  young  Siward  is  slain. 

Macb.  Thou  wast  born  of  woman  : — 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugli  to  scorn, 

Brandish"d  by  man  that's  of  a  woman  born.        [Exit 

Alarums.     Enter  Macduff. 

Macd.  That  way  the  noise  is. — Tyrant,  show  thy  face  ' 

>  cool'd  :  in  f.  e.      •  Skin.      '  Not  in  f.  c. 


738 


MACBETH. 


ff  thou  be  slain,  and  wifh  no  stroke  of  mine, 
My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  hnnnt  me  still 
I  cannot  strike  at  wrotched  kernes,  whose  arms 
Arc  hir'd  to  bear  their  staves  :  either  thou.  Macbeth, 
Or  else  my  sword,  with  an  unbatter'd  edj^e, 
1  sheathe  again  undoeded.     There  thou  shouldst  be  : 
By  thi>:  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 
.Seems  bruited.     Let  me  find  him,  fortune. 
And  more  I  beg  not.  [Exit.     Alarum. 

Enter  Malcolm  nrul  old  Siward. 

Sj'ir.This  way.  my  lord . — The  ca.stle  's  gently  render'd: 
The  tyrant 's  peojile  on  both  sides  do  fight ; 
The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war. 
The  day  almost  itself  professes  yours, 
And  little  is  to  do. 

Mai.  We  have  met  with  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 

Siw.  Enter,  sir,  the  castle.  [Exeunt.  Alarum. 

Re-enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.  Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool,  and  die 
On  mine  o^^^l  sword  ?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 
Do  better  upon  them. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 

Macd.  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn. 

Mach.  Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee : 
flut  get  thee  back :  my  soul  is  too  much  charged 
'.Vith  blood  of  thine  already. 

Macd.  I  have  no  words  : 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword  :  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out  !  [They  fight. 

Macb.  Thou  losest  labour. 

A.<»  easy  may'st  thou  the  intrenchant  air 
With  thy  keen  sword  impress,  as  make  me  bleed  . 
Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests ; 
'  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 
io  one  of  woman  born. 

Macd.  Despair  thy  charm  ; 

.\iid  let  the  angel,  whom  thou  still  hast  serv'd, 
Tril  thee.  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
I'liiimely  ripp'd. 

Macb.  Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man  : 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believ'd, 
That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sen.se ; 
I  hat  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear. 
And  br^ak  it  to  our  hope. — 1  '11  not  fight  with  thee. 

Mncd.  Then,  yield  thee,  coward, 
And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time: 
We  "II  have  thee,  a.s  our  rarer  monsters  are, 
Painted  upon  a  pole,  and  underwrit, 

H'TC  may  you  see  the  tyrant." 

Macb.  I  will  not  yield, 

To  ki.sH  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
\nd  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  cun-^e. 
ThoiiL'h  Rirnam  wood  be  come  to  Diinsinane, 
And  thou  oppos'd  be  of  no  woman  born, 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last.     Before  my  body 


I  throw  my  warlike  shield  :  lay  on,  Macduff, 

And  damn'd  be  he  that  first  cries,  "  Hold,  enough  I'' 

[Exctmt,  fighting: 

Retreat.     Flourish.     Re-enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours 

Malcolm,  old  Siward.  Rosse,  Thanes,  and  Soldiers. 

Mai.  I  would,  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe  arriv'd 

Siw.  Some  must  go  off;  and  yet.  by  these  I  see, 
So  great  a  day  as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 

Mai.  Macduff  is  mis.sing,  and  your  noble  son. 

Ro.'ise.  Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's  debt 
He  only  liv'd  but  till  he  was  a  man. 
The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought, 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 

Siw.  Then  he  is  dead  ? 

Rosse.  Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field.     Your  cause  of 
sorrow 
Must  not  be  measur'd  by  his  worth,  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 

Siw.  Had  he  his  hurts  before  ? 

Rosse.  Ay,  on  the  front. 

Siw.  Why  then,  God's  soldier  bo  he. 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs. 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death  : 
And  so,  his  knell  is  knoll'd. 

Mai.  He 's  worth  more  sorrow, 

And  that  I  '11  spend  for  him. 

Siw.  He  's  worth  no  more : 

They  say,  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score, 
And  God  be  with  him ! — Here  comes  newer  comfort. 
Re-enter  Macduff,  with  Macbeth's  Head,  on  n  Pike 

Macd.  Hail,  king  !   for  so  thou  art.     Behold,  where 
stands  [Slicking  the  Pike  in  the  ground  ' 

The  usurper's  cursed  head  :  the  time  is  free. 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl. 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds  : 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine, — 
Hail,  king  of  Scotland  ! 

All.  Hail,  king  of  Scotland  !   [Flourish 

Mai.  We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of  time. 
Before  we  reckon  with  our  several  loves. 
And  make  us  even  with  you.     My  thanes  and  kinsmen. 
Henceforth  be  earls  ;  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 
In  such  an  honour  nam'd.     What 's  more  to  do, 
Which  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time, — 
As  calling  home  our  exil'd  friends  abroad, 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tjTanny  ; 
Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 
Of  this  dead  butcher,  and  his  fiend-like  queen, 
Who,  as  't  is  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life  ; — this,  and  what  needful  elee 
That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time,  a.id  place. 
So,  thanks  to  all  at  once,  and  to  each  one, 
Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone. 

[Flourish.     Er  <••<>« 


HAMLET,    PRINCE    OF    DENMARK 


DKAMATIS     PEESON^. 


Claudius   King  of  Denmark. 

Hamlet,  Sou  to  the  former,  and  Nephew  to  the 

present  King. 
Horatio,  Friend  to  Hamlet. 
PoLONius,  Lord  Chamberlain. 
Laertes,  his  Son. 
voltimand,         ]  . 
Cornelius,  ^     _,. 

RosENCRANTZ,      [  Couftiers. 

GUILDENSTERN,     J 

OsRiCK,  a  Courtier. 
Another  Courtier. 
A  Priest. 


Offi( 


Marcellus, 
Bernardo. 
Francisco,'  a  Soldier. 
Retnaldo,  Servant  to  Polonius. 
A  Captain.     Ambassadors. 
Gho.st  of  Hamlet's  Father. 
Fortinbras,  Prince  of  Norway- 
Two  Clowns,  Grave-diggers. 

Gertrude,  Queen  of  Denmark,  and   Mcthw    'x 

Hamlet. 
Ophelia,  Daughter  to  Polonius. 


Lords.  Ladies,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Players,  Sailors,  Messengers,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE.  Elsinore. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— Elsinore.     A  Platform  before  the  Castle. 

Francisco  on  his  Post.     Enter  to  him  Bernardo. 

Bcr.  Who  's  there  ? 

Fran.  Nay,  answer  me  :  stand,  and  unfold 

Yourself. 

Ber.  Long  live  the  king  ! 

Fran.  Bernardo  ? 

Ber.  He. 

Fran.  You  come  most  carefully  upon  your  hour. 

Ber.  'T  is  new'  struck  twelve  :  get  thee  to  bed.  Fran- 
cisco. 

Fran.  For  this  relief  much  thanks.     'T  is  bitter  cold, 
A.nd  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Ber.  Have  you  had  quiet  guard  ? 

Fran.  Not  a  mouse  stirring. 

Ber.  Well,  good  night. 
If  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 
The  rivals'  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste. 
Enter  Horatio  and  Mirceiius. 

Fran.  I  think  I  hear  them. — Stand,  ho  !  Who  is  there  ? 

Hot.  Friends  to  this  ground. 

Mar.  And  liegemen  to  the  Dane. 

Fran.  Give  you  good  night. 

Mar.  0  !  farewell,  honest  soldier  : 

Who  hath  reliev'd  you  ? 

Fran.  Bernardo  has  my  place. 

Give  you  good  night.  [Exit  Francisco. 

Mar.  Holla  !  Bernardo  ! 

Ber.  Say. 

What !  IS  Horatio  there  ? 

Hor.  A  piece  of  liim. 

Ber.  Welcome,  Hcvatio  :  welcome,  good  Marcellus. 

/for.'  What,  has  this  thing  appear'd  again  to-night? 

Ber.  I  have  seen  nothing. 

Mar.  Horatio  says,  't  is  but  our  fantasy. 


I  And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him, 
Touching  this  dreaded  sight  twice  seen  of  ue  : 
Therefore,  I  have  entreated  him  along 
With  us,  to  watch  the  minutes  of  this  night ; 
That,  if  again  this  apparition  come. 
He  may  approve  our  eyes,  and  speak  to  it. 

Hor.  Tush,  tush  !  't  will  not  appear. 

Ber.  Sit  down  awhil 

And  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears. 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story, 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

Hor.  Well,  sit  we  down. 

And  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 

Ber.  Last  night  of  all. 
When  yond'  same  star,  that 's  westward  from  the  pole. 
Had  made  his  course  t'  illume  that  part  of  heaven 
Where  now  it  burns,  Marcellus,  and  myself, 
The  bell  then  beating  one, — 

Mar.  Peace  !  break  thee  off:  look,  where  it  come* 
again  ! 

Enter  Ghost,  armed.* 

Ber.  In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that 's  dead. 

Mar.  Thou  art  a  scholar  ;  speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

Ber.  Looks  it  not  like  the  king  ?  mark  it,  Horatio. 

Hor.    Most   like: — it   harrows    me  with   fear,   and 
wonder. 

Ber.  It  would  be  spoke  to. 

Mar.  Question  it.  Horatio, 

Hor.  What  art  thou,  that  usurp'st  this  time  of  nicht 
Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form. 
In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 
Did  sometimes  march?  by  lieaven  I  charge  :hee.  sp-iak  I 

Mar.  It  is  offended. 

Ber.  See  !   it  stalks  away. 

Hor.  St.ay  !  speak,  speak  !  I  charge  thee,  speak  ! 

[Exit  Gho!^ 


n«rw:  in  f.  e.      ^  Companions       '  Marcellus:  in  quarto.  1603,  and  folio.      *  This  word  !.«  not  added 


if  « 


739 


740 


HAMLET,   PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


ACT    L 


Mar.  'T  is  gone,  and  will  not  answer. 

Ber.  How  now.  Horatio!  you  tremble,  and  look  pale, 
is  not  thi.-^  .voniethini;  more  than  fantasy  ? 
Wnat  think  you  on  t? 

Hor.  Before  my  God,  I  might  not  this  believe, 
Witliont  I  lie  sensible  and  true  avouch 
Of  mine  own  eyes. 

iMar.  Is  it  not  like  the  king? 

Hor.   As  thou  art  to  thyself. 
Such  wa.-5  the  very  armour  lie  had  on, 
When  he  th'  ambitious  Norway  combated  : 
So  frown'd  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle, 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks*  on  the  ice. 
T  is  sTranue. 

Mar.  Thus,  twice  before,  and  jump*  at  this  dead  hour, 
U'lth  martial  stalk  hath  he  gone  by  our  watch. 

Hor.  In  what  particular  thought  to  work,  I  know  not ; 
But  in  the  gross  and  scope  of  mine  opinion. 
This  bodes  some  strange  eruption  to  our  state. 

Mnr.   Good  now,  sit  down ;    and  tell   me,  he  that 
kno  «'s, 
Why  tiiis  same  strict  and  most  observant  watch 
So  nightly  toils  the  subject  of  the  land  ? 
And  why  such  daily  cast'  of  brazen  cannon. 
And  foreign  mart  for  unplements  of  war  ? 
Why  such  impress  of  shipwTights,  whose  sore  task 
Dues  noi  divide  the  Sunday  from  the  week? 
What  miizht  be  toward,  that  this  sweaty  haste 
Doth  make  the  night  joint  labourer  with  the  day  ? 
Who  is  "t.  that  can  inform  me? 

Hor  That  can  I ; 

At  lea.<t,  the  whisper  goes  so.     Our  last  king, 
Whose  image  even  but  now  appear'd  to  us, 
Was.  as  you  know,  by  Fortinbras  of  Norway, 
Therein  prick'd  on  by  a  most  emulate  pride, 
Dar"d  to  the  combat ;  in  which  our  valiant  Hamlet 
(I"or  so  tliis  side  of  our  known  world  esteem'd  him) 
Did  slay  t!iis  Fortinbras  ;  who,  by  a  seaVd  compact, 
Well  ratified  by  law  and  heraldry, 
Did  forfeit  with  his  life  all  those  his  lands. 
Which  he  stood  seiz'd  of.  to  the  conqueror  : 
Again.«t  the  which,  a  moiety  competent 
Was  gased  by  our  king  ;  which  had  return'd 
To  the  inheritance  of  Fortinbras, 
Had  he  been  vanquisher  ;  as,  by  the  same  co-mart,* 
.•\nd  carriage  of  the  article  design'd. 
His  fell  to  Hamlet.     Now,  sir,  young  Fortinbras, 
or  unimproved*  mettle  hot  and  full, 
Hath  in  the  skirts  of  Norway,  here  and  there, 
Shark"d  up  a  li.st  of  lawles.s*  resolutes, 
For  foofl  and  diet,  to  some  enterprise 
That  hath  a  stomach  in  in  't :  which  is  no  other 
I  As  it  doth  well  appear  unto  our  state) 
But  to  recover  of  us,  by  strong  hand 
And  terms  compulsative.  those  'foresaid  lands 
So  by  his  father  lost.     And  thi.s.  I  take  it. 
Is  the  main  motive  of  our  preparations, 
The  source  of  this  our  watch,  and  the  chief  head 
Df  this  ftost-ha,ste  and  romage  in  the  land. 

Her.  I  think,  il  be  no  other,  but  e'en  so :' 
Well  may  it  sort,*  that  this  portentous  figure 
<^ome,«*  armed  through  our  watch  ;  so  like  the  king 
That  was.  and  is,  the  question  of  these  wars. 

Hor.  A  mote  it  is  to  trouble  the  mind's  eye. 
In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  ere  the  mightiest  Julius  fell. 


'  PoV».      >  jnst :  in  folio.      '  cost :  in  qnartog.      ♦  coTenant :  in  folio 
•.od  the  M>»»nteen  following   linen,  are   not   in   quarto.   160.1,  or  fnlio.      '.4o- 
quarto.  infi3:  can  walk  •  in  folio.       '»  talks  :  in  folio-  blasts 


The  graves  stood  tenantless,  and  the  sheeted  dtad 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Homan  streets  : 
As,  stars  with  trains  of  fire  and  de\\>  ^f  blood, 
Disasters  in  the  sun  ;  and  the  moist  star, 
Upon  whose  influence  Neptune's  empire  stands, 
Was  sick  almost  to  dooms-day  with  eclip.se  : 
And  even  the  like  precurse  of  fierce  event* — 
As  harbingers  preceding  still  the  fates. 
And  prologue  to  the  omen  coming  on — 
Have  heaven  and  earth,  togctiier  demonstrated 
Unto  our  climalures  and  countrymen. — 

Re-enter  Ghost. 
But.  soft !  behold  !  lo,  where  it  comes  again  ! 
I  '11  cross  it.  though  it  blast  me. — Stay,  illusion! 
If  thou  hast  any  sound,  or  use  of  voice, 
Speak  to  me : 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done, 
That  may  to  thee  do  ease,  and  grace  to  me, 
Speak  to  me  : 

If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate. 
Which  happily  foreknowing  may  avoid, 
0,  speak ! 

Or,  if  thou  hast  uphoarded  in  thy  life 
Extorted  treasure  in  the  womb  of  earth. 
For  which,  they  say,  you  spirits  oft  walk  in  death. 

[Cock  crows 
Speak  of  it :  stay,  and  speak  ! — Stop  it,  Marcellus. 

Mar.  Shall  I  strike  at*  it  with  my  partisan  ? 

Hor.  Do.  if  it  will  not  stand. 

Ber.  'T  is  here  ! 

Hor.  'T  is  here  I 

Mar.  'T  is  gone.  [Exit  Ghost 

We  do  it  -vsTong.  being  so  majestical. 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence  ; 
For  it  is,  as  the  air,  invulnerable, 
And  our  vain  blows  malicious  mockery. 

Ber.  It  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  cock  crew. 

Hor.  And  then  it  started,  like  a  guilty  thing 
Upon  a  fearful  summons.     I  have  heard. 
The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the  morn," 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day ;  and  at  his  warning, 
Whether  in  sea  or  fire,  in  earth  or  air, 
Th'  extravagant  and  erring  spirit  hies 
To  his  confine  ;  and  of  the  truth  herein 
This  present  object  made  probation. 

Mar.  It  faded  on  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
Some  say,  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir'*  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  ;  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,'*  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm. 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  that  time. 

Hor.  So  have  I  heard,  and  do  in  part  believe  it. 
But,  look,  the  morn,  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yond'  high  eastern  hill. 
Break  we  our  watch  up  ;  and,  by  my  advice, 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young  Hamlet ;  for,  upon  my  life. 
This  .';pirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him. 
Do  you  consent  we  shall  acquaint  him  with  it. 
As  needful  in  our  loves,  fitting  our  duty? 

Mar.  Let 's  do  't,  I  pray  ;  and   I  this  morning  know 
Where  we  shall  find  him  most  conveniently.    [Excunt. 


*  inapproved  :  in  qnarto,  1603.      *  1 
^Ttf.      »  Not  in  qnartos.      '•  day  :  i 


ndleai  •  in  f-iUo.      'This 
folio.      »'  dai>  "¥»'.'■  ■  "■ 


HAMLET,   PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


741 


SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Room  of  State. 
Sennet.     Enter  the  King,   Queen.  Hamlet,  Polonius. 
Laertes,  Voltimand,    Cornelius,   Lords,  and  At- 
tendants}    The  King  takes  his  Seat. 
King.  Though  yei  of  Hamlet  our  dear  brother's  death 
The  memory  be  green,  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bathe  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  kingdom. 
To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woe ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  nature, 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him, 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 
Therefore,  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen, 
Th'  imperial  jointress  of"  this  warlike  state, 
Have  we,  as  't  were  \Nnth  a  defeated  joy, — 
With  one  auspicious,  and  one  dropping  eye. 
With  mirth  in  funeral,  and  with  dirge  in  marriage, 
In  equal  scale  weighing  delight  and  dole, — 
Taken  to  wife  :  nor  have  we  herein  barr'd 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along  :  for  all,  our  thanks. 
Now  follows,  that  you  know,  young  Fortinbras, 
Holding  a  weak  supposal  of  our  worth, 
Or  thinking,  by  our  late  dear  brother's  death 
Our  state  to  be  disjoint  and  out  of  frame, 
Colleagued  with  the  dream  of  his  advantage, 
He  hath  not  fail'd  to  pester  us  with  message, 
Importing  the  surrender  of  those  lands 
Lo8t  by  his  father,  with  all  bands  of  law. 
To  our  most  valiant  brother. — So  much  for  him. 
Now  for  ourself,  and  for  this  time  of  meeting. 
Thus  much  the  business  is  :^  we  have  here  writ 
To  Norway,  uncle  of  young  Fortinbras, — 
Who,  impotent  and  bed-rid,  scarcely  hears 
Of  this  his  nephew's  purpose, — to  suppress 
His  farther  gait  herein,  in  that  the  levies. 
The  lists,  and  full  proportions,  are  all  made 
Out  of  his  subject  :  and  we  here  despatch 
You,  good  Cornelius,  and  you,  Voltimand. 
For  bearers*  of  this  greeting  to  old  Norway  j 
Giving  to  you  no  farther  personal  power 
To  business  with  the  king,  more  than  the  scope 
Of  these  dilated  articles  allow.  [Giving  them.' 

Farewell  ;  and  let  your  haste  commend  your  duty. 

Cor.  Vol,  In  that,  and  all  things,  will  we  show  our  duty. 

King.  We  doubt  it  nothing  :  heartily  farewell. 

[Exe^mt  Voltimand  and  Cornelius. 
And  now,  Laertes,  what 's  the  news  with  you  ? 
Y(,u  told  us  of  some  suit ;  what  is 't.  Laertes  ? 
You  cannot  speak  of  reason  to  the  Dane, 
And  lose  your  voice  :  what  wouldst  thou  beg,  Laertes, 
That  shall  not  be  my  offer,  not  thy  asking  ? 
The  head  is  not  more  native  to  the  heart. 
The  hand  more  instrumental  to  the  mouth, 
Than  is  the  throne  of  Denmark  to  thy  father. 
What  wouldst  thou  have,  Laertes  ? 

Lacr.  My  dread  lord. 

Your  leave  and  favour  to  return  to  France  : 
From  whence  though  willingly  I  came  to  Denmark. 
To  show  my  duty  to  your  coronation, 
Yet  now,  I  must  confess,  that  duty  done, 
My  thoughts  and  wishes  bend  again  toward  France. 
And  bow  them  to  your  gracious  leave  and  pardon. 

King.  Have  you  your  father's  leave  ?     What  says 
Polonius  ? 

Pol  He  hath,  my  lord,  wrung  from  me  my  slow  leave,^ 
By  laboursome  petition;  and,  at  last, 
Upon  his  will  I  seal'd  my  hard  consent : 


I  do  beseech  you,  give  him  leave  to  go. 

King.  Take  thy  fair  hour.  Laertes'';  time  be  thine. 

And  thy  best  gi-aces  :  spend  it  at  thy  will. 

But  now.  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son, — 

Ham.  A  little  more  than  kiuj  and  less  than  kind. 

[Asidt. 
King.  How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on  you? 
Ham.  Not  so,  my  lord  ;  I  am  too  much  i'  the  sun. 
Queen.  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  night-like'  colour  off. 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not,  for  ever,  with  thy  vailed  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust : 
Thou  know'st,  't  is  common  ;  all  that  live  must  di(», 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 
Ham.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 
Queen.  [f  jt  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee  ? 

Ham.  Seems,  madam  !  nay,  it  is ;  I  know  not  seems. 
'T  is  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forc'd  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  haviour  of  the  visaue. 
Together  with  all  forms,  moods,  shows  of  grief. 
That  can  denote  me  truly  :  these,  indeed,  seem. 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play ; 
But  I  have  that  within,  which  passeth  show, 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

King.  'T  is  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature 
Hamlet, 

To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father  : 
But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father ; 
That  father  lost,  lost  his ;  and  the  svu^dvor  bound 
In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term. 
To  do  obsequious*  sorrow  :  but  to  persevere 
In  obstinate  condolemeni  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubbornness:  'tis  unmanly  grief: 
It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  heaven  ; 
A  heart  unfortified,  a  mind  impatient. 
An  understanding  simple  and  unschool'd  : 
For  what,  we  know,  must  be,  and  is  as  common 
As  any  the  most  ^'^Ilgar  thing  to  sense. 
Why  should  we,  in  our  pee^'ish  opposition. 
Take  it  to  heart  ?     Fie  !  't  is  a  fault  to  heaven, 
A  fault  against  the  dead,  a  fault  to  nature. 
To  reason  most  absurd,  who.se  common  theme 
Is  death  of  fathers,  and  who  still  hath  cried, 
From  the  first  corse  till  he  ihat  died  to-day, 
''  This  must  be  so."     We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 
This  unprevailing  woe,  and  think  of  us 
As  of  a  father  ;  for,  let  the  world  take  note, 
You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne  ; 
And,  with  no  less  nobility  of  love 
Than  that  which  deare.^t  father  bears  his  son, 
Do  I  impart  toward  you.     For  your  intent 
In  going  back  to  school  in  Wittenberg 
It  is  most  retrograde  to  our  desire  : 
And,  we  beseech  you.  bend  you  to  remain 
Here,  in  the  cheer  and  comfort  of  our  eye, 
Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 

Queen.  Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers,  Ham!«il 
I  pray  thee,  stay  with  us  :  go  not  to  Wittenberg. 
Ham.  I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you.  mada.Ti. 
King.  Why,  't  is  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply  : 
Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come  ; 
This  gentle  and  unforc'd  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart  ;  in  grac«  whereof, 
No  jocund  health  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day. 


'  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e.      *  to  : 
folic       •  Not  in  {   e       «  This  and  the  two  followi 


quartos.      '  The  preceding  part  of  this  speech  is  not  in  quarto,  16«>.      •  bearinj  : 
lines,  are  not  in  folios.      '  nighted  :  in  f.  e.      »  Asat  obstquiei. 


742 


HAMLET,  PKINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


^^    Ham.  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  thiiik  I  saw  him  yesternight. 

Ham.  Saw  whom  ?' 

Hor.  My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 
j      Ham.  The  king  my  "ather 

Hor.  Season  your  admiration  for  a  wliile 
I  With  an  attent  ear,  till  I  may  deliver, 
I  Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen. 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Ham.  For  God's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Hor.  Two  nights  together  had  tliese  gentlemen, 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch. 
In  the  dead  va-^t'  and  middle  of  tlie  night, 
Been  thus  cncounter"d.     A  figure  like  your  father, 
Armed  at  point,  exactly,  cap-a-pie, 
Appears  before  them,  and  with  solemn  march 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them  :  thrice  he  walk'd, 
By  their  oppressed  and  fear-surprised  eyes. 
Within  his  truncheon's  length  ;  whilst  they,  bechill'd' 
Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear. 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  )ne 
In  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did, 
And  I  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch  ; 
Where,  as  they  had  deliver'd,  both  in  time. 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and  good, 
The  apparition  comes.     I  knew  your  father  ; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  wa«  this  ' 

3hr.  My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we  watch'd 

Ham.  Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  did, 

But  answer  made  it  none  ;  yet  once,  methought, 
It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  a,ddress 
Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  sj)eak  : 
But.  even  then,  the  morning  cock  crew  loud, 
And  at  the  sound  it  shrunk  in  haste  away. 
And  vanish'd  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'T  is  very  strange. 

Hor.  As  I  do  live,  my  honour'd  lord,  't  is  true  ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty, 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Ham.  Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

All.  We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Arm'd,  say  you? 

AH.  Arm'd,  my  lord. 

Ham.  From  top  to  toe  ? 

All.  My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Ham.  Then,  saw  you  not  his  face  ? 

Hor.  0  !  yes,  my  lord:  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 

Ham.  What !  look'd  he  frowningly  ? 

Hor.  A  countenance  more 

In  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Ham.  Pale,  or  red  ? 

Hor.  Nay,  very  pale. 

Ham.  And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you 

Hor.  Most  constantly. 

Ha7n.  I  would  I  had  been  there  ! 

Hor.  It  would  have  much  amaz'd  you. 

Ham.  Very  like, 

Very  like.     Stay'd  it  long  ? 

Hor.  While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a 
hundred. 

Mar.  Her.  Longer,  longer. 

Hor.  Not  when  I  saw  it. 

Ham.  His  beard  was  grizzled'?  no 7 

Hor.  It  was,  as  1  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 

So  the   quarto,  160.3  ;  other  old  copies  •  wa^te  ;  chan(«4 


But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell, 
Vud  the  king's  rouse  the  heaven  shall  bruit  again, 
R '-speaking  earthly  tiiunder.     Come  away. 

[Flourish     Kxcunt  King.  QuiDt,  Lords,  ifc. 
/  PoLONiUR,  and  Lakrtes. 

Ham.  0  !  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt. 
Thaw,  and  ^e.»tolve  itself  into  a  dew: 
Or  that  the  Everla.sting  had  not  lix'd 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter.     0  God  !  0  God  ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  tlie  uses  of  this  world. 
Fie  on  't  !  O  fie'!  't  is  an  unweeded  garden. 
That  grows  to  seed  ;  things  rank,  and  gross  in  nature. 
Po6se«s  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this  ! 
But  two  months  dead  ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not  two  : 
So  excellent  a  king;  that  was,  to  this. 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr  :  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
riuit  he  might  not  beteem'  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  tace  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth  ! 
.Must  I  remember  ?  why,  she  would  hang  on  him, 
.\s  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on  :  and  yet,  within  a  month, — 
Let  me  not  think  on 't. — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  ! — 
A  little  month  :  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old, 
VViih  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father's  body, 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears  ; — why  she,  even  she, 
(0  God  !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  mourn'd  longer) — married  with  my  uncle. 
My  father's  brother  ;  but  no  more  like  my  father. 
Than  I  to  Hercules  :  within  a  month  : 
Kre  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  galled  eyes, 
She  married. — O,  most  wicked  speed,  to  po.st 
With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  sheets ! 
It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to,  good  ; 
But  break,  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue ! 
Enter  Horatio,  Bernardo,  and  Marcellus. 

Hor.  Hail  to  your  lordship  ! 

Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  : 

Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself. 

Hor.  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever. 

Ham.  Sir,  my  good  friend  ;  I  '11  change  that  name 
with  you. 
Mid  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Horatio? — 
Marcellus? 

Mar.  My  good  lord. 

Ham.    I   am   very   glad   to   see   you  ;    good    even, 
sir. — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg? 

Hor.  A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.   1  would  not  hear'  your  enemy  say  soj 
.\or  .'•hall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence. 
I'o  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
.Apainst  yourself:  I  know,  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  El.sinore  ? 
We  "11  teach  you  to  drink  deep,  ere  you  depart. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 

Ham    I  j)ray  thee,  do  not  mock  me.  fellow-student : 
llunk,  it  wa«  to  see  my  mothers  wedding. 

Hor.   Indeed,  my  lord,  it  follow'd  hard  upon. 

Ham.  Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio  :  the  funeral  bak'd  meats 
I 'id  coldly  furni.sh  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
Would  I  had  met  my  dearest*  foe  in  heaven 
Krc  ever  I  had  seen  that  day,  Horatio  ! — 
My  father. — met h inks.  I  see  my  father. 

Hor.  0  !    where,  my  lord  ? 
/        Ham.  In  my  minds  eye,  Horatio. 

Hur.  I  saw  him  once  :  he  was  a  goodly  king. 


■  fie,  fie  :  in  folio.     >  Suffer.     '  have  :  in  fo.io.     ♦  Grtattsl.     »  who  ;  :n  f. 
.n  mod.  ads  to  "  wii.t  •      ^  Ji.til.'d  :  in  f.  e.     *  grizly  :  in  folio. 


SCENE    III. 


HAMLET,   PKINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


743 


A.  sable  silver'd. 

Ham.  1  will  watch  to-night : 

Perchance,  't  will  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  warrant  .t  will. 

Ham.  If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
r  '11  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape, 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  conceal'd  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still  ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue  : 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So,  fare  you  well  : 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I  '11  visit  you. 

All.  Our  duty  to  your  honour. 

Ham.  Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you.     Farewell. 

[Exeunt  Horatio,  Marcellus.  and  Bernardo. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms  !  all  is  not  well ; 
[  doubt  some  foul  play  :  would  the  night  were  come  ! 
Till  then,  sit  still,  my  soul.     Foul  deeds  will  rise. 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Polonius's  Hou8«. 
Enter  Laertes  and  Ophelia. 

Laer.  My  necessaries  are  embark'd :  farewell: 
And,  sister,  as  the  winds  give  benefit, 
And  convoy  is  assistant,  do  not  sleep, 
But  let  me  hear  from  you. 

Oph.  Do  you  doubt  that  ? 

Laer.  For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favour, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  in  blood  : 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature. 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting, 
The  perfume  and'  suppliance  of  a  minute ; 
No  more. 

Oph.         No  more  but  so? 

Laer.  Think  it  no  more  .' 

For  nature,  cre.«cent,  does  not  grow  alone 
In  thews,  and  bulk  :  but.  as  this  temple  waxes, 
The  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul 
Grows  wide  withal.     Perhaps,  he  loves  you  now ; 
And  now  no  soil,  nor  cautel,  doth  besmirch 
The  virtue  of  his  will  ;  but  you  must  fear. 
His  greatness  weigh'd,  his  will  is  not  his  o^^^l, 
For  he  himself  is  subject  to  his  birth  : 
He  may  not,  as  unvalued  persons  do. 
Carve  for  himself :  for  on  his  choice  depends 
The  safety'  and  health  of  this  whole  state; 
And  therefore  must  his  choice  be  circumscribed 
Unto  the  voice  and  yielding  of  that  body, 
Whereof  he  is  the  head.     Then,  if  he  says  he  loves  you. 
It  fits  your  wisdom  so  far  to  believe  it. 
As  he  in  his  particular  act  and  place' 
May  give  his  saying  deed  ;  which  is  no  farther. 
Than  the  main  voice  of  Denmark  goes  withal. 
Then,  weigh  what  loss  your  honour  may  sustain, 
If  ■w'itl:  too  credent  ear  you  li.st  his  songs. 
Or  lose  your  heart,  or  your  chaste  treasure  open 
To  his  unmaster'd  importunity. 
Pear  it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  mv  dear  sister; 
And  keep  you  in  the  rear  of  your  affection, 
Out  of  the  shot  and  danger  of  desire. 
The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon. 
V  irtue  itself  scapes  not  calumnious  strokes: 
The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring, 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd ; 


And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 
Be  wary,  then  ;  best  safety  lies  in  fear : 
Youth  to  itself  rebels,  though  none  else  near. 

Oph.  I  shall  th'  effect  of  this  good  lesson  keep, 
As  watchman  to  my  heart.     But,  good  my  brother. 
Do  not,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 
Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven. 
Whilst,  like  a  pufi'd  and  reckle.'^s  libertine, 
Himself  the  primrose  path  of  daUiance  treads, 
And  recks  not  his  own  read.* 

Laer.  Q  \  fear  me  not. 

I  stay  too  long; — but  here  my  fatlier  comes. 

Enter  Polonius. 
A  double  blessing  is  a  double  grace  ; 
Occasion  smiles  upon  a  second  leave. 

Pol.  Yet  here,  Laertes  ?  aboard,  aboard,  lor  shame  ! 
The  wind  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail, 
And  you  are  stay'd  for.    There, — my  blessing  with  you ; 
[Laying  his  Hand  on  Laertes'  Head 
And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
Look  thou  character.     Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue, 
Nor  any  unproportion'd  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar : 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried,   ^  . 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hoops  of  steel ; 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of  each  new-hatch'd,  unfledg'd  comrade.     Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in, 
Bear  't,  that  th'  opposer  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice ; 
Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judgment 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  express'd  in  fancy  ;  rich,  not  gaudy : 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank  and  station, 
Are  of  a  most  select  and  generous  choice*  in  that 
Neither  a  borrower,  nor  a  lender  be  ; 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend, 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry 
This  above  all, — to  thine  own  self  be  true  ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell :  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee  ! 

Laer.  Most  humbly  do  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

Pol.  The  time  invites"  you  :  go  :  your  servants  tend 

Laer.  Farewell,  Ophelia  ;  and  rememhf  r  well 
What  I  have  said  to  you. 

Oph.  'T  is  in  my  memory  lockM 

And  you  yourself  shall  keep  the  key  of  it. 

Laer.  Farewell.  [Exit  Laertes 

Pol.  What  is  't,  Ophelia,  he  hath  said  to  you':' 

Oph.  So  please  you,   something  touching   the  lord 
Hamlet. 

Pol.  Marry,  well  bethought : 
-T  is  told  me,  he  hath  very  oft  of  late 
Given  private  time  to  you  ;  and  you  yourself 
Have  of  your  audience  been  most  free,  and  bounteous 
If  it  be  so,  (as  so  't  is  put  on  me, 
And  that  in  way  of  caution)  I  must  tell  you, 
You  do  not  understand  yourself  so  clearly. 
As  it  behoves  my  daughter,  and  your  honour. 
What  is  between  vou  ?  sive  me  up  the  truth. 

Oph.  He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late  made  many  tender? 
Of  his  affection  ti.  me. 

Pol.  Aflfectionf  pooh  !  you  speak  like  a  green  girl. 
Unsifted  in  such  p-rilons  circumstance. 
Do  you  believe  his  »>endcrs,  as  you  call  them  ' 


sanctity  :  in  folio.      '  peculiar  sect  and  force  :  in  folio       *  Counsel.      »  cbet  :  in  I.  e. 


744 


HAMLET,   PllLNCE   OF   DENMARK. 


Oph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  wliat  I  should  think.      As,  in  their  birth,  (wherein  they  are  not  guilty, 
Pol.  Marrv',  I  Ml  teach  you :  think  yourself  a  baby;  j  Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  ori^'in) 


That  you  have  ta'en  these  tenders  tor  true  pay, 
Wlijcli  are  not  sterlinsr.     Tender  yourself  more  dearly ; 
Dr.  not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phra-se, 
Running-  it  thus,  you  '11  tender  me  a  fool. 

Oph.  My  lord,  he  hath  imivirtun'd  me  with  love, 
n  honourable  fa-shion. 

Pol.  Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it :  go  to,  go  to. 

Oph.  And  liath  given  countenance  to  his  speech,  my 
lord. 
With  almost  all  the  holy  vows'  of  heaven. 

Pol.  Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks.     I  do  know, 
Mien  tlie  blood  burns,  how  prodigal  the  soul 
..end.-<*  the  tongue  vows  :  these  blazes,  daughter, 
Jiving  more  light  than  heat. — extinct  in  both. 
Even  in  their  promi.'se.  as  it  is  a  making. — 
Vou  must  not  take  for  fire.     From  this  time, 
^e  somewhat  scanter  of  your  maiden  presence  : 
Bet  your  entreatments  at  a  higher  rate. 
Than  a  command  to  parley.     Vot  lord  Hamlet, 
Believe  so  much  in  him.  that  he  is  young: 
\nd  with  a  larger  tether  may  he  walk. 
Than  may  be  given  you.     In  few,  Oj^helia, 
Do  not  believe  his  vows,  for  they  are  brokers 
Not  of  that  die*  which  their  investments  show, 
Dut  mere  imi)lorators  of  unholy  suits. 
Breathing  like  sanctified  and  pious  bawds.* 
The  better  to  beguile.     This  is  for  all. — 
I  would  not.  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth, 
H»ve  you  .«o  ."squander*  any  moment's  leisure, 
As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  lord  Hamlet. 
Look  to  't,  I  charge  you ;  so  now,'  come  your  ways. 

Oph.  I  shall  obey,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Platform. 
Enter  Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  Marcelixs. 

ffam.  The  air  bites  .-jhrewdly ;  it  is*  very  cold. 

Hor.  It  is  a  nipping,  and  an  eager  air. 

Hrint.  What  hour  now  ? 

Hor. 

Mar.  No.  it  is  struck. 

Hor.  Indeed  ?     I  heard  it  not 
the  season. 
Wherein  tlie  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 
M  Flourish  of  Trumpets.,  and  Ordnance  shot  off,  within. 
Wliat  doee  this  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  The  king  doth  wake   to-night,  and   takes  his 
rouse. 
Keeps  waspol,  and  the  swaggering  up-spring  reels; 
And  a.s  he  d.-ains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 
The  kettle-dnim  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Hor.  Is  it  a  custom  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  marrj-.  is't: 
R   t  to  my  mind. — thnugli  1  am  native  here. 
And  to  the  majiner  born. — it  is  a  custom 
More  honour'd  m  the  breach,  than  the  ob.=:er\-ance. 
Tills  hea^'\'-hea<^ed  revel,  east  and  west* 
.Makes  ns  tradue'd  and  tax'd  of  other  nations : 
They  ciepe'"  us  drunkards,  and  with  swinish  phrase 
Soil  our  addition;  and,  indeed,  it  takes 
From  our  achievements,  thoush  perform'd  at  height, 
The  pith  and  marrow  of  our  attribute. 
8r.   ol"t  it  chances  in  p.irticular  men. 
That  for  .vomc  viciouj*  mole  of  nature  in  them. 


I  think,  it  lacks  of  twelve, 
it  then  draws  near 


By  their  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion, 

Ott  breaking  down  the  pales  and  torts  of  reason , 

Or  by  some  habit,  that  too  much  ocr-lcavens 

The  form  of  plausive  manners; — tiiat  these  men. — 

Carrying.  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect 

Being  nature's  livery,  or  fortune's  .Mar, — 

Their"  virtues  else,  be  they  as  pure  as  grace, 

As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo. 

Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 

From  that  particular  fault:  the  dram  of  ill" 

Doth  all  the  noble  substance  often  dout'*, 

To  his  own  scandal. 

Enter  Ghost. ^*  armed  as  before. 

Hor.  Look;  my  lord  !   it  comes. 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  ! 

[Pause.* 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damn'd. 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven,  or  blasts  from  hell, 
Be  thy  intent.s"  -wicked,  or  charitable, 
Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape. 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee.     I  '11  call  thee,  Hamlet. 
King,  Father.  Royal  Dane  :  0  !   answer  me  : 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance;  but  tell, 
Wh}'  thy  canoniz'd  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 
Have  burst  their  cerements  ?  why  the  sepulchre. 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urn'"d." 
Hath  op'd  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws, 
To  cast  thee  up  again  ?     What  may  this  mean. 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel, 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Making  night  hideous  ;  and  we  fools  of  nature, 
So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition. 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  oijr  souls  ? 
Say,  why  is  this  ?  wherefore  ?  what  should  we  do  ? 

[The  Gho.'^t  beckons  Hamlkt 

Hor.  It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it. 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

It  waves'"  you  to  a  more  removed  ground : 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.  No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.  It  will  not  speak;  then,  will  I  follow  it 

Hor.   Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee  : 
And,  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself? — 
It  waves  me  forth  again  : — I'll  follow  it. 

Hor.  What,  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord. 
Or  to  the  dreadful  sununit  of  the  clifl; 
That  beetles  o'er  his  ba.'^e  into  the  sea, 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form. 
Which  misht  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason, 
And  draw  you  into  madness?  think  of  it: 
The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation," 
Witho)it  more  motive,  into  every  bra.  i 
That  looks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea. 
And  hears  it  roar  beneath. 

Ham.  It  waves  me  still. — Go  on 

I  '11  follow  thee. 

Mar.  You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Hold  off  your  hand." 

Hor.  Be  rul'd  :  you  shall  not  go.      [They  .itruggle.''^ 


«"  ^1.  ^'""^"f  ;  from  9n»rto.  Roamine  :  in  folio.  »  With  all  the  vow»  :  in  folio.  '  Gives  :  in  folio.  «  the  eye  :  in  folic.  »  bo'idi 
in  I.  e  Theobald  alw  made  toe  chance.  •  .lander  :  in  f.  e.  '  The  words,  -'so  now."  are  not  in  f.  e.  8  i„  it  :  in  folio.  ♦  This  and  tB« 
t«fntT-one  fo.lowine  line.s.  arw  n«i  in  quarto,  1603.  or  folio.  •"rail.  «i  Hi»  :  in  old  copies.  Theobald  nia<i- the  chanje.  i»  eale  :  m 
quarto.  "of  adoubt:  in  qoMto:  dont.  i« /orfooi/f.  forf/?fr/7v  '«  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f  e.  '»  .\ot  in  f  c.  '•  erent. : 
m  .o  ,0  int-rr  d  :  in  quarto..     IS  wafts  :  in  folio.     <»  This  and  the  next  three  lines,  are  not  in  the  quarto.  10113.  or  fol.o.     "  Not    n  t.  • 


8CENK    V. 


HAMLET,   PEINCE   01'  DENMARK. 


745 


Ham.  My  fate  cries  out, 

Ana  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve.    [Ghost  beckons. 
Still  am  I  call'd. — Unhand  me,  gentlemen  : — 

[Breaking  from  them. 
By  heaven,  I  '11  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me  : — 
I  say,  away  ! — Go  oft,  I  '11  follow  thee. 

[Exettnt  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 

Hot.  He  waxes  desperate  with  imagination. 

Mar.  Let 's  follow:  't  is  not  fit  thus  to  obey  him. 

Hor.  Have  after. — To  what  is.«ue  will  this  come  ? 

Mar    Something  is  rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark. 

Hor.  Heaven's  will  direct  it ! 

Mar.  Nay,  let 's  follow  him.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  more  remote  Part  of  the  Platform. 
Enter  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Whither'  wilt  thou  lead  me  ?    speak,  I  '11  go 
no  farther. 

Ghost.  Mark  me. 

Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  ghost  ! 

Ghost.  Pity  me  not :  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Ham.  Speak  ;  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost.  So  art  thou  to  revenge,  when  thou  shalt  hear. 

Ham.  What? 

Ghost.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit ; 
E>oom'd  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night,  • 

And  for  the  day  confin'd  to  lasting  fires". 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature. 
Are  burnt  and  purg'd  away.     But  that  T  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul,  freeze  thy  young  blood. 
Make  thy  two  eyes  like  stars  start  from  their  spheres, 
Thy  knotted*  and  combined  locks  to  part. 
And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  an-end, 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine* : 
But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 
To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood. — List,  list,  O  list  !' — 
If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, — 

Ham.  O  God  ! 

Ghost.  Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder. 

Ham.  Murder? 

Ghost.  Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is  ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 

Ham.  Haste  me  to  know  't,  that  I,  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation,  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt ; 

And  duller  shouldst  thou  be,  than  the  fat  weed 
That  roots'  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  wharf, 
Wouldst  thou  not  stir  in  this  :  now,  Hamlet,  hear. 
'Tis  givpn  out  that  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me :  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 
Ib  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abus'd  ;  but  know,  thou  noble  youth. 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Ham.  0,  my  prophetic  soul  !  my  uncle  ? 

Ghost.  Ay,  that  incestuous,  that  adulterate  beast, 
With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts. 
0  wicked  wit,  and  gifts,  that  have  the  power 


'  Where  :  in  folio.  »  to  fast  in  fires  :  in  f.  e.  '  knotty  :  in  folii 
•n  folio.  '  Fr.  aigre,  sour.  *  bak'd  :  in  folio.  '  despatched  :  i 
eKtreme  unction,      ii  zidieu     in  quarto      "  swiftly  :  in  quartos. 


So  to  seduce  !)  won  to  his  shameful  luat 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming  virtuous  queen. 
0,  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-ott"  was  there  ! 
From  me,  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity. 
That  it  went  hand  in  hand  even  witli  the  vow 
I  made  to  her  in  marriage  ;  and  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch,  whose  natural  gitts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine  ! 

But  virtue,  as  it  never  will  be  mov'd. 
Though  lewdness  court  it  in  a  shape  of  heaven, 
So  lust,  though  to  a  radiant  angel  link'd, 
Will  sate  itself  in  a  celestial  bed, 
And  prey  on  garbage. 

But,  soft  !  methinks.  [  scent  Ihe  morning  air: 
Brief  let  me  be. — Sleeping  within  mine  orchard, 
My  custom  always  in  the  afternoon. 
Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole. 
With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon  in  a  phial. 
And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 
The  leperous  distilment  ;  whose  effect 
Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man, 
That,  s\A-ift  as  quicksilver,  it  cour.^es  throtigh 
The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body; 
And  with  a  sudden  vigour  it  doth  posset, 
And  curd,  like  eager'  droppings  into  milk, 
The  thin  and  wholesome  blood  :  so  did  it  mine: 
And  a  most  instant  tetter  bark'd'  about, 
Most  lazar-li^vc,  with  vile  and  loathsome  crust 
All  my  smooth  body. 

Thus  was  1,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand, 
Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  despoiled' . 
Cut  off  even  in  the  blossom  of  my  sin, 
Unhousel'd,  disappointed,  unaneled" : 
No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 
With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head  : 
0;  horrible  !  0,  horrible  !  most  horrible  ! 
Tf  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not : 
Let  not  the  royal  bed  of  Denmark  be 
A  couch  for  luxury-  and  damned  incest. 
But.  how.soever  thou  pursuest  this  act, 
Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 
Against  thy  mother  auglit :  leave  her  to  heaven, 
And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge. 
To  prick  and  sting  her.     Fare  thee  well  at  once. 
The  glow-worm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near. 
And  'gins  to  pale  his  uneflectual  fire  : 
Adieu,  adieu  !  Hamlet,"  remember  me.  [Eril 

Ham.  0,  all  you  host  of  heaven  !  0  earth  !  Wbit 
else  ? 
And  shall  I  couple  hell  ?— O  fie  !— Hold,  heart ; 
And  you.  my  sinews,  grow  not  in.'^tant  old, 
But  bear  me  stiffly"  up. — Remember  thee? 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee? 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I  '11  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past, 
That  youth  and  observation  cojii'd  there. 
And  tiiy  commandment  all  aloiu*  .^hall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  mv  Drain. 
Unmix'd  with  baser  matter  :  yes,  dv  neaven  i 
0.  most  pernicious  and  perfidious  woman  ! 
0  villain,  villain,  smiling,  damned  villain  ! 
My  tables," — meet  it  is,  I  set  if  do-wni. 
That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain  . 
At  least,  I  am  sure,  it  may  be  so  in  Denmark : — 

'  \Wrifing 

*  portentine  :  in  old  copies.     •  Lirt,  Hamlet,  0,  list  :  in  .^blio.     •  .-oU 
f   e.      10  Without  the  sacrament,   unprepared,   aaoiled,    or   with  >ut 
"  Mv  tables,  my  table'  :  in  folio. 


746 


HAMLET,  PKINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


ACT   U. 


So,  uncle,  there  you  arc.     Now  to  my  word ; 
It  is,  ''  Adieu,  adieu  !  remember  me." 
I  have  sworn  't. 

Hor.  [U-ithin.\  Mv  lord  !  mv  lord  ! 

Mar.\W,tlmi)  Lord  Hamlet! 

Hor.  [U'lt/iin.i  Heaven  secure  him! 

Mar.\Uitlun]  So  be  it  ! 

Hor.  [liilhin.]   Illo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord! 

Ham.  Hillo.  ho.  ho  !  boy  !  come   bird,  come. 
Kntcr  Horatio  and  Marcellvs. 

Mar.  How  is"t,  my  noble  lord  ? 

Hor.  What  news,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  O,  wonderful  ! 

Hor.  Good  my  lord,  tell  it. 

Warn.  No ; 

Vou  "11  reveal  it. 

Hor.  Not  I,  my  lord,  by  heaven. 

Mar.  Nor  1,  my  lord. 

Ham.  How  say  you,  then  :  would  heart  of  man  once 
think  it  ?— 
But  you  11  be  secret. 

Hor.  Mar.  Ay,  by  heaven,  my  lord. 

Ham.  There 's  ne'er  a  villain  dwelling  in  all  Denmark, 
But  he  's  an  arrant  knave. 

Hor.  There  needs  no  ghost,  my  lord,  come  from  the 
grave 
To  tell  u.«  this. 

Ham.  Why.  right :  you  are  i'  the  right ; 

And  .so.  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 
1  hold  it  tit  that  we  shake  hands  and  part  : 
You.  as  your  bu.siness  and  desire  shall  point  you, 
For  ever>'  man  haih  business  and  desire. 
Such  as  It  is  :  and,  for  mine  own  poor  part. 
Look  you,  I  "11  go  pray. 

Wor.The.^e  are  but  wild  and  whirling'  words,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  am  sorry  they  offend  you,  heartily  ;  yes, 
Faiih.  heartily. 

Hor.  There  's  no  offence,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Yes.  by  Saint  Patrick,  but  there  i.«.  Horatio, 
And  much  offence  too.     Touching  this  vision  here, 
!•  IS  an  honest  ghost,  that  let  me  tell  you  : 
For  your  desire  to  know  what  is  between  us, 
O'er-master  't  as  you  may.     And  now.  good  friends, 
\>  you  are  friends,  scholars,  and  soldiers, 
>  ve  me  one  poor  request. 

f!or.  What  is't.  my  lord"? 

Mar.  We  will. ' 

Ham.  Never  make  kno-wii  what  you  have  seen  to- 
..-'ht. 

Hor.  Mar.  My  lord^  we  will  not. 

Ham.  Xay,  but  swear  't. 

Hor.  In  faith. 


My  lord,  not  I. 

Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord,  in  faith. 

Ham.  Upon  my  sword. 

Mar.  We  have  sworn,  my  lord,  already 

Ham.  Indeed,  upon  my  sword,  indeed. 

Ghost.   [Beneath.]  Swear. 

Horn.  Ha.  ha,  boy!  say  st  thou  so?  art  thou  there 
true-peimy  ? 
Come  on, — you  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellarage,— 
Consent  to  swear. 

Hor.  Propose  the  oath,  my  lord 

Ham.  Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.]  Swear 

Ham.  Hie  et  ubique  ?  then,  we  '11  shift  our  ground. — 
Come  hither,  gentlemen. 
And  lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword  : 
Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  heard, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.]  Swear. 

Ham.  Well  said,  old  mole  !  canst  work  i'  the  earth^ 
so  fast  ? 
A  worthy  pioneer  ! — Once  more  remove,  good  friends. 

Hor.  0  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous  strange  ' 

Ham.  And  therefore  as  a  stranger  give  it  welcome 
There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your'  phi]o.«;ophy.  But  come  ; — 
Here,  as  before,  never,  so  help  you  mercy. 
How  strange  or  odd  soe'er  I  bear  myself, — 
As  I,  perchance,  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on, — 
Tihat  you.  at  such  times  seeing  me.  never  shall, 
With  arms  encumberd  thus,  or  this  head-shake, 
Or  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 
As,  "  Well,  well,  we  know ;" — or,   "  We  could,  an  if 

we  would  •" — 
Or.  "If  w^e  list  to  speak;" — or,  "There  be,  an  if  they 

might ;" — 
Or  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 
That  you  know  aught  of  me  : — this  not  to  do, 
So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you, 
Swear. 

Ghost.  [Beneath.]  Swear. 

Ham.  Rest,  rest,  perturbed  spirit  ! — So,  gentlemen, 
With  all  my  love  I  do  commend  me  to  you  : 
And  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is 
May  do,  t'  express  his  love  and  friending  to  you, 
God  -willing,  shall  not  lack.     Let  us  go  in  together 
And  still  your  fingers  on  your  lijis.  I  pray. — 
The  time  is  out  of  joint ;  0  cur.^ed  spite  ! 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right. — 
Nay.  come  :  let  "s  go  together.  [Exetint. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  Polonivs's  Hou.se. 
Enter  PoLONius  and  Reynaldo. 

Pol.  Give  him  this  money,  and  these  notes,  Reynaldo. 

Rey.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Pol.  You  shall  do  marvellous  \»-isely,  good  Reynaldo,  I 
EJetore  you  visit  him,  to  make  inquiry  I 

');"  hi."  behaviour. 

fity  My  lord.  I  did  intend  it. 

Pol.  Marr)-.  well  said  :  very  well  said.   Look  you,  sir,  | 
Inquire  me  first  what  Daii.-kers  are  in  Paris;  | 

And  how,  and  who,  what  means,  and  where  they  keep,  I 

>  hurling  :  in  foli"       »  px)nnd  :  in  folio       »  our  :  in  folio. 


What  company,  at  what  expense ;  and  finding, 
By  this  encompassment  and  drift  :l'  question, 
That  they  do  know  my  son.  come  you  more  nearer 
Than  your  particular  demands  will  touch  it. 
Take  you,  as  'twere,  .some  distant  knowledge  of  him 
As  thus, — ••  I  know  his  lather,  and  his  friends. 
And.  in  part,  him:'" — do  you  mark  this,  Reyaaldo? 

Rey.  Ay,  very  well,  my  lord. 

Pol.  "  And,  in  part,  him  ;  but,"  you  may  say,  "'  uoi 
well : 
But,  if 't  be  he  I  mean,  he  's  very  wild. 
Addicted  so  and  so ;" — and  there  put  on  him 


^ 


SCENE  n. 


HAMLET,   PEINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


747 


What  forgeries  you  please ;  marry,  none  so  rank 
As  may  dishonour  him  :  take  heed  of  that ; 
But,  sir,  such  wanton,  wild,  and  usual  slips, 
As  are  companions  noted  and  most  known 
To  youth  and  liberty. 

Rev.  As  gaming,  my  lord. 

Pol.  Ay,  or  drinking,  fencing,  swearing,  quarrelling, 
grabbing  : — you  may  go  so  far. 

Rey.  My  lord,  that  would  dishonour  him. 

Pol.  'Faith,  no  •  as  you  may  season  it  in  the  charge. 
You  must  not  put  another  scandal  on  him, 
That  he  is  open  to  incontincncy : 
That 's  not  my  meaning  ;  but  breathe   his   faults  so 

quaintly, 
That  they  may  seem  the  taints  of  liberty  ; 
The  flash  and  outbreak  of  a  fiery  mind ; 
A  savageness  in  unreclaimed  blood. 
Of  general  assault. 

Rey.  But,  my  good  lord. — 

Pol.  Wherefore  should  you  do  this  ? 

Rey.  Ay,  my  lord, 

I  would  know  that. 

Pol.  Mavry.  sir,  here 's  my  drift ; 

And,  I  believe,  it  is  a  fetch  of  warrant.' 
You  laying  these  slight  sullies  on  my  son, 
As  't  were  a  thing  a  little  soil'd  i'  the  working, 
Mark  you, 

Y'^our  party  in  converse,  him  you  would  sound, 
Having  ever  seen  in  tl'ie  prenominate  crimes 
The  youth  you  breathe  of  guilty,  be  assur'd, 
He  closes  with  you  in  this  consequence  : 
'•Good  sir,"  or  so;  or  "friend,"  or  "gentleman," — 
According  to  the  phrase,  or  the  addition 
Of  man,  and  country. 

Rey.  Very  good,  my  lord. 

Pol.  And  then,  sir,  does  he  this, — he  does — 
What  was  I  about  to  say  ? — By  the  mass.  I  was 
About  to  say  something : — where  did  I  leave  ? 

Rey.  At  closes  in  the  consequence. 
As  ''friend  or  so."  and  "  gentleman." 

Pol.  At,  closes  in  the  consequence, — ay,  marry; 
He  closes  thus  : — ''  I  know  the  gentleman ; 
I  saw  him  yesterday,  or  t'  other  day, 
Or  then,  or  then  ;  with  such,  or  such ;  and,  as  you  say. 
There  was  he  gaming;  there  o'ertook  in  's  rouse; 
There  falling  out  at  tennis :  or  perchance, 
I  saw  him  enter  such  a  house  of  sale, 
Videlicet,  a  brothel "  or  so  forth. — 
See  you  now ; 

Y'our  bait  of  falsehood  takes  this  carp  of  truth  : 
And  thus  do  we  of  v.-isdom  and  of  reach, 
With  windlasses,  and  with  assays  of  bias, 
By  indirections  find  directions  out : 
So,  by  my  former  lecture  and  advice, 
Bhall  you  my  son.     You  have  me,  have  you  not  ? 

Rey.  My  lord,  I  have. 

Pol.  God  be  wi'  you ;  fare  you  well. 

Rey.  Good  my  lord. 

Pol.  Observe  his  inclination  in  yourself. 

Rey.  I  shall,  my  lord. 

Pol.  And  let  him  ply  his  music. 

Rey.  Well,  my  lord.     [Exit. 

Enter  Ophelia. 

Pot.    Farewell  ! — How  now,  Ophelia  ?  what 's  the 
matter  ? 

Oph.  Alas,'  my  lord  !  I  have  been  so  affrighted  I 

Pol.  With  what,  in  the  name  of  God  ? 

Oph.  My  lord,  as  I  was  sewing  ni  my  chamber, 

'  wit:  ia  quarto.  1604.      *  O  my  lord  :  in  quartos.     '  Not  in  folic 
jn  qua  tos      •  This  line  is  not  in  folio. 


I  Lord  Hamlet, — with  his  doublet  all  unbrac'd  ; 

j  No  hat  upon  his  head ;  his  stockings  foul'd, 

I  Ungarter'd,  and  down-gyved  to  his  ancle ; 
Pale  as  his  shirt ;  his  knees  knocking  each  other 

I  And  with  a  look  so  piteous  in  purport, 

j  As  if  he  had  been  loosed  out  of  hell, 

i  To  speak  of  horrors, — he  comes  before  me. 

I      Pol.  Mad  for  thy  love  ? 

j      Oph.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know ; 

:  But,  truly,  I  do  fear  it. 

Pol.  What  said  he  ? 

I      Oph.  He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me  hard, 

;  Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm, 
And.  with  his  other  hand  thus  o'er  his  brow, 
He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face. 
As  he  would  draw  it.     Long  stay'd  lie  so : 
At  last, — a  little  shaking  of  mine  arm. 
And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and  down,— 
He  rais'd  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  protbund. 
That  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk. 
And  end  his  being.     That  done,  he  lets  me  go, 
And,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder  turn'd, 
He  seem'd  to  find  his  way  without  his  eyes ; 
For  out  o'  doors  he  went  without  their  help, 
And  to  the  last  bended  their  light  on  me. 

Pol.  Come-",  go  with  me :  1  will  go  seek  the  kmjj 
This  is  the  very  ecstasy  of  love ; 
Whose  violent  property  fordoes  itself, 
And  leads  the  will  to  desperate  undertakings, 
As  oft  as  any  passion  under  heaven. 
That  does  afflict  our  natures.     I  am  sorry, — 
What !  have  you  given  him  any  hard  words  of  late  ? 
Oph.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  but.  as  you  did  command, 
I  did  repel  his  letters,  and  denied 
His  access  to  me. 

Pol.  That  hath  made  him  mad. 

I  am  sorrj-  that  with  better  heed  and  judgment 
I  had  not  quoted*  him :  1  fear'd,  he  did  but  trifle. 
And  meant  to  wreck  thee  ;  but.  beshrew  my  jealousy. 
By  heaven,'"  it  is  as  proper  to  our  age 
To  cast  beyond  ourselves  in  our  opinions. 
As  it  is  common  for  the  younger  sort 
To  lack  discretion.     Come,  go  we  to  the  king : 
This  must  be  known ;  which,  being  kept  close,  might 

move 
More  grief  to  hide,  than  hate  to  utter  love.       [Exeunt 

SCENE  IL— A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  King,  Queen,  Roskncrantz,  Guildenstern,  a«rf 
Attendants. 
King.  Welcome,  dear  Rosencrantz.  and  Guildenstern  . 
Moreover,  that  we  did  much  long  to  see  you. 
The  need  we  have  to  use  you,  did  provoke 
Our  hasty  sending.     Something  have  you  heard 
Of  Hamlet's  transtbrmation :  so  I  call  it, 
Sith  nor  th'  exterior  nor  the  inward  man 
Resembles  that  it  was.     What  it  should  be, 
More  than  his  father's  death,  that  thus  liath  put  him 
So  much  from  the  understanding  of  himself, 
I  cannot  dream'  of:  I  entreat  you  both, 
That,  being  of  so  young  days  brought  up  with  him, 
And  since  so  neighboured  to  his  youth  and  humour.' 
That  you  vouchsafe  your  rest  here  in  our  court 
Some  little  time ;  so  by  your  companies 
To  draw  him  on  to  pleasures,  and  to  gather, 
So  much  as  from  occasion  you  may  glean, 
Whether  aught,  to  us  luiknown.  afflicts  him  thus,* 
That,  open'd,  lies  within  our  remedy.  * 

*  Observed       »  It  seems  ;  in  folio.      •  deem  :  in  folio.      "  h»Tio«# 


748 


HAMLET,  PEINCE  OF  DENMAKK. 


Queen.  Good  gentlemen,  he  hath  much  talk'd  of  you ; 
And,  Hure  I  am.  two  men  (here  are  not  living. 
To  wlioin  lie  more  adhrres.     It"  it  will  please  you 
To  show  us  so  nuicli  gentry,  and  good  will, 
Aj-  to  expend  your  time  with  us  a  while, 
Vor  the  sui>ply  and  profit  of"  our  hope, 
^'our  visitation  shall  receive  such  thanks 
As  fits  a  king's  remembrance. 

Ros.  Both  your  majesties 

Might,  by  the  sovereign  power  you  have  of  us, 
Put  your  dread  pleasures  more  into  command 
Than  to  entreaty. 

Guil.  But' we  both  obey; 

And  here  give  up  ourselves,  in  the  full  bent. 
To  lay  our  service  freely  at  your  feet, 
To  be  commanded. 

King.  Tiianks,  Ra«enerantz.  and  gentle  Guildenstern. 

Queen.    Thanks,  Guildenstern,    and   gentle    Rosen- 
And  I  beseech  you  instantly  to  visit  [crantz : 

My  loo  much  changed  son. — Go,  some  of  you. 
And  bring  these  gentlemen  where  Hamlet  is. 

Guil.  Heavens  make  our  presence,  and  our  practices. 
Pleasant  and  helpful  to  him  ! 

Qtuen.  Ay,"  amen ! 

[Ereiivit  Ro?EXCR.\XTZ,  Guildenstern.  and 
some  Attendiinls. 

Enter  Polonics. 

Pol.  Th'  ambassadors  from  Norway,  my  good  lord, 
Are  joyfully  returnd. 

King.  Thou  still  hast  been  the  father  of  good  news. 

Pol.  Have  I,  my  lord  ?     Assure  you,  my  good  liege, 
I  hold  my  duty,  as  I  hold  my  soul, 
Both  to  my  God.  one'  to  my  gracious  king : 
And  I  do  think,  (or  el.se  this  brain  of  mine 
Hunts  not  the  trail  of  policy  so  .sure 
As  it  hath*  us'd  to  do)  that  I  have  found 
Tlie  very  cause  of  Hatnlet's  lunacy. 

King.  O  !  speak  of  that ;  that  do  I  long  to  hear. 

Pol.  Give  first  admittance  to  th'  ambassadors; 
My  news  shall  be  the  fruit*  to  that  great  feast. 

King.  Thyself  do  grace  to  them,  and  bring  them  in. 
[Exit  PoLONIUS. 

''m";e"llVVe."mrderr'^GertfHd«:'  he  hath  found 
The  head  and  Source  of  all  yolif  ^o"  f  distemper. 

Qvecn.  I  dnubt.  it  is  no  other  but  M  main ; 
His  father's  death,  and  our  o'erhasty  maTr^age. 
Re-rnlcr  Polomls,  with  Voltimand  and  cORNelius. 

King.  Well,  we  shall  .sift  him.— Welcome,  my  good 
friends.  ^ 

Say.  Voliiinand.  what  from  our  brother  Norway  r 

Volt.  Most  lair  return  of  greetings,  and  desires. 
Upon  our  first,  he  snd  out  to  .suppress 
HiB  nephews  levies:  which  to  liim  appear'd 
To  be  a  preparation  'gainst  the  Polaek 
But.  better  lookd  into,  he  truly  found 
It  wa.s  against  your  highness:  whereat  grievd. — 
That  K)  his  sickness,  age.  and  impotence, 
Was  falsely  borne  in  hand. — sends  out  arrests 
On  Forlinbras  ;  which  he  in  brief  obeys. 
Receives  rebuk**  from  Norway,  and,  in  fine, 
Makes  vow  before  his  uncle,  never  more 
To  give  th'  assay  of  arms  against  your  majesty. 
Whereon  old  Norway,  overcome  with  joy, 
r.ives  him  three  thousand  crowns  in  annual  fee, 
And  his  commission  to  employ  those  soldiers. 
s...  le-vned  a.<=  before,  aaainst  the  Polaek  : 
With  an  entreatv.  herein  farther  .shown. 

[Giving  a  Paper 


That  it  might  please  you  to  give  quiet  pasis 
Through  your  dominions  for  tiiis  enterprise, 
On  such  regards  of  safety,  and  allowance, 
As  therein  are  set  down. 

King.  It  likes  us  well ; 

And,  at  our  more  consider'd  time,  we  '11  read, 
Answer,  and  think  upon  this  business: 
Mean  time,  we  thank  you  for  your  well-took  labour. 
Go  to  your  rest :  at  night  we  "11  feast  together : 
Most  welcome  home. 

[Exeunt  Voltimand  and  Corniu  ils 

Pol.  This  business  is  well  ended. 

My  liege,  and  madam ;  to  expostulate 
What  majesty  should  be,  what  duty  is. 
Why  day  is  day,  night  night,  and  time  is  time, 
Were  nothing  but  to  waste  day,  night,  and  time. 
Therefore,  since'  brevity  is  the  .«oul  of  Avit, 
And  tediousness  the  limbs  and  outward  flourishes 
I  will  be  brief.     Your  noble  son  is  mad  : 
Mad  call  I  it;  for,  to  define  true  madness. 
What  is  't,  but  to  be  nothing  else  but  mad  : 
But  let  that  go. 

Queen.  More  matter,  with  less  art. 

Pol.  Madam.  I  swear,  I  use  no  art  at  all.     ^"^^ 
That  he  is  mad,  't  is  true :  't  is  true,  't  is  pity, 
And  pity  't  is  't  is  true :  a  foolish  figure ; 
But  farew^ell  it.  for  I  will  use  no  art. 
Mad  let  us  grant  him,  then  ;  and  now  remains. 
That  we  find  out  the  cause  of  this  effect; 
Or  rather  say.  the  cause  of  this  defect, 
For  this  eff"ect  defective  comes  by  cause : 
Thus  it  remains,  and  the  remainder  thus. 
Perpend. 

I  have  a  daughter ;  have,  while  she  is  mine ; 
Who,  in  her  duty  and  obedience,  mark, 
Hath  given  me  this.     Now  gather,  and  surmise. 

[Readi 
— •'  To  the  celestial,  and  my  soul's  idol,  the  most  beau- 
tified Ophelia,"— 

That 's  an  ill  phrase,  a  vile  phrase :  "  beautified  "  i.s  & 
vile  phrase  ;  but  you  shall  hear. — Thus : 

"  In  her  excellent  white  bosom,  these,"  &c. — 

Queen.  Came  this  from  Hamlet  to  her? 

Pol.  Good  madam,  stay  awhile  ;  I  will  be  faitlifui. — 
"  Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire,  [Reads 

Doubt,  that  the  sun  doth  move; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar. 
But  never  doubt  I  love. 
"  0  dear  Ophelia  !  I  am  ill  at  these  numbers  :  I  have 
not  art  to  reckon  my  groans ;  but  that  I  love  thee  best, 
O  !  most  best,  believe  it.     Adieu. 

Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady,  whilst 
this  machine  is  to  him,  Hamlet" 
This  in  obedience  hath  my  daughter  shown  me; 
fjid  more  above,  hath  his  solicitings, 
A.  they  fell  out  by  time,  by  means,  and  place, 
Aligiven  to  mine  ear. 

Kng.  But  how  halh  she 

Reetv'd  his  love  ? 

Po  What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

Kir^.  As  of  a  man  faithful,  and  honourable. 

Pol'  would  fain  prove  so.  But  what  might  you  thin'K, 
When  ,had  seen  this  hot  love  on  the  wing, 
(As  I  pweiv'd  it.  I  must  tell  yon  that. 
Before  mylaughter  told  me)  what  might  you, 
Or  my  dea^najesty,  your  queen  here,  think, 
If  I  had  plad  the  desk,  or  table-book  ;  ' 

Or  given  my  eart  a  winking*,  mute  and  dumb 


•  '  Xot  )i)  folio. 
l«e     in  qatno*. 


id  :  i  1  qnailos.      ♦  I  have  :  in  foiio. 


in  folio. 


*  my reet  queen  :    a  f  lui.    '  Ntt  in  q  lartot.    'wcrr; 


SCENE  n. 


HAMLET,   PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


749 


Or  look'd  upon  this  love  with  idle  sight  ; 

What  might  you  think  ?  no,  I  went  round  to  work, 

And  my  youns  mistress  thus  I  did  bespeak  : 

"  Lord  Hamlet  is  a  prince,  out  of  thy  star' ; 

This  must  not  be:"  and  then  I  precepts  gave  her, 

That  she  should  lock  herself  from  his  resort, 

Admit  no  messengers,  receive  no  tokens. 

Which  done,  she  took  the  fruits  of  my  advice  ; 

And  he,  repulsed,  a  short  tale  to  make, 

Fell  into  sadness;  then  into  a  fast; 

Thence  to  a  watch  ;  thence  into  a  weakness ; 

Thence  to  a  lightness ;  and  by  this  declension, 

Into  the  madness  wherein  now  he  raves, 

And  we  all  waiP  for. 

King.  Do  you  think  't  is  this  ? 

Queen.  It  may  be,  very  likely. 

Pol.  Hath  tl^ere  been  such  a  time,  I  'd  fain  know  that, 
That  I  have  positively  said,  "  'T  is  so," 
When  it  prov'd  otherwise  ? 

King.  Not  that  I  know. 

Pol.  Take  this  from  this,  if  this  be  otherwise. 

[Pointing  to  his  Head  and  Shoulder 
If  circumstances  lead  me,  I  will  find 
Where  truth  is  hid,  though  it  were  hid  indeed 
Within  the  centre. 

King  How  may  we  try  it  farther  ? 

Pol.    You    know,  sometimes    he  walks    for    hours 
together. 
Here  in  the  lobby. 

Queen.  So  he  doth,  indeed. 

Pol.  At  such  a  time  I  '11  loose  my  daughter  to  him : 
Be  you  and  I  behind  an  arras,  then : 
Mark  the  encounter  ;  if  he  love  her  not, 
And  be  not  from  his  reason  fallen  thereon, 
Let  me  be  no  assistant  for  a  state, 
But'  keep  a  farm  and  carters. 

King.  We  will  try  it. 

Enter  Hamlet,  reading. 
Queen.  Bui.  look,  where  sadly  the  poor  wretch  comes 

reading. 
Pol.  Away  !  I  do  beseech  you,  both  away, 
f  '11  board  him  presently  : — 0  !  give  me  leave  — 

[Exeunt  Kingj  Queen,  and  Attendants. 
How  does  my  good  lord  Hamlet  ? 
Hayn.  Well,  god-'a-mercy. 
Pol.  Do  you  know  me,  my  lord  ? 
Ham.  Excellent  well ;  you  are  a  fislimonger. 
Pol.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then,  I  would  you  were  so  honest  a  man. 
Pol.  Honest,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir  :  to  be  honest,  as  this  world  goes,  is  to 
he  one  man  picked  out  of  ten*  thousand. 
Pol.  That 's  very  true,  my  lord. 
Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in 'a  dead  dog, 
being  a  good'  kissing  carrion, — Have  you  a  daughter  ? 
Pol.  I  have,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  her  not*  walk  i'  the  sun  :  conception  is  a 
blessing  :  but  not  as  your  daughter  may  conceive  : — 
friend,  look  to  't. 

Pol.  [Aside.]  How  say  you  by  that  ?  Still  harping 
on  my  daughter  : — yet  he  knew  me  not  at  first ;  he 
said,  I  was  a  fishmonger.'  He  is  far  gone,  far  gone  :  and 
truly  in  my  youth  I  suffered  much  extremity  for  love  ; 
very  near  this.  I  '11  speak  to  him  again. — What  do  you 
read,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Words,  words,  words. 

Pol.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 


'  sphere  :  in  folio.  1632.  »  mourn  :  in  qnartos.  '  And  :  in  folio. 
in  quartos.  »  mea.n  :  in  folio  »  shall  grow  :  in  quartos.  "•  '>  Not 
tine'h  lap      in  quartos 


Ham.  Between  whom  ? 

Pol.  I  mean,  the  matter  that  you  read,*  my  lord. 

Ham.  Slanders,  sir  :  for  the  satirical  rogue  says  hero, 
that  old  men  have  grey  beards  ;  tliat  their  faces  are 
wrinkled  ;  their  eyes  purging  thick  amber,  and  plum 
tree  gum  ;  and  that  they  have  a  plentiful  lack  of  wit., 
together  with  most  weak  hams  ;  all  of  which,  sir. 
though  I  most  powerfully  and  potently  believe,  yet  1 
hold  it  not  honesty  to  have  it  thus  set  down  ;  for  you 
yourself,  sir,  should  be'  old  as  I  am,  if  like  a  crab  you 
could  go  backward. 

Pol.  Though  this  be  madness,  yet  there  is  method 
in  't.   [Aside.]  Will  you  walk  out  of  the  air,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Into  my  grave  ? 

Pol.  Indeed,  that  is  out  o'  the  air. — [Aside.^']  How 
pregnant  sometimes  his  replies  are  !  a  happiness  thai 
often  madness  hits  on,  which  reason  and  sanity  could 
not  so  prosperously  be  delivered  of.  I  will  leave  him, 
and  suddenly  contrive  the  means  of  meeting  between 
him  and  my  daughter. — [To  him.^^]  My  honourable 
lord,  I  will  most  humbly  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Ham.  You  cannot,  sir,  take  from  me  any  thing  that 
I  will  more  willingly  part  withal ;  except  my  life,"  ex- 
cept my  life,  except  my  life. 

Pol.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord. 

Ham.  These  tedious  old  fools  ! 

Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

Pol.  You  go  to  seek  the  lord  Hamlet ;  there  he  is. 

Ros.  God  save  you,  sir  !  [To  PoLONirs 

[Exit  POLONIUS 

Guil.  Mine  honour'd  lord  ! — 

Ros.  My  most  dear  lord  ! 

Ham.  My  excellent  good  friends  !  How  dost  thou 
Guildenstern  ?  Ah,  Rosencrantz  !  Good  lads,  how  d( 
ye  both  ? 

Ros.  As  the  indifferent  children  of  the  earth. 

Guil.  Happy,  in  that  we  are  not  overhappy  ;'^ 
On  fortune's  cap  we  are  not  the  very  button. 

Ham.  Nor  the  soles  of  her  shoe  ? 

Ros.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then  you  live  about  her  waist,  or  in  tlie 
middle  of  her  favours  ? 

Guil.  'Faith,  her  privates  we. 

Ham.  In  the  secret  parts  of  fortune  ?  0  !  most  true  ; 
she  IS  a  strumpet.     What  news  ? 

Ros.  None,  my  lord,  but  that  the  world  's  grown 
honest. 

Ham.  Then  is  dooms-day  near  ;  but  your  news  is  not 
true.  Let  me  question  more  in  particular  :  what  have 
you,  my  good  friends,  deserved  at  the  hands  of  fortune, 
that  she  sends  you  to  prison  hither  ? 

Guil.  Prison,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Denmark  's  a  prison. 

Ros.  TheH,  is  the  world  one. 

Ham.  A  goodly  one  ;  in  which  there  are  many  con- 
fines, wards,  and  dungeons,  Denmark  being  one  of  the 
worst. 

Ros.  We  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  then  'tis  none  to  you:  for  there  is 
nothing  either  good  or  bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so  : 
to  me  it  is  a  prison. 

Ros.  Why  then,  your  ambition  makes  it  one  :  't  is 
too  narrow  for  your  mind. 

Ham.  O  God  !  I  could  be  bounded  in  a  nut-shell, 
and  count  myself  a  king  of  infinite  space,  were  it  not 
that  I  have  bad  dreams. 

Guil.  Which  dreams,  indeed,  are  ambition ;  for  tlie 

♦  two  :  in  folio.     '  So  old  copies.     Warburton  reads  :  god.     •  '  No« 
in  f  e       >»  except  ray  life,  my  life  :  in  foUo.      »  ever  hapry  en  to> 


750 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


ACT  n. 


very  Bubstance  of  the  ambitious  is  merely  the  shadow 
of  a  dream. 

Ham.  A  dream  itself  is  but  a  shadow. 

Ros.  Truly,  and  I  hold  ambition  of  so  airy  and  light 
a  quality,  that  it  is  but  a  shadow's  shadow. 

.^(im.  TIkmi  are  our  beggars  bodies,  and  our  monarchs, 
and  outstrctehed  heroes,  the  beggars'  shadows.  Shall 
we  to  llie  eourt  ?  for.  by  my  fay,  I  cannot  reason. 

Rns.  G'lU.  We  '11  wait  upon  you. 

Warn.  No  such  matter  :  I  will  not  sort  you  with  the 
-.'.vt  of  my  servants  :  for.  to  speak  to  you  like  an  honest 
man.  I  am  most  dreadfully  attended.  Bat,  in  the 
lieatcn  way  of  friendship,  what  make  you  at  Elsinore? 

Rot.  To  visit  you.  my  lord  ;  no  other  occasion. 

Ham.  Rojrgar  tliat  I  am.  I  am  even  poor  in  thanks; 
l>ut  I  thank  you  :  and  sure,  dear  friends,  my  thanks  are 
loo  dear  a  halfpenny.  Were  you  not  sent  for?  Is  it 
your  own  inclining  ?  Is  it  a  free  visitation  ?  Come, 
c-ome  ;  deal  justly  with  me  :  come,  come ;  nay,  speak. 

Guil.  What  should  we  say,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Why  any  thing,  but  to  the  purpose.  You 
were  sent  for  ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of  confession  in 
your  looks,  which  your  modesties  have  not  craft  enough 
(o  colour  :  I  know,  the  good  king  and  queen  have  sent 
for  you. 

Ros.  To  what  end,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  That  you  must  teach  me.  But  let  me  conjure 
you.  by  the  rights  of  our  fellowship,  by  the  consonancy 
of  our  youth,  by  the  obligation  of  our  ever-preserved 
i<ive,  and  by  what  more  dear  a  better  proposer  could 
harge  you  withal,  be  even  and  direct  with  me,  whether 
:  'lU  were  .«ent  for,  or  no  ? 

Ros.  What  say  you?  [To  Guildenstern. 

Ham.  Nay,  then  I  have  an  eye  of  you.  Inside.] — If 
you  love  me.  hold  not  off. 

Giiil    My  lord,  we  were  sent  for. 

Ham  I  will  tell  you  why  ;  so  shall  my  anticipation 
prevent  your  discovery,  and'  your  secrecy  to  the  king 
and  queen  moult  no  feather.  I  have  of  late  (but 
wheretbre  I  know  not)  lost  all  my  mirth,  foregone  all 
custom  of  exercises  :  and,  indeed,  it  goes  so  heavily 
with  my  disposition,  that  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth, 
seems  to  me  a  sterile  promontory  ;  this  most  excellent 
canopy,  the  air.  look  you,  this  brave  o'erhanging  firma- 
ment, this  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fires,  why, 
it  appeareth  nothing  to  me,  but  a  foul  and  pestilent 
congregation  of  vapours.  What  a  piece  of  work  is  a 
man  !  How  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite  in  faculties  ! 
in  form,  and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable  !  in 
action,  how  like  an  angel  !  in  apprehension,  how  like  a 
god  !  the  beauty  of  the  world  !  the  paragon  of  animals  ! 
And  yet,  to  me,  what  is  this  quintessence  of  dust  ?  man 
delights  not  me  ;  [Ros.  .smile."!.]'  no,  nor  woman  neither, 
though  by  your  smiling  you  seem  to  say  so. 

Rn.s.  My  lord,  there  was  no  such  stuff  in  my 
houghts 

Hum.  Why  did  you  laugh,  then,  when  I  said,  man 
delights  not  me  ? 

Ro.f.  To  think,  my  lord,  if  you  delight  not  in  man, 
what  lentcii*  entertainment  the  players  shall  receive 
from  you  :  we  coted*  them  on  the  way,  and  hither  are 
they  coming  to  offer  you  service. 

Ham.  He  that  plays  the  king,  shall  be  welcome ; 
his  majp.«ty  shall  have  tribute  of  me  :  the  adventurous 
knight  ,=hall  ii.se  his  foil,  and  target:  the  lover  shall 
not  sigh  sjratis  :  the  humorous  man  shall  end  his  part 

•  On.  »  of :  in  folio.  '  Not  in  f.  e.  ♦  Players  were  not  allowed  to  perform  in  Lent.  »  Came  alons;  xirU  of.  •  in  the  lungs  ; 
quarto,  liVi:).  '  Probably  a  reference  to  the  restriction  in  I6WJ-1 ,  of  drc^matic  performances  to  two  theatres,  the  0  lobe  and  the  Fortu 
*  An  alluKion  to  aome  juTenile  company  of  players,  of  which  there  were  several  in  great  popular  favor  at  the  time.  »  Fr.  r.tffX  .■  shu 
f-knn-Di;.     ^0  Erriie.     "  Not  in  folio.     '*  mouths  :  in  quartos      "  A  co  .        .         ,       . 

«j»n  n   t,,,  ishritc.  a  heron. 


in  peace  :  the  clown  shall  make  those  laugh,  whoM 
lungs  are  tickled  o'  the  sere  ;*  and  the  lady  shall  sa^ 
her  mind  freely,  or  the  blank  verse  shall  halt  for  't. — 
What  players  are  they  ? 

Ros.  Even  those  you  were  wont  to  take  such  delight 
in.  the  tragedians  of  the  city. 

Ham.  How  chances  it.  they  travel  ?  their  residence, 
both  in  reputation  and  profit,  wjis  better  both  ways. 

Ros.  I  think,  their  inhibition  comes  by  the  means 
of  the  late  innovation.' 

Ham.  Do  they  hold  the  same   estimation  they  di 
when  I  was  in  the  city?     Are  they  so  followed  ? 

Ros.  No,  indeed,  they  are  not. 

Ham.  How  comes  it  ?     Do  they  grow  rusty  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  their  endeavour  keeps  in  the  wonted 
pace  ;  but  there  is,  sir.  an  eyry  of  children,*  little  eya.«e!--, 
that  cry  out  on  the  top  of  question,  .and  are  most 
tyrannically  clapped  for  't :  these  are  now  the  fashion  ; 
and  so  berattle  the  common  stages,  (so  they  call  them) 
that  many,  wearing  rapiers,  are  afraid  of  goose  quills, 
and  dare  scarce  come  thither. 

.Ham.  What !  are  they  children  ?  who  maintains  them' 
how  are  they  escoted  ?'  Will  they  pursue  the  quality 
no  longer  than  they  can  sing  ?  will  they  not  say  after- 
wards, if  they  should  grow  themselves  to  common 
players,  (as  it  is  most  like,  if  their  means  are  not 
better)  their  writers  do  them  wrong,  to  make  them  ex- 
claim against  their  own  succession? 

Ros.  'Faith,  there  has  been  much  to  do  on  both 
sides  ;  and  the  nation  holds  it  no  sin  to  tarre"*  them  to 
controversy  :  there  was,  for  a  while,  no  money  bid  for 
argument,  unless  the  poet  and  the  player  went  to  cuffs 
in  the  question. 

Ham.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Gitil.  0  !  there  has  been  much  throwing  about  of 
brains. 

Ham.  Do  the  boys  carry  it  away  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  that  they  do,  my  lord  ;  Hercules,  and  his 
load  too. 

Ham.  It  is  not  very"  strange  ;  for  my  uncle  is  kiim 
of  Denmark,  and  those,  that  would  make  mowes"  ai 
him  while  my  father  lived,  give  twenty,  forty,  fifty,  an 
hundred  ducats  a-picce  for  his  picture  in  little.  'Sblooil  ! 
there  is  something  in  this  more  than  natural,  if  philo- 
sophy could  find  it  out.  [Trumpets  within. 

Guil.  There  are  the  players. 

Ham.  Gentlemen,  you  are  welcome  to  Elsinore. 
Your  hands.  Come,  then  :  the  appurtenances  of  wel- 
come is  fashion  and  ceremony  :  let  me  comply  with 
you  in  this  garb,  lest  my  extent  to  the  players  (which, 
I  tell  you,  must  show  fairly  outward)  should  more 
appear  like  entertainment  than  yours.  You  are  wel- 
come ;  but  my  uncle-father,  and  aunt-mother,  are  de- 
ceived. 

Gvil.  Tn  what,  my  dear  lord  ? 

Ham.  I  am  but  mad  north-north-west  :  when  the 
wind  is  .southerly,  1  know  a  hawk  from  a  hand- 
saw." 

Enter  Polonius. 

Pol.  Well  be  with  you,  gentlemen  ! 

Ham.  Hark  you.  Guildenstern  : — and  you  too  ; — at 
each  ear  a  hearer  :  that  great  baby,  you  see  there,  is 
not  yet  out  of  his  swathing-clouts. 

Ros.  Haply,  he  's  the  second  time  come  to  them  ; 
for.  they  say,  an  old  man  is  twice  a  child. 

Ham.  I  will   prophesy,  he  comes  to  tell   me  of  the 


iinon  proverb,  when  the  play  wajs  written  ;  the  word  is  •  co  nr 


SCENE  n. 


HAMLET,   PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


r51 


yon. 


players ;  mark  it. — You  say  right,  sir 
morning  ;  't  was  then,  indeed. 

Pol.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you 

Ham.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell 
Roscius  wa.s  an  actor  in  Rome. — 

Pol.  The  actors  are  come  hither,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Buz.  buz  ! 

Pol.  Upon  my  honour, — 

Ham.  Then  came  each  actor  on  his  ass. — 


Monda 


When  he  lay  couched  in  the  ominous  horse, 
I  ••  Hath  now  this  dread  and  black  complexion  smear'd 
1  •'  With  heraldry  more  dismal :  head  to  foot 
When  !  "  Now  is  he  total  gules;  horridly  trick'd 

I  '■  With  blood  of  fathers,  mothers,  daughters,  sons; 
I  ••  Bak'd  and  impasted  with  the  parching  streets, 
I ''  That  lend  a  tyrannous  and  a  damned  light 
I  "  To  their  lord's  murder  :'  roasted  in  wrath,  and  fire, 
I  "  And  thus  o'er-sized  with  coagulate  gore, 
Pol.  The  best  actors  in  the  world,  either  for  tragedy,  \  '•  With  eyes  like  carbuncles,  the  hellish  Pyrrhus 
comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastoral-comical,  historical-  j  '-Old  grandsire  Priam  seeks  ;"' — 
pastoral,  tragical-historical,  tragical-comical-historical-  j  So  proceed  you. 
pastoral,  scene  individable,  or  poem  unlimited  :  Seneca  -      ^"'    ^^~~~  ^ 
cannot  be  too  hea\'>',  nor  Plautus  too  light.     For  the 
law  of  wTit,  and  the  liberty,^  these  are  the  only  men. 
Ham.  0  Jephthah,  Judge  of  Israel,  what  a  treasure 
hadst  thou  ! 

Pol.  WTiat  treasure  had  he,  mv  lord  ? 
Ham.  Why— 

"  One  fair  daughter,  and  no  more, 

The  which  he  loved  passing  well." 
Pol.  Still  on  my  daughter.  [Aside. 

Ham.  Am  I  not  i'  the  right,  old  Jephthah  ? 


Pol.  If  you   call   me   Jephthah,  my  lord,  I  have  a 
daughter  that  I  love  passing  well. 

Ham.  Nay,  that  follows  not. 

Pol.  What  follows,  then,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Why, 

"  As  by  lot,  God  wot," 
And  then,  you  know, 

"  It  came  to  pass,  as  most  like  it  was."* 
The  first  row  of  the  pious  chanson  will  show  you  more  ; 
for  look,  where  my  abridgment  comes. 

Enter  Four  or  Five  Player.';. 
You  are  welcome,  masters:  welcome,  all. — I  am  glad 
to  see  thee  well  : — welcome,  good  friends. — O,  old 
friend  !  why,  thy  face  is  valanced'  since  I  saw  thee 
last  :  com'st  thou  to  beard  me  in  Denmark  ? — What, 
my  young  lady  and  mistress  !  By'r-lady.  your  ladyship 
is  nearer  to  heaven,  than  when  I  saw  vou  last,  bv  the 


Pol.  'Fore  God,   my  lord,  well  spoken  ;  with  go<i 
accent,  and  good  discretion. 

1  Play.  '•  Anon  he  finds  him 
"  Striking  too  short  at  Greeks  :  his  antique  sword, 
•'  Rebellious  to  his  arm,  lies  where  it  falls, 
'•Repugnant  to  command.     Unequal  match'd,'* 
"  Pyrrhus  at  Priam  drives;  in  rage  strikes  wide, 
"But  with  the  whiff  and  wind  of  his  fell  sword 
■'*  The  unnerved  father  falls.     Then  senseless  Ilinnu 
"  Seeming  to  feel  this  blow,  with  flaming  top 
'•  Stoops  to  his  base  ;  and  with  a  hideous  crash 
••Takes  prisoner  Pyrrhus"  ear:  for.  lo  !  his  sword 
"Which  was  declining  on  the  milky  head 
"  Of  reverend  Priam,  seem'd  i'  the  air  to  stick : 
"  So,  as  a  painted  t>Tant,  Pyrrhus  stood  : 
"  And,  like  a  neutral  to  his  will  and  matter, 
"  Did  nothing. 

'■  But,  as  we  often  see,  against  some  storm, 
'•  A  silence  in  the  heaven.s,  the  rack  stand  .still, 
"The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
"As  hush  as  death,  anon  the  dreadful  thunder 
"  Doth  rend  the  region  :  so,  after  Pyrrhus'  pause, 
"  Aroused  vengeance  sets  him  ne\x  a-work, 
'•'  And  never  did  the  Cyclops'  hammers  fall 
"  On  ^lars's  armour,  forg'd  for  proof  eterne, 
•'  With  less  remorse  than  PjTrhus'  bleeding  sword 
"  Now  falls  on  Priam. — 
Out,  out,  thou  strumpet.  Fortune  !     All  you  gods, 


altitude  of  a  chopine.*      Pray  God,  your  voice,  like  a  |  "In  general  synod,  take  away  her  power: 

piece  of  uncurrent  gold,    be  not   cracked  within  the    '  " 

ring. — Masters,  you  are  all  welcome      We  '11  e'en  to  't 

like  French  falconers,  fly  at  any  thing  we  see  :  we  '11 

have  a  speech  straight.     Come,  give  us  a  taste  of  your 

quality  :  come,  a  passionate  speech. 

1  Play.  What  speech,  my  good'  lord  ? 

Ham.  I  heard  thee  speak  me  a  speech  once, — but  it 
was  never  acted  ;  or,  if  it  was,  not  above  once,  for  the 
play,   !   remenaber,    pleased    not   the   million ;    't  was 
caviare  to  the  general  :  but  it  was  (as  I  received  it,  and 
others,  whose  judgments  in  such  matters  cried  in  the 
top  of  mine)  an  excellent  play  ;  well  digested  in  the 
Bcenes,  set  down  with  as  much  modesty  as  cunning. 
[  remember,  one  said,  there  was  no  salt*  in  the  lines  to 
make  the  matter  savoury,  nor  no  matter  in  the  phrase 
that  might  indict  the  author  of  affectation,  but  called 
:t  an  hone&r.  method,  as'  wholesome  as  sweet,  and  by 
ver>'  much  more  handsome  than  fine.     One  speech  in  it 
I  chiefly  loved  :  't  was  jEneas'  tale*  to  Dido ;  and  there- 
about  of  it  especially,  wiiere   he  speaks   of  Priam"s 
slaughter.     If  it   live  in  your  memory,  begin   at  this 
line  : — let  me  see,  let  me  see ; — 
"  The  rugged  PjTrhus,  like  the  Hyrcanian  beast," 
— 't  is  not  so  :  it  begins  with  Pyrrhus. 
"  The  rugged  Pyrrhus, — he,  whose  sable  arms, 
"  Black  as  his  purpose,  did  the  night  resemble 


Break  all  the  spokes  and  fellies  from  her  wheel, 
"  And  bowl  the  round  nave  down  the  hill  of  heaven, 
"As  low  as  to  the  fiends  !" 

Pol.  This  is  too  long. 

Ham.  It  shall  to  the  barber's,  with  your  beard.— 
Pr'ythee,  say  on  :  he  's  for  a  jig."  or  a  tale  of  bawdry, 
or  he  sleeps.     Say  on  :  come  to  Hecuba. 

1  Play.  -'But  who,  0  !  who  had  seen  the  mobled" 
queen  " — 

Ham.  The  mobled  queen  ? 

Pol.  That 's  good  ;  mobled  queen  is  good. 

1  Play.  ''  Run  barefoot  up  and  down  threat'ning  the 
flames 
"With  bis.^on'^  rheum;  a  clout  upon  that  head, 
"  Where  late  the  diadem  stood  :   and.  for  a  robe 
"About  her  lank  and  all  o'erteemed  loins, 
"  A  blanket,  in  th'  alarm  of  fear  caught  up  ; 
"  Who  this  had  seen,  with  tongue  in  venom  steep'd. 
"  'Gainst  fortune's  state  would  treason  have  pronounc'd 
"But  if  the  gods  themselves  did  see  her  then, 
"When  she  saw  Pyrrhus  make  malicious  sport 
"  In  mincing  with  his  .«word  her  husband's  limbs, 
"The  instant  burst  of  clamour  that  she  made, 
"  (Unless  things  mortal  move  them  not  at  all) 
"  Would  have  made  milch  the  burning  eyes  of  heaven, 
"  And  passionate'*  the  gods.' 


>  Good,  -whether  for  written  or  extempore  performances.     '  From  the  ballad  of  Jephthah.  See  Percy  Reliques  Vol.  I         Tahant :  in  qnarto. 
♦  A  higkrork.  or  wuo^en-soled  shoe.      *  Not  in  folio.      «  there  were    no  fah^ts  :  in  f.   e.     Pope  also  su-srested  the  change  I  his  and  tbt 

foUrwin?  wcrds,  to  the  period,  are  not  in  the  folio.      »  talk  :   in  quarto,  1601.       '  vile  murders  :  m  folio.     ">  match  :  in  fol-o  A  con  i< 

»niertajnment  by  the  cloTn,  after  the  play.     "  Carelessly  dressed,     i'  Blind.     »  And  passion  in  :  in  f.  e. 


'52 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


Pol.  Look,  whether  he  has  not  turned  his  colour,  and 
has  tears  in  's  eyes  ! — Pr'yihee,  no  more. 

Ham.  'T  is  well  ;  I  Ml  have  thee  speak  out  the  rest  of 
this'  soon.— Good  ray  lord,  will  you  sec  the  players  well 
b.-stowed?  Do  you  hear,  let  them  be  well  used;  for 
they  are  the  abstract.s.  and  brief  chronicles,  of  the  time  : 
after  your  death  you  were  better  have  a  bad  epitaph, 
than  their  ill  report  while  you  live*. 

Pol.  My  lord,  I  will  use  them  according  to  theirdesert. 

Htim.  God  's  bodkin,  man.  much'  better  :  use  every 
maa  after  his  desert,  and  who  should  'scape  whipping? 
Vse  them  after  your  own  honour  and  dignity  :  the  less 
ticy  deserve,  the  more  merit  is  in  your  bounty.  Take 
t  iem  in. 

Pol.  Come,  sirs. 

[Exit  PoLONifs,  with  some  of  the  Players. 

Ham.  Follow  him,  friends :  we  "11  hear  a  play  to- 
morrow.— Dost  thou  hear  me,  old  friend  ?  can  you  play 
I  lie  murder  of  Gonzago? 

1  Play.  Ay.  my  lord. 

flam.  We  Ml  have  it  to-morrow  night.  You  could,  for 
a  need,  study  a  speech  of  some  dozen  or  sixteen  lines, 
which  I  would  set  down  and  insert  in  't.  could  you  not  ? 

1  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Very  well. — Follow  that  lord;  and  look  you 
mock  him  not.  [Exit  Player.]  My  good  friends,  [To 
Itos.  and  Guil.]  I'll  leave  you  till  night:  you  are 
W''lcome  to  Elsiuore. 

Ros.  Good  my  lord  ! 

I  Exeunt  Rosencrantz  and  Guildf.nstern. 

Ham.  Ay,  bo.  good  bye  you*. — Now  1  am  alone. — 
'   what  a  rccue  and  peasant  slave  am  I  ! 

It  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here, 
H'lt  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  pas.sion. 
t'ould  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own*  conceit, 
That  from  her  working  all  his  -visage  wann'd' ; 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in  his  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit  ?  and  all  for  nothing  : 
For  Hecuba  ! 

W'liat  "s  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
Tliai  he  should  weep  for  her  ?     What  would  he  do, 
Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion, 
That  1  have  ''     He  would  drown  the  stage  with  tears, 


I  And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech  ; 

I  Make  mad  the  guilty,  and  appal  the  free, 

I  Confound  the  ignorant ;  and  amaze,  indeed, 

j  The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears.     Yet  I, 
A  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak. 
Like  John  a-dreams.  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 
And  can  say  nothing ;  no,  not  for  a  king. 
Upon  whose  property,  and  most  dear  life, 
A  damn'd  defeat  was  made.     Am  I  a  coward  ? 
Who  calls  me  villain  ?  breaks  my  pate  acro.«s  ? 
Plucks  off  my  beard,  and  blows  it  in  my  face  ? 
Tweaks  me  by  the  nose  ?  gives  me  the  lie  i  the  throat 
As  deep  as  to  the  lungs  ?     Who  does  me  this  ?     Ha  ! 
'Svvounds  !   I  should  take  it ;  for  it  cannot  be, 
But  I  am  pigeon-liver'd,  and  lack  gall 
To  make  transgression'  bitter,  or  ere  this 
I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 
With  this  slave's  offal.     Bloody,  bawdy  villain  ! 
Remorseless,  treacherous,  lecherous,  kindle.'-s  villain! 
0,  vengeance !' 

Why.'  what  an  a.ss  am  I  !     This  is  most  brave  ; 
That  I,  the  son  of  a  dear  father'"  murdcr'd, 
Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell. 
Must,  like  a  whore,  unpack  my  heart  with  words, 
And  fall  a  cursing,  like  a  very  drab, 
A  scullion  ! 

;  Fie  upon  't  !.foh  !  About  my  brain  ! — I  have  heard, 

j  That  guilty  creatures,  sitting  at  a  play, 

j  Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  .scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 

j  They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions ; 

I  For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  organ.     I  Ml  have  these  players 
Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father, 
Before  mine  uncle  :  I  Ml  observe  his  looks  ; 
I  Ml  tent"  him  to  the  quick  :  if  he  but  blench", 
1  know  my  course.     The  spirit,  that  I  have  seen. 
May  be  the  devil ;  and  the  devil  hath  power 
T"  assume  a  pleasing  shape  ;  yea,  and,  perhaps, 
Out  of  my  weakness,  and  my  melancholy, 
As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits. 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me.     I  Ml  have  arounds 
More  relative  than  this  :  the  play  's  the  thing, 
Wherein  I  Ml  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king.     [Exit 


ACT     III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  King,  Queen,  Polg.nius,  Ophelia.  Rosencrantz. 

and  Gril.DENSTERN. 

King.  And  can  you.  by  no  drift  of  conference", 
'".el  from  him  why  he  puts  on  this  confusion. 
(;ratiiis  so  harshly  all  his  days  of  quiet 
With  turbulent  and  dangerous  lunacy? 

Ro.f.  He  docs  confers,  he  feels  himself  distracted  ; 
f'.ut  from  what  cause  lie  will  by  no  means  speak. 

Guil.  Nor  do  we  find  him  forward  to  be  sounded. 
Hut  with  a  crafty  madness  keeps  aloof. 
When  we  would  bring  him  on  to  some  confession 
')!  his  tnie  state. 

Q"een.  Did  he  receive  you  well  ■:• 

Ros.  Most  like  a  gentleman. 

(niil.  But  With  much  tbrcing  of  his  disposition. 

Ros.  Niggard  of  question  ;  but  to  our  demands 


I  Most  free  in  his  reply. 
I      Queen.  Did  you  assay  him 

To  any  pastime  ? 

Ro_s.  Madam,  it  so  fell  out,  that  certain  players 
We  o^cr-rau2ht'*  on  the  way  :  of  these  we  told  him  ^ 
And  there  did  seem  in  him  a  kind  of  joy 
To  hear  of  it.     They  are  about  the  court ; 
And,  as  I  think,  they  have  already  order 
This  night  to  play  before  him. 

Pol.  'T  is  most  true  . 

And  he  beseech'd  me  to  entreat  your  majesties. 
To  hear  and  see  the  matter 

King.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  it  doth  much  content  rti^ 
To  hear  him  so  inclin'd. 
Good  gentlemen,  give  him  a  farther  edge, 
And  drive  his  purpose  .on  to  these  delights 

Ros.  We  .shall,  my  lord. 

[Exetint  Rosencrantz  and  Giii.denstern 


'  ■  of  tbi»"  :  not  in  folio.  >  lired  :  in  folio.  •  Not  in  folio.  ♦  to  yon  :  in  qaartos.  »  irhole  :  in  folio.  «  warme?  :  in  folio.  '  oppr»» 
io»  inf.e  •  This  line  ii  not  in  quarto*.  »  Who  :  in  quarto*.  >«  Not  in  folio,  or  quartos,  ltt04-5.  "  .SVfjrfA.  try  '^  Start.  »  oircnoi 
•-aoce      in  folio      '♦  Overtook 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMAEK. 


753 


King.  Sweet  Gertrude,  leave  us  too ;  I 

For  we  have  closely  sent  for  Hamlet  hither, 
That  he,  as  't  were  by  accident,  may  here 
AfTror.t' Ophelia:  her  father,  and  myself  (lawful  espials) 
Will  &o  bestow  ourselves,  that,  seeing,  unseen, 
We  may  of  their  encounter  frankly  judge; 
And  gather  by  hirr.,  as  he  is  behav'd, 
[f  'I  be  th'  affliction  of  his  love,  or  no, 
That  thus  he  suffers  for. 

Queen.  I  shall  obey  you. — 

And,  for  your  part,  Ophelia.  I  do  wish, 
That  your  good  beauties  be  the  happy  cause 
3f  Hamlet's  wildness ;  so  shall  I  hope,  your  virtues 
Will  bring  him  to  his  wonted  way  again. 
To  both  your  honours. 

Oph.  Madam,  I  wish  it  may.   [Exit  Queen. 

Pol.  Ophelia,  walk  you  here. — Gracious,  so  please  you. 
We  will  bestow  ourselves. — Read  on  this  book, 

[To  Ophelia. 
That  show  of  such  an  exercise  may  colour 
Your  loneliness. — We  are  oft  to  blame  in  this, — 
'T  is  too  much  prov'd. — that,  with  devotion's  visage, 
And  pious  action,  we  do  sugar'  o'er 
The  devil  himself. 

King.  0  !  't  is  too  true. — [Aside.]     How  smart 

A  lash  that  speech  doth  give  my  conscience  ! 
The  harlot's  cheek,  beautied  with  plastering  art, 
Is  not  more  ugly  to  the  thing  that  helps  it,  ' 
Than  is  my  deed  to  my  most  painted  word. 
0  heavy  burden  ! 

Pol.  I  hear  him  coming :  let 's  withdraw,  my  lord. 
[Exeunt  King  and  Polonius.'     Manet  Ophelia 
behind  J  reading. 

Enter  Hamlet. 

Ham.  To  be,  or  not  to  be  ;  that  is  the  question : — 
Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  ; 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them  ? — To  die, — to  sleep, — 
No  more ; — and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die  : — to  sleep  : — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream  : — ay,  there 's  the  rub  ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil. 
Must  give  us  pause.     There  's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time. 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  pangs  of  despis'd*  love,  the  law's  delay. 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin*  ?  who  would  fardels  bear. 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life. 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 
The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns. — imzzles  the  will. 
I     And  makes  us  lather  bear  those  ills  we  have. 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought. 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith'  and  moment, 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. — Soft  you,  now  ! 


'1 

I 


'  Confront.     '  snrge  : 
Nov  in  f.  e.      "  No,  no  : 
telio       i«  pace  .  in  folio. 
2X 


'  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not 
»  your :  in  folio.      '"  beck  :  in  f 


The  fair  Ophelia. — Nymph,  in  thy  orisons, 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Oph.  [Coming  forward.'']     Good  my  lord. 

How  does  your  honour  for  this  many  a  day  ? 

Ham.  I  humbly  thank  you ;  well,  well,  well. 

Oph.   My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yours, 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver ; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

Ham.  No,  not  I»  ; 

I  never  gave  you  aught. 

Oph.  My  honour'd  lord,  I  know  right  well  you  did  ; 
And  with  them  words  of  so  sweet  breath  coinpos'd 
As  made  the  things  more  rich :   their  perfume  lost, 
Take  these  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind, 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  gi-vers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha  !  are  you  honest  ? 

Oph.  My  lord  ! 

Ham.  Are  you  fair  ? 

Oph.  What  means  your  lordship  ? 

Ham.  That  if  you  be  honest,  and  fair,  your  honesty 
should  admit  no  discourse  to  your  beauty. 

Oph.  Could  beauty,  my  lord,  have  better  commerce 
than  with'  honesty  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  truly ;  for  the  power  of  beauty  will  sooner 
transform  honesty  from  what  it  is  to  a  bawd,  than  tlie 
force  of  honesty  can  translate  beauty  into  his  likene.«s  : 
this  was  some  time  a  paradox,  but  now  the  time  gives 
it  proof.     I  did  love  you  once. 

Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Ham.  You  should  not  have  believed  me  :  for  virtue 
cannot  so  inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish 
of  it.     I  loved  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Ham.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery:  why  wouldst  i.nou  be 
a  breeder  of  sinners  ?  I  am  myself  indifferent  hone^'t ; 
but  yet  I  could  accuse  me  of  such  things,  that  it  were 
better,  my  mother  had  not  borne  me.  I  am  very  proud, 
revengeful,  ambitious  ;  with  more  offences  at  my  back'*, 
than  I  have  thoughts  to  put  them  in.  imagination  to 
give  them  shape,  or  time  to  act  them  in.  What  should 
such  fellows  as  I  do,  crawling  between  heaven  and 
earth  ?  We  are  arrant  knaves,  all ;  believe  none  of  us. 
Go  thy  ways  to  a  nunnery.     Where  's  your  father? 

Oph.  At  home,  my  lord. 

Ilam.  Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him.  that  ho  may 
play  the  fool  nowhere"  but  in 's  own  house.  Farewell. 

Oph.  0  !  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens  ! 

Ham  If  thou  dost  marry,  I  '11  give  thee  this  plague 
for  thy  dowry:  be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  a."- 
snow,  thon  shalt  not  escape  calumny.  Gel  thee  to 
a  nunnery;  farewell'".  Or,  if  thou  wilt  needs  marry 
marry  a  fool,  for  wise  men  know  well  enough  what 
monsters  you  make  of  them.  To  a  nunnery,  go :  and 
quickly  too.     Farewell. 

Oph.  Heavenly  powers,  restore  him  ! 

Ham.  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings'*  too.  well 
enough  :  God  hath  given  you  one  face'*,  and  vou  make 
yourselves  another :  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you  lisp, 
and  nickname  God's  creatures,  and  make  your  wanton- 
ness your  isnorance.  Go  to;  I'll  no  more  on  t:  ii 
hath  made  me  mad.  I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  mar- 
riages, those  that  are  married  already,  all  but  one, 
shall  live :  the  rest  shall  keep  as  they  are.  To  a  nun- 
nery, go.  '  [Exit  Hamlkt. 

Oph.  O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown  ) 
The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's,  eye,  tongue,  sword  : 

inf.  e.     ♦  dispriz'd  ;  in  folio.     *  Small  dagger.     •  pitch     in  quirton 
•  .      "way:  in   folio.      '»  p),  farewell  :   in   folio.     "piittKot*:  in 


764 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


APT  in 


TV  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state. 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form. 
Th'  observ'd  of  all  observers,  quite,  quite  down  I 
And  I    of  \iui\cB  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  su(.-kM  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 
Now  sfc  I  hat  noble  and  most  sovereign  rea.«on. 
Like  swtet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh  ; 
That  unmatch'd  form  and  feature'  of  blown  youth, 
Bla.st.'(l  with  ecstasy.     0,  woe  is  me  ! 
To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see  ! 
Re-enter  King  ami  Polonius. 

King.  Love  !  his  affections  do  not  that  way  tend ; 
Nor  what  he  spake,  though  it  lack'd  form  a  little. 
Was  not  like  madness.     There  's  something  in  his  soul, 
O'er  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood  ; 
.\nd.  I  do  doubt,  the  hatch,  and  the  disclose, 
Will  be  some  danger  :  which  for  to  prevent, 
I  have,  ill  quick  determination. 

Thus  set  it  down.     He  shall  with  speed  to  England, 
P'or  the  demand  of  our  neglected  tribute  : 
Haply,  the  seas,  and  countries  different, 
With  variable  objects,  shall  expel 
This  something  settled  matter  in  his  heart. 
Whereon  his  brain  still  beating  puts  him  thus 
PVom  fashion  of  himself.     What  think  you  on  't  ? 

Pol.  It  .■shall  do  well  :  but  yet  do  I  believe. 
The  origin  and  commencement  of  his'  grief 
Sprung  from  neglected  love. — How  now,  Ophelia  ! 
Vou  need  not  tell  us  what  lord  Hamlet  said ; 
We  heard  it  all. — My  lord,  do  a.s  you  please  ; 
But.  if  you  hold  it  fit,  after  the  play 
Let  his  queen  mother  all  alone  entreat  him 
To  show  his  griefs  :  let  her  be  round^  with  him  ; 
And  1  11  be  plac'd,  so  please  you.  in  the  ear 
Of  all  their  conference.     If  .she  find  him  not, 
To  England  send  him  ;  or  confine  him  where 
Vour  wisdom  best  shall  think. 

King.  It  shall  be  so  : 

V!a-incss  in  great  ones  must  not  unwatch'd  go.   [  Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Hall  in  the  Same. 
Enter  H.\mlet,  and  certainPlayers,  unready.* 

Ham.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you.  as  I  pronounced 
it  to  you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue  ;  but  if  you  mouth 
it,  a.s  many  of  your  players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town- 
crier  spoke  my  lines.  Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too 
much  with  your  hand,  thus ;  but  use  all  gently :  for  in 
the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirlwind 
of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temperance, 
that  may  irive  it  smoothness.  0  !  it  offends  me  to  the 
(«oul,  to  hear'  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a 
passion  to  tatters,  to  very  rags,  to  split  the  ears  of  the 
proundlinirs ;  who.  for  the  most  part,  are  capable  of 
nothinu  but  inexplicable  dumb  shows,  and  noise:  I 
would  have  such  a  fellow  whipped  for  o'er-doing  Ter- 
inauant'  ;  it  out-herods  Herod' :  pray  you  avoid  it. 

1  Play.  I  warrant  your  honour 

Ham.  Be  not  too  tame  neither  but  let  your  own 
diBcrcrion  be  your  tutor  :  suit  the  action  to  the  word, 
the  word  to  the  action,  with  this  special  observance, 
that  you  o'erstep  not  the  modesty  of  nature  ;  for  any 
thing  so  overdone  is  from  the  purpose  of  playing,  whose 
end,  both  at  the  first,  and  now,  wa,«,  and  is,  to  hold,  as 
t  were,  the  mirrror  up  to  nature  ;  to  show  virtue  her  i 
own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age 
and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure.  Now, 
this  overdone,  or  come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the 
unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but  make  the  judicious  grieve  : 

•  lUtore  :  in  qnartot.     «  thii  ;  in  folio       >  Plain.     *  Not  in  f.  e 
fod  sf  the  Sartcent.     •  the  which  :  io  folio.     •  my  :  in  qnarto. 


the  censure  of  which'  one  must,  in  your  allowance, 
oerweigh  a  whole  theatre  of  others.  0 !  there  be 
players,  that  I  have  seen  play, — and  heard  others  praise, 
and  that  highly, — not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that, 
neither  having  the  accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait 
of  Christian,  pagan,  nor  man,  have  so  strutted,  and 
bellowed,  that  I  have  thought  some  of  nature's  jonr- 
neyinen  had  made  men,  and  not  made  them  well,  they 
imitated  humanity  so  abominably. 

1  Play.  I  hope,  we  have  reformed  that  indifferently 
with  us. 

Ham.  0  !  reform  it  altogether.  And  let  those,  that 
play  your  clowns,  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for 
them  •  for  there  be  of  them,  that  will  themselves  laugh, 
to  set  on  some  quantity  of  barren  spectators  to  laugh 
too;  though  in  the  mean  time  some  necessary  question 
of  the  play  be  then  to  be  considered  :  that 's  \nllainouB, 
and  shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the  fool  that  uses 
it.     Go,  make  you  ready. —  [Exeunt  Players. 

Enter  Polonius.  Rosencrantz,  and  Gi:ildenstern. 
How  now.  my  lord  !  will  the   king  hear   this  piece  of 

Pol.  And  the  queen  too,  and  that  presently,  [work? 

Ham.  Bid  the  players  make  haste. — [Exit  Polonhs 
Will  you  two  help  to  hasten  them? 

Both.  We  will,  my  lord 

[Exeunt  Rosencr.\ntz  and  Guildenstern 

Ham.  What,  ho  !   Horatio ! 

Enter  Horatio  ! 

Hor.  Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service. 

Ham.  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  coped  withal. 

Hor.  0  !  my  dear  lord, — 

Hmm.  Nay.  do  not  think  I  flatter 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 
That  no  revenue  hast,  but  thy  good  spirits, 
To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?     Why  should   the  poor  be 

flatter'd  ? 
No;  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp. 
And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee, 
Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou  hear? 
Since  my  dear  soul  was  misiress  of  her  choice, 
And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 
Hath  seai'd  thee  tor  herself:  for  thou  hast  been 
As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing; 
A  man.  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Hast  ta"en  with  equal  thanks  :  and  bless'd  are  those, 
Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  co-mingled, 
That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 
To  sound  what  stop  she  please.     Give  me  that  mail 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
As  I  do  thee. — Something  too  much  of  this. — 
There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king : 
One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance, 
Which  I  have  told  thee,  of  my  father's  death : 
I  pr'ythee,  when  thou  seest  that  act  a-foot, 
Even  with  the  very  comment  of  thy'  ssoul 
Observe  mine  uncle  :  if  his  occulted  guilt 
Do  not  itself  unkennel  in  one  speech, 
It  is  a  damned  ghost  that  we  have  seen, 
And  my  imaginations  are  as  foul 
As  Vulcan's  stithy.     Give  him  heedful  not« ; 
For  I  mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face. 
And.  after,  we  will  both  our  judgments  join 
In  cen.sure  of  his  seeming. 

Hor.  Well,  my  lord  ; 

If  he  steal  aught  the  whilst  this  play  is  playing, 
And  'scape  detecting,  I  will  pay  the  theft. 

»  BW"  •  in  folio.      '  '  Characters  in  old  Miracle  plaj-B  ;  the  fonnt"  »■• 


sckn:e  it. 


HAMLET,   PEINCE  OF  DENMAEK. 


755 


Ham.  They  are  comiiig  to  the  play  :  I  must  be  idle ; 
Get  you  a  place. 

Sennet.    Daiush  March.  Enter  King.  Queen,  Polonius, 
'Ophelia,  Roskncrantz,  Guildenstern,  and  others. 

King.  How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  Excellent,  i'  faith ;  of  the  camelion's  dish  :  I 
eat  the  air,  promise-crammed.  You  cannot  feed  ca- 
pons so. 

King.  I  have  nothing  with  this  answer.  Hamlet : 
these  words  are  not  mine. 

Ham.  No,  nor  mine  now. — My  lord,  you  played  once 
in  the  university,  you  say?  [To  Polonius. 

Pol.  That  did  I,  my  lord;  and  was  accounted  a  good 
actor. 

Ham.  And  what  did  you  enact  ? 

Pol.  I  did  enact  Julius  Caesar:  I  was  killed  i'  the 
Capitol :  Brutus  killed  me. 

Ham.  It  was  a  brute  part  of  him  to  kill  so  capital  a 
calf  there. — E^e  the  players  ready  ? 

Ros.  Ay.  my  lord  ;  they  stay  upon  your  patience. 

Queen.  Come  hither,  my  dear^  Hamlet ;  sit  by  me. 

Ham.  No,  good  mother,  here  's  metal  more  attractive. 

Pol.  0  ho  !  do  you  mark  that  ?  {To  the  King. 

Ham.  Lady,  shall  I  lie  in  your  lap  ? 

[Lying  down  at  Ophelia's  Feet. 

Oph.  No,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  mean,  my  head  upon  your  lap? 

Oph.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Do  you  think  I  mean  country  matters  ? 

Oph.  I  think  nothing,  my  lord. 

Ham.  That 's  a  fair  thought  to  lie  between  maids'  legs. 

Oph.  What  is,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Nothing. 

Oph.  You  are  merry,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Who,  I  ? 

Oph.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  0  God  !  your  only  jig-maker.'  What  should 
a  man  do,  but  be  merry?  for,  look  you,  how  cheerfully 
my  mother  looks,  and  myfatlier  died  within  these  two 
hours. 

Oph.  Nay,  't  is  twice  two  months,  my  lord. 

Ham.  So  long  ?  Nay  then,  let  the  devil  wear  black, 
for  I  '11  have  a  suit  of  sables.  O  heavens  !  die  two 
months  ago,  and  not  forgotten  yet  ?  Then  there  's 
hope,  a  great  man's  memory  may  outlive  his  life  h.alf 
a  year  ;  but,  by  'r-lady,  he  must  build  churches  then, 
or  else  shall  he  suffer  not  thinking  on.  with  the  hobby- 
horse' ;  whose  epitaph  is,  "  For,  O  !  for,  0  !  the  hobby- 
horse is  forgot." 

Trumpets  sound.     The  dumb  Show  enters. 
Enter  a  King  ind  Queen,  very  lovingly ;  the    Queen 

embracing  him.     She  kneels,  and  makes  show  of  pro- 
testation unto  him.     He  takes  her  up,  and  declines 

ht.^  head  upon  her  ruck  ;  lays  him  down  upon  a  lank 

of  flowers :  she,  seeing  him  asleep,  leaves  him.     Anon 

comes  in  a  fellovj,  takes  off  his  croivn.  kisses  it,  and 

pours  poison  in  the  King's  cars,  and  exit.     The  Queen 

returns,  Jinds  the  King  dead,   and  makes  pcw^sionate 

action.  The  poisoner,  with  some  two  or  three  Mutes, 
>    comes  in  again,  seeming  to  lament  with  her.     The 

dead  body  is  carried  aieay.     The  poisoner  woos  the 

Q^een   with   gifts :    she   seems  loath  and  unwilling 

awhile,  but  in  the  end  accepts  his  love.  [Exeunt. 

Oph.  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Marry,  this  is  miching  mallecho*  ;   it 
mischief. 


Oph.  Belike,  this  show  imports  the  argument  of  thi 

play. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Ham.  We  shall  know  by  this  fellow:  the  playerb 
cannot  keep  counsel;  they  '11  tell  all. 

Oph.  Will  he  tell  us  what  this  show  meant  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  or  any  show  that  you  will  show  him :  be 
not  you  ashamed  to  show,  he  '11  not  shame  to  tell 
you  what  it  means. 

Oph.  You  are  naught,  you  are  naught.  I'll  mprV 
the  play. 

Pro.  "  For  us,  and  for  our  tragedy, 

Here  stooping  to  your  clemency, 
We  beg  your  hearing  patiently." 

Ham.  Is  this  a  prologue,  or  the  poesy  of  a  rinz  ? 

Oph.  'T  is  brief,  my  lord. 

Ham.  As  woman's  love. 

Enter  the  Player  King  and  Player  Queen. 

P.  King.   Full  thii-ty  times  has  Phcebus'  car  gone 
round 
Neptune's  salt  wash,  and  Tellus'  orbed  ground ; 
And  thirty  dozen  moons,  with  borrow'd  sheen. 
About  the  world  have  times  twelve  thirties  been  ; 
Since  love  our  hearts,  and  Hymen  did  our  hands. 
Unite  commutual  in  most  sacred  bands. 

P.  Queen.  So  many  journeys  may  the  sun  and  moon 
Make  us  again  count  o'er,  ere  love  be  done. 
But,  woe  is  me  !  you  are  so  sick  of  late. 
So  far  from  cheer,  and  from  your  former  state, 
That  I  distrust  you.     Yet,  thougii  I  distrust, 
Discomfort  you,  my  lord,  it  nothing  must; 
For  women's  fear  and  love  hold  quantity,* 
In  neither  aught,  or*  in  extremity. 
Now,  what  my  love  is  proof  hath  made  you  know, 
And  as  my  love  is  siz'd,  my  fear  is  so. 
Where  love  is  great,  the  littlest  doubts  are  fear ; 
Where  little  fears  grow  great,  great  love  grows  there 

P.  King.  'Faith,  I  must  leave  thee,  love,  and  shortly 
too; 
My  operant  powers  their^  functions  leave  to  do  : 
And  thou  shalt  live  in  this  fair  world  behind, 
Honour'd,  belov'd ;  and,  haply,  one  as  kind 
For  husband  shalt  thou — 

P.  Queen.  0,  confound  the  rest ! 

Such  love  must  needs  be  treason  in  my  breast : 
In  second  husband  let  me  be  accurst : 
None  wed  the  second,  but  who  kill'd  the  first. 

Ham.   [A.side.]  Wormwood,  wormwood. 

P.  Queen.  The  instances,  that  second  marriage  move 
Are  base  respects  of  thrift,  but  none  of  love : 
I  A  second  time  I  kill  my  hu.sband  dead. 
j  When  second  husband  kisses  me  in  bed. 
I      P.  King.  I  do  believe  you  think  what  now  you  8i><*.ak, 
j  But  what  we  do  determine  oft  we  break. 
Purpose  is  but  the  slave  to  memory, 
Of  violent  birth,  but  poor  validity; 
Which  now,  like  fruit  tinripe,  sticks  on  the  tree, 
But  fall,  unshaken,  when  they  mellow  be. 
Most  necessary  't  is,  that  we  forget 
To  pay  ourselves  what  to  ourselves  is  debt : 
What  to  ourselves  in  passion  we  propose. 
The  passion  ending,  doth  the  purpose  lose. 
The  violence  of  either  grief  or  joy 
Their  own  enactors*  with  themselves  destroy. 
Where  joy  most  revels,  grief  doth  most  lament , 
Grief  joys,  joy  grieves,  on  slender  accident. 
This  world  is  not  for  aye ;  nor  't  is  not  strange, 


>  good  :  in  folio.  ^  Entertainments  performed  by  clowns.  >  The  hobby-horse  played  an  iinportant  part  in  the  J^ay  f  ames.  *  pM«»e 
'ateality.  i  The  quarto.  1604,  has  the  line  :  "  For  women  fear  too  much,  even  as  they  love,"  preceding  this.  »  Either  none  in  neitli-. 
Kttght:  in  quarto   lfi<>4        'my:  in  folio,      s  enactures ;  in  quarton 


[i^^b 


756 


HAMLET,  PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


ACT   ni. 


Tha>-  even  our  loveB  should  with  our  fortunes  change ; 

For  't  is  a  question  left  us  yet  to  prove, 

Aliether  love  lead  fortune,  or  else  fortune  love. 

The  great  man  down,  you  mark  his  favourite  flies; 

The  jxKir  advane'd  makes  friends  of  enemies  : 

\nd  hitherto  doth  love  on  fortune  tend, 

For  who  not  needs  sliall  never  lack  a  Iriend ; 

And  who  in  want  a  hollow  friend  doth  try, 

Oirectly  .seasons  him  his  enemy. 

But.  orderly  1o  end  where  I  begim, 

Our  wills  and  fates  do  so  contrary  riui, 

That  our  devices  still  are  overthrown  ; 

Our  thoughts  are  ours,  their  ends  none  of  our  own : 

So  think  thou  wilt  no  second  husband  wed, 

But  die  thy  thoughts,  when  thy  first  lord  is  dead. 

P.  Qtieen.  Nor  earth  to  me  give'  food,  nor  heaven 
light ! 
^i>ort  and  repose  lock  from  me,  day  and  night ! 
To  desperation  turn  my  trust  and  hope  ! 
.\n  anchor's'  cheer  in  prison  be  my  scope  ! 
Kach  ojiposite,  that  blanks  the  face  of  joy. 
Meet  what  I  would  have  well,  and  it  destroy  ! 
Roth  here,  and  hence,  pursue  me  lasting  strife, 
If.  once  a  widow,  ever  I  be  wife  ! 

Ilnvi.  If  she  should  break  her  vow, — 

P.  King.  "T  is  deeply  sworn.    Sweet,  leave  me  here 
a  while  : 
My  spirits  grow  dull,  and  fain  I  would  beguile 
The  tedious  day  with  sleep.  [Sleeps. 

P.  Qiuen.  Sleep  rock  thy  brain  ; 

And  never  come  mischance  between  us  twain  !     [Exit. 

Ham.  Madam,  how  like  you  this  play? 

Qiuen.  The  lady  doth  protest*  too  much,  methinks. 

Ham.  0  !  but  she  '11  keep  her  word. 

King.  Have  you  heard  the  argument  ?  Is  there  no 
otfence  in  't  ? 

Ham.  No,  no;  they  do  but  jest,  poison  in  jest:  no 
I'ffencc  i"  the  world. 

King.  What  do  you  call  the  play  ? 

Ham.  The  mouse-trap.  Marry,  how?  Tropically. 
This  play  is  the  image  of  a  murder  done  in  Vienna  : 
(ionzago  is  the  duke's  name :  his  wife,  Baptista.  You 
*hall  see  anon :  't  is  a  knavish  piece  of  work  ;  but  what 
of  that  ?  your  majesty,  and  we  that  have  free  souls,  it 
•ouches  us  not :  let  the  galled  jade  wince,  our  withers 
are  un wrung. 

Enter  Lucianus. 
ThiB  18  one  Lucianus,  nephew  to  the  king. 

(>ph    You  are  a-s  good  as  a  chorus*,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  could  interpret  between  you  and  your  love, 
■f  I  could  see  the  puppets  dallying. 

Oph.  Yoa  are  keen,  my  lord,  you  are  keen. 

Warn.  It  would  cost  you  a  groaning  to  take  off  my 
edge. 

()ph.  Still  better,  and  worse. 

Ham.  So  you  must  take*  your  husbands. — Begin, 
murderer:  leave  thy  damnable  faces,  and  begin, 
'.'ome  : — The  croaking  raven  doth  bellow  for  revenge. 

Ln:.  Thoughts  black,  hands  apt,  drugs  fit,  and  time 
airreeing ; 
"  "onfederate  scanon,  else  no  creature  seeing  ; 
Thou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected, 
'A'ith  Hccates  ban  thrice  bla.'Jted,  thrice  infected, 
Thy  natural  magic  and  dire  property, 
>n  wholesome  life  usurp  immediately. 

[Pours  the  Poison  into  the  Sleeper^s  Ears. 

Hnm.  He  poisons  him  i'  the  garden  for  his  estate. 


His  name  's  Gonzago :  the  stor)'  is  extant,  and  -wvTitten 
in  very*  choice  Italian.  You  shall  see  anon,  how  the 
murderer  gets  the  love  of  Gonzago's  wife. 

Oph.  The  king  ri.^es. 

Ham.  What !   frighted  ^^^th  false  fire? 

Queen.  How  fares  my  lord? 

Pol.  Give  o'er  the  play. 

King.  Give  me  some  lijiht ! — away  ! 

All.  Lights,  light.-,  lights  ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  H.^mlet  and  Horatio 

Ham.  Why.  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 
The  hart  ungalled  play  : 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep: 
Thus  runs  the  world  away. — 
Would  not  this,  sir.  and  a  fore.st  of  feathers,  (if  the  rest 
of  my  fortunes  turn  Turk  with  me)  with  two  Provin- 
cial roses  on  my  raised'  shoes,  get  me  a  fellowship  in 
a  cry"  of  players,  sir  ? 

Hor.  Half  a  share. ' 

Ham.  A  whole  one.  I. 

For  thou  dost  know,  0  Damon  dear  ! 

This  realm  dismantled  was 
Of  Jove  himself:  and  now  reigns  here 
A  very,  very — peacock. 

Hor.  You  might  have  rhymed. 

Ham.  O  good  Horatio  !  I  "11  take  the  ghost's  word 
for  a  thousand  pound.     Didst  perceive? 

Hor.  Very  well,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Upon  the  talk  of  the  poisoning, — 

Hor.  I  did  very  well  note  him. 

Ham.  Ah,  ha  ! — Come  !  some  music  !  come ;  the 
recorders  ! 

For  if  the  king  like  not  the  comedy, 
Why,  then,  belike, — he  likes  it  not,  pe»-dy. — 
Enter  Rosexcrantz  and  Gcildenstcrn. 
Come ;  some  music  ! 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  vouchsafe  me  a  word  -v^^th  yon. 

Ham.  Sir,  a  whole  history. 

Guil.  The  king,  sir, — 

Ham.  Ay,  sir,  what  of  him? 

Grdl.  Is  in  his  retirement  marvellous  distempered. 

Ham.  With  drink,  sir  ? 

Guil.  No,  my  lord. '"with  choler. 

Ham.  Your  wisdom  should  show  itself  more  richer, 
to  signify  this  to  his  doctor ;  for,  for  me  to  put  hini  to 
his  purgation  would,  perhaps,  plunge  him  into"  more 
choler. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  put  your  discourse  into  some 
frame,  and  start  not  so  wildly  Irom  the  affair. 

Ham.  I  am  tame,  sir:  pronounce. 

Chiil.  The  queen  your  mother,  in  most  great  afflic- 
tion of  spirit,  hath  sent  me  to  you. 

Ham.  You  are  welcome. 

Guil.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  this  courtesy  is  not  of  the 
risht  breed.  If  it  shall  please  you  to  make  mc  a 
wholesome  answer,  I  will  do  your  mother's  command- 
ment :  if  not,  your  pardon  and  my  return  shall  be  the 
end  of  my  business. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  cannot. 

Guil.  What,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Make  you  a  whole.«ome  an.swer ;  my  wit  "s 
diseased :  but,  sir,  such  answer  as  I  can  make,  yi.u 
shall  command;  or,  rather,  a.s  you  say,  my  moiher' 
therefore  no  more,  but  to  the  matter.  My  mother, 
you  say, — 

Ros.  Then,  thus  she  says.  Your  behaviour  ba.< 
struck  her  into  amazement  and  admiration. 


'  tc  cire  me  :  in  fol 
'  niUt&ke  :  in  later  qui 


*  Anrkoritt't :  thii  and   the  preTious  line,  arc  not  in    folio 
and  folio.      •  Not  in  folio.      '  razed  :  in  f.  e.       *  Company 
folio  inneru  ;  rather.      "  far  more  :  in  folio. 


'  protettK  :  in   fol 

'  The  stock  company  were  sbareli' 


♦  a  good  chonis  :  in  fj'l" 
were  sbareliolden  .d  th« 


HAMLET,   PRIKCE  OF  DENMARK. 


•57 


Ham.  O  -wonderful  son,  that  can  so  astonish  a 
mother  ! — But  is  there  no  sequel  at  the  heels  of  this 
mother's  admiration  ?  impart.' 

Ros.  She  desires  to  speak  with  you  in  her  closet,  ere 
you  go  to  bed. 

Ham.  We  shall  obey,  were  she  ten  times  our  mother. 
Have  you  any  farther  trade  with  us  ? 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  once  did  love  me. 

Ham.  And  do  still,  by  these  pickers  and  stealers. 

Ros  Good  my  lord,  what  is  your  cause  of  distem- 
per ?  you  do.  surely'',  but  bar  the  door  upon  your  own 
liberty,  if  you  deny  your  griefs  to  your  friend. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  lack  advancement. 

Ros.  How  can  that  be,  when  you  haA^e  the  voice  of 
the  king  himsell  for  your  succession  in  Denmark  ? 

Hain.  Ay,  sir,  but  "  while  the  grass  grows,"' — the 
ijroverb  is  something  musty. 

Etiter  one  with  a  Recorder*. 
0!  the  recorder: — let  me  see  one. — To  withdraw  with 
you : — why  do  you  go  about  to  recover  the  wind  of 
me,  as  if  you  would  drive  me  into  a  toil  ? 

Guil.  0,  my  lord  !  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my  love 
is  too  unmannerly. 

Ham.  I  do  not  well  understand  that.  Will  you  play 
upon  this  pipe  ? 

Qinl.  My  lord,  1  cannot. 

Ham.  I  pray  you. 

Ghtil.  Believe  me.  I  cannot. 

Ham.  I  do  beseech  you. 

Guil.  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Ham.  It  is  as  easy  as  lying  :  govern  these  ventages 
with  your  finger  and  thumb,  give  it  breath  vnth  your 
mouth,  and  it  will  discourse  most  eloquent'  music. 
Look  you.  these  are  the  stops. 

Gidl.  But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any  utterance 
of  harmony:  I  have  not  the  skill. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a  thing 
you  make  of  me.  You  would  play  upon  me ;  you 
would  seem  to  know  my  stops ;  you  would  pluck  out 
the  heart  of  my  mystery;  you  would  sound  me  from 
my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  my  compass  ;  and  there  is 
much  music,  excellent  voice,  in  this  little  organ,  yet 
cannot  you  make  it  speak".  'Sblood  !  do  you  think  I 
am  easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe?  Call  me  what 
instrument  you  will,  though  you  can  fret  me,  you  can- 
not play  upon  me. — 

Enter  Polonius. 
God  bless  you,  sir  ! 

Pol.  My  lord,  the  queen  would  speak  with  you,  and 
piesently. 

Ham.  Do  you  see  yonder  cloud,  that 's  almost  in 
Kliape  of  a  camel? 

Pol.  By  the  mass,  and  't  is  like  a  camel,  indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks,  it  is  like  a  weasel. 

Pol.  It  is  backed  like  a  weasel. 

Ham.  Or,  like  a  whale? 

Pol.  Very  like  a  whale. 

Ham.  Then,  will  I  come  to  my  mother  by  and  by. — 
They  fool  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent. — I  will  come  by 
and  by. 

Pol.  1  will  say  so.  [Exit  Polonius. 

Ham  By  and  by  is  easily  said. — Leave  me,  friends. 
[Exeunt  Ros.,  Guil.,  Hor.,  fyc. 
'T  is  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night. 
When  churchyards  yawn,  and  hell  itself  breathes*  out 
Contagion  to  this  world :  now  could  I  drink  hot  blood. 
And  do  such  bitter  business  as  the'  day 


I  Would  quake  to  look  on.     Soft !   now  to  my  mother.  - 
0,  heart  !  lose  not  thy  nature;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom  : 
Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural. 
I  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none : 
My  tongue  and  soul  in  this  be  hypocrites : 
How  in  my  words  soever  she  be  shent," 
To  give  them  seals  never,  my  soul,  consent  !        [  Ent 

SCENE  HI.— A  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  King.^  Rosencrantz.  and  Guildenstern. 

King.  I  like  him  not;  nor  stands  it  safe  with  us 
To  let  his  madness  range.     Therefore,  prepare  you  ; 
I  your  commission  will  forthwith  despatch, 
And  he  to  England  shall  along  with  you. 
The  terms  of  our  estate  may  not  endure 
Hazard  so  dangerous",  as  doth  hourly  grow 
Out  of  his  lunacies". 

Guil.  We  will  ourselves  pro\nde 

Most  holy  and  religious  fear  it  is. 
To  keep  those  very  many  bodies  safe, 
That  live,  and  feed,  upon  your  majesty. 

Ros.  The  single  and  peculiar  life  is  bound. 
With  all  the  strength  and  armour  of  the  mind, 
To  keep  itself  from  'noyance  ;  but  much  more 
That  spirit,  upon  whose  weaP'  depend  and  rest 
The  lives  of  many.     The  cease  of  majesty 
Dies  not  alone  ;  but  like  a  gulf  doth  draw 
What 's  near  it  with  it :  it  is  a  massy  wheel, 
Fix'd  on  the  summit  of  the  highest  mount. 
To  whose  huge  spokes  ten  thousand  lesser  things 
Are  mortis'd  and  adjoin'd  ;  which,  when  it  falls, 
Each  small  annexment.  petty  consequence. 
Attends  the  boisterous  ruin.     Never  alone 
Did  the  king  sigh,  but  with  a  general  groan. 

King.  Arm  you,  I  pray  you.  to  this  speedy  voyage. . 
For  we  will  fetters  put  upon  this  fear, 
Which  now  goes  too  free-footed. 

Ros.  and  Guil.  We  will  ha.'^te  u,s. 

[Exeunt  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenster.s 
Enter  Polonius. 

Pol.  My  lord,  he  's  going  to  his  mother's  closet. 
Behind  the  arras  1  '11  convey  myself. 
To  hear  the  process :  I  '11  warrant,  she  '11  tax  him  home 
And,  as  you  said,  and  wisely  was  it  said. 
'T  is  meet  that  some  more  audience  than  a  mother, 
Since  nature  makes  them  partial,  should  o'erhear 
The  speech,  of  vantage.     Fare  you  well,  my  liege  : 
I  '11  call  upon  you  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
And  tell  you  what  I  know. 

King.  Thanks,  dear  my  lord. 

[Exit  PoLONUh. 

0  !  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven  ; 
It  hath  the  primal  eldest  curse  upon  't, 

A  brother's  murder  ! — Pray  can  I  not. 
Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  -will : 
My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent ; 
And,  like  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 

1  stand  in  pause  where  I  shall  first  begin, 
And  both  neglect.     What  if  this  cursed  hand 
Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  bloo<l. 
Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens. 

To  wash  it  white  as  snow?     Whereto  serve,-^  mercy, 

But  to  confront  the  visage  of  otTence? 

And  what 's  in  prayer,  but  this  t-«-o-fold  force. — 

To  be  forestalled,  ere  we  come  to  fail. 

Or  pardon'd,  being  do^-n?     Then,  I  '11  look  up : 


'  Not  in  folio,  s  freely  :  in  folio  ;  " 
and  Cassindra,"].'5*8.  *  Flageolet.  ' 
fluartos  9  such  business  as  the  bitter  ; 
•*  »»<iiit     in  folio. 


but,"  is  omitted, 
delicate  :  ii 
in  quartos. 


Dye 


J  i;  -Whylst  grass  doth  growe.  oft  sterves  the  seely  steei."— Whetstone  $'•  Vntae* 
to,  IfiOS  ;  Picellent  :  in  folio.  «  Not  in  folio.  '  like  :  in  folis-  •  bre«ki^  in 
reads  :  better  day.     ^"Rebuked.     "  near  ns  :  io  quartoe.     "brows: 


758 


UAMLET,  PKIiS^CE  0¥  DENMAKK. 


ACJT   IIL 


My  fault  is  paat.     Bui ,  0  !  what  form  of  prayer 
Can  serve  my  turn?     Forgive  me  my  foul  murder! — 
Tliut  camiot  be;  since  I  am  still  possess'd 
Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  ihe  iiiurdor, 
My  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  aaid  my  queen. 
May  one  be  pardon'd,  and  retain  th"  offence  ? 
In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world, 
Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice, 
And  olt  't  IS  seen,  the  wicked  purse'  itself 
Buys  out  the  law  :  but  "t  is  not  so  above  : 
There  is  no  shutfling,  there  the  action  lies 
In  his  true  nature ;  and  we  ourselves  compell'd, 
Even  to  the  teeth  and  forehead  of  our  faults. 
To  give  in  evidence.     What  then  ?  what  rests  ? 
Try  what  repentance  can :  what  can  it  not  ? 
Vet  what  can  it.  when  one  can  not  repent? 
I")  wretched  state  !  0  bosom,  black  as  death  ! 
0  limed  soul,  that  struggling  to  be  free, 
.Art  more  engaged  !     Help,  angels  !  make  assay: 
B<r.v,  stubborn  knees  ;  and,  heart,  with  strings  of  steel, 
Re  .'^oft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe. 
\ll  may  be  well.  [Kneels.* 

Enter  H.^mlet'  behind,  his  Sword  drawn. 

Ham.  Now  might  I  do  it,  pat,*  now  he  is  praying; 
And  now  I  "11  do  't : — and  so  he  goes  to  heaven. 
And  f.0  am  1  reveng'd  ?     That  would  be  scannd  : 
.\  villain  kills  my  father;  and  for  that, 
I.  his  sole'  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 

Wliy.  this  is  hire  and  salar}'.*  not  revenge. 
He  took  my  father  grossly,  full  of  bread  ; 
With  all  his  crimes  broad  blo\vu.  as  flusn'  as  May, 
And  how  his  audit  stands,  who  knows,  save  heaven? 
But.  in  our  circumstance  and  course  of  thought, 
T  IS  heavy  with  him:  and  am  I  then  reveng'd, 
To  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  soul, 
Wiieu  he  is  fit  and  season'd  for  his  passage  ' 
\o. 

L'j).  sword  ;  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent.* 
Wlien  he  is  drunk,  asleep,  or  in  his  rage ; 
Or  in  th'  incestuous  pleasures  of  his  bed ; 
.\t  L'aming.  swearing;  or  about  some  act, 
That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in  't ; 
Then  trip  him.  that  his  heels  may  kick  at  heaven, 
.\nd  that  his  .soul  may  be  as  damn'd,  and  black, 
.\h  hell,  whereto  it  jioes.     My  mother  stays: 
This  physic  but  prolongs  thy  sickly  days.  [Exit. 

King.  [Rising.]  My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  re- 
main below; 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go.         [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  Queen  and  Polonius. 
Pol.  He  will  come  straight.     Look,  you  lay  home  to 
him  : 
Tell  him.  his  pranks  have  been  too  broad  to  bear  with, 
An<i  that  your  grace  hath  scrcen'd  and  stood  between 
Much  heat  and  him.     I  '11  sconce'  me  even  here. 
^  ray  you.  be  round  with  him. 

Ham.  [WUhin.]   Mother,  mother,  mother  !" 
Ui^cn.  I'll  warrant  you; 

F'-ar  me  nofc : —withdraw,  I  hear  him  coming. 

[Exit  Pol  ONI  us  behitid  the  Arras. 
Enter  Ha.mlet. 
Hirm.  Now,  mother:  what  "s  the  matter? 
Quern.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  much  offended. 
Ham.   Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 


Queen.  Come,  come  :  you  answer  with  an  idle  tongue 

Ham.  Go.  go ;  you  question  with  a  wicked"  tongue 

Queen.  Why,  how  now,  Hamlet  ! 

Ham.  What 's  the  matter  now  T 

Queen.  Have  you  forgot  me  ? 

Ham.  No,  by  the  rood,  not  so 

You  are  the  queen,  your  husband's  brothers  wife  ; 
And, — would  it"  were  not  so  ! — you  are  my  mother. 

Queen.  Nay  then,  I  '11  send  those  to  you  that  can  speak 

Ham.  Come,  come,  and  sit  you  down;  you  shall  not 
You  go  not,  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass  [budge , 

Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 

Queen.  What  wilt  thou  do?  thou  wilt  not  murder  me. 
Help.  help,  ho  ! 

Pol.  [Behind.]  What,  ho  !  help  !  help  !  help  ! 

Ham.  How  now  !  a  rat  ?  [Draws.]   Dead  for  a  ducat, 
dead.    [H.^mlet  makes  a  pass  through  tlie  Arras. 

Pol.  [Behind.]  0!   I  am  slain.  [Falls  and  dies. 

Queen.  0  me  !  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Ham.   [Coming  forward.y^  Nay,  I  know  not: 

Is  it  the  king  ? 

[Lifts  the  Arras,  and  draws  forth  Polomcs. 

Queen.  0.  what  a  rash  and  bloody  deed  is  this  ! 

Ham.  A  bloody  deed ;  almost  as  bad.  good  mother, 
As  kill  a  king,  and  marry  with  his  brother. 

Queen.  As  kill  a  king  ! 

Ham.  Ay,  lady,  'twas  my  word. — 

Thou  wretched,  rash,  intruding  fool,  farewell. 

[Seeing  the  body  of  Polonius 
1  took  thee  for  thy  better  ;  take  thy  fortune  : 
Thou  find'st  to  be  too  busy  is  some  danger. — 
Leave  wringing  of  your  hands.     Peace  !  sit  you  down, 
And  let  me  wring  your  heart  :  for  so  I  shall, 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff: 
If  damned  custom  have  not  braz'd  it  so, 
That  it  is'*  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 

Queen.  What  have  I  done,  that  thou  dar'st  wag  thy 
tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me? 

Ham.  Such  an  act, 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty ; 
Calls  virtue,  hypocrite ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love. 
And  .«ets'*  a  blister  there  ;  makes  marriage  vows  " 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths  :  0  I  such  a  deed, 
As  from  the  body-  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  .soul ;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words :  Heaven's  face  doth  glow, 
Yea."  this  solidity  and  compound  ma,ss, 
With  tristful"  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queen.  Ah  me  !  what  act. 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index  ?'* 

Ham.  Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this; 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brutheia. 
See.  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow  : 
Hyperion's  curls:  the  front  of  Jove  hiin.<elf; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command; 
A  station'*  like  the  herald  Mercury, 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 
A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed. 
Where  every  god  did  seem  to  .set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  as.^urance  of  a  man. 
This  was  your  husband  :  look  you  now,  what  follows 
Here  is  your  husband  :  like  a  mildewd  car, 
Blasting  his  wholesome  brother".     Have  you  eyes? 
Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed. 


'  prize  :  in  f.  e.     »  Rftiret  and  kntfU:  in  f.  e. 

lilly  :  in  qmrtoi.     ■»  frejih  :  in  folio.      »  Gratp. 
"  Not  in  f.  e.        I*  h#(  ;  in  qnino.        "»  makes:  ; 
l'a»i//.ii^. /ifn/u/y,        JO  tr^3,v,  .   m  folio. 


•  The  re«t  of  thi»  direction  ii"  not  in  f.  e.  «  but  :  in  quartos.  »  foul  :  in  folio.  •  ba»e  amd 
filence  :  in  f.  e.  '«  Not  in  quartos.  '>  iJIe  :  in  quartos.  "  But— would  yoo  :  m  .olio 
1  folio.       i«  O'er  :  in  quartos.       '■>  heated  :  in  quartos.        '*  Commencement        •»  Ut  o. 


SCENE  rv. 


HAMLET,   PRINCE  OE  DENMARK. 


Joii 


And  tatten*  on  this  moor  ?     Ha  !  have  you  eyes  ? 

Vou  cannot  call  it,  love ;  for,  at  your  age, 

The  hey-day  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it 's  humble, 

A.nd  waits  upon  the  judgment;  and  what  judgment 

Would  stoop'  from  this  to  this  ?  Sense, ^  sure,  you  have, 

Else,  could  you  not  have  motion ;  but,  sure,  that  sense 

[s  apoplex'd ;  for  madness  would  not  err, 

Nor  sense  to  ecstasy  was  ne'er  so  thrall'd, 

But  it  reserv'd  some  quantity  of  choice, 

To  serve  in  such  a  difference.     What  devil  was  't 

That  thus  hath  cozened  you  at  hoodnian-blind  ?* 

Eyes'  without  feeling,  feeling  without  sight, 

Ears  without  hands  or  eyes,  smelling  sans  all, 

Or  but  a  sickly  part  of  one  true  sense 

Could  not  so  mope. 

0  shame  !  where  is  thy  blush?     Rebellious  hell. 

If  thou  canst  mutine'  in  a  matron's  bones, 

To  flaming  youth  let  virtue  be  as  wax, 

And  melt  in  her  own  fire :  proclaim  no  shame, 

When  the  compulsive  ardour  gives  the  charge, 

Since  frost  itself  as  actively  doth  burn. 

And  reason  panders  will. 

Queen.  0  Hamlet !  speak  no  more. 

Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul ;' 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots. 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

Ham.  Nay,  but  to  live 

In  the  rank  sweat  of  an  enseamed  bed  ; 
Stew'd  in  corruption ;  honeying,  and  making  love 
Over  the  nasty  stye  ; — 

Queen.  0,  speak  to  me  no  more  ! 

These  words,  like  daggers  enter  in  mine  ears : 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet. 

Ham.  A  murderer,  and  a  villain  ; 

A  slave,  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 
Of  your  precedent  lord : — a  vice  of  kings  ! 
A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule, 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole. 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket ! 

Queen.  No  more  ! 

loiter  Ghost,  unarmed." 

Ham.  A  king  of  shreds  and  patches. — 
Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings. 
You   heavenly    guards  ! — What  would    you,   gracious 

Qtwen.  Alas  !  he  's  mad.  [figure  ? 

Ham.  Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  laps'd  in  fume'  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
Th'  important  acting  of  your  dread  command? 
0.  say ! 

Ghost.   Do  not  forget.     This  \'isitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But,  look  !  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits  : 
0  !  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul ; 
Conceit  in  weakest  bodies  strongest  works. 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ? 

Queen.     Alas  !  how  is  't  with  you. 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy. 
And  with  th'  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse  ? 
Forth  at  your  eyes  your  spirits  wildly  peep; 
And,  as  the  sleeping  soldiers  in  th'  alarm, 
Yout  bedded  hair,  like  life  in  excrements," 
Starts  up,  and  stands  on  end.     0  gentle  son ! 
Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  thy  distemper 
Sprinkle  cool  patience.     Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Ham.  On  him,   on  him  ! 
glares  ! 


His  form  and  cause  conjoin'd,  preaehing  to  stones, 

Would  make  them  capable. — Do  not  look  upon  me; 

Lest  with  tliis  piteous  action  you  convert 

My  stern  effects  ;  then,  what  I  have  to  do 

Will  want  true  colour ;  tears,  perchance,  for  blood. 

Queeji.  To  whom  do  you  speak  this? 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all,  that  is,  I  see. 

Ham.   Nor  did  you  nothing  hear? 

Queen.  No,  nothing  but  ourselves 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  there  !  look,  how  it  steals  away 
My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  liv'd  ! 
Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  portal  ! 

[Exit  Ghcsi 

Queen.  This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain: 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.  Ecstasy !" 
My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 
And  makes  as  healthful  music.     It  is  not  madness 
That  I  have  utter'd  :  bring  me  to  the  test. 
And  I  the  matter  will  re-word,  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that"  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness  speaks : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place, 
Whilst  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within. 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven; 
Repent  what 's  past :  avoid  what  is  to  come, 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  on  the  weeds. 
To  make  them  ranker."     Forgive  me  this  my  virtup  ; 
For  in  the  fatness  of  these  pursy  times, 
Virtue  itself  of  vice  must  pardon  beg, 
Y^ea,  curb'*  and  woo,  for  leave  to  do  him  good. 

Queen.  0  Hamlet !  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twa 

Ham.  0  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it. 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good  night ;  but  go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed  : 
Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not. 
That"  monster,  custom,  who  all  sense  doth  eat 
Of  habits,  devil,  is  angel  yet  in  this ; 
That  to  the  use  of  actions  fair  and  good 
He  likewise  gives  a  frock,  or  livery, 
That  aptly  is  put  on  :  refrain  to-night ; 
And  that  shall  lend  a  kind  of  easiness 
To  the  next  abstinence :  the"  next  more  easy  ; 
For  use  almost  can  change  the  stamp  of  nature, 
And  master  the  devil,  or  throw  him  out 
With  wondrous  potency.     Once  more,  good  night : 
And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  bless'd. 
I  '11  blessing  beg  of  you. — For  this  same  lord. 

[Poiiitiiig  to  PoioNini! 
I  do  repent :  but  heaven  hath  pleas'd  it  so, 
To  punish  me  with  this,  and  this  with  me. 
That  I  must  be  their  scourge  and  minister. 
I  will  bestow  him.  and  will  answer  well 
The  death  I  gave  him.     So.  again,  good  night. — 
I  must  be  cruel,  only  to  be  kind : 
Thus  bad  begins,  and  wor-^e  remains  behind. — 
One  word  more,  good  lady.*' 

Queen.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Ham.  Not  this,  by  no  means,  that  I  bid  you  do : 
Let  the  bloat  king  tempt  you  again  to  bed  ; 
Pinch  wanton  on  your  cheek  ;  call  you  his  mouse ; 
And  let  him,  for  a  pair  of  reechy  kisses. 
Look  you,  how  pale  he  Or  paddling  in  your  neck  with  his  damn  d  fingers, 
Make  you  to  ravel  all  this  matter  out, 


'  Feed.  =  step  :  in  f.  e.  3  This  sentence  to  the  penod,  is  not  in  folio.  *  Blind.n,an^s  buff.  Jh'^f  "**""  /"  ^er?%tl'  Z  "l  J 
feho.  6  Mutiny  '  my  very  eyes  into  mv  soul :  in  quartos.  »  Not  in  f.  e.  »  t.rae  :  in  f.  e  'O  '^"''Tf^'^.f  LJ"'  .."^^aXm  -^' 
'••  Not.  in  quartos  "  a  :  in  folio  13  rank  :' in  fo)io.  u  Fr.  rourber  :  heni.  i»  n  The  passages  from  •' That  to  put  on,  and  trora  tAo 
to  "  Dotencv,"  are  nrt  it  folio.     "  This  line  i.s  not  in  folio 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


That  1  essentially  am  not  in  madness. 

But  mad  in  craft.     'T  were  good,  you  let  him  know ; 

For  who.  that  's  but  a  queen,  fair,  sober,  wise, 

Would  from  a  ]iaddock-,  from  a  bat.  a  gib', 

Such  dear  cnnoerniiigs  hide  ?  who  would  do  so  ? 

\o,  in  do.<})iie  of  sense  and  secrecy, 

I'npeg  the  ba.>;ket  on  the  house's  top, 

Let  the  birds  fly,  and,  like  the  famous  ape, 

To  try  conclusions  in  the  basket  creep, 

And  break  your  own  neck  do\\'n. 

Qticen.  Be  thou  assurd,  if  words  be  made  of  breath. 
Ami  breath  of  lite.  I  have  no  life  to  breathe 
What  thou  hast  said  to  me. 

Ham.  I  must  to  England  ;  you  know  that. 

Queen.  Alack  ! 

1  had  forgot  :  't  is  so  concluded  on.  [fellows,' — 

Ham.  There 's   letters    seal'd,   and    my  two  school- 


Whom  I  will  trust,  as  I  will  adders  fang'd, — 

They  bear  the  mandate  ;  they  must  sweep  my  waj_ 

And  marshal  me  to  knavery.     Let  it  work ; 

For  '(.is  the  sport,  to  have  the  enginer 

Hoist  with  his  own  petar,  and  it  shall  go  hard, 

But  I  will  delve  one  yard  below  their  mines, 

And  blow  them  at  the  moon.     0  !   "t  is  most  sweei, 

When  in  one  line  two  crafts  directly  meet  — 

This  man  shall  set  me  packing  : 

I  '11  lug  the  guts  into  the  neighbour  room. — 

Mother,  good  night. — Indeed,  this  counsellor 

Is  now  most  still,  most  secret,  and  most  grave, 

Who  was  in  life  a  foolish  prating  knave. — 

Come,  sir,  to  draw  toward  an  end  with  you  — 

Good  night,  mother. 

[Eoceunt  severally;  Hamlet  dragging  in  Poionius 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same. 
Enter  King.  Queen,  Rosencrantz,  anrfGuiLDENSTERN. 

King.  There  's  matter  in  these  sighs  :  these  profound 
heaves 
You  must  translate  ;  't  is  fit  we  understand  them. 
Where  is  your  son  ? 

Queen.  Bestow  this  place  on  us  a  little  while.* — 

[Exeunt  Rosencrantz  a7id  Guildenstern. 
Ah.  my  good  lord,  what  have  I  seen  to-night ! 

King.  What,  Gertrude?     How  does  Hamlet? 

Queen.  Mad  as  the  sea  and  wind,  when  both  contend 
Which  is  the  mightier.     In  his  lawless  fit. 
Behind  the  arras  hearing  somethmg  stir, 
He  whips  his  rapier  out,  and  cries,  "  A  rat !  a  rat  !" 
And  in  his  brainish  apprehension  kills 
The  unseen  good  old  man. 

King.  0  heavy  deed  ! 

It  had  been  so  with  us,  had  we  been  there. 
His  liberty  is  full  of  threats  to  all ; 
To  you  yourself;  to  us,  to  every  one. 
.Aia,s  !  how  shall  this  bloody  deed  be  answer'd  ? 
It  will  be  laid  to  us,  whose  proAndenee 
Should  have  kept  short,  restrain'd,  and  out  of  haunt, 
Tliis  mad  young  man  ;  but  so  much  was  our  love, 
We  would  not  understand  what  most  was  fit, 
But.  like  the  owner  of  a  foul  disease, 
To  keep  it  from  divulging,  let  it  feed 
F.ven  on  the  pith  of  life.     Where  is  he  gone? 

Queen.  To  draw  apart  the  body  he  hath  kill'd  ; 
'^)er  whom  his  very  madness,  like  some  ore 
Anions  a  mineral  of  metals  base. 
Shows  it.'^elf  jiure  :  he  weeps  for  what  is  done. 

A'i))e.  0.  Gertrude  !  cotne  away 
The  sun  no  sooner  shall  the  mountains  touch. 
Rut  we  will  ship  him  hence  :  and  this  vile  deed 
We  must,  with  all  our  majesty  and  skill, 
Both  counrenance  and  excuse. — Ho  !  Guildenstern! 

Enter  Ro-^encrantz  and  GLii.nENSTERN. 
Friends  both,  so  join  you  with  some  farther  aid. 
Hamlet  in  madness  hath  Poionius  slain, 
.\nd  from  his  mother's  closet  hath  he  dracii'd  him  : 
fJo,  seek  him  out :  speak  fair,  and  brinir  the  body 
Into  the  chapel.     I  pray  you,  haste  in  this. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  GciL. 

'  r~i<f.     >  Cat.     '  Tbi«  and  th»  eipht  preceding  linei.  are  not  in  folio, 
rh<S)bald  ;  ths  rert  of  the  passage  to      air,''  ik  not  in  folio.      '  as  an  ap« 


Come,  Gertrude,  we  '11  call  up  our  wisest  friends  ; 

And  let  them  know,  both  what  we  mean  to  do, 

And  what 's  untimely  done  :  so,  haply,  slander,* — 

Wliose  whisper  o'er  the  world's  diameter. 

As  level  as  the  cannon  to  his  blank. 

Transports  his  poison'd  shot, — may  miss  our  name, 

And  hit  the  woundless  air. — 0,  come  away ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  discord,  and  dismay.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— Another  Room  in  the  Same. 

Eiiter  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Safely  stowed. — [Ros.  ^"c.  irithin.  Harnlet  ' 
lord  Hamlet !]  But  soft !  what  noise  ? — Who  calls  on 
Hamlet  ? — 0  !  here  they  come. 

Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

Ros.  What  have  you  done,  my  lord,  with  the  dead 
body  ? 

Ham.  Compounded  it  with  dust,  whereto  't  is  kin. 

Ros.  Tell  us  where  't  is ;  that  we  may  take  it  thence. 
And  bear  it  to  the  chapel. 

Ham.  Do  not  believe  it. 
•    Ros.  Believe  what  ? 

Ham.  That  I  can  keep  your  counsel,  and  not  mine 
own.  Besides,  to  be  demanded  of  a  sponge,  what  repli 
cation  should  be  made  by  the  son  of  a  king  ? 

Ros.  Take  you  me  for  a  sponge,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir  ;  that  soaks  up  the  king's  countenance, 
his  rewards,  his  authorities.  But  such  officers  do  the 
king  best  service  in  the  end  ;  he  keeps  them,  like  an 
ape,*  in  the  corner  of  his  jaw.  first  mouthed,  to  be  last 
swallowed  :  when  he  needs  what  you  have  gleaned,  i*. 
is  but  squeezing  you,  and,  sponge,  you  .shall  be  At/ 
again. 

Ros.  I  understand  you  not,  my  lord. 

Ham^.  I  am  glad  of  it :  a  knavish  speech  sleej^  in  a 
foolish  ear. 

Ros  My  lord,  you  must  tell  us  where  the  body  is, 
and  go  with  us  to  the  king. 

Ham.  The  body  is  with  the  king,  but  the  king  is  not 
■with  the  body      The  king  is  a  thing — 

Guil.  A  thing,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Of  nothing:  bring  me  to  him.  Hide  fox,  ann 
all  after.'  [Exemd 


Thi«  line  is  not  in  folio.      •  These  three  words  w»re  add»3  b| 
ape  doth  nuts  :  in  quarto,  IW).').      '  A  reference  to  the  bov^'  Rame  "' 


SCENE  IV. 


HAMLET,   PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


761 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  King,  attended. 
King.  I  have  sent  to  seek  him,  and  to  find  the  body. 
How  dangerous  is  it,  that  this  man  goes  loose  ! 
^'et  must  not  we  put  the  strong  law  on  him  : 
He  's  lov'd  of  the  distracted  multitude, 
Who  like  not  in  their  judgment,  but  their  eyes; 
And  where  't  is  so,  th'  offender's  scourge  is  weigh'd, 
But  never  the  offence.     To  bear  all  smooth  and  even, 
This  sudden  sending  him  away  must  seem 
Deliberate  pause:  diseases,  desperate  grov^^l, 
By  desperate  appliance  are  reliev'd, 

E)lter  ROSENCRANTZ. 

Or  not  at  all. — How  now  !  what  hath  befallen  ? 

Ros.  Where  the  dead  body  is  bestow'd,  my  lord, 
We  cannot  get  from  him. 

King.  But  where  is  he  ? 

Ros.   Without,  my    lord ;     guarded,  to  know  your 
pleasure. 

King.  Bring  him  before  us. 

Ros,  Ho,  Guildenstern  !  bring  in  my  lord. 
Enter  Hamlet  mid  Guildenstern. 

King.  Now,  Hamlet,  where 's  Polonius? 

Ham.  At  supper. 

King.  At  supper  !     Where  ? 

Ham.  Not  where  he  eats,  but  where  he  is  eaten  ;  a 
certain  convocation  of  palated'  worms  are  e'en  at  him. 
Your  worm  is  your  only  emperor  for  diet :  we  fat  all 
creatures  else  to  fat  us,  and  we  fat  ourselves  for  mag- 
gots. Your  fat  king,  and  your  lean  beggar,  is  but 
variable  service  ;  two  dishes,  but  to  one  table  :  that 's 
the  end. 

King.  Alas,  alas  !' 

Ham.  A  man  may  fish  with  the  worm  that  hath  eat 
of  a  king  ;  and  eat  of  the  fish  that  hath  fed  of  that 
worm. 

King.  What  dost  thou  mean  by  this  ? 

Ham.  Nothing,  but  to  show  you  how  a  king  may  go 
a  progress  through  the  guts  of  a  beggar. 

King.  Where  is  Polonius  ? 

Ham.  In  heaven  :  send  thither  to  see  ;  if  your  mes- 
senger find  him  not  there,  seek  him  i'  the  other  place 
yourself.  But,  indeed,  if  you  find  him  not  within  this 
month,  you  shall  nose  him  as  you  go  up  the  stairs  into 
the  lobby. 

King.  Go  seek  him  there.  [To  some  Attendants. 

Ham.  He  will  stay  till  yon  come.[Exemit  Attendants. 

King.  Hamlet,  this  deed,'  for  thine  especial  safety, — 
Which  we  do  tender,  as  we  dearly  grieve 
For  that  which  thou  hast  done, — must  send  thee  hence 
With  fiery  quickness :  therefore,  prepare  thyself.  • 
The  bark  is  ready,  and  the  wind  at  help, 
Th'  associates  tend,  and  every  thing  is  bent 
For  England. 

Ham.  For  England  ? 

King.  Ay,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Good. 

King    So  is  it,  if  thou  knew'st  our  purposes. 

Ham.  I  see  a  cherub  that  sees  them*. — But,  come ; 
for  England  ! — Farewell,  dear  mother. 

King.  Thy  loving  father,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  My  mother  :  father  and  mother  is  man  and 
wife,  man  and  wife  is  one  flesh ;  and  so,  my  mother. 
Come,  for  England  !  [Exit. 

King.  Follow  him  at  foot ;  tempt  him  with  speed 
aboard : 
Delay  it  not,  I  '11  have  him  hence  to-night. 

'  politK  :  in  f.  e.      2  This  and  the  next  speech,  are  not  in  folio.      3  deed  of  thine  :  in  folio.     *  him  :  in  folio. 
«  Craves  :  in  quartos      '  softly  :  in  quartos,     s  i  he  rest  of  the  scene  is  not  in  the  folio,  or  quarto,  1603. 


Away,  for  every  thing  is  seal'd  and  done, 

That  else  leans  on  th'  affair  :  pray  you,  make  haste. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  Glil 
And,  England,  if  my  love  thou  hold'st  at  aught, 
(As  my  great  power  thereof  may  give  thee  sense, 
Since  yet  thy  cicatrice  looks  raw  and  red 
After  the  Danish  sword,  and  thy  free  awe 
Pay:?  homage  to  us)  thou  may'st  not  coldly  see 
Our  sovereign  process,  which  imports  at  full. 
By  letters  conjuring'  to  that  effect. 
The  present  death  of  Hamlet.     Do  it,  England; 

i  For  like  the  hectic  in  my  blood  he  rages, 
And  thou  mu.st  cure  me.     Till  I  know  't  is  done, 

I  Howe'er  my  hopes,  my  joys  were  ne'er  begun.      [Eiil 

SCENE  IV.— A  Plain  in  Denmark. 
I  Enter  Fortinbras,  and  Forces,  marching. 

For.  Go,  captain  ;  from  me  greet  the  Danish  king  • 
Tell  him,  that  by  his  license  Fortinbras 
Claims'  the  conveyance  of  a  promis'd  march 
Over  his  kingdom.     You  know  the  rendezvous. 
If  that  his  majesty  would  aught  -^Tth  us, 
j  We  shall  express  our  duty  in  his  eye ; 
j  And  let  him  know  so. 
I      Cap.  I  will  do  't,  ray  lord. 

For.  Go  safely'  on. 

[Exeunt  Fortinbras  and  Forces 

Enter"  Hamt.et,  Rosencrantz,  Guildenstern,  6c. 

Ham.  Good  sir,  whose  powers  are  these  ? 

Cap.  They  are  of  Norway,  sir. 

Ham.  How  purpos'd,  sir, 

•  I  pray  you  ? 

j      Cap.  Against  some  part  of  Poland. 

I      Ham.  Who 

Commands  them,  sir? 

Cap.  The  nephew  to  old  Norway,  Fortinbras. 

Ham.  Goes  it  against  the  main  of  Poland,  sir, 
Or  for  some  frontier  ? 

Cap.  Truly  to  speak,  and  with  no  addition, 
We  go  to  gain  a  little  patch  of  ground. 
That  hath  in  it  no  profit  b)tt  the  name. 
To  pay  five  ducats,  five,  I  would  not  farm  it; 
Nor  will  it  yield  to  Norway,  or  the  Pole, 
A  ranker  rate,  should  it  be  sold  in  fee. 

Ham.  Why,  then  the  Polack  never  will  defend  it. 
I      Cap.  Yes,  't  is  already  garri-son'd. 
}      Ham.    Two  thousand   souls,   and   twenty  tliousand 
i  ducats, 

Will  not  debate  the  question  of  this  straw: 
This  is  th'  imposthume  of  much  wealth  and  peace, 
That  inward  breaks,  and  shows  no  cause  without 
Why  the  man  dies. — I  humbly  thank  you.  sir. 

Cap.  God  be  wi'  you.  sir.  [E.tit  Captain. 

Ros.  Will  't  please  you  go.  my  lord  .' 

Ham.   I'll  be  with  you  straight.     Go  a  little  before. 
[Exeunt  Rgsencra.ntz  and  Gi'iLnE.ssrER.N. 
How  all  occasions  do  inform  aaaiiist  me, 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge  !     What  is  a  man. 
If  his  chief  good,  and  market  of  his  time. 
Be  but  to  sleep,  and  feed  ?  a  bea.>;t,  no  more. 
Sure,  he,  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse, 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason. 
To  fust  in  us  nnus'd.     Now,  whetlier  it  be 
Bestial  oblivion,  or  some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  th'  event, — 
A  thought,  which,  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part  wnsdom. 
And  ever  three  parts  coward, — I  do  not  know 


rb2 


HAMLET,  PRDsCE   OF  DENMARK. 


ACT    IV. 


[Exit. 


Whv  vet  T  live  to  say,    'This  thin?  "s  to  do  ;  • 

Sith'  I'liave  cause,  aud  will,  ami  sirenirth,  and  means, 

To  do   t.     Examples,  gross  as  earth,  exhort  me  : 

Witness  this  army,  of  such  mass  and  charge, 

l.'>d  by  a  delicate  and  tender  jirince, 

Whose  spirit,  with  divine  ainbiiion  puff'd, 

Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event; 

Kxposing  what  is  mortal,  and  unsure. 

To  all  that  fortune,  death,  and  danger,  dare, 

Kven  for  an  c-g-shell.     Rightly  to  be  great, 

Is  not  to  stir  without  great  arguinent, 

But  greatly  to  tiud  quarrel  in  a  straw, 

When  honour's  at  the  stake.     How  stand  I,  then, 

That  have  a  father  kilid,  a  mother  staiu'd, 

Kxciteraents  of  my  reason  and  my  blood. 

And  let  all  sleep?  while,  to  my  shame,  I  see 

The  imminent  death  of  twenty  thousand  men, 

That  for  a  fanta.sy.  and  trick  of  fame, 

Go  to  their  graves  like  beds :  tight  for  a  plot 

Whereon  the  numbers  camiot  try  the  cause  ; 

Which  is  not  tomb  enough,  and  continent. 

To  hide  the  slain? — 0  !  from  this  time  forth, 

My  thoughts  be  bloody,  or  be  nothing  worth ! 

SCENE  v.— Elsinore.     A  Room  in  the  Cai^tle. 

Enter  Queen,  Hor.\tio,  and  a  GetUleman.^ 
Queen.  I  will  not  speak  with  her. 
Gent.  She  is  importunate ;  indeed,  distract : 
Her  mood  will  needs  be  pitied. 

Qtieen.  What  would  she  have  .- 

Gent.  She  sjieaks  much  of  her  father  :  says,  she  hears, 

There  "s  tricks  i"  the  world  ;  and  hems,  and  beats  her 

heart ; 
.Spurns  enviously  at  straws ;  speaks  things  in  doubt, 
Tliat  carry  but  half  sense.     Her  speech  is  nothing, 
Vot  the  unshaped  use  of  it  doth  move 
The  hearers  to  collection ;  they  aim'  at  it, 
Aud  botch  the  words  up  fit  to  their  own  thoughts ; 
Whicl).  as  her  winks,  and  nods,  and  gestures  yield  them, 
indeed  would  make  one  think,  there  might  be  thought, 
Though  nothing  sure,  yet  much  unhappily. 

Hor.*  'T  were  good  she  were  spoken  with,  for  she 
may  strew 
Dangerous  conjectures  in  ill-breeding  minds. 

Qtieen.  Let  her  come  in. —  [Exit  Horatio. 

To  my  sick  soul.  a.s  sins  true  nature  is. 
"•'.ach  toy  seems  prologue  to  some  great  amiss : 
Sri  full  of  artless  jealousy  is  guilt. 
It  spills  itself  in  fearing  to  be  spilt. 

Re-enter  Horatio,  with  Ophelia,  distracted.* 
Oph.  Wliere  is  the  beauteous  majesty  of  Denmark  ? 
Queen.  How  now,  Ophelia? 

Oph.     How  .should  I  your  true  love  know     [Singing. 
Frnm  another  one  ? 
By  hi.s  cockle  hat  and  ataff, 
Arui  his  sandal  shoon. 
Qtteen.  Alaa,  sweet  lady  !  what  imports  this  song? 
Oph.  Say  you?  nay.  pray  you.  mark. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady^  [Ringing, 

He  is  deatl  and  gone  ; 
At  his  head  a  green  grass  turf* 
At  his  heels  a  stone. 


0.  ho!' 
Qticcn. 
Oph. 


Nay,  but  Ophelia,- 


Pray  you,  mark 


White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow,  [Singing 
Enter  King. 
Queen.  Alas  !  look  here,  my  lord. 
Oph.     Ijarded  with  sweet  floivers  : 

Which  bewept  to  the  grave''  did  go, 
With  true-love  showers. 
King.  How  do  you,  pretty  lady? 
Oph.  Well.  God  "ild*  you  !    They  say.  the  owl  was  a 
bakers  daughter.'     Lord  !  we  know  what  we  are,  but 
know  not  what  we  may  be.     God  be  at  your  table  ! 
King.  Conceit  upon  her  father. 
Oph.  Pray  you.  let  's  have  no  words  of  this,  but 
when  they  ask  you  what  it  means,  say  you  this  • 
To-morrow  is  Saint  Valentine's  day, 

All  in  the  morning  betime, 
And  I  a  7naid  at  your  wiiidow, 

To  be  your  Valentine: 
Then,  vp  he  rose,  and  don^d  his  clothes, 

And  dvpp'd  the  chamber  door  ; 
Let  ill  the  maid,  that  out  a  maid 
Never  departed  more. 
King.  Pretty  Ophelia ! 

Oph.  Indeed,  la  !  without  an  oath,  I  '11  makr-  an  end 
on't: 
By  Gis  and  by  Saint  Charity, 

Alack,  and  fie  for  shame  ! 
Young  men  will  do  '(,  if  they  come  to  't; 

By  cock,  they  are  to  blame. 
Quoth  she.  before  you  tumbled  me, 
You  promis'd  me  to  wed : 
He  answers. 

So  would  I  ha  done,  by  yonder  sun, 
An  thou  hadst  not  come  to  my  bed. 
King.  How  Ions  hath  she  been  thus  ? 
Oph.  I  hope,  all  will  be  well.    We  must  be  patient, 
but  I  cannot  choose  but  weep,  to  think,  they  would'* 
lay  him  i'  the  cold  ground.    My  brother  shall  know  of 
it,' and  so  I  thank  you  tor  your  good  counsel.— Come, 
my  coach!     Good   night,    ladies;    good    night,  swee» 
ladies  :  good  night,  good  night.  [Exit 

King.  Follow  her  close ;  give  her  good  watch,  I  pra» 
you.  [Exit  Horatio 

O  !  this  is  the  poison  of  deep  grief;  it  springs 
All  from  her  father's  death."     And  now,  behold, 

0  Gertrude.  Genrude  ! 

When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spie*, 
But  in  battalions.     First,  her  father  slain ; 
Next,  your  son  gone ;  and  he  most  -violent  author 
Of  his  own  just  remove  :  the  people  muddied. 
Thick  and  unwholesome  in  their  tiioughts  and  whispen 
For  -.'ood  Polonius'death.  and  we  have  done  but  greenly 
In  hu2ger-mugi:er  to  inter  him  :  poor  Ophelia, 
Divided  from  herself,  and  her  fair  judgment. 
Without  the  which  we  are  pictures,  or  mere  bea«t«: 
Last,  and  as  much  containing  as  all  these, 
Her  brotlier  is  in  secret  come  from  France, 
Feeds  on  his  wonder,  keeps  himself  in  clouds, 
!  And  wants  not  buzzers  to  infect  his  ear 
With  pestilent  speeches  of  his  fathers  death; 

1  Wherein  necessity,  of  matter  beggar"d. 
Will  nothing  stick  our  persons  to  arraign 

In  ear  and  ear.     0  !  my  dear  Gertrude,  this, 
I  Like  to  a  murderins  piece,  in  many  places 
Gives  me  superfluous  death.  [A  notsr  wtthvi 


I  qnirtos.      »  Qy*' 


I  Thii  chancwr  do«i  not  app«ar  in  the  foUo.  where  &:i  hi»  tpeechei  in  the  text  ire  Kiven  to  H"R^J'"-         J^^/",  .     ,  \       ,  y^j  j„  folio 
-.n  'olio.      »  Not  in  f.  e  :   playing  on  a  lute,  with  her  hair  rfotrn,  »in?in?  ;  in  quarto.  UM.      *  ^""-f/'r'  '"7„;   '".'„  bikine   ind  wked 
••  ground:  in  quarto.,  after  1003      •  YieU.  or  reurnrd.     •  -  Our  Saviour  went  into  a  ba^.r'.  ihoi.  where  'he  f  °ple  ^V"  ,  ,^"fi  u^^    I, 
faTbread  :  the  mirtr^  put  a  piece  of  dcneh  in  the  oren  fnr  h.m.  which  was  taken   out  by  her  ^^"(^hterana  reduced  to  ^^^^^^'^^^^^^ 
immediately  becan  to  .well,  knd  the  daucht^r  to  cry  '  heufh.  heueh.  heaeh,'  which  owl-l.k..  no.se  probabl>    nduced  our  Saviour 
ket  ,nto  •bt:  bi  d.--.<n  old  tradition,  quoted  by  Douct.     ")  .houll :  in  foUo.     »  The  rert  of  ihu  bne  u  not  in  foho. 


SOKNE    f. 


HAMLET,  PEINCE   OF  DENMAKK. 


763 


Alack  !  what  noise  is  this  ? 


Let  them  guard  the  door. 


king ; 


Queen . 

King.  Attend !' 
Where  are  my  Switzers  ? 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

Enter  a  Gentleman,  in  haste.* 

Gent.  Save  yourself,  my  lord 

The  ocean,  overpeering  of  his  list, 
Eats  not  the  flats  with  more  impetuous*  haste, 
Than  young  Laertes,  in  a  riotous  head, 
O'erbears  your  officers  !     The  rabble  call  him, 
And,  as  the  world  were  now  but  to  begin, 
Antiquity  forgot,  custom  not  known, 
The  ratifiers  and  props  of  every  word, 
They  cry,  •'  Choose  we;  Laertes  shall  be  king  !" 
Caps,  hands,  and  tongues,  applaud  it  to  the  clouds, 
'  Laertes  shall  be  king,  Laertes  king  !" 

Queen.  How  cheerfully  on  the  false  trail  they  cry. 
0  !  this  is  counter,  you  false  Danish  dogs. 

King.  The  door's  are  broke.  [Noise  within. 

Enter  Laertes,    with  his  sward  drawn;*  Danes  fol- 
lowing. 

Laer.  Where  is    this    king? — Sirs,    stand    you  all 
without. 

Dan.  No,  let 's  come  in. 

Laer.  I  pray  you.  give  me  leave. 

Dan.  We  will,  we  will.  [They  retire  without  the  Door. 

Laer.  I  thank  you  :  keep  the  door. — 0  thou  vile  king  ! 
(Jive  me  my  father. 

Queen.  Calmly,  good  Laertes. 

Laer.  That  drop  of  blood  that 's  calm'  proclaims  me 
bastard  ; 
Cries,  cuckold,  to  my  father ;  brands  the  harlot 
Even  here,  between  the  chaste  unsmirched  brow 
Of  my  true  mother. 

King.  What  is  the  cause,  Laertes, 

That  thy  rebellion  looks  so  giant-like  ? — 
Let  him  go,  Gertrude ;  do  not  fear  our  person  : 
There  's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king. 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would. 
Acts  little  of  his  will. — Tell  me,  Laertes, 
Why  thou  art  thus  incens'd. — Let  him  go,  Gertrude. — 
Speak,  man. 

Laer.  Where  is  my  father? 

King.  Dead. 

Queen.  But  not  by  him. 

King.  Let  him  demand  his  fill. 

Laer.  How  came  he  dead?  I  '11  not  be  juggled  with. 
To  hell,  allegiance  !  vows,  to  the  blackest  devil ! 
Conscience,  and  grace,  to  the  profoundest  pit ! 
I  dare  damnation.     To  this  point  I  stand, 
.  That  both  the  worlds  I  give  to  negligence, 
Let  come  what  comes,  only  I  '11  be  reveug'd 
Most  throughly  for  my  father. 

Ki-r^.g.  Who  shall  stay  you? 

Laer.  My  will,  not  all  the  world's  : 
4.nd,  for  my  means.  I  '11  husband  them  so  well, 
They  shall  go  far  with  little. 

King.  Good  Laertes, 

If  you  desire  to  know  the  certainty 
Of  your  dear  father  s  death,  is  't  writ  in  your  revenge. 
That,  sweepstake,  you  will  draw  both  friend  and  foe, 
Winner  and  loser? 

Laer.  None  but  his  enemies. 

King.  Will  you  know  them,  then  ? 

Laer.  To  his  good  friends  thus  wide  I  '11  ope  my  arms ; 
And,  like  the  kind  life-rendering  pelican,* 
Repast  them  with  my  blood. 


King.  Why,  now  you  speak 

Like  a  good  child,  and  a  true  gentleman. 
That  I  am  guiltless  of  your  father's  death, 
And  am  most  sensibly  in  grief  for  it. 
It  shall  as  level  to  your  judgment  'pear,' 
As  day  does  to  your  eye. 

Danes.  [  Within.]  Let  her  come  in. 
Laer.  How  now  !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

Re-enter  Ophelia,  still  distracted.* 
0  heat,  dry  up  my  brains  !  tears  seven  times  salt, 
Burn  out  the  sense  and  virtue  of  mine  eye  ! — 
By  heaven,  thy  madness  shall  be  paid  by  weight, 
Till  our  scale  turns  the  beam.     0  rose  of  May  ! 
Dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia  ! — 
0  heavens  !  is  't  pos.sible,  a  young  maid's  vrits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ?' 
Nature  is  fine  in  love  ;  and,  where  't  is  fine, 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. 

Oph.   They  bore  him  bare-fac'd  on  their  bier  ;  [Sings. 
Hey  non  nonny,  nonny,  hey  rionny: 
And  in  his  grave  rained  many  a  tear  ; — 
Fare  you  well,  my  dove  ! 

Laer.  Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst  persuade  re- 
venge. 
It  could  not  move  thus. 

O^h.  You  must  sing,  Down  a-down,  an  you  call  him 
a-down-a.  0,  how  the  wheel  becomes  it !  It  is  the 
false  steward,  that  stole  his  master's  daughter. 
Laer.  This  nothing  's  more  than  matter. 
Oph.  There  's  rosemary,  that  's  for  remembrance  :" 
pray  you,  love,  remember  :  and  there  is  pansies  ;  that  "s 
for  thoughts. 

Laer.  A  document  in  madness  ;  thoughts  and  re- 
membrance fitted. 

Oph.  There's  fennel  for  you,   and  columbines:— 
there  's  rue  for  you  :  and  here 's  some  for  me  ;  we  may 
call  it,  herb  of  grace  o'  Sundays : — you  may"  wear  youi 
rue  with  a  difference. — There  's  a  daisy  :   I  wouW  give 
you   some  violets;    but  they  withered    all  when   my 
father  died. — They  say,  he  made  a  good  end, — 
For  bonny  .sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy, — [Sings. 
Laer.  Thought  and  affliction  :  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favour,  and  to  prettiness. 

Oph.         And  will  he  not  come  again  ?  [Sings. 

And  will  he  not  come  again  ' 
No,  no,  he  is  dead  ; 
Gone  to  his^'^  death-bed. 
He    never  will  come  again. 
His  beard  was  white^^  as  snow. 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll ; 
He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 
And  we  cast  away  moan  : 
God  ha'  mercy'-*  on  his  soul  ? 
And  of  all  christian  souls  !  I  pray  God. — God  be  vn' 
you  !  [Exit  Ophelia."  darning  distractedly. 

Laer.  Do  you  see  this,  0  God  ? 
King    Laertes,  I  must  commune  with  your  grief. 
Or  you  deny  me  right.     Go  but  apart, 
Make  choice  of  whom  your  wisest  friends  you  wiK, 
And  they  shall  hear  and  judge  'twixt  you  and  me. 
If  by  direct,  or  by  collateral  hand 
They  find  us  tuuch'd,  we  will  our  kingdom  give, 
Our  crown,  our  life,  and  all  that  we  call  ours, 
To  you  in  satisfaction ;  but  if  not. 
Be  you  content  to  lend  your  patience  to  us. 


•  .  Not  in  f<U..  .  ".•»  A«.«e"  :  not  in  f.  ..  »  impitious  :  in  quarto,  1604,  and  folio  ♦  ??/- ^---l"-"//,^  ^^^i,  ^u^of  "'s^n^^- 
«  politicians  :  m  folio.  '  pierce  :  in  folio.  8  The  rest  of  this  direction  ,s  not  in  f.  e.  ll^e  rest  of  hu speech  ..  "o^^^  .  .^  ^^  ^^  „^^. 
»ning  the  memory.— Knight,     u  0  !  you  must :  ■"  f"l>"-     '^  Go  to  tliv:  in  f.  e  was  ai  vniie  .  in  i.  o 

"69t  p""  tilis  direction,  is  not  in  f.  e 


folio. 


764 


HAMLET,  PRINCE   OF  DENMARK 


ACT    IV. 


And  we  shall  jointly  hibour  with  your  soul 
To  give  it  due  content. 

L(ur.  Let  this  be  so: 

His  means  of  death,  his  obscure  funeral', 
No  trophy,  sword,  nor  liaieliment,  o'er  his  bones 
No  noble  nte,  nor  formal  ostentation. 
Cry  to  be  heard,  as  't  were  from  heaven  to  earth, 
That  I  must  call  't  iii  question. 

King.  So  you  shall ; 

And,  where  th'  offence  is,  let  the  great  axe  fall. 
1  pray  you,  go  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  Horatio,  and  a  Servant. 

Hor.  What  are  they,  that  would  speak  with  me  ? 

Serv.  Sailors,  sir :  they  say,  they  have  letters  for  you. 

Hor.  Let  tliem  come  in. —  [Exit  Servant. 

I  do  not  know  from  what  part  of  the  world 
I  should  be  greeted,  if  not  from  lord  Hamlet. 
Enter  Sailors. 

1  Sail.  God  bless  you.  sir. 

Hor.  Let  him  bless  thee  too. 

1  Sail.  He  shall,  sir,  an  't  please  him.  There  's  a 
letter  lor  you,  sir :  it  comes  from  the  ambassador  that 
was  bouml  for  England,  if  your  name  be  Horatio,  as  I 
am  let  to  know  it  is. 

Hor.  [Rimls.]  ''  Horatio,  when  thou  shalt  have  over- 
lookeJ  this,  give  these  fellows  some  means  to  the  king : 
they  have  letters  lor  him.  Ere  we  were  two  days  old 
at  .sea,  a  jiirate  of  very  warlike  appomtinent  gave  us 
chase.  Finding  ourselves  too  slow  of  sail,  we  put  on  a 
comi>elled  valour;  and  in  the  grapple  I  boarded  them  : 
on  the  instant  they  got  clear  of  our  ship,  so  I  alone 
became  their  prisoner.  They  have  dealt  with  me  like 
thieves  of  mercy ;  but  they  knew  what  they  did  :  I  am 
to  do  a  good  turn  for  them.  Let  the  king  have  the 
letters  I  have  sent ;  and  repair  thou  to  me  with  as  much 
ha-ste  as  thou  wouldst  fiy  death.  I  have  words  to  speak 
in  thine  ear  will  make  thee  dumb ;  yet  are  they  much 
too  light  for  the  bore  of  the  matter.  These  good  fellows 
will  bring  thee  where  I  am.  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
^'ern  hold  their  course  for  England :  of  them  I  have 
much  to  tell  thee.     Farewell ; 

He  that  thou  knowest  thine,  Hamlet." 
Come,  I  will  give  you  way  for  these  your  letters ; 
And  do  't  the  speedier,  that  you  may  direct  me 
To  him  from  whom  you  brought  them.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Vn. — Another  Room  in  the  Same. 
Enter  King  and  Labrtes. 

King.  Now  must  your  conscience  my  acquittance  seal, 
And  you  must  put  me  in  your  heart  for  friend, 
Sith  you  have  heard,  and  with  a  knowing  ear, 
That  he,  which  hath  your  noble  father  slain, 
Fursu'd  my  life. 

Lmt.  It  well  appears.     But  tell  me, 

Why  you  proceeded  not  airainst  these  feats, 
Ro  criminal'  and  bo  capital  in  nature, 
As  by  your  safety,  greatness,*  wisdom,  all  things  else, 
You  mainly  were  Btirr'd  up. 

King.  O  !  for  two  special  reasons, 

Which  may  to  you.  perhaps,  seem  much  unsinew'd, 
But*  yet  to  me  they  are  strong.  The  queen,  his  mother. 
Lives  almost  by  his  looks;  and  for  myself. 
(.My  virtue,  or  my  plague,  be  it  either  which) 
She  's  80  conjunctive  to  my  life  and  soul. 
That,  as  the  star  moves  not  but  in  his  sphere, 
I  could  not  but  by  her.     The  other  motive, 

•  burial :  in  foli'        '  crimeful :  in  folio.      »  Not  in  folio. 
Ib  IbUo.      '  So  Ike  undated  quarto  ;  checking  at :  in  folio.      " 


Why  to  a  public  count  I  might  not  go. 
Is  the  great  love  the  general  gender  bear  him ; 
Who,  dipping  all  his  faults  in  llicir  affection, 
Work  like  the  spring  that  turnetli  wood  to  stone, 
Convert  his  gyves  to  graces  ;  so  that  my  arrows. 
Too  slightly  timber'd  for  so  loud  a  wind. 
Would  have  reverted  to  my  bow  again, 
And  not  where  I  had  aim'd  them. 

Laer.  And  so  have  I  a  noble  father  lost, 
A  si.ster  driven  into  desperate  terms  ; 
Who  was,  if  praises  may  go  back  again. 
Sole  challenger  on  mount  of  all  the  age 
For  her  perfections.     But  my  revenge  \\\\\  come. 

King.  Break  not  your  sleeps  for  that :  you  must  not 
think, 
That  we  are  made  of  stuff  .so  flat  and  dull, 
That  we  can  let  our  beard  be  shook  with  danger, 
And  think  it  pastime.     You  shortly, shall  hear  more: 
I  loved  your  father,  and  we  love  ourself ; 

And  that,  I  hope,  will  teach  you  to  imagine, 

How  now !  what  news  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Letters,  my  lord,  from  Hamlet 

This  to  your  majesty :  this  to  the  queen. 

King.  From  Hamlet !  who  brought  them  ? 

Mess.  Sailors,  my  lord,  they  say  ;  I  saw  them  not : 
They  were  given  me  by  Claudio,  he  receiv'd  them 
Of  him  that  brought  them.* 

King.  Laertes,  you  ohall  hear  them. — 

Leave  us.  [E.xit  Messengn. 

[Reaxls.]  "  High  and  mighty,  you  shall  know.  I  am 
set  naked  on  your  kingdom.  To-morrow  shall  1  beg 
leave  to  see  your  kingly  eyes  ;  when  I  shall,  first  asking 
your  pardon  thereunto,  recount  the  occasions  of  my 
sudden  and  more  strange  return.  Hamlet.'- 

What  should  this  mean  ?    Are  all  the  rest  come  back 
Or  is  it  some  abuse,  and  no  such  thing  ? 

Laer.  Know  you  the  hand  ? 

King.  'T  is  Hamlet's  character.     "  Naked," — 

And,  in  a  postscript  here,  he  says,  '•  alone  :" 
Can  you  advise  me  ? 

Laer.  I  'm  lost  in  it,  my  lord.     But  let  him  come  : 
It  warms  the  very  sickness  in  my  heart, 
That  I  shall  live  and  tell  him  to  his  teeth, 
"  Thus  diddest  thou." 

King.  If  it  be  so,  Laertes, 

(As  how  should  it  be  so?  how  otherwise?) 
Will  you  be  ruled  by  me  ? 

Laer.  Ay,  my  lord  ;• 

So  you  will  not  o'er-rule  me  to  a  peace. 

king.  To  thine  own  peace.  If  he  be  now  retum'd,— 
As  liking  not'  his  voyage,  and  that  he  means 
No  more  to  undertake  it. — I  will  work  him 
To  an  exploit,  now  ripe  in  my  device. 
Under  the  which  he  shall  not  choose  but  fall; 
And  for  his  death  no  -wind  of  blame  shall  breathe, 
But  even  his  mother  .shall  uncharge  the  practice. 
And  call  it  accident. 

Laer.  My*  lord,  I  will  be  rul'd ; 

The  rather,  if  you  could  devise  it  so. 
That  I  might  be  the  organ. 

King.  It  falls  right. 

You  have  been  talk'd  of  since  your  travel  much, 
And  that  in  Hamlet's  hearing,  for  a  quality 
Wherein,  they  say.  you  shine  :  your  sum  of  parts 
Did  not  together  pluek  such  envy  from  him. 
As  did  that  one ;  and  that,  in  my  regard, 
Of  the  unworthiest  siege. 


♦  And  :  in   folio.      »  Ttiis  line  is  not  in  folio. 
This  speech  and  ali  that  follows,  to  "  gravenes 


•  These  three  irords  w  oo" 
"  is  not  in  foU'». 


SCENE  vn. 


HAMLET,   PEmCE  OF  DENMAEK. 


765 


Lur.  What  part  is  that,  my  lord  ? 

King.  A  very  riband  in  the  cap  of  youth, 
Vet  needful  too  ;  for  youth  no  less  becomes 
The  light  and  careless  livery  that  it  wears, 
Than  settled  age  his  sables,  and  his  weeds, 
Importing  health  and  graveness. — Two  months  since,' 
Here  was  a  gentleman  of  Xormandy  : 
F  have  seen  myself,  and  serv'd  against  the  French, 
And  they  can'  well  on  horseback;  but  this  gallant 
Had  witchcraft  in  't ;  he  grew  unto  his  seat ; 
And  to  such  wond'rous  doing  brought  his  horse, 
As  he  had  been  incorps'd  and  demi-natur'd 
With  the  brave  beast.     So  far  he  topp'd'  my  thought. 
That  I,  in  forgery  of  shapes  and  tricks, 
Come  short  of  what  he  did. 

Ifer.  A  Norman,  was  't  ? 

King.  A  Norman. 

Laer.  Upon  my  life,  Lamord*. 

King.  The  very  same. 

Laer    I  know  him  well :  he  is  the  brooch,  indeed, 
And  gem  of  all  the  nation. 

King.  He  made  confe.^sion  of  you  ; 
.Vnd  gave  you  such  a  masterly  report, 
For  art  and  exercise  in  your  defence, 
And  for  your  rapier  most  especially, 
That  he  cried  out,  't  would  be  a  sight  indeed, 
[f  one  could  match  you  :  the  scrimers*  of  their  nation. 
He  swore,  had  neither  motion,  guard,  nor  eye, 
If  you  oppos"d  them.     This  report  of  his 
Did  Hamlet  so  envenom  with  his  emy, 
That  he  could  nothing  do.  but  wish  and  beg 
Your  sudden  coming  o'er,  to  play  wath  you. 
Now,  out  of  this, — 

Laer.  What*  out  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

King.  Laertes,  was  your  father  dear  to  you? 
Or  are  you  like  the  painting  of  a  sorrow, 
A  face  without  a  heart  ? 

Laer.  Why  ask  you  this  ? 

King.  Not  that  I  think  you  did  not  love  your  father, 
But  that  I  know  love  is  begun  by  time ; 
And  that  I  see,  in  passages  of  proof, 
Time  qualifies  the  spark  and  fire  of  it. 
There  lives  within  the  very  flame  of  love' 
A  kind  of  wick,  or  snuff,  that  will  abate  it, 
And  nothing  is  at  a  like  goodness  still ; 
For  goodness,  gro^\-ing  to  a  pleurisy.* 
Dies  in  his  o^rni  too-much.     That  we  would  do. 
We   should   do  when  we  would ;    for  this   "  would  " 
And  hath  abatements  and  delays  as  many.      [changes, 
.\s  there  are  tongues,  are  hands,  are  accidents : 
And  then  this  •'■  should  "  is  like  a  spendthrift's  sigh. 
That  hurts  by  easing.     But,  to  the  quick  o'  the  ulcer. 
Hamlet  comes  back  :  what  would  you  undertake. 
To  show  yourself  your  father's  son  in  deed,' 
More  than  in  words  ? 

Lncr.  To  cut  his  throat  i'  the  church. 

King.  No  place,  indeed,  should  murder  sanctuarize ; 
Revenge  should  have  no  bounds.     But.  good  Laertes, 
Will  you  do  this,  keep  close  within  your  chamber. 
Hamlet,  return'd.  shall  know  you  are  come  home : 
We  '11  put  on  those  shall  praise  your  excellence. 
And  set  a  double  varnish  on  the  fame 
The  Frenchman  gave  yovi ;  bring  you  in  fine  together. 
And  wager  on  your  heads  :  he,  being  remiss. 
Most  generous,  and  free  from  all  contriving. 


Will  not  peruse  the  foils  ;  so  that  with  ease, 
Or  with  a  little  shuffling,  you  may  choose 
A  sword  unbated'",  aud  in  a  pass  of  practice 
Requite  him  for  your  father. 

Laer.  I  will  do  't ; 

And,  for  that  purpose,  I  '11  anoint  my  sword. 
I  bought  an  unction  of  a  mountebank. 
So  mortal,  that  but  dip"  a  knife  in  it. 
Where  it  draws  blood  no  cataplasm  so  rare, 
Collected  from  all  simples  that  have  virtue 
Under  the  moon,  can  save  the  thing  from  death, 
That  is  but  scratch'd  withal :  I  "11  touch  my  point 
With  this  contagion,  that  if  I  gall  him  slightly, 
It  may  be  death. 

King.  Let 's  farther  think  of  this ; 

Weigh,  wiiat  convenience,  both  of  time  and  means, 
May  fit  us  to  our  shape.     If  this  should  fail, 
And  that  our  drift  look  through  our  bad  performance, 
'T  were  better  not  assay'd :  therefore,  this  project 
Should  have  a  back,  or  second,  that  might  hold, 
If  this  should  blast  in  proof.     Soft ! — let  me  see  : — 
We  '11  make  a  solemn  wager  on  your  cunnings," — 
I  ha 't : 

When  in  your  motion  you  are  hot  and  dr)'. 
(As  make  your  bouts  more  violent  to  that  end) 
And  that  he  calls  for  drink,  I  '11  have  preferr'd"  hJra 
A  chalice  for  the  nonce,  wiiereon  but  sipping. 
If  he  by  chance  escape  your  venom'd  stuck.'* 
Our  purpose  may  hold  there.     But  stay  !  what  noise? 

Enter  Queen. 
How  now,  sweet  queen  ! 

Qiieen.  One  woe  doth  tread  upon  another's  heel, 
So  fast  they  follow. — Yoiu-  sister's  drowni'd,  Laertes. 

Laer.  Drown' d  !  O.  where  ? 

Queen.  There  is  a  willow  grows  aslant  the  brook, 
That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream  ; 
Therewith'*  fantastic  garlands  did  she  make" 
Of  crow-flowers,  nettles,  daisies,  and  lon^  purples, 
That  liberal  sheplierds  give  a  grosser  name. 
But  our  cold  maids  do  dead  men's  fingers  call  them. 
There,  on  the  pendent  boughs  her  coronet  weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke, 
When  dowii  her  weedy  trophies,  and  herself. 
Fell  in  the  weeping  brook.     Her  clothes  spread  wide, 
And.  mermaid-like,  a  wiiile  they  bore  her  up ; 
Which  time  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  lauds'' ; 
As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress. 
Or  like  a  creature  native  and  reduc'd 
Unto  that  element :  but  long  it  could  not  be. 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink, 
Pull'd  the  poor  wTetch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  miiddy  death. 

Laer.  Alas  !  then,  is  she  drown'd? 

Queen.  Drown'd,  drowni'd. 

Laer.  Too  much  of  water  hast  thou,  poor  Ophelia, 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears :  but  yet 
It  is  our  trick ;  nature  lier  custom  holds. 
Let  shame  say  what  it  will  :  wiien  these  are  gone, 
The  woman  will  be  out. — Adieu,  my  lord  : 
I  have  a  speech  of  fire,  that  fain  would  blaze, 
But  that  this  folly  drowns"  it.  [Krit 

Kin<r.  Let 's  follow,  Gertrude 

Howi  much  I  had  to  do  to  calm  his  rage  ! 
Now  fear  I.  this  will  give  it  start  again ; 
Therefore,  let 's  follow.  [Exami 


'  hence  :  in  folio.      '  ran  :  in  folio.      '  pass'd  :  in  folio.      *  Lamonnd  :  in  folio.      »  Fr.  escrimeurs,  fencers ;  thu  and  what  follows  tr 
'  tha-Ti,"  is  not  in  folio.      «  Why  :  in  folio.      '  This  and  the  nine  following  lines,  are  not  in  folio.      »  Fulness.      »  indeed  :  in  folio: 
lead  Tcur  father's  sou  :  in  qnartos.      '"  Not  blunted.      "  I  but  dipt :  in  folio.      '^  comminps  :  in  folio. 
'toccata,  thrust.      •»  There  with  :  in  folio       i'  come  :  in  folio.      i'  tunes  :  in  folio.      •»  douts  : 


"  prepar'd  :  in  folio.     '*  Ital.aa. 
foli')  ;  i.  e.  does  it  oat 


766 


HAMLET,  PRmCE  OF  DENMARK. 


ACT    V. 


SCKNk   I.— A  Chiircli  Yard. 
Enter  hco  Clowtis.  with  Spades,  Ifc 

1  Clo.  Is  she  to  be  buried  in  Christian  burial,  that' 
wilfully  seeks  lier  own  salvation? 

2  Clo.  I  tell  thee,  slie  is;  and  therefore  make  her 
prave  straight :  the  crowner  hath  set  on  her,  and  linds 
it  Christian  burial. 

1  Clo.  How  ean  that  be,  unless  she  drowned  herself 
Id  her  ovsii  defence  ? 

2  Clo.  Why,  H  is  found  so. 

1  Clo.  It  must  be  se  offendendo ;  it  cannot  be  else. 
For  here  lies  the  point :  if  I  drown  myself  wittingly,  it 
arinies  an  act,  and  an  act  hath  three  branches;  it  is, 
til  act,  to  do.  and  to  perform  :  argal,  slie  drowned  her- 
self wttingly. 

2  Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  you.  goodman  delver. 

1  Clo.  Give  me  leave.  Here  lies  the  water;  good  : 
here  stands  the  man ;  good :  if  the  man  go  to  this 
water,  and  drown  himself  it  is.  will  he,  nil!  he,  he 
goes,  mark  you  that ;  but  if  the  water  come  to  him, 
and  drown  him,  he  drowns  not  himself:  argal,  he 
that  is  not  guilty  of  his  own  death  shortens  not  his  own 
life. 

2  Clo.  But  is  this  law  ? 

1  Clo.  Ay.  marry,  is't;  crowner's  quest-law. 

2  Clo.  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on  't  ?  If  this  had  not 
been  a  gentlewoman,  she  should  have  been  buried  out 
of  Christian  burial. 

1  Clo.  Why,  there  thou  say'st ;  and  the  more  pity, 
that  great  folk  shall  have  countenance  in  this  world 
to  drown  or  hang  themselves,  more  than  their  even" 
Christian.  Come,  my  spade.  There  is  no  ancient 
gentlnmen  but  gardeners,  ditchers,  and  grave-makers  ; 
they  hold  up  Adam's  profession. 

2  Clo.  Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 

1  Clo.  He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

2  Clo.  Why,  he  had  none. 

1  Clo.  What,  art  a  heathen  ?  How  dost  thou  under- 
stand the  Scripture  ?  The  Scripture  says,  Adam  dig- 
ged :  could  he  dig  ^^^thout  arms  ?  I  '11  put  another 
question  to  thee  :  if  thou  answerest  me  not  to  the  pur- 
pose, confess  thyself 

2  Clo.  Go  to. 

1  Clo.   What  is  he,  that  builds  stronger  than  either   does  he  suffer  this  rude'  knave  now  to  knock  him  about 
the  ma.son.  the  shipwright,  or  the  carpenter  ?  the  sconce  with  a  dirty  shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him  of 

2  Clo.  The  gallows-maker ;  for  that  frame*  outlives   his  action  of  battery?     Humph!     This  fellow  might 
a  thousand  tenants.  be  in  's  time  a  great  buyer  of  land,  with  his  statutes, 


1  Clown  digs,  and  sings. 
7/1  youth.,  when  I  did  love,  did  Icve, 
Mcihoiight  it  was  very  sweet, 
To  contract.  0  !  the  time,  for,  ah  !  n\y  behovt 
0  !  methought.  there  wai  nothing  meet 
Ham.  Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business   thai 
he  sings  at  grave-making  ? 

Hor.  Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of 
easiness. 

Ham.  'T  is  e'en  s'^ :  the  hand  of  little  emplo^Tnen', 
hath  the  daintier  .^ense 

1  Clo.  But  age.  with  his  stealing  steps, 
Hath  claiv'd^  me  in  his  clutch, 
And  hath  skipped  me  inlill  the  land, 
As  if  I  had  never  been  such. 

[Throws  up  a  skull. 
Ham.  That  skull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and  could  sing 
once:  how  the  knave  jowls  it  to  the  ground,  as  if  it 
were  Cain's  jaw-bone,  that  did  the  first  murder  !  This 
might  be  the  pate  of  a  politician,  which  this  ass  now 
o'er-reaches,'  one  that  w^ould  circumvent  God,  mignt 
it  not  ? 

Hor.  It  might,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Or  of  a  courtier,  which  could  say,  "Good- 
morrow,  sweet  lord  !  How  do.st  thou,  good  lord  ?" 
This  might  be  my  lord  such-a-one,  that  praised  my 
lord  such-a-one's  horse,  when  he  meant  to  beg  it,  might 
it  not  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  e'en  so.  and  now  my  lady  Worm's  ; 
chapless,  and  knocked  about  the  mazzard'  witli  a  .sex- 
ton's spade.  Here  's  fine  revolution,  an  we  had  the 
trick  to  see 't.  Did  these  bones  cost  no  more  the 
breeding,  but  to  play  at  loggats*  with  them?  mine  ache 
to  think  on  't. 

1  Clo.  A  pick-axel  and  a  spade,  a  spade,  [Sings. 

For — and  a  shrouding  sheet : 
0  !  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  gue.st  is  meet. 

[Throws  up  another  skull. 

Ham.  There's  another:  why  may  not  that  be  the 

skull  of  a  lawyer?     Where  be   his  qiiiddits   now,  his 

quillets,  his  cases,   his  tenures,    and  his  tricks  ?  why 


1  Clo.  I  like  thy  -wit  well,  in  good  faith  :  the  gallows 
does  well  ;  but  how  does  it  well  ?  it  docs  mcH  to  those 
that  do  ill  :  now,  thou   dost  il 
built  stronger  than  the  church 
do  wfjl  to  thee.     To  't  again  ;  come. 

2  Clo.  Who  builds   stronger   that  a 
Wright,  or  a  carpenter? 

1  Clo.  Ay.  teil  me  that,  and  unyoke. 

2  Clo.  Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 

1  Clo.  To  't. 

2  Clo.  .Mass.  I  cannot  tell. 

Enter  Hamlkt  and  Horatio,  at  a  di.ttnnce. 
1  Clo.  Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it,  for  your 
dull  a.s8  will  not  mend  his  pace  with  beating;  and, 
when  you  are  asked  this  question  next.  say.  a  grave- 
maker:  the  houses  that  he  makes,  la-st  tilldoomsday. 
Go,  get  thee  to  yon'* ;  fetch  me  a  stoop  of  liquor. 

[Exit  2  Clmcn. 


his  recognizances,  his  fines,   his  double   vouchers,  hie 
recoveries:  is  this  the   tine  of  his  fines,  and  ihe  reco- 
to  say  the  gallows   is  |  very  of  his  recoveries,  to  have  his  fine  pate  full  of  fine 
argal.  the  gallows  may   dirt?  will  his  vouchers  vouch  him  no  more  of  his  pur- 
'  chases,  and  double  ones  too.  than  the  length  and  breadth 
ma.son,  a  ship-   of  a  pair  of  indentures  ?     The  very  conveyances  of  his 
lands  will  hardly"  lie   in   this  box.  and  must  the  m- 
heritor  himself  have  no  more?  ha? 
Hor.  Not  a  jot  more,  my  lord. 
JIam.  Is  not  parchment  ma<le  of  sheep-skins  ? 
Hnr.  Ay.  my  lord,  and  of  calf-skins  too. 
Ham.  They  are  sheep,   and  calves,  which  seek  out 
as.«uranee  in  that.     I  wul  speak  to  this  fellow. — WlMtfc 
grave  's  tlii.s,  sir  ? 
1  Clo.  Mine,  sir. — 

0  !  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made  [Sings- 

For  svch  a  gtie.st  is  meet. 
Ham.  I  think,  it  be  thine,  indeed  ;  for  thou  hest  in  't 


'  when  ihe  :  In  qn&rto».     »  Ftlloxe.     >  Not  in  quarto*.     ' 
rune,  -.a  »hich  pin  or  «maU  logi  axe  thrown  at  a  itake  let : 


Yauphan  :  in  f.  •.     '  caught  :  in  foli 
n  thr  (rround.     *  mad  :  in  quartos.     " 


0.     *  o  er-officcs  :  in  foli ». 
Fcaioely  :  in  Tjartie 


rviruuB«n<WtJT»naB  IHLH 


HiiinnfffMr?K>Tn??»>f"T^'-'>'MM{>;?nw!m«»WH>M«WK»i|^ 


SCENE   I. 


HAMLET,   PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


787 


1  Clo.  You  lie  out  on  't.  sir.  and  therefore  it  is  not 
>ours:  for  ray  part^  I  do  not  lie  in  't,  and  yet  it  is 
mine. 

Ham.  Thou  dost  lie  in  't,  to  be  in  't,  and  say  it  is 
thine  :  't  is  for  the  dead,  not  for  the  quick  ;  therefore, 
thoii  liest. 

1  Clo.  'T  is  a  quick  lie,  sir ;  't  will  away  again, 
from  me  to  you. 

Ham.  What  man  dost  thou  dig  it  for  ? 

1  Clo.  For  no  man,  sir. 

Ham.  What  woman,  then  ? 

1  Clo    For  none,  neither. 

Ham.  Who  is  to  be  buried  in 't  ? 

1  Clo.  One.  that  was  a  woman,  sir ;  but,  rest  her 
Boul.  she  's  dead. 

Ham.  How  absolute  the  knave  is:  we  must  speak 
by  the  card,  or  equivocation  will  undo  us.  By  the 
lord  !  Horatio,  these  three  years  1  have  taken  note  of 
it ;  the  age  is  grown  so  picked,  that  the  toe  of  the  pea- 
sant comes  so  near  the  heel  of  the'  courtier,  he  galls 
his  kibe. — How  long  hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker? 

1  Clo.  Of  all  the  days  i'  the  year,  I  came  to  't  that 
day  that  our  last  king  Hamlet  overcame  Fortinbras. 

Ham.  How  long  is  that  since? 

1  Clo.  Cannot  you  tell  that  ?  every  fool  can  tell  that. 
It  was  the  very  day  that  young  Hamlet  was  born ;  he 
that  is  mad,  and  sent  into  England. 

Ham.  Ay,  marry  ;  why  was  he  sent  into  England  ? 

1  Clo.  Why,  because  he  was  mad  :  he  shall  recover 
his  wits  there  ;  or,  if  he  do  not,  't  is  no  great  matter 
there. 

Ham.  Why? 

1  Clo.  'T  will  not  be  seen  in  him  there;  there,  the 
men  are  as  mad  as  he. 

Ham.  How  came  he  mad  ? 

1  Clo.  Very  strangely,  they  say. 

Ham.  How  strangely  ? 

1  Clo.  "Faith,  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Ham.  Upon  what  ground  ? 

1  Clo.  Why,  here  in  Denmark.  I  have  been  sexton 
here,  man,  and  boy,  thirty  years. 

Ham.  How  long  will  a  man  lie  i'  the  earth  ere  he 
rot? 

1  Clo.  'Faith,  if  he  be  not  rotten  before  he  die.  (as 
we  have  many  pocky  corses  now-a-days',  that  will 
scarce  hold  the  laying  in)  he  will  last  you  some  eight 
year,  or  nine  year :  a  tanner  will  last  you  nine  year. 

Ham.  Why  he  more  than  another  ? 

1  Clo.  Why,  sir,  his  hide  is  so  tanned  with  his  trade, 
that  he  will  keep  out  water  a  great  while,  and  your 
water  is  a  sore  decayer  of  your  whoreson  dead  body. 
Here  's  a  skull  now ;  this  skull  hath  lain  i'  the  earth 
three- and-twentv  years. 

Ham.  Whose  was  it? 

1  Clo.  A  whoreson  mad  fellow's  it  was :  whose  do 
you  think  it  was  ? 

Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not 

1  Clo.  A  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue  !  a' 
poured  a  flagon  of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once.  This 
same  skuP..  sir.  this  same  skull,  sir,  wa«  Yorick's  skull, 
the  king's  jester. 

Ham.  This?  [Takes  the  Skull. 

1  Clo.  E'en  that. 

Ham.  Let  me  see.'  Alas,  poor  Yorick  ! — I  knew 
him,  Horatio :  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  e.xcel- 
Acnt  fancy:  he  halh  borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand 
times  :  and  now.  how  abhorred  in*  my  imagination  it* 


I  is  !  my  gorge  rises  at  it.  Here  hung  those  lips,  that  I 
have  kissed  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibe* 
now  ?  your  gambols  ?  your  songs  ?  your  flashes  of  mer- 
riment, that  were  wont  to  set  the  tab'e  on  a  roar' 
Not  one  now,  to  mock  your  o^^-n  grinning'  ?  quite  chap- 
fallen  ?  Now,  get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber,  and  tell 
her.  let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favour  she  mu^t 
come  :  make  her  laugh  at  that.— Pr'yfhee,  Horatio,  tell 
me  ^ne  thing. 

Hor.  What 's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Dost  thou  think,  Alexander  looked  o'  i!.:s 
fa.s'liion  i'  the  earth  ? 

Hor.  E'en  so. 

Ham.  And  smelt  so  ?  pah  !        [Puts  down  the  Skull 

Hor.  E'en  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return.  Horatio. 
Why  may  not  imagination  trace  the  noble  dusi  <.f 
Alexander,  till  he  find  it  stopping  a  bung-hole  ? 

Hor.  'T  were  to  consider  too  curiously,  to  con  si 
der  so. 

Ham.  No,  faith,  not  a  jot ;  but  to  follow  him  thithei 
with  modesty  enough,  and  likelihood  to  lead  it:  as 
thus';  Alexander  died.  Alexander  was  buried,  Alex- 
ander returned  into  dust;  the  dust  is  earth;  of  earih 
we  make  loam,  and  why  of  that  loam,  whereto  he  was 
converted,  might  they  not  stop  a  beer-barrel  ? 

"  Imperial*  Ca?sar  dead,  and  turn'd  to  clay, 

Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away  : 

0 !  that  that  earth,  which  kept  the  world  in  awe. 

Should  patch  a  wall  t'  expel  the  winter's'  flaw  ;  ' 
But  soft  !  but  soft !  aside: — here  comes  the  king. 
Enter  Priests,  Ifc.  in  Procession  ;  the  Corpse  o/ Ophelia, 

Laertes  ai^d  31our7iers  following  ;  King.,  Queen,  anii 

their  Trains. 
The  queen,  the  courtiers.     Who  is  that  they  follow. 
And  with  such  maimed  rites  ?     This  doth  betoken, 
The  corse  they  follow  did  with  desperate  hand 
Fordo  its  own  life  :  't  was  of  some  estate. 
Couch  we  awhile,  and  mark. 

[Retiring  on  one  side  with  Hor.\tic 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else? 

Ham.  That  is  Laertes, 

A  very  noble  youth  :  mark. 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 

1  Priest.  Her  obsequies  have  been  as  far  enlarg'd 
As  we  have  warranty  :  her  death  was  doubtful  ; 
And  but  that  great  command  c  erswavs  the  order. 
She  should  in  ground  unsanctified  have  lodg'd. 
Till  the  last  trumpet;  for  charitable  prayers, 
Shards'",  flints,  and  pebbles,  should  be  thrown  on  her, 
Yet  here  she  is  allow'd  her  virgin  crants" 
Her  maiden  strewments,  and  the  bringing  home 
Of  bell  and  burial. 

Laer.  Must  there  no  more  be  done  ? 

1  Priest.  No  more  be  rlcae 

We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead, 
To  sing  sad''  requiem,  and  such  rest  to  her 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 

Laer.  Lay  her  i' the  earth; 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh, 
May  violets  spring  ! — I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  ministering  angel  shall  my  sister  be, 
When  thou  liest  howhng. 

Ham.  What  !  the  fair  Ophelia  ' 

Queen.  Sweets  to  the  sweet :  farewell. 

[  StrerHng  flowers 
I  hop'd  thou  .shouldst  have  been  my  Hamlet's  wile  : 


i  folio.      »  Not  in  quarto.      '  These  three  -words  are  not  in  qnartp 
only  in  quarto,  1603.      s  Imperioui!  •  --    '"•      '-—>''•     ""   ""-rt,,,.         .-  Kml^ 


heels  of  our : 

quarto,  1 

I  f.  e. ;  from  quarto, 


nd  folio  :  sage. 


, _^ ^.  Not  in  folio.     •  ieerinfr :  in  folio,     "'aithti*,' 

uirtos         ■  Broken  pots.      >'  German,  kram.  ^mrlands  ;  ritet :  in  fo'-o 


•68 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


1  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  to  have  strew'd  th    grave. 

LacT  O  !  treble  woe' 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head. 
Whose  wir-kod  deed  thy  most  ingenious  sense 
Di'priv'd  thee  of  I — Hold  ofl"  the  earth  awhile, 
■'Ml  I  have  caui;ht  he>-  once  more  in  mine  arms. 

[Leaping  into  the  Grave. 
Now  pile  your  dust  upon  the  quick  and  dead, 
Cill  of"  this  flat  a  mountain  you  have  made, 
Td  n'er-top  old  Pelion,  or  the  skyish  head 
Df  blue  Olympus. 

Ham.   [Ailvaiictiitr.]     What  is  he.  whose  grief 
Rears  such  an  emphasis?  whose  phrase  of  sorrow 
Conjures  the  wandering  stars,  and  makes  them  stand, 
Like  wonder- wounded  hearers?  this  is  I, 
Hamlet  the  Dane.  [Leaping  into  the  Grave. 

Ljcr.  The  devil  take  thy  soul.  [Grappling  with  him. 

Ham.  Thou  pray'st  not  well. 
I  pr"yihee,  take  thy  fingers  from  my  throat ; 
For'  though  I  am  not  splenetic^  and  rash, 
Vrt  have  I  in  me  something  dangerous, 
Which  let  thy  wisdom*  fear.     Hold  off*  thy  hand. 

King.  Pluck  them  asunder.  [Thty  strive.^ 

Queen.  Hamlet !  Hamlet ! 

All.  Gentlemen!  - 

Hor.  Good  my  lord,  be  quiet. 

[TTie  attendants  part  them,  and  they  come  out  of 
the  grave. 

Ham.  Why,  I  will  fight  -with  him  upon  this  theme, 
'iitil  my  eyelids  will  no  longer  w^ag. 

Q'leen.  0  my  son  !  what  theme  ? 

Ham.  I  lov'd  Ophelia:  forty  thousand  brothers 
Cnuld  not.  with  all  their  quantity  of  lore. 
Make  up  my  sum. — What  wilt  thou  do  for  her? 

King.  O  !  he  is  mad.  Laertes. 

Qwen.  For  love  of  God,  forbear  him. 

Ham.  'Swounds !  show  me  what  thou  'It  do : 
Woul'tweep?  woul't  fight?  woulH  storm?  wou'It  tear 

^  thyself? 
Woul't  drink  up  EsilF?  eat  a  crocodile  ? 
I  '11  do  't:  I  '11  do  't.' — Dost  thou  come  here  to  whine? 
To  outface  me  with  leaping  in  her  grave  ? 
Bo  buried  quick  with  her.  and  so  will  I : 
And.  if  thou  prate  of  mounfain.s,  let  them  throw 
Millions  of  acres  on  us;  till  our  ground, 
Singeing  his  pate  against  the  burning  zone, 
.Make  Ossa  like  a  wart !     Nay,  an  thou  'It  mouth, 
111  rant  as  well  as  thou. 

King.  This  is  mere  madness  :* 

Aikd  thus  a  while  the  fit  will  work  on  him. 

Queen.  Anon,  a.';  patient  as  the  female  dove, 
When  that  her  golden  couplets  are  disclos'd, 
His  silence  will  sit  drooping. 

Ham.  Hear  you,  sir: 

What  is  the  rea.son  that  you  use  me  thus? 
I  lov'd  yoa  ever:  but  it  is  no  matter; 
Let  Hercules  himself  do  what  he  may, 
The^  cat  will  mew,  the  dog  'II  have  his  day.  [Exit. 

King.  I  prav  you.  good  Horatio,  wait  upon  him. 

[Exit  Horatio. 
(To  Laertes.]  Strengthen   your  patience  in  our  la.st 

night's  speech  : 
We'll  put  the  matter  to  tlie  present  push. — 
(Jood  Gertrude,  set  some  watch  over  your  son. — 
Thi.s  grave  shall  have  a  living  monument : 


An  hour  of  quiet  thereby"  shall  we  see ; 

Till  then,  in  patience  our  proceeding  be.  [Exennt 

SCENE  H.— A  Hall  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Hamlet  and  Horatio. 

Ham.  So  much  for  this,  sir:  now  shall  you"  see  the 
other. — 
Vou  do  remember  all  the  circumstance. 

Hor.  Remember  it,  my  lord  ! 

Ham.  Sir,  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting, 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep :   methought,  I  lay 
Worse  than  the  mutines'^  in  the  bilboes."     Rashly, — 
And  prais'd  be  rashness  for  it, — let  us  own, 
Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well. 
When   our   deep'*    plots   do    fail  ;'*   and    that   should 

teach'*  us. 
There  s  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rougii-hew  them  how  we  will. 

Hor.  That  is  most  certain. 

Ham.  Up  from  my  cabin. 
My  sea-gown  scarf 'd  about  me,  in  the  dark 
Giop"d  I  to  find  out  them;  had  my  desire; 
Finger"d  their  packet ;  and,  in  fine,  withdrew 
To  mine  own  room  again  :  making  so  bold. 
My  fears  forgetting  manners,  to  unfold" 
Their  grand  commission  ;  where  I  found,  Horatio, 

0  royal  knavery  !  an  exact  command, — 
Larde<l  with  many  several  sorts  of  reasons. 
Importing  Denmark's  health,  and  England's  too, 
With,  ho  !  such  bugs  and  goblins  in  my  life, — 
That  on  the  supervise,  no  leisure  bated, 
No,  not  to  stay  the  grinding  of  the  axe, 
My  head  should  be  struck  off. 

Hor.  Is  't  possible  ! 

Ham.    Here 's   the    commission :    read   it   at   more 
leisure.  [Giving  tt.-' 

But  wilt  thou  hear  me"  how  I  did  proceed  ? 

Hor.  I  beseech  you. 

Ham.  Being  thus  benetted  round  with  villains, — 
Ere  I  could  make  a  prologue  to  my  brains. 
They  had  begun  the  play, — I  sat  me  down, 
Devis'd  a  new  commission  :  wrote  it  fair. 

1  once  did  hold  it.  as  our  statists  do, 
A  baseness  to  write  fair,  and  labour'd  much 
How  to  forget  that  learning  ;  but,  sir.  now 
It  did  me  yeoman's  ser-vice.     Wilt  thou  know 
The  effect  of  what  I  wrote  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.  An  earnest  conjuration  from  the  king, — 
As  England  was  his  faithful  tributary, 
As  love  between  them  like  the  palm  might  flourish, 
As  peace  should  still  her  wheaten  garland  wear. 
And  stand  a  comma  'tween  their  amities, 
And  many  such  like  as's  of  gi-eat  charge, 
That  on  the  view  and  know'"  of  these  contents, 
Without  debatement  farther,  more  or  less, 
He  should  the  bearers  put  to  sudden  death, 
Not  shriving  time  allow'd. 

Hor.  How  was  this  seal'd  ? 

Ham.  Why,  even  in  that  was  heaven  ordinal/?  *' 
I  had  my  father's  signet  in  my  purse. 
Which  was  the  model  of  that  Danish  seal ; 
Folded  the  w  rit  up  in  form  of  the  other ; 
Subscrib'd  it;  gave 't  th'  impression:  plac"d  it  safely, 
The  changeling  never  known.     Now,  the  next  day 
i  Was  our  sea-fight,  and  what  to  this  was  sequent 

'  t»'Ti'>'»  *o«f  •  >n  folio-  »  Sir  :  in  folio.  '  iplenetive  :  in  f.  e.  ♦  wiseneu  :  in  folio.  »  Away  :  in  folio.  «  Not  in  f.  e  '  Probably  th. 
riTer  Y»»ell.  •  The  wordn.  "I'll  do't,"  are  not  repeated  in  f.  e.  •  This  and  the  follotring  line,  are  given  to  the  Qitiik.v,  in  f.  e.  »•  shortly 
'"  ^°\\°-  .  ",'•*  me  :  in  folio.     "  Mutineer!.     "  Bar>  of  iron  with  fetters,  so  called  from  Bilboa,  where  they  were  made.     »♦  dear :  in  folio 

pa  1 :  ID  f.  e.     •«  learn  :  in  quartos.     "  nn»eal  :  in  folio.     '8  Not  in  f    «.     >»  now  :  in  quartc).     »•  knowing  :  in  quartos.    »>  ordinanl 


SCEIfE   II. 


HAMLET,   PRINCE   OF  DENMARK. 


7fiP 


Thou  know'st  already. 
Hor.  So  Guildenstern  and  Roeencrantz  go  to  't. 
Ham.  Why,  man,  they  did  make  love  to   this  em- 
ployment :' 
They  are  not  near  my  conscience :  their  defeat 
Does  by  their  own  insinuation  grow. 
T  is  dangerous,  when  a  baser  nature  comes 
Between  the  pass  and  fell  incensed  points 
Of  mighty  opposites. 

Hor.  Why,  what  a  king  is  this  ! 

Ham.  Does  it  not,  think  thee,  stand  me  now  upon — 
He  that  hath  kill'd  my  king,  and  whor'd  my  mother; 

opp'd  in  between  th'  election  and  my  hopes ; 
His  angle  for  my  proper  life  thrown  out. 
And  with  such  cozenage — is  't  not  perfect  conscience. 
To  quit  him  with  his  own  ?"   and  is  't  not  to  be  damn'd. 
To  let  this  canker  of  our  nature  come 
In  farther  evil  ? 

Hor.  It  must  be  shortly  known  to  him  from  England, 
What  is  the  issue  of  the  business  there. 

Ham.  It  will  be  short :  the  interim  is  mine ; 
And  a  man's  life  no  more  than  to  say,  one., 
But  I  am  very  sorry,  good  Horatio, 
That  to  Laertes  I  forgot  myself, 
For  by  the  image  of  my  cause  I  see 
The  portraiture  of  his :  I  '11  court'  his  favours : 
But.  sure,  tlie  bravery  of  his  grief  did  put  me 
Into  a  towering  passion. 
Hor.  Peace  !  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Osrick. 


true  diction  of  him,  his  semblable  is  his  mirror;  auH 
wlio  else  would  trace  him.  his  umbra^-e,  nothing  more 

Osr.  Your  lordship  speaks  most  infallibly  of  liim. 

Ham.  The  concernancy,  sir?  why  do  we  wrap  iJie 
gentleman  in  our  more  rawer  breath  ? 

O.sr.  Sir? 

Hor.  Is 't  not  possible  to  understand  in  anothei 
tongue?     You  will  do 't,  .sir.  really. 

Ham.  What  imports  the  nomination  of  this  geutlt>- 
mau  ? 

Osr.  Of  Laertes? 

Hor.  His  purse  is  empty  already;  all  his  goidec 
words  are  spent. 

Ham.  Of  hiin,  sir. 

O.ST.  I  know,  you  are  not  ignorant — 

Ham.  I  would,  you  did,  sir;  yet,  in  faith,  if  you  did 
it  would  not  much  approve  me. — Well.  sir. 

Osr.  You  are  not  ignorant  of  what  excellence 
Laertes  is. 

Ham.  I  dare  not  confess  that,  lest  I  should  compare 
with  him  in  excellence  ;  but  to  know  a  man  well  were 
to  know  himself.' 

0.<;r.  I  mean,  sir,  for  his  weapon  ;  but  in  the  impu 
tation  laid  on  him  by  them,  in  his  meed'°  he  's  mifel- 
lowed. 

Ham.  What 's  his  weapon  ? 

Osr.  Rapier  and  dagger. 

Ham.  Tliat  's  two  of  his  weapons  :  but,  well. 

Osr.  The  king,  sir,  hath  wagered  with  him  six  Bar- 
bary  horses  :  against  the  which  he  has  imponed",  as  I 
take  it,  six  French  rapiers  and   poniards,  with   their 


Osr.  Your  lordship  is  right  welcome  back  to  Denmark 

Ham.    I  humbly  thank   you,   sir. — Dost   know  this  I  assigns,  as  girdle,  hangers,  and  1=0."    Tliree  of  the  car- 

Hor.  No,  my  good  lord.  [water-fly?  ;  riages,  in  faith,  are  very  dear  to  fancy,  very  responsive 

to  the  hilts,  most  delicate  carriages,  and  of  very  libera). 

conceit. 


Ham.  Thy  state  is  the  more  gracious,  for  't  is  a  vice 
to  know  him.  He  hath  much  land,  and  fertile  :  let  a 
beast  be  lord  of  beasts,  and  his  crib  shall  stand  at  the 
king's  mess  :  't  is  a  chough* ;  but,  as  I  say',  spacious  in 
the  possession  of  dirt. 

Osr.  Sweet  lord,  if  your  lordship  were  at  leisure,  I 
should  impart  a  thing  To  you  from  his  majesty. 

Ham.  I  will  receive  it,  sir,  with  all  diligence  of 
spirit.     Your  bonnet  to  his  right  use  ;  't  is  for  the  head. 

Osr.  I  thank  your  lordship,  't  is  very  hot. 

Ham.  No.  believe  me,  'tis  very  cold  :  the  wind  is 
northerly. 

Osr.  It  is  indifferent  cold,  my  lord,  indeed. 

Ham.  But  yet,  methinks,  it  is  very  sultry,  and  hot 
for  my  complexion. 

Osr.  Exceedingly,  my  lord ;  it  is  very  sultry,  as 
t  were, — [  cannot  tell  how. — But,  my  lord,  his  majesty 
bade  me  signify  to  yon,  that  he  has  laid  a  great  wager 
pn  your  head.     Sir,  this  is  the  matter. — 

Ham.  I  beseech  you,  remember — 

[Hamlet  moves  him  to  put  on  his  Hat. 

Osr.  Nay,  in  good  faith;  for  mine  ease,  in  good 
faith.*  Sir,  here  is  newly  come  to  court,  Laertes  :  be- 
lieve me,  an  absolute  gentleman,  full  of  most  excellent 
differences,  of  very  .soft  society,  and  great  showing : 
indeed,  to  speak  feelingly''  of  him,  he  is  the  card  or 
calendar  of  gentry,  for  you  shall  find  in  him  the  conti- 
nent of  what  part  a  gentleman  would  see. 

Ham.  Sir,  his  definement  suffers  no  perdition  in  you  : 
though,  I  know,  to  divide  him  inventorially,  would  dizzy 
the  arithmetic  of  memory :  and  yet  but  raw*  neither, 
in  respect  of  his  quick  sail.  But,  in  the  verity  of  ex- 
tolment,  I  take  him  to  be  a  soul  of  great  article  ;  and 
his  infusion  of  such  dearth  and  rareness,  as,  to  make 


Ham.  What  call  you  the  carriages  ? 

Hor.  I  knew,  you  must  be  edified  by  the  margin,  ere- 
>ou  had  done.'" 

Osr.  The  carriages,  sir,  are  the  hangers. 

Ham.  The  phrase  would  be  mere  germane  to  the 
matter,  if  we  could  carry  a  cannon  by  our  sides  :  I 
would,  it  might  be  hangers  fill  then.  But,  on  :  six 
Barbary  horses  against  six  French  swords,  their  assigns, 
and  tliree  liberal-conceited  carnages  ;  that 's  the  French 
bet  asainst  the  Danish.  Why  is  this  imponed,  as  you 
call  it? 

O.sr.  The  king,  sir,  hath  laid,  sir,  that  in  a  dozer 
passes  between  yourself  and  him.  he  shall  not  exceed 
you  three  hits :  he  hath  laid  on  twelve,  for  nine  ,  and 
that  would  come  to  immediate  trial,  if  your  lordship 
would  vouchsafe  the  answer. 

Ham.  How,  if  I  answer,  no? 

O.'ir.  I  mean,  my  lord,  the  opposition  of  your  per.'^on 
in  trial. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  will  walk  here  in  the  hall :  if  it  please 
his  miijesty.  it  is  the  breathing  time  of  day  with  me 
let  the  foils  be  brought,  the  gentleman  willing,  and  tlie 
king  hold  his  purpose.  I  will  win  for  him.  if  I  can ,  if 
not.  I  will  gain  nothing  but  my  shame,  and  the  odd  hits. 

Osr.  Shall  I  deliver  you"  .so? 

Ham.  To  this  effect  sir  :  after  what  flourish  your 
nature  will. 

Osr.  I  commend  my  duty  to  your  lordship.        ( Eci/. 

Ham.  Yours,  yours. — He  does  well  to  commend  .1 
himself;  there  are  no  tongues  else  for  's  turn"'. 

Hor.  This  lapwing  runs  away  with  the  shell  ou  bi« 
head. 


•  This  line  is  not  : 


from  this  word  to  the  entrance  of  0 


i 


•ellingly  :  in"quarto,  1003.      e  yaw  :  in  quarto,  1604.     Dyce  reads 
•  impauiied  :  in  quartos      '=  This  speech  is  not  in  folio.     '^  re-deliver  you  e  en 
2Y 


t  in  ruartos.     '  cou 
'  WTv^t  '«  his  weapon 
9  This  anH  the  next  speech 
n  foliu      ''°  tongue  :  in  folio 


in  folio    Row 

is  not  in  folio 

are  not  in  folio       "•  M'ru 


770 


HAMLET,   PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


ACT    V. 


Ham  He  did  comply*  with  his  dus  before  he  sucked  \ 
it  Thus  has  ho  (and  many*  more  of  the  Fame  brccdV 
thut,  I  know,  the  drossy  aire  dotes  on)  only  cjot  the  tune| 
of  the  time,  and  outward  habit  of  encounter,  a  kind  of 
yenty  collretion,  which  carries  tliem  tlirough  and 
throuch  ihe  most  fond*  and  winnowed  opinions;  and 
do  but  blow  them  to  their  trial,  the  bubbles  are  out. 
Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  My*  lord,  his  majesty  commended  him  to  you  ^ 
by  youns  Osrick.  who  brinjis  back  to  him.  that  you' 
attend  him  in  the  hall:  he  sends  to  know,  if  your 
pleasure  hold  to  play  with  Laertes,  or  that  you  will 
take  longer  time.  I 

Horn.  I  am  constant  to  my  purposes;  they  follow | 
the  king's  pleasure  :  if  his  fitness  speaks,  mine  is  ready  :  [ 
now,  or  whensoever,  provided  I  be  so  able  as  now.         | 

Lord.  The  king,  and  queen,  and  all  are  coming  down. ! 

Ham.   In  happy  time.  \ 

J/yrd.  The  queen  desires  you  to  use  some  gentle  | 
entertainment  to  Laertcfs,  before  you  fall  to  play.  ' 

Ham.  She  well  instructs  me.  [Exit  Lord.  \ 

Hor.  You  will  lose  this  wager,*  my  lord.  j 

Ham.  I  do  not  think  so  :  since  he  went  into  France,  i 
I  have  been  in  continual  practice:  I  shall  win  at  the! 
odds.  Thou  wouldst  not  think,  how  ill  all  is  here' 
about  my  heart ;  but  it  is  no  matter.  j 

Hor.  Nay,  good  my  lord. — 

Ham.  It  is  but  foolery ;  but  it  is  such  a  kind  of  gain- 
givinc,'  as  would,  perhaps,  trouble  a  woman. 

Hor.  If  your  mind  dislike  any  thing,  obey  it :  I  will 
forestall  their  repair  hither,  and  say  you  are  not  fit.       | 

Ham.  Not  a  whit,  we  defy  augury  :  there  is  a  special ' 
providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow.     If  it  be  now,  'tis 
not  to  come  :  if  it  be  not  to  come,  it  vrill  be  now;  if 
it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will  come:  the  readiness  is  all. 
Since  no  man,  of  aught  he  leaves,  knows,  what  is  't  to  ' 
leave  betimes?     Let  be.'  j 

Enter  King.  Queen.  Laertes.  Lord.t.  Osrick.  and      I 
Attcmlants  with  Foils.  cVc.  | 

Kinsr.    Come,  Hamlet ;    come,   and  take  this    hand ! 
from  me. 

( The  King  puts  the  hand  of  Laertes  into  that  of 
Hamlet. 

Ham.  Give   me   your   pardon,  sir  :  I  've  done  you 
•wrong ; 
But  pardon  't,  as  you  are  a  gentleman. 
This  presence  knows, 

And  you  must  needs  have  heard,  how  I  am  punislrd 
With  sore  distraction.     What  I  have  done. 
That  might  your  nature,  honour,  and  exception, 
Roughly  awake,  I  here  {proclaim  was  madness. 
Was  't  Hamlet  wTong'd  Laertes  ?     Never,  Hamlet  : 
If  Hamie'.  from  himself  be  ta'en  away, 
And  when  he  's  not  himself  does  wrong  Laertes, 
Then  Hamlet  does  it  not :  Hamlet  denies  it. 
Who  does  it  then?     His  madness.     If 't  be  so, 
Hamlet  is  of  the  faction  that  is  wrong'd  : 
His  madness  is  poor  Hamlet's  enemy. 
Sir.  in  this  audience.* 
Let  my  di.'^claiming  from  a  purpos'd  evil 
Free  me  so  far  in  your  most  generous  thoughts. 
That  I  have  shot  mine  arrow  o'er  the  house. 
And  hurt  my  brother. 

Lner.  I  am  satisfied  in  nature. 

Whose  motive,  in  thin  ca.se.  should  stir  me  mo.'^t 
To  my  revenge  :  but  in  my  lertrss  of  honour, 
I  Btand  aloo*".  and  will  no  reconcilement, 

•  Complimtnl.     '  mi 
Lord.'''  are  in.:  in  fol-.o 


Till  by  some  elder  masters,  of  kno\vn  honour, 

I  have  a  voice  and  precedent  of  peace, 

To  keep  my  name  ungor'd.     But  till  that  time, 

I  do  receive  your  offcr'd  love  like  love. 

And  will  not  wrong  it. 

Ham.  1  embrace  it  freely; 

And  will  this  brother's  waser  frankly  play. — 
Give  us  the  foils;  come  on.'*  [Foils  hro/ught  ' 

Laer.  Come  ;  one  for  me. 

Ham.  I  '11  be  your  foil.  Laertes  :  in  mine  ignorance 
Your  skill  shall,  like  a  star  i'  the  darkest  night, 
Stick  fiery  off  indeed. 

Laer.  You  mock  me.  sir. 

Ham.  No,  by  this  hand. 

King.  Give  them  the  foils,  young  Osrick     -Couein 
Hamlet, 
You  Iniow  the  wager? 

Ham.  Ver>'  well,  my  lord; 

Your  grace  hath  laid  the  odds  o'  the  weaker  side. 

King.  I  do  not  fear  it :  I  have  seen  ^au  both  ; 
But  since  he  is  better,  we  have  therefore  odds. 

Laer.  This  is  too  heavy  :  let  me  see  another. 

Ham.  This  likes  me  well.     These  foils  have  all  a 
length  ?  [They  prepare  to  play 

Osr.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Set  me  the  stoops  of  wine  upon  that  table.-- 
If  Hamlet  give  the  first  or  second  hit, 
Or  quit  in  answer  of  the  third  exchange. 
Let  all  the  battlements  their  ordnance  fire  ; 
The  king  shall  drink  to  Hamlet's  better  breath  : 
And  in  the  cup  an  union"  shall  he  throw, 
Richer  than  that  which  four  successive  kings 
In  Denmark's  crown  have  worn.     Give  me  the  cups , 
And  let  the  kettle  to  the  trumpet  speak, 
The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  without. 
The  cannons  to  the  heavens,  the  heavens  to  earth, 
••  Now  the  king  drinks  to  Hamlet !" — Come,  begin  ; — 
And  you.  the  judges,  bear  a  wary  eye. 

Ham.  Come  on,  sir. 

Laer.  Come,  my  lord.      [They  play 

Ham.  One 

Laer.  No. 

Ham.  Judgment 

Osr.  A  hit,  a  verj'  palpable  hit. 

Laer.  Well  : — again. 

King.  Stay ;  give  me  drink.     Hamlet,  this  pearl  it 
thine  ; 
Here's  to  thy  health. — Give  him  the  cup. 

[Tn/mpet.s  sound  ;  and  Cannon  shot  off  withiu 

Ham.  I  'II  play  this  bout  first ;  set  it  by  awhile. — 
Come. — Another  hit;  what  say  you  ?  [They  play 

Laer.  A  touch  :  a  touch.  I  do  confess. 

King.  Our  son  shall  win. 

Queen.  He  's  fat,  and  scant  of  breath.- 

Here  is  a  napkin,  rub  thy  brows,  my  son  :" 
The  queen  carouses  to  thy  fortune,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Good  madam, — 

King.  Gertrude,  do  not  drink. 

Queen.  I  will,  my  lora  :   I  pray  vou,  pardon  me. 

[She  drinh 

King.  It  is  the  poison'd  cup  !  it  is  too  late.    [A.tidt 

Ham.  ]  dare  not  drink  yet,  madam  ;  by  and  by. 

Qvfen.  Come,  let  me  wipe  thy  face. 

Laer.  My  lord,  I  '11  hit  him  now. 

King.  I  do  no*  think  U 

fjvr.   And  yet  it  is  almost  against  mv  conscience. 

lA.'ndi 

in  fc'io      >  htvj  :  in  folio.     ♦  'Warbtirtoii  ntit :  fand  (fnnntd).     »  This  and  the  followin?  speeches  to,  "  P'"' 
'  lhi«  •WAcrr"  is  not  in  qnarto.     '  Mi.tgirtng.     '  So  the  quarto.  Ifini,    Since  no  man  ha*  aught  of  what  he  lea*« 

•h»t  n  "t  t>  leave  betimes  :  in  folio      »  This  line  is  not  in  qaartos.     '»"  oome  on"  :  not  in  quartos.     "  Not  in  f   e.     ^^  A  rich  ptarl ;  ooJ* 

IB  qnuioi..   rxrepi  ihit  of  I6(m      "  »«•:►,  HamUt,  Ulte  my  napkin,  rub  thy  browi:  in  f.  e. 


SCENE   ri. 


HAMLET,   PPJNCE   OF   DEX]\IA1{K. 


Ham.  Come,  for  the  third,  Laertes.     You  but  dally : 
I  pray  you,  pass  wi^h  your  best  violence. 
I  am  afeard',  you  make  a  wanton  of  me. 

Laer.  Say  you  so  ?  come  on.  [They  play. 

Osr.  Notliing,  neither  way. 

Laer.  Have  at  you  now. 

[Laertes  wounds  Hamlet  ;  then,  in  sniffling  they 
change  Rapiers,  and  Hamlet  wounds  Laertes. 

King  Part  them  !  they  are  ineens'd. 

Ham.  Nay,  come  again. 

Osr  Look  to  the  queen  there,  ho  ? 

Hor.  They  bleed  on  both  sides. — How  is  it,  my  lord  ? 

Osr.  How  is 't,  Laertes  ? 

Laer.  Why,    as  a  woodcock  to  mine  own'  springe, 
Osrick  : 
I   im  justly  kill'd  with  mine  ovrai  treachery. 

Ham.  How  does  the  Queen  ? 

King.  She  swoons  to  see  them  bleed. 

Queen.    No.   no,  the  drink,  the   drink. — 0  my  dear 
Hamlet ! — 
Tie  drink,  the  drink  :   I  am  poison'd.  [Dies. 

Ham.  0  villainy  ! — How?  let  the  door  be  lock'd  : 
Treachery  !  seek  it  out.  [Laertes  falls. 

Laer.  It  is  here,  Hamlet.     Hamlet,  thou  art  slain: 
No  medicine  in  the  world  can  do  thee  good  : 
In  thee  there  is  not  half  an  hour  of  ^  life ; 
The  treacherous  instrument  is  in  thy  hand, 
Unbated,  and  envenom'd.     The  foul  practice 
Hath  turn'd  itself  on  me  :  lo  !  here  I  lie. 
Never  to  rise  again.     Thy  mother  's  poison'd  : 
I  can  no  more.     The  king,  the  king's  to  blame. 

Ham.  The  point 
Envenom'd  too  ' — Then,  venom,  to  thy  work. 

[Stabs  the  King. 

All.  Treason  !  treason  ! 

King.  O  !  yet  defend  me,  friends  :  I  am  but  hurt. 

Ham.    Here,   thou    incestuous,   murderous,   damned 
Dane, 
Drink  off  this  potion  : — is  thy  union  here  ? 
Follow  my  mother.  [King  dies. 

Laer.  He  is  Justly  serv'd  ; 

It  is  a  poison  temper'd  by  him.^elf — 
Exchange  forgiveness  with  me.  noble  Hamlet: 
Mine  and  my  father's  death  come  not  upon  thee 


Os 


,What  warlike  noise  is  this' 
Fortinbras,   with  conquest  come   from 


f)us 


Nor  thine  on  me  ! 


Ham.  Heaven  make  thee  free  of  it  !  I  follow  thee. — 
1  am  dead,  Horatio. — Wretched  queen,  adieu  !- 
You  that  look  pale  and  tremble  at  this  chance. 
That  are  but  mutes  or  audience  to  this  act, 
Had  I  but  time,  (as  this  fell  sergeant,  death, 
Is  strict  in  his  arrest)  0  !  I  could  tell  you, — 
But  let  it  be. — Horatio,  I  am  dead; 
Thou  liv'st :  report  me  and  my  cause  aright* 
To  the  unsatisfied. 


Young 
Poland 
To  the  ambassadors  of  England  gives 
This  warlike  volley. 

Ham.  O  !  I  die,  Horatio; 

The  potent  poison  qxiite  o'er-crows'  my  spirit  : 
I  cannot  live  to  hear  the  news  from  England  . 
But  I  do  prophesy  the  election  lights 
[The  Qricin  falls. !  On  Fortinbras  :  he  has  my  dying  voice  ; 

So  tell  him,  with  the  occurrents.  more  and  less. 
Which  have  solicited — The  rest  is  silence. 

Hor.  Now  cracks  a  noble  heart. — Good  nighi 
prince : 
And  flights  of  angels  smg  thee  to  thy  rest  I 
Why  does  the  drum  come  hither?  [March  tatlktu. 

Enter  Fortinbras,  the  English  Ambassadors,  and  others. 

Fort.  Where  is  this  sight  ? 

Hor.  What  is  it  ye  would  sec  ' 

If  aught  of  woe,  or  wonder,  cease  your  search. 

Fort.  This  quarry  cries  on  havock. — 0  proud  death  I 
What  feast  is  toward  in  thine  eternal  cell. 
That  thou  so  many  princes  at  a  shot 
So  bloodily  hast  struck  ? 

1  Amb.  The  sight  is  dismal, 

And  our  affairs  from  England  come  too  late: 
The  ears  are  senseless  that  should  give  us  hearing. 
To  tell  him  his  commandment  is  fulfill'd. 
That  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  are  dead. 
Where  should  we  have  our  thanks  ? 

Hor.  Not  from  his  mouth, 

Had  it  th'  ability  of  life  to  thank  you  : 
He  never  gave  commandment  for  their  death. 
But  since,  so  jump  upon  this  bloody  question. 
You  from  the  Polack  wars,  and  you  from  England, 
Are  here  arriv'd,  give  order  that  these  bodies 
High  on  a  si  age  be  placed  to  the  view  ; 
And  let  me  speak  to  the  yet  unknowing  world. 
How  these  things  came  about ;  so  ?ha.\\  you  hear 
Of  carnal,  bloody,  and  unnatural  acts. 
Of  accidental  judgments,  casual  slaughters. 
Of  deaths  put  on  by  cunning,  and  forc'd*  cause. 
And.  in  this  upshoj,  purposes  mistook 
Fall'n  on  the  inventors'  heads.     All  this  can  1 
Truly  deliver. 

Fort.  Let  us  ha.<;te  to  hear  it, 

And  call  the  noblest  to  the  audience. 
For  me,  with  sorrow  I  embrace  my  fortune  : 
I  have  some  rights  of  memory  in  this  kingdom. 
Which  now  to  claim  my  vantage  doth  invite  me. 

Hor.   Of  that  I  shall  have  also  cau.^e  to  speak, 
!  And  from  his  mouth  whose  voice  will  draw  on  mote 
j  Rut  let  this  scene  be  presently  perform'd. 
Even  while  men's  minds  are  wild,  lest  more  mischance 


[Dies. 


Hor. 


Never  believe  it:  [Taking  the  Cxif."  \0n  plots  and  errors,  happen 


I  am  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Dane  : 
Here  's  yet  some  liquor  left. 

Ham.  As  thou  'rt  a  man. 

Give  me  the  cup  :  let  go  ;  by  heaven  I  '11  have  it. — 

[Struggling  :  Hamld  gets  the  Cnp.* 
0  God  ! — Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name. 
Things  standing  thus  unknown,  shall   live  behind  me  ! 
If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breatti  in  pain, 
To  tell  my  story.—     [Mcrch  afar  off,  and  Shot  ivithin. 


Fort.  Let  four  captains 

Bear  Hamlet,  like  a  soldier,  to  the  stage; 
For  he  was  likely,  had  he  been  put  on. 
To  have  prov'd  most  royally :  and  for  his  passage, 
The  soldiers'  music,  and  the  rites  of  war. 
Speak  loudly  for  him. — 
Take  up  the  body. — Such  a  sight  &s  this 
Becomes  the  field,  but  here  shows  much  amiss. 
Go,  bid  the  soldiers  shoot.  [A  dead  March.  ^ 

[Exeunt,  marching  ;  after  which,  a  pea! 
Ordnance  is  shot  off. 


juartos      »  Not  in  folio.     3  half  an  hour's!  :  in  quartos.     ♦  lauses  right ; 
dated  qii.to,  and  these  of  1011-37.       »  for  no  :  in  quartos.     »  same  .  in 


folio. 


not  ID  f 


KING    LEAR 


DRAMATIS    PERSONJ^. 


Lear  King  of  Britain. 

King  )f  France. 

Duke  of  Burgundy. 

Duke  of  Cornwall. 

Duke  of  Albany, 

Earl  of  Kent. 

Earl  of  Gloster. 

Edgar,  Son  to  Gloster. 

Edmind,  Bastard  Son  to  Gloster. 

Cl'ran,  a  Courtier. 

Oswald.  Steward  to  Gonenl. 


Old  Man,  Tenant  to  Gloster. 

Physician. 

Fool. 

An  Officer,  employed  by  Edmund. 

Gentleman,  Attendant  on  Cordelia. 

A  Herald. 

Servants  to  Cornwall. 


Goneril. 

Regan, 

Cordelia, 


Daughters  to  Lear. 


Knights  of  Lear's  Train,  Officers,  Messengers,  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE,  Britain. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  L— A  Room  of  State  in  King  Lear's  Palace. 
Enter  Kent.  Gloster,  and  Edmund. 

Kent.  I  thought,  the  king  had  more  affected  the 
duke  of  Albany,  than  Cornwall. 

Glo.  It  did  always  seem  so  to  us  :  but  now,  in  the 
di^^sion  of  the  kingdoms,  it  appears  not  which  of  the 
dukes  he  values  most  ;  for  equalities'  are  .«o  weighed, 
that  curiosity  in  neitlier  can  make  choice  of  cither's 
moiety. 

Kfnt.  Is  not  this  your  son,  my  lotd  ? 

Glo.  His  breeding,  sir,  hath  been  at  my  charge  :  I 
have  80  often  blushed  to  acknowledge  him,  that  now  I 
am  brazed  to  it. 

Kent.  I  cannot  conceive  you. 

Glo.  Sir,  this  young  fellow's  mother  could  ;  where- 
ujton  she  grew  round- wombed,  and  had,  indeed,  sir,  a 
aon  for  her  cradle  ere  she  had  a  husband  for  her  bed. 
Ho  you  smell  a  fault? 

Kent.  I  cannot  wish  the  fault  undone,  the  issue  of 
it  being  .so  proper. 

Glo.  But  I  have  a  son.  sir,  by  order  of  law.  some 
year  elder  than  "his,  who  yet  is  no  dearer  in  my 
account:  though  tliis  knave  came  somewhat  saucily 
into*  the  world,  before  he  wa«  sent  for,  yet  was  his 
motner  fair,  there  was  good  sport  at  his  making,  and 
the  whoreson  must  be  acknowledged  — Do  you  know 
this  nobln  gentleman,  Edmund  ? 

Edm    No.  my  lord. 

Gh.  My  lord  of  Kent :  remember  him  hereafter  as 
my  honourable  friend. 

Edm.   My  services  to  your  lordship. 

Kent.  I  must  love  you,  and  sue  to  know  you  better. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  shall  study  deserving. 

Glo.  He  hath  been  out  nine  years,  and  away  he 
*hall  again. — The  king  is  coming.  [Sennet  within. 


Enter  Lear,  Cornwall,  Albany,  Goneril^  Regan, 
Cordelia,  o?id  Attendants. 

Lear.  Attend  the  lords  of  France   and    Burgundy 
Gloster. 

Glo.  I  shall,  my  liege. '[Exetmf  Gloster  arj(^  EcMUNn 

Lear.  Mean-time,  we  shall  express  our  darker  pur- 
pose. 
Give  me  the  map  there. — Know,  that  we  have  divided, 
In  three,  our  kingdom  :  and  't  is  our  fast  intent 
To  shake  all  cares  and  business  from  our  age,* 
Conferring*  them  on  younger  strengths,*  while  we 
Unburden'd  crawl  toward  death. — Our  son  of  Cornwall, 
And  you,  our  no  less  loving  !<on  of   Albany, 
We  have  this  hour  a  constant  will  to  publish 
Our  daughters'  several  dowers,  that  future  strife 
May  be    prevented    now.      The   princes,  France  and 

Burgundy, 
Great  rivals  in  our  youngest  daughter's  love, 
Long  in  our  court  have  made  their  amorous  sojourn. 
And  here  are  to  be  answer'd. — Tell  me,  my  daughter"!, 
(Since  now  we  will  divest  us,  both  of  rule,' 
Interest  of  territory,  cares  of  state) 
Which  of  you,  shall  we  say,  doth  love  us  most  ? 
That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 
Where  nature  doth  witli  merit  challenge.* — Goneril. 
Our  eldest-born,  speak  first. 

Gon.   I  love'  you  more  than  words  can  wield  th« 
matter  ; 
Dearer  than  eye-sight,  space,  and  liberty  ; 
Beyond  what  can  be  valued,  rich  or  rare: 
No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health,  beauty,  honour  : 
As  much  as  child  e"cr  lov'd,  or  father  found; 
A  love  that  makes  breath  poor,  and  speech  unable , 
Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love  you. 

Cor.    What  shall  Cordelia  speak?"     Love,  and  bt 
silent.  [A.^t 


'  qualities  :  in   folio.      »  to  :  in   foli 
Ttij«  iBii  the  next  line,  are  m:  in  foli 

772 


'  lord  :  in  folio.      «  of  onr  state  :  in  qnarto*.      »  Confirming  : 
'  Where  merit  moat  doth  challenge  it  :  in  quarto*      '  Sir,  I  lov 


SCENE   I. 


KMG  LEAR. 


778 


Lear.  Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from  this  line  to  this, 
With  Fhadowy'  forests,  and  with  champains  rich'd, 
With  plenteous  rivers  and  -vs-ide-skirted  meads, 
We  make  thee  lady  :  to  thine  and  Albany's  issue 
Be  this  perpetual. — What  says  our  second  daughter, 
Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  of  Cornwall  ?     Speak.* 

Reg.  I  am  made  of  that  self  metal  as  my  sister, 
And  prize  me  at  her  worth.     In  my  true  heart 
I  find,  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love; 
Only  she  comes  too  short,  that  I  profess 
Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys. 
Which  the  most  precious  sphere'  of  sense  possesses,* 
And  find.  I  am  alone  felicitate 
In  your  dear  highness'  love. 

Cor.  Then,  poor  Cordelia  ! 

[Aside. 
And  yet  not  so  :  since.  I  am  sure,  my  love  's 
More  plenteous-  than  my  tongue. 

Lear.  To  thee,  and  thine,  hereditary  ever, 
Remain  this  ample  third  of  our  fair  kingdom  ; 
No  less  in  .^pace.  validity,  and  pleasure, 
Than  that  conferr'd  on  Goneril. — Now,  our  joy. 
Although  our  last,  not  least  :  to  whose  young  love 
The  vines  of  France,  and  milk  of  Burgundy, 
Strive  to  be  interess'd  ;  what  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters?     Speak. 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Nothing? 

Car.  Nothing. 

Lear.  Nothing  will  come  of  nothing  :  speak  again. 

('or.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth  :  I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond ;  nor  more,  nor  less. 

Lear.  How?  how,   Cordelia?   mend  your  speech    a 
little. 
Lest  you  may  mar  your  fortunes. 

Cor.  Good  my  lord. 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me.  lov'd  me  :  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit, 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honour  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say. 
They  love  v\m  all  ?     Haply,  when  I  shall  wed, 
That  lord,  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight,  shall  carry 
Half  my  love  with  him.  half  my  care,  and  duty: 
Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
To  love  my  father  all.' 

Lear.  But  goes  this  with  thy  heart  ? 

Cor.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear.  So  young,  and  so  untender  ? 

Cor.  So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear.  Let  it  be  so  :  thy  truth,  then,  be  thy  dower ; 
For.  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun. 
The  mysteries  of  Hecate,  and  the  night, 
By  all  the  operation  of  the  orbs. 
From  whom  we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be, 
Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care. 
Propinquity  and  property  of  blood. 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me. 
Hold  thee  from  this  for  ever.     The  barbarouf-  Scythian, 
Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighboured,  pitied,  and  reliev'd. 
As  thou,  my  sometime  daughter. 

Kent.       '  Good  my  liege. — 

Lear.  Peace.  Kent ! 
Come  not  between  the  dragon  and  his  wrath. 
T  lov'd  her  most,  and  thought  to  set  my  rest 


j  On  her  kind  nursery. — Hence,  and  avoid  my  sight  ! — 

[To  CORDITLIA 

j  So  be  my  grave  my  peace,  as  h«re  I  give 
Her  fathers  heart  from  her  ! — Call  France. — Who  stirs  ' 
\  Call  Burgundy. — Cornwall,  and  Albany, 
With  my  two  daughters"  dowers  digest  the  third: 
Let  pride,  which  she  calls  plainne-ss,  marry  her. 
1 1  do  invest  you  jointly  with  my  power. 
Pre-eminence,  and  all  the  large  effects 
That  troop  with  majesty. — Ourself.  by  monthly  courtr 
With  reservation  of  an  hundred  knights, 
iBy  you  to  be  sustain'd.  shall  our  abode 
Make  with  you  by  due  turns.     Only,  we  still'  retaiij 
jThe  name,  and  all  th'  additions  to  a  king; 
[  The  sway,  revenue,  execution  of  the  rest, 
i  Beloved  sons,  be  yours  :  which  to  confirm. 
j  This  coronet  part  between  you.        [Giving  the  Crotort 
I      Kent.  Royal  Lear. 

I  Whom  I  have  ever  honour'd  as  my  king. 
Lov'd  as  my  father,  a-s  my  master  follow'd. 
And  as  my  patron^  thought  on  in  my  prayers. — 

Lear.  The  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  make   from  the 
shaft. 

Kent.  Let  it  fall  rather,  though  the  fork  invade 
The  region  of  my  heart :  be  Kent  unmannerly. 
When  Lear  is  mad. — What  wouldst  thou  do.  old  man  ? 
Think'st  thou,  that  duty  shall  have  dread  to  speak, 
When  power  to  flattery  bows  ?     To  plainness  honour  '(■ 

bound. 
When  majesty  stoops'  to  folly.     Reverse  thy  doom'"; 
And  in  thy  best  consideration  check 
This  hideous  rashness  :  answer  my  life  my  judgment, 
Thy  youngest  daughter  does  not  love  thee  least ; 
Nor  are  those  empty-hearted,  whose  low  sound 
Reverbs  no  hoUowness. 

Lear.  Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more. 

Kent.  My  life  I  never  held  but  as  a  pawn 
To  wage  against  thine  enemies  ;  nor"  fear  to  lose  it, 
Thy  safety  being  the  motive. 

Lear.  Out  of  my  sight  I 

Kent.  See  better,  Lear;  and  let  me  still  remain 
The  true  blank  of  thine  eye. 

Lear.  Now,  by  Apollo, — 

Kent.  Now,  by  Apollo,  king. 

Thou  swear' st  thy  gods  in  vain. 

Lear.  '       O.  va.«sal  !  recreant'* 

[Laying  his  hand  upon  his  Stcor-i 

Alb.  Corn.  Dear  sir,  forbear." 

Kent.  Do; 
Kill  thy  physician,  and  the  fee  bestow 
Upon  tiie  foul  disease.     Revoke  thy  gift'*  ; 
Or,  whilst  I  can  vent  clamour  from  my  throat, 
I  '11  tell  thee,  thou  dost  evil. 

Lear.  Hear  me.  recreant ! 

On  thine  allegiance  hear  me. 
Since  thou  hast  sought  to  make  us  break  our  vow. 
(Which  we  durst  never  yet)  and.  with  strain'd'*  prii« 
To  come  betwixt  our  sentence  and  our  power. 
(Which  nor  our  nature  nor  our  place  can  bear) 
Our  potency  made  good,  take  thy  reward. 
Five  days  we  do  allot  thee  for  provision 
To  shield  thee  from  diseases  of  the  world. 
And  on  the  sixth  to  turn  thy  hated  back 
Upon  our  kingdom  :  if  the  seventh'*  day  following, 
Thy  banish'd  trunk  be  found  in  our  dominions, 
The  moment  is  thy  death.     Away  !     By  Jupiter, 
This  shall  not  be  revok"d. 


«  Aady  :  in  quartos.  »  Not  in  folio.  »  sqnare  :  in  f.  e 
foao.  '  shall  :  in  folio.  8  As  my  great  patron  :  in  f.  i 
kntant    in  folio       i' Not  i  n  quartos,      i*  doom  :  in  quartos. 


*  professes  :  in  folio.     »  richer  :  in  f.  e. :  ponderous  :  in  folio.     '.Thii  .jne,  ■«  IB 
»  falls  :  in  foUo.      ><>  Reserve  thr  state  :  in  folio.      i>  ne  er  :  in  foho       »»  Bi*- 


774 


KING  LEAR. 


Kint.  Fare   thee   well,  king :   since  thus  thou  wilt 
appear, 
Freedom'  lives  hence,  and  banishment  is  here. — 
The  gods  to  their  dear  shelter'  take  thee,  maid, 

[To  Cordelia. 
That  justly  think'st,  and  hast  most  rightly  said  ! — 
.A. lid  your  large  speeches  may  your  deeds  approve. 

[7b  Regan  and  Goneril. 
I'h.Tt  good  oflects  may  spring  tVom  words  of  love. — 
Thus  Kent.  C  princes  !   bids  you  all  adieu  : 
tic  Ml  shape  his  old  course  in  a  country  new.        [Exit. 
Flourish.      Re-enter   Gloster.    with    France,    Bur- 
gundy, and  Attendants. 

Glo.  Here  's  France  and  Burgundy,  my  noble  lord. 

Lrar.  My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
We  !irst  addre.«s  toward  you.  who  with  this  king 
Hath  rivalld  for  our  daushter  :  what,  in  the  lea-^t, 
Will  you  require  in  present  dower  with  her, 
<  )r  (va.se  your  quest  of  love  ? 

Bur.  Most  royal  majesty, 

I  crave  no  more  than  hath'  your  highness  offered, 
Nor  will  you  tender  less. 

L'ar.  Right  noble  Burgvuidy. 

When  she  was  dear  to  us,  we  did  hold  her  so  ; 
But  now  her  price  is  fall'n.     Sir.  there  she  stands  : 
It  aught  within  that  little  seeming  substance, 
Or  all  of  it,  with  our  dis])leasure  piec'd. 
And  nothing  more,  may  fitly  like  your  grace, 
She  "s  there,  and  she  is  yours. 

Jivr.  I  know  no  answer. 

Lear.  Will  you,  with  those  infirmities  she  owes, 
Unfriended,  new-adopted  to  our  hate. 
Dower'd*  with  our  curse,  and  stranger'd  with  our  oath, 
Take  her.  or  leave  her  ? 

Bur.  Pardon  me,  royal  sir  ; 

Kipction  makes  not  up  on  such  conditions. 

Lear.  Then  leave  her,  sir;  for.  by  the  power  that 
made  me, 
I  tell  you  all  her  wealth. — For  you,  great  king, 

[To  France. 
I  would  not  from  your  love  make  such  a  stray, 
To  match  you  where  I  hate  :  therefore,  beseech  you 
T"  avert  your  liking  a  more  worthier  way. 
Than  on  a  wretch  whom  nature  is  asham'd 
Almost  t'  acknowledge  hers. 

France.  This  is  most  strange, 

That  she,  that  even  but  now  was  your  blest  object, 
The  argument  of  your  praise,  balm  of  your  age. 
Most'  best,  most*  dearest,  should  in  this  trice  of  time 
('ommit  a  thing  so  mon.strous,  to  dismantle 
So  many  folds  of  favour.     Sure,  her  offence 
Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree, 
Tiiat  monsters  it,  or  your  fore-vouch'd  affection 
Fall  11  into  taint :  which  to  believe  of  her, 
Must  be  a  faith  that  rea.son.  without  miracle, 
Could'  never  plant  in  me. 

Cor.  I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, 

(If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art. 
To  speak  and  purpo.se  not.  since  what  I  well  intend, 
F  "11  do  't  before  I  speak)  that  you  make  known 
It  is  no  viciouK  blot,  nor  other  foulness.* 
No  uncha.ste*  action,  or  dishonour'd  stoop". 
Tha'  hath  depriv'd  me  of  your  grace  and  favour; 
But  even  for  want  of  that  for  which  I  am  richer, 
A  siill-Rolicitins  eye.  and  such  a  tonsue 
Timt  1  am  fjlad  I  have  not.  though  not  to  have  it, 
Hath  lost  rae  in  your  liking. 


Lear.  Better  thou 

Hadst  not  been  born,  than  not  to  have  pleasd  me  better 

Frarue.  Is  it"  but  this?  a  tardiness  in  nature, 
Which  often  leaves  the  history  un.spoke, 
That  it  intends  to  do? — My  lord  of  Burgtindy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady?     Love  is  not  love, 
When  it  is  mingled  with  respects,  that  stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point.     W^ill  you  have  her  ? 
She  is  herself  a  dowry." 

Bur.  Royal  Lear," 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  propos'd, 
And  here  T  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand. 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

Lear.  Nothing  :   1  have  sworn  :  I  am  firm. 

Bur.  I  am  sorry,  then,  you  have  so  lost  a  father, 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

Cor.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy: 

Since  that  respects  of*  fortune  are  his  love, 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

France.  Fairest  Cordelia,  that  art  most  rich,  being 
poor, 
Most  choice,  forsaken,  and  most  lo\-~'d.  despis'd, 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon : 
Be  it  lawful,  I  take  up  what 's  cast  away. 
Gods,  gods  !  't  is  strange,  that  from  their  coldest  neglect 
My  love  should  kindle  to  inflam'd  respect. — 
Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to  my  chance, 
Is  queen  of  us.  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France  : 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  waterish  Burgundy 
Shall"  buy  this  unpriz'd  precious  maid  of  me. — 
Bid  them  farewell,  Cordelia,  though  unkind : 
Thou  losest  here,  a  better  where"  to  find. 

Lear.  Thou  hast  her.  France  :  let  her  be  thine,  for  we 
Have  no  such  daughter,  nor  shall  ever  see 
That  face  of  hers  again : — Therefore,  be  gone 
Without  our  grace,  our  love,  our  benison. — 
Come,  noble  Burgundy. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  Lear.  Burgundy,  Corn- 
wall, Albany,  Gloster,  and  AtteTidants. 

France.  Bid  farewell  to  your  sisters. 

Cor    Ye  jewels  of  our  father,  with  wash'd  eyes 
Cordelia  leaves  you :  I  know  you  what  you  are  ; 
And,  like  a  sister,  am  most  loath  to  call 
Your  faults   as  they   are   nam'd.      Love  "   well    our 
To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him ;  [father : 

But  yet.  alas  !  stood  I  within  his  grace, 
I  would  prefer  him  to  a  better  place. 
So,  farewell  to  you  both. 

Gon.  Prescribe  not  us  our  duty. 

Re(T,  Let  your  study 

Be  to  content  your  lord,  who  hath  receiv'd  you 
As  fortune's  alms  :  you  have  obedience  scanted. 
And  well  are  worth  the  want  that  you  have  wanted. 

Cor.  Time  shall  unfold  what  plighted  cumiing  hides ; 
Who  cover  faults,  at  last  shame  them'*  derides. 
Well  may  you  prosper  ! 

France.  Come,  my  fair  Cordelia. 

[Exeunt  France  and  Cordfma. 

Gon.  Sister,  it  is  not  little  I  have  to  say  of  what 
most  nearly  appertains  to  us  both.  I  think,  our  father 
will  hence  to-night. 

Reg.  That 's  most  certain,  and  with  you ;  next  month 
with  us. 

Gon.  You  see  how  full  of  changes  his  age  is;  the 
observation  we  have  made  of  it  hath  not"  been  little: 
he  always  loved  our  sister  most,  and  with  what  poor 
judgment  he  hath  now  ca^  her  off  appears  too  grossly. 


«  Fhendihip  :  m  qnartnc. 
nnuder,  or  ioalnesii ;  in  f. 
'  king  :  in  folio,     u  and  : 


'  protection  :  in  quarto*. 

•  unclean  :   in    quarto 

folio.     '»  Can  :  in  folio 


what :  in  qna-to«. 

">  step  :  in   f  e. 


Cover'd  :  in  quartos.     »  •  the  :  in  folio.     '  Should  :  in  i 

I  no  more   but  this  :  in  quartos       "  and  dower :  in  qnirtQ* 
luarvos.     '•  with  shsjne  :  in  folio.     •*  Not  in  folic 


8CENE   11. 


KING  LEAR. 


775 


Reg.  'T  is  the  infirmity  of  his  age ;  yet  he  hath  ever 
but  slenderly  known  himself. 

Gon.  The  best  and  soundest  of  his  time  hath  been 
h  ut  rash  ;  then,  must  we  look  to  receive  from  his  age, 
not  alone  the  imperfections  of  long-engrafted  condition, 
but,  therewithal,  the  unruly  waywardness  that  infirm 
and  choleric  years  bring  with  them. 

Reg.  Such  unx)nstant  starts  are  we  like  to  have 
from  him,  as  this  of  Kent's  banishment. 

Gon.  There  is  farther  compliment  of  leave-taking 
between  France  and  him.  Pray  you,  let  us  hit'  toge- 
ther :  if  our  father  carry  authority  with  such  dispo- 
sitions as  he  bears,  this  last  surrender  of  his  will  but 
offend  us. 

Reg.  We  shall  farther  think  of  it. 

Gon.  We  must  do  somethmg,  and  i'  the  heat. 

[Exeiint. 

8CENE  II.— A  Hall  in  the  Earl  of  Gloster's  Castle. 
Enter  Edmund,  the  Bastard,  with  a  Letter. 

Edm.  Thou,  nature,  art  my  goddess  :  to  thy  law 
My  services  are  bound.     Wherefore  sliould  I 
Stand  on  the  plague  of  custom,  and  permit 
The  curiosity'  of  nations  to  deprive  me, 
For  that  I  am  some  twelve  or  fourteen  moon-shines 
Lag  of  a  brother  ?     Why  bastard  ?  wherefore  base, 
When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 
My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true, 
As  honest  madam's  issue?     Why  brand  they  us 
With  base  ?  with  baseness  ?  bastardy  ?  base,  base  ? 
Who  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  nature  take 
More  composition  and  fierce  quality, 
Than  doth  within  a  dull,  stale,  tired  bed, 
Go  to  the  creating  a  whole  tribe  of  fops. 
Got  'tween  asleep  and  wake  ? — Well  then, 
Legitimate  Edgar,  I  must  have  your  land : 
Our  father's  love  is  to  the  bastard  Edmund, 
As  to  the  legitimate.     Fine  word, — lesitimate  !' 
Well,  my  legitimate,  if  this  letter  speed. 
And  my  invention  thrive,  Edmund  the  base 
Shall  top  the  legitimate.     I  grow;  I  prosper  : — 
Now,  gods,  stand  up  for  bastards  !      [RcmIs  the  Letter.* 
Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Kent  banish'd  thus  !      And  France   in  choler 
parted  ! 
And  the  king  gone  to-night  !  subscrib'd'  his  power  ! 
Confin'd  to  exhibition' !  ~  All  this  done 
Upon  the  gad  ! — Edmund  ?     How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Edm.  So  please  your  lordship,  none. 

[Hiding  the  Letter. 

Glo.   Why  so  earnestly  seek   you  to  put  up   that 
letter  ? 

Edm.  I  know  no  news,  my  lord. 

Glo.  What  paper  were  you  reading  ? 

Edm.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Glo.  No  !  What  needed,  then,  that  terrible  de- 
spatch of  it  into  vour  pocket  ?  the  quality  of  nothing 
hath  not  such  need  to  hide  itself.  Let 's  see .  come ; 
if  it  be  nothing,  I  shall  not  need  spectaoks. 

Edm.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  pardon  me:  '.  is  a  letter 
from  my  brother,  that  I  have  not  all  o'er-read  ;  and  for 
BO  much  as  I  have  perused,  I  find  it  not  fit  for  your 
o'erlooking'. 

Glo.  Give  me  the  letter,  sir. 

Edm.  I  shall  offend,  either  to  detain  or  give  it. 
The  contents,  as  in  part  I  understand  them, 
Are  to  blame. 


Gin.  Let 's  see,  let 's  see. 

Edm.  I  hope,  for  my  brother's  justification,  he  wrote 
this  but  as  an  essay  or  taste  of  my  virtue. 

Glo.  [Reads.]  "  This  policy,  and  reverence*  of  age. 
makes  the  world  bitter  to  the  best  of  our  times;  keeps 
our  fortunes  from  us,  till  our  oldness  cannot  relish 
them.  I  begin  to  find  an  idle  and  fond  bondage  in  the 
oppression  of  aged  tyranny,  who  sways,  not  a.-;  it  hath 
power,  but  as  it  is  suffered.  Come  to  me,  that  of  this 
I  may  speak  more.  If  our  father  would  sleep  till  I 
waked  him.  you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue  for  ever, 
and  live  the  beloved  of  your  brother.  Eug.\r."— 
Humph  ! — Conspiracy  ! — "  Sleep  till  I  waked  him, — 
you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue.'' — My  son  Edgar ! 
Had  he  a  hand  to  write  this?  a  heart  and  brain  to 
breed  it  in  ? — When  came  this  to  you  ?'  Who 
brought  it  ? 

Edm.  It  was  not  brought  me,  my  lord ;  there  's  the 
cunning  of  it :  I  found  it  thrown  in  at  the  casement  of 
my  closet. 

Glo.  You  know  the  character  to  be  your  brother's? 

Edm.  If  the  matter  were  good,  my  lord,  I  durst 
swear  it  were  his ;  but,  in  respect  of  that.  I  would  fain 
think  it  were  not. 

Glo.  It  is  his. 

Edm.  It  is  his  hand,  my  lord ;  but,  I  hope,  his  heart 
is  not  in  the  contents. 

Glo.  Hath  he  never  heretofore  sounded  you  in  this 
business  ? 

Edm.  Never,  my  lord ;  but  I  have  often  heard  him 
maintain  it  to  be  fit,  that  sons  at  perfect  age,  and 
fathers  declined,  the  father  should  be  as  ward  to  the 
son.  and  the  son  manage  his  revenue. 

Glo.  0  villain,  villain! — His  very  opinion  in  the 
letter  ! — Abhorred  villain  i  Unnatural,  detested,  brutish 
\-illain  !  worse  than  brutish  ! — Go,  sirrah,  seek  him ; 
I  'IP"  apprehend  him.  Abominable  villain  ! — Where 
is  he? 

Edm.  I  do  not  well  know,  my  lord.  If  it  shall 
please  you  to  suspend  your  indignation  against  my 
brother,  till  you  can  derive  from  him  better  testimony 
of  his  intent,  you  shall  run  a  certain  cour.'ie  :  where,  if 
you  violently  proceed  against  him,  mistaking  his  pur- 
pose, it  would  make  a  great  gap  in  your  own  honour, 
and  shake  in  pieces  the  heart  of  his  obedience.  I  dare 
pawn  do\TO  my  life  for  him,  that  he  hath  writ  this  u> 
feel  my  affection  to  your  honour,  and  to  no  other'-  pre- 
tence" of  danger. 

Glo.  Think  you  so  ? 

Edm.  If  your  honour  judge  it  meet,  I  -will  place  yo;i 
where  you  shall  hear  us  confer  of  this,  and  by  an 
auricular  assurance  have  your  satisfaction  :  and  that 
without  any  farther  delay  than  this  very  evening. 

Glo.  He  cannot  be  such  a  monster. 

Edm.  Nor  is  not.  sure." 

Glo.  To  his  father,  that  so  tenderly  and  entirely 
loves  him. — Heaven  and  earth  ! — Edmund,  seek  him 
out;  wind  me  into  him,  I  pray  you:  frame  the  busi- 
ness  after  your  own  wisdom.  I  would  unstate  mysell 
to  be  in  a  due  resolution. 

Edm.  I  will  seek  liim,  sir,  presently,  convey  the 
business  as  I  shall  find'*  means,  and  acquaint  yo» 
withal. 

Glo.  These  late  eclipses  in  the  sun  and  moon  por- 
tend no  good  to  us:  though  the  wisdom  of  nature  can 
reason  it^thus  and  thus,  yet  nature  finds  itself  scourged 
i  by  the  sequent  effects.     Love  cools,  friendship  falls  off. 


in  folio.     »  Scrvpulousnets.      »  These  three  words  axe  not  in  quarto. 
8  Not  in  quartos.      »  yon  to  this  :  in  folio.      ">  I :  in  quartos. 
rej-iy  to  Edmuxd,  are  not  in  folio.      »*  see  :  in  quartos. 


«  Not  in  f  e      »  Signed  nway       *  Maintenance.     "  liVing 
farther  :  in  quartos.      "  Intention      »'  This  speech.  bqJ  the 


( << 


KING    LEAPv 


ACT    L 


ftrtthe-s  divide:  in  cities,  mutinies;  in  countries,  dis- 
cord ;  in  palacPB.  treason,  and  the  bond  cracked  between 
*on  and  I'utlier.'  Tliis  villain  of  mine  comes  under  the 
prediction:  there's  son  against  father:  the  king  falls 
from  bias  of  nature  ;  there  's  lather  against  child.  We 
have  seen  the  best  of  our  time:  machinations,  hollow- 
ness.  treachery,  and  all  ruinous  disorders,  follow  us 
disquietly  to  our  graves  ! — Find  out  this  villain.  Ed-  ;  Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms, 
inund:  it  sliall  lose  thee  nothing:  do  it  carefully. —  That  he  su^;l1ects  none,  on  whose  fooli.-<h  honesty 
And  the  noble  and  true-hearted  Kent  banished  !   his    My  practices  ride  easy. — I  see  the  business. — 


you  :  1  have  told  you  what  1  have  seen  and  heard,  but 
taintly  ;  nothing  like  the  image  and  horror  of  it.  Pra\ 
you,  away. 

Edg.  Shall  I  hear  from  you  anon  ? 

Edm.  I  do  serve  you  in  this  busmess. — 

[Exit  Edgar 
A  credulous  father,  and  a  brother  noble. 


Let  me,  if  not  by  birth,  have  lands  by  wit 
All  with  me  's  meet,  that  I  can  fashion  fit. 


offence,  honesty. — 'T  is  strange.  [Exit. 

Edm.  This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world,  that, 
when  we  are  sick  in  fortune,  (often  the  surfeit  of  our 
own  behaviour)  we  make  guilty  of  our  disasters,  the 
sun.  the  moon,  and  the  .«tars :  as  if  we  were  villains  by 
necessity  :    tools,    by   heavenly   compulsion ;    knaves, 
thieves,   and    treachers.   by   spherical    predominance : 
drunkards,   liars,  and  adulterers,  by  an  enforced  obe- 
dience of  planetary  influence,  and  all  that  we  are  evil 
in,  by  a  divine  thru.-^ting  on.     An  admirable  evasion  of 
whore-master  man,  to  lay  his  goatish  disposition  to  the 
charge  of  stars!'     My  father  compounded   with  my  i  That  sets  us  all  at  odds :  I '11  not  endure  it. 
mother  under  the  dragon's  tail,  and  my  nativity  was   His  knights  grow  riotous,  and  himself  upbraids  us 
under  vrsa  major  :  so  that,  it  follows.  I  am  rough  and    On  every  trifle. — When  he  returns  from  hunting, 
lecherous. — Tut!  I  should  have  been  that  I  am.  had    I  will  not  speak  -with  him  :  say,  I  am  sick, 
the  maidenliest  star  in  the  firmament  twinkled  on  my  !  If  you  come  slack  of  former  services. 


[Exit 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  the  Duke  of  AlbaiVTs 
Palace. 
Enter  Goneril,  and  Oswald  her  Steward. 
Gon.  Did  my  father  strike  my  gentleman  for  chiding 
of  his  fool  ? 

Osw.  Ay.  madam. 

Gon.  By  day  and  night  he  wrongs  me:  every  hour 
He  flashes  into  one  sro.ss  crime  or  other. 


bastardizing.'     Edgar — 

Enter  Edgar. 
and    pat   he   comes,  like  the    catastrophe  of   the  old 
comedy:  my  cue  is  villainous  melancholy,  with  a  sigh 
like  Tom  o'  Bedlam. — 0!   these  eclipses   do   portend 
these  divisions.     Fa.  sol,  la.  mi. 

Edg.  How  now,  brother  Edmund !     W^hat   serious 
contemplation  are  you  in? 

Edm.  I  am  thinking,  brother,  of  a  prediction  I  read 
this  other  day.  what  should  follow  the.«e  eclipses. 

Edg.  Do  you  busy  yourself  with  that  ? 


You  shall  do  well  ;  the  fault  of  it  I  '11  an.swer. 

Osw.  He  's  coming,  madam  ;  I  hear  him. 

[Horns  within 

Gon.  Put  on  what  weary  negligence  you  please. 
You  and  your  fellows:  I  'd  have  it  come  to  question  : 
If  he  distaste*  it,  let  him  to  my  sister. 
Whose  mind  and  mine.  I  kiiow,  in  that  are  one, 
Not  to  be  over-rul'd.     Idle  old  man,' 
That  still  would  manage  those  authorities. 
That  he  hath  given  away  ! — Now.  by  my  life, 
Old  fools  are  babes  again  :  and  must  be  us'd 


Edm.  I  promise  you,  the  efl^ects  he  writes  of  succeed  |  With  checks  as  flatteries  :   when  they  are  seen  abus'd. 


unhappily:*  as  of  unnaturalness  between  the  child 
and  the  parent :  death,  dearth,  dissolution  of  ancient 
amities:  divisions  in  state;  menaces  and  maledictions 
against  king  and  nobles;  needless  diffidences,  banish- 
ment of  friends,  di.sisipation  of  cohorts,  nuptial  breaches, 
and  I  know  not  what. 

Edg.  How  long  have  you  been  a  sectary  a.stronomical  ? 

Edm.  Come,  come  ;  when  saw  you  my  father  last  ? 

Edg.  The  niirht  gone  by. 

Edm.   Spake  you  with  him  ? 

Edg.   Ay.  two  hours  together. 

Edm.  Parted  you  in  good  terms?  Found  you  no 
displeasure  in  him,  by  word,  or  countenance? 

Edg.  .None  at  all. 

Edm.  Bethink  yourself,  wherein  you  may  have  of- 
•  iided  him:  and  at  my  entreaty  forbear  his  presence, 
nil  .some  little  time  hath  qualified  the  heat  of  his  dis- 
pleasure, which  at  this  instant  so  rageth  inhim,  that  with 
the  mischief  of  your  person  it  would  sicarcely  allay. 

Edg.  Some  villain  hath  done  me  wrong. 

Edm.  That's  my  fear.*  I  pray  you.  have  a  conti- 
iK-nt  forbearance,  till  the  speed  of  his  rage  goes  slower  : 
and,  as  I  say.  retire  with  me  to  my  lodging,  from 
whence  I  will  fitly  bring  you  to  hear  my  lord  speak. 
Pray  you.  go;  there's  my  key  If  you  do  stir  abroad, 
?o  armed. 

Edg.  Armed,  brother? 

Edm.  Brother.  I  advise  you  to  the  best;  I  am  no 
honest  man.  if  there   be  any  good  meaning  towards 


Ptemember  what  I  have  said. 

Osw.  Well,  madam. 

Gon.  And  let  his  knights  have  colder  looks  among  you. 
What  grows  of  it,  no  matter ;  advise  your  fellows  so  ; 
I  would  breed  from  hence  occasion.s.  and  I  shall.' 
That  I  may  speak. — I  '11  write  straight  to  my  sister, 
To  hold  my  course. — Prepare  for  dinner.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Hall  in  the  Same. 
Enter  Kent.  disguL'sed. 

Kent.  If  but  as  well  I  other  accents  borrow, 
That  can  my  speech  diffuse',  my  good  intent 
May  carry  through  itself  to  that  full  issue 
For  which  I  raz'd  my  likeness. — Now,  banish'd  Kent, 
If  thou  canst  serve  where  tiiou  do.st  stand  condemn'd, 
(So  mav  it  come  !'")  thv  master,  whom  thou  lov'st 
Shall  ti'nd  thee  full  of  labours. 
Horns  within.    Enter  Lear    Knights,  and  AttevdaniF. 

Lear.  Let  me  not  stay  a  lot  for  diimer :  go,  get  a 
ready.    [Exit  an  Attendant.]  How  now  !  what  art  thou  ? 

Kent.  A  man.  sir. 

Lear.  What  dost  thou  profess  ?  What  wouldst  thou 
with  us? 

Kent.  I  do  profess  to  be  no  less  than  I  .seem  :  to 
serve  him  truly  that  will  put  me  in  trust:  to  love  him 
that  is  honest ;  to  converse  with  him  that  is  wise,  and 
.says  little:  to  fear  judgment ;  to  fight  when  I  cannot 
choose,  and  to  eat  no  fish. 

Lear.  What  art  thou  ? 


'  The  f  a.«»ac'  from  thii  to  "  Find,"  ii  not  in  qnartos.  »  oi 
ihu  and  th"  next  ipeech,  are  not  in  folio.  »  The  rc?t  of  this 
the  next  'jjor  lines,  are  not  in  the  folio.  "Thia  and  the  next 
quarto*. 


the  charge  of  a  star  :  in  folio.  '  on  ray  bastardy  :  in  quartos.  *  The  rest  o( 
ind  the  next  speech,  are  not  in  quartos  »  dislike  :  in  quartos.  '  This  and 
ine,  to  ■'  1  '11,"  not  in  folio.    »  LhsoTder,  disguise.      >»  These  lines  are  nat  ir 


BciarE  IV. 


KING   LEAR. 


Kent.  A  very  honest-hearted  fellow,  and  as  poor  ; 
tlie  king. 

Lear.  If  thou  be  as  poor  for  a  subject,  as  he  is  for 
king,  thou  art  poor  enough.     What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Kent.  Ser\'ice. 

Lear.  Whom  wouldst  thou  serve  ? 

Kent.  You. 

Lear.  Dost  thou  know  me,  fellow? 

Kent.  No,  sir ;  but  you  have  that  in  your  counte- 
nance which  I  would  fain  call  master. 

Lear.  What  's  that  ? 

Kent.  Authority. 

Lear.  What  services  canst  thou  do  ? 

Kent.  I  can  keep  honest  counsel,  ride,  run,  mar  a 
curious  tale  in  telling  it.  and  deliver  a  plain  mes.sage 
Diuntly:  that  which  ordinary  men  are  fit  for,  I  am 
qualified  in;  and  the  best  of  me  is  diligence. 

Lear.  How  old  art  thou  ? 

Kent.  Not  so  young,  sir.  to  love  a  woman  for  sing- 
ing ;  nor  so  old,  to  dote  on  her  for  any  thing :  I  have 
years  on  my  back  forty-eight. 

Lear.  Follow  me ;  thou  shalt  serve  me  :  if  I  like 
thee  no  worse  after  dinner,  I  will  not  part  from  thee 
yet. — Dinner,  ho  !  dinner  ! — Where  's  my  knave  ?  my 
fool  ?     Go  you,  and  call  my  fool  hither. 

Enter  Oswald. 
You,  you,  sirrah,  where  's  my  daughter? 

Osio.  So  please  you, —  [Exit. 

Lear.  What  says  the  fellow  there  ?  Call  the  clodpole 
back.  [Exit  Knight.^] — Where's  my  fool,  ho? — I 
think  the  world  's  asleep. — [Re-enter  Knight.^]  How 
now.  where  's  that  mongrel  ? 

Knight.''  He  says,  my  lord,  your  daughter  is  not  well. 

Lear.  Why  came  not  the  slave  back  to  me,  when  I 
called  him  ? 

Knight.*  Sir.  he  answered  me  in  the  roundest 
manner,  he  would  not. 

Lear.  He  would  not  ! 

Knight.  My  lord,  I  know  not  what  the  matter  is  ; 
but,  to  my  judgment,  your  highness  is  not  entertained 
with  that  ceremonious  affection  as  you  were  wont: 
there  's  a  great  abatement  of  kindness*  appears,  as  well 
in  the  general  dependants,  as  in  the  duke  himself  also, 
and  your  daughter. 

Lear.  Ha  !  say  est  thou  so  ? 

Knight.  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my  lord,  if  I  be 
mistaken  ;  for  my  duty  cannot  be  silent,  when  I  think 
your  highness  wronged. 

Lear.  Thou  but  rememberest  me  of  mine  o^^^l  con- 
ception. I  have  perceived  a  most  faint  neglect  of  late ; 
which  I  have  rather  blamed  as  mine  own  jealous  curi- 
osity, than  as  a  very  pretence  and  purpose  of  unkind- 
ness  :  I  will  look  farther  into  't.— But  where 's  my 
fool  ?     I  have  not  seen  him  this  two  days. 

Knight.  Since  my  young  lady's  going  into  France, 
sir,  the  fool  hath  much  pined  away. 

Lear.  No  more  of  that:  I  have  noted  it  well. — Go 
you,  and  tell  my  daughter  I  would  speak  with  her. — 
Go  you,  call  hither  my  fool. — 

Re-enter  Oswald. 
0  !  you  sir.  you  sir,  come  you  hither.     Who  am  I,  sir  ? 

Osw.  Mv  lady's  father. 

Lear.  My  lady's  father?  my  lord's  knave:  you 
whoreson  dog  !  you  slave  !  you  cur  ! 

O.SW.  I  am  none  of  these,  my  lord  :  I  beseech  your 
pardon. 

Uar.  Do  you  bandy  looks  with  me,  you  rascal  ? 

[Striking  him. 

'  »  Not  in  f.  e       ^  Kent 
ftmaU  hcu'.td      •  Kent  : 


O.sw.  I  '11  not  be  stricken,  my  lord. 
Kent.  Not  tripped  neither,  you  base  foot-ball  player 
[Tripping  up  hi.'i  heels. 
Lear.  I  thank  thee,  fellow;  thou  servest   me,  aiid 
1 1  '11  love  thee. 

I  Kent.  Come,  sir,  ari.se ;  away  !  I'll  teach  you  differ- 
ences :  away,  away  !  If  you  will  measure  your  lubber's 
'  length  again,  tarry;  but  away  !  Go  to  :  have  you  wis- 
I  dom  ?  so.  [Pu.<<hes  O.^w'ald  ovI 

I  Lear.  Now,  my  friendly  knave.  I  tliank  tlice  :  there  '? 
earnest  in  thy  service.  [Giving  Kent  muncy. 

Enter  Fool. 
Fool.  Let  me  hire  him  too : — here  's  my  coxcomb. 

[Giving  Kent  his  Cap. 
Lear.  How  now,  my  pretty  knave  !  how  dost  thou  ? 
Fool.  Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  .my  coxcomb. 
Lear.  Why,  my  boy  ?' 

Fool.  Why  ?  For  taking  one's  part  that 's  out  of 
favour. — Nay,  an  thou  canst  not  smile  as  the  wind  sits, 
thou 'It  catch  cold  shortly:  there,  take  my  coxcomb. 
Why,  this  fellow  has  banished  two  on  's  daughters,  ami 
did  the  third  a  blessing  against  his  will  :  if  thou  follow 
him,  thou  must  needs  wear  my  coxcomb. — How  now. 
nuncle !  Would  I  had  two  coxcombs,  and  two  daugh- 
ters ! 

Lear.  Why,  my  boy  ? 

Fool.  If  I  gave  them  all  my  living,  I  'd  keep  my  cox- 
comb myself.  There  's  mine ;  beg  another  of  thy  dauyli- 
ters. 

Lear.  Take  heed,  sirrah  ;  the  whip. 
Fool.  Truth  's  a  dog  must  to  kennel :  he  must  b** 
whipped  out,  when  the  lady  brach'  may  stand  by  tlie 
fire  and  stink. 

Lear.  A  pestilent  gall  to  me. 

Fool.  Sirrah,  I  '11  teach  thee  a  speech. 

Lear.  Do. 

Fool.  Mark  it,  mmcle. — 

Have  more  than  thou  showest, 
Speak  less  than  thou  knowest, 
Lend  less  than  thou  owest, 
Ride  more  than  thou  goest. 
Learn  more  than  thou  trowest, 
Set  less  than  thou  throwcst ; 
Leave  thy  drink  and  thy  whore, 
And  keep  in-a-door, 
And  thou  shalt  have  more 
Than  two  tens  to  a  score. 
Lear.'^  This  is  nothing,  fool. 

Fool.  Then,  't  is  like  the  breath  of  an  unfee'd  law 
yer :  you  gave  me  nothing  for  't.  Can  you  make  no 
use  of  nothing,  nuncle  ? 

Lear.  Why,  no,  boy  ;  nothing  can  be  made  out  of" 
nothing. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,  tell  him,  so  much  the  rent  of  hie  laii^ 
comes  to:  he  will  not  believe  a  fool. 
Lear.  A  bitter  fool ! 

Fool.  Dost  thou  know  the  ditTerence,  my  boy,  bo 
tween  a  bitter  fool  and  a  sweet  one  ? 
Lear.  No,  lad  :  teach  me. 
Fool.^       That  lord,  that  counsell'd  thee 
To  give  away  thy  land. 
Come  place  him  liere  by  me; 

Do  thou  for  him  stand  : 

The  sweet  and  bitter  fool 

Will  present!}  appear  ; 

The  one  in  motley  here. 

The  other  found  out  there. 

Ij:ar.  Dost  thou  call  me  fool,  boy? 


of  Icindness"  :  not  in  quartos.     «  Keni    Why,  ior' 
to  •'  Give  me,"  are  not  in  folio. 


qautCML 


778 


KING  LEAR. 


Fool.  For  you  know,  nuncle. 

The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long, 
That  it  had  its  had  bit  off  by  its  young. 
So,  out  went  the  candle,  and  wc  were  left  darkling 

Lear.  Are  you  our  daughter  ? 

Gon.^  I  would,  you  would  make  use  of  your  gooc 
wisdom. 
Whereof  1  know^  you  are  fraught,  and  put  away 
These  dispositions,  which  of  late  transform  you 
From  what  you  rightly  are. 

Fool.  May  not  an  ass  know  when  the  cart  draws  the 
horse  ? — Whoop,  Jug  !   I  love  thee. 

Lear.  Does  any  here  know  me  ? — Why  this  is  iwi 
Lear:  does  Lear  walk  thus?  speak  thus?  Where  are 
his  eyes  ?  Either  his  notion  weaken.s  or  his  discernings 
are  lethargied. — Sleeping  or  waking? — Ha!  sure  'tis 
not  so. — Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am  ? — Lear's 
shadow^  ?'  I  would  learn  that ;  for  by  the  marks  of 
sovereignty,  knowledge,  and  reeison,  I  should  be  falso 
persuaded  I  had  daughters. 

Fool.  Which  they  will  make  an  obedient  father. 

Lear.   Your  name,  fair  gentlewoman  ? 

Gon.  'This  admiration,  sir,  is  much  o'  the  favour 
Of  other  your  new  pranks.     I  do  beseech  you 
To  undenstand  my  purposes  aright. 
As  you  are  old  and  reverend,  should  be  wise. 
Here  do  you  keep  a  hundred  knights  and  squires ; 
Men  so  disorder'd,  so  debaucli'd  and  bold. 
That  this  our  court,  infected  with  their  manners, 
Shows  like  a  riotous  inn :  ejiieurism  and  lust 
Make  it  more  like  a  tavern,  or  a  brothel. 
Than  a  grac'd*  palace.     The  shame  itself  doth  speak 
For  instant  remedy  :  be.  then,  desir'd 
By  her,  that  else  will  take  the  thing  she  begs, 
A  little  to  disquantity  your  train  ; 
And  the  remainder,  that  shall  still  depend, 
To  be  such  men  as  may  besort  your  age. 
Which  know  themselves  and  you. 

Lear.  Darkness  and  devil.^^  ! — 

Saddle  my  horses :  call  my  train  together. — 
Degenerate  bastard  !  I  '11  not  trouble  thee  : 
Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter. 

Gon.  You  strike  my  people;    and   your  disordeid 
rabble 
Make  servants  of  their  betters. 

Enter  Albany. 

Lear.    Woe,    that   too    late   repents,' — 0,    sir!    [To 
Alb.]  are  you  coTie  ? 
Is  it  your  will  ?'"     Speak,  sir. — Prepare  my  horses  ! — 
Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted  fiend. 
More  hideous,  when  thou  showst  thee  in  a  child, 
Than  the  sea-monster  ! 

Alb.  Pray.  sir.  be  patient." 

Lear.  Detested  kite  !  thouliest:  [ToGoneril. 

My  train  are  men  of  choice  and  rarest  parts, 
That  all  particulars  of  duty  know. 
And  in  the  most  exact  regard  support 
The  worship  of  their  name. — O.  most  small  fault ! 
How  ugly  didst  thou  in  Cordelia  show. 
Which,  like  an  engine,  wrcnch'd  my  frame  of  nature 
From  the  fix'd  place,  drew  from  my  heart  all  love, 
I  And  added  to  the  gall.     O  Lear,  Lear,  Lear ! 
j  Beat  at  this  gate,  that  let  thy  folly  in,  [Striking  his  head 
I  And  thy  dear  judgment  out ! — Go,  go,  my  people. 
I      Alb.  My  lord,  I  am  guiltless,  as  I  am  ignorant 
jOf  what  hath  mov'd  you.'* 
I      Lear.  It  may  be  so,  my  lord — 

'wit:  in  qu&rtoi.  »  And  know  not  hoxe :  in  f.  o.  '  Not  in  folio.  ♦  Must  :  in  quartos  which  print  the  whole  ipeech  as  pros*  '  Come, 
I  :  II   quartos.      •  "  Lear's  sthadow,"  is  spoken    by  the   fool,  and  the  rest  of  this  and  the  next  speech,  is  omitted  in  folio.  Come.  sir. 

«  :  ;n  quartos  ;  the  rest  of  the  speech  is  there  printed  as  prose.  *  ereat  :  in  quartos.  •  The  rest  of  the  line,  is  not  in  folio.  "  w.ll  ibal 
prepare  our  hones  :  in  qnartos.       ■»  '>  These  lioes  are  not    n  quarloj. 


Fool.  All  thy  other  titles  thou  hast  given  away,  that 
!hou  wast  born  with. 

Kent.  Tliis  is  not  altogether  fool,  my  lord. 

Fool.  No. 'faith;  lords  and  great  men  will  not  let 
ine  .  if  I  had  a  monopoly  out,  they  would  have  part 
on 't,  and  loads  too:  they  will  not  let  me  have  all  tool 
lo  myself,  they  '11  be  snatching. — Give  me  an  egg, 
nuncle,  and  I  '11  give  thee  two  crowns. 

Lear.   What  two  crowns  shall  they  be? 

Fool.  Why,  after  I  have  cut  the  egg  i'  the  middle, 
iuiil  eat  up  the  meat,  the  two  crowns  of  the  egg. 
When  thou  clovest  thy  crown  i'  the  middle,  and  gavest 
aN\ay  both  parts,  thou  borest  thine  ass  on  thy  back  o'er 
the  dirt :  thou  hadst  little  wit  in  thy  bald  crown,  when 
thou  gavest  thy  golden  one  away.  If  I  speak  like 
myself  in  this,  let  him  be  whipped  that  first  finds  it  so. 
Fools  had  ne  er  less  grace^  in  a  year  ;    [Singing. 

For  vise  men  are  grown  foppish  ; 
And  well  may  fear*  their  wits  to  wear, 
Their  manners  are  so  apish. 

Lear.  When  were  you  wont  to  be  so  full  of  songs. 
sirrah  ? 

Fool.  I  have  used  it.  nuncle.  ever  since  thou  madest 
liiy  daughters  thy  mothers  :  for.  when  thou  gavest  them 
the  rod  and  putt'st  down  thine  own  breeches. 

Then  they  for  sudden  joy  did  weep,         [Singing. 

And  I  for  .sorrow  sung. 
That  .such  a  king  should  play  bo-peep, 
And  go  the  fools  among. 
Pr'ythee,  nuncle.  keep  a  school-master  that  can  teach 
thy  fool  to  lie :  I  would  fain  learn  to  lie. 

Lear.  An  you  lie,  sirrah,  we  '11  have  you  whipped. 

Fool.  I  marvel  what  kin  thou  and  thy  daughters 
are  :  they  'il  have  me  whipped  for  speaking  true,  thou  'It 
bave  me  whipped  for  lying:  and  sometimes  I  am 
•A-liipped  for  holding  iny  peace.  I  had  rather  be  any 
kmd  o'  thing  than  a  fool :  and  yet  I  would  not  be 
thee,  nuncle:  thou  hast  pared  thy  wit  o'  both  sides, 
and  left  nothing  i'  the  middle.  Here  comes  one  o'  the 
parings. 

Enter  Goneril. 

Lear.  How  now,  daughter!  what  makes  that  front- 
let on? 
Methinks.'  you  are  too  much  of  late  i'  the  frown. 

Fool.  Tiiou  wast  a  pretty  fellow,  when  thou  had.st 
no  need  to  care  for  her  frowning ;  now  thou  art  an  0 
without  a  figure.  I  am  better  than  thou  art  now:  I 
am  a  tool:  thou  art  nothing. — Yes,  forsooth,  I  will  hold 
my  tongue!  so  your  lace  [To  Gon.]  bids  me,  though 
yon  say  nothing.     Mum,  mum: 

He  that  keeps  nor  crust  nor  crum,   [Singing. 
Weary  of  all.  shall  want  some. 
That's  a  shealed  jK-ascod. 

Gon.  Not  only.  sir.  this  your  all-liccns'd  fool, 
liut  other  of  your  insolent  retinue 
Do  hourly  carp  and  quarrel  ;  breaking  forth 
In  rank,  and  not  to  be  endured,  riots.     Sir, 
I  had  thought,  by  making  this  well  knowTi  unto  you. 
To  liavc  found  a  safe  redrc.«s.  but  now  arow  fearful, 
Ry  what  yourself  too  late  have  spoke  and  done. 
That  you  protect  this  course,  and  put  it  on, 
By  your  allowance  ;   which  if  you  should,  the  fault 
U'f'uld  not  'scape  censure,  nor  the  redres.ses  sleep, 
Which,  in  the  lender  of  a  wholesome  weal, 
Michf  in  their  working  do  you  that  offence, 
Which  else  were  shame,  that  then  necessity 
Will*  call  discreet  proceeding. 

in  foti 


80ENE    V 


KING    LEAE. 


779 


Hear,  nature,  hear  !  dear  goddess,  hear  ! 

Suspend  thy  purpose,  if  thou  didst  intend 

To  make  tliis  creature  fruitful  ! 

Into  her  womb  convey  sterility  ' 

Dry  up  in  her  the  organs  of  increase  ; 

And  from  her  derogate  body  never  spring 

A  babe  to  }  onour  her  !     If  she  must  teem. 

Create  her  child  of  spleen ;  that  it  may  live, 

And  be  a  thwart  disnatur'd  torment  to  her  ! 

Let  it  stamp  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  youth  : 

With  cadent  tears  fret  channels  in  her  cheeks  ; 

Turn  all  her  motlier's  pains,  and  benefits. 

To  laughter  and  contempt;  that  she  may  fee: 

How  sharper  tlian  a  serpent  s  tooth  it  is 

To  have  a  thankless  child  ! — Away  !  away  !'       [Exit. 

Alb.  Now,  gods  that  we  adore,  whereof  comes  this? 

Gon.  Never  afflict  yourself  to  know  tlie  cause  ;* 
But  let  his  disposuion  have  that  scope 
That  dotage  gives  it. 

Re-enter  Lear. 

Lear.  What !  fifty  of  my  followers,  at  a  clap. 
Within  a  fortnight  ?' 

Alb.  What 's  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Lear.  I  'II  tell  thee. — Life  and  death  !  [ToGoneril. 
I  am  asham'd. 
That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood  thus : 
That  these  hot  tears,  which  break  from  me  perforce, 
Should  make  thee  worth  them.     Blasts  and  fogs  upon 

thee  ! 
Th'  untented  woundings  of  a  father's  curse 
Pierce  every  sense  about  thee  !^01d  fond  eyes, 
Beweep  this  cause  again.  I  "II  pluck  you  out. 
And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose, 
To  temper  clay. — Ha  ! 
Let  it  be  so: — I  have  another  daughter, 
Who,  I  am  sure,  is  kind  and  comfortable : 
When  she  shall  liear  this  of  thee,  with  her  nails 
Slie  '11  flay  thy  wolti^h  visage.     Thou  shalt  find. 
That  I  '11  resume  the  shape,  which  thou  dost  think 
I  have  cast  off  for  ever.' 

[Exeunt  Lear  in  fury*,  Kent,  and  Attendants. 

Gon.   Do  you  mark  that,  my  lord  ? 

Alb.  I  cannot  be  so  partial,  Goneril, 
To  the  great  love  I  bear  you, — 

Gon.   Pray  you,  content." — What,  Oswald,  ho ! 
You   sir,  more  knave  than  fool,  after  your  master. 

[To  the  Fool. 

Fool    Nuncle  Lear,  nuncle  Lear  !  tarry,  and  take  the 
fool  with  thee. 

A  fox.  when  one  has  caught  her, 

And  such  a  daughter. 

Should  sure  to  the  slaughter. 

If  my  cap  would  buy  a  halter ; 

So  the  fool  follows  after.  [Exit. 

Gon.  This°  man  hath  had  good  counsel.— A  hundred 
knights  ! 
T  is  politic,  and  safe,  to  let  him  keep 
At  point  a  hundred  knights  :  yes,  that  on  every  dream, 
Each  buz,  each  fancy,  each  complaint,  dislike, 
He  may  enguard  his  dotage  with  their  powers, 
And  hold  our  lives  in  mercy. — Oswald,  I  say  ! — 

Alb.  Well,  you  may  fear  too  far. 

Gon.  '  Safer  than  trust  too  far. 

Let  me  still  take  away  the  harms  I  fear. 
Not  fear  still  to  be  taken :   I  know  his  heart. 
What  he  hath  utter'd  I  have  writ  my  sister : 
If  she  sustain  him  and  his  hundred  knights. 


When  I  liave  show'd  th'  unfitness, — how  now,  Oswald  " 

Re-enter  Oswald. 
What,  have  you  writ  that  letter  to  my  sister  ? 

Osw.  Ay,  madam. 

Gon.  Take  you  some  company,  and  away  to  horse  : 
Inform  her  full  of  my  particular  fear  ; 
And  thereto  add  such  reasons  of  your  own, 
As  may  compact  it  more.     Get  you  gone. 
And  hasten  your  return.   [Exit  Osw.]   No,  no,  my  lord, 
This  milky  gentleness,  and  course  of  yours, 
Though  I  condemn  it  not,  yet,  under  pardon. 
You  are  much  more  attask'd*  for  want  of  wisdom, 
Than  prais'd  for  harmful  mildness. 

Alb.  How  far  your  eyes  may  pierce,  I  cannot  tell . 
Striving  to  better,  oft  we  mar  wliat  's  well. 

Gon.  Nay,  then — 

Alb.  Well,  well ;  the  event.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Court  before  the  Same. 
Enter  Lear,  Kent,  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Go  you  before  to  Gloster  with  these  letters. 
Acquaint  my  daughter  no  farther  with  any  thing  you 
know,  than  comes  from  her  demand  out  of  the  letter. 
If  your  diligence  be  not  speedy,  I  shall  be  there  before 
you. 

Kent.  I  will  not  sleep,  my  lord,  till  I  have  delivered 
your  letter.  [Exit. 

Fool.  If  a  man's  brains  were  in  's  heels,  were  'l  not 
j  in  danger  of  kibes  ? 
1      Lear.  Ay,  boy. 

I      Fool.  Then,  I  pr'ythee,  be  merry;  thy  vrit  shall  nof 
I  go  slip-shod. 

Lear.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Fool.  Shalt  see,  thy  other  daughter  will  use  thee 
kindly ;  for  though  she  's  as  like  tliis,  as  a  crab  is  like 
an  apple,  yet  I  can  tell  what'  I  can  tell. 

Lear.   What  canst  tell,  boy? 

Fool.  She  will  taste  as  like  this,  as  a  crab  does  to  a 
crab.  Canst  thou  tell  why  one"s  nose  stands  i'  the 
middle  on 's  face  ? 

Lear.  No. 

Fool.  Why,  to  keep  one's  eyes  of  either  side  "s  nose ; 
that  what  a  man  cannot  smell  out,  he  may  spy  into. 

Lear.  I  did  her  wrong. — 

Fool.  Canst  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his  shell? 

Lear.  No. 

Fool.  Nor  I  neither;  but  I  can  tell  why  a  snail  has 
a  house. 

Lear.  Why? 

Fool.  Why,  to  ptxt  his  head  in  ;  not  to  give  it  away 
to  his  daughters,  and  leave  his  horns  without  a  case. 

Lear.  I  will  forget  my  nature. — So  kind  a  father ! — 
Be  my  horses  ready  ? 

Fool.  Thy  asses  are  gone  about  'em.  The  reason 
why  the  seven  stars  are  no  more  than  seven  is  a  pretty 
reason. 

Lear.  Because  they  are  not  eight? 

Fool.  Yes,  indeed.     Thou  wouitle.st  make  a  good  fool. 

Lear.  To  take  it  again  perforce  I — Monster  ingrati- 
tude! 

Fool.  If  thou  wert  my  fool,  nuncle.  I  d  liave  the« 
beaten  for  being  old  before  tliy  time. 
I      L-ear.  How  's"  that  ? 

Fool.  Tliou  shouldst  not  have  been  old  before  thou 
j  hadst  been  wise. 

I      Lear.  O,  let  me  not  be  mad.  not  mad.  sweet  heaven  ! 
I  Keep  me  in  temper  :  I  would   lot  be  mad  ! — 


"Go.  go,  my  peopie'  : 
Coiae,  sir,  no  more  :  in  quartos 
'aid   to  i      *  at  task  :  in  folio. 


noartos.      "  more  of  it  :  in  folio.     »  The  quartos  add  :  "  Thou  shalt,  I  irarrant  th^ 
6  This  and  the  next  two  speeches  to  "  ho-w  now,"  are  not  in  quartos.       ■ 


'  '■  in  fury  :"  not  in  I  e 
quarto  add*  .  WaU   Os 


780 


KING  LEAK. 


Enter  Gentleman 
How  now  !     Are  tlie  horses  ready  ? 
Gent.  Ready,  my  lord. 
Lear    Come,  boy. 


1      Fool.  She  that  "s  a  maid  now,  and  laughs  at  my  dc- 

j  parture, 

I  Shall  not  be  a  maid  long,  unless  things  be  cut  Bhorter. 


ACT    II. 


CENF   I.— A  Court  within  the  Castle  of  the  Earl  of 
Gloster. 
Eritcr  Edmund  a7id  Curan.  meeting. 
Edm.  Save  thee,  Curan. 
Cvr.  And  vou.  sir.     I  have  been  with  vour  father, 


Eflm.  Persuade  me  to  the  murder  of  your  lordshiu  . 
But  that  I  told  him,  the  revenuing  sods 
'Gainst  parricides  did  all  their  thunders'  bend ; 
Spoke,  with  how  manifold  and  strong  a  bond 
The  child  was  bound  to  the  father ; — sir,  in  fine 
Seeing  how  loathly  opposite  I  stood 


and  given  him  notice,  tnat  the  duke  of  Cornwall,  and  |  To  his  unnatural  purpose,  in  fell  motion. 


Regan  his  duchess,  will  be  here  with  him  to-night. 

Edm.  How  comes  that  ? 

Cur.  Nay,  I  knew  not.  You  have  heard  of  the  news 
abroad :  I  mean,  the  whispered  ones,  for  they  are  yet 
but  ear-bussing  arguments. 

Edm.  Not  I :  pray  you,  what  are  they? 

Cur.  Have  you  heard  of  no  likely  wars  toward, 
twiit  the  dukes  of  Cornwall  and  Albany? 

Edm.  Not  a  word. 

Cur.  You  may  do,'  then,  in  time.     Fare  you  well, 
sir.  [Exit. 

Edm.  The   duke   be   here   to-night?     The   better! 
Best ! 
This  weaves  itself  perforce  into  my  business. 
My  father  hath  set  guard  to  take  my  brother ; 
And  I  have  one  thing,  of  a  queazy  question. 
Which  I  must  act. — Briefness,  and  fortune,  work  !' — 
Brother,  a  word  : — descend  : — brother.  I  say  ! 

Enter  Edgar. 
My  father  watches. — 0  sir !  fly  this  place; 
Intelligence  is  given  where  you  are  hid  : 
You  have  now  the  good  advantage  of  the  night. — 
Have  you  not  sjioken  'gainst  the  duke  of  Cornwall? 
He  's  coming  hither  ;   now,  i'  the  night,  in  hasfe, 
And  Reaan  witli  him  :  have  you  nothing  said 
rpon  his  party  'gainst  the  duke  of  Albany  ? 
Advise  yourself.' 

Edg.  I  am  sure  on  't,  not  a  word. 

Edm.  I  hear  my  father  coming. — Pardon  me; 
In  cuiming,  I  must  draw  my  sword  upon  you  : 
Draw  :  seem  to  defend  yourself.     Now  'quit  you  well. 
Yield  : — come  before  my  father  ; — Light,  ho  !  here  ! — 
Fly,  brother  ; — Torches  !  torches  ! — So,  farewell. — 

[Exit  Edgar. 
Some  blood  drawn  on  me  would  beget  opinion 

[  Woiimls  his  arm. 
Of  my  more  fierce  endeavour  :  I  have  .seoi  drunkards 
Do  more  than  this  in  sport. — Father  !  father  ! 
Slop,  stop  !      No  help? 

Enter  Gloster,  and  Servants  with  Torches. 

Glo.  Now.  Edmund,  where  "s  the  ^•illain  ? 

Edm.  Here  stood  he  in  the  dark,  his  sharp  sword  out. 
Mumbling*  o(  wicked  charms,  conjuring  the  moon 
f'o  stand  auspicious  mi.stress. 

Glo.  But  where  is  he  ? 

Edm.  Look,  sir,  I  bleed. 

Glo.  Where  is  the  villain,  Edmund  ? 

£</m.  Fled  tiiis  way.  sir.     When  by  no  means  he 
could — 

Glo.  Pursue  him.  ho  !— Oo  after.— [£jif  Scrv.]  By 
no  means, — what  ? 

>  Not  -.n  qnirto.      '  Which   mnrt  a»k— briefne« 
Annder     in  folio.     •  di«patch  :  in  f.  e.      '  Chitf. 
\Jk\auut.      'J  »rinU:  in  fnlio.       n  O,  strange  :  in   fol 
V>-.o        ••  '•  your  heir,"   is  noi  in  f.  e.      >"  he  not :  in  f. 


With  his  prepared  sword  he  charges  home 

My  unprovided  body,  lanc'd  mine  arm . 

But  whether  he  saw  my  best  alarum'd  spirits. 

Bold  in  the  quarrel's  right,  rou.s'd  to  th'  encoumer 

Or  whether  gastcd  by  the  noise  I  made. 

Full  .suddenly  he  fled. 

Glo.  Let  him  fly  lar : 

Not  in  this  land  shall  he  remain  uncaught ; 
And  found,  dispatch'd'. — The  noble  duke  my  master 
My  worthy  arch'  and  patron,  comes  to-night : 
By  his  authority  I  will  proclaim  it. 
That  he.  which  finds  him,  shall  deserve  our  thanks, 
Bringing  the  murderous  coward*  to  the  stake  ; 
He,  that  conceals  him,  death. 

E(hn.  When  I  dissuaded  him  from  his  intent, 
And  found  him  pight'  to  do  it.  with  curst  speech 
I  threaten'd  to  discover  him  :  he  replied, 
"  Thou  unpossessing  bastard  !   dost  thou  think, 
If  1  would  stand  against  thee,  would  the  reposal'* 
Of  any  trust,  virtue,  or  worth,  in  thee 
Make  thy  words  faith'd  ?     No  :  what  I  should  deny, 
(As  this  I  would  ;  although  thou  didst  produce 
My  very  character)  I  'd  turn  it  all 
To  thy  suggestion,  plot,  and  damned  practice:" 
And  thou  must  make  a  dullard  of  the  world. 
If  they  not  thought  the  profits  of  my  death 
Were  very  pregnant  and  potential  spurs" 
To  make  thee  seek  it." 

Glo.  Strong"  and  fasten'd  villain  I 

Would  he  deny  his  letter  ?'♦ — I  never  got  him. 

\Tuckct  within 
Hark !    the   duke's   trumpets.     I    know   not  why   he 

comes. — 
All  ports  I  '11  bar-  the  villain  shall  not  'scape  : 
The  duke  must  grant  me  that:  besides,  his  picture 
I  will  send  far  and  near,  that  all  the  kingdom 
May  have  due  note  of  him  ;  and  of  my  land, 
Loyal  and  natural  boy,  I'll  work  the  means 
To  make  thee  capable. 

Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  and  Attendants. 

Corn.  How  now.   my  noble   friend  !    since   I   came 
hither, 
(Which  I  can  call  but  now)  1  have  heard  strange  news". 

Rrg.  If  it  be  true,  all  venueance  comes  tcx)  short, 
Which  can  pursue  th'  ofleiider.     How  dost,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.  0.  madam  !  my  old  heart  is  crack'd,  it's  crackd. 

Reg.  What !  did  niv  father's  godson  seek  your  life? 
He  whom  rny  father  nam'd?  your  heir,"  your  Edgar? 

Glo.  O.  lady.  lady  !  shame  would  have  it  hid. 

Reg.  Was  he"  companion  with  the  riotous  knighta 
That  tend  upon  my  father? 


and   fortune  help:  in  q 
•  caitiff:   in  quarto*.     » 


uartos.  'your:  in  quartos.  ♦Warbling:  in  quarto*.  •  lh« 
Detrrmined.  '•  could  the  reposure  :  in  quartoK  n  pretence  : 
'said  he,"  and  oraiU  the  rest  of  the  line.      >»  strangenets:  i» 


SCENE  rr 


KING  LEAK. 


'81 


Glo.  I  know  not,  maxJam  :  't  is  too  bad,  too  bad. — 

Edm.  Yes,  madam,  yes  ;'  he  was  of  that  consort. 

Reg.  No  marvel,  then,  though  he  were  ill-affected  : 
"T  is  they  have  put  him  on  the  old  man's  death, 
To  have  th'  expense  and  waste  of  his  revenues. 
I  have  this  present  evening  from  my  sister 
Been  well  inform  d  of  them  :  and  with  such  cautions, 
Thftt  if  they  come  to  sojourn  at  my  house, 
I  -11  not  be  there. 

Corn.  Nor  I,  assure  thee,  Regan. — 

Edmund.  I  hear  that  you  have  shown  your  father 
A  child-like  office. 

Edm.  'T  was  my  duty,  sir. 

Glo.  He  did  bewray'  his  practice :  and  receiv"d 
1  his  hurt  you  see,  striving  to  apprehend  him. 

Com.  Is  he  pursued  ? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  he  is. 

Corn.  If  he  be  taken,  he  shall  never  more 
Be  fear'd  of  doiag  harm  :  make  your  own  purpose. 
How  in  my  strength  you  please. — As  for  you,  Edmund, 
Whose  virtue  and  obedience  doth  this  instant 
So  much  commend  itself,  you  .«hall  be  ours  : 
Natures  of  such  deep  trust  we  shall  much  need  : 
You  we  first  seize  on. 

Edm.  I  shall  serve  you,  sir, 

Truly,  however  else. 

Glo.  For  him  I  thank  your  grace. 

Com.  You  know  not  why  we  came  to  visit  you. 

Reg.  Thus  out  of  season,  threading  dark-ey'd  night. 
Occasions,  noble  Gloster,  of  some  poize,' 
Wherein  we  must  have  use  of  your  advice. 
Our  father  he  hath  writ,  so  hath  our  sister. 
Of  differences,  which  I  best  thought  fit 
To  answer  from  our  home  :  the  several  messengers 
From  hence  attend  despatch.     Our  good  old  friend. 
Lay  comforts  to  our  bosom, 
Vour  needful  counsel  to  our 
Which  craves  the  instant  use. 

Glo.  I  serve  you.  madam. 

Your  graces  are  right  welcome.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Before  Oldster's  Castle. 
Enter  Kent  and  Oswald,  severally. 

Osw.  Good  dawning'  to  thee,    friend :    art  of  this' 
house  ? 

Kent.  Ay. 

Osw.  Where  may  we  set  our  horses  ? 

Kent.  V  the  mire. 

Osw.  Pr'yi:hee,  if  thou  love  me,  tell  me. 

Kent.  I  love  thee  not. 

Osw.  Why.  then  I  care  not  for  thee. 

Kent.  If  i  had  thee  in  Finsbury'  pinfold,  I  would 
make  thee  care  for  me. 

Osw.  Why  dost  thou  use  me  thus  ?    I  know  thee  not. 

Kent.  Fellow,  I  know  thee. 

O.SW.  What  dost  thou  know  me  for  ? 

Kent.  A  knave,  a  rascal,  an  eater  of  broken  meats  : 
a  base,  proud,  shallow,  beggarly,  three-suited,  hundred- 
pound,  filthy,  worsted-stocking   knave;    a  lilv-liver'd. 


to   rail   on   one,   that  is  neither  kno-w-n  of  thee,  noi 
knows  thee. 

Kent.  What  a  brazen-faced  varlet  art  thou,  to  deny 
thou  knowest  me.  Is  it  two  da>-B  since  I  tripped  up 
thy  heels,  and  beat  thee,  before  the  king?  Draw,  you 
rogue :  for,  though  it  be  nisht,  yet  th«  moon  shines  : 
I  '11  make  a  sop  o'  the  moonshine  of  you  [Dratring  his 
Sword.]  Draw,  you  whoreson  cuUionly  barber-monger, 
draw. 

Osw.  Away  !  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  thee. 
Kent.  Draw,  you  rascal  :  you  come  with  letters 
against  the  king,  and  take  Vanity,  the  puppet's',  part, 
I  against  the  royalty  of  her  father.  Draw,  you  rogue,  or 
j  I  "11  so  carbonado  your  shanks : — draw,  you  rascal , 
I  come  your  ways. 

Osw.  Help,  ho !  murder  !  help  ! 
Kent.  Strike,  you  slave  :    stand,  rogue,  stand  :  you 
neat  slave,  strike.  [Beating  htm. 

Osw.  Help,  ho  !  murder  !  murder! 
Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  Gloster,  Ed.mund,  and 

Serva)its. 
Edm.  How  now  !     What 's  the  matter  ?     Part.* 
Kent.  With  you.  goodman  boy.  if  you  please  :  come, 
I  '11  flesh  you  ;  come  on.  young  master. 

Glo.  Weapons!  arms!     What 's  the  matter  here  ? 
Corn.  Keep  peace,  upon  your  lives : 
He  dies  that  strikes  again.     What  is  the  matter  ? 
j      Reg.  The  messengers  from  our  sister  and  the  king. 
j      Corn.  What  is  your  difference  ?  speak. 
I      Osw.  I  am  scarce  in  breath,  my  lord. 
j      Kent.  No  mar\'el,  you  have  so  bestirred  your  valour. 
j  You  cowardly  rascal,  nature  disclaims  in  thee  :  a  tailor 
made  thee. 

I  Com.  Thou  art  a  strange  fellow :  a  tailor  maKe  a  man  ? 
1  Ke7}t.  Ay.  a  tailor,  sir :  a  stone-cutter,  or  a  painter, 
i  could  not  have  made  him  so  ill.  though  they  had  been 
1  but  two  hours'*  at  the  trade. 
I  Corn.  Speak  yet.  how  grew  your  quarrel  ? 
I  Osw.  This  ancient  ruffian,  sir,  whose  life  I  have 
At  suit  of  his  grey  beard. —  [spard 

j      Kent.  Thou,  whoreson  zed  ?  thou,  unnecessarj'  letter  ? 
— My  lord,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I  \s-ill  tread  this 
;  unbolted  villain  into  mortar,  and  daub  tlie  wall  of  a 
Jakes  \s-ith  him. — Spare  my  grey  beard,  you  wagtail  ? 

Corn.  Peace,  sirrah  ! 
You  beastly  knave,  know  you  no  reverence  ? 
Kent.  Yes,  sir;  but  anger  hath  a  privilege. 
Corn.  Why  art  thou  angry? 

Kent.  That  such  a  slave  as  this  should  wear  a  sword 
Who  wears  no  honesty.    Such  smiling  rogues  as  these 
Like  rats,  oft  bite  the  holy  cords  atwain 
Which  are  too  intrinse"  t'  unloose  :  smooth  every  passion 
That  in  the  natures  of  their  lords  rebels  : 
Bring  oil  to  fire,  snow  to  their  colder  moods : 
Renege'*,  affirm,  and  turn  their  halcyon"  beaks 
With  every  gale  and  vary  of  their  masters. 
And  knowing  nought,  like  dogs,  but  following. — 
A  plague  upon  your  epileptic  visage  ! 
Smile  at  my  speeches,  as  I  were  a  fool  ? 


action-taking  knave,  a  whoreson,  glass-gazing,  super-  Goose,  if  I  had  you  upon  Sarum  plam 
serviceable,  finical  rogue  ;  one-trunk-inhoriting  slave: 
one  that  wouldest  be  a  bawd,  in  way  of  good  ser\-ice. 
and  art  nothing  but  the  composition  of  a  knave,  beg- 
gar, coward,  pandar,  and  the  son  and  heir  of  a  mongrel 
bitch:  one  whom  I  will  beat  into  clamorous  whining. 
if  thou  deniest  the  least  sj-llable  of  thy  addition. 
Osw.  Why,  what  a  monstrous  fellow  art  thou,  thus 


I  'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to  Camelot'*. 

Corn.  What,  art  thou  mad.  old  fellow? 

Glo.  How  fell  you  out  ?  say  that. 

Ketit.  No  contraries  hold  more  antipathy. 
Than  I  and  such  a  kTiave. 

Corn.  Why  dost  thou  call  him  knave  ?     What 
offence  ? 


Lip* 
folic 


ke  was:  in  f.  e       =  betray  :  in  quartos.      '  prize  :  in  folio.     ♦  businesses  :  in  folio.      »  even  :  in  quartos.         the  :  in  qua.-to». 
burr  :  in  f.  e.      »  A  contemptuous  term  for  a  woman. -Dyce.      »  Not  in  quartos.     Dyce  says,  it  is  a  sta?e  direction.      "  yea™^ 
■'  Tightly  knotted.      i^  Deny;  Revenge  :  in  folio.      ■'  The  kinsimer.     It  was  a  popular  belief  that  this  bird,  if  hung  up.  wouU  rtrr.  t^ 
-eak  the  -vray  the  wind  blew'       i*  In  Somersetshire.     King  Arthur  here  kept  his  court. 


'32 


KING  LEAR. 


ACT    n. 


Krnt.  His  countenance  likes  me  not.  ] 

Com.  No  more,  perchance,  does  mine,  nor  his,  nor; 
hers. 

Kent.  Sir.  't  is  my  occupation  to  be  jilain  : 
I  liave  seen  better  t'aces  in  m.y  time, 
Than  stand  on  any  shoulders  that  I  sec 
Before  me  at  this  instant. 

Com.  This  is  some  fellow, 

Who.  having;  been  prais'd  for  bhintness,  doth  affect 
A  saiicy  roughness,  and  constrains  the  garb 
Quite  from  his  nature  :  he  cannot  flatter,  he  : 
An  honest  mind  and  plain.' — he  must  speak  truth  : 
An  tliey  will  take  it.  so  ;  if  not.  he  's  plain. 
These  icind  of  knaves  I  know,  which  in  this  plainness 
Harbour  more  craft,  and  more  corrupter  ends, 
Than  twenty  .>;illy  ducking  observants, 
That  stretch  their  duties  nicely. 

Kent.  Sir.  in  good  sooth,  in  sincere  verity, 
I'nder  th'  allowance  of  your  grand  aspect, 
Who.^^e  influence,  like  the  wreath  of  radiant  fire, 
On  flickering  Phoebus'  front, — 

Com.  What  mean'st  by  this  ? 

Kent.  To  go  out  of  my  dialect,  which  you  discom- 
mend so  much.  I  know'j  sir,  I  am  no  flatterer  :  he 
that  beguiled  you  in  a  plain  accent  was  a  plain  knave  ; 
which,  for  my  part,  I  vvtH  not  be,  though  I  should  win 
your  di.'jpleasure  to  entreat  me  to  't. 

Corn.  What  was  the  offence  you  gave  him  ? 

O.w.  I  never  gave  him  any. 
It  pleas'd  the  kin<r,  his  master,  very  late. 
To  strike  at  me  upon  his  misconstruction  ; 
Wlien  he.  compact*,  and  flattering  his  displeasure, 
Tripp'd  me  behind  ;  being  down,  insulted,  rail'd, 
And  put  upon  him  such  a  deal  of  man. 
That  wortiiied  him,  got  praises  of  the  king 
For  him  attempting  who  was  self-subdu'd : 
And.  in  the  fleshment  of  this  dread  exploit, 
Drew  on  me  here  again. 

Kent.  None  of  these  rogues,  and  cowards, 

But  Ajax  is  their  fool. 

Com.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks ! 

Vou'  stubborn  ancient  knave,  you  reverend  braggart, 
We  "11  teach  you — 

Kent.  Sir,  I  am  too  old  to  learn. 

Call  not  your  stocks  for  me  :  I  serve  the  king, 
On  whose  employment  I  was  sent  to  you  : 
You  shall  do  small  respect,  show  too  bold  malice 
Against  the  grace  and  person  of  my  master. 
Slocking  his  messenger. 

Com.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks  ! 

As  I  ha%-e  life  and  honour,  there  shall  he  sit  till  noon. 

Reg.  Till  noon  !  till  night,  my  lord  ;  and  all  night  too. 

Kent.  Why,  madam,  if  I  were  your  father's  dog, 
Vou  should  not  use  me  so. 

Res:.  Sir,  beins  his  knave,  I  will. 

[Stocks  brought  out. 

Corn.  This  is  a  fellow  of  the  self-.^ame  colour 
Our  sister  speaks  of. — Come,  bring  away  the  stocks. 

Glo.  Let  me  beseech  your  srace  not  te  do  so. 
His  fault  is  much,  and  the  good  kin-i  Ins  master* 
Will  check  him  for  't :  your  purpos'd  low  correction 
Is  such,  as  basest  and  contemned'st  wretches. 


For  pilferings  and  most  common  trespasses. 
Are  punish'd  with.     The  king  must  take  it  ill, 
That  he,  so  slightly  valued  in  his  messenger, 
Should  have  hiin  thus  restrain'd. 

Com.  I'll  answer  that. 

Reg.  My  sister  may  receive  it  much  more  worse. 
To  have  her  gentleman  abus'd,  assaulted, 
For  following  her  affairs. — Put  in  his  legs. — * 

[Kent  is  set  in  the  Sfork.f 
Come,  my  lord,  away. 

[Exeunt  Regan  and  Cornwai  l 

Glo.  I  am   sorry  for  thee,  friend;  't  is  the  duke' 
plea.'iure. 
Whose  disposition,  all  the  world  well  knows, 
Will  not  be  rubb'd,  nor  stopp'd  :  I  '11  entreat  for  tliee 

Kent.  Pray,  do  not,  sir.     I  have  watch'd.   and   tri 
vell'd  hard 
Some  time  I  shall  .sleep  out,  the  rest  I  '11  whistle' 
A  good  man's  fortune  may  grow  out  at  heels. 
Give  you  good  morrow  ! 

Glo.  The  duke's  to  blame  in  this:  'twill  be  ill  taken 

[E.rit. 

Kent.  Good  king,   that  must  approve    the  common 
saw  :• — 
Thou  out  of  heaven's  benediction  com'st 
To  the  warm  sun. 

Approach,  thou  beacon  to  this  under  globe, 
That  by  thy  comfortable  beams  I  may 
Peruse  this  letter. — Nothing  almo.^t  sees  miracles.' 
But  misery  : — I  know,  't  is  from  Cordelia ; 
Who  hath  most  fortunately  been  inform'd 
Of  my  obscured  course  ;  and  shall  find  time 
From  this  enormous  state, — seeking  to  give 
Losses  their  remedies. — All  wear\'  and  o'er-watch'd. 
Take  vantage,  hea^'y  eyes,  not  to  behold 
This  shameful  lodging.     Fortune,  good  night ; 
Smile  once  more  ;  turn  thy  wheel  !  [He  sleeps 

SCENE  III.— A  Part  of  the  Heath. 
Enter  Edgar. 
Edg.  I  heard  myself  proclaim'd; 
And  by  the  happy  hollow  of  a  tree 
Escap'd  the  hunt.     No  port  is  free  ;  no  place. 
That  guard,  and  most  unusual  vigilance, 
Does  not  attend  my  taking      While  I  may  'scape, 
I  will  preserve  myself;  and  am  bethought 
To  take  the  basest  and  most  poorest  shape, 
That  ever  penury,  in  contempt  of  man, 
Brought  near  to  beast :  my  face  I  '11  grime  with  lilih, 
Blanket  my  loins,  elf  all  my  hair  in  knots, 
And  with  presented  nakedness  out-face 
The  winds,  and  persecutions  of  the  sky. 
The  country  gives  me  proof  and  precedent 
Of  Bedlam  beggars,*  who.  with  roaring  voices. 
Strike  in  their  numb'd  and  mortified  bare  arms 
Pins,  wooden  pricks,  nails,  sprigs  of  rosemary  . 
And  with  this  horrible  object,  from  low  farms,* 
Poor  peltini;"  villaires,  sheep-cotes  and  mills, 
Sometime  wiih  lunatic  bans,  sometime  with  praj-ers, 
Enforce  their  charity. — Poor  Turlygood  !"  poor  Tom  I 
That's  something  yet : — Edgar  I  nothing  am.       [F.nt. 


'  he  must  b«  plain  : 
king,'-'  ue  not  in  folio 


'  This  and  the  following  lines,  to  "ll 


quutof.     »  conjunct ;  in  quartos.      '  Vou  miscreant  Vnave  :  in  qnartof. 
'  This  line  ii  not  in  folio. 

*  In  your  running  from  him  to  me, 
Ye  run  ou:  cf  God'ii  blessing  into  the  warm  cun. —  Heywond's  Proverbs  ;  quoted  by  Knight. 
'  my  wrack  :  in  quartos.      •  Poor  distracted  men,  thai  had  been  put  into  Bedlam,  where  recoverinsr  some  soberness,  they  weie  lioentiated 
to  Eo  a  berelni; ;  ».  e.  they  had  on   their  left    arm.  an   armilla.  an   iron   r.ng  for  the  arm,  about  four  inrhes  long,  a.'  printed  in  some  wnrks 
They  CO'., J  not  cet  it  off:  they  wore  about  their  neck.s  a  (rreit  horn  of  an  ox,  in  a  string  or    Vawdrick.  which,  whpn  they  came  to  c  bouse, 


they 
Thef 
erBagb 


nd,  and 
were  imp 


put  the  drink   e.\i 

se  wret 

»  a  set  of  finatics  of  the  thir'eenth 


to  them  ini')  this  horn.  wh<relo  they  put  a  siopple. — Aubr'y^s  JM.S.S.  ;  quoted  by  D'IsrMli 
»s.  »  service  :  in  quartos.  'O  Petty  "  Suppo-sed  by  Douce,  to  allude  to  the  Turlepin* 
id  fourteenth  centuries,  who  went  about  howling  like  wolves,  in  their  frenzies 


KING  LEAK. 


7S3 


SCENE  IV.— Before  Gloster's  Castle. 
Enter  Lear,  Fool,  and  a  Gentleman. 
Lear.  'T  is  strange  that  they  should  so  depart  from 
home. 
\iid  not  send  hack  my  messenger. 

Gent.  As  I  learu'd, 

The  night  before  there  was  no  purpose  in  them 
Of  this  remove 

Kent.  Hail  to  thee,  noble  master!   [Waking.^ 

Lear.   Ha! 
Mak'st  thou  this  shame  thy  pastime  ? 

Kfrit.  No,  my  lord. 

Fool.  Ha,  ha  !  look  :  he  wears  cruel  garters.  Horses 
are  tied  by  the  head :  dogs,  and  bears,  by  the  neck ; 
monkeys  by  the  loins,  and  men  by  the  legs.  When  a 
man  is  over-lusty  at  legs,  then  he  wears  wooden 
netherstocks. 

Lear.  What 's  he,  that  hath  so  much  thy  place  mis- 
took, 
To  set  thee  here  ' 

Kent.  It  is  both  he  and  she , 

Vour  son  and  daughter. 
Lear.  No. 
Kent.  Yes. 
Lear.  No,  I  say. 
Kent.  I  say,  yea. 
Lear.  No,  no ;  they  would  nort.' 
Kent.  Yes,  they  have. 
Lear.  By  Jupiter,  I  swear  no. 
Kent.  By  Juno,  I  swear,  ay." 

Lear.  They  durst  not  do  't ; 

They   could    not,    would  not   do't:    'tis   worse   than 

murder, 
To  do  upon  respect  such  violent  outrage. 
Resolve  me  with  all  modest  haste  which  way 
Thou  mightst  deserve,  or  they  impose,  this  usage, 
Coming  from  us. 

Kent.  My  lord,  when  at  their  home 

I  did  commend  your  highness'  letters  to  them. 
Ere  I  was  risen  from  the  place  that  show'd 
My  duty  kneeling,  came  there  a  reeking  post. 
Stew'd  in  his  haste,  half-breathless,  panting  forth 
From  Goneril,  his  mistress,  salutation  ; 
Deliver'd  letters,  spite  of  intermission. 
Which  presently  they  read :  on  whose  contents. 
They  summon'd  up  their  meiny*,  straight  took  horse  ; 
Commanded  me  to  follow,  and  attend 
The  leisure  of  their  answer  ;  gave  me  cold  locks : 
And  meeting  here  the  other  messenger. 
Whose  welcome,  I  percciv'd,  had  poison'd  mine, 
(Being  the  very  fellow  which  of  late 
Display'd  so  saucily  against  your  highness) 
Having  more  man  than  wit  about  me,  drew  : 
He  rais'd  the  house  with  loud  and  coward  cries. 
Yc  i.r  son  and  daughter  found  this  trespass  worth 
The  shame  which  here  it  suffers. 

Fool.°  Winter  's  not  gone   yet.  if  the  wild  geese  fly 
Ihat  way. 

Fathers,  that  wear  rags, 

Do  make  their  children  blind  ; 
But  fathers,  that  bear  bags. 

Shall  see  their  children  kind. 
Fortune,  that  arrant  whore, 
Ne'er  turns  the  key  to  the  poor. — 
But,  for  all  this,  it  follows. 
Thou  shalt  have  as  many  dolours 

loho. 


For  thy  daughters  dear, 
As  thou  can.-t  tell  in  a  year.* 
Lear.  0,  how  this  mother  swells  up  toward  my  heart ' 
Hysterica  passio  !  doMii,  thou  climbing  sorrow. 
Thy  element  's  below. — Where  is  this  daughter  ? 
Kent.  With  the  earl,  sir  ;  here,  within. 
Lear.  Follow  mc  not 

Stay  here.  {Frit 

Gent.  Made  you   no   more   offence   than  \Ahai   vov 

speak  of? 
Kent.  None. 
How  chance  the  king  comes  with  so  small  a  train  ? 

Fool.  An  thou   hadst  been  set  i"  the  stocks  lor  tha 
question,  thou  hadst  well  deserv'd  it. 
Kent.  Why,  fool  ? 

Fool.  We  '11  set  thee  to  school  to  an  ant,  to  teach 
thee  there  's  no  labouring  i'  the  winter.  All  that  fol- 
low their  noses  are  led  by  their  eyes,  but  blind  men : 
and  there  's  not  a  nose  among  twenty  but  can  smell 
him  that  's  stinking.  Let  go  thy  hold,  when  a  groai 
wheel  runs  down  a  hill,  lest  it  break  thy  neck  with 
following  it;  but  the  great  one  that  goes  up  the  hill.' 
let  him  draw  thee  after.  When  a  wise  man  ^ives 
thee  better  counsel,  give  me  mine  again :  I  would  have 
none  but  knaves  follow  it,  since  a  fool  gives  it. 

That  sir.  which  serves  and  seeks  for  gain. 

And  follows  but  for  form. 
Will  pack  when  it  begins  to  rain, 

And  leave  thee  in  the  storm. 
But  I  will  tarry;  the  fool  will  stay, 

And  let  the  vdse  man  fly  : 
The  fool  turns  knave*  that  runs  away. 
The  knave  no  fool/  perdy. 
Kent.  Where  learn'd  you  this,  fool  ? 
Fool.  Not  i'  the  stocks,  fool. 

Re-enter  Lear,  with  Gloster. 
I      Lear.  Deny  to  speak  with  me  ?  They  are  sick?  thov 

are  weary  ? 
They  have  travell'd  hard  to-night'*  ?     Mere  fetches, 
The  images  of  revolt  and  flying  off". 
Fetch  me  a  better  answer. 

GIo.  My  dear  lord, 

I  You  know  the  fiery  quality  of  the  duke  ; 
How  unremovable  and  fix'd  he  is 
In  his  own  course. 

Lear.  Vengeance  !  plague  !  death  1  confusion  !• 
Fierv?  what"  quality?     Why,  Gloster,  Gloster, 
1  "d  speak  with  the  duke  of  Cornwall  and  his  wife. 
Glo.  Well,  mv  good  lord,  I  have  inform"d  them  so." 
Lear.  Inform'd   them!     Dost  thou  understand   mr. 

man? 
Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear.  The   king  would  speak  "wnth  CornwaM  :   the 
dear  father 
Would  with  his  daughter  speak,  commands  her  sers-ioe  • 
Are  thev  inform'd  of  this?     My  breath  and  blood  !  — 
Fiery"  ?  the  fiery  duke?— Tell  the  hot  duke.  thaf»— 
No,  but  not  yet ; — may  be.  he  is  not  well : 
Infirmity  doth  still  neglect  all  office. 
Whereto  our  health  is  bound  :  we  are  not  ourselves. 
When  nature,  being  oppressed,  commands  the  mind 
To  suffer  with  the  body      I'll  forbear; 
And  am  fallen  out  with  my  more  headier  will, 
To  take  the  indispos'd  and  sickly  fit 
For  the  sound  man— Death  on  my  state  !  wherefoie 

[Pointing  to  Kint 
Should  he  sit  here  ?     This  act  persuades  me, 


Notliif.  e.      'This  and   the   next  speech,  arc   not  in   lolio.      'This  speech  is   not  ir  quartos. ^^ 
TOk-tos.      »  f.  e.   give  the   last  four  lines  as  prose,  and  omit  the  words,   "  it  follows,     and      dear. 
rtms  fool  :  in  f.  e.      •  The  fool  no  knave  :  in  f.  e.     '»  all  the  night  :  in  folio,     i'  what  fiery  :  in  quarto. 
Mi%  in  folio.     13  ;\(ot  in  quarto      '*  '•  Lear,"  is  added   in  quarto. 


Retinue.      •  This  speech  i«  not  is 

1  upwards  :  in  folio.     »  The  knsv, 

l»  This  E.nd  the  next  speech,  an 


784 


KING  LEAR. 


TTiat  this  remotion  of  the  duke  and  her 
Is  practice  only.     Give  me  my  servant  forth. 
II. •.  tell  the  duke  and  "s  wife,  I'd  s|)eak  with  them. 
Now,  presently:  bid  tliem  come  forth  and  bear  me, 
».-  at  their  chamber  door  I  "11  beat  the  dnim, 
Till  it  cry — "Sleep  to  death." 

Glo.  I  would  ha%-e  all  well  bet-wiit  you.  [Exit. 

Lear.  0  me  I  my  heart,  my  rising  heart  I — but,  down. 

Fool.  Cr>-  to  it,  nuncle,  as  the  cockney  did  to  the 
eels,  when  she  put  them  i"  the  paste  alive  :  sheknapp"d 
"em  o"  tne  coxcombs  with  a  slick,  and  cried,  ''  Down, 
wantons.  do\\-n  :""  't  was  her  brother,  that  in  pure  kind- 
ness to  his  horse  butter'd  his  hay. 

Knier  Cornwall.  Regan.  Gloster.  and  Servants. 

Lear.  Good  morrow  to  you  both. 

Com.       Hail  to  your  grace  I   [Kent  is  set  at  liberty. 

Reg.  I  am  gls>d  to  see  your  highness. 

Lear.  Regan,  I  think  you  are  :  I  know  what  reason 
I  have  to  think  so  :  if  thou  shouldst  not  be  glad, 
I  would  divorce  thee  from  thy  mothers  tomb. 
"Sepulchring  an  aduh'rcs*. — 0  I  are  you  free  ?  [To  Kent. 
S.?inc  other  time  for  that. — Beloved  Regan. 
Tify  einer  's  naught :  0  Regan  !  she  hath  tied 
Sharp'd-tooth'd  uukindness.  like  a  ^-ulture.  here. — 

[Points  to  his  heart. 
I  can  scarce  speak  to  thee  :  thou 'It  not  believe. 
With  how  deprav'd  a  quality — O  Regan  I — 

Re^.  I  pray  you,  sir.  take  patience.     I  have  hope. 
Y'ou  less  know  how  to  value  her  desert. 
Thau  she  to  scant'  her  duty. 

Lear.  Say,  how  is  that  ?' 

Reg.  I  cannot  think,  my  sister  in  the  least, 
Would  fail  her  obligation :  if.  sir,  perchance. 
She  have  restrain'd  the  riots  of  your  followers, 
T  is  on  such  ground,  and  to  such  wholesome  end. 
A.S  clears  her  from  all  blame. 

Lear.  My  curses  on  her  ! 

Reg.  0.  sir  I  you  are  old  : 

Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
)f  her  confine  :  you  should  be  rul'd.  and  led 
B>  some  discretion,  that  di.«cems  your  state 
Better  than  you  yourself.     Therefore.  I  pray  you, 
1  hat  to  our  sigter  you  do  make  return : 
Say.  you  have  -wToug'd  her,  sir. 

Lear.  Ask  her  forgiveness  ? 

[>'  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  mouth  :* 

Dear  daughter.  I  confess  that  I  am  old  : 
.\L'e  IS  unnecessary:  on  my  knees  I  beg.        [Kneeling. 
That  you  11  vouch-^afe  me  raiment,  bed.  and  food." 

Reg.  Good  sir.  no  more :  these  are  imsightly  tricks. 
Hetum  you  to  my  sister. 

Lear.  Never.  Regan.  [Ri-fing.* 

She  hath  abated  me  of  half  my  train  : 
Lo'ik  d  black  upon  me  :  struck  me  ^ith  her  tongue. 
Most  *e.'7)ent-like,  upon  the  ver>-  heart. — 
\\\  the  stord  vengeances  of  heaven  fall 
<'hi  lier  ungrateful  top  I     Strike  her  youns  bones. 
Vou  takmg  airs.  ^»-ith  lameness  ! 

<'orn.  Fie.  sir.  fie  ! 

Ixar.  You  nimble   lightnings,   dart    your   blinding 
flames 
Into  her  .^comful  eyes  !     Infect  her  beauty. 
V  ou  fcn-suck'd  fogs,  drawn  by  the  powerful  sun. 
To  fall  and  blast*  her  pride  ! 

Reg.  O  the  blest  gods  ! 

.So  will  you  wish  on  me.  when  the  rash  mood  is  on. 

Lear.  No.  Regan  ;  thou  shalt  never  have  my  curse  : 


Thy  tender-hearted*  nature  shall  not  give 

Thee  o'er  to  harshness  :  her  eyes  are  tierce  ;  but  thint 

Do  comfort,  and  not  bum.     "Tis  not  in  thee 

To  grudge  my  pleasures,  to  cut  off  my  train, 

To  bandy  ha.-^ty  words,  to  scant  my  sizes,' 

And,  in  conclusion,  to  oppose  the  bolt 

Again.st  my  coming  in  :  thou  better  know'st 

The  otHces  of  nature,  bond  of  childhood, 

Etfects  of  courtesy,  dues  of  gratitude  : 

Thy  half  o"  the  kingdom  thou  hast  not  forgot, 

Wherein  I  thee  endow'd. 

Reg.  Good  sir,  to  the  purpose. 

Lear.  Who  put  my  man  i"  the  stocks  ?  [Tucked  urithin. 
Com.  \Miat  trumpet 's  that  ? 

Enter  Ow.^ld. 
Reg.  I  know't  :  my  si.'^ters  :  this  approves  her  letter. 
That  she  would  soon  be  here. — Is  your  lady  come? 
Lear.  This  is  a  slave,  whose  easy  borrow'd  pride 
Dwells  in  the  fickle  grace  of  her  he  follows. — 
Out.  varlet,  from  my  sight  I 

Corn.  What  means  your  grace  ' 

Lear.    Who  stock'd  my  servant  ?      Regan.  I    have 
good  hope 
i  Thou  didst  not  know   on  't. — Who    comes    here  ?     0 
I  heavens ! 

j  Enter  Goneril. 

If  you  do  love  old  men.  if  your  sweet  sway 
;  Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old. 
Make  it  your  cause  :  send  down,  and  take  my  ptirt  ! — 
I  Art  not  a.<=ham'd  to  look  upon  this  beard  '^ — 

!  [To  GONIRIL. 

i  0  Regan  !  wilt  thou  take  her  by  the  hand  ? 

I      Gon.  Why  not  by  the  hand,  sir?     How  have  I  uf- 

i  fended  ? 

i  All 's  not  offence,  that  indiscretion  finds, 

I  And  dotage  terms  so. 

1      Lear.  O  sides  !  yon  are  too  tough  : 

Will  you  yet  hold  ?     How  came  my  man  i"  the  stocks  ' 
I      Corn.  I  set  him  there,  sir :  but  his  own  disorders 
I  Deserv'd  much  less  advancement. 
:      Lear.  You  !  did  you  ? 

Reg.   I  pray  you.  father,  being  weak,  seem  so. 

If.  till  the  expiration  of  your  month, 
i  You  \%-ill  rerurn  and  sojourn  with  my  sister. 
I  Dismissing  half  your  train,  come  then  to  me : 

I  am  now  from  home,  and  out  of  that  provision 

Which  shall  be  needful  for  your  entertainment. 
Lear.  RetiUTi  to  her.  and  fifty  men  dismissed  ? 

No.  rather  I  abjure  all  roofs,  and  choose 

To  wage  against  the  enmity  o'  the  air ; 

To  be  a  comrade  with  the  wolf  and  howl* 

Necessity's  sharp  pinch  I — Return  with  her? 

Why.  the  hot-blooded  France,  that  dowerless  tfK)k 

Our  youngest  bom.  I  could  as  well  be  brought 

To  knee  his  throne,  and.  squire-like,  pension  beg 
j  To  keep  ba.«e  life  afoot. — Return  with  her  ? 

Persuade  me  rather  to  be  slave  and  sumpter 

To  this  detested  groom.  [Looking  at  Oswalb. 

G:n.  At  your  choice,  sir. 

Zjear.  I  prjihee.  dauehter.  do  not  make  me  mad 

I  wnll  not  trouble  thee,  my  child  :  farewell. 

We  "11  no  more  meet,  no  more  .*ee  one  another  ; 

But  yet  thou  art  my  flesh,  my  blood,  my  daught<T 

Or.  rather,  a  disease  that  s'*  in  my  flesh, 

Which  I  must  needs  call  mine:  thou  art  a  boil, 

A  plague-sore,  an  embos.>-ed  carbuncle. 

In  my  corrupted  blood.     But  I'll  not  chide  tlnx;  ; 


'  lUek  ;  in  qaanoa.      >  This  aaJ  the  D«xt  *fe*cK  an  oaly  in  folio.      >  kouM  :  is  f  «.      *  Not  in 
ft«l  :  :■  f  e.     ^  Fixtd  allmciHett.     *  Slatt  o/ a  trumpet.     »  The  wolf  and  owl.     Xeceerity'i,  *< 


.■  -leij-toe 


B.     »  md  blifter  :  ija.  foU- 
in  f  e.     >•  th^  lin  within 


'  tead«r 
IT  fle*li 


SCENE    L 


KING  LEAR. 


785 


Let  shame  come  when  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it : 
I  do  not  bid  the  thuuder-bearer  shoot, 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high- judging  Jove. 
Mend,  when  thou  canst ;  be  better,  at  thy  leisure: 
[  can  be  patient ;  I  can  stay  wath  Regan, 
I,  and  my  hundred  knights. 

Reg.  Not  altogether  so : 

I  look'd  not  for  you  yet,  nor  am  provided 
For  your  fit  welcome.     Give  ear,  sir,  to  my  sister; 
For  those  that  mingle  reason  with  their  passion, 
Must  be  content  to  think  you  old,  and  so — 
But  she  knows  what  she  does. 

Lear.  Is  this  well  spoken  ? 

Reg.  I  dare  avouch  it,  sir.     What !  fifty  followers  ? 
Is  it  not  well  ?     What  should  you  need  of  more  ? 
Yea,  or  so  many,  sith  that  both  charge  and  danger 
Speak  'gainst  so  great  a  number  ?     How,  in  one  house. 
Should  many  people,  under  two  commands, 
Hold  amity  ?      T  is  hard  :  almost  impossible.       [ance 

Gon.  Why  might  not  you,  my  lord,  receive  attend- 
From  those  that  she  calls  servants,  or  from  mine  ? 

Reg.  Why  not,  my  lord  ?     If  then  they  chanc'd  to 
slack  you, 
We  could  control  them.     If  you  will  come  to  me, 
(For  now  I  spy  a  danger)  I  entreat  you 
To  bring  but  five  and  twenty  :  to  no  more 
Will  I  give  place,  or  notice. 

Lear.  I  gave  you  all. 

Reg.  And  in  good  time  you  gave  it. 

Lear.  Made  you  my  guardians,  my  depositaries, 
But  kept  a  reservation  to  be  follow' d 
With  such  a  number.     What  !  must  I  come  to  you 
With  five  and  twenty  ?     Regan,  said  you  so  ? 

Reg.  And  speak 't  again,  my  lord:  no  more  with  me. 

Lear.    Those   wicked  creatures    yet  do   look  well- 
favour'd. 
When  others  are  more  wicked ;  not  being  the  worst 
Stands  in  some  rank  of  praise. — I  '11  go  with  thee  : 

[To  GONERIL. 

Thy  fifty  yet  doth  double  five  and  twenty, 
And  thou  art  twice  her  love. 

Gan.  Hear  me,  my  lord. 

What  need  you  five  and  twenty,  ten,  or  five. 
To  follow  in  a  house,  where  twice  so  many 
Have  a  command  to  tend  you  ? 

Reg.  What  needs  one  ? 

Lear.  0  !  reason  not  the  need ;  our  basest  beggars 
Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous  : 
Allow  not  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 
Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's.     Thou  art  a  lady  ; 


If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous, 

Why,  nature  needs  not  what  thou  gorgeous  wear'st, 

Which  scarcely  keeps  thee  warm.     But,  for  true  need, 

You  heavens,  give  me  but  patience,  patience  I  need  ' 

You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man,' 

As  full  of  grief  as  age  ;  wretched  in  both  : 

If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 

Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 

To  bear  it  tamely ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger. 

0  !  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops. 
Stain  my  man's  cheeks. — No,  you  unnatural  hags, 

1  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both, 

That  all  the  world  shall — I  will  do  such  things: — 
What  they  are,  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  sliall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.     You  think,  I   11  weep, 
No,  I'll  not  weep : — 
I  have  full  cause  of  weeping  ;  but  this  heart 

{Storm  heard  at  a  distance 
Shal)  break  into  a  hundred  thou.-^and  flaws, 
Or  ere  I  '11  weep. — 0.  fool  '  I  shall  go  mad. 

[Exeunt  Lear,  Gloster,  Kent,  a/id  Fool 

Corn.  Let  us  withdraw,  'twill  be  a  storm. 

Reg.  This  house  is  little  :  the  old  man  and  's  people 
Cannot  be  well  bestow'd. 

Gon.  'T  is  his  own  blame  hath  put  himself  from  rest  • 
He  must  needs  taste  his  folly. 

Reg.  For  his  particular,  I'll  receive  him  gladly, 
But  not  one  follower. 

Gon.  So  am  I  purpos'd. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Gloster  ? 

Re-enter  Gloster. 

Com.  Follow'd  the  old  man  forth. — He  is  retum'd» 

Glo.  The  king  is  in  high  rage. 

Corn.  Whither  is  he  going'  "r 

Glo.    He   calls   to   horse ;     but   will    I   know  nof 
whither. 

Corn.  'T  is  best  to  give  him  way  ;  he  leads  himself. 

Gon.  My  lord,  entreat  him  by  no  meaiLs  to  stay. 

Glo.  Alack  !  the  night  comes  on,  and  the  bleak  winds 
Do  sorely  ruflie  :  for  many  miles  about 
There 's  scarce'  a  bush. 

Reg.  0  sir  !  to  wilful  men, 

The  injuries  that  they  themselves  procure 
Must  be  their  schoolmasters.     Shut  up  your  doors  : 
He  is  attended  with  a  desperate  train, 
And  what  they  may  incense  him  to,  being  apt 
To  have  his  ear  abus'd,  wisdom  bids  fear. 

Corn.  Shut  up  your  doors,  my  lord  ;  't  is  a  wild  night 
My  Regan  counsels  well. — Come  out  o'  the  storm. 

[Exewii 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I.— A  Heath. 

A  Storm,  with  TJmnder  and  Lightning.     Enter  Kent, 

and  a  Gentleman,  meeting. 

Kent.  Who  's  here,  beside  foul  weather  ? 

Gent.  One  minded,  like  the  weather,  most  unquietly. 

Kent.  I  know  you.     Where  's  the  king  ? 

Gent.  Contending  with  the  fretful  elements  ; 
Bids  the  wind  blow  the  earth  into  the  sea. 
Or  swell  the  curled  waters  'bove  the  main, 
That  things  might  change  or  cease*:  tears  his  white  hair. 
Which  the  impetuous  blasts,  with  eyeless  rage, 
Catch  in  their  fury,  and  make  nothing  of : 


Strives  in  his  little  world  of  man  to  out-scorn 

The  to-and-fro-conflicting  wind  and  rain. 

This  night,  wherein  the  cub-drawn  bear  would  couch. 

The  lion  and  the  belly-pinched  wolf 

Keep  their  fur  dry,  unbonuetcd  he  runs, 

And  bids  what  will  take  all. 

Kent.  But  who  is  with  him  ? 

Gent.  None  but  the  fool,  who  labours  to  outjest 
His  heart-struck  injuries 

Kent.  Sir,  I  do  know  you, 

And  dare,  upon  the  warrant  o»"  my  note. 
Commend  a  dear  thing  to  yon      There  is  division, 
Although  as  yet  the  face  of  it  be  cover'd 


>  fellow : 
in  folio. 


This  and  thf  next  speech,  to  "  horse,"  are  not  in  quartos.      '  not  :  in  quartof.      ♦  The  i 


786 


KING  LEAR. 


ACT  ra. 


With  murual  cunning,  "twixt  Albany  and  Cornwall ;' 

Who  have  (as  who  have  not,  that  their  great  stars 

Thron'd  and  set  high  ?)  servants,  who  seem  no  less, 

Wliich  are  to  Franee  the  spies  and  spectators* 

Intelligent  of  our  state;  what  hath  been  scon, 

Either  in  snuffs'  and  packings  of  the  dukes, 

Or  the  hard  rein  which  both  of  them  have  borne 

Against  the  old  kind  king  ;  or  something  deeper, 

Whereof,  perchance,  these  are  but  flourishings  :* 

But,  true  it  is^  from  France  there  comes  a  power 

Into  this  scatter'd  kingdom  :  who  already, 

Wise  in  our  negligence,  have  secret  feet 

In  some  of  our  best  ports,  and  are  at  point 

To  show  their  open  banner. — Now  to  you  : 

If  on  my  credit  you  dare  build  so  far 

To  make  you.  .speed  to  Dover,  you  shall  find 

Some  that  w^.'A  thank  you,  making  just  report 

Of  how  unnatural  and  bemadding  sorrow 

The  king  hath  cause  to  plain. 

r  am  a  gentleman  of  blood  and  breeding, 

And  from  some  knowledge  and  assurance  offer 

This  otfice  to  you. 

Gent.  I  will  talk  farther  with  you. 

Kent.  No,  do  not. 

For  confirmation  that  I  am  much  more 
Than  my  out  wall,  open  this  purse,  and  take 
What  it  contains.     If  you  shall  see  Cordelia, 
(As  fear  not  but  you  shall)  show  her  this  ring. 
And  she  will  tell  you  who  that'  fellow  is 
That  yet  you  do  not  know.  [Thu7ider.]  Fie  on  this  storm  ! 
I  will  go  seek  the  king. 

Gent.  Give  me  your  hand.  Have  you  no  more  to  say  ? 

Kent.  Few  words,  but.  to  effect,  more  than  all  yet ; 
That,  when  we  have  found  the  king,  in  which  your  pain 
That  way,  I  '11  this,  he  that  first  lights  on  him. 
Holla  the  other.  [Exennt  severally. 

SCENE    II.— Another  Part  of   the  Heath.     Storm 

continues. 

Enter  Lear  and  Fool. 

Lenr.Rlow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks!  rage!  blow! 
You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes  spout. 
Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the  cocks  ! 
You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt-couriers  to  oak-cleaving  thunder-bolts, 
Sinue  my  white  head  !  And  thou,  all-shaking  thunder, 
Strike*  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world : 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germins  spill  at  once. 
That  make  ingrateful  man  ! 

Fool.  O  nuncle,  court  holy-water'  in  a  dry  house  is 
better  than  this  rain-water  out  o'  door.  Good  nuncle, 
in,  and  ask  thy  daughters  blessing:  here's  a  night 
pities  neither  wif^e  men  nor  fools.  [Thuiider. 

Lear.  Humble  thy  bellyfull !   Spit,  fire  !  spout,  rain  ! 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters  : 
I  tax  not  you.  you  elements,  with  unkindncss  : 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children, 
You  owe  me  no  subscription  :  then,  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure;  here  I  stand,  your  slave, 
A  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despis'd  old  man. 
Hut  yet  I  call  you  .servile  ministers, 
That  will*  with  two  pernicious  daughters  joiii' 
Your  high-engender'd  battles  'gain.st  a  head 
So  old  and  white  a.^  this.     O  !  O  !  't  is  foul  ! 

Fool.  He  that  has  a  house  to  put  "s  head  in  has  a 
good  head-picoc. 

•  Th)»  and  the  MTen  fcMowinK  linef,  are  not  in  quartop.  > 
The  rest  of  the  speech  i«  not  in  folio.  »  your  :  in  quartos.  ' 
Cot^ave's  Diet.  •  have  :  in  qoartos.  'joinM  :  in  quartof. 
Mio;  thundering:  in  onartos.  '«  The  quartos  insert:  man, 
cpeeeh  not  ia  qn&rt««. 


The  cod-piece  that  will  house. 

Before  the  head  has  any, 
The  head  and  he  shall  louse  , — 

So  beggars  marry  many. 
The  man  that  makes  his  toe 

What  he  his  heart  should  make, 
Shall  of"  a  corn  cry  woe. 
And  turn  his  sleep  to  wake. 
— for  there  was  never  yet  fair  woman,  but  she  made 
mouths  in  a  glass. 

Enter  Kent. 
Lear.  No,  I  will  be  the  pattern  of  all  patience ;  I 
will  say  nothing. 

Kent.  W^ho  's  there  ? 

Fool.  Marry,  here  's  grace,  and  a  cod-piece  ,    that 's 
a  wise  man,  and  a  fool. 

Kent.  Alas,  sir!  are  you  here  ?  Things  that  love  night, 
Love  not  such  nights  as  these  ;  the  wrathful  skies 
Gallow"  the  very  wanderers  of  the  dark. 
And  make  them  keep  their  caves.     Since  I  was  man, 
Such  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thunder. 
Such  groans  of  roaring  wind  and  rain,  1  nevei 
Remember  to  have  heard  :  man's  natiu-e  cannot  carry 
Th'  afliiction,  nor  the  fear.** 

Lear.  Let  the  great  gods, 

That  keep  this  dreadful  pother'*  o'er  our  heads. 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.     Tremble,  thou  WTetch, 
That  hast  within  thee  undivulgcd  crimes. 
Unwhipp'd  of  justice  :  hide  thee,  thou  bloody  hand  ; 
Thou  perjure,  and  thou  simuler'*  of  virtue 
That  art  incestuous  :  caitiff,  to  pieces  shake, 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 
Hast  practised  on  man's  life  :  close  pent-up  guilts, 
Rive  your  concealing  continents,''  and  cry 
These  dreadful  summoners  grace. — I  am  a  man, 
More  sinn'd  against,  than  sinning. 

Kent.  Alack  !  bare-headed 

Graciows  my  lord,  hard  by  here  is  a  hovel ; 
Some  friendship  will  it  lend  you  'gainst  the  tempest- 
Repose  you  there,  while  I  to  this  hard  house, 
(More  hard"  than  is  the  stone  whereof  't  is  rais'd, 
Which  even  but  now,  demanding  after  you, 
Denied  me  to  come  in)  return,  and  force 
Their  scanted  courtesy. 

Lear.  My  wits  begin  to  turn. — 

Come  on,  my  boy.     How  dost,  my  boy'     Art  cold  ? 
I  am  cold  myself. — Where  is  this  straw  my  fellow? 
T^e  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange. 
That  can  make  vile  things  precious.  Come,  your  hovol. 
Poor  fool  and  knave.  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart 
Tliat  's  sorry  yet  for  thee. 

Fool.  He  that  has  a  little  tiny  wit., —  [Sinqa 

With  heigh.,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, — 
Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  JU  ; 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 
Lear.  True,  my  good  boy. — Come,  bring  us  to  thor 
hovel.  [Exemit  Lear  and  Kk.nt 

Fool.^''  This  is  a  brave  night  to  cool  a  courtezan. 
I'll  speak  a  prophecy  ere  I  go : 

When  priests  are  more  in  word  than  matter ; 
When  brewers  mar  their  malt  with  water; 
W^hen  nobles  are  their  tailors'  tutors  ; 
No  heretics  burn'd,  but  wenches  suitors : 
When  every  case  in  law  is  right; 
No  squire  in  debt,  nor  no  poor  knight; 
When  slanders  do  not  live  in  tongues, 

mocnlation*  :  in  f.  e.       »  IH-ilikes,  and  intrigues.      ♦  fiirnishin)r»  :  in  t  t 

Smite  :  in  quartos.       '  "  Compliments,  fair  words,  flatterinp  speechw.  — 

10  hare  :  in  quarto*.       >'  Scare.       "  force  :   in  quartos.      >'  pudder  :  i« 

••concealed  centres:  in   quartos,     "harder  than  the:  in  folio.     '   Thl» 


»«Tjiw»nMiMm»»t»fffmftrf>Tffn?rTr?TTtffM>'HinrffnMniftatw<l 


iarw. 


^ 


SOKNi;   IV 


KING  LEAR. 


787 


Nor  cutpurses  come  not  to  throngs  ; 

When  usurers  tell  their  gold  i'  the  field, 

And  bawds  and  whores  do  churches  build ; 

Then  shall  the  realm  of  Albion' 

Come  to  great  confusion  : 

Then  comes  the  time,  who  lives  to  see  't, 

That  going  shall  be  us'd  with  feet. 
This  prophecy  Merlin  shall  make ;  for  I  live  before  his 
lime.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Gloster's  Castle 
Enter  Gloster  and  Edmund. 

(flo.  Alack,  alack  !  Edmund,  I  like  not  this  unna- 
tural dealing.  When  I  desired  their  leave  that  I  might 
pity  him,  they  took  from  me  the  use  of  mine  own 
house ;  charged  me,  on  pain  of  their  perpetual  displea- 
sure, neither  to  speak  of  him,  entreat  for  him,  nor  any 
way  sustain  him. 

Edm.  Most  savage,  and  unnatural  ! 

Glo.  Go  to ;  say  you  nothing.  There  is  divi.sion 
between  the  dukes,  and  a  worse  matter  than  that.  I 
have  received  a  letter  this  night ; — "t  is  dangerous  to  be 
spoken : — I  have  locked  the  letter  in  my  closet.  These 
injuries  the  king  now  bears  will  be  revenged  home ; 
there  is  part  of  a  power  already  footed  :'  we  must  in- 
cline to  the  king.  I  will  seek  him,  and  privily  relieve 
him :  go  you,  and  maintain  talk  with  the  duke,  that 
my  charity  be  not  of  him  perceived.  If  he  ask  for  me, 
I  am  ill,  and  gone  to  bed.  If  I  die  for  it,  as  no  less  is 
threatened  me,  the  king,  my  old  master,  must  be  re- 
lieved. There  is  some  strange  thing  toward,  Edmund  : 
pray  you,  be  careful.  [Exit. 

Edm.  This  courtesy,  forbid  thee,  shall  the  duke 
Instantly  know ;  and  of  that  letter  too. 
This  seems  a  fair  deserving,  and  must  draw  me 
That  which  my  father  loses ;  no  less  than  all : 
The  younger  rises,  when  the  old  doth  fall.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Part  of  the  Heath,  with  a  Hovel. 
Enter  Lear,  Kent,  and  Fool. 

Kent.  Here  is  the  place,  my  lord  ;  good  my  lord,  enter  : 
The  tyranny  of  the  open  night  's  too  rough 
For  nature  to  endure.  [Storm  still. 

Lear.  Let  me  alone. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Wilt  break  my  heart? 

Kent.  I  'd  rather  break  mine  own.     Good  my  lord, 
enter. 

Lear.  Thou  think'st  't  is  much,  that  this  contentious 
storm 
Invades  us  to  the  skin  :  so  't  is  to  thee  ; 
But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fix'd. 
The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.     Thou  'dst  shun  a  bear ; 
But  if  thy  flight  lay  toward  the  roaring  sea. 
Thou  'dst  meet  the  bear   i'   the  mouth.     When  the 

mind  's  free. 
The  body  's  delicate  :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else. 
Save  what  beats  there. — Filial  ingratitude  ! 
Is  it  not  as  this  mouth  should  tear  this  hand, 
For  lifting  food  to  't? — But  I  will  punish  home,' — 
No,  I  will  weep  no  more. — In  such  a  night 
To  shut  me  out ! — Pour  on  : — I  ^^"111  endure  :* — 
In  such  a  night  as  this  !     O  Regan  !  Goneril  ! 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave  all.' — 
0 !  that  way  madness  lies ;  let  me  shun  that ; 
No  more  of  that. 


Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Pr'ythee.  go  in  thyself;  seek  thine  own  ea«e: 
This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 
On  things  would  hurt  me  more. — But  I  '11  go  in : 
In,   boy;    go   first.  — [To  the  Fool.]      You   houBeless 

poverty, — ' 
Nay,  get  thee  in.     I  '11  pray,  and  then  I  '11  sleep.— 

[Fool  goes  in 
Poor  naked  WTetches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  peltuig  of  this  pitiless  stonn.' 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?     0  !  I  have  ta'en 
Too  little  care  of  this.     Take  physic,  pomp ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel. 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  superflux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just. 

Edg.   [iritkin.]  Fathom  and  half,  fathom  and  half! 
Poor  Tom  !     [The  Fool  runs  out  from  the  Hovel. 

Fool.  Come  not  in  here,  nuncle ;  here  's  a  spirit. 
Help  me  !  help  me  ! 

Kent.  Give  me  thy  hand. — Who  's  there? 

Fool.  A  spirit,  a  spirit :  he  says  his  name 's  poor  Tom. 

Kent.  What  art  thou  that  dost  grumble  there  i'  the 
Come  forth.  [straw  ? 

Enter  Edgar,  disguised  as  a  Madman. 

Edg.  Away  !  the  foul  fiend  follows  me  ! — 
"  Through  the  sharp  hawthorn  blows  the  cold'  wind." — 
Humph  !   go  to  thy  cold'  bed,  and  warm  thee. 

Lear.  Hast  thou  given  all  to  thy  two  daughters? 
And  art  thou  come  to  this? 

Edg.  Who  gives  any  thing  to  poor  Tom  ?  whom  the 
foul  fiend  hath  led  through  fire  and  through  flame, 
through  swamp'"  and  whirlpool,  over  bog  and  quagmire ; 
and  hath  laid  knives  under  his  pillow,  and  halters  in 
his  pew  ;  set  ratsbane  by  his  porridge  :  made  him  pnn>d 
of  heart,  to  ride  on  a  bay  trotting-horse  over  four-inched 
bridges,  to  course  his  own  shadow  for  a  traitor. — Bless 
thy  five  wits  !"  Tom  's  a-cold. — 0  !  do  de.  do  de.  do 
de. — Bless  thee  from  whirlwinds^  star-bla-sting,  and 
taking".  Do  poor  Tom  some  charity,  whom  the  foul 
fiend  vexes. — There  could  I  have  him  now, — euid  there, 
— and  there, — and  there  again,  and  there. 

[Strikes.^'     Storm  continues. 

Lear.  What  !   have   his  daughters  brought  him  to 
this  pass  ? — 
Couldst  thou  save  nothing?  Didst  thou  give  them  all  ? 

Fool.  Nay,  he  reserved  a  blanket,  else  we  had  been 
all  shamed. 

Lear.  Now,  all  the  plagues,  that  in  the  pendulous  air 
Hang  fated  o'er  men's  faults,  light  on  thy  daughters  ! 

Kent.  He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear.  Death,  traitor  !    nothing  could  have  subdued 
nature 
To  such  a  lowness,  but  his  unkind  daughters. — 
Is  it  the  fashion,  that  discarded  fathers 
Should  have  thus  little  mercy  of  their  flesh  ? 
Judicious  punishment !  't  was  this  flesh  begot 
Those  pelican  daughters. 

Edg.  Pillicock  ,sat  on  Pillicock-hill :— '* 
Halloo,  halloo,  loo.  loo  ! 

Fool.  This  cold  night  will  turn  us  all  to  fools  and 
madmen. 

Edg.  Take  heed  o'  the  foul  fiend.  Obey  thy  parents  , 
keep  thy  word ;  do  justice  ;-*  swear  not ;  commit  not  -with 
mans  sworn  spouse  :  set  not  thy  Fweet  heart  on  pruud 
arrav      Tom  's  a-cold. 


1  This  and  the  next  line,  form  part  of  a  prophecy  resembling  this,  in  Chaucer.      '  landed  :  in  folio.         «ure 
not  In  quartos.      '  you  all :  in  quartos.      «  This  and  the  next  line,  not  in  quartos.      ■>  night  :  in  quartos. 
f.  e      n  The  five  senses  vrere  formerly  so  called.      !=  Malignant  influence.      i'  This  direction  is  not  in  f.  e. 
similar  to  this  line.     "  word  justly  :  in  f.  «   ;  word's  justice  :  in  first  folio  ;  words,  justice  :  in  second  folio. 


:  in  qtarto*.  •*  tii  b»*  U 
»  Not  in  folio.  '•  ford  :  :n 
i«  There  is  a  nursery  rhymr 


788 


KING  LEAR. 


ACT  in. 


Lear.  What  hast  thou  been? 

Edg.  A  serviiii;'-man,  proud  in  heart  and  mind;  that 
curled  my  hair,  wore  gloves  in  my  cap,  served  the  lust 
of  my  mistress's  lieart,  and  did  the  act  of  darkness  with 
her ;  swore  as  many  oaths  as  I  spake  words,  and  broke 
them  in  the  sweet  face  of  heaven  :  one,  that  slept  in 
the  contriving  of  lust,  and  waked  to  do  it.  Wine  loved 
I  deeply;  dice  dearly;  and  in  woman,  out-paramoured 
the  Turk  :  false  of  heart,  light  of  ear,  bloody  of  hand  ; 
hog  in  sloth,  fox  in  stealth,  wolf  in  greediness,  dog  in 
madness,  lion  in  prey.  Let  not  the  creaking  of  shoes, 
nor  the  rustling  of  silks,  betray  thy  poor  heart  to 
woman:  keep  thy  foot  out  of  brothels,  thy  hand  out 
of  plackets,  thy  pen  from  lenders'  books,  and  defy  the 
foul  fiend. — '"Still  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the 
cold  wind ;"  says  suum.  mun,  ha  no  nonny.  Dolphin 
my  boy,  my  boy ;  sessa  !*  let  him  trot  by. 

[Storm  still  continues. 

Lear.  Wliy.  thou  wert  better  in  thy  grave,  than  to 
answer  with  thy  uncovered  body  this  extremity  of  the 
skies. — Is  man  no  more  than  this  ?  Consider  him  well. 
Thou  owest  the  worm  no  silk,  the  beast  no  hide,  the 
i-heep  no  wool,  the  cat  no  perfume. — Ha  !  here  's  three 
on's  are  sophisticated :  thou  art  the  thing  itself :  unac- 
commodated man  is  no  more  but  such  a  poor,  bare, 
forked  animal  as  thou  art. — Off,  off,  you  lendings. — 
Come:  unbutton  here. —  [Tearing  his  clothes. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee.  nunclc,  be  contented ;  't  is  a  naughty 
night  to  swim  in. — Now,  a  little  fire  in  a  wide  field 
were  like  an  old  lecher's  heart;  a  small  spark,  all  the 
rest  on  's  body  cold. — Look  !  here  comes  a  walking  fire. 

Edg.  This  is  the  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet :  he  be- 
gins at  curfew,  and  walks  till  the  first  cock ;  he  gives 
the  web  and  pin',  squints  the  eye,  and  makes  the 
hare-lip ;  mildews  the  white  wheat,  and  hurts  the  poor 
creature  of  earth. 

Sai7}t  Wit  hold*  footed  thrice  the  wold; 
He  met  the  night-mare^  and  her  nine-fold; 
Bid  her  alight, 
And  her  troth  flight., 
And.  aroint^  thee,  witch,  aroiyit  thee  ! 

Kent.  How  fares  your  grace? 

Enter  Gi.osTER,  with  a  Torch. 

Lear.  What 's  he  ? 

Kent.  Who  's  there  ?     What  is  't  you  seek? 

Glo.  What  are  you  there?     Your  names? 

Edg.  Poor  Tom ;  that  eats  the  swimming  frog,  the 
toad,  the  tadpole,  the  wall-newt,  and  the  water';  that 
in  the  fury  of  his  heart,  when  the  foul  fiend  rages,  eats 
cow-dung  for  sallets;  swallows  the  old  rat,  and  the 
ditch-dog  ;  drinks  the  green  mantle  of  the  standing 
pool  :  who  is  whipped  from  tything  to  tything,  and 
rtoeked,  punished,  and  imprisoned  ;'  who  hath  had 
three  suits  to  his  back,  six  shirts  to  his  body,  horse  to 
ride,  and  weapon  to  wear, — 

But  mice,  and  rats,  and  such  .small  deer, 
Have  been  Tom's  food  for  seven  long  year. 
Beware  my  follower. — Peace.  Smulkin"  !    peace,  thou 
fiend  ! 

Glo.  What!  hath  your  grace  no  better  company? 

Edg.  The  pnacc  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman  ; 
Modo*  he  's  call'd,  and  Mahu.'" 

Glo.  Our  flesh  and  blood,  my  lord,  is  grown  so  vile, 
That  it  doth  hate  what  gets  it. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom  "s  a-cold. 

Glo.  Go  in  with  me.     My  duty  cannot  suffer 
To  obey  in  all  your  daughters"  hard  commands  : 


Though  their  injunction  be  to  bar  my  doors, 
And  let  this  tyrannous  night  take  hold  upon  you, 
Yet  I  have  ventur'd  to  come  seek  you  out, 
And  bring  you  where  both  fire  and  food  is  ready. 

Lear.  First  let  me  talk  with  this  philosopher. — - 
What  is  the  cause  of  thunder  ? 

Kent.    Good   my  lord,  take  hie  offer:   go  into  the 
house. 

Lear.    I'll  talk  a  word  with  this  same"   learne^J 
Theban.— 
What  is  your  study  ? 

Edg.  How  to  prevent  the  fiend,  and  to  kill  vermin. 

Lear.  Let  me  ask  you  one  word  in  private. 

[They  talk  apart.' 

Kent.  Importune  him  once  more  to  go,  my  lord, 
His  wits  begin  t'  unsettle. 

Glo.  Canst  thou  blame  him  ? 

His  daughters  seek  his  death. — Ah,  that  good  Kent ! — 
He  said  it  would  be  thus,  poor  bani.sh'd  man  ! — 
Thou  say'st,  the  king  grows  mad  :  I  '11  tell  thee,  friend, 
I  am  almost  mad  myself.     I  had  a  son. 
Now  outlaw'd  from  my  blood :  he  sought  my  life, 
Bttt  lately,  very  late :  I  lov'd  him,  friend. 
No  father  his  son  dearer :  true  to  tell  thee, 
The  grief  hath  craz'd  my  wits.    What  a  night 's  this  ! 
[Storm  continues 
I  do  beseech  your  grace, — 

Lear.  0  !  cry  you  mercy,  sir. — 

Noble  philosopher,  your  company. 

Edg.  Tom  's  a-cold. 

Glo.  In   fellow,  there,  into    the  hovel  :    keep  th'^e 
warm. 

Lear.  Come,  let 's  in  all. 

Kent.  This  way,  my  lord 

Lear.  With  him : 

I  will  keep  still  with  my  philosopher. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  soothe  him ;  let  him  take  the 
fellow. 

Glo.  Take  him  you  on. 

Kent    Sirrah,  come  on;  go  along  with  us. 

Lear.  Come,  good  Athenian. 

Glo.  No  words,  no  words  . 

Hush! 

Edg.  "  Child  Rowland  to  the  dark  tower  came, 
His  word  was  still, — Fie,  foh,  and  fum, 

I  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man."  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— A  Room  in  Gloster's  Castle. 
Enter  Cornwall  and  Edmund. 

Corn.  I  will  have  my  revenge,  ere  I  depart  his  house. 

Edm.  How,  my  lord,  I  may  be  censured,  that  nature 
thus  gives  way  to  loyalty,  something  fears  me  to  think  of 

Corn.  I  now  perceive,  it  was  not  altogether  your 
brother's  evil  disposition  made  him  seek  his  death  ;  but 
a  provoking  merit,  set  a- work  by  a  reprovable  badness 
in  himself. 

Edm.  How  malicious  is  my  fortune,  that  I  mist 
repent  to  be  just !  This  is  the  letter  which  he  spoke 
of,  which  approves  him  an  intelligent  party  to  the 
advantages  of  France.  O  heavens !  that  this  treason 
were  not.  or  not  I  the  detector  ! 

Corn.  Go  with  me  to  the  duchess. 

Edm.  If  the  matter  of  this  paper  be  certain,  you 
have  mighty  business  in  hand. 

Com.  True,  or  false,  it  hath  made  thee  earl  of 
Gloster.  Seek  out  where  thy  father  is,  that  he  may 
be  ready  for  our  apprehension. 


•    '^'^""^  >n  the  old  seme  of  lover.       »  ceSM  :  in  quarto*.       >  Cataract   in  the  eye.       ♦  Sttnthnld:  in  old  copies.       •  Get  out,  btgont. 
Water-newt.       '  The  ordinary  puniiihment.  for  what  an  old  author  calls  "  idle  rogueing  about  the  country."       6  »  lo  The  names  of  tiles' 
nends  were  derived  from  Bp.  Han<net's  "Declaration  of  egregious  Popish   Impostures."  16()3.     In  Suckling's  "  GoDiins,"  we  find,  "  Th< 
pnnce  of  darKne«  is  a  gentleman  :  Mahu,  Mahu,  ii  his  name."     >>  most :  in  quartos.     >'  Not  in  f  e. 


SCENE  VI. 


KING  LEAR. 


789 


Edm.  [Aside.]  If  I  find  him  comforting  the  king,  it 
will  stuff  his  suspicion  more  fully. — [To  him.]  I  will 
persevere  in  my  course  of  loyalty,  though  the  conflict 
be  sore  between  that  and  my  blood. 

Corn.  I  will  lay  trust  upon  thee;  and  thou  shalt 
find  a  dearer'  father  in  my  love,  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— A  Chamber  in  a  Farm-House, 

adjoining  the  Castle. 

Enter  Gloster,  Lear,  Kent,  Fool,  and  Edgar. 

Glo.  Here    is    better    than    the  open  air  ;  take    it 

thankfully.     I  will  piece  out  the  comfort  with  what 

addition  I  can :  I  will  not  be  long  from  you. 

Kent.  All  the  power  of  his  wits  has  given  way  to  his 
impatience. — The  gods  reward  your  kindness  ! 

[Exit  Gloster. 
Edg.  Frateretto  calls  me,  and  tells  me,  Nero  is  an 
angler  in  the   lake  of  darkness.     Pray  imiocent,  and 
beware  ihe  foul  fiend. 

Fool.  Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  tell  me,  whether  a  madman 
be  a  gentleman,  or  a  yeoman  ? 
Lear.  A  kin^,  a  king  ! 

Fool.  No  -.^  he  's  a  yeoman,  that  has  a  gentleman  to 
his  son ;  for  he  is  a  mad  yeoman,  that  sees  his  son  a 
gentleman  before  him. 

Lear.  To  have  a  thousand  with  red  burning  spits 
Come  whizzing  in  upon  them. — 
Edg.^  The  foul  fiend  bites  my  back. 
Fool.  He  's  mad,  that  trusts  in  the   lameness  of  a 
wolf,  a  horse's  health,  a  boy's  love,  or  a  whore's  oath. 
Lear.  It  shall  be  done ;  I  will  arraign  them  straight. — 
Come,  sit  thou  here,  most  learned  justicer; — 

[To  Edgar. 
Thou,  sapient  sir,  sit  here.     Now,  you  she  foxes  ! — 

Edg.  Look,  where  he  stands  and  glares  ! — 
Wantest  thou  eyes  at  trial,  madam  ? 

Come  o'er  the  bourne.  Bessy,  to  me  ;* — 
Fool.    Her  boat  hath  a  leak. 

And  she  must  not  speak 
Why  she  dares  not  come  over  to  thee. 
Edg.  The  foul  fiend  haunts  poor  Tom  in  the  voice  of 
a  nightingale.     Hopdance  cries  in  Tom's  belly  for  two 
white  herring.     Croak  not,  black  angel  ;  I  have  no  food 
for  thee. 

Kent.  How  do  you,  sir  ?  Stand  you  not  so  amaz'd : 
Will  you  lie  down  and  rest  upon  the  cushions  ? 

Lear.  I  '11  see  their  trial  first.— Bring  in  the  evi- 
dence.— 
Thou  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place ; — [To  Edgar. 
And  thou,  his  yoke-fellow  of  equity,  [To  the  Fool. 

Bench  by  his  side.— You  are  o'  the  commission, 
Sit  you  too.  [To  Kent. 

Edg.  Let  us  deal  justly. 

Steepest,  or  wakest  thou,  jolly  shepherd'^ 

Thy  sheep  be  in  the  corn  ; 
And  for  one  blast  of  thy  minikin  mouth, 
Thy  sheep  shall  take  no  harm. 
Pur !  the  cat  is  grey. 

Lear.  Arraign  her  first;  't  is  Goneril.  I  here  take 
my  oath  before  this  honourable  assembly,  she  kicked 
the  poor  kins;  her  father. 

Fool.  Come  hither,  mistress.  Is  your  name  Goneril  ? 
Lear    She  cannot  deny  it. 

F>ol.  Cry  you  mercy,  I  took  you  for  a  joint-stool. 
Lear.  And  here  's  another,  whose  warp'd  looks  pro- 
claim 
V\Tiat  store  her  heart  is  made  on. — Stop  her  there  ! 


>  deal :  in  folio.      »  Not  in  quarto.      '  This  and  the  foUowine  speeche: 
-That  ^milar  to  ?his  and  the  one  following,  are  found  in  an  old  metrical  dialogue,  reprin 
hound       •  Hunting  dog.      ^  Common  cur.      «  him  :  in  folio       »  See  Note  3,  p.  ,b2. 
.inc  is  not  in  quarto3.      "  This  speech  and  the  rest  of  the  scene,  are  not 


Arms,  arms,  sword,  fire  ! — Corruption  in  the  place ! 
False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape  ? 

Edg.  Bless  thy  five  wits  ! 

Kent.  0  pity  ! — Sir,  where  is  the  patience  now, 
That  you  so  oft  have  boa.sted  to  retain? 

Edg.  [Aside.]  My  tears  begin  to  take  his  part  so  much. 
They'll  mar  my  counterfeiting. 

Lear.  The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweet-heart,  see,  they  bark  at.  me. 

Edg.  Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  ihem. — A  vaunt, 
you  curs ! 

Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white, 
Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite  ; 
Mastiff,  greyhound,  mongrel,  grim. 
Hound,  or  spaniel,  brach*.  or  lym*  ; 
Or  bobtail  tike',  or  trundle-tail, 
Tom  will  make  them'  weep  and  wail : 
For  with  throwing  thus  my  head, 
Dogs  leap  the  hatch,  and  all  are  fled. 
Do,  de,  de,  de.     See,    see  !     Come,   march  to  wake« 
and  fairs,  and  market  tovvTis. — Poor  Tom,  thy  horn  is 
dry.' 

Lear.  Then,  let  them  anatomize  Regan,  see  what 
breeds  about  her  heart.  Is  there  any  cau.^e  in  nature 
that  makes  these  hard  hearts  ?" — You.  sir,  [To  Edgar.] 
I  entertain  you  for  one  of  my  hundred ;  only,  I  do  not 
like  the  fashion  of  your  garments  :  you  will  say,  they 
are  Persian  attire ;"  but  let  them  be  changed. 

Kent.  Now,  good  my  lord,  lie  here,  and  rest  awhile. 

Lear.  Make  no  noise,  make  no  noise  :  draw  the  cur- 
tains. So,  so,  so:  we'll  go  to  supper  i'  the  mormng : 
so,  so,  so. 

Fool  And  I  '11  go"  to  bed  at  noon. 
Re-enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  friend :  where  is  the  king  my 
master  ? 

Kent.  Here,  sir :  but  trouble  him  not ;  his  \snts  are 
gone. 

Glo.  Good  friend,  I  pr'ythee  take  liim  in  thy  arms ; 
I  have  o'er-heard  a  plot  of  death  upon  him. 
There  is  a  litter  ready ;  lay  him  in  't, 
And  drive  toward  Dover,  friend,  where  thou  shalt  meet 
Both  welcome  and  protection.     Take  up  thy  master  : 
If  thou  shouldst  dally  half  an  hour,  his  life, 
With  thine,  and  all  that  offer  to  defend  him. 
Stand  in  assured  loss.     Take  up,  take  up  ; 
And  follow  me,  that  -wnll  to  some  provision 
Give  thee  quick  conduct. 

Kent.  Oppress"d  nature  sleeps  :" — 

This  rest  might  yet  have  balm'd  thy  broken  senses,'* 
Which,  if  convenience  will  not  allow. 
Stand  in  hard  cure. — Come,  help  to  bear  thy  master; 
Thou  must  not  stay  behind.'  [To  the  Fool. 

Glo.  Come,  come,  away. 

[Exe'int  Kent,  Gloster,  and  the  Fool,  bearin^i 
off  the  King. 

Edg.  When  we  our  betters  see  bearing  oiu-  woes, 
We  scarcely  think  our  miseries  our  foes. 
Who  alone  suffers,  suffers  most  i'  the  mind. 
Leaving  free  things  and  happy  shows  belund  ; 
But  then  the  mind  much  sufferance  doth  o'crskip, 
When  grief  hath  mates,  and  bearing  fellowship. 
How  light  and  portable  my  pain  seems  now. 
When  that  which  makes  me  bend,  makes  the  king  boM*  • 
He  childed,  as  I  fathered  !— Tom.  away  ! 
Mark  the  high  noises  ;  and  tliyself  bewray. 
When  false  opinion,  whose  -wTong  thought  defiles  tl  ee, 

Edg.  Bless  thv  five  wits  !"'  are  not  m  folio.      ♦  Line*  »ome- 

■     an  Miscellany.        *  Ftmnk 

no.     11  Not  IB  folic.    nThu 
Theobud  made  the  (hAag*. 


folio. 


d  in  the  "  Hail* 

10  this  hardness  :  in  qui 

sinews :  in  quartos. 


790 


KING  LEAR. 


ACT  m. 


in  tiy  just  proof,  repeals  and  reconciles  thee. 
What  viill  hap  more  to-night,  sale  'scape  tlie  king  ! 
Lurk,  lurk.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII.— A  Room  in  Gloster's  Castle. 

Enter  Cornwall.  Ueg.\n,  Goneril.  Edmund,  and 
Servants. 

Com.  Post  speedily  to  my  lord  your  husband  :  show 
him  this  letter  : — the  army  of  France  is  landed. — Seek 
out  the  traitor'  Gloster.     [ExcutU  some  of  the  Servants. 

Reg.  Hans  him  instantly. 

Gon.  Pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Corn.  Leave  him  to  my  disposurc. — Edmund,  keep 
you  our  sister  company :  the  revenges  we  are  bound  to 
.ake  upon  your  traitorous  father  are  not  fit  for  your 
beholding.  Vdvise  the  duke,  where  you  are  going,  to 
a  most  festiuate  preparation :  we  are  bound  to  the 
like.  Our  posts  shall  be  swift  and  intelligent  betwixt 
us.  Farewell,  dear  sister : — farewell,  my  lord  of 
Gloster. 

Enter  Oswald. 
How  now  I     Where  's  the  king  ? 

Osw.  My  lord  of  Gloster  hath  convey'd  him  hence  : 
Some  five  or  six  and  thirty  of  his  knights. 
Hot  questrists  after  him.  met  him  at  gate  ; 
Who,  with  some  other  of  the  lord's  dependants, 
Are  gone  with  him  towards  Dover,  where  they  boast 
To  have  well-armed  friends. 

Com.  Get  horses  for  your  mistress. 

Gon.  Farewell,  sweet  lord,  and  sister. 

[Exeunt  Goneril,  Edmund,  and  Oswald. 

Corn.    Edmund,    farewell. — Go,    seek    the    traitor 
Gloster, 
Pinion  him  like  a  thief,  bring  him  before  us. 

[Exeunt  other  Servants. 
Though  well  wc  may  not  pa.ss  upon  his  life 
Without  the  form  of  justice,  yet  our  power 
Shall  do  a  courtesy  to  our  WTath.  which  men 
May  blame,  but    not    control.     Who  's    there  ?     The 
traitor  ? 

Re-enter  Servants.,  with  Gloster. 

Reg.  Ingrateful  fox  !  't  is  he. 

Com.  Bind  fast  his  oorky^"  arms. 

Gb.  What  mean  your  graces? — Good  my  friends, 
con.sider 
You  are  my  guests  :  do  me  no  foul  play,  friends. 

Com.  Bind  him,  I  say.  [Servants  bind  him. 

Reg.  Hard,  hard.— 0  filthy  traitor  ! 

Glo.  Unmerciful  lady  as  you  are,  I  am  none.* 

Com.  To  this  chair  bind  him. — Villain,  thou  shalt 
find —  [They  bimi  him  :  Rkg ah  plucks  his  beard. 

Glo.  By  the  kind  gods,  't  is  most  ignobly  done 
To  pluck  me  by  the  beard. 

Reg.  So  white,  and  such  a  traitor  ! 

Glo.  Naughty  lady. 

These  Iiairs,  which  thou  dost  ravish  from  my  chin, 
Will  quicken,  and  accuse  thee.     1  am  your  host : 
With  robbers'  hands  my  hospitable  favours 
Vou  should  not  ruffle  thus.     What  will  you  do  ? 

Com.  Come,  sir,   what  letters  had  you    late  from 
France  ? 

Keg.  Be  simpltsanswerd.  for  we  know  the  truth. 

Com.  And  what  confederacy  have  you  with  the 
Late  footed  in  the  kingdom  ?  '  [traitors 

^fg-  To  who.se  hands 

Have  you  sent  the  lunatic  king?     Speak. 

Glo.  I  have  a  letter  gues.'iingly  set  down, 


Which  came  from  one  that  's  of  a  neutral  he^rt, 
And  not  from  one  oppos'd. 

Com.  Cunning. 

Reg  And  false. 

Com.  Where  hast  thou  sent  the  king  ? 

Glo.  To  Dover. 

Reg.  Wherefore 

To  Dover  ?     Wast  thou  not  charg'd  at  peril — 

Com.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ?     Le;  him  answer  that. 

Glo.  I  am  tied  to  the  stake,  and  I   must  stand  the 
course. 

Reg.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ? 

Glo.  Because  I  would  not  see  thy  cruel  nails 
Pluck  out  his  poor  old  eyes  ;  nor  thy  fierce  sister 
In  his  anointed  flesh  rasli*  boarish  fangs. 
The  sea.  with  such  a  .storm  as  his  bare*  head 
In  hell-black  night  endur'd.  would  have  buoy'd  tip, 
And  quench'd  the  stelled  fires  ; 
Yet,  poor  old  heart,  he  holp  the  heavens  to  rain.* 
If  wolves  had  at  thy  gate  howl'd  that  stern'  time. 
Thou   shouldst    have    said,  "Good   porter,  turn    the 

key." 
All  cruels  else  subscrib'd*  :  but  I  shall  see 
The  winged  vengeance  overtake  such  children. 

Corn.  See  it  shalt  thou  never. — Fellows,  hold  the 
chair. — 
Upon  these  eyes  of  thine  I  '11  set  ray  foot. 

Glo.  He,  that  will  think  to  live  till  he  be  old, 
Give  me  some  help  ! — 0  cruel !  0  ye  gods  ! 

[They  tear  out  one  eye.* 

Reg.  One  side  will  mock  another  ;  the  other  too. 

Com.  If  you  see,  vengeance. — 

Serv.  Hold  your  hand,  my  lord. 

I  have  sen^'d  you  ever  since  I  was  a  child, 
But  better  service  have  I  never  done  you. 
Than  now  to  bid  you  hold. 

Reg.  How  now,  you  dog  ! 

Serv.  If  you  did  wear  a  beard  upon  your  chin, 
I  'd  shake  it  on  this  quarrel  !     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Com.  My  villain  !  [Draws  and  runs  at  him. 

Serv.  Nay  then,  come  on,  and  take  the  chance  of 
anger.  [Draws.     Cornwall  is  wounded. 

Reg.  Give  me  thy  sword.     A  peasant  stand  up  thus  ! 

Serv.  0.  I  am  slain  I — My  lord,  you  have  one  eye  left 
To  see  some  mischief  on  him  I — O !  [Dies. 

Corn.  Lest  it  see  more,  prevent  it. — Out,  vile  jelly  ! 
Where  is  thy  lustre  now?   [Tearing  out  his  other  eye.'* 

Glo.  All  dark  and  comfortless. — Where  's  my  son 
Edmund  ? 
Edmund,  enkindle  all  the  sparks  of  nature, 
To  quit  this  horrid  act. 

Reg.  Out.  treacherous  villain! 

Thou  call'st  on  him  that  hates  thee :  it  was  he 
That  made  the  overture  of  thy  treasons  to  us. 
Who  is  too  good  to  pity  thee. 

Glo.  0  my  follies  !     Then  Edgar  wa«  abus'd. — 
Kind  gods,  forgive  me  that,  and  prosper  him  ! 

Reg.  Go.  thrust  him  out  at  gates,  and  let  him  smel 
His  way  to  Dover. — How  is  't,  my  lord  ?  How  look  you? 

Corn.  I  have  receiv'd  a  hurt.     Follow  me.  lady. — 
Turn  out  that  eyeless  villain  :  throw  this  slave 
Upon  the  dunghill. — Regan,  I  bleed  apace  : 
Untimely  comes  this  hurt.     Give  me  your  arm. 

[Exit  Cornwall,  led  by  Regan: — Servants  unl/ina 
Gloster,  and  lead  him  owt." 

1  Serv.  I  "11  never  care  what  wickedness  [  do, 
If  this  man  comes  to  good. 


'Tl  ll;n 


,  i"  qnaru*.      »  Drifwithered ;  applied  in  "Hannet'i  Declaration,"  to  an  old  woman.     *  true  :  in  quartos.     *  »ticlt     in  foil* 

»  lor"  J  :  in  qaartoa       •  rage  :  in  qnartoe.      '  deam  :  in  qn&rtos ;  dreary.      »  Yielded.      *  "  Net  in  f.  e.     "  The  rest  of  ti  •  scene  is  not  in 


SCENE  n. 


KmG  LEAR. 


791 


2  Serv.  If  she  live  long, 

And  in  the  end  meet  the  old  course  of  death, 
Women  -will  all  turn  monsters, 

1  Serv.  Let  "s  follow  the  old  earl,  and  get  the  Bedlam 
To  lead  him  where  he  would :  his  roguish  madness 


Allows  itself  to  any  thing. 
2  Serv.  Go  thou  :  I  '11  fetch  some  flax,  and  whites  oi 


To  apply  to  his  bleeding  face 


Now,  heaven  help  him  ! 
[Exeunt  severally 


ACT    IV 


SCENE  I.— The  Heath. 
Enter  Edgar. 

Edg.  Yes,*  better  thus,  unknown^  to  be  contemn'd, 
Than  still  contemn'd  and  flatter'd.     To  be  worst, 
The  lowest  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune, 
Stands  still  in  esperance,  lives  not  in  fear  : 
The  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best ; 
The  worst  returns  to  laughter.'     Welcome,  then, 
Thou  unsubstantial  air  that  I  embrace : 
The  wretch,  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst. 
Owes  nothing  to  thy  blasts. — But  who  comes  here? — 

Enter  Gloster,  led  by  an  old  Man. 
My  father,  poorly  led  ? — World,  world.  0  world  ! 
But  that  thy  strange  mutations  make  us  hate  thee. 
Life  would  not  yield  to  age. 

Old  Man.  0  my  good  lord  !   I  have  been  your  tenant, 
and  your  father's  tenant,  these  fourscore  years. 

Glo.  Away,  get  thee  away ;  good  friend,  be  gone : 
Thy  comforts  can  do  me  no  good  at  all ; 
Thee  they  may  hurt. 

Old  Man.  Alack,  sir  !*  you  cannot  see  your  way. 

Glo.  I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no  eyes : 
I  stumbled  when  I  saw.     Full  oft  't  is  seen. 
Our  wants'  secure  us ;  and  our  mere  defects 
Prove  our  commodities. — Ah  !  dear  son  Edgar, 
The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath. 
Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 
I  'd  say  I  had  eyes  again  ! 

Old  Man.  How  now  !     Who  's  there  ? 

Edg.   [Aside.]  0  gods  I     Who  is  't  can  say,  "  I  am 
at  the  worst?" 
I  am  worse  than  e'er  I  was. 

Old  Man.  'T  is  poor  mad  Tom. 

Edg.  [Aside.]  And  worse  I  may  be  yet :  the  worst 
is  not 
So  long  as  we  can  say,  "  This  is  the  worst." 

Old  Man.  Fellow,  where  goest  ? 

Glo.  Is  it  a  beggar-man  ? 

Old  Man.  Madman,  and  beggar  too. 

Glo.  He  has  some  reason,  else  he  could  not  beg. 
I'  the  last  night's  storm  I  such  a  fellow  saw. 
Which  made  me  think  a  man  a  worm  :  my  son 
Came  then  into  my  mind;  and  yet  my  mind 
Was  then  scarce  friends  with  him  :  I  have  heard  more 
.\s  flies  to  wanton  boys,  are  we  to  the  gods  ;        [since. 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport. 

Edg.  [Aside.]  How  should  this  be  ? — 

Bad  is  the  trade  that  must  play  fool  to  sorrow. 
Angering   itself   and  others.     [To  him.\     Bless    thee, 
master ! 

Glo.  Is  that  the  naked  fellow  ? 

Old  Man.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Glo.  Then,  pr>-thee,  get  thee  gone.     If,  for  my  sake,* 
Thou  wilt  o'ertake  us,  hence  a  mile  or  twain, 
r  Ihe  way  toward  Dover,  do  it  for  ancient  love  : 
.\nd  bring  some  covering  for  this  naked  soul. 
U'hom  I  '11  entreat  to  lead  me. 


Old  Man.  Alack,  sir  !  he  is  mad. 

Glo.  'T  is  the  times'  plague,  when  madmen  lead  tlie 
blind. 
Do  as  I  bid  thee,  or  rather  do  thy  pleasure ; 
Above  the  rest,  be  gone. 

Old  Man.  I  '11  bring  him  the  best  'parel  that  I  have, 
Come  on  't  what  will.  [Exit. 

Glo.  Sirrah ;  naked  fellow. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom  's  a-cold. — [Aside.]  I  cannot  daub 
it  farther. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  fellow. 

Edg.  [Aside.]    And   yet  I  must. — [To  him.]    Blees 
thy  sweet  eyes,  they  bleed. 

Glo.  Know'st  thou  the  way  to  Dover? 

Edg.  Both  stile  and  gate,  horse-way  and  foot-path. 
Poor  Tom  hath  been  scared  out  of  his  good  wits :  bless 
thee,  good  man's  son,  from  the  foul  fiend  !'  Five  fiends 
have  been  in  poor  Tom  at  once ;  of  lust,  as  Obidicut  ; 
Hobbididance,  prince  of  dumbness  ;  Mahu.  of  stealing; 
Modo,  of  murder  ;  and  Flibbertigibbet,  of  moppmg  and 
mowing,  who  since  possesses  chamber-maids  and  wtiitr 
ing- women.     So,  bless  thee,  master  ! 

Glo.  Here,  take  this  purse,  thou  whom  the  heaven's 
plagues 
Have  humbled  to  all  strokes :  that  I  am  MTetched, 
Makes  thee  the  happier  : — Heavens,  deal  so  still ! 
Let  the  superfluous,  and  lust-dieted  man. 
That  braves'  your  ordinance,  that  will  not  see 
Because  he  doth  not  feel,  feel  your  power  quickly ; 
So  distribution  should  undo  excess, 
And  each  man  have  enough. — Dost  thou  know  Dover  ? 

Edg.  Ay,  master. 

Glo.  There  is  a  cliff,  whose  high  and  bending  head 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confined  deep : 
Bring  me  but  to  the  very  brim  of  it. 
And  I  '11  repair  the  misery  thou  dost  bear, 
With  something  rich  about  me;  from  that  place 
I  shall  no  leading  need. 

Edg.  Give  me  thy  arm  : 

Poor  Tom  shall  lead  thee.  [Exetmt 

SCENE  II.— Before  the  Duke  of  Albany's  Palace. 
Entet  GoNERiL  atid  Edmund;  Oswald  meeting  them 

Gon.  Welcome,  my  lord :  I  marvel,  our  mild  hus- 
band 
Not  met  us  on  the  way.— Now,  where  's  your  master? 

Osw.  Madam,  within  :  but  never  man  so  chang  d 
I  told  him  of  the  army  tliat  was  landed ; 
He  smil'd  at  it :  I  told  him.  you  were  coming  ; 
His  answer  was,  '•  The  worse  :"  of  Gloster's  treachery. 
And  of  the  loyal  service  of  his  son, 
When  I  inform'd  him,  then  he  call'd  me  sot, 
And  told  me  I  had  turn'd  the  wrong  side  out. 
What  most  he  should  dislike'  seems  pleasant  to  him ; 
What  like,  offensive. 

Gon.      Then,  shall  you  go  no  farther.  [To  Edmosi. 
It  is  the  cowish  torror  of  his  spirit, 
That  dares  not  undertake  :  he  'U  not  feel  wrongs, 


Yet :  in  f.  e.      "  and  known  :  in  f.  e.      '  From  this  word  to  'But  who 
•  Get  thee  away.     If,  &o.  :  in  folio      '  The  rest  of  this  speech  is  not  : 


,  folios, 
slaves 


♦  Alack,  sir  I  :  m 
in  f.  e.     '  desire  : 


(92 


KIKG  LEAR. 


ACT   IV. 


^Thich  tie  him  to  an  answer.     Our  wishes  on  the  way 

May  prove  effects.     Back.  Edmund,  to  my  brother; 

Ha.sten  his  musters,  and  conduct  his  powers : 

I  must  change  arms'  at  home,  and  give  the  distaff 

Into  my  luisband's  hands.     This  trusty  servant 

Shall  pass  between  us  :  ere  long  you  are  like  to  hear, 

If  you  dare  venture  in  your  cs^ti  behalf, 

A  mistress's  command.     Wear  this  ;  spare  speech  ; 

[(riving  a  chain. 
Decline  your  head  :  this  kiss,  if  it  durst  speak. 
Would  stretch  thy  spirits  up  into  the  air. — 
Conceive,  and  fare  thee  well. 

Edm.  Yours  in  the  ranks  of  death. 

Gon.  My  most  dear  Gloster  !     [Exit  Edmund. 

0,  the  difference  of  man,  and  man  !' 
To  thee  a  woman's  services  are  due  : 
My  fool  usurps  my  body.' 

OstP.  Madam,  here  comes  my  lord.      [Exit  Oswald. 


Gon. 
Alb. 


Enter  Albany. 
have  been  worth  the  whistle. 


0  Goneril 


You  are  not  worth  the  dust,  which  the  rude  wind 
Blows  in  your  face* — I  fear  your  disposition  : 
That  nature,  which  contemns  its  origin, 
Cannot  be  border'd  certain  in  itself; 
She  that  her^elf  will  sliver  and  disbranch 
From  her  material  sap.  perforce  must  wither. 
And  come  to  deadly  use. 

Gon    No  more  :  the  text  is  foolish. 
Alb.  Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem  vile  ; 
Filths  savour  but  themselves.     What  have  you  done  ? 
Tigers,  not  daughters,  what  have  you  performed  ? 
A  lather,  and  a  gracious  aged  man, 
Wiiose  reverence  the  head-lugg'd  bear  would  lick, 
Most  barbarous,  most  degenerate  !  have  you  madded. 
Could  my  good  brother  suffer  you  to  do  it  ? 
.\  man,  a  prince,  by  him  so  benefited  ? 
If  that  the  heavens  do  not  their  visible  spirits 
Send  quickly  down  to  tame  these  vile  offences, 
h  will  come, 

Humanity  must  perforce  prey  on  itself, 
Like  inon.sters  of  the  deep. 

Gon.  Milk-liver'd  man  ! 

That  bear'st  a  cheek  for  blows,  a  head  for  wrongs ; 
Who  hast  not  in  thy  brows  an  eye  discerning 
Thine  honour  from  thy  suffering  ;*  that  not  know'st, 
Fools  do  those  villains  pity,  who  are  punish'd 
Eire  they  have  done  their  mischief.    Where 's  thy  drum  ? 
France  spreads  his  banners  in  our  noiseless  land; 
With  plumed  helm  thy  slayer  begins  threats; 
Whilst  thou,  a  moral  fool,  sitt'st  still,  and  criest, 
■'  Alack  !  why  does  he  so  ?" 

Alb.  See  thyself,  devil  ! 

Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend 
S©  horrid,  as  in  woman. 

Gon.  0  vain  fool ! 

Alb.*  Thou  changed  and  self-cover'd  thing,  for  shame, 
Be-moastcr  not  thy  feature.     Were  it  my  fitness 
To  let  thcw  hands  obey  my  blood. 
They  are  apt  enough  to  dislocate  and  tear 
Thy  flesh  and  bones  :  howe  er  thou  art  a  fiend, 
A  woman's  shape  doth  shield  thee. 

Gon.  Marry,  your  manhood  now  ! — 
Enter  e.  Messenger. 

Alb.  What  news  ? 

Mess.  0.  my  good  lord  !  the  duke  of  Cornwall  "s  dead , 


Slain  by  his  servant,  going  to  put  out 
The  other  eye  of  Gloster. 

Alb.  Gloster's  eyes ! 

Mess.  A  servant  that  he  bred,  thrill'd  with  remorse 
Oppos'd  against  the  act,  bending  his  sword 
To  his  great  master  ;  who,  thereat  enrag'd. 
Flew  on  him.  and  amongst  them  fell'd  him  dead, 
But  not  without  that  harmful  stroke,  which  since 
Hath  pluck'd  him  after. 

Alb.  This  .shows  you  are  above, 

You  justicers.  that  these  our  nether  crimes 
So  speedily  can  venge  I — But,  0  poor  Gloster  ! 
Lost  he  his  other  eye  ? 

Mess.  Both,  both,  my  lord. 

This  letter,  madam,  craves  a  speedy  answer ; 

[Giving  U.' 
T  is  from  your  sister. 

Gon.  [Aside.]  One  way  I  like  this  well : 
But  being  widow,  and  my  Gloster  with  her, 
May  all  the  building  in'  my  fancy  pluck 
Upon  my  hateful  life.     Another  way. 
The  news  is  not  so  tart.    [To  him.]    I  '11  read,  and 
answer.  [Exit- 

Alb.  Where  was  his  son,  when  they  did  take  his  eyes  ? 

Mess.  Come  with  my  lady  hither. 

Alb.  He  is  not  here. 

Mess.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  I  met  him  back  again. 

Alb.  Knows  he  the  wickedness  ? 

Mess.  Ay;  my  good  lord;  'twas  he  inform'd  against 
him, 
And  quit  the  house,  on  purpose  that  their  punishment 
Might  have  the  freer  course. 

Alb.  Gloster,  I  live 

To  thank  thee  for  the  love  thou  show'dst  the  king, 
And  to  revenge  thine  eyes. — Come  hither,  friend  : 
Tell  me  what  more  thou  knowest.  [Exeunt. 


'  namei :  in  folio.      '  This   line  not  in  qoartoK 
'  The  re«t  of  this  and  the  following  gpeeches.  to  "  " 
the  next  speech,  &re  not  in  the  folio.     'Notinf.  e.      "  oi 
tlie  ckange      i'  vajr  :  in  qaartot ;  Knie  mod.  eds. :  day. 


SCENE  ni.'— The  French  Camp  near  Dover. 
Enter  Kent,  and  a  Gentleman. 

Kent.  Why  the  king  of  France  is  so  suddenly  gone 
back,  know  you  the  reason  ? 

Gent.  Something  he  left  imperfect  in  the  state, 
Which  since  his  coming  forth  is  thought  of;  which 
Imports  to  the  kingdom  so  much  fear  and  danger, 
That  his  personal  return  was  most  requir'd. 
And  necessary. 

Kent.  Whom  hath  he  left  behind  him  general  ? 

Gent.  The  Mareschal  of  France,  Monsieur  le  Fer. 

Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to  any  de 
monstralion  of  grief? 

Gent.  Ay.  sir;    she  took   them,  read  them    in  ni) 
presence  ; 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek  :  it  seem'd,  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  pa.ssion,  who,  rebel-like. 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Ke7it.  0 !  then  it  mov'd  her. 

Gent    Not  to  a  rage:  patience  and  .sorrow  strove'* 
Who  should  express  her  goodliest.     You  have  seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once:   her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  May  :"   those  happy  smilets, 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her  eyes :  which  parted  thence, 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd. — In  brief,  sorrow 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd,  if  all 
Could  so  become  it . 

Kent.  Made  she  no  verbal  questioi  ' 

uarto  has  :  My  foot  usurps  ray  head  ;  another  has  :  My  fool  usurps  my  h»i 
man  !"  are  not  in  folio.  •  The  rest  of  the  speech  is  not  in  folio.  •  This  anil 
quartos      »  This  scene  is  not  in  the  folio.     »•  sUeme  :  in  quartos.     Pope  ma<l» 


SCENE  VI. 


KING  LEAR. 


793 


Gent.  'Faith,  once,  or  twice,  she   heav'd  the  name 
of  "  father" 
Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press'd  her  heart : 
Cried,  "  Sisters  !  sisters  ! — Shame  of  ladies  !  sisters  ! 
Kent !  father  !  sisters  !  What  ?  i'  the  storm  ?  i'  the  night  ? 
Let  pity  not  be  believed  !" — There  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes, 
And  clamour  moisten'd  :  then,  away  she  started 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Kent.  It  is  the  stars, 

The  stars  above  us.  govern  our  conditions  •, 
Else  one  self  mate  and  mate  could  not  beget 
Such  different  issues.     You  spoke  not  with  her  since  ? 

Gent.  No. 

Ke7it.  Was  this  before  the  king  return'd  ? 

Gent.  No,  since. 

Kent.  Well,  sir,  the  poor  distress'd  Lear  's  i'  the  town. 
Who  sometime,  in  his  better  tune,  remembers 
What  we  are  come  about,  and  by  no  means 
Will  yield  to  see  his  daughter. 

Gent.  Why,  good  sir  ? 

Kerit.  A  sovereign  shame  so  elbows  him ;    his  own 
unkindness, 
That  stripp'd  her  from  his  benediction,  turn'd  her 
To  foreign  casualties,  gave  her  dear  rights 
To  his  dog-hearted  daughters  ;  these  things  sting 
His  mind  so  venomously,  that  burning  shame 
Detains  him  from  Cordelia. 

Gent.  Alack,  poor  gentleman  ! 

Kent.  Of  Albany's  and  Cornwall's  powers  you  heard 
not? 

Gent.  'T  is  so  they  are  afoot. 

Kent.  Well,  sir,  I  '11  bring  you  to  our  master  Lear, 
And  leave  you  to  attend  him.     Some  dear  cause 
Will  in  concealment  wrap  me  up  awhile  : 
When  I  am  known  aright,  you  shall  not  grieve 
Lending  me  this  acquaintance.     I  pray  you,  go 
Along  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Tent. 
Enter  Cordelia,  Physician,  and  French  Soldiers. 
'  Cor.  Alack  !  't  is  he :  why,  he  was  met  even  now 

As  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea :  singing  aloud  ; 
j       Crown'd  with  rank  fumiter,  and  furrow  weeds, 
I       With  hoar-docks,  hemlock,  nettles,  cuckoo-flowers, 
I       Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
!       In  our  sustaining  corn. — A  century  send  forth; 
I       Search  every  acre  in  the  high-grown  field, 
I       And  bring  him  to  our  eye.     [Exit  an  Officer.] — What 
can  man's  wisdom, 
In  the  restoring  his  bereaved  sense  ? 
He,  that  helps  him.  take  all  my  outward  worth. 

Phy.  There  is  means,  madam  : 
Our  foster-nurse  of  nature  is  repose. 
The  which  he  lacks ;  that  to  provoke  in  him 
Are  many  simples  operative,  whose  power 
Will  close  the  eye  of  anguish. 

Cor.  All  bless'd  secrets, 

All  you  unpublish'd  virtues  of  the  earth. 
Spring  with  my  tears  !  be  aidant,  and  remediate. 
In  the  good  man's  distress*  ! — Seek,  seek  for  him  ; 
Lest  his  ungovern'd  rage  dissolve  tlae  life 
That  wants  the  means  to  lead  it. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  News,  madam  : 

The  British  powers  are  marching  hitherward. 

Cor.  -T  is  known  before  ;  our  preparation  stands 
In  expectation  of  them. — O  dear  father  ! 
It  is  thy  business  that  I  go  about. 


Therefore  great  France 

My  mourning,  and  important'  tears,  hath  pitied, 

No  blown  ambition  doth  our  arms  incite. 

But  love,  dear  love,  and  our  ag'd  father's  right 

Soon  may  I  hear,  and  see  him  !  [Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— A  Room  in  Gloster's  Ca«tle. 
Enter  Reg.\n  and  Oswald. 

Reg.  But  are  my  brother's  powers  set  forth  ? 

Osw.  Ay.  madam. 

Reg.  Himself  in  person  there  ? 

Osw.  Madam,  with  much  ado 

Your  sLster  is  the  better  soldier. 

Reg.  Lord   Edmund   spake   not  with  your   lord    al 
home  ? 

Osw.  No,  madam. 

Reg.  What  might  import  my  sister's  letter  to  him? 

Osw.  I  know  not,  lady. 

Reg.  'Faith,  he  is  posted  hence  on  serious  matter. 
It  was  great  ignorance,  Gloster's  eyes  being  out, 
To  let  him  live:  where  he  arrives  he  moves 
All  hearts  against  us.     Edmund,  I  tliink,  is  gone, 
In  pity  of  his  misery,  to  despatch 
His  nighted  life ;  moreover,  to  descry 
The  strength  o'  the  enemy. 

Osw.  I  must  needs  after  him,  madam,  with  my  letter. 

Reg.  Our  troops  set  forth  to-morrovr  :  stay  with  us 
The  ways  are  dangerous. 

Osw.  I  may  not,  madam ; 

My  lady  charg'd  my  duty  in  this  business. 

Reg.  Why  should  she  write  to  Edmund  ?     Might 
not  you 
Transport  her  purposes  by  word  ?     Belike. 
Something — I  know  not  what. — I  '11  love  thee  much  ; 
Let  me  unseal  the  letter. 

Osw.  Madam,  I  had  rather — 

Reg.  I  know  your  lady  does  not  love  her  husband, 
I  am  sure  of  that ;  and.  at  her  late  being  here, 
She  gave  strange  oeiliads,  and  most  speaking  looks 
To  noble  Edmund.     I  know,  you  are  of  her  bosom. 

Osw.  I,  madam  ? 

Reg.  I  speak  in  understanding  :  y'  are,  I  know  it ; 
Therefore,  I  do  advise  you,  take  this  note : 
My  lord  is  dead  ;  Edmund  and  I  have  talk'd. 
And  more  convenient  is  he  for  my  hand, 
Than  for  your  lady's. — You  may  gather  more. 
If  you  do  find  him,  pray  you,  give  him  this ; 
And  when  your  mistress  hears  thus  much  from  you, 
I  pray,  desire  her  call  her  wisdom  to  her  : 
So,  fare  you  well. 

If  you  do  chance  to  hear  of  that  blind  traitor, 
Preferment  falls  on  him  that  cuts  him  off. 

Osw.   Would  I  could  meet  him,  madam:   I  would 
show 
What  party  do  I  follow. 

Reg.  Fare  thee  well,         [Exmnt 

SCENE  VI.— The  Country  near  Dover. 

Enter  Gloster,  and  Edgar  dressed  like  a  Pctis(rit. 

Glo.  When  shall  I  come  to  the  top  of  that  same  hill » 

Edg.  You  do  climb  up  it  now  :  look,  how  we  labour 

Glo.  Methinks,  the  ground  is  even. 

Edg  Horribly  steep 

Hark  !  do  you  hear  the  sea  ? 

Glo.  No,  truly. 

Edg.  Why,  then  your  other  senses  grow  imperfect 
By  your  eyes'  anguish. 

Glo.  So  may  it  l>e,  indeed. 

Methinks,  thy  voice  is  alter'd  ;  and  thou  speak'st 


foho 


■  Importunat*. 


794 


KING  LEAR. 


ACT  rv. 


[n  better  phrase,  and  matter,  than  thou  didst. 

Edg.  y  are  much  deceiv'd  :  in  nothing  am  I  chang'd, 
But  in  my  gaiments. 

Glo.  Methinks,  y'  are  better  spoken. 

Edg.  Come  on,  sir,  here  's  the  place:  stand  still. — 
How  fearful, 
And  dizzy  't  is  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low  ! 
The  crows,  and  clioughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air, 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles :  half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire  :  dreadful  trade  ! 
Methinks,  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head. 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  ujion  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yond'  tall  anchoring  bark, 
Diminish'd  to  her  cock'  ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight.     The  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  th'  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes. 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high. — I  '11  look  no  more ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

Glo.  Set  me  where  you  stand. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand  ;  you  are  now  within  a  foot 
Of  th'  extreme  verge  :  for  all  beneath  the  moon 
Would  I  not  leap  upright. 

Glo.  Let  go  my  hand. 

Here,  friend,  is  another  purse ;  in  it,  a  jewel 
Well  worth  a  poor  man's  taking  :  fairies,  and  gods, 
Prosper  it  with  thee  !     Go  thou  farther  off: 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  let  me  hear  thee  going. 

Edg.  Now  fare  you  well,  good  sir. 

Glo.  '  With  all  my  heart. 

Edg    Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair, 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 

Glo.  0,  you  mighty  gods  ! 

This  world  I  do  renounce,  and  in  your  sights 
Shake  patiently  my  great  aflliction  oflT; 
If  I  could  bear  it  longer,  and  not  fall 
To  quarrel  with  your  great  opposeless  wills. 
My  snufl!".  and  loatlied  part  of  nature,  should 
Bum  it.self  out.     If  Edgar  live,  0,  bless  him  ! — 
Now,  fellow,  fare  thee  well.  [He  leaps,  and  falls  along. 

Edg  Gone,  sir  :  farewell. — 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  conceit  may  rob 
The  trea.'-ury  of  life,  when  life  itself 
Yields  to  tlie  theft :  had  he  been  where  he  thought, 
By  this  had  thought  been  past. — Alive,  or  dead  ? 
Ho,  you  sir  !  friend  ! — Hear  you,  sir  ? — .«peak  ! 
Tlius  might  he  pa,ss  indeed ; — yet  he  revives. 
What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Glo.  Away,  and  let  me  die. 

Edg.  Hadst  thou  been  aught  but  gossamer,  feathers, 
air. 
So  many  fathom  down  precipitating. 
Thou  'dst  shiver'd  like  an  CL'g  :  but  thou  dost  breathe  ; 
Ha.st  heavy  substance;  bleed'stnot;  speak'st;  art  .sound. 
Ten  masts  at  each  make  not  tlie  altitude, 
Whicii  thou  hast  perpendicularly  fell  : 
TJiy  life  's  a  miracle.     Speak  yet  again. 

Glo.  But  have  I  fallen,  or  no? 

Edg.  From  the  dread  summit  of  this  chalky  bourn. 
Look  up  a  height :  the  shrill-gorg'd  lark  so  far 
Cannot  be  .••ecn  or  heard:  do  but  look  up. 

Glo.  Alack  :   I  have  no  eyes. — 
[s  wretchedness  deprived  that  benofil. 
To  end  itself  by  death  ?     'T  was  yet  some  comfort, 
When  misery  could  beguile  the  tyrant's  rage, 
And  fru.«trate  his  proud  will. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  arm :  [Helping  him  up.* 

Up  : — 60  ; — how  is  't?  Feel  you  your  legs?  You  stand. 


Glo.  Too  well,  too  well. 

Edg.  This  is  above  all  strangenesa 

Upon  the  crown  o'  the  cliff,  what  thing  was  that 
Which  parted  from  you  ? 

Glo.  A  poor  unfortunate  beggar 

Edg.  As  I  stood  here  below,  methought,  his  eyes 
Were  too  full  moons:  he  had  a  thousand  noses, 
Horns  whelk'd,  and  wav'd  like  the  enridged'  sea: 
It  wa.s  some  fiend  :  therefore,  thou  happy  father, 
Think  that  the  clearest  gods,  who  make  them  honours 
Of  men's  impossibilities,  have  prescrv'd  thee. 

Glo.  I  do  remember  now  :  hencefcrth  I  '11  bear 
Affliction,  till  it  do  cry  out  itself 
"  Enough,  enough  !"  and  die.    That  thing  you  speak  of, 
I  took  it  for  a  man:  often  'twould  say, 
"  The  fiend,  the  fiend  !"  he  led  me  to  tliat  place. 

Edg.    Bear   free    and    patient   thoughts. — But  wh« 
comes  here  ? 

Enter  Lear,  fantastically  dressed  with  Straws  and 
Flowers. 
The  safer  sense  will  ne'er  accommodate 
His  master  thus. 

Lear.  No,  they  cannot  touch  me  for  coining  ;*  I  am 
the  king  himself. 

Edg.  0,  thou  side-piercing  sight  ! 

Lear.  Nature  's  above  art  in  that  respect. — There  'e 
your  press-money.  That  fellow  handles  his  bow  like  a 
crow-keeper' :  draw  me  a  clothier's  yard. — Look,  look  ! 
a  mouse.  Peace,  peace  ! — this  piece  of  toasted  cheese 
will  do't. — There's  my  gauntlet  ;  I  '11  prove  it  on  a 
giant. — Bring  up  the  brown  bills. '^-0,  well-flovii,  bird  ! 
— i'  the  clout,  i'  the  clout' :  hewgh  !— Give  the  word. 

Edg.  Sweet  marjoram. 

Lear.  Pass. 

Glo.  I  know  that  voice. 

Lear.  Ha  !  Goneril  !* — with  a  white  beard  ! — They 
flatter'd  me  like  a  dog  ;  and  told  me,  I  had  white  haira 
in  my  beard,  ere  the  black  ones  were  there.  To  say 
'•  ay,"  and  '"  no."  to  every  thing  I  said  ! — •'  Ay"  and 
"  no"  too  was  no  good  divinity.  When  the  rain  came 
to  wet  me  once,  and  the  -wind  to  make  me  chatter,  when 
the  thunder  would  not  peace  at  my  bidding,  there  J 
found  'em,  there  I  smelt  'em  out.  Go  to,  they  are  noi 
men  o'  their  words :  they  told  me  I  was  every  thing ; 
't  is  a  lie,  I  am  not  ague-proof. 

Glo.  The  trick  of  that  voice  I  do  well  remember  : 
Is  't  not  the  king  ? 

Lear.  Ay,  every  inch  a  king  : 

When  I  do  stare,  see  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I  pardon  that  man's  life :  what  was  thy  cause  ? — 
Adultery. — 

Thou  shalt  not  die  :  die  for  adultery  ?  No  : 
The  wren  goes  to 't,  and  the  small  gilded  fly 
Does  lecher  in  my  sight. 

Let  copulation  thrive  ;  for  Gloster's  bastard  son 
Was  kinder  to  his  father,  than  my  daughters 
Got  'tween  the  lawful  sheets. 
To  't,  luxury,  pell-mell,  for  I  lack  soldiers. — 
Behold  yond'  simpering  dame, 
Whose  face  between  her  forks  presageth  SJiow ; 
That  mimics*  virtue,  and  does  shake  the  head 
To  hear  of  pleasure's  name  ; 
The  fitchew,  nor  the  soiled  horse,  goes  to  't 
With  a  more  riotous  api)etite. 
Down  from  tlic  waist  they  are  centaurs. 
Though  women  all  above : 
But  to  the  girdle  do  the  gods  inherit, 
Beneath  is  all  the  fiends :  there  's  hell,  there  '8  dark 


'  Cotkhoal. 
b«low  tlie  point. 


Not  in  f.  e. 
'  Tht  mark. 


'  enra.ced  :  in  folio.      *  crying  :  in  folio.      »  A  ruftic,  set  to  keep  crow*  from  corn       •  Spt 
*  Goneril,  ha!  Re|;&n  I  they,  &.c.  :  in  quarto.      •  mincei :  in  f.  e. 


witi   hoo^l 


BCENE   VI. 


Ki^'G  LEAR. 


795 


rtess,  there  is  the  sulphurous  pit,  burning,  scalding, 
stench,  consumption ;' — fie,  fie.  fie  ;  pah ;  pah  !  Give 
me  an  ounce  of  civet,  good  apotliecary,  to  sweeten  my 
imagination  :  there'  s  money  for  thee. 

Glo.  0,  let  me  kiss  that  hand  ! 

Lear.  Let  me  wipe  it  first :  it  smells  of  mortality. 

Glo.  0  ruin'd  piece  of  nature  !     This  great  world 
Shall  so  wear  out  to  nought. — Dost  thou  know  me? 

Lear.  I  remember  thine  eyes  well  enough.  Dost 
thou  squiny  at  me?  No,  do  thy  worst,  blind  Cupid; 
i  '11  not  love. — Read  thou  this  challenge :  mark  but  the 
t)enning  of  it. 

Glo.  Were  all  the  letters  suns,  I  could  not  see  one. 

Edg.  I  would  not  take  this  from  report ;  it  is, 
And  my  heart  breaks  at  it. 

Lear.  Read. 

Glo.  What !  with  the  case  of  eyes  ? 

Lear.  0,  ho  !  are  you  there  with  me  ?  No  eyes  in 
your  head,  nor  no  money  in  your  purse  ?  Your  eyes 
are  in  a  heavy  case,  your  purse  in  a  light :  yet  you  see 
how  thid  world  goes. 

Glo.  I  see  it  feelingly. 

Lear.  What,  art  mad  ?  A  man  may  see  how  this 
world  goes  with  no  eyes.  Look  \^^th  thine  ears ;  see 
how  yond'  justice  rails  upon  yond'  simple  thief.  Hark, 
in  thine  car :  change  places ;  and,  handy-dandy,  which 
is  the  justice,  which  is  the  thief? — Thou  hast  seen  a 
farmer's  dog  bark  at  a  beggar? 

Glo.  Ay,  sir. 

Lear.  And  the  creature  run  from  the  cur  ?     There 
thou  mightst  behold  the  great  image  of  authority :  a 
dog  's  obey'd  in  office. — 
Thou  rascal  beadle,  hold  thy  bloody  hand  ! 
Why  dost  thou  lash  that  whore  ?    Strip  thine  own  back ; 
Thou  hotly  lust'st  to  use  her  in  that  kind 
For  which  thou  whipp'st  her.     The  usurer  hangs  the 

cozener. 
Through  tatter'd  clothes  small  vices  do  appear  ; 
Robes,  and  furr'd   gowns,  hide   all."     Plate  sin  with 

gold, 
And  the  strong  lance  of  justice  hurtless  breaks : 
Arm  it  in  rags,  a  pigmy's  straw  doth  pierce  it. 
None  does  offend,  none,  I  say.  none ;  I  '11  able  'em : 
Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 
To  seal  th'  accuser's  lips.     Get  thee  glass  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seem 
To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not. — Now.  now,  now, 

now  ! 
Pull  off  my  boots  :  harder,  harder  ;  so. 

Edg.  0,  matter  and  impertinency  mix'd; 
Reason  in  madness  ! 

Lear.  If  thou  wilt  weep  my  fortunes,  take  my  eyes. 
I  know  thee  well  enough  ;  thy  name  is  Gloster  : 
Thou  must  be  patient.     We  came  crying  hither: 
Thou  know'st,  the  fir.st  time  that  we  smell  the  air 
We  wawl,  and  cry.     I  will  preach  to  thee :  mark  me. 

Glo.  Alack  !  alack  the  day  ! 

Lear.  When  we  are  born,  we  ciy  that  we  are  come 
To  this  great  stage  of  fools. — 'T  i.s'  a  good  plot.* 
ft  were  a  delicate  stratagem,  to  shoe 
A  troop  of  horse  with  felt.     I  '11  put  it  in  proof ; 
And  when  I  have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 
Then  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill. 

Enter  a  Gentleimin  vnth  Attendants. 

Gent.  0  !  heie  he  is  .  lay  hand  upon  him. — Sir, 
Your  most  dear  daughter — 

Lear.  No  rescue  ?  What !  a  prisoner  ?  I  am  even 
Tlie  natural  fool  of  fortune. — Use  me  well , 


You  shall  have  ran.som.     Let  me  have  a  surgeon 
I  am  cut  to  the  brains.  ~       ' 

Gent.  You  shall  have  any  thing 

iear.  No  seconds?     All  my.<elf? 
Why,  this  would  make  a  man,  a  man  of  salt, 
To  use  his  eyes  for  garden  water-pots. 
Ay.  and  for  laying  autumn's  dut^t.' 

Gent.  Good  sir,— 

Lear.  I  will  die  bravely, 
Like  a  smug*  bridegroom.     What  !  I  will  be  jovial. 
Come,   come;   I  am   a  king,   my  masters,  know  you 
that  ? 

Gent.  You  are  a  royal  one,  and  we  obey  you. 

Lear.  Then  there  's  life  in  it.  Nay,  an  you  get  it 
you  shall  get  it  by  running.     Sa.  sa,  sa,  sa. 

[Exit :  Attendants  folloio. 

Gent.  A  sight  most  pitiful  in  the  meanest  ^^Tetch. 
Past  speaking  in  a  king  ! — Thou  ha.st  one  daughter,' 
Who  redeems  nature  from  the  general  curse 
Which  twain  have  brought  her  to. 

Edg.  Hail,  gentle  sir. 

Gent.  Sir,  speed  you  :  what 's  your  -w-ill .' 

Edg.  Do  you  hear  aught,  sir,  of  a  battle  toward  ? 

Gent.  Most  sure,  and  vulgar:  every  one  hears  ihat, 
Which  can  distinguish  sound. 

Edg.  But,  by  your  favour, 

How  near 's  the  other  army  ? 

Gent.  Near,  and  on  speedy  foot;  the  main  descry 
Stands  on  the  hourly  thought. 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir :  that 's  all. 

Gent.  Though  that  the  queen  on  special  cause  i« 
here, 
Her  army  is  mov'd  on. 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir.  [Exit  Gent 

Glo.  You  ever-gentle  gods,  take  my  breath  from  mc: 
Let  not  my  worser  spirit  tempt  me  again 
To  die  before  you  please  I 

Edg.  Well  pray  you,  father. 

Glo.  Now,  good  sir,  what  are  you  ? 

Edg.  A  most  poor  man,  made  tame  to'  fortuiie'p 
blows  ; 
Who,  by  the  art  of  known  and  feeling  sorrows. 
Am  pregnant  to  good  pity.     Give  me  your  hand, 
I  '11  lead  you  to  some  biding. 

Glo.  Hearty  thanks ; 

The  bounty  and  the  benison  of  heaven 
To  boot,  and  boot ! 

E)iter  Oswald. 

Ostv.  A  proclaim'd  prize  !     Most  happy  ! 

That  eyeless  head  of  thine  was  first  fram'd  flesh 
To  raise  my  fortunes. — Thou  old  unhapj)y  trauor, 
Briefly  thyself  remember; — the  sword  is  out  [Drawing 
That  must  destroy  thee. 

Glo.  Now  let  thy  friendly  hand 

Put  strength  enough  to  it.  [Edgar  interposes 

Osw.  Wherefore,  bold  peasant, 

Dar'st  thou  support  a  publish'd  traitor?     Hence  : 
Lest  that  th"  infection  of  his  fortune  take 
Like  hold  on  thee.     Let  go  his  arm. 

Edg.  Ch  ill  not  let  go.  zir,  without  varther  'casi«»n. 

O.sw.  Let  go,  slave,  or  thou  diest. 

Edg.  Good  gentleman,  go  your  gait,  and  let  poor 
volk  pass.  And  ch'ud  ha'  been  ZAiN'agger'd  out  of  my 
life,  't  would  not  ha'  been  zo  long  a^  't  is  by  a  vort- 
night.  Nay,  come  not  near  the  old  man  ;  keep  not. 
clie  vor'ye,  or  Ise  try  whether  your  costard  or  my  hal- 
low* be  the  harder.     Ch  'ill  be  plain  with  you. 

Osw.  Out,  dunghill ! 


'  coDSQinmation  :  in  quartos. 
nt  in  <'olio.      «  Not  in  quarto. 


s  The  next  .sentence 
'  lame  by  :  in  quartos. 


to  '•  Get"  is  not  in  quartos, 
s  Head,  or  my  cudgel 


in   i.  e.      *  block  :  in  f. 


796 


KING  LEAR. 


Edg.  Ch  'ill  pick  your  teeth,  zir.     Come ;  no  matter  I      Cor.  0,  you  kind  gods, 
TOf  y^/ur  foms.  Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature ! 

[They  fight ;  and  Edcar  strikes  him  down,.  I  Th'  uiitun'd  and  jarring*  senses,  0,  wind  up 
Osw.  Slave,  thou  hast  slain  me. — Villain,  take  my  '^''  "' '      '  ""    "^         '  '"  "'      ' 


purse. 
If  ever  thou  wilt  thrive,  bury  my  body: 
And  give  the  letters,  which  thou  find'st  about  me, 
To  Edmund  oarl  of  Glostcr  :  seek  him  out 
Upon  the  British'  party. — 0,  untimely  death  !      [Dies. 

Edg.  I  know  thee  well :  a  serviceable  villain ; 
As  duteous  to  the  vices  of  thy  mistress, 
As  badness  would  desire. 

Glo.  What !  is  he  dead  ? 

Edg.  Sit  you  down,  father;  rest  you. — 
Let 's  see  his  pockets :  these  letters,  that  he  speaks  of, 
May  be  my  friends. — He  's  dead ;  I  am  only  sorry 
He  had  no  other  dcath's-man. — Let  us  see  : — 
Leave,  gentle  wax;  and,  manners,  blame  us  not: 
To  know  our  enemies'  minds  we  rip  their  hearts. 
Their  papers  is  more  lawful. 

[Reads.]  ''  Let  our  reciprocal  vows  be  remembered. 
You  have  many  opportunities  to  cut  him  off:  if  your 
will  want  not,  time  and  place  will  be  fruitfully  offered. 
There  is  nothing  done,  if  he  return  the  conqueror ;  then, 


Of  this  child-changed  father ! 

Dod.  So  pleasb  your  mi  eaty 

That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?  he  hath  slept  long 

Cor.  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
I'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  array'd? 

Dod.*  Ay,  madam;  in  the  heaviness  of  his  sleep, 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 

Ke7it.  Good  madam,  be  by  when  we  do  awake  him  1 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 

Cor.  Very  well.*      [MusU 

Dod.    Please   you,  draw  near. — Louder  the  musio 
there. 

Cor.  0  my  dear  father  !     Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  A-iolent  harms,  that  my  two  sisten 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made  ! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  prineeaa ' 

Cor.    Had   you  not  been  their   father,  these  white 
flakes 
Had  challeng'd  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 
To  be  expos'd  against  the  warring'  winds  ? 


am  I  the  prisoner,  and  his  bed  my  gaol,  from  the  loathed   To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  ihvmder  ? 


warmth  whereof  deliver  me,  and  supply  the  place  for 
your  labour. 

"  Your  ("nnfe,  so  I  would  say) 

"  affectionate  servant, 

"  GONERIL." 

0,  unextinguish'd  blaze'  of  woman's  will ! 

A  plot  uj)on  her  virtuous  husband's  life ; 

And  the  exchange,  my  brother  ! — Here,  in  the  sands. 

Thee  I  '11  rake  up,  the  post  unsanctified 

Of  murderous  lechers ;  and  in  the  mature  time. 

With  this  ungracious  paper  strike  the  sight 

Of  the  death-practis"d  duke.     For  him  't  is  well, 

That  of  thy  death  and  business  I  can  tell. 

Glo.  The  king  is  mad :  how  stiff  is  my  vile  sense. 
That  I  stand  up,  and  have  ingenious  feeling 
Of  my  huge  sorrows  !     Better  I  were  distract ; 
So  should  my  thoughts  be  sever'd  from  my  griefs, 
And  woes,  by  WTong  imaginations,  lose 
The  knowledge  ©f  themselves.  [Drum  afar  off. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand  : 

Far  off,  methinks,  I  hear  the  beaten  drum. 
Come,  father;  I  '11  bestow  you  with  a  friend.  ]Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.— ^  Tent  in  the  French  Camp.     Lear  on 
a  Bed.  asleep ;  Dodor,  Gentleman,  and  others,  amend- 
ing: Enter  Cordelia  and  Kent. 
Cor    O  thou  good  Kent !  how  shall  I  live,  and  work, 

To  match  thy  goodness?     My  life  -will  be  too  short. 

And  every  mea.su  re  fail  me. 

Kent.  To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is  o'er-paid. 

All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth; 

Nor  more,  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 

Cor.  Be  better  suited  : 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours. 

I  pr'ythee,  put  them  off. 

Kent.  Pardon  me,  dear  madam  : 

Y«l  to  be  known  shortens  my  main'  intent: 

My  boon  I  make  it.  tliat  you  know  me  not, 

rill  time  and  I  think  meet. 
Cor.  Then  be  't  so,  my  good  lord. — How  does  the 
king?  [To  the  Physician. 

Doct.  Madam,  sleeps  still. 

'  EntrliBh  :  in  folio.  »  Dndiitin^uirh'd  space  :  in  f.  e.  '  made  : 
va«  J>ori„r.  Mo«t  mod.  ed«.  (jive  the  first  to  a  Gentlemnn.  and  the  s 
Iha  it,T\  'inc,  jivs  not  in  folio.  '  oppo»'d  against  the  jairlnR  :  in  fol: 
ama  loiic  ;  uc  .nher  :  When      »  The  r«it  of  the  line  is  not  in  folio 


In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 

Of  quick,  cross  lightning?  to  watch  (poor  perdu  !) 

With  this  thin  helm  ?     Mine  enemy's  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  slu)uld  have  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire;  and  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father. 

To  hovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 

In  short  and  musty  straw  ?     Alack,  alack  ! 

'T  is  wonder,  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 

Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes;  speak  to  him. 

Doct.  Madam,  do  you  ;  't  is  fittest. 

Cor.   How  does  my  royal  lord  ?     How  fares  yon 
majesty  ? 

Lear.   You  do   me  WTong,  to   take   me   out  o'  the 
grave. — 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss,  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  owti  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me? 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know.  Where*  did  you  die? 

Cor.  Still,  still,  far  wide. 

Dod.  He  's  scarce  awake :  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear.    Where  have  I  been?     Where  am  I? — Fair 
day-light  ?— 
I  am  mightily  abus'd. — I  should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus. — 1  know  not  what  to  say. — 
I  will  not  swear,  tliese  are  my  hands  : — let 's  see ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.     Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition ! 

Cor.  0  !  look  upon  me,  sir. 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me. — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me : 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man. 
Fourscore  and  upward,'  not  an  hoar  more  nor  less; 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear,  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks,  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful,  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Wherf  I  did  lodge  la.st  night.     Do  not  laugh  at  me. 
For,  ae  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 

in  f.  e.  «  Hurrying.  »  The  fo'.io  gives  this  and  the  next  ip*^^  '♦ 
:ond  to  the  Dortor  ;  the  text  follon-s  one  ol  the  qnartos.  •  Th.i  »• 
.     The  foUowmg  lines  to  "  Min*  '  are  not  in  folio.      *>  So  one  )0&r> 


SrOENE   1. 


KIKG  LEAR. 


797 


To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

Lear.  Be  yoiir  tears  wet  ?  Yes,'faith.  I  pray,weep  not : 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it. 
I  taiow,  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong  : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear.  Am  I  in  France  ? 

Kent.  In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.  Do  not  abuse  me. 

Doct.  Be  comforted,  good  madam :  the  great  rage, 
You  see,  is  cur'd'  in  him ;  and  yet  it  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has  lost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in  :  trouble  him  no  more, 
Till  farther  settling. 

Cor.  Will 't  please  your  highness  walk  ? 


Lear.  You  must  bear  -with  me: 

Pray  you  now,  forget  and  forgive  :  I  am  old.  and  foolish. 

[Exeunt  Lear,  Cordelia,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 

Gent.  Holds  it  true,  sir,  that  the  duke  of  Cornwall 
was  so  slain  ? 

Kent.  Most  certain,  sir. 

Gent.  Who  is  conductor  of  his  people  ? 

Kent.  As  't  is  said,  the  bastard  .«on  of  Gloster. 

Gent.  They  say.  Edgar,  his  banished  son,  is  with  the 
earl  of  Kent  in  Germany. 

Kent.  Report  is  changeable.  'T  is  time  to  lock 
about;  the  powers  o'  the  kingdom  approach  apace. 

Gent.  The  arbitrement  is  like  to  be  bloody.  Fare 
you  well,  sir.  [Exit. 

Kent.    My   point    and    period    will    be    throughly 

WTOUght, 

Or  well  or  ill,  as  this  day's  battle  's  fought.  [Exit 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Camp  of  the  British  Forces,  near 
Dover. 

Enter,  with  Drums  and  Colours.,  Edmund,  Regan, 
Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Edm.  Know  of  the  duke,  if  his  last  purpose  hold ; 
Or  whether  since  he  is  advis'd  by  aught 
To  change  the  course.     He  's  full  of  alteration, 
And  self-reproving : — bring  his  constant  pleasure. 

[To  an  Officer,  who  exit. 

Reg.  Our  sister's  man  is  certainly  miscarried. 

Edm.  "T  is  to  be  doubted,  madam. 

Reg.  Now,  sweet  lord, 

You  know  the  goodness  I  intend  upon  you  : 
Tell  me,  but  truly,  but  then  speak  the  truth, 
Do  you  not  love  my  sister  ? 

Edm.  In  honour'd  love. 

Reg.  But  have  you  never  found  my  brother's  way 
To  the  forefended  place? 

Edm.'  That  thought  abuses  you. 

Reg.  I  am  doubtful  that  you  have  been  conjunct, 
And  bosom'd  with  her,  as  far  as  we  call  hers. 

Edm.  No,  by  mine  honour,  madam. 

Reg.  I  never  shall  endure  her.     Dear  my  lord. 
Be  not  familiar  with  her. 

Edm.  Fear  me*  not. — 

She,  and  the  duke  her  husband, — 

Enter  Albany,  Goneril.  and  Soldiers. 

Gon.  I  had  rather  lose  the  battle,  than  that  sister 
Should  loosen  him  and  me.  [Aside. 

Alb.  Our  very  loving  sister,  well  be-met. — 
Sir.  this  I  hear, — the  king  is  come  to  his  daughter, 
With  others,  whom  the  rigour  of  our  state 
Forc'd  to  cry  out.*     Where  I  could  not  be  honest, 
I  never  yet  was  valiant :  for  this  business. 
Tt  toucheth  us,  as  France  invades  our  land, 
Not  holds  the  king,  with  others,  whom.  I  fear. 
Most  just  and  heavy  causes  make  oppose. 

Edm    Sir,  you  speak  nobly. 

Reg.  Why  is  this  reason'd  ? 

Gon.  Combine  together  'gainst  the  enemy; 
For  these  domestic  and  particular  broils 
Are  not  the  question  here. 

Alb.  Let  us,  then,  determine 

With  the  ancient  of  war  on  our  proceedings. 

«  kiU'd  :  in  folio.    The  latter  part  of  this,  and  the  nest  line,  are  not  in  f>lio.    >  The  rest  of  <»";»  f  •»•  '•  ""^  *"    . 
next  speech   are  not  in  folio.    ♦  Not  in  folio.    *  The  rest  of  this,  and  next  speech,  not  in  foho.    •  Not  m  f.  e.       Hard    .n  quartos 
in  qaartoa 


Edm.  I  shall  attend  you  presently  at  your  tent. 

Reg.  Sister,  you  '11  go  witli  us  ? 

Gon.  No. 

Reg.  'T  is  most  convenient ;  pray  you.  go  with  us. 

Gon.  0,  ho  !  I  know  the  riddle.  [Aside.] — I  -will  go. 
Enter  Edgar,  disguised. 

Edg.  If  e'er  your  grace  had  speech  with  man  so  poor, 
Hear  me  one  word. 

Alb.  I '11  overtake  you. — Speak. 

[Exeunt  Edmund,  Regan,  Goneril,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

Edg.  Before  you  fight  the  battle,  ope  this  letter. 
If  you  have  victory,  let  the  trumpet  sound 
For  him  that  brought  it :  \ATefched  though  I  seem, 
I  can  produce  a  champion,  that  will  prove 
What  is  avouched  there.  If  you  miscarry. 
Your  business  of  the  world  hath  so  an  end, 
And  machination  ceases.     Fortune  love  you  !  [Going.* 

Alb.  Stay,  till  I  have  read  the  letter. 

Edo-.       ' '  I  was  forbid  it. 

When  time  shall  serve,  let  but  the  herald  cry, 
And  I  '11  appear  again.  [E:nX. 

Alb.  Why,  fare  thee  well :  I  vs-ill  o'erlook  thy  paper. 
Re-enter  Edmund. 

Edm.  The  enemy  's  in  view ;  draw  up  your  power^. 
Here'  is  the  guess  of  their  true*  strength  and  forces 
By  diligent  discovery  ;  [Showing  a  Paper.]   bui  your 

haste 
Is  now  urg'd  on  you. 

Alb.  We  will  greet  the  time.  [Exit. 

Edm.  To  both  these  sisters  have  I  sworn  my  love ; 
Each  jealous  of  the  other,  a^  the  stimg 
Are  of  the  adder.     Which  of  them  shall  I  take  ? 
Both  ?  one  ?  or  neither  ?     Neither  can  be  enjoy'd, 
If  both  remain  alive  :  to  take  the  widow 
Exasperates,  makes  mad.  lier  sister  Goneril ; 
And  hardly  shall  I  carry  out  my  side. 
Her  husband  being  alive.     Now  then,  we'll  uj* 
His  countenance  for  the  battle  :  which  being  dona, 
Let  her  who  would  be  rid  of  him  demise 
His  speedy  taking  off.     As  for  the  mercy 
Which  he  intends  to  Lear,  and  to  Cordelia, 
The  battle  done,  and  they  withm  our  power, 
Shall  never  see  his  pardon  ;  for  my  state 
Stands  on  me  to  defend,  not  to  debate.  [Exit 


This  and  tk 


798 


KING  LEAR. 


ACT   V, 


SCENE  II.— A  Fid.I  between  the  two  Camps. 
ilarum  iritliin.     Enter,  irith  Drum  and  Colmirs,  Lear, 
Cordelia,  and  their  Forces  ;  and  exeunt. 
Enter  Edgar  and  Gi-oster. 
Edg.  Here,  father,  take  the  shadow  of  this  tree' 
For  your  good  host :  pray  tliat  the  right  may  thrive. 
If  ever  I  return  to  you  again, 
I  'Jl  bring  you  com  tort. 

Glo.  Grace  go  with  you.  sir  !  [Exit  Edgar. 

Alarum;  afterwards  a  Retreat.     Re-enter  Edgar. 
Edg.  Away,  old  man  !  give  me  thy  hand:  away  ! 
King  Lear  hath  lost,  he  and  his  daughter  ta'en. 
Give  me  thy  hand  ;  come  on. 

Glo.  No  farther,  f^ir  :  a  man  may  rot  even  here. 
Edg.  What !    in  ill    thoughts   again  ?     Men   must 
endure 
Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither : 
Ripeness  is  all.     Come  on. 

Glo.  And  that 's  true  too.'  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  British  Camp  near  Dover. 
Enter,  in  conqvext.  with  Drum  and  Colours.  Ecmukd  ; 

Lear  and  Cordelia,  as  Prisoners  ;  Captain,  Officers, 

Soldiers,  ifc. 

Edm.  Some  officers  take  them  away  :  good  guard, 
Until  their  greater  pleasures  first"  be  knowTi, 
That  are  to  censure  them. 

Cor.  We  are  not  tlie  Irst, 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurred  the  worst. 
For  thee,  opprci^scd  king,  am  I  cast  down  ; 
My.self  could  else  out-frown  false  fortune's  fro^^^^. 
Shall  we  not  see  the.se  daimhter.s,  and  the.«e  sisters  ? 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no  !     Come,  let 's  away  to  prison  : 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage  : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'  11  kneel  down. 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness.     So  we'll  live. 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news;  and  we  '11  talk  with  them  too, 
Who  loses,  and  who  wirts  ;  who 's  in,  who  's  out ; 
And  take  upon  's  the  mystery  of  things, 
Ae  if  we  were  God's  spies  :  and  we  11  wear  out. 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones, 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Edm.  Take  them  away. 

Lear.  Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia. 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.     Have  I  caught 
thee  ?  [Embracing  her.* 

He  that  parts  U8  shall  bring  a  brand  from  heaven, 
And  fire  us  hence  like  foxes.     Wipe  thine  eyes  ; 
The  poujeers'  shall  devour  them,  flesh  and  fell. 
Ere  they  shall  make  us  weep  :  we  '11  see  them  starve 

first. 
Come.  [Exeunt  Lear  and  Cordelia,  piarded. 

Edm.  Come  hither,  captain  ;  hark. 
Take  thou  this  note;  [Givinga  Paper.]  go,  follow  them 

to  prison. 
One  step  I  have  advanc'd  thee;  if  thou  dost 
Ab  this  instructs  thee,  thou  dost  make  thy  way 
To  noble  fortunes.     Know  thou  this,  that  men 
Are  a.-*  the  time  is  ;  to  be  tender-minded 
Docs  not  become  a  sword.     Thy  great  employment 
Will  not  bear  question  :  either  say,  thou  'It  do't, 
Or  thrive  by  other  means. 

Ca^t.  I  '11  do't,  my  lord.         [done 

Earn.  About  it;  and  write  happy,  when   thou  hast 


Mark, — I  say,  instantly;  and  carry  it  so, 
As  I  have  set  it  down. 

Capt.*  I  cannot  draw  a  cart,  nor  eat  dried  oats  ; 

If  it  be  man's  work,  1  will  do  it.  [Exit  Captais 

Flourish.     Enter  Albany,  Goneril,   Regan,  Officai 

and  Attendants. 

Alb.  Sir,  you  have  shown  to-day  your  valiant  strair.. 
And  fortune  led  you  well.     You  have  the  captives, 
Who  were  the  opposites  of  this  day's  strife  : 
We  do  require  them  of  you.  so  to  use  them, 
As  we  shall  find  their  merits,  and  our  safety, 
May  equally  determine. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  thought  it  fit 

To  .send  the  old  and  miserable  king 
To  some  retention,  and  appointed  guard  ;'' 
Whose  age  has  charms  in  it,  whose  title  more, 
To  pluck  the  common  bosom  on  his  side, 
And  turn  our  impress'd  lances  in  our  eyes. 
Which  do  command  them.     With  him  I  sent  the  queen  . 
My  rea.son  all  the  same;  and  they  are  ready 
To-morrow,  or  at  farther  space,  t'  appear 
Where  you  shall  hold  yoiir  session.*     At  this  time. 
We  sweat,  and  bleed :  the  friend  hath  lost  his  friend 
And  the  best  quarrels,  in  the  heat,  are  curs'd 
By  those  that  feel  their  sharpness. — 
The  question  of  Cordelia,  and  her  father, 
Requires  a  fitter  place. 

Alb.  Sir.  by  your  patience, 

I  hold  you  but  a  subject  of  this  war. 
Not  as  a  brother. 

Reg.  That 's  as  we  list  to  jjrace  him :  . 

Methinks,  our  pleasure  might'  have  been  demanded, 
Ere  you  had  spoke  so  far.     He  led  our  powers, 
Bore  the  commission  of  my  place  and  person; 
To  which  immediacy'"  may  well  stand  up. 
And  call  itself  your  brother. 

Gon.  Not  so  hot : 

In  his  o\\'n  grace  he  doth  exalt  himself, 
More  than  in  your  addition." 

Reg.  In  my  rights. 

By  me  invested,  he  compeers  the  best. 

Gon.  That  were  the  most,  if  he  should  husband  you 

Reg.  Jesters  do  oft  prove  prophets. 

Gon.  Holla!  holla' 

That  eye  that  told  you  so  look'd  but  a-squint. 

Reg.  Lady,  I  am  not  well ;  else  I  should  aaswer 
From  a  full-flowing  stomach. — General, 
Take  thou  my  soldiers,  prisoners,  patrimony: 
Dispose  of  them,  of  me ;  the  walls  are  thine. 
W^itness  the  world,  that  I  create  thee  here 
My  lord  and  ma.ster. 

Gon.  Mean  you  to  enjoy  him  ? 

Alb.  The  let-alone  lies  not  in  ycvir  good  will. 

Edm.  Nor  in  thine,  lord. 

Alb.  Half-blooded  fellow,  yes. 

Reg.  Let  the  drum  .strike,  and  prove  my  title  thine.*' 

[To  Edmukd 

Alb.  Stay  yet ;  hear  reason. — Edmund,  I  arrest  thw 
On  capital  trea.son  ;  and.  in  thy"  arrest. 
This   gilded    .'jerpent.     [Pointing  to  Gon.] — For  yovr 

claim,  fair  sister, 
I  bar  it  in  the  interest  of  my  wife ; 
'T  is  she  is  sub-contracted  to  this  lord. 
And  I,  her  husband,  contradict  your  bans. 
j  If  you  will  marry,  make  your  love  to  me, 
!  My  lady  is  bespoke. 
i      Gon.  An  interlude  !'* 


'  both  :  in  qa&rtoi.    *  Thi«  speech  it  not  in  anarto.      '  beit :  in  quartos.      ♦  Not  in  f.  e. 
out   n  folio.      '  These  three  words  are  not  in  folio.      •  The   rest  of  the  speech  is  not  in  foli 
luartoi       1'  viTiacement  :   in  quartos       "  good  :  in  quartos.      :'  thine  attaint  :  in  quartos. 


•  good  years :  in  old  copies 
*  should  ;  in  qnartos. 
'*  Not  in  quartof 


•  This  speech  :► 
immedikte  :  ii 


50ENE   m. 


KING   LEAR. 


799 


Alb.  Thou    art    arm'd,   Gloster. — Let    tlie 
sound : 
If  none  appear  to  prove  upon  thy  person, 
Thy  heinous,  manifest,  and  many  treasons. 
There  is  my  pledge.     [Throwing  down  a  Giove.] 

prove  it  on  thy  heart, 
Ere  I  taste  bread,  thou  art  in  nothing  less 
Than  I  have  here  proclaim'd  thee. 

Reg.  Sick  !  0.  sick  ! 

Gon.   [Aside.]  If  not,  I  '11  ne'er  trust  poison.' 

Edm.    There's   my   exchange:    [Throwing  down  a 
Glove.]  what  in  the  world  he  is 
That  names  me  traitor,  villain-like  he  lies. 
Call  by  thy  trumpet :  he  that  dares  approach. 
On  him,  on  you,  who  not?     I  will  maintain 
My  truth  and  honour  firmly. 

Alb.  A  herald,  ho  ! 

Edm.  A  herald,  ho  !  a  herald  ! 

Alb.  Trust  to  thy  single  virtue  ;  for  thy  soldiers. 
All  le\-ied  in  my  name,  have  in  my  name 
Took  their  discharge. 

Reg.  My  sickness  grows  upon  me. 

Alb.  She  is  not  well ;  convey  her  to  my  tent. 

[Exit  Regan,  led. 
Enter  a  Herald. 
Come  hither,  herald. — Let  the  trumpet  sound. 
And  read  out  this. 

Capt.  Sound,  trumpet.  [A  Trumpet  sounds. 

Herald  reads. 

"  If  any  man  of  quality,  or  degree,  within  the  lists' 
of  the  army,  will  maintain  vipon  Edmund,  supposed  earl 
of  Gloster,  that  he  is  a  manifold  traitor,  let  him  appear 
at  the  third  sound  of  the  trumpet.  He  is  bold  in  his 
defence." 

Edm.  Sound  !  [1  Trumpet. 

Her.  Again.  2  Trumpet. 

Her.  Again.  [3  Trumpet. 

[Trumpet  answers  within. 
Enter  Edgar,  armed.,  preceded  by  a  Trumpet. 

Alb.  Ask  him  his  purposes,  why  he  appears 
Upon  this  call  o'  the  trumpet. 

Her.  Wliat  are  you  ? 

Your  name  ?  your  quality  ?  and  why  you  answer 
This  present  summons  ? 

Edg.  Know,  my  name  is  lost ; 

By  treason's  tooth  bare-gnawn,  and  canker-bit : 
Yet  am  I  noble,  as  the  adversary 
I  come  to  cope  withal. 

Alb.  Which  is  that  adversary? 

Edg.  What 's  he,  that  speaks  for  Edmund   earl  of 
Gloster? 

Edm.  Himself:  what  say'st  thou  to  him? 

Edg.  Draw  thy  sword. 

That  if  my  speech  offend  a  noble  heart. 
Thy  arm  may  do  thee  justice  :  here  is  mine : 

[Drawing.' 
Behold,  it  is*  the  privilege  of  mine  honours. 
My  oath,  and  my  profession.     I  protest, 
Maugre  thy  sxrength,  skill,  youth,"  and  eminence, 
Despite  thy  victor  sword,  and  fire-new  fortune. 
Thy  valour,  and  thy  heart,  thou  art  a  traitor  : 
False  to  thy  gods,  thy  brother,  and  thy  father ; 
Conspirant  'gainst  this  high  illustrious  prince ; 
And,  from  th'  extremest  upward  of  thy  head. 
To  the  descent  and  dust  below  thy  foot,* 
A  most  toad-spotted  traitor.     Say  thou,  "  No," 
This  sword,  this  arm,  and  my  best  spirits,  are  bent 


»  medicine  :  in  folio.     '  host  :  in  quartos 
thy  feet :  in  quarto.     '  riehf  •  in  quartos. 
1a  i.  e.     "  shall :  in  quanos.     "  Exit :  in 
>*  we  :  in  folio. 


'Not  inf. 
8  Not  in  folio, 
folio.      '»  Edmnni 


trumpet  i  To  prove  upon  thy  heart,  wher^-to  I  speak, 
Thou  liest. 

Edm.         In  wisdom,  I  should  ask  thy  name ; 
But  since  thy  outside  looks  so  fair  and  warlike, 
I  '11 1  And  that  thy  tongue  some  'say  of  breeding  breathes, 
What  safe  and  nicely  I  might  well  delay 
By  rule'  of  knighthood,  I  disdain  and  spurn. 
Back  do  I  toss  these  tresusons  to  thy  head ; 
With  the  hell-hated  lie  o'crsvhelm  thy  heart ; 
Which,  for  they  yet  glance  by,  and  scarcely  bruise, 
This  sword  of  mine  shall  give  them  instant  way. 
Where  they  shall  rest  for  ever. — Trumpets,  speak  ! 
[Alarums.     They  fight.     Edmund /o/ 

Alb.  0,  save  him  !  save  him  ! 

Gon.  This  is  mere*  practice,  GIosIct 

By  the  laws  of  arms'  thou  wast  not  bound  to  answer 
An  unkno'v\Ti  opposite ;  thou  art  not  vanquish'd, 
But  cozen'd  and  beguil'd. 

Alb.  Shut  your  mouth,  dame ; 

Or  with  this  paper  shall  I  stop  it? — Hold,  sir  ! — »• 
Thou  worse  than  any  name,"  read  thine  o-wn  evil. 

[She  snatches  at  the  Letter.' 
No  tearing,  lady ;  I  perceive,  you  know  it. 

[Gives  the  Letter  to  Edmund 

Gon.  Say,  if  I  do,  the  laws  are  mine,  not  thine : 
Who  can''  arraign  me  for  't  ?'* 

Alb.  Most  monstrous  ! 

Know'st  thou  this  paper? 

Gon.'-^     Ask  me  not  what  I  know.     [Exit  Goneril 

Alb.  Go  after  her  :  she  's  desperate ;  govern  her. 

[Exit  an  Officer 

Edm.  What  you  have  charg'd  me  with,  that  have 
I  done, 
And  more,  much  more  ;  the  time  will  bring  it  out : 
'T  is  past,  and  so  am  I.     But  what  art  thou. 
That  hast  this  fortune  on  me  ?     If  thou  'rt  noble, 
I  do  forgive  thee. 

Edg.  Let 's  exchange  charifrj'. 

I  am  no  less  in  blood  than  thou  art,  Edmund ; 
If  more,  the  more  thou  hast  wrong'd  me. 

[Taking  off  his  Helmet.' 
My  name  is  Edgar,  and  thy  father's  son. 
The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices" 
Make  instruments  to  plague'*  us : 
The  dark  and  vicious  place  where  thee  he  got 
Cost  him  his  eyes. 

Edm.  Thou  hast  spoken  right,  't  is  true ; 

The  wheel  is  come  full  circle :  I  am  here. 

Alb.  Methought,  thy  very  gait  did  prophesy 
A  royal  nobleness.     I  must  embrace  thee : 
Let  sorrow  split  my  heart,  if  ever  I 
Did  hate  thee,  or  thy  father. 

Edg.  Worthy  prince,  I  know  't. 

Alb.  Where  have  you  hid  yourself? 
How  have  you  known  the  miseries  of  your  father? 

Edg.  By  nursing  them,  my  lord.— List  a  brief  tale; 
And  when  't  is  told,  0,  that  my  heart  would  bun^t  !— 
The  bloody  proclamation  to  escape. 
That  follow'd  me  so  near.  (0,  our  lives'  sweetness  ! 
That  with"  the  pain  of  death  we  'd  hourly  die, 
Rather  than  die  at  once  !)  taught  mc  to  shift 
Into  a  madman's  rags,  t'  assume  a  semblance 
That  very  dogs  disdain'd  ;  and  in  this  habit 
Met  I  my  father  with  his  bleeding  rings. 
Their  precious  stones  new  lost  ;  became  his  guide. 
Led  him,  begg'd  for  him.  sav"d  him  from  despair ; 
Never  (6  fault !)  revealM  myself  unto  him, 

thv  strength,  youth,  place  :  in  t  e      •  Ixnf  »th 

not  in  quartos.     >»  thing  :  in  quartc     "  No' 

folio.      i«  Not  in  f.  e.      "  virtues  :  in  quartos.      >»  scourge  :  in  qutr.nr 


Folio  inserts  :  my  privilege, 
war  :  in  quartos,     i"  Hold,  sir 


800 


KING  LEAK. 


ACT    V, 


Until  sOTiivT  half  hour  past,  when  I  was  arm'd, 
Not  sure,  though  hoping,  of  tliis  good  succcbb, 
I  ask'd  his  blessing,  and  from  first  to  last 
Told  him  my  pilgr'inage  :  but  his  flaw'd  heart, 
(Alack  !  too  weak  the  conflict  to  support) 
•'Twixt  two  extremes  of  passion,  joy  and  grief, 
Burst  smilingly. 

Edm.  This  speech  of  yours  halh  mov'd  me. 

And  shall,  perchance,  do  good;  but  speak  you  on: 
Vou  look  &s  you  had  something  more  to  say. 

Jib.  If  there  be  more  more  woful,  hold  it  in, 
For  I  am  almost  ready  to  dissolve. 
Hearing  of  this.' 

Edg.  This  would  have  seem'd  a  period 

To  such  as  love  not  sorrow ;  but  another, 
To  amplify  too-much,  would  make  much  more, 
And  top  extremity. 

Whilst  I  was  big  in  clamour,  came  there  a  man. 
Who,  having  seen  me  in  my  worst  estate. 
Shunnd  my  abhorr"d  society ;  but  then,  finding 
Who  't  was  that  so  endurd,  with  his  strong  arms 
He  fasten'd  on  my  neck,  and  bellow'd  out 
As  he  "d  burst  heaven ;  threw  him'  on  my  father ; 
Told  the  most  piteous  tale  of  Lear  and  him, 
That  ever  ear  receiv'd ;  which  in  recounting, 
His  grief  grew  puissant,  and  the  strings  of  life 
Began  to  crack ;  twice,  then,  the  trumpets  sounded. 
And  there  I  left  hiin  tranc"d. 

Alb.  But  who  wa^  this  ? 

Edg.  Kent,  sir,  the  bani.«h'd  Kent ;  who  in  disguise 
FoUowd  his  enemy  king,  and  did  him  service 
Improper  for  a  slave. 

Enter  a  Gentleman  hastily.,  with  a  bloody  Knife. 

Gent.  Help,  help  !  0  help  ! 

Edg.  What  kind  of  help  ? 

Alb.  Speak,  man. 

Edg.  What  means  that  bloody  knife? 

Gent.  'T  is  hot,  it  smokes; 

[t  came  even  from  the  heart  of — 0  !  she  "s  dead  : 

Alb.  Who  dead?  speak,  man. 

Gent.  Your  lady,  sir.  your  lady :  and  her  sister 
By  her  is  poisoned ;  she  hath  confess'd  it. 

Edm.  I  was  contracted  to  them  both :  all  three 
Now  marry  in  an  instant. 

Alb.  Produce  the  bodies,  be  they  alive  or  dead  ! — 

This  judgment'  of  the  heavens,  that  makes  us  tremble. 

Touches  us  not  with  pity.  [Exit  Gentleman. 

Enter  Kent. 

Edg.  Here  comes  Kent. 

Alb.  0  !  it  is«  he. 
The  time  will  not  allow  the  compliment. 
Which  very  manners  urges. 

Kent.  I  am  come 

To  bid  my  king  and  master  aye  good  night : 
Is  he  not  here? 

Alb.  Great  thing  of  us  forgot ! — 

Speak.  Edmund,  where  's  the  king?  and  where  's  Cor- 
Scest  thou  this  object,  Kent?  [delia? — 

[The  Bodies  of  Gosr.wu.  and  Rkoan  are  brought  in. 

Kent.  Alack!   why  thus? 

Edm.  Yet  Edmund  was  belov'd  : 

The  one  the  other  poison'd  for  my  sake. 
And  after  slew  herself. 

Alb.  Even  so — Cover  their  faces. 

Edm.   I  pant  for  life  : — some  good  I  mean  to  do. 
Despite  of  mine  own  nature.     Quickly  send, — 
Be  brief  in  it, — to  the  castle ;  for  my  writ 
Is  on  the  life  of  Lear,  and  on  Cordelia. — 


Nay,  send  in  time. 

Alb.  Run,  run !  0,  run  ! 

Edg.  To  whom,  my  lord  ? — Who  has  the  office  ?  send 
Thy  token  of  reprieve. 

Edm.  Well  thought  on  :  take  my  sword. 
Give  it  the  captain. 

Alb.  Haste  thee,  for  thy  life.         [Exit  Edgap 

Edm.  He  hath  commission  from  thy  wife  and  me 
To  hang  Cordelia  in  the  pri.son,  and 
To  lay  the  blame  upon  her  own  despair, 
That  she  fordid  herself. 

Alb.  The  gods  defend  her  !    Bear  him  hence  awhile! 
[Edmund  is  borne  off. 
Enter  Lear  with  Cordelia  dead  in  his  Arms  ;  Edgar, 
OJjUcer,  and  others. 

Lear.  H-owl,  howl,  howl,  howl  ! — 0  I  you  are  men 
of  stones ; 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I  'd  use  them  so 
That  heaven's  vault  should  crack. — She  's  gone  for 

ever. — 
I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives; 
She  's  dead  as  earth. — Lend  me  a  looking-glase : 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  shine,* 
Why,  then  she  lives. 

Kent.  Is  this  the  promis'd  end  ? 

Edg.  Or  image  of  that  horror? 

Alb.  Fall,  and  cease  ! 

Lear.  This  feather  stirs ;  she  lives  !  if  it  be  so, 
It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 

Ke7it.  0,  my  good  master  ! 

[Kneeling 

Lear.  Pr'ythee,  away. 

Edg.  'T  is  noble  Kent,  your  friend 

Lear.  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,*  traitors  all ! 
I  might  have  sav'd  her  ;  now.  she  's  gone  for  ever. — 
Cordelia,  Cordelia  !  stay  a  little.     Ha  ! 
What  is  't  thou  say'st  ? — ^Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Gentle,  and  low — an  excellent  thing  in  woman. — 
I  kind  the  slave  that  was  a  hanging  thee. 

Off.  'T  is  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 

Lear.  Did  I  not,  fellow? 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting  faulchion 
I  would  have  made  them'  skip :  I  am  old  now. 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. — Who  are  you? 
Mine  eyes  are  not  o'  the  best :  I  '11  tell  you  straight. 

Kent.  If  fortune  brag  of  two  she  lov"d  and  hated, 
One  of  them  we  behold. 

Lear.  This  is  a  dull  light :" — are  you  not  Kent  ? 

Kent.  The  same 

Your  servant  Kent.     Where  is  your  servant  Caius? 

Lear.  He  's  a  good  fellow,  1  can  tell  you  that; 
He  '11  strike,  and  quickly  too. — He  's  dead  and  rotten. 

Ke7it.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  I  am  the  very  man — 

Lear.  I  '11  see  that  straight. 

Kent.  That  from  your  first  of  difl^crence  and  decay, 
Have  follow'd  your  sad  steps. 

Lear,  You  are  welcome  hither 

Kent.  Nor  no  man  else.     All  's  cheerless,  dark,  and 
deadly: 
Your  eldest  daughters  have  fordone  themselves, 
And  desperately  arc  dead. 

Lear.  Ay,  so  I  think. 

Alb.  He  knows  not  what  he  says  ;•  and  vain  is  it, 
That  we  present  us  to  him. 

Edg.  Ver}-  bootless. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Off.  Edmund  is  dead,  my  lord. 


'  The  next  three  apeeches  are  not  in  folio. 
I  qaartot      i  him  :  in  folio     »  sight  :  in  f  e. 


le  :  in  quartos.     •  justice  :  in  quartos. 
'  sees  :  in  quartos. 


'  this  is  :  in  folio      'atone 


1  f. 


•  mnrdircca 


SOENK  in. 


KTSG  LEAR. 


801 


Alb.  That  'b  but  a  trifle  here — 

You  lords,  and  noble  friends,  know  our  intent. 
What  comfort  to  this  great'  deoav  may  come, 
Shall  be  applied  :  for  us,  we  will  resign, 
During  the  life  of  this  old  majesty, 
To  him  our  absolute  power. — To  you  your  rights, 

[To  Edgar  and  Kent. 
With  boot,  and  such  addition,  as  your  honours 
Have  more  than  merited. — All  friends  shall  taste 
The  wages  of  their  ^^rtue,  and  all  foes 
The  cup  of  their  deservings. — 0  !  see,  see  ! 

Lear.  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd  !    No,  no,  no  life  : 
Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  have  life. 
And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?     Thou  'It  come  no  more, 
Never,  never,  never,  never,  never  ! — 
Pray  you,  undo  this  button  :  thank  you,  sir.' — 
Do  you  see  chis  ?     Look  on  her, — look, — her  lips. — 
Look  there,  look  there  !—  [He  dies. 

Edg.  He  faints. — My  lord,  my  lord  ! — 

Kent.  Break  heart ;  I  pr'ythee,  break  ! 


Edg.  Look  up,  my  lyd. 

Ke7it.  Vex  not  his  ghost :  O  !  let  him  pass  :  he  naipji 
him, 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough'  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

Edg.  He  is  gone,  indeed. 

Kent.  The  wonder  is,  he  hath  endur'd  so  long  • 
He  but  usurp'd  his  life. 

Alb.  Bear  them  from  hence.     Our  present  business 
Is  general  woe. — Friends  of  my  soul,  you  twain 

[To  Kent  and  Eao»«. 
Rule  in  this  realm,  and  the  gor'd  state  sustain. 

Kent.  I  have  a  journey,  sir,  shortly  to  go  : 
My  master  calls  me;*  I  must  not  say,  no. 

Alb.*  The  weight  of  this  sad  time  we  must  obey, 
Speak  what  we  feel,  not  what  we  ought  to  say. 
The  oldest  hath  borne  most :  we,  that  are  young, 
Shall  never  see  so  much,  nor  live  so  long. 

[Exeunt,  with  a  dead  Mirth 


Not  iu  qaaitoi       *  The  rest  of  tbe  nyeech  u  not  : 


quarV^ 


Poim  r«a/i'  :  roach 


OTHELLO.    THE   MOOR   OF   VENICE. 


DRAMATIS     PEESONiE. 


Duke  of  Venice. 

Brabantio,  a  Senator. 

Two  other  Senators. 

Gratiano,  Brother  to  Brabantio. 

LoDOvico,  Kinsman  to  Brabantio. 

Othei.lo,  the  Moor. 

Cassio,  his  Lieutenant. 

Ur.o.  his  Ancient. 

RoDERiGO,  a  Venetian  Gentleman. 

Otficers.  Gentlemen,  Me&senge 
SCENE,  for  the  first  Act,  in  Venice 


MoNTANO,  Governor  of  Cyprus. 
Clown,  Servant  to  Othello. 
Herald. 

Desdemona,  Daughter  to  Brabantio.  and  Wife  to 

Othello. 
Emilia,  Wife  to  Lago. 
BiANCA.  a  Courtezan  of  Venice. 


Mus:cian.s,  Sailors.  Attendants.  &c. 
during  the  rest  of  the  Play,  at  a  Sea-Port  ui  Cypns. 


ACT    I. 


SCEXE  L— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Roderigo  in  choler}  and  Iago. 

'?«i.  Tush* !  never  tell  me,  I  take  it  much  unkindly, 
Tl  at  thou,  Iago,  who  ha.st  had  my  purse, 
.\e  if  the  .'firings  were  thine,  shouldst  know  of  this. 

Iago.  'Sblood  !  but  you  will  not  hear  me  : 
If  <'ver  I  did  dream  of  such  a  matter,  abhor  me. 

Ro<l.  Thou  told'st  me  thou  didst  hold  him  in  thy  hate. 

Iago.  Dcspi.se  me,  if  I  do  not.     Three  great  ones  of 
the  city, 
In  peisonal  suit  to  make  me  his  lieutenant, 
Oft"'-cappd  to  him  ;  and,  by  the  faith  of  man, 
I  know  my  price  :  I  am  worth  no  worse  a  place ; 
But  he,  as  loving  his  own  pride  and  purposes, 
Evades  them,  with  a  bombast  circumstance, 
Horribly  stulfd  with  epithets  of  war; 
And,  in  conclusion,* 

.\on.«uils  rny  mediators  ;  "  For  certes,"  says  he, 
'  I  have  already  chose  my  officer."    And  what  was  he  ? 
Forsooth,  a  great  arithmetician. 
One  Michael  Ca,ssio,  a  Florentine, 
A  fellow  almost  damn'd  in  a  fair  wife; 
That  never  set  a  squatiron  in  the  field. 
Nor  the  divi.sion  of  a  battle  knows 
More  than  a  spinster  ;  unices  the  bookish  thconc*, 
Wherein  the  togcd*  consuls  can  propose 
As  masterly  a.<!  he:  mere  prattle,  without  practice 
ffi  all  his  .soldiership.     But  he,  sir,  had  th'  election  , 
And  I. — of  whom  his  eyes  had  seen  the  proof, 
At  Rhodes,  at  Cyprus,  and  on  other  grounds. 
Christian  and  heathen, — must  be  be-iecM  and  calm'd 
By  debitor  and  creditor,  this  counter-caster  : 
Ho,  in  cood  time,  must  his  lieuU>n.int  be. 
And  I.  God  blc^.s  the  mark !  his  Mf)or-ship"s  ancient. 

Rod.    By  heaven,    1    rather   would    have   been    his 

hangman. 
lof^o.  But    there  'e    no  remedy :    't  is    the   curt^e   of 
service, 


'  The»e  two  word.i. 

"  in  cAo/^r,"  KTf  not  in  f.  e. 

>  Not  in  foho.      >Oft: 

in  quarto.    ♦  Thi 

(O  folio.      '  tnmra'd 

in  f  e       «  TiM.get  :  in  f.  «. 

•  doT««:  in  quartoi 

0  fail  :  in  folio 

802 

I  Preferment  goes  by  favour  and  affection, 
I  Not  by  the  old  gradation,  where  each  second 
I  Stood  heir  t'  the  first.     Now,  sir,  be  judge  yours*'!/, 
Whether  I  in  any  just  terms  am  aflin'd 
To  love  the  Moor. 

Rod.  I  would  not  follow  him,  then. 

Iago.  0.  sir  !  content  you  ; 
I  follow  him  to  serve  my  turn  upon  him : 
We  cannot  all  be  masters,  nor  all  masters 
Cannot  be  truly  follow'd.     Yon  shall  nia\-k 
Many  a  duteous  and  knee-crooking  knave. 
That,  doting  on  his  own  obsequious  bondage, 
Wears  out  his  time,  much  like  his  master's  ass. 
For  nought  but  provender ;  and  when  he  "s  old,  cashier'c 
W^hip  me  such  honest  knaves.     Others  there  are, 
W^ho,  learn"d'  in  forms  and  usages*  of  duty, 
Keep  yet  their  hearts  attending  on  themselves. 
And,  throwing  bwt  shows  of  service  on  their  loras. 
Do  well  thrive  by  them ;  and  when  they  have  lin'd 
j  their  coats, 

Do  themselves  homage  :  these  fellows  have  some  soul 
And  such  a  one  do  I  profess  myself.     Foi,  sir, 
It  is  as  sure  as  you  are  Roderigo, 
Were  I  the  Moor,  I  would  not  be  Iago  ' 
In  following  him.  I  follow  but  myself; 
Heaven  is  my  judge,  not  I  for  love  and  duty. 
But  seeming  so,  tor  my  peculiar  end  : 
For  when  my  outward  action  doth  demonstrate 
The  native  act  and  figure  of  my  heart 
In  compliment  extern,  't  is  not  long  after 
But  I  will  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve 
For  daws'  to  peck  at:   I  am  not  w^hat  I  am. 

Rod.  What  a  full"  fortune  does  the  thick-lipa  owe. 
If  he  can  carry  't  thus  ! 

lago.  Call  up  her  father  ; 

Rouse  him :  make  after  him.  poison  his  delight, 
Proclaim  him  in  the  streets:  incense  her  kinsmei. ; 
And  though  he  in  a  fertile  climate  dwells 
Plague  him  with  flies  :  though  that  his  joy  be  joy. 

is  not  in  folio.     •  Tktor%       •  KHi)fn»J 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


803 


Yet  throw  such  changes'  of  vexation  on  't, 
As  it  may  lose  some  colour. 

Rod.  Here  is  her  father's  house  :  I  '11  call  aloud. 

lago.  Do  ;  w-ith  like  clamorous'  accent,  and  dire  yell, 
As   when,  by  night  and  negligence,  the  fire 
Is  spied  in  populous  cities. 

Rod.  What  ho  !  Brabantio  !  signior  Brabantio,  ho  ! 

lago.  Awake  !  what,  ho  !  Brabantio !  thieves  !  thieves  ! 
thieves  ! 
Look  to  your  house,  your  daughter,  and  your  bags  ! 
Thieves  !  thieves  ! 

Enter  Brabantio.  above,  at  a  Window. 

Bra.  What  is  the  reason  of  this  terrible  summons  ? 
JVTiat  is  the  matter  there  ? 

Rod.  Signior,  is  all  your  family  within? 

Togo.  Are  your  doors  lock'd  ? 

Bra.  W^hy  ?  wherefore  ask  you  this  ? 

lago.  'Zounds  !  sir,  you  are  robb'd  ;  for  shame,  put 
on  your  gown  : 
Your  heart  is  burst,  you  have  lost  half  your  soul  : 
Even  now,  now,  very  now,  an  old  black  ram 
Is  tupping  your  white  ewe.     Arise,  arise  ! 
Awake  the  snorting  citizens  with  the  bell. 
Or  else  the  devil  will  make  a  grandsire  of  you. 
Arise,  I  say. 

Bra.  What,  have  you  lost  your  wits  ? 

Rod.     Most  reverend  signior,  do  you  know  my  voice  ? 

Bra.  Not  I  :  what  are  you  ? 

Rod.  My  name  is  Roderigo. 

B7a.  The  worse'  welcome  : 

I  have  charg'd  thee  not  to  haunt  about  my  doors. 
In  honest  plainness  thou  hast  heard  me  say, 
My  daughter  is  not  for  thee ;  and  now,  in  madness, 
Being  full  of  supper  and  distempering  draughts, 
Upon  malicious  bravery*  dost  thou  come 
To  start  ray  quiet. 

Rod.  Sir,  sir.  sir, — 

Bra.  But  thou  must  needs  be  sure. 

My  spirit  and  my  place  have  in  them  power 
To  make  this  bitter  to  thee. 

Rod.  Patience,  good  sir. 

Bra.  What    tell'st   thou    me    of   robbing  ?    this  is 
Venice  ; 
My  house  is  not  a  grange. 

Roa.  Most  grave  Brabantio. 

In  simple  and  pure  soul  I  come  to  you. 

lago.  'Zounds  !  sir,  you  are  one  of  those,  that  will 
not,  serve  God,  if  the  devil  bid  you.  Because  we  come 
to  do  you  service,  and  you  think  we  are  ruffians,  you  '11 
have  your  daughter  covered  -with  a  Barbary  horse  : 
you  '11  have  your  nephews  neigh  to  you  ;  you  '11  have 
coursers  for  cousins,  and  gennets  for  germans. 

Bra.  Wnat  profane  wretch  art  thou  ? 

lago.  I  am  one,  sir.  that  comes  to  tell  you,  your 
laughter  and  the  Moor  are  now  making  the  beast 
mill  two  backs. 

Bra.  Thou  art  a  villain. 

lago.  You  are — a  senator. 

Bra.  This  thou    shalt    answer  :    I  know  thee,  Ro- 
derigo. [yoi';' 

Rod.  Sir,  I  will   answer  any  thing.     But  I  beseech 
If  'j  be  your  pleasure,  and  most  wise  consent, 
(As  partly.  I  find,  it  is)  that  your  fair  daughter, 
At  this  odd-even  and  dull  watch  o'  the  night, 
Tran.«ported  with  no  worse  nor  better  guard. 
But  with  a  knave  of  common  hire,  a  gondolier. 
To  the  gross  clasps  of  a  lascivious  Moor, 


If  this  be  known  to  you,  and  your  aUo^\ance, 

We  then  have  done  yoa  bold  and  saucy  wrongs; 

But  if  you  know  not  this,  my  manners  tell  me, 

We  have  your  wrong  rebuke.     Do  not  believe 

That  from  the  sense  of  all  civility, 

I  thus  would  play  and  trifle  with  your  reverence  : 

Your  daughter,  if  you  have  not  given  her  leave, 

I  say  again,  hath  made  a  gross  revolt. 

Laying'  her  duty,  beauVy,  wit,  and  fortunes. 

On'  an  extravagant  and  wheedling"  stranger. 

Of  here  and  every  where.     Straight  satisfy  yourself 

If  she  be  in  her  chamber,  or  your  house, 

Let  loose  on  me  the  justice  of  the  state 

For  thus  deluding  you. 

Bra.  Strike  on  the  tinder,  ho  ! 

Give  me  a  taper  ! — call  up  all  my  people  ! — 
This  accident  is  not  unlike  my  dream ; 
Belief  of  it  oppresses  me  alresidy. — 
Light,  I  say  !  light !  [Exit  from  abiyve 

lago.  Farewell,  for  I  must  leave  you 

It  seems  not  meet,  nor  wholesome  to  my  place. 
To  be  produc'd  (as  if  I  stay  I  shall) 
Against  the  Moor  :  for,  I  do  know,  the  state. — 
However  this  may  gall  him  with  some  check. — 
Cannot  with  safety  cast  him ;  for  he  's  embark'd 
With  such  loud  reason  to  the  Cyprus  wars 
(Which  even  now  stand  in  act)  that,  for  their  souls. 
Another  of  his  fathom  they  have  none, 
To  lead  their  business  :  in  which  regard. 
Though  I  do  hate  him  as  I  do  hell  pains. 
Yet  for  necessity  of  present  life, 
I  must  show  out  a  flag  and  sign  of  love. 
Which  is  indeed  but  sign.     That  you  shall  surely  find 

him, 
Lead  to  the  sagittary'  the  raised  search ; 
And  there  will  I  be  with  him.     So,  farewell.       [Exit. 
Enter  Brabantio,  and  Servants  with  Torches. 

Bra.  It  is  too  true  an  evil :  gone  she  is ; 
And  what 's  to  come  of  my  despised  time 
Is  nought  but  bitterness. — Now,  Hoderigo, 
Where  didst  thou  see  her? — 0,  unhappy  girl  ! — 
With    the    Moor,   say'st    thou  ? — Who    would    be    a 

father  ? — 
How  didst  thou  know  't  was  she  ? — 0  !  thou  deceiv'si 

me 
Past   thought.— What  said    she    to   you  ?— Get  more 

tapers  ! 
Rai.se  all  my  kindred  ! — Are  they  married,  think  you? 

Rod.  Truly,  I  think,  they  are. 

Bra.  0  heaven  ! — How  got  she  out  ? — 0,  trcaaou  of 
my  blood  ! — 
Fathers,  from  hence  trust  not  your  daughters'  minds 
By  what  you  see  them  act. — Are  there  not  charms, 
By  which  the  property  of  youth  and  maidhood 
]\Tay  be  abus'd  ?     Have  you  not  read,  Roderigo. 
Of  some  such  thing  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  sir;  I  have,  indeed." 

Bra.  Call  up   my   brother.— 0,    that  you  had  ha 
her!— 
Some  one  way,  some  another. — Do  you  know 
Where  we  may  apprehend  her  and  the  Moor  ? 

Rod.  I  think,  I  can  di.^cover  him,  if  you  pleaae 
To  get  good  guard,  and  go  alon^  with  mc. 

Bra.  Pray  you,  lead  on."     At  every  house  I  'llciill ; 
I  may  command  at  most. — Get  weapons,  ho  ! 
And  raise  some  special  officers  of  night. — 
On,  good  Roderigo  ; — 1  '11  deserve  your  pains.  [Exxunt 


'  ckances:  in  folio. 
(|a«jrto,  1022.     'Tying: 
m  qnatto        '>  Pray,  lea 


2  timorous  :  in  f.  e. 
in  f.  e.  '  In  :  in  f. 
1  rae  on  :  in  quartos. 


3  worser  ;  in  foli 
3.      8  wheelMig  : 


♦  knarery  :  in  folio.      »  The  rest  of  this  speech  to  "  .Stnight"  ie  not  in 
f.  e.      »  The  official  residence  in  the  Arsenal  of  Othelio.      >•  I  h«TO,  sir 


804 


OTnELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF   VENICE. 


SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Another  Street. 

Enter  Othei.lo.  Iago,  ami  Attendants,  with  Torches. 

lago.  Thoush  in  the  trade  of  war  I  have  slain  men, 
Yet  do  I  hold  it  very  stutT  o'  the  conscience 
To  do  no  contriv'd  murder  :  I  lack  iniquity 
Sometimes,  to  do  me  scrs-ice.     Nine  or  ten  times 
I  had  thought  to  have  yerk'd  him  here,  under  the  ribs. 

Oth.  "T  is  better  as  it  is. 

Iago.  Nay,  but  he  prated, 

And  spoke  such  scur\'j'  and  provoking  terms 
Against  your  honour. 
That,  with  the  little  godliness  I  have, 
I  did  full  hard  forbear  him.     But.  I  pray,  sir, 
Are  you  fast  married  ?  for.  be  sure'  of  this, 
That  the  magnifico  is  much  beloved ; 
And  hath,  in  his  etfect.  a  voice  potential, 
As  double  as  the  duke's:  he  will  divorce  you; 
Or  put  upon  you  what  restraint,  or'  grievance. 
The  law  (with  all  his  might  t'  enforce  it  on) 
Will  give  him  cable. 

Oth.  Let  him  do  his  spite  : 

My  services,  which  I  have  done  the  signiory. 
Shall  out-tongue  his  complaints.     'T  is  yet  to  know, 
Which,  when  I  know  that  boasting  is  an  honour, 
I  shall  promulgate,  I  fetch  my  life  and  being 
From  men  of  royal  siege  :'  and  my  demerits* 
May  speak,  unbonneted.  to  as  proud  a  fortune 
As  this  that  I  have  reach'd :  for  know.  Iago, 
But  that  I  love  the  gentle  Dcsdemona, 
I  would  not  my  unhoused  tree  condition 
Put  into  circumscription  and  confine 
For   the  sea's  worth.     But,  look  !  what  lights  come 
yonder  ? 

Iago.  These  are  the  raised  father,  and  his  friends : 
You  were  best  go  in. 

Oth.  Not  I :  I  must  be  found  : 

My  parts,  my  title,  and  my  perfect  soul. 
Shall  manifest  me  rightly.     Is  it  they  ? 

Jago.  By  Janus,  I  think  no. 
Enter  Cassio.  and  certain  Officers  with  Torches. 

Oth.  The  servants  of  the  duke,  and  my  lieutenant. 
The  goodness  of  the  night  upon  you,  friends. 
What  is  the  news  ? 

Cos.  The  duke  does  greet  you.  general ; 

And  he  requires  your  haste,  post-ha,ste  appearance. 
Even  on  the  instant. 

Oth.  What  is  the  matter,  think  you  ? 

Cos.  Something  from  Cyprus,  as  I  may  divine. 
It  is  a  business  of  some  heat :  the  galleys 
Have  sent  a  dozen  sequent*  messengers, 
This  very  night,  at  one  another's  heels  ; 
And  many  of  the  consuls,  rais'd  and  met. 
Are  at  the  duke's  already.  You  have  been  hotly  call'd 
When,  being  not  at  your  lodging  to  be  found,  [for  ; 

The  .senate  sent  above*  three  several  quests. 
To  search  you  out. 

Oth.  'T  is  well  I  am  found  by  you. 

will  but  spend  a  word  here  in  the  hou.se, 
nd  go  with  you.  [Exit. 

Cos.  Ancient,  what  makes  he  here  ? 

Iago.  'Faith,  he  to-ni^ht  hath  boarded  a  land  carack' : 
If  it  prove  lawful  prize,  he  's  made  for  ever. 

Cos.  I  do  not  understand. 

logo.  He  's  married. 

C<"-  To  whom  ? 

Re-enter  Othello. 

Iago.  Marry,  to — Come,  captain,  will  you  go  ? 


b«  assnred  : 
bli» 


folio.      *  and  : 


ikip.      •  Thii  lin«  if  not  iit  qawto, 
ia  foli- 


I      Oth.  Have  with  you 

I      Cos.  Here  comes  another  troop  to  seek  for  you. 
!      Iago.  It  is  Brabantio. — General,  bo  advis'd  : 
He  comes  to  bad  intent. 

Ejiter  Brabantio.  Hoderigo,  and  Officers,  with 
Torches  and  Weapons. 
Oth.  Holla  !  stand  there  ! 

Rod.  Signior,  it  is  the  Moor. 

Bra.  Down  with  him,  thief  1 

[  They  draw  on  both  suUs. 
Iago.  You,  Roderigo  !  come,  sir,  I  am  for  you. 
Oth.  Keep  up  your  bright  swords,  for  the  dew  will 
rust  them. — 
Good  signior,  you  shall  more  command  with  years. 
Than  with  your  weapons. 

Bra.  0.  thou   foul   thief!    where    hast  thou  stow'd 
my  daughter  ? 
Damn'd  as  thou  art.  thou  ha^t  enchanted  her  , 
For  I  '11  refer  me  to  all  things  of  sen.se. 
If  she  in  chains  of  magic  were  not  bound,' 
Whether  a  maid  so  tender,  fair,  and  happy, 
So  opposite  to  marriage,  that  she  shunn'd 
The  wealthy  curled  darlings'  of  our  nation, 
Would  ever  have,  to  incur  a  general  mock, 
Run  from  her  guardage  to  the  sooty  bosom 
Of  such  a  thing  as  thou  ;  to  fear,  not  to  delight. 
Judge  me  the  world,  if  't  is  not  gross  in  sense,'* 
That  thou  hast  practis'd  on  her  with  foul  charms ; 
■  Abus'd  her  delicate  youth  with  drugs,  or  minerals, 
:  That  weaken  motion. — I  '11  have  't  disputed  on  ; 
"T  is  probable,  and  palpable  to  thinking. 
I,  therefore,  apprehend,  and  do  attach  thee 
For  an  abuser  of  the  world,  a  practiser 
Of  arts  inhibited,  and  out  of  warrant. — 
Lay  hold  upon  hiin  !   if  he  do  resist, 
j  Subdue  him  at  his  peril. 

Oth.  Hold  your  hands  ! 

,  Both  you  of  my  inclining,  and  the  rest : 
j  Were  it  my  cue  to  fight..  I  should  have  known  it 
Without  a  prompter. — Where  will  you  that  I  go, 
To  answer  this  your  charge  ? 

i      Bra.  To  prison  ;  till  fit  tune 

Of  law,  and  course  of  direct  session. 
Call  thee  to  answer. 

Oth.  What  if  I  do  obey  ? 

How  may  the  duke  be  therewith  satisfied. 
Whose  messengers  are  here  about  my  side, 
Upon  some  present  business  of  the  state, 
I  To  bear"  ine  to  him  ? 

Off.  'T  is  true,  most  worthy  signior 

I  The  duke  's  in  council,  and  your  noble  self, 

I I  am  sure,  is  sent  for. 
Bra.  How  !  the  duke  in  council, 

In  this  time  of  the  night  ! — Bring  him  away. 

Mine  's  not  an  idle  cause  :  the  duke  himself, 

Or  any  of  my  brothers  of  the  state, 

Cannot  but  feel  this  wrong,  as  't  were  their  own ; 

For  if  such  actions  may  have  passage  free. 

Bond-slaves  and  pagans  shall  our  statesmen  be.  [ExeurU 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Council-Chamber. 

The  Dike,  and  Senators,  sitting  in  state  ;  Officers 
I  attending. 

'      Ihtke.  There  is  no  composition  in  these  news, 
That  gives  them  credit. 

1  Sen.  Indeed,  they  are  disproportion'd 

My  letters  say,  a  hundred  and  seven  galle/s. 

inarto.      »  heii^ht  :  in  qnartoi.      «  Mrritf.      »  frequent  :  in  qaartos.      •  about  :  in  folio.     '  Freight 
^2.     •  dearling  :  in  folio.      »  TKii  and  the  five  iollo\nng  -nrords,  are  not  in  quarto,  1622.    "  brin^ 


SCENE  m. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


805 


Duke.  And  mine,  a  hundred  and  forty. 

2  Sen.  And  mine,  two  hundred: 

But  though  they  jump  not  on  a  just  account, 
(As  in  these  cases,  with  the  same'  reports, 
'T  is  oft  with  diiference)  yet  do  they  all  confirm 
A  Turkish  fleet,  and  bearing  up  to  Cyprus. 

Duke.  Nay,  it  is  possible  enough  to  judgment. 
I  do  not  so  secure  me  in  the  error, 
But  the  main  article  I  do  approve 
In  fearful  sense. 

Sailor.  [Within.]  What  ho  !  what  ho  !  what  ho  ! 
Enter  an  Officer,  with  a  Sailor. 

Off.  A  messenger  from  the  galleys. 

Duke.  Now.  the  business  ? 

Sail.  The  Turkish  preparation  makes  for  Rhodes  : 
So  was  I  bid  report  here  to  the  state, 
By  signior  Angelo.' 

Duke.  How  say  you  by  this  change  ? 

1  Sen.  This  cannot  be, 

By  no  assay  of  reason  :  't  is  a  pageant. 
To  keep  us  in  false  gaze.     When  we  consider 
The  importancy  of  Cyprus  to  the  Turk  ; 
And  let  ourselves  again  but  understand, 
That,  as  it  more  concerns  the  Turk  than  Rhodes, 
So  may  he  with  more  facile  question  bear  it,' 
''^or  that  it  stands  not  in  such  warlike  brace, 
But  altogether  lacks  th'  abilities 

That  Rhodes  is  dress'd  in  :— if  v.'c  make  thought  of  this, 
We  must  not  think  the  Turk  is  so  unskilful. 
To  leave  that  latest  which  concerns  him  first, 
Neglecting  an  attempt  of  ease  and  gain, 
To  wake,  and  wage,  a  danger  profitless. 

Duke.  Nay,  in  all  confidence,  he  's  not  for  Rhodes. 

Off.  Here  is  more  news. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  Ottomites,  reverend  and  gracious, 
Steering  with  due  course  toward  the  isle  of  Rhodes, 
Have  there  injointed  them*  with  an  after  fleet. 

1  Sen.  Ay,  so  I  thought. — How  many,  as  you  guess  ? 

Mess.  Of  thirty  sail  ;  and  now  do  they  re-stem 
Their  backward  course,  bearing  with  frank  appearance 
Their  purposes  toward  Cyprus. — Signior  Montano, 
Your  trusty  and  most  valiant  servitor, 
With  his  free  duty  recommends  you  thus, 
And  prays  you  to  believe  him. 

Duke.  'T  is  certain,  then,  for  Cyprus. — 
Marcus  Luccicos,  is  not  he  in  town? 

1  Sen.  He  's  now  in  Florence. 

Duke.  Write  from  us  to  him  ;  post,  post-haste  dis- 
patch. 

1  Sen.  Here  comes  Brabantio,  and  the  valiant  Moor. 

Enter  Brabantio,  Othello,  Iaoo,  Roderigo,  and 
Officers. 

Dike.  Valiant  Othello,  we  must  straight  employ  you 
Against  the  general  enemy  Ottoman. — 
[  did  not  see  you ;  welcome,  gentle  signior  ; 

[To  Brabantio. 
We  lack'd  your  counsel  and  your  help  to-night. 

Bra.  So  did  I  yours.     Good  your  grace,  pardon  me  ; 
Neither  my  place,  nor  aught  I  heard  of  business, 
Hath  rais'd  me  from  my  bed ;  nor  doth  tlie  general  care 
Take  hold'  of  me.  for  my  particular  grief 
Is  of  so  ilood-gate  and  o'er-bearing  nature. 
That  it  engluts  and  swallows  other  sorrows, 
And  it  is  still  itself. 

Dike.  Why,  what 's  the  matter? 

Bra.  My  daughter  !  0,  my  daughter  ! 


1  where  the  aim :  in  f.  e.  *  This  line  is  not  in  quarto,  1622. 
'  Take  any  :  in  quartos,  1629.  «  Not  in  quarto,  1622.  l  your  : 
"  This  line  is  not  in  quarto,  1622. 


I      Sen.  Dead  ? 

I      Bra.  Ay,  to  mfl 

She  is  abus'd.  stol'n  from  me,  and  corrupted 
\  By  spells  and  medicines  bought  of  mountebanks  ; 
I  For  nature  so  preposterously  to  err, 
I  (Being  not  deficient,  blind,  or  lame  of  sense') 
Sans  witchcraft  could  not. 

Duke.  Whoe'er  he  be  that,  in  this  foul  proceeding, 
Hath  thus  beguil'd  your  daughter  of  herself, 
And  you  of  her,  the  bloody  book  of  law 
You  shall  yourself  read  in  the  bitter  letter, 
After  its'  own  sense  ;  yea,  though  our  proper  son 
Stood  in  your  action. 

Bra.  Humbly  I  thank  your  grace. 

Here  is  the  man,  this  Moor  :   whom  now,  it  seems, 
Your  special  mandate,  for  the  state  aflTairs, 
Hath  hither  brought. 

Duke  nnd  Sen.         We  are  very  sorry  for  it. 

D(ke.  What,  in  your  own  part,  can  you  say  to  tills  ' 
[To  Othello 

Bra.  Nothing,  but  this  is  so. 

Oth.  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors. 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters. 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter. 
It  is  most  true  ;  true.  I  have  married  her : 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  set*  phrase  of  peace  ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith. 
Till  now,  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  ug'd 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  : 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle  ; 
And,  therefore,  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause, 
In  speaking  for  myself.   Yet,  by  your  gracious  pationee, 
I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love  :  what  drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  v^athal) 
I  won  his  daughter  -with. 

Bra.  A  maiden  never  bold  ; 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself:  and  she, — in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  every  thing. — 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  fear'd  to  look  on  ? 
It  is  a  judgment  maim'd,  and  most  imperfect, 
That  will  confess  perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature ;  and  must  be  driven 
To  find  out  practices  of  cunning  hell. 
Why  this  should  be.     I,  therefore,  vouch  again. 
That  with  some  mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood. 
Or  with  some  dram  conjur'd  to  this  effect. 
He  wrought  upon  her. 

Duke.  To  vouch  this  is  no  proof 

Without  more  evidence  and  overt  test.' 
Tliese  are  thin  habits,  and  poor  likelihoods 
Of  modern  seeming,  you  prefer  against  him. 

1  Sen.  But,  Othello,  speak : 
Did  you  by  indirect  and  forced  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affectionB, 
Or  came  it  by  request,  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  afibrdeth. 

Oth.  1  do  beseech  you, 

Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father: 
'  If  you  do  find  me  foul  in  her  report, 
I  The  trust,  the  office,  I  do  hold  of  yoa," 

»  The  rest  of  the  speech  is  not  in  quarto,  1622.     ♦  Not  in  qoano,  lfi22. 
n  folio       •  soft :  in  folio.     »  more  certain  *nd  more  oven  test     in  f.  e. 


^Oty 


OTHELLO,  THE   MOOR   OF   VENICE. 


Not  only  take  away,  but  let  your  sentence 
Even  fall  upon  my  life. 

Diike.  Fetch  Dcpdemona  hither. 


Where  most  vou  owe  obedience  ? 
!      Des. 


I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty. 


My  noble  father. 


Olh.  Ancient,   conduct   them  ;  you    best   know  the   To  you,  I  am  bound  for  life,  and  education 
place. —  [Exeiint  Iago  a7\d  Attendants.    My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 

And,  till  she  come,  as  truly'  a.s  to  heaven 


I  do  confess  the  ^^ces  of  my  blood, 
So  justly  to  your  urave  ears  I  '11  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  'ady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

Dxike.  Say  it,  Othello. 

iMh.  Hor  father  lovd  me  ;  oft  invited  me  ; 
Still  quest ion'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes. 
That  I  had  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days. 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it : 
Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents,  by  flood,  and  field  ; 
Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  th'  imminent  deadly  breach  ; 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery ;  of  my  redemption  thence, 
And  portance  in  my  travel's*  history : 
Wherein  of  ant  res  va.st,  and  deserUs  idle,' 
Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and    hills  whose  heads  touch 

heaven, 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was  the  process ; 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do*  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This*  to  hear, 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 
But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence;* 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  de.«patch, 
She  d  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse.     Which  I  obser\'ing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour ;  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate. 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intent ively  :   I  did  consent ; 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke. 
That  my  youih  suffered.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  :' 
She  swore. — in  faith,  't  was  strange,  't  was  passing 

strange ; 
T  was  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wishd  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  .ohe  -wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  :  she  thank'd  me  : 
And  bade  rne.  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
1  should  but  leach  him  how  to  tell  my  story. 
And  that  would  woo  her. — On  this  hint"  I  spake; 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  lov'd  her,  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd  : 
Here  comes  the  lady;  let  her  witness  it. 

Enter  Desdemona,  Iaoo,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  I  think,  this  tale  would  win  my  daughter  too. 
Good  Brabantio, 

Take  up  this  mangled  matter  at  the  best : 
Men  do  their  broken  weapons  rather  use, 
Than  their  bare  hands. 

Ji^o-  I  pray  you,  hear  her  speak : 

If  she  confess  that  .«he  wa.-^  half  the  wooer, 
Destruction  on  my  head,*  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  on  the  man. — Come  hiilicr,  i.'entle  mistrc-^s : 
Do  you  perceive  in  all  this  notlc  company, 


How  to  respect  you  :  you  are  the  lord  of*  duty  ; 

1  am  hitherto  your  daughter:  but  here's  my  husband, 

And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  sliow'd 

To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 

So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 

Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 

Bra.  God  be  with  you  ! — I  have  done  — 

Please  it  your  grace,  on  to  the'  state  affairs : 
I  had  rather  to  adopt  a  child,  than  get  ii. — 
Come  hither.  Moor  : 

I  here  do  give  thee  that  •with  all  my  heart. 
Which,  but  thou  hast  already,  with  all  my  heart" 
I  would  keep  from  thee. — For  your  sake,  jewel, 
I  am  glad  at  soul  I  have  no  other  child, 
For  thy  escape  would  teach  me  tyranny, 
To  hang  clogs  on  them. — 1  have  done,  my  lord, 

Duke.  Let  me  speak  like  yourself ;  and  say  a  senleii««, 
Which,  as  a  grise,  or  step,  may  help  these  lovers 
Into  your  favour," 

^^*hcn  remedies  are  past,  the  griefs  are  ended 
By  seeing  the  worst,  which  late  on  hopes  depended. 
To  mourn  a  mischief  that  is  past  and  gone 
Is  the  next  way  to  draw  new"  mischief  on. 
What  cannot  be  preserv'd  when  fortune  takes, 
Patience  her  injury  a  mockery  makes. 
The  robb'd,  that  smiles,  steals  something  from  the  thief 
He  robs  himself,  that  .spends  a  bootless  grid'. 

Bra.  So  let  the  Turk  of  Cyprus  us  beguil"  ■ 
We  lose  it  not,  so  long  as  we  can  smile. 
He  bears  the  sentence  well,  that  nothing  bears 
But  the  free  comfort  which  from  thence  he  hears , 
But  he  bears  both  the  sentence  and  the  sorrow. 
That,  to  pay  grief,  must  of  poor  patience  borrow. 
These  .sentences,  to  suuar.  or  to  gall. 
Being  strong  on  both  sides,  are  equivocal  : 
But  words  are  words  :  I  never  yet  did  hear. 
That  the  bruis'd  heart  was  pieced  through  the  ear. 
Beseech  you.  now  to  the  affairs  of  state. 

Duke.  The  Turk  with  a  most  miglity  preparation, 
makes  for  Cyprus. — Othello,  the  fortitude  of  the  place 
I  is  best  known  to  you  ;  and  though  we  have  there  a 
I  substitute  of  most  allowed  .sutKciency.  yet  opinion,  a 
I  most'*  sovereign  mistress  of  effects,  throws  a  more  safer 
I  voice  on  you :  you  must,  therefore,  be  content  t« 
slubber  the  gloss  of  your  new  fortunes  with  this  more 
stubborn  and  boisterous  expedition. 

0th.  The  tyrant  custom,  most  grave  senators, 
Hath  made  the  flinty  and  steel  couch"  of  war 
My  thrice-driven  bed  of  down  :  I  do  agnize 
A  natural  and  prompt  alacrity, 
I  find  in  hardness  :  and  do"  undertake 
These  present  wars  against  the  Oltomites. 
Most  humbly,  therefore,  bending  to  your  state, 
I  crave  fit  disposition  for  my  wit'e; 
Due  reference  of  place,  and  exhibition, 
With  such  accommodation,  and  besort. 
As  levels  with  her  breeding. 

Duke.  If  YOU  please 

Be  't  at  her  father's." 

Bra.  I  'II  not  have  it  so. 

0th.  Nor  I. 

Des.  Nor  I :  I  would  not  there  reside, 


'  failhfu! 

lollO.        -I  klM 


qau" 
Calio 


»iUt   1622.      »> 


quarto.  1622.  »  tr&T.  il»r"i 
D  foli:.  •  he&t  :  in  qiisjt'. 
more  .  in  quarto*.       ■*  tn- 


in  folio.  >  wild  :  in  folio,  I&12.  ♦  Not  in  folio  »  These  things:  in  folio.  •  henc«  . 
»  light  on  rae  :  in  qnartot.  '<•  lord  of  all  my  :  in  quarto.  1622.  ''  '»  These  line!«  are  bo 
ia  I.  s.      '»  coach  :  in  old  eopiei.      i»  would  :  in  quarto,  1022.      >'  Wh) ,  at  h-n  faiheH»  : 


ikW 


SCENE  in. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


807 


To  p  it  my  father  in  impatient  thoughts, 
By  being  in  his  eye.     Most  gracious  duke, 
To  my  unfolding  lend  a  prosperous'  ear  : 
And  let  me  find  a  charter  in  your  voice, 
T'  assist  my  simpleness. 

Duke.  What  would  you.  Desdemona?* 

Des.  That  I  did  love  the  Moor  to  live  with  him. 
My  downright  violence  and  storm'  of  fortunes 
May  trumpet  to  the  world  :  my  heart 's  subdued 
Even  to  the  very  quality*  of  my  lord  : 
I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind  ; 
And  to  his  honours,  and  his  valiant  parts, 
Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 
So  that,  dear  lords,  if  I  be  left  behind, 
A  moth  of  peace,  and  he  go  to  the  war, 
The  rites  for  which*  I  love  him  are  bereft  me, 
And  I  a  heavy-  interim  shall  support 
By  his  dear  absence.     Let  me  go  with  him. 

0th  •  Your  voices,  lords  :  'beseech  you,  let  her  will 
Have  a  free  way. 

Vouch  with  me.  heaven,  I  therefore  beg  it  not. 
To  please  the  palate  of  my  appetite  ; 
Nor  to  comply  wi'  the  young  affects  of  heat,' 
(In  me  defunct)  and*  proper  satisfaction; 
But  to  be  free  and  bounteous  to  her  mind  : 
And  heaven  defend  your  counsels,*  that  you  tliink 
I  will  your  serious  and  great  business  scant. 
When"  she  is  with  me.     No,  when  light-wing'd  toys 
Of  feather'd  Cupid  foil"  with  wanton  dulness 
My  speculative  and  active'*''  instruments, 
That  my  disports  corrupt  and  taint  my  business. 
Let  housewives  make  a  skillet  of  my  helm. 
And  all  indign  and  base  adversities 
Make  head  against  my  reputation  !" 

Duke.  Be  it  as  you  shall  privately  determine, 
Either  for  her  stay,  or  going.     Th'  affair  cries  haste, 
And  speed  must  answer  it :  you  must  hence  to-night. 

Des.  To-night,  my  lord?'* 

Duke.  This  night. 

0th.  With  all  my  heart. 

Duke.  At  nine  i'  the  morning  here  we  '11  meet  again. 
Othello,  leave  some  officer  behind. 
And  he  shall  our  commi.«sion  bring  to  you  : 
With  such  things  else  of  quality  and  respect, 
As  do  import  you. 

0th.  Please  your  grace,  my  ancient ; 

A  man  he  is  of  honesty,  and  trust  : 
To  his  conveyance  I  assign  my  wife, 
With  what  else  needful  your  good  grace  shall  think 
To  be  sent  after  me. 

Duke.  Let  it  be  so. — 

Good  night  to  every  one. — And,  noble  signior, 

[To  Brabantio. 
If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack, 
Your  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  than  black. 

I  Sen.  Adieu,  brave  Moor  !  use  Desdemona  well. 

Bra.  Look  to  her,  Moor,  if  thou  hast  eyes'*  to  see  : 
'She  has  deceiv'd  her  father,  and  may  thee. 

[Exeunt  Duke,  Senators,  Officers,  ^c. 

0th.  My  life  upon  her  faith. — Honest  lago. 
My  Desdemona  must  1  leave  to  thee : 
I  pr'ythe*,  let  thy  "wife  attend  on  her, 
And  bring  her"  after  in  the  best  advantage. — 
Come,  Desdemona;  I  have  but  an  hour 
Of  love,  of  worldly  matters  and  direction, 
Te  spend  with  thee  :  we  must  obey  the  time. 


Rod.  lago. 

lago.  What  say'st  thou,  noble  heart  ? 

Rod.  What  will  I  do,  thinkest  thou  ? 

lago.  Why,  go  to  bed,  and  sleep. 

Rod.  I  will  incontinently  drown  myself. 

lago.  Well,  if  thou  dost,  I  shall  never  love  Ihec 
after  it.     Why,  thou  silly  gentleman  ! 

Rod.  It  is  silliness  to  live,  when  to  live  is  a  torment 
and  then  have  we  a  prescription  to  die,  when  death  i« 
our  physician. 

lago.  0  villainous !  I  have  looked  upon  the  world 
for  four  times  seven  years,  and  since  I  could  di.stinguish 
betwixt  a  benefit  and  an  injury,  I  never  found  a  man 
that  knew  how  to  love  himself.  Ere  I  would  say,  I 
would  dro\\Ti  myself  for  the  love  of  a  Guinea-hen,  1 
would  change  my  humanity  with  a  baboon. 

Rod.  What  should  I  do?  I  confess,  it  is  my  shame 
to  be  so  fond  :  but  it  is  not  in  my  virtue  to  amend  it. 

lago.  Virtue?  a  fig  !  't  is  in  ourselves  that  we  are 
thus,  or  thus.  Our  bodies  are"  gardens,  to  the  which 
our  wills  are  gardeners;  so  that  if  we  will  plant  net- 
tles, or  sow  lettuce;  set  hyssop,  and  weed  up  thyme, 
supply  it  with  one  gender  of  herbs,  or  distract  it  with 
many  ;  either  19  have  it  steril  with  idleness,  or  manured 
with  industry ;  why,  the  power  and  corrigible  authority 
of  this  lies  in  our  wills. !  If  the  balance"  of  our  lives 
had  not  one  scale  of  reason  to  poise  another  of  sensu- 
ality, the  blood  and  baseness  of  our  natures  would  con- 
duct us  to  most  preposterous  conclusions  :  but  we  have 
reason  to  cool  our  raginy  motions,  our  carnal  stings, 
our  unbitted  lusts,  whereof  I  take  this,  that  you  call — 
love,  to  be  a  sect,  or  scion. 

Rod.  It  cannot  be. 

lago.  It  is  merely  a  lust  of  the  blood,  and  a  permis- 
sion of  the  will.  Come,  be  a  man:  dro-wn  thyself? 
dro-wn  cats,  and  blind  puppies.  I  profess"  me  thy 
friend,  and  I  confess  me  knit  to  thy  deserving  with 
cables  of  perdurable  toughness  ;  I  could  never  better 
stead  thee  than  now.  Put  money  in  thy  purse  :  follow 
these  wars ;  defeat  thy  favour'"  with  an  usurped  beard  ; 
I  say,  put  money  in  thy  purse.  It  cannot  be,  that 
Desdemona  should  long  continue  her  love  to  the  Moor, 
— put  money  in  thy  purse ; — nor  he  his  to  her  :  it  waa 
a  -violent  commencement,  and  thou  shalt  see  an  answer- 
able sequestration  : — put  but  money  in  thy  purse. — 
These  Moors  are  changeable  in  their  wills : — fill  thy 
purse  with  money :  the  food  that  to  him  now  is  as 
luscious  as  locusts,  shall  be  to  him  shortly  as  bitter"  a« 
coloquintida.  She  must  change  for  youth :  when  she 
is  sated  with  his  body,  she  will  find  the  error  of  her 
choic«. — She  must  have  change,  she  must :  therefore, 
put  money  in  thy  purse. — If  thou  vnlt  needs  damn 
thyself,  do  it  a  more  delicate  way  than  drowning. 
Make  all  the  money  thou  canst.  If  sanctimony  and 
a  frail  vow,  betwixt  an  erring  barbarian  and  a  super- 
supple-*  Venetian,  be  not  too  hard  for  my  wits,  and  all 
the  tribe  of  hell,  thou  shalt  enjoy  her;  therefore  make 
money.  A  pox  of  drowning  thyself!  it  is  clean  out 
of  the  way:  seek  thou  rather  to  be  hanged  in  coin- 
passins  thy  joy,  than  to  be  dro-wncd  and  go  without  her. 

Rod'  Wilt  thou  be  fast  to  my  hopes,"  if  I  depend  on 
the  issue  ? 

lago.  Thou  art  sure  of  me.— Go,  make  money.— I 
have  told  thee  often,  and  I  re- tell  thee  again  and  again, 
I  hate  the  Moor  :  my  cau.se  is  hearted  ;  thine  hath  no 
less  reason.     Let  us    be  conjunctive  in   our  revenge 


'  e.  '•  r  or  :  in  qnartos 
i622.  i«  them  :  in  folio 
quiurto.  I(t23 


[i:xm«^  Othello  anrf  Desdemona.  I  against  him:  if  thou   canst  cuckold    him,  thou  dost 

arto.     s  speak  :  in  quarto,  1622.     3  scorn  :  in  quartos.     ♦  utmost  pleasure  :  in  quarto.     »  whv  :  in  folio.     •  0«A   Le« 

Sec. :  in  folio.     '  comply  with  heat  the  voung  effects  :  in  f.  e.    »  In  my  defi  net  anJ.  Jcc.  :    n  f.  e.    »  gjod  souU  :  in 

seei  :  in  folio.     '=  offic'J  :  in  folio.     »  estimation  :  in  folio.     '♦  Not  in  folio.     "  have  a  quick  eye  :  in  quarto. 

are  our  :  in  folio.     i9  brain  :  in  folio.     "  have  professed  :  in  folio.     ><>  rnange  thy  countenance,     "acerb    ib 

22  niyersubtle  :  in  f.  e.     "^  The  rest  of  the  sentence  is  not  in  quarto,  1022. 


808 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


ACT    U. 


tiiyself  a  pleasure,  me  a  sport.  There  are  many  events 
m  llic  womb  of  time,  which  will  be  delivered.  Tra- 
verse; eo  ;  provide  thy  money.  We  will  have  more 
of  this  ui-rnorrow.     Adieu. 

Rod    Wliere  shall  we  meet  i'  the  morning  ? 

lago.  At  my  lodging. 

Rod.  I  'II  be  with  thee  betimes. 

lago.  Go  to;  farewell.     Do  you  hear,  Roderigo  ? 

Rod.  What  say  you  ?' 

lago.  No  more  of  drowning,  do  you  hear? 

Rod.  I  am  changed.     I  '11  sell  all  my  land. 

lago.  Go  to ;  farewell :  put  money  enough  in  your 
purse.'  [Exit  Roderigo. 

Thus  do  I  ever  make  my  fool  my  purse ; 

or  I  mine  own  gain'd  knowledge  should  profane, 
If  I  would  time  expend  with  such  a  snipe. 
But  for  my  sjwrt  and  profit.     I  hate  the  Moor ; 
And  it  is  thought  abroad  that  'twixt  my  sheets 


I  He  has  done  my  office  :  I  know  not  if  't  be  true  . 

j  Yet*  I,  for  mere  suspicion  in  that  kind, 
Will  do  as  if  for  surety.     He  holds  me  well; 
The  better  shall  my  purpose  work  on  him. 
Cassio  's  a  proper  man  :  let  me  see  now  ; 
To  get  his  place,  and  to  plume*  up  my  will 
In  double  knavery, — How,  how? — Let's  see  : — 
After  some  time,  to  abuse  Othello's  ear 
That  he  is  too  familiar  with  his  wife : 
He  hath  a  person,  and  a  smooth  dispose. 
To  be  suspected  ;  fram'd  to  make  women  false. 
The  Moor  is  of  a  free  and  open  nature, 
That  thinks  men  honest,  that  but  seem  to  be  so, 
And  will  as  tenderly  be  led  by  the  nose. 
As  asses  are. — 

I  have  'i ; — it  is  engender'd  : — hell  and  night 
Must  bring  this  monstrous  birth  to  the  world's  lisht. 

[ExU 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— A  Sea-port  To\sti  in  Cj-prus.  A  Platform.' 

Enter  Montano  and  Two  Gentlemen. 

Mon.  What  from  the  cape  can  you  discern  at  sea? 

1  Gent.  Nothing  at  all :  it  is  a  high-wrought  flood  ; 
I  cannot,  'twixt  the  heaven*  and  the  main, 

Descry  a  sail. 

Mon.  Methinks,  the  vinnd  hath  spoke  aloud  at  land  ; 
A  fuller  blast  ne'er  shook  our  battlements: 
If  it  hath  ruffian'd  so  upon  the  sea, 
What  ribs  of  oak.  when*  mountains  melt  on  them, 
Can  hold  the  mortise?  what  shall  we  hear  of  this? 

2  Gent.  A  segregation  of  the  Turkish  fleet : 
For  do  but  stand  upon  the  foaming  shore. 
The  chidden  billow  seems  to  pelt  the  clouds. 

The  wind-shak'd  surge,  with  high  and  monstrous  mane, 
Seems  to  ca.st  water  on  the  burning  bear, 
And  quench  the  guards  of  th'  ever-fixed  pole. 
I  never  did  like  molestation  ^-iew 
On  the  enchafed  flood. 

Man.  If  that  the  Turkish  fleet 

Be  not  inshelter'd  and  embay'd,  they  are  drown'd ; 
It  is  impossible  to'  bear  it  out. 

Enter  a  Third  Gentleman. 

3  Gent.  News,  lads  !•  our  wars  are  done. 
The  desperate  tempest  hath  so  bang'd  the  Turks, 
That  their  designment  halts  :  a  noble*  ship  of  Venice 
Hath  seen  a  grievous  wreck  and  sufierance 

On  most  part  of  their  fleet. 

Mon.  How  !  is  this  true  ? 

.3  Gent.  The  ship  is  here  put  in  : 

A  Florentine."  Michael  Cassio, 
F>icutenant  to  the  warlike  Moor,  Othello, 
Is  (U)me  on  shore  :  the  Moor  himself 's  at  sea, 
And  is  in  full  commi.»i8ion  here  for  C\"prus. 

Mon.  I  am  glad  on 't ;  't  is  a  worthy  governor. 

3  Gent.  But  this  same   Cassio,  though  he  speak  of 
comfort. 
Tonrhins  tho  TurkL^h  los.'s,  yet  he  looks  sadly, 
.viid  pr:iy>i  the  Moor  be  safe:  for  they  were  parted 
With  Ibul  and  violent  tempest. 

Mon.  Pray  heaven  he  be  ; 

For  I  have  serv'd  him,  and  the  man  commands 

'  Thii  and  the  next  two  linen  to  "  I  "11"  are  not  in  folio.     '  Thii  lin 
•  nqoTio       •  the  hupe  mountain  :  in  quarto.       'they:  in  quarto. 
>'  The  rert  of  tht  5f,<>ech  ii  not  in  quarto,  1622.       "  The  rest  of  this 
tke  ingeniaer  :   in  folic 


Like  a  full  soldier.     Let 's  to  the  sea-side,  ho  ! 
As  well  to  see  the  vessel  that  's  come  in, 
As  to  throw  out  our  eyes  for  brave  Othello,'* 
Even  till  we  make  the  main,  and  th'  aerial  blue, 
An  indistinct  regard. 

3  Gent.  Come,  let 's  do  so; 

For  every  minute  is  expectancy 
Of  more  arrivance. 

Enter  Cassio."  and  several  Islanders. 

Cas.  Thanks  you.  the  valiant  of  the  warlike  isle. 
That  so  approve  the  Moor. — 0 !  let  the  heavens 
Give  him  defence  against  the  elements. 
For  I  have  lost  him  on  a  dangerous  sea. 

Mon.  Is  he  well  shipp'd  ? 

Cas.  His  bark  is  stoutly  timber'd,  and  his  pilot 
Of  very  expert  and  approv'd  allowance; 
Therefore  my  hopes,  not  surfeited  to  death, 
Stand  in  bold  cure. 

[Witkin.]  A  sail,  a  sail,  a  sail  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Cas.  What  noise  ? 

Mess.  The  town  is  empty  ;  on  the  brow  o'  the  sea 
Stand  ranks  of  people,  and  they  cry,  "  a  sail." 

Cas.  My  hopes  do  shape  him  for  the  governor. 

[Guns  heard 

2  Gent.  Thay  do  discharge  their  shot  of  courtesy : 
Our  friends,  at  least. 

Cas.  I  pay  you,  sir,  go  forth. 

And  give  us  truth  who  't  is  arriv'd. 

2  Gent.  I  shall.  [EjcU. 

Mon.  But,  good  lieutenant.,  is  your  general  wiv'd  ? 

Cas.  Most  fortunately:   he  hath  achiev'd  a  maid, 
That  paragons  description,  and  wild  fame; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of"  blazoning  pen.s. 
And  in  th'  es-sential  vesture  of  creation. 
Does  bear  all  excellency.'* — How  now  !  who  has  put  in  ? 
Re-enter  Second  Gentleman. 

2  Gent.  'T  is  one  lago,  ancient  to  the  general. 

Cas.  He  has  had  most  favourable  and  happy  speed : 
Tempests  themselves,  high  sea-s,  and  howling  winds, 
The  gutter'd  rocks,  and  congregated  sands. 
Traitors  ensteep'd  to  clog  the  guiltless  keel, 
As  having  sense  of  beauty,  do  omit 

s  is  not  in  folio.  '  But  :  in  folio.  «  make  :  in  quarto.  lf>22.  •  hsTen  . 
8  lordu  :  in  quarto  *  another  :  in  quarto.  '"  A  Veronese  :  in  f .  e 
direction   is  not  in  f.  e.        "  quuks  of:  not  in  quart^i.  10-22.        '*  tiff 


I.  OTHELLO,  THE  MOOE  OF  YENICE. 


80« 


Their  mortal  natures,  letting  go  safely  by 
The  divine  Desdemoua. 

Mon.  What  is  she? 

Cas.  She  that  I  spake  of,  our  gi-eat  captain's  captain, 
Left  in  the  conduct  of  the  bold  lago  ; 
Whose  footing  here  anticipates  our  thoughts, 
A  se'ennight's  speed. — Great  Jove  !  Othello  guard, 
And  swell  his  sail  vt-ith  thine  own  powerful  breath, 
That  he  may  bless  this  bay  with  his  tall  ship, 
Make  love's  quick  pants  in  Desdemona's  arms. 
Give  renew'd  fire  to  our  extincted  spirits, 
And  bring  all  Cyprus  comfort. — 0,  behold  ! 

Enter  Desdemona.  Emilia,  Iago,  Roderigo,  and 
Attendants. 
The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come  on  shore. 
Ye  men  of  Cyprus,  let  her  have  your  knees. — 

[They  kneel} 
Hail  to  thee,  lady  !  and  the  grace  of  heaven, 
Before,  behind  thee,  and  on  every  hand, 
Enwheel  thee  round. 

Des.  I  thank  you,  valiant  Cassio. 

What  tidings  can  you  tell  me*  of  my  lord  ? 

Cas.  He  is  not  yet  arriv'd ;  nor  know  I  aught 
But  that  he  's  well,  and  will  be  shortly  here. 

Des.  0  !  but  I  fear. — How  lost  you  company? 

Cas.  The  great  contention  of  the  sea  and  skies 
Parted  our  fellowship. 

[  Within!\  A  sail,  a  sail  ! 
But,  hark  !  a  sail.  [Ckms  heard. 

2  Gent.  They  give  their  greeting  to  the  citadel : 
This  likewise  is  a  friend. 

Cos.  See  for  the  news.' — 

\Exit  Gentleman. 
Good  ancient,  you  are  welcome. — Welcome,  mistress. — 

[To  Emilia. 
Let  it  not  gall  your  patience,  good  Iago, 
That  I  extend  my  manners :  't  is  my  breeding 
That  gives  me  this  bold  show  of  courtesy.  [Kissing  her. 

Iago.  Sir,  would  she  give  you  so  much  of  her  lips, 
A.S  of  her  tongue  she  oft  bestows  on  me, 
You  'd  have  enough. 

Des.  Alas  !  she  has  no  speech. 

Iago.  In  faith,*  too  much ; 
I  find  it  still,  when  I  have  lust'  to  sleep  : 
Marry,  before  your  ladyship,  I  grant. 
She  puts  her  tongue  a  little  in  her  heart. 
And  chides  with  thinking. 

Emil.  You  have  little  cause  to  say  so. 

Ligo.  Come  on,  come  on ;  you  are  pictures  out  of 
doors, 
Bells  in  your  parlours,  wild  cats  in  your  kitchens, 
Saints  in  your  injuries,  devils  being  offended, 
Players  in  your  housewifery,  and  housewives  in  your 
beds. 

Des.  0,  fie  upon  thee,  slanderer  ! 

Iago.  Nay,  it  is  trvie,  or  else  I  am  a  Turk : 
You  rise  to  play,  and  go  to  bed  to  work. 

Emil.  You  shall  not  write  my  praise. 

Iago.  No.  let  me  not. 

Des.  What  wouldst  thou  viTiteof  me,  if  thou  shouldst 
pra.  se  me  ? 

Iago.  O  gentle  lady,  do  not  put  me  to  't. 
For  I  am  nothing,  if  not  critical. 

Des.  Come  on;    assay. — There's   one    gone   to   the 
harbour  V 

Cas.  Ay.  madam. 

Des.  I  am  not  merry ;  but  I  do  beguile 
The  thing  I  am,  by  seeming  otherwise. — 


I  Come  ;  how  wouldst  thou  praise  me  ? 
I      Iago.  I  am  about  it,  but.  indeed,  my  invention 
I  Comes  from  my  pate,  as  birdlime  does  from  frize, 
It  plucks  out  brains  and  all ;  but  my  muse  labours, 
And  thus  she  is  deliver'd. 
If  she  be  fair  and  wise, — fairness,  and  -wit. 
The  one  's  for  use,  the  other  useth  it. 

Des.  Well  prais'd  ! — How,  if  she  be  black  and  witty' 
Iago.  If  she  be  black,  and  thereto  have  a  wit, 
She  '11  find  a  white  that  shall  her  blackness  fit.* 
Des.  Worse  and  worse. 
Emil.  How,  if  fair  and  foolish  ? 
Iago.  She  never  yet  was  foolish  that  was  fair  ; 
For  even  her  folly  helps  her  to  an  heir. 

Des.  These  are  old  fond'  paradoxes,  to  make  fools 
laugh  i'  the  alehouse.  What  mijverable  praise  ha«t 
thou  for  her  that 's  foul  and  foolish  ? 

Iago.  There  's  none  so  foul,  and  fooli.«h  thereunto, 
But  does  foul  pranks  which  fair  and  ^^^8e  ones  do. 

Des.  0  heavy  ignorance  !  thou  praisest  the  worst 
best.  But  what  praise  couldst  thou  bestow  on  a  de- 
serving woman  indeed  ?  one  that,  in  the  authority  of 
her  merit,  did  justly  put  on  the  vouch  of  very  malioe 
itself  ? 

Iago.  She  that  was  ever  fair,  and  never  proud; 
Had  tongue  at  will,  and  yet  was  never  loud ; 
Never  lack'd  gold,  and  yet  went  never  gay  ; 
Fled  from  her  wish,  and  yet  said, — "  now  I  may  :" 
She  that,  being  anger'd.  her  revenge  being  nigh, 
Bade  her  wi'ong  stay,  and  her  displeasure  fly ; 
She  that  in  wisdom  never  was  so  frail. 
To  change  the  cod's  head  for  the  salmon's  tail  ; 
She  that  could  think,  and  ne'er  disclose  her  mind, 
See  suitors  following,  and  not  look  behind  :* 
She  was  a  wight, — if  ever  such  wight  were, — 
Des.  To  do  what  ? 

Iago.  To  suckle  fools,  and  chronicle  small  beer. 
Des.  0,  most  lame  and  impotent   conclusion ! — Do 
not  learn  of  him.  Emilia,  though  he  be  thy  husband. — 
How  say  you,  Cassio  ?  is  he  not  a  most  profane  and 
liberal  censurer?" 

Cas.  He  speaks  home,  madam  :  you  may  relish  him 
more  in  the  soldier,  than  in  the  scholar. 

[Talks  apart  with  Desd.'* 
lago.  [Aside^  He  takes  her  by  the  pabn  :  ay,  well 
said,  whisper  :  with  as  little  a  web  as  this,  will  I  en- 
snare as  great  a  fly  as  Cassio.  Ay,  smile  upon  her, 
do;  I  will  gyve  thee  in  thine  own  courtship.  You  say 
true ;  't  is  so,  indeed  :  if  such  tricks  as  these  strip  you 
out  of  your  iicutenantry,  it  had  been  better  you  had 
not  kissed  your  tlu-ee  fingers  so  oft,  which  now  again 
you  are  most  a])t  to  play  the  sir  in.  Very  good  ;  well 
kissed!  an  excellent  courtesy!  'tis  so  indeed.  Yei 
again  your  fingers  to  your  lips  ?  would,  they  were 
ciyster-pipes  for  your  sake. — [A  Trumpet  heard]  Tho 
Moor  !  I  know  his  trumpet. 
Cas.  'T  is  truly  .«o. 

Des.  Let 's  meet  him,  and  receive  him. 
Cas.  Lo,  where  he  comes  ! 

Enter  Othello,  and  Attendants. 
0th.  0,  my  fair  warrior  ! 
Des.  My  dear  Othello  ! 

0th.  It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my  content, 
To  see  you  here  before  me.     0,  my  .soul's  joy  ! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms." 
May  the  winds  blow,  till  they  have  waken'd  death  , 
And  let  the  labouring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas, 
Olympus-high,  and  duck  again  as  low 


I  Not  in  f.  e.      »  Not  in  folio.      '  So  speaks  this  voice  :  in  quarto.  1622.      ♦  I  know  :  in  quarto,  1622.      »  list : 
1632.     '  Foolish     «  Not  in  qourto,  1622.    »  counsellor :  in  f.  e.     »»  Not  in  f.  e      i'  calmness  :  in  quarto*. 


if.*       *  tut  :  in  quarts 


810 


OTHELLO,  THE   MOOH  OF  VENICE. 


AfTT   IL 


Ab  hell 's  from  heaven.     If  it  were  now  to  die, 
•T  wete  now  to  be  most  happy;  for,  I  fear, 
My  soul  hatli  licr  content  so  absolute, 
That  net  another  cointbrl  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknowii  late. 

Dcs.  The  heavens  forbid, 

But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase. 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow  ! 

0th.  Amen  to  that,  sweet  powers  ! — 

I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content : 
It  stops  me  here  ;  it  is  too  much  of  joy  : 
And  this,  and  this,  the  greatest  discords  be, 

[Kissing  her. 
That  e'er  our  hearts  shall  make  ! 

logo.  [/I side.]  0  !  you  are  well  tun'd  now; 

But  I  '11  set  down  the  pegs  that  makes  this  music, 
As  honest  as  I  am. 

0th.  Come,  let  us  to  the  castle. — 

News,   friends;    our  wars   are   done,   the   Turks    are 

drowni'd. 
How  does  my  old  acquaintance  of  this  is^e  ? — 
Honey,  you  shall  be  well  desird  in  Cyprus, 
I  have  found  great  love  amongst  them.     0  my  sweet, 
I  prattle  out  of  fashion,  and  I  dote 
In  mine  own  comforts. — I  pr'ythee.  good  lago, 
Go  to  the  bay,  and  disembark  my  coffers. 
Bring  thou  the  master  to  the  citadel : 
He  is  a  good  one.  and  his  worthiness 
Does  challenge  much  respect. — Come,  Desdemona, 
Dnce  more  well  met  at  Cyprus. 

[Exeunt  Otiieli.o,  Desdemona,  and  Attendants. 

lego.  Do  thou  meet  me  presently  at  the  harbour. — 
Come  hither.' — If  thou  be'st  valiant — as  they  say  base 
men.  being  in  love,  have  then  a  nobility  in  their  natures 
more  than  is  native  to  them. — list  me.  The  lieutenant 
to-night  watches  on  the  court  of  guard. — First,  I  must 
tell  thee  this — Desdemona  is  directly  in  love  with  him. 

Rod.  With  him  !  why,  't  is  not  possible. 

lago.  Lay  thy  finger — thus,  and  let  thy  soul  be  in- 
structed. Mark  me  wth  what  violence  she  first  loved 
the  Moor,  but  for  bragging,  and  telling  her  fantastical 
lies;  and  \\'ill  she'  love  him  still  for  prating?  let  not 
thy  discreet  heart  think  it.  Her  eye  must  be  fed ;  and 
what  delight  shall  she  have  to  look  on  the  devil  ?  When 
the  blood  is  made  dull  with  the  act  of  sport,  there 
should  be. — again'  to  inflame  it.  and  to  give  satiet-y  a 
fresh  appetite,  loveliness  in  favour,  sympathy  in  years, 
manners,  and  beauties  ;  all  which  the  Moor  is  defective 
in.  Now,  for  want  of  these  required  conveniences,  her 
delicate  tenderness  will  find  itself  abused,  begin  to 
heave  the  gor^e,  disrelish  and  abhor  the  Moor;  very 
nature  wiW  instruct  her  in  it.  and  compel  her  to  some 
second  choice.  Now.  sir,  this  granted,  (as  it  is  a  most 
pregnant  and  unforced  position)  who  stands  so  emi- 
nently in  the  degree  of  this  fortune,  as  Cassio  docs  ?  a 
knave  very  voluble  ;  no  farther  conscionable.  than  in 
putting  on  the  mere  form  of  civil  and  humane  seem- 
ing, for  the  better  compassing  of  his  salt  and  most 
bidden  loose  affection  ?  why.  none ;  why,  none  :*  a 
subtle  slippery  knave  :  a  finder  out  of  occasions  ;  that 
has  an  oye  can  stamp  and  counterfeit  advantages,  though 
true  advantage  never  present  itself:  a  devilish  knave  ! 
besides,  the  knave  is  hand.^oinc.  yo\in^.  and  hath  all 
those  requisites  in  him.  that  folly  and  green  mimls  look 
after  ;  a  pestilent  complete  knave,  and  the  woman  hath 
lound  him  already. 

Rotl.  I  cannot  believe  that  in  her  :  she  is  full  of 
most  blessed  condition. 


lago.  Blessed  fig's  end  !  the  wine  she  drinks  is  madf 
of  grapes :  if  she  had  been  blessed,  she  would  never 
have  loved  the  Moor:  bles.s'd  pudding"!  Didst  tlion 
not  see  her  paddle  with  the  palm  of  his  hand?  didsi 
not  mark  that  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  that  I  did  ;  but  that  was  but  courtesy. 

lago.  Lechery,  by  this  hand  ;  an  index.'  and  ob.'^cure 
prologue  to  the  history  of  lust  and  Ibul  thouiiihts. 
They  met  so  near  with  their  lips,  that  their  breaths 
embraced  together.  Villainous  ihoushts,  Roderigo ! 
when  these  mutualities  so  mar.-<hal  the  way.  hard  at 
hand  comes  the  master  and  main  exercise,  the  incor- 
porate conclusion.  Pish  !  But.  sir,  be  you  ruled  by 
me:  I  have  brought  you  from  Venice.  Watch  you 
to-night ;  for  the  command.  I  '11  lay  't  upon  you.  Cassio 
knows  you  not : — I  '11  not  be  far  from  you  :  do  you  find 
some  occasion  to  anger  Cassio,  either  by  speaking  too 
loud,  or  tainting  his  discipline ;  or  from  what  other 
cause  you  please,  which  the  time  shall  more  favour- 
ably minister. 

Rod.  Well. 

lago.  Sir,  he  is  rash,  and  very  sudden  in  choler.  and, 
haply,  with  his  truncheon  may  strike  at  you:  provoke 
him,  that  he  may ;  for  even  out  of  that  will  1  cause 
these  of  Cyprus  to  mutiny,  whose  qualification  shall 
come  into  no  true  taste  again,  but  by  the  displanting 
of  Cassio.  So  shall  you  have  a  shorter  journey  to  your 
desires,  by  the  means  I  shall  then  have  to  jirefer  tliem; 
and  the  impediment  most  profitably  removed,  without 
the  which  there  were  no  expectation  of  our  prosperity. 

Rod.  I  will  do  this,  if  I  can  bring  it  to  any  opportunity 

lago.  I  warrant  thee.  Meet  me  by  and  by  at  the 
citadel  :  I  must  fetch  his  necessaries  ashore.     Farewell. 

Rod.  Adieu.  [Exit 

lago.  That  Cassio  loves  her,  I  do  well  believe  it , 
That  she  loves  him,  'tis  apt,  and  of  great  credit; 
The  Moor — howbeit  that  I  endure  him  not, — 
Is  of  a  constant,  loving,  noble  nature  , 
And,  I  dare  think,  he  '11  prove  to  Dc.'-demona 
A  most  dear  husband.     Now,  I  do  love  her  too , 
Not  out  of  ab.solute  lust,  (though,  peradventure, 
I  stand  accountant  for  as  great  a  sin) 
But  partly  led  to  diet  my  revense. 
For  that  I  do  .suspect  the  lustful'  Moor 
Hath  leap'd  into  my  seat  ;  the  thought  whereoi 
Doth  like  a  poi.«onous  mineral  gnaw  my  inwards, 
And  nothing  can,  or  shall,  content  my  soul. 
Till  I  am  even'd*  with  him,  wife  for  wife; 
Or,  failing  so,  yet  that  I  put  the  Moor 
At  least  into  a  jealousy  so  stroniz 
That  judgment  cannot  cure.     Which  thing  to  do. — 
If  this  poor  brach'  of  Venice,  whom  1  trai-h,'* 
For  his  quick  hunting,  stand  the  putting  on, — 
I  '11  have  our  Michael  Cassio  on  the  hip; 
Abuse  him  to  the  Moor  in  the  rank"  garb, — 
For  I  fear  Cassio  with  my  night-cap  too  ; 
Make  the  Moor  thank  me,  love  me,  and  reward  me, 
For  making  him  egrcgiously  an  ass, 
And  practising  upon  his  peace  and  quiet. 
Even  to  madness.     'T  is  here,  but  yet  confus'd  : 
Knavery's  plain  face  is  never  seen,  till  usd.         [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  A  Street. 
Enter  a  Herald,  with  a  Proclamation  ;  People  follomitg 
Her.  It  is  Othello's  pleasure,  our  noble  and  valiant 
general,  that  upon  certain  tidiniis  now  arrived,  import- 
ing the  mere  perdition  of  the  Turkish  fleet,  ever>'  inau 
put  himself  into  triumph ;    some    to  dance,   some  to 


'thiifaer:  in   folio.      >  liet,  to  : 
fuixtoa.     •  C'^imeneement.      '  li 


in  folio.      )  ; 
I'.jr  :  in  folio. 


in  folio.      «  why,   none;  why    noi 
in  qiuirto,  1622.     *  Small  hound. 


not  in  folio, 
trace  :  in  f.  « 


'  Thefe  two  wordi  ar«  not  1* 
"  right  :  in  folio. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


811 


make  Donfires,  each  man  to  what  sport  and  levels  his  |  Three  elves*  of  Cyprus,— noble   swellin"  ■^piri 
addiction'  leads  him  ;    for,  besides  these  beneficial  news,  !  That  hold  their  honours  in  a  war)-  distance 
It  is  the  celebration  of  his  nuptials.     So  much  was  his  The  very  elements  of  this  warlike  isle         ' 
pleasure  should  be  proclaimed.     All  offices  are  ope 
and  there  is  full  liberty  of  feasting,'  from  thi 


present 
hour  of  five,  till  the  bell  hath  told  eleven.  Heaven 
bless  the  isle  of  Cyprus,  and  our  noble  general,  Othello  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     A  Hall  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Othello,  Desdemona,  Cassio,  ami  Attendants. 

0th.  Good  Michael,  look  you  to  the  guard  to-night: 
Let 's  teach  ouiselves  that  honourable  stop, 
Not  to  out-sport  discretion. 

Cos.  lago  hath  direction  what  to  do ; 
But,  notwithstanding,  with  my  personal  eye 
Will  I  look  to  't. 

0th.  lago  is  most  honest. 

Michael,  good  night :  to-morrow,  with  your  earliest. 
Let  me  have  speech  with  you.     Come,  my  dear  love  : 
The  purchase  made,  the  fruits  are  to  ensue  ; 

[To  Desdemona. 
That  profit 's  yet  to  come  'twixt  me  and  you. — 
Good  night.  [Exeunt  0th.,  Des.,  attended. 

Enter  Iago. 

Cas.  Welcome,  lago  :  we  must  to  the  watch. 

Iago.  Not  this  hour,  lieutenant ;  't  is  not  yet  ten 
o'clock.  Our  general  cast  us  thus  early  for  the  love 
of  his  Desdemona,  whom  let  us  not  therefore  blame  :  j 
he  hath  not  yet  made  wanton  the  night  with  her,  and 
she  is  sport  for  Jove. 

Cas.  She  's  a  most  exquisite  lady. 

Iago.  And  I  '11  warrant  her,  full  of  game. 

Cas.  Indeed,  she 's  a  most  fresh  and  delicate  creature. 

Iago.  What  an  eye  she  has  !  methinks  it  sounds  a 
parley  of  ^  provocation. 

Cas.  An  inviting  eye;  and  yet  methinks  right 
modest. 

Iago.  And,  when  she  speaks,  is  it  not  an  alarum  to 
love? 

Cas.  She  is,  indeed,  perfection. 

Iago.  Well,  happiness  to  their  sheets  !  Come,  lieu- 
tenant, I  have  a  stoop  of  wine ;  and  here  without  are  a 
brace  of  Cyprus  gallants,  that  would  fain  have  a  mea- 
sure to  the  health  of  the  black  Othello. 

Cas.  Not  to-night,  good  Iago.  I  have  very  poor 
and  unhappy  brains  for  drinking :  I  could  well  wish 
courtesy  would  invent  some  other  custom  of  entertain- 
ment. 

Iago.  0!  they  are  our  friends;  but  one  cup;  I'll 
drink  for  you. 

Cas.  I  have  drunk  but  one  cup  to-night,  and  that 
WIS  craftily  qualified  too,  and,  behold,  what  innovation 
It  makes  here.  I  am  unfortunate  in  the  infirmity,  and 
dare  not  task  my  weakness  with  any  more. 

Iago.  What,  man  !  't  is  a  night  of  revels  :  the  gallants 
desire  it.  * 

Cas.  Where  are  they  ? 

logo.  Here  at  the  door ;  I  pray  you,  call  them  in. 

Co.s.  I  '11  do  't,  but  it  dislikes  me.  [Exit  Cassio. 

^'Xffc/.  If  I  can  fasten  but  one  cup  upon  him, 
Witli^that  which  he  hath  drunk  to-night  already. 
He  '11  be  as  full  of  quarrel  and  offence 
As  my  young  mistress'  dog.     Now,  ray  sick  fool,  Rode- 

ri  go, 
Wliom  love  has  turn'd  almost  the  wTong  side  outward. 
To  Desdemona  hath  to-night  carous'd 
Potations  pottle  deep ;  and  he  's  to  watch. 


Have  I  to-night  fluster'd  with  flowing  cuiis. 

And  they   watcli   too.      Now,   'mongst  this   flock   of 

drunkards. 
Am  I  to  put  our  Cassio  in  some  action 
That  may  offend  the  isle. — But  here  tlicy  come. 
If  consequence  do  but  approve  my  dream. 
My  boat  sails  freely,  both  with  wind  and  stream. 
Re-enter  Cassio,  with  him  Montang.  a>>d  Gentlemen. 
Cas.  'Fore  heaven,  they  have  given  me  a  rouse* 
already. 

Mon.  Good  faith,  a  little  one ;  not  past  a  pint,  as  1 
am  a  soldier. 

Iago.  Some  wine,  ho  ! 

And  let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink  ;      [Sings 
And  let  me  the  canakin  clink  ; 
A  soldier  's  a  man  ; 
A  life  's'  but  a  span; 
Why  then  let  a  soldier  drink. 
Some  wine,  boys  !  [Wine  brought. 

Cas.  'Fore  heaven,  an  excellent  song. 
Iago.  I  learned  it  in  England,  where  (indeed)  they 
are  most  potent  in  potting ;  your  Dane,  your  German, 
and    your   swag-bellied   Hollander, — Drink,   ho  ! — are 
nothing  to  your  Englishman. 

Cas.  Is  your  Englishman  so  exquisite' in  his  drinking? 

Iago.  Why,  he  drinks  you,  with  facility,  your  Dane 

dead  drunk;  he  sweats  not  to  overthrow  your  Almain, 

he  gives  your  Hollander  a  vomit,  ere  the  next  pottle 

can  be  filled. 

Cas.  To  the  health  of  our  general. 

Mon.  1  am  for  it,  lieutenant;  and  I  "11  do  you  justice 

Iago.  0  sweet  England  ! 

King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer.' 

His  breeches  cost  him  hut  a  crown  ; 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  dear. 

With  tluit  he  cull'd  the  tailor — lown. 
He  ivas  a  wight  of  high  renown. 

And  thou  art  but  of  low  degree: 
'Tis  pride  thit  pulls  the  country  down. 
Then  take  thine  auld  cloak  about  thee. 
Some  -wine,  ho ! 

Cas.  Why,  this  is  a  more  exquisite  song  than  the 
other. 

Iago.  Will  you  hear  it  again  ? 
Cas.    No ;   for  I   hold   him  to  be  unworthy  of  his 
place  that  does  those  things. — Well,  heaven  's  above 
all ;  and  there  be  souls  must  be  saved,  and  there  be 
souls  mu.st  not  be  saved. 

Iago.  It  is  true,  good  lieutenant. 
Cas.  For  mine  own  part. — no  offence  to  the  general 
nor  any  man  of  quality, — I  hojie  to  be  saved. 
Iago.  And  so  do  I  too.  lieutenant. 
Cas.  Ay;   but,  by  your  leave,  not  before  me.   th 
lieutenant  is  to   be  saved  before  the  ancient — Let  ■ 
have  no  more  of  this ;  let 's  to  our  affairs. — Forgive  uh 
our  sins  ! — Gentlemen,  let 's  look  to  our  business.     Do 
not  think,  gentlemen,  I  am  drunk:  this  is  my  ancient. 
— this  is  my  right  hand,  and  this  is  my  left  liami.— 
I  am  not  drunk  now:  I  can  stand  well  enough,  and 
speak  well  enoush. 
All.  Excellent  well. 

Cas.   Why,  very  well,  then;   you   must  not  think, 
then,  that  I  am  drunk.  [Exit. 

Meni.  To  the  platform,  masters    coine.  let 's  set  the 
watch. 


!3      '  of  feasting  :  not 
ballad  is  in  "Percy's  Reliques." 


in  lolio.     *  lads  :  in  f.  e.     »  Carous* 


s  life : 


i 


812 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF    VENICE. 


logo.  You  Bee  this  fellow,  that  is  gone  before  : 
He  is  a  soldier,  fit  to  stand  by  CsMar 
And  give  direction  :  and  do  but  see  his  vice. 
'T  is  to  his  virtue  a  just  equinox, 
The  one  as  long  as  tli'  other :  't  is  pity  of  him. 
[  fear,  the  tru.st  Otlicllo  puts  in  him, 
On  some  otld  time  of  his  infirmity, 
Will  shake  this  island. 

Mon.  But  is  he  often  thus? 

lego.  "T  is  evermore  the  prologue  to  his  sleep : 
H'l  "11  watch  the  horoloize  a  double  set. 
If  drink  rock  not  his  cradle. 

Moti.  It  were  well, 

The  general  were  put  in  mind  of  it. 
Perhaps,  he  sees  it  not :  or  his  good  nature 
Prizes'  the  virtue  that  appears  in  Cassio, 
And  looks  not  on  his  evils.     Is  not  this  true  ? 
Enfcr  RoDERiGO. 

lago.  How  now.  Roderigo?  [Aside  to  him. 

I  pray  you,  after  the  lieutenant;  go.    [Exit  Roderigo. 

Mon.  And  't  is  great  pity,  that  the  noble  jNIoor 
Should  hazard  such  a  place  as  his  own  second, 
With  one  of  an  ingraft  infirmity : 
It  were  an  honest  action  to  say 
So  to  the  Moor. 

logo.  Not  I,  for  this  fair  island : 

'  do  love  Cassio  well,  and  would  do  much 
To  cure  him  of  this  evil.     But  hark  !  v.hat  noise  ? 

[Cry  within.— HelT^  !  Help  ! 
Re-enter  C.\ssio,  pursuing  Roderigo. 

Cos.  You  rogue  !  you  rascal  ! 

Mon.  What 's  the  matter,  lieutenant? 

Cos.  A  knave  ! — teach  me  my  duty? 
I  '11  beat  the  knave  into  a  wicker*  bottle. 

Rod.  Beat  me  ! 

Cos.  Dost  thou  prate,  rogue  ?     [Striking  Roderigo. 

Mon.  Nay,  good  lieutenant ;  [Staying  him. 

I  pray  you,  sir,  hold  your  hand. 

Cos.  Let  me  go,  sir, 

Or  I  '11  knock  you  oer  the  mazzard. 

Mon.  Come,  come ;  you  're  drunk. 

Cos.  Drunk!  '  [They fight. 

lago.  Away,  I  say !   [Aside  to  Rod. J  go  out.  and  cry 
a  mutiny.  [Exit  Rod. 

Nay,  good  lieutenant, — alas,  gentlemen  ! — 
Help,  ho  ! — Lieutenant. — sir, — Montano, — sir; — 
Help,  masters  ! — Here  's  a  goodly  watch,  indeed  ! 

[Bell  rings. 
Who  's  that  that  rings  the  bell  ?— Diablo,  ho  ! 
The  town  will  rise  :  God's  will !  lieutenant,  hold  ! 
You  will  be  sham'd  for  ever. 

Enter  Othello,  and  Attendants. 

0th.  What  is  the  matter  here? 

Mon.  'Zounds  !  I  bleed  still :  I  am  hurt  to  the  death. 

[He  faints. 

0th.  Hold,  for  your  lives ! 

lago.  Hold,  hold,  lieutenant ! — sir,  Montaiio, — gen- 
tlemen ! — 
Have  you  forgot  all  sense  of  place  and  duty? 
Hold,  hold  I  tiie  general  speaks  to  you  :  hold,  for  shame  ! 

Oln.  Why,  how  now.  ho  !  from  whence  ariseth  thLs? 
Are  we  turnd  Turks,  and  to  ourselves  do  that, 
Which  heaven  hath  forbid  the  Ottomites  ? 
For  Christian  siiame,  put  by  this  barbarous  brawl: 
He  tliat  stirs  next  to  carve  for  his  own  rage. 
Holds  his  soul  \\<A\\ :  he  dies  upon  his  motion. — 
Silence  that  dreadful  bell  !  it  frights  the  isle 
From  her  iiropriety. — What  is  the  matter,  masters? — 
Honest  lago.  that  lookst  dead  with  srieving. 


PniMt  : 


folio.      '  comes  :  in  folio 


Speak,  who  began  this  ?  on  thy  love,  I  charge  thee. 

lago.  I  do  not  know : — friends  all  but  now,  even  noip 
In  quarter,  and  in  terms  like  bride  and  groom 
Divesting  them  for  bed  ;  and  then,  bui  now. 
(As  if  some  planet  had  unwitted  them) 
Swords  out.  and  tilting  one  at  other's  breast, 
In  opposition  bloody.     1  cannot  6])eak 
Any  beginning  to  this  peevish  odds  : 
And  would  in  action  glorious  I  had  lost 
I  Those  legs,  that  brought  me  to  a  part  of  it. 

0th.  How  came*  it.  Michael,  you  were  thus  fi.rgot . 

Cas.  I  pray  you.  pardon  me :  I  cannot  speak. 

0th.  Worthy  Montano,  you  were  wont  be  civil  , 
The  gravity  and  .«tillncss  of  your  youth 
The  world  hath  noted,  and  your  name  is  great 
In  mouths  of  wisest  censure  :  what  "s  the  matter, 
That  you  unlace  your  reputation  thus, 
And  spend  your  rich  opinion,  for  the  name 
Of  a  night-brawler  ?  give  me  answer  to  it. 

Mon.  Worthy  Othello.  I  am  hurt  to  danger: 
Your  officer,  lago.  can  inform  you. 
While  I  spare  speech,  which  something  now  ofTends  aae. 
Of  all  that  I  do  know :  nor  know  I  aught 
By  me  that 's  said  or  done  amiss  this  night, 
Unless  self-charity  be  sometime  a  vice, 
And  to  defend  ourselves  it  be  a  sin. 
When  violence  assails  us. 

0th.  Now,  by  heaven, 

My  blood  begins  my  safer  guides  to  rule; 
And  passion,  ha^-ing  my  be.st  judgment  quelled,* 
Assays  to  lead  the  way.     If  I  once  stir, 
Or  do  but  lift  this  arm.  the  best  of  you 
Shall  sink  in  my  rebuke.     Give  nie  to  know 
How  this  foul  rout  began,  who  set  it  on ; 
And  he  that  is  approval  in  this  ofTence, 
Though  he  had  twinn'd  with  me.  both  at  a  birth, 
Shall  lose  me. — What !  in  a  town  of  war. 
Yet  wild,  the  people's  hearts  brimful  of  fear, 
To  manage  private  and  domestic  quarrel, 
In  night,  and  on  the  court  of  guard  and  safety? 
'T  is  monstrous. — lago,  who  began  it? 

Mon.  If  partially  affin'd,  or  leagued  in  oflfice, 
Thou  dost  deliver  more  or  less  than  truth, 
Thou  art  no  soldier. 

lago.  Touch  me  not  so  near. 

I  had  rather  have  this  tongue  cut  from  my  mouthy 
Than  it  should  do  offence  to  Michael  Cassio; 
Yet,  I  persuade  myself,  to  speak  the  truth 
Shall  nothing  wrong  him. — Thus  it  is,  general. 
Montano  and  myself  being  in  speech, 
There  comes  a  fellow  crying  out  for  lielp^ 
And  Cassio  following  him  with  determin  d  sword 
To  execute  upon  him.     Sir,  this  gentleman 
Steps  in  to  Cassio.  and  entreats  his  pause : 
Myself  the  crying  fellow  did  pursue. 
Lest  by  his  clamour  (as  it  so  fell  out) 
The  town  might  fall  in  fright :  he,  swift  of  foot, 
Outran  my  purpose :  and  I  return'd,  the  rather 
For  that  I  heard  the  clink  and  fall  of  swords. 
And  Cassio  high  in  oath,  which,  till  to-ni;.;ht, 
I  ne'er  might  say  before.     When  I  came  back, 
(For  this  was  brief)  I  found  them  clo.'ie  together 
At  blow  and  thrust,  even  as  again  they  were, 
When  you  yourself  did  part  them. 
More  of  this  matter  can  I  not  report : — 
But  men  are  men;  the  best  sometime*  forget: — 
Though  Cassio  did  some  little  wrong  to  him, 
As  men  in  rage  strike  those  that  wish  them  boat, 
Yet,  surely.  Cassio,  I  believe,  received 
*  collied  :  in  f.  •. 


BCEN1E   ni. 


813 


From  him  that  fled  some  strange  indignity, 
Which  patience  could  not  pass. 

0th.  I  know,  lago, 

Thy  honesty  and  love  doth  mince  this  matter. 
Making  it  light  to  Cassio. — Cassio,  I  love  thee  ; 
But  never  more  be  officer  of  mine. — 

Enter  Desdemona,  attended. 
Look,  if  my  gentle  love  be  net  raised  up  ! — 
1  '11  make  thee  an  example. 

Des.  What 's  the  matter  ?' 

0th.  All 's  well  now,  sweeting  ;  com.e  away  to  bed. — 
Sir,  for  your  hurts,  myself  will  be  your  surgeon. — 
Lead  him  off.  [Montano  is  led  off. 

lago,  look  with  care  about  the  town. 
And  silence  those  whom  this  vile  brawl  distracted. — 
Come,  Desdemona ;  't  is  the  soldier's  life, 
To  have  their  balmy  slumbers  wak'd  with  strife. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Iago  and  Cassio. 

lago.  What,  are  you  hurt,  lieutenant  ? 

Cas.  Ay,  past  all  surgery. 

Iago.  Marry,  heaven  forbid  ! 

Cas.  Reputation,  reputation,  reputation  !  0  !  I  have 
lost  my  reputation.  I  have  lost  the  immortal  part  of 
myself,  and  what  remains  is  bestial. — My  reputation, 
Iago,  my  reputation  ! 

Iago.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  thought  you  had 
received  some  bodily  wound ;  there  is  more  offence*  in 
that,  than  in  reputation.  Reputation  is  an  idle  and 
most  false  imposition ;  oft  got  without  merit,  and  lost 
without  deserving :  you  have  lost  no  reputation  at  all, 
unless  you  repute  yourself  such  a  loser.  What,  man  ! 
there  are  ways  to  recover  the  general  again :  you  are 
but  now  cast  in  his  mood,  a  punishment  more  in  policy 
than  in  malice ;  even  so  as  one  would  beat  his  offence- 
less  dog,  to  affright  an  imperious  lion.  Sue  to  him 
again,  and  he  's  yours. 

Cas.  I  will  rather  sue  to  be  despised,  than  to  deceive 
so  good  a  commander,  with  so  light,'  so  drunken,  and 
80  indiscreet  an  officer.  Drunk?*  and  speak  parrot? 
and  squabble  ?  swagger  ?  swear  ?  and  discourse  fustian 
with  one's  own  shadow? — 0  thou  invisible  spirit  of 
wine  !  if  thou  hast  no  name  to  be  known  by,  let  us  call 
thee — devil. 

Iago.  What  was  he  that  you  follow'd  with  your 
sword?     What  had  he  done  to  you? 

Cas.  I  know  not. 

Iago.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Cos.  I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  nothing  dis- 
tinctly ;  a  quarrel,  but  nothing  wherefore. — 0  God  ! 
that  men  should  put  an  enemy  in  their  mouths,  to  steal 
away  their  brains  !  that  we  should,  with  joy,  revel, 
pleasure.*  and  applause,  transform  ourselves  into 
beasts  ! 

Iago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough :  how  came 
you  thus  recovered. 

Cas.  It  hath  pleased  the  devil,  drunkenness,  to  give 
place  to  the  devil,  wrath :  one  unperfectness  shows  me 
another,  to  make  me  frankly  despise  myself. 
;  Iago!  Come,  you  are  too  severe  a  moraler.  As  the 
I  time,  the  place,  and  the  condition  of  this  country 
I  stands,  I  could  heartily  vvdsh  this  had  not  befallen ;  but. 
I     Bince  it  is  as  it  is,  mend  it  for  your  own  good. 

Cas.  I  will  ask  him  for  my  place  again:  he  shall  tell 
me,  I  am  a  drunkard.  Had  I  as  many  mouths  as  Hy- 
dra, such  an  answer  would  stop  them  all.  To  be  now 
a  sensible  man  by  and  by  a  fool,  and  presently  a  beast ! 
0  strange  ! — Kvery  inordinate  cup  is  unblessed,  and 
Ibe  ingredient  is  a  devil. 

»  Folio  adds  :  dear.      2  sense  :  in  folio.      '  slight :  in  folio.      »  Th: 
]         Thsobald  reads  :  denotement.      i  brawl :  in  quarto,  1622       »  probal 


Iago.  Come,  come;  good  wine  is  a  good  familiar 
creature,  if  it  be  well  used  :  exclaim  no  more  against  it. 
And,  good  lieutenant,  I  think,  you  think  I  love  you. 

Cas.  I  have  well  approved  it,  sir. — I  drunk  ! 

Iago.  You,  or  any  man  living,  may  be  drunk  at  some 
time,  man.  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  Our 
general's  wife  is  now  the  general : — I  may  say  so  in 
this  respect,  for  that  he  hatii  devoted  and  given  up 
himself  to  the  contemplation,  mark,  and  devotement* 
of  her  parts  and  graces: — confess  yourself  freely  to 
her;  importune  her;  she'll  help  to  put  you  in  your 
place  again.  She  is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so 
blessed  a  disposition,  that  she  holds  it  a  vice  in  her 
goodness,  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested.  This 
broken  joint'  between  you  and  her  husband  entreat  her 
to  splinter,  and  my  fortunes  against  any  lay  worth 
naming,  this  crack  of  your  love  shall  grow  stronger 
than  it  was  before. 

Cas.  You  advise  me  well. 

Iago.  I  protest,  in  the  sincerity  of  love,  and  honest 
kindness. 

Cas.  I  think  it  freely ;  and,  betimes  in  the  morning, 
I  will  beseech  the  virtuous  Desdemona  to  undertake 
for  me.  I  am  desperate  of  my  fortunes,  if  they  check 
me  here. 

Iago.  You  are  in  the  right.  Good  night,  lieutenant; 
I  must  to  the  watch. 

Cas.  Good  night,  honest  Iago.  [Exit  Cassio. 

Iago.  And  what 's  he,  then,  that  says  I  play  the 
villain, 
When  this  advice  is  free  I  give,  and  honest. 
Probable^  to  thinking,  and,  indeed,  the  course 
To  win  the  Moor  again  ?     For  't  is  most  easy 
The  inclining  Desdemona  to  subdue 
In  any  honest  suit  :  she  's  fram'd  as  fruitful 
As  the  free  elements.     And,  then,  for  her 
To  M'in  the  Moor, — were  't  to  renounce  his  baptism, 
All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin, — 
His  soul  is  so  enfetter'd  to  her  love, 
That  she  may  make,  unmake,  do  what  she  list, 
Even  as  her  appetite  shall  play  the  god 
With  his  weak  function.     How  am  I,  then,  a  villain. 
To  counsel  Cassio  to  this  parallel  course. 
Directly  to  his  good  ? — Divinity  of  hell ! 
When  devils  will  their  blackest  sins  put  on, 
They  do  suggest  at  first  with  heavenly  shows, 
As  I  do  now;  for  whiles  this  honest  fool 
Plies  Desdemona  to  repair  his  fortunes, 
And  she  for  him  pleads  strongly  to  the  Moor. 
I  '11  pour  this  pestilence  into  his  ear. — 
That  she  repeals'  him  for  her  body"s  lust : 
And,  by  how  much  she  strives  to  do  him  good, 
She  shall  undo  her  credit  with  the  Moor: 
So  will  I  turn  her  virtue  into  pilch. 
And  out  of  her  ovm  aoodness  make  the  net, 
That  shall  enmesh  them  all.— How  now,  Rodengo? 
Enter  RoDERino.  oigrihj.^" 

Rod.  I  do  follow  here  in  the  chase,  not  like  a  hound 
that  hunts,  but  one  that  fills  up  the  cry.  My  money 
is  almost  spent :  I  have  been  to-night  cxccedinuly  well 
cudgelled;  and,  I  think,  the  i.'^sne  will  be— I  shall 
have  so  much  experience  for  my  pains,  and  so  with  no 
money  at  all,  and  a  little  more  wit,  return  again  to 
Venice.  .         , 

Iago.  How  poor  are  they,  that  have  not  patience ! 
Wha°  wound  did  ever  heal,  but  by  degrees  ' 
Thou  know'st,  we  work  by  wit.  and  not  by  witchoraft; 
And  wit  depends  on  dilatory  time. 

8  sentence  to  "O"  is  not  in  qoarto.  IB-^i      •  pl-a«tnc.  :   ir   foUo 
:  in  f.  e.      »  Recalls.      '»  This  word  is  not  added  m  I.  •. 


814 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


A.OT  m. 


r>>es  'I  not  go  well  ?     Cassio  hath  beaten  thee, 
And  thou  by  that  small  hurt  ha^t  cashier'd  Cassio. 
Thouiiii  other  thiiii^s  grow  fair  against  the  sun, 
Vet  fruits  tjiat  blossom  first  will  first  be  ripe: 
fVntent  thyself  a  while. — By  the  mass,  't  is  morning 
Pleasure  ami  action  make  the  hours  seem  short. 
Hotiro  thee;  go  where  thou  art  billeted  : 
Away.  I  say  ;  thou  shalt  know  more  hereafter  : 


Nay,  get  thee  gone.     [Exit  Rod.]     Two  things  arc  tc 

be  done. 
My  wife  must  move  for  Cassio  to  her  mistress. 
I  '11  set  her  on  : 

Myself,  the  while,  to  draw  the  Moor  apart, 
And  bring  him  jump  where  he  may  Ca.ssio  find 
Soliciting  his  wife. — Ay,  that 's  the  way: 
Dull  not  device  by  coldness  and  delay.  [Erit 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  Cassio,  and  some  Musicians. 

Cos.  Masters,  play  here,  I  -will  content  your  pains: 
Something  that's  brief;  and  bid  good-morrow  to  the 
general.  [3Iusic. 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Why,  masters,  have  your  instruments  been  in 
Naples,  that  they  squeak'  i'  the  nose  thus  ? 

1  Mus.  How.  sir,  how  ? 

Clo.  Are  these.  I  pray  you.  called*  wind  instruments? 

1  Mus.  Ay.  marry,  are  they,  sir. 

Clo.  0  !   thereby  hangs  a  tail. 

1  Mtis.  Whereby  hangs  a  tale,  sir  ? 

Clo.  Marrj-,  sir.  by  many  a  wind  instrument  that  I 
know.  But.  masters,  here  's  money  for  you  ;  and  the 
general  so  likes  your  music,  that  he  desires  you,  for 
love's  sake.'  to  make  no  more  noise  with  it. 

1  AIus.  Well,  sir,  we  will  not. 

Clo.  If  you  have  any  music  that  may  not  be  heard, 
to  't  again  ;  but.  as  they  say,  to  hear  music  the  general 
does  not  greatly  care. 

1  Mus.  We  have  none  such,  sir. 

Clu.  Then  put  up  your  pipes  in  your  bag,  for  I  '11 
away. 
Go;  vanish  into  air ;  away!  [Exeunt  Musicians. 

Cas.  Dost  thou  hear,  mine  honest  friend? 

Clo.  No,  I  hear  not  your  honest  friend ;  I  hear  you. 

Cas.  Pr'ythee,  keep  up  thy  quillets.  There 's  a 
poor  piece  of  gold  for  thee.  If  the  gentlewoman  that 
attends  the  general's  wife  be  stirring,  tell  her  there  's 
one  Cassio  entreats  her  a  little  favour  of  speech  :  wilt 
thou  do  this? 

Clo.  She  is  stirring,  sir ;  if  she  will  stir  hither,  I 
shall  seem  so^  to  notify  her.  [Exit. 

Enter  Iago. 

Cas.  Do,  good  my  friend.' — In  happy  time.  Iago. 

Iago.  You  have  not  been  a-bed,  then? 

Cos.  Why,  no ;  the  day  had  broke 
Before  wc  parted.     I  have  made  bold,  Iago, 
To  send  in  to  your  wife  :  my  suit  to  her 
Ih,  that  she  will  to  virtuous  Desdemona 
Procure  me  some  access. 

^offo.  I  Ml  send  her  to  you  presently; 

And  I  '11  de^^se  a  mean  to  draw  the  Moor 
Out  of  the  way,  that  your  converse  and  business 
May  be  more  free.  [Exit. 

('a.''.  I  humbly  thank  you  for  't.     I  never  knew 
A  Florentine  more  kind  and  honest. 
Enter  Emilia. 

Emil.  Good-morrow,  good  lieutenant.     I  am  sorry 
For  your  disploaeurc  :  but  all  will  soon'  be  well. 
The  general  and  his  wife  are  talking  of  it. 
And  she  speaks  for  you  stoutly :  the  Moor  replies, 


That  he  you  hurt  is  of  great  fame  in  Cyprus, 
And  great  afliiiity,  and  that  in  wholesome  wisdom 
He  might  not  but  refuse  you;  but,  he  protests,  helovci 

you, 
And  needs  no  other  suitor  but  his  likings, 
To  take  the  safest  occasion  by  the  front,' 
To  bring  you  in  again. 

Cas.  Yet.  I  beseech  you, — 

If  you  think  fit,  or  that  it  may  be  done. — 
Give  me  advantage  of  some  brief  discourse 
With  Desdemona  alone. 

Emil.  Pray  you,  come  in  : 

I  will  bestow  you  where  you  shall  have  time 
To  speak  your  bosom  freely. 

Cas.  I  am  much  bound  to  you.*     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Eiiter  Othello,  Iago,  and  Gentlemen 
0th.  These  letters  give,  Iago.  to  the  pilot, 
And  by  him  do  my  duties  to  the  state  .* 
That  done,  I  will  be  walking  on  the  works; 
Pi.epair  there  to  me. 

logo.  Well,  my  good  lord ;  I  '11  do  't. 

0th.  This  fortification,  gentlemen, — .shall  w^  see'i? 
Gent.  We  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [ExeuiU. 

SCENE  III.— Before  the  Castle. 
Enter  Desdemona,  Cassio,  and  Emilia. 

Des.  Be  thou  assur  d,  good  Cassio.  I  will  do 
All  my  abilities  in  thy  behalf. 

Emil.  Good  madam,  do  :  I  know'*  it  grieves  my  hus- 
band, 
As  if  the  case"  were  his. 

Des.    0  !    that 's  an  honest  fellow. — Do  not  doubt 
Cassio. 
But  I  ynW  have  my  lord  and  you  again 
As  friendly  as  you  were. 

Cas.  Bounteous  madam, 

Whatever  shall  become  of  Michael  Ca.ssio, 
He  's  never  any  thing  but  your  true  servant. 

I)cs.  0,  sir  !   I  thank  you.     You  do  love  my  lord  ; 
You  have  known  him  long,  and  be  you  well  aasur'd, 
lie  shall  in  strangeness  stand  no  farther  oflT 
Than  in  a  politic  distance. 

Cas.  Ay,  but,  lady, 

That  policy  may  either  last  .«o  long. 
Or  feed  upon  such  nice  and  waterigh  diet. 
Or  breed  itself  so  out  of  circumstance. 
That,  I  being  absent,  and  my  place  supplied, 
My  general  will  forget  my  love  and  service. 

Des.  Do  not  doubt  that:  before  Emilia  here, 
I  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place.     Assure  thee. 
If  I  do  vow  a  friendship.  I  'II  perform  it 
To  the  last  article :  my  lord  .sliall  never  rest; 


•Mak:  inf.  e.     ♦Notinfolio.     '  of  all  loTes  :  ii 
olio.     ''  Thii  line  ii  not  m  folio.     ■  This  iipeech 


qoftrto.  1622.     ♦  This -word  ie  not  in  f.  e.     •  These  four  wordg  are  not  im  folio.     •  !">' 
not  in  quarto,  102*2.     •  senate  :  in  folio.     ">  warrant  :  in  folio.     '    •laujt  .  in  foil* 


RomrE   m. 


OTHELLO,   THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


81? 


1  "1  watcu  him  tame,  and  talk  him  out  of  patience; 

His  bed  shall  seem  a  school,  his  board  a  shrift; 

I  'fl  intermingle  every  thing  he  does 

With  Cassio's  suit.     Therefore,  be  merry,  Cassio; 

For  thy  solicitor  shall  rather  die, 

Than  give  thy  cause  away. 

Enter  Othello  and  Iago.  at  a  distance. 

Emil.  Madam,  here  comes  my  lord. 

Cas.  Madam.  I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Des.  Why,  stay,  and  hear  me  speak. 

Cas.  Madam,  not  now :  I  am  very  ill  at  ease  ; 
Unfit  for  mine  o\^^l  purpose. 

Des.  Well,  do  your  discretion.  [Exit  Cassio. 

Iago.  Ha  !  I  like  not  that. 

0th.  What  dost  thou  say  ? 

Iago    Nothing,  my  lord:  or  if — I  know  not  M-hat. 

0th.  Was  not  that  Cassio  parted  from  my  wife  ? 

Iago.  Cassio.  my  lord  ?  No,  sure ,  I  cannot  think  it. 
That  he  would  steal'  away  so  guilty-like. 
Seeing  you  coming. 

0th.  I  do  believe  't  was  he. 

Des.  How,  now,  my  lord  ! 
I  have  been  talking  with  a  suitor  here, 
A  man  that  languishes  iu  your  displeasure. 

0th.  Who  is  't  you  mean? 

Des.  Why.  your  lieutenant.  Cassio.    Good,  my  lord. 
If  I  have  any  grace,  or  power  to  move  you, 
His  present  reconciliation  take; 
For  if  he  be  not  one  that  truly  loves  you. 
That  errs  in  ignorance,  and  not  in  curming, 
I  have  no  judgment  in  an  honest  face. 
I  pr'ythee,  call  him  back. 

0th.  Went  he  hence  now  ? 

Des.  Ay,  sooth ;  so  humbled, 
That  he  hath  left  part  of  his  grief  with  me. 
To*  suffer  with  him.     Good  love,  call  him  back. 

0th.  Not  now,  sweet  Desdemona ;  some  other  time. 

Des.  But  shall 't  be  shortly? 

0th.  The  sooner,  sweet,  for  you. 

Des.  Shall  't  be  to-night  at  supper  ? 

0th.  No,  not  to-night. 

Des.  To-morrow  dinner  then  ? 

0th.  I  .shall  not  dine  at  home  : 

I  meet  the  captains  at  the  citadel. 

Des.  Why  then,  to-morrow  night ;  or  Tuesday  morn  j 
On  Tiresday  noon,  or  night;  on  Wednesday  morn  : 
I  pr'ythee,  name  the  time,  but  let  it  not 
Exceed  three  days  :  in  faith,  he  's  penitent ; 
And  yet  his  trespass,  in  our  common  rea»«on, 
(Save  that,  they  say,  the  wars  must  make  examples 
Out  of  our'  best)  is  not  almost  a  fault 
T'  incur  a  private  check.     When  shall  he  come  ? 
Tell  me,  Othello  :  I  wonder  in  my  soul, 
What  you  could  ask  me  that  I  should  deny. 
Or  stand  so  mammering*  on.     What !  Michael  Cassio, 
That  came  a  wooing  with  you.  and  so  many  a  time, 
When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly. 
Hath  ta'en  your  part,  to  have  so  much  to  do 
To  bring  him  in  !     Trust  me,*  I  could  do  much. — 

0th.  Pr'ythee,  no  more  :   let  him  come  when  he  will, 
I  Trill  deny  thee  nothing. 

Des.  Why.  this  is  not  a  boon  : 

'T  is  as  I  should  entreat  yon  wear  your  gloves, 
Oi  feed  on  nourishing  dishes,  or  keep  you  warm, 
Or  sue  to  you  to  do  a  peculiar  profit 
To  your  o\ati  person  :  nay,  when  I  have  a  suit 
Wierein  I  mean  to  touch  your  love  indeed, 


It  shall  be  full  of  poize  and  difficult  weight.* 
And  fearful  to  be  granted. 

0th.  I  will  deny  thee  noth  ■»?  • 

Whereon,  I  do  beseech  thee,  grant  me  this, 
To  leave  me  but  a  little  to  myself. 

Des.  Shall  I  deny  you?  no.     Farewell,  my  lord. 
0th.  Farewell,  my  Desdemona :   I  '11  come  to  the* 

straight. 
Des.  Emilia,  come. — Be  it  as  your  fancies  teach  you; 
Whate"er  you  be^  I  am  obedient.       [Exit,  with  Emilia. 

0th.  Excellent  wretch  !   Perdition  ca'oh  my  soul, 
But  I  do  love  thee,  and  when  I  love  thee  not, 
Chaos  is  come  again. 
Iago.  My  noble  lord, — 

0th.  What  dost  thou  say,  Iago 

Iago.  Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  woo'd  my  lady, 
Know  of  your  love  ? 

0th.  He  did,  from  first  to  last :  why  dost  thou  ask  ? 
Iago.  But  for  a  satisfaction  of  my  thought ; 
No  farther  harm. 

0th.  Why  of  thy  thought.  Iago  ? 

Iago.  I  did  not  think,  he  had  been  acquainted  with  lU 
0th.  0.  yes  :  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 
I      Iago.  Indeed  ? 
j      0th.  Indeed  !  ay.  indeed  :^-discem'st  thou  aught  in 

that  ? 
Is  he  not  honest  ? 

Iago.  Honest,  my  lord  ? 

0th.  Honest?  ay.  honest. 

Iago.  My  lord,  for  ausht  I  know. 
0th.  What  dost  thou  tliink  ? 
Iago.  Think,  mv  lord  ? 

0th.  Think,  my  lord  ! 

By  heaven,  he  echoes'  me, 
As  if  there  were  some  monster  in  his  thought 
Too  hideous  to  be  shown. — Thou  dost  mean  something. 
I  heard  thee  say  but  now, — thou  lik"dst  not  that, 
When  Cassio  left  my  wife  :  what  didst  not  like? 
And,  when  I  told  thee,  he  was  of  my  counsel 
In  my  whole  course  of  wooing,  thou  criedst,  ■'  Indeed  I"' 
And  didst  contract  and  purse  thy  brow  together, 
As  if  thou  then  hadst  shut  up  in  thy  brain 
Some  horrible  conceit.*     If  thou  dost  love  me, 
Show  me  thy  thought. 

Iago.  My  lord,  you  know  I  love  you. 
0th.  I  think,  thou  dost ; 

And, — for  I  know  thou  art  full  of  love  and  honesty. 
And   weighst    thy   words    before   thou    giv'st    them 

breath. — 
Therefore,  these  stops  of  thine  frii/ht  me  tlie  more ; 
For  such  things,  in  a  false  disloyal  knave, 
I  Are  tricks  of  custom  ;  but  in  a  man  that  "s  just, 
They  are  close  delations,'  working  from  the  heart, 
I  That  passion  cannot  rule. 

j      Iago.  For  Michael  Cassio. 

'  I  dare  be  sworn,'*  I  think  that  he  is  honest. 
j      0th.  I  think  so  too. 

I     Iago.  Men  should  be  what  they  seem 

;  Or,  those  that  be  not,  would  they  ini::ht  seem  none  ! 
I      0th.  Certain,  men  should  be  what  they  seem. 
I      Iago.  Why,  then,  1  think  Ca.«sio  "s  an  honest  man. 
I      0th.  Nay,  yet  there  's  more  in  this. 
j  I  pray  thee,  speak  to  me  as  to  thy  thinkings, 
I  As  thou  dost  ruminate  ;  and  give  thy  worst  of  thouehti 
I  The  worst  of  words. 

I      Iago.  Good  my  lord,  pardon  me  : 

'  Though  I  am  bound  to  every  act  of  duty. 


sneak  :  in  quarto.      ^  I  :  in  qnarto,  ICtK.      '  her:  in  f.  e 
'  Alas,  thou  echoest  :  in    folio.       • 


t  »  sneak  :  i 
*  quarto.  1622. 
1 1  intrto. 


mnttanng : 
n  quarto,  1622. 


a  quarto,  1622.      •  By  'r  lady  :  in  qnarto.      •  difficulty  :  it 
Accusations;    deBotements  :  in  qaarto.       ■•preiun»«:  is 


816 


OTHELLO,  THE   MOOR  OF   VEXICE. 


I  am  not  bound  to  that  all  slaves  are  free  to. 

Utter   my  thoughts  ?     Why,  say,  they   are    vile   and 

false, — 
As  where  's  that  palace,  whereintx)  foul  things 
Sometimes  intrude  not?  who  has  a  breast  so  pure, 
But  sometimes  unch^anly  apprehensions 
Keep  lects,'  and  law-days,  and  in  se-^sion  sit 
With  meditations  lawl'ul  ? 

0th.  Thou  dost  conspire  against  thy  friend,  lago, 
If  thou  but  think'st  him  wronged,  and  mak'st  his  ear 
A  stranger  to  thy  thoughts. 

lago.  I  do  beseech  you, — 

Though  I,  perchance,  am  vicious  in  my  guess, 
(As,  I  confess,  it  is  my  nature's  plague 
To  spy  into  abuses,  and  oft'  my  jealousy 
Shapes  faults  that  are  not) — that  your  wisdom  yet,' 
From  one  that  so  imperfectly  conceits. 
Would  take  no  notice  ;  nor  build  yourself  a  trouble 
Out  of  his  scattering  and  unsure  observance. 
It  were  not  for  your  quiet,  nor  your  good. 
Nor  for  my  manhood,*  honesty,  or*  wisdom, 
To  let  you  know  my  thoughts. 

0th.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

lago.  Good  name,  in  man.  and  woman,  dear  my  lord. 
Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls: 
Who   steals  my  purse,  steals  trash ;  't  is  something, 

nothing ; 
'T  was  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands; 
But  he.  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 
Robs  me  of  that,  which  not  enriches  liim, 
And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

0th.  By  heaven,  I  '11  know  thy  thoughts. 

lago.  You  cannot,  if  my  heart  were  in  your  hand  ; 
Nor  shall  not,  whilst  't  is  in  my  custody. 

0th.  Ha! 

lago.  0  !  beware,  mr  lord,  of  jealousy ; 

It  is  the  green-ey'd  monster,  which  doth  make* 
The  meat  it  feeds  on :  that  cuckold  lives  in  bliss. 
Who,  certain  of  his  fate,  loves  not  his  wronger; 
But,  0!  what  damned  minutes  tells  he  o'er, 
Wlio  dotes,  yet  doubts;  suspects,  yet  fondly'  loves  ! 

0th.  0  misery ! 

lago.  Poor  and  content  is  rich,  and  rich  enough ; 
But  riches  fineless  is  as  poor  as  winter. 
To  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor. — 
Good  heaven,  the  souls  of  all  my  tribe  defend 
From  jealousv ! 

0th.  '       Why?  why  is  this? 

Think'st  thou.  1  'd  make  a  life  of  jealousy, 
To  follow  si  ill  the  changes  of  the  moon 
With  fresh  siis))icions?     No:  to  be  once  in  doubt, 
Is  once'  to  be  rfsolv'd.     Exchange  me  for  a  goat, 
When  I  shall  turn  the  business  of  my  soul 
To  such  cxsutflicate  and  blown  surmis&s, 
Matching  thy  inlerence.    'T  is  not  to  make  me  jealous. 
To  say — my  wife  is  fair,  feeds  well,  loves  company, 
Is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays,  and  dances  well;' 
Where  virtue  is,  thc^e  are  more  virtuous: 
Nor  from  mine  own  weak  merits  will  I  draw 
The  smallest  fear,  or  doubt  of  her  revolt; 
For  she  had  eyes,  and  chose  me:  no,  lago; 
I  Ml  see,  before  i  doubt;  when  I  doubt,  prove; 
And,  on  the  proof  there  is  no  more  but  this, 
Away  at  once  with  love,  or  jealousy. 

lago.  I  am  glad  of  it:"  for  now  I  shall  have  reason 
To  show  the  love  and  duty  that  I  bear  you 
With  franker  spirit:  therefore,  as  I  am  bound. 


[Receive  it  from  me.     I  speak  not  yet  of  proof. 
Look  to  your  wife  ;  ob.'-erve  her  well  with  Cassio: 
Wear  your  eye — thus,  not  jealous,  nor  secure : 
I  would  not  have  your  free  and  noble  nature, 
Out  of  self-bounty,  be  abns'd  ;  look  to  't. 
I  know  our  country  disposition  well : 
In  Vcnicf)  they  do  let  heaven  see  the  pranks 
They  dare  not  show  their  husbands;  their  best  oon 

science 
Is,  not  to  leave  't  undone,  but  keep  't  unknoAvn. 

0th.  Dost  thou  say  so  ? 

logo.  She  did  deceive  her  father,  marr^-ing  you , 
And,  when  she  seem'd  to  shake,  and  fear  your  looks, 
She  lov'd  them  most. 

0th.  And  so  she  did. 

logo.  Why,  go  to,  then; 

She  that,  so  young,  could  give  out  such  a  seenung, 
To  seal  her  father's  eyes  up,  close  as  oak, — 
He  thought,  't  was  witchcraft. — But  I   am  much  to 

blame ; 
I  humbly  do  beseech  you  of  your  pardon. 
For  too  much  loving  you. 

0th.  I  am  bound  to  thee  for  ever. 

lago.  I  see,  this  hath  a  little  dash'd  your  spirits. 

0th.  Not  a  jot,  not  a  jot. 

lago.  Trust  me,  I  fear  it  has.        '' 

I  hope,  you  will  consider  what  is  spoke 
Comes  from  my  love. — But,  I  do  see  you  are  mov'd  ;-  - 
I  am  to  pray  you,  not  to  strain  my  speech 
To  grosser  issues,  nor  to  larger  reach. 
Than  to  suspicion. 

0th.  I  will  not. 

lago.  Should  you  do  so,  my  lord, 

My  speech  should  fall  into  such  vile  success. 
As  my  thoughts  aim  not  at."     Cassio  's  my  worthy" 

friend. 
My  lord,  I  see  you  are  mov'd, 

0th.  No,  not  much  mov'd. — 

I  do  not  think  but  Desdemona  's  honest. 

lago.  Long  live  she  so  :  and  long  live  you  to  think  se 

0th.  And  yet,  how  nature  erring  from  itself, 

lago.   Av.  there's  the  point: — as, — to  be  bold  with 
yon,— 
Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches. 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree, 
W^hereto,  we  see,  in  all  things  nature  tends. 
Foh  !  one  may  smell  in  such  a  will  most  rank, 
Foul  disproportion,  thoughts  unnatural. — 
But  pardon  me;  I  do  not  in  suspicion" 
Distinctly  speak  of  her.  though  I  may  fear. 
Her  will,  recoiling  to  her  better  judgment. 
May  fall  to  match  you  with  her  country  forms. 
Ami  happily  repent. 

0th.  Farewell,  farewell. 

If  more  thou  dost  perceive,  let  me  know  more; 
Set  on  thy  wife  to  observe.     Leave  me,  lago. 

lago.  My  lord,  I  take  my  leave.  [Going 

0th.  Why  did    I    marry?  —  This    honest   creature 
doubtless, 
Sees  and  knows  more,  much  more,  than  he  unfolds. 

lago.  My  lord,  I  would  I  might  entreat  your  ho- 
nour [Returning 
To  scan  this  thing  no  farther ;  leave  it  to  time. 
Although  't  is  fit  that  Cassio  have  his  place, 
(For,  sure,  he  fills  it  up  with  great  ability) 
Yet  if  you  please  to  hold  him  off  a  while. 
You  shall  by  that  perceive  him  and  his  means. 


>  T^to,  OT  rouTi.ffat/a.  »  of :  in  folio.  »  «  Not  in  folio.  »  and  :  in  folio.  •  mock  :  in  f.  e.  Hanmer  also  made  the  chanjje.  '  aliongly 
n  f.  e.  j  Kniclit.  aj  in  the  text.  •  »  Not  in  folio.  «•  thi*  :  in  folio.  »'  Which  my  thonghta  aim'd  not :  in  folio.  "  innty  •  in  qntfW 
>  position  '   in  £.  c 


SCENE  in. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR   OF  VE^'ICE. 


81' 


Note,  if  your  lady  strain  his  entertainment 
With  any  strong  or  vehement  importunity : 
Much  x^tII  be  seen  in  that.     In  the  mean  time, 
Let  me  be  thought  too  busy  in  my  fears, 
(As  worthy  cause  I  have  to  fear  I  am) 
And  hold  her  free,  I  do  beseech  your  honour. 

0th.  Fear  not  my  government. 

lago.  I  once  more  take  my  leave.  [Exit 

0th.  This  fellow  's  of  exceeding  honesty. 
And  knows  all  qualities  with  a  learned  spirit 
Of  human  dealings :  if  I  do  prove  her  haggard,' 
Though  that  her  jesses'  were  my  dear  heart-strings, 
I  'd  whistle  her  off,  and  let  her  down  the  wind.^ 
To  prey  at  fortune.     Haply,  for  I  am  black. 
And  have  not  those  soft  parts  of  conversation 
That  chamberers  have :  or.  for  I  am  declin'd 
Into  the  vale  of  years  : — yet  that 's  not  much 
She  's  gone  :  I  am  abus'd  ;  and  my  relief 
Must  be  to  loath  her.     0.  curse  of  marriage  ! 
Tha4  we  can  call  these  delicate  creatures  ours. 
And  not  their  appetites.     I  had  rather  be  a  toad, 
And  live  upon  the  vapour  of  a  dungeon. 
Than  keep  a  corner  in  the  thing  I  love 
For  others'  uses.     Yet,  't  is  the  plague  of  great  ones ; 
Prerogativ'd  are  they  less  than  the  base  : 
"T  is  destiny  unshunnable,  like  death  : 
Even  then  this  forked  plague  is  fated  to  us, 
When  we  do  quicken.     Desdemona^  comes. 
Enter  Desdemona  and  Emilia. 
If  she  be  false,  0  !  then  heaven  mocks  itself.* — 
i  '11  not  believe  it. 

Des.  How  now,  my  dear  Othello  ! 

Your  dimier  and  the  generous  islanders, 
By  you  invited,  do  attend  your  presence. 

Oth.  I  am  to  blame. 

Des.  Why  is  your  speech  so  faint?'  are  you  not  well  ? 

Oth.  I  have  a  pain  upon  my  forehead  here. 

Des.  Faith,  that 's  with  watching :  't  will  away  again : 
Let  me  but  bind  it  hard,  within  this  hour 
It  will  be  well.  [Offers  to  bind  his  Head.'' 

Oth.  Your  napkin  is  too  little  ;    [Lets  fall  her  Napkin.^ 
Let  it  alone.     Come,  I  "11  go  in  with  you. 

Des.  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  are  not  well. 

[Exeunt  Oth.  and  Des. 

Emil.  I  am  glad  I  have  found  this  napkin. 
This  was  her  first  remembrance  from  the  Moor  : 
My  wayward  husband  hath  a  hundred  times 
Woo'd  me  to  steal  it  :  but  she  so  loves  the  token, 
(For  he  conjur'd  her  she  should  ever  keep  it) 
That  she  reserves  it  evermore  about  her, 
To  kiss,  and  talk  to.     I  '11  have  the  work  ta'en  out.' 
And  give  't  lago :  what  he  v^ill  do  with  it. 
Heaven  knows,  not  1 ; 
nothing,  but  to  please  his  fantasy." 
Enter  Iago. 

lago.  How  now  !  wliat  do  you  here  alone  ? 

Emil.  Do  not  you  chide,  I  have  a  thing  for  you. 
•      lago.  A  thing  for  me  ? — it  is  a  common  thing. 
i      Emil.  Ha? 
i      lago    Tc  have  a  foolish  wife. 

Emil.  0  .  is  that  all  ?    What  will  you  give  me  now 
jr  that  same  handkerchief? 
1      lago.  What  handkerchief? 

£nii7.  What  handkerchief! 
Why,  that  the  Moor  first  gave  to  Desdemona  ; 


That  which  so  often  you  did  bid  me  stcaL 

lago.  Hast  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

Emil.  No.  'faith:  she  let  it  drop  by  negligence, 
And,  to  th'  advantage,  I,  being  here,  took  't  up. 
Look,  here  it  is. 

Jago.  A  good  wench :  give  it  me. 

Emil.  What  \vil)  you  do  with  't,  that  you  have  been 
so  earnest 
To  have  me  filch  it  ? 

Iago.  Why.  what 's  that  to  you?  [Snatching  it 

Emil.  If  it  be  not  some  purpose  of  import, 
I  Give  't  me  again :  poor  lady  !  she  '11  run  mad. 
When  she  shall  lack  it. 

Iago.  Be  not  acknown"  on  "t ;  I  have  use  tor  it. 
Go:  leave  me.  [Exit  Emilu. 

I  will  in  Cassio's  lodging  lose  this  napkin. 
And  let  him  find  it  :  trifles,  light  as  air. 
Are  to  the  jealous  confirmations  strong 
As  proofs  of  holy  writ.     This  may  do  something. 
The  Moor  already  changes  with  my  poison  ;" 
Dangerous  conceits  are  in  their  natures  poisons, 
Which  at  the  first  are  scarce  found  to  distaste ; 
But  with  a  little  act  upon  the  blood. 
Burn  like  the  mines  of  sulptiur. — I  did  say  so  : — 

Enter  Othello. 
Look,  where  he  comes  !     Not  poppy,  nor  mandraaora, 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world. 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep, 
Which  thou  ow'dst  yesterday. 

Oth.  Ha  !  ha  !  false  to  me  ?  to  me  ' 

Iago.  "Why,  how  now,  general  !  no  more  of  that. 

Oth.  A  vaunt !  be  gone  !    thou  hast  set  me  on  the 
rack. — 
I  swear,  't  is  better  to  be  much  abus'd. 
Than  but  to  know  't  a  little. 

Ligo.  How  now.  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  Wnat  sense  had  I  of"  her  stolen  hours  of  lud  • 
I  saw  it  not.  thought  it  not.  it  harm'd  not  me  : 
I  slept  the  next  night  well.'*  was  free  and  merry ; 
j  I  found  not  Cassio's  kis.ses  on  her  lips  : 
He  that  is  robb'd.  not  wanting  what  is  stolen, 
Let  him  not  know  "t,  and  he  's  not  robb'd  at  ail. 

las^o.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this. 

Oth.  I  had  been  happy,  if  the  general  camp, 
Pioneers  and  all,  had  tasted  her  sweet  body, 
So  1  had  nothing  known. — 0  !  now.  for  ever. 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  :  farewell  content: 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop,  and  the  big  wars, 
]  That  make  ambition  virtue  :  0,  farewell  ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  tnimp. 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  tie. 
The  royal  banner,  nnd  all  quality. 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war  I 
And  6  !  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude'*  throaf 
Th'  immortal  .love's  dread  clamours  counterfeit. 
Farewell  !  Otliello's  occupation  s  gone. 

Iago.  Is  it  possible  ? — My  lord. — 

Oth.  Villain,  be  sure  thou  prove  my  love  a  whore, 
Be  sure  of  it :  give  me  the  ocular  proof. 

[Taking  him  by  the  Inroat 
Or.  by  the  worth  of  mine"  eternal  soul, 
Thou  hadst  been  better  have  been  born  a  doa. 
Than  answer  my  wak"d  wTath. 

las^o.  Is  it  come  to  th.s? 

Oth.  Make  me  to  see  't  :  or,  at  the  Ica^t,  so  prove  it 


•  A  wild  hav,h.  2  Straps,  by  which  the  hawk's  feet  were  fastened  to  the  wnst.  '  The  falconers  a  way.  let  fl»  .^^^!  m^^M  ,^^ 
wind,  as,  if  she  flies  with  the  wind  behind  her.  she  seldom  renirns -JoAn^on.  »  Look  '^here  she  :  in  '^"''^  */»;,•*■  ""  j^^e  oM^.  t 
'  in  folio,  e  Why  do  you  speak  so  faintly  :  in  folio.  '  Xot  in  f.  e.  »  This  is  taken  from  a  .M.S.  direction,  (there  being  .  one  ii.  the  old  edf^t 
.n  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  copy  of  quarto.  1622  :  the  usual  one  in  mod.  edsjs  :  H*  p«M  .*  from  A.m.  ""dudrop,  ,r\»'"-^/"'*7, 
"  I  nothing  knDW,  but  for  :  in  quarto.  1622  'i  you  known  :  in  quarto,  1622.  "  Not  in  quarto.  '»  m  in  fblio  ««  ted  well,  ww  .  it 
folio,  i«  wide  ;  in  quartos.  '*  man"s  :  in  quarto,  1622. 
SB 


818 


OTHELLO,  THE   MOOK  OF    VENICE. 


That  the  probation  bear  no  hinge,  nor  loop, 
To  liang  h  doubt  on,  or  woe  upon  tliy  lifv  : 

lafro.  My  noble  lord, — 

0th.  If'  thou  dost  slander  her,  and  torture  me, 
Never  pray  more  :   abandon  all  remorse  ; 
Or  horrors  head  horrors  accumulate  ; 
r>o  deeds  to  make  heaven  wcej),  all  eartli  amaz"d, 
For  nothing  canst  thou  to  damnation  add, 
(Jrcater  than  that.  [Rehasiiig  him.' 

lago.  O  grace  !  0  heaven  defend"  me  ! 

Are  you  a  man  ?  have  you  a  soul,  or  sense  ? — 
God  be  -wi'  you:  take  mine  office. — 0  wretched  fool, 
That  liv'st'  to  make  thine  honesty  a  vice  ! 

0  monstrous  world  !     Take  note,  take  note,  0  world  ! 
To  be  direct  and  honest,  is  not  safe. — 

F  thank  you  for  this  profit :  and,  from  hence. 

F  '11  love  no  friend,  since  love  breeds  such  offence. 

0th.  Nay,  stay. — Thou  shouldst  be  honest. 

lago.  1  should  be  wise  ;  for  honesty  's  a  fool. 
And  loses  that  it  works  for. 

Oih.  By  the  world, 

1  think  my  'Adfe  be  honest,  and  think  she  is  not ; 
I  think  that  thou  art  ju.st,  and  think  thou  art  not. 

I  '11  have  some  proof :  her*  name,  that  was  as  fresh 

As  Dian's  visage,  is  now  begrim'd  and  black 

As  mine  own  face.     If  there  be  cords,  or  knives, 

Poison,  or  fire,  or  suffocating  streams, 

I  "11  not  endure  it. — \Yould  I  were  satisfied  ! 

lago.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  eaten  up  with  passion : 
I  do  repent  me  that  I  put  it  to  you. 
You  would  be  satisfied  ? 

0th.  Would  !  nay.  I  will. 

lago.  And  may;  but  how?  bow  satisfied,  my  lord? 
Would  you  the  supervision' !  grossly  gape  on  ? 
Behold  her  topp'd  ? 

0th.  Death  and  damnation  !  0  ! 

lago.  It  were  a  tedious  difficulty.  I  think. 
To  bring  it*  to  that  prospect.     Damn  them  then, 
Ff  ever  mortal  eyes  do  see  them  bolster, 
More  than  their  own  !     What  then?  how  then? 
What  shall  I  say  ?     Where  's  satisfaction  ? 
Ft  is  impossible  you  should  see  this. 
Were  they  as  prime  as  goats,  as  hot  as  monkeys 
As  salt  as  wolves  in  pride,  and  fools  as  gross 
As  ignorance  made  drunk  :  but  yet,  I  say, 
If  imputation,  and  strong  circumstances, 
Which  lead  directly  to  the  door  of  truth, 
Will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  may'  have  it. 

0th.  Give  me  a  living  reason  she  's  disloyal. 

lago.  I  do  not  like  the  office  ; 
But,  sith  I  am  enter'd  in  this  cause  so  far, 
Prick'd  to  "t  by  foolish  honesty  and  love, 
F  will  go  on.     F  lay  with  Cassio  lately, 
And  being  troubled  with  a  raging  tooth, 
I  could  not  sleep. 

There  arc  a  kind  of  men,  so  loose  of  soul, 
That  in  their  sleeps  will  mutter  their  afl!airs  : 
One  of  this  kind  is  Capsio. 

In  sleep  1  heard  him  say. — "  Sweet  Desdemona, 
[,et  as  be  war>',  let  us  hide  our  loves  !" 
And  then,  sir,  would  he  gripe,  and  wring  my  hand. 
Cry'- — "O.  sweet  creature  !"  and  then  kiss  me  hard, 
As  if  he  pluck'd  up  kisses  by  the  roots. 
That  grew  upon  my  lips  :  then,  laid  his  leg 
Over  my  thigh,  and  sigh'd,  and  ki.«s'd  :  and  then, 
Cned. — "  Cursed  fate,  that  gave  thee  to  the  Moor  !" 

0th.  0  monstrous  !  monstrouB  ! 


lago.  Nay,  this  was  but  his  dream 

Olh.  But  this  denoted  a  foregone  conclusion: 
'T  is  a  shrewd  doubt,  though  it  be  but  a  dream. 

lago.  And  this  may  help  to  thicken  other  proofs. 
That  do  demonstrate  thinly. 

Olh.  I  'II  tear  her  all  to  picee- 

lago.  Nay,  but  be  wise :  yet  we  see  nothing  done 
She  may  be  honest  yet.     Tell  me  but  this: 
Have  you  not  sometimes  seen  a  handkerchief. 
Spotted  with  strawberries,  in  your  wife's  hand  ? 

0th.  I  gave  her  such  a  one  :   't  was  my  first  gift. 

lago.  I  know  not  that:  but  such  a  handkerchiel. 
(I  am  sure  it  was  your  wife's)  did  I  to-day 
See  Cassio  wipe  his  beard  with. 

0th.  If  it  be  that,- 

lago.  If  it  be  that,  or  any  that'  was  hers, 
It  speaks  against  her  wjth  the  other  proofs. 

0th.  0,  that  the  slave  had  forty  thousand  lives  ! 
One  is  too  poor,  too  weak  for  my  revenge. 
Now  do  I  see  't  is  true. — Look  lieie,  lago ; 
All    my  fond    love  thus  do  I  blow  to  heaven  :  't  is 

cone. — 
Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  thy  hollow  cell  !' 
Yield  up,  0  Love  !  thy  crown,  and  hearted  tlirone, 
To  tyraimous  hate  !  swell,  bosom,  with  thy  fraught. 
For  't  is  of  aspics'  tongues  ! 

lago.  Pray,'"  be  content. 

0th.  0,  blood.  lago,  blood  ! 

lago.  Patience,  I    say :    your    mind,  perhaps,  may 
cliange. 

0/A."  Never.  lago.     Like  to  the  Pontick  sea, 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  knows"  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontick,  and  the  Hellespont ; 
Even  so  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace, 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love_ 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge 
Swallow  them  up. — Now,  by  yond'  marble  heaven. 
In  the  due  reverence  of  a  sacred  vow  [Kneeling 

I  here  engage  my  words. 

lago.  Do  not  rise  yet. —  [Kiiecliiifi 

Witness,  you  ever-burning  lights  above  ! 
You  elements  that  clip  us  round  about  ! 
Witness,  that  here  lago  doth  give  up 
The  execution"  of  his  wit,  hands,  heart. 
To  wrong'd  Othello's  service.     Let  him  command. 
And  to  obey  shall  be  in  me  remorse. 
What  bloody  work'*  .soe'er. 

0th.  I  greet  thy  love. 

Not  with  vain  thanks,  but  with  acceptance  bounteoi- 
And  will  upon  the  instant  put  thee  to  't. 
Within  these  three  days  let  me  hear  thee  say. 
That  Cassio  's  not  alive. 

lago.  My  friend  is  dead  .  't  is  done  at  your  request , 
But  let  her  live. 

0th.  Damn  her.  lewd  minx  !     O,  damr  *""  ' 

Come,  go  with  me  apart ;  I  will  withdraw. 
To  furnish  me  with  some  swift  means  of  death 
For  the  fair  devil.     Now  art  thou  my  lieutenant. 

lago.  I  am  your  own  for  ever.  [Exrint 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 
Enter  Desdemona,  E.milia,  and  Cloitni. 
De.f.   Do    you    know,  sirrah,  where    the  lieutenant 
Ca-^sio  lies? 

Clo.  I  dare  not  say,  he  lies^any  ^^here. 
Des.  Why,  man  ? 


'  Not  in  f.  e.  '  forffire  :  in  folio.  •  lov'dgt :  in  folio. 
Ji  folio,  'if 't:  in  folio.  1632.  •  hrll  :  in  folio.  >»  Yet : 
*  •xcellencT  ■  :n  quarto.  IG22.       '♦  "  isiaeuR  :  in  folio. 


my  :  in  folio.      »  supervisor:  in  ijnarto,  1622.      •  them  :  in  f  e       '  ^1*' 
folio.     "  This  speech  to  "  Now,  by,"  is  omitted  in  folio.      '•'  f^U  :    »  >   ' 


SCENE    IV, 


OTHELLO,  THE   MOOR  OF  YEXICE. 


819 


and  for  one   to  say  a  soldier 


Clo.  He  is  a  soldier 
lies,  is  stabbing. 

i)es.  Go  to.     Where  lodges  he  ? 

Cio.  To  tell  you  where  he  lodges,  is  to  tell  you 
where  I  lie.^ 

Des.  Can  any  thing  be  made  of  this  ? 

Clo.  I  know  not  where  he  ledges ;  and  for  me  to 
devise  a  lodging,  and  say.  he  lies  here,  or  he  lies  there, 
were  to  lie  in  mine  own  throat. 

Des.  Can  you  inquire  him  out,  and  be  edified  to 
report  ? 

Clo.  I  will  catechize  the  world  for  him  ;  that  is, 
make  questions,  and  by  them  answer. 

Des.  Seek  him  ;  bid  him  come  hither  :  tell  him,  I 
have  moved  my  lord  in  his  behalf,  and  hope  all  will 
be:  well. 

Clo.  To  do  this  is  within  the  compass  of  man's  wit : 
and  therefore  I  will  attempt  the  doing  it.  [Exit. 

Des.  Where  should  I  lose  that  handkerchief,  Emilia? 

Emil.  I  know  not,  madam. 

Des.  Believe  me,  I  had  rather  have  lost  my  purse 
P'uU  of  cruzadoes" ;  and  but  my  noble  Moor 
is  true  of  mind,  and  made  of  no  such  baseness 
A.S  jealous  creatures  are,  it  were  enough 
To  put  him  to  ill  thinking. 

Emil.  Is  he  not  jealous  ? 

Des.  Who  ?  he  !  I  think  the  sun,  where  he  was  born, 
Drew  all  such  humours  from  him. 

Emil.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Enter  Othello. 

Des.  I  will  not  leave  him  now,  till  Cassio 
Be  call'd  to  him. — How  is  "t  with  you.  my  lord? 

0th.  Well,  my  good  lady. — [Aside.]  0,  hardness  to 
dissemble  ! — 
How  do  you,  Desdemona  ? 

Des.  Well,  my  good  lord. 

0th.  Give  me  your  hand.     This  hand  is  moist,  my 
lady. 

Des.  It  yet^  hath  felt  no  age,  nor  known  no  sorrow. 

0th.  This  argties  fruitful ness.  and  liberal  heart. 
Hot,  hot  and  moist  :  this  hand  of  yours  requires 
.\  requester  from  liberty,  fasting  and  praying,* 
Much  castigation,  exercise  devout; 
Ft  here  's  a  young  and  sweating  devil  here. 
That  commonly  rebels.     '"T  is  a  good  hand  ; 
A  frank  one. 

Des.  You  may.  indeed,  say  so  : 

For  't  was  that  hand  that  gave  away  my  heart. 

0th.  A  liberal  hand :  the  hearts  of  old  gave  hands. 
But  our  new  heraldry  is — hands,  not  hearts. 

Des.  I    cannot    speak    of    this.     Come    now,  your 
promise. 

0th.  What  promise,  chuck  ? 

Des.  I  have  sent  to  bid  Cassio  come  speak  with  you. 

0th.  I  have  a  salt  and  sudden'  rheum  offends  me. 
Lend  me  thy  handkerchief. 

Des.  Here,  my  lord.  [Offering  it.* 

0th.  That  which  I  gave  you. 

Des.  I  have  it  not  about  me. 

Oth.  Not? 

Des.  No.  indeed,  mv  lord. 

Oth.  That  is  a  fault. 

That  handkerchief 
Did  an  Egx-ptian  to  my  mother  give; 
She  was  a  charmer,  and  could  almost  read 
The  thoughts  of  people  :  she  told  her,  while  she  kept  it, 
'T  wouldmake  her  amiable   and  subdue  my  father 


iThi 
Not 


rhis  and  the  next  speecK.  are  not  in  quarto,  lfi9-2.  »  .4  Portuguese  gotdco 
:  in  f  e.  "  Tviv'd  :  in  folio.  «  mak»  :  in  quarto,  '"'iaa.  »  ■w;th  the  skilfi 
us  and  the  next  speech,  are  not  in  foho      '=  Zounds  :  :  in  quarto,  16->2.     " 


Entirely  to  her  love  ;  but  if  she  lost  it, 

Or  made  a  gift  of  it.  my  father's  eye 

Should  hold  her  loathed,  and  his  .spirits  should  hunl 

After  new  fancies.     She,  dying,  gave  it  me  ; 

And  bid  me,  when  my  fate  would  have  me  wive,* 

To  give  it  her.     I  did  so;  and  take  heed  on  't: 

Make  it  a  darling  like  your  precious  eye  : 

To  lose  or  give  't  away  were  such  perdition. 

As  nothing  else  could  match. 

Des.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Oth.  '1  is  true  :  there  'b  magic  in  the  w('b  of  it. 
A  sibyl,  that  had  number'd  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  course'  two  hundred  compa.<ses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work ; 
The  worms  were  ha!low"d  that  did  breed  the  silk, 
And  it  was  dyed  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Conserv'd'  of  maidens'  hearts. 

Des.  Indeed  !  is  t  true  ? 

Oth.  Most  veritable;  therefore  look  to  't  well. 

Des.  Then,  would  to  heaven  that  I  had  never  seen  it ! 

Oth.  Ha!  wherefore? 

Des.  Why  do  you  speak  so  startingly  and  ra.«h  ? 

Oth.  Is  't  lost  ?  is  't  gone  ?  speak,  is  it  out  o'  the  way  "• 

Des.  Heaven  bless  us  ! 

Oth.  Say  you? 

Des.  It  is  not  lost :  but  what  an  if  it  were  ? 

Oth.  How? 

Des.  I  say,  it  is  not  lost. 

Oth.  '  Fetch  H.  let  me  see  "t. 

Des.  Why.  so  I  can.  sir  ;'*  but  I  will  not  now. 
This  is  a  trick  to  put  me  from  my  suit : 
I  pray,  let  Cassio  be  receiv'd  again. 

Oth.  Fetch  me  that"  handkerchief:    my  mind  mi.-*- 

Des.  Come,  come  ;  [give*. 

You'll  never  meet  a  more  sufficient  man. 

Oth.  The  handkerchief,— 

Des.  I  pray,  talk  me  of  Cassio.' 

Oth.  The  handkerchief,— 

Des.  A  man  that,  all  his  time. 

Hath  founded  his  good  fortunes  on  your  love  : 
Sliar'd  dangers  with  you  ; — 

Oth.  The  handkerchief— 

Des.  In  sooth,  vou  are  to  blame. 

Oth.  Away  !"  '  [Exit  Othello. 

Emil.  Is  not  this  man  jealous  ? 

Des.  I  ne'er  saw  this  before. 
'  Sure,  there  's  some  wonder  in  this  handkerchief : 
1 1  am  most  unhappy  in  the  loss  of  it. 
I      Emil.  'T  is  not  a  year  or  two  shows  us  a  man  : 
They  are  all  but  stomachs,  and  we  all  but  food ; 
They  eat  us  hungerly.  and  when  they  are  full. 
They  belch  us. 
I  Enter  Iago  and  Cassio. 

Look  you  !  Cassio.  and  my  husband 
j  Iago.  There  is  no  other  way  :  't  is  she  must  do  "t : 
And.  lo,  the  happiness  !  go.  and  importune  her. 

Des.  How  now.  good  Cassio  !  what  "s  the  ne\N-s  ^ith 
j  you  ? 

Cas.  Madam,  my  former  suit.     I  do  beseech  you. 
That  by  your  virtuous  means  I  may  again 
'  Exist,  and  be  a  member  of  his  lo\e. 
Whom  I.  with  all  the  office'*  of  my  heart, 
,  Entirely  honour:  I  would  not  be  deiayd. 
\  If  my  offence  be  of  such  mortal  kind. 
I  That  nor  my  service  past,  nor  present  .sorrows, 
Nor  purpos'd  merit  in  futurity, 
i  Can  ransom  me  into  his  love  again, 

..„.  coin.      '  Not  in  folio.      •  prav^r  :  in  fobo.      •  rillen  :  i»  f.  e 
skilful  consen-es :  in  quarto.      >•  Not  in  fdio.        »  the  :  :■  felin 
duty  :  in  quarto,  16"22- 


820 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR   OF   VEJSICE. 


But  to  know  80  must  be  my  ber.cfit  ;  | 

So  shall  I  clothe  ine  in  a  forcd  content, 
And  shift'  myself  upon*  some  other  course, 
To  fortune's  alms. 

Pes.  Alas  I  thrice-gentle  Cassio, 

My  advocation  is  not  now  in  tune ; 
My  lord  is  not  my  lord  :  nor  should  I  know  him, 
Were  he  in  favour,  as  in  humour,  alter'd. 
So  help  me  every  spirit  sanctified, 
As  I  have  spoken  lor  you  all  my  best, 
And  stood  within  the  blank  of  his  displeasure. 
For  my  free  speech.     You  must  a  wliile  be  patient : 
What  I  can  do.  I  will ;  and  more  I  will, 
Than  for  myself  I  dare  :  let  that  suffice  you. 

lago.  Is  my  lord  angry  ? 

Emil.  He  went  hence  but  now ; 

And.  certainly,  in  strange  unquietness. 

lago.  Can  he'  be  angry  ?     I  have  seen  the  cannon, 
When  it  hath  blown  his  ranks  into  the  air, 
And,  like  the  devil,  from  his  very  arm 
PufTd  his  own  brother  : — and  can  he  be  angry? 
Something  of  moment,  then  :  I  will  go  meet  him. 
There  "s  matter  in  "t.  indeed,  if  he  be  angry. 

Des.  I   pr'ythee.  do  so.      [Exit  Iago.] — Something,  | 
sure,  of  state, — 
Kither  from  Venice,  or  some  unhatch'd  practice. 
Made  demon.'itrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him. — 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit ;  and,  in  such  cases. 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things. 
Though  great  ones  are  their  object.     'T  is  even  so ; 
For  let  our  finger  ache,  and  it  indues 
<  )ur  other  healthful  members  ev'n  to  that  sense 
Of  pain  :  naj^we  must  think,  men  are  not  gods  ; 
.Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances* 
As  fit  the  bridal. — Beshrew  me  much.  Emilia_ 
f  was  (unhandsome  warrior  as  I  am) 
Arraigning  his  unkindness  with  my  soul ; 
But  now  I  find.  I  had  .suborn'd  the  witness, 
-And  he  "s  indicted  falsely. 

Emil.  Pray  heaven,  it  be  state  matters,  as  you  think, 
And  no  conception,  nor  no  jealous  toy, 
Concerning  you. 

Des.  Alas,  the  day  !     I  never  gave  him  cause. 

Emil.  But  jealous  souls  will  not  be  answer'd  so  ; 
They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  a  cause, 
But  jealous  for  they  are  jealous  :   't  is  a  monster. 
Besot  upon  itself,  born  on  itself. 

De.t.  Heaven  keep  that  monster  from  Othello's  mind  ! 

Emil.  Ladv.  amen. 


Des.  I  will  go  seek  him. — Ca.ssio,  walk  hereabout. 
If  I  do  find  him  fit.  I  '11  move  your  suit, 
And  seek  to  efi'ect  it  to  my  uttermost. 

Cas.  I  humbly  thank  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  Dksde.mona  and  Emilia 
Enter  Bianca. 

Bian.   Save  you,  friend  Cassio  ! 

Cas.  What  make  you  from  home  ? 

How  is  it  with  you,  my  most  fair  Bianca? 
I'  faith,  sweet  love,  I  was  coming  to  your  house. 

Bian.  And  I  was  going  to  your  lodging,  Cassio. 
What,  keep  a  week  away?  seven  days  and  nights? 
Eight  score  eight  hours  ?  and  lovers'  absent  hours 
More  tedious  than  the  dial  eight  score  times  ? 

0  weary  reckoning  ! 

Cas.  Pardon  me,  Bianca  ; 

1  have  this  while  with  leaden  thoughts  been  press'd; 

But  I  shall,  in  a  more  convenient'  time.  M 

Strike  off  this  score  of  absence.     Sweet  Bianca, 

[Giving  her  Desdemona's  Handkerchief. 
Take  me  this  work  out. 

Bian.  0,  Cassio  !  whence  came  this? 

This  is  some  token  from  a  newer  friend : 
To  the  felt  absence,  now,  I  feel  a  cause. 
Is  it  come  to  this  ?     Well.  well. 

Cas.  Go  to,  woman  ! 

Throw  your  vile  guesses  in  the  devil's  teeth. 
From  whence  you  have  them.     You  are  jealous,  now, 
That  this  is  from  some  mistress  some  remembrance : 
No,  in  good  troth,  Bianca. 

Bian.  Why,  whose  is  it  ? 

Cas.  I  know  not,  .sweet  :*  I  found  it  in  my  chamber. 
I  like  the  work  well ;  ere  it  be  demanded. 
(As  like  enough  it  will)  I  'd  have  it  copied  : 
Take  it,  and  do  't ;  and  leave  me  for  this  time. 

Bian.  Leave  you  !   wherefore? 

Cas.  I  do  attend  here  on  the  general, 
And  think  it  no  addition,  nor  my  wish, 
To  have  him  see  me  woman'd. 

Bian.  Why,  I  pray  you  ?' 

Cas.  Not  that  I  love  you  not. 

Bian.  But  that  you  do  not  love  me 

I  pray  you,  bring  me  on  the  way  a  little ; 
And  say,  if  I  shall  see  you  soon  at  night. 

Cas.  'T  is  but  a  little  way,  that  I  can  bring  you, 
For  I  attend  here ;  but  1  '11  see  you  soon. 

Bian.  'T  is  very  good  :  I  must  be  circumstanc'd. 

[Exetmt 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  r.— The  Same. 
Enter  Othello  and  Iago. 

Inso.  Will  you  think  .so? 

'Xh.  Think  so.  Iago? 

fagn.  "  What, 

To  ki.«s  in  private  ? 

Otk.  An  unauthoriz'd  kiss. 

lago    Or  to  be  naked  with  her  friend  abed. 
An  hour,  or  more,  not  meaning  any  harm  ? 

0th.  Naked  abed,  Iago.  and  not  mean  harm  ? 
It  is  hypocrisy  again.st  the  devil : 
They  that  mean  virtuously,  and  yet  do  so. 
The  devil  their  ^^rtue  tempts,  and  they  tempt  heaven. 


•  §001 :  in  f.  e.    '  up  in  :  in  f.  e.     '  And  i«  :  in  folio.    ♦  observancy  :  in  folio,     'continuate:  info! 
•.if  aaxt  ip«ecb   are  nr<  m  -naito,  1622.     « infectious  :  in  folio. 


[ago.   If  they  do  nothing,  't  is  a  venial  ."^lip 
But  if  I  irive  mv  wife  a  handkerchief. — 

(M.  What  then? 

Iago.  Why.  then  't  is  hers,  my  lord  :  and,  being  rtcr* 
She  may.  I  think,  bestow  't  on  any  man. 

0th.  She  is  protectress  of  her  honour  too: 
May  she  irive  that  ? 

Iago.  Her  honour  is  an  essence  that 's  not  seen  ; 
They  have  it  very  oft.  that  have  it  not: 
Rut.' for  the  liandkerrtiief, — 

Olh.  By  heaven.  I  would  most  gladly  have  forgot  it 
Thou  saiiist. — 0  !  it  comes  o'er  my  memory. 
As  doth  the  raven  o'er  the  infected"  house, 
Boding  to  all, — he  had  my  handkerchief. 

leitner:  in  fol.o.      '  Thti  »n' 


SCENE   I, 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  YEI^ICE. 


821 


lago    Ay.  what  of  that  ?  ;  Cassio  came  hither  :  I  shifted  him  away, 

0th.  That 's  not  so  good,  now.    And  laid  good  'scuse  upon  your  ecsta-^y  : 

lago.  What,  if  I  had  said,  I  had  seen  him  do  you   Bade  him  anon  return,  and  here  speak  wth  me 


wTon 

Or  lieard  him  say, — as  knaves  be  such  abroad, 
Who  having,  by  their  own  importunate  suit. 
Or  voluntary  dotage  of  some  mistress. 
Convinced  or  supplied  them,  cannot  choose 
But  they  must  blab^ 

0th.  Hath  he  said  any  thing  ? 

lago.  He  hath,  my  lord ;  but  be  you  well  as.surd, 
No  more  than  he  '11  unswear. 

0th.  What  hath  he  said  ? 

logo.  'Faith,  that  he  did. — I  know  not  what  he  did. 

0th.  What?  what? 

lago.  Lie — 

0th.  With  her? 

laoro.  With  her,  on  her  ;  what  you  will. 

0th.  Lie  with  her  !  lie  on  her  ! — We  say,  lie  on  her, 
when  they  belie  her.  Lie  with  her  !  that's  fulsome. — 
Handkerchief, — confessions, — handkerchief  ! — To  con- 
fess, and  be  hanged  for  his  labour. — First,  to  be  hanged, 
and  then  to  confess: — I  tremble  at  it.  Nature  would 
not  invest  herself  in  such  shuddering'  passion  without 
some  instruction.  It  is  not  words,  that  shake  me  thus  : 
— Pish  ! — Noses,  ears,  and  lips. — Is  it  possible? — Con- 
fess ! — Handkerchief! — 0  devil ! —  [Falls  in  a  Trance. 

lago.  Work  on, 
My  medicine,  work  !  Thus  credulous  fools  are  caught ; 
And  many  worthy  and  chaste  dames,  even  thus, 
All  guiltless,  meet  reproach. — What,  ho  !  my  lord  ! 

Enter  Cassio. 
My  lord,  I  say  !     Othello  ! — How  now,  Cassio  ! 

Cas.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

lago.  My  lord  is  fallen  into  an  epilepsy  : 
This  is  his  second  fit ;  he  had  one  yesterday. 

Cas.  Rub  him  about  the  temples. 

lago.  No.  forbear.' 

The  lethargy  must  have  his  quiet  course, 
If  not,  he  foams  at  mouth  ;  and,  by  and  by, 
Breaks  out  to  savage  madness.     Look,  he  siirs  : 
Do  you  withdraw  yourself  a  little  while, 
He  will  recover  straight :  when  he  is  gone, 
I  would  on  great  occasion  speak  with  you. — 

[Exit  Cassio. 
How  is  it,  general  ?  have  you  not  hurt  your  head  ? 

0th.  Dost  thou  mock  me  ? 

lago.  I  mock  you  !  no,  by  heaven. 

Would  you  would  bear  your  fortunes  like  a  man. 

0th.  A  horned  man  's  a  monster,  and  a  beast. 

h^o.  There  's  many  a  beast,  then,  in  a  populous  city, 
"^nd  many  a  civil  monster. 

0th.  Did  he  confess  it? 

[ago.  Good  sir.  be  a  man ; 

Think,  every  bearded  fellow,  that 's  but  yok'd, 
May  draw  with  you  :  there  's  millions  now  alive, 
riiat  nightly  lie  in  those  unproper  beds, 
I    Which  they  dare  swear  peculiar  :  your  case  is  better. 
I   0  !  'tis  the  spite  of  hell,  the  fiend's  arch-mock, 
'   To  lip  a  wanton  in  a  secure  couch, 
j    And  to  suppose  her  chaste.     No,  let  me  know  ; 
I   And,  knowing  what  I  am,  I  know  what  she  shall  be. 
i       0th.  0!  thou  art  wise;  'tis  certain. 
I       lago.  Stand  you  awhile  apart ; 
.  Confine  yourself  but  in  a  patient  list,* 
Wnilst  you  were  here,  o'erwhelm'd*  with  your  grief, 
[A  passion  most  unfitting*  such  a  man) 


Tlie  which  he  promis'd.     But  encave  yourself, 
And  mark  the  fleers,  the  gibes,  and  notable  sconu, 
That  dwell  in  every  region  of  hi.*;  face; 
For  I  will  make  him  tell  the  tale  anew. 
Where,  how.  how  oft,  how  long  ago.  and  wlien 
He  hath,  and  is  again  to  cope  your  wife  : 
I  say,  but  mark  his  gesture. — Marry,  patience , 
Or  I  shall  say,  you  are  all-in-all  in  spleen, 
And  nothing  of  a  man. 

Oth.  Dost  thou  hear,  lago  ? 

I  will  be  found  most  cunning  in  my  patience ; 
But  (dost  thou  hear  ?)  most  bloody. 

lago.  That's  not  amiss, 

But  yet  keep  time  in  all.     Will  you  withdraw  ? 

[Othello  retirts 
Now  will  I  question  Cassio  of  Bianca, 
A  housewife,  that  by  selling  her  desires, 
Buys  herself  bread  and  clothes  :  it  is  a  creature. 
That  dotes  on  Cassio,  as  'tis  the  strumpet's  plague.. 
To  beguile  many,  and  be  beguil'd  by  one. 
He,  when  he  hears  of  her,  cannot  refrain' 
From  the  excess  of  laughter; — here  he  come*. — 

Re-enter  Cassio. 
As  he  shall  smile.  Othello  shall  go  mad  ; 
And  his  unbookish  jealousy  must  construe 
Poor  Cassio's  smiles,  gestures,  and  light  behaviour. 
Quite  in  the  wrong. — How  do  you  now,  lieutenant' 

Cas.  The  worser,  that  you  give  me  the  addition, 
Whose  want  even  kills  me. 

lago.  Ply  Desdemona  well,  and  you  are  sure  on  't. 
Now.  if  this  suit  lay  in  Bianca's  power,  [Speaking  lower 
How  quickly  should  you  speed  ? 

Cas.  Alas,  poor  caitiff ! 

Oth.  Look,  how  he  lauahs  already  !  [Asi(U 

lago.  I  never  knew  woman  love  man  so. 

Cas.  Alas,  poor  rogue  !  I  think,  i'  faith,  she  loves  mi 

Oth.  Now  he  denies  it  faintly,  and  laughs  it  out. 

[Aside 

lago.  Do  you  hear,  Cassio? 

Oth.  Now  he  importunes  hiti. 

To  tell  it  o'er.     Go  to:  well  said,  well  said.       [Aside 

lago.  She  gives  it  out,  that  you  shall  marry  her  : 
Do  you  intend  it  ? 

Cas.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Oth.  Do  you  triumph  o'er  me  ?*  do  you  triumph  ? 

[Aside 

Cas.  I  maTTy  her  ! — what,  a  customer  ?  I  pr  jiliee. 
bear  some  charity  to  my  wit ;  do  not  think  it  is  so  un- 
wholesome.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Oth.  So.  so,  so,  so.     They  laugh  that  win.      [Aside 

lao-o.  'Faith,  the  cry  goes,  that  you  shall  marry  her. 

Cas.  Pr'ythee.  say  true. 

laso.  1  am  a  very  villain  else. 

0?A.  Have  you  scored  me?     Well.  [Aside 

Cas.  This  is  (he  monkey's  own  giving  out  :  she  i 
persuaded  I  will  marry  her,  out  of  her  own  love  and 
flattery,  not  out  of  my  promise. 

Oth.  lago  beckons  me  ;  now  he  begins  the  story. 

[A.fide. 

Cas.  She  was  here  even  now  :  she  haunt.s  me  in 
every  place.  I  wa.<!.  the  other  day.  talking  on  the  sea- 
bank  with  certain  Venetians,  and  thither  comes  th> 
bauble  ;  and,  by  this  hand,  she  falls  me  thus  about  mv 
neck  : — 


>  The  rest  >f  ihe  speech  is  not  in  quarto,  16i22.      "  shadowing  :  in  f  e.      '  The^e  wor.ls  are  not  i 
II  .Nno,  les.      6  So  quarto     130  ;  nnsuiting  :  in  quarto,  ll.-"  ;  resuiting :  in  folio.       ^  restrain  . 

n  f.  e 


folio. 


♦  Limit.     •  en  while  m&J  :  i 
'  Do  you  triumph,  Romui  ! 


829. 


OTHELLO,   THE   MOOR   OF   VENICE. 


0th.  Crying,  Odear  Cassio  !  as  it  were  :  his  gesture 
imports  it.  [Aside. 

Cos.  So  hangs',  and  lolls,  and  weeps  upon  me  ;  so 
hales,  and  pulls  me  ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! — 

Otk.  Now  he  tells,  hiow  she  plucked  him  to  my 
chamber.  0  1  I  see  that  nose  of  yours,  but  not  that 
doe  I  shall  throw  it  to.  [Aside. 

Cos.  Well,  I  must  leave  her  company. 

lago.  Before  me  !  look  where  she  comes. 
Enter  BiANCA. 

Cas.  "T  is  such  another  fitchew  !  marry,  a  perfumed 
nne. — What  do  you  mean  by  this  haunting  of  me? 

Bian.  Let  the  devil  and  his  dam  haunt  you  !  What 
did  you  mean  by  that  same  handkerchief,  you  gave  me 
even  now  ?  I  was  a  fine  fool  to  take  it.  I  mu.st  take 
.»ut  the  work ! — A  likely  piece  of  work,  that  you 
should  find  it  in  your  chamber,  and  know  not  who  left 
It  there.  This  is  some  minx's  token,  and  I  must  take 
out  tlie  work  ?  There,  give  it  your  hobby-horse :  where- 
soever you  had  it,  I  '11  take  out  no  work  on  't. 

Cas.  How  now,  my  sweet  Bianca  !  how  now,  how 
now  ! 

0th.  By  heaven,  that  should  be  my  handkerchief ! 

[Aside. 

Bian.  An  you  '11  come  to  supper  to-night,  you  may  : 
an  you  will  not,  come  when  you  are  next  prepared  for. 

[Exit. 

lago.  After  her,  after  her. 

Cas.  "Faith,  I  must ;  she  "11  rail  in  the  street  else. 

lago.  Will  you  sup  there  ? 

Cas.  Taith,  I  intend  so. 

lago.  Well,  I  may  chance  to  see  you.  for  I  would 
very  fain  speak  with  you. 

Cos.  Pr'ythee,  come;  will  you? 

lago.  Go  to;  say  no  more.  [Exit  Cassio.' 

0th.  [Advancing.]   How  shall  I  murder  him.  lago  ? 

lago.  Did  you  perceive  how  he  laughed  at  his  vice  ? 

0th.  0,  lago  ! 

ligo.  And  did  you  see  the  handkerchief? 

0th.  Was  that  mine  ? 

lago.  Yours,  by  this  hand  :  and  to  see  how  he  prizes 
the  foolish  woman  your  wife  !  she  gave  it  him,  and  he 
hath  given  it  his  whore. 

0th.  I  would  have  him  nine  years  a  killing. — A  fuie 
woman  !  a  fair  woman  !  a  sweet  woman  ! 

la^o.  Nay.  you  must  forget  that. 

0th.  Ay,  let  her  rot,  and  perish,  and  be  damned  to- 
uight,  for  she  shall  not  live.  No,  my  heart  is  turned 
to  stone  :  I  strike  it,  and  it  hurts  my  hand.  0  !  the 
world  hath  not  a  sweeter  creature  :  she  might  lie  by  an 
emperor's  side,  and  command  him  tasks. 

lago.  .\ay,  that  s  not  your  way. 

0th.  Hang  her  !  I  do  but  say  what  she  is. — So  deli- 
cate with  her  needle  I — An  admirable  musician  !  0  ! 
she  will  sing  the  savageness  out  of  a  bear. — Of  so  high 
ind  plenteous  wit  and  invention  ! — 

Itfro.  She  's  the  worse  for  all  this. 

Oth.  0  !  a  thousand'  thousand  times.  And  then,  of 
K  gentle  a  condition. 

lago    Ay,  too  gentle. 

Oth.  Nay,  that's  certain: — but  yet  the  pity  of  it, 
lago  ! — O,  lago  !  the  pity  of  it,  lago  ! 

lago.  If  you  are  so  fond  over  her  iniquity,  give  her 
patent  to  offend ;  for  if  it  touch  not  you,  it  comes  near 
nobody. 

Oth.  I  will  chop  her  into  mes-ses. — Cuckold  me  ! 

lago.  0  !  "t  is  foul  in  her. 

Oth.  With  mine  officer  ! 

lago.  That 's  fouler. 


Oth.  Get  me  some  poison,  lago;  this  night: — II' 
not  expostulate  with  her,  lest  her  body  and  beauty  un 
provide  my  mind  again.     This  night.  lago. 

lago.  Do  it  not  with  poison,  strangle  her  m  her  bed 
even  the  bed  she  hath  contaminated. 

Oth.  Good,  good ;  the  justice  of  it  pleases :  verj 
good. 

lago.  And  for  Cassio,  let  me  be  his  undertaker 
You  siiall  hear  more  by  midnight.    [A  Trumpet  within 

Oth.  Excellent  good. — What  trumpet  is  that  same ':^ 

lago.  Something  from  Venice,  sure.     'T  is  Lodovico, 
Come  from  the  duke  ;  and,  see,  your  wife  is  with  hirn. 
Enter  Lodovico,  Desde.mona,  and  Attendants. 

Lod.  'Save  you,  worthy  general  ! 

Oth  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Lod.  The  duke  and  senators  of  Venice  greet  you. 

[Giving  him  a  Packet. 

Oth.  I  kiss  the  instrument  of  their  pleasures. 

[Opens  the  Packet.,  and  reads. 

Des.  And  what 's  the  news,  good  cousin  Lodovico  ? 

lago.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  signior  : 
Welcome  to  Cyprus. 

Lod.  I  thank  you.     How  does  lieutenant  Cassio  ? 

lago.  Lives,  sir. 

Dcs.  Cousin,  there  's  fallen  between  him  and  my  lord 
An  unkind  breach,  but  you  shall  make  all  well. 

Oth.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

Dcs.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.  ''  This  fail  you  not  to  do,  as  you  M-ill" — [Tvffli'iag 

Lod.  He  did  not  call  ;  he  's  busy  in  the  paper. 
Is  there  division  'twixt  my  lord  and  Cassio? 

Des.  A  most  unliappy  one  :  I  would  do  much 
To  atone*  them,  for  the  love  I  bear  to  Cassio. 

Oth.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Des.  My  lord  "^ 

Oth.  Are  you  wise' 

Des.  What  !   is  he  angry  ? 

Lod.  May  be.  the  letter  mov'd  him  ; 

For,  as  I  think,  they  do  command  him  home, 
Dcputiiis  Cassio  in  his  government. 

Des.  By  my  troth,  I  am  glad  on  't. 

Oth.  Indeed. 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  mad. 

Des.  How,  sweet  Othello? 

Oth.  Devil  !  [Striking  her 

Des.  I  have  not  deserv'd  this. 

Lod.  My  lord,  this  would  not  be  believ'd  in  Venioa 
Though  I  .should  swear  I  saw  it.     'T  is  very  much , 
Make  her  amends,  she  weeps. 

Oth.  0  devil,  devil  ! 

If  that  the  earth  could  teem  with  woman's  tears. 
Each  drop  she  falls  would  prove  a  crocodile. — 
Out  of  my  sight  ! 

Des.  I  will  not  stay  to  offend  you.     [Gomg 

Lod.  Truly  an  obedient  lady. — 
I  do  beseech  your  lordship,  call  her  back. 

Oth.  Mistress  ! 

Dcs.  My  lord  ? 

Olh.  What  would  you  with  her,  sir? 

Lod.  Who,  I,  my  lord  ? 

Oth.  Ay  ;  you  did  wish,  that  I  would  make  her  turn, 
Sir.  she  can  turn,  and  turn,  and  yet  go  on, 
And  turn  anain :  and  .she  can  weep,  sir,  weep  ; 
And  she  's  obedient,  as  you  say, — obedient. — 
Very  obedient. — Proceed  you  in  your  tears. — 
Concerning  this,  sir. — 0  well-painted  passion  ! 
I  am  commanded  home. — Get  you  away ; 
I  '11  send  for  you  anon. — Sir,  I  obey  the  mandate 


'  (hakes  :  in  folio. 


Folio  inserts  :  a.     ♦  Reconcile. 


SCENE   II 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


823 


And  will  return  to  Venice. — Hence  !  avaunt ! 

[Exit  Desdemona. 
Ossio  shall  have  my  place.     And. — sir,  to-night, 
I  do  intreat  that  we  may  sup  together  : 
You  are  welcome,  sir,  to  Cyprus. — Goats  and  monkies  ! 

[Exit. 

Lod.  Is  this  the  noble  Moor  whom  our  full  senate 
Call  all-in-all  sufficient  ? — This  the  noble'  nature 
Whom  passion  could  not  shake  ?  whose  solid  virtue 
The  shot  of  accident,  nor  dart  of  chance. 
Could  neither  graze,  nor  pierce  ? 

lugo.  He  is  much  chang'd, 

Lod.  Are  his  wits  safe  ?  is  he  not  light  of  brain  ? 

lago.  He 's  that  he  is  :  I  may  not  breathe  my  censure. 
What  he  might  be, — if,  what  he  might,  he  is  not, 
1  would  to  heaven,  he  were. 

Lod.  What  !  strike  his  wife  ? 

lago.  'Faith,  that  was  not  so  well ;  yet  would  I  knew, 
That  stroke  would  prove  the  worst. 

Lod.  Is  it  his  use  ? 

Or  did  the  letters  work  upon  his  blood, 
And  new-create  this  fault? 

lago.  Alas,  alas  ! 

It  is  not  honesty  in  me,  to  speak 

What  I  have  seen  and  known.    You  shall  observe  him  ; 
And  his  own  courses  will  denote  him  so. 
That  I  may  save  my  speech.     Do  but  go  after. 
And  mark  how  he  continues. 

Loil.  I  am  sorry,  that  I  am  deceiv'd  in  him.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Othello  and  Emilia. 

0th.  You  have  seen  nothing  then  ? 

Emil.  Nor  ever  heard ;  nor  ever  did  suspect. 

0th.  Yes,  you  have  seen  Cas.sio  and  her  together. 

Emil.  But  then  I  saw  no  harm ;  and  then  I  heard 
Fach  syllable  that  breath  made  up  between  them. 

Oth.  What !  did  they  never  whisper  ? 

Emil.  Never,  my  lord. 

Oth.  Nor  send  you  out  of  the  way  ? 

Emil.  Never. 

Oth.  To  fetch   her  fan,  her  gloves,  her  mask,  nor 
nothing  ? 

Emil.  Never,  my  lord. 

Oth.  That 's  strange. 

Ernil.  I  durst,  my  lord,  to  wager  she  is  honest, 
Lay  down  my  soul  at  stake  :  if  you  think  other, 
Remove  ynur  thought ;  it  doth  abuse  your  bosom. 
If  any  wretch  have  put  this  in  your  head, 
Let  heaven  requite  it  with  the  serpent's  curse, 
For  if  she  be  not  honest,  chaste,  and  true, 
There  's  no  man  happy ;  the  purest  of  their  wives" 
Is  foul  as  slander. 

Oth.         Bid  her  come  hither  :— go,—  [Exit  Emilia. 
She  says  enough  ; — yet  she  's  a  simple  bawd, 
That  caiuiot  say  as  much. — This  is  a  subtle  whore. 
A  closet-lock-and-key  of  villainous  secrets  : 
.ind  yet  slie  '11  kneel,  and  pray  :  I  have  seen  her  do  't. 
Re-enter  Emilia,  with  Desdemona. 

Des.  My  lord,  what  is  your  will  ? 

Oth.  Pray,  chuck,  come  hither. 

Des.  What  is  your  pleasure  ? 

Oth.  Let  me  see  your  eyes : 

Look  in  rcy  face. 

Des.  What  horrible  fancy  is  this  ? 

Oth.  Borne  of  your  function,  mistress;    [To  Emilia. 
Leave  pi-ocreants  alone,  and  shut  the  door ; 


»  Not  in  folio.  »  her  sex  :  in  quarto,  16i2.  ^  knees  :  in  f.  e. 
folio.  8  N  ,t  in  quartos.  «  time  :  in  f.  e.  lo  slow,  unraoving  ; 
In  quail  <»  This  and  the  next  two  lines,  are  not  in  quarto,  1< 


Cough,  or  cry  hem,  if  any  body  come  : 

Your  mystery,  your  mystery  j — nay,  despatcli. 

[Exit  Emilia 

Des.  Upon  my  knee,'  what  doth  your  speecli  itnpoit  ? 
I  understand  a  fury  in  your  words,  [Kneel.s.* 

But  not  the  words.' 

Oth.  Why,  what  art  thou  ' 

Des.  Your  wfe,  my  lord  ;  your  trj^ 

And  loyal  wife.  [Risen" 

Oth.  Come,  swear  it.  damn  thyself; 

Lest,  being  like  one  of  heaven,  the  devils  themselves 
Should  fear  to  seize  thee  :  therefore,  be  double-damn'd 
Swear  thou  art  hone-st. 

Des.  Heaven  doth  truly  know  it. 

Oth.  Heaven  truly  knows,  that  thou  art  false  as  hell. 

Des.  To  whom,  my  lord  ?  with  wliom  ?  How  am  I  false? 

Oth.  0  Desdemona  ! — away,  away,  away  ! 

Des.  Alas,  the  heavy  day  ! — Why  do  you  weep  ? 
Am  I  the  occasion'  of  these  tears,  my  lord  ? 
If,  haply,  you  my  father  do  suspect 
An  instrument  of  this  your  calling  back, 
Lay  not  your  blame  on  me  :  if  you  have  lost  him. 
Why,  I  have  lost  him  too. 

Oth.  Had  it  pleas'd  heaven 

To  try  me  with  affliction ;  had  he  rain'd 
All  kinds  of  sores,  and  shames,  on  my  bare  head  ; 
Steep'd  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips  ; 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  utmost*  hopes  ; 
I  should  have  found  in  some  part  of  my  soul 
A  drop  of  patience :  but,  alas  !  to  make  me 
A  fixed  figure,  for  the  hand'  of  scorn 
To  point  his  slowly  moving'"  finger  at; 
Yet  could  I  bear  that  too  ;  well,  very  well : 
But  there,  where  I  have  garnerd  up  my  lieart, 
Where  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life, 
The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs 
Or  else  dries  up ;  to  be  discarded  thence. 
Or  keep  it  as  a  cistern,  for  foul  toads 
To  knot  and  gender  in  ! — turn  thy  complexion  there, 
Patience,  thou  young  and  rose-lipp'd  cherubin  ; 
Ay,  there."  look  grim  as  hell  ! 

Des.  I  hope,  my  noble  lord  esteems  me  honest. 

Oth.  0!  ay  ;  as  summer  flies  are  in  the  shamblef, 
That  quicken  even  with  blowing.     0  thou"  weed  I 
Who"  art  so  lovely  fair,  and  smell'st  so  .sweet, 
That  the  sense  aches  at  thee,  would  thou  hadst  ne'ei 
been  born  ! 

Des.  Alas  !  what  ignorant  sin  liave  I  committed  ? 

Oth.  Was  this  fair  paper,  this  most  goodly  book. 
Made  to  write  whore  upon  ?     What  committed  ? 
Committed  ? — O  thou  public  commoner  !'♦ 
I  should  make  very  for;;es  of  my  cheeks, 
That  would  to  cinders  burn  up  modesty. 
Did  I  but  speak  thy  deeds. — What  committed  ? 
Heaven  stops  the  nose  at  it,  and  the  moon  winks  . 
The  bawdy  wind,  that  kisses  all  it  meets. 
Is  hush'd  within  the  hollow  mine  of  earth, 
And  will  not  hear  it.     What  committed  ?— 
Impudent  strumpet  !" 

Des.  By  heaven  you  do  me  wron^ 

Oth.  Are  not  you  a  strumpet  ? 

j)cs.  No.  as  I  am  a  Christi«»n 

If  to  preserve  this  vessel  for  my  lord. 
From  any  other,"  foul,  unlawful  touch. 
Be  not  to  be  a  strumpet,  I  am  none. 

Oth.  What,  not  a  whore  ? 

2)e5.  No,  as  I  shall  be  saved. 


■  bate<!  :  is  quarto,  162^ 


Xot  in  f.  e.      »  This  line  is  not  in  folio.      •  Not  in  f.  e       ' 
1  f.  e.      >'  here  :  in  old  copies.      "  black  weed  :  in  quartos.     "  Wny 
i»  These  words  are  not  in  folio 


824 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF   VENICE. 


A.CT  IV. 


0th.  Is  It  possible? 

As-.  O,  heaven  forgive  us  !  [Kiucling} 

(hk.  I  cr>'  you  mercy,  then  ? 

I  took    ou  for  that  cunning  wliore  of  Venice, 
Tlial  married  with  Othello. — You.  mistress, 

Re-entir  Emii.i.^. 
That  have  the  office  opposite  to  Saint  Peter. 
.\iid  keep  the  gate  of  hell  ;  you,  you,  ay,  you: 
\Ve  have  done  our  course  :  there  "s  money  tor  your  pams. 
pray  you,  turn  the  key.  and  keep  our  counsel.    [Exit. 

Emil.  Alas  I  what  does  this  gentleman  conceive? 
How  do  you,  madam  ?  how  do  you,  my  good  lady  ? 

Des.  'Faith,  half  asleep.  [Rising.' 

Emil.  Good  madam,  what 's  the  matter  with  my  lord  ? 

Des.  With  whom  ? 

Emil.  Whv,  with  mv  lord,  madam. 

J)es.  Who  is  thy  lord  ?'  " 

Emil.  He  that  is  yours,  sweet  lady. 

Des.  I  have  none :  do  not  talk  to  me.  Emilia ; 
I  cannot  weep  :  nor  answer  have  I  none, 
But  what  should  go  by  water.     Pr'ythee,  to-night 
Lay  on  my  bed  my  wedding  sheets. — remember  : — 
.\ud  call  thy  husband  hither. 

Emil.  Here  is  a  change,  indeed  I     [Exit. 

Des.  'T  is  meet  I  should  be  us'd  so,  very  meet. 
How  have  I  been  behav'd.  that  he  might  stick 
The  small'st  opinion  on  my  lea.M  misdeed  ?* 
Re-enter  Emilia,  icith  I  ago. 

lago.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ?     How  is  it 
with  you  ? 

Des.  I  cannot  tell.     Those,  that  do  teach  young  babes, 
Do  it  \\-ith  gentle  means,  and  easy  tasks  : 
He  might  have  chid  me  so  :  for.  in  good  faith. 
[  am  a  child  to  chiding. 

lago.  What 's  the  matter,  lady  ? 

Emil.  Alas  !  lago,  my  lord  hath  so  bewhor'd  her, 
^hrov^^l  such  despite  and  heavy  terms  upon  her, 
.\s  true  hearts  cannot  bear. 

Des.  Am  I  that  name,  lago  ? 

lago.  What  name,  fair  lady  ? 

Des.  Such  a."!,  she  says,  my  lord  did  say  I  was. 

Emil.  He  call'd  her  whore  :  a  beggar  in  his  drink. 
Could  not  have  laid  such  terms  upon  his  callat.' 

lago.  Why  did  he  so  ? 

Des.  I  do  not  know;  I  am  sure,  I  am  none  such. 

lago.   Do  not  weep,  do  not  weep.     Alas  the  day  ! 

Emil.  Has  she  forsook  so  many  noble  matches. 
Her  father,  and  her  country,  and  her  friends. 
To  be  call'd  whore  ?  would  it  not  make  one  weep? 

Des.  It  is  my  wretched  fortune. 

Jago.  Beshrew  him  for  it  ! 

How  comes  this  trick  upon  him  ? 

Des.  Nay,  heaven  doth  know. 

Emil.  I  will  be  hang'd,  if  some  eternal  villain, 
.^me  busy  and  insinuating  rogue. 
Some  cogging,  cozening  slave,  to  get  some  office. 
Have  not  dcvis'd  this  slander  ;  I  'II  be  hang'd  else. 

lago.  Fie  !  there  is  no  such  man  :   it  is  Trnpossible. 

Des    If  any  such  there  be.  heaven  pardon  him  ! 

Emil.  A  halter  pardon  him,  and  hell  gnaw  his  bones  ! 
Wliy  should  he  call  her,  whore?  who  keeps  her  com- 
pany? 
What  place  ?  what  time  ?  what  form  ?  what  likelihood  ? 
The  Moor  's  abus'd  by  some  most  villainous*  knave, 
Some  base  notorious  knave.  .«ome  Fcur\'>-  fellow. — - 
0,  heaven  !    hat  such  companions'  thou'dst  unfold, 
\nd  put  in  every  honest  hand  a  whip, 


To  lash  the  ra.«cals  naked  through  the  world, 
Even  from  the  east  to  the  west ! 

lago.  Speak  within  door 

Ei7iil.  0.  fie  upon  them  !  some  such  squire  he  wa>. 
That  turn'd  your  wit  the  seamy  side  without. 
And  made  you  to  suspect  me  with  the  Moor. 

lago.  You  are  a  tool ;  go  to. 

Des.  O  good'  lago  ! 

What  .shall  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again? 
Good  friend,  go  to  him  :  for,  by  this  light  of  heav**>i. 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him.'     Here  I  kneel  : 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought,  or  actual  deed  ; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense. 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form  ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 
And  ever  will. — though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement. — love  him  dearly. 
Comfort  forswear  me  I     Unkindness  may  do  much  ; 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love.     I  cannot  say  whore  ; 
It  does  abhor  me  now  I  speak  the  word  ; 
To  do  the  act  that  might  the  addition  earn, 
Not  the  world's  mass  of  vanity  could  make  me. 

lago.  I  pray  you.  be  content ;  't  is  but  his  humour  : 
The  business  of  the  state  does  him  offence. 
And  he  does  chide  with  you.*' 

Des.  If  't  were  no  other. — 

lago.  'T  is  but  so.  I  warrant.  [Mi(sic.^ 

Hark,  how  these  instruments  summon  to  supper  I 
The  messengers  of  Venice  stay  the  meat. 
Go  in.  and  weep  not :  all  things  shall  be  well. 

[Exeu7}l  Desdemona  and  Emii.ia 
Ejiter  RoDERiGO. 
How  now,  Roderigo  ! 

Rod.  I  do  not  find  that  thou  deal'st  justly  with  me 

lago.  What  in  the  contrary  ? 

Rod.  Every  day  thou  doff'st  me  with  some  device, 
lago  :  and  rather,  as  it  seems  to  me  now,  keep'st  from 
me  ail  conveniency,  that  suppliest  me  with  the  least 
advantage  of  hope.  I  will,  indeed,  no  longer  endure 
it ;  nor  am  I  yet  persuaded,  to  put  up  in  peace  what 
already  I  have  foolishly  sutfered. 

I'igo.  Will  you  hear  me,  Roderigo  ? 

Rod.  'Faith,  I  have  heard  too  much  ;  for  your  words, 
and  performances,  are  no  kin  together. 

logo.  You  charge  me  most  unjustly. 

Rod.  With  nought  but  truth.  I  have  wasted  myself 
out  of  my  means:  the  jewels  you  have  had  from  me.  to 
deliver  to  Desdemona.  would  half  have  corrupted  a 
votarist  .  you  have  told  me,  she  has  received  them,  and 
returned  me  expectations  and  comforts  of  sudden  re- 
spect and  acquaintance";  but  I  find  none. 

Togo.  Well ;  go  to  :  very  well. 

Rod.  Very  well  !  go  to !  I  cannot  go  to,  man  ;  nor 
't  is  not  very  well :  by  this  hand,  I  say,  it  is  very 
scurvy  ;  and  begin  to  find  myself  fobbed  in  it 

Ingo.  Very  well. 

Rod.  I  tell  you,  't  is  not  very  well.  I  will  make 
myself  known  to  Desdemona:  if  she  will  return  me 
my  jewels,  I  will  give  over  my  suit,  and  repeni.  my 
unlawful  solicitation;  if  not,  assure  yourself,  I  will 
seek  satisfaction  of  you. 

lago.  You  have  said  now. 

Ro<l.  Ay,  and  I  have  said  nothing,  but  what  I  pro 
test  intendment  of  doing. 

lago.  Why,  now  I  see  there's  mettle  in  thee;  and 


*  *  Net  in  f  #.  1  Thii  and  the  next  speech,  are  not  in  anarto,  1622.  ♦  lea*t  tnisure  :  in  f.  e.  ;  greatest  abuse  : 
ontracecD.  :  in  guano.  16-22.  '  Fetloics.  »  Ala*  :  in  folio.  •  The  rest  of  th»  tpeecb  U  not  in  quarto,  1622 
•Trvr:ptts:    n  f .  e      "acquittance  :  in  qoarto.  1922. 


SCENE   111. 


OTHELLO,   THE  MOOK   OF   VENICE. 


825 


ev^en,  from  this  instant,  do  build  on  thee  a  better  opi- 
nion than  ever  before.  Give  me  thy  hand,  Roderigo  : 
ihou  hast  taken  against  me  a  most  just  exception ;  but. 
yet.  I  protest,  I  liave  dealt  most  directly  in  thy  affair. 

Rod.  It  hath  not  appeared. 

logo.  I  grant,  indeed,  it  hath  not  appeared,  and 
your  suspicion  is  not  without  wit  and  judgment.  But, 
Roderigo,  if  thou  hast  that  within  thee  indeed,  which  I 
have  greater  reason  to  believe  now  than  ever, — I  mean, 
purpose,  courage,  and  valour, — this  night  show  it :  if 
thou  the  next  night  following  enjoyest  not  Desdemona, 
take  me  from  this  world  with  treachery,  and  devise 
engines  for  my  life. 

Rod.  Well,  what  is  it  ?  is  it  within  reason,  and 
compass  ? 

lago.  Sir,  there  is  especial  commission  come  from 
Venice,  to  depute  Cassio  in  Othello's  place. 

Rod.  Is  that  true  ?  why,  then  Othello  and  Desde- 
mona  return  again  to  Venice. 

Idgo.  O,  no  !  he  goes  into  Mauritania,  and  takes 
away  with  him  the  lair  Desdemona,  unless  his  abode 
be  lingered  here  by  some  accident ;  wherein  none  can 
bo  so  determinate  as  the  removing  of  Cassio. 

Rod.  How  do  you  mean  removing  of  him  ? 

logo.  Why,  by  making  him  uncapable  of  Othello's 
place  ;  knocking  out  his  brains. 

Rod.  And  that  you  would  have  me  do  ? 

lago.  Ay ;  if  you  dare  do  yourself  a  profit,  and  a 
right.  He  sups  to-night  with  a  harlotry-,  and  thither 
will  I  go  to  him :  he  knows  not  yet  of  his  honour- 
able fortune.  If  you  will  watch  his  going  thence, 
(which  I  will  fashion  to  fall  out  between  twelve  and 
one)  you  may  take  him  at  your  pleasure  :  I  will  be 
near  to  second  your  attempt,  and  he  shall  fall  between 
us.  Come,  stand  not  amazed  at  it,  but  go  along  with 
me;  I  will  show  you  such  a  necessity  in  his  death,  that 
you  shall  think  yourself  bound  to  put  it  on  him.  It  is 
now  high  supper-time,  and  the  night  grows  to  waste  : 
about  it. 

Rod.  I  will  hear  farther  reason  for  this. 

lago.  And  you  shall  be  satisfied.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Othello,  Lodovico,  Desdemona,  Emilia,  and 

Attendants. 

Lod.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  trouble  yourself  no  farther. 

0th.  0  !  pardon  me  ;  't  will  do  me  good  to  walk. 

Lod.  Madam,  good-night ;  I  humbly  thank  your 
ladyship. 

De.v.  Your  honour  is  most  welcome. 

0th.  Will  you  walk,  sir  ?— 

O  ! — Desdemona, — 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

0th.  Get  you  to  bed  on  the  instant ;  I  will  be  re- 
turned forthwith.  Dismiss  your  attendant  there  :  look, 
it  be  done. 

Des.  1  will,  my  lord. 

[Exmnt  Othello.  Lodovico,  and  Attendo7\ts. 

Emil.  How  goes  it  now  ?  he  looks  gentler  than  he  did. 

Des.  He  says,  he  will  return  incontinent. 
He  hath  commanded  me  to  go  to  bed, 
A  nd  bade  me  to  dismiss  you. 

Emil.  Dismiss  me  ! 

Des.  It  was  his  bidding ;  therefore,  good  Emilia, 
Give  me  my  nightly  wearing,  and  adieu  : 
We  must  not  now  displease  him. 

Emil.  I  would  you  had  never  seen  him. 

Des.  So  would  not  I :   my  love  doth  so  approve  him. 


That  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks,  and  froA'ns, — 
Pr'ythee,  unpin  me, — have  grace  and  favour  in  them. 
Emil.  I  have  laid  those  sheets  you  bade  me  on  the 

bed. 
Des.  All 's  one. — Good  faitii',   how   foolish   are  oui 
minds  ! — 
If  I  do  die  before  thee,  pr'ythee,  shroud  me 
In  one  of  those  same  sheets. 

Emil.  Come,  come,  you  **lk. 

Des.  My  mother  had  a  maid  call'd  Barbara  : 
She  was  in  love  ;  and  he  she  lov'd  prov'd  mad, 
And  did  forsake  her:  she  had  a  song  of — willow, 
An  old  thing  't  was,  but  it  express'd  her  fortune, 
And  she  died  singing  it :  that  song,  to-night. 
Will  not  go  from  my  mind  f  I  have  much  to  do, 
Not  to  go  hang  my  head  all  at  one  side. 
And  sing  it  like  poor  Barbara.     Pr'ythee,  despatch. 
Emil.  Shall  I  go  fetch  your  night-gowoi  ? 
Des.  No,  unpin  me  here. — 

This  Lodovico  is  a  proper  man. 
Emil.   A  very  handsome  man. 
Des.  He  speaks  well. 

Emil.  I  know  a  lady  in   Venice  would  have  walked 
barefoot  to  Palestine  for  a  touch  of  his  nether  lip. 
Des.  A*  poor  soul  sat  sighing  by  a  sycamore  tree, 

[Singing. 
Sing  all  a  green  willow  ; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee, 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  : 
The  fresh  streams  ran  by  her  and  murmur'' i  her 
moans  ; 
Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  : 
Her  salt  tears  fell  from  her,  and  softened  the 
stones  ; 
Lay  by  these. — 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow. 
Pr'ythee,  hie  thee  ;  he  '11  come  anon. — 

Sing  all  a  green  willow  must  be  my  garlaml. 
Let  nobody  blame  him,  his  scorn  I  approve, — 
Nay,  that 's  not  next. — Hark  !  who  is  it  that  knocks  ? 
Emil.  It  is  the  wind. 

Des.  /  call'd  my  love  false  love  ;  hut  what  said  h' 
then  1 
Sing  willow,  willow,  willow  : 
If  I  court  no  women,  you  '//  couch  with  no  men 
So.  get  thee  gone ;  good  night.     Mine  eyes  do  itch  ; 
Doth  that  bode  weeping  ? 

Emil.  'T  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

Des.*  I  have  heard  it  said  so. — 0,  these  men,  tliese 
men ! — 
Dost  thou  in  conscience  think, — tell  me,  Emilia, — 
That  there  be  women  do  abuse  their  husbands 
In  such  gross  kind  ? 

Emil.  There  be  some  such,  no  question. 

Des.  Wouldst  thou  do  such  a  deed  for  all  the  world  ? 
Emil.  Why,  would  not  you  ? 

Des.  No,  by  this  heavenly  light 

Emil.  Nor  I  neither  by  this  heavenly  light : 
I  might  do  't  as  well  i'  the  dark. 

Des.  Wouldst  thou  do  such  a  deed  for  all  the  world  ? 
Emil.  The  world  is  a  huge  thing :  't  is  a  great  pricf 
For  a  small  vice. 

Des.  In  troth.  I  think  thou  wouldst  not 

Emil.  In  troth,  I  think  I  should,  and  undo  't,  when 
I  had  done.  Marry,  I  would  not  do  such  a  thing  for 
a  joint-ring,  nor  for  measures  of  lawn,  nor  for  eowns. 
p(tticoats,  nor  caps,  nor  any  petty  exhibition  .  but,  for 
the  whole  world, — why,  who  would  not  make  her  hus 


»  harlot :  in  quarto,  1622.      s  father  :  in  folio.      '  All  that  follo-wato  "Hark  !  who  is 
*>*llad  is  in   "Percy's  Reliques."     '  Th'»  and  the  next  speech,  are  not  in  quarto,  1622. 


is  not  in  quarto,  1622 


826 


OTHELLO,   THE    MOOR   OF    \^ENICE. 


band  a  cuckold,  to  make  him  a  monarch?     I  should 
reuture  purgatory  tor  't. 

Des.  Beshrew  nie,  if  1  would  do  such  a  wrong  for 
the  whole  world. 

Emil.  Why,  the  wrong  is  but  a  wrong  i'  the  world  ; 
and,  having  the  world  for  your  labour,  't  is  a  wrong  in 
your  own  world,  and  you  might  quickly  make  it  right. 

iJes.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  such  woman. 

Emil.  Ves,  a  dozen  ;  and  as  inuny 
To  the  vantage,  as  would  store  the  world  they  play'd 

for.' 
But,  I  do  think,  it  is  their  husbands'  faults, 
U  wives  do  fall.     Say,  that  they  slack  their  duties. 
And  pour  our  treasures  into  foreign  laps ; 
Or  else  break  out  in  peevish  jealousies. 
Throwing  restraint  upon  us  ;  or,  say,  they  strike  us. 


Or  .scant  our  former  having  in  despite. 

Why,  we  have  galls ;  and,  though  we  have  some  gra<-« 

Yet  have  we  some  revenge.     Let  husbands  know 

Their  wives  have  sense  like  them :  they  see,  and  smciL, 

And  have  their  palates,  both  for  sweet  and  sour. 

As  hu.sband8  have.     What  is  it  that  they  do, 

When  they  change  us  for  others?     Is  it  sport? 

I  think,  it  is  ;  and  doth  affection  breed  it  ? 

I  think,  it  doth.     Is't  frailty,  that  thus  errs? 

It  is  80  too :  and  have  not  we  affections. 

Desires  for  sport,  and  frailty,  as  men  have  ? 

Then,  let  them  use  us  well ;  else   let  them  know. 

The  ills  we  do,  their  ills  instruct  us  to. 

Des.  Good-night,  good-night:  heaven  me  such  use8 
send, 
Xot  to  pick  bad  from  bad,  but  by  bad  mend.     [Exeunt. 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I.— A  Street. 
Enter  Iago  and  Roderigo. 
lago.  Here,  stand  behind  this  bulk;  straight  will  he 
come : 
Wear  thy  good  rapier  bare,  and  put  it  home. 
Quick,  quick  ;  fear  nothing  ;  I  'II  be  at  thy  elbow. 
It  makes  us,  or  it  mars  us  ;  think  on  that, 
And  fix  most  firm  thy  resolution. 

Rod.  Be  near  at  hand  ;  I  may  miscarry  in  't. 
Iago.  Here,  at  thy  hand  :  be  bold,  and  take  thy  stand.' 
Rod.  I  have  no  great  devotion  to  the  deed  ; 
And  yet  he  has  given  me  satisfying  reasons. — 
T  is  but  a  man  gone  : — forth,  my  sword  ;  he  dies. 

[Sta)}ds  back. 
Iago.  I  have  rubb'd  this  young  quat'  almost  to  the 
sense. 
And  he  grows  angry.     Now,  whether  he  KtII  Cassio, 
Or  Ca.ssio  him.  or  each  do  kill  the  other, 
Every  way  makes  my  game  :*  live  Roderigo, 
Re  calls  me  to  a  restitution  large 
Of  gold,  and  jewels,  that  I  bobb"d  from  him. 
As  gifts  to  Desdemona; 
It  mu.'-t  not  be  :  if  Cassio  do  remain. 
He  hath  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life, 
That  makes  me  ugly  ;  and,  besides,  the  Moor 
May  unfold  me  to  him:  there  stand  I  in  much  peril. 
No.  he  must  die  : — be  t  so  ;   I  hear'  him  coming. 

[Retiring.* 
Enter  Cassio. 
Rr^l.  I  know  his  gait :  't  is  he. — Villain,  thou  diest. 
[Rushing  forward,  and  making  a  pass  at  Cassio. 
Ca.f.  That  thrust  had  been  mine  enemy  indeed. 
But  that  my  coat  is  better  than  thou  know'st : 
I  will  make  proof  of  thine. 

[Draws.,  and  wounds  Roderigo. 
R(xl.  0  !  I  am  slain. 

[Iago  starts  forward.,  cvts  Cassio  behind  in  the 
Leg,  arid  exit. 
Cos.  I  am  maimd  for  ever. — Light,'  ho  I  murder  ! 
murder !  [Falls. 

Enter  Othello,  at  a  distance. 
(>lh    The  voice  of  Cassio. — Iago  keeps  his  word. 
Rod    ),  villain  that  I  am  ! 
Oik.  It  is  e'en  so. 


Cas.  0,  help  I  ho  !  light  !  a  surgeon  ! 

0th.  'T  is  he. — O  brave  Iago  !  honest,  and  just, 
That  hast  such  noble  sense  of  thy  friend's  WTons ; 
Thou  teachest  me. — Minion,  your  dear  lies  dead, 
And  your  unblest  fate  hies  :* — strumpet,  I  come. 
Forth  of  my  heart  those  charms,  thine  eyes,  are  blotted , 
Thy  bed.  lust-stain'd,  shall  with  lust's  blood  be  spotted. 

[Exit  Othello. 
Enter  Lodovico  and  Gratiano,  at  a  distance. 

Cus.  What,  ho!   no  watch?  no  passage?   murder! 
murder  ! 

Gra.  'T  is  some  mischance ;  the  cry  is  very  direful. 

Cas.  0,  help  ! 

Led.  Hark ! 

Rod.  O.  wTctched  villain  ! 

Lad.  Two  or  three  groan. — It  is  a'  hea^T  night. 
These  may  be  counterfeits  :  let 's  think  't  unsafe 
To  come  in  to  the  cry  without  more  help. 

Rod.  No  body  come  ?  then,  shall  I  bleed  to  death. 
Enter  Iago,  unready,^"  with  a  Light. 

Lod.  Hark ! 

Gra.  Here  's  one  comes  in  his  shirt,  -with  light  and 
weapons. 

lago.  Who's  there?  whose  noise  is  this,  that  cries 
out  murder  thus? 

Lod.  We  do  not  know. 

Iago.  Did  not  you  hear  a  cry  ? 

Cas.  Here,  here  !  for  heaven's  sake,  help  me. 

Iago.  What 's  the  matter? 

Gra.  This  is  Othello's  ancient,  as  I  take  it. 

Lod.  The  same  indeed  :  a  very  valiant  fellow. 

Iago.  What  are  you  here,  that  cry  so  grievously  ? 

Cas.  Iago  ?     O  !   I  am  spoil'd  ;  undone  by  villains  : 
Give  me  some  help. 

Iago.  0  me,  lieutenant  !   what  villains  have  doD« 
this  " 

Cas.  I  think  that  one  of  them  is  hereabout, 
And  cannot  make  away. 

Iago.  0  treacherous  villains  ! — 

What  are  you  there?  come  in.  and  give  .some  help. 

[7b  Lodovico  and  Gratia.no 

Rod.  0.  help  me  !  here. 

Cas.  That 's  one  of  them. 

Iago.  O  murderous  slave  !  0  villain  ' 

[Iago  stabs  RoderioO 


>  TL*  re»t  of  the  tcene  ii  not  in  qnano,  1622.  »  ivrord  :  in  nuarto,  1622. 
kaard  :  in  folio.  •  f.  e  pive  this  direction  before  R  '•  last  speech.  '  Help  : 
lulio.     >•  Thi.  -vord  11  no*  in  f.  e.  i  v 


'  Pimple:  trnst  :  in  quarto.        ♦  gain  :  in  folio.       '  but  eo 
folio.      *  your  (ate  hies  apace  :  in  quarto,  1622.     •  Tis  : 


B  .EXE   II 


OTHELLO,  THE   MOOR  OF  YENICE. 


827 


Rod.  0  damn'd  lago  !  0  inhuman  dog  ! — 

lago.  Kill  men  i'  the  dark  ! — Where  be  these  bloody 
Ihieves  ? 
How  silent  is  this  to\\ii ! — Ho  !  murder  !  murder  I 
What  may  you  be  ?  are  you  of  good,  or  evil  '^ 

Lod.  As  you  shall  prove  us,  praise  us. 

lago.  Signior  Lodovico? 

Lod.  He,  sir. 

lago.    I   cry  you    mercy.     Here 's    Cassio   hurt  by 
villains. 

Gra.  Cassio? 

lago.  How  is  it.  brother? 

Cas.  M)  leg  is  cut  in  two. 

lago.  Marry,  heaven  forbid  I — 

L:ght,  gentlemen  !   I  '11  bind  it  with  my  shirt. 
Enter  Bianca. 

Biati.  What  is  the  matter,  ho?  who  is  't  that  cry"d? 

lago.  Who  is  't  that  cry'd  ! 

Bian.  0  my  dear  Cassio  !   my  sweet  Cassio  ! 
0  Cassio.  Cassio,  Cassio  ! 

lago.  0  notable  strumpet ! — Cassio,  may  you  suspect 
W)io  they  should  be,  that  have  thus  mangled  you? 

Cas.  No. 

Gra.  I  am  sorry,  to  find  you  thus :  I  have  been  to 
seek  you. 

lago.  Lend  me  a  garter  : — so — 0,  for  a  chair, 
To  bear  him  easily  hence  !' 

Bian.  Alas  !  he  faints. — 0  Cassio  !   Cassio  !  Cassio  ! 

Togo.  Gentlemen  all.  I  do  suspect  this  trash 
To  be  a  party'  in  this  injury. — 
Patience  a  while,  good  Cassio. — Come,  come. 
Lend  me  a  light. — Know  we  this  face,  or  no  ? 

[Looking  at  Rod.' 
.\las  !  my  friend,  and  my  dear  countryman, 
Roderigo  ?  no  : — yes,  sure.     O  heaven  !   Roderigo. 

Gra.  What,  of  Venice  ? 

lago.   Even  he,  sir  ;  did  you  know  him  ? 

Gra.  Know  him  ?  ay. 

I  lago.  Sitrnior  Gratiano?  I  cry  you  gentle  pardon: 

j     These  bloody  accidents  must  excuse  my  manners, 
!     That  so  neglected  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 

lago.  How  do  you.  Cassio? — 0,  a  chair,  a  chair  ! 

Gra.  Roderigo  ! 

lago.  He,  he,  't  is  he  — 0  !  that 's  well  said  :* — the 
chair. —  \A  chair  brought. 

Some  good  man  bear  him  carefully  from  hence ; 
[  "11  fetch  the  general's  surgeon. — For  you,  mistress. 

[To  Bianca. 
Save  you  your  labour. — He  that  lies  slain  here,  Cassio. 
Was  my  dear  friend.     What  malice  was  between  you? 

Cas    None  in  the  world  ;  nor  do  I  know  the  man. 

lag-).  What,  look  you  pale  ? — 0,  bear  him  out  o'  the 
air. —  [Cassio  and  Rod.  are  borne  off. 

Stay  you,  good  gentlemen. — Look  you  pale,  mistress? 
Do  you  perceive  the  gastness'  of  her  eye  ? — 
Na}    an  you  stir  :*-— \%^  shall  hear  more  anon. — 
Behold  her  well ,  I  pray  you,  look  upon  her  : 
Do  you  see,  gentlemen?  nay,  guiltiness  will  speak. 
Though  tongues  were  out  of  use. 
Enier  Emilia. 

Emit.  Alas  !  what's  the  matter?  what's  the  matter, 
husband  ? 

logo.  Cassio  hath  here  been  set  on  in  the  dark 
By  Roderigo.  and  fellows  that  are  scap'd  : 
He  "s  almost  slain,  and  Roderigo  dead.' 

Emil.  Alas,  good  gentleman!  alas,  good  Cassio! 

7(7 go.  This  is  the  fruit  of  whoring. — Pr'}i;hee,  Emilia, 


Go  know  of  Cassio  where  he  supp'd  to-night. — 
What  !  do  you  shake  at  that? 

Bian.  He  supp'd  at  my  house;  but  I  therefore  Bliuke 
not. 

lago.  0  !  did  he  so  ?     I  charge  you,  go  with  nie. 

Emil.  O,  fie  upon  thee,  strumpet  ! 

Bian.  I  am  no  strumpet;  but  of  life  as  honest. 
As  you  that  thus  abuse  me. 

Emil.    ^  As  I  ?  fie  upon  thee  ! 

lago.    Kind    gentlemen,    let  "s   go   see   poor    Cuiait 
dress'd. — 
Come,  mistress,  you  must  tell 's  another  tale. — 
Emilia,  run  you  to  the  citadel. 
And  tell  my  lord  and  lady  what  hath  happ'd. — 
Will  you  go  on.  I  pray  ? — This  is  the  night,        [Aiidt. 
That  either  makes  me,  or  fordoes  me  quite.       [Exeimt. 

SCENE   [I.— A  Bedchamber. 
Desdemona  in  Bed  asleep.     A  Light  burning. 
Enter  Othello,*  locking  the  Door  after  him. 
0th.  It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul, — 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you.  you  chaste  stars  ! — 
It  is  the  cause. — Yet  I  '11  not  shed  her  blood ; 
Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster. 
Yet  she  must  die,  else  she  '11  betray  more  men. 
Put  out  the  light,  and  then — put  out  the  light  ? 
If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 
1 1  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 
I  Should  I  repent  me  ;  but  once  put  out  thy  light,* 

I  Thou  cunning'st'"  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 

I I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat, 

I  That  can  thy  light  relume.     When  I  have  pluck'd  the 

rose, 
I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again. 
I  It  needs  must  -wather : — I  '11  smell  it''  on  the  tree. — 
j  [Kissing  tier. 

0  balmy  breath   that  dost  almost  persuade 

I  Justice  to  break  her  sword  ! — One  more,  one  more. — 
I  Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee. 
And  love  thee  after. — One  more,  and  this  the  last: 
]  So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.     I  must  weep, 
i  But  they  are  cruel  tears  :  this  sorrow  's  heavenly  ; 
j  It  strikes,  where  it  doth  love. — She  wakes — 
I      Des.  Who 's  there  ?     Othello? 

0th.  Ay.  Desdemona. 

Des.  Will  you  come  to  bed.  my  lord  ? 

0th.  Have  you  pray'd  to-night,  Desdemona? 

Des.  Ay,  my  loid 

0th.  If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime, 
Unreconcil'd  as  yet  to  heaven  and  grace. 
Solicit  for  it  straight. 

Des.  Alas,  m.y  lord  !  what  may  you  mean  by  that  ? 

0th.  Well,  do  it,  and  be  brief;  I  will  walk  by: 

1  would  not  kill  thy  unprepared  spirit ; 

No,  heaven  forfend,  I  would  not  kill  thy  soul. 

Des.  Talk  you  of  killing? 

0th.  Ay,  I  do. 

Des.  Then,  heav.T. 

I  Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

I      0th.  Amen,  with  all  my  heart. 

j      Des.  If  vou  say  so,  I  hope  you  will  not  kill  me. 
I      0th.  Humph! 

j      Des.  And  yet  I  fear  you  :  for  you  are  fatal  then, 
I  When  your  eyes  roll  so.   Why  I  should  fear.  [  know  not 
Since  guiltiness  I  know  not ;  but  yet,  I  feci  I  fear. 

0th.  Think  on  thy  sins. 
I      Des.  They  are  loves  I  bear  to  you 


'  This  speech  is  not  in  qnarco,  1692.      »  bear  a  part  :  in  quarto,  1633.      '  Not  in  f.  e.      ♦  Done.      »  pestnres :  in  quartos 
fo' o.     ■>  quite  dead  :  in  foho.     8  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  e.     »  thine  :  in  quartos.     >o  cunning:  m  quartos. 


828 


OTHEIXO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


0th.  Ay,  and  for  that  thou  diest.  | 

Des.  That  death  's  unnatural,  tliat  kills  for  loving. —  j 
Alas  !   why  gnaw  you  so  your  iieihcr  lip? 
ck)ine  bloody  passion  shakes  your  very  Irame  : 
These  are  portents  :  but  yet,  I  hope,  1  hope,  j 

They  do  not  point  on  nie.  | 

dih.  Peace,  and  be  still ! 

Dcs.  I  will  so.     What 's  the  matter?  I 

0th.  That  handkerchief,  which  I  so  lov'd,  and  gave  i 
thee, 
Thou  gav'st  to  Cassio. 

Des.  No,  by  my  life  and  soul ! 

Send  for  the  man,  and  ask  him. 

0th.  Sweet  soul,  take  heed 

Take  heed  of  perjury ;  thou  'rt  on  thy  death-bed. 

Des.  Ay,  but  not  yet  to  die. 

0th.  Yes,'  presently : 

Therefore,  confess  thee  freely  of  thy  sin  ; 
For  to  deny  each  article  with  oath, 
Cannot  remove,  nor  choke,  the  strong  conception. 
That  I  do  groan  withal.     Thou  art  to  die. 

Dca.  Then,  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me  ! 

0th.  I  say,  amen 

Des.  And  have  you  mercy  too  ! — I  never  did 
Offend  you  in  my  life ;  never  lov'd  Cassio, 
But  with  such  general  warranty  of  heaven 
As  I  miuht  love :  I  never  gave  him  token.  I 

0th.  By  heaven,  I  saw  my  handkerchief  in  "s  hand,   j 
0  perjur'd  woman  !  thou  dost  stone  my  heart,  • 

.And  mak'st  me  call,  what  I  intend  to  do,  j 

A  murder,  which  I  thought  a  sacrifice.  j 

f  saw  the  handkerchief. 

Des.  He  found  it  then ;  j 

(  never  gave  it  him. — Send  for  him  hither ;  i 

Let  him  confess  a  truth. 

0th.  He  hath  confess'd. 

Des.  What,  my  lord  ? 

0th.  That  he  hath— us'd  thee.' 

Dcs.  How?  unlawfully? 

Oth.  Ay. 

Des.  He  will  not  say  so. 

Oth.  No.  his  mouth  is  stopp"d ; 

Honest  lago  hath  ta'en  order  for  't. 

Dcs.  My  fear  interprets  then. — What !  is  he  dead  ? 

Oth.  Had  all  his  hairs  been  lives,  my  great  revenge 
Had  .stomach  for  them  all. 

D(s.  Alas  !  he  is  betray'd,  and  I  undone. 

Oth.  Out,  strumpet !     Weepst  thou  for  him  to  my 
face? 

Des.  0  !  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not. 

Oth.  D'jwn.  strumpet ! 

Dcs.  Kill  me  to-morrow;  let  me  live  to-night. 

Oth.  Nay,  if  you  strive, — 

Des.  But  hall  an  hour. 

Oth.  Being  done, 

There  is  no  pause.' 

Des.  But  while  '.  rav  one  prayer. 

Oth    It  is  too  late. 

Dcs    0  Lord.  Lord,  Lord  I*  [He  smothers  her. 

Emil.   [Within.]   ^ly  lord,  my  lord!  srnat  ho!  my 
lord,  my  lord  ! 

Olh.  What  noi.'-e  !«  this? — Not  dead     jau  yet  quite 
dead  ? 
I.  that  am  cruel,  am  yet  merciful ; 
(  would  not  have  thee  linger  ir  iny  pajn  - 
fH).  so.  [Stabs  her.* 

Emil.  [Within.]  What  ho:  my  iord,  my  lord  ! 
Oth.  Who's  there? 


'  Not  in  folio.     »  Quarto.  162--' 
•»  iu«rto^     '  Did  :  in  quarton.     ' 


I'k  death.      '  Thii<  speech  if  not  ii 
I     in  qaarto.  lO-Ji.     »  Not  in  f.  e. 


Emil.  [Within.]  O,  good  my  lord  !  I  would  apeak  a 
word  with  you. 

Oth.  Yes  ; — 't  is  Emilia.- -By  and  by. — She  's  dead. 
"T  is  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death; 
The  noise  was  high.' — Ha  !  no  more  moving-' 
Still  as  the  grave. — Sliall  she  come  in?  Were 't.  ijo<Kl ' 
I  think  she  stirs  again  : — no. — What  "s  the  best  ? 
If  she  come  in,  she  '11  sure  speak  to  my  wife  : 
My  wife  !  my  wife  !  what  wife  ? — I  have  no  wife  ; 
0  insupportable,  0  heavy  hour  ! 
Methinks  it  .should  be  now  a  huse  eclip.se 
Of  sun  and  moon,  and  that  th'  affrighted  globe 
Should'  yawn  at  alteration. 

Emil.  [Within.]   I  do  beseech  you.  I  may  speak  "wnlh 
you. 
0.  good  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  I  had  forgot  thee.     0  !  come  in,  Eroilia. — 
Soft, — by  and  by  : — let  me  the  curtains  draw  — 
Where  art  thou  ?     What 's  the  matter  with  tnee  now? 
[Unlocks  the  Door. 
Enter  Emilia. 

Emil.  0,  good  my  lord  !  yonder  's  foul  murder  done, 

Olh.  What  !  now  ? 

Emil.  But  now,  my  lord  ! 

Oth.  It  is  the  very  error  of  the  moon  ; 
She  comes  more  near  the  earth  than  she  was  wont 
And  makes  men  mad. 

Emil.  Cassio,  my  lord,  has  kill'd  ti  young  Venetian. 
CalTd  Roderigo. 

Oth.  Roderigo  kill'd? 

And  Cassio  kill'd? 

Emil.  No;  Cassio  is  not  kill'd. 

Oth.  Not  Cassio  kill'd  ?  Then  murder  's  out  of  tuno, 
And  sweet  revenge  grows  harsh. 

Dcs.  0,  falsely,  falsely  murder'd  ! 

Emil.  Alas  !  what  cry  is  that 

Oth.  That!  what? 

Emil.  Out.  and  alas  !  that  was*  my  lady's  voice  ■  - 
Help  !  Help,  ho  !  help  ! — 0  lady,  speak  again  ! 

[Going  to  the  bed.* 
Sweet  Desdemona  !  0,  sweet  mistress,  speak  ! 

Des.  A  guiltless  death  I  die. 

Emil.  0  !  w  ho  hath  done 

This  deed? 

Des.  Nobody  ;  I  myself;  farewell : 

Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord.     0  farewell  !        [Dies. 

Olh.  Why,  how  should  she  be  murder'd  ? 

Emil.  Alas,  who  knows. 

Oth.  You  heard'"  her  say  her.^elf,  it  was  not  I. 

Emil.  She  said  so :  I  must  needs  report  a  truth. 

Oth.  She  's  like  a  liar  gone  to  burning  hell : 
'T  was  I  that  kill'd  her. 

Emil.  O  !  the  more  angel  she, 

And  you  the  blacker  devil. 

Oth.  She  turn'd  to  folly,  and  she  was  a  whore. 

Emil.  Thou  dost  belie  her,  and  thou  art  a  devil 

Oth.  She  was  false  as  water. 

Emil.  Thou  art  rash  as  fire  to  say 

That  she  was  false :  0  !  she  was  heavenly  trae. 

Oth.  Cassio  did  top  her  ;  ask  thy  husband  elsr.— 
0  !   I  were  damn'd  beneath  all  depth  in  hell, 
But  that  I  did  proceed  upon  just  grounds 
To  this  extremity. — Thy  husband  knew  it  all. 

Emil.   My  husband? 

Oth.  Thy  husband. 

Emil.  That  she  was  false  to  wedlock? 

Olh.  Ay.  with  Cassio.     Nay."  had  she  been  true, 
If  heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 

Not  in  f.  e.    *  biio 


quarto.  16: 
'0  hear:  i 


2.     *  Tl  B  speech  is  not  in  folio. 
I  I'olio      >'  Not  in  folio 


SCENE   n. 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE. 


829 


(if  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolyte, 
[  'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it. 

Emil.  Mv  husband  ? 

Oth.  Ay,  't  was  he  that  told  me'  first : 

An  honest  man  he  is,  and  hates  the  slime 
That  sticks  on  filthy  deeds. 

Emil.  My  husband  ? 

Oth.  What  needs  this  iteration,*  woman?   I  say,  thy 
husband. 

Emil.  0  mistress  !  villainy  hath  made  mocks  with 
love< — 
My  husband  say,  that  she  was  false  ? 

Oth.  He,  woman ; 

I  say,  thy  husband  :  dost  understand  the  word  ? 
My  friend,  thy  husband,  honest,  honest  lago. 

Emil.  If  he  say  so,  may  his  pernicious  soul 
Rot  half  a  grain  a  day  !  he  lies  to  the  heart : 
She  was  too  fond  of  her  most  filthy  bargain. 

Oth.  Ha  !  [Threatening  her.* 

Emil.  Do  thy  worst : 

This  deed  of  thine  is  no  more  worthy  heaven, 
Than  thou  wast  worthy  her. 

Oth.  Peace  !  you  were  best. 

Emil.  Thou  hast  not  half  the*  power  to  do  me  harm. 
As  I  have  to  be  hurt.     0  gull  !  0  dolt ! 
As  ignorant  as  dirt !  thou  hast  done  a  deed, — 
I  care  not  for  thy  sword ;  I  '11  make  thee  kno^^-n, 
Though  I  lost  twenty  lives.— Help  !  help,  ho  !  help  ! 
The  Moor  has  kiird  my  mistress  !     Murder  !  murdev  ! 
Enter  Mont.\no,  Gratiano.  and  Iago. 

Mon.  What  is  the  matter? — How  now,  general ! 

Emil.  0  !  are  you  come,  Iago  ?  you  have  done  well, 
That  men  must  lay  their  murders  on  your  neck. 

Gra.  What  is  the  matter? 

Emil.  Disprove  this  villain,  if  thou  be'st  a  man  : 
He  savs,  thou  told'st  him  that  his  wife  was  false. 
I  know,  thou  didst  not,  thou  'rt  not  such  a  villain. 
Speak,  for  my  heart  is  full. 

Iago.  I  told  him  what  I  thought;  and  told  no  more 
Thar  what  he  found  himself  was  apt  and  true. 

Emil.  But  did  you  ever  tell  him,  she  was  false? 

Iago.  I  did. 

Emil.  You  told  a  lie ;  an  odious,  damned  lie  ; 
Upon  my  soul,  a  lie  ;  a  wicked  lie. — 
She  false  with  Cassio  ! — Did  you  say  with  Cassio  ^ 

logo.  Wivh   Cassio,   mistress.     Go  to,   charm  your 
tongue. 

Emil.  I  will  not  charm  my  tongue;  I  am  bound  to 
speak. 
My  mistress  here  lies  murder'd  in  her  bed.' 

All.  0,  heaven  forfend  ! 

Emil.  And  your  reports  have  set  the  murderer  on. 

Oth.  Nay,  stare  not,  masters :  it  is  true,  indeed. 

Gra.  'T  is  a  strange  truth. 

Mon.  O  monstrous  act ! 

Emil.  Villainy!  villainy!  villainy! 

I  think  upon  't,— I  think,— I  smell 't :— 0  villainy  ! 
I  thought  so  then  :— I  '11  kill  myself  for  grief.— 
0  villainv.  villainy ! 

fago.  What!   are  you  mad?  I  charge  you.  get  you 
home. 

Emil.  Good  gentlemen,  let  me  have  leave  to  speak  : 
'T  is  proper  I  obey  him,  but  not  now. — 
Perchance,  Iago,  I  will  ne'er  go  home. 

Oth.  0  !  0\  b  !  [Falling  on  the  ground.* 

Emil.  Nay,  lay  thee  down  and  roar. 

For  thou  hast  kill'd  the  sweetest  innocent, 

»  me  on  her  :  in  folio.      =  iterance  :  in  folio.      '  Not  in  f  e.      ♦  th 
'  homble  :  in  folio.      «  reprobancr-  :  in  folio.^     '  north  :  m  f.  e 
and  the  next  two  lines,  are  not  in  quarto,  IH'i^. 


That  e'er  did  lift  up  eye. 

Oth.  0  !  she  was  foul —     [Starting  vp 

I  scarce  did  know  you,  uncle :  there  lies  your  niece, 
Whof^e  breath,  indeed,  these  hands  have  newly  stopp'd 
I  know,  this  act  shows  terrible'  and  grim. 

Gra.  Poor  Desdemona  !  I  am  glad  thy  father  's  dead 
Thy  match  was  mortal  to  him,  and  pure  grief 
,  Shore  his  old  thread  in  twain :  did  he  live  now, 
i  This  sight  would  make  him  do  a  desperate  turn, 
,  Yea,  curse  his  better  angel  from  his  side, 
I  And  fall  to  reprobation.' 

Oth.  'T  is  pitiful ;  but  yet  Iago  knows, 
j  That  she  with  Cassio  hath  the  act  of  shame 
A  thousand  times  committed:  Cassio  confess'd  it; 
And  she  did  gratify  his  amorous  works 
With  that  recognizance  and  pledge  of  love 
Which  I  first  gave  her.     I  saw  it  in  his  hand ; 
It  was  a  handkerchief,  an  antique  token 
!  My  father  gave  my  mother. 

Emil.  0  heaven  !  O  heavenly  powers  ! 

Iago.  Come,  hold  your  peace. 

Emil.    'T  -will  out,  't  will  out : — I  hold  my  peaar. 
sir  ?  no : 
No,  I  will  speak  as  liberal  as  the  wind.' 
Let  heaven,  and  men,  and  devils,  let  them  all. 
All,  all,  crj'  shame  against  me,  yet  1  Ul  speak. 

Iago.  Be  wise,  and  get  you  home.  [Drawing." 

Emil.  1  will  not.     [Iago  offers  to  stab  Emil 

Gra.  Fie  ! 

Your  sword  upon  a  woman? 

Emil.  0  thou  dull   Moor  !    that  handkerchief  thou 
speak'st  of, 
I  found  by  fortune,  and  did  give  my  husband : 
For  often,  with  a  solemn  earnestness, 
(More  than,  indeed,  belong'd  to  such  a  trifle) 
He  begg'd  of  me  to  steal  it. 

Iago.  Villainous  whore  !     [They  hold  him. ^ 

Emil.  She  give  it  Cassio  !  no,  alas  !  I  foimd  it, 
And  I  did  give  "t  my  husband. 

Iago.  Filth,  thou  liest.   [Stabs  her,  and  exit  instantly 

Emil.  By  heaven,  I  do  not ;  I  do  not,  gentlemen. 
0  murderous  coxcomb  !  what  should  such  a  fool 
Do  with  so  good  a  wife?" 

Oth.  Are  there  no  stones  in  heaven, 

But  what  ser^-e  for  the  thunder  ?— Precious  villain  ! 

Gra.  The  woman  falls  :  sure,  he  has  kill'd  his  wife. 

Emil.  Ay,  ay. — O,  lay  me  by  my  mistress'  side  ! 

Gra.  He  's  gone,  but  his  wife  's  kill'd. 

Mon.  'T  is  a  notorious  villain.  Take  you  this  weapon. 
Which  I  have  here"  recover'd  from  the  Moor. 
Come,  guard  the  door  without :  let  him  not  pass, 
But  kilfhim  rather.     I  '11  after  that  same  villain, 
For  't  is  a  damned  slave. 

[Exeunt  Montano  and  Gratiano. 

Oth.  I  am  not  valiant  neither, 

But  every  puny  whipster  gets  my  sword. 
But  why  should  honour  outlive  honesty? 
Let  it  go  all. 

Emil.^*         What  did  thy  ."ong  bode,  lady? 
Hark,  canst  thou  hear  me?  1  vriW  play  the  sA^-an, 
And  die  in  mnsxc  :—Willou-.  u'illow.  u-iUorc. — 
Moor,  she  was  cha.ste;  .^he  lov'd  thee,  cruel  Moor: 
So  come  my  soul  to  bliss,  as  I  sjieak  true : 
So  speaking  as  I  think,  I  die. — 1  die.  [Dtes 

Oth.  I  have  another  weapon  in  this  chamber. 
It  is  a  sword  of  Spain,  the  ice-brook's  temper. — 

0  I  here  it  is. — Uncle,  I  must  come  forth. 

t :  in  folio.     »  This  line  is  not  in  quarto,  1622.     •  <m  the  Bed     in  «.  o 

1  Not  in  f.  e.      !=■  Tvoman  :  in  quarto,  1622.      is  No    in  f"  io      '*  Thj» 


630 


OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF   VENICE. 


Gra.  [Within.]  If  tliou  attempt  it,  it  will  cost  thee 
drar : 
Thou  liast  no  weapon,  and  perforce  must  suffer. 

0th.  Look  in  upon  me,  then,  and  speak  to*  me, 
Or,  naked  as  I  am.  1  will  assault  thee. 
Re-cntcT  Gratiano. 

Gra.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

0th.  Behold  !  I  have  a  weapon; 

A  better  never  did  itself  sustain 
Upon  a  soldier's  thigh  :   I  have  seen  the  day. 
That,  with  this  little  arm,  and  this  good  sword, 
I  have  made  my  way  through  more  impediments 
Than  twenty  times  your  stop. — But,  0  vain  boast ! 
Who  can  control  his  fate  ?  'tis  not  so  now. — 
Be  not  afraid,  though  you  do  see  me  wcapon'd  ;* 
Here  is  my  journeys  end,  here  is  my  butt, 
And  very  ."jea-mark  of  my  utmost  sail. 
Do  you  go  back  dismay'd  ?  't  is  a  lo.st  fear  ; 
Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast, 
And  he  retires. — Where  should  Othello  go? — 
Now,  how  dost  Thou  look  now  ?     0  ill-starr"d  wench 
Pale  as  thy  smock  !  when  we  shall  meet  at  compt. 
This  look  of  thine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven, 
And  fiends  will  snatch  at  it.     Cold,  cold,  my  girl  ; 
Even  like  thy  chastity, — 0,  cursed'  slave  ! — 
Whip  me.  ye  devils, 

From  the  pos.'^ession  of  this  heavenly  sight  ! 
Blow  me  about  in  winds  !   roast  me  in  sulphur ! 
Wash  me  in  stoep-down  <i\\\h  of  liquid  fire  ! 
0  De.«dcmona  !   Desdemona  !  dead  ?  0  !  0  !* 
Enter  Lonovico  and  Cassio. 

Lod.  Where  is  this  rash  and  most  unfortunate  man  ? 

0th.  That 's  he,  that  was  Othello  :  here  I  am. 

Lod.  Where  is  that  viper  ?  bring  the  villain  forth. 
Enter  Mo?<taxo  with  Iago,  bound,  and  Officers.^ 

0th.  I  look  down  towards  his  feet  ; — but  that 's  a  fable  : 
If  tliat  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee. 

[Othello  wounds  Iago. 

Lod.  Wrench  his  sword  from  him. 

Iago.  I  bleed,  sir  ;  but  not  kill'd. 

0th.  I  am  not  sorry  neither  :  I  'd  have  thee  live ; 
For,  in  my  sense,  't  is  happiness  to  die. 

Lod.  0  thou  Othello  I  that  wcrt  once  so  good, 
FalTn  in  tlie  practice  of  a  damned  slave, 
What  shall  be  said  to  thee  ? 

0th.  Why,  any  thing  : 

An  honourable  murderer,  if  you  will  ; 
For  nought  I  did  in  hate,  but  all  in  honour. 

Lod.  This  wretch  halh  part  confess'd  his  villainy 
Did  vou  and  he  consent  in  Cassio's  death  ? 

Olh.  Ay. 

Cos.  Dear  general,  T  never  gave  you  cause. 

0th.  I  do  believe  it.  and  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Will  you.  I  pray,  demand  that  demi-devil. 
Why  he  hath  thus  ensnar'd  my  soul  and  body  ? 

Iago.  Demand  me  nothing  :    what  you    know,  you 
know. 
From  this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word. 

Lod.  What !  not  to  pray? 

Gra.  Torments  will  ope  vour  lips. 

0th.  Well,  thou  dost  best. 

Lod.  Sir,  you  shall  understand  what  hath  befalTn, 
Which,  a.s  I  think,  you  know  not.     Here  is  a  letter. 
Found  in  the  pocket  of  the  slain  Roderiiro  ;  \Shou'in<r  it* 
And  here  another  :  the  one  of  them  imports 
The  death  of  Cassio  to  be  undertook 
By  Roderigo. 


0th.  0  villain  ! 

Ca.t.  Most  heathenish,  and  most  gross 

Lod.  Now,  here  's  another  discontented  paper, 

[Producing  v 
Found  in  his  pocket  too ;  and  this,  it  seems, 
Roderigo  meant  to  have  sent  this  damned  villain  ; 
But  that,  belike,  Iago  in  the  interim* 
Came  in  and  satisfied  him. 

Ofh.  0,  the  pernicious  caitiff"! — 

How  came  you,  Cassio,  by  that  handkerchief, 
^  That  was  my  wife's  ? 

j      Cfl.^.  I  found  it  in  my  chamber  ; 

And  he  himself  confess'd,  but  even  now, 
I  That  there  he  dropp'd  it,  for  a  special  purpose, 
I  Which  wrought  to  his  desire. 

0th  O  fool !  fool  !  fool : 

I      Cas.  There  is.  besides,  in  Roderigc's  letter, 
I  How  he  upbraids  Iago,  tJiat  he  made  him 
Brave  me  upon  the  watch  ;   whereon  it  came 
I  Thai  I  was  cast :  and  even  but  now  he  spake, 
i  After  long  seeming  dead, — Iago  hurt  him, 
j  Iago  set  him  on. 

!      Lod.  You  must  forsake  this  room,  and  go  with  us 
1  Your  power  and  your  command  is  taken  ofT, 
\  And  Cassio  rules  in  Cyprus.     For  this  slave. 
If  there  be  any  cunning  cruelty 
^  That  can  torment  him  much,  and  hold  him  long. 
It  shall  be  his.     You  shall  close  prisoner  rest. 
:  Till  that  the  nature  of  your  fault  be  known 

I  To  the  Venetian  state. — Come  :  bring  them'  away. 

0th.  Soft  you  ;  a  word  or  two.  before  you  go. 

I I  have  done  the  state  some  service,  and  they  know  it ; 
No  more  of  that. — I  pray  you,  in  your  letters, 

1  When  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds  relate, 
'  Speak  of  me  as  I  am  ;  nothing  extenuate, 
■Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice:  then.  must,  you  sptak 
or  one  that  lov'd,  not  wisely,  but  too  well  : 
Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  WTOUgh'. 
Perplex'd  in  the  extreme;  of  one,  whose  hand, 
Like  the  base  Indian,'"  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe;  of  one,  whose  subdued  eyes. 
Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood. 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
Their  medicinal"  gum.     Set  you  down  this  , 
And  say.  besides,  that  in  Aleppo  once. 
When""  a  malignant  and  a  turban'd  Turk 
Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduc'd  the  state, 
I  took  by  tlie  throat  the  circumcised  dog, 
And  smote  him — thus.  [Stabs  himself 

Lod.  0  bloody  period  ! 

Gra.  All  that 's  spoke  is  marr'd 

0th.  I  kiss'd  thee,  ere  I  kill'd  thee  : — no  way  but  this 
Killing  myself,  to  die  upon  a  kiss.       [Dies  on  the  Bed 

Cas.  This  did  I  fear,  but  thought  he  had  no  weapon 
For  he  was  great  of  heart. 

Lod.  0  Spartan  dog  ! 

More  fell  than  anguish,  hunger,  or  the  sea. 
Look  on  the  tragic  loadinii'*  of  this  bed  ;         [7b  Iago 
This  is  thy  work  :  the  object  poisons  sight  ; 
Let  it  be  hid — Gratiano,  keep  the  house, 
And  seize  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  Moor, 
For  they  succeed  on  you. — To  you,  lord  governor. 
Remains  the  censure  of  this  hellish  villain  ; 
The  time,  tlie  place,  the  torture  : — 0,  enforce  it  ' 
Myself  will  .-Jtraight  aboard,  and  to  the  state 
This  heav}-  act  with  heavy  heart  relate.  [Exeunt 


'with,  in  lolio.  •  This  and  the  nix  following  linei  are  not  in  qnarto,  1022.  '  cursed,  carted  sla»  :  in  folio.  ♦C  Desdenion  eeU. 
DeidriTsn,  dead,  01  0  1:  in  folio  »  In  f.  e  these  character!"  enter  with  Lonovico  and  Caseio.  «  '  N  .t  in  f.  e.  »  nick  :  in  quarto.  I(i* 
'  him  :  in  f.  e.     '»  Jndean  :  in  foho.      "  medicin/ible  :  ii   folio,     's  Where  :  in  f.  f.     "  lodging  •  in  jnarto 


ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA 


DRAMATIS    PEESONtE. 


Friends  of  Antony. 


M.  Antony,  1 

OcTAvius  CjEsar,       [  Triumvirs. 

M.  JEmil.  Lepidus,    ) 

Sextus  Pompeius, 

DoMiTius  Enobarbus,  " 

Ventidius, 

Eros, 

SCARUS, 

Dercetas, 

Demetrius, 

Philo, 

Mecjenas, 

Agrippa, 

dolabella, 

Proculeius, 

Thyreus, 

Gai.lus, 


Friends  to  Caesar. 


Menas, 

Menecrates.  \  Friends  to  Pompey. 

Varrius, 

Taurus,  Lieutenant-General  to  Caesar. 

Canidhis,  Lieutenant-General  to  Antony 

SiLius,  an  Officer  under  Ventidius. 

EuPHRONius,  Ambassador  from  Antony  to  CfPsar 

Alexas,    Mardian,    Seleucus.    and    DIt)MEDE^< 

Attendants  on   Cleopatra.     A   Soothsayer.      A 

Clown. 

Cleopatra,  Queen  of  Esrypt. 

OcTAViA,  Si.'^ter  to  Ca?sar,  and  Wife  to  Autoiiv. 

ChARMIAN,    )    ,  ^,        j        .  oi 

y  '  >  Attendants  on  Cleopatra. 


Officers,  Soldiers   Messengers,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE,  in  several  Parts  of  the  Roman  Empire. 


ACT    1. 


SCENE    I. — Alexandria.      A   Room  in  Cleopatra's 

Palace. 

Enter  Demetrius  aiid  Philo. 

Phi.  Nay,  but  this  dotage  of  our  general's 
Cerflows  the  measure  :  those  his  goodly  eyes. 
That  o'er  the  files  and  musters  of  the  war 
Have  glow'd  like  plated  Mars,  now  bend,  now  turn 
The  office  and  devotion  of  their  view 
Upon  a  tawny  front :  his  captain's  heart, 
Wliich  in  the  scuffles  of  great  fights  hath  burst 
The  buckles  on  his  breast,  reneges'  all  temper, 
And  is  become  the  bellows,  and  the  fan. 
To  cool  a  gipsy's  lust.     Look,  where  they  come. 
Flourish.     Enter  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  with  their 

Trains  ;  Eunuchs  f mining  her. 
Take  but  good  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  him 
The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  transform'd 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool  :  behold  and  see. 

Cleo.  If  it  be  love  indeed,  tell  me  how  much. 

Ant.  There 's   beggary   in   the   love    that   can    be 
reckon' d. 

Cleo.  I  '11  set  a  bourn  how  far  to  be  belov'd. 

Ant.  Then  must  thou  needs  find  out  new  heaven, 
new  earth. 

Enter  <in  Attendant. 

Att.  News,  my  good  lord,  from  Rome. 

Ant  Grates  me  : — the  sum. 

Cle.  Nay,  hear  them,  Antony  : 
Fulvia,  perchance,  is  angry;  or,  who  knows 
If  the  scarce-bearded  Caesar  have  not  sent 
His  powerful  mandate  to  you,  "  Do  this,  or  this ; 

'  TyenUs       >  damn  :  in  f.  e.      '  Know 


Take  in  that  kingdom,  and  enfranchise  that  ; 
Perform 't,  or  else  we  doom"  thee." 

Ajit.  How,  my  love  ! 

Cleo.  Perchance, — nay,  and  most  like. — 
You  must  not  stay  here  longer  ;  your  dismission 
Is  come  from  Caesar;  therefore  hear  it,  Antony. — 
Where  's  Fulvia's  process  ?      Cesar's,  I  would  say   — 

Both  ?— 
Call  in  the  messengers. — As  I  am  Egypt's  queen, 
Thou  blushest.  Antony,  and  that  blood  of  thine 
Is  Ca?sar's  homager  ;  else  so  thy  clieek  pays  shame. 
When  shrill-tongu'd  Fulvia  scold<  — The  messenger? 

Ant.  Let  Rome  in  Tyber  melt,  and  the  vide  arch 
Of  the  rang'd  empire  fall  !     Here  is  my  space. 
Kingdoms  arc  clay  :  our  dung>'  earth  alike 
Feeds  beast  as  man  :  the  nobleness  of  life 
Is  to  do  thus;  when  such  a  mutual  pair,    [Embracin-^ 
j  And  such  a  twain  can  do't,  in  wliich  I  bind, 
,  On  pain  of  punishment,  the  world  to  wect,' 
}  We  stand  up  peerless. 

I      Cleo.  Excellent  falsehood  ! 

j  Why  did  he  marry  Fulvia,  and  not  love  her  ? — 
I  '11  seem  the  fool  I  am  not ;  Antony 
I  Will  be  himself. 

I      Ant.  But  stirr'd  by  Cleopatra. — 

I  Now,  for  tlie  love  of  Love,  and  her  soft  hours, 
iLet  's  not  confound  the  time  with  conference  harsh 
'  There  's  not  a  minute  of  our  lives  should  stretch 
Without  some  pleasure  now.     What  sport  to-night? 
I      Cleo.  Hear  the  ambassadors. 

Ant.  Fie,  -WTangling  queen 

Whom  every  thing  becomes,  to  chide,  to  laugh, 


832 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 


ACT    I. 


To  weep  ;  whose  every  fashion  fitly'  strives 

To  make  itself,  in  thcc,  fair  and  admir'd. 

No  messenger;  but  thine,  and  all  aloue, 

To-night  we  '11  wander  through  the  streets,  and  note 

The  qualities  of  people.     Come,  my  queen  ; 

Last  night  you  did  desire  it. — Speak  not  to  us. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  and  Cleop.  with  their  Train. 

Dem.  Is  Cae.<ar  with  Antonius  priz'd  so  slight? 

Phi.  Sir,  sometimes,  wlien  he  is  not  Antony, 
He  comes  too  short  of  that  great  property 
Which  still  should  go  with  Antony. 

Dem.  I  am  full  sorry, 

That  he  approves  the  common  liar,  who 
Thus  gpeaks  of  him  at  Rome:  but  I  will  hope 
Ot"  better  deeds  to-morrow.     Rest  you  happy.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Another  Room. 
Enter  Charmian,  Iras,  A  lex  as,  and  a  Soothsayer. 
Chur.  Lord   Alexas,  most  sweet  Alexas.  most  any 
thing  Alexas,  almost  most  absolute   Alexa.s,  where  's 
the  soothsayer  that  you  praised  so  to  the  queen  ?     0  ! 
jhat    I    knew  this    husband,  which,    you    say,    must 
charge'  his  horns  vriXh  garlands  ! 
Alex.  Soothsayer  ! 
fiooth.  Your  "will  ? 
Char.  Is  this   the  man? — Is 't  you,  sir.  that  know 

things? 
Sooth.  In  nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy 
A  little  I  can  read. 

Alex.  Show  him  your  hand. 

Enter  Enobarbus. 
Eno.  Bring  in  the  banquet  quickly  ;  -wine  enough, 
Cleopatra's  health  to  drink. 

Char.  Good  sir,  give  me  good  fortune. 
Sooth.  I  make  not.  but  foresee. 
Char.  Pray,  then,  foresee  me  one. 
Sooth.  You  shall  be  yet  far  fairer  than  you  are. 
Char.  He  means,  in  flesh. 
Iras.  No.  you  shall  paint  when  you  are  old. 
Char.  Wrinkles  forbid ! 
Alex.  Vex  not  his  prescience  ;  be  attentive. 
Ch^r.  Hush! 

Sooth.  You  shall  be  more  belo^^ng,  than  belov'd. 
Char.  I  had  rather  heat  my  liver  with  drinking. 
Alex.  Nay.  hear  him. 

Char.  Good  now,  some  excellent  fortune.     Let  me 

be  married   to  three  kings  in  a  forenoon,  and  widow 

them  all :  let  me  have  a  child  at  fifty,  to  whom  Herod 

of  Je^^T^•  may  do  homage  :  find  me  to  marry  me  with 

Octavius  C?psar,  and  companion  me  with  my  mistress. 

Sooth.  You  shall  outlive  the  lady  whom  you  serve. 

Char.  O  excellent  !     I  love  long  life  better  than  figs. 

Sooth.  You  have  seen,  and  proved  a  fairer  former 

fortune, 

Than  that  which  is  to  approach. 

Char.  Then,  belike,  my  children  shall  have  no 
names.  Pr'ythee.  how  many  boys  and  wenches  must 
I  have  ? 

Sooth.  If  every  of  your  •wishes  had  a  womb. 
And  fruitful*  every  wish,  a  million. 

Char.  Out,  fool !     I  forgive  thee  for  a  -witch. 
Alex.   You   think,  none   but  your  sheets  are  pri\T  to 
your  wishes. 

Char.  Nay,  come  ;  tell  Iras  hers. 
Alex.  We  '11  know  all  our  fortunes. 
Eno.  Mine,  and  most  of  our  fortunes,  to-night,  shall 
be.  drunk  to  bed. 

Jras.  There  's  a  palm  presages  chastity,  if  nothing 
else. 


folly  •  in  1  •.      »  change  :  in  foliot.      '  fertile :  in  f.  e.  ;    foretell  :  in  folio. 


Char.  Even  as  the  o'crflowing  Nilus  presageth 
famine. 

Iras.  Go.  you  wild  bedfellow,  you  cannot  soothsay. 

Char.  Nay,  if  an  oily  palm  bf  not  a  fruitful  pros- 
nostication,  I  cannot  scratch  mine  eai. — Prythee,  tell 
her  but  a  work-day  fortune. 

Sooth.  Your  fortunes  are  alike. 

Iras.  But  how  ?  but  how  ?  give  me  particulars. 

Sooth.  I  have  said. 

Iras.  Am  I  not  an  inch  of  fortune  better  than  she? 

Char.  Well,  if  you  were  but  an  inch  of  fortune 
better  than  I.  where  would  you  choose  it? 

Iras.  Not  in  my  husband's  nose. 

Char.  Our  worser  thoughts  heavens  mend  !  Alexas, 
— come,  his  fortune,  his  fortune. — O  !  let  him  marry  a 
woman  that  cannot  go,  sweet  Isis,  I  beseech  thee : 
and  let  her  die  too,  and  give  him  a  worse;  and  let 
worse  follow  worse,  till  the  worst  of  all  follow  hira 
laughing  to  his  grave,  fifty- fold  a  cuckold.  Good  leis, 
hear  me  this  prayer,  though  tliou  deny  me  a  matter  of 
more  weight,  good  Isis,  I  beseech  thee  ! 

Iras.  Amen.  Dear  godde.«s,  hear  that  prayer  of  th* 
people ;  for,  as  it  is  a  heart-breaking  to  see  a  hand- 
some man  loose-wived,  so  it  is  a  deadly  sorrow  to 
behold  a  foul  knave  uncuckolded  :  therefore,  dear  Isis, 
keep  decorum,  and  fortune  him  accordingly  ! 

Char.  Amen. 

Alex.  Lo.  now  !  if  it  lay  in  their  hands  to  make  me 
a  cuckold,  they  would  make  themselves  whores,  but 
they  "d  do  't. 

Eno.  Hush  !  here  comes  Antony. 

Char.  Not  he,  the  queen. 

Enter  Cleopatra. 

Cleo.  Saw  you  my  lord? 

Eno.  No.  lady. 

Cleo.  Was  he  not  here  ? 

Char.  No.  madam. 

Cleo.  He  was  dispos'd  to  mirth  ;.  but  on  the  sudden. 
A  Roman  thought  hath  struck  him. — Enobarbus  ! — 

Eno.  Madam. 

Cleo.  Seek  him,  and  bring  him   hither.     Where  'b 
Alexas  ? 

Alex.  Here,  at  your  service. — My  lord  approaches. 

Enter  Antoxy,  with  a  Mc'scnger  and  Attendants. 

Cleo.  We  will  not  look  upon  him :  go  wth  us. 

[Exeunt  Cleopatra.  Enobarbus,  Alexas,  Iras, 
Charmian.  Soothsayer,  and  Attendants. 

Mess.  Fuh-ia,  thy  wife,  first  came  into  the  field. 

Ant.  Against  my  brother  Lucius? 

Mcii.  Ay: 
Bat  soon  that  war  had  end,  and  the  time's  .state 
Made  friends  of  them,  jointing  their  force 'gainst  Caesar  i 
Whose  better  issue  in  the  war,  from  Italy 
Upon  the  first  encounter  drave  them. 

Ant.  Well,  what  worst? 

Mess.  The  nature  of  bad  news  infests  the  teller. 

Ant.  When  it  concerns  the  fool,  or  coward. — On: 
Thing.s,  that  are  past,  are  done,  with  me. — 'T  is  thus  • 
Who  tells  mc  true,  though  in  his  tale  lie  death, 
I  hear  him  as  he  flatterd. 

Mess.                                  Labienus 
(Thi.s  is  stiff  news)  hath  with  his  Parthian  force 
Extended*  Asia  from  Euphrates  ; 
His  conquering  banner  shook  from  Syria 
To  Lydia.  and  to  Ionia  ;  whilst 

Ant.  Antony,  thou  would.st  say. — 

Me.is.  0.  my  lord  ! 

A  lit.  Speak    to    me    home,  mince    not   the  genera) 
tongue  ; 
Stixed. 


8CENK   III. 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 


833 


Name  Cleopatra  as  she  is  call'd  in  Rome; 
Rail  thou  in  Fulvia's  phrase,  and  taunt  my  faults 
With  such  iul'l  license,  as  both  truth  and  malice 
have  power  to  utter.     0!  then  w-e  bring  forth  weeds. 
When  our  quick  winds  lie  still ;  and  our  ills  told  us, 
Is  as  our  earing.'     Fare  thee  well  awliile. 

Mess.  At  your  noble  pleasure.  [Exit. 

Ant.  From  Sicyon  now  the  news  ?     Speak  there. 

1  Att.  The  man  from  Sicyon! — Is  there  such  an  one? 

2  Att.  He  stays  upon  your  will. 

Ant.  Let  him  appear. — 

These  strong  Egyptian  fetters  I  must  break, 

E7iter  another  Messenger. 
Or  lose  myself  in  dotage. — What  are  you  ? 

2  M'rSS.  Fulvia  thy  wife  is  dead. 

Ant.  Where  died  she  ? 

2  3Icss.  In  Sicyon : 
Her  length  of  sickness,  with  what  else  more  serious 
Importeth  thee  to  know,  this  bears.     [Giving  a  Letter. 

Ant.  Forbear  me. — 

[Exit  Messenger. 
There  's  a  great  spirit  gone.     Thus  did  I  desire  it  : 
What  our  contempts  do  often  hurl  from  us, 
We  wish  it  ours  again  ;  the  present  pleasure. 
By  repetition  souring,^  does  become 
The  opposite  of  itself :  she  's  good,  being  gone ; 
The  hand  would  pluck  her  back,  that  shov'd  her  on. 
I  must  from  this  enchanting  queen  break  off; 
Ten  thousand  harms,  more  than  the  ills  I  know, 
My  idleness  doth  hatch. — How  now  !^  Enobarbus  ! 
Enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno.  What  's  your  pleasure,  sir? 

Ant.  I  must  with  haste  from  hence. 

Eno.  Why,  then,  we  kill  all  our  women.  We  see 
how  mortal  an  unkindness  is  to  them  :  if  they  suffer 
oui-  departure,  death  's  the  word. 

Ant.  I  must  be  gone. 

Enc.  Under  a  compelling  occasion,  let  women  die : 
It  were  pity  to  cast  them  away  for  nothing ;  though, 
between  them  and  a  great  cause,  they  should  be 
esteemed  nothing.  Cleopatra,  catching  but  the  least 
noise  of  this,  dies  instantly  :  I  have  seen  her  die  twenty 
limes  upon  far  poorer  moment.  I  do  think,  there  is 
mettle  in  death,  which  commits  some  loving  act  upon 
her.  she  hath  such  a  celerity  in  dying. 

Ant.  She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

Eno.  Alack,  sir  !  no :  her  passions  are  made  of 
nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love.  We  cannot 
call  her  winds  and  waters,  sighs  and  tears ;  they  are 
greater  storms  and  tempests  than  almanacs  can  report : 
this  cannot  be  cunning  in  her ;  if  it  be,  she  makes  a 
shower  of  rain  as  well  as  Jove. 

Ant.  Would  I  had  never  seen  her  ! 

Eno.  0,  sir  !  you  had  then  left  unseen  a  wonderful 
piece  of  work,  which  not  to  have  been  blessed  withal 
would  have  discredited  your  travel. 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.  Sir? 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.  Fulvia! 

Ant.  Dead. 

Eno.  Why,  sir.  give  the  gods  a  thankful  sacrifice. 
When  it  pleaseth  their  deities  to  take  the  \Aife  of  a 
\  man  from  him,  it  shows  to  man  the  tailors  of  the  earth  : 
,  comforting  therein,  that  when  old  robes  are  worn  out, 
j  there  are  members  to  make  new.  If  there  were  no 
i  more  women  but  Fulvia,  then  had  you  indeed  a  cut, 
iViia  the  case  to  be  lamented  :  this  grief  is  crowned  with 


consolation;  your  old  smock  brings  forth  a  new  petti- 
coat: and,  indeed,  the  tears  live  in  an  onion,  that 
should  wat«r  this  sorrow. 

Ant.  The  business  she  hath  broached  in  the  state 
Cannot  endure  my  absence. 

Eno.  And  the  business  you  have  broached  here 
cannot  be  without  you  ;  especially  that  of  Cleopatra's, 
which  wholly  depends  on  your  abode. 

Ant.  No  more  light  answers.     Let  our  officers 
Have  notice  what  we  purpose.     I  shall  break 
The  cause  of  our  expedience*  to  the  queen. 
And  get  her  leave'  to  part :  for  not  alone 
The  death  of  Fulvia,  with  more  urgent  touches, 
Do  strongly  speak  to  us,  but  the  letters,  too, 
Of  many  our  contriving  friends  m  Rome 
Petition  us  at  home.     Sextus  Ponipeius 
Hath  given  the  dare  to  Caesar,  and  commands 
The  empire  of  the  sea  :  our  slippery  people 
(Whose  love  is  never  link'd  to  the  deserver, 
Till  his  deserts  are  past)  begin  to  throw 
Pompey  the  great,  and  all  his  dignities. 
Upon  his  son :  who,  high  in  name  and  pov/er, 
Higher  than  both  in  blood  and  life,  stands  up 
For  the  main  soldier ;  whose  quality,  going  on. 
The  sides  o'  the  world  may  danger.  Much  is  breeding 
Which,  like  the  courser's  hair,  hath  yet  but  life. 
And  not  a  serpent's  poison.*     Say.  our  pleasure, 
To  such  whose  place  is  under  us,  requires 
Our  quick  remove  from  hence. 

Eno.  I  shall  do  it.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  HI. 

Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Alkx.is.. 

Cleo.  Where  is  he  ? 

Char.  I  did  not  see  him  since. 

Cleo.  See  where  he  is,  who  's  with  him,  what  he  does- . 
I  did  not  send  you. — If  you  find  him  sad. 
Say,  I  am  dancing:  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick  :  quick,  and  return.  [Exit  Alk.x 

Char.  Madam,  methinks,  if  you  did  love  him  dearly, 
You  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 
The  like  from  him. 

Cleo.  What  should  I  do,  I  do  not  ? 

CJmr.  In  each  thing    give  him  way,  cross  him  iu 
nothing. 

Cleo.  Thou  teachest,  like  a  fool,  the  way  to  lose  him 

Char.  Tempt  him  not  so  too  far  ;  I  wish,  forbear  . 
In  time  we  hate  that  which  we  often  fear. 

Enter  Antony. 
But  here  comes  Antony. 

Cleo.  I  am  sick,  and  sullen. 

Ant.  I  am  sorry  to  give  breathing  to  my  purpose.— 

Cleo.  Help  me  away,  dear  Charmian.  I  shall  fall : 
It  cannot  be  thus  long ;  the  sides  of  nature 
Will  not  sustain  it. 

Ant.  Now,  my  dearest  queen,— 

Cleo.  Prav  you,  stand  farther  from  me. 

Ant.  '  W'hat  's  the  matter? 

Cleo.  I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there  's  some  good 
news. 
What  says  the  married  woman? — You  may  go: 
Would,  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come  ! 
Let  her  not  say,  't  is  I  that  keep  you  here, 
I  have  no  power  upon  you ;  hers  you  are. 

Ant.  The  gods  best  know, — 

Cleo.  6  !  never  was  there  queen 

So  mightily  betray'd ;  yet  at  the  first 
I  saw  the  treasons  planted. 


'  Ploughing  our  "  quicK  -winEls"  -which  dry  the  soil  for  the  plough.     '  By  rerolution  lowering  :  i 
Mi.     »  love  :  in  folio.     «  A.^  allusion  to  the  ancient  belief,  that  a  horse  hair  laid  into  water,  turned 


folio, 

3C 


n  f.  e. 
into  a  I 


Dvce  readi  :  Ho  '     '  EipvUt 


834 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


ACT    J. 


Ant.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  "V\liy  should  I  think,  you  can  be  mine,  and  true, 
Though  you  in  swearini;  shake  the  throned  gods, 
Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia?     Riotous  madness, 
To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
Which  break  themselves  in  swearing  ! 

Ant.  Most  sweet  queen, — 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  colour  for  your  going. 
But  bid  farewell,  and  go  :  when  you  sued  staying, 
Then  was  the  time  for  words  ;  no  going  then : 
Eternity  was  in  our  lips,  and  eyes  ; 
Bli.>*s  in  our  brows  bent ;  none  our  parts  so  poor, 
But  wai.  a  race  of  heaven :  they  are  so  still, 
Or  thou,  the  greatest  soldier  of  the  world. 
Art  turn'd  the  greatest  liar. 

Ant.  How  now,  lady  ! 

Cleo.  I  would,  I  had  thy  inches ;  thou  shouldst  know 
There  were  a  heart  in  Egypt. 

Ant.  Hear  me.  queen. 

The  strong  necessity  of  time  commands 
•Our  services  a  while,  but  my  full  heart 
Remains  in  use  with  you.     Our  Italy 
Shines  o'er  with  civil  swords :  Sextus  Pompeius 
Makes  his  approaches  to  the  port  of  Rome  : 
Equality  of  two  domestic  power.s 
Breeds  scrupulous  faction.  The  hated,  grown  to  strength. 
Are  newly  grown  to  love  :  the  condemn'd  Pompey, 
Rich  in  his  father's  honour,  creeps  apace 
[nto  the  hearts  of  such  as  have  not  thriv'd 
Upon  the  present  state,  whose  numbers  threaten ; 
And  quietness,  grown  sick  of  rest,  would  purge 
By  any  desperate  change.     My  more  particular. 
And  that  which  most  with  you  should  safe  my  going. 
Is  Fulvia's  death. 

Cleo.  Though  age   from   folly  could   not   give   me 
freedom, 
It  does  from  cbiMishness. — Can  Fulvia  die? 

Ant.  She  's  dead,  my  queen. 
Look  here,  and,  at  thy  sovereign  leisure,  read 
The  garboils'  she  awak'd ;  at  the  last,  best. 
See,  when,  and  where  she  died. 

Cleo.  0,  most  false  love  ! 

Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fill 
With  .sorrowful  water  ?     Now  I  see,  I  see, 
Id  Fulvia's  death,  how  mine  receiv'd  shall  be. 

Ant.  Quarrel  no  more,  but  be  prepar'd  to  know 
The  purposes  I  bear  •  which  are,  or  cea.se. 
As  you  shall  give  the  advice  :  by  the  fire 
That  quickens  Nilus'  slime,  I  go  from  hence, 
Thy  soldier,  servant ;  making  peace,  or  war, 
Ab  thou  affect'sl. 

Cleo.  Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come. — 

But  let  it  be. — I  am  quickly  ill,  and  well. 
So  Antony  loves. 

Ant.  My  precious  queen,  forbear  ; 

And  give  true  credence*  to  his  love,  which  stands 
An  honourable  trial. 

Cleo.  So  Fulvia  told  me. 

[  pr  ythee,  turn  aside,  and  weep  for  her  ; 
Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say,  the  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt  :  good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling;  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honour. 

Ant.  You  '11  heat  my  blood  :  no  more. 

Cleo.  You  can  do  better  yet,  but  this  is  meetly. 

Ant.  Now,  by  my  sword, — 

f-''«>-  And  target. — Still  he  nicnas; 

But  this  is  not  the  best.     Look,  pr'ythee,  Charmian, 
Ho>»  this  Herculean  Roman  docs  become 


tnmottcnu. 


idtoce  :  in  f 


f.  •. 


The  carriage  of  his  ctiale. 

Ant.  I  '11  leave  you,  lady. 

Cleo.  Courteous  lord,  one  wor«< 

Sir,  you  and  I  must  part, — but  that 's  not  it : 
Sir,  you  and  I  have  lov'd, — but  there  's  not  it , 
That  you  know  well  :  something  it  is  I  would,— 
0  !  my  oblivion  is  a  very  Antony, 
And  I  am  all  forgotten. 

A^it.  But  that  your  ro>  alty 

Hold.s  idleness  your  subject,  I  should  take  you 
For  idleness  itself. 

Cleo.  'T  is  sweating  labour 

To  bear  such  idleness  so  near  the  heart. 
As  Cleopatra  this.     But,  sir,  forgive  me  ; 
Since  my  becomings  kill  me,  when  they  do  not 
Eye  well  to  you  :  your  honour  calls  you  hence ; 
Therefore,  be  deaf  to  my  unpitied  folly. 
And  all  the  gods  go  with  you  !  upon  your  sword 
Sit  laurel'd  victory,  and  smooth  success 
Be  strew'd  before  your  feet ! 

Ant.  Let  us  go.     Come  ; 

Our  separation  so  abides,  and  flies, 
That  thou,  residing  here,  go'st  yet  with  me. 
And  I,  hence  fleeting,  here  remain  with  thee. 
Away  !  [Freunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Rome.     An  Apartment  in  Cesar's 
House. 

Enter  Octavius  Cesar,  Lepidus,  and  Attendants 

Cms.  You  may  see,  Lepidus,  and  henceforth  know 
It  is  not  Csesar's  natural  vice  to  hate 
Our'  great  competitor.     From  Alexandria 
This  is  the  news  :  he  fishes,  drinks,  and  wastes 
The  lamps  of  night  in  revel  ;  is  not  more  manlike 
Than  Cleopatra,  nor  the  queen  of  Ptolemy, 
More  vvonianly  than  he  :  hardly  gave  audience,  oi 
Vouchsai'd  to  think  he  had  partners  :  you  shall  find 

there 
A  man,  who  is  the  abstract  of  all  faults 
That  all  men  follow. 

Lep.  I  must  not  think,  there  are 

Evils  enow  to  darken  all  his  goodness  : 
His  faults,  in  him,  seem  as  the  spots  of  heaven, 
More  fiery  by  night's  blackness  ;  hereditary. 
Rather  than  purchas'd  :  what  he  cannot  change, 
Than  what  he  chooses. 

CcEs.  You  are  too  indulgent.     Let  us  grant,  it  )■  nm 
Amiss  to  tumble  on  the  bed  of  Ptolemy, 
To  give  a  kingdom  for  a  mirth  ;  to  sit 
And  keep  the  turn  of  tippling  with  a  slave  ; 
To  reel  the  streets  at  noon,  and  stand  the  buffet 
With  knaves  that  smell  of  sweat :  say,  this  becomes  him, 
(As  his  compo.sure  must  be  rare  indeed, 
Whom  these  things  cannot  blemish)  yet  must  Antony 
No  way  excuse  his  foils,*  when  we  do  bear 
So  great  weight  in  his  lightness.     If  he  fiU'd 
His  vacancy  with  his  voluptuousness. 
Full  surfeits,  and  the  dryness  of  his  bones. 
Fall*  on  him  for  't;  but,  to  confound  .such  time, 
That  drums  him  from  his  sport,  and  speaks  as  loud 
As  his  own  .state,  and  ours, — 't  is  to  be  chid 
As  we  rate  boys;  who,  being  mature  in  knowlelge. 
Pawn  their  experience  to  their  present  pleasure. 
And  so  rebel  to  judgment. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

I,ep  Here'  s  more  news. 

A/e.sA.  Thy  biddings  have  been  done  ;  and  every  hour 
Most  noble  Cassar,  shalt  thou  have  report 
How  't  is  abroad.     Pompey  is  strong  at  sea , 

MiJoB«  readi :  »oiU.      »  Call  :  ia  f.  •• 


J 


i 


b«5ENE    V. 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 


855 


And  it  appears,  he  is  belov'd  of  those, 
That  only  have  fear'd  Caesar  :  to  the  fleets' 
The  discontents  repaii^  and  men's  reports 
Give  him  much  •wTong'd. 

CcEs.  I  should  have  kno-wn  no  less. 

It  hath  been  taught  us  from  the  primal  state, 
That  he,  which  is,  was  wish'd,  until  he  were : 
And  the  ebb'd  man  ne'er  lov'd,  till  ne'er  worth  love. 
Comes  lov'd'  by  being  lack'd.     This  common  body, 
Like  to  a  vagabond  flag  upon  the  stream, 
Goes  to,  and  back,  and  lackeying'  the  varying  tide, 
To  rot  itself  with  motion. 

Mess.  Caesar,  I  bring  thee  word, 

Menecrates  and  Menas,  famous  pirates. 
Make  the  sea  serve  them  ;  which  they  ear*  and  wound 
With  keels  of  every  kind :  many  hot  inrt)ads 
They  make  in  Italy  ;  the  borders  maritime 
Lack  blood  to  think  on 't,  and  flush  youth  revolt. 
No  vessel  can  peep  forth,  but  't  is  as  soon 
Taken  as  seen ;  for  Pompey's  name  strikes  more, 
Than  could  his  war  resisted. 

Cos.  Antony, 

Leave  thy  lasci^nous  wassels."     When  thou  once 
Wast  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou  slew'st 
Hirtius  and  Pansa,  consuls,  at  thy  heel 
Did  famine  follow ;  whom  thou  fought'st  against, 
Though  daintily  brought  up,  with  patience  more 
Than  savages  could  suffer  :  thou  didst  drink 
The  stale  of  horses,  and  the  gilded  puddle. 
Which  beasts  would  cough  at :  thy  palate  then  did  deign 
The  roughest  berry  on  the  rudest  hedge  ; 
Yea,  like  the  stag,  when  snow  the  pasture  sheets, 
The  barks  of  trees  thou  browsed'st :  on  the  Alps 
It  is  reported,  thou  didst  eat  strange  flesh, 
Which  some  did  die  to  look  on ;  and  all  this 
(It  wounds  thine  honour,  that  I  speak  it  now) 
Was  borne  so  like  a  soldier,  that  thy  cheek 
So  much  as  lank'd  not. 
j         Lep.  'T  is  pity  of  him. 

I         Cos.  Let  his  shames  quickly 
j    Drive  him  to  Rome.     'T  is  time  we  twain 
i     Did  show  ourselves  i'  the  field  :  and,  to  that  end, 
I    Assemble  we'  immediate  council :  Pompey 
I    Thrives  in  our  idleness. 
1        Lef.  To-morrow,  Csesar, 

I  I  shall  be  furnish'd  to  inform  you  rightly 
I  Both  what  by  sea  and  land  I  can  be  able, 
I    To  front  this  present  time. 

1        Cats.  Till  v.'hich  encounter, 

It  is  my  business  too.     Farewell. 

Lcp.  Farewell,  my  lord.  What  you  shall  know  mean 
time 
Of  stirs  abroad,  I  shall  beseech  you,  sir. 
To  let  me  be  partaker. 

Cos.  Doubt  not,  sir  ;  I  knew  it  for  my  bond. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Cleopatra.  Charmian,  Iras,    and  Mardian. 

Clco.  Charmian  ! 

Char.  Madam. 

Cieo.  Ha,  ha  !— 
Give  me  to  drink  mandragora. 

Char.  Why,  madam  ? 

Clco.  That  I  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time, 
My  Antony  is  away. 

Char.  You  think  of  him  too  much. 

Cleo    0,  'tis  treason  ! 


Char.  Matlam,  I  trust,  not  so. 

Cleo.  Thou,  eunuch,  Mardian — 

Mar.  What 's  your  highness'  pleasure  ? 

Cleo.  Not  now  to  hear  thee  sin<z :  I  take  no  pleasure 
In  aught  an  eunuch  has.     'T  is  well  for  thee, 
That,  being  unseminar'd,  thy  freer  thoughts 
May  not  fly  forth  of  Eg>'pt.     Hast  thou  affections  ' 

Mar.  Yes,  gracious  madam. 

Cleo.  Indeed? 

Mar.  Not  in  deed,  madam;  for  I  can  do  nothing. 
But  what  in  deed  is  honest  to  be  done ; 
Yet  have  I  fierce  affections,  and  think 
What  Venus  did  with  Mars. 

Cleo.  O,  Charmian  ! 

Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now  ?  Stands  he,  or  sits  h'  f 
Or  does  he  walk  ?  or  is  he  on  his  horse  ? 
0,  happy  horse  to  bear  the  weight  of  Antony ! 
Do  bravely,  horse,  for  wot'st  thou  whom  thou  mov'st  V 
The  demi- Atlas  of  this  earth,  the  arm 
And  burgonet'  of  men. — He  's  speaking  now, 
Or  murmuring,  "  Where  's  my  serpent  of  old  Nile  '" 
For  so  he  calls  me.     Now  I  feed  myself 
With  most  delicious  poison  : — think  on  me. 
That  am  with  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches  black, 
And  wrinkled  deep  in  time  ?     Broad-fronted  Csesar. 
When  thou  wast  here  above  the  ground,  I  was 
A  morsel  for  a  monarch ;  and  great  Pompey 
Would  stand,  and  make  his  eyes  grow  in  my  brow  : 
There  would  he  anchor  his  aspect,  and  die 
With  looking  on  his  life. 

Enter  Alexas. 

Alex.  Sovereign  of  Egypt,  hail ! 

Cleo.  How  much  unlike  art  thou  Mark  Antony  ; 
Yet,  coming  from  him,  that  great  medicine  hath 
With  his  tinct  gilded  thee. — 
How  goes  it  with  my  brave  Mark  Antony  ? 

Alex.  Last  thing  he  did,  dear  queen, 
He  kiss'd, — the  last  of  many  doubled  kis.ses, — 
This  orient  pearl  : — his  speech  sticks  in  my  heart. 

Cleo.  Mine  ear  must  pluck  it  thence. 

Alex.  Good  friend,  quoth  he 

Say,  "  the  firm  Roman  to  great  Egypt  sends 
This  treasure  of  an  oyster  ;  at  whose  foot, 
To  mend  the  petty  present,  I  will  piece 
Her  opulent  throne  with  kingdoms :  all  the  east," 
Say  thou,  "shall  call  her  mistress."     So  he  nodded. 
And  soberly  did  mount  an  arm-girt*  steed, 
Who  neigh'd  so  high,  that  what  I  would  have  spoke 
Was  boastfully'  dumb'd  by  him. 

Cleo.  Wliat !  was  he  sad,  or  merry  ' 

Alex.  Like  to  the  time  o'  the  year  between  the  ex 
tremes 
Of  hot  and  cold  :  he  was  nor  sad.  nor  merry. 

Cleo.  O  well-divided  disposition  ! — Note  him, 
Note  him,  good  Charmian,  'tis  the  man;  but  note  him 
He  was  not  sad,  for  he  would  shine  on  those 
That  make  tlieir  looks  by  his  :  he  wa.s  not  merry, 
Which  seem'd  to  tell  them,  his  remembrance  lay 
In  Egypt  with  his  joy  ;  but  between  both  : 
0  heavenly  mingle  • — Be'st  thou  sad.  or  merry, 
The  vioJenee  of  either  thee  becomes. 
So  does  it  no  man  else. — Met'st  thou  my  posts  ? 
Alex.  Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers. 
Why  do  you  send  so  thick  ? 

Cleo.  AVho  's  bom  that  day 

When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony, 
Shall  die  a  beggar. — Ink  and  paper,  Charmian. — 
Welcome,  my  good  Alexas. — Did  I,  Charmian. 


'  port* :  in  f.  e.        '  <\t 
lolio  ;  some  eda   read  :    va< 


f.  e. ;  fear'd  :  in  folio.      '  lacking  :  in  folio.      Thaobald  made  the  change.      «  Plough.      »  va*iaiies 
me  :  'in  folio,  16*3.     ''  Helmet.     »  arrn-jfaunt  :  in  f  •      »  beastly  :  in  f.  •. 


836 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 


Ever  love  Caesar  so  ? 

Char  0,  that  brave  Caesar  ! 

CUo.  Be  chok'd  with  such  another  emphasis  1 
Say,  the  brave  Antony. 

Chat  The  valiant  Caesar  ! 

Cleo.  By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 
If  thou  with  Caesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men 


Char.  By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 

I  sing  but  after  you. 

Cleo.  My  sail  ad  days, 

When  I  was  green  in  judgment : — cold  in  blood. 
To  say  as  I  said  then  ! — But  come,  away  : 
Get  me  ink  and  paper  ; 
He  shall  have  every  day  a  severa!  greeting. 
Or  I  '11  unpeople  Eg>T)t.  [Exfuni 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I. — Messina.     A  Room  in  Pompey's  House. 
Enter  Pompev,  Menecrates,  and  Menas. 

Pom.  If  the  great  gods  be  just,  they  shall  assist 
The  deeds  of  justest  men. 

Mene.  Know,  worthy  Pompey, 

That  what  they  do  delay,  they  not  deny. 

Pom.  Whiles  we  are  suitors  to  their  throne,  decays 
The  thing  we  sue  for. 

Mene.  We.  ignorant  of  ourselves, 

Beg  often  otxr  own  harms,  which  the  wise  powers 
Deny  us  for  our  good  ;  so  find  we  profit 
By  losing  of  our  prayers. 

Pom.  I  shall  do  wel   , 

The  people  love  me,  and  the  sea  is  mine ; 
.My  powers  are  crescent,  and  my  auguring  hope 
Says,  it  ■will  come  to  the  full.     Mark  Antony 
ill  Eg>lit  sits  at  dinner,  and  \v\\\  make 
No  wars  -without  doors  :    Caesar  gets  money,  where 
He  loses  hearts  :    Lepidus  flatters  both, 
Of  both  is  flatter'd  ;  but  he  neither  loves, 
Nor  either  cares  for  him. 

Men.  Caesar  and  Lepidus 

Are  in  the  field  :  a  mighty  strength  they  carry. 

Pom.    Where  have  you  this  ?  't  is  false. 

Men.  From  Sihius,  sir. 

Pom.  He  dreams  :  I  know,  they  are  in  Rome  together, 
Looking  for  Antony.     But  all  the  charms  of  love, 
Salt  Cleopatra,  soften  thy  warm'  lip  ! 
Let  -witchcraft  join  with  beauty,  lust  with  both  : 
Lav*  up  the  libertine  in  a  flood'  of  feasts. 
Keep  his  brain  fuming ;    Epicurean  cooks, 
Sharpen  with  cloyless  sauce  his  appetite, 
That  sleep  and  feeding  may  prorogue  his  honour, 
Even  till  a  Lethe' d  dulness. — How  now,  Varrius  ! 
Enter  Varrius. 

Var.  This  is  most  certain,  that  I  shall  deliver. 
MfU-k  Antony  is  every  hour  in  Home 
Kxpected  ;  since  he  went  from  Egpyt,  His 
\  space  for  farther  travel. 

Pom.  I  could  have  given  less  matter 

A  better  ear. — Menas,  I  did  not  think, 
This  amorous  surfeiter  would  have  don'd  his  helm 
For  such  a  petty  war:    his  soldiership 
Is  t-wice  the  other  twain.     But  let  us  rear 
The  higher  our  opinion,  that  our  stirring 
Can  from  the  lap  of  Egypt's  widow  pluck 
The  ne'er  lust-wearied  Antony. 

Men.  I  cannot  hope, 

Caesar  and  Antony  shall  well  greet  together  : 
His  wife  that  'b  dead  did  tre.spa.«ses  to  Caesar ; 
His  brother  warr'd  upon  him,  although,  I  think, 
Not  mov'd  by  Antony. 

Pom.  I  know  not,  Menas, 

How  lesser  enmities  may  give  way  to  greater. 
Were't  not  that  we  stand  up  against  them  all, 

»and     in      e       >  Tie  :  in  f.  •.      '  field  :  in  f.  •       *  Quarrel 


'Twere  pregnant  they  should  square*  between  tbnm. 

selves  ; 
For  they  have  entertained  cause  enough 
To  draw  their  swords  :  but  how  the  fear  of  us 
May  cement  their  divisions,  and  bind  up 
The  petty  difference,  we  yet  not  know. 
Be  it  as  our  gods  will  have  't  !     It  only  stands 
Our  lives  upon  to  use  our  strongest  hands. 
Come.  Menas.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Rome.  A  Room  in  the  House  of  LKPiors. 
E7iter  Enobarbus  and  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Good  Enobarbus,  't  is  a  worthy  deed, 
And  shall  become  you  well,  to  entreat  your  captaiH 
To  soft  and  gentle  speech. 

Eno.  I  shall  entreat  him 

To  answer  like  himself :  if  Caesar  mov  him, 
Let  Antony  look  over  Caesar's  head. 
And  speak  as  loud  as  Mars.     By  Jupitei, 
Were  I  the  wearer  of  Antonius'  beard, 
I  would  not  shave  't  to-day. 

Lep.  'Tis  not  a  time 

For  private  stomaching. 

Eno.  Every  time 

Serves  for  the  matter  that  is  then  born  in  't. 

Lep.  But  small  to  greater  matters  must  give  way. 

Eno.  Not  if  the  small  come  first. 

Lep.  Your  speech  is  paasiou 

But,  pray  you,  stir  no  embers  up.     Here  comes 
The  noble  Antony. 

Enter  Antony  ayid  Ventidius. 

Eno.  And  yonder.  Crrsar. 

Enter  C^isar,  Mecjenas.  a7id  Agrippa. 

Ant.  If  we  compose  well  here,  to  Parthia : 
Hark  you,  Ventidius. 

Cces.  I  do  not  know, 

Mecrrnas  ;  ask  Agnppa. 

Lep.  Noble  friends. 

That  which  combin'd  us  was  most  gi-eat,  and  let  not 
A  leaner  action  rend  us.     What  's  amiss. 
May  it  be  gently  heard  :  when  we  debate 
Our  trivial  difference  loud,  we  do  commit 
Murder  m  healing  wounds.     Then,  noble  partners, 
(The  rather,  for  I  earnestly  beseech) 
Touch  you  the  sourest  points  with  sweetest  terms, 
Nor  curstness  grow  to  the  matter. 

Ant.  'T  is  spoken  well. 

Were  we  before  our  armies,  and  1o  fight, 
I  .should  do  thus.  [Shnkf  hr.niU 

Cces.  Welcome  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Thank  you. 

Cces.  Sit. 

Ant.  Sit,  sir. 

Cces.  Nay,  then — 

Ant.  I  learn,  you  take  things  ill,  which  are  not  M 
i  Or,  being,  concern  you  not. 

»  Not  in  f  e. 


I 


SCENE  n. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


837 


Cos.  I  must  be  laugh'd  at, 

If,  or  for  noth-ng,  or  a  little,  I 
Should  say  myself  offended  ;  and  with  you 
Chiefly  i'  the  world  :  more  laugh'd  at,  that  I  should 
Once  name  you  derogately,  when  to  sound  your  name 
It  not  concern'd  me. 

Ant.  My  heing  in  EgA^pt,  Caesar, 

What  was 't  to  you  ? 

Cos.  No  more  than  my  residing  here  at  Rome 
Might  be  to  you  in  Egypt :  yet,  if  you  there 
Did  practise  ou  my  state,  your  being  in  Egypt 
Might  be  my  question. 

Ant.  How  intend  you,  practis'd  ? 

Cces.  You  may  be  pleas'd  to  catch  at  mine  intent, 
By  what  did  here  befal  me.     Your  wife,  and  brother. 
Made  wars  upon  me.  and  their  contestation 
Was  theme  for  you  ;  you  were  the  word  of  war. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  your  business  :  my  brother  never 
Did  urge  me  in  his  act  :  I  did  enquire  it ; 
And  have  my  learning  from  some  true  reports. 
That  drew  their  swords  with  you.     Did  he  not  rather 
Discredit  my  authority  with  yours ; 
And  make  the  wars  alike  against  my  stomach. 
Having  alike  your  cause  ?     Of  this  my  letters 
Before  did  satisfy  you.     If  you  '11  patch  a  quarrel, 
No  matter  whole  you  have  to  make  it  with. 
It  must  not  be  with  this. 

Cos.  You  praise- yourself 

By  laying  defects  of  judgment  to  me ;  but 
You  patch'd  up  your  excuses. 

Ant.  Not  so  ;  not  so ; 

I  know  you  could  not  lack,  I  am  certain  on 't, 
Very  necessity  of  this  thought,  that  I, 
Your  partner  in  the  cause  'gainst  which  he  fought, 
Could  not  with  gTaceful  eyes  attend  those  wars 
Which  fronted  mine  own  peace.     As  for  my  'W'ife, 
I  would  you  had  her  spirit  in  such  another  : 
The  third  o'  the  world  is  yours,  which  with  a  snaffle. 
You  may  pace  easy,  but  not  such  a  wife. 

Eno.  Would  we  had  all  such  wives,  that  the  men 
might  go  to  wars  with  the  women  ! 

Ant.  So  much  uncurbable,  her  garboils.  Csesar, 
Made  out  of  her  impatience,  (which  not  wanted 
Shrewdness  of  policy  too)  I  grieving  grant. 
Did  you  too  much  disquiet :  for  that,  you  must 
But  say,  I  could  not  help  it. 

CcBs.  I  wrote  to  you, 

Whvjn  rioting  in  Alexandria ;  you 
Did  pocket  up  my  letters,  and  with  taunts 
Did  gibe  my  missive  out  of  audience. 

Ant.  Sir, 

Ho  fell  upon  me,  ere  admitted  :  thenr 
Three  kings  I  had  newly  feasted,  and  did  want 
Of  what  I  was  i'  the  morning ;  but,  next  day, 
I  told  him  of  myself,  which  was  as  much 
•\s  to  have  ask'd  him  pardon.     Let  this  fellow 
Bo  nothing  of  our  strife  ;  if  we  contend. 
Out  of  our  question  wipe  him. 

Cces.  You  have  broken 

The  article  of  your  oath,  which  you  shall  never 
Have  tongiie  to  charge  me  with. 

Lep.  Soft,  Csesar. 

Ant.  No,  Lepidus,  let  him  speak  : 
The  honour's  sacred  which  he  talks  on  now. 
Supposing  that  I  lack'd  it.     But  on,  Caesar  ; 
The  article  of  my  oath. 

Cces.  To  lend  me  arms  and  aid  when  I  requir'd  them, 
The  which  you  both  denied. 

Ant.  Neglected,  rather; 

^  Retoncilt       »yoar:   in  folio,      'of:  in  f.  e. 


And  then,  when  poison'd  hours  had  bound  me  up 
From  mine  own  knowledge.     As  nearly  as  I  may, 
I  '11  play  the  penitent  to  you ;  but  mine  honesty 
Shall  not  make  poor  my  greatness,  nor  my  power 
Work  without  it.     Truth  is,  that  Fulvia, 
To  have  me  out  of  Egypt,  made  wars  here  ; 
For  which  myself,  the  ignorant  motive,  do 
So  far  ask  pardon,  as  befits  mine  honour 
To  stoop  in  such  a  case. 

Lep.  'T  is  nobly  spoken. 

Mec.  If  it  might  please  you,  to  enforce  no  farthe/ 
The  griefs  between  ye  :  to  forget  them  quite, 
Were  to  remember  that  the  present  need 
Speaks  to  atone'  you. 

Lep.  Worthily  spoken.  Mecaenas. 

Eno.  Or,  if  you  borrow  one  another's  love  for  the 
instant,  you  may,  when  you  hear  no  more  words  of 
Pompey,  return  it  again :  you  shall  have  time  lo 
wrangle  in,  when  you  have  nothing  else  to  do. 

Ant.  Thou  art  a  soldier  only  :  speak  no  more. 

Eyio.  That  truth  should  be  silent  I  had  almost  forgot 

Ant.  You  wrong  this  presence  ;  therefore,  speak  no 
more. 

Eno.  Go  to  then  ;  you'  considerate  stone. 

Cces.  I  do  not  much  dislike  the  matter,  but 
The  manner  of  his  speech  ;  for  it  cannot  be. 
We  shall  remain  in  friendship,  our  conditions 
So  differing  in  their  acts.     Yet,  if  I  knew 
What   hoop   should   hold   us  staunch,   from    edge   to 

edge 
0'  the  world  I  would  pursue  it. 

Agr.  Give  me  leave,  Caesar,— 

Cces.  Speak,  Agrippa. 

Agr.  Thou  hast  a  sister  by  the  mother's  side, 
Admir'd  Octavia  :  great  Mark  Antony 
Is  now  a  widower. 

Cms.  Say  not  so,  Agrippa  : 

If  Cleopatra  heard  you,  your  reproof 
Were  well  deserv'd  for^  rashness. 

Ant.  1  am  not  married,  Osesar  :  let  me  hear 
Agrippa  farther  speak. 

Agr.  To  hold  you  in  perpetual  amity. 
To  make  you  brothers,  and  to  knit  your  hearts 
With  an  unslipping  knot,  take  Antony 
Octavia  to  his  wife  :  whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men, 
Whose  virtue  and  whose  general  graces  speak 
That  which  none  else  can  utter.     By  this  marriage, 
All  little  jealousies,  which  now  seem  great. 
And  all  great  fears,  which  now  import  their  dangers, 
Would  then  be  nothing  :  truths  would  be  tales. 
Where  now  half  tales  be  truths  :  her  lore  to  both, 
Would,  each  to  other,  and  all  loves  to  both, 
Draw  after  her.     Pardon  what  I  have  spoke. 
For  't  is  a  studied,  not  a  present  thought, 
My  duty  ruminated. 

Ant.  Will  Caesar  speak  ? 

CcBs.  Not  till  he  hears  how  Antony  is  touch'd 
With  what  is  spoke  already. 

Ant.  What  power  is  in  Agrippa 

If  I  would  say,  "Agrippa,  be  it  so," 
To  make  this  good  ? 

Caes.  The  power  of  Caesar,  and 

His  power  unto  Octavia. 

Ant.  May  I  never 

To  this  good  purpose,  that  so  fairly  shows. 
Dream  of  impediment  ! — Let  me  have  thy  hand 
Further  this  act  of  grace,  and  from  this  hour, 
The  hearts  of  brothers  goveni  in  our  loved, 


838 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


ACT    n. 


And  Bway  our  great  designs. 

C4ts.  There  is  my  hand. 

A  sister  I  bequeath  you,whom  no  brother  [Ant.  takes  it.^ 
Did  ever  love  so  dearly  :  let  her  live 
To  join  our  kingdoniB,  and  our  hearts  ;  and  never 
Fly  off  our  loves  again  ! 

Lep.  Happily,  amen. 

Ant     I   did   not    think  to  draw  my  sword  'gainst 
Pompey ; 
For  he  hatl-  laid  strange  courtesies,  and  great. 
f>t"  late  upon  me  :   I  must  thank  him,  only 
Lest  my  remembrance  sutfer  ill  report ; 
At  heel  of  that,  defy  him. 

Lep.  Time  calls  upon  us : 

or  us  must  Pompey  presently  be  sought. 
Or  else  he  seeks  out  us. 

Ant.  Where  lies  he  ? 

Cos.  About  the  Mount  Misenum. 

Ant.  What 's  his  strength 

By  land? 

Cces.  Great,  and  increasing  ;  but  by  sea 
He  is  an  absolute  master. 

Ant.  So  is  the  fame. 

Would  we  had  spoke  together  !     Haste  we  for  it ; 
Yet,  ere  we  put  ourselves  in  arms,  despatch  we 
The  business  we  have  talk'd  of. 

Cos.  With  most  gladness; 

And  do  invite  you  to  my  sister's  view. 
Whither  straight  I  '11  lead  you. 

Ant.  Let  us,  Lepidus, 

Not  lack  your  company. 

Lep.  Noble  Antony, 

Not  sickness  should  detain  me. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  C^sar,  Antony,  and  Lepidus. 

Mec.  Welcome  from  Egypt,  sir. 

Eno.  Half  the  heart  of  Csesar,  worthy  Mecaenas  ! — 
my  honourable  friend,  Agrippa  ! — 

Agr.  Good  Enobarbus  ! 

Mfc.  We  have  cause  to  be  glad,  that  matters  are  so 
well  digested.     You  stay'd  well  by  it  in  Egypt. 

Eno.  Ay,  sir  ;  we  did  sleep  day  out  of  countenance, 
and  made  the  night  light  with  drinking. 

Mec.  Eight  wild  boars  roasted  whole  at  a  breakfast, 
and  but  twelve  persons  there ;  is  this  true  ? 

Eno.  This  was  but  as  a  fly  by  an  eagle :  we  had 
much  more  monstrous  matter  of  feast,  which  worthily 
deserved  noting. 

Mec.  She 's  a  most  triumphant  lady,  if  report  be 
square  to  her. 

Eno.  When  she  first  met  Mark  Antony,  she  pursed 
up  his  heart,  upon  tlie  river  of  Cydnus. 

Agr.  There  she  appeared  indeed,  or  my  reporter  de- 
vised well  for  her. 

Eiu).  I  wll  tell  you. 
The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne. 
Burn'd  on  the  water :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 
The  ^(inds  were  love-sick  with  them  :  the  oars  were 

silver ; 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 
The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own  person. 
It  beggar'd  all  description  :  she  did  lie 
in  her  pavilion,  (cloth  of  gold  and*  tissue) 
O'er-picturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see, 
The  fancy  out-work  nature  :  on  each  side  her, 
Su>od  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  diverse-colour'd  faHs.  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow*  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 

'  Not  ii  f.  e      »  of :  in  f.  e.      '  gl 


And  what  they  undid,  did. 

Agr.  0,  rare  for  Antony  1 

Eno.  Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bends  adornings  :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers  ;  the  silken  tackle 
Smell*  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hand*, 
That  yarely*  frame  the  othce.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her  ;  and  Antony 
Enthron'd  i'  the  market-place,  did  sit  aione. 
Whistling  to  the  air;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too. 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian  ! 

Eno.  Upon  her  landing  Antony  sent  to  her^ 
Invited  her  to  supper  :  she  replied, 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest, 
Which  she  entreated.     Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  "  No"  woman  heard  speak, 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feaat ; 
And  for  his  ordinary  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Royal  wench  ! 

She  made  great  Caesar  lay  his  sword  to  bed ; 
He  plough'd  her,  and  she  cropp'd. 

Eiio.  I  saw  her  once 

Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street ; 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted, 
That  she  did  make  defect  perfection. 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 

Mec.  Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

Eno.  Never  ;  he  will  not. 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety  :  other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry, 
Where  most  she  satisfies  ;  for  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her,  that  the  holy  priests 
Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish. 

Mec.  If  beauty,  wisdom,  modesty,  can  settle 
The  heart  of  Antony,  Octavia  is 
A  blessed  lottery  to  him. 

Agr.  Let  us  go. — 

Good  Enobarbus,  make  yourself  my  guest, 
Whilst  you  abide  here. 

Eno.  Humbly,  sir,  I  thank  you.  [Eteunt 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  Cesar's  Housa 

Enter  C jesar,  Antony,  Octavia  between  them  ; 

Attendants. 

Ani.  The  world,  and  my  great  ofiice,  will  sometimes 
Divide  me  from  your  bosom. 

Octa.  A.11  which  time. 

Before  the  gods  my  knee  shall  bow  with  prayers 
To  them  for  you. 

Ant.  Good  nisht,  sir. — My  Octavia, 

Read  not  my  blemishes  in  the  world's  report : 
I  have  not  kept  my  square,  but  that  to  come 
Shall  all  be  done  by  the  rule.     Good  night,  dear  lady.— 
Good  night,  sir. 

CtBs.  Good  night.  [Exeunt  CiESAR  and  Octavu 

Enter  a  Soothsayer. 

Ant.  Now,  sirrah  :  you  do  wish  yourself  in  Egypt. 

Sooth.  Would  I  had  never  come  from  thence,  nor 
you  thither! 

Ant.  If  you  can,  your  reason? 

Sooth.  I  see  it  in  my  moti  )n,  have  it  not  in  my 
tongue :  but  yet  hie  you  to  Egypt  again. 


folio       ♦  Swell  :  in  t  e.      •  Nimblu 


i 


80EWB   V. 


A]!TTOI^Y  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


889 


Ant.   Say  to  me,  whose  fortune   shall  rise  higher 
Caesar'  >,  or  mine  ? 

Sooi)i.  Caesar's. 
Therefore.  0  Antony  !  stay  not  by  his  side  : 
Thy  daemon,  that 's  thy  spirit  which  keeps  thee,  is 
Noble,  courageous,  high,  unmatchable, 
Where  Caesar's  is  not ;  but  near  him  thy  angel 
Becomes  afeard,'  as  being  o'erpower'd:  therefore, 
Make  space  enough  between  you. 

Ant.  Speak  this  no  more 

Sooth.  To  none  but  thee ;  no  more,  but  when  to  thee 
If  thou  dost  play  with  him  at  any  game. 
Thou  art  sure  to  lose  :  and,  of  that  natural  luck. 
He  beats  thee  'gainst  the  odds:  thy  lustre  thickens, 
When  he  shines  by.     I  say  again,  thy  spirit 
Is  all  afraid  to  govern  thee  near  him. 
But,  he  away,  't  is  noble. 

Ant.  Get  thee  gone  : 

Say  to  Ventidius,  I  would  speak  with  him. — 

[Exit  Soothsayer 
He  shall  to  Parthia. — Be  it  art.  or  hap, 
He  hath  spoken  true  :  the  very  dice  obey  him ; 
And  in  our  sports  my  better  cunning  faints 
Under  his  chance  :  if  we  draw  lots,  he  speeds : 
His  cocks  do  win  the  battle  still  of  mine. 
When  it  is  all  to  nought  ;  and  his  quails  ever 
Beat  mine,  inhoop'd.  at  odds.     1  will  to  Egypt: 
And  though  I  make  this  marriage  for  my  peace, 

Enter  Ventidius. 
P  the  east  my  pleasure  lies. — 0  !  come,  Ventidius, 
You  must  to  Parthia  :  your  commission  's  readyj 
Follow  me.  and  receive  it. 


SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Lepidus,  Mec5:nas,  and  Agrippa. 

Lep.  Trouble  yourselves  no  farther :  pray  you,  hasten 
Your  generals  after. 

Agr.  Sir,  Mark  Antony 

Will  e'en  but  kiss  Octavia,  and  we  '11  follow. 

Lep.  Till  I  shall  see  you  in  your  soldier's  dress, 
V^Tiich  will  become  you  both,  farewell. 

Mec.  We  shall, 

As  I  conceive  the  journey,  be  at  Mount' 
Before  you,  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Your  way  is  shorter ; 

My  purposes  do  draw  me  much  about : 
You  '11  win  two  days  upon  me. 

Mec.  Agr.  Sir,  good  success  ! 

Lep.  Farewell.  \Exeu7it. 

SCENE  v.— Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

E7iter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Alexas. 

Cleo.  Give  me  some  music ;  music,  moody  food 
t*f  us  that  trade  in  love. 

Attend.  The  music,  ho  ! 

Enter  Mardian. 

Cleo.  Let  it  alone ;  let 's  to  billiards  :  come,  Charmian. 

Char.  My  arm  is  sore,  best  play  with  Mardian. 

Cleo.  As  well  a  woman  with  an  eunuch  play'd, 
As  with  a  woman. — Come,  you  '11  play  with  me,  sir  ? 

Mar.  As  well  as  I  can,  madam.  [too  .short, 

Cleo.  And  when  good  will  is  show'd,  though  't  come 
The  actor  may  plead  pardon.     I  '11  none  now. — 
Give  me  mine  angle. — we  '11  to  the  river  :  there. 
My  music  playing  far  off,  I  "will  betray 
Tawny-finn'd'  fishes  ;  my  bended  hook  shall  pierce 
Their  slimy  jaws,  and  as  I  draw  them  up, 
I  "11  think  them  every  one  an  Antony, 
And  say,  Ah,  ha  !  you  're  caught. 

•  a  f«*p  :  IB  f.  e.     =  Mt.  Misenum.      '  Tawnev-fine  :  in  folio 


Char.  'T  was  merry,  when 

You  wager'd  on  your  angling  ;  when  your  diver 
Did  hang  a  salt-fish  on  his  hook,  which  he 
With  fervency  drew  up. 

Cleo.  That  time, — 0  times  ' — 

I  laugh'd  him  out  of  patience  ;  and  that  night 
I  laugh'd  him  into  patience  :  and  next  morn, 
Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I  drunk  him  to  his  bed  : 
Then,  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword  Philippian. — 

Enter  Elis,  a  Messenger.* 

O  !  from  Italy  ?— 
Ram  thou  thy  fruitful  tidings  in  mine  ears, 
That  long  time  have  been  barren. 

Mess.  Madam,  madam,  — 

Cleo.  Antony  's  dead  ? — 
If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'st  thy  mistress  : 
But  well  and  free. 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss ;  a  hand,  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

Mess.  First,  madam,  he  is  well. 

Cleo.  Why,  there  's  more  gold 

But,  sirrah,  mark,  we  use 
To  say,  the  dead  are  well :  bring  it  to  that, 
The  gold  I  give  thee  will  I  melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

Mess.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  go  to,  I  will  ; 

But  there  's  no  goodness  in  thy  face.     If  Antony 
Be  free,  and  healthful,  why  so  tart  a  favour 
[Eoceunt.  \  To  trumpet  such  good  tidings  ?  if  not  well. 

Thou  shouldst  come  like  a  fury  crown'd  with  snakes, 
Not  like  a  formal  man. 

Mess.  Will 't  please  you  hear  me  ? 

Cleo.  I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee,  ere  thou  spcak'st 
Yet,  if  thou  say,  Antony  lives,  't  is  well  ; 
Or  friends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 
I  '11  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Rich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Mess.  Madam,  he  's  well. 

Cleo.  Well  said. 

Mess.  And  friends  with  Cfesar. 

Cleo.  Thou  'rt  an  honest  man. 

Mess.  Caesar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than  ever. 

Cleo.  Make  thee  a  fortune  from  me. 

Mess.  But  yet,  madam, — 

Cleo.  I  do  not  like  "  but  yet,"  it  does  allay 
The  good  precedence  ;  fie  upon  ''  but  yet  !" 
'•  But  yet"  is  as  a  gaoler  to  bring  forth 
Some  monstrous  malefactor.     Pr'ythee,  friend, 
Pour  out  the  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear. 
The  good  and  bad  together.     He  "s  friends  with  Caesar; 
In  state  of  health,  thou  say'st:  and.  thou  say'st.  free. 

Mess.  Free,  madam  ?  no  ;  I  made  no  such  report : 
He 's  bound  unto  Octavia. 

Cleo.  For  what  good  turn  ? 

Mess.  For  the  best  turn  i'  the  bed. 

Cleo.  I  am  pale,  Charmian. 

Mess.  Madam,  he  's  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee ! 

[Strikes  him  down 

Mess.  Good  madam,  patience. 

Cleo.  What  say  you? — Hence. 

[Strikes  him  again 
Horrible  villain  !  or  I  '11  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me :  I  "11  unhair  thy  head. 

[She  hales  him  up  and  down 
Thou  Shalt  be  whipp'd  with  wire,  and  stew'd  in  brine 

Theobald  made  the  chanse.     ♦  Enter  a  Mtneuger :  m  l   «. 


840 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


AOT    IL 


Smarting  in  lingering  p.ckle.  I 

Miss.  Gracious  madam, 

I,  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

Cleo.  Say.  't  is  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give  thee, 
.\nd  make  thy  fortunes  proud:  the  blow  thou  hadst 
i^liall  make  tiiy  peace  for  mo\nng  me  to  rage; 
And  I  will  boot  thee  with  what  gilt  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

Mess.  He 's  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  Rogue  !  thou  hast  liv'd  too  long.  [Drawsa  Kiiife. 

Mess.  Nay.  then  I  '11  run. — 

What  mean  you,  madam  ?  I  have  made  no  fault.  [Exit. 

Char.  Good  madam,  keep  yourself  within  yourself: 
The  man  is  innocent. 

Cleo.  Some  innocents  'scape  n<jt  the  thunder-bolt. — 
Melt  Egypt  ink)  Nile  !  and  kindly  creatures 
Turn  all  t?)  serpents — Call  the  slave  again  : 
Though  I  am  mad,  I  will  not  bite  him. — Call. 

Char.  He  is  afeard  to  come. 

Cleo.  T  will  not  hurt  him. — 

These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 
A  meaner  than  myself:  since  I  myself 
Have  given  myself  the  cause. — Coine  hither,  sir. 

Re-enter  Elis,  the  Messenger.^ 
Though  it  be  honest,  it  is  never  good 
To  bring  bad  news :  give  to  a  gracious  message 
An  host  of  tongues ;  but  let  ill  tidings  tell 
Themselves,  when  they  be  felt. 

Mess.  I  have  done  my  duty. 

Cleo.  Is  he  married  ? 

I  caimot  hate  thee  worser  than  I  do, 
If  thou  again  say,  Yes. 

Mess.  He  's  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  gods  confound  thee  !  dost  thou  hold  there 
still  ? 

Mess.  Should  I  lie,  madam  ? 

Cko.  0  !  I  would,  thou  didst, 

So  half  my  Egypt  were  submerged,  and  made 
A  cistern  for  scal'd  snakes.     Go.  get  thee  hence  : 
Hadst  thou  Narcissus  in  thy  face,  to  me 
TTiou  wouldst  appear  most  ugly.     He  is  married  ? 

Mess.  I  crave  your  highness'  pardon. 

Cleo.  He  is  married  ? 

Mess.  Take  no  offence,  that  I  would  not  offend  you  : 
To  punish  me  for  what  you  make  me  do. 
Seems  much  unequal.     He  is  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  0!  that  his  fault  should  make  a  knave  of  thee, 
That  art  not  !  What  !  thou  'rt  sure  of?' — Get  thee  hence : 
The  merchandi.se  which  thou  hast  brought  from  Rome, 
Are  all  too  dear  for  me:  lie  they  upon  thy  hand. 
And  be  undjne  by  'em  !  [Exit  Messenger. 

Char.  Good  your  highness,  patience. 

Cleo.  In  praising  Antony,  I  have  disprais'd  Caesar. 

Char.  Many  times,  madam. 

Cleo.  I  am  paid  for 't  now. 

Ljad  me  from  hence ; 

I  faint. — 0  Iras  !  Charmian  ! — 'T  is  no  matter. — 
Ho  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas;  bid  him 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years. 
Her  inclination,  let  him  not  leave  out 
The  colour  of  her  hair:  bring  me  word  quickly. — 

[Exit  Ale.xas. 
Let  him  for  ever  go? — let  him  not — Charmian, 
Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Goriron, 
The  other  way  he  's  a  Mars. — Bid  you  Ahxa-s 

[To  Mardian. 
Bring  me  word,  how  tall  she  is  — Pity  me.  Charmian, 
But  do  not  speak  to  me. — Lead  me  to  my  chamb 


tnter  Mt.tsrngfr :  in  f  •. 


[Exeunt. 

»  That  a.t  not  what  thon  'rt  sure  of 


SCENE  VI.— Near  Mi.senum. 
Flourish.     Enter  Pompev  and  Menas.  at  one  .-rtrfc,  tcith 
Drum  and   Trumpet:  at  another.,  C.«:par.   Lepidus, 
Antony,  Enobarbus,  Mecjcnas,  with  Soldiers  march- 
ing. 

Pom.  Your  hostages  I  have,  so  have  you  mine  ; 
And  we  shall  talk  before  we  fight. 

Cos.  Most  meet. 

That  first  we  come  to  words :  and  therefore  have  we 
Our  wTitten  purposes  before  us  sent. 
Which,  if  thou  hast  consider'd,  let  us  know 
If  't  will  tie  up  thy  discontented  sword. 
And  carry  back  to  Sicily  much  tall  youth, 
That  else  must  perish  here. 

Pom  To  you  all  three, 

The  senators  alone  of  this  great  world, 
Chief  factors  for  the  gods. — I  do  not  know. 
Wherefore  my  father  should  revengers  want. 
Having  a  son,  and  friends  :  since  Julius  Caesar, 
Who  at  Philippi  the  good  Brutus  ghosted. 
There  saw  you  labouring  for  him.     What  was  it, 
That  mov'd  pale  Cassius  to  conspire  ?     And  what 
Made  the  all-honour'd,  honest,  Roman  Brutus, 
With  the  arm'd  rest,  courtiers  of  beauteous  freedom, 
To  drench  the  Capitol,  but  that  they  would 
Have  one  man  but  a  man  ?     And  that  is  it 
Hath  made  me  rig  my  navy,  at  whose  burden 
The  anger'd  ocean  foams ;  with  which  I  meant 
To  scourge  th'  ingratitude  that  despiteful  Rome 
Cast  on  my  noble  father. 

CcBs.  Take  your  time. 

Ant.  Thou  canst  not  fear'  us,   Pompey,  with  tbp 
sails  ; 
!  We  '11  speak  with  thee  at  sea  :  at  land,  thou  know'sr 
How  much  we  do  o'er-count  thee. 

Pom.  At  land,  indeed, 

Thou  dost  o'er-count  me  of  my  father's  house  : 
But,  since  the  cuckoo  builds  not  for  himself, 
Remain  in  't  as  thou  may'st. 

Lep.  Be  pleas'd  to  tell  us, 

(For  this  is  from  the  present)  how  you  take 
The  offers  we  have  sent  you. 

Cos.  There  's  the  point. 

Ant.  Which  do  not  be  entreated  to,  but  weigh 
What  it  is  worth  embrac'd. 

Cees.  And  what  may  follow, 

To  try  a  larger  fortune. 

Pom.  You  have  made  me  offer 

Of  Sicily,  Sardinia ;  and  I  must 
Rid  all  the  sea  of  pirates  ;  then,  to  send 
Measures  of  wheat  to  Rome  :  this  'greed  upon. 
To  part  with  unhack'd  edges,  and  bear  back 
Targes  undinted. 

Cos.  Ant.  Lep.  That 's  our  offer. 
Pom.  Know  then, 

I  came  before  you  here,  a  man  prepar'd 
To  take  this  offer ;  but  Mark  Antony 
Put  me  to  some  impatience. — Though  I  lose 
The  praise  of  it  by  telling,  you  must  know. 
When  Caesar  and  your  brother  were  at  blows, 
Your  mother  came  to  Sicily,  and  did  find 
Her  welcome  friendly. 

Ant.  I  have  heard  it.  Pompey  . 

And  am  well  studied  for  a  liberal  thanks, 
i  Which  I  do  owe  you. 

I      Pom.  Let  me  have  your  liand 

!  I  did  not  think,  sir,  to  have  met  you  here. 

[  They  take  Hands 

n  folio.      *  Alarm.      ♦  N'ot  in  f.  «. 


SCENE  vn. 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 


841 


Ant.  The  beds  i'  the  east  are  soft ;  and  thanks  to 
you, 
That  caird  me  timelier  than  my  purpose  hither, 
For  I  have  gain'd  by  it. 

Cos.  Since  I  saw  you  last, 

There  is  a  change  upon  you. 

Pom.  Well,  [  know  not 

What  counts  harsh  fortune  casts  upon  my  face. 
But  in  my  bosom  shall  she  never  come, 
To  make  my  heart  her  vassal. 

Lep.  Well  met  here. 

Pom.  I  hope  so,  Lepidus. — Thus  we  are  agreed. 
[  crave,  our  composition  may  be  written, 
And  seal'd  between  us. 

Cces.  That 's  the  next  to  do. 

Pom.  We  '11  feast  each  other,  ere  we  part ;  and  let  us 
Draw  lots  who  shall  begin. 

Ant.  That  will  I,  Pompey. 

Pom.  No,  Antony,  take  the  lot ;  but,  first 
Or  last,  your  fine  Egyptian  cookery 
Shall  have  the  fame.     I  have  heard,  that  Julius  Csesar 
Grew  fat  with  feasting  there. 

Ant.  You  have  heard  much. 

Pom.  I  have  fair  meanings,  sir. 

Ant.  And  fair  words  to  them. 

Pom.  Then,  so  much  have  I  heard  : 
And  I  have  heard,  ApoUodorus  carried — 
•  Eno.  No  more  of  that : — he  did  so. 

Pom.  What,  I  pray  you  ? 

Etw.  a  certain  queen  to  Caesar  in  a  mattress. 

Pom.  I  know  thee  now  :  how  far'st  thou,  soldier  ? 

Eno.  '         Well ; 

And  well  am  like  to  do ;  I  perceive, 
Four  feasts  are  toward. 

Pom.  Let  me  shake  thy  hand : 

I  never  hated  thee.     I  have  seen  thee  fight, 
When  I  have  envied  thy  behaviour. 

Eno.  Sir, 

I  never  lov'd  you  much ;  but  I  have  prais'd  you, 
When  you  have  well  deserv'd  ten  times  as  much 
As  I  have  said  you  did. 

Porn.  Enjoy  thy  plainness. 

It  nothing  ill  becomes  thee. — 
Aboard  my  gal  lev  I  invite  you  all : 
Will  you  lead,  lords  ? 

Cces.  Ant.  Lep.  Show  us  the  way,  sir. 

Pom.  Come. 

[Exeunt  Pompey,  Cesar,  Antony.  Lepidus, 
Soldiers  and  Attendants. 

Men.  Thy  father.  Pompey,  would  ne'er  have  made 
this  treaty. — [Aside.] — You  and  I  have  known,  sir. 

Eno.  At  sea,  I  think. 

Men.  We  have,  sir. 

Eno.  You  have  done  well  by  water. 

Men.  And  you  by  land. 

Eno.  I  will  praise  any  man  that  will  praise  me ; 
though  it  cannot  be  denied  what  I  have  done  by  land. 
I        Men.  Nor  what  I  have  done  by  water. 
I        Eno.  Yes ;  something  you  can  deny  for  your  own 
]    safety :  you  have  been  a  great  thief  by  sea. 

Men.  And  .you  by  land. 

Eno.  There  1  deny  my  land  service.  But  give  me 
your  hand,  Menas  :  if  our  eyes  had  authority,  here 
they  might  take  two  thieves  kissing. 

Men.  All  men's  faces  are  true,  whatsoe'er  their 
hands  are. 

Eno.  But  there  is  never  a  fair  woman  has  a  true 
face. 

Men.  No  slander ;  they  steal  hearts. 

Trumpet  blast       '  Plenty 


Eno.  We  came  hither  to  fight  with  you. 

Men.  For  my  part,  I  am  sorry  it  is  turned  to  £ 
drinking.  Pompey  doth  this  day  laugh  away  hit 
fortune. 

Eno.  If  he  do,  sure,  he  cannot  weep  it  back  agam. 

Men.  You  have  said,  sir.  We  looked  not  for  Mark 
Antony  here  :  pray  you,  is  he  married  to  Cleopatra? 

Ejio.  Csesar's  sister  is  call'd  Octavia. 

Men.  True,  sir;  she  was  the  wife  of  Caius  Marcelh. 

Eno.  But.  she  is  now  the  wife  of  Marcus  Antoiiius. 

Men.  Pray  you,  sir? 

Eno    'T  is  true. 

Men.  Then  is  Caesar,  and  he,  for  ever  knit  together. 

Eno.  If  I  were  bound  to  divine  of  this  unity,  I 
would  not  prophesy  so. 

Men.  I  think,  the  policy  of  that  purpose  made  mort 
in  the  marriage,  than  the  love  of  the  parties. 

Eno.  I  think  so  too :  but  you  shall  find,  the  band 
that  seems  to  tie  their  friendship  together  will  be  the 
very  straggler  of  their  amity.  Octavia  is  of  a  holy, 
cold,  and  still  conversation. 

Men.  Who  would  not  have  his  wife  so  ? 

Eno.  Not  he,  that  himself  is  not  so;  which  is  Mark 
Antony.  He  will  to  his  Egyptian  di.'^h  again  :  then, 
shall  the  sighs  of  Octavia  blow  the  fire  up  in  Csesar  ; 
and,  as  I  said  before,  that  which  is  the  strength  of 
their  amity,  shall  prove  the  immediate  author  of  their 
variance.  Antony  will  use  his  affection  where  it  is : 
he  married  but  his  occasion  here. 

Men.  And  thus  it  may  be.  Come,  sir,  will  you 
aboard  ?     I  have  a  health  for  you. 

Eno.  I  shall  take  it,  sir :  we  have  used  our  throala 
in  Egj'pt. 

Men.  Come  ;  let 's  away.  [Exetmt. 

SCENE  VIL— On  Board  Pompey's  Galley,  l>-ing  near 

Misenum. 
Music.     Enter  Two  or  Three  Servants,  with  a  Banquet. 

1  Serv.  Here  they  '11  be,  man.  Some  o'  their  plants 
are  ill-rooted  already;  the  least  wind  i'  the  world  will 
blow  them  do-rni. 

2  Serv.  Lepidus  is  high-coloured. 

1  Serv.  They  have  made  him  drink  alms-drink. 

2  Serv.  As  they  pinch  one  another  by  the  di.sposi- 
tion,  he  cries  out,  "  no  more  :"  reconciles  them  to  his 
entreaty,  and  himself  to  the  drink. 

1  Serv.  But  it  raises  the  greater  war  between  him 
and  his  discretion. 

2  Serv.  Why,  this  it  is  to  have  a  name  in  great  men's 
fellowship  :  I  had  as  lief  have  a  reed  that  will  do  me 
no  service,  as  a  partizan  I  could  not  heave. 

1  Serv.  To  be  called  into  a  huge  sphere,  and  not  to 
be  seen  to  move  in  't.  are  the  holes  where  eyes  should 
be,  which  pitifully  disaster  the  cheeks. 
A  Sejmet^  sounded.     Enter  Cjesar.  Antony,  Pompky 

Lepidus,  Agrippa,  Mecsnas,  Enobarbus,  Menas, 

with  other  Captains. 

Ant.  Thus  do  they,  sir.     [To  C*s.\r.]     They  tala 
the  flow  o'  the  Nile 
By  certain  scales  i'  the  pyramid  :  they  know. 
By  the  heiaht,  the  lowness,  or  the  mean,  if  dearth, 
Or  foison"  follow.     The  higher  Nil  us  swells. 
The  more  it  promises  :  as  it  ebbs,  the  seedsman 
Upon  the  slime  and  ooze  scatters  his  grain, 
And  shortly  comes  to  harvest. 

Lep    You  have  strange  serpents  there. 

Ant.  Ay,  Lepidus 

Lep.  Your  serpent  of  Egypt  is  bred,  now,  of  yoit 
mud  by  the  operation  of  your  sun:  so  is  your  crocodile 


842 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 


A.OT  n. 


Ant.  They  are  so. 

Pom.  Sit, — ajid  some  wine  ! — A  health  to  Lepidus. 

Lep.  I  am  not  so  well  a-s  I  should  be,  but  I  '11  ne'er  out. 

Eno.  Not  till  you  have  slept:  1  tear  me,  you  '11  be 
In.  till  then. 

Lep.  Nay.  certainly,  I  have  heard,  the  Ptolemies' 
pyramids  are  very  goodly  things;  without  contradic- 
tion, I  have  lieard  that. 

Men.  [jisulc]  Pompey,  a  word. 

Pom.  [Aside.]  Say  in  mine  ear  :  what  is  't  ? 

Men.  [Aside.]  Forsake  thy  seat,  I  do  beseecli  thee, 
And  hear  me  speak  a  word.  [captain. 

Pom.  [Aside.]  Forbear  me  till  anon. — 

This  wine  for  Lepidus. 

Lep.  What  manner  o'  thing  is  your  crocodile  ? 

Ant.  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself,  and  it  is  as  broad 
as  it  hath  breadth  ;  it  is  just  so  high  as  it  is,  and  moves 
with  its  o^^^l  organs ;  it  lives  by  that  which  nourisheth 
it,  and  the  elements  once  out  of  it,  it  transmigrates. 

Lep.  What  colour  is  it  of  ? 

Ant.  Of  its  owni  colour  too. 

Lep.  'T  is  a  strange  serpent. 

Ant.  'T  is  so ;  and  the  tears  of  it  are  wet. 

C<Bs.  Will  this  description  sati.sfy  him  ? 

Ant.  With  tlie  health  that  Pompey  gives  him,  else 
he  is  a  very  epicure. 

Pom.  [To  Mev AS.  aside]  Go,  hang,  sir,  hang  !   Tell 
me  of  that,  away  ! 
Do  a.s  I  bid  you. — "Where  's  this  cup  I  call'd  for  ? 

Men.  [Aside.]  If  for  the  sake  of  merit  thou  wilt  hear 
Rise  from  thy  stool.  [me, 

Pom.  [Aside.]  I  think,  thou  'rt  mad.     The  matter  ? 

[  Walks  aside. 

Men.  I  have  ever  held  my  cap  off  to  thy  fortunes. 

Pom.  Thou  hast  serv'd  me  with  much  faith.  What 's 
else  to  say  ? — 
Be  jolly,  lords. 

Ant.  These  quick-sands,  Lepidus, 

Keep  off  them,  for  you  sink. 

Men.  Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  all  the  world  ? 

Pom.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Men.  Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  the  whole  world  ?  That 's 
twice. 

Pom.  How  should  that  be  ? 

Men.  But  entertain  it, 

And  though  thou  think  me  poor,  I  am  the  man 
Will  give  thee  all  the  world. 

Pom.  Hast  thou  drunk  well  ? 

Men.  No,  Pompey.  I  have  kept  me  from  the  cup. 
Thou  art,  if  thou  dar'st  be,  the  earthly  Jove : 
Whate'er  the  ocean  pales,'  or  sky  inclips,' 
[s  thine,  if  thou  wilt  have  't. 

Pom.  Show  me  which  way. 

Men.  These  three  world-sharers,  these  competitors, 
Are  in  thy  ve.«sel :  let  me  cut  the  cable  ; 
And,  when  we  are  put  off,  fall  to  their  throats : 
k\\  then  is  thine. 

Pom.  All !  this  thou  shouldsl  have  done. 

And  not  have  spoke  on  't.     In  me,  't  is  villainy ; 
In  tliee,  't  had  been  good  servnce.     Thou  must  know, 
'T  is  not  my  profit  that  does  lead  mine  honour, 
M.nc  honour,  it.     Repent,  that  e'er  thy  ton^'ue 
Hath  so  betray'd  thine  act  :  bcini:  df)Me  unknown, 
I  should  have  found  it  afterwards  well  done. 
But  must  condemn  it  now.     Desist,  and  drink. 

Men.  [A.'iide.]  For  this, 
I  '11  never  follow  thy  pall'd  fortunes  more. 
Who  seeks,  and  will  not  take,  when  once  't  is  offer'd, 
Shall  never  find  it  more. 


Pom.  This  health  to  Lepidus. 

Ant.  Bear  him  ashore. — I  '11  pledge  it  for  him,  Pompey 

Eno.  Here  's  to  thee,  Menas. 

^^e7i.  Enobarbus,  welcome 

Pom.  Fill,  till  the  cup  be  hid. 

E7W.  There  's  a  strong  fellow,  Menas. 
[Pointing  to  the  Attendant  who  carries  off  Lepidus. 

Men.  Why? 

Eno.  He  bean 

The  third  part  of  the  world,  man  :  see'st  not? 

Men.  The  third  pa-t,  then,  is  drunk :  would  it  were  all, 
That  it  might  go  on  wheels  !' 

Eno.  Drink  thou ;  increase  the  reels. 

Men.  Come. 

Pom.  This  is  not  yet  an  Alexandrian  feast. 

Ant.  It  ripens  towards  it. — Strike*  the  vessels,  ho  ! 
Here  is  to  Caesar. 

CcBs.  I  could  well  forbear  it. 

It 's  monstrous  labour,  when  I  wash  my  brain, 
And  it  grows  fouler. 

Ant.  Be  a  child  o'  the  time. 

Cces.  Profess*  it,  I  '11  make  answer;  but  I  had  rathei 
fast 
From  all  four  days,  than  drink  so  much  in  one. 

Eno.  Ha,  my  brave  emperor  !  [To  Antony. 

Shall  we  dance  now  the  Egyptian  Bacchanals, 
And  celebrate  our  drink  ? 

Pom.  Let 's  ha  't,  good  soldier. 

Ant.  Come,  let  us  all  shake  hands. 
Till  that  the  conquering  wine  hath  steep'd  our  sense 
In  soft  and  delicate  Lethe. 

Eno.  All  take  hands. — 

Make  battery  to  our  ears  with  the  loud  music : 
The  while  I  '11  place  you  :  then,  the  boy  shall  sing 
The  holding'  every  man  shall  bear,  as  loud 
As  his  strong  sides  can  volley. 

[Music  plays.    Enobarbus  places  them  hand  in  hand. 
Song,  by  the  Boy.'' 
Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine., 
Plumpy  Bacchus,  with  pink  eyne: 
In  thy  vats  our  cares  be  drowned; 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crowned; 
Cup  us.  tm  the  world  go  round  ;  j  ^^^  ^^^^^,^ 
Cup  us.  till  the  world  go  round  !  ) 

Cces.  What  would  you  more? — Pompey,  good  night. 
— Grood  brother. 
Let  me  request  you  off:  our  graver  business 
Frowns  at  this  levity. — Gentle  lords,  let 's  part ; 
You  see,  we  have  burnt  our  cheeks.     Strong  Enobarbe 
Is  weaker  than  the  wine,  and  mine  own  tongue 
Splits  what  it  speaks  :  the  wild  disguise  hath  almost 
Antick'd  us  all.     What   needs  more  words?      Good 

night. — 
Good  Antony,  your  hand. 

Pom.  I  '11  try  you  on  the  shore. 

Ant.  And  shall,  sir,     Give  's  your  hand. 

Pom.  0,  Antony! 

You  have  my  father's  house. — But  what  ?  we  are  friend*. 
Come  down  into  the  boat. 

Eno.  Take  heed  you  fall  not.— 

[Exeunt  Pompey,  Cjesar,  Antont,  arid  Attendants. 
Menas,  I  '11  not  on  shore. 

Men.  No,  to  my  cabin. — 

These  drums  ! — these  trumpets,  flutes  !   what ! — 
Let  Neptune  hear,  we  bid  a  loud  farewell 
To  these  great  fellows :  sound,  and  be  hang'd  !  sound 
out !  [A  Flourish 

Eno.  Ho,  says  'a  ! — There 's  my  cap. 

Men.  Ho! — noble  captain  !  come.   [Eitnul 


*  EiuMitt.     *  Embraces.     '  A  proTa-M&l  expnnion.     *  Tap.     ■  PouAu  :  in  f.  a.     *  Burden.     i  by  the  Boy  :   aniinl.e. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


843 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Plain  in  Syria. 
Enter  Ventidius,  a^  it  were  in  triumph,  with  Silius, 

and  other   Romans,  Officers,  and  Soldiers ;   the  dead 

Body  of  Pacorus  borne  before  him. 

Ven.  Now,  darting  Parthia,  art  thou  struck ;  and  now 
Pleas'd  fortune  does  of  Marcus  Crassus'  death 
Make  me  revenger. — Bear  the  king's  son's  body- 
Before  our  army. — Thy  Pacorus,  Orodes, 
Pays  this  for  Marcus  Crassus. 

SiJ.  Noble  Ventidius. 

Whilst  yet  with  Parthian  blood  thy  sword  is  warm, 
The  fugitive  Parthians  follow :  spur  through  Media, 
Mesopotamia,  and  the  shelters  whither 
The  routed  fly :  so  thy  grand  captain,  Antony, 
Shall  set  thee  on  triumphant  chariots,  and 
Put  garlands  on  thy  head. 

Ven.  0  Silius,  Silius  ! 

I  have  done  enough :  a  lower  place,  note  well. 
May  make  too  great  an  act ;  for  learn  this,  Silius, 
Better  to  leave  undone,  than  by  our  deeds  acquire 
Too  high  a  fame,  when  him  we  serve  's  away. 
C?esar  and  Antony  have  ever  won 
More  in  their  officer,  than  person :  Sossius, 
One  of  my  place  in  Syria,  his  lieutenant. 
For  quick  accumulation  of  renown, 
Which  he  achiev'd  by  the  minute,  lost  his  favour. 
Who  does  i'  the  wars  more  than  his  captain  can, 
Becomes  his  captain's  captain ;  and  ambition, 
The  soldier's  virtue,  rather  makes  choice  of  loss, 
Than  gain  which  darkens  him. 
I  could  do  more  to  do  Antonius  good, 
But  "t  would  offend  him ;  and  in  his  offence 
Should  my  performance  perish. 

Sil.  Thou  hast,  Ventidius,  that 

Without  the  which  a  soldier,  and  his  sword, 
Gains  scarce  distinction.     Thou  wilt  wTite  to  Antony  ? 

Ven.  I  '11  humbly  signify  what  in  his  name. 
That  magical  word  of  war,  we  have  effected  : 
How,  with  his  banners  and  his  well-paid  ranks. 
The  ne'er-yet-beaten  horse  of  Parthia 
We  have  jaded  out  o'  the  field. 

SiL  Where  is  he  now  ? 

V^en.  He  purposeth  to  Athens ;  whither,  with  what 
haste 
The  weight  we  must  convey  with  us  will  permit. 
We  shall  appear  before  him. — On,  there !  pass  along. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Rome.     An  Ante-Chamber  in  Cjesar's 

House. 

Enter  Agrippa,  and  Enobarbus,  meeting. 

Agr.  What !  are  the  brothers  parted  ? 

Eno.    They  have  despatch'd  with  Pompey:    he   is 
gone ; 
The  other  three  are  sealing.     Octavia  weeps 
To  part  from  Rome  ;  C?esar  is  sad  ;  and  Lepidus, 
Since  Pompey's  feast,  as  Menas  says,  is  troubled 
With  the  green  sickness. 

Agr.  'T  is  a  noble  Lepidus. 

Eno.  A  very  fine  one.     O,  how  he  loves  Cffisar  ! 

Agr.  Nay,  but  how  dearly  he  adores  Mark  Antony  ! 

Eno.  Cssar  ?     Why.  he  's  the  Jupiter  of  men. 

Agr.  What 's  Antony?     The  god  of  Jupiter. 

Eno    Spake  you  of  Ccesar?     How  !  the  nonpareil ! 

'  Sraly  mne$ 


Agr.  0  Antony !     0  thou  Arabian  bird  ! 

Eno.  Would  you  praise  Caesar,  say, — Caesar  : — go  no 
farther. 

Agr.  Indeed,  he   ply'd    them   both  with    excellent 
praises. 

Eno.  But  he  loves  Caesar  best; — yet  he  loves  Antony. 
Ho  !  hearts,  tongues,  figures,  scribes,  bards,  poets  cannot 
Think,  speak,  cast,  write,  sing,  number,  ho! 
His  love  to  Antony.     But  as  for  Caessar, 
Kneel  down,  kneel  down,  and  wonder. 

Agr.  Both  he  lOves 

Eno.    They   are  his  shards,'   and  he  their  beet  la 
So, —  [Trumpets 

This  is  to  horse. — Adieu,  noble  Agrippa. 

Agr.  Good  fortune,  worthy  soldier ;  and  farewell. 
Enter  C5;sar,  Antony,  Lepidus,  and  Octavia. 

Ant.  No  farther,  sir. 

Cos.  You  take  from  me  a  great  part  of  myself  j 
Use  me  well  in  't. — Sister,  prove  such  a  wife 
As  my  thoughts  make  thee,  and  as  my  farthest  band 
Shall  pass  on  thy  approof. — Most  noble  Antony, 
Let  not  the  piece  of  virtue,  which  is  set 
Betwixt  us  as  the  cement  of  our  love. 
To  keep  it  builded,  be  the  ram  to  batter 
The  fortress  of  it ;  for  better  might  we 
Have  loved  without  this  mean,  if  on  both  parts 
This  be  not  cherish' d. 

Ant.  Make  me  not  offended 

In  your  distrust. 

Cces.  I  have  said. 

Ant.  You  shall  not  find, 

Though  you  be  therein  curious,  the  least  cause 
For  what  you  seem  to  fear.     So.  the  gods  keep  you, 
And  make  the  hearts  of  Romans  serve  your  ends 
We  ^^'ill  here  part. 

Cces.  Farewell,  my  dearest  sister,  fare  thee  well 
The  elements  be  kind  to  thee,  and  make 
Thy  spirits  all  of  comfort !  fare  thee  well. 

Oct.  My  noble  brother  ! — 

Ant.  The  April 's  in  her  eyes  ;  it  is  love's  spring. 
And  these  the  showers  to  bring  it  on. — Be  cheerful. 

Oct.  Sir,  look  well  to  my  husband's  house ;  and — 

Cces.  What,  Octavia? 

Oct.  I  '11  tell  you  in  your  ear. 

Ant.  Her  tongue  will  not  obey  her  heart,  nor  can 
Her  heart  inform  her  tongue ;  the  swan's  do^^^^  feathe' 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  the  fall  of  tide. 
And  neither  way  inclines. 

Eno.  Will  Caesar  weep?  [Aside  to  Aoripva. 

Agr.  He  has  a  cloud  in  's  face. 

Eno.  He  were  the  worse  for  that,  were  he  a  horse  ; 
So  is  he,  being  a  man. 

Agr.  Why,  Enobarbus, 

When  Antony  found  Julius  Caesar  dead. 
He  cried  almost  to  roaring;  and  he  wept, 
When  at  Philippi  he  found  Brutus  slain. 

Eno.  That  year,   indeed,  he  was  troubled  with   a 
rheum ; 
What  willingly  he  did  confound,  he  wail'd : 
Believe  't,  till  I  weep  too. 

Cces.  No,  sweet  Octavia, 

You  shall  hear  from  me  still :  the  time  shall  not 
Out-go  my  thinking  on  you. 

Ant.  Come,  sir,  come  ; 

I  '11  wrestle  with  you  in  my  strength  of  love  • 


844 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


A(T  m- 


Look,  here  [  have  you  ,  thus  I  let  you  go, 
Aiid  t:ive  you  to  the  gods. 

Ca-t.  Adieu  ;  be  happy. 

Lip.  Let  all  the  number  of  the  stars  give  light 
To  thy  fair  way! 

Cces.  Farewell    farewell.     [Kis.ses  Octavia. 

Ant.  Farewell      [Trumpets  saund.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  in. — Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Alexas. 

Cleo.  Where  is  the  fellow  ? 

Alex.  Half  afeard  to  come. 

Clco.  Go  to,  go  to. — Come  hither,  sir. 
Enter  Ens,  the  Messenger.^ 

Alex.  Good  majesty, 

Herod  of  Jewry  dare  not  look  upon  you, 
But  when  you  are  well  pleas'd. 

Clco.  That  Herod's  head 

I  '11  hare :  but  how,  when  Antony  is  gone, 
Through  whom  I  might  command  it? — Come  thou  near. 

Mess.  Most  gracious  majesty, — 

Cleo.  Didst  thou  behold 

Octavia  ? 

Mess.  Ay,  dread  queen. 

Cleo.  Where  ? 

Mess.  Madam,  in  Rome. 

I  look'd  her  in  the  face  ;  and  saw  her  led 
Between  her  brother  and  Mark  Antony. 

Cleo.  Is  she  as  tall  as  me  ? 

Me.is.  She  is  not,  madam. 

Cleo.  Didst  hear  her  speak  ?     Is  the  shrill-tongu'd, 
or  low  ? 

Mess.  iVTadam,  I  heard  her  speak  :  she  is  low-voic'd. 

Cleo.  That's  not  so  good  :  he  cannot  like  her  long. 

Char.  Likelier?     0  I.-;is  !  'tis  impossible. 

Cleo.  I  think  so,  Charmiau :    dull  of   tongue,  and 
dwarfish  ! — 
What  majesty  is  in  her  gait  ?     Remember, 
If  e'er  thou  look'dst  on  majesty. 

Mess.  She  creeps ; 

Her  motion  and  her  station  are  as  one : 
She  shows  a  body  rather  than  a  life ; 
A  statue,  than  a  breather. 

Cleo.  Ib  this  certain  ? 

Mess.  Or  [  have  no  observance. 

Char.  Three  in  Egypt 

Cannot  make  better  note. 

Cleo.  He  's  very  knowing, 

I  do  perceive  't. — There  's  nothing  in  her  yet. — 
The  fellow  has  good  judgment. 

Char.  Excellent. 

Cleo.  Guess  at  her  years,  I  pr'ythee. 

Mes.s.  Madam, 

She  wa.s  a  widow. 

Cleo.  Widow  ? — Charmian,  hark. 

Mess.  And  I  do  think,  she's  tliirty. 

CUo.  Bear'st  thou  her  face  in  mind  ?  is  't  long,  or 
round? 

Mfss.  Round,  even  to  faultiness. 

Cleo.  For  the  most  part,  too,  they  are  foolish  that 
are  so. — 
Her  hair,  what  colour  ? 

irlcis.  Brown,  madam  :  and  her  forehead 
As  low  as  you  could  wish  it. 

CUo.  There  's  gold  for  thee  : 

Thou  must  not  take  my  former  sharpness  ill. 
I  will  employ  thee  back  again  :  I  find  thee 
Most  fit  for  bu.^incss.     Go,  make  thee  ready  ; 
Our  letters  arc  prepar'd.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Extera  Messenger:  in  f.  e.     '  Vrxed.     >  not  took  't :  in  1.  «. 


Char.  A  proper  man. 

Clco.  Indeed,  he  is  so :  I  repent  me  much, 
That  I  so  harry'd"  him.     Why,  mcthinks,  by  him, 
This  creature  's  no  such  thing. 

Char.  Nothing,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and  should 
know. 

Char.  Hath  he  seen  majesty?     Isis  else  defend, 
And  serving  you  so  long  ! 

Cleo.  I   have  one  thing  more  to  ask  him  yet.  good 
Charmian  : 
But  't  is  no  matter ;  thou  shalt  bring  him  to  me 
Where  I  will  write.     All  may  be  well  enough. 

Char.  I  will  warrant  you,  madam.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. — Athens.     A  Room  in  Antony's  Hou.'>e. 
Enter  Antony  ami  Octavia. 

Ant.  Nay,  nay,  Octavia,  not  only  that, — 
That  were  excusable,  that,  and  thousands  more 
Of  semblable  import, — but  he  hath  wag'd 
New  wars  'gainst  Pompey ;  made  his  will,  and  reau  U 
To  public  ear. 

Spoke  scantly  of  me:  when  perforce  he  could  not 
But  pay  me  terms  of  honour,  coldly  and  sickly 
He  vented  them ;  most  narrow  measure  lent  me. 
When  the  best  hint  was  given  him,  he  but  look'd,* 
Or  did  it  from  his  teeth. 

Oct.  0,  my  good  lord  ! 

Believe  not  all  ;  or,  if  you  mu.><t  believe. 
Stomach  not  all.     A  more  unhappy  lady, 
If  this  division  chance,  ne'er  stood  between, 
Praying  for  both  parts  : 
The  good  gods  will  mock  me  presently. 
When  I  shall  pray,  '■  0,  bless  my  lord  and  husband  '." 
Undo  that  prayer,  by  crying  out  as  loud, 
"  0,  bless  my  brother  !"     Husband  win,  win  brother 
Prays,  and  destroys  the  prayer ;  no  midway 
'Twixt  these  extremes  at  all. 

Ant.  Gentle  Octavia, 

Let  your  best  love  draw  to  that  point,  which  seeks 
Best  to  preserve  it.     If  I  lose  mine  honour, 
I  lose  myself;  better  I  were  not  yours. 
Than  yours  so  branchless.     But,  a**  you  requested, 
Yourself  shall  go  between  us  :  the  mean  time,  lady, 
I  '11  raise  the  preparation  of  a  war 
Shall  stay  your  brother.     Make  your  soonest  haste  : 
So.  your  desires  are  yours. 

Oct.  Thanks  to  my  lord. 

The  Jove  of  power  make  me  most  weak,  most  weak, 
Your  reconciler  !     W^ars  'twixt  you  twain  would  be, 
As  if  the  world  should  cleave,  and  that  slain  men 
Should  solder  up  the  rift. 

Ant.  When  it  appears  to  you  where  this  begins. 
Turn  your  displeasure  that  way  ;  for  our  faults 
Can  never  be  so  equal,  that  your  love 
Can  equally  move  with  them.     Provide  yonr  going . 
Choose  your  own  company,  and  command  what  cost 
Your  heart  has  mind  to.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  V. — The  Same.  Another  Room  in  the  Sani'^ 
Enter  Enobarbus  atid  Eros,  meeting. 

Eno.  How  now,  friend  Eros  ? 

Eros.  There  is  strange  news  come,  sir 

Eno.  What,  man? 

Eros.  Caesar  and  Lepidus  have  made  wars  upoj 
Pompey. 

Eno.  This  is  old  :  what  is  the  success  ? 

Eros.  Caesar,  having  made  use  of  him  in  the  wan 
'gainst  Pompey,  presently  dcn-ed  him  rivality,  wouWl 


OtJKNE    VI. 


AJNTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


845 


cot  let  him  partake  in  the  glory  of  the  action ;  and  not '      Cces.  That  ever  I  should  call  thee  cast-away  ! 
resting  here,  accuses  him  of  letters  he  had  formerly  i      Oct.  You  hare  not  call'd  me  so,  nor  have  you  cause 
wrote  to  Pompey  ;  upon  his  own  appeal,  seizes  him :  j      Cces.  Why   have  you  stol'n  upon   us   thus  ?     YoTi 
•io  the  poor  third  is  up  till  death  enlarge  his  confine.  come  not 

Eno.  Then,  world,^  thou  hast  a   pair  of   chaps,  no   Like  Csesar's  sister  :  the  wife  of  Antony 
more  ;  i  Should  have  an  army  for  an  usher,  and 

And  throw  between  them  all  the  food  thou  hast,  j  The  neighs  of  horse  to  tell  of  her  approach, 

They  Tl  grind  each  other.     Where  is  Antony?  j  Long  ere  she  did  appear;  the  trees  by  the  way, 

Eros.  He's  walking  in  the  garden — thus;  and  spurns   Should  have  borne  men,  and  expectation  fainted 


The  rush  that  lies  before  him;  cries,  " Fool,  Lepidus 
And  threats  the  throat  of  that  his  officer. 
That  murder'd  Pompey. 

Eno.  Our  great  navy  's  rigg'd. 

Eros.  For  Italy,  and  Caesar.     More.  Domitius; 
My  lord  desires  you  presently  :  my  news 
I  might  have  told  hereafter. 

Eno.  'T  wall  be  naught ; 

But  let  it  be. — Bring  me  to  Antony. 

Eros.  Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL — Rome.     A  Room  in  C5:sar's  House. 

Enter  C5:sar,  Agrippa.  and  Mec^enas. 
C(Bs.  Contemning  Rome,  he  has  done  all  this,  and 
In  Alexandria  :  here  "s  the  manner  of  it.  [more. 

I'  the  market-place,  on  a  tribunal  silver'd, 
Cleopatra  and  himself  in  chairs  of  gold 
Were  publicly  enthron'd :  at  their  feet  sat 
Csesarion.  whom  they  call  my  father's  son, 
And  all  the  unlawful  issue,  that  their  lust 
Since  then  hath  made  between  them.     Unto  her 
He  gave  the  'stablishment  of  Eg^-pt ;  made  her 
Of  lower  Syria,  Cyprus,  Lydia, 
Absolute  queen. 

Mec.  This  in  the  public  eye  ? 

Cos.  V  the  common  show-place,  where  they  exercise, 
His  sons  he  there*  proclaimM  the  kings  of  kings  : 
Great  Media,  Parthia,  and  Armenia, 
He  gave  to  Alexander  :  to  Ptolemy  he  assign'd 
Syria,  Cilicia,  and  Phcenicia.     She 
In  the  habiliments  of  the  goddess  Isis 
That  day  appear'd  ;  and  oft  before  gave  audience, 
As  'tis  reported,  so. 

Mec.  Let  Rome  be  thus 

Inform'd. 

Agr.         Who,  queasy  with  his  insolence 
Already,  will  their  good  thoughts  call  from  him. 

Cos.  The  people  know  it ;  and  have  now  receiv'd 
His  accusations. 
Agr.  Whom  does  he  accuse  ? 

C<Bs.  Caesar;  and  that,  having  in  Sicily 
Sextus  Pompeius  spoil'd,  we  had  not  rated  him 
His  part  o'  the  isle :  then  does  he  say,  he  lent  me 
Some  shipping  unrestor'd  :  lastly,  he  frets. 
That  Lepidus  of  the  triumvirate 
Should  be  depos'd  ;  and,  being,  that  we  detain 
All  his  revenue. 

Agr.  Sir,  this  should  be  answer'd. 

CcBs.  'T  is  done  already,  and  a  messenger  gone. 
I  have  told  him,  Lepidus  was  grown  too  cruel ; 
That  he  his  high  authority  abus'd. 
And  did  deserve  his  change  :  for  what  I  have  conquer'd, 
1  grant  him  part ;  but  then,  in  his  Armenia, 
,\nd  other  of  his  conquer'd  kingdoms,  I 
Demand  the  like. 

Mec.  He  '11  never  yield  to  that. 

Cos.  Nor  must  not,  then,  be  yielded  to  in  this. 
Enter  Octavia,  with  her  Train. 


Longing  for  what  it  had  not ;  nay,  the  dust 
Should  have  ascended  to  the  roof  of  heaven, 
Rais'd  by  your  populous  troops.     But  you  are  conirt 
A  market-maid  to  Rome,  and  have  prevented 
The  ostentation  of  our  love,  whicli,  left  unshown. 
Is  often  held'  tinlov'd  :  we  should  have  met  you 
By  sea  and  land,  supplying  every  stage 
AVith  an  augmented  greeting. 

Oct.  Good  my  lord, 

To  come  thus  was  I  not  constrain'd.  but  did  it 
Of  my  free-will.     My  lord,  Mark  Antony, 
Hearing  that  you  prepar'd  for  war,  acquainted 
My  grieved  ear  withal;  whereon,  I  begg'd 
His  pardon  for  return. 

Cas.  Which  soon  he  granted, 

Being  an  obstruct*  'tween  his  lust  and  him. 
Oct.  Do  not  say  so,  my  lord. 

Cos.  I  have  eyes  upon  l.'.ro. 

And  his  afiairs  come  to  me  on  the  \^dnd. 
Where  is  he  now  ? 

Oct.  My  lord,  in  Athens. 
Cms.  No,  my  most  %\Tonged  sister  :  Cleopatra 
Hath  nodded  him  to  her  :  he  hath  given  his  empire 
Up  to  a  whore :  they  are  now  le\-ying 
The  kings  o'  the  earth  for  war.     He  hafh  assembled 
Bocchus,  the  king  of  Lybia  ;  Archelaua, 
Of  Cappadocia  ;  Philadelphos,  king 
Of  Paphlagonia ;  the  Thracian  king,  Adallas  : 
King  Malchas  of  Arabia;  king  of  Pont; 
Herod  of  JewTy  :  Mithridates,  king 
Of  Comagene  :  Polemon  and  Amintas, 
The  kings  of  Mede.  and  Lycaonia, 
With  a  more  larger  list  of  sceptres. 

Oct.  Ah  me,  most  ■wrctci.-'d 

That  have  my  heart  parted  betwixt  two  friends, 
That  do  afflict  each  other  ! 

Cms.  Welcome  hither. 

Your  letters  did  withhold  our  breaking  forth, 
Till  we  perceiv'd,  both  how  you  were  wronged.' 
And  we  in  negligent  danger.     Cheer  your  lieart  : 
Be  you  not  troubled  with  the  time,  which  drives 
0"er  your  content  these  strong  necessities ; 
But  let  determin"d  things  to  destiny 
Hold  unbewail'd  their  way.     Welcome  to  Rome  ; 
Nothing  more  dear  to  me.     You  are  abus'd 
Beyond  the  mark  of  tliouglit ;  and  the  high  gods, 
To  do  you  justice,  make  his  ministers 
Of  us  and  those  that  love  you.     Best  of  comfort ; 
And  ever  welcome  to  us. 

Agr.  Welcome,  lady. 

Mec.  Welcome,  dear  m<adam. 
Each  heart  in  Rome  does  love  and  pity  you : 
Only  the  adulterous  Antony,  most  large 
In  liis  abominations,  turns  you  off. 
And  gives  his  potent  regiment'  to  a  trull, 
That  noises  it  against  us. 

Oct.  Is  it  so,  sir? 

,^^,  ^,„,„  Cos.  Most  certain.     Sister,  welcome  :  pray  you. 

Oct.  Hail,  Caesar,  and  my  lord  !  hail,  most  dear  C^ar  !   Be  ever  known  to  patience.  My  dearst  sisterl  [Exeunt. 

J  hither  :  in  folio.    Steevens  made  the  change.      »  left :  in  f.  e.      •  abstract :  in  folio 


'  would  :  in  folio.     Johnson  made  the  ch 
Warburton  made  the  change.      »  wrong  led 


in  f.  e.      •  Government. 


846 


ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA. 


LCT   m 


SCENE  VII. — Antony's  Camp,  near  the  Promontory 

of  Actium. 

Enter  Ci-kopatra  and  Enobarbus. 

Clco.  I  will  be  even  with  tliee,  doubt  it  not. 

Eno.  But  why,  why,  wh>  ? 

Cko.  Thou  hast  lorspoke    my  being  in  these  -wars. 
And  say'st,  it  is  not  fit. 

Eno.  Well,  is  it,  is  it  ? 

Clco.  If  not  dcuoiinc'd  against  us,  why  should  not  we 
Be  there  in  person  ? 

Eno.   [A.-side.]  Well,  I  could  reply  : — 
If  we  should  serve  with  horse  and  mares  together. 
The  horse  were  merely  lost ;  the  marcs  would  bear 
A  soldier,  and  his  horse. 

Cleo.  What  is  't  you  say  ? 

Eno.  Your  presence  needs  must  puzzle  Antony  ; 
Take  from  his  heart,  take  from  his  brain,  from  's  time. 
Wliat  should  not  then  be  spar'd.     He  is  already 
Traduc'd  for  le^^ty ;  and  't  is  said  in  Rome, 
That  Photinus  an  eunuch,  and  your  maids, 
Manage  this  war. 

Cleo.  Sink  Rome  ;  and  their  tongues  rot, 

That  speak  against  us  !     A  charge  we  bear  i'  the  war. 
And  as  the  president  of  my  kingdom  will 
Appear  there  for  a  man.     Speak  not  against  it , 
I  will  not  stay  behind. 

Eno.  Nay,  I  have  done 

Here  comes  the  emperor. 

Enter  Antony  and  Canidivs. 

Ant.  Is  't  not  strange,  Canidius, 

That  from  Tarentum,  and  Brundusium, 
He  could  so  quickly  cut  the  Ionian  sea. 
And  take  in'  Tor\iie  ? — You  have  heard  on  H,  sweet  ? 

Cleo.  Celerity  is  never  more  admir'd. 
Than  by  the  negligent. 

Ant.  A  good  rebuke, 

Which  might  have  well  become  the  best  of  men. 
To  taunt  at  slackness. — Canidius,  we 
Will  fight  with  him  by  sea. 

Cleo.  By  sea  !  what  else  ? 

Can.  Why  vsnll  my  lord  do  so  ? 

Ant.  For  that  he  dares  us  to  't. 

Eno.  So  hath  ray  lord  dar'd  him  to  single  fight. 

Can.  Ay,  and  to  wage  this  battle  at  Pharsalia, 
Where  Csesar  fought  with  Pompey  ;  but  these  offers, 
Which  serve  not  for  his  vantage,  he  shakes  off. 
And  80  should  you. 

Eno.  Your  ships  are  not  well  mann'd  ; 

Your  mariners  are  muliters,  reapers,  people 
Ingross'd  by  swift  impress  :   in  Caesar's  fleet 
Are  those,  that  often  have  'gainst  Pompey  fought. 
Their  ships  arc  rare,'  yours,  heavy  :   no  disgrace 
Shall  fall  you  for  refusing  him  at  sea, 
Being  prepar"d  for  land. 

Ant.  By  sea,  by  sea. 

Eno.  Most  worthy  sir,  you  therein  throw  away 
The  absolute  .soldiership  you  have  by  land  ; 
Distract  your  army,  which  doth  most  consist 
«'>f  war-markd  footmen  ;  leave  unexecuted 
Your  own  reno\\-ned  knowledge  ;  quite  forego 
The  way  wliich  promises  assurance,  and 
Give  up  yourself  merely  to  chance  and  hazard. 
From  firm  security. 

Ant.  I  '11  fight  at  sea. 

)    Cleo.  I  have  sixty  sails,  Caesar  none  better. 

Ant.  Our  overplus  of  shipping  will  we  bum, 
And    with    the    rest,   fuU-mann'd,  from   the  head    of 
Actium 


Beat  th'  approaching  Csesar :   but  if  we  fai' 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
We  then  can  do't  at  land. — Thy  bu.'^ine.'^B  ' 

Mes.^.  The  news  is  true,  my  lord  ;  he  is  descried 
Caesar  has  taken  TorjTie. 

Ant.  Can  he  be  there  in  person  ?  't  is  impossible  ; 
Strange,  that  his  power  should  be. — Canidius, 
Our  nineteen  legions  thou  shalt  hold  by  land, 
And  our  twelve  thousand  horse  :  we  '11  to  our  ship. 

Enter  a  Soldier. 
Away,  my  Thetis  ! — How  now,  worthy  soldier  ! 

Sold.  0,  noble  emperor  !  do  not  fight  by  sea  : 
Trust  not  to  rotten  planks.     Do  you  misdoubt 
This  sword,  and  these  my  wounds  ?    Let  the  Egyptians, 
And  the  PhoRnicians,  go  a  ducking;  we 
Have  used  to  conquer  standing  on  the  earth, 
And  fighting  foot  to  foot. 

Ant.  Well,  well.— Away  ! 

[Exeunt  Antony,  Cleopatra,  and  Enobarbis. 

Sold.  By  Hercules,  I  think,  I  am  i   the  right. 

Can.  Soldier,  thou  art ;  but  his  whole  action  growi 
Not  in  the  power  on 't :  so  our  leader  's  led. 
And  we  are  women's  men. 

Sold.  You  keep  by  land 

The  legions  and  the  horse  whole,  do  you  not  ? 

Can.  Marcus  Octavius,  Marcus  Justeius, 
Publicola.  and  Caelius.  are  for  sea  ; 
But  we  keep  whole  by  land.     This  speed  of  Caesar'i 
Carries  beyond  belief. 

Sold.  While  he  was  yet  in  Rome. 

His  power  went  out  in  such  distractions,  as 
Beguil'd  all  spies. 

Can.  Who  's  his  lieutenant,  hear  you  ? 

Sold.  They^  say,  one  Taurus. 
.    Can.  Well  I  know  the  man 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  emperor  calls  Canidius. 

Can.  With  news  the  time  's  with  labour  ;  and  thro-w? 
forth 
Each  minute  some.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  VIII.— A  Plain  near  Actium. 
Enter  Cesar,  Taurus,  Officers.^  and  others. 
CcEs.  Taurus  ! 
Taur.  My  lord. 

CcBs.  Strike  not  by  land  ;  keep  whole  : 

Provoke  not  battle,  till  we  have  done  at  sea. 
Do  not  exceed  the  prescript  of  this  scroll  :    [Giving  it. 
Our  fortune  lies  upon  this  jump.  [Exeunt 

Enter  Antony  and  Enobarbus. 
Ant.  Set  we  our  .squadrons  on  yond'  side  o   the  hill 
In  eye  of  Ca;sar's  battle  ;  from  which  place 
We  may  the  number  of  the  ships  behold, 
And  so  proceed  accordingly.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Canidius,  marching  with  his  Land  Army  oni 
Way  over  the  Stage  :  and  Taurus,  the  Lieutenant  of 
C«SAR,  the  othtr  Way.  After  their  going  in  is 
heard  the  Noise  of  a  Sea- Fight. 

Alantni.     Re-enter  Enobarbus. 
E710.  Naught,  naught,  all  naught !  I  can  behold  nc 
longer. 
The  Antoniad,  the  Egyptian  admiral, 
With  all  their  sixty,  fly,  and  turn  the  rudder  • 
To  see't,  mine  eyes  are  blasted. 

Enter  Scarus. 
Scar.  Gods,  and  goddesfcji 

All  the  whole  synod  of  them  ! 

Erw.  What  's  thy  passion  ' 

Scar.  The  greater  cantle*  of  the  world  is  lost 


Spoken  again! 


Conqutr 


Easily  matMgtd.     *  Not  in  f.  e.     *  Portion. 


SCENE   X. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATHA 


847 


With  very  ignorance :  we  have  kiss'd  away 
Kingdoms  and  provinces. 

Eno.  How  appears  the  fight  ? 

Scar.  On  our  side  like  the  token'd  pestilence, 
Where  death  is  sure.     Yond'  ribald  hag^  of  Egypt, 
Whom  leprosy  o'ertake  !   i'  the  midst  o'  the  fight, — 
When  vantage,  like  a  pair  of  twins,  appear'd 
Both  as  the  same,  or  rather  ours  the  elder  ; — 
The  brize*  upon  her  like  a  cow  in  Ji'ne, 
Hoists  sails,  and  flies. 

Eno.  That  I  behek  : 

Mine  eyes  did  sicken  at  the  sight,  and  could  not 
Endure  a  further  view. 

Scar.  She  once  being  ioof  'd, 

The  noble  ruin  of  her  magic.  Antony, 
ClapvS  on  his  sea- wing,  and  like  a  doting  mallard. 
Leaving  the  fight  in  height,  flies  after  her. 
I  never  saw  an  action  of  such  shame : 
Experience,  manhood,  honour,  ne'er  before 
Did  violate  so  itself. 

Eno.  Alack,  alack  ! 

Eiiter  Canidius. 

Can.  Our  fortune  on  the  sea  is  out  of  breath, 
And  sinks  most  lamentably.     Had  our  general 
Been  what  he  knew  himself,  it  had  gone  well : 
0  !  he  has  given  example  for  our  flight, 
Most  grossly,  by  his  owii. 

E710.  Ay,  are  you  thereabouts  ?  Why  then,  good  night 
Indeed. 

Can.  Towards  Peloponnesus  are  they  fled. 

Scar.  'Tis  easy  to't ;  and  there  I  will  attend 
What  farther  comes. 

Can.  To  Czesar  will  I  render 

My  legions,  and  my  horse  :  six  kings  already 
Show  me  the  way  of  yielding. 

Eno.  V  11  yet  follow 

The  wounded  chance  of  Antony,  though  my  reason 
I     Sits  in  the  wind  against  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.— Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Antony,  and  Attendants. 
Ant.  Hark  '  the  land  bids  me  tread  no  more  upon  't ; 
It  is  asham'd  to  bear  me. — Friends,  come  hither, 
1      [  am  so  lated  in  the  world,  that  I 
;     Have  lost  my  way  for  ever. — I  have  a  ship 
Laden  with  gold  ;  take  that,  divide  it  ;  fly, 
i     And  make  your  peace  with  Csesar. 

Att.  Fly  !  not  we. 

Ant.  I  have  fled  myself,  and  have  instructed  cowards 
!     To  run,  and  show  their  shoulders. — Friends,  be  gone  ; 
!     I  have  myself  resolv'd  upon  a  course, 
I     Which  has  no  need  of  you  ;  be  gone  : 
I     My  treasure  's  in  the  harbour,  take  it. — 0  ! 
I     I  follow'd  that  I  blush  to  look  upon : 
My  very  hairs  do  mutiny  ;  for  the  white 
Reprove  the  bro-WTi  for  rashness,  and  they  them 
For  fear  and  doting. — Friends,  be  gone  :  you  shall 
Have  letters  from  me  to  some  friends,  that  will 
j     Sweep  your  way  for  you.     Pray  you,  look  not  sad, 
I     Nor  make  replies  of  lothness  :  take  the  hint 
;     Which  my  despair  proclaims  ;  let  that  be  left 
I     Wliich  leaves  itself :  to  the  sea-side  straightway  : 
•    I  will  possess  you  of  that  ship  and  treasure. 
I    Leave  me,  I  pray,  a  little  ;  'pray  you  now  : 
I     Nay,  do  so  ;  for,  indeed,  I  have  lost  command, 
Therefore,  I  pray  you.     I  '11  see  you  by  and  by. 

[Sits  down. 
Enter  Ei  os.  aW  Cleopatra,  led  by  Charmian,  andlRks. 
Eros.  Nay,  gentle  madam,  to  him  ;  comfort  him. 
•  ribald-rid  nag  :  in  f  e     '  Gadfly 


Iras.  Do,  most  dear  qneen 

Char.  Do  !    Why,  what  else  ? 

Cleo.  Let  me  sit  down. — O  Juno  ! 

Ant.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 

Eros.  See  you  here,  sir  ? 

Ant.  0  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Char.  Madam, — 

Iras.  Madam  :  0  good  empress  ! — 

Eros.  Sir,  sir, — 

Ant.  Yes,  my  lord,  yes. — He,  at  Philippi,  kept 
His  sword  e'en  like  a  dancer,  while  I  struck 
The  lean  and  WTinkled  Cassius ;  and  't  was  I 
That  the  mad  Brutus  ended  :  he  alone 
Dealt  on  lieutenantry,  and  no  practice  had 
In  the  brave  squares  of  war ;  yet  now — No  matter. 

Cleo.  Ah  !  stand  by. 

Eros.  The  queen,  my  lord,  the  queen. 

Iras.  Go  to  him,  madam,  speak  to  him : 
He  is  unqualitied  with  very  shame. 

Cleo.  Well  then, — sustain  me  : — O  ! 

Eros.  Most  noble  sir,  arise  ;  the  queen  approaches 
Her  head  's  declin'd,  and  death  will  seize  her  ;  but 
Your  comfort  makes  the  rescue. 

Ant.  I  have  offended  reputation 
By  most  unnoble  swerving. 

Eros.  Sir,  the  queen. 

Ant.  O  !  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt  ?     See, 
How  I  convey  my  shame  out  of  thine  eyes, 
By  looking  back  what  I  have  left  behind 
'Stroy'd  in  dishonour. 

Cleo.  O  my  lord,  my  lord  ! 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails  :  I  little  thought, 
You  would  have  Ibllow'd. 

Ant.  Egypt,  thou  knew'st  too  well 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings. 
And  thou  shouldst  tow  me  after  :  o'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st,  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleo.  0,  my  pardon  ! 

Ant.  Now  I  must 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness,  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I  pleas'd. 
Making,  and  marring  fortunes.      You  did  know, 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror  ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleo.  Pardon,  pardon ! 

Ant.  Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say  :  one  of  them  rate« 
All  that  is  won  and  lost.     Give  me  a  kiss  ; 
Even  this  repays  me. — We  sent  our  schoolma.^fer  ; 
Is  he  come  back  ? — Love,  I  am  full  of  lead. — 
Some   wine,  within  there,  and  our  viands  ! — Fortunt 

knows, 
We  scorn  her  most  when  most  she  oflTers  blows.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  X.— Cesar's  Camp  in  Eg>-pt. 

Enter  Cmsxr,  Dolabella,  Thyrecs.  and  others. 

Cos.  Let  him  appear  that  s  come  from  Antony. — 
Know  you  him  ? 

Bol.  Csesar,  't  is  his  schoolmaster  : 

An  argument  that  he  is  pluck'd,  when  hither 
He  sends  so  poor  a  pinion  of  his  ^^^ng, 
Which  had  superfluous  idngs  for  niessengers, 
Not  many  moons  gone  by. 

Enter  Euphronius. 

C(gs.  Approach,  and  speab 

Ewp.  Such  as  I  am,  I  oome  from  Antony  • 


848 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


I  was  of  late  as  petty  to  his  ends, 

As  is  tlie  morn-dew  on  the  myrtle  leaf 

To  his  grand  sea. 

Cos.  Be  it  so.     Declare  thine  office. 

Eup.  Lord  of  hi.s  fortunes  he  salutes  thee,  and 
Hequircs  to  live  in  Etrypt  ;  which  not  granted, 
He  lessens  his  requests,  and  to  thee  sues 
To  let  him  breathe  between  the  heavens  and  eai-th, 
A  private  man  in  Athens :  this  for  him. 
Next,  Cleopatra  doe.'*  confess  thy  greatness. 
Submits  lier  to  thy  misiit,  and  of  thee  craves 
The  circle  of  the  Ptolemies  for  her  heirs, 
Now  hazarded  to  thy  grace. 

C(Es.  For  Antony, 

r  have  no  ears  to  his  request.  The  queen 
Of  audience,  nor  desire,  shall  fail ;  so  she 
From  Egypt  drive  her  all-disgraced  friend, 
Or  take  his  life  there  :  this  if  she  perform. 
Slie  shall  not  sue  unheard.     So  to  them  both. 

Eup.  Fortune  pursue  thee  ! 

Cus.  Bring  him  through  the  bands. 

[Exit  EUPHRONIUS. 

To  try  thy  eloquence,  now  't  is  time  ;  despatch. 
From  Antony  win  Cleopatra:  promise,   [To  Thyreus. 
And  in  our  name,  what  she  requires  :  add  more. 
From  thine  invention,  offers.     Women  are  not 
In  their  best  fortunes  strong,  but  want  will  perjure 
The  ne  'er-toueh"d  vestal.     Try  thy  cunning,  Thyreus ; 
Make  thine  o^^^l  edict  for  thy  pains,  which  we 
Will  answer  as  a  law. 

Thyr.  Caesar.  I  go. 

Cos.  Observe  how  Amony  becomes  his  flaw, 
And  what  thou  think'st  his  very  action  speaks 
In  ever)^  power  that  moves. 

Thyr.  Cajsar  I  shall.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XT.— Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Cleopatra,  Exobarbus.  Char.mian,  ajid  Iras. 

Cleo.  What  shall  we  do,  Enobarbus  ? 

Eno.  Think,  and  die. 

Cleo.  Ib  Antony,  «r  we,  in  fault  for  this  ? 

Eno.  Antony  only,  that  would  make  his  will 
Lord  of  his  reason.     What  though  you  fled 
From  that  great  face  of  war,  whose  several  ranges 
Frighted  each  other,  why  should  he  follow  ? 
The  itch  of  his  affection  should  not  then 
Have  nick'd  his  captainship ;  at  such  a  point. 
When  half  to  half  the  world  oppos'd,  he  being 
The  mooted'  question.     'T  was  a  shame,  no  less 
Than  was  his  loss,  to  course  your  flying  flags. 
And  leave  his  navy  gazing. 

Cleo.  Pr'ythee.  peace. 

Enter  Antony,  with  Euphronils. 

Ant.  Is  that  his  answer? 

Eup.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  The  queen  shall  then  have  courtesy,  .so  she 
Will  yield  us  up. 

Eup.  He  says  so. 

Ant.  Let  her  know  it. — 

To  the  boy  Caesar  send  this  grizled  head, 
And  he  will  fill  tliy  w.shes  to  the  brim 
With  principaliiies. 

Cleo.  That  head,  my  lord  ? 

Ant.  To  him  again.     Tell  him.  he  wears  the  rose 
Of  youtb  upon  him.  from  which  the  world  should  note 
Something  particular:  his  coin,  ships,  legions. 
May  be  a  coward's  :  wboae  ministers  would  prevail 
Under  the  service  of  a  child,  as  soon 


As  i'  the  command  of  Caesar  :  I  dare  him,  ther«»fore, 
To  lay  his  gay  comparisons  apart. 
And  answer  me  declin'd  ;  sword  against  sword, 
Ourselves  alone.     I  '11  write  it :  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  Antony  and  Elfhroniis. 

Eno.  Yes,  like  enough,  high-battled  Ca;sar  will 
Unstate  his  happiness,  and  be  stag'd  t'  the  show 
Against  a  sworder. — I  see,  men's  judgments  are 
A  parcel  of  their  fortunes  ;  and  tilings  outward 
Do  draw  the  inward  qualities*  after  them. 
To  suffer  all  alike.     That  he  .should  dream. 
Knowing  all  miseries,*  the  full  Cresar  will 
Answer  his  emptiness ! — Caesar,  thou  hast  suhdu'd 
His  judgment  too. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Ant.  A  messenger  from  Caesar. 

Cleo.  What,  no  more  ceremony  ? — See,  my  womrn  !^ 
Against  the  blown  rose  may  they  stop  their  nose, 
That  kncel'd  unto  the  bud. — Admit  him,  sir. 

Eno.  ]\Iine  honesty  and  I  begin  to  square.*    [Aside, 
The  loyalty  well  held  to  fools  does  make 
Our  faith  mere  folly  :  yet  he.  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fallen  lord, 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  master  conquer, 
And  earns  a  place  i'  the  story. 

Enter  Thyreus. 

Cleo.  Caesar's  will  ? 

Thyr.  Hear  it  apart. 

Cleo.  None  but  friends  :  say  boldly 

Thyr.  So,  haply,  are  they  friends  to  Antony. 

Eno.  Ho  needs  as  many,  sir,  as  Caesar  has. 
Or  needs  not  us.     If  Caesar  please,  our  master 
Will  leap  to  be  his  friend  :  for  us,  you  know, 
Whose  he  is,  we  are,  and  that  "s  Caesar's. 

Thyr.  So.— 

Thus  then,  thou  most  renown'd :  Caesar  entreats, 
Not  to  consider  in  what  case  thou  stand'st, 
Farther  then  he  is  Caesar. 

Cleo.  Go  on  :  right  royal. 

Thyr.  He  knows,  that  you  embrace  not  Antony 
As  you  did  love,  but  as  you  feard'd  him. 

Cleo.  0 ! 

Thyr    The  scars  upon  your  honour,  therefore,  he 
j  Does  pity,  as  constrained  blemishes, 
!  Not  as  desert'' d. 

!      Cleo.  He  is  a  god,  and  knows 

j  What  is  most  right.     Mine  honour  was  not  yielded, 
But  conquer'd  merely. 

Eno.  [Aside.]  To  be  sure  of  that, 

I  will  ask  Antony. — Sir,  sir,  thou  'rt  so  leaky, 
That  we  must  leave  thee  to  thy  sinking,  for 
Thy  dearest  quit  thee.  [Exit  Enobarbv* 

Thyr.  Shall  I  say  to  Caesar 

What  you  require  of  him  ?  for  he  partly  begs 
To  be  desir'd  to  give.     It  much  would  plea.se  him, 
That  of  his  fortunes  you  should  make  a  staff 
To  lean  upon;  but  it  would  warm  his  spirits, 
To  hear  from  me  you  had  left  Antony, 
And  put  yourself  under  his  shroud,  who  is* 
The  universal  landlord. 

Cleo.  What 's  your  name  ? 

Thyr.  My  name  is  Thyreus. 

Cleo.  Most  kind  messengei 

Say  to  great  Caesar,  that'  in  deputation' 
I  kiss  his  conqu'ring  hand  :  tell  him,  I  am  prompt 
To  lay  my  crown  at  's  feet,  and  there  to  kneel . 
Tell  him,  from  his  all-obeying  breath  I  hear 
The  doom  of  Egypt. 


>  mered  :  in  f  e. 
OQUtion  :  in  f.  e. 


qua    ty  :  in  f.  •       •  mearoret :  in  f.  e.      «  Quarrel.     •  The  wordi 


SCENE  XI. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


849 


Thyr.  'T  is  your  noblest  course. 

Wisdom  and  fortune  combating  together, 
If  that  the  former  dare  but  what  it  can, 
Nc  chance  may  shake  it.     Give  me  grace  to  lay 
My  duty  on  your  hand. 

Cleo.  Your  Caesar's  father  oft, 

When  he  hath  mus'd  of  taking  kingdoms  in, 
Bestow'd  his  lips  on  that  unworthy  place. 
As  it  rain'd  kisses.  [Thyr.  kisses  her  Hand} 

Re-enter  Antony  and  Enobarbus. 

Ant.  Favours,  by  Jove  that  thunders  ! — 

What  art  thou,  fellow  ? 

Thyr.  One,  that  but  performs 

The  bidding  of  the  fullest  man,  and  worthiest 
To  have  command  obey'd. 

Eno.  You  will  be  whipp'd. 

Ant.  Approach,  there. — Ah,  you  kite  ! — Now  gods 
and  devils  ! 
Authority  melts  from  me :  of  late,  when  I  cry'd,  "ho  !" 
Like  boys  unto  a  muss,  kings  would  start  forth. 
And  cry,  "  Your  will  ?"     Have  you  no  ears  ?     I  am 

Enter  Attendants. 
Antony  yet.     Take  hence  this  Jack,  and  whip  him. 

Eno.  'T  is  better  playing  with  a  lion's  whelp. 
Than  with  an  old  one  dying. 

Ant.  Moon  and  stars  ! 

Whip  him. — Were  't  twenty  of  the  greatest  tributaries 
That  do  acknowledge  Csesar.  should  I  find  them 
So  saucy  with  the  hand  of — she  here,  what 's  hername, 
Since  she  was  Cleopatra? — Whip  him,  fellows, 
Till,  like  a  boy,  you  see  him  cringe  his  face, 
And  whine  aloud  for  mercy.     Take  him  hence. 

Thyr.  Mark  Antony, — 

Ant.  Tug  liim  away  :  being  whipp'd, 
Bring  him  again. — The  Jack  of  Caesar  shall 
Bear  us  an  errand  to  him. — 

[Exeunt  Attend,  with  Thyreus. 
You  were  half  blasted  ere  I  knew  you  :  ha ! 
Have  I  my  pillow  left  unpress'd  in  Rome, 
Forborne  the  getting  of  a  lawful  race. 
And  by  a  gem  of  women,  to  be  abus'd 
By  one  that  looks  on  feeders  ? 

Cleo.  Good  my  lord, — 

Ant.  You  have  been  a  boggier  ever : — 
But  when  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard, 
I     (0  misery  on  't !)  the  wise  gods  seel*  our  eyes, 
I    In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments ;  make  us 
j    Adore  our  errors ;  laugh  at  us,  while  we  strut 
I    To  our  confusion. 

Cleo.  0  !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Ant.  I  found  you  as  a  morsel,  cold  upon 
Dead  Caesar's  trencher:  nay,  you  were  a  fragment 
!    Of  Cneius  Pompey's  ;  besides  what  hotter  hours, 
1    Unregister'd  in  vulgar  fame,  you  have 
Luxuriously  pick'd  out :  for,  I  am  sure, 
Though  you  can  guess  what  temperance  should  be, 
You  know  not  what  it  is. 

Cleo.  Wherefore  is  this  ? 

Ant.  To  let  a  fellow  that  will  take  rewards. 
And  say,  "  God  quit  you  !"  be  familiar  with 
My  pla\ fellow,  your  hand;  that  kingly  seal. 
And  plighter  of  high  hearts  ! — 0  !  that  I  were 
I   Upon  the  hill  of  Basan,  to  outroar 
I  The  horned  herd,  for  I  have  savage  cause  ; 
And  to  proclaim  it  civilly  were  like 
A  halter'd  neck,  which  does  the  hangman  thank 
For  being  yare  about  him. — 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Thyreus. 
Is  he  whipp'd  ? 


Not  in  f  e.      3  Blind. 

3D 


Tags  to  strings  by  which  garments  were  fastened 


1  Att.  Soundly,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Cry'd  he  ?  and  begg'd  he  pardon  ' 

1  Att.  He  did  ask  favour. 

Ant.  If  that  thy  father  live,  let  him  repent 
Thou  wast  not  made  his  daughter;  and  be  thou  sorrj 
To  follow  Cspsar  in  his  triumph,  since 
Thou  hast  been  whipp'd  for  following  him  :  henceforth 
The  white  hand  of  a  lady  fever  thee  ; 
Shake  but  to  look  on  't.     Get  thee  back  to  Caosar, 
Tell  him  thy  entertainment:  look,  thou  say, 
He  makes  me  angry  with  him ;  for  he  seems 
Proud  and  disdainful,  harping  on  what  1  am. 
Not  what  he  knew  I  was.     He  makes  me  angry, 
And  at  this  time  most  easy  't  is  to  do  't, 
When  my  good  stars,  that  were  my  former  guides. 
Have  empty  left  their  orbs,  and  shot  their  fires 
Into  the  abysm  of  hell.     If  he  mislike 
My  speech,  and  what  is  done,  tell  him,  he  has 
Hipparchus,  my  enfranchis'd  bondman,  whom 
He  may  at  pleasure  whip,  or  hang,  or  torture, 
As  he  shall  like,  to  quit  me.     Urge  it  thou : 
Hence,  with  thy  stripes  !  begone  !         [Exit  Thyreus, 

Cleo.  Have  you  done  yet? 

Ant.  Alack  !  our  terrene  moon 

Is  now  eclips'd,  and  it  portends  alone 
The  fall  of  Antony. 

Cleo.  I  must  stay  his  time. 

Ant.  To  flatter  Caesar,  would  you  mingle  eyes 
With  one  that  ties  his  points  ?' 

Cleo.  Not  know  me  yet  ? 

Ant.  Cold-hearted  toward  me  ? 

Cleo.  Ah,  dear  !  if  it  be  so 

From  my  cold  heart  let  heaven  engender  hail, 
And  poison  it  in  the  source,  and  the  first  stone 
Drop  in  my  neck :  as  it  determines,  so 
Dissolve  my  life  !     The  next  Caesarion  smite, 
Till  by  degrees  the  memory  of  my  womb, 
Together  with  my  brave  Egyptians  all. 
By  the  discandying*  of  this  pelleted  storm, 
Lie  graveless,  till  the  flies  and  gnats  of  Nile 
Have  buried  them  for  prey  ! 

Ant.  I  am  satisfied. 

Caesar  sits  down  in  Alexandria,  where 
I  will  oppose  his  fate.     Our  force  by  land 
Hath  nobly  held  ;  our  sever'd  na\'y,  too. 
Have  knit  again,  a  fleet  threat'ning  mo.st  sealike. 
Where  hast   thou  been,  my  heart? — Dost  thou  heai 

lady  ? 
If  from  the  field  T  shall  return  once  more 
To  kiss  these  lips,  I  will  appear  in  blood; 
I  and  my  sword  will  earn  our  chronicle : 
There  's  hope  in  't  yet. 

Cleo.  That  's  my  brave  lord  ! 

Ant.  I  will  be  treble-sinew'd,  hearted,  breath'd, 
And  fight  maliciously  :  for  when  mine  hours 
Were  nice  and  lucky,  men  did  ransom  lives 
Of  me  for  jests ;  but  now  I  '11  set  my  teeth, 
And  send  to  darkiiess  all  that  stop  me. — Come. 
Let 's  have  one  other  gaudy'  night. — Call  to  me 
All  my  sad  captains :  fill  our  bowls :  once  more 
Let  's  mock  the  midnight  bell. 

Cleo.  It  is  my  birthday  : 

I  had  thought  to  have  held  it  poor  :   but  since  my  lord 
Is  Antony  again,  I  will  be  Cleopatra. 

Ant.  We  will  yet  do  well. 

Cleo.  Call  all  his  noble  captains  to  my  lord. 

Ant.  Do  so,  we  '11  speak  to  them :  and  to-night  I  '11 

force  [queen; 

The  wine    peep  through   their  scars. — Come  on,  my 

discandeiing :   in  folios.    •  Latin,  g-oudiuwi;  fostivity, 


860 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


Acf  rv. 


There  's  sap  in  't  yet.     The  next  time  I  do  fight, 
I  '11  make  death  love  me.  for  I  will  contend 
Kveu  vn\h  his  post i lent  ?c)tlie. 

\Excuiit  A.NTOXY,  Cleopatra,  and  Attendants. 
Eno.  Now  he  11  oiiisiare  the  lightning.  To  be  furious. 
[8  to  be  frighted  out  of  fear,  aiid  in  that  mood, 


The  dove  will  peck  the  estridge :  and  I  .see  still, 

A  diminution  m  our  captain's  brain 

Restores  his  heart.     When  valour  preys  on'  ceason. 

It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with.     I  will  seek 

Some  way  to  leave  him.  [Exit 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — C.e.sar's  Camp  at  Alexandria. 

Emter  C^sar,  reading  a  Letter  ;  Agrippa,  Mec«nas, 

and  others. 

Cos.  He  calls  me  boy,  and  chides,  as  he  had  power 
To  beat  me  out  of  Egypt ;  my  messenger 
He   hath  whippd    with    rods,    dares    me  to  personal 

combat, 
Ciesar  to  Antony :  let  the  old  ruffian  know 
I  have  many  other  ways  to  die ;  mean  time, 
Laugh  at  his  challenge. 

Mec.  Caesar  must  think, 

When  one  so  great  begins  to  rage,  he  's  hunted 
Even  to  falling.     Give  hi:m  no  breath,  but  now 
Make  boot  of  his  distraction :  never  anger 
Made  good  guard  for  itself. 

Cces.  Let  our  best  heads 

Know,  that  to-morrow  the  last  of  many  battles 
We  mean  to  fight.     Within  our  files  there  are, 
Of  those  that  scrvd  Mark  Antony  but  late. 
Enough  to  fetch  him  in.     See  it  done  ; 
And  feast  the  army  :  we  have  store  to  do 't, 
And  they  have  earn'd  the  waste. — Poor  Antony  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Antony,  Cleopatra,  Enobarbus,  Charmian, 

Iras,  Ale.xas,  and  others. 

Ant.  He  will  not  fight  with  me,  Domitius? 

Eno.  No. 

Ant.  Why  should  he  not  ? 

Eno.  He  think.-,  'oeing  twenty  times  of  better  fortune, 
He  is  twenty  men  to  one. 

Ant.  To-morrow,  soldier, 

By  sea  and  land  I  '11  fight :  or  I  will  live. 
Or  bathe  my  dying  honour  in  the  blood 
Shall  make  it  live  again.     Woo't  thou  fight  well  ? 

Eno.  I'll  strike:  and  cry,  "Take  all." 

Ant.  Well  said  ;  come  on. — 

Call  forth  my  household  ser\'ants  :  let 's  to-night 

Enter  Servants. 
Be  bounteous  at  our  meal. — Give  me  thy  hand, 
Thou  ha.«t  been  rightly  honest : — .so  ha.«t  thou; — 
Thou, — and   thou. — and  thou: — you  have  serv'd  me 
And  kings  have  been  your  fellows.  [well, 

Cleo  What  means  this? 

Eno.  'T  is  one  of  tho.se  odd  trick."!,  which  sorrow  shoots 
Out  of  the  mind. 

Ant.  And  thou  art  honest  too. 

I  wish  I  could  be  made  so  many  men. 
And  all  of  you  clapp'd  up  together  in 
An  Antony,  that  I  miiiht  do  you  service, 
So  good  as  you  have  done. 

Serv.  The  cods  forbid  ! 

Ant.  Well,  my  good  fellows,  wait  on  me  to-night; 
Beam  not  my  cups,  and  make  a.^  much  of  me, 
As  when  mine  empire  wa,«  your  fellow  too, 
And  suffer'd  ray  command. 

>  IB  :  in  folio. 


Cleo.  What  does  he  mean? 

E710.  To  make  his  followers  weep. 

Ant.  Tend  me  to-nigbl 

May  be.  it  is  the  period  of  your  duty: 
Haply,  you  shall  not  see  me  more ;  or  if, 
A  mangled  shadow  :  perchance,  to-morrow 
You  '11  serve  another  master.     I  look  on  you, 
As  one  that  takes  his  leave.     Mine  honest  friend* 
I  turn  you  not  away;  but.  like  a  master 
Married  to  your  good  service,  stay  till  death. 
Tend  me  to-night  two  hours,  I  ask  no  more. 
And  the  gods  yield  you  for  't ! 

Eno.  What  mean  you,  sir. 

To  give  thern  this  discomfort  ?    Look,  they  weep  , 
And  I,  an  ass,  am  onion-ey'd  :  for  shame. 
Transform  us  not  to  women. 

Ant.  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Now,  the  witch  take  me.  if  I  meant  it  thus. 
Grace  grow  where  those  drops  fall  !    My  hearty  friends., 
You  take  me  in  too  dolorous  a  sense, 
For  I  spake  to  you  for  your  comlbrt  ;  did  desire  you 
To  burn  this  night  with  torches.     Know,  my  hearts, 
I  hope  well  of  to-morrow;  and  will  lead  you, 
Where  rather  I  '11  expect  victorious  life, 
Than  death  and  honour.     Let 's  to  supper  ;  come. 
And  drown  consideration.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III —The  Same.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  Two  Soldiers,  to  their  Guard. 

1  Sold.  Brother,  good  night :  to-morrow  is  the  day. 

2  Sold.  It  will  determine  one  way  :   fare  you  well. 
Heard  vou  of  nothing  strange  about  the  streets  ? 

1  Sold.  Nothing.  '  What"news  ? 

2  Sold.  Belike,  't  is  but  a  rumour.  Good  night  to  yon, 

1  Sold.  Well,  sir,  good  night. 

Enter  Two  other  Soldiers. 

2  Sold.  Soldiers,  have  careful  watch. 

3  Sold.  And  you.  Good  niiilit.  good  night. 

[The  first  Two  place  thnn.-!elves  at  their  Posts. 

4  Sold.  Here  we.:   [They  take  their  Posts.]  and  if  to- 

morrow 
Our  navy  thrive,  I  have  an  absolute  hope 
Our  landmen  will  stand  up. 

3  Sold.  'T  is  a  brave  army. 
And  full  of  purpose. 

[Mu.<!ic  of  Hautboys  under  the  Stagt. 

4  Sold.  Peace  !  what  noise  ? 

1  Sold.  List,  list ! 

2  Sold.  Hark  ! 

1  Sold.  Music  i'  the  air. 

3  Sold.  Under  the  earth. 

4  Sold,  it  signs  well,  does  it  not? 
3  Sold.  No. 

1  Sold.  Peace  !   I  say.     What  should  this  mean  ? 

2  Sold.  'T  is  the  god  Hercules,  who  Antony  lov'd 
Now  leaves  him. 

1  Sold.  Walk  ;  let 's  see  if  other  watchmen 
Do  hear  what  we  do.       [They  advance  to  another  Post. 


SCENE    VI. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


851 


2  Sold.  How  now,  masters  ! 
Omnes.  How  now  ! 

How  now  !  do  you  hear  this  ?  [Speaking  together. 

V  Sold.  Ay  ;  Is  't  not  strange  ? 

3  Sold.  Do  you  hear,  masters  ?  do  you  hear  ? 

1  Sold.  Follow  the  noise  so  far  as  we  have  quarter; 
Let 's  see  how  it  will  give  off. 
Omnes.  Content :  'T  is  strange.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
E)it(r  Antony,  and  Cleopatra;  Charmian,  and 

others,  attending. 
Ant.  Eros  •  mine  armour,  Eros ! 
Cleo.  ^  Sleep  a  little. 

Ant.  No,  my  chuck. — Eros,  come ;  mine  armour,  Eros  ! 
Enter  Eros,  with  Armour. 
Come,  good  fellow,  put  mine^  iron  on  : — 

fortune  be  not  ours  to-day,  it  is 
Because  we  brave  her. — Come. 

Cleo.  Nay,  I  '11  help  too. 

What's  this  for? 

Ant.  Ah,  let  be,  let  be  !  thou  art 

The  armourer  of  mv  heart : — false,  false  :  this,  this. 
Cleo.  Sooth,  la  !  I  '11  help.' 

Ant.  Thus  it  must  be.'     Well,  well ; 

We  shall  thrive  now. — Seest  thou,  my  good  fellow  ? 
Go,  put  on  thy  defences. 

Eros.  Briefly,  sir. 

Cleo.  Is  not  this  buckled  well  ? 
Ant.  Rarely,  rarely: 

He  that  unbuckles  this,  till  we  do  please 
To  doff't  for  our  repose,  shall  bear*  a  storm. — 
Thou  fumblest,  Eros  ;  and  my  queen  's  a  squire 
More  tight  at  this,  than  thou.     Despatch. — 0.  love  ! 
That  thou  couldst  see  my  wars  to-day,  and  knew'st 
The  royal  occupation  !  thou  should.';t  see 

Enter  an  armed  Soldier. 
A  workman  in  't. — Good  morrow  to  ihee  ;  welcome: 
Thou  look'st  like  him  that  knows  a  warlike  charge. 
To  business  that  we  love  we  rise  betime, 
And  go  to  't  with  delight. 

Sold.  A  thousand,  sir, 

Early  though',  be,  have  on  their  riveted  trim, 
And  at  the  port  expect  you.   [Shout.   Trumpets  flourish. 
Enter  Captains^  and  Soldiers. 
Capt.  The  morn  is  fair. — Good  morrow,  general. 
All.  Good  morrow,  general. 
j       Ant.  'T  is  well  blown,  lads. 

!  This  morning,  like  the  spirit  of  a  youth 
;  That  means  to  be  of  note,  begins  betimes. — 
So  so  ;  come,  give  me  tliat :  this  way  ;  well  said. 
Fare  thee  well,  dame  :  wlmte'er  becomes  of  me. 
This  is  a  soldier's  kiss.     Rebukable,  [Kisses  her. 

And  worthy  shameful  check  it  were,  to  stand 
On  more  mechanic  compliment:  I'll  leave  thee 
I  Now,  like  a  man  of  steel. — You,  that  will  fight, 
i  Follow  me  close  :  I  '11  bring  you  to  't. — Adieu. 

[Exeunt  Antony,  Eros.  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 
I      Char.  Please  you,  retire  to  your  chamber. 

Cleo.  Lead  me. 

He  goes  forth  gallantly.     That  he  and  Csesar  might 
iV.iermine  this  great  war  in  single  tight ! 
Thru,  Aiitduy, — but  now, — well,  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Antony's  Camp  near  Alexandria. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Antony  and  ERas ;  a  Soldier 

meeting  them 

Sold.  The  gods  make  this  a  happy  day  to  Antony  ! 


Ant.  Would   thou,  and  those    thy  scars,   had   once 
prevail'd 
To  make  me  fight  at  land  ! 

Sold.  Hadst  thou  done  so, 

The  kings  that  have  revolted,  and  the  soldier 
That  has  this  morning  left  thee,  would  have  still 
FoUow'd  thy  heels. 

^int.  Who  's  gone  tiiis  morning  ? 

Sold.  Who : 

One  ever  near  thee  :  call  for  Enobarbus, 
He  shall  not  hear  thee  ;  or  from  Caesar's  camp 
Say,   "  I  am  none  of  thine." 

Aiit.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Sold.  Sir. 

He  is  with  Cacgar. 

Eros.  Sir,  his  chests  and  treeLsnre 

He  has  not  with  him. 

Ant.  Is  he  gone  ? 

Sold.  Most  certain 

Ant.  Go,  Eros,  send  his  treasure  after  ;  do  it : 
Detain  no  jot,  I  charge  thee.     Write  to  him 
(I  will  subscribe)  gentle  adieus,  and  greetings: 
Say,  that  I  wish  he  never  find  more  cause 
To  change  a  master. — 0  !  my  fortunes  have 
Corrupted  honest  men  :— despatch. — Enobarbus  ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  VI.— Cesar's  Camp  before  Alexandria. 

Flourish.     Enter  Cssar,  with  Agrippa,  Enobarbus. 

and  others. 

Cms.  Go  forth,  Agrijipa,  and  begin  the  fight. 
Our  will  is.  Antony  be  took  alive  ; 
Make  it  so  known. 

Agr.  Ccesar,  I  shall.  [Exit  Agrippa 

Cces.  The  time  of  universal  peace  is  near  : 
Prove  this  a  prosperous  day,  the  three-nook'd  world 
Shall  bear  the  olive  freely. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Antony 

Is  come  into  the  field. 

Cces.  Go ;  charge  Agrippa 

Plant  those  that  have  revolted  in  the  van. 
That  Antony  may  seem  to  spend  his  tury 
Upon  himself.  [Exeunt  all  but  Enobarbus. 

Eno.  Alexas  did  revolt,  and  went  to  Jewry  on 
Affairs  of  Antony;  there  did  persuade 
Great  Herod  to  incline  himself  to  Ccpsar, 
And  leave  his  master  Antony  :  for  this  pains 
Cwsar  hath  hang'd  him.     Canidius,  and  the  rest 
That  fell  away,  have  entertainment,  but 
No  honourable  trust.     1  have  done  ill. 
Of  which  I  do  accuse  myself  so  sorely, 
That  I  will  joy  no  more. 

Enter  a  Soldier  of  Cesar's. 

Sold.  Enobarbus,  Antony 

Hath  after  thee  sent  all  thy  treasure,  with 
His  bounty  overplus  :  the  messenger 
Came  on  my  guard,  and  at  thy  tent  is  now 
Unloading  of  his  mules. 

Eno.  T  give  it  you. 

Sold.  Mock  not,  Enobarbus, 
I  tell  you  true :   best  you  safed*  the  bringer 
Out  of  the  host ;  I  must  attend  mine  office, 
Or  would  have  done  't  myself.     Your  emperor 
Continues  still  a  Jove.  [Exit  Soldier. 

Eno.  I  am  alone  the  villain  of  the  earth. 
And  feel  I  am  so  most. — O  Antony  ! 
Thou  mine  of  bounty,  how  wouldsi  thou  have  paid 


'  thine  :  in  f  e.      »  This  and  the  previous  speech,  are  printed  as  one  in  the  folio.     Hanmer  made  the  change       '  f.  e.  pive  these   wordf 
w  Clbopatra.      *  hear :  in  f.  e.      »  Exeunt  Cjisar  and  Train :  in  f  e.      «  Made  safe. 


852 


ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA. 


ACT  rv. 


My  better  sen-ice,  when  my  turpitude 

Thou  dost  so  crowni  with  gold  !     This  blows  my  heart : 

If  8\>'ift  thought  break  it  not,  a  swifter  mean 

Shall  oiitstrike  thought :  but  thought  Mill  do  't.  I  feel. 

I  tight  against  thee  ? — No  :  I  will  go  seek 

Some  ditch,  wherein  to  die ;  the  fouTst  best  fits 

My  latter  part  of  life.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII.— Field  of  Battle  between  the  Camps. 

Alarum.     Drums  and  Trumpets.     Enter  Agrippa,  and 

others. 

Agr.  Retire :  we  have  engag'd  ourselves  too  far. 
Cie.^ar  himself  has  work,  and  our  oppression 
Exceeds  what  we  expected.  [Exeunt. 

Alarum.     Enter  Antony,  and  Sc.\rus  wounded. 

Scar.  0  my  brave  emperor,  this  is  fought  indeed  ! 
Had  we  done  so  at  first,  we  had  driven  them  home 
With  clouts  about  their  heads.  [Shouts  afar  off.^ 

Ant.  Thou  bleed'st  apace. 

Scar.  I  had  a  wound  here  that  was  like  a  T, 
But  now  't  is  made  an  H. 

Ant.  »    They  do  retire. 

Scar.  We  '11  beat  'em  into  bench-holes.     I  have  yet 
Room  for  six  scotches  more. 

Enter  Eros. 

Eros.  They  are  beaten,  sir ;  and  our  advantage  serves 
For  a  fair  victory. 

Scar.  Let  us  score  their  backs. 

And  snatch  'em  up,  as  we  take  hares,  behind : 
'T  is  sport  to  maul  a  runner. 

Ant.  I  will  reward  thee 

Once  for  thy  sprightly  comfort,  and  ten-fold 
For  thy  good  valour.     Come  thee  on. 

Scar.  I  "11  halt  after.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.— Under  the  Walls  of  Alexandria. 
Alarum.  Enter  Autosy,  marching  ;  Scarus,  and  Forces. 

Ant.  We  have  beat  him  to  his  camp.  Run  one  before, 
And  let  the  queen  know  of  our  ge.sts.'     To-morrow, 
Before  the  sun  shall  see  us.  we  '11  spill  the  blood 
That  has  to-day  escap'd.     I  thank  you  all. 
For  doughty-handed  are  you  :  and  have  fought 
Not  as  you  serv-'d  the  cause,  but  as  it  had  been 
Each  mans,  like  mine :  you  have  shown  all  Hectors. 
Enter  the  city,  clip  your  wives,  your  friends. 
Fell  them  your  feats:  whilst  they  with  joyful  tears 
Wash  the  congealment  from  your  wounds,  and  kiss 
The  honoured  gashes  whole.-— Give  me  thy  hand  : 

Enter  Cleopatra,  attended. 
To  this  great  fairy  I  "11  commend  thy  acts. 
Make  her  thanks  bless  thee. — 0,  thou  day  o'  the  world  ! 
Chain  mine  arm"d  neck;  leap  thou,  attire  and  all, 
Through  proot  of  harness  to  my  heart,  and  there 
Ride  on  the  pants  triumphing. 

CUo.  Lord  of  lords ! 

0  infinite  virtue  !  com'st  thou  smiling  from 
The  world's  great  snare  uncaught  ? 

Ant.  My  nightingale, 

W«  have  beat  them  to  their  beds.    What,  girl !  though 


Cleo.  I  'II  give  thee,  friend, 

An  armour  all  of  gold  ;  it  was  a  king's. 

Ant.  He  has  deserv'd  it,  were  it  carbunclcd 
Like  glowing  Phoebus'  car. — Give  me  thy  hand . 
Through  Alexandria  make  a  jolly  inarch; 
Bear  our  hack'd  targets  like  the  men  that  owe  thera. 
Had  our  great  palace  the  capacity 
To  camp  this  host,  we  all  would  sup  together, 
And  drink  carouses  to  the  next  day's  fate, 
Which  promises  royal  peril. — Trumpeters, 
With  brazen  din  blast  you  the  city's  ear; 
Make  mingle  with  our  rattling  tabourines. 
That  heaven  and  earth  may  strike  their  sounds  together 
Applauding  our  approach.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IX.— Cais.iR's  Camp. 
Sentinels  on  their  Post.     Enter  Enobarbus. 

1  Sold.  If  we  be  not  reliev'd  within  this  hour, 
We  must  return  to  the  court  of  guard.*     The  night 
Is  shiny,  and.  they  say,  we  shall  embattle 

By  the  second  hour  i'  tlie  morn. 

2  Sold.  This  last  day  was 
A  shrewd  one  to  us. 

Eno.  0  !  bear  me  witness,  night, — 

3  Sold.  What  man  is  this  ? 

2  Sold.  Stand  close,  and  list  him 
Eno.  Be  ■witness  to  me.  0  thou  blessed  moon  I 

When  men  revolted  shall  upon  record 
Bear  hateful  memory,  poor  Enobarbus  did 
Before  thy  face  repent. — 

1  Sold.  Enobarbus! 

3  Sold.  Peace  ! 
Hark  farther. 

Eno.  0  sovereign  mistress  of  true  melancholy  ! 
The  poisonous  damp  of  night  disponge  upon  me, 
That  life,  a  very  rebel  to  my  wnll,  [Lying  dovm.' 

May  hang  no  longer  on  me :  throw  my  heart 
Against  the  flint  and  hardness  of  my  fault, 
Which,  being  dried  with  grief,  will  break  to  powder. 
And  finish  all  foul  thoughts.     0  Antony  ! 
Nobler  than  my  revolt  is  infamous. 
Forgive  me  in  thine  own  particular; 
But  let  the  world  rank  me  in  register 
A  master-leaver,  and  a  fugitive. 
0  Antony  !  0  Antony  !  [Dies 

2  Sold.  Let 's  speak  to  him. 

1  Sold.  Let 's  hear  him ;  for  the  things  he  speaks 
May  concern  Caesar. 

3  Sold.  Let 's  do  so.     But  he  sleeps 

1  Sold.  Swoons  rather ;  for  so  bad  a  prayer  as  his 
Was  never  yet  'fore'  sleep. 

2  Sold.  Go  we  to  him. 

3  Sold.  Awake,  sir ;  awake !  speak  to  us. 

2  Sold.  Hear  you.  sir  ' 

1  Sold.  The  hand  of  death  hath  raught'  liim.  Hark  ' 
the  drums  [Drums  afar  of 

Do  early  wake  the  sleepers.     Let  us  bear  him 
To  the  court  of  guard  ;  he  is  of  note.     Our  hour 
I  Is  fully  out. 
I      3  Sold.         Come  on,  then ; 


grey 

Dt    »omething  mingle  with  our  younger  bro^ftii:  yet  j  He  may  recover  yet.                   [Exeunt.,  with  the  Body 

A  brain  that  nourishes  our  nerves,  and  can  SCENE  X.-Between  the  two  Camps. 

Get  goal  for  goal  of  youth.     Behold  this  man ;  Enter  Antony  and  Scarus,  with  Forces,  marching. 

[Pointing  to  Scarcs.*       Ant.  Their  preparation  is  to-day  by  sea: 

Commend  unto  his  lips  thy  favouring  hand  : —  We  please  them  not  by  land. 

Kiss  it,  my  warrior  : — he  hath  fought  to-day,  !      .Scar.                                         For  both,  my  lord. 


As  if  a  god;  in  hate  of  mankind,  had 
Destroyd  in  such  a  shape. 


I  Not  in  f.  e       •  Deeds. 


gnes^     in  f.  e. 


Ant.  I  would,  they  'd  fight  i'  the  fire,  or  i'  the  aur, 
We  'd  fight  there  too.     But  this  it  is :  our  foot 

Place  of  muuering  the  guard.      »  Not  in  f.  •.      «  for  :  in  f.  •.      '  Reaekmf 


6CI37E  xn. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATKA. 


858 


I'pon  the  hills  adjoining  to  the  city 
Shall  stay  with  us  (order  for  sea  is  given, 
They  have  put  forth  the  haven) 
Where  their  appointment  we  may  best  discover, 
And  look  on  their  endeavour.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  C^sar,  and  his  Forces,  marching. 

Cces.  But'  being  charg'd,  we  will  be  still  by  land, 
Which,  as  I  take  't,  we  shall ;  for  his  best  force 
Is  forth  to  man  his  galleys.     To  the  vales, 
And  hold  our  best  advantage  !  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Antony  and  Scarus. 

Ant.  Yet  they  are  not  join'd.     Where  yond'  pine  does 
I  shall  discover  all :  I  '11  bring  thee  word  [stand, 

Straight,  how  't  is  like  to  go.  [Exit. 

Scar.  Swallows  have  built 

Ii.  Cleopatra's  sails  their  nests  :  the  augurers* 
Say,  they  know  not, — they  cannot  tell ;— look  grimly, 
And  dare  not  speak  their  knowledge.     Antony 
Is  valiant,  and  dejected  ;  and  by  starts 
His  fretted  fortunes  give  him  hope,  and  fear, 
Of  what  he  has,  and  has  not. 

[Alarum  afar  off,  as  at  a  Sea-Fight. 
Re-enter  Antony. 

Ant.  All  is  lost ! 

This  foul  Eg^'ptian  hath  betray'd  me : 
My  fleet  hath  yielded  to  the  foe ;  and  yonder 
They  cast  their  caps  up,  and  carouse  together 
Like  friends  long  lost. — Triple-turn'd  whore  !  't  is  thou 
Hast  sold  me  to  this  novice,  and  my  heart 
Makes  only  wars  on  thee— Bid  them  all  fly; 
For  when  I  am  reveng'd  upon  my  charm, 
I  have  done  all. — Bid  them  all  fly ;  be  gone. 

[Exit  Scarus. 
0  sun !  thy  uprise  shall  I  see  no  more : 
Fortune  and  Antony  part  here  ;  even  here 
Do  we  shake  hands. — All  come  to  this? — The  hearts 
That  spaniel'd'  me  at  heels,  to  whom  I  gave 
Their  wishes,  do  discandy,  melt  their  sweets 
On  blossoming  Csesar ;  and  this  pine  is  bark'd, 
That  overtopp'd  them  all.     Betray'd  I  am. 
0  this  false  spell*  of  Egypt !  this  great*  charm,— 
Whose  eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars,  and  call'd  them  home 
Whose  bosom  was  my  crownet,  my  chief  end. 
Like  a  right  gipsy,  hath,  at  fast  and  loose,' 
Beguil'd  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss. — 
What,  Eros  !  Eros ! 

Enter  Cleopatra. 

Ah.  thou  spell !  Avaunt ! 

Cleo.  Why  is  my  lord  enrag'd  against  his  love? 

Ant.  Vanish,  or  I  shall  give  thee  thy  deserving, 
And  blemish  Caesar's  triumph.     Let  him  take  thee. 
And  hoist  thee  up  to  the  shouting  plebeians : 
Follow  his  chariot,  like  the  greatest  spot 
Of  all  thy  sex  ;  most  monster-like,  be  shown 
For  poor'st  diminutives,  for  doits ;'  and  let 
Patient  Octavia  plough  thy  visage  up 
With  her  prepared  nails.  [Exit  Cleg. 

'T  is  well  thou  'rt  gone, 
[f  it  be  well  to  live ;  but  better  't  were 
Thou  fell'st  under  my  fury,  for  one  death 
Wight  have  prevented  many. — Eros,  ho  ! — 
The  shirt  of  Nessus  is  upon  me :  teach  me, 
Vlcides,  thou  mine  ancestor,  thy  rage : 
-.et  me  lodge  Lichas  on  the  bonis  o'  the  moon ; 
\.nd  with  those  hands,  that  grasp'd  the  heaviest  club, 
iubdue  my  worthiest  self.     The  witch  shall  die  : 
To  the  young  Roman  boy  she  hath  sold  me,  and  I  fall 
Jnder  this  plot ;  she  dies  for  't.— Eros,  ho  !  [Exit.  1 


,    >  Vnkss. 

[ftUed  "pricking 


auguries  :  in  folio.      »  pannelled  :  in  folio.     Hanmet  made  the  change.     «  soul  :  in  f  i 
g  in  the  garter,"  in  vogue  with  gypsies      '  doits :  in  folio.     »  Foaming  at  the  mouth. 


SCENE  XI. — Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Palaoe 
Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  Iras,  and  Marduk 

Cleo.  Help  me,  my  women  !  0  !  he  is  more  mad 
Than  Telamon  for  his  shield ;  the  boar  of  Thessaly 
Was  never  so  emboss'd.* 

Char.  To  the  monument ! 

There  lock  yourself,  and  send  him  word  you  are  dead 
The  soul  and  body  rive  not  more  in  parting, 
Than  greatness  going  off". 

Cleo.  To  the  monument ! 

Mardian,  go  tell  him  I  have  slain  myself; 
Say,  that  the  last  I  spoke  was,  Antony, 
And  word  it,  pr'ythee,  piteously.     Hence, 
Mardian,  and  bring  me  how  he  takes  my  death. — 
To  the  Monument !  [Exeunt 

SCENE  XII.— The  Same.     Another  Room. 
Enter  Antony  and  Eros. 

Ant.  Eros,  thou  yet  behold'st  me. 

Eros.  ,  Ay,  noble  lord. 

Ant.  Sometime,  we  see  a  cloud  that 's  dragonish, 
A  vapour,  sometime,  like  a  bear,  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon  't,  that  nod  unto  the  world. 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air :  thou  hast  seen  these  signs , 
They  are  black  vesper's  pageants. 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.    That,  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with  a 
thought. 
The  rack  dislimns,  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

Ant.  My  good  knave,  Eros,  now  thy  captain  is 
Even  such  a  body  :  here  I  am  Antony, 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  visible  shape,  my  knave. 
I  made  these  wars  for  Egypt,  and  the  queen, 
Whose  heart,  I  thought,  I  had,  for  she  had  mine, 
Which,  whilst  it  was  mine,  had  annex'd  unto  't 
A  million  more,  now  lost :  she,  Eros,  has 
Pack'd  cards  with  Caesar's,  and  false  play'd  my  glory 
Unto  an  enemy's  triumph. — 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  Eros ;  there  is  left  us 
Ourselves  to  end  ourselves. — 0,  thy  vile  lady ! 

Enter  Mardian. 
She  has  robb'd  me  of  my  sword. 

Mar.  No,  Antony: 

My  mistress  lov'd  thee,  and  her  fortunes  mingled 
With  thine  entirely. 

Ant.  Hence,  saucy  eunuch :  peace  ! 

She  hath  betray'd  me,  and  shall  die  the  death. 

Mar.  Death  of  one  person  can  be  paid  but  once, 
And  that  she  has  discharg'd.     What  thou  wouldst  do. 
Is  done  unto  thy  hand  :  tlie  last  she  spake 
Was,  Antony  !  most  noble  Antony  ! 
Then,  in  the  midst  a  tearing  groan  did  break 
The  name  of  Antony ;  it  was  divided 
Between  her  heart  and  lips.     She  render'd  life, 
Thy  name  so  buried  in  her. 

Ant.  Dead,  then  ? 

Mar.  _       Dead. 

Ant.  Unarm  me,  Eros  :  the  long  day's  task  is  don«, 
And  we  must  sleep. — That  thou  depart Vt  hence  safe, 
Does    pay  thy  labour  richly;    go. — [Exit    Mardiam. 

Off,  pluck  off":— 
The  seven-fold  shield  of  Ajax  cannot  keep 
The  battery  from  my  heart.     0.  cleave,  my  sides ! 


'  grare  :  in  f  e.     'A  <'iWf,  ont 


8o4 


AKTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


ACT    IV. 


Heart,  once  be  strongor  than  thy  continent, 
Crack  thy  frail  case  ! — Apace,  Eros,  apace. — 
No  more  a  soldier: — bruised  pieces,  go  ; 
You  have  been  nobly  borne. — From  ine  a  while. — 

[Exit  Eros. 
I  will  o'erlake  thee,  Cleopatra,  and 
Weep  for  my  pardon.     So  it  must  be,  for  now 
All  length  is  torture :  since  the  torch  is  out, 
Lie  down,  and  stray  no  farther.     Now  all  labour 
Mars  what  it  docs;  yea,  very  force  entangles 
Itself  with  strength  :  seal  then,  and  all  is  done. — 
Eros  ! — I  come,  my  queen. — Eros  ! — Stay  for  me  : 
Where  souls  do  couch  on  tlowers,  we  "11  hand  in  hand, 
And  with  our  sprightly  port  make  the  ghosts  gaze : 
Dido  and  her  yEneas  shall  want  troops. 
And  all  the  haunt  be  ours. — Come,  Eros  !  Eros  ! 
Re-enter  Eros. 

Eros.  What  would  my  lord  ? 

Ant.  Since  Cleopatra  died 

I  have  liv"d  in  such  dishonour,  that  the  gods 
Detest  my  ba.'-euess.     ■!,  that  with  my  sword 
Quarter'd  the  world,  and  o'er  green  Neptune's  back 
With  ships  made  cities,  condemn  myself  to  lack 
The  courage  of  a  woman  ;  less  noble  minded 
Than  she,  which  by  her  death  our  Caesar  tells, 
"  I  am  conqueror  of  myself."     Thou  art  sworn,  Eros, 
That  when  the  exigent  should  come,  (which  now 
Is  come  indeed)  when  I  should  see  beliind  me 
The  inevitable  prosecution  of 
Disgrace  and  horror,  that  on  my  command 
Thou  then  wouldst  kill  me:  do  "t ;  the  time  is  come. 
Thou  strik'st  not  me,  't  is  Cajsar  thou  defeatest. 
Put  colour  in  thy  cheek, 

Eros.  The  gods  withhold  me  ! 

Sliall  I  do  that,  which  all  the  Parthian  darts, 
Though  enemy,  lost  aim,  and  could  not  ? 

Ant.  Eros, 

Wouldst  thou  be  window'd  in  great  Rome,  and  .see 
Thy  master  thus  with  pleachd'  arms,  bending  down 
His  corrigible  neck,  his  face  subdued 
To  penetrative  shame.  whil.«t  the  wheel'd  seat 
Of  fortunate  Cajsar.  drawn  before  him,  branded 
His  ba.*enc8s  that  ensued  ? 

Eros.  I  would  not  see  't. 

Ant.  Come,  then  :  for  with  a  wound  I  must  be  cur'd. 
Draw  that  thy  honest  sword,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Most  useful  for  thy  country. 

Eros.  0,  sir  !  pardon  me. 

Ant.  When  I  did  make  thee  free,  swor'st  thou  not 
then 
To  do  this  when  I  bade  thee  ?     Do  it  at  once, 
Or  thy  precedent  services  are  all 
But  accideniB  unpurpos'd.     Draw,  and  come. 

Eros.  Turn  from  me,  then,  that  noble  countenance. 
Wherein  the  worship  of^  the  whole  world  lies. 

Ant.  Lo  thee  !  [  Turning  his  face  from  him. 

Eros.  My  Bword  is  drawn. 

Ant.  Then,  let  it  do  at  once 

The  thing  why  thou  hast  drawTi  it. 

Eros.  My  dear  master, 

My  captain,  and  my  emperor,  let  me  say. 
Before  I  strike  this  bloody  stroke,  farewell. 

Ant.  'T  is  said,  man  :  and  farewell. 

Eros.  Farewell,  great  chief.     Shall  I  strike  now? 

■^"^-  Now,  Eros. 

Eros.    Why,    there    ihnn.— [Falls   on   his    Sword.] 
Thus  do  I  escape  the  sorrow 
Of  Antony's  death.  [Dies. 

^^-  Thrice  nobler  than  myself ! 

'  Intervoren       >  ho  :  in  f.  e.  ;  often,  lajr*  Dyce,  printed,    "  how." 


Thou  teachest  me.  0  valiant  Eros  !  what 

I  should,  and  thou  couldst  not.     My  queen  and  Eros 

Have,  by  their  brave  instruction,  got  upon  me 

A  nobleness  in  record :  but  I  will  be 

A  bridegroom  in  my  death,  and  run  into  't 

As  to  a  lover's  bed.     Come  then;  and.  Eros, 

Thy  master  dies  thy  scholar:  to  do  thus 

[Falling  on  hus  Sicord 
I  learn'd  of  thee. — How  !  not  dead  ?  not  dead  ? — 
The  guard  ! — how  ?' — 0.  dcsjiatch  me  ! 

Enter  Dercetas  and  Gvord. 

1  Guard.  What 's  the  noise* 
Ant.  I  have  done  my  work  ill,  friends  :  O  !   make 

an  end 
Of  what  I  have  begun. 

2  Guard.  The  star  is  fallen. 
1  Guard.  And  time  is  at  his  period. 

All.  Alas   and  woe  I 

Ant.  Let  him  that  loves  me,  strike  me  dead. 

1  Guard.  Not  I. 

2  Guard.  Nor  I. 

3  Guard.  Nor  any  one.  [Exeunt  Guoid. 
Der.  Thy  death  and  fortunes  bid  thy  followers  fly 

This  sword  but  shown  to  Csesar,  with  this  tidings 
Shall  enter  me  witli  liim. 

Enter  Dio.medes. 

Dio.  Where  's  Antony  ? 

Der.  There,  Diomed  ;  there. 

Dio.  Lives  he  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  answer,  man?  [Exit  Dercetas. 

Ant.    Art  thou  there,  Diomed  ?     Draw  thy  sword 
and  give  me 
Sufficing  strokes  for  death. 

Dio.  Most  absolute  lord, 

My  mistress,  Cleopatra,  sent  me  to  thee. 

Ant.  When  did  she  send  thee  ? 

Dio.  Now,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  is  .«hc' 

Dio.  Lock'd  in  her  monument.     She  had  a  prophe- 
sying fear 
Of  what  hath  come  to  pa.'ss :  for  when  she  saw 
(Which  never  shall  be  found)  you  did  susi-.ect 
She  had  compos'd*  with  Caesar,  and  tiiat  your  rage 
Would  not  be  purg'd,  she  sent  you  word  she  was  dead, 
But,  fearing  since  how  it  might  work,  hath  sent 
Me  to  proclaim  the  truth  ;  and  I  am  come, 
I  dread,  too  late. 

Ant.  Too  late,  good  Diomed.  Call  my  guard,  I  pr'ythee 

Dio.  What,  ho  !  the  emperor's  guard  !     The  guaid. 
what,  ho  ! 
Come;  your  lord  calls. 

Enter  some  of  the  Guard. 

Ant.  Bear  me,  good  frieiids,  where  Cleopatra  l.ide«; 
'T  is  the  la,<5t  service  that  I  shall  command  yon. 

1  Guard.  V/oe,  woe  are  we,  sir,  you  may  not  live  to 
wear 
All  your  true  followers  out. 

All.  Most  heavy  day  ! 

Ant.  Nay,  good  my  fellows,  do  not  pleai«c  sharp  faW 
To  grace  it  with  your  sorrows:  bid  that  welcome 
Which  comes  to  punish  us,  and  we  punish  it, 
Seeming  to  bear  it  lightly.     Take  me  up: 
I  have  led  you  oft :  carry  me  now.  good  friends. 
And  have  my  thanks  for  all.   [Exeunt,  bearing  Anton"! 

SCENE  XIH.— The  Same.     A  Monument. 
Enter,  above,  Cleopatra,  Charmian.  and  Ir  vs. 
Cleo.  0  Charmian  !  I  will  never  go  from  henoe. 
Char.  Be  comforted,  dear  madam. 

*  dupos'd  :  inf.*. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATEA. 


855 


Cleo.  No,  I  will  not. 

All  strange  and  terrible  events  are  •welcome, 
But  comforts  we  despise :  our  size  of  sorrow, 
Proportion'd  to  our  cause,  must  be  as  great 

Enter,  below.  Diomedes. 
As  that  which  makes  it. — How  now!  is  he  dead? 

Dio.  His  death  's  upon  him,  but  not  dead. 
Look  out  o'  the  other  side  your  monument, 
His  guard  have  brought  him  thither. 

Enter,  belou,  Antony,  borne  by  the  Guard. 

Cleo.  0  sun, 
Burn  the  great  sphere  thou  mov'st  in  ! — darkling  stand. 
Thou'  varying  shore  o'  th'  world.     0  Antony,  Antony. 

Antony  ! 
Help,  Charmian,  help,  Iras,  help :  help,  friends 
Below  ;  let 's  draw  him  thither. 

Ant.  Peace  ! 

Not  Caesar's  valour  hath  o'erthrown  Antony, 
But  Antony's  hath  triumph'd  on  itself. 

Cleo.  So  it  should  be,  that  none  but  Antony 
Should  conquer  Antony  ;  but  woe  't  is  so  ! 

Ant.  I  am  dying.  Esvpt,  dying ;  only 
I  here  importune  death  a  while,  until 
Of  many  thou.sand  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips. — 

Cleo.  [  dare  not,  dear, 

(Dear  my  lord,  pardon)  [  dare  not, 
Lest  I  be  taken  :  not  the  imperioits  show 
Of  the  full-fortun'd  Csesar  ever  shall 
Be  brooch'd  with  me  ;  if  knife,  drugs,  serpents,  have 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe. 
Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes, 
And  still  condition,"  shall  acquire  no  honour 
Hemuring  upon  me. — Bitt  come,  come.  Antony, — 
Help  me,  my  women, — we  must  draw  thee  up. — 
Assist,  good  friends. 

Ant.  O  !  quick,  or  I  am  gone. 

Cleo.  Here  's  port,*  indeed  ! — How  heav^-  weighs  my 
lord! 
Our  strength  is  all  gone  into  heaviness, 
That  makes  the  weight :  had  I  great  Juno's  power, 
The  strong-wing'd  Mercury  should  fetch  thee  up, 
And  set  thee  by  Jove's  side.     Yet  come  a  little  ; — 
Wishers  were  ever  fools. — 0  !  come,  come,  come  ; 

[They  draw  Antony  up. 
And  welcome,  welcome  !  die,  where*  thou  ha.st  liv'd  : 
Quicken  with  kissing :  had  my  lips  that  power, 
Thus  wotild  I  wear  them  out. 

All.  •  A  heavy  sight. 

Ant.  I  am  dying,  Egj'pt,  dying. 
Give  me  some  wine,  and  let  me  speak  a  little. 

Cleo.  No.  let  me  speak ;  and  let  me  rail  so  high. 
That  the  false  hou.sewife  Fortune  break  her  wheel, 
Provok'd  by  my  offence. 

Ant.  One  word,  sweet  queen. 


Of  Csesar  seek  your  honour  with  your  safety. — O  ! 

Cleo.  They  do  not  go  together. 

Ant.  Gentle,  hear  m« 

None  about  Caesar  trust,  but  Proculeius. 

Cleo.  My  resolution,  and  my  hands,  I  '11  trust; 
None  about  Caesar. 

Ant.  The  miserable  change  now  at  my  end 
Lament  nor  sorrow  at,  but  please  your  thoughts, 
In  feeding  them  with  those  my  former  fortunes. 
Wherein  I  liv'd  the  greatest  prince  o'  the  world, 
The  noblest :  and  do  now  not  basely  die. 
Nor  cowardly  put  off  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman,  a  Roman  by  a  Roman 
Valiantly  vanquish'd.     Now,  my  spirit  is  going : 
I  can  no  more.  [Die* 

Cleo.  Noblest  of  men,  woo't  die? 

Hast  thou  no  care  of  me  ?  shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world,  which  in  thy  absence  is 
No  better  than  a  stye  ? — 0  !  see.  my  women, 
The  crowm  o'  the  earth  doth  melt. — My  lord  ! — 
0  !  wither'd  is  the  garland  of  the  war, 
The  soldier's  pole  is  fallen  :  young  boys,  and  girls, 
Are  level  now  with  men;  the  odds  is  gone, 
And  there  is  nothing  left  remarkable 
Beneath  the  visiting  moon. 

Char.  0,  quietness,  lady  ! 

Iras.  She  is  dead  too,  our  sovereign. 

Char.  Lady  ' — 

Iras.  Madam  ! — 

Char.  0  madam,  madam,  madam  ! 

Iras.  Royal  Egypt  ! 

Empress  I 

Char.  Peace,  peace,  Iras ! 

Cleo.  No  more,  but  e'en  a  woman  ;  and  commanded 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maul  that  milks. 
And  does  the  meanest  chare*.  — It  were  for  me 
To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods  ; 
To  tell  them,  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs. 
Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel.     All  's  but  naught ; 
Patience  is  sottish,  and  impatience  does 
Become  a  dog  that 's  mad  :  then  is  it  sin, 
To  rush  into  tlie  secret  hotise  of  death, 
Ere  death  dare  come  to  us '? — How  do  you.  women  ? 
What,  what  !  good  cheer  !  Why,  how  now,  Charmian  ! 
My  noble  girls  ! — Ah,  women,  women  !  look. 
Our  lamp  is  spent,  it 's  out. — Good  sirs,  take  heart : 

[To  the  Guard  below. 
We  '11  bury  him  ;    and  then,   what 's  brave,  what 's 

noble. 
Let 's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion. 
And  make  death  proud  to  take  us.     Come,  away 
This  case  of  that  huge  spirit  now  is  cold. 
Ah.  women,  women  !  come:  we  have  no  friend 
But  resolution,  and  the  briefest  end. 

[Exeunt ;  those  above  bearing  off  Antony's  Bodu 


ACT    V 


SCENE  I. — Cesar's  Camp  before  Alexandria. 
Enter  C.s:sar,  Agrippa,  Dolabella,  MsciENAS 

Gallus,  Proculeius.  a7id  others. 
Cos.  Go  to  him,  Dolabella,  bid  him  yield ; 
Being  so  fr  tstrate,  tell  him,  that  he  mocks 
The  pauses  that  he  makes.' 

»  The  :  in      e.      '  eonclugira  :  in  f.  e.      'sport:  in  f.  e. 


when  :   in  folio. 
Tell  him 
He  mocks  n»  bv  the  pauses,  &o 


Dol.  Caesar,  I  shall.  [Eoett  Dolabkula 

Enter  Dercetas,  with  the  Sword  of  Anton\. 
CcBs.   Wherefore  is  that  ?  and  what  art  thou,  thet 
dar'st 
Appear  thus  to  us  ? 

Der.  I  am  call'd  Dercetas 

Mark  Antony  I  serv'd,  who  best  was  wonhy 

Pope  made  the  change.      •  Ckoru.      •  in  f  e. : 


856 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


ACT    V. 


Be«t  to  be  eerv'd  :  whilst  he  stood  up,  and  spoke, 
He  was  my  niasfcr,  and  I  wore  my  life. 
To  spend  upon  his  haters.     If  thou  please 
To  take  me  to  thee,  as  I  was  to  him 
!   11  be  to  Caesar  ;  if  thou  pieasest  not, 
I  yield  thee  up  my  life. 

Cos.  What  is  't  thou  say'st  ? 

Dcr.  I  say,  0  Caesar  !  Antony  is  dead. 

Cos.  The  breaking  of  so  great  a  thing  should  make 
A  greater  crack  :  the  round  world  should  have  shook 
Lions  into  civil  streets, 

AikI  citizens  to  their  dens.     The  death  of  Antony 
Is  not  a  single  doom  :  in  the  name  lay 
A  moiety  of  the  world. 

Der  He  is  dead,  Caesar ; 

Not  by  a  public  minister  of  justice. 
Nor  by  a  hired  knife ;  but  that  self  hand, 
Which  writ  his  honour  in  the  acts  it  did, 
Hath,  with  the  courage  which  the  heart  did  lend  it. 
Split  that  .«elf  noble  heart.'     This  is  his  sword  ; 
I  robb'd  his  wound  of  it :  behold  it,  stain'd 
With  his  most  noble  blood. 

C<Bi.  Look  you  sad,  friends? 

The  gods  rebuke  me,  but  it  is  tidings 
To  wash  the  eyes  of  kings. 

Agr.  And  strange  it  is. 

That  nature  must  compel  us  to  lament 
Our  most  persisted  deeds. 

Mec.  His  taints  and  honours 

Weighed*  equal  with  him. 

Agr.  A  rarer  spirit  never 

Did  steer  humanity,  but  you  gods  will  give  us 
Some  faults  to  make  us  men.     Caesar  is  touch'd. 

Mec.  When  such  a  spacious  mirror's  set  before  him, 
He  needs  must  see  himself. 

C(£s.  0  Antony  ! 

Have  I  follow'd  thee  to  this  ? — but  we  do  lance 
Diseases  in  our  bodies.     I  must  perforce 
Have  shown  to  thee  such  a  declining  day. 
Or  look  on  thine  :  we  could  not  stall  together 
In  the  whole  world.     But  yet  let  me  lament. 
With  tears  as  sovereign  as  the  blood  of  hearts, 
That  thou,  my  brother,  my  competitor 
In  top  of  all  design,  my  mate  in  empire. 
Friend  and  companion  in  the  front  of  war. 
The  arm  of  mine  own  body,  and  the  heart 
Where  mine  his  thoughts  did  kindle,  that  our  stars, 
I'nreconcileable  should  divide 
Our  equalness  to  this. — Hear  me,  good  friends, — 
But  I  will  tell  you  at  some  meeter  season : 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
The  business  of  tliis  man  looks  out  of  him  ; 
We  '11  hear  him  what  he  says. — Whence  are  you  ? 

Mess.  A  poor  Egyptian  yet.    The  queen  my  mistress, 
Coutin'd  in  all  she  has,  her  monument, 
Of  tliy  intents  desires  instruction, 
That  she  preparedly  may  frame  herself 
To  the  way  she  's  forced  to. 

<"«■<!.  Bid  her  have  good  heart : 

Sh*'  &f)on  shall  know  of  us.  by  some  of  ours, 
H(»w  honourable  and  how  kindly  we 
D'-terminc  for  her  ;  for  Caesar  cannot  live* 
l"o  be  ungentle. 

Mes.t.  So  the  gods  preserve  thee !  [Exit. 

Cos.  Come  hither,  Proculeius.     Go,  and  say, 
Wp  purjiose  her  no  shame  :  give  her  what  coniforts 
The  quality  of  her  pa.^sion  shall  require, 
LfHst  in  her  creatncss  by  some  mortal  stroke 
She  do  defeat  us  ;  for  her  life  in  Rome 

i  gplitted  the  hetrt :  in  f  e.     »  Waged  :  in  folio,  102.3.      •  leave  : 


Would  be  eternal  in  our  triumph.     Go, 

And  with  your  speediest  bring  us  what  she  says. 

And  how  you  find  of  her. 

Pro.  Caesar,  I  shall.  [Exit  Proculeips, 

C(zs.  Gallus,  go  you  along. — Where  's  Dolabella, 
To  second  Proculeius  ?  [Exit  Gallus 

All.  Dolabella! 

Cos.  Let  him  alone,  for  I  remember  now 
How  he  's  employed  :  he  shall  in  time  be  ready. 
Go  with  me  to  my  tent,  where  you  sliall  see 
How  luirdly  I  was  drawn  into  this  war. 
How  calm  and  gentle  I  proceeded  still 
In  all  my  writings.     Go  with  me,  and  see 
What  I  can  show  in  this.  [Ei:eunL 

SCENE  II. — Alexandria.     A  Room  in  the  Monument 
Enter  Cleopatra,  Charmian,  and  Iras. 

Cleo.  My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 
A  better  life.     'T  is  paltry  to  be  Caesar  : 
Not  being  fortune,  he  's  but  fortune's  knave, 
A  minister  of  her  will;  and  it  is  great 
To  do  that  thing  that  ends  all  other  deeds. 
Which  shackles  accidents,  and  bolts  up  change  ; 
Which  sleeps,  and  never  palates  more  the  dug,*. 
The  beggar's  nurse  and  Cccsar's. 

Enter.,  to  the  Gates  of  the  Monument.,  Proculeius, 
Gallus,  and  Soldiers. 

Pro.  Caesar  sends  greeting  to  the  queen  of  Egypt ; 
And  bids  thee  study  on  what  fair  demands 
Thou  mean'st  to  have  him  grant  thee. 

Cleo.  What 's  thy  name  f 

Pro.  My  name  is  Proculeius. 

Cleo.  Antony 

Did  tell  me  of  you,  bade  me  trust  you ;  but 
I  do  not  greatly  care  to  be  deceiv'd. 
That  have  no  use  for  trusting.     If  your  master 
Would  have  a  queen  his  beggar,  you  must  tell  him, 
That  majesty,  to  keep  decorum,  must 
No  less  beg  than  a  kingdom  :  if  he  please 
To  give  me  conquer' d  Egypt  for  my  son. 
He  gives  me  so  much  of  mine  own.  as  I 
Will  kneel  to  him  with  thanks. 

Pro.  Be  of  good  cheer  ; 

You  are  fallen  into  a  princely  hand,  fear  nothing. 
Make  your  full  reference  freely  to  my  lord, 
Who  is  so  full  of  grace,  that  it  flows  over 
On  all  that  need.     Let  me  report  to  him 
Your  sweet  dcpendancy,  and  you  shall  find 
A  conqueror,  that  will  pray  in  aid  for  kindness^ 
Where  he  for  grace  is  loieel'd  to. 

Cleo.  Pray  you,  tell  him 

I  am  his  fortune's  vassal,  and  I  send  him 
The  greatness  he  has  got.     I  hourly  learn 
A  doctrine  of  obedience,  and  would  gladly 
Look  him  i'  the  face. 

Pro.  This  I'll  report,  dear  lady. 

Have  comfort ;  for,  I  know,  your  plight  is  pitied 
Of  him  that  caus'd  it. 

Gal.  You  see  how  easily  she  may  be  surpris'd. 

[Proculeius,  and  two  of  the  Gnard,  ascend  ht 
Monument   by   a    Ladder,    and    come   behind 
Cleopatka.     Some  of  the  Guard  unbar  ana 
open  the  Gates. 
Guard  her  till  Caesar  come. 

[To  Proculeius  and  the  Guard.     Exit  GALi.Oh 

Iras.   Royal  queen  ! 

Char.  O  Cleopatra  !  thou  art  taken,  queen  ! — 

Cleo.  Quick,  quick,  good  hands.  [Drawing a  Dageet 

Pro.  Hold,  worthy  lady,  hold  !  [Disarm.*  W 

in  folio.     Pope  made  the  change.     •  dun?  :  in  f.  e. 


BOKNE  II. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


857 


Do  not  yourself  such  wrong,  who  are  in  this 
Reliev'd,  but  not  betray'd. 

Cleo.  What,  of  death,  too, 

That  rids  our  dogs  of  languish  ? 

Pro.  Cleopatra, 

Do  not  abuse  my  master's  bounty,  by 
Th'  undoing  of  yourself :  let  the  world  see 
His  nobleness  well  acted,  which  your  death 
Will  never  let  come  forth. 

Cleo.  Where  art  thou,  death  ? 

Come  hither,  come  !  come,  come,  and  take  a  queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars  ! 

Pro.  0  !  temperance,  lady. 

Cleo.  Sir,  I  will  eat  no  meat,  T  '11  not  drink,  sir ; 
if  idle  talk  will  once  be  accessary,* 
I  '11  not  sleep  neither.     This  mortal  house  I  '11  ruin, 
Do  Caesar  what  he  can.     Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  court, 
Nor  once  be  chastis"d  with  the  sober  eye 
Of  dull  Octavia.     Shall  they  hoist  me  up, 
.And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry 
Of  censuring  Rome  ?     Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 
Be  gentle  grave  to  me  !  rather  on  Nilus'  mud 
Lay  me  stark  nak'd,  and  let  the  water  flies 
Blow  me  into  abhorring  !  rather  make 
My  country's  high  pyramides  my  gibbet. 
And  hang  me  up  in  chains  ! 

Pro.  You  do  extend 

Thece  thoughts  of  horror  farther,  than  you  shall 
Find  cause  in  Caesar. 

Enter  Dolabella. 

Dot.  Proculeius, 

What  thou  hast  done  thy  master  Caesar  knows, 
And  he  hath  sent  for  thee  :  for  the  queen, 
I  '11  take  her  to  my  guard. 

Pro.  So,  Dolabella, 

It  shall  content  me  best :  be  gentle  to  her. — 
To  Caesar  I  will  speak  what  you  shall  please, 

[To  Cleopatra. 
If  you'll  employ  me  to  him. 

Cleo.  Say,  I  would  die. 

[Exeunt  Proculeius.  and  Soldiers. 

Dol.  Most  noble  empress,  you  have  heard  of  me  ? 

Cleo.  I  cannot  tell. 

Dol.  Assuredly,  you  know  me. 

Cleo.  No  matter,  sir,  what  I  ha,ve  heard  or  known. 
You  laugh,  when  boys,  or  women,  tell  their  dreams  ; 
Is  't  not  your  trick  ? 

Dol.  I  understand  not,  madam. 

Cleo.  I  dream'd,  there  was  an  emperor  Antony : 
0,  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  see 
But  such  another  man  ! 

Dol.  If  it  might  please  you,— 

Cleo.  His  face  was  as  the  heavens  :  and  therein  stuck 
A  ffun,  and  moon,  which  kept  their  course,  and  lighted 
The  little  0,  the  earth, 

Dol.  Most  sovereign  creature, — 

Cleo.  His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean  :  his  rear'd  arm. 
Crested  the  world  ;  his  voice  was  propertied 
A  8  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends ; 
Bat  when  he  meant  to  quail  and  shake  the  orb, 
He  was  as  rattling  thunder.     For  his  bounty. 
There  was  no  winter  in  't ;  an  autumn'  't  was, 
That  grew  the  more  by  reaping  :  his  delights 
Were  dolphin-like  ;  they  show'd  his  back  above 
The  element  they  liv'd  in :  in  his  livery 
WaJk'd  crowns,  and  crovvTiets  ;  realms  and  islands  were 
Aa  plates'  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 


»  accewary  :  in  £ 
Not  i«  f  e. 


»  Antony  :  in  foio.     Theobald  made  the  change.     >  Silver  ccyins. 


Dol.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  Think  you,  there  was,  or  might  be,  such  a  man 
As  this  I  dream'd  of  ? 

Dol.  Gentle  madam,  no. 

Cleo.  You  lie,  up  to  the  hearing  of  the  gods  : 
But,  if  there  be,  or  ever  were  one  such, 
It 's  past  the  size  of  dreaming  :  nature  wants  stuff 
To  vie*  strange  forms  with  fancy  :  yet,  to  imagine 
An  Antony,  were  nature's  piece  'gainst  fancy, 
Condemning  shadows  quite. 

Dol.  Hear  me,  good  madaia. 

Your  loss  is  as  yourself,  great ;  and  you  bear  it 
As  answering  to  the  weight :  would  I  might  never 
O'ertake  pursu'd  success,  but  I  do  feel, 
By  the  rebound  of  yours,  a  grief  that  smites' 
My  very  heart  at  root. 

Cleo.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Know  you,  what  Csesar  means  to  do  vnth  me  ? 

Dol.  I  am  loath  to  tell  you  what  I  would  you  knew. 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  sir, — 

Dol.  Though  he  be  honourable, — 

Cleo.  He  '11  lead  me,  then,  in  triumph  ? 

Dol.  Madam,  he  will ;  1  know  't. 

Within.  Make  way  there  ! — Csesar  ! 
Enter  Caesar.  Gallus,  Proculeius,  Mec^nas, 
Seleucus,  mid  Attendants. 

Cces.  Which  is  the  queen  of  Egypt  ? 

Dol.  It  is  the  emperor,  madam.    [Cleopatra  kneels. 

Cces.  Arise,  you  shall  not  kneel. 
I  pray  you,  rise  ;  rise,  Egypt. 

Cleo.  Sir,  the  gods 

Will  have  it  thus :  my  master  and  my  lord 
I  must  obey. 

Cces.  Take  to  you  no  hard  thoughts : 

The  record  of  what  injuries  you  did  us. 
Though  wTitten  in  our  flesh,  we  shall  remember 
As  things  but  done  by  chance. 

Cleo.  Sole  sir  o'  the  world, 

I  cannot  project  mine  own  cause  so  well 
To  make  it  clear ;  but  do  confess  I  have 
Been  laden  with  like  frailties,  which  before 
Have  often  sham'd  our  sex. 

Caes.  Cleopatra,  know, 

We  will  extenuate  rather  than  enforce  : 
If  you  apply  yourself  to  our  intents, 
(Which  towards  you  are  most  gentle)  you  shall  find 
A  benefit  in  this  change :  but  if  you  seek 
To  lay  on  me  a  cruelty,  by  taking 
Antony's  course,  you  shall  bereave  yourself 
Of  my  good  purposes,  and  put  your  children 
To  that  destruction  which  I  '11  guard  them  from, 
If  thereon  you  rely.     I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Cleo.  And  may  through  all  the  world  :  't  is  yours  , 
and  we 
Your  scutcheons,  and  your  signs  of  conquest,  shall 
Hang  in  what  place  you  please.     Here,  my  good  lord. 

Cats.  You  shall  advise  mc  in  all  for  Cleopatra. 

Cleo.  This  is  the  brief  of  money,  plate,  and  jewel*, 
I  am  possess'd  of  :  't  is  exactly  valued  ; 

[Shoxcing  a  Paper.* 
Not  petty  things  admitted.— Where 's  Seleucus' 

Sel.  Here,  madam. 

Cleo.  This  is  my  treasurer :  let  him  speak,  my  lord, 
Upon  his  peril,  that  I  have  reserv'd 
To  myself  nothing.— Speak  the  truth,  Seleucus. 

Sel.  Madam, 

I  had  rather  seal  my  lips,  than  to  my  peril 
Speak  that  which  is  not. 

rm  at  cards,  to  stake.     »  ruite*  :  in  Itflft 


858 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


ACT    V. 


CUo  What  have  I  kept  back  ? 

Sel.   Eriougli  to  jnirchase  what  you  have  made  known. 

Cos.  Nay.  blusli  not,  Cleopatra;  I  approve 
Votir  wi.<idom  in  tlie  deed. 

Clco.  See,  Cscsar !  0,  tehold, 

How  pomp  is  rollow"d  !  mine  will  now  be  yours. 
And  should  we  shill  estates,  your.*  would  be  mine. 
The  jnfjraiituiie  ol  this  Seleucus  does 
Even  make  me  wild. — O  slave,  of  no  more  trust 
Than  love  that  's  liir"d  ! — What!  goestthou  back?  thou 

ehalt 
Go  back.  I  warrant  thee:  but  I  '11  catch  thine  eyes. 
Though  they  had  wings.     Slave,  soul-less  villain,  dog  . 

0  rarely  ba.«e  ! 

Cais.  (iood  queen,  let  us  entreat  you. 

Cleo.  0  Caesar  I   what  a  wounding  shame  is  this  ; 
That  thou,  vouchsafing  here  to  visit  me, 
Doing  the  honour  of  thy  lordliness 
To  one  so  meek,  that  mine  own  servant  should 
Parcel  the  sum  of  my  disgraces  by 
Addition  of  his  envy  I     Say,  good  Caesar, 
That  I  some  lady  trifles  have  reserv'd, 
Immoment  toys,  tilings  of  such  dignity 
As  we  greet  modern'  triends  wthal ;  and  say, 
Some  nobler  token  I  have  kept  apart 
For  Livia.  and  Octavia,  to  induce 
Their  mediation,  must  I  be  unfolded 
With  one  that  I  have  bred  ?    Ve'  gods  !  it  smites  me 
Beneath  the  fall  [  have.     Pr'ythee,  go  hence; 

[To  Seleucus. 
Or  I  shall  show  the  cinders  of  my  spirit* 
Through  th'  ashes  of  mi.^chance.* — Wert  thou  a  man, 
Thou  wouldst  have  mercy  on  me. 

Cms.  Fcrbear,  Seleucus.    [Exit  Seleucus. 

Cleo.  Be  it  kno\^*n,  that  we.  the  ereatest,  are  mis- 
thought 
For  things  that  others  do;  and  when  we  fall, 
We  answer  others'  merits  in  our  name, 
And*  therefore  to  be  pitied. 

CcBJf.  Cleopatra, 

Not  what  you  have  reserv'd,  nor  what  acknowledg'd, 
Put  we  i'  the  roll  of  conquest:  still  be  it  yours, 
Be«:tow  it  at  your  pleasure;  and  believe. 
Cae.«ar's  no  merchant,  to  make  prize  with  you 
Of  things  that  merchants  sold.     Therefore  be  cheer'd; 
Make  not  your  iliougiits  your  prisons:  no,  dear  queen: 
For  we  intend  so  to  dispo.se  you,  as 
Yourself  shall  give  us  coun.sel.     Feed,  and  sleep: 
Our  care  and  pity  is  so  much  upon  you. 
That  we  remain  your  friend;  and  so,  aidieu. 

Clco.  My  master,  and  my  lord  ! 

Ceu.  Not  so.     Adieu. 

[Flouri.fh.     Exeunt  Cj.sar,  and  his  Train. 

Cleo.  He  word.s  mc.  girls,  he  words  me,  that  I  .should 
not 
Be  noble  Vj  my.'^elf :  but  hark  thee.  Charmian. 

[Whi.-^pers  Charmian. 

Irns.  Finish,  good  lady;  the  bright  day  is  done^ 
And  we  are  for  the  dark 

Cieo.  Hie  thoe  again  : 

1  have  spoken  already,  and  it  is  provided; 
Go,  put  it  to  the  \\a>te. 

Char.  Madam.  I  will. 

Re-enter   Dolabei.la. 
Dnl.  Where  is  the  queen  ? 

Char.  Behold,  sir.  [Exit  Charmian. 

Cleo.  Dolabella? 

Dol.  Madam,  aj»  thereto  sworn  by  your  command, 
Which  my  love  makes  religion  to  obey, 

Common      »  The  :  in  f.  e.     '  »piriu  :  in  f.  e.    ♦  my  «h»ac»  .  is 


I  tell  you  this  :  Caesar  throunh  Syria 
Intends  his  journey,  and  within  three  days 
V'ou  with  your  children  will  he  send  before. 
Make  your  best  use  of  this  :   I  have  nertonn'd 
Your  pleasure,  and  my  promise. 

Cleo.  Dolabella, 

I  shall  remain  your  debtor. 

Dol.  I  your  ser\-ant. 

Adieu,  good  queen  ;  I  must  attend  on  ('a;.'-ar. 

Cleo.  Farewell,  and  thanks.   [Exit  DoL.j  Now,  Irw 
what  think'st  thou  ? 
Thoti,  an  Egj-ption  puppet,  shalt  be  shcvN-n 
In  Rome,  as  well  as  I :  mechanic  slaves 
With  grea-sy  aprons,  rules,  and  lianimers,  shall 
Uplift  us  to  the  view  :  in  their  thick  breaths. 
Rank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded, 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapour. 

Iras.  The  gods  forbid  ! 

Cleo.  Nay,  'tis  most  certain.  Ira.s.     Saucy  lictors 
Will  catch  at  us.  like  strunijiets  :  and  scabi  rhymer* 
Ballad  us  out  o'  tune:  the  quick  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us.  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels  :  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  t>^rth,  and  I  shall  .see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness 
I'  the  posture  of  a  whore. 

Irns.  0,  the  good  gods  ! 

Cleo.  Nay,  that  is  certain. 

Iras.  I  '11  never  see  it;  for,  I  am  sure,  my  nails 
Are  stronger  than  mine  eyes. 

Cleo.  Why.  that 's  the  way 

To  foil"  their  preparation,  and  to  conquer 
Their  most  assur'd'  intents. — Now,  Charmian  ? — 

Re-cnier  Charmi.^n. 
Show  me,  my  women,  like  a  queen  : — go  fetch 
My  best  attires  : — I  am  again  for  Cydnu.s, 
To  meet  Mark  Antony. — Sirrah.  Iras.  no. — 
Now,  noble  Charmian.  we  '11  des]>atcli  indeed  ; 
And,  when  thou  hast   done  this  chare,  I'll  give  the« 

leave 
To  play  till  dooms-day. — Brins  our  crown  and  all. 
Wherefore's  this  noise  ?     [Exit  Iras,     a  noise  within. 
Enter  one  of  the  Gmird. 

Guard.  Here  is  a  rural  fellow, 

That  will  not  be  denied  your  highness'  presence : 
He  brings  you  figs. 

Cleo.  Let  him  come  in. — How  poor  an  instrument 

[Exit  Gvara. 
May  do  a  noble  deed  I  he  brings  me  liberty. 
My  resolution's  plac'd,  and  I  lia\e  nothing 
Of  woman  in  me:  now  from  liiiui  lo  tool 
I  am  marble-constant;  now  the  Heeling  moon 
No  planet  is  of  mine. 
Re-enter  Guard,  with  a  Clou-n  bringing  in  a  Bisket 

Guard.  This  is  ihe  man. 

Cleo.   Avoid,  and  leave  him. —  [Exit  Guaia. 

Ha.st  thou  the  pretty  worm  of  Niius  there, 
That  kills  and  pains  not  ? 

Clou-n.  Truly  I  have  him  ;  but  I  wotild  not  be  the 
party  that  should  desire  you  to  touch  him,  lor  his  biting 
is  immortal  :  those  that  do  die  of  it  do  seldom  or  never 
recover. 

Clco.  Remember' st  thou  any  that  have  died  on  't  ? 

Clown.  Very  many  men  and  women  too.  I  beard 
of  one  of  them  no  longer  man  yesterday :  a  very 
honest  woman,  but  .something  given  to  lie,  as  a  woman 
should  not  do  but  in  the  way  of  honesty  how  she  diei 
of  the  biting  of  it.  what  pain  she  Itff. — Truly,  une 
makes  a  very  good  repon  o  me  worm;  but  he  thai 
t  e.    •  Ate  :  in  f.  e.    •  fool  :  in  f.  e.     '  absurd  :  in  f.  • 


SCENE   n. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


859 


will  he"  i  eve  all  that  they  say,  shall  never  be  saved  by 
half  that  they  do.  But  this  is  most  fallible,  the  worm  "s 
an  adder-worm. 

Cleo.  Get  thee  hence  :  farewell. 
Clown.  I  wish  yoa  all  joy  of  the  worm. 
Cleo.   Farewell.  [Clown  sets  down  the  Basket. 

Clown.  You    must  think   this,    look   you,  that   the 
worm  will  do  his  kind. 
Cleo.  Ay,  ay  ;  farewell. 

Clown.  Look  you.  I  he  worm  is  not  to  be  tnisted  but 
in  the  keeping  of  wise  people ;  for,  indeed,  there  is  no 
goodness  in  the  worm. 

Cleo.  Take  thou  no  care  :  it  shall  be  heeded. 
Clown.  Very  good.     Give  it  nothing,  I  pray  you.  for 
Jt  is  not  worth  the  feeding. 
Cleo.  Will  it  eat  me? 

Clown.  You  must  not  think  I  am  so  simple,  but  I 
know  the  devil  himself  will  not  eat  a  woman  :  I  know, 
that  a  woman  is  a  dish  for  the  gods,  if  the  devil  dress 
her  not;  but,  truly,  these  same  whoreson  de\'ils  do 
the  gods  great  harm  in  their  women,  for  in  every  ten 
that  they  make,  the  devils  mar  nine. 
Cleo.  Well,  get  thee  gone :  farewell. 
Clown.  Yes,  forsooth  ;  I  wish  you  joy  of  the  worm. 

[Exit. 
Re-enter  Iras,  ivith  a  Robe,  Crown.,  ^c. 
Cleo.  Give  me  my  robe,  put  on  my  crown ;  I  have 
Immortal  longings  in  me.     Now,  no  more 
The  juice  of  Egypt's  grape  shall  moist  this  lip. — 
Yare,  yare.  good  Iras  ;  quick. — Methinks,  I  hear 
Antony  call  :  I  see  him  rouse  himself 
To  praise  my  noble  act ;   I  hear  him  mock 
The  luck  of  Cresar.  which  the  gods  give  men 
To  excuse  their  after  wTath.     Husband,  I  come: 
Now  to  that  name  my  courage  prove  my  title. 
I  am  fire,  and  air  ;  my  other  elements 
I  give  to  baser  life. — So, — have  you  done? 
Come  then,  and  take  the  last  warmth  of  my  lips. 
Farewell,  kind  Charmian: — Iras,  long  farewell. 

[Kuses  them.     Iras  falls,  and  dies. 
Have  I  the  aspick  in  my  lips  ?     Dost  fall? 
If  thou  and  nature  can  so  gently  part, 
The  stroke  of  death  is  as  a  lover's  pinch. 
Which  hurts,  and  is  desir'd.     Dost  thou  lie  still  ? 
If  thus  thou  vanishest,  thou  tell'st  the  world 
It  is  not  worth  leave-taking. 

Char.  Dissolve,  thick  cloud,  and  rain,  that  I  may  say. 
The  gods  themselves  do  weep. 

Cleo.  This  proves  me  base : 

If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He  '11  make  demand  of  her,  and  spend  that  kiss. 
Which  is  my  heaven  to  have.  Come,  thou  mortal  %ATetch, 
[She  applies  the  Asp  to  her  Breast. 
With  thy  sharp  teeth  this  knot  intrinsicate 
Of  life  at  once  untie  :  poor  venomous  fool. 
Be  angry,  and  despatch.     0  !  couldst  thou  speak. 
That  i  might  hear  thee  call  great  Caesar  ass 
Unpolicied ! 

Char.  0  eastern  star  ! 

Cleo.  Peace,  peace  ! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  suciks  the  nurse  asleep  ? 

Char.  O.  break  !  0,  break  ! 

Cleo.  As  sweet  as  balm,  as  soft  as  air,  as  gentle. — 
0  Antony  ! — Nay,  1  will  take  thee  too. — 

[Applying  another  Asp  to  her  Arm. 
Why^  should  T  stay —  [Falls,  and  dies. 

Char.  In  this  wild*  world  ? — So,  fare  thee  well. — 
Now  boast  thee,  death,  in  thy  possession  lies 

>  What  •  In  f.  e      ^  Sleevens  -eads  :  vild  (the  old  form  of  vile).     ' 


A  lass  unparallel'd. — Downy  windows,  close  ; 
And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 
Of  eyes  again  so  royal  !     Your  crown  's  avrry* ; 
I  '11  mend  it,  and  then  play — 

Enter  the  Guard,  rushing  in. 

1  Guard.  Where  is  the  queen  ? 

Char.  Speak  softly;  wake  her  not 

1  Guard.  Caesar  hath  sent — 

Char.         Too  slow  a  messenger.     [Applies  the  Asp. 

0  !  come  ;  apace  ;  despatch  :  I  partly  feel  thee. 

1  Guard.  Approach,  ho  !    All 's  not  well :  Caesar  'a 

beguil'd. 

2  Guard.  There  's  Dolabella  sent  from  Caesar  :  call 

him. 

1  Guard.  What  work  is  here  ? — Charmian,  is  thi« 

well  done? 
Char.  It  is  well  done,  and  fitting  for  a  princess 
Descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
Ah,  soldier  !  [Dtis 

Enter  Dolabella. 
Dol.  How  goes  it  here  ? 

2  Guard.  All  dead. 

Dol.  Caesar,  thy  thoughts 

Touch  their  effects  in  this  :  thyself  art  coming 
To  see  perform'd  the  dreaded  act,  which  thou 
So  sought'st  to  hinder. 

Within.  A  way  there  !  a  way  for  Caesar  ! 
Ejiter  CssAR,  and  all  his  Train. 

Dol.  0,  sir  !  you  are  too  sure  an  augurer  : 
That  you  did  fear,  is  done. 

Cces.  Bravest  at  the  last : 

She  levell'd  at  our  purposes,  and,  being  royal. 
Took  her  own  way. — The  manner  of  their  deaths .' 

1  do  not  see  them  bleed. 

Dol.  Who  was  last  with  them  ? 

1  Guard.  A  simple  countryman  that  brought  her  figs 
This  was  his  basket. 

Cos.  Poison'd,  then. 

1  Guard.  0  Caesar. 

This  Charmian  lived  but  now  ;  she  stood,  and  spake. 
I  found  her  trimming  up  the  diadem 
On  her  dead  mistress :  tremblingly  she  stood. 
A.nd  on  the  sudden  dropp'd. 

Cas.  0  noble  weakness  ! — 

If  they  had  swallow'd  poison,  'twould  appear 
By  external  swelling  ;  but  she  looks  like  sleep, 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace. 

Dol.  Here,  on  her  breast, 

There  is  a  vent  of  blood,  and  something  blown 
The  like  is  on  her  arm. 

1  Giuird.  This  is  an  aspick's  trail ;   and  these  fig' 
leaves 
Have  slime  upon  them,  such  as  the  aspick  leaves 
Upon  the  caves  of  Nile. 

Cas.  Most  probable, 

That  so  she  died  ;  for  her  physician  tells  me. 
She  hath  pursu'd  conclusions  infinite 
Of  easy  ways  to  die. — Take  up  her  bed, 
And  bear  her  women  from  the  monument. 
She  shall  be  buried  by  her  Antony ; 
No  grave  upon  the  earth  shall  clip  in  it 
A  pair  so  famous.     High  events  as  these 
Strike  those  that  make  them  ;  and  their  story  is 
No  less  in  pity,  than  his  glory,  which 
Brought  them  to  be  lamented.     Our  army  shall, 
In  solemn  show,  attend  this  funeral, 
And  then  to  Rome. — Come.  Dolabella,  see 
High  order  in  this  great  solemnity.  [Ezevnt 

a-vray  :  in  folio      Pope  made  the  change. 


CYMBELINE. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Ctmbelini,  King  of  Britain. 
Cloten,  Son  to  the  Queen  by  a  former  Husband. 
Leonatus  Posthumus,  Husband  to  Imogen. 
Belarius,  a  banished  Lord,  disguised  under  the 
name  oif  Morgan. 

-,  Sons  to  Cymbeline,  disguised  under 

UuiDERius,    I      ^j^g  jj^i^gg  ^j.  poiyciore  and  Cad- 
AKViRAGUs,         ^.^j^  supposed  Sons  to  Belarius. 


Italians. 


Caius  Lucius,  General  of  the  Roman  Forcea. 

A  Roman  Captain. 

Two  British  Captains. 

PisANio,  Servant  to  Posthumus. 

Cornelius,  a  Physician. 

Two  Gentlemen. 

Two  Jailors. 


Queen,  Wife  to  Cymbeline. 

Imogen,    Daughter   to    Cymbeline   by    a   fonuei 

Queen. 
Helen,  Woman  to  Imogen. 


Philario.  Friend  to  Posthumus, 

Iachimo,  Friend  to  Philario, 

A  French  Gentleman,  Friend  to  Philario. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Roman  Senators,  Tribunes,  Apparitions,  a  Soothsayer,  a  Dutch  Gentleman,  a  Spanish  Gentle 

man,  Musicians,  Officers,  Captains,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,  sometimes  in  Britain,  sometimes  in  Italy. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.— Britain.     The  Garden  of  Cymbeline's 

Palace. 

Enter  Two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  You  do  not  meet  a  man,  but  frowns :  our 

bloods 
No  more  obey  the  heavens,  than  our  courtiers 
Still  seem  as  does  the  king. 

2  Gent.  But  what 's  the  matter? 

1  Gent.  His  daughter,  and  the  heir  of's  kingdom, 

whom 
He  purpos'd  to  his  wife's  sole  son,  (a  widow 
That  late  he  married)  hath  referr'd  herself 
L'nto  a  poor  but  worthy  gentleman.     She  's  wedded  ; 
Her  husband  banish'd  ;  she  imprison'd  :  all 
Is  outward  sorrow,  though,  I  think,  the  king 
Be  touch'd  at  very  heart. 

2  Gent.  None  but  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  He  that  hath  lost  her,  too :  so  is  tVie  queen, 
That  most  desir'd  the  match ;  but  not  a  courtier, 
Althoui^h  they  wear  their  faces  to  the  bent 

Of  the  king's  look.s,  hath  a  heart  that  is  not 
Glad  at  the  thing  they  scowl  at. 

2  Gent.  And  why  so  ? 

1  Geyit.  He  that  hath  miss'd  the  princess  is  a  thing 
fw)  bad  for  bad  report ;  and  he  that  hath  her. 

(I  mean,  that  married  her. — alack,  good  man  .' — 
And  therefore  banish'd)  is  a  creature  such 
A.s,  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the  earth 
For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  something  failing 
In  him  that  .should  compare.     I  do  not  think. 
So  fair  an  outward,  and  such  stuff  within, 
Endows  a  man  but  he. 

2  Gmt.  You  speak  him  far. 

1  Gent.  I  do  extend  him.  sir,  within  himself; 
Crush  him  together,  rather  than  unfold 
HiB  measure  duly. 

'  of:    in  f.  e       »  Madt  them  Jin*. 

860 


2  Gent.  What 's  his  name,  and  birth  ' 

1  Gent.  I  cannot  delve  him  to  the  root      His  father 
Was  called  Sicilius,  who  did  join  his  honour 
Against  the  Romans  with  Cassibelan, 

But  had  his  titles  by  Tenantius,  whom 

He  serv'd  with  glory  and  admir'd  success  ; 

So  gain'd  the  sur-addition,  Leonatus : 

And  had,  besides  this  gentleman  in  question, 

Two  other  sons,  who,  in  the  wars  o'  the  time. 

Died  with  their  swords  in  hand  ;  for  which  their  father 

Then  old  and  fond  of's'  issue,  took  such  sorrow, 

That  he  quit  being ;  and  his  gentle  lady. 

Big  of  this  gentleman,  our  theme,  deceas'd 

As  he  was  born.     The  king  he  takes  the  babe 

To  his  protection;  calls  him  Posthumus  Leonatus; 

Breeds  him.  and  makes  him  of  his  bed-chamber. 

Puts  him  to  all  the  learnings  that  his  time 

Could  make  him  the  receiver  of ;  which  he  took, 

As  we  do  air,  fast  as  't  was  ministcr'd  ;  and 

In  his  spring  became  a  harvest ;  liv'd  in  court, 

(Which  rare  it  is  to  do)  most  prais'd,  most  lov'd , 

A  sample  to  the  youngest,  to  the  more  mature, 

A  glass  that  featcd'  them ;  and  to  the  graver, 

A  child  that  guided  dotards :  for  his  mistress. 

For  whom  he  now  is  banish'd,  her  own  price 

Proclaims  how  she  estcem'd  him  and  his  virtue; 

By  her  election  may  be  truly  read 

What  kind  of  man  he  is. 

2  Gent.  I  honour  him. 

Even  out  of  your  report.     But,  pray  you,  tell  me, 
Is  she  sole  child  to  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  His  only  child. 

He  had  two  sons,  (if  this  be  worth  your  hearing, 
Mark  it)  the  eldest  of  them  at  three  years  old, 
r  the  swathing  clothes  the  other,  from  their  nursery 
Were  stol'n;  and  to  this  hour  no  guess  in  knowledge 
Which  way  they  went 


/^J 


SCENE  n. 


CYMBELmE. 


861 


?>  Gent.  How  long  is  this  ago  ? 

1  Gent.  Some  twenty  years. 

2  Gent.  Strange  a  king's  children  should  be  so  con- 

vey-d, 
So  slackly  guarded,  and  the  search  so  slow, 
That  could  not  trace  them  ! 

1  Gent.  Howsoe'er  't  is  strange, 
Or  that  the  negligence  may  well  be  laugh'd  at, 
Yet  is  it  true,  sir. 

2  Gent.  I  do  well  believe  you. 

1  Gent.  We  must  forbear.     Here  comes  the  gentle- 
man, the  queen,  and  princess.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 
Enter  the  Queen,  Posthumus,  and  Imogen. 

Qiieen.    No,   be   assur'd,    you   shall   not    find   me, 
daughter, 
After  the  slander  of  most  step-mothers, 
Evil-ey'd  unto  you :  you  are  my  prisoner,  but 
Your  jailor  shall  deliver  you  the  keys 
That  lock  up  your  restraint.     For  you,  Posthumus, 
So  soon  as  I  can  win  th'  offended  king, 
I  will  be  known  your  advocate :  marry,  yet 
The  fire  of  rage  is  in  him ;  and  't  were  good, 
Y"ou  lean'd  unto  his  sentence,  with  what  patience 
Your  wisdom  may  inform  you. 

Post.  Please  your  highness, 

1  will  from  hence  to-day. 

Queen.  You  know  the  peril. 

I  '11  fetch  a  turn  about  the  garden,  pitying 
The  pangs  of  barr'd  affections,  though  the  king 
Hath  charg  d  you  should  not  speak  together. 

[Exit  Queen. 

Imo.  0  dissembling  courtesy  !     How  fine  this  tyrant 
Can  tickle  where  she  v.-ounds  ! — My  dearest  husband, 
I  something  fear  my  fatlier's  wrath  ;  but  nothing 
(Always  reserv'd  my  holy  duty)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me.     You  must  be  gone  ] 
And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes ;  not  comforted  to  live. 
But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world, 
That  I  may  see  again. 

Font.  My  queen  !  my  mistress  ! 

0,  lady  !  weep  no  more,  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man.     I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth  : 
My  residence  in  Rome  at  one  Philario's ; 
Who  to  my  father  was  a  friend,  to  me 
Known  but  by  letter.     Thither  write,  my  queen. 
And  with  mine  eyes  I  '11  drink  the  words  you  send. 
Though  ink  be  made  of  gall. 
^  Re-enter  Queen. 

I  Queen.  Be  brief.  I  pray  you : 

"       If  the  king  come.  I  shall  incur  I  know  not 

How  much  of  his  displeasure.    [Aside.]    Yet  I  '11  move 

him 
To  walk  this  way.     I  never  do  him  wrong, 
But  he  does  buy  my  injuries  to  be  friends, 
Pays  dear  for  my  offences.  [Exit. 

Post.  Should  we  be  taking  leave 

As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live. 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow.     Adieu  ! 

Imo.  Nay,  stay  a  little  : 
Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself. 
Such  parting  were  too  petty.     Look  here,  love  : 
This  diamond  was  my  mother's;  take  it,  heart; 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  dead. 

ftawk  of  a  worthless  breed.      '  a  beggar  ;   -wonldst,  to.  :  in  f.  e. 


Post.  How!  how!  another? — 

You  gentle  gods,  give  me  but  this  I  have, 
And  sear  up  my  embraceinents  from  a  next 
With  bonds  of  death  ! — Remain,  remain  thou  here 

[Putting  on  the  Ring. 
While  sense  can  keep  it  on.     And  sweetest,  fairest, 
As  I  my  poor  self  did  exchange  for  you, 
To  your  so  infinite  loss,  so  in  our  trifles 
I  still  win  of  you :  for  my  sake,  wear  this  : 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love  ;  I  '11  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

[Putting  a  Bracelet  on  her  Arm. 

Imo.  0,  the  gods  ! 

When  shall  we  see  again  ? 

Enter  Cymbeline  and  Lords. 

Post.  Alack,  the  king  ! 

Cym.  Thou  basest  thing,  avoid  I  hence,  from  my  sight ! 
If  after  this  command  thou  fraught  the  court 
With  thy  unworthiness.  thou  diest.     Away  ! 
Thou  'rt  poison  to  my  blood. 

Post.  The  gods  protect  you, 

And  bless  the  good  remainders  of  the  court  ! 
I  am  gone.  [Exit. 

Imo.  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 

More  sharp  than  this  is. 

Cym.  0  disloyal  thing  I 

That  shouldst  repair  my  youth,  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me. 

Imo.  I  beseech  you,  sir. 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation ; 
I  am  senseless  of  your  wrath :  a  touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cym.  Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

Imo.  Past  hope,  and  in  despair  ;  that  way,  past  grace 

Cym.  That  mightst  have  had  the  sole  son  of  my  queen 

Imo.  0  bless'd,  that  I  might  not !     I  chose  an  eagle, 
And  did  avoid  a  puttock." 

Cym.  Thou  took'st  a  beggar  would'  have  made  my 
throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

Imo.  No  ;  I  rather  added 

A  lustre  to  it. 

Cym.  0  thou  vile  one  ! 

Imo.  Sir, 

It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  lov'd  Posthumus. 
You  bred  him  as  my  play-fellow  :  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman  ;  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Cym.  What  I  art  thou  mad  ? 

Imo.  Almost,  sir :   heaven   restore  me  ! — Would   I 
were 
A  neatherd's  daughter,  and  my  Leonatus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  sen  I 

Re-enter  Queen. 

Cym.  Thou  foolish  thing  !— 

They  were  again  together :  you  have  done[ro  the  Queen 
Not  after  our  command.     Away  with  her, 
And  pen  her  up. 

Queen.  Beseech  your  patience. — Peace  ! 

Dear  lady  daughter,  peace  ! — Sweet  sovereign, 
Leave  us  to  ourselves  ;  and  make  yourself  some  comfort 
Out  of  your  best  ad\nce. 

Cym.  Nay,  let  her  languish 

A  drop  of  blood  a  day;  and,  being  aged. 
Die  of  this  folly. 

Enter  Pisanio. 

Queen,  Fie  !— You  must  give  way  : 

Here  is  your  servant.— How  now,  sir  !     What  news  ? 

Pis.  My  lord  your  son  drew  on  my  master. 


\EiU 


8H2 


CYMBELmE. 


Q»imi.  Ha ! 

No  liiiriii.  I  trust,  is  done? 

Pts.  There  misht  have  been, 

But  I  hat  my  master  rather  play'd  than  fousht, 
And  had  no  help  of  anger:  they  were  parted 
By  peiitleiiieii  al  hand. 

Qiicai.  I  am  very  g;lad  on  't. 

Imo.  Your  son  's  my  father's   friend ;  he  takes  his 
pan. — 
To  draw  upon  an  exile  ! — 0  brave  sir  ! — 
I  Nvoulii  tlifv  were  in  Afric  both  together, 
Myself  by  with  a  needle,  that  I  might  prick 
The  goer  back. — Why  came  you  from  your  master? 

Pis.  On  his  command.     He  would  not  suffer  me 
To  bring  him  to  the  haven :  left  these  notes 
Of  what  commands  I  should  be  subject  to, 
When  't  pleas'd  you  to  employ  me. 

Qiteen.  This  hath  been 

Your  faithful  sen-ant :  I  dare  lay  mine  honour, 
He  will  remain  so. 

Pis.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

Qufen.  Pray,  walk  a  while. 

Imo.  About  some  half  hour  hence. 

Pray  you,  speak  with  me.     You  sliall,  at  least, 
Go  see  my  lord  aboard  :  for  this  time,  leave  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Public  Place. 
Enter  Cloten,  and  Two  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  I  would  advise  you  to  shift  a  shirt :  the 
violence  of  action  hath  made  y'ou  reek  as  a  sacrifice. 
Where  air  comes  out.  air  conies  in  ;  there  'snone  abroad 
■o  whole.<ome  as  that  you  vent. 

Clo.  If  my  shirt  were  bloody,  then  to  shift  it — Have 
I  hurt  him  ? 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  No,  faith ;  not  so  much  as  his  pa- 
tience. 

1  Lord.  Hurt  him  ?  his  body 's  a  passable  carcass,  if 
he  be  not  hurt :  it  is  a  thoroughfare  for  steel,  if  it  be 
not  hurt. 

2  Lord.  [Asidg.]  His  steel  was  in  debt ;  it  went  o' 
the  backside  the  town. 

Clo.  The  villain  would  not  stand  me. 
2  Lord.  [Aside.]  No ;  but  he  fled  forward  still,  to- 
ward your  face. 

1  Lord  Stana  you  !  You  have  land  enough  of  your 
own :  but  he  added  to  your  having,  gave  you  some 
ground. 

2  Lord.  [Aside]  As  many  inches  as  you  have  oceans. 
— Puppies  1 

Clo.  I  would  they  had  not  come  between  us. 

2  Lord.  [A.'!i/{e.]  So  would  I,  till  you  had  meastired 
how  long  a  fool  you  were  upon  the  ground. 

Clo.  And  that  she  should  love  this  fellow,  and  refuse 
me ! 

2  Lord.  [A.oide]  If  it  be  a  sin  to  make  a  true  elec- 
tion, she  IS  damned. 

1  Lord.  Sir.  a,s  I  told  you  always,  her  beauty  and  her 
brain  go  not  together  :  she  's  a  good  sign,  but  I  have 
Been  small  reflection  of  her  wit. 

2  Lord  [Asidr.]  She  shines  not  upon  fools,  lest  the 
refli^ction  should  hurt  her. 

Clo.  Come.  I  "11  to  my  chamber.  Would  there  had 
bf'cn  some  hurt  done  ! 

2  Lord,  [.-isi/le.]  I  wish  not  so;  unless  it  had  been 
the  fall  of  an  a.'-s.  which  is  no  great  hurt. 

Clo.  You  '11  go  with  us? 

1  Lord.  I  "11  attend  your  lordship. 
Clo.  Nay.  come,  let  's  go  together. 

2  Lord.  Well,  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 


S.CENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 
Enter  Imogen  aiid  Pisanio. 

Imo.  I  would  thou  grew'st  unto  the  shores o'  the  havea 
And  qucstion'dst  every  sail :  if  he  should  write, 
And  1  not  have  it.  't  were  a  paper  lost 
As  offer'd  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pis.  It  was,  his  queen,  his  queen 

Imo.  Then  wav'd  his  handkerchief? 

Pis.  And  kiss'd  it,  madam, 

Imo.  Senseless  linen,  happier  therein  than  I  ! — 
And  that  was  all  ? 

Pis.  No,  madam  ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief, 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on, 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imo.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pis.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Imo.  I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings,  crack'd 
them,  but 
To  look  upon  him,  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  shaop  as  my  needle; 
Nay.  follow'd  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air;  and  then 
Have  turn'd  mine  eye,  and  wept. — But.  good  Pisanio, 
When  shall  we  hear  from  him  ? 

Pis.  Be  assur'd.  madam, 

With  his  next  vantage. 

Imo.  I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say:  ere  I  could  tell  him, 
How  I  would  think  on  him,  at  certain  hours. 
Such  thoughts,  and  such  :  or  I  could  make  him  swear 
The  shes  of  Italy  should  not  betray 
Mine  interest,  and  his  honour  ;  or  have  charg'd  him, 
At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight, 
T'  encounter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 
I  am  in  heaven  for  him  :  or  ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I  had  set 
Betwixt  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father. 
And.  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north. 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 
Enter  a  Lady. 

The  queen,  madam, 
Desires  your  highness'  company. 

Imo.  Those    things  I   bid   you   do,    get    them    de- 
spatch'd. — 
I  will  attend  the  queen. 

Pis.  Madam,  I  shall.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE    V. — Rome.     An    Apartment  in  Phii.aric's 

House. 

Enter  Philario,   Iachimo,  a  Frenchman,  a  Dutchman. 

and  a  Spaniard. 

lach.  Believe  it,  sir,  I  have  seen  him  in  Britain: 
he  was  then  of  a  crcKcent  note;  expected  to  prove  so 
worthy,  as  since  he  hath  been  allowed  the  name  of; 
but  I  could  then  have  looked  on  him  without  the  help 
of  admiration,  though  the  catalogue  of  his  endowment* 
had  been  tabled  by  his  side,  and  I  to  peruse  him  by 
items. 

Phi.  You  speak  of  him  when  he  was  less  furnished, 
than  now  he  is,  with  that  which  makes  him  both  with 
out  and  within. 

French.  I  have  seen   him   in  France :  we  had  ven 


CYMBELINE. 


many  there  could  behold  the  sun  with  as  firm  eyes  as 
he. 

lack.  This  matter  of  marrying  his  king's  daughter, 
(wherein  he  must,  be  weighed  rather  by  her  value,  than 
his  own)  words  him,  I  doubt  not,  a  great  deal  from  the 
matter. 

French.  And.  then,  liis  banishment. — 

lach.  Ay,  and  the  approbations'  of  those  that  weep 
Ihia  lamentable  divorce  and  her  dolours.'  are  wout' 
»\^ouderfully  to  extend  him  ;  be  it  but  to  fortify  her 
judgment,  which  else  an  easy  battery  might  lay  flat, 
for  taking  a  beggar  without  more*  quality.  But  how 
oomes  it,  he  is  to  sojourn  with  you  ?  How  creeps 
acquaintance  ? 

Phi.  His  father  and  I  were  soldiers  together ;  to  whom 
I  have  been  often  bound  for  no   less  than  my  life. — 

Enter  Posthumus. 
Here  comes  the  Briton.  Let  him  be  so  entertained 
amongst  you,  as  suits  with  gentlemen  of  your  knownig 
to  a  stranger  of  his  quality. — I  beseech  you  all,  be 
better  known  to  this  gentleman,  whom  I  commend  to 
you,  as  a  noble  friend  of  mine  :  how  wortliy  he  is.  I 
will  leave  to  appear  hereafter,  rather  than  story  him 
ill  hip  own  hearing. 

French.  Sir.  we  have  known  together  in  Orleans. 

Post.  Since  when  I  have  been  debtor  to  you  for 
courtesies,  which  I  will  be  ever  to  pay,  and  yet  pay 
still. 

French.  Sir,  you  o'er-rate  my  poor  kindness.  I  was 
glad  I  did  atone*  my  countryman  and  you :  it  had  been 
pity  you  should  have  been  put  together  with  so  mortal 
a  purpose,  as  then  each  bore,  upon  importance  of  so 
slight  and  trivial  a  nature. 

Post.  By  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  then  a  young  tra- 
veller ;  rather  shunned  to  go  even  with  what  I  heard, 
than  in  my  every  action  to  be  guided  by  others'  ex- 
periences :  but,  upon  my  mended  judgment,  (if  I  not' 
oifend  to  say  it  is  mended)  my  quarrel  was  not  alto- 
gether slight. 

French.  Faith,  yes,  to  be  put  to  the  arbitrement  of 
swords  ;  and  by  such  two,  that  would,  by  all  likelihood, 
have  confounded  one  the  other,  or  have  fallen  both. 

lach.  Can  we,  with  manners,  ask  what  was  the  dif- 
ference ? 

French.  Safely,  I  think.  'T  was  a  contention  in 
public,  which  may.  without  contradiction,  suffer  the 
report.  It  was  much  like  an  argument  that  fell  out 
last  night,  where  each  of  us  fell  in  praise  of  our  country 
mistresses ;  this  gentleman  at  that  time  vouching,  (and 
upon  warrant  of  bloody  affirmation)  his  to  be  more 
fair,  virtuous,  wise,  chaste,  constant,  qualified,  and  less 
attemptable,  than  any  the  rarest  of  our  ladies  in  France. 

lack.  That  lady  is  not  now  living ;  or  this  gentle- 
man's opinion,  by  this,  worn  out. 

Post.  She  holds  her  virtue  still,  and  I  my  mind. 

lach.  You  must  not  so  far  prefer  her  'fore  ours  of 
Italy, 

Post.  Being  so  far  provoked  as  I  was  in  France,  I 
would  abate  her  nothing  ;  though  I  profess  myself  her 
adorer,  not  her  friend. 

lach.  As  fair,  and  as  good,  (a  kind  of  hand-in-hand 
comparison)  had  been  something  too  fair,  and  too  good, 
for  any  lady  in  Brit  any.  If  she  went  before  others  I 
have  seen,  as  that  diamond  of  yours  outlustres  many  I 
have  beheld,  I  could  not  but  believe'  she  excelled 
many;  but  I  have  not  seen  the  most  precious  diamond 
i  that  is,  nor  you  the  lady. 

Post.  I  praised  her  as  I  rated  her;  so  do  I  my  stone. 


1  approbation  .  in  f.  e.     »  under  her  colours  :  in  f.  e.     '  This  word  i«  not  in  f.  e.     *  lea 
lieve     in  lolio     Malone  mid«  the  chang*      '  Overromt.    »  Proof.    '«  a  fti^md  :  io  f.  e. 


I      lach.  What  do  you  esteem  it  at? 

Post.  More  than  the  world  enjoys. 
1      lach.  Either  your  unparagoned  mi.stress  is  dead,  or 
she  's  outprized  by  a  trifle. 

Post.  You  are  mistaken :  the  one  may  be  sold,  or 
-given;  or  if  there  were  wealth  enough  for  the  pur- 
j chase,  or  merit  for  the  gift:  the  other  is  not  a  thing 
for  sale,  and  only  the  gift  of  the  god-s. 

lach.  Which  the  gods  have  given  you  ? 

Post.  Which,  by  their  graces.  I  will  keep. 

lach.  You  may  wear  her  in  title  yours  ;  but,  you 
know,  strange  fowl  light  upon  neighbouring  pondi. 
Your  ring  may  be  stolen,  too :  so,  of  your  brace  of  un 
prizeable  estimations,  the  one  is  but  frail,  and  the  other 
casual;  a  cunning  thief,  or  a  that  way  accomplished 
courtier,  would  hazard  the  winning  both  of  first  and 
last. 

Post.  Your  Italy  contains  none  so  accomplished  a 
courtier  to  convince"  the  honour  of  my  mistress,  if  in 
the  holding  or  loss  of  that  you  term  her  frail.  I  do 
nothing  doubt,  you  have  store  of  thieves ;  notwith- 
standing, I  fear  not  my  ring. 

Phi.  Let  us  leave  here,  gentlemen. 

Post.  Sir,  with  all  my  heart.  This  worthy  signior.  I 
thank  him,  makes  no  stranger  of  me:  we  are  familiar 
at  first. 

lach.  With  five  times  so  much  conversation,  I  should 
get  ground  of  your  fair  mistress  ;  make  her  go  back, 
even  to  the  yielding,  had  I  admittance,  and  opportunity 
to  friend. 

Post.  No,  no. 

lach.  I  dare  thereupon  pawn  the  moiety  of  my  estate 
to  your  ring,  which,  in  my  opinion,  o'ervalues  it  some- 
thing, biit  I  make  my  wager  rather  against  your  con 
fidence,  than  her  reputation :  and,  to  bar  your  offence 
herein  too.  I  durst  attempt  it  against  any  lady  in  the 
world. 

Post.  You  are  a  great  deal  abused  in  too  bold  a 
persuasion:  and  I  doubt  not  you '11  sustain  what  you're 
worthy  of  by  your  attempt. 

lach.  What  's  .that  ? 

Post.  A  repulse ;  though  your  attempt,  as  you  call 
it,  deserve  more, — a  punishment  too. 

Phil.  Gentlemen,  enough  of  this  ;  it  came  in  too 
suddenly  :  let  it  die  as  it  was  born,  and,  I  pray  you,  be 
better  acquainted. 

lach.  Would  I  had  put  my  estate,  and  my  neigh 
hour's,  on  the  approbation'  of  what  I  have  spoke. 

Post.  What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assail  ? 

lach.  Yours ;  whom  in  constancy,  you  think,  stands 
so  safe.  I  will  lay  you  ten  thousand  ducats  to  your 
ring,  that,  commend  me  to  the  court  where  your  lady 
is,  with  no  more  advantage  than  the  ojjporiunily  of  a 
second  conference,  and  I  will  bring  from  thence  that 
honour  of  hers,  which  you  imagine  so  reserved. 

Post.  I  will  wage  against  your  gold,  goid  to  it :  my 
ring  I  hold  dear  as  my  finger ;  't  is  part  of  it. 

lach.  You  are  afeard,'*  and  therein  the  wiser.  If 
you  buy  ladies'  flesh  at  a  million  a  dram,  you  cannot 
preserve  it  from  tainting.  But  I  see.  you  have  some 
religion  in  you,  that  you  fear. 

Post.  This  is  but  a  custom  in  your  tongue  :  you  bear 
a  graver  purpose,  I  hope. 

lach.  I  am  the  master  of  my  speeches  ;  and  wouJd 
undergo  what 's  spoken,  I  swear. 

Post.  Will  you? — I  shall  but  lend  my  diamond  till 
your  return.  Let  there  be  covenants  drawn  between 
us.     My  mistress  exceeds  in  goodness  the  hugeness  of 

f.  e.     •  Reconcile.     *  Net  in  folio      '  not  \» 


864 


CYMBELmE. 


ACT    L 


yoar  unworthy  thinking :  I  dare  you  to  this  match. 
Here  's  my  ring. 

Phil.  I  will  have  it  no  lay. 

hch.  By  the  god."*,  it  is  one. — If  I  bring  you  no  suf- 
ficient teitiiiiony.  that  I  have  enjoyed  the  dearest  bodily 
part  of  your  inistresss,  my  ten  thousand  ducats  are 
yours  ;  so  is  your  diamond  too  :  if  I  come  off,  and 
leave  her  in  such  honour  as  you  have  trust  in.  she  your 
jewel,  this  your  jewel,  and  my  gold  are  yours  ; — pro- 
vided, I  have  your  conunendation,  for  ray  more  free 
entertainment. 

Post.  I  embrace  these  conditions ;  let  us  have  arti- 
cles betwixt  us. — Only,  thus  far  you  shall  answer  :  if 
you  make  good'  your  vauntage*  upon  her,  and  give  me 
directly  to  understand  you  have  prevailed.  I  am  no 
farther  your  enemy  :  she  is  not  worth  our  debate  :  if 
she  remain  unseduced,  (you  not  making  it  appear 
other%\nse)  for  your  ill  opinion,  and  the  assault  you 
have  made  to  her  chastity,  you  shall  answer  me  with 
your  sword. 

lach.  Your  hand  :  a  covenant.  We  \\nll  have  these 
things  set  do^^^l  by  lawful  counsel,  and  straight  away 
for  Britain,  lest  the  bargain  should  catc-h  cold,  and 
starve.  I  will  fetch  my  gold,  and  have  our  two  wagers 
recorded. 

Post.  Agreed.         [Exeunt  Posthumcs  and  Iachimo. 

Freiuh.  Will  this  hold,  think  you  ? 

Phi.  Signior  Iachimo  will  not  from  it.  Pray,  let 
us  follow  'em.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Britain.     A  Room  in  Ctmbeline's 

Palace. 

Enter  Queen,  Ladies,  and  Cornelius. 

Qtieen.  Whiles   yet  the  dew 's  on  ground,    gather 
those  flowers : 
Make  ha.«te.     Who  has  the  note  of  them  ? 

1  Lady.  I^  madam. 

Qtuen.  Despatch. —  [Exetmt  Ladies. 

Now,  master  doctor,  have  you  brought  those  drugs? 

Cor.  Pleaseth  your  highness,  ay:    here   they    are, 
madam  :  [Presenting  a  small  Box. 

But  I  beseech  your  grace,  viithout  offence, 
(My  con.>icience  bids  me  ask)  wherefore  you  have 
Commanded  of  me  these  most  poisonous  compounds, 
Which  are  the  movers  of  a  languishing  death ; 
But  though  slow,  deadly  ? 

Qwen.  I  wonder,  doctor. 

Thou  ask'st  me  such  a  question  :  have  I  not  been 
Thy  pupil  long  ?     Ha.«;t  thou  not  learn'd  me  how 
To  make  perfumes  ?  distil  ?  preserve  ?  yea,  so. 
That  our  great  king  himself  doth  woo  me  oft 
For  my  confections?     Having  thus  far  proceeded, 
(UnlcoR  thou  thiiik"8t  me  devilish)  is  't  not  meet 
That  I  did  amplify  my  judgment  in 
Other  oonclusions  ?     I  will  try  the  forces 
Of  thc«e  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 
Wc  count  not  worth  the  hanging,  (but  none  human) 
To  try  the  vigour  of  them,  and  apply 
AilayracnU  to  their  act  :  and  by  them  gather 
Their  several  virtues,  and  effects. 

^'^  Your  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  make  hard  your  heart : 
P^'-idc!*,  the  seeing  these  effects  will  be 
B^>th  noisome  and  infectious. 

Q^'ftn.  0  !  content  thee. — 

Enter  Pisanio. 
L^jvi*.]     Here  comes  a  flattering  rascal :  upon  him 
Will  I  first  work  :  he  "s  for  his  master, 
And  enemy  to  my  son  — How  now,  Pisanio  ! — 

'  Not  l«  f  «.      «  T07»j«  :  in  f.  ,.      >  To  PttAjfio  :  in  f.  • 


Doctor,  your  service  for  this  time  is  ended : 
Take  your  own  way. 

Cor.  [Aside.]  I  do  suspect  you,  madam  ; 

But  you  shall  do  no  harm. 

Queen.  Hark  thee,  a  word. — 

[She  talks  apart  to  Pisanio.' 

Cor.  I  do  not  like  her.     She  doth  think,  she  has 
Strange  lingering  poisons  :  I  do  know  her  spirit, 
And  will  not  trust  one  of  her  malice  with 
A  drug  of  such  damn'd  nature.     Those  she  has 
Will  stupify  and  dull  the  sense  awhile ; 
Which  first,  perchance,  she  '11  prove  on  cats,  and  dogs, 
Then  afterward  up  higher:  but  there  is 
No  danger  in  what  show  of  death  it  makes 
More  than  the  locking  up  the  spirits  a  time, 
To  be  more  fresh,  reviving.     She  is  fooi'd 
With  a  most  false  effect  ;  and  I  the  truer, 
So  to  be  false  with  her. 

Queen.  No  farther  service,  doctor, 

Until  I  send  for  thee. 

Cor.  I  humbly  take  my  leave.  [Exit. 

Queen.  Weeps  she  still,  say'st   thou?     Dost   thou 
think,  in  time 
She  •will  not  quench,  and  let  instruction  enter 
Where  folly  now  possesses  ?     Do  thou  work  : 
When  thou  shalt  bring  me  word  she  loves  my  son, 
I  '11  tell  thee  on  the  instant  thou  art,  then. 
As  great  as  is  thy  master :  greater  ;  for 
His  fortunes  all  lie  speechless,  and  his  name 
Is  at  last  gasp :  return  he  cannot,  nor 
Continue  where  he  is  :  to  shift  his  being, 
Is  to  exchange  one  misery  with  another. 
And  every  day  that  comes  comes  to  decay 
A  day's  work  in  him.     What  shalt  thou  expect, 
To  be  depender  on  a  thing  that  leans  ? 
Who  caniwt  be  new-built  :  nor  has  no  friends, 

[The  Queen  drops  the  Box:  Pisanio  takes  il 
up  and  presents  it. 
So  much  as  but  to  prop  him. — Thou  tak'et  up 
Thou  know'st  not  what :  but  take  it  for  thy  labour. 
It  is  a  thing  I  made,  which  hath  the  king 
Five  times  redeem'd  from  death  :  I  do  not  know 
What  is  more  cordial  : — nay,  I  pr'ythee,  take  it ; 
It  is  an  earne.st  of  a  farther  good 
That  I  mean  to  thee.     Tell  thy  mistress  how 
The  ca.se  stands  with  her  :  do  't  as  from  thy.self. 
Think  what  a  chance  thou  chancest  on ;  but  think 
Thou  hast  thy  mistre.«8  still ;  to  boot,  my  son. 
Who  shall  take  notice  of  thee.     I  '11  move  the  king 
To  any  shape  of  thy  preferment,  such 
As  thou  'It  desire  ;  and  then  my.«elf.  I  chiefly, 
That  set  thee  on  to  this  desert,  am  bound 
To  load  thy  merit  richly.     Call  my  women  : 
Think  on  my  words.  [Exit  Pis.] — A  sly  and  constant 

knave. 
Not  to  be  shak'd  ;  the  agent  for  his  master, 
And  the  remeinbrancer  of  her,  to  hold 
The  hand  fa.st  to  her  lord. — I  have  given  him  that, 
Which,  if  he  take,  shall  quite  unpeople  her 
Of  liegers  for  her  .suile;  and  which  she  after, 
Except  she  bend  her  humour,  shall  be  as.sur'd 

Re-enter  Pisanio,  and  Ladies. 
To  taste  of  too. — So.  so  : — well  done,  well  done. 
The  violets,  cowslips,  and  the  primroses, 
Bear  to  my  closet. — Fare  thee  well.  Pisanio; 
Think  on  my  words.  [Exeuit  Queen  and  Ladies 

Pis.  And  shall  do; 

But  when  to  my  good  lord  I  prove  untrue, 
I  '11  choke  myself:  there 's  all  I  '11  do  tor  you.     [Exit 


SC1ENE  vn. 


CYMBELmE. 


865 


SCENE  VII.— Another  Room  in  the  Same. 

Enter  Imogen. 

Imo.  A  father  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false  ; 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady, 
That  hath  her  husband  banish'd  : — 0,  that  husband  ! 
My  supreme  crown  of  grief,  and  those  repeated 
Vexations  of  it  !     Had  I  been  thief-stolen, 
As  my  two  brothers,  happy  !  but  most  miserable 
Is  the  desire  that 's  glorious  :  blessed  be  those, 
How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wills, 
Which  seasons  comfort. — Who  may  this  be  ?     Fie  ' 

Enter  Pisanio  and  Iachimo. 
Pis.  Madam,  a  noble  gentleman  of  Rome 
Comes  from  my  lord  with  letters. 

lack.  Change  you,  madam  ? 

The  worthy  Leonatus  is  in  safety. 
And  greets  your  highness  dearly.  [Gives  a  Letter. 

Imo.  Thanks,  good  sir  : 

You  are  kindly  welcome. 

lack.  All  of  her,  that  is  out  of  door,  most  rich  ! 

[Aside. 
If  she  be  furnish'd  with  a  mmd  so  rare, 
She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird,  and  I 
Have  lost  the  wager.     Boldness,  be  my  friend  : 
Arm  me,  audacity,  from  head  to  foot. 
Or,  like  the  Parthian,  I  shall  flying  fight ; 
Rather,  directly  fly. 

Imo.  [Reads.]  "He  is  one  of  the  noblest  note,  to 
whose  kindnesses  I  am  most  infinitely  tied.  Reflect 
upon  him  accordingly,  as  you  value  your  truest — 

'•  Leonatus." 
So  far  I  read  aloud  ; 
But  even  the  very  middle  of  my  heart 
Is  Avarm'd  by  the  rest,  and  takes  it  thankfully. — 
You  are  as  welcome,  wortliy  sir,  as  I 
Have  words  to  bid  you  ;  and  shall  find  it  so 
In  all  that  I  can  do. 

lack.  Thanks,  fairest  lady. — 

What  !  are  men  mad  ?     Hath  nature  given  them  eyes 
To  see  this  vaulted  arch,  and  the  rich  cope* 
O'er'  sea  and  land,  which  can  distinguish  'twixt 
The  fiery  orbs  above,  and  the  twinn'd  stones 
Upon  th'  unnumber'd^  beach  ;  and  can  we  not 
Partition  make  with  spectacles  so  precious 
'Twixt  fair  and  foul  ? 

Imo.  What  makes  your  admiration  ? 

lack.  It  cannot  be  i'  the  eye ;  for  apes  and  monkeys, 
'Twixt  two  such  shes,  would  chatter  this  way,  and 
Contemn  with  mows  the  other :  nor  i'  the  judgment ; 
For  idiots,  in  this  case  of  favour,  would 
Be  wisely  definite  :  nor  i'  the  appetite  ; 
Sluttery,  to  such  neat  excellence  oppos'd, 
Should  make  desire  vomit  to  emptiness, 
Not  so  allur'd  to  feed. 

Imo.  What  is  the  matter,  trow  ? 

lach.  '  The  cloyed  will. 

(That  satiate  yet  unsatisfied  desire, 
That  tub  both  fill'd  and  running)  ravening  firsit 
The  lamb,  longs  after  for  the  garbage. 

Imo.  What,  dear  sir, 

Thus  raps  you  ?     Are  you  well  ? 

lack.  Thanks,  madam,  well. — Beseech  you,  sir,  desire 

[To  Pisanio. 
My  man's  abode  where  I  did  leave  him  :  he 
Is  strange  and  peevi.sh. 

Pis.  I  was  going,  sir. 

To  give  him  welcome.  [Exit  Pisanio. 


Imo.  Continues  well  my  lord  ?     His  health,  'beseech 
you? 

Inch.  Well,  madam. 

Imo.  Is  he  dispos'd  to  mirth  ?     I  hope,  he  is. 

lack.  Exceeding  pleasant ;  none,  a  stranger  there, 
So  merry  and  so  gamesome  :  he  is  call'd 
The  Briton  reveller. 

Imo.  When  he  was  here, 

He  did  incline  to  sadness ;  and  oft-times 
Not  knowing  why. 

lach.  I  never  saw  him  sad. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  his  companion,  <ine, 
An  eminent  monsieur,  that,  it  seems,  much  loves 
A  Gallian  girl  at  home  ;  he  furnaces 
The  thick  sighs  from  him,  whiles  the  jolly  Briton 
(Your  lord,  I  mean)  laughs  from  's  free  lungs,  cries,  '•  0 
Can  my  sides  hold,  to  think,  that  man, — who  knows 
By  history,  report,  or  his  own  proof, 
What  woman  is,  yea,  what  she  cannot  choose 
But  must  be, — will  his  free  hours  languish 
For  assur'd  bondage  ?" 

Imo.  Will  my  lord  say  so  ? 

lach.  Ay,  madam,  with  his  eyes  in  flood  with  laughter 
It  is  a  recreation  to  be  by. 

And  hear  him  mock  the  Frenchman ;  but,  heavens  know. 
Some  men  are  much  to  blame. 

Imo.  N  t  he,  I  hope. 

lach.  Not  he ;  but  yet  heaven's  bounty  towards  him 
might 
Be  us'd  more  thankfully.     In  himself,  't  is  much : 
In  you, — which  I  account  beyond  all  talents. — 
Whilst  I  am  bound  to  wonder,  I  am  bound 
To  pity  too. 

Imo.  What  do  you  pity,  sir  ? 

lach.  Two  creatures,  heartily. 

Imo.  Am  I  one,  wr  ? 

You  look  on  me :  what  wreck  discern  you  in  me. 
Deserves  your  pity  ? 

lach.  Lamentable  !     What ! 

To  hide  me  from  the  radiant  sun,  and  solace 
I'  the  dungeon  by  a  snuff"? 

Imo.  I  pray  you,  sir, 

Deliver  with  more  openness  your  answers 
To  my  demands.     Why  do  you  pity  me  ? 

lach.  That  others  do, 
I  was  about  to  say,  enjoy  your — But 
It  is  an  office  of  the  gods  to  venge  it. 
Not  mine  to  speak  on 't. 

Imo.  You  do  seem  to  know 

Something  of  me,  or  what  concerns  me  :  pray  you. 
(Since  doubting  things  go  ill.  often  hurts  more 
Than  to  be  sure  they  do ;  for  certainties 
Either  are  past  remedies,  or,  timely  knowing. 
The  remedy  then  born)  discover  to  me 
What  both  you  spur  and  stop. 

lach.  Had  I  this  cheek 

To  bathe  my  lips  upon :  this  hand,  whose  touch. 
Whose  every  touch,  would  force  the  feeler's  soul 
To  the  oath  of  loyalty  ;  this  object,  which 
Takes  prisoner  the  wild  motion  of  mine  eye. 
Fixing  it  only  here  ;  should  I  (damn'd  then) 
Slaver  with  lips  as  common  as  the  stairs 
That  mount  the  Capitol  ;  join  gripes  with  hands 
Made  hard  with  liourly  falsehood  (falsehood  a? 
With  labour),  then  bo-peeping*  in  an  eye, 
Base  and  illustrous  as  the  smok>'  light 
That 's  fed  with  stinking  tallow,  it  were  fit. 
That  all  the  plagues  of  hell  should  at  one  time 
Encounter  such  revolt. 


f.  0.     "Of 
3E 


thfi  number'd  !  in  f.  a       *  hj  peer  ng  :  ia  f. 


IS^ 


866 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT  n. 


Into.  My  lord,  I  fear, 

Ha-s  forgot  Britain 

lach  And  himsell.     Not  I, 

Inclin'd  to  this  intellisence,  pronounce 
The  beseary  of  his  change  ;  but  't  is  your  graces 
That,  from  my  mutest  conscience,  to  my  tongue 
Charms  this  report  out. 

Imo.  Let  me  hear  no  more. 

lack.  0  dearest  soul  !    your  cause  doth   strike   my 
lieart 
With  pity,  tliat  doth  make  me  sick.     A  lady 
So  fair,  ami  ra.<:ten'd  to  an  empery 
Would  make  the  sjreat'st  king  double,  to  be  partner'd 
With  tomboys,  bird  with  that  self  exhibition 
Which  your  o\n\  coffers  yield  !  with  diseas'd  ventures. 
That  pay'  with  all  infirmities  for  gold 
Which  rottenness  can  lend  nature  !  such  boil'd  stuff, 
As  well  might  poison  poison  !     Be  reveng'd, 
Or  she  that  bore  you  was  no  queen,  and  you 
Heooil  from  your  great  stock. 

Imj.  Reveng'd ! 

How  should  I  be  reveng'd?     If  ihi.s  be  true, 
|Ab  J  have  such  a  heart,  that  both  mine  ears 
Musi  not  in  ha.ste  abuse)  if  it  be  true. 
How  should  I  be  reveng'd? 

lack.  Should  he  make  me 

Live,  like  Diana's  priest,  betwixt  cold  sheets, 
Whiles  he  is  vaulting  variable  ramps, 
In  your  despite,  upon  your  purse  ?     Revenge  it. 
I  dedicate  my.^elf  to  your  sweet  plea-sure. 
More  noble  than  that  runagate  to  your  bed, 
And  will  continue  fast  to  your  affection, 
Still  close',  as  sure. 

Imo.  What  ho.  Pisanio  ! 

lach.  Let  me  my  service  tender  on  your  lips. 

Imo.  Away ! — I  do  contemn*  mine  ears,  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee. — If  thou  wert  honourable. 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st,  as  base,  as  strange. 
Thou  wrong"st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report,  as  thou  from  honour;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady,  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike. — What  ho,  Pisanio  ! — 
The  king  my  father  shall  be  made  acquainted 
Of  thy  a-vsaiilt :  if  he  shall  think  it  fit, 
A  saucy  stranger,  in  his  court,  to  mart 
As  in  a  ilomish  stew,  and  to  expound 
His  bcajitly  mind  to  us.  he  hath  a  court 
He  little  cares  for,  and  a  daughter  whom 
He  not  rejipocts  at  all. — What  ho.  Pisanio! — 

lack.  0  happy  Leonatiis  !   I  may  say  ; 
The  credit,  that  thy  lady  hath  of  thee, 
Dci»erves  thy  trust ;  and  thy  most  perfect  goodness 
Her  as-^urd  credit. — Blessed  live  you  long! 
A  lady  to  the  worthiest  sir.  that  ever 
Countr>'  call'd  his :  and  you  his  mistress,  only 
For  the  most  worthiest  fit.     Give  me  your  pardon. 
I  have  spoke  this,  to  know  if  your  affiance 


Were  deeply  rooted  :  and  shall  make  your  lord, 
That  which  he  is,  new  o'er  :  and  he  is  one 
The  truest  manner'd ;  such  a  holy  witch, 
That  he  enchants  societies  unto  him : 
Half  all  men's  hearts  are  his. 

Imo.  You  make  amends. 

lach.  He  sits  'mongst  men,  like  a  descended  god 
He  hath  a  kind  of  honour  sets  him  off. 
More  than  a  mortal  seeming.     Be  not  «ngry. 
Most  mighty  princess,  that  I  have  adventur'd 
To  try  your  taking  of  a  false  report ;  which  hath 
Honour'd  with  confirmation  your  great  judgment 
In  the  election  of  a  sir  so  rare, 

Which,  you  know,  cannot  err.     The  love  I  bear  him 
Made  me  to  fan  you  thus ;  but  the  gods  made  you, 
Unlike  all  others,  chaifless.     Pray,  your  pardon. 

Imo.  All 's  well,  sir.     Take  my  power  i'  the  court, 
for  yours. 

Inch.  My  humble  thanks.     I  had  almost  forgot 
T'  entreat  your  grace  but  in  a  small  request. 
And  yet  of  moment  too,  for  it  concerns 
Your  lord  :  myself,  and  other  noble  friends, 
Are  partners  in  the  business. 

Imo.  Pray,  what  is  't  ? 

lach.  Some  dozen  Romans  of  us,  and  your  lord, 
(The  best  feather  of  our  wing)  have  mingled  s\ims, 
To  buy  a  present  for  the  emperor : 
Which  I,  the  factor  for  the  rest,  have  done 
In  France  :  't  is  plate  of  rare  device,  and  jewels 
Of  rich  and  exquisite  form.     Their  value  's  great, 
And  I  am  something  curious,  being  strange. 
To  have  them  in  safe  stowage :  may  it  please  you 
To  take  them  in  protection  ? 

hno.  Willingly, 

And  pawn  mine  honour  for  their  safety :  smce 
My  lord  hath  interest  in  them,  I  will  keep  them 
In  my  bed-chamber. 

lack.  They  are  in  a  trunk, 

Attended  by  my  men ;  I  wll  make  bold 
To  send  them  to  you.  only  for  this  night, 
I  must  aboard  to-morrow. 

Ivio.  0  !  no.  no. 

lack.  Yes,  I  beseech  :  or  I  shall  short  my  word. 
By  lengthening  my  return.     From  Gallia 
I  cross'd  the  seas  on  purpose,  and  on  promise 
To  see  your  grace. 

Imo.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains , 

But  not  away  to-morrow. 

lach.  0!  I  must,  madam: 

Therefore,  I  shall  beseech  you.  if  you  please 
To  greet  your  lord  with  writing,  do  't  to-night' 
I  have  outstay'd'  my  time,  which  is  material 
To  the  tender  of  our  present. 

Imo.  I  will  write. 

Send  your  trunk  to  me  ;  It  shall  safe  be  kept, 
And  truly  yielded  you.     You  're  very  welcome. 

[Eocivji 


ACT    II. 


[had  a  hundred   pound  on 't :    and    then  a  whoreson 
.,         _,  J  rr       r      I  /•  jackanapes  must  take   me    up  for  swearing;    as  if  I 

fcn/fr  CLOTEN,  awrf  1  wo  Lords*  as  from  the  5ajo/ing.   borrowed  mine  oaths   of  him,  and    might  not  spend 


SCENE  I.— Court  before  Cvmbeline's  Pah 


alley. 
Clo.  Wa-s  there  ever  man  had  such  luck  !  when  I 
kisMd  the  jack  upon  an  up-cast,  to  be  hit  away !     I 

pUi  :  ia  f.  •.     >  cond«niii  :  in  f.  e.      *  ontitood 


them  at  my  pleasure. 

1  Lord.  What  got  he  by  that? 
pate  with  the  bowl. 
The  reit  of  this  direction  it  not  in  f.  « 


You  have  broke  his 


SCENE  m. 


CYMBELIXE. 


867 


2  Lord.  [Aside.]  If  his  wit  had  been  like  him  that 
oroke  it,  it  would  have  run  all  out. 

Clo.  When  a  gentleman  is  disposed  to  swear,  it  is 
not  for  any  standers-by  to  curtail  his  oaths,  ha  ? 

2  Lord.  No,  my  lord ;  [Aside^  nor  crop  the  ears  of 
them. 

Clo.  Whoreson  dog  !  —  I  give  him  satisfaction  ? 
Would  he  had  been  one  of  my  rank ! 

2  Lord.   [Aside]  To  have  smelt  like  a  fool. 

Clo.  I  am  not  vexed  morr  at  any  thing  in  the  earth. 
— A  pox  on  't !  I  had  rather  not  be  so  noble  as  I  am : 
they  dare  not  fight  with  me,  because  of  the  queen  my 
mother.  Every  jack-slave  hath  his  belly  full  of  fight- 
ing, and  I  must  go  up  and  down  like  a  cock  that  no 
body  can  match. 

2  Lord.  [Aside.]  You  are  cock  and  capon  too ;  and 
you  crow,  cock,  with  your  comb  on. 

Clo.  Sayest  thou  ? 

2  Lord.  It  is  not  fit  your  lordship  should  undertake 
every  companion  that  you  give  offence  to. 

Cio.  No,  I  know  that ;  but  it  is  fit  I  should  commit 
offence  to  my  inferiors. 

2  Lord.  Ay,  it  is  fit  for  your  lordship  only. 

Clo.  Why,  so  I  say. 

1  Lord.  Did  you  hear  of  a  stranger,  that 's  come  to 
court  to-night  ? 

Clo.  A  stranger  !  and  I  not  know  on  't? 

2  Lord.  [Aside]  He  's  a  strange  fellow  himself,  and 
knows  it  not. 

1  Lord.  There  's  an  Italian  come :  and  't  is  thought, 
one  of  Leonatus'  friends. 

Clo.  Leon-atus  !  a  banished  rascal ;  and  he  's  another, 
whatsoever  he  be.     Who  told  you  of  this  stranger  ? 

1  Lord.  One  of  your  lordship's  pages. 

Clo.  Is  it  fit  I  went  to  look  upon  him  ?  Is  there  no 
derogation  in  't  ? 

1  Lord.  You  cannot  derogate,  my  lord 
Clo.  Not  easily,  I  think. 

2  Lord.  [Aside]  You  are  a  fool  granted ;  therefore, 
your  issues  being  foolish  do  not  derogate. 

Clo.  Come,  I  '11  go  see  this  Italian.  What  I  have  lost 
to-day  at  bowls,  I  '11  win  to-night  of  him.     Come,  go. 

2  Lord.  I  '11  attend  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt  Cloten  and  first  Lord. 
That  such  a  crafty  devil  as  is  his  mother 
Should  yield  the  world  this  ass  !  a  woman,  that 
Bears  all  down  with  her  brain ;  and  this  her  son 
Cannot  take  two  from  twenty  for  his  heart. 
And  leave  eighteen.     Alas,  poor  princess  ! 
Thou  d  vine  Imogen,  v.-hat  thou  endurest. 
Betwixt  a  father  by  thy  step-dame  govern'd ; 
A  mother  hourly  coining  plots  ;  a  wooer, 
More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 
Of  thy  dear  husband,  than  that  horrid  act 
Df  the  divorce  he  'd  make  !     The  heavens  hold  firm 
The  walls  of  thy  dear  honour  ;  keep  unshak'd 
That,  temple,  thy  fair  mind ;  that  thou  may'st  stand 
r'  enjoy  thy  banish'd  lord,  and  this  great  land  !  [Exit. 

SCENE  II,— A  Bed-Chamber;  in  one  part  of  it.  a 
great  Trunk. 
Imogen  reading  in  her  Bed;  Helen  attending. 
Imo.  Who  's  there?  my  woman,  Helen? 
Lady.  Please  you,  madam. 

Imo.  What  hour  is  it  ? 

Lady.  Almost  midnight,  madam. 

Imo.  I  have  read  three  hours,  then.     Mine  eyes  are 
weak; 
Fold  doMTi  the  leaf  where  I  have  left :  to  bed. 

»  Tkt  covering  of  ftocrs.      '  '  Not  in  f.  o.      *  bare  :  in  f.  e 


Take  not  away  the  taper,  leave  ic  burning; 

And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock. 

I  pr'ythee.  call  me.     Sleep  hath  seiz'd  me  wholly. 

[Exit  Helen 
To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  gods  ! 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night. 
Guard  me,  beseech  ye  !  [Sleeps 

Enter  IxcHiuo  from  the  Trunk. 
Inch.  The  crickets  sing,  and  man's  o'er-labour'd  sens 
Repairs  itself  by  rest :  our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,'  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded.     Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed  !  fresh  lily, 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets  !     That  I  might  touch  ! 
But  kiss;  one  kiss! — Rubies  unparagon'd.  [Ki!;singhfr 
How  dearly  they  do  't. — 'T  is  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus  :  the  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  toward  her.  and  would  under-peep  her  lids, 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canop'ed 
Under  the  windows ;  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct. — But  my  design. 
To  note  the  chamber :  I  will  write  all  down  : — 

[Takes  oid  his  tables. 
Such,  and  such,  pictures  : — there  the  window ; — such 
Th'  adornment  of  her  bed : — the  arras,  figures. 
Why,  such,  and  such  ; — and  the  contents  o'  the  story. — 
Ah  !  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body. 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  moveables 
Would  testify,  t'  enrich  mine  inventory  : 

0  sleep,  thou  ape  of  death,  lie  dull  upon  her. 
And  be  her  sense  bitt  as  a  monument. 

Thus  in  a  chapel  lying  ! — Come  off,  come  ofi"; — 

[  Taking  off  her  Bracelet 
As  slippery,  as  the  Gordian  knot  was'hard. — 
'T  is  mine;  and  this  will  witness  outwardly. 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within. 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord. — On  her  left  breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip :  here  's  a  voucher. 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make  :  this  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  picked  the  lock,  and  ta'en 
The  treasure  of  her  honour.   No  more. — To  what  end  r 
Why  should  I  wTite  this  do-mi,  that 's  riveted. 
Screw'd  to  my  memory  ?     She  hath  been  reading  late 
The  tale  of  Tereus ;  here  the  leaf  's  turn"d  down, 
Where  Philomel  gave  up. — I  have  enough : 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,  swift,  you  dragons  of  the  night,  that  daviiiing 
May  dare  the  raven's  eye  :  I  lodge  in  fear  : 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

[Clock  strikes. 
One,  two,  three, — time,  time  !        [Exit  into  the  Trunk. 

SCENE  III. — An  Ante-Chamber  adjoining  Imogen' 

Apartment. 

Enter  Cloten  and  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Your  lordship  is  the  most  patient  man  ij 
loss,  the  most  coldest  that  ever  turned  up  ace. 

Clo.  It  would  make  any  man  cold  to  lose. 

1  Lord.  But  not  every  man  patient,  after  the  noble 
temper  of  your  lordship.  You  are  most  hot,  and 
furious,  when  you  win. 

Clo.  Winning  will  put  any  man  into  courage.     If 

1  could  get  this  foolish  Imogen.  I  should  have  gold 
enough.     It 's  almost  morning,  is  't  not  ? 

1  Lord.  Day,  my  lord. 

Clo.  I  would  this  music  would  come.  I  am  advised 
to  give  her  music  o'  mornings  ;  they  say,  it  will  pene- 
trate. 


b68 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT  n. 


Enter  Musicians.  I 

Come  on;  tunc:  if  you  can  penetrate  her  with  your' 
ftimerins.  so;  wc  '11  (ry  witli  tongue  too:  if  none  will  j 
do.  let  her  remain  ;  but  I'll  never  give  o'er.  First,  a 
ver>-  excellent  cood  conceited  thins  :  after,  a  wonderful 
sweet  air,  with  admirable  rich  words  to  it, — and  then 
let  her  consider. 

SONG. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven'' s  gate  sings. 

And  Phabtis  'gins  arise, 
Hts  steeds  to  vater  at  those  springs 

On  chalicd  fioxrcrs  thit  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mnni-biids  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  every  thing  tJiat  pretty  is. 
My  lady  stveet.  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise  ! 
So.  get  you  gone.     If  this  penetrate,  I  will  con.'jider 
your  music  the  better :  if  it  do  not.  it  is  a  fault*  in  her 
rars.  which  horse-hairs,  and  calves'-guts,  nor  the  voice 
of  an  unpav'd  eunuch  to  boot,  can  never  amend. 

[Exeunt  Musicians. 
Enter  Ctmbeline  and  Queen. 
2  Lord.  Here  comes  the  king. 

Clo.  I  am  glad  I  was  up  so  late,  for  that 's  the  rea- 
son I  was  up  so  early  :  he  cannot  choose  but  take  this 
service  I  have  done,  fatherly. — Good  morrow  to  your 
majesty,  and  to  my  gracious  mother. 

Ct/m.  Attend  you  here  the  door  of  our  stern  daughter  ? 
Will  she  not  forth? 

Clo.  I  have  assailed  her  with  music,  but  she  vouch- 
safes no  notice. 
Cym.  The  exile  of  her  minion  is  too  new  ; 
She  hath  not  yet  forgot  him:  some  more  time 
Must  wear  the  jjrint  of  his  remembrance  out. 
And  then  .«he  "s  yours. 

Queen.  You  are  most  bound  to  the  king  : 

Who  lets  go  by  no  vantages,  that  may 
Prefer  you  to  hie  daughter.     Frame  yourself 
To  orderly  solicits,  and  be  friended 
With  aptness  of  the  .season:  make  denials 
Increase  your  services  :  .so  seem,  as  if 
^'ou  were  inspir'd  to  do  those  duties  which 
You  tender  to  her ;  that  you  in  all  obey  her, 
.Save  when  command  to  your  dismission  tends. 
And  therein  you  are  senseless. 

Clo.  Senseless  ?  not  so. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  So  like  you,  sir,  ambassadors  from  Rome: 
The  one  is  Caius  Lucius. 

Cym.  A  worthy  fellow. 

Albeit  he  comes  on  angry  purpose  now  ; 
But  that 's  no  fault  of  his  :  we  must  receive  him 
According  to  the  honour  of  his  sender; 
And  toward.s  him.sclf,  his  goodness  forcspent  on  us, 
We  must  extend  our  notice. — Our  dear  son, 
When  you  have  given  gofKl  morning  to  your  mlBtress, 
Attend  the  queen,  and  us;  we  shall  have  need 
Toemploy  you  towards  this  Roman. — Come,  our  queen. 
[Kieunt  <;v.M..  Quekn,  Lords,  and  Mess. 
Clo.  If  tihc  be  up.  I'll  speak  with  lier  ;  if  not. 
Let  her  lie  still,  and  dream. — By  your  leave,  ho  I — 
I  knoMT  her  women  are  about  her  :  what  [Calls.' 

If  I  do  line  one  of  their  hands?     'Tis  sold 
Which  buys  admittance;  oft  it  doth  ;  and  makes 
Dirina's  rangern,  false  themnelves,  yield  up 
Th»«ir  deer  to  the  stand  o'  the  stealer ;  and  't  is  gold 
'.Vhich  makes  the  true  man  killd.  and  saves  the  thief; 
Nay,  sometime,  hangs  both  thief  and  true  man  :  what 

rit*  :  im  f.  •.      »  Knotki :  ia  f.  •.      >  Most  mod   adi.  read  :  soil. 


[Knocki 


gentleman. 

No  more' 


That 


Can  it  not  do,  and  undo?     I  will  make 
One  of  her  women  lawyer  to  me  ;  for 
I  yet  not  understand  the  case  myself. 
By  your  leave. 

Enter  a  Lady. 

Lady.  Who  's  there,  that  knocks  ? 

Clo.  A 

Lady. 

Clo.  Yes.  and  a  gentlewoman's  son. 

Lady. 

Than  some,  whose  tailors  are  as  dear  as  yours, 
Can  justly  boast  of.     What 's  your  lordship's  pleasure  1 

Clo.  Your  lady's  person:  is  she  ready  ? 

Lady.  Ay, 

To  keep  her  chamber. 

Clo.  There 's  gold  for  you  :  sell  me  your  good  report. 

Lady.  How  !  my  good  name  ?  or  to  report  of  you 

What  I  shall  think  is  good  ? — the  princess 

Etiter  Imogen. 

Clo.  Good  morrow,  fairest :  sister,  your  sweet  hand. 

Imo.  Good  morrow,  sir.  You  lay  out  too  much  pains 
For  purchasing  but  trouble  :  the  thanks  I  give, 
Is  telling  you  that  I  am  poor  of  thanks. 
And  scarce  can  spare  them. 

Clo.  Still,  I  swear,  I  love  you. 

Imo.  If  you  but  said  so,  't  were  as  deep  with  me : 
If  you  swear  still,  your  recompense  is  still 
That  I  regard  it  not. 

Clo.  This  is  no  answer. 

Imo.  But  that  you  shall  not  say  I  }deld,  being  silent, 
I  would  not  speak.     I  pray  you.  spare  me  :  faith, 
I  shall  unfold  equal  discourtesy 
To  your  best  kindness.     One  of  your  great  knowing 
Should  learn,  being  taught,  forbearance. 

Clo.  To  leave  you  in  your  madness  ?  't  were  my  sin : 
I  will  not. 

Imo.  Fools  are  not  mad  folks. 

Clo.  Do  you  call  me  fool ''. 

Imo.  As  I  am  mad,  I  do : 
If  you  '11  be  patient,  I  '11  no  more  be  mad  ; 
That  cures  us  both.     I  am  much  .sorry,  sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners, 
By  being  .so  verbal  :  and  learn  now.  for  all. 
That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce. 
By  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you  : 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, 
(To  accuse  myself)  I  hate  you  ;  which  I  had  rather 
You  felt  than  make 't  my  boast. 

Clo.  You  sin  against 

Obedience,  which  you  owe  your  father.     For 
The  contract  you  pretend  with  that  base  wretch, 
(One,  bred  of  alms,  and  foster'd  with  cold  dishes, 
With  scraps  o'  the  court)  it  is  no  contract,  none  : 
And  though  it  be  allow'd  in  meaner  parties, 
(Yet  who  than  he  more  mean  ?)  to  knit  their  souls 
(On  whom  there  is  no  more  dependency 
But  brats  and  beggary)  in  self-figur'd  knot. 
Yet  you  arc  curb'd  from  that  enlargement  by 
The  consequence  o'  the  crown,  and  must  not  foil' 
The  precious  note  of  it  with  a  base  slave, 
A  hilding*  for  a  livery,  a  squire's  cloth, 
A  pantler,  not  so  eminent. 

Imo.  Profane  fellow ! 

Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more 
But  what  thou  art  besides,  thou  wert  too  ba«e 
To  be  his  groom :  thou  wert  dignified  enough, 
Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  't  were  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under  hangman  of  his  kingdom,  and  hated 
*  A  love  verttek. 


SCENE   IT. 


CYMBELl^E. 


For  being  preferr'd  so  well. 

do.  The  south-fog  rot  him  ! 

Into.  He  never  can  meet  more  mischance,  than  come 
To  be  but  nam'd  of  thee.     His  meanest  garment, 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  respect  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee, 
Were  they  all  made  such  men. — How  now,  Pisanio ! 
Enter  Pisanio. 

Clo.  His  garment  ?     Now,  the  devil — 

Imo.  To  Dorothy  my  woman  hie  thee  presently, — 

Clo.  His  garment  ? 

Imo.  I  am  sprited  with  a  fool  : 

Frighted,  and  anger'd  worse.— Go,  bid  my  woman 
Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually 
Hath  left  mine  arm :  it  was  thy  master's  ;  'shrew  me. 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king's  in  Europe.     I  do  think, 
I  saw  't  this  morning :  confident  I  am, 
Last  night  't  was  on  mine  arm ;  I  kiss'd  it. 
I  hope,  it  be  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

Pis.  'T  will  not  be  lost. 

Imo.  I  hope  so  :  go,  and  search.  [Exit  Pis. 

Clo.  You  have  abus'd  me. — 

His  meanest  garment  ? 

Imo.  Ay ;  I  said  so,  sir. 

If  you  will  make  't  an  action,  call  witness  to  't. 

Clo.  I  will  inform  your  father. 

Imo.  Your  mother  too  : 

She's  my  good  lady ;  and  will  conceive,  I  hope, 
But  the  worst  of  me.     So  I  leave  you,  sir, 
To  the  worst  of  discontent.  *       [Exit. 

Clo.  I  '11  be  reveng'd. — 

His  meanest  garment  ? — Well.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV. — Rome.     An  Apartment   in   Philario's 

House. 

Enter  Posthumus  and  Philario. 

Post.  Fear  it  not,  sir  :  I  would,  t  were  so  sure 
To  win  the  king,  as  I  am  bold,  her  honour 
Will  remain  hers. 

Phi.  "What  means  do  you  make  to  him  ? 

Post.  Not  any ;  but  abide  the  change  of  time ; 
Quake  in  the  present  winter's  state,  and  wi.sh 
That  warmer  days  would  come.     In  these  fear'd  hopes. 
I  barely  gratify  your  love  ;  they  failing, 
I  must  die  much  your  debtor. 

Phi.  Your  very  goodness,  and  your  company, 
O'erpays  all  I  can  do.     By  this,  your  king 
Hath  heard  of  great  Augustus  :  Cains  Lucius 
Will  do  's  commission  throughly  ;  and,  I  think. 
He  '11  grant  the  tribute,  send  the  arrearages, 
Or  look  upon  our  Romans,  whose  remembrance 
Is  yet  fresh  in  their  grief. 

Post.  I  do  believe, 

(Statist  though  I  am  none,  nor  like  to  be) 
That  this  -^lU  prove  a  war ;  and  you  shall  hear 
The  legion,  now  in  Gallia,  sooner  landed 
[n  our  not-fearing  Britain,  than  have  tidings 
Of  any  penny  tribute  paid.     Our  countrymen 
Are  men  more  order'd,  than  when  Julius  Caesar 
Smil'd  at  their  lack  of  skill,  but  found  their  courage 
Worthy  his  frowning  at  :  their  discipline 
(Now  mingled^  with  their  courages)  will  make  known 
To  their  approvers,  they  are  people,  such 
That  mend  upon  the  world. 

Enter  Iachimo. 

Pht.  See!   Iachimo? 

Post.  The  swiftest  harts  have  posted  you  by  land, 

•  vrin?  led  :  in  first  folio  ;  second  folio,  as  in  text.      ^  If  I  have  lost 


And  winds  of  all  the  corners  kiss'd  your  sail^, 
To  make  your  vessel  nimble. 

Phi.  Welcome,  sir. 

Post.  I  hope,  the  briefness  of  your  answer  made 
Tlie  speediness  of  your  return. 

lach.  Your  lady 

Is  one  of  the  fairest  that  I  have  look'd  upon. 

Post.    And,  therewithal,  the  best ;  or  let  her  beaut> 
Look  through  a  casement  to  allure  false  hearts, 
And  be  false  with  them. 

lack.  Here  are  letters  for  you 

Post.  Their  tenor  good,  I  trust. 

lach.  'T  is  very  like 

Phi.  Was  Caius  Lucius  in  the  Britain  court. 
When  you  were  there  ? 

lach.  He  was  expected  then, 

But  not  approach'd. 

Post.  All  is  well  yet. — 

Sparkles  this  stone  as  it  was  wont  ?  or  is  't  not 
Too  dull  for  your  good  wearing  ? 

lach.  If  I  had  lost," 

I  should  have  lost  the  worth  of  it  in  gold. 
I  '11  make  a  journey  twice  as  far.  t'  enjoy 
A  second  night  of  such  sweet  shortness,  which 
Was  mine  in  Britain ;  for  the  ring  is  won. 

Post.  The  stone  's  too  hai-d  to  come  by. 

lack.  Not  a  whiL 

Your  lady  being  so  easy. 

Post.  Make  not.  sir. 

Your  loss  your  sport :  I  hope,  you  know  that  we 
Must  not  continue  friends. 

lach.  Good  sir,  we  must, 

If  you  keep  covenant.     Had  I  not  brought 
The  knowledge  of  your  mistress  home.  I  grant 
We  were  to  question  farther :  but  I  now 
Profess  myself  the  winner  of  her  honour. 
Together  with  your  ring  :  and  not  the  A\Tonger 
Of  her,  or  you,  having  proceeded  but 
By  both  your  wills. 

Post.  If  you  can  make  't  apparent 

That  you  have  tasted  her  in  bed,  my  hand 
And  ring  are  yours :  if  not,  the  foul  opinion 
You  had  of  her  pure  honour,  gains,  or  loses. 
Your  sword,  or  mine ;  or  masterless  leaves  both 
To  who  shall  find  them. 

lach.  Sir,  my  circumstances. 

Being  so  near  the  truth,  as  I  will  make  them. 
Must  first  induce  you  to  believe  :  whose  strength 
I  will  confirm  with  oath  ;  which,  I  doubt  not, 
You  '11  give  me  leave  to  spare,  when  you  shall  find 
You  need  it  not. 

Post.  Proceed. 

lach.  First,  her  bedchamber, 

(Where,  I  confess,  I  slept  not,  but,  profess, 
Had  that  was  well  worth  watching)  it  was  hang'd 
With  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver  ;  the  story, 
Proud  Cleopatra,  when  she  met  her  Roman, 
And  Cydnus  swell'd  above  the  banks,  or  for 
The  press  of  boats,  or  pride  ;  a  piece  of  work 
So  bravely  done,  so  rich,  that  it  did  strive 
In  workmanship,  and  value  ;  which.  I  wouder'd. 
Could  be  so  rarely  and  exactly  wrought, 
Since  the  true  life  on  't  'twas.' 

Post.  This  is  most*  true  ; 

And  this  you  might  have  heard  of  here,  by  me, 
Or  by  some  other. 

lach.  More  particulars 

Must  justify  my  knowledge. 

Post.  So  they  must, 


870 


CYMBELINE. 


fh  do  your  honour  injun". 

Inch.  The  chimney 

Ix  soutli  the  chamber  ;  and  the  chimiicy-piccc, 
Chaste  Dian,  bathins; :  never  saw  I  figures 
So  likely  to  rci>ort  themselves  :  the  cutter 
Was  aa  another  nature,  dumb  ;  outwent  her, 
Motion  and  breath  left  out. 

Post.  This  is  a  thing. 

Which  you  might  from  relation  likewise  reap, 
Bein".  a*  it  is,  much  spoke  of. 

lack.  The  roof  o'  the  chamber 

With  golden  cherubin.'s  is  fretted  :  her  andirons 
1 1  had  forgot  them)  were  two  winged'  Cupids 
Of  silver,  each  on  one  foot  standing,  nicely 
i\>pending  on  their  brands. 

Post.  This  is  her  honour. — 

Let  it  be  granted,  you  have  seen  all  this,  (and  praise 
Be  given  to  your  remembrance)  the  description 
Of  what  i.«  in  her  chamber  nothing  saves 
riie  wager  you  have  laid. 

lach.  Then,  if  you  can, 

Be  pale  :   I  beg  but  leave  to  air  this  jewel ;  see  I — 

[Producing  the  Bracelet. 
.\nd  now  "t  is  up  again :  it  must  be  married 
To  that  your  diamond  ;  I  '11  keep  them. 

Post.  Jove  I — 

Once  more  let  me  behold  it.     Is  it  tliat 
Which  I  left  with  her? 

I(uh.  Sir,  (I  thank  her)  that : 

.She  stripped  it  from  her  arm  :  I  see  her  yet ; 
Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift, 
.\nd  yet  enrich'd  it  too.     She  gave  it  me, 
.■\nd  said,  she  priz'd  it  once. 

Post.  May  be,  she  pluck'd  it  off. 

To  send  it  me. 

hch.  She  writes  so  to  you,  doth  she? 

Post.  0!  no.  no,  no;  'tis  true.    Here,  take  this  too; 
[Giving  the  Ring. 
Ii  i.<  a  basilisk  unto  mine  eye. 
lull.-i  me  to  look  on  "t. — Let  there  be  no  honour. 
Where  there  i.<  beauty;  truth,  where  semblance  ;  love, 
Where  there  's  another  man  :  the  vows  of  women 
Of  no  more  bondage  be,  to  where  they  are  made. 
Than  they  are  to  their  virtues,  which  is  nothing  — 
0,  above  measure  false  ! 

■P^>-  Have  patience,  sir, 

And  take  your  ring  again;  't  is  not  yet  won  : 
It  may  be  probable  she  lost  it ;  or, 
Who  knows,  if  one  of  her  women,  being  corrupted. 
Hath  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

Post.  Very  true ; 

A.nd  so.  I  hope,  he  came  by  't. — Back  my  ring, — 
bonder  to  me  .•^ome  corporal  si-rn  about  her, 
More  evident  than  this,  for  this  was  stolen. 

Inch.   By  Jupit<r.  I  had  it  from  her  arm. 

Post.  Hark  you.  he  swears;  by  .lujjiter  he  swears. 
T  is  true  : — nay,  keep  the  ring — t  is  true.     I  am  sure, 
She  would  not  li).ve  it :  her  attendants  are 
All  sworn,  and  honourable: — they  induc'd  to  steal  it! 
And  by  a  stranger  ! — No,  he  hath  enjoy'd  her: 
The  cognizance  of  her  incontincncy 
l^   this  : — .'-he   hath  bought  the  name  of  whore  thus 

dearly. — 
There,  take  ihy  hire  :  and  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Divide  themselves  between  you  ! 

■P*»-  Sir.  be  patient. 

This  it  not  strong  enough  to  be  belicv'd 
Of  one  persuaded  well  of. 


Post.  Never  talk  on  't ; 

She  hath  been  colted  by  him. 

lack.  If  you  seek 

For  farther  satisfying,  under  her  breast 
(Worthy  the*  pressing)  lies  a  mole,  right  proud 
Of  that  most  delicate  lodging:  by  my  life, 
I  kiss'd  it,  and  it  gave  me  present  hunger 
To  feed  again,  though  full.     You  do  remember 
This  stain  upon  her? 

Po.st.  Ay,  and  it  doth  confirm 

Another  stain,  as  big  as  hell  can  hold, 
Were  there  no  more  but  it. 

Inch.  Will  you  hear  more  ? 

Post.  Spare  your  arithmetic :  never  count  the  turns 
Once,  and  a  million  ! 

lach.  I  '11  be  sworn, 

Po.st.  No  swearing 

If  you  will  swear  you  have  not  done  't.  you  lie ; 
And  I  will  kill  thee,  if  thou  dost  deny 
Thou  'st  made  me  cuckold. 

lach.  I  will  deny  nothing. 

Post.  0.  that  I  had  her  here,  to  tear  her  limb-meal  I 
I  will  go  there,  and  do  't;  i'  the  court;  before 
Her  father. — I  '11  do  something.  [Exit. 

Phi.  Quite  besides 

The  government  of  patience  ! — You  have  won  : 
Let 's  follow  him,  and  pervert  the  present  wrath 
He  hath  against  himself. 

lach.  With  all  my  heart.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— The  Same.     Another  Room  in  the  Same 
Enter  Posthumus. 
Post.  Is  there  no  way  for  men  to  be,  but  women 
Must  be  half- workers  ?    We  are  all  bastards; 
And  that  most  venerable  man,  which  I 
Did  call  my  father,  was  I  know  not  where 
When  I  was  stamped  ;  some  coiner  with  his  tools 
Made  me  a  counterfeit :  yet  my  mother  seemed 
The  Dian  of  that  titne;  so  doth  my  wife 
The  nonpareil  of  this. — O  vengeance,  vengeance  ! 
Me  of  rny  lawful  pleasure  she  rcslrain"d, 
And  pray'd  me  oft  forbearance ;  did  it  with 
A  pudency  so  rosy,  the  sweet  view  on  't 
Might  well  have  warm'd  old  Saturn  ;  that  I  thought  her 
As  chaste  as  uiisunn'd  snow : — 0,  all  the  devils  ! — 
This  yellow  lachimo,  in  an  hour, — was  't  not? — 
Or  less, — at  first ;  perchance  he  spoke  not,  but, 
Like  a  full-acorn'd  boar,  a  foaming^  one, 
Cry'd  "oh  !"  and  mounted;  found  no  op})ositiou 
But  what  he  loolr'd  for  should  oppose,  and  .she 
Should  from  encounter  guard.     Could  1  find  out 
The  woman's  part  in  me  !     For  there  's  no  motion 
That  tends  to  vice  in  man,  but  1  affirm 
It  is  the  woman's  part :  be  it  lying,  note  it, 
The  woman's  ;  flattering,  hers  ;  deceiving,  hers  ; 
Lust  and  rank  thoughts,  hers,  hers;  revenges,  hers; 
Ambitions,  covetings,  change  of  prides,  disdain, 
Nice  longings,  slanders,  mutability. 
All  faults  that  may  be  nam'd  ;  nay,  that  hell  knot's, 
Why,  hers,  in  part,  or  all  :  but,  rather,  all ; 
For  even  to  vice 

They  are  not  constant,  but  are  changing  still 
One  vice,  but  of  a  minute  old,  for  one 
Not  half  so  old  as  that.     I  'II  write  against  them, 
Detest  them,  cur.se  them. — Yet  't  is  greater  skill, 
In  a  true  hate,  to  pray  they  have  their  will : 
The  very  devils  cannot  plague  them  better.  1  fc'j  '^ 


vinklBf  :  ia  f  a.      >  her  :  in  folio.     Ro*»  ratde  the  chang«.      '  German  :  in 


CYMBELINE. 


871 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  1.— Britain.     A  Room  of  State  in  Cym- 

belixe's  Palace. 

Enter   Cymbeline,    Queen,    Cloten.    a7id   Lords,  at 

me  Door ;   at  another^   Caius  Lucius,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

Cym.  Now  say.  what  would  Augustus  Caesar  with  us  ? 

Iaic.  When  Julius  Caesar  (whose  remembrance  yet 
Lives  in  men's  eyes,  and  will  to  ears,  and  tongues, 
Be  theme,  and  hearing  ever)  was  in  this  Britain, 
And  conquer"d  it,  Cassibelan,  thine  uncle, 
(Famous  in  Caesar's  praises,  no  whit  less 
Than  in  his  feats  deserving  it)  for  him 
And  his  succession,  granted  Rome  a  tribute, 
Yearly  three  thousand  povmds  •  which  by  thee  lately 
Is  left  untender'd. 

Queen.  And,  to  kill  the  marvel, 

Shall  be  so  ever. 

CIo.  There  be  many  Caesars, 

Ere  such  another  Julius.     Britain  is 
A  world  by  itself :  and  we  will  nothing  pay. 
For  wearing  our  own  noses. 

Queen.  That  opportunity, 

Wliich  then  they  had  to  take  from  us,  to  resume 
We  have  again. — Remember,  sir,  my  liege, 
The  kings  your  ancestors,  together  with 
The  natural  bravery  of  your  isle  ;  which  stands 
As  'Veptunc's  park,  ribbed  and  paled  in 
With  rocks^  unscaleable,  and  roaring  waters  : 
With  sands,  that  will  not  bear  your  enemies'  boats. 
But  suck  them  up  to  the  top-mast.    A  kind  of  conquest 
Csesar  made  here  ;  but  made  not  here  his  brag 
Of  -'came,"  and  "saw."  and  "overcame:"  with  shame 
(The  first  that  ever  touch"d  him)  he  was  carried 
From  off  our  coast,  twice  beaten ;  and  his  shipping, 
(Poor  ignorant  baubles  !)  on  our  terrible  seas, 
Like  egg-shells  mov'd  upon  their  surges,  crack'd 
As  easily  'gainst  our  rocks.     For  joy  whereof 
The  fam'd  Cassibelan,  who  was  once  at  point 
(0.  giglot  fortune  !)  to  master  Caesar's  sword. 
Made  Lud's  to^'iii  with  rejoicing  fires  bright. 
And  Britons  strut  with  courage. 

CIo.  Come,  there  's  no  more  tribute  to  be  paid.  Our 
kingdom  is  stronger  than  it  was  at  that  time  ;  and,  as 
I  said,  there  is  no  more  such  Caesars  :  other  of  them 
may  have  crooked  noses  ;  but,  to  owe  such  straight 
arms,  none. 

Cym.  Son,  let  your  mother  end. 

CIo.  We  have  yet  many  among  us  can  gripe  as  hard 
as  Cassibelan  :  I  do  not  say,  I  am  one  :  but  I  have  a 
hand. — Why  tribute  ?  why  should  we  pay  tribute  ?  If 
Caesar  can  hide  the  sun  from  us  with  a  blanket,  or  put 
the  moon  in  his  pocket,  we  will  pay  him  tribute  for 
light :  else,  tir,  no  more  tribute,  pray  you  now. 

Cym.  You  must  know, 
Till  the  injurious  Romans  did  extort 
This  tribute  from  us,  we  were  free  :  Caesar's  ambition, 
(Which  swell'd  so  much,  that  it  did  almost  stretch 
The  sides  o'  the  world)  against  all  colovir,  here 
Did  put  the  yoke  upon  us  ;  which  to  shake  off. 
Becomes  a  waxlike  people,  whom  we  reckon 
Ourselves  to  be. 

CIo.  We  do.'' 

Cym.  Say,  then<  to  Caesar, 


Our  ancestor  was  that  Mulmutius,  which 
Ordain'd  our  laws ;  whose  use  the  sword  of  Caesar 
Hath  too  much  mangled  :  whose  repair,  and  franchise 
Shall,  by  the  power  we  ho'd,  be  our  good  deed, 
Though  Rome  be  therefore  angry.     Mulmutius  mad# 

our  laws. 
Who  was  the  first  of  Britain  which  did  put 
His  brows  within  a  golden  crown,  and  calfd 
Himself  a  king. 

Luc.  I  am  sorrj',  Cymbeline, 

That  I  am  to  pronounce  Augustus  Caesar 
(Csesar,  that  hath  more  kings  his  servants,  than 
Thyself  domestic  officers)  thine  enemy. 
Receive  it  from  me,  then. — War,  and  confusion. 
In  Caesars  name  pronounce  I  'gainst  thee  :  look 
For  fury  not  to  be  resisted. — Thus  defied, 
I  thank  thee  for  myself. 

Cym.  Thou  art  welcome,  Caius 

Thy  Caesar  knighted  me  ;  my  youth  I  spent 
Much  under  him  ;  of  him  I  gather'd  honour  ; 
Which  he,  to  seek  of  me  again,  perforce. 
Behoves  me  keep  at  utterance.^     I  am  perfect. 
That  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmations,  for 
Their  liberties,  are  now  in  arms ;  a  precedent 
Which  not  to  read  would  show  the  Britons  cold  . 
So  Caesar  shall  not  find  them. 

Luc.  Let  proof  speak. 

CIo.  His  majesty  bids  you  welcome.  Make  pastime 
with  us  a  day  or  two,  or  longer  :  if  you  seek  us  after- 
wards in  other  terms,  you  shall  find  us  in  our  salt- 
water girdle  :  if  you  beat  us  out  of  it.  it  is  yours.  L 
you  fall  in  the  adventure,  our  crows  shall  fare  the 
better  for  you  ;  and  there  's  an  end. 

Luc.  So.  sir. 

Cym.  I  know  your  master's  pleasure,  and  he  mine  . 
All  the  remain  is,  welcome  [ExeurU 

SCENE  II.— Another  Room  in  the  Same. 

Enter  Pisanio. 
Pis.  How  !  of  adultery?     Wherefore  WTite  you  not 
What  monsters  here  accuse  ? — Leonatus  ! 
0,  master  !  what  a  strange  infection 
Is  fallen  into  thy  ear !     What  false  Italian 
(As  poisonous  tongued,  as  handed)  hath  prevaiFd 
On  thy  too  ready  hearing  ? — Disloyal  ?   No  : 
She  's  punish'd  for  her  truth  ;  and  undergoes. 
More  goddess-like  than  wife-like,  such  assaults 
As  would  take  in*  some  virtue.— 0,  my  ma.<ter  ! 
Thy  mind  to  her  is  now  as  low.  as  were 
Thy  fortunes. — How  !  that  I  should  murder  her  ? 
Upon  the  love,  and  truth,  and  vows,  which  I 
Have  made  to  thy  command  ? — I,  her  ? — her  blood  ? 
If  it  be  so  to  do  good  service,  never 
Let  me  be  counted  serviceable.     How  look  I, 
That  I  should  seem  to  lack  humanity. 
So  much  as  this  fact  com.es  to  ?     ''  Do 't.     The  letter 

[Reading 
That  I  have  sent  her,  by  her  own  command 
Shall  give  thee  opportunity :" — O,  damn'd  paper  ! 
Black  as  the  ink  that 's  on  thee.     Senseless  bauble, 
Art  thou  a  feodary*  for  this  act.  and  look'st 
So  virgin-like  without  ?     Lo  '  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Imogen. 
I  am  ignorant  in  what  I  am  commanded. 


'  oaks     in  folio.     Hanmer  made  the  change. 
luer.    »  Accomplice 


ake  JHese  two  words  part  of  Ctmbeline's  speech.     •  Fig-ht  to  txtremity 


^ 


872 


CYMBELINE. 


Imo.  How  now,  PiBanio  ! 

Pis.  Madam,  here  is  a  letter  from  my  lord. 

Imo.  Who?  iliy  lord"  tlmt  is  my  lord  :  Lconatus. 
0!   leam'd  indeed  were  that  a.»itronomer, 
Tliat  knew  the  stars,  as  I  his  eharatters  : 
Hed  lay  the  future  open. — You  sood  iiods, 
Let  what  i.s  here  contain'd  relish  of  love. 
>f  my  lord's  health,  of  his  content. — yet  not. 
That  we  two  are  a-<under. — let  that  grieve  him  : 
Stime  cnefs  are  medicinable  ;  that  is  one  of  them, 
For  it  doth  physic  love  ; — of  his  content, 
.Ml  but  in  that ! — Good  wax.  thy  leave. — Bless'd  be, 
Viiu  bce.s.  that  make  these  locks  of  counsel !    Lovers, 
\nd  men  in  dangerous  bonds,  pray  not  alike  : 
I'hough  forfeiters  you  cast  in  prison,  yet 
\ou  ela«p  young  Cupid's  tables. — Grood  news,  gods  ! 

[Reads. 

'•  Justice,  and  your  fathers  wTath,  should  he  take  me 
in  hi.s  dominion,  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me.  as  you,  0 
the  dearest  of  creatures,  would  even  renew  me  with 
vnur  eyes.  Take  notice,  that  I  am  in  Cambria,  at 
Milford-Haven  :  what  your  o^^Tl  love  will  out  of  this 
ad\-ise  you  follow.  So.  he  wishes  you  all  happiness, 
that  remains  loyal  to  his  vow.  and  your,  increasing  in 
love, 

"  LEON.iTUS    POSTHUMUS." 

1,  for  a  horse  with  wings  ! — Hear'st  thou,  Pisanio? 
He  is  at  Milford-Haven  :  read,  and  tell  me 
How  far  't  is  thither.     If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a  day?" — Then,  true  Pi.«anio, 
Who  longst,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord  ;  who  long'st. — 
'  >.  let  me  "bate  ! — but  not  like  me  : — yet  long'st, — 
i'ut  in  a  fainter  kind  : — 0  !  not  like  me, 
For  mine  's  beyond  beyond)  say.  and  speak  thick,* 
Love's  counsellor  should  fill  tlie  bores  of  hearing, 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense)  how  far  it  is 
To  this  .same  blessed  Milford :  and,  by  the  way, 
fell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 
I'  inherit  such  a  haven  :  but,  first  of  all. 
How  we  may  steal  from  hence ;  and,  for  the  gap 
riiai  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence-going, 
And  our  return,  to  excuse  : — but  first,  how  get  hence. 
Why  should  excuse  be  born,  or  e'er  begot? 
We  '11  talk  of  that  hereafter.     Prythee,  speak, 
How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
Twixt  hour  and  hour  ? 

Pis.  One  score  'twxt  sun  and  sun, 

Madam,  's  enough  for  you.  and  too  much,  too. 

Imo.  Why.  one  that  rode  to  's  execution,  man. 
Could  never  go  so  hlow:  I  have  heard  of  riding  wagers. 
Where  horses  hav<^  been  nimbler  than  the  sands 
That  run  i"  the  clocks  by  half.» — But  this  is  foolery. — 
iio.  bid  my  woman  feiirn  a  sickness:  say 
She  '11  home  to  her  father  ;  and  provide  me,  presently. 
A  nding  suit,  no  costlier  than  would  fit 
A  franklin's  housewife. 

Pis.  Madam,  you  're  best  consider, 

Imo.  I  »ce  before  me.  man  :  nor  lierf^.  nor  here, 
Nor  what  ensues,  but  have  a  fog  in  tlicm. 
That  I  cannot  look  throu2h.     Away.  I  prythee : 
Do  as  I  bid  thee.     There  's  no  more  to  say; 
AcccMibie  is  none  but  Milford  way.  [Eieunt 

SCENE  III. — Wales.     A  mountainous  Country, 

with  a  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guirerks.  and  Arviragvs. 

Bel.  A  goodly  day  not  to  keep  house,  with  such 

I  haptmJf     »  the  elock'i  behalf-  in  f.  e.     »  Bleep :  in  folio.     Hanrm 
»•  •zpraawB  of  contempt.      •  Uu  accotiHiM  unpaid.      '  or  :  in  folio. 


Whose  roof's  as  low  as  ours.     Stoop,*  boys  :  this  gate 
Instructs  you  how  t'  adore  the  heavens,  and  bows  you 
To  a  mornings  holy  office :  the  gates  of  monarehs 
Are  arch'd  so  high,  that  giants  may  jet*  through 
And  keep  their  impious  turbands  on,  without 
Good-mor-ow  to  the  sun. — Hail,  thou  fair  heaven  ' 
We  house  i'  the  rock,  yet  use  thee  not  so  hardly 
As  prouder  livers  do. 

Gui.  Hail,  heaven  : 

Arv.  Hail,  heaven ! 

Bel.    Now,  for  our  mountain  sport.     Up  to  yond" 
hill: 
Vour  legs  are  young:  I  '11  tread  these  flats.     Consider, 
When  you  above  perceive  me  like  a  crow. 
That  it  is  place  which  lessens  and  sets  off: 
And  you  may  then  revolve  what  tales  I  have  told  you, 
Of  courts,  of  princes,  of  the  tricks  in  war : 
That  service  is  not  service,  .so  being  done. 
But  being  so  allow'd :  to  apprehend  thus, 
Draws  us  a  profit  from  all  things  we  see  ; 
And  often,  to  our  comfort,  shall  we  find 
The  sharded  beetle  in  a  safer  hold 
Than  is  the  fulM^-ing'd  eagle.     0  !  this  life 
Is  nobler,  than  attending  for  a  check ; 
Richer,  than  doing  nothing  for  a  bob  ,* 
Prouder,  than  rustling  in  unpaid-for  silk  : 
Such  gain  the  cap  of  him,  that  makes  him  fine, 
Yet  keeps  his  book  uncross'd.'     No  life  to  ours. 

Gui.  Out  of  your  proof  you  speak :  we,  poor  un- 
fledg'd, 
Have  never  -wing'd  from  ^•iew  o'  the  nest :  nor  kno'W 

not 
What  air 's  from  home.     Haply  this  life  is  best, 
If  quiet  life  be  best ;  sweeter  to  you, 
That  have  a  sharper  knoxNii.  well  corresponding 
With  your  stiff  age ;  but  unto  us  it  is 
A  cell  of  ignorance,  travelling  abed, 
A  prison  for'  a  debtor,  that  not  dares 
To  stride  a  limit. 

Arv.  What  should  we  speak  of. 

When  we  are  old  as  you  ?  when  we  shall  hear 
The  rain  and  wind  beat  dark  December,  how 
In  this  our  pinching  cave  shall  we  discourse 
The  freezing  hours  away  "i' — We  have  seen  nothing  . 
We  are  beastly  :  subtle  as  the  fox  for  prey  ; 
Like  warlike  as  the  wolf  for  what  we  eat : 
Our  valour  is  to  cha.=e  what  flies  ;  our  cage 
We  make  a  quire,  as  doth  the  prison'd  bird. 
And  sing  our  bondage  freely. 

Bel.  How  you  speak  ! 

Did  you  but  know  the  city's  usuries. 
And  felt  them  knowingly :  the  art  o'  the  court, 
As  hard  to  leave,  as  keep ;  whose  top  to  climb 
Is  certain  falling,  or  so  slippery,  that 
The  fear  's  as  bad  as  falling  :  the  toil  of  the  war, 
A  pai«i  that  only  s:eems  to  seek  out  danger 
I'  the  name  of  fame,  and  honour  ;  which  dies  i  th 

search. 
And  hath  as  oft  a  slanderous  epitaph. 
As  record  of  fair   act ;    nay,  many  times. 
Doth  ill  deserve  by  doing  well  :  what 's  worse, 
Must  court'sy  at  the  censure.— O.  boys  !  this  story 
The  world  may  read  in  me  :  my  body  's  mark''d 
With  Roman  swords,  and  my  report  wa-s  once 
First  with  the  best  of  note.     Cymbeline  lov'd  me: 
And  when  a  soldier  was  the  theme,  my  name 
Was  not  far  off:  then,  was  1  as  a  tree. 
Whose  boughs  did  bend  with  fruit ;  but,  in  one  night. 


r  made  the  chance.     ♦  Strut. 
Pope  made  the  chango. 


Dyce  readi:  (>»«»' 


SCENE   IV. 


CYMBELINE. 


873 


A  storm,  or  robbery,  call  it  what  you  will. 

Shook  down  my  mellow  hangings,  nay,  my  leaves, 

And  left  me  bare  to  weather. 

Gni.  Uncertain  favour ! 

Bel.  My  fault  being  nothing  (as  I  have  told  you  oft) 
But  that  two  villains,  whose  false  oaths  prevail'd 
Before  my  perfect  honour,  swore  to  Cymbcline, 
[  was  confederate  with  the  Romans  :  so, 
Follow'd  my  banishment :  and  this  twenty  years 
This  rock,  and  these  demesnes,  have  been  my  world ; 
Where  I  have  liv'd  at  honest  freedom,  paid 
More  pious  debts  to  heaven,  than  in  all 
The  fore-end  of  my  time. — But,  up  to  the  mountains  ! 
This  is  not  hunter's  language. — He  that  strikes 
The  venison  tirst  shall  be  the  lord  o'  the  feast ; 
To  him  the  other  two  shall  minister. 
And  we  will  fear  no  poison,  which  attends 
In  place  of  greater  state.    I  '11  meet  you  in  the  valleys. 
[Exeunt  Gui.  and  Arv. 
How  hard  it  is,  to  hide  the  sparks  of  nature  ! 
These  boys  know  little,  they  are  sons  to  the  king ; 
Nor  Cymbeline  dreams  that  they  are  alive. 
They  think,  they  are  mine ;  and,  though  train'd  up 

thus  meanly 
1'  the  cave  wherein  they  bow,*  their  thoughts  do  hit 
The  roofs  of  palaces  ;  and  nature  prompts  them, 
In  simple  and  low  things,  to  prince  it,  much 
Beyond  the  trick  of  others.     This  Polydore, — 
The  heir  of  Cymbeline  and  Britain,  whom 
The  king  his  father  call'd  Guiderius, — Jove  ! 
When  on  my  three-foot  stool  I  sit,  and  tell 
The  warlike  feats  I  have  done,  his  spirits  fly  out 
Into  my  story :  say. — "  Thus  mine  enemy  fell ; 
And  thus  I  set  my  foot  on  's  neck  ;"  even  then 
The  princely  blood  flows  in  his  cheek,  he  sweats. 
Strains  his  young  nerves,  and  puts  himself  in  posture 
That  acts  my  words.     The  younger  brother,  Cadwai, 
(Once  Arviragus)  in  as  like  a  vigour,' 
Strikes  life  into  my  speech,  and  shows  much  more 
His  own  conceiving.     Hark  !  the  game  is  rous'd. — 

{Horns  wind.'^ 
0  Cymbeline  !  heaven,  and  my  conscience,  knows. 
Thou  didst  unjustly  banish  me  ;  whereon 
At  three,  and  two  years-old,  I  stole  these  babes. 
Thinking  to  bar  thee  of  succession,  as 
Thou  reft'.st  me  of  my  lands.     Euriphile, 
Thou  wast  their  nurse  ;  they  took  thee  for  their  mother, 
And  every  day  do  hroiour  to  her  grave  : 
Myself,  Belarius.  that  am  Morgan  call'd. 
They  take  for  natural  father.     [Horn.] — The  game  is 
up.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Near  Milford-Haven. 
Enter  Pisanio  and  Imogen. 
Imo.  Thou  told'st  me,  when  we  came  from  horse, 
tiie  place 
Was  Tiear  at  hand. — Ne'er  long'd  my  mother  so 
To  see  me  first,  as  I  have  now.     Pisanio  !     Man ! 
Where  is  Post  humus  ?     What  is  in  thy  mind 
That  makes  thee  stare  thus  ?     Wherefore  breaks  that 

sigh 
From  th'  inward  of  thee  ?     One,  but  painted  thus. 
Would  be  interprexed  a  thing  perplex'd 
Beyond  self-explication  :  put  thyself 
[nto  a  haviour  of  less  fear,  ere  wildness 
Vanquish  my  staider  senses.     What 's  the  matter? 
Why  tender'st  thou  that  paper  to  me.  with 

[Pis.  ojfers  a  Letter.* 


I A  look  untender  ?     If  it  be  summer  news, 

I  Smile  to  't  before  ;  if  winterly,  thou  need'st 
But  keep  that  countenance  still. — My  husband's  hand  ! 
That  drug-damn'd  Italy  hath  out-craftied  him, 
And   he 's    at    some   hard   point. — Speak,    man :    thy 

tongue 
May  take  off  some  extremity,  which  to  read 
Would  be  even  mortal  to  me. 

Pis.  Please  you,  read  ;   [Giving  it. 

And  you  shall  find  me,  wretched  man,  a  thing 
The  most  disdain'd  of  fortune. 

Imo.  [Reads.]  "  Thy  mistress,  Pisanio,  hath  played 
the  strumpet  in  my  bed  ;  the  testimonies  whereof  iie 
bleeding  in  rae.  I  speak  not  out  of  weak  surmises, 
but  from  proof  as  strong  as  my  grief,  and  as  certain  as 
I  expect  my  revenge.  That  part,  thou,  Pisanio,  must 
act  for  me,  if  thy  faith  be  not  tainted  with  the  breach 
of  hers.  Let  thine  own  hands  take  away  her  life  ; 
I  shall  give  thee  opportunity  at  Milford-Haven  ;  she 
hath  my  letter  for  the  purpose  :  where,  if  thou  fear  to 
strike,  and  to  make  me  certain  it  is  done,  thou  art  the 
pander  to  her  dishonour,  and  equally  to  me  disloyal." 

Pis.  What  shall  1  need  to  draw  ray  sword  ?  the  paper 
Hath  cut  her  throat  already. — No  ;  't  is  slander. 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword  ;  whose  tongue 
Outvenoms  all  the  worms  of  Nile ;  whose  breath 
Rides  on  the  posting  winds,  and  doth  belie 
All  corners  of  the  world :  kings,  queens,  and  states, 
Maids,  matrons,  nay,  the  secrets  of  the  grave 
This  viperous  slander  enters. — What  cheer,  madam? 

Imo.  False  to  his  bed  !     What  is  it  to  be  false  ? 
To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him  ? 
To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?  if  sleep  charge  nature. 
To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him. 
And  cry  myself  awake  ?  that 's  false  to  his  bed, 
Is  it? 

Pis.  Alas,  good  lady  ! 

Imo.  I  false  ?     Thy  conscience  witness. — lachimo^ 
Thou  didst  accuse  him  of  incontinency ; 
Thou  then  look'dst  like  a  villain  :  now,  methinks, 
Thy  favour  's  good  enough.     Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Who  smothers  her  with  painting,*  hath  betray'd  him ; 
Poor  I  am  stale,  a  garment  out  of  fashion; 
And,  for  1  am  richer  than  to  hang  by  the  walls, 
I  must  be  ripp'd  : — to  pieces  with  me  ! — 0  ! 
Men's  vows  are  women's  traitors.     All  good  seeming, 
By  thy  revolt,  0  husband  !   shall  be  thought 
Put  on  for  villainy  ;  not  born  where  't  grows, 
But  worn  a  bait  for  ladies. 

Pis.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Imo.  True  honest  men  being  heard,  like  false  iEnea." 
Were  in  his  time  thought  false  ;  and  Sinon's  weeping 
Did  scandal  many  a  holy  tear;  took  pity 

i  From  most  true  wretc4iedness  :  so  thou.  Posthiunus, 
Wilt  lay  the  leaven  on  all  proper  men : 
Goodly,  and  gallant,  shall  be  lal.'^e,  and  perjur'd. 
From  thy  great  fall. — Come,  fellow,  be  thou  honest: 
Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding.     When  thou  seest  him, 
A  little  ^vitness  my  obedience  :  look  ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself :  take  it ;  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  rny  love,  my  heart. 
Fear  not ;  't  is  empty  of  all  things,  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there,  wlio  was,  indeed. 
The  riches  of  it.     Do  his  bidding;  strike. 
Thou  may'st  be  valiant  in  a  better  cause. 

i  But  now  thou  seem'st  a  coward. 

i      Pis.  Hence,  vile  insrniment ! 

Thou  shalt  not  damn  my  hand. 


■where  on  the  bo-w  :  in  folio.     Warlmrton  made  the  change.      ^  figure  :  in  f.  e. 


•  Whose  mother  wa.'  he 


874 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT    m. 


Imo.  Why,  I  must  die  ; 

And  i!"  1  do  not  by  thy  hand,  thou  art 
No  servant  of  thy  inastcr's.     Against  self-slaughter 
Thero  18  a  prohibition  so  divine. 

That  (.ravens  my  weak  hand.     Come,  here 's  my  heart: 
S.»methiii£;  's  alorc  "t  :' — Soft,  soft  !  we  'II  no  defence; 
Oliodient  as  the  scabbard. — What  is  here? 
Tlie  scriptures  of  the  loyal  Leonatus. 
All  turn'd  to  heresy  ?     Away.  away. 
Corrupters  of  my  faith  !  you  shall  no  more 
Be  stomachers  to  my  heart.     Thus  may  poor  fools 
Believe  false  teaeiicrs  :  though  those  that  are  betray'd 
!>•)  t'ecl  tlie  trea.«on  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 
S;anda  in  worse  case  of  woe. 
.And  thou,  Posthumus.  tliat  didst  set  up 
My  disobedience   gainst  the  king  my  father, 
.And  make  me  put  into  contempt  the  suits 
Of  princely  followers,'  shalt  hereafter  find 
It  is  no  act  of  common  passage,  but 
A  strain  of  rareness  :  and  I  grieve  myself, 
To  think,  when  thou  shall  be  disedg'd  by  her 
That  now  thou  tirsl'  on,  how  thy  memory 
Will  then  be  pan^'d  by  mc. — Prythee,  despatch: 
The  lamb  entreats  the  butcher:  where 's  thy  knife? 
Thou  art  too  slow  to  do  thy  master's  bidding, 
When  I  desire  ii  too. 

Pis.  0  gracious  lady  ! 

Since  I  receiv'd  command  to  do  this  business, 
I  have  not  slciit  one  wink. 

Imo.  Do  't,  and  to  bed,  then. 

Pis.  I  "11  crack  mine  eye-balls  first.* 

Imo.  And*  wherefore,  then, 

Didst  undertake  it  ?     Why  hast  thou  abus'd 
So  many  miles  with  a  pretence  ?  this  place  ? 
Mine  action,  and  thine  own?  our  liorses'  labour? 
The  time  inviting  thee?  the  perturbd  court, 
For  my  being  absent;  wliereunto  I  never 
Purpo.^e  return  ?     Why  ha.sl  thou  gone  so  far. 
To  be  unbent,  when  thou  ha.'^t  taen  thy  stand, 
Th'  elected  deer  before  thee  ? 

Pis.  But  to  win  time, 

To  lose  so  bad  employment ;  in  the  which 
1  have  con.<ider"d  of  a  course.  Good  lady, 
Hear  me  with  patience. 

Imo.  Talk  thy  tongue  weary  ;  speak : 

I  have  heard  I  am  a  sirumpet,  and  mine  ear. 
Therein  false  struck,  can  take  no  greater  wound, 
Nor  tent  to  bottom  that.     But  speak. 

P"-  Then,  madam, 

I  thought  you  would  not  back  again. 

Imo.  Most  like, 

Bringing  me  here  to  kill  me. 

P"-  Not  so.  neither : 

But  if  I  were  as  wise  as  honest,  then 
My  purpose  would  prove  well.     It  cannot  be. 
But  that  my  master  is  abus'd  : 
Some  villain,  ay.  and  sin:;ular  in  his  art, 
Hath  done  you  Iwlh  this  cursed  injurj-. 

Imo.  Some  Roman  courtezan. 

•P":  No.  on  my  life. 

I  '11  give  but  notice  you  are  dead,  and  send  him 
Some  bloody  sign  of  it ;  for  't  is  commamled 
I  should  do  so  :  you  shall  be  miss'd  at  court. 
And  that  will  well  confirm  it. 

*"«•  Why,  good  fellow, 

What  shall  I  do  the  while?  where  bide?  how  live? 
Or  in  my  life  what  .-omforl,  when  F  am 
nead  to  my  husband  ? 


Pis.  K  you  '11  back  to  the  court.— 

Imo.  No  court,  no  father;  nor  no  more  ado 
With  that  harsh,  noble,  simple,  empty*  nothing. 
That  Cloten,  whose  love-suit  hath  been  to  me 
As  fearful  as  a  siege. 

Pis.  If  not  at  court, 

Then  not  in  Britain  must  you  bide. 

Imo.  Where  then  ? 

Hath  Britain  all  the  .sun  that  shines?     Day,  night. 
Are  they  not  but  in  Britain  ?     I'  the  world's  volunia 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it.  but  not  in  it ; 
In  a  great  pool,  a  swan's  nest :  pr'ythee.  think 
There  's  livers  out  of  Britain. 

Pis.  I  am  most  glad 

You  think  of  other  place.     Th'  amba.^sador, 
Lucius  the  Roman,  comes  to  Milford-Havcu 
To-morrow :  now.  if  you  could  wear  a  mind 
Dark  as  your  fortune  is.  and  but  disguise 
That,  which,  t'  appear  itself,  must  not  yet  be, 
But  by  self-danger,  you  should  tread  a  course 
Pri%-7.  yet^  full  of  view  :  yea,  haply,  near 
The  residence  of  Posthumus :  so  nigh,  at  least, 
That  though  his  actions  were  not  visible,  yet 
Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear, 
As  truly  as  he  moves. 

Imo.  0.  for  such  means  ! 

Though  peril  to  my  modesty,  not  death  on  't, 
I  would  adventure. 

Pis.  Well  then,  here  's  the  point 

You  must  forget  to  be  a  woman ;  change 
Command  into  obedience:  fear,  and  niceness, 
(The  handmaids  of  all  women,  or  more  truly. 
Woman  it  pretty  self)  into  a  waggish  carriage  :* 
Ready  in  gibes,  quick-answer'd.  saucy,  and 
As  quarrelous  a,s  the  weasel :  nay,  you  must 
Forget  that  rarest  treasure  of  your  cheek, 
Exposing  it  (but.  O.  the  harder  heart ! 
Alack,  no  remedy  !)  to  the  greedy  touch 
Of  common-kissing  Titan  :  and  forget 
Your  laboursome  and  dainty  trims,  wherein 
You  made  great  Juno  angr>-. 

Imo.  Nay,  be  brief : 

I  see  into  thy  end.  and  am  almost 
A  man  already. 

Pis.  First,  make  yourself  but  like  one. 

Forethinking  this,  1  have  already  fit 
('T  is  in  my  cloak-bag)  doublet,  hat.  hose,  all 
That  answer  to  them :  would  you.  in  their  serving, 
And  with  what  imitation  you  can  borrow 
From  youth  of  such  a  .«eason,  'fore  noble  Lucius 
Present  yourself,  desire  his  service,  tell  him 
Wherein  you  are  hapjiy, (which  you' will  make  him  know 
If  that  his  head  have  car  in  music)  doubt Ics.s, 
With  joy  he  will  embrace  you  ;  for  he  's  honourable. 
And,  doubling  that,  most  holy.     Your  means  abroad. 
You  have  me.  rich  ;  and  1  will  never  fail 
Beginning  nor  supplyment. 

Imo.  Thou  art  all  the  eomfoi-t 

The  gods  will  diet  me  with.     Prythee.  away : 
There  's  more  to  be  consider'd.  but  we  'II  even 
All  that  good  time  will  give  us.     This  attempt 
I  'm  soldier  to,  and  will  abide  it  with 
A  prince's  couraae.     Away.  1  pr'ythee. 

Pis.  Well,  madam,  we  must  take  a  short  farewell. 
Lest,  being  mi.^sd.  I  be  suspected  of 
Your  carriage  from  the  court.     My  noble  mistress. 
Here  is  a  box :  I  had  it  from  the  queen  : 
What 's  in  't  is  precious  ;  if  you  are  sick  at  sea. 


'''°?iiu'°''°      Row*  mide  tM  Chan  pe.      »  fellow.:  in  f.  e.      »  Fe*rf  on,  Uke  a  bird  of  prey.     ♦  Til  wake  ra:n»  ey«»-balU  blind  n«« 
•.  Thii  woH  u  Doi  10  f.  e.     '  PreUy,  and  full.  4c.  :  in  f.  e.    •  courage  :  in  f.  e.    »  Not  m  folio 


CYMBELINE. 


875 


Or  stomach-qualm'd  at  land,  a  dram  of  this 
Will  drive  away  distemper. — To  some  shade, 
A.nd  fit  you  to  your  manhood. — May  the  gods 
Direct  you  to  the  best  ! 
Imo.  Amen.     I  thank  thee.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 
Enter  Cymbeline,  Queen,  Cloten,  Lucius,  and  Lords. 

Cym.  Thus  far;  and  so  farewell. 

Luc.  Thanks,  royal  sir. 

My  emperor  hath  wrote,  I  must  from  hence ; 
And  am  right  sorry  that  I  must  report  ye 
My  master's  enemy. 

Cym.  Our  subjects,  sir. 

Will  not  endure  his  yoke :  and  for  ourself. 
To  show  less  sovereignty  than  they,  must  needs 
Appear  unkinglike. 

Luc.  So,  sir.     I  desire  of  you 

A  conduct  over  land  to  Milford-Haven. — 
Madam,  all  joy  befall  your  grace,  and  you  ! 

Cym.  My  lords,  you  are  appointed  for  that  office 
The  due  of  honour  in  no  point  omit. 
So,  farewell,  noble  Lucius. 

Luc.  Your  hand,  my  lord. 

Clo.  Receive  it  friendly ;  but  from  this  time  forth 
I  wear  it  as  your  enemy. 

Luc.  Sir,  the  event 

Is  yet  to  name  the  winner.     Fare  you  well. 

Cym.  Leave  not  the  worthy  Lucius,  good  my  lords. 
Till  he  have  cross'd  the  Severn. — Happiness  ! 

[Exeunt  Lucius  and  Lords. 

Queen.  He  goes  hence  frowning;  but  it  honours  us, 
That  we  have  given  him  cause. 

Clo.  'T  is  all  the  better: 

Your  valiant  Britons  have  their  wishes  in  it. 

Cym.  Lucius  hath  wrote  already  to  the  emperor 
How  it  goes  here.     It  fits  us,  therefore,  ripely. 
Our  chariots  and  our  horsemen  be  in  readiness  : 
The  powers  that  he  already  hath  in  Gallia 
Will  soon  be  drawn  to  head,  from  whence  he  moves 
His  war  for  Britain. 

Queen.  'T  is  not  sleepy  business, 

But  must  be  look'd  to  speedily,  and  strongly. 

Cym.  Our  expectation  that  it  would  be  thus 
Hath  made  us  forward.     But,  my  gentle  queen, 
Where  is  our  daughter  ?     She  hath  not  appear'd 
Before  the  Roman,  nor  to  us  hath  tendcr"d 
The  duty  of  the  day.     She  looks  us  like 
A  thing  more  made  of  malice,  than  of  duty: 
We  have  noted  it. — Call  her  before  us,  for 
We  have  been  too  slight  in  sufferance.  [Exit  an  Attendant . 

Queen.  Royal  sir. 

Since  the  exile  of  Posthumus,  most  retir'd 
Hath  her  life  been ;  the  cure  whereof,  my  lord, 
'T  is  time  must  do.     Beseech  your  majesty. 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her  :  she  's  a  lady 
So  lender  of  rebuke,  that  words  are  strokes, 
And  strokes  death  to  her. 

Re-enter  an  Attendant. 

Cym  Where  is  she,  sir  ?     How 

Can  her  contempt  be  answer'd  ? 

Alten.  Plea.se  you,  sir. 

Her  chambers  are  all  lock'd  ;  and  there  's  no  answer 
That  will  be  given  to  the  loud'st'  noi.se  we  make. 

Queen.  My  lord,  when  last  I  went  to  visit  her, 
She  pray'd  me  to  excuse  her  keeping  close ; 
Wliereto  constrain'd  by  her  infirmity, 
She  should  that  duty  leave  unpaid  to  you. 
Which  daily  she  was  bound  to  proffer :  this 

'  loud  o'  •  in  folio 


She  wish'd  me  to  make  known,  but  our  great  court 
Made  me  to  blame  in  memory. 

Cym.  Her  doors  lock'd'S 

Not  seen  of  late  ?     Grant  heavens,  that  which  I 
Fear  prove  false !  '  [Exit. 

Queen.  Son,  I  say,  follow  the  king. 

Clo.  That  man  of  hers,  Pisanio  her  old  servant, 
I  have  not  seen  these  two  days. 

Queen.  Go.  look  after. —  [Exit  Clote"* 

Pisanio,  thou  that  stand'st  so  for  Posthumus, 
He  hath  a  drug  of  mine  :  I  pray,  his  absence 
Proceed  by  swallowing  that,  for  he  believes 
It  is  a  thing  most  precious.     But  for  her. 
Where  is  she  gone  ?     Haply,  despair  hath  seiz'd  her ; 
Or,  wing'd  with  fervour  of  her  love,  she  's  flown 
To  her  desir'd  Posthumus.     Gone  she  is 
To  death,  or  to  dishonour ;  and  my  end 
Can  make  good  use  of  either  :  she  being  down, 
I  have  the  placing  of  the  British  crovix. 

Re-enter  Cloten. 
How  now,  my  son  ! 

Clo.  'T  is  certain,  she  is  fled. 

Go  in,  and  cheer  the  king :  he  rages ;  none 
Dare  come  about  him. 

Queen.  All  the  better  :  may 

This  night  forestal  him  of  the  coming  day  !  [Exit  Queen  . 

Clo.  I  love,  and  hate  her,  for  she  's  fair  and  royal ; 
And  that  she  hath  all  courtly  parts,  more  exquisite 
Than  lady,  ladies,  woman :  from  every  one 
The  best  she  hath,  and  she,  jf  all  compounded, 
Outsells  them  all.     I  love  her  therefore ;  but. 
Disdaining  me.  and  throwing  favours  on 
The  low  Posthumus,  slanders  so  her  judgment, 
That  what 's  else  ra  e  is  chok'd  ;  and  in  that  point 
I  will  conclude  to  hate  her ;  nay,  indeed, 
To  be  reveng'd  upon  her  :  for,  when  fools  shall — 

Enter  Pisanio. 
Who  is  here  ? — What !  are  you  packing,  sirrah  ? 
Come  hither.     Ah,  you  precious  pandar  !     Villain, 
Where  is  thy  lady  ?     In  a  word,  or  else 
Thou  ar-t  straightway  with  the  fiends. 

Pis.  O.  good  my  lord 

Clo.  Where  is  thy  lady  ?  or,  by  Jupiter — 
I  will  not  ask  again.     Close  villain, 
I  '11  have  this  secret  from  thy  heart,  or  rip 
Thy  heart  to  find  it.     Is  she  with  Posthumus  ? 
From  whose  so  many  weights  of  baseness  cannot 
A  dram  of  worth  be  drawn. 

Pis.  Alas,  my  lord  ! 

How  can  she  be  with  him  ?     When  was  she  miss'd  ? 
He  is  in  Rome. 

Clo.  Where  is  she,  sir  ?     Come  nearer , 

No  farther  halting :  satisfy  me  home 
What  is  become  of  her  ? 

Pis.  0,  my  all- worthy  lord  ! 

Clo.  All-worthy  villain ! 

Discover  where  thy  mistress  is,  at  once, 
At  the  next  word. — No  more  of  worthy  lord, — 
Speak,  or  thy  silence  on  the  instant  is 
Thy  condemnation  and  thy  death. 

Pis.  Then  sir. 

This  pnp'"'-  is  the  history  of  my  knowledge 
Touching  her  flight.  [Presenting  a  Letter. 

Clo.  Let  's  see  't. — I  will  pursue  her 

Even  to  Augustus'  throne. 

Pis.  [Aside.]  Or  this,  or  perish. 

She  's  far  enough ;  and  what  he  learns  by  this. 
May  ja-ove  his  travel,  not  her  danger. 

6lo.  Humph ' 


i.; 


876 


CYMBELINE. 


Pis.  [Aside.]  I  '11  -wTite  to  my  lord  she  's  dead.     O 
Inioeeii, 
Safe  inay'si  thou  wnndcr,  safe  return  again  ! 

Clo.  Sirrah,  is  this  letter  true? 

Pi.s-.  Sir,  as  I  tliink. 

Clo.  It  i.>;  rostliuiiius"  hand  :  I  know  't. — SirraJi,  if 
thou  wouldst  not  be  a  villain,  but  do  me  true  service, 
undergo  those  employments,  wherein  I  should  have 
cause  to  use  tlioe,  with  a  serious  industry, — that  is, 
what  villany  8o"er  I  bid  thee  do.  to  perform  it  directly 
and  truly.  1  would  tliink  thee  an  honest  man :  thou 
Bhouldst  neither  want  my  means  for  thy  relief,  nor 
my  voice  for  thy  preferment. 

Pi.'!.  Well,  my  good  lord. 

Clo.  Wilt  thou  ser\-e  me?  For  since  patiently  and 
constantly  tliou  ha.st  stuck  to  the  bare  fortune  of  that 
beggar  I'osihumus,  thou  canst  not,  in  the  course  of 
gratitude,  but  bo  a  diligent  follower  of  mine.  Wilt 
thou  serve  me  ? 

Pis.  Sir.  I  will. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  here  's  my  purse.  Hast 
any  of  thy  late  master's  garments  in  thy  possession  ? 

Pis.  I  have,  my  lord,  at  my  lodging,  the  same  suit 
he  wore  when  he  took  leave  of  my  lady  and  mistress. 

Clo.  The  first  8er\-ice  thou  dost  me,  fetch  that  suit 
hither:  let  it  be  thy  first  service;  go. 

Pis.  I  .shall,  my 'lord.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Meet  thee  at  Mil  ford-Haven. — I  forgot  to  ask 
him  one  thina  :  I  '11  remember 't  anon. — Even  there  thou 
villain,  Posthumus,  will  I  kill  thee. — I  \\ould,  these 
garments  were  come.  She  said  upon  a  time  (tiie  bit- 
terness of  it  I  now  belch  frofti  my  heart)  that  she  held 
the  very  garment  of  Posthumus  in  more  respect  than 
my  noble  and  natural  person,  together  with  the  adorn- 
ment of  my  qualities.  With  that  suit  upon  my  back, 
will  I  ravish  her:  first  kill  him,  and  in  her  eyes; 
there  shall  slie  see  my  valour,  which  will  then  be  a 
torment  to  her  contempt.  He  on  the  ground,  my 
Bpcech  of  insultment  ended  on  his  dead  body, — and 
when  my  lust  hath  dined,  (which,  as  I  say,  to  vex 
her,  I  will  execute  in  the  clothes  that  she  so  praised) 
to  the  court  I  '11  knock  her  back,  foot  her  home  again. 
She  hath  despised  me  rejoicingly,  and  I  '11  be  merry 
in  my  revenge. 

Re-enter  Pisanio,  with  the  Clothes. 
Be  those  the  garments  ? 

Pm.  Ay.  my  noble  lord. 

Clo.  How  long  is 't  since  she  went  to  Milford-Haven? 

Pis.  She  can  scarce  be  there  yet. 

Clo.  Bring  this  apparel  to  my  chamber:  that  is  the 
second  thing  that  I  have  commanded  thee  ;  the  third 
is,  that  thou  wilt  be  a  voluntary  mute  to  my  design. 
Be  but  dutf'ous,  and  true  preferment  shall  tender  it.self 
to  ihce.— My  reven-ie  is  now  at  Mil  ford  :  would  I  had 
w^n^is  to  follow  it. — Come,  and  be  true.  [Exit. 

Pis.  Thou  bidd'st  mc  to  thy  loss:  for  true  to  thee 
Were  to  prove  false,  which  I  will  never  be 
To  him  that  is  most  true. — To  Milford  go. 
And  find  not  her  whom  thou  pursnost.   ^Flow.  flow. 
You  heavrnly  blessings,  on  her  !     This  fool's  speed' 
•^e  cross'd  with  slowness  :  labour  be  his  meed  !   [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.— Before  the  Cave  of  Belarius. 
Enter  iMor.EN,  attired  like  a  Boy. 
imo.  I  »ce  a  mans  life  is  a  tedious  one : 
f  have  'tir'd'  myself,  and  for  two  nights  together 
Have  made  the  ground  my  bed  :   I  should  be  sick, 
But  that  my  rrsoiuiion  helps  me. — Milford, 
When  from  the  mountain-top  Pisanio  show'd  thee, 
>  tired:  in  f«       «  Not  in  f  •       *  Ruttf 


Thou  wast  within  a  ken.     0  Jove  !  I  think 

Foundations  fly  the  wretched  ;  such,  I  mean. 

Where  they  should  be  reliev'd.     Two  beggars  told  me 

I  could  not  miss  my  way:  will  poor  folks  lie. 

That  have  afflictions  on  them,  knowing  't  is 

A  punishment,  or  trial  ?     Yes;  no  wonder, 

When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true  :  to  lapse  in  fuinesa 

Is  sorer,  than  to  lie  for  need ;  and  falsehood 

Is  worse  in  kings,  than  beggars. — My  dear  lord ! 

Thou  art  one  o'  the  false  ones  :  now  I  think  on  thee, 

My  hunger  's  gone  ;  but  even  before,  I  was 

At  point  to  sink  for  food. — But  what  is  this? 

[Seeing  the  Cave  * 
Here  is  a  path  to  it :  't  is  some  savage  hold : 
I  were  best  not  call ;  I  dare  not  call ;  yet  famine, 
Ere  clean  it  o'erthrow  nature,  makes  it  valiant. 
Plenty,  and  peace,  breed  cowards  ;  hardness  ever 
Of  hardiness  is  mother. — Ho  !     Who  's  here  ? 
If  any  thing  that  's  civil,  speak  ;  if  savage. 
Take,  or  lend. — Ho  ! — No  answer  ?  then,  I  '11  enter. 
Best  draw  my  sword  ;  and  if  mine  enemy 
But  fear  the  sword  like  me,  he  '11  scarcely  look  on  't. 
Such  a  foe,  good  heavens  !  [Exit  into  the  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius.  and  Arviragus. 

Bel.  You,  Polydore,  have  prov'd  best  woodman,  and 
Are  master  of  the  feast :  Cadwal.  and  I, 
Will  play  the  cook  and  servant ;  't  is  our  match  : 
The  sweat  of  industry  would  dry,  and  die. 
But  for  the  end  it  works  to.     Come  ;  our  stomachs 
Will  make  v/hat  's  homely,  savoury  :  weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  rcsty'  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard. — Now,  peace  be  here, 
Poor  house,  that  keep'st  thyself  ! 

Qui.  I  am  thoroughly  weary. 

Arv.  I  am  weak  with  toil,  yet  strong  in  appetite. 

Gui.  There  is  cold  meat  i'  the  cave  :  we  '11  browze 
on  that. 
Whilst  what  we  have  kill'd  be  cook'd. 

Bel.  Stay:  come  not  in.     [Looking  ir>. 

But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should  tliink 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

Gui.  What's  the  matter,  sir? 

Bel.  By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or,  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon  ! — Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy  ! 

Enter  Imogen. 

Imo.  Good  masters,  harm  me  not : 
Before  I  enter'd  here,  I  call'd  :  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd,  or  bought,  what  I  have  took.  Good  troth. 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though  I  had 

found 
Gold  strew'd  i'  the  floor.     Here  's  money  for  my  meat  • 
I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board,  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal,  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  the  provider. 

Gui.  Money,  youth? 

Arv.  All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to  dirt ; 
As  't  is  no  better  reckon'd,  but  of  those 
Who  worship  dirty  gods. 

Imo.  I  see,  you  are  angry. 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died,  had  I  not  made  it. 

Bel.  Whither  bound  ? 

Imo.  To  Milford-Haven. 

Bel.   Wliat  's  your  name  ? 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir.     I  have  a  kinsman,  who 
Is  bound  for  Italy  :  he  embark"d  at  Milfoid  : 
To  whom  being  going,  almost  .spent  *ith  hunger, 
I  am  fallen  in  this  offence. 


SCENE    11. 


CYMBELINE. 


877 


Bel.  Pr'ythee,  fair  youth. 

Think  us  no  churls,  nor  measure  our  good  minds 
By  this  rude  place  we  live  in.     Well  encounter'd. 
'T  is  almost  night :  you  shall  have  better  cheer 
Ere  you  depart ;  and  thanks,  to  stay  and  eat  it. — 
Boys,  bid  him  welcome. 

Chii.  Were  you  a  woman,  youth. 

1  should  woo  hard,  but  be  your  groom. — In  honesty. 
I  bid  for  you,  as  I  do  buy. 

Arv.  I  '11  make  't  my  comfort. 

He  is  a  man :  I  '11  love  him  as  my  brother  ; 
And  such  a  welcome  as  I  'd  give  to  him 
After  long  absence,  such  is  yours. — Most  welcome. 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends. 

Imo.  'Mongst  friends  ! 

If  brothers  ? — [yl.s2(/e.]  Would  it  had  been  so,  that  tliey 
Had  been  my  father's  sons  :  then,  had  my  prize 
Been  less  ;  and  so  more  equal  ballasting 
To  thee,  Posthumus. 

Bel.  He  wrings  at  some  distress. 

Qui.  Would  I  could  free  't  ! 

Arv.  Or  I ;  what'er  it  be, 

What  pain  it  cost,  what  danger.     Gods  ! 

Bel.  Hark,  boys.     [IVhispering. 

Imo.  Great  men. 
That  had  a  court  no  bigger  than  this  cave. 
That  did  attend  themselves,  and  had  the  virtue 
Which  their  own  conscience  seal'd  them,  (laying  by 
Tliat  nothing  gift  of  differing'  multitudes) 
Could  not  out-peer  these  twain.     Pardon  me,  gods  ! 
I  'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companion  with  them. 
Since  Leonatus  false. 


Be'..  It  shall  be  so. 

Boys,  we  '11  go  dress  our  hunt. — Fair  youth,  come  in 
Discourse  is  heavy,  fasting ;  when  we  have  s-upp'd, 
We  '11  mannerly  demand  thee  of  thy  story^ 
So  far  as  thou  wilt  speak  it. 

Gui.  Pray,  draw  near. 

Arv.  The  night  to  the  owl,  and  morn  to  the  lark 
less  welcome. 

Into.  Thanks,  sir. 

Arv.  I  pray,  draw  near.         [Exeunt,^  into  the  Cave 

SCENE  VII.— Rome. 
Enter  Two  Senators  and  Tribunes. 

1  Sen.  This  is  the  tenour  of  the  emperor's  writ 
That  since  the  common  men  are  now  in  action 
'Gainst  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians ; 

And  that  the  legions  now  in  Gallia  are 
Full  weak  to  undertake  our  wars  against    ■ 
The  fallen-off  Britons,  that  we  do  incite 
The  gentry  to  this  business.     He  creates 
Lucius  pro-consul  ;  and  to  you,  the  tribunes. 
For  this  immediate  levy  he  commends 
His  absolute  commission.     Long  live  Cresar  ! 
Tri.  Is  Lucius  general  of  the  forces  ? 

2  Sen.  Ay. 
Tri.  Remaining  now  in  Gallia? 

1  Sen.  With  those  legioiu; 

Which  I  have  spoke  of,  whereunto  your  le\'y 
Must  be  suppliant :  the  words  of  your  commission 
,  \Yill  tie  you  to  the  numbers,  and  the  time 
Of  their  despatch. 

Tri.  We  will  discharge  our  duty.     [Exeutit 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Forest,  near  the  Cave. 
Enter  Cloten. 
Clo.  I  am  near  to  the  place  where  they  should  meet, 
ii  Pisanio  have  mapped  it  truly.  How  fit  his  garments 
serve  me  !  W^hy  should  his  mistress,  who  was  made 
by  him  that  made  the  tailor,  not  be  fit  too  ?  the  rather 
(saving  reverence  of  the  word)  for  't  is  said,  a  woman's 
fitness  comes  by  fits.  Therein  I  must  play  the  work- 
man. I  dare  speak  it  to  myself,  (for  it  is  not  vain- 
glory for  a  man  and  his  glass  to  confer  in  his  own 
chamber)  I  mean,  the  lines  of  my  body  are  as  well- 
drawn  as  his  ;  no  less  young,  more  strong,  not  beneath 
him  in  fortunes,  beyond  him  in  the  advantage  of  the 
lime,  above  him  in  birth,  alike  conversant  in  general 
services,  and  more  remarkable  in  single  oppositions: 
yet  this  perverse  errant^  thing  loves  him  in  my  despite. 
What  mortality  is  !  Posthumus,  thy  head,  which  now 
is  growing  upon  thy  shoulders,  shall  within  this  hour 
De  off,  thy  mistress  enforced,  thy  garments  cut  to 
pieces  before  thy  face  :  and  all  this  done,  spurn  her 
home  to  her  father,  who  may,  haply,  be  a  little  angry 
for  my  so  rough  usage,  but  my  mother,  having  power 
of  his  testiness,  shall  turn  all  into  my  commendations. 
My  horse  is  tied  up  safe  :  out,  sword,  and  to  a  -sore 
purpose.  Fortune,  put  them  into  my  hand  !  This  is 
the  very  description  of  their  meeting-place,  and  the 
fellow^  dares  not  deceive  me.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.— Before  the  Cave. 

E7iter.  from  the  Cave,  Belarius,  Guiderius, 

Arviragus,  and  Imogen. 

•  Bel.  You  are  not  well:  [To  Imogen.]  remain  hero 

in  the  cave  : 
We  '11  come  to  you  after  hunting. 

Arv.  Brother,  stay  here:     [To  Imoghn 

Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

Imo.  So  man  and  man  should  be . 

But  clay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity. 
Whose  dust  is  both  alike.     I  am  ver>-  sick. 

Gui.  Go  you  to  hunting;  I  '11  abide  with  him. 

Imo.  So  sick  I  am  not. — yet  I  am  not  well  j 
But  not  so  citizen  a  wanton,  as 
To  seem  to  die,  ere  sick.     So  please  you.  leave  me  , 
Stick  to  your  journal  course  :  the  breach  of  custom 
Is  breach  of  all.     I  am  ill ;  but  your  being  by  me 
Cannot  amend  me  :  society  is  no  comfort 
To  one  not  sociable.     I  am  not  very  sick, 
Since  I  can  reason  of  it :  pray  you.  trust  me  here  • 
I  '11  rob  none  but  myself,  and  let  me  die, 
Stealing  so  poorly. 

Gui.  I  love  thee  ;  I  have  spoke  it 

How  much  the  quantity,  the  weight  as  much, 
As  I  do  love  my  father. 

Bel.  What  !  how?  how? 

Arv.  If  it  be  sin  to  say  so.  sir,  I  yoke  me 
In  my  good  brother's  fault:  I  know  not  why 


Dtscorciani.      '  The  rest  of  this  direction  is  not  in  f.  a.      '  this  imperseverant  ihing  : 


878 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT    Tv' 


I  love  this  youth  ;  and  I  have  heard  you  say, 
Love's  reason'.s  without  reason  ;  the  bier  at  door, 
And  a  demand  who  is  't  shall  die,  I'd  say, 
Mv  fallior,  not  this  youth. 

Btl.  [Aside]  0  noble  strain 

0  worthiness  of  nature  !  breed  of  irreatiiese  ! 
Cowards  faiber  eowards,  and  base  things  sire  base 
Nature  hath  meal  and  bran  :  contempt  and  grace. 

1  am  not  their  father  :  yet  who  this  should  be  I 
Doth  miracle  itself,  lovd  before  me. — 
'T  is  the  ninth  hour  o'  the  morn. 

Arv.  Brother,  farewell. 

Imo.  I  wish  ye  sport. 

Arv.  You  health. — So  pleijse  you,  sir. 

Imo.  ^A.'iulc]  These  are  kind  creatures.  Gods,  what 
lies  I  have  heard  ! 
Our  courtiers  say.  all  "s  savage  but  at  court : 
Experience,  0  I  thou  disprov'st  report. 
Tir  imperious  seas  breed  monsters ;  for  the  dish, 
Poor  tributary  rivers  as  sweet  fish. 
I  am  sick  still  ;  heart-sick. — Pisanio. 
I  11  now  taste  of  thy  drug. 

Qui.  I  could  not  stir  him  . 

He  said,  he  was  gentle,  but  unfortunate ; 
Dishonestly  atfliclcd,  but  yet  honest. 

Arv.  Thus  did  he  answer  me  ;  yet  said,  hereafter 
!  misht  know  more. 

Bel.  To  tlie  field,  to  the  field  !— 

\Vc  '11  leave  you  for  this  time ;  go  in,  and  rest. 

Arv.  We'll  not  be  long  away, 

Bel.  Pray,  be  not  sick, 

For  you  must  be  our  house-v^-ife. 

Imo.  Well,  or  ill, 

I  am  bound  to  you. 

Bel.  A.nd  shalt  be  ever.  [Exit  Imogen. 

This  youth,  howe'er  distressed,  appears  he  hath  had 
Oood  ancestors. 

Arv.  How  angel-like  he  sings,    [characters; 

Gui.  But    his    neat   cooker>' :    he    cut  our  roots  in 
And  sauc'd  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick. 
And  he  her  dieter. 

Arv.  Nobly  he  yokes 

A  smiling  with  a  sigh,  as  if  the  sigh 
Was  that  it  was,  for  not  being  such  a  smile ; 
The  smile  mocking  the  sigh,  that  it  would  fly 
From  80  divine  a  temple,  to  commix 
With  •«-inds  that  sailors  rail  at. 

(^^i.  I  do  note, 

That  grief  and  patience,  rooted  in  him'  both, 
Mingle  their  spurs'  together. 

Arv.  Grow,  patience  ! 

And  let  the  stinking  elder,  grief,  untwine 
His  perishing  root  with  the  increasing  vine! 

Kci  It  is  great   morning.     Come;   awav 

there?  [T/iry 'stand  back.* 

Enter  Ci-OTKN. 

Clo.  I  cannot  find  those  runagates  :  that  villain 
Hath  mock'd  me. — I  am  faint. 

litl.  Those  runagates  ! 

Mf-ans  he  not  us  ?     I  partly  know  him  ;  't  is 
<'lotcn,  the  son  o'  the  queen.     I  fear  some  ambush. 
I  .saw  him  not  these  many  years,  and  yet 
I  know  't  is  he. — We  arc  held  as  outlaws :  hence  ! 

Gui.   He  is  but  one.     You  and  my  brother  search 
Wliat  companies  are  near:  pray  you,  away; 
Let  mc  alone  with  him. 

[Exeiinl  Belarius  aiul  Arviragus. 
Clo.  Soft  !  what  are  you 

That  fly  me  thus?  some  villain  mountaineers? 


1 1  have  heard  of  such. — What  slave  art  thou  ? 

Gui.  A  thing 

More  slavish  did  I  ne'er,  than  answering 
A  slave  without  a  knock. 

Clo.  Thou  art  a  robber. 

A  law-breaker,  a  villain.     Yield  thee,  thief. 

Gui.  To  whom?  to  thee?     What  art  thou  ?     Have 
An  arm  as  big  as  thine  ?  a  heart  as  big  ?  [not  I 

Thy  words,  I  grant,  are  bigger ;  for  I  wear  not; 
My  dagger  in  my  mouth.  Say.  what  thou  art, 
Why  I  should  yield  to  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  villain  baj«c, 

Know'st  me  not  by  my  clothes  ? 

Gui.  No,  nor  thy  tailor,  rascal 

Who  is  thy  grandfather  :  he  made  those  clothes. 
Which,  as  it  seems,  make  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  precious  variel, 

My  tailor  made  them  not. 

Gui.  Hence  then,  and  tliank 

The  man  that  gave  them  thee.     Thou  art  some  fool ; 
I  am  loath  to  beat  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  injurious  thief, 

Hear  but  my  name,  and  tremble. 

Gui.  What 's  thy  name  ? 

Clo.  Cloten,  thou  villain. 
Gvi.  Cloten,  thou  double  ■s'illain,  be  thy  name, 
I  cannot  tremble  at  it :  were  it  toad,  or  adder,  spider, 
'T  would  move  me  sooner. 

Clo.  To  thy  farther  fear. 

Nay,  to  thy  mere  confusion,  thou  shalt  know 
I  'm  son  to  the  queen. 

Gui.  I  am  sorry  for  "t,  not  seeming 

So  worthy  as  thy  birth. 

Clo.  Art  not  afear'd  ? 

Gui.  Those  that  I  reverence,  those  I  fear,  the  wise . 
At  fools  I  laugh,  not  fear  them. 

Clo.  Die  the  death. 

When  I  have  slain  thee  with  my  proper  hand. 
I  '11  follow  those  that  even  now  fled  hence, 
And  on  the  gates  of  Lud's  town  set  your  heads. 
Yield,  rustic,  mountaineer.  [Exeunt,  fighting 

Enter  Belarius  and  Arviragus. 
Bel.  No  company  's  abroad. 

Arv.  None  in  the  world.     You  did  mistake  him.  sure 
Bel.  I  cannot  tell :  long  is  it  since  I  saw  him, 
But  time  hath  nothing  blurr'd  those  lines  of  favour 
Which  then  he  wore  :  the  snatches  in  his  voice, 
And  burst  of  speaking,  were  as  his.     I  am  absolute 
'T  was  very  Cloten. 

Arv.  In  this  place  we  left  them  . 

I  wish  my  brother  make  good  time  with  him, 
I  You  say  he  is  so  fell. 

j      Bel.  Being  scarce  made  up. 

Who's;  I  mean,  to  man,  he  had  not  apprehension 


Of  roaring  terrors  ;  for  th'  effect*  of  judgment 
Is  oft  the  cause  of  fear.     But  see,  thy  brother. 

Re-enter  Guiderius,  with  Ci.oten's  Head. 

Gui.  This  Cloten  was  a  fool,  an  empty  purse. 
There  was  no  money  in  't.     Not  Hercules 
Could  have  knock'd  out  his  brains,  for  he  had  none ; 
Yet  I  not  doing  this,  the  fool  had  borne 
My  head,  as  I  do  his. 

Bel.  What  ha-st  thou  done? 

Gui.  I  am  perfect  what :  cut  off  one  Cloten's  head 
Son  to  the  queen  after  his  own  report ; 
Who  call'd  me  traitor,  mountaineer  :  and  swore, 
With  his  own  single  hand  he  'd  take  us  in, 
Displace  our  heads,  where  (thank  the  gods  !)  they  grow 
And  set  them  on  Lud's  town. 


ih«ni  ■  in  folio       »  Projecting  root*.      '  Not  in  f.  e.      »  for  defect :  in  folio.     Theobald  made  the  change. 


scfjra;  n. 


CYMBELmE. 


79 


Bel.  We  are  all  undone. 

Gut.  Why,  -worthy  father,  what  have  we  to  lose, 
But  that  he  swore  to  take,  our  lives  ?     The  law 
Protects  not  us ;  then,  why  should  we  be  tender, 
To  let  an  arrogant  piece  of  flesh  threat  us ; 
Play  judge,  and  executioner,  ail  himself. 
For  we  do  fear  the  law  ?     What  company 
Discover  you  abroad  ? 

Bel.  No  single  soul 

Can  we  set  eye  on.  but  in  all  safe  reason 
He  must  have  some  attendants.     Though  his  humour', 
Was  nothing  but  mutation  ;  ay,  and  that 
From  one  bad  thing  to  worse  ;  not  frenzy,  not 
Absolute  madness,  could  so  far  have  rav'd, 
To  bring  him  here  alone.     Although,  perhaps. 
It  may  be  heard  at  court,  that  such  as  we 
Cave  here,  hunt  here,  are  outlaws,  and  in  time 
May  make  some  stronger  head ;  the  which  he  hearing, 
(As  it  is  like  him)  might  break  out,  and  swear 
He  'd  fetch  us  in,  yet  is  '"t  not  probable 
To  come  alone,  either  he  so  undertaking, 
Or  they  so  suffering :  then,  on  good  ground  we  fear, 
If  we  do  fear  tliis  body  hath  a  tail 
More  perilous  than  the  head. 

Arv.  Let  ordinance 

Come  as  the  gods  foresay  it :  howsoe'er. 
My  brother  hath  done  well. 

Bel.  I  had  no  mind 

To  hunt  this  day  :  the  boy  Fidele's  sickness 
Did  make  my  way  long  forth. 

Old.  With  his  own  sword, 

Which  he  did  wave  against  my  throat,  I  have  ta'en 
His  head  from  him :  I  '11  throw  "t  into  the  creek 
Behind  our  rock  ;  and  let  it  to  the  sea. 
And  tell  the  fishes  he  ''s  the  queen's  son,  Cloten  : 
That 's  all  I  reck.  [Exit. 

Bel.  I  fear,  't  will  be  reveng'd. 

Would,  Polydore,  thou  hadst  not  done  't,  tliough  valour 
Becomes  thee  well  enough. 

Arv.  'Would  I  had  done  't. 

So  the  revenge  alone  pursued  me. — Polydore, 
I  love  thee  brotherly,  but  envy  much. 
Thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  this  deed  :  I  would  revenges, 
That  possible  strength  might   meet,    would   seek   us 

through. 
And  put  us  to  our  answer. 

Bel.  Well,  't  is  done. 

We  '11  hunt  no  more  to-day,  nor  seek  for  danger 
Where  there's  no  profit.     I  pr'ythee,  to  our  rock  : 
You  and  Fidele  play  the  cooks  ;  I  '11  stay 
Till  hasty  Polydore  return,  and  bring  him 
To  dinner  presently. 

Arv.  Poor  sick  Fidele  ! 

I  '11  willingly  to  him  :  to  gain  his  colour, 
1  A  let  a  parish  of  such  Clotens  blood. 
And  praise  myself  for  charity.  [Exit. 

Bel.  0  thou  goddess, 

Thou  divine  Nature,  how"  thyself  thou  blazon'st 
In  thrse  two  princely  boys !     They  are  as  gentle 
As  ztphyrs  blowing  below  the  violet. 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head ;  and  yet  as  rough, 
Their  royal  blood  enchaf'd,  as  the  rud'st  wind, 
That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine. 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale.     'T  is  wonder. 
That  an  invisible  instinct  should  frame  them 
To  royalty  unlearn'd,  honour  untaught. 
Civility  not  seen  from  other,  valour 
That  wildly  grows  in  them,  but  yields  a  crop 


As  if  it  had  been  sow'd  !     Yet  still  it 's  strange, 
What  Cloten's  being  here  to  us  portends, 
Or  what  his  death  will  bring  us. 

Re-enter  Guiderius. 
Gui.  Where 's  my  brother  ' 

I  have  sent  Cloten's  clotpoll  dowii  the  stream 
In  embassy  to  his  mother :  his  body 's  hostage 
For  his  return.  [Solemn  Music 

Bel.  My  ingenious  instrument  ! 

Hark,  Polydore.  it  sounds ;  but  what  occasion 
Hath  Cadwal  now  to  give  it  motion  ?     Hark  ! 
Gui.  Is  he  at  home  ? 

Bel.  He  went  hence  even  now. 

Gui.  What  does  he  mean  ?  since  death  of  my  dear'st 
mother 
It  did  not  speak  before.     All  solemn  things 
Should  answer  solemn  accidents.     The  matter? 
Triumphs  for  nothing,  and  lamenting  toys. 
Is  jollity  for  apes,  and  grief  for  boys. 
Is  Cadwal  mad  ? 

Re-enter  ARviR.\r.us,  bearing  in  his  Arms  Imogen,  as 
dead. 
Bel.  Look  !  here  he  comes, 

And  brings  the  dire  occasion  in  his  arms 
Of  what  we  blame  him  for. 

Arv.  The  bird  is  dead, 

That  we  have  made  so  much  on.     I  had  rather 
Have  skipp'd  from  sixteen  years  of  age  to  sixty. 
To  have  turn'd  my  leaping  time  into  a  crutch. 
Than  have  seen  this. 

Gui.  0  sweetest,  fairest  lily  ! 

My  brother  wears  thee  not  the  one  half  so  well. 
As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 

Bel.  0,  melancholy ! 

Who  ever  yet  could  sound  thy  bottom  ?  find 
The  ooze,  to  show  what  coast  thy  sluggish  crare' 
Might  easiliest  harbour  in  ? — Thou  blessed  thing  : 
Jove  knows  what  man  thou  mightsthave  made  ;  but  I, 
Thou  diedst  a  most  rare  boy,  of  melancholy. — 
How  found  you  him  ? 

Arv.  Stark,  as  you  see  : 

Thus  smiling,  as  some  fly  had  tickled  slumber, 
Not  as  death's  dart,  being  laugh'd  at ;  his  right  cheek 
I  Reposing  on  a  cushion. 

Gui. 

I      Arv.  0'  the  floor ; 

I  His  arms  thus  leagu'd  :  I  thought  he  slept,  and  p\it 
I  My  clouted  brogues*  from  off"  my  feet,  whose  rudeness 
Answer'd  my  steps  too  loud. 

Gui.  Why,  he  but  sleeps-  ; 

If  he  be  gone,  he  '11  make  his  gi-ave  a  bed  : 
With  female  fairies  %\-ill  his  tomb  be  haunted, 
And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flower* 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I  '11  sweeten  thy  sad  grave  :  thou  shalt  not  lack 
I  The  flower,  that 's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose  ;  nor 
I  The  azur'd  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins :  no,  nor 
I  The  leafy  eglantine,^  whom  not  to  slander, 
j  Out-sweeten'd  not  thy  breath  ;  the  ruddock^  would, 
I  With  charitable  bill  (0  bill,  sore-shaming 
i  Those  rich-left  heirs,  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
!  Without  a  monument  I)  bring  thee  all  this  ; 
Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none 
To  winter-guard'  thy  corse. 

Gui.  Pr'jihee,  have  done  , 

And  do  not  play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
I  Which  is  so  serious.     Let  us  bury  him. 


WTiere  ? 


*  honour  :  in  folio 
Veaf  of  eglantine  :  i 


Theobald  made  the  change.      '  thou  :  in  foli^.     Malone  made  the  change, 
f.  e.     •  Red-breast.      '  winter-ground  :  in  f.  e 


A  smal!  vessel.      *  Irish,  bro^.  s  sho- 


880 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT   IV. 


And  not  protract  with  admiration  what 
U  now  due  debt. — To  the  grave  ! 

Arv.  Say,  where  shall 's  lay  him  ? 

fiui.  By  £;ood  Enriphile,  our  mother. 

Arv.  Be  't  so : 

And  let  us,  Polydore.  though  now  our  voices 
Have  got  tiic  mannish  crack,  sing  him  to  the  ground, 
A.<  once'  our  motlicr:  u.«e  like  note,  and  word.s. 
Save  that  Euriphile  must  be  Fidele. 

^r'Mi.  Cadwal. 
1  cannot  sing  :  111  weep,  and  word  it  with  thee  ; 
F)r  note.-*  ol'  sorrow,  out  of  tunc,  are  worse 
Tlian  priests  and  lanes  that  lie. 

Arv.  We  '11  speak  it,  then. 

Bel.  Great  griefs.  I  see.  medicine  the  less  :  for  Cloten 
I.-  quite  forgot.     He  was  a  queen's  son,  boys  ; 
And.  though  he  came  our  enemy,  remember. 
H<?  wa.<;  i)aid  for  that :  though  mean  and  mighty,  rotting 
Together,  have  one  dust,  yet  reverence, 
(That  angel  of  the  world)  doth  make  distinction 
Of  place  'twixt  high  and  low.     Our  foe  was  princely. 
.\nd  though  you  took  his  life,  as  being  our  foe. 
Vet  bury  him  as  a  prince. 

Gui.  Pray  you.  fetcli  him  hither. 

Thersites'  body  is  as  good  as  Ajax. 
When  neither  is  alive. 

Arv.  If  you'll  go  fetcii  him. 

We  11  ."^ay  our  song  the  whilst. — Brother,  begin. 

[Exit  Belarius. 

Gui.  Nay.  Cadwal.  we  must  lay  his  head  tc  the  cast: 
My  fatlier  hath  a  reason  for  "t. 

Arv.  'T  is  true. 

Gui.  Come  on  then,  and  remove  him. 

Arv.  So. — Begin. 

SONG. 

Gui.  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  .mn. 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages  : 
Golden  lads  and  lasses  must.'' 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 
Arv.  Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 

Thou  art  past  the  tyronfs  stroke  ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  folmv  this,  and  come  to  du.st. 
Gui.  Frar  no  more  the  lightning -flash. 
Arv.  Nor  th'  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 
Gui.  Frar  not  slander,  censure  rash; 
Arv.   Th)u  ha.'it  finisKd  joy  and  moan  : 
Both.  AH  lovers  young,  nil  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust 
Gui.  No  exorcwr  harm  thee  ! 
Arv    Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee .' 
Oui.    Gho-ft  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Arv.  Nothing  ill  come  near  ther  ! 
Both.   Quid  consummation  have  ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave .' 
Re-enter  Belarius.  with  the  Body  o/Clotev. 
Gut    Wc  have  done  our  ob.«equies.     Come,  lay  him 
^o'wn.                  \Thcy  place  him  beside  Imogen.* 
H'/.  Here  's  a  few  flowers,  but  about  midnight  more  : 
TIte  lierbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o"  the  night. 
Arp  .-trewinzH  fitt'st  for  craves.— Upon  their  faces.— 
You  were  a^<  flowers,  now  wither'd  ;  even  .so 
Th»^e  hcrb"lels  Bhali,  which  we  upon  you  strew. 

•  lo  oar  :  IB  folio.      '  and  cirU  all  mutt  :  in  {.  t       'Xotinfe 


Come  on,  away  ;  apart  upon  our  knees. 

The  ground  that  gave  theiii  first  has  them  again : 

Their  pleasures  here  are  past,  so  is  their  pain. 

[Koreunt  Hei.arius,  Guiderics,  arul  Auviragus. 

Imo.  [Awaking.]  Yes.  sir,  to  Milford-Haven  :  which 
is  the  way  ? — 
I  thank  you. — By  yond'  bush  ? — Pray,  how  far  thither  ? 
'Ods  pitiikins  ! — can  it  be  six  miles  yetV — 
I  have  gone  all  night : — 'faith,  I  "11  lie  down  and  sleep. 
But.  soft  !  no  bedfellow. — O,  gods  and  goddesses  ! 

[Seeing  the  Body. 
These  flowers  are  like  the  plea.sures  of  the  world  : 
This  bloody  man,  the  care  on  't. — I  hope  I  dream, 
For  lo*  !   I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper. 
And  cook  to  honest  creatures ;  but  't  is  not  so : 
'T  was  but  a  bolt  of  nothing,  shot  at  nothing, 
Which  the  brain  makes  of  fumes.     Our  very  eyes 
Are  sometimes  like  our  judgments,  blind.     Good  faith, 
I  tremble  still  v»-:th  fear :  but  if  there  be 
Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it ! 
The  dream  's  here  still :  even  when  I  wake,  it  is 
Without  me,  as  within  me:  not  imagined,  felt. 
A  headless  man  ! — The  garment  of  Posthumus  ! 
I  know  the  shape  of  's  leg :  this  is  his  hand  ; 
His  foot  Mercurial :  his  Martial  thigh  ; 
The  brawns  of  Hercules :  but  his  Jovial*  face — 
Murder  in  heaven  ! — How? — 'T  is  gone. — Pisanio, 
All  curses  madded  Hecuba  gave  the  Greeks, 
And  mine  to  boot,  be  darted  on  thee  !     Thou, 
Conspir'd  with  that  irregulous  devil,  Cloten, 
Hast  here  cut  off  my  lord. — To  write,  and  read. 
Be  henceforth  treacherous  ! — Damn'd  Pisanio 
Hath  with  his  forged  letters. — damn'd  Pisanio — 
From  this  most  bravest  vessel  of  the  world 
Struck  the  main-top  ! — 0,  Posthumus  !  alas  ! 
Where  is  thy  head?  where 's  that?  Ah  me!  where 's  that" 
Pisanio  might  have  kill'd  thee  at  the  heart, 
And  left  thy  head  on. — How  should  this  be?  Pisanio  f 
'T  is  he,  and  Cloten  :  malice  and  lucre  in  them 
Have  laid  this  woe  here.     0  !  't  is  pregnant,  pregnant 
The  drug  he  gave  me.  which,  he  said,  was  precious 
And  cordial  to  me,  have  I  not  found  it 
Murderous  to  the  senses  ?     That  confirms  it  home  : 
This  is  Pisanio's  deed,  and  Cloteu's  :  0  ! — 
Give  colour  to  my  pale  cheek  with  thy  blood. 
That  we  the  horrider  may  seem  to  those 
Which  chance  to  find  us.     0.  my  lord,  my  lord  ! 

Enter  Lucius,  a  Captain,  and  other  Officers,  and  a 
Sootlisaycr. 

Cap.  To  them  the  legions  garrison'd  in  Gallia, 
After  your  will,  have  cross'd  the  sea;  attending 
You.  here  at  Milford-Haven,    vith  your  ships: 
They  are  in  readiness. 

Luc.  But  what  from  Rome  ? 

Cap.  The  senate  hath  .-itirrd  up  the  confiners, 
And  gentlemen  of  Italy:  most  willing  spirits. 
That  promise  noble  service,  and  tliey  come 
Under  the  conduct  of  bold  lachimo, 
Sienna's  brother. 

Luc.  When  expect  you  them  ? 

Cap.  With  the  next  benefit  o'  the  wind. 

Luc.  This  forwar.ine.'^ 

Makes  our  hopes  fair.     Command,  our  present  number? 
Be  muster'd  :  bid  the  captains  look  to  't  — Now,  sir, 
What  have  you  dream'd  of  late  of  this  war's  purpose' 

Sooth.  Last  night  the  very  gods  show'd  me  a  vision 
(I  fa.st,  and  pray'd,  for  their  intelligence)  thus : — 
I  saw  Jove's  bird,  the  Roman  eagle,  wiug'd 
■  »o  :  in  f.  e.     •  LikeJov*. 


SCENE   IV. 


CTMBELmE. 


881 


i: 


From  the  spungy  south  to  this  part  of  the  west, 
There  vauish'd  in  the  sunbeams :  which  portends, 
(Unless  my  sins  abuse  my  divination) 
Success  to  the  Ptoman  host. 

Lite.  Dream  often  so, 

And  never  false. — Soft,  ho?  what  trunk  is  here, 
Without  his  top  ?     The  ruin  speaks,  that  sometime 
It  was  a  worthy  building. — How  ?  a  page  ! — 

dead,  or  sleeping  on  him  ?     But  dead  rather  ; 
nature  doth  abhor  to  make  his  bed 

ith  the  defunct,  or  sleep  upon  the  dead. — 
Let 's  see  the  boy's  face. 

Cap.  He  is  alive,  my  lord. 

Luc.  He  '11  then  instruct  us  of  this  body. — Young 
one. 
Inform  us  of  thy  fortunes  ;  for,  it  seems. 
They  crave  to  be  demanded.     Who  is  this, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  bloody  pillow  ?     Or  who  was  he, 
That,  otherwise  than  noble  nature  did, 
Hath  alter'd  that  good  picture  ?     What 's  thy  interest 
In  this  sad  wreck  ?     How  came  it  ?     Who  is  it  ? 
What  art  thou  ? 

.    Imo.  I  am  nothing  :  or  if  not. 

Nothing  to  be  were  better.     This  was  my  master, 
A  very  valiant  Briton,  and  a  good. 
That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain. — Alas  ! 
There  are  no  more  such  masters :  I  may  wander 
From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service. 
Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  suda  another  master, 

Luc.  'Lack,  good  youth  ! 

Thou  mov'st  no  less  with  thy  complaining,  than 
Thy  master  in  bleeding.     Say  his  name,  good  friend. 

Imo.  Richard  du  Champ  [Aside.]  If  I  do  lie,  and  do 
No  harm  by  it,  though  the  gods  hear,  I  hope 
They  '11  pardon. — Say  you,  sir  ? 

Luc.  Thy  name  ? 

Imo.  Fidele.  sir. 

Luc.  Thou  dost  approve  thyself  the  very  same  : 
Thy  name  well  fits  thy  faith ;  thy  faith,  thy  name. 
Wilt  take  thy  chance  with  me  ?     I  will  not  say, 
Thou  shalt  be  so  well  master'd,  but,  be  sure, 
No  less  belov'd.     The  Roman  emperor's  letters. 
Sent  by  a  consul  to  me,  should  not  sooner. 
Than  thine  owni  worth,  prefer  thee :  go  with  me. 

Imo.  I  '11  follow,  sir.    But  first,  an  't  please  the  gods, 
f  '11  hide  my  master  from  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pickaxes  can  dig :  and  when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  have  strew'd  his 

grave, 
And  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers. 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I  '11  weep,  and  sigh ; 
And.  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you. 
So  please  you  entertain  me. 

Luc.  Ay,  good  youth  ; 

And  rather  father  thee,  than  master  thee. — My  friends. 
The  boy  hath  taught  us  manly  duties  :  let  us 
Find  out  the  prettiest  daisied  plot  we  can. 
And  make  him  with  our  pikes  and  partisans 
A  grave :  come,  arm  him. — Boy,  he  is  preferr'd 
By  thee  to  us,  and  he  shall  be  interr'd, 
As  soldiers  can.     Be  cheerful;  wipe  thine  eyes: 
Some  falls  are  means  the  happier  to  arise.        [Exeu7it. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Lords,  and  Pisanio. 
Cym.  Again :  and  bring  me  word  how  't  is  with  her. 
A  lever  with  the  absence  of  her  son : 
A  madness,  of  which  her  life  's  in  danger. — Heavens, 
How  deeply  you  at.  once  do  touch  me  !     Imogen, 
3F 


The  great  part  of  my  comfort,  gone :  my  queen 
Upon  a  desperate  bed,  and  in  a  time 
When  fearful  wars  point  at  me :  her  son  gone, 
So  needful  for  this  present :  it  strikes  me  past 
The  hope  of  comfort. — But  for  thee,  fellow. 
Who  needs  must  know  of  her  departure,  and 
Dost  seem  so  ignorant,  we  '11  enforce  it  from  thee 
By  a  sharp  torture. 

Pis.  Sir,  my  life  is  yours, 

I  humbly  set  it  at  your  will;  but,  for  my  mistress, 
I  nothing  know  where  she  remains,  why  gone. 
Nor  when  she  purposes  to  return.  Beseech  your  highness 
Hold  me  your  loyal  servant. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  liege, 

The  day  that  she  was  missing  he  was  here : 
I  dare  be  bound  he  's  trite,  and  shall  perform 
All  parts  of  his  subjection  loyally.     For  Cloten, 
There  wants  no  diligence  in  seeking  him. 
And  will,  no  doubt,  be  found. 

Cym.  The  time  is  troublesome 

We  '11  slip  you  for  a  season ;  but  with  jealousv 

[Te  PIS.4NI0 
You  yet  depend. 

1  Lord.  So  please  your  majesty. 

The  Roman  legions,  all  from  Gallia  drawii. 
Are  landed  on  your  coast,  with  a  supply 
Of  Roman  gentlemen  by  the  senate  sent. 

Cym.  Now  for  the  counsel  of  my  son  and  queen  !- 
I  am  amaz'd  with  matter. 

1  Lord.  Good  ray  liege, 

Your  preparation  can  affront  no  less 
Than  what  you  hear  of :  come  more,  for  more  you  'rt 

ready. 
The  want  is,  but  to  put  these  powers  in  motion. 
That  long  to  move. 

.   Cym.  I  thank  you.     Let 's  withdraw. 

And  meet  the  time,  as  it  seeks  us :  we  fear  not 
What  can  from  Italy  annoy  us,  but 
We  grieve  at  chances  here. — Away  !  [Exeunt 

Pis.  I  had  no  letter  from  my  master,  since 
I  wrote  him  Imogen  was  slain.     'T  is  strange : 
Nor  hear  I  from  my  mistress,  who  did  promise 
To  yield  me  often  tidings ;  neither  know  I 
What  is  betid  to  Cloten,  but  remain 
Perplex'd  in  all :  the  heavens  still  must  work. 
Wherein  I  am  false,  I  am  honest ;  not  true,  to  be  true 
These  present  wars  shall  find  I  love  iny  country. 
Even  to  the  note  o'  the  king,  or  I  '11  fall  in  them. 
All  other  doubts  by  time  let  them  be  clear'd  ; 
Fortune  brings  in  some  boats  that  are  not  steer'd.  [Exti 

SCENE  IV.— Before  the  Cave. 
Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus. 

Gui.  The  noise  is  round  about  us. 

Bel.  Let  us  from  it. 

Arv.  What  pleasure,  sir,  find  we  in  life,  to  lock  it 
From  action  and  adventure  ? 

Qui.  Nay,  what  hope 

Have  we  in  hiding  ixs  ?  this  way  the  Romans 
Must  or  for  Britons  slay  us.  or  receive  us 
For  barbarous  and  unnatural  revolts 
During  their  use.  and  slay  us  after. 

Bel.  '  Sons, 

We  '11  higher  to  the  mountains;  there  secure  us. 
To  the  king's  party  there  's  no  going :  ne%^mess 
Of  Cloten's  death  (we  being  not  known,  not  muster'd 
Among  the  bands)  may  drive  us  to  a  render 
Where  we  have  liv'd ;  and  so  extort  from  's  that 
Which  we  have  done,  whose  answer  would  be  doalh 
Drawn  on  with  torture. 


882 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT    V. 


Gut.  This  18.  sir,  a  doubt, 

ill  Buch  a  time  nothing  becoming  you, 
N'or  satis'ying  us. 

Arv.  It  is  not  likely. 

Tliat  v-hcn  they  hear  the'  Roman  horses  neigh, 
Behold  their  quartered  fires,  have  both  their  eyes 
And  ears  so  cloy'd  importantly  as  now, 
That  tliey  will  waste  their  time  upon  our  note, 
To  know  fronn  whence  we  are. 

Bel.  0  !  I  am  known 

Of  many  in  the  army  :  many  years, 
Though  Cloten  then  but  young,  you  see,  not  wore  him 
From  my  remembrance  :  and,  besides,  the  king 
Hath  not  deserv'd  my  service,  nor  your  loves, 
Who  find  in  my  exile  the  want  of  breeding, 
The  certainty  of  this  hard  life  ;  aye,  hopeless 
To  have  the  courte.<y  your  cradle  promis'd, 
But  to  be  still  hot  summer's  tanlings,  and 
The  shrinking  slaves  of  winter. 

Gut.  Than  be  so, 

Better  to  cea.«e  to  be.     Pray,  sir,  to  the  army: 
I  and  my  brother  are  not  known;  yourself, 
So  out  of  thought,  and  thereto  so  o'ergrown, 
Cannot  be  questiond. 


Arv.  By  this  sun  that  shines. 

I  '11  thither.     What  thing  is  't,  that  I  never 
Did  sec  man  die?  scarce  ever  look'd  on  blood 
But  that  of  coward  hares,  hot  goats,  and  venison  f 
Never  bc^trid  a  horse,  save  one  that  had 
A  rider  like  myself,  who  ne'er  wore  rowel, 
Nor,  iron,  on  his  heel  ?  I  am  asham'd 
To  look  upon  the  holy  sun,  to  have 
The  benefit  of  his  bless'd  beams,  remaining 
So  long  a  poor  unknown. 

Gui.  By  heavens,  I  'II  go. 

If  you  will  bless  me,  sir,  and  give  me  leave, 
I  '11  take  the  better  care  ;  but  if  you  will  not, 
The  hazard  therefore  due  fall  on  me  by 
The  hands  of  Romans. 

Arv.  So  say  I.     Amen. 

Bel.  No  reason  I,  since  of  your  lives  you  set 
So  slight  a  valuation,  should  reserve 
My  crack'd  one  to  more  care.     Have  with  you,  boys. 
If  in  your  country  wars  yoH  chaiice  to  die. 
That  is  my  bed  too,  lads,  and  there  I  '11  lie  : 
Lead,  lead  !     The  time  seems  long;  their  blood  thiniw 

scorn, 
Till  it  fly  out.  and  show  them  princes  born.     [Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I— A  Field  between  the  British  and  Roman 
Camps. 
ErUfir  PosTHUMt's,  with  a  bloody  Handkerchief. 
Post.  Yea.  bloody  cloth,  I  '11  keep  thee  ;  for  I  wish'd' 
Thou  should.st  be  colour'd  thus.     You  married  ones, 
If  each  of  you  should  take  this  course,  how  many 
Must  murder  wives  much  better  than  themselves, 
For  wrynng  but  a  little  ? — 0,  Pisanio  ! 
F!vcry  good  servant  does  not  all  commands; 
No  bond,  but  to  do  just  ones. — Gods  !  if  you 
Should  have  ta'en  vengeance  on  my  faults,  I  never 
Had  liv'd  to  put  on'  this :  so  had  you  saved 
The  noble  Imogen  to  repent,  and  struck 
Me.  wretch,  more  worth  your  vengeance.     But,  alack  ! 
You  snatch  some  hence  for  little  faults  ;  that  'e  Icve. 
To  have  tliem  fall  no  more  :  you  some  permit 
To  second  ills  with  ills,  each  later*  worse, 
And  make  men'  dread  it,  to  the  doer's  thrift. 
But  Imogen  is  your  own  :  do  your  best  wills, 
And  make  me  bless'd  to  obey  ! — I  am  brought  hither 
Among  tiie  Italian  gentry,  and  to  fight 
Again.«t  my  lady's  kingdom  :  'tis  enough 
That,  Britain,  I  have  kill'd  thy  mi.stress  :  peace  ! 
I  'II  give  no  wound  to  thee,     therefore,  good  heavens. 
Hear  patiently  my  purpose.     I  '11  disrobe  me 
Of  these  Italian  weeds,  and  suit  myself 
As  does  a  Briton  peai«ant :  so  I  '11  fight 
Atainsl  the  part  I  come  with  :  so  I  '11  die 
For  tlice.  O  Imogen  !  even  for  whom  my  life 
Is,  ever)-  breath,  a  death  :  and  thus  unknown. 
Pitied  nor  hated,  to  the  face  of  peril 
My.-^lf  I  '11  dedicate.     Let  me  make  men  know 
More  valour  in  me,  than  my  habits  show. 
Ood.s.  put  the  strength  o'  the  Leonati  in  me  ! 
To  shame  the  guise  o'  the  world,  I  will  begin 
The  faihion,  less  without,  and  more  within.         [Exit. 

'  th«i/  ;  in  folio 


SCENE  XL— The  Same. 
Trumpets   and    Drums.     Enter   at   07ie    Side,   Lucius, 
Iachimo,  and  the  Romnn  Army  :   at  the  other  S«Ze, 
the  British  Army  ;  Leonatus  Posthumus  folloiving 
like  a  poor  Soldier.      They  march  over  and  go  out. 
Alarums.     Then  enter   again  in  skirmish,  Iachimo 
and    PosTHUMi's  :    he    vanquisheth    and    disarmeth 
Iachimo,  and  then  leaves  him.    Alarums  on  both  sida 
lach.  The  heaviness  and  guilt  within  my  bosom 
Takes  off  my  manhood :   I  have  belied  a  lady. 
The  prince.ss  of  this  country,  and  the  air  on  't 
Revengingly  enfeebles  me  ;  or  could  this  carl,* 
A  very  drudge  of  nature's,  have  subdu'd  me 
In  my  profession  ?     Knighthoods  and  honours,  borne 
As  I  wear  mine,  are  titles  but  of  scorn. 
If  that  thy  gentry,  Britain,  go  before 
This  lout,  as  he  exceeds  our  lords,  the  odds 
Is,  that  we  scarce  are  men,  and  you  are  god.<».       [Exit. 
Alarwms.      The   Battle    continues :    the    Britons    fiy ; 
Ctmbeline  is  taken  :    then  enter,  to  his  rescue,  Be- 
LARius,  GuiDERius,  and  Arviragus. 
Bel.  Stand,  stand  !     We  have  the  advantage  of  the 
ground. 
The  lane  is  guarded :  nothing  routs  us^  but 
The  villainy  of  our  fears. 

Gui.  Arv.  Stand,  stand,  and  fight! 

Alarums.  Enter  Posthumus,  and  seconds  the  Britons , 
they  rescue  Cvmbeline,  and  exeunt :  then,  enter  Lu- 
cius, Iachimo,  and  Imogen. 

Lu^.  Away,  boy,  from  the  troops,  and  save  thyself 
For  friends  kill  friends,  and  the  disorder's  such 
As  war  were  hood-wink'd. 

lach.  'T  is  their  fre.sh  supplies 

Luc.  It  is  a  day  turn'd  strangely:  or  betimes 
Let 's  re-enforce,  or  fly.  [Exeunt 


iiD  wiih'd  r  in  foho.     Pop«  m»it  the  change.      >  Instigate 


CYMBELmE. 


883 


SCENE  III.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  Posthumus  and  a  Briton  Lord. 
Lord.  Cam'st  thi.u  from  -where  thev  made  the  stand  ? 
Post.  '  I  dd ; 

Though  yoi    it  seems,  come  from  the  fliers. 

Lord.  I  did. 

Post.  No  blame  be  to  you,  sir  ;  for  all  was  lost. 
But  that  the  heavens  fought.     The  king  himself 
Of  his  wings  destitute,  the  army  broken, 
And  but  the  backs  of  Britons  seen,  all  flying 
Through  a  strait  lane  :  the  enemy  full-hearted. 
Lolling  the  tongue  with  slaughtering,  ha%nng  work 
More  plentiful  than  tools  to  do  't,  struck  down 
.Some  mortally,  some  slightly  touch'd,  some  falling 
Merely  through  fear  ;  that  the  strait  pass  was  damm'd 
With  dead  men  hurt  behind,  and  cowards  living 
To  die  with  lengthen'd  shame. 

Lord.  Where  was  this  lane  ? 

Post.  Close  by  the  battle,  ditch'd,  and  wall'd  with 
turf; 
Wliich  gave  advantage  to  an  ancient  soldier, 
An  honest  one.  I  warrant ;  who  deserv'd 
So  long  a  breeding,  as  his  white  beard  came  to, 
In  doing  this  for  's  country  :  athwart  the  lane, 
He,  with  two  striplings,  (lads  more  like  to  run 
The  country  base,'  than  to  commit  such  slaughter ; 
With  faces  fit  for  masks,  or,  rather,  fairer 
Than  those  for  preservation  cas'd.  or  shame) 
Made  good  the  passage  ;  cried  to  those  that  fled, 
"  Our  Britain's  harts  die  flying,  not  our  men  : 
To  darkness  fleet  souls  that  fly  backwards  !     Stand ; 
Or  we  are  Romans,  and  -will  give  you  that 
Like  beasts,  which  you  shun  beastly,  and  may  save, 
But  to  look  back  in  frown  :  stand,  stand  !" — These  three, 
Three  thousand  confident,  in  act  as  many, 
(For  three  performers  are  the  file,  when  all 
The  rest  do  nothing)  with  this  word,  ••  stand,  stand  !" 
Accommodated  by  the  place,  more  charming 
With  their  own  nobleness  (which  could  have  turn'd 
A  distaff  to  a  lance)  gilded  pale  looks, 
Part  shame,  part  spirit  renew'd  ;    that   some,  turn'd 

coward 
But  by  example  (0,  a  sin  in  war, 
Damn'd  iu  the  first  beginners  !)  'gan  to  look 
The  way  that  they  did,  and  to  grin  like  lions 
Upon  the  pikes  o'  the  hunters.     Then  began 
A  stop  i'  the  chaser,  a  retire  ;  anon, 
A  rout,  confusion  thick :  forthwith  they  fly. 
Chickens,  the  way  which  they  stopp'd  eagles  :  slaves. 
The  strides  they  victors  made.     And  now  our  cowards 
(Like  fragments  in  hard  voyages)  became 
The  life  o'  the  need :  having  found  the  back-door  open 
Of  the  unguarded  hearts,  Heavens,  how  they  wound  ! 
Some  slain  before  ;  some  dying ;  some,  their  friends, 
0"er-borne  i'  the  former  wave  :  ten  chac'd  by  one, 
Are  now  each  one  the  slaughter-man  of  twenty : 
Those  that  would  die  or  ere  resist  are  groviTi 
The  mortal  bugs'  o'  the  field. 

Lord.  This  was  strange  chance : 

A  narrow  lane,  an  old  man,  and  two  boys  ? 

Post.  Nay,  do  not  wonder  at  it :  you  are  made 
Rather  to  wonder  at  the  things  you  hear 
Than  to  work  any.     Will  you  rhyme  upon  't, 
And  vent  it  for  a  mockery  ?     Here  is  one  : 
"  Two  boys,  an  old  man  twice  a  boy,  a  lane, 
I'reserv'd  the  Britons,  was  the  Romans'  bane." 
Lord.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  sir. 
Post.  'Lack  !  to  what  end  ? 

>  The  rustic  p^me  of  prison  base,  or  bars,  consisting  of  &  race.      * 


Who  dares  not  stand  his  foe,  I  '11  be  his  friend ; 

For  if  he  'II  do,  as  he  is  made  to  do, 

I  know,  he  '11  quickly  fly  my  friendship  too. 

You  have  put  me  into  rhyme. 

Lord.  Farewell ;  you  are  angry.     [Exit 

Post.  Still  going  ? — This  is  a  lord.   0  noble  misery  ' 
To  be  i'  the  field,  and  ask,  what  news,  of  me. 
To-day,  how  many  would  have  given  their  honours 
To  have  sav'd  their  carcasses  ?  took  heel  to  do  't, 
And  yet  died  too  ?     I,  in  mine  own  woe  charm'd, 
Could  not  find  death  where  I  did  hear  him  groan, 
Nor  feel  him  where  he  struck  :  being  an  ugfy  monster, 
'T  is  strange  he  hides  him  in  fresh  cups,  soft  beds, 
Sweet  words ;  or  hath  more  ministers  than  we 
That  draw  his  knives  i'  the  war. — Well,  I  will  find  Jim 
For  being  now  a  favourer  to  the  Briton, 
No  more  a  Briton,  I  have  resum'd  again 
The  part  I  came  in.     Fight  I  will  no  more, 
But  yield  me  to  the  veriest  hind,  that  shall 
Once  touch  my  shoulder.     Great  the  slaughter  is 
Here  made  by  the  Roman ;  great  the  answer  be 
Britons  must  take  ;  for  me.  my  ransom  's  death  ■ 
On  either  side  I  come  to  spend  my  breath, 
Which  neither  here  I  '11  keep,  nor  bear  again, 
But  end  it  by  some  means  for  Imogen. 

Enter  two  Briton  Captains,  and  Soldiers. 

1  Cap.  Great  Jupiter  be  prais'd  !     Lucius  is  taken. 
'T  is  thought,  the  old  man  and  his  sons  were  angels. 

2  Cap.  There  was  a  fourth  man,  in  a  silly  habit, 
That  gave  th'  affront  with  them. 

1  Cap.  So  't  is  reported  ; 
But  none  of  them  can  be  found. — Stand  !  who  is  there  ? 

Post.  A  Roman, 
Who  had  not  now  been  drooping  here,  if  seconds 
Had  answer'd  him. 

2  Cap.  Lay  hands  on  him  :  a  dog  ! 
A  leg  of  Rome  shall  not  return  to  tell 

What  crows  have  peck'd  them  here.  He  brags  his 
service. 

As  if  he  were  of  note.     Bring  him  to  the  king. 

Enter  Ctmbeline,  attended;  Belarius,  GriDERirs, 
Arviragus,  Pisanio,  and  Roman  Captives.  The 
Captains  present  Posthumus  to  Ctmbeline,  who  de- 
livers him  over  to  a  Jailor  ;  after  which,  all  go  oti-t. 

SCENE  IV.— A  Prison. 
Enter  Posthumus,  and  Two  Jailors. 

1  Jail.  You  shall  not  now  be  stolen ;  you  have  locks 

upon  you : 
So,  graze  as  you  find  pasture. 

2  Jail,  Ay,  or  a  stomach.     [Exetmt  Jailors. 
Post.  Most  welcome,  bondage,  for  thou  art  a  way. 

I  think,  to  liberty.     Yet  am  I  better 

Than  one  that 's  sick  o'  the  gout :  since  he  had  ralhe 

Groan  so  in  perpetuity,  than  be  curd 

By  the  sure  physician,  death,  who  is  the  key 

T'  unbar  these  locks.     My  conscience,  thou  art  feUer'd 

1  More  than   my  shanks,   and  wrists  :    you   good   gods, 

j  give  me 

'  The  penitent  instrument  to  pick  that  bolt. 
Then,  free  for  ever  !     Is  't  enough.  I  am  sorry  ? 
So  children  temporal  fathers  do  appease  : 
Gods  are  more  full  of  mercy.     ]\Iust  I  repent  ? 
I  cannot  do  it  better  than  in  g^'ves. 
Desir'd.  more  than  constrain'd  :  to  satisfy, 
If  of  rny  freedom  't  is  the  main  part,  take 

'  No  stricter  render  of  me  than  my  all. 

!  I  know,  you  are  more  clement  than  vile  men. 

I  Who  of  their  >)roken  debtors  take  a  \hird. 

Terrors. 


884 


CYMBELINE. 


A  sixth,  a  tenth,  letting  them  thrive  again 
On  tlieir  abatement :  that 's  not  my  desire. 
For  Imogen's  dear  life,  take  mine  ;  and  though 
'T  is  not  so  dear,  yet  't  is  a  life  ;  you  coin'd  it : 
'Twcen  man  and  man  they  weigh  not  every  stamp. 
Though  light,  take  pieces  for  the  figure's  sake  : 
Voii  ratlicr  mine,  being  yours  :  and  so,  great  powers, 
If  you  will  take  this  audit,  take  this  life, 
And  caneel  tliose  cold  bonds.     0  Imogen  ! 
I  Ml  si>eak  to  thee  in  silence.  [He  sleeps. 

Solemti    Music.      Enter,   as   an    Apparition,    SiciLirs 
Leonatus.    Father  to  Posthumus,   an  old  Man  at- 
tired like  a  Warrior  ;  leading  in  his  Hand  an  ancient 
Matron,  his  Wife  and  Mother  to  Posthumus,  with 
Music  before   them  :    then,  after  other  Mu.sic.  follow 
the    Two  young    Leonati.    Brothers  to    Posthumus, 
with  Wounds  as  they  died  m  the  IVars.      They  circle 
Posthumus  round  as  he  lies  sleeping. 
Sici.  No  more,  thou  thunder-master,  show 
Thy  spite  on  mortal  flies  ; 
With  Mars  fall  out.  with  Juno  chide, 
That  thy  adulteries 

Rates  and  revenges. 
Hath  my  poor  boy  done  aught  but  well  ? 

Whose  face  I  never  saw ; 
1  died,  whilst  in  the  womb  he  stay'd 

Attending  nature's  law. 
Whose  fatlier,  then,  (as  men  report. 

Thou  orphans'  father  art) 
Thou  shouldst  have  been,  and  shielded  him 
From  this  earth-vexing  smart. 
Moth.  Lucina  lent  not  me  her  aid, 
But  took  me  in  my  throes ; 
That  from  me  was  Posthumus  ript, 
Came  cr\ing  'mongst  his  foes, 
A  thmg  of  pity. 
Sici.  Great  nature,  like  his  ancestry, 
Moulded  the  stufl!"  so  fair. 
That  he  deserv'd  the  praise  o'  the  world. 
As  great  Siciliu.s'  heir. 
1  Bro.  When  once  he  wa.s  mature  for  man, 
In  Britain  where  was  he. 
That  could  stand  up  his  parallel, 

Or  fruitful  object  be 
In  eye  of  Imogen,  that  best 
Could  deem  his  dignity  ? 
Moth.  With  marriage  wherefore  was  he  mock'd, 
To  be  exil'd,  and  thrown 
From  Leonati"  seat,  and  cast 
From  her  his  dearest  one, 
Sweet  Imogen  ? 
Sici.  Why  did  you  sufl'er  lachimo, 
Slisht  thing  of  Italy, 
To  taint  his  nobler  heart  and  brain 

With  needle.>;8  jealousy  ; 
\nd  to  become  the  geek'  and  scorn 
O'  the   other's  villainy  ? 
I  Bro.  For  this  from  stiller  seats  wo  i-ame. 
Our  parents,  and  we  twain. 
That  striking  in  our  country's  cause 

Fell  bravely,  and  were  slain; 
Onr  fi-alty,  and  Tenant  ins'  right. 
With  honour  to  maintain. 
1  firo.  Like  hardiment  Posthumus  hatli 
To  Cymbeline  pcrform'd  : 
Th»n,  Jupiter,  thou  king  of  cods. 
Why  hast  thou  thus  adjourn'd 

'   Fotl       >  look,  look  :   ic  folio 


The  graces  for  his  merits  due, 
Being  all  to  dolours  turn'd  ? 

Sici.  Thy  crystal  window  ope  ;  look*  out . 
No  longer  exercise, 
Upon  a  valiant  race,  thy  harsh 
And  potent  injuries. 

Moth.  Since,  Jupiter,  our  son  is  good, 
Take  off  his  miseries. 

Sici.  Peep  through  thy  marble  mansion  ;  help ! 
Or  we  poor  gliosts  will  cry, 
To  the  shining  synod  of  the  rest, 
Against  thy  deity. 

2  Bro.  Help,  Jupiter  !  or  we  appeal, 
And  from  thy  justice  fly. 
Jupiter   descends  in    Thunder  and   Lightning,  sittinn 

upon  an  Eagle  :  he  throws  a  Thunderbolt ;  the  Ghoitt 
fall  on  their  Knees. 
Jup.  No  more,  you  petty  spirits  of  regions  low, 

Offend  our  hearing :  hush  ! — How  dare  you  ghosti 
Accuse  the  thunderer,  whose  bolt  you  know, 

Sky-planted,  batters  all  rebelling  coasts  ? 
Poor  shadows  of  Elysium,  hence  ;  and  rest 

Upon  your  never-withering  banks  of  flowers  : 
Be  not  with  mortal  accidents  opprest ; 

No  care  of  yours  it  is ;  you  know,  't  is  ours. 
Whom  best  I  love,  I  cross  ;  to  make  my  gift, 

The  more  delay'd,  delighted.     Be  content; 
Your  low-laid  son  our  godhead  will  uplift: 

His  comforts  thrive,  his  trials  well  are  spent. 
Our  Jovial  star  reign'd  at  his  birth,  and  in 

Our  temple  was  he  married. — Rise,  and  fade  ! — 
He  shall  be  lord  of  lady  Imogen, 

And  happier  much  by  his  affliction  made. 
This  tablet  lay  upon  his  breast,  wherein 

Our  pleasure  his  full  fortune  doth  confine  ; 
And  so,  away :  no  farther  with  your  din 

Express  impatience,  lest  you  stir  uji  mine. — 

Mount,  eagle,  to  my  palace  crystalline.        [A.'icnuU 

Sici.  He  came  in  thunder  ;  his  celestial  breath 
Was  sulphurous  to  smell  :  the  holy  eagle 
Stoop'd,  as  to  foot  us  :  his  a.scension  is 
More  sweet  than  our  blcss'd  fields.     His  royal  bird 
Prunes  the  immortal  wing,  and  cloys  his  beak. 
As  when  his  god  is  pleas'd. 

All.  Thanks,  Jupiter. 

Sici.  The  marble  pavement  closes  ;  he  is  enter'd 
His  radiant  roof. — Away  !  and,  to  be  blest. 
Let  us  with  care  perform  his  great  behest.  [  Ghosts  vanuK 

Post.  [Waking.]  Sleep,  thou  hast  been  a  grandsire 
and  begot 
A  father  to  me  ;  and  thou  hast  created 
A  mother,  and  two  brothers.     But  (0  scorn  !) 
Gone  !  they  went  hence  so  soon  as  they  were  born. 
And  so  I  am  awake. — Poor  wretches,  that  depend 
On  greatness'  favour,  dream  as  1  have  done  ; 
Wake,  and  find  notliins. — But,  alas,  I  swerve  : 
Many  dream  not  to  find,  neither  deserve. 
And  yet  are  stcep'd  in  favours;  so  am  I, 
That  have  this  golden  chance,  and  know  not  why. 

[Finding  the  Tabht 
What  fairies  haunt  this  ground  ?  A  book  ?  0,  rarcoi.e  ! 
Be  not,  as  in  our  fangled  world,  a  garment 
Nobler  than  that  it  covers:  let  thy  effects 
So  follow,  to  be  most  unlike  our  courtiers, 
As  good  as  promise. 

[Reads.]  '•  When  a,s  a  lion's  whelp  shall,  to  himself 
unknown,  without  seeking  find,  and  be  embraced  by  a 
piece   of  tender  air;    and  when  from  a  stately  ceH:i 


SCENE   V. 


CYMBELmE. 


885 


Khali    be    lopp'd    branches,  which,  being    dead    many 

years,  shall  after  revive,  be   jointed  to  the  old  stock, 

and  freshly  grow,  then  shall  Posthumus  end  his  mis- 

piries,  Britain  be  fortunate,  and  flourish  in  peace  and 

plenty.'' 

Tis  still  a  dream,  or  else  such  Gtuff  as  madmen 

Tongue,  and  brain  not ;  either  both,  or  nothing  ■ 

Or  senseless  speaking,  or  a  speaking  such 

As  sen.^  cannot  untie.     Be  what  it  is, 

The  action  of  my  life  is  like  it,  which 

I  '11  keep,  if  but  for  sympathy. 

Re-enter  Jailors. 

Jail.  Come,  sir,  are  you  ready  for  death  ? 

Post    Over-roasted,  rather;  ready  long  ago. 

Jail.  Hanging  is  the  word,  sir :  if  you  be  ready  for 
that,  you  are  well  cooked. 

Post.  So,  if  I  prove  a  good  repast  to  the  spectators, 
ihe  dish  pays  the  shot. 

Jail.  A  heavy  reckoning  for  you,  sir ;  but  the  com- 
•brt  is,  you  shall  be  called  to  no  more  payments,  fear 
iio  more  tavern  bills,  which  are  often  the  sadness  of 
parting,  as  the  procuring  of  mirth.  You  come  in  faint 
for  want  of  meat,  depart  reeling  with  too  much  drink ; 
sorry  that  you  have  paid  too  much,  and  sorry  that  you 
are  paid  too  much  ;  purse  and  brain  both  empty :  the 
brain  the  heavier  for  being  too  light,  the  purse  too 
light,  being  drawn  of  heaviness.  O  !  of  this  contradic- 
tion you  shall  now  be  quit. — 0,  the  charity  of  a  penny 
cord  !  it  sums  up  thousands  in  a  trice :  you  have  no 
true  debitor  and  creditor  but  it ;  of  what 's  past,  is,  and 
to  come,  the  discharge. — Your  neck,  sir,  is  pen,  book, 
and  counters ;  so  the  acquittance  follows. 

Post.  I  am  merrier  to  die,  than  thou  art  to  live. 

Jail.  Indeed,  sir,  he  that  sleeps  feels  not  the  tooth- 
ache ]  but  a  man  that  were  to  sleep  your  sleep,  and  a 
hangman  to  help  him  to  bed,  I  think,  he  would  change 
places  with  his  officer  ;  for,  look  you,  sir,  you  know  not 
which  way  you  shall  go. 
I  Post.  Yes,  indeed  do  I,  fellow. 

I  Jail.  Your  death  has  eyes  in  's  head,  then ;  I  have 

not  seen  him  so  pictured  :  you  must  either  be  directed 
I  by  some  that  take  upon  them  to  know,  or  take  upon 
yourself  that,  which  I  am  sure  you  do  not  know,  or 
jump'  the  after-inquiry  on  your  own  peril :  and  how 
you  shall  speed  in  your  journey's  end.  I  think,  you  '11 
never  return  to  tell  one. 

Post.  I  tell  thee,  fellow,  there  are  none  want  eyes  to 
direct  them  the  way  I  am  going,  but  such  as  wink,  and 
will  not  use  them. 

Jail.  What  an  infinite  mock   is   this,  that   a   man 
should  have  the  best  use  of  eyes  to  see  the  way  of 
blindness  !  I  am  sure,  hanging's  the  way  of  winking. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Knock  off  his  manacles :  bring  your  prisoner 
to  the  king. 

Post.  Thou  bring'st  good  news.  I  am  called  to  be 
made  free. 

Jail.  I  '11  be  hang'd,  then. 

Past.  Thou  shalt  be  then  freer  than  a  jailor  :  no  bolts 
for  the  dead.  [Exetmt  Posthumus  and  Messenger. 

Jail.  Unless  a  man  would  marry  a  gallows,  and  be- 
get young  gibbets,  I  never  saw  one  so  prone.  Yet, 
on  my  conscience,  there  are  verier  knaves  desire  to 
live,  for  all  he  be  a  Roman ;  and  there  be  some  of 
them  too,  that  die  against  their  wills :  so  should  I,  if  T 
were  one.  I  would  we  were  all  of  one  mind,  and  one 
mind  good :  0,  there  were  desolation  of  jailors,  and 
gallowses  !  I  speak  against  my  present  profit,  but  my 
wish  hath  a  preferment  in  't.  [Exeunt. 

>  Risk.      »  Prettnded 


SCENE  v.— Cymbeline's  Tent. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Belarius,  Guiderius,  Arviragus. 

PisANio.  Lords.  Officers,  and  Attendants. 

Cym.  Stand  by  my  side  you.  whom  the  gods  have  made 
Preservers  of  my  throne.     Woe  is  my  heart. 
That  the  poor  soldier,  that  so  richly  fought, 
Whose  rags  shara'd  gilded  arms,  whose  naked  breast 
Stepp'd  before  targe  of  proof,  cannot  be  found  : 
He  shall  be  happy  that  can  find  him,  if 
Our  grace  can  make  him  so. 

Bel.  I  never  saw 

Such  noble  fury  in  so  poor  a  thing ; 
Such  precious  deeds  in  one,  that  promis'd  nought 
But  beggary  and  poor  looks. 

Cym.  No  tidings  of  him  ? 

Pis.  He  hath  been  search'd  among  the  dead  and  liviiig, 
But  no  trace  of  him. 

Cym.  To  my  grief,  I  am 

The  heir  of  his  reward  ;  which  I  will  add 
To  you,  the  liver,  heart,  and  brain  of  Britain, 
By  whom,  I  grant,  she  lives.     'T  is  now  the  time 
To  ask  of  whence  you  are  :  report  it. 

Bel.  Sir, 

In  Cambria  are  we  born,  and  gentlemen. 
Farther  to  boast,  were  neither  true  nor  modest. 
Unless  I  add,  we  are  honest. 

Cym.  Bow  your  knees. — 

Arise,  my  knights  o'  the  battle  :  I  create  you 
Companions  to  our  person,  and  will  fit  you 
With  dignities  becoming  your  estates. 

Enter  Cornelius  and  Ladies. 
There's  busines.s  in  these  faces. — Why  so  sadly 
Greet  you  our  victory  ?  you  look  like  Romans, 
And  not  o'  the  court  of  Britain. 

Cor.  Hail,  great  king  ! 

To  sour  your  happiness.  I  must  report 
The  queen  is  dead. 

Cym.  Whom  worse  than  a  physician 

Would  this  report  become  ?  But  I  consider. 
By  medicine  life  may  be  prolong'd,  yet  death 
Will  seize  the  doctor  too. — How  ended  she  ? 

Cor.  With  horror,  madly  dying,  like  her  life  ; 
Which,  being  cruel  to  the  world,  concluded 
Most  cruel  to  herself.     What  she  confess'd, 
I  will  report,  so  please  you :  these  her  women 
Can  trip  me,  if  I  err,  who,  with  wet  cheeks. 
Were  present  when  she  finish'd. 

Cym.  Pr'ythee,  say. 

Cor.  First,  she  confess'd  she  never  lov'd  you  ;  only 
Aifected  greatness  got  by  you,  not  you  : 
Married  your  royalty,  was  wife  to  your  place, 
Abhorr'd  your  person. 

Cym.  She  alone  knew  this  ; 

And,  but  she  spoke  it  dying,  I  would  not 
Believe  tier  lips  in  opening  it.     Proceed. 

C&r.  Your  daughter,  whom  she  bore  in  hand'  to  lov 
With  such  integriij',  she  did  confess 
Was  as  a  scorpion  to  her  sight:  whose  life, 
But  that  her  flight  prevented  it.  she  had 
Ta'en  off  by  poison. 

Cym.  0  most  delicate  fiend  ! 

Who  is  't  can  read  a  woman? — Is  there  more  ? 

Cor.  More,  sir,  and  worse.     She  did  confess,  she  liad 
For  you  a  mortal  mineral ;  which,  being  took, 
Should  by  the  minute  feed  on  life,  and  lingering 
By  inches  waste  you :  in  which  time  she  purpos'd 
By  watching,  weeping,  tendance,  kissing,  to 
O'eroome  you  with  her  show;  and  in  time 


886 


CYMBELmE. 


(When  she  had  fitted  fou  with  her  craft)  to  work 
HiT  son  into  th'  adoption  of  the  crown  : 
But  failing  of  her  end  by  his  strange  absence. 
Grow  shameless-desperate  :  open'd.  in  despite 
Of  heaven  and  men.  Iier  purposes :  repented 
The  evils  she  hatchd  were  not  effected;  so, 
Despairing  died. 

Cym.  Heard  you  all  this,  her  women? 

Lady.  We  did  so,  please  your  highness. 

Cym.  Mine  eyes 

Were  not  in  fault,  for  she  was  beautiful ; 
Mine  ears,  that  heard  her  flattery;  nor  my  heart, 
That  Ihouiiht  her  like  her  seeming:  it  had  been  vicious, 
To  have  mistrusted  her :  yet.  0  my  daughter  ! 
That  it  was  folly  in  me.  thou  may'st  say, 
And  prove  it  in  thy  feeling.     Heaven  mend  all  ! 
Enter  Lucirs,  Iachimo.  the  Soothsayer,  and  other  Roman 
Prisoners,  guarded  ;  Posthimis  behind,  and  Imogen. 
Thou  com'st  not,  Caius,  now  for  tribute  :   that 
The  Britons  have  razd  out.  though  with  the  loss 
Of  many  a  bold  one  ;    whose  kinsmen  have  made  suit, 
That  their  good  souls  may  be  appeas'd  with  slaughter 
Of  you  their  captives,  which  ourself  have  granted. 
So.  think  of  your  estate. 

Ltu.  Con.sider.  sir.  the  chance  of  war  :  the  day 
Was  your?  by  ac<?ident ;  had  it  gone  with  us, 
We  .'^hould  not.  when  the  blood  was  cool,  have  threaten'd 
Our  prisoners  with  the  .sword.     But  since  the  gods 
Will  have  it  thus,  that  nothing  but  our  lives 
May  be  call'd  ran.«oin.  let  it  come  :  sufliceth, 
A  Roman  with  a  Roman's  heart  can  suffer. 
Augustus  lives  to  think  on  't  :  and  so  much 
For  my  peculiar  care.     This  one  thing  only 
I  will  entreat:  my  boy,  a  Briton  born, 
Let  him  be  ran.'som'd :  never  ma.<ter  had 
A  page  80  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent, 
So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true. 
So  feat.»  so  nurse-like.     Let  his  virtue  join 
With  my  request,  which,  I  '11  make  bold,  your  highness 
Cannot  deny  :  he  hath  done  no  Briton  harm, 
Though  he  have  .^erv-'d  a  Roman.     Save  him,  sir. 
And  spare  no  blood  beside. 

f'yn-  I  have  surely  seen  him  : 

His  favour*  is  familiar  to  me. — Boy. 
Thou  ha«t  look'd  thyself  into  my  grace, 
And  art  mine  o\N-n. — I  know  not  why,  nor*  wherefore, 
To  .say,  live,  boy:  ne'er  thank  thy  master;  live, 
.\nd  ask  of  Cymbeline  what  boon  thou  wilt, 
Fitting  my  bounty  and  thy  state,  I  '11  give  it ; 
Y»"a,  though  thou  do  demand  a  prisoner, 
The  noblest  taen. 

'^"w.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

Luc.  1  do  not  bid  thee  beg  my  life,  good  lad, 
And  yet  (  know  thou  wilt. 

^'n«  No,  no ;  alack ! 

There  's  other -work  in  hand. — I  see  a  thing 
Bitter  to  me  as  death. — Your  life,  good  master, 
Mu.st  shuflle  for  itself. 

^^^-  The  boy  disdains  me, 

Hp  leaves  me.  sooma  me  :  briefly  die  their  joys. 

That  place  them  on  the  tru»h  of  girls  and  boys. 

Why  stands  he  so  perplex'd  ? 

^'V^-  What  wouldst  thou,  boy? 

f  love  thee  more  and  more  :  think  more  and  more 
What 's  best  to  ask.     Know'st  him   thou  look'st  on  ? 

•oeak; 
Will  have  ii  .m  live  ?     Is  he  thy  kin  ?  thy  friend  ? 

Imo.  He  is  a  Roman  ;  no  more  kin  to  me, 
Than  I  to  your  highness,  who,  being  bom  your  vassal, 

«  Rtodf       »  CouHlenanet       >  Not  in  folio.     Added  by  Rowe.      » 


I  Am  something  nearer. 

I      Cym.  Wherefore  ey'st  him  so  ? 

Imo.  I  '11  tell  you,  sir,  in  private,  if  you  please 
To  give  me  hearing. 

Cym.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart, 

And  lend  my  best  attention.     What 's  thy  name  ? 

Imo.  F'dele,  sir. 

Cym.  Thou  art  my  good  youth,  my  page 

I  '11  be  thy  master :  walk  with  me  ;  speak  freely 

[Cymbelise  and  Imogen  converse  apatL 

Bel.  Is  not  this  boy  reviv'd  from  death  ? 

Arv.  One  sand  anothei 

Not  more  resembles  :  that  sweet  rosy  lad, 
Who  died,  and  was  Fidele. — What  think  you? 

Chii.  The  same  dead  thing  alive. 

Bel.   Peace,  peace  !    see   farther  :    he  eyes  us  not 
forbear. 
Creatures  may  be  alike  :  were  't  he,  1  am  sure 
He  would  have  spoke  to  us. 

Gui.  But  we  saw  him  dead. 

Bel.  Be  silent ;  let 's  see  farther. 

Pis.  [A.side.]  It  is  my  mistress  I 

Since  she  is  living,  let  the  time  run  on. 
To  good,  or  bad. 

[Cymbeline  and  Imogen  come  forward. 

Cym.  Come,  stand  thou  by  our  side  : 

Make   thy  demand   aloud. — Sir,    [lb   Iachimo.]    step 

you  forth ; 
Give  answer  to  this  boy,  and  do  it  freely. 
Or,  by  our  greatness,  and  the  grace  of  it. 
Which  is  our  honour,  bitter  torture  shall 
Winnow  the  truth  from  falsehood. — On,  speak  to  him. 

Imo.  My  boon  is,  that  this  gentleman  may  render 
Of  whom  he  had  this  ring. 

Post.  \A.side.]  Wh\t  's  that  to  him  ? 

Cym.  That  diamond  upon  your  finger,  say, 
How  came  it  yours  ? 

lach.  Thou  'It  torture  me  to  lea/o  unspoken  tliat 
Which,  to  be  spoke,  would  torturs  thse. 

Cyrri.  How  !  me  ? 

lach.  I  am  glad  to  be  constrain'^  tu  tt'it^r  thjit,  which 
Torments  me  to  conceal.     By  villain/ 
I  got  this  ring  :  't  was  Leonatus'  jcVi-l ; 
Whom  thou  didst  banish:  and  (which  a'vre  n.a/  grieve 

thee, 
As  it  doth  me)  a  nobler  sir  ne'er  liv'd 
'Twixt  sky  and  ground.     Wilt  thou  hoar  mor.^,  my 
lord? 

Cym.  All  that  belongs  to  this. 

lach.  That  paragon,  t.^y  dau»*  er, 

For  whom  my  heart  drops  blood,  and  my  false  spu    i 
Quail  to  remember, — Give  me  leave  :  I  fuiUt. 

Cym.    My   daughter !    what   of    her  ?    renew      »y 
strength  : 
I  had  rather  thou  shouldst  live  while  nature  "will. 
Than  die  ere  I  hear  more.     Strive,  man,  and  speak 

lach.  Upon  a  time,  (unhappy  was  the  clock 
That  struck  the  hour)  it  was  in  Rome,  (accurs'd 
The  mansion  where)  't  was  at  a  feast.  (0  !  would 
Our  viands  had  been  poison'd.  or  at  least 
Those  which  I  heav'd  to  head)  the  good  Posthumur 
(What  should  I  say  ?  he  was  too  good  to  be 
Where  ill  men  were,  and  was  the  be.st  of  all 
Amongst  the  rar'st  of  good  ones)  sitting  sadly, 
Hearing  us  praise  our  loves  of  Italy 
For  beauty,  that  made  barren  the  swell'd  boast 
Of  him  that  best  could  speak  :  for  feature,  laming 
The  shrine  of  Venus,  or  straight-piiiht*  Minerva, 
Postures  beyond  brief  nature  ;  for  condition, 

Placed  upright. 


CYMBELmE. 


887 


A.  shop  of  all  the  qualities  that  mau 

Loves  woman  for  :  besides,  that  hook  of  wiving, 

Fairness,  which  strikes  the  eye  . 

Cym.  I  stand  on  fire. 

Come  to  the  matter. 

lack.  All  too  soon  I  shall, 

Unless  thou  wouldst  grieve  quickly. — This  Posthumus, 

(Most  like  a  noble  lord  in  love,  and  one 

That  had  a  royal  lover)  took  his  hint ; 

And,  not  dispraising  whom  we  prais'd,  (therein 

He  was  as  calm  as  virtue)  he  began 

His  mistress'  picture  :  which  by  his  tongue  being  made. 

And  then  a  mind  put  in 't,  either  our  brags 

Were  crack'd  of  kitchen  trulls,  or  his  description 

Prov'd  us  unspeaking  sots. 

Cym.  Nay,  nay,  to  the  purpose. 

lack.  Your  daughter's  chastity — there  it  begins. 

He  spake  of  her  as  Dian  had  hot  dreams, 

And  she  alone  were  cold  :  whereat,  I,  wretch, 

Made  scruple  of  his  praise  ;  and  wager'd  with  hira 
Pieces  of  gold  'gainst  this,  which  then  he  wore 
Upon  his  honour'd  finger,  to  attain 
In  suit  the  place  of  his  bed,  and  win  this  ring 
By  hers  and  mine  adultery.     He,  true  knight, 
No  lesser  of  her  honour  confident 
Than  I  did  truly  find  her.  stakes  this  rmg ; 
And  would  so,  had  it  been  a  carbuncle 
Of  Phoebus'  wheel ;  and  might  so  safely,  had  it 
Been  all  the  worth  of  his  car.     Away  to  Britain 
Post  I  in  this  design:   well  may  you,  sir. 
Remember  me  at  court,  where  I  was  taught 
Of  your  chaste  daughter  the  wide  difference 
Twixt  amorous  and  villainous.     Being  thus  quench'd 
Of  hope,  not  longing,  mine  Italian  brain 
'Gan  in  your  duller  Britain  operate 
Most  vilely  ;  tbr  my  vantage,  excellent ; 
And,  to  be  brief,  my  practice  so  prevail'd, 
That  I  return'd  -wath  simular  proof,  enough 
To  make  the  noble  Leonatus  mad. 
By  wounding  his  belief  in  her  renown 
With  tokens  thus,  and  thus  ;  averring  notes 
Of  chamber-hanging,  pictures,  this  her  bracelet, 
(0  cunning,  how  I  got  it  !)  nay,  some  marks 
Of  secret  on  her  person,  that  he  could  not 
But  think  her  bond  of  chastity  quite  crack'd, 
I  having  ta'en  the  forfeit.     Whereupon, — 
Methinks,  I  see  him  now, — 
Post.  Ay,  so  thou  dost, 

{Coming  forward. 
Italian  fiend  ! — Ah  me  !  most  credulous  fool, 
Egregious  murderer,  thief,  any  thing 
That 's  due  to  all  the  \allains  past,  in  being, 
To  come  ! — 0,  give  me  cord,  or  knife,  or  poison, 
Some  upright  justicer  !     Thou,  king,  send  out 
For  torturers  ingenious  :  it  is  I 
That  all  the  abhorred  things  o'  the  earth  amend, 
By  being  worse  than  they.     I  am  Posthumus, 
That  kill'd  thy  daughter  : — villain-like,  I  lie  ; 
That  caus'd  a  lesser  villain  than  myself, 
A  sacrilegious  thief,  to  do  't. — The  temple 
Of  virtue  was  she : — yea,  and  she  herself 
Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me  ;  set 
The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me:  every  villain 
Be  call'd  Posthumus  Leonatus,  and 
Be  villainy  less  than  't  was  !— O  Imogen  ! 
My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife  !     0  Imogen, 
Imogen,  Imogen  ! 

Imo.  Peace,  my  lord  !  hear,  hear  ! — 

Post    Shall 's  have  a  play  of  this  ?     Thou  scornful 
page, 


There  lie  thy  part.  [Striking  her:  she  falla 

Pis.  0,  gentlemen  !  help 

Mine,  and  your  mistress. — 0,  my  lord  Posthumus  ' 
You  ne'er  kill'd  Imogen  till  now. — Help,  help  ! — 
Mine  honour'd  lady ! 

Cym.  Does  the  world  go  round? 

Post.  How  come  these  staggers  on  me  ? 

Pis.  Wake,  my  mistresa 

Cym.  If  this  be  so.  the  gods  do  mean  to  strike  me 
To  death  vrith  mortal  joy. 

Pis.  How  fares  my  mistress  ' 

Imo.  0  !  get  thee  from  my  sight : 
Thou  gav'st  me  poison  :  dangerous  fellow,  hence  ! 
Breathe  not  where  princes  are. 

Cym.  The  tune  of  Imogen 

Pis.  Lady, 
The  gods  throw  stones  of  sulphur  on  me,  if 
That  box  I  gave  you  was  not  thought  by  me 
A  precious  thing  :  I  had  it  from  the  queen. 

Cym.  New  matter  still  ? 

Imx).  It  poison'd  me. 

Cor.  0  gods  ' 

I  left  out  one  thing  which  the  queen  confess'd. 
Which  must  approve  thee  honest :  if  Pisauio 
Have,  said  she,  given  his  mistress  that  confection 
Which  I  gave  hira  for  a  cordial,  she  is  serv'd 
As  I  would  serve  a  rat. 

Cym.  What 's  this,  Cornelius  ? 

Cor.  The  queen,  sir,  very  oft  importun'd  me 
To  temper  poisons  for  her;  still  pretending 
The  satisfaction  of  her  knowledge,  only 
In  killing  creatures  \i\e.  as  cats  and  dogs 
Of  no  esteem  :  I,  dreading  that  her  purpose 
Was  of  more  danger,  did  compound  for  her 
A  certain  stuff,  which,  being  ta'en,  would  cease 
The  present  power  of  life  :  but,  in  short  time, 
All  ofliees  of  nature  should  again 
Do  their  due  functions. — Have  you  ta'en  of  it  ? 

Imo.  Most  like  I  did,  for  I  was  dead. 

Bel.  My  boys. 

There  was  our  error. 

Gui.  This  is,  sure.  Fidele. 

Imo.  Wliy  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you ' 
Think,  that  you  are  upon  a  rock  ;  and  now 
Throw  me  again.  [Embracing  Posthitmus. 

Post.  Hang  there  like  fruit,  my  soul, 

Till  the  txee  die  ! 

Cym.  How  now  !  my  flesh,  my  child  ? 

What !  mak'st  thou  me  a  dullard  in  this  act  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  speak  to  me  ? 

Imo.  Your  blessing,  sir.     [Kneeling 

Bel.  Though  you  did  love  this  youth,  I  blame  ye  not 
You  had  a  motive  for 't.  [To  Guiderils  and  Arviragvs 

Cym.  My  tears  that  fall. 

Prove  holy  water  on  thee  !     Imogen, 
Thy  mother  's  dead. 

Imo.  I  am  sorry  for  't,  my  lord. 

Cym.  0  !  she  was  naught ;   and  'long  of  her  it  wan. 
That  we  meet  here  so  strangely  :  but  her  son 
Is  gone,  we  know  not  how,  nor  where. 

Pis.  My  lord, 

Now  fear  is  from  me,  I  '11  speak  troth.     Lord  Cloteo, 
Upon  my  lady's  missing,  came  to  me 
With  his  sword  drawn  :  foam'd  at  the  mouth,  and  swort< 
If  I  discover'd  not  which  way  she  was  gone, 
It  was  my  instant  death.     By  accident, 
I  had  a  feigned  letter  of  my  masters 
Then  in  my  pocket,  which  directed  him 
To  seek  her  on  the  mountains  near  to  Milford  . 
Where,  in  a  frenzy,  in  my  master's  garments 


888 


CYMBELINE. 


ACT    V. 


Which  he  inforc'd  from  me.  away  he  posts 
Witli  uuchasti"  purpose,  and  with  oath  to  violate 
My  lady'a  honour:  what  became  of  him, 
I  farther  know  n^^t. 

(riu.  Let  me  end  the  Btory. 

I  slew  him  Uicre. 

Cym.  Marry,  the  gods  forefend  ! 

I  wouhl  not  thy  good  deeds  should  from  my  lips 
Cluck  a  hard  sentence  :  pr'ythee,  valiant  youth, 
Deny  't  again. 

Gut.  I  have  spoke  it,  and  I  did  it. 

t'l/rn.  He  was  a  prince. 

Giti.  A  most  uncivil  one.     The  wrongs  he  did  me 
Were  nothing  prince-like  :  for  he  did  provoke  me 
With  language  that  would  make  me  spurn  the  sea, 

I I  it  could  .«o  roar  to  me.  I  cut  off 's  head  : 
.A.nd  am  right  glad,  he  is  not  standing  here 
To  tell  this  tale  of  mine. 

Cym.  I  am  sorry  for  thee  : 

By  thine  own  tongue  thou  art  condemn'd,  and  must 
Kndure  our  law.     Thou  art  dead. 

Imo.  That  headless  man 

1  thought  had  been  my  lord. 

Ct/m.  Bind  the  offender, 

And  take  him  from  our  presence. 

Bel.  Stay,  sir  king. 

This  man  is  better  than  the  man  he  slew, 
.As  well  descended  as  thyself;  and  hath 
.More  of  thee  merited,  than  a  band  of  Clotens 
Had  ever  .scar  for. — Let  his  arms  alone  : 

[7b  the  Guard. 
Thfv  were  not  born  for  bondage. 

Cym.  Why.  old  soldier, 

Witt  thou  undo  the  worth  thou  art  unpaid  for, 
ft)-  tastinu  of  our  -wrath  ?     How  of  descent 
As  sood  as  we  ? 

Arv.  In  that  he  spake  too  far. 

f'ym.  And  thou  shalt  die  for  't. 

Bel.  We  will  die  all  three ; 

But  I  will  prove  that  two  on  's  are  as  good 
As  I  have  given  out  him. — My  sons.  I  must 
For  mine  own  part  unfold  a  dangerous  speech, 
rhough,  haply,  well  for  you. 

^■^rr.  Your  danger  's  ours. 

Gtti.  And  our  good  his. 
.  fie/.  Have  at  it,  then,  by  leave. 

Thou  hadiit,  great  king,  a  subject,  who  was  call'd 
Belariuh. 

Cym.  What  of  him  ?  he  is 

A  bani.sh'd  traitor. 

ffel.  He  it  is  that  hath 

A.'«t<um'd  this  age:  indeed,  a  banish'd  man; 
I  know  not  how,  a  traitor. 

'^  y»-  Take  him  hence. 

The  whole  world  shall  not  save  him. 

fi''^-  Not  too  hot : 

First  pay  me  for  the  nursing  of  thy  sons; 
And  let  it  be  confiscate  all,  so  soon 
Ar  I  have  receiv'd  it. 

^V"-  Nursing  of  my  sons  ? 

firl.  I  am  too  blunt,  and  saucy  ;  here  's  my  knee  : 
F.re  I  an.oc,  I  will  prefer  my  sons: 
Then,  spare  not  the  old  father.     Mightv  sir, 
Thfi«c  two  young  gentlemen,  that  call  me  father, 
And  think  they  are  my  Bon.<»,  are  none  of  mine : 
They  are  the  iMue  of  your  loins,  ray  liege, 
A.nd  bliKxl  of  your  begetting. 

^yj"  How  !  mv  issue  ? 

yel    So  sure  as  you  your  father's.     I,  old  Morgan, 

w»  :  la  tolio.     Row*  nuula  th«  ehuice. 


Am  that  Belarius  whom  you  sometime  banish'd  : 
Your  plea.«ure  was  my  mere  offence,  my  punihhmem 
Itself,  and  all  my  trca.'^on:  that  I  .'^ufferd 
Was  all  the  harm  I  did.     These  gentle  princes 
(For  such,  and  .so  they  are)  these  twenty  years 
Have  I  train'd  up ;  those  arts  they  have,  as  I 
Could  put  into  them  :  my  breeding  was,  sir,  as 
Your  higline.<s  knows.     Their  nurse.  Euriphile, 
Whom  for  the  theft  I  wedded   stole  these  childrer 
Upon  my  banishment :  I  mov'd  her  to  't ; 
Having  received  the  punishment  before, 
For  that  which  I  did  then  :  beaten  for  loyalty 
Excited  me  to  trea.^on.     Tlicir  dear  loss. 
The  more  of  you  'twas  felt,  the  more  it  shap'd 
Unto  my  end  of  stealing  them.     But.  gracious  sir, 
Here  are  your  sons  again  :  and  I  must     so 
Two  of  tlie  sweet 'st  companions  in  th<   >vorld. — 
The  benediction  of  these  covering  h     .  ens 
Fall  on  their  heads  like  dew  !  for  the    are  worthy 
To  inlay  heaven  with  stars. 

Cym.  Thou  weep'st,  and  speak'i»« 

The  service,  that  you  three  have  done,  is  more 
Unlike  than  this  thou  tell'st.     I  lost  my  children 
If  these  be  they,  I  know  not  how  to  wish 
A  pair  of  worthier  sons. 

Bel.  Be  pleas'd  a  while.-- 

This  gentleman,  whom  I  call  Polydore, 
Most  worthy  prince,  as  yours  is  true  (Juideriuf  : 
This  gentleman,  my  Cadwal,  Arviragus, 
Your  younger  princely  son  :  he,  sir,  was  lapp'd 
In  a  most  curious  mantle^  wrought  by  the  hand 
Of  his  queen  mother,  whic'h,  for  more  probation, 
I  can  with  ease  produce. 

Cym.  Guiderius  had 

Upon  his  neck  a  mole,  a  sanguine  star  : 
It  was  a  mark  of  wonder. 

Bel.  This  is  he. 

Who  hath  upon  him  still  that  natural  stamp. 
It  was  wise  nature's  end  in  the  donation. 
To  be  his  evidence  now. 

Cym.  0  !  what  am  I 

A  mother  to  the  birth  of  three  ?     Ne'er  mother 
Rejoic'd  deliverance  more. — Bless'd  pray  you  be. 
That  after  this  strange  starting  irom  your  orbs. 
You  may  reign  in  them  now. — 0  Imogen ! 
Thou  ha.st  lost  by  this  a  kingdom. 

Imo.  No,  my  lord , 

I  have  got  two  worlds  by  't. — 0,  my  gentle  brothers  ! 
Have  we  thus  met?  0  !  never  say  hereafter. 
But  1  am  truest  speaker:  you  call'd  me  brother, 
When  I  was  but  your  sister ;  I  you  brothers, 
When  you'  were  so  indeed. 

Cym.  Did  you  e'er  meet  ? 

Arv.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Gui.  And  at  first  meeting  lov  a 

Continued  so,  until  we  thought  he  died. 

Cor.  By  the  queen's  dram  she  swallow'd. 

Cym.  0  rare  instinct  • 

When  shall  I  hear  al!  through  ?    This  fierce  abridgment 
Hath  to  it  circumstantial  branches,  which 
Distinction  should  be  rich  in. — VVhere  ?  how  liv'd  you 
And  when  came  you  to  serve  our  Roman  captive? 
How  parted  with  your  brothers?  how  first  met  them' 
Why  lied  you  from  the  court,  and  whither  '     These, 
And  your  three  motives  to  the  battle,  with 
I  know  not  how  much  more,  should  be  demanded. 
And  all  the  other  by-depcndcncics. 
From  chance  to  chance ;  but  nor  the  time,  nor  placa 
Will  serve  our  long  inter'gatoriefl.     See, 


SCENE    V. 


CTMBELIKE. 


Posthumus  anchors  upon  Imogen  ; 
And  she,  like  harmless  lightning,  throws  her  eye 
On  him,  her  brothers,  me,  her  master,  hitting 
Each  object. with  a  joy :  the  counterchange 
Is  severally  in  all.     Let 's  quit  this  ground, 
And  smoke  the  temple  with  our  sacrifices. — 
Thou  art  my  brother :  so  v/e  '11  hold  thee  ever. 

[2b  Belarius. 

Imo.  You  are  my  father,  too ;  and  did  relieve  me, 
To  see  this  gracious  season. 

Cym.  All  o'erjoy'd, 

Save  these  in  bonds:  let  them  be  joyful  too, 
For  they  shall  taste  our  comfort. 

Imo.  My  good  master, 

I  will  yet  do  you  service. 

Luc.  Happy  be  you  ! 

Cym.  The  forlorn  soldier,  that  so  nobly  fought. 
He  would  have  well  become'  this  place,  and  grac'd 
The  thankings  of  a  king. 

Post.  I  am,  sir. 

The  soldier  that  did  company  these  three 
lu  poor  beseeming  :  't  was  a  fitment  for 
The  purpose  I  then  follow'd. — That  I  was  he, 
Speak,  lachimo  :  I  had  you  down,  and  might 
Have  made  you  finish. 

lach.  t  am  down  again  ;   [Kneeling. 

But  now  my  heavy  conscience  sinks  my  knee, 
As  then  your  force  did.     Take  that  life,  beseech  you, 
Which  I  so  often  owe ;  but  your  ring  first, 
And  here  the  bracelet  of  the  truest  princess 
That  ever  swore  her  faith. 

Post.  Kneel  not  to  me  : 

The  power  that  I  have  on  you  is  to  spare  you; 
The  malice  towards  you  to  forgive  you.  Live, 
And  deal  with  others  better. 

Cym.  Nobly  doom'd. 

We  '11  learn  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law  : 
Pardon  's  the  word  to  all. 

Arv.  You  holp  us,  sir, 

As  you  did  mean  indeed  to  be  our  brother ; 
loy'd  are  we,  that  you  are. 

Post.    Your    servant,    princes. — Good   my    lord   of 
Rome, 
Call  forth  your  soothsayer.     As  I  slept,  methought, 
Great  Jupiter,  upon  his  eagle  back'd, 
Appear'd  to  me,  with  other  spritely  shows 
Of  mine  own  kindred  :  when  I  wak'd,  I  found 
This  label  on  my  bosom  ;  whose  containing 
Is  so  from  sense  in  hardness,  that  I  can 
Make  no  collection  of  it :  let  him  show 
His  skill  in  the  construction. 

Luc.  Philarmonus ! 

Sooth.  Here,  my  good  lord.  [Coming  forward. 

Luc  Read,  and  declare  the  meaning. 

Sooth.  [Reads.]  "  When  as  a  lion's  whelp  shall,  to 

<  asoom'd  ■  in  folio. 


himself  unknown,  without  seekini   find,  and  be  em- 

braced   by  a  piece  of  tender   air ;  and  when  from  a 

stately  cedar  shall  be  lopped  braftches,  which  being 

dead  many  years  shall  after  revive,  be  jointed  to  the 

old  stock,  and  freshly  grow,  then  shall  Posthr.mns  end 

his  miseries,  Britain  be  fortunate,  and  flourish  in  peac« 

and  plenty." 

Thou,  Leonatus,  art  the  lion's  whelp  ; 

The  fit  and  apt  construction  of  thy  name, 

Being  Leo-natus,  doth  import  so  much. 

The  piece  of  tender  air,  thy  virtuous  daughter, 

[To  Ctmbeli.nb. 
Which  we  call  mollis  aer  ;  and  mollis  aer 
We  term  it  mulier :  which  mulier,  I  divine. 
Is  this  most  constant  wife  ;  who,  even  now, 
Answering  the  letter  of  the  oracle, 
Unknown  to  you,  unsought,  were  clipp'd  about 
With  this  most  tender  air. 

Cym.  This  hath  some  seeming. 

Sooth.  The  lofty  cedar,  royal  Cymbeline. 
Personates  thee ;  and  thy  lopp'd  branches  point 
Thy  two  sons  forth ;  who,  by  Belarius  stolen, 
For  many  years  thought  dead,  are  now  reviv'd, 
To  the  majestic  cedar  join'd,  whose  issue 
Promises  Britain  peace  and  plenty. 

Cym.  Well, 

My  peace  we  will  begin. — And,  Caius  Lucius, 
Although  the  victor,  we  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  to  the  Roman  empire ;  promising 
To  pay  our  wonted  tribute,  from  the  which 
We  were  dissuaded  by  our  wicked  queen ; 
Whom  heavens,  in  justice,  both  on  her  and  hers 
Have  laid  most  heavy  hand. 

Sooth.  The  fingers  of  the  powe'-s  above  do  tune 
The  harmony  of  this  peace.     The  vision. 
Which  I  made  known  to  Lucius  ere  the  stroke 
Of  this  yet  scarce-cold  battle,  at  this  instant 
Is  full  accompiish'd ;  for  the  Roman  eagle. 
From  south  to  west  on  wing  soaring  aloft, 
Lessen'd  herself,  and  in  the  beams  o'  the  sun 
So  vanish'd  :  which  foreshow'd  our  princely  eagle, 
Th'  imperial  Csesar,  should  again  unite 
His  favour  with  the  radiant  Cymbeline, 
Which  shines  here  in  the  west. 

Cym.  Laud  we  the  gods  , 

And  let  our  crooked  smokes  climb  to  their  n'->strils 
From  our  bless'd  altars.     Publish  we  tlus  peace 
To  all  our  subjects.     Set  we  forward.     Let 
A  Roman  and  a  British  ensign  wave 
Friendly  together ;  so  through  Lud's  town  march, 
And  in  the  temple  of  great  Jupiter 
Our  peace  we  '11  ratify;  seal  it  with  feasts. — ' 
Set  on  there  ! — Never  was  a  war  did  cease. 
Ere  bloody  hands  were  wash'd,  with  such  a  peace. 

[Exeunl 


PERICLES,    PRINCE   OF    TYRE 


DRAMATIS     PERSONS. 


Antiochcs,  King  of  Antioch. 
Pkricles.  Prince  of  Tyre. 

Hkucanus,  )^,^  Lords  of  Tyre. 

SiMoNiDES,  King  of  Pentapolis. 
Cleon,  Governor  of  Tharsus. 
Lysimachus,  Governor  of  Mitylene. 
Cekimon,  a  Lord  of  Ejihesus. 
Thaliard,  a  Lord  of  Antioch. 
Philemon,  Servant  to  Cerimon. 
Leo.nine,  Servant  to  Dionyza. 


MarshaL 

A  Pander,  and  his  Wife. 
BouLT,  their  Servant. 
GowER,  as  Chorus. 

The  Daughter  of  Antiochus. 

Dionyza,  Wife  to  Cleon. 

Thaisa,  Daughter  to  Simonides. 

Marina,  Daughter  to  Pericles  and  Thai» 

Lychorida.  Nurse  to  Marina. 

Diana. 


Lords,  Ladies,  Knights,  Gentlemen,  Sailors,  Pirates,  Fishermen,  Messengers,  &c. 
SCENE,  dispersediy  in  various  Countries. 


ACT    I 


Enter  Gower. 
Before  the  Palace  of  Antioch. 
To  sing  a  song  that  old  was  sung. 
From  ashes  ancient  Gower  is  come ; 
A.^uming  man's  infirmities. 
To  glad  your  ear,  and  please  your  eyes, 
ii  hath  been  sung  at  festivals. 
On  ember-eves,  and  holy  ales,' 
And  lords  and  ladies  in  their  lives 
Have  read  it  for  restoratives : 
The  purpose'  is  to  make  men  glorious ; 
YA  bonum  quo  antiqitius,  eo  melius. 
If  you,  born  in  these  latter  times, 
When  wit 's  more  ripe,  accept  my  rhymes. 
And  that  to  hear  an  old  man  sing. 
May  to  your  -wishes  pleasure  bring, 
I  life  would  ^^^sh,  and  that  I  might 
Wa.'^te  it  for  you,  like  taper-light. — 
This  Antioch,  then  :  Antiochus  the  great 
Built  up  this  city  for  his  chiefeft  seat, 
The  fairest  in  all  Syria; 
I  tell  you  what  my  authors  say: 
This  king  unto  him  took  a  feere,* 
Who  died  and  left  a  female  heir, 
S<j  buxom,  Withe,  and  full  of  face, 
A.«  heaven  had  lent  licr  all  his  grace; 
With  whom  the  father  liking  took. 
And  her  to  incest  did  provoke. 
B.id  child,  wor.'ie  father,  to  entice  his  ovnn 
To  evil,  sliorild  be  done  by  none. 
By*  custom  what  they  did  begin 
Wa*  with  long  use  account  no  sin. 
The  beauty  of  this  sinful  dame 
Made  ninny  princes  thither  frame, 
To  seek  her  as  a  bed-follow. 
In  marriage  pleasures  play-fellow  ; 
Which  to  prevent  he  made  a  law, 


To  keep  her  still  and  men  in  awe, 

That  whoso  ask'd  her  for  his  wife, 

His  riddle  told  not,  lost  his  life : 

So,  for  her  many  a  -vsnght  did  die. 

As  yond'  grim  looks*  do  testify. 

What  now  ensues,  to  the  judgment  of  your  eye 

I  give,  my  cause  who  best  can  justify.       [Exif 

SCENE  I.— Antioch.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Antiochus,  Pericles,  and  Attendants. 

Ant.  Young  prince  of  Tyre,  you  have  at  large  received 
The  danger  of  the  task  you  undertake. 

Per.  I  have,  Antiochus,  and  with  a  soul 
Embolden'd  with  the  glory  of  her  praise, 
Think  death  no  hazard  in  this  enterprise.  [Music. 

Ant.  Bring  in  our  daughter,  clothed  like  a  bride, 
For  the  embracements  even  of  Jove  himself; 
At  whose  conception,  (till  Lucina  reign'd) 
Nature  this  dowry  gave,  to  glad  her  presence, 
The  senate-house  of  planets  all  did  sit, 
To  knit  in  her  their  best  perfections. 

Enter  the  Daughter  of  ANTiocurs. 

Per.  See,  where  she  comes,  apparell'd  like  the  spring 
Graces  her  subjects,  and  her  thoughts  the  king 
Of  every  virtue  gives  renown  to  men  ! 
Her  face,  the  book  of  praises,  where  is  read 
Nothing  but  curious  pleasures,  as  from  thence 
Sorrow  were  ever  ras'd,'  and  testy  wrath 
Could  never  be  her  mild  companion. 
Ye  gods,  that  made  me  man,  and  sway  in  love, 
That  have  inflam'd  desire  in  my  breast. 
To  taste  the  fruit  of  yon  celestial  tree, 
Or  die  in  the  adventure,  be  my  hel]>9. 
As  I  am  son  and  servant  to  your  will. 
To  compass  such  a  boundless'  happiness  I 

Aut.  Prince  Pericles, — 

Per.  That  would  be  son  to  great  Antiochus. 

Ant.  Before  thee  stands  this  fair  Hesperides, 


Foiirtit ;  dari :  in  old  cofiM.  Farmer  made  tb«  chance.     >  purehase  :  in  old  copies.     '  Malt      ♦  But :  in  old  copies.     »  Of  the  di-oap 
0T*r  the  city  Eat«      *        ' r      ,. 


lUtrJ  hcadi 


890 


*  r&ck'd  :  in  old  copiei. 


}nJleu  :  in  old  copies 


copies. 
.     Row 


we  made  the  chance. 


JJCENE   I 


PERICT.es,   PRmCE   OF  TYEE. 


891 


With  golden  fruit,  but  dangerous  to  be  touch'd ; 
For  death-like  dragons  here  affright  thee  hard  : 
Hei  face,  like  heaven,  enticeth  thee  to  view 
Her  countless  glory,  which  desert  must  gain  ; 
And  which,  without  desert,  because  thine  eye 
Presumes  to  reach,  all  thy  whole  heap  must  die. 
Yond'  sometime  famous  princes,  like  thyself, 
Dra^wTi  by  report,  adventurous  by  desire. 
Tell  thee  \%'ith  speechless  tongues,  and  semblance  pale, 
That,  without  covering,  save  yond'  field  of  stars, 
They  here  stand  martyrs,  slain  in  Cupid's  wars ; 
A.nd  with  dead  cheeks  advise  thee  to  desist. 
For  going  on  death's  net,  whom  none  resist. 

Per.  Antiochus,  I  thank  thee,  who  hath  taught 
My  frail  mortality  to  know  itself, 
And  by  those  fearful  oojects  to  prepare 
This  body,  like  to  them,  to  what  I  must : 
For  death  remembcr'd  should  be  like  a  mirror, 
Who  tells  us,  life  "s  but  breath  :  to  trust  it,  error. 
I  "11  make  oiy  will,  then ;  and  as  sick  men  do. 
Who  know  the  world,  see  heaven,  but  feeling  woe, 
Gripe  not  at  earthly  joys,  as  erst  they  did  : 
So,  I  bequeath  a  happy  peace  to  you. 
And  all  good  men.  as  every  prince  should  do : 
My  riches  to  the  earth  from  whence  they  came. 
But  my  unspotted  fire  of  love  to  you. 

[To  the  Daughter  0/ Antiochus. 
Thus,  ready  for  the  way  of  life  or  death, 
I  wait  the  sharpest  blow. 

Ant.  Scorning  advice,  read  the  conclusion,  then ; 
Which  read  and  not  expounded,  't  is  decreed. 
As  these  before  thee,  thou  thyself  shalt  bleed. 

Dough.  Of  all,  "say'd  yet,  may'st  thou  prove  pros- 
perous ! 
Of  all,  'say'd  yet,  I  wish  thee  happiness. 

Per.  Like  a  bold  champion,  I  assume  the  list*, 
Nor  ask  advice  of  any  other  thought 
But  faithfulness,  and  courage. 

The  Riddle. 
I  am  no  viper,  yet  I  feed 
On  mother's  flesh,  which  did  me  breed; 
I  sought  a  husband,  in  which  labour, 
I  found  that  kindness  in  a  father : 
He  '5  father,  son,  and  husband  mild, 
I  mother,  ivife,  and  yet  his  child. 
How  they  may  be,  and  yet  in  two, 
As  you  will  live,  resolve  it  you. 
Sharp  physick  is  the  last :  but,  0  !  you  powers, 
That  give  heaven  countless  eyes  to  view  men's  acts, 
Wliy  cloud  they  not  their  sights  perpetually. 
If  this  be  true,  which  makes  me  pale  to  read  it  ? 
Fair  glass  of  light,  I  lov'd  you,  and  could  still, 
Were  not  this  glorious  casket  stor'd  with  ill ; 
But  I  must  tell  you, — now,  my  thoughts  revolt, 
For  he  's  no  man  on  whom  perfections  wait. 
That,  knowing  sin  within,  will  touch  the  gate. 
Vou  're  a  fair  \'iol,  and  your  sense  the  strings, 
Who,  finger' d  to  make  man  his  lawful  music, 
Would  draw  heaven  down  and  all  the  gods  to  hearken 
But  being  play'd  upon  before  your  time. 
Hell  only  danceth  to  so  harsh  a  chime. 
Good  sooth,  I  care  not  for  you. 

Ant.  Prince  Pericles,  touch  not,  upon  thy  life, 
For  that 's  an  article  within  our  law, 
As  dangerous  as  the  rest.     Your  time  's  expir'd : 
Either  expound  now,  or  receive  your  sentence. 

Per.  Great  king, 
Few  love  to  hear  the  sins  they  love  to  act ; 
'T  would  'braid  yourself  too  near  for  me  to  tell  it. 
'  shew  :  in  old  copies.    Malone  made  the  change. 


Who  has  a  book  of  all  that  monarchs  do. 
He  's  more  secure  to  keep  it  shut,  than  shown ; 
For  vice  repeated  is  like  the  wandering  wind. 
Blows  dust  in  others'  eyes,  to  spread  itself: 
And  yet  the  end  of  all  is  bought  thus  dear. 
The  breath  is  gone,  and  the  sore  eyes  see  clear : 
To  stop  the  air  would  hurt  them.  The  blind  mole  casls 
Copp'd  hills  towards  heaven,  to  tell  the  earth  is  thronged 
By  man's  oppression ;  and  the  poor  worm  doth  die  for  't 
Kings  are  earth's  gods ;  in  vice  their  law  's  their  will, 
And  if  Jove  stray,  who  dares  say  Jove  doth  ill  ? 
It  is  enough  you  know ;  and  it  is  fit. 
What  being  more  known  grows  worse,  to  smother  it. 
All  love  the  womb  that  their  first  beings  bred, 
Then,  give  my  tongue  like  leave  to  love  my  head. 
Ant.  [Aside.]  Heaven,  that  I  had  thy  head  !  he  bai 
found  the  meaning: 
But  1  will  gloze  with  him.  [To  him.]  Young  prince  of 

Tyre, 
Though  by  the  tenour  of  our  strict  edict. 
Your  exposition  misinterpreting, 
We  might  proceed  to  cancel  of  your  days , 
Yet  hope,  succeeding  from  so  fair  a  tree 

As  your  fair  self,  doth  tune  us  otherwise. 

Forty  days  longer  we  do  respite  you ; 

If  by  which  time  our  secret  be  undone. 

This  mercy  shows,  we  '11  joy  in  such  a  son : 

And  until  then  your  entertain  shall  be. 

As  doth  befit  our  honour,  and  your  worth. 

[Exeunt  Antiochus,  his  Daughter,  and  AttendarUs. 
Per.  How  courtesy  would  seem  to  cover  sin, 

When  what  is  done  is  like  an  hypocrite, 

The  which  is  good  in  nothing  but  in  sight. 

If  it  be  true  that  I  interpret  false. 

Then  were  it  certain,  you  were  not  so  bad. 

As  \A-ith  foul  incest  to  abuse  your  soul ; 

Where  now  you  're  both  a  father  and  a  son. 

By  your  untimely  claspings  with  your  child. 

(Which  pleasure  fits  a  husband,  not  a  father) 

And  she  an  eater  of  her  mother's  flesh. 

By  the  defiling  of  her  parent's  bed; 

And  both  like  serpents  are.  who  though  they  feed 

On  sweetest  flowers,  yet  they  poison  breed. 

Antioch,  farewell  !  for  wdsdom  sees,  those  men 

Blush  not  in  actions  blacker  than  the  night, 

"Will  shun'  no  comse  to  keep  them  from  the  light . 

One  sin,  I  know,  another  doth  provoke : 

Murder  's  as  near  to  lust,  as  flame  to  smoke. 

Poison  and  treason  are  the  hands  of  sin, 

Ay,  and  the  targets,  to  put  off  the  shame  : 

Then,  lest  my  life  be  cropp'd  to  keep  you  clear. 

By  flight  I  '11  shun  the  danger  which  I  fear.         [Ent 
Re-enter  Antiochus. 
Ant.  He  hath  found  the  meaning,  for  the  which  ^'e 
mean 

To  have  his  head. 

He  must  not  live  to  trumpet  forth  my  infamy, 

Nor  tell  the  world  Antiochus  doth  sin 

In  such  a  loathed  manner : 

And  therefore  instantly  this  prince  must  die ; 

For  by  his  fall  my  honour  must  keep  high 

Who  attends  us  there  ? 

Enter  Thaliard. 
Thai.  Bjth  your  highness  call? 

Ant.  Thaliard, 

You  're  of  our  chamber,  and  our  mind  partakes 

Her  private  actions  to  your  secrecy  ; 

And  for  your  faithfulness  we  will  advance  you. 

Thaliard,  behold,  here  '9  poison,  and  here  's  gold  j 


892 


PEHICLES,  TRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


We  hate  the  prince  of  Tyre,  and  thou  must  kill  him : 
It  fits  thee  not  to  ask  the  reason  why, 
Because  we  bid  it.     Say,  is  it  done  ? 

Thtil.  My  lord, 

'T  is  done. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Ant.   Knouch. — 
Let  your  breath  cool  yourself,  telling  your  haste. 

Mes3.  My  lord,  prince  Pericles  is  fled. 

[Exit  Messenger. 

Ant.  As  thou 

Wilt  live,  fly  after  :  and,  as'  an  arrow,  shot 
From  a  well-experienc"d  archer,  hits  the  mark 
Hi«  eye  doth  level  at,  so  ne'er  return, 
Unless  thou  say  Prince  Pericles  is  dead. 

I1uii  My  lord,  if  I 
Can  s.e    him  once  within  my  pistol's  length, 
[  '11  make  l:im  sure:  so,  farewell  to  your  highness.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Tlialiard.  adieu. — Till  Pericles  be  dead. 
My  heart  can  lend  no  succour  to  my  head.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— TyTC.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Pericles,  Helicanus.  and  other  Lords. 
Per.  Let  none  disturb  us  :  why  should  this  change 
of  thoughts? 
The  sad  companion.  duU-ey'd  melancholy, 
By  me  so  us"d  a  guest  is,  not  an  hour, 
In  the  day's  glorious  walk,  or  peaceful  night, 
The  tomb  where  grief  should  sleep,  can  breed  me  quiet. 
Here  plea-^^ures  court  mine  eyes,  and  mine  eyes  shun 

them, 
.\nd  danger,  which  I  fear'd,  is  at  Antioch, 
Whose  arm  .«eems  far  too  short  to  hit  me  here  ; 
Yet  neither  pleasure's  art  can  joy  my  spirits, 
Nor  yet  the  others  distance  comfort  me. 
Then,  it  is  thus  :  that  passions  of  the  mind. 
That  have  their  first  conception  by  mis-dread, 
Have  after-nouri>hment  and  life  by  care  ; 
And  what  was  first  but  fear  what  might  be  done, 
Grows  elder  now,  and  cares  it  be  not  done ; 
And  so  w  ith  me  : — the  great  Antioclius 
("Gainst  whom  I  am  too  little  to  contend. 
Since  he  's  bo  great,  can  make  his  will  his  act) 
Will  think  me  .^peaking,  though  I  swear  to  silence : 
Nor  booUi  it  me  to  say,  I  honour. 
If  he  Rusjiect  I  may  dishonour  him  : 
And  what  may  make  him  blush  in  being  known, 
He  Ml  »top  the  course  by  which  it  mi^ht  be  known. 
With  hostile  forces  he  'II  o'er.spnead  the  land, 
And  with  the  os'cnt'  of  war  will  look  so  huge, 
Arnaz'-mcnl  shall  drive  courage  from  the  state; 
Our  men  be  vanquish'd  ere  they  do  resist, 
And  subjects  punishM  that  ne'er  thought  ofltnce  : 
Which  care  of  them,  not  pity  of  myself, 
•  Who  am'  no  more  but  a,s  the  tops  of  trees, 
Which  fence  the  roots  ihey  grow  by,  and  defend  them) 
Makefi  both  my  body  pine,  and  soul  to  langui.sh, 
And  |iuiii.*h  that  before,  that  he  would  punish. 

1  Ijctril.  ins  and  all  c<j/nfort  in  your  sacred  breast. 

2  lA/rd.  And  keep  your  mind,  till  you  return  to  us, 
Peaceful  and  comfortable. 

Hel.  Peace,  peace  !  and  give  experience  tongue. 
They  do  abuhe  the  king,  that  flatter  him  : 
For  flattery  is  thr  bellows  blows  up  sin  ; 
The  thmg  tlic  which  i.-*  flatter'd.  but  a  spark. 
To  which  that  bhkst*  L'ives  heat*  and  stronger  glowing  ; 
Whereas  reproof,  obedient  and  in  order. 
Kits  kings,  as  they  are  men,  for  they  may  err: 


When  signior  Sooth,  here,  does  proclaim  a  peace, 
lie  flatters  you,  makes  war  upon  your  life. 
Prince,  pardon  me.  or  strike  me,  if  you  please ; 
I  cannot  be  much  lower  than  my  knees. 

Per.  All  leave  us  else  ;  but  let  your  cares  o'er-look 
What  shipping,  and  what  lading  's  in  our  haven, 
And  then  return  to  us.     [Exeunt  Lords^     Helicanus, 

thou 
Hast  moved  us  :  what  seest  thou  in  our  looks  ' 
Hel.  An  angry  brow,  dread  lord. 
Per.  If  there  be  such  a  dart  in  prince's  frowns, 
How  durst  thy  tongue  move  anger  to  our  face? 

Hel.  How  dare  the  plants  look  up  to  heaven,  '"lom 
whence 
They  have  their  nourishment  ? 

Per.  Thou  know'st  I  have  power 

To  take  thy  life  from  thee. 

Hel.  I  have  ground  the  axe  mvsclf; 

Do  you  but  strike  the  blow. 

Per.  Rise,  pr'ythee  rise. 

Sit  down  ;  thou  art  no  flatterer  : 
I  thank  thee  for  it ;  and  heaven  forbid, 
That  kings  should  let  their  ears  hear  their  faults  hid 
Fit  counsellor,  and  servant  for  a  prince, 
Who  by  thy  wisdom  mak'st  a  prince  thy  servant, 
What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 

Hel.  To  bear  with  patience 

Such  griefs  as  you  yourself  do  lay  upon  yourself. 
Per.  Thou  speak'st  like  a  physician,  Helicanus, 
That  ministers  a  potion  unto  me, 
That  thou  wouldst  tremble  to  receive  thyself. 
Attend  me,  then  :  1  went  to  Antioch, 
Where,  as  thou  know'st,  against  the  face  of  death 
I  sought  the  purchase  of  a  glorious  beauty. 
From  whence  an  issue  I  might  propagate, 
Are  arms  to  princes,  and  bring  joys  to  subjects. 
Her  face  was  to  mine  eye  beyond  all  wonder ; 
The  rest  (hark  in  thine  ear)  as  black  as  incest : 
Which  by  my  knowledge  found,  the  sinful  father 
Seem'd  not  to  strike,  but  smooth  :  but  thou  know'st  this, 
'T  is  time  to  fear,  when  tyrants  seem  to  kiss. 
Which  fear  so  grew  in  me,  I  hither  fled 
Under  the  covering  of  a  careful  night, 
Who  seem'd  my  good  protector  :  and  being  here, 
Bethought  me  what  was  past,  what  might  succeed. 
I  knew  him  tjTannous  ;  and  tyrants'  fears 
Decrease  not,  but  grow  faster  than  the  years. 
And  should  he  doubt'  it,  (as  no  doubt  he  doth) 
That  I  should  open  to  the  listening  air, 
How  many  worthy  princes'  bloods  were  shed, 
To  keep  his  bed  of  blackness  unlaid  ope. 
To  lop  that  doubt  he'll  fill  this  land  \vith  arms. 
And  make  pretence  of  wrong  that  I  have  done  him , 
When  all,  for  mine,  if  I  may  call  't,  oflfence. 
Must  feel  war's  blow,  who  spares  not  innocence  : 
Which  love  to  all,  of  which  thyself  art  one, 
Who  now  reprov'st  me  for  it  — 

Hel.  Alas,  sir ! 

Per.  Drew  sleep  out  of  mine  eyes,  blood  from   my 
cheeks, 
Musings  into  my  mind,  a  thousand  doubts 
How  I  might  stop  this  tempest  ere  it  came  ; 
And  finding  little  comfort  to  relieve  them, 
I  tliought  it  princely  charity  to  grieve  them. 

Hel.  Well,  my  lord,  since  you  have  given  me  leava 
to  speak. 
Freely  will  I  speak.     Antiochus  you  fear. 
And  justly  too,  I  think,  you  fear  the  tyrant. 


Uk«  :  in  qnarvn.     »itint :  in  old  copiei.     Tyrwhitt  made  the  chance.      >  once  :  in  old  copies.     Steevene  made  the  change.      ♦  n*** 
•  oid  Mpiu.     Maicn  made  the  change.      »  heart :  in  old  copiei.      •  doo  't  :  in  old  copiei.     Malone  made  the  change. 


SiTEifE  rv. 


PEEICLES,   PKmCE   OF  TYRE. 


Who  either  by  public  war,  or  private  treason, 

Will  take  away  your  life. 

Therefore,  my  lord,  go  travel  for  a  while, 

Till  that  his  rage  and  anger  be  forgot, 

Or  till  the  Destinies  do  cut  his  thread  of  life. 

Your  rule  direct  to  any ;  if  to  me. 

Day  serves  not  light  more  faithful  than  I  '11  be. 

Per.  I  do  not  doubt  thy  faiih ; 
But  should  he  wrong  my  liberties  in  my  absence  ? 

Hel.  We  '11  mingle  our  bloods  together  in  the  earth. 
From  whence  we  had  our  being  and  our  birth. 

Per.  Tyre.  I  now  look  from  thee,  then  :  and  to  Tharsus 
Intend  my  travel,  where  I  '11  hear  from  thee. 
And  by  whose  letters  I  '11  dispose  myself. 
The  care  I  had,  and  have,  of  subjects'  good, 
On  thee  I  lay,  whose  wisdom's  strength  can  bear  it. 
I  '11  take  thy  word  for  faith,  not  ask  thine  oath  ; 
Who  shuns  not  to  break  one,  will  sure'  craok  both. 
But  in  our  orbs  we  live  so  round  and  safe, 
That  time  of  both  this  truth  shall  ne'er  convince,' 
Thou  show'dst  a  subject's  shine,  I  a  true  prince. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  TTI.— T^-re.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 

Palace. 

Filter  Thaliard. 

Thai.  So,  this  is  Tyre,  and  this  is  the  court.  Here 
must  I  kill  king  Pericles ;  and  if  I  do  not,  I  am  sure  to 
be  hang'd  at  home  :  't  is  dangerous. — Well,  I  perceive 
he  was  a  wise  fellow,  and  had  good  discretion,  that 
being  bid  to  ask  what  he  would  of  the  king,  desired  he 
might  know  none  of  his  secrets  :  now  do  I  see  he  had 
some  reason  for  it ;  for  if  a  king  bid  a  man  be  a  villain, 
he  is  bound  by  the  indenture  of  his  oath  to  be  ojie. — 
Hush  !  here  come  the  lords  of  Tyre. 

Enter  Helicanus.  Escanes,  and  other  Lords. 

Hel.  You  shall  not  need,  my  fellow  peers  of  Tyre, 
Farther  to  question  me  of  your  king's  departure  : 
His  seal'd  commission,  left  in  trust  with  me. 
Doth  speak  sufficiently,  he  's  gone  to  travel. 

Thai.    [Aside]    How  !  the  king  gone  ? 

Hel.  If  farther  yet  you  will  be  satisfied, 
Why,  as  it  were  unlicens'd  of  your  loves, 
He  would  depart,  I  'U  give  some  light  unto  you. 
Being  at  Antioch — 

Thai.  [Aside]  What  from  Antioch  "> 

Hel.  Royal  Antiochus  (on  what  cause  I  know  not) 
Took  some  displeasure  at  him  :  at  least,  he  judg'd  so  ; 
And  doubting  lest  that  he  had  err'd  or  sinn'd. 
To  show  his  sorrow  he  'd  correct  himself  : 
So  puts  himself  unto  the  shipman's  toil. 
With  whom  each  minute  threatens  life  or  death. 

Thai.  [Aside.]   Well,  I  perceive 
I  shall  not  be  hang'd  now,  although  I  would  ; 
But  since  he  's  gone,  the  king's  seas  must  please  : 
He  'scap'd  the  land,  to  perish  at  the  sea. — 
I  '11  present  myself. — [To  them.]  Peace  to  the  lords  of 
Tyre. 

Hel.  Lord  Thaliard  from  Antiochus  is  welcome. 

Thai.  From  him  1  come. 
With  message  unto  princely  Pericles  : 
But  since  my  landing  I  have  understood. 
Your  lord  hath  betook  himself  to  unknown  travels. 
My  message  must  return  from  whence  it  came. 

Hel.  We  have  no  reason  to  desire  it, 
Commended  to  our  master,  not  to  us  : 
Vet,  ere  you  shall  depart,  this  we  desire. 
As  friends  to  Antioch  we  may  feast  in  Tyre.     [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— Tharsus.     A  Room  in  the  Govemor'a 
House. 
Enter  Cleon,  Dionyza,  and  Attendants. 
Cle.  My  Dionyza,  shall  w^e  rest  us  here, 
And  by  relating  tales  of  other's  griefs, 
See  if  't  will  teach  us  to  forget  our  own  ? 

Dio.  That  were  to  blow  at  fire  in  hope  to  quench  it 
For  who  digs  hills  because  they  do  aspire, 
Throws  dowTi  one  mountain  to  cast  up  a  higher 

0  my  distressed  lord  !  even  such  our  griefs  : 

Here  they  're  but  felt,  and  seen  with  mischief's  eyes, 
But  like  to  groves,  being  topp'd,  they  higher  rise. 

Cle.  0  Dionyza, 
Who  wanteth  food,  and  will  not  say  he  wants  it, 
Or  can  conceal  his  hunger,  till  he  famish  ? 
Our  tongues  and  sorrows  do  sound  deep 
Our  woes  into  the  air  ;  our  eyes  do  weep. 
Till  tongues  fetch  breath  that  may  proclaim  them  louder; 
That  if  heaven  slumber,  w-hile  their  creatures  want. 
They  may  awake  their  helps  to  comfort  them. 

1  '11  then  discourse  our  woes,  felt  several  years, 
And,  wanting  breath  to  speak,  help  me  with  tears. 

Dio.  I  '11  do  my  best,  sir. 

Cle.  This  Tharsus,  o'er  which  I  have  the  government, 
A  city,  on  whom  plenty  held  full  hand, 
For  riches  strew'd  herself  even  in  the  streets. 
Whose  towers  bore  heads  so  high,  they  kiss'd  the  clouds, 
And  strangers  ne'er  beheld,  but  wonder'd  at ; 
Whose  men  and  dames  so  jetted^  and  adorn'd, 
Like  one  another's  glass  to  trim  them  by  : 
Their  tables  were  stor'd  full  to  glad  the  sight, 
And  not  so  much  to  feed  on  as  delight ; 
All  poverty  waa  scoru'd,  and  pride  so  great, 
The  name  of  help  grew  odious  to  repeat. 

Dio.  0  !  't  is  too  true. 

Cle.  But  see  what  heaven  can  do  !  By  this  our  change 
These  mouths,  wiiom  but  of  late,  earth,  sea,  and  air. 
Were  all  too  little  to  content  and  please. 
Although  they  gave  their  creatures  in  abundance. 
As  houses  are  defil'd  for  want  of  .use. 
They  are  now  starv'd  for  want  of  exercise  : 
Those  palates,  who  not  yet  two  summers*  younger. 
Must  have  inventions  to  delight  the  taste, 
Would  now  be  glad  of  bread,  and  beg  for  it : 
Those  mothers  who  to  nousle  up  their  babes 
Thought  nought  too  curious,  are  ready  now 
To  eat  those  little  darlings  wiiom  they  lov'd. 
So  sharp  are  hunger's  teeth,  that  man  and  wifo 
Draw  lots,  who  first  shall  die  to  lengthen  life. 
Here  stands  a  lord,  and  there  a  lady  weeping  : 
Here  many  sink,  yet  those  wiiich  see  them  fall, 
Have  scarce  strength  left  to  give  them  burial. 
Is  not  this  true  ? 

Dio.  Our  cheeks  and  hollow  eyes  do  witness  it. 

Cle.  0  !  let  those  cities,  that  of  plenty's  cup 
And  her  prosperities  so  largely  taste. 
With  their  superfluous  riots,  hear  these  tears  : 
The  misery  of  Tharsus  may  be  theirs. 
Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Where  's  the  lord  governor  ? 

Cle.  Here. 
Speak  out  thy  sorrows  which  thou  bring'st  in  has'ic 
For  comfort  is  too  far  for  us  to  expect. 

Lord.  We  have  descried,  upon  our  neighbouring  shore 
A  portly  sail  of  ships  make  hitherward. 

Cle.  I  thought  as  much. 
One  sorrow  never  comes,  but  brings  aa  heir 
That  may  succeed  as  his  inheritor ; 


Not  in  quartos.     '  Overcome.     '  Strutted.     *  savers  •.  in  old  copies.     Steevens  made  the  change. 


804 


PERICLES,  PRmCE   OF  TYRE. 


And  80  in  ours.     Some  neighbouring  nation. 

Takins:  advantage  of  our  ini.sery, 

Hath'  .«tiifr'd  these  hollow  vessels  with  their  power, 

To  beat  us  downi.  the  which  are  down  already; 

\nd  make  a  conquest  of  unhappy  me, 

\Vherea.s  no  glory  "s  got  to  overcome. 

Lord.  That 's  flie  least  fear  ;  for  by  the  semblance 
Of  their  white  flags  display'd,  they  bring  us  peace, 
And  come  to  us  a.s  favourers,  not  as  foes. 

Cle.  Thou  speak'st  like  him  "s*  untutor'd  to  repeat; 
Who  makes  the  fairest  show  means  most  deceit. 
But  bring  they  what  they  will,  and  what  they  can, 
What  need  we  fear  ? 

The  ground  's  the  low'st,  and  we  are  half  way  there. 
(Jo.  tell  their  general  we  attend  him  here, 
To  know  for  what  he  comes,  and  whence  he  comes, 
And  what  he  craves. 

Lord.   I  go,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Cle.  Welcome  is  peace,  if  he  on  peace  consist :' 
l!  wars,  we  are  unable  to  resist. 

Enter  Pericles,  with  Attendants. 

Per.  Lord  governor,  for  so  we  hear  you  are, 
Let  not  our  ships  and  number  of  our  men. 
Be,  like  a  beacon  lir'd,  to  amaze  your  eyes. 


I  We  have  heard  your  miseries  as  far  as  Tyre, 
And  seen  the  desolation  of  your  streets  ; 
I  Nor  come  we  to  add  sorrow  to  your  tears, 
But  to  relieve  them  of  their  hea-v'y  load  : 
And  these  our  ships  you  happily  may  think 
!  Are  like  the  Trojan  horse,  was  stuff 'd  within 
;  With  bloody  veins,  expecting  overthrow, 
Are  stor'd  with  corn  to  make  your  needy  bread, 
And  give  them  life  whom  hunger  starv'd  half  dead. 

All.  The  gods  of  Greece  protect  you  ! 
And  we  '11  pray  for  you. 

Per.  Arise,  I  pray  you   arise: 

We  do  not  look  for  reverence,  but  for  love. 
And  harbourage  for  ourself,  our  ships,  and  men. 

Cle.  The  which  when  any  shall  not  gratify. 
Or  pay  you  with  unthankfulness  in  thought. 
Be  it  our  wives,  our  children,  or  ourselves. 
The  curse  of  heaven  and  men  succeed  their  evils  ! 
Till  when,  (the  which,  I  hope,  shall  ne'er  be  seen) 
Your  grace  is  welcome  to  our  town  and  us. 

Per.  Which   welcome   we  '11   accept ;    feast  here  i 
while, 
Until  our  stars  that  frown  lend  us  a  smile.       [Exeunt 


ACT    II 


Enter  Gower. 
Gaw.  Here  have  you  seen  a  mighty  king 

His  child.  I  -w-is,  to  incest  bring: 

A  better  prince,  and  benign  lord. 

That  will  prove  awful  both  in  deed  and  word. 

Be  quiet,  then,  as  men  should  be, 

Till  he  hath  pass'd  necessity. 

I  '11  show  you  those  in  trouble's  reign, 

Losing  a  mite,  a  mountain  gain. 

The  good  in  conversation 

(To  whom  I  give  my  benizon) 

Is  .still  at  Tharsus.  where  each  man 

Thinks  all  is  writ  he  spoken  can: 

And  to  remember  what  he  does, 

Build  his  statue  to  make  him  glorious  : 

But  tidings  to  the  contrary 

Are  brought  your  eyes  ;  what  need  speak  I  ? 
Dumb  show. 
KtUer  at  one  door  Pericles,  talking  with  Cleon  ;  all 
the  Train  with  them.  Enter  at  another  door,  a 
GentUman.  with  a  Letter  to  Pericles  :  Pericles 
.^hf'W.t  the  Letter  to  Cleon;  then  gives  the  Messenger 
a  reward,  and  knights  him.  Exeunt  Pericles, 
Cleon.  trc.  severally. 

Gow.  Good  Hclicane  hath*8tay'd  at  home, 

Not  to  eat  honey  like  a  drone. 

From  others'  labours;  for  though  he  strive 

To  killen  bad.  keep  good  alive  ; 

And,  to  fulfil  his  prince'  desire. 

Sends  word  of  ail  that  haps  in  Tyre: 

How  Thaliard  came  full  bent  with  sin, 

And  hid  intent,  to  murder  him; 

And  that  in  Tharsus  was  not  best 

Longer  for  him  to  make  his  rest. 

He  knowing  .<!o,*  put  forth  to  seas, 

Where  when  men  been,  there  's  seldom  ease. 

For  now  the  \N'ind  begins  to  blow; 

Thunder  above,  and  deeps  below, 


'Th»t : 
Bcngt  I 


in  oM  copiM.       »  Him   wi 
>      '  A  'talkrr,  or  covering. 


■ho 


Make  such  unquiet,  that  the  ship, 

Should  house  him  safe,  is  wreck'd  and  split ; 

And  he,  good  prince,  having  all  lost, 

By  waves  from  coast  to  coast  is  tost. 

All  perishen  of  man,  of  pelf. 

Ne  aught  escapen  but  himself; 

Till  fortune,  tired  with  doing  bad. 

Threw  him  ashore,  to  give  him  glad  : 

And  here  he  comes.     What  shall  be  next. 

Pardon  old  Gower  ;  this  'longs*  the  text.       [Exit 

SCENE  L— Pentapolis.     An  open  Place  by  the 

Sea-side. 

Enter  Pericles,  wet. 

Per.  Yet  cease  your  ire,  you  angry  stars  of  heaven  ' 
Wind,  rain,  and  thunder,  remember,  earthly  man 
Ls  but  a  substance  that  must  yield  to  you ; 
And  I,  as  fits  my  nature,  do  obey  you. 
Alas  !  the  sea  hath  cast  me  on  the  rocks, 
Wash'd  me  from  shore  to  shore,  and  left  me  breath 
Nothing  to  think  on,  but  ensuing  death  : 
Let  it  suffice  the  greatness  of  your  powers, 
To  have  bereft  a  prince  of  all  his  fortunes ; 
And  having  thrown  him  from  your  watery  grave, 
Here  to  have  death  in  peace  is  all  he  'II  crave. 
Eiiter  three  Fishermen. 

1  Fish.  What,  ho,  Pilch" 

2  Fi.<!h.  Ho  !  come,  and  bring  away  the  nets 
1  Fish.  What.  Patch-breech.  I  say! 

3  Fish.  What  say  you,  master? 
1  Fish.  Look  how  thou  stirrest  now.     Come  a  way 

or  I  '11  fetch  thee  with  a  wannion. 

3  Fish.  'Faith,  master,  I  am  thinking  of  the  poor 
men.  that  were  cast  away  before  us  even  now. 

1  Fish.  Alas,  poor  souls  !  it  grieved  my  heart  to  heai 
what  pitiful  cries  they  made  to  us  to  lielp  them,  when, 
iwell-a-day,  we  could  scarce  help  ouri.elves. 
i      3  Fish.  Nay,  master,  said  not  1  a«  much,  when  I  saw 
the  porpu.s,  how  he  bounced  and  Imrnbled?  they  say 

'.Stand.       *  thai  :  in  old   copies.       'doing  so:  in  old  copies.     Rteevens  in&ds  th»  ok   if 


5CENE   I. 


PEKICLES,   PRINCE   OF  TYRE. 


895 


they  are  half  fish,  half  flesh  :  a  plague  on  them  !  they 
ne'er  come,  but  I  look  to  be  washed.  Master,  I  marvel 
how  the  fishes  live  in  the  sea. 

1  Fish.  Why  as  men  do  a-land  :  the  great  ones  eat 
np  the  little  ones.  I  can  compare  our  rich  misers  to 
nothing  so  fitly  as  to  a  whale  ;  a'  plays  and  tumbles, 
driving  the  poor  fry  before  him,  and  at  last  devours 
them  all  at  a  mouthful.  Such  whales  have  I  heard  on 
the  land,  who  never  leave  gaping,  till  they  've  swallowed 
the  whole  parish,  church,  steeple,  bells  and  all. 

Per.  A  pretty  moral. 

3  Fish.  But,  master,  if  I  had  been  the  sexton,  I 
would  have  been  that  day  in  the  belfry. 

2  Fish.  Why,  man? 

3  Fish.  Because  he  should  have  swallowed  me  too ; 
and  when  I  had  been  in  his  belly,  I  would  have  kept 
such  a  jangling  of  the  bells,  that  he  should  never  have 
left,  till  he  cast  bells,  steeple,  church,  and  parish,  np 
again.  But  if  the  good  king  Sirnouides  were  of  ray 
mind 

Per.  Simonides  ? 

3  Fish.  We  would  purge  the  land  of  these  drones, 
that  rob  the  bee  of  her  honey. 

Per.  How  from  the  finny'  subject  of  the  sea 
These  fishers  tell  the  infirmities  of  men ; 
And  from  their  watery*  empire  recollect 
All  that  may  men  approve,  or  men  detect ! — 
"Peace  be  at  your  labour,  honest  fishermen. 

2  Fish.  Honest !  good  fellow,  what 's  that?  if  it  be 
a  day  fits  you,  search  out  of  the  calendar,  and  no  body 
look  after  it. 

Per.  Y'  may  see.  the  sea  hath  cast  me  upon  your 
coast 

2  Fish.  What  a  drunken  knave  was  the  sea,  to  cast 
thee  in  our  way. 

Per.  A  man  whom  both  the  waters  and  the  wind, 
In  that  vast  tennis-court,  hath  made  the  ball 
For  them  to  play  upon,  entreats  you  pity  him ; 
He  asks  of  you,  that  ncA'er  us'd  to  beg. 

1  Fish.  No,  friend,  cannot  you  beg?  here  's  them  in  \ 


But.  master,  I  '11  go  draw  up  the 

[Exeunt  Two  of  the  Fishermen. 

this    honest    mirth    becomes  their 


than  to  be  beadle, 
net. 

Per.  How  well 
labour ! 

1  Fish.  Hark  you,  sir :  do  you  know  where  you  are  ? 

Per.  Not  well. 

1  Fith.  Why,  I  '11  tell  you:  this  is  called  Pentapolis, 
and  our  king  the  good  Simonides. 

Per.  The  good  king  Simonides,  do  you  call  him  ^ 

1  Fish.  Ay,  sir  :  and  he  deserves  to  be  so  called,  for 
his  peaceable  reign,  and  good  government. 

Per.  He  is  a  happy  king,  since  he  gains  from  hig 
subjects  the  name  of  good  by  his  government.  How 
far  is  his  court  distant  from  this  shore  ? 

1  Fish.  Marry,  .sir,  half  a  day's  journey:  and  I'll 
tell  you,  he  hath  a  fair  daughter,  and  to-morrow  is  her 
birth-day ;  and  there  are  princes  and  knights  come 
from  all  parts  of  the  world,  to  joust  and  tourney  for 
her  love. 

Per.  Were  my  fortunes  equal  to  my  desires.  I  could 
wish  to  make  one  there. 

1  Fish.  0,  sir !  things  must  be  as  they  may ;  and 
what  a  man  cannot  get,  he  may  lawfully  deal  for.  His 
wife's  soul — 

Re-enter  the  Two  Fishermen.,  drawing  up  a  Net. 

2  Fish.  Help,  master,  help  !  here  's  a  fish  hangs  in 
the  net,  like  a  poor  man's  right  in  the  law ;  't  will 
hardly  come  out.  Ha  !  hots  on  't;  't  is  come  at  la*t, 
and  't  is  turned  to  a  rust\'  armour. 

Per.  An  armour,  friends  !  I  pray  you,  let  me  see  it, 
Thanks,  fortune,  yet,  that  after  all  crosses 
Thou  giv'st  me  somewhat  to  repair  myself: 
And  though  it  was  mine  own,  part  of  mine  heritage. 
Which  my  dear  father  did  bequeath  to  me. 
With  this  strict  charge  (even  as  he  left  his  life) 
''  Keep  it,  my  Pericles,  it  hath  been  a  shield 
'Twixt  me  and  death ;"  (and  pointed  to  this  brace) 
"  For  that  it  sav'd  me,  keep  it ;  in  like  necessity, 
The  which   the  gods  protect  thee  from,  it  may  defend 
thee." 


our   country  of  Greece,  gets  more  with  beggin: 
we  can  do  with  working. 

2  Fish.  Canst  thou  catch  any  fishes,  then  ? 

Per.  I  never  practis'd  it. 

2  Fish.  Nay,  then  thou  wilt  starve,  sure  ;  for  here  's 
nothing  to  be  got  now  a-days,  unless  thou  canst  fish 
for't. 

Per.  What  I  have  been  I  have  forgot  to  know, 
But  what  I  am  want  teache.«  me  to  think  on  ; 
A  man  throng'd  up  with  cold  :  my  veins  are  chill, 
And  have  no  more  of  life,  than  may  suffice 
To  give  my  tongue  that  heat  to  ask  your  help ; 
Which  if  you  shall  refuse,  when  I  am  dead, 
For  that  I  am  a  man,  pray  see  me  buried. 

1  Fish.  Die  quoth-a  ?  Now,  gods  forbid  it !  I  have 
a  gown  here  ;  come,  put  it  on  ;  keep  thee  warm.  Now, 
afore  me,  a  handsome  fellow !  Come,  thou  shalt  go 
home,  and  we  '11  have  flesh  for  holidays,  fish  for  fasting- 
days,  and  moreo'er  puddings  and  flap-jacks ;'  and  thou 
shalt  be  welcome. 

Per.  I  thank  you,  sir 


than  j  It  kept  where  I  kept,  I  so  dearly  lov'd  it, 

Till  the  rough  seas,  that  spare  not  any  man, 
Took  it  in  rage,  though  calm'd,  have  given  't  again. 
I  thank  thee  for  't :  my  shipwreck  now  's  no  ill. 
Since  I  have  here  my  father's  gift  in  's  will. 

1  Fish.  What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Per.  To  beg  of  you,  kind  friends,  this  coat  of  worth, 
For  it  was  sometime  target  to  a  king; 
I  know  it  by  this  mark.     He  lov'd  me  dearly, 
And  for  his  sake  I  wish  the  having  of  it : 
And  that  you  'd  guide  me  to  your  sovereign's  court, 
Where  with  it  I  may  appear  a  gentleman : 
And  if  that  ever  my  low  fortunes  better, 
I  '11  pay  your  bounties ;  till  then,  rest  your  debtor. 

1  Fish.  Why,  wilt  thou  tourney  for  the  lady  ? 

Per.  I  '11  show  the  virtue  I  have  borne  in  arms. 

1  Fish.  Why,  do  ye  take  it;  and  the  gods  give  th<«« 
good  on 't  ! 

2  Fish.  Ay.  but  hark  you.  my  friend :  't  was  we  thai 
made  up  this  garment  through  the  rough  seams  of  the 
waters  :  there  are  certain  condolements,  certain  vailg 


2  Fish    Hark  you,  my  friend,  you    said  you  could  I  hope,  sir,  if  you  thrive,  you '11  remember  from  wheix>«- 
not  beg.  j  you  had  it. 

Per.  I  did  but  crave.  |      Per.  Believe  it,  I  will. 

2  Fish.  But  crave 9     Then  I  '11  turn  craver  too,  and   By  your  furtherance  I  am  cloth'd  in  steel; 
BC  I  shall  'scape  whipping.  j  And  spite  of  all  the  rapture'  of  the  sea, 

Per.  Why,  are  all  your  beggars  whipped,  then  ?        j  This  jewel  holds  his  biding*  on  my  arm : 

2  Fish.  0  !  not  all,  my  friend,  not  all ;  for  if  all  your '  Unto  thy  value  will  I  mount  myself 
beggars  were  whipped,   I   would  wish  no  better  oflBce  I  Upon  a  courser,  whose  delightful  steps 

>  fMiny :  in  old  copies.     SteeTens  made  the  change.      >  Pancakes, or  fritters       '  rupture  :  in  old  copies.      ♦  building  :  in  old  c<i.:r>s 


896 


PERICLES,   rHINCE   OF  TYEE. 


Shall  make  the  gazer  joy  to  see  him  tread. — 
Ojily,  my  friend.  I  yet  am  unprovided 
1)1  a  pair  of  bases.' 

2  fish.  We'll  sure  provide:  thou  shall  have  my 
best  sovn\  to  make  thee  a  pair,  and  I  '11  bring  thee  to 
til*'  court  iny.«clf. 

Per.  Then  honour  be  but  a  goal  to  my  will  ! 
This  day  I  "11  rise,  or  else  add  ill  to  ill.  [Exetmt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Platform  leading  to  the 

Li.>it:?.     A  Pavilion  near  it,  for  the  reception  of  the 

King,  Princess.  Ladies,  Lords,  &c. 
Enter  Si.vtoNinES.  Thai.«a,  Lords,  and  Attendavts. 

Sim.  Are  the  knights  ready  to  begin  the  triumph  ? 

1  Lord.  They  are.  my  liege  : 
.\nd  stay  your  coming  to  present  themselves. 

."^im.  Return  them,  we  are  ready  ;  and  our  daughter, 
fn  honour  of  whose  birth  these  triumphs  are, 
Sit.s  here,  like  beauty's  child,  whom  nature  gat 
For  men  to  see.  and  seeing  wonder  at.      [Exit  n  Lord. 

Th>n.  It  plcaseth  you,  my  royal  father,  to  express 
.My  commendations  great,  whose  merit's  less. 

Sim.  'T  is  fit  it  should  be  so ;  for  princes  are 
A  model,  which  heaven  makes  like  to  itself: 
As  jewels  lose  their  glorj-  if  neglected. 
So  princes  their  rcno\\Ti,  if  not  respected. 
'T  is  now  your  honour,  daughter,  to  explain' 
The  labour  of  each  knight  in  his  device. 

Thai.  Which,  to  preserve  mine  honour,  I  "II  perform. 
Enter  a  Knight:  he  passes  over  the  Staple,  and  his  Sqnire 
■presents  his  Shield  to  the  Princess. 

Sim.  Who  is  the  first  that  doth  prefer  himself? 

Tliai.  A  knight  of  Sparta,  my  renowned  father  ; 
And  the  device  he  bears  upon  his  .shield 
Ib  a  black  ..^thiop.  reaching  at  the  sun; 
The  word.  Lux  tua  vita  mihi. 

Sim.  He  loves  you  well  that  holds  his  life  of  you. 

[  The  second  Knight  passes  over. 
Who  is  the  second  that  presents  himself? 

Thai.  A  prince  of  Macedon.  my  royal  father ; 
And  the  device  he  bears  upon  his  .shield 
Is  an  arm'd  knight,  that 's  conquer'd  by  a  lady: 
The  motto  thus,  in  Spanish,   Piu  per  dulzura  que  per 
fuerza.  [The  third  Knight  passes  over. 

Sim.  And  what  the  third  ? 

Thai.  The  third  of  Antioch  ; 

And  his  device,  a  -wTeath  of  chivalry  : 
The  word.  Me  pompa  provexit  apex. 

[The  fourth  Knight  pas.'scs  over. 

Sim.  "What  is  the  fourth? 

Thai.  A  burning  torch,  that 's  turned  upside  down  ; 
The  word,  Quotl  n/t  zlit.  rra  cxtinguit. 

Sim.  Which  shows  that  beauty  hath  his  power  and 
will, 
Which  can  an  well  inflame,  as  it  can  kill. 

[The  fifth  Knight  pa.-'.ies  over. 

Thai.  The  fifth,  a  hand  piivirnned  with  clouds. 
Holding  out  gold  that 's  by  the  touchstone  tried  : 
The  motto  thus,  Sic  spectarufn  fides. 

[  The  sixth  Knight  passes  over. 

Sim.  And  what's  the  sixth  and  last,  the  which  the 
knight  him.oelf 
With  Kuch  a  graceful  courtesy  deliver'd? 

Thai.  He  seemB  to  be  a  stranger  ;   but  his  present  is 
A  withor'd  branch,  that 's  only  green  at  top  : 
I  he  moTfo.  In  hnc  spe  vivo. 

Sim.  A  pretty  moral  : 
From  the  dejecred  state  wherein  he  is. 
Hp  hopes  by  you  his  fortunes  yet  may  flourish. 

'  A  mantle,  hviging  from  th«  middla  to  thp  kneei.     »  enUrUin  : 


I      1  Lord.  He  had  need  mean  better,  than  his  outward 

show 
]  Can  any  way  speak  in  his  just  commend  ; 
!  For  by  his  rusty  outside  he  appears 
To  have  practis'd  more  the  whipstock,'  than  the  lanc«. 

2  Lord.  He  well  may  be  a  stranger,  for  he  comes 
To  an  honour'd  triumph  strangely  furnished. 

3  Lord.  And  on  set  purpose  let  his  armour  rust 
Until  this  day,  to  scour  it  in  the  dust. 

Sim.  Opinion  's  but  a  fool,  that  makes  us  scan 
The  outward  habit  by  the  inward  man. 
But  stay,  the  knights  arc  coming  :  we  '11  withdraw 
Into  the  gallery.  [Exeimt 

[Great  Shouts,  and  all  cry,  The  mean  knight » 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Hall  of  State.     A  Ban. 
quet  prepared. 

Enter  Stmonides,  Thais.\,  Ladies,  Lords,  Knights, 
and  Attendants. 

Sim.  Knights, 
To  say  you  are  welcome  were  superfluous. 
To  place  upon  the  volume  of  your  deeds, 
As  in  a  title-page,  your  worth  in  arms, 
Were  more  than  you  expect,  or  more  than  's  fit, 
Since  every  worth  in  show  commends  itself. 
Prepare  for  mirth,  for  mirth  becomes  a  feast  : 
You  are  princes,  and  my  guests. 

Thai.  But  you,  [To  Per.]  my  knight  and  guest; 
To  whom  this  wreath  of  victory  I  give. 
And  cro'wn  you  king  of  this  day's  happiness. 

Per.  'T  is  more  by  fortune,  lady,  than  my  merit. 

Sim.  Call  it  by  what  you  will,  the  day  is  yours  •. 
And  here,  I  hope,  is  none  that  envies  it. 
In  framing  an  artist  art  hath  thus  decreed, 
To  make  some  good,  but  others  to  exceed ; 
And  you  're  her  labour'd  scholar.     Come,  queen  o'  the 

feast, 
(For,  daughter,  so  you  are)  here  take  your  place : 
Marshal  the  rest,  as  they  deserve  their  grace. 

Knights.  \Ye  are  honour'd  much  by  good  Simonides. 

Sim.  Your  presence  glads  our  days  :  honour  we  lov«j, 
For  who  hates  honour  hates  the  gods  above. 

Marshal.  Sir,  yond  's  your  place. 

Per.  Some  other  is  more  fit. 

1  Knight.  Contend  not,  sir  ;  for  we  are  gentlemen, 
That  neither  in  our  hearts,  nor  outward  eyes, 
En\'y  the  great,  nor  do  the  low  despise. 

Per.  You  are  right  courteous  knights. 

Sim.  Sit,  sir  ;  sit 

By  Jove,  I  wonder,  that  is  king  of  thoughts, 
These  cates  resist  me,  he  not  thought  upon. 

T%ai.  By  Juno,  that  is  queen 
Of  marriage,  all  the  viands  that  I  eat 
Do  seem  unsavoury,  wishing  him  my  meat. 
Sure,  he  's  a  gallant  gentleman. 

Sim.  He's  but  a  country  gentleman 
He  has  done  no  more  than  oilier  knighiA  have  done, 
He  has  broken  a  staff,  or  so :  so.  let  it  pass. 

Thai.  To  me  he  seems  like  diamond  to  glass. 

Per.  Yond'  king  's  to  me  like  to  my  father's  picta:« 
Which  tells  me  in  that  glory  once  he  was; 
Had  princes  sit,  like  stars,  about  his  throne. 
And  he  the  sun  for  them  to  reverence. 
None  that  beheld  him,  but  like  lesser  light* 
Did  vail  their  crowns  to  his  supremacy: 
W^here  now  his  son,  like  a  glow-worm  in  the  night, 
The  which  hath  fire  in  darkness,  none  in  light : 
Whereby  I  see  that  Time's  the  king  of  men  ; 
He's  both  their  parent,  and  he  is  their  grave, 

n  old  copiei.     Steevens  made  the  chance.     '  Whip  handle. 


PEKICLES,  PRINCE   OF  TYEE. 


897 


And  gives  them  what  he  M-ill,  not  what  they  crave. 

Sim.  What !  are  you  merry,  knights  ? 

1  Knight.  Who  can  be  other,  in  this  royal  presence  ? 

Sim.  Here,  x^-ith  a  cup  that 's  stor'd  unto  the  brim, 
(As  you  do  love,  fill  to  your  mistress'  lips) 
We  drink  this  health  to  you. 

Knights.  We  thank  your  grace. 

Sim.  Yet  pause  a  while  : 
Yond"  knight  doth  sit  too  melancholy. 
As  if  the  entertainment  in  our  court, 
Had  not  a  show  might  countervail  his  worth. 
Note  it  not  you,  Thaisa  ? 

Tnai.  What  ie  it 

To  me,  my  father  ' 

Sim.  0  !  attend,  my  daughter : 

Princes,  in  this,  should  live  like  gods  above. 
Who  freely  give  to  every  one  that  comes 
To  honour  them ;  and  princes,  not  doing  so, 
Are  like  to  gnais,  which  make  a  sound,  but  kill'd 
Are  wonder'd  at.     Therefore. 
To  make  his  entrance  more  sweet,  here  say, 
We  drink  this  standing-bowl  of  wine  to  him. 

Thai.  Alas,  my  father  !  it  befits  not  me 
Unto  a  stranger  knight  to  be  so  bold  : 
He  may  my  proffer  take  for  an  offence, 
Since  men  take  women's  gifts  for  impudence. 

Sim.  How  ! 
Do  as  I  bid  you,  or  you'll  move  me  else. 

TTiai.  [Aside.]  Now,  by  the  gods,  he  could  not  please 
me  better. 

Sim.  And  farther  tell  him,  we  desire  to  know, 
Of  whence  he  is,  his  name,  and  parentage. 

Thai.  The  king  my  father,  sir,  has  drunk  to  you. 

Per.  I  thank  him. 

Thai.  W^isliing  it  so  much  blood  unto  your  life. 

Per.  I  thank  both  him  and  you,  and  pledge  him  freely. 

Thai.  And.  farther,  he  desires  to  know  of  you, 
Of  whence  you  are,  your  name  and  parentage. 

Per.  A  gentleman  of  Tyre  (my  name,  Pericles, 
My  education  been  in  arts  and  arms) 
Who  looking  for  adventures  in  the  world. 
Was  by  the  rough  seas  reft  of  ships  and  men, 
And  after  ihipwreck  driven  upon  this  shore. 

Thai.  He  thanks  your  grace ;  names  himself  Pericles, 
A  gentleman  of  Tyre, 
Who  only  by  misfortune  of  the  seas 
Bereft  of  ships  and  men,  cast  on  the  shore. 

Sim.  Now  by  the  gods.  I  pity  his  misfortune, 
And  will  awake  him  from  his  melancholy. 
Come,  gentlemen,  we  sit  too  long  on  trifles. 
And  waste  the  time  which  looks  for  other  revels. 
Even  in  your  armours,  as  you  are  address'd, 
Will  very  well  become  a  soldier's  dance. 
I  will  not  have  excuse,  with  saying,  this 
Loud  music  is  too  harsh  for  ladies'  heads, 
Since  they  love  men  in  arms,  as  well  as  beds. 

[The  Knights  dance. 
So,  this  was  well  ask'd,  't  was  so  well  perform'd. 
Come,  sir ; 

Here  is  a  lady  that  wants  breathing  too  : 
And  I  have  often  heard,  you  knights  of  T>Te 
Are  excellent  in  making  ladies  trip, 
And  that  their  measures  are  as  excellent. 

Per.  In  those  that  practise  them,  they  are,  my  lord. 

Sim.  0  !  that 's  as  much,  as  you  would  be  denied 
[The  Knights  and  Ladies  dance. 
Of  your  fair  courtesy. — Unclasp,  unclasp  : 
Thanks,  gentlemen,  to  all  :  all  have  done  well,     [duct 
Butyou  the  best.  [To  Pericles.]  Pages  and  lights,  to  con- 

'  Dyoe  reads :  For. 
3G 


These  knights  unto  their  several  lodgings  ! — Yours,  sir 
We  have  given  order  to  be  next  our  own. 

Per.  I  am  at  your  grace's  pleasure. 

Sim.  Princes,  it  is  too  late  to  talk  of  love, 
And  that 's  the  mark  I  know  you  level  at  : 
Therefore,  each  one  betake  liiai  to  his  rest; 
To-morrow  all  for  speeding  do  their  best.         [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. — Tyre.  A  Room  in  the  Governor's  House 
Enter  Helicanus  and  Escanes. 

Hel.  No,  Escanes  ;  know  this  of  me, 
Antiochus  from  incest  liv'd  not  free  : 
For  which  the  most  high  gods,  not  minding  longer 
1 0  withhold  the  vengeance,  that  they  had  in  store, 
Due  to  this  hemous  capital  offence, 
Even  in  the  height  and  pride  of  all  his  glory, 
When  he  was  seated,  and  his  daughter  with  him. 
In  a  chariot  of  inestimable  value, 
A  fire  from  heaven  came,  and  shrivell'd  up 
Those  bodies,  even  to  loathing  ;  for  they  so  stunk. 
That  all  those  eyes  ador'd  them  ere  their  fall, 
Scorn  now  their  hand  should  give  them  burial. 

Esca.  'T  was  very  strange. 

Hel.  And  yet  but  just ;  for  though 

This  king  were  great,  his  greatness  was  no  guard 
To  bar  heaven's  shaft,  but  sin  had  his  reward. 

Esca.  'T  is  very  true. 

Enter  Three  Lords. 

1  Lord.  See  !  not  a  man,  in  private  conference 
Or  council,  has  respect  with  him  but  he. 

2  Lord.  It  shall  no  longer  grieve  without  reproof. 

3  Lord.  And  curs'd  be  he  that  will  not  second  it 

1  Lord.  Follow  me,  then. — Lord  Heiicane,  a  word. 
Hel.  With  me  ?  and  welcome. — Happy  day.  my  lord« 
1  Lord.  Know,  that  our  griefs  are  risen  to  the  top. 
And  now  at  length  they  overflow  their  banks. 

Hel.  Your  griefs  !  for  what  ?  wrong  not  the  pnnc« 
you  love. 

1  Lord.  Wrong  not  yourself,  then,  noble  Heiicane  ; 
But  if  the  prince  do  live,  let  us  salute  him. 

Or  know  what  ground  's  made  happy  by  his  breath. 
If  in  the  world  he  live,  we  '11  seek  him  out ; 
If  in  his  grave  he  rest,  we  '11  find  him  there; 
And  be  resolved,  he  lives  to  govern  us. 
Or  dead,  gives  cause  to  mourn  his  funeral. 
And  leaves  us  to  our  free  election. 

2  Lord.  Whose  death  's,  indeed,  the  strongest  m  oui 

censure : 
And  knowing  this  kingdom  is  without  a  head. 
Like  goodly  buildings  left  withoiit  a  roof, 
Soon  fall  to  ruin,  your  noble  self. 
That  best  know'st  how  to  rule,  and  how  to  reign, 
We  thus  submit  unto,  our  sovereign. 

All.  Live,  noble  Heiicane  ! 

Hel.  Try^  honour's  cause ;  forbear  your  suffrages 
If  that  you  love  prince  Pericles,  forbear. 
Take  I  your  wish,  I  leap  into  the  seas. 
Where  's  hourly  trouble  for  a  minute's  ease. 
A  tweh'cmonth  longer,  let  me  entreat  you 
To  forbear  the  absence  of  your  king  ; 
If  in  which  time  expir'd  he  not  return, 
I  shall  with  aged  patience  bear  your  yoke. 
But  if  I  cannot  win  you  to  this  love. 
Go  search  like  nobles,  like  noble  subjects. 
And  in  your  search  spend  your  adventurous  worth . 
Whom  if  you  find,  and  ^\•in  unto  return. 
You  shall  like  diamonds  sit  about  his  crown. 

1  Lord.  To  wisdom  he  's  a  fool  that  w?U  not  yield 
And  since  lord  Heiicane  enjoineth  us, 


898 


PERICLES,   PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


ACT  in. 


We  with  our  travels  will  endeavour. 

Hel.  Then,   you  love  us,  we  you,  and  we  '11  clasp 
Lands : 
When  peers  thus  knit  a  kingdom  ever  stands.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Pentapolis.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Fnter  Simoxides,  readins  a  Letter:   the  Knights  meet 

nim. 

1  Knight.  Good  morrow  to  the  good  Simonides. 
Sim.  KniL'hLs.  from  my  daughter  this  I  let  you  know  : 

That  tor  this  twelvemonth  she'll  not  undertake 

.■\  married  life. 

Hit  reason  to  herself  is  only  known, 

Which  yet  from  her  by  no  means  can  I  get. 

2  Knight.  May  we  not  get  access  to  lier,  my  lord  ? 
Sim.  "Faith,  by  no  means  :  she  hath  so  strictly  tied  her 

To  her  chamber,  that  it  is  impossible. 
One  twelve  moons  more  she'll  wear  Diana's  livery ; 
Tiiis  by  the  eye  of  Cynthia  hath  she  vow"d, 
.\na  on  her  virgin  honour  will  not  break  it. 

3  Knight.  Though  loath  to  bid  farewell,  we  take  our 

leaves.  [Exeuiit. 

Sim.  So, 
They  're  well  despatched  :  now  to  my  daughter's  letter. 
She  tells  me  here,  she  11  wed  the  stranger  knight. 
Or  never  more  to  view  nor  day  nor  light. 
T  IS  well,  mistress:  your  choice  agrees  with  mine; 
I  like  that  well : — nay,  how  ab.solute  she's  in  't, 
Not  minding  whether  I  dislike  or  no. 
Weil.  [  commend  her  choice, 
And  will  no  longer  have  it  be  delay'd. 
Soft  !  here  he  comes  :   I  must  dissemble  it. 
Enter  Pericles. 

Per.  All  fortune  to  the  good  Simonides  ! 

Sim.  To  you  as  much,  sir.     I  am  beholding  to  you 
For  your  sweet  music  this  last  night :  I  do 
Protest,  my  ears  were  never  better  fed 
With  such  delightful  plea.«ing  harmony. 

Per.  It  is  your  grace's  pleasure  to  commend, 
Not  my  desert. 

Sim.  Sir,  you  are  music's  master. 

Per.  The  worst  of  all  her  scholars,  my  good  lord. 

Sim.  Let  me  ask  one  thing. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  daughter,  sir? 

Per.  As  of  a  most  virtuous  princess. 

Sim.  And  she  is  fair  too,  is  she  not  ? 

Per.  As  a  fair  day  in  summer  ;  wondrous  fair. 

Sim.  My  daughter,  sir.  think.s  ver\'  well  of  you  ; 
Ay.  so  w.  11.  .«ir.  that  you  must  be  her  master, 
And  she  11  your  .scholar  be  :  therefore,  look  to  it. 

Per.  I  am  unworthy  for  her  school ma.«ter. 

Sim.  She  thinks  not  so  ;  peru.'^e  this  writing  else. 

Per.   [A.^idf]   What's  here? 
:\  letter,  that  she  loves  the  knight  of  Tyre? 
1  IB  the  king's  subtilty,  to  have  my  life. 


[To  him.]  0  !  seek  not  to  entrap  me,  gracious  lord, 
A  stranger  and  distressed  gentleman. 
That  never  aim'd  so  high  to  love  your  daughter, 
But  bent  all  offices  to  honour  her. 

Sim.  Thou  hast  bewitch'd  my  daughter,  and  tnou  art 
A  villain. 

Per.         By  the  gods,  I  have  not, 
^fever  did  thought  of  mine  levy  offence  ; 
Nor  never  did  my  actions  yet  commence 
A  deed  might  gain  her  love,  or  your  displeasure, 

Sim.  Traitor,  thou  liest. 

Per.  Traitor ! 

Sim.  Ay,  traitor. 

Per.  Even  in  his  throat,  unless  it  be  the  king, 
That  calls  me  traitor,  I  return  the  lie. 

Sim.  [Aside.]  Now,   by  the  gods.  1   do  applaud   his 
courage. 

Per.  My  actions  are  as  noble  as  my  thoughts, 
That  never  relish'd  of  a  base  descent. 
I  came  unto  your  court  for  honour's  cause, 
And  not  to  be  a  rebel  to  her  state ; 
And  he  that  otherwise  accounts  of  me. 
This  sword  shall  prove  he  's  honour's  enemy. 

Sim.  No ! — 
Here  comes  my  daughter,  she  can  witness  it. 
Enter  Th.\isa. 

Per.  Then,  as  you  are  as  virtuous  as  fair. 
Resolve  your  angry  father,  if  my  tongue 
Did  e'er  solicit,  or  my  hand  subscribe 
To  any  syllable  that  made  love  to  you  ? 

Thai.  Why,  sir,  if  you  had. 
Who  takes  offence  at  that  would  make  me  glad? 

Si7n.  Yea,  mistres.s.  are  you  so  peremptory? — 
[Aside]  I  am  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart. 
[To  her.]  I  '11  tame  you  ;  I'll  bring  you  in  subjection. 
Will  you,  not  having  my  consent. 
Bestow  your  love  and  your  affections 
Upon  a  stranger  ?  [Aside.]  who,  for  aught  I  know 
May  be,  (nor  can  I  think  the  contrary) 
As  great  in  blood  as  I  myself. 

[To  her.]  Therefore,  hear  you,  mistress;  either  frame 
Your  will  to  mine  :  and  you,  sir,  hear  you. 
Either  be  rul'd  by  me,  or  I  will  make  you — 
Man  and  wife. — Nay,  come;  your  hands. 
And  lips  must  seal  it  too; 

And  being  join'd.  I  '11  thus  your  hopes  destroy  ; 
And  for  farther  grief. — God  give  you  joy  ! — 
What,  are  you  both  pleas'd  ? 

Thai.  Yes,  if  you  love  me,  sir 

Per.  Even  as  my  life,  my  blood  that  fosters  it. 

Sim.  What  !   are  you  both  agreed  ? 

Both.  Yes,  if 't  please  your  majesty. 

Sim.  It  pleaseth  me  so  well,  I  'U  see  you  wed  ; 
Then,  with  what  haste  you  can,  get  you  to  bed 

[E^evm. 


ACT    III 


Enter  Gower. 
Gow.  Now  sleep  yslaked  hath  the  rout 
No  din  but  snores  the  hou.«e  about, 
^ladc  louder  by  the  o'er-fed  breast 
Ot  thi.o  most  pompous  marriage  feast. 
The  cat  with  eyne  of  burning  coal, 
.Now  eouehes  "lore  the  mouse's  hole  ; 


And  crickets  sing  at  the  oven's  mouth, 
Are  the  blither  for  their  drouth. 
Hymen  hath  brought  the  bride  to  bed, 
I  Where,  by  the  loss  of  maidenhead, 

A  babe  is  moulded. — Be  attent, 
.\nd  time  that  is  so  briefly  spent. 
With  your  fine  fancies  quaintly  eche'  ; 
What's  dumb  in  show,  I  '11  plain  with  speed 


SCENE   1. 


PERICLES,   PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


899 


Dumb  Show. 
tnter  Pericles  and  Simonides  at  one  door,  with  At- 
tendants ;  a  Messenger  meets  them,  kneels,  and  gives 
PtRicLES  a  Letter  :  "Pericles  shows  it  to  Simonides  ; 
the  Lords  kneel  to  Pericles.  Then,  enter  Thaisa 
with  child,  and  Lychorida  :  Simonides  shows  his 
Daughter  the  Letter ;  s}i£  rejoices:  she  and  Pericles 
take%ave  of  her  Father,  a-'rf  all  depart. 

Gow.  By  many  a  der.    md  painful  perch 
Of  Pericles  the  careful  search 
By  the  four  opposing  coigncs, 
Which  the  world  together  joins, 
Is  made,  with  all  due  diligence, 
That  horse,  and  sail,  and  high  expence, 
Can  stand  the  quest.     At  last  from  Tyre 
(Fame  answering  the  most  strange  inquire.) 
To  the  court  of  king  Simonides 
Are  letters  brought,  the  tenour  these  : — 
Antiochus  and  his  daughter  dead : 
The  men  of  Tyrus  on  the  head 
Of  Helicanus  would  set  on 
The  crown  of  T>Te,  but  he  will  none 
The  mutiny  he  there  hasteg  t'  oppress , 
Says  to  them,  if  king  Pericles 
Come  not  home  in  twice  six  m.oons, 
He.  obedient  to  their  dooms, 
Will  take  the  crown.     The  sum  of  this. 
Brought  hither  to  Pentapolis, 
Yravished  the  regions  round, 
And  every  one  with  claps  'gan  sound, 
'•  Our  heir  apparent  is  a  king  ! 
Wlio  dream'd,  who  thought  of  such  a  thing?'' 
Brief,  he  must  hence  depart  to  Tyre  : 
His  queen,  with  child,  makes  her  desire 
(Which  who  shall  cross?)  along  to  go. 
Omit  we  all  their  dole  and  woe : 
Lychorida,  her  nurse,  she  takes, 
And  so  to  sea.     Then,  vessel  shakes 
On  Neptune's  billow  :  half  the  flood 
Hath  their  keel  cut ;  but  fortune's  mood 
Varies  again  :  the  grizzly  north 
Disgorges  such  a  tempest  forth 
That,  as  a  duck  for  life  that  dives, 
So  up  and  down  the  poor  ship  drives. 
The  lady  shrieks,  and  well-a-near, 
Does  fall  in  travail  with  her  fear  : 
And  what  ensues  in  this  self  storm 
Shall  for  itself  itself  perform. 
I  nill  relate,  action  may 
Conveniently  the  rest  convey. 
Which  might  not  what  by  me  is  told. 
In  your  imagination  hold 
This  stage  the  ship,  upon  whose  deck 
The  seas-tost  Pericles  appears  to  speak.         [Exil 

SCENE  I. 
Enter  Pericles,  on  shipboard. 
Per.  Thou  God  of  this  great  vast,  rebuke  these  surges. 
Which  wash  both  heaven  and  hell ;  and  thou,  that  hast 
ijp(  n  the  winds  command,  bind  them  in  bra.ss, 
Having  call'd  them  from  the  deep.     0  !  still 
I       Thy  deafenins,  dreadful  thunders  ;  duly'  quench 
1       Thy  nimble,  sulphurous  flashes  !— 0  !  how,  Lychorida, 
How  does  my  queen  ?— Thou  storm,  venomously 
vVilt  thou  spit  all  thyself  ?— The  seaman's  whistle 
Is  as  a  whisper  in  the  ears  of  death, 
Unheard. — Lychorida  ! — Lucina,  0  ! 

>  daily  :  in  old  copies.    *  Blast.    >  eastern  :  in  old  copies     M.  Ma 
li        Malono  made  th«  change     '  coffin  :    m  old  copies. 


Divinest  patroness  and  midwife,  gentle 

To  those  that  cry  by  night,  convey  thy  deity 

Aboard  our  dancing  boat;  make  swift  the  pangs 

Of  my  qiveen's  travails  ! — Now.  Lychorida 

Enter  Lychorida,  with  an  Infant. 

Lye.  Here  is  a  thing  too  young  for  such  a  place, 
Who,  if  it  had  conceit,  would  die  as  I 
Am  like  to  do.     Take  in  your  arms  this  piece 
Of  your  dead  queen. 

Per.  How  !  how,  Lychorida  ! 

Lye.  Patience,  good  sir  ;  do  not  assist  the  storm. 
Here  's  all  that  is  left  living  of  your  queen, 
A  little  daughter :  for  the  sake  of  it, 
Be  manly,  and  take  comfort. 

Per.  0  you  gods  ! 

Why  do  you  make  us  love  your  goodly  gifts. 
And  snatch  them  straight  away  ?     We,  here  below, 
Recall  not  what  we  give,  and  therein  may 
Use  honour  with  you. 

Lye.  Patience,  good  sir, 

Even  for  this  charge. 

Per.  Now,  mild  may  be  thy  life  , 

For  a  more  blust'rous  birth  had  never  babe  : 
Quiet  and  gentle  thy  conditions : 
For  thou  'rt  the  rudeliest  welcome  to  this  world, 
That  e'er  was  prince's  child.     Happy  what  follows  .' 
Thou  hast  as  chiding  a  nativity. 
As  fire,  air,  water,  earth,  and  heaven  can  make. 
To  herald  thee  from  the  womb  :  even  at  the  fir.st. 
Thy  loss  is  more  than  can  thy  portage  quit, 
With  all  thou  canst  find  here. — Now  the  good  gods 
Throw  their  best  eyes  upon  it  ! 

Enter  Two  Sailors. 

1  Sail.  What,  courage,  sir  !     God  save  you. 

Per.  Courage  enough.     I  do  not  fear  the  flaw*  ; 
It  hath  done  to  me  the  worst :  yet.  for  the  love 
Of  this  poor  infant,  this  fresh  new  sea-farer, 
I  would  it  would  be  quiet. 

1  Sail.  Slack  the  bowlines  there  ;  thou  wilt  not, 
wilt  thou  ? — Blow,  and  split  thyself. 

2  Sail.  But  sea-room,  an  the  brine  and  cloudy  billow 
kiss  the  moon,  I  care  not. 

1  Sail.  Sir.  your  queen  must  overboard  :  the  sea 
works  high,  the  wind  is  loud,  and  will  not  lie  till  the 
ship  be  cleared  of  the  dead. 

Per.  That 's  your  superstition. 

1  Sail.  Pardon  us.  sir  :  with  us  at  sea  it  hatli  been 
still  observed,  and  we  are  strong  in  earnest.''  There 
fore  briefly  yield  her,  for  she  must  overboard  straight. 

Per.  As  you  think  meet. — Most  wretched  queen  ! 

Lye.  Here  she  lies,  sir. 

Per.  A  terrible  child-bed  hast  thou  had,  my  dear  • 
No  light,  no  fire  :  the  unfriendly  elements 
Forgot  thee  utterly ;  nor  have  I  time 
To  give  thee  hallow'd  to  thy  grave,  but  straight 
Must  cast  thee,  scarcely  cotfin'd,  in  the  ooze  • 
Where,  for  a  monument  upon  thy  bones, 
And  aye*-remaining  lamps,  the  belching  whale. 
And  humming  water  must  o"erwhelm  thy  corpse, 
Lying  \s-ith  simple  shells. — 0  Lycliorida ! 
Bid  Nestor  bring  me  spices,  ink  and  paper. 
My  casket  and  my  jewels  ;  and  bid  NicanJer 
Bring  me  the  satin  coffer* :  lay  the  babe 
Upon  the  pillow.     Hie  thee,  whiles  I  say 
A  priestly  farewell  to  her  :  suddenly,  woman. 

[Exit  Lychorida 

2  Sail.  Sir,  we  have  a  chest  beneath  the  hatclies. 
caulk'd  and  bitumed  ready. 

3n  made  the  change.  Boswell  reads  :   custom      *  i-m  :  in  oli  cor-et 


POO 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


ACT  in. 


Per.  I  tliank  tlieo.     Mariner,  say  what  coast  is  tliis? 

2  .^(T.l.  We  are  near  Tliarsus.  • 

Per.  Thither,  gentle  mariner, 
Alter  thy  course  for  Tyre.     When  canst  thou  reach  it? 

2  Sail    By  break  ol'  day,  if  the  -wind  cease. 

Per.  0  '  make  for  Tharsus. — 
Tliere  will  I  visit  Cleon.  for  the  babe 
Cannot  hold  out  to  Tyrus  :  there  I  '11  leave  it 
At  carel'ul  nursing. — Go  thy  ways,  good  mariner  : 
I  '11  b'-ing  the  body  presently.  [Exeunt. 

STENE  II. — Ephesus.     A  Room  in  Cerimon's 

House. 
Enter  Cerimon.  a  Servant,  and  some  Persons  who 

have  been  Shipwrecked. 
Cer.  Philemon,  ho ! 

Enter  Philemon. 
Phil.  Doth  my  lord  call  ? 
Cer.  Get  fire  and  meat  for  these  poor  men : 
It  has  been  a  turbulent  and  stormy  night. 

Serv.  I  have  been  in  many  ;  but  such  a  night  as  this, 
Till  now  I  ne'er  endur'd. 

Cer.  Your  master  will  be  dead  ere  you  return : 
There  's  nothing  can  be  minister'd  to  nature. 
That  can  recover  him.     Give  this  to  the  'pothecary, 
.\nd  tell  me  how  it  works.  [To  Philemon. 

[Exeunt  Philemon.  Servant,  and  the  rest. 
Enter  Two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  Good  morrow,  sir. 

2  Gent.  Good  morrow  to  your  lordship. 
Cer.  Gentlemen, 

\Vliy  do  you  stir  so  early  ? 

1  Gent.  Sir. 

Our  lodgings,  standing  bleak  upon  the  sea, 
Shook,  as  the  earth  did  quake  ; 
The  ver>'  principals  did  seem  to  rend, 
.\nd  all  to  topple.     Pure  surprise  and  fear 
Made  me  to  quit  the  house. 

2  Gent.  This  is  the  cause  we  trouble  you  so  early  ; 
T  18  not  our  husbandry. 

Cer.  0  !  you  say  well. 

1  Gent.  But  I  much  marvel  that  your  lordship,  having 
Rich  tire  about  you,  should  at  these  early  hours 
Shake  off  the  golden  slumber  of  repose. 

T  i«  most  strange. 

.N'ature  should  be  so  conversant  with  pain. 

Being  thereto  not  compell'd. 

Cer.  I  hold  it  ever. 

Virtue  and  cunning'  were  endowments  greater 
Than  nobleness  and  riches :  careless  heirs 
Miy  fl^e  two  latter  darken  and  expend; 
P.m  immortality  attends  the  former, 
.Vl;ikmg  a  man  a  grA.     'T  is  known.  1  ever 
Have  piudied  physic,  through  which  secret  art, 
By  turning  o'er  authorities,  I  have 
Together  v*-ith  my  practice)  made  familiar 
To  me  and  to  my  aid,  the  blest  intusions 
That  dwell  in  vegctivefl,  in  metals,  stones; 
And  can  speak  of  the  disturbances  that  nature 
Works,  and  of  her  cures ;  which  doth  give  me 
\  more  content,  in  course  of  true  delight, 
Than  to  be  thirsty  after  tottering  honour. 
Or  tie  my  treasure  up  in  silken  bags. 
To  plea.'-e  the  fool  and  death. 

2  Gent.  Your  honour  has  through  Ephesus  pour'd  forth 
Your  charity,  and  hundreds  call  them.selves 

VouT  creatures,  who  by  you  have  been  restord  : 

•And  net  your  knowledge,  your  personal  pain,  but  even 

Your  purse,  s'ill  open,  hath  built  lord  Cerimon 

'  EnowUdgt. 


Such  strong  renown  as  time  shall  never — 
Enter  Two  Servants  with  a  Chest. 

Serv.  So ;  lift  there. 

Cer.  What  is  that  ? 

Serv.  Sir,  even  now 

Did  the  sea  toss  upon  our  shores  this  chest : 
'T  is  of  some  wTeck. 

Cer.  Set  it  down ;  let 's  look  upon  't. 

2  Gent.  'T  is  like  a  coffin,  sir. 

Cer.  Whate'er  it  be, 

'T  is  wondrous  heavy.     Wrench  it  open  straight : 
If  the  sea's  stomach  be  o'ercharg'd  with  gold, 
'T  is  a  good  constraint  of  fortune  it  belches  upon  us. 

2  Gent.  'T  is  so,  my  lord. 

Cer.  How  close  't  is  caulk'd  and  bitura'd 

Did  the  sea  cast  it  up  ? 

Serv.  1  never  saw  so  huge  a  billow,  sir. 
As  toss'd  it  upon  shore. 

Cer.  Come,  wTench  it  open. 

Soft,  soft !  it  smells  most  sweetly  in  my  sense. 

2  Gent.  A  delicate  odour. 

Cer.  As  ever  hit  my  nostril.     So.  up  -with  it, 
0,  you  most  potent  gods  !  what 's  here  ?  a  corse  ? 

1  Gent.  Most  strange  ! 

Cer.    Shrouded  in  cloth  of  state  ;   balm'd    and  en- 
treasured 
With  full  bags  of  spices  !     A  passport  too  : 
Apollo,  perfect  me  i'  the  characters  !   [Unfolds  a  Scroll 
"  Here  I  give  to  understand.  [Read."* 

(If  e'er  this  coffin  drive  a-land) 
I.  king  Pericles,  have  lost 
This  queen,  worth  all  o^ir  mundane  cost. 
Who  finds  her.  give  her  burying  ; 
She  u-as  the  daughter  of  a  king: 
Besides  this  treasure  for  a  fee, 
The  gods  requite  his  charity!'' 
If  thou  liv'st.  Pericles,  thou  hast  a  heart 
That  even  cracks  for  woe  ! — This  chanc'd  to-night. 

2  Gent.  Most  likely,  sir. 

Cer.  Nay.  certainly  to-night ; 

For  look,  how  fresh  she  looks. — They  were  too  lough. 
That  threw  her  in  the  sea.     Make  fire  within : 
Fetch  hither  all  the  boxes  in  my  closet. 
Death  may  usurp  on  nature  many  hours, 
And  yet  the  fire  of  life  kindle  again 
The  overpressed  spirits.     I  heard 
Of  an  Egyptian,  that  had  nine  hours  lien  dead. 
Who  was  by  good  appliance  recovered. 

Enter  a  Servant,  with  Boxes.  Napkins.,  and  Fire. 
Well  said,  well  said:  the  fire  and  tlie  cloths. — 
The  rough  and  woful  music  that  we  have, 
Cause  it  to  sound,  'beseech  you. 

The  vial  once  more  : — how  thou  stirr'st,  thou  block  ;- 
The  music  there  ! — I  pray  you,  give  her  air. 
Gentlemen, 

This  queen  will  live :  nature  awakes  a  warm 
Breath  out  of  her:  she  hath  not  been  entranc'd 
Above  five  hours.     See,  how  she  'gins  to  blow 
Into  life's  flower  again  ! 

1  Gent.  The  heavens 

Through  you  increase  our  wonder,  and  set  up 
Your  fame  for  ever. 

Cer.  She  is  alive  !  behold, 

Her  eyelids.  ca.ses  to  those  heavenly  jewels 
Which  Pericles  hath  lost, 
Begin  to  part  their  fringes  of  bright  gold : 
The  diamonds  of  a  most  praised  water 
Do  appear  to  make  the  world  twice  rich.     Live, 
And  make  us  weep  to  hear  your  fate,  fair  creature. 


PEKICLES,   PEINOE  OF  TYEE. 


901 


Rare  as  /ou  seem  to  be  !  {She  moves. 

Thai.  0  dear  Diana  ! 

Where  ami?  Where  's  my  lord  ?  What  world  is  this? 

2  GeJit.  Is  not  this  strange  ? 

1  Gent.  Most  rare. 

Cer.  Hush,  gentle  neighbours  ! 

Lend  me  your  hands ;  to  the  next  chamber  bear  her. 
Get  linen:  now  this  matter  must  be  look'd  to, 
For  her  relapse  is  mortal.     Come,  come; 
And  ^sculapius  guide  us  ! 

[Exeiuit,  carrying  Thaisa  out. 

SCENE  III. — Tharsus.     A  Room  in  Cleon's  House. 
Enter  Pericles,  Cleon,  Dionyza,  Lychorida,  and 

Marina. 

Per.  Most  honour'd  Cleon,  I  must  needs  be  gone  : 
My  twelve  months  are  expir'd,  and  Tyrus  stands 
In  a  litigious  peace.     You,  and  your  lady, 
Take  from  my  heart  all  thankfulness ;  the  gods 
Make  up  the  rest  upon  you  ! 

Cle.  Your  shafts'  of  fortune,  though  they  hurt*  you 
Yet  glance  full  wanderingly^  on  us.  [mortally, 

Dion.  0.  your  sweet  queen  ! 

That  the  strict  fates  had  pleas'd  you  had  brought  her 
To  have  bless'd  mine  eyes  !  [hither, 

Per.  We  cannot  but  obey 

The  powers  above  us.     Could  I  rage  and  roar 
As  doth  the  sea  she  lies  in,  yet  the  end 
Must  be  as  't  is.     My  gentle  babe  Marina  (whom, 
For  she  was  born  at  sea,  I  have  nain'd  so)  here 
I  charge  your  charity  withal,  and  leave  her 
The  infant  of  your  care  ;  beseeching  you 
To  give  her  princely  training,  that  she  may 
Be  m aimer' d  as  she  is  born. 

Cle.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  but  think 

Your  grace,  that  fed  my  country  with  your  corn, 
(For  which  the  people's  prayers  still  fall  upon  you) 
Must  in  your  child  be  thought  on.     If  neglection 
Should  therein  make  me  vile,  the  common  body. 
By  you  re.liev'd,  would  force  me  to  my  duty ; 
But  if  to  that  my  nature  need  a  spur. 
The  gods  revenge  it  upon  me  and  mine, 
To  the  end  of  generation. 


Per.  I  believe  you ; 

Your  honour  and  your  goodness  teach  me  to  't, 
Without  your  vows.     Till  she  be  married,  madam, 
By  bright  Diana,  whom  we  honour  all, 
Unscissar'd  shall  this  hair  of  mine  remain, 
Though  I  show  will*  in  't.     So  I  take  my  leave. 
Good  madam,  make  me  blessed  in  your  care 
In  bringing  up  my  child. 

Dion.  I  have  one  myself, 

Who  shall  not  be  more  dear  to  my  respect. 
Than  yours,  my  lord. 

Per.  Madam,  my  thanks  and  prayers' 

Cle.  We  '11  bring  your  grace  even  to  the  edge  o'  ih^ 
shore ; 
Then  give  you  up  to  the  mask'd  Neptune,  and 
The  gentlest  winds  of  heaven. 

Per.  I  will  embrace 

Your  offer.     Come,  dear'st  madam. — 0  !  no  tears, 
Lychorida,  no  tears  : 

Look  to  your  little  mistress,  on  whose  grace 
You  may  depend  hereafter. — Come,  my  lord.   [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. — Ephesus.    A  Room  in  Ceri.mon's  House 
Enter  Cerimon  and  Thaisa. 

Cer.  Madam,  this  letter,  and  some  certain  jewel.s, 
Lay  with  you  in  your  coffer,  which  are 
At  your  command.     Know  you  the  character  ? 

Thai.  It  is  my  lord's. 
That  I  was  shipp'd  at  sea,  I  well  remember. 
Even  en  my  yearning  time  ;  but  whether  there 
Delivered  or  no,  by  the  holy  gods. 
I  cannot  rightly  say.     But  since  king  Pericles, 
My  wedded  lord.  I  ne'er  shall  see  again, 
A  vestal  livery  will  I  take  me  to, 
And  never  more  have  joy. 

Cer.  Madam,  if  this  you  purpose  as  you  speak, 
Diana's  temple  is  not  distant  far. 
Where  you  may  abide  till  your  date  expire. 
Moreover,  if  you  please,  a  niece  of  mine 
Shall  there  attend  you. 

Thai.  My  recompense  is  thanks,  that 's  all : 
Yet  my  good  will  is  great,  though  the  gift  small.  [Exettn- 


ACT    IV. 


Enter  Gower. 

Goto.  Imagine  Pericles  arriv'd  at  T>Te, 
Wclcom'd  and  settled  to  his  own  desire : 
His  woful  queen  we  leave  at  Ephesus, 
Unto  Diana  there  a  votaress. 
Now  to  Marina  bend  your  mind, 
Whom  our  fast-growing  scene  must  find 
At  Tharsus,  and  by  Cleon  train'd 
In  music,  letters ;  who  hath  gain'd 
Of  education  all  the  grace. 
Which  makes  her  both  the  heart  and  plac« 
Of  general  wonder.     But  alack  ! 
That  monster  envy,  oft  the  wrack 
Of  earnest  praise,  Marina's  life 
Seeks  to  take  off  by  treason's  knife 
And  in  this  kind  hath  our  Cleon 
One  daughter,  and  a  wench  full  grown, 
Even  ripe  for  marriage  rite  :*  this  maid 
Hight  Philoten ;  and  it  is  said 
For  certain  in  our  story,  she 

bakes  •   »  haunt :      •wondringly  :  in  old  copies.     Steevens 


Would  ever  with  Marina  be  : 
Be  't  when  she  weav'd  the  sleided*  silk 
With  fingers,  long,  small,  white  as  milk  : 
Or  when  she  would  with  sharp  needle  wound 
The  cambric,  which  she  made  more  sound 
By  hurting  it ;  or  when  to  the  lute 
She  sung,  and  made  the  night-bird  mule, 
That  still  records  with  moan ;  or  when 
She  would  with  rich  and  constant  pen 
Vail  to  her  mistress  Dian  ;  still 
This  Philoten  contends  in  skill 
With  absolute  Marina  :  so 
With  the  dove  of  Paphos  might  the  crow 
Vie  feathers  white.     Marina  gets 
All  praises,  which  are  paid  as  debts, 
And  not  as  given.     This  so  darks 
In  Philoten  all  graceful  marks, 
That  Cleon's  wife,  with  envy  rare, 
A  present  murderer  docs  prepare 
For  good  Marina,  that  her  daughter 
Might  stand  peerless  by  this  slaughter. 
made  the  changes.    ♦  Dyce  reads  :  i)..    »  sight :  in  o'd  copies.    •  Maw. 


902 


PERICLES,   PRINCE   OF  TYRE. 


ACT    IV. 


The  sooner  her  vile  thoughts  to  stead, 

Lychonda,  our  nurse,  is  dead  : 

And  cursed  Dionyza  hath 

The  pregnant  instrument  of  wrath 

Prest'  for  this  blow.     The  unboru  event 

I  do  commend  to  your  content : 

Only  T  carried  wnged  time 

Post  on  the  lame  feet  of  my  rhyme  ; 

Which  never  could  I  so  convey, 

Unless  your  thoughts  went  on  my  way. — 

Dionyza  doth  appear, 

With  Leonine,  a  murderer.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — Tharsus.     An  open  Place  near  the  Sea- 
shore. 
Enter  Dionyza  and  Leonine. 

Dion.  Thy  oath  remember;  thou  hast  sworn  to  do't: 
T  is  but  a  blow,  which  never  shall  be  known, 
riiou  canst  not  do  a  thing  i'  the  world  so  soon, 
To  yield  thee  so  much  profit.     Let  not  conscience, 
Which  is  but  cold,  inflaming  love  in  thy  bosom, 
(ntlame  too  nicely;  nor  let  pity,  which 
Even  women  have  cast  off.  melt  thee,  but  be 
.\  .<oldicr  to  thy  purpose. 

Leon.  I  "11  do  "t :  but  yet  she  is  a  goodly  creature. 

Dion.  The  fitter  then  the  gods  should  have  her.  Here 
.S!ie  comes  weeping  for  her  old  nurse's'  death. 
Thou  art  resolv'd  ? 

Leon.  I  am  resolv'd. 

Enter  Marina.  v:ith  a  Basket  of  Flowers. 

Mar.  No.  I  will  rob  Tclius  of  her  weed, 
To  strew  thy  grave'  with  flowers  :  the  yellows,  blues, 
The  purple  violets,  and  marigolds. 
Shall,  as  a  carpet,  hang  upon  thy  grave, 
While  summer  days  do  la.^t.     Ah  me,  poor  maid  ! 
Born  in  a  tempest,  when  my  mother  died, 
This  world  to  me  is  like  a  lasting  storm, 
Whirring  me  from  my  friends. 

Dion.  How  now,  Marina  !  why  do  you  weep*  alone? 
How  chance  my  daughter  is  not  \\'ith  you  ?     Do  not 
Consume  your  Wood  with  sorrowing:  you  have 
.\  nurse  of  me.     Lord  !  how  your  favour  's*  chang'd 
With  this  unprofitable  woe.     Come^  come; 
Givfc   ne  your  flowers,  ere  the  sea  mar  it. 
Walk  with  Leonine  :  the  air  is  quick  there, 
And  it  pierces  and  sharpens  the  stomach.     Come, 
Leonine,  take  her  by  the  arm,  walk  with  her. 

Mar.  No,  I  pray  you  : 
I  '11  not  bereave  you  of  your  servant. 

Dion.  Come,  come ; 

I  l..ve  the  king  your  father,  and  yourself, 
With  more  than  foreign  heart.     We  every  day 
Kxpect  h'.Ti  here  :  when  he  shall  come,  and  find 
Our  paraxon  to  all  reports  thus  bla.sted, 
He  will  repent  the  breadth  of  his  great  voyage  ; 
Blame  both  my  lord  and  me,  that  we  have  taken 
.No  care  to  your  best  courses.     Go,  I  pray  you ; 
Walk,  and  be  cheerful  once  again:  reserve 
That  excellent  complexion,  wjiich  did  steal 
The  eyes  t-f  young  and  old.     Care  not  for  me; 
i  can  go  home  alone. 

Mar.  Well,  I  will  go; 

But  yet  1  have  no  desire  to  it. 

Dion.  Come,  come.  I  know  't  is  good  for  you. — 
Walk  half  an  hour.  Leonine,  at  least. 
Ilemember  what  I  have  Raid. 

^'^>n  I  warrant  you,  madam. 

IHmx.  I  "11  leave  you,  my  sweet  lady,  for  a  while. 
I'ray  you  walk  softly,  do  not  heat  your  blood  : 

■  Ktadi/.         onelr  m. -•:»•-«  :  in  old  copies.      >  green  :  in  old  copi 


What  !  I  must  have  care  of  you. 

Mar.  Thanks,  sweet  madam. — [Exit  DiONYz.i. 

Is  the  wind  westerly  that  blows? 

Leon.  South-west. 

Mar.  When  I  was  bom,  the  wind  was  north. 

Leon.  Was  "t  so  ' 

Mar.  My  father,  as  nurse  said,  did  never  fear. 
But  cry'd  "  good  seamen  !"  to  the  sailors,  galling 
His  kingly  hands  hauling  ropes; 
And,  clasping  to  the  mast,  endurd  a  sea 
That  almost  bur.st  the  deck. 

Leon.  When  was  this  ? 

Mar.  When  I  was  born  : 
Never  were  waves  nor  wind  more  violent ; 
And  from  the  ladder-tackle  washes  off 
A  canvass-climber.     "  Ha  •"  says  one,  "  wilt  out?" 
And  with  a  dropping  industry  they  skip 
From  stem  to  stern  :  the  boatswain  whistles,  and 
The  master  calls,  and  trebles  their  confusion. 

Leon.  Come ;  say  your  prayers. 

Mar.  What  mean  you  ' 

Leon.  If  you  require  a  little  space  for  prayer 
I  grant  it.     Pray  :  but  be  not  tedious, 
For  the  gods  are  quick  of  ear,  and  I  am  sworn 
To  do  my  work  with  haste. 

Mar.  Why  will  you  kill  me  ? 

Leon.  To  satisfy  my  lady. 

Mar.  Why  would  she  have  me  kill'd  ? 
Now  as  I  can  remember,  by  my  troth, 
I  never  did  her  hurt  in  all  my  life. 
I  never  spake  bad  word,  nor  did  ill  turn 
To  any  living  creature  :  believe  me,  la, 
I  never  kill'd  a  mouse,  nor  hurt  a  fly : 
I  trod  upon  a  worm  against  my  will, 
But  1  wept  for  it.     How  have  I  offended, 
Wherein  my  death  might  yield  her  profit,  or 
My  life  imply  her  any  danger  ? 

Leon.  My  commission 

Is  not  to  reason  of  the  deed,  but  do  it. 

Mar.  You  will  not  do  "t  for  all  the  world,  I  hope. 
You  are  well  favour'd,  and  your  looks  foreshow 
You  have  a  gentle  heart.     I  saw  you  lately. 
When  you  caught  hurt  in  parting  two  that  fought: 
Good  sooth,  it  show'd  well  in  you  :  do  so  now  : 
Your  lady  seeks  my  life;  come  you  between, 
And  save  poor  me,  the  weaker. 

Leon.  I  am  sworn. 

And  will  despatch. 

Enter  Pirates,  whilst  Marina  is  struggling. 

1  Pirate.  Hold,  villain  !  [Leonine  runs  aicay 

2  Pirate.  A  prize  !  a  prize  ! 

3  Pirate.  Half-part,  mates,  half-part.  Come,  let's  have 
her  aboard  suddenly.        [Exeunt  Pirates  with  Marina. 

SCENE  II.— Near  the  Same. 
Enter  Leonine. 
Leon.  These  roguing  thieves  ser\'e  the  great  pirat*' 
Valdcs; 
And  they  have  seiz'd  Marina.     Let  her  go : 
There  's  no  hope  she  '11  return.     I  '11  swear  she 's  dead 
And  thrown  into  the  sea. — But  I  '11  see  farther  ; 
Perhaps  they  will  but  please  themselves  upon  her, 
Not  carry  her  aboard.     If  she  remain. 
Whom  they  have  ravi.sh'd  must  by  me  be  slain.   I^tj 

SCENE  III.— Mitylene.     A  Room  in  a  Brothel 

Enter  Pander,  Bawd,  and  Boult. 
Pand.  Boult. 
Boi'lt.  Sir. 

!».      ♦  .Somfl  editions  read  :  keep.     •  Fare. 


SCENE  in. 


PEKICLES,   PEIXCE   OF  TrEE. 


903 


Pand.  Search  the  market  narrowly ;  Mitylene  is  full ' 
jf  gallants  :  we  lost  too  much  money  this  mart,  by 
being  too  wenchless. 

Bawd.  We  were  never  so  much  out  of  creatures. 
vV'e  have  but  poor  three,  and  they  can  do  no  more 
than  they  can  do;  and  they  with  continual  action  are 
even  as  good  as  rotten. 

Pand.  Therefore,  let 's  have  fresh  ones,  whate'er  we 
pay  for  them.  If  there  be  not  a  conscience  to  be  used 
in  every  trade,  we  shall  never  prosper. 

Bawd.  Thou  say'st  true :  't  is  not  the  bringing  up 
of  poor  bastards,  as  I  think,  I  have  brought  up  some 
eleven 

Boult.  Ay,  to  eleven;  and  brought  them  do\^-n  again. 
But  shall  I  search  the  market  ? 

Bawd.  What  else,  man?  The  stuff  we  have,  a 
strong  wind  will  blow  it  to  pieces,  they  are  so  pitifully 
sodden. 

Pand.  Thou  say'st  true  ;  they  're  too  unwholesome  o' 
con.scieuce.  The  poor  Transilvanian  is  dead,  that  lay 
with  the  little  baggage. 

Boult.  Ay,  she  quickly  pooped  him ;  she  made  him 
roast-meat  for  worms.     But  I  '11  go  search  the  market. 

[Exit  Boult. 

Pand.  Three  or  four  thousand  chequins  were  as 
pretty  a  proportion  to  live  quietly,  and  so  give  over. 

Bawd.  Why,  to  give  over,  I  pray  you?  is  it  a  shame 
to  get  when  we  are  old  ? 

Pand.  0  !  our  credit  comes  not  in  like  the  com- 
modity ;  nor  the  commodity  wages  not  with  the  danger  : 
therefore,  if  in  our  youths  w^e  could  pick  up  some 
pretty  estate,  't  were  not  amiss  to  keep  our  door  hatched. 
Besides,  the  sore  terras  we  stand  upon  with  the  gods 
will  be  strong  with  us  for  giving  over. 

Baicd.   Come ;  other  sorts  offend  as  well  as  we. 

Pand.  As  well  as  we  ?  ay,  and  better  too  ;  we  offend 
worse.  Neither  is  our  profession  any  trade ;  it 's  no 
tailing.     But  here  comes  Boult. 

Enter  Boult,  and  the  Pirates  ivith  Marina. 

Boult.  Cciine  your  ways.  My  masters,  you  say  she 's 
a  virgin  ? 

1  Pirate.  0,  sir  !  we  doubt  it  not. 

Boult.  Master,  I  have  gone  thorough  for  this  piece, 
you  see:  if  you  like  her,  so;  if  not,  I  have  lost  my 
earnest. 

Bawd.  Boult,  has  she  any  qualities  ? 

Boult.  She  has  a  good  face,  speaks  well,  and  has  ex- 
cellent good  clothes :  there  's  no  farther  necessity  of 
qualities  can  make  her  be  refused. 

Bau-d.  What 's  her  price,  Boult  ? 

Boult.  I  cannot  he  bated  one  doit  of  a  thousand  pieces. 

Pand.  Well,  follow  me,  my  masters,  you  shall  have 
your  money  presently.  Wife,  take  her  in  :  instruct 
her  what  she  has  to  do,  that  she  may  not  be  raw  in  her 
entertainment.  [Exeunt  Pander  and  Pirates. 

Bawd.  Boult,  take  you  the  marks  of  her ;  the  colour 
of  her  hair,  complexion,  height,  her  age,  with  warrant 
of  her  virginity,  and  cry,  '■  He  that  will  give  most, 
shall  have  her  first."  Such  a  maidenhead  were  no 
cheap  thing,  if  men  were  as  they  have  been.  Get  this 
done  as  I  command  you. 

Boult.  Performance  shall  follow.  [Exit  Boult. 

Mar.  Alack,  that  Leonine  was  so  slack,  so  slow  ! 
He  should  have  struck,  not  spoke  ;  or  that  these  pirates. 
(Not  enough  barbarous)  had  not  o'erboard  throwii  me 
•  For  to  seek  my  mother  ! 

Bawd.  Why  lament  you,  pretty  one  ? 

Mar.  That  I  am  pretty. 

Baiod.  Come,  the  gods  have  done  their  part  in  you. 

•  Mhtoitune.      »  Absolute 


Mar.  I  accuse  them  not. 

Bawd.  You  are  lit  into  my  hands,  where  you  ar« 
like  to  live. 

Mar.  The  more  my  fault,* 
To  'scape  his  hands  where  I  was  like  to  die. 

Bawd.  Ay,  and  you  shall  live  in  pleasure. 

Mar.  No. 

Bawd.  Yes,  indeed,  shall  you,  and  taste  gentlemen 
of  all  fashions.  You  shall  fare  well :  you  shall  have 
the  difference  of  all  complexions.  What  '  do  you  stop 
your  ears  ? 

Mar.  Are  you  a  woman  ? 

Bawd.  What  would  you  have  me  be,  an  I  be  not  a 
woman  ? 

3Iar.  An  honest  woman,  or  not  a  woman. 

Bawd.  Marry,  whip  thee,  gosling:  I  think  I  shall 
have  something  to  do  with  you.  Come,  you  are  a 
young  foolish  sapling,  and  must  be  bowed  as  I  would 
have  you. 

Mar.  The  gods  defend  me  ! 

Bawd.  If  it  please  the  gods  to  defend  you  by  men, 
then  men  must  comfort  you,  men  must  feed  you,  men 
stir  you  up. — Boult 's  returned. 

Re-enter  Boult. 
Now,  sir,  hast  thou  cried  her  through  the  market  ? 

Boult.  I  have  cried  her  almost  to  the  number  of  her 
hairs :  I  have  drawn  her  picture  with  my  voice. 

Bawd.  And  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  how  dost  thou  find 
the  inclmation  of  the  people,  especially  of  the  younger 
sort? 

Boult.  Faith,  they  listened  to  me,  as  they  would 
have  hearkened  to  their  father's  testament.  There  was 
a  Spaniard's  mouth  so  watered,  that  he  went  to  bed  to 
her  very  description. 

Bawd.  We  shall  have  him  here  to-morrow  with  his 
best  ruff  on. 

Boidt.  To-night,  to-night.  But,  mistress,  do  you 
know  the  French  knight  that  cowers  i'  the  hams  ? 

Bawd.  Who  ?  monsieur  Veroles  ? 

Boult.  Ay  :  he  offered  to  cut  a  caper  at  the  pro- 
clamation ;  but  he  made  a  groan  at  it,  and  swore  be 
would  see  her  to-morrow. 

Bawd.  Well,  well ;  as  for  him,  he  brought  his  disease 
hither :  here  he  does  but  repair  it.  I  know,  he  will 
come  in  our  shadow,  to  scatter  his  crowns  in  the  sun. 

Boult.  Well,  if  we  had  of  every  nation  a  traveller, 
we  should  lodge  them  with  this  sign. 

Bawd.  Pray  you,  come  hither  awhile.  You  have 
fortunes  coming  upon  you.  Mark  me  :  you  must  seem 
to  do  that  fearfully,  which  you  commit  ^^-illingly ;  to 
despise  profit,  where  you  have  most  gain.  To  weep 
that  you  live  as  you  do  makes  pity  in  your  lovers : 
seldom,  but  that  pity  begets  you  a  good  opinion,  and 
that  opinion  a  mere*  profit. 

Mar.  I  understand  you  not. 

Boult.  0  I  take  her  home,  mistress,  take  her  home : 
these  blushes  of  hers  must  be  quenched  with  some 
present  practice. 

Bawd.  Thou  say'st  true,  i'  faith,  so  they  mu.et;  foe 
your  bride  goes  to  that  with  shame,  which  is  her  way 
to  go  with  warrant. 

Boult.  Faith,  some  do.  and  some  do  not.  But,  mis- 
tress, if  I  have  bargained  for  the  joint. — 

Bawd.  Thou  may'st  cut  a  morsel  off  the  spit. 

Botdt.  I  may  so  ? 

Bawd.  Who  should  deny  it  ?  Come,  voung  one,  1 
like  the  manner  of  your  garments  well. 

Boult.  Ay.  by  my  faith,  they  shall  not  be  changed  yel 

Bau'd.  Boult,  spend  thou  that  in  the  town  •  repnn 


P04 


PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE. 


AOT  IT. 


what    a   sojourner  wc  have  ;    you  '1     lose  nothing  by  I 
i-ufton».     When  nature  franaed  this  piece,  she  meant 
iheo  a  gooil  turn :  tlierefore,  say  what  a  paragon  she  is, 
aiui  thou  hast  the  harvest  out  of  thine  own  report. 

Hotilt.  I  warrant  you,  mistress,  thunder  shall  not  so 
awake  the  beds  of  eels,  as  my  giving  out  her  beauty  stir 
uj)  tlic  lewdly  inclined.     I  "11  bring  home  some  to-night. 

Baird.  Come  your  ways  ;  follow  me. 

Mar.  If  tires  be  hot,  knives  sliarp,  or  waters  deep, 
Untied  I  still  my  virgin  knot  will  keep. 
Diana,  aid  my  purpose  ! 

Bated.  What  have  we  to  do  with  Diana?  Pray  you, 
will  you  go  with  us?  [Exeunt. 

6CENE  IV. — Thar.sus.     A  Room  in  Cleo.n's  House. 
Enter  Cleon  aud  Dionyza. 

Dion.  Why,  are  you  loolish  ?     Can  it  be  undone? 

Cle.  0  Dionyza  !  such  a  piece  of  slaughter 
The  sun  and  moon  ne'er  look'd  upon. 

Dion.  I  think, 

Vou  "11  turn  a  child  again. 

Cle.  Were  I  chief  lord  of  all  this  spacious  world. 
1  "d  give  it  to  undo  the  deed.     0  lady  ! 
Much  le.'s.s  in  blood  than  virtue,  yet  a  princess 
To  e(iual  any  single  crown  o'  the  earth. 
I'  the  justice  of  compare  !     0  villain  Leonine  ! 
Whom  thou  hast  poison'd  too. 
If  thou  hadst  drunk  to  him,  it  had  been  a  kindness 
Becoming  well  thy  face:'   what  canst  thou  .«ay, 
When  noble  Pericles  shall  demand  his  child  ? 

Dion.  That  she  is  dead.     Nurses  are  not  the  fates, 
To  foster  it,  nor  ever  to  preserve. 
She  died  at  night ;  I  Ml  say  so.     Who  can  cross  it, 
I'nlcs.'i  you  play  the  pious  innocent, 
And  for  an  honest  attribute,  cry  out, 
•  She  died  by  foul  play?"' 

Cle.  0  !  go  to.     "V\^ell,  well ; 

Of  all  the  faults  beneath  the  heavens,  the  gods 
Do  like  this  worst. 

Dion.  Be  one  of  those,  that  think 

The  pretty  wrens  of  Tharsus  will  fly  hence, 
And  open  this  to  Pericles.     I  do  shame 
To  think  of  what  a  noble  strain  you  are, 
And  of  how  coward  a  spirit. 

Cle.  To  such  proceeding 

Who  ever  but  his  approbation  added, 
Thounh  not  hii  pre*-consent,  he  did  not  flow 
From  honourable  courses. 

Dton.  Be  it  so,  then  ; 

Yet  none  does  know,  but  you.  how  she  came  dead, 
.N'or  none  can  know.  Leonine  being  gone. 
She  did  disdain*  my  child,  and  stood  between 
Her  and  her  fortunes  :  none  would  look  on  her, 
But  caj^t  their  gazes  on  Marina's  face ; 
Whilst  ours  was  blurted  at,  and  held  a  malkin,* 
Not  worth  the  time  of  day.     It  pierc"d  me  thorough; 
And  thouL'h  you  call  my  course  unnatural, 
Vou  not  your  child  well  loving,  yet  I  find. 
It  t'rcets  me  as  an  enterpri.sc  of  kindness, 
Perlorm'd  to  your  sole  daughter. 

Cle.  Heavens  forgive  it ! 

Dion.  And  as  for  Pericles, 
What  should  he  say  ?     We  wept  after  her  hearse, 
And  even  yet  we  mourn:  her  monument 
Ih  almost  finishd,  and  her  epitaphs 
In  glittering  golden  characters  express 
A  general  praise  to  her,  and  care  in  us 
At  whose  exi>ense  't  is  done. 


Cle.  Thou  art  like  the  harpy 

Which,  to  betray,  doth  with  thine  angel's  face. 
Seize  with  thine  eag]e"s  talons. 

Dion.  You  are  like  one,  that  superstitiously 
Doth  swear  to  the  gods,  that  winter  kills  the  flies : 
But  yet,  I  know,  you'll  do  as  I  advise.  \Fxevnt. 

Enter  GowER,  before  the  Monument  of  Marina  ac 
Tharsus.* 
Gow.  Thus  time  we  waste,  and  longest  league* 
make  short ; 
Sail  seas  in  cockles,  have,  and  wi.sh  but  for  'l; 
Making  (to  take  your  imagination) 
From  bourn  to  bourn,  region  to  region. 
By  you  being  pardon'd,  we  commit  no  crime 
To  use  one  language,  in  each  several  clime, 
Where  our  scenes  seem  to  live.    I  do  beseech  you, 
To  learn  of  me,  who  stand  i'  the  gaps  to  teach  yoti, 
The  stages  of  our  story.     Pericles 
Is  now  again  thwarting  the  wayward  seas. 
Attended  on  by  many  a  lord  and  knight. 
To  see  his  daughter,  all  his  life's  delight. 
Old  Escanes,  whom  Helicanus  late 
Advanced  in  time  to  great  and  high  estate, 
Is  left  to  govern.     Bear  you  it  in  mind. 
Old  Helicanus  goes  along  behind. 
Well-sailing  ships,  and    bounteous  winds,   have 

brought 
This  king  to  Tharsus,  (think  this  pilot  thought. 
So  with  his  steerage  shall  your  thoughts  grow  on'i 
To  fetch  his  daughter  home,  who  first  is  gone 
Like  motes  and  shadows  see  them  move  awhile ; 
Your  ears  unto  your  eyes  I  '11  reconcile. 
Dumb  show. 
Enter  Periclbs  with  kis  Train,  at  one  door  :  Cleo.v 
and  Dionyza  at  the  other.     Cleon  shows  Pericle" 
the    Tomb   of    Marina  :    whereat    Pericles   makes 
lamentation,   puts   on    Sackcloth,   and  in   a  mighty 
passion  departs. 

Gow.  See,  how  belief  may  suff'er  by  foul  show 
The  borrow'd  passion  stands  for  true  old  woe ; 
And  Pericles,  in  sorrow  all  devour'd, 
With  sighs  shot  through,  and  biggest  tears  o'er- 

show'r'd. 
Leaves  Tharsus,  and  again  embarks.     He  swean- 
Never  to  wash  his  face,  nor  cut  his  hairs ; 
He  puts  on  .sackcloth,  and  to  sea.     He  bears 
A  tempest,  which  his  mortal  vessel  tears. 
And  yet  he  rides  it  out.     Now,  plea.se  you,  wit 
The  epitaph  is  for  Marina  writ 
By  wncked  Dionyza. 

'•  The  faire.ft.  .-iwcet'st.  and  best,  lies  here, 
Who  wither  d  in  her  spring  of  year  : 
She  was  of  Tyrus,  the  king's  daughter. 
On  whom  foul  death  hath  made  this  slaughter. 
Mdrina  was  .she  call'd  ;  and  at  her  birth, 
Thetis,  being  proud,  srcalhw'd  .tome  part  o'  the  earth. 
Therefore  the  earth,  fearing  to  be  o  erfow'd, 
Hiiih  Thetis'  birth-child  on  the  heavens  bestow'd: 
Wherefore  she  does  (and  .swears  she  '//  nnwr  s'inf^ 
Make  raging  battery  upon  shores  of  fiintP 
No  visor  docs  become  black  villainy. 
So  well  as  soft  and  tender  flattery. 
Let  Pericles  believe  his  daughter  's  dead. 
And  bear  his  courses  to  be  ordered 
By  lady  fortune  :  while  our  scene  mu.sl  play 
His  daughter"8  woe  and  heavy  well-a-day, 
In  her  unholy  service.     Patience  then, 
And  think  you  now  are  all  in  Mitylcn  \KrU 


■  pye«  reads  ;  f«ct.      »  prince  :  in  old  eopieii.     '  Steeveni  readi :  di«Uin.     (Sully  by  contrMt.—Dyce.) 
n  wbich  the  Acu  are  fim  marked.  Act  IV.  commence!. 


A  low  wench 


PERICLES,   PRII^CE   OF  TYRE. 


905 


SCENE  v.— Mitylene.     A  Street  before  the  Brothel. 
Enter  from  the  Brothel^  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gen.t.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? 

2  Gent.  No  :  nor  never  shall  do  in  such  a  place  as 
this,  she  being  once  gone. 

1  Gent.  But  to  haA^e  divinity  preach'd  there,  did 
you  ever  dream  of  such  a  thing? 

2  Gent.  No,  no.  Come,  I  am  for  no  more  bawdy- 
houses.     Shall  we  go  hear  the  vestals  sing  ? 

1  Gent.  I  '11  do  any  thing  now  that  is  virtuous ;  but 
I  am  out  of  the  road  of  rutting  for  ever.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Brothel. 
Enter  Pander.^  Bawd.,  and  Boult. 

Pand.  Well,  I  had  rather  than  twice  the  worth  of 
her.  she  had  ne'er  come  here. 

Bawd.  Fie,  fie  upon  her  !  she  is  able  to  freeze  the 
god  Priapus,  and  undo  a  whole  generation :  we  must 
either  get  her  ravi.^^hed,  or  be  rid  of  her.  When  she 
should  do  for  clients  her  fitment,  and  do  me  the  kind- 
ness of  our  profession,  she  has  me  her  quirks,  her 
reasons,  her  master  reasons,  her  prayers,  her  knees, 
that  she  would  make  a  puritan  of  the  devil,  if  he 
should  cheapen  a  kiss  of  her. 

Bovlt.  Faith.  I  must  ravish  her,  or  she  '11  disfurni.';h 
us  of  all  our  cavaliers,  and  make  all  our  swearers  priests. 

Pand.  Now,  the  pox  upon  her  green-sickness  for  me  ! 

Bawd.  'Faith,  there  's  no  way  to  be  rid  on  't,  but  by 
the  way  to  the  pox.  Here  comes  the  lord  Lysimachus, 
disguised. 

Boidt.  We  should  have  both  lord,  and  lown,  if  the 
peevish  baggage  would  but  give  way  to  customers. 
Enter  Lysimachus. 

Lys.     How  now  !     How  a  dozen  of  virginities  ? 

Bawd.  Now,  the  gods  to-bless  your  honour  ! 

Boult.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  honour  in  good  health. 

hys.  You  may  so  ;  't  is  the  better  for  you  that  your 
resorters  stand  upon  sound  legs.  How  now,  whole- 
some iniquity  !  have  you  that  a  man  may  deal  withal, 
and  defy  the  surgeon  ? 

Bawd.  We  have  here  one,  sir,  if  she  would — but 
there  never  came  her  like  in  Mitylene. 

Lys.  If  she  'd  do  the  deeds  of  darkness,  thou  wouldst 
say. 

Baivd.  Yoiir  honour  knows  what  't  is  to  say,  well 
enough. 

Lys.  Well ;  call  forth,  call  forth. 

Boult.  For  flesh  and  blood,  sir,  white  and  red.  you 
shall  see  a  rose;  and  she  were  a  rose  indeed,  if  she  had 
but — 

Lys.  What,  pr'ythee  ? 

Boult.  0,  sir  !  I  can  be  modest. 

Lys.  That  dignifies  the  renown  of  a  bawd,  no  less 
tUan  it  gives  a  good  report  to  a  number  to  be  chaste. 
Enter  INLiRiNA. 

Bawd.  Here  comes  that  which  grows  to  the  stalk; — 
never  pluck'd  yet,  I  can  assure  you. — Is  she  not  a  fair 
creature  ? 

Lys.  Faith,  she  would  serve  after  a  long  voyage  at 
sea.     Well,  there  's  for  you  :  leave  us. 

Bo  >vd.  I  beseech  your  honour,  give  me  leave :  a 
word   and  I  '11  have  done  presently. 

Ly..    I  beseech  you,  do. 

Bawd.  First,  I  would  have  you  note,  this  is  an  ho- 
Bourable  man.  [To  Marina. 

Mar.  I  desire  to  find  him  so,  that  I  may  worthily 
note  him. 

Bawd.  Next,  he  's  the  governor  of  this  country  and 
a  man  whom  I  am  bound  to. 


I  ^  Mar.  If  he  govern  the  country,  you  are  bound  to  hira 
indeed  ;  but  how  honourable  he  is  in  that,  I  know  not. 

Bawd.  'Pray  you.  without  any  more  virginal  i'enc- 
I  ing,  will  you  use  him  kindly  ?  He  will  line  your 
t  apron  with  gold. 

I      Mar.  What  he  will  do  graciously.  I  will  thankfully 
receive. 

Lys.  Have  you  doiie  ? 

Bawd.  My  lord,  she  's  not  paced  yet :  you  must  take 

some  pains  to  work  her  to  your  manage. — Come,  we 

will  leave  his  honour  and  her  together.     Go  thy  ways 

[Exeunt  Bawd,  Pander,  and  Bouir 

Lys.  Now,  pretty  one.  how  long  have  you  been  at 
this  trade  ? 

3Iar.  What  trade,  sir? 

Lys.  Why,  I  cannot  name  but  I  shall  offend 

Mar.  I  caimot  be  offended  with  my  trade.  Please 
you  to  name  it. 

Lys.  How  long  have  you  been  of  this  profession? 

Mar.  Ever  since  I  can  remember. 

Lys.  Did  you  go  to  it  so  young?  Were  you  a 
gamester  at  five,  or  at  seven  ? 

3Iar.  Earlier  too,  sir,  if  now  I  be  one. 

Lys.  Why,  the  house  you  dwell  in  proclaims  you  to 
be  a  creature  of  sale. 

3Iar.  Do  you  know  this  house  to  be  a  place  of  such 
resort,  and  will  come  into  it?  I  hear  say,  you- are 
of  honourable  parts,  and  are  the  governor  of  this  place. 

Lys.  Why,  hath  your  principal  made  known  unto 
you  who  I  am? 

3Iar.  Who  is  my  principal  ? 

Lys.  Why,  your  herb-woman;  she  that  sets  seed 
and  roots  of  shame  and  iniquity.  0  !  you  have  heard 
something  of  my  power,  and  so  stand  aloof  for  more 
serious  wooing.  But  I  protest  to  thee,  pretty  one,  my 
authority  shall  not  see  thee,  or  else,  look  friendly  upon 
I  thee.  Come,  bring  me  to  some  private  place  :  come, 
come. 

I      Mar.  If  you  were  born  to  honour,  show  it  now ; 
If  put  upon  you,  make  the  judgment  good 
That  thought  you  worthy  of  it. 

Lys.  How  's  this  ?  how  's  this  ? — Some  more ,  -be 
sage. 

Mar.  For  me. 
That  am  a  maid,  though  most  ungentle  fortune 
Hath  plac'd  me  in  this  sty,  where,  since  I  came, 
Diseases  have  been  sold  dearer  than  physic, — 
That  the  gods 

Would  set  me  free  from  this  unhallow'd  place. 
Though  they  did  change  me  to  the  meanest  bird 
That  flies  i'  the  purer  air ! 

Lys.  I  did  not  think 

Thou  couldst  have  spoke  so  well ;  ne'er  dream'd  thou 

couldst. 
Had  I  brought  hither  a  corrupted  mind. 
Thy  speech  had  alter'd  it.     Hold,  here  's  gold  for  thee 
Persevere  in  that  clear  way  thou  goest. 
And  the  gods  strengthen  thee. 

3Iar.  The  gods  preserve  you  ! 

Lys.  For  me,  be  you  thoughten 

That  I  came  with  no  ill  intent ;  for  to  me 
The  very  doors  and  windows  savour  vilely. 
Farewell.     Thou  art  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
I  doubt  not  but  thy  training  hath  been  noble. 
Hold,  here  's  more  gold  for  thee. 
A  curse  upon  him,  die  he  like  a  thief. 
That  robs  thee  of  thy  goodness  !     If  ihou  dost  hear 
From  me,  it  shall  be  for  thy  good. 
Enter  Boult 

Boult.  I  beseech  your  honour,  one  piece  for  me 


906 


PERICLES,   raiNCE   OF  TYRE. 


ACT    T. 


Lys.  Avaunt,  thou  damned  door-keeper !  Yourhoua^ 
Hut  for  this  virion  that  doth  prop  it,  would 
Sink,  and  overwhelm  you.     Away  ! 

[Exit  Lysimachus. 

Boult.  How's  tlii.s  ?  We  must  take  anotlier  course 
with  you.  If  your  peevish  chastity,  which  is  not  worth 
a  breakfast  in  tlie  cheapest  country  under  tlie  cope,' 
shall  undo  a  whole  household,  let  me  be  gelded  like  a 
apaniel.     Come  your  ways. 

Mar.  Whither  would  you  have  me? 

Boult.  I  must  have  your  maidenhead  taken  off,  or 
the  common  hangman  shall  execute  it.  Come  your 
way.  We  '11  have  no  more  gentlemen  driven  away. 
Come  your  ways.  I  say. 

Re-enter  Bcwd. 

Bated.  How  now  !  what  "s  the  matter  ? 

Boult.  Worse  and  worse,  mistress :  she  has  here 
upoken  holy  words  to  the  lord  Lysimachus. 

Bated.  0,  abominable  ! 

Boult.  She  makes  our  profession  as  it  were  to  stink 
afore  tlie  face  of  the  gods. 

Baird.  Marry,  hang  her  up  for  ever  ! 

Boult.  Tlie  nobleman  would  have  dealt  with  her  like 
a  nobleman,  and  she  sent  him  away  as  cold  as  a  snow- 
ball :  saying  his  prayers,  too. 

Bated.  Boult,  take  her  away ;  use  her  at  thy  pleasure : 
crack  the  glass  of  her  virginity,  and  make  the  rest 
malleable. 

Boult.  An  if  she  were  a  thornier  piece  of  ground 
than  she  is.  she  shall  be  ploughed. 

Mur.   Hark,  hark,  you  gods  ! 

Bated.  She  conjures :  away  with  her.  Would  she 
had  never  come  within  my  doors. — Marry,  hang  you  ! — 
She  's  born  to  undo  us. — Will  you  not  go  the  way  of 
wcmen-kind  ?  Marry  come  up,  my  dish  of  chastity 
>*-ith  ro.^emary  and  bays  !  [Exit  Bawd. 

Boult.  Come,  mistre-^^s;  come  your  way  with  me. 

Mar.  Whither  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Bmdl.  To  take  from  you  the  jewel  you  hold  so  dear. 

Mar.  PrAthec,  tell  me  one  thing  first. 

Boult.  Come  now,  your  one  thing. 

Mar.  What  canst  thou  wish  thine  enemy  to  be  ? 


I      Boult.  Why,  I  could  wish  him  to  be  my  niaater ;  of 
rather,  my  mistress. 

j      Mar.  Neither  of  these  are  so  bad  as  thou  art, 
Since  they  do  better  thee  in  their  command. 
I  Thou  hold'st  a  place,  for  which  the  pained'st  fiend 
Of  hell  would  not  in  reputation  change: 
Thou  'rt  the  damn'd  door-keeper  to  every  coystrel' 
That  hither  comes  inquiring  for  his  Tib; 
To  the  cholerick  fisting  of  each  rogue  thy  ear 
Is  liable  :  thy  food  is  such 
As  hath  been  belch'd  on  by  infected  lungs. 

Boult.  What  would  you  have  me  do?  goto  the  warp 
would  you?  where  a  man  may  serve  seven  year.«  for 
the  loss  of  a  leg,  and  have  not  money  enough  in  the 
end  to  buy  him  a  wooden  one? 

Mar.   Do  any  thing  but  this  thou  doest.     Empty 
Old  receptacles,  or  common  sewers,  of  filth ; 
Sers-e  by  indenture  to  the  common  hangman : 
Any  of  these  ways  are  yet  better  than  this  ; 
For  what  thou  professest,  a  baboon,  could  he  speak, 
Would  own  a  name  too  dear.     That  the  gods 
Would  sal'ely  deliver  me  from  this  place  ! 
Here,  here  's  gold  for  thee. 
If  that  thy  master  would  gain  by  me. 
Proclaim  that  I  can  sing,  weave,  sew,  and  dance, 
With  other  virtues,  which  I  '11  keep  from  boast ; 
And  I  will  undertake  all  these  to  teach. 
I  doubt  not  but  this  populous  city  will. 
Yield  many  scholars. 

Boult.  But  can  you  teach  all  this  you  speak  of? 

Mar.  Prove  that  I  cannot,  take  me  home  again, 
And  prostitute  me  to  the  basest  groom 
That  doth  frequent  your  house. 

Boult.  W^ell,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  for  thee :  if  I 
can  place  thee,  I  will. 

Mar.  But,  amongst  honest  women? 

Boult.  Faith,  my  acquaintance  lies  little  among?* 
them.  But  since  my  master  and  mistress  have  bought 
you,  there  's  no  going  but  by  their  consent;  therefore. 
I  will  make  them  acquainted  with  your  purpose,  and 
I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  find  them  tractable  enough. 
Come  ;  I  '11  do  for  thee  what  I  can  :  come  your  ways. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


Enter  GowKR. 
finw.  Marina  thus  the  brothel  scapes,  and  chances 
Into  an  honest  house,  our  story  says. 
She  sinss  like  one  immortal,  and  she  dances, 
Ah  i:odrlcs8-Iike,  to  her  admired  lays. 
Oe^p  chrkj'  she  dumbs,  and  with  lier  needle  composes 
Nature'.s  own  shape,  of  bud.  bird,  branch,  or  berry 
That  even  her  art  sisters  the  natural  roses  ; 
H>'r  inkle,*  silk,  twin  with  the  rubied  cherry: 
Tliaf  pupils  lacks  she  none  of  noble  race, 
VVho  yxmr  their  bounty  on  her;  and  her  gain 
She  gives  the  cursed  bawd.     Here  wc  her  place. 
And  to  her  father  turn  our  thouglits  acain, 
Where  we  left  him  on  the  .^ca,  tumbled  and  tost ; 
And,  driven  before  the  winds,  he  is  arrivd 
Hf-re  where  his  daughter  dwells  :   and  on  this  coast 
Suppr,>e  him  now  at  anchor.     The  city  strivd 
God  NVptune'."  annual  feast  to  keep:  from  whence 
Lysimachus  our  Tyrian  ship  espies. 
Hii  banners  sable,  trimm'd  with  rich  expense  : 

•  Cop«,  or  eoTanne  of  the  iky       >  Low  groom.— Dyee.      >  Thread. 


And  to  him  in  his  barge  with  fervour  hies. 

In  your  supposing  once  more  put  your  sight ; 

Of  heavy  Pericles  think  this  the  bark: 

Where,  what  is  done  in  action,  more,  if  might, 

Shall  be  discover'd;  please  you,  sit,  and  hark.     [Extl. 

SCENE  I— On  board  Pericles'   Ship.  ofT  Mitylene. 
A  Pavilion  on  deck,  with  a  Curtain  before  it ;  Peri- 
cles  within  it,   reclining  on   a    Couch.     A    Barg« 
lying  beside  the  Tyrian  Vessel. 
Enter  Two  Sailors,  one  belonging  to  the  Tyrian  Vessel, 
the  other  to  the  Barge  ;  to  them  Helicanus 
Tyr.  Sail.  Where  's  the  lord  Helicanus  ?  he  can  re- 
solve you.  [Tc  the  Sailor  of  Mitylene 
O  here  he  is. — 

Sir,  there  's  a  barae  put  off  from  Mitylene, 
And  in  it  is  Lysimachus,  the  governor. 
Who  craves  to  come  aboard.     What  is  your  will  ? 
Jlel  That  he  have  his.     Call  up  some  gentlemen 
Tyr.  Sail.  Ho,  gentlemen  !  my  lord  calls. 


SCENE 


PERICLES,   PRINCE   OF  TYRE. 


901 


Enter  Two  or  Three  Gentlemen. 

I  Gent.  Doth  your  lordship  call  ? 

Hel.  Gentlemen, 
There  is  some  of  worth  would  come  aboard  :   I  pray 
Greet  them  fairly. 

[Gentlemen  and  Sailors  descend,  and  go 
on  board  the  Barge. 
Enter,  from  thence.,  Lysimachus  and  Lords  ;  the  Tyrian 
Gentlemen.,  and  the  Two  Sailors. 

Tyr.  Sail.  Sir, 
This  is  the  man  that  can  in  aught  you  would 
Resolve  you. 

Lys.  Hail,  reverend  sir  !     The  gods  preserve  you  ! 

Hel.  And  you,  sir,  to  outlive  the  age  I  am. 
Ki\d  die  as  I  would  do. 

Lys.  You  wish  me  well. 

Being  on  shore,  honouring  of  Neptune's  triumphs, 
Seeing  this  goodly  vessel  ride  before  us, 
I  m.ade  to  it.  to  know  of  whence  you  are. 

Hel.  First,  what  is  your  place  ? 

Lys.  I  am  the  governor  of  this  place  you  lie  before. 

Hel.  Sir, 
Our  vessel  is  of  Tyre,  in  it  the  king ; 
A  man,  who  for  this  three  months  hath  not  spoken 
To  any  one,  nor  taken  sustenance. 
But  to  prorogue  his  grief. 

Lys.  Upon  what  ground  is  his  distemperature  ? 

Hel.  It  would  be  too  tedious  to  repeat : 
But  the  main  grief  of  all  springs  from  the  loss 
Of  a  beloved  daughter  and  a  wife. 

Lys.  May  we  not  see  him.  then  ? 

Hel.  You  may. 
But  bootless  is  your  sight ;  he  will  no*  speak 
To  any. 

Lys.  Yet,  let  me  obtain  my  wish. 

Hel.  Behold  him.    [Pericles  discovered.]  This  was  a 
goodly  person. 
Till  the  disaster  that  one  mortal  night 
Drove  him  to  this. 

Lys.  Sir  king,  all  hail  !  the  gods  preserve  you  ! 
Hail,  royal  sir ! 

Hel.  It  is  in  vain ;  he  will  not  speak  to  you. 

1  Lord.  Sir.   we  have   a  maid   in  Mitylene,  I  durst 
wager, 
Would  win  some  words  of  him. 

Lys.  'T  is  well  bethought. 

She.  questionless,  with  her  sweet  harmony. 
And  other  choice  attractions,  would  allure. 
And  make  a  battery  through  his  deafen'd'  parts. 
Which  now  are  midway  stopp'd  : 
She  is  all  happy  as  the  fair'st  of  all. 
And  with  her  fellow  maids  is  now  upon 
The  leafy  shelter  that  abuts  against 
The  island's  side. 

[He  whispers  one  of  the  attendant  Lords. — Exit  Lord. 

Hel.  Sure,  all  effectless ;  yet  nothing  we  "11  omit, 
That  bears  recovery's  name. 

But,  since  your  kindness  we  have  stretch'd  thus  far. 
Let  us  beseech  you. 

That  for  our  gold  we  may  provision  have. 
Wherein  we  are  not  destitute  for  want, 
But  weary  for  the  staleness. 

Lys.  0.  sir  !  a  courtesy. 

Which,  if  we  should  deny,  the  most  just  God 
For  every  graff  would  send  a  caterpillar, 
And  so  afflict*  our  province. — Yet  once  more 
Let  me  entreat  to  know  at  large  the  cause 
Of  your  king's  sorrow. 

Hel.  Sit,  sir,  I  will  recount  it  to  you. — 

'  defendei  :  in  old  copie«       >  inflict :  in  old  copies.      '  Oum. 


But  see,  I  am  prevented. 

Enter  Lord,  Marina,  and  a  young  Lady. 

Lys.  0  !  here  is 
The  lady  that  I  sent  for.     Welcome,  fair  one  ! 
Is  't  not  a  goodly  presence  ? 

Hel.  She's  a  gallant  ladv. 

Lys.  She  's  such  a  one,  that  were  I  well  assur  J  ihe 
came 
Of  gentle  kind,  and  noble  stock,  I  'd  wish 
No  better  choice,  and  think  me  rarely  wed. — 
Fair  one,  all  goodness  that  consists  in  bounty 
Expect  even  here,  where  is  a  kingly  patient : 
If  that  thy  prosperous  and  artificial  feat 
Can  draw  him  but  to  answer  thee  in  aught, 
Thy  sacred  physic  shall  receive  such  pay 
As  thy  desires  can  wish. 

Mar.  Sir,  I  will  use 

My  utmost  skill  in  his  recovery, 
Provided  none  but  I  and  my  companion 
Be  suffer'd  to  come  near  him. 

Lys.  Come,  let  us  leave  her ; 

And  the  gods  make  her  prosperous  !       [Marina  sings 

Lys.  Mark'd  he  your  music  ? 

Mar.  No,  nor  look'd  on  us 

Lys.  See,  she  will  speak  to  him. 

Mar.  Hail,  sir  !  my  lord,  lend  ear. — 

Per.   Hum!  ha! 

Mar.  I  am  a  maid. 
My  lord,  that  ne'er  before  invited  eyes. 
But  have  been  gaz'd  on  like  a  comet :  she  speaks, 
My  lord,  that  may  be.  hath  endur'd  a  grief 
Might  equal  yours,  if  both  were  justly  weigh'd. 
Though  wayward  fortune  did  malign  my  state. 
My  derivation  was  from  ancestors 
Who  stood  equivalent  with  mighty  kings  ; 
But  time  hath  rooted  out  my  parentage, 
And  to  the  world  and  awkward  casualties 
Bound  me  in  servitude. — I  will  desist ; 
But  there  is  something  glows  upon  my  cheek. 
And  whispers  in  mine  ear,   "  Go  not  till  he  speak." 

Per.  My  fortunes — parentage — good  parentage — 
To  equal  mine  ! — was  it  not  thus  ?  what  say  you  ? 

Mar.  I  said,  my  lord,  if  you  did  know  my  parentage, 
You  would  not  do  me  violence. 

Per.  I  do  think  so. 

I  pray  you,  turn  your  eyes  again  upon  me. — 
You  are  like  something  that — What  countr>-woman  ? 
Here  of  these  shores  ? 

Mar.  No,  nor  of  any  shores ; 

Yet  I  was  mortally  brought  forth,  and  am 
No  other  than  I  appear. 

Per.  I  am  great  with  woe,  and  shail  deliver  weeping. 
My  dearest  wife  was  like  this  maid,  and  such  a  one 
My  daughter   might  have  been:  my  queen's  square 

brows ; 
Her  stature  to  an  inch ;  as  wand-like  straight ; 
As  silver-voic'd  ;  her  eyes  as  jewel-like. 
And  cas'd  as  richly  :  in  pace  another  Juno  ; 
Who  starves  the  ears  she  feeds,  and  makes  them  hungrv^ 
The  more  she  gives  them  speech. — Where  do  you  Iim-" 

Mar.  Where  I  am  but  a  stranger :  from  the  deck 
You  may  discern  the  place. 

Per.  Where  were  you  brea "' 

And  how  achiev'd  you  these  endowments,  which 
You  make  more  rich  to  owe.' 

Mar.  Should  I  tell  my  history 

'T  would  seem  like  lies,  disdain'd  in  the  reporting 

Per.  Pr'ythee,  speak : 
Falseness  cannot  come  from  thee,  for  thcu  lookat 


908 


PERICLES,  PRINCE   OF  TYRE. 


ACT  V. 


Mo  le^t  as  justice,  and  thou  secm'Bt  a  palace 

For  the  crowu'd  truth  to  dwell  in.     I   11  believe  thee, 

.\nd  make  my  senses  credit  thy  relation 

To  point*  that  seem  impos-sible :  for  thou  look'st 

Like  one  I  lov'd  indeed.     What  were  thy  friends? 

Didst  thou  not  say,  wlien  I  did  push  thee  back, 

(Wliicb  was  when  I  perceiv'd  thee)  that  thou  cam'st 

From  good  descending  ? 

Mitr.  So  indeed  I  did. 

Pir    Report  thy  parentage.     1  think  thou  saidst 
Thou  haiiet  been  tossd  from  WTong  to  injur>-. 
.\nd  that  thou  thought'st  thy  griefs  might  equal  mine, 
II  both  were  open'd. 

Mar.  Some  such  thing 

I  said,  and  said  no  more  but  what  my  thoughts 
Did  warrant  me  was  likely. 

Per.  Tell  thy  story  ; 

If  thine  considerd  prove  the  thousandth  part 
i)f  my  endurance,  thou  art  a  man,  and  I 
Have  sutfer'd  like  a  girl :  yet  thou  dost  look 
Like  Patience,  gazing  on  kings'  graves,  and  smiling 
Extremity  out  of  act.     What  were  thy  friends  ? 
How  lost  thou  them?  Thy  name,  my  most  kind  virgin? 
Recount.  I  do  beseech  thee.     Come,  sit  by  me. 

Mar.  My  name  is  Marina. 

Per.  0 !  I  am  mock'd. 

And  thou  by  some  incensed  god  sent  hither 
To  make  the  world  to  laugh  at  me. 

Mar.  Patience,  good  sir. 

r>r  here  I  '11  cease. 

Per.  Nay,  I  '11  be  patient. 

Thou  little  know'st  how  thou  dost  startle  me, 
To  call  thyself  Marina. 

Mar.  The  name 

Wa.«  given  me  by  one  that  had  some  power; 
My  father,  and  a  king. 

Per.  How  !  a  king's  daughter  ? 

And  calld  Marina? 

Mar.  You  said  you  would  believe  me: 

Rut.  not  to  be  a  troubler  of  your  peace, 
I  will  end  here. 

Per.  But  are  you  flesh  and  blood  ? 

Have  you  a  working  pulse  ?  and  are  no  fairy 
Motion  ? — Well :  speak  on.     Where  were  you  born, 
And  wherefore  call'd  Marina  ? 

M^r.  CalFd  Marina. 

For  I  was  bom  at  sea. 

Per.  At  sea  !  what  mother  ? 

Mar.  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  king ; 
Who  died  the  minute  I  was  bom. 
A."  ray  good  nurse  Lychorida  hath  oft 
Deliverd  weeping. 

Per.  0  !  stop  there  a  little. 

This  is  the  rarest  dream  that  e'er  dulFd  sleep 
Did  mock  sad  fools  wnthal  :  this  cannot  be. 
Nly  daughter 's  buried. — Well : — where  were  you  bred  ? 
I   II  hear  you  more,  to  the  bottom  of  your  story. 
And  never  interrupt  you. 

Mar.  You  scorn  :  believe  me,  'l  were  best  I  did  give 
Per.  I  will  believe  you  by  the  syllable  [o'er. 

Of  what  you  shall  deliver.     Yet.  give  me  leave  : 
How  came  you  in  th<se  parts?  where  were  you  bred  ? 
Mar    The  kin^.  my  father,  did  in  Tharsus  leave  me. 
Till  cruel  Cleon.  with  his  wicked  wife, 
Did  seek  to  murd^'r  me;  and  lia\ing  woo'd 
A  villain  to  attempt  it.  who  having  drawn  to  do  't, 
A  crew  of  pirate*  came  and  rescued  me  ; 
Brought  me  to  Mitylene,     But.  2ood  sir, 
Whither  will  you  have  me?     Why  do  you  weep  ?     It 
may  be, 


You  think  me  an  impostor  :  no,  good  faith  ^ 
I  am  the  dauL'hter  to  king  Pericles, 
If  sood  king  Pericles  be. 

Per.  Ho,  Helicanus ! 

Hel.  Calls  my  gracious  lord  ' 

Per.  Thou  art  a  grave  and  noble  counsellor 
Most  wise  in  general  :  tell  me,  if  thou  canst. 
What  this  maid  is,  or  what  is  like  to  be, 
That  thus  hath  made  me  weep  ? 

Hel.  I  know  not .   but 

Here  is  the  regent,  sir,  of  Mitylene, 
Speaks  nobly  of  her. 

Lys.  She  would  never  tell 

Her  parentage;  being  demanded  that. 
She  would  sit  still  and  weep. 

Per.  O  Helicanus  '  strike  me,  honour'd  sir  ; 
Give  me  a  gash,  put  me  to  present  pain. 
Lest  this  great  sea  of  joys  rushing  upon  me, 
Oerbear  the  shores  of  my  mortality, 
And   drown   me    with    their    sweetness.      0  !    come 

hither. 
Thou  that  beget'st  him  that  did  thee  beget ; 
Thou  that  wast  born  at  sea,  buried  at  Tharsus, 
And  found  at  sea  again. — 0  Helicanu.'^ ! 
Down  on  thy  knees,  thank  the  holy  gods  as  loud 
As  thunder  threatens  us  :  this  is  Marina  ! — 
What  was  thy  mother's  name  ?  tell  me  but  that, 
For  truth  can  never  be  confirm'd  enough. 
Though  doubts  did  ever  sleep. 

Mar.  First,  sir,  I  pray, 

What  is  your  title  ? 

Per.  I  am  Pericles  of  Tyre  :  but  tell  me,  now, 
My  drowu'd  queen's  name,  (as  in  the  rest  you  said 
Thou  hast  been  godlike  perfect)  tiie  heir  of  kingdoms. 
And  another  like  to  Pericles  thy  father. 

3Iar.  Is  it  no  more  to  be  your  daughter,  than 
To  say,  my  mother's  name  was  Thaisa  ? 
Thaisa  was  my  mother,  who  did  end 
The  minute  I  began. 

Per.  Now,   blessing    on    thee!    rise;    thou  art  my 
child. 
Give  me  fresh  garments!     Mine  own,  Helicanus. 
She  is  not  dead  at  Tharsus.  as  she  should  have  been, 
I  By  savage  Cleon  :  she  shall  tell  thee  all ; 
i  When  thou  shalt  kneel  and  justify  in  knowledge, 
I  She  is  thy  very  princess. — Who  is  this  ? 
I      Hel.  Sir,  'l  is  the  governor  of  Mitylene, 
1  Who.  hearing  of  your  melancholy  state, 
Did  come  to  see  you. 

Per.  I  embrace  you, 

Give  me  my  robes  !     I  am  wild  in  my  beholding. 

0  heavens,  bless  my  girl  !     But  hark  I  what  music'— 
Tell  Helicanus.  my  Marina,  tell  him 

O'er,  point  by  point,  lor  yet  he  seems  to  doubt. 
How  sure  you  are  my  daughter. — But  what  music  ? 

Hil.  My  lord  I  hear  none. 

Per.  None  ? 
The  music  of  the  spheres  !  list,  my  Marina. 

Lys.  It  is  not  good  to  cross  him  :  give  him  way. 

Per.  Rarest  sounds  !     Do  ye  not  hear  ? 

Lys.  Music  ?     My  lord.  I  hear — 

Per.  Most  heavenly  music  : 

It  nips  me  unto  list'ning.  and  thick  slumber 
I  Hangs  upon  mine  eyes  :  let  me  rest.  [He  sleeps 

Lys.  A  pillow  for  his  head. 

1  \Th^  Curtain  before  the  Pavilion  of  Pericles  is  closed 
So.  leave  him  all. — Well,  my  companion-friends. 

If  this  but  an.swer  to  my  just  belief, 
I   11  well  remember  you. 
[Exeunt  Lysimachcs,  Helicvn'Js.  Marina,  and  Lady 


SCENE    111. 


PEEICLES,   PRINCE   OF   TYRE. 


909 


SCENE  II. — The  Same.  |  He  sought  to  murder,  but  her  better  stars 

Pericles  on  the  Deck  asleep  ;  Diana  appearing  to  him  j  Brought  her  to  Mitylene  ;  against  whose  shore 

in  a  vision.  Riding,  her  fortunes  brought  the  maid  aboard  us 

Dia.  My  temple  stands  in  Ephesus  :  hie  thee  thither,  I  ^Y^f"^,'  ^^  ^^f  o^'n  most  clear  remembrance,  she 
And  do  upon  mine  altar  sacrifice. 
There,  when  my  maiden  priests  are  met  together, 


Before  the  people  all, 

Reveal  how  thou  at  sea  didst  lose  thy  wife  : 

To  mourn  thy  crosses,  with  thy  daughter's,  call, 

And  give  them  repetition  to  the  life. 

Or  perform  my  bidding,  *r  Ihou  liv'st  in  woe: 

Do  't,  and  be^  happy,  by  my  silver  bow. 

A-wake,  and  tell  thy  dream.  [Diana 

Per.  Celestial  Dian,  goddess  argentine, 
I  will  obey  thee. — Helicanus ! 

Enter  Ltsimachus,  Helicanus,  and  Marina. 

Hel  Sir. 

Per.  My  purpose  was  for  Tharsus,  there  to  strike 
The  inhospitable  Cleon  ;  but  I  am 
For  other  service  first  :  toward  Ephesus 
Turn  our  blown  sails  ;  eftsoons  I  '11  tell  thee  why. — 
Shall  we  refresh  us.  sir,  upon  your  shore, 
And  give  you  gold  for  such  provision 
As  our  intents  will  need  ? 

Lys.  Sir,  with  all  my  heart,  and  when  you  come 
ashore, 
I  have  another  suit. 

Per.  You  shall  prevail, 

Were  it  to  woo  my  laughter ;  for,  it  seems, 
Vou  have  been  noble  towards  her. 

Lyx.  Sir,  lend  your  arm. 

Per.  Come,  my  Marina.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Gower,  before  the  Temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus. 
Gow.  Now  our  sands  are  almost  run  ; 
More  a  little,  and  then  dumb. 
This,  as'  my  last  boon,  give  me. 
For  such  kindness  must  relieve  me, 
That  you  aptly  will  suppose 
What  pageantry,  what  feats,  what  shows, 
What  minstrelsy,  and  pretty  din. 
The  regent  made  in  Mitylen, 
To  greet  the  king.     So  he  tliriv'd, 
That  he  is  promis'd  to  be  wiv'd 
To  fair  Marina  ;  but  in  no  wise 
Till  he  had  done  his  sacrifice, 
As  Dian  bade  :  whereto  being  bound, 
The  interim,  pray  you,  all  confound. 
In  feathered  briefness  sails  are  fiU'd, 
And  wishes  fall  out  as  they're  will'd. 
At  Ephesus.  the  temple  see, 
Our  king   and  all  his  company. 
That  he  can  hither  come  so  soon. 
Is  by  your  fancy's  thankful  doom.  {Exit. 


SCENE   III.— The    Temple   of  Diana   at   Ephesus; 

Thaisa  standing  near  the  Altar,  as  high  Priestess  ; 

a  number  of  Virgins  on  each  side  :    Oerimon  and 

other  Inhabitants  of  Ephesus  attending 
Enter  Pericles,  with  his   Train  ;  Lysimachus,  Heli- 
canus, Marina,  and  a  Lady. 

Per.  Hail  Dian  !  to  perform  thy  just  command, 
I  here  confess  myself  the  king  of  Tyre  ; 
Who,  frighted  from  my  country,  did  wed 
At  Pentapolis,  the  fair  Thaisa. 
At  sea  in  childbed  died  she,  but  brought  forth 
A  maid-child  call'd  Marina ;  who.  0  goddess  ! 
Wears  yet  thy  silver  livery.     She  at  Tharsus 
Was  nurs'd  with  Cleon,  whom  at  fourteen  years 

*  *  Not  in  old  conies.      ^  Countenana       *  the  mum  :  in  old  copies. 


Made  known  herself  my  daughter. 

Thai.  Voice  and  favour' !  — 

You  are.  you  are — 0  royal  Pericles  ! —        [She  faints. 

Per.  What  means    the   woman*  ?    she  dies  ;    help, 
gentlemen  ! 

Cer.  Noble  sir. 
If  you  have  told  Diana's  altar  true. 
This  is  your  wife. 

Per.  Reverend  appearer.  no  . 

I  threw  her  overboard  with  theoe  very  arms 

Cer.  Upon  this  coast,  I  wan  ant  you. 

Per.  'T  is  most  certain. 

Cer.  Look  to  the  lady. — 0  !  she  's  but  o'erjoy'd. 
Early  in  blust'ring  morn  this  lady  was 
Thrown  on  this  shore.     I  op'd  the  coffin, 
Found  there  rich  jewels;  recover'd  her,  and  plai^'d  her 
Here,  in  Diana's  temple. 

Per.  May  we  see  them  ? 

Cer.  Great  sir,  they  shall  be  brought  you  to  my  houae, 
Whither  I  invite  you.     Look  !  Thaisa  is  recover'd 

Thai.  0  !  let  me  look. 
If  he  be  none  of  mine,  my  sanctity 
Will  to  my  sense  bend  no  licentious  ear. 
But  curb  it,  spite  of  seeing.     O,  my  lord  ! 
Are  you  not  Pericles  ?     Like  him  you  speak, 
Like  him  you  are.     Did  you  not  name  a  tempest, 
A  birth,  and  death  ? 

Per.  The  voice  of  dead  Thaisa  ! 

Thai.  That  Thaisa  am  I,  supposed  dead,  and  drown'd. 

Per.  Immortal  Dian  ! 

Thai.  Now  I  know  you  better. — 

When  we  with  tears  parted  Pentapolis, 
The  king,  my  father,  gave  you  such  a  ring. 

[Shows  a  Ring. 

Per.  This,  this  •    no  more,  you  gods  !    your  prescul 
kindness 
Makes  my  past  miseries  sports :  you  shall  do  well. 
That  on  the  touching  of  het  lips  I  may 
Melt,  and  no  more  be  seen.     0  !  come,  be  buried 
A  second  time  within  these  arms. 

Mar.  My  heart 

Leaps  to  be  gone  into  my  mother's  bosom. 

[Kneels  to  Thaisa. 

Per.  Look,  who  kneels  here.       Flesh  of  thy  flesh 
Thaisa; 
Thy  burden  at  the  sea,  and  call'd  Marina, 
For  she  was  yielded  there. 

Thai  Bless'd,  and  mine  oaati  ' 

Hel.  Hail,  madam,  and  my  queen  ! 

Thai.  I  know  you  not. 

Per.  You  have  heard  me  say,when  I  did  fly  from  Tyre, 
I  left  behind  an  ancient  substitute  : 
Can  you  remember  what  I  call'd  the  man  ? 
I  have  nam'd  him  oft. 

Thai.  'T  was  Helicanus.  then. 

Per.  Still  confirmation  ! 
Embrace  him,  dear  Thai.sa ;  this  is  he. 
Now  do  I  long  to  hear  how  you  were  found. 
How  possibly  preserved,  and  whom  to  thauK 
Besides  the  gods,  for  this  great  miracle. 

Thai.  Lord  Cerimon,  my  lord  ;  this  man 
Through  whom  the  gods  have  shown  their  power,  thai 

can 
From  first  to  last  resolve  you. 

Per  Reverend  sir 


910 


PEKICLES,   PRINCE   OF  TYRE. 


ACT   V. 


Tlie  cods  can  have  no  mortal  officer 

More  like  a  god  than  you.     Will  you  deliver 

How  tnis  dead  queen  re-lives? 

CcT.  I  will,  my  lord 

Bi'seoch  you,  first  go  with  me  to  my  house, 
Where  shall  be  shown  you  all  was  found  with  her  , 
How  she  came  placed  here  in  the  temple, 
No  needful  thing  omitted. 

Per.  Pure  Dian  !  bless  thee  for  thy  vision, 
I  will  otler  night  oblations  to  thee.     Thaisa, 
This  prince,  the  fair-betrothed  of  your  daughter. 
Shall  marry  her  at  Pentapolis.     And  now, 
This  ornament. 

Makes  me  look  dismal,  will  I  clip  to  form  : 
And  what  this  fourteen  years  no  razor  toucii'd. 
To  grace  thy  marriage-day.  I  'II  beautify. 

Thai.  Lord  Cerinion  hath  letters  of  good  credit  : 
Sir.  my  lather  "s  dead.  I 

Per.  Heavens,  make  a  star  of  him !      Yet  there,  my  ■ 

queen,  j 

We  "11  celebrate  their  nuptials,  and  ourselves  •  i 

'.Vill  in  that  kingdom  spend  our  following  days: 

Our  son  and  daughter  shall  in  Tyrus  reign.  I 


Loid  Cerimon.  we  do  our  longing  stay, 

To  hftar  the  rest  untold. — Sir,  lead  "s  the  way. 

[Exeunt 
Enter  Gowek. 
Gow.  !n  Antiochus,  and  his  daughter,  you  liave 
heard 
Of  monstrous  lust  the  due  and  just  reward  : 
In  Pericles,  his  queen,  and  daughter,  seen. 
Although  assaiTd  with  fortune  fierce  and  keen, 
Virtue  preserv'd'  from  fell  destruction's  blast, 
Led  on  by  heaven,  and  crown'd  with  joy  at  last 
In  Helicanus  may  you  well  descry 
A  figure  of  truth,  of  faith,  and  loyalty : 
In  reverend  Cerimon  there  well  appears, 
The  worth  that  learned  charity  aye  wears. 
For  wicked  Cleon  and  his  wife,  when  lame 
Had  spread  their  cursed  deed,  the  honour'd  name 
Of  Pericles,  to  rage  the  city  turn; 
That  him  and  his  they  in  his  palace  burn. 
The  gods  for  murder  seemed  so  content 
To  punish  tliem.'  although  not  done,  but  meant 
So  on  your  patience  evermore  attending, 
Xew  joy  wait  on  you  !     Here  our  j 'ay  hae  ending. 


^(,TT*<\  ■  in  old 


>  Not 


monies     added  bv  Maloi 


P  O  E  M  S 


VENUS    AND    ADONIS 


INTRODUCTION 


ft'K  nre  tola  by  Shakespeare,  in  bia  dedication  of  this  poem 
:c  the  Eiirl  of  Southampton,  in  1598,  that  it  was  "  the  first 
tieir  of  liis  invention  ;"  and  as  it  was  the  earliest  printed,  so 
probably,  it  was  tlie  earliest  written  of  his  known  productions. 
At  what  time  it  is  likely  that  he  commenced  the  composition 
of  it,  is  a  qnestiou  which  we  have  considered  in  the  biography 
of  the  poet. 

The  popularity  of  it  is  indisputable  :  havin?  been  originally 
printecl  by  Kichard  Field,  in  1598,  4to.,  that  edition'  seems  to 
have  been  soon  exhausted,  and  it  was  republished  by  the 
natne  printer  in  1594,  4to.,  before  25th  June,  because  on  that 
day,  according  to  the  Stationers'  Registers,  he  assigned  over 
his  interest  in  it  to  John  Harrison,  for  whom  Field  printed 
an  octavo  impression  in  1596.  Field's  second  edition  of  1594 
was  unknown  to  Malone  and  his  contemporaries;  and  as  it 
was  not  a  re-issue  of  some  remaining  copies  of  1593  with  a 
now  title-page,  but  a  distinct  re-impression,  it  affords  some 
various  readings,  and  not  a  few  important  confirmations  of 
the  correctness  of  the  older  text,  corrupted  more  or  less  in  all 
subsequent  editions.  Harrison  published  his  second  edition 
in  1600,  which  was  the  fourth  time  "  Venus  and  Adonis  "  had 


been   printed  in  seven  years, 
tioners'  Hall  bv  W.  Leake,  in 


It  had 


entered  at  Sta- 


through  the  press  many  limes,  and  copies  in  1602.  1616,  1620. 
&c.  are  known  :  in  1627  it  was  printed  by  John  Wreittoun,  at 
Edinburgh. 

The  popularityof"  Venus  and  Adonis  "  is  established  also 
oy  the  frequent  mention  of  it  in  early  writers^.  It  is  probable 
that  Feele  died  in  1597,  and  very  soon  afterwards  his  "  Merry 
Conceited  Jests"  must  have  been  published,  although  no 
edition  of  them  is  known  older  than  that  of  1607.  In  one  of 
these,  a  tapster,  "  much  given  to  poetry,"  is  represented  as 
having  in  his  possession  "  the  Knight  of  the  Sun,  Venus  and 
Adonis,  and  other  pamphlets."  Thomas  Heywood's  "  Fair 
Maid  of  the  Exchange,"  was  printed  in  1607,  but  written  some 
few  years  before,  and  there  a  young  lover  is  recommended  to 
court  his  mistress  by  the  aid  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis."  How 
long  this  reputation,  and  for  the  same  purpose,  was  main- 
tained, may  be  seen  from  a  passage  in  Lewis  Sharpe's  "  Noble 
Stranger,""  1640,  where  Pupillus  exclaims,  "  Oh,  for  the  book 
of  Venus  and  Adonis,  to  court  my  mistress  by  !  "  .  Thomas 
Cranley,  in  his  "  Amanda,"  1635,  makes  "  Venus  and  Adonis  " 
part  of  the  library  of  a  courtesan  : 

"amorous  pamphlets,  that  best  like  thine  eyes, 

And  »ongs  of  love,  and  sonnets  exquisite  ; 
'        Among  these  Venus  and  Adonis  lies. 

With  Salraacis  and  her  Hermaphrodite  ; 

Pigmalion's  there  with  his  transform'd  delight." 
"Salmacis  and  her  Hermaphrodite"  refers  to  the  poem  im- 
puted (perhaps  ftilsely)  to  Beaumont,  printed  in  1604;  and 
the  thi'-d  poem  is  "Pygmalion's  Image,"  by  Marston,  pub- 
lished in  1 598. 


S.  Nicholson,  in  his  "  Acolastus  his  Afterwitte,"  iWOO, 
committed  the  most  impudent  plagiarisms  from  "Venus  and 
Adonis  ;"  and  E.  S.,  the  author  of"  Phillis  and  Flora,"  1598. 
did  not  scruple  to  copy,  almost  with  verbal  exactness,  part  of 
the  description  Sliakespeare  gives  of  the  horse  of  Adonis  : 
we  extract  the  followino;  lines,  that  the  reader  may  be  able  to 
make  a  comparison  (See  p.  866) : — 

"  His  mayne  thin  haird.  his  neck  high  crested, 
Small  eare,  short  head,  and  burly  breasted    *  *  * 
Strait  legg'd,  large  thigh'd,  and  hollow  hoved, 
All  nature's  skill  in  him  was  proved." 

Our  text  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  is  that  of  the  earliest 
quarto,  1593,  which,  for  the  time,  is  very  correctly  printed, 
and  we  will  illustrate  by  a  single  quotation  the  importance  of 
resorting  to  it:  the  line  which  there  stands, 

"  He  cheers  the  morn,  and  all  the  earth  relieveth," 
is  misprinted  in  all  modern  editions, 

"  He  cheers  the  morn,  and  all  tne  world  relieveth." 
The  corruption  was  introduced  in  the  quarto,  1594,  and  it 
has  ever  since  been  repeated.  The  same  remark  will  apply 
to  other  changes;  such  as  "all  swoln  with  chanino,^''  instead 
of  "  chafing  ;""  to  love's  aZawi,"  instead  of  "  alarms  ;"  "from 
morn  to  night,"  instead  of  "  till  night,"  &c. ;  all  which  show 
strange  carelessness  of  collation,  but  it  is  not  necessary  lieie 
to  dwell  upon  them,  as  i;hey  are  pointed  out  in  the  notes. 


TO   THE    EIGHT   HONOTJRABLE 

HENRY    WRIOTHESLY, 

EARL   OF   SOUTHAMPTON,   AND    BARON    OF   TICHFIELD. 


BIGHT   HONOTJBABLE, 

I  K.NOW  not  how  I  shall  offend  in  dedicating  my  unpolished 
lines  to  your  lordship,  nor  hew  the  world  will  censure  me  for 
choosing  so  strong  a  prop  to  support  so  weak  a  burdcii :  only, 
if  your  honour  seem  but  pleased,  I  account  myself  highly 
praised,  and  vow  to  take  advantage  of  all  idle  hours,  till  1 
have  honoured  you  with  some  graver  labour.  But  if  the  first 
heir  of  my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  be  sorry  it  had 
so  noble  a  god-tather,  and  never  after  ear  so  barren  a  land, 
for  fear  it  yield  nic  still  so  bad  a  harvest.  I  leave  it  to  your 
honourable  survey,  and  your  honour  to  your  heart's  content 
which  I  wish  may  always  answer  your  own  wish,  and  th« 
world's  hopeful  expectation. 

Your  honour's  in  all  duty, 

William  Shakespeabe. 


Even  as  the  sun  with  purple-colour'd  face 
Had  id' en  his  last  leave  of  the  weeping  morn, 
Rose-cheek'd  Adonis  hied  him  to  the  chase ; 
Hunting  he  lov'd.  but  love  he  laugh'd  to  scorn : 
Sick-thoughted  Venus  makes  amain  unto  him, 
And  like  a  bold-fac'd  suitor  'gins  to  woo  him. 

»  The  memorandum  of  it  in  the  Stationers'  Registers  runs  thus  :— 

"18  April  1593. 

"  Richd  Fiel"]     Entered  as  his  Copy,  licensed  by  the  Archbishop 

of  Canterbury,  and  the  Wardens,  a  book  intitled  Venus 

and  Adonis." 

>  Malsne   adverts  to   Richa'd   Barnfield's   notice  of  "Venus   anf 


Thrice  fairer  than  myself,  (thus  she  begani 
The  field's  chief  flower,  sweet  above  compare, 
Si  ain  to  all  nymphs,  more  lovely  than  a  man. 
More  white  and  red  than  doves  or  roses  are  ; 
Nature  that  made  thee,  ^^-ith  herself  at  strife, 
Saith.  that  the  world  hath  ending  with  thy  life. 

Adonis."  and"  Lncrece."  in  1598,  (reprinted  in  1605;  see  Bridpe- 
water  Catalogue,  4to,  1837.  p.  23)  as  well  a^  to  William  Barksted_, 
allusion  to  it  in  1607,  in  his  •'  M^Trha  the  Mother  of  Adonis.  lo 
these  mav  be  added  the  praise  of  Shakespeare,  and  of  his  •'  Venus  and 
Adonis,"  and  "Lucrece.^' in  t.he  play  of  '•  The  Return  frorn  Par- 
nassus,"  which  was  certainly  produced  before  the  dsath  ot  yueen 
Elizabeth.  ^^^ 


b-.'. 


912 


VENUS   AND   ADONIS. 


Vouchsafe,  thou  wonder,  to  alight  thy  steed, 
And  rt'in  his  proud  head  to  the  saddle-bow; 
11  ihou  wilt  deign  this  favour,  for  thy  meed 
A  thousand  lioney  secrets  shalt  thou  know  : 
More  come  and  sit,  where  never  .^erpcnt  hisses 
And  being  set,  I  '11  smother  thee  with  kisses 

And  yet  not  cloy  thy  lips  with  loath'd  satiety, 
But  rather  famish  them  amid  their  plenty, 
Making  them  red  and  pale  with  fresh  variety; 
Ten  kisses  short  as  one   one  long  as  twenty : 
A  summer's  day  vr.W  seem  an  hour  but  short. 
Being  wasted  in  such  time-beguiling  sport. 

With  this  she  seizeth  on  his  sweating  palm, 
The  precedent  of  pith  and  livelihood. 
And,  trembling  in  her  passion,  calls  it  balm. 
Earth's  sovereign  salve  to  do  a  goddess  good  : 
Being  so  enrag'd,  desire  doth  lend  her  force 
Courageously  to  pluck  him  from  his  horse. 

Over  one  arm  the  lusty  courser's  rein, 

Cndcr  her  other  wa.s  the  tender  boy, 

Wlin  biush'd  and  pouted  in  a  dull  disdain^ 

With  leaden  appetite,  unapt  to  toy ; 
She  red  and  hot  a.s  coais  of  glowing  fire. 
He  red  for  shame,  but  fro.sty  in  desire. 

The  studded  bridle  on  a  ragged  bough 
Nimbly  she  t'astens  ;  (0.  how  quick  is  love  !) 
The  steed  is  stalled  up.  and  even  now 
To  tie  the  rider  she  begins  to  prove: 

Backward  she  push'd  him,  as  she  would  be  thrust. 

And  govorn'd  him  in  strength,  though  not  in  lust. 

So  .'soon  was  she  along,  as  he  was  down. 
Each  leaning  on  their  elbows  and  their  hips : 
Now  doth  she  stroke  his  cheek,  now  doth  he  frown. 
And  'gins  to  chide,  but  soon  she  stops  his  lips  : 
And  kissing  speaks,  with  lustful  language  broken, 
If  thou  wilt  chide,  thy  lips  shall  never  open. 

He  bums  with  bashful  shame,  she  with  her  tears 
Doth  quench  the  majJen  burning  of  his  cheeks  ; 
Then  with  her  windy  si^hs,  and  golden  hairs, 
To  fan  and  blow  them  drj'  again  she  seeks: 
He  saith  she  is  immodest,  blames  her  'miss  ;* 
What  follows  more  she  murders'  -with  a  kiss. 

Even  as  an  empty  eagle,  sharp  by  fast, 
Tires*  with  her  beak  on  feathers,  flesh,  and  bone, 
Shaking  her  wings,  devouring  all  in  haste. 
Till  cither  gorge  be  stuff'd.  or  prey  be  gone  ; 
Even  so  she  ki.«.s'd  his  brow,  his  cheek,  his  chin, 
And  where  she  ends  she  doth  anew  begin. 

F-^rc'd  to  content,*  but  never  to  obey, 

Panting  he  lies,  and  breatheth  in  her  face  ; 

She  feedcth  on  th.e  steam,  as  on  a  prey. 

And  calls  it  heavenly  moisture,  air  of  grace. 

Wishing  her  checks  were  gardens  full  of  flowers. 
So  they  were  dew'd  with  such  distilling  showers. 

Look  how  a  bird  lies  tanelcd  in  a  net, 

So  fa.«ten'd  in  hnr  arms  Adonis  lies  ; 

Pure  shame  and  aw"d  resistance  made  him  fret, 

Which  br«yl  more  l>enuty  in  his  angry  eyes  : 
Rain  added  to  a  river  that  is  rank.* 
Perforce  will  force  it  overflow  the  bank. 


Still  she  entreats,  and  prettily  entreats, 

For  to  a  pretty  ear  she  tunes  her  tale  ; 

Still  is  he  sullen,  still  he  lowers  and  tVets, 

'Twixt  crimson  shame,  and  anger  ashy-pale; 
Being  red,  she  loves  him  best;  and  being  white, 
Her  best  is  better'd  with  a  more  delight. 

Look  how  he  can,  she  cannot  choose  but  love ; 
I  And  by  her  fair  immortal  hand  she  swears 
From  his  soft  bosom  never  to  remove, 
Till  he  take  truce  with  her  contending  tears, 

Which  long  have  rain'd,  making  hci  checks  an  wet, 
And  one  sweet  kiss  shall  pay  this  countless  debi,. 

Upon  this  promise  did  he  raise  his  chin, 
Like  a  dive-dapper*  peering  through  a  wave, 
Who  being  look'd  on  ducks  as  quickly  in ; 
So  oflers  he  to  give  what  she  did  crave, 
But  when  her  lips  were  ready  for  his  pay, 
He  winks,  and  turns  his  lips  another  way. 

Never  did  passenger  in  summer's  heat, 
More  thirst  for  drink  than  she  for  this  good  turn. 
Her  help  she  sees,  but  help  she  cannot  get; 
She  bathes  in  water,  yet  her  fire  must  burn. 

0,  pity,  'gan  she  cry,  flint-hearted  boy  ! 

'T  is  but  a  kiss  I  beg;  why  art  thou  coy? 

I  have  been  woo'd  as  I  entreat  thee  now, 
Even  by  the  stern  and  direful  god  of  war. 
Whose  sine\\->-  neck  in  battle  ne'er  did  bow. 
Who  conquers  where  he  comes,  in  every  jar  ; 
Yet  hath  he  been  my  captive  and  my  slave. 
And  begg'd  for  that  which  thou  unask'd  shalt  have. 

Over  my  altars  hath  he  hung  his  lance. 
His  batter'd  shield,  his  uncontrolled  crest. 
And  for  my  sake  hath  learn'd  to  sport  and  dance, 
To  toy,'  to  wanton,  dally,  smile,  and  jest ; 
Scorning  his  churlish  drum,  and  ensign  red. 
Making  my  arms  his  field,  his  tent  my  bed. 

Thus  he  that  over-rul'd,  I  oversway'd, 
Leading  him  prisoner  in  a  red  rose  chain  : 
Strong-temperd  steel  his  stronger  strength  obey'd, 
Yet  WELs  he  servile  to  my  coy  disdain. 

0  !  be  not  proud,  nor  brag  not  of  thy  might, 
For  mastering  her  that  foil'd   he  god  of  fight. 

Touch  but  my  lips  with  those  fair  lips  of  thine, 

Though  mine  be  not  so  fair,  yet  are  they  red. 

Tlie  kiss  shall  be  thine  own  as  well  as  mine. 

What  seest  thou  in  the  ground  ?  hold  up  thy  head* 
Look  in  mine  eye-bal!s,  there  thy  beauty  lies : 
Then,  why  not  lips  on  lips,  since  eyes  in  eye.s  ? 

Art  thou  asham'd  to  kiss?  then,  -wink  again. 
And  I  will  wink  ;  so  shall  the  day  seem  night : 
Love  keeps  his  revels  where  there  are  but  twain  . 
Be  bold  to  piay,  our  sport  is  not  in  sight : 

These  blue-vein'd  violets  whereon  we  lean. 

Never  can  blab,  nor  know  not  what  we  meau. 

The  tender  spring  upon  thy  tempting  lip 
Shows  thee  unripe,  yet  may'st  thou  well  be  tasteJi 
Make  use  of  time,  let  not  advantage  slip: 
Beauty  within  itself  should  not  be  wa.«ted : 

Fair  flowers  that  are  not  gatht^r'd  in  their  prime 
Rot  and  consume  themselves  in  little  time. 


•  •molh«n;  in  edi  ,  1800,   1820.     J  Preyt.     «  To  le  contented.     »  Full.     •  di-dipp«r  .   »ld  cop.      '  joy  :  old  edj. 


YENUS   AND   ADOOTS. 


913 


Were  I  hard-favour'd,  foul,  or  wTinkled  old, 
Ill-nurl  Lir'd,  crooked,  churlisk  harsh  in  vr»ice, 
O'er-worn,  despised,  rheumatic,  and  cold, 
Thick-sighted,  barren,  lean,  and  lacking  juice, 

Thenmightst  thou  pause,  for  then  I  were  not  for  thee ; 

But  having  no  defects,  why  dost  abhor  me  ? 

Thou  canst  not  see  one  wrinkle  in  my  brow ; 
Mine  eyes  are  grry'  and  bright,  and  quick  in  turning  : 
My  beauty  as  the  spring  doth  yearly  grow, 
My  flesh  is  soft  and  plump,  my  marrow  burning  : 
My  smooth  moist  hand,  were  it  with  thy  hand  felt, 
Would  in  thy  palm  dissolve,  or  seem  to  melt. 

Bid  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear, 
Or  like  a  fa»iry  trip  upon  the  green, 
Or  like  a  nymph  with  long  dishevelled  hair. 
Dance  on  the  sands,  and  yet  no  footing  seen  : 
Love  is  a  spirit,  all  compact  of  fire. 
Not  gross  to  sink,  but  light,  and  will  aspire. 

Witness  this  primrose  bank  whereon  I  lie  ; 

These  forceless  flowers  like  sturdy  trees  support  me; 

Two  strengthless  doves  will  draw  me  through  the  sky, 

From  morn  till  night,  even  where  I  list  to  sport  me : 
Is  love  so  light,  sweet  boy,  and  may  it  be 
That  thou  shouldst  think  it  heavy  unto  thee  ? 

Is  thine  own  heart  to  thine  own  face  aifected  ? 

Can  thy  right  hand  seize  love  upon  thy  left? 

Then  woo  thyself,  be  of  thyself  rejected. 

Steal  thine  own  freedom,  and  complain  on  theft. 
Narcissus  so  himself  himself  forsook. 
And  died  to  kiss  his  shadow  in  the  brook. 

Torches  are  made  to  light,  jewels  to  wear, 
Dainties  to  taste,  fresh  beauty  for  the  use  ; 
Herbs  for  their  smell,  and  sappy  plants  to  bear ; 
Things  growing  to  themselves  are  growth's  abuse  : 

Seeds  spring  from  seeds,  and  beauty  breedeth  beauty  ; 

Thou  wast  begot,  to  get  it  is  thy  duty. 

Upon  the  earth's  increase  why  shouldst  thou  feed. 
Unless  the  earth  in  thy  increase  be  fed  ? 
By  law  of  nature  thou  art  bound  to  breed. 
That  thine  may  live,  when  thou  thyself  art  dead  ; 

And  so  in  spite  of  death  thou  dost  survive, 

In  that  thy  likeness  still  is  left  alive. 

By  this,  the  love-sick  queen  began  to  sweat. 
For  where  they  lay  the  shadow  had  forsook  them, 
And  Titan,  'tired  in  the  mid-day  heat. 
With  burning  eye  did  hotly  overlook  them  ; 

Wishing  Adonis  had  his  team  to  guide. 

So  he  were  like  him,  and  by  Venus'  side. 

And  now  Adonis,  with  a  lazy  sprite. 

And  with  a  heavy,  dark,  disliking  eye. 

His  lowering  brows  o'er-whelming  his  fair  sight, 

Like  misty  vapours,  when  they  blot  the  sky. 

Souring  his  cheeks,  cries.  Fie  !  no  more  of  love  : 
The  sun  doth  burn  my  face  ;  1  must  remove. 

Ah  me  !   (quoth  Venus,)  young,  and  so  unkind  ? 
What  bare  excuses  mak'st  thou  to  be  gone  ! 
I  '11  sigh  celestial  breath,  whose  gentle  wind 
Shall  cool  the  heat  of  this  descending  sun : 

I  '11  make  a  shadow  for  thee  of  my  hairs  ; 

If  they  burn  too,  I  '11  quench  them  with  my  tears. 

'  Blue  eyes  were  sometimes  called  grey. 
3H 


The  sun  that  shines  from  heaven  shines  lut  warm. 

And  lo  !  I  lie  between  that  sun  and  thee  : 

The  heat  I  have  from  thence  doth  little  harm. 

Thine  eye  darts  forth  the  fire  that  burncth  me  ; 
And  were  I  not  immortal,  life  were  done, 
Between  this  heavenly  and  earthly  sun. 

Art  thou  obdurate,  flinty,  hard  as  steel  ? 

Nay  more  than  flint,  for  stone  at  rain  rclenteth ; 

Art  thou  a  woman's  son,  and  canst  not  \'gi\^ 

What  't  is  to  love  ?  how  want  of  love  tormenteth  ? 
0  !  had  thy  mother  borne  so  hard  a  muid. 
She  had  not  brought  forth  thee,  but  died  unkind 

What  am  I,  that  thou  .shouldst  contemn  me  this  ? 

Or  what  great  danger  dwells  upon  my  suit  ? 

What  were  thy  lips  the  worse  for  one  poor  kiss  ? 

Speak  fair  ;  but  speak  fair  words,  or  else  be  mute  • 
Give  me  one  kiss,  I  '11  give  it  thee  again. 
And  one  for  interest,  if  thou  wilt  have  twain 

Fie  !  lifeless  picture,  cold  and  senseless  stone, 

Well-painted  idol,  image  dull  and  dead, 

Statue,  contenting  but  the  eye  alone. 

Thing  like  a  man,  but  of  no  woman  bred  : 

Thou  art  no  man,  though  of  a  man's  complexion, 
For  men  will  kiss  even  by  their  own  direction. 

This  said,  impatience  chokes  her  pleading  tonnie, 
And  swelling  passion  doth  provoke  a  pause ; 
Red  cheeks  and  fiery  eyes  blaze  forth  her  wrong : 
Being  judge  in  love,  she  cannot  right  her  cause  : 
And  now  she  weeps,  and  now  she  fain  would  speak, 
And  now  her  sobs  do  her  intendments  break. 

Sometimes  she  shakes  her  head,  and  then  his  hand. 
Now  gazeth  she  on  him,  now  on  the  ground ; 
Sometimes  her  arms  infold  him  like  a  band : 
She  would,  he  will  not  in  her  arms  be  bound  ; 

And  when  from  thence  he  struggles  to  be  gone, 

She  locks  her  lily  fingers  one  in  one. 

Fondling,  she  saith,  since  I  have  hemm'd  thee  here, 

Within  the  circuit  of  this  ivory  pale, 

I  '11  be  a  park,  and  thou  shalt  be  my  deer  ; 

Feed  where  thou  wilt,  on  mountain  or  in  dale : 
Graze  on  my  lips,  and  if  those  hills  be  dry, 
Stray  lower,  where  the  pleasant  fountains  lie. 

Within  this  limit  is  relief  enough. 
Sweet  bottom-grass,  and  high  delightful  plain, 
Round  rising  hillocks,  brakes  obscure  and  rough, 
To  shelter  thee  from  tempest,  and  from  rain  : 

Then,  be  my  deer,  since  I  am  such  a  park ; 

No  dog  shall  rouse  thee,  though  a  thousand  bark. 

At  this  Adonis  smiles,  as  in  disdain. 
That  in  each  cheek  appears  a  pretty  dimple : 
Love  made  those  hollows,  if  himself  were  slain, 
He  might  be  buried  in  a  tomb  so  simple  ; 
Fore-knowing  well,  if  there  he  came  to  lie. 
Why,  there  Love  liv'd.  and  there  he  could  not  die 

These  lovely  caves,  the  round  enchanting  pits, 

Open'd  their  mouths  to  swallow  Veau.s'  liking. 

Being  mad  before,  how  doth  she  now  for  wits? 

Struck  dead  at  first,  what  needs  a  second  striking  ' 
Poor  queen  of  love,  in  thine  ON^ni  law  forloriL 
To  love  a  cheek  that  smiles  at  thee  m  scorn ' 


914 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Now  ^hich  way  shall  she  turn?  what  shall  she  say?   [Then,  like  a  melancholy  malcontent, 


Her  words  are  done,  her  woos  the  more  increasing 

The  time  is  spent,  her  object  will  away, 

And  from  her  twining  arms  doth  urge  releasing. 

Pity  !  she  cries,  some  favour,  some  remorse  ! 

A  w^ay  he  springs,  and  hasteth  to  his  horse  ! 

But  lo  !  from  forth  a  copse  that  neighbours  by, 

A  breodins  jennet,  lusty,  young,  and  proud, 

.■\doiiis"  trampling  courser  doth  e,«py. 

And  forth  she  rushes,  snorts,  and  neighs  aloud  : 
The  stronff-neck'd  steed,  being  tied  unto  a  tree, 
Breakcth  his  rem,  and  to  her  straight  goes  he. 

imperiously  he  leaps,  he  neighs,  he  bounds, 
And  now  his  woven  sirths  he  breaks  a.sunder ; 
The  bc:iriiig  earth  with  his  hard  hoof  he  wounds, 
VNHiose  hollow  womb  resounds  like  heaven's  thunder: 
The  iron  bit  he  crusheth  'tween  his  teeth, 
Controlling  what  he  was  controlled  with. 

His  ears  up  prick'd,  his  braided  hanging  mane 
Upon  his  compass'd  crest  now  stands  on  end ; 
His  nostrils  drink  the  air.  and  forth  again. 
As  from  a  furnace,  vapours  doth  he  send: 
His  eye,  which  scornfully  glisters  like  fire, 
Shows  his  hot  courage,  and  his  high  desire. 

Sometime  he  trots,  as  if  he  told  the  steps 
With  £<"ntle  maje.sty.  and  modest  pride: 
.\non  he  rears  upright,  curvets  and  leaps, 
.Ah  who  should  say,  lo  !  thus  my  strength  is  fried  ; 
And  this  I  do,  to  captivate  the  eye 
Of  the  fair  breeder  that  is  standing  by. 

What  recketh  he  his  rider's  angry  stir, 
His  flatterin?  holla,  or  his  "Stand.  I  say?" 
What  cares  he  now  for  curbs,  or  pricking  spur, 
For  rich  caparisons,  or  trapping  gay? 

He  sees  his  love,  and  nothing  else  he  sees, 
For  nothing  else  with  his  proud  sight  agrees. 

Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life, 
III  limning  out  a  well-proportion'd  steed, 
His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife. 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed; 
So  did  his  horse  excel  a  common  one. 
In  shape,  in  courage,  colour,  pace,  and  bone. 


He  vails  his  tail,  that,  like  a  falliiii;  plume, 
Cool  shadow  to  his  melting  buttock  lent : 
He  stamps,  and  bites  the  poor  flies  in  his  fume. 
His  love,  i)erceiving  how  he  is  enrag"d, 
Grew  kinder,  and  his  fury  was  assuag'd. 

His  testy  master  goeth  about  to  take  him. 
When  lo  !   the  unback'd  breeder,  full  of  fear. 
Jealous  of  catching,  sv.nftly  doth  forsake  him 
With  her  the  horse,  and  left  Adonis  there. 

As  they  were  mad.  unto  the  wooi  they  hie  them. 
Out-stripping  crows  that  strive  to  over-fly  then 

All  swoln  with  chafing.' down  Adonis  sits, 
Banning  his  boisterous  and  unruly  beast : 
And  now  tlie  happy  sea,son  once  more  fits. 
That  love-sick  love  by  pleading  may  be  blest ; 
For  lovers  say,  the  heart  hath  treble  wrong, 
When  it  is  barr'd  the  aidance  of  the  tongue. 

An  oven  that  is  stopp'd,  or  river  stay'd, 

Burneth  more  hotly,  swelleth  with  more  rage: 

So  of  concealed  sorrow  may  be  said. 

Free  vent  of  words  love's  fire  doth  assuage; 
But  when  the  heart's  attorney  once  is  mut^, 
The  client  breaks,  as  desperate  in  his  suit. 

He  sees  her  coming,  and  begins  to  glow, 
Even  as  a  dying  coal  revives  with  wind. 
And  with  his  bonnet  liides  his  angry  brow ; 
Looks  on  the  dull  earth  with  disturbed  mind, 
Taking  no  notice  that  she  is  so  nigh, 
For  all  askaunce  he  holds  her  in  his  eye. 

0  !  what  a  sight  it  was,  wistly  to  view 
How  she  came  stealing  to  the  wayward  boy ; 
To  note  the  fighting  conflict  of  her  hue. 
How  white  and  red  each  other  did  destroy : 
But  now  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  by  and  by 
It  fla^sh'd  forth  fire,  as  lightning  from  the  sky. 

Now  was  she  just  before  him  as  he  sat, 
And  like  a  lowly  lover  down  she  kneels ; 
With  one  fair  hand  she  heaveth  up  his  hat, 
Her  other  tender  hand  his  lair  cheek  feels  : 

His  tenderer  cheek  receives  her  soft  hand's  print 
As  apt  as  new-fall'n  snow  takes  any  dint. 


Round-hoof 'd,  short-jointed,  the  fetlocks  shag  and  long,    0,  what  a  war  of  looks  was  then  between  them  ! 

Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostril  wide,     |  Her  eyes,  petitioners,  to  his  eyes  suing: 

Hish  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  passing  strong,  |  His  eyes  saw  her  eyes  as  they  had  not  seen  them; 


Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide: 
Look,  what  a  horse  should  have  he  did  not  lack, 
Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back. 

Sometime  he  scuds  far  ofl^,  and  there  he  stares ; 
Anon  he  gtarl.'^  at  stirring  of  a  feather  : 
To  bid  the  wind  a  baj«e'  he  now  prepares. 
And  whe'r  he  run,  or  fly,  they  know  not  whether  ; 
For  ihrouah  his  mane  and  tail  the  high  wind  sings, 
Fanning  the  hairs,  who  wave  like  feather'd  wings. 


He  looks  upon  his  love,  and  neighs  unto  her  ; 
She  answers  him.  a-s  if  she  knew  his  mind  : 
Being  proud,  as  females  are.  to  see  him  woo  her, 
She  put.s  on  outward  strangeness,  seems  unkind  : 
Spurns  at  bis  love,  and  scorns  the  heat  he  feels 
Beating  his  kind  embracements  wth  her  heels. 

•  K  ro<«,  or  garru  of  |>n*on-ba*e,  or  prisoD-bu« 


Her  eyes  woo'd  still,  his  eyes  disdain'd  the  wooing 
And  all  this  dumb  play  had  his  acts  made  plain 
With  tears,  which^  chorus-like,  her  eyes  did  rain 

Full  gently  now  she  takes  him  by  the  hand, 

A  lily  prison'd  in  a  jail  of  snow. 

Or  ivory  in  an  alabaster  band  ; 

So  white  a  friend  engirts  so  white  a  foe  : 

This  beauteous  combat,  \\-ilful  and  unwilling, 
Show'd  like  two  silver  doves  that  sit  a  billing. 


Once  more  the  engine  of  her  thoughts  began: 
0  fairest  mover  on  this  mortal  round. 
Would  thou  wert  as  I  am,  and  I  a  man. 
My  heart  all  whole  as  thine,  thy  heart  my  wound 
For  one  sweet  look  thy  help  1  would  a,ssure  thee 
Though  nothing  but  my  body's  bane  would  cure  thee, 
*  ohuine  :  in  ed  1600. 


YENUS  AND  ADOKIS. 


^15 


Give  me  ray  hand,  saith  he,  why  dost  thou  feel  it  ? 
Give  me  my  heart,  saith  she,  and  thou  shalt  have  it ; 

0  !  g>ve  it  me,  lest  thy  hard  heart  do  steel  it, 
And  being  steel'd,  soft  sighs  can  never  grave  it : 

Then,  love's  deep  groans  I  never  can  regard, 
Because  Adonis'"  heart  hath  made  mine  hard. 

For  shame  !  he  cries,  let  go,  and  let  me  go ; 
My  day's  delight  is  past,  my  horse  is  gone, 
And  't  is  your  fault  I  am  bereft  him  so : 

1  pray  you  hence,  and  leave  me  here  alone ; 

For  all  my  mind,  my  thought,  my  busy  care. 
Is  how  to  get  my  palfrey  from  the  mare. 

Thus  she  replies :  thy  palfrey,  as  he  should, 

Welcomes  the  warm  approach  of  sweet  desire  : 

Affection  is  a  coal  that  must  be  cool'd  ; 

Else,  suffer'd.  it  will  set  the  heart  on  fire. 

The  sea  hath  bounds,  but  deep  desire  hath  none  • 
Therefore,  no  marvel  though  thy  horse  be  gone. 

How  like  a  jade  he  stood,  tied  to  the  tree. 

Servilely  mastered  with  a  leathern  rein ; 

But  when  he  saw  his  love,  his  youth's  fair  fee, 

He  held  such  petty  bondage  in  disdain ; 

Throwing  the  base  thong  from  his  bending  crest. 
Enfranchising  his  mouth,  his  back,  his  breast. 

Who  sees  his  true-love  in  her  naked  bed. 
Teaching  the  sheets  a  whiter  hue  than  white, 
But,  when  his  glutton  eye  so  full  hath  fed, 
His  other  agents  aim  at  like  delight? 
Who  is  so  faint,  that  dare  not  be  so  bold 
To  touch  the  fire,  the  weather  being  cold  ? 

Let  me  excuse  thy  courser,  gentle  boy, 

And  learn  of  him.  I  heartily  beseech  thee, 

To  take  advantage  on  presented  joy ; 

Though  I  were  dumb,  yet  his  proceedings  teach  thee  : 
0  !  learn  to  love  ;  the  lesson  is  but  plain, 
And  once  made  perfect,  never  lost  again. 

I  know  not  love,  quoth  he,  nor  will  not  know  it : 
Unless  it  be  a  boar,  and  then  I  chase  it ; 
T  is  much  to  borrow,  and  I  will  not  owe  it  j 
My  love  to  love  is  love  but  to  disgrace  it ; 

For  I  have  heard  it  is  a  life  in  death. 

That  laughs,  and  weeps,  and  all  but  with  a  breath. 

Wlio  wears  a  garment  shapeless  and  unfinish'd  ? 

Who  plucks  the  bud  before  one  leaf  put  forth  ? 

[f  springing  things  be  anv  jot  diminish'd. 

They  wither  in  their  prime,  prove  nothing  worth : 
The  colt  that 's  back'd  and  burden'd  being  young, 
Loeetb  his  pride,  and  never  waxeth  strong. 

You  hurt  my  hand  with  wrmging  ,  let  us  part, 
And  leave  this  idle  theme,  this  bootless  chat  : 
Remove  your  siege  from  my  unyielding  heart , 
To  love's  alarms  u  will  not  ope  the  gate  : 

Dismiss  your  vows  your  feigned  tears,  your  flattery, 
For  where  a  heart  is  hard,  thev  make  no  battery. 

What !  canstthou  talk  'i*  (quoth  she,)  hast  thou  atongue  ? 

0.  would  thou  hadsl  not,  or  I  had  no  hearing ! 

Thy  mermaid's  voice  hath  done  me  double  wrong  ! 

(  had  my  load  before,  now  press'd  with  bearing : 
Melodious  discord,  heavenly  tune  harsh-sounding. 
Ear's  deep  sweet  music.and  heart's  deep  sore  wounding. 

'  world  :  in  ed.  1594. 


Had  I  no  eyes,  but  ears,  my  ears  would  love 

That  inward  beauty  and  invisible  ; 

Or,  were  I  deaf,  thy  outward  parts  would  move 

Each  part  in  me  that  were  but  sensible  : 

Though  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  to  hear  nor  see, 
Yet  should  I  be  in  love  by  touching  thee. 

Say,  that  the  sense  of  feeling  were  bereft  me, 
And  that  I  could  not  see,  nor  hear,  nor  touch. 
And  nothing  but  the  very  smell  were  left  me, 
Yet  would  my  love  to  thee  be  still  as  much  : 

For  from  the  stillitory  of  thy  face  excelling        [ing 
Comes  breath  perfura'd,  that  breedeth  love  by  smriti- 

But  0  !  what  banquet  wcrt  thou  to  the  taste. 
Being  nurse  and  feeder  of  the  other  four  : 
Would  they  not  wish  the  feast  might  ever  last. 
And  bid  suspicion  double  lock  the  door, 
Lest  jealousy,  that  sour  unwelcome  guest. 
Should  by  his  stealing  in  disturb  the  feast? 

Once  more  the  ruby-colour'd  portal  opened, 
Which  to  his  speech  did  honey-passage  yield  ; 
Like  a  red  morn,  that  ever  yet  betoken'd 
Wreck  to  the  sea-man,  tempest  to  the  field, 
Sorrow  to  shepherds,  woe  unto  the  birds. 
Gusts  and  foul  flaws  to  herdmen  and  to  herds. 

This  ill  presage  advisedly  she  marketh: 
Even  as  the  wind  is  hush'd  before  it  raineth ; 
Or  as  the  wolf  doth  grin  before  he  barketh. 
Or  as  the  berry  breaks  before  it  staineth ; 
Or  like  the  deadly  bullet  of  a  gun. 
His  meaning  struck  her  ere  his  words  begun. 

And  at  his  look  she  flatly  falleth  down. 
For  looks  kill  love,  and  love  by  looks  reiiveth  : 
A  smile  recures  the  wounding  of  a  frown : 
But  blessed  bankrupt  that  by  love  so  thriveth  ! 
The  silly  boy,  believing  she  is  dead, 
Claps  her  pale  cheek,  till  clapping  makes  it  red  , 

And  all  amaz'd  brake  oflF  his  late  inteait. 
For  sharply  he  did  think  to  reprehend  her, 
Which  cunning  love  did  wittily  prevent: 
Fair  fall  the  wit  that  can  so  well  defend  her  ! 
For  on  the  grass  she  lies,  as  she  were  slain. 
Till  his  breath  breatheth  life  in  her  again. 

He  -wrinss  her  nose,  he  strikes  her  on  the  cheeks, 
He  bends  her  fingers,  holds  her  pulses  hard. 
He  chafes  her  lips ;  a  thousand  ways  he  seeks 
To  mend  the  hurt  that  his  unkindness  marr"d  : 

He  kisses  her :  and  she,  by  her  gooa  will. 

Will  never  rise,  so  he  will  kiss  her  still. 

The  night  of  sorrow  now  is  turn'd  to  day : 
Her  two  blue  wndows  faintly  she  up-hcLveth, 
Like  the  fair  sun,  when  in  his  tresh  array 
He  cheers  the  morn,  and  all  the  earth'  relieveth  • 

And  as  the  bright  sun  glorifies  the  sky. 

So  is  her  face  illumin'd  with  her  eye ; 

Whose  beams  upon  his  hairless  face  are  fix'd. 

As  if  from  thence  they  borrow'd  all  their  shine. 

Were  never  four  such  lamps  together  mix'd. 

Had  not  his  clouded  with  his  brow's  repine  : 

But  hers,  which  through  the  crystal  tears  ga\e  light 
Shone  like  the  moon  in  water  seen  by  night. 


916 


YENITS   AXD   ADOISTIS. 


0  !  where  am  1  ?  quoth  she,  in  earth  or  heaven. 
Or  in  the  ocean  drench'd.  or  in  the  fire? 
VVhat  hour  is  this  ?  or  mom  or  wear>'  even  ? 
Do  I  delight  to  die,  or  life  desire? 

But  now  I  liv'd.  and  lite  was  death's  annoy; 

But  now  I  died,  and  death  was  lively  joy. 

O  !  thou  didst  kill  me ;  kill  me  once  a£:ain : 
Thv  eye's  shrewd  tutor,  that  hard  heart  of  thine, 
H;ith  taught  them  scornful  tricks,  and  such  disdain, 
That  they  have  murderd  this  poor  heart  of  mine  ; 
And  these  mine  eyes,  true  leaders  to  their  queen. 
But  for  thy  piteous  lips  no  more  had  seen. 

Long  may  they  kiss  each  other  for  this  cure  ! 
O  '  never  let  their  crim.son  liveries  wear. 
And  as  they  last,  their  verdure  still  endure, 
To  drive  infection'  from  the  dangerous  year  ! 
That  the  star-gazers,  having  writ  on  death, 
May  say,  the  plague  is  banish'd  by  thy  breath. 

Pure  lips,  sweet  seals  in  my  soft  lips  imprinted, 
What  bargains  may  I  make,  still  to  be  sealing  ? 
To  sell  myself  I  can  be  well  contented. 
So  thou  wilt  buy.  and  pay,  and  u.se  good  dealing; 
Which  purchase  if  you  make,  for  fear  of  slips 
Set  thy  seal-manual  on  my  wax-red  lips. 

A  thousand  kisses  buys  my  heart  from  me. 

And  pay  them  at  thy  leisure,  one  by  one. 

What  is  ten  hundred  touches  unto  thee? 

.A.re  they  not  quickly  told,  and  quickly  gone? 
Say.  for  non-payment  that  the  debt  should  double, 
Is  twenty  hundred  kisses  such  a  trouble  ? 

Fair  queen,  quoth  he.  if  any  love  you  owe  me. 
Measure  my  strangeness  with  my  unripe  years: 
Before  I  know  myself,  seek  not  to  know  me; 
No  fi.'iher  but  the  ungrown  fry  forbears: 

The  mellow  plum  doth  fall,  the  green  sticks  fast, 

Or  being  early  pluck'd  is  sour  to  taste. 

Look,  the  world's  comforter,  with  weary  gait, 
His  day's  hot  ta.<:k  hath  ended  m  the  west: 
The  owl.  niaht's  herald,  shrieks,  't  is  very  late; 
The  sheep  are  2one  to  fold,  birds  to  their  nest, 

And  coal-black  clouds  that  shadow  heaven's  light. 
Do  summon  us  to  part,  and  bid  good  night. 

Now  let  me  say  good  niaht ;  and  so  say  you ; 
If  you  will  say  so.  you  shall  have  a  kiss. 
Oood  nishf.  qnoih  she  :  and.  ere  he  says  adieu, 
The  honey-fei*  of  partine  tender'd  is: 

Her  arms  do  iend  nis  n^ck  a  sweet  embrace  ; 

Incorporate  then  they  .seem,  face  grows  to  face. 

Till  breathless  he  disjoin'd,  and  backward  drew 
The  heavenly  tnoisture.  that  sweet  coral  mouth, 
Whose  precious  taste  her  thirsty  lips  well  knew, 
Whereon  they  surleit,  yet  complain  on  drought : 
He  with  her  plenty  prcss'd,  she  faint  with  dearth, 
Their  lips  together  glued,  fall  to  the  earth. 

Now  quick  de«ire  hath  causht  the  yielding  prey. 

And  glutton-like  .^Jie  feeds,  yet  never  filleth; 

Her  lips  are  conquerors,  his  lips  obey. 

Payins  whai  raiwim  the  insulter  willeth  : 

Whose  viiiture  thought  doth  pitch  the  price  so  hig 
Thai  she  will  draw  his  li|)«'  rich  treasure  dry. 
Prmf-aat  harba  war»  lapiKMed  to  posMM  thii  power.      •  Embrace. 


And  having  felt  the  sweetness  of  the  spoil, 
With  blindfold  fury  she  begins  to  forage ; 
Her  face  doth  reek  and  smoke,  her  blood  doth  boil, 
And  careless  lust  stirs  up  a  despeiate  courage; 
Planting  oblivion,  beating  reason  back. 
Forgetting  shame's  pure  blush,  and  honour's  wrack 

Hot,  faint,  and  weary,  with  her  hard  embracing, 
Like  a  wild  bird  being  tain'd  with  too  much  handling. 
Or  as  the  fleet-loot  roe  that 's  tir'd  with  chasing, 
Or  like  the  froward  infant  stilld  with  dandling, 
He  now  obeys,  and  now  no  more  resisteth. 
While  she  takes  all  she  can,  not  all  she  listeth. 

What  wax  so  frozen  but  dissolves  with  tempering. 

And  yields  at  last  to  every  light  impression? 

Things  out  of  hope  are  compa.ssd  oft  with  venturing, 

Chiefly  in  love,  whose  leave  exceeds  commission : 
Atfection  faints  not  like  a  pale-fac'd  coward, 
But  then  woos  best,  when  most  his  choice  is  froward 

When  he  did  frown,  0  !  had  she  then  gave  over, 

Such  nectar  from  his  lips  she  had  not  suck'd. 

Foul  words  and  frowns  must  not  repel  a  lovor ; 

What  though  the  rose  have  prickles,  yet  't  is  pluck'd  : 
Were  beauty  under  twenty  locks  kept  fast, 
Yet  love  breaks  through,  and  picks  them  all  at  last. 

For  pity  now  she  can  no  more  detain  him ; 
The  poor  fool  prays  her  that  he  may  depart : 
She  is  resolv'd  no  longer  to  restrain  him. 
Bids  him  farewell,  and  look  well  to  her  heart. 
The  which,  by  Cupid's  bow  she  doth  protest. 
He  carries  thence  incaged  in  his  breast. 

Sweet  boy,  she  says,  this  night  I  '11  waste  in  sorrow 

For  my  sick  heart  commands  mine  eyes  to  watch. 

Tell  me,  love's  master,  shall  we  meet  to-morrow? 

Say,  shall  we?  shall  we?  wilt  thou  make  the  match > 
He  tells  her,  no ;  to-morrow  he  intends 
To  hunt  the  boar  -with  certain  of  his  friends. 

The  boar !  (quoth  she)  whereat  a  sudden  pale, 
Like  lawn  being  spread  upon  the  blushing  ro.se. 
Usurps  her  cheek :  she  trembles  at  his  tale. 
And  on  his  neck  her  yoking  arms  she  throws  ; 
She  sinketh  down,  still  hanging  by  his  neck, 
He  on  lier  belly  falls,  she  on  her  back. 

Now  is  she  in  the  very  lists  of  love, 
i  Her  champion  mounted  for  the  hot  encounter: 

AH  is  imaginary  she  doth  prove. 

He  will  not  manage  her.  although  he  mount  her; 
[      That  wor.se  than  Tantalus'  is  her  annoy, 
I      To  clip"  Elysium,  and  to  lack  her  joy. 

Even  as  poor  birds,  deceiv'd  with  painted  grapes, 
Do  surfeit  by  the  eye,  and  pine  the  maw. 
Even  so  she  languisheth  in  her  mishaps. 
As  those  poor  birds  that  helpless  berries  saw. 

The  warm  effects  which  she  in  liim  finds  missing 
She  seeks  to  kindle  with  continual  kissing : 

But  all  in  vain;  good  queen,  it  will  not  be: 

She  hath  a.ssay'd  as  much  as  may  be  prov'd ; 

Her  pleading  hath  deser\''d  a  greater  fee ; 

She  's  love,  she  loves,  and  yet  she  is  not  lov'd. 
Fie.  fie  !  he  says,  you  crush  me ;  let  me  go : 
You  have  no  reason  to  withhold  me  so. 


YENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


917 


Thou  hadst  b"en  gone,  quoth  she,  sweet  boy,  ere  this, 
But  tliat  thou  told'st  me,  thou  wouldst  hunt  the  boar. 
0  !  be  advie'd;  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is 
With  javelin's  point  a  churlish  swine  to  gore. 

Whose  tushes  never-sheath'd  he  -whettetli  still. 

Like  to  a  mortal  butcher,  bent  to  kill. 

Ou  his  bow-back  he  hath  a  battle  set 
Of  bristly  pikes,  that  ever  threat  his  foes ; 
His  eyes  like  glow-worms  shine  when  he  doth  fret , 
His  snout  digs  sepulchres  where'er  he  goes; 
Being  mov'd,  he  strikes  whate'er  is  in  his  way, 
And  whom  he  strikes  his  cruel  tushes  slay. 

His  brawny  sides,  with  hairy  bristles  armed, 

Are  better  proof  than  thy  spear's  point  can  enter; 

His  short  thick  neck  cannot  be  easily  harmed ; 

Being  ireful  on  the  lion  he  will  venture  : 
The  thorny  brambles  and  embracing  bushes. 
As  fearful  of  him,  part ;  through  whom  he  rushes. 

Alas  !  he  nought  esteems  that  face  of  thine, 
To  which  love's  eyes  pay  tributary  gazes ; 
Nor  thy  soft  hands,  sweet  lips,  and  crystal  eyne, 
Whose  full  perfection  all  the  world  amazes ; 
But  having  thee  at  vantage,  (wondrous  dread  !) 
Would  root  these  beauties,  as  he  roots  the  mead. 

0  !  let  him  keep  his  loathsome  cabin  still ; 

Beauty  hath  nought  to  do  with  such  foul  fiends : 

Come  not  within  his  danger*  by  thy  will ; 

They  that  thrive  well  take  counsel  of  their  friends. 
When  thou  didst  name  the  boar,  not  to  dissemble, 
I  fear'd  thy  fortune,  and  my  joints  did  tremble. 

Didst  thou  not  mark  my  face  ?     Was  it  not  white  ? 

Saw'st  thou  not  signs  of  fear  lurk  in  mine  eye  ? 

Grew  I  not  faint  ?  and  fell  I  not  downright  ? 

Within  my  bosom,  whereon  thou  dost  lie, 

My  boding  heart  pants,  beats,  and  takes  no  rest, 
But  like  an  earthquake  shakes  thee  on  my  breast. 

For  where  love  reigns,  disturbing  jealousy 
Doth  call  himself  affection's  sentinel ; 
Gives  false  alarms,  suggesleth  mutiny, 
And  in  a  peaceful  hour  doth  cry,  "  kill,  kill ;" 

Distempering  gentle  love  in  his  desire, 

As  air  and  water  do  abate  the  fire. 

This  sour  informer,  this  bate^-breeding  spy, 

This  canker  that  eats  up  love's  tender  spring, 

This  o^rry-tale.  dissentious  jealousy, 

That  sometime  true  news,  sometime  false  doth  bring, 
Knocks  at  my  heart,  and  whispers  in  mine  ear. 
That  if  I  love  thee.  I  thy  death  should  fear : 


And  more  than  so,  presenteth  to  mine  eye 
The  picture  of  an  angry  chafing  boar. 
Under  whose  sharp  fangs  on  his  back  doth  lie 
An  image  like  thyself,  all  stain'd  with  gore: 
Whose  blood  upon  the  fresh  flowers  being  shed. 
Doth  make  them  droop  with  grief,  and  hang  the 


head. 


tVhat  should  I  do,  seeing  thee  so  indeed, 

That  tremble  at  th'  imagination? 

The  thought  of  it  doth  make  my  faint  heart  bleed, 

jind  fear  doth  teach  it  divination : 
I  prophesy  thy  death,  my  living  sorrow, 
If  thou  encounter  with  the  boar  to-morrow. 

1  In  his  power.     2  Contention.     >  Steevens  rezuls  :  overshoot. 
Juovuib  It.     '  Consorteth. 


But  if  thou  needs  wilt  hunt,  be  rul'd  by  me ; 

Uncouple  at  the  timorous  flying  hare. 

Or  at  the  fox,  which  lives  by  subtlety, 

Or  at  the  roe,  which  no  encounter  dare  : 

Pursue  these  fearful  creatures  o'er  the  downs. 
And  on  thy  well-breath'd  horse  keep  with  thy  houudf 

And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare, 
Mark  the  poor  wretch,  to  overshut'  his  troubles, 
How  he  out-runs  the  wind,  and  with  what  care 
He  cranks*  and  crosses  with  a  thousand  doubles : 
The  many  musets'  through  the  which  he  goes, 
Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 

Sometimes  he  runs  among  a  flock  of  sheep, 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell ; 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep, 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell : 

And  sometime  sorteth'  with  a  herd  of  deer. 

Danger  deviseth  shifts  ;  wit  waits  on  fear  : 

For  there  his  smell,  with  others  being  mingled. 
The  hot  scent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to  doubt. 
Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry,  till  they  have  single*' 
With  much  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out ; 

Then  do  they  spend  their  mouths :  echo  replies. 

As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

By  this,  poor  Wat,  far  off"  upon  a  hill. 

Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear, 

To  barken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still  • 

Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  hear  ; 
And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well 
To  one  sore  sick,  that  hears  the  passing  bell. 

Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-bedabbled  wretch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way  ; 
Each  envious  brier  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch. 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmtir  stay 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And  being  low,  never  reliev'd  by  any. 

Lie  quietly,  and  hear  a  little  more ; 
Nay,  do  not  struggle,  for  thou  shalt  not  rise : 
To  make  thee  hate  the  hunting  of  the  boar, 
Unlike  myself  thou  hear'st  me  moralize, 

Applying  this  to  that,  and  so  to  so  ; 

For  love  can  comment  upon  every  woe. 

Where  did  I  leave  ? — No  matter  where,  quoth  he  ; 
Leave  me,  and  then  the  story  aptly  ends : 
The  night  is  spent.     Why,  what  of  that  ?  quoth  she 
I  am,  quoth  he,  expected  of  my  friends  : 

And  now  't  is  dark,  and  going  I  shall  fall. 

In  night,  quoth  she,  desire  sees  best  of  all 

But  if  thou  fall,  0  !  then  imagine  this, 

The  earth,  in  love  with  thee,  thy  footing  trips, 

And  all  is  but  to  rob  thee  of  a  kiss. 

Rich  preys  make  true-men  thieves ;  so  do  thy  lips 
Make  modest  Dian  cloudy  and  forlorn, 
Lest  she  should  steal  a  kiss,  and  die  forsworn. 

Now,  of  this  dark  night  I  perceive  the  reason : 
Cynthia  for  shame  obscures  her  silver  shine. 
Till  forging  Nature  be  condemn'd  of  treason. 
For  stealing  moulds  trom  heaven  that  were  divine, 
Wherein  she  frain'd  thee,  in  high  heaven's  despite, 
To  shame  the  sun  by  day,  and  her  by  night. 

Winds.     »  The  aperture  in  a  hedge  made  by  the  hare  i  n  its  frequent 


918 


VENUS   AND  ADONIS. 


And  therefore  hath  she  brib'd  the  Destinies, 

To  cross  the  curious  workmanship  of  nature; 

To  mingle  beauty  -with  infirmities. 

And  pure  perfection  with  impure  defeature  ; 
Makins  it  subject  to  the  t>Tanny 
Of  mad  mischances,  and  much  misery ; 

As  burning  fevers,  agues  pale  and  faint. 
LilV-poisoning  pestilence,  and  frenzies  wood;' 
The  marrow-eating  sicknes.s.  whose  attaint 
Disorder  breeds  by  heating  of  the  blood  : 
Surfeits,  imjiostumes.  grief,  and  damn'd  despair, 
Swear  natures  death  lor  framing  thee  so  fair. 

nd  not  the  least  of  all  the*e  maladies 
But  in  one  minute's  fight  brings  beauty  under : 
Boiti  favour,  savour,  hue,  and  qualities, 
Wliereat  th"  impartial  gazer  late  did  wonder. 

Are  on  the  sudden  wa.sted,  thaw'd.  and  done. 

As  mountain  snow  melts  with  the  midday  sun. 

Therefore,  despite  of  fruitless  cha,«tity, 
Love-lacking  vestals,  and  self-loving  nuns. 
That  on  the  earth  would  breed  a  scarcity, 
And  barren  dearth  of  daughters  and  of  sons. 

Be  prodigal :  the  lamp  that  burns  by  night. 

Dries  up  his  oil  to  lend  the  world  his  light. 

\Vhat  is  thy  body  but  a  swallowing  grave, 

S^emins  to  bury  that  posterity 

Which  by  the  rights  of  time  thou  needs  must  have, 

If  thou  destroy  them  not  in  dark  obscurity  ? 
If  .•^.  the  world  will  hold  thee  in  disdain, 
Sith  in  thy  pride  so  fair  a  hope  is  slain. 

9b  in  thyself  thyself  art  made  away, 
A  mischief  worse  than  civil  home-bred  strife, 
Or  theirs  whose  desperate  hands  themselves  do  slay. 
Or  butcher  sire  that  reaves  his  son  of  life. 
Foul  cankering  rust  the  hidden  treasure  frets, 
But  gold  that 's  put  to  use  more  gold  begets. 

Nay  then,  quoth  Adon,  you  will  fall  again 
Into  your  idle  over-handled  theme  : 
The  ki.'-s  I  gave  you  is  bestow'd  in  vain. 
And  all  in  vain  you  strive  asainst  the  stream; 
For  by  this  black-fac'd  night,  desire's  foul  nurse, 
Your  treatise  makes  me  like  you  worse  and  worse. 

if  love  have  lent  you  twenty  thousand  tongues. 
And  ever)-  tonmie  more  movins  than  your  own, 
Bowtchins  like  the  wanton  mermaid's  songs. 
Yet       m  mine  car  the  temptins  tune  is  blown  : 
For  know,  my  heart  stands  armed  in  mine  ear, 
And  will  not  let  a  false  sound  enter  there; 

test  the  deceiving  harmony  should  run 

Into  th«"  quiet  closure  of  my  brea-st. 

And  then  my  little  heart  were  quite  undone. 

In  hi»  bedchamber  to  he  barHd  of  rest. 

No_  lady,  no;  my  heart  longs  not  to  OToan, 
But  soundly  sleeps,  while  now  it  sleeps  alone. 

Wliat  have  you  urir'd  that  I  cannot  reprove  ? 
The  path  is  smooth  that  leadeth  on  to  danger ; 
F  hate  not  love,  but  your  device  in  love. 
That  lends  embraccmeiit,s  unto  every  stranger. 

^'ou  do  it  for  increa.sc  :  O  stranse  excuse  ! 

When  rea<»on  is  the  bawd  to  lust's  abuse 


Call  it  not  love,  for  love  to  heaven  is  fled, 
Since  sweating  lust  on  earth  usurp'd  his  name ; 
Under  whose  simple  semblance  he  hath  fed 
Upon  fresh  beauty,  blotting  it  with  blame  : 

Which  the  hot  tyrant  stains,  and  soon  bereaves, 

As  caterpillars  do  the  tender  leaves. 

Love  comfortcth  like  sunshine  after  rain, 
But  lust's  eflect  is  tempest  after  sun  ; 
Love's  gentle  spring  doth  always  Iresh  remain, 
Lust's  winter  comes  ere  summer  half  be  done : 

Love  surfeits  not,  lust  like  a  glutton  dies ; 

Love  is  all  truth,  lust  full  of  forged  lies. 

More  I  could  tell,  but  more  I  dare  not  say ; 
I  The  text  is  old.  the  orator  too  green. 

Therefore,  in  sadness,  now  i  will  away ; 

My  face  is  full  of  shame,  my  heart  of  teen :' 
Mine  ears,  that  to  your  wanton  talk  attended, 
Do  burn  themselves  for  having  so  offended. 

With  this  he  breaketh  from  the  3weet  embrace 
Of  those  fair  arms  which  bound  him  to  her  breast 
And  homeward  through  the  dark  lawni  runs  apaee, 
Leaves  Love  upon  her  back  deeply  distressed. 
Look,  how  a  bright  star  shooteth  from  the  sky, 
So  glides  he  in  the  night  from  Venus'  eye ; 

Which  after  him  she  darts,  as  one  on  shore 
i  Gazing  upon  a  late-embarked  friend. 
j  Till  the  wild  waves  will  have  him  seen  no  more, 
Whose  ridges  with  the  meeting  clouds  contend : 
So  did  the  merciless  and  pitchy  night 
Fold  in  the  object  that  did  feed  her  sight. 

Whereat  amaz'd,  as  one  that  unaware 
Hath  dropp'd  a  precious  jewel  in  the  flood, 
Or  'stonish'd  as  nisht  wanderers  often  are. 
Their  light  blown  out  in  some  mistrustful  wood; 
Even  so  confounded  in  the  dark  she  lay, 
Having  lost  the  fair  discovery  of  her  way. 

And  now  she  beats  her  heart,  whereat  it  groans, 
That  all  the  neighbour-cave.s,  a^  seeming  troubled, 
Make  verbal  repetition  of  her  moans : 

I  Passion  on  passion  deeply  is  redoubled. 

j      Ah  me  !  she  cries,  and  twenty  times,  woe,  woe  ! 
And  twenty  echoes  twenty  times  cry  so. 

j  She  marking  them,  begins  a  wailing  note, 

I  And  sings  extemporally  a  woeful  ditty  ; 

I  How  love  makes  youns  men  thrall,  and  old  men  dote, 

I  How  love  is  wise  in  folly,  foolish  witty  : 
Her  heavy  anthem  si  ill  concludes  in  woe, 
And  still  the  choir  of  echoes  answer  so. 

Her  song  was  tedious,  and  outwore  the  night. 
For  lovers'  hours  are  long,  though  seeming  short 
If  pleasd  themselves,  others,  they  think,  delight 
In  such  like  circumstance,  with  such  like  siwrl; 

Their  copious  stories,  oftentimes  begun. 

End  without  audience,  and  are  never  done. 

For  who  hath  she  to  spend  the  night  withal, 
But  idle  sounds  resembling  parasites : 
Like  shrill-tongu'd  tapsters  answering  every  call. 
Soothing  the  humour  of  fantastic  wits? 

She  says,  't  is  so :  they  answer  all.  't  is  so  ; 

And  would  say  after  her,  if  she  said  no. 


YENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


919 


Lo !  \iere  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest, 
From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high, 
And  waKes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast 
The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty; 

Who  doth  the  world  so  graciously  behold, 
That  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem  burnish'd  gold. 

Venus  salutes  him  with  this  fair  good-morrow. 
0  thou  clear  god.  and  patron  of  all  light, 
From  whom  each  lamp  and  shining  star  doth  borrow 
The  beauteous  influence  that  makes  him  bright. 
There  lives  a  son  that  suck'd  an  earthly  mother. 
May  lend  thee  light,  as  thou  dost  lend  to  other. 

This  said,  she  hasteth  to  a  myrtle  grove. 
Musing  the  morning  is  so  much  o'er- worn ; 
And  yet  she  hears  no  tidings  of  her  love : 
She  hearkens,  for  his  hounds,  and  for  his  horn: 

Anon  she  hears  them  chaunt  it  lustily. 

And  all  in  haste  she  coasteth'  to  the  cry. 

And  as  she  runs,  the  bushes  in  the  way 
Some  catch  her  by  the  neck,  some  kiss  her  face, 
Some  twn'd  about  her  thigh  to  make  her  stay. 
She  wildly  breaketh  from  their  strict  embrace. 
Like  a  milch  doe,  whose  swelling  dugs  do  ache, 
Hasting  to  feed  her  fawn  hid  in  some  brake. 

By  this  she  hears  the  hounds  are  at  a  bay, 
Whereat  she  starts,  like  one  that  spies  an  adder 
Wreath'd  up  in  fatal  folds,  just  in  his  way. 
The  fear  whereof  doth  make  him  shake  and  shudder : 
Even  so  the  timorous  yelping  of  the  hounds 
Appals  her  senses,  and  her  spirit  confounds. 

For  now  she  knows  it  is  no  gentle  chase, 
But  the  blunt  boar,  rough  bear,  or  lion  proud, 
Because  the  cry  remaineth  in  one  place. 
Where  fearfully  the  dogs  exclaim  aloud  j 

Finding  their  enemy  to  be  so  curst. 

They  all  strain  courtesy  who  shall  cope  him  first. 

This  dismal  cry  rings  sadly  in  her  ear. 
Through  which  it  enters  to  surprise  her  heart ; 
Who,  overcome  by  doubt  and  bloodless  fear, 
With  cold-pale  weakness  numbs  each  feeling  part : 
Like  soldiers,  when  tlieir  captain  once  doth  yield, 
They  basely  fly,  and  dare  not  stay  the  field. 

Thus  stands  she  in  a  trembling  extasy, 

TilWheering  up  her  senses  alP  dismay'd, 

She  tells  them,  't  is  a  causeless  fantasy. 

And  childish  error  that  they  are  afraid  ; 

Bids  them  leave  quaking,  bids  them  fear  no  more  • 
And  with  that  word  she  spied  the  hunted  boar ; 

Whose  frothy  mouth  bepainted  all  with  red, 
Like  milk  and  blood  being  mingled  both  together, 
A  second  fear  through  all  her  sinews  spread, 
Which  madly  hurries  her  she  knows  not  whither  : 
This  way  she  runs,  and  now  she  will  no  further, 
But  back  retires  to  rate  the  boar  for  murther. 


Here  kennel'd  in  a  brake  she  finds  a  hound, 
And  asks  the  weary  caitiff  for  his  master ; 
And  there  another  licking  of  his  wound, 
'Gainst  venom'd  sores  the  only  sovereign  plaster  ; 
And  here  she  meets  another  sadly  scowling, 
To  whom  she  speaks,  and  he  replies  with  howling 

When  he  hath  ceas'd  his  ill-resounding  noise. 

Another  flap-mouth'd  mourner,  black  and  grim, 

Against  the  welkin  voUies  out  his  voice ; 

Another  and  another  answer  him, 

Clapping  their  proud  tails  to  the  ground  below, 
Shaking  their  scratch'd  ears,  bleeding  as  they  go. 

Look,  how  the  world's  poor  people  are  amazed 

At  apparitions,  signs,  and  prodigies, 

Whereon  with  fearful  eyes  they  long  have  gazed, 

Infusing  them  with  dreadful  prophecies  ; 

So  she  at  these  sad  signs  draws  up  her  breath. 
And,  sighing  it  again,  exclaims  on  death. 

Hard-favour'd  tyrant,  ugly,  meagre,  lean, 
Hateful  divorce  of  love,  (thus  chides  she  death) 
Grim  grinning  ghost,  earth's  worm,  what  dost  thou  mean 
To  stifle  beauty,  and  to  steal  his  breath, 

Who  when  he  liv'd,  his  breath  and  beauty  set 

Gloss  on  the  rose,  smell  to  the  violet  ? 

If  he  be  dead, — 0  no  !  it  cannot  be. 

Seeing  his  beauty,  thou  sliouldst  strike  at  it. 

0  yes  !  it  may ;  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see. 

But  hatefully  at  random  dost  thou  hit. 

Thy  mark  is  feeble  age;  but  thy  false  dart 
Mistakes  that  aim,  and  cleaves  an  infant's  heart. 

Hadst  thou  but  bid  beware,  then  he  had  spoke. 

And  hearing  him  thy  powder  had  lost  his  power. 

The  destinies  will  curse  thee  for  this  stroke ; 

They  bid  thee  crop  a  weed,  thou  pluck'st  a  flower. 
Love's  golden  arrow  at  him  should  have  fled. 
And  not  death's  ebon  dart,  to  strike  him  dead. 

Dost  thou  drink  tears,  that  thou  provok'st  such  weepins  ? 

What  may  a  heavy  groan  advantage  thee  ? 

Why  hast  thou  cast  into  eternal  sleeping 

Those  eyes  that  taught  all  other  eyes  to  see  ? 
Now  Nature  cares  not  for  thy  mortal  vigour, 
Since  her  best  work  is  ruin'd  with  thy  rigour 

Here  overcome,  as  one  full  of  despair. 
She  vail'd  her  eye-lids,  who,  like  sluices,  stopped 
The  crystal  tide  that  from  her  two  cheeks  fair 
In  the  sweet  channel  of  her  bosom  dropped  ; 

But  through  the  flood-gates  breaks  the  .Mlver  ram, 
And  with  his  strong  course  opens  them  again. 

0.  how  her  eyes  and  tears  did  lend  and  borrow ! 

Her  eyes  seen  in  the  tears,  tears  in  her  eye ; 

Both  crystals,  where  they  view'd  each  other's  sorrc'v 

Sorrow  that  friendly  sighs  sought  still  to  dry; 
But  like  a  stormy  day,  now  wind,  now  rain, 
Sighs  djy  her  cheeks,  tears  make  them  wet  again. 


A  thousand  spleens  bear  her  a  thousand  ways ; 

She  treads  the  path  that  she  untreads  again : 

Her  more  than  haste  is  mated  with  delays,' 

Like  the  proceedings  of  a  drunken  brain  ; 

Full  of  respect,*  yet  nought  at  all  respecting, 
In  hand  with  all  things,  nought  at  all  aflfecting, 

•  Approaches       '  sor?  :  in  ed  1596.      '  Confounded.      *  respects  :  ed.  1596 


Variable  passions  throng  her  constant  woe, 
As  striving  who  should  best  become  her  grief; 
j  All  entertain'd,  each  passion  labours  .^o, 
'  That  every  present  sorrow  seemeth  chief 
I      But  none  is  best ;  then,  join  they  all  togelher, 
'      Like  many  clouds  consulting  for  foul  weather 


920 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


By  tl  is  far  off  she  hears  some  huntsman  hollow; 
A  nurse's  90112  ne'er  jilcasd  her  babe  so  well : 
The  dire  imagination  she  did  follow 
This  sound  of  hope  doth  labour  to  expel; 

For  now  reviving  joy  bids  her  rejoice. 

And  flatters  her  it  is  Adonis'  voice. 

Whereat  her  tears  began  to  turn  their  tide, 

Iking  prison'd  in  her  eye.  like  pearls  in  gla^s ; 

Vet  sometimes  falls  an  orient  drop  beside. 

Which  her  cheek  melts,  as  scorning  it  should  pass 
To  wash  the  foul  face  of  the  sluttish  ground, 
Who  IS  but  drunken,  when  she  seemeth  drown'd. 

0  hard-belie\-in2  love,  how  strange  it  seems 

Not  to  believe,  and  yet  too  credulous  ! 

Thy  weal  and  woe  are  both  of  them  extremes  ; 

Despair  and  hope  make  thee  ridiculous : 

The  one  doth  flatter  thee  in  thoughts  unlikely, 
In  likely  thoughts  the  other  kills  thee  quickly. 

Now  she  unweaves  the  web  that  she  hath  wrought ; 
Adonis  lives,  and  Death  is  not  to  blame : 
It  wa«  not  she  that  call'd  him  all  to  nought : 
Now  she  adds  honours  to  his  hateful  name : 
She  clepes  him  king  of  graves,  and  grave  for  kings, 
Imperious  supreme  of  all  mortal  things. 

No,  no,  quoth  she.  sweet  Death,  I  did  but  jest ; 
Yet  pardon  me.  I  felt  a  kind  of  fear. 
When  as  I  met  the  boar,  that  bloody  beast. 
Which  knows  no  pity,  but  is  still  severe  ; 
Then,  gentle  shadow,  (truth  I  must  confess) 
I  railM  on  thee,  fearing  my  love's  decease. 

T  is  not  my  fault :  the  boar  provok'd  my  tongue ; 
Be  ■wTcakM  on  him.  invisible  commander : 
*T  is  he,  foul  creature,  that  hath  done  thee  wrong; 
did  but  act,  he  's  author  of  thy  slander. 
Grief  hath  two  tongues,  and  never  woman  yet 
Could  rule  them  both,  without  ten  women's  wit. 

Thus  hoping  that  Adonis  is  alive, 

Her  rash  suspect  she  doth  extenuate  : 

And  that  his  beauty  may  the  better  thrive, 

With  death  she  humbly  doth  insinuate  : 

Tells  him  of  trophies,  statues,  tombs,  and  stories, 
His  victories,  his  triumphs,  and  his  glories. 

0  Jove  !  quoth  she.  how  much  a  fool  was  I, 

To  be  of  such  a  weak  and  silly  mind. 

To  wail  his  death,  who  lives,  and  must  not  die, 

Till  mutual  overthrow  of  mortal  kind  ; 

For  he  being  dead,  with  him  is  beauty  slain, 
And,  beauty  dead,  black  chaos  comes  again. 

Fie.  .*ie,  fond  love  !  thou  art  so  full  of  fear. 

As  one  with  treasure  laden,  hemm'd  with  thieves: 

Trifles,  unwitne.Hw?d  with  eye  or  ear, 

7  hv  coward  lioart  wi(h  false  bethinking  srieves. 
Kven  at  this  word  she  hears  a  merry  horn. 
Whereat  j.hc  leaps  that  was  but  late  forlorn. 

As  falcons'  to  the  lure,  away  she  flies: 

The  gTa.-s  stoops  not.  she  treads  on  it  so  light: 

And  m  her  ha.<-te  iinrorfunately  spies 

The  foul  boars  conquest  on  her  fair  delight : 

Which  seen,  her  fy,-8,  a.«.  murder"d  with  the  view. 
Like  stars  ashani'd  of  day,  themselves  vkithdrew. 
>  Ucob:  IB  ad.  IGOO 


Or,  a.s  the  snail,  whose  tender  horns  being  hit. 
Siinnks  backward  in  his  shelly  cave  witli  pain, 
And  there  all  smothered  up  in  shade  doth  sit, 
Long  after  fcarin<:  to  creep  forth  again: 

So,  at  his  bloody  vievr.  her  eyes  are  fled 

Into  the  deep-dark  cabins  of  her  head  : 

Where  they  resign  their  oflice  and  their  light 
To  the  disposing  of  her  troubled  brain: 
Who  bids  them  still  consort  with  ugly  night, 
And  never  wound  the  heart  with  looks  again ; 
Who,  like  a  king  perplexed  in  his  throne, 
By  their  suggestion  gives  a  deadly  groan, 

Whereat  each  tributary  subject  quakes  : 
As  when  the  wind,  imprison'd  in  the  ground. 
Struggling  for  passage,  earth's  foundation  .shake*. 
Which  with  cold  terror  doth  men's  minds  conl'ound. 
This  mutiny  each  part  doth  so  surprise, 
That  from  their  dark  beds  once  more  leap  her  eyea 

And,  being  open'd.  threw  unvv-illing  light 
f  pon  the  wide  wound  that  the  boar  had  trench'd 
In  his  soft  flank ;  whose  wonted  lily  white 
With  purple  tears,  that  his  wound  wept,  was  drench'd 
No  flower  was  nigh,  no  grass,  herb,  leaf,  or  weed. 
But  stole  his  blood,  and  seem'd  with  him  to  bleed 

This  solemn  sympathy  poor  "Venus  noteth  : 
Over  one  shoulder  doth  she  hang  her  head, 
Dumbly  she  passions,  franticly  she  doteth ; 
She  thinks  he  could  not  die.  he  is  not  dead  : 
Her  voice  is  stopp'd,  her  joints  forget  to  bow, 
Her  eyes  are  mad  that  they  have  wept  till  now. 

LTpon  his  hurt  she  looks  so  stedfastly. 
That  her  sight  dazzling  makes  the  wound  seem  three 
And  then  she  reprehends  her  mangling  eye. 
That  makes  more  gashes  where  no  breach  should  be  : 
His  face  seems  twain,  each  several  limb  is  doubled 
For  oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  being  troubled. 

My  tongue  cannot  express  my  grief  for  one. 
And  yet.  quoth  she,  behold  two  Adons  dead  ! 
My  sighs  are  blo-wn  away,  my  salt  tears  gone, 
Mine  eyes  are  turn'd  to  fire,  my  heart  to  lead  : 

Heavy  heart's  lead,  melt  at  mine  eyes'  red  fire  ! 

So  shall  I  die  by  drops  of  hot  desire. 

Ala.«,  poor  world,  what  treasure  hast  thou  lost ! 
What  face  remains  alive  that's  worth  the  viewing^ 
Whose  tongue  is  music  now?  what  canst  thou  boast 
Of  things  long  since,  or  any  thing  ensuing? 

The  flowers  are  sweet,  their  colours  fre-sh  and  trim 
But  true  sweet  beauty  liv'd  and  died  with  him. 

Bonnet  nor  veil  henceforth  no  creature  wear ; 
Nor  sun  nor  wind  will  ever  strive  to  kiss  you: 
Having  no  fair  to  lo-^e,  you  need  not  fear : 
The  sun  doth  scorn  you,  and  the  wind  doth  hiss  you  : 
But  when  Adonis  liv'd,  sun  and  sharp  air 
Lurk'd  like  two  thieves,  to  rob  him  of  his  fair: 

And  therefore  would  he  put  his  bonnet  on. 
Under  whose  brim  the  gaudy  sun  would  peep, 
The  wind  would  blow  it  off",  and.  being  gone. 
Play  -vNTth  his  locks  :  then,  would  Adonis  weep, 
And  .straight  in  pity  of  his  tender  years. 
They  both  would  strive  •who  first  should  dry  his  tears, 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


921 


To  see  his  face,  the  lion  walk'd  along 

Behind  some  hedge,  because  he  would  not  fear'  him ; 

To  recreate  himself  when  he  hath  sung, 

The  tiger  would  be  tame,  and  gently  hear  him ; 

If  he  had  spoke,  the  wolf  would  leave  his  prey, 

And  never  fright  the  silly  lamb  that  day. 

When  he  beheld  his  shadow  in  the  brook, 
The  fishes  spread  on  it  their  golden  gills  : 
When  he  was  by.  the  birds  such  pleasure  took, 
That  some  would  sing,  some  other  in  their  bills 

Would  bring  him  mulberries,  and  ripe  red  cherries  ; 

He  fed  them  wdth  his  sight,  they  him  with  berries. 

But  this  foul,  grim,  and  urchin-snouted'  boar, 
Whose  downward  eye  still  looketh  for  a  grave, 
Ne'er  saw  the  beauteous  livery  that  he  wore ; 
Witness  the  entertainment  that  he  gave: 

If  he  did  .<^ee  his  face,  why  then,  I  know, 

He  thought  to  kiss  him,  and  hath  kill'd  him  so. 

'T  is  true,  't  is  true  :  thus  was  j^donis  slain. 
He  ran  upon  the  boar  with  his  sharp  spear. 
Who  did*  not  whet  his  teeth  at  him  again, 
But  by  a  ki.«s  thought  to  persuade  him  there ; 

And  nuzzling  in  his  flank,  the  loving  swine 

Sheath'd,  unaware,  the  tusk  in  his  soft  groin. 

Had  1  been  tooth'd  like  him,  I  must  confess. 
With  kissing  him  I  should  have  kill'd  him  first : 
But  he  is  dead,  and  never  did  he  bless 
My  youth  with  his,  the  more  am  1  accurst. 

With  this  she  falleth  in  the  place  she  stood, 

And  stains  her  face  with  his  congealed  blood. 

She  looks  upon  his  lips,  and  they  are  pale ; 
She  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  that  is  cold ; 
She  whispers  in  his  ears  a  heavy  tale, 
As  if  they  heard  the  w^oful  words  she  told : 

She  lifts  the  cofFer-lids  that  close  his  eyes. 

Where  lo  !  two  lamps,  burnt  out.  in  darkness  lies  : 

Two  glasses,  where  herself  herself  beheld 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  no  more  reflect ; 
Their  virtue  lost,  wherein  they  late  excell'd, 
And  every  beauty  robb'd  of  his  effect : 

Wonder  of  time,  quoth  she,  this  is  my  spite, 

That,  thou*  being  dead,  the  day  should  yet  be  light. 

Smce  thou  art  dead,  lo  !  here  I  prophesy, 
Sorrow  on  love  hereafter  shall  attend  : 
It  shall  be  waited  on  with  jealousy. 
Find  sweet  beginning,  but  unsavoury  end  ; 

Ne'er  settled  equally,  but  high  or  low, 

That  all  love's  pleasure  shall  not  match  his  woe. 

It  shall  be  fickle,  false,  and  full  of  frpud ; 
Bud  and  be  blasted  in  a  breathing- while : 
The  bottom  poison,  and  the  top  o'er-straw'd 

»  Alarm,    s  An  archin,  is  a  hedge-hog,  it  is  so  employed  ic  "  Titns  Andronicus,"  Act  II..  «c.  3 ;  but  in  "The  Tempest,"'  Act  1., 
rtltha/  means  an  evil  spirit,  or  fairy.      *  would :  in  eds  1594  and  1596       ♦  yon  :  in  ed.  1600. 


With  sweets,  that  shall  the  truest  sight  beguile : 
The  strongest  body  shall  it  make  most  weak. 
Strike  the  wise  dumb,  and  teach  the  fool  to  speak. 

It  shall  be  sparing,  and  too  full  of  riot, 
Teaching  decrepit  age  to  tread  the  measures; 
The  staring  ruffian  shall  it  keep  in  quiet, 
Pluck  down  the  rich,  enrich  the  poor  with  treasurea 
It  shall  be  raging  mad,  and  silly  mild. 
Make  the  young  old,  the  old  become  a  child. 

It  shall  suspect,  where  is  no  cause  of  fear  ; 

It  shall  not  fear,  where  it  should  most  mistrust ; 

It  shall  be  merciful,  and  too  severe. 

And  most  deceiving,  when  it  seems  most  just ; 

Perverse  it  shall  be,  where  it  shows  most  toward ; 

Put  fear  to  valour,  courage  to  the  coward. 

It  shall  be  cause  of  war,  and  dire  events, 

And  set  dissension  'twixt  the  son  and  sire  ; 

Subject  and  servile  to  all  discontents, 

As  dry  combustious  matter  is  to  fire : 

Sith  in  his  prime  death  doth  my  love  destroy, 
They  that  love  best,  their  loves  shall  not  enjoy. 

By  this  the  boy,  that  by  her  side  lay  kill'd. 
Was  melted  like  a  vapour  from  her  sight, 
And  in  his  blood,  that  on  the  ground  lay  spill'd, 
A  purple  flower  sprung  up,  checquer'd  with  white ; 
Resembling  well  his  pale  cheeks,  and  the  blood 
Which  in  round  drops  upon  their  whiteness  stood. 

She  bows  her  head  the  new-sprung  flower  to  smell. 

Comparing  it  to  her  Adonis'  breath ; 

And  says,  -v^ithin  her  bosom  it  shall  dwell, 

Since  he  himself  is  reft  from  her  by  death  : 
She  crops  the  stalk,  and  in  the  breach  appears 
Green  dropping  sap,  which  she  compares  to  tears. 

Poor  flower,  quoth  she,  this  was  thy  father's  guise, 

Sweet  issue  of  a  more  sweet-smelling  sire. 

For  every  little  grief  to  wet  his  eyes : 

To  grow  unto  himself  was  his  desire. 

And  so  't  is  thine ;  but  know,  it  is  as  good 
To  witlirer  in  my  breast,  as  in  his  blood. 

Here  was  thy  father's  bed,  here  in  my  breast ; 
Thou  art  the  next  of  blood,  and  't  is  thy  right : 
Lo  !  in  this  hollow  cradle  take  thy  rest. 
My  throbbing  heart  shall  rock  thee  day  and  night 
There  shall  not  be  one  minute  in  an  hour, 
Wherein  I  will  not  kiss  my  sweet  love's  flower. 

Thus  weary  of  the  world,  away  she  hies. 
And  yokes  her  silver  doves  ;  by  whose  swift  aid 
Their  mistress  mounted  through  the  empty  skies 
In  her  light  chariot  quickly  is  convey'd  ; 

Holding  their  course  to  Paphos,  where  their  queer. 

Means  to  immure  herself  and  not  be  seen. 


Ai' 


THE    RAPE    OF    LUCRECE 


INTRODUCTION. 


["Lvcroc«.    Lojidon.     Printed   by  Richard   Field,  for  lohn 

Harrison,  and   are  to  be  sold  at  tlie   si^jne  of  the  wliite 

Grerlixund  in  I'anies  riiurch-yurd.  1594."  4to.  47  leaves. 
"  l.vorece  At  London,  Printed  by  P.  S.  for  lolin  Harriaon. 

159S."'     8vo.     36  leave-^. 
•Lvcreoe    London.      Printed   by  L   H.    for   loliu   Harrison. 

1600."     8%-o.     86  leaves. 
'  Lvcrecc.      At  London,  Printed  be  N.  0.  for  lohu  Harisou. 

1607."    8vo.     32  leaves.] 

"  LcoRKCE,"  as  it  is  merely  called  in  the  earlier  impressions, 
<»me  out  in  tlie  vear  following  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  it 
wa-s  printed  for  Jolm  Harrison,  the  publisher  of  the  edition 
of  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  in  1596.  Il  had  been  previously 
entered,  under  a  more  explauulory  title,  in  the  Stationers' 
Keii^isters : 

"9  May  1.594. 

"  Mr.  Harrison,  sen.]    A  booke  intitled  the  Ravyshement  of 
Lucrece." 
like,  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  it  wa-s  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of 
Southampton,  but  in  a  more  confi<lent  and  assured  spirit. 

This  second  production  was,  probiibly,  not  qnite  so  popular 
as  the  first,  and  it  wa.s  not  again  printed  until  1598,  for  the 
same  bookseller,  who  put  forth  a  third  edition  of  it  in  1600  : 
tJie  fourth  edition  was  issued  in  1607 :  these  are  not  so 
narked,  nnd  M  .lone  tells  us  that  he  had  heard  of  impressions 
ill  1596  :ind  1602,  but  they  have  not  since  come  to  iiffht;  and 
our  belief  is,  that  "Lucrece"  was  only  printeil  four  times 
between  l-")!*4  and  1607..  An  edition  in  1616  purports  to  have 
been  "  rewly  revi-ed  and  corrected;"  but,  as  Mnlone  truly 
states,  *•  it  is  the  most  inaccurate  and  corrupt  of  the  ancient 
copies  ;"  and  he  adds  that  "  most  of  the  alterations  seem  to 
have  been  made,  because  the  reviser  did  not  understand  the 
poet's  meaning."  That  Shakespeare  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  revision  and  correction  of  this  edition  requires  no  proof; 
»nd  so  little  was  it  esteemed,  that  it  was  not  followed  in  its 
changes  in  the  edition  of  1624,  which  also  professes  to  have 
been  "  newly  revised."  This  la.st  is  accompanied  by  martrinal 
notes,  nrosuically  explanatory  of  the  incidents  "poetically 
narrated. 

The  earliest  mention  of  "  Lucrece  "  occurs  in  the  year  in 
which  it  made  its  first  appearance.  Michael  Drayton  pub- 
lished his  "  Matilda,"  (a  poein  in  seven-line  stanzas,  like 
"  Lucrece  ")  in  1594,  and  there  we  meet  with  the  following 
passage  :— 

*'  Locrvce,  of  whom  proud  Rome  hath  boasted  long, 

L&teljr  reviv'd  to  live  another  age. 

And  her<?  arriv'd  to  tell  of  Tarquin's  wrong, 

H<*r  chant*  denial,  and  the  tyrant'ii  rage, 

Acting  her  f)aii»:c>n_H  on  our  stately  stage  : 
8he  IK  letnernher'd.  all  for<:etting  me, 
Vet  1  aj  fair  and  chante  a*  e'er  was  she." 
A  difflcnitv  here  may  aris*.  out  of  the  fifth  line,  as  if 
Drayton  were  referrinif  to  a  ]>lay  upon  the  story  of  Lucrece, 
and  it  is  very  p.>»sible  that  one  was  then  in  existence. 
T1iomio<  Ilvywood's  tnuredy,  "Tlie  Rape  of  Lucrece,"  did 
not  appe:ir  in  print  until  1608,  and  he  Conid  hardly  have  been 
old  enonifli  to  Imve  hi^en  the  author  of  siich  a  drama  in  1594  : 
be  may.  never* hel<i«s,  have  availed  himself  of  an  elder  play, 
and,  ac^ordini^  to  the  practice  of  the  time,  he  may  have  felt 
warranti!.!  in  riublishiiur  it  as  his  own.  It  is  likelv,  however, 
that  I»riiyt('n  s  expressi'nis  are  not  to  be  taken  literally,  and 
that  hi.,  mcjiiiiiii;  merely  was,  that  the  story  i.f  LncretM!  had 
lately  b«'cii  rrvivi-d.  and  brought  upon  the  staae  of  the  world: 
if  this  opinion  bo  cirrect,  the  Rtiinzii  we  have  above  fiiK>ted 
eontniii-  «  ''.ear  Hllnsing  to  Shiikesricare's  "  Lucrece  ;"  and  a 
.^nex'.i..!.  th'-n  presents  itself,  why  Drayton  entirely  omitted  it 
in  the  after  im^rc-sinnH  of  his  "  Matilda?"  He  was  a  poet 
who,  Bh   we   have   shown   in   the   Introduction   to  "Julius 


Caesar,"  was  in  the  habit  of  making  extensive  alterations  in 
his  productions,  as  they  were  severally  reprinted,  and  the 
suppression  of  this  stanza  may  have  proceeded  from  many 
other  causes  than  repentance  of  the  praise  he  had  bestowed 
upon  a  rival. 

The  edition  of  "  Lucrece  "  we  have  taken  as  our  text  Is  the 
first,  which,  like  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  was  printed  by 
Richard  Field,  though  not  on  his  own  account.  It  may  be 
stilted  on  the  whole  to  be  an  extremely  creditMble  speciinen 
of  his  typography  :  as  the  sheets  were  goiiif  through  the  press, 
some  material  errors  were,  however,  observed  in  them,  nna 
they  are  therefore  in  several  places  corrected.  This  fact  has 
hitherto  escaped  remark,  but  the  variations  are  explained  in 
our  notes. 

Modern  editors  have  performed  their  task  without  due 
care,  but  of  their  want  of  attention  we  shall  only  here  adduce 
two  specimens.  In  one  of  the  sfieeches  in  which  Lucrece 
endeavours  to  dissuade  Tarquin  from  his  purpose,  she  tells 
him, 

"  Thou  back'st  reproach  against  long-living  laud." 
Which  every  modern  editor  misprints, 

"  Thou  back'st  reproach  against  long-lived  laud." 

Our  second  proof  is  from  a  later  portion  of  the  poem,  ju.st 
after  Collatine  has  returned  home,  and  meets  his  dishonoured 
wife:  the  true  text,  speaking  of  Collatine  and  Lucretia,  is, 

"  Both  stood  like  old  acquaintance  in  a  trance 
Met  far  from  home,  wondering  each  other's  chance." 

Malone,  and  nil  editors  after  him,  make  nonsense  of  the 
couplet,  by  printing, 

"  But  stood  like  old  acquaintance  in  a  trance,"  &o. 
depriving  the  verb  of  its   nominative,  and    destroying  the 
whole  force  of  the  figure.     It  would  be  easy  to  add  other 
instances  of  the  same  kind,  but  we  refer  for  them  to  our  notes. 


TO   THE   RIGHT    HONOURABLE 

HENRY    WRIOTHESLY, 

EARL  OF  SOUTHAMPTON,  AND   BARON  OF  TICHFIELD. 


The  love  I  dedicate  to  your  lordship  is  without  end  ;  whereol 
this  pamphlet,  without  besjinniiig,  is  but  a  siyierflnous  moiety. 
The  warrant  I  have  of  your  honourable  disposition,  not  the 
worth  of  my  untutored  lines,  makes  it  assured  of  acceptance. 
What  I  have  done  is  yours  ;  what  I  have  to  do  is  yours  ;  being 
part  in  all  I  have,  devoted  yours.  Were  my  worth  greater, 
my  duty  would  show  greater' ;  mean  time,  as  it  is,  it  is  hound 
to  your  lordship,  to  whom  I  wish  long  life,  still  lengthened 
with  all  happiness. 

Your  lordship's  in  alt  duty, 

William  Shakkspkark. 


THE     ARGUMENT. 

Lucius  Tarquiniui  (for  his  excessive  pride  surnamed  Puperbni) 
after  he  had  caused  his  own  father-in-law,  Bervius  Tullius,  to  be 
cruelly  murdered,  and.  contrary  to  the  Roman  laws  and  customs,  not 
requiring  or  i^taying  for  the  people's  su/l'ragps,  had  potse.«sed  himself 
of  the  kingdom,  went,  accompanied  with  his  sons  and  other  noble- 
men of  Rome,  to  be.siege  Ardea  ;  during  which  siege,  the  principal 
men  of  the  army  meeting  one  evening  at  the  tent  of  Sextus  Tar 
quinius.  the  king's  son,  in  their  dn-courses  after  supper  every  on» 
commended  the  virtues  of  his  own  wife  ;  among  whom.  Collatinui 
extolled  the  incomparable  chastity  of  his  wife  Lucretia.  In  tha 
pleasant  humour  they  all  posted   to  Rome  ;  and  intending  by  Uiejr 


greater  :]     i^ome  of  the  later  impressions.  |  In  M«lone'«  Shakspeare,  by  Bosw^i 


iK«  ed'aons  of  lti«7  and  lO-M  tor  miUnee,  read  ihoutd  for 

922 


,  the  word  '"  all,"  before  •'  happi- 


nets,"  is  omitted. 


THE  KAPE   OF  LUCKECE. 


923 


dCcret  and  sudden  arrival,  to  make  trial  of  that  which  every  one  had 
before  avouched,  only  Collatinus  finds  his  wife  (though  it  were  late 
in  the  night)  spinning  amongst  her  maids  :  the  other  ladies  were  all 
found  dancing  and  revelling,  or  in  several  disports;  whereupon  the 
noblemen  yielded  Collatinus  the  victory,  and  his  wife  the  fame.  At 
•Jia.t  lime  Sextus  Tarquinius,  being  inflamed  with  Lucrece'  beauty, 
yei  smothering  his  pa.<sions  for  the  present,  departed  with  the  r<>st 
back  to  the  camp:  from  whence  he  shortly  after  privily  withdrew 
himself,  and  was  (according  to  his  estate)  royally  entertained  and 
lodged  by  Lucrece  at  Collatium.  The  same  night  he  treacherously 
etealeth  into  her  chamber,  violently  ravished  her,  and  early  in  the 
morning  speedeth  away.  Lucrece,  in  this  lamentable  plight,  hastily 
dispatcheth  messengers,  one  to  Rome  for  her  father,  another  to  the 
camp  for  CoUatine.  Thev  came,  the  one  accompanied  with  Junius 
Brutus,  the  other  with  Publius  Valerius  ;  and  finding  Lucrece  attired 
in  mourning  habit,  demanded  the  cause  of  her  sorrow.  She,  first 
taking  an  oath  of  them  for  her  revenge,  revealed  the  actor,  and  whole 
manner  of  his  dealing,  and  withal  suddenly  stabbed  herself;  which 
icne.  with  one  consent  they  all  vowed  to  root  out  the  whole  hated 
famil)-  of  the  Tarquins  ;  and  bearing  the  dead  body  to  Rome,  Brutus 
acquainted  the  people  with  the  doer,  and  manner  of  the  vile  deed, 
with  a  bitter  invective  against  the  tyranny  of  the  king  ;  wherewith 
the  people  were  so  moved,  that,  with  one  consent  and  a  general 
acclamation,  the  Tarquins  were  all  exiled,  and  the  state  government 
changed  from  kings  to  consuls. 


From  the  besieged  Ardea  all  in  post, 
Borne  by  the  trustless  wings  of  false  desire, 
Lust-breathed  Tarquin  leaves  the  Roman  host, 
And  to  Collatiuin  bears  the  lightle^^s  lire 
Which,  in  pale  embers  hid,  lurks  to  aspire, 
And  girdle  with  embracing  flames  the  waist 
Of  CoUatine's  fair  love,  Lucrece  the  chaste. 

Haply  that  name  of  chaste  unhappily  set 
This  bateless  edge  on  his  keen  appetite; 
When  Collatine  unwisely  did  not  let 
To  praise  the  clear  unmatched  red  and  white. 
Which  triumph'd  in  that  sky  of  his  delight ; 

Where  mortal  stars,  as  bright  as  heaven's  beauties. 

With  pure  aspects  did  him  peculiar  duties. 

For  he  the  night  before,  in  Tarquin's  tent, 

Unlock'd  the  treasure  of  his  happy  state  ; 

What  priceless  wealth  the  heavens  had  him  lent 

In  the  possession  of  his  beauteous  mate  ; 

Reckoning  his  fortune  at  such  high  proud  rate, 
That  kings  might  be  espoused  to  more  fame. 
But  king  nor  peer  to  such  a  peerless  dame. 

0  happiness  !  enjoy'd  but  of  a  few  ; 

And.  if  possessed,  as  soon  decay'd  and  done, 

As  is  the  morning's  silver-melting  dew 

Against  the  golden  splendour  of  the  sun  ; 

An  expir'd  date,  cancell'd  ere  well  begun : 
Honour  and  beauty,  in  the  owner's  arms. 
Are  weakly  fortress'd  from  a  world  of  harms. 

Beauty  it>^elf  doth  of  itself  persuade 

The  eyes  of  men  without  an  orator ; 

What  needeth.  then,  apologies  be  made 

To  set  forth  that  which  is  so  singular? 

Or  why  is  CoUatine  the  publisher 

Of  that  rich  jewel  he  should  keep  unknown 
From  thie\'ish  ears,  because  it  is  his  own  ? 

Perchance  his  boast  of  Lucrece'  sovereignty 

Suggested'  this  proud  issue  of  a  king, 

For  by  our  ears  our  hearts  oft  tainted  be : 

Perchance  that  envy  of  so  rich  a  thing, 

Braving  compare,  disdainfully  did  sting  [vaunt 

His  high-pitch'd  thoughts,  that  meaner  men  should 
That  golden  hap  which  their  superiors  want. 
I  Infdgxted 


But  some  untimely  thought  did  instigate 
His  all  too  timeless  speed,  if  none  of  those  : 
His  honour,  his  affairs,  his  friends,  his  state, 
Neglected  all.  with  swift  intent  he  goes 
To  quench  the  coal  which  in  his  liver  glows. 
0  rash,  false  heat  !  wrapt  in  repentant  cold. 
Thy  hasty  spring  still  blasts,  and  ne'er  grows  old. 

W^hen  at  Collatium  this  false  lord  arrived. 
Well  was  he  welcom'd  by  the  Roman  dame, 
Within  whose  face  beauty  and  virtue  st rived 
Which  of  them  both  should  underprop  her  fame . 
When  \drtue  bragg'd,  beauty  would  blush  for  shame  • 
When  beauty  boasted  blushes,  in  despite 
Virtue  would  stain  that  o'er  with  silver  white. 

But  beauty,  in  that  white  intituled. 
From  Venus'  doves  doth  challenge  that  fair  field ; 
Then,  virtue  claims  from  beauty  beauty's  red. 
Which  virtue  gave  the  golden  age  to  gild 
Their  silver  cheeks,  and  call'd  it  then  their  shield  j 
Teaching  them  thus  to  use  it  in  the  fight, 
When  shame  assail'd,  the  red  should  fence  the  white. 

This  heraldry  in  Lucrece'  face  was  seen, 
Argued  by  beauty's  red,  and  virtue's  white : 
Of  cither's  colour  was  the  other  queen, 
Proving  from  world's  minority  their  right. 
Yet  their  ambition  makes  them  still  to  fight, 
The  sovereignty  of  either  being  so  great, 
That  oft  they  interchange  each  other's  seat. 

This  silent  war  of  lilies  and  of  roses, 
Wliich  Tarquin  view'd  in  her  fair  face's  field. 
In  their  pure  ranks  his  traitor  eye  encloses  ; 
Where,  lest  between  them  both  it  should  be  kill'd, 
The  coward  captive  A^anquished  doth  yield 

To  those  tw^o  armies,  that  would  let  him  go. 

Rather  than  triumph  in  so  false  a  foe. 

Now  thinks  he,  that  her  husband's  shallow  tong\ie, 
The  niggard  prodigal  that  prais'd  her  so, 
In  that  high  task  hath  done  her  beauty  wTong, 
Which  far  exceeds  his  barren  skill  to  show : 
Therefore,  that  praise  which  Collatine  doth  owe 

Enchanted  Tarquin  answers  with  surmise 

In  silent  wonder  of  still  gazing  eyes. 

This  earthly  saint,  adored  by  this  devil. 
Little  suspecteth  the  false  worshipper, 
For  unstain'd  thoughts  do  seldom  dream  on  evil ; 
Birds  never  lim'd  no  secret  bushes  fear  : 
So  guiltless  she  securely  gives  good  cheer. 
And  reverend  welcome  to  her  princely  gixest. 
Whose  inward  ill  no  outward  harm  expressed  . 

For  that  he  colour'd  vnth  his  high  estate, 

Hiding  base  sin  in  plaits  of  majesty  ; 

That  nothing  in  him  seem'd  inordinate. 

Save  sometime  too  much  wonder  of  his  eye, 

Which,  having  all,  all  could  not  satisfy; 
But,  poorly  rich,  so  wanteth  in  his  store. 
That  cloy'd  with  much,  he  pineth  still  for  more. 

But  she,  that  never  cop'd  with  stranger  eyes, 

Could  pick  no  meaning  from  their  parling  looks. 

Nor  read  the  subtle  shining  secrecies 

Writ  in  the  glassy  margents  of  such  books  : 

She  touch'd  no  unknown  baits,  nor  fear'd  no  hooks 


924 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Nor  could  she  moralize  liis  wanton  siuht, 
More  than  his  eyes  were  open'd  to  the  light. 

He  stories  to  her  ears  her  husband's  fame, 

Won  in  the  fields  of  fruitful  Italy; 

And  decks  with  praises  CoUatine's  high  name, 

Made  glorious  by  his  manly  chivalry, 

With  bruised  arms  and  wreaths  of  victory: 
Her  joy  with  heav"d-up  hand  she  doth  express, 
And  wordless  so  greets  heaven  for  his  success. 

Far  from  the  purpose  of  his  coming  thither, 

He  makes  excuses  tor  his  being  there  : 

No  cloudy  show  of  stormy  blustering  weather 

Doth  yet  in  his  fair  welkin  once  appear; 

Till  sable  iiijilit.  mother  of  dread  and  fear, 
Upon  the  world  dim  darkness  doth  display, 
And  in  her  vaulty  prison  stows  the  day. 

For  then  is  Tarquin  brought  unto  his  bed, 
Intending'  weariness  with  heavy  sprite  ; 
For  alter  supper  long  he  questioned 
With  modesi  Lucrece,  and  wore  out  the  night : 
Now  leaden  slumber  with  life's  strength  doth  fight, 
And  avery  one  to  rest  themselves  betake,         [wake 
Save  thieves,  and  cares,  and  troubled  minds,  that 

A 5  one  of  which  doth  Tarquin  lie  revolving 
The  sundry  dangers  of  his  will's  obtaining  ; 
Yet  ever  to  obtain  his  will  resolving. 
Though  weak-built  hopes  persuade  him  to  abstaining  : 
Despair  to  gain  doth  traffick  oft  for  gaining  ; 
And  when  great  treasure  is  the  meed  proposed, 
Though  death  be  adjunct,  there 's  no  death  supposed. 

Those  that  much  covet  are  with  sain  so  fond, 
That  what  they  have  not.  that  which  they  pos.ses8, 
They  scatter  and  unloose  it  from  their  bond, 
Ajid  so,  by  hoping  more,  they  have  but  less ; 
Or.  gaining  more,  the  profit  of  excess 
Is  but  to  surfeit,  and  such  griefs  siistain, 
That  they  prove  bankrupt  in  this  poor  rich  gain. 

The  aim  of  all  is  but  to  nurse  the  life 

With  honour,  wealth,  and  ease,  in  waning  age; 

And  in  this  aim  there  is  such  thwarting  strife. 

That  one  for  all,  or  all  tor  one  we  gage ; 

As  life  for  honour  in  fell  battle.';'  rage  ; 

Honour  for  wealth,  and  oft  that  wealth  doth  cost 

The  death  of  all,  and  all  together  lost. 

So  that  in  venturing  ill,  we  leave  to  be 

The  things  we  are  for  that  which  we  expect ; 

.And  this  ambitious  foul  infirmity, 

-n  having  much,  torments  us  with  defect 

Of  that  we  have:  so  then  we  do  neglect 

The  thinir  we  have  ;  and.  all  for  want  of  wit, 
Make  something  nothing  by  augmenting  it. 

Such  hazard  now  must  doting  Tarquin  make, 

Fawnins  his  honour  to  obtain  his  lust. 

And  for  himself  him.-^elf  he  must  forsake: 

Then,  where  is  truth,  if  there  be  no  self-tru.st? 

When  shall  he  think  to  find  a  stranger  just. 
When  he  himself  himself  confounds,  betrays 
To  slanderous  tongues,  and  wretched  hateful  days  ? 

Now  stole  upon  the  time  the  dead  of  night. 
When  heavy  tdoep  had  clos'd  up  mortal  eyes ; 

'  Priltndint 


No  comfortable  star  did  lend  his  light, 

No  noise  but  owls'  and  wolves'  death-boding  cries: 

Now  serves  the  season  that  they  may  surprise 

The  silly  lambs.     Pure  thought.s  are  dead  aad  stilL 
While  lust  and  murder  wake,  to  stain  and  kill 

And  now  this  lustful  lord  leap'd  from  his  bed. 
Throwing  his  mantle  rudely  o'er  his  arm. 
Is  madly  toss"d  between  desire  and  dread  ; 
Th'  one  .sweetly  flatters,  th'  other  feareth  harm  , 
But  honest  fear,  bewitch'd  with  lust's  foul  charni 
Doth  too  too  oft  betake  him  to  retire, 
Beaten  away  by  brain-sick  rude  desire. 

His  falchion  on  a  flint  he  softly  smiteth, 
That  from  the  cold  stone  sparks  of  fire  do  fly, 
Whereat  a  waxen  torch  forthwith  he  lighteth, 
Which  must  be  lode-star  to  his  lustful  eye ; 
And  to  the  flame  thus  speaks  advi.sedly : 

As  from  this  cold  flint  I  enforc'd  this  fire, 

So  Lucrece  must  I  force  to  my  desire. 

Here,  pale  with  fear,  he  doth  premeditate 
The  dangers  of  his  loathsome  enterprise, 
And  in  his  inward  mind  he  doth  debate 
What  following  sorrow  may  on  this  arise  : 
Then,  looking  scornfully,  he-doth  despise 
His  naked  armour  of  still  slaughtered  lust. 
And  justly  thus  controls  his  thoughts  unjust. 

Fair  torch,  burn  out  thy  light,  and  lend  it  not 
To  darken  her  whose  light  excelleth  thine ; 
And  die.  unhallow'd  thoughts,  before  you  blot 
With  your  uncleanness  that  which  is  divine  : 
Offer  pure  incense  to  so  pure  a  shrine  : 

Let  fair  humanity  abhor  the  deed, 

That  spots  and  stains  love's  modest  snow-white  weed 

0  shame  to  knighthood,  and  to  shining  arms ' 

0  foul  dishonour  to  my  household's  grave  '. 

0  impious  act.  including  all  foul  harms  ! 

A  martial  man  to  be  soft  fancy's  slave  ! 

True  valour  still  a  true  respect  should  have ; 
Then,  my  digression  is  so  vile,  so  base, 
That  it  will  live  engraven  in  my  face. 

Yea,  though  I  die,  the  scandal  will  survive, 

And  be  an  eye-sore  in  my  golden  coat ; 

Some  loathsome  dash  the  herald  will  contrive, 

To  cipher  me  how  fondly  I  did  dote  ; 

That  my  po.«terity,  sham'd  with  the  note. 
Shall  curse  my  bones,  and  hold  it  for  no  sin 
To  wish  that  I  their  father  had  not  been. 

What  win  L  if  I  gain  the  thina  I  sack  ? 

A  dream,  a  breath,  a  froth  of  fleeting  joy. 

Who  buys  a  minute's  mirth  to  wail  a  week, 

Or  sells  eternity  to  get  a  toy  ? 

For  one  sweet  grape  who  will  the  vine  destroy? 

Or  what  fond  beggar,  but  to  touch  the  crown. 

Would  with  the  sceptre  straight  be  stricken  down  ? 

If  Collatinus  dream  of  my  intent, 
Will  he  not  wake,  and  in  a  desperate  rage 
Post  hither,  this  vile  purpose  to  prevent? 
This  sie^e  that  hath  engirt  his  marriage, 
This  blur  to  youth,  this  sorrow  to  the  sage, 
This  dying  virtue,  this  .sur\-ivin2  .shame, 
Whose  crime  will  bear  an  ever-during  blarae. 


I 


THE  EAPE   OF   LUCRECE. 


925 


0  !  what  excuse  can  ray  iuvention  make, 
When  thou  shalt  charge  me  with  so  black  a  deed  ? 
Will  not  my  tongue  be  mute,  my  frail  joints  shake, 
Mine  eyes  forego  their  light,  my  false  heart  bleed  ? 
The  guilt  being  great,  the  fear  doth  still  exceed ; 
And  extreme  fear  can  neither  fight  nor  fly, 
But  coward-like  with  trembling  terror  die. 

Had  Collatinus  kill'd  my  son  or  sire, 
Or  lain  in  ambush  to  betray  my  life. 
Or  were  he  not  my  dear  friend,  this  desire 
Might  have  excuse  to  work  upon  his  wife, 
As  in  revenge  or  quital  of  such  strife  ; 
But  as  he  is  my  kinsman,  my  dear  friend. 
The  shame  and  fault  finds  no  excuse  nor  end. 

Shameful  it  is  ; — ay,  if  the  fact  be  known  : 
Hateful  it  is  ; — there  is  no  hate  in  loving  : 
[  '11  beg  her  love  : — but  she  is  not  her  own : 
The  worst  is  but  denial,  and  reproving. 
My  will  is  strong,  pa.«t  reason's  weak  removing  : 
Who  fears  a  sentence,  or  an  old  man's  saw, 
Shall  by  a  painted  cloth  be  kept  in  awe. 

Thus,  graceless,  holds  he  disputation 
'Tween  frozen  conscience  and  hot  burning  will. 
And  with  good  thoughts  makes  dispensation, 
Urging  the  worser  sense  for  vantage  still ; 
Which  in  a  moment  doth  confound  and  kill 
All  pure  effects,  and  doth  so  far  proceed, 
That  what  is  vile  shows  like  a  virtuous  deed. 

Quoth  he,  she  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand, 

And  gaz'd  for  tidings  in  my  eager  eyes, 

Fearing  some  hard  news  from  the  warlike  band, 

Where  her  beloved  Collatinus  lies. 

0,  hoM-  her  fear  did  make  her  colour  rise  ! 
First  rod  as  roses  that  on  lawn  we  lay. 
Then,  white  as  lawn,  the  roses  took  away. 

And  how  her  hand,  in  my  hand  being  lock'd, 
Forc'd  it  to  tremble  with  her  loyal  fear  ! 
Which  struck  her  sad.  and  then  it  faster  rock'd, 
Until  her  husband's  welfare  she  did  hear; 
Whereat  she  smiled  with  so  sweet  a  cheer. 

That  had  Narcissus  seen  her  as  she  stood. 

Self-love  had  never  drown'd  him  in  the  flood. 

Why  hunt  I,  then,  for  colour  or  excuses  ? 
All  orators  are  dumb  when  beauty  pleadeth  • 
Poor  wretches  have  remorse  in  poor  abuses  ; 
Love  thrives  not  in  the  heart  that  shadows  dreadeth : 
Affection  is  my  captain,  and  he  leadeth  ; 
And  when  his  gaudy  banner  is  display'd, 
The  coward  fights,  and  will  not  be  dismay'd. 

Then,  childish  fear,  avaunt  !  debating,  die  ! 
Respect  and  reason,  wait  on  wTinkled  age  ! 
My  heart  shall  never  countermand  mine  eye : 
Sad  pause  and  deep  regard  beseem  the  sage ; 
My  part  is  youth,  and  beats  these  from  the  stage. 

Desire  my  pilot  is,  beauty  my  prize : 

Then,  who  fears  sinking  where  such  treasure  lies ' 

As  corn  o'er-grown  by  weeds,  so  heedful  fear 
Is  almost  chok'd  by  unresisted  lust. 
Away  he  steals  with  open  listening  ear, 
Full  of  foul  hope,  and  full  of  fond  mistrust ; 
Both  which,  as  servitors  to  the  unjust, 
>  Nipped  by  the  frost. 


So  cross  him  with  their  opposite  persuasion. 
That  now  he  vows  a  league,  and  now  invaaiou. 

Within  his  thought  her  heavenly  image  sits. 

And  in  the  selfsame  seat  sits  Collatine  : 

That  eye  which  looks  on  her  confounds  his  wits ; 

That  eye  which  him  beholds,  as  more  divine, 

Unto  a  view  so  false  will  not  incline  : 

But  with  a  pure  appeal  seeks  to  the  heart, 
Which,  once  corrupted,  takes  the  worser  part ; 

And  therein  heartens  up  his  sers'ile  powers, 
Who,  flatter'd  by  their  leader's  jocund  show, 
Stuff  up  his  lust,  as  minutes  fill  up  hours  : 
And  as  their  captain,  so  their  pride  doth  grow, 
Paying  more  slavish  tribute  than  they  owe. 
By  reprobate  desire  thus  madly  led, 
The  Roman  lord  marcheth  to  Lucrece'  bed. 

The  locks  between  her  chamber  and  his  will, 
Each  one  by  him  enforc'd  retires  his  ward  ; 
But  as  they  open  they  all  rate  his  ill, 
W^hich  drives  the  creeping  thief  to  some  regard  • 
The  threshold  grates  the  door  to  have  him  heard ; 

Night- wandering  weesels  shriek,  to  see  him  there ; 

They  fright  him,  yet  he  still  pursues  his  fear. 

As  each  unwilling  portal  yields  him  way, 
Through  little  vents  and  crannies  of  the  place 
The  wind  wars  with  his  torch  to  make  him  stay, 
And  blows  the  smoke  of  it  into  his  face, 
Extinguishing  his  conduct  in  this  case  ; 

But  his  hot  heart,  with  fond  desire  doth  scorch, 
Puffs  forth  another  wind  that  fires  the  torch : 

And  being  lighted,  by  the  light  he  spies 
Lucretia's  glove,  wherein  her  needle  sticks  : 
He  takes  it  from  the  rushes  where  it  lies. 
And  griping  it,  the  needle  his  finger  pricks ; 
As  who  should  say,  this  glove  to  wanton  tricks 

Is  not  inur'd  j  return  again  in  haste  ; 

Thou  seest  our  mistress'  ornaments  are  chaste. 

But  all  these  poor  forbiddings  could  not  stay  him , 
He  in  the  worst  sense  construes  their  denial  : 
The  doors,  the  wind,  the  glove,  that  did  delay  him, 
He  takes  for  accidental  things  of  trial. 
Or  as  those  bars  which  stop  the  hourly  dial ; 
Who  with  a  ling'ring  stay  his  course  doth  let, 
Till  evciy  minute  pays  the  hour  his  debt. 

So.  so,  quoth  he ;  these  lets  attend  the  time., 
Like  little  iVosts  that  sometime  threat  the  spring, 
To  add  a  more  rejoicing  to  the  prime. 
And  give  the  sneaped'  birds  more  cause  to  sing. 
Pain  pays  the  income  of  each  precious  thing  ;    [sands. 
Huge  rocks,  high  winds,  st -oug  pirates,  shelves  and 
The  merchant  fears,  ere  rich  at  home  he  lauds. 

Now  is  he  come  unto  the  chamber-door. 
That  shuts  him  from  the  heaven  of  his  thought 
Which  with  a  yielding  latch,  and  with  no  more, 
Hath  barr'd  him  from  the  blessed  thing  he  sought. 
So  from  himself  impiety  hath  ANTought. 
That  for  his  prey  to  pray  he  doth  begin, 
As  if  the  heavens  should  countenance  his  sin. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  unfruitful  prayer, 
Having  solicited  th'  eternal  power 


926 


THE  KAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


That  his  Ibul  tliouiilits  might  compass  his  fair  fair, 
•1  111!  thoy  would  .st.imi  auspicious  to  the  hour, 
Rvt'u  thi-re  he  starts  : — quoth  he.  I  must  dellower : 
The  powers  to  whom  1  pray  ablior  this  fact, 
How  can  ihey,  then,  assist  inc  in  the  act  ? 

Then  Love  and  Fortune  be  my  gods,  my  guide  ! 

My  will  is  buckM  with  resolution: 

Thoughts  are  but  dreams,  till  tlieir  effects  be  tried  ; 

The  blackest  sin  is  cicar'd  with  absolution  ; 

Ai.'aiiist  love's  tire  lVar"s  frost  hath  dissolution. 
The  eye  of  heaven  is  out.  and  misty  night 
Covers  the  shame  that  follows  sweet  delight. 

This  said,  his  guilty  hand  pluck'd  up  the  latch, 

And  with  his  knee  the  door  he  opens  wide. 

The  dove  sleeps  fast  that  this  ni<rht-owl  will  catch  : 

Thus  treason  works  ere  traitors  be  espied. 

Who  sees  the  lurking  serpent  steps  aside  ; 

But  she,  sound  sleeping,  fearing  no  such  thing, 

Lies  a*  tlie  mercy  of  his  mortal  sting. 

Into  the  chamber  wickedly  he  stalks, 
And  gazeth  on  her  yet-unstained  bed. 
The  curtains  being  close,  about  he  walks, 
Rolling  his  greedy  eye-balls  in  his  head  : 
By  their  high  treason  is  his  heart  misled  ; 

Which  gives  the  watch-word  to  hie  hand  full  soon. 
To  draw  the  cloud  that  hides  the  silver  moon. 

Look,  as  the  fair  and  fiery  pointed  sun, 
Rushing  from  forth  a  cloud,  bereaves  our  sight ; 
Even  so.  the  curtain  dra\Nni.  his  eyes  begun 
To  wink,  being  blinded  with  a  greater  light: 
Whether  it  is.  that  she  reflects  so  bright. 

That  dazzleth  them,  or  else  some  sharne  supposed, 
But  blind  they  are,  and  keep  themselves  enclosed. 

0  !  had  they  in  that  darksome  prison  died, 
Then  had  they  seen  the  period  of  their  ill  : 
Then  Collatine  again,  by  Lucrece'  side, 
In  his  clear  bed  might  have  reposed  still ; 
But  they  must  ope.  this  blessed  league  to  kill, 
And  holy-thoughted  Lucrece  to  their  sight 
Must  sell  her  joy,  her  life,  her  world's  delight. 

Her  lily  hand  her  rosy  cheek  lies  under. 
Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawful  kiss, 
Who,  therefore  angry,  seems  to  part  in  sunder, 
Swelling  on  cither  side  to  want  his  bliss, 
B<-tween  whose  hills  her  head  intombed  is  ; 
Where,  like  a  virtuous  monument,  she  lies, 
To  be  admir'd  of  lewd  unhallowed  eyes. 

Without  the  bed  her  other  fair  hand  was. 
On  the  green  coverlet :  whose  perfect  white 
Show'd  like  an  April  daisy  on  the  grass, 
With  pearly  sweat,  resembling  dew  of  night. 
Her  eyes,  like  marigolds,  had  sheath'd  their  light. 
And  canopied  in  darkness  sweetly  lay, 
Till  they  might  open  to  adorn  the  day. 

her  hair,  like  golden  threads,  play'd  with  her  breath  : 

0  modf.si  wantons!  wanton  modesty! 

Showing  liies  triumph  in  the  map  of  death, 

And  death's  dim  look  in  life's  mortality: 

Each  in  her  sleep  themselves  so  beautify, 

As  if  between  them  twain  there  were  no  strife. 
But  that  life  liv'd  in  death,  and  death  in  life. 
'  iW,  ai  a  falcon  on  hii  prey. 


Her  brea.sts,  like  ivory  globes  circled  with  blue, 

A  pair  of  maiden  worlds  unconquered  ; 

Save  of  their  lord,  no  bearing  yoke  they  knew, 

And  him  by  oath  they  truly  honoured 

These  worlds  in  Tarquin  new  ambition  bred  : 
Who,  like  a  foul  usurper,  went  about 
From  this  fair  throne  to  heave  the  owner  out. 

What  could  he  see,  but  n  ightily  he  noted  ? 

What  did  he  note,  but  strongly  he  desired? 

What  he  beheld,  on  that  he  firmly  doted. 

And  in  his  will  his  wilful  eye  he  tired.' 

With  more  than  admiration  he  admired 
Her  azure  veins,  her  alabaster  skin, 
Her  coral  lips,  her  snow-white  dimpled  chin. 

As  the  grim  lion  fawneth  o'er  his  prey, 

Sharp  hunger  by  the  conquest  satisfied, 

So  o'er  this  sleeping  soul  doth  Tarquin  stay. 

His  rage  of  lust  by  gazing  qualified  ; 

Slak'd,  not  suppress'd;  for  standing  by  her  side. 
His  eye,  which  late  this  mutiny  restrains. 
Unto  a  greater  uproar  tempts  his  veins  : 

And  they,  like  straggling  slaves  for  pillage  fighting, 
Obdurate  va.ssals  fell  exploits  effecting, 
In  bloody  death  and  ravishment  delighting, 
Nor  children's  tears,  nor  mothers'  groans  respecting, 
Swell  in  their  pride,  the  onset  still  expecting: 
Anon  his  beating  heart,  alarum  striking. 
Gives  the  hot  charge,  and  bids  them  do  their  lik.'ng 

His  drumming  heart  cheers  up  his  burning  eye, 
His  eye  commends  the  leading  to  his  hand ; 
His  hand,  as  proud  of  such  a  dignity. 
Smoking  with  pride,  march'd  on  to  make  his  stand 
On  her  bare  breast,  the  heart  of  all  her  land. 

Whose  ranks  of  blue  veins,  as  his  hand  did  scale. 
Left  their  round  turrets  destitute  and  pale. 

They,  mustering  to  the  quiet  cabinet 
Where  their  dear  governess  and  lady  lies, 
Do  tell  her  she  is  dreadfully  beset, 
And  fright  her  with  confusion  of  their  cries  : 
She,  much  amaz'd.  breaks  ope  her  lock\l-up  eyee. 
Who,  peeping  forth  this  tumult  to  behold, 
Are  by  his  flaming  torch  dimm'd  and  controU'd. 

Imagine  her  as  one  in  dead  night 
From  forth  dull  sleep  by  dreadful  fancy  waking. 
That  thinks  she  hath  beheld  some  ghastly  sprite, 
Whose  grim  aspect  sets  every  joint  a  shaking; 
What  terror  't  is  !  but  she,  in  worser  taking. 
From  sleep  disturbed,  hcedfully  doth  view 
The  sight  which  makes  supposed  terror  true. 

Wrapp'd  and  confounded  in  a  thousand  fears, 
Like  to  a  new-kill'd  bird  she  trembling  lies  ; 
She  dares  not  look  ;  yet,  winking,  there  appears 
Quick-shifting  antics,  ugly  in  her  eyes  : 
Such  shadows  are  the  weak  brain's  forgeries ; 
Who,  angry  that  the  eyes  fly  from  their  lights, 
In  darkness  daunts  them  with  more  dreadful  sightai 

His  hand,  that  yet  remains  upon  her  breast, 
(Rude  ram  to  batter  such  an  ivory  wall) 
May  feel  her  heart  (poor  citizen  !)  distress'd, 
Wounding  itself  to  death,  rise  up  and  fall, 
Beating  her  bulk,  that  his  hand  shakes  withal 


THE  EAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


927 


This  moves  in  him  more  rage,  and  lesser  pity, 
To  make  the  breach,  and  enter  this  sweet  city. 

First,  like  a  trumpet,  doth  his  tongue  begin 

To  sound  a  parley  to  his  heartless  foe ; 

Who  o'er  the  white  sheet  peers  her  whiter  chin. 

The  reason  of  this  ra^ih  alarm  to  know, 

Which  he  by  dumb  demeanour  seeks  to  show; 
But  she  with  vehement  prayers  urgeth  still, 
Under  what  colour  he  commits  this  ill. 

Thus  he  replies :  The  colour  in  thy  face 
That  even  for  anger  makes  the  lily  pale. 
And  the  red  rose  blush  at  her  own  disgrace, 
Shall  plead  for  me,  and  tell  my  loving  tale: 
Under  that  colour  am  I  come  to  scale 

Thy  never  conquer'd  fort :  the  fault  is  thine, 
For  those  thine  eyes  betray  thee  unto  mine. 

Thus  T  forestall  thee,  if  thou  mean  to  chide : 
Thy  beauty  hath  ensnar'd  thee  to  this  night. 
Where  thou  with  patience  must  my  will  abide, 
My  will,  that  marks  thee  for  my  earth's  delight. 
Which  I  to  conquer  sought  with  all  my  might; 
But  as  reproof  and  reason  beat  it  dead, 
By  thy  bright  beauty  was  it  newly  bred. 

1  see  what  crosses  my  attempt  will  bring, 
I  know  what  thorns  the  growing  rose  defends, 
I  think  the  honey  guarded  with  a  sting  ; 
All  this  beforehand  counsel  comprehends, 
But  will  is  deaf,  and  hears  no  heedful  friends : 
Only  he  hath  an  eye  to  gaze  on  beauty, 
And  dotes  on  what  he  looks,  'gainst  law  or  duty. 

1  have  debated,  even  in  my  soul. 

What  wrong;  what  shame,  what  sorrow  I  shall  breed 

But  nothing  can  affection's  course  control, 

Or  stop  tlie  headlong  fury  of  his  speed. 

I  know  repentant  tears  ensue  the  deed. 

Reproach,  disdain,  and  deadly  enmity, 

Yet  strive  I  to  embrace  mine  infamy. 

This  said,  he  shakes  aloft  his  Roman  blade, 
Which,  like  a  falcon  towering  in  the  skies, 
Coucheth  the  fowl  below  with  his  wings'  shade, 
Whose  crooked  beak  threats,  if  he  mount  he  dies : 
So  under  his  insulting  falchion  lies 

Harmless  Lucretia,  marking  what  he  tells. 
With  trembling  fear,  as  fowl  hear  falcon's  bells 

Lucrece,  quoth  he,  this  night  I  must  enjoy  thee : 
If  thou  deny,  then  force  must  work  my  way, 
For  in  thy  bed  I  purpose  to  destroy  thee. 
That  done,  some  worthless  slave  of  thine  I  '11  slay 
To  kill  thine  honour  with  thy  life's  decay ; 

And  in  thy  dead  arms  do  I  mean  to  place  him, 
Swearing  I  slew  him,  seeing  thee  embrace  him 

So  thy  surviving  husband  shall  remain 

The  scornful  mark  of  every  open  eye  ; 

Thy  kinsmen  hang  their  heads  at  this  disdain, 

Thy  issue  blurr'd  with  nameless  bastardy : 

And  thou,  the  author  of  their  obloquy, 

Shalt  have  thy  trespass  cited  up  in  rhymes, 
And  sung  by  children  in  succeeding  times. 

But  if  thou  yield,  I  rest  thy  secret  friend : 
The  fault  unknown  is  as  a  thought  unacted  ; 


A  little  harm,  done  to  a  great  good  end. 

For  lawful  policy  remains  enacted. 

The  poi.sonous  simple  sometimes  is  compa  ited 

In  a  pure  compound  ;  being  so  applied. 

His  venom  in  effect  is  purified. 

Then,  for  thy  husband  and  thy  children's  sake, 
Tender  my  suit :    bequeath  not  to  their  lot 
The  shame  that  from  them  no  device  can  take, 
The  blemish  that  will  never  be  forgot ; 
Worse  than  a  slavish  wipe,  or  birth-hour's  blot; 
For  marks  descried  in  men's  nativity 
Are  nature's  faults,  not  their  own  infamy. 

Here,  with  a  cockatrice'  dead-killing  eye, 
He  rouseth  up  himself,  and  makes  a  pause  ; 
While  she,  the  picture  of  pure  piety. 
Like  a  white  hind  under  the  gripe's'  sharp  claws, 
Pleads  in  a  wilderness,  where  are  no  laws. 
To  the  rough  beast  that  knows  no  gentle  right. 
Nor  aught  obeys  but  his  foul  appetite. 

But  when  a  black-fac'd  cloud  the  world  doth  threat, 
In  his  dim  mist  th'  aspiring  mountains  hiding. 
From  earth's  dark  womb  some  gentle  gust  doth  get. 
Which  blows  these  pitchy  vapours  from  their  biding, 
Hindering  their  present  fall  by  this  dividing : 
So  his  unhallowed  haste  her  words  delays. 
And  moody  Pluto  winks,  while  Orpheus  plays. 

Yet,  foul  night-waking  cat,  he  doth  but  dally. 
While  in  his  hold-fast  foot  the  weak  mouse  panteth : 
Her  sad  behaviour  feeds  his  vulture  folly, 
A  swallowing  gulf  that  even  in  plenty  wanteth. 
His  ear  her  prayers  admits,  but  his  heart  grauteth 
No  penetrable  entrance  to  her  plaining : 
Tears  harden  lust,  though  marble  wears  with  raining 

Her  pity-pleading  eyes  are  sadly  fixed 

In  the  remorseless  wrinkles  of  his  face  ; 

Her  modest  eloquence  with  sighs  is  mixed. 

Which  to  her  oratory  adds  more  grace. 

She  puts  the  period  often  from  his  place  ; 

And  'midst  the  sentence  so  her  accent  breaks. 
That  twice  she  doth  begin,  ere  once  she  speaks. 

She  conjures  him  by  high  almighty  Jove, 
By  knighthood,  gentry,  and  sweet  friendship's  oath, 
By  her  untimely  tears,  her  husband's  love, 
By  holy  human  law,  and  common  troth, 
By  heaven  and  earth,  and  all  the  power  of  both, 
That  to  his  borrow'd  bed  he  make  retire, 
And  stoop  to  honour,  not  to  foul  desire. 

Quoth  she,  reward  not  hospitality  ; 
With  such  black  payment  as  thou  hasi  ,<retended  ;* 
Mud  not  the  fountain  that  save  drink  to  thee ; 
Mar  not  the  thing  that  cannot  be  amended ; 
End  thy  ill  aim  before  thy  shoot  be  ended  : 

He  is  no  wood-man,  that  doth  bend  his  bow 

To  strike  a  poor  unseasonable  doe. 

My  husband  is  thy  friend,  for  his  sake  spare  me ; 
Thyself  art  mighty,  for  thine  own  sake  leave  me  : 
Myself  a  weakling,  do  not  then  ensnare  me  ; 
Thou  look'st  not  like  deceit,  do  not  deceive  mo  • 
My  sighs,  like  whirlwinds,  labour  hence  to  heave  ihee 
If  ever  man  were  mov'd  with  woman's  moans, 
Be  moved  with  my  tears,  my  sighs,  my  groans. 


928 


THE   LAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


All  "which  together,  like  a  troubled  ocean, 
Beat  at  thy  rocky  and  wreck-threatening  heart, 
To  sol'ten  it  with  their  continual  motion ; 
For  stones  dissolv'd  to  water  do  convert. 
0,  if  no  harder  than  a  stone  thou  art, 

Molt  at  my  tours  and  be  compassionate  ! 

Soft  pity  enters  at  an  iron  gate. 

In  Tarquin's  likeness  I  did  entertain  thee  ; 

Hast  thou  put  on  his  shape  to  do  him  shame? 

To  all  the  host  of  heaven  I  complain  me, 

Thou  wrong'st  his  honour,  wound'st  his  princely  name: 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemst :  and  if  the  same, 

Thou  seem'st  not  what  thou  art,  a  god,  a  king; 

For  kings  like  gods  should  govern  every  thing. 

How  will  thy  shame  be  seeded  in  thine  age, 
When  thus  thy  vices  bud  before  thy  spring? 
If  in  thy  hope  thou  dar".«t  do  such  outrage, 
What  dar'st  thou  not.  when  once  thou  art  a  king' 
O,  be  remember'd  !  no  outrageous  thing 
From  va.'i.^al  actors  can  be  wnp'd  away: 
Then,  kings'  misdeeds  cannot  be  hid  in  clay 

This  deed  will  make  thee  only  lov'd  for  fear; 
But  happy  monarchs  still  arc  fear'd  for  love 
With  foul  offenders  thou  perforce  must  bear, 
When  they  in  thee  the  like  ofTences  prove : 
If  but  for  fear  of  this,  thy  will  remove  ; 

For  princes  are  the  glass,  the  school,  the  book, 
Where  subjects'  eyes  do  learn,  do  read,  do  look. 

A-nd  wilt  thou  be  the  school  where  lust  shall  learn? 

Must  he  in  thee  read  lectures  of  such  shame? 

Will  thou  be  glass,  vrherein  it  shall  discern 

Authority  for  sin,  warrant  for  blame, 

To  privilege  dishonour  in  thy  name  ? 

Thou  back'st  reproach  against  long-living  laud. 
And  mak'st  fair  reputation  but  a  bawd. 

Hast  thou  command  ?  by  him  that  gave  it  thee, 
From  a  pure  heart  command  thy  rebel  will  : 
Draw  not  thy  sword  to  guard  iniquity. 
For  it  was  lent  thee  all  that  brood  to  kill. 
Thy  princely  otfice  how  canst  thou  fulfil, 

Wlien.  pattern'd  by  thy  fault,  foul  sin  may  say. 
He  learnd  to  sin,  and  thou  didst  teach  the  way? 

Think  but  how  vile  a  spectacle  it  were. 
To  view  thy  present  trespass  in  another. 
Men's  faults  do  seldom  to  themselves  appear  : 
Their  own  tran.^gressions  partially  they  smother: 
This  guilt  would  seem  death-worthy  in  thy  brother. 
O.  how  arc  they  wrapp'd  in  with  infamies, 
Thai  from  their  own  misdeeds  askance  their  eyes  ! 

To  thee,  to  thee,  my  heav'd-up  hands  appeal, 

Not  to  seducing  lust,  thy  rash  rclier ; 

I  «ue  for  exil'd  majesty's  repeal ; 

Let  him  return.  4ind  flattering  thoughts  retire  : 

His  true  respect  will  pri.son  talse  desire, 

And  wipe  the  dim  mist  from  thy  dotins  eyne, 
That  thou  shall  see  Uiy  slate,  and  pity  mine. 

Have  done,  quoth  he  :  my  uncontrolled  tide 
Turns  not,  but  swell.s  the  liiirher  by  this  let. 
Small  liL'hts  are  .soon  blown  out,  huge  fires  abide. 
And  with  the  wind  in  greater  fury  fret  • 
The  petty  streams,  that  pay  a  daily  debt 


To  their  salt  sovereign  with  their  fresh  falls'  haat*, 
Add  to  his  flow,  but  alter  not  his  ta.ste. 

Thou  art,  quoth  she,  a  sea,  a  sovereign  king; 
And  lo  !  there  falls  into  thy  boundless  flood 
Black  lust,  dishonour,  shame,  misgoverning, 
Who  seek  to  stain  the  ocean  of  thy  blood. 
If  all  these  petty  ills  shall  change  thy  good, 
Thy  sea  within  a  puddle's  womb  is  liersed. 
And  not  the  puddle  in  thy  sea  dispersed. 

So  shall  these  slaves  be  king,  and  thou  their  slave , 
Thou  nobly  base,  they  basely  dignified  ; 
Thou  their  fair  life,  and  they  thy  fouler  grave : 
Thou  loathed  in  their  shame,  they  in  thy  pride : 
The  lesser  thing  should  not  the  greater  hide  ; 
The  cedar  stoops  not  to  the  base  shrub's  foot, 
But  low  shrubs  wither  at  the  cedar's  root. 

So  let  thy  thoughts,  low  vassals  to  thy  state — 
No  more,  quoth  he;  by  heaven,  I  will  not  hear  thee 
Yield  to  my  love  :  if  not,  enforced  hate, 
Instead  of  love's  coy  touch,  siiall  rudely  tear  thee  ; 
That  done,  dcspitefully  I  mean  to  bear  thee 
Unto  the  base  bed  of  some  rascal  groom. 
To  be  thy  partner  in  this  shameful  doom. 

This  said,  he  sets  his  foot  upon  the  light, 
For  light  and  lust  are  deadly  enemies  : 
Shame,  folded  up  in  blind  concealing  night. 
When  most  unseen,  then  most  doth  tyrannize. 
The  wolf  hath  seizM  his  prey,  the  poor  lamb  cries : 
Till  with  her  own  white  fleece  her  voice  controll'i 
Entombs  her  outcry  in  her  lips'  sweet  fold  : 

For  with  the  nightly  linen  that  she  wears. 
He  pens  her  piteous  clamours  in  her  head, 
Cooling  his  hot  face  in  the  chastest  tears 
That  ever  modest  eyes  with  sorrow  shed. 
0,  that  prone  lust  should  stain  so  pure  a  bed ! 
The  spots  whereof  could  weeping  purify, 
Her  tears  should  drop  on  them  perpetually. 

But  she  hath  lost  a  dearer  thing  than  life. 
And  he  hath  won  what  he  would  lose  again  ; 
This  forced  league  doth  force  a  further  strife, 
This  momentary  joy  breeds  months  of  pain  : 
This  hoi  desire  converts  to  cold  disdain. 
Pure  chastity  is  rifled  of  her  store. 
And  lust,  the  thief,  far  poorer  than  before. 

Look,  as  the  full-fed  hound,  or  gorged  ha-wk. 
Unapt  for  tender  smell.  orsi)eedy  flight 
Make  slow  pursuit,  or  altogether  balk 
The  prey  wherein  by  nature  they  delight: 
So  surfeit-taking  Tarquin  fares  this  night : 
His  taste  deliorous.  in  digestion  souring. 
Devours  his  will,  that  liv'd  by  foul  devoanng. 

0  deeper  sin.  than  bottomless  conceit 

Can  comprehend  in  still  imagination  ! 

Drunken  desire  mu.st  vomit  his  receipt. 

Ere  he  can  see  his  own  abomination. 

While  lust  is  in  his  pride,  no  exclamation 
Can  curb  his  heat,  or  rem  his  rash  desire, 
Till,  like  a  jade,  self-will  himself  doth  tire. 

And  then,  with  lank  and  lean  discoloured  cheek. 
With  heav)'  eye,  knit  brow,  and  .strengthless  pace, 


THE  EAPE   OF  LUCRECE. 


929 


Feeble  desire,  all  recreant,  poor,  and  meek. 

Like  to  a  bankrupt  beggar  wails  his  case  : 

The  flesh  being  proud,  desire  doth  fight  with  grace, 

For  there  it  revels ;  and  when  that  decays, 

The  guilty  rebel  for  remission  prays. 

So  fares  it  with  this  faultful  lord  of  Rome, 

Who  this  accomplishment  so  hocly  chased ; 

For  now  against  himself  he  sounds  this  doom. 

That  through  the  length  of  times  he  stands  disgraced  : 

Besides,  his  soul's  fair  temple  is  defaced  ; 

To  whose  weak  ruins  muster  troops  of  cares. 

To  ask  the  spotted  princess  how  she  fares. 

She  says,  her  subjects  with  foul  insurrection 
Have  batter'd  down  her  consecrated  wall, 
And  by  their  mortal  fault  brought  in  subjection 
Her  immortality,  and  made  her  thrall 
To  living  death,  and  pain  perpetual : 

Which  in  her  prescience  she  controlled  still, 
But  her  foresight  could  not  fore-stall  their  will. 

Even  in  this  thought  through  the  dark  night  he  stealeth. 
A  captive  victor  that  hath  lost  in  gain ; 
Bearing  away  the  wound  that  nothing  healeth, 
The  scar  that  will  despite  of  cure  remain; 
Leaving  his  spoil  perplex'd  in  greater  pain. 

She  bears  the  load  of  lust  he  left  behind. 

And  he  the  burden  of  a  guilty  mind. 

He.  like  a  thievish  dog,  creeps  sadly  thence, 
She  like  a  wearied  lamb  lies  panting  there  ; 
He  scowls,  and  hates  himself  for  his  oifence, 
She  desperate  with  her  nails  her  flesh  doth  tear  j 
He  faintly  flies,  sweating  with  guilty  fear  ; 
She  stays,  exclaiming  on  the  direful  night : 
He  runs,  and  chides  his  vanish'd.  loath'd  delight. 

He  thence  departs  a  heavy  convertite, 

She  there  remains  a  hopeless  cast-away  ; 

He  :n  his  speed  looks  for  the  morning  light. 

She  prays  she  never  may  behold  the  day  ; 

For  day,  quoth  she.  night's  scapes  doth  open  lay. 
And  my  true  eyes  have  never  practis'd  how 
To  cloke  offences  with  a  cumiing  brow. 

They  think  not  but  that  every  eye  can  see 
The  same  disgrace  which  they  themselves  behold. 
And  therefore  would  they  still  in  darkness  be. 
To  have  their  unseen  sin  remain  untold  : 
For  they  their  guilt  with  weeping  will  unfold. 
And  grave,  like  water  that  doth  eat  in  steel, 
Upon  my  cheeks  what  helpless  shame  I  feel. 

Here  she  exclaims  against  repose  and  rest, 
And  bids  her  eyes  hereafter  still  be  blind. 
She  wakes  her  heart  by  beating  on  her  breast, 
And  bids  it  leap  from  thence,  where  it  may  find 
Some  purer  chest  to  close  so  pure  a  mind. 

Frantic  with  grief  thus  breathes  she  forth  her  spite 

Against  the  unseen  secrecy  of  night. 

0,  comfort-killing  night,  image  of  hell  ! 

Dim  register  and  notary  of  shame  ! 

Black  stage  for  tiagedies  and  murders  fell  ! 

Vast  sin-concealing  chaos  !  nurse  of  blame  ! 

Blind  muffled  bawd  !  dark  harbour  for  defame  ! 
Grim  cave  of  death,  whispering  conspirator 
With  close-tongu'd  treason  and  the  ravisher  ! 

'  Note,  observe.      ^  Word,  motto. 

31 


0,  hateful,  vaporous,  and  foggy  night  ! 
Since  thou  art  guilty  of  my  cureless  crime, 
Muster  thy  mists  to  meet  the  eastern  light. 
Make  war  against  proportion'd  course  of  time  • 
Or  if  thou  wilt  permit  the  sun  to  climb 

His  wonted  height,  yet  ere  he  go  to  bed. 

Knit  poisonous  clouds  about  his  golden  head 

With  rotten  damps  ravish  the  morning  air : 

Let  their  exhal'd  unwholesome  breaths  make  sicR 

The  life  of  purity,  the  supreme  fair. 

Ere  he  arrive  his  weaiy  noon-tide  prick  ; 

And  let  thy  musty  vapours  march  so  thick. 
That  in  their  smoky  ranks  his  .sinother'd  light 
May  set  at  noon,  and  make  perpetual  night. 

Were  Tarquin  night,  as  he  is  but  night's  child. 
The  silver-shining  queen  he  would  distain  , 
Her  twinkling  handmaids  too,  by  him  defil'd. 
Through  night's  black  bosom  should  not  peep  again  • 
So  should  I  have  copartners  in  my  pain : 
And  fellowship  in  woe  doth  woe  assuage. 
As  palmers'  chat  makes  short  their  pilgrimage. 

Where,  now,  I  have  no  one  to  blush  with  me. 

To  cross  their  arms,  and  hang  their  heads  with  mine. 

To  mask  their  brows,  and  hide  their  infamy ; 

But  I  alone,  alone  must  sit  and  pine. 

Seasoning  the  earth  with  showers  of  silver  brine , 
Mingling  my  talk  with  tears,  my  grief  with  groana 
Poor  wasting  monuments  of  lasting  moans. 

0  night !  thou  furnace  of  foul-reeking  smoke. 
Let  not  the  jealous  day  behold  that  face 
Which  underneath  thy  black  all -hiding  cloak 
Immodestly  lies  martyr'd  with  disgrace  : 
Keep  still  possession  of  thy  gloomy  place. 

That  all  the  faults  which  in  thy  reign  are  made. 

May  likewise  be  sepulcher'd  in  thy  shade. 

Make  me  not  object  to  the  tell-tale  day  ! 

The  light  will  show,  character'd  in  my  brow, 

The  story  of  sweet  chastity's  decay. 

The  impious  breach  of  holy  wedlock  a'ow  : 

Yea,  the  illiterate,  tbat  know  not  how 
To  cipher  what  is  writ  in  learned  books. 
Will  quote'  my  loathsome  trespass  in  my  looks. 

The  nurse  to  still  her  child  will  tell  my  story, 

And  fright  her  crying  babe  with  Tarquin's  name  . 

The  orator  to  deck  his  oratory 

Will  couple  my  reproach  to  Tarquin's  shame  ; 

Feast-finding  minstrels,  tuning  my  defame, 
Will  tie  the  hearers  to  attend  each  line. 
How  Tarquin  WTonged  me,  I  Collatine. 

Let  my  good  name,  that  senseless  reputation. 
For  CoUatine's  dear  love  be  kept  unspotted  ■ 
If  that  be  made  a  theme  for  disputation. 
The  branches  of  another  root  are  rotted. 
And  undeserv'd  reproach  to  him  allotted. 

That  is  as  clear  from  this  attaint  of  mine^ 

As  I  ere  this  was  pure  to  Collatine. 

0  unseen  shame  !  invisible  disgrace  ! 
O  unfelt  sore  !  crest-wounding,  private  scar  ! 
Reproach  is  stamp'd  in  CoJlatinus'  fuoe. 
And  Tarquin's  eye  may  read  the  mot*  afar, 
How  he  in  peace  is  wounded,  not  in  war 


930 


THE  BAPE   OF  LUCRECE. 


Alas  !  how  many  bear  such  shameful  blows, 
Which  uot  themselves,  but  he  that  gives  them,  knows. 

If.  Collatine.  thine  honour  lay  in  me, 

From  me  by  strong  assault  it  is  bereft. 

.My  honey  lost,  and  I,  a  drone-like  bee, 

Have  no  perfection  of  my  summer  left, 

But  robbd  and  ransack'd  by  injurious  theft  : 
In  thy  weak  hive  a  wandering  wasp  hath  crept, 
And  suckd  the  honey  which  thy  chaste  bee  kept. 

Yet  am  I  guilty  of  thy  honour's  wrack ; 
Vet  for  thy  honour  did  I  entertain  him ; 
Coming  from  thee,  I  could  not  put  him  back, 
For  it  had  been  dishonour  to  disdain  him  : 
Besides,  of  weariness  he  did  complain  him, 
And  talk"d  of  virtue. — 0.  unlookd  for  evil, 
When  virtue  is  profand  in  such  a  devil ! 

\Miy  should  the  worm  intrude  the  maiden  bud, 
Or  hateful  cuckoos  hatch  in  sparrows'  nests  ? 
Or  toads  infect  fair  founts  with  venom  mud  ? 
Or  tyrant  folly  lurk  in  gentle  breasts? 
Or  kings  be  breakers  of  their  own  behests? 

But  no  perfection  is  so  absolute, 

That  some  impurity  doth  not  pollute. 

The  aged  man  that  coffers  up  his  gold, 

is  plagu'd  with  cramps,  and  gouts,  and  painful  fits. 

And  scarce  hath  eyes  his  treasure  to  behold, 

But  like  still-pining  Tantalus  he  sits. 

And  u.<ele.«s  barns  the  har\-est  of  his  wits , 

Having  no  other  pleasure  of  his  gain. 

But  torment  that  it  cannot  cure  his  pain. 

So.  then  he  hath  it,  when  he  cannot  use  it, 
.\nd  leaves  it  to  be  master'd  by  his  young; 
Who  in  their  pride  do  presently  abuse  it : 
Their  father  was  too  weak,  and  they  too  strong, 
To  hold  their  cunsed-blessed  fortune  long. 

The  sweets  we  wish  for  turn  to  loathed  sours, 
Even  in  the  moment  that  we  call  them  ours. 

I'nruly  blasts  wait  on  the  tender  spring. 
Unwholesome  weeds  take  root  with  precious  flowers, 
The  adder  his-ses  where  the  sweet  birds  sing, 
What  virtue  breeds,  iniquity  devours ; 
We  have  no  good  that  we  can  say  is  ours, 

Bui  ill  annexed  opportunity 

Or  kills  his  life,  or  else  his  quality. 

'.  Opportunity !  thy  guilt  is  great : 
r  i.«  thou  that  execut'st  the  traitor's  treason ; 
Thou  Bctt'st  the  wolf  where  he  the  lamb  may  get ; 
Whoever  plots  the  sin,  thou  'poini'st  the  season: 
T  is  thou  that  spurn'st  at  ri^'ht,  at  law,  at  reason  • 
.\nd  in  thy  shady  cell,  where  none  may  spy  him, 
Sits  sin  to  seize  the  souls  that  wander  by  him. 

Thou  mak'st  the  vestal  violate  her  oath  ; 

Thou  blow'st  the  fire,  when  temperance  is  thaw'd ; 

Thou  .'-rnofherst  honesty,  thou  murderst  troth  : 

Thou  foul  at>eltor  !  thou  notorious  bawd  ! 

Thou  pliini<-.-t  scandal,  and  dispiacest  laud: 
Thou  ravishf  r,  thou  traitor,  thou  false  thief, 
Thy  honey  turns  to  gall,  thy  joy  to  grief ! 

Thy  secret  pleasure  turns  to  open  shame, 
Thy  private  fcastmg  to  a  public  fast : 

>  Broken,  tarnithtd.      »  Sdtcl.      '  Satiafied     *  End 


Thy  smoothing  titles  to  a  ragged'  name, 
Thy  sugar'd  tongue  to  bitter  wormwood  taste . 
Thy  violent  vanities  can  never  last. 
How  comes  it  then,  vile  Opportunity, 
Being  so  bad,  such  numbers  seek  for  thee  ? 

When  wilt  thou  be  the  humble  suppliant's  friend, 
And  bring  him  where  his  suit  may  be  obtain'd  ? 
When  wilt  thou  .sort'  an  hour  great  strifes  to  end, 
Or  free  that  soul  which  wretchedness  hath  ci;ained? 
Give  physic  to  the  sick,  ease  to  the  pained  ? 

The  poor,  lame,  blind,  halt,  creep,  cry  out  for  th« 
But  they  ne'er  meet  with  Opportunity. 

The  patient  dies  while  the  physician  sleeps; 

The  orphan  pines  while  the  oppressor  feeds; 

Justice  is  feasting  wiiile  the  widow  weeps; 

Advice  is  sporting  while  infection  breeds  : 

Thou,  grant '.St  no  time  for  charitable  deeds. 
Wrath,  envy,  treason,  rape,  and  murders  rages 
Thy  heinous  hours  wait  on  them  as  their  pages 

When  truth  and  virtue  have  to  do  with  thee, 
A  thousand  crosses  keep  them  from  tiiy  aid  : 
They  buy  thy  help ;  but  sin  ne'er  gives  a  fee : 
He  gratis  comes,  and  thou  art  well  appay'd.' 
As  well  to  hear,  as  grant  what  he  hath  said. 
My  Collatine  would  else  have  come  to  me, 
When  Tarquin  did ;  but  he  was  stay'd  by  thetj 

Guilty  thou  art  of  murder  and  of  theft ; 

Guilty  of  perjury  and  subornation  : 

Guilty  of  treason,  forgery,  and  shift; 

Guilty  of  incest,  that  abomination  : 

An  accessory  by  thine  inclination 

To  all  sins  past,  and  all  that  are  to  como, 
From  the  creation  to  the  general  doom. 

Mis-shapen  Time,  copesmate  of  ugly  night, 

Swift  subtle  post,  carrier  of  grisly  care: 

Eater  of  youth,  false  slave  to  false  delight. 

Base  w^atch  of  woes,  sin's  pack-horse,  virtue's  snare  ; 

Thou  nursest  all,  and  miu-derest  all  that  are. 

0  hear  me.  then,  injurious,  shifting  Time  ! 

Be  guilty  of  my  death,  since  of  my  crime. 

Why  hath  thy  servant.  Opportunity, 
Betray'd  the  hours  thou  gav'st  me  to  repose? 
Cancell'd  my  fortunes,  and  enchained  me 
To  endless  date  of  never-ending  woes? 
Time's  office  is  to  fine*  the  hate  of  foes ; 

To  eat  up  errors  by  opinion  bred. 

Not  spend  the  dowTy  of  a  lawful  bed. 

Time's  glory  is  to  calm  contending  kings, 
To  unmask  falsehood,  and  bring  truth  to  light, 
To  stamp  the  seal  of  time  in  aiied  things, 
To  wake  the  morn,  and  sentinel  the  night, 
To  wrong  the  wronger  till  he  render  right; 

To  ruinate  proud  buildings  with  thy  hours. 

And  smear  with  dust  their  glittering  golden  tower' 

To  fill  with  worm-holes  stately  monuments. 
To  feed  oblivion  with  decay  of  things. 
To  blot  old  books,  and  alter  (heir  contents, 
To  pluck  the  quills  from  ancient  ravens'  wings, 
To  dry  the  old  oak's  sap,  and  cherish  springs  • 

To  spoil  antiquities  of  hammcr'd  steel. 

And  turn  the  giddy  round  of  Fortune's  wheel 


J 


THE  EAFE   OF  LUCRECE. 


931 


To  show  the  heldame  daughters  of  her  daughter, 
To  make  the  child  a  man,  the  man  a  child, 
To  slay  the  tiger  that  doth  live  by  slaughter, 
To  tame  the  unicorn  and  lion  wild ; 
To  mock  the  subtle,  in  themselves  beguil'd ; 
To  cheer  the  ploughman  w^th  increaseful  crops, 
And  waste  huge  stones  with  little  water-drops ; 

Why  work'st  thou  mischief  in  thy  pilgrimage, 
Unless  thou  couldst  return  to  make  amends  ? 
One  poor  retiring'  minute  in  an  age 
Would  purchase  thee  a  thousand  thousand  friends, 
Lending  him  wit  that  to  bad  debtors  lends : 

0  !  this  dread  night,  wouldst  thou  one  hour  come  back, 

1  could  prevent  this  storm,  and  shun  thy  wrack. 

Thou  ceaseless  lackey  to  eternity, 
With  some  mischance  cross  Tarquin  in  his  flight : 
Devise  extremes  beyond  extremity 
To  make  him  curse  this  cursed  crimeful  night : 
Let  ghastly  shadows  his  lewd  eyes  affright, 
And  the  dire  thought  of  his  committed  evil 
Shape  every  bush  a  hideous  shapeless  devil. 

Disturb  his  hours  of  rest  with  restless  trances, 
Afflict  him  in  his  bed  with  bedrid  groans ; 
Let  there  bechance  him  pitiful  mischances, 
To  make  him  moan,  but  pity  not  his  moans  : 
Stone  him  with  harden'd  hearts,  harder  than  stones ; 
And  let  mild  women  to  him  lose  their  mildness, 
W^ilder  to  him  than  tigers  in  their  wildness. 

Let  him  have  time  to  tear  his  curled  hair, 
Let  him  have  time  against  himself  to  rave, 
Let  him  have  time  of  time's  help  to  despair, 
liet  him  have  time  to  live  a  loathed  slave ; 
Let  him  have  time  a  beggar's  orts  to  crave. 
And  time  to  see  one  that  by  ahns  doth  live, 
Disdain  to  him  disdained  scraps  to  give. 

Let  him  have  time  to  see  his  friends  his  foes. 

And  merry  fools  to  mock  at  him  resort ; 

Let  him  have  time  to  mark  how  slow  time  goes 

In  time  of  sorrow,  and  how  swift  and  short 
'His  time  of  folly,  and  his  time  of  sport : 
And  ever  let  his  unrecalling  crime 
Have  time  to  wail  th'  abusing  of  his  time. 

0  Time,  thou  tutor  both  to  good  and  bad, 

Teach  me  to  curse  him  that  thou  taught'st  this  ill ! 

At  his  o-wTi  shadow  let  the  thief  run  mad, 

Himself  himself  seek  every  hour  to  kill ! 

Such  wretched  hands  such  wTctched  blood  should  spill ; 
For  who  so  base  should  such  an  office  have 
As  slanderous  death's-man  to  so  base  a  slave  ? 

The  baser  is  he,  coming  from  a  king. 
To  shame  his  hope  with  deeds  degenerate  : 
The  mightier  man.  the  mightier  is  the  thing 
That  makes  him  honour'd,  or  begets  him  hate  • 
For  greatest  scandal  waits  on  greatest  state. 
The  moon  being  clouded  presently  is  miss'd. 
But  little  stars  may  hide  them  when  they  list. 

The  crow  may  bathe  his  coal-black  wings  in  mire. 

And  unperceiv'd  fly  with  the  filth  away ; 

But  if  the  like  the  snow-white  swan  desire. 

The  stain  upon  his  silver  do\\Ti  will  stay. 

Poor  grooms  are  sightless  night,  kings  glorious  day : 

lUtumine.      '  Value 


Gnats  are  unnoted  wheresoe'er  they  fly, 
But  eagles  gaz'd  upon  with  every  eye. 

Out,  idle  words  !  serv^ants  to  shallow  fools, 
Unprofitable  sounds,  weak  arbitrators  ! 
Busy  yourselves  in  skill-contending  schools  ; 
Debate  where  leisure  serves  with  dull  debaters 
To  trembling  clients  be  you  mediators : 

For  me,  I  force'  not  argument  a  straw. 

Since  that  my  case  is  past  the  help  of  law. 

In  vain  I  rail  at  Opportunity. 

At  Time,  at  Tarquin.  and  uncheerful  night ; 

In  vain  I  cavil  with  mine  infamy. 

In  vain  I  spurn  at  my  confirm'd  despite : 

This  helpless  smoke  of  words  doth  me  no  right. 

The  remedy,  indeed,  to  do  me  good. 

Is  to  let  forth  my  foul,  defiled  blood. 

Poor  hand,  why  quiver' st  thou  at  this  decree  ? 

Honour  thyself  to  rid  me  of  this  shame ; 

For  if  I  die,  my  honour  lives  in  thee. 

But  if  I  live,  thou  liv'st  in  my  defame : 

Since  thou  couldst  not  defend  thy  loyal  dame, 
And  wast  afear'd  to  scratch  her  wicked  foe, 
Kill  both  thyself  and  her  for  yielding  so. 

This  said,  from  her  be-tumbled  couch  she  starteth, 
To  find  some  desperate  instrument  of  death ; 
But  this  no  slaughter-house  no  tool  impartetli, 
To  make  more  vent  for  passage  of  her  breath. 
Which,  thronging  through  her  lips,  so  vanisheth 
As  smoke  from  JEtna.,  that  in  air  consumes, 
Or  that  which  from  discharged  caimon  fumes, 

In  vain,  quoth  she,  I  live  ;  and  seek  in  vain 
Some  happy  mean  to  end  a  hapless  life : 
I  fear'd  by  Tarquin's  falchion  to  be  slain, 
Yet  for  the  self-same  purpose  seek  a  knife; 
But  when  I  fear'd.  I  was  a  loyal  wife. 
So  am  I  now  : — 0  no  !  that  cannot  be : 
Of  that  true  type  hath  Tarquin  rifled  me 

0  !  that  is  gone,  for  which  I  sought  to  live. 
And  therefore  now  I  need  not  fear  to  die. 
To  clear  this  spot  by  death,  at  least.  I  give 
A  badge  of  fame  to  slander's  livery  : 

A  dying  life  to  lining  infamy. 

Poor  helpless  help,  the  treasure  stol'n  away, 
To  burn  the  guiltless  casket  where  it  lay  ! 

Well,  well,  dear  Collatine,  thou  shalt  not  know 
The  stained  taste  of  violated  troth ; 

1  will  not  wTong  thy  true  affection  so. 
To  flatter  thee  with  an  infringed  oath ; 

This  bastard  graff  shall  never  come  to  growth : 
He  shall  not  boast,  who  did  thy  stock  pollute, 
That  thou  art  doting  father  of  his  fruit. 

Nor  shall  he  smile  at  thee  in  secret  thought. 
Nor  laugh  with  his  companions  at  thy  state ; 
But  thou  shalt  know  thy  interest  was  not  bought 
Basely  with  gold,  but  stolen  from  forth  thy  gate. 
For  me,  I  am  tho  mistress  of  my  fate, 

And  with  my  trespass  never  will  dispense. 
Till  life  to  death  acquit  my  forc'd  oflence. 

I  will  not  poison  thee  with  my  attaint, 
Nor  fold  my  fault  in  cleanly  coin'd  excuses 


932 


THE  RAPE   OF  LUCKECE. 


My  sable  ground  of  sin  !  will  not  paint. 

To  hide  the  truth  of  this  false  nights  abuses  : 

M>  tonsue  shall  utter  all  ;  mine  eyes,  like  sluices, 

As  I'roni  a  mountain  spring  that  feeds  a  dale. 

Shall  gush  pure  streams  to  purge  my  impure  tale. 

By  this,  lamenting  Philomel  had  ended 
The  well-tun'd  warble  of  her  nightly  sorrow. 
.\nd  solemn  night  with  slow.  .<;ad  gait  descended 
To  ugly  hell :  when  lo  !  *he  blushing  morrow 
Lends  iisht  to  all  fair  eyes  that  light  will  borrow: 

But  cloudy  Lucrcce  shames  her.self  to  see. 

And  therefore  still  in  night  would  cloister'd  be. 

Revealing  day  through  every  cranny  spies. 

And  seems  to  point  her  out  where  slie  sits  weeping ; 

To  whom  .^^he  sobbing  speaks  :  0  eye  of  eyes  I 

\Vhy  pry'st  thou  through  my  wndow  ?  leave  thy  peeping: 

.Mock  with  thy  tickling  beams  eyes  that  are  sleeping: 

Brand  not  my  forehead  with  thy  piercing  light. 

For  day  hath  nought  to  do  what 's  done  by  night. 

Thus  cavils  she  with  every  thing  she  sees. 
True  grief  is  fond  and  testy  as  a  child. 
Who  waj-ward  once,  his  mood  with  nought  agrees : 
Old  woes,  not  infant  sorrows,  bear  them  mild: 
Continuance  tames  the  one  :  the  other  wild; 

Like  an  unpractised  swimmer  plunging  still. 

With  too  much  labour  drowns  for  want  of  skill. 

.So  she,  deep  drenched  in  a  sea  of  care. 
Holds  disputation  with  each  thins  she  views. 
And  to  herself  all  sorrow  doth  compare  : 
No  object  but  her  passion's  strength  renews, 
And  as  one  shifts,  another  straight  ensues  : 

Sometime  her  grief  is  dumb,  and  hath  no  words ; 

Sometime  t  is  mad,  and  too  much  talk  affords. 

The  little  birds  that  tune  their  morning's  joy. 
Make  her  moans  mad  with  their  sweet  melody: 
For  mirth  doth  search  the  bottom  of  annoy: 
Sad  souls  are  slain  in  merry  company : 
iJrief  best  is  plcas"d  with  grief's  .society: 

True  sorrow  then  is  feelingly  suffic'd. 

When  AR-ith  like  semblance  it  is  sympathiz'd. 

'T  is  double  death  to  drown  in  ken  of  .shore  ; 
He  ten  times  pines,  that  pines  beholding  food: 
To  see  the  salve  doth  make  the  wound  ache  more : 
'ireat  grief  grieves  most  at  that  would  do  it  good  : 
Deep  woes  roll  forward  like  a  gentle  flood. 

Who,  being  stopp'd.  the  bounding  banks  o'erfliows  : 
(inef  dallied  with  nor  law  nor  limit  knows. 

You  mocking  birds,  quoth  she.  your  tunes  entomb 
Within  your  hollow  swellinH  feather'd  breasts. 
And  in  my  hearing  be  you  mute  and  dumb : 
My  re«tlcBs  dL-^cord  loves  no  stoj)s  nor  rests;' 
\  woful  hostess  brooks  not  merry  suests. 
Relish  your  nimble  notes  to  pleasing  ears  : 
Distress  likes  dumps,*  when  time  is  kept  with  tears. 

Come,  Philomel,  that  sing'st  of  ravishment, 
.Make  thy  .sad  srave  in  my  dishevel'd  hair 
.\>  the  da.nk  earth  weeps  at  ihy  languishment. 
S<^)  I  at  each  sad  strain  will  strain  a  tear. 
And  W'th  deep  sroans  the  diapa.son  bear  : 
For\iurden-wi8e  I  Ul  hum  on  Tarquin  still, 
While  thou  on  Tereus  descant'.st.  better  skill.' 


And  whiles  against  a  thorn  thou  bear'st  thy  part, 
To  keep  thy  sharp  woes  waking,  wretched  I, 
To  imitate  thee  well,  against  my  heart 
Will  fix  a  sharp  knife,  to  affright  mine  eye, 
Who,  if  it  wink,  shall  thereon  fall  and  die. 
These  means,  as  frets  upon  an  instrument. 
Shall  tune  our  heart-strings  to  true  languishment. 

And  for,  poor  bird,  thou  sing'st  not  in  the  day, 
As  shaming  any  eye  should  thee  behold. 
Some  dark  deep  desert,  seated  from  the  way. 
That  knows  not  parching  heat  nor  freezing  cold, 
Will  we  find  out :  and  there  we  will  unfold 

To  creatures  stern  sad  tunes  to  change  their  kinds . 

Since  men  prove  beasts,  let  beasts  bear  gentle  mind* 

As  the  poor  frishted  deer,  that  stands  at  gaze, 

Wildly  determining  which  way  to  fly, 

Or  one  encompass'd  with  a  winding  maze, 

That  cannot  tread  the  way  out  readily  ; 

So  with  herself  is  she  in  mutiny, 

To  live  or  die  which  of  the  twain  were  better, 
When  life  is  sham'd,  and  death  reproach's  debtor. 

To  kill  myself,  quoth  she,  alack  !  what  were  it. 

But  with  my  body  my  poor  soul's  pollution  ? 

They  that  lose  half,  with  greater  patience  bear  it, 

Than  they  whose  whole  is  swallow'd  in  confusion. 

That  mother  tries  a  mcrcile.'ss  conclusion, 

W'ho  having  two  sweet  babes,  when  death  takes  one 
Will  slay  the  other,  and  be  nurse  to  none. 

My  body  or  my  .soul,  which  was  the  dearer. 

When  the  one  pure,  the  other  made  divine  ? 

Whose  love  of  either  to  myself  was  nearer, 

Wlien  both  were  kept  for  heaven  and  Collatine  ? 

Ah  me  !  the  bark  peel'd  from  the  lofty  pine. 
His  love  will  wither,  and  his  sap  decay : 
So  must  my  soul,  her  bark  being  peci'd  away. 

Her  house  is  sack'd,  her  quiet  interrupted. 

Her  mansion  batter'd  by  the  enemy  ; 

Her  sacred  temple  spotted,  spoild,  corrupted. 

Grossly  ensirt  with  daring  infamy  : 

Then,  let  it  not  be  call'd  impiety. 

If  in  this  blemish'd  fort  I  make  some  hole. 
Through  which  I  may  convey  this  troubled  .soul. 

Yet  die  I  will  not,  till  my  Collatine 
Have  heard  the  cause  of  my  untimely  death. 
That  he  may  vow.  in  that  sad  hour  of  mine. 
Revenge  on  him  that  made  me  stop  my  breath. 
My  stained  blood  to  Tarquin  1  Ml  bequeath, 

Which  by  him  tainted  shall  for  him  be  spent, 

And  as  his  due  writ  in  my  testament. 

My  honour  I  '11  bequeath  unto  the  knife 

That  wounds  my  body  so  dishonoured. 

'T  is  honour  to  deprive  dishonour'd  life  ; 

The  one  will  live,  the  other  being  dead  : 

So  of  shame's  ashes  shall  my  fame  be  bred  ; 
For  in  my  death  I  murder  shameful  .scorn  : 
My  shame  so  dead,  mine  honour  is  new-bom. 

Dear  lord  of  that  dear  jewel  I  have  lost, 
What  legacy  shall  I  bequeath  to  thee? 
My  resolution,  love,  shall  be  thy  boast, 
By  whose  example  thou  reveng  d  may'.st  be. 
How  Tarquin  must  be  usd,  read  it  in  me  : 


Ttriru  If.  niu«i>       >  Melani-koly  muric 


.  vpith  better  skill :  "  descant"   seems  to  have  meant  what  w«  now  call  vanaitor} 


THE  RAPE   OF  LUCRECE. 


933 


Myself,  thy  friend,  will  kill  myself,  thy  foe, 
And  for  my  sake  serve  thou  false  Tarquin  so. 

This  brief  abridgment  of  my  will  I  make  : — 
My  soul  and  body  to  the  skies  and  ground ; 
My  resolution,  husband,  do  thou  take  ; 
Mine  honour  be  the  knife's  that  makes  my  wound , 
My  shame  be  his  that  did  my  fame  confound ; 
And  all  my  fame  that  lives  disbursed  be 
To  those  that  live,  and  think  no  shame  of  me. 

Thou,  CoUatine,  shalt  oversee  this  will  ;* 
How  was  I  overseen  that  thou  shalt  see  it  ! 
My  blood  shall  wash  the  slander  of  mine  ill : 
My  life's  foul  deed  my  life's  fair  end  shall  free  it. 
Faint  not,  faint  heart,  but  stoutly  say.  "  so  be  it." 
Yield  to  my  hand  ;  my  hand  shall  conquer  thee  : 
Thou  dead,  both  die,  and  both  shall  victors  be. 

This  plot  of  death  when  sadly  she  had  laid, 
And  wip'd  the  brinish  pearl  from  her  bright  eyes, 
With  untun'd  tongue  she  hoarsely  calls'  her  maid, 
Whose  swift  obedience  to  her  mistress  hies  ; 
For  fleet-^^•ing■d  duty  with  thought's  feathers  flies. 
Poor  Lucrece'  cheeks  unto  her  maid  seem  so, 
As  winter  meads  when  sun  doth  melt  their  snow. 

Her  mistress  she  doth  give  demure  good-morrow, 
With  soft  slow  tongue,  true  mark  of  modesty, 
And  sorts  a  sad  look  to  her  lady's  sorrow. 
For  why,  her  face  wore  sorrow's  livery ; 
But  durst  not  ask  of  her  audaciously 

Why  her  two  suns  were  cloud-eclipsed  so. 
Nor  why  her  fair  cheeks  over-wash'd  with  woe. 

But  as  the  earth  doth  weep,  the  sun  being  set, 
Each  flower  movsten'd  like  a  melting  eye. 
Even  so  the  maid  with  swelling  drops  'gan  wet 
Her  circled  eyne,  enforc'd  by  sympathy 
Of  those  fair  suns  set  in  her  mistress'  sky. 

Who  in  a  salt-wav'd  ocean  quench  their  light. 

Which  makes  the  maid  weep  like  the  dewy  night. 

A  pretty  while  these  pretty  creatures  stand. 
Like  ivory  conduits  coral  cisterns  filling  : 
One  justly  weeps,  the  other  takes  in  hand 
No  cause  but  company  of  her  drops  spilling : 
Their  gentle  sex  to  weep  are  often  willing, 

Grieving  themselves  to  guess  at  others'  smarts. 
And  then  they  drown  their  eyes,  or  break  their  hearts 

Fdr  men  have  marble,  women  waxen,  minds, 
And  therefore  are  Ihey  form'd  as  marble  will ; 
The  weak  oppress'd.  th'  impression  of  strange  kinds 
Is  form'd  in  them  by  force,  by  fraud,  or  skill : 
Then,  call  them  not  the  authors  of  their  ill, 
No  more  than  wax  shall  be  accounted  evil, 
Wherein  is  stamp'd  the  semblance  of  a  devil. 

Their  smoothness,  like  a  goodly  champaign  plain. 
Lays  open  all  the  little  worms  that  creep  : 
In  men,  as  in  a  rough-grown  grove,  remain 
Cave-keeping  evils  that  obscurely  sleep. 
Through  crystal  walls  each  little  mote  will  peep : 
Though  men  can  cover  crimes  with  bold  stern  looks 
Poor  women's  faces  are  their  own  faults'  books. 

No  man  inveigh  against  the  wnthered  flower, 

But  chide  rough  winter  that  the  flower  hath  kill'd. 


usual  for  testators  to  appoint  not  only  executors,  but  overseers  of  their  wills.   Shakespeare  did 


Not  that  devoured,  but  that  which  doth  devour, 
Is  worthy  blame.     0  !  let  it  not  be  hild* 
Poor  women's  faults,  that  they  are  so  fulfill'd 
With  men's  abuses  :  those  proud  lords,  to  blame, 
Make  weak-made  women  tenants  to  their  shame. 

The  precedent  whereof  in  Lucrece  view. 
Assail'd  by  night,  with  circumstances  strong 
iOf  present  death,  and  shame  that  might  ensue 
By  that  her  death,  to  do  her  husband  wrong : 
Such  danger  to  resistance  did  belong. 

That  dying  fear  through  all  her  body  spread : 

And  who  cannot  abuse  a  body  dead  ? 

By  this,  mild  patience  bid  fair  Lucrece  speak 
To  the  poor  counterfeit  of  her  complaining  : 
My  girl,  quoth  she,  on  what  occasion  break 
Those  tears  from  thee,  that  down  thy  cheeks  are  raining 
If  thou  dost  weep  for  grief  of  my  sustaining. 
Know,  gentle  wench,  it  small  avails  my  mood  : 
If  tears  could  help,  mine  own  would  do  me  good. 

But  tell  me,  girl,  when  went — (and  there  she  stayM 
Till-  after  a  deep  groan)  Tarquiu  from  hence  ? 
Madam,  ere  I  was  up,  replied  the  maid  ; 
The  more  to  blame  my  sluggard  negligence  : 
Yet  with  the  fault  I  thus  far  can  dispense ; 
Myself  weis  stirring  ere  the  break  of  day, 
And,  ere  I  rose,  was  Tarquin  gone  away. 

But,  lady,  if  your  maid  may  be  so  bold. 

She  would  request  to  know  your  hea^^uess. 

0  peace  !  quoth  Lucrece  :  if  it  should  be  told. 

The  repetition  cannot  make  it  less  : 

For  more  it  is  than  I  can  well  express : 

And  that  deep  torture  may  be  call'd  a  hell. 
When  more  is  felt  than  one  hath  power  to  tell. 

Go,  get  me  hither  paper,  ink,  and  pen. — 

Yet  save  that  labour,  for  I  have  them  here. 

What  should  1  say?— One  of  my  husband's  men 

Bid  thou  be  ready  by  and  by.  to  bear 

A  letter  to  my  lord,  my  love,  my  dear : 
Bid  him  with  speed  prepare  to  carry  it : 
The  cause  craves  haste,  and  it  will  soon  be  wnU 

Her  maid  is  gone,  and  she  prepares  to  write, 

First  hovering  o'er  the  paper  with  her  quill. 

Conceit  and  grief  an  eager  combat  fight ; 

What  wit  sets  down  is  blotted  straight  with  will ; 

This  is  too  curious-good,  this  blunt  and  ill : 
Much  like  a  press  of  people  at  a  door 
Throng  her  inventions,  which  shall  go  before. 

At  last  she  thus  begins  :  "  Thou  worthy  lord 
Of  that  unworthy  wife  that  greeteth  thee, 
Health  to  thy  person  :  next,  vouchsafe  t'  afford 
(If  ever,  love,  thy  Lucrece  thou  wilt  see) 
Some  present  speed  to  come  and  visit  me. 
So  I  commend  me  from  our  house  iu  grief: 
My  woes  are  tedious,  though  my  words  are  brief." 

Here  folds  she  up  the  tenour  of  her  woe. 

Her  certain  sorrow  writ  uncertainly. 

By  this  short  schedule  CoUatine  may  know 

Her  grief  but  not  her  griefs  true  quality: 

She  dares  not  thereof  make  discovery, 

Lest  he  should  hold  it  her  own  gross  abuse, 
Ere  she  with  blood  had  stain'd  her  stain"d  excuse. 
-  called  :  in  mod.  eds.     *  Htlc 


9S4 


THE  RAPE   OF  LUCRECE. 


Besideb  the  life  and  feeling  of  her  passion 
She  hoards,  to  spend  wlicn  he  is  by  to  hear  her ; 
When  si^hs  and  groans  and  tears  may  grace  the  fashion 
Of  her  disgrace,  the  better  so  to  clear  her 
From  tliat  suspicion  which  the  world  miglit  bear  her. 
To  slam  tliis  blot  she  would  not  blot  the  letter 
Willi  words,  till  action  might  become  them  better. 

To  see  sad  sights  moves  more  than  hear  them  told, 

For  then  the  eye  interprets  to  the  ear 

The  heax-y  motion  that  it  doth  behold. 

When  every  part  a  part  of  woe  doth  bear  : 

T  IS  but  a  ]>art  of  sorrow  that  we  hear  : 
Deep  .'rounds  make  lesser  noise  than  shallow  fords, 
And  sorrow  ebbs,  being  blo\™  with  wind  of  words. 

Her  letter  now  is  seal'd.  and  on  it  writ, 
••  At  Ardea  to  my  lord,  with  more  than  haste." 
The  ix)st  attends,  and  she  delivers  it. 
Charging  the  sour-facd  groom  to  hie  as  fast 
-As  lagging  fowls  before  the  northern  blast : 

Speed  more  than  speed  but  dull  and  slow  she  deems  ; 

Extremity  still  urgeth  such  extremes. 

The  homely  villain  court'sies  to  her  low, 
And,  blushing  on  her,  with  a  stedfast  eye 
Receives  the  scroll,  without  or  yea  or  no. 
And  forth  with  bashful  innocence  doth  hie  : 
But  they  whose  guilt  within  their  bosoms  lie. 
Imagine  every  eye  beholds  their  blame. 
For  Lucrece  thought  he  blush'd  to  see  her  shame  ; 

When,  silly  groom  !  God  wot,  it  was  defect 

i)f  spirit,  life,  and  bold  audacity. 

Such  harmless  creatures  have  a  true  respect 

To  talk  in  deeds,  while  others  saucily 

Promise  more  speed,  but  do  it  leisurely : 
Even  so  this  pattern  of  a  worn-out  age 
Pawn'd  honest  looks,  but  lay'd  no  words  to  gage. 

His  kindled  duty  kindled  her  mistrust, 

Tliat  two  red  fires  in  both  their  faces  blazed ; 

She  thought  he  blush'd.  as  knowing  Tarquin's  lust, 

Ajid,  blushing  with  him.  wistly  on  him  gazed  ; 

Her  earnest  eye  did  make  him  more  amazed  : 

The  more  she  saw  the  blood  his  cheeks  replenish, 
The  more  she  thought  he  spied  in  her  some  blemish. 

But  long  she  thinks  till  he  return  again, 
.\nd  yet  the  duteous  vassal  scarce  is  gone. 
The  weary  time  she  cannot  entertain. 
For  now  't  is  stale  to  sigh,  to  weep,  and  groan  : 
So  wf>e  hath  wearied  woe,  moan  tired  moan, 
That  she  her  plaints  a  little  while  doth  stay. 
Pausing  for  means  to  mourn  some  newer  way. 

At  last  she  calls  to  mind  where  hangs  a  piece 
l!  .skilful  painting,  made  for  Priams  Troy  ; 
Betorc  the  which  i.s  drawn  the  power  of  Greece, 
For  Helen's  rape  the  city  to  destroy, 
Threatening  cloud  kissing  llion  with  annoy; 
Which  the  conceited'  painter  drew  so  proud, 
.As  heaven  it  seem'd  to  ki&s  the  turrets  bow'd. 

iiousand  lamentable  objects  there, 
li'  scorn  of  nature,  art  cave  lifeless  life. 
Many  a  dr>-  drop  secmd  a  weeping  tear, 
Shed  for  the  slaughter'd  husband  by  the  wife  : 
The  red  blood  reek'd  to  show  the  painter's  strife; 

'  lmgt;iioui.      >  StnolUn.       >  Natural,  according  to  Kind. 


And  dying  eyes  gleam'd  forth  their  ashy  lights 
Like  dying  coals  burnt  out  in  tedious  nights. 

There  might  you  see  the  labouring  pioneer 
Begrim'd  with  sweat,  and  smeared  all  with  dust : 
And  from  the  towers  of  Troy  there  would  appear 
The  very  eyes  of  men  through  loop-holes  thrust, 
Gazing  upon  the  Greeks  with  little  lust : 

Such  sweet  observance  in  this  work  was  had. 

That  one  might  see  those  far-off  eyes  look  sad. 

In  great  commanders  grace  and  majesty 
You  might  behold,  triumphing  in  their  faces  ; 
In  youth  quick  bearing  and  dexterity  : 
And  here  and  there  the  painter  interlaces 
Pale  cowards,  marching  on  with  trembling  paces : 
Which  heartless  peasants  did  so  well  resemble,   [bic 
That  one  would  swear  he  saw  them  quake  and  trem 

In  Ajax  and  Ulysses,  0,  what  art 

Of  physiognomy  might  one  behold  ! 

The  tace  of  either  'cipher'd  eiilier's  heart ; 

Their  face  their  manners  most  expressly  told  . 

In  Ajax'  eyes  blunt  rage  and  rigour  roll'd  ; 
But  the  mild  glance  that  sly  Ulysses  lent, 
Show'd  deep  regard  and  smiling  government. 

There  pleading  might  you  see  grave  Nestor  stand, 

As  't  were  encouraging  tlie  Greeks  to  figh»- ; 

Making  such  sober  action  with  his  hand. 

That  it  beguil'd  attention,  charm'd  the  sight. 

In  speech,  it  seem'd,  his  beard,  all  silver  white. 
Wagg'd  up  and  down,  and  from  his  lips  did  fly 
Thin  winding  breath,  which  purld  up  to  the  sky. 

About  him  were  a  press  .of  gaping  faces. 
Which  seem'd  to  swallow  up  his  sound  advice 
All  jointly  listening,  but  with  several  graces, 
As  if  some  mermaid  did  their  ears  entice : 
Some  high,  some  low  ;  the  painter  was  so  nice, 
The  scalps  of  many,  almost  hid  behind, 
To  jump  up  higher  seem'd,  to  mock  the  mind. 

Here  one  man's  hand  lean'd  on  another's  head. 

His  nose  being  shadow'd  by  his  neighbour's  ear  ; 

Here  one,  being  throng'd,  bears  back,  all  boU'n'  and  red 

Another,  smother'd,  seems  to  pelt  and  swear ; 

And  in  their  rage  such  signs  of  rage  they  bear, 
As.  but  for  loss  of  Nestor's  golden  words. 
It  seem'd  they  would  debate  with  angry  swwrds. 

For  much  imaginary  work  was  there ; 
Conceit  deceitful,  so  compact,  so  kind,' 
That  tor  Achilles'  image  stood  his  spear, 
Grip'd  in  an  armed  hand  :  himself  behind 
Was  left  unseen,  save  to  the  eye  of  mind. 

A  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  a  leg.  a  head. 

Stood  for  the  whole  to  be  imagined. 

And  from  the  walls  of  strong  besieged  Troy 
When  their  brave  hope,  bold  Hector,  march'd  to  field 
Stood  many  Trojan  mothers,  sharing  joy 
To  see  their  youthful  sons  bright  weapons  wield  ; 
And  to  their  hope  they  such  odd  action  yield. 
That  through  their  light  joy  seemed  to  appear 
(Like  bright  things  stain'd)  a  kind  of  heavy  fear. 

I  And  from  the  strond  of  Dardau.  where  they  fought, 
iTo  Simois'  reedy  banks  the  red  blood  ran, 


THE   EAPE   OF  LUCRECE. 


935 


Whose  -waves  to  imitate  the  battle  sought 
With  swelliig  ridges  :  and  their  ranks  began 
To  break  upon  the  galled  shore,  and  than' 
Retire  again,  till  meeting  greater  ranks, 
They  join,  and  shoot  their  foam  at  Simois'  banks. 

To  this  well-painted  piece  is  Lucrece  come. 
To  find  a  face  where  all  distress  is  steld^. 
Many  she  sees,  where  cares  have  carved  some, 
But  none  where  all  distress  and  dolour  dwell'd, 
Till  she  despairing  Hecuba  beheld. 

Staring  on  Priam's  wounds  with  her  old  eyes, 
Which  bleeding  under  Pyi-rhus'  proud  foot  lies. 

In  her  the  painter  had  anatomiz'd 
Time's  ruin,  beauty's  wreck,  and  grim  care's  reign  : 
Her  cheeks  with  chaps  and  wrinkles  were  disgnis'd, 
Of  what  she  was  no  semblance  did  remain  ; 
Here  blue  blood  chang'd  to  black  in  every  vein. 

Wanting  the  spring  that  those  shrunk  pipes  had  fed, 
Show'd  life  imprison'd  in  a  body  dead. 

On  this  sad  shadow  Lucrece  spends  her  eyes. 
And  shapes  her  sorrow  to  the  beldam's  woes. 
Who  nothing  wants  to  answer  but  her  cries, 
And  bitter  words  to  ban  her  cruel  foes  : 
The  painter  was  no  God  to  lend  her  those ; 

And  therefore  Liicrece  swears  he  did  her  wrong, 
To  give  her  so  much  grief,  and  not  a  tongue. 

Poor  instrument,  quoth  she,  without  a  sound, 
I  "11  tune  thy  woes  with  my  lamenting  tongue, 
And  drop  sweet  balm  in  Priam's  painted  wound, 
And  rail  on  Pyrrhus  that  hath  done  him  wrong, 
And  with  my  tears  quench  Troy,  that  burns  so  long, 
And  with  my  knife  scratch  out  the  angry  eyes 
Of  all  the  Greeks  that  are  thine  enemies. 

Show  me  the  strumpet  that  began  this  stir. 
That  with  my  nails  her  beauty  I  may  tear. 
Thy  heat  of  lust,  fond  Paris,  did  incur 
This  load  of  wrath  that  burning  Troy  doth  bear  : 
Thine  eye  kindled  the  fire  that  burneth  here  : 
And  here,  in  Troy,  for  trespass  of  thine  eye. 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  dame,  and  daughter  die. 

Why  should  the  private  pleasure  of  some  one 
Become  the  public  plague  of  many  mo  ?' 
Let  sin,  alone  committed,  light  alone 
Upon  his  head  that  hath  transgressed  so  ; 
Let  guiltless  souls  be  freed  from  guilty  woe. 

For  one's  offence  why  should  so  many  fall, 

To  plague  a  private  sin  in  general  ? 

Lo  !  here  weeps  Hecuba,  here  Priam  dies. 
Here  manly  Hector  faints,  here  Troilus  swounds ; 
Here  friend  by  friend  in  bloody  channel  lies. 
And  friend  to  friend  gives  unadvised  wounds. 
And  one  man's  lust  these  many  lives  confounds. 
Had  doting  Priam  check'd  his  son's  desire, 
Troy  had  been  bright  with  fami    ind  not  with  fire, 


Here  feelingly  she  weeps  Troy's  painted  woes ; 
For  sorrow,  like  a  heavy  hanging  bell. 

Once  set  on  ringing,  with  his  o\^ti  weight  goes  ;  Such  devils  steal  effects  from  lightless  hell, 

Then  little  strength  rings  out  the  doleful  knell  :  For  Sinon  in  his  fire  doth  quake  with  cold. 

So  Lucrece,  set  a-work,  sad  tales  doth  tell  And  in  that  cold,  hot-burning  fire  doth  dwell ; 

To  pencil'd  pensiveness  and  colour'd  sorrow:  [row.    These  contraries  such  unity  do  hold. 
She  lends  them  words,  and  she  their  looks  doth  bor-   Only  to  flatter  fools   and  make  them  bold : 

1  Often  used,  as  here,  for  "then."     »  No  other  instance  is  known  of  the  us»  of  this  word.     In  Sornet  XXIV.  we  hav<   tteeVd  used 
•imilar  sense.      "  More       *  so  :  in  mod.  ods.         Masked,  or  iii  tht  guise  of. 


She  throws  her  eyes  about  the  painting,  round, 
And  whom  she  finds. forlorn  she  dotli  lament : 
At  last  she  sees  a  wretched  image  bound, 
That  piteous  looks  to  Phrygian  shepherds  lent ; 
His  face,  though  full  of  cares,  yet  show'd  content. 
Onward  to  Troy  with  tlie  blunt  swains  he  goes, 
So  mild,  that  patience  seem'd  to  scorn  his  wo*)6 

In  him  the  painter  labour'd  with  his  skill 
To  hide  deceit,  and  give  the  harmless  show; 
An  humble  gait,  calm  looks,  eyes  wailing  still, 
A  brow  unbent  that  seem'd  to  welcome  woe  ; 
Cheeks  neither  red  nor  pale,  but  mingled  so 
That  blushing  red  no  guilty  instance  gave, 
Nor  ashy  pale  the  fear  that  false  hearts  have. 

Btit,  like  a  constant  and  confirmed  devil, 
He  entertain'd  a  show  so  seeming  just. 
And  therein  so  ensconc'd  his  secret  evil, 
That  jealousy  itself  could  not  mistrust, 
False-creeping  craft  and  perjury  should  thru.st 
Into  so  bright  a  day  such  black-fac'd  storms. 
Or  blot  with  hell-born  sin  such  saint-like  forms. 

The  well-skill'd  workman  this  mild  image  drew 
For  perjur'd  Sinon,  whose  enchanting  story 
The  credulous  old  Priam  after  .slew; 
Whose  words  like  wild-fire  burnt  the  shining  glor>' 
Of  rich-built  Ilion,  that  the  skies  were  sorry, 
And  little  stars  shot  from  their  fixed  places. 
When  their  glass  fell  wherein  they  view'd  their  facee 

This  picture  she  advisedly  perused. 
And  chid  the  painter  for  his  wondrous  skill, 
Saying,  some  shape  in  Sinon's  was  abused  ; 
So  fair  a  form  lodg'd  not  a  mind  so  ill : 
And  still  on  him  she  gaz'd  ;  and  gazing  still, 
Such  signs  of  truth  in  his  plain  face  she  spied, 
That  she  concludes  the  picture  was  belied. 

It  cannot  be,  quoth  she,  that  so  much  guile — 
(She  would  have  said)  can  lurk  in  such  a  look  ; 
But  Tarquin's  shape  came  in  her  mind  tlie  while. 
And  from  her  tongue,  "  can  lurk"  from  "  cannot"  took 
"  It  cannot  be"  she  in  that  sense  forsook. 
And  turn'd  it  thus  :  it  cannot  be,  I  find. 
But  such  a  face  should  bear  a  wicked  mind  • 

For  even  as  subtle  Sinon  here  is  painted, 
So  sober-sad,  so  weary,  and  so  mild, 
(As  if  with  grief  or  travail  he  had  fainted) 
To  me  came  Tarquin  armed  ;  too*  beguil'd*  ? 
With  outward  honesty,  but  yet  defil'd 

With  inward  vice  :  as  Priam  him  did  cherish, 
So  did  I  Tarquin;  so  my  Troy  did  perish. 

Look,  look  !  how  listening  Priam  wets  his  eyes. 
To  see  those  borrow'd  tears  that  Sinon  sheds. 
Priam,  why  art  thou  old.  and  yet  not  wise  ? 
For  every  tear  he  falls  a  Trojan  bleeds  : 
His  eye  drops  fire,  no  water  thence  proceeds  ; 

Those  round  clear  pearls  of  his,  that  move  thy  pity 
Are  balls  of  quenchless  fire  to  burn  thy  c  y. 


936 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


So  Priam's  trust  false  Sinon's  tears  doth  flatter, 
Tliat  he  finds  means  to  burn  his  Troy  with  water. 

Here,  all  enrag'd,  such  passion  her  assails, 
That  patience  is  quite  beaten  from  her  breast. 
She  tears  the  senseless  Sinon  with  her  nails. 
Comparing;  him  to  that  uniiappy  guest 
Whose  deed  hath  made  hcr.sclf  herself  detest : 

At  la.-Jt  she  smilingly  with  this  gives  o'er  ; 

Fool !  fool !  quoth  she,  his  wounds  will  not  be  sore. 

Thus  ebbs  and  flows  the  current  of  her  sorrow, 
And  time  doth  weary  time  with  her  complaining. 
She  looks  for  night,  and  then  she  longs  for  morrow, 
And  both  she  thinks  too  long  with  her  remaining. 
Short  time  seems  long  in  sorrow's  sharp  su.'itaining  : 

Though  woe  be  heavy,  yet  it  seldom  sleeps  ; 

And  they  that  watch  see  time  how  slow  it  creeps. 

Which  all  this  time  hath  overslipp'd  her  thought. 
That  she  -with  painted  images  hath  spent. 
Being  from  the  feeling  of  her  own  grief  brought 
By  deep  surmi.^e  of  others'  detriment : 
Losing  her  woes  in  shows  of  discontent. 
It  easeth  .some,  though  none  it  ever  cured, 
To  think  their  dolour  others  have  endured. 

But  now  the  mindful  messenger,  come  back  ; 

Brings  home  his  lord  and  other  company. 

Who  finds  his  Lucrece  clad  in  mourning  black; 

.\nd  round  about  her  tear-distained  eye 

Blue  circles  stream'd,  like  rainbows  in  the  sky: 
The.«e  water-galls  in  her  dim  element 
Foretel  new  storms  to  those  already  spent. 

Which  when  her  sad-beholding  husband  saw, 

Amazedly  in  her  sad  face  he  stares  : 

Her  eyes,  though  sod  in  tears,  look'd  red  and  raw ; 

Her  lively  colour  kill'd  with  deadly  cares. 

He  hath  no  power  to  a.«k  her  how  she  fares ; 
Both  .stood  like  old  acquaintance  in  a  trance, 
Met  far  from  home,  wondering  each  other's  chance. 

At  last  he  lakes  her  by  the  bloodless  hand, 

And  thus  begins :   What  uncouth  ill  event 

Hath  thee  befal'n,  tliat  thou  dost  trembling  stand  ? 

Sweet  love,  wiiat  spite  hath  thy  fair  colour  spent  ? 

Why  art  thou  thus  attir'd  in  discontent? 

Unmask,  dear  dear,  this  moody  heavines^s. 

And  tell  thy  grief  that  we  may  give  redress. 

Three  times  with  sighs  she  gives  her  sorrow  fire. 
Ere  once  she  can  discharge  one  word  of  woe  : 
At  length,  addrcss'd  to  answer  his  desire, 
She  modestly  prepares  to  let  them  know 
Her  honour  is  taen  prisoner  by  tlie  foe  ; 
While  Collatine  and  his  consorted  lords 
With  sad  attention  long  to  hear  her  words. 

And  now  this  pale  swan  in  her  watery  nest 
Begins  the  sad  dirge  of  her  certain  ending. 
Few  words,  quoth  she,  shall  fit  the  trespass  best. 
Where  n  •  excuse  can  give  the  fault  amending  : 
In  me  m  ire  woes  than  words  are  now  depending  ; 
And  my  laments  would  be  drawn  out  too  long, 
To  tell  them  all  with  one  poor  tired  tongue. 

Then,  be  this  all  the  task  it  hath  to  say : 
Dear  husband,  in  the  interest  of  thy  bed 


A  stranger  came,  and  on  that  pillow  lay 
Where  thou  wast  wont  to  rest  thy  weary  head". 
And  what  wrong  else  may  be  imagined 
By  foul  enforcement  might  be  done  to  me, 
From  that,  alas  !  thy  Lucrece  is  not  free. 

For  in  the  dreadful  dead  of  dark  midnight, 
With  shining  falchion  in  my  chamber  came 
A  creeping  creature,  with  a  flaming  light. 
And  softly  cried.  Awake,  thou  Roman  dame, 
And  entertain  my  love ;  else  lasting  shame 
On  thee  and  thine  this  night  I  will  inflict, 
If  thou  my  love's  desire  do  contradict. 

For  some  hard-faA'-our'd  groom  of  thine,  quoth  he. 
Unless  thou  yoke  thy  liking  to  my  will. 
I  '11  murder  straight,  and  then  I  '11  slaughter  thee 
And  swear  I  found  you  where  yon  did  fulfil 
The  loathsome  act  of  lust,  and  so  did  kill 

The  lechers  in  their  deed :  this  act  will  be 

My  fame,  and  thy  perpetual  infamy. 

With  this  I  did  begin  to  start  and  cry. 

And  then  against  my  heart  he  set  his  sword, 

Swearing,  unle.'js  I  took  all  patiently, 

I  should  not  live  to  speak  another  word  ; 

So  should  my  shame  still  rest  upon  record, 
And  never  be  forgot  in  mighty  Home 
Th'  adulterate  death  of  Lucrece  and  her  groom. 

Mine  enemy  was  strong,  my  poor  self  weak, 
And  far  the  weaker  with  so  strong  a  fear  : 
My  bloody  judge  forbad  my  tongue  to  speak  ; 
No  rightful  plea  might  plead  for  justice  there  : 
His  scarlet  lust  came  evidence  to  swear 

That  my  poor  beauty  had  purloin'd  his  eyes, 
And  when  the  judge  is  rob'd.  the  prisoner  dies. 

0  !  teach  me  how  to  make  mine  own  excuse. 
Or.  at  the  least,  this  refuge  let  me  find : 
Though  my  gross  blood  be  stain'd  with  this  abuse. 
Immaculate  and  spotless  is  my  mind  ; 
That  was  not  forc'd  ;  that  never  was  inclin'd 
To  accessory  yieidings,  but  still  pure 
Doth  in  her  poison'd  closet  yet  endure. 

Lo  !  here  the  hopeless  merchant  of  this  loss, 
With  head  declin'd,  and  voice  damm'd  up  with  woe 
With  sad  set  eyes,  and  wretched  arms  across, 
From  lips  new  waxen  pale  begins  to  blow 
Tlie  grief  away,  that  stops  his  answer  so ; 
But  wretched  as  he  is.  he  strives  in  vain, 
What  he  breathes  out.  his  breath  drinks  up  agaia 

As  through  an  arch  the  violent  roaring  .ide 
Out-runs  the  eye  that  dolh  behold  his  haste, 
Yet  in  the  eddy  boundeth  in  his  pride 
Back  to  the  strait  that  forc"d  him  on  so  fast, 
In  rage  sent  out,  reeall'd  in  rage,  being  past; 
Even  so  his  sighs,  his  sorrows,  make  a  saw, 
To  push  grief  on,  and  back  the  same  grief  draw. 

Which  speechless  woe  of  his  poor  she  atttndeth. 
And  his  untimely  frenzy  thus  awaketh  : 
Dear  lord,  thy  sorrow  to  my  sorrow  lendelh 
Another  power;  no  flood  by  raining  slakcth. 
My  woe,  too  sensible,  thy  passion  maketh 
More  feeling  painful :  let  it.  then,  suffice 
To  drown  one  woe,  one  pair  of  weep iny  eyes. 


THE  EAPE   OF  LUCEECE. 


937 


And  for  my  sake,  when  I  might  charm  thee  so, 
For  she  that  was  thy  Lucrece,  now  attend  me : 
Be  suddenly  revenged  on  my  foe, 
Thine,  mine,  his  own  :  suppose  thou  dost  defend  me 
From  what  is  past,  the  help  that  thou  shalt  lend  me 

Comes  all  too  late,  yet  let  the  traitor  die; 

For  sparing  justice  feeds  iniquity. 

But  ere  I  name  him,  you  fair  lords,  quoth  she, 
(Speaking  to  those  that  came  with  Collatine) 
Shall  plight  your  honourable  faiths  to  me. 
With  swift  pursuit  to  venge  this  wrong  of  mine ; 
For  't  is  a  meritorious  fair  design, 

To  chase  injvxstice  with  revengeful  arms  :       [harms. 

Knights,   by  their   oaths,   should  right  poor  ladies' 

Kt  this  request,  with  noble  disposition 
Each  present  lord  began  to  promise  aid, 
A.S  bound  in  knighthood  to  her  imposition, 
Longing  to  htsar  the  hateful  foe  bewray'd  ; 
But  she,  that  yet  her  sad  task  hath  not  said, 
The  protestation  stops.     0  !  speak,  quoth  she. 
How  may  this  forced  stain  be  wip'd  from  me? 

What  is  the  quality  of  mine  offence. 

Being  constrain'd  with  dreadful  circumstance  ? 

May  my  pure  mind  with  the  foul  act  dispense, 

My  low-declin'd  honour  to  advance  ? 

May  anv  terms  acquit  me  from  this  cha.ice  ? 
The  poison'd  fountain  clears  itself  again, 
And  why  not  I  from  this  compelled  stain  ? 

With  this,  they  all  at  once  began  to  say, 
Her  body's  stain  her  mind  untainted  clears ; 
While  with  a  joyle.'JS  smile  she  turns  away 
The  face,  that  map  which  deep  impression  bears 
Of  hard  misfortune,  carv'd  in  it  with  tears. 
No,  no,  quoth  she  ;  no  dame,  hereafter  living, 
By  my  excuse  shall  claim  excuse's  giving. 

Here,  with  a  sigh  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
She  throws  forth  Tarquin's  name  :  "he,  he,"  she  says. 
But  more  than  '-he"  her  poor  tongue  could  not  speak ; 
Till  after  many  accents  and  delays, 
Untimely  breathings,  sick  and  short  assays. 
She  utters  this:  he,  he,  fair  lords,  't  is  he. 
That  guides  this  hand  to  give  this  wound  to  me. 

Even  here  she  sheathed  in  her  harmless  breast 
A  harmful  knife,  that  thence  her  soul  unsheathed : 
That  blow  did  bail  it  from  the  deep  unrest 
Of  that  polluted  prison  where  it  breathed : 
Her  contrite  sighs  unto  the  clouds  bequeathed 

Her  winged  sprite,  and  through  her  wounds  doth  fly 
Life's  lasting  date  from  cancel'd  destiny. 

Stone-still,  astonish'd  with  this  deadly  deed, 
Stood  Collatine  and  all  his  lordly  crew ; 
Till  Lucrece'  father,  that  beholds  her  bleed. 
Himself  on  her  self-slaughter'd  body  threw  : 
And  from  the  pvirple  fountain  Brutus  drew 
The  murderous  knife,  and  as  it  left  the  place, 
Her  blood,  in  poor  revenge,  held  it  in  chase ; 

And  bubbling  from  her  breast,  it  doth  divide 
In  two  slow  rivers,  that  the  crimson  blood 
Circles  her  body  in  on  every  side. 
Who  like  a  late-sack'd  island  vastly  stood, 
Bare  and  unpeopled,  in  this  fearful  flood. 

>  CircU. 


Some  of  her  blood  still  pure  and  red  remain'd. 
And  some  look'd  black,  and  tliat  false  Tarquin  stain'd 

About  the  mourning  and  congealed  face 
Of  that  black  blood  a  watery  rigoU  goes, 
Which  seems  to  weep  upon  the  tainted  place : 
And  ever  since,  as  pitying  Lucrece'  woes. 
Corrupted  blood  some  watery  token  shows; 
And  blood  untainled  still  doth  red  abide, 
Blushing  at  that  wliich  is  so  putrify'd. 

Daughter,  dear  daughter  !  old  Lucretius  cries, 
That  life  was  mine,  which  thou  hast  here  deprived 
If  in  the  child  the  father's  image  lies. 
Where  shall  I  live,  now  Lucrece  is  unlived  ? 
Thou  wast  not  to  tliis  end  from  me  derived. 

If  children  pre-decease  progenitors. 

We  are  their  oflspring,  and  they  none  of  ours. 

Poor  broken  glass.  I  often  did  behold 
In  thy  sweet  semblance  my  old  age  new-born; 
But  now  that  fair  fresh  mirror,  dim  and  old, 
Shows  me  a  bare-bon[d  death  by  time  out-worn. 
0  !  from  thy  cheeks  my  image  thou  hast  torn, 
And  shiver'd  all  the  beauty  of  my  glass, 
That  I  no  more  can  see  what  once  I  was. 

O  time  !  cease  thou  thy  course,  and  last  no  longer 
If  they  surcease  to  be  that  should  sur^-lve. 
Shall  rotten  death  make  conquest  of  the  stronger, 
And  leave  the  faltering  feeble  souls  alive  ? 
The  old  bees  die,  the  young  possess  their  hive : 
Then,  live  sweet  Lucrece;  live  again,  and  see 
Thy  father  die,  and  not  thy  father  thee  ! 

By  this  starts  Collatine  as  from  a  dream, 
And  bids  Lucretius  give  his  sorrow  place  ; 
And  then  in  key-cold  Lucrece'  bleeding  stream 
He  falls,  and  bathes  the  pale  fear  in  his  face. 
And  counterfeits  to  die  with  her  a  space  ; 

Till  manly  shame  bids  him  possess  his  breath 
And  live  to  be  revenged  on  her  death. 

The  deep  vexation  of  his  inward  soul 
Hath  serv'd  a  dumb  arrest  upon  his  tongue ; 
Who,  mad  that  sorrow  should  his  use  control, 
Or  keep  him  from,  heart-easing  words  so  long. 
Begins  to  talk ;  but  through  his  lips  do  throng 

Weak  words,  so  thick  come  in  his  poor  heart's  aid. 

That  no  man  could  distinguish  what  he  said. 

Yet  sometime  Tarquin  was  pronounced  plain, 
But  through  his  teeth,  as  if  the  name  he  tore. 
This  windy  tempest,  till  it  blow  up  rain, 
Held  back  his  sorrow's  tide  to  make  it  more ; 
At  last  it  rains,  and  busy  winds  give  o'er : 
Then,  son  and  father  weep  with  equal  strife. 
Who  should  weep  most,  for  daughter  or  for  wife. 

The  one  doth  call  her  his,  the  other  his, 
Yet  neither  may  possess  the  claim  they  lay. 
The  father  says,  She  's  mine  :  0  !  muie  she  is 
Replies  her  husband  :  Do  not  take  away 
My  sorrow's  interest :  let  no  mourner  say 
He  weeps  for  her,  for  she  was  only  mine, 
And  only  must  be  wail'd  by  Collatine. 

O  '  quoth  Lucretius.  I  did  give  that  life. 
Which  she  too  early  and  too  late  hath  spill'd. 


988 


THE  EAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Woe.  wo«  !  quoth  Collatine,  she  was  my  wife, 
I  o\v"d  her,  and  H  is  mine  that  she  hath  kill'd, 
■  Mv    daui;hler''    and    "my    wile"    with    clamours 
filld 
The  dispers'd  air,  who  holdilig  Lucrece'  life, 
Answer'd  their  cries,  "  my  daughter  and  my  wife." 

Brutus,  who  pluck'd  the  knife  from  Lucrece'  side, 
Seeing  such  emulation  in  their  woe, 
Bffgan  to  clothe  his  wit  in  state  and  pride. 
Burying  in  Lucrece'  wound  his  folly's  show. 
He  with  tiie  Romans  was  esteemed  so 
As  silly  jeering  idiots  are  with  kings. 
For  sportive  words,  and  uttering  foolish  things : 

But  now  he  throws  that  shallow  habit  by, 

Wherein  deep  policy  did  him  disguise. 

And  armd  his  long-hid  wits  advisedly. 

To  check  the  tears  in  Collatuius'  eyes. 

Thou  wronged  lord  of  Rome,  quoth  he,  arise  : 
Let  my  unsounded  self,  suppos'd  a  fool. 
Now  set  thy  loug-experiencd  wit  to  school. 

Wliy.  Collatine,  is  woe  the  cure  for  woes  ? 

Do   wounds    help    wounds,    or    grief    help    grievous 
deeds  ? 

Is  it  revenge  to  give  thyself  a  blow, 

For  his  foul  act  by  whom  thy  fair  wife  bleeds  ? 

Such  childish  humour  from  weak  minds  proceeds; 
Thy  wretched  wife  mistook  the  matter  so, 
To  slay  herself  that  should  have  slain  her  foe. 

>  With  ap]>Uust 


Courageous  Roman,  do  not  steep  thy  heart 
In  such  relenting  dew  of  lament ations. 
But  kneel  with  ine.  and  help  to  bear  thy  part, 
To  rouse  our  Roman  gods  with  invocations, 
That  they  will  suffer  these  abominations. 

Since  Rome  herself  in  them  doth  stand  disgraced, 
By  our  strong  arms  from  forth  her  fair  streets  chased. 

Now,  by  the  Capitol  that  we  adore. 
And  by  this  chaste  blood  so  unjustly  stained, 
By  heaven's  fair  sun  that  breeds  the  fat  earth's  storft. 
By  all  our  country  rights  in  Rome  maintained, 
And  by  chaste  Lucrece"  .soul,  that  late  complained 
Her  wrongs  to  us,  and  by  this  bloody  knife, 
We  will  revenge  the  death  of  this  true  wife. 

This  said,  he  struck  his  hand  upon  his  brea-st, 
And  kiss'd  the  fatal  knife  to  end  his  vowj 
And  to  his  protestation  urg'd  the  rest, 
Who,  wondering  at  him,  did  his  words  allow; 
Then,  jointly  to  the  ground  their  knees  they  bow. 
And  that  deep  vow  which  Brutus  made  before. 
He  doth  again  repeat,  and  that  they  swore. 

When  they  had  sworn  to  this  advised  doom 
They  did  conclude  to  bear  dead  Lucrece  thenoe  ■ 
To  show  her  bleeding  body  thorough  Rome, 
And  so  to  publish  Tarquin's  foul  offence  : 
Which  being  done  with  speedy  diligence, 

The  Romans  plausibly'  did  give  consent 

To  Tarquin's  everlasting  banishment 


SONNETS 


IlN'TEODUCTION. 


Shake-speares  Sonnets.  Neuer  before  Imprinted.  At  Lon- 
don By  G.  Eld  for  T.  T.  and  are  to  be  solde  bv  William 
Aspley.    1609."    4:to.    40  leaves. 

A.  Louers  complaint.    By  William  Shake-speare,"  occupies 

eleven   pages  at  the  end  of  this  volume.     The   late  Mr. 

Caldeeot  presented  a  copy  of  "  Shakespeare's  Sonnets"  to 

the  Bodleian  Library,  with  the  following  imprint :     "  At 

London  By  G.  Eld  for  T.  T.  and  are  to  be  soide  by  lohn 

Wright,  dwelling  at  Christ  Church  gate."     It  is  no 'doubt 

the  same  edition  as  that  "  to  be  solde  by  William  Aspley," 

for  in  other  respects  they  agree  exactly,  excepting  that  the 

copy  bearing  the  name  of  lohn  Wright  has  no  date  at  the 

bottom  of  the  title-page  :  it  was  very  possibly  cut  off  by  the 

binder. 

"  Shaxespeare's  Sonnets  "  were  printed  under  that  title,  and 

with  the  name  of  the  poet  in  unusually  large  capital  letters,  in 

1609.     No  Christian  name  is  to  be  found  until  we  arrive  at 

"  A  Lover's   Complaint,"  but  "  Shakespeare's   Sonnets  "  is 

repeated  at  the  head  of  the  first  of  the  series.     Hence  we  may 

possibly  be  warranted  in  assuming  that  they  were  productions 

well  known  to  have  been  for  some  time  floating  about  among 

the  lovers  and  admirers  of  poetry,  and  then  collected  into  a 

volume.     The  celebrity  of  the  author  seems  proved,  if  any 

proof  of  the  kind  were  wanting,  by  the  manner  in  which  his 

"Sonnets  "  were  put  forth  to  The  world. 

There  is  one  fact  connected  with  the  original  publication  of 
"  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  "  -rhich  has  hitherto  escaped  remark, 
none  of  the  commentators,  apparently,  being  aware  of  it ;  viz. 
that  aJthough  there  were  not  two  editions  of  them  in  1609, 
there  is  an  important  difference  in  the  title-pages  of  some 
copies  of  the  impression  of  that  year,  which  shows  that  a 
bookseller,  not  hitherto  connected  with  the  publication  of  any 
of  our  poet's  works,  was  in  some  way  concerned  in  the  first 
edition  of  his  "Sonnets."  The  usual  imprint  informs  us, 
that  they  were  printed  by  G.  Eld,  for  T.  T.  and  were  to  be 
sold  by  William  Aspley  (without  any  address) ;  but  the  late 
Mr.  Caldeeot  had  a  copy  which  stated  that  they  were  to  be 
sold,  not  by  William  Aspley,  (who  had  been  one  of  the  part- 
ners in  "Much  ado  about  Nothinsr,"  1600,  4to.,  and  "  Henry 
IV.,"  part  ii.  1600,  4to.)  but  by  "John  Wright,  dwelling  at 
Christ  Church  Gate."  No  other  copy  with  which  we  are 
acquainted  has  this  variation  in  the  title-page,  and  possibly 
T.  T.  had  some  reason  for  having  it  cancelled,  and  for  substi- 
tuting the  name  of  Aspley  for  that  of  Wright :  the  former 
might  be  better  known  to  the  ordinary  buyers  of  such  books, 
and  to  the  two  quarto  plays  in  which  he  was  interested,  he, 
perhaps,  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  append  the  place  wliere 
his  business  was  carried  on. 

The  application  of  the  initials  T.  T.,  on  the  title-page,  is 
ascertained  from  the  Eegisters  of  the  Stationers'  Company, 
where  the  subsequent  entry  is  found : —  ' 

"  20  May  1609. 
Tho.  Thorpe]  A  booke  called  Shakespeare's  Sonnets." 
Thorpe  (vas  a  bookseller  of  considerable  eminence,  who 
aaually  put  his  name  at  full  length  upon  his  title-pages,  and 
why  he  did  not  do  so  in  this  instance,  and  also  subscribed 
only  T.  T.  to  the  dedication  of  the  Sonnets,  is  a  matter  we  I 
■hould  consider  of  little  or  no  consequence,  if  it  related  to  the  j 
productions  of  perhaps  any  other  author  but  Shakespeare.  ! 
It  sometimes  happened  of  old,  that  if  it  were  suspected  that ' 
a  work  might  contain  anything  publicly  or  personally  objec-^ 
tionable,  the  printer  or  the  stationer  only  allowed  their  initials' 

'  In  a,  small  pamphlet,  entitled  ''On  the  Sonnets  of  Shakespeare, 
identifying  the  Person  to  whom  they  -were  addressed,  and  C'ueidatin<: 
several  points  in  the  Poet's  History.  By  James  Boaden."  Svo.  l^oS. 
The  whole  substance  of  the  tract  had  been  published  in  l<}-2  in  a 
periodical  work.  We  differ  from  Mr.  Boaden  with  the  more  reluc- 
tance, because  it  appears  that  his  notion  was  supported  by  the 
3pinion  of  IVIr.  B.  Hey  wood  Bright,  well  known  for  his  acuteness  and 
learning,  who,  without  any  previous  communication,  had  fallen  upon 
the  same  conjecture  before  it  was  broached  by  Boaden. 

'  Upon  this  particular  point  we  concur  with  .Mr.  Peter  Cunningham, 
in  a  note  to  his  excellent  edition  of  Mr.  T.  Campbell's  "  Specimens 


to  appear  in  connection  with  it.  That  such  wa-s  the  case  hera 
there  is  no  suflBcient  ground  for  believing;  and  Eld  avowed 
himself  the  printer,  and  Aspley  the  seller  of  "  Shakespeai  e's 
Sonnets." 

A  question  has  arisen,  and  has  been  much  disputed  of  uitfl 
years,  who  was  the  individual  to  whom  Thorpe  dedicated 
these  sonnets,  and  whom,  in  a  very  unprecedented  and  pecu- 
liar form,  he  addresses  as  "  Mr.  W.  H."  That  form  la 
precisely  as  follows,  on  a  separate  leaf  immediately  succeeding 
the  title-page : — 

to.  the.  oniie.  begetter.  of. 

these.  insvtng.  sonnets. 

Mr.  W.  H.  all.  happinesse. 

and.  that.  eternitie. 

promised. 

BY. 

OUR.    EVER-LIVING.    POET. 

WISHETH. 

THE.    WELL-WISHINO. 

ADVENTVRER.  IN. 

SETTING. 

FORTH. 

T.  T. 
We  are  not  aware  that  there  is  another  instance  in  om 
■language,  at  that  period,  of  a  dedication  of  a  similar  kind,  and 
in  a  similar  style.  It  was  not  at  all  uncommon  for  booksellers 
to  subscribe  dedications;  but  it  more  frequently  happened 
after  the  death  of  an  author  than  during  his  life,"and  never, 
that  we  recollect,  in  a  manner  so  remarkable.  The  <*iseussion 
has  been  carried  on  with  some  pertinacity  on  the  question, 
what  person  was  addressed  as  "Mr.  W.H.  ?"  and  various 
replies  have  been  made  to  it.  Farmer  conjectured  wildly 
that  he  misfht  be  William  Hart,  the  poet's  ne;)hew,  who  was 
only  born  in  1600 :  Tyrwhitt  guessed  from  a  line  in  one  of 
the  sonnets  (Son.  XX.)  that  the  name  was  W.  Hughes,  or 
Hews: 

"A  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling." 
which  is  thus  printed  in  the  4to,  1609 : 

"  A  man  in  hew  all  Hews  m  his  controwling." 
Although  the  word  "  hue  "  is  repeatedly  spelt  hew  n  the  old 
edition,  this  is  the  only  instance  in  which  it  is  printed  in 
Italic  tvpe,  and  with  a  capital  letter,  exactlv  the  saujc  as  WiU, 
in  Sonnets  CXXXV.,  CXXXVI.,  and  CXLIIL,  where  the 
author  plays  upon  his  own  name.  Dr.  Drake  inia>:riiied  that 
W.  H.  were  the  initials  of  Henry  Wriothesly,  Earl  of  South- 
ampton, inverted  ("  Shakespeare  and  his  Times,"  vol.  ii.  p. 
62) ;  and  of  late  years  Boaden,  with  great  intrenuity,  has 
contended  that  W.  H.  meant  William  Herbert,  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke'. This  last  notion  seems  too  much  taken  libr  granted 
by  Mr.  C.  Armitage  Brown,  in  his  very  clever  and,  in  many 
respects,  original  work,  "  Shakespeare's  Autobiographicuj 
Poems,"  8voT,  183S ;  but  we  own  that  we  cannot  accord  Id 
that,  or  in  any  other  theory  that  has  yet  been  advanced  upon 
the  point.  We  have  no  suggestion  of  our  own  to  otter,  and 
acquiescence  in  one  opiuion'or  in  another  in  no  way  affects 
any  position  regarding  them  which  we  might  be  disposed 
Uike  up ;  but  it  seems  to  us  the  very  height  of  improbabilitr 
that  a  bookseller  in  the  year  1609,  when  peculiar  respect  wja 
paid  to  nobility  and  station,  would  venture  to  address  an  Earl 
and  a  Knight  of  the  Garter  merely  as  "  Mr.  W.  H.'"    How- 

of  British  Poets,"  (Essay,  p.  Ixxi.)  but  we  can  by  no  means  follow 
him  in  thinking  that  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  have  been  "  over-rated." 
or  that  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  could  not  have  been  addressf-J  in  them, 
because  he  was  only  nine  years  old  in  159S.  Shakespeare  had  written 
sonnets  at  that  date,  according  to  the  undoubted  testlmoD^  of  Meres, 
but  those  in  which  the  Earl  has  been  supposed  to  be  adaressed  may 
have  been  produced  at  a  considerably  later  period.  Still,  at  the  early 
age  of  eighteen  or  nineteen,  which  the  Earl  reached  in  1009,  it  do»t 
not  seem  likely  that  Shakespeare  would  have  thought  ii  dtcoemji, 
with  so  much  vehemence,  to  urge  him  to  marry. 


9S9 


940 


SONNETS. 


9ver,  notwitnstanding  the  ps-iis  taken  to  settle  the  dispute, 
we  hold  it  to  be  one  of  comparatively  little  importance,  and 
it  is  oertainlv  one  r.poii  which  we  are  not  likely  to  arrive  at  a 
final  and  satisfactory  decision.  To  the  despen'ite  speculation  j 
of  rhalmers,  that  not  a  few  of  the  Sonnets  were  adare«ssed  to 
Qneen  Elizabeth,  thontrh  maintained  with  considerable  ability 
and  learninjr,  it  is  liardlv  necessary  even  to  advert. 

It  is  evident  thiit  the  Sonnet*  were  written  at  verv  different 
(>erio<is  of  Shakespeare's  life,  and  under  very  different  cir- 
cumstances— some  in  youth,  some  in  more  advanced  aare  ; 
»ome  when  he  was  horefiil  and  happy,  and  some  when  he 
was  despondiii?  and  afflicted  at  iiis  own  condition  in  life,  and  I 
place  in  society.  In  many  there  are  to  be  found  most  re- 
markable ii'.diaitions  of  self-confidence,  and  of  assurance  in  I 
the  immortality  of  his  verses,  and  in  this  respect  the  author's  | 
opinion  was  <x)nstant  and  uniform.  He  never  scrupled  to 
express  it,  and  perhaps  there  is  no  writer  of  ancient  or  of 
modem  times  who,  for  the  quantity  of  such  writinprs  left  be- 
liind  him,  has  so  frequently  or  so  strongly  declared  his  firm 
belief  that  what  be  had  written,  in  this  dejiartmeut  of  poetrj-, 
'•the  world  would  not  willingly  let  die.  '  This  conviction 
seems  hardly  reconcileable  witli  the  carelessness  he  appears 
to  have  displayed  for  the  preservation  of  his  dramatic 
writings.  We  know  from  Francis  Meres  that  Shakespeare's 
Sonnets  were  scattered  among  his  friends  in  1598',  and  no 
doubt  he  continued  to  add  to  them  from  year  to  year ;  but  it 
was  left  to  a  bookseller  in  1609,  perhaps,  t-j  cause'  them  to  be 
collected,  and  to  be  printed  in  a  separate  volume. 

It  is  with  reference  to  this  circumstance  that  we  understand 
Thorpe  to  address  "  Mr.  W.  H.,"  in  the  dedication,  as  "the 
only  begetter  of  these  ensuing  sonnets."  Boswell  quoted  a 
passage  from  Dekker's  "  Satiromastix,"  1602,  (and  many  j 
other  instances  might  be  adduced)  to  prove  that  "  begetter'  j 
onlv  meant  of>(<iiner  or  procurer  ;  and  as  Thorpe  had  been  1 
under  some  obligation  to  W.  H.,  for  collecting  Snakespeare's  ; 
scattered  sonnets  from  various  parties,  for  this  reason,  per-  j 
haps,  he  inscribed  them  to  him  There  is  no  doubt  that 
"Mr.  W,  H.'"  could  not  be  *'  the  oni^  begetter"'  of  the  son-  I 
nets  in  any  other  sense,  for  it  is  indisputable  that  many  of  I 
them  are  addressed  to  a  woman ;  and  though  a  male  object 
might  have  been  the  cause  of  some  of  them,  and  particularly 
of  the  first  twenty-six,  he  could  not  have  been  the  cause  of 
the  last  twenty-seven  sonnets. 

We  have  already  mentioned  Mr.  Brown's  work,  "Shake- 
speare's Autobiographical  Poems,"  which,  with  a  few  errors 
and  inconsistencies  of  little  moment,  contains  the. best  solu- 
tion of  various  difficulties  arising  out  of  these  Sonnets  yet 
published.  He  contends  thai  Shakespeare  used  the  form  of 
the  sonnet  as  Spenser  and  many  others  employed  stanzas  of 
various  descri[>tions,  and  that  152  of  the  154  sonnets  are 
divisible  into  six  distinct  poems.  His  arrangement  of  them 
\s  the  following  ;  and  we  think  with  him,  that  if  they  be 
read  with  this  key,  much  will  be  intelligible  which  upon  any 
other  supposition  must  remain  obscure  : — 

First  Toem.  Sonnets  1  to  26.  To  his  friend,  persuading 
him  to  marry. 

Second  Poem.  Sonnets  27  to  55.  To  his  friend,  forgiving 
Dim  for  having  robbed  him  of  his  mistress. 

Third  Poem.  Sonneta  56  to  77.  To  his  friend,  compljun- 
ing  of  his  coldness,  and  warning  him  of  life's  decav. 

Fourth  Puer.i.  Sonnet-s  78  to  101.  To  his  friend,  com- 
plaining that  he  prefers  another  poet's  praises',  and  reprov- 
mghim  fir  faults  that  may  injure  his  character. 


Fifth  Poem.    Sonnets  102  to  126.    To  hi.-*  friend. 


excusmg 


himself  for  having  been  some  time  silent,  and  disclaiming 
the  charge  of  inconstancy. 


Si.\th  Poem.  Sonnets  127  to  152.  To  bis  mistress,  on  hei 
infidelity. 

ilr.  Brown  asserts,  and  goes  far  to  prove,  that  the  sonnets 
in  the  first  five  f>f  these  divisions  are  consecutive,  foUowiiifj 
up  the  same  thought,  and  working  out  the  same  purpose. 
With  regard  to  the  "sixth  poem,'' aa  he  terms  it,  he  con- 
tends that  the  sonnets  have  been  confu.sed,  and  that  they  are 
not,  like  the  others,  to  be  read  in  the  order  in  which  tliey 
were  printed  in  the  edition  of  1609.  He  rejects  the  last  two 
sonnets  as  no  part  of  any  of  the  six  poems,  and  they  are  un- 
questionably somewhat  incongruous. 

Many  years  ago,  long  before  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Brown's 
volume,  it  had  occurred  to  us.  as  a  mode  merely  of  removing 
some  of  the  diflBculties  attending  this  portion  of  the  work.<« 
of  Shakespeare,  that  it  Wiis  possible  that  he  had  consented  to 
write  some  of  them,  not  in  hl-^  own  person,  but  for  indi- 
viduals who  asked  his  assistance.  We  entirely  abandon  that 
supposition,  notwithstanding  we  are  aware  that  such  was  not 
an  uncommon  practice  in  Shakespeare's  age.  Gascoigne, 
who  died  in  1577,  mentions  that  he  had  been  frequently  sc 
employed  :  the  author  of  "  The  Forest  of  Fancy,"  1579,  tells 
us  that  he  had  written  many  of  the  poems  it  contain?  for  per- 
sons "who  had  occasion  to"  crave  his  help  in  that  behalf:"' 
and  Sir  John  Harington,  in  his  Epigrams,  written  probably 
about  1591,  states  expressly, 

"  Verses  are  gfrown  such  merchantable  ware. 
That  now  for  Sonnets  sellers  are  and  buyers." 

Mar-ston,  in  his  Satires,  1598,  accuses  "  Eoscio  the  trage- 
dian" of  having  written  some  love-verses  for  Mutio,  and  he 
adds  elsewhere  that  "absolute  Castillo"  had  supplied  him- 
self in  a  similar  manner,  in  order  that  he  might  pay  accept- 
able court  to  his  mistress.  Therefore,  if  Shakespeare  had 
now  and  then  condescended  to  supply  the  wants  of  his 
friends  in  this  way,  who  thus  became  possessed  of  his 
"sugred  sonnets," "as  Meres  calls  them,  it  would,  at  all 
events,  not  have  been  without  precedent. 

Thorpe's  edition  of  "Shakespeare's  Sonnets"  is  a  well 
printed  volume,  although  not  perhaps  so  good  a  specimen  of 
the  typography  of  that  time,  as  Field  s  impressions  of  "Venn? 
and  Adonis"  and  "  Lucrece."  It  is  remarkable,  that  while 
most  of  Shakespeare's  plays  came  from  the  press  in  the  quarto 
editions  in  so  slovenly  and  uncorrected  a  state,  his  minor 
poems  have  been  handed  down  to  us,  perhaps,  more  accurate- 
ly printed  than  those  of  any  poets  of  the  time,  with  the  ex- 
ception Df  Daniel  and  Drayton,  who  seem  generally  to  have 
bestowed  great  pains  upon  their  productions.  At  the  end 
of  the  "  Sonnets"  is  a  poem,  called  "A  Lovers  Complaint  ;'" 
and  here,  although  it  has  no  fresh  title-page,  we  are  assured 
that  it  is  "by  William  Shake-speare."  There  could  in  fact 
be  no  doubt  respecting  the  authorship  of  it ;  but  on  wh«t 
occasion,  or  for  what  purpose  it  was  written,  we  have  no  in- 
formation. 

The  ensuing  sonnets,  with  other  poems,  were  reprinted  in 
1640,  8vo,  with  a  frontispiece  of  the  author,  engraved  by 
Marshall.  It  is  an  edition  of  no  authority :  it  repeats  and 
multiplies  the  errors  of  the  previous  separ.ite  impressions, 
and  includes  productions  with  which  Shakespeare  had  no 
concern. 

Our  text  is  that  of  the  4to,  1609,  in  every  case  where  a  rea- 
son is  not  assigned  for  deviating  from  it.  In  all  modem  re- 
prints various  errors  have  been  committed  in  consequence 
of  carelessness  of  collation,  or  because  one  editor  copied  the 
mistakes  of  another :  of  these  our  notes  will  contain  a  suf- 
ficient indication. 


I. 

From  fairest  creatures  we  desire  increase. 

That  thereby  beauty's  rose  might  never  die, 

But  as  the  riper  should  by  time  decea.^^e. 

His  tender  heir  might  bear  his  memory: 

But  thou,  contracted  to  thine  own  bright  eyes, 

Feed"st  thy  lii;lit's  flame  with  self-substantial  fuel, 

'  The  follovine  «*  the  word*  Meres  n»ei : — "  Aj  the  •oule  of 
Enphorhni  via  thoncht  to  IWe  in  PvthaRoraji,  »o  the  rvreete  wittie 
•ou.e  rf  O.  i  ^T.-.  in  rn«  i.r'uo.).  and  honv-toncued  .Shakerpeare . 
•i'"^  '   •  r ' cf,hi*  rvped  Sonntts  ijnong 

hw  •  "lin.  15(h-.  fo.  2SI,  b. 

'  re  (."on.  Ixxx)  call*  "a  better 

•P''  "n    Ixxxiii.  IxxxT.  Jcc.    Some 

k""^*  'h-n>  Daniel  :  butMr.  P.Cun- 

■'"-  riilnnon  to  Drayton,  (and  to  his 

«?•  •  ''1   under  the  title  of  '"Idea's 

*'''^''  •  .Sonnet,  in  these  Uses  :— 


j  Making  a  famine  where  abundance  lies, 
Tiiyself  thy  foe.  to  thy  sweet  self  too  cruel. 
Thou  that  art  now  the  world's  fresh  ornament. 
And  only  herald  to  the  gaudy  spring, 
Within  thine  own  bud  buricst  thy  content, 
And.  tender  churl,  mak'st  waste  in  niggarding. 
Pity  the  world,  or  else  this  glutton  be, 
To  eat  the  world's  due.  by  the  grave  and  tliee. 

"  So  is  it  not  with  me,  as  with  that  mnse. 
Stirred  by  a  painted  beauty  to  his  verse, 
Who  heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use. 
And  every  fair  with  bis  Uir  doth  rehearse,"  kc. 
It   may   be   doubted   whether   in   these,  and  the  succeeding  lines, 
Shakespeare    had    any    individual    reference.       Drayton's    "  Ideii 
Mirror'    ha."  only  been  discovered  of  late  yearn  ;  and  it  seems  not  iia- 
probable  that,  like  his  "Endy/nion   and  I'hcEbe,"  (see   the  Bnope- 
water  CaUlopue,  p.  lUr)  he,  for  some  reasoB,  soppiissod  it.     OaU  » 
single  copy  of  each  has  been  preserved. 


SOKN^EIIS. 


941 


II. 


When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field. 
Thy  youtns  proud  livery,  so  gaz'd  on  now,' 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held  : 
Then,  being  ask"d  where  all  thy  beauty  lies, 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  days, 
To  .say,  within  thine  own  deep-sunken  eyes, 
Were  an  all-eating  shame,  and  thriftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserv'd  thy  beauty's  use, 
If  thou  couldst  answer — "  This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count,  and  make  my  old  excuse, — '' 
Proving  his  beauty  by  succession  thine. 

This  were  to  be  new  made,  when  thou  art  old 
And  see  thy  blood  warm,  when  thou  feel'st  it  cold. 

III. 

Look  in  thy  glass,  and  tell  the  face  thou  viewest. 
Now  is  th»  time  that  face  should  form  another; 
Whose  fresh  repair  if  now  thou  not  renewest. 
Thou  dost  beguile  the  world,  unbless  some  mother. 
For  where  is  she  so  fair,  whose  un-ear'd'  womb 
Disdains  the  tillage  of  thy  husbandry? 
Or  who  is  he  so  fond,*  will  be  the  tomb 
Of  his  self-love,  to  stop  posterity  ? 
Thou  art  thy  mother's  glass,  and  she  in  thee 
Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime : 
So  thou  through  windows  of  thine  age  shalt  see. 
Despite  of  wrinkles,  this  thy  golden  time. 
But  if  thou  live,  remember'd  not  to  be, 
Die  single,  and  thine  image  dies  with  thee. 

IV. 

Unthrifty  loveliness,  why  dost  thou  spend 
Upon  thyself  thy  beauty's  legacy  ? 
Nature's  bequest  gives  nothing,  but  doth  lend  ; 
And  being  frank,  she  lends  to  those  are  free. 
Then,  beauteous  niggard,  why  dost  thou  abuse 
The  bounteous  largess  given  thee  to  give  ? 
Profitless  usurer,  why  dost  thou  use 
So  great  a  sum  of  sums,  yet  canst  not  live  ? 
For,  having  traffic  with  thyself  alone. 
Thou  of  thyself  thy  sweet  self  dost  deceive. 
Then  how,  when  nature  calls  thee  to  be  gone. 
What  acceptable  audit  canst  thou  leave  ? 

Thy  unus'd  beauty  must  be  tomb'd  with  thee. 

Which,  used,  lives  th'^"  executor  to  be. 

V. 

Those  hours,  that  with  gentle  work  did  frame 

The  lovely  gaze  where  every  eye  doth  dwell, 

Will  play  the  tyrants  to  the  very  same, 

And  that  unfair,  which  fairly  doth  excel : 

For  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on 

To  hideous  winter,  and  confounds  him  there : 

Sap  check'd  with  frost,  and  lusty  leaves  quite  gone. 

Beauty  o'er-snow'd  and  bareness  every  where  : 

Then,  were  not  summer's  distillation  left, 

A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass, 

Beauty's  effect  with  beauty  were  bereft. 

Nor  it,  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was : 

But  flowers  distill'd,  though  they  with  winter  meet. 

Leese*  but  their  show ;  their  substance  still  lives  sweet. 


VI. 


Then,  let  not  winters  ragged  hand  deface 
In  thee  thy  summer,  ere  thou  be  distill'd : 
Make  sweet  some  phial ;  treasure  thou  some  place 

!  Vnjiloughed .      2  foolish.      '  thy  :  in  mod   eds.      ♦  Lf  >  Thou,  whom  it  is  music  to  hear 


With  beauty's  treasure,  ere  it  be  self-kill'd. 

That  use  is  not  forbidden  usury. 

Which  happies  those  tliat  pay  the  willing  loan , 

That 's  for  thyself  to  breed  another  thee. 

Or  ten  times  happier,  be  it  ten  for  one : 

Ten  times  thyself  were  happier  than  thou  art 

If  ten  of  thine  ten  times  refigur'd  thee. 

Then  what  could  death  do  if  thou  shouldsr  depart, 

Leaving  thee  living  in  posterity? 

Be  not  self-will'd,  for  thou  art  much  too  fair 

To  be  death's  conquest,  and  make  worms  thine  he  i 

VII. 

Lo  !  in  tlie  orient  when  the  gracious  light 
Lifts  up  his  burning  head,  each  under  eye 
Doth  homage  to  his  new-appearing  sight, 
Serving  with  looks  his  sacred  majesty ; 
And  having  climb'd  the  steep-up  heavenly  hill, 
Ptcsembling  strong  youth  in  his  middle  age, 
Yet  mortal  looks  adore  his  beauty  still, 
Attending  on  his  golden  pilgrimage  : 
But  when  from  high-most  pitch  with  weary  car. 
Like  feeble  age,  he  reeleth  from  the  day. 
The  eyes,  'fore  duteous,  now  converted  are 
From  his  low  tract,  and  look  another  way 
So  thou,  thyself  out-going  in  thy  noon, 
Unlook'd  on  diest,  unless  thou  get  a  son. 

VIII. 

Music  to  hear*,  why  hear'.st  thou  music  sadly? 
Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy. 
Why  lov'st  thou  that  which  thou  receiv'st  not  gladly 
Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  thine  annoy? 
If  the  true  concord  of  well-tuned  sounds, 
By  unions  married,  do  offend  thine  car, 
They  do  but  sweetly  chide  thee,  who  confounds 
In  singleness  the  parts  that  thou  shouldst  bear. 
Mark,  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another, 
Strikes  each  in  each  by  mutual  ordering ; 
Resembling  sire  and  child  and  happy  mother, 
Who  all  in  one  one  pleasing  note  do  sing : 

Whose  speechless  song,  being  many,  seeming  one. 

Sings  this  to  thee, — thou  single  wilt  prove  non*. 

IX. 

Is  it  for  fear  to  wet  a  widow's  eye, 

That  thou  consum'st  thyself  in  single  life  ? 

Ah  !  if  thou  issueless  shalt  hap  to  die. 

The  world  will  wail  thee  like  a  makeless'  wife , 

The  world  will  be  thy  widow,  and  still  weep. 

That  thou  no  form  of  thee  hast  left  behind. 

When  every  private  widow  well  may  keep. 

By  children's  eyes,  her  husband's  shape  in  mind. 

Look,  what  an  unthrift  in  the  world  doth  spend. 

Shifts  but  his  place,  for  still  the  world  enjoys  it . 

But  beaitty's  waste  hath  in  the  world  an  end. 

And.  kept  unus'd.  the  user  so  destroys  it. 
No  love  toward  others  in  that  bosom  sits. 
That  on  himself  such  murderous  shame  commitu 


For  shame  !  deny  that  thou  bear'st  love  to  any. 
Who  for  thyself  art  so  unprovident. 
Grant,  if  thou  wilt,  thou  art  belov"d  of  many, 
But  that  thou  none  lov'st  is  most  evident: 
For  thou  art  so  possess'd  with  murderous  hate. 
That  'gainst  thyself  thou  stick'st  not  to  conspire. 
Seeking  that  beauteous  roof  to  ruinate. 


P42 


SONNETS. 


Which  to  repair  should  be  thy  chief  desire. 

0,  chaniie  tliy  thought,  that  I  may  change  my  mind  ! 

Shall  hate  be  fairer  lodg"d  than  gentle  love? 

Bo,  as  thy  presence  is.  gracious  and  kind. 

Or.  to  thyself,  at  least,  kind-hearted  prove: 
Make  thee  another  self,  for  love  of  me, 
That  beauty  still  may  live  in  thine  or  thee. 

XI. 
As  fa5t  as  thuu  shalt  wane,  so  fast  thou  growest 
In  one  of  thine,  from  that  which  thou  departest : 
And  tliat  fre.^h  blood  which  youngly  thou  bcstowest, 
Thou  may'st  call  thine,  when  thou  from  youth  convertest. 
Herein  lives  wisdom,  beauty,  and  increase ; 
Without  this,  folly,  age,  and  cold  decay: 
If  all  were  minded  so.  the  times  should  cease, 
.\nd  threescore  year  would  make  the  world  away. 
Let  those  whom  nature  hath  not  made  for  store, 
Harsh,  featureless,  and  rude,  barrenly  perish: 
Look,  whom  she  best  endowed,  she  gave  the  more  ; 
Which  bounteous  gift  thou  shouldst  in  bonnty  cherish. 
She  carv'd  thee  for  her  seal,  and  meant  thereby, 
Thou  shouldst  print  more,  not  let  that  copy  die. 

XII. 
When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silver'd  o"er  with  white: 
When  lofty  trees  I  sec  barren  of  leaves. 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd. 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves. 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard ; 
Then,  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make. 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake, 
And  die  as  last  as  they  see  others  grow ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  time's  scythe  can  make  defence. 
Save  breed,  to  brave  him,  when  he  takes  thee  hence 

XIII 
0,  that  you  were  yourself!  but,  love,  you  are 
No  longer  yours,  than  you  yourself  here  live : 
Against  this  coming  end  you  should  prepare. 
And  your  sweet  semblance  to  some  other  give : 
So  should  that  beauty  which  you  hold  in  lease, 
Find  no  determination :  then,  you  were 
Yourself  again,  after  yourself's  decease. 
When  your  sweet  issue  your  sweet  form  should  bear. 
Wlio  lets  so  fair  a  house  fall  to  decay. 
Which  husbandly  in  honour  might  uphold, 
Aiiainst  the  ntormy  gusts  of  wnter's  day, 
And  barren  rage  of  death's  eternal  cold? 

O  !  none  but  unthrift.s.     Dear  my  love,  you  know, 
You  had  a  father :  let  your  son  say  so. 

XIV. 
Not  from  the  stars  do  I  my  judgment  pluck, 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  have  astronomy, 
But  not  to  tell  of  good,  or  evil  luck, 
Of  plague.",  or  dearths,  or  sea-^ons'  quality; 
Nor  can  I  fortune  to  brief  minutes  tell, 
Pointing  to  each  his  thunder,  rain,  and  wind  ; 
Or  say  with  princes  if  it  shall  go  well, 
By  oft  predict  that  I  in  heaven  find  : 
But  from  thine  eyes  my  knowledge  I  derive, 
And,  constant  stars,  in  them  I  read  such  art, 
As  truth  and  beaut^-  shall  together  thrive, 


If  from  thyself  to  store  thou  wouldst  convert; 
Or  cl.se  of  thee  this  I  prognosticate, 
Thy  end  is  truth's  and  beauty's  doom  and  date. 

XV. 

When  I  consider  every  thing  that  grows 
Holds  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment ; 
That  this  liu2e  stage  presenteth  nought  but  shows. 
Wiicrcon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment, 
When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase. 
Cheered  and  check'd  even  by  the  selfsame  sky. 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap.  at  height  decrease 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory  ; 
Then,  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  you  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight. 
Where  wasteful  time  debateth  with  decay, 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night; 
And,  all  in  war  with  time,  for  love  of  you, 
As  he  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new 

XVI. 
But  wherefore  do  not  you  a  mightier  way 
Make  war  upon  this  bloody  tyrant,  time,^ 
And  fortify  yourself  in  your  decay 
With  means  more  blessed  than  my  barren  rhyme  ? 
Now  stand  you  on  the  top  of  happy  hours. 
And  many  maiden  gardens,  yet  unset. 
With  virtuous  wish  would  bear  your  living  flowers, 
Much  liker  than  your  painted  counterfeit: 
Se  should  the  lines  of  life  that  life  repair, 
Which  this,  time's  pencil,  or  my  pupil  pen. 
Neither  in  inward  worth,  nor  outward  fair, 
Can  make  you  live  yourself  in  eyes  of  men. 
To  give  away  yourself,  keeps  yourself  still. 
And  you  must  live,  drawn  by  your  own  sweet  skih 

XVII. 

Who  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come. 
If  it  were  fill'd  with  your  most  high  deserts? 
Though  yet.  heaven  knows,  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 
Which  hides  your  life,  and  shows  not  half  your  parts 
If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  your  eyes, 
And  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  your  graces, 
The  age  to  come  would  say,   ''  this  poet  lies ; 
Such  heavenly  touches  ne'er  touch'd  earthly  faces  ' 
So  should  my  papers,  yellow'd  with  their  age, 
Be  scorn'd,  like  old  men  of  less  truth  than  tongue. 
And  your  true  rights  be  term'd  a  poet's  rage, 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song ; 
But  were  some  child  of  yours  alive  that  time, 
You  should  live  twice — in  it,  and  in  my  rhyme. 


I  XVIII. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 

!  And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date. 

!  Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd, 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines. 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm  d 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wanderst  in  his  shade 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  theo 


SONNETS. 


943 


XIX. 
Devouring  Time,  bkmt  thou  the  lion's  paws, 
And  make  the  earth  devour  her  own  sweet  brood ; 
Pluck  the  keen  teeth  from  the  fierce  tiger's  jaws, 
And  burn  the  loug-liv'd  phoGnix  in  her  blood : 
Make  glad  and  sorry  seasons  as  thou  fleets, 
And  do  whate'er  thou  wilt,  swift-footed  Time, 
To  the  wide  world,  and  all  her  fading  sweets ; 
But  I  forbid  thee  one  most  heinous  crime : 
0  !  carve  not  with  thy  hours  my  love's  fair  brow. 
Nor  draw  no  lines  there  with  thine  antique  pen ; 
Him  in  thy  course  untainted  do  allow. 
For  beauty's  pattern  to  succeeding  men. 

Yet,  do  thy  worst,  old  Time :  despite  thy  wrong, 
My  love  shall  in  my  verse  ever  live  young. 

XX. 

A  woman's  face,  "wath  nature's  o%vn  hand  painted, 

Hast  thou,  the  master-mistress  of  my  passion ; 

A  woman's  gentle  heart,  but  not  acquainted 

With  shifting  change,  as  is  false  women's  fashion  : 

An  eye  more  bright  than  theirs,  less  false  in  rolling, 

Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth  ; 

A  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling. 

Which  steals  men's  eyes,  and  women's  souls  amazeth; 

And  for  a  woman  wert  thou  first  created  ; 

Till  nature,  as  she  wrought  thee,  fell  a-doting, 

And  by  addition  me  of  thee  defeated, 

By  adding  one  thing  to  my  purpose  nothing. 

But  since  she  prick'd  thee  out  for  women's  pleasure. 
Mine  be  thy  love,  and  thy  love's  use  their  treasure. 

XXI. 

So  is  it  not  with  me,  as  with  that  muse 

Stirr'd  by  a  painted  beauty  to  his  verse. 

Who  heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use. 

And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse ; 

Making  a  couplemeut  of  proud  compare, 

With  sun  and  moon,  with  earth  and  sea's  rich  gems, 

With  April's  first-born  flowers,  and  all  things  rare 

That  heaven's  air  in  this  huge  rondure  hems. 

0  !  let  me,  true  Ih  love,  but  truly  write, 

And  then,  believe  me,  my  love  is  as  fair 

As  any  mother's  child,  though  not  so  bright 

As  those  gold  candles  fix'd  in  heaven's  air : 

Let  them  say  more  that  like  of  hear-say  well; 

I  will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  sell. 

XXII. 
My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old, 
So  long  as  youth  and  thou  are  of  one  date  ; 
But  when  in  thee  time's  furrows  I  behold, 
Then  look  I  death  my  days  should  expiate ; 
For  all  that  beauty  that  doth  cover  thee. 
Is  but  the  seemly  raiment  of  my  heart. 
Wliich  in  thy  breast  doth  live,  as  thine  in  me. 
How  can  I,  then,  be  elder  than  thou  art? 
0  .  therefore,  love,  be  of  thyself  so  wary. 
As  I,  not  for  myself,  but  for  thee  will. 
Bearing  thy  heart,  which  I  will  keep  so  chary 
As  tender  nurse  her  babe  from  faring  ill. 

Presume  not  on  thy  heart,  when  mine  is  slain; 

Thou  gav'st  me  thine,  not  to  give  back  again. 

XXIII. 

As  an  unperfect  actor  on  the  stage. 

Who  with  his  fear  is  put  besides  his  part. 

Or  some  fierce  thing  replete  with  too  much  rage, 

'  worth  :  in  old  e<la      Theoba.d  made  the  change. 


Whose  strength's  abundance  weakens  his  own  heart  , 
So  I.  for  fear  of  trust,  forget  to  say 
The  perfect  ceremony  of  love's  rite, 
And  in  mine  own  love's  strength  seem  to  decay, 
O'er-charg'd  with  burden  of  mine  own  love's  might. 
0  !  let  my  books  be,  then,  the  eloquence 
And  dumb  presagers  of  my  speaking  breast, 
Who  plead  for  love,  and  look  for  recompense. 
More  than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more  express'd 
0  !  learn  to  read  what  silent  love  hath  writ : 
To  hear  with  eyes  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit. 

XXIV. 
Mine  eye  hath  play'd  the  painter,  and  hath  steel'd 
Thy  beauty's  form  in  table  of  my  heart : 
My  body  is  the  frame  wherein  't  is  h.£ld, 
And  perspective  it  is  best  painter's  art ; 
For  through  the  painter  must  you  see  his  skill. 
To  find  where  your  true  image  pictur'd  lies ; 
Which  in  my  bosom's  shop  is  hanging  still. 
That  hath  his  -windows  glazed  with  thine  eyes. 
Now,  see  what  good  turns  eyes  for  eyes  have  done : 
Mine  eyes  have  drawn  thy  shape,  and  thine  for  me 
Are  windows  to  my  breast,  where-through  the  sun 
Delights  to  peep,  to  gaze  therein  on  thee ; 

Yet  eyes  this  cunning  want  to  grace  their  art, 
They  draw  but  what  they  see,  know  not  the  heart 

XXV. 

Let  those  who  are  in  favour  with  their  stars 

Of  public  Iwnour  and  proud  titles  boast, 

Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  triumph  bars, 

Unlook'd  for  joy  in  that  I  honour  most. 

Great  princes'  favourites  their  fair  leaves  spread, 

But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye  ; 

And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 

For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 

The  painful  warrior,  famoused  for  fight,' 

After  a  thousand  victories  once  foil'd, 

Is  from  the  book  of  honour  razed  quite, 

And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toil'd : 
Then,  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  beloved. 
Where  I  may  not  remove,  nor  be  removed. 

XXVI. 
Lord  of  my  love,  to  whom  in  vassalage 
Thy  merit  hath  my  duty  strongly  knit, 
To  thee  I  send  this  written  embassage, 
To  witness  duty,  not  to  show  my  wit : 
Duty  so  great,  which  ^^^t  so  poor  as  mine 
May  make  seem  bare,  in  wanting  words  to  show  it. 
But  that  I  hope  some  good  conceit  of  thine 
In  thy  soul's  thought,  all  naked,  will  bestow  it ; 
Till  whatsoever  star  that  guides  my  moving. 
Points  on  me  graciously  with  fair  aspect. 
And  puts  apparel  on  my  tattered  loving. 
To  show  me  worthy  of  thy  sweet  respect : 

Then  may  I  dare  to  boast  how  I  do  love  thee  ;    [me 
Till  then,  not  show  my  head  where  thou  may'st  prove 

XXVII. 
Weary  with  toil  I  haste  me  to  my  bed, 
The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tired  ; 
But  then  begins  a  journey  in  my  head, 
To  work  my  mind,  when  body's  work 's  expired 
For  then  my  thoughts  (from  far  where  I  abide) 
Intend  a  zealous  pilgrimage  to  thee, 
And  keep  my  drooping  eyelids  open  wide. 


944 


SOKN^ETS. 


Looking  on  darkness  which  the  blind  do  see  : 
Save  that  my  soul's  imaginary  sight 
IVe-Nents  thy  sliadow  to  my  sightless  view, 
Which,  like  a  jewel  hung  in  ghastly  night, 
Makers  black  night  beauteous,  and  her  old  face  new. 
Lo  !  thus  by  day  my  limbs,  by  night  my  mind, 
For  thee,  and  for  myself,  no  quiet  find. 

XXVIII. 
How  can  I.  then,  return  in  nappy  plight, 
That  am  debarr'd  the  benefit  of  rest  ? 
When  day'.s  oppression  is  not  eas'd  by  night. 
Bui  day  by  night,  and  night  by  day,  oppress'd  ? 
And  each,  though  enemies  to  cither's  reign, 
Do  in  con.^icnt  shake  hands  to  torture  me  ; 
The  one  by  toil,  the  other  to  complain 
How  far  I  toil,  still  farther  off  from  thee. 
1  tell  the  day,  to  please  him  thou  art  bright, 
.And  dosi  him  grace  when  clouds  do  blot  the  heaven  : 
So  flatter  I  the  swart-complexion"d  night. 
When  sparkling  stars  twire  not,  thou  gild'st  the  even: 

But  day  doth  daily  draw  my  sorrows  longer. 

And  night  doth  nightly  make  grief's  length  seem 
stronger, 

XXIX. 
When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes. 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outca.<t  state, 
.\nd  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
.\nd  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wi.<hing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
reaturd  like  him,  like  him  with  friendb  possess'd, 
De.siring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Vet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state 
I  Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate : 
For  thy  sweet  love  rememberd  such  wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

XXX. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past. 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 

.\nd  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste : 

Then,  can  I  drown  an  eye.  unus'd  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

.Vnd  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe. 

And  moan  th'  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 

Then,  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  fore-gone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  oer 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 

Which  I  new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  before  : 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  lo.Kj-es  are  restor'd,  and  sorrows  end. 

XXXI. 

Thy  bosom  is  endeared  \\-ith  all  hearts. 

Which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead. 

And  there  reigns  love,  and  all  love's  loving  parts, 

And  all  those  friends  which  I  thought  buried. 

How  many  a  holy  and  obsequious'  tear 

Hath  dear  relisiou.s  love  sfol'n  from  mine  eye, 

A»  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 

But  thmirs  rpmov'd,  that  hidden  in  thee  lie  I 

Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  love  doth  live. 

Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone. 

'  Puntr,al       >  lo«  •  in  old  edi      Malone  maJe  thflchaBRe 


Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  did  give  ; 

That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone  : 
Their  images  I  lov'd  I  view  in  thee, 
And  thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  me. 

XXXII. 

If  thou  survive  my  well-contented  day. 

When  that  churl  death  my  bones  with  dust  shall  «?VBr 

And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 

These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover. 

Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time ; 

And  though  they  be  out-stripp'd  by  every  pen, 

Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme, 

Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 

O  !  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought : 
Had  niy  friend's  muse  grown  with  this  growing  age 

A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 

To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage  : 
But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I  '11  read,  his  for  his  love." 

XXXIII. 
Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  vith  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green. 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchymy ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  vi-ith  this  disgrace. 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine, 
With  all  triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow; 
But  out,  alack  !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine. 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 
Yet  iiim  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  :  ^ 
Suns  of  the  world  may  .stain,  when  heaven's  sur 

[staine'h 
XXXIV. 
Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  -A-ithout  my  cloak, 
To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  me  in  my  way. 
Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoke  ? 
'T  is  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  thou  break. 
To  dry  the  rain  on  my  storm-beaten  face. 
For  no  man  well  of  such  a  salve  can  speak. 
That  heals  the  wound,  and  cures  not  the  disgrace : 
Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief : 
Though  thou  repent,  yet  I  have  still  the  loss  : 
Th'  offender's  .sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 
To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross.' 

Ah !  but  those  tears  are  pearl,  which  thy  love  shed* 
And  they  are  rich  and  ransom  all  ill  deeds. 

XXXV. 

No  more  be  giicv'd  at  that  which  thou  hast  done : 

Roses  have  thorns,  and  silver  lountains  mud  ; 

Clouds  and  eclipses  stain  both  moon  and  sun. 

And  loathsome  canker  lives  in  sweetest  bud. 

All  men  make  faults,  and  even  I  in  this, 

Authorizing  thy  trespass  with  compare  j 

Myself  corrupting,  salvins  thy  amis.s, 

Excu.sing  thy  sins  more  than  thy  sins  are : 

For  to  thy  sensual  fault  I  bring  in  sense, 

Thy  adverse  party  is  thy  advocate. 

And  'gainst  my.self  a  lawful  plea  commence. 

Such  ci%nl  war  is  in  my  love  and  hate, 
That  I  an  accessary  needs  must  be 
To  that  sweet  thief  which  sourly  robs  from  me 


SONNETS. 


945 


XXXVI. 
Let  me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain, 
Although  our  undivided  loves  are  one  : 
So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  me  remain, 
Without  thy  help  by  me  be  borne  alone. 
In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect, 
Though  in  our  lives  a  separable  spite, 
Which  though  it  alter  not  love's  sole  effect, 
Yet  doth  it  steal  sweet  hours  from  love's  delight. 
I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee, 
Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame ; 
Nor  thou  with  public  kindness  honour  me, 
Unless  thou  take  that  honour  from  thy  name  : 
But  do  not  so  ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort, 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report, 

XXXVII. 
As  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 
To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth. 
So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite, 
Take  all  my  comfort  of  thy  worth  and  truth ; 
For  whether  beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wit, 
Or- any  of  these  all^  or  all.  or  more. 
Entitled  in  thy  parts  do  crowned  sit, 
I  make  my  love  engrafted  to  this  store  : 
So  then  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despis'd, 
Whilst  that  this  shadow  doth  such  substance  give. 
That  I  in  thy  abundance  am  sufRc'd, 
And  by  a  part  of  all  thy  glory  live. 
Look  what  is  best,  that  best  I  wish  in  thee  : 
This  wish  I  have ;  then,  ten  times  happy  me  ! 

XXXVIII. 
How  can  my  muse  want  subject  to  invent. 
While  thou  dost  breathe,  that  pour'st  into  my  verse 
Thine  own  sweet  argument,  too  excellent 
For  every  vulgar  paper  to  rehearse  ? 
0  !  give  thyself  the  thanks,  if  aught  in  me 
Worthy  perusal  stand  against  thy  sight ; 
For  who  's  so  dumb  that  cannot  write  to  thee, 
When  thou  thyself  dost  give  invention  light  ? 
Be  thou  the  tenth  muse,  ten  times  more  in  worth 
Than  those  old  nine  which  rhymers  invocate  ; 
And  he  that  calls  on  thee,  let  him  bring  forth 
Eternal  numbers  to  out-live  long  date. 

If  my  slight  muse  do  please  these  curious  days, 
The  pain  be  mine,  but  thine  shall  be  the  praise. 

XXXIX. 

0  !  how  thy  worth  with  manners  may  I  smg, 
Wheii  thou  art  all  the  better  part  of  me  ? 
What  can  mine  owti  praise  to  mine  own  self  bring  ? 
And  what  is  't  but  mine  own,  when  I  praise  thee  ? 
Even  for  this  let  us  divided  live. 
And  our  dear  love  lose  name  of  single  one, 
That  by  this  separation  I  may  give 
That  due  to  thee  which  thou  deserv'st  alone. 
0  absence  !  what  a  torment  wouldst  thou  prove. 
Were  it  not  thy  sour  leisure  gave  sweet  leave 
To  entertain  the  time  with  thoughts  of  love. 
Which  time  and  thoughts  so  sweetly  doth'  deceive. 
And  that  thou  teachest  how  to  make  one  twain, 
By  praising  him  here,  who  doth  hence  remain. 

XL. 
Take  all  my  loves,  my  love  ;  yea,  take  them  all : 
What  hast  thou  then  more  than  thou  hadst  before  ? 
No  love,  my  love,  that  thou  may'st  true  love  call  : 

'  doat     ir  old  eds. 

3K 


All  mine  was  thine  before  thou  hadst  this  more. 
Then,  if  for  my  love  thou  my  love  receivest, 
I  cannot  blame  thee,  for  my  love  thou  usest ; 
But  yet  be  blam'd,  if  thou  thyself  deceivest 
By  wilful  taste  of  what  thyself  refusest. 
I  do  forgive  thy  robbery,  gentle  thief. 
Although  thou  steal  thee  all  my  poverty; 
And  yet  love  knows  it  is  a  greater  grief 
To  bear  love's  wrong,  than  hate's  kno^wTi  injury 

Lascivious  grace,  in  whom  all  ill  well  shows. 

Kill  me  with  spites,  yet  we  must  not  be  foes. 

XLI. 

Those  pretty  wrongs  that  liberty  commits. 
When  I  am  sometime  absent  from  thy  heart, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  years  full  well  befits. 
For  still  temptation  follows  where  thou  art. 
Gentle  thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won. 
Beauteous  thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assailed ; 
And  when  a  woman  woos,  what  woman's  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  she  have  pievailed. 
Ah  me  !  but  yet  thou  might'st  my  seat  ibrbear, 
And  chide  thy  beauty  and  thy  straying  youth, 
Who  lead  thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
Where  thou  art  forc'd  to  break  a  two-fold  truth 
Hers,  by  thy  beauty  tempting  her  to  thee. 
Thine,  by  thy  beauty  being  false  to  me. 

XLII. 
That  thou  hast  her,  it  is  not  all  my  grief, 
And  yet  it  may  be  said,  I  lov'd  her  dearly; 
That  she  hath  thee,  is  of  my  wailing  chief, 
A  loss  in  love  that  touches  me  more  nearly. 
Loving  offenders,  thus  I  will  excuse  ye  : — 
Thou  dost  love  her,  because  thou  know'st  I  love  b*»  ^ 
And  for  my  sake  even  so  doth  she  abuse  me, 
Suffering  my  friend  for  my  sake  to  approve  her. 
If  I  lose  thee,  my  loss  is  my  love's  gain, 
And  losing  her,  my  friend  hath  found  that  los*;^ 
Both  find  each  other,  and  I  lose  both  twain, 
And  both  for  my  sake  lay  on  me  this  cross : 

But  here 's  the  joy ;  my  friend  and  I  are  one. 

Sweet  flattery  ! — then,  she  loves  but  me  alone. 

XLIII. 
When  most  I  wink,  then  do  mine  eyes  best  see, 
For  all  the  day  they  view  things  unrespected : 
But  when  I  sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  thee, 
-*  nd  darkly  bright  are  bright  in  dark  directed. 
Then  thou,  whose  shadow  shadows  doth  make  bright. 
How  would  thy  shadow's  form,  form  happy  show 
To  the  clear  day  with  thy  much  clearer  light, 
When  to  unseeing  eyes  thy  shade  shines  so  ? 
How  would,  I  say,  mine  eyes  be  blessed  made 
By  looking  on  thee  in  the  living  day, 
When  in  dead  night  thy  fair  imperfect  shade 
Through  heavy  sleep  on  sightless  eyes  doth  stay? 

All  days  are  nights  to  see,  till  I  see  thee,  [roe. 

And  nights  bright  days,  when  dreams  do  show  ihee 

XLIV. 

If  the  dull  substance  of  my  flesh  were  thought, 
Injurious  distance  should  not  stop  my  way ; 
For,  then,  despite  of  space.  I  would  be  brougbt 
From  limits  far  remote  where  thou  dost  stay. 
No  matter  then,  although  my  foot  did  stand 
Upon  the  farthest  earth  remov'd  from  thee  : 
For  nimble  thought  can  jump  both  ."sea  and  land 


946 


SONNETS. 


An  soon  as  think  the  place  where  he  would  be. 
Bui  ah  !  thought  kilb  ine,  that  I  am  not  thought, 
To  leap  large  lonjzllis  of  miles  when  thou  art  gone, 
But  lliat,  BO  much  of  earth  and  water  wrought, 
I  must  attend  time's  leisure  with  my  moan; 
Receiving  nought  by  elements  so  slow 
But  heavy  tears,  badges  of  either's  woe. 

XLV. 

The  other  two,  slight  air  and  purging  fire, 
Are  both  with  thee,  wherever  I  abide; 
The  first  my  thought,  the  other  my  desire. 
Those  present-absent  with  swift  motion  slide : 
For  wlien  tliese  quicker  elements  are  gone 
In  tender  embassy  of  love  to  thee. 
My  life,  being  made  of  four,  with  two  alone 
Sinks  down  to  death.  oppress"d  with  melanchftly 
Tntil  life's  composition  be  rccured 
Bv  those  swift  messengers  returned  from  thee, 
Who  even  but  now  come  back  again,  assured 
I  )i  thy  fair  health,  recounting  it  to  me  : 
This  told,  I  joy  ;  but  then,  no  longer  glad, 
I  send  them  back  again,  and  straight  grow  sad. 

XLVI. 
.N^ine  eye  and  heart  are  at  a  mortal  war, 
How  to  divide  the  conquest  of  thy  sight ; 
Mine  eye  my  heart  thy  picture's  sight  would  bar, 
My  heart  mine  eye  the  freedom  of  that  right. 
My  heart  doth  plead,  that  thou  in  him  dost  lie, 
(A  closet  never  pierc'd  with  crystal  eyes) 
But  the  defendant  doth  that  plea  deny, 
And  says  in  him  thy  fair  appearance  lies. 
To  'cide'  this  title  is  impannelled 
A  quest  of  thoughts,  all  tenants  to  the  heart; 
And  by  their  verdict  is  determined 
The  clear  eye's  moiety,'  and  the  dear  heart's  part: 
As  thus  ;  mine  eye's  due  is  thine  outward  part, 
And  my  heart's  right  thine  inward  love  of  heart. 

XLVII. 
Betwixt  mine  eye  and  heart  a  league  is  took, 
And  each  doth  good  turns  now  unto  the  other. 
When  that  mine  eye  is  famish'd  for  a  look, 
Or  heart  in  love  with  sighs  himself  doth  smother, 
With  my  love's  picture  then  my  eye  doth  feast, 
And  to  the  painted  banquet  bids  my  heart: 
Another  time  mine  eye  is  my  heart's  guest, 
And  in  bin  thoughts  of  love  doth  share  a  part : 
So.  either  by  thy  picture  or  my  love, 
Thy^elf  away  art  present  still  with  me  ; 
For  thou  not  farther  than  my  thoushts  canst  move. 
And  I  am  still  with  them,  and  they  with  thee  ; 
Or,  if  they  sleep,  thy  picture  in  my  sight 
Awakes  my  heart  to  heart's  and  eye's  delight. 

XLVTII. 
How  careful  was  I,  when  I  took  my  way, 
Each  trifle  under  truest  bars  to  thrust: 
That  to  my  use  it  miahf  unu.'^ed  stay 
From  hands  of  fal.sehood.  in  sure  wards  of  trust ! 
But  thou,  to  whom  my  jewels  trifles  are. 
Mo.it  worthy  comfort,  now  my  greatest  grief, 
Thou,  bcflt  of  dearest,  and  mine  only  care. 
Art  left  the  prey  of  every  vulgar  thief. 
Thee  have  1  not  lock'd  up  in  any  chest, 
Save  where  thou  art  not,  though  I  feel  thou  art, 
Within  the  gentle  closure  of  my  brea.st, 

>  IktuU.      »  Not  mareljr  half,  but  any  portion  or  ihire       >  duly 


From  whence  at  pleasure  thou  may'st  come  and  part 
And  even  thence  thou  wilt  be  stol'n.  I  fear. 
For  truth  proves  thievish  for  a  prize  so  dear. 

XLIX. 

Against  that  time,  if  ever  that  time  come. 
When  I  shall  sec  thee  frown  on  my  defects, 
When  as  thy  love  hath  cast  his  utmost  sum, 
Call'd  to  that  audit  by  advis'l  respects; 
Against  that  time,  when  thou  shalt  strangely  paaa, 
And  scarcely  greet  me  with  that  sun,  thine  eve 
When  love,  converted  from  the  thing  it  was, 
Shall  reasons  find  of  settled  gravity; 
Against  that  time  do  I  ensconce  me  here, 
Within  the  knowledge  of  mine  own  desert, 
And  this  my  hand  against  myself  uprear. 
To  guard  the  lawful  rea.sons  on  thy  part : 

To  leave  poor  me  thou  hast  the  strength  of  laws. 

Since  why  to  love  I  can  allege  no  cause. 


How  heavy  do  I  journey  on  the  way, 
When  what  I  seek  (my  weary  travel's  end) 
Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  say, 
•'  Thus  far  the  miles  are  measur'd  from  thy  friend  " 
The  beast  that  bears  me,  tired  with  my  woe. 
Plods  dully  on*  to  bear  that  weight  in  me, 
As  if  by  some  instinct  the  wretch  did  know. 
His  rider  lov'd  not  speed  being  made  from  thee 
The  bloody  spur  cannot  provoke  him  on 
That  sometimes  anger  thrusts  into  his  hide, 
Which  heavily  he  answers  with  a  groan, 
More  sharp  to  me  than  spurring  to  his  side; 
For  that  same  groan  doth  put  this  in  my  mind 
My  grief  lies  onward,  and  my  joy  behind. 

LI. 
Thus  can  my  love  excuse  the  slow  offence 
Of  my  dull  bearer,  when  from  thee  I  speed : 
From  where  thou  art  why  should  I  haste  me  thence  ? 
Till  I  return  of  posting  is  no  need. 
0  !  what  excuse  will  ray  poor  beast  then  find, 
When  swift  extremity  can  seem  but  slow  ? 
Then  should  I  spur,  though  mounted  on  the  wind 
In  winged  speed  no  motion  shall  I  know : 
Then  can  no  horse  with  my  desire  keep  pace  ; 
Therefore  desire,  (ot  perfect  love  being  made) 
Shall  neigh  (no  dull  flesh)  in  his  fiery  race  ; 
But  love,  for  love,  thus  shall  excuse  my  jade  ; 
Since  from  thee  going  he  went  wilful-slow. 
Towards  thee  I  '11  run,  and  give  him  leave  to  go. 

LII. 

So  am  T  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 
Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  trea.sure, 
The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey, 
For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure, 
Therefore,  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare. 
Since  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set 

I  Like  stones  of  worth,  they  thinly  placed  are, 

jOr  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 

I  So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you  as  my  chest. 
Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide, 

[To  make  some  special  instant  special-blest, 

'  By  new  unfolding  his  imprison'd  pride. 

I      Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope, 

'      Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  iack'd,  to  hops, 
in  old  eds.     Malone  made  the  chaDgs. 


SOKNETS. 


94: 


LIII. 
What  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you  made. 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you  tend  ? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one  shade, 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you  ; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 
And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new : 
Speak  of  the  spring,  and  foison'  of  the  year. 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show, 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear; 
And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 

In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part. 

But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant  heart. 

LIV. 
0,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give  ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker'-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye, 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses ; 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses  ; 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show. 
They  live  unwoo'd,  and  unrespected  fade ; 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made  : 

And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 

When  that  shall  fade,  my^  verse  distils  your  truth. 

LV. 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  out-live  this  powerful  rhyme  ; 

But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmear'd  with  sluttish  time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 

And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 

Nor  Mars  his  sword,  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  bum 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 

'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 

Shall  you  pace  forth  :  your  praise  shall  still  find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity. 

That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 

So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 

You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

LVI. 
Sweet  love,  renew  thy  force  ;  be  it  not  said, 
Thy  edge  should  blunter  be  than  appetite, 
Which  but  to-day  by  feeding  is  allay'd. 
To-morrow  sharpen'd  in  his  former  might : 
So,  love,  be  thou  ;  although  to-day  thou  fill 
Thy  hungry  eyes,  even  till  they  wink  with  fulness. 
To-morrow  see  again,  and  do  not  kill 
The  spir;  t  of  love  with  a  perpetual  dulness. 
Let  this  sad  interim  like  the  ocean  be 
Which  parts  the  shore,  where  two  contracted  new 
Come  daily  to  the  banks,  that  when  they  see 
Return  of  love  more  blest  may  be  the  view ; 

Or  call  it  winter,  which  b«»ing  full  of  care,        [rare. 

Makes  summer's  welcome  thrice  more  wish'd,  more  j  My  heavy  eyelids  to  the  weary  night  ? 

I  Dost  thou  desire  my  slumbers  should  be  broken. 
LVII.  i  While  shadows,  like  to  thee,  do  mock  my  sight  ? 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend  Is  it  thy  spirit  that  thou  send'st  from  thee 

Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire  ?  !  So  far  from  home,  into  my  deeds  to  pry ; 

I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend,  1  To  find  out  shames  and  idle  hours  m  me, 

>  Plenty.      »  Dog-rose.    '  by  :  in  old  eds.    Malone  made  the  change. 


Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require. 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-without-end  hour, 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour, 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu  : 
Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought, 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppo-'^e  : 
But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought. 
Save  where  you  are,  how  happy  you  make  those. 
So  true  a  fooi  is  love,  that  in  your  will 
(Though  you  do  any  thing)  he  thinks  no  ill. 

LVIII. 
That  God  forbid,  that  made  me  first  your  slave, 
I  should  in  thought  control  your  times  of  pleasure, 
Or  at  your  hand  th'  account  of  hours  to  crave. 
Being  your  vassal,  bound  to  stay  your  leisure  ! 
0  !  let  me  suffer  (being  at  your  beck) 
Th'  imprison'd  absence  of  your  liberty ; 
And  patience,  tame  to  sufferance,  bide  each  check, 
Without  accusing  you  of  injury. 
Be  where  you  list ;  your  charter  is  so  strong, 
That  you  yourself  may  privilege  your  time  : 
Do  what  you  will,  to  you  it  doth  belong 
Yourself  to  pardon  of  self-doing  crime. 
I  am  to  wait,  though  waiting  so  be  hell, 
Not  blame  your  pleasure,  be  it  ill  or  well. 

LIX. 

If  there  be  nothing  new,  but  that  which  is 
Hath  been  before,  how  are  our  brains  beguil'd. 
Which,  labouring  for  invention,  bear  amiss 
The  second  burden  of  a  former  child  ? 
0 !  that  record  could  with  a  backward  look, 
Even  of  five  hundred  courses  of  the  sun. 
Show  me  your  image  in  some  antique  book, 
Since  mind  at  first  in  character  was  done  ; 
That  I  might  see  what  the  old  world  could  say 
To  this  composed  wonder  of  your  frame  ; 
Whether  we  are  mended,  or  where  better  they. 
Or  whether  revolution  be  the  same. 
0  !  sure  I  am,  the  wits  of  former  days 
To  subjects  worse  have  given  admiring  praise. 

LX. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shor«. 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end  ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crowTi'd, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth. 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth. 
And  nothing  stajids  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow : 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

LXI. 

Is  it  thy  will,  thy  image  should  keep  open 


948 


SOKN'ETS. 


The  Bcopc  and  tenour  of  thy  jealousy  ? 
0  no !  tiiy  love,  though  much,  is  not  so  great  : 
It  is  my  love  that  keeps  mine  eye  awake  ; 
Mine  own  true  love  that  doth  my  rest  defeat, 
To  play  the  watchman  ever  for  thy  sake  : 

For  theo  watch  I.  whilst  thou  dost  wake  elsewhere, 
From  me  far  off,  with  others  all  loo  near. 

LXII. 

Sin  of  self-love  posses-seth  all  mine  eye, 

And  all  my  soul,  and  all  my  every  part; 

And  for  this  sin  there  is  no  remedy, 

It  is  so  grounded  inward  in  my  heart. 

Methinks  no  face  so  gracious  is  as  mine, 

.\o  shape  so  true,  no  truth  of  such  account ; 

And  for  myself  mine  own  worth  do  define. 

As  I  all  other  in  all  worths  surmount. 

But  when  my  glass  shows  me  myself  indeed, 

Beated  and  chopp'd  with  tann'd  antiquity. 

Mine  0"wn  self-love  quite  contrary  I  read ; 

Self  so  self-loving  were  iniquity. 

'T  is  thee  (myself)  that  for  myself  I  praise, 
Painting  my  age  with  beauty  of  thy  days. 

LXIII. 

Against  my  love  .«;hall  be,  as  I  am  now, 

With  time's  injurious  hand  crushed  and  o'erworn  ; 

When  hours  have  drained  his  blood,  and  filFd  his  brow 

With  lines  and  wrinkles  :  when  hi.s  youthful  morn 

Hath  travell'd  on  to  age's  steepy  night ; 

And  all  those  beauties,  whereof  now  he  's  king. 

Are  vanishing,  or  vanish'd  out  of  sight. 

Stealing  away  the  treasure  of  his  spring ; 

For  such  a  time  do  I  now  fortify 

.Against  confounding  age's  cruel  knife, 

That  he  shall  never  cut  from  memory 

My  sweet  love's  beauty,  though  my  lover's  life  ; 
His  beauty  shall  in  these  bFack  lines  be  seen. 
And  they  shall  live,  and  he  in  them  still  green. 

LXIV. 
When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  out-worn  buried  ase  : 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-rased. 
And  bra^s  eternal,  slave  to  mortal  rage  : 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungr>'  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loiss,  and  loss  with  store  : 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state. 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay, 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate — 
That  time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away. 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

LXV. 

Since  braas,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 

But  sad  mortality  o'er-sways  their  power, 

How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 

Whojie  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 

0  I  how  shall  summer's  honey-breath  hold  out 

Again.«t  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days. 

When  rocks  imprf^gnabie  are  not  so  stout. 

Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays? 

0  fearful  meditation  '   where,  alack, 

Shall  time's  best  jewel  from  time's  chest  lie  hid  ? 

Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  bis  swift  foot  back  ? 


Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid  ? 
0  none  !  unless  thi.s  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright. 

LXVI. 

Tir'd  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry; — 

As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born. 

And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 

And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn. 

And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplac'd, 

And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted. 

And  right  perfection  wTongfully  disgrac'd, 

And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 

And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 

And  folly  (doctor-like)  controlling  skill, 

And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 

And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill  : 

Tir'd  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gon^. 
Save  that  to  die  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

LXVII. 
Ah  !  wherefore  with  infection  .should  he  live, 
And  wdth  his  presence  grace  impiety. 
That  sin  by  him  advantage  should  achieve, 
And  lace'  itself  with  his  society  ? 
Why  should  false  painting  imitate  his  cheek. 
And  steal  dead  seeing  of  his  li\nng  hue  ? 
Why  should  poor  beauty  indirectly  seek 
Roses  of  shadow,  since  his  rose  is  true  ? 
Why  should  he  live,  now  nature  bankrupt  is, 
Beggar'd  of  blood  to  blush  through  lively  veins  ? 
For  she  hath  no  exchequer  now  but  his, 
And.  proud  of  many,  lives  upon  his  gains. 

0  !  him  she  stores,  to  show  what  wealth  she  had 
In  days  long  since,  before  these  last  so  bad. 

LXViri.    . 
Thus  is  his  cheek  the  map  of  days  out-worn. 
When  beauty  liv'd  and  died  as  flowers  do  now, 
Before  these  bastard  signs  of  fair  were  borne, 
Or  durst  inhabit  on  a  living  brow ; 
Before  the  golden  tresses  of  the  dead. 
The  right  of  sepulchres,  were  shorn  away, 
To  live  a  second  life  on  second  head  ; 
Ere  beauty's  dead  fleece  made  another  gay. 
In  him  those  holy  antique  hours  are  seen. 
Without  all  ornament,  itself,  and  true, 
Making  no  summer  of  another's  green. 
Robbing  no  old  to  dress  his  beauty  new ; 
And  him  as  for  a  map  doth  nature  store, 
To  show  false  art  what  beauty  was  of  yore. 

LXIX. 

Those  parts  of  thee  that  the  world's  eye  doth  view, 
Want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  hearts  can  mend  ; 
All  tongues  (the  voice  of  souls)  give  thee  that  due,* 
Uttering  bare  truth,  even  so  as  foes  commend. 
Thine  outward  thus  with  outward  prai.se  is  crown'd  ; 
But  those  same  tongues  that  give  thee  so  thine  own. 
In  other  accents  do  this  praise  confound. 
By  seeing  farther  than  the  eye  hath  shown. 
They  look  into  the  beauty  of  thy  mind. 
And  that,  in  guess,  they  measure  by  thy  deeds :    flciiiA 
Then  (churls)  their  thoughts,  although  their  eyes  werf 
To  thy  fair  flower  add  the  rank  smell  of  weeds : 
But  why  thy  odour  matcheth  not  thy  show, 
The  solve'  is  this  ; — that  thou  dost  common  grow 


'  TViiB    adotw 


hH  :  ia  old  eds      Tjrrwhitt  m&de  the  oiiiang*.      >  Solution 


SONNETS. 


949 


LXX. 
That  thou  art  blarn'd  shall  not  be  thy  defect, 
For  slander's  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair ; 
The  ornament  of  beauty  is  suspect, 
A  crow  that  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 
So  thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  woo'd  of  time ; 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love, 
And  thou  present'st  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  past  by  the  ambush  of  young  days, 
Either  not  assail'd,  or  victor  being  charged ; 
Yet  this  thy  praise  cannot  be  so  thy  praise. 
To  tie  up  envy,  evermore  enlarged  : 

If  some  suspect  of  ill  mask'd  not  thy  show, 

Then,  thou  alone  kingdoms  of  hearts  shouldst  owe. 

LXXI. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead, 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
0  !  if  (I  say)  you  look  upon  this  verse, 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay ; 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan. 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

LXXII. 
0  !  lest  the  world  should  task  you  to  recite 
What  merit  liv'd  in  me,  that  you  should  love 
After  my  death,  dear  love,  forget  me  quite, 
For  you  in  me  can  nothing  worthy  prove ; 
Unless  you  would  devise  some  virtuous  lie, 
To  do  more  for  me  than  mine  own  desert. 
And  hang  more  praise  upon  deceased  I, 
Then  niggard  truth  would  willingly  impart. 
0  !  lest  your  true  love  may  seem  false  in  this. 
That  you  for  love  speak  well  of  me  untrue. 
My  name  be  buried  where  my  body  is. 
And  live  no  more  to  shame  nor  me  nor  you. 
For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth, 
And  BO  should  you,  to  love  things  nothing  worth. 

LXXIII. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold. 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sun-set  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest : 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire. 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by.  [strong. 
This  thou   perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long : 

LXXIV. 
But  be  contented  :  when  that  fell  arrest 
Without  all  bail  shall  carry  me  away, 
My  life  hath  in  this  line  somt;  interest, 


Which  for  memorial  still  with  thee  shall  stay . 

When  thou  reviewest  this,  thou  dost  review 

The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  thee. 

The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  hib  due ; 

My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  part  of  me  : 

So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  life, 

The  prey  of  worms,  my  body  being  dead  ; 

The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife, 

Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 

The  worth  of  that  is  that  which  it  contains, 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  wfth  thee  remains. 

LXXV. 

So  are  you  to  my  thoughts,  as  food  to  life. 

Or  as  sweet-season'd  showers  are  to  the  ground ; 

And  for  the  peace  of  you  I  hold  such  strife 

As  'twixi  a  miser  and  his  wealth  is  found : 

Now  proud  as  an  enjoyer,  and  anon 

Doubting  the  filching  age  will  steal  his  treasure ; 

Now  counting  best  to  be  with  you  alone, 

Then  better'd  that  the  world  may  see  my  pleasure  ; 

Sometime  all  full  with  feasting  on  your  sight, 

And  by  and  by  clean  starved  for  a  look  j 

Possessmg  or  pursuing  no  delight, 

Save  what  is  had  or  must  from  you  be  took 

Thus  do  I  pine  and  surfeit  day  by  day  ; 

Or  gluttoning  on  all,  or  all  away. 

LXXVl, 

Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride, 
So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change  ? 
Why,  with  the  time,  do  I  not  glance  aside 
To  new-found  methods  and  to  compounds  strange  ? 
Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same. 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed, 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name, 
Showing  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  proceed  ? 
0  !  know,  sweet  love,  I  always  write  of  you, 
And  you  and  love  are  still  my  argument ; 
So,  all  my  best  is  dressing  old  words  new. 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent : 
For  as  the  sun  is  daily  new  and  old, 
So  is  my  love,  still  telling  what  is  told. 

LXXVII. 

Thy  glass  will  show  thee  how  thy  beauties  wear, 
Thy  dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  waste ; 
The  vacant  leaves  thy  mind's  imprint  will  bear, 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  may'st  thou  taste  : 
The  wrinkles  which  thy  glass  will  truly  show, 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory ; 
Thou  by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth  may'st  know 
Time's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look,  what  thy  memory  cannot  contain. 
Commit  to  these  waste  blanks,  and  thou  shalt  fuid 
Those  children  nurs'd,  deliver'd  from  thy  brain, 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look, 
Shall  profit  thee,  and  much  enrich  thy  book. 

LXXVIII. 

So  oft  have  I  invok'd  thee  for  my  muse. 

And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  my  verse. 

As  every  alien  pen  hath  got  my  use. 

And  under  thee  their  poesy  disperse. 

Thine  eyes  that  taught  the  dumb  on  high  to  smg. 

And  heavy  ignorance  aloft  to  fly. 

Have  added  feathers  to  the  learned's  wing, 


950 


SONNETS. 


And  given  grace  a  double  majesty. 
Vet  be  most  proud  of  that  wliich  I  compile, 
Whoso  influence  is  thine,  and  born  of  thee  : 
In  others'  works  thou  dost  but  mend  the  style, 
And  arts  wilii  thy  sweet  graces  sraeed  be  : 
But  thou  art  all  my  art.  and  dost  advance 
As  high  as  learning  my  rude  ignorance. 

LXXIX. 

Whilst  I  alone  did  call  upon  thy  aid, 
My  verse  alone  had  all  thy  gentle  grace; 
But  now  my  gracious  numbers  are  decay'd, 
And  my  sick  mu.se  doth  give  another  place. 

grant,  sweet  love,  thy  lovely  argument 
Deserves  the  travail  of  a  worthier  pen  ; 
Yet  what  of  thee  thy  poet  doth  invent. 
He  robs  thee  of,  and  pays  it  thee  again. 
He  lends  thee  virtue,  and  he  stole  that  word 
From  thy  behaviour  ;  beauty  doth  he  give. 
And  found  it  in  thy  cheek ;  he  can  afford 
No  praise  to  thee  but  what  in  thee  doth  live. 

Then,  thank  him  not  for  that  which  he  doth  say, 
Since  what  he  owes  thee,  thou  thyself  dost  pay. 

LXXX. 

0  !  how  I  faint  when  I  of  you  do  write, 
Knowing  a  better  spirit  doth  use  your  name, 
.■\.ud  in  the  praise  thereof  spends  all  his  miglit, 
To  make  me  tongue-tied,  speaking  of  your  fame  : 
But  since  your  worth  (wide  as  the  ocean  is) 
Tlie  humble  as  the  proudest  sail  doth  bear, 

My  saucy  bark,  inferior  far  to  his, 
On  your  broad  main  doth  wilfully  appear. 
Your  shallowest  help  will  hold  me  up  afloat. 
Whilst  he  upon  your  soundless  deep  doth  ride ; 
Or.  being  wreck'd,  I  am  a  worthless  boat, 
He  of  tall  building,  and  of  goodly  pride : 
Then,  if  he  thrive,  and  I  be  cast  away. 
The  worst  was  this — my  love  was  my  decay. 

LXXXI. 
Or  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  make, 
Or  you  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten : 
From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 
Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 
Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have. 
Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die  : 
The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  grave. 
When  you  entombed  in  mens  eyes  shall  lie. 
Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse, 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read  ; 
.\nd  tonimes  to  be  your  being  shall  rehearse, 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead  ; 
You  still  shall  live  (such  virtue  hath  my  pen,) 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of 
men. 

LXXXII. 

1  grant  thou  wert  not  married  to  my  muse. 
And,  therefore,  may'st  without  attaint  o'er-look 
The  dedicated  words  which  writers  use 

Of  their  fair  subject,  blessing  every  book. 
Thou  art  as  fair  in  knowledse  as  in  hue, 
hnding  ttiy  worth  a  limit  past  my  praise  ; 
And,  thcrelV>re.  art  enforcd  to  seek  anew 
Some  tre>her  stamp  of  the  time-bettering  days. 
.\iid  do  so,  love  ;  yet  when  they  have  devis'd 
What  strained  touches  rhetoric  can  lend, 
Thnu  truly  fair,  wert  truly  sympathiz'd 


In  true  plain  words,  by  thy  true-telling  friend; 
And  their  gross  painting  might  be  better  used 
Where  cheeks  need  blood :  in  thee  it  is  abused. 

LXXXIII. 

I  never  saw  that  you  did  painting  need. 
And,  therefore,  to  your  fair  no  painting  set; 
I  found,  or  thought  I  found,  you  did  exceed 
The  barren  tender  of  a  poet's  debt : 
And,  therefore,  have  I  slept  in  your  report. 
That  you  your.self,  being  extant,  well  might  .show 
How  far  a  modern  quill  doth  come  too  short. 
Speaking  of  worth,  what  worth  in  you  doth  grow. 
This  silence  for  my  sin  you  did  impute. 
Which  shall  be  most  my  glory,  being  dumb  ; 
For  I  impair  not  beauty  being  mute. 
When  others  would  give  life,  and  bring  a  tomb. 
There  lives  more  life  in  one  of  your  fair  eyee, 
Than  both  your  poets  can  in  praise  devise. 

LXXXIV. 
Who  is  it  that  says  most  ?  which  can  say  more. 
Than  this  rich  praise,  that  you  alone  are  you  ? 
In  who.se  confine  immured  is  the  store, 
Which  should  example  where  your  equal  grew. 
Lean  penury  within  that  pen  doth  dwell. 
That  to  his  subject  lends  not  some  small  glory, 
But  he  that  writes  of  you,  if  he  can  tell 
That  you  are  you,  so  dignifies  his  story. 
Let  him  but  copy  what  in  you  is  writ. 
Not  making  worse  what  nature  made  so  clear, 
And  such  a  counterpart  shall  fame  his  wit. 
Making  his  style  admired  every  where. 

You  to  your  beauteous  blessings  add  a  curse, 
Being  fond  on  praise,  which    makes    your   praises 
worse. 

LXXXV. 

My  tongue-tied  muse  in  manners  holds  her  still, 
While  comments  of  your  praise,  richly  compil'd. 
Reserve  their  character  with  golden  quill, 
And  precious  phrase  by  all  the  muses  fU'd. 
I  think  good  thoughts,  whilst  other  WTite  good  words, 
And,  like  unletter'd  clerk,  still  cry  "Amen" 
To  every  hymn  that  able  spirit  affords, 
In  polish'd  form  of  well-retined  pen. 
Hearing  you  prais'd,  I  say,  "  't  is  so,  't  is  true," 
And  to  the  most  of  praise  add  something  more; 
But  that  is  in  my  thought,  whose  love  to  you, 
Though  words  come  hindmost,  holds  his  rank  before  : 
Then,  others  for  the  breath  of  words  respect, 
Me  for  my  dumb  thoughts,  speaking  in  clfect. 

LXXXVI. 

Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse. 
Bound  for  the  prize  of  all  too  precious  you. 
That  did  my  ripe  thoughts  in  my  brain  inherse. 
Making  their  tomb  the  womb  wherein  they  grew? 
Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  ■«Tite 
Above  a  mortal  pitch,  that  struck  me  dead  ? 
No,  neither  he,  nor  his  compeers  by  night 
Giving  him  aid,  my  verse  astonished: 
He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost. 
Which  nightly  gulls  him  with  intelligence. 
As  victors  of  my  silence  cannot  boast. 
I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence  ; 
But  when  your  countenance  fiird  up  his  line, 
Then  lack'd  I  matter ;  that  enfeebled  nune. 


SONNETS. 


951 


LXXXVII. 

Farewell :  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing , 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing 
Or  me,  to  whom  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking ; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  oh  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter, 
In  sleep  a  king,  but  waking,  no  such  matter. 

LXXXVIII. 
When  thou  shalt  be  dispos'd  to  set  me  light. 
And  place  my  merit  in  the  eye  of  scorn, 
Upon  thy  side  against  myself  I  '11  fight. 
And  prove  thee  \irtuous,  though  thou  art  forsworn  : 
With  mine  own  weakness  being  best  acquainted, 
Upon  thy  part  I  can  set  down  a  story 
Of  faults  conceal'd,  wherein  I  am  attainted, 
That  thou,  in  losing  me,  shalt  win  much  glory : 
And  I  by  this  will  be  a  gainer  too  ; 
For  bending  all  my  loving  thoughts  on  thee. 
The  injuries  that  to  myself  I  do. 
Doing  thee  vantage,  double  vantage  me. 
Such  is  my  love,  to  thee  I  so  belong. 
That  for  thy  right  myself  will  bear  all  wrong. 

LXXXIX. 

Say  that  thou  didst  forsake  me  for  some  fault, 
And  I  will  comment  upon  that  offence  : 
Speak  of  my  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt. 
Against  thy  reasons  making  no  defence. 
Thou  canst  not,  love,  disgrace  me  half  so  ill. 
To  set  a  form  upon  desired  change. 
As  I  '11  myself  disgrace  :  knowing  thy  will, 
I  will  acquaintance  strangle,  and  look  strange ; 
Be  absent  from  th'y  walks  ;  and  in  my  tongue 
Thy  sweet  beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell. 
Lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  -wrong. 
And  haply  of  our  old  acquaintance  tell. 
For  thee,  against  myself  I  '11  vow  debate, 
For  I  must  ne'er  love  him  whom  thou  dost  hate. 

XC. 
Then,  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever,  now : 
Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross. 
Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow, 
And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after  loss. 
Ah  !  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  scap'd  this  sorrow, 
Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquer'd  woe  ; 
Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow, 
To  linger  out  a  purpos'd  overthrow. 
If  thoa  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last. 
When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite, 
But  in  the  onset  come  :  so  shall  I  taste 
At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might ; 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compared  with  loss  of  thee,  will  not  seem  so. 

XCI. 
Some  slory  in  their  birth,  some  m  their  skill. 
Some  in  their  w'ealth.  some  in  their  body's  force  ; 
Some  in  their  garments,  though  new-fangled  ill  • 


Some  in  their  haw^ks  and  hounds,  some  in  their  horse 
And  every  humour  hath  his  adjunct  pleasure, 
Wherein  it  finds  a  joy  above  the  rest ; 
But  these  particulars  are  not  my  measure : 
All  these  I  better  in  one  ge.ieral  best. 
Thy  love  is  better  than  high  birth  to  me, 
Richer  than  wealth,  prouder  than  garments'  cost, 
Of  more  delight  than  hawks  or  horses  be  ; 
And  having  thee,  of  all  men's  pride  I  boast : 
Wretched  in  this  alone,  that  thou  may'st  take 
All  this  away,  and  me  most  \^Tetched  make. 

XCII. 
But  do  thy  worst  to  steal  thyself  away, 
J'or  term  of  life  thou  art  assured  mine  ; 
And  life  no  longer  than  thy  love  will  stay. 
For  it  depends  upon  that  love  of  thine  : 
Then,  need  I  not  to  fear  the  worst  of  wrongs, 
When  in  the  least  of  them  my  life  hath  end. 
I  see  a  better  state  to  me  belongs 
Than  that  which  on  thy  humour  doth  depend. 
Thou  canst  not  vex  me  with  inconstant  mind, 
Since  that  my  life  on  thy  revolt  doth  lie. 
0  !  what  a  happy  title  do  I  find, 
Happy  to  have  thy  love,  happy  to  die : 

But  what 's  so  blessed  fair  that  fears  no  blot? 

Thou  may'st  be  false,  and  yet  I  know  it  not. 

XCIII. 
So  shall  I  live,  supposing  thou  art  true. 
Like  a  deceived  husband ;  so  love's  face 
May  still  seem  love  to  me,  though  alter'd  new; 
Thy  looks  with  me,  thy  heart  in  other  place : 
For  there  can  live  no  hatred  in  thine  eye ; 
Therefore,  in  that  I  camiot  know  thy  change. 
In  many's  looks  the  false  heart's  history 
Is  writ  in  moods,  and  frowns,  and  wrinkles  strange  j 
But  heaven  in  thy  creation  did  decree. 
That  in  thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell ; 
Whate'er  thy  thoughts  or  thy  heart's  workings  be, 
Thy  looks  should  nothing  thence  but  sweetness  t«ll. 
How  like  Eve's  apple  doth  thy  beauty  grow. 
If  thy  sweet  ^'irtue  answer  not  thy  show  ! 

XCIV. 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none, 

That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 

Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone. 

Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow  ; 

They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces, 

And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense ; 

They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 

Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 

The  sunmrier's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 

Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die ; 

But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet. 

The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity  ; 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds  : 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

XCV. 
How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame^ 
Which,  like  a  canker  in  tlie  fragrant  rose. 
Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name  ? 
0,  in  what  sweets  dost  thou  thy  sins  enclose  ' 
That  tongue  that  tells  the  story  of  thy  days, 
(Making  lascivious  comments  on  thy  sport) 
Cannot  dispraise  but  in  a  kuid  of  praise  . 


952 


SONNETS. 


Naming  thy  name  blesses  an  ill  report. 
0 !  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got, 
Wliich  for  iheir  habitation  chose  out  thee, 
Whore  beauty's  veil  doth  cover  every  blot, 
Ami  ail  things  turn  to  fair  tiiat  eyes  can  see ! 

Talve  lii-ed.  dear  heart,  of  tliis  large  privilege; 

Tiie  hardest  knife  ill  usd  doth  lose  his  edge 

XCVI. 
Some  say,  thy  fault  is  youth,  some  wantonness; 
Some  say,  thy  grace  is  youth,  and  gentle  sport; 
Both  grace  and  faults  are  lov'd  of  more  and  less  : 
Thou  makst  faults  graces  that  to  thee  resort. 
As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
Tlie  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteem'd, 
So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  tr  Jths  translated,  and  for  true  things  deem'd. 
How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray, 
If  .like  a  iamb  he  could  his  looks  translate  ! 
How  many  gazers  mightst  thou  lead  away, 
H  tliou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  thy  state  ! 
But  do  not  so  ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort, 
As  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 

XCVII. 
How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleetins  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  every  where  ! 
And  yet  this  time  remov'd  was  summer's  time ; 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime. 
Like  widowd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease  : 
Vet  thus  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  liope  of  orphans,  and  unfather'd  fruit : 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
.\nd,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute ; 

Or,  if  they  sing,  't  is  with  so  dull  a  cheer. 

That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter  's  near. 

XCVIII. 
From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
Wlien  proud-pied  April,  dress'd  in  ail  his  trim, 
Haiti  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing. 
That  hea\'y  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him : 
Vet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  diflercnt  tlowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  rae  any  summer's  story  tell, 
i>  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew: 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white. 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you:  you  jiattern  of  all  those. 
Vet  seem'd  it  winter  s^tili,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play: 

XCIX. 
The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide : — 
Sweet  thief,  whence  didst    thou  steal  thy  sweet  that 
If  not  from  my  love's  breath?  the  purple  pride  [smells, 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 
The  Illy  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stol'n  thy  hair: 
The  ro.ses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both. 
And  to  this  robbery  had  annexd  thy  breath; 


But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  gro-wth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see. 
But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stol'n  from  thee. 


Where  an  thou.  Muse,  that  thou  forget'st  so  lon(? 
To  speak  of  that  which  gives  thee  all  thy  might? 
Spend'st  thou  thy  fury  on  some  worthless  song, 
Darkening  thy  power  to  lend  base  subjects  light  f 
Return,  forgetful  Muse,  and  straight  redeem 
In  gentle  numbers  time  so  idly  spent : 
Sing  to  the  ear  that  doth  thy  lays  esteem, 
And  gives  thy  pen  both  skill  and  argument. 
Rise,  resty  Muse,  my  love's  sweet  face  survey 
If  Time  have  any  wrinkle  graven  tliere ; 
If  any,  be  a  satire  to  decay. 
And  make  Time's  spoils  despised  every  where. 

Give  my  love  fame  faster  than  Time  wastes  life; 

So  thou  prevent'st  his  scythe,  and  crooked  knife. 

CI. 

0  truant  Muse  !  what  shall  be  thy  amends, 
For  thy  neglect  of  truth  in  beauty  dyed  ? 
Both  truth  and  beauty  on  my  love  depends ; 
So  dost  thou  too,  and  therein  dignified. 
Make  answer,  Muse  :  wilt  thou  not  haply  say, 
"  Truth  needs  no  colour,  with  his  colour  fix'd ; 
Beauty  no  pencil,  beauty's  truth  to  lay; 

But  best  's  best,  if  never  intermix^." 
Because  he  needs  no  praise,  wilt  thou  be  dumb  ? 
Excuse  not  silence  so  ;  for  't  lies  in  thee 
To  make  him  much  out-live  a  gilded  tomb, 
And  to  be  prais'd  of  ages  yet  to  be. 

Then,  do  thy  office,  Muse  :  I  teach  thee  how 
To  make  him  seem  long  hence  as  he  shows  now. 

CII. 

My  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in  seeming 

1  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear: 
That  love  is  merchandiz'd,  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owTier's  tongue  doth  publish  evefy  where. 
Our  love  was  new,  and  then  but  in  the  spring, 
When  I  was  wont  to  greet  it  with  my  lays; 

As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing, 
And  stops  his  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days: 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now, 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hii.^^h  the  nighi. 
But  that  wild  music  burdens  every  bouizh. 
And  sweetw  grown  common  lose  their  dear  delight. 
Therefore,  like  h«-     I  sometime  hold  my  tongue. 
Because  I  would  iiot  dull  you  with  my  song. 

cm. 

Alack  !  what  poverty  my  muse  brings  forth. 
That  having  such  a  scope  to  show  her  prid«, 
The  argument,  ail  bare,  is  of  more  worth. 
Than  wlien  it  hath  my  added  praise  be.side 
0  !  blame  me  not.  if  I  no  more  can  wTite : 
Look  in  y»  ur  glass,  and  there  appears  a  face, 
That  over-goes  my  blunt  invention  quite, 
Dulling  my  lines,  and  doing  me  disgrace. 
Were  it  not  sinful,  then,  striving  lo  mend, 
To  mar  the  subject  that  before  was  well  ? 
For  to  no  other  pass  my  verses  tend. 
Than  of  your  graces  and  your  gifts  to  tell; 

And  more,  much  more,  than  in  my  verse  can  sit, 
Your  own  glass  shows  you,  when  you  look  in  it 


SONNETS. 


95^^ 


CIV. 
To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old. 
For  as  you  were,  when  first  your  eye  I  ey'd, 
Sucn  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers'  pride  : 
Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd. 
In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen  ; 
Three  April  jerfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd. 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial  hand, 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived  ; 
So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  'TiPtion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived : 
Foi  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred. — 
Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  summer  dead- 

CV. 
Let  not  my  love  be  call'd  idolatry, 
Nor  my  beloved  as  an  idol  show, 
Since  all  alike  my  songs  and  praises  be, 
To  one,  of  one,  still  such,  and  ever  so. 
Kind  is  my  love  to-day,  to-morrow  kind. 
Still  constant  in  a  wondrous  excellence  ; 
Therefore,  my  verse  to  constancy  confin'd. 
One  thing  expressing,  leaves  out  difference. 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  is  all  my  argument. 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  varying  to  other  words ; 
And  in  this  change  is  my  invention  spent, 
Three  themes  in  one,  which  wondrous  scope  affords. 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  have  often  liv'd  alone. 
Which  three,  till  now,  never  kept  seat  in  one. 

CVI. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme, 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights; 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 
And  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing : 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

CVII. 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world,  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Suppos'd  as  forfeit  to  a  confin'd  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endur'd. 
And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage; 
Incertaiuties  now  crown  themselves  assur'd, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now.  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  death  to  me  subscribes. 
Since,  spite  of  him,  I  '11  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes : 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument, 
When  tyrants'  crests,  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 


CVIII. 
What 's  in  the  brain  that  ink  may  character. 
Which  hath  not  figur'd  to  thee  my  true  spirit  ? 
What 's  new  to  speak,  v^hat  now  to  register, 

To  blench  u  -o  starf  from.    »  have  :  in  old  eds.     Tyrvchitt  made  the  change.    »  Jitngar. 


That  may  express  my  love,  or  tiiy  dear  merit ' 
Nothing,  sweet  boy;  but  yet,  like  prayers  divine. 
1  must  each  day  say  o'er  the  very  same. 
Counting  no  old  thing  old,  thou  mine,  I  thine. 
Even  as  when  first  I  hallo w'd  thy  fair  nam* 
So  that  eternal  love,  in  love's  fresh  case, 
Weighs  not  the  dust  and  injury  of  age ; 
Nor  gives  to  necessary  wrinkles  place. 
But  makes  antiquity  for  aye  his  page: 

Finding  the  first  conceit  of  love  there  bred, 
Where  time  and  outward  form  would  show  it  dea 

CIX. 
0 !  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart. 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify. 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart. 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie. 
That  is  my  home  of  love :  if  I  have  rang'd, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  again. 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchang'd ; 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd, 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good ; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call. 
Save  thou,  my  Rose ;  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 

ex. 

Alas !  't  is  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view : 

Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear 

Made  old  offences  of  affections  new : 

Most  true  it  is,  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 

Askance  and  strangely ;  but,  by  all  above. 

These  blenches'  gave  my  heart  another  youth. 

And  worse  essays  prov'd  thee  my  best  of  love. 

Now  all  is  done,  save"  what  shall  have  no  end: 

Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 

On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 

A  god  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confin'd. 

Then,  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the  beat. 
Even  to  thy  pure,  and  most  most  loving  breast. 

CXL 

0  !  for  my  sake  do  you  with  fortune  chide. 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand; 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  siibdu'd 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 
Pity  me,  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd. 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient.  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eyseP  'gainst  my  strong  infection; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think. 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me,  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye, 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

cxn. 

Your  love  and  pity  doth  th'  impression  fill 

Which  vulgar  scandal  stamp'd  upon  my  brow; 

For  what  care  I  who  calls  me  well  or  ill. 

So  you  o'er-green  my  bad,  m.y  good  allow  ? 

You  are  my  all-the-world,  and  I  must  strive 

To  know  my  shames  and  praises  from  your  tongue, 

None  else  to  me,  nor  I  to  none  alive, 


954 


SONNETS. 


That  my  steefd  sense  or  changes,  right  or  wrong. 

Ill  so  profound  abysm  I  throw  all  care 

Of  others'  voices,  that  my  adders  sense 

To  critic  and  to  flatterer  stopped  are. 

Mark  how  with  my  neglect  I  do  dispense  : — 
You  are  so  strongly  in  my  purpose  bred, 
That  all  the  world  besides  methinks  they  are  dead. 

CXIII. 
Since  I  left  you  mine  eye  is  in  my  mind, 
And  that  which  governs  me  to  go  about 
Doth  part  his  funeliou.  and  is  partly  blind, 
Seems  seeing,  but  effectually  is  out ; 
For  it  no  f«»rm  delivers  to  the  heart 
Of  bird,  of  flower,  or  shape,  which  it  doth  latch  :* 
Of  his  quick  objects  hath  the  mind  no  part, 
Nor  his  own  vision  holds  what  it  doth  catch ; 
For  if  it  see  the  rud'st  or  gentlest  sight. 
The  most  sweet  favour,  or  deformed'st  creature, 
The  mountain  or  the  sea,  the  day  or  night, 
Tlie  crow  or  dove,  it  shapes  them  to  your  feature  : 
Incapable  of  more,  replete  with  you. 
My  most  true  mind  thus  maketh  mine  untrue.' 

CXIV. 
Or  whether  doth  my  mind,  being  crown'd  with  you, 
Drink  up  the  monarch's  plague,  this  flattery? 
Or  whether  shall  I  say,  my  eye  saith  true, 
Ajid  that  your  love  taught  it  this  alchymy, 
To  make,  of  monsters  and  things  indigest. 
Such  cherubins  as  your  sweet  self  resemble, 
Creating  every  bad  a  perfect  best, 
As  fast  as  objects  to  his  beams  assemble  ? 
0  !  't  is  the  first :  't  is  flattery  in  my  seeing, 
And  my  great  mind  most  kingly  drinks  it  up: 
Mine  eye  well  knows  what  with  his  gust  is  'greeing, 
And  to  his  palate  doth  prepare  the  cup : 
If  it  be  i»oisond.  't  is  the  lesser  sin 
That  mine  eye  loves  it,  and  doth  first  begin. 

CXV. 
Those  lines  that  I  before  have  writ  do  lie. 
Even  those  that  said  I  could  not  love  you  dearer ; 
Yet  then  my  judgment  knew  no  reason  why 
My  most  full  flame  should  afterwards  burn  clearer. 
But  reckoning  time,  whose  million'd  accidents 
Creep  in  'twixt  vows,  and  change  decrees  of  kings, 
Tan  sacred  beauty,  blunt  the  sharp'st  intents. 
Divert  strong  minds  t'  the  course  of  altering  things ; 
Ala-s  !  why,  tearing  of  time's  tyranny. 
Might  I  not  then  say.  "  now  I  love  you  best," 
When  I  wa.s  certain  o'er  incertainty,    ' 
frowning  the  present,  doubting  of  the  rest? 
Love  is  a  babe ;  then,  might  I  not  say  so, 
To  give  full  growth  to  that  which  still  doth  grow? 

CXVI. 
u^t  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impedimpnt.s  :  love  is  not  love, 
Which  alters  wlien  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 
0  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  htar  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Who<(c  wf.rth  's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken 
Love  'b  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  comej 

•  ^l•t^lnlc•>    r'  m9   dead  :  in  old  cop.    Dyc«  omiU  "they  ''       '  1 


Love  alters  not  -with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

CXVII. 
Accuse  me  thus  :  that  I  have  scanted  all 
Wherein  I  should  your  great  deserts  repay ; 
Forgot  upon  your  dearest  love  to  call, 
Whereto  all  bonds  do  tie  me  day  by  day ; 
That  I  have  frequent  been  with  unknown  minds, 
And  given  to  time  your  own  dear-purchas'd  right  j 
That  I  have  hoisted  sail  to  all  the  winds 
Which  should  transport  me  farthest  from  your  sight 
Book  both  my  wilfulness  and  error?  down, 
And  on  jnst  proof  surmise  accumulate  ; 
Bring  me  within  the  level  of  your  frown, 
But  shoot  not  at  me  in  your  waken'd  hate, 
Since  my  appeal  says,  I  did  strive  to  prove 
The  constancy  and  virtue  of  your  love. 

CXVIII. 
Like  as,  to  make  our  appetites  more  keen, 
With  eager*  compounds  we  our  palate  urge ; 
As,  to  prevent  our  maladies  unseen, 
We  sicken  to  shun  sickness  when  we  purge  ; 
Even  so.  being  full  of  your  ne'er-cloying  sweetness. 
To  bitter  sauces  did  I  frame  my  feeding  ; 
And,  sick  of  welfare,  found  a  kind  of  meetness 
To  be  diseas'd,  ere  that  there  was  true  needing. 
Thus  policy  in  love,  t'  anticipate 
The  ills  that  were  not.  grew  to  faults  a.ssur'd, 
And  brought  to  medicine  a  healthful  state. 
Which,  rank  of  goodness,  would  by  ill  be  cur'd  ; 
But  thence  I  learn,  and  find  the  le.sson  true. 
Drugs  poison  him  that  so  fell  sick  of  you. 

CXIX. 
What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  s>Ten  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  -w-ithin, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes,  and  hopes  to  fears. 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win ! 
What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  committed. 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never  ! 
How  have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been  fitted 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever ! 
0  benefit  of  ill  !  now  I  find  true, 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better  ; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew. 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater. 
So  I  return  rebuk'd  to  my  content. 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent. 

CXX. 
That  you  were  once  unkind  befriends  me  now, 
And  for  that  sorrow,  which  I  then  did  feel, 
Needs  must  I  under  my  transgression  bow, 
Unless  my  nerves  were  brass  or  hammer'd  steel. 
For  if  you  were  by  my  unkindness  shaken. 
As  I  by  yours,  you  have  pass'd  a  hell  of  time ; 
And  I,  a  tyrant,  have  no  lei.sure  taken 
To  weigh  how  once  I  suffer'd  in  your  crime. 
0  !  that  our  night  of  woe  might  have  remember'd 
My  deepest  sense,  how  hard  true  sorrow  hits  ; 
And  soon  to  you,  a.s  you  to  me.  then  tender'd 
The  humble  salve  which  wounded  bosoms  fits  ! 
But  that  your  trespa.ss  now  becomes  a  fee : 
Mine  ransoms  yours,  and  yours  must  ransom  me 


I  old  eds.     Malone  made  the  change 


3  Used  >u  a  cubstAJiliTc 


SONNETS. 


955 


cxxi. 

T  is  better  to  be  vile,  than  vile  esteemed, 
When  not  to  be  receives  reproach  of  being  : 
And  the  just  pleasure  lost,  which  is  so  deemed, 
Not  by  our  feeling,  but  by  others'  seeing : 
For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eyes 
Give  salutation  to  my  sportive  blood  ? 
Or  on  my  frailties  wliy  are  frailer  spies, 
Which  in  their  wills  count  bad  what  I  think  good  ? 
No.  I  am  that  I  am  ;  and  they  that  level 
At  my  abuses,  reckon  up  their  own  : 
I  may  be  straight,  though  they  themselves  be  bevel. 
By  their  rank  thoughts  my  deeds  must  not  be  shown ; 
Unless  this  general  evii  they  maintain. 
All  men  are  bad,  and  in  their  badness  reign. 

CXXII. 
Thy  gift,  thy  tables,  are  within  my  brain 
Full  character'd  with  lasting  memory, 
Wliich  shall  above  that  idle  rank  remain, 
Beyond  all  date,  even  to  eternity  • 
Or,  at  the  least,  so  long  as  brain  and  heart 
Have  faculty  by  nature  to  subsist; 
Till  each  to  ras'd  oblivion  yield  his  part 
Of  thee,  thy  record  never  can  be  miss'd. 
That  poor  retention  could  not  so  much  hold, 
Nor  need  I  tallies  thy  dear  love  to  score  : 
Therefore  to  give  them  from  me  was  I  bold. 
To  trust  those  tables  that  receive  thee  more  : 

To  keep  an  adjunct  to  remember  thee, 

Were  to  import  forgetfulness  in  me. 

CXXIII. 

No  !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do  change  : 
Thy  pyramids,  built  up  with  newer  might. 
To  me  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange ; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our  dates  are  brief,  and  therefore  we  admire 
What  thou  dost  foist  upon  us  that  is  old. 
And  rather  make  them  born  to  our  desire. 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard  them  told. 
Thy  registers  and  thee  1  both  defy. 
Not  wondering  at  the  present,  nor  the  past ; 
For  thy  records  and  what  we  see  do  lie, 
Made  more  or  less  by  thy  continual  haste. 
This  I  do  vow,  and  this  shall  ever  be, 
I  will  be  true,  despite  thy  scythe  and  thee ; 

CXXIV. 

If  my  dear  love  were  but  the  child  of  state. 

It  might  for  fortune's  bastard  be  unfathered, 

As  subject  to  time's  love,  or  to  time's  hate, 

Weeds  among  weeds,  or  flowers  with  flowers  gathered. 

No,  it  was  builded  far  from  accident  ; 

It  suffers  not  in  smiling  pomp,  nor  falls 

Under  the  blow  of  thralled  discontent. 

Whereto  th'  inviting  time  our  fashion  calls : 

It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic, 

Which  works  on  leases  of  short  number'd  hours. 

But  all  alone  stands  hugely  politic, 

That  it  nor  grows  with  heat,  nor  drownis  with  showers. 
To  this  I  witness  call  the  fools  of  time. 
Which  die  for  goodness,  who  have  liv'd  for  crime. 

cxxv. 

Were  't  aught  to  me  I  bore  the  canopy, 
With  my  extern  the  outward  honouring 
Or  laid  great  bases  for  eternity, 

•  Th«  keys  of  tba  virginal. 


Which  prove  more  short  than  waste  or  ruining  ? 
Have  I  not  seen  dwellers  on  form  and  favour 
Lose  all,  and  more,  by  paying  too  much  rent, 
For  compound  sweet  foregoing  simple  savour, 
Pitiful  thrivers,  in  their  gazing  spent  ? 
No  ;  let  me  be  ob.sequious  in  thy  heart. 
And  take  thou  my  oblation,  poor  but  free. 
Which  is  not  mix'd  with  seconds,  know*  uo  art, 
But  mutual  render,  only  me  for  thee. 

Hence,  thou  suborn'd  informer  !  a  true  soul, 
When  most  impeach'd,  stands  least  in  thy  control 

CXXVI. 
0  thou,  my  lovely  boy  !  who  in  thy  power 
Dost  hold  Time's  fickle  glass,  his  sickle,  liour  : 
Who  hast  by  waning  grown,  and  therein  show'st 
Thy  lovers  withering,  as  thy  sweet  self  gro-w'sl  . 
If  nature,  sovereign  mistress  over  wrack. 
As  thou  goest  onwards  still  will  pluck  thee  back, 
She  keeps  thee  to  this  purpose,  that  her  skill 
May  time  disgrace,  and  wretched  minutes  kill. 
Yet  fear  her,  0  thou  minion  of  her  pleasure  ! 
She  may  detain,  but  not  still  keep  her  treasure  : 
Her  audit,  though  delay'd,  answer'd  must  be, 
And  her  quietus  is  to  render  thee. 

CXXVII. 
In  the  old  age  black  was  not  counted  fair. 
Or  if  it  were,  it  bore  not  beauty's  name  ; 
But  now  is  black  beauty's  successive  heir, 
And  beauty  slander'd  with  a  bastard  shame ; 
For  since  each  hand  hath  put  on  nature's  power, 
Fairing  the  foul  with  art's  false  borrow'd  face, 
Sweet  beauty  hath  no  name,  no  holy  bower. 
But  is  profau'd,  if  not  lives  in  disgrace. 
Therefore,  my  mistress'  eyes  are  raven  black, 
Her  eyes  so  suited  ;  and  they  mourners  seem 
At  such,  who.  not  born  fair,  no  beauty  lack. 
Slandering  creation  with  a  false  esteem  : 
Yet  so  they  mourn,  becoming  of  their  woe. 
That  every  tongue  says,  beauty  should  look  so. 

cxxvin. 

How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  playest, 
Upon  that  blessed  wood,  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently  swayost 
The  -ndry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds, 
Do  I  en^-y  those  jacks,'  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand. 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest  reap. 
At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand. 
To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips, 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  eentle  gait. 
Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than  living  Una. 

Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this. 

Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss, 

CXXIX. 

Th'  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action  ;  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjur'd.  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame. 
Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust ; 
Enjoy'd  no  sooner  but  despised  straight ; 
Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had. 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow"d  bait. 
On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad  : 
Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so ; 
Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have   extreme  : 


956 


SONNETS. 


A  bli§8  in  proof — and  prov'd.  a  very  woe;' 

Before,  a  joy  propos'd  :  behind,  a  dream. 

All  this  the  world  well  knows,  yet  none  kiiow.s  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 

CXXX. 

My  niistre.«s'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun; 

Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red  : 

If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun  ; 

Ff  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  ijrow  on  her  head. 

I  have  seen  roses  damask'd,  red  and  white, 

But  no  such  roses  see  1  in  her  cheeks  ; 

And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 

Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks. 

]  love  to  hear  her  speak,  yet  well  I  know 

That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing  sound  : 

I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go  ; 

My  mistress,  when  she  walks,  treads  on  the  ground. 

And  yet.  by  heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 

As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

CXXXI. 
Thou  art  as  tyramious,  so  as  thou  art, 
As  those  whose  beauties  proudly  make  thera  cruel; 
For  well  thou  kiiowst.  to  my  dear  doting  heart 
Thou  art  the  fairest  and  most  precious  jewel. 
Yet,  in  good  faith,  some  say  that  thee  behold, 
Thy  face  hath  not  the  power  to  make  love  groan : 
To  say  they  err  I  dare  not  be  so  bold. 
Although  I  swear  it  to  myself  alone. 
And,  to  be  sure  that  is  not  false  I  swear, 
A  thousand  groans,  but  thinking  on  thy  face, 
One  on  anothers  neck,  do  wtness  bear. 
Thy  black  is  fairest  in  my  judgment's  place. 
In  nothing  art  thou  black,  save  in  thy  deeds. 
And  thence  this  slander,  as  I  think,  proceed*. 

CXXXII. 
Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pitying  me, 
K  no-wing  thy  heart  torments'*  me  with  disdain, 
Have  put  on  black,  and  loving  mourners  be. 
Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  my  pain. 
And.  truly,  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 
Better  b€<;omes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  east. 
Nor  that  lull  star  that  ushers  in  the  even 
Doth  half  that  glory  to  the  sober  west. 
As  those  two  mourning  eyes  become  thy  face 
0  !  let  it,  then,  as  well  beseem  thy  heart 
To  mourn  for  me.  since  mourning  doth  thee  grace. 
And  suit  thy  pity  like  in  every  part ; 

Then  will  I  swear,  beauty  herself  is  black, 
And  all  they  foul  that  thy  complexion  lack. 

CXXXIII. 
B<-shrew  that  heart,  that  makes  my  heart  to  groan 
For  that  deep  wound  it  gives  my  friend  and  me  ! 
Ic  'l  not  enough  to  torture  me  alone, 
But  slave  to  slavery  my  swect'st  friend  must  be  ? 
Me  from  myself  thy  cruel  eye  hath  taken, 
And  my  next  self  thou  harder  hast  enijrossed  : 
Of  him.  myself,  and  thee,  I  am  forsaken  ; 
\  torment  thrice  threefold  thus  to  be  cros.sed. 
Prison  my  heart  in  thy  steel  bosom's  ward, 
But,  then,  my  friend's  heart  let  my  poor  heart  bail ; 
Whoe'er  keeps  me,  let  my  heart  be  his  guard ; 
Thou  canst  not  then  u.se  rigour  in  my  jail : 

»  and  prnod  and  Tery  woe  :  in  old  edi.  Malone  made  the  chance. 
i»a»t  thy  Will  :  Ai  there  ii  in  thii  and  the  next  nonnet,  as  well  as  in 
•  •  nave  rnnl"J  '«  exactly  a*  it  itandd  in  the  quarto.  IfiflO,  and  aa 
piwM  of  gTonnd  which  haa  been  "  common,"  or  uiiinclossd,  but  hu 


And  yet  thou  wilt ;  for  I,  being  pent  in  thee, 
Perforce  am  tliine,  and  all  that  is  in  me 

CXXXIV. 
So,  now  I  have  confess'd  that  he  is  thine, 
And  I  myself  am  mortgag'd  to  thy  will  ; 
Myself  I  '11  forfeit,  so  that  other  mine 
Thou  wilt  restore,  to  be  my  comfort  .still : 
But  thou  wilt  not.  nor  he  will  not  be  free, 
For  thou  art  covetous,  and  he  is  kind  ; 
He  learn'd  but,  surety-like,  to  write  for  me, 
Under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  bind. 
The  statute*  of  thy  beauty  thou  wilt  take. 
Thou  usurer,  that  put'st  forth  all  to  use. 
And  sue  a  friend,  came  debtor  for  my  sake  ; 
So  him  I  lose  through  my  unkind  abuse. 

Him  have  I  lost ;  thou  hast  both  him  and  me  ; 

He  pays  the  whole,  and  yet  am  I  not  free. 

CXXXV. 

Whoever  hath  her  wish,  thou  hast  thy  Will,* 

And  Will  to  boot,  and  Will  in  over-plus  ; 

More  than  enough  am  I,  that  vex  thee  still, 

To  thy  sweet  will  making  addition  thus. 

Wilt  thou,  whose  will  is  large  and  spacious, 

Not  once  vouchsafe  to  hide  my  will  in  thine  ? 

Shall  will  in  others  seem  right  gracious. 

And  in  my  will  no  fair  acceptance  shine? 

The  sea.  all  water,  yet  receives  rain  still. 

And  in  abundance  addeth  to  his  store  : 

So  thou,  being  rich  in  Will,  add  to  thy  Will 

One  will  of  mine,  to  make  thy  large  U'ill  more 
Let  no  unkind,  no  fair  beseechers  kill  : 
Think  all  but  one,  and  me  in  that  one  Will. 

CXXXVL 
If  thy  soul  check  thee  that  I  come  so  near, 
Swear  to  thy  blind  soul  that  I  was  thy  Will, 
And  will,  thy  soul  knows,  is  admitted  there  ; 
Thus  far  for  love,  my  love-suit,  sweet,  fulfil. 
Will  will  fulfil  the  treasure  of  thy  love. 
Ay,  fill  it  full  with  vvills,  and  my  will  one. 
In  things  of  great  receipt  with  ease  we  prove, 
Among  a  number  one  is  reckon'd  none  : 
Then,  in  the  number  let  me  pass  untold. 
Though  in  thy  stores'  account  I  one  must  be  ; 
For  nothing  hold  me,  so  it  please  thee  hold 
That  nothing  me.  a  something  sweet  to  thee  : 
Make  but  my  name  thy  love,  and  love  that  still, 
And  then  thou  lov'st  me, — for  my  name  is  Will. 

CXXX  VII. 
Thou  blind  fool.  Love,  what  dost  thou  to  mine  eyee 
That  they  behold,  and  see  not  what  they  see  ? 
They  know  what  beauty  is,  see  where  it  lies, 
Yet  what  the  best  is,  take  the  worst  to  be. 
If  eyes,  corrupt  by  over-partial  looks, 
Be  anchor'd  in  the  bay  where  all  men  ride. 
Why  of  eyes'  falsehood  hast  thou  forged  hooks. 
Whereto  the  judgment  of  my  heart  is  tied  ? 
Why  should  my  heart  think  that  a  several  plot.' 
Which  my  heart  knows  the  wide  world's  common  place  ? 
Or  mine  eyes  seeing  this,  say,  this  is  not, 
To  put  fair  truth  upon  so  foul  a  face  ? 

In  things  right  true  my  heart  and  eyes  have  erred. 

And  to  this  false  plague  are  they  now  transferred. 

»  torment :  in  old  eds.  »  Security.  ♦  Whoever  hath  her  wish,  thoc 
Sonnet  cxliii,  an  obvious  play  upon  the  Christian  name  of  the  peel 
it  probably  stood  in  the  manui^cnpt  from  which  it  was  printed  •  A 
been  separated  and  made  private  property. 


SONISTETS. 


957 


CXXXVIII.' 
Whea  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  truth, 
1  do  believe  her.  though  I  know  she  lies, 
That  she  might  think  me  some  untutor'd  youth, 
Unlearned  in  the  world's  false  subtleties. 
Thus  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  me  young, 
Although  she  knows  my  days  are  past  the  best. 
Simply  I  credit  her  false-speaking  tongue : 
On  both  sides  thus  is  simple  truth  supprest. 
But  wherefore  says  she  not,  she  is  unjust  ? 
And  wherefore  say  not  I,  that  I  am  old  ? 
0 !  love's  best  habit  is  in  seeming  trust. 
And  age  in  love  loves  not  to  have  years  told : 

Therefore  I  lie  with  her,  and  she  with  me. 

And  in  our  faults  by  lies  we  flatter'd  be. 

CXXXIX. 
0 !  call  not  me  to  justify  the  wrong, 
That  thy  unkindness  lays  upon  my  heart  ; 
Wound  me  not  with  thine  eye,  but  with  thy  tongue 
Use  power  with  power,  and  slay  me  not  by  art. 
Tell  me  thou  lov'st  elsewhere ;  but  in  my  sight. 
Dear  heart,  forbear  to  glance  thine  eye  aside  :     [might 
What  need'st  thou  wound   with  cunning,   when  thy 
Is  more  than  my  o'er-press'd  defence  can  'bide  ? 
Let  me  excuse  thee  :  ah  !  my  love  well  knows 
Her  pretty  looks  have  been  mine  enemies. 
And  therefore  from  my  face  she  turns  my  foes, 
That  they  elsewhere  might  dart  their  injuries. 

Yet  do  not  so ;  but  since  I  am  near  slain, 

Kill  me  out-right  with  looks,  and  rid  my  pain. 

CXL. 

Be  wise  as  thou  art  cruel ;  do  not  press 
My  tongue-tied  patience    Hth  too  much  disdain ; 
Lest  sorrow  lend  me  words,  .  nd  words  express 
The  manner  of  my  pity- wanting  pain. 
If  I  might  teach  thee  wit,  better  it  were, 
Though  not  to  love,  yet,  love,  to  tell  me  so ; 
As  testy  sick  men,  when  their  deaths  be  near. 
No  news  but  health  from  their  physicians  know : 
For,  if  I  should  despair,  I  should  grow  mad, 
And  in  my  madness  might  speak  ill  of  thee ; 
Vow  this  ill-wresting  world  is  grown  so  bad, 
Mad  slanderers  by  mad  ears  believed  be. 

That  I  may  not  be  so,  nor  thou  belied,  [wide. 

Bear  thine  eyes  straight,  though  thy  proud  heart  go 

CXLI. 

In  faith  I  do  not  love  thee  with  mine  eyes. 

For  they  in  thee  a  thousand  errors  note ; 

But  't  is  my  heart  that  loves  what  they  despise, 

Who  in  despite  of  view  is  pleas'd  to  dote. 

Nor  are  mine  ears  with  thy  tongue's  tune  delighted  ; 

Nor  tender  feeling,  to  base  touches  prone, 

Nor  taste,  nor  smell,  desire  to  be  invited 

To  any  sensual  feast  with  thee  alone  : 

But  my  five  wits,  nor  my  five  senses  can* 

Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  thee. 

Who  leave  unsway'd  the  likeness  of  a  man. 

Thy  proud  heart's  slave  and  vassal  wretch  to  be : 

Only  my  plague  thus  far  I  count  my  gain. 

That  she  that  makes  me  sin  awards  me  pain. 

CXLII. 
Love  is  my  sin,  and  thy  dear  virtue  hate. 
Hate  of  my  sin,  grounded  on  sinful  loving. 

>  This  sonnet,  with  variations,  was  first  printed  in  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  1599.  It  is  inserted  hereafter  as  it  stands  in  thAt  worJr 
that  the  reader  may  have  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the  two  copies.  '  See  note  to  "  King  Lear,"  Act  III,  sc.  iv.  '  This  aoanet,  Titk 
•ome  variations,  will  be  found  hereafter  in  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  "  ♦  Tempt.  *  Old  ed.  reads ;  My  sinful  earth  these  rebel  powers  '.nal 
tnee  array.     Malone  made  th»  i^ange. 


0  !  but  with  mine  compare  thou  thine  own  state, 
And  thou  shalt  find  it  merits  not  reproving  : 

Or,  if  it  do,  not  from  those  lips  of  thine, 
That  have  profan'd  their  scarlet  ornaments, 
And  seal'd  false  bonds  of  love  as  oft  as  mine, 
Robb'd  others'  beds  revenues  of  their  rents. 
Be  it  lawi'ul  I  love  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  those 
Whom  thine  eyes  woo  as  mine  importune  theo: 
Root  pity  in  thy  heart,  that  when  it  srows, 
Thy  pity  may  deserve  to  pitied  be. 

If  thou  dost  seek  to  have  what  thou  dost  hide. 
By  self-example  may'st  thou  be  denied  ' 

CXLIII. 
Lo !  as  a  careful  housewife  runs  to  catch 
One  of  her  feather'd  creatures  broke  away, 
Sets  down  her  babe,  and  makes  all  swift  di.spatcb 
In  pursuit  of  the  thing  she  would  have  stay ; 
Whilst  her  neglected  child  holds  her  in  chace, 
Cries  to  catch  her  whose  busy  care  is  bent 
To  follow  that  which  flies  before  her  face. 
Not  prizing  her  poor  infant's  discontent : 
So  run'st  thou  after  that  which  flies  from  thee, 
Whilst  I,  thy  babe,  chase  thee  afar  behind ; 
Bat  if  thou  catch  thy  hope,  turn  back  to  me. 
And  play  the  mother's  part,  kiss  me,  be  kind  : 
So  will  I  pray  that  thou  may'st  have  thy  Will 
If  thou  turn  back,  and  my  loud  crying  still. 

CXLIV.» 
Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair. 
Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest*  me  still : 
The  better  angel  is  a  man,  right  fair, 
The  worser  spirit  a  woman,  colour'd  ill. 
To  win  me  soon  to  hell,  my  female  evil 
Tempteth  my  better  angel  from  my  side, 
And  would  corrupt  my  saint  to  be  a  devil, 
Wooing  his  purity  with  her  foul  pride. 
And  whether  that  my  angel  be  turn'd  fiend. 
Suspect  I  may,  yet  not  directly  tell  : 
But  being  both  from  me,  both  to  each  friend, 

1  guess  one  angel  in  another's  hell : 

Yet  this  shall  I  ne'er  know,  but  live  in  doubt, 
Till  my  bad  angel  fire  my  good  one  out. 

CXLV. 

Those  lips  that  Love's  own  hand  did  make, 

Breath'd  forth  the  sound  that  said,  "  I  hate." 

To  me  that  languish'd  for  her  sake  : 

But  when  she  saw  my  woeful  state. 

Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come, 

Chiding  that  tongue,  that  ever  sweet 

Was  us'd  in  giving  gentle  doom, 

And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet. 

"  1  hate,"  she  alter'd  with  an  end, 

That  follow'd  it  as  gentle  day 

Doth  follow  night,  who,  like  a  fiend, 

From  heaven  to  hell  is  flown  away : 
"  I  hate"  from  hate  away  she  threw, 
And  sav'd  my  life,  saying — "  not  you." 

CXLVL 
Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fool'd  by  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  array,* 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  sutfer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 


958 


SONXETS. 


I)a  t  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 

Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 

Eat  up  thy  charge?  is  this  thy  body's  end? 

Then,  soul,  live  iluri  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 

A  nd  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store ; 

Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross  , 

Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men. 
And,  death  once  dead,  there  's  no  more  dying  then. 

CXLVII. 
My  love  is  as  a  fever,  longing  still 
For  that  which  longer  nurseth  the  disease ; 
Feedina  on  that  which  doth  presers-e  the  ill, 
Th'  uncertain  sickly  appetite  to  please. 
My  rea.'^on.  the  physician  to  my  love, 
Ansry  that  his  prescriptions  are  not  kept, 
Hatti  left  me,  and  I  desperate  now  approve, 
Desire  is  death,  which  physic  did  except. 
Past  cure  I  am,  now  reason  is  past  care, 
And  frantic  mad  with  ever-more  unrest : 
My  thoughts  and  my  discourse  as  mad  men's  are. 
At  random  from  the  truth  vainly  express'd ; 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair,  and  thought  thee  bright. 

Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night. 

CXLVni. 
0  me  !  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head, 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight  ! 
Or.  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled, 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright  ? 
If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote. 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so? 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's :  no. 
How  can  it  ?  0  !  how  can  love's  eye  be  true. 
That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears  ? 
No  marvel,  then,  though  I  mistake  my  view ; 
The  sun  it.«elf  sees  not.  till  heaven  clears. 

0  cunning  love  !  with  tears  thou  keep'st  me  blind, 
Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  foul  faults  should  find. 

CXLIX. 
Canst  thou,  0  Cmel  !  say,  I  love  thee  not, 
When  I.  against  myself,  with  thee  partake  ?' 
Do  I  not  think  on  thee,  when  I  forgot 
Am  of  myself,  all  tyrant,  for  thy  sake  ? 
Who  hatoth  thee  that  I  do  call  my  friend? 
On  whom  frownVt  thou  that  I  do  fawn  upon  ? 
Nay,  if  thou  lowrst  on  me,  do  I  not  spend 
Revenge  u{>on  myself  with  present  moan? 
What  merit  do  I  in  myself  respect, 
That  IS  so  proud  thy  ser\nce  to  despise. 
When  all  my  best  doth  worship  thy  defect, 
Commanded  by  the  motion  of  thine  eyes  ? 

But.  love,  hate  on,  for  now  I  know  thy  mind  : 
Those  that  can  sec  thou  lov'st,  and  I  am  blird. 

CL. 
O  !  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  powerful  might, 
With  insufficiency  my  heart  to  sway? 
To  make  me  give  the  lie  to  my  true  sight, 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the  day? 
Whence  ha,st  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill, 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
Thfre  is  such  strength  and  warrantise  of  skill, 
That  in  my  mind  thy  worst  all  best  exceeds? 
Who  taught  thee  how  to  make  me  love  thee  more, 
The  more  I  hear  and  see  just  cause  of  hate  ? 

Take  jnrt 


0  !  though  I  love  what  others  do  abhor, 
With  others  thou  shouldst  not  abhor  my  state  : 

If  thy  unworthiness  rais'd  love  in  me. 
More  worthy  I  to  be  belov'd  of  thee. 

CLI. 
Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is ; 
Yet  who  knows  not,  conscience  is  born  of  love  ? 
Then,  gentle  cheater,  urge  not  my  amiss. 
Lest  guilty  of  my  faults  thy  sweet  self  prove  : 
For,  thou  betraying  ine,  1  do  betray 
My  nobler  part  to  my  gross  body's  treason  ; 
My  soul  doth  tell  my  body  that  he  may 
Triumph  in  love  ;  flesh  stays  no  farther  reason. 
But  rising  at  thy  name,  doth  point  out  thee 
As  his  triumphant  prize.     Proud  of  this  pride, 
He  is  contented  thy  poor  drudge  to  be. 
To  stand  in  thy  affairs,  fall  by  thy  side. 
No  want  of  conscience  hold  it,  that  I  call 
Her  love,  for  whose  dear  love  I  rise  and  fall. 

CLU. 
In  loving  thee  thou  know'st  I  am  forsworn. 
But  thou  art  twice  forsworn,  to  me  love  swearinp ; 
In  act  thy  bed-vow  broke,  and  new  faith  torn, 
In  vowing  new  hate  after  new  love  bearing. 
But  why  of  two  oaths'  breach  do  I  accuse  thee. 
When  I  break  twenty  ?     I  am  perjurd  most ; 
For  all  my  vows  are  oaths  but  to  misuse  thee. 
And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost: 
For  I  have  sworn  deep  oaths  of  thy  deep  kindness, 
Oaths  of  thy  love,  thy  truth,  thy  constancy  ; 
And  to  enlighten  thee,  gave  eyes  to  blindness. 
Or  made  them  swear  against  the  thing  they  see ; 
For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  :  more  perjur'd  I, 
To  swear  against  the  truth  so  foul  a  lie  ! 

CLIIl. 
Cupid  laid  by  his  brand,  and  fell  asleep  : 
A  maid  of  Dian's  this  advantage  found, 
And  his  love-kindling  fire  did  quickly  steep 
In  a  cold  valley-fountain  of  that  ground  ; 
Which  borrow'd  from  this  holy  fire  of  love 
A  dateless  lively  heat,  still  to  endure. 
And  grew  a  seething  bath,  which  yet  men  prove 
Against  strange  maladies  a  sovereign  cure. 
But  at  my  mistress'  eye  love's  brand  new-fired, 
The  boy  for  trial  needs  would  touch  my  breast ; 

1  sick  withal,  the  help  of  bath  desired. 
And  thither  hied,  a  sad  distemper'd  guest, 

But  found  no  cure  :  the  bath  for  my  help  lie« 
Where  Cupid  got  new  fire,  my  mistress'  eyes. 

CLIV. 
The  little  Love-god  lying  once  asleep. 
Laid  by  his  side  his  heart-inflaming  brand 
W^hilst  many  nymphs,  that  vow'd  chaste  life  to  keep 
Came  tripping  by  ;  but  in  her  maiden  hand 
The  fairest  votary  took  up  that  fire 
Which  many  legions  of  true  hearts  had  warm'd 
And  .so  the  general  of  hot  desire 
Was,  sleeping,  by  a  virgin  hand  disarm'd. 
Thi.s  brand  she  quenched  in  a  cool  well  by. 
Which  from  love's  fire  took  heat  perpetual. 
Growing  a  bath,  and  healthful  remedy 
For  men  diseas'd;  but  I,  my  mistress'  thrall. 
Came  there  for  cure,  and  this  by  that  I  prove, 
Love's  fire  heats  water,  water  cools  not  love. 


A    LOVER'S    COMPLAINT 


FxoJA  off  a  hill  whose  concave  womb  re- worded 
A  plaintful  story  from  a  sistering  vale, 
My  spirits  t'  attend  this  double  voice  accorded, 
And  down  I  laid  to  list  the  sad-tnn'd  tale; 
Ere  long  espy'd  a  fickle  maid  full  pale. 
Tearing  of  papers,  breaking  rings  a-twain, 
Storming  her  world  with  sorrow's  wind  and  rain. 

Upon  her  head  a  platted  hive  of  straw, 

Which  fortified  her  visage  from  the  sun. 

Whereon  the  thought  might  think  sometime  it  saw 

The  carcase  of  a  beauty  spent  and  done  : 

Time  had  not  scythed  all  that  youth  begun, 

Nor  youth  all  quit ;  but,  spite  of  heaven's  fell  rage, 

Some  beauty  peep'd  through  lattice  of  sear'd  age. 

Oft  did  she  heave  her  napkin  to  her  eyne, 
Which  on  it  had  conceited  characters, 
Laundermg  the  silken  figures  in  the  brine 
That  season'd  woe  had  pelleted  in  tears. 
And  often  reading  what  contents  it  bears; 
As  often  shrieking  undistinguish'd  woe 
In  clamours  of  all  size,  both  high  and  low. 

Sometimes  her  level'd  eyes  their  carriage  ride. 
As  they  did  battery  to  the  spheres  intend ; 
Sometime,  diverted,  their  poor  balls  are  tied 
To  the  orbed  earth  ;  sometimes  they  do  extend 
Their  view  right  on ;  anon  their  gazes  lend 
To  every  place  at  once,  and  no  where  fix'd. 
The  mind  and  sight  distractedly  commix'd. 

Her  hair,  nor  loose,  nor  tied  in  formal  plat, 

Proclaim'd  in  her  a  careless  hand  of  pride  ; 

For  some,  untuck'd,  descended  her  sheav'd'  hat, 

Hanging  her  pale  and  pined  cheek  beside ; 

Some  in  her  threaden  fillet  still  did  bide. 

And,  true  to  bondage,  would  not  break  from  thence, 

Though  slackly  braided  in  loose  negligence. 

A  thousand  favours  from  a  maund*  she  drew 

01  amber,  crystal,  and  of  bedded  jet. 

Which  one  by  one  she  in  a  river  threw. 

Upon  whose  weeping  margent  she  was  set ; 

Like  usury,  applying  wet  to  wet. 

Or  monarchs'  hands,  that  let  not  bounty  fali 

Where  want  cries  "  some,"  but  where  excess  begs  all. 

Of  folded  schedules  had  she  many  a  one, 
Which  she  perus'd,  sigh'd,  tore,  and  gave  the  flood  ; 
Crack'd  many  a  ring  of  posied  gold  and  bone. 
Bidding  them  find  their  sepulchres  in  mud ; 
Found  yet  more  letters  sadly  pen'd  in  blood, 
Wi.th  sleided*  silk  feat  and  affectedly 
Enswath'd,  and  seal'd  to  curious  secrecy. 


These  often  bath'd  she  in  her  fluxive  eyes, 

And  often  kiss'd,  and  often  'gan*  to  tear ; 

Cry'd,  0  false  blood  !  thou  register  of  lies 

What  unapproved  witness  doat  thou  heai ! 

Ink  would  have  seem'd  more  black  and  damned  here 

This  said,  in  top  of  rage  the  lines  she  rents, 

Big  discontent  so  breaking  their  contents. 

A  reverend  man  that  graz'd  his  cattle  nigh, 

Sometime  a  blusterer  that  the  ruffle  knew 

Of  court,  of  city,  and  had  let  go  by 

The  swiftest  hours,  observed  as  they  flew. 

Towards  this  afllicted  fancy  lastly  drew ; 

And,  privileged  by  age,  desires  to  know. 

In  brief,  the  grounds  and  motives  of  her  woe. 

So  slides  he  down  upon  his  grained  bat, 
And  comely-distant  sits  he  by  her  side; 
When  he  again  desires  her,  being  sat, 
Her  grievance  with  his  hearing  to  divide : 
If  that  from  him  there  may  be  aught  applied, 
Which  may  her  suffering  ecstasy  assuage, 
'T  is  promis'd  in  the  charity  of  age. 

Father,  she  says,  though  in  me  you  behold 
The  injury  of  many  a  blasting  hour. 
Let  it  not  tell  your  judgment  I  am  old ; 
Not  age,  but  sorrow,  over  me  hath  power : 
I  might  as  yet  have  been  a  spreading  flower. 
Fresh  to  myself,  if  I  had  self-applied 
Love  to  myself,  and  to  no  love  beside. 

But  woe  is  me  !  too  early  I  attended 

A  youthful  suit,  it  was  to  gain  my  grace ; 

0 !  one  by  nature's  outwards  so  commended, 

That  maidens'  eyes  stuck  over  all  his  face  : 

Love  lack'd  a  dwelling,  and  made  him  her  place  , 

And  when  in  his  fair  parts  she  did  abide, 

She  was  new  lodg'd,  and  newly  deified. 

His  browny  locks  did  hang  in  crooked  curls. 
And  every  light  occasion  of  the  wind 
Upon  his  lips  their  silken  parcels  hurls  : 
What 's  sweet  to  do,  to  do  will  aptly  find ; 
Each  eye  that  saw  him  did  enchant  the  mind, 
For  on  his  visage  was  in  little  drawn, 
What  largeness  thinks  in  paradise  was  sawn.* 

Small  show  of  man  was  yet  upon  his  chin : 
His  phosnix  down  began  but  to  appear. 
Like  unshorn  velvet,  on  that  termless  skin. 
Whose  bare  out-brag'd  the  web  it  seem  d  to  wear  , 
Yet  show'd  his  visage  by  that  cost  most*  dear. 
And  nice  affections  wavering  stood  in  doubt 
If  best  were  as  it  was,  or  best  without. 


Basket.     »  Untwisted.— Pircy. 
ire  :  in  old  ■?da 


gave  :  in  »ld  ed«     Milone  made  the  change.     »  The  northern  prorincialism  for  joir^ 

969 


960 


A   LOVER'S   COMPLAINT. 


His  qualities  were  beauteous  as  hie  form, 

For  maiden-tongu'd  he  was,  and  thereof  free; 

Yet.  if  men  mov'd  hini.  was  he  such  a  storm 

As  oft  'twixt  May  and  April  is  to  see, 

When  winds  bi^eathc  sweet,  unruly  though  they  be. 

His  rudeness  so,  with  his  authoriz'd  youth, 

Did  livery  falseness  in  a  pride  of  truth. 

Well  could  he  ride,  and  often  men  would  say, 

'•  That  horse  his  mettle  from  his  rider  takes: 

Proud  of  subjection,  noble  by  the  sway,  [makes  !" 

What  rounds,  what  bounds,  what  course,  what  stop  he 

And  controversy  hence  a  question  takes. 

Wiiether  the  horse  by  him  became  his  deed, 

Or  he  his  manage  by  the  well-doing  steed. 

But  quickly  on  this  side  the  verdict  went. 

His  real  habitude  gave  life  and  grace 

To  appertainings  and  to  ornament, 

Accoinpli.<hd  in  himself,  not  in  his  case : 

All  aids,  themselves  made  fairer  by  their  place, 

Came'  for  additions,  yet  their  purpos'd  trim 

Piecd  not  his  grace,  but  were  all  grac'd  by  him. 

So  on  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue. 
All  kind  of  arguments  and  que.'«tion  deep, 
All  replication  prompt,  and  reason  strong. 
For  his  advantage  still  did  wake  and  sleep : 
To  make  the  weeper  laugh,  the  laugher  weep, 
He  had  the  dialect  and  different  skill, 
Catching  all  passions  in  his  craft  of  will : 

That  he  did  in  the  general  bosom  reign 
Of  young,  of  old  ;  and  sexes  both  enchanted, 
To  dwell  with  him  iw  thoughts,  or  to  remain 
In  personal  duty,  tollowing  where  he  haunted  : 
Consents,  bewitch"d.  ere  he  desire  have  granted; 
And  dialogued  for  him  what  lie  would  say, 
Ask'd  their  o-rni  wills,  and  made  their  wills  obey. 

Many  there  were  that  did  his  picture  get, 

To  serve  their  eyes,  and  in  it  put  their  mind ; 

Like  foolB  that  in  th'  imagination  set 

The  goodly  objects  which  abroad  they  find 

Of  lanas  and  man.«ions,  theirs  in  thought  assign'd; 

And  labouring  in  more  pleasures  to  bestow  them. 

Than  the  true  gouty  landlord  which  doth  owe  them. 

So  many  have,  that  never  touch'd  his  hand, 
Sweetly  suppos'd  them  mistress  of  his  heart. 
My  woeful  self,  that  did  in  freedom  stand, 
And  was  my  own  fee-simple,  (not  in  part) 
What  with  his  art  in  youth,  and  youth  in  art, 
Threw  my  affections  in  his  charmed  power, 
Elescrv"d  the  .stalk,  and  gave  liim  all  my  flower. 

Yet  did  I  not,  as  some  my  equals  did. 

Demand  of  him.  nor.  being  desird,  yielded; 

Finding  myself  in  honour  .so  forbid. 

With  safest  distance  I  mine  honour  shielded. 

Experience  for  nic  many  bulwarks  builded 

Of  proofs  new-bleeding,  which  rcmain'd  the  foil 

Of  this  fa  Be  jewel,  and  his  amorous  spoil. 

But  ah  !  who  ever  shunn'd  by  precedent 
The  dcstin'd  ill  she  must  herself  assay? 
Or  forcd  examples.  'L'ainst  her  own  content, 
To  put  the  by-pa.'^s'd  penis  in  her  way? 
^^ounsel  may  stop  a  while  what  will  not  stay; 

'  Can  :  lo  Md  edi      >  Anion      »  Sorrote.     ♦  Plaittd.     »  Unsetn 


For  when  we  rage,  advice  is  often  seen 

By  blunting  us  to  make  our  wits  more  keen. 

Nor  gives  it  satisfaction  to  our  blood, 
That  we  must  curb  it  upon  others'  proof. 
To  be  forbid  the  sweets  that  seem  so  good. 
For  fear  of  harms  that  preach  in  our  behoof. 

0  appetite,  from  judgment  stand  aloof! 
The  one  a  palate  hath  that  needs  will  taate. 
Though  reason  weep,  and  cry,  "  it  is  thy  last." 

For  farther  I  could  say,  "  this  man  's  untrue," 
And  knew  the  patterns  of  his  foul  beguiling; 
Heard  where  hi.s  plants  in  others'  orchards  grew, 
Saw  how  deceits  were  gilded  in  his  smiling; 
Knew  vows  were  ever  brokers  to  defiling; 
Thought  characters,  and  words,  merely  but  art. 
And  bastards  of  his  foul  adulterate  heart. 

And  long  upon  these  terms  I  held  my  city. 
Till  thus  he  'gan  besiege  me :  "  Gentle  maid. 
Have  of  my  suffering  youth  some  feeling  pity, 
And  be  not  of  my  holy  vows  afraid  : 
That 's  to  you  sworn,  to  none  was  ever  said ; 
For  feasts  of  love  I  have  been  calTd  unto, 
Till  now  did  ne'er  invite,  nor  never  vow 

All  my  offences  that  abroad  you  see. 

Are  errors  of  the  blood,  none  of  the  mind  : 

Love  made  them  not :  with  acture'  they  may  be, 

Where  neither  party  is  nor  true  nor  kind : 

They  sought  their  shame  that  so  their  shame  did  find. 

And  so  much  less  of  shame  in  me  remains, 

By  how  much  of  me  their  reproach  contains. 

Among  the  many  that  mine  eyes  have  seen. 

Not  one  whose  flame  my  heart  so  much  as  warmed. 

Or  my  affection  put  to  the  smallest  teen.* 

Or  any  of  my  leisures  ever  charmed  : 

Harm  hav<e  I  done  to  them,  but  ne'er  was  harmed; 

Kept  hearts  in  liveries,  but  mine  own  was  free. 

And  reign'd,  commanding  in  his  monarchy. 

Look  here,  what  tributes  wounded  fancies  sent  mc, 

Of  paled  pearls,  and  rubies  red  as  blood  ; 

Figuring  that  they  their  passions  likewise  lent  me 

Of  grief  and  blushes,  aptly  understood 

In  bloodless  white  and  ihe  encrimson'd  mood ; 

Effects  of  terror  and  dear  modesty, 

Encamp'd  in  hearts,  but  fighting  outwardly. 

And  lo !  behold  these  talents  of  their  hair, 
With  twisted  metal  amorously  impleach'd,* 

1  have  receiv'd  from  many  a  several  fair. 
(Their  kind  acceptance  weepingly  beseech'd) 
With  the  annexions  of  fair  gems  enrich'd. 
And  deep-brain'd  sonnets,  that  did  amplify 
Each  stone's  dear  nature,  worth,  and  quality. 

The  diamond  ;  why,  't  was  beautiful  and  hard. 

Whereto  his  invis'd*  properties  did  tend. 

The  deep-green  emerald,  in  whose  fresh  regard 

Weak  sights  their  sickly  radiance  do  amend  ; 

The  hcaven-hued  sapphire,  and  the  opal  blend 

With  objects  manifold  :  each  several  stone. 

With  wit  well  blazon'd,  smil'd.  or  made  some  moan 

Lo  !  all  these  trophies  of  affections  hot. 
Of  pensiv'd  and  subdued  desires  the  tender, 


A  LOVER'S   COMPLAmT. 


961 


Nature  hath  charg'd  me  that  T  hoard  them  not, 
But  yield  them  up  where  I  myself  must  render ; 
That  is,  to  you.  my  origin  and  ender  : 
For  these,  of  force,  must  your  oblations  be, 
Since  ]  their  altar,  you  enpatron  me. 

0  !  then,  advance  of  yours  that  phraseless  hand, 
Whose  white  weighs  down  the  airy  scale  of  praise  ; 
Take  all  these  similes  to  your  own  command. 
Hallow'd  with  sighs  that  burning  lungs  did  raise  • 
What  me,  your  minister,  for  you  obeys, 
Works  under  you  :  and  to  your  audit  comes  I 
Their  distrant  parcels  in  combined  sums. 

Lo  !  this  device  was  sent  me  from  a  nun, 
Or  sister  sanctified,  of  holiest  note ; 
Which  late  her  noble  suit  in  court  did  shun. 
Whose  rarest  havings  made  the  blossoMs'  dote : 
For  she  was  sought  by  spirits  of  richest  coat, 
But  kept  cold  distajice,  and  did  thence  remove, 
To  spend  her  living  in  eternal  love. 

But  0.  my  sweet !  what  labour  is  't  to  leave 

The  thing  we  have  not,  mastering  what  not  strives  ? 

Paling*  the  place  which  did  no  form  receive ; 

Playing  patient  sports  in  unconstrained  gyves  ? 

She  that  her  fame  so  to  herself  contrives, 

The  scars  of  battle  scapeth  by  the  flight, 

And  makes  her  absence  valiant,  not  her  might. 

0,  pardon  me,  in  that  my  boast  is  true  ! 
The  accident  which  brought  me  to  her  eye, 
Upon  the  moment  did  her  force  subdue. 
And  now  she  would  the  caged  cloister  fly ; 
Religious  love  put  out  religion's  eye : 
Not  to  be  tempted,  would  she  be  immur'd,' 
And  now,  to  tempt  all,  liberty  procur'd. 

How  mighty  then  you  are,  0  hear  me  tell ! 
The  broken  bosoms  that  to  me  belong. 
Have  emptied  aU  their  fountains  in  my  well, 
And  mine  I  pour  your  ocean  all  among : 

1  strong  o'er  them,  and  you  o'er  me  being  strong, 
Must  for  your  victory  us  all  congest, 

As  compound  love  to  physic  your  cold  breast 

My  parts  had  power  to  charm  a  sacred  sun. 
Who,  disciplin'd.  I  dieted*  in  grace, 
Believ'd  her  eyes,  when  they  t'  assail  begun. 
All  vpws  and  consecrations  giving  place. 
0  most  potential  love  !  vow,  bond,  nor  space, 
In  thee  hath  neither  sting,  knot,  nor  confine. 
For  thou  art  all,  and  all  things  else  are  thine. 

When  thou  impressest,  what  are  precepts  worth 

Of  stale  example  ?     When  thou  -wilt  inflame, 

How  coldly  those  impediments  stand  forth 

Of  wealth  of  filial  fear.  law.  kindred,  fame? 

Love's  arms  are  peace,  'gainst  rule,  'gain^  sense,  'gainst 

shame ; 
And  sweetens,  in  the  suffering  pangs  it  bears, 
The  aloes  of  all  forces,  shocks,  and  fears. 


Now,  all  these  hearts  that  do  on  mine  depend. 
Feeling  it  break,  with  bleeding  groans  they  pine; 
And  supplicant  their  sighs  to  you  extend. 
To  leave  the  battery  that  you  make  'gainst  mine. 
Lending  soft  audience  to  my  sweet  design. 
And  credent  soul  to  that  strong-bonded  oath. 
That  dtall  prefer  and  undertake  my  troth." 

This  said,  his  watery  eyes  he  did  dismount. 
Whose  sights  till  then  were  level'd  on  my  face ; 
Each  cheek  a  river  running  from  a  fount 
With  brinish  current  downward  flow'd  apace. 
O.  how  the  channel  to  the  stream  ga  ve  grace  ! 
Who,  glaz'd  with  crystal,  gate  the  glowing  roses 
That  flame  through  water  which  their  hue  incloeee 

0  father  !  what  a  hell  of  witchcraft  lies 

In  the  small  orb  of  one  particular  tear ; 

But  with  the  inundation  of  the  eyes 

What  rocky  heart  to  water  will  not  wear  ? 

What  breast  so  cold  that  is  not  warmed  here  ? 

0'  cleft  effect !  cold  modesty,  hot  wrath, 

Both  fire  from  hence  and  chill  extincture  hath  ! 

For  lo  !  his  passion,  but  an  art  of  craft. 

Even  there  resolv'd  my  reason  into  tears : 

There  my  white  stole  of  chastity  I  daflT'd  ; 

Shook  ofi"  my  sober  guards,  and  ci\il  fears : 

Appear  to  him,  as  he  to  me  appears, 

All  melting ;  though  our  drops  this  difference  bore. 

His  poison'd  me,  and  mine  did  him  restore. 

In  him  a  plenitude  of  subtle  matter. 

Applied  to  cautels,  all  strange  forms  receives. 

Of  burning  blushes,  or  of  weeping  water. 

Or  swooning  paleness  :  and  he  takes  and  leaves, 

In  cither's  aptness,  as  it  best  deceives 

To  blush  at  speeches  rank,  to  weep  at  woes, 

Or  to  turn  white,  and  swoon  at  tragic  shows  : 

That  not  a  heart  which  in  his  level  came. 
Could  scape  the  hail  of  his  all-hurting  aim, 
Sho^ving  fair  nature  is  both  kind  and  tame. 
And  veil'd  in  them,  did  win  whom  he  would  maim 
Against  the  thing  he  sought  he  would  exclaim  , 
When  he  most  burn'd  in  heart-wish'd  luxury. 
He  preach'd  purs  maid,  and  prais'd  cold  chastity. 

Thus,  merely  with  the  garment  of  a  grace 
The  naked  and  concealed  fiend  he  cover"  d : 
That  th'  unexperienc'd  gave  the  tempter  place, 
Which,  like  a  cherubin,  above  them  hover'd. 
Who.  young  and  simple,  would  not  be  so  loveHd  ? 
Ah  me !  I  fell  ;  and  yet  do  question  make. 
What  I  should  do  again  for  such  a  sake. 

0,  that  infected  moisture  of  his  eye  ! 
0,  that  false  fire,  which  in  his  cheek  so  glowed  ' 
0,  ^Jiiit  forc'd  thunder  from  his  heart  did  fly  ! 
6,  that  sad  breath  his  spungy-  lungs  bestowed  ! 
0.  all  that  borrowed  motion,  seeming  owed, 
Would  yet  again  betray  the  fore-betray'd, 
And  new  pervert  a  reconciled  maid  ! 


I  Flower  of  the  yonng  nobility.  >  Playing  :  in  old  eds.  Malone  made  the  change.  '  enur'd  :  m  old  ed.  Malone  made  the  ohanj* 
*  Prom  the  quarto,  1609,  the  property  of  Lord  F.  E^erton.  Malone's  copy  at  Oxford  has  "  I  died"  for  "  and  dieted,"  which  he  substitut»a  a) 
the  niggestion  of  a  oonespondent     '  Or  :  in  old  ed.     Malone  made  the  change. 


THE    PASSIONATE    TIEGRIM 


INTRODUCTION. 


T'le  Passionate  Pilgrime  By  W.  Shakespeare.     At  London 
I'rintet.l  for  \V.  Ligtrard,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  W.  Leake,  at 
•!ic  Greyhound  iu  Paules  Churchyard.     1599."     16mo.     80 
loaves.  ' 
Hie  title-pnffe  first  piven  to  the  edition  of  1612  ran   thus: 
•'  The  Passionate  Pilprime.  Or  Certaine  Amorous  Sonnets, 
botwcene  Venus   an<l  Adonis,  newly  corrected   and   aug- 
mented.   By  W.  Shakespere.    The  third  Edition.    Wliere- 
vnto  is  newly  added  two  Lone- Epistles,  the  first  from  Paris 
to   Hellen,  and    Hellen's   answere   backe  againe  to   Paris. 
Printed   by  W.  laggard.     1612."'     The   title-page   substi- 
tuted fo)  the  above  differs  in  no  other  respect  but  in  the 
omission  of"  By  W.  Shakespere."] 
[n  the  following  pages  we  have  reprinted  "  The  Passionate 
Pilffrim,"  l.i99,  as  ii  came  froin   the  press  of  W.  .Ia>jgard,' 
with  the  exception  only  of  the  orthography.     Malone  omitted 
ieveral  portions  of  it ;"  some  beciiuse  they  were  substantially 
repetitions  of  poems  contained  elsewhere,  and  others  because 
they  appeared  to  have  been  improperly  assigned  to  Shake- 
speare :    one  piece,  the  last  in  the  tract,  is  not  inserted  at  all 
in  Boswell's  edition,  althouffh  Malone  reprinted  it  in  1780, 
and  no  reason  is  assisrned  for  rejecting  it.     ^^"e  have  given 
the  whole,  and  in  onr  notes  we' have  stated  the  particular 
circumstances  belonging  to  such  jiieees.  as  there  is  reason  to 
believe  did  not  come  from  the  pen  of  our  great  dramatist. 
"The  Passionate  Pilgrim"  was  reprinted  by  W.  Jaggard,  in. 
lfil-2,  with  additions,  and  the  facts  attending  the  publication 
of  the  two  impressions  are  peculiar. 

In  1.59S,  Kichard  Barnfiela  put  liis  name  to  a  small  collection 
of  pro<iuction9  in  verse,  entitled  "  The  Encomion  of  Lady 
Pecunia."  which  contained  more  than  one  poem  attributed  to 
Shakespeare  in  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  1599  :  the  tirst 
was  printed  by  John,  and  the  la.st  by  William  Jaggard. 
Boswell  sn??e-ts,  that  John  Jaggard  in  1598  might  have 
stolen  Shakespeare's  verses  and  attributed  them  to  Barnfield  ; 
nut  tlie  answer  to  this  supposition  is  two-fold — first,  that 
Barnfield  formally,  and  in  his  own  name,  printed  them  as  his 
in  1.59S;  and  next,  that  he  reprinted  them  under  the  same 
circiimstances  in  1605,  notwithstanding  they  had  been  in  the 
mean  time  assiijned  to  Shakespeare^*.  The  truth  seems  to  be 
that  W.  Jiitr^ard  took  tl\em  in  1599  from  Barnfield's  publica- 
tion, printed  by  John  Jaggard  in  1598.  In  1612  W.  Jaggard 
went  even  more  boldly  to  work;  for  in  the  impression  of 
"  The  Pa.«sionate  Pilgrim  "  of  that  year',  he  not  onlv  re- 
peated Barnfield"s  poems  of  1598,  but  included  two  ©f  Ovid's 
Epistles,  which  had  been  translated  by  Thomas  Ileywood, 
and  printed  by  him  with  his  name  in  his  "  Troja  Britaiinica," 
1609.  The  epistles  were  made,  with  some  little  ambijruitv,  to 
up(>ear  in  "The  Passionate  Pilgrim  "  of  1612,  to  have  been 
also  the  work  of  Shakespeare.  When,  therefore,  Hevwood 
published  his  next  work  in  1612,  he  exposed  the  wrong  that 
jad  been  thus  done  to  him,  and  claimed  the  performances  as 

»  It  profeuM  to  be  "printed  for  W.  Jacsiard,"  but  he  was  probably 
lh«  trporrapher.  »nd  W.  Leake  the  bookKeller.  Leake  published  an 
•d;t;on  of  ■■  Venui  and  Adonii"  in  1602,  contrary  to  what  is  stated 
bB  p   911. 

'  Thu  edition  of  Barnfield's  work  wa*  unknown  to  bibliographers 
natil  a  copy  of  it  wa*  met  with  in  the  library  of  Lord  p'rancis 
Eir»rton.  .'Jee  the  Bridgewater  Cataloeue,  1S.37,  p.  21.  It  wa.s  not  a 
mere  r<"print  of  the  edition  of  l.'iOi,  but  it  was  really  "  newly  cor- 
rected and  en'are»d"  by  the  author,  aa  stated  on  the  title-page;  so 
that  Bamf.e'.d'i  attention  was  particularly  directed  to  the  contents  of 
hi«  ima!!  Tolnme.  and  perhaps  to  the  manner  in  which  part  of  them 
bad  been  r.olen  by  W.  Jaeeard  in  \rm.  It  is  to  be  remarked  also 
that  John  Jaggard  was  not  concerned  in  the  second  edition  of  Barn- 
Jeid's  '•  Encomion,"  as  he  had  been  in  the  first  •  it  was  printed  by 
W,  I.  (probably  W.  laggard,  the  very  person  who  had  committed  the 
theft  in  1M9)  and  it  was  "  to  be  sold  by  lohn  Hodgets  '  Both 
editions  contain  the  tribute  to  Spenser.  Daniel  Dravton.  and  Shake- 
•p'*r»  :  the  linf»  to  the  latter  would  hardly  have  been  reorinted  in 
t6«)-'>.  if  Birnfiell  had  supposed  that  .''hakespeare  had  in' any  way 
fiTen  his  kanrti-  n  to  the  transference  of  two  pieces  from  the  "  Enco- 
mion "  to  '   The  Paasionale  Pilgrim." 

•  On  the  title  page  it  is  called  '•  the  third  edition,''  but  no  second 

962 


his  own.  (See  the  Reprint  of  "  The  Apologv  for  Actors,'  by 
the  Shakespeare  Society,  pp.  62  and  66.^  ilc  seems  albo  to 
have  taken  steps  against  W.  Jaggard  ;  for  the  latter  cancelled 
the  title-page  of  "The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  1612,  which 
contained  tlie  name  of  Shakespeare,  and  substituted  another 
without  any  name,  so  far  discrediting  Shakespeare's  right  to 
any  of  the  poems  the  work  contained,  although  somo  were 
his  beyond  all  dispute.  Malone's  copy  in  the  Bodleiaii 
Library  has  both  title-pages. 

To  what  extent,  therefore,  we  may  accept  W.  Jaggard  s 
[assertion  of  the  authorship  of  Shakespeare  of  the  poems  in 
I  "  The  Passionate  Pilerim,"  is  a  question  of  some  difficulty*. 
Two  Sonnets,  with  which  the  little  volume  opens,  are  coti- 
itained  (with  variations,  on  which  account  we  print  them 
j  again  here)  in  Thorpe's  edition  of"  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,'" 
1609 :  three  other  pieces  (also  with  changes)  are  found  in 
,  "  Love's  Labour  's  Lost,"  which  had  been  printed  tlio  year 
;  before  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  "  originally  came  out  : — 
another,  and  its  "  answer,"  notoriously  belong  to  Marlowe 
and  Raleigh  ;  a  sonnet,  with  some  slight  differences,  had  bees 
printed  as  his  in  1596,  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Griffin, 
while  one  producti.^n  appeared  in  "  Enerland's  Helicon  "  ir 

1600,  under  the  signature  of  Ignoto.  The  various  circum- 
stances attending  each  poem,  wherever  any  remark  seemed 
required,  are  stated  in  our  njtes,  and  it  is  not  necessary 
therefore  to  enter  fartlier  into  the  question  here. 

It  ought  to  be  mentioned,  that  althoufrh  the  signatures  at 
the  bottom  of  the  pages  are  continued  throughout,  after  the 
poem  beginning,  "  Lord,  how  mine  eyes  throw  gazes  to  the 
east ! "  we  meet  with  a  new  and  datel&ss  title-page,  wh'>ch 
runs  thus  : — "  Sonnets  to  sundry  Notes  of  Musicke.  At 
London  Printed  for  W.  lagfriird,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  W. 
Leake,  at  the  Greyhound  in  Paules  Churchyard."  Hence  wa 
inav  infer  that  all  the  productions  inserted  after  tliis  division 
hadi  been  set  by  popular  composers:  that  some  of  them  had 
received  this  distinction,  evidence  has  descended  to  our  day: 
we  refer  particularly  to  the  lyrical  poem,  "  My  flocks  feed 
not,"  (p.  965)  and  to  the  well-known  lines,  "  Live  with  me  and 
be  my  love,"  (p.  966)  the  air  to  which  seems  to  have  been  so 
common,  that  it  was  employed  by  Deloney  as  a  ballad-tune. 
See  his  "  Strange  Histories,'"'  1607,  p.  28  of"the  reprint  by  the 
Percy  Society. 

One  object  with  W.  Jaggard  in  1612,  when  he  republished 
"  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  "with  unwarrantable  additions,  waa 
probably  to  swell  the  bulk  of  it ;  and  so  much  had  he  felt  this 
want  in  1599,  that,  excepting  the  three  last  leaves,  all  the  rest 
of  the  volume  is  printed  on  one  side  of  the  paner  only,  a  pecu- 
liarity we  do  not  recollect  to  belong  to  any  otlier  work  of  the 
time  :  by  the  insertion  of  Heywood's  translations  from  Ovid, 
this  course  was  rendered  unnecessary  in  1612,  and  although 
the  volume  is  still  of  small  bulk,  it  was  not  so  insigniticanl  in 
its  appearance  as  it  had  been  in  1599».     Only  a  single  copy  of 

editioij    is   known,  although  it  is  very  probable   that   it  had   been 
republished  in  the  interval  between  1599  and  1612. 
♦  .N'icholas  Breton  seems  to  have  written  his  ■'  Pa.«sionate  Shepherd.'' 

1601.  in  imitation  of  the  title  and  of  the  style  of  some  of  the  poems  in 
the  ■•  Passionate  Pilgrim."'  The  only  known  copy  "f  rhis  produclioc 
is  in  private  hands.  It  is  verv  j'ossible  that  a  second  edition  of  '■  The 
Passionate  Pilgrim  "  (that  of  1612,  as  we  have  observed,  is  called  "  thf 
third  impression  ")  came  out  about  1<>04,  and  that  on  this  accoun 
Breton  was  led  to  imitate  the  title,  and  the  form  of  verse  of  some  of 
the  pieces  in  it.  As  "  The  Passionate  Shepherd  "  is  a  great  curiosity 
not  being  even  mentioned  by  bibliographers,  and  as  it  is  thus  coo- 
nected  with  the  name  and  works  of  Shakespeare,  an  exact  copi  of 
the  tiile-rage  may  be  acceptable  : — 

"  The  Passionate  Shepheard.  or  The  Shepheardes  Loue  :  set  dowae 
in  Passions  to  his  Shepheardesse  Aglaia.  With  many  excellent 
conceited  Poems  and  pleasant  Sonnets,  fi.  for  young  heads  to  pa«»^ 
away  idle  houres.  London  Imprinted  by  E.  Allde  for  lohn  Tapp«, 
and  are  to  bee  solde  at  his  Shop,  at  the  Tower-Hill,  neere  the  Boi- 
warke  Gate.     1604."     4to. 

»  It  is  as  amall  a  poetical  volume  as  we  remember  to  have  seen, 
excepting  a  copy  of  George  Peele's  '"Tale  of  Troy,"  which  W'S 
reprinted  in  1604.  of  the  size  cf  an  inch  and  a  half  high  ty  an  inch 


THE  PASSIONATE   PILGKIM. 


963 


the  editinr.  of  1599,  we  believe,  has  been  preserved,  and  that 
iii  iirnoMtr  Cui't'll's  books  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College, 
iJansbridge.  No  other  copy  of  "  The  Passionate  Piferim  "  of 
1612  has  the  two  title-pages,  with  and  without  the  name  of 
Shakespeare,  but  that  forraerly  belonging  to  Mulone,  and 
bequeathed  by  him,  with  bo  many  other  valuable  rarities,  to 
the  Bodleian  Library. 

"  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  1599,  concludes  with  a  piece  of 
moral  satire,  "  Whilst  as  fickle  fortune  smilM,"  &c.,  and  we 
have  followed  it  by  a  poem  found  only  in  a  publication  by 

broad.  It  contains  some  curious  variations  from  the  text  of  the  first 
edition  in  1.5S9.     4to. 

1  It  is  called  '•  Love's  Martyr,  or  Rosalin's  Complaint  "  Of  the 
author  or  editor  notliing  is  known  ;  but  he  is  not  to  be  confounded 
with  Charles  Chester,  called  Carlo  BulTone  in  Ben  Jonson's  "Every 
Man  out  of  his  Humour,"  and  respecting  whom  see  Nash's  "Pierce 


Eobert  Chester,  dated  IGOl '.  Malone  preceded  "  The  PhoBnii 
and  the  Tiirlle,"  by  the  song  "  Take,  O  !  take  those  lipa 
away  :"  this  we  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  repeat, 
because  we  have  given  the  whole  of  it,  exactly  in  the  same 
words,  in  "  Measure  for  Measure,"  Act  IV.,  So.  1  The  first 
verse  only  is  found  in  Shakespeare,  and  the  second,  which  is 
much  inferior,  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  "  Bloody  Brother." 
It  may  be  doubted,  therefore,  whether  Shakespeare  wrote  it, 
or,  like  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  only  introduced  part  of  it 
into  his  play  as  a  popular  song  of  the  time. 

Penniless,"  1592,  (.Shakespeare  Society's  reprint,  pp.  .59  99)  and 
Thoms's  ''Anecdotes  and  Traditions,"  (printed  for  the  Ci.mJen  So- 
ciety) p.  56.  Charles  Chester  is  several  times  mentioned  by  name  i& 
"  Skialetheia,"  a  collection  of  Epigrams  and  Satires,  by  E.  Guilpiu 
printed  in  1598,  as  well  as  in  "  Ulysses  upon  Ajax,"  1596. 


I.> 

When  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  truth 
I  do  believe  her   though  I  know  she  lies, 
That  she  might  think  me  some  untutor'd  youth 
Unskilful  in  the  world's  false  forgeries. 
Thus  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  me  young, 
Although  I  know  my  years  be  past  the  best, 
I  smiling  credit  her  false  speaking  tongue, 
Out-facing  faults  in  love  with  love's  ill  rest. 
But  wherefore  says  my  love  that  she  is  young  ? 
And  wherefore  say  not  I  that  I  am  old  ? 
0  !  love's  best  habit  is  a  soothing  tongue, 
And  age,  in  love,  loves  not  to  have  years  told. 
Therefore  I  '11  lie  with  love,  and  love  with  me, 
Since  that  our  faults  in  love  thus  smother'd  be. 


Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair, 
Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  me  still : 
The  better  angel  is  a  man,  right  fair. 
The  worscr  spirit  a  woman,  colour'd  ill. 
To  win  me  soon  to  hell,  ray  female  evil 
Tempteth  my  better  angel  from  my  side, 
And  would  corrupt  a  saint  to  be  a  devil, 
Wooing  his  purity  with  her  fair  pride  : 
And  whether  that  my  angel  be  turn'd  fiend. 
Suspect  I  may.  but  not  directly  tell ; 
For  being  both  to  me,  both  to  each  friend, 
I  guess  one  angel  in  another's  hell. 

The  truth  I  shall  not  know,  but  live  in  doubt, 
Till  my  bad  angel  fire  my  good  one  out. 


Did  not  the  heavenly  rhetorick  of  thine  eye, 
'Gainst  whom  the  world  could  not  hold  argument, 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 
Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment. 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but  I  will  prove, 
Thou  being  a  goddess.  I  forswore  not  thee : 
.^Ty  vow  was  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love  ; 
1  hy  grace  being  gain'd  cures  all  disgrace  in  me. 
My  vow  was  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is  : 
Then  thou  fair  sun,  that  on  this  earth  dost  shine, 
Exhale  this  vapour  now  ;  in  thee  it  is  : 
[f  broken,  then  it  is  no  fault  of  mine. 
If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wi.se 
To  break  an  oath,  to  win  a  paradise  ? 


IV. 

I  Sweet  Cytherea,  sitting  by  a  brook, 
I  With  young  Adonis,  lovely,  fresh  and  green, 
Did  court  the  lad  wth  many  a  lovely  look. 
Such  looks  as  none  could  look  but  beauty's  queen. 
She  told  him  stories  to  delight  his  ear  ; 
She  show'd  him  favours  to  allure  his  eye : 
To  win  his  heart,  she  touch'd  him  here  and  there 
Touches  so  soft  still  conquer  chastity. 
But  whether  unripe  years  did  want  conceit, 
Or  he  refus'd  to  take  her  figur'd*  proffer, 
The  tender  nibbler  would  not  touch  the  bait, 
But  smile  and  jest  at  every  gentle  offer  : 

Then,  fell  ehe  on  her  back,  fair  queen,  and  toward 
He  rose  and  ran  away  ;  ah,  fool  too  froward  ! 


Jf  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I  swear  to  love  ? 
O !  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vow'd  : 
Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I  '11  constant  prove  , 
Those  thoughts,  to  me  like  oaks,  to  thee  like  osiera 

bow'd. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine  eyes. 
Where  all  those  pleasures  live,  that  art  can  comprehend. 
If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suffice ; 
Well  learned  is  that  tongue  that  well  can  thee  com- 
mend ; 
All  ignorant  that  soul  that  sees  thee  without  wonder, 
Which  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts  admire  : 
Thine  eye  Jove's  lightning  seems,  thy  voice  his  dread- 

ful  thunder. 
Which  (not  to  anger  bent)  is  music  and  sweet  fire. 
Celestial  as  thou  art,  0  !  do  not  love  that  wrong. 
To  sing  the  heavens'  praise  with  such  an  earthlj 
tongue. 

VI. 
Scarce  had  the  sun  dried  up  the  dewy  morn. 
And  scarce  the  herd  gone  to  the  hedge  for  shade, 
When  Cytherea,  all  in  love  forlorn. 
A  longing  tarriance  for  Adonis  made, 
Under  an  osier  growing  by  a  brook, 
A  brook,  where  Adon  us"d  to  cool  his  spleen : 
Hot  was  the  day ;  she  hotter  that  did  look 
For  his  approach,  that  often  there  had  been. 
Anon  he  comes,  and  throws  his  mantle  by, 
And  stood  stark  naked  on  the  brook"s  green  brim  ; 
The  sun  look'd  on  the  world  with  glorious  eye. 
Yet  not  so  wistly  as  this  queen  on  him  : 


ially  the  same  as  Sonnet  cxxxriii.  in  the  quarto  published  by  Thorpe,  in  1 
Sonnet  cxliv.)  but  with  some  verbal  variations.      3  This  sonnet  is  found  in 


'  This  sonnet  is  substanti 

Jb  the  collection  of  1609.  (Son... , -   ,  ,,  .     ^     .... 

»ome  slio-ht  variations,  published  in  159S.  ♦  We  may  suspect,  notwithstanding  the  concurrence  of  the  two  ancient  etlition»  in 
that  thelrue  reading  was  su^ar'd,  the  long  s  having  been,  as  in  other  places,  mistaken  for  the  letter  /.  »  This  poem,  with  van 
read  by  Sii  Nathaniel,  in  "  Love's  Labour  's  Lost  " 


19.    '  This  sonnet  is  a'  o  ir.cladad 

Love's  Labour 's  Lost  '  bet  with 

ir  text 

variaiions.  ii 


964 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


He   spying  her,  bounc'tl  in,  whereas  he  stood  : 
0  Jove !  (jiioth  she,  why  was  not  I  a  flood  ? 


Fair 


VII. 
my  love,  but  not  so  fair  as  fickle. 


Mild  as  a  dove,  but  neither  true  nor  trusty: 
Briijhter  than  gla^s,  and  yet,  as  glass  is,  brittle, 
Sotler  than  wax,  and  yet  as  iron  rusty : 
A  lily  pale,  with  damask  dye  to  grace  her, 
None  fairer,  nor  none  falser  to  deface  her. 

Her  li()s  to  mine  how  often  hath  she  joined, 
Between  each  ki.-^s  her  oaths  of  true  love  swearing  ! 
Hi>w  many  talcs  to  please  me  hath  she  coined, 
Drcaiiing  my  love,  the  loss  whereof  still  fearing! 
Vet  in  the  midst  of  all  her  pure  protestings, 
Her  faith,  her  oaths,  her  tears,  and  all  were  jestings. 

She  burn'd  with  love,  as  straw  with  fire  flameth ; 
She  burn'd  out  love,  as  soon  as  straw  out  burneth  : 
She  fram'd  the  love,  and  yet  she  foil'd  the  framing  ; 
She  bade  love  last,  and  yet  she  fell  a  turning. 

Was  this  a  lover,  or  a  lecher  whether? 

Bad  in  the  best,  though  excellent  in  neither. 

VIII.» 
If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree. 
As  they  must  needs,  the  sister  and  the  brother, 
Thcfl.  must  the  love  be  great  twixt  thee  and  me 
Because  thou  lov'st  the  one,  and  I  the  other. 
Douland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
I'pon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense  : 
Spen.<er  to  me.  whose  deep  conceit  is  such, 
Ajb  pa-ssing  all  conceit  needs  no  defence. 
Thou  lov'st  to  hear  the  sweet  melodious  sound 
That  Phoebus'  lute  (the  queen  of  music)  makes; 
And  I  in  deep  delight  arn  chiefly  drown'd 
Whena^s  himself  to  singing  he  betakes. 

One  god  is  god  of  both,  as  poets  feign,  - 

Dne  knight  loves  both,  and  both  in  thee  remain. 

IX 

Fair  was  the  morn,  when  the  fair  queen  of  love,* 
•         *#'*###* 

Paler  for  sorrow  than  her  milk-white  dove. 

For  Adon's  sake,  a  youngster  proud  and  wild  ; 

Her  stand  she  takes  upon  a  steep  up  hill  : 

Anon  Adonis  comes  with  horn  and  hounds ; 

She  silly  queen,  with  more  than  love's  good  will. 

Forbade  the  boy  he  should  not  pas.s  those  grounds. 

Once,  (quoth  she)  did  I  see  a  fair  sweet  youth 

flerc  in  the.«e  brakes  deep-wounded  with  a  boar, 

{ieep  in  the  thish,  a  spectacle  of  ruth  ! 

See.  in  my  thish,  (quoth  she.)  here  was  the  sore. 
She  showed  hers  ;  he  saw  more  wounds  than  one, 
And  blushmg  fled,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

X. 

Sweet  rose,  fair  flower,  untimely  pluck'd.  soon  faded, 
Pluck'd  in  the  bud.  and  faded  in  the  sprina  ! 
Bright  orient  pearl,  alack  !  too  timely  shaded. 
Fair  cieaure.  kiil'd  too  soon  by  death's  sharp  sting  ! 

Like  a  creen  plum  that  hanss  upon  a  tree. 

And  falls,  (through  wind)  before  the  fall  should  be. 


j  I  weep  for  thee,  and  yet  no  cause  I  have ; 
i  For  why  ?  thou  left'st  me  nothing  in  thy  will. 
And  yet  thou  left'st  me  more  than  I  did  crave; 
I  For  why?  I  craved  nothing  of  thee  still  : 
0  yes,  (dear  friend.)  I  pardon  crave  of  thee  . 
Thy  discontent  thou  didst  bequeath  to  me. 

XI.» 
Venus  with  Adonis  sitting  by  her. 
Under  a  myrtle  shade,  began  to  woo  him  : 
She  told  the  youngling  how  god  Mars  did  try  her. 
And  as  he  fell  to  her.  she  fell  to  him.* 
Even  thus,  (quoth  she)  the  warlike  god  embrac'd  mo 
And  then  she  clipp'd  Adonis  in  her  arms  ; 
Even  thus,  (quoth  she)  the  warlike  god  unlac'd  ra*. 
As  if  the  boy  should  use  like  lovmg  charms: 
Even  thus,  (quoth  she)  he  seized  on  my  lips, 
And  with  her  lips  on  his  did  act  the  seizure ; 
And  as  she  fetched  breath,  away  he  skips, 
And  would  not  take  her  meaning,  nor  her  pleasure 
Ah  !  that  I  had  my  lady  at  this  bay, 
To  kiss  and  clip  me  till  I  ran  away  ! 

XII. 
Crabbed  age  and  youth 

Cannot  live  together ; 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 

Age  is  full  of  care  : 
Youth  like  summer  morn. 

Age  like  \Mnter  weather  ; 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 

Age  like  winter  bare. 
Youth  is  full  of  sport. 
Ages  breath  is  short ; 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame : 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold. 
Age  is  weak  and  cold  ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame 
Age.  I  do  abhor  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 

0.  my  love,  my  love  is  young  ! 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee ; 
0,  sweet  shepherd  !  hie  thee. 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

xin. 

'  Beauty  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good, 

,  A  shining  gloss  that  fadeth  suddenly; 

I  A  flower  that  dies,  when  first  it  'gins  to  bud  ; 
A  brittle  glass,  that 's  broken  presently  : 
A  doubtful  sood,  a  gloss,  a  gla.«s.  a  flower, 
Lost,  faded,  broken,  dead  within  an  hour. 

And  as  goods  lost  are  seld  or  never  found, 
As  faded  gloss  no  rubbing  will  refresh  ; 
As  flowers  dead  lie  wither'd  on  the  ground, 
As  broken  gla.ss  no  cement  can  redress  ; 
So  beauty  blemish'd  once,  for  ever  lost, 
In  spite  of  physic,  painting,  pain,  and  cost. 

XIV. 

Good  night,  good  rest.     Ah  !  neither  be  my  share  . 

She  bade  good  night,  that  kept  my  rest  away  ; 

And  daff'd  me  to  a  cabin  hang'd  with  care, 
jTo  descant  on  the  doubts  of  my  decay. 
I      Farewell,  quoth  she,  and  come  again  to-morrow: 
I      Fare  well  I  could  not,  for  I  supp'd  ^^^th  sorrow. 


'  Thi«  ^«m  wm  jiuMithxd  in  l.OOa 
■otWithnUnH.ng  It  apfx' 


in  Richard  BarnfieldV 


of  Lady  Pecnnia."     There  is   little  doubt  that  it  is  his  prop*.t]P 

)  in  the  "Pa*«ion»tePilcnm,"  1590:  and  it  wan  reprinted  as  Barnfield's  in  the  new  edition  of  his  "  Kncoraion. 

'   -t.     >  Thir  vonnat.  with  c^nFiderable  variations,  is  the  third  in  a  collection  of  seveniy-two  sonnets.  pnbli«ne« 

with  the  name  of  B.  Gritfin.  a.«  the  author.     A  syllabic   defect  in  the  first  line  is  there  remedied  9j 

■    ni»  "     A  manuscript  of  the  time,  now  before  us,  is  without  the  epithet,  and  has  th«  initials  W-  .S 

■ 'i  flptiTS  nf  "The  Passionate  Pilprim.''  and  in  the  contemporaneous  mam  ncriptj  but  id  liriflia* 

•  '    •«  fe  I  »lie  to  him 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


966 


Yet  at  my  parting  sweetly  did  she  smile, 
[»  scorn  or  friendship,  nil!  I  construe  whether  : 
■T  may  be,  she  joy'd  to  jest  at  my  exile, 
'T  may  be,  again  to  make  me  wander  thither  ; 
"Wander,"  a  word  for  shadows  like  thyself. 
As  take  the  pain,  but  cannot  pluck  the  pelf. 

XV. 

Lord,  how  mine  eyes  throw  gazes  to  the  east  ! 

My  heart  doth  charge  the  watch,  the  morning  rise 

Doth  cite  each  moving  sense  from  idle  rest. 

N'ot  daring  trust  the  office  of  mine  eyes, 

While  Philomela  sits  and  sings,  I  sit  and  mark, 
A  nd  wish  her  lays  were  tuned  like  the  lark  ; 

For  she  doth  welcome  day-light  with  her  ditty, 
And  drives  away  dark  dismal-dreaming  night : 
The  night  so  pack'd,  I  post  unto  my  pretty ; 
Heart  hath  his  hope,  and  eyes  their  \\-ished  sight ; 

Sorrow  chang'd  to  solace,  solace  mix'd  with  sorrow ; 

For  why  ?  she  sigh'd,  and  bade  me  come  to-morrow. 

Were  T  with  her,  the  night  would  post  too  soon ; 
But  now  are  minutes  added  to  the  hours ; 
To  spite  me  now,  each  minute  seems  a  moon ;' 
Yet  not  for  me,  shine  sun  to  succour  flowers  ! 

Pack  night,  peep  day,  good  day,  of  night  now  borrow : 
.  Short,  night,  to-night,  and  length  thyself  to-morrow. 

XVI.» 
Ft  was  a  lording's  daughter, 
The  fairest  one  of  three, 
That  liked  of  her  ma-ster 
As  well  as  well  might  be. 
Till  looking  on  an  Englishman, 
The  fairest  that  eye  could  see, 
Her  fancy  fell  a  turning. 

Long  was  the  combat  doubtful, 
That  love  with  love  did  fight, 
To  leave  the  master  loveless, 
Or  kill  the  gallant  knight : 
To  put  in  practice  either, 
Alas  !  it  was  a  spite 
Unto  the  silly  damseL 

But  one  must  be  refused. 
More  mickle  was  the  pain, 
That  nothing  could  be  used, 
To  turn  them  both  to  gain  ; 
For  of  the  two  the  trusty  knight 
Was  wounded  with  disdain  : 
Alas  !  she  could  not  help  it. 

Thus  art  with  arms  contending 
Was  victor  of  the  day. 
Which  by  a  gift  of  learning 
Did  bear  the  maid  away  ; 
Then  lullaby,  the  learned  man 
Hath  got  the  lady  gay  : 
For  now  my  song  is  ended. 


XVH'. 

On  a  day  (alack  the  day  !) 
Love,  whose  month  was  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair, 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 
All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find  ; 
That  the  lover  (sick  to  death) 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath, 
Air  (quoth  he)  thy  cheeks  may  blow  ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alas  !  my  hand  hath  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow,  alack  !  for  youth  unmeet : 
Youth,  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiop  were  ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 


XVUL* 

My  flocks  feed  not. 
My  ewes  breed  not. 
My  rams  speed  not, 

All  is  amiss  : 
Love  is  dying,* 
Faith's  defying. 
Heart's  denying,* 

Causer  of  this. 
All  my  merry  jigs  are  quite  forgot, 
All  my  lady's  love  is  lost  (God  wot) : 
Where  her  faith  was  firmly  fix'd  in  love, 
There  a  nay  is  plac'd  without  remove. 
One  silly  cross 
Wrought  all  my  loss  : 

0  frowiing  Fortune,  ciirsed,  fickle  dame 
For  now  I  see 
Inconstancy 

More  in  women  than  in  men  remain. 


In  black  mourn  I, 
All  fears  scorn  I, 
Love  hath  forlorn  me. 

Living  in  thrall : 
Heart  is  bleeding. 
All  help  needing, 
O  cruel  speeding  ! 
Fraughted  with  gall ! 
My  shepherd's  pipe  can  sound  no  deal,' 
My  wether's  bell  rings  doleful  knell  ; 
My  curtail  dog  that  wont  to  have  play'd. 
Plays  not  at  all,  but  seems  afraid ; 
My  sighs  so  deep*, 
Procvire  to  weep. 

In  howling-wise,  to  .see  my  doleful  plight 
How  sighs  resound 
Through  heartless  ground. 

Like   a  thousand    vanquished    men    in   blood 
fight ! 


'  an  Hour:  in  old  eds.  Steevens  made  the  ciiange  ;  rnoon  having  the  sense  of  month.  =  This  is  the  first  piece  in  the  division  of  "Th» 
Piusionate  Pilgrim,"  1599,  called  "Sonnets  to  sundry  Notes  of  Music."  As  the  signatures  of  the  pages  run  on  tt -oughout  the  small 
rolume,  -we  have  continued  to  mark  the  poems  by  numerals,  in  tue  order  in  which  they  were  printed.'  ^  This  poem,  n  a  more  complete 
»tat«j  and  with  the  addition  of  two  lines  only  found  there,  may  be  seen  in  ''Love's  Labour's  Lost."  The  poem  is  a!sc  printed  in  "  Kny- 
land's  Helicon,'-  (sign.  H.)  a  miscellany  of  poetry,  first  published  in  IGOO,  (reprinted  in  l^l'^l  where  "  W.  Shakespeare"  is  appended  to  u 
»  In  "England's  Helicon,"  1600.  this  poem  immediately  follows  '■  On  a  day  (alack  the  day!)"  but  it  is  there  entitled,  "Theunknowc 
.Shejiherd  s  Complaint,"  and  it  is  subscribed  Ignoto.  Hence,  we  may  suppose  that  the  compiler  of  that  collection  knew  that  it  was  not  by 
Shakespeare,  although  it  had  been  attributed  to  him  in  "The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  of  the  vear  preceding.  It  had  appeared  anonvmouslv. 
witr  the  music,  in  1.597.  in  a  collection  of  M.adrigals.  bv  Thomas  Weelkes.  »  Love's  denying:  in  "  England's  Helicon."  '•  Heart'* 
""iving  :  in  "  England's  Helicon."  '  Part.  8  Both  editions  of  •'  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  have  With  for  Mi/,  whi'.l.  last  not  onlv  ii 
ntcessary  for  the  sense,  bii'.  is  confirmed  as  the  true  reading  by  We'  'kes'  Madrigals,  1597. 


THE  PASSIONATE   PILGKTM. 


riear  wells  Bpring  not, 
Sweet  birds  siii-j  not. 
Green  plants  bring  not 

Forth  their  dye  :' 
Herds  stand  weeping, 
Fiocks  nil  sleeping. 
Npnplis  baek  peeping 

Fearlully : 
All  our  pleasure  known  to  us  poor  swaina, 
All  our  merry  meetings  on  the  plains, 
All  our  evening  sport  fiom  us  is  fled  ; 
All  our  love  is  lost,  for  love  is  dead. 
Farewell.  .«-wect  lass,' 
Tliy  like  ne'er  was 

For  a  sweet  content,  the  cause  of  all  my  ;.  mn' 
Poor  Coridon 
Must  live  alone, 

Other  help  for  him  I  see  that  there  is  none. 

XIX.* 
When  as  thine  eye  hath  chose  the  dame, 
And  stall'd  the  deer  that  thou  .shouldst  strike, 
Let  reason  rule  things  worthy  blame, 
As  well  as  partial  fancy  like: 

Take  counsel  of  .some  wiser  head, 

Neither  too  young,  nor  yet  unwed. 

And  when  thou  com'st  thy  tale  to  tell. 
Smooth  not  thy  tongue  with  filed  talk, 
Lest  she  some  subtle  practice  smell ; 
A  cripple  soon  can  find  a  halt : 

But  plainly  say  thou  lov'st  her  well, 

And  set  ihy  person  forth  to  seU.* 

What  though  her  fiov\-ning  brows  be  bent, 

Her  cloudy  looks  will  clear  ere  night ; 

And  then  loo  late  she  will  repent 

That  thus  dissembled  her  delight; 
And  twice  desire,  ere  it  be  day, 
That  which  with  scorn  she  put  away. 

What.thouch  .she  strive  to  try  her  strength, 
Aiid  ban- and  brawl,  and  soy  thee  nay. 
Her  feeble  force  will  yield  at  length, 
When  craft  hath  taught  her  thus  to  say. — 

••  Had  women  been  .so  strong  as  men. 

In  faith  you  had  not  had  it  then." 

And  to  her  -w-ill  frame  all  thy  ways: 
Spare  not  to  spend,  and  chiefly  there 
Where  thy  de.sert  may  merit  praise, 
By  ringing  in  thy  lady's  ear: 

The  strongest  ca.-^tle,  tower,  and  town. 

The  golden  bullet  beats  it  down. 


Serve  always  with  a.s8ured  t>-ust, 
And  in  thy  suit  be  humble,  true; 
Unless  thy  lady  prove  unjust, 
Seek  never  thou  to  choose  a  new. 

When  time  shall  serve,  be  thou  not  slack 
To  proffer,  though  she  put  thee  back. 

The  wiles  and  guiles  that  women  work. 
Dissembled  with  an  outward  show, 
The  tricks  and  toys  that  in  them  lurk. 
The  cock  that  treads  tlietn  shall  not  know 
Have  you  not  heard  it  said  full  oft, 
A  woman's  nay  doth  stand  for  nought  ? 

Think,  women  .still  to  strive  with  men 
To  sin,  and  never  for  to  saint  : 
There  is  no  heaven  ;  be  holy  then, 
When  time  with  age  shall  them  attaint 
Were  kisses  all  the  joys  in  bed, 
One  woman  would  another  wed. 

But  soft  !  enough, — too  much,  I  fear ; 
Lest  that  my  mistress  hear  my  .song. 
She  will  not  stick  to  warm  my  ear*. 
To  teach  my  tongue  to  be  so  long : 
Yet  will  she  blush,  here  be  it  said, 
To  hear  her  secrets  so  bewray'd. 

XX.' 

Live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
And  the  craggy  mountain  yields. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  a  bed  of  roses, 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kittle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  iv^/  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  ar.d  amber  studs  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move. 
Then,  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

love's  answer. 

If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepiierd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move. 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


Sj'h  'di'.iom  of  "  The  PaMJonate  Pilgrini.'*  and  "Kngland's  Helicon.''     Malone  prefened  the  passage  a-s  it  stands  in  Wexlkei    yfiA 

•'  Loud  belU  ring  not 
Cheerfully." 
Tb»  PaoionaU  Pilgnm,"  and  '-England'*  Helicon."  both  have  love  for  lans.  which  the  rnyme  shows  to  be  the  true  reading,  as  A 
•  .i»di  in  Weelke.' Madngalt,  I.WT.  '.So  'England's  Helicon"  and  Weelkes' Madrigals  :  -'The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  1509,  ha.s  k>o«  foi 
mo^H.  *  In  •ome  modem  editions,  the  stanza."  of  this  poem  have  been  civen  in  an  order  different  to  that  in  which  they  stand  in  "The 
f'sMiontte  Pilgrim."  l.VJi) :  to  that  order  we  restore  them,  and  that  text  «-e  fnllow,  excepting  where  it  is  evidently  corrupt.  The  line.  "  A» 
»'l)  ««  partial  fancy  like,"  we  have  corrected  oy  a  manuscript  of  the  time.  The  edition  of  l!590  reads:  "As  well  as  fancy  party  al. 
niicht,"  which  f  decidedly  wrong.  Malone  substituted  "An  well  as  fancy,  partial  tiUe.'"  The  manuscript  by  which  we  have  corrected 
M9  iiiurth  line  of  the  stanza  \\vi  givei  *.he  two  last  lines  of  it  thus  : — 

"  Ask  counsel  of  some  other  head. 
Niither  unwise  nor  yet  unwed." 
B«i  norhansefrom  the  i!d  pnnied  ropy  i«  here  neces-x.iry.     In  the  manuscript  the  whole  has  Shakespeare's  initials  at   the   end.      »  So  th« 
m»auacript  in  o-jr  ^MMuwesion,  and  another  thai  Malone  used  :  the  old  copies  read,  with  obvious  corruption, 

'"And  set  her  person  forth  to  anle." 
•l«oih»  inamscript  in  our  powession  :  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,'"  1.5«l,   haj<   it,     "She  will  not  stick  to  round   me  on  th' ear."      »  ThU 
■t.'ii,    1...  in  .ri   .  >.  Mil  ■.»!.. -ii  :«  called  ■' Love's  Answer,"  still  more  imperfect,  may  be  seen  at  length  in    "  Percy's  Rclioues,"  Vol.1 
•  '  ■   and  Sir  Walter  R.T|Hii;h  :  the  first   is  assigned  by  name  to  Marlowe,  in   "  England's  Helicon,"  1600 

'/  •   ^ame  collection,  under  the  name  of  Ignoto,  which  ■visa  a  signature  sometime.s  adopted  by  Sir'Wa'.tn 

""  '    to  b.ith    these  authors   in   'Walton's  "Angler,"  (p.  149,  edit.  lblt»H»  -inder  the  titles  of  "The  mn« 

••*•'  ',  :  .  Mothers  answer  " 


WNOiw^  L1551    ,' ;*j  1     ^94s 


PR  Shakespeare,  William 

2753  The  complete  works 

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1872 


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