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^DRAMATIC    WORKS 


A  LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


AND  A  SELECTION  OF 

NOTES,  CRITICAL,  HISTORICAL,  AND  EXPLANATORY, 

BY  THE 

REV.  W.  HARNESS,  A.M. 

OF  CHRIST'S  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 


TO  WHICH  ARE  ADDED,  THE  AUTHOR'S  POEMS. 


IN  EIGHT  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  III. 


LONDON: 

PRINTED  AND  SOLD  BY  J.  F.  DOVE, 
ST.  JOHN'S   SQUARE. 

1830. 


PR 


SHAKSPEARE'S 
DRAMATIC   WORKS, 


VOL.  III. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 1 

AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 83. 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL 173 

THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW 269 

WINTER'S  TALE 353 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


This  play  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  on  tie  22d  of  July,  1598  ;  but  must 
have  been  exhibited  before  that  time,  as  it  was  mentioned  by  Meres,  in  the 
Wit's  Treasury,  which  was  published  early  in  the  same  year.  The  first  known 
edition  of  this  comedy  is  the  quarto,  "  printed  by  J.  R.  for  Thomas  Pleyes, 
1600."  It  was  most  probably  written  in  1597.  JMr.  Malone  places  it  three 
years  earlier ;  but  he  has  no  authority  to  support  his  hypothesis,  but  a  simile  of 
Portia's — 

"  Thy  musick  is 
"  Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 
"  To  a  new  crowned  monarch." 

This  passage  he  supposes  to  refer  to  the  recent  coronation  of  Henry  the  Fourth 
of  France,  of  which  a  description  was  published  in  this  country  immediately 
after  the  event. 

The  principal  incidents  of  the  plot  are  taken  from  a  story  in  the  Pecorone 
of  Ser  Giovanni  Fiorentino,  a  novelist  who  wrote  in  1378.  [The  first  novel  of 
the  fourth  day.]  The  story  has  been  published  in  English.  The  circumstance 
of  the  caskets  is  from  an  old  translation  of  the  Gesla  Romanorum,  first  printed 
by  Wynkyn  de  Worde. 

It  has  been  supposed  that  there  was  a  play  on  the  subject  previous  to  this 
of  our  author,  and  on  which  he  might  have  grounded  his  work.  This  notion 
has  been  suggested  by  a  passage  in  Stephen  Gosson's  School  of  Abuse,  which 
speaks  of  "  the  Jew  shewn  at  the  Bull,  representing  the  greediness  of  worldly 
choosers,  and  the  bloody  minds  of  usurers  ;"  but  these  words  apply  with  equal 
propriety  to  the  Jew  of  Marlow,  and  to  the  Shylock  oi  Shakspeare. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED.' 


Duke  of  Venice. 

Prince  of  Monocco,!^..       .    -n^^^ 
_  .       %  .  >smtorsto  Portia. 

Prince  0/ Arragon,  3 

Antonio,  the  Merchant  q/"  Venice. 

Bass  AN  10,  his  friend. 

Salanio,**  "J 

Salarino,  >  friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Gratiano,) 

Lorenzo,  in  love  with  Jessica. 

Shylock,  a  Jew: 

Tubal,  a  Jew,  his  friend. 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  a  clown,  servant  to  Shylock. 

Old  Gobbo,  father  to  Launcelot, 

Salerio,""  a  messenger  from  Venice. 

Leonardo,  servant  to  Bassanio. 

Balthazar,?  ^^^^^^^^^p^^^^^ 

Stephano,    3 

Portia,  a  rich  heiress. 
Nerissa,  her  waiting-maid. 
Jessica,  daughter  to  Shylock 

Magnificoes  of  Venice,  officers  of  the  court  of  justice, 
jailer,  servants,  and  other  attendants. 

Scene,  partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont,  the 
seat  0/ Portia  on  the  continent. 


»  In  the  old  editions  in  quarto,  for  J.  Roberts,  1600,  and  in  the  old  folio, 
1623,  there  is  no  enumeration  of  the  persons.  It  was  first  made  by  Mr.  Rowe. 
— Johnson. 

b  It  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  orthography  of  this  name.  In  the  old 
editions  the  owner  of  it  is  called — Salanio,  Salino,  and  Solanio. — Steevens. 

<^  This  character  I  have  restored  to  the  Persone  Dramatis.  The  name  ap- 
pears in  the  first  folio :  the  description  is  taken  from  the  quarto. — Steevens. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Antonio,  Salarino,  and  Salanio. 

Ant.  In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad ; 
It  wearies  me  ;  you  say,  it  wearies  you ; 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it. 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me. 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salar.  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies*  with  portly  sail, — 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  of  the  flood. 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers. 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  Avith  their  woven  wings. 

Salan.  Believe  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth. 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,*^  to  know  where  sits  the  wind  ; 
Peering  in  maps,  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads ; 
And  every  object,  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt. 
Would  make  me  sad, 

» argosies — ]  Argosie  was  in  our  author's  time  a  name  given  to  ships 

of  great  burden. — Several  derivations  have  been  suggested.— N ares  considers 
that  Pope  and  Douce  are  correct  in  supposing  it  to  come  from  the  ship  Argo, 
which  is  confirmed  by  the  word  argis  being  used  for  a  ship  in  low  Latin. 

•>  Plucking  the  grass,  &c.]  By  holding  up  the  grass,  or  any  light  body  that 
will  bend  by  a  gentle  blast,  the  direction  of  the  wind  is  found. — Johnson. 

b2 


4  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth. 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 

What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 

I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run. 

But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats  ; 

And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew'  dock'd  in  sand. 

Vailing"^  her  high-top  lower  than  her  ribs. 

To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church. 

And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone. 

And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks  ? 

Which  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 

Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream ; 

Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks ; 

And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this. 

And  now  worth  nothing  ?  Shall  I  have  the  thought 

To  think  on  this ;  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought. 

That  such  a  thing,  bechanc'd,  would  make  me  saxi? 

But,  tell  not  me  ;  I  know,  Antonio 

Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandize. 

Ajit.  Believe  me,  no  :  I  thank  my  fortune  for  it. 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted. 
Nor  to  one  place  ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year : 
Therefore,  my  merchandize  makes  me  not  sad. 
Salan.  Why  then  you  are  in  love. 
Ant.  Fye,  fye  ! 

Salan.  Not  in  love  neither  ?  Then  let's  say,  you  are  sad. 
Because  you  are  not  merry  :  and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say,  you  are  merry. 
Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed  Janus, 
Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time  : 
Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes. 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper  : 
And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect. 
That  they'll  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile. 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

c Andrew — ]  The  name  of  the  ship.  • 

d  Vailing — ]  To  vail  is  to  put  off  the  hat — to  trike  sail — to  give  sign  of  submis- 
sion.— Bullokar's  English  Expositor,  1616. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  5 

Enter  Bassanio,  Lorenzo,  awrfGRATiANo. 

Salan.  Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo :  Fare  you  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salar.  I  would  have  staid  till  I  had  made  you  merry. 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.  Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you. 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 
Salar.  Good-morrow,  my  good  lords. 
Bass.  Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ?    Say 
You  grow  exceeding  strange  :  Must  it  be  so  ?         [when  ? 
Salar.  We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 

\^Exeunt  Salakino  and  Salanio. 
Lor.  My  lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found  Antonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you  :  but,  at  dinner  time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 
Bass.  I  will  not  fail  you. 
Gra.  You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world ; 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  chang'd. 

Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano  ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part. 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  Fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine. 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within. 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes  ?  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?  I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks  ; — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond  ; 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 
With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit; 


6  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

As  who  should  say,  /  am  Sir  Oracle, 

And,  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark ! 

O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these. 

That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise. 

For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure. 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears. 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers,  fools. 

I'll  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time  : 

But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 

For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion. — 

Come,  good  Lorenzo  :— Fare  ye  well,  a  while; 

I'll  end  my  exhortation*  after  dinner. 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you  then  till  dinner-time : 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men. 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years  more. 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own  tongue. 

Ant.  Farewell :  I'll  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear.^ 

Gra.  Thanks,  i'faith;  for  silence  is  only  commendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  dried,  and  a  maid  not  vendible. 

[Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo. 

jdnt.  Is  that  any  thing  now  ? 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,  more 
than  any  man  in  all  Venice  :  His  reasons  are  as  two  grains 
of  wheat  hid  in  two  bushels  of  chaff;  you  shall  seek  all 
day  ere  you  find  them ;  and,  when  you  have  them,  they 
are  not  worth  the  search. 

Ant.  Well ;  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage. 
That  you  to-day  promis'd  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  ports 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance : 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 

* exhortation — ]  The  humour  of  this  consisti  in  its  being  an  allusion  to 

the  practice  of  the  puritan  preachers  of  these  times :  who  being  generally  very 
long  and  tedious,  were  often  found  to  put  oflf  that  part  of  their  sermon  called 
exhortation  till  after  dinner. — Warburton. 

^ for  this  gear."]  For  this  account,  i.  e.  on  account  of  Gratiano's  lecture. 

s a  more  swelling  port,  &c.]   Port,  in  the  present  instance,  comprehends 

the  idea  of  expensive  equipage,  and  external  pomp  of  appearance.— Malone. 


ACT  J.— SCENE  I.  7 

From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is,  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts. 
Wherein  my  time,  ^mething  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged  :  to  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money,  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots,  and  purposes. 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it; 
And,  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do. 
Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assured. 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means. 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.  In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft, 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch. 
To  find  the  other  forth ;  and  by  advent'ring  both, 
I  oft  found  both  :  I  urge  this  childhood  proof, 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth. 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost :  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt. 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both. 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again. 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant.  You  know  me  well ;  and  herein  spend  but  time. 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance ; 
And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong. 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost. 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have  : 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I*  should  do. 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done. 
And  I  am  prest*"  unto  it :  therefore,  speak. 

Bass.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left. 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word. 
Of  wond'rous  virtues ;  sometimes'  from  her  eyes 

h prest—']  Keadi/— old  French. 

' •  sometimes— 1  Formerly.    These  words  in  old  English  were  synony- 


8  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  : 

Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 

To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 

Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth  ; 

For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 

Renowned  suitors  :  and  her  sunny  locks 

Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece  ; 

Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,  Colchos'  strand. 

And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

0  my  Antonio,  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 

1  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift. 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant.  Thou  know'st,  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  sea  \ 
Nor  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum  :  therefore  go  forth. 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do  ; 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost. 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is  ;  and  I  no  question  make, 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake.  {T^xeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Belmont.     A.  Room  in  Portia*s  House. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Par.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary  of 
this  great  world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries 
were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are : 
And  yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick,  that  surfeit 
with  too  much,  as  they  that  starve  with  nothing  :  It  is 
no  mean  happiness  therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean ; 
superfluity  comes  sooner  by''  white  hairs,  but  competency 
lives  longer. 

Por.  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

^  —  comet  sooner  by—]  i.  e.  Sooner  acquires. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  9 

Ner.  They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

Por.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good 
to  do,,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cot- 
tages, princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows 
his  own  instructions  :  I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were 
good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine 
own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the  blood ; 
but  a  hot  temper  leaps  over  a  cold  decree :  such  a  hare  is 
madness  the  youth,  to  skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  coun- 
sel the  cripple.  But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion 
to  choose  me  a  husband  : — O  me,  the  word  choose  !  I  may 
neither  choose  whom  I  would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike  ; 
so  is  the  will  of  a  living  daughter  curb'd  by  the  will  of  a 
dead  father  : — Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose 
one,  nor  refuse  none  ? 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous  ;  and  holy  men,  at 
their  death,  have  good  inspirations  ;  therefore,  the  lottery, 
that  he  hath  devised  in  these  three  chests,  of  gold,  silver, 
and  lead,  (whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you,) 
will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one 
who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in 
your  affection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that 
are  already  come  ? 

Por.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them ;  and  as  thou  namest 
them,  I  will  describe  them ;  and  according  to  my  descrip- 
tion, level  at  my  affection. 

Ner.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 
Por.  Ay,  that's  a  colt,  indeed,'  for  he  doth  nothing  but 
talk  of  his  horse;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appropriation 
to  his  own  good  parts,  that  he  can  shoe  him  himself:  I 
am  much  afraid,  my  lady  his  mother  played  false  with  a 
smith.  , 

Ner.  Then,  is  there  the  county™  Palatine. 
Por.'  He  doth  nothing  but  frown ;  as  who  should  say. 
An  if  you  will  not  have  me,  choose:  he  hears  merry  tales, 

a  colt,  indeed,']  Colt  is  used  for  a  witless  yoiingster. — In  the  days  of 

Shakspeare  the  Neapolitans  were  eminently  skilled  in  all  that  belongs  to 
horsemanship ;  nor  have  they  even  now  forfeited  their  title  to  that  praise. — 
Steevens. 

ro is  there  the  county  Palatine.']  County  and  count  in  old  language  were 

synonymous. 


10  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

and  smiles  not :  I  fear,  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philo- 
sopher when  he  grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly 
sadness  in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to  a  death's 
head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these. 
God  defend  me  from  these  two  ! 

Ner.  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  Monsieur  Le 
Bon? 

For.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a 
man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker ;  But, 
he !  why,  he  hath  a  horse  better  than  the  Neapolitan's ; 
a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning  than  the  count  Palatine  : 
he  is  every  man  in  no  man  :  if  a  throstle  sing,  he  falls 
straight  a  capering  ;  he  will  fence  wuth  his  own  shadow  : 
if  I  should  marry  him,  I  should  marry  twenty  husbands  : 
If  he  would  despise  me,  I  would  forgive  him ;  for  if  he 
love  me  to  madness,  I  shall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you  then  to  Faulconbridge,  the  young 
baron  of  England  ? 

Por.  You  know,  I  say  nothing  to  him ;  for  he  under- 
stands not  me,  nor  I  him  :  he  hath  neither  Latin,  French, 
nor  Italian ;  and  you  will  come  into  the  court  and  swear, 
that  I  have  a  poor  pennyworth  in  the  English.  He  is  a 
proper"  man's  picture ;  But,  alas  !  who  can  converse  with 
a  dumb  show  ?  How  oddly  he  is  suited  !  I  think,  he 
bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his 
bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his  behaviour  every  where. 

Ner.  What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his  neighbour? 

Por.  That  he  hath  a  neighbourly  charity  in  him  ;  for 
he  borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  the  Englishman,  and 
swore  he  would  pay  him  again,  when  he  was  able  :  I 
think,  the  Frenchman  became  his  surety,"  and  sealed 
under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  duke  of 
Saxony's  nephew ?p 

"I proper'] — is  handsome. 

o  J  think  the  Frenchman  became  his  surety,]  Alluding  to  the  constant  assist- 
ance, or  rather  constant  pronaises  of  assistance,  that  the  French  gave  the 
Scots  in  their  quarrels  with  the  English.  The  alliance  is  here  humourously 
satirized. — Warburton. 

p the  young  German,  &c.]  Dr.  Johnson  supposes  that  in  this  enumera- 
tion of  Portia's  suitors,  there  may  be  some  covert  allusion  to  those  of  Queea 
Elizabeth. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  11.  11 

Por.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober; 
and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is  drunk  :  when 
he  is  best,  he  is  a  little  worse  than  a  man  ;  and  when  he 
is  worst,  he  is  little  better  than  a  beast :  an  the  worst  fall 
that  ever  fell,  I  hope,  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  without 
him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right 
casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will,  if 
you  should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

Por.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee,  set 
a  deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket : 
for  if  the  devil  be  within,  and  that  temptation  without,  I 
know  he  will  choose  it.  I  will  do  any  thing,  Nerissa,  ere 
I  will  be  married  to  a  spunge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these 
lords :  they  have  acquainted  me  with  their  determina- 
tions ;  which  is  indeed,  to  return  to  their  home,  and  to 
trouble  you  with  no  more  suit ;  unless,  you  may  be  won 
by  some  other  sort  than  your  father's  imposition,  depend- 
ing on  the  caskets. 

Por.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as 
chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of 
my  father's  will :  I  am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so 
reasonable  ;  for  there  is  not  one  among  them  but  I  dote 
on  his  very  absence,  and  I  pray  God  grant  them  a  fair 
departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time, 
a  Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in 
company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

Por.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio  ;  as  I  think,  so  was  he 
called. 

Ner.  True,  madam ;  he  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my 
foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair 
lady. 

Por.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him  wor- 
thy of  thy  praise. — How  now!  what  news  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam,  to  take 
their  leave :  and  there  is  a  fore-runner  come  from  a  fifth. 


12  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

the  prince  of  Morocco  ;  who  brings  word,  the  prince,  his 
master,  will  be  here  to-night. 

Por.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good 
heart  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be  glad 
of  his  approach :  if  he  have  the  condition^  of  a  saint,  and 
the  complexion  of  a  devil,  I  had  rather  he  should  shrive 
me  than  wive  me.  Come  Nerissa, — Sirrah,  go  before. — 
Whiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  another  knocks 
at  the  door.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. 

Venice.     A  publick  Place. 

Enter  Bassanio  and  Shylock.'^ 

Shi/.  Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 
Bass.  Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 
Shj/.  For  three  months, — well. 

Bass.  For  the  w^hich,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall  be 
bound. ' 

1  the  condition — ]  i.  e.  The  temper. 

^  Shylock.l  It  was  remarked  by  Dr.  Farmer  that  Shakspeare  probably 

took  this  name  from  an  old  pamphlet  entitled  "  Caleb  Shillocke  his  Prophecie, 
or  the  Jewes  Prediction." — London  :  printer  for  T.  P.  [Thomas  Pavier,  or 
Thomas  Purfoot]  no  date. — Steevens. 

Le  juif  Shylock  est  un  de  ces  chefs- d'oeuvres  en  fait  de  peinture  caracteris- 
tique  qui  ne  se  voient  que  dans  Shakspeare.  II  est  tres  facile  pour  un  auteur, 
ainsi  que  pour  un  com6dien,  de  representer  en  caricature  la  maniere  de  parler 
ou  de  gesticuler  qui  regne  chez  im  peuple.  Mais  Shylock  n'est  point  un 
juif  ordinaire,  c'est  im  homme  bien  eleve  qui  a  un  caractere  individuel  tres 
determine  et  tres  original,  et  cependant  la  teinte  du  JudaVsme  est  tellement 
repandue  sur  toute  sa  personne  que  Ton  croit,  seulement  en  lisant  ses  paroles, 
entendre  cet  accent  juif  qui  se  remarque  chez  les  hommes  de  cette  nation, 
meme  parmi  les  classes  superieures  de  la  societe.  Dans  les  situations  tranquil- 
les,  Shylock  laisse  a  peine  apercevoir  ce  qu'il  y  a  en  lui  d'etranger  au  sang 
Eiirop^en  et  aux  moeurs  Chretiennes,  mais  des  que  ses  passions  s'emeuvent, 
I'empreinte  nationale  se  marque  plus  fortement.  Shylock  est  un  homme  in- 
struit,  il  est  meme  philosophe  a  sa  maniere.  II  n'y  a  que  la  region  des  senti- 
mens  du  coeur  qu'il  n'ait  pas  decouverte.  Sa  morale  est  fondee  sur  I'incr^du- 
lite  pour  tout  ce  qui  est  bon  et  gen^reux.  Apres  I'avarice,  c'est  I'esprit  de 
vengeance,  excit6  par  I'oppression  et  I'avilissement  de  ses  compatriotes,  qui 
est  le  principal  mobile  de  ses  actions.  Ce  qu'il  hai't,  surtout,  c'est  le  verita- 
ble Chretien  :  la  doctrine  de  I'amour  du  prochain  lui  parait  celle  de  I'intole- 
rance  et  de  la  persecution.  Son  idole  c'est  la  lettre  de  la  loi.  II  refuse 
d'^couter  la  voix  de  la  mis6ricorde,  qui,  par  I'organe  de  Portia,  lui  parle  avec 
une  eloquence  celeste  :  il  reste  inflexible,  et  en  persistant  a  maintenir  son 
dessein  a  la  rigueur,  il  m6rite  que  la  loi  retombe  sur  sa  tete.— Schlegel, 
Lit,  Dram.  vol.  iii.  25. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  13 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me  ?  Will  you  pleasure  me  ? 
Shall  I  know  your  answer  ? 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months,  and 
Antonio  bound. 

Bass.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contrary  ? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no  ; — my  meaning,  in  saying  he 
is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me,  that  he  is 
suflficient :  yet  his  means  are  in  supposition  :  he  hath  an 
argosy  bound  to  Tripolis,  another  to  the  Indies ;  I  under- 
stand  moreover    upon  the    Rialto,  he   hath  a  third    at 

Mexico,  a  fourth  for  England, and  other  ventures  he 

hath  squander'd  abroad  ;  But  ships  are  but  boards,  sailors 
but  men :  there  be  land-rats,  and  water-rats,^  water- 
thieves,  and  land-thieves ;  I  mean  pirates ;  and  then, 
there  is  the  peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks  :  The  man 
is  notwithstanding,  sufficient ; — three  thousand  ducats  ; 
— I  think,  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass.  Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured,  I  may ;  and,  that  I  may  be  as- 
sured, I  will  bethink  me :   May  I  speak  with  Antonio  ? 

Bass.  If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habitation  which 
your  prophet  the  Nazarite,  conjured  the  devil  into  :  I  will 
buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you, 
and  so  following ;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with 
you,  nor  pray  with  you.  What  news  on  the  Rialto? — 
Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Antonio. 

Bass.  This  is  signior  Antonio. 

Shy.  [aside.']  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks  ! 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian  : 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity. 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice.* 

'  The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice.']  "  It  is  almost  incredible  -what 
gain  the  Venetians  receive  by  the  usury  of  the  Jewes  both  prj^ately  and  in 
VOL.  III.  C 


H  MERCHANT  OFWENICE. 

If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip," 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 

He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails. 

Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate. 

On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift. 

Which  he  calls  interest :  Cursed  be  my  tribe, 

If  I  forgive  him  ! 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear? 

Ski/.  I  am  debating  of  my  present  store  : 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats :  What  of  that  ? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe. 
Will  furnish  me  :  But  soft ;  How  many  months 
Do  you  desire? — Rest  you  fair,  good  signior: 

[To  Antonio. 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.  Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow. 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess. 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend,* 
ril  break  a  custom : — Is  he  yet  possess'd,'' 
How  much  you  would  ? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.  And  for  three  months. 

Shi/.  I  had  forgot, — three  months,  you  told  me  so. 

Well  then,  your  bond  ;  and,  let  me  see, But  hear  you ; 

Methought,  you  said,  you  neither  lend,  nor  borrow. 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.  When  Jacob  graz'd  his  uncle  Laban's  sheep. 
This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abraham  was 
(As  his  wise  mother  wrought  in  his  behalf,) 
The  third  possessor  ;  ay,  he  was  the  third. 

common.  For  in  every  citee  the  Jewes  kepe  open  shops  of  usurie,  taking 
gaiges  of  ordinarie  for  rv  in  the  hundred  by  the  yere  ;  and  if  at  the  yeres 
end  the  gaige  be  not  redeemed,  it  is  forfeit,  or  at  the  least  doen  away  to  a 
great  disadvantage :  by  reason  whereof  the  Jewes  are  out  of  measure  wealthie 
in  those  parties."— Thomas's  Historic  of  Italie,  1561. 

u catch  upon  the  hip,]  Have  an  entire  advantage.    The  phrase  seems 

to  have  originated  from  hunting,  because  when  the  animal  pursued  is  seized 
bv  the  hip,  it  is  finally  disabled  from  flight.— Nates. 

-X  . ripe  wants—]  Necessities  that  are  come  to  the  height. 

J  posseis'd,]  i.  e.  Acquainted. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  15 

Ant.  And  what  of  him?  did  he  take  interest? 

Shy.  No,  not  take  interest;  not,  as  you  would  say," 
Directly  interest :  mark  what  Jacob  did. 
When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromis'd. 
That  all  the  eanlings^  which  were  streak'd  and  pied. 
Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire;  the  ewes,  being  rank. 
In  the  end  of  autumn  turned  to  the  rams  : 
And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 
Between  these  woolly  breeders  in  the  act. 
The  skilful  shepherd  peel'd  me  certain  wands. 
And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind. 
He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome*  ewes ; 
Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning  time 
Fall  party-colour'd  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blest ; 
And  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Jnt.  This  was  a  venture,  sir,  that  Jacob  serv'd  for ; 
A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass, 
But  sway'd,  and  fashion'd,  by  the  hand  of  heaven. 
Was  this  inserted  to  make  interest  good  ? 
Or  is  your  gold  and  silver,  ewes  and  rams  ? 

Shi/.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast : — 
But  note  me,  signior. 

Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio, 

The  devil  can  cite  scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness. 
Is  hke  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek ; 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart ; 
O,  what  a  goodly  outside  falshood  hath  ! 

Shi/.  Three  thousand  ducats, — 'tis  a  good  round  sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 

Ant.  Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to  you  ? 

Shi/.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft. 
In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies,  and  my  usances  ;'' 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe : 

^  the  eanlings—]    Lambs  just  dropt:  horn  ean,  eniti. — Musouave. 

*  fulsome] — in  this  place  means  lascivious. 

^  «ty  usances ;]     Use  and  usance  mean  nothing  more  than  interest;  and 

the  former  word  is  still  used  by  country  people  in  the  same  sense. — Stejevens. 

€  2 


16  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE, 

You  call  me — misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog. 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine. 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help  ; 
Go  to  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
Shylock,  we  would  have  monies ;   You  say  so  ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard. 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  ;  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?  Should  I  not  say. 
Hath  a  dog  moneyl  is  it  possible, 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ?  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key. 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness. 

Say  this, 

Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last : 
You  spurn' d  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  calVd  me — dog;  and  for  these  courtesies 
ril  lend  you  thus  much  monies. 

Jnt.  I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again. 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends  ;  (for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ?'^) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy  ; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love. 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain'd  me  with. 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  monies,  and  you'll  not  hear  me  : 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.  This  were  kindness. 

Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show  : — 

«  A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  frieiid?]  A  breed,  that  is,  interest  money 
bred  from  the  principal.  By  the  epithet  barreyi,  the  author  would  instruct  us 
in  the  argument  on  which  the  advocates  against  usury  went,  which  is  this  ; 
that  money  is  a  barren  thing,  and  cannot,  like  com  and  cattle,  multiply  itself. 
And  to  set  off  the  absurdity  of  this  kind  of  usury,  he  put  breed  and  barren  in 
opposition. — Warburton. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  17 

Go  with  me  to  a  notaiy,  seal  me  there 

Your  single  bond  ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport. 

If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day. 

In  such  a  place,  such  sum,  or  sums,  as  are 

Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 

Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 

Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 

In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Jnt,  Content,  in  faith  ;   I'll  seal  to  such  a  bond. 
And  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me, 
I'll  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.  Why,  fear  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it ; 
Within  these  two  months,  that's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires,  I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shy.  O  father  Abraham,  what  these  Christians  are ; 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  !    Pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 
If  he  should  break  this  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 
A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man. 
Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither. 
As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say. 
To  buy  his  favour,  I  extend  this  friendship ; 
If  he  will  take  it,  so ;  if  not,  adieu  ; 
And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you,  wrong  me  not. 

Aiit.  Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.  Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's ; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond. 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight ; 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard*^ 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave  ;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [_Exit. 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bass.  I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Ant.  Come  on ;  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay, 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day.      [Exeunt. 

d  fearful  g^iard,  &c.]    Guard  to  be  feared,  not  to  be  trusted. 


18  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

ACT   II. 

Scene  I.     Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Flourish  of  Comets.  Enter  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  and 
his  Train;  Portia,  Nerissa,  and  other  of  her  Attend- 
ants. 

Mor.  Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion. 
The  shadow'd  livery  of  the  burnish'd  sun. 
To  whom  I  am  a  neighbour,  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born. 
Where  Phoebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles. 
And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love. 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his,  or  mine." 
I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 
Hath  fear'd'  the  valiant ;  by  my  love,  I  swear. 
The  best  regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 
Hath  lov'd  it  too  :  I  would  not  change  this  hue. 
Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queen. 

Por.  In  terms  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 
By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes  : 
Besides,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 
Bars  me  the  right  of  voluntary  choosing  : 
But,  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me. 
And  hedg'd  me  by  his  wit,  to  yield  myself 
His  wife,  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you. 
Yourself,  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair. 
As  any  comer  I  have  look'd  on  yet. 
For  my  affection. 

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you ; 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets, 

«  To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his,  or  mine.']  To  understand  how  the  tawny 
prince,  whose  savage  dignity  is  very  well  supported,  means  to  recommend 
himself  by  this  challenge,  it  must  he  remembered  that  red  blood  is  a  tradi- 
tionary sign  of  courage  :  Thus  Macbeth  calls  one  of  his  frighted  soldiers,  a 
Uly-Uver'd  boy  ;  again,  in  this  play,  cowards  are  said  to  have  livers  as  white  us 
milk;  and  au  effeminate  and  timorous  man  is  termed  a  milksop. — Johnson. 
It  is  customary  in  the  east  for  lovers  to  testify  the  violence  of  their  passion  by 
cutting  themselves  in  the  sight  of  their  mistresses. — Harris. 

f fear'd — ]  i.  e.  Terri/y'd. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II.  19 

To  try  my  fortune.     By  this  scimitar, — 
That  slew  the  Sophy,  and  a  Persian  prince. 
That  won  three  fields  of  Sultan  Solyman, — 
I  would  out-stare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look. 
Out-brave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth. 
Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  from  the  she  bear. 
Yea,  mock  the  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey. 
To  win  thee,  lady  :  But,  alas  the  while  ! 
If  Hercules,  and  Lichas,^  play  at  dice 
Which  is  the  better  man,  the  greater  throw 
May  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  hand : 
So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page ; 
And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me. 
Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attain. 
And  die  with  grieving. 

Por.  You  must  take  your  chance  j 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all. 
Or  swear,  before  you  choose, — if  you  choose  wrong, 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage  ;  therefore  be  advised .'' 
,  Mor.  Nor  w^ill  not ;  come,  bring  me  unto  my  chance. 

Por.  First,  forward  to  the  temple  ;  after  dinner 
Your  hazard  shall  be  made. 

Mor.  Good  fortune  then !         [Cornets. 

To  make  me  blest'  or  cursed'st  among  men.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  Launcelot  Gobbo. 

Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run 
from  this  Jew,  my  master:  The  fiend  is  at  mine  elbow; 
and  tempts  me,  saying  to  me,  Gobbo,  Launcelot  Gobbo, 
good  Launcelot,  or  good  Gobbo,  or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo, 
use  your  legs,  take  the  start,  run  away:  My  conscience 
says,  —  no ;  take  heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take  heed,  honest 

g Lichas,']  An  attendant  of  Hercules. 

^ advised.]   Well  considered, — This  word  is  the  opposite  to  rash. 

' hle&t — ]  For  moat  blest. 


20  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Gobbo;  or  as  aforesaid,  honest  Launcelot  Gubbo;  do  not 
run;  scorn  running  toith  thy  heels:  Well,  the  most  cou- 
rageous fiend  bids  me  pack  ;  via  !  says  the  fiend  :  aivai/  / 
says  the  fiend,  for  the  heavens  ;^  rouse  up  a  brave  mind, 
says  the  fiend,  a?id  run.  Well,  my  conscience,  hanging 
about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  very  wisely  to  me, — 
my  honest  friend  Launcelot,  being  an  honest  mans  son,  or 
rather  an  honest  woman's  son  ; — for,  indeed,  my  father 
did  something  smack,  something  grow  to,  he  had  a  kind 
of  taste ; — well,  my  conscience  says,  Launcelot,  budge  notj 
budge,  says  the  fiend  ;  budge  not,  says  my  conscience  : 
Conscience,  say  I,  you  counsel  well;  fiend,  say  I,  you 
counsel  well :  to  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should 
stay  with  the  Jew  my  master,  who,  (God  bless  the  mark !) 
is  a  kind  of  devil ;  and,  to  run  away  from  the  Jew,  I 
should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your  reverence, 
is  the  devil  himself:  Certainly,  the  Jew  is  the  very  devil 
incarnation ;  and,  in  my  conscience,  my  conscience  is 
but  a  kind  of  hard  conscience,  to  offer  to  counsel  me  to 
stay  with  the  Jew :  The  fiend  gives  the  more  friendly 
counsel:  I  will  run,  fiend;  my  heels  are  at  your  com- 
mandment, I  will  run. 

Enter  Old  Gobbo,  with  a  Basket. 

Gob.  Master,  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you ;  which  is 
the  way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Laun.  [Aside.'\  O  heavens,  this  is  my  true  begotten 
father !  who,  being  more  than  sand-blind,'  high-gravel 
blind,  knows  me  not : — I  will  try  conclusions"  with  him. 

Gob.  Master  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the 
way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Laun.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand,  at  the  next  turning, 
but,  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  left ;  marry,  at  the 
very  next  turning,  turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indi- 
rectly to  the  Jew's  house. 

k  — —  for  the  heavens  ;]  This  petty  oath,  which  has  much  perplexed  the 
commentators,  means  neither  more  nor  less  than  by  heaven,  as  Mr.  Gifford  has 
proved  by  several  apposite  quotations. — Ben  Jonson,  vol.  ii.  67. 

I sand-blind,']  Having  an  imperfect  sight  as  if  there  were  sand  in  the 

eye. — Narks. 

«» try  conclusio7is — ]   Try  experiments. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II.  21 

Gob.  By  God's  sonties,"  'twill  be  a  hard  way  to  hit 
Can  you  tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with 
him,  dwell  with  him,  or  no  ? 

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ?  —  Mark 
me  now ;  [aside.']  now  will  I  raise  the  waters  : — Talk  you 
of  young  master  Launcelot? 

Gob.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son  ;  his  father, 
though  I  say  it,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor  man,  and, 
God  be  thanked,  well  to  live. 

Laun.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  he  will,  we  talk  of 
young  master  Lftuncelot. 

Gob.  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Laun.  But  I  pray  you  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I  beseech 
you;  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot? 

Gob.  Of  Launcelot,  an't  please  your  mastership. 

Laun.  Ergo,  master  Launcelot ;  talk  not  of  master 
Launcelot,  father;  for  the  young  gentleman  (according 
to  fates  and  destinies,  and  such  odd  sayings,  the  sisters 
three,  and  such  branches  of  learning,)  is,  indeed,  de- 
ceased; or,  as  you  would  say,  in  plain  terms,  gone  to 
heaven. 

Gob.  Marry,  God  forbid  !  the  boy  was  the  very  staff  of 
my  age,  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel-post,  a  staff, 
or  a  prop  ? — Do  you  know  me,  father  ? 

Gob.  Alack  the  day,  I  know  you  not,  young  gentle- 
man :  but,  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy,  (God  rest  his 
soul  !)  alive  or  dead  ? 

Laun.  Do  you  not  know  me,  father  ? 

Gob.  Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind,  I  know  you  not. 

Laun.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you  might 
fail  of  the  knowing  me ;  it  is  a  wise  father,  that  knows 
his  own  child.  Well,  old  man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of 
your  son :  Give  me  your  blessing  :  truth  will  come  to 
light ;  murder  cannot  be  hid  long,  a  man's  son  may  ;  but, 
in  the  end,  truth  will  out. 

Gob.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up ;  I  am  sure,  you  are  not 
Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it, 

n God's  sonties,']  Supposed  to  be  a  corruption  of  God's  saints. 


22  '       MERCHANT  OF- VENICE. 

but  give  me  your  blessing ;  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy 
that  was,  your  son  that  is,  your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gob.  I  cannot  think,  you  are  my  son. 

XflEMW.  I  know  not  what  1  shall  think  of  that:  but  I  am 
Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man ;  and,  I  am  sure  Margery,  your 
wife,  is  my  mother. 

Goh.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed  :  I'll  be  sworn,  if 
thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own  flesh  and  blood. 
Lord  worshipp'd  might  he  be !  what  a  beard  hast  thou 
got !  thou  hast  got  more  hair  on  thy  chin,  than  Dobbin 
my  phill-horsep  has  on  his  tail. 

luaun.  It  should  seem  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail  grows 
backward  ;  I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  on  his  tail,  than 
I  have  on  my  face,  when  I  last  saw  him. 

Gob.  Lord,  how  art  thou  changed  !  How  dost  thou  and 
thy  master  agree  ?  I  have  brought  him  a  present ;  How 
'gree  you  now  ? 

Lau?i.  Well,  well ;  but,  for  mine  own  part,  as  I  have 
set  up  my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have 
run  some  ground  :  my  master's  a  very  Jew  ;  Give  him  a 
present !  give  him  a  halter  :  1  am  famish'd  in  his  service ; 
you  may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs.  Father, 
I  am  glad  you  are  come ;  give  me  your  present  to  one 
master  Bassanio,  who,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries ;  if 
I  serve  not  him,  I  will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any  ground. 
— O  rare  fortune  !  here  comes  the  man  ; — to  him,  father; 
for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 

Enter  Bassanio,  with  Leonardo,  and  other  Followers. 

Bass.  You  may  do  so : — but  let  it  be  so  hasted,  that 
supper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  five  of  the  clock  :  See 
these  letters  deliver'd ;  put  the  liveries  to  making ;  and 
desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to  my  lodging. 

[Exit  a  Servant. 

Laun.  To  him,  father. 

Gob.  God  bless  your  worship  ! 

Bass.  Gramercy ;  Would'st  thou  aught  with  me  ? 

Gob.  Here's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy, 

o my  phill-horse — ]    Phill,  or  thill,  means  the  shafts  of  a  cart  or 

waggon. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II.  23 

Laun.  Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's  man ; 
that  would,  sir,  as  my  father  shall  specify, 

Gob.  He  hath  a  great  infection,  sir,  as  one  would  say, 
to  serve 

Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve  the 
Jew,  and  I  have  a  desire,  as  my  father  shall  specify, 

Goh.  His  master  and  he,  (saving  your  worship's  re- 
verence,) are  scarce  cater-cousins  : 

Laun.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the  Jew  hav- 
ing done  me  wrong,  doth  cause  me,  as  my  father,  being  I 
hope  an  old  man,  shall  frutify  unto  you, 

Goh.  I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves,  that  I  would  bestow 
upon  your  worship  ;  and  my  suit  is, 

Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to  myself, 
as  your  worship  shall  know  by  this  honest  old  man ;  and, 
though  I  say  it,  though  old  man,  yet,  poor  man,  my 
father. 

Bass.  One  speak  for  both; — What  would  you? 

Laun.  Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.  This  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.  I  know  thee  well,  thou  hast  obtained  thy  suit : 
Shylock,  thy  master,  spoke  with  me  this  day. 
And  hath  preferr'd  thee,  if  it  be  preferment. 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

Laun.  The  old  proverb  is  very  v^^ell  parted  between  my 
master  Shylock  and  you,  sir ;  you  have  the  grace  of  God, 
sir,  and  he  hath  enough. 

Bass.  Thou  speak'st  it  well ;  Go,  father,  with  thy 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  enquire  [son: — 

My  lodging' out: — give  him  a  livery.       [To  his  Followers. 
More  guardedP  than  his  fellows' :   See  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in  : — I  cannot  get  a  service,  no ; — I  have 
ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head. — Well ;  [Looking  on  his  pabn.^ 
if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a  fairer  table  ;''  which  doth  offer 

P more  guarded — ]  i.  e.  More  ornamented. 

1 table  ,]  i.  e.  The  palm  of  the  hand  extended,  so  as  to  allow  the  ob- 
servations of  one  skilled  in  the  art  of  palmistry. — That  of  Launce  was  so  good, 
that  it  did  not  only  promise,  but  offered  to  swear  upon  a  book,  that  his  fortune 
should  be  good.  This  is  the  explanation  of  Tyrwhitt,  whose  mode  of  printing 
the  passage  I  have  adopted. 


24  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

to  swear  upon  a  book,  I  shall  have  good  fortune ;  Go  to, 
here's  a  simple  line  of  life  !  here's  a  =mall  trifle  of  wives  : 
Alas,  fifteen  wives  is  nothing  ;  eleven  widows,  and  nine 
maids,  is  a  simple  coming-in  for  one  man  :  and  then,  to 
'scape  drowning  thrice  ;  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  with 
the  edge  of  a  featherbed  ; — here  are  simple  'scapes  !  Well, 
if  fortune  be  a  woman,  she's  a  good  wench  for  this  gear. 
— Father,  come;  FU  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

[Exeunt  Launcelot  and  Old  Gobbo. 

Bass.  I  pray  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on  this ; 
These  things  being  bought,  and  orderly  bestow'd. 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best-esteem'd  acquaintance  :   hie  thee,  go. 

Leon.  My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done  herein. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra,  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Leon.  Yonder  sir,  he  walks. 

[Exit  Leonardo. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio, 

Bass.  Gratiano  ! 

Gra.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtained  it. 

Gra.  You  must  not  deny  me ;  I  must  go  with  you  to 
Belmont. 

Bass.  Why,  then  you  must ; — But  hear  thee,  Gratiano  ; 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice  ; — 
Parts,  that  become  thee  happily  enough. 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults ; 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there  they  show 
Something  too  liberal :'' — pray  thee  take  pain  to 
Allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit;  lest,  through  thy  wild  behaviour, 
I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to. 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit. 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 

f liberal :]  i.  e.  Coarse,  licentious. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  25 

Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely ; 

Nay  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 

Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say,  amen ; 

Use  all  the  observance  of  civility. 

Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent' 

To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more. 

Bass.  Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing.* 

Gra.  Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;  you  shall  not  gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity  ; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment :  But  fare  you  well, 
I  have  some  business. 

Gra.  And  I  must  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

The  same.     A  Room  in  Shylock's  House. 

Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 

Jes.  I  am  sorry,  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so ; 
Our  house  is  hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil. 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness  : 
But  fare  thee  well :  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee. 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest : 
Give  him  this  letter ;  do  it  secretly. 
And  so  farewell ;  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  talk  with  thee. 

Laun.  Adieu! — tears  exhibit  my  tongue. — Most  beau- 
tiful pagan, — most  sweet  Jew  !  If  a  Christian  did  not 
play  the  knave,  and  get  thee,  I  am  much  deceived :  But, 
adieu  !  these  foolish  drops  do  somewhat  drown  my  manly 
spirit;  adieu!  \_Exit. 

Jes.  Farewell,  good  Launcelot. 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me. 
To  be  asham'd  to  be  my  father's  child ! 

*  ostent.]  i.  e.  Appearance.  *  hearing.']  i.  e.  Deportment. 


26  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 

I  am  not  to  his  manners :  O  Lorenzo, 

If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife ; 

Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 

The  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Gratiano,  Lorenzo,  Salarino,  and  Salanio. 

Lo)\  Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time ; 
Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Gra.  We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

Salar.  We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torch-bearers. 

Salan.  'Tis  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly  order'd  ; 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

Eor.  'Tis  now  but  four  o'clock ;  we  have  two  hours 
To  furnish  us  ; — 

Enter  Launcelot,  with  a  letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what's  the  news  ? 

Eaun.  An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this,  it  shall 
seem  to  signify. 

Eor.  I  know  the  hand  :  in  faith,  'tis  a  fair  hand  ; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on. 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.  By  your  leave,  sir. 

Lor.  Whither  goest  thou  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master  the  Jevv  to  sup 
to-night  with  my  new  master  the  Christian. 

Lor.  Hold  here,  take  this : — tell  gentle  Jessica, 
I  will  not  fail  her  ; — speak  it  privately  ;  go. — 
Gentlemen,  [Exit.  Launcelot. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Salar.  Ay,  marry,  I'll  be  gone  about  it  straight. 

Salan.  And  so  will  L 

Lor.  Meet  me,  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodging  some  hour  hence. 


ACT  IL—SCENE  V.  27 

Salar.  'Tis  good  we  do  so. 

\^Exeunt  Salar.  and  Salan. 

Gra.  Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica? 

Lor.  I  must  needs  tell  thee  all :  She  hath  directed. 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house ; 
What  gold,  and  jewels,  she  is  furnish 'd  with  ; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  heaven. 
It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake  : 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  foot. 
Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse, — 
That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me  ;  peruse  this,  as  thou  goest : 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

The  same.     Before  Shylock's  House. 

Enter  Shylock  and  Launcelot. 

Shy.  Well,  thou  shalt  see,  thy  eyes  shall  be  thy  judge. 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio  : — 
What  Jessica ! — thou  shalt  not  gormandize. 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me !— What  Jessica ! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out ; — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say!   , 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?  I  did  not  bid  thee  call. 

Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me,  I  could  do 
nothing  without  bidding. 

•     ♦ 
Enter  Jessica. 

Jes.  Call  you  ?  what  is  your  will  ? 

Shy.  I  am  bid  focth  to  supper,  Jessica ; 
There  are  ray  keys : — But  wherefore  should  I  go  ? 
I  am  not  bid  for  love  ;  they  flatter  me  : 
But  yet  I'll  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian. — Jessica,  my  girl. 
Look  to  my  house : — I  am  right  loath  to  go ; 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest. 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 


28  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Laun.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  go  on ;  my  young  master  doth 
expect  your  reproach. 

Shi/.  So  do  I  his. 

Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together, — I  will  not 
say,  you  shall  see  a  masque  ;  but  if  you  do,  then  it  was 
not  for  nothing  that  my  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on  Black- 
Monday  last,"  at  six  o'clock  i'the  morning,  falling  out 
that  year  on  Ash-Wednesday  was  four  year  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Shi/.  What,  are  there  masques  ?  Hear  you  me,  Jessica  : 
Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum. 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-neck'd  fife,'' 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then. 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street. 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  faces : 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements ; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear, 
I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night : 
But  I  will  go. — Go  you  before  me,  sirrah  ; 
Say,  I  will  come. 

Laim.  I  will  go  before,  sir. — 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window,  for  all  this  ; 
There  will  come  a  Christian  by. 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.  [Exit. 

Shy.  What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring,  ha? 

Jes.  His  words  were.  Farewell,  mistress  ;  nothing  else. 

Shy.  The  patch^  is  kind  enough  \  but  a  huge  feeder, 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  cat ;  drones  hive  not  with  me  ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him  ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 

»  Black-Monday  last,']     "  Black-Monday  is  Easter- Monday,  and  was  so 

called  on  this  occasion  :  in  the  34th  of  Edward  III.  (1360.)  the  14th  of  April, 
and  the  morrow  after  Easter-day,  King  Edward,  with  his  host,  lay  before  the 
city  of  Paris  :  which  day  was  full  of  dark  mist  and  hail,  and  so  bitter  cold, 
that  many  men  died  on  their  horses'  backs  with  the  cold.  Wherefore,  unto 
this  day  it  hath  been  called  the  Blacke- Monday."     Stowe,  p.  264 — 6. — Grey. 

"  ./'/«.] — here  means  the  fifer,  and  not  his  instrument.     Shakspeare  is 

not  singular  in  this  application  of  the  word. 

y patch — ]  A  fool,  probably  from  the  Italian  pazzo  from  wearing  a 

patched  or  party-coloured  coat. — Nares. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  VI.  29 

His  borrowed  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in ; 

Perhaps,  I  will  return  immediately ; 

Do,  as  I  bid  you, 

Shut  doors  after  you  :  Fast  bind,  fast  find  ; 

A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  [Exit, 

Jes.  Farewell ;  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crost, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  [Exit. 


SCENE  VI. 

The  same. 
Enter  Gratiano  and  Salarino,  masqued. 

Gra.  This  is  the  pent-house,  under  which  Lorenzo 
Desir'd  us  to  make  stand. 

Salar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

Gra.  And  it  is  marvel  he  out-dwells  his  hour. 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.  O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pig€ons  fly 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new  made,  than  they  are  wont. 
To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  ! 

Gra.  That  ever  holds :  who  riseth  from  a  feast. 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  unbated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?  All  things  that  are, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy 'd. 
How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal. 
The  scarfed  bark^  puts  from  her  native  bay, 
Hugg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return  ; 
With  over-weather'd  ribs,  and  ragged  sails. 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 

Enter  Lorenzo. 

Salar.  Here  comes  Lorenzo  ; — more  of  this  hereafter. 
Lor.  Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for  my  long  abode  ; 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs,  have  made  you  wait ; 

y scarfed  bark — ]  i.  e.  The  vessel  decorated  with  flags. 

VOL.  III.  D 


?0  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wives, 
I'll  watch  as  long  for  you  then. — Approach  ; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew  : — Ho  !  who's  vrithin  ? 

Enter  Jessica  above,  in  boy's  clothes. 

Jes.  Who  are  you  ?  Tell  me  for  more  certainty. 
Albeit  I'll  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes.  Lorenzo,  certain  ;  and  my  love,  indeed  ; 
For  who  love  I  so  much  ?  and  now  who  knows. 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours  ? 

Lor.  Heaven,  and  thy  th(»ughts,  are  witness  that  thou  art. 

Jes.  Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the  pains. 
I  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me. 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange  : 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lor.  Descend,  for  you  must  be  my  torch-bearer. 

Jes.  What,  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames  ? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too,  too  light. 
Why,  'tis  an  office  of  discovery,  love ; 
And  I  should  be  obscur'd. 

Lor.  So  are  you,  sweet. 

Even  in  the  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
But  come  at  once  ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  run-away. 
And  we  are  staid  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jes.  I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 
With  some  more  ducats,  and  be  with  you  straight. 

[Exit,  from  above. 
Gra.  Now,  by  my  hood,^  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 
Lor.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily  : 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true  ; 

» by  my  hood,']  The  hood  of  his  masked  habit,  by  which  he  swears  in 

imitation  of  the  friars  with  whom  this  oath  was  familiar. — Cenlile  in  our 
author's  time  was  frequently  written  Gentle,  as  indeed  it  is  at  this  place,  in 
the  first  folio  and  one  of  the  quarto's,  and  the  compliment  here  conveyed  arises 
from  the  ambiguity  of  the  word. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  VII.  31 

And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  prov'd  herself; 
And  therefore,  hke  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true. 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Enter  Jessica,  helow. 

What,  art  thou  come  _?  —  On,  gentlemen,  away ; 
Our  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[^Exit  with  Jessica  and  Salarino. 

Enter  Antonio. 

J-w^.  Who's  there? 

Gra.  Signior  Antonio  ? 

Ant,  Fye,  fye,  Gratiano  !  where  are  all  the  rest  ? 
'Tis  nine  o'clock  ;  our  friends  all  stay  for  you  : — 
No  masque  to-night ;  the  wind  is  come  about, 
Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard  : 
I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  on't ;  I  desire  no  more  delight. 
Than  to  be  under  sail,  and  gone  to-night.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. 

Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.     Enter  Portia,  with  the  Prince  of 
Morocco,  and  both  their  Trains. 

For.  Go,  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 
The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince  : — 
Now  make  your  choice. 

Mor.  The  first,  of  gold,  who  this  inscription' bears  ; — 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 
The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries  ; — 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
This  third,  dull  lead,  with  warning  all  as  blunt ; — 
Who  chooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 
How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right? 

Por.  The  one  of  them  contains  my  picture,  prince  ; 
If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 

Mor.  Some  god  direct  my  judgment !  Let  me  see, 
D   2 


32  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again  : 

What  says  this  leaden  casket? 

Who  chooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 

Must  give — For  what  ?  for  lead  ?   hazard  for  lead  ? 

This  casket  threatens  :  Men,  that  hazard  all. 

Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages  : 

A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross  ; 

I'll  then  nor  give,  nor  hazard,  aught  for  lead. 

What  says  the  silver,  with  her  virgin  hue? 

Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 

As  much  as  he  deserves? — Pause  there,  Morocco, 

And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand  : 

If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation. 

Thou  dost  deserve  enough  ;  and  yet  enough 

May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady ; 

And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving. 

Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 

As  much  as  I  deserve  ! — Why,  that's  the  lady  * 

I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes. 

In  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding  ; 

But  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 
What  if  I  stray'd  no  further,  but  chose  here  ? — 
Let's  see  once  more  this  saying  grav'd  in  gold : 

Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 

Why,  that's  the  lady :  all  the  world  desires  her  : 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come. 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 

The  Hyrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  through-fares  now. 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia : 

The  wat'ry  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits  ;  but  they  come 

As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia. 

One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  picture. 

Is't  like,  that  lead  contains  her  ?    'Twere  damnation. 

To  think  so  base  a  thought :  it  were  too  gross 

To  rib*  her  cerecloth  in  the  obscure  grave. 

Or  shall  I  think,  in  silver  she's  immur'd, 

a  To  rib — ]  i,  e.  Inclose,  aa  the  ribs  inclose  the  viscera. 


ACT  IL— SCENE  VIII.  33 

Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  try'd  gold  ? 

O  sinful  thought !     Never  sa  rich  a  gem 

Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.     They  have  in  England 

A  coin,  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel 

Stamp 'd  in  gold ;  but  that's  insculp'd''  upon  ; 

Bat  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 

Lies  all  within. — Deliver  me  the  key  ; 

Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may  ! 

For.  There,  take  it  prince,  and  if  my  form  lie  there. 
Then  I  am  yours.  [He  unlocks  the  golden  casket. 

Mor.  O  hell !  what  have  we  here  ? 
A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll?    I'll  read  the  writing. 

All  that  glisters  is  not  gold, 

Often  have  you  heard  that  told: 

Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold. 

But  my  outside  to  behold: 

Gilded  timber^  do  worms  infold. 

Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold, 

Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old. 

Your  answer  had  not  been  inscroVd^ 

Fare  you  well;  your  suit  is  cold. 

Cold,  indeed ;  and  labour  lost : 

Then,  farewell,  heat ;  and,  welcome,  frost. — 

Portia  adieu  !  I  have  too  griev'd  a  heart 

To  take  a  tedious  leave  :  thus  losers  part.  [Exit. 

For.  A  gentle  riddance, Draw  the  curtains,  go: — 

Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII. 

Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  Salarino  and  Salanio. 

Salar.  Why  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

b  insculp'd  upon;]  Is  embossed  on  the  coin. 

c timber — ]    This  is  the  reading  of  all  the  old  editors,  which  Mr.  Rowe 

altered  to  wood,  and  Dr.  Johnson  to  tombs.  However  great  the  improvement, 
the  alteration  is  not  required,  and  therefore  ought  not  to  be  retained. 

d  inscrol'd :]     Written  ; — the  answer  alluded  to  is  the  dismissal  of  his 

suit  contained  in  the  last  line. 


34  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Salan.  The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  rais'd  the  duke ; 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salar.  He  came  too  late,  the  ship  was  under  sail : 
But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand, 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica  : 
Besides,  Antonio  certify'd  the  duke. 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Salan.  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confus'd. 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable. 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets : 
My  daughter! — O  my  ducats! — O  my  daughter! 
Fled  ivith  a  Christian? — O  my  christian  ducats! — 
Justice !  the  law !  my  ducats,  and  my  daughter ! 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bags  of  ducats. 
Of  double  ducats,  stolen  from  me  by  my  daughter! 
And  jewels;  two  stones,  tivo  rich  and  precious  stones, 
Stol'n  by  my  daughter ! — Justice !  fnd  the  girl ! 
She  hath  the  stones  upon  her,  and  the  ducats! 

Salar.  Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow  him. 
Crying, — his  stones,  his  daughter,  and  his  ducats. 

Salan.  Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salar.  Marry,  well  remember'd  : 

I  reason^*  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday  ; 
Who  told  me, — in  the  narrow  seas,  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught: 
I  thought  upon  Antonio,  when -he  told  me  ; 
And  wish'd  in  silence,  that  it  were  not  his. 

Salan.  You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what  you  hear ; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part : 
Bassanio  told  him  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return  ;  he  answered — Do  not  so. 
Slubber  nof  business  for  my  sake,  Bassa?uo, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time; 

c  I  reason'd — ]  i.  c.  1  conversed  witlt.     In  Italian,  ragionare  has  the  same 
sense. 

''  Shibher  not — ]  i.  c.  Do  iwt  do  carelessly. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IX.  35 

And  for  the  Jew's  bond,  which  he  hath  of  me, 

Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love  fi 

Be  merry ;  and  employ  your  chief  est  thoughts 

To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 

As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there : 

And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears. 

Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him. 

And  with  affection  wondrous  sensible 

He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand,  and  so  they  parted. 

Salan.  I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go,  and  find  him  out. 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness"" 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.  lExeunt. 

SCENE  IX. 

Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Enter  Nerissa,  with  a  Sei-vant. 

Ner.  Quick,  quick,  I  pray  thee  draw  the  curtain  straight ; 
The  prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath. 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.    Enter  the  Prince  of  Arragon,  Portia, 
a7id  their  Trains. 

For.  Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble  prince : 
If  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain'd. 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemniz'd  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord. 
You  must  be  gone  from  hence  immediately. 

Ar.  I  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe  three  things  : 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
Which  casket  'twas  I  chose ;  next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life. 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage  ;  lastly. 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice. 
Immediately  to  leave  yDu  and  be  gone. 

S mind  of  love :]  i.  e.   Your  loving  mind.     So  in  the  tragedy  of  CroESus, 

1604,  A  mind  of  treason  is  a  treasonable  mind. — Stsevens. 

^  embraced  heaviness — ]  The  heaviness  which  he  indulges,  and  is  fond 

of. — Edwards. 


36  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Por.  To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear. 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 

Jr.  And  so  have  I  address'd  me :'  Fortune  now 
To  my  heart's  hope  ! — Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 
Who  chooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath: 
You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest  ?  ha !  let  me  see  : — 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 
What  many  men  desire. — That  many  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,''  that  choose  by  show. 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach ; 
Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the  martlet. 
Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall. 
Even  in  the  force'  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire. 
Because  I  will  not  jump™  with  common  spirits. 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house  ; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves; 
And  well  said  too ;  For  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit !  Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
O,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices. 
Were  not  deriv'd  corruptly !  and  that  clear  honour 
Were  purchas'd  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 
How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare  ? 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command  ? 
How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  glean 'd 
IJrom  the  true  seed  of  honour  ?  and  how  much  honour 
Pick'd  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times. 
To  be  new  varnish'd  ?  Well,  but  to  my  choice : 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves: 
I  will  assume  desert ; — Give  me  a  key  for  this. 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 


*  addrei&'d  me ;]  i.  e.  Prepared  myself. 

^  By  the  fool  multitude,']    The  prepositions  by  and  of  are  synonymous. — See 
Gifford's  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  i.  139. 

•  in  the  force — ]  i.  e.  The  power.  "> jump — ]  i.  e.  Agree  with. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IX.  37 

Por.  Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find  there. 

Ar.  What's  here  ?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot. 
Presenting  me  a  schedule  ?  I  will  read  it. 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia  ? 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes,  and  my  deservings  ? 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  have  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

Por.  To  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  offices. 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ar.  What  is  here? 

Thejire  seven  times  tried  this ; 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgment  is, 
That  did  never  choose  amiss : 
Some  there  be,  that  shadows  kiss; 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss : 
There  befools  alive,  I ivis,"" 
Silver' d  o'er ;  and  so  was  this. 
Take  ivhat  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
I  will  ever  be  your  head ; 
So  begone,  sir,  you  are  sped. 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 

By  the  time  I  linger  here  : 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo. 

But  I  go  away  with  too. — 

Sweet,  adieu !  I'll  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroath." 

[Exeunt  Arragon,  and  Train. 
P0r.  Thus  hath  the  candle  sing'd  the  moth. 
O  these  deliberate  fools !  when  they  do  choose. 
They  have  the  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  loose. 
Ner.  The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy  ; — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  by  destiny. 
Por.  Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Ser.  Where  is  my  lady  ? 

"  I  wis,]    I  know.     Wissen,  German. 

o  wroath.']     This  word  is  often  spelt  like  ruth,  and  is  used  in  some  of 

the  old  books  for  misfortune.— SrEEVEys. 


38  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Por.  Here ;  what  would  my  lord  ? 

Serv.  Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify'the  approaching  of  his  lord  : 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets  ;P 
To  wit,  besides  commends,  and  courteous  breath. 
Gifts  of  great  value ;  yet  I  have  not  seen 
So  likely  an  ambassador  of  love  : 
A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet. 
To  show  how  costly  summer  was  at  hand. 
As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 

Por.  No  more,  I  pray  thee ;  I  am  half  afeard. 
Thou  wilt  say  anon,  he  is  some  kin  to  thee. 
Thou  spend'st  such  high-day  wit  in  praising  him. — 
Come,  come,  Nerissa  ;  for  I  long  to  see 
Quick  Cupid's  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

Ner.  Bassanio,  lord  love,  if  thy  will  it  be !         [Exewwf . 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salanio  a)id  Salarino. 

Salan.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  uncheck'd,  that  Antonio 
hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wreck'd  on  the  narrow  seas;  the 
Goodwins,  I  think  they  call  the  place ;  a  very  dangerous 
flat,  and  fatal,  where  the  carcases  of  many  a  tall  ship  lie 
buried,  as  they  say,  if  my  gossip  report  be  an  honest  wo- 
man of  her  word. 

Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that,  as 
ever  knapp'd  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbours  believe  she 
wept  for  the  death  of  a  third  husband:  But  it  is  true, — 
without  any  slips  of  prolixity,  or  crossing  the  plain  high- 
way of  talk, — that  the  good  Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio, 

O  that  I  had  a  title  good  enough  to  keep  his  name 

company  ! 

Salar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

p  regreets  f]  i.  e.  Salutations. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I.  39 

Salan.  Ha, — what  say'st  thou? — Why  the  end  is,  he 
hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salar.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his  losses  ! 

Salan.  Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  the  devil  cross  my 
prayers;  for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness  of  a  Jew. — 

Enter  Shylock. 

How  now,  Shylock  ?  what  news  among  the  merchants  ? 

Shy.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as  you,  of 
my  daughter's  flight. 

Salar.  That's  certain ;  I,  for  my  part,  knew  the  tailor 
that  made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Salan.  And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew  the  bird 
was  fledg'd ;  and  then  it  is  the  complexion  of  them  all  to 
leave  the  dam. 

Shy.  She  is  damn'd  for  it. 

Salar.  That's  certain,  if  the  devil  may  be  her  judge. 

Shy.  My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Satan..  Out  upon  it,  old  carrion !  rebels  it  at  these 
years  ? 

Shy.  I  say,  my  daughter  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Salar.  There  is  more  diiference  between  thy  flesh  and 
hers,  than  between  jet  and  ivory;  more  between  your 
bloods,  than  there  is  between  red  wine  and  rhenish  : — 
But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether  Antonio  have  had  any 
loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match  :  a  bankrupt, 
a  prodigal,*!  who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Rialto  : 
— a  beggar  that  used  to  come  so  smug  upon  the  mart ; 
— let  him  look  to  his  bond  :  he  was  wont  to  call  me 
usurer  ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond  :  he  was  wont  to  lend 
money  for  a  Christian  courtesy  ;  —  let  him  look  to  his 
bond. 

Salar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not  take 
his  flesh  ;  What's  that  good  for  ? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal :  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else, 
it  will  feed  my  revenge.      He  hath  disgraced  me,  and 

' a  prodigal,']  Warburton  asks  why  a  prodigal  ? — What,  in  Shylock's 

opinion,  could  be  greater  acts  of  prodigality  than  for  Antonio  to  expose  him- 
self to  ruin  for  the  sake  of  his  friend,  and  to  lend  out  money  for  Christian 
courtesy  7 


40  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

hindered  me  of  half  a  milhon ;  laughed  at  my  losses, 
mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my 
bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies  ;  and 
what's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew  :  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ? 
hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affec- 
tions, passions  ?  fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the 
same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by 
the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter 
and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is  ?  if  you  prick  us,  do  we  not 
bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if  you  poison 
us,  do  we  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  re- 
venge ?  if  we  are  like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble 
you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his  hu- 
mility ?  revenge  ;  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew,  what  should 
his  sufferance  be  by  Christian  example?  why,  revenge. 
The  villainy,  you  teach  me,  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go 
hard,  but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Gentlemen,  my  master  Antonio  is  at  his  house, 
and  desires  to  speak  with  you  both. 

Salar.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  him. 

Enter  Tubal. 

Solan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe  ;  a  third  cannot 
be  matched,  unless  the  devil  himself  turn  Jew. 

[Exeunt  Salan.  Salar.  and  Servant. 

Shy.  How  now.  Tubal,  what  news  from  Genoa  ?  hast 
thou  found  my  daughter  ? 

Tub.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but  cannot 
find  her. 

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there !  a  diamond  gone, 
cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort !  The  curse 
never  fell  upon  our  nation  till  now ;  I  never  felt  it  till 
now  : — two  thousand  ducats  in  that ;  and  other  precious, 
precious  jewels. — I  would,  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my 
foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  ear !  'would  she  were  hears'd 
at  my  foot,  and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin !  No  news  of 
them  ? — Why,  so  : — and  I  know  not  what's  spent  in  the 
search  :  Why,  thou  loss  upon  loss  I  the  thief  gone  with  so 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I.  41 

much,  and  so  much  to  find  the  thief;  and  no  satisfaction, 
no  revenge  :  nor  no  ill  luck  stirring,  but  what  lights  o'my 
shoulders ;  no  sighs,  but  o'  my  breathing  ;  no  tears,  but 
o'  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too ;  Antonio,  as  I 
heard  in  Genoa, — 

Shy.  What,  what,  what?  ill  luck,  ill  luck? 
•    Tub.  — hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from  Tri- 
polis. 

Shy.  I  thank  God,  I  thank  God:  — Is  it  true?  is  it 
true? 

Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped  the 
wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal ;  —  Good  news,  good 
news :  ha !  ha !  —  Where  ?  in  Genoa  ? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard,  one 
night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me: 1  shall  never 

see  my  gold  again  :  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting !  four- 
score ducats ! 

Tub.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  in  my 
company  to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot  choose  but 
break. 

Sky.  I  am  very  glad  of  it :  I'll  plague  him  ;  I'll  torture 
him ;   I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had  of 
your  daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her  !  Thou  torturest  me.  Tubal :  it 
was  my  turquoise ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was  a  ba- 
chelor :'  I  would  not  have  given  it  for  a  wilderness  of 
monkeys. 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

r it  was  my  turquoise  ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  wheii  I  was  a  bachelor :]  A  tur- 
quoise is  a  precious  stone  found  in  the  veins  of  the  mountains  on  the  confines 
of  Persia  to  the  east,  subject  to  the  Tartars.  As  Shylock  had  been  married 
long  enough  to  have  a  daughter  grown  up,  it  is  plain  he  did  not  value  this 
turquoise  on  account  of  the  money  for  which  he  might  hope  to  sell  it,  but 
merely  in  respect  of  the  imaginary  virtues  formerly  ascribed  to  the  stone.  It 
was  said  of  the  Turkey-stone,  that  it  faded  or  brightened  in  its  colour,  as  the 
health  of  the  wearer  increased  or  grew  less.  But  Leah  might  have  presented 
this  stone  to  Shylock  for  a  better  reason,  as  it  is  said  to  "  take  away  all  en- 
mity and  to  reconcile  man  and  wife." — Steevens. 


42  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Shy.  Nay,  that's  true,  that's  very  true :  Go,  Tubal,  fee 
rae  an  officer,  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  before  :  I  will  have 
the  heart  of  him,  if  he  forfeit ;  for  were  he  out  of  Venice, 
I  can  make  what  merchandize  I  will :  Go,  go.  Tubal,  and 
meet  me  at  our  synagogue ;  go,  good  Tubal ;  at  our  sy- 
nagogue. Tubal.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Belmont.     A  Rootn  in  Portia's  House. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Portia,   Gratiano,  Nerissa,  and 
Attendants.     The  caskets  are  set  out. 

For.  I  pray  you,  tarry ;  pause  a  day  or  two. 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while  : 
There's  something  tells  rae,  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you;  and  you  know  yourself. 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality  : 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought,) 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two. 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you. 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me ; 
But,  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin. 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes. 
They  have  o'er-look'd  me,^  and  divided  me  ; 

One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, 

Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours. 
And  so  all  yours  :  O  !  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights  ; 
And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours. — Prove  it  so. 
Let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it, — not  I. 
I  speak  too  long  ;  but  'tis  to  peize  the  time  ;' 

•  They  have  o'er-look^d  me,]  Overlook  appears  to  have  been  a  term  of  witch- 
craft expressive  of  the  fascinations  of  the  evil  eye. — See  Glanvil  Sadducismus 
Triumpliutus,  p.  95. 

' to  peize  the  time ;]  To  peke,  is  to  weigh,  or  balance ;  and  figuratively, 

to  keep  in  suspense,  to  delay. — Henley. 


ACT  in.— SCENE  II.  43 

To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length. 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bass.  Let  me  choose  ; 

For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

For.  Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.  None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust. 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love  : 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

Por.  Ay,  but,  I  fear,  you  speak  upon  the  rack. 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  any  thing. 

Bass.  Promise  me  life,  a^d  I'll  confess  the  truth. 
Por.  Well  then,  confess  and  live. 
Bass.  Confess,  and  love. 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession  : 
O  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  ! 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

Por.  Away  then  :  I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  ; 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. — 
Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. — 
Let  musick  sound,  while  he  doth  iriake  his  choice  ; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end. 
Fading  in  musick  :  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream. 
And  wat'ry  death-bed  for  him :  He  may  win  ; 
And  what  is  musick  then  ?  then  musick  is 
Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crown'd  monarch  :  such  it  is. 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day. 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear. 
And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes. 
With  no  less  presence,"  but  with  much  more  love. 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster :"  I  stand  for  sacrifice. 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 

"  With  no  less  prese7ice,']  With  tlie  same  dignity  of  mien. — Johnson. 
"  To  the  sea-mmster :]  See  Ovid,  Metamorph.  lib.  xi.  ver.  199.  et  seq. 


44  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  the  exploit.     Go  Hercules ! 
Live  thou,  I  live  : — With  much  more  dismay 
I  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Mustek,  whilst  Bass  an  lo   comments  oti  the  caskets 
to  himself. 

SONG. 

1.  Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head^^ 

How  begot,  how  nourished'^ 
Reply ; — repli/. — 

2.  It  is  engendered  i?i  the  eyes. 
With  gazing  fed ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies : 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 

Til  begin  it, -Ving,  dong,  bell. 

All.  Ding,  Dong,  bell. 

Bass. — So   may   the    outward   shows   be   least  them- 
selves. 
The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt. 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice. 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil?  In  religion. 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it^  with  a  text. 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules,  and  frowning  Mars ; 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk  ? 
And  these  assume  but  valour's  excrement,* 
To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty,'' 

y fancy — ]  i  e.  Love.  » approve  it — ]  i.  e.  Justify  it. 

" valour's  eicrtment,']  i.  e.  The  beards  of  Mars  and  Hercules. 

t" Look  on  heauty,~\  i.  e.  Artificial  beauty,  and  you  shall  find  that  it  is 

purchased  by  the  weight, — such  as  paint,  false  hair,  &c.  and  makes  them 
lightest,  i.  e.  most  vain  and  wanton  who  wear  most  of  these  ornaments. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  45 

And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchas'd  by  the  weight ; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature. 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it ; 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks. 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head. 
The  scull  that  bred  them,  in  the  sepulchre. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore^ 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea;  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian ;  beauty's,"*  in  a  word. 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold. 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee  : 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man  :  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead. 
Which  rather  threat'nest,  than  dost  promise  aught. 
Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence. 
And  here  choose  I ;  Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 
Por.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air. 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair. 
And  shuddering  fear  and  green-ey'd  jealousy. 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstacy, 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess  j 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing,  make  it  less. 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here  ? 

[Opening  the  leaden  casket. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?  What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?  Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or,  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine. 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?  Here  are  sever'd  lips. 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends  :  Here  in  her  hairs 

«^ the  guiled  shore — ]  i.  e.  The  treacherous  shore.     Shakspeare  ia  this 

instance,  as  in  many  others,  confounds  the  participles.  Guiled  stands  for 
guUing.    Some  of  the  modern  editors  read  gilded — Steevens. 

^ an  Indian ;  beauty's,  &c.]  I  have  here  deviated  slightly  from  the 

folio — the  ordinary  reading  represents  ornament  as  "the  beauteous  scarf  veiling 
an  Indian  beauty,"  a  sentence  which  by  no  means  serves  to  illustrate  the  re- 
flexion which  Bassanio  wishes  to  enforce.  Sir  Thomas  Haumer  proposed  to 
read  dowdy  for  beauty ! 

VOL.  III.  E 


46  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

The  painter  plays  the  spider  ;  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men. 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs :  But  her  eyes, — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks,  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his. 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd :«  Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this  shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. — Here's  the  scroll. 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

You  that  choose  not  hy  the  view, 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true  ! 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you. 
Be  content  and  seek  no  neio. 
If  you  he  well  pleas  d  with  this, 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 
lurn  you  where  your  lady  is. 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss. 

A  gentle  scroll ; — Fair  lady,  by  your  leave : 

[Kissing  her. 
I  come  by  note,  to  give,  and  to  receive. 
Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize. 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes. 
Hearing  applause,  and  universal  shout. 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 
Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no  ; 
So,  thrice  fair  lady,  stand  I,  even  so ; 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true. 
Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 

Por.  You  see  rae,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand. 
Such  as  I  am :  though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish. 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich ; 
That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 

e      ,  .  itself  nnfurnished :']   Incomplete,  not  fuTtiished  with  its  companion  or 
fellow  eye;^M.  Mason. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  11.  47 

I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends. 
Exceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  nothing  f  which,  to  term  in  gross. 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd  ; 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn ;  happier  than  this. 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull,  but  she  can  learn ; 
Happiest  of  all,  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed. 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  vv^hat  is  mine,  to  you,  and  yours 
Is  now  converted  :  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants. 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now. 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself. 
Are  yours,  my  lord  ;  I  give  them  with  this  ring ; 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away. 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love. 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

Bass.  Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words. 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins : 
And  there  is  such  confusion  in  my  powers. 
As,  after  some  oration  fairly  spoke 
By  a  beloved  prince,  there  doth  appear 
Among  the  buzzing  pleased  multitude  ; 
Where  every  something  being  blent^  together. 
Turns  to  a  wild  of  nothing,  save  of  joy, 
Express'd,  and  not  express'd  :  But  when  this  ring 
Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence ; 
O,  then  be  bold  to  say,  Bassanio's  dead. 

Ner.  My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time. 
That  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper. 
To  cry,  good  joy  ;  Good  joy,  my  lord  and  lady  ! 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me  :"' 

f  nothing ; — ]  This  is  the  reading  of  all  the  folios.  The  modern  edi- 
tors read,  with  one  of  the  quartos,  something ;  which  appears  to  be  not  only 
the  least  intelligible,  but  the  least  accredited. 

e  blent — ]  i.  e.  Mingled. 

h  you  can  wish  none  from  me  :]  That  is,  none  away  from  me;  none  that 

1  shall  lose,  if  you  gain  it. — Johnson. 

E    2 


48  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

And  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife. 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship  ;  you  have  got  me  one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours  : 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 
You  lov'd,  I  lov'd ;  for  intermission' 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there  ; 
And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls : 
For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again  ; 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love;  at  last, — if  promise  last, — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 

Por.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa  ? 

Ner.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleas'd  withal. 

Bass.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith? 

Gra.  Yes,  'faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Our  feast  shall  be  much  honour'd  in  your  marriage. 

Gra.  We'll  play  with  them,  the  first  boy  for  a  thousand 
ducats. 

Ner.  What,  and  stake  down  ? 

Gra.  No;  we  shall  ne'er  win  at  that  sport,  and  stake 

down. 

But  who  comes  here  ?  Lorenzo,  and  his  infidel  ? 
What,  and  my  old  Venetian  friend,  Salerio  ? 

Enter  Loeenzo,  Jessica,  and  Salerio. 

Bass.  Lorenzo,  and  Salerio,  welcome  hither ; 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome  : — By  your  leave, 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen. 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

Por.  So  do  I,  my  lord  ; 

They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.  I  thank  your  honour : — For  my  part,  my  lord, 

'  ^—for  intermiuion — ]  i.  e.  Intervening  time,  delay. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  49 

My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way. 
He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay. 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Sale.  I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.  \^Gives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  ray  good  friend  doth. 

Sale.  Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind  :  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

Gra.  Nerissa,  cheer  yon'  stranger ;  -bid  her  welcome. 
Your  hand,  Salerio ;  What's  the  news  from  Venice  ? 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio  ? 
I  know,  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
We  are  the  Jasons,  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

Sale.  'Would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he  hath  lost ! 

For.  There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon'  same  paper. 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek  : 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse? — 
With  leave,  Bassanio  ;  I  am  half  yourself. 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  O  sweet  Portia. 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words. 
That  ever  blotted  paper !   Gentle  lady. 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  ray  veins,  I  was  a  gentleman  ; 
And  then  I  told  you  true  :  and  yet,  dear  lady. 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart :  When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing ;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engag'd  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engag'd  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy. 
To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady; 


60  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

The  paper  as  the  body''  of  my  friend. 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound. 
Issuing  life-blood.     But  is  it  true,  Salerio  ? 
Have  all  his  ventures  fail'd  ?     What,  not  one  hit '' 
From  Tripohs,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India  ? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant-marring  rocks  ? 

Sale.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it :  Never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man. 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man  : 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning,  and  at  night ; 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state. 
If  they  deny  him  justice  ;  twenty  merchants. 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him  ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jes.  When  I  was  with  him,  I  have  heard  him  swear. 
To  Tubal,  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen. 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh. 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him  ;  and  I  know,  my  lord. 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deny  not. 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

For.  Is  it  your  dear  friend,  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 

Bass.  The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man. 
The  best  condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies  ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears. 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

Por,  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew? 

Bass.  For  me  three  thousand  ducats. 

-Por.  What,  no  more  ? 

^  The  paper  a.3  the  body—I  The  expression  is  somewhat  elliptical:  "The 

paper  as  the  body,"  means— the  paper  resembles  the  body,  is  as  the  body 

Stefvens. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III.  51 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that. 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Should  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife : 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend  , 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over ; 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along : 
My  maid  Nerissa,  and  myself  mean  time. 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away  ; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding  day : 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer ;' 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  Sweet  Bassanio,my  ships  have  all  miscar- 
ried, my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very  low,  my  bond 
to  the  Jew  is  forfeit;  and  since,  in  paying  it,  it  is  impossible  I 
should  live,  all  debts  are  cleared  between  you  and  I.  If  I  might 
hut  see  you  at  my  death ;'" — notivithstanding,  use  your  pleasure : 
if  your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my  letter. 

Por.  O  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone. 

Bass.  Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 
I  will  make  haste  :  but,  till  I  come  again. 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay, 

Nor  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  Shylock,  Salanio,  Antonio,  and  Gaoler. 

Shy.  Gaoler,  look  io  him  ; — Tell  not  me  of  mercy; 

This  is  the  fool  that  lends  out  money  gratis  ; — 
Gaoler,  look  to  him. 

'  c/ieer ;]  i.  e.  Countenance. 

™  ail  debts  are  cleared,  &c.]  According  to  the  general  way  of  printing 

this  passage,  the  seeing  Bassanio  at  his  death  has  been  made  the  condition  of 
Antonio's  forgiving  him  his  debt.  Such  a  want  of  generosity  is  inconsistent 
with  the  tenderness  and  nobleness  of  Antonio.  The  present  punctuation  was 
suggested  by  Mr.  Charles  Kemble. 


52  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.  I'll  have  ray  bond  ;  speak  not  against  my  bond  ; 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  that  I  will  have  my  bond  : 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog,  before  thou  had'st  a  cause ; 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs : 
The  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  wonder. 
Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond" 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

A  fit.  I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shy.  I'll  have  my  bond  ;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak  : 
I'll  have  my  bond  ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-eye'd  fool. 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not; 
I'll  have  no  speaking ;  I  will  have  my  bond. 

[Exit  Shylock. 

Salan.  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur. 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Ant.  Let  him  alone  ; 

I'll  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life ;  his  reason  well  I  know ; 
I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salan.  I  am  sure,  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.  The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law  ; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied. 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go  : 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me. 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 

To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor. 

Well,  gaoler,  on  : — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 

To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not !        [Exeunt. 

" so  fond — ]  i,  e.  So  foolish. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV.  63 

SCENE  IV. 

Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 

Enter  Portia,  Nerissa,  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and 
Balthazar. 

Lor.  Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  presence. 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  god-like  amity ;  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But,  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour. 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief. 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord  your  husband, 
I  know,  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work. 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

Por.  I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good. 
Nor  shall  not  now  :  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together. 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love. 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit; 
Which  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord. 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord  :  If  it  be  so, 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow'd. 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty  ? 
This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  it:  hear  other  things. — 
Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 
The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house. 
Until  my  lord's  return :  for  mine  own  part, 
I  have  toward  heaven  breath'd  a  secret  vow. 
To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation. 
Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here. 
Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return : 
There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off. 
And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you. 
Not  to  deny  this  imposition ; 


54  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity. 
Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart; 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

Por.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind. 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 
In  place  of  lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 
So  fare  you  well,  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts,  and  happy  hours,  attend  on  you  ! 

Jes.  I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

Por.  I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well  pleas'd 
To  wish  it  back  on  you  :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. — 

[Exeu7it  Jessica  and  Lorenzo. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true, 
So  let  me  find  thee  still :  Take  this  same  letter. 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man. 
In  speed  to  Padua ;  see  thou  render  this 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  doctor  Bellario  ; 
And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth  give  thee. 
Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagined  speed 
Unto  the  tranect,°  to  the  common  ferry 
Which  trades  to  Venice:— waste  no  time  in  words. 
But  get  thee  gone ;  I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth.  Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed.     [Exit. 

Por.  Come  on,  Nerissa  ;  I  have  work  in  hand. 
That  you  yet  know  not  of:  we'll  see  our  husbands. 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner.  Shall  they  see  us? 

Por.  They  shall,  Nerissa;  but  in  such  a  habit 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  what  we  lack.     I'll  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accouter'd  like  young  men, 
I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two. 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  a  braver  grace : 
And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 

o  trunect, — ]  This  word  occurs  only  once. — It  seems  to  imply  some 

place  from  which  the  public  boat  was  accustomed  to  set  out.  There  are  five 
sluices  leading  from  the  Brenta  into  the  Laguno  of  Venice,  at  the  last  of  which 
there  might  be  a  traino  or  tranetto,  a  machine  to  draw  the  boat  through  the  pass, 
and  this  might  be  rendered  by  some  English  vniteitranect. — Nabes. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V.  66 

With  a  reed  voice;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 

Into  a  manly  stride ;  and  speak  of  frays. 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  :  and  tell  quaint  lies. 

How  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love. 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died ; 

I  could  not  do  withal  ;p  then  I'll  repent, 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kill'd  them  : 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell. 

That  men  shall  swear,  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth:— I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 

Which  t  will  practise. 

Ner.  Why>  shall  we  turn  to  men  ? 

Por.  Fye !  what  a  question's  that. 
If  thou  wert  near  a  lew'd  interpreter  1 
But  come,  I'll  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park-gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away. 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day.  lExeuni. 

SCENE  V. 

The  same.     A  Garden. 
Enter  Launcelot  and  Jessica. 

Laun.  Yes,  truly : — for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the  father 
are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children ;  therefore,  I  promise  you, 
I  fear  you.^  I  was  always  plain  v/ith  you,  and  so  now  I 
speak  my  agitation  of  the  matter:  Therefore,  be  of  good 
cheer ;  for,  truly,  I  think,  you  are  damn'd.  There  is  but 
one  hope  in  it  that  can  do  you  any  good;  and  that  is  but 
a  kind  of  bastard  hope  neither. 

Jes.  And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Lann.  Marry,  you  may  partly  hope  that  your  father 
got  you  not,  that  you  are  not  the  Jew's  daughter. 

P  I  could  not  do  withal ;]  Tliis  phrase,  which  the  commentators  have  so 
shamelessly  misinterpreted,  is,  in  itself  perfectly  innocent,  and  means  nei- 
ther more  nor  less  than  I  could  not  help  it.— See  Gifford's  Ben  Jonson,  vol. 
iii.471. 

1  I  fear  you,.]  I  fear  for  you. 


56  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Jes.  That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  indeed ;  so  the 
sins  of  my  mother  should  be  visited  upon  me. 

Lauu.  Truly  then  I  fear  you  are  damn'd  both  by  father 
and  mother :  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla,  your  father,  I  fall 
into  Charybdis,  your  mother ;  well,  you  are  gone  both 
ways. 

Jes.  I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband ;  he  hath  made 
me  a  Christian. 

Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he :  we  were  Christians 
enough  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could  well  live,  one  by 
another :  This  making  of  Christians  will  raise  the  price  of 
hogs  ;  if  we  grow  all  to  be  pork-eaters,  we  shall  not  shortly 
have  a  rasher  on  the  coals  for  money. 

Enter  Lorenzo. 

Jes.  I'll  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you  say ;  here 
he  comes. 

Lor.  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you  shortly,  Launcelot,  if 
you  thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Jes.  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo  ;  Launcelot 
and  I  are  out :  he  tells  me  flatly,  there  is  no  mercy  for  me 
in  heaven,  because  I  am  a  Jew's  daughter  :  and  he  says, 
you  are  no  good  member  of  the  commonwealth ;  for,  in 
converting  Jews  to  Christians,  you  raise  the  price  of  pork. 

Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the  commonwealth, 
than  you  can  the  getting  up  of  the  negro's  belly ;  the 
Moor  is  with  child  by  you,  Launcelot. 

Lau7i.  It  is  much,  that  the  Moor  should  be  more  than 
reason :  but  if  she  be  less  than  an  honest  woman,  she  is, 
indeed,  more  than  I  took  her  for. 

I^r.  How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the  word !  I  think, 
the  best  grace  of  wit  will  shortly  turn  into  silence  ;  and 
discourse  grow  commendable  in  none  only  but  parrots. — 
Go  in,  sirrah  ;  bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done,  sir  ;  they  have  all  stomachs. 

Lor.  Goodly  lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are  you !  then 
bid  them  prepare  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done,  too,  sir :  only,  cover  is  the  word. 

Lor.  Will  you  cover  then,  sir  ? 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V.  67 

Laun.  Not  so,  sir,  neither ;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion !  Wilt  thou 
show  the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an  instant  ?  I  pray 
thee,  understand  a  plain  man  in  his  plain  meaning  :  go  to 
thy  fellows  ;  bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve  in  the  meat, 
and  we  will  come  in  to  dinner. 

Laim.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in;  for  the 
meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered  ;  for  your  coming  in  to  din- 
ner, sir,  why,  let  it  be  as  humours  and  conceits  shall  go- 
vern. [Exit.  Launcelot. 

Lor.  O  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are  suited  ! 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words  ;  And  I  do  know 
A  many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.     How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica? 
And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion. 
How  dost  thou  like  the  lord  Bassanio's  wife  ? 

Jes.  Past  all  expressing  :  It  is  very  meet. 
The  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  hfe  ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady. 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth  ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  it 
Is  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match. 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women. 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me,  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

Jes.  Nay,  but  ask  my  opinion  too  of  that. 

Lor.  I  will  anon ;  first,  let  us  go  to  dinner. 
.    Jes.  Nay,  let  me  praise  you,  while  I  have  a  stomach. 

Lor.  No,  pray  thee,  let  it  serve  for  table-talk  ; 
Then,  howsoe'er  thou  speak'st,  'mong  other  things 
I  shall  digest  it. 

Jes.  Well,  I'll  set  you  forth.  [Exetent, 


58  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — Venice.    A  court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  Duke,  ^Ae  Magnificoes ;  Antonio,  Bassanio, 
Gratiano,  Salarino,  ^AhAyio,  and  others. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

A?it.  Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  for  thee ;  thou  art  come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy. 

Ant.  I  have  heard. 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course  ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate. 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury  ;  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit. 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court. 

Salan.  He's  ready  at  the  door  :  he  comes,  my  lord. 

Enter  Shylock. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face. — 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then  'tis  thought, 
Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy,  and  remorse,"^  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty  : 
And  where'  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 
(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh,) 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture. 
But  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love. 
Forgive  a  moity  of  the  principal; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses. 
That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back  ; 

r remorse,]  i.  e.  Pity.  * wlurre — ]  For  uhereas. 


ACT  IV.-^SCENE  I.  59 

Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant*  down, 

And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 

From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 

From  stubborn  Turks,  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 

To  officers  of  tender  courtesy. 

We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.  I  have  possess'd  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose  ; 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn. 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond  : 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  the  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats  :  I'll  not  answer  that : 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humour  ;  Is  it  answer'd  1 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat. 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  1  What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are,  love  not  a  gaping  pig  ; 
Some,  that  are  mad,  if  they  behold  a  cat ; 
And  others,  when  the  bag-pipe  sings  i'  the  nose. 
Cannot  contain  their  urine  ;  For  affection," 
Master  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes,  or  loaths  :  Now,  for  your  answer : 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd. 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig  ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat ; 
Why  he,  a  swollen  bag-pipe  ;  but  of  force 
Must  yield  to  such  inevitable  shame, 

' a  royal  merchant — ]  This  is  not  a  mere  sounding  expression.  The  Ve- 
netians, who  were  masters  of  the  sea,  gave  liberty  to  any  subject  of  the  repub- 
lic, who  would  fit  out  vessels,  to  make  themselves  masters  of  the  isles  of  the 
Archipelago  and  other  maritime  places  ;  and  to  enjoy  their  conquests  in  so- 
vereignty :  only  doing  homage  to  the  republic  for  their  several  principalities. 
By  the  virtue  of  this  licence  the  Sanudos,  the  Justiniani,  the  Grimaldi,  the 
Summaripo's  and  others,  all  Venetian  merchants,  erected  principalities  in  se- 
veral places  of  the  Archipelago,  which  their  descendants  enjoyed  for  many 
generations,  and  thereby  became  truly  and  properly  royal  merchants,  which  in- 
deed was  the  title  generally  given  them  all  over  Europe.  Hence  the  more 
eminent  of  our  own  merchants,  while  public  spirit  resided  among  them,  were 
caWed  royal  merchants. — Warbcrton.  Gresham  was  commonly  dignified  with 
the  title  of  the  royal  merchant. — Johnson. 

" affection,'] — in  the  sense  oi  sympathy,  was  formerly  technical,  and  is  so 

used  by  Lord  Bacon,  Sir  K.  Digby,and  many  others. — Farmer. 


60  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

As  to  offend,  himself  being  offended ; 

So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not. 

More  than  a  lodg'd  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 

I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 

A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answered  ? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man. 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shi/.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answer. 

Bass.  Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love  ? 

ShT/.  Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass.  Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shi/.  What,  would'st  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee 
twice  ? 

Atit.  I  pray  you,  think  you  question''  with  the  Jew  : 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach. 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf. 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb  ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise. 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven ; 
You  may  as  well  do  any  thing  most  hard. 
As  seek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what's  harder  ?) 
His  Jewish  heart : — Therefore,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  farther  means. 
But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency. 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

Shi/.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them,  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How  shaltthou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring  none? 

Shy.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchas'd  slave,y 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mules, 

»  question — ]  i.  e.  Converse. 

y  many  a  purchas'd  slave,']  This  argument,  considered  as  used  to  the 

particular  persons,  seems  conclusive.  I  see  not  how  Venetians  or  English- 
men, while  they  practice  the  purchase  and  sale  of  slaves,  can  much  enforce  or 
demand  the  law  of  doing  to  others  as  we  would  that  they  should  do  to  us, — • 

JOHNSOK, 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  61 

You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts. 
Because  you  bought  them  : — Shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burdens?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  season'd  with  such  viands  ?  You  will  answer. 
The  slaves  are  ours : — So  do  I  answer  you  | 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him. 
Is  dearly  bought,  'tis  mine,  and  I  will  have  it  : 
If  you  deny  me,  fye  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice  : 
I  stand  for  judgment :  answer  ;  shall  I  have  it? 

Duke.  Upon  my  power,  I  may  dismiss  this  court. 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor. 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this. 
Come  here  to-day. 

Salar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor. 
New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.  Bring  us  the  letters ;  Call  the  messenger. 

Bass.  Good  cheer,  Antonio !  What,  man  ?  courage  yet ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all. 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.  I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death  ;  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me  : 
You  cannot  better  be  employ 'd,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  Nerissa,  dressed  like  a  lawyer's  clerk. 

Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 

Nier.  From  both,  my  lord  :  Bellario  greets  your  grace. 

[Presents  a  letter. 

Bass.  Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly? 

Shy.  To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 

Gra.  Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen  :  but  no  metal  can. 
No,  not  the  hangman's  ax,  bear  half  the  keenness 
Of  thy  sharp  envy.     Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee  ? 

Shy.  No,  none  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to  make. 

VOL.  III.  '  F 


62  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Gra.  O,  be  thou  daran'd,  inexorable  dog ! 
And  for  thy  hfe  let  justice  be  accus'd. 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men  :  thy  currish  spirit 
Govern'd  a  wol/,  who,  hang'd  for  human  slaughter. 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet. 
And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallow'd  dam, 
Infus'd  itself  in  thee  ;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  ravenous. 

Shy.  Till  thou  can'st  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bond. 
Thou  but  ofTend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud  : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin. — I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duhe.  This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court : — 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by. 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you'll  admit  him. 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart :  —  some  three  or  four  of  you. 
Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 
Mean  time,  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario's  letter. 

[Clerk  reads."]  Your  grace  shall  understand,  that,  at  the 
receipt  of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick  :  but  in  the  instatit  that 
your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation  was  with  me  a  young 
doctor  of  Rome,  his  name  is  Ballhasar :  I  acquainted  him. 
with  the  cause  in  conti'oversy  between  the  Jeiv  atid  Antonio 
the  merchant :  we  turned  o'er  many  books  together :  he  is  fur- 
nished with  my  opinion ;  which,  bettet'd  with  his  own  learning, 
(the  greatness  ivhereof  I  cannot  enough  commend,)  comes 
with  him,  at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your  grace's  request 
in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  years  be  no  im- 
pediment to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estimation :  for  I  never 
knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head.  I  leave  him  to 
your  gracious  acceptance,  whose  trial  shall  better  publish  his 
commendation. 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learn'd  Bellario,  what  he  writes  : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  63 

Enter  Portia,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 

Give  me  your  hand  :  Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 

Por.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome  :  take  your  place. 

Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court  ? 

Por.  I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Por.  Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow  ; 
Yet  in  such  a  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you,^  as  you  do  proceed. — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,*  do  you  not  ? 

[jTo  Antonio. 

Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.  Do  you  confess  the  bond? 

jint.  I  do. 

Por,  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shi/.  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that. 

Por.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd  ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  scepter'd  sway. 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 

^ impngn — ]  Oppose,  controvert. 

»  Yvn  ttand  within  bis  danger,]  i.  e.  Within  Ids  reach' or  control. 

f2 


64  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy  5 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 

The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much. 

To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea; 

Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 

Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy.  My  deeds  upon  my  head  !  I  crave  the  law. 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Por.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bass.  Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court  j 
Yea,  thrice  the  sum  :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er. 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart : 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority  : 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong  ; 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

Por.  It  must  not  be  ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established  : 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example. 
Will  rush  into  the  state :  it  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honour  thee  ! 

Por.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 

Por.  Shylock,  there's  thrice  thy  money  ofFer'd  thee. 

Shy.  An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven  : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Por.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart :  Be  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  thy  money;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenour. — 
It  doth  appear,  you  are  a  worthy  judge  ; 
You  know  the  law,  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound  :  I  charge  you  by  the  law. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  65 

Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 
Proceed  to  judgment:  by  my  soul  I  swear. 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me  :  I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant.  Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  Why  then,  thus  it  is  : 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 

Shy.  O  noble  judge  !  O  excellent  young  man  ! 

Por.  For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty. 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.  'Tis  very  true  :  O  wise  and  upright  judge  ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

Por.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast ; 

So  says  the  bond  ; — Doth  it  not,  noble  judge? — 
Nearest  his  heart,  those  are  the  very  words. 

Por.  It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here,  to  weigh 
The  flesh  ? 

Sky.  I  have  them  ready. 

Por.  Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge. 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shy.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  1 

Por.  It  is  not  so  express'd  ;  But  what  of  that? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shy.  I  cannot  find  it ;  'tis  not  in  the  bond. 

Por.  Come,  merchant,  have  you  any  thing  to  say  ? 

Ant.  But  little  ;  I  am  arm'd,  and  well  prepar'd. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio  ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you ; 
For  herein  fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use. 
To  let  the  wretched  man  out-live  his  wealth. 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow. 
An  age  of  poverty  ;  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife  : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end. 
Say,  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 


66  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge. 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend. 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
ril  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.  Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife. 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world. 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life ; 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

Por.  Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that. 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.  I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love  ; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Ner.  'Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back  ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Sh^.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands  :  I  have  a  daugh- 
'Would,  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas''  [ter  ; 

Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian  !      [Aside. 
We  trifle  time ;  I  pray  th^e,  pursue  sentence. 

Por.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shi/.  Most  rightful  judge  ! 

Por.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Sh^.  Most  learned  judge  !  A  sentence;  come,  prepare. 

Por.  Tarry  a  httle  ; — there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood  ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh  : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh  ; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice . 

Barrobfli,]  This  name  is  so  written  and  pronounced  throughout  Mar- 

lowes'   Jew    of    Malta.— In   the    New  Testament  it  is  spelt    Barabbas. — 

SlEfcVENS. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  67 

Gra.  O  upright  judge ! — Mark,  Jew  ; — O  learned  judge ! 

Shy.  Is  that  the  law  ? 

Por.  Thyself  shalt  see  the  act : 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd. 
Thou  shalt  have  justice  more  than  thou  desir'st. 

Gra.  O  learned  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew ;  a  learned  judge ! 

Shy.  I  take  this  offer  then ; — pay  the  bond  thrice. 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

Por.  Soft; 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice  ; — soft; — no  haste; — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.  O  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge  ! 

Por.  Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood  ;  nor  cut  thou  less  nor  more. 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh :  if  thou  tak'st  more. 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance. 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple  ;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.  A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew  ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

Por.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  forfeiture. 

Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee  ;  here  it  is. 

Por.  He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  court ; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond 

Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  a  second  Daniel ! — 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

Por.  Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture. 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shy.  Why  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 

Por.  Tarry  Jew ; 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — • 
If  it  be  prov'd  against  an  alien, 


68  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

That  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts. 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive. 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods  ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state  ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That  indirectly,  and  directly  too. 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant;  and  thou  hastincurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.  Beg,  that  thou  may'st  have  leave  to  hang  thyself: 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state. 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord  ; 
Therefore,  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state's  charge. 

Duke.  That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it : 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's ; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state. 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

Por.  Ay,  for  the  state  ;''  not  for  Antonio. 

Shi/.  Nay,  take  my  life  and  all,  pardon  not  that : 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house  :  you  take  my  life. 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

Por.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

Gra.  A  halter  gratis  ;  nothing  else  ;  for  God's  sake. 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the  court. 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods  ; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,*^ — to  render  it, 

c  At),  for  the  state ;  &c.]  That  is,  the  state's  moiety  may  be  commuted  for  a 
fine,  but  not  Antonio's. — Ma  lone. 

d  the  other  half  in  use, — ]  There  has  been  a  dispute  among  the  critics 

on  the  meaning  of  Antonio's  proposition. — The  most  natural  sense  appears  to  be 
this  ;  Antonio  offers  to  surrender  all  right  to  his  moiety  of  Sliylock's  confiscated 
property,  on  condition  that  he  is  allowed  to  have  it  in  xtse,  [i.  e.  to  pay  interest 
upon  it,]  during  the  Jew's  life,  and  on  his  death  render  the  principal  to  Lo- 
renzo. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  69 

Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 

That  lately  stole  his  daughter  ; 

Two  things  provided  more, — That,  for  this  favour. 

He  presently  become  a  Christian ; 

The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift. 

Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd. 

Unto  his  son  Lorenzo  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.  He  shall  do  this  ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon,  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Por.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew,  what  dost  thou  say  ? 

Shi/.  I  am  content. 

Por.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shi/.  I  pray  you,  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence  j 
I  am  not  well;  send  the  deed  after  me. 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christening  thou  shalt  have  two  godfathers; 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  should'st  have  had  ten  more,^ 
To  bring  the  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font. 

[Exit.  Shylock. 

Duke.  Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

Por.  I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon  ; 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet,  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry,  that  your  leisure  serves  you  not. 
Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman  ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 

[Exeunt  Duke,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 

Bass.  Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend. 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties  ;  in  lieu  whereof. 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

Ant.  And  stand  indebted,  over  and  above, 
In  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 

Por.  He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied  : 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied. 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid ; 

*> thou  should'st  have  had  ten  more,^  i.  e.  A  jury  oi  twelve  men,  to  condemn 

thee  to  be  hanged. — Theobald. 


70  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you,  know  me,  when  we  meet  again  ; 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Bass.  Dear  sir,  of  force  I  must  attempt  you  further  j 
Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute. 
Not  as  a  fee  :  grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you. 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 

For.  You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will  yield. 
Give  me  your  gloves,  I'll  wear  them  for  your  sake ; 
And,  for  your  love,  I'll  take  this  ring  from  you  : — 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand  ;  I'll  take  no  more; 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bass.  This  ring,  good  sir, — alas,  it  is  a  trifle  ; 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  you  this. 

For.  I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this  ; 
And  now,  raethinks,  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

Bass.  There's  more  depends  on  this,  than  on  the  value. 
The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you. 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation ; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

For.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers  : 
You  taught  me  first  to  beg;  and  now,  methinks. 
You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answer'd. 

Bass.  Good  sir,  this  ring  was  given  me  by  my  wife ; 
And,  when  she  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow, 
That  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 

For.  That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their  gifts. 
And  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman. 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserv'd  this  ring, 
She^would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever. 
For  giving  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Portia,  and  Nerissa. 

Ant.  My  lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring ; 
Let  his  deservings,  and  my  love  withal. 
Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass.  Go,  Gratiano,  run  and  overtake  him. 
Give  him  the  ring  ;  and  bring  him,  if  thou  can'st, 
Unto  Antonio's  house  : — away,  make  haste. 

[Exit  Gratiano. 
Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently  ; 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  71 

And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 

Fly  toward  Belmont :  Come,  Antonio.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  same.    A  street. 
Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 
Por.  Inquire  the  Jew's  house  out,  give  him  this  deed. 
And  let  him  sign  it ;  we'll  away  to-night. 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home  : 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra.  Fair  sir,  you  are  well  overtaken  : 
My  lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice,*^ 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring ;  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  be : 

This  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully. 
And  so,  I  pray  you,  tell  him :  Furthermore, 
I  pray  you,  show  my  youth  old  Shylock's  house. 

Gra.  That  will  I  do. 

Ner.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you : — 

I'll  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring,  [To  Portia. 

Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.  Thou  may'st,  I  warrant;  We  shall  have  old  swear- 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ;  [ing> 
But  we'll  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
Away  make  haste;  thou  know'st  where  I  will  tarry. 

Ner.  Come,  good  sir,  will  you  show  me  to  this  house  ? 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.— Belmont.  Avenue  to  Portia's  House. 
Enter  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. 
Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright :— In  such  a  night  as  this. 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 

f advice, — ]  i.  e.  Reflection. 


72  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

And  they  did  make  no  noise ;  in  such  a  night, 
Triolus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls. 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents. 
Where  Cressed  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew  ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself. 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew  : 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith. 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  And  in  such  a  night. 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  hke  a  little  shrew. 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.  I  would  out-night  you,  did  nobody  come  : 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano. 

Lor.  Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night  ? 

Steph.  A  friend. 

Lor.  A  friend?  what  friend?   your  name  I  pray  you, 
friend  ? 

Steph.  Stephdno  is  my  name ;  and  I  bring  word. 
My  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  here  at  Belmont ;  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  73 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

Steph.  None,  but  a  holy  hermit,  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  return'd  ? 

Lor.  He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from  him. — 
But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 
And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 
Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Enter  Launcelot. 

Laun.  Sola,  sola,  wo  ha,  ho,  sola,  sola ! 

Lor.  Who  calls  ? 

Laun.  Sola  !  did  you  see  master  Lorenzo,  and  mistress 
Lorenzo  ?  sola,  sola ! 

Lor.  Leave  hollaing,  man  ;  here. 

Laun.  Sola  !  where  ?  where  ? 

Lor.  Here. 

Laun.  Tell  him,  there's  a  post  come  from  my  master, 
with  his  horn  full  of  good  news  \  my  master  will  be  here 
ere  morning.  [^Exit. 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let's  in,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 
And  yet  no  matter  ; — Why  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you. 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand  : 
And  bring  your  musick  forth  into  the  air. — 

[Exit  Stephano. 
How  sweet  the  moon-light  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  musick 
Creep  in  our  ears  ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patiness  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st. 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. — 

s with  patines  of  bright  gold  j]  A  patine,  from  patina,  Lat.     A  patine  is 

tLe  small  flat  dish  or  plate  used  with  the  chalice,  in  the  administration  of  the 
Eucharist.  In  the  time  of  popery,  and  probably  in  the  following  age,  it  waa 
commonly  made  of  gold.— Malone. 


74  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn  ;•' 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear. 
And  draw  her  home  with  musick. 

Jes.  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  musick. 

[Musick. 

Lor.  The  reason  is  your  spirits  are  attentive  : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud. 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound. 
Or  any  air  of  musick  touch  their  ears. 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand. 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze. 
By  the  sweet  power  of  musick  :  Therefore,  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods  ; 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage. 
But  musick  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature  : 
The  man  that  hath  no  musick  in  himself,' 
Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds. 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night. 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  musick. 

•> wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ;]    Diana  is  the  moon,  who  is  in  the  next 

scene  represented  as  sleeping. — Johnson. 

i  The  man  that  hath  no  musick  in  himself,  &c.]  This  sentiment  arouses  all  the 
indignation  of  Steevens,  and  he  endeavours  to  defend  those  unhappy  persons, 
whom  a  defect  in  the  organs  of  sound  have  subjected  to  the  condemnation  of 
the  poet,  by  several  quotations  of  an  opposite  tendency  from  the  Letters  of 
Lord  Chesterfield.  If  Mr.  Steevens's  untuneful  friends  possess  a  spark  of  no- 
blenpss,  they  will  rather  lie  under  the  malediction  of  the  poet  than  owe  their 
justification  to  the  advocacy  of  the  peer.  This  passage  of  Shakspeare  may  be 
contrasted  with  the  following  lines  from  Massinger's  Fatal  Dowry,  Act  iv.  sc.  2. 

I  never  was  an  enemy  to  music. 

Nor  yet  do  I  subscribe  to  the  opinion 

Of  those  old  captains,  that  thought  nothing  musical 

But  cries  of  yielding  enemies,  neighing  of  horses. 

Clashing  of  armour,  loud  shouts,  drums  and  trumpets  : 

Nor,  on  the  other  side,  in  favour  of  it. 

Affirm  the  world  was  made  by  musical  discord ; 

Or  that  the  happiness  of  our  life  consists 

In  a  rich  varied  note  upon  the  lute  : 

I  love  it  to  the  worth  of  it  and  no  further. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  76 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa,  at  a  distance. 

For.  That  light  we  see,  is  burning  in  my  hall. 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams  ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

Ner.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the  candle. 

Por.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less  : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king. 
Until  a  king  be  by  ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Musick  !  hark  ! 

Ne?\  It  is  your  musick,  madam,  of  the  house. 

Por.  Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect ;'' 
Methinks,  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

Ner.  Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

Por.  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark. 
When  neither  is  attended  ;  and,  I  think. 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season,  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise,  and  true  perfection ! — 
Peace,  hoa !  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 
And  would  not  be  awak'd  !  [Musick  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice. 

Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  of  Portia. 

Por.  He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo. 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

Por.  We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands'  welfare. 
Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  return'd  ? 

Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before. 
To  signify  their  coming. 

Por.  Go  in,  Nerissa, 

Give  order  to  my  servants,  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence  ; — 

•' without  respect ;]    Not  absolutely  good,  but  relatively  good  as  it  is 

modified  by  circumstances. — Johnson. 


76  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Nor  you,  Lorenzo ; — Jessica,  nor  you.      [A  tucket^  soutids. 

Lor.  Your  husband  is  at  hand,  I  hear  his  trumpet : 
We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam ;  fear  you  not. 

For.  This  night,  methinks,  is  but  the  daylight  sick. 
It  looks  a  little  paler;  'tis  a  day. 
Such  as  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Antonio,  Gratiano,  atid  their 
Followers. 

Bass.  We  should  hold  day  with  the  Antipodes, 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun." 

For.  Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light ; 
For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband. 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me  ; 
But  God  sort  all ! — You  are  welcome  home,  my  lord. 

Bass.  I  thank  you,  madam :  give  welcome  to  my 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio,  [friend. — 

To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 

For.  You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to  him. 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 

Ant.  No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

For.  Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house  : 
It  must  appear  in  other  ways  than  words. 
Therefore,  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy." 

[Gratiano,  and  Nerissa  seem  to  talk  apart. 

Gra.  By  yonder  moon,  I  swear,  you  dome  wrong; 
In  faith,  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk  : 
Would  he  were  gelt  that  had  it,  for  my  part. 
Since  you  do  take  it,  love,  so  much  at  heart. 

For.  A  quarrel,  ho,  already  ?  what^s  the  matter  ? 

Gra.  About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  me  ;  whose  posy  was 
For  all  the  world,  like  cutler's  poetry" 
Upon  a  knife,  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not. 

'  A  tucket — ]  Toccata,  Ital.  a  flourish  on  a  trumpet. 

»>  If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun.']  A  compliment  to  the  beauty  of 
Portia. ' 

n I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy.']  I  abridge  this  complimentary  form, 

made  up  only  of  breath,  i.  e.  xvords. — Malone. 

o like  cutler's  poetry — ]    Knives,  as  Sir  J.  Hawkins  observes,   were 

formerly  inscribed,  by  means  of  aqua  fortis,  with  short  sentences  in  distich. — 
Rked. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  77 

Ner.  What  talk  you  of  the  posy,  or  the  value  ? 
You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you. 
That  you  would  wear  it  till  your  hour  of  death  ; 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave  ; 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths. 
You  should  have  been  respective,  and  have  kept  it. 
Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk  ! — but  well  I  know. 
The  clerk  will  ne'er  wear  hair  on  his  face,  that  had  it. 

Gra.  He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 

Ner,  Ay,  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra.  Now,  by  this  hand,  I  gave  it  to  a  youth, — 
A  kind  of  boy  ;  a  little  scrubbedP  boy, 
No  higher  than  thyself,  the  judge's  clerk  ; 
A  prating  boy,  that  begg'd  it  as  a  fee  ; 
I  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 

For.  You  were  to  blame,  I  must  be  plain  with  you. 
To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  first  gift; 
A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  finger, 
And  riveted  so  with  faith  unto  your  flesh. 
I  gave  my  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 
Never  to  part  wath  it;  and  here  he  stands  ; 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it. 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  wealth 
That  the  world  masters.     Now,  in  faith,  Gratiano, 
You  give  your  Avife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief; 
An  'twere  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it. 

Bass.  Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand  off. 
And  swear,  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it.  [Aside. 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begg'd  it,  and,  indeed, 
Deserv'd  it  too;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 
That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begg'd  mine : 
And  neither  man,  nor  master,  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

Por.  What  ring  gave  you,  my  lord  ? 

Not  that,  I  hope,  which  you  receiv'd  of  me. 

Bass.  If  I  could  add  a  he  unto  a  fault, 
I  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see  my  finger 
Hath  not  the  ring  upon  it,  it  is  gone. 

P scrubbed-;-']  Stunted  and  shrub-like. 


78  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Por.  Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 
By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

Ner.  Nor  I  in  yours. 

Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring. 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring. 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring. 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring, 
When  naught  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring. 
You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure. 

Por.  If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring, 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring. 
Or  your  own  honour  to  contain  the  ring. 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable. 
If  you  had  pleas'd  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 
To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony  ? 
Nerissa  teaches  me  w^hat  to  believe  ; 
I'll  die  for't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Bass.  No,  by  mine  honour,  madam,  by  my  soul. 
No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor. 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me. 
And  begg'd  the  ring  ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him. 
And  suffer'd  him  to  go  displeas'd  away  ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say,  sweet  lady? 
I  was  enforc'd  to  send  it  after  him ; 
I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy  : 
My  honour  would  not  let  ingratitude 
So  much  besmear  it :  Pardon  me,  good  lady ; 
For  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night. 
Had  you  been  there,  I  think,  you  would  have  begg'd 
The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

Por.  Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my  house  ; 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  lov'd. 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  hberal  as  you  ; 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  79 

I'll  not  deny  him  any  thing  I  have. 

No,  not  ray  body,  nor  my  husband's  bed  : 

Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it : 

Lie  not  a  night  from  homej  watch  me  like  Argus  ; 

If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone. 

Now,  by  mine  honour,  which  is  yet  mine  own, 

I'll  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Ner.  And  I  his  clerk ;  therefore  be  well  advis'd, 
How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 

Gra.  Well,  do  you  so  :  let  not  me  take  him  then  ; 
For,  if  I  do,  I'll  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.  I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

Por.  Sir,  grieve  not  you ;    You  are  welcome  notwith- 
standing. 

Bass.  Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong ; 
And  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends, 
I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes. 
Wherein  I  see  myself, 

Por.  Mark  you  but  that ! 

In  both  my  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself: 
In  each  eye  one  : — swear  by  your  double  self,' 
And  there's  an  oath  of  credit. 

Bass.  ^ay,  but  hear  me  : 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  swear 
I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  with  thee. 

Ant.  I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth  j"" 
Which,  but  for  him  that  had  your  husband's  ring, 

[To  Portia. 
Had  quite  miscarried :  I  dare  be  bound  again. 
My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 
Will  never  more  break  faith  advisedly. 

Por.  Then  you  shall  be  his  surety  :  Give  him  this  ; 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ant.  Here,  lord  Bassanio  ;  swear  to  keep  this  ring, 

Bass.  By  heaven,  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the  doctor  ! 

Por.  I  had  it  of  him  :  pardon  me,  Bassanio  ; 
For  by  this  ring  the  doctor  lay  with  me. 

1 swear  by  y,iur  double  self,]   Double  is  here  used  in  a  bad  sense  for— 

full  of  duplicity. — Malone. 

^  for  his  wealth  ;]  For  his  advantage  ;  to  obtain  his  happiness.   Wealth 

was,  at  that  time,  the  term  opposite  to  adversity,  or  calamity. — Johnson. 

g2 


80  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Ner.  And  pardon  me,  my  gentle  Gratiano  ; 
For  that  same  scrubbed  boy,  the  doctor's  clerk. 
In  lieu  of  this,  last  night  did  lie  with  me. 

Gra.  Why,  this  is  like  the  mending  of  high-ways 
In  summer,  where  the  ways  are  fair  enough : 
What !  are  we  cuckolds,  ere  we  have  deserv'd  it  ? 

Por.  Speak  not  so  grossly. — You  are  all  amaz'd  : 
Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  your  leisure ; 
It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario : 
There  you  shall  find,  that  Portia  was  the  doctor ; 
Nerissa  there,  her  clerk  ;  Lorenzo  here 
Shall  witness,  I  set  forth  as  soon  as  you. 
And  but  even  now  returned  ;  I  have  not  yet 
Enter 'd  my  house. — Antonio,  you  are  welcome  ; 
And  I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you. 
Than  you  expect :  unseal  this  letter  soon  ; 
There  you  shall  find,  three  of  your  argosies 
Are  richly  come  to  harbour  suddenly : 
You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Jnt.  I  am  dumb. 

Bass.  Were  you  the  doctor,  and  I  knew  you  not? 

Gra.  Were  you  the  clerk,  that  is  to  make  me  cuckold  ? 

ISier.  Ay  ;  but  the  clerk  that  never  means  to  do  it. 
Unless  he  live  until  he  be  a  man. 

Bass.  Sweet  doctor,  you  shall  be  my  bedfellow ; 
When  I  am  absent,  then  lie  with  my  wife. 

Ant.  Sweet  lady,  you  have  given  me  life  and  living; 
For  here  I  read  for  certain,  that  my  ships 
Are  safely  come  to  road. 

Por.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 

Ner.  Ay,  and  I'll  give  them  him  without  a  fee. — 
There  do  I  give  to  you,  and  Jessica, 
From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift. 
After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd  of. 

Lor.  Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  in  the  way 
Of  starved  people. 

Por.  It  is  almost  morning, 

And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  81 

Of  these  events  at  full :  Let  us  go  in  ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  intergatories. 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

Gra.  Let  it  be  so  ;  The  first  intergatory. 
That  my  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on,  is. 
Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rather  stay ; 
Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to-day  : 
But  were  the  day  come,  1  should  wish  it  dark. 
That  I  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk. 
Well,  while  I  live,  I'll  fear  no  other  thing 
So  sore,  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring.  [Exeunt." 

»  Of  The  Mehciiant  of  Venice  the  style  is  even  and  easy,  with  few  pecu- 
liarities of  diction,  or  anomalies  of  construction.  The  comic  part  raises 
laughter,  and  the  serious  fixes  expectation.  The  probability  of  either  one  or 
the  other  story  cannot  be  maintained.  The  union  of  two  actions  in  one  event 
is  in  this  drama  eminently  happy.  Dryden  was  much  pleased  with  his  own 
address  in  connecting  the  two  plots  of  his  Spanish  Friar,  which  yet,  I  believe, 
the  critic  will  find  excelled  by  this  play. — Johnson. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Though  this  exquisite  comedy  appears  to  have  been  first  published  in  the 
player's  edition  of  our  author's  works  in  1623,  it  must  have  been  written  be- 
fore the  year  1600 ;  as  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  volume  of  the  entries  at 
Stationers'  Hall,  two  leaves  of  irregular  prohibitions,  notes,  &c.  are  placed,  in 
which  As  you  like  it  is  mentioned.  An  entry  of  the  4th  of  August,  1600,  con- 
tains a  caveat  relative  to  three  of  our  author's  plays,  the  present  comedy, 
Henry  the  Fifth,  and  Much  ado  about  Nothing. — With  respect  to  the  other  two 
plays,  the  caveat  was  soon  taken  off,  and  they  were  both  published  within 
the  month.  As  you  like  it  may  have  been  printed  at  the  same  time,  but  no 
copy  of  such  an  edition  has  been  discovered. 

The  plot  of  the  play  was  taken  from  Lodge's  Rosalynd,  or  Euphiie's  Golden 
Legacye,  4to.  1590.  And  Shakspeare  has  followed  the  novel  more  exactly  than 
is  his  general  custom  when  he  is  indebted  to  such  worthless  originals.  He 
has  sketched  some  of  his  principal  characters,  and  borrowed  a  few  expressions 
from  it.  His  imitations,  &c.  however,  are  in  general  too  insignificant  to  merit 
transcription. 

It  should  be  observed,  that  the  characters  of  Jaques,  the  Clown,  and  Audrey, 
are  entirely  of  the  poet's  own  formation. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. =' 


Duke,  living  in  exile. 

Frederick,  brother  to  the  duke,  and  usurper  of  his  do- 
minions. 

J  *   It  lords  attending  on  the-&\xk.e  in  his  banishment. 

Le  Beau,  fl  courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 

Charles,  ^is  wrestler. 

Oliver,     -x 

Jaques,     Ksons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Orlando,) 

Adam,       7  ^,. 

Dennis,    j^^^^^'^^  ^^  Oliver. 

Touchstone,  a  clown. 
Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  a  vicar, 
CORIN,        7    ,      ,      , 
SiLvius,    i'^^f^^rds. 

William,  a  country  fellow  in  love  with  Audrey. 
A  person  representing  Hymen. 

Rosalind,  daughter  to  the  banished  duke. 
Celia,  daughter  to  Frederick. 
Phebe,  a  shepherdess. 
Audrey,  a  country  wench. 

Lords  belonging  to  the  two  Dukes;  Pages,  Foresters,  and 
other  Attendants, 

The  Scene  lies,  first,  near  Oliver's  House;  afterwards, 
partly  in  the  Usurpers  Court  and  partly  in  the  Forest  of 
Arden. 

»  The  list  of  the  persons  being  omitted  in  the  old  editions,  was  added  by  Mr. 
Rowe. — Johnson  . 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — An  Orchard,  near  Oliver's  House. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Orl.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion  be- 
queathed me  by  will  but  a  poor  thousand  crowns  :  and, 
as  thou  say'st,  charged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to 
breed  me  well  :*  and  there  begins  my  sadness.  My  bro- 
ther Jaques  he  keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks  gold- 
enly  of  his  profit :  for  my  part  he  keeps  me  rustically  at 
home,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  stays  me  here  at  home 
unkept :  For  call  you  that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of  my 
birth,  that  differs  not  from  the  stalling  of  an  ox  ?  His 
horses  are  bred  better  :  for,  besides  that  they  are  fair  with 
their  feeding,  they  are  taught  their  manage,  and  to  that 
end  riders  dearly  hired  :  but  I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing 
under  him  but  growth  ;  for  the  which  his  animals  on  his 
dunghills  are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides  this 
nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me,  the  something 
that  nature  gave  me,  his  countenance  seems  to  take  from 
me  :  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds,  bars  me  the  place  of 
a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines  my  gentility 
with  my  education.  This  is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves  me ; 
and  the  spirit  of  my  father,  which  I  think  is  within  rae, 
begins  to  mutiny  against  this  servitude  :  I  will  no  longer 
endure  it,  though  yet  I  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to 
avoid  it. 

*  _ clmrged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed  me  well .]  Bluch  obscu- 
rity is  imagined  to  exist  in  this  passage. — "  But,"  says  Johnson,  "  what  is  there 
difficult?  The  nominative  my  father  is  certainly  left  out,  but  so  left  out  that  the 
auditor  inserts  it  in  spite  of  himself." 


86  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

-E/i^er  Oliver. 

Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 

Orl.  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he  will 
shake  me  up. 

Oli.  Now,  sir  !  what  make  you  here  ?'' 

Orl.  Nothing :  I  am  not  taught  to  make  any  thing. 

Oli.  What  mar  you  then,  sir? 

Orl.  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which 
God  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idle- 
ness. 

Oli.  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught 
awhile.*^ 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with  them? 
What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come 
to  such  penury  ? 

Oli.  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 

Orl.  O,  sir,  very  well :  here  in  your  orchard  ! 

Oli.  Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 

Orl.  Ay,  better  than  him  I  am  before  knows  me.  I 
know,  you  are  my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in  the  gentle  con- 
dition of  blood,  you  should  so  know  me :  The  courtesy  of 
nations  allows  you  my  better,  in  that  you  are  the  first- 
born ;  but  the  same  tradition  takes  not  away  my  blood, 
were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us  :  I  have  as  much 
of  my  father  in  me,  as  you  ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming 
before  me  is  nearer  to  his  reverence."^ 

Oli.  What,  boy ! 

Orl.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young  in 
this. 

Oli.  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain  :*  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  sir 

t> what  make  you  here?]  i.  e.  What  do  you  here  ? 

c be  naught  awhile.']  A  north  country  proverbial  curse  equivalent  to  o 

mischief  on  yon. — Warbchton.  This  interpretation  is  proved  to  be  the  true 
one  by  Mr.  Gifford,  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  iv.  421. 

<i reverence.]  "More  directlv  the   representative  of  his  honours." — 

Specimen  of  a  new  edition  of  Shakspeare.  I  believe  Orlando  here  alludes  to  the 
reverence  due  to  age,  in,  a  manner  sufficiently  sarcastic  to  produce  the  angry 
rejoinder  of  Oliver.   What,  boy  ! 

e I  am  no  villain :]  The  word  villain  is  used  by  the  elder  brother  in  ita 

present  meaning,  for  a  worthless,  wicked,  or  bloody  man;  by  Orlando,  in  its  ori- 
ginal signification,  for  ^fellow  of  base  extraction. — JonssoN. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  87 

Rowland  de  Bois  :  he  was  my  father;  and  he  is  thrice  a 
villain,  that  says,  such  a  father  begot  villains  :  Wert  thou 
not  my  brother,  I  would  not  take  this  hand  from  thy  throat, 
till  this  other  had  pull'd  out  thy  tongue  for  saying  so : 
thou  hast  railed  on  thyself. 

Adam.  >Sweet  masters,  be  patient ;  for  your  father's  re- 
membrance be  at  accord. 

on.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall  hear  me.  My 
father  charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good  education : 
you  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hid- 
ing from  me  all  gentleman-like  qualities  :  the  spirit  of  my 
father  grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it : 
therefore  allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gen- 
tleman, or  give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by 
testament;  with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

OIL  And  what  wilt  thou  do '?  beg,  when  that  is  spent  ? 
Well,  sir,  get  you  in :  I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with 
you  :  you  shall  have  some  part  of  your  will :  I  pray  you, 
leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  becomes  me  for 
my  good. 

OH.  Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward?  Most  true,  I  have  lost 
my  teeth  in  your  service. — God  be  with  my  old  master  ! 
he  would  not  have  spoke  such  a  word. 

[Exeunt  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Oli.  Is  it  even  so?  begin  you  to  grow  upon  me?  I  will 
physick  your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thousand  crowns 
neither.     Hola,  Dennis ! 

Ew^er  Dennis. 

Den.  Calls  your  worship  ? 

Oli.  Was  not  Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler,  here  to 
speak  with  me  ? 

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door,  and  impor- 
tunes access  to  you. 

Oli.  Call  him  in.  [^Exit  Dennis.]— 'Twill  be  a  good 
way  ;  and  to-morrow  the  wrestling  is. 


88  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Enter  Charles. 

Cha.  Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 

OH.  Good  monsieur  Charles  ! — what's  the  new  news  at 
the  new  court  ? 

Cha.  There's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the  old 
news  :  that  is,  the  old  duke  is  banished  by  his  younger 
brother  the  new  duke  ;  and  three  or  four  loving  lords  have 
put  themselves  into  voluntary  exile  with  him,  whose  lands 
and  revenues  enrich  the  new  duke ;  therefore  he  gives 
them  good  leave^  to  wander. 

OH.  Can  you  tell,  if  Rosalind,  the  duke's  daughter,  be 
banished  with  her  father  ? 

Cha.  O,  no ;  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her  cousin,  so 
loves  her, — being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred  together, — 
that  she  would  have  followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to 
stay  behind  her.  She  is  at  the  court,  and  no  less  beloved 
of  her  uncle  than  his  own  daughter ;  and  never  two  ladies 
loved  as  they  do. 

OH.  Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

Cha.  They  say,  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of  Arden,8  and 
a  many  merry  men  with  him  ;  and  there  they  live  like  the 
old  Robin  Hood  of  England  :  they  say  many  young  gen- 
tlemen flock  to  him  every  day  ;  and  fleet^  the  time  care- 
lessly, as  they  did  in  the  golden  world. 

OH.  What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  before  the  new 
duke? 

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint  you 
with  a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to  understand, 
that  your  younger  brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to 
come  in  disguis'd  against  me  to  try  a  fall :  To-morrow, 
sir,  I  wrestle  for  my  credit ;  and  he  that  escapes  me  with- 
out some  broken  limb,  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  bro- 
ther is  but  young  and  tender ;  and,  for  your  love,  I  would 
be  loath  to  foil  him,  as  I  must,  for  my  own  honour,  if  he 
come  in  :  therefore,  out  of  my  love  to  you,  I  came  hither 

f good  leave — ]  As  often  as  this  phrase  occurs,  it  means  a  readif  assent. 

— Steevens. 

g in  the  forest  of  Arden,]  Ardenne  is  a  forest  of  considerable  extent  ia 

French  Flanders,  lying  near  the  Meusp,.and  between  Charlemont  and  Rocroy. 
i— Malone. 

h fleet — ]  i.  e.  Make  to  pass. 


ACT  L— SCENE  L  89 

to  acquaint  you  withal ;  that  either  you  might  stay  him 
from  his  intendment,  or  brook  such  disgrace  well  as  he 
shall  run  into  ;  in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search,  and 
"altogether  against  my  wilL 

Oli.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me,  which 
thou  shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I  had  myself 
notice  of  my  brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have  by  un- 
derhand means  laboured  to  dissuade  him  from  it ;  but  he 
is  resolute.  Ill  tell  thee,  Charles, — it  is  the  stubbornest 
young  fellow  of  France ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious 
emulator  of  every  man's  good  parts,  a  secret  and  villainous 
contriver  against  me  his  natural  brother;  therefore  use 
thy  discretion ;  I  had  as  lief  thou  didst  break  his  neck  as 
his  finger  :  And  thou  wert  best  look  to't ;  for  if  thou  dost 
him  any  slight  disgrace,  or  if  he  do  not  mightily  grace 
himself  on  thee,  he  will  practise  against  thee  by  poisop, 
entrap  thee  by  some  treacherous  device,  and  never  leave 
thee  till  he  hath  ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  or 
other ;  for,  I  assure  thee,  and  almost  with  tears  I  speak  it, 
there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so  villainous  this  day  living. 
I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him ;  but  should  I  anatomise  him 
to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and  weep,  and  thou  must 
look  pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you :  If  he 
come  to-morrow,  I'll  give  him  his  payment :  If  ever  he 
go  alone  again,  I'll  never  wrestle  for  prize  more  :  And  so, 
God  keep  your  worship  !  [Exit. 

Oli.  Farewell,  good  Charles.  —  Now  will  I  stir  this 
gamester :» I  hope,  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him ;  for  my  soul, 
yet  I  know  not  why,  hates  nothing  more  than  he.  Yet 
he's  gentle  ;  never  school'd,  and  yet  learned ;  full  of  noble 
device ;  of  all  sorts'*  enchantingly  beloved ;  and,  indeed, 
so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of  my 
own  people,  who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  altogether 
misprised  :  but  it  shall  not  be  so  long ;  this  wrestler  shall 
cltar  all :  nothing  remains,  but  that  I  kindle  the  boy  thi- 
ther, which  now  I'll  go  about.  lExit. 

' gamester ;]  i.  e.  Adventurous  person. 

^ fiCtl  of  noble  device;']  i.  e.   Invention,  genius; — all  sorts,  i.  e.  ranks  and 

degrees  of  men. 


90  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Cel.  I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry. 

Ros.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am  mis- 
tress of;  and  would  you  yet  I  were  merrier?  Unless  you 
could  teach  me  to  forget  a  banished  father,  you  must  not 
learn  me  how  to  remember  any  extraordinary  pleasure. 

Cel.  Herein,  I  see,  thou  lovest  me  not  with  the  full 
weight  that  I  love  thee  :  if  my  uncle,  thy  banished  father, 
had  banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke  my  father,  so  thou 
hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could  have  taught  my  love  to 
take  thy  father  for  mine  ;  so  would'st  thou,  if  the  truth 
of  thy  love  to  me  were  so  righteously  temper'd  as  mine  is 
to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my  estate,  to 
rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know,  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I,  nor 
none  is  like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies,  thou  shalt 
be  his  heir  :  for  what  he  hath  taken  away  from  thy  father 
perforce,  I  will  render  thee  again  in  affection :  by  mine 
honour,  I  will ;  and  when  I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn 
monster ;  therefore,  my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be 
merry. 

Ros.  From  henceforth,  I  will,  coz,  and  devise  sports  : 
let  me  see  ;  What  think  you  of  falling  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Marry,  I  pr'ythee,  do,  to  make  sport  withal :  but 
love  no  man  in  good  earnest ;  nor  no  further  in  sport  nei- 
ther, than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou  may'st  in  ho- 
nour come  off  again. 

Ros.  What  shall  be  our  sport  then? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife.  Fortune, 
from  her  wheel,'  that  her  gifts  may  henceforth  be  bestowed 
equally, 

' mock  the  good  housewife,  Fortttne,  /ram  her  wheel,]    The  wheel  of  For- 

tuDe  is  not  the  wheel  of  a  houseicife.     Shakspeare  has  confounded  Fortune,  whose 
■wheel  only  figures  uncertainty  and  vicissitude,  with  the  destiny  that  spins  th« 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  91 

Ros.  I  would,  we  could  do  so  ;  for  her  benefits  are 
mightily  misplaced  :  and  the  bountiful  blind  woman  doth 
most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Cel.  Tis  true  :  for  those  that  she  makes  fair,  she  scarce 
makes  honest;  and  those,  that  she  makes  honest,  she 
makes  very  ill-favour' dly. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from  fortune's  office  to  na- 
ture's :  fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world,  not  in  the 
lineaments  of  nature. 

Enter  Touchstone. 

Cel.  No :  When  nature  hath  made  a  fair  creature,  may 
she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  fire  ? — Though  nature  hath 
given  us  wit  to  flout  at  fortune,  hath  not  fortune  sent  in 
this  fool  to  cut  off  the  argument  ? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  fortune  too  hard  for  nature  ;  when 
fortune  makes  nature's  natural  the  cutter  off  of  nature's 
wit. 

Cel.  Peradventure,  this  is  not  fortune's  work  neither, 
but  nature's ;  who  perceiveth  our  natural  wits  too  dull 
to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  and  hath  sent  this  natural  for 
our  whetstone :  for  always  the  dulness  of  the  fool  is  the 
whetstone  of  the  wits."" — How  now,  wit?  whither  wander 
you? 

Touch.  Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your  father. 

Cel.  Were  you  made  the  messenger? 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  honour ;  but  I  was  bid  to  come 
for  you. 

Ros.  Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool? 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his  honour 
they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his  honour  the 
mustard  was  naught :  now,  I'll  stand  to  it,  the  pancakes 
were  naught,  and  the  mustard  was  good  :  and  yet  was  not 
the  knight  forsworn. 

thread  of  life,  though  not  indeed  with  awheel. — Johnson.  I  leave  Dr.  John- 
son's note,  though  I  cannot  consider  it  as  just.  Good  housewife  seems  applied 
to  Fortune  merely  as  a  jesting  appellation,  without  any  reference  to  the  wheel 
on  which  she  stood.  The  wheel  of  Fortune  was  an  emblem  of  her  mutability ; 
from  which  Celia  and  Rosalind  proposed  to  drive  her  by  their  wit,  that  she 
might  ever  after  cease  to  be  inconstant. 

" the  tuits.]  This  is  the  reading  of  the  folio ;  all  the  modem  editions 

read  his  wits. 


92    .  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  6f  your 
knowledge  ? 

Bos.  Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now  :  stroke  your  chins, 
and  swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 

Cel.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were  :  but  if 
you  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not  forsworn :  no 
more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by  his  honour,  for  he  never 
had  any ;  or  if  he  had,  he  had  sworn  it  away,  before  ever 
he  saw  those  pancakes  or  that  mustard. 

Cel.  Pr'ythee,  who  is't  that  thou  mean'st  ? 

Touch.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father,  loves. 

Ros.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honour  him.  Enough ! 
speak  no  more  of  him  :  you'll  be  whip'd  for  taxation,"  one 
of  these  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak  wisely, 
what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true  :  for  since  the  little 
wit,  that  fools  have,  was  silenced,"  the  little  foolery,  that 
wise  men  have,  makes  a  great  show.  Here  comes  Mon- 
sieur Le  Beau. 

Enter  Le  Beau. 

Kos.  With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us,  as  pigeons  feed  their 
young. 

Ros.  Then  shall  we  be  news-cramm'd. 

Cel.  All  the  better;  we  shall  be  the  more  marketable. 
Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Le  Beau:  What's  the  news  ? 

Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good  sport. 

Cel.  Sport  ?  Of  what  colour  ? 

TjC  Beau.  What  colour.  Madam?  How  shall  I  answer 
you  ? 

Ros.  As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

" taxationi]  i.   e.   Censure,  or  iatire. — Whipping  was  the  discipline 

usually  inflicted  on  fools. — Douce. 

o  ■  since  the  little  ivit,  that  fools  have,  was  silenced,]  Shakspeare  probably 

alludes  to  the  use  oi fools  oi  jesters,  who  for  some  ages  had  been  allowed  in  all 
courts  an  unbridled  liberty  of  censure  and  mockery,  and  about  this  time  began 
to  be  less  tolerated. — Johnson. 


A&X  I.— SCENE  II.  93 

Touch.  Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

CeL  Well  said;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  troweLi" 

Touch.  Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, 

Ros.  Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,*'  ladies  :  I  would  have  told 
you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the  sight  of. 

Ros.  Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and,  if  it  please 
your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end ;  for  the  best  is  yet 
to  do ;  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are  coming  to  per- 
form it. 

CeL  Well, — the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man,  and  his  three 
sons, 

Cel.  I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent  growth 
and  presence,  with  bills  on  their  necks. — 

Ros.  Be  it  known  unto  all  men  hy  these  presents  J 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with  Charles, 
the  duke's  wrestler ;  which  Charles  in  a  moment  threw 
him,  and  broke  three  of  his  ribs,  and  there  is  httle  hope 
of  life  in  him :  so  he  served  the  second,  and  so  the  third : 
Yonder  they  lie ;  the  poor  old  man,  their  father,  making 
such  pitiful  dole  over  them,  that  all  the  beholders  take  his 
part  with  weeping. 

Ros.  Alas  ! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the  ladies 
have  lost. 

Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

P  laid  on  with  a  trowel.']  To  lay  on  with  a  trowel,  is,  to  do  any  thing  coarse- 
ly, and  without  delicacy.  If  any  man  flatters  grossly,  it  is  a  common  expres- 
sion to  say,  that  he  lays  it  on  with  a  trowel. — M.  Mason. 

1  You  amaze  me,]  To  amaze,  here,  is  not  to  astonish  or  strike  with  wonder, 
hut  to  perplex  ;  to  confuse,  so  as  to  putout  the  intended  narrative. — Johnson. 

'  Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks, — he  it  known  unto  all  men  by  these  presents.']  In 
giving  the  first  clause  of  this  sentence  to  Le  Beau  I  have  followed  the  emenda- 
tion of  Dr.  Farmer,  which  is  so  evidently  correct  that  it  appears  extraordinary  it 
should  never  have  been  admitted  into  the  text  before. — Le  Beau  says  that  the 
young  men  came  with  bills  on  their  necks,  meaning  a  weapon,  which  the  passages 
cited  by  Dr.  Farmer  and  Mr.  Steevens  prove  to  have  been  frequently  carried ; 
Rosalind  interrupts  him  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence,  and  apprehending  the 
word  in  the  sense  of  a  label,  utters  what  she  supposes  to  have  been  the  inscrip- 
tion, at  the  same  time  playing  on  the  word  presence  and  presents. — FAUMEn. 
M.  Mason  and  Johnson. 


94  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day  !  it  is  the 
first  time  that  ever  I  heard,  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for 
ladies. 

Cel.  Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken  mu- 
sick  in  his  sides  ?•  is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon  rib- 
breaking  ? — Shall  we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must  if  you  stay  here :  for  here  is  the 
place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they  are  ready  to 
perforai  it. 

Cel,  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming  :  Let  us  now  stay 
and  see  it. 

Flourish.   Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lords,  Orlando, 
Charles,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on;  since  the  youth  will  not  be  entreat- 
ed, his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.  Is  yonder  the  man? 

Le  Beau.  Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.  Alas,  he  is  too  young  :  yet  he  looks  successfully. 

Duke  F.  How  now,  daughter,  and  cousin  ?  are  you  crept 
hither  to  see  the  wrestling  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  my  liege  :  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can  tell  you, 
there  is  such  odds  in  the  men  :  In  pity  of  the  challenger's 
youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he  will  not  be  en- 
treated :  Speak  to  him,  ladies  ;  see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cel.  Call  him  hither,  good  Monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.  Do  so  ;  I'll  not  be  by.  [Duke  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princess  calls 
for  you. 

Orl.  I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles  the 
wrestler  ? 

Orl.  No,  fair  princess  ;  he  is  the  general  challenger  ;  I 
come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength  of 
my  youth. 

»  — —  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken  mus'ick  in  his  sidesf]  i.  e.  To 
witness  the  noise  which  the  breaking  of  ribs  would  occasion. — Douce. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  ir.  95 

Cel.  Young-  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for 
your  years:  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of 'this  man's 
strength  :  if  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew 
yourself  with  your  judgment,'  the  fear  of  your  adventure 
would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray 
you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own  safety,  and 
give  over  this  attempt, 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir ;  your  reputation  shall  not  there- 
fore be  misprised  :  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the  duke, 
that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard 
thoughts :  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so 
fair  and  excellent  ladies  any  thing.  But  let  your  fair 
eyes,  and  gentle  wishes,  go  with  me  to  my  trial :  wherein 
if  I  be  foiled,  there  is  but  one  shamed  that  was  never 
gracious  ;  if  killed,  but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so  : 
I  shall  do  my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament 
me  :  the  world  no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing  ;  only 
in  the  world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be  better  sup- 
plied when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were 
with  you. 

Cel.  And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  heaven  I  be  deceived  in 
you  ! 

CeL  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is  so  de- 
sirous to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orl.  Ready,  sir ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more  modest 
working. 

Duke  F.  You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace ;  you  shall  not  entreat 
him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded  him 
from  a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should  not  have 
mocked  me  before  ;  but  come  your  ways. 

Ros.  Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man! 

t if  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  hnew  yourself  with  yo\ir  judgment. '\ 

i.  e.  If  you  should  use  your  own  eyes,  to  see,  or  your  own  judgment  to  knovr 
yourself,  the  fear  nf  your  adventure  v)ould  counsel  you. — Johnson. 

h2 


96  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong  fellow 
by  the  leg.  [Charles  atid  Orlando  torestle. 

Ros.  O  excellent  young  man ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell  who 
should  down.  [Charles  is  throion.     Shout. 

Duke  F.  No  more,  no  more. 

Orl.  Yes,   I  beseech  your  grace ;  I  am  not  yet  well 
breathed. 

Duke  F.  How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.  He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.  Bear  him  away.  [Charles  is  borne  out > 

What  is  thy  name,  young  man  1 

Orl.    Orlando,   my   liege ;    the   youngest   son    of   sir 
Rowland  de  Bois. 

Duke  F.  I  would,  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some  man 
The  world  esteem'd  thy  father  honourable,  [else. 

But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy  : 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleas'd  me  with  this  deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from"  another  house. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth ; 
I  would,  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

\^Exeunt  Duke  Fred.  Train,  and  Le  Beau. 

Cel.  Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 

Orl.  I  am  more  proud  to  be  sir  Rowland's  son. 
His  youngest  son  ; — and  would  not  change  that  calling," 
To  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.  My  father  lov'd  sir  Rowland  as  his  soul. 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind  : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties. 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventur'd. 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him  : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. — Sir,  you  have  well  deserv'd  : 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love. 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  all  promise. 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

"  that  calling,]  i.  e.  Name  or  title,  a  very  uusual,  if  not  unprecedented 

sense  of  the  word. — Steevens. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  97 

Ros.  Gentleman, 

[Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck. 
Wear  this  for  me,  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune  f 
That  could  give  more,  but  that  her  hand  lacks  means. — 
Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Cel.  Ay  : — Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman. 

Orl.  Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you  ?  My  better  parts 
Are  all  thrown  down  ;  and  that  which  here  stands  up. 
Is  but  a  quintain,y  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ros.  He  calls  us  back  :  My  pride  fell  with  my  fortunes : 
I'll  ask  him  what  he  would  : — Did  you  call,  sir  ? — 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ros.  Have  with  you  : — Fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Orl.   What   passion    hangs    these  weights  upon    my 
tongue  ? 
I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urg'd  conference. 

Re-enter  Le  Beau. 

O  poor  Orlando  !  thou  art  overthrown  : 

Or  Charles,  or  something, weaker,  masters  thee. 

Le  Beau.  Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel  you 
To  leave  this  place  :  Albeit  you  have  deserv'd 

X  _ —  out  of  suits  with  fortune ;]  I  believe  tliis  means  no  longer  in  her 
service  and  stripped  of  her  livery. — Steevens.  Or,  perhaps,  out  of  her  favour 
and  not  obtaining  the  suits  the  petitions,  she  addressetl  to  her. 

y a  quintain,']  A  figure  set  up  for  tilters  to  run  at,  in  mock  resemblance 

of  a  tournament. — "  It  was,"  Mr.  Strutt  informs  us,  "  originally  nothing  more 
than  a  trunk  of  a  tree  or  post,  set  up  for  the  practice  of  tlie  tyros  of  chivalry. 
Afterward  a  staff  or  spear  was  fixed  in  the  earth,  and  a  shield  being  hung 
upon  it  was  the  mark  to  strike  at :  the  dexterity  of  the  performer  consisted  in 
smiting  the  shield  in  such  a  manner  as  to  break  the  ligatures  and  bear  it  to 
the  groimd.  In  process  of  time  this  diversion  was  improved,  and  instead  of 
the  staff  and  shield,  the  resemblance  of  a  human  fig-ure  carved  in  wood  was 
introduced.  To  render  the  appearance  of  this  figure  more  formidable,  it  was 
generally  made  in  likeness  of  a  Turk  or  Saracen,  armed  at  all  points,  bearing 
a  shield  upon  his  left  arm,  and  brandishing  a  club  or  sabre  with  his  right.  The 
quintain  thus  made  was  placed  upon  a  pivot,  and  so  contrived  as  to  move 
round  with  facility.  In  running  at  this  figure,  it  was  necessary  for  the  horse- 
man to  direct  his  lance  with  great  adroitness,  and  direct  his  stroke  upon  the 
forehead,  between  the  eyes,  or  upon  the  nose ;  for  if  he  struck  wide  of  these 
marks,  or  especially  upon  the  shield,  the  quintain  turned  about  with  much 
velocity,  and  in  case  he  was  not  exceedingly  careful,  would  give  liiui  a  severe 
blow  on  the  back  with  the  wooden  sabre  held  in  the  right  hand." — Siwits  and 
Pastimes,  book  3.  ch,  1. 


98  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love  ; 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition,^ 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done. 
The  duke  is  humourous  ;  what  he  is,  indeed. 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  me  to  speak  of. 

Orl.  I  thank  you,  sir;  and,  pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling  ? 

Le  Beau.  Neither  his  daughter  if  we  judge  by  manners; 
But  yet  indeed,  the  smaller,  is  his  daughter : 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish 'd  duke. 
And  here  detain'd  by  her  usurping  uncle. 
To  keep  his  daughter  company  ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you,  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece  ; 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument. 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues. 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth. — Sir,  fare  you  well  ! 
Hereafter  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 

Orl,  I  rest  much  bounden  to  you  :  fare  you  well ! 

{Exit  Le  Beau. 
Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother ; 
From  tyrant  duke,  unto  a  tyrant  brother : — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind !  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind. 

Ceh    Why,    cousin ;     why    Rosalind ; — Cupid     have 
mercy ! — Not  a  word  ? 

Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  cast  away 

I . Oh  duhe's  condition.]  The  word  condUion  means  character,  temper, 

disposition. — Johnson. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  99 

upon  curs,  throw  some  of  them  at  me ;  come  lame  me 
with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up  ;  when  the 
one  should  be  lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other  mad 
without  any. 

Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  for  my  child's  father  ;  O,  how  full 
of  briars  is  this  working-day  world  ! 

Cel.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  in 
holiday  foolery  ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden  paths,  our 
very  petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat ;  these  burs  are 
in  my  heart. 

Cel.  Hem  them  away. 

Ros.  I  would  try  ;  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have  him. 

Cel.  Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  aflPections. 

Ros.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than 
myself. 

Cel.  O,  a  good  wish  upon  you  !  you  will  try  in  time, 
in  despite  of  a  fall. — But,  turning  these  jests  out  of  ser- 
vice, let  us  talk  in  good  earnest :  Is  it  possible,  on  such  a 
sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so  strong  a  liking  with  old 
sir  Rowland's  youngest  son  ? 

Ros.  The  duke  my  father  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love  his 
son  dearly  ?  By  this  kind  of  chase,''  I  should  hate  him,  for 
my  father  hated  his  father  dearly ;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.  No  'faith,  hate  him  not  for  my  sake. 

Cel.  Why  should  I  not,**  doth  he  not  deserve  well  ? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that;  and  do  you  love  him, 
because  I  do : — Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Cel.  With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F.  Mistress,  despatch  you  with  your  safest  haste. 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 

a  By  this  kind  of  chase,]  That  is,  by  way  oi  following  the  argument.  Dear 
is  used  by  Shakspeare  in  a  double  sense  for  beloved,  and  for  hurtful,  haled, 
baleful.  Both  senses  are  authorised  and  both  drawn  from  etymology ;  but 
properly,  beloved  is  dear,  and  hateful  is  dere.  Rosalind  uses  dearly  in  the  good, 
and  Celia  in  the  bad  sense. — Johnson. 

^  Why  should  I  not,]  i.e.  Why  should  I  not  love  him. — Malone. 


100  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Ros.  Me,  uncle  ? 

Duke.  You,  cousin 

Within  these  ten  days  if  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  publick  court  as  twenty  miles. 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace. 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me  : 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence. 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires ; 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantick, 
(As  I  do  trust  I  am  not,)  then  dear  uncle. 
Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn, 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke.  Thus  do  all  traitors  ; 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words. 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself: — 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor  : 
Tell  me,  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

DukeF.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter,  there's  enough. 

Ros.  So  was  I,  when  your  highness  took  his  duke- 
dom; 
So  was  I,  when  your  highness  banish'd  him  : 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord  : 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends. 
What's  that  to  me?  my  father  was  no  traitor  : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much. 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia;  we  stay'd  her  for  your  sake. 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  rang'd  along. 

Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay. 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse ;" 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her. 
But  now  I  know  her  ;  if  she  be  a  traitor. 
Why  so  am  I :  we  still  have  slept  together. 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together  j 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans. 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 

c remorse ;}  i.  c.  Compaisiou. 


ACT  L— SCENE  IIL  101 

Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  hei  smooth- 
Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience,  [ness. 

Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name  ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous 
When  she  is  gone  :  then  open  not  thy  lips  j 
Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her;  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.  Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege ; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

Duke  F.  You  are  a  fool  : — You,  niece,  provide  yourself; 
If  you  out-stay  the  time,  upon  mine  honour. 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

\_Exeunt  Duke  Frederick  and  Lords. 

Cel.  O  my  poor  Rosalind  :  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?  I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  griev'd  than  I  am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin ; 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banish 'd  me  his  daughter  ? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.  No  ?  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one : 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  ? 
No  ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me,  how  we  may  fly. 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us  : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change*^  upon  you. 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale. 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  alone  with  thee. 

Ros.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden, 

Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us. 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ? 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.  I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 

•1  change,']   Reverse,   oi   fortune,  the   second  folio    reads  charge, — 

Steevens. 


102  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face  ;* 
The  hke  do  you  :  so  shall  we  pass  along. 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall. 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  gallant  curtle-ax*^  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand ;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will,) 
We'll  have  a  swashing^  and  a  martial  outside  ; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have. 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

Cel.  What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  man  ? 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own  page. 
And  therefore  look  you  call  me,  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ? 

Cel.  Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state : 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

Cel.  He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him  :  Let's  away. 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together  ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight :  Now  go  we  in  content, 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  [Exeunt. 

*  And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face ;]    Umber  is  a  dusky  yellow-co- 
loured earth,  brought  from  Umbria  in  Italy. — Malone. 

^ curtle-ax — ]  Or  cutlace,  a  broad  sword. 

e swashing,']  Noisy,  rattling,  bullying. — Steevens. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  103 

ACT  11. 

Scene  I, — The  Forest  o/' Arden. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  and  other  Lords,  in  the  dress 
of  Foresters. 

Duke  S.  Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile. 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?  Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam,** 
The  seasons'  difference  ;  as,  the  icy  fang. 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind  ; 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body. 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say, — 
This  is  no  flattery  :  these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  ;' 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  publick  haunt, 
Finds^ tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks. 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

^  Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam,']  The  modem  editors  all  read  but  for 
not. — The  alteration  was  made  by  Theobald,  and  is  not  only  unnecessary  but 
palpably  wrong.  The  duke's  sentiment  is  as  follows  : — Here  we  do  not  feel 
the  penalty  of  Adam,  the  diflference  of  seasons,  because  the  slight  physical  suf- 
fering that  it  occasions,  only  raises  a  smile  and  suggests  a  moral  reflection. 

» a  preciousjewel  in  his  head ;]  It  was  the  current  opinion  of  Shakspeare's 

time,  that  in  the  head  of  an  old  toad  a  stone  called  Crapaudina  was  to  be  found, 
to  which  great  virtues  were  ascribed. — "  In  this  stone,"  says  Maplett,  Green 
Forest,  1567, "  is  apparently  seen  verie  often  the  verie  forme  of  a  tode,  with  de- 
spotted  and  coloured  feete,  but  these  uglye  and  difusedly.  It  is  available 
against  poison." — It  was  also  considered  "  a  soveraigne  remedy  for  the  stone." 
To  know  whether  the  stone  was  perfect  or  not,  Lupton,  in  his  seventh  book  of 
Notable  Things,  recommends  that  the  proprietor  of  this  great  treasure  "should 
holde  the  stone  before  a  tode,  so  that  he  may  see  it ;  and  if  it  be  a  ryght  and 
true  stone,  the  tode  will  leape  towarde  it ;  and  make  as  though  he  would 
snatch  it.  He  envieth  so  much  that  man  should  have  that  stone."  This  stoue 
has  been  often  sought,  but  nothing  has  been  foimd  more  than  accidental  or 
perhaps  morbid  indurations  of  the  skull. — Johnson  and  Steevens.  I  saw  it 
somewhere  suggested  that  the  eye,  which  in  th«  toad  is  so, bright  and  beautiful, 
was  perhaps  "  the  preciousjewel"  alluded  to. 


104  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Ami.  I  would  not  change  it  :^  Happy  is  your  grace. 
That  Can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke  S.  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads' 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

I  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord. 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens,  and  myself. 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt. 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord. 
The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans. 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting  ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  :  and  thus  the  hairy  fool. 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook. 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.  O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similies. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream ;"" 
Poor  deer,  quoth  he,  thou  mak'st  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  tvhich  had  too  much :  Then,  being  alone. 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 

k  I  would  not  change  it :]  Mr.  Upton  with  great  probability  gives  these  words 
to  the  duke. 

1 with  forked  heads — ]  i.  e.  With  arrows,  the  points  of  which  were 

barbed. — Steevens. 

m needless  stream ;]  The  stream  that  wanted  not  such  a  supply  of 

moisture.— Ma  LO  N  E. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II.  105 

'Tis  right,  quoth  lie  ;  this  misery  doth  part 

Thejiux  of  company :  Anon,  a  careless  herd. 

Full  of  the  pasture,  j  umps  along  by  him. 

And  never  stays  to  greet  him :  Ay^  quoth  Jaques, 

Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens ; 

'Tis  just  the  fashion  :   Wherefore  do  you  look 

Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? 

Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court. 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life :  swearing,  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what's  worse. 

To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up. 

In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling  place. 

Duke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contemplation  ? 

2  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place  : 

I  love  to  cope  him"  in  these  sullen  fits. 
For  then  he's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.  I'll  bring  you  to  him  straight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lords,  and  Attendants, 

.  Duke  F.  Can  it  be  possible,  that  no  man  saw  them  ? 
It  cannot  be  :  some  villains  of  my  covirt 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.  I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber. 
Saw  her  a-bed  ;  and,  in  the  morning  early. 
They  found  the  bed  untreasur'd  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.  My  lord,  the  roynish"  clown,  at  whom  so  oft 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 
Hesperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman, 

Confesses,  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 

" to  cope — ]  i.  e.  To  encounter. 

" roynish — ]  i.  e.  Scurvy,  from  rogneux,  French. 


106  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 
The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 
That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles  ; 
And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone. 
That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 

Duke  F.  Send  to  his  brother  ^  fetch  that  gallant  hither  ; 
If  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me, 
I'll  make  him  find  him  :  do  this  suddenly  ; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail*" 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

Before  Oliver's  House. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam,  meeting. 

Orl.  Who's  there  ? 

Adam.  What !  my  young  master? — O, my  gentle  master, 
O,  my  sweet  master,  O  you  memory'^ 
Of  old  sir  Rowland!  why,  what  make  you  here? 
Why  are  you  virtuous  ?  Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 
Why  would  you  be  so  fond""  to  overcome 
The  bony  priser  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 
No  more  do  yours  ;  your  virtues,  gentle  master. 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 

Orl.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth. 

Come  not  within  these  doors  ;  wdthin  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives  : 
Your  brother — (no,  no  brother  ;  yet  the  son — 

P quail — ]  i.  e.  Faint,  or  iink  into  dejection. 

n 0  you  memory — ]  Shakspeare  often  uses  memory  for  memorial ;  and 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  sometimes  do  the  same. — Steevens. 
'fond — ]  i>  e.  Indiscreet. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  107 

Yet  not  the  son ; — I  will  not  call  him  son — 

Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father), — 

Hath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 

To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie. 

And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that. 

He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off; 

I  overheard  him,  and  his  practices. 

This  is  no  place,'  this  house  is  but  a  butchery ; 

Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 

Orl.  Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  ? 

Adam.  No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

Orl.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my 
food? 
Or,  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword,  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do  : 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can ; 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted*  blood,  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.  But  do  not  so  :  I  have  five  hundred  crowns. 
The  thrifty  hire  I  sav'd  under  your  father. 
Which  I  did  store,  to  be  my  foster-nurse, 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame. 
And  unregretted  age  in  corners  thrown  ; 
Take  that :  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed. 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow. 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !  Here  is  the  gold  ; 
All  this  I  give  you  :  Let  me  be  your  servant ; 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty : 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious"  liquors  in  my  blood  ; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility  ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  vnnter. 
Frosty,  but  kindly  :  let  me  go  with  you  ; 

6 no  place — ]  No  seat  or  residence  of  a  nobleman. — Steevens.  But  as 

Mr.  M.  Mason  suggests  Adam  may  merely  mean  to  say — This  is  no  place  for 
you. — 

t diverted — ]  Turned  out  of  the  course  of  nature. — Johnson. 

" rebellous — ]  i.  e.  Inciting  the  sensual  passions  to  rebel  against 

reason. — Malone. 


108  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

I'll  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

0/7.  O  good  old  man  ;  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world. 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  ! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times. 
Where  none  will  sweat,  but  for  promotion  ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having:''  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  oW  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield. 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry : 
But  come  thy  ways,  we'll  go  along  together ; 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent. 
We'll  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.  Master,  go  on  ;  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. — 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek  ; 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  week  : 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better. 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor.       [^Exewit, 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Rosalind  in  hoy's  clothes,  Celia  dresi  like  a 
Shepherdess,  a«<i  Touchstone. 

Ros.  O  Jupiter!  how  weary''  are  my  spirits  ! 
Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not 
weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's 

"  Ei'C7i  unth  the  having :]  Even  \vith  the  promotion  gained  by  service  is  service 
extinguished. — Johnson. 

y wearu — ]  This  is  the  alteration  of  Warburton  and  Theobald.    The  old 

copy  reads  merry  which  may  possibly  be  correct.  Rosalind,  in  this  first  line, 
perhaps  speaks  in  her  assumed  character ;  and  with  the  tone  of  encouragement 
which  she  afterwards  addresses  to  Celia ;  her  intennediate  speech  being  uttered 
aside. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV.  10& 

apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman :  but  I  must  comfort  the 
weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself 
courageous,  to  petticoat :  therefore,  courage,  good  Aliena. 

CeL  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me  ;  I  cannot  go  no  further. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you,  than 
bear  you :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross,^  if  I  did  bear  you ; 
for,  I  think,  you  have  no  money  in  your  purse. 

Ros,  Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden  :  the  more  fool  I ;  when 
I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place  ;  but  travellers 
must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone  : — Look  you,  who 
comes  here ;  a  young  man,  and  an  old,  in  solemn  talk. 

Enter  Corin  and  Silvius. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you  still. 

Sil.  O  Corin,  that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do  love  her ! 

Cor.  I  partly  guess ;  for  I  have  lov'd  ere  now. 

Sil.  No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess  ; 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow  : 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine, 
(As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so,) 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 

Cor.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.  O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily. 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now. 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise. 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 

Or  if  thou  hadst  not  broke  from  company, 
Abrubtly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 
Thou  hast  not  lov'd  :  O  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe  ! 

l^Exit  Silvius. 

s no  eross,']   The  ancient  penny,  according  to  Stow,  had  a  double  cross 

with  a  crest  stampt  on  it.  On  this  circumstance  our  author  is  perpetualjy 
quibbling. 

VOL.    HI.  1 


110  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching  of  thy  wound, 
I  have  by  hard  adventure  found  ray  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine  :  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  love, 
I  broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bid  him  take  that  for 
coming  anight*  to  Jane  Smile :  and  I  remember  the  kiss- 
ing of  her  batlet,''  and  the  cow's  dugs  that  her  pretty 
chop'd  hands  had  milk'd  :  and  I  remember  the  wooing  of 
a  peascod  instead  of  her ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods, 
and,  giving  her  them  again,  said  with  tears,  Wear  these  for 
my  sake.^  We,  that  are  true  lovers,  run  into  strange 
capers  ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in 
love  mortal  in  folly.** 

Ros.  Thou  speak'st  wiser,  than  thou  art  'w^re  of. 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  aware  of  mine  own  wit, 
till  I  break  my  shins  against  it. 

Ros.  Jove  !  Jove !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 

Touch.  And  mine ;  but  it  grows  something  stale  with 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man,     [me. 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food ; 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.  Holla;  you,  clown  ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool ;  he's  not  thy  kinsman. 

Cor.  Who  calls? 

Touch.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say : — 

Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.  And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  ail. 

Ros.  I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love,  or  gold, 

a anight — ]  i.  e.  In  the  night.    The  word  is  used  by  Chaucer  in  The 

Legend  of  good  Women. — Steevens. 

b batlet, '\  The  instrument  with  which  washers  beat  their  coarse  clothes. 

— Johnson. 

c Wear  these  for  my  sake.']  The  present  made  by  Touchstone  to  his 

mistress  consisted  of  two  pods  of  the  pea,  which  were  formerly  worn  as  an 
ornament.  In  a  schedule  of  jewels  in  the  15th  vol.  of  Rymer's  Fadera,  we 
find  "  item  two  peascoddes  of  gold  with  17  pearles." — Mr.  Douce  informs  us, 
that  when  worn  as  an  ornament  in  dress,  the  ■peascod  was  represented  as  open 
and  exhibiting  the  peas. 

d so  is  all  nature  in  Imie  mortal  in  folly.']  i.  e.  Abounding  in  folly — In 

the  middle  counties,  mortal  from  niort,  a  great  quantity,  is  used  as  a  particle 
of  amplification;  as  mortal  tall,  mortal  little.  Of  this  sense  Shakspeare  takes 
advantage  to  produce  one  of  his  darling  equivocations. — Johnson. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV.  Ill 

Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment. 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,  and  feed  : 
Here's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much  oppress'd. 
And  faints  for  succour. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her. 

And  wish  for  her  sake,  more  than  for  my  own. 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her  : 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man. 
And  do  not  sheer  the  fleeces  that  I  graze  ; 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition. 
And  little  recks^  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality  : 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote  now. 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on  ;  but  what  is,  come  see. 
And  in  my  voice''  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.  What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and  pasture  ? 

Cor.  That  young  swain  that  you  saw  here  but  erewhile. 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

-Ros.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock. 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages  :  I  like  this  place. 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.  Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold  : 
Go  with  me  ;  if  you  like,  upon  report. 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be. 
And  buy  it  vdth  your  gold  right  suddenly.  [Exeunt. 

• recks — ]  i.  e.  Heeds. 

i my  voice — ]  i.  e.  My  vote  or  good-will. 


112  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

SCENE  V. 

The  same. 

Enter  Amiens,  Jaques,  and  others. 

SONG. 

Ami.    Under  the  greenwood  tree. 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  turn^  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  hird^s  throat. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.  More,  more,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  1  thank  it.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more.  I  can  suck 
melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weazel  sucks  eggs  :  More, 
I  pr'ythee  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged  ]^  I  know,  I  cannot  please 
you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me,  I  do  desire  you 
to  sing ;  Come,  more  ;  another  stanza ;  Call  you  them 
stanzas  ? 

Ami.  What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names  ;  they  owe  me 
nothing  :  Will  you  sing? 

Ami.  More  at  your  request,  than  to  please  myself. 

Jaq.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I'll  thank 
you  :  but  that  they  call  compliment,  is  like  the  encounter 
of  two  dog-apes ;  and  when  a  man  thanks  me  heartily, 
methinks  I  have  given  him  a  penny,  and  he  renders  me 
the  beggarly  thanks.  Come,  sing  ;  and  you  that  will  not, 
hold  your  tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I'll  end  the  song. — Sirs,  cover  the  while ; 
the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree  : — he  hath  been  all 
this  day  to  look  you. 

K turn—]  i.  e.  Modulate,  altered  by  Pope  to  tune. 

''  — —  ragged  ;]  i.  e.  Broken,  vnequal. 


ACT  11.— SCENE  V.  113 

Jaq.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid  hiin.  He 
is  too  disputable'  for  my  company  :  I  think  of  as  many 
matters  as  he :  but  I  give  heaven  thanks,  and  make  no 
boast  of  them.     Come,  warble,  come.  • 

SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,  [All  together  here. 

And  loves  to  live  i'the  sun,' 
Seeking  the  fool  he  eats. 
And  pleas' d  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither f  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  lointer  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.  I'll  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  made  yes- 
terday in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  I'll  sing  it. 
Jaq.  Thus  it  goes  : 

If  it  do  come  to  pass. 
That  any  man  turn  ass. 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducddme,  ducddme,  ducddme  ;^ 
Here  shalt  he  see. 
Gross  fools  as  he. 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Ami.  What's  that  ducddme  ? 

Jaq.  'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,  to  coll  fools  into  a  circle. 
I'll  go  sleep  if  I  can ;  if  I  cannot,  I'll  rail  against  all  the 
first-born  of  Egypt. 

Ami.  And  I'll  go  seek  the  duke ;  his  banquet  is  pre- 
par'd.  [Exeunt  severally, 

• disputable'] — iox  disputations. 

J »  to  live  i'the  sun,]  i.  e.  In  the  clear  open  light  of  day,  and  not  confined 

to  those  close  apartments  of  cities  in  which  the  aims  of  ambition  are  pursued. 

^ ducdame ;]  For  ducdame,  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer,  reads  due  ad  me,  i.  e. 

biing  him  to  me — but  the  alteration  is  not  required.  It  appears  from  a  stanza, 
which  Dr.  Farmer  heard  an  old  gentleman  sing,  that  duck  dame  was  the  bur- 
then of  an  old  rural  ditty.  In  the  last  line  of  this  song  I  have  followed  the 
original  folio ;  Johnson  and  Steevens  read  "  come  to  Ami"  for  "  come  to  me." 


114  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

SCENE  VI. 

The  same. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  further  :  O,  1  die  for 
food  !  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  my  gmve.  Fare- 
well, kind  master. 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam !  no  greater  heart  in  thee  ? 
Live  a  little  ;  comfort  a  little  ;  cheer  thyself  a  little  :  If 
this  uncouth  forest  yield  any  thing  savage,  I  will  either 
be  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  for  food  to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is 
nearer  death  than  thy  powers.  For  my  sake,  be  comfort- 
able ;  hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's  end :  I  will  here  be 
with  thee  presently  ;  and  if  I  bring  thee  not  something  to 
eat,  I'll  give  thee  leave  to  die  :  but  if  thou  diest  before  I 
come,  thou  art  a  mocker  of  my  labour.  Well  said  !  thou 
look'st  cheerily  :  and  I'll  be  with  thee  quickly. — Yet  thou 
liest  in  the  bleak  air :  Come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shel- 
ter; and  thou  shalt  not  die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there 
live  any  thing  in  this  desert.     Cheerly,  good  Adam  ! 

SCENE  VII. 

The  same. 

A  table  set  out.     Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  Lords, 
a7id  others. 

Duke  S.  I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast ; 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 

1  Lord.  My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone  hence  ; 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.  If  he,  compact  of  jars,'  grow  musical. 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres : — 
Go,  seek  him ;  tell  him,  I  would  speak  with  him. 

Enter  Jaques. 
1  Lord.  He  saves  my  labour  by  his  own  approach. 
Duke  S.  Why,  how  now,  monsieur !  what  a  life  is  this, 

' compact  ofjan,]  i.  e.  Made  tip  of  discords. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  VII.  115 

That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your  company  ? 
What !  youliook  merrily. 

Jaq.  A  fool,  a  fool  ! 1  met  a  fool  i'th  forest, 

A  motley  fool ; — a  miserable  world  ! — 

As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 

Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 

And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms. 

In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 

Good  morrow,  fool y  quoth  I  :   No,  sir,  quoth  he. 

Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune  i""^ 

And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke  : 

And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye. 

Says  very  wisely,  It  is  ten  o'clock  : 

Thus  may  we  see,  quoth  he,  how  the  world  ivags : 

*Tis  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine  ; 

And  after  an  hour  more,  'twill  be  eleven ; 

And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  wejripe  and  ripe. 

And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot. 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.     When  I  did  hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time. 

My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 

That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative ; 

And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission. 

An  hour  by  his  dial. — O  noble  fool ! 

A  worthy  fool !  Motley's"  the  only  wear. 

Duke  S.  What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaq.  O  worthy  fool ! — One  that  hath  been  a  courtier; 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his  brain, — 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  bisket 
After  a  voyage, — he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms  : — O,  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 

Duke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 

Jaq.  It  is  my  only  suit ;° 

m  Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune :'}  Foi'tuna  favet  fatuis,  is, 
as  Mr.  Upton  observes,  the  saying  here  alluded  to  ;  or,  as  in  Publius  Syrus  : 
"  Fortuna,  nimium  quern fovet,  stultum  facit." — Reed. 

" motley — ]  A  habit  composed  of  various  colours,  the  customary  dres& 

of  a  domestic  fool. 

0  — —  suit ;]  Suit  means  petiliun  I  believe,  not  dress. — Johnson. 


116  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Provided  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 

Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them. 

That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty 

Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind. 

To  blow  on  whom  I  please  :  for  so  fools  have  : 

And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly. 

They  most  must  laugh :  And  why,  sir,  must  they  so  ? 

The  xohy  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church  : 

He,  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit. 

Doth,  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart. 

Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob  :  if  not. 

The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomiz'd 

Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool.'' 

Invest  me  in  my  motley  ;  give  me  leave 

To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 

Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 

If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke  S.  Fye  on  thee !  I  can  tell  what  thou  wouldst  do. 

Jaq.  What  for  a  counter,'  would  I  do,  but  good  ? 

Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin : 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine. 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting"  itself; 
And  all  the  embossed  sores,  and  headed  evils. 
That  thou  with  licence  of  free  foot  hast  caught, 
Wouldst  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world. 

Jaq.  Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride. 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea. 
Till  that  the  very  very  means  do  ebb  ? 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name. 
When  that  I  say,  The  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 

p if  not,  &c.]  Unless  men  have  the  prudence  not  to  appear  touched 

with  the  sarcasms  of  a  jester,  they  subject  themselves  to  his  power ;  and  the 
wise  man  will  have  his  folly  anatomhed,  that  is,  dissected  and  laid  open,  by  the 
squandering  glances  or  random  shots  of  a  fool. — Johnson. 

q counter,']  About  the  time  when  this  play  was  written,  the   French 

counters  (i.  e.  pieces  of  false  money  used  as  a  means  of  reckoning)  were 
brought  into  use  in  England. — Steevens. 

r brutish  sting — ]  A  line  from  Othello, 

" our  carnal  slings,  our  unbilled  lusts," 

la  quoted  by  Steevens  to  illustrate  these  words.  Dr.  Johnson  proposes  to  reaii 
sty  for  sting. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  VII.  117 

Who  can  come  in,  and  say,  that  I  mean  her. 

When  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbour  ? 

Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function. 

That  says,  his  bravery^  is  not  on  my  cost, 

(Thinking  that  I  mean  him,)  but  therein  suits 

His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 

There  then ;  How  then,  what  then  ?  Let  me  see  wherein 

My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him  :  if  it  do  him  right. 

Then  he  hath  wrong'd  himself :  if  he  be  free. 

Why  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 

Unclaim'd  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Orlando,  wzV^  his  sword  drawn. 

Orl.  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaq.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orl.  Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  serv'd. 

Jaq.  Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.  Art  thou  thus  bolden'd,  man,  by  thy  distress  ; 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners. 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 

Orl.  You  touch 'd  my  vein  at  first ;  the  thorny  point 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility  :  yet  am  I  inland*  bred. 
And  know  some  nurture  :"  But  forbear,  I  say ; 
He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit. 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.  An  you  will  not  be  answered  with  reason,  I  must 
die. 

Duke  S.  What  would  you  have  ?  Your  gentleness  shall 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness.  [force, 

Orl.  I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 
Duke  S.    Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to  our  table. 
Orl.  Speak  you  so  gently  ?  Pardon  me,  I  pvay  you  : 
I  thought,  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here  ; 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment :  But  whate'er  you  are. 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 

3 his  bravery — ]  i.  e.  His  fine  clothes, 

t inland — ]  i.  e.  Civilized,  opposed  to  upland  the  old  expression  for 

ruttick,  which  has  become  obsolete. — ^Todd. 
« nurture.]  i.  e.  Education, 


118  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs. 

Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time  ; 

If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days  ; 

If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church  ; 

If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 

If  ever  from  your  eye-lids  wip'd  a  tear. 

And  know  what  'tis  to  pity,  and  be  pitied ; 

Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be  : 

In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days  : 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church  ; 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts  ;  and  wip'd  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engender'd  : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness. 
And  take  upon  command"  what  help  we  have. 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  ministred. 

Orl.  Then,  but  fotbear  your  food  a  little  while. 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn. 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man. 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limp'd  in  pure  love  ;  till  he  be  first  suffic'd, — 
Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger, — 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Orl.  I  thank  ye ;  and  be  bless'd  for  your  good  comfort ! 

[Exit. 

Duke  S.  Thou  seest,  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy  : 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in.y 

Jaq.  All  the  world's  a  stage. 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 

«  And  tahe  upm  command — ]  i.  e.  At  your  own  command — Steevens. 

1  Whei-ein  we  play  in.]  This  maimer  of  repeating  the  preposition,  which 
some  of  the  modern  editors  have  altered,  was  in  Shakspeare's  time  a  familiar 
idiom  of  our  language ;  in  proof  of  which  Mr.  Malone  has  collected  a  long 
string  of  apposite  quotations ;  they  may  be  found  iu  the  last  edition  of  his 
Shakspeare,  vol.  vi.  p.  70. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  VII.  119 

His  acts  being  seven  ages/     At  first,  the  infant 

Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms  ; 

And  then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel. 

And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 

Unwillingly  to  school :    And  then,  the  lover ; 

Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 

Made  to  his  mistress'  eye-brow  :  Then,  a  soldier ; 

Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard,' 

Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick''  in  quarrel. 

Seek  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth  :  And  then,  the  justice  , 

In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lin'd. 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut. 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern'^  instances. 

And  so  he  plays  his  part :  The  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon  ;^  ! 

With  spectacles  on  nose,  arid  pouch  on  side  ; 

His  youthful  hose  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide  , 

For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  big  manly  voice. 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 

And  whistles  in  his  sound  :  Last  scene  of  all. 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  ; 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 

Re-enter  Orlando,  with  Adam. 

Duke  S.  Welcome  :  Set  down  your  venerable  burden. 
And  let  him  feed. 

^  His  acts  being  seven  ages.']  This  was  not  an  unfrequent  division  of  a  play 
before  our  author's  time.  One  of  Chapman's  plays  (Two  wise  men  and  all 
the  rest  fools),  is  in  seven  acts,  Steevens  once  possessed  an  old  print,  of  which 
Henley  remembers  to  have  seen  a  copy,  entitled  "  The  Stage  of  Man's  life, 
divided  into  Seven  Ages."  From  this  most  probably  Shakspeare  took  his  hint. 
"  I  well  remember,"  says  Steevens,  "that  it  exhibited  the  school-boy  with  his 
satchel  hanging  over  his  shoulder." — The  division  of  man's  life,  into  seven 
ages  was  not  a  modem  invention,  it  was  so  divided  by  Proclus  and  Hippo- 
crates. 

a and  bearded  like  the  pard,']   Beards  of  different  cut  were  appropriated 

in  our  author's  time  to  different  characters  and  professions. — Ma  lone. 

b sudden  and  quick — ]  Lest  it  should  be  supposed  that  these  epithets 

are  synonymous,  it  is  necessary  to  be  observed,  that  one  of  the  ancient  senses 
of  sudden,  is  violent. — ^Steevens. 

c modern — ]  i.  e.  Trite,  common. 

d jyantaloon ;]  One  of  the  general  characters  of  the  Italian  comedy, 

called  il  pantalone,  is  a  thin  emaciated  old  man  in  slippers ;  and  is  the  only 
character  so  dressed. — Wahburton. 


120  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Orl.  I  thank  you  most  for  him, 

Adam.  So  had  you  need ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  fall  to  ;  I  will  not  trouble  you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes  : — 
Give  us  some  musick ;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 

Amiens  sings. 

SONG. 

I. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind. 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen,^ 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh,  ho !  sing,  heigh,  ho !  unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 
Then,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

II. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky. 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp. 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember' d^  not. 
Heigh,  ho!  sing,  heigh,  ho!  &c. 

Duke  S.  If  that  you  were  the  good  sir  Rowland's  son, — 
As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully,  you  were  ; 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 

<  Because  thou,  are  not  seen.']  Dr,  Johnson  supposes  that  the  original  line 
having  been  lost,  the  above  was  substituted  to  supply  the  deficiency ;  and  it  is 
confessed,  on  all  hands,  that  this  stanza  can  only  be  tortured  into  a  meaning. 
Dr.  Johnson's  paraphrase  is  : — Thou  winter  ivind,  thy  rudeness  gives  tlie  less  pain, 
because  thou  art  an  enemy  that  does  not  brave  ns  with  thy  presence,  and  whose  tm- 
kindness  is  therefore  not  aggravated  hy  insult. — I  never  perceived  any  difficulty, 
till  it  was  pointed  out  by  the  commentators,  but  supposed  the  words  to  mean, 
that  the  inclemency  of  the  wind  was  not  so  severely  felt  as  the  ingratitude  of  man, 
because  the  foe  is  unseen,  i.  e.  utiknown,  and  the  sense  of  injury  is  not  heightened 
by  the  recollection  of  any  former  kindness. 
"  f remembered}  —for  remembering. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I.  121 

Most  truly  limn'd,  and  living  in  your  face, — 

Be  truly  welcome  hither :  I  am  the  duke. 

That  lov'd  your  father  :  The  residue  of  your  fortune, 

Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man. 

Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  rnaster  is  : 

Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand. 

And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IIL 

Scene  I. — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Oliver,  Lords,  and 
Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Not  see  him  since  ?  Sir,  sir,  that  cannot  be  : 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  arguments 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present :   But  look  to  it ; 
Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoe'er  he  is : 
Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or  living, 
Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 
To  seek  a  living  in  our  territory. 
Thy  lands,  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine. 
Worth  seizure,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands  ;     ^ 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's  mouth. 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

OH.  O,  that  your  highness  knew  my  heart  in  this  ! 
I  never  lov'd  my  brother  in  my  life. 

Duke  F.  More  villain  thou. — Well,  push  him  out  of 
And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature  [doors ; 

Make  an  extent**  upon  his  house  and  lands  : 
Do  this  expediently,'  and  turn  him  going.  ^Exeunt. 

e an  absent  argument — ]  An  argument  is  used  for  the  contents  of  a  book, 

thence  Shakspeare  considered  it  as  meaning  the  subject,  and  then  used  it  for 
subject  in  yet  another  sense. — Johnson. 

•>  Make  an  extent — ]  "  To  make  an  extent  of  lands,"  is  a  legal  phrase,  from 
the  words  of  a  writ,  (extendi  facias,)  whereby  the  sheriff  is  directed  to  cause  cer- 
tain lands  to  be  appraised  to  their  full  extended  value,  before  he  delivers  them 
to  the  person  entitled  under  a  recognizance,  &c.  in  order  that  it  may  be  cer- 
tainly known  how  soon  the  debt  will  be  paid. — Malone. 

' expediently,]  That  is,  expeditiously; — throughout  our  author's  plays'_ea'- 

pedient  is  used  in4he  sense  oi expeditious, — Steevens. 


122  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

S€ENE  II. 

.The  Forest. 
Enter  Orlando,  with  a  paper. 

Orl.  Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love  : 

And,  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,""  survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  !  Rosalind  !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books. 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character  ; 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks. 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve  on  every  tree. 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive'  she.  [Exit. 

Enter  Corin,  and  Touchstone. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  master 
Touchstone  ? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a  good 
life  ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it  is  naught. 
In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ;  but  in 
respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very  vile  life.  Now  in  re- 
spect it  is  in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect 
it  is  not  in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare  life, 
look  you,  it  fits  my  humour  well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more 
plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my  stomack.  Hast 
any  philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know,  the  more  one  sickens, 
the  worse  at  ease  he  is  ;  and  that  he  that  wants  money, 
means,  and  content,  is  without  three  good  friends  : — That 
the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet,  and  fire  to  burn  :  That  good 
pasture  makes  fat  sheep  ;  and  that  a  great  cause  of  the 
night,  is  lack  of  the  sun  :  That  he,  that  hath  learned  no 

^ thrice- crowned  queen  of  night,']  Alluding  to  the    triple  character   of 

Proserpina,  Cynthia,  and  Diana,  given  by  some  mythologists  to  the  same  god- 
dess, and  comprised  in  these  memorable  lines  : 

Terret,  lustrat,  agit,  Proserpina,  Luna,  Diana, 
Ima,  supema,  feras,  sceptro,  fulgore,  sagittis. — Johnson. 
' unexpressive — ]  For  intxpreisible. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  123 

wit  by  nature  nor  art,  may  complain  of  good  breeding,*"  or 
comes  of  a  very  dull  kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher. 
Wast  ever  in  court,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No,  truly. 

Touch.  Then  thou  art  damn'd. 

Cor.  Nay,  I  hope, 

Touch.  Truly,  thou  art  damn'd ;  like  an  ill-roasted  egg," 
all  on  one  side. 

Cor.  For  not  being  at  court?  Your  reason. 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at  court,  thou  never 
saw'st  good  manners ;  if  thou  never  saw'st  good  manners, 
then  thy  manners  must  be  wicked ;  and  wickedness  is  sin, 
and  sin  is  damnation  :  Thou  art  in  a  parlous  state,  shep- 
herd. 

Cor.  Not  a  whit.  Touchstone  :  those,  that  are  good  man- 
ners at  the  court,  are  as  ridiculous  in  the  country,  as  the 
behaviour  of  the  country  is  most  mockable  at  the  court. 
You  told  me,  you  salute  not  at  the  'court,  but  you  kiss 
your  hands ;  that  courtesy  would  be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers 
were  shepherds. 

Touch.  Instance,  briefly ;  come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes  ;  and  their 
fells,  you  know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  hands  sweat  ?  and 
is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wholesome  as  the  sweat 
of  a  man?  Shallow,  shallow  :  A  better  instance,  I  say  ; 
come. 

Cor.  Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 

Touch,  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner.  Shallow, 
again  :  A  more  sounder  instance,  come. 

Cor.  And  they  that  are  often  tarr'd  over  with  the  surgery 

m may  complain   of  good  breeding,']    i.  e.  Complain  of  the  want  of  good 

breeding,  the  custom  of  the  language  in  Shakspeare's  age  authorizing  this  mode 
of  speech. — Johnson. 

n like  an  ill-roasted  egg,"]  Of  this  jest,  I  do  not  fully  comprehend  the 

meaning. — Johnson.  Ipresvmie  it  only  means,  that  Corin  is  damned, like  an 
egg  that  has  been  spoilt  in  the  roasting.  The  words  all  on  one  side  merely  ex- 
press the  manner  in  which  the  egg  is  spoilt,  and  do  not  require  that  any  thing 
in  the  corresponding  part  of  the  simile  should  answer  them. — An  old  proverb 
says,  "  That  a  fool  is  the  best  roaster  of  an  egg  for  he's  always  turning  it." 


i24  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

of  our  sheep ;  And  would  you  have  us  kiss  tar  ?  The 
courtier's  hands  are  perfumed  with  civit. 

Touch.  Most  shallow  man !  Thou  worms-meat,  in  re- 
spect of  a  good  piece  of  flesh  :  Indeed ! — Learn  of  the 
wise,  and  perpend :  Civet  is  of  a  baser  birth  than  tar  ; 
the  very  uncleanly  flux  of  a  cat.  Mend  the  instance 
shepherd. 

Cor.  You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me  :  I'll  rest. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damn'd  ?  God  help  thee,  shal- 
low man/!  God  will  make  incision  in  thee  !"  thou  art  raw.P 

Cor,  Sir,  I  am  a  true  labourer ;  I  earn  that  I  eat,  get 
that  I  wear  ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's  happiness ; 
glad  of  other  men's  good,  content  with  my  harm  :  and  the 
greatest  of  my  pride  is,  to  see  my  ewes  graze,  and  my 
lambs  suck. 

Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you  ;  to  bring  the 
ewes  and  the  rams  together,  and  to  ofler  to  get  your  living 
by  the  copulation  of  cattle  :  to  be  bawd  to  abell-vveather ;' 
and  to  betray  a  she  lamb  of  a  twelvemonth,  to  a  crooked- 
pated,  old  cuckoldly  ram,  out  of  all  reasonable  match.  If 
thou  be'st  not  damn'd  for  this,  the  devil  himself  will  have 
no  shepherds ;  I  cannot  see  else  how  thou  shouldst  'scape. 

Cor.  Here  comes  young  master  Ganymede,  my  new 
mistress's  brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  reading  a  'paper. 

Ros.  From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind. 
All  the  pictures,  fairest  lin'd/ 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kepi  in  mind, 
But  thefair^  of  Rosalind. 

o make  incision  in  thee .']  The  allusion  is  to  that  common  expression,  of 

tutting  such  a  one  for  the  simples. — Steevens. 

P raw.'\  i.  e.  Ignorant,  tmexperienced. 

q bell-wetlier ;]   Wether  and  ram  had  anciently  the  same  meaning. — 

Johnson. 

r  lin'd,]  i.  e.  Delineated.  ' fair — ]  i.  e.  Beauty,  complexion. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  125 

Touch.  I'll  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together ;  dinners, 
and  suppers,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted  j  it  is  the  right 
butter  woman's  rank*  to  market. 

Ros.  Out,  fool ! 

Touch,  For  a  taste  : —  • 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind. 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So,  be  sure,  will  Rosalind. 

Winter-garments  must  he  li7i'd, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap,  must  sheaf  and  hind. 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Stveetest  nut  hath  sowrest  rind, 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

He  that  sweetest  Rose  will  find. 

Must  find  love's  prick,  and  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses  ;  Why  do  you  infect 
yourself  with  them  ? 

Ros.  Peace,  you  dull  fool ;  I  found  them  on  a  tree. 

Touch.  Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I'll  graffit  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graff  it  with 
a  medlar  :  then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit"  in  the  country  : 
for  you'll  be  rotten  e'er  you  be  half  ripe,  and  that's  the 
right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said  ;  but  whether  wisely  or  no,  let  the 
forest  judge. 

Enter  Celia,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.  Peace ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading ;  stand  aside. 

Cel.  Why  should  this  desert  silent  he? 
For  it  is  unpeopled  ?  No  ; 

t btittei-  woman's  rank — ]    i.  e.  The  verses  follow  one  another  in   the 

jog  trot  pace  with  which  butter  women  'follow  one  another  to  market. — 
Whiter. 

« earlieit  frxlit — ]  Quickest  in  coming  to  its  decay,  in  which  it  is  so 

much  earlier  than  other  fruits,  that  it  even  precedes  its  ripeness. — Pyf's 
Com,  on  Comment, 

VOL.  in.  K 


126  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Tongues  I'll  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil''  sayings  show. 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretchi7ig  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend: 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs. 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end. 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write ; 

Teaching  all  that  read,  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  xvould  in  little  show.'' 
Therefore  heave-n  nature  charg'd 

That  one  body  should  be  fill' d 
With,  all  graces  wide  enlarg'd : 

Nature  presently  distill'd 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart  ; 

Cleopatra's  majesty  ; 
Atalanta's  better  part  t"^ 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devis'd. 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches^  dearest  priz'd. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have. 

And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 
Ros.  O  most  gentle  Jupiter ! — ^what  tedious  homily  of 

X civil  sayings — ]  i.  e.  Sayings,  collected  from  an  intercourse  with  civil  life. 

— Gifford's  Massinger,  vol.  ii.  218. 

y in  little  slwic,']  i.  e.  Show  in  miiiiature  ;  so  in  Hamlet  we  have  •'  his 

picture  in  little"  for  "his  miniature  picture." — Steevens. 

2 better  part ;]  In  Holland's  translation  of  Pliny's  Natural  History,  we 

read  of  the  portraits  of  ^ta/onta  and  Helen,  "both  of  them  for  beauty  incompar- 
able, and  yet  a  man  may  discern  the  one  (Atalanta)  of  them  to  be  a  maiden 
for  her  modest  and  chaste  countenance." — There  is  little  doubt  then  but  the 
better  part  here  mentioned  was  her  chastity. — Tollet.  But  Atalanta's  most 
celebrated  characteristic  was  her  swiftness  ;  and  may  not  the  compliment  here 
paid  to  Rosalind  intimate,  that  she  united  to  the  majesty  of  Cleopatra,  the  ease 
and  lightness  of  motion  that  distinguished  Atalanta  ^ 

» the  touches — ]  i.  e.  The  featurrs  ;  les  traits. 


ACT  III.-SCENE  II.  127 

love  have  you  wearied  your  parishioners  withal,  and  never 
cry'd.  Have  patience,  good  people .' 

Cel.  How  now  !  back  friends  ; — Shepherd,  go  off  a  little  : 
— Go  with  him,  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  honourable  re- 
treat ;  though  not  with  bag  and  baggage,  yet  with  scrip 
and  scrippage.  lExeunt  Corin  and TovcusioiiE. 

Cel.  Didst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 

Ros.  O,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too ;  for  some 
of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verses  would 
bear. 

Cel.  That's  no  matter ;  the  feet  might  bear  the  verses. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not  bear 
themselves  without  the  verse,  and  therefore  stood  lamely 
in  the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear,  without  wondering  how  thy 
name  should  be  hang'd  and  carved  upon  these  trees  ? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the  wonder, 
before  you  came  ;  for  look  here  what  I  found  on  a  palm- 
tree  :^  I  was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time, 
that  I  was  an  Irish  rat,'=  which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you,  who  hath  done  this  ? 

-Ros.  Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his  neck  : 
Change  you  colour  ? 

Ros.  I  pr'ythee,  who  ? 

Cel.  O  lord,  lord !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends  to  meet  ;** 
but  mountains  may  be  removed  with  earthquakes,  and  so 
encounter. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  who  is  it  ? 

Cel.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pray  thee  now,  with  most  petitionary  vehe- 
mence, tell  me  who  it  is. 

•' a  palm- tree  :]  A  palm-tree,  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  is  as  much  out  of 

its  place,  as  the  lioness  in  a  subsequent  scene. — Steevens. 

^ an  Irish  rat,]  Alluding  to  the  idea  of  killing  rats  with  rhymes. — In 

Randolph  we  have  the^following  passage : — 

Thy  poets 
Shall  with  a  satire,  steep'd  in  gall  and  vinegar. 
Rhyme  them  to  death,  as  they  do  rats  in  Ireland. — Johnson. 

■* friendS'te  meet;]  Alluding  ironically  to  tj.e  proverb  : 

"  Friends  may  meet,  but  mountaibs  nevej  greet." — Steevens. 
K    2 


128  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Cel.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful  won- 
derful, and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after  that  out  of  all 
whooping  !^ 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion  V  dost  thou  think,  though  I 
am  caparison'd  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in 
my  disposition  ?  One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South-sea- 
off  discovery .s  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  who  is  it  ?  quickly, 
and  speak  apace  :  I  would  thou  couldst  stammer,  that 
thou  might'st  pour  this  concealed  man  out  of  thy  mouth, 
as  wine  comes  out  of  a  narrow-mouth'd  bottle  ;  either  too 
much  at  once,  or  not  at  all.  I  pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out 
of  thy  mguth^  that  I  may  drink  thy  tidings. 

Cel.  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Ros.  Is  he  of  God's  making?  What  manner  of  man ?  Is 
his  head  worth  a  hat,  or  his  chin  worth  a  beard  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Ros.  Why,  God  will  send  more,  if  the  man  will  be 
thankful :  let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if  thou  de-' 
lay  me  not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin. 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando ;  that  tripp'd  up  the  wrest- 
ler's heels,  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking ;  speak  sad  brow, 
and  true  maid.'' 

Cel.  I'faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.  Orlando? 

Cel.  Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day  !  what  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet  and 
hose  ? — What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st  him  ?  What  said 
he  ?  How  look'd  he  ?  Wherein  went  he  ?'  What  makes  he 
here  ?  Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where  remains  he  ?  How 
parted  he  with  thee  ?  and  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again? 
Answer  me  in  one  word. 

c whoo])ing.']  To  whoop  is  to  exclaim  with  astonishment. — N  ares's  C/ossari/. 

Out  of  all  whooping,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  expressing  astonishment. 

f  Good  my  complexion .']  A  little  unmeaning  exclamatory  address  to  her  beauty ; 
in  the  nature  of  a  small  oath. — Ritson. 

g a  HoiUh-sea-off  discovery.]  i.  e.  Every  delay  however  short  is  as  tedious 

as  a  voyage  of  discovery  as  far  off  as  to  the  South-sea. — Johnson.  The  old 
reading  is  a  South -sea  of  discovery :  which  Mr.  Henley  would  retain,  and  inter- 
prets thus: — "  A  Sonlh-sea  of  discovery,  is  not  a  discovery  as  far  off , hut  as  com- 
prehensive as  the  South-sea  ;  which,  being  the  largest  in  the  world,  affords  the 
widest  scope  for  exercising  curiosity. 

i>  speak  sad  brow,  and  true  maid.']  i.  e.  Seriously  and  honestly. 

'  Wherein  tcent  ftf?]  In  what  manner  was  ho  clothed? — Heath. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  129 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's  mouth""  first  • 
'tis  a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this  age's  size :  To 
say,  ay,  or  no,  to  these  particulars,  is  more  than  to  answer 
in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  cloth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest,  and 
in  man's  apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did  the  day 
he  wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,'  as  to  resolve  the 
propositions  of  a  lover  : — but  take  a  taste  of  my  finding 
him,  and  relish  it  with  a  good  observance.  I  found  him 
under  a  tree,  like  a  dropp'd  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  call'd  Jove's  tree,  when  it  drops 
forth  such  fruit. 

Cel.  Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.  Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he,  stretch'd  along,  like  a  wounded 
knight.  » 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it  well  be- 
comes the  ground. 

Cel.  Cry,  holla  !  to  thy  tongue,"  I  pr'ythee  ;  it  curvets 
very  unseasonably.     He  was  furnish 'd  like  a  hunter. 

Ros.  O  ominous !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart." 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden  :  thou 
bring'st  me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  1  am  a  woman?  when  I  think, 
1  must  speak.     Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques. 

Cel.  You  bring  me  out : — Soft !  comes  he  not  here  ? 
Ros.  'Tis  he  ;  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[Celia  «wc?  Rosalind  reliie. 

^ Garagantua's  mouth — ]  Rosalind  requires  nine  questions  to  be  an- 
swered in  mie  word.  Celia  tells  her  that  a  word  of  such  magnitude  is  too  big 
for  any  mouth  but  that  of  Garagantua,  the  giant  of  Rabelais,  who  swallowed 
five  pilgrims,  their  staves  and  all,  in  a  sallad. — Johnson. 

1 to  cowit  atomies,]  Atomies  are  those  minute  particles  discernible  in  a 

stream  of  simshine  that  breaks  into  a  darkened  room. — Henley. 

»>  Cry,  holla !  to  thy  tongue,']  Holla  was  a  term  of  the  manege,  by  which  the 
rider  restrained  and  stopp'd  his  horse. — Maloni;. 

n to  kill  my  heart.]    A  quibble  between  heart  and  hart,  which  words 

in  our  author's  time  were  frequently  spelt  alike  j  as  is  the  case  in  the  present 
instance  in  the  folio. 


130  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company  ;  but,  good  faith, 
I  had  as  hef  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet  for  fashion  sake,  I  thank 
you  too  for  your  society. 

Jaq.  God  be  with  you ;°  let's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 

Orl.  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing  love- 
songs  in  their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with  read- 
ing them  ill-favouredly. 

Jaq.  Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ? 

Orl.  Yes,  just. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orl.  There  is  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when  she  was 
christen'd. 

Jaq.  What  stature  is  she  of? 

Orl.  Just  as  l*igh  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers  :  Have  you  not 
been  acquainted  with  goldsmith's  wives,  and  conn'd  them 
out  of  rings  ? 

Orl.  Not  so  ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth,p 
from  whence  you  have  studied  your  questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit;  I  think  it  is  made  of  Ata- 
lanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me  ?  and  we  two 
will  rail  against  our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery. 

Orl.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world,  but  myself; 
against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.  The  worst  feult  you  have,  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'Tis  a  fault  I  would  not  change  for  your  best  vir- 
tue.     I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool,  when  I 
found  you. 

o  God  he  with  you;]  In  the  folio,  the  words  are  God  buy  you:  the  same  ex- 
pression is  again  used  by  Jaques  in  the  fourth  act,  and  is  again  changed  by  the 
modem  editors. — I  have  retained  the  alteration  in  both  places,  though  it  is  pro- 
bable that  the  folio  is  right,  and  that  God  buy  you  was  no  unfrequent  expression 
in  the  sense  of  Cod  redeem  you. 

p  right  painted  cloth,']  A  common  kind  of  hangings  for  rooms,  made 

of  cloth  or  canvass  painted  in  oii  with  various  devices  and  moltos,  "  Master 
Thomas  More,  in  hys  youth,  devysed  in  hys  father's  house  in  London,  a  goodly 
hangyng  of  fyne  paynted  chlhc,  with  nyne  pageauntcs,  and  verses  over  cDcrt/  of 
those  pageants."— Sir  T.  More's  English  Works,  by  Ras(e//e.— Steevens. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  H.  131 

Orl.  He  is  drown'd  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in,  and  you 
shall  see  hira. 

Jaq.  There  shall  I  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool,  or  a  cypher. 

Jaq.  I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you  ;  farewell,  good  sig- 
nior love. 

Orl.  I  am  glad  of  your  daparture  ;  adieu,  good  mon- 
sieur melancholy. 

[Exit  Jaques. — Celia  and  Rosalind 
come  forward. 

Ros.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lacquey,  and 
under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him. — Do  you  hear, 
forester  ? 

Orl.  Very  well ;  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is't  a  clock  ? 

0/7.  You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'day ;  there's  no 
clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else  sigh- 
ing every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour,  womld  detect 
the  lazy  foot  of  time,  as  well  as  a  clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  had  not  that 
been  as  proper  ? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels  in  divers  paces 
with  divers  persons :  I'll  tell  you  who  time  ambles  withal, 
who  time  trots  wdthal,  who  time  gallops  withal,  and  who 
he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl.  I  pr'ythee  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  between 
the  contract  of  her  marriage,  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized ; 
if  the  intrim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  time's  pace  is  so  hard  that 
it  seems  the  length  of  seven  years. 

Orl.  Who  ambles  time  withal? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that 
hath  not  the  gout :  for  the  one  sleeps  easily,  because  he 
cannot  study ;  and  the  other  hves  merrily,  because  he  feels 
no  pain  :  the  one  lacking  the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful 
learning ;  the  other  knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious 
penury  :  These  time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows:  for  though  he  go 


132  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon 
there. 

Orl.  Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation  :  for  they  sleep  be- 
tween term  and  term,  and  then  they  perceive  not  how 
time  moves. 

Orl.  Where  dwell  you  pretty  youth  ? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister:  here  in  the 
skirts  of  this  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orl.  Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  coney,  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is 
kindled. 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could 
purchase  in  so  removedp  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many  :  but,  indeed,  an  old 
religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak,  who  was  in 
his  youth  an  in-land'^  man  ;  one  that  knew  courtship  too 
well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love.  I  have  heard  him  read 
many  lectures  against  it ;  and  I  thank  God,  I  am  not  a 
woman,  to  be  touch'd  with  so  many  giddy  offences  as  he 
hath  generally  tax'd  their  whole  sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils,  that 
he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all  like  one 
another,  as  half-pence  are  ;  every  one  fault  seeming  mon- 
strous, till  his  fellow  fault  came  to  match  it. 

Orl.  I  pr'ythee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No  ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physick,  but  on 
those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest, 
that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on 
their  barks  ;  hangs  odes  upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on 
brambles ;  all,  forsooth,  deifying  the  name  of  Rosalind :  if 
I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger,  I  would  give  him  some 
good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love 
upon  him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked ;  I  pray  you,  tell 
me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you :  he 

P removed — ]  i.  c.  Ilemote. 

1 inland — ]  Civilized,  in  opposition  to  rusttck. 


ACT  III.-SCENE  II.  133 

taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  :  in  which  cage  of 
rushes,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  prisoner. 
Orl.  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek  ;  which  you  have  not :  a  blue  eye,' 
and  sunken;  which  you  have  not:  an  unquestionable 
spirit ;'  which  you  have  not :  a  beard  neglected  ;  which 
you  have  not :  but  I  pardon  you  for  that ;  for,  simply, 
your  having'  in  beard  is  a  younger  brother's  revenue  : — 
Then  your  hose  should  be  ungarter'd,  your  bonnet  un- 
banded,  your  sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied,  and 
every  thing  about  you  demonstrating  a  careless  desolation. 
But  you  are  no  such  man ;  you  are  rather  point-device"  in 
your  accoutrements  ;  as  loving  yourself,  than  seeming 
the  lover  of  any  other. 

Orl.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I 
love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her  that 
you  love  believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do, 
than  to  confess  she  does ;  that  is  one  of  the  points  in  the 
which  women  still  give  the  lie  to  their  consciences.  But, 
in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the 
trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of 
Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes 
speak  1 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much. 
Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness;  and,  I  tell  you,  de- 
serves as  well  a  dark  house,  and  a  whip,  as  madmen  do : 
and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured, 
is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary,  that  the  whippers  are  in 
love  too  :  Yet  I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 
Orl.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes  one  ;  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to  imagine 
me  his  love,  his  mistress  ;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo 

r a  blue  eye,'\  i.  e.  A  blueness  about  the  eyes. 

» an  unquestionable  spirit  ;'\  i.  e.  A  spirit  impatient  of  being  spoken  to. 

t having — ]  i.  e.  Estate. 

u  —.—  point-device — ]  i.  e.  Drest  mthjinical  nicety, — Steevens. 


134  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

me:  At  which  time  would  I,  being  but  a  moonish"  youth, 
grieve,  be  effeminate,  changeable,  longing,  and  liking ; 
proud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears, 
full  of  smiles ;  for  every  passion  something,  and  for  no  pas- 
sion truly  any  thing,  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most 
part  cattle  of  this  colour :  would  now  like  him,  now  loath 
him;  then  entertain  himj  then  forswear  him  ;  now  weep  for 
him,  then  spit  at  him ;  that  I  dravemy  suitor  from  his  mad 
humour  of  love,  to  a  living^  humour  of  madness ;  which 
was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world,  and  to  live 
in  a  nook  merely  monastick  :  And  thus  I  cured  him;  and 
this  way  will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean 
as  a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one  spot 
oflovein't. 

Orl.  I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me 
Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me. 

Orl.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will ;  tell  me 
where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I'll  show  it  you ;  and,  by 
the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you  live ; 
Will  you  go? 

Orl.  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me,  Rosalind : — Come,  sister, 
will  you  go  ?  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

Enter  TovcusTOi^i Band  Audrey;^  Jaquesa^  a  distance, 
observing  them. 

Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey  ;  I  will  fetch  up 
your  goats,  Audrey  :  And  how,  Audrey  ?  am  I  the  man 
yet  ?  Doth  my  simple  feature*  content  you  ? 

Aud.  Your  features !  Lord  warrant  us !  what  features  ? 

X monnish — ]  i.  e.  Variable.  T living — ]  i.  e.  Permanent. 

^ Audrey;]  Is  a  corruption  of  EtheUrcdn.    The  saint  of  that  name  is 

so  styled  in  ancient  calendars. — Steevens. 

» jeaUirc'] — is  he.c   used  for  form  or  person  in  general,  as  it  is   in 

Henry  VI.  p.  1.  and  in  Authony  and  Cleopatra  ;  but  this  use  |of  the  word, 
seems  to  be  a  refiuemeut  in  language  above  Audrey's  comprehension. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III.  135 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the  most 
capricious''  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the  Goths. 

Jaq.  O  knowledge  ill-inhabited  !<=  worse  than  Jove  in  a 
thatched  house !  lAside. 

Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  understood,  nor 
a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the  forward  child,  under- 
standing, it  strikes  a  man  more  d^d  than  a  great  reckon- 
ing in  a  little  room  :^ — Truly,  I  would  the  gods  had  made 
thee  poetical. 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is  :  Is  it  honest  in 
deed,  and  word  ?  Is  it  a  true  thing  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly ;  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the  most 
feigning ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetry  ;  and  what  they 
swear  in  poetry,  may  be  said,  as  lovers,  they  do  feign. 

Aud.  Do  you  wish  then,  that  the  gods  had  made  me 
poetical  ? 

Touch.  I  do,  truly,  for  thou  swear'st  to  me,  thou  art 
honest ;  now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might  have  some  hope 
thou  didst  feign. 

Aud.  Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 
Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard-favour'd :  for 
honesty  coupled  to  beauty,  is  to  have  honey  a  sauce  to 
sugar. 

Jaq.  A  material  fool  !•=  [Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair ;  and  therefore  I  pray  the 
gods  make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon  a  foul 
slut,  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 

Aud.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods  I  am 
foul.f 

Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness  ! 
sluttishness  may  come  hereafter.  But  be  it  as  it  may  be, 
I  will  marry  thee,  and  to  that  end,  I  have  been  with  Sir 

h  capricious] — is  not  here  used  in  the  sense   of  humoursome,   but 

lascivious, — Upton. 

c ill-inhabited !]  i.  e.  Ill-Lodged. 

"1 a  great  reckoning  in  a  little  room  : — ]   i.  e.   The  entertainment  was 

mean,  and  the  bill  extravagant. — Warburton. 

e  A  material /ooL']  A  fool  with  matter  in  him  :  a  fool  stocked  with  notions, 
— Johnson. 

f foul.]  i.  e.  Not  fair : — Audrey  thanks  God  for  her  homeliness,  as  it 

rendered  her  less  exposed  to  temptation, — M.  Mason. 


136  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Oliver  Mar-text,  the  vicar  of  the  next  villasje  ;  who  hath 
promised  to  meet  me  in  this  place  of  the  forest,  and  to 
couple  us. 

Jaq.  I  would  fain  see  this  meeting.  [^Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy  ! 

Touch.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a  fearful 
heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have  no  tem- 
ple but  the  wood,  no  assembly  but  horn-beasts.  But 
what  though  ?s  Courage  !  As  horns  are  odious,  they  are 
necessary.  It  is  said, — Many  a  man  knows  no  end  of  his 
goods  :  right :  many  a  man  has  good  horns,  and  knows 
no  end  of  them.     Well,  that  is  the  dowry  of  his  wife  ;  'tis 

none  of  his  own  getting.      Horns  ?    Even  so : Poor 

men  alone  ? No,  no  ;  the  noblest  deer  hath  them  as 

huge  as  the  rascal.'^  Is  the  single  man  therefore  blessed? 
No  :  as  a  wall'd  town  is  more  worthier  than  a  village,  so 
is  the  forehead  of  a  married  man  more  honourable  than 
the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor:  and  by  how  much  defence' 
is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much  is  a  horn  more  precious 
than  to  want. 

Enter  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text. 

Here  comes  Sir  Oliver:" — Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  you  are 
well  met :  Will  you  despatch  us  here  under  this  tree,  or 
shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel? 

Sir  OH.  Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman  ? 

Touch.  I  will  not  take  her  on  the  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  on.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  marriage  is 
not  lawful. 

Jaq.  [discovering  himself.']  Proceed,  proceed ;  I'll  give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  master  What  ye  caWt:  How 
do  you,  sir?  You  are  very  well  met:  God'ild  you'  for 
your  last  company  :  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  : — Even  a 
toy  in  hand  here,  sir: — Nay  ;  pray,  be  cover'd. 

e what  though^  ^Vhat  then  ? 

^ the  rascal.]  Lean,  poor  deer,  are  called  rascal  deer. 

' — —  defence — ]  Defence,  as  here  opposed  to  "  no  skill,"  signifies  the  art 
of  fencing. — Stee  ven  s. 

'' Sir  Oliver ;]  Sir  wasa  title  frequently  applied  to  the  inferior  clergy. 

See  note  to  Afm-i/  Wiies  of  IVinJior,  act  1.  sc.  1.  In  some  parts  of  North 
Wales  the  clergy  are  still  distinguished  by  this  appellation.— NicuoLS. 

'  — ■- —  GixrHd  you — ]  i.  e.  God  yield  you,  God  reward  you. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV.  137 

Jaq.  Will  you  be  married,  motley? 

Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,*"  sir,  the  horse  his  curb, 
and  the  faulcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath  his  desires  5  and  as 
pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock  would  be  nibbling. 

Jaq.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breeding,  be 
married  under  a  bush,  like  a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to  church, 
and  have  a  good  priest  that  can  tell  you  what  marriage  is : 
this  fellow  will  but  join  you  together  as  they  join  wains- 
cot :  then  one  of  you  will  prove  a  shrunk  pannel,  and, 
like  .green  timber,  warp,  warp. 

Touch.  I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were  better  to  be 
married  of  him  than  of  another:  for  he  is  not  like  to  marry 
me  well ;  and  not  being  well  married,  it  will  be  a  good 
excuse  for  me  hereafter  to  leave  my  wife.  \_Aside. 

Jaq.  Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 

Touch.  Come,  sweet  Audrey  ; 
We  must  be  married,  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry. 
Farewell,  good  master  Oliver  ! 

Not — "  0  sweet  Oliver, 
O  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee ;" 
But — "  Witid  away, 
Begone  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee."'' 
[Exeunt  Jaques,  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
Sir  Oli.  'Tis  no  matter ;  ne'er  a  fantastical  knave  of 
them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 

The   same.       Before  a    Cottage. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Ros.  Never  talk  to  me,  I  will  weep.. 

"» his  bow,]  i.  e.  His  yoke.     The  ancient  yoke  in  form  resembled  a  how. 

— Steevens. 

"  0  sweet  Oliver,  &c.]  This  stanza  appears  to  be  composed  of  two  quotations 
from  popular  old  songs  put  in  opposition  to  each  other. — Johnson. 

The  ballad  of  "  O  sweet  Olyver, 

Leave  me  not  behind  thee," 
was  entered  on  the   books  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  August  6,  1584,  by 
Richard  Jones. 


138  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT, 

Cel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to  consider, 
that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  vi^ould  desire ;  therefore  weep. 

Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembUng  colour. 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's:°  marry,  his 
kisses  are  Judas's  own  children. 

Ros.  I'faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  colour. 

Cel.  An  excellent  colour  :  your  chesnut  was  ever  the 
only  colour. 

Ros.  And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  saijttity  as  the  touch 
of  holy  bread."^ 

Cel.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of  Diana :  a 
nun  of  winter's  sisterhood^  kisses  not  more  religiously  ; 
the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  them. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this  morn- 
ing, and  comes  not  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Ros.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Cel.  Yes  :  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse,  nor  a  horse- 
stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think  him  as  con- 
cave as  a  cover'd  goblet,'  or  a  worm-eaten  nut. 

Ros.  Not  true  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Yes,  when  he  is  in  ;  but  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Ros.  You  have  heard  him  swear  downright  he  was. 

Cel.  Was  is  not  is :  besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover  is  no 
stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster  ;  they  are  both  the 
confirmers  of  false  reckonings  :  He  attends  here  in  the' 
forest  on  the  duke  your  father. 

o  Something  browner  than  Judas's  :]  Judas  was  constantly  represented  in 
ancient  painting  or  tapestry,  with  red  hair  and  beard. — Steevens. 

P as  the  toiLch  of  holy  bread.]    We  should  read  beard,  that  is,  as  the 

kiss  of  an  holy  saint  or  hermit,  called  the  kiss  of  charity.  This  makes  the  com- 
parison just  and  decent ;  the  other  impious  and  absurd. — Warburton. 

1 a  nun  of  winter's  sisterhood,]  i.  e.  Of  an  unfruitful  sisterhood  who  had 

devoted  herself  to  chastity.  As  those  viho  were  of  the  sisterhood  of  the 
Spring,  were  the  votaries  of  Venus ,:  those  of  Summer,  the  votaries  of  Ceres ; 
those  of  Autumn,  of  Pomona ;  so  those  of  the  sisterhood  of  Winter  were  the 
votaries  of  Diana ;  called  nf  Winter,  because  that  quarter  is  not  like  the  other 
three  productive  of  increase. — Warburton. 

' as  concave  as  a  cover'd  goblet,']  i.  e.  Shakspeare  wishes  to  convey  the 

idea  of  hollowness ;  and  a  goblet  is  more  completely  hollow  when  covered  than 
when  it  is  not. — M.  Mason. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V.  139 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much  ques- 
tion'^ with  him  :  he  asked  me  of  what  parentage  I  was ;  I 
told  him,  of  as  good  as  he  ;  so  he  laugh'd,  and  let  me  go. 
But  what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when  there  is  such  a  man  as 
Orlando  ? 

Cel.  O,  that's  a  brave  man !  he  writes  brave  verses, 
speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  and  breaks  them 
bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart*  the  heart  of  his  lover ;  as 
a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs  his  horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks 
his  staff  like  a  noble  goose :  but  all's  brave,  that  youth 
mounts,  and  folly  guides  : — Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Coein. 

Cor.  Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  enquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love  ; 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.  If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd. 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love. 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain. 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you. 
If  you  will  mark  it 

Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove ; 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love  : — 
Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Phebe. 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me  ;  do  not,  Phebe  : 
Say,  that  you  love  me  not ;  but  say  not  so 

' question — ]  i.  e.  Conversation. 

* quite  traverse,  athwart,  &c.]  This  is  a  metaphor  taken  from  the  tilt- 
yard,  for  the  elucidation  of  which,  see  note  to  Mitch  Ado  about  Nothing,  act  v. 
SC.  1.  Claudia. 


140  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

In  bitterness :  The  common  executioner. 

Whose  heart  the  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes  hard. 

Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck, 

But  first  begs  pardon  ;  Will  you  sterner  be 

Than  he  that  dies  and  lives*  by  bloody  drops  ? 

Enter  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Corin,  at  a  distance. 

Phe,  I  would  not  be  thy  executioner ; 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tell'st  me,  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye  : 
'Tis  pretty  sure,  and  very  probable  : 
That  eyes, — that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, — 
Should  be  call'd  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers  ! 
Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 
And,  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill  thee  ; 
Now  counterfeit  to  swoon  ;  why  now  fall  down  ; 
Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  O,  for  shame,  for  shame. 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 
Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee ; 
Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 
Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 
The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure" 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps  :  but  now  mine  eyes. 
Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 

Sil.  O  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever,  (as  that  ever  may  be  near,) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy,'' 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But,  till  that  time. 

Come  not  thou  near  me  :  and,  when  that  time  comes, 

* dies  and  lives — ]  To  die  and  live  by  a  thing  is  to  be  constant  to  it,  to 

persevere  in  it  to  the  end.     Lives  does  not  signify  is  maintained,  but  the  two 
verbs  taken  together  mean,  who  is  all  his  life  conversant  with  bloody  drops. — 

MUSGBAVE. 

"  The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure — ]  Cicatrice  is  here  not  very  properly 
used  ;  it  is  the  scar  of  a  wound. — Johnson.  Capable  here  means  perceptible. — 
Malone. 

« fani.y,'\  i.  e.  Love. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V,  141 

Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As,  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.  And  why,  I  pray  you  ?    [^Advancing.l   Who  might 
be  your  mother.^ 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once. 
Over  the  wretched  ?  What  though  you  have  no  beauty," 
(As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed,) 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and 'pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  this  ?  Why  do  you  look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you,  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work  :" — Od's  my  little  life  ! 
I  think,  she  means  to  tangle  ray  eyes  too : — 
No,  'faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it ; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair. 
Your  bugle"  eye-balls,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream. 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship, — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain  ? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man. 
Than  she  a  woman :  'Tis  such  fools  as  you. 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favour 'd  children  : 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her ; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper. 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. — 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself:  down  on  your  knees, 
^^^^^^-^J3[gJjlLMg:VgIl^iagtin^,  for  a  good  man's  love  : 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear,^^^^  ~~' 

Sell  when  you  can ;  you  are  not  for  all  markets  : 
Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer  : 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer.^ 
So,  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd ;— fare  you  well. 

''  - — -  ^^hc  migf^t  ^e  your  mother,']  It  is  common  for  the  poets  to  express 
cruelty  by  saying,  of  those  who  commit  it,  that  they  were  bom  of  rocks,  or 
suckled  by  tigresses. — Johnson. 

" "'^  beauty,]  The  original  reading.     The  sense  is,  Must  you,  because 

you  are  plam,  therefore  be  proud  and  pitiiess,  as  ugly  in  mind  as  in  person?— 
All  the  modern  editors  have  most  unnecessarily  given  more  for  no. 

a  Of  nature's  sale-work  :— ]  The  allusion  is  to  the  practice  of  mechanicks, 
whose  woi-k  bespoke  is  more  elaborate  than  that  which  is  made  up  to  sell  in 
quantities  to  retailers. — Warburtqn. 

>> Imgle—]  A  bead  of  black  glass. 

c  Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  he  a  scoffer.]  The  sense  is,  The  ugly  seem  most 
ugly,  when,  though  ugly,  they  are  sco/ers.— .Iqhnson. 
VOL.  JII.  L 


142  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Phe.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year  together ; 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide,  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foulness,  and  shell 
fall  in  love  with  my  anger  :  If  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she  an- 
swers thee  with  frowning  looks,  I'll  sauce  her  with  bitter 
words. — Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

Phe.  For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  iFalser  than  vows  made  in  wine  : 
Besides,  I  hke  you  not :  If  you  will  know  my  house, 
'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives,  here  hard  by  : — 
Will  you  go,  sister? — Shepherd,  ply  her  hard  : — 
Come,  sister : — Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 
And  be  not  proud  ;  though  all  the  world  could  see. 
None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  he.** 
Come,  to  our  flock. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Corin. 

Phe.  Dead  shepherd  !*  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might ; 
Who  ever  lov'd  that  lov'd  not  atjirst  sight  ? 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe, — 

Phe.  Ha  !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Phe.  Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

Sil.  Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be ; 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love. 
By  giving  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermin'd. 

Phe.  Thou  hast  my  love  ;  Is  not  that  neighbourly  ? 

Sil.  I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was,  that  I  hated  thee ; 
And  yet  it  is  not,  that  I  bear  thee  love  : 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  lov«  so  well. 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure  :  and  I'll  employ  thee  too  : 
But  do  not  look  for  farther  recompense, 

d though  all  the  iDorld  could  see. 

None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  lie.]    Though  all  mankind  could  look  on 
you,  none  could  be  so  deceived  as  to  think  you  beautiful  but  he. — Johnson. 

e  Dead  shepherd !]  This  refers  to  Marlowe,  from  whose  poem  of  Hero  and 
I.eander  the  subsequent  line  is  taken. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V.  143 

Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ'd. 

Sil.  So  holy,  and  so  perfect  is  my  love. 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace. 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps :  loose  now  and  then 
A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I'll  live  upon. 

Phe.  Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me  ere 
while? 

Sil.  Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds. 
That  the  old  carlot^  once  was  master  of. 

Phe.  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him ; 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  boy  :s — yet  he  talks  well ; — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do  well. 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth  : — not  very  pretty  : — 
But,  sure,  he's  proud  ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him  : 
He'll  make  a  proper  man :  The  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tall : 
His  leg  is  but  so  so  ;  and  yet  it  is  well  : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip  ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek ;  'twas  j  ust  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red,  and  mingled  damask.' 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd  him 
In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him  :  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him' hot;  and  yet 
I  have  more  cause  to  hate  hini  than  to  love  him  : 
For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 
He  said,  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black  ; 

^ earlot — ]  i.  e.  Peasant,  from  carl  or  churl ;  probably  a  word  of  Shak- 

speare's  coinage. — Douce. 

s a  peevish  hoy :]  Peevish,  in  ancient  language,  signifies  lueak,  silly. 

^ constant  red  and  mingled  damask.]  The  constant  is  uniform,  red, Min- 
gled damask,  the  silk  of  that  name,  on  which,  by  a  various  direction  of  the  threads, 
many  lighter  shades  of  thesanje  colour  are  exhibited. — Steevens. 

1.2 


144  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

And,  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me ; 
I  marvel,  why  I  answer'd  not  again: 
But  that's  all  one;   omittance  is  no  quittance. 
1*11  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter. 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it ;  Wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.  Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I'll  write  it  straight; 

The  matter's  in  my  head,  and  in  my  heart : 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short : 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  {^Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — The  same. 
Enter  Rosalind,  Celia,  awrf  Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  pr'y  thee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better  acquainted 
with  thee. 

Ros.  They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jag.  I  am  so;  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those,  that  are  in  extremity  of  either,  are  abomi- 
nable fellows ;  and  betray  themselves  to  every  modem' 
censure,  worse  than  drunkards. 

Jaq.  Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.  Why  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy,  which  is 
emulation  ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is  fantastical ;  nor 
the  courtier's,  which  is  proud ;  nor  the  soldier's,  which  is 
ambitious ;  nor  the  lawyer's,  which  is  politick ;  nor  the 
lady's,  which  is  nice  ;''  nor  the  lover's  which  is  all  these  : 
but  it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many 
simples,  extracted  from  many  objects  :  and,  indeed,  the 
sundry  contemplation  of  my  travels,  in  which  my  often 
rumination  wraps  me,  is  a  most  humourous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller  !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great  reason 
to  be  sad :   I  fear  you  have  sold  your  own  lands,  to  see 

i nipdetn] — in  a  sense  now  disused  ;  common,  trivial,  uorthless. 

k which  is  nice  ;]  i.  e.  Silly,  trifling. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  145 

other  men's ;  then,   to  have  seen  much,  and  to  have  no- 
thing, is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands. 
Jaq.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Enter  Orlando. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad  :  I  had  rather 
have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry,  than  experience  to  make 
me  sad  ;  and  to  travel  for  it  too. 

Orl.  Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind  ! 

Jaq.  Nay  then,  God  be  wi'  you,  an  you  talk  in  blank 
verse. 

-Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller  :  Look,  you  lisp,  and 
wear  strange  suits  ;  disable"  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
country  ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost 
chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are  ;  or 
I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a  gondola."  [Exit 
Jaques] — Why,  how  now,  Orlando  !  where  have  you  been 
all  this  while?  You  a  lover? — An  you  serve  me  such 
another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of  my 
promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  ?  He  that  will 
divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a 
part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of 
love,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  that  Cupid  hath  clap'd  him 
o'the  shoulder,  but  I  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my 
sight ;  I  had  as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a  snail. 

Orl.  Of  a  snail? 

Ros.  Ay;  of  a  snail;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he 
carries  his  house  on  his  head  ;  a  better  jointer  I  think, 
than  you  can  make  a  woman  :  Besides,  he  brings  his  des- 
tiny with  him. 

Orl.  What's  that  ? 

Ros.  Why,  horns ;  which  such  as  you  are  fain  to  be 

'  disable — ]  i,  e.  Undervalue. 

™ swam  in  agondola-l  That  is,  been  at  Venice,  the  seat  at  the  time  of  all 

licentiousness,  where  the  young  English  gentlemen  wasted  their  fortunes,  de- 
based their  morals,  and  sometimes  lost  their  religion. — Johnson. 


146  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

beholden  to  your  wives  for  :  but  he  comes  armed  in  his 
fortune,  and  prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosalind  is 
virtuous. 

B.OS.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so  :  but  he  hath  a  Rosa- 
lind of  a  better  leer"  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me  ;  for  now  I  am  in  a  holiday 
humour,  and  like  enough  to  consent :  What  would  you 
say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your  very  very  Rosalind? 

Orl.  I  would  kiss,  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and  when  you 
were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might  take  occasion 
to  kiss.  Very  good  orators,  when  they  are  out,  they  will 
spit;  and  for  lovers,  lacking  (God  warn  us!)  matter,  the 
cleanest  shift  is  to  kiss. 

Orl.  How,  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there  begins 
new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved  mis- 
tress ? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your  mistress : 
or  I  should  think  my  honesty  ranker  than  my  wit. 

Orl.  What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of  your  suit. 
Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would 
be  talking  of  her. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person,  I  say — I  will  not  have  you. 

Orl.  Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is 
almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time,  there 
was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person,  videlicet,  in  a 
love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed  out  with  a 
Grecian  club  ;  yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  before  ; 
and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would 
have  lived  many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had  turned  nun, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hot  midsummer  night ;  for  good 
youth,  he  went  but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont, 

o leer — ]  i.  e.  Feature,  complexion,  or  colour. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  147 

and  being  taken  with  the  cramp,  was  drowned,  and  the 
foohsh  coroners^  of  that  age  found  it  was— Hero  of  Sestos. 
But  these  are  all  lies  ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time, 
and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this  mind ; 
for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly  :  But  come,  now 
I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  disposition  ; 
and  ask  me  what  you  will,  I  will  grant  it. 

Orl.  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,  faith  will  I,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays,  and  all. 

Orl.  And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Ros.  Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.  I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good 
thing  ? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest,  and  marry 
us, — Give  me  your  hand,  Orlando  : — What  do  you  say, 
sister  ? 

Orl.  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.  I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.  You  must  begin, Will  you  Orlando, — 

Cel.  Go  to : Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife  this 

Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  will. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.  Why  now  ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, — I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Orl.  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission  ;i  but,— I 
do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband :  There's  a  girl 
goes  before  the  priest ;  and,  certainly,  a  woman's  thought 
runs  before  her  actions. 

Orl.  So  do  all  thoughts  ;  they  are  winged. 

p coroners— '\  I  have  here  followed  the  reading  of  Sir  Thomas  Haumer. — 

The  old  copy  reads  chronoclers,  a  word  which  might  be  a  misprint  either  for  co- 
rmwrs  or  chroniclers,  but  as  the  former  word  is  supported  by  the  sense  of  the 
context,  I  have  followed  the  advice  of  Mr.  Edwards,  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  in 
adopting  it. 

q your  commission  ;]  i.  e.  Your  order  for  me  to  speah,  the  words  are  ad- 
dressed to  Celia. 


148  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

J?os.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  you  would  have  her,  after 
you  have  possessed  her. 

Oil.  For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever :  Is  o,  no,  Orlando  ; 
men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December  when  they  wed  : 
maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids,  but  the  sky  changes 
when  they  are  wives.  I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than 
a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen  ;  more  clamorous 
than  a  parrot  against  rain  ;  more  new-fangled  than  an 
ape  ;  more  giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey  :  I  will 
weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain/  and  I  will 
do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry  ;  I  will  laugh 
like  a  hyen,'  and  that  when  thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Oil.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  she  will  do,  as  I  do. 

Orl.  O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do  this :  the 
wiser,  the  waywarder :  Make  the  doors'  upon  a  woman's 
mt,  and  it  will  out  at  the  casement ;  shut  that,  and  'twill 
out  at  the  key-hole ;  stop  that,  'twill  fly  with  the  smoke 
out  at  the  chimney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he  might 
say, — Wit  luhither  wilt?" 

Ros.  Nay,  you  might  keep  that  check  for  it,  till  you 
met  your  wife's  wit  going  to  your  neighbour's  bed. 

Orl.  And  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse  that  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  to  say, — she  came  to  seek  you  there.  You 
shall  never  take  her  without  her  answer,  unless  you  take 
her  without  her  tongue.  O,  that  woman  that  cannot 
make  her  fault  her  husband's  occasion,"  let  her  never  nurse 
her  child  herself,  for  she  will  breed  it  like  a  fool. 

■■ I  will  veepfor  holhing  like  Diana  in  the  foutttain,']  Statues,  and  par- 
ticularly that  of  Diana,  with  water  conveyed  through  them  to  give  the  appear- 
ance of  weeping  figures,  were  anciently  a  frequent  ornament  of  fountains. — 
Whalley. 

» /  will  laugh  like  a  hyen,]  The  bark  of  the  hyena  was  anciently  sup- 
posed to  resemble  a  loud  laugh. — Steevens. 

t Make  the  doors,]  i.  e.  Fasten  the  doors.  This  expression  is  in  Derby- 
shire still  constantly  used. — Steevens. 

" Wit,  whither  wilt?]  This  was  an  exclamation  much  in  use,  when  any 

one  was  either  talking  nonsense,  or  usurping  a  greater  share  in  conversation 
than  justly  belonged  to  him. — Steevens. 

" her  husband's  occasiuii,]   i.e.  Occasioned  by  her  /insfc((«rf.  Sir  Thomas 

Hanmer  proposes  to  read  accusation  for  orcdsio/i.— .Ioiinson. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  149 

Oil.  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner  ;  by  two  o'clock 
I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

-Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways  ; — I  knew  what 
you  would  prove ;  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I 
thought  no  less : — that  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me: 
— 'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so, — come  death. — Two 
o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

Orl.  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so  God 
mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  dangerous, 
if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise,  or  come  one  minute 
behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical^ 
break-promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most 
unworthy  of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen 
out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  unfaithful :  therefore  beware 
my  censure,  and  keep  your  promise. 

Orl.  With  no  less  religion,  than  if  thou  wert  indeed  my 
Rosalind :  So,  adieu. 

Ros.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all 
such  offenders,  and  let  time  try  :    Adieu  ! 

[Exit  Orlando, 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misus'd  our  sex  in  your  love- 
prate  :  we  must  have  your  doublet  and  hose  plucked  over 
your  head,  and  show  the  world  what  the  bird  hath  done 
to  her  own  nest.^ 

Ros.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou 
didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in  love  !  But  it 
cannot  be  sounded  ;  my  affection  hath  an  unknown  bot- 
tom, like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or,  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fast  as  you  pour 
affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus,  that  was 
begot  of  thought,''  conceived  of  spleen,  and  born  of  mad- 

y patlKtical — ]  i.  e.  Affected,  or  affecting  falsely. — Nares's  Glossary. 

z to  her  own  nest.]    So  in  Lodge's  Rosalynde  ;  "  I  pray  you  (quoth 

Aliena)  if  your  own  robes  were  off,  what  mettal  are  you  made  of,  that  you  are 
80  satyrical  against  women  1  Is  it  not  a  foul  bird  defiles  her  own  nest  ?" — 
Stuevens. 

» .  thunght,]  i.  e.  Melancholy. 


150  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

ness  ;  that  blind  rascally  boy,  that  abuses  every  one's 
eyes,  because  his  own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge,  how  deep 
I  am  in  love  : — I'll  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of 
the  sight  of  Orlando  :  I'll  go  find  a  shadow,**  and  sigh  till 
he  come. 

Cel.  And  I'll  sleep.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Jaques  and  Lords,  m  the  habit  of  Foresters. 

Jaq.  Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer  ? 

1  Lord.  Sir,  it  was  I . 

Jaq.  Let's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a  Roman  con- 
queror ;  and  it  would  do  well  to  set  the  deer's  horns  upon 
his  head,  for  a  branch  of  victory : — Have  you  no  song, 
forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

2  Lord.  Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it ;  'tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune,  so  it 
make  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

1 .  What  shall  he  have,  that  kill'd  the  deer  ? 

2.  His  leather  skin,  and  horns  to  wear. 

Take  thou  no  scorn,  to  wear  the  horn ;    C  Then  sing  him  home.^ 
_  ,  ,7  .7  \  The    rest   shall  bear 

It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born.  (^this  burden. 

1.  Thi/  father's  father  wore  it : 

2.  And  thy  father  bore  it: 
All.  The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn. 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.  [Exeunt. 

b shadoio,]   i.  e.   A  shady  place. 

•^  Tlieii  sing  him  home-l  These  words  have  been  given  as  a  separate  line  of 
the  song  in  all  the  modem  editions,  though  there  is  nothing  that  corresponds 
•with  them  in  the  succeeding  verses  ;  though  in  the  first  folio  they  are  printed 
in  connexion  with  the  words  which  are  constantly  placed  in  tlie  margin  as  a 
stage  direction  ;  and  though  they  are  not  found  in  Playford's  Musical  Compa- 
nion, 1673,  where  this  song  is  set  to  music. — Then  sing  him  home  is  merely  a 
direction  for  the  chorus  to  begin. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  151 

SCENE  III. 

The  Forest. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.  How  say  you  now?  Is  it  not  past  two  o'clock? 
And  here  much  Orlando  ! 

Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love,  and  troubled  brain, 
he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  is  gone  forth — to 
sleep  .-—Look,  who  comes  here. 

Enter  Silvius. 

Sil.  My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth — 
My  gentle  Phebe  did  bid  me  give  you  this : 

[Giving  a  letter. 
I  know  not  the  contents ;  but,  as  I  guess. 
By  the  stern  brow,  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it. 
It  bears  an  angry  tenour :  pardon  me, 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 

Ros.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter. 
And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all : 
She  says,  I  am  not  fair  ;  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud ;  and,  that  she  could  not  love  me 
Were  man  as  rare  as  Phcenix ;  Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt : 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me  ? — Well,  shepherd,  well. 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Sil.  No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  contents ; 
Phebe  did  write  it. 

Ros.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool. 

And  turn'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand  :  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 
A  freestone-colour'd  hand  ;  I  verily  did  think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands ; 
She  has  a  huswife's  hand  :  but  that's  no  matter': 
I  say,  she  never  did  invent  this  letter  : 
This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  his  hand. 

Sil.  Sure,  it  is  hers. 


152  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Ros.  Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers  ;  why,  she  defies  me. 
Like  Turk  to  Christian :  woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention. 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance  : — Will  you  hear  the  letter  ? 

Sil.  So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it  yet ; 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Ros.  She  Phebes  me  :  Mark  how  the  tyrant  writes. 

Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turn'd,  [Reads. 

That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burn'd  ? — 

Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 
Sil.  Call  you  this  railing  ? 

Ros.   Whi/,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 

Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart  ? 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? — 

Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me. 
That  could  do  no  vengeance^  to  me. — 

Meaning  me  a  beast. — 

If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine. 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  ? 
Whiles  you  chid  me,  I  did  love  ; 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move  t 
He,  that  brings  this  love  to  thee. 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me : 
And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind^ 
Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make  ;^ 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deriy, 
And  then  Til  study  hoio  to  die. 

Sil.  Call  you  this  chiding  ? 

J veugeauce'\ — is  used  for  mischief. 

<■ hind — J  The  old  word  for  nature.  f make  ;]  i.  e.  ilaise  as  profit. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  153 

Cel.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  ! 

Ros.  Do  you  pity  him  ?  no,  he  deserves  no  pity. — Wilt 
thou  love  such  a  woman  ? — What,  to  make  thee  an  instru- 
ment, and  play  false  strains  upon  thee  !  not  to  be  endured  ! 
— Well,  go  your  way  to  her,  (for  I  see,  love  hath  made 
thee  a  tame  snake,^)  and  say  this  to  her ; — That  if  she 
love  me,  I  charge  her  to  love  thee  :  if  she  will  not,  I  will 
never  have  her,  unless  thou  entreat  for  her. — If  you  be  a 
true  lover,  hence,  and  not  a  word ;  for  here  comes  more 
company.  [Exit  Silvius. 

Enter  Oliver. 

OH.  Good-morrow  fair  ones  :  Pray  you,  if  you  know 
Where,  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest,''  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenc'd  about  with  olive-trees  ? 

Cel.  West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbour  bottom, 
The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream. 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place : 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself. 
There's  none  within. 

OH.  If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue. 
Then  I  should  know  you  by  description  ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years :  The  hoy  is  fair. 
Of  female  favour,  and  bestows  himself^ 
Like  a  ripe  sister :  hut  the  ivoman  low, 
And  browner  than  her  brother.     Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for  ? 

Cel.  It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say  we  are. 

Oli.  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both; 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin ;  Are  you  he  ? 

Ros.  I  am  :  What  must  we  understand  by  this  ? 

Oli.  Some  of  my  shame  ;  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stain'd. 

g a  tame  svahe,']    This  term  was,  in  our  author's  time,  frequently  used 

to  express  a  poor  contemptible  fellow. — Malone. 

h  purlieus  of  the  forest,']  "A  place  near  joining  to  a  forest,  where  it  is 

lawful  for  the  owner  of  the  ground  to  hunt,  if  he  can  dispend  forty  shillings 
by  the  year  of  freeland." — Bullokae's  Expositor,  1616. 

•  bestows  himself,']  i.  e.  Conducts  himself. 


154  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Cel.  I  pray  you  tell  it. 

OH.  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you. 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour ;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing_theJood  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy^ 
Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside. 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with  age. 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair. 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back  :  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreath'd  itself. 
Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approach'd 
The  opening  of  his  mouth ;  but  suddenly 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself. 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush  :  under  which  bush's  shade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry. 
Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  catlike  watch. 
When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir ;  for  'tis 
The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast. 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead  : 
This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man. 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  eldest  brother. 

Cel.  O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother ; 
And  he  did  render**  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  liv'd  'mongst  men. 

Oil.  And  well  he  might  so  do. 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Ros.  But,  to  Orlando  ; — Did  he  leave  him  there. 
Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ? 

Oli.  Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purpos'd  so : 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge. 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion. 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness. 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him;  in  which  hurtling' 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awak'd. 

•*  Render — ]  i.  e.  Describe. 

I htirtling—'\  To  hurtle  is  to  move  with  impetuosity  and   tumult.- 

Stbkvens. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  155 

Cel.  Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Ros.  Was  it  youhe  rescu'd? 

Cel.  Was't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him? 
OH.  'Twas  I  ;  but  'tis  not  I :  I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 
Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ? — 
OH.  By,  and  by.. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two. 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bath'd. 

As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place  ; 

In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke. 

Who  gave  me  fresh  array,  and  entertainment, 

Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love  ; 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave. 

There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away. 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled  ;  and  now  he  fainted. 

And  cry'd,  in  fainting,  upon  Kosalind. 

Brief,  I  recover'd  him  ;  bound  up  his  wound  ; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart. 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am. 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 

Dy'd  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 

That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  how  now,  Ganymede  ?  sweet  Ganymede  ? 

[RosALiiiB  faints. 

Oil.  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Cel.  There  is  more  in  it : — Cousin— Ganymede  !" 

on.  Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros.  I  would,  I  were  at  home. 

Cel.  We'll  lead  you  thither  : — 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

Oil.  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth  : — You  a  man  ? — You  lack 
a  man's  heart. 

>» Cousin— Ganymede !]  Celia,  in  her  first  fright,  forgets  Rosalind's 

character  and  disguise,  and  calls  out  cousin,  then  recollects  herself,  and  says, 
Ganymede. — Johnson. 


156  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sir,  a  body  would  think 
this  was  well  counterfeited  :  I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother 
how  well  I  counterfeited. — Heigh  ho! 

on.  This  was  not  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great  testi- 
mony in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest. 

Ros.  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

OH.  Well  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counterfeit  to  be 
a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do  :  but,  i'faith  I  should  have  been  a  woman 
by  right. 

Cel.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler  ;  pray  you,  draw 
homewards  : — Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

OH.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something  :  But,  I  pray  you. 
Commend  my  counterfeiting  to  him  : — Will  you  go  ? 

[Exeunt. 

ACT   V. 

Scene  I. — The  satne. 
JEw^er  Touchstone  atid  Audrey. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey  ;  patience,  gentle 
Audrey. 

Aitd.  'Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all  the  old 
gentleman's  saying. 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  Sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a  most  vile 
Mar-text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth  here  in  the  forest 
lays  claim  to  you. 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  who  'tis;  he  hath  no  interest  in  me 
in  the  world  :  here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 

Enter  William. 

Touch.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a  clown  :   By 
my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits,  have  much   to  answer 
r;  we  shall  be  flouting  ;  w 
Will.  Good  even,  Audrey. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  T.  157 

Aud.  God  ye  good  even,  William. 

Will.  And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend :  Cover  thy  head,  cover 
thy  head;  nay,  pr'ythee,  be  covered.  How  old  are  you, 
friend  ? 

Will.  Five  and  twenty,  sir. 

Touch.  A  ripe  age  :  Is  thy  name  William? 

Will.  William,  sir. 

Touch.  A  fair  name  :  Wast  born  i'the  forest  here  ? 

Will.  Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God. 

Touch.  Thank  God; — a  good  answer:  Art  rich? 

Will.  'Faith,  sir,  so,  so. 

Touch.  So,  so,  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent  good: 
— and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so  so.     Art  thou  wise  ? 

Will.  Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  remember  a 
saying ;  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise,  but  the  wise  man 
knows  himself  to  be  a  fool.  The  heathen  philosopher,  when 
he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a  grape,  would  open  his  lips  when 
he  put  it  into  his  mouth  ;  meaning  thereby,  that  grapes 
were  made  to  eat,  and  lips  to  open."  You  do  love  this 
maid  ? 

Will.  I  do,  sir. 

Touch.  Give  me  your  hand  :  Art  thou  learned  ? 

Will.  No,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me  ;  To  have,  is  to  have :  For 
it  is  a  figure  in  rhetorick,  that  drink,  being  poured  out  of 
a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling  the  one  doth  empty  the  other : 
For  all  your  writers  do  consent,  that  ipse  is  he  ;  now  you 
are  not  ipse,  for  I  am  he. 
Will.  Which  he,  sir? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman :  There- 
fore, you  clown,  abandon, — which  is  in  the  vulgar,  leave, 
— the  society, — which  in  the  boorish  is  company, — of  this 
female, — which  in  the  common  is, — woman,  which  toge- 

n grapes  were  made  to  eat  and  lips  to  open.']   This  was  designed  as  a 

sneer  against  the  insignificant  sa^^ings  and  actions  of  the  ancient  philosophers 
recorded  by  the  writers  of  their  lives,  Diogenes,  Laertius,  Philostratus,  Kuna- 
pius,  &c.  Shakspeare  was  made  acquainted  with  these  philosophical  trifles  by 
a  book  called  The  Bictes  and  Sayings  of  the  Philosophers,  printed  by  Caxton, 
1477.  It  was  translated  out  of  French  into  English  by  Lord  Rivers. — 
Warburton  and  Steevens. 

VOL.   III.  M 


158  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

ther  is,  abandon  the  society  of  this  female  ;  or  clown, 
thou  perishest ;  or,  to  thy  better  understanding,  diest ; 
or  to  wit,  I  kill  thee,  make  thee  away,  translate  thy  life 
into  death,  thy  liberty  into  bondage  :  I  will  deal  in  poisott 
with  thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I  will  bandy  with 
thee  in  faction  ;  I  will  o'er-run  thee  with  policy ;  I  will 
kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways  ;  therefore  tremble,  and 
depart. 

Jud.  Do,  good  William. 

Will.  God  rest  you  merry,  sir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Corin. 

Cer.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you  ;  come,  away, 
away. 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey,  trip,  Audrey; — I  attend,  I  attend. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  same. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Oliver. 

Orl.  Is't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you 
should  like  her  ?  that,  but  seeing,  you  should  love  her  ? 
and,  loving,  woo  ?  and  wooing,  she  should  grant  ?  and 
wall  you  persever  to  enjoy  her? 

OH.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question,  the 
poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my  sudden  wooing, 
nor  her  sudden  consenting;  but  say  with  me,  I  love 
Aliena ;  say,  with  her,  that  she  loves  me  ;  consent  with 
both,  that  we  may  enjoy  each  other;  it  shall  be  to  your 
good ;  for  my  father's  house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was 
old  sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate  upon  you,  and  here  live 
and  die  a  shepherd. 

Enter  Rosalind. 
Orl.  You  have  my  consent.     Let  your  wedding  be  to- 
morrow :  thither  will  I  invite  the  duke,  and  all  his  con- 
tented followers :  Go  you,  and  prepare  Aliena :  for.,  look 
you,  here  comes  my  Rosalind. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  159 

Ros.  God  save  you,  brother. 

Oil.  And  you,  fair  sister." 

Ros.  O,  xiiy  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see  thee 
wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 

Orl.  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought,  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with  the 
claws  of  a  lion. 

Orl.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited  to 
swoon,  when  he  showed  me  your  handkerchief? 

Orl.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  O,  I  know  where  you  are  : — Nay,  'tis  true  :  there 
was  never  any  thing  so  sudden,  but  the  tight  of  two  rams, 
and  Caesar's  thrasonical  brag  of — I  came,  saw,  and  ove?-- 
came :  For  your  brother  and  my  sister  no  sooner  met,  but 
they  looked  ;  no  sooner  looked,  but  they  loved;  no  sooner 
loved,  but  they  sighed  ;  no  sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked 
one  another  the  reason  ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but 
they  sought  the  remedy :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they 
made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage,  which  they  will  climb 
incontinent,  or  else  be  incontinent  before  marriage  :  they 
are  in  the  very  wrath  of  love,  and  they  will  together; 
clubs  cannot  part  them.p 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow ;  and  I  will  bid 
the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But  O,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is 
to  look  into  happiness  through  another  man's  eyes  !  By 
so  much  the  more  shall  1  to-morrow  be  at  the  height  of 
heart-heaviness,  by  how  much  1  shall  think  my  brother 
happy,  in  having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your  turn 
for  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weai-y  you  no  longer  then  with  idle  talking. 
Know  of  me  then  (for  now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,) 
that  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman  of  good  conceit :  I 
speak  not  this,  that  you  should  bear  a  good  opinion  of 

°  And  you,  fair  sister.']  Oliver  speaks  to  her  in  the  character  she  had  as- 
sumed, of  a  woman  courted  by  Orlando  his  brother. — Ciiamier. 

P clubs  ca7inot  part  them.]  It  appears  from  many  of  our  old  dramas, 

that,  in  our  author's  time,  it  was  a  common  custom,  on  the  breaking  out  of  a 
fray,  to  call  out,  "  Clubs— Clubs,"  to  part  the  combatants.— M  alone. 
M  2 


160  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

my  knowledge,  insomuch,  I  say,  I  know  you  are ;  nei- 
ther do  I  labour  for  a  greater  esteem  than  may  in  some 
little  measure  draw  a  belief  from  you,  to  do  yourself  good, 
and  not  to  grace  me.  Believe  then,  if  you  please,  that  I 
can  do  strange  things  :  I  have,  since  I  was  three  years 
old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most  profound  in  this  art, 
and  not  yet  damnable.  If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near 
the  heart  as  your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother 
marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry  her  : — I  know  into  what 
straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven;  and  it  is  not  impossible 
to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to  you,  to  set  her 
before  your  eyes  to-morrow,  human  as  she  is,*"  and  without 
any  danger. 

Orl.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly,  though 
I  say  I  am  a  magician  :■■  Therefore,  put  you  in  your  best 
array,  bid  your  friends  ;  for  if  you  will  be  married  to- 
morrow, you  shall ;  and  to  Rosalind,  if  you  will. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Phebe. 

Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 

Phe.  Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungentleness. 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

-Ros.  I  care  not,  if  I  have  :  it  is  my  study, 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you  : 
You  are  there  follow'd  by  a  faithful  shepherd  ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him  ;  he  worships  you. 

Phe.  Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what  'tis  to  love. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears  ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Hos.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

<i human,  as  ihe  is,]  That  is,  not  a  phantom,  but  the   real  Rosalind, 

without  any  of  the  danger  generally  conceived  to  attend  the  rites  of  incanta- 
tion— Johnson. 

' I  tender  dearly,  thovgh  J  say  1  am  a  magician:']    In   the  reigns  of 

Elizabeth  and  James  there  was  a  severe  inquisition  after  witches  and  magi- 
cians. It  was  therefore  natural  for  Rosalind  to  allude  to  the  danger,  in  which 
her  avowal,  had  it  been  serious,  would  have  involved  her. — Steevens, 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  16t 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy. 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes  ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance. 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience. 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ;' 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

[To  Rosalind. 

Sil.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

[To  Phebe. 

Orl.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

Ros.  Who  do  you  speak  to,  why  blame  you  me  to  love 
you'} 

Orl.  To  her,  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this  ;  'tis  like  the  howling 
of  Irish  wolves  against  the  moon. — I  will  help  you,  [to 
SiLvius]  if  I  can: — I  would  love  you  [to  Phebe]  if  I 
could. — To-morrow  meet  me  all  together. — I  will  marry 
you,  [to  Phebe]  if  ever  I  marry  woman,  and  I'll  be 
married  to-morrow : — I  will  satisfy  you,  [to  Orlando] 
if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be  married  to-mor- 
row : — I  will  content  you,  [to  SiLvius]  if  what  pleases 
you  contents  you,  and  you  shall  be  married  to-morrow. 
— As  you  [to  Orlando]  love  Rosalind,  meet ; — as  you 
[to  SiLvius]  love  Phebe,  meet ;  And  as  I  love  no  woman, 
I'll  meet. — So,  fair  you  well ;  I  have  left  you  commands. 

Sil.  I'll  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I.  [Exeunt. 

s observance ;]  This  word  has  been  used  in  the  last  line  but  one,  and  it 

is  scarcely  possible  that  the  author  could  have  been  guilty  of  such  gross  tauto- 
logy in  a  passage  that  does  not  appear  to  have  been  written  without  consider- 
able attention.  The  fault  must  have  originated  either  with  the  transcriber 
or  the  compositor.— Mr.  Ritson  proposes  to  read  obeisance:  perhaps  endurance 
might  be  more  iu  harmony  with  the  context. 


162  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

SCENE  III. 

The  same. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey  ;  to-morrow 
will  we  be  married. 

And.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart :  and  I  hope  it  is 
no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world.* 
Here  comes  two  of  the  banished  duke's  pages. 

Enter  two  Pages. 

1  Page.  Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met :  Come,  sit,  sit,  and  a 
song. 

2  Page.  We  are  for  you  :  sit  i'the  middle. 

1  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into't  roundly,  without  hawking, 
or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse  ;  which  are  the  only 
prologues  to  a  bad  voice  ? 

2  Page.  I'faith,  i'faith ;  and  both  in  a  tune,  like  two 
gypsies  on  a  horse. 

SONG. 

1. 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  rank^  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

II. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  spring  time,  &c. 

•* o  womon  of  the  world.]     To  go  to  the  world,  is  to  be  married.     So,  in 

Miich  Ado  about  Nothiug:  "  Thus  (says  Beatrice)  every  one  goes  to  the  world, 
but  1." — Steevens. 

" rank — ]   The  old  copy  reads  rang — Mr.  Steevens  recommends  ring, 

which  Mr.  Douce  approves,  as  the  spring  appears  from  the  old  calendars  to 
kave  been  the  season  of  marriage. — I  suppose  the  right  word  is  spring. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV.  163 


ni. 


This  carol  they  began  that  hour. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 

How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

IV. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino  ; 

For  love  is  croivned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

Touch.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there  was  no 
greater  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  was  very  un- 
timeable.'' 

1  Page.  You  are  deceived,  sir ;  we  kept  time,  we  lost 
not  our  time. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  yes  ;  I  count  it  but  time  lost  to 
hear  such  a  foolish  song.  God  be  with  you ;  and  God 
mend  your  voicies !  Come,  Audrey.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Duke  senior ,  Amiens,  Jaques,  Orl/^ndo,  Oliver, 
and  Celia. 

Duke  S.  Dost  thou  beheve,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orl.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not ; 
As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear.^ 

X yet  the  note  was  very  untimeable.~\   Though  the  words  of  the  song  were 

so  trifling,  you  have  not  remedied  the  defect  by  your  skill  in  singing  them. 

y  As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they /ear,]  The  meaning,  I  think,  is, 
As  those  who  fear, — they,  even  those  very  persons,  entertain  hopes,  that  their 
fears  will  not  be  realized  ;  and  yet  at  the  same  time  they  well  know  that  there 
is  reason  for  their  fears. — Malone.  If  any  emendation  of  the  line  is  necessary, 
perhaps,  we  should  read,  As  those  that  fear  may  hope  and  know  they  fear. 


164  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Ente?-  Rosalind,  Silvius,  and  Phebe. 

Ros.     Patience    once    more,   whiles    our    compact    is 

urg'd  : 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind,  [To  the  Duke. 

You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here? 

Duke  S.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  with  her. 
Ros.  And  you  say,  you  will  have  her,  when  I  bring 
her?  [To  Orlando. 

Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 
Ros.  You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing? 

[To  Phebe. 
Phe.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros.  But,  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me. 
You'll  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd  ? 
Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 
Ros.  You  say,  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  ? 

[To  Silvius. 
Sit.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one  thing. 
Ros.  I  have  promis'd  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  duke,  to  give  your  daughter ; — 
You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter : — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you'll  marry  me ; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd  : — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you'll  marry  her. 
If  she  refuse  me  : — and  from  hence  I  go. 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Duke  S.  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favour. 

0/7.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter  ; 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born ; 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle. 
Whom  lie  reports  to  be  a  great  magician. 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
Jaq.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV.  165 

couples  are  coming  to  the  ark  !  Here  comes  a  pair  of  very 
strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are  called  fools. 

Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good,  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome ;  This  is  the 
motley-minded  gentleman,  that  I  have  so  often  met  in  the 
forest :  he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he  swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my 
purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure;^  I  have  flattered  a 
lady ;  I  have  been  politick  with  my  friend,  smooth  with 
mine  enemy  ;  I  have  undone  three  tailors  5  I  have  had 
four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have  fought  one. 

Jaq.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  'Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was  upon 
the  seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How  seventh  cause  ? — Good,  my  lord,  like  this 
fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Touch.  God'ild  you,  sir  ;*  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I 
press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  country  copu- 
latives, to  swear,  and  to  forswear ;  according  as  marriage 
binds,  and  blood  breaks  i*" — A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill- 
favoured  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own  ;  a  poor  humour  of 
mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else  will :  Rich  honesty 
dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor-house  ;  as  your  pearl,  in 
your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sententious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such  dulcet 
diseases.*^ 

Jaq,  But,  for  the  seventh  cause ;  how  did  you  find  the 
quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed  ; — Bear  your 
body  more  seeming,*^  Audrey  : — as  thus,  sir.     I  did  dislike 

z trod  a  measure ;]  A  very  stately  solemn  dance. 

*  God'ild  you,  sir ;]  i.  e.  God  yield  you,  reward  yoa. 

b according  as  marriage  binds,  and  blood  breaks :'\  A  man,  by  the  marriage 

ceremony,  swears  that  he  will  keep  only  to  his  wife  ;  when,  therefore,  he  leaves 
her  for  another,  blood  breaks  his  matrimonial  obligation,  and  he  is  forsworn. 
— Henley. 

c  dulcet  diseases.}  It  is  plain  from  the  context,  that  the  fool  means  dulcet 

sayings  ;  the  present  reading  is  certainly  corrupt.  Dr.  Johnson  proposes  to 
read  (discourses. 

* seeming,'}  i.  e.  Seemly. 


166  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard ;  he  sent  me  word, 
if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut  well,  he  was  in  the  mind 
it  was  :  This  is  called  the  Retoj-t  courteous.  If  I  sent 
him  word  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  send  me 
word,  he  cut  it  to  please  himself :  this  is  called  the  Quip 
modest.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my 
judgment :  This  is  called  the  Heply  churlish.  If  again, 
it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  true : 
This  is  called  the  Reproof  valiant.  If  again,  it  was  not 
well  cut,  he  would  say,  I  lie :  This  is  called  the  Counter- 
check quarrelsome :  and  so  to  the  Lie  circumstantial,  and 
the  Lie  direct. 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say,  his  beard  was  not  well  cut? 

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  circumstantial, 
nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  direct ;  and  so  we  mea- 
sured swords,  and  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of 
the  lie? 

Touch.  O,  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book  :*  as 
you  have  books  for  good  manners  :^  I  will  name  you  the 

«  O  s/V,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book :]  The  poet  has,  in  this  scene,  rallied 
the  mode  of  formal  duelling,  then  so  prevalent,  with  the  highest  humour  and 
address  :  nor  could  he  have  treated  it  with  a  happier  contempt,  than  by  making 
his  Clown  so  knowing  in  the  forms  and  preliminaries  of  it.  The  particular 
book  here  alluded  to,  is  a  very  ridiculous  treatise  of  one  Vincentio  Saviolo, 
entitled.  Of  Honour  and  Honourable  Quarrels,  in  quarto,  printed  by  Wolf,  1594. 
The  first  part  of  this  tract  he  entitles,  A  Discourse  most  necessary  for  all 
Gentlemen  that  have  in  regard  their  Honours,  touching  the  giving  and  receiving 
the  Lie,  whereupon  the  Duello  and  the  Combat  in  divers  forms  doth  ensue ;  and 
many  other  inconveniences,  for  lack  only  of  true  knowledge  of  Honour,  and  the 
right  understanding  of  Words,  which  here  is  set  down.  The  contents  of  the  se- 
veral chapters  are  as  follow : — 1.  What  the  reason  is  that  the  party  unto  whom 
the  lie  is  given  ought  to  become  challenger,  and  of  the  nature  of  lies.  2.  Of  the 
manner  and  diversity  of  lies.  3.  Of  lies  certain  [or  direct  J.  4.  Of  conditional 
lies  [or  the  lie  circumstantial].  .5.  Of  the  lie  in  general.  6.  Of  the  lie  in 
particular.  7.  Of  foolish  lies.  8.  A  conclusion  returning  the  wresting  or  re- 
turning back  of  the  lie  [or  the  couEtcrcheck  quarrelsome].  In  the  chapter 
of  conditional  lies,  speaking  of  tht  particle  if,  he  says,  "  Conditional  lies  be 
such  as  are  given  conditionally,  as  it  a  man  should  say  or  write  these  wordes ; 
— If  thou  hast  said  that  I  have  offered  my  lord  abuse,  thou  liest;  or  if  thou 
sayest  so  hereafter  thou  shalt  lie.  Of  these  kind  of  lies,  given  in  this  manner, 
often  arise  much  contention  in  wordes,  whereof  no  sure  conclusion  can  arise." 
— By  which  he  means,  they  cannot  proceed  to  cut  one  another's  throat,  while 
there  is  an  i/" between. — Warburton.  The  words  included  within  crochets 
were  inserted  by  the  commentator. 

f books  for  good  manners:']    Such  a' book  was  the  "  Galateo  of  Maister 

John  Casa,  Archbishop  of  Benevento ;  or  ratlier,  a  treatise  on  the  manners  and 
behaviours  it  behoveth  a  man  to  use  and  eschewe  in  hisfamiliar  conversation. 
A  work  very  necessary  and  profitable  for  all  gentlemen  or  others ;  translated 
from  the  Italian,  by  Robert  Peterson  of  Lincoln's  Inn,"  4to.  1576.— Rlld. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV.  167 

degrees.  The  first,  the  Retort  courteous  ; "  the  second, 
the  Quip  modest ;  the  third,  the  Reply  churlish  ;  the 
fourth,  the  Reproof  valiant ;  the  fifth,  the  Countercheck 
quarrelsome ;  the  sixth,  the  Lie  with  circumstance  ;  the 
seventh,  the  Lie  direct.  All  these  you  may  avoid,  but 
the  lie  direct ;  and  you  may  avoid  that  too,  with  an  If. 
I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not  take  up  a  quarrel ; 
but  when  the  parties  were  met  themselves,  one  of  them 
thought  but  of  an  If,  as.  If  you  said  so,  then  I  said  so ; 
And  they  shook  hands,  and  swore  brothers.  Your  If  is 
the  only  peace-maker  ;  much  virtue  in  If 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he's  as  good  at 
any  thing,  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse,e  and 
under  the  presentation  of  that,  he  shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  Hymen,''  leading  Rosalind  in  woman's  clothes;  and 
Celia. 

Still  Musick. 

Hym,   Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 
Good  duke,  receive  thy  daughter. 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her. 

Yea,  brought  her  hither ; 
That  thou  mighfstjoin  her  hand  with  his. 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 

Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  [To  DukeS. 
To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.         [To  Orlando. 

Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  daughter. 

Orl.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Rosalind. 

Phe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true. 
Why  then, — my  love  adieu  ! 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he  : — 

[To  Duke  S. 

g stalking-horse,']    See  note  to  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  act  ii.  so.  3. 

•>  Enter  Hymen,]  Rosalind  is  imagined  by  the  rest  of  the  company  to  be 
brought  by  enchantment,  and  is  therefore  introduced  by  a  supposed  aerial  being 
in  the  character  of  Hymen. — Johnson. 


168  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

I'll  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  : — 

[To  Orlando. 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she.         [To  Phebe. 
Hym.  Peace,  ho  !  I  bar  confusion : 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events  : 
Here's  eight  that  must  take  hands. 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands. 
If  truth  holds  true  contents.'' 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

[To  Orlando  and  Rosalind. 
•  You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

[To  Oliver  fuid  Cy.lia. 
You  [to  Phebe]  to  his  love  must  accord. 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord  : — 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[To  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock  hymn  we  sing. 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning  ; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish. 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 


SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown  ; 

O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed! 
'Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town  : 

High  wedlock  then  be  honoured : 
Honour,  high  honour  and  renown. 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town! 

Duke  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome  art  thou  to  me ; 
Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Phe.  I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou  art  mine  ; 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine.''    [To  Silvius. 


•  If  truth  holds  true  contents,']  That  is,  if  their  be  truth  in  truth,  unless  truth 
fails  of  veracity. — Johnson. 

^ combine.']  Shakspeare  is  licentious  in  his  use  of  this  verb,  which  here 

only  signifies  to  bind. — Steevens. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV  169 


Enter  Jaques  de  Bois. 

Jaq.  de  B.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word,  or  two; 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly : — 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power  ;  which  were  on  foot. 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword  : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came ; 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  rehgious  man. 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprize,  and  from  the  world  : 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother. 
And  all  their  lands  restor'd  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exil'd  :  This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  man  ; 

Thou  ofFer'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wedding : 
To  one,  his  lands  with-held ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot : 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number. 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us. 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune. 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fall'n  dignity. 
And  fall  into  our  rustick  revelry  ; — 
Play,  musick ; — and  you  brides  and  bridegrooms  all. 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaq.  Sir,  by  your  patience  ;  if  I  heard  you  rightly. 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life. 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court? 

Jag.  de  B.  He  hath. 

Jaq.  To  him  will  I  :  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn'd. — 
You  to  your  former  honour  I  bequeath  ;  [To  Duke  S. 


170  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Your  patience,  and  your  virtue,  well  deserves  it: — 

You  [to  Orlando]  to  a  love,  that  your  true  faith  doth 

merit: — 
You   [to  Oliver]   to   your   land,    and   love,   and   great 

allies  : — 
You  [to  SiLvius]  to  a  long  and  well  deserved  bed  ; — 
And  you  [to  Touchstone]  to  wrangling;  for  thy  loving 

voyage 
Is  but  for  two  months  victual'd  : — So  to  your  pleasures  ; 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 
Duke  S.  Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

Jaq.  To  see  no  pastime,  I :' — what  you  would  have 
ril  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.  [Exit. 

Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed  :  we  will  begin  these  rites. 
And  we  do  trust  they'll  end,  in  true  dehghts.       [A  dance. 


EPILOGUE. 

Ros.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the  epilogue : 
but  it  is  not  more  unhandsome,  than  to  see  the  lord  the 
prologue.  If  it  be  true,  that  good  wine  needs  no  bush,"'  'tis 
true,  that  a  good  play  needs  no  epilogue  :  Yet  to  good  wine 
they  do  use  good  bushes  ;  and  go6d  plays  prove  the  bet- 
ter by  the  help  of  good  epilogues.  What  a  cause  am  I  in 
then,  that  am  neither  a  good  epilogue,  nor  cannot  insin- 
uate with  you  in  the  behalf  of  a  good  play  ?  I  am  not  fur- 
nished" like  a  beggar,  therefore  to  beg  will  not  become 
me  :  my  way  is,  to  conjure  you  ;  and  I'll  begin  with  the 

'  To  see  7io  pastime,  I :  &c.]  Amidst  tliis  general  festivity,  the  reader  may  be 
sorry  to  take  his  leave  of  Jaques,  who  appears  to  have  no  share  in  it,  and  re- 
mains behind  unreconciled  to  society.  He  has,  however,  filled  with  a  gloomy 
sensibility  the  space  allotted  to  him  in  the  play,  and  to  the  last  preserves  that 
respect  which  is  due  to  him  as  a  consistent  character,  and  an  amiable,  though 
solitary  moralist. 

It  may  be  observed,  with  scarce  less  concern,  that  Shakspeare  has,  on  this 
occasion,  forgot  old  Adam,  the  servant  of  Orlando,  whose  fidelity  should  have 
entitled  him  to  notice  at  the  end  of  the  piece,  as  well  as  to'that  happiness  which  he 
would  naturally  have  found,  in  the  return  of  fortune  to  his  master. — Steevens, 

"> no  bush,]  It  appears  formerly  to  have  been  the  custom  to  hang  a  tuft 

of  ivy  at  the  door  of  a  vintner.  The  practice  is  still  observed  in  Warwickshire 
and  the  adjoining  counties,  at  statute-hirings,  wakes,  &c.  by  people  who  sell 
ale  at  no  other  time. — Steevens  and  Ritson. 

" furnishe'l — ]  i.  e.  Brest. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  IV.  17U 

women.  I  charge  you,  O  women,  for  the  love  you  bear 
to  men,  to  like  as  much  of  this  play  as  please  them  :  and 
so  I  charge  you,  O  men,  for  the  love  you  bear  to  women, 
(as  I  perceive  by  your  simpering,  none  of  you  hate  them,) 
that  between  you  and  the  women,  the  play  may  please. 
If  I  were  a  woman,"  I  would  kiss  as  many  of  you  as  had 
beards  that  pleased  me,  complexions  that  liked  me,P  and 
breaths  that  I  defied  not ;  and,  I  am  sure,  as  many  as 
have  good  beards,  or  good  faces,  or  sweet  breaths,  will, 
for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  make  curt'sy,  bid  me  farewell. 

[Exeunt/i 

"^  If  I  were  a  woman,]  In  this  author's  time,  the  parts  of  women  were  always 
performed  by  men  or  boys. 

P liked  me,]  i.  e.  Pleased  me. 

1  Of  this  play  the  fable  is  wild  and  pleasing.  1  know  not  how  the  ladies  will 
approve  the  facility  with  which  both  Rosalind  and  Celia  gave  away  their  hearts. 
To  Celia  much  may  be  forgiven  for  the  heroism  of  her  friendship.  The  cha- 
racter of  Jaques  is  natural  and  well  preserved.  The  comick  dialogue  is  very 
sprightly,  with  less  mixture  of  low  buffoonery  than  in  some  other  plays  ;  and 
the  graver  part  is  elegant  and  harmonious.  By  hastening  to  the  end  of  this 
work,  Shakspeare  suppressed  the  dialogue  between  the  usurper  and  the  her- 
mit, and  lost  an  opportunity  of  exhibiting  a  moral  lesson  in  which  he  might 
have  found  matter  worthy  of  his  highest  powers. — Johnson.  The  taste  of 
die  poet  is  here,  as  in  many  other  instances,  to  be  preferred  to  that  of  the  cri- 
tic.— Though  Shakspeare  has  shewn  great  judgment  in  substituting  the  conver- 
sion of  Frederick  in  the  place  of  his  death,  which  is  the  fate  allotted  him  in 
Lodge's  novel,  nothing  could  have  been  more  out  of  keeping  with  the  tone  and 
colour  of  the  play,  than  the  representation  of  such  an  event.  It  was, a  circum- 
stance to  be  related  and  not  performed.  A  scene  of  so  severe  a  character,  as 
that  between  the  guilty  duke  and  the  aged  hermit  must  necessarily  have  been, 
could  have  no  appropriate  place  in  this  tale  of  love  and  mirth,  and  wit  and 
idleness.  In  a  work,  like  the  present,  calculated  to  unfatigue  the  mind  and 
delight  the  imagination  by  a  succession  of  pleasing  incidents,  every  thing  of  a 
sad  or  solemn  nature  is  with  admirable  propriety  omitted,  or  only  cursorily 
glanced  at. 


ALUS  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


Of  this  play  there  is  no  edition  earlier  than  the  first  folio.  Mr.  Malone  sup- 
poses it  to  have  been  written  in  the  year  1606 ;  but  the  many  passages  of 
rhyme  scattered  through  the  play  seem  to  speak  it  an  earlier  production. 
Meres,  in  1598,  mentioned  a  play  of  our  author's  called.  Love's  Labour  Wonne, 
an  appellation  which  very  accurately  applies  to  this,  but  to  no  other  of  his 
plays  ;  and  its  date  may  be  perhaps  assigned  a  year  or  two  earlier. 

The  title  All's  Well  that  ends  Well,  is  one  of  Camden's  proverbial  sentences. 

The  story  was  originally  taken  from  Boccacio,  but  came  immediately  to 
Shakspeare  from  Painter's  Gileita  of  Narbon,  in  thp  first  vol.  of  the  Palace  of 
Pleasure,  4to.  1566,  p.  88.  To  the  novel,  however,  Shakspeare  is  only  in- 
debted for  a  few  leading  circumstances  in  the  graver  parts  of  the  piece.  The 
£omic  business  appears  to  be  entirely  of  his  own  formation. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  of'  France. 
Duke  q/' Florence. 
Bertram,  comw?  o/Rousillon. 
Lafev ,^  an  oM  lord.       ' 
Parolles/ aybZ/ower  o/"  Bertram. 

Several  young  French  lords,  that  serve  with  Bertram  in  the 
Florentine  war. 

^,  '  ^servants  to  the  countess  ofRousillon. 

Liown,     3 

A  Page. 

Countess  o/'Rousillon,  mother  to  Bertram. 
Helena,  a  gentlewoman  protected  hy  the  countess. 
An  old  Widow  of  Florence. 
Diana,  daughter  to  the  Widoiv. 

Violenta,  \  f^gi„J^f)o^^rs  and  friends  to  the  Widow. 
Mariana,    )      ^  "^ 

Lords,  attending  on  the  King;  Officers,  Soldiers,  &c. 
French  and  Florentine. 

Stene,  partly  in  France  and  partly  in  Tuscany. 

*  The  persons  were  first  enumerated  by  Mr.  Rowe. 

*»  Lafeu,]  We  should  read — Lefeu. — Stffvens. 

"=  ParoLles,'\  I  suppose  we  should  write  this  name — Paroles,  i.  e.  'a  creature 
made  up  of  empty  words — Steevens. 

d  Violenta  only  enters  once,  and  then  she  neither  speaks,  nor  is  spoken  to. 
This  name  appears  to  be  borrowed  from  an  old  metrical  history,  entitled 
Didaco  and  Violenta,  1576. — Steevens. 


ALUS  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.— -Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  ^Ae  Countess  of  Rousillon,  Helena, 
and  La  FEU,  in  mourning. 

Count.  In  delivering  my  son  from  me,  I  bury  a  second 
husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my  father's 
death  anew :  but  I  must  attend  his  majesty's  command, 
to  whom  I  am  now  in  ward,*  evermore  in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband,  madam  ; — 
you,  sir,  a  father :  He  that  so  generally  is  at  all  times 
good,  must  of  necessity  hold  his  virtue  to  you  :  whose 
worthiness  would  stir  it  up  where  it  wanted,  rather  than 
lack  it  where  there  is  such  abundance. 

Count.  What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's  amend- 
ment ? 

Laf.  He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians,  madam ;  under 
whose  practices  he  hath  persecuted  time  with  hope  ;  and 
finds  no  other  advantage  in  the  process  but  only  the 
losing  of  hope  by  time. 

Cou7it.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father,  (O,  that 
had !  how  sad  a  passage  'tis  !)  whose  skill  was  almost  as 
great  as  his  honesty ;  had  it  stretched  so  far,  would  have 
made  nature  immortal,  and  death  should  have  play  for 
lack  of  work.  'Would,  for  the  king's  sake  he  were  living ! 
I  think  it  would  be  the  death  of  the  king's  disease. 

Laf.  How  called  you  the  man  you  speak  of,  madam  ? 

* »«  ward,]  Under  his  particular  care,  as  my  guardian, •'till  I  come  to 

age.     It  is  now  almost  forgotten  in  England,  that  the  heirs  of  great  fortunes 
were  the  king's  wards.     And  as  this  prerogative  was  a  part  of  feudal  law,  it 
may  as  well  be  supposed  to  be  incorporated  with  the  constitution  of  France  as 
it  was  with  that  of  England.— Johnson  and  Sir  J.  Hawkins. 
N  2 


176  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Count.  He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession,  and  it  was 
his  great  right  to  be  so  :  Gerard  de  Narbon. 

Laf.  He  was  excellent,  indeed,  madam;  the  king  very 
lately  spoke  of  him,  admiringly,  and  mourningly  :  he  was 
skilful  enough  to  have  lived  still,  if  knowledge  could  be 
set  up  against  mortality. 

Ber.  What  is  it,  my  good  lord,  the  king  languishes  of  ?*" 

Laf.  A  fistula,  my  lord. 

JBej\  I  heard  not  of  it  before. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  not  notorious. — Was  this  gentle- 
woman the  daughter  of  Gerard  de  Narbon  ? 

Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord  ;  and  bequeathed  to  my 
overlooking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her  good,  that  her 
education  promises  ;  her  dispositions  she  inherits,  which 
make  fair  gifts  fairer;  for  where  an  unclean  mind  carries 
virtuous  qualities,''  there  commendations  go  with  pity, 
they  are  virtues  and  traitors  too ;  in  her  they  are  the  better 
for  their  simpleness  ;  she  derives  her  honesty,  and  achieves 
her  goodness. 

Laf.  Your  commendations,  madam,  get  from  her  tears. 

Count.  'Tis  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can  season  her 
praise  in.  The  remembrance  of  her  father  never  ap- 
proaches her  heart,  but  the  tyranny  of  her  sorrows  takes 
all  livelihood*^  from  her  cheek.  No  more  of  this,  Helena, 
go  to,  no  more  ;  lest  it  be  rather  thought  you  affect  a  sor- 
row, than  to  have. 

Hel.  I  do  affect  a  soitow,  indeed,  but  I  have  it  too.* 

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the  dead, 
excessive  grief  the  enemy  to  the  living. 

•>  What  is  it  the  king  languishes  of?]  The  king  of  France's  disorder  is  thus 
described  in  Painter's  translation  from  Boccacio's  novel,  on  which  this  play  is 
founded  :  "  She  heard  by  report  that  the  French  king  had  a  swelling  upon  his 
breast,  which  by  reason  of  ill  cure  was  grown  into  a  fistula,"  &c. — Stef.vens. 

c  .  virtuous  qualities,']    By  virtu<ms  qualities  are  meant  qualities  of  good 

breeding  and  erudition,  in  the  same  sense  that  the  Italians  say,  qualitii  vir- 
tuosa ;  and  not  moral  ones.  Shakspeare  observes  that,  virtues  in  an  unclean 
mind  are  virtues  and  traitors  too  ;  i.  c.  estimable  and  useful  qualities,  joined 
with  an  evil  disposition,  give  that  evil  disposition  power  over  others,  who,  by 
admiring  the  virtue,  are  betrayed  to  the  malevolence.  The  Tatler,  mentioning 
the  sharpers  of  his  time,  observes,  that  some  of  them  are  even  of  such  elegance 
and  knowledge  that  a  young  man  who  falls  into  their  wiu,  is  betrayed  as  much 
by  his  judgment  as  his  passions. — War  burton  and  Johnson. 

<i all  livelihood — ]  i.  e.  All  appearance  of  life. 

*  I  do  affect  a  sorrow,  indeed,  but  [  have  it  too.]  Her  affected  sorrow  was  for 
the  death  of  her  father  ;  her  real  grief  for  the  departure  of  Bertram. 


ACT  L— SCENE  I.  177 

Count.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess 
makes  it  soon  mortal/ 

Ber.  Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.  How  understand  we  that? 

Count.  Be  thou  blest,  Bertram  !  and  succeed  thy  father 
In  manners,  as  in  shape  !  thy  blood,  and  virtue. 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee ;  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birth-right !  Love  all,  trust  a  few. 
Do  wrong  to  none :  be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power,  than  use  ;  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key  :  be  check'd  for  silence. 
But  never  tax'd  for  speech.     What  heaven  more  will. 
That  thee  may  furnish, =  and  my  prayers  pluck  down. 
Fall  on  thy  head  !  Farewell. — My  lord, 
'Tis  an  unseason'd  courtier  ;  good  my  lord. 
Advise  him. 

I^af.  He  cannot  want  the  best 

That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Count.  Heaven  bless  him  ! — Farewell,  Bertram. 

\^Exit  Countess. 

Ber.  The  best  wishes,''  that  can  be  forged  in  your 
thoughts,  [to  Helena]  be  servants  to  you!  Be  comfort- 
able to  my  mother,  your  mistress,  and  make  much  of  her. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady  :  You  must  hold  the  credit 
of  your  father.  [Exeunt  Bertram  and  Lafeu. 

Hel.  O,  were  that  all ! — I  think  not  on  my  father ;' 
And  these  great  tears  grace  his  remembrance  more 
Than  those  I  shed  for  him.     What  was  he  like  ? 
I  have  forgot  him  :  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favour  in  it,  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone  ;  there  is  no  living,  none. 
If  Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all  one, 

f  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess  makes  it  snon  mortal.]  Lafeu,  says, 
excessive  grief  is  tlte  enemy  of  the  living :  the  countess  replies,  Jf  the  living  he 
an  enemy  to  grief,  the  excess  soon  makes  it  mortal:  that  is,  If  the  living  do  not  in- 
dulge grief,  grief  destroys  itself  by  its  own  excess.  By  the  word  mortal,  I  under- 
stand that  which  dies. — Johnson. 

K  That  thee  may  furnish,]  That  may  help  thee  with  more  and  better  qualifi- 
cations.— Johnson. 

^  The  best  wishes,  &c.]   i.  e.  May  you  be  mistress  of  your  wishes. 

' Foil  must  hold  the  credit  of  your  father,  &c.]    Lafeu  endeavours  to 

sooth  the  grief  of  Helena  by  desiring  her  to  hold  in  mind  the  credit  of  her  father, 
and  console  herself  for  his  loss  by  the  recollection  of  his  fame,  which  draws 
from  her  the  exclamation,  Oh,  were  that  all! — Would  that!  had  no  other  cause 
f  solicitude  ! 


17<S  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star. 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me : 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 

Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere.'' 

The  ambition  in  ray  love  thus  plagues  itself: 

The  hind,  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion. 

Must  die  for  love.     Twas  pretty,  though  a  plague. 

To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 

His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls. 

In  our  heart's  table  ;  heart,  too  capable 

Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour:' 

But  now  he's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 

Must  sanctify  his  relicks.     Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Parolles. 

One  that  goes  with  him  :  I  love  him  for  his  sake ; 

And  yet  I  know  him  a  notorious  liar. 

Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward  ; 

Yet  these  fix'd  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him. 

That  they  take  place,  when  virtue's  steely  bones 

Look  bleak  in  the  cold  wind  :  withal,  full  oft  we  see 

Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly.™ 

Par.  Save  you,  fair  queen. 

Hel.  And  you,  monarch." 

Par.   No. 

Hel.  And  no." 

Par.  Ate  you  meditating  on  virginity  1 

Hel.  Ay.  You  have  some  stain  of  soldier?  in  you  ;  let 
me  ask  you  a  question:  Man  is  enemy  to  virginity;  how 
may  we  barricado  it  against  him  ? 

Par.  Keep  him  out. 

Hel.  But  he  assails  ;  and  our  virginity,  though  valiant 

^ not  in  his  sphere.'\  I  cannot  be  united  with  him  and  move  in  the  same 

sphere,  but  must  be  comforted  at  a  distance  by  the  radiance  that  shoots  on  all 
sides  from  him. — Johnson. 

' trich  of  his  sweet  favour :]  i.  e.  Peculiarity  of  his  countenance. 

"'  Cold  wisdom  wailing  on  superfluous /oi/i/.]  Cold  for  naked:  as  superfluous  for 
over-clothed.     This  makes  the  propriety  of  the  antithesis. — WAnBURTON. 

" Monarch.'^  Steevens  is  most  probably  correct  in  imagining  that  this 

answer  conveyed  an  allusion  to  Monarclio,  a  ridiculous  fantastical  character  of 
the  age  of  Shakspeare,  of  whom  an  account  has  been  given  in  the  note  to  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  act  iv.  sc.  1. 

"  And  no.]  I  am  no  more  a  queen  than  you  a  monarch,  or  monarcho. 

V stain  of  soldier— ]  For  what  we  now  say,  tincture,  some  qualities,  at 

least  superficial,  of  a  soldier. — Johnson. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  179 

in  the  defence,  yet  is  weak :  unfold  to  us  some  warlike 
resistance. 

Par.  There  is  none  ;  man  sitting  down  before  you,  will 
undermine  you,  and  blow  you  up. 

Hel.  Bless  our  poor  virginity  from  underminers,  and 
blowers  up  ! — Is  there  no  military  policy,  how  virgins 
might  blow  up  men  ? 

Par.  Virginity,  being  blown  down,  men  will  quicklier 
be  blown  up  :  marry,  in  blowing  him  down  again,  with 
the  breach  yourselves  made,  you  lose  your  city.  It  is  not 
politick  in  the  commonwealth  of  nature,  to  preserve  vir- 
ginity. Loss  of  virginity  is  rational  increase ;  and  there 
was  never  virgin  got,  till  virginity  was  first  lost.  That, 
you  were  made  of,  is  metal  to  make  virgins.  Virginity, 
by  being  once  lost,  may  be  ten  times  found ;  by  being 
ever  kept,  it  is  ever  lost :  'tis  too  cold  a  companion  :  away 
with  it. 

Hel.  I  will  stand  for't  a  little,  though  therefore  I  die  a 
virgin. 

Par.  There's  little  can  be  said  in't ;  'tis  against  the 
rule  of  nature.  To  speak  on  the  part  of  virginity,  is  to 
accuse  your  mothers  ;  which  is  most  infallible  disobe- 
dience. He,  that  hangs  himself,  is  a  virgin  :  virginity 
murders  itself;  and  should  be  buried  in  highways,  out  of 
all  sanctified  limit,  as  a  desperate  offendress  against  na- 
ture. Virginity  breeds  mites,  much  like  a  cheese  ;  con- 
sumes itself  to  the  very  paring,  and  so  dies  with  feeding  his 
own  stomach.  Besides,  virginity  is  peevish,  proud,  idle, 
made  of  self-love,  which  is  the  most  inhibited<»  sin  in  the 
canon.  Keep  it  not ;  you  cannot  choose  but  lose  by't. 
Out  with't:  within  ten  years  it  will  make  itself  ten,  which 
is  a  goodly  increase ;  and  the  principal  itself  not  much 
the  worse  :  Away  with't. 

Hel.  How  might  one  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her  own  liking? 

Par.  Let  me  see :  Marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that  ne'er  it 
likes.'  'Tis  a  commodity  will  lose  the  gloss  with  lying; 
the  longer  kept,  the  less  worth :  off  with't,  while  'tis  ven- 

q inhibited — ]  i.  e.  Forlidden. 

r Marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that  ne'er  it  likes.]  Parolles.in  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, "  How  one  shall  lose  virginity  to  her  own  liking  .'"—plays  upon  the  word 
liking  and  says,  "  She  must  do  ill,  for  virginity,  to  be  so  lost,  trnist  like  him  that 
likes  not  virginity. — Johnson. 


180  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

dible  :  answer  the  time  of  request.  Virginity,  like  an  old 
courtier,  wears  her  cap  out  of  fashion ;  richly  suited,  but 
unsuitable :  just  hke  the  brooch  and  tooth-pick,  which 
wear  not  now  :p  Your  date^  is  better  in  your  pie  and  your 
porridge,  than  in  your  cheek  :  And  your  virginity,  your 
old  virginity,  is  like  one  of  our  French  withered  pears ;  it 
looks  ill;  it  eats  dryly;  marry, 'tis  a  withered  pear ;  it  was 
formerly  better ;  marry,  yet,  'tis  a  withered  pear:  Will 
you  any  thing  with  it  ?"■ 

Hel.  Not  my  virginity  yet. 
There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phcenix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 
A  counsellor,  a  traitress,^  and  a  dear ; 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility. 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet. 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster ;  with  a  world 
Of  petty,  fond,  adoptions  Christendoms,' 

That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.     Now  shall  he 

I  know  not  what  he  shall : — God  send  him  well ! — 
The  court's  a  learning-place ; — and  he  is  one 

Par.  What  one,  i'faith  ? 

Hd.  That  I  wish  well.— 'Tis  pity 

Par.  What's  pity? 

Hel.  That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in't. 
Which  might  be  felt :  that  we,  the  poorer  born. 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 

P which  wear  not  now:']  i.  e.  Which  we  wear  not  now. — Tyrwhitt. 

•1 date — ]  Here  is  a  quibble  on  the  word  date,  which  meeins  both  age, 

and  a  candidyVuif. — Steevens. 

"■ Will  you  any  thing  with  it  ?]  The  proposed  emendation  of  Tyrwhitt  ought 

to  be  here  admitted  into  the  text,  for  it  renders  an  obscure  passage  perfectly 
intelligible. — He  would  read,  Willyou  anything  tcithiis? — i.e.  Will  you,  send  any 
thing? — to  which  Helena  answers  "  Not  my  virginity  yet." — Will  you,  in  the 
sense  oiwilL  you  send,  is  used  in  Twelfth  Night,  act  3.  sc.  1. 

* traitress,']  This  word,  and  those  of  captain  and  enemy  in  the  last  line 

but  one,  and  the  rest  of  this  catalogue  of  whimsical  titles,  are  all  terms  of  en- 
dearment, for  every  one  of  which,  it  would  not  be  difl5cult  to  find  an  authority 
in  the  love  poetry  of  Shakspeare's  time. — Hhath. 

*■ chr'isiendoms,]  Appellations.  Christendom  was  not  only  used  by  our  an- 
cestors for  the  Christian  part  of  the  world,  but  also  for  baptism  ;  and  hence  for 
the  name  given  in  baptism. — "This  passage,"  says  Archdeacon  Nares  in  his  invalu- 
able Glossary,  "  the  commentators  appear  not  to  have  understood  :  adoptions 
Christendoms  tliat  blinking  Cupid  gossips,  meaus,  adopted  appellations  to  which  blind 
Cupid  stands  godfather. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  181 

And  show  what  we  alone  must  think,  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

Enter  a  Page. 

Page.  Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for  you. 

l^Exit  Page. 

Par.  Little  Helen,  farewell :  if  I  can  remember  thee, 
I  will  think  of  thee  at  court. 

Hel.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under  a  cha- 
ritable star. 

Par.  Under  Mars,  I. 

Hel.  I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.  Why  under  Mars  ? 

Hel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  you  must 
needs  be  born  under  Mars. 

Par.  When  he  was  predominant. 

Hel.  When  he  was  retrograde,  I  think,  rather. 

Par.  Why  think  you  so? 

Hel.  You  go  so  much  backward  when  you  fight. 

Par.  That's  for  advantage. 

Hel.  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  proposes  the  safety : 
But  the  composition,  that  your  valour  and  fear  makes  in 
you,  is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing,"  and  I  like  the  wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  cannot  answer  thee 
acutely  :  I  will  return  perfect  courtier  ;  in  the  which,  my 
instruction  shall  serve  to  naturalize  thee,  so  thou  wilt  be 
capable  of  a  courtier's  counsel,  and  understand  what  ad- 
vice shall  thrust  upon  thee  ;  else  thou  diest  in  thine  un- 
thankfulness,  and  thine  ignorance  makes  thee  away :  fare- 
well. When  thou  hast  leisure,  say  thy  prayers ;  when 
thou  hast  none,  remember  thy  friends  :  get  thee  a  good 
husband,  and  use  him  as  he  uses  thee:  so  farewell.  [Exit. 

Hel.  Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie. 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven  :  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope;  only,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs,  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 

" of  a  good  wing,']  A  bird  of  a  good  wing  is  a  bird  of  a  swift  and  strong 

flight ;  and  such  was  the  virtue  of  Parolles ;  for  his  valour  allowed  him  to  go  back- 
ward for  advantage,  and  his /ear,  for  the  same  reason,  made  him  run  away. — 
M.  Mason. 


182         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

What  power  is  it,  which  mounts  my  love  so  high  : 

That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye  ?* 

The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 

To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things.'' 

Impossible  be  strange  attempts  to  those 

That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense  ;  and  do  suppose, 

What  hath  been  cannot  be  :^  Who  ever  strove 

To  show  her  merit,  that  did  miss  her  love? 

The  king's  disease — my  project  may  deceive  me. 

But  my  intents  are  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me.        [Exit. 

SCENE  IL 

Paris.     A  Room  in  the  Kings  Palace. 

Flourish   of  cornets.     Enter    the  King   of    France,    with 
letters ;   Lords  and  others  attending. 

King.  The  Florentines  and  Senoys''  are  by  the  ears ; 
Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  braving  war. 

1  Lord.  So  'tis  reported,  sir. 

Ki)ig.  Nay,  'tis  most  credible ;  we  here  receive  it 
A  certainty,  vouch'd  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 
For  speedy  aid ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

1  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 

X and  cannot  feed  mine  eyel]  i  e.  Cannot  the  power  which  makei*  her 

see,  also  feed  her  sight  by  giving  her  the  object. 

y  The  mightieU  space  in  fortune,  &c.]  The  affections  given  us  by  Nature  often 
unite  persons  between  whom  fortune  or  accident  has  placed  the  greatest  dis- 
tance or  disparity  :  and  cause  them  to  join  like  likes,  i.  e.  instar  parium,  like 
persons  in  Uie  same  rank  of  life,  and  kiss  like  native  things,  i.  e.  like  things 
formed  by  nature  for  each  other. — Steevens  and  M.  Mason. 

i  That  weigh  iheir  pains  in  sense ;  and  do  suppose, 
What  hath  been  cannot  be :'\  Johnson  proposes  to  read  /ia7t'f  for  hath;  but 
there  is  surely  no  need  of  any  alteration  ;  Helena  is  encouraging  herself  to  a 
hazardous  undertaking,  by  reflecting,  that  the  achievement  of  great  designs 
are  only  impossible  to  those  who  calculate  the  difficulties  with  a  cold  and 
overcautious  consideration,  and  suppose  that  tlie  success  which  has  once  re- 
warded an  adventurous  act,  may  not  happen  again. 

a Senoys — ]  The  Sanesi,  as  they  are  termed  by  Boccace.     Painter,  who 

translates  him,  calls  them  Sennis.  They  were  the  people  of  a  small  republick, 
of  which  the  capital  was  .Sienna.  The  Florentines  were  at  perpetual  variance 
with  them.— Steevens. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  183 

Approv'd  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 
For  amplest  credence. 

King.  He  hath  arm'd  our  answer. 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes  : 
Yet,  for  our  gentlemen,  that  mean  to  see 
The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 
To  stand  on  either  part. 

2  Lord.  It  may  well  serve 

A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 
For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What's  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parolles. 

1  hord.  It  is  the  count  Rousillon,  my  good  lord. 
Young  Bertram. 

King.  Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face  ; 

Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste, 
Hath  well  compos'd  thee.     Thy  father's  moral  parts 
May'st  thou  inherit  too  !  Welcome  to  Paris. 

Ber.  My  thanks  and  duty  are  your  majesty 'g^. 

King.  I  would  I  had  that  corporal  soundness  now, 
As  when  thy  father,  and  myself,  in  friendship 
First  try'd  our  soldiership!  He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest :  he  lasted  long  ; 
But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on. 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father :  In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit,  which  I  can  well  observe 
To-day  in  our  young  lords;  but  they  may  jest. 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted. 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour.'' 
So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness  ;^  if  they  were, 

•>  He  had  the  wit,  &c.]  Your  fatlter,  says  the  king,  had  the  same  airy  flights 
of  satirical  wit  with  the  young  lords  of  the  present  time,  but  they  do  not  what  he  did, 
hide  their  unnoted  levity,  in  honour,  cover  petty  faults  with  great  merit. 

This  is  an  excellent  observation.  Jocose  follies,  and  slight  offences,  are  only 
allowed  by  mankind  in  him  that  over- powers  them  by  great  qualities. — 
Johnson. 

'^ pride  or  sharpnesSyl — .are  in  this  place  used  in  a  good  sense  for  dignity 

of  manners  and  readi7iess  of  wit. 


184  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

His  equal  had  awak'd  them  ;  and  his  honour. 

Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 

Exception  bid  him  speak,  and,  at  this  time. 

His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand 

He  us'd  as  creatures  of  another  place  ; 

And  bow'd  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks. 

Making  them  proud  of  his  humiHty, 

In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled  :  Such  a  man 

Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times  ; 

Which,  foUow'd  well,  would  demonstrate  them  now 

But  goers  backward. 

Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir, 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts,  than  on  his  tomb ; 
So  in  approof'^  lives  not  his  epitaph. 
As  in  your  royal  speech. 

King.  'Would,  I  were  with  him  ! — He  would  always  say, 
(Methinks,  I  hear  him  now  :  his  plausive  words 
He  scatter'd  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them. 
To  grow  there,  and  to  bear,) — Let  me  not  live, — — 
Thus  his  good  melancholy  oft  began. 
On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime. 
When  it  was  out, — let  me  not  live,  quoth  he, 
Jfter  my  flame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuffs 
Of  younger  spirits,  whose  apprehensive  senses 
All  but  new  things  disdain  ;  whose  judgments  are  ■ 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments  ;^  whose  constancies 

Expire  before  their  fashions : This  he  wish'd  : 

I,  after  him,  do  after  him  wish  too. 

Since  I  nor  wax,  nor  honey,  can  bring  home,  • 

I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  hive. 

To  give  some  labourers  room. 

2  Lord.  You  are  lov'd,  sir: 

They,  that  least  lend  it  you  shall  lack  you  first. 


<*  His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand  .]  We  should  read — His  tongue  obey'd  the  hnnd. 
That  is,  the  hand  of  his  honour's  clock,  shewing  ihe  true  minute  when  exceptions 
bade  him  speak. — Johnson. 

c approof — ]  i.  e.  Approbation,  the  praises  of  his  epitaph  are  faint  in 

comparison  with  the  commendations  of  the  king. 

f the  snuff — ]  i.  e.  The  contempt. 

K whose  judgments  are 

Mere  fathers  of  their  garments  i]   Who  have  no  other  use  of  their  faculties, 
than  to  invent  new  modes  of  dress. — Johnson. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  185 

King.  I  fill  a  place,  I  know't. — How  long  is't,  count. 
Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died  ? 
He  was  much  fam'd. 

Ber.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord. 

King.  If  he  were  living,  I  would  try  him  yet ; — 
Lend  me  an  arm ; — the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications  : — nature  and  sickness 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count ; 
My  son's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty. 

[Exeunt .     Flourish. 

SCENE  III. 

Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 
Enter  Countess,  Steward,  and  Cloivn.^ 

Count.  I  will  now  hear :  what  say  you  of  this  gentle- 
woman? 

Stew.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even  your  con- 
tent/ I  wish  might  be  found  in  the  calendar  of  my  past 
endeavours :  for  them  we  wound  our  modesty,  and  make 
foul  the  clearness  of  our  deservings,  when  of  ourselves  we 
publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  here  ?  Get  you  gone, 
sirrah  :  The  complaints,  I  have  heard  of  you,  I  do  not  all 
believe ;  'tis  my  slowness,  that  I  do  not :  for,  I  know,  you 
lack  not  folly  to  commit  them,  and  have  ability  enough  to 
make  such  knaveries  yours.'' 

Clo.  'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  I  am  a  poor 
fellow. 

'  "^ Steward  and  Clown.]   A  clown  in  Shakspeare  is  commonly  taken  for 

a  licensed  jester,  or  domestick  fool.  We  are  not  to  wonder  that  we  find  this  ' 
character  often  in  his  plays,  since  fools  were  at  that  time  maintained  in  all 
great  families,  to  keep  up  merriment  in  the  house.  In  the  picture  of  Sir 
Thomas  More's  family,  by  Hans  Holbein,  the  only  servant  represented  is 
Patison  the  fool.  This  is  a  proof  of  the  familiarity  to  which  they  were  ad- 
mitted, not  by  the  great  only,  but  the  wise. — Johnson. 

' to  even  your  coutent,'^  To  act  up  to  your  desires. — Johnson. 

** you  lack  not  folly  to  commit  them,  and  have  ability  enough  to  make  such 

knaveries  yours.]  The  natural  sense  of  the  passage  seems  to  be  this  :  "  You 
have  folly  enough  to  desire  to  commit  these  knaveries,  and  ability  enough  to 
accomplish  them.". — M.  Mason. 


186         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Count.  Well,  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  'tis  not  so  well,  that  I  am  poor; 
though  many  of  the  rich  are  damned :  But,  if  I  may  have 
your  ladyship's  good-will  to  go  to  the  world,'  Isbel  the 
woman  and  I  will  do  as  we  may. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  needs  be  a  beggar  ? 

Clo.  I  do  beg  your  good-will  in  this  case. 

Count,  In  what  case  ? 

Clo.  In  Isbel's  case,  and  mine  own.  Service  is  no 
heritage  :  and,  I  think,  I  shall  never  have  the  blessing  of 
God,  till  I  have  issue  of  my  body ;  for  they  say.  beams 
are  blessings. 

Count.  Tell  me  thy  reason  why  thou  wilt  marry. 

Clo.  My  poor  body,  madam,  requires  it :  I  am  driven 
on  by  the  flesh ;  and  he  must  needs  go,  that  the  devil 
drives. 
.  Count.  Is  this  all  your  worship's  reason  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy  reasons,  such  as 
they  are. 

Count.  May  the  world  know  them  ? 

Clo.  I  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature,  as  you 
and  all  flesh  and  blood  are  ;  and,  indeed,  I  do  marry,  that 
I  may  repent. 

Count.  Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wickedness. 

Clo.  I  am  out  of  friends,  madam ;  and  I  hope  to  have 
friends  for  my  wife's  sake. 

Count.  Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  are  shallow,  madam  ;  e'en  great  friends ;  for 
the  knaves  come  to  do  that  for  me,  which  I  am  a-weary 
of.  He,  that  ears"  my  land,  spares  my  team,  and  gives 
me  leave  to  inn  the  crop  :  if  I  be  his  cuckold,  he's  my 
drudge :  He,  that  comforts  my  wife,  is  the  cherisher  of 
my  flesh  and  blood ;  he,  that  cherishes  my  flesh  and 
blood,  loves  my  flesh  and  blood  ;  he,,  that  loves  my  flesh 
and  blood,  is  my  friend  ;  ergo,  he  that  kisses  ray  wife,  is 
my  friend.  If  men  could  be  contented  to  be  what  they 
are,  there  were  no  fear  in  marriage  :  for  young  Charbon 

' to  go  to  the  wmid,]  This  phrase  has  occurred  in  Much  Ado  about 

Nothing,  and  in  As  you  like  it,  and  signifies  to  be  married. — Stefvens. 
" ears — ]  i.  e.   Ploughs. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  187 

the  puritan,  and  old  Poysam  the  papist,"  howso'er  their 
hearts  are  severed  in  rehgion,  their  heads  are  both  one, 
they  may  joll  horns  together,  Uke  any  deer  i'the  herd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed  and  calum- 
nious knave? 

Clo.  A  prophet  I,"  madam;  and  I  speak  the  truth  the 
next  way  i^ 

For  I  the  ballad  will  repeat, 

Which  men  full  true  shall  Jind : 
Your  marriage  comes  hy  destiny. 
Your  cuckoo  sings  by  kind. 
Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir :  I'll  talk  with  you  more  anon. 
Stew.  May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he  bid  Helen 
come  to  you ;  of  her  I  am  to  speak , 

Count.  Sirrah,  tell  my  gentlewoman,  I  would  speak 
with  her  ;  Helen  I  mean. 

Clo.  Was  this  fair  face  the  cause,  quoth  she,        [Singing. 
Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond  done,'*  done  fond. 

Was  this  king  Priam's  joy. 
With  that  she  sighed  ^as  she  stood. 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood. 

And  gave  this  sentence  theji ; 

Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 

Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 

There's  yet  one  good  in  ten." 

" Charbon  the  puritan,  and  Poysam  the  papist,]  For  Poysam,  Mr.  Malone 

very  judiciously  proposes  to  read  Poisson ;  by  this  alteration  the  names  would 
be  appropriate  to  the  sects  of  the  parties.  Charbon  to  the  red-hot,  intempe- 
rate zeal  of  the  puritan,  and  Poisson  to  the  fast-day  diet  of  the  papist. 

o  A  prophet  J,]  Alluding  to  the  vulgar  superstition  which  is  still  common 
in  the  East,  and  was  once  equally  prevalent  among  all  the  nations  of  Europe, 
that  natural  fools,  have  in  them  something  of  divinity.  In  the  popular  story  of 
John  Nixon,  the  Cheshire  prophet,  he  is  represented  as  an  ideot.  Pantagruel 
in  Rabelais,  was  advised  to  go  and  consult  the  fool  Triboulet  as  an  oracle.-^ 
Douce  and  Wakburton. 

P the  next  way,]  i.e.  Without  circwnlocution. — Henley. 

<J  Fond  done,]  i.  e.  Foolishly  done. 

r  There's  yet  one  good  in  ten.]  This  second  stanza  is  perverted  into  a  jest 
upon  women.  The  lines  of  the  song,  which  the  countess  accuses  the  fool  of 
corrupting  must  have  run : 

"  If  one  be  bad  amongst  nine  good, 
There's  but  one  bad  in  ten." 
This  relates  to  the  ten  sons  of  Priam,  who  all  behaved  themselves  well  but 
Paris.   For  though  he  once  had  fifty,  yet,  at  this  unfortunate  period  of  his  reign, 
he  had  but  ten. — Wakburton. 


188  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Count.  What,  one  good  iu  ten  ?  you  corrupt  the  song, 
sirrah. 

Clo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam ;  which  is  a  pu- 
rifying o'the  song  :  Would  God  would  serve  the  world  so 
all  the  year  !  we'd  find  no  fault  with  the  tythe-woman,  if 
I  were  the  parson  :  One  in  ten,  quoth  a' !  an  we  might 
have  a  good  woman  born  but  for  every  blazing  star,  or  at 
an  earthquake,  'twould  mend  the  lottery  well;  a  man  may 
draw  his  heart  out,  ere  he  pluck  one. 

Count.  You'll  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I  command 
you? 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  command,  and 
yet  no  hurt  done  ! — Though  honesty  be  no  puritan,"  yet 
it  will  do  no  hurt ;  it  will  wear  the  surplice  of  humility 
over  the  black  gown  of  a  big  heart. — I  am  going  for- 
sooth ;  the  business  is  for  Helen  to  come  hither. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Count.  Well  now. 

Stew.  I  know  madam,  you  love  your  gentlewoman 
entirely. 

Count.  Faith,  I  do :  her  father  bequeathed  her  to  me  ; 
and  she  herself,  without  other  advantage,  may  lawfully 
make  title  to  as  much  love  as  she  finds ;  there  is  more 
owing  her,  than  is  paid ;  and  more  shall  be  paid  her,  than 
.-she'll  demand. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her  than,  I 
think  she  wished  me :  alone  she  was,  and  did  communi- 
cate to  herself,  her  own  words  to  her  own  ears ;  she 
thought,!  dare  vow  for  her,  they  touched  not  any  stranger 
sense.  Her  matter  was,  she  loved  your  son :  Fortune,  she 
said,  was  no  goddess,  that  had  put  such  difference  betwixt 
their  two  estates  ;  Love,  no  god,  that  would  not  extend 
his  might,  only'  where  qualities  were  level ;  Diana,  no 
queen  of  virgins,  that  would  suffer  her  poor  night  to  be 
surprised,  without  rescue,  in  the  first  assault,  or  ransome 

« honesty  no  puritan,]  Alluding  to  the  obstinacy  of  the  puritans  in  re- 
fusing to  wear  the  surplice.  The  clown's  argument  is  this  ;  "  Honesty  will 
do  no  harm  though  it  submit  to  ceremonies  that  it  dislikes,  and  wear  the  sur- 
plice of  humility  over  a  big  heart, — a  Hg  heart  is  a  heart  great  in  spirit. — 
Seymour. 

« o/iJy] — used  for  except. 


ACT  I —SCENE  III.  189 

afterward :  This  she  delivered  in  the  most  bitter  touch  of 
sorrow,  that  e'er  I  heard  virgin  exclaim  in :  which  I  held 
my  duty,  speedily  to  acquaint  you  withal ;  sithence,"  in 
the  loss  that  may  happen,  it  concerns  you  something  to 
know  it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly ;  keep  it  to 
yourself:  many  likelihoods  informed  me  of  this  before, 
which  hung  so  tottering  in  the  balance,  that  I  could  nei- 
ther beheve,  nor  misdoubt :  Pray  you,  leave  me :  stall  this 
in  your  bosom,  and  I  thank  you  for  your  honest  care :  I 
will  speak  with  you  further  anon.  {Exit  Steward. 

Enter  Helena. 

Count.  Even  so  it  was  with  me,  when  I  was  young : 
If  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours ;  this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong  : 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born  ; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth. 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth. 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone. 
Such  were  our  faults  5 — or  then  we  thought  them  none. 
Her  eye  is  sick  on't;  I  observe  her  now. 

Hel.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 

Count.  You  know,  Helen, 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

Hel.  Mine  honourable  mistress. 

Count.  Nay,  a  mother 

Why  not  a  mother  ?  When  I  said,  a  mother, 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent :  What's  in  mother. 
That  you  start  at  it  ?  I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine  :  'Tis  often  seen. 
Adoption  strives  with  nature  ;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds : 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan. 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care  : 
God's  mercy,  maiden  !  does  it  curd  thy  blood. 
To  say,  I  am  thy  mother?  What's  the  matter, 

*■ '  sithence,']  i.  e.  Since. 

VOL.  111.  O. 


\9Q         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

That  this  distemper'd  messenger  of  wet. 
The  many-colour'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye  ?" 
Why? that  you  are  my  daughter? 

Hel.  That  I  am  not. 

Count.  I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

Hel.  Pardon,  madam  ; 

The  count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my  brother : 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honour'd  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble  : 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is  :  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die  : 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother  ? 

Hel.  You  are  my  mother,  madam ;  'Would  you  were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother,) 
Indeed,  my  mother  ! — or  were  you  both  our  mothers, 
I  care  no  more  for,  than  I  do  for  heaven," 
So  I  were  not  his  sister  :  Can't  no  other,^ 
But  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother? 

Count.  Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law ; 
God  shield,  you  mean  it  not !  daughter,  and  mother, 
So  strive"  upon  your  pulse  :  What  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness  :  Now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head.''     Now  to  all  sense  'tis  gross. 
You  love  my  son  ;  invention  is  asham'd. 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion. 
To  say,  thou  dost  not :  therefore  tell  me  true ; 
But  tell  me  then,  'tis  so  : — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  one  to  the  other  :  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  behaviours. 
That  in  their  kind'^  they  speak  it :  only  sin 

s What's  the  matter. 


That  this  distemper  d  messenger  of  wet. 

The  many-colour'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eyel]  There  is  something  exquisitely 
beaatiful  in  this  representation  of  that  suffusion  of  colours  which  glimmers 
round  the  sight  when  the  eye-lashes  are  wet  with  tears. — Henley. 

y  J  care  no  more  for  than  I  do  for  heaven,]  i.  e.  It  would  rejoice  me  as  much 
as  to  obtain  heaven. 

» Can't  no  other  ?] — for  com  it  be  no  other  way  ? 

» strive — ]  Contend. 

»>  Your  salt  tears'  head.']  The  source  of  your  tears. — Johnson. 

c in  tlieir  kind — ]  i.e.  According  to  their  nature. — Steevins. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  III.  191 

And  hellish  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue. 
That  truth  should  be  suspected  :  Speak,  is't  so  ? 
If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue  ; 
If  it  be  not,  forswear't :  howe'er,  I  charge  thee. 
As  heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thine  avail. 
To  tell  me  truly. 

Hel.  Good  madam,  pardon  me  ! 

Count.  Do  you  love  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress ! 

Count.  Love  you  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam  ? 

Count.  Go  not  about ;  my  love  hath  in't  a  bond. 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note :  come,  come,  disclose 
The  state  of  your  affection ;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

Hel.  Then,  I  confess. 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 
I  love  your  son  : — 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest ;  so's  my  love  : 
Be  not  offended  ;  for  it  hurts  not  him. 
That  he  is  lov'd  of  me :  I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit; 
Nor  would  I  have  him,  till  I  do  deserve  him; 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope  ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve,** 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love. 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still  :*  thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper. 
But  knows  of  hirn  no  more.     My  dearest  madam, 
Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love. 
For  loving  where  you  do  :  but,  if  yourself. 
Whose  aged  honour  cites  a  virtuous  youth,' 

* captious  and  intenible  sieve,']  The  allusion  is  to  the  story  of  the  daughters 

of  Danaus.  Captious  means  recipient,  capable  of  receiving  what  is  put  into  it ; 
and  intenible,  incapable  of  holding  it. — Malone. 

e  And  lack  not  to  lose  still :]  i.  e.  And  fail  not  constantly  to  lose  the  waters  of 
her  love.— Malone. 

f  Whose  aged  honour  cites  a  virtuous  youth,']  i.  e.  Whose  respectable  conduct 
in  age  shows,  or  proves,  that  you  were  no  less  virtuous  when  young. — MAtoSB. 

o  2 


192         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking 
Wish  chastly,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love ;''  O  then,  give  pity 
To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose  ; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

Count.  Had  you  not  lately  an  intent,  speak  truly. 
To  go  to  Paris  ? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  Wherefore  ?  tell  true. 

Hel.  I  will  tell  truth  ;  by  grace  itself,  I  swear. 
You  know,  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  prov'd  effects,  such  as  his  reading. 
And  manifest  experience,  had  collected 
For  general  sovereignty  ;  and  that  he  will'd  me 
In  heedfullest  reservation  to  bestow  them. 
As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive"  were, 
More  than  they  were  in  note  :  amongst  the  rest. 
There  is  a  remedy,  approv'd,  set  down. 
To  cure  the  desperate  languishes,  whereof 
The  king  is  render'd  lost. 

Count.  This  was  your  motive 

For  Paris,  was  it  ?  speak. 

Hel.  My  lord  your  son  made  me  to  think  of  this  ; 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king. 
Had,  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts. 
Haply  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid. 
He  would  receive  it  ?  He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind  ;  he,  that  they  cannot  helj)  him. 
They,  that  they  cannot  help :  How  shall  they  credit 
A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Emboweird''  of  their  doctrine,  have  left  off 
The  danger  to  itself? 

Hel.  There's  something  hints, 

' tiiid  love  ,]  i.  e.  The  goddess  of  amorous  rites.— Malone. 

•'       --  i/.tis,  uhose  fandiies,  inclusive — ]    Receipts,  in  which  greater  virtuei 
weu'  enclosed  than  appeared  to  observation. — Johnson, 

»»  KmboweU'/t  nf  their  doctrine,]  i.  e.  EihaiisUA  if  their  sJci/i.— Steevens. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  193 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the  greatest 

Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 

Shall,  for  my  legacy,  be  sanctified 

By  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven  :  and,  would  your  honour 

But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I'd  venture 

The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure. 

By  such  a  day,  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  believ't  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 

Count.  Why,  Helen,  thou  shalt  have  my  leave,  and  love. 
Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court;  I'll  stay  at  home. 
And  pray  God's  blessing  into  thy  attempt : 
Be  gone  to-morrow  ;  and  be  sure  of  this. 
What  I  can  help  thee  to,  thou  shalt  not  miss.       lExeunt. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 

Flourish  Enter  King,  with  young  Lords,  taking  leave 
for  the  Florentine  war;  Bertram,  Parolles,  and 
Attendants. 

King.  Farewell,  young  lords,  these  warlike  principles 
Do  not  throw  from  you : — and  you,  my  lords,  farewell : — 
Share  the  advice  betwixt  you ;  if  both  gain  all. 
The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  'tis  receiv'd, 
And  is  enough  for  both. 

1  Lord.  It  is  our  hope,  sir. 

After  well  enter'd'  soldiers,  to  return 
And  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.  No,  no,  it  cannot  be  ;  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes''  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.     Farewell,  young  lords  ; 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Of  worthy  Frenchmen :  let  higher  Italy 

• well  entered — ]  Should  we  not  read  we're  cntercdl 

^ owes — ]  i.  e. 


194         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

(Those  'bated,  that  inherit  but  the  fall 

Of  the  last  monarchy,)  see,'  that  you  come 

Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 

The  bravest  questant™  shrinks,  find  what  you  seek. 

That  fame  may  cry  you  loud. — I  say,  farewell. 

2  Lord.  Health,  at  your  bidding,  serve  your  majesty  ! 

King.  Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them  ; 
They  say,  our  French  lack  language  to  deny. 
If  they  demand  ;  beware  of  being  captives. 
Before  you  serve." 

Both.  Our  hearts  receive  your  warnings. 

King.  Farewell. — Come  hither  to  me. 

\_The  King  retires  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.  O  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will  stay  behind  us  ! 
Par.  'Tis  not  his  fault ;  the  spark 

2  Lord.  O,  'tis  brave  wars  ! 
Par.  Most  admirable  ;  I  have  seen  those  wars. 

Ber.  I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil  with ; 
Too  young,  and  the  next  year,  and  'tis  too  early. 

Par.  An  thy  mind  stand  to  it,  boy,  steal  away  bravely. 

Ber.  I  shall  stay  here  the  forehorse  to  a  smock. 
Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry. 
Till  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn. 
But  one  to  dance  with  !°  By  heaven,  I'll  steal  away. 

1  Lord.  There's  honour  in  the  theft. 

Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

2  Lord.  I  am  your  accessary  ;  and  so  farewell. 

Ber.  I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tortured  body. 


higher  Italy 


(Those  'hated,  that  inherit  hut  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy,)  see,  &c.J  The  ancient  geographers  have  divided 
Italy  into  the  higher  and  the  lower,  the  Apennine  hills  being  a  kind  of  natural 
line  of  partition  ;  the  side  next  the  Adriatic  was  denominated  the  higher  Italy, 
and  the  other  side  the  lower ;  and  the  two  seas  followed  the  same  terms  of 
distinction,  the  Adriatic  being  called  the  upper  Sea,  and  the  Tyrrhene,  or  . 
Tuscan,  the  lower.  Now  the  Sennones.or  Senois,  with  whom  the  Florentines 
are  here  supposed  to  be  at  war,  inhabited  the  higher  Italy,  their  chief  town 
being  Arminium,  now  called  Rimini,  upon  the  Adriatic. — Hanmer. 

Those  'hated  here  signifies,  those  being  taken  away  or  excepted.  The  sentence 
implies  no  more  than  they  excepted,  who  possess  modern  Italy,  the  remains  of  the 
Roman  Empire. — Holt  White. 

" questant — ]  i.  e.  Competitor. 

n  BeJ'nre  you  serve.~\  i.  e.  Before  you  serve  in  war. — Johnson. 

°  Bnl  one  to  dimce  with '.']  It  should  be  remembered  that,  in  Shakspeare's 
•  ime,  it  was  usual  for  gentlemen  to  dance  with  swords  on. — Malone. 


ACT  II.-SCENE  I.  195 

1  Lord.  Farewell,  captain. 

2  Lord.  Sweet  monsieur  Parolles  ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are  kin.  Good 
sparks  and  lustrous,  a  word,  good  metals  ; — You  shall  find 
in  the  regiment  of  the  Spinii,  one  captain  Spurio,  with  his 
cicatrice,  an  emblem  of  war,  here  on  his  sinister  cheek ; 
it  was  this  very  sword  entrenched  it :  say  to  him,  I  live  ; 
and  observe  his  reports  for  me. 

2  Lord.  We  shall,  noble  captain. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices !  [Exeunt  Lords.] 
What  will  you  do  ? 

Ber.  Stay:  the  king [Seeing him  rise. 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the  noble  lords ; 
you  have  restrained  yourself  within  the  list  of  too  cold  an 
adieu :  be  more  expressive  to  them ;  for  they  wear  them- 
selves in  the  cap  of  the  time,  there,  do  muster  true  gait/ 
eat,  speak,  and  move  under  the  influence  of  the  most  re- 
ceived star;  and,  though  the  devil  lead  the  measure,i  such 
are  to  be  followed  :  after  them,  and  take  a  more  dilated 
farewell. 

Ber.  And  I  will  do  so. 

Par.  Worthy  fellows ;  and,  like  to  prove  most  sinewy 
sword-men.  Exeunt  Bertram  and  Parolles. 

Enter  La  feu. 

Laf.  Pardon,  my  lord,  [kmeling.]  for  me  and  for  my 
tidings. 

King.  I'll  fee  thee  to  stand  up. 

Laf.  Then  here's  a  man 

Stands,  that  has  brought  his  pardon.     I  would  you 
Had  kneel'd,  my  lord,  to  ask  me  mercy  ;  and 
That,  at  my  bidding,  you  could  so  stand  up. 

King.  I  would  I  had ;  so  I  had  broke  thy  pate. 
And  ask'd  thee  mercy  for't. 

P  — .—  thire,  do  muster  true  gait,  &c.]  The  meaning  is  that  those  lords  living 
constantly  in  the  court,  or,  as  Shakspeare  expresses  it,  wearing  tliemselves  in  the 
cap  of  the  time,  do  there  muster  the  true  gait,  i.  e.  gain  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
most  approved  rules  of  conduct, — they  cat,  speak,  and  move  tinder  the  injluence 
of  the  most  received  star ;  of  the  person  in  the  highest  repute  for  fashion. 

1 measure,]  i.  e.  The  dance. 


196  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Laf.  Goodfaith,  across  :■" 

But,  my  good  lord,  'tis  thus ;  Will  you  be  cur'd 
Of  your  infirmity  ? 

King.  No. 

Laf.  O,  will  you  eat 

No  grapes,  my  royal  fox?  yes,  but  you  will. 
My  noble  grapes,  and  if  my  royal  fox 
Could  reach  them  :  I  have  seen  a  medicine,* 
That's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone ; 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary,' 
With  spritely  fire  and  motion  ;  whose  simple  touch 
Is  powerful  to  araise  king  Pepin,  nay. 
To  give  Great  Charlemain  a  pen  in  his  hand, 
And  write  to  her  a  love-hne. 

King.  What  her  is  this? 

Laf.  Why,  doctor  she  ;  My  lord,  there's  one  arriv'd. 
If  you  will  see  her, — now,  by  my  faith  and  honour, 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one,  that,  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession," 
Wisdom,  and  constancy,  hath  amaz'd  metnore 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness  -.^  Will  you  see  her 
(For  that  is  her  demand)  and  know  her  business  ? 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bring  in  the  admiration ;  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  too,  or  take  off  time. 
By  wond'ring  how  thou  took'st  it. 

Laf.  Nay,  I'll  fit  you. 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  [Exit  Lafeu, 


r across:']  This  word  is  used  when  any  pass  of  wit  miscarries. — Johnson. 

While  chivalry  was  in  vogue,  breaking  spears  against  a  quintain  was  a  favourite 
exercise.  He  who  shivered  the  greatest  numberwas  esteemed  the  most  adroit; 
but  then  it  was  to  be  performed  exactly  with  the  point,  for  if  achieved  by  a 
side  stroke,  or  across,  it  shewed  unskilfulness,  and  disgraced  the  practiser. — 
Holt  White. 

» medicine'] — here  put  for  a  female  physician. 

« canary,]  A  quick  and  lively  dance. 

" profession,]  i.  e.  Her  declaration  of  the  end  and  purpose  of  her  coming. 

»  Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness ;]  Lafeu's  meaning  appears  to  be  this  : — 
"That  the  amazement  she  excited  in  him  was  so  great,  that  he  could  not  im- 
pute it  merely  to  his  own  weakness,  but  to  the  wonderful  qualities  of  the  ob- 
ject that  occasioned  it. — M.  Mason. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  197 

King.  Thus  he  his  special  nothing  ever  prologues. 

Re-enter  Lafeu,  with  Helena. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways. 

King.  This  haste  hath  wings  indeed. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways  ; 
This  is  his  majesty,  say  your  mind  to  him  : 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like  ;  but  such  traitors 
His  majesty  seldom  fears:  I  am  Cressid's  uncle," 
That  dare  leave  two  together  :  fare  you  well.  [Exit, 

King.  Now,  fair  one,  does  your  business  follow  us  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  my  good  lord.     Gerard  de  Narbon  was 
My  father  ;  in  what  he  did  profess,  well  found." 

King.  I  knew  him. 

Hel.  The  rather  will  I  spare  my  praises  towards  him ; 
Knowing  him,  is  enough.     On  his  bed  of  death 
Many  receipts  he  gave  me  ;  chiefly  one. 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  of  his  practice. 
And  of  his  old  experience  the  only  darling. 
He  bad  rae  store  up,  as  a  triple  eye. 
Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear ;  I  have  so  : 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touch'd 
With  that  malignant  cause  wherein  the  honour 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power, 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance. 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden ; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure, — 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us  ;  and 
The  congregated  college  have  concluded 
That  labouring  art  can  never  ransome  nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate, — I  say  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope. 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  empiricks ;  or  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A  senseless  help,  when  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

* Cressid's  uncle,]  i.  e.  Pandarus.     See  Troilus  and  Cresiida. 

^ well  found.']  i.  e.  Of  acknowledged  excellence. 


198        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDB  WELL. 

Hel.  My  duty  then  shall  pay  me  for  my  pains : 
I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  office  on  you ; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one,  to  bear  me  back  again. 

King.  I  cannot  give  thee  less,  to  be  call'd  grateful : 
Thou  thought'st  to  help  me ;  and  such  thanks  I  give. 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  wish  him  live  : 
But,  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part ; 
I  knowing  all  my  peril,  thou  no  art. 

Hel.  What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  try. 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest^  'gainst  remedy  : 
He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher. 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister  : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shown. 
When  judges  have  been  babes.     Great  floods  have  flown 
From  simple  sources ;  and  great  seas  have  dried. 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied.' 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises  ;  and  oft  it  hits. 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  sits. 

King.  I  must  not  hear  thee ;  fare  thee  well,  kind  maid , 
Thy  pains,  not  us'd,  must  by  thyself  be  paid  : 
Proffers,  not  took,  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Hel.  Inspired  merit  so  by  breath  is  barr'd  : 
It  is  not  so  ^vith  him  that  all  things  knows. 
As  'tis  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows  : 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us,  when 
The  help  of  heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavours  give  consent : 
Of  heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 

» Jet  up  your  reit — ]   L  e.  Make  up  your  mind.    It  is  a  metaphor  taken 

from  the  once  fashionable  game  of  Primero,  and  in  its  original  signification 
means,  to  stand  upon  the  cards  you  have  in  your  hand. 

a  When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied.']  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  see 
the  import  or  connexion  of  this  line.  It  certainly  refers  to  the  children  of 
Israel  passing  the  Red  Sea,  when  miracles  had  been  denied,  or  not  harkened  to  by 
Pharaoh. — Holt  White.  Dr.  Johnson  supposed  that  a  line  had  been  omit- 
ted, from  the  subsequent  time's  standing  without  a  correspondent  rhyme.  1 
believe  on  the  contrary,  that  words  have  been  inserted,  and  that  we  should 
read, 

Oft  expectation  fails  :  and  oft  it  hits, 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  sits. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  r.  199 

Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim  ;'' 

But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure. 

My  art  is  not  past  power,  nor  you  past  cure. 

King.  Art  thou  so  confident  ?  Within  what  space 
Hop'st  thou  my  cure  ? 

Hel.  The  greatest  grace  lending  grace. 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher.his  diurnal  ring  ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quench'd  his  sleepy  lamp  ; 
Or  four  and  twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Hoth  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass  ; 
What  is  infirm  from  your  sound  parts  shall  fly, 
Health  shall  live  free,  and  sickness  freely  die. 

King.  Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence. 
What  dar'st  thou  venture  ? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence, — 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame, — 
Traduc'd  by  odious  ballads  ;  my  maiden's  name 
Sear'd  otherwise ;  nay,  worst  of  worst  extended^ 
With  vilest  torture,  let  my  life  be  ended. 

King.  Methinks,  in  thee  some  blessed  spirit  doth  speak ; 
His  powerful  sound,  within  an  organ  weak  : 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
In  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way." 
Thy  life  is  dear ;  for  all,  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life,  in  thee  hath  estimate  ;^ 
Youth,  beauty,  wisdom,  courage,  virtue,  all 
That  happiness  and  prime*^  can  happy  call : 
Thou  this  to  hazard,  needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrous  desperate. 

*>  Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aimf\  i.  e.  I  am  not  an  impostor  that  proclaim 
one  thing  and  design  another,  that  proclaim  a  cure  and  aim  at  a  fraud.  I  think 
what  1  speak. — Johnson. 

c  nay,  worst  of  worst  extended,  &c.]    I  have  adopted  the  emendation  of 

Malone — the  old  copy  reads  '*  ne  worse  of  worst ,"  which  words  evidently  require 
some  correction,  and  that  which  I  have  chosen  has  the  merit  of  being  intelli- 
gible, without  the  aid  of  further  comment. 

<i  In  common  sense,  seiue  saves  another  way-l  i.  e.  And  that  which,  if  I  trusted 
to  my  reason,  I  should  think  impossible,  I  yet,  perceiving  thee  to  be  actuated 
by  some  blessed  spirit,  think  thee  capable  of  effecting. — Malone. 

e in  thee  hath  estimate  ;]    May  be  counted  among  the  gifts  enjoyed  by 

thee» — Johnson. 

' prime — ]  i.  e.  Vigour  of  life. 


200         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Sweet  practiser,  thy  physick  I  will  try ; 
That  ministers  thine  own  death,  if  I  die. 

Hel.  If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property^ 
Of  what  I  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die  ; 
And  well  deserv'd  :  Not  helping,  death's  my  fee ; 
But,  if  I  help,  what  do  you  promise  me  ? 

King.  Make  thy  demand. 

Hel.  But  will  you  make  it  even  ? 

King.  Ay,  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  hopes  of  heaven. 

Hel.  Then  shalt  thou  give  me,  with  thy  kingly  hand. 
What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command  : 
Exempted  be  from  me  the  arrogance 
To  choose  from  forth  the  royal  blood  of  France  ; 
My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 
With  any  branch  or  image""  of  thy  state : 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

King.  Here  is  my  hand  ;  the  premises  observed. 
Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  serv'd  ; 
So  make  the  choice  of  thy  own  time  ;  for  I, 
Thy  resolv'd  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should  I  question  thee,  and  more  I  must ; 
Though,  more  to  know,  could  not  be  more  to  trust ; 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  tended  on, — But  rest 
Unquestion'd  welcome,  and  undoubted  blest. — 
Give  me  some  help  here,  ho  !— If  thou  proceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt, 

SCENE  II. 

Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 
Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir  ;  I  shall  now  put  you  to  the  height 
of  your  breeding. 

g in  j,T(^eny—'\  Here  used,  with  much  laxity,  for— in  the  due  perfm-m- 

ance.— Ma  LONE. 

h branch  or  image — ]     Branch  refers  to  the  collateral  descendants  of  the 

royal  blood,  and  image  to  the  direct  and  immediate  line. — Henley. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II.  201 

Clo.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed,  and  lowly  taught : 
I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court !  why  what  place  make  you  spe- 
cial, when  you  put  off  that  with  such  contempt  ?  But  to 
the  court ! 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  hath  lent  a  man  any  man- 
ners, he  may  easily  put  it  off  at  court :  he  that  cannot 
make  a  leg,'  put  off  s  cap,  kiss  his  hand,  and  say  nothing, 
has  neither  leg,  hands,  lip,  nor  cap  ;  and  indeed,  such  a 
fellow,  to  say  precisely,  were  not  for  the  court :  but,  for 
me,  I  have  an  answer  will  serve  all  men. 

Count.  Marry,  that's  a  bountiful  answer,  that  fits  all 
questions. 

Clo.  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair,  that  fits  all  buttocks ; 
the  pin-buttock,  the  quatch-buttock,  the  brawn  buttock, 
or  any  buttock. 

Count.  Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  of  an  attorney, 
as  your  French  crown  for  your  taffata  punk,  as  Tib's  rush 
for  Tom's  fore-finger,''  as  a  pancake  for  Shrove-Tuesday, 
a  morris  for  May-day,  as  the  nail  to  his  hole,  the  cuckold 
to  his  horn,  as  a  scolding  queen  to  a  wrangling  knave,  as 
the  nun's  lip  to  the  friar's  mouth ;  nay,  as  the  pudding  to 
his  skin. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such  fitness  for 
all  questions  ? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke,  to  beneath  your  constable, 
it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  answer  of  most  monstrous  size, 
that  must  fit  all  demands. 

Clo.  But  a  trifle  neither,  in  good  faith,  if  the  karned 

' make  a  leg,']  i.  e.  Make  a  how. 

.  '' Tib's  rush  for  Tom's  fore-finger,']    Tib  and  Tom  were  usually  joined, 

like  /ac/cand  Ji//,  as  the  common  names  for  alow  or  ordinary  man  and  woman ! 
The  rush  alludes  to  the  rush-ring,  which  was  an  ancient  practice  not  only  in 
England  but  in  other  countries,  with  such  persons  who  meant  to  live  together 
in  a  state  of  concubinage.  This  custom  'is  mentioned  by  Breval,  in  his  anti- 
quities of  Paris,  and  forbidden  by  Richard  Moore,  bishop  of  Salisbury,  in  his 
Constitutions,  anno  1217.  The  practice  seems  to  have  continued  to  the  time 
of  Sir  W.  D'Avenant,  who  alludes  to  it  in  one  of  his  songs.  In  the  present 
passage,  Tib  the  woman  is  represented  as  giving  the  ri7ig.  This  is  in  agree- 
ment with  the  old  custom  of  exchanging  rings  in  the  marriage  ceremony.— 
Sin  J.  Hawkins  and  M.  Mj\son. 


202         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

should  speak  truth  of  it :  here  it  is,  and  all  that  belongs 
to't :  Ask  me,  if  I  am  a  courtier :  it  shall  do  you  no  harm 
to  learn. 

Count.  To  be  young  again,'  if  we  could ;  I  will  be  a 
fool  in  question,  hoping  to  be  the  wiser  by  your  answer. 
I  pray  you,  sir,  are  you  a  courtier  ? 

Cio.  O  Lord,  sir,"" There's  a  simple  putting  off; — 

more,  more,  a  hundred  of  them. 

Count.  Sir,  I  am  a  poor  friend  of  yours,  that  loves  you. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir, — Thick,  thick,  spare  not  me. 

Count.  I  think,  sir,  you  can  eat  none  of  this  homely 
meat. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir, — Nay,  put  me  to't,  I  warrant  you. 

Count.  You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir, — Spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry,  O  Lord,  sir,  at  your  whipping,  and 
spare  not  me  ?  Indeed,  your  O  Lord,  sir,  is  very  sequent  to 
your  whipping ;  you  would  answer  very  well  to  a  whipping, 
if  you  were  but  bound  to't. 

Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  my  life,  in  my — O  Lord, 
$ir :  I  see,  things  may  serve  long,  but  not  serve  ever. 

Count.  I  play  the  noble  housewife  with  the  time,  to  en- 
tertain it  so  merrily  with  a  fool. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir, — why,  there't  serves  well  again. 

Count.  An  end,  sir,  to  your  business  :  Give  Helen  this, 
And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back  : 
Commend  me  to  ray  kinsmen,  and  ray  son ; 
This  is  not  rauch. 

Clo.  Not  rauch  coramendation  to  them. 

Count.  Not  much  employment  for  you :  You  under- 
stand me  ? 

Clo.  Most  fruitfully  ;  I  am  there  before  my  legs. 

Count.  Haste  you  again.  [Exeu7it  severally. 

'  To  be  young  again,']  The  lady  censures  her  own  levity  in  trifling  with  her 
jester,  as  a  ridiculous  attempt  to  return  back  to  youth. — Johnson. 

">  O  Lirrd,  sir,]  A  ridicule  on  that  foolish  expletive  of  speech  then  in  vogue 
at  court. — Warbvrton. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  203 

SCENE  III. 

Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parolles. 

Laf.  They  say,  miracles  are  past;  and  we  have  our 
philosophical  persons,  to  make  modern"  and  familiar 
things,  supernatural  and  causeless.  Hence  is  it,  that  we 
make  trifles  of  terrors  ;  ensconcing  ourselves  into"  seem- 
ing knowledge,  when  we  should  submit  ourselves  to  an 
unknown  fear."* 

Par.  Why,  'tis  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder,  that 
hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

Ber.  And  so  'tis. 

Laf.  To  be  relinquish'd  of  the  artists, 

Par.  So  I  say;  both  of  Galen  and  Paracelsus. 

Laf.  Of  all  the  learned  and  authentick''  fellows, — 

Par.  Right,  so  I  say. 

Laf.  That  gave  him  out  incurable, — 

Par.  Why,  there  'tis ;  so  say  I  too. 

Laf.  Not  to  be  helped, — 

Par.  Right:  as  'twere,  a  man  assured  of  an — 

Laf.  Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 

Par.  Just,  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said, 

Laf.  I  may  truly  say,  it  is  a  novelty  to  the  world. 

Par.  It  is,  indeed  :  if  you  will  have  it  in  showing,  you 
shall  read  it  in, What  do  you  call  there  ? — 

Laf.  A  showing  of  a  heavenly  effect  in  an  earthly  actor. 

Par.  That's  it  I  would  have  said ;  the  very  same. 

Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin'  is  not  lustier :  'fore  me  I  speak 
in  respect 

Par.  Nay,  *tis  strange,  'tis  very  strange,   that  is  the 

" modern — ]  i.  e.  Common,  ordinary, 

° ensconcing  ourselves  into — ]  i.  e.  Fortifying  ourselves  in ;  into  for  in,  is 

frequent  with  our  old  writers. — Steevens. 

P fear,'\  Is  here  an  object  of  fear. 

1 authentic — ]  The  phrase  of  the  diploma  is  "  authentice  licentiatus." 

MusGRAVE.  Mr.  Giffard  sa^^s,  (notes  to  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  2.  p.  136.)  that  an 
"  authentick  physician,  was  one  who  was  allowed  to  practise  publickly." 

' dolphin — ]   By  dolphin  is  meant  the  dauphin,  the  heir  apparent,  and 

the  hope  of  the  crown  of  France.  His  title  is  so  translated  in  all  the  old 
books. — Steevens. 


204  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

brief  and  the  tedious  of  it;  and  he  is  a  most  facinorous' 
spirit,  that  will  not  acknowledge  it  to  be  the 

Laf.  Very  hand  of  heaven. 

Par.  Ay,  so  I  say. 

Lfl/".  In  a  most  weak 

Par.  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great  trans- 
cendence :  which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a  further  use  to 
be  made,  than  alone  the  recovery  of  the  king,  as  to  be 

Laf.  Generally  thankful. 

Enter  King,  Helena,  and  Attendants. 

Par.  I  would  have  said  it;  you  say  well.  Here  comes 
the  king. 

Laf.  Lustick,'  as  the  Dutchman  says  :  I'll  like  a  maid 
the  better,  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  ray  head  :  Why,  he's 
able  to  lead  her  a  coranto." 

Par.  Mort  du  Vinaigre !  Is  not  this  Helen  ? 

Laf.  'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 

King.  Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court. — 

\_Exit  an  Attendant. 
Sit,  my  preserver,  by  thy  patient's  side  ; 
And  w^ith  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banish *d  sense 
Thou  hast  repeal'd,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  my  promis'd  gift. 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 

Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye:  this  youthful  parcel 

Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing. 

O'er  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  father's  voice" 

I  have  to  use :  thy  frank  election  make ; 

Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  forsake. 

Hel.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mistress 
Fall,  when  love  please  !— marry,  to  each,  but  one  \^ 

Laf.  I'd  give  bay  Curtal,^  and  his  furniture, 

*  fac'mcrous — "J   i.  e.  Wk](ed. 

' Lustick,]  The  Dutch  word  for  Imty. 

" a  coranto.'\  A  swift  and  lively  dance. 

"  ffer  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  fatlier's  voice — ]  They  were  his  uards 
as  well  as  his  subjects. — Hi.nley. 

y to  each,  hut  one!]  i.  e.  To  all  except  Bertram. 

* bail  Curtal,]  i.  e.  A  bay  docked  horse. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  205 

My  mouth  no  more  were  broken*  than  these  boys'. 
And  writ  as  Httle  beard. 

King.  Peruse  them  well : 
Not  one  of  those,  but  had  a  noble  father. 

Hel.  Gentlemen, 
Heaven  has  through  me,  restor'd  the  king  to  health. 

AIL    We    understand   it,    and    thank    heaven    for 

you. 

Hel.  I  am  a  simple  maid ;  and  therein  wealthiest. 

That,  I  protest,  I  simply  am  a  maid  ; 

Please  it  your  majesty,  1  have  done  already  : 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me. 
We  blush,  that  thou  should' st  choose ;  but,  he  refused, 
Let  the  white  death*'  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever : 
We'll  ne'er  come  there  again. 

King.  Make  choice  :  and,  see. 

Who  shuns  thy  love,  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

Hel.  Now,  Dian,  from  thy  altar  do  I  fly ; 
And  to  imperial  Love,  that  god  most  high. 
Do  my  sighs  stream. — Sir,  will  you  hear  my  suit? 

1  Lord.  And  grant  it. 

Hel.  Thanks,  sir;  all  the  rest  is  mute.'= 

Laf.  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice,  than  throw  ames-ace** 

for  my  life. 

Hel.  The  honour,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fair  eyes. 

Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  replies  : 

Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 

Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love  ! 

2  Lord.  No  better,  if  you  please. 

Hel.  My  wish  receive, 

Which  great  love  grant  !  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Laf.  Do  all  they  deny  her  ?*    An  they  were  sons  of 

a  My  mouth  no  more  were  broken — ]  A  broken  7nouth  is  a  mouth  which  has 
lost  part  of  its  teeth — Johnson. 

i> w/iite  death^ — is  the  paleness  of  death,  and  not  the  Chlorosis,  as  Dr. 

Johnson  has  supposed. 

c the  rest  is  mute.'\  i.  e.  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you. — Steevens. 

d ames-ace — ]  When  the  two  aces  are  thrown  on  the  dice. 

e  Do  all  they  deny  herl]  None  of  them  have  yet  denied  her,  or  deny  her 
afterwards,  but  Bertram.  The  scene  must  be  so  regulated  that  Lafeu  and 
Parolles  talk  at  a  distance,  where  they  may  see  what  passes  between  Helena 
and  the  lords,  but  not  hear  it,  so  that  they  know  not  by  whom  the  refusal  is 
made. — Johnson. 

VOL.  III.  P 


206         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

mine,  I'd  have  them  whipped  ;  or  I  would  send  them  to 
the  Turk,  to  make  eunuchs  of. 

Hel.  Be  not  afraid  \to  a  Lord]  that  I  your  hand  should 
I'll  never  do  you  wrong  for  your  own  sake  :  [take; 

Blessing  upon  your  vows  !  and  in  your  bed 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed  ! 

Laf.  These  boys  are  boys  of  ice,  they'll  none  have  her: 
sure,  they  are  bastards  to  the  English  ;  the  French  ne'er 
got  them. 

Hel.  You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too  good, 
To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 

4  Lord.  Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

Laf.  There's  one  grape  yet, — I  am  sure  thy  father 
drank  wine. — But  if  thou  be'st  not  an  ass,  I  am  a  youth 
of  fourteen  ;  I  have  known  thee  already. 

Hel.  I  dare  not  say,  I  take  you  ;  [to  Bertram]  but  I 
Me  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live,  [give 

Into  your  guiding  power. — This  is  the  man. 

King.  Why  then,  young  Bertram,  take  her,  she's  thy 
wife. 

Ber.  My  wife,  my  liege  ?  I  shall  beseech  your  highness. 
In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  eyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

What  she  has  done  for  me  ? 

Ber.  Yes,  my  good  lord  ; 

But  never  hope  to  know  why  I  should  marry  her. 

King.  Thou  know'st  she  has  rais'd  me  from  my  sickly 

Ber.  But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  down      [bed. 
Must  answer  for  your  raising  ?  I  know  her  well ; 
She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge  : 
A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife  ! — Disdain 
Rather  corrupt  me  ever  ! 

King.  'Tis  only  title*^  thou  disdain'st  in  her,  the  which 
I  can  build  up.     Strange  is  it,  that  our  bloods. 
Of  colour,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together. 
Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  off' 
In  diff'erences  so  mighty  :  If  she  be 
All  that  is  virtuous,  (save  what  thou  dislik'st, 

f 'Tis  only  title — ]  i.  c.  The  want  of  title. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  207 

A  poor  physician's  daughter,)  thou  dislik'st 

Of  virtue  for  the  name  :  but  do  not  so  : 

From  lowest  place  when  virtuous  things  proceed. 

The  place  is  dignified  by  the  doer's  deed : 

Where  great  additions  swell,s  and  virtue  none. 

It  is  a  dropsied  honour :  good  alone 

Is  good,  without  a  name ;  vileness  is  so  :'' 

The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go, 

Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair; 

In  these  to  nature  she's  immediate  heir ; 

And  these  breed  honour  :  that  is  honour's  scorn, 

Which  challenges  itself  as  honour's  born,' 

And  is  not  like  the  sire  :  Honours  best  thrive 

When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 

Than  our  fore-goers  ;  the  mere  word's  a  slave, 

Debauch'd  on  every  tomb  ;  on  every  grave, 

A  lying  trophy,  and  as  oft  is  dumb. 

Where  dust,  and  damn'd  oblivion,  is  the  tomb 

Of  honour'd  bones  indeed.     What  should  be  said  ? 

If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid, 

I  can  create  the  rest :  virtue,  and  she. 

Is  her  own  dower ;  honour,  and  wealth,  from  me. 

Ber.  I  cannot  love  her,  nor  will  strive  to  do't. 

King.  Thou  wrong'st  thyself,  if  thou  should'st  strive  to 
choose. 

Hel.  That  you  are  well  restor'd,  my  lord,  I  am  glad ; 
Let  the  rest  go. 

King.  My  honour's  at  the  stake  ;  which  to  defeat,'' 
I  must  produce  my  power  :  Here,  take  her  hand. 
Proud  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  gift. 
That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shakle  up 
My  love,  and  her  desert ;  that  canst  not  dream. 
We,  poizing  us  in  her  defective  scale, 

s  Where  great  additions  swell,']  Additions  are  the  titles  and  descriptions  by 
which  great  men  are  distinguished  from  each  other. — Ma  lone. 

h good  alone 

Is  good,  without  a  name ;  vileness  is  so  :]  The  meaning  is, — Good  is  good, 
independent  on  any  worldly  distinction  or  title  :  so  vileness  is  vile,  in  what- 
ever state  it  may  appear. — Malone. 

' honour's  born'] — is  the  child  of  honour.     Born  is  here  used,  as  'bairn 

still  is  in  the  North.- — Henley. 

^ defeat,'] — from  defaire,  French,  to  free,  to  disembarrass. — Tyiiwiiitt. 

p2 


208  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL, 

Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam ;'  that  wilt  not  know. 

It  is  in  us  to  plant  thine  honour,  where 

We  please  to  have  it  grow  :  Check  thy  contempt : 

Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good : 

Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently 

Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedient  right. 

Which  both  thy  duty  owes,  and  our  power  claims ; 

Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  for  ever. 

Into  the  staggers,"  and  the  careless  lapse 

Of  youth  and  ignorance  ;  both  my  revenge  and  hate. 

Loosing  upon  thee  in  the  name  of  justice. 

Without  all  terms  of  pity  :  Speak  ;  thine  answer. 

Ber.  Pardon,'  my  gracious  lord  ;  for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes  :  When  I  consider. 
What  great  creation,  and  what  dole  of  honour. 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find,  that  she,  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king  ;  who,  so  ennobled. 
Is,  as  'twere,  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand. 

And  tell  her,  she  is  thine  :  to  whom  I  promise 
A  counterpoize  ;  if  not  to  thy  estate, 
A  balance  more  replete. 

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.  Good  fortune  and  the  favour  of  the  king. 
Smile  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now-born  brief," 
And  be  perform'd  to-night ;  the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space. 
Expecting  absent  friends.     As  thou  lov'st  her. 
Thy  love's  to  me  religious ;  else,  does  err. 

[Exeunt  King,  Bertram,  Helena,  Lords, 
awrf  Attendants. 

' that  canst  not  dream, 

We,  poKing  us  in  her  defective  scale, 

Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam ;]  That  canst  not  understand,  that  if  you  and 
this  maiden  should  be  weighed  together,  and  our  royal  favours  should  be 
thrown  into  her  scale  (which  you  esteem  so  light),  we  should  make  that  in 
which  you  should  be  placed,  to  strike  the  beam. — Malone. 

™ the  staggers,]  A  violent  disease  in  horses,  used  here  metaphorially : 

any  staggering  or  agitating  distress. — Archdeacon  Nakes. 

n  Shall  seem  expedietxt  on  the  nnw-born  brief,]  Brief  is  often  used  in  the  sense 
of  a  short  speech,  and  the  meaning  of  the  above  words  therefore  is,  The  marriage 
ceremony  is  cipedient  inconsequence  of  the  speech  we  have  just  heard. — Nar£S. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  201> 

Laf.  Do  you  hear,  monsieur  ?  a  word  with  you. 

Par.  Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

I^af.  Your  lord  and  master  did  well  to  make  his  re- 
cantation. 

Par.  Recantation  ? — My  lord  ? — my  master  ? 

Laf.  Ay;  Is  it  not  a  language,  I  speak? 

Par.  A  most  harsh  one;  and  not  to  be  understood 
without  bloody  succeeding.     My  master  ? 

Laf.  Are  you  companion  to  the  count  Rousillon  ? 

Par.  To  any  count ;  to  all  counts  ;  to  what  is  man. 

Laf.  To  what  is  count's  man  ;  count's  master  is  of  an- 
other style. 

Par.  You  are  too  old,  sir ;  let  it  satisfy  you,  you  are 
too  old. 

Laf.  I  must  tell  thee,  sirrah,  I  write  man ;  to  which 
title  age  cannot  bring  thee. 

Par.  What  I  dare  too  well  do,  I  dare  not  do. 

Laf.  I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries,"  to  be  a 
pretty  wise  fellow;  thou  didst  make  tolerable  vent  of 
thy  travel ;  it  might  pass :  yet  the  scarfs,  and  the  ban- 
nerets, about  thee,  did  manifoldly  dissuade  me  from  be- 
lieving thee  a  vessel  of  too  great  a  burden.  I  have  now 
found  thee ;  when  I  lose  thee  again,  I  care  not :  yet  art 
thou  good  for  nothing  but  taking  up  ;P  and  that  thou  art 
scarce  worth. 

Par.  Hadst  thou  not  the  privilege  of  antiquity  upon 
thee, 

Laf.  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger,  lest  thou 
hasten  thy  trial ; — which  if — Lord  have  mercy  on  thee 
for  a  hen !  So,  my  good  window  of  lattice,  fare  thee  well ; 
thy  casement  I  need  not  open,  for  I  look  through  thee. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious  indignity. 

Laf  Ay,  with  all  my  heart ;  and  thou  art  worthy  of  it. 

Par.  I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserved  it. 

Laf  Yes,  good  faith,  every  dram  of  it :  and  I  will  not 
bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.  Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

° for  two  ordinaries,']  Whilst  I  sat  twice  with  thee  at  table.— Johnson. 

'' taking  up;]  i.  e.  Contradicting.— J oHUbO}^. 


210  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Laf.  E'en  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast  to  pull 
at  a  smack  o'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou  be'st  bound  in 
thy  scarf,  and  beaten,  thoy  shalt  find  what  it  is  to  be  proud 
of  thy  bondage.  I  have  a  desire  to  hold  my  acquaintance 
with  thee,  or  rather  my  knowrledge;  that  I  may  say,  in  the 
default,''  he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable  vexation. 

L,af.  I  would  it  were  hell-pains  for  thy  sake,  and  my 
poor  doing  eternal :  for  doing  I  am  past ;  as  I  will  by  thee, 
in  what  taiotion  age  will  give  me  leave.'^  \_Exit. 

Par.  Well,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this  disgrace  off 
me ;  scurvy,  old,  filthy,  scurvy  lord ! — Well,  I  must  be 
patient ;  there  is  no  fettering  of  authority.  I'll  beat  him, 
by  my  life,  if  I  can  meet  him  with  any  convenience,  an  he 
were  double  and  double  a  lord.  I'll  have  no  more  pity  of 
his  age,  than  I  would  have  of — I'll  beat  him,  an  if  I  could 
but  meet  him  again. 

Re-enter  La  feu. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master's  married,  there's 
news  for  you ;  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  I  most  unfeignedly  beseech  your  lordship  to  make 
some  reservation  of  your  wrongs  :  He  is  my  good  lord  : 
whom  I  serve  above,  is  ray  master. 

Laf.  Who?  God? 

Par.  Ay,  sir. 

Laf  The  devil  it  is,  that's  thy  master.  Why  dost  thou 
garter  up  thy  arms  o'  this  fashion?  dost  make  hose  of  thy 
sleeves  ?  do  other  servants  so  ?  Thou  wert  best  set  thy 
lower  part  where  thy  nose  stands.  By  mine  honour,  if  I 
were  but  two  hours  younger,  I'd  beat  thee :  methinks, 
thou  art  a  general  offence,  and  every  man  should  beat  thee. 
I  think,  thou  wast  created  for  men  to  breathe  themselves 
upon  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my  lord. 

q in  the  default,']  That  is,  at  a  need. 

r for  doing  I  am  past ;  as  I  will  by  thee,  in  what  motion  age  will  give  me 

leave]  "  I  cannot  do  much;  doing  I  am  past,  as  I  will  by  thee  in  what  motion 
age  ruill  give  me  leave  ;  i.  e.  as  I  will  pass  by  thee  as  fast  as  I  am  able: — and  he 
immediately  goes  out.  It  is  a  play  on  the  word  past :  the  conceit  indeed  is 
poor, but  Shakspeare  plainly  meant  it." — Edwards. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  211 

Laf.  Go  to,  sir  ;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for  picking 
a  kernel  out  of  a  pomegranate  ;  you  are  a  vagabond,  and 
no  true  traveller;  you  are  more  saucy  with  lords,  and 
honourable  personages,  than  the  heraldry  of  your  birth 
and  virtue  gives  you  commission.  You  are  not  worth 
another  word,  else  I'd  call  you  knave.     I  leave  you. 

iExit. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then. — Good,  very  good ; 
let  it  be  concealed  a  while. 

Ber.  Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  for  ever  ! 

Par.  What  is  the  matter,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.  Although  before  the  solemn  priest  I  have  sworn, 
I  will  not  bed  her. 

Par.  What  ?  what,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.  O  my  Parolles,  they  have  married  me : — 
ril  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 

Par.  France  is  a  dog-hole,  and  it  no  more  merits 
The  tread  of  a  man's  foot :  to  the  wars  ! 

Ber.  There's  letters  from  my  mother ;  what  the  import  is, 
I  know  not  yet. 

Par.  Ay,  that  would  be  known  :  To  the  wars,  my  boy, 
to  the  wars ! 
He  wears  his  honour  in  a  box  unseen. 
That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy^  here  at  home  ; 
Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms. 
Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed  :  To  other  regions ! 
France  is  a  stable  ;  we,  that  dwell  in't,  jades  ; 
Therefore,  to  the  war ! 

Ber.  It  shall  be  so  ;  I'll  send  her  to  my  house. 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her. 
And  wherefore  I  am  fled  ;  write  to  the  king 
That  which  I  durst  not  speak  :  His  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields, 

s  That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy,  &c.]  Sir  T.  Hanmer,  in  his  Glossary,  ob- 
serves, that  kicksy-wicksy  is  a  made  word  in  ridicule  and  disdain  of  a  wife. — 
GnEY. 


212         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL: 

Where  noble  fellows  strike  :  War  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house,'  and  the  detested  wife. 

Par.  Will  this  capricio  hold  in  thee,  art  sure  ? 

Ber.  Go  with  me  to  my  chamber,  and  advise  me. 
I'll  send  her  straight  away  :  To-morrow 
I'll  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 

Par.  Why,  these  balls  bound  ;  there's  noise  in  it. 
'Tis  hard ; 
A  young  man,  married,  is  a  man  that's  marr'd  : 
Therefore  away,  and  leave  her  bravely  ;  go  : 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong :  but,  hush !  'tis  so. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

The  same.     Another  Room  in  the  same. ' 

Enter  Helena  and  Clown. 

Hel.  My  mother  greets  me  kindly  :  Is  she  well  ? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well ;  but  yet  she  has  her  health  ;  she's 
very  merry  ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well :  but  thanks  be  given, 
she's  very  well,  and  wants  nothing  i'the  world ;  but  yet 
she  is  not  well. 

HeL  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail,  that  she's 
not  very  well  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  she's  very  well,  indeed,  but  for  two  things. 

Hel.  What  two  things  ? 

Clo.  One,  that  she's  not  in  heaven,  whither  God  send 
her  quickly  !  the  other,  that  she's  in  earth,  from  whence 
God  send  her  quickly ! 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Bless  you,  my  fortunate  lady  ! 
Hel.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have  mine 
own  good  fortunes. 

Par.  You  had  my  prayers  to  lead  them  on  :  and  to  keep 

'  To  the  dark  house,]  The  dark  house  is  a  house  made  gloomy  by  discontent. 
— Johnson. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  IV.  213 

them  on,  have  them  still. — O,  my  knave  !  How  does  my 
old  lady  ? 

Clo.  So  that  you  had  her  wrinkles,  and  I  her  money,  I 
would  she  did  as  you  say. 

Par.  Why,  I  say  nothing. 

Clo.  Marry,  you  are  the  wiser  man  ;  for  many  a  man's 
tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing  :  To  say  nothing, 
to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing,  and  to  have  nothing,  is 
to  be  a  great  part  of  your  title ;  which  is  within  a  very 
little  of  nothing. 

Par.  Away,  thou'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  said,  sir,  before  a  knave  thou  art 
a  knave  ;  that  is,  before  me  thou  art  a  knave  :  this  had 
been  truth,  sir. 

Par.  Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool,  I  have  found  thee. 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir?  or  were  you 
taught  to  find  me  ?  The  search,  sir,  was  profitable ;  and 
much  fool  may  you  find  in  you,  even  to  the  world's  plea- 
sure, and  the  increase  of  laughter. 

Par.  A  good  knave,  i'faith,  and  well  fed. — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night ; 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  and  right  of  love. 
Which,  as  your  due,  time  claims,  he  does  acknowledge ; 
But  puts  it  off  by  a  compell'd  restraint ; 
Whose  want,  and  whose  delay,  is  strewed  with  sweets. 
Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time. 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'er-flow  with  joy. 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

Hel.  What's  his  will  else? 

Par.  That  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  o'  the  king, 
And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding, 
Strengthen'd  with  what  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need." 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he  ? 

Par.  That,  having  this  obtain'd,  you  presently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hel.  In  every  thing  I  wait  upon  his  will. 

'■■ probable  need.]  A  specious  appearance  of  necessity.— Johnson. 


214  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Par.  I  shall  report  it  so. 

Hel.  I  pray  you.— Come,  sirrah. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

Another  room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Lafeu  and  Bertram. 

Laf.  But,  I  hope,  your  lordship  thinks  not  him  a  sol- 
dier. 

Ber.  Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  approof. 

Laf.  You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.  And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true ;  I  took  this  lark  for 
a  bunting.'' 

Ber.  I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  he  is  very  great  in  know- 
ledge, and  accordingly  valiant. 

Laf.  I  have  then  sinned  against  his  experience,  and 
transgressed  against  his  valour ;  and  my  state  that  way  is 
dangerous,  since  I  cannot  yet  find  in  my  heart  to  repent. 
Here  he  comes ;  I  pray  you,  make  us  friends,  I  will  pur- 
sue the  amity. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  These  things  shall  be  done,  sir.     [To  Bertram, 

Laf.  Pray  you,  sir,  who's  his  tailor  ? 

Par.  Sir? 

Laf.  O,  I  know  him  well:  Ay,  sir;  he,  sir,  is  a  good 
workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.  Is  she  gone  to  the  king?       [Aside  to  Parolles. 

Par.  She  is. 

Ber.  Will  she  away  to-night  ? 

Par.  As  you'll  have  her. 

Ber.  I  have  writ  my  letters,  casketed  my  treasure. 
Given  order  for  our  horses  ;  and  to-night, 

X a  bunting.]  The  bunting  is,  in  feather,  size,  and  form,  so  like  the  iky- 

lark,  as  to  require  nice  attention  to  discover  the  one  from  the  other  ;  it  also 
ascends  and  sings  in  the  air  nearly  in  the  same  manner  :  but  it  has  little  or 
no  song,  which  gives  estimation  to  the  sky-lark. — J.  Johnson. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  V.  215 

When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, — 
And,  ere  I  do  begin, 

Laf.  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the  latter  end  of 
a  dinner ;  but  one  that  lies  three-thirds,  and  uses  a  known 
truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings  with,  should  be  once 
heard,  and  thrice  beaten. — God  save  you,  captain. 

Ber.  Is  there  any  unkindness  between  my  lord  and  you, 
monsieur  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  how  I  have  deserved  to  run  into  my 
lord's  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  run  into't,  boots  and  spurs 
and  all, like  him  that  leaped  into  the  custard;''  and  out  of 
it  you'll  run  again,  rather  than  suffer  question  for  your 
residence. 

Ber.  It  may  be,  you  have  mistaken  him,  my  lord. 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at  his 
prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord  ;  and  believe  this  of  me. 
There  can  be  no  kernel  in  this  light  nut ;  the  soul  of  this 
man  is  his  clothes  :  trust  him  not  in  matter  of  heavy  con- 
sequence ;  I  have  kept  of  them  tame,  and  know  their  na- 
tures.— Farewell,  monsieur  :  I  have  spoken  better  of  you, 
than  you  have  or  will  deserve  at  my  hand ;  but  we  must 
do  good  against  evil.  [Exit. 

Par.  An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Ber.  I  think  fjo. 

Par.  Why,  do  you  not  know  him? 

Ber.  Yes,  I  do  know  him  well ;  and  common  speech 
Gives  him  a  worthy  pass.     Here  comes  my  clog. 

Enter  Helena. 

HeL  I  have,  sir,  as  I  was  commanded  from  you. 
Spoke  with  the  king,  and  have  procur'd  his  leave 
For  present  parting  ;  only,  he  desires 
Some  private  speech  with  you. 

Ber.  I  shall  obey  his  will. 

You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course, 

y  Yoxi  have  made  shift  to  run  into't,  boots  and  spurs  and  all,  like  him  that  leapecf 
info  the  custard  ;]  This  odd  allusion  is  not  introduced  without  a  view  to  satire. 
It  was  a  foolery  practised  at  city  entertainments,  whilst  the  jester  or  zany  was 
in  vogue,  for  him  to  jump  into  a  large  deep  custard,  set  for  the  purpose. — 
Theobacd. 


216  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Which  holds  not  colour  with  the  time,  nor  does 

The  ministration  and  required  office 

On  my  particular :  prepar'd  I  was  not 

For  such  a  business  ;  therefore  am  I  found 

So  much  unsettled  :  This  drives  me  to  entreat  you. 

That  presently  you  take  your  way  for  home  ; 

And  rather  muse/  than  ask,  why  I  entreat  you  : 

For  my  respects  are  better  than  they  seem ; 

And  my  appointments  have  in  them  a  need. 

Greater  than  shows  itself,  at  the  first  view. 

To  you  that  know  them  not.     This  to  my  mother  : 

[Giving  a  letter. 
'Twill  be  two  days  ere  I  shall  see  you ;  so 
I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 

Hel.  Sir,  Lean  nothing  say. 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 

Ber.  Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 

Hel.  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that. 
Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  fail'd 
To  equal  my  great  fortune. 

Ber.  Let  that  go  : 

My  haste  is  very  great :  Farewell ;  hie  home. 

Hel.  Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Ber.  Well,  what  would  you  say  ? 

Hel.  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe  ;* 
Nor  dare  I  say,  'tis  mine  ;  and  yet  it  is  ; 
But,  like  a  timorous  thief,  most  fain  would  steal 
What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Ber.  What  would  you  have  ? 

Hel.  Something ;  and  scarce  so  much  : — nothing,  in- 
deed.— 
I  would  not  tell  you  what  I  would  :  my  lord — 'faith,  yes ; — 
Strangers,  and  foes,  do  sunder,  and  not  kiss. 

Ber.  I  pray  you,  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to  horse. 

Hel.  I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good  my  lord. 

Ber.  Where  are  my  other  men,  monsieur? — Farewell. 

[£j7V  Helena. 
Go  thou  toward  home  ;  where  1  will  never  come, 

'■ muse,]  i.  c.  Wonder,  '•' owe ;]  i.  e.  Own. 


ACT  til.— SCENE  I.  217 

Whilst  I  can  shake  my  sword,  or  hear  the  drum  : — 
Away,  and  for  our  flight. 

Par.  Bravely,  coragio !  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

Scene  I.— Florence.    A  Roomin  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  the  Duke  o/"  Florence,  attended;  two  French 
Lords,  and  others. 

Duke.  So  that,  from  point  to  point,  now  have  you  heard 
The  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war ; 
Whose  great  decision  hath  much  blood  let  forth. 
And  more  thirsts  after. 

1  Lord.  Holy  seems  the  quarrel 
Upon  your  grace's  part ;  black  and  fearful 

On  the  opposer. 

Duke.  Therefore  we  marvel  much,  our  cousin  France 
Would,  in  so  just  a  business,  shut  his  bosom 
Against  our  borrowing  prayers. 

2  Lord.  Good  my  lord. 
The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield. 

But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man,'' 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion  :  therefore  dare  not 
Say  what  I  think  of  it ;  since  I  have  found 
Myself  in  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 
As  often  as  I  guess'd. 

Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

2  Lord.  But  I  am  sure,  the  younger  of  our  nature,<= 
That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will,  day  by  day. 
Come  here  for  physick. 

Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be ; 

And  all  the  honours,  that  can  fly  from  us. 
Shall  on  them  settle.     You  know  your  places  well : 
When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell  : 
To-morrow  to  the  field.  [Flourish.  Exeunt. 

^ an  outward  man,']  i.  e.  One  not  in  thesecret  of  affairs. — Warburton. 

" the  younger  of  our  nature,']  i.  e.  as  we  say  at  present,  our  youngfellows. 

— Steevens, 


218  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

SCENE  n. 

Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 
Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  It  hath  happened  all  as  I  would  have  had  it, 
save,  that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  take  my  young  lord  to  be  a  very 
melancholy  man. 

Count.  By  what  observance,  I  pray  you  ? 

Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot,  and  sing ;  mend 
the  ruff,*=  and  sing ;  ask  questions,  and  sing ;  pick  his 
teeth,  and  sing  :  I  know  a  man  that  had  this  trick  of  me- 
lancholy, sold  a  goodly  manor  for  a  song.*^ 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he  means 
to  come.  {Opening  a  letter. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbel,  since  I  was  at  court ;  our 
old  ling  and  our  Isbels  o'the  country  are  nothing  like  your 
old  ling  and  your  Isbels  o'the  court :  the  brains  of  my 
Cupid's  knocked  out ;  and  I  begin  to  love,  as  an  old  man 
loves  money,  with  no  stomach. 

Count.  What  have  we  here  ? 

Clo.  E'en  that  you  have  there.  {Exit. 

Count,  [reads.]  /  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in-law :  she 
skath  recovered  the  king,  and  undone  me.  I  have  loedded  her, 
not  bedded  her ;  and  sworn  to  make  the  not  eternal.  You 
shall  hear,  I  am  run  away ;  knoiv  it,  before  the  repart  come. 
If  there  be  breath  enough  in  the  world,  I  tvill  hold  a  lo7ig 
distance.    My  duty  to  you. 

Your  unfortunate  son, 

Bertram. 
This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 

<: mend  the  rujf.l   The  tops  of  the  boots,  in  our  author's  time,  turned 

•down,  and  hung  loosely  over  the  leg.  The  folding  is  what  the  clown  means 
by  the  ruff.    Ben  Jonson  calls  it  ri^le ;  and  perhaps  it  should  be  so  here. — 

WllALLEY. 

"• /  know  a  mail,  &c.]  The  only  authentic  copy  reads,  "I  know  a  man 

thathad  this  trick  of  melancholy  hold  a  goodly  manor  for  a  song."  The  read- 
ing which  is  now  found  in  the  text  is  that  of  the  third  folio,  and  does  not  seem 
to  have  much  connexion  with  the  preceding  portion  of  the  clown's  speech. 
Some  alteration  is  evidently  necessary,  and  I  think  it  would  be  more  in  agree- 
ment with  the  context  to  read,  "  /  know  a  man  that  has  this  trick  of  melancholy, 
holds  a  gOiuilif  manner  for  a  song,  i.  e.  has  an  excellent  hahit  of  singing. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  11.  219 

To  fly  the  favours  of  so  good  a  king ; 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head. 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire. 

Re-enter  Olow^n. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder  is  heavy  news  within,  between 
two  soldiers  of  my  young  lady. 

Count.  What  is  the  matter? 

Clo.  Nay,  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  news,  some  com- 
fort ;  your  son  will  not  be  killed  so  soon  as  I  thought  he 
would. 

Count.  Why  should  he  be  kill'd  ? 

Clo.  So  say  I,  madam,  if  he  run  away,  as  I  hear  he 
does :  the  danger  is  in  standing  to't ;  that's  the  loss  of  men, 
though  it  be  the  getting  of  children.  Here  they  come, 
will  tell  you  more  :  for  my  part,  I  only  hear,  your  son  was 
run  away.  [Exit  Clown. 

Enter  Helena  and  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gen.  Save  you,  good  madam. 

Hel.  Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  for  ever  gone. 

2  Gen.  Do  not  say  so. 

Count.  Think  upon  patience. — 'Pray  you,  gentlemen, — 
I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy,  and  grief, 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start. 
Can  woman  me*  unto't : — Where  is  my  son,  I  pray  you  ? 

2  Gen.  Madam,  he's  gone  to  serve  the  duke  of  Flo- 
rence : 
We  met  him  thitherward  ;  from  thence  we  came. 
And,  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court. 
Thither  we  bend  again. 

Hel.  Look  on  his  letter,  madam  ;  here's  my  passport. 
[Reads.]  When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my  finger  J  which 

never  shall  come  off,  and  shoio  me  a  child  begotten  of  thy 

body,  that  I  am  father  to,  then  eall  me  husband:  but  in 

such  a  then  /  write  a  never. 
This  is  a  dreadful  sentence. 

e  Can  woman  me — ]  i.  e.  Affect  me  suddenly  and  deeply,  as  my  sex  are 
usually  affected. — Steevens. 

f  When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my_^"n^er,]  i,  e.  When  thou  canst  get  the 
ring,  which  is  on  my  finger  into  thy  possession. — Wjirbvrton. 


220         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Count,  Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen  ? 

1  Gen.  Ay,  madam ; 
And,  for  the  contents'  sake,  are  sorry  for  our  pains. 

Count.  I  pr'ythee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer ; 
If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  are  thine,s 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety  :  He  was  my  son  ; 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood. 
And  thou  art  all  my  child. — Towards  Florence  is  he  ? 

2  Gen.  Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier  ? 

2  Gen.  Such  is  his  noble  purpose  :  and,  believ't. 
The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honour 
That  good  convenience  claims. 

Count.  Return  you  thither  ? 

1  Gen.  Ay,  madam,  with  the  swiftest  wing  of  speed. 

Hel.  [reads.]  Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France. 
'Tis  bitter. 

Count.  Find  you  that  there  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam. 

1  Gen.  'Tis  but  the  boldness  of  his  hand,  haply,  which 
His  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

Count.  Nothing  in  France,  until  he  have  no  wife  ! 
There's  nothing  here,  that  is  too  good  for  him. 
But  only  she  ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord. 
That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon, 
And  call  her  hourly,  mistress.     Who  was  with  him  ? 

1  Gen.  A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  some  time  known. 

Count.  Parolles,  was't  not  ? 

1  Gen.  Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count.  A  very  tainted  fellow,  and  full  of  wickedness. 
My  son  corrupts  a  well-derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

1  Gen.  Indeed,  good  lady. 

The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that,  too  much, 
Which  holds  him  much  to  have.'' 

g  If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  are  thine,  &c.]  This  sentiment  is  elliptically 
expressed.  If  thou  keepest  all  thy  sorrows  to  thyself,  i.  e.  "  all  tlie  griefs  that  are 
thine,"  &c.— Steevens. 

ii a  deal  of  that,  too  much, 

Which  holds  him  much  to  have.]   That  is,  his  vices  stand  him   in  stead.— 
Warburton. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  '  221 

Count.  You  are  welcome,  gentlemen, 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son. 
To  tell  him,  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honour  that  he  loses :  mpre  I'll  entreat  you 
Written  to  bear  along. 

2  Gen.  We  serve  you,  madam. 

In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  affairs. 

Count.  Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  courtesies.' 
Will  you  draw  near  ?      [Exeunt  Countess  and  Gentlemen. 

Hel.   Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France. 
Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 
Thou  shalt  have  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France, 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.     Poor  lord  !  is't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war?  and  is  it  I 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 
Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets  ?  O  you  leaden  messengers. 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire. 
Fly  with  false  aim  ;  move  the  still-piecing''  air. 
That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord  ! 
Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there  ; 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitiff,  that  do  hold  him  to  it ; 
And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected  :  better  'twere 
I  met  the  ravin^  lion  when  he  roar'd 
With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger  ;  better  'twere 
That  all  the  miseries,  which  nature  owes. 
Were  mine  at  once  :  No,  come  thou  home,  Rousillon, 
Whence  honour  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar,"" 

'  Not  so,  &c.]  The  gentlemen  declare  that  they  are  servants  to  the  countess  ; 
she  replies, — No  otherwise  than  as  she  returns  the  same  offices  of  civility. — 
Johnson. 

'' still-piecing — ]   i.  e.  Closing  as  soon  as  divided. — The  old  reading  is, 

"  move  the  still  peering  air  ;"  the  emendation  which  has  been  generally  adopted, 
and  which  I  have  retained,  was  made  by  Steevens.  Dr.  Warburton  supposes 
that  the  words  have  become  accidently  "  shuffled  into  nonsense,"  and  that  the 
following  transposition  would  rectify  the  passage: — "  Pierce  the  slill-moving  air. 
That  sings  with  piercing." 

' ravin — ]  i.  e.  Ravenous'i)!  ravening. 

"  Whence  honour  hut  of  danger,  &c.]  The  sense  is,  from  these  wars,  where 
all  the  advantages  that  honour  usually  reaps  from  the  danger  it  rushes  upon, 
VOL.  III.  Q 


222         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

As  oft  it  loses  all ;  I  will  be  gone  : 

My  being  here  it  is,  that  holds  thee  hence  : 

Shall  I  stay  here  to  do't  ?  no,  no,  although 

The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house. 

And  angels  ofRc'd  all :  I  will  be  gone ; 

That  pitiful  rumour  may  report  my  flight, 

To  consolate  thine  ear.     Come,  night ;  end,  day  ! 

For,  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I'll  steal  away.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IIL 

Florence.     Before  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  Bertram,  Lords, 
Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Duke.  The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art ;  and  we, 
Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence. 
Upon  thy  promising  fortune. 

Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength  ;  but  yet 
We'll  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake. 
To  the  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Duke.  Then  go  thou  forth  ; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm. 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress  ! 

Ber.  This  very  day. 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file  ; 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts ;  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Steward. 

Count.  Alas  !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of  her  ? 
Might  you  not  know%  she  would  do  as  she  has  done, 
By  sending  me  a  letter?  Read  it  again. 

is  only  a  scar  in  testimony  of  its  bravery,  as  on  the  other  hand,  it  often  is  the 
cause  of  losing  all.  even  life  itself. — Hf.ath. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV.  223 

Stew.  I  am  St.  Jaques'  pilgrim,"  thither  gone: 

Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended. 
That  bare-foot  plod  I  the  cold  ground  upon. 

With  sainted  vow  m^  faults  to  have  amended. 
Write,  write,  thai,  from  the  bloody  course  of  war, 

My  dearest  master,  your  dear  son  may  hie ; 
Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  far. 

His  name  with  zealous  fervour  sanctify : 
His  taken  labours  bid  him  me  forgive  ; 

I,  his  despiteful  Juno,"  sent  him  forth 
From  courtly  friends,  with  camping  foes  to  live. 

Where  death  and  danger  dog  the  heels  of  loorth : 
He  is  too  good  and  fair  for  death  and  me  ; 
Whom  I  myself  embrace,  to  set  him  free. 

Count.    Ah,    what   sharp   stings    are   in   her  mildest 

words ! 

Rinaldo,  you  did  never  lack  adviceP  so  much, 
As  letting  her  pass  so  ;  had  1  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents. 
Which  thus  she  hath  prevented. 

Steio.  Pardon  me,  madam  : 

If  I  had  given  you  this  at  over-night. 
She  might  have  been  o'erta'en  ;  and  yet  she  writes. 
Pursuit  would  be  but  vain. 

Count.  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband?  he  cannot  thiive. 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear. 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. — Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife  : 
Let  every  word  weigh  heavy  of  her  worth. 
That  he  does  weighi  too  light :  my  greatest  grief. 
Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 
Despatch  the  most  convenient  messenger  : — 

° St.  Jaques'  pilgrim,']    From  Heylin's  France  painted  to  the  life,  8vo. 

1656,  we  learn  that  at  Orleans  was  a  church  dedicated  to  St.  Jaques,  to  which 
pilgrims  formerly  used  to  resort,  to  adore  a  part  of  the  cross  pretended  to  be 
foimd  there. — Reed. 

° ■  Juno,]  Alluding  to  the  story  of  Hercules. 

1 weigh—]  i.  e.  Esteem.  p advice — ]  Discretion  or  thought. 

Q  2 


224         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

When,  haply,  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone. 

He  will  return ;  and  hope  I  may,  that  she. 

Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again. 

Led  hither  by  pure  love  :  which  of  them  both 

Is  dearest  to  me,  I  have  no  skill  in  sense 

To  make  distinction  : — Provide  this  messenger  : — 

My  heart  is  heavy,  and  my  age  is  weak ; 

Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me  speak. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

Without  the  Walls  of  Florence. 

A   tucket  afar   off.      Enter   an  old  Widow   of  Florence. 
Diana,  Violent  a,  Mariana,  and  other  Citizens. 

Wid.  Nay,  come ;  for  if  they  do  approach  the  city  we 
shall  lose  all  the  sight. 

Dia.  They  say,  the  French  count  has  done  most  ho- 
nourable service. 

Wid.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  taken  their  greatest  com- 
mander ;  and  that  with  his  own  hand  he  slew  the  duke's 
brother.  We  have  lost  our  labour  ;  they  are  gone  a  con- 
trary way  :  hark!  you  may  know  by  their  trumpets. 

Mar.  Come,  let's  return  again,  and  suffice  ourselves 
with  the  report  of  it.  Well,  Diana,  take  heed  of  this 
French  earl :  the  honour  of  a  maid  is  her  name ;  and  no 
legacy  is  so  rich  as  honesty. 

Wid.  I  have  told  my  neighbour,  how  you  have  been 
solicited  by  a  gentleman  his  companion. 

Mar.  I  know  that  knave ;  hang  him ;  one  Parolles : 
a  filthy  officer  he  is  in  those  suggestions'"  for  the  young 
earl. — Beware  of  them,  Diana;  their  promises,  entice- 
ments, oaths,  tokens,  and  all  these  engines  of  lust,  are 
not  the  things  they  go  under  :*  many  a  maid  hath  been 
seduced  by  them ;  and  the  misery  is,  example,  that  so 
terrible  shows  in  the  wreck  of  maidenhood,  cannot  for 

r suggestions — ]  Temptations. 

» are  not  the  things  they  go  tmder  :]  They  are  not  the  things  for  which 

their  names  would  make  them  pass. — Johnson. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V.  225 

all  that  dissuade  succession,  but  that  they  are  limed  with 
the  twigs  that  threaten  them.  I  hope,  I  need  not  to  ad- 
vise you  further ;  but,  I  hope,  your  own  grace  will  keep 
you  where  you  are,  thovigh  there  were  no  further  danger 
known,  but  the  modesty  which  is  so  lost. 
Dia.  You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Enter  Helena,  in  the  dress  of  a  Pilgrim. 

Wid.  I  hope  so. Look,  here  comes  a  pilgrim  :  I  know 

she  will  lie  at  my  house  :  thither  they  send  one  another  5 

I'll  question  her. — 

God  save  you,  pilgrim  !  Whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Hel.  To  Saint  Jaques  le  grand. 
Where  do  the  palmers*  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you  ? 

Wid.  At  the  Saint  Francis  here,  beside  the. port. 

Hel.  Is  this  the  way  ? 

Wid.  Ay,  marry,  is  it.— Hark  you  ! 

[A  march  afar  off. 
They  come  this  way  : — If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pilgrim. 
But  till  the  troops  come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodg'd  ; 
The  rather,  for,  I  think,  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.  If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

Hel.  I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Wid.  You  came,  I  think,  from  France  ? 

Hel.  I  did  so. 

Wid.  Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman  of  yours. 
That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you. 

Dia.  The  count  Rousillon ;  Know  you  such  a  one  ? 

Hel.  But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most  nobly  of  him  : 
His  face  I  know  not. 

* palmers—']  Pilgrims  that  visited  holy  places;  so  called  from  a  staff, 

or  bough  of  palm  they  were  wont  to  carry,  especially  such  as  had  visited  the 
holy  places  at  Jerusalem.  A  palmer  differed  from  a  pilgrim  thus  :  a  ■pilgrim 
had  some  dwelling-place,  a  palmer  none ;  the  pilgrim  travelled  to  some  certain 
place,  a  palmer  to  all,  and  not  to  any  one  in  particular  ;  the  pilgrim  might  go 
at  his  own  charge,  the  palmer  must  profess  wilful  poverty  ;  the  pilgrim  might 
give  over  his  profession,  the  palmer  must  be  constant  till  he  had  the  palm:  that 
is,  victory  over  his  ghostly  enemies  and  life  by  death. — Blount's  Glossography. 


226  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Dia.  Whatso'er  he  is. 

He's  bravely  taken  here.     He  stole  from  France, 
As  'tis  reported,  for  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking  :  Think  you  it  is  so? 

Hel.  Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth ;  I  know  his  lady. 

Dia.  There  is  a  gentleman,  that  serves  the  count. 
Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 

Hel.  What's  his  name  ? 

Dia.  Monsieur  Parolles. 

Hel.  O,  I  believe  with  him. 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated  ;  all  her  deserving 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examin'd." 

Dia.  Alas,  poor  lady  ! 

Tis  a  hard  bondage,  to  become  the  wife 
Of  a  detesting  lord. 

Wid.  I  write  good  creature"  wheresoe'er  she  is. 
Her  heart  weighs  sadly  :  this  young  maid  might  do  her 
A  shrewd  turn,  if  she  pleas'd. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean  ? 

May  be,  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed  ; 

And  brokesy  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honour  of  a  maid  : 
But  she  is  arm'd  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard 
^n  honestest  defence. 

Enter  with  drum  and  colours,  a  party  of  the  Florentine 
army,  Bertram,  and  Parolles. 

Mar.  The  gods  forbid  else  ! 

Wid.  So,  now  they  com  e : 

That  is  Antonio,  the  duke's  eldest  son  ; 
That,  Escalus. 

Hel.  Which  is  the  Frenchman? 

0 eiamin'd,']  That  is,  questioned,  doubted. 

*  I  write  good  creature — ]  I  warrant  her  a  good  creature. 

y brokes — ]  To  broke  is  to  deal  with  panders.   A  broker,  in  our  author's 

time,  meant  a  bawd  or  pimp. — Maloni:. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V.  227 

Dia.  He ; 

That  with  the  plume  :  'tis  a  most  gallant  fellow ; 

I  would,  he  lov'd  his  wife  :  if  he  were  honester. 

He  were  much  goodlier  : — Is't  not  a  handsome  gentleman  ? 

HeL  I  like  him  well. 

Dia.  'Tis  pity,  he  is  not  honest :  Yond's  that  same 
knave. 
That  leads  him  to  these  places ;  were  I  his  lady, 
I'd  poison  that  vile  rascal. 

HeL  Which  is  he  ? 

Dia.  That  jack-an-apes  with  scarfs  :   Why  is  he  me- 
lancholy ? 

HeL  Perchance  he's  hurt  in  the  battle. 

Par.  Lose  our  drum  !  well. 

Mar.  He's  shrewdly  vexed  at  something  :  Look,  he  has 
spied  us. 

Wid.  Marry,  hang  you  ! 

Mar.  And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier  ! 

[Exeimt  Bertram,  Parolles,  Officers, 
and  Soldiers. 

Wid.  The  troop  is  past :  Come,  pilgrim,  I  will  bring  you 
Where  you  shall  host :  of  enjoin'd  penitents 
There's  four  or  five,  to  great  Saint  Jaques  bound. 
Already  at  my  house. 

Hel.  I  humbly  thank  you  : 

Please  it  this  matron,  and  this  gentle  maid. 
To  eat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge,  and  thanking. 
Shall  be  for  me  :  and,  to  requite  you  further, 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  on  this  virgin, 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We'll  take  your  offer  kindly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. 

Camp  before  Florence. 

Enter  Bertram,  and  the  txvo  French  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  put  him  to't  j  let  him  have 
his  way. 


228         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL; 

2  Lord.  If"  your  lordship  find  liiiii  not  a  hilding/  hold 
me  no  more  in  your  respect. 

1  Lord.  On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 

Ber.  Do  you  think,  I  am  so  far  deceived  in  him  'I 

1  Lord.  Believe  it,  my  lord,  in  mine  own  direct  know- 
ledge, without  any  malice,  but  to  speak  of  him  as  my 
kinsman,  he's  a  most  notable  coward,  an  infinite  and  end- 
less liar,  an  hourly  promise-breaker,  the  owner  of  no  one 
good  quality  worthy  your  lordship's  entertainment. 

2  Lord.  It  were  fit  you  knew  him ;  lest,  reposing  too 
far  in  his  virtue,  which  he  hath  not,  he  might,  at  some 
great  and  trusty  business,  in  a  main  danger  fail  you. 

Ber.  I  would,  I  knew  in  what  particular  action  to  try 
him. 

2  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum, 
which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  undertake  to  do. 

1  Lord.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will  suddenly 
surprise  him  ;  such  I  will  have,  whom  I  am  sure,  he  knows 
not  from  the  enemy  :  we  will  bind  and  hoodwink  him  so, 
that  he  shall  suppose  no  other  but  that  he  is  carried  into 
the  leaguer"  of  the  adversaries,  when  we  bring  him  to  our 
tents  :  Be  but  your  lordship  present  at  his  examination  ; 
if  he  do  not,  for  the  promise  of  his  life,  and  in  the  highest 
compulsion  of  base  fear,  offer  to  betray  you,  and  deliver 
all  the  intelligence  in  his  power  against  you,  and  that  with 
the  divine  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath,  never  trust  my 
judgment  in  any  thing. 

2  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him  fetch  his 
drum  ;  he  says,  he  has  a  stratagem  for't :  when  your  lord- 
ship sees  the  bottom  of  his  success  in't,  and  to  what  metal 
this  counterfeit  lump  of  ore  will  be  melted,  if  you  give 
him  not  John  Drum's  entertainment,**  your  inclining  can- 
not be  removed.     Here  he  comes. 

^ a  hilding,]  A  hilding  is  a  paltry,  cowardly  fellow. 

* leaguer — ]  i.  e.  Camp.     "They  will  not  TOuchsafe  in  their  speeches 

or  writings,  to  use  our  ancient  termes  belonging  to  matters  of  warre,  but  to 
call  a  campe  by  the  Dutch  name  of  Legar ;  nor  will  not  afFoord  to  say,  that 
such  a  towne  or  such  a  fort  is  besieged,  but  that  it  is  belegard." — Sir  John  Smyth's 
Discourses,  &c.  1590. — Douce. 

'' if  you  give  him  not  John  Drum's  entertainment,]  i.  e.  Treat  him  very 

ill ;  a  proverbial  expression  of  doubtful  origin. — Holenshed  thus  defines  it ; 
speaking  of  the  hospitality  of  a  mayor  of  Dublin,  he  says,  that  "  his  porter  or 


ACT  III.— SCENE  VI.  229 


Enter  Parolles. 


1  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not  the 
humour  of  his  design  :  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum  in  any 
hand." 

Ber.  How  now,  monsieur  ?  this  drum  sticks  sorely  in 
your  disposition. 

2  Lord.  A  pox  on't,  let  it  go  ;  'tis  but  a  drum. 

Par.  But  a  drum  !  Is't  but  a  drum  ?  A  drum  so  lost ! 
— There  was  an  excellent  command  !  to  charge  in  with 
our  horse  upon  our  own  wings,  and  to  rend  our  own 
soldiers. 

,  2  Lord.  That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  command 
of  the  service  ;  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that  Csesar  him- 
self could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had  been  there  to 
command. 

Ber.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  success  ; 
some  dishonour  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that  drum  ;  but  it  is 
not  to  be  recovered. 

Par.  It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.  It  might,  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered  :  but  that  the  merit  of  service 
is  seldom  attributed  to  the  true  and  exact  performer,  I 
would  have  that  drum  or  another,  or  hicjacet.^ 

Ber.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to't,  monsieur,  if 
you  think  your  mystery  in  stratagem  can  bring  this  in- 
strument of  honour  again  into  his  native  quarter,  be  mag- 
nanimous in  the  enterprise,  and  go  on  ;  I  will  grace  the 
attempt  for  a  worthy  exploit :  if  you  speed  well  in  it,  the 
duke  shall  both  speak  of  it,  and  extend  to  you  what  fur- 
ther becomes  his  greatness,  even  to  the  utmost  syllable  of 
your  worthiness. 

Par.  By  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  undertake  it. 

Ber.  But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

other  officer  durst  not  for  both  his  ears  give  the  simplest  man  that  resorted  to 
his  house,  John  Drum's  entertainment,  which  is,  to  hale  a  man  in  by  the  head, 
and  thrust  him  out  by  both  the  shoulders," — Hist,  of  Ireland,  h.  "i.  col.i.  cit.cap. 

« in  any  hand.'\  i.  e.  At  any  rate. 

^ orhicjacet.]  i.e.  Or  here  lies ; — the  usual  beginning  of  epitaphs.     I 

would  (says  Parolles)  recover  either  the  drum  I  have  lost,  or  another  belonging 
to  the  enemy;  or  die  in  the  attempt. — Maloni:. 


230         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Par.  I'll  about  it  this  evening  :  and  I  will  presently  pen 
down  my  dilemmas,*  encourage  myself  in  my  certainty, 
put  myself  into  my  mortal  preparation,  and,  by  midnight, 
look  to  hear  further  from  me. 

Ber.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  grace,  you  are  gone 
about  it  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my  lord  ; 
but  the  attempt  I  vow. 

Bei'.  I  know,  thou  art  valiant;  and,  to  the  possibility 
of  thy  soldiership,  will  subscribe  for  thee.     Farewell. 

Par.  I  love  not  many  words.  [Bxit. 

1  Lord.  No  more  than  a  fish  loves  water.*^ — Is  not  this 
a  strange  fellow^  my  lord  ?  that  so  confidently  seems  to 
undertake  this  business,  which  he  knows  is  not  to  be 
done ;  damns  himself  to  do,  and  dares  better  be  damned 
than  to  do't. 

2  Lord.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we  do : 
certain  it  is,  that  he  mil  steal  himself  into  a  man's  favour, 
and,  for  a  week,  escape  a  great  deal  of  discoveries  ;  but 
when  you  find  him  out,  you  have  him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why,  do  you  think,  he  will  make  no  deed  at  all 
of  this,  that  so  seriously  he  does  address  himself  unto  ? 

1  Lord.  None  in  the  world  j  but  return  with  an  inven- 
tion, and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  probable  lies :  but 
we  have  almost  emboss'd^  him,  you  shall  see  his  fall  to- 
night ;  for,  indeed,  he  is  not  for  your  lordship's  respect. 

2  Lord.  We'll  make  you  some  sport  with  the  fox,  ere 
we  case  him.''  He  was  first  smoked  by  the  old  lord  Lafeu  : 
when  his  disguise  and  he  is  parted,  tell  me  what  a  sprat 
you  shall  find  him ;  which  you  shall  see  this  very  night. 

e pen  down  my  dilemmas,]    i.  e.  He  will  pen  down  his  plans  on  the 

one  side,  and  the  probable  obstructions  he  was  to  meet  with,  on  the  other. — 
M.  Mason. 

f  Par.  I  love  not  many  words. 
1  Lord.  A'o  more  than  a  fish  loves  waler.'^    Here  we  have  the  origin  of  this 
boaster's  name ;  which,  without  doubt  (as  Mr.  Steevens  has  observed),  ought, 
in  strict  propriety,  to  be  written — Paroles.     But  our  author  certainly  intended 
it  otherwise,  having  made  it  a  trisyllable  : 

"  Rust  sword,  cool  blushes,  and  Parolles  live." 
He  probably  did  not  know  the  true  pronunciation. — Malone. 

5 emboss'd — ]  "  To  know  when  a  stag  is  weary  you  shall  see  him  imhosl, 

that  isyfoaming  and  slavering  about  the  mouth  with  a  white  froth." — Ma  ii  kh  a  m's 
Country  Contentments. 

'• case  him.']  i.  e.  Strip  him  naked. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  VII.  231 

1  Lord.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs  ;  he  shall  be  caught. 
Ber.  Your  brother,  he  shall  go  along  with  me. 

1  Lord.  As't  please  your  lordship  :  I'll  leave  you. 

[Exit. 
Ber.  Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  house,  and  show  you 
The  lass  I  spoke  of. 

2  Lord.  But,  you  say,  she's  honest. 
Ber.  That's  all  the  fault :  I  spoke  with  her  but  once. 

And  found  her  wondrous  cold ;  but  I  sent  to  her. 
By  this  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'the  wind,' 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  re-send  ; 
And  this  is  all  I  have  done :  She's  a  fair  creature  ; 
Will  you  go  see  her  ? 

2  Lord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. 

Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's  House. 

Enter  Helena  and  Widow. 

Hel.  If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  further. 
But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  upon.'' 

Wid.  Though  my  estate  be  fallen,  I  was  well  born. 
Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses  ; 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 

Hel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First,  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  husband  ; 
And,  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken. 
Is  so,  from  word  to  word ;  and  then  you  cannot. 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow. 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

Wid.  I  should  beUeve  you  ; 

i voe  have  i'the  wind,']  To  have  one  in  the  iviiid,  is  emimerated  as  a  pro- 
verbial saying  by  Ray. 

''  But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  npon.]  i.  e.  Helena  can  give  the  widow 
no  other  assurance  of  her  being  Bertram's  wife,  without  discovering  herself  to 
the  count,  and  thus  destroying  the  grounds  on  which  her  scheme  for  winning 
him  to  his  duty  was  founded. 


232  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

For  you  have  show'd  me  that,  which  well  approves 
You  are  great  in  fortune. 

Hel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold. 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far. 
Which  I  will  over-pay,  and  pay  again. 
When  I   have    found   it.      The    count    he  wooes    your 

daughter. 
Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty. 
Resolves  to  carry  her;  let  her,  in  fine,  consent. 
As  we'll  direct  her  how  'tis  best  to  bear  it. 
Now  his  important'  blood  will  nought  deny 
That  she'll  demand  :  A  ring  the  county""  wears. 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house. 
From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  ring  he  holds 
In  most  rich  choice  ;  yet,  in  his  idle  fire. 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  too  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

'Wid.  Now  I  see 

The  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

Hel.  You  see  it  lawful  then  :  It  is  no  more. 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won. 
Desires  this  ring  ;  appoints  him  an  encounter; 
In  fine,  delivers  me  to  fill  the  time. 
Herself  most  chastely  absent ;  after  this. 
To  marry  her,  I'll  add  three  thousand  crowns 
To  what  is  past  already. 

'V^id.  I  have  yielded  : 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  shall  persever. 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawful. 
May  prove  coherent.     Every  night  he  comes 
With  musicks  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  compos'd 
To  her  unworthiness  :   It  nothing  steads  us. 
To  chide  him  from  our  eaves  ;  for  he  persists. 
As  if  his  life  lay  on't. 

Hel.  Why  then,  to  night 

Let  us  assay  our  plot ;  which,  if  it  speed. 
Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed, 

' imjMyrtant — ]  i.  e.  Importunate. 

"* the  county — ]  i.  e.  Tlie  count. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  233 

And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act ; 

Where  both  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact." 

But  let's  about  it.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — Without  the  Florentine  Camp. 
Enter  first  Lord,  with  five  or  six  Soldiers  in  ambush. 

1  Lord.  He  can  come  no  other  way  but  by  this  hedge' 
corner :  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak  what  terrible 
language  you  will ;  though  you  understand  it  not  your- 
selves, no  matter ;  for  we  must  not  seem  to  understand 
him  ;  unless  some  one  among  us,  whom  we  must  produce 
for  an  interpreter. 

1  Sold.   Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

1  Lord.  Art  not  acquainted  with  him  ?  knows  he  not 
thy  voice  ? 

1  Sold.  No,  sir,  I  warrant  you. 

1  Lord.  But  what  linsy-woolsy  hast  thou  to  speak  to 
us  again  ? 

1  Sold.  Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

1  Lord.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers  i'the 
adversary's  entertainment."  Now  he  hath  a  smack  of  all 
neighbouring  languages ;  therefore  we  must  every  one  be 
a  man  of  his  own  fancy ;  not  to  know  what  we  speak  to 
one  another,  so  we  seem  to  know,  is  to  know  straight  our 
purpose  -.P  chough's  language,  gabble  enough,  and  good 
enough.  As  for  you,  interpreter,  you  must  seem  very 
politick.     But  couch,  ho  !    here  he  comes ;   to   beguile 

"  Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed,  &c.]  The  first  line  relates  to  Bertram, 
whose  means  is  wicked  in  a  lawful  deed;  the  second  line  relates  to  Helena, 
whose  meaning  and  art  were  equally  lawful.  Where  both  not  sin,  means,  where 
neither  sin,  and  yet  the /act  was  siiful  on  the  part  of  Bertram,  for  he  designed 
to  commit  adultery. — Ma  lone. 

" some  band  of  strangers  i'the  adversary's  entei-tainment.']  That  is,  foreign 

troops  in  the  enemy's  pay. — Johnson. 

P not  to  know  ivhat  we  speak  to  one  another,  so  we  seem  to  know,  is  to  know 

straight  our  purpose :'\  As  long  as  we  pretend  to  know  what  one  says  to  the 
other,  our  ignorance  is  as  good  as  if  we  know  straight,  i.  e.  had  a  direct  know- 
ledge of  our  purpose,  i.  e.  of  our  conversation ;  this  sense  of  the  word  purpose 
was  a  very  common  one,  but  has  become  obsolete. 


234  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

two  hours  in  a  sleep,  and  then  to  return  and  swear  the 
lies  he  forges. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Ten  o'clock ;  within  these  three  hours  'twill  be 
time  enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I  say  I  have  done? 
I  must  be  a  very  plausive  invention  that  carries  it :  They 
begin  to  smoke  me  :  and  disgraces  have  of  late  knocked 
too  often  at  my  door.  I  find,  my  tongue  is  too  fool-hardy  ; 
but  my  heart  hath  the  fear  of  Mars  before  it,  and  of  his 
creatures,  not  daring  the  reports  of  my  tongue. 

1  Lord.  This  is  the  first  truth  that  e'er  thine  own 
tongue  was  guilty  of.  [Aside. 

Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  undertake  the 
recovery  of  this  drum  ;  being  not  ignorant  of  the  impos- 
sibility, and  knowing  I  had  no  such  purpose  ?  I  must 
give  myself  some  hurts,  and  say,  I  got  them  in  exploit : 
Yet  slight  ones  will  not  carry  it :  They  will  say.  Came 
you  off  with  so  little  ?  and  great  ones  I  dare  not  give. 
Wherefore  ?  what's  the  instance  1'^  Tongue,  I  must  put 
you  into  a  butter-woman's  mouth,  and  buy  another  of 
Bajazet's  mule,''  if  you  prattle  me  into  these  perils. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  possible,  he  should  know  what  he  is,  and 
be  that  he  is  ?  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  gannents  would  serve 
the  turn  ;  or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish  sword. 

1  Lord.  We  cannot  afford  you  so.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard  ;'  and  to  say,  it  was  in 
stratagem, 

1  Lord.  'Twould  not  do.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  to  drown  my  clothes,  and  say,  I  was  stripped. 

1  Lord.  Hardly  serve.  [Aside. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  a  window  of  the 
citadel 

1  Lord.  How  deep  ?  [Aside. 

1 the  instance  ?]  The  proof. 

' of  Bajazet's  mule,]  Parolles  probably  means,  he  must  buy  a  tongue 

■which  has  still  to  learn  the  use  of  speech,  that  he  may  run  himself  into  no 
more  difficulties  by  his  loquacity.  Malone  reads  mute  according  to  Dr.  War- 
burton's  emendation. — Rfed. 

« baring  of  my  beard ;]  i.  e.  Shaving  of  my  beard. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  235 

Par.  Thirty  fathom. 

1  Lord.  Three  great  oaths  would  scarce  make  that  he 
beheved.  [J  side. 

Par.  I  would,  I  had  any  drum  of  the  enemy's  ;  I  would 
swear,  I  recovered  it. 

1  Lord.  You  shall  hear  one  anon.  [Aside. 

Par.  A  drum  now  of  the  enemy's  !         [Alarum  within. 

1  Lord.  Throca  movoitsus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.  Cargo,  cargo,  viliiaiida  par  corbo,  cargo. 

Par.  O  !  ransom,  ransom  : — Do  not  hide  mine  eyes. 

[They  seize  him  and  blindfold  him. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  thromiildo  boskos. 

Par.  I  know  you  are  the  Muskos'  regiment. 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language  : 
If  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  low  Dutch, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me, 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado : 

I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue  : 

Kerelybonto : Sir, 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par.  Oh ! 

1  Sold.  O,  pray,  pray,  pray. 

Manka  revania  dulche. 

1  Lord.  Oscorbi  dulchos  voHvorca. 

1  Sold.  The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet ; 
And,  hook-wink'd  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  from  thee  :  haply,  thou  may'st  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  life. 

Par.  O,  let  me  live. 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I'll  show. 
Their  force,  their  purposes :  nay,  I'll  speak  that 
Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

1  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully  ? 

Par.  If  I  do  not,  damn  me. 

1  Sold.  Acordo  linta. 

Come  on,  thou  art  granted  space. 

[Exit,  with  Parolles  guarded. 


236        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

1  Lord.  Go,  tell  the  count  Rousillon,  and  my  brother. 
We  have  caught  the  woodcock,  and  will  keep  him  muf- 
fled. 

Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 

2  Sold.  Captain,  I  will. 

1  Lord.  He  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves  5 — 
Inform  'em  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir. 

1  Lord.  Till  then,  I'll  keep  him  dark,  and  safely  lock'd. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL 

Florence.    A  Room  in  the  Widow's  House. 
Enter  Bertram  and  Diana. 

Ber.  They  told  me,  that  your  name  was  Fontibell. 

Dia.  No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Ber.  Titled  goddess ; 

And  worth  it,  with  addition !  But,  fair  soul. 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality  ? 
If  the  quick  fire  of  youth  light  not  your  mind. 
You  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument : 
When  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
As  you  are  now,  for  you  are  cold  and  stern ; 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  was, 
When  your  sweet  self  was  got. 

Dia.  She  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  you  be. 

Dia.  No : 

My  mother  did  but  duty  ;  such,  my  lord. 
As  you  owe  to  your  wife. 

Ber.  No  more  of  tliat ! 

I  pr'ythee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vow  s  : 
I  was  compell'd  to  her  :  but  I  love  thee 
By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  for  ever 
Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us. 

Till  we  serve  you  :  but  when  you  have  our  roses, 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  prick  ourselves. 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II.  237 

Ser.  How  have  I  sworn  ? 

Dia.  'Tis  not  the  many  oaths,  that  make  the  truth  ; 
But  the  plain  single  vow,  that  is  vow'd  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by  :' 
But  take  the  Highest  to  witness  :  Then,  pray  you,  tell  me. 
If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes, 
I  lov'd  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  oaths. 
When  I  did  love  you  ill  ?"  this  has  no  holding. 
To  swear  by  him"  whom  I  protest  to  love. 
That  I  will  work  against  him :  Therefore  your  oaths 
Are  words,  and  poor  conditions  ;  but  unseal'd; 
At  least,  in  my  opinion. 

Ber.  Change  it,  change  it ; 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel  :  love  is  holy  ; 
And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts. 
That  you  do  charge  men  with  :  Stand  no  more  off. 
But  give  thyself  unto  my  sick  desires. 
Who  then  recover :  say,  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
My  love  as  it  begins,  shall  so  persever. 

Dia.  I  see,  that  men  make  hopes,  in  such  a  scar'' 
That  we'll  forsake  ourselves.     Give  me  that  ring. 

Ber.  I'll  lend  it  thee,  my  dear,  but  have  no  power 
To  give  it  from  me. 

■Dia.  Will  you  not,  my  lord  ? 

Ber.  It  is  an  honour  'longing  to  our  house. 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors  : 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 

'  -; swearnot  by:]  All  the  difficulty  wHch  the  commentators  have  found 

in  this  and  the  following  lines  appears  to  have  originated  in  their  not  knowing, 
or  their  forgetting,  that  by  and  of  were  anciently  synonymus.  See  Gifford's  Ben 
Jonson,  vol.  1.  189. 7iote.  Diana's  argument  is  this : — "  We  can  not  swear  con- 
cerning that  which  is  not  holy  :  but  take  the  Highest  to  witness^  i.  e.  Suppose 
you  do  call  God  to  witness  in  this  cause  of  yours ;  what  validity  can  there  be 
in  your  oath  when  you  swear  that  you  love  me  and  then  endeavour  to  do  me 
injury  Y' 
■   "  When  I  did  love  you  ill?']  i.  e.  Disprove  my  vows  by  unkind  acts. 

^ by  him — ]  i.  e.  Concerning  him. 

^ make  hupes,  in  such  a  scar.]  Scar  is  a  broken  precipice  used  here  metapho- 
rically for  extremity. — The  old  folio  reads,  "  make  ropes  in  such  a  scarre,"  which 
the  modern  authors  have  converted  into  make  hopes  in  such  affairs. — That  ropes 
was  misinterpreted  for  hopes  is  evident,  and  the  emendation  of  Rowe  is  there- 
fore continued ;  for  the  restitution  of  the  word  scar  I  have  the  authority  of 
Archdeacon  Nares,  who  observes,  that  though  this  reading  "  may  not  be  quite 
satisfactory ;  yet,  to  go  against  the  consent  of  the  folios,  twice  in  one  sentence, 
appears  still  less  so.'' 

VOL.    III.  R 


238         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Dia.  Mine  honour's  such  a  ring  : 

My  chastity's  the  jewel  of  our  house. 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors  ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose :  Thus  your  own  proper  wisdom 
Brings  in  the  champion  honour  on  my  part. 
Against  your  vain  assault. 

Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring  : 

My  house,  mine  honour,  yea,  my  life  be  thine. 
And  I'll  be  bid  by  thee. 

Dia.  When-  midnight  comes,  knock  at  my  chamber 
I'll  order  take,  my  mother  shall  not  hear.  [window ; 

Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth. 
When  you  have  conquer'd  my  yet  maiden  bed. 
Remain  there  but  an  hour,  nor  speak  to  me  : 
My  reasons  are  most  strong  ;  and  you  shall  know  them. 
When  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  deliver'd  : 
And  on  your  finger,  in  the  night,  I'll  put 
Another  ring  ;  that,  what  in  time  proceeds. 
May  token  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu,  till  then :  then,  fail  not :  You  have  won 
A  wife  of  me,  though  there  my  hope  be  done. 

Ber.  A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won,  by  wooing  thee. 

[Exit. 

Dia.  For  which  live  long  to  thank  both  heaven  and  me ! 

You  may  so  in  the  end. 

My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo. 

As  if  she  sat  in  his  heart ;  she  says,  all  men 

Have  the  like  oaths  :  he  had  sworn  to  marry  me. 

When  his  wife's  dead ;  therefore  I'll  lie  with  him. 

When  I  am  buried.     Since  Frenchmen  are  so  braid,^ 

Marry  that  will,  I'll  live  and  die  a  maid  : 

Only,  in  this  disguise,  I  think't  no  sin 

To  cozen  him,  that  would  unjustly  win.  [Exit. 

z braid,]  i,  e  Crafty  or  deceitful. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  239 

SCENE  III. 

The  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  the  two  French  Lords/  and  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

\ 

1  Lord.  You  have  not  given  him  his  mother's  letter  ? 

2  Lord.  I  have  deliver'd  it  an  hour  since :  there  is 
something  in't  that  stings  his  nature;  for,  on  the  reading 
it,  he  changed  almost  into  another  man. 

1  Lord.  He  has  much  worthy  blame  laid  upon  him,  for 
shaking  oif  so  good  a  wife,  and  so  sweet  a  lady. 

2  Lord.  Especially  he  hath  incurred  the  everlasting- 
displeasure  of  the  king,  who  had  even  tuned  his  bounty 
to  sing  happiness  to  him.  I  will  tell  you  a  thing,  but 
you  shall  let  it  dwell  darkly  with  you. 

1  Lord.  When  you  have  spoken  it,  'tis  dead,  and  I  am 
in  the  grave  of  it. 

2  Lord.  He  hath  perverted  a  young  gentlewoman  here 
in  Florence,  of  a  most  chaste  renown  ;  and  this  night  he 
fleshes  his  will  in  the  spoil  of  her  honour  :  he  hath  given 
her  his  monumental  ring,  and  thinks  himself  made  in  the 
unchaste  composition. 

1  Lord.  Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion ;  as  we  are  our- 
selves, what  things  are  we  ! 

2  Lord.  Merely  our  own  traitors.  And  as  in  the  com- 
mon course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  see  them  reveal  them- 
selves, till  they  attain  to  their  abhorred  ends  -^  so  he,  that 
in  this  action  contrives  against  his  own  nobility,  in  his 
proper  stream  o'erflows  himself.'' 

1  Lord.  Is  it  not  meant  damnable  in  us,'^  to  be  trum- 

* two  French  Lords,']  In  the  original  edition  these  characters  are  with 

more  propriety  called  Capt.  E.  and  Capt.  G.  They  evidently  held  a  very  sub- 
ordinate station  ;  but  as  the  reader  has  been  used  to  find  them  lords,  I  have 
followed  the  example  of  Johnson  in  allowing  them  to  retain  the  titles,  which 
the  liberality  of  the  modem  editors  has  conferred  on  them. 

b still  reveal  themselves,  till  they  attain  to  their  abhorred  ends  ;]  i.  e.  They 

are  perpetually  talking  of  the  mischief  they  intend,  before  the  deed  is  done. — 
Steevens. 

c in  his  proper  stream  o'erfloivs  himself.']  That  is,  betrays  his  own  secrets  in 

his  own  talk.     The  reply  shows  that  this  is  the  meaning. — Johnson. 

'^ meant  damnable — ]  i.e.  Damnably  meant.  Adjectives  are  often  used  as 

adverbs  by  our  author  and  his  contemporaries. 

r2 


240  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

peters  of  our  unlawful  intents  ?  We  shall  not  then  have 
his  company  to-night? 

2  Lord.  Not  till  after  midnight ;  for  he  is  dieted  to  his 
hour. 

1  Lord.  That  approaches  apace :  I  would  gladly  have 
him  see  his  company*"  anatomized  ;  that  he  might  take  a 
measure  of  his  own  judgments,  wherein  so  curiously  he 
had  set  this  counterfeit. 

2  Lord.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he  come  ;  for 
his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the  other. 

1  Lord.  In  the  mean  time,  what  hear  you  of  these  wars? 

2  Lord.  1  hear,  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  I  assure  you,  a  peace  concluded. 

2  Lord.  What  will  count  Rousillon  do  then  ?  will  he 
travel  higher,  or  return  again  into  France  ? 

1  Lord.  I  perceive,  by  this  demand,  you  are  not  alto- 
gether of  his  council.  « 

2  Lord.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir  !  so  should  I  be  a  great 
deal  of  his  act. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  his  wife,  some  two  months  since,  fled  from 
his  house  :  her  pretence  is  a  pilgrimage  to  Saint  Jaques 
le  grand ;  which  holy  undertaking,  with  most  austere 
sanctimony,  she  accomplished :  and,  there  residing,  the 
tenderness  of  her  nature  became  as  a  prey  to  her  grief;  in 
fine,  made  a  groan  of  her  last  breath,  and  now  she  sings 
in  heaven. 

2  Lord.  How  is  this  justified  ? 

1  Lord.  The  stronger  part  of  it  by  her  own  letters ; 
which  makes  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point  of  her 
death  :  her  death  itself,  which  could  not  be  her  office  to 
say,  is  come,  was  faithfully  confirmed  by  the  rector  of  the 
place. 

2  Lord.  Hath  the  count  aU  this  intelligence  ? 

1  Lord.  Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations,  point  from 
point,  to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 

2  Lord.  I  am  heartily  sorry,  that  he'll  be  glad  of  this. 

1  Lord.  How  mightily,  sometimes,  we  make  us  com- 
forts of  our  losses  ! 

2  Lord.  And  how  mightily,  some  other  times,  we  drown 

* hh  company — ]  i.  e.  His  companion. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  241 

our  gain  in  tears  !  The  great  dignity,  that  his  valour  hath 
here  acquired  for  him,  shall  at  home  be  encountered  with 
a  shame  as  ample. 

1  Lord.  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good 
and  ill  together  :  our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if  our  faults 
whipped  them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would  despair,  if  they 
were  not  cherish'd  by  our  virtues. — 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  ?  where's  your  master  ? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke  in  the  street,  sir,  of  whom  he 
hath  taken  a  solemn  leave ;  his  lordship  will  next  morn- 
ing for  France.  The  duke  hath  offered  him  letters  of 
commendations  to  the  king. 

2  Lord.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needful  there,  if 
they  were  more  than  they  can  commend. 

Enter  Bertram. 

1  Lord.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the  king's  tart- 
ness. Here's  his  lordship  now.  How  now,  my  lord,  is't 
not  after  midnight  ? 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  despatched  sixteen  businesses,  a 
month's  length  a-piece,  by  an  abstract  of  success  :  I  have 
conge'd  with  the  duke,  done  my  adieu  with  his  nearest ; 
buried  a  wife,  mourned  for  her  ;  writ  to  my  lady  mother, 
I  am  returning ;  entertained  my  convoy ;  and,  between 
these  main  parcels  of  despatch,  effected  many  nicer 
deeds ;  the  last  was  the  greatest,  but  that  I  have  not 
ended  yet. 

2  Lord.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty,  and  this 
morning  your  departure  hence,  it  requires  haste  of  your 
lordship. 

Ber.  I  mean,  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing  to 
hear  of  it  hereafter  :  But  shall  we  have  this  dialogue  be- 
tween the  fool  and  the  soldier  1 Come,  bring  forth  this 

counterfeit  module  \^  he  has  deceived  me,  like  a  double- 
meaning  prophesier. 

/ bring  forth  this  counterfeit  module  ;]   Module  being  the  pattern  of  any 

thing,  niay  be  here  used  in  that  sense.     Bring  forth  this  fellow,  who,  by  coun- 
terfeit virtue,  pretended  to  make  himself  a  ;>a«er?!. — Johnson. 


242        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

2  Lord.  Bring  him  forth  :  [^Exeunt  Soldiers.]  he  has  sat 
in  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  gallant  knave. 

Ber.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserved  it  in  usurping 
his  spurs  so  long.'^     How  does  he  carry  himself? 

1  Lord.  I  have  told  your  lordship  already  ;  the  stocks 
carry  him.  But  to  answer  you  as  you  would  be  under- 
stood ;  he  weeps  like  a  wench  that  had  shed  her  milk : 
he  hath  confessed  himself  to  Morgan,  whom  he  supposes 
to  be  a  friar,  from  the  time  of  his  remembrance,  to  this 
very  instant  disaster  of  his  setting  i'  the  stocks :  And 
what  think  you  he  hath  confessed  ? 

Ber.  Nothing  of  me,  has  he  ? 

2  Lord.  His  confession  is  taken,  and  it  shall  be  read  to 
his  face :  if  your  lordship  be  in't,  as  I  believe  you  are, 
you  must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it. 

Re-enter  Soldiers,  tvith  Parolles. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him  !  muffled !  he  can  say  nothing 
of  me  ;  hush  !  hush  ! 

1  Lord.  Hoodman  comes  ! — Porto  tartarossa. 

1  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures  ;  What  will  you  say 
without  'em  ? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  constraint ;  if 
ye  pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  no  more. 

1  Sold.  Basko  chimurcho. 

2  Lord.  Boblihindo  chicurmurco. 

1  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general : — Our  general  bids 
you  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  out  of  a  note. 

Par.  And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  First  demand  of  him  how  many  horse  the  duke  is 
strong.     What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  ;  but  very  weak  and  unser- 
viceable :  the  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the  commanders 
very  poor  rogues,  upon  my  reputation  and  credit,  and  as  I 
hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so  ? 

I in  usurping  hii  spurs  so  long.]  These  words  allude  to  the  ceremonial 

degradation  of  a  knight.     The  punishment  of  a  recreant  or  coward  was  to  hack 
the  spurs  off. — Steevens  and  Maloni;. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  243 

Par.  Do ;  I'll  take  the  sacrament  on't,  how  and  which 
way  you  will. 

Ber.  All's  one  to  him.  What  a  past-saving  slave  is 
this  ! 

1  Lord.  You  are  deceived,  my  lord  \  this  is  monsieur 
Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist,  (that  was  his  own  phrase,) 
that  had  the  whole  theorick§  of  war  in  the  knot  of  his 
scarf,  and  the  practice  in  the  chape  of  his  dagger. 

2  Lord.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again,  for  keeping  his 
sword  clean  ;  nor  believe  he  can  have  every  thing  in  him, 
by  wearing  his  apparel  neatly. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said, — I  will  say 
true, — or  thereabouts,  set  down, — for  I'll  speak  truth. 

1  Lord.  He's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

Ber.  But  I  con  him  no  thanks  for't,*"  in  the  nature  he 
delivers  it. 

Par.  Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

i  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir :  a  truth's  a  truth,  the 
rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

1  Sold.  Demand  of  him,  of  what  strength  they  are  a-foot. 
What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  were  to  live  this  present 
hour,'  I  wall  tell  true.  Let  me  see  :  Spurio  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  Sebastian  so  many  ;  Corambus  so  many,  Jacques  so 
many ;  Guiltian,  Cosmo,  Lodowick,  and  Gratii,  two  hun- 
dred fifty  each :  mine  own  company,  Chitopher,  Vaumond, 
Bentii,  two  hundred  and  fifty  each  :  so  that  the  muster- 
file,  rotten  and  sound,  upon  my  life,  amounts  not  to  fif- 
teen thousand  poll;  half  of  which  dare  not  shake  the  snow 
from  off  their  cassocks,''  lest  they  shake  themselves  to 
pieces. 

Ber.  What  shall  be  done  to  him  ? 

e theorick — ]  i.  e.  Theory. 

h I  con  him  no  thanks — ]  To  con  thanks  exactly  answers  the  French  sca- 

vior  ffri.     To  con  is  to  know. — Steevens. 

• if  I  were  to  live  this  present  hour,  &c.]  Perhaps  we  should  read : — if  I 

were  to  live  but  this  present  hour. — Steevens. 

•' cassocks,^  Cassock  signifies  a  horseman's  loose  coat,  and  is  used  in  that 

sense  by  the  writers  of  the  age  of  Shakspeare. — Steevens. 


244        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

1  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks.  Demand 
of  him  my  conditions,'  and  what  credit  I  have  with  the 
duke. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down.  You  shall  demand  of  Mm, 
whether  one  captain  Dutnain  be  i'the  camp,  a  Frenchman; 
what  his  reputation  is  with  the  duke,  what  his  valour,  ho- 
nesty, and  expertness  in  wars ;  or  whether  he  thinks,  it  tvere 
not  possible,  with  well-weighing  sums  of  gold,  to  corrupt  him 
to  a  revolt.  What  say  you  to  this  ?  what  do  you  know 
of  it? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the  particular  of 
the  intergatories  :^  Demand  them  singly. 

1  Sold.  Do  you  know  this  captain  Dumain? 

Par.  I  know  him :  he  was  a  botcher's  'prentice  in  Paris, 
from  whence  he  was  whipped  for  getting  the  sheriif's 
fool""  with  child  f  a  dumb  innocent,  that  could  not  say 
him,  nay. 

[Dumain  lifts  up  his  hand  in  anger. 

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands ;  though  I 
know,  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile  that  falls." 

1  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the  duke  of  Florence's 
camp? 

Par.  Upon  my  knowledge,  he  is,  and  lousy. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me ;  we  shall  hear  of 
your  lordship  anon. 

1  Sold.  What  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke  ? 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a  poor  of- 
ficer of  mine  ;  and  writ  to  me  this  other  day,  to  turn  him 
out  o'  the  band  :  I  think,  I  have  his  letter  in  my  pocket. 

1  Sold.  Marry,  we'll  search. 

Par.  In  good  sadness,  I  do  not  know ;  either  it  is  there, 

1 conditions,']  i.  e.  Disposition  and  character, 

m intergatories:]  i.  e.  Interrogatories. 

B sherif's  fool—]  The  custody  of  all  idiots  possessing  landed  property, 

belonged  to  the  king,  who  was  entitled  to  the  income  of  their  land,  but  obliged 
to  find  them  necessaries.  This  prerogative,  where  there  was  a  large  estate  in 
the  case,  was  generally  granted  to  some  court  favourite.  Where  the  land  was 
of  inconsiderable  value,  the  natural  was  maintained  out  of  the  profits  by  the 
sheriff,  who  accounted  for  them  to  the  crown.— Ritson. 

o thongh  I  know  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tiU  that  falls.]   In  Luci- 

an's  Contemplantes,  Murcury  makes  Charon  remark  a  man  that  was  killed  by 
the  falling  of  a  tiki  upon  his  head,  whilst  he  was  in  the  act  of  puttmg  off  an 
engagement  to  the  next  day.— S.  W. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  245 

or  it  is  upon  a  file,  with  the  duke's  other  letters,  in  my 
tent. 

1  Sold.  Here  'tis ;  here's  a  paper.  Shall  I  read  it  to 
you? 

Par.  I  do  not  know,  if  it  be  it,  or  no. 

Ber.  Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

1  Lord.  Excellently. 

1  Sold.  Dian.  The  counfs  a  fool,  and  full  of  gold, — 

Par.  That  is  not  the  duke's  letter,  sir;  that  is  an  ad- 
vertisement to  a  proper  maid  in  Florence,  one  Diana,  to 
take  heed  of  the  allurement  of  one  count  Rousillon,  a  fool- 
ish idle  boy,  but,  for  all  that,  very  ruttish :  I  pray  you, 
sir,  put  it  up  again. 

1  Sold.  Nay,  I'll  read  it  first,  by  your  favour. 

Par.  My  meaning  in't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest  in 
the  behalf  of  the  maid :  for  I  knew  the  young  count  to  be 
a  dangerous  'and  lascivious  boy ;  who  is  a  whale  to  vir- 
ginity, and  devours  up  all  the  fry  it  finds. 

Ber.  Damnable,  both  sides  rogue  ! 

1  Sold.   When  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold,  and 

take  it; 
After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score : 
Half  won,  is  match  well  made;  match,  and  well  make  it  ;^ 

He  ne'er  pays  after  debts,  take  it  before; 
And  say  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thee  this, 
Men  are  to  mell  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss : 
For  count  of  this,  the  count's  a  fool,  I  know  it. 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  when  he  does  owe  it. 

Thine,  as  he  voiv'd  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 

Parolles. 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army,  with  this 
rhyme  in  his  forehead. 

2  Lord.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the  manifold 
linguist,  and  the  armipotent  soldier. 

Ber.  I  could  endure  any  thing  before  but  a  cat,  and 
now  he's  a  cat  to  me. 


V  Half  won  is  match  well  made;  match,  and  well  make  it ;]  The  meaning  is, 
"  a  match  well  made,  is  half  won ;  make  your  match,  therefore,  but  make  it 
well." — M.  MasoN. 


24r5         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

1  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  the  general's  looks,  we  sliall 
be  fain  to  hang  you. 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case :  not  that  I  am  afraid  to 
die ;  but  that,  my  offences  being  many,  I  would  repent  out 
the  remainder  of  nature  :  let  me  live,  sir,  in  a  dungeon, 
i'the  stocks,  or  any  where,  so  I  may  live. 

1  Sold.  We'll  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  confess 
freely ;  therefore,  once  more  to  this  captain  Dumain  :  You 
have  answered  to  his  reputation  with  the  duke,  and  to  his 
valour  :  What  is  his  honesty  ? 

Far.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister  ;i  for 
rapes  and  ravishments  he  parallels  Nessus.  He  professes 
not  keeping  of  oaths ;  in  breaking  them,  he  is  stronger 
than  Hercules.  He  will  lie,  sir,  with  such  volubility,  that 
you  would  think  truth  were  a  fool :  drunkenness  is  his 
best  virtue  :  for  he  will  be  swine-drunk  ;  and  in  his  sleep 
he  does  Uttle  harm,  save  to  his  bed-clothes  about  him  ; 
but  they  know  his  conditioiis,  and  lay  him  in  straw.  I 
have  but  little  more  to  say,  sir,  of  his  honesty :  he  has 
every  thing  that  an  honest  man  should  not  have ;  what  an 
honest  man  should  have,  he  has  nothing. 

1  Lord.  I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty?  A  pox  upon 
him  for  me,  he  is  more  and  more  a  cat. 

1  Sold.  What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in  war  ? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  led  the  drum  before  the  English 
tragedians,— to  belie  him,  I  will  not, — and  more  of  his 
soldiership  I  know  not ;  except,  in  that  country,  he  had 
the  honour  to  be  the  officer  at  a  place  there  called 
Mile-end,""  to  instruct  for  the  doubling  of  files  :  I  would 
do  the  man  what  honour  I  can,  but  of  this  I  am  not 
certain. 

1  Lord.  He  hath  out-villained  villainy  so  far,  that  the 
rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.  A  pox  on  him  !  he's  a  cat  still. 

1  Sold.  His  quahties  being  at  this  poor  price,  I  need  not 
ask  you,  if  gold  will  corrupt  him  to  revolt. 

q an  egg  out  of  a  cloister ;]  He  will  steal  any  thing,  however  trifling  -.Jrom 

any  place,  however  holij. — Johnson. 
r Mile-end,^  See  note  ou  Heury  the  Fourth,  part  2.  act  iii.  sc.  2. 


AGT  IV.— SCENE  III.  247 

Par.  Sir,  for  ix- quart  d'ecu^heWiW  sell  the  fee-simple 
of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it :  and  cut  the  entail 
from  all  remainders,  and  a  perpetual  succession  for  it  per- 
petually. 

1  Sold.  What's  his  brother,  the  other  captain  Dumain  ? 

2  Lord.  Why  does  he  ask  him  of  me  ? 
1  Sold.  What's  he? 

Par.  E'en  a  crow  of  the  same  nest ;  not  altogether  so 
great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but  greater  a  great  deal 
in  evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a  coward,  yet  his  bro- 
ther is  reputed  one  of  the  best  that  is :  In  a  retreat  he 
out-runs  any  lackey ;  marry,  in  coming  on  he  has  the 
cramp. 

1  Sold.  If  your  life  be  saved,  will  you  undertake  to  be- 
tray the  Florentine? 

Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  count  Rou- 
sillon. 

1  Sold.  I'll  whisper  with.|the  general,  and  know  his 
pleasure. 

Par.  I'll  no  more  drumming :  a  plague  of  all  drums ! 
Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to  beguile  the  supposi- 
tion' of  that  lascivious  young  boy  the  count,  have  I  run 
into  this  danger  :  Yet,  who  would  have  suspected  an  am- 
bush where  I  was  taken  ?  [Aside. 

1  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir,  but  you  must  die  :  the 
general  says,  you,  that  have  so  traitorously  discovered  the 
secrets  of  your  army,  and  made  such  pestiferous  reports 
of  men  very  nobly  held,  can  serve  the  world  for  no  honest 
use ;  therefore  you  must  die.  Come,  headsmen,  oif  with 
his  head. 

Par.   O  Lord,  sir  ;  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see  my  death ! 

1  Sold.  That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave  of  all  your 
friends.  {Unmuffiing  him. 
So,  look  about  you  ;  Know  you  any  here  ? 

Ber.  Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.  God  bless  you,  captain  ParoUes. 

6 for  a  quait  d'ecu — ]    The  fourth  part  of  the  smaller  French  crown  ; 

about  eight-pence  of  our  money. 

t to  beguile  the  supposition — ]  That  is,  to  deceive  the  opinion,  to  make  the 

count  think  me  a  man  that  deserves  tt'ei/.— Johnson. 


248  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

1  Lord.  God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my  lord 
Lafeu  ?  I  am  for  France. 

1  Lord.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a  copy  of  the 
sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  behalf  of  the  count  Uousil- 
lon?  an  I  were  not  a  very  coward,  I'd  compel  it  of  you  ; 
but  fare  you  well.  [Exeuiit  Bertram,  Lords,  &c. 

1  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain :  all  but  your  scarf, 
that  has  a  knot  on't  yet. 

Par.  Who  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot  ? 

1  Sold.  If  you  could  find  out  a  country  where  but  women 
were  that  had  received  so  much  shame,  you  might  begin 
an  impudent  nation.  Fare  you  well,  sir ;  I  am  for  France 
too  ;  we  shall  speak  of  you  there.  [Exit. 

Par.  Yet  am  I  thankful :  if  my  heart  were  great, 
'Twould  burst  at  this  :  Captain,  I'll  be  no  more  ; 
But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall,  simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  me  live.     Who  knows  himself  a  braggart 
Let  him  fear  this  ;  for  it  will  come  to  pass. 
That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 
Rust,  sword  !  cool,  blushes  !  and,  Parolles,  live  ^ 

Safest  in  shame  !  being  fool'd,  by  foolery  thrive  !  > 

There's  place,  and  means,  for  every  man  alive.  j 

I'll  after  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 

Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's  House. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana. 

Hel.  That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have  not  wrong'd  you. 
One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall  be  my  surety  ;  'fore  whose  throne,  'tis  needful. 
Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel ; 
Time  was,  I  did  him  a  desired  office, 
Dear  almost  as  his  life ;  which  gratitude 
Through  flinty  Tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth, 
And  answer,  thanks  :  I  duly  am  inform'd, 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV.  249 

His  grace  is  at  Marseilles  j  to  which  place 

We  have  convenient  convoy.     You  must  know, 

I  am  supposed  dead  :  the  army  breaking, 

My  husband  hies  him  home  ;  where,  heaven  aiding, 

And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 

We'll  be,  before  our  welcome. 

Wid.  Gentle  madam. 

You  never  had  a  servant,  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

Hel.  Nor  your"  mistress. 

Ever  a  friend,  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labour 
To  recompence  your  love  ;  doubt  not,  but  heaven 
Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's  dower. 
As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive'' 
And  helper  to  a  husband.     But  O  strange  men  ! 
That  can  such  sweet  use  make  of  what  they  hate. 
When  saucy  trusting  of  the  cozen'd  thoughts 
Defiles  the  pitchy  night !  so  lust  doth  play 
With  what  it  loaths,  for  that  which  is  away : 

But  more  of  this  hereafter: You,  Diana, 

Under  my  poor  instructions  yet  must  suffer 
Something  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions,y  I  am  yours 
Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 

Hel.  Yet,  I  pray  you, 

But  with  the  word,^  the  time  will  bring  on  summer. 
When  briars  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns. 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away ; 
Our  waggon  is  prepar'd,  and  time  revives  us  :* 
All's  well  that  ends  well :  still  the  fine's  the  crown  ;" 
Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown.  [Exeunt. 

u your — ]  I  have  restored  the  old  reading  which  Mr.  Rowe  changed 

to  yoH. 

^  motive — ]  i.  e.  Assistant, — obsolete. 

y impositions,']  i.  e.  Imposed  tasks. 

z  But  with  the  word,  &c.]  With  the  word,  i.  e.  in  an  instant.  The  meaning 
of  Helena's  observation  is,  that  as  briars  have  sweetness  with  their  prickles,  so 
shall  these  troubles  be  recompensed  -with  joy. — Johnson. 

a time  revives  us ;]    This  refers  to  the  happy  and  speedy  termination  of 

their  embarrassments.     She  had  just  before  said  : 

"  With  the  word,  the  time  will  bring  on  summer." — Henley. 

'' the  fine's  the  crown  ;]  i.  e.  Finis  coronat  opus. 


^50  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

SCENE  V. 

Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 
Enter  Countess,  Lafeu,  and  Clowri. 

Lajf.  No,  no,  no,  your  son  was  misled  with  a  snipt-taf- 
fata  fellow  there ;  whose  villainous  safFronc  would  have 
made  all  the  unbaked  and  doughy  youth  of  a  nation  in 
his  colour :  your  daughter-in-law  had  been  alive  at  this 
hour  ;  and  your  son  here  at  home,  more  advanced  by  the 
king,  than  by  that  red-tailed  humble-bee  I  speak  of. 

Count.  I  would,  I  had  not  known  him  !  it  was  the  death 
of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman,  that  ever  nature  had 
praise  for  creating :  if  she  had  partaken  of  my  flesh,  and 
cost  me  the  dearest  groans  of  a  mother,  I  could  not  have 
owed  her  a  more  rooted  love. 

Laf.  'Twas  a  good  lady,  'twas  a  good  lady :  we  may 
pick  a  thousand  salads,  ere  we  light  on  such  another  herb. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet-marjoram  of  the 
salad,  or,  rather  the  herb  of  grace.** 

Laf.  They  are  not  salad-herbs,  you  knave,  they  are 
nose-herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebuchadnezzar,  sir,  I  have  not 
much  skill  in  grass. 

Laf.  Whether  dost  thou  profess  thyself;  a  knave  or  a 
fool? 

Clo.  A  fool,  sir,  at  a  woman's  service,  and  a  knave  at  a 
man's. 

Laf.  Your  distinction? 

C/o,  I  would  cozen  the  man  of  his  wife,  and  do  his 
service. 

Laf.  So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  indeed. 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bauble,^  sir,  to  do 
her  service. 

•  "^ whnse  villainous  saffron — ]   Here  some  particularities  of  fashionable 

dress  are  ridiculed.  Snipt-taffata  needs  no  explanation  ;  but  villainous  saffron 
alludes  to  a  fantastic  fashion,  then  much  followed,  of  using  yellow  starch  for 
their  bands  and  ruffs.— Warburton. 

<^ herb  of  grace.']  i.  e.  Bue. 

* my  bauble,']  This  part  of  the  furniture  of  a  fool  was  a  kind  of  trun- 
cheon with  a  head  carved  upon  it,  whicli  the  fool  usually  carried  in  his  hand. 
— Sir  J.  HAWKirfs. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  V.  251 

Laf.  I  will  subscribe  for  thee  ;  thou  art  both  knave 
and  fool. 

Clo.  At  your  service. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no. 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  if  I  cannot  serve  you,  I  can  serve  as 
gredt  a  prince  as  you  are. 

Laf.  Who's  that  ?  a  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  an  English  name  ;  but  his  phis- 
nomy  is  more  hotter  in  France,  than  there. 

Laf.  What  prince  is  that  1 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sii*,  alias,  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness ;  alias,  the  devil. 

Laf.  Hold  thee,  there's  my  purse  :  I  give  thee  not  this 
to  suggest^  thee  from  thy  master  thou  talkest  of;  serve 
him  still. 

Clo.  I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,*^  that,  always  loved  a 
great  fire  ;  and  the  master  I  speak  of,  ever  keeps  a  good 
fire.  But,  sure,  he  is  the  prince  of  the  world,  let  his  no- 
bility remain  in  his  court.  I  am  for  the  house  with  the 
narrow  gate,  which  I  take  to  be  too  little  for  pomp  to 
enter :  some,  that  humble  themselves,  may  ;  but  the  many 
will  be  too  chill  and  tender ;  and  they'll  be  for  the  flowery 
way,  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate,  and  the  great  fire. 

Laf.  Go  thy  ways,  I  begin  to  be  a-weary  of  thee  ;  and 
I  tell  thee  so  before,  because  I  would  not  fall  out  with 
thee.  Go  thy  ways;  let  my  horses  be  well  looked  to, 
without  any  tricks. 

Clo.  If  I  put  my  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they  shall  be 
jades'  tricks ;  which  are  their  own  right  by  the  law  of 
nature.  [^Exit. 

Laf.  A  shrewd  knave,  and  an  unhappy.'' 
Count.  So  he  is.     My  lord,  that's  gone,  made  himself 
much  sport  out  of  him  :  by  his  authority  he  remains  here, 
which  he  thinks  is  a  patent  for  his  sauciness ;  and,  in- 
deed, he  has  no  pace,"  but  runs  where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  like  him  well ;  'tis  not  amiss  :  and  I  was  about 

f suggest — ]  i.  e.  Seduce. 

s  I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,  &c.]  Shakspeare  is  but  rarely  guilty  of  such 
impious  trash.  And  it  is  observable,  that  then  he  always  puts  that  into  the 
mouth  oi  his  Jools,  which  is  now  grown  the  characteristic  o{  the  fine  gentleman. 
— Warburton. 

•"  unhappy.'\  i.  e.  Mischievously  waggish. 

'   ■      ■  no  jiace,]  i.  e.  Novrescribed  walk,- — Johnson. 


252  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

to  tell  you.  Since  I  heard  of  the  good  lady's  death,  and 
that  my  lord  your  son  was  upon  his  return  home,  I 
moved  the  king  my  master,  to  speak  in  the  behalf  of  my 
daughter ;  which,  in  the  minority  of  them  both,  his  ma- 
jesty, out  of  a  self-gracious  remembrance,  did  first  pro- 
pose :  his  highness  hath  promised  me  to  do  it :  and,  to 
stop  up  the  displeasure  he  hath  conceived  against  your 
son,  there  is  no  fitter  matter.  How  does  your  ladyship 
like  it? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  ray  lord,  and  I  wish 
it  happily  effected. 

I^af.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Marseilles,  of  as 
able  body  as  when  he  numbered  thirty  ;  he  will  be  here 
to-morrow,  or  I  am  deceived  by  him  that  in  such  intelli- 
gence hath  seldom  failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me,  that  I  hope  [  shall  see  him  ere 
I  die.  I  have  letters,  that  my  son  will  be  here  to-night : 
I  shall  beseech  your  lordship,  to  remain  with  me  till  they 
meet  together. 

Laf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking,  with  what  manners  I 
might  safely  be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honourable  privilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter ;  but,  I 
thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder's  my  lord  your  son  with  a  patch 
of  velvet  on's  face ;  whether  there  be  a  scar  under  it,  or 
no,  the  velvet  knows ;  but  'tis  a  goodly  patch  of  velvet ; 
his  left  cheek  is  a  cheek  of  two  pile  and  a  half,  but  his 
right  cheek  is  worn  bare. 

Laf.  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  good  livery 
of  honour ;  so,  belike,  is  that. 

Clo.  But  it  is  your  carbonadoed''  face. 

Laf.  Let  us  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you ;  I  long  to  talk 
with  the  young  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  'Faith,  there's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with  delicate  fine 
hats,  and  most  courteous  feathers,  which  bow  the  head, 
and  nod  at  every  man.  [^Exeunt. 

k carhomdaed — ]  i.  e.  Scotched  like  a  piece  of  meat  for  the  gridiron. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  253 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Marseilles.    A  Street. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana,  with  ttvo 
Attendants. 

Hel.  But  this  exceeding  posting,  day  and  night. 
Must  wear  your  spirits  low :  we  cannot  help  it ; 
But,  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights  as  one. 
To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs. 
Be  bold,  you  do  so  grow  in  ray  requital. 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.     In  happy  time  ; 

Enter  a  gentle  Astringer. 

This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear. 

If  he  would  spend  his  power. — God  save  you,  sir. 

Gent.  And  you. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of  France. 

Gent.  I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

Hel.  I  do  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  not  fallen 
From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions > 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  you  to 
The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  which 
I  shall  continue  thankful. 

Gent.  What's  your  will  ? 

Hel.  That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king ; 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  your  have. 
To  come  into  his  presence. 

Gent.  The  king's  not  here. 

Hel.  Not  here,  sir  ? 

Gent.  Not,  indeed : 

He  hence  remov'd  last  night,  and  with  more  haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains  ! 

'  Enter  a  gentle  Astringer.]  A  gentle  astringer  is  a  gentleman  falconer.  The 
word  is  derived  from  ostercus  or  austercus,  a  goshawk ;  and  thus,  says  CowelJ, 
in  his  Law  Dictionary,  "  We  usually  call  a  falconer,  Avho  keeps  that  kind  of 
hawk,  an  austringer," — Steevens. 

VOL.    III.  S 


254        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Hel.  A  ll's  well  that  ends  well ;  yet ; 
Though  time  seem  so  adverse,  and  means  unfit. — 
I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone  ? 

Gent.  Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon; 
Whither  I  am  going, 

Hel.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir. 

Since  you  are  Uke  to  see  the  king  before  me, 
Commend  this  paper  to  his  gracious  hand ; 
Which,  I  presume,  shall  render  you  no  blame. 
But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it : 
I  will  come  after  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means.™ 

Gent.  This  I'll  do  for  you. 

Hel.  And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be  well  thank'd, 
Whate'er  falls  more. — We  must  to  horse  again  ; — 
Go,  go,  provide.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL 

Rousillon.    The  inner  Court  of  the  Countess's  Palace. 
Enter  Clown  and  Parolles. 

Par.  Good  monsieur  Lavatch,'^  give  my  lord  Lafeu  this 
letter  :  I  have  ere  now,  sir,  been  better  known  to  you,  when 
I  have  held  familiarity  with  fresher  clothes ;  but  I  am  now, 
sir,  muddied  in  fortune's  mood,°  and  smell  somewhat  strong 
of  her  strong  displeasure. 

Clo.  Truly,  fortune's  displeasure  is  but  sluttish,  if  it 
smell  so  strong  as  thou  speakest  of:  I  will  henceforth 
eat  no  fish  of  fortune's  buttering.  Pr'ythee,  allow  the 
wind."* 

Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  stop  your  nose,  sir;  I  speak 
but  by  a  metaphor. 

m  Our  means  will  make  us  r)ieans.'\  Shakspeare  delights  much  in  this  kind  of 
reduplication,  sometimes  so  as  to  obscuie  his  meaning.  Helena  says,  they  will 
follow  with  such  speed  as  the  means  which  they  havewill  ^ive  them  ability  to  exert. — 
Johnson. 

"  Lavatch,"]  This  word  is  evidently  corrupted  from  la  vache. 

o mood,']  Resentment,  anger.  Dr.  Warburton  most  arbitrarily  changed  this 

word  to  7noat. 

i> allow  the  wind.]  i.  e.  Stand  to  the  leeward. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  255 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I  will  stop  my 
nose  ;  or  against  any  man's  metaphor.  Pr'ythee,  get  thee 
further. 

Par.  Pray  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 

Clo.  Foh,  pr'ythee,  stand  away ;  A  paper  from  fortune's 
close-stool  to  give  to  a  nobleman  !  Look,  here  he  comes 
himself. 

Enter  La  feu. 

Here  is  a  pur  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  fortune's  cat,  (but 
not  a  musk-cat,)  that  has  fallen  into  the  unclean  fishpond 
of  her  displeasure,  and,  as  he  says,  is  muddied  withal  : 
Pray  you,  sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may  ;  for  he  looks  like 
a  poor,  decayed,  ingenious,  foolish,  rascally  knave.  I  do 
pity  his  distress  in  my  smiles  of  comfort,  and  leave  him 
to  your  lordship.  \_Exit  Clown. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  fortune  hath  cruelly 
scratched. 

Laf.  And  what  would  you  have  me  to  do  ?  'tis  too  late 
to  pare  her  nails  now.  Wherein  have  you  played  the 
knave  with  fortune,  that  she  should  scratch  you,  who  of 
herself  is  a  good  lady,  and  would  not  have  knaves  thrive 
long  under  her  ?  There's  a  quart  d'ecu  for  you :  Let  the 
justices  make  you  and  fortune  friends;  I  am  for  other 
business. ' 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honour,  to  hear  me  one  single 
word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more  :  come,  you  shall 
ha't ;  save  your  word. 

Par.  My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Eaf.  You  beg  more  than  one  word  then.'' — Cox'  my 
passion  !  give  me  your  hand  : — How  does  yOur  drum  ? 

Par.  O  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first  that  found  me. 

Laf.  Was  I,  in  sooth  ?  and  I  was  the  first  that  lost 
thee. 

Par.  It  lies  in  you,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  in  some  grace, 
for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave !  dost  thou  put  upon  me  at 

•J more  than  one  word — ]  A  quibble  on  the  word  parolles,  which,  in  French 

is  plural,  and  signifies u)ords. — Malone. 

s2 


256         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

once  both  the  office  of  God  and  the  devil  ?  one  brings 
thee  in  grace,  and  the  other  brings  thee  out.  [Trumpets 
sound.]  The  king's  coming,  I  know  by  his  trumpets. — 
Sirrah,  inquire  further  after  me ;  I  had  talk  of  you  last 
night,  though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  eat ;' 
go  to,  follow. 

Par.  I  praise  God  for  you.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  in. 

The  same.  A  Room  in  the  Countess's  Palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  King,  Countess,  Lafeu,  Lords, 
Gentlemen,  Guards,  8ic. 

King.  We  lost  a  jewel  of  her ;  and  our  esteem* 
Was  made  much  poorer  by  it :  but  your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly,  lack'd  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home.* 

Count.  'Tis  past,  my  liege  : 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'the  blaze  of  youth ; 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
O'erbears  it,  and  burns  on. 

King.  My  honour'd  lady, 

I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all ; 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him. 
And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot. 

Laf.         ■  This  I  must  say, 

But  first  I  beg  my  pardon,— The  young  lord 
Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady. 
Offence  of  mighty  note  ;  but  to  himself 
The  greatest  wrong  of  all :  he  lost  a  wife, 
Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 

r ycru,  shall  eat ;]  Parolles  has  many  of  the  lineaments  of  Falstaff,  and 

seems  to  be  the  character  which  Shakspeare  delighted  to  draw,  a  fellow  that 
had  more  wit  than  virtue.  Though  justice  required  tliat  he  should  be  detected 
and  exposed,  yet  his  vices  sit  sojit  in  him  that  he  is  not  at  last  suffered  to  starve. 
— Johnson. 

« esteem — ]    Meaning  that  his  esteem  was  lessened  in  its  value  by 

Bertram's  misconduct ;  since  a  person  who  was  honoured  with  it  could  be  so 
ill  treated  as  Helena  had  been,  and  that  with  impunity. — M.  Mason. 

I home.]  That  is,  in  its  full  extent. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III.  257 

Of  richest  eyes  ;"  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive  ; 
Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scorn'd  to  serve. 
Humbly  call'd  mistress. 

Ki?ig.  Praising  what  is  lost. 

Makes     the     remembrance    dear. Well,    call    him 

hither ; 

We  are  reconcil'd,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition  :" — Let  him  not  ask  our  pardon ; 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead, 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  do  we  bury 
The  incensing  rehcks  of  it :  let  him  approach, 
A  stranger,  no  offender ;  and  inform  him, 
So  'tis  our  will  he  should. 

Gent.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exit  Gentleman. 

King.  What  says  he  to  your  daughter  ?  have  you  spoke? 

Laf.  All  that  he  is  hath  reference  to  your  highness. 

King.  Then  shall  we  have  a  match.     I  have  letters 
sent  me. 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Laf.  He  looks  well  on't. 

King.  I  am  not  a  day  of  season,'' 
For  thou  may'st  see  a  sun-shine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once :  But  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way ;  so  stand  thou  forth. 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

Ber.  My  high-repented  blames,^ 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

"  0/" richest  eyes ;]  Shakspeare  means  that  her  beauty  had  astonished  those, 
who,  having  seen  the  greatest  number  of  fair  women,  might  be  said  to  be  the 
richest  in  ideas  of  beauty. — Steevens. 

-'^ the  first  view  shall  kill 

All  repetition : — ]  The  first  interview  shall  put  an  end  to  all  recollection  of  the 
past.  Shakspeare  is  now  hastening  to  the  end  of  the  play,  finds  his  matter 
sufficient  to  fill  up  his  remaining  scenes,  and  therefore,  as  on  such  other  occa- 
sions, contracts  his  dialogue  and  precipitates  his  action.  Decency  required 
that  Bertram's  double  crime  of  cruelty  and  disobedience,  joined  likewise  with 
some  hypocrisy,  should  raise  more  resentment ;  and  that  though  his  mother 
might  easily  forgive  him,  his  king  should  more  pertinaciously  vindicate  his 
own  authority  and  Helen's  merit.  Of  all  this  Shakspeare  could  not  be  ignorant, 
but  Shakspeare  wanted  to  conclude  his  play. — Johnson. 

y  I  am  7wt  a  day  of  season,]  i.  e.  A  seasonable  day. 

^ high-repented  blames,']  i.e.  Faults  repented  oftolhe  litmost. — Steevens, 


258         ALL'S  WELL  THAT^NDS  WELL. 

King.  All  is  whole  ; 

Not  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 
Let's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top  ; 
For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 
The  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals  ere  we  can  effect  them :  You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 

Ber.  Admiringly,  my  liege  :  at  first 
I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue  : 
Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing. 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me. 
Which  warp'd  the  line  of  every  other  favour ; 
Scorn'd  a  fair  colour,  or  express'd  it  stol'n ; 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions. 
To  a  most  hideous  object:  Thence  it  came. 
That  she,  whom  all  men  prais'd,  and  whom  myself. 
Since  I  have  lost,  have  lov'd,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  dust  that  did  offend  it. 

King.  Well  excus'd : 

That  thou  didst  love  her,  strikes  some  scores  away 
From  the  great  conipt :  But  love  that  comes  too  late. 
Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried. 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  offence. 
Crying,  That's  good  that's  gone  :  our  rash  faults 
Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have, 
Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave  : 
Oft  our  displeasure,  to  ourselves  unjust. 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust : 
Our  own  love  waking  cries  to  see  what's  done. 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon.'' 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudhn  : 
The  main  consents  are  had  ;  and  here  we'll  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

>  Our  own  love  wakiiig  cries  to  see  what's  done. 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon.']  Our  own  love  in  this  couplet 
does  not  mean,  as  Mr.  M.  Mason  asserts  it  must,  our  self-love,  but  simply  our 
love,  which  has  been  suppressed  by  anger  during  life,  but  which  at  the  death  of 
the  individual  axvakes  to  wee])  while  shameful  hate,  i.  e.  hate  ashamed,  sleeps  out 
the  afternoon,  i.  e.  is  allayed  for  all  the  after  period  of  our  existence. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III.  259 

Count.  Which  better  than  the  first,  O  dear  heaven,  bless  ! 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  O  nature  cease  ! 

Laf.  Come  on,  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's  name 
Must  be  digested,  give  a  favour  from  you. 
To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter. 
That  she  may  quickly  come. — By  my  old  beard, 
And  every  hair  that's  on't,  Helen,  that's  dead. 
Was  a  sweet  creature ;  such  a  ring  as  this. 
The  last  that  e'er  I  took  her  leave  at  court, 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 

Ber.  Hers  it  was  not. 

King.  Now,  pray  you,  let  me  see  it ;  for  mine  eye. 
While  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fasten'd  to't. — 
This  ring  was  mine  ;  and,  when  I  gave  it  Helen, 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortunes  ever  stood 
Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 
I  would  relieve  her  :  Had  you  that  craft,  to  reave  her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most  ? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

Howe'er  it  pleases  you  to  take  it  so. 
The  ring  was  never  hers. 

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

I  have  seen  her  wear  it ;  and  she  reckon'd  it 
At  her  life's  rate. 

Laf.  I  am  sure,  I  saw  her  wear  it. 

Ber.  You  are  deceiv'd,  my  lord,  she  never  saw  it. 
In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me,** 
Wrapp'd  in  a  paper,  which  contain'd  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it :  noble  she  was,  and  thought 
I  stood  ingag'd  :*=  but  when  I  had  subscrib'd 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  inform'd  her  fully, 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  course  of  honour 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceas'd, 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

b  In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me,']  Bertram  still  continues  to 
have  too  little  virtue  to  deserve  Helen.  He  did  not  know  indeed  that  it  was 
Helen's  ring,  but  he  knew  that  he  had  it  not  from  a  window. — Johnson. 

c ingag'd :]    In  the  sense  of  nningaged ;  this  word  is  of  exactly  the 

same  formation  as  inhabitable,  which  is  used  by  Shakspeare  and  the  contem- 
porary writers  for  uninhabitable. — Maione. 


260         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

King.  Plutus  himself, 

That  knows  the  tinct  and  multiplying  medicine,^ 
Hath  not  in  nature's  mystery  more  science. 
Than  I  have  in  this  ring :  'twas  mine,  'twas  Helen's, 
Whoever  gave  it  you :  Then,  if  you  know 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself. 
Confess  'twas  hers,"  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 
You  got  it  from  her :  she  call'd  the  saints  to  surety. 
That  she  would  never  put  it  from  her  finger. 
Unless  she  gave  it  to  yourself  in  bed, 
(Where  you  have  never  come,)  or  sent  it  us 
Upon  her  great  disaster. 

Ber.  She  never  saw  it. 

King.   Thou  speak 'st  it  falsely,  as  I  love  mine  honour  : 
And  mak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me. 
Which  I  would  fain  shut  out :  If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman, — 'twill  not  prove  so ; — 
And  yet  I  know  not : — thou  didst  hate  her  deadly. 
And  she  is  dead  ;  which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe. 
More  than  to  see  this  ring. — Take  him  away. — 

[Guards  seize  Bertram. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter^fall. 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity. 
Having  vainly  fear'd  too  little.*^ — Away  with  him  ; — 
We'll  sift  this  matter  further. 

Ber.  If  you  shall  prove 

This  ring  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easy 
Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence, 
Where  yet  she  never  was.  [Exit  Bertram,  guarded. 

^ the  tinct  and  multiplying  viedicitte,']  Plutus,  the  grand  alchemist,  who 

knows  the  tincture  which  confers  the  properties  of  gold  upon  base  metals,  and 
the  matter  by  which  gold  is  multiplied,  by  which  a  small  quantity  of  gold  is 
made  to  communicate  its  qualities  to  a  large  mass  of  base  metal. — Johnson. 

e Then,  if  you  know 

That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself, 

Confess  'twas  hers,']  The  true  meaning  of  this  expression  is,  Jfyou  know  that 
your  faculties  are  so  sound,  as  that  you  have  the  proper  consciousness  of  your  own 
actions,  and  are  able  to  recollect  and  relate  what  you  have  done,  tell  me,  &c. 
— Johnson. 

'  My  fore-past  proofs,  &c.]  The  proofs  which  I  have  already  had  are  sufficient 
to  show  that  my  fears  were  not  vain  and  irrational.  I  have  rather  been  hi- 
therto more  easy  than  I  ought,  and  have  unreasonably  had  too  little  fear. — 
Johnson. 


ACT  V.-SCENE  III.  261 

E)iter  a  Gentleman. 

King.  I  am  wrapp'd  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Gent.  Gracious  sovereign. 

Whether  I  have  been  to  blame,  or  no,  I  know  not ; 
Here's  a  petition  from  a  Florentine, 
Who  hath,  for  four  or  five  removes,  come  shorts 
To  tender  it  herself.     I  undertook  it, 
Vanquish'd  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know. 
Is  here  attending  :  her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  importing  visage  ;  and  she  told  me, 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Your  highness  with  herself. 

King,  [reads.]  Upon  his  many  protestations  to  marry  me, 
when  his  ivife  was  dead,  I  blush  to  say  it,  he  won  me.  Now 
is  the  count  Rousillon  a  widower ;  his  vows  are  foifeited  to 
me,  and  my  honour's  paid  to  him.  He  stole  from  Florence, 
taking  no  leave,  and  I  follow  him  to  his  country  for  justice  : 
Grant  it  me,  O  king,  in  you  it  best  lies ;  otherwise  a  seducer 
flourishes,  and  a  poor  maid  is  undone. 

Diana  Capulet. 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and  toll  him  :'' 
for  this,  I'll  none  of  him. 

King.  The  heavens  have  thought  well  on  thee,  Lafeu, 
To  bring  forth  this  discovery .^Seek  these  suitors  : — 
Go,  speedily,  and  bring  again  the  count. 

[Exeunt  Gentleman,  and  some  Attendants. 
I  am  afeard,  the  life  of  Helen,  lady. 
Was  foully  snatch 'd. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers ! 

Enter  Bertram,  guarded. 

King.  I  wonder,  sir,  since  wives  are  monsters  to  you. 
And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  swear  them  lordship. 
Yet  you  desire  to  marry. — What  woman's  that  ? 

s for  four  or  Jive  removes,  come  short — ]  Helena  had  come  short, or  missed 

the  king  at  four  or  five  different  removes  or  post-stages. 

^ toll  him ;]  i.  e.  Enter  him  on  the  toll-book,  to  prove  I  came  honestly 

by  him. — Steevens. 


262         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  Widow,  and  Diana. 

Dia.  1  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine, 
Derived  from  the  ancient  Capulet ; 
My  suit,  as  I  do  miderstand,  you  know. 
And  therefore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied. 

Wid.  I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and  honour 
Both  suffer  under  this  complaint  we  bring. 
And  both  shall  cease,'  without  your  remedy. 

King.  Come  hither,  count ;  Do  you  know  these  women  ? 

Ber.  My  lord,  1  neither  can,  nor  will  deny 
But  that  I  know  them  :  Do  they  charge  me  further  ? 

Dia.  Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your  wife  ? 

Ber.  She's  none  of  mine,  my  lord. 

Dia.  If  you  shall  marry,   ' 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine ; 
You  give  away  heaven's  vows,  and  those  are  mine ; 
You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine  ; 
For  I  by  vow  am  so  embodied  yours. 
That  she,  which  marries  you,  must  marry  me. 
Either  both  or  none. 

Lof.  Your  reputation  [to  Bertram.]  comes  too  short 
for  my  daughter,  you  are  no  husband  for  her. 

Ber.  My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate  creature. 
Whom  sometime  I  have  laugh'd  with  :  let  your  highness 
Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honour. 
Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 

King.  Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them  ill  to  friend, 
Till  your  deeds  gain  them  :  Fairer  prove  your  honour. 
Than  in  my  thought  it  lies  ! 

Dia.  Good  my  lord. 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  not  my  virginity. 

King.  What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 

Ber.  She's  impudent,  my  lord  ; 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. 

Dia.  He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord  ;  if  I  were  so, 
He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price  : 
Do  not  believe  him  :  O,  behold  this  ring, 

' cease,]  i.  e.  Die. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III.  263 

Whose  high  respect,  and  rich  vahdity,'' 
Did  lack  a  parallel ;  yet,  for  all  that, 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  o'the  camp. 
If  I  be  one. 

Count.  He  blushes,  and  'tis  it : 
Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Conferr'd  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue. 
Hath  it  been  ow'd  and  worn.     This  is  his  wife  ; 
That  ring's  a  thousand  proofs. 

King.  Methought,  you  said. 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Dia.  I  did,  my  lord,  but  loath  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument;  his  name's  Parolles. 

Laf.  I  saw  the  man  to  day,  if  man  he  be. 

King.  Find  him,  and  bring  him  hither. 

Ber.  What  of  him? 

He's  quoted'  for  a  most  perfidious  slave. 
With  all  the  spots  o'the  world  tax'd  and  debosh'd  ;■" 
Whose  nature  sickens,  but  to  speak  a  truth  : 
Am  I  or  that,  or  this,  for  what  he'll  utter. 
That  will  speak  any  thing  ? 

King.  She  hath  that  ring  of  yours. 

Ber.  I  think,  she  has  :  certain  it  is,  I  lik'd  her. 
And  boarded  her  i'the  wanton  way  of  youth  : 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me. 
Madding  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint. 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course'' 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy  ;  and  in  fine. 
Her  insuit  coming  with  her  modern  grace," 
Subdued  me  to  her  rate  :  she  got  the  ring  ; 
And  I  had  that,  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market  price  have  bought. 

Dia.  I  must  be  patient  j 

You,  that  turn'd  off  a  first  so  noble  wife. 
May  justly  diet  me.p     I  pray  you  yet, 

k validity,']  i.  e.  Value.  ' quoted—]  i.  e.  Noted. 

™ debosh'd;]  i.  e.  Corrupted. 

" fancy's  course — ]  i.  e.  Course  of  love. 

° —  insuit  coming  with  her  modern  grace,]    Insuit  is  request, modern  is 

meanly  pretty. 

P  May  justly  diet  me.]  May  justly  make  me  fast,  by  depriving  me  (as  Des- 
demona  says)  of  the  rites  for  which  I  love  you Malone. 


264  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

(Since  you  lack  virtue,  I  will  lose  a  husband,') 
Send  for  your  ring,  I  will  return  it  home. 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Ber.  I  have  it  not. 

Kmg.  What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you? 

Dia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger. 

King.  Know  you  this  ring?  this  ring  was  his  of  late. 

Dia.  And  this  was  it  I  gave  him,  being  a-bed. 

King.  The  story  then  goes  false,  you  threw  it  him 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Dia.  I  have  spoke  the  truth. 

E?iter  Parolles. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  the  ring  was  hers. 

King.    You    boggle    shrewdly,    every   feather    starts 

you. 

Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  but,  tell  me  true,  I  charge  you. 
Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master, 
(Which,  on  your  just  proceeding,  I'll  keep  ofi",) 
By  him,  and  by  this  woman  here,  what  know  you  ? 

Par.  So  please  your  majesty,  my  master  hath  been  an 
honourable  gentleman  ;  tricks  he  hath  had  in  him,  which 
gentlemen  have. 

King.  Come,  come  to  the  purpose  :  Did  he  love  this 
woman  ? 

Par.  'Faith,  sir,  he  did  love  her  ;  But  how  ? 

King.  How,  I  pray  you  ? 

Par.  He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves  a 
woman. 

Ki?ig.  How  is  that  ? 

Par.  He  loved  her,  sir,  and  loved  her  not. 

King.  As  thou  art  a  knave,  and  no  knave  : — 
What  an  equivocal  companion'^  is  this  ? 

Par.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's  command. 

Laf.  He's  a  good  drum,  my  lord,  but  a  naughty  orator. 

1 equivocal  companion — ]  i.  e.  Equivocating  fellow. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III.  265 

Dia.  Do  you  know,  he  promised  me  marriage  ? 

Par.  'Faith,  1  know  more  than  I'll  speak. 

King.  But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou  know'st  ? 

Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty;  I  did  go  between 
them,  as  I  said  ;  but  more  than  that,  he  loved  her — for, 
indeed,  he  was  mad  for  her,  and  talked  of  Satan,  and  of 
limbo,  and  of  furies,  and  I  know  not  what :  yet  I  was  in 
that  credit  with  them  at  that  time,  that  I  knew  of  their 
going  to  bed  ;  and  of  other  motions,  as  promising  her 
marriage,  and  things  that  would  derive  me  illwillto  speak 
of,  therefore  I  will  not  speak  what  I  know. 

King.  Thou  hast  spoken  all  already,  unless  thou  canst 
say  they  are  married :  But  thou  art  too  fine'  in  thy  evi- 
dence ;  therefore  stand  aside. — 
This  ring,  you  say  was  yours  ? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Where  did  you  buy  ?    or  who  gave  it  you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  given  me,  nor  I  did  not  buy  it. 

King.  Who  lent  it  you? 

Dia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither. 

King.  Where  did  you  find  it  then  ? 

Dia.  I  found  it  not. 

King.  If  it  were  yours  by  none  of  all  these  ways. 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Dia.  I  never  gave  it  him. 

Laf.  This  woman's  an  easy  glove,  my  lord;  she  goes 
off  and  on  at  pleasure. 

King.  This  ring  was  mine,  I  gave  it  his  first  wife. 

Dia.  It  might  be  yours,  or  hers,  for  aught  I  know. 

King.  Take  her  away,  I  do  not  like  her  now  ; 
To  prison  with  her  :  and  away  with  him. — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this  ring. 
Thou  diest  within  this  hour. 

Dia.  I'll  never  tell  you. 

King.  Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I'll  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.  I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer." 

' Bat  thou  art  too  fine — ]    Too  fine,  too  full  of  finesse,  too  artful.    A 

French  expression — trap  fine. — Malone. 
* customer.^  i.  e.  A  common  ivoman. 


266        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

Dia.  By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  'twas  you. 

King.  Wherefore  hast  thou  accus'd  him  all  this  while  ? 

Dia.  Because  he's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty ; 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he'll  swear  to't : 
I'll  swear,  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life  ; 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wife. 

[Pointing  to  La  feu. 

King.  She  does  abuse  our  ears ;  to  prison  with  her. 

Dia.  Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail. — Stay,  royal  sir  ; 

[Exit  Widow. 
The  jeweller,  that  owes  the  ring,  is  sent  for. 
And  he  shall  surety  me.     But  for  this  lord. 
Who  hath  abus'd  me,  as  he  knows  himself. 
Though  yet  he  never  harm'd  me,  here  I  quit  him  : 
He  knows  himself  my  bed  he  hath  defil'd  ; 
And  at  that  time  he  got  his  wife  with  child  : 
Dead  though  she  be,  she  feels  her  young  one  kick  ; 
So  there's  my  riddle,  One  that's  dead,  is  quick ; 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

Re-enter  Widow,  %vith  Helena. 

King.  Is  there  no  exorcist* 

Beguiles  the  truer  office  of  mine  eyes  ? 
Is't  real,  that  I  see  ? 

Hel.  No,  my  good  lord ; 

'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see. 
The  name  and  not  the  thing. 

Ber.  Both,  both  ;  O,  pardon  ! 

Hel.  O,  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like  this  maid, 
I  found  you  wond'rous  kind.     There  is  your  ring. 
And,  look  you,  here's  your  letter  ;  This  it  says. 
When  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this  ring. 
And  are  by  me  with  child,  &c. — This  is  done  : 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won  ? 

Ber.  If  she,  my  liege,  can  make  me  know  this  clearly, 
I'll  love  her  dearly,  ever,  ever  dearly. 

' exorcist — ]   In  Shakspeare's  time  tins  Tvord  was  synonymous  with 

conjurer,  and  is  so  given  in  M'msheu'i  Diet.  1617. 


ACT  V.—SCENE  III.  267 

Hel.  If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue. 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you ! — 
O,  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  ? 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions,  I  shall  weep  anon : — 
Good  Tom  Drum,  [to  Parolles.]  lend  me  a  handker- 
chief: So,  I  thank  thee;  wait  on  me  home,  I'll  make 
sport  with  thee:  Let  thy  courtesies  alone,  they  are  scurvy 
ones. 

King.  Let  us  from  point  to  point  this  story  know. 
To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  flow : 
If  thou  be'st  yet  a  fresh  uncropped  flower,        [To  Diana. 
Choose  thou  thy  husband,  and  I'll  pay  thy  dower ; 
For  I  can  guess,  that  by  thy  honest  aid. 
Thou  kept'st  a  wife  herself,  thyself  a  maid. — 
Of  that,  and  all  the  progress  more  and  less. 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express  : 
All  yet  seems  well ;  and,  if  it  end  so  meet. 
The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet.         [Flourish. 

(Advancing.) 

The  kifig's  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done: 

All  is  well  ended,  if  this  suit  be  won. 

That  you  express  content ;  which  tve  will  pay. 

With  strife  to  please  you,  day  exceeding  day : 

Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  parts ;" 

Your  gentle  hands  lend  us,  and  take  our  hearts.      [Exeunt."" 

"  Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  partsil  ^^^  meaning  is  :  Grant 
us  then  your  patience :  hear  us  without  interruption.  ^«ci  take  our  parts;  that 
is,  support  and  defend  us. — Johnson. 

^  This  play  has  many  delightful  scenes,  though  not  sufficiently  probable,  and 
some  happy  characters,  though  not  new,  nor  produced  by  any  deep  knowledge 
of  human  nature.  Parolles  is  a  boaster  and  a  coward,  such  as  has  always 
been  the  sport  of  the  stage,  but  perhaps  never  raised  more  laughter  or  con- 
tempt than  in  the  hands  of  Shakspeare. 

1  cannot  reconcile  my  heart  to  Bertram  ;  a  man  noble  without  generosity, 
and  young  without  truth  ;  who  marries  Helen  as  a  coward,  and  leaves  her  as 
a  profligate  :  when  she  is  dead  by  his  unkindness,  sneaks  home  to  a_  second 
marriage,  is  accused  by  a  woman  whom  he  has  wronged,  defends  hiinself  by 
falsehood,  and  is  dismissed  to  happiness. 

The  story  of  Bertram  and  Diana  had  been  told  before  of  Mariana  and  An- 
gelo,  and,  to  confess  the  truth,  scarcely  merited  to  be  heard  a  second  time. — 
Johnson. 

Johnson  temoigne  son  aversion  pour  le  comte  Bertrand,  et  trouve  mauvais 
qu'il  se  tire  d'affaire  sans  autre  punition  qu'  une  honte  passagere,  bien  com- 


268        ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

pens6e  par  la  possession  d'une  epouse  vertueuse.  Mais  Shakspear  n'a  point 
Toulu  adoucir  I'impression  que  produit  1'  insensible  fierte  et  la  durete  legere 
de  Bertrand  ;  il  ne  le  montre  distingue  que  sous  le  rapport  d'  une  brillante 
valeur.  Et  n'est-ce  pas  peindre  le  veritable  cours  des  clioses  du  monde,  que 
de  montrer  que  les  hommes  n'expient  gu6re,  dans  I'opinion,  leurs  torts  envers 
les  femmes  lorsqu'ils  conservent  les  advantages  auxquels  on  attache  pour  eux 
I'idee  de  I'honneur  ?  Le  compte  Bertrand  n'a  qu'une  seule  excuse,  c'est  que  le 
roi  s'est  permis  contre  lui  un  acte  d'  autorit6,  qui  pour  un  objet  est  du  ressort 
des  droits  personnels,  le  choix  d'une  epouse. — Schlegel.  Cours  de  Litt.  Dram. 
vol.  3.  p.  17,  and  18. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Mr.  Malone  supposes  this  comedy  to  have  been  written  in  1596.  It  is 
founded  on  an  anonymous  play  of  nearly  the  same  title,  "  The  Taming  of  a 
Shrew,"  which  was  probably  written  about  the  year  1590,  either  by  George 
Peele,  or  Robert  Green.  The  outline  of  the  induction  may  be  traced,  as  Mr. 
Douce  observes,  through  many  intermediate  copies,  to  the  Sleeper  Awaked 
of  the  Arabian  Nights.  It  has  been  doubted  by  Dr.  Warburton  and  Dr.  Farmer 
whether  this  comedy  is  really  the  production  of  Shakspeare.  They  have  no 
other  grounds  for  their  opinion,  but  the  inferiority  of  its  style.  The  play,  as 
a  whole,  is  certainly  not  in  our  author's  best  manner,  but  in  the  induction  and 
in  the  scenes  between  Katharine  and  Petruchio  the  traces  of  his  hand  are 
strongly  marked.  If  it  be  not  Shakspeare's,  to  whom  can  it  be  attributed  ■? 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have  written  a  sequel  to  this  comedy  called  "  The 
Woman's  prize,  or  the  Tamer  Tamed,"  in  which  a  character  bearing  tlie 
name  of  Petruchio  (for  nothing  but  the  name  remains  to  him),  is  subdued  by 
a  second  wife. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


A  Lord. 

Christopher  Sly,  a  drunken  tinker.^  .      , 

Hostess,  Pase,  Players,  Huntsmen,  and  V-^  r   i    .- 
,7  X      .f    J-  .7     T      7  \     Induction, 

other  servants  attending  on  the  Lord.  J 

Baptista,  a  rich  gentleman  o/^ Padua. 
ViNCENTio,  an  old  gentleman  o/ Pisa. 
LucENTio,  son  to  Vincentio,  in  love  with  Bianca. 
Petruchio,  a  gentleman  of  Verono.,  a  suitor  to  Kalharina. 
Gremio,       \  suitors  to  Bi^nc^. 

HoRTENSIO,J       , 

Tranio,         \  gg^^j^fg  fQ  Lucentio. 

BlONDELLO,J 

Grumio,        \ servants  to  Petnichio. 

Curtis,         j 

Pedant,  an  old  fellow  set  up  to  personate  Vincentio. 

Katharina,  the  shrew  A  ^      f^f^^.^  to  Baptista. 

BiANCA,  her  sister,  ) 

Widow. 

Tailor,  Haberdasher,  and  Servants  attending  on  Baptista 
and  Petruchio. 

Scene,   sometimes    in   Padua;    a^id  sometimes   in 
Petruchio's  House  in  the  Country. 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


INDUCTION. 

Scene  I. — Before  an  Alehouse  on  a  Heath. 
Enter  Hostess  and  Sly. 

SIi/.  I'll  pheese='  you,  in  faith. 

Host.  A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue  ! 

Sly.  Y'are  a  baggage  ;  the  Slies  are  no  rogues  :  Look 
in  the  chronicles,  we  came  in  with  Richard  Conqueror. 
Therefore,  paucas  pallahris  ;^  let  the  world  slide  :  Sessa ! 

Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  you  have 
burst  ?= 

Sly.  No,  not  a  denier  :  Go  by,  says  Jeronimy ; — 
Go  to  thy  cold  bed,  and  warm  thee.'* 

Host.  I  know  my  remedy,  I  must  go  fetch  the  third- 
borough.^  [Exit. 

Sly.  Third,  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough,  I'll  answer  him 
by  law :  I'll  not  budge  an  inch,  boy  ;  let  him  come,  and 
kindly.  [Lies  dowji  on  the  ground,  and  falls  asleep. 

Wind  Horns.     Enter  a  hov&from  hunting,  with 
Huntsmen  and  Servants. 

Eord.  Huntsman,  I  charge  thee,  tender  well  my  hounds  : 

* fheese — ]  i.e.   Chastise,  heat, humble ;  the -wori.  is  still  in  use  in  the 

west  of  England. — Gitford's  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  iv.  p.  189. 

'' ptiucas  pallabris  ;'\    Sly,  as  an  ignorant  fellow,  is  purposely  made  to 

aim  at  languages  out  of  his  knowledge,  and  knock  the  words  out  of  joint.  The 
Spaniards  say,  pocas  pallahras,  i.  e.  few  words  :  as  they  do  likewise,  cessa,  i.  e. 
be  quiet. — Theobald. 

« you  /(flie  burst?]  To  burst  and  to  break  were  anciently  synonymous. 

d  Go  to  thy  cold  bed,  and  warm  thee.'\  These  words  are  used  by  Edgar  in 
King  Lear ;  they  appear  to  have  been  taken  from  Kyd's  play  of  Hieronymo,  as 
it  originally  was  acted.  It  was  altered  by  Ben  Jonson,  and  by  him  this  line 
was  perhaps  omitted  ;  as  it  no  longer  has  a  place  in  that  tragedy. 

^ the  thirdborough.]  The  office  of  tliirdhonnigh  is  the  same  with  that  of 

constable,  except  in  places  where  there  are  both,  in  which  case  the  former  is 
little  more  than  the  constable's  assistant.— Ritsok. 
T  2 


272  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Brach  Merriman, — the  poor  cur  is  emboss'd/ 
And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deep-mouth'd  brach. 
Saw'st  thou  not,  boy,  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge  corner,  in  the  coldest  fault  ? 
I  would  not  lose  the  dog  for  twenty  pound. 

1  Hun.  Why,  Belman  is  as  good  as  he,  my  lord ; 
He  cried  upon  it  at  the  merest  loss. 
And  twice  to-day  pick'd  out  the  dullest  scent : 
Trust  me,  I  take  him  for  the  better  dog. 

i 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  fool ;  if  Echo  were  as  fleet, 
I  would  esteem  him  Avorth  a  dozen  such. 
But  sup  them  well,  and  look  unto  them  all ; 
To-morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  again. 

1  Hun.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Lord.  What's  here?    one  dead,  or  drunk?    See,  doth 
he  breathe  ? 

2  Hun.   He  breathes,  ray  lord  :   Were  he  not  warm'd 

with  ale, 
This  were  a  bed  but  cold  to  sleep  so  soundly. 

Lord.  O  monstrous  beast !  how  like  a  swine  he  lies  ! 
Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsome  is  thine  image  ! 

Sirs,  I  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man. 

What  think  you,  if  he  were  convey'd  to  bed, 
Wrapp'd  in  sweet  clothes,  rings  put  upon  his  fingers, 
A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  bed. 
And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  wakes, . 
Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself? 

1  Hun.  Believe  me,  lord,  I  think  he  cannot  choose. 

2  Hun.  It  would  seem  strange  unto  him  when  he  wak'd. 
Lord.  Even  as  a  flattering  dream,  or  worthless  fancy. 

Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest : — 

Carry  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber. 

And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  vvanton  pictures  : 

Balm  his  foul  head  with  warm  distilled  waters. 

And  burn  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging  sweet : 

Procure  me  musick  ready  when  he  wakes. 

To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound  ; 

f  Brach  Merriman, — the  poor  cur  U  emboss'd,]  Brach  is  a  lurcher,  or  a  beagle, 
or  any  dog  of  a  fine  scent,  from  the  German  bract,  a  scenting  dog. — Emboss'd  is 
applied  to  a  deer  or  any  other  animal  when  fatigued  and  foaming  at  the  mouth. 


INDUCT.— SCENE  L  273 

And  if  he  chance  to  speak,  be  ready  straight, 

And,  with  a  low  submissive  reverence, 

Say, — What  is  it  your  honour  Avill  command  ? 

Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  bason. 

Full  of  rose-water,  and  bestrew'd  with  flowers; 

Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper. 

And  say, — Will't  please  your  lordship  cool  your  hands  ? 

Some  one  be  ready  with  a  costly  suit. 

And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear ; 

Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse. 

And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease  : 

Persuade  him,  that  he  hath  been  lunatick  ; 

And,  when  he  says  he  is — ,?  say,  that  he  dreams. 

For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 

This  do,  and  do  it  kindly,''  gentle  sirs ; 

It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent, 

If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty.* 

1  Hun,  My  lord,  I  warrant  you,  we'll  play  our  part. 
As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence. 
He  is  no  less  than  what  we  say  he  is. 

Lord.  Take  him  up  gently,  and  to  bed  with  him  ; 
And  each  one  to  his  office,  when  he  wakes. — 

[iSome  hear  out  Sly.     A  trumpet  sounds. 
Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet  'tis  that  sounds  : — 

{^Exit  Servant. 
Belike,  some  noble  gentleman  :  that  means. 
Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here. — 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  ?  who  is  it  ? 

Serv.  An  it  please  your  honour, 

Players  that  offer  service  to  your  lordship. 

Lord.  Bid  them  come  near : — 

Enter  Players. 

Now,  fellows,  you  are  welcome. 
1  Plai/.  We  thank  your  honour. 

g says  he  is — ,]  Dr.  Johnson  thinks  we  should  read,  and  iihen  he  says 

he's  Sly. 

J" kindly,']  i.  e.  Naturally. 

> viodesiy.']  By  modesty  is  meant  moderulwii,  without  suffering  our  mer- 
riment to  break  into  an  excess. — Johnson. 


274  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Lord.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  with  me  to-night  ? 

2  P/aj/.  So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our  duty.'' 

Lord.  With  all  my  heart. — This  fellow  I  remember. 
Since  once  he  play'd  a  farmer's  eldest  son ; — 
'Twas  where  you  woo'd  the  gentlewoman  so  well : 
I  have  forgot  your  name  ;  but,  sure,  that  part 
Was  aptly  fitted,  and  naturally  perfonn'd. 

1  Play.  I  think,  'twas  Soto'  that  your  honour  means. 

Lord.  'Tis  very  true  ; — thou  didst  it  excellent. — 
Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time ; 
The  rather  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand. 
Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 
There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night : 
But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties  ; 
Lest,  ever-eyeing  of  his  odd  behaviour, 
(For  yet  his  honour  never  heard  a  play,) 
You  break  into  some  merry  passion. 
And  so  offend  him ;  for  I  tell  you,  sirs. 
If  you  should  smile,  he  grows  impatient. 

1  Flay.  Fear  not,  my  lord  ;  we  can  contain  ourselves. 
Were  he  the  veriest  antick  in  the  world. 

Lord.  Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery. 
And  give  them  friendly  welcome  every  one  : 
Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  affords. — 

\^Exeunt  Servant  and  Players. 
Sirrah,  go  you  to  Batholomew  my  page,       [To  a  Servant. 
And  see  him  dress'd  in  all  suits  like  a  lady  : 
That  done,  conduct  him  to  the  drunkard's  chamber. 
And  call  him — madam,  do  him  obeisance. 
Tell  him  from  me,  (as  he  will  win  my  love,) 
He  bear  himself  with  honourable  action. 
Such  as  he  hath  observ'd  in  noble  ladies 
Unto  their  lords,  by  them  accomplished  : 
Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do, 
With  soft  low  tongue,  and  lowly  courtesy  ; 
And  say, — What  is't  your  honour  will  command, 

^ to  accept  aur  rfi/tj/-]   It  was  in  those  times  the  custom  of  players  to 

travel  in  companies,  and  offer  their  service  at  great  houses. — Johnson. 

'  Soto — ]  There  is  a  character  so  called  in  the  Woman  pleased  by  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  who  is  as  described  a  farmer's  eldest  son,  but  he  does  not  woo 
any  gentlewoman. — Tyrwhiti. 


INDUCT.— SCENE  II.  275 

Wherein  your  lady,  and  your  humble  wife. 

May  show  her  duty,  and  make  known  her  love  ? 

And  then — with  kind  embracements,  tempting  kisses. 

And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom, — 

Bid  him  shed  tears,  as  being  overjoy 'd 

To  see  her  noble  lord  restor'd  to  health. 

Who,  for  this  seven  years,  hath  esteem'd  him 

No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar  : 

And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift. 

To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tears. 

An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift ; 

Which  in  a  napkin  being  close  convey 'd. 

Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye. 

See  this  despatch'd  with  all  the  haste  thou  canst ; 

Anon  I'll  give  thee  more  instructions. 

[Exit  Servant. 
I  know,  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace. 
Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman  : 
I  long  to  hear  him  call  the  drunkard,  husband  ; 
And  how  my  men  will  stay  themselves  from  laughter. 
When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant. 
I'll  in  to  counsel  them ;  haply,  my  presence. 
May  well  abate  the  over-merry  spleen. 
Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Bedchamber  in  the  Lord's  House. 

Sly  is  discovered  in  a  rich  night-gown,  with  Attendants;  some 
with  apparel,  others  toith  bason,  ewer,  and  other  appur- 
tenances.    Enter  Lord  dressed  like  a  Servatit. 

SIt/.  For  God's  sake  a  pot  of  small  ale. 

1  Serv.  Will't  please  your  lordship  drink  a  cup  of  sack? 

2  Serv.  Will't  please  your  honour  taste  of  these  con- 

serves ? 

3  Serv.  What  raiment  will  your  honour  wear  to-day? 
Sli/.  I  am  Christophero  Sly;  call  not  me  honour,  nor 

lordship  :  I  never  drank  sack  in  my  life ;  and  if  you  give 
me  any  conserves,  give  me  conserves  of  beef:  Ne'er  ask 


276  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

me  what  raiment  I'll  wear:  for  I  have  no  more  doublets 
than  backs,  no  more  stockings  than  legs,  nor  no  more 
shoes  than  feet ;  nay,  sometimes,  more  feet  than  shoes,  or 
such  shoes  as  my  toes  look  through  the  overleather. 

Lord.  Heaven  cease  this  idle  humour  in  your  honour ! 
O,  that  a  mighty  man,  of  such  descent. 
Of  such  possessions,  and  so  high  esteem. 
Should  be  infused  w^ith  so  foul  a  spirit ! 

SI)/.  What,  would  you  make  me  mad?  Am  not  I  Chris- 
topher Sly,  old  Sly's  son  of  Burton-heath  ;°  by  birth  a 
pedlar,  by  education  a  card-maker,  by  transmutation  a 
bear-herd,  and  now  by  present  profession  a  tinker  ?  Ask 
Marian  Hacket,  the  fat  ale-wife  of  Wincot,  if  she  know 
me  not :  if  she  say  I  am  not  fourteen  pence  on  the  score 
for  sheer  ale,  score  me  up  for  the  lyingest  knave  in  Chris- 
tendom.    What,  I  am  not  bestraught :°  Heres 

1  Serv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  lady  mourn. 

2  Serv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants  droop. 
Lord.  Hence  comes  it  that  your  kindred  shun  your 

house. 
As  beaten  hence  by  your  strange  lunacy. 
O,  noble  lord,  bethink  thee  of  thy  birth  ; 
Call  home  thy  ancient  thoughts  from  banishment, 
And  banish  hence  these  abject  lowly  dreams  ; 
Look  how  thy  servants  do  attend  on  thee. 
Each  in  his  office  ready  at  thy  beck. 
Wilt  thou  have  musick  ?  hark  !  Apollo  plays.      [Miisick. 
And  twenty  caged  nightingales  do  sing  : 
Or  wilt  thou  sleep  ?  we'll  have  thee  to  a  couch. 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose  trimm'd  up  for  Semiramis. 
Say,  thou  wilt  walk  :  we  will  bestrew  the  ground : 
Or  wilt  thou  ride  !  thy  horses  shall  be  trapp'd. 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  gold  and  pearl. 

m  of  Burton -heath  : Marian  Hacket,  the  fat  ale-wife  of  Wincot.']  I 

suspect  we  should  read — Barton-heath.  Barton  and  Woodmancot ,  or,  as  it  is 
vulgarly  pronounced,  Woncot,  are  both  of  them  in  Gloucestershire,  near  the  re- 
sidence of  Shakspeare's  old  enemy,  Justice  Shallow.  Very  probably  too,  this 
fat  ale-wife  might  be  a  real  character. — Steevens. 

" I  am  not  bestraught ;]  Bestraught  seems  to  have  been  synonymous  to 

dislraught  or  distracted. — Ma  lone. 


INDUCT.— SCENE  II.  277 

Dost  thou  love  hawking  ?  thou  hast  hawks  will  soar 
Above  the  morning  lark  :  Or  wilt  thou  hunt? 
Thy  hounds  shall  make  the  welkin  answer  them, 
And  fetch  shrill  echoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

1  Serv.  Say,  thou  wilt  course  ;  thy  greyhounds  are  as 
As  breathed  stags,  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe.  [swift 

2  Serv.  Dost  thou  love  pictures?  we  will  fetch  thee 
Adonis,  painted  by  a  running  brook  :  [straight 
And  Cytherea  all  in  sedges  hid ; 

Which  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath. 
Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

Lord.  "We'll  show  thee  lo,  as  she  was  a  maid  ; 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surpris'd. 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

3  Serv.  Or  Daphne,  roaming  through  a  thorny  wood  ^ 
Scratching  her  legs  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds  : 
And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep. 

So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  lord,  and  nothing  but  a  lord  : 
Thou  hast  a  lady  far  more  beautiful 
Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age. 

1  Serv.  And,  till  the  tears  that  she  hath  shed  for  thee. 
Like  envious  floods,  o'er-ran  her  lovely  face, 

She  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world  5 
And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 

Slif.  Am  I  a  lord  ?  and  have  I  such  a  lady  ? 
Or  do  I  dream  ?  or  have  I  dream'd  till  now  ? 
I  do  not  sleep  :  I  see,  I  hear,  I  speak ; 
I  smell  sweet  savours,  and  I  feel  soft  things  : — 
Upon  my  life,  I  am  a  lord,  indeed  ; 
And  not  a  tinker,  nor  Christophero  Sly. — 
Well,  bring  our  lady  hither  to  our  sight ; 
And  once  again,  a  pot  o'  the  smallest  ale. 

2  Sei^,   Will't  please  your  mightiness  to  wash  your 

hands  ? 

[Servants  present  an  ewer,  bason,  a7id  napkin. 
O,  how  we  joy  to  see  your  wit  restor'd  ! 
O,  that  once  more  you  knew  but  what  you  are  ! 
These  fifteen  years  you  have  been  in  a  dream  ; 
Or,  when  you  wak'd,  so  wak'd  as  if  you  slept. 


278  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Sly.  These  fifteen  j'-ears !  by  my  fay,  a  goodly  nap. 
But  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time  ? 
•     1  Serv.  O,  yes,  my  lord  ;  but  very  idle  words  : — 
For  though  you  lay  here  in  this  goodly  chamber. 
Yet  would  you  say,  ye  were  beaten  out  of  door ; 
And  rail  upon  the  hostess  of  the  house  ; 
And  say,  you  would  present  her  at  the  leet,° 
Because  she  brought  stone  jugs  and  no  seal'd  quarts: 
Sometimes  you  would  call  out  for  Cicely  Hacket. 

Sly.  Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house. 

3  Serv.  Why,  sir,  you  know  no  house,  nor  no  such  maid ; 
Nor  no  such  men  as  you  have  reckon'd  up, — 
As  Stephen  Sly,  and  old  John  Naps  of  Greece, 
And  Peter  Turf,  and  Henry  Pimpernell ; 
And  twenty  more  such  names  and  men  as  these. 
Which  never  were,  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 

Sly.  Now,  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good  amends  ! 

All.  Amen. 

Sly.  I  thank  thee  ;  thou  shalt  not  lose  by  it. 

Enter  the  Page,  as  a  lady,  with  Attendants. 

Page.  How  fares  my  noble  lord  ? 

Sly.  Marry,  I  fare  well ;   for  here  is  cheer  enough. 
Where  is  my  wife  ? 

Page.  Here,  noble  lord :  what  is  thy  will  with  her? 

Sly.  Are  you  my  wife,  and  will  not  call  me — husband  ; 
My  men  should  call  me — lord ;   I  am  your  goodman. 

Page.  My  husband  and  my  lord,  my  lord  and  husband; 
I  am  your  wife  in  all  obedience. 

Sly.  I  know  it  well : — What  must  I  call  her  ? 

JLord.  Madam. 

Sly.  Al'ce  madam,  or  Joan  madam? 

Lord.  Madam,  and  nothing  else  ;   so  lords  call  ladies. 

Sly.  Madam,  wife,  they  say  that  I  have  dream'd,  and 
Above  some  fifteen  year  and  more.  [slept 

Page.  Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me ; 
Being  all  this  time  abandon'd  from  your  bed. 

o leet,']  At  the  court-lect,  or  courts  of  the  manor. 

p  John    Naps   of   Greece^ — read    old    John   Naps   o' the    Green.— 

Blackstone. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  279 

Sli/.  'Tis  much ; Servants,  leave  me  and  her  alone. — 

Madam,  undress  you,  and  come  now  to  bed. 

Page.  Thrice  noble  lord,  let  me  entreat  of  you. 
To  pardon  me  yet  for  a  night  or  two  ; 
Or,  if  not  so,  until  the  sun  be  set : 
For  your  physicians  have  expressly  charg'd. 
In  peril  to  incur  your  former  malady,  ^, 
That  I  should  yet  absent  me  from  your  bed  : 
I  hope,  this  reason  stands  for  my  excuse. 

5/y.  Ay,  it  stands  so,  that  I  may  hardly  tarry  so  long. 
But  I  would  be  loath  to  fall  into  my  dreams  again  ;  I  will 
therefore  tarry,  in  despite  of  the  flesh  and  the  blood. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Your  honour's  players,  hearing  your  amendment. 
Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy. 
For  so  your  doctors  hold  it  very  meet ; 
Seeing  too  much  sadness  hath  congeal'd  your  blood. 
And  melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy. 
Therefore,  they  thought  it  good  you  hear  a  play. 
And  frame  your  mind  to  mirth  and  merriment. 
Which  bars  a  thousand  harms,  and  lengthens  life. 

Sly.  Marry,  I  will ;  let  them  play  it :  Is  not  a  com- 
monty  a  Christmas  gambol,  or  a  tumbling-trick  ?i 

Page.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  it  is  more  pleasing  stuff. 

Shj.  What,  household  stuff? 

Page.  It  is  a  kind  of  history. 

Sly.  Well,  we'll  see't :  Come,  madam  wife,  sit  by  my 
side,  and  let  the  world  slip  ;  we  shall  ne'er  be  younger. 

[They  sit  down. 

ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Padua.     A  Public  Place. 

Enter  Lucentio  and  Tranio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  since — for  the  great  desire  I  had 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, — 

P Is  not  a  commonty — ]    Thus  the  old  copies ;  the  modern  ones  read 

— It  is  not  a  commodity,  &c.    Commonty  for  comedy. — Steevens. 

In  the  old  play  the  players  themselves  use  the  word  commodity  corruptly 
for  a  comedy. — Blackstone. 


280  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

I  am  arriv'd  for  fruitful  Lombardy, 

The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy  ; 

And  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  arm'd 

With  his  good  will,  and  thy  good  company. 

Most  trusty  servant,  well  approv'd  in  all ; 

Here  let  us  breathe,  and  happily  institute 

A  course  of  learning,  and  ingenious""  studies. 

Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Gave  me  my  being,  and  my  father  first, 

A  merchant  of  great  traflSck  through  the  world, 

Vincentio,  come  of  the  Bentivolii. 

Vincentio  his  son,  brought  up  in  Florence, 

It  shall  become,  to  serve  all  hopes  conceiv'd,* 

To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  virtuous  deeds  : 

And  therefore,  Tranio,  for  the  time  I  study. 

Virtue,  and  that  part  of  philosophy 

Will  I  apply,  that  treats  of  happiness 

By  virtue  'specially  to  be  achiev'd. 

Tell  me  thy  mind  :  for  I  have  Pisa  left. 

And  am  to  Padua  come  ;  as  he  that  leaves- 

A  shallow  plash,  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep. 

And  with  satiety  seeks  to  quench  his  thirst. 

Tra.  Mi  perdonate,  gentle  master  mine, 
I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself; 
Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve, 
To  suck  the  sweets  of  sweet  philosophy. 
Only,  good  master,  while  we  do  admire 
This  virtue,  and  this  moral  discipline. 
Let's  be  no  stoicks,  nor  no  stocks,  I  pray ; 
Or  so  devote  to  Aristotle's  checks,' 
As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjur'd  : 
Talk  logick  with  acquaintance  that  you  have. 
And  practise  rhetorick  in  your  common  talk : 

T ingenious — ]  It  was  probably  written — ingenuous  studies,  but  of  this 

and  a  thousand  such  observations  there  is  little  certainty.  In  Cole's  Dictionary, 
1677,  it  is  remarked — "  ingenuous  and  ijigenious  are  too  often  confounded." 
so  late  as  the  time  of  the  Spectator,  we  read.  No.  437,  1st.  edition,  "  A  parent 
who  forces  a  child  of  a  liberal  and  ingenious  spirit." — Johnson  and  Reed. 

s to  serve  all  hopes  conceived,]  To  fulfil  the  expectations  of  his  friends. 

» Aristotle's  checks,]  Tranio  is  here  descanting  on  academical  learning, 

and  mentions  by  name  six  of  the  seven  liberal  sciences.  I  suspect  this  to  be  a, 
misprint,  made  by  some  copyist  or  compositor,  for  ethicks.  The  sense  confirms 
it. — Blackstoni:. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  281 

Musick  and  poesy  use  to  quicken"  you  ; 

The  mathematicks,  and  the  metaphysicks. 

Fall  to  them,  as  you  find  your  stomach  serves  you : 

No  profit  grows,  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en  ; — 

In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect. 

Luc.  Gramercies,  Trania,  well  dost  thou  advise. 
If,  Biondello,  thou  wert  come  ashore. 
We  could  at  once  put  us  in  readiness ; 
And  take  a  lodging,  fit  to  entertain 
Such  friends,  as  time  in  Padua  shall  beget. 
But  stay  awhile  :  What  company  is  this  ; 

Tra.  Master,  some  show,  to  welcome  us  to  town. 

Enter  Baptista,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Gremio,  and 
HoRTENsio.     LucENTio  and  Tranio  stand  aside. 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  importune  me  no  further. 
For  how  I  firmly  am  resolv'd  you  know  ; 
That  is,— not  to  bestow  my  youngest  daughter. 
Before  I  have  a  husband  for  the  elder : 
If  either  of  you  both  love  Katharina, 
Because  I  know  you  well,  and  love  you  well. 
Leave  shall  you  have  to  court  her  at  your  pleasure. 

Gre.  To  cart  her  rather  :  She's  too  rough  for  me  : — 
There,  there  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife  ? 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  sir,  [to  Bap.]  is  it  your  will 
To  make  a  stale"  of  me  amongst  these  mates  ? 

Hor.  Mates,  maid  !   how  mean  you  that  ?  no  mates  for 
you. 
Unless  you  were  of  gentler,  milder  mould. 

Kath.  I'faith,  sir,  you  shall  never  need  to  fear ; 
I  wis,  it  is  not  half  way  to  her  heart : 
But,  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  should  be 
To  comb  your  noddle  with  a  three-legg'd  stool. 
And  paint  your  face,  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 

Hor.  From  all  such  devils,  good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Gre.  And  me  too,  good  Lord  ! 

" quicken  ;]  i.  e.  Animate. 

^ "  stale — ]  i.  e.  A  decny,  anything  used  to  entice  or  draw  o«  a  person.    In 

this  passage,  it  has  been  observed  by  Mr.  Douce  that  there  is  a  quibbling  al- 
lusion intended  to  the  stale  mate  at  chess Nauf.s's  Glossary. 


282  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Tra.  Hush,  master !  here  is  some  good  pasthne  toward; 
That  wench  is  stark  mad,  or  wonderful  forward. 

Luc.  But  in  the  other's  silence  I  do  see 
Maid's  mild  behaviour  and  sobriety. 
Peace,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Well  said,  master;  mum!  and  gaze  your  fill. 
Bap.  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good' 
What  I  have  said, — Bianca,  get  you  in : 
And  let  it  not  displease  thee,  good  Bianca; 
For  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  my  girl. 

Kath.  A  pretty  peat !"  'tis  best 
Put  finger  in  the  eye,— and  she  knew  why. 

Bian.  Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent. — 
Sir,  to  your  pleasure  humbly  I  subscribe  : 
My  books  and  instruments,  shall  be  my  company  ; 
On  them  to  look,  and  practise  by  myself. 

Luc.  Hark,  Tranin  !  thou  may'st  hear  Minerva  speak. 

\^  Aside. 
Hor.  Signior  Baptista,  will  you  be  so  strange  ?^ 
Sorry  am  I,  that  our  good  will  effects 
Bianca's  grief. 

Gre.  Why,  will  you  mew  her  up, 

Signior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell. 
And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue? 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  content  ye  ;  I  am  resolv'd  : — 
Go  in,  Bianca.  lExit  Bianca. 

And  for  I  know,  she  taketh  most  delight 
In  musick,  instruments,  and  poetry. 
Schoolmasters  will  I  keep  within  my  house. 
Fit  to  instruct  her  youth. — If  you,  Hortensio, 
Or  signior  Gremio,  you,— know  any  such. 
Prefer  them  hither  ;  for  to  cunning  men'' 
I  will  be  very  kind,  and  liberal 
To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing-up  ; 
And  so  farewell.     Katharina  you  may  stay  ; 

y  A  pretrvpeat!]  Pent  or  pet  is  a  word  of  endearment  from  peij7,  little,  as  if  it 
meant  pretty  little  thing. — Johnson. 

'■ *"  strange?]  i.  e.  So  dilFerent  from  others  in  your  conduct. — Johnson. 

" cunning  men—]    Cunning  had  not  yet  lost  its  original  signification 

of  knowing,  learned,  as  may  be  observed  in  the  translation  of  the  IJible.— 
Johnson. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  283 

For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca.  [Exit. 

Kath.  Why,  and  I  trust,  I  may  go  too  ;  May  I  not? 
What,  shall  I  be  appointed  hours ;  as  though,  belike, 
I  knew  not  what  to  take,  and  what  to  leave  ?  Ha  !    [Exit. 

Gre.  You  may  go  to  the  devil's  dam  ;  your  gifts'*  are  so 
good,  here  is  none  will  hold  you.  Their  love^  is  not  so 
great,  Hortensio,  but  we  may  blow  our  nails  together,  and 
fast  it  fairly  out ;  our  cake's  dough  on  both  sides.  Fare- 
well : — Yet,  for  the  love  I  bear  my  sweet  Bianca,  if  I  can 
by  any  means  light  on  a  fit  man,  to  teach  her  that  wherein 
she  delights,  I  will  wish  him  to  her  father.'^ 

Ho7'.  So  will  I,  signior  Gremio  :  But  a  word,  I  pray. 
Though  the  nature  of  our  quarrel  yet  never  brook'd  parle, 
know  now,  upon  advice,^  it  toucheth  us  both, — that  we 
may  yet  again  have  access  to  our  fair  mistress,  and  be 
happy  rivals  in  Bianca's  love, — to  labour  and  effect  one 
thing  'specially. 

Gre.  What's  that,  I  pray? 

Hor.  Marry,  sir,  to  get  a  husband  for  her  sister. 

Gre.  A  husband  !  a  devil. 

Hor.  I  say,  a  husband. 

Gre.  I  say,  a  devil  :  Think'st  thou  Hortensio,  though 
her  father  be  very  rich,  any  man  is  so  very  a  fool  to  be 
married  to  hell? 

Hor.  Tush,  Gremio,  though  it  pass  your  patience  and 
mine,  to  endure  her  loud  alarums,  why,  man,  there  be 
good  fellows  in  the  world,  an  a  man  could  light  on  them, 
would  take  her  with  all  faults,  and  money  enough. 

Gre.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her  dowry 
with  this  condition,— to  be  whipped  at  the  high-cross 
every  morning. 

Hor.  'Faith,  as  you  say,  there's  small  choice  in  rotten 
apples.  But,  come ;  since  this  bar  inlaw  makes  us  friends, 
it  shall  be  so  far  forth  friendly  maintained,— till  by  helping 
Baptista's  eldest  daughter  to  a  husband,  we  set  his  young- 
est free  for  a  husband,  and  then  have  to't  afresh. — Sweet 

^ gifts — ]  i.  e.  Endowments. 

'^ Their  love,']  i.  e.  The  love  of  Baptista  and  Bianca. 

•* wish  him — ]  i.  e.  Recommend  him., 

^ ■  iipon  advice,']  i.  e.  On  consideration. 


284  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Bianca  ! — Happy  man  be  his  dole  !'  He  that  runs  fastest, 
gets  the  ring.s     How  say  you,  signior  Gremio  ? 

Gre.  I  am  agreed  :  and  'would  I  had  given  him  the 
best  horse  in  Padua  to  begin  his  wooing,  that  would 
thoroughly  woo  her,  wed  her,  and  bed  her,  and  rid  the 
house  of  her.     Come  on. 

\^Exeunt  Gremio  and  Hortensio. 
Tra.  [advancing.']  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me, — Is  it  possible 
That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold  ? 

Luc.  O  Tranio,  till  I  found  it  to  be  true, 
I  never  thought  it  possible,  or  likely ; 
But  see  !  while  idly  I  stood  looking  on, 
I  found  the  effect  of  love  in  idleness  : 
And  now  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee, — 
That  art  to  me  as  secret,  and  as  dear. 
As  Anna  to  the  queen  of  Carthage  was, — 
Tranio,  I  burn,  I  pine,  I  perish,  Tranio, 
If  I  achieve  not  this  young  modest  girl : 
Counsel  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  canst ; 
Assist  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Tra.  Master,  it  is  no  time  to  chide  you  now  ; 
Affection  is  not  rated''  from  the  heart : 
If  love  have  touch'd  you,  nought  remains  but  so, — 
Redime  te  captum  quam  queas  minhno.' 

Luc.  Gramercies,  lad  ;  go  forward  :  this  contents  ; 
The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel's  sound. 

Tra.  Master,  you  look'd  so  longly*^'  on  the  maid. 
Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what's  the  pith  of  all. 
Lnc.  O  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  in  her  face, 
Such  as  the  daughter  of  Agenor^  had, 

f  Happy  mati  be  this  dole !]  A  proverbial  expression.  Dole  is  a  share  or  lot 
in  any  thing  dealt  out  or  distributed,  though  its  original  meaning  was  the  pro- 
vision given  away  at  the  doors  of  great  men's  houses.—SxEEVENs.  The 
meaning  is,  "let  his  lot  be  the  title  happy  wan." — Nares. 

e gets  the  ring.']  An  allusion  to  the  ^port  of  running  at  the  ring. — 

Douce. 

h rated — ]  i.  e.  Chidden. 

*  Redime,  6cc.]  Our  author  had  this  line  from  Lilly,  which  I  mention,  that  it 
might  not  be  brought  as  an  argument  for  his  learning. — ^Jounson. 

k loiigly — ]  i.  e.  Longingly.  I  have  met  with  no  example  of  this  ad- 
verb.— Steevens. 

I daughter  of  Agenor—]    Europa,  for  whose  sake  Jupiter  transformed 

himself  into  a  bull.— Steevcns. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I.  265 

That  made  great  Jove  to  humble  him  to  her  hand. 
When  with  his  knees  he  kiss'd  the  Cretan  strand. 

Tra.  Saw  you  no  more  ?  mark'd  you  not,  how  her  sister 
Began  to  scold  ;  and  raise  up  such  a  storm. 
That  mortal  ears  might  hardly  endure  the  din  ? 

Luc.  Tranio,  I  saw  her  coral  lips  to  move, 
And  with  her  breath  she  did  perfume  the  air  ; 
Sacred,  and  sweet,  was  all  I  saw  in  her. 

Tra.  Nay,  then,  'tis  time  to  stir  him  from  his  trance. 
I  pray,  awake,  sir ;  If  you  love  the  maid. 
Bend  thoughts  and  wits  to  achieve  her.     Thus  it  stands : — 
Her  elder  sister  is  so  curst  and  shrewd. 
That,  till  the  father  rid  his  hands  of  her. 
Master,  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home  ; 
And  therefore  has  he  closely  mew'd  her  up. 
Because  she  shall  not  be  annoy'd  with  suitors. 

Ziuc.  Ah,  Tranio,  what  a  cruel  father's  he  ! 
But  art  thou  not  advis'd,  he  took  some  care 
To  get  her  cunning  schoolmasters  to  instruct  her? 

Tra.  Ay,  marry,  am  I,  sir ;  and  now  'tis  plotted. 

Luc.  I  have  it,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Master,  for  my  hand, 

Both  our  inventions  meet  and  jump  in  one. 

Luc.  Tell  me  thine  first. 

Tra.  You  will  be  schoolmaster. 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid  : 
That's  your  device. 

Luc.  It  is  :  May  it  be  done? 

Ti-a.  Not  possible  ;  For  who  shall  bear  your  part. 
And  be  in  Padua  here  Vincentio's  son  ? 
Keep  house,  and  ply  his  book  ;  welcome  his  friends  ; 
Visit  his  countrymen,  and  banquet  them? 

Luc.  Basta  f^  content  thee  5  for  I  have  it  full.'* 
We  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house  ; 
Nor  can  we  be  distinguished  by  our  faces. 
For  man,  or  master  :  then  it  follows  thus  ; — 
Thou  shalt  be  master,  Tranio,  in  my  stead, 

>"  Basta  i]  i.  e.  'Tis  enough;  Italian  and  Spanish. 

" I  have  it  full.']  i.  e.  Conceive  our  stratagem  in  its  full  extent,  I  have 

already  planned  the  whole  of  it. — Steevens. 

VOL.  III.  V 


286  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Keep  house,  and  port,"  and  servants,  as  I  should : 
I  will  some  other  be ;  some  Florentine, 
Some  Neapolitan,  or  meaner  man  of  Pisa. 
*Tis  hatch'd,  and  shall  be  so  : — Tranio,  at  once 
Uncase  thee  ;  take  my  colour'd  hat  and  cloak  : 
When  Biondello  comes,  he  waits  on  thee ; 
But  I  will  charm  him  first  to  keep  his  tongue. 

Tra.  So  had  you  need.  [They  exchange  habits. 

In  brief  then,  sir,  sith  it  your  pleasure  is. 
And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient ; 
(For  so  your  father  charg'd  me  at  our  parting  ; 
Be  serviceable  to  my  son,  quoth  he. 
Although,  I  think,  'twas  in  another  sense,) 
I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio, 
Because  so  well  I  love  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  be  so,  because  Lucentio  loves : 
And  let  me  be  a  slave,  to  achieve  that  maid 
Whose  sudden  sight  hath  thrall'd  my  wounded  eye. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Here  comes  the  rogue. — Sirrah,  where  have  you  been  ? 
Bion.   Where  have  I  been  1    Nay,  how  now,  where  are 


you 


Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stol'n  your  clothes  ? 
Or  you  stol'n  his  ?  or  both  ?  pray,  what's  the  news  ? 

Luc.  Sirrah,  come  hither;  'tis  no  time  to  jest. 
And  therefore  frame  your  manners  to  the  time. 
Your  fellow  Tranio  here,  to  save  my  life. 
Puts  my  apparel  and  my  countenance  on. 
And  I  for  my  escape  have  put  on  his ; 
For  in  a  quarrel,  since  I  came  ashore, 
I  kill'd  a  man,  and  fear  I  was  descried. 
Wait  you  on  him,  I  charge  you,  as  becomes, 
While  I  make  way  from  hence  to  save  my  life  : 
You  understand  me  ? 

Bion.  I,  sir  ?  ne'er  a  whit. 

Luc.  And  not  a  jot  of  Tranio  in  your  mouth  ; 
Tranio  is  changed  into  Lucentio. 

Bion.  The  better  for  him  ;  'Would  I  were  so  too  ! 
o port,]  i.  e.  figure,  show,  appearance. 


ACT  I.—SCENE  II.  287 

Tra.  So  would  I,  faith,  boy,  to  have  the  next  wish 
after, — 
That  Lucentio  indeed  had  Baptista's  youngest  daughter. 
But,  sirrah, — not  for  my  sake,  but  your  master's, — I  advise 
You  use  your  manners  discreetly  in  all  kind  of  companies  ; 
When  I  am  alone,  why,  then  I  am  Tranio ; 
But  in  all  places  else,  your  master  Lucentio. 

IjUC.  Tranio,  let's  go  : — 
One  thing  more  rests,  that  thyself  execute. 
To  make  one  among  these  wooers  :  If  thou  ask  me  why,-^ 
Sufficeth,  my  reasons  are  both  good  and  weighty .p 

[Exeunt. 

1  Serv.  My  lord,  you  nod  ;  yow  do  not  mind  the  play. 

Sly.  Yes,  by  saint  Anne,  do  I.     A  good  matter,  surely  ; 
Comes  there  any  more  of  it  ? 

Page.  My  lord,  'tis  but  begun. 

Sly.  'Tis  a  very  excellent  piece  of  work,  madam  lady  ; 
Would' t  were  done ! 

SCENE  II. 

The  same.     Before  Hortensio's  House. 
Enter  Petruchio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Verona,  for  a  while  I  take  my  leave. 
To  see  my  friends  in  Padua  ;  but,  of  all. 
My  best  beloved  and  approved  friend, 
Hortensio  ;  and,  I  trow,  this  is  his  house  : — ■ 
Here,  sirrah  Grumio ;  knock,  I  say. 

Gru.  Knock,  sir !  whom  should  I  knock  ?  is  there  any 
man  has  rebused  your  worship  ? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  here  soundly. 

Gru,  Knock  you  here,  sir  ?  why,  sir,  what  am  I,  sir, 
that  I  should  knock  you  here,  sir  ? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate. 
And  rap  me  well,  or  I'll  knock  your  knave's  pate. 

p good  and  weighty.']    The  division  for  the  second  act  of  this  play  is 

neither  marked  in  the  folio  nor  quarto  editions.  Shakspeare  seems  to  have 
meant  the  first  act  to  conclude  here,  where  the  speeches  of  the  tinker  are  in- 
troduced ;  though  they  have  been  hitherto  thrown  to  the  end  of  the  first  act, 
according  to  a  modem  and  arbitrary  regulation. — Steevens. 

u  2 


288  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Gru.  My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome  :  I  should  knock 
you  first. 
And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  Will  it  not  be  ? 
'Faith,  sirrah,  an  you'll  not  knock,  I'll  wring  it ;'' 
I'll  try  how  you  can  sol,  fa,  and  sing  it. 

[He  wrings  Grumio  bi/  the  ears. 
Gru.  Help,  masters,  help  !  my  master  is  mad. 
Pet.  Now,  knock  when  I  bid  you ;  sirrah  !  villain  ! 

Enter  Hortensio. 

Hor.  How  now  ?  what's  the  matter  ? — My  old  friend 
Grumio  !  and  my  good  friend  Petruchio  ! — 
How  do  you  all  at  Verona  ? 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  come  you  to  part  the  fray  ? 
Con  tutto  il  core  bene  trovato,  may  I  say. 

Hor.  Alia  nostra  casa  bene  venuto, 
Molto  honorato  signor  mio  Petruchio. 
Rise,  Grumio,  rise  ;  we  will  compound  this  quarrel. 

Gru.  Nay,  'tis  no  matter,  what  he  ^leges  in  Latin.' — ■ 
If  this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me  to  leave  his  service. 
— Look  you,  sir, — he  bid  me  knock  him,  and  rap  him 
soundly,  sir :  Well,  was  it  fit  for  a  servant  to  use  his 
master  so;  being,  perhaps,  (for  aught  I  see,)  two  and 
thirty, — a  pip  out  ? 

Whom,  'would  to  God,  I  had  well  knock'd  at  first. 
Then  had  not  Grumio  come  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  A  senseless  villain  ! — Good  Hortensio, 
I  bade  the  rascal  knock  upon  your  gate. 
And  could  not  get  him  for  my  heart  to  do  it. 

Gru.  Knock  at  the  gate? — O  heavens  ! 
Spake  you  not  these  words  plain, — Sirrah,  knock  me  here. 
Rap  me  here,  knock  me  well,  and  knock  me  soundly  ? 
And  come  you  now  with — knocking  at  the  gate  ? 

Pet.  Sirrah,  be  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise  you. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  patience  ;  I  am  Grumio 's  pledge  : 
Why,  this  a  heavy  chance  'twixt  him  and  you  ; 

n wring  it ;]  Here  seems  to  be  a  quibble  between  ringing  at  a  door 

and  wringiitg  a  man's  ears. — Steevens. 

«• "johat  lie  'leges  in  Latin.']  i.  e.  I  suppose,  what  he  alleges  in  Latin. 

Steevens. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  289 

Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant  Grumio. 
And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend, — what  happy  gale 
Blows  you  to  Padua  here,  from  old  Verona  ? 

Pet.  Such  wind  as  scatters  young  men  through  the  world. 
To  seek  their  fortunes  further  than  at  home, 
Where  small  experience  grows.     But  in  a  few/ 
Siofnior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  with  me  : — 
Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceas'd  ; 
And  I  have  thrust  myself  into  this  maze. 
Haply  to  wive,  and  thrive,  as  best  I  may  : 
Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  home. 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

Hoj\  Petruchio,  shall  I  then  come  roundly  to  thee. 
And  wish  thee'  to  a  shrewd  ill-favour'd  wife  ? 
Thoud'st  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel : 
And  yet  I'll  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich. 
And  very  rich  : — but  thou'rt  too  much  my  friend,  . 
And  I'll  not  wish  thee  to  her. 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  'twixt  such  friends  as  we. 
Few  words  suffice :  and,  therefore,  if  thou  know 
One  rich  enough  to  be  Petruchio's  wife, 
(An  wealth  is  burthen  of  my  wooing  dance,) 
Be  she  as  foul  as  was  Florentius'  love,* 
As  old  as  Sybil,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  a  worse, 
She  moves  me  not,  or  not  removes,  at  least. 
Affection's  edge  in  me  ;  were  she  as  rough 
As  are  the  swelling  Adriatick  seas  : 
I  come  to  wive  it  wealthily  in  Padua ; 
If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padua. 

Gru.  Nay,  look  you,  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly  what  his 
mind  is :  Why,  give  him  gold  enough  and  marry  him  to 
a  puppet,  or  an  aglet-baby ;"  or  an  old  trot  with  ne'er  a 
tooth  in  her  head,  though  she  have  as  many  diseases  as 

r in  a  few,]  i.  e.  In  shm-t,  in  few  words. 

* wish  thee — ]  i.  e.  Recommend  thee. 

t  Be  she  as  foul  as  was  Florentius'  love,']  The  allusion  is  to  a  story  told  by  Gower 
in  the  first  book  De  Coiifessione  Amantis.  Florent  is  the  name  of  a  knight  who 
had  bound  himself  to  marry  a  deformed  hag,  provided  she  taught  him  the  so- 
lution of  a  riddle  on  which  his  life  depended. — Steevens. 

u aglet-babii ,]  i.  e.  A  diminutive  being,  not  exceeding  in  size  the  tag  of  a 

■point.  An  aglet-baby  was  a  small  image  or  head  cut  on  the  tag  of  a  point,  or 
lace. — Ma  LONE. 


290  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

two  and  fifty  horses  ;  why,  nothing  comes  amiss,  so  money 
comes  withal. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  since  we  have  stepp'd  thus  far  in, 
I  will  continue  that  I  broach'd  in  jest. 
I  can,  Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 
With  wealth  enough,  and  young,  and  beauteous  ; 
Brought  up,  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman  : 
Her  only  fault  (and  that  is  faults  enough,) 
Is, — that  she  is  intolerably  curst. 
And  shrewd,*  and  froward  ;  so  beyond  all  measure. 
That,  were  my  state  far  worser  than  it  is, 
I  would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  of  gold. 

Pet.  Hortensio,  peace ;  thou  know'st  not  gold's  effect: — 
Tell  me  her  father's  name,  and  'tis  enough  ; 
For  I  will  board  her,  though  she  chide  as  loud 
As  thunder,  when  the  clouds  in  autumn  crack. 

Hor.  Her  father  is  Baptista  Minola, 
An  affable  and  courteous  gentleman  : 
Her  name  is  Katharina  Minola, 
Renown'd  in  Padua  for  her  scolding  tongue. 

Pet.  I  know  her  father,  though  I  know  not  her : 
And  he  knew  my  deceased  father  well : — 
I  will  not  sleep,  Hortensio,  till  I  see  her ; 
And  therefore  let  me  be  thus  bold  with  you. 
To  give  you  over  at  this  first  encounter. 
Unless  you  will  accompany  me  thither. 

Gru.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  him  go  while  the  humour  lasts. 
O'  my  word,  an  she  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do,  she  would 
think  scolding  would  do  little  good  upon  him :  She  may, 
perhaps,  call  him  half  a  score  knaves,  or  so  :  why,  that's 
nothing ;  an  he  begin  once,  he'll  rail  in  his  rope-tricks. y 
I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,— an  she  stand  him^  but  a  little,  he 
will  throw  a  figure  in  her  face,  and  so  disfigure  her  with 
it,  that  she  shall  have  no  more  eyes  to  see  withal  than  a 
cat  :*  You  know  him  not,  sir. 

» ihrewdi] — here  means,  shrewislt. 

' r(ype-tricki.'\  The  same  as  ropery,  which  in  our  author's  days  was  sy- 
nonymous with  roguery,  as  well  desemng  a  rope. — Nares. 

» stand — ]  i.  e.  Withstand. 

» that  she  shall  have  no  more  eyes  to  see  withal  than  a  cat :]  It  may  mean, 

that  he  shall  swell  up  her  eyes  with  blows,  till  she  shall  seem  to  peep  with  a 
contracted  pupil,  like  a  cat  in  the  light. — Johnson. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  291 

Hor.  Tarry,  Petruchio,  I  must  go  with  thee ; 
For  in  Baptista's  keep  my  treasure  is  : 
He  hath  the  jewel  of  my  life  in  hold. 
His  youngest  daughter,  beautiful  Bianca  ; 
And  her  withholds  from  me,  and  other  more 
Suitors  to  her,  and  rivals  in  my  love  : 
Supposing  it  a  thing  impossible, 
(For  those  defects  I  have  before  rehears'd,) 
That  ever  Katharina  will  be  woo'd, 
Therefore  this  order  hath  Baptista  ta'en ; 
That  none  shall  have  access  unto  Bianca, 
Till  Katharine  the  curst  have  got  a  husband. 

Gru.  Katharine  the  curst ! 
A  title  for  a  maid,  of  all  titles  the  "worst. 

Hor.  Now  shall  my  friend  Petruchio  do  me  grace ; 
And  offer  me,  disguis'd  in  sober  robes. 
To  old  Baptista  as  a  schoolmaster 
Well  seen  in  musick,''  to  instruct  Bianca : 
That  so  I  may  by  this  device,  at  least. 
Have  leave  and  leisure  to  make  love  to  her. 
And,  unsuspected,  court  her  by  herself. 

Enter  Gremio  ;  with  him  Lucentio  disguised  with  books 
under  his  arm. 

Gru.  Here's  no  knavery  !  See ;  to  beguile  the  old  folks, 
how  the  young  folks  lay  their  heads  together !  Master, 
master,  look  about  you  :  Who  goes  there  ?  ha ! 

Hor.  Peace,  Grumio  ;  'tis  the  rival  of  my  love  : — 
Petruchio,  stand  by  a  while. 

Gru.  A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous  ! 

[_Thei/  retire. 

Gre.  O,  very  well;  I  have  perus'd  the  note. 
Hark  you,  sir  ;  I'll  have  them  very  fairy  bound  : 
All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  any  hand ;" 
And  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her : 
You  understand  me  : — Over  and  beside 
Signior  Baptista's  liberality,  " 

I'll  mend  it  with  a  largess  :— Take  your  papers  too, 


Well  seen — ]  i.  e.  Well  versed. 

at  any  hand ,-]  i.  e.  At  all  events. 


2&2  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perfum'd  ; 

For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself. 

To  whom  they  go.     What  will  you  read  to  her? 

Lite.  Whate'er  I  read  to  her,  I'll  plead  for  you. 
As  far  my  patron,  (stand  you  so  assur'd,) 
As  firmly  as  yourself  were  still  in  place  : 
Yea,  and  (perhaps)  with  more  successful  words 
Than  you,  unless  you  were  a  scholar,  sir. 

Gre.  O  this  learning  !  what  a  thing  it  is  ! 

Gru.  O  this  woodcock  !  what  an  ass  it  is  ! 

Pet.  Peace,  sirrah. 

Ilor.  Grumio,  mum  ! — God  save  you,  signior  Gremio  ! 

Gre.  And  you're  well  met,  signior  Hortensio.    Trow  you. 
Whither  I  am  going  ?— To  Baptista  Minola. 
I  promis'd  to  enquire  carefully 
About  a  schoolmaster  for  fair  Bianca  : 
And,  by  good  fortune,  I  have  lighted  well 
On  this  young  man ;  for  learning,  and  behaviour. 
Fit  for  her  turn  ;  well  read  in  poetry 
And  other  books, — good  ones,  I  warrant  you. 

Hor.  'Tis  well :  and  I  have  met  a  gentleman. 
Hath  promis'd  me  to  help  me  to  another, 
A  fine  musician  to  instruct  our  mistress  ; 
So  shall  I  no  whit  be  behind  in  duty 
To  fair  Bianca,  so  belov'd  of  me. 

Gre.  Belov'd  of  me, — and  that  my  deeds  shall  prove. 

Gru.  And  that  his  bags  shall  prove.  [Aside. 

Hor.  Gremio,  'tis  now  no  time  to  vent  our  love  : 
Listen  to  me,  and  if  you  speak  me  fair, 
I'll  tell  you  news  indifferent  good  for  either. 
Here  is  a  gentleman,  whom  by  chance  I  met. 
Upon  agreement  from  us  to  his  liking. 
Will  undertake  to  woo  curst  Katharine  ; 
Yea,  and  to  marry  her,  if  her  dowry  please. 

Gre.  So  said,  so  done,  is  well : — 
Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults? 

Pet.  I  know,  she  is  an  irksome  brawling  scold ; 
If  that  be  all,  masters,  I  hear  no  harm. 

Gre.  No,  say'st  me  so,  friend  ?  What  countryman? 

Pet.  Born  in  Verona,  old  Antonio's  son  : 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  293 

My  father  dead,  my  fortune  lives  for  me ; 
And  I  do  hope  good  days,  and  long,  to  see. 

Gre.  O,  sir,  such  a  life,  with  such  a  wife,  were  strange  : 
But  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to't  o'God's  name  ; 
You  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all. 
But,  will  you  woo  this  wild  cat  ? 

Pet.  Will  I  live  ? 

Gru.  Will  he  woo  her?  ay,  or  Til  hang  her.         [Aside. 

Pet.  Why  came  I  hither,  but  to  that  intent  ? 
Think  you,  a  little  din  can  daunt  mine  ears  ? 
Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  lions  roar  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  sea,  puff'd  up  with  winds. 
Rage  like  an  angry  boar,  chafed  with  sweat  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  great  ordnance  in  the  field. 
And  heaven's  artillery  thunder  in  the  skies  ? 
Have  I  not  in  a  pitched  battle  heard 
Loud  'larums,  neighing  steeds,  and  trumpets'  clang  ? 
And  do  you  tell  me  of  a  woman's  tongue  ; 
That  gives  not  half  so  great  a  blow  to  the  ear. 
As  will  a  chesnut  in  a  farmer's  fire  ? 
Tush  !  tush  !  fear  boys  with  bugs.'' 

Gru.  For  he  fears  none. 

[Aside. 

Gre.  Hortensio,  hark ! 
This  gentleman  is  happily  arriv'd. 
My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  good,  and  yours. 

Hor.  I  promis'd,  we  would  be  contributors. 
And  bear  his  charge  of  wooing,  whatsoe'er. 

Gre.  And  so  we  will ;  provided,  that  he  win  her. 

Gru.  I  would,  I  were  as  sure  of  a  good  dinner.   [Aside. 

Enter  TuA-Nio,  bravely  apparelVd;  and  Biondello. 

Tra.  Gentlemen,  God  save  you  !  If  I  may  be  bold. 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  which  is  the  readiest  way 
To  the  house  of  Signior  Baptista  Minola? 

Bion.  He  that  has  the  two  fair  daughters  :^ — is't  [aside 
to  Tranio]  he  you  mean  ? 

'' with  bugs.]  i.  e.  With  bugbears. 

e  He  that  has  the  two  fair  daughters  : — ]  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  attributes  this  speech  to 
Gremio ;  but  as  there  is  no  need  for  any  such  deviation  from  the  old  copy,  1 
have  followed  M  alone  in  restoring  it  to  the  original  proprietor. 


294  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Tra.  Even  he.    Biondello  ! 

Gre.  Hark  you,  sir ;  You  mean  not  her  to 

Tra.  Perhaps,  him  and  her,  sir ;  What  have  you  to  do  ? 
Pet.  Not  her  that  chides,  sir,  at  any  hand,  I  pray. 
Tra.  I  love  no  chiders,  sir : — Biondello,  let's  away. 
Luc.  Well  begun,  Tranio.  \_Aside. 

Hor.  Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go  ; — 
Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea,  or  no  ? 
Tra.  An  if  I  be,  sir,  is  it  any  offence? 
Gre.    No ;  if,  without  more  words,  you  will  get  you 

hence. 
Tra.  Why,  sir,  I  pray,  are  not  the  streets  as  free 
For  me,  as  for  you  ? 

Gre.  But  so  is  not  she. 

Tra.  For  what  reason,  I  beseech  you  ? 

Gre.  For  this  reason,  if  you'll  know, 

That  she's  the  choice  love  of  signior  Gremio. 
Hor.  That  she's  the  chosen  of  signior  Hortensio. 
Tra.  Softly,  my  masters !  if  you  be  gentlemen. 
Do  me  this  right, — hear  me  with  patience. 
Baptista  is  a  noble  gentleman. 
To  whom  my  father  is  not  all  unknown ; 
And,  were  his  daughter  fairer  than  she  is. 
She  may  more  suitors  have,  and  me  for  one. 
Fair  Leda's  daughter  had  a  thousand  wooers ; 
Then  well  one  more  may  fair  Bianca  have  : 
And  so  she  shall ;  Lucentio  shall  make  one. 
Though  Paris  came,  in  hope  to  speed  alone. 

Gre.  What !  this  gentleman  will  out-talk  us  all. 
Luc.  Sir,  give  him  head  ;  I  know,  he'll  prove  a  jade. 
Pet.  Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these  words  1 
Hor.  Sir,  let  me  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  you. 
Did  you  yet  ever  see  Baptista's  daughter? 

Tra.  No,  sir ;  but  hear  I  do,  that  he  hath  two ; 
The  one  as  famous  for  a  scolding  tongue. 
As  is  the  other  for  beauteous  modesty. 

Pet.  Sir,  sir,  the  first's  for  me  ;  let  her  go  by. 
Gre.  Yea,  leave  that  labour  to  great  Hercules ; 
And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcides'  twelve. 

Pet.  Sir,  understand  you  this  of  me,  insooth ; — 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  295 

The  youngest  daughter,  whom  you  hearken  for/ 

Her  father  keeps  from  all  access  of  suitors  ; 

And  will  not  promise  her  to  any  man. 

Until  the  elder  sister  first  be  wed  : 

The  younger  then  is  free,  and  not  before. 

Tra.  If  it  be  so,  sir,  that  you  are  the  man 
Must  stead  us  all,  and  me  among  the  rest ; 
An  if  you  break  the  ice,  and  do  this  feat, — 
Achieve  the  elder,  set  the  younger  free 
For  our  access,— whose  hap  shall  be  to  have  her. 
Will  not  so  graceless  be,  to  be  ingrate. 

Hor.  Sir,  you  say  well,  and  well  you  do  conceive; 
And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  suitor. 
You  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman. 
To  whom  we  all  rest  generally  beholden. 

Tra.  Sir,  I  shall  not  be  slack  :  in  sign  whereof. 
Please  ye  we  may  contrive  this  aftemoon,*^ 
And  quaff  carouses  to  our  mistress'  health ; 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  law, — s 
Strive  mightily,  but  eat  and  drink  as  friends. 

Gru.  Bion.  O  excellent  motion !  Fellows,  let's  begone.'* 

Hor.  The  motion's  good  indeed,  and  be  it  so  ; — 
Petruchio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  venuto.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — The  same.    A  Room  in  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Katharina  and  Bianca. 

Bian.  Good  sister,  wrong  me  not,  nor  wrong  yourself. 
To  make  a  bondmaid  and  a  slave  of  me : 
That  I  disdain ;  but  for  these  other  gawds. 
Unbind  my  hands,  I'll  pull  them  off  myself, 

^ contrive  this  afternoon,']  i.  e.  Wear  out  the  afternoon :  contrive,  from  eon- 

tero.     So,  in  the  Hecyra  of  Terence,  totum  hunc  contrivi  diem. — Stee  vens. 

S as  adversaries  de  in  law,]  By  adversaries  in  law,  I  believe,  our  author 

means  not  suitors,  but  barristers,  who,  however  warm  in  their  opposition  to 
each  other  in  the  courts  of  law,  live  in  greater  harmony  and  friendship  in  pri- 
vate, than  perhaps  those  of  any  other  of  the  liberal  professions.  Their  clients 
seldom  "  eat  and  drink  with  their  adversaries  as  friends." — Ma  lone. 

.'' •  Fellows,  let's  begone.']   Fellows  means  fellow-servants.     Grumio  and 

Biondello  address  each  other. — Ma  lone. 


296  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Yea,  all  ray  raiment,  to  my  petticoat ; 
Or,  what  you  will  command  me,  will  I  do. 
So  well  I  know  my  duty  to  my  elders. 

Kath.  Of  all  thy  suitors,  here  I  charge  thee,  tell 
Whom  thou  lov'st  best :  see  thou  dissemble  not. 

Bian.  Believe  me,  sister,  of  all  the  men  alive, 
I  never  yet  beheld  that  special  face 
Which  I  could  fancy  more  than  any  other. 

Kath.  Minion,  thou  liest;  Is't  not  Hortensio? 

Bian.  If  you  aifect  him,  sister,  here  I  swear, 
I'll  plead  for  you  myself,  but  you  shall  have  him. 

Kath.  O  then,  belike,  you  fancy  riches  more  : 
You  will  have  Gremio  to  keep  you  fair.' 

Bian.  Is  it  for  him  you  do  envy  me  so? 
Nay,  then  you  jest;  and  now  I  well  perceive. 
You  have  but  jested  with  me  all  this  while  : 
I  pr'ythee,  sister  Kate,  untie  my  hands. 

Kath.  If  that  be  jest,  then  all  the  rest  was  so. 

[Strikes  her. 

Enter  Baptista. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  dame !  whence  grows  this  inso- 
lence ? 

Bianca  stand  aside  ; — poor  girl !  she  weeps  : — 
Go  ply  thy  needle  ;  meddle  not  with  her. — 
For  shame,  thou  hilding''  of  a  develish  spirit. 
Why  dost  thou  wrong  her  that  did  ne'er  wrong  thee  ? 
When  did  she  cross  thee  with  a  bitter  word  ? 

Kath.  Her  silence  flouts  me,  and  I'll  be  reveng'd. 

[Flies  after  Bianca. 

Bap.  What,  in  my  sight? — Bianca,  get  thee  in. 

[Exit.  Bianca. 

Kath.  Will  you  not  suffer  me  ?   Nay,  now  I  see. 
She  is  your  treasure,  she  must  have  a  husband ; 
I  must  dance  bare-foot  on  her  wedding-day. 
And,  for  your  love  to  her,  lead  apes  in  hell.' 

' }<eep  you  fair.']  i.  e.  Keep  you  richly. 

^ hilding — ]  The  word  hildiug  or  hindeling,  is  a  low  wretch:  it  is  ap- 
plied to  Katharine  for  the  coarseness  of  her  behaviour. — Johnson. 

1 lead  apes  in  hell.]  This  phrase  is  still  in  use,  and  though  Mr.  Hayley, 

in  Essay  on  Old  Maids,  gives  several  fanciful  conjectures  as  to  the  origin  of  the 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  297 

Talk  not  to  me ;  I  will  go  sit  and  weep. 

Till  I  can  find  occasion  of  revenge.      [Exit  Katharina. 

Bap.  Was  ever  gentleman  thus  griev'd  as  I  ? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Gremio,  ivith  Lucentio  in  the  habit  of  a  mean  man; 

Petruchio,  with  Hortensio  as  a  musician;  andTviA.- 

Nio,  with  BioNDELLO  bearing  a  lute  and  books. 

Gre.  Good-morrow,  neighbour  Baptista. 

Bap.  Good-morrow,  neighbour  Gremio :  God  save  you, 
gentlemen  ! 

Pet.  And  you,  good  sir !  Pray,  have  you  not  a  daughter 
Call'd  Katharina,  fair,  and  virtuous  ? 

Bap.  I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  call'd  Katharina. 

Gre.  You  are  too  blunt,  go  to  it  orderly. 

Pet.  You  wrong  me,  signior  Gremio ;  give  me  leave. — 
I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir. 
That, — hearing  of  her  beauty,  and  her  wit. 
Her  affability,  and  bashful  modesty. 
Her  wondrous  qualities,  and  mild  behaviour, — 
Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest 
Within  your  house,  to  make  mine  eye  the  witness 
Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  heard. 
And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 
I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine, 

[Presenting  Hortensio. 
Cunning  in  musick,  and  the  mathematicks. 
To  instruct  her  fully  in  those  sciences. 
Whereof,  I  know,  she  is  not  ignorant : 
Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  me  wrong ; 
His  name  is  Licio,  bom  in  Mantua. 

Bap.  You're  welcome,  sir ;  and  he  for  your  good  sake  : 
But  for  my  daughter  Katharine, — this  I  know. 
She  is  not  for  your  turn,  the  more  my  grief. 

Pet.  1  see  you  do  not  mean  to  part  with  her  5 
Or  else  you  like  not  of  my  company. 

Bap.  Mistake  me  not,  I  speak  but  as  I  find. 
Whence  are  you,  sir?  what  may  I  call  your  name  ? 

proverb, none  of  them  are  satisfactory.  "  Thatwomen,"says  Steevens  "whore- 
fused  to  bear  children,  should,  after  death,  be  condemned  to  the  care  of  apes  in 
leading-strings.might  have  been  considered  as  an  act  ofposthumousretribution." 


298  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Pet.  Petruchio  is  my  name  :  Antonio's  son, 
A  man  well  known  throughout  all  Italy. 

Bap.  I  know  him  well:  you  are  welcome  for  his  sake. 

Gre.  Saving  your  tale,  Petruchio,  I  pray. 
Let  us,  that  are  poor  petitioners,  speak  too  : 
Baccare  \"^  you  are  marvellous  forward. 

Pet.  O,  pardon  me,  signior  Gremio ;  I  would  fain  be  doing. 

Gre.    I  doubt  it  not,    sir;   but   you  will  curse   your 

wooing. 

Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
To  express  the  like  kindness  myself,  that  have  been  more 
kindly  beholden  to  you  than  any,  I  freely  give  unto  you 
this  young  scholar,  [presenting  Lucentio,]  that  hath  been 
long  studying  at  Rheims  ;  as  cunning  in  Greek,  Latin, 
and  other  languages,  as  the  other  in  musick  and  mathe- 
maticks :  his  name  is  Cambio ;  pray  accept  his  service. 

Bap.  A  thousand  thanks,  signior  Gremio  :  welcome, 
good  Cambio.— But  gentle  sir,  [to  Tranio,]  methinks, 
you  walk  like  a  stranger;  May  I  be  so  bold  to  know  the 
cause  of  your  coming  ? 

Tra.  Pardon  me,  sir,  the  boldness  is  mine  own  ; 
That  being  a  stranger  in  this  city  here. 
Do  make  myself  a  suitor  to  your  daughter. 
Unto  Bianca,  fair,  and  virtuous. 
Nor  is  your  firm  resolve  unknown  to  me. 
In  the  preferment  of  the  eldest  sister  : 
This  liberty  is  all  that  I  request, — 
That  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo, 
And  free  access  and  favour  as  the  rest. 
And,  toward  the  education  of  your  davighters, 
I  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument. 
And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books  :° 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.  Lucentio  is  your  name  ?  of  whence,  I  pray? 

>n  Beccare!]  A  cant  word,  meaning  stand  back ;  used  in  allusion  to  a  proverbial 
saying,  "  Bachare  quoth  Mortimer  to  his  sow;"  probably  in  ridicule  of  some 
men  who  affected  a  knowledge  of  Latin  without  having  it.— Farmer. 

n this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books .]  In  queen  Elizabeth  s  time 

tlie  young  ladies  of  quality  were  usually  instructed  in  the  learned  languages, 
if  any  pains  were  bestowed  on  their  minds  at  all.  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  her 
sisters,  Queen  Elizabeth,  &c.  are  trite  instances.— Percy. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I,  299 

Tra.  Of  Pisa,  sir ;  son  to  Vincentio. 

Bap.  A  mighty  man  of  Pisa :  by  report 
I  know  him  well :  you  are  very  welcome,  sir. — 
Take  you  \to  Hor.]  the  lute,  and  you  \to  Luc]  the  set 

of  books. 
You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 
Holla,  within ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Sirrah,  lead 

These  gentlemen  to  my  daughters  ;  and  tell  them  both 
These  are  their  tutors  ;  bid  them  use  them  well. 

[Exit  Servant,  with  Hortensio,  Lucentio, 
and  BioNDELLO. 
We  will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard. 
And  then  to  dinner :  you  are  passing  welcome. 
And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 

Pet.  Signior  Baptista,  my  business  asketh  haste. 
And  every  day  I  cannot  come  to  woo. 
You  knew  my  father  well ;  and  in  him,  me. 
Left  solely  heir  to  all  his  lands  and  goods. 
Which  I  have  better'd  rather  than  decreas'd : 
Then  tell  me, — If  I  get  your  daughter's  love. 
What  dowry  shall  I  have  with  her  to  wife  ? 

Bap.  After  my  death,  the  one  half  of  my  lands  : 
And,  in  possession,  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Pet.  And,  for  that  dowry,  I'll  assure  her  of  ° 
Her  widowhood, — be  that  she  survive  me, — 
In  all  my  lands  and  leases  whatsoever  : 
Let  specialties  be  therefore  drawn  between  us. 
That  covenants  may  be  kept  on  either  hand. 

Bap.  Ay,  when  the  special  thing  is  well  obtained. 
This  is, — her  love ;  for  that  is  all  in  all. 

Pet.  Why,  that  is  nothing  ;  for  I  tell  you,  father, 
I  am  as  peremptory  as  she  proud-minded  ; 
Atid  where  two  raging  fires  meet  together. 
They  do  consume  the  thing  that  feeds  their  fury : 

" of-—]   Perhaps  we  should  read  on.    In  the  old  copies  of  and  on  are 

frequently  confounded  by  the  printers'  inattention. — Steevens. 


300  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Though  little  fire  grows  great  with  little  wind. 
Yet  extreme  gusts  will  blow  out  fire  and  all : 
So  I  to  her,  and  so  she  yields  to  me  ; 
For  I  am  rough,  and  woo  not  like  a  babe. 

Bap.  Well  may'st  thou  woo,  and  happy  be  thy  speed  ! 
But  be  thou  arm'd  for  some  unhappy  words. 

Pet.  Ay,  to  the  proof;  as  mountains  are  for  winds. 
That  shake  not,  though  they  blow  perpetually. 

Re-enter  Hortensio,  with  his  head  broken. 

Bap.   How  now,  my  friend?  why  dost  thou  look  so 
pale  ? 

Hor.  For  fear,  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 

Bap.  What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good  musician  ? 

Hor.  I  think  she'll  sooner  prove  a  soldier ; 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 

Bap.  Why,  then  thou  cuxist  not  break  her  to  the  lute  ? 

Hor.  Why,  no  ;  for  she  hath  broke  the  lute  to  me. 
I  did  but  tell  her,  she  mistook  her  frets,p 
And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering  ; 
When,  with  a  most  impatient  devilish  spirit. 
Frets,  call  you  these  ?  quoth  she  :    Til  fume  ivith  them: 
And,  with  that  word,  she  struck  me  on  the  head. 
And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way ; 
And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  a  while. 
As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute  ; 
While  she  did  call  me, — rascal  fiddler. 
And — twangling  Jack  ;i  with  twenty  such  vile  terms. 
As  she  had  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 

Pet.  Now,  by  the  world,  it  is  a  lusty  wench  ; 
I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did  : 
O,  how  I  long  to  have  some  chat  with  her  ! 

Bap.  Well,  go  with  me,  and  be  not  so  discomfited  : 
Proceed  in  practice  with  niy  younger  daughter ; 
She's  apt  to  learn,  and  thankful  for  good  turns. — 

P her  frets,]  A  fret  is  that  stop  of  a  musical  instrument  which  causes 

or  regulates  the  vibration  of  the  string. — Johnson. 

1  And — twangling  Jack  j]  To  twangle  is  a  provincial  expression,  and  sig- 
nifies to  flourish  capriciously  on  an  instnmient,  as  performers  often  do  after 
having  tuned  it,  previous  to  their  beginning  a  regular  composition. — Henlet. 


ACT  il.— SCENE  I.  301 

Signior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us ; 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 
Pet.  I  pray  you  do ;  I  will  attend  her  here, — 

[Exeunt  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio, 

atld  HORTENSIO. 

And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 

Say,  that  she  rail ;  Why,  then  I'll  tell  her  plain. 

She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale  : 

Say,  that  she  frown  ;  I'll  say,  she  looks  as  clear 

As  morning  roses  newly  wash'd  with  dew  : 

Say,  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word  ; 

Then  I'll  commend  her  volubility. 

And  say — she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence  : 

If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I'll  give  her  thanks. 

As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week  ; 

If  she  deny  to  wed,  I'll  crave  the  day 

When  I  shall  ask  the  banns,  and  when  be  married  :— 

But  here  she  comes;  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

Enter  Katharina. 

Good-morrow,  Kate ;  for  that's  your  name,  I  hear. 

Kath.  Well  have  you   heard,  but  something  hard  of 
hearing ; 
They  call  me— Katharine,  that  do  talk  of  me. 

Pet.  You  lie,  in  faith  ;  for  you  are  call'd  plain  Kate, 
And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst; 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-Hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates  ;  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation  ; — 
Hearing  thy  mildness  prais'd  in  every  town. 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded, 
(Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs,) 
Myself  am  mov'd  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Kath.  Mov'd !  in  good  time  :  let  him  that  mov'd  you 
hither. 
Remove  you  hence  :  I  knew  you  at  the  first. 
You  were  a  moveable. 

P^i'  Why,  what's  a  movea])ie  ? 

VOL.    III.  X 


302  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Kath.  A  joint-stool.' 

Pet.  Thou  hast  hit  it:  come,  sit  on  me. 

Kath.  Asses  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 

Pet.  Women  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 

Kath.  No  such  jade,  sir,  as  you,  if  me  you  mean. 

Pet.  Alas,  good  Kate  !  I  will  not  burden  thee  : 
For,  knowing  thee  to  be  but  young  and  light, — 

Kath.  Too  light  for  such  a  swain  as  you  to  catch  ; 
And  yet  as  heavy  as  my  weight  should  be. 

Pet.  Should  be  ?  should  buz. 

Kath.  Well  ta'en,  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.  O,  slow-wing'd  turtle  !  shall  a  buzzard  take  thee  ? 

Kath.  Ay,  for  a  turtle ;  as  he  takes  a  buzzard.* 

Pet,    Come,    come,  you    wasp;   i'faith,  you    are    too 
angry. 

Kath.  If  I  be  waspish,  best  beware  my  sting. 

Pet.  My  remedy  is  then,  to  pluck  it  out. 

Kath.  Ay,  if  the  fool  could  find  it  where  it  lies. 

Pet.  Who  knows  not  where  a  wasp  doth  wear  his  sting? 
In  his  tail. 

Kath.  In  his  tongue. 

Pet.  Whose  tongue? 

Kath.  Yours,  if  you  talk  of  tails  ;  and  so  farewell. 

Pet.  What,  with  my  tongue  in  your  tail?  nay,  come 
again. 
Good  Kate  ;  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Kath.  That  ril  try. 

IStnking  him. 

Pet.  I  swear  I'll  cuff  you,  if  you  strike  again. 

Kath.  So  may  you  lose  your  arms : 
If  you  strike  me,  you  are  no  gentleman ; 
And  if  no  gentleman,  why,  then  no  arms. 

Pet.  A  herald,  Kate  ?  O,  put  me  in  thy  books. 

Kath.  What  is  your  crest  ?  a  coxcomb  ? 

Pet.  A  combless  cock,  so  Kate  will  be  my  hen. 

'  A  joint-stool.]  This  is  proverbial  expression  ; 

"  Cry  you  mercy,  I  took  you  for  a  join'd  stool." — See  Ray's  Collection, — 
Steevens.  ,  ,  , 

• for  a  turtle  as  he  takes  a  buzzard.]  i.  e.  He  may  take  me  for  a  turtle, 

but  he  should  find  mc  a  hawk — Johnson.  This  expression  also  seems  to  have 
been  proTerbial. — Steevens. 


ACT  II.---SCENE  I.  303 

Kath.  No  cock  of  mine,  you  crow  too  like  craven.' 

Pet.  Nay,  come,  Kate,  come  ;  you  must  not  look  so 
sour. 

Kath,  It  is  my  fashion,  when  I  see  a  crab. 

Pet.  Why,  here's  no  crab;  and  therefore  look  not  sour. 

Kath.  There  is,  there  is. 

Pet.  Then  show  it  me. 

Kath.  Had  I  a  glass,  I  would. 

Pet.  What,  you  mean  my  face  ? 

Kath.  Well-aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.  Now,  by  saint  George,  I  am  too  young  for  you. 

Kath.  Yet  you  are  wither'd. 

Pet.  'Tis  with  cares. 

Kath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.  Nay,  hear  you,  Kate  :  in  sooth,  you  'scape  not  so. 

Kath.  I  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry  ;  let  me  go. 

Pet.  No,  not  a  whit ;  I  find  you  passing  gentle. 
'Twas  told  me,  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and  sullen, 
And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar ; 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  courteous ; 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time  flowers : 
Thou  canst  not  frown,  thou  canst  not  look  askance. 
Nor  bite  the  lip,  as  angry  wenches  will ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers. 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable.    . 
Why  does  the  world  report,  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 
O  slanderous  world  !  Kate,  like  the  hazle-twig, 
Is  straight  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue. 
As  hazle  nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 
O,  let  me  see  thee  walk  :  thou  dost  not  halt. 

Kath.  Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  command. 

Pet.  Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove. 
As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait  ? 
O,  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate  ; 
And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  sportful ! 

' a  craven.]  A  craven  is  adegenerate,  dispirited  cock.    Craven  was  a  terra 

also  applied  to  those  who  in  appeals  of  battle  became  recreant,  and  by  pronounc- 
ing this  word,  called  for  quarter  from  their  opponents ;  the  consequence  of 
which  was  they  were  for  ever  after  deemed  infamous. — Rfed. 

x2 


304  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Kath.  Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly  speech  ? 

Pet.  It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

Kath.  A  witty  mother !  witless  else  her  son. 

Pet.  Am  I  not  wise  ? 

Kath.  Yes  ;  keep  you  warm." 

Pet.  Marry,  so  I  mean,  sweet  Katharine,  in  thy  bed ; 
And  therefore,  sitting  all  this  chat  aside. 
Thus  in  plain  terms  : — Your  father  hath  consented 
That  you  shall  be  my  wife  ;  your  dowry  'greed  on  ; 
And,  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn ; 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty, 
(Thy  beauty,  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well,) 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me  : 
For  I  am  he,  am  born  to  tame  you  Kate ; 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild  Kate  to  a  Kate" 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father ;  never  make  denial, 
I  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wnfe. 

Re-enter  Baptista,  Ghemio,  and  Tumsio. 

Bap.  Now, 
Signior  Petruchio  :  How  speed  you  with 
My  daughter  ? 

Pet.  How  but  well,  sir  ?  how  but  well  ? 

It  were  impossible,  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.  Why,  how   now,  daughter   Katharine?   in  your 
dumps  ? 

Kath.  Call  you  me,  daughter  ?  now  I  promise  you, 
You  have  show'd  a  tender  fatherly  regard, 
To  wish  me  wed  to  one  half  lunatick  ; 
A  mad-cap  ruffian,  and  a  swearing  Jack, 
That  thinks  with  oaths  to  face  the  matter  out. 

Pet.  Father,  'tis  thus, — yourself  and  all  the  world, 
That  talk'd  of  her,  have  talk'd  amiss  of  her  j 
If  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy  : 

" keep  you  warm.]  This  appears  to  allude  to  some  proverb,  which  is  now 

lost.  In  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  we  have,  "  he  has  tcit  enough  to  keep  himself 
warm." 

* a  wild  Kate  to  a  Kate — ]  This  is  the  reading  of  the  old  folio.    The 

modem  editors  read  a  wild  cat.    Petrucio  plays  upon  the  word  Cute  a  delicacy. 


ACT  II.—SCENE  I.  305 

For  she's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove ; 

She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  morn  ; 

For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grissel ; 

And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity  : 

And  to  conclude, — we  have  'greed  so  well  together. 

That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 

Kath.  I'll  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 

Gre.  Hark,  Petruchio  !  she  says,  she'll  see  thee  hang'd 
first. 

Tra.  Is  this  your  speeding?  nay,  then,  good  night  our 
part! 

Pet.  Be  patient,  gentlemen  ;  I  choose  her  for  myself; 
If  she  and  I  be  pleas'd,  what's  that  to  you  ? 
'Tis  bargain'd  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone. 
That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  tell  you,  'tis  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me  :  O,  the  kindest  Kate  ! — 
She  hung  about  my  neck ;  and  kiss  on  kiss 
She  vied  so  fast,^  protesting  oath  on  oath. 
That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love. 
O,  you  are  novices !  'tis  a  world  to  see,'^ 
How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 
A  meacock  wretch*  can  make  the  curstest  shrew. — 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate  :  I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy  apparel  'gainst  the  wedding-day  : — 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests  ; 
I  will  be  sure,  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Bap.  I  know  not  what  to  say  :  but  give  me  your  hands; 
God  send  you  joy,  Petruchio  !  'tis  a  match. 

Gre.  Tra.  Amen,  say  we  ;  we  will  be  witnesses. 

Pet.  Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu : 

I  will  to  Venice,  Sunday  comes  apace  : 

We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array ; 
And  kiss  me,  Kate,  we  will  be  married  o'Sunday. 

{Exeunt  Petruchio  anc?  Katharine,  severally'. 

Gre.  Was  ever  match  clapp'd  up  so  suddenly  ? 

y  She  vied  sofast,"]  Vye  and  revye  were  terms  at  cards,  used  in  the  obsolete  game 
of  primero,  now  superseded  by  the  more  modern  word,  bmg. — Farmeh. 

' 'tis  a  world  to  see,]  i.  e.  It  is  wonderful  to  see.  This  expression  is  often 

met  with  in  old  historians  as  well  as  dramatic  writers. — Steevens. 

=>  A  meacock  wretch — ]  i.  e.  A  tame  dastardly  creature,  generally  an  over- 
mild  husband,  called  a  meek  cock,  because  hen  pecked. — Narls. 


306  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Bap.  Faith,  gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  merchant's  part. 
And  venture  madly  on  a  desperate  mart. 

Trn.  'Twas  a  commodity  lay  fretting  by  you ; 
'Twill  bring  you  gain,  or  perish  on  the  seas. 

Bap.  The  gain  I  seek  is — quiet  in  the  match. 

Gre.  No  doubt,  but  he  hath  got  a  quiet  catch. 
But  now,  Baptista,  to  your  younger  daughter : — 
Now  is  the  day  we  long  have  looked  for  ; 
I  am  your  neighbour,  and  was  suitor  first. 

IVa.  And  I  am  one,  that  love  Bianca  more 
Than  words  can  witness,  or  your  thoughts  can  guess. 

Gre.  Youngling!  thou  canst  not  love  so  dear  as  I. 

Tra.  Grey-beard  !  thy  love  doth  freeze. 

Gre.  But  thine  doth  fry. 

Skipper,  stand  back;  'tis  age,  that  nourisheth. 

Tra.  But  youth,  in  ladies'  eyes  that  flourisheth. 

Bap.  Content   you,    gentlemen;    I'll   compound  this 
'Tis  deeds  must  win  the  prize  ;  and  he,  of  both,      [strife : 
That  can  assure  my  daughter  greatest  dower. 
Shall  have  Bianca's  love. — 
Say,  signior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her  ? 

Gre.  First,  as  you  know,  my  house  within  the  city 
Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold; 
Basons,  and  ewers,  to  lave  her  dainty  hands  : 
My  hangings  all  of  Tyrian  tapestry : 
In  ivory  coffers  I  have  stuff'd  my  crowns ; 
In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints,'' 
Costly  apparel,  tents  and  canopies, 
Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions  boss'd  with  pearl. 
Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needle-work. 
Pewter*^  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 

b counterpoints,']  These  coverings  for  beds  are  at  present  called  coun- 
terpanes ;  but  either  mode  of  gelling  is  proper.  Counterpoint  is  the  monkish 
term  for  a  particular  species  of  musick,  in  which,  notes  of  equal  duration,  but 
of  different  harmony,  are  set  in  opposition  to  each  other.  In  like  manner 
counterpanes  were  anciently  composed  of  patch-work,  and  so  contrived,  that 
every  pane  or  partition  in  them,  was  contrasted  with  one  of  a  different  colour, 
though  of  the  same  dimensions. — Steevens. 

<■  Pewter—']  Even  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  pewter  was  too  costly  to  be  used 
in  common.  It  appears  from  the  regulations  and  establishment  of  the  house- 
hold of  Henry  Algernon  Percy,  fifth  earl  of  Northumberland,  &c.  that  vessels 
of  pewter  were  hired  by  the  year.  This  household  book  was  begun  in  the 
year  151'i. — Steevkns. 


ACT  II.-SCENE  I.  307 

To  house,  or  house-keeping :  then,  at  my  farm 
I  have  a  hundred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 
Sixscore  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls. 
And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 
Myself  am  struck  in  years,  I  must  confess ; 
And,  if  I  die  to-morrow,  this  is  hers. 
If,  whilst  I  live,  she  will  be  only  mine. 

Tra.  That,  only,  came  well  in Sir,  list  to  me, 

I  am  my  father's  heir,  and  only  son : 

If  I  may  have  your  daughter  to  my  wife, 

I'll  leave  her  houses  three  or  four  as  good. 

Within  rich  Pisa  walls,  as  any  one 

Old  signior  Gremio  has  in  Padua; 

Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year. 

Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  jointure. — 

What,  have  I  pinch'd  you,  signior  Gremio  ? 

Gre,  Two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year,  of  land ! 
My  land  amounts  not  to  so  much  in  all : 
That  she  shall  have  ;  besides  an  argosy,*^ 
That  now  is  lying  in  Marseilles'  road  ; — — 
What,  have  I  chok'd  you  with  an  argosy  ? 

Tra.  Gremio,  'tis  known,  my  father  hath  no  less 
Than  three  great  argosies ;  besides  two  galliasses,* 
And  twelve  tight  gallies  :  these  I  will  assure  her. 
And  twice  as  much,  whate'er  thou  offer'st  next. 

<Jrre.  Nay,  I  have  ofFer'd  all,  I  have  no  more  ; 
And  she  can  have  no  more  than  all  I  have ; — 
If  you  like  me,  she  shall  have  me  and  mine. 

Tra,  Why,  then  the  maid  is  mine  from  all  the  world. 
By  your  firm  promise ;  Gremio  is  out-vied.*^ 

Bap.  I  must  confess,  your  offer  is  the  best ; 
And,  let  your  father  make  her  the  assurance. 
She  is  your  own;  else,  you  must  pardon  me  : 
If  you  should  die  before  him,  where's  her  dower  ? 

Tra.  That's  but  a  cavil ;  he  is  old,  I  young. 

■•  • argosy,']  See  note  to  ]Merchant  of  Venice,  act  1.  sc.  1. 

* two  galliasses,]  A  galeas  or  galliass,  is  a  heavy  low-built  vessel  of 

burthen,  with  both  sails  and  oars,  partaking  at  once  of  the  nature  of  a  ship  and 
a  galley. — Steevens. 

( out-vied.']  This  is  a  term  at  the  old  game  of  pvimero.    When  one  man 

was  vied  upon  another,  he  was  said  to  be  out-vied. — Steevens. 


308  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Gre.  And  may  not  young  men  die,  as  well  as  old  ? 

Bap.  Well,  gentlemen, 
1  am  thus  resolv'd  : — On  Sunday  next  you  know. 
My  daughter  Katharine  is  to  be  married  : 
Now,  on  the  Sunday  following,  shall  Bianca 
Be  bride  to  you,  if  you  make  this  assurance ; 
If  not,  to  signior  Gremio ; 
And  so  I  take  my  leave,  and  thank  you  both.  {^Exit. 

Gre.  Adieu,  good  neighbour. — Now  I  fear  thee  not ; 
Sirrah,  young  gamester,^  your  father  were  a  fool 
To  give  thee  all,  and,  in  his  waning  age, 
Set  foot  under  thy  table :  Tut !  a  toy  ! 
An  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy.  [Exit. 

Tra.  A  vengeance  on  your  crafty  wither'd  hide  ! 
Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten.*" 
'Tis  in  my  head  to  do  my  master  good : — 
I  see  no  reason,  but  suppos'd  Lucentio 
Must  get  a  father,  call'd — suppos'd  Vincentio  ; 
And  that's  a  wonder ;  fathers,  commonly. 
Do  get  their  children  ;  but,  in  this  case  of  wooing, 
A  child  shall  get  a  sire,  if  I  fail  not  of  my  cunning.  [Exit. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — A  Room  in  Baptista's  House. 
Enter  Lucentio,  Hortensio,  and  Bianca. 

Luc.  Fiddler,  forbear  ;  you  grow  too  forward,  sir : 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcoiu'd  you  withal  1 

Hot.  But,  wrangling  pedant,  this  is 
The  patroness  of  heavenly  harmony  : 
Then  give  me  leave  to  have  prerogative  ; 
And  when  in  musick  we  have  spent  an  hour. 
Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 

g gamester,]  Alluding  to  Tranio's  having  talked  of  out-vying  him. 

•> faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten.]  A  common  phrase,  derived  most  proba- 
bly from  the  game  ofprimero,  wherein  the  standing  boldly  upon  a  ten  was  often 
successful.  A  card  of  ten  means  the  tenth  card,  a  ten  :  to  face,  meant,  as  it 
still  does,  to  bully,  to  attack  by  impudence  of  face. — Naiies. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I.  309 

Luc.  Preposterous  ass  !  that  never  read  so  far 
To  know  the  cause  why  musick  was  ordain'd ! 
Was  it  not,  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man. 
After  his  studies,  or  his  usual  pain  ? 
Then  give  me  leave  to  read  philosophy. 
And,  while  I  pause,  serve  in  your  harmony. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  I  willjiot  bear  these  braves  of  thine. 

Bia?i.  Why,  gentlemen,  you  do  me  double  wrong. 
To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice  : 
I  am  no  breeching'  scholar  in  the  schools  ; 
I'll  not  be  tied  to  hours,  nor  'pointed  times. 
But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 
And,  to  cut  off  all  strife,  here  sit  we  down  : — 
Take  you  your  instrument,  play  you  the  whiles  ; 
His  lecture  will  be  done,  ere  you  have  tun'd. 

Hor.  You'll  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in  tune  ? 

[To  BiANCA. — HoRTENsio  retires. 

Luc.  That  will  be  never ; — tune  your  instrument. 

Bian.  Where  left  we  last? 

Luc.  Here,  madam  : 

Hac  ibat  Simois ;  hie  est  Sigeia  teilus  ; 

Hie  steterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis. 

Bian.  Construe  them. 

Luc.  Hac  ibat,  as  I  told  you  before, — Simois,  I  am  Lu- 
centio, — hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  of  Pisa, — Sigeia  teilus, 
disguised  thus  to  get  your  love ; — Hie  steterat,  and  that 
Lucentio  that  comes  a  wooing, — Priami,  is  my  man  Tra- 
nio, — regia,  bearing  my  port, — celsa  senis,  that  we  might 
beguile  the  old  pantaloon.'' 

Hor.  Madam,  my  instrument's  in  tune.         {Returning. 

Bian.  Let's  hear; —  [HoRTENsio^/oys. 

O  fye  !  the  treble  jars. 

Luc.  Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 

Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  construe  it :  Hac  ibat 
Simois,  I  know  you  not ;  hie  est  Sigeia  teilus,  I  trust  you 
not ; — Hie  steterat  Priami,  take  heed  he  hear  us  not ; — 
regia,  presume  not ; — celsa  senis,  despair  not. 

Hor.  Madam,  'tis  now  in  tune. 

• breeching — ] — is  here  put  for  hreechable,  i.  e.  liable  to  be  whipt. 

"* pantaloon.'}  The  old  cully  in  Italian  farces.— Johnson, 


310  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Luc.  All  but  the  base. 

Hor.  The  base  is  right;  'tis  the  base  knave  that  jars. 
How  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  ! 
Now,  for  my  life,  the  knave  doth  court  my  love : 
Fedascule}  I'll  watch  you  better  yet. 

Bian.  In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  I  mistrust. 

Luc.  Mistrust  it  not ;  for,  sure,  ^acides 
Was  Ajax, — call'd  so  from  his  grandfather, 

Bian.  I  must  believe  my  master ;  else,  I  promise  you, 
I  should  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt  : 
But  let  it  rest. — Now,  Licio,  to  you  : — 
Good  masters,  take  it  not  unkindly,  pray. 
That  I  have  been  thus  pleasant  with  you  both. 

Hor.  You  may  go  walk,  [to  Lucentio]  and  give  me 
leave  awhile ; 
My  lessons  make  no  musick  in  three  parts. 

Luc.  Are  you  so  formal,  sir  ?  well,  I  must  wait. 
And  watch  withal ;  for,  but  I  be  deceived,™ 
Our  fine  musician  groweth  amorous.  [^Aside. 

Hor.  Madam,  before  you  touch  the  instrument. 
To  learn  the  order  of  my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  with  rudiments  of  art ; 
To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort. 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual. 
Than  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  my  trade  : 
And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 

Bian»  Why,  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 

Hor.  Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 

Bian.  [i'eads.'\  Gamut  I  am,  the  ground  of  all  accord, 
A  re,  to  plead  Hortensio' s  passion  ; 

B  mi,  Bianca,  take  him  for  thy  lord, 
C  faut,  that  loves  with  all  affection:: 

D  sol  re,  one  cliff,  two  notes  have  I; 

E  la  mi,  show  pity,  or  I  die. 
Call  you  this — gamut  ?  tut !  I  like  it  not : 
Old  fashions  please  me  best ;  I  am  not  so  nice. 
To  change  true  rules  for  odd  inventions. 

1  Pedasctile,']  Pedascule,  from  pedant.     It  is  very  probably  a  misprint  for  di- 
dascuU. 
m but  I  be  dectiv'd,']  But,  i.  e.  unleu. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  311 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sei'V.  Mistress,  your  father  prays  you  leave  your  books, 
And  help  to  dress  your  sister's  chamber  up  ; 
You  know,  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day. 

Bian.  Farewell,  sweet  masters,  both  ;  I  must  be  gone. 
\_Exeimt  Bian c A  and  Servant. 

Luc.  'Faith,  mistress,  then  I  have  no  cause  to  stay. 

[Exit. 

Hor.  But  I  have  cause  to  pry  into  this  pedant ; 
Methinks,  he  looks  as  though  he  were  in  love  : — 
Yet  if  thy  thoughts,  Bianca,  be  so  humble. 
To  cast  thy  wand'ring  eyes  on  every  stale. 
Seize  thee,  that  list :  If  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 
Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. 
The  same.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio,  Katharine, 
Bianca,  Lucentio,  and  Attendants. 

Bap.    Signior    Lucentio,   [to    Tranio,]    this    is    the 
'pointed  day 
That  Katharine  and  Petruchio  should  be  married. 
And  yet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-law  : 
What  will  be  said  ?  what  mockery  will  it  be. 
To  want  the  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage  ? 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours  ? 

Katk.  No  shame  but  mine  :  I  must,  forsooth,  be  forc'd 
To  give  my  hand,  oppos'd  against  my  heart. 
Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,  full  of  spleen  ;° 
Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at  leisure. 
1  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantick  fool. 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behaviour: 
And,  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man. 
He'll  woo  a  thousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage, 

" full  of  spleen  ;]  That  is,  full  ef  humour,  caprice,  and  inconstancy. — 

Johnson. 


312  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Make  friends,  invite  them,  and  proclaim  the  banns  ; 
Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo'd. 
Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 
And  say, — Lo,  there  is  mad  Petruchio's  wife, 
If  it  ivould  please  him  come  and  marry  her, 

Tra.  Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  Baptista  loo ; 
Upon  my  life,  Petruchio  means  but  well. 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word  : 
Though  he  be  blunt,  I  know  him  passing  wise  ; 
Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he's  honest. 

Kath.  'Would  Katharine  had  never  seen  him  though ! 
[Exit,  weeping,  followed  by  Bianca,  and  others,  j 

Bap.  Go,  girl ;  I  cannot  blame  thee  now  to  weep ; 
For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  very  saint. 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humour. 

JSnfcr  BioNDELLo. 

Bion.  Master,  master  !  news,  old  news,  and  such  news 
as  you  never  heard  of ! 

Bap.  Is  it  new  and  old  too?  how  may  that  be  ? 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news,  to  hear  of  Petrachio's  coming  ? 

Bap.  Is  he  come? 

Bion.  Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.  W^hatthen? 

Bion.  He  is  coming. 

Bap.  When  will  he  be  here? 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and  sees  you  there. 

Tra.  But,  say,  what: — To  thine  old  news. 

Bion.  Why,  Petruchio  is  coming,  in  a  new  hat,  and  an 
old  jerkin;  a  pair  of  old  breeches,  thrice  turned;  a  pair 
of  boots  that  have  been  candle-cases,"  one  buckled,  an- 
other laced  ;  an  old  rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the  town  ar- 
mory, with  a  broken  hilt,  and  chapeless  ;  with  two  broken 
points  :P  His  horse  hipped  with  an  old  mothy  saddle,  the 
stirrups  of  no  kindred  :  besides,  possessed  with  the  glan- 
ders, and  like  to  mose  in  the  chine ;  troubled  with  the 

o candle-caseStI  Mr.  Steevena  supposes  this  to  mean,  boots  that  have 

been  long  left  off,  and  after  having  been  used  to  hold  the  ends  of  candles,  are 
restored  to  their  first  office.  . 

i> iwo  broken  jhrnti :]  i.  e.  Two  broken  lags  to  the  laces.— Tollet. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  313 

lampass,  infected  with  the  fashions/'  full  of  wind-galls, 
sped  with  spavins,  raied  with  the  yellows,  past  cure  of 
the  fives,  stark  spoiled  with  the  staggers,  begnawn  with 
the  bots ;  swayed  in  the  back,  and  shoulder-shotten ; 
ne'er  legged  before,"^  and  with  a  half-checked  bit,  and  a 
head-stall  of  sheep's  leather;  which,  being  restrained  to 
keep  him  from  stumbling,  hath  been  often  burst,  and  now 
repaired  with  knots  :  one  girt  six  times  pieced,  and  a  wo- 
man's crupper  of  velure,^  which  hath  two  letters  for  her 
name,  fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced 
with  pack-thread. 

Bap.  Who  comes  with  him  ? 

Bion.  O,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  caparisoned 
like  the  horse ;  with  a  linen  stock'  on  one  leg,  and  a  ker- 
sey boot-hose  on  the  other,  gartered  with  red  and  blue 
list ;  an  old  hat,  and  The  humour  of  fort^  fancies  pricked 
in't  for  a  feather  :"  a  monster,  a  very  monster  in  apparel ; 
and  not  like  a  christian  footboy,  or  a  gentleman's  lackey. 

Tra.    'Tis    some    odd    humour    pricks    him    to    this 

fashion 

Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean  apparell'd. 

Bap.  I  am  glad  he  is  come,  howsoe'er  he  comes. 

Bion.  Why,  sir,  he  comes  not. 

Bap.  Didst  thou  not  say,  he  comes  ? 

Bion.  Who  ?  that  Petruchio  came? 

Bap.  Ay,  that  Petruchio  came. 

Bion.  No,  sir ;  I  say,  his  horse  comes  with  him  on  his 
back. 

Bap.  Why,  that's  all  one. 

Bion.  Nay,  by  saint  Jamy,  I  hold  you  a  penny, 
A  horse  and  a  man  is  more  than  one,  and  yet  not  many. 

1  — ;—  infected  with  the  fashions, past  cure  of  the  fives,]   Fashions.     So 

called  in  the  West  of  England,  but  by  the  best  writers  on  farriery, /arcens  or 
farcy.  Fives.  So  called  in  the  West :  vives  elsewhere,  and  avives  by  the  French ; 
a  distemper  in  horses,  little  differing  from  the  strangles. — Grey. 

■■ ne'er  legged  before.'\  i.  e.  Founder'd  in  his  fore-feet. 

« velure,']  i.  e.  Velvet.    Velours,  Fr. 

' stock — ]  i.  e.  Stocking. 

" an  old  hat,  and  The  himiour  of  forty  fancies  pricked  in't  for  a  feather:] 

This  was  some  ballad  or  drollery  at  that  time,  which  the  poet  here  ridicules, 
by  making  Petruchio  prick  it  up  in  his  foot-boy's  hat  for  a  feather.  His  speak- 
ers are  perpetually  quoting  scraps  and  stanzas  of  old  ballads,  and  often  very 
obscurely  ;  for,  so  well  are  they  adapted  to  the  occasion,  that  they  seem  of  a 
piece  with  the  rest. — Warburton. 


314  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Enter  Petruchio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Come,  where  be  these  gallants  ?  who  is  at  home  ? 

Bap.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap.  And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tra.  Not  so  well  apparell'd 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pet.  Where  it  better  I  should  rush  in  thus. 
But  where  is  Kate  ?  where  is  my  lovely  bride  ? — 
How  does  my  father  ? — Gentles,  methinks  you  frown  : 
And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company ; 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument. 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy  ? 

Bap.  Why,  sir,  you  know,  this  is  your  wedding-day  : 
First,  were  we  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come  ; 
Now  sadder,  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fye !  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  your  estate. 
An  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

Tra,  And  tell  us,  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detain'd  you  from  your  Avife, 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself? 

Pet.  Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear : 
Sufficeth,  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word. 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress  ;^ 
Which,  at  more  leisure,  I  will  so  excuse 
As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 
But,  where  is  Kate  ?  I  stay  too  long  from  her  ; 
The  morning  wears,  'tis  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tra.  See  not  your  bride  in  these  unreverent  robes  ; 
Go  to  my  chamber,  put  on  clothe^  of  mine. 

Pet.  Not  I,  believe  me:  thus  I'll  visit  her. 

Bap.  But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Pet.  Good  sooth,  even  thus  :  therefore  have  done  with 
words; 
To  me  she's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes  ; 
Could  I  repair  what  she  will  wear  in  me. 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements, 

« to  digress ;]  To  deviate  from  any  promise. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  315 

'Twere  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
But  what  a  fool  am  I,  to  chat  with  you. 
When  I  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride. 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  lovely  kiss  ? 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Grumio,  and  Biondello. 

Tra.  He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire  : 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible. 
To  put  on  better  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.  I'll  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this.        [Exit. 

Tra.  But,  sir,  to  her  love  concerneth  us  to  add 
Her  father's  liking  :  Which  to  bring  to  pass. 
As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 
I  am  to  get  a  man, — whate'er  he  be. 
It  skills  not  much  ;  we'll  fit  him  to  our  turn, — 
And  he  shall  be  Vincentio  of  Pisa  ; 
And  make  assurance,  here  in  Padua, 
Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 
So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope. 
And  marry  sweet  Bianca  with  consent. 

Luc.  Where  it  not  that  my  fellow  schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Bianca's  steps  so  narrowly, 
'Twere  good,  methinks,  to  steal  our  marriage  ; 
Which  once  perform 'd,  let  all  the  world  say — no, 
I'll  keep  mine  own,  despite  of  all  the  world. 

Tra.  That  by  degrees  we  mean  to  look  into. 
And  watch  our  'vantage  in  this  business  : 
We'll  over-reach  the  greybeard,  Gremio, 
The  narrow-prying  father,  Minola ; 
The  quaint  musician,  amorous  Licio  ; 
All  for  my  master's  sake,  Lucentio. — 

Re-enter  Gremio. 

Signior  Gremio  !  came  you  from  the  church  ? 

Gre.  As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 

Tra.  And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  coming  home  ? 

Gre.  A  bridegroom,  say  you?  'ds  a  groom,  indeed, 
A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 

Tra.  Curster  than  she  ?  why  'tis  impossible. 

Gre.  Why,  he's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 


31G  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Tra.  Why,  she's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 

Gre.  Tut !  she's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 
I'll  tell  you,  sir  Lucentio  ;  When  the  priest 
Should  ask — if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife. 
Ay  hy  gogs-wouns,  quoth  he  ;  and  swore  so  loud 
That,  all  amazed,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book  \ 
And,  as  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up. 
The  mad-brain'd  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff. 
That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and  priest ; 
Now  take  them  up,  quoth  he,  if  any  list. 

Tra.  What  said  the  wench,  when  he  arose  again  ? 

Gre.  Trembled  and  shook ;  for  why,  he  stamp'd,  and 
As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him.  [swore. 

But  after  many  ceremonies  done. 
He  calls  for  wine  ; — A  health,  quoth  he  ;  as  if 
He  had  been  abroad,  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  storm  : — Quaff'd  off  the  muscadel,y 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face  ; 
Having  no  other  reason, — 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly. 
And  seem'd  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking^ 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck  ; 
And  kiss'd  her  lips^  with  such  a  clamorous  smack. 
That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo. 
And  I,  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame; 
And  aftec  me,  I  know  the  rout  is  coming  : 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before; 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  the  minstrels  play.  [Musick. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Baptista, 
HoRTENSio,  Grumio,  and  train. 
Pet.  Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains : 
I  know,  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day, 

y Quaffed  off  the  muscadel,]  The  fashion  of  introducing  a  bowl  of  wine 

into  the  church  at  a  wedding,  to  be  drank  by  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and 
persons  present,  was  very  anciently  a  constant  ceremony ;  and,  as  appears 
from  t)iis  passage,  not  abolished  in  our  author's  age.  We  find  it  practised  at 
the  magnificent  marriage  of  Queen  Mary  and  Philip,  in  Winchester  Cathedral, 
1554.— T.  Warton. 

»  And  kiss'd  her  lips — ]  This  also  is  a  very  ancient  custom,  as  appears  from 
the  following  rubrick  :  "  Surgant  ambo,  sponsus  et  sponsa,  et  accipiat  sponsus 
pacem  a  sacerdote,  et  ferat  sponsae,  nscidans  earn,  et  neminem  alium,  nee  ipse, 
nee  ipsa."  Ma/iim/c  Sarum,  Paris,  13J3,  4to.  fol.  61). — Malone. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  317 

And  have  prepar'd  great  store  of  wedding  cheer: 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence. 
And  therefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Bap.  Is't  possible,  you  will  away  to-night? 

Pet.  I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  come : — 
Make  it  no  wonder  ;  if  you  knew  my  business. 
You  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 
And,  honest  company,  I  thank  you  all. 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife  : 
Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me  : 
For  I  must  hence,  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.  It  may  not  be. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  It  cannot  be. 

Kath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  I  am  content. 

Kath.  Are  you  content  to  stay  ? 

Pet.  I  am  content  you  shall  entreat-  me  stay  ; 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Kath.  Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pet.  Grumio,  my  horses. 

Gru.  Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready ;  the  oats  have  eaten  the 
horses. 

Kath.  Nay,  then. 
Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day  5 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir,  there  lies  your  way. 
You  may  be  jogging,  whiles  your  boots  are  green  ; 
For  me,  I'll  not  be  gone,  till  I  please  myself: 
'Tis  like  you'll  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom. 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Pet.  O;  Kate,  content  thee  ;  pr'ythee  be  not  angry. 

Kath.  I  will  be  angry  ;  What  hast  thou  to  do  ? — 
Father,  be  quiet :  he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.  Ay,  marry,  sir  :  now  it  begins  to  work. 

Kath.  Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner : — 
I  see,. a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool. 
If  she  had  not  the  spirit  to  resist. 

VOL.  III.  Y 


318  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Pet.  They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  command: 

Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her : 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer. 
Carouse  full  measure  to  her  maidenhead. 

Be  mad  and  merry, or  go  hang  yourselves ; 

But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor  fret ; 
I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own  : 
She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels  ;  she  is  my  house. 
My  household-stuff,  my  field,  my  barn,* 
My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  any  thing ; 
And  here  she  stands,  touch  her  whoever  dare  ; 
I'll  bring  my  action  on  the  proudest  he 

That  stops  my  way  in  Padua. Grumio, 

Draw  forth  thy  weapon,  we're  beset  with  thieves  ; 
Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man  : — 
Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee,  Kate; 
I'll  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

[Exewit  Petruchio,  Katharine,  and 
Grumio. 

Bap.  Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones. 

Gre.  Went  they  not  quickly,  I  should  die  with  laughing. 

Tra.  Of  all  mad  matches,  never  was  the  like  ! 

Luc.  Mistress,  what's  your  opinion  of  your  sister  ? 

Bian.  That  being  mad  herself,  she's  madly  mated. 

Gre.  1  warrant  him,  Petruchio  is  Kated. 

Bap.  Neighbours  and  friends,  though  bride  and  bride- 
groom wants 
For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table. 
You  know,  there  wants  no  junkets  at  the  feast; — 
Lucentio,  you  shall  supply  the  bridegroom's  place ; 
And  let  Bianca  take  her  sister's  room. 

Tra.  Shall  sweet  Bianca  practise  how  to  bride  it? 

Bap.  She  shall,  Lucentio.— Come,  gentlemen,  let's  go. 

[Exeunt. 

a  This  defective  line  may  be  completed  by  reading,  "my  field,  my  barn, 
my  stable," — Steevens. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  319 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.— A  Hall  in  Petruchio's  Coxintry  House. 
Enter  Grumio. 

Gru.  Fye,  fye,  on  all  tired  jades  !  on  all  mad  masters  ! 
and  all  foul  ways !  Was  ever  man  so  beaten?  was  ever 
man  so  rayed  1^  was  ever  man  so  weary  ?  I  am  sent  before 
to  make  a  fire,  and  they  are  coming  after  to  warm  them. 
Now,  were  not  I  a  little  pot,  and  soon  hot,  my  very  lips 
might  freeze  to  my  teeth,  my  tongue  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth,  my  heart  in  ray  belly,  ere  I  should  come  by  a  fire 
to  thaw  me  : — But,  I,  with  blowing  the  fire,  shall  warm 
myself;  for,  considering  the  weather,  a  taller  man  than  I 
will  take  cold.     Holla,  hoa  !  Curtis  1 

Enter  Curtis. 

Curt.  Who  is  that,  calls  so  coldly  ? 
Gru.  A  piece  of  ice  :  If  thou  doubt  it,  thou  may'st  slide 
from  my  shoulder  to  my  heel,  with  no  greater  a  run  but 
my  head  and  my  neck.     A  fire,  good  Curtis. 

Curt.  Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 
Gru.  O,  ay,  Curtis,  ay :  and  therefore  fire,  fire  j  cast 
on  no  water  .*" 

Curt.  Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she's  reported  ? 
Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost :  but,  thou 
know'st,  winter  tames  man,  woman,  and  beast ;  for  it  hath 
tamed  my  old  master,  and  my  new  mistress,  and  myself, 
fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.  Away,  you  three  inch  fool !  I  am  no  beast. 
Gru.  Am  I  but  three  inches  ?  why,  thy  horn  is  a  foot ; 
and  so  long  am  I,  at  the  least.  But  wilt  thou  make  a  fire, 
or  shall  I  complain  on  thee  to  our  mistress,  whose  hand 
(she  being  now  at  hand,)  thou  shall  soon  feel,  to  thy  cold 
comfort,  for  being  slow  in  thy  hot  office  ? 

b man  so  tayed*?]  i.  e.  Bewrayed,  made  dirty. 

c fire,  fire ;  cast  on  no  water.l    An  old  popular  catch  in  three  parts  has 

these  words : 

"  Scotland  bumeth,  Scotland  burneth. 
Fire,  fire; — Fire,  fire ; 
Cast  on  some  more  water." — Blackstone. 

y2 


320  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Curt.  I  pr'ythee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me.  How  goes  the 
world  ? 

Gru.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office  but  thine ; 
and,  therefore,  fire  :  Do  thy  duty,  and  have  thy  duty ;  for 
my  master  and  mistress  are  almost  frozen  to  death. 

Curt.  There's  fire  ready;  And,  therefore,  good  Grumio, 
the  news  ? 

Gru.  Why,  Jack  hoy !  ho  boy  !^  and  as  much  news  as 
thou  wilt. 

Curt.  Come,  you  are  so  full  of  conycatching  : — 

Gru.  Why,  therefore,  fire ;  for  I  have  caught  extreme 
cold.  Where's  the  cook?  is  supper  ready,  the  house 
trimmed,  rushes  strewed,  cobwebs  swept;  the  serving- 
men  in  their  new  fustian,  their  white  stockings,  and  every 
officer  his  wedding-garment  on  ?  Be  the  jacks  fair  within, 
the  Jills  fairmthout,'  the  carpets  laid,*"  and  every  thing  in 
order  ? 

Curt.  All  ready;  And,  therefore,  I  pray  thee,  news? 

Gru.  First,  know,  my  horse  is  tired ;  my  master  and 
mistress  fallen  out. 

Curt.  How? 

Gru.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt ;  And  thereby 
hangs  a  tale. 

Curt.  Let's  ha't,  good  Grumio. 

Gru.  Lend  thine  ear. 

Curt.  Here. 

Gru.  There.  [Striking  him. 

Curt.  This  is  to  feel  a  tale,  not  to  hear  a  tale. 

Gru.  And  therefore  'tis  called  a  sensible  tale  :  and  this 
cufF  was  but  to  knock  at  your  ear,  and  beseech  listening. 
Now  I  begin  :  Imprimis,  we  came  down  a  foul  hill,  my 
master  riding  behind  my  mistress  : — 

•1 Jack  hoy !  ho  boy  .']  Is  the  beginning  of  an  old  round  in  three  parts. — 

Sir  J.  Hawkins 

e Be  thejachs  fair  within,  the  jills  fair  without,']    The  poet'  meant  to 

play  upon  the  words  Jack  and  Jill,  which  signify  two  drinking  measures,  as  well 
as  men  and  maid  servants.  The  distinction  made  in  the  questions  concerning 
them  was  owing  to  this  ;  the  Jacks  being  made  of  leather,  could  not  be  made 
to  appear  beautiful  on  the  outside,  but  were  very  apt  to  contract  foulness 
within  ;  whereas  the  Jills,  being  of  metal,  were  expected  to  be  kept  bright  ex- 
ternally, and  were  not  liable  to  dirt  in  the  inside,  like  leather. — Steevens. 

f the  car]iets  laid,']  In  our  author's  time  it  was  customary  to  cover  tables 

with  carpets.  Floors,  as  appears  from  the  present  passage  and  others,  were 
strewed  with  rushes. — Ma  lone. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  321 

Curt.  Both  on  one  horse  ? 

Grw.  What's  that  to  thee  ? 

Curt.  Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.  Tell  thou  the  tale  : But  hadst  thou  not  crossed 

me,  thou  should'st  have  heard  how  her  horse  fell,  and 
she  under  her  horse ;  thou  should'st  have  heard,  in  how 
miry  a  place :  how  she  was  bemoiled  ;§  how  he  left  her 
with  the  horse  upon  her ;  how  he  beat  me  because  her 
horse  stumbled ;  how  she  waded  through  the  dirt  to 
pluck  him  off  me ;  how  he  swore  ;  how  she  prayed — 
that  never  pray'd  before ;  how  I  cried ;  how  the  horses 
ran  away ;  how  her  bridle  was  burst ;''  how  I  lost  my 
crupper ;  with  many  things  of  worthy  memory  ;  which 
now  shall  die  in  oblivion,  and  thou  return  unexperienced 
to  thy  grave. 

Curt.  By  this  reckoning,  he  is  more  shrew'  than  she. 

Gru.  Ay ;  and  that,  thou  and  the  proudest  of  you  all 
shall  findj,  when  he  comes  home.  But  what  talk  I  of 
this? — call  forth  Nathaniel,  Joseph,  Nicholas,  Philip, 
Walter,  Sugarsop,  and  the  rest ;  let  their  heads  be  sleekly 
combed,  their  blue  coats''  brushed,  and  their  garters  of  an 
indifferent'  knit :  let  them  curtsey  with  their  left  legs ; 
and  not  presume  to  touch  a  hair  of  my  master's  horse-tail, 
till  they  kiss  their  hands.     Are  they  all  ready  ? 

Curt.  They  are. 

Gru.  Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear,  ho  1  you  must  meet  my  master,  to 
countenance  my  mistress. 

Gru.  Why,  she  hath  a  face  of  her  own. 

Curt.  Who  knows  not  that  ? 

Gru.  Thou,  it  seems  ;  that  callest  for  company  to  coun- 
tenance her. 

Curt.  I  call  them  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.  Why,  she  comes  to  borrow  nothing  of  them. 

e  . bemoiled  ;]  i.  e.  Bedraggled ;  bemircd. 

h '  burst ;]  i.  e.  Broken, 

' shrew — ]  Tlie  term  shrew  was  anciently  applicable  to  either  sex. 

k blue  coats — ]   The  dress  of  sei-vants  at  the  time. 

' indifferent — ]  This  word,  which  some  explain  not  different,  and  some 

different,  seems  only  to  mean  ordinary  or  tolerable  ;  a  very  common  sense  of 
the  word. — Narfs's  Glossary. 


322  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Enter  several  Servants. 

Nath.  Welcome  home,  Grumio. 

Phil.  How  now,  Grumio  ? 

Jos.  What,  Grumio  ! 

Nick.  Fellow  Grumio ! 

Nath.  How  now,  old  lad? 

Gru.  Welcome,  you  ; — how  now,  you ; — what,  yoa; — 
fellow,  you;  — and  thus  much  for  greeting.  Now,  my 
spruce  companions,  is  all  ready,  and  all  things  neat  ? 

Nath.  All  things  is  ready :  How  near  is  our  master? 

Gru.  E'en  at  hand,  ahghted  by  this  ;  and  therefore  be 
not, Cock's  passion,  silence  ! 1  hear  my  master. 

Enter  Petruchio  and  Katharina. 

Pet.  Wliere  be  these  knaves  ?  What,  no  man  a*  door; 
To  hold  my  stirrup,  nor  to  take  my  horse ! 
Where  is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip  ? 

All  Serv.  Here,  here,  sir  ;  here,  sir. 

Pet.  Here,  sir !  here,  sir !  here,  sir  !  here,  sir ! — 
You  logger-headed  and  unpolisJi'd  grooms  ! 
What,  no  attendance  ?  no  regard  ?  no  duty  ? — 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before  ? 

Gru.  Here,  sir ;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 

Pet.  You  peasant  swain!    you  whoreson    malt-horse 
drudge ! 
Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park. 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee  ? 

Gru.  Nathaniel's  coat,  sir,  was  not  fully  made. 
And  Gabriel's  pumps  were  all  unpink'd""  i'the  heel ; 
There  was  no  link  to  colour  Peter's  hat," 
And  Walter's  dagger  was  not  come  from  sheathing : 
There  were  none  fine, but  Adam,  Ralph,  and  Gregory; 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old,  and  beggarly  ; 
Yet,  as  they  are,  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 

Pet.  Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in. — 

[^Exeu7it  some  of  the  Servants. 

"> unpink'd — ]  i.  e.  Not  marked  with  eyelet  holes, — Johnson. 

» 710  link  to  colour  Peter's  hat,"]  Green,  in  his  Mihil  Mumchance,  says — 

"This  cozenage  is  used  likewise  in  selling  old  hats  found  upon  dung-hills,  in- 
stead of  newe,  blackt  over  with,  the  smoke  ef  an  old  iinfce."— Steevens. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  323 

Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led — "  {^Sings. 

Where  are  those Sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome 

Soud,  soud,  soud,  soud  !p 

Re-enter  Servants,  with  supper. 

Why,  when,  I  say  ? — Nay,  good  sweet  Kate,  be  merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues,  you  villains  ^  When  ? 
It  was  the  friar  of  orders  grey^ 
As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way: — 
Out,  out,  you  rogue  !  you  pluck  my  foot  awry : 
Take  that,  and  mend  the  plucking  off  the  other. — 

{^Strikes  him. 
Be  merry,  Kate  :  Some  water,  here  ;  what,  ho! — 
Where's  my  spaniel  Troilus  ? — Sirrah,  get  you  hence. 
And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither  : 

\^Exit  Servant. 
One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  acquainted  with. — 
Where  are  my  slippers  ? — Shall  I  have  some  water  ? 

\^A  bason  is  pj'esented  to  him. 
Come,  Kate,  and  wash,""  and  welcome  heartily : 

[Servant  lets  the  ewerfalL 
You  whoreson  villain  !  will  you  let  it  fall  ?       [^Strikes  him. 
Kath.  Patience,  I  pray  you  ;  'twas  a  fault  unwilling. 
Pet.  A  whoi'eson,  beetle-headed,  flap-ear'd  knave ! 
Come,  Kate,  sit  down  \  I  know  you  have  a  stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate  ;  or  else  shall  I  ? 
What  is  this  ?  mutton  ? 

0  Where,  &c.]  A  scrap  of  some  old  ballad.  Ancient  Pistol  elsewhere  quotes 
the  same  line.  In  an  old  black  letter  book  intituled,  A  gorgeous  Gallery  of 
gallant  Inventions,  London,  1578,  4to.  is  a  song  to  the  tune  of  Where  is  the  life 
that  late  I  led. — Ritson. 

P  Soud,  soud,  &c.]  This,  I  believe,  is  a  word  coined  by  our  poet,  to  express 
the  noise  made  by  a  person  fatigued. — Malone. 

n  It  was  the  f liar  of  orders  grey,']  Dispersed  through  Shakspeare's  plays  are 
many  little  fragments  of  ancient  ballads,  the  entire  copies  of  which  cannot  now 
be  recovered.  Many  of  these  being  of  the  most  beautiful  and  pathetic  simplicity, 
Dr.  Percy  has  selected  some  of  them,  and  connected  them  together  with  a  few 
supplemental  stanzas  ;  a  work,  which  at  once  demonstrates  his  own  poetical 
abilities,  as  well  as  his  respect  to  the  truly  venerable  remains  of  our  most  an- 
cient bards. — Steevens. 

'  Come,  Kate,  and  wash,]  It  was  the  custom  of  our  author's  time,  (and  long 
before,)  to  wash  the  hands  immediately  before  dinner  and  supper,  as  well  as 
afterwards. — Malone.  As  our  ancestors  eat  with  their  fingers,  which  might 
not  be  over-clean  before  meals,  and  after  them  must  be  greasy,  we  cannot  won- 
der at  such  repeated  ablutions. — Steevens. 


324  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW.^ 

1  Serv.  Ay, 

Pet.  Who  brought  it  ? 

1  Serv.  I. 

Pet.  'Tis  burnt ;  and  so  is  all  the  meat : 
What  dogs  are  these  ? — Where  is  the  rascal  cook  ? 
How  durst*;you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser. 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not  ? 
There,  take  it  to  you,  trenchers,  cups,  and  all : 

[Throws  the  meat,  8;c.  about  the  stage. 
You  heedless  joltheads,  and  unmanner'd  slaves  ! 
What,  do  you  grumble  ?  I'll  be  with  you  straight. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet ; 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.  I  tell  thee,  Kate,  'twas  burnt  and  dried  away  ; 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it. 
For  it  engenders  choler,  planteth  anger ; 
And  better  'twere  that  both  of  us  did  fast, — 
Since,  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  cholerick, — 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  it  shall  be  mended. 
And,  for  this  night,  we'll  fast  for  company  : — 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and 
Curtis. 

Nath.  [advancing.']  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like  ? 

Peter.  He  kills  her  in  her  own  humour. 

Re-enter  Curtis. 

Gru.  Where  is  he  ? 

Curt.  In  her  chamber. 
Making  a  sermon  of  continency  to  her : 
And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates ;  that  she,  poor  soul. 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak  ; 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away  !  for  he  is  coming  hither.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Petruchio. 

Pet.  Thus  have  I  politickly  begun  my  reign. 
And  'tis  my  hope  to  end  successfully : 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II.  '  325 

My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  passing  empty  : 

And,  till  she  stoop,  she  must  not  be  full-gorg'd. 

For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure.* 

Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard,* 

To  make  her  come,  and  know  her  keeper's  call. 

That  is,  to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  these  kites. 

That  bate,"  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 

She  eat  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  eat; 

Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  shall  not ; 

As  with  the  meat,  some'  undeserved  fault 

I'll  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed  ; 

And  here  I'll  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster. 

This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets  : — 

Ay,  and  amid  this  hurly,  I  intend,'' 

That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her ; 

And,  in  conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night : 

And,  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I'll  rail,  and  brawl. 

And  with  the  clamour  keep  her  still  awake. 

This  is  a  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness  ; 

And  thus  I'll  curb  her  mad  and  headstrong  humour : — 

He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew, 

Now  let  him  speak  ;  'tis  charity  to  show.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. 

Padua.     Before   Baptista's  House. 
Enter  Tranio  and  Hortensio. 

Tra.  Is't  possible,  friend  Lucio,  that  mistress  Bianca 
Doth  fancy  any  other  but  Lucentio  ? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 

Hor.  Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said. 
Stand  by,  and  mark  the  manner  of  his  teaching. 

[Thei/  stand  aside. 

» full-gorg'd,  &c.]    A  hawk  too  touch  fed  was  never  tractable.    The 

lure  was  only  a  thing  stuffed  like  that  kind  of  bird  which  the  hawk  was  de- 
signed to  pursue.  The  use  of  the  lure  was  to  tempt  him  back  after  he  had 
flown. — Steevens. 

t to  man  my  haggard,]  A  haggard  is  a  wild-hawk;  to  man  a  hawk  is  to 

tame  her. — Johnson. 

" bate,']  i.  e.  Flutter. 

* amid  this  hurly,  I  intend,]  Intend  is  sometimes  used  by  our  author  for 

prettnd. — Malone. 


326  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Enter  Bianca  and  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Now,  mistress,  profit  you  in  what  you  read  ? 

Bian.  What,  master,  read  you  ?  first  resolve  me  that. 

Liic.  I  read  that  I  profess,  the  art  to  love. 

Bia7i.  And  may  you  prove,  sir,  master  of  your  art ! 

Luc.  While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove  mistress  of  my  heart. 

[Theij  retire. 

Hot.  Quick  proceeders,  marry  !  Now,  tell  me,  I  pray. 
You  that  durst  swear  that  your  mistress  Bianca 
Lov'd  none  in  the  world  so  well  as  Lucentio. 

Tra.  O  despiteful  love  !  unconstant  womankind ! — 
I  tell  thee,  Licio,  this  is  wonderful. 

Hor.  Mistake  no  more  :  I  am  not  Licio, 
Nor  a  musician,  as  I  seem  to  be ; 
But  one  that  scorn  to  live  in  this  disguise. 
For  such  a  one  as  leaves  a  gentleman. 
And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cullion  :^ 
Know,  sir,  that  I  am  call'd — Hortensio. 

Tra.  Signior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 
Of  your  entire  aflfection  to  Bianca  ; 
And  since  mine  eyes  are  witness  of  her  lightness, 
I  will  with  you,-^if  you  be  so  contented, — 
Forswear  Bianca  and  her  love  for  ever. 

Hor.  See,  how  they  kiss  and  court ! Signior  Lucentio, 

Here  is  my  hand,  and  here  I  firmly  vow — 
Never  to  woo  her  more ;  but  do  forswear  her. 
As  one  unworthy  all  the  former  favours 
That  I  have  fondly  flatter'd  her  withal. 

Tra.  And  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath. 
Ne'er  to  marry  with  her  though  she  would  entreat : 
Fye  on  her  !  see,  how  beastly  she  doth  court  him. 

Hor.  "Would  all  the  world,  but  he,  had  quite  forsworn ! 
For  me, — that  I  may  surely  keep  mine  oath, 
I  will  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow. 
Ere  three  days  pass;  which  hath  long  lov'd  me. 
As  I  have  lov'd  this  proud  disdainful  haggard  : 
And  so  farewell,  signior  Lucentio. — 

y' cullion .]  A  term  of  degradation,  with  no  very  decided  meaning  :  a 

despicable  fellow,  a  fool,  &c. — Steevens. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II.  327 

Kindness  in  women,  not  their  beauteous  looks. 
Shall  win  my  love : — and  so  I  take  my  leave. 
In  resolution  as  I  swore  before. 

[Exit  HoRTENsio. — LucENTio  and 
BiANCA  advance. 

Tra.  Mistress  Bianca,  bless  you  with  such  grace 
As  'longeth  to  a  lover's  blessed  case  ! 
Nay,  I  have  ta'en  you  napping,  gentle  love ; 
And  have  forsworn  you,  with  Hortensio. 

Bian.  Tranio,  you  jest;  But  have  you  both  forsworn  me? 

Tra.  Mistress,  we  have. 

J^uc.  Then  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.  Ffaith,  he'll  have  a  lusty  widow  now. 
That  shall  be  woo'd  and  wedded  in  a  day. 

Bian.  God  give  him  joy  ! 

Tra.  Ay,  and  he'ir tame  her. 

Bian.  He  says  so,  Tranio. 

Tra.  'Faith,  he  is  gone  unto  the  taming-school. 

Bian.  The  taming-school !  what,  is  there  such  a  place? 

Tra.  Ay,  mistress,  and  Petruchio  is  the  master ; 
That  teacheth  tricks  eleven  and  twenty  long, — 
To  tame  a  shrew,  and  charm  her  chattering  tongue. 

Enter  Biondello,  running. 

Bion.  O  master,  master,  I  have  watch'd  so'  long 
That  Fm  dog-weary  ;  but  at  last  I  spied 
An  ancient  engle'^  coming  down  the  hill. 
Will  serve  the  turn. 

Tra.  What  is  he,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  Master,  a  mercatant^,^  or  a  pedant, 
I  know  not  what ;  formal  in  apparel. 
In  gait  and  countenance  surly**  lik  e  a  father. 

^ engle — ]  A  simpleton  or  gull,  from  engluer,  French,  to  catch  with  bird- 
lime. The  old  copy,  and  all  the  recent  editions  read  angel.  In  admitting  this 
alteration,  which  was  proposed  by  Theobald,  I  have  the  authority  of  Mr. 
Gilford.  See  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  ii.  p.  430.  note. 

* a  mercatante,  or  a  pedant,']  The  old  editions  read  marcantant.     The 

Italian  word  mercatante  is  frequently  used  in  the  old  plays  for  a  merchant,  and 
therefore  I  have  made  no  scruple  of  placing  it  here.  Pedant  was  the  common 
name  for  a  teacher  of  languages. — Steevens. 

'' surly — ]  This  is  the  reading  of  the  second  folio ;  the  other  editions 

read  surely. 


328  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Luc.  And  what  of  him,  Tranio  ? 

Tra.  If  he  be  credulous,  and  trust  my  tale, 
I'll  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio  ; 
And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minola, 
As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio. 
Take  in  your  love,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

\^Exeimt  LucENTio  and  Bianca, 

Enter  a  Pedant. 

Ped.  God  save  you,  sir  ! 

Tra.  And  you,  sir  !  you  are  welcome. 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  furthest  ? 

Ped.  Sir,  at  the  furthest  for  a  week  or  two  : 
But  then  up  further ;  and  as  far  as  Rome  ; 
And  so  to  Tripoly,  if  God  lend  me  life. 

Tra.  What  countryman,  I  pray? 

Ped.  Of  Mantua. 

Tra.  Of  Mantua,  sir  ? — marry,  God  forbid  ! 
And  come  to  Padua,  careless  of  your  life  ? 

Ped.  My  life,  sir  !  how,  I  pray  ?  for  that  goes  hard. 

Tra.  'Tis  death  for  any  one  in  Mantua 
To  come  to  Padua :  Know  you  not  the  cause? 
Your  ships  are  staid  at  Venice ;  and  the  duke 
(For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him,) 
Hath  publish 'd  and  proclaim'd  it  openly : 
'Tis  marvel ;  but  that  you're  but  newly  come. 
You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaim'd  about. 

Ped.  Alas,  sir,  it  is  worse  for  me  than  so ; 
For  I  have  bills  for  money  by  exchange 
From  Florence,  and  must  here  deliver  them. 

Tra.  Well,  sir,  to  do  you  courtesy. 
This  will  I  do,  and  this  will  I  advise  you  : 
First  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  at  Pisa  ? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir,  in  Pisa  have  I  often  been  : 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Tra.  Among  them,  know  you  one  Vincentio? 

Ped.  I  know  him  not,  but  I  have  heard  of  him. 
A  merchant  of  incomparable  wealth. 

Tra.  He  is  my  father,  sir  ;  and,  sooth  to  say. 
In  countenance  somewhat  doth  resemble  you. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  329 

Bion.  As  much  as  an  apple  doth  an  oyster,  and  all  one. 

[Aside. 

Tra.  To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity. 
This  favour  will  I  do  you  for  his  sake; 
And  think  it  not  the  worst  of  all  your  fortunes. 
That  you  are  like  to  sir  Vincentio. 
His  name  and  credit  shall  you  undertake. 
And  in  my  house  you  shall  be  friendly  lodg'd  ; — 
Look,  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should ; 
You  understand  me,  sir ; — so  shall  you  stay 
Till  you  have  done  your  business  in  the  city  : 
If  this  be  courtesy,  sir,  accept  of  it. 

Fed.  O,  sir,  I  do ;  and  will  repute  you  ever 
The  patron  of  my  life  and  liberty. 

Tra.  Then  go  with  me,  to  make  the  matter  good. 
This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand  ; — 
My  father  is  here  look'd  for  every  day. 
To  pass  assurance'  of  a  dower  in  marriage 
'Twixt  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here  : 
In  all  these  circumstances  I'll  instruct  you; 
Go  with  me,  sir,  to  clothe  you  as  becomes  you.''  (Exeu7it. 

SCENE  III. 

A  Room  in  Petruchio's  House. 

Enter  Katharina  and  Grumio. 

Gru.  No,  no  ;  forsooth,  I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 

Kath.  The  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his  spite  appears : 
What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  ? 
Beggars,  that  come  unto  my  father's  door. 
Upon  entreaty,  have  a  present  alms  : 
If  not,  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity  : 

=  To  pass  assurance — ]  i.  e.  To  make  a  conveyance  or  deed.  Deeds  are  by  law- 
writers  called,  "  The  common  assurances  of  the  realm,"  because  thereby  each 
man's  property  is  assured  to  him. — Malone. 

d  Go  with  me,  &c.]  There  is  an  old  comedy  called  Supposes,  translated  from 
Ariosto,  by  George  Gascoigne.  Thence  Shakspeare  borrowed  this  part  of  the 
plot,  (as  well  as  some  of  the  phraseology,)  though  Theobald  pronounces  it  his 
own  invention.  There,  likewise,  he  found  the  names  of  Petruchio  and  Licio. 
My  young  master  and  his  man  exchange  habits,  and  persuade  aSceneese,  as  he 
is  caJled,  to  personate  the  fatlier,  exactly  as  in  this  play,  by  the  pretended 
danger  of  his  coming  from  Sienna  to  Ferrara,  contrary  to  the  order  of  the  go- 
vernment.—  Farmer. 


330  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

But  I, — who  never  knew  how  to  entreat, — 
Am  starv'd  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep; 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed  : 
And  that  which  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants. 
He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love  ; 
As  who  should  say, — if  I  should  sleep,  or  eat, 
'Twere  deadly  sickness,  or  else  present  death. — 
I  pr'ythee  go,  and  get  me  some  repast ; 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.  What  say  you  to  a  neat's  foot  ? 

Kath.  'Tis  passing  good ;  I  pr'ythee  let  me  have  it. 

Gru.  I  fear,  it  is  too  phlegmatick*  a  meat: — 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe  finely  broil'd  ? 

Kath.  I  like  it  well ;  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear  'tis  cholerick. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef,  and  mustard  ? 

Kath.  A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.  Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kath.  Why,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 

Gru.  Nay,  then  I  will  not ;  you  shall  have  the  mus- 
tard. 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

Kath.  Then  both,  or  one,  or  any  thing  thou  wilt. 

Gru.  Why,  then  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 

Kath.  Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding  slave, 

[Beats  him. 
That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat : 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you. 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  ! 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

Enter 'Petrvcwio  with  a  dish  of  meat ;  and 

HORTENSIO. 

Pet.  How  fares  my  Kate  ?  What,  sweeting,  all  amort  V 

Hor.  Mistress,  what  cheer  ? 

Kath.  'Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

e phlegmatick — ]  This  is  tlie  reading  of  the  second  folio.    The  first  reads, 

cholerick, 

f all  amort  ?]  i.  e.  Stink  and  dispirited.     This  gallicism  is  common  to 

many  of  the  old  plays. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  331 

Pet.  Pluck  up  thy  spirits,  look  cheerfully  upon  me. 
Here,  love  ;  thou  see'st  how  diligent  I  am, 
To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee : 

\_Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 
I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What,  not  a  word  ?  Nay  then,  thou  lov'st  it  not ; 

And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proof  :^ 

Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

Kath.  'Pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Pet.  The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks  ; 
And  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Signior  Petruchio,  fye  !  you  are  to  blame  ! 
Come,  mistress  Kate,  I'll  bear  you  company. 

Pet.  Eat  it  up  all,  Hortensio,  if  thou  lov'st  me. — [Aside. 
Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart ! 
Kate,  eat  apace : — And  now,  my  honey  love. 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house  ; 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best, 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings. 
With  ruffs,  and  cuffs,  and  farthingales,  and  things ; 
With  scarfs,  and  fans,  and  double  change  of  bravery. 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knavery. 
What,  hast  thou  din'd  ?  The  tailor  stays  thy  leisure, 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling""  treasure. 

Enter  Tailor. 
Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments  ;* 
Enter  Haberdasher. 

Lay  forth  the  gown. — What  news  with  you,  sir  ? 

Hab.  Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 

Pet.  Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer ; 
A  velvet  dish;'' — fye,  fye  !  'tis  lewd  and  filthy; 

e  And  all  my  plans  is  sorted  to  noproofi']  And  all  my  labour  has  ended  in  no- 
thing, or  proved  nothing.  "  We  tried  an^experiment  but  it  sorted  not."  Bacon..— 
Johnson. 

h ruffling — ]  i.  e.  Rustling. 

•  Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments ;]  In  our  poet's  time,  women's  gowns 
were  usually  made  by  men. — Ma  lone. 

k  A  velvet  dish ;]   Velvet  caps  of  a  diminutive  size  were  for  many  years  in 


332  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Why,  'tis  a  cockle,  or  a  walnut-shell, 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap : 
Away  with  it,  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 

Kath.  I'll  have  no  bigger  ;  this  doth  fit  the  time. 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.  When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have  one  too. 
And  not  till  then. 

Hor.  That  will  not  be  in  haste.  {^Aside. 

Kath.  Why,  sir,  I  trust,  I  may  have  leave  to  speak ; 
And  speak  I  will ;  I  am  no  child,  no  babe  : 
Your  betters  have  endur'd  me  say  my  mind; 
And,  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart  j 
Or  else  my  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break ; 
And,  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free 
Even  to  the  uttermost,  as  I  please,  in  words. 

Pet.  Why,  thou  say'st  true  ;  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard-coffin,'  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie : 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.  Love  me,  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap ; 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.  Thy  gown  ?  why,  ay  ; — Come,  tailor,  let  us  see't. 

0  mercy,  God  !  what  masking  stuff  is  here  ? 
What's  this  ?  a  sleeve  ?  'tis  like  a  demi-cannon  : 
What !  up  and  down,  carv'd  like  an  apple-tart  ? 
Here's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and  slash, 
Like  to  a  censer™  in  a  barber's  shop : — 

Why,  what,  o'devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  this  ? 

Hor.  I  see,  she's  like  to  have  neither  cap  nor  gown. 

[^Aside. 

Tai.  You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well. 
According  to  the  fashion,  and  the  time. 

Pet.  Marry,  and  did ;  but  if  you  be  remember'd, 

1  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 

fashion  with  the  citizens'  wives  and  daughters.  This  fashion  is  alluded  to  by 
Ben  Jonson,  Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 

'  A  custard-co&jXil  A  coffin  was,  the  ancient  culinary  term  for  the  raised  crust 
of  a  pie  or  custard. — Steevens. 

"' censer — ]  I  learn  from  an  ancient  print,  that  these  cemers  resembled 

in  shape  our  modem  brasieres.  They  had  pierced  covers,  and  stood  on  feet. 
They  not  only  served  to  sweeten  a  barber's  shop,  but  to  keep  the  water  warm, 
and  dry  bis  cloths  on. — Steevens. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  333 

Oo,  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home. 

For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir : 

I'll  none  of  it;  hence,  make  your  best  of  it. 

Kath.  I  never  saw  a  better  fashion'd  gown. 
More  quaint,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  commendable : 
Belike,  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me. 

Pet.  Why,  true  ;  he  means  to  make  a  puppet  of  thee. 

Tai.  She  says,  your  worship  means  to  make  a  puppet 
of  her. 

Pet.  O  monstrous  arrogance  !  Thou  liest,  thou  thread. 
Thou  thimble. 

Thou  yard,  three-quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail. 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou  : — 
Brav'd  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skein  of  thread  ! 
Away,  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant ; 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete°  thee  with  thy  yard. 
As  thou  shalt  think  on  prating  whilst  thou  liv'st ! 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marr'd  her  gown. 

Tai.  Your  worship  is  deceiv'd ;  the  gown  is  made 
Just  as  my  master  had  direction  : 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 

Gru.  I  gave  him  no  order,  I  gave  him  the  stuff. 

Tai.  But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  ? 

Gru.  Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tai.  But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut? 

Gru.  Thou  hast  faced  many  things." 

Tai.  I  have. 

Gru.  Face  not  me  :  thou  hast  braved  many  men,i'  brave 
not  me  ;  I  will  neither  be  faced  nor  braved.  I  say  unto 
thee,— I  bid  thy  master  cut  out  the  gown  ;  but  I  did  not 
bid  him  cut  it  to  pieces :  ergo,  thou  liest. 

Tai.  Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to  testify. 

Pet.  Read  it. 

Gru.  The  note  lies  in  his  throat,  if  he  say  I  said  so. 

Tai.  Imprimis,  a  loose-bodied  gown : 

Gru.  Master,  if  ever  I  said  loose-bodied  gown,  sew  me 

" he-mete — ]  i.  e.  Be-measure. 

" faced TOoni/  things.']  i.e.  Turned  up  many  gowns, &c.  Vfith  fachigs,&cc'. 

.  *" braved  many  men,]  i.  e.  Made  many  men^ne.     Bravery  was  the  an- 
cient term  for  elegance  of  dress. — Steevens. 
VOL.   HI.  Z 


334  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

in  the  skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me  to  death  with  a  bottom  of 
brown  thread  :  I  said,  a  gown. 

Pet.  Proceed. 

Tai.  With  a  small  compassed  cape  ;i 

Gru.  I  confess  the  cape. 

Tai.   With  a  trunk  sleeve; 

Gru.  I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tai.  The  sleeves  curiously  cut. 

Pet.  Ay,  there's  the  villainy. 

Gru.  Error  i'the  bill,  sir ;  error  i'the  bill.  I  commanded 
the  sleeves  should  be  cut  out,  and  sewed  up  again :  and 
that  I'll  prove  upon  thee,  though  thy  little  finger  be  armed 
in  a  thimble. 

Tai.  This  is  true,  that  I  say ;  an  I  had  thee  in  place 
where,  thou  should'st  know  it. 

Gru.  I  am  for  thee  straight ;  take  thou  the  bill,^  give 
rae  thy  mete-yard,^  and  spare  not  me. 

Hor.  God-a-mercy,  Grumio  !  then  he  shall  have  no 
odds. 

Pet.  Well,  sir,  in  brief,  the  gown  is  not  for  me. 

Gru.  You  are  i'the  right,  sir  ;  'tis  for  my  mistress. 

Pet.  Go,  take  it  up  unto  thy  master's  use. 

Gru.  Villain,  not  for  thy  life ;  Take  up  my  mistress' 
gown  for  thy  master's  use  ! 

Pet.  Why,  sir,  what's  your  conceit  in  that  ? 

Gru.  O,  sir,  the  conceit  is  deeper  than  you  think  for  ; 
Take  up  my  mistress'  gown  to  his  master's  use ! 
O,  fye,  fye,  fye  ! 

Pet,  Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see  the  tailor  paid : — 

\^Asid€. 
Go  take  it  hence  ;  be  gone,  and  say  no  more. 

Hor.  Tailor,  I'll  pay  thee  for  thy  gown  to-morrow. 
Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words  : 
Away,  I  say  ;  commend  me  to  thy  master.      \^Exit  Tailor. 

Pet.  Well,  come,  my  Kate;  we  will  unto  your  father's, 

q a  small  compassed  cape ;]    A  compassed  cape  is  a  round  cape.    1» 

compass  is  to  come  round. — Johnson. 

r the  bill,]    A  quibble  between  the  written  bill  and  bill  the  ancient 

weapon  carried  by  foot  soldiers.  We  have  the  same  jest  in  As  you  Like  it,  and 
in  Timon  of  Athens. — Steevens. 

» thy  mete-varti, j  i.  e.  Thy  measuring  yard. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV.  335 

Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments  ; 

Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor  : 

For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich  ; 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  honour  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 

What,  is  the-^ay  more  precious  than  the  lark. 

Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 

Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel. 

Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 

O,  no,  good  Kate  ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 

For  this  poor  furniture,  and  mean  array. 

If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me  : 

And  therefore,  frolick ;  we  will  hence  forthwith, 

To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house. — 

Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  hira ; 

And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end. 

There  will  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  on  foot. — 

Let's  see;  I  think,  'tis  now  some  seven  o'clock. 

And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner  time. 

Kath.  I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  'tis  almost  two ; 
And  'twill  be  supper-time,  ere  you  come  there. 

Pet.  It  shall  be  seven,  ere  I  go  to  horse : 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do. 
You  are  still  crossing  it. — Sirs,  let't  alone  : 
I  will  not  go  to-day  ;  and  ere  I  do. 
It  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is. 

Hor.  Why,  so  !  this  gallant  will  command  the  sun. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Tranio,  and  the  Pedant  dressed  like  Vincentio. 

Tra.  Sir,  this  is  the  house  ;  Please  it  you,  that  I  call  ? 

Fed.  Ay,  what  else  ?  and,  but*  I  be  deceived, 
Signior  Baptista  may  remember  me. 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa,  where 
We  were  lodgers  at  the  Pegasus. 

* feuJ— ]  i.  e.  Unless. 

z2 


336  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Tra.  'Tis  well ; 

And  hold  your  own,  in  any  case,  with  such 
Austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Fed.  I  warrant  you  :  But,  sir,  here  comes  your  boy 
'Twere  good,  he  were  school'd. 

Tra.  Fear  you  not  him.     Sirrah,  Biondello, 
Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  you  ; 
Imagine  'twere  the  right  Vincentio. 

Bion.  Tut !  fear  not  me. 

Tra.  But  hast  thou  done  thy  errand  to  Baptista  ? 

Bion.  I  told  him,  that  your  father  was  at  Venice ; 
And  that  you  look'd  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 

Tra.  Thou'rt  a  tall  fellow  ;  hold  thee  that  to  drink. 
Here  comes  Baptista ; — set  your  countenance,  sir. 

Enter  Baptista  and  Lucentio. 

Signior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  met : — 

Sir,  [to  the  Pedant.] 

This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of  : 

I  pray  you,  stand  good  father  to  me  now. 

Give  me  Bianca  for  my  patrimony. 

Fed.  Soft,  son! 
Sir,  by  your  leave  ;  having  come  to  Padua 
To  gather  in  some  debts,  my  son  Lucentio 
Made  me  acquainted  with  a  weighty  cause 
Of  love  between  your  daughter  and  himself: 
And, — for  the  good  report  I  hear  of  you  : 
And  for  the  love  he  beareth  to  your  daughter. 
And  she  to  him, — to  stay  him  not  too  long, 
I  am  content,  in  a  good  father's  care. 
To  have  him  match'd  ;  and, — if  you  please  to  like 
No  worse  than  I,  sir, — upon  some  agreement. 
Me  shall  you  find  most  ready  and  most  willing 
With  one  consent  to  have  her  so  bestow'd  ; 
For  curious"  I  cannot  be  with  you, 
Signior  Baptista,  of  whom  I  hear  so  well. 

« curious — ]  i.e.  Scrupulous. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV.  337 

Bap.  Sir,  pardon  me  in  what  I  have  to  say  ; — 
Your  plainness,  and  your  shortness,  please  me  well. 
Right  true  it  is,  your  son  Lucentio  here 
Doth  love  my  daughter,  and  she  loveth  him, 
Or  both  dissemble  deeply  their  affections  : 
And,  therefore,  if  you  say  no  more  than  this. 
That  like  a  father  you  will  deal  witli  him. 
And  pass"  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower. 
The  match  is  fully  made,  and  all  is  done  : 
Your  son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent, 

Tra.  I  thank  you,  sir.     Where  then  do  you  know  best. 
We  be  affied  ;y  and  such  assurance  ta'en. 
As  shall  with  either  part's  agreement  stand? 

Bap.  Not  in  my  house,  Lucentio;  for,  you  know. 
Pitchers  have  ears,  and  I  have  many  servants  : 
Besides,  old  Gremio  is  heark'ning  still ; 
And  happily,^  we  might  be  interrupted. 

Tra.  Then  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you,  sir: 
There  doth  my  father  lie ;  and  there,  this  night. 
We'll  pass  the  business  privately  and  well : 
Send  for  your  daughter  by  your  servant  here. 
My  boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 
The  worst  is  this, — that,  at  so  slender  warning. 
You're  like  to  have  a  thin  and  slender  pittance. 

Bap.  It  likes  me  well : — Cambio,  hie  you  home. 
And  bid  Bianca  make  her  ready  straight ; 
And,  if  you  will,  tell  what  hath  happened  : — 
Lucentio's  father  is  arriv'd  in  Padua, 
And  how  she's  like  to  be  Lucentio's  wife: 

Luc.  I  pray  the  gods  she  may,  with  all  my  heart ! 

Tra.  Dally  not  with  the  gods,  but  get  thee  gone. 
Siguier  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  the  way  ? 
Welcome  !  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer  : 
Come,  sir  ;  we'll  better  it  in  Pisa. 

^ pass — ]  This  word  is  here  synonymous  to  assure  or  convey;  as  it 

sometimes  occurs  in  the  covenant  of  a  purchase  deed,  that  the  granter  has 
power  to  bargain,  sell,  &c.  "  and  thereby  to  pass  and  convey"  the  premises  to 
the  grantee. — Ritson. 

y  — —  affied  ;]  i.  e.  Betrothed. 

I happUy,'\  In  Shakspeare's  lime,  this  word  signified  accideiilalhj,  as 

■well  as  fortunately. — Tyewhitt. 


338  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Bap.  I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Tranio,  Pedant,  and  Baptista. 

Bion.  Cambio. — 

Luc.  What  say'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  You  saw  my  master  wink  and  laugh  upon  you? 

Luc.  Biondello,  what  of  that  ? 

Bion.  'Faith  nothing;  but  he  has  left  me  here  behind, 
to  expound  the  meaning  or  moral*  of  his  signs  and  tokens. 

Luc.  I  pray  thee,  moralize  them. 

Bion.  Then  thus.  Baptista  is  safe,  talking  with  the 
deceiving  father  of  a  deceitful  son. 

Luc.  And  what  of  him  ? 

Bion.  His  daughter  is  to  be  brought  by  you  to  the 
supper. 

Luc.  And  then? — 

Bion.  The  old  priest  at  Saint  Luke's  church  is  at  your 
command  at  all  hours. 

Luc.  And  what  of  all  this  ? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tell ;  except  they  are  busied  about  a 
counterfeit  assurance :  Take  you  assurance  of  her,  cum 
privilegio  ad  imprimendum  solum  :^  to  the  church  ;" — take 
the  priest,  clerk,  and  some  sufl&cient  honest  witnesses  : 
If  this  be  not  that  you  look  for,  I  have  no  more  to  say. 
But  bid  Bianca  farewell  for  ever  and  a  day.  [Going. 

Luc.  Hear'st  thou,  Biondello? 

Bio}i.  I  cannot  tarry  :  I  knew  a  wench  married  in  an 
afternoon  as  she  went  to  the  garden  for  parsley  to  stuff  a 
rabbit :  and  so  may  you,  sir ;  and  so  adieu,  sir.  My 
master  hath  appointed  me  to  go  to  St.  Luke's,  to  bid  the 
priest  be  ready  to  come  against  you  come  with  your  ap- 
pendix. [  Exit. 

Luc.  I  may  and  will,  if  she  be  so  contented  : 
She  will  be  pleas'd,  then  wherefore  should  I  doubt  ? 
Hap  what  hap  may,  I'll  roundly  go  about  her ; 
It  shall  go  hard,  if  Cambio  go  without  her.  [Exit. 

* moral — ]  i.  e.  The  secret  purpose. 

^ cum  privilegio  ad  imprimendum  solum ;]  It  is  scarce  necessary  to  ob- 
serve, that  these  are  the  words  which  commonly  were  put  on  books  where  an 
exclusive  riglit  had  been  granted  to  particular  persons  for  printing  them. — 
Reed. 

^ to  the  church  ;]  i.  e.  Go  to  the  church,  &c. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  V.  339 

SCENE  V. 

A  publick  Road. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  a?id  Hortensio. 

Pet.  Come  on,  o'God's  name;  once  more  toward  our 
father's. 
Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon  ! 

Kath.  The  moon  !  the  sun  ;  it  is  not  moonlight  now. 

Pet.  I  say,  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 

Kath.  I  know,  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 

Pet.  Now  by  my  mother's  son,  and  that's  myself. 
It  shall  be  the  moon,  or  star,  or  what  I  list. 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house  : — 
Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. — 
Evermore  cross'd,  and  cross'd  :  nothing  but  cross'd ! 

Hor.  Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

Kath.  Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far, 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please  : 
And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle. 
Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

Pet.  I  say,  it  is  the  moon. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  moon. 

Pet.  Nay,  then  you  lie  ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Kath.  Then,  God  be  bless'd,  it  is  the  blessed  sun  : 
But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not ; 
And  the  moon  changes  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  nam'd,  even  that  it  is ; 
And  so  it  shall  be  so,  for  Katharine. 

Hor.  Petruchio,  go  thy  ways  ;  the  field  is  won. 

Pet.  Well,  forward,  forward :  thus  the  bowl  shall  run, 
And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias. — 
But  soft ;  what  company  is  coming  here  ? 

Enter  Vincentio,  in  a  travelling  dress. 

Good  morrow,  gentle  mistress  :  Where  away  ? 

[To  Vincentio. 
Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too. 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman? 


340  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks  ! 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty. 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face ! — 
Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee  : — 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hor.  'A  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a  woman  of 
him. 

Kath.  Young  budding  virgin,  fair,  and  fresh,  and  sweet. 
Whither  away  ;  or  where  is  thy  abode  ? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child  ; 
Happier  the  man,  whom  favourable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow  ! 

Pet.  Why  how  now,  Kate  !  I  hope  thou  art  not  mad : 
This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  wither'd  ; 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  say'st  he  is. 

Kath.  Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes. 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun. 
That  every  thing  I  look  on  seemeth  green  :*= 
Now  I  perceive,  thou  art  a  reverend  father ; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 

Pet.  Do,  good  old  grandsire ;  and,  withal,  make  known 
Which  way  thou  travellest ;  if  along  with  us. 
We  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  company. 

Vm.  Fair  sir, — and  you  my  merry  mistress, — 
That  with  your  strange  encounter  much  amaz'd  me  ; 
My  name  is  call'd — Vincentio  :  my  dwelling — Pisa; 
And  bound  I  am  to  Padua ;  there  to  visit 
A  son  of  mine,  which  long  I  have  not  seen. 

Pet.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  Lucentio,  gentle  sir. 

Pet.  Happily  met ;  the  happier  for  thy  son. 
And  now  by  law,  as  well  as  reverend  age, 
I  may  entitle  thee — my  loving  father  ; 
The  sister  to  my  wife,  this  gentlewoman. 
Thy  son  by  this  hath  married ;  Wonder  not. 
Nor  be  not  griev'd  ;  she  is  of  good  esteem. 
Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth ; 

<:  That  every  thing  I  look  on  seemeth  green  :]  Shakspeare's  observations  on  the 
phcenomena  of  nature" are  very  accurate.  When  one  has  sat  long  in  the  sun- 
shine, the  surrounding  objects  will  often  appear  tinged  with  i;reeii.  The  reason 
is  assigned  by  many  of  the  writers  on  opticks. — Blackstone. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  341 

Beside,  so  qualified  as  may  beseem 
The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 
Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio  : 
And  wander  we  to  see  thy  honest  son. 
Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous. 

Vin.  But  is  this  true  ?  or  is  it  else  your  pleasure. 
Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
Upon  the  company  you  overtake  ? 

Hor.  I  do  assure  thee,  father,  so  it  is. 

Pet.  Come,  go  along,  and  see  the  truth  hereof; 
For  our  first  merriment  hath  made  thee  jealous. 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and 
Vincentio. 

Hor.  Well,  Petruchio,  this  hath  put  me  in  heart. 
Have  to  my  widow  ;  and  if  she  be  forward,'* 
Then  hast  thou  taught  Hortensio  to  be  untoward.    [Exit. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Padua.     Before  Lucentio's  House. 

Enter  on  one  side  Biondello,  Lucentio,  and  Bianca  : 
Gremio  walking  on  the  other  side. 

Bion.  Softly  and  swiftly,  sir  ;  for  the  priest  is  ready. 

Luc.  I  fly,  Biondello ;  but  they  may  chance  to  need 
thee  at  home,  therefore  leave  us. 

Bion.  Nay,  faith,  I'll  see  the  church  o'  your  back ;  and 
then  come  back  to  my  master  as  soon  as  I  can. 

[Exeunt  Lucentio,  Bianca,  and  Biondello. 

Gre.  I  marvel  Cambio  comes  not  all  this  while. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Vincentio,  and 
Attendants. 

Pet.  Sir,  here's  the  door,  this  is  Lucentio's  house. 
My  father's  bears  more  toward  the  market-place  ; 
Thither  must  I,  and  here  I  leave  you,  sir. 

Vin.  You  shall  not  choose  but  drink  before  you  go; 

^ forward,']  i.  e.  Frotvard. 


342  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

1  think,  I  shall  command  your  welcome  here. 
And,  by  all  likelihood,  some  cheer  is  toward.         [Knocks, 
Gre.  They're  busy  within,  you  were  best  knock  louder. 

Enter  Pedant  above,  at  a  window. 

Fed.  What's  he,  that  knocks  as  he  would  beat  down 
tlie  gate  ? 

Vin.  Is  signior  Lucentio  within,  sir  ? 

Ped.  He's  within,  sir,  but  not  to  be  spoken  withal. 

Viti.  What  if  a  man  bring  him  a  hundred  pound  or  two, 
to  make  merry  withal  ? 

Ped.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself;  he  shall 
need  none,  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  told  you,  your  son  was  beloved  in  Padua. 
— Do  you  hear,  sir  ? — to  leave  frivolous  circumstances, — 
I  pray  you,  tell  signior  Lucentio,  that  his  father  is  come 
from  Pisa,  and  is  here  at  the  door  to  speak  with  him. 

Ped.  Thou  best ;  his  father  is  come  from  Pisa,  and  here 
looking  out  at  the  window. 

Vin.  Art  thou  his  father  ? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir;  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may  believe 
her. 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  gentleman!  [to  Vincentic] 
why,  this  is  flat  knavery,  to  take  upon  you  another 
man's  name. 

Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain ;  I  believe,  'a  means  to 
cozen  somebody  in  this  city  under  my  countenance. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

Bion.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  church  together ;  God 
send  'em  good  shipping  ! — But  who  is  here  ?  mine  old 
master,  Vincentio  ?  now  we  are  undone,  and  brought  to 
nothing. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  crack-hemp.      [Seeing  Bion dbllo. 

Bion.  I  hope,  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue;  What,  have  you  for- 
got me  ? 

Bion.  Forgot  you  ?  no,  sir  :  I  could  not  forget  you,  for 
1  never  saw  you  before  in  all  my  life. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  343 

Fm.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou  never  see 
thy  master's  father,  Vincentio  ? 

Bion.  What,  my  old,  worshipful  old  master  ?  yes, 
marry,  sir  ;  see  w^here  he  looks  out  of  the  window. 

rin.  Is't  so,  indeed  ?  [5ea^s  Biondello. 

Bion.  Help,  help,  help  !  here's  a  madman  will  murder 
rae.  [Exit. 

Fed.  Help,  son  !  help,  signior  Baptista  ! 

[JE,xit,from  the  window. 

Pet.  Pr'ythee,  Kate,  let's  stand  aside,  and  see  the  end 
of  this  controversy.  [They  retire. 

Re-enter  Pedant  below;  Baptista,  Teanio,  aw^ 
Servants. 

Tra.  Sir,  what  are  you,  that  offer  to  beat  my  servant? 

Vin.  What  am  I,  sir?  nay,  what  are  you,  sir?  —  O 
immortal  gods  !  O  fine  villain  !  A  silken  doublet !  a 
velvet  hose  !  a  scarlet  cloak  !  and  a  copatain  hat  !* — O, 
I  am  undone  !  I  am  undone  !  while  I  play  the  good  hus- 
band at  home,  my  son  and  my  servant  spend  all  at  the 
university. 

Tra.  How  now!  what's  the  matter ? 

Bap.  What,  is  the  man  lunatick? 

Tra.  Sir,  you  seem  a  sober  ancient  gentleman  by  your 
habit,  but  your  words  show  you  a  madman :  Why,  sir, 
what  concerns  it  you,  if  I  wear  pearl  and  gold  ?  I  thank 
my  good  father,  I  am  able  to  maintain  it. 

Vin.  Thy  father?  O,  villain!  he  is  a  sail-maker  in 
Bergamo. 

Bap.  You  mistake,  sir  ;  you  mistake,  sir  :  Pray,  what 
do  you  think  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  His  name  ?  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name  :  I  have 
brought  him  up  ever  since  he  was  three  years  old,  and  his 
name  is — Tranio. 

Fed.  Away,  away,  mad  ass  !  his  name  is  Lucentio ;  and 
he  is  mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the  lands  of  me,  signior 
Vincentio. 

Vin.  Lucentio  I  O,  he  hath  murdered  his  master ! — Lay 

e  _^  a  copatain  ^«(.']_is,  I  believe,  a  hat  with  a  conical  crown,  anciently 
worn  by  well-dressed  men,— John  jon. 


344  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

hold  on  him,  I  charge  you,  in  the  duke's  name : — O  my  son, 
my  son  ! — tell  me,  thou  villain,  where  is  my  son  Lucentio  ? 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer :  [enter  one  with  an  officer. 1  carry 
this  mad  knave  to  the  gaol : — Father  Baptista,  I  charge 
you  see,  that  he  be  forthcoming. 

Vin.  Carry  me  to  the  gaol ! 

Gre.  Stay,  officer ;  he  shall  not  go  to  prison. 

Bap.  Talk  not,  signior  Gremio ;  I  say,  he  shall  go  to 
prison. 

Gre.  Take  heed,  signior  Baptista,  lest  you  be  coney- 
catched*^  in  this  business ;  I  dare  swear,  this  is  the  right 
Vincentio. 

Fed.  Swear,  if  thou  darest. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it. 

Tra.  Then  thou  wert  best  say,  that  I  am  not  Lucentio. 

Gre,  Yes,  I  know  thee  to  be  signior  Lucentio. 

Bap.  Away  with  the  dotard  ;  to  the  gaol  with  him. 

Vin.  Thus  strangers  may  be  haled  and  abus'd  : — O 
monstrous  villain ! 

Re-enter  Biondello,  loith  Lucentio,  and  Bianca. 

Bion.  O,  we  are  spoiled,  and — Yonder  he  is;  deny  him, 
forswear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  undone. 

Luc.  Pardon,  sweet  father.  [Kneeling. 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweetest  son  ? 

[Biondello,  Tranio,  and  Pedant  run  out. 

Bian.  Pardon,  dear  father.  [Kneeling. 

Bap.  How  hast  thou  offended? — 

Where  is  Lucentio  ? 

Luc.  Here's  Lucentio, 

Right  son  unto  the  right  Vincentio ; 
That  have  by  marriage  made  thy  daughter  mine. 
While  counterfeit  supposes  blear'd  thine  eyne.e 

Gre.  Here's  packing,**  with  a  witness,  to  deceive  us  all ! 

Vin.  Where  is  that  damned  villain,  Tranio, 
That  fac'd  and  brav'd  me  in  this  matter  so  ? 

^ coney-catched — ]  i.  e.  Deceived,  cheated.- 

e blear'd  thine  eyne.']  Deceived.    To  blear  the  eye  was  an  ancient  phrase 

signifying  todeceive. — Steevens. 

''  packing,']  i.  e.  Plottivg,  underhand  contrivance. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  345 

Bap.  Why,  tell  me,  is  not  this  my  Cambio? 

Bian.  Cambio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Love  wrought  these  miracles.     Bianca's  love 
Made  me  exchange  my  state  with  Tranio, 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town ; 
And  happily  I  have  arriv'd  at  last 
Unto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss  : — 
What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforc'd  him  to  ; 
Then  pardon  him,  sweet  father,  for  my  sake. 

Fin.  I'll  slit  the  villain's  nose,  that  would  have  sent  me 
to  the  gaol. 

Bap.  But  do  you  hear,  sir?  [To  Lttof.niio,]  Have  you 
married  my  daughter  without  asking  my  good-will  ? 

Vi7i.  Fear  not,  Baptista;  we  will  content  you,  go  to: 
But  I  will  in,  to  be  revenged  for  this  villainy.  [Exit. 

Bap.  And  I,  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavery. 

[Exit. 

Luc.  Look  not  pale,  Bianca;  thy  father  will  not  frown. 
[Exeunt  Luc.  and  Bian. 

Gre.  My  cake  is  dough  :'  But  I'll  in  among  the  rest; 

ut  of  hope  of  all, — but  my  share  of  the  feast.  [Exit. 

Petruchio  and  Katharina  advance. 

Kath.  Husband,  let's  follow,  to  see  the  end  of  this  ado. 

Pet.  First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will.  ' 

Kath.  What,  in  the  midst  of  the  street? 

Pet.  What,  art  thou  ashamed  of  me  ? 

Kath.  No,  sir  ;  God,  forbid  : — but  ashamed  to  kiss. 

Pet.  Why,  then  let's  home  again : — Come,  sirrah,  let's 

away. 
Kath.  Nay,  I  will  give  thee  a  kiss :  now  pray  thee,  love, 

stay. 
Pet.  Is  not  this  well? — Come,  my  sweet  Kate; 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late.  [Exeunt. 

'  My  cake  is  dough:]  A  phrase  generally  used  when  any  disappointment  was 
sustained,  contrary  to  every  appearance  or  expectation. — Reed. 


346  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

SCENE  II. 

A  Room  in  Lucentio's  House. 

A  Banquet  set  out.  Enter  Baptista,  Vincentio,  Gre- 
Mio,  the  Pedant,  Lucentio,  Bianca,  Petruchio, 
Katharina,  HoRTENsio,  and  Widovf.  Tranio,  Bi- 
ONDELLO,  Grumio,  and  Others,  attending. 

Luc.  At  last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes  agree  : 
And  time  it  is,  when  raging  war  is  done. 
To  smile  at  'scapes  and  perils  overblown. — 
My  fair  Bianca,  bid  by  father  welcome. 
While  I  with  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine  : — 
Brother  Petruchio, — sister  Katharina, — 
And  thou  Hortensio,  with  thy  loving  widow, — 
Feast  with  the  best,  and  welcome  to  my  house ; 
My  banquet""  is  to  close  our  stomachs  up. 
After  our  great  good  cheer  :  Pray  you,  sit  down  ; 
For  now  we  sit  to  chat,  as  well  as  eat.     [Thei/  sit  at  table. 

Pet.  Nothing  but  sit  and  sit,  and  eat  and  eat ! 

Bap.  Padua  affords  this  kindness,  son  Petruchio. 

Pet.  Padua  affords  nothing  but  what  is  kind. 

Her.  For  both  our  sakes,  I  would  that  word  were  true. 

Pet.  Now,  for  my  life,  Hortensio  fears  his  widow.' 

Wid.  Then  never  trust  me  if  I  be  afeard. 

Pet.  You  are  very  sensible,  and  yet  you  miss  my  sense ; 
I  mean,  Hortensio  is  afeard  of  you. 

Wid.  He  that  is  giddy,  thinks  the  world  turns  round. 

Pet.  Roundly  replied. 

Kath.  Mistress,  how  mean  you  that  ? 

Wid.  Thus  I  conceive  by  him. 

Pet.  Conceives  by  me! — How  likes  Hortensio  that? — 

Hor.  My  widow  says,  thus  she  conceives  her  tale. 

Pet.  Very  well  mended  :  Kiss  him  for  that,  good  widow. 

^  My  banquet — ]  A  banquet,  or  (as  it  is  called  in  some  of  our  old  books)  an 
afterpast,  was  a  slight  refection,  like  our  modem  deseit,  consisting  of  cakes, 
sweetmeats,  and  fruit ;  and  was  generally  set  out  in  a  separate  room. 

I fears  his  widow.']  To  fear,  as  has  been  already  observed,  meant,  in  our 

author's  time,  both  to  dread,  and  to  intimidate.  The  widow  understands  the 
word  in  the  latter  sense ;  and  Petruchio  tells  her,  he  used  it  in  the  former .-~ 
Malone. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  347 

Kath.   He  that    is    giddy,   thinks    the    world    turns 

round : 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  what  you  meant  by  that. 

Wid.  Your  husband,  being  troubled  with  a  shrew. 
Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe  : 
And  now  you  know  my  meaning. 

Kath.  A  very  mean  meaning. 

Wid.  Right,  I  mean  you. 

Kath.  And  I  am  mean,  indeed,  respecting  you. 

Fet.  To  her,  Kate  ! 

Hor.  To  her,  widow  ! 

Pet.  A  hundred  marks,  my  Kate  does  put  her  down. 

Hor.  That's  my  office. 

Fet.  Spoke  like  an  officer : — Ha'  to  thee,  lad. 

[Drinks  to  Hortensto. 

Bap.  How  likes  Gremio  these  quick-witted  folks? 

Gre.  Believe  me,  sir,  they  butt  together  well. 

Bian.  Head,  and  butt  ?  an  hasty-witted  body 
Would  say,  your  head  and  butt  were  head  and  horn. 

Vin.  Ay,  mistress  bride,  hath  that  awaken'd  you  ? 

Bian.   Ay,  but  not  frighted  me;   therefore  I'll  sleep 
again. 

Fet.  Nay,  that  you  shall  not ;  since  you  have  begun. 
Have  at  you  for  a  bitter  jest  or  two. 

Bian.  Am  I  your  bird  ?  I  mean  to  shift  my  bush. 
And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow ; — 
You  are  welcome  all. 

\_Exeunt  Bianca,  Katharina,  a7id  Widow. 

Fet.  She  hath  prevented  me. — Here,  signior  Tranio, 
This  bird  you  aim'd  at,  though  you  hit  her  not ; 
Therefore,  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  miss'd. 

Tra.  O,  sir,  Lucentio  slipp'd  me  like  his  greyhound. 
Which  runs  himself,  and  catches  for  his  master. 

Fet.  A  good  swift  simile,  but  somethmg  currish. 

Tra.  'Tis  well,  sir,  that  you  hunted  for  yourself; 
'Tis  thought  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Bap.  O  ho,  Petruchio,  Tranio  hits  you  now. 

Luc.  I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,"  good  Tranio. 

™  — —  gird,']  i.  e.  A  sarcasm,  a  gibe. 


348  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Hor.  Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you  here  ? 

Pet.  'A  has  a  little  gall'd  me,  I  confess ; 
And,  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  from  me, 
'Tis  ten  to  one  it  maim'd  you  two  outright. 

Bap.  Now  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Pet.  Well,  I  say — no  ;  and  therefore,  for  assurance. 
Let's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife  ; 
And  he,  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her. 
Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.  Content : — What  is  the  wager  ? 

Luc.  Twenty  crowns. 

Pet.  Twenty  crowns ! 
I'll  venture  so  much  on  my  hawk,  or  hound. 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.  A  hundred  then. 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match ;  'tis  done. 

Hor.  Who  shall  begin? 

Luc.  That  will  I.     Go, 

Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bion.  I  go.  [Exit. 

Bap.  Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Luc.  I'll  have  no  halves  ;  I'll  bear  it  all  myself. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Bion.  Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

Pet.  How  !  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come  ! 
Is  that  an  answer? 

Gre.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too  : 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 

Pet.  I  hope,  better. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  Biondello,  go,  and  entreat  my  wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.  [Exit  Biondello. 

Pet.  O,  ho  !  entreat  her  ! 

Nay,  then  she  must  needs  come. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  349 

Hor.  I  am  afraid,  sir. 

Do  what  you,  can  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

Now,  where's  my  wife  ? 

Bion.  She  says,  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in  hand  ; 
She  will  not  come  ;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Pet.  Worse  and  worse;  she  will  not  come  !  O  vile. 
Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd  ! 
Sirrah,  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress  ; 
Say,  I  command  her  come  to  me.  \^Exit  Grumio. 

Hor.  I  know  her  answer. 

Pet.  What? 

Hor.  She  will  not  come. 

Pet.  The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  end. 

Enter  Katharina. 

Bap.  Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharina  ! 

Kath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me  ? 

Pet.  Where  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's  wife? 

Kath.  They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlour  fire. 

Pet.  Go,  fetch  them  hither ;  if  they  deny  to  come. 
Swinge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  husbands  : 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  thern  hither  straight. 

\^Exit  Katharina. 

Luc.  Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder. 

Hor.  And  so  it  is  ;  I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

Pet.  Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet  life, 
An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy; 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and  happy. 

Bap.  Now  fair  befal  thee,  good  Petruchio  ! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won  ;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns  ! 
Another  dowry  to  another  daughter. 
For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet ; 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience. 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 

VOL.  III.  2  a  i 


350  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Re-enter  Katharina,  with  Bianca  an<7  Widow. 

See,  where  she  comes  ;  and  brings  your  froward  wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. — 
Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not; 
Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under  foot. 

[Katharina  pulls  off  her  cap,  and  throws  it  down. 

Wid.  Lord,  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh. 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass  ! 

Bian.  Fye  !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this  ? 

Luc.  I  would,  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too  : 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Hath  cost  me  an  hundred  crowns  since  supper-time. 

Bian.  The  more  fool  you,  for  laying  on  my  duty. 

Pet.  Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  headstrong 
women 
What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Wid.  Come,  come,  you're  mocking ;  we  will  have  no 
telling. 

Pet.  Come  on,  I  say  ;  and  first  begin  with  her. 

Wid.  She  shall  not. 

Pet.  I  say,  she  shall ; — and  first  begin  with  her. 

Kath.  Fye,  fye !  unknit  that  threat'ning  unkind  brow  ; 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor  : 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  do  bite  the  meads ; 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds  ; 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet,  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd,  is  like  a  fountain  troubled. 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty; 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper. 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign ;  one  that  cares  for  thee. 
And  for  thy  maintenance  :  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labour,  both  by  sea  and  land ; 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold. 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe  ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  351 

But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience  ; — 

Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 

Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince. 

Even  such,  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband  : 

And,  when  she's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour. 

And,  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will. 

What  is  she,  but  a  foul  contending  rebel. 

And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord? — 

I  am  asham'd,  that  women  are  so  simple 

To  offer  war,  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace  ; 

Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway. 

When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 

Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth. 

Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world  ; 

But  that  our  soft  conditions,"  and  our  hearts. 

Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts  ?   , 

Come,  come,  you  forward  and  unable  worms  ! 

My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours. 

My  heart  as  great ;  my  reason,  haply,  more. 

To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown  ; 

But  now,  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws  ; 

Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare, — 

That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  indeed  least  are. 

Then  vail  your  stomachs,"  for  it  is  no  boot ; 

And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot : 

In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please. 

My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease. 

Pet.  Why,  there's  a  wench  ! — Come  on,  and  kiss  me, 
Kate. 

Luc.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  lad  :  for  thou  shalt  ha't. 

Vin.  'Tis  a  good  hearing,  when  children  are  toward. 

Luc.  But  a  harsh  hearing,  when  women  are  froward. 

Pet.  Come,  Kate,  we'll  to-bed  : 

We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped.P 

n our  soft  conditions,]  The  gentle  qualities  of  our  minds. 

"> Then  vail  your  stomachs,'^  i.  e.  Abate  your  pride,  your  spirit. 

p you  two  are  sped.]  i.  e.  The  fate  of  you  both  is  decided  ;  for  you  have 

wives  who  exhibit  early  proofs  of  disobedience. — Steevens. 

2  a2 


352  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

'Twas  I  won  the  wager,  though  you  hit  the  white  j*" 

To  LUCENTIO. 

And,  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good  night ! 

[Exeunt  Petruchio  and  Kath. 
Hor.  Now  go  thy  ways,  thou  hast  tam'd  a  curst  shrew. 
Luc.  'Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  she  will  be  tam'd  so. 

[Exeunt/ 

1 though  you  hit  the  white ;]  To  hit  the  tohite  is  a  phrase  borrowed  from 

archery  :  the  mark  was  commonly  white.  Here  it  alludes  to  the  name,  Bianca, 
or  white. — Johnson. 

■■  Of  this  play  the  two  plots  are  so  well  united,  that  they  can  hardly  be  called 
two  without  injury  to  the  art  with  which  they  are  interwoven.  The  attention 
is  entertained  with  all  the  variety  of  a  double  plot,  yet  is  not  distracted  by  un- 
connected incidents. 

The  part  between  Katharine  and  Petruchio  is  eminently  sprightly  and  divert- 
ing. At  the  marriage  of  Bianca  the  arrival  of  the  real  father,  perhaps,  pro- 
duces more  perplexity  than  pleasure.  The  whole  play  is  very  popular  and 
diverting.  — Jo  h  n»o  n. 


WINTER^S  TALE. 


The  first  edition  of  this  play  is  that  of  the  Players,  the  folio  of  1623.  It  could 
not  have  been  written  before  1610,  as  we  find  from  the  office-book  of  Sir  Henry 
Herbert,  that  it  was  licensed  by  Sir  George  Buck,  who  did  not  till  that  year 
get  full  possession  of  the  office  of  Master  of  the  Revels,  which  he  had  ob- 
tained by  a  reversionary  grant :  neither  could  the  comedy  have  been  produced 
later  than  1613,  when  it  was  performed  at  Court. 

The  plot  is  taken  from  the  Pleasant  History  of  Dorastus  and  Favmia,  written 
by  Thomas  Green.  The  poet  has  changed  the  names  of  the  characters,  and 
added  the  parts  of  Antigonus,  Paulina,  and  Autolycus ;  he  has  also  suppressed 
many  circumstances  of  the  original  story ;  in  other  respects  he  has  adhered 
closely  to  the  novel.  The  error  of  representing  Bohemia  as  a  maritime  country 
is  not  attributable  to  our  author,  but  to  the  original  from  which  he  copied.  Ben 
Jonson,  in  a  conversation  with  Drummond  of  Hawthomden,  in  1619,  remark- 
ing on  this  geographical  mistake,  observed  that  "Shakspeare  wanted  art  and 
sometimes  sense,  for  in  one  of  his  plays  he  brought  in  a  number  of  men,  say- 
ing they  had  suffered  shipwreck  in  Bohemia,  where  is  no  sea  near  by  a  hundred 
miles."  This  remark,  which  was  uttered  in  the  course  of  private  conversation, 
without  the  slight«st  suspicion  of  its  ever  being  made  public  and  which  was 
so  well  justified  by  the  example  that  he  adduced  to  support  it,  has  been  quoted 
as  another  instance  in  proof  of  Jonson's  enmity  to  Shakspeare.  Jonson  only 
professes  to  love  Shakspeare,  "  on  this  side  Idolatry,"  to  admire  his  excellences 
without  being  blinded  to  his  defects  :  the  incorrectness  mentioned  is  decidedly 
a  great  fault,  but  there  is  no  malignity  or  undue  severity  expressed  by  the 
manner  in  which  it  is  censured. 

Mr.  Walpole  has  a  ridiculous  conjecture  that  The  Winter's  Tale  is  an  his- 
torical play,  that  it  was  intended  as  a  covert  compliment  to  Queen  Elizabeth, 
that  it  is  designed  as  a  supplement  to  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  that  Leontes  re- 
presents the  bluff  monarch,  Hermione,  Anne  Bullen,  Perdita,  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  Mamillius  an  elder  brother  of  hers,  who  was  still-born. 

"  The  Title  of  this  play,"  says  Schlegel,  "  answers  admirably  to  its  subject. 
It  is  one  of  those  histories  which  appear  framed  to  delight  the  idleness  of  a 
long  evening." 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Leontes,  king  o/'Sicilia  : 

Mamillius,  his  son. 

Camfllo,      ^ 

Antigonus,  f  o-    i-       1     1 
r,  >  Sicilian  lords. 

Cleomenes,^ 

Dion,  7 

Another  Sicilian  Lord. 

Rogero,  a  ^iciXidJCi  gentleman. 

An  Attendant  on  the  young  prince  Mamillius. 

Officers  of  a  court  of  judicature. 

PoLixENES,  king  o/' Bohemia: 

Florizel,  7«s  SO/2. 

Archidamus,  a  Bohemian  lord. 

A  Mariner. 

Gaoler. 

An  old  Shepherd,  reputed  father  o/'Perdita : 

Clown,  his  son. 

Servant  to  the  old  Shepherd. 

AuTOLYCUs,  a  rogue. 

Time,  as  Chorus. 

Hermione,  queen  to  Leontes. 

Perdita,  daughter  to  Leontes  and  Hermione 

Paulina,  wife  to  Antigonus. 

Emilia,  a  lady.  7    ^^,^^-     ^^, 

Two  other  ladies.  3 

^^^'^'    ]  shepherdesses. 
Dorcas,  > 

Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants;   Satyrs  for  a  dance, 
Shepherds,  Shepherdesses,  Guards,  &c. 

Scene,  sometimes  in  Sicilia,  sometimes  in  Bohemia. 


WINTER'S   TALE. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Sicilia.     An  Antechamber  in  heontes' 
Palace. 

Enter  Camillo  and  Archidamus. 

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

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

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

Cam.  'Beseech  you, 

Arch.  Verily,  I  speak  it  in  the  freedom  of  my  knowledge : 
we  cannot  with  such  magnificence — in  so  rare — I  know 

not  what  to  say. We  will  give  you  sleepy  drinks  ;  that 

your  senses,  unintelligent  of  our  insufBcience,  may,  though 
they  cannot  praise  us,  as  little  accuse  us. 

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

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

Cam.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  over-kind  to  Bohe- 
mia. They  were  trained  together  in  their  childhoods; 
and  there  rooted  betwixt  them  then  such  an  affection, 
which  cannot  choose  but  branch  now.  Since  their  more 
mature  dignities,  and  royal  necessities,  made  separation 

* our  entertainment,  &c.]  Though  we  cannot  give  you  equal  entertaia- 

ment,  yet  the  consciousness  of  our  good-will  shall  justify  us Johnson. 


356  WINTER'S  TALE. 

of  their  society,  their  encounters,  though  not  personal, 
have  been  royally  attornied,''  with  interchange  of  gifts, 
letters,  loving  embassies  ;  that  they  have  seemed  to  be  to- 
gether, though  absent ;  shook  hands,  as  over  a  vast  f  and 
embraced,  as  it  were,  from  the  ends  of  opposed  winds. 
The  heavens  continue  their  loves  ! 

Arch.  I  think,  there  is  not  in  the  world  either  malice, 
or  matter,  to  alter  it.  You  have  an  unspeakable  comfort 
of  your  young  prince  Mamillius  ;  it  is  a  gentleman  of  the 
greatest  promise,  that  ever  came  into  my  note. 

Cam.  I  very  well  agree  with  you  in  the  hopes  of  him  : 
It  is  a  gallant  child  ;  one  that,  indeed,  physicks  the  sub- 
ject,*^ makes  old  hearts  fresh  ;  they,  that  went  on  crutches 
ere  he  was  born,  desire  yet  their  life,  to  see  him  a  man. 

Arch.  Would  they  else  be  content  to  die? 

Cam.  Yes  ;  if  there  were  no  other  excuse  why  they 
should  desire  to  live. 

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

SCENE  II. 

The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace, 

Enter  Leontes,  Polixenes,  Hermione,  Mamillius, 
C  AMI  LLC,  and  Attendants. 

Pol.  Nine  changes  of  the  wat'ry  star  have  been 
The  shepherd's  note,  since  we  have  left  our  throne 
Without  a  burden :  time  as  long  again 
Would  be  fill'd  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks  ; 

•» royally  attornied,']  Nobly  supplied  by  substitution  of  embassies,  &c. 

— Johnson. 

c shook  hands,  as  over  a  vast,]  i.  e.  A  vast  space.    The  second  folio  reads 

a  vast  sea.  Shakspeare  has,  more  than  once,  taken  his  imagery  from  the  prints, 
with  which  the  books  of  his  time  were  ornamented.  If  my  memory  do  not 
deceive  me,  he  had  his  eye  on  a  wood-cut  in  Holinshed,  while  writing  the  in- 
cantation of  the  weird  sisters  in  Macbeth.  There  is  also  an  allusion  to  a  print 
of  one  of  the  Henries  holding  a  sword  adorned  with  crowns.  In  this  passage 
he  refers  to  a  device  common  in  the  title-page  of  old  books,  of  two  hands  ex- 
tended from  opposite  clouds,  and  joined  as  in  token  of  friendship  over  a  wide 
waste  of  country. — Henley. 

^ physicks  the  subject,]  Keeps  the  people  in  a  wholesome  political  tem- 
perament.— Seymouh. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  357 

And  yet  we  should,  for  perpetuity. 

Go  hence  in  debt :  And  therefore,  like  a  cipher. 

Yet  standing  in  rich  place,  I  multiply. 

With  one  we-thank-you,  many  thousands  more 

That  go  before  it. 

Leon.  Stay  your  thanks  awhile ; 

And  pay  them  when  you  part. 

Pol.  Sir,  that's  to-morrow. 

I  am  question'd  by  my  fears,  of  what  may  chance. 
Or  breed  upon  our  absence  :  That  may  blow 
No  sneaping  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say. 
This  is  put  forth  too  truly  '.^  Besides,  I  have  stay'd 
To  tire  your  royalty. 

Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother. 

Than  you  can  put  us  to't. 

Pol.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.  One  seven-night  longer. 

Pol.  Very  sooth,  to-morrow. 

Leon.  We'll  part  the  time  between's  then  :  and  in  that 
I'll  no  gain-saying. 

Pol.  Press  me  not,  'beseech  you,  so  ; 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves,  none,  none  i'the  world. 
So  soon  as  yours,  could  win  me  :  so  it  should  now. 
Were  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 
'Twere  needful  I  denied  it.     My  affairs 
Do  even  drag  me  homeward ;  which  to  hinder. 
Were,  in  your  love,  a  whip  to  me  ;  my  stay. 
To  you  a  charge,  and  trouble  :  to  save  both. 
Farewell,  our  brother. 

Leon.  Tongue-tied,  our  queen?  speak  you. 

Her.  I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my  peace,  until 
You  had  drawn  oaths  from  him,  not  to  stay.     You,  sir. 
Charge  him  too  coldly :  Tell  him,  you  are  sure. 
All  in  Bohemia's  well :  this  satisfaction 
The  by-gone  day  proclaim'd  ;  say  this  to  him. 
He's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 

e That  may  blow 

No  sneaping  winds,  &c.]  i.  e.  Oh  !  that  there  may  blow  no  rebuking  winds 
at  home  to  make  me  say,  I  had  too  good  reason  for  my  fears, — Fahmeb  and 
Malonf. 


358  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Leon.  Well  said,  Hermione. 

Her.  To  tell,  he  longs  to  see  his  son,  were  strong : 
But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go  ; 
But  let  him  swear  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay. 
We'll  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs. — 
Yet  of  your  royal  presence  [to  Polixenes]  I'll  adventure. 
The  borrow  of  a  week.     When  at  Bohemia 
You  take  my  lord,  I'll  give  you  my  commission. 
To  let  hira  there  a  month,  behind  the  gest^ 
Prefix'd  for  his  parting  :  yet,  good-deed,^  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  ajar  o'the  clock''  behind 
What  lady  she  her  lord. — You'll  stay? 

PoL  No,  madam. 

Her.  Nay,  but  you  will  ? 

Pol.  I  may  not  verily. 

Her.  Verily! 
You  put  me  off"  with  limber  vows  :  But  I, 
Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths. 
Should  yet  say.  Sir,  no  going.     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go  ;  a  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner. 
Not  like  a  guest ;  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees. 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How  say  you  ? 
My  prisoner  ?  or  my  guest  ?  by  your  dread  verily. 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest  then,  madam : 

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

Her.  Not  your  gaoler  then, 

f  To  let  him  there  a  month,  behind  the  gest — ]  To  let  him  there  is  to  detain  hira 
there  ;  behind  the  gest  is  beyond  the  time  appointed  for  his  stay.  Gest  "  is  a 
lodging  or  stage  for  rest  in  a  royal  journey."  Strype  says,  that  Cranmer  en- 
treated Cecil  "  to  let  him  have  the  new-resolved-upon  gests,  from  that  time  to 
the  end,  that  he  might  from  time  to  time  know  where  the  king  was."  From 
•which  passage  we  find  that  the  table  of  the  gests  limited  not  only  the  places, 
but  the  time  of  staying  at  each. — Nares. 

g good-deed,'] — signifies,  indeed.    The  second  folio  reads  goodheed. 

h  ■  ...  a  jar  o'the  clock — ]  Ajar  is,  I  believe,  a  single  repetition  of  the  noise 
made  by  the  pendulum  of  a  clock :  what  children  call  the  ticking  of  it. — 
Steevens. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  359 

But  your  kind  hostess.     Come,  I'll  question  you 

Of  my  lord's  tricks,  and  yours,  when  you  were  boys  ; 

You  were  pretty  lordlings  then. 

Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen. 

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

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

Pol  We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs,  that  did  frisk  i'the  sun. 
And  bleat  the  one  at  the  other  :  What  we  chang'd 
Was  innocence  for  innocence  :  we  knew  not 
The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  no,  nor  dream'd 
That  any  did  :  Had  we  pursued  that  life. 
And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 
With  stronger  blood,  we  should  have  answer'd  Heaven 
Boldly,  Not  guilti/  ;  the  imposition  clear'd. 
Hereditary  ours.* 

Her.  By  this  we  gather, 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 

Pol.  O  my  most  sacred  lady. 

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

Her.  Grace  to  boot !'' 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion  ;  lest  you  say. 
Your  queen  and  I  are  devils  :  Yet,  go  on  ; 
The  offences  we  have  made  you  do,  we'll  answer ; 
If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 
You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  shpp'd  not 
With  any  but  with  us. 

Leon.  Is  he  won  yet  ? 

Her.  He'll  stay,  my  lord. 

Leon.  At  my  request,  he  would  not. 

Hermione,  my  dearest,  thou  never  spok'st 
To  better  purpose. 

' the  imposition  clear'd. 

Hereditary  ours.]  i.  e.  Setting  aside  original  sin;  bating  the  imposition 
from  the  offence  of  our  first  parents,  we  might  have  boldly  protested  our  inno- 
cence to  Heaven. — Warburton. 

i*  Grace  lo  boot!]  Grace,  or  Heaven  help  me ! 


360  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Her.  Never  ? 

Leon.  Never,  but  once. 

Her.  What  ?  have  I  twice  said  well  ?  when  was't  before  ? 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me :  Cram  us  with  praise,  and  make  us 
As  fat  as  tame  things  :  One  good  deed,  dying  tongueless. 
Slaughters  a  thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  You  may  ride  us. 
With  one  soft  kiss,  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  heat'  an  acre.     But  to  the  goal ; — 
My  last  good  was,  to  entreat  his  stay  ; 
What  was  my  first  ?  it  has  an  elder  sister. 
Or  I  mistake  you :  O,  would  her  name  were  Grace  : 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose  :  When  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have't ;  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves  to  death. 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand. 
And  clap  thyself  my  love  j""  then  did'st  thou  utter, 
J  am  yours  for  ever. 

Her.  It  is  Grace,  indeed. — 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose  twice : 
The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband  ; 
The  other,  for  some  while  a  friend. 

[Giving  her  hand  to  Polixenes. 

Leon.  Too  hot,  too  hot :     [Aside. 

To  mingle  friendship  far,  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me  : — my  heart  dances ; 
But  not  for  joy, — not  joy. — This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on ;  derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom. 
And  well  become  the  agent :  it  may,  I  grant : 
But  to  be  paddling  palms,  and  pinching  fingers. 
As  now  they  are ;  and  making  practis'd  smiles. 
As  in  a  looking  glass  ; — and  then  to  sigh,  as  'twere 


' we  heat — ]  i.  e.  Hun  a  heat,  as  in  a  race. 

■"  And  clap  thyself  my  love  ;]  She  opened  her  hand,  to  clap  the  palm  of  it  into 
his,  as  people  do  when  they  confirm  a  bargain.  Hence  the  phrase — to  clap  up 
a  bargain,  i.  e.  make  one  with  no  other  ceremony  than  the  junction  of  hands. — 
SrFEVENs.  This  was,  says  Malone,  a  regular  part  of  the  ceremony  of  troth 
plighting. 


ACT  L— SCENE  II.  361 

The  mort  o'the  deer ;"  O,  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows. — Mamillius, 
Art  thou  my  boy  ? 

Mam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  I'fecks?" 

Why,  that's  my  bawcock.P  What,  has  smutch'd  thy  nose  ? — 
They  say,  it's  a  copy  out  of  mine.     Come,  captain. 
We  must  be  neat ;  not  neat,  but  cleanly,  captain  : 
And  yet  the  steer,  the  heifer,  and  the  calf. 
Are  all  call'd,  neat. — Still  virginalling'^ 

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

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash,  and  the  shoots  that 
I  have,'^ 
To  be  full  like  me  : — yet,  they  say  we  are 
Almost  as  like  as  eggs  ;  women  say  so. 
That  will  say  any  thing :  But  were  they  false 
As  o'er-died  blacks,*  as  wind,  as  waters  ;  false 
As  dice  are  to  be  wish'd,  by  one  that  fixes 
No  bourn'  'twixt  his  and  mine ;  yet  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me. — Come,  sir  page. 
Look  on  me  with  your  welkin  eye  :"  Sweet  villain  ! 
Most  dear'st !  my  coUop  !" — Can  thy  dam? — may't  be  ? 

n  The  mort  o'the  deer ;]    A  lesson  upon  the  horn  at  the  death  of  the  deer. — 

SxEEVENS. 

°  r  fecks?]  A  supposed  corruption  of — in  faith. 

P  Why,  that's  my  bawcock.]  Perhaps  from  beau  and  coq.  It  is  still  said  in 
vulgar  language  that  such  a  one  is  b.  jolly  cock,  a  cock  of  the  game. — Steevens. 
Nares  supposes  it  to  mean  my  young  cock  from  boy  and  cock. 

1 Still  virginalling — ]  Still  playing  with  her  fingers,  as  a  girl  playing 

on  the  virginals. — Johnson.  Avirginal  is  a  very  small  kind  of  spinnet.  Queen 
Elizabeth's  virginal-book  is  yet  in  being,  and  many  of  the  lessons  in  it  have 
proved  so  difficult,  as  to  baffle  our  most  expert  players  on  the  harpsichord. — 
Steevens. 

"■  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash,  and  the  shoots  that  1  have,']  Malone  informs  us, 
that  a  pash  in  Scotland  signifies  a  head.  The  meaning  is,  thon  wantest  the 
rough  head  and  the  horns  that  I  have  to  complete  your  resemblance  to  your  father. 

* o'er-died  blacks,]  i.  e.  Old  clothes  of  other  colours  dyed  black.    Blacks 

was  the  common  terra  for  mourning. — Steevens. 

' boiirn — ]  i.  e.  Boundary. 

" welkin  eye:]  Blue  eye  ;  an  eye  of  the  same  colour  with  the  welkin,  or 

iky.— Johnson. 

*  my  collop !]  So,  in  The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  VI. 

"  God  knows,  thou  art  a  coi/op  of  my  flesh." 


362  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Affection  !  thy  intention  stabs  the  center  :^ 
Thou  dost  make  possible,  things  not  so  held, 
Communicat'st  with  dreams  ; — -(How  can  this  be  ?) — 
With  what's  unreal  thou  coactive  art. 
And  fellow'st  nothing  :  Then,  'tis  very  credent,'^ 
Thou  may'st  co-join  with  something ;  and  thou  dost ; 
(And  that  beyond  commission  ;  and  I  find  it,) 
And  that  to  the  infection  of  my  brains. 
And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia  ? 

Her.  He  something  seems  unsettled. 

Pol.  How,  my  lord  ? 

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

Her.  You  look. 

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

Leon.  No,  in  good  earnest, — 

How  sometimes  nature  will  betray  its  folly. 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pastime 
To  harder  bosoms  !  Looking  on  the  lines 
Of  my  boy's  face,  methoughts,  I  did  recoil 
Twenty-three  years  ;  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd. 
In  my  green  velvet  coat ;  my  dagger  muzzled, 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove. 
As  ornaments  oft  do,  too  dangerous. 
How  like,  methought,  I  then  was  to  this  kernel. 
This  squash,"*  this  gentleman  : — Mine  honest  friend. 
Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ?' 

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

y  Affection !  thy  intentioii  stahs  the  center :]  Affection  means  here  imagination, 
or  perhaps  more  accurately, "  the  disposition  of  the  mind  when  strongly  affected 
or  possessed  by  a  particular  idea."  Intention  is  eagerness  of  attention. — 
Steevens  and  M.  Mason. 

^ credent,']  i.  e.  Credible. 

»  Leon.  What  cheer  1  &c.]  This  line  is  the  property  of  Leontes  in  all  the  fo- 
lios, and  has  been  most  arbitrarily  given  to  Polixenes  by  the  modern  editors. 
Every  actor  will  be  glad  to  have  it  restored.  Leontes,  startled  from  his  moody 
abstraction  by  the  sudden  address  of  Polixenes,  endeavours  to  conceal  the  dis- 
turbance of  his  mind  by  an  assumed  tone  of  cheerfulness  and  careless  ease. 

f"  This  squash,]  A  squash  is  a  pea-pod,  in  that  state  when  the  young  peas 
begin  to  swell  in  it. — Henley. 

«  Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ?]  The  meaning  of  this  is,  will  you  put  tip 
affronts'*  The  French  have  a  proverbial  saying,  A  qui  vendez  vnuz  coquillesl  i.  e. 
Whom  do  you  design  to  affront  1  Mamillius's  answer  plainly  proves  it.  Mam. 
No,  my  Lord,  I'lljight. — Smith. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  363 

Leon.  You  will  ?  why,  happy  man  be  his  dole  I*^ — 
My  brother. 
Are  you  so  fond  of  your  young  prince,  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Pol.  If  at  home,  sir. 

He's  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter  : 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy  ; 
My  parasite,  my  soldier,  statesman,  all : 
He  makes  a  July's  day  short  as  December ; 
And,  with  his  varying  childness,  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

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

Her.  If  you  would  seek  us, 

We  are  your's  i'the  garden  :  Shall's  attend  you  there  ? 

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

[Aside.  Observing  Polix;enes  and  Hermione. 
How  she  holds  up  the  neb/  the  bill  to  him ! 
And  arms  her  with  the  boldness  of  a  wife 
To  her  allowing^  husband  !  Gone  already ; 
Inch-thick,  knee-deep,  o'er  head  and  ears  a  fork'd  one.'' 

[Exeunt  Polixenes,  Hermione,  and  Attendants. 
Go,  play,  boy,  play : — thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too  ;  but  so  disgrac'd  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will  hiss  me  to  my  grave  ;  contempt  and  clamour 

d happy  man  be  his  dole ! — ]  May  his  dole  or  share  in  life  be  to  be  a 

happy  man. — Johnson.  The  expression  is  proverbial,  and  has  been  explained 
in  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  act  i.  sc.  1. 

^  Apparent — ]  That  is,  heir  apparent,  or  the  next  claimant. — Johnson. 

f the  neb,]  The  bill  or  beak.     The  word  is  commonly  pronounced  and 

written  nib.     It  signifies  here  the  mouth. 

s allowing — ]    This  word  in  old  language  means  approving. — Malone. 

''  "        a  fork'd  one.]   That  is,  a  horned  one  ;  a  cnchold. 


364  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Will  be  my  knell. — Go,  play,  boy,  play  ; — There  have  been. 

Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  cuckolds  ere  now ; 

And  many  a  man  there  is,  even  at  this  present. 

Now,  while  I  speak  this,  holds  his  wife  by  the  arm. 

That  little  thinks  she  has  been  sluic'd  in  his  absence. 

And  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 

Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour  :  nay,  there's  comfort  in't. 

Whiles  other  men  have  gates  ;  and  those  gates  open'd. 

As  mine,  against  their  will :  Should  all  despair. 

That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 

Would  hang  themselves.     Physick  for't  there  is  none ; 

It  is  a  bawdy  planet,  that  will  strike 

Where  'tis  predominant ;  and  'tis  powerful,  think  it. 

From  east,  west,  north,  and  south  :  Be  it  concluded. 

No  barricado  for  a  belly  ;  know  it ; 

It  will  let  in  and  out  the  enemy. 

With  bag  and  baggage  :  many  a  thousand  of  us 

Have  the  disease,  and  feel't  not. — How  now,  boy  ? 

Mam.  I  am  like  you,  they  say. 

Leon.  Why,  that's  some  comfort. — 

What !  Camillo  there  ? 

Cam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  Go  play,  Mamillius  ;  thou'rt  an  honest  man. — 

[Exit  Mamillius. 
Camillo,  this  great  sir  will  yet  stay  longer. 

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

Leoji.  Didst  note  it? 

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

Leon.  Didst  perceive  it  ? 

They're  here  with  me  already ;  whispering,  rounding,' 
Sicilia  is  a  so-forth :  'Tis  far  gone, 

i if  still  came  home.']  This  ia  a  seafaring  expression,  meaning,  the  anchor 

would  not  take  hold. — Steevens. 

k  His  business  more  material.']  i.  e.  The  more  you  requested  him  to  stay,  the 
more  urgent  he  represented  that  business  to  be  which  summoned  him  away. — 
Steevens. 

1 roKJirfiii^,]  To  round,  or  more  properly  to  rown  in  the  ear  means  to  tell 

secretly  and  to  whisper,  but  roundingin  this  place  seems  to  mean  hinting,  or  tell- 
iiig  bu  circumlocution. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  365 

When  I  shall  gust  if"  last. — How  came't,  Camillo, 
That  he  did  stay  ? 

Cam.  At  the  good  queen's  entreaty. 

Leon.   At  the   queen's,  be't :    good,  should  be  perti- 
nent ; 
But  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  taken 
By  any  understanding  pate  but  thine  ? 
For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,"  will  draw  in 
More  than  common  blocks  :— Not  noted,  is't. 
But  of  the  finer  natures  ?  by  some  severals. 
Of  head-piece  extraordinary  ?  lower  messes," 
Perchance,  are  to  this  business  purblind  :  say. 

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

Leon.  Ha? 

Cam.  Stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ay,  but  why  ? 

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

Leon.  Satisfy 

The  entreaties  of  your  mistress  ? satisfy  ?— 

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

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon't: — Thou  art  not  honest :  or, 
If  thou  inclin'st  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward  : 
Which  boxes  honesty  behind,P  restraining 
From  course  requir'd  :  or  else  thou  must  be  counted 
A  servant,  grafted  in  my  serious  trust. 
And  therein  negligent :  or  else  a  fool, 

" gust  it — ]  i.  e.  Taste  it. — Steevens. 

° soakiiigl  i.  e.  Absorbent. 

° messes,'\  A  mess  is  a  party  dining  together :  lower  messes  is  used  as  an 

expression  to  signify  the  lowest  degrees  about  the  court. — Steevens. 

P /ioaes,]  i.  e.  Hamstrings.     The  proper  word  is,  to  hough,  i.  e.  To  cut 

the  Iwtigh,  or  ham-string. 

VOL.  111.  2  B 


366  WINTER'S  TALE. 

That  seest  a  game  play'd  home,  the  rich  stake  drawn. 
And  tak'st  it  all  for  jest. 

Cam.  My  gracious  lord, 

I  may  be  negligent,  foolish,  and  fearful ; 
In  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free. 
But  that  his  neghgence,  his  folly,  fear. 
Amongst  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world, 
Sometime  puts  forth :  In  your  affairs,  my  lord, 
If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent, 
It  was  my  folly ;  if  industriously 
I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence. 
Not  weighing  well  the  end  ;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted. 
Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,i  'twas  a  fear 
Which  oft  affects  the  wisest :  these,  my  lord. 
Are  such  allow'd  infiimities,  that  honesty 
Is  never  free  of.     But,  'beseech  your  grace. 
Be  plainer  with  me  :  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage  :  if  I  then  deny  it, 
'Tis  none  of  mine. 

Leon.  Have  not  you  seen,  Camillo 

(But  that's  past  doubt :  you  have  ;  or  your  eye-glass 
Is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn  ;)  or  heard, 
(For,  to  a  vision  so  apparent,  rumour 
Cannot  be  mute,)  or  thought,  (for  cogitation 
Resides  not  in  that  man,  that  does  not  think  it,) 
My  wife  is  slippery  ?  If  thou  wilt  confess, 
(Or  else  be  impudently  negative. 
To  have  nor  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  thought,)  then  say. 
My  wife's  a  hobbyhorse  ;  deserves  a  name 
As  rank  as  any  flax-wench,  that  puts  to 
Before  her  troth-plight :  say  it,  and  justify  it. 

Cam.  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by,  to  hear 

'I  Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  of  out 

Agaimt  the  non-performance,']  This  is  one  of  the  expressions  by  which  Shak- 
speaie  too  frequently  clouds  his  meaning.  This  sounding  phrase  means,  1  think, 
no  more  than  a  thing  necessarii  to  be  done. — Johnson.  1  leave  this  note,  but 
believe  the  author  means  to  say  that  Camillo  never  omitted  to  do  any  thing 
for  the  service  of  Leontes  unless  the  execution  of  the  act  appeared  so  perilous, 
as  to  render  the  non-performance  of  it  a  matter  of  prudence  rather  than  neglect 
or  timidity. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  367 

My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken  :  'Shrew  my  heart. 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this  ;  which  to  reiterate,  were  sin 
As  deep  as  that,  though  true. 

Leon.  Is  whispering  nothing  ? 

Is  leaning  cheek  to  cheek  ?  is  meeting  noses? 
Kissing  with  inside  lip  ?  stopping  the  career 
Of  laughter  with  a  sigh  ?  (a  note  infallible 
Of  breaking  honesty  :)  horsing  foot  on  foot? 
Skulking  in  corners?  wishing  clocks  more  swift? 
Hours,  minutes?  noon,  midnight?  and  all  eyes  blind 
With  the  pin  and  web,"^  but  theirs,  theirs  only, 
That  would  unseen  be  wicked?  is  this  nothing? 
Why,  then  the  world,  and  all  that's  in't,  is  nothing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing  ;  Bohemia  nothing  ; 
My  wife  is  nothing ;  nor  nothing  have  these  nothings. 
If  this  be  nothing. 

Cam.  Good  my  lord,  be  cur'd 

Of  this  diseas'd  opinion,  and  betimes  ; 
For  'tis  most  dangerous. 

Leon.  Say,  it  be ;  'tis  true. 

Cam.  No,  no,  my  lord. 

Leon.  It  is  ;  you  lie,  you  lie : 

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

Cam.  Who  does  infect  her  ? 

Leon.  Why  he,  that  wears  her  like  her  medal,"  hanging 
About  his  neck,  Bohemia  :  Who — if  I 
Had  servants  true  about  me  :  that  bare  eyes 
To  see  alike  mine  honour  as  their  profits, 

"■ the  pin  and  web,]  A  disorder  of  the  eye,  consisting  of  some  excre- 
scence growing  on  the  ball  of  the  eye.— Na res. 
' her  inedal,]  i.  e.  Her  portrait. 

2b2 


3(58  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Their  own  particular  thrifts, — they  would  do  that 
Which  should  undo  more  doing  :  Ay,  and  thou. 
His  cupbearer, — whom  I  from  meaner  form 
Have  bench'd,  and  rear'd  to  worship  ;  who  may'st  see 
Plainly,  as  heaven  sees  earth,  and  earth  sees  heaven. 
How  I  am  galled, — might'st  bespice  a  cup. 
To  give  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink  : 
Which  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 

Cam.  Sir,  my  lord, 

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

Ijeon.  Make't  thy  question,  and  go  rot  ! 

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

Cam.  I  must  believe  you,  sir ; 

I  do  ;  and  will  fetch  off  Bohemia  for't : 
Provided,  that  when  he's  remov'd,  your  highness 
Will  take  again  your  queen,  as  yours  at  first ; 
Even  for  your  son's  sake ;  and,  thereby,  for  sealing 
The  injury  of  tongues,  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  aUied  to  yours. 

Leon.  Thou  dost  advise  me, 

t Tflsft  -potion — maliciously  like  poison:^  Rash  is  ha£ty,  maliciously  is  ma- 
lignantly, with  effects  openly  hurtful. — Johnson. 

"  Z  have  lov'd  thee, ]  I  believe  that  Theobald  and  Tyrwhitt  were  right 

in  attributing  these  words  to  Leontes.  They  thenmean,  I  love  you  no  longer: — 
Make  that  thy  question,  thy  subject  of  consideration,  and  go  rot.  If  we  retain 
the  old  reading,  the  words  of  Leontes  Make't  thy  question  and  go  rot,  must 
refer  to  what  Camillo  has  said  relative  to  the  queen's  chastity. 

» hUnch  ?]  i.  e.  Start  off,  shrink. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II.  369 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down  : 
I'll  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour,  none. 

Cam.  My  lord. 
Go  then;   and  with  a  countenance  as  clear 
As  friendship  wears  at  feasts,  keep  with  Bohemia, 
And  with  your  queen :  I  am  his  cupbearer  j 
If  from  me  he  have  wholesome  beverage. 
Account  me  not  your  servant. 

Leon.  This  is  all : 

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

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

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

[Exit. 

Cam.  O  miserable  lady  ! — But,  for  me. 
What  case  stand  I  in  ?  I  must  be  the  poisoner 
Of  good  Polixenes :  and  my  ground  to  do't 
Is  the  obedience  to  a  master ;  one. 
Who,  in  rebellion  with  himself,  will  have 
All  that  are  his,  so  too. — To  do  this  deed, 
Promotion  follows  :   If  I  could  find  example 
Of  thousands,  that  had  struck  anointed  kings. 
And  flourish'd  after,  I'd  not  do't:  but  since 
Nor  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  parchment,  bears  not  one. 
Let  villainy  itself  forswear't.     I  must 
Forsake  the  court :  to  do't,  or  no,  is  certain 
To  me  a  break-neck.     Happy  star,  reign  now  ! 
Here  comes  Bohemia. 

Enter  Polixenes. 

Pol.  This  is  strange  !  methinks. 

My  favour  here  begins  to  warp.     Not  speak  ? 

Good-day,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  news  i'the  court  ? 

Cam.  None  rare,  my  lord. 

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


370  WINTER'S  TALE. 

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

Cam.  I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.  How!   dare  not?  do   not.     Do  you  know,  and 
dare  not 
Be  inteUigent  to  me  ?  'Tis  thereabouts ; 
For,  to  yourself,  what  you  do  know,  you  must ; 
And  cannot  say,  you  dare  not.     Good  Camillo, 
Your  chang'd  complexions  are  to  me  a  mirror. 
Which  shows  me  mine  chang'd  too  :  for  I  must  be 
A  party  in  this  alteration,  finding 
Myself  thus  alter'd  with  it. 

Cam.  There  is  a  sickness 

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

Pol.  How  !  caught  of  me  ? 

Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basilisk  : 
I  have  look'd  on  thousands,  who  have  sped  the  better 

By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo, 

As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman ;  thereto 

Clerk -like,  experienced,  which  no  less  adorns 

Our  gentry,  than  our  parents'  noble  names. 

In  whose  success  we  are  gentle,'' — I  beseech  you. 

If  you  know  aught  which  does  behove  my  knowledge 

Thereof  to  be  inform'd,  imprison  it  not 

In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  I  naay  not  answer. 

Pol.  A  sickness  caught  of  me,  and  yet  I  well ! 
I  must  be  answer'd. — Dost  thou  hear,  Camillo, 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man. 
Which  honour  does  acknowledge, — whereof  the  least 
Is  not  this  suit  of  mine,— that  thou  declare 
What  incidency  thou  dost  guess  of  harm 
Is  creeping  toward  me ;  how  far  off,  how  near  ; 
Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be  ; 
If  not  how  best  to  bear  it. 

y   Ih  u/iojc  success  at  are  gentle, — ]  i.e.  By  whose  success  in  life  we  are 
gciuUmen. 


ACT  I.~SCENE  II.  371 

Cam.  Sir,  I'll  tell  you  ; 

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

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

Cam.  I  am  appointed  him  to  murder  you.'^ 

Pol.  By  whom,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  By  the  king. 

Pol.  For  what? 

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

Pol.  O,  then  my  best  blood  turn 

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

Cam.  Swear  his  thought  over* 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven,  and 
By  all  their  influences,  you  may  as  well 
Forbid  the  sea  for  to  obey  the  moon. 
As  or,  by  oath,  remove,  or  counsel,  shake 
The  fabrick  of  his  folly  ;  whose  foundation 
Is  pil'd  upon  his  faith,*^  and  will  continue 
The  standing  of  his  body. 

^  lam  appointed  Him  to  mnrder  you.']  i.  e.  I  am  the  person  appointed  btj  him 
to  murder  you — The  by  was  perhaps  omitted  by  accident,  which  is  here  un- 
derstood. 

a  To  vice — ]  i.  e.  To  seduce. 

^ that  did  betray  the  best!]  i.  e.  Judas. 

c  Swear  his  thought  over]  Swear  over  is  here  very  probably  given  in  the  sense 
of  over  swear ;  i.  e.  "  strive  to  bear  down  his  thought,  his  jealousy,  by  oaths."  In 
our  author  we  have  in  the  same  manner,  weigh  out  for  outioeigh,  over  swear  for 
swear  over. — Steevens. 

■'  -mmm — ■ — whose  foundation 

Is  pil'd  upon  hisfaith,]  This  folly  which  is  erected  on  the  foundation  of  settled 
belief. — Steevens. 


372  WINTER^S  TALE. 

Pol.  How  should  this  grow  ? 

Cam.  I  know  not :  but,  I  am  sure,  'tis  safer  to 
Avoid  what's  grown,  than  question  how  'tis  born. 
If  therefore  you  dare  trust  my  honesty, — 
That  hes  enclosed  in  this  trunk,  which  you 
Shall  bear  along  impawn'd, — away  to-night. 
Your  followers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business  ; 
And  will,  by  twos,  and  threes,  at  several  posterns. 
Clear  them  o'the  city  :   For  myself,  I'll  put 
My  fortunes  to  your  service,  which  are  here 
By  this  discovery  lost.     Be  not  uncertain ; 
For,  by  the  honour  of  my  parents,  I 
Have  utter'd  truth :  which  if  you  seek  to  prove, 
I  dare  not  stand  by ;  nor  shall  you  be  safer 
Than  one  condemn'd  by  the  king's  own  mouth,  thereon 
His  execution  sworn. 

Pol.  I  do  believe  thee ; 

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

e thy  places — neighbour  mine ;]  i.  e.  Thy  appointments  at  court  shall  be 

near  my  person. 

^Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  ^c]  If  we  explain  this  passage  according  to 
the  sense  of  the  words,  it  means — "  May  good  expedition  prove  my  friend  by 
removing  me  from  a  place  of  danger,  and,  by  withdrawing  the  object  of  her 
husband's  jealousy,  may  it  comfort  the  queen,  who  is  part  of  his  theme ;  i.  e.  of  the 
object  of  his  disquiet,  but  is  not  suspected  by  Leontes  as  I  am." — Polixenes 
seems  to  have  forgotten  the  full  purport  of  Camillo's  information,  and  to  con- 
ceive that  he  alone  was  obnoxious  to  the  anger  of  Leontes. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  373 

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


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — The  same. 
Enter  Hermione,  Mamillius,  and  Ladies. 

Her.  Take  the  boy  to  you  :  he  so  troubles  me, 
'Tis  past  enduring. 

1  Lad]/.  Come,  my  gracious  lord. 

Shall  I  be  your  play-fellow  ? 

Mam.  No,  I'll  none  of  you. 

1  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

Maw.  You'll  kiss  me  hard;  and  speak  to  me  as  if  I  were 
a  baby  still.^I  love  you  better. 

2  Lady.  And  why  so,  my  lord  ? 

Mam.  Not  for  because 

Your  brows  are  blacker  ;  yet  black  brows,  they  say, 
Become  some  women  best ;  so  that  there  be  not 
Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semi-circle. 
Or  half-moon  made  with  a  pen. 

2  Lady.  Who  taught  you  this  ? 

Mam.  I  learn'd  it  out  of  women's  faces. — Pray  now 
What  colour  are  your  eye-brows  ? 

1  Lady.  Blue,  my  lord. 
Mam.  Nay,  that's  a  mock  :  I  have  seen  a  lady's  nose 

That  has  been  blue,  but  not  her  eye-brows, 

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

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

1  Lady.  She  is  spread  of  late 

Into  a  goodly  bulk :  Good  time  encounter  her ! 

Her.  What  wisdom  stirs  amongst  you  ?  Come,  sir,  now 


374  WINTER'S  TALE. 

I  am  for  you  again  :  Pray  you,  sit  by  us. 
And  tell's  a  tale. 

Mam.  Merry  or  sad,  shall't  be  ? 

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam.  A  sad  tale's  best  for  winter ; 

I  have  one  of  spirits  and  goblins. 

He?'.  Let's  have  that,  good  sir. 

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

Mam.  There  was  a  man, 

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

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

Her.  Come  on  then. 

And  give't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  flwd  Others. 

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

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

Leon.  How  bless'd  am  I 

In  my  just  censure  ?  in  my  true  opinion  ?8 — 
Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge  !'' — How  accurs'd. 
In  being  so  blest ! — There  may  be  in  the  cup 
A  spider  steep'd,'  and  one  may  drink ;  depart. 
And  yet  partake  no  venom  :  for  his  knowledge 
Is  not  infected  :  but  if  one  present 
The  abhorr'd  ingredient  to  his  eye,  make  known 
How  he  hath  drank,  he  cracks  his  gorge,  his  sides. 
With  violent  hefts  :^ — I  have  drank,  and  seen  the  spider. 
Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pander : — 
There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown ; 
All's  true  that  is  mistrusted  : — that  false  villain, 

e  In  my  just  censure  ?  in  my  true  opinion  ? — ]  Censure  in  the  time  of  ourauthor 
was  generally  used  (as  in  this  instance)  for  judgment. 

1'  Alackfor  lesser  knowledge! — ]  That  is,  0  that  my  knowledge  were  less. — Johnson. 

'  A  spider  steep'd,']  That  spiders  were  esteemed  venomous  appears  by  the 
evidence  of  a  person  examined  on  Sir  T.  Overbury's  affair.  "The  Countesse 
■wished  me  to  get  the  strongest  poyson  I  could,  accordingly  1  bought  seven  great 
spiders." — Henderson. 

k hefts : — ]   Heavings. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  375 

Whom  I  employed,  was  pre-employ'd  by  him  : 
He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 
Remain  a  pinch'd  thing ;'  yea,  a  very  trick 
For  them  to  play  at  will : — How  came  the  posterns 
So  easily  open  ? 

1  Lord.  By  his  great  authority  : 

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

Leon.  I  know't  too  well. 

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

Her.  What  is  this  ?  sport  ? 

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

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

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

Leon.  You,  my  lords. 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well ;  be  but  about 
To  say,  she  is  a  goodly  lady,  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
^Tis  pity,  she's  not  honest,  honourable  ; 
Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without-door  form, 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech,)  and  straight 
The  shrug,  the  hum,  or  ha ;  these  petty  brands. 
That  calumny  doth  use  : — O,  I  am  out. 
That  mercy  does  ;  for  calumny  will  sear™ 
Virtue  itself: — these  shrugs,  these  hums,  and  ha's. 
When  you  have  said,  she's  goodly,  come  between. 
Ere  you  can  say  she's  honest :  But  be  it  known. 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should  be. 
She's  an  adultress. 

Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so. 

The  most  replenish'd  villain  in  the  world, 

' a  pinch'd  thing  ;]   To  pinchin  in  Chaucer  means  to  Jeer,  or  banter. 

"• sear — ]  i,  e.  Brand  as  infamous. 


376  WINTER'S  TALE. 

He  were  as  mtich  more  villain :  you,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 

Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

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

Her.  No,  by  my  life. 

Privy  to  none  of  this  :  How  will  this  grieve  you. 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish'd  me  ?  Gentle  my  lord. 
You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Leon.  No,  no  ;  if  I  mistake 

In  those  foundations  which  I  build  upon. 
The  center  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 
A  school-boy's  top. — Away  with  her  to  prison : 
He,  who  shall  speak  for  her,  is  afar  off  guilty. 
But  that  he  speaks. p 

Her.  There's  some  ill  planet  reigns  : 

I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable. — Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew, 

n federary — ]  i.  e.  Confederate. 

"  But  with  her  most  vile  principal,']  But  has  here  the  sense  of  only.  The 
meaning  is,  Hermione  should  be  ashamed  to  know  what  she  knows,  even  though 
she  had  no  other  confidant  than  her  wicked  companion  in  guilt. 

P  He,  who  shall  speak  for  her,  is  afar  off  guilty. 
But  that  he  speaks.]    Far  off  guilty,  signifies,  guilty  in  a  remote  degree. — 
Johnson.     But  that  he  speaks — means,  in  merely  speaking. — Malone. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  377 

Perchance,  shall  dry  your  pities :  but  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodg'd  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown :  'Beseech  you  all,  my  lords. 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me : — and  so 
The  king's  will  be  perform'd  ! 

Leon.  Shall  I  be  heard  ? 

[To  the  Guards. 
Her.   Who  is't,  that  goes  with  me? — 'Beseech  your 
highness. 
My  women  may  be  with  me  ;  for,  you  see, 
^My  plight  requires  it.     Do  not  weep,  good  fools  ; 
There  is  no  cause  ;  when  you  shall  know,  your  mistress 
Has  deserv'd  prison,  then  abound  in  tears. 
As  I  come  out :  this  action,  I  now  go  on. 
Is  for  my  better  grace. — Adieu,  ray  lord  ; 
I  never  wish'd  to  see  you  sorry  :  now, 

I  trust,  I  shall. My  women,  come  ;  you  have  leave. 

Leon.  Go,  do  our  bidding ;  hence. 

[Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 
1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,  call  the  queen  again. 
Ant.  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir ;  lest  your  justice 
Prove  violence  ;  in  the  which  three  great  ones  suffer. 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 

1  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord, — 

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

Ant.  If  it  prove 

She's  otherwise,  I'll  keep  my  stables'"  where 
I  lodge  my  wife  ;  I'll  go  in  couples  with  her ; 
Than  when  I  feel,  and  see  her,  no  further  trust  her ; 
For  every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world. 
Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh,  is  false. 
If  she  be. 

Leon.         Hold  your  peaces. 

1 my  stables — ]  i.  e.  My  constant  station, — a  stable  stand  is  a  term  of  the 

forest  laws,  and  signifies  a  place  where  a  deer-stealer  fixes  his  stand,  and 
keeps  watch  for  the  purpose  of  killing  deer  as  they  pass  by. — Hanmer. 


378  WINTER'S  TALE. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  lord, — 

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

Lemi.  Cease  ;  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose  :  but  I  do  see't,  and  feel't, 
As  you  feeling  doing  thus  ;"  and  see  withal 
The  instruments  that  feel. 

Ant.  If  it  be  so. 

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

Leon.  What !  lack  I  credit  ? 

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

Leon.  Why,  what  need  we 

Commune  with  you  of  this  ?  but  rather  follow 
Our  forceful  instigation  ?     Our  prerogative 
Calls  not  your  counsels  ;  but  our  natural  goodness 
Imparts  this  :  which, — if  you  (or  stupified. 
Or  seeming  so  in  skill,)  cannot,  or  will  not, 
Rehsh  as  truth,  like  us  ;  inform  yourselves, 
We  need  no  more  of  your  advice  :  the  matter, 

r ■putter-on,']  i.  e.  Instigatoi-. 

s land-damn  him:]  Of  this  disputed  sentence  Dr.  Johnson's  interpreta- 
tion, which  considers  it  as  meaning  "  I'll  condemn  him  to  quit  the  country,"  is 
the  most  delicate  ;  but  1  fear  that  the  more  gross  explanation  of  Hanmer  is  most 
correct.  He  derives  the  word  from  lant  or  land  the  old  word  for  urine,  and  ex- 
plains it,  "  stop  his  urine  by  mutilation." 

t glib — ]  i.  e.  Castrate. 

u doing  thm ;]  Leontea  at  these  words  grasps  the  ann  of  Antigonus. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.  379 

The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on't,  is  all 
Properly  ours. 

Ant.  And  I  wish,  my  liege. 

You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it. 
Without  more  overture. 

Leon.  How  could  that  be  ? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age. 
Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.     Camillo's  flight, 
Added  to  their  familiarity, 

(Which  was  as  gross  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture. 
That  lack'd  sight  only,  nought  for  approbation," 
But  only  seeing,  all  other  circumstances 
Made  up  to  the  deed),  doth  push  on  this  proceeding  : 
Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, 
(For  in  an  act  of  this  importance,  'twere 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild),  I  have  despatch'd  in  post, 
To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stuff^'d  sufficiency  -.^  Now,  from  the  oracle 
They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had. 
Shall  stop,  or  spur  me.     Have  I  done  well  ? 

1  Lord.  Well  done,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Though  1  am  satisfied,  and  need  no  more 
Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 
Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others  ;  such  as  he. 
Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 
Come  up  to  the  truth :  So  have  we  thought  it  good. 
From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confin'd  ; 
Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two,''  fled  hence. 
Be  left  her  to  perform.     Come,  follow  us  ; 
We  are  to  speak  in  publick  :  for  this  business 
Will  raise  us  all. 

Ant.  [aside.l  To  laughter,  as  I  take  it. 
If  the  good  truth  were  known.  [^Exetmt. 

" a])pr6bation,'\ — is  here  put  for  pi'oof. 

y stuff'd  sufficiency :]  i.  e.  Of  abilities  more  than  enough. 

^ the  treachery  of  the  two,&c.]  Hermione  is  confined  lest  she  should  ex- 
ecute the  plot  against  his  life  and  o-own,  in  which  he  has  before  declared  that  she 
is/ed«rari/ with  Polixenes  and  Camillo. — Johnson. 


380  WINTER'S  TALE. 

SCENE  II. 

The  same.     The  outer  Room  of  a  Prison. 
Enter  Paulina  and  Attendants. 
Paul.  The  keeper  of  the  prison, — call  to  him ; 

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

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Keeper. 
You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Keep.  For  a  worthy  lady. 

And  one  whom  much  I  honour. 

Paul.  Pray  you  then. 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

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

Paul.  Here's  ado. 

To  lock  up  honesty  and  honour  from 

The  access  of  gentle  visitors  ! Is  it  lawful. 

Pray  you,  to  see  her  women  ?  any  of  them  ? 
Emilia  ? 

Keep.  So  please  you,  madam,  to  put 
Apart  these  your  attendants,  I  shall  bring 
Emilia  forth. 

Paul.  I  pray  now  call  her. 

Withdraw  yourselves.  [Exeunt  Attend. 

Keep.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Paul.  Well,  be  it  so,  pr'ythee.  [Exit  Keeper. 

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

Re-enter  Keeper,  with  Emilia. 

Dear  gentlewoman,  how  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 

Emil.  As  well  as  one  so  great,  and  so  forlorn. 
May  hold  together :   on  her  frights,  and  griefs, 
(Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater). 
She  is,  something  before  her  time,  delivered. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II.  381 

Paul.  A  boy? 

Emil.  A  daughter  ;  and  a  goodly  babe. 

Lusty,  and  like  to  live  :  the  queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in't :  says,  Mj/  poor  prisoner, 
I  am  innocent  as  you. 

Paul.   -  I  dare  be  svs^orn  : 

These   dangerous  unsafe  lunes^  o'  the  king!   beshrew 

them ! 
He  must  be  told  on't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best ;  I'll  take't  upon  me  : 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd,  let  my  tongue  blister ; 
And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 
The  trumpet  any  more : — Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen ; 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
I'll  show't  the  king,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  advocate  to  th'  loudest :  We  do  not  know 
How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child  ; 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails. 

P'mil.  Most  worthy  madam. 

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

Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I'll  use  that  tougue  I  have  :  if  wit  flow  from  it. 
As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  let  it  not  be  doubted 
I  shall  do  good. 

PiYnil.  Now  be  you  blest  for  it ! 

I'll  to  the  queen  :  Please  you,  come  something  nearer. 
Keep.  Madam,  if't  please  the  queen  to  send  the  babe, 

* lw(i%\  i.  e.  Frenzy,  lunacy,  French.     Les  femmes  ont  des  lunes  dans 

la  tete.  Richelet.     It  was  suggested  by  Mr.  Kemble  that  lunes  was  a  Spanish 
term,  expressing  the  cry  of  a  restive  mule. 
VOL.  III.  2    c 


382  WINTER'S  TALE. 

I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur,  to  pass  it. 
Having  no  warrant. 

Paul,  You  need  not  fear  it,  sir  : 
The  child  was  prisoner  to  the  womb ;  and  is. 
By  law  and  process  of  great  nature,  thence 
Free'd  and  enfranchis'd  :  not  a  party  to 
The  anger  of  the  king  ;  nor  guilty  of. 
If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen. 

Keep.  I  do  believe  it. 

Paul.  Do  not  you  fear :  upon 

Mine  honour,  I  will  stand  'twixt  you  and  danger. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter   Leontes,   Antigonus,    Lords,  and  other 
Attendants. 

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

1  Atten.  My  lord  ? 

[Advancing. 

Leon.  How  does  the  boy  ? 

1  Atten.  He  took  good  rest  to-night ; 

Tis  hoped  his  sickness  is  discharg'd. 

Leon.  To  see. 

His  nobleness  ! 

Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother. 
He  straight  declin'd,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply ; 
Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on't  in  himself ; 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep, 

b Hank 

And  level]— a.xe  terms  of  gunnery  and  mean  mark  and  aim.— Douc£. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  383 

And  downright  languish'd. — Leave  me  solely  :" — go. 

See  how  he  fares.     [Exit  Attend.] — Fye,  fye  no  thought 

The  very  thought  of  my  revenges  that  way  [of  him  ; 

Recoil  upon  me :  in  himself  too  mighty  : 

And  in  his  parties,  his  alliance, — Let  him  be. 

Until  a  time  may  serve  :  for  present  vengeance, 

Take  it  on  her.     Camillo  and  Polixenes 

Laugh  at  me  ;  make  their  pastime  at  my  sorrow  : 

They  should  not  laugh,  if  I  could  reach  them  ;  nor 

Shall  she,  within  my  power. 

Enter  Paulina,  with  a  Child. 

1  Lord.  You  must  not  enter. 

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

Ant.  That's  enough. 

1  Atten.  Madam,  he  hath  not   slept   to-night ;    com- 
manded 
None  should  come  at  him. 

Paul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sir ; 

I  come  to  bring  him  sleep.     'Tis  such  as  you,— 
That  creep  like  shadows  by  him,  and  do  sigh 
At  each  his  needless  heavings, — such  as  you 
Nourish  the  cause  of  his  awaking  :  I 
Bo  come  with  words  as  med'cinal  as  true ;  ^ 

Honest,  as  either ;  to  purge  him  of  that  humour. 
That  presses  him  from  sleep. 

Leon.  What  noise  there,  ho  ? 

Paul.  No  noise,  my  lord  ;  but  needful  conference. 
About  some  gossips  for  your  highness. 

Leon.  How  ? 

Away  with  that  audacious  lady  :  Antigonus, 

I  charg'd  thee,  that  she  should  not  come  about  me ; 

I  knew,  she  would. 

Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord. 

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

* Leave  me  solely : — ]  That  is,  leave  me  alone. 

2c2 


3^4  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Leon.-  What,  canst  not  rule  her? 

Paul.  From  all  dishonesty,  he  can  :  in  this, 
(Unless  he  take  the  course  that  you  have  done. 
Commit  me,  for  committing  honour,)  trust  it. 
He  shall  not  rule  me. 

Ant.  Lo  you  now  ;  you  hear  ! 

When  she  will  take  the  rein,  I  let  her  run  ; 
But  she'll  not  stumble. 

Paul.  Good  my  liege,  I  come, — 

And,  I  beseech  you,  hear  me,  who  profess 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  your  physician. 
Your  most  obedient  counseller;  yet  that  dare 
Less  appear  so,  in  comforting  your  evils,'* 
Than  such  as  most  seem  yours  : — I  say,  I  come 
From  your  good  queen. 

Leon.  Good  queen! 

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

Leon.  Force  her  hence. 

Paul.  Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes 
First  hand  me  :  on  mine  own  accord,  I'll  off ; 
But,  first,  I'll  do  my  errand. — The  good  queen. 
For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter ; 
Here  'tis;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

[Laying  down  the  child. 

Leon.  Out ! 

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

Paul.  Not  so : 

I  am  as  ignorant  in  that,  as  yoii 
In  so  entitling  me  :  and  no  less  honest 
Than  you  are  mad  5  which  is  enough,  I'll  warrant. 
As  this  world  goes,  to  pass  for  honest. 

Leon.  Traitors ! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out?  Give  her  the  bastard  : — 

** comfm-ting — ]  Here  used  in  the  old  sense  of  encouraging—  evils  are 

crimes. 

" the  worst  about  you-l  i.  e.  The  man  of  your  servants,  least  skill'd  in 

the  use  of  arms. — Steevens. 

^ mankind — ]  i.  e.  Masculine. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  385 

Tliou,  dotard,  [to  Antigonus,]  thou  art  ■woman-tir'd,s 

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

Paul.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess,  by  that  forced  baseness' 
Which  he  has  put  upon't ! 

Leon.  He  dreads  his  wife. 

Paul.  So,  I  would,  you  did  ;  then  'twere  past  all  doubt. 
You'd  call  your  children  yours. 

Leon.  A  nest  of  traitors ! 

Ant.  I  am  none,  by  this  good  light. 

Paul.  Nor  I ;  nor  any, 

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

Leo7i.  A  callat. 

Of  boundless  tongue :  who  late  hath  beat  her  husband. 
And  now  baits  me  ! — This  brat  is  none  of  mine  ; 
It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes  : 
Hence  with  it ;  and  together  with  the  dam. 
Commit  them  to  the  fire. 

Paul.  It  is  yours  ; 

And,  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge. 
So  like  you,  'tis  the  worse. — Behold,  my  lords. 
Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father  :  eye,  nose,  lip. 
The  trick  of  his  frown,  his  forehead  ;  nay,  the  valley,  * 

B  wrnnan-tir'd.l  i.e.  Pec  fced  by  a  woman ;  heii-pecked. 

•" thy  crone.']  i.  e.  Thy  old  worn-out  woman.     A  croan  is  an  old  tooth- 
less sheep  :  thence  an  old  woman. — Steevens. 

»  Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  ifthoit 
Tak'st  up  the  princess  by  that  forced  baseness — ]   Leontes  had  ordered 
Antigonus  to  take  up  the  bastard ;  Paulina  forbids  him  to  touch  the  princess 
under  that  appellation.     Forced  is  fake,  uttered  with  violence  to  truth. — 
Johnson. 


386  WINTER'S  TALE 

The  pretty  dimples  of  his  chin,  and  cheek  ;  his  smiles ; 

The  very  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger  : — 
And,  thou,  good  goddess  nature,  which  hast  made  it 
So  like  to  him  that  got  it,  if  thou  hast 
The  ordering  of  the  mind  too,  'mongst  all  colours 
No  yellow  in't ;''  lest  she  suspect,  as  he  does. 
Her  children  not  her  husband's  ! 

Leon.  A  gross  hag  !— 

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

A7it.  Hang  all  the  husbands. 

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

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

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

Leon.  I'll  have  thee  burn'd. 

Paul.  I  care  not : 

It  is  an  heretick,  that  makes  the  fire. 
Not  she,  which  burns  in't.     Til  not  call  you  tyrant ; 
But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen 
(Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation 
Than  your  own  weak-hing'd  fancy,)  something  savours 
Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you. 
Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world. 

Leon.  On  your  allegiance. 

Out  of  the  chamber  with  her.     Were  I  a  tyrant, 
AVhere  were  her  life  ?  she  durst  not  call  me  so. 
If  she  did  know  me  one.     Away  with  her. 

Paul.  I  pray  you  do  not  push  me  ;  111  be  gone. 
Look  to  your  babe,  my  lord :  'tis  yours  :  Jove  send  her 
A  better  guiding  spirit ! — What  need  these  hands  ? — 
You  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies, 
Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 
So,  so: — Farewell;  we  are  gone.  {Exit. 

Leon.  Thou,  traitor,  hast  set  on  thy  wife  to  this. — 
My  child?  away  with't !— even  thou,  that  hast 

k  No  yellow  in't ;]   Yelloio  15  the  colour  of  jealousy. 

I  lozel,]  "  A  lozel  is  one  that  hath  lost,  neglected,  or  cast  off,  his  own 

good  and  welfare,  and  bo  is  become  lewde  and  carelesse  of  credit  and  honesty." 
— Verstegan's  HciiUutiim,  1605.  p.  555. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III.  387 

A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence. 

And  see  it  instantly  consum'd  with  fire  ; 

Even  thou,  and  none  but  thou.     Take  it  up  straight : 

Within  this  hour  bring  me  word  'tis  done, 

(And  by  good  testimony,)  or  I'll  seize  thy  life. 

With  what  thou  else  call'st  thine  :  If  thou  refuse. 

And  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so  ; 

The  bastard  brains  with  these  my  proper  hands 

Shall  I  dash  out.     Go,  take  it  to  the  fire ; 

For  thou  sett'st  on  thy  wife. 

Ant.  I  did  not,  sir  : 

These  lords,  my  noble  fellows,  if  they  please. 

Can  clear  me  in't.    ^ 

1  Lord.  We  can  ;  my  royal  liege. 

He  is  not  guilty  of  her  coming  hither. 
Leon.  You  are  liars  all. 

1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,  give  us  better  credit ; 
We  have  always  truly  serv'd  you ;  and  beseech 
So  to  esteem  of  us :  And  on  our  knees  we  beg, 
(As  recompense  of  our  dear  services. 
Past,  and  to  come,)  that  you  do  change  this  purpose ; 
Which  being  so  horrible,  so  bloody,  must 
/Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue  :  We  all  kneel. 

Leon.  I  am  a  feather  for  each  wind  that  blows : — 
Shall  I  live  on  to  see  this  bastard  kneel 
And  call  me  father  ?  Better  burn  it  now, 
Than  curse  it  then.     But,  be  it ;  let  it  live  : 
It  shall  not  neither. — You,  sir,  come  you  hither ; 

[To  Antigonus. 
You,  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 
With  lady  Margery,  your  midwife,  there. 
To  save  this  bastard's  life  :  for  'tis  a  bastard. 
So  sure  as  this  beard's  grey," — what  will  you  adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

Ant.  Any  thing,  my  lord. 

That  my  ability  may  undergo. 
And  nobleness  impose  :  at  least,  thus  much  ;  / 

"" as  sure  as  this  beard's  grey, — ]  Leontes  was  under  thirty,  for  he  has 

himself  told  us  that  twenty-three  years  before  he  was  unbreeched,  in  his  green 
Telvet  coat,  &c.    The  grey  beard  spoken  of  therefore  is  that  of  Antigonus. 


388  WINTER'S  TALE. 

I'll  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left. 
To  save  the  innocent:  any  thing  possible. 

Leon.  It  shall  be  possible  :  Swear  by  this  sword," 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  bidding. 

A7it.  I  Vfill  my  lord. 

Leon.  Mark,  and  perform  it;  (seest  thou?)  for  the  fail 
Of  any  point  in't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself,  but  to  thy  lew'd-tongu'd  wife  ; 
Whom,  for  this  time,  we  pardon.     We  enjoin  thee. 
As  thou  art  liegeman  to  us,  that  thou  carry 
This  female  bastard  hence ;  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions ;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it. 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection. 
And  favour  of  the  climate.     As  by  strange  fortune 
It  came  to  us,  I  do  injustice  charge  thee, — 
On  thy  soul's  peril,  and  thy  body's  torture, — 
That  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place," 
Where  chance  may  nurse  or  end  it :  Take  it  up. 

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

Leon.  No,  I'll  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 

1  Atten.  Please  your  highness,  posts. 

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

n Swear  by  this  sword,'\  It  was  anciently  the  custom  to  swear,  by  the 

cross  on  the  handle  of  a  sword. — Steevens. 

o commend  it  strangely  to  some  place,^  Commit  it  to  some  place,  as  a 

itranger,  without  more  provision. — Johnson.     ' 

V to  loss!'\  i.  e.  To  be  exposed  as  a  thing  lost. 


ACT  IIL-SCENE  I.  389 

1  Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  speed 

Hath  been  beyond  account. 

Leoti.  Twenty-three  days 

They  have  been  absent :  'Tis  good  speed  ;  foretels. 
The  great  Apollo  suddenly  will  have 
The  truth  of  this  appear.     Prepare  you,  lords  ; 
Summon  a  session,  that  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady :  for,  as  she  hath 
Been  publickly  accus'd,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial.     While  she  lives. 
My  heart  will  be  a  burden  to  me.     Leave  me  : 
And  think  upon  my  bidding.  lExeunt. 

ACT  III. 
Scene  I. — The  same.     A  Street  in  some  Town. 

Enter  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

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

Dion.  I  shall  report. 

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

Cleo.  But,  of  all,  the  burst 

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

Dion.  If  the  event  o'the  journey 

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

1  Fertile  the  isle  ;]  Throughout  this  play  the  town  of  Delphi,  where  the  ce- 
lebrated temple  of  Apollo  was  situated,  and  which  was  on  the  continent,  has 
been  spoken  of  as  Delphos,  and  called  an  island.  The  mistake  originated  with 
the  author  of  Dorastus  and  Fawnia,  from  whom  Shakspeare  borrowed  his  plot. 

■■  T/ie  time  is  worth  the  use  on't.']  The  time  is  worth  the  use  on't,  means,  the 
time  which  we  have  spent  in  visiting  Deios,  has  recompensed  us  for  the  trou- 
ble of  so  spending  it. — JohKson. 


390  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Cleo.  Great  Apollo, 

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

Dion.  The  violent  carriage  of  it 

Will  clear,  or  end,  the  business  :  When  the  oracle, 
(Thus  by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up,) 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare. 

Even  then  will  rush  to  knowledge. Go,  —  fresh 

horses  ; — 
And  gracious  be  the  issue !  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  11. 

The  same.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Leontes,  Lords,  and  OflScers,  appear  properly  seated. 

Leon.  This  sessions  (to  our  great  grief,  we  pronounce,) 
Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart :  The  party  tried. 
The  daughter  of  a  king ;  our  wife  ;  and  one 
Of  us  too  much  belov'd. — Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice ;  which  shall  have  due  course. 

Even  to  the  guilt,  or  the  purgation. 

Produce  the  prisoner. 

Offi.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure,  that  the  queen 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court. — Silence  ! 
Hermione  is  brought  in,  guarded;  Paulina  and  Ladies 
attending. 

Leon.  Read  the  indictment. 

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

•  — —  pretence] — is,  in  this  place,  taken  for  a  scheme  laid,  a  design  formedt 
To  pretend  means  to  design,  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.— Johnson. 


ACT  IlI.^SCENE  II.  391 

Her.  Since  what  I  am  to  say,  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation  ;  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part,  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself:  it  shall  scarce  boot  me 
To  say.  Not  guilty ;  mine  integrity. 
Being  counted  falsehood,'  shall,  as  I  express  it. 
Be  so  receiv'd.     But  thus, — If  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  (as  they  do,) 
I  doubt  not  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. — You,  my  lord,  best  know, 
(Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,)  my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true. 
As  I  am  now  unhappy  ;  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd. 
And  play'd,  to  take  spectators  :  For  behold  me, — 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter. 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince, — here  standing. 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life,  and  honour,  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare  :"  for  honour, 
'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine,^ 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 
To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace. 
How  merited  to  be  so  ;  sinae  he  came. 
With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 
Have  strain'd,  to  appear  thus  :^  if  one  jot  beyond 
The  bound  of  honour  ;  or,  in  act,  or  will. 
That  way  inclining ;  harden'd  be  the  hearts 

' mine  integrity,  &c.]  That  is,  my  virtue  being  accounted  wickedmss,  my 

assertion  of  it  will  pass  but  for  a  lie.     Falsehood  means  both  treachery  and  lie. — 
Johnson. 

" sparf ;]  i.  e.  Be  quit  of. — Johnson. 

*  'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine,']  This  sentiment,  which  is  probably  bor- 
rowed from  Ecclesiasticus,  iii.  11,  cannot  be  too  often  impressed  on  the  female 
mind:  "  The  glory  of  a  man  is  from  the  honour  of  his  father  j  and  a  mother  in 
dishonour  is  a  reproach  unto  her  children." — Steevens. 

y  With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 
Have  strain'd,  to  appear  thus:']    Uncurrent  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  un- 
warranted ;  the  meaning  is,  "I  offer  it  to  your  conscience  to  determine  with 
what  unwarrantable  action  I  have  strained  (i.  e.  exceeded  the  rules  of  pro- 
priety) so  as  to  appear  thus  dishonoured," — Slymour. 


392  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 
Cry,  Fye  upon  my  grave  ! 

Leon.  I  ne'er  heard  yet. 

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

Her.  That's  true  enough  ; 

Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 

Leon.  You  will  not  own  it. 

Her.  More  than  mistress  of. 

Which"  comes  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 
At  all  acknowledge.     For  Polixenes, 
(With  whom  I  am  accus'd,)  I  do  confess, 
I  lov'd  him,  as  in  honour  he  requir'd  ; 
With  such  a  kind  of  love,  as  might  become 
A  lady  like  me ;  with  a  love,  even  such. 
So,  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded  : 
Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think,  had  been  in  me 
Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude. 
To  you,  and  toward  your  friend  ;  whose  love  had  spoke. 
Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely. 
That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 
I  know  not  how  it  tastes  :  though  it  be  dish'd 
For  me  to  try  how :  all  I  know  of  it. 
Is,  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man  ; 
And,  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves. 
Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

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

Her.  Sir, 
You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not : 
My  life  stands  in  the  level^  of  your  dreams. 
Which  I'll  lay  down. 

Leon.  Your  actions  are  my  dreams  ; 

You  had  a  bastard  by  Polixenes, 
And  I  but  dream'd  it : — As  you  were  past  all  shame, 
(Those  of  your  fact**  are  so,)  so  past  all  truth  : 

»  Which — ]  This  relative,  without  an  antecedent,  is  very  harsh.     Perhaps 
we  should  read  what. 

» stands  in  the  level — ]  i.  e.  7s  within  the  reach  of. 

b  . fact — ]  Is  here  unusually  put  for  guilt. — Naues's  Glossarij. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  393 

Which  to  deny,  concerns  more  than  avails  :*  for  as 

Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  hke  to  itself. 

No  father  owning  it,  (which  is,  indeed. 

More  criminal  in  thee,  than  it,)  so  thou 

Shalt  feel  our  justice ;  in  whose  easiest  passage. 

Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

Her.  Sir,  spare  your  threats  ; 

The  bug,  which  you  would  fright  me  with,  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity  : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone. 
But  know  not  how  it  went :  My  second  joy. 
And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence, 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious  :  My  third  comfort, 
Starr'd  most  unluckily,"*  is  from  my  breast. 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth. 
Haled  out  to  murder :  Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim'd  a  strumpet ;  With  immodest  hatred, 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  w^hich  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion : — Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.^     Now,  my  liege. 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?  Therefore,  proceed. 

But  yet  hear  this  ;  mistake  me  not ; No  !  life, 

I  prize  it  not  a  straw : — but  for  mine  honour, 
(Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises ;  all  proofs  sleeping  else. 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake  :  I  tell  you 
'Tis  rigour,  and  not  law. — Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle ; 
Apollo  be  my  judge. 

1  Lord.  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  therefore,  bring  forth. 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle. 

[Exeunt  certain  Ofiicers. 

c concerns  more  than  avails:'}  i.  e.  Is  more  trouble  to  you  than  it  avails 

with  us. 

•1  Starr'd  most  unluckily,']  i.  e.  Born  under  an  inauspicious  planet. 

* limit.]  i.  e.  Limb.  The  limbs  were  so  called  from  being  the  extremi- 
ties or  limits  of  the  body. — Nares's  Glossary. 


394  WINTER'S  TALE. 

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

Re-enter  Officers,  with  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

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

Cleon.  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.  Break  up  the  seals,  and  read. 

Offi.  [reads.']  Hermione  is  chaste,  Polixenes  blameless, 
Camillo  a  true  subject,  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant.^  his  innocent 
babe  truly  begotten  ;  and  the  king  shall  live  without  an  heir, 
if  that  ichich  is  lost,  be  not  found. 

Lords.  Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo  ! 

Her.  Praised ! 

Leon.  Hast  thou  read  truth  ? 

Offi.  Ay,  my  lord  ;  even  so. 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 

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

Enter  a  Servant,  hastily. 

Serv.  My  lord,  the  king,  the  king  ! 

Leon.  What  is  the  business  ? 

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

Leon,  How  !  gone  ? 

Serv.  Is  dead. 

Leon.  Apollo's  angry,  and  the  heavens  themselves 

f  The  ttatnes8  of  my  misery ;]  That  is,  how  low,  how  flat  I  am  laid  by  my  ca- 
lamity.— Johnson. 

K speed,]  i.  e.  Success. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  11.  395 

Do  strike  at  my  injustice.  [Hermione/azw^s.]  How  now 
there  ? 

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

Leon.  Take  her  hence  : 

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

[Exeunt  Paulina  and  Ladies,  with  Herm. 
My  great  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle  ! — 
I'll  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes  ; 
New  woo  my  queen  ;  recall  the  good  Camillo  ; 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth  and  mercy  : 
For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 
To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 
Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 
My  friend  Polixenes  :  which  had  been  done. 
But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 
My  swift  command,  though  I  with  death,  and  with 
Reward,  did  threaten  and  encourage  him, 
Not  doing  it,  and  being  done  :  he,  most  humane. 
And  fill'd  with  honour,  to  my  kingly  guest 
Unclasp'd  my  practice ;  quit  his  fortunes  here. 
Which  you  knew  great ;  and  to  the  certain  hazard 
Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended,'' 
No  richer  than  his  honour : — How  he  glisters 
Thorough  my  rust !  and  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker !' 

Re-enter  Paulina. 

Paul  Woe  the  while ! 

O,  cut  my  lace ;  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it. 
Break  too ! 

1  Lord.  What  fit  is  this,  good  lady  ? 

Paul.  What  studied  torments,  tyrant,  hast  for  me  ? 

^ commended,']  i.  e.  Commuted. 

^Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker!']  This  vehement  retraction  of  Leontes,  ac- 
companied with  the  confession  of  more  crimes  than  he  was  suspected  of,  is 
agreeable  to  our  daily  experience  of  the  vicissitudes  of  violent  tempers,  and 
the  eruptions  of  minds  oppressed  with  guilt. — Johnson. 


396  WINTER'S  TALE. 

What  wheels  ?  racks  ?  fires  ?    What  flaying  ?  boiling. 

In  leads,  or  oils  ?  what  old,  or  newer  torture 

Must  I  receive  5  whose  every  word  deserves 

To  taste  of  thy  most  worst  ?    Thy  tyranny 

Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, — 

Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  to  green  and  idle 

For  girls  of  nine  ! — O,  think,  what  they  have  done, 

And  then  run  mad,  indeed  ;  stark  mad  !  for  all 

Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 

That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes,  'twas  nothing ; 

That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a  fool,*"  inconstant. 

And  damnable  ungrateful :  nor  was't  much. 

Thou  would'st  have  poison'd  good  Camillo's  honour,' 

To  have  him  kill  a  king ;  poor  trespasses. 

More  monstrous  standing  by  :  whereof  I  reckon 

The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby  daughter. 

To  be  or  none,  or  little ;  though  a  devil 

Would  have  shed  water  out  of  fire,  ere  don't : 

Nor  is't  directly  laid  to  thee,  the  death 

Of  the  young  prince  ;  whose  honourable  thoughts 

(Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender,)  cleft  the  heart 

That  could  conceive,  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 

Blemish'd  his  gracious  dam  :  this  is  not,  no. 

Laid  to  thy  answer :  But  the  last, — O,  lords. 

When  I  have  said,  cry,  woe  ! — the  queen,  the  queen. 

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

Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

1  Lord.  The  higher  powers  forbid  ! 

Paul.  I  say,  she's  dead  :  I'll  swear't :  if  word,  nor  oath, 
^  Prevail  not,  go  and  see  :  if  you  can  bring 
Tincture,  or  lustre,  in  her  lip,  her  eye. 
Heat  outwardly,  or  breath  within,  I'll  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods, — But,  O  thou  tyrant ! 
Do  not  repent  these  things  ;  for  they  are  heavier 

^ of  a  fool,']  By  a  mode  of  speech,  anciently  much'in  use,  this  means, 

"  It  shewed  thee ^rst  a  fool,  then  inconstant." — Johnson. 

'  Thou  would'st  have  -poison'd  good  Camillo's  hmtour,]  "  How  should  Paulina 
know  this  ?  No  one  had  charged  the  king  with  this  crime  except  himself, 
while  Paulina  was  absent,  attending  on  Hermione.  The  poet  seems  to  have 
forgotten  this."  Notwithstanding  this  remark  of  Mr.  Malone's,  the  words 
may  allude  to  the  reproach  of  treason  against  himself,  which  Leontes  cast  on 
Camillo. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II.  397 

Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir :  therefore  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees. 
Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting. 
Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

Leon.  Go  on,  go  on  : 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much  ;  I  have  deserv'd 
All  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest. 

1  Lord.  Say  no  more  ; 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
I'the  boldness  of  your  speech. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry  for't  ;"• 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 
I  do  repent :  Alas,  I  have  show'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman  :  he  is  touch'd 
To  the  noble  heart.— What's  gone,  and  what's  past  help, 
Should  be  past  grief:   Do  not  receive  affliction 
At  my  petition,  I  beseech  you ;  rather 
Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 
Of  what  you  should  forget.     Now,  good  my  liege, 
Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman  : 
The  love  I  bore  your  queen, — lo,  fool,  again ! — 
I'll  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children  ; 
I'll  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 
Who  is  lost  too:  take  your  patience  to  you. 
And  I'll  say  nothing. 

Leoft.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well. 

When  most  the  truth  ;  which  1  receive  much  better 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.     Pr'ythee,  bring  me 
To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen,  and  son : 
One  grave  shall  be  for  both  ;  upon  them  shall 
The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 
Our  shame  perpetual :  Once  a  day  I'll  visit 
The  chapel  where  they  lie ;  and  tears,  shed  there,. 
Shall  be  my  recreation  :  So  long  as 
Nature  will  bear  up  with  this  exercise. 


»  7  am  sorry  for't ;]  This  is  another  instance  of  the  sudden  changes  incident 
to  vehement  and  ungovernable  minds. — Johnson. 
VOL.    III.  2  D 


398  WINTER'S  TALE. 

So  long  I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come, 

And  lead  me  to  these  sorrows.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

Bohemia.     ^4  desert  Country/  near  the  Sea. 

Enter  Antigonus,  with  a  Child;  ««c?  a  Mariner. 

Ant.  Thou  art  perfect  then,"  our  ship  hath  touch'd  upon 
The  deserts  of  Bohemia? 

Mar.  Ay,  my  lord ;  and  fear 

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

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

Mar.  Make  your  best  haste ;   and  go  not 
Too  far  i'the  land  :  'tis  like  to  be  loud  weather ; 
Besides,  this  place  is  famous  for  the  creatures 
Of  prey,  that  keep  upon't. 

Ant.  Go  thou  away : 

I'll  follow  instantly. 

Mar.  I  am  glad  at  heart 

To  be  so  rid  o'the  business.  [Exit. 

Jnt.  Come,  poor  babe  : 

I  have  heard,  (but  not  believ'd,)  the  spirits  of  the  dead 

May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 

Appear'd  to  me  last  night ;  for  ne'er  was  dream 

So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature. 

Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another ; 

I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow, 

So  fill'd,  and  so  becoming :  in  pure  white  robes. 

Like  very  sanctity,  she  did  approach 

My  cabin  where  I  lay :  thrice  bow'd  before  me  ; 

And,  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 

Became  two  spouts  :  the  fury  spent,  anon 

Did  this  break  from  her  :  Good  Antigonus, 

n  Thou  art  perfect  then,']  Perfect  is  often  used  for  cerlain,well  assured, or  well 
informed. — Johnson. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III.  399 

Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition. 

Hath  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 

Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath, — 

Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 

There  weep,  and  leave  it  crying;  and,  for  the  babe 

Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 

I pr'ythee,  call't :  for  this  ungentle  business. 

Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shall  see 

Thy  wife  Paulina  wor^?: — and  so,  with  shrieks. 

She  melted  into  air.     Affrighted  much, 

I  did  in  time  collect  myself,  and  thought 

This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.     Dreams  are  toys  : 

Yet,  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiously, 

I  will  be  squar'd  by  this.     I  do  believe, 

Hermione  hath  suffer'd  death ;  and  that 

Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 

Of  king  Polixenes,  it  should  here  be  laid, 

Either  for  life,  or  death,  upon  the  earth 

Of  its  right  father. — Blossom,  speed  thee  well ! 

[Laying  doion  the  Child. 
There  lie  ;  and  there  thy  character  :"  there  these; 

[Laying  down  a  bundle. 
Which  may,  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee  pretty, 
And  still  rest  thine. Tlie  storm  beo-ins  : — Poor  wretch, 

o 

That,  for  thy  mother's  fault,  art  thus  expos'd 

To  loss,  and  what  may  follow  ! — Weep  I  cannot. 

But  my  heart  bleeds  :  and  most  accurs'd  am  I, 

To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this. — Farewell ! 

The  day  frowns  more  and  more  ;  thou  art  like  to  have 

A  lullaby  too  rough  :  I  never  saw 

The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.     A  savage  clamour  ?f — 

Well  may  I  get  aboard! This  is  the  chace  ; 

I  am  gone  for  ever.  [Exit,  pursued  by  a  bear. 

Enter  an  old  Shepherd. 
Shep.  I  would,  there  were  no  age  between  ten  and  three- 

"'■ thy  character :']  Thy  description ;  i.e.  The  v/riting  afterwards  discovered 

with  Perdita. — Steevens. 

p  A  savage  clamour  ?]  This  clamour  was  the  cry  of  the  dogs  and  hunters  ; — 
then  seeing  the  bear,  he  cries,  this  is  the  chace  ot  the  animal  pursued. — Johnson. 

2  D  2 


400  WINTER'S  TALE. 

and-twenty ;  or  that  youth  would  sleep  out  the  rest :  for 
there  is  nothing  in  the  between  but  getting  wenches  with 
child,  wronging  the  ancientry,  stealing,  fighting. — Hark 
you  now  ! Would  any  but  these  boiled  brains  of  nine- 
teen, and  two-and-twenty,  hunt  this  weather  ?  They  have 
scared  away  two  of  iny  best  sheep ;  which,  I  fear,  the 
wolf  will  sooner  find,  than  the  master ;  if  any  where  I 
have  them,  'tis  by  the  sea-side,  browzing  on  ivy.  Good 
luck,  an't  be  thy  will !  what  have  we  here?  [Taking  up 
the  Child.']  Mercy  on's,  a  barne ;'»  a  very  pretty  barne  ! 
A  boy,  or  a  child,"^  I  wonder?  A  pretty  one;  a  very  pretty 
one :  Sure,  some  scape  :  though  I  am  not  bookish,  yet  I 
can  read  waiting-gentlewoman  in  the  scape.  This  has 
been  some  stair-work,  some  trunk-work,  some  behind- 
door-work  :  they  were  warmer  that  got  this,  than  the  poor 
thing  is  here.  I'll  take  it  up  for  pity:  yet  I'll  tarry  till 
my  son  come  ;  he  hollaed  but  even  now.     Whoa,  ho  hoa  ! 

Eiitei'  Clown. 

Clo.  Hilloa,  loa ! 

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

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

Shep.  Why,  boy,  how  is  it? 

Clo.  I  would,  you  did  but  see  how  it  chafes,  how  it 
rages,  how  it  takes  up  the  shore  !  but  that's  not  to  the 
point :  O,  the  most  piteous  ciy  of  the  poor  souls  !  some- 
times to  see  'em,  and  not  to  see  'em  :  now  the  ship  boring 
the  moon  with  her  main-mast ;  and  anon  swallowed  with 
yest  and  froth,  as  you'd  thrust  a  cork  into  a  hogshead. 
And  then  for  the  land  service, — To  see  how  the  bear  tore 

q harne,'\  i.  e.  Infant, — lames  for  horns,  or  things  bom  ;  answering  to  the 

Latin  nati, — Steevens. 

r a  buy,  or  a  cltild,]  Child  is  used  for  a  female  infant.     Even  within  ten 

miles  of  London,  on  admiring  "  afne  child"  in  the  arms  of  a  cottager,  1  was 
corrected  and  told  tliat  it  was  a  boy. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III.  401 

Out  his  shoulder -bone  ;  how  he  cried  to  me  for  help,  and 
said,  his  name  was  Antigonus,  a  nobleman  : — But  to  make 
an  end  of  the  ship  : — to  see  how  the  sea  flap-dragoned  it  :^ 
— but,  first, how  the  poor  souls  roared,  and  the  sea  mocked 
them  ; — and  how  the  poor  gentleman  roared,  and  the 
bear  mocked  him,  both  roaring  louder  than  the  sea,  or 
weather. 

Shep.  'Name  of  mercy,  when  was  this,  boy? 

Clo,  Now,  now ;  I  have  not  winked  since  I  saw  these 
sights :  the  men  are  not  yet  cold  under  water,  nor  the  bear 
half  dined  on  the  gentleman ;  he's  at  it  now. 

Shep.  Would  I  had  been  by,  to  have  helped  the  old 
man ! 

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

[Aside. 

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

Clo.  You're  a  made  old  man  ;  if  the  sins  of  your  youth 
are  forgiven  you,  you're  well  to  live.     Gold  !  all  gold  ! 

Shep.  This  is  fairy  gold,  boy,  and  'twill  prove  so  :  up 
with  it,  keep  it  close  ;  home,  home,  the  next  way.''  We 
are  lucky,  boy  ;  and  to  be  so  still,  requires  nothing  but 

* flap-dragoned  it:]  i.  e.  Swalbwed  it,  as  our  ancient  topers  swallowed 

flap-dragons.  A  flap-dragon  was  a  small  combustible  body,  set  on  fire,  and  put 
afloat  in  a  glass  of  liquor  which  was  to  be  swallowed  flaming. — As  candle-ends 
made  the  most  formidable  flap-dragons,  the  greatest  merit  was  ascribed  to  the 
heroism  of  swallowing  them. — Nares. 

' «  bearing- cloth—]    A  bearing-cloth  is  the   fine  mantle  of  cloth  with 

which  a  child  is  usually  covered,  when  it  is  carried  to  the  church  to  be  bap- 
tized.— Percy. 

" some  changeling  :]  i.  e.   Some  child  left  behind   by  the  fairies  in  the 

room  of  one  which  they  had  stolen. — Steevens. 

s  This  is  fairy  gold,  (5fc.]  The  old  man  desires  the  clown  to  keep  the  know- 
ledge of  their  newly  acquired  wealth  secret,  and  return  home  with  their  trea- 
sure the  next,  i.  e.  the  nearest  way ;  because,  according  "  to  the  received  opi- 
nion, itwas  extremely  dangerous  to  betray  the  confidence  of  the  fairies.  The 
loss  of  all  future  favour  from  them  was  the  least  part  of  the  evil ;  personal  or 
family  misfortune  usually  followed  the  indiscretion."— Gii  ford's  Ben  Jonson, 
vol.  iii.  476. 


402  WINTER'S  TALE. 

secrecy.— Let  my  sheep  go  : — Come,  good  boy,  the  next 
way  home. 

Clo.  Go  you  the  next  way  with  your  findings ;  I'll  go 
see  if  the  bear  be  gone  from  the  gentleman,  and  how  much 
he  hath  eaten :  they  are  never  curst,^  but  when  they  are 
hungry  :  if  there  be  any  of  him  left,  I'll  bury  it. 

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

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

Shep,  'Tis  a  lucky  day,  boy ;  and  we'll  do  good  deeds 
on't. 

ACT  IV. 

Enter  Time,  as  Chorus. 

Time.  I, — that  please  some,  try  all ;  both  joy,  and  ter- 
ror. 
Of  good  and  bad  ;  that  make,  and  unfold  error, — 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.     Impute  it  not  a  crime, 
To  me,  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  sixteen  years,  and  leave  the  growth  untried 
Of  that  wide  gap  -y"-  since  it  is  in  my  power 
To  o'erthrow  law,  and  in  one  self-born  hour 
To  plant  and  o'erwhelm  custom :  Let  me  pass 
The  same  I  am,  ere  ancient'st  order  was,  * 

Or  what  is  now  received  :  I  witness  to 
The  times  that  brought  them  in  ;  so  shall  I  do 
To  the  freshest  things  now  reigning ;  and  make  stale 
The  glistering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 
Now  seems  to  it.     Your  patience  this  allowing, 
I  turn  my  glass  ;  and  give  my  scene  such  growing, 

y curst,]  i.  e.  Mischievous. 

» and  leave  the  growth  untried 

Of  that  wide  gap ;]  Our  author  attends  more  to  his  ideas  than  to  his  words. 
The  growth  of  the  wide  gap,  is  somewhat  irregular ;  but  he  means,  the  growth, 
or  progression  of  the  time  which  filled  up  the  gap  of  the  story  between  Perdita's 
birth  and  her  sixteenth  year.  To  leave  this  growth  utitried,  is,  to  leave  the  pas- 
sages of  the  intermediate  years  unnoted  and  unexamined.  Untried  is  not,  perhaps, 
the  word  which  he  would  have  chosen,  but  which  his  rhyme  required — Johnson. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  I.  403 

As  you  had  slept  between.     Leontes  leaving 
The  effects  of  his  fond  jealousies  ;  so  grieving. 
That  he  shuts  up  himself ;  imagine  me. 
Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 
In  fair  Bohemia ;  and  remember  well, 
I  mentioned  a  son  o'the  king's,  which  Florizel 
I  now  name  to  you ;  and  with  speed  so  pace 
To  speak  of  Perdita,  now  grown  in  grace 
Equal  with  wond'ring  :  What  of  her  ensues, 
I  list  not  prophecy;  but  let  Time's  news 
Be  known,  when  'tis  brought  forth :— a  shepherd's  daugh- 
ter. 
And  what  to  her  adheres,  which  follows  after. 
Is  the  argument*  of  time  :  Of  this  allow,** 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now; 
If  never  yet,  that  Time  himself  doth  say. 
He  wishes  earnestly,  you  never  may.  [  Exit. 

SCENE  I. 

The  same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace  of  Polixenes. 
Enter  Polixenes  and  Camillo. 

Pol.  I  pray  thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more  importu- 
nate: 'tis  a  sickness, denying  thee  any  thing;  a  death,  to 
grant  this. 

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

Pol.  As  thou  lovest  me,  Camillo,  wipe  not  out  the  rest 
of  thy  services,  by  leaving  me  now  :  the  need  I  have  of 
thee,  thine  own  goodness  hath  made  ;  better  not  to  have 
had  thee,  than  thus  to  want  thee  :  thou,  having  made  me 

a argument — ]  i.  e.  Siihject, 

b allow,']  To  alloiD  in  our  author's  time  signified  to  approve. 

'^  It  is  fifteen  years,]  We  should  read — sixteen.     Time  has  just  said, 

■ that  I  slide 

O'er  sixteen  j'ears. — SiEiiVENs. 


404  WINTER'S  TALE. 

businesses,  which  none,  without  thee,  can  sufficiently 
manage,  must  either  stay  to  execute  them  thyself,  or  take 
away  with  thee  the  very  services  thou  hast  done  :  which 
if  I  have  not  enough  considered,  (as  too  much  I  cannot,) 
to  be  more  thankful  to  thee,  shall  be  my  study  ;  and  my 
profit  therein,  the  heaping  friendships.*^  Of  that  fatal 
country  Sicilia,  pr'y  thee  speak  no  more :  whose  very  nam- 
ing punishes  me  with  the  remembrance  of  that  penitent, 
as  thou  call'st  him,  and  reconciled  king,  my  brother; 
whose  loss  of  his  most  precious  queen,  and  children,  are 
even  now  to  be  afresh  lamented.  Say  to  me,  when  saw'st 
thou  the  prince  Florizel  my  son  ?  Kings  are  no  less  un- 
happy, their  issue  not  being  gracious,  than  they  are  in 
losing  them,  when  they  have  approved  their  virtues. 

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days  since  I  saw  the  prince :  What 
his  happier  affairs  may  be,  are  to  me  unknown :  but  I  have, 
missingly,^  njoted,  he  is  of  late  much  retired  from  court; 
and  is  less  frequent  to  his  princely  exercises,  than  formerly 
he  hath  appeared. 

Pol.  I  have  considered  so  much,  Camillo ;  and  with 
some  care ;  so  far,  that  I  have  eyes  under  my  service, 
which  look  upon  his  removedness :  from  whom  I  have  this 
inteUigence ;  That  he  is  seldom  from  the  house  of  a  most 
homely  shepherd ;  a  man,  they  say,  that  from  very  no- 
thing, and  beyond  the  imagination  of  his  neighbours,  is 
grown  into  an  unspeakable  estate. 

Cam.  I  have  heard,  sir,  of  such  a  man,  who  hath  a 
daughter  of  most  rare  note  :  the  report  of  her  is  extended 
more,  than  can  be  thought  to  begin  from  such  a  cottage. 

Pol.  That's  likewise  part  of  my  intelligence.  But,  I 
fear  the  angle*^  that  plucks  our  son  thither.  Thou  shalt 
accompany  us  to  the  place  :  where  we  will,  not  appearing 
what  we  are,  have  some  question^  with  the  shepherd ; 


J and  my  profit  therein,  the  Leaping  friendships.]  Friendships  is,  I  believe, 

here  used,  with  sufficient  licence  merely  ior  friendly  offices. — Malone. 

c rnissingiy,']  This  word  according  to  Mr.  Steevens  means  at  intervals i 

but  I  rather  think  it  refers  to  the  blank  in  the  court  assemblies  occasioned  by 
the  prince's  absence. — Seymour. 

r angle—']  Mr.  Theobakl  reads  engle,  but  there  is  no  need  of  any  alter- 
ation, angle  in  this  place  means  njishing-rod. — Johnson  and  Steevens. 

•> question — ]  i.  e.  Talk. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II.  405 

from  whose  simplicity,  I  think  it  not  uneasy  to  get  the 
cause  of  my  son's  resort  thither.  Pr'ythee,  be  my  pre- 
sent partner  in  this  business,  and  lay  aside  the  thoughts 
of  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  willingly  obey  your  command. 

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

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  same.     A  Road  near  the  Shepherd's  Cottage. 
Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 

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

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

With,  hey !  the  sweet  birds,  O,  hotv  they  sing  ! 

Doth  set  my  pugging^  tooth  on  edge  : 

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

The  lark,  that  tirra-lirra  chants, — 

With,  hey!  with,  hey !  the  thrush  and  the  jay  :— 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts,^ 

While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

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

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear? 

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

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

•  For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale.l  The  meaning  is  the  red,  the 
spring  blood  now  reigns  o'er  the  parts  lately  under  the  dominion  of  winter,  'ihe 
English  pale,  the  Irish  pale,  were  frequent  expressions  in  Shakspeare's  time  • 

_  and  the  words  red  and  pale  were  chosen  for  the  sake  of  the  anlithesi^ Far  mer'. 

k pugging—-]  i.  e.  Thievish.     The  word  is  used  by  Green  in  one  of  his 

pieces,  and  a  piiggard  was  a  name  for  some  particular  kind  of  thief. 

«««fs,]  A  cant  term  for  women  of  bad  characterwhether  prostitute  or 

procuress.  ' 

"' three-pile  J  i.  e.  Rich  velvet. 


406  WINTER'S  TALE. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live. 

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

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

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

Enter  Clown. 

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

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

Clo.  1  cannot  do't  without  counters. — Let  me  see  ;  what 
am  I  to  buy  for  our  sheep-shearing  feast  ?    Three  pound  of 

sugar  ;  Jive  pound  of  currants  ;  rice What  will  this  sister 

of  mine  do  with  rice  ?  But  my  father  hath  made  her  mis- 
tress of  the  feast,  and  she  lays  it  on.  She  hath  made  me 
four-and-twenty  nosegays  for  the  shearers :  three-man 
song-men  all,'  and  very  good  ones  ;  but  they  are  most  of 
them  means^  and  bases  :  but  one  Puritan  amongst  them, 
and  he  sings  psalms  to  hornpipes.  I  must  have  saffron, 
to  colour  the  warden  pies  ;*  mace, — dates, — none  ;  that's 
out  of  my  note  ;  nutmegs,  seven;  a  race,  or  two,  of  ginger ; 
but  that  I  may  heg  \— four  pound  of  prunes,  and  as  many 
of  raisins  o'the  sun. 

n  My  traffic  is  sheets;  &c.]  Autolycus  means  that  his  practice  was  to  steal 
sheets  and  large  pieces  of  linen,  leaving  the  smaller  pieces  for  the  kites  to  build 
with. — M.  Mason. 

o With  die,  and  drah,']  i.  e.  With  gaming  and  whoring. 

P the  silly  cheat ;]  Cant  term  for  picking  pochets. 

<! tods;'\  i.  e.  Yields  a  tod.     Every  eleven  wethers  will  produce  a  tod, 

or  twentyeight  pounds  of  wool. 

r three-man  song-men  all,'\  i.  e.  Singers  of  catches  in  three  parts. 

s means']  i.  e.  Tenors. 

« Harden  pies ;]  i.  e.  Pies  made  of  the  warden,  a  kind  of  large,  hard, 

baking  pear. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II.  407 

Aut.  O,  that  ever  I  was  born ! 

[Grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Clo.  Fthe  name  of  me, 

Aut,  O,  help  me  !  help  me  !  pluck  but  oflf  these  rags ; 
and  then,  death,  death ! 

Clo.  Alack,  poor  soul !  thou  hast  need  of  more  rags  to 
lay  on  thee,  rather  than  have  these  off. 

Aut.  O,  sir,  the  loathsomeness  of  them  offends  me  more 
than  the  stripes  I  have  received ;  w^hich  are  mighty  ones, 
and  millions. 

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

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

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

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

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

Aut.  O  !  good  sir,  tenderly,  oh  ! 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  soul. 

Aut.  O,  good  sir,  softly,  good  sir;  I  fear,  sir,  my 
shoulder-blade  is  out. 

Clo.  How  now  ?  cans't  stand  ? 

Aut.  Softly,  dear  sir ;  [picks  his  pocket ;]  good  sir,  softly ; 
you  ha'  done  me  a  charitable  office. 

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

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

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

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  to  go  about  with 
trol-my  dames  ;"*  I  knew  him  once  a  servant  of  the  prince ; 

u  _ JJ,il}^  trol-my  dames  :]    Trou-inadame,  French.     The  old  English  title 

of  this  game  was  }>igeon-holes ;  as  the  arches  m  the  machine  through  which  the 


408  WINTER'S  TALE. 

I  cannot  tell,  good  sir,  for  which  of  his  virtues  it  was,  but 
he  was  certainly  whipped  out  of  the  court. 

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

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

Clo.  Out  upon  him  !  Prig,  for  my  life,  prig  i^  he  haunts 
wakes,  fairs,  and  bear-baitings. 

Aut.  Very  true,  sir;  he,  sir,  he;  that's  the  rogue,  that 
put  me  into  this  apparel. 

Clo.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all  Bohemia ;  if 
you  had  but  looked  big,  and  spit  at  him,  he'd  have  run. 

Aut.  I  must  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  am  no  fighter;  I  am 
false  of  heart  that  way  ;  and  that  he  knew  I  warrant  him. 

Clo.  How  do  you  now  ? 

Aut.  Sweet  sir,  much  better  than  I  was  ;  I  can  stand, 
and  walk ;  I  will  even  take  my  leave  of  you,  and  pace 
softly  towards  my  kinsman's. 

Clo.  Shall  I  bring  thee  on  the  way  ? 

Aut.  No,  good-faced  sir;  no,  sweet  sir. 

Clo.  Then  fare  thee  well ;  I  must  go  buy  spices  for  our 
sheep-shearing. 

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

balls  are  rolled,  resemble  the  cavities  made  for  pigeons  in  a  dove-house. — 
Steevens. 

X motion  of  the  prodigal  son,']  i.  e.  The  puppet-shew,  then  called  motions. 

A  term  frequently  occurring  in  our  author. — Warburton. 

f prig .]  In  the  canting  language,  prig  is  a  thief  or  pick-pocket. — 

WlIALLEY. 

I unrolled,']  Begging  gypsies  were  in  the  time  of  our  author  in  gangs 

or  companies,  that  had  something  of  the  shew  of  an  incorporated  body.  Frem 
this  noble  society  he  wishes  to  be  unrolled  if  he  does  not  so  and  so. — 
Warburton. 


ACT  IV —SCENE  III.  409 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way. 

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

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 

The  same.      A   Shepherd's  Cottage. 
Enter  Florizel  and  Perdita. 

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

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

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

Flo.  I  bless  the  time. 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 
Thy  father's  ground. 

Per.  Now  Jove  afford  you  cause  ! 

To  me,  the  difference^  forges  dread  ;  your  greatness 

a /leiit— ]  i.  e.  Take  hold  of. 

b  And  you  the  queen  on't.']  11  n'y  a  rien  de  plus  frais,  de  plus  jeune,  de  plus 
pastoral,  et  de  plus  noble  a  la  fois  que  les  amours  de  Florizel  et  de  Perdita. 
Le  prince,  entraine  par  sa  passion,  descend  a  I'etat  de  berger,  tandis  que  la 
bergere  parait  remonter  naturellement  a  celui  de  princesse,  et  que  les  guir- 
landes  deviennent  des  couronnes  entre  ses  mains. — Schlegel. 

<= your  extremes,']  Perdita  does  not  mean  his  extravagant  praises,  but  the 

extravagance  of  his  conduct  in  obscuring  himself  in  swains  wearing  while  he 
prank'd  her  vp  most  goddess-like. — M.  Mason. 

''  The  gracious  mark — ]  The  object  of  all  men's  notice  and  expectation. 

* prank'd  up  :]  i.  e.  Drest  with  ostentation. 

^ sworn,  I  think. 

To  show  myself  a  glass.]  The  sense  is,  that  the  prince  by  assuming  a  pea- 
sant's dress  seews  sworn  to  show  her  as  in  a  glass,  what  dress  she  ought  to  wear 
instead  of  the  fanciful  attire  that  she  had  put  on  for  the  feast. 

^ the  difference — ]  i.  e.  Between  his  rank  and  hers. 


410  WINTER'S  TALE: 

Hath  not  been  used  to  fear.     Even  now  I  tremble 
To  think,  your  father,  by  some  accident. 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did  :  O,  the  fates ! 
How  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  noble. 
Vilely  bound  up  ?''  What  would  he  say?  or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 
The  sternness  of  his  presence  ? 

Flo.  Apprehend 

Nothing  but  jollity.     The  gods  themselves. 
Humbling  their  deities  to  love,  have  taken 
The  shapes  of  beasts  upon  them :  Jupiter 
Became  a  bull,  and  bellow'd ;  the  green  Neptune 
A  ram,  and  bleated  :  and  the  fire-rob'd  god, 
Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain. 
As  I  seem  now  :  Their  transformations 
Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer ; 
Nor  in  a  way  so  chaste :  since  my  desires 
Run  not  before  mine  honour  ;  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

Per.  O  but,  dear  sir. 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  'tis 
Oppos'd,  as  it  must  be,  by  the  power  o'the  king  : 
One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities. 
Which  then  will  speak ;  that  you  must  change  this  purpose. 
Or  I  my  life. 

Flo.  Thou  dearest  Perdita, 

With  these  forc'd'  thoughts,  I  pr'ythee,  darken  not 
The  mirth  o'the  feast :  Or  I'll  be  thine,  my  fair. 
Or  not  my  father's  :  for  I  cannot  be 
Mine  own,  nor  any  thing  to  any,  if 
I  be  not  thine  :  to  this  I  am  most  constant. 
Though  destiny  say,  no.     Be  merry,  gentle  ; 
Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these,  with  any  thing 
That  you  behold  the  while.     Your  guests  are  coming  : 

h his  work,  so  noble, 

Vilely  bound  up  ?]  It  is  impossible  for  any  man  to  rid  his  mind  of  his  pro- 
fession. The  authorship  of  Shakspeare  has  supplied  him  with  a  metaphor, 
which,  rather  than  he  would  lose  it,  he  has  put  with  no  great  propriety  into 
the  mouth  of  a  country  maid.  Thinking  of  his  own  works,  his  mind  passed 
naturally  to  the  binder.  I  am  glad  that  he  has  no  hint  at  an  editor.— 
Johnson. 

i fared—']  i.  e.  Far-fetch' d.—M.  Mason. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  411 

Lift  up  your  countenance  ;  as  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  O  lady  fortune. 

Stand  you  auspicious ! 

Enter   Shepherd,   with  Polixenes   and   Camillo    dis- 
guised; Clown,  MopSA,  Dorcas,  and  Others. 

Flo.  See  your  guests  approach  : 

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

Shep,  Fye,  daughter  !  when  my  old  wife  liv'd,  upon 
This  day,  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook  ; 
Both  dame  and  servant :  welcom'd  all :  serv'd  all : 
Would  sing  her  song,  and  dance  her  turn  :  now  here. 
At  upper  end  o'the  table,  now,  i'the  middle  ; 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his  :  her  face  o'  fire 
With  labour;  and  the  thing,  she  took  to  quench  it, 
She  would  to  each  one  sip  :  You  are  retir'd. 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting  :  Pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  us  welcome  :  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes  ;  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'the  feast :  Come  on. 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing. 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.  Welcome,  sir!  [to  Pol. 

It  is  my  father's  will,  I  should  take  on  me 
The  hostess-ship  o'the  day  : — You're  welcome,  sir  ! 

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

J  Grace,  and  remembrance,'^  These  words  refer  to  the  rosemary  and  rue,  which 
Perdita  had  given  them.  Rue  was  called  herb  of  grace,  from  its  being  used 
in  exorcisms,  against  evil  spirits  ;  rosemary  was  the  emblem  of  remembrance,  and 
was  supposed  to  have  a  medicinal  power  in  strengthening  the  memory. 


412  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

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

Per.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, —  ' 

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

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden. 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  1  have''  heard  it  said. 

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

Pol.  Say,  there  be ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean. 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  :  so,  o'er  that  art. 
Which  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock  ; 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race  ;  This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature, — change  it  rather :  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyflowers. 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I'll  not  put 

The  dibble'  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them : 
No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say,  'twere  well ;  and  only  therefore 
Desire  to  breed  by  me. — Here's  flowers  for  you  ; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram  ; 

''  Fm-  I  have  heard — ]  i.  e.  Because  their  variety  of  tints  is  artificially  produced. 
The  art  is  pretended  to  be  taught  in  old  books  of  cookery,  &c.  but,  being  ut- 
terly impracticable,  is  not  worth  exemplification. — Steevens. 

' dibble — ]  An  instrument  used  by  gardeners  to  make   holes  in  the 

earth  for  the  reception  of  young  plants. — Steevens.  Perdita's  aversion  to 
gillyfiowers  arises  from  the  belief  that  their  being  specked  with  white  and  red 
was  the  result  of  art ;  and  she  therefore  considers  them  as  the  emblems  of  a 
painted  or  immodest  woman. — Douce. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  413 

The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun. 
And  with  him  rises  weeping  ;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age  :  You  are  very  welcome. 

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

Per.  Out,  alas ! 

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

friend, 
I  would,  I  had  some  flowers  o't.he  spring,  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day ;  and  yours,  and  yours  ; 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  growing  : — O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon  !  daffodils. 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets,  dim. 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes. 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses. 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids  ;  bold  oxlips  ;  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds. 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !  O,  these  I  lack. 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and,  my  sweet  friend. 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Flo.  What  ?  like  a  corse  ? 

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

Flo.  What  you  do. 

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

VOL.  Ill,  2    E 


414  WINTER'S  TALE. 

A  wave  o'the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 

Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 

No  other  function  :  Each  your  doing,™ 

So  singular  in  each  particular. 

Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds. 

That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

Per.  O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  too  large  :  but  that  your  youth. 
And  the  true  blood,  which  fairly  peeps  through  it. 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd  ; 
With  wisdom  1  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 

Flo.  I  think,  you  have 

As  little  skilP  to  fear,  as  I  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to't. — But,  come ;  our  dance,  I  pray  : 
Your  hand,  my  Perdita  :  so  turtles  pair, 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

Per.  I'll  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green  sward  :  nothing  she  does,  or  seems. 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

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

Clo.  Come  on,  strike  up. 

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

Mop.  Now,  in  good  time  ! 

Clo.   Not  a  word,  a  word ;  we  stand"  upon  our  man- 
ners.— 
Come,  strike  up.  [Mustek. 

Here  a  dame  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses. 

Pol.  Pray,  good  shepherd,  what 
Fair  swain  is  this,  which  dances  with  your  daughter? 
Shep.  They  call  him  Doricles  ;  and  he  boasts  himself 

" FAieh  your  doing,  &c.]  That  is,  your  manner  in  each  act  crowns  the 

act. — Johnson. 

"  As  little  skill — ]  i.  e.  As  little  reason. — Wahburtok. 

** vx  stand — ]  That  is,  we  are  now  on  our  behaviour. — Johnson. 


ACT  IV.-SCENE  III.  415 

To  have  a  worthy  feeding  :•"  but  I  have  it 

Upon  his  own  report,  and  I  believe  it ; 

He  looks  like  sooth  :'^  He  says,  he  loves  my  daughter; 

I  think  so  too  :  for  never  gaz'd  the  moon 

Upon  the  water,  as  he'll  stand,  and  read. 

As  'twere,  my  daughter's  eyes  :  and,  to  be  plain, 

I  think,  there  is  not  half  a  kiss  to  choose. 

Who  loves  another  best. 

Pol.  She  dances  featly, 

Shep.  So  she  does  any  thing  ;  though  I  report  it. 

That  should  be  silent :  if  young  Doricles 

Do  light  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 

Which  he  not  dreams  of. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  O  master,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedlar  at  the 
door,  you  would  never  dance  again  after  a  tabor  and 
pipe ;  no,  the  bagpipe  could  not  move  you  :  he  sings 
several  tunes,  faster  than  you'll  tell  money;  he  utters 
them  as  he  had  eaten  ballads,  and  all  men's  ears  grew  to 
his  tunes. 

Clo.  He  could  never  come  better  :  he  shall  come  in  :  I 
love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well ;  if  it  be  doleful  matter, 
merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed,  and 
sung  lamentably. 

Serv,  He  hath  songs,  for  man,  or  woman,  of  all  sizes ; 
no  milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers  with  gloves  :  he  has 
the  prettiest  love  songs  for  maids ;  so  without  bawdry, 
which  is  strange  ;  with  such  delicate  burdens  of  dildos 
und  fadings  :  jump  her  and  thump  her  ;^  and  where  some 
stretch-mouth'd  rascal  would,  as  it  were,  mean  mischief, 
and  break  a  foul  gap  into  the  matter,  he  makes  the  maid 
to  answer,  Whoop>  do  me  no  harm,  good  man  ;  puts  him  off, 
slights  him,  with  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man. 

Pol.  This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

p a  worthy  feeding :]  I  conceive  feeding  to  be  a  pasture,  and  a  worthy 

feeding  to  be  a  tract  of  pasturage  not  inconsiderable. — Johnson. 

q sooth  :1  Truth.     Obsolete. 

r dildos  and  fadings :  jump  her  and  thump  her ;]  These  were  the  non- 
sensical burthens  of  several  popular  songs. 

2  e2 


416  WINTER'S  TALE. 

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

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

Clo.  Pry 'thee,  bring  him  in  ;  and  let  him  approach 
singing. 

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

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

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

Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

Lawn,  as  white  as  driven  snow  ; 

Cyprus,  black  as  e'er  was  crow ; 

Gloves,  as  sweet  as  damask  roses  ; 

Masks  for  faces,  and  for  noses  : 

Bugle  bracelet,  necklace-amber, 

Perfomefor  a  lady's  chamber  : 

Golden  quoifs,  and  stomachers. 

For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears ; 

Pins,  and  poking-sticks^  of  steel. 

What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel : 

Come,  buy  of  me,  come ;  come  buy,  come  buy ; 

Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry: 

Come,  buy,  &c. 

• any  unbraided  wares  ?]  Braided  is  faded — perhaps  the  Clown  means  to 

inquire  whether  the  wares  me  fresh  and  new. 

' points,']  Laces  with  metal  tops  to  them. 

" caddisses,]  Caddis  is,  I  believe,  a  narrow  worsted  galloon.  I  remem- 
ber when  very  young  to  have  heard  it  enumerated  by  a  pedler  among  the  ar- 
ticles of  his  pack.  There  is  a  very  narrow  slight  serge  of  this  name,  now 
made  in  France.     Inkle  is  a  kind  of  tape  also. — Ma  lone. 

^ the  square  on't.]  i.  e.  The  bosom  part. 

" pohing-sticks — ]  These  instruments  were  heated  in  the  fire  and  made 

use  of  to  adjust  the  plaits  of  the  ruff. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  417 

Clo.  If  I  were  not  in  love  with  Mopsa,  thou  should'st 
take  no  money  of  me ;  but  being  enthrall'd  as  I  am,  it  will 
also  be  the  bondage  of  certain  ribands  and  gloves. 

Mop.  I  was  promised  them  against  the  feast ;  but  they 
come  not  too  late  now. 

Dor.  He  hath  promised  you  more  than  that,  or  there 
be  liars. 

Mop.  He  hath  paid  you  all  he  promised  you :  may  be, 
he  has  paid  you  more ;  which  will  shame  you  to  give  him 
again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clo.  What  hast  here ?  ballads? 

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

Aut.  Here's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune.  How  a  usurer's 

z kiln-/io!e,]  Kiln-hole  is  the  place  into  which  coals  are  put  under  a 

stove ,  a  copper,  or  a  kiln,  in  which  lime,  &c.  are  to  be  dried  or  burned.  To 
watch  the  kiln-hole,  or  stoking-hole,  is  part  of  the  office  of  female  servants  in 
farm-houses. — Steevens. 

a charm  your  tongues,']  i.  e,  Silence  your  tongues.     The  ordinary  reading 

is,  clamour  your  tongues  .-—the  emendation  which  I  have  adopted  is  proposed  by 
Mr.  Gifford,  who  says,  "  by  an  evident  misprint,  clamour  is  given  for  charm 
(silence)  your  tongues ;  and  the  painful  endeavours  of  the  commentators  to 
explain  the  simple  nonsense  of  the  text  by  contradictory  absurdities,  might 
claim  our  pity,  if  their  unfounded  absurdities  did  not  provoke  our  contempt." — 
Gifford's  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  iv.  405. 

b a  tawdry  lace,]  A  necklace,  so  called  from  S.  Audrey,  who  died  of  a 

swelling  in  her  throat,  which  she  considered  as  a  judgment  for  having  given 
into  the  vanity  of  wearing  such  ornaments  in  her  youth. 


418  WINTER'S  TALE. 

wife  was  brought  to  bed  of  twenty  money-bags  at  a  bur- 
den ;  and  how  she  longed  to  eat  adders'  heads,  and  toads 
carbonadoed. 

Mop.  Is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Aut.  Very  true ;  and  but  a  month  old. 

Dor.  Bless  me,  from  marrying  a  usurer  ! 

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

Mop.  'Pray  you  now,  buy  it. 

Clo.  Come  on,  lay  it  by  :  And  let's  first  see  more  bal- 
lads ;  we'll  buy  the  other  things  anon. 

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

Dor.  Is  it  true  too,  think  you  ? 

Ant.  Five  justices'  hands  at  it ;  and  witnesses,  more 
than  my  pack  will  hold. 

Clo.  Lay  it  by  too  :  Another. 

Aut.  This  is  a  merry  ballad  ;  but  a  very  pretty  one. 

Mop.  Let's  have  some  merry  ones. 

Aut.  Why,  this  is  a  passing  merry  one ;  and  goes  to 
the  tune  of  Two  maids  wooing  a  man:  there's  scarce  a 
maid  westward,  but  she  sings  it ;  'tis  in  request,  I  can 
tell  you. 

Mop.  We  can  both  sing  it ;  if  thou'lt  bear  a  part,  thou 
shalt  hear  ;  'tis  in  three  parts. 

Do7\  We  had  the  tune  on't  a  month  ago. 

Aut.  I  can  bear  my  part ;  you  must  know,  'tis  my  oc- 
cupation :  have  at  it  with  you. 

SONG. 

A.   Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go; 
Where,  it  Jits  not  you  to  knoio. 
D.   Whither?  M.  O,  whither?  D.    Whither? 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  419 

M.  It  becomes  thy  oath  full  well, 
Thou  to  vie  thy  secrets  tell: 
D.  Me  too,  let  me  go  thither. 

M.  Or  thou  go'st  to  the  grange,  or  mill: 
D.  If  to  either,  thou  dost  ill. 

A.  Neither.     D.  What,  neither!     A.  Neither. 
D,   Thou  hast  sworn  my  love  to  he; 
M.  Thou  hast  sivorn  it  more  to  me  : 
Then,  whither  go' st?  say ,  whither! 

Clo.  We'll  have  this  song  out  anon  by  ourselves;  My 
father  and  the  gentlemen  are  in  sad''  talk,  and  we'll  not 
trouble  them  :  Come,  bring  away  thy  pack  after  me. 
Wenches,  I'll  buy  for  you  both : — Pedler,  let's  have  the 
first  choice. — Follow  me,  girls. 

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

Will  you  buy  any  tape. 

Or  lace  for  your  cape. 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a  'r^ 

Any  silk,  any  thread. 

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

Come  to  the  pedler ; 

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

[Exeunt  Clown,  Autolycus,  Dorcas, 
and  MopsA. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.  Master,  there  is  three  carters,  three  shepherds, 
three  neat-herds,  three  swine-herds,  that  have  made  them- 
selves all  men  of  hair  ;<^  they  call  themselves  saltiers  :^ 
and  they  have  a  dance  which  the  wenches  say  is  a  galli- 
maufry^ of  gambols,  because  they  are  not  in't ;  but  they 
themselves  are  o'  the  mind,  (if  it  be  not  too  rough  for 
some,  that  know  Uttle  but  bowling,)  it  will  please  plen- 
tifully. 

c sad — ]  For  serious.  "^ utter — ]  i.  e.  Vend  by  retail. 

<= all  men  of  hair  ;'\  Men  of  hair,  are  hairy  men,  or  satyrs.     A  dance  of 

satyrs  was  no  unsual  entertainment  in  the  middle  ages. — Steevens. 

' saltiers .]  He  means  satyrs. 

« gallimaufry — ]  i.  e.  A  confused  heap  of  things^  together. — Steevens. 


420  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Shep.  Away  !  we'll  none  on't ;  here  has  been  too  much 
homely  foolery  already: — I  know,  sir,  we  weary  you. 

Pol.  You  weary  those  that  refresh  us :  Pray,  let's  see 
these  four  threes  of  herdsmen. 

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

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

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

Re-enter  Servant,  with  twelve  Rusticks,  habited  like.  Satyrs. 
They  dance,  and  then  exeunt. 

Pol.  O,  father,  you'll  know  more  of  that  hereafter.' — 
Is  it  not  too  far  gone  ? — 'Tis  time  to  part  them. — 
He's    simple,  and  tells   much.  [^S2c?e.]— How  now,  fair 

shepherd  ? 
Your  heart  is  full  of  something,  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.     Sooth,  when  I  was  young. 
And  handed  love,  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks  :"  I  would  have  ransack'd 
The  pedler's  silken  treasury,  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance  ;  you  have  let  him  go. 
And  nothing  marted  with  him :  If  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse ;  and  call  this, 
Your  lack  of  love,  or  bounty  ;  you  were  straited' 
For  a  reply,  at  least,  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are  : 
The  gifts,  she  looks  from  me,  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already. 
But  not  deliver'd. — O,  hear  me  breathe  my  life 
Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem. 
Hath  sometime  lov'd  :  I  take  thy  hand  ;  this  hand, 

h hu  the  squire.]  i.  e.  By  the  foot  rule. — Esquierre,  Fr. 

>  Pol.  6,  father,  you'll  know  more  of  that  hereafter. — ]  This  is  an  answer  to 
something  which  the  shepherd  is  supposed  to  have  said  to  PolLxenes  during 
the  dance. — M.  Wason. 

k Ttnacki .]  i.  e.  Tovs,  trifles. 

1 straited — ]  i.  e.  Put  to  difficultiei. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  421 

As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow. 
That's  bolted""  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Pol.  What  follows  this?— 
How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wash 
The  hand,  was  fair  before  ! — I  have  put  you  out  ;— 
But,  to  your  protestation  ;  let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 

Flo.  Do,  and  be  witness  to't. 

Pol.  And  this  my  neighbour  too  ? 

Flo.  And  he,  and  more 

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

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

Cam.  This  shows  a  sound  affection. 

Shep.  But  my  daughter. 

Say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 

Per.  I  cannot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well ;  no,  nor  mean  better ; 
By  the  pattern  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands,  a  bargain  : 

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

Flo.  O,  that  must  be 

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

" or  the  fann'd  snow, 

That's  bolted,  &c.]  The  fine  sieve  used  by  millers  to  separate  flower  from 
bran  is  called  a  bolting  doth. — Hahris. 


422  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Shep.  Come,  your  hand ; 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

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

Have  you  a  father? 

Flo.  I  have  :  But  what  of  him  ? 

Pol.  Knows  he  of  this  ? 

Flo.  He  neither  does,  nor  shall. 

Pol.  Methinks,  a  father 
Is,  at  the  nuptial  of  his  son,  a  guest 
That  best  becomes  the  table.     Pray  you,  once  more ; 
Is  not  your  father  grown  incapable 
Of  reasonable  aifairs  ?  Is  he  not  stupid 
With  age,  and  altering  rheums?  Can  he  speak?  hear? 
Know  man  from  man  ?  dispute  his  own  estate  ?" 
Lies  he  not  bed-rid  ?  and  again  does  nothing. 
But  what  he  did  being  childish  ? 

Flo.  No,  good  sir ; 

He  has  his  health,  and  ampler  strength,  indeed. 
Than  most  have  of  his  age. 

Pol.  By  my  white  beard. 

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

Flo.  I  yield  all  this; 

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

Pol.  Let  him  know't. 

Flo.  He  shall  not. 

Pol.  Pr'ythee,  let  him. 

Flo.  No,  he  must  not. 

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

" dispute  his  owii  estate?]  Perhaps  for  dispute  we.  might  read  compute: 

but  dispute  his  estate  may  be  the  same  with  talk  over  his  affairs. — Johnson. 
It  probably  means  "can  he  vindicate  his  right  to  his  own  property." — M. 
Mason. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  423 

Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not : — 

Mark  our  contract. 

Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

[Discovering  himself. 
Whom  son  I  dare  not  call ;  thou  art  too  base 
To  be  acknowledg'd  :  Thou  a  scepter's  heir. 
That  thus  afFect'st  a  sheep-hook  ! — Thou  old  traitor, 
I  am  sorry,  that,  by  hanging  thee,  I  can  but 
Shorten  thy  life  one  week. — And  thou,  fresh  piece 
Of  excellent  witchcraft ;  who,  of  force,  must  know 
The  royal  fool  thou  cop'st  with  ; 

Shep.  O,  my  heart! 

Pol.  I'll  have  thy  beauty  scratch'd  with  briars,  and 
made 
More  homely  than  thy  state. — For  thee,  fond  boy, — 
If  I  may  ever  know,  thou  dost  but  sigh. 
That  thou  no  more  shalt  never  see  this  knack,  (as  never 
I  mean  thou  shalt,)  we'll  bar  thee  from  succession  ; 
Not  hold  thee  of  our  blood,  no,  not  our  kin. 
Far"  than  Deucalion  off; — Mark  thou  my  words  ; 
Follow  us  to  the  court. — Thou  churl,  for  this  time, 
Though  full  of  our  displeasure,  yet  we  free  thee 
From  the  dead  blow  of  it.— And  you,  enchantment, — 
Worthy  enough  a  herdsman  ;  yea,  him  too. 
That  makes  himself,  but  for  our  honour  therein. 
Unworthy  thee, — if  ever,  henceforth,  thou 
These  rural  latches  to  this  entrance  open. 
Or  hoop  his  body  more  with  thy  embraces, 
I  will  devise  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee, 
As  thou  art  tender  to't.  [Exit. 

Per.  Even  here  undone ! 

I  was  not  much  afeard  :p  for  once,  or  twice, 
I  was  about  to  speak  ;  and  tell  him  plainly, 
The  selfsame  sun,  that  shines  upon  his  court. 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 

o  Yar — ]  i.  e.  Further,  the  ancient  comparative  offer  wasferrer,  which  was 
softened  into  ferre,  in  the  time  of  Chaucer. — Tyrwiiitt. 

P  I  ivas  not  much  afeard  :  &c.]  The  character  is  here  finely  sustained.  To 
have  made  her  quite  astonished  at  the  king's  discovery  of  himself  had  not  be- 
come lier  birth ;  and  to  have  given  her  presence  of  mind  to  have  made  this 
reply  to  the  king,  had  not  become  her  education. — Waeburton. 


424  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Looks  on  alike. — Will't  please  you,  sir,  be  gone  ? 

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

Cam.  Why,  how  now,  father  ? 

Speak,  ere  thou  diest. 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think. 

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

[To  Florizel. 
You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore  three. 
That  thought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea. 
To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died, 
To  He  close  by  his  honest  bones  :  but  now 
Some  hangman  must  put  on  my  shroud,  and  lay  me 
Where  no  priest  shovels-in  dust. — O  cursed  wretch  ! 

[^To  Perdita. 
That  knew'st  this  was  the  prince,  and  would'st  adventure 
To  mingle  faith  with  him. — Undone !  undone ! 
If  I  might  die  within  this  hour,  1  have  liv'd 
To  die  when  I  desire.  [^Exii. 

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

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

Cam.  Gracious  my  lord. 

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

jP/o.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Even  he,  my  lord. 

Per.  How  often  have  I  told  you,  'twould  be  thus  ? 
How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  'twere  known  ? 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  425 

Flo.  It  cannot  fail,  but  by 

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

Cam.  Be  advis'd. 

Flo.  I  am  ;  and  by  my  fancy  :i  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason  ; 
If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleased  with  madness. 
Did  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.  So  call  it :  but  it  does  fulfil  my  vow  ; 
I  needs  must  think  it  honesty.     Camillo, 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  belov'd  :  Therefore,  I  pray  you. 
As  you  have  e'er  been  my  father's  honour'd  friend. 
When  he  shall  miss  me,  (as,  in  faith,  I  meant  not 
To  see  him  any  more,)  cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion  ;  Let  myself  and  fortune. 
Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know. 
And  so  deliver, — I  am  put  to  sea 
With  her,  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore  ; 
And,  most  opportune  to  our  need,  I  have 
A  vessel  rides  fast  by,  but  not  prepar'd 
For  this  design.     What  course  I  mean  to  hold. 
Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 
Concern  me  the  reporting. 

Cam.  O,  my  lord, 

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

Flo.  Hark,  Perdita. 

[Takes  her  aside. 
I'll  hear  you  by  and  by.  [To  Camillo. 

Cam.  He's  irremovable, 

'^ ««^  h  '^y  fancy :]  It  must  be  remembered  that/anci/  in  our  author 

very  often,  as  in  this  place,  means  /ow.— Johnson. 


426  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Resolv'd  for  flight :  Now  were  I  happy,  if 
His  going  I  could  frame  to  serve  my  turn ; 
Save  him  from  danger,  do  him  love  and  honour ; 
Purchase  the  sight  again  of  dear  Sicilia, 
And  that  unhappy  king,  ray  master,  whom 
I  so  much  thirst  to  see. 

Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo, 

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

Cam.  Sir,  I  think. 

You  have  heard  of  my  poor  services,  i'the  love 
That  I  have  borne  your  father  ? 

Flo.  Very  nobly 

Have  you  deserv'd  :  it  is  my  father's  musick. 
To  speak  your  deeds  ;  not  little  of  his  care 
To  have  them  recompens'd  as  thought  on. 

Cam.  Well,  my  lord. 

If  you  may  please  to  think  I  love  the  king ; 
And,  through  him,  what  is  nearest  to  him,  which  is 
Your  gracious  self;  embrace  but  my  direction, 
(If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 
May  suffer  alteration,)  on  mine  honour 
I'll  point  you  where  you  shall  have  such  receiving 
As  shall  become  your  highness  ;  where  you  may 
Enjoy  your  mistress  (from  the  whom,  I  see. 
There's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by, 
As  heavens  forfend  !  your  ruin:)  marry  her; 
And  (with  my  best  endeavours,  in  your  absence,) 
Your  discontenting""  father  strive  to  qualify. 
And  bring  him  up  to  liking. 

Flo.  How,  Camillo, 

May  this,  almost  a  miracle,  be  done  ? 
That  I  may  call  thee  something  more  than  man. 
And,  after  that,  trust  to  thee. 

Cam.  Have  you  thought  on 

A  place,  whereto  you'll  go  ? 

Flo.  Not  any  yet : 

But  as  the  unthought-on  accident  is  guilty 

f discontenting — ]  This  word  is  in  our  author's  language  the  same  as 

discontented, — Ma  lone. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  427 

To  what  we  wildly  do ;'  so  we  profess 
Ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of  chance,  and  flies 
Of  every  wind  that  blows. 

Cam.  Then  list  to  me  : 

This  follows, — if  you  will  not  change  your  purpose, 
But  undergo  this  flight ;— Make  for  Sicilia  ; 
And  there  present  yourself,  and  your  fair  princess, 
CFor  so,  I  see,  she  must  be,)  'fore  Leontes ; 
She  shall  be  habited,  as  it  becomes 
The  partner  of  your  bed.     Methinks,  I  see 
Leontes,  opening  his  free  arms,  and  weeping 
His  welcomes  forth  :  asks  thee,  the  son,  forgiveness. 
As  'twere  i'the  father's  person  :  kisses  the  hands 
Of  your  fresh  princess  :  o'er  and  o'er  divides  him 
'Twixt  his  unkindness  and  his  kindness  ;  the  one 
He  chides  to  hell,  and  bids  the  other  grow, 
Faster  than  thought,  or  time. 

Flo.  Worthy  Camillo, 

What  colour  for  my  visitation  shall  I 
Hold  up  before  him  ? 

Cam.  Sent  by  the  king  your  father 

To  greet  him,  and  to  give  him  comforts.     Sir, 
The  manner  of  your  bearing  towards  him,  with 
What  you,  as  from  your  father,  shall  deliver. 
Things  known  betwixt  us  three,  I'll  write  you  down  : 
The  which  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting. 
What  you  must  say  ;  that  he  shall  not  perceive. 
But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there. 
And  speak  his  very  heart. 

Flo.  I  am  bound  to  you : 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 

Cam.  A  course  more  promising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undream'd  shores  ;  most  certain. 
To  miseries  enough  :  no  hope  to  help  you  ; 

s  But  as  the  un thought- on  accident  is  guilty 
To  what  we  wildly  do ;]  Guilty  to,  though  it  sounds  harsh  to  our  ears,  was 
the  phraseology  of  the  time,  or  at  least  of  Shakspeare ;  and  this  is  one  of 
those  passages  that  should  caution  us  not  to  disturb  his  text  merely  because 
the  language  appears  different  from  that  now  in  use. — Ma  lone.  The  wn- 
thought-071  accident  is  the  unexpected  discovery  made  bv  Polixenes. — M. 
Mason.  ^  ^  ^ 


428  WINTER'S  TALE. 

But,  as  you  shake  off  one,  to  take  another : 

Nothing  so  certain  as  your  anchors  ;  who 

Do  their  best  office,  if  they  can  but  stay  you 

Where  you'll  be  loath  to  be  :  Besides,  you  know. 

Prosperity's  the  very  bond  of  love  ; 

Whose  fresh  complexion  and  whose  heart  together 

Affliction  alters. 

Per.  One  of  these  is  true  : 

I  think,  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek. 
But  not  take  in*  the  mind. 

Cam.  Yea,  say  you  so  ? 

There  shall  not,  at  your  father's  house,  these  seven  years. 
Be  bom  another  such. 

Flo.  My  good  Camillo, 

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

Cam.  I  cannot  say,  'tis  pity 

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

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this : 

I'll  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.  My  prettiest  Perdita. 

But,  O,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon! — Camillo, — 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me  ; 
The  medicin  of  our  house !  How  shall  we  do  ? 
We  art  not  fumish'd  like  Bohemia's  son  ; 

Nor  shall  appear  in  Sicily 

Cam.  My  lord. 

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

[Thei/  talk  aside. 

Enter  Autolycus. 

Aut.  Ha,  ha !  what  a  fool  honesty  is  !  and  trust,  his 

sworn  brother,  a  very  simple  gentleman !   I  have  sold  all 

my  trumpery  ;  not  a  counterfeit  stone,  not  a  riband,  glass, 

* take  in — ]  This  phrase  ancieutly  meant  to  conquer,  to  get  the  better  of. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  429 

pomander,"  brooch,  table-book,  ballad,  knife,  tape,  glove, 
shoe-tye,  bracelet,  horn-ring,  to  keep  my  pack  from  fast- 
ing :  they  throng  who  should  buy  first;  as  if  my  trinkets 
had  been  hallowed,"  and  brought  a  benediction  to  the 
buyer  :  by  which  means,  I  saw  whose  purse  was  best  in 
picture  ;  and,  what  I  saw,  to  my  good  use,  I  remembered. 
My  clown,  (who  wants  but  something  to  be  a  reasonable 
man,)  grew  so  in  love  with  the  wenches'  song,  that  he 
would  not  stir  his  pettitoes,  till  he  had  both  tune  and 
words ;  which  so  drew  the  rest  of  the  herd  to  me,  that  all 
their  other  senses  stuck  in  ears  :  you  might  have  pinched 
a  placket,  it  was  senseless  ;  'twas  nothing,  to  geld  a  cod- 
piece of  a  purse  ;  I  would  have  filed  keys  off,  that  hung 
in  chains :  no  hearing,  no  feeling,  but  my  sir's  song,  and 
admiring  the  nothing  of  it.  So  that,  in  this  time  of  le- 
thargy, I  picked  and  cut  most  of  their  festival  purses : 
and  had  not  the  old  man  come  in  with  a  whoobub  against 
his  daughter  and  the  king's  son,  and  scared  my  choughs 
from  the  chaff,  I  had  not  left  a  purse  alive  in  the  whole 
army.  [Camillo,  Florizel,  and  Perdita, 

come  forward. 

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

Flo.  And   those  that  you'll   procure   from  king 
Leontes, 

Cam.  Shall  satisfy  your  father. 

Per.  Happy  be  you  ! 

All,  that  you  speak,  shows  fair. 

Cam.  Who  have  we  here  ? 

[^Seeing  Autolycus. 
We'll  make  an  instrument  of  this  ;  omit 
Nothing,  may  give  us  aid. 

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

\_Aside. 

u pomander,]  A  'pomander  was  a  little  ball  made  of  perfumes,  and 

worn  in  the  pocket,  or  about  the  neck,  to  prevent  infection  in  times  of  plague. 
—Grey. 

X trinkets  had  been  hallowed,']  This  alludes  to  the  beads  often  sold  by 

the  Romanists  as  made  particularly  efficacious  by  the  touch  of  some  relick.— 
Johnson. 

VOL.    III.  2    F 


430  WINTER/'S  TALE. 

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

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

Cam.  Why,  be  so  still ;  here's  nobody  will  steal  that 
from  thee  :  Yet,  for  the  outside  of  thy  poverty,  we  must 
make  an  exchange ;  therefore,  disease  thee  instantly, 
(thou  must  think,  there's  necessity  in't,)  and  change  gar- 
ments with  this  gentleman  :  Though  the  pennyworth,  on 
his  side,  be  the  worst,  yet  hold  thee,  there's  some  boot.^ 

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

[Aside. 

Cam.  Nay,  pr'ythee,  despatch  :  the  gentleman  is  half 
flayed  already/ 

Aut.  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir  ? — I  smell  the  trick  of  it. — 

[Aside. 

Flo.  Despatch,  I  pr'ythee. 

Aut.  Indeed,  I  have  had  earnest ;  but  I  cannot  with 
conscience  take  it. 

Cam.  Unbuckle,  unbuckle. — 

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

Per.  I  see  the  play  so  lies. 

That  I  must  bear  a  part. 

Cam.  No  remedy. — 

Have  you  done  there  ? 

Flo.  Should  I  now  meet  my  father. 

He  would  not  call  me  son. 

Cam.  Nay,  you  shall  have 

No  hat : — Come,  lady,  come. — Farewell,  my  friend. 

y boot,']  That  is,  something  over  and  above ;  or,  as  we  now  say,  iome- 

ihing  to  boot. — Johnson. 
X  — .  is  half  flayed  already.']  i.  e.  Half  stripped  already. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  431 

Aut.  Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.  O,  Perdita,  what  have  we  twain  forgot  ? 
Pray  you  a  word.  [Thei/  converse  apart. 

Cam.  What  I  do  uQxt,  shall  be  to  tell  the  king  {Aside. 
Of  this  escape,  and  whither  they  are  bound  : 
Wherein,  my  hope  is,  I  shall  so  prevail. 
To  force  him  after  ;  in  whose  company 
I  shall  review  Sicilia ;  for  whose  sight 
I  have  a  woman's  longing. 

Flo.  Fortune  speed  us  ! — 

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

Cam.  The  swifter  speed  the  better. 

lExeunt  Florizel,  Perdita,  and  Camillo. 

Aut.  I  understand  the  business,  I  hear  it :  To  have  an 
open  ear,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble  hand,  is  necessary  for 
a  cut-purse ;  a  good  nosef'  is  requisite  also,  to  smell  out 
work  for  the  other  senses.  I  see,  this  is  the  time  that  the 
unjust  man  doth  thrive.  What  an  exchange  had  this 
been,  without  boot  ?  what  a  boot  is  here,  with  this  ex- 
change ?  Sure,  the  gods  do  this  year  connive  at  us,  and 
we  may  do  any  thing  extempore.  The  prince  himself  is 
about  a  piece  of  iniquity ;  stealing  away  from  his  father, 
with  his  clog  at  his  heels :  If  I  thought  it  were  not  a  piece 
of  honesty  to  acquaint  the  king  withal,  I  would  do't:  I 
hold  it  the  more  knavery  to  conceal  it :  and  therein  am  I 
constant  to  my  profession. 

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

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

Shep.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Shep.  Go  to  then. 

Clo.  She  being  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood,  your  flesh 
and  blood  has  not  offended  the  king ;  and,  so,  your  flesh 
and  blood  is  not  to  be  punished  by  him.     Show  those 
2  F  2 


432  WINTER'S  TALE. 

things  you  found  about  her ;  those  secret  things,  all  but 
what  she  has  with  her :  This  being  done,  let  the  law  go 
whistle;  I  warrant  you. 

Shep.  I  will  tell  the  king  all,  every  word,  yea,  and  his 
son's  pranks  too ;  who,  I  may  say,  is  no  honest  man,  nei- 
ther to  his  father,  nor  to  me,  to  go  about  to  make  me  the 
king's  brother-in-law. 

Clo.  Indeed,  brother-in-law  was  the  furthest  off  you 
could  have  been  to  him ;  and  then  your  blood  had  been 
the  dearer,  by  I  know  not*"  how  much  an  ounce. 

Aut.  Very  wisely;  puppies  !  \_Aside. 

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

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

Clo.  'Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 

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

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

Aut.  Your  affairs  there  ?  what  ?  with  whom  ?  the  con- 
dition of  that  fawlel,  the  place  of  your  dwelling,  your  names, 
your  ages,  of  what  having,*"  breeding,  and  any  thing  that 
is  fitting  to  be  known,  discover. 

Clo.  We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

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

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

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

b 1  know  not- — ]  The  not  was  inserted  by  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer. 

c fardel,']  i.  e.  Bundle. 

^ excrement,']  This  word  was  in  our  author's  days  frequently  used  for 

beard. 

e having]  i.  e.  Estate,  property. 

' therefore  they  do  not  give  us  lite  lie,]  The  meaning  is,  they  are  paid  for 

lying,  therefore  they  do  not  give  us  the  lie,  they  sell  it  us. — Johnson. 

e with  the  manner.]  hi  the  fact. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III.  433 

Aut.  Whether  it  like  me,  or  no,  I  am  a  courtier. 
See'st  thou  not  the  air  of  the  court,  in  these  enfoldings  ? 
hath  not  my  gait  in  it  the  measure  of  the  court  ?  receives 
not  thy  nose  court  odour  from  me  1  reflect  I  not  on  thy 
baseness,  court-contempt  ?  Think'st  thou,  for  that  I  insi- 
nuate, or  toze*^  from  thee  thy  business,  I  am  therefore  no 
courtier  ?  I  am  courtier  cap-a-p^  ;  and  one  that  will  either 
push  on,  or  pluck  back  thy  business  there  :  whereupon  I 
command  thee  to  open  thy  affair. 

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

Jut.  What  advocate  hast  thou  to  him  ? 

Shep.  I  know  not,  an't  like  you. 

Clo.  Advocate's  the  court-word  for  a  pheasant ;'  say, 
you  have  none. 

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

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

Clo.  This  cannot  be  biit  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears  them  not 
handsomely. 

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

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

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

Aut.  Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.  Why,  sir  ? 

Aut.  The  king  is  not  at  the  palace :  he  is  gone  aboard 

•> insinuate,  or  toze — ]  To  insinuate,  and  to  tease,  or  toaze,  are  opposite. 

The  former  signifies  to  introduce  itself  obliquely  into  a  thing,  and  the  latter  to 
get  something  out  that  was  knotted  up  in  it. — Henley. 

•  Advocate's  the  court  word  for  a  pheasant ;]  The  mode  of  propitiating  the  great 
by  presents  of  game  and  poultry  was  common  in  Elizabeth's  days.  There  were 
justices  of  the  peace  called  basket  justices,  who  would  do  nothing  without  a  pre- 
sent :  yet,  as  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  expressed  himself,  "  for 
half  a  dozen  chickens  would  dispense  with  a  whole  dozen  of  penal  statutes." — 
Sir  Simon  D'Ewes's  Journals  of  Parliament  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  Reign, — Reed. 


434  WINTER'S  TALE. 

a  new  ship  to  purge  melancholy,  and  air  himself :  For,  if 
thou  be'st  capable  of  things  serious,  thou  must  know,  the 
king  is  full  of  grief. 

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

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

Clo.  Think  you  so,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suffer  what  wit  can  make  heavy, 
and  vengeance  bitter ;  but  those  that  are  germane  to  him, 
though  removed  fifty  times,  shall  all  come  under  the  hang- 
man :  which  though  it  be  great  pity,  yet  it  is  necessary. 
An  old  sheep-whistling  rogue,  a  ram-tender,  to  offer  to 
have  his  daughter  come  into  grace  !  Some  say,  he  shall 
be  stoned  ;  but  that  death  is  too  soft  for  him,  say  I :  Draw 
our  throne  into  a  sheep-cote  !  all  deaths  are  too  few,  the 
sharpest  too  easy. 

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

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

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  of  great  authority  :  close  with  him, 
give  him  gold  ;  and  though  authority  be  a  stubborn  bear, 

k the  holiest  day  prognostication  proclaims,']  That  is,  the  hottest  day  fore- 
told in  the  almanack. — Johkson. 

I being  something' gently  considered,}. — means,  I  having  a  gentlemanlike 

consideraiion  givenme,  i.  e.  a  bribe,  will  bring  you,  &c. — Steevens. 


AOT  IV.— SCENE  III.  435 

yet  he  is  oft  led  by  the  nose  with  gold  :  show  the  inside 
of  your  purse  to  the  outside  of  his  hand,  and  no  more  ado : 
Remember  stoned,  and  flayed  alive. 

Shep,  An't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the  business  for 
us,  here  is  that  gold  I  have  :  I'll  make  it  as  much  more  ; 
and  leave  this  young  man  in  pawn,  till  I  bring  it  you. 

Aut.  After  I  have  done  what  I  promised  ? 

Shep.  Ay,  sir. 

Aut.  Well,  give  me  the  moiety :— Are  you  a  party  in 
this  business? 

do.  In  some  sort,  sir  :  but  though  my  case  be  a  pitiful 
one,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  flayed  out  of  it. 

Aut.  O,  that's  the  case  of  the  shepherd's  son  : — Hang 
him,  he'll  be  made  an  example. 

Clo.  Comfort,  good  comfort:  we  must  to  the  king,  and 
show  our  strange  sights  :  he  must  know,  'tis  none  of  your 
daughter,  nor  my  sister ;  we  are  gone  else.  Sir,  I  will 
give  you  as  much  as  this  old  man  does,  when  the  business 
is  performed  ;  and  remain,  as  he  says,  your  pawn,  till  it 
be  brought  you. 

Aut.  I  will  trust  you.  Walk  before  toward  the  sea- 
side ;  go  on  the  right  hand  ;  I  will  but  look  upon  the 
hedge,  and  follow  you. 

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

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

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


436  WINTER'S  TALE. 

ACT  V. 

Scene.  I.— Sicilia.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  of  Leontes. 

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

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

Leoti.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her,  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them ;  and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself:  which  was  so  much. 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom ;  and 
Destroy'd  the  sweet'st  companion,  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord : 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world. 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are,  took  something  good, 
To  make  a  perfect  woman ;  she,  you  kill'd, 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd  ! 

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

Cleo.  Not  at  all,  good  lady : 

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

Paid.  You  are  one  of  those. 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so. 

You  pity  not  the  state,  nor  the  remembrance 
Of  his  most  sovereign  dame ;  consider  little. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  437 

What  dangers,  by  his  highness'  fail  of  issue, 
May  drop  upon  his  kingdom,  and  devour 
Incertain  lookers-on.     What  were  more  holy, 
Than  to  rejoice,  the  former  queen  is  well  ?" 
What  holier,  than, — for  royalty's  repair. 
For  present  comfort  and  for  future  good, — 
To  bless  the  bed  of  majesty  again 
With  a  sweet  fellow  to't? 

Paul.  There  is  none  worthy. 

Respecting  her  that's  gone.     Besides,  the  gods 
Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes  : 
For  has  not  the  divine  Apollo  said, 
Is't  not  the  tenour  of  his  oracle. 
That  king  Leontes  shall  not  have  an  heir. 
Till  his  lost  child  be  found  ?  which,  that  it  shall. 
Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  human  reason. 
As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  grave, 
And  come  again  to  me  ;  who,  on  my  life. 
Did  perish  with  the  infant.     'Tis  your  counsel. 
My  lord  should  to  the  heavens  be  contrary. 
Oppose  against  their  wills. — Care  not  for  issue  ; 

[To  Leontes. 
The  crown  will  find  an  heir :  Great  Alexander 
Left  his  to  the  worthiest ;  so  his  successor 
Was  like  to  be  the  best. 

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

Paiii.  And  left  them 

More  rich,  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives  ;  therefore,  no  wife ;  one  worse. 
And  better  us'd,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 
Again  possess  her  corps ;  and,  on  this  stage, 
(Where  we  offenders  now  appear,)  soul-vex'd. 
Begin,  And  why  to  me  ? 

" the  former  queen  ii  tueii?]  i.  e.  At  rest,  dead. 


438  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Paul.  Had  she  such  power. 

She  had  just  cause. 

Leon.  She  had ;  and  would  incense  me" 

To  murder  her  I  married. 

Paul.  I  should  so : 

Were  I  the  ghost  that  walk'd,  I'd  bid  you  mark 
Her  eye  ;  and  tell  me,  for  what  dull  part  in't 
You  chose  her:  then  I'd  shriek,  that  even  your  ears 
Shoa'd  rift"  to  hear  me ;  and  the  words  that  foUow'd 
Should  be.  Remember  mine. 

Leon.  Stars,  stars. 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals! — fear  thou  nowife, 
I'll  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 

Paul.  Will  you  swear 

Never  to  marry,  but  by  my  free  leave  ? 

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

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

Cleo.  You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paul.  Unless  another. 

As  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture, 
AffrontP  his  eye. 

Cleo.  Good  madam, — 

Paul.  I  have  done. 

Yet,  if  my  lord  will  marry, — if  you  will,  sir. 
No  remedy,  but  you  will ;  give  me  the  office 
To  choose  you  a  queen  ;  she  shall  not  be  so  young 
As  was  your  former ;  but  she  shall  be  such. 
As,  walk'd  your  first  queen's  ghost,  it  should  take  joy 
To  see  her  in  your  arms. 

Leon.  My  true  Paulina, 

We  shall  not  marry,  till  thou  bidd'st  us. 

Paul.  That 

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

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  One  that  gives  out  himself  prince  Florizel, 
Son  of  Polixenes,  with  his  princess,  (she 

n incense — ]  i.  e.  Instigate.  ° rift — ]  i.  e.  Split. 

P  Affront— ]  i.e.  Meet. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  439 

The  fairest  I  have  yet  beheld,)  desires  access 
To  your  high  presence. 

Leon.  What  with  him  ?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  his  father's  greatness  :  his  approach. 
So  out  of  circumstance,  and  sudden,  tells  us, 
'Tis  not  a  visitation  fram'd,  but  forc'd 
By  need,  and  accident.     What  train  ? 

Gent.  But  few. 

And  those  but  mean. 

Leon.  His  princess,  say  you,  with  him  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I  think. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

Paul.  O  Hermione, 

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

Gent.  Pardon,  madam ; 

The  one  I  have  almost  forgot ;  (your  pardon,) 
The  other,  when  she  has  obtain'd  your  eye. 
Will  have  your  tongue  too.'    This  is  such  a  creature. 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else  ;  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

Paul.  How?  not  women? 

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

Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes ; 

Yourself,  assisted  with  your  honour'd  friends. 
Bring  them  to  our  embracement. — Still  'tis  strange, 

lExeunt  Cleomenes,  Lords,  ««<i Gentleman. 
He  thus  should  steal  upon  us. 

Paul.  Had  our  prince, 

1  h  colder  than  that  theme,)]  i-  e.  Thau  the  lifeless  body  of  Hermione,  the 
theme  or  subject  of  your  writing. — Malone. 


440  WINTER'S  TALE. 

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

Leon.                               Pr'ythee,  no  more ;  cease,  thou 
know'st,  { 

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

Re-enter  Cleomenes,  with  Florizel,  Pebdita,  and 
Attendants. 

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

Flo.  By  his  command 

Have  I  here  touch'd  Sicilia :  and  from  him 
Give  you  all  greetings,  that  a  king,  and  friend,' 
Can  send  his  brother  :  and,  but  infirmity 
(Which  waits  upon  worn  times,)  hath  something  seiz'd 
His  wish'd  ability,  he  had  himself 
The  lands  and  waters  'twixt  your  throne  and  his 
Measur'd,  to  look  upon  you  ;  whom  he  loves 
(He  bade  me  say  so,)  more  than  all  the  scepters. 
And  those  that  bear  them,  living. 

Leon.  O,  my  brother, 

(Good  gentleman  !)  the  wrongs  1  have  done  thee,  stir 

"■ and  friend,']  The  old  copy  reads  at  friend. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I.  441 

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

Flo.  Good  my  lord. 

She  came  from  Libya. 

Leon.  Where  the  warlike  Smalus, 

That  noble  honour'd  lord,  is  fear'd,  and  lov'd  ? 

Flo.   Most  royal  sir,  from  thence ;    from  him,  whose 
daughter 
His  tears  proclaim'd  his,  parting  with  her :  thence 
(A  prosperous  south-wind  friendly,)  we  have  cross'd. 
To  execute  the  charge  my  father  gave  me. 
For  visiting  your  highness  :  My  best  train 
I  have  from  your  Sicilian  shores  dismissed ; 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir. 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's,  in  safety 
Here,  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air,  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here  !  You  have  a  holy  father, 
A  graceful'  gentleman  ;  against  whose  person. 
So  sacred  as  it  is,  I  have  done  sin  : 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angry  note. 
Have  left  me  issueless  :  and  your  father's  bless'd, 
(As  he  from  heaven  merits  it,)  with  you. 
Worthy  his  goodness.     What  might  I  have  been. 
Might  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have  look'd  on. 
Such  goodly  thiiigs  as  you  ? 

Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Most  noble  sir. 

That,  which  I  shall  report,  will  bear  no  credit. 
Were  not  the  proof  so  nigh.     Please  you,  great  sir, 

' graceful — ]  i.  e.  Full  of  grace  and  virtue. 


442  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Bohemia  greets  you  from  himself,  by  me  : 
Desires  you  to  attach  his  son ;  who  has 
(His  dignity  and  duty  both  cast  off,) 
Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 
A  shepherd's  daughter. 

Leon.  Where's  Bohemia?  speak. 

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

Flo.  Camillo  has  betray'd  me ; 

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

Lord.  Lay't  so,  to  his  charge ; 

He's  with  the  king  your  father. 

Leo?i.  Who?  Camillo? 

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

Per.  O,  my  poor  father  \ 

The  heaven  sits  spies  upon  us,  will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 

Leon.  You  are  married  ? 

Flo.  We  are  not,  sir,  nor  are  we  like  to  be ; 
The  stars,  I  see,  will  kiss  the  valleys  first : — 
The  odds  for  high  and  low's  ahke." 

Leon.  My  lord, 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  king? 

Flo.  She  is. 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 

' question.]  i.  e.  Conversation. 

"  The  odds  for  high  and  low's  alihe.^  A  quibble  upon  the  false  dice  so  called. 
—Douce. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  443 

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

Flo,  Dear,  look  up : 

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

Leon.  Would  lie  do  so,  I'd  beg  your  precious  mistress, 
Which  he  counts  but  a  trifle. 

Paul.  Sir,  my  liege. 

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

Leon.  I  thought  of  her. 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made. — But  your  petition 

[ToFlorizel. 
Is  yet  unanswer'd :  I  will  to  your  father ; 
Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 
I  am  a  friend  to  them,  and  you  :  upon  which  errand 
I  now  go  toward  him :  therefore,  follow  me, 
And  mark  what  way  I  make  :  Come,  good  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  same.    Before  the  Palace. 

JEw^er  AuTOLYCUs  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this  re- 
lation ? 

1  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel,  heard  the 

^ wortlil — is  perhaps  here  used  for  wealth,  as  in  many  other  places. 

y  Bemember  since  you  owed  no  more  to  time,  &c.]    Recollect  the  period  when 
you  were  of  my  age. 


444  WINTER'S  TALE. 

old  shepherd  deliver  the  manner  how  he  found  it :  where- 
upon, after  a  little  amazedness,  we  were  all  commanded 
out  of  the  chamber ;  only  this,  methought  I  heard  the 
shepherd  say,  he  found  the  child. 

Aut.  I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of  it. 

1  Gent.  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  business : — 
But  the  changes  I  perceived  in  the  king,  and  Camillo, 
were  very  notes  of  admiration  :  they  seemed  almost,  with 
staring  on  one  another,  to  tear  the  cases  of  their  eyes ; 
there  was  a  speech  in  their  dumbness,  language  in  their 
very  gesture ;  they  looked,  as  they  had  heard  of  a  world 
ransomed,  or  one  destroyed  :  A  noble  passion  of  wonder 
appeared  in  them :  but  the  wisest  beholder,  that  knew  no 
more  but  seeing,  could  not  say,  if  the  importance*  were 
joy,  or  sorrow  :  but  in  the  extremity  of  the  one,  it  must 
needs  be. 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 

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

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

Efiter  a  third  Gentleman. 

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

3  Gent.  Most  true ;  if  ever  truth  were  pregnant  by  cir- 
cumstance ;  that,  which  you  hear,  you'll  swear  you  see, 
there  is  such  unity  in  the  proofs.  The  mantle  of  queen 
Hermione  : — her  jewel  about  the  neck  of  it : — the  letters  of 
Antigonus,  found  with  it,  which  they  know  to  be  his  cha- 
racter : — the  majesty  of  the  creature,  in  resemblance  of  the 
mother : — the  affection  of  nobleness,*  which  nature  shows 

* importatice — ]  i.  e.  Import. 

'  '—the  affection  of  nobleness,']  Affection  here  perhaps  means  disposition  or 
quality. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  44S 

above  her  breeding, — and  many  other  evidences,  proclaim 
her,  with  certainty,  to  be  the  king's  daughter.  Did  you 
see  the  meeting  of  the  two  kings  ? 

2  Gent.  No. 

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

2  Gent.  What,  pray  you,  became  of  Antigonus,  that 
carried  hence  the  child  ? 

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

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

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

^ favour,"]  i.  e.  Countenance. 

«  clipping  her ;]  i.  e.  Embracing  her. 

<* weaiher-bitten  conduit — ]  Conduits  representing  a  human  figure  were 

not  uncommon ;  one  of  them,  a  female  form,  and  weather-bitten  still  exists  at 

Hoddesdon  in  Herts. — Henley. 

'     VOL.   III.  2g 


446  WINTER'S  TALE. 

cess  from  the  earth ;  and  so  locks  her  in  embracing,  as  if 
she  would  pin  her  to  her  heart,  that  she  might  no  more  be 
in  danger  of  losing. 

1  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  was  worth  the  audience 
of  kings  and  princes  ;  for  by  such  was  it  acted. 

3  Gent.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  and  that 
which  angled  for  mine  eyes  (caught  the  water,  though 
not  the  fish,)  was,  when  at  the  relation  of  the  queen's 
death,  with  the  manner  how  she  came  to  it,  (bravely  con- 
fessed, and  lamented  by  the  king,)  how  attentiveness 
wounded  his  daughter :  till,  from  one  sign  of  dolour  to 
another,  she  did,  with  an  alas !  I  would  fain  say,  bleed 
tears ;  for,  I  am  sure,  my  heart  wept  blood.  Who  was 
most  marble  there,*  changed  colour ;  some  swooned,  all 
sorrowed :  if  all  the  world  could  have  seen  it,  the  woe 
had  been  universal. 

1  Gent.  Are  they  returned  to  the  court  ? 

3  Gent, 4  No  :  the  princess  hearing  of  her  mother's  sta- 
tue, which  is  in  the  keeping  of  Paulina, — a  piece  many 
years  in  doing,  and  now  newly  performed  by  that  rare  Ita- 
lian master,  Julio  Romano  ;^  who,  had  he  himself  eternity,^ 
and  could  put  breath  into  his  work,  would  beguile  nature 
of  her  custom,''  so  perfectly  he  is  her  ape :  he  so  near  to 
Hermione  hath  done  Hermione,  that,  they  say,  one  would 
speak  to  her,  and  stand  in  hope  of  answer  :  thither  with 
all  greediness  of  affection,  are  they  gone ;  and  there  they 
intend  to  sup. 

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

1  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence,  that  has  the  benefit  of 
access  V  every  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new  grace  will  be 

e most  marble  there,]  i.  e.  Those  who  had  the  hardest  hearts. — M.  Mason; 

f  '  Julio  Romano,']  This  celebrated  painter  was  bom  in  the  year  1492, 
and  died  in  1546.  One  need  not  mention  the  absurd  anachronism  of  intro- 
ducing this  modem  artist  into  a  tale,  the  action  of  which  is  supposed  within 
the  period  of  heathenism  and  when  the  oracles  of  Apollo  were  consulted. — 
Theobald. 

« eternity,]  i.  e.  Immortality.  ^  custom,]  i.  e.  Trade. 

«  Who  would  iie  thence,  that  has  tlie  l>enejit  of  access?]    It  was,  1  suppose,  only 


ACT  v.— SCENE  II.  447 

born  :  our  absence  makes  us  unthrifty  to  our  knowledge. 
Let's  along.  [Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Aut.  Now,  had  I  not  the  dash  of  my  fonner  life  in  me, 
would  preferment  drop  on  my  head.  I  brought  the  old 
man  and  his  son  aboard  the  prince ;  told  him,  I  heard 
them  talk  of  a  fardel,  and  I  know  not  what :  but  he  at  that 
time,  over-fond  of  the  shepherd's  daughter,  (so  he  then 
took  her  to  be,)  who  began  to  be  much  sea-sick,  and  him- 
self little  better,  extremity  of  weather  continuing,  this 
mystery  remained  undiscovered.  But  'tis  all  one  to  me ; 
for  had  I  been  the  finder-out  of  this  secret,  it  would  not 
have  relished  among  my  other  discredits. 

Enter  Shepherd  and  Clown. 

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

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

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

Aut,  I  know,  you  are  now,  sir,  a  gentleman  born. 
Clo.  Ay,  and  have  been  so  any  time  these  four  hours. 
Shep.  And  so  have  I,  boy. 

Clo.  So  you  have  : — but  I  was  a  gentleman  born  before 
my  father :  for  the  king's  son  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
called  me,  brother;  and  then  the  two  kings  called  my 
father,  brother ;  and  then  the  prince,  my  brother,  and  the 
princess,  my  sister,  called  my  father,  father ;  and  so  we 
wept :  and  there  was  the  first  gentleman-like  tears  that 
ever  we  shed. 

to  spare  his  own  labour  that  the  poet  put  this  whole  scene  into  narrative,  for 
though  part  of  the  transaction  was  already  known  to  the  audience,  and  there- 
fore could  not  properly  be  shown  again,  yet  the  two  kings  might  have  met 
upon  the  stage,  and,  after  the  examination  of  the  old  shepherd,  the  young  lady 
might  have  been  recognised  in  sight  of  the  spectators. — Johnson.  Probably 
this  event  is  given  in  narrative  that  the  paramount  interest  of  the  play  may 
rest,  as  it  ought  to  do,  with  the  restoration  of  Hermione. 


448  WINTER'S  TALE. 

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

Clo.  Ay ;  or  else  'twere  hard  luck,  being  in  so  prepos- 
terous estate  as  we  are. 

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

Shep.  'Pr'ythee,  son,  do ;  for  we  must  be  gentle,  now  we 
are  gentlemen. 

Clo.  Thou  wilt  amend  thy  life  ? 

Aut.  Ay,  an  it  like  your  good  worship. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  will  swear  to  the  prince,  thou 
art  as  honest  a  true  fellow  as  any  is  in  Bohemia. 

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

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

Shep.  How  if  it  be  false,  son  ? 

Clo.  If  it  be  ne'er  so  false,  a  true  gentleman  may 
swear  it,  in  the  behalf  of  his  friend  : — And  I'll  swear  to 
the  prince,  thou  art  a  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands,  and  that 
thou  wilt  not  be  drunk  :  but  I  know,  thou  art  no  tall  fel- 
low of  thy  hands,  and  that  thou  wilt  be  drunk  j  but  I'll 
swear  it :  and  I  would,  thou  would'st  be  a  tall  fellow  of 
thy  hands.' 

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

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

{^Exeunt. 

k franklins  iay  it,']  Franklin  is  a  freeholder,  or  yeoman,  a  man  above  a 

villain,  but  not  a  gentleman. — Johnson. 

1 a  tallfeilotv  of  thy  hands.]  i.  e.  A  stout  or  brave  fellow  for  your  size. 

This  phrase  was  perhaps  used  for  the  sake  of  a  jocular  equivocation  in  the 
word  tall,  which  meant  either  bold  or  high. — Nares. 


ACT  v.— SCENE  III.  453 

Though  yet  she  speak  not.     Mark  a  little  while. — 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam ;  kneel, 
And  pray  your  mother's  blessing. — Turn,  good  lady ; 
Our  Perdita  is  found. 

[Presenting  Perdita,  who  kneels  to  Hermione. 

Her.  You  gods,  look  down. 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  ! — Tell  me,  mine  own. 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserv'd?  where  liv'd?  how  found 
Thy  father's  court  ?  for  thou  shalt  hear,  that  I, — 
Knowing  by  Paulina,  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being, — have  preserv'd 
Myself,  to  see  the  issue. 

Paul.  There's  time  enough  for  that ; 

Lest  they  desire,  upon  this  push,  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation. — Go  together. 
You  precious  winners  all ;'  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.''     I,  an  old  turtle,  • 
Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough ;  and  there 
My  mate,  that's  never  to  be  found  again. 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

Leon.  O  peace,  PauHna ; 

Thou  should'st  a  husband  take  by  my  consent. 
As  I  by  thine,  a  wife  :  this  is  a  match. 
And  made  between's  by  vows.     Thou  hast  found  mine; 
But  how,  is  to  be  question'd  :  for  I  saw  her. 
As  I  thought,  dead ;  and  have,  in  vain,  said  many 
A  prayer  upon  her  grave :  Fil  not  seek  far 
(For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind,)  to  find  thee 
An  honourable  husband  : — Come,  Camillo, 
And  take  her  by  the  hand  :  whose  worth,  and  honesty. 
Is  richly  noted  ;  and  here  justified 
By  us,  a  pair  of  kings. — Let's  from  this  place. — 
What  ? — Look  upon  my  brother : — both  your  pardons. 
That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 
My  ill  suspicion. — This  your  son-in-law, 

'  You  precious  winners  all ,]  You  who  by  this  discovery  have  gained  what 
you  desired,  may  join  in  festivity,  in  which  I,  who  have  lost  what  never  can 
be  recovered,  can  have  no  part. — Johnson. 

^  your  eiultatinn 

Partake—]  Here  used  ia  the  sense  oi  participate. 


454  WINTER'S  TALE. 

And  son  unto  the  king,  (whom  heavens  directing,) 

Is  troth-plight  to  your  daughter. — Good  Pauhna, 

Lead  us  from  hence  ;  where  we  may  leisurely 

Each  one  demand,  and  answer  to  his  part 

Perform'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time,  since  first 

We  were  dissevered  :  Hastily  lead  away.  [Exeimt} 

'  This  play,  as  Dr.  Warburton  justly  observes,  is,  with  all  its  absurdities, 
very  entertaining.  The  character  of  Autolycus  is  naturally  conceived,  and 
strongly  represented. — Johnson. 

Warburton  is  not  guilty  of  a  criticism  so  frigid  as  Johnson  has  represented. 
— His  words  are 

"  This  play,  throughout,  is  written  in  the  very  spirit  of  its  author.     And  in 
telling  this  homely  and  simple,  though  agreeable,  country  tale. 
Oar  sweetest  Shakspeare,  fancy's  child, 
Warbles  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

This  was  necessary  to  observe  in  mere  justice  to  the  play  ;  as  the  mean- 
ness of  the  fable,  and  the  extravagant  conduct  of  it,  had  misled  some  of  great 
name  into  a  wrong  judgment  of  its  merit ;  which,  as  far  as  it  regards  sentiment 
and  character,  is  scarce  inferior  to  any  in  the  whole  collection." 

The  persons  of  great  name  to  whom  Warburton  alludes  are  Dryden  and 
Pope.  The  former  of  whom  mentions  this  play  with  no  great  indulgence,  in 
the  Essay  at  the  end  of  the  second  part  of  the  Conquest  of  Grenada  ;  while  the 
latter,  in  the  preface  to  his  edition  of  our  author's  works,  is  rash  enough  to 
tlassit  with  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  and  Titus  Andronicus, 
as  one  of  the  plays,  in  which  Shakspeare  had  produced,  only  some  characters, 
or  single  scenes,  or  perhaps  a  few  particular  passages. 


END  OF  VOL.  111. 


Printed  by  J.  F.  Dove,  Si.  John's  Square. 


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