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AS YOU LIKE IT . . 187 



TEMPEST ........: . . . , 337 




' All the world's a stage. 


Title-page.— Act V., Scene HI. From a Design by 
W. Harvey 1 


Head of Boccaccio 3 

Henry II. of France. — From Montfaucon 10 

Duke of Florence. — From Vecellio 10 

French Nobleman. — From Montfaucon 11 

French Noble Lady. — From ditto 11 


Border. — Designed from contemporary representa- 
tions of Military Insignia on Tombs at Florence 
and in the North of Italy. See Letti's ' Famig- 
lia Celebri Italiani' 12 


Interior of Palace in Rousillon. — Countess and 

Clown. Harvey and Prior 13 

Gate of Perpignan. Sargent 21 


Interior of Louvre. — Scene I. Harvey and Prior 23 
General View of Paris. Sargent ■ 33 


Barber. — From a Print by J. Amman, 1568 34 

Morris for May-day. Mr. Toilet's window 34 

Court of the Duke's Palace, Florence. — Scene I. 
Arundale and Harvey 3G 

Without the Walls of Florence.— Scene V. Sar- 

GEKT 42 


Hand-gun 43 

Arquebus 43 


Florentine Camp and General View of Florence. — 
Scene I. Sargent 45 

Parolles unmuffled.— ' So look about you; know 
youanyhere?' W. Dickes 53 


Travelling Waggon of the Fifteenth Century 54 

Carriage of 1582 54 


Marseilles. Sargent 55 

Court of Countess's Palace. — Lafeu, Parolles, and 
Clown. Harvey and Prior Gl 

illustration op act v. 
Gentle Astringer.— From a French Sculpture, temp. 



supplementary notice. 

Design. W. Dickes. 

' Indian-like, 
Religious in mine error, I adore 
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 

But knows of him no more.' 63 

Fool's Bauble, Sec ^ 




Tttle-page-From a Design by W. Hakvev 67 


Ario»to.-From a Print by Raffaelle Morghen C9 


Border.-' Honeysuckles ripen'd by the sun' 


Scene Ill.-Setting the Watch.* Harvey and 

Tiffin - 

Ancient Watchmen, temp. Eliz. 





Street in Messina.* G. F. Sargent •■•••••• 

Scene II.-' A thick-pleached aUey in my orchard. 
G. F. Sargent 




Flifiht Arrows.— From Specimens ;•••• 

Bird-bolts.-From a Cut in Douce's Illustrations... 81 

Portrait of Fulk Grevil^e, first Lord Brooke S- 

Fashions of Hats ^ 

Canker, or Dog Rose 


'Haggards of the Kock.'-Peregrine Falcon. M. ^^^ 

"OlCKES *•.*•■•••■•■•••■•**•• •••••■••• •••••••■" •••>•• ••' 

Lanterns, temp. Eliz. From contemporary Prints 102 
Rahato, or ruff for the neck. - Portrait of the 
Countess of Bedford, from a contemporary 


Holy Thistle.— From a Specimen 



Scene I.— Interior of Cathedral at Messina.* Har- 
vey and Prior 



Exterior of Cathedral of Messina.* Harvey and 


Scene I.— Masque in Leonato's House. Harvey 

and Prior 

Garden. Balthazar sings. G. F. Sargent 


Caricature from Borde . 





Scene III.— Hero's Requiem. Harvey and Prior 1 19 


Ancient Walking-sticks 


Messina, from the Sea. G. F. Sargent 



Cupids forging Arrows. 

From Albano 12G 

The designs marked thus * are from original sketches by F. Arundale 


Title-page.— From a Design by W. Harvey. 


introductory NOTICE. 

Le Roi boit— Flemish Twelfth Night. After a 

Picture by Jordaens 129 

Woman of Mitylene.— From Vecellio 133 


Border.— Interior of a Chamber '34 


Spalatio.— Scene II. ' This is Illyria, lady.' G. F. 
Sargent l''^ 


' Turn o' the toe like a parish-top.* Anelay 144 

Vlol-de-Gamboys.-From Harl. MS. 4375 145 

Portrait of Moll Cut-Purse.— From Middleton's 

' Roaring Girl 146 

EhcrilTs' Posts.- From ' ArchEEologia,' vol. xxix.... 147 


Ancient Watch, time of James I 

Lucrece.— From an antique gem 

One of the Magi (cross-gartered).— From an Illu- 
mination in the Benedictional of St. Ethehvald, 
in the Duke of Devonshire's Collection ICO 

Tray-trip.— From a Drawing in Haileian MSS 160 


Scene I.-Olivia's Garden. G. F. Sargent 161 

Scene III.—' Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count 
his galleys.' G.F.Sargent 1'" 

illustrations of ACT III. 

Tlie Bed at Ware.-From a Print by Shaw 171 

'The new Map, with the augmentation of the 

Indies.' From ' Linschoten's Voyages,' 1598 ... 1"2 
Chests of the time of Elizabeth 1^2 


Scene I.— Sea-coast near Spalatro. G. F. Sargent 148 
Scene IV. Franklin. 
' The spinsters and the knitters in the sun. 
And the free maids that weave their thread with 
bonci' 156 

illustrations op ACT II. 

Stone-bow. — From a Specimen engraved in Meyrick 159 


Scene I.-Spalatro. — ' Hold, Toby, on thy life. 


Scene III.— ' Into the chantry,' Prior I'o 


Scene I. — Spalatro. — ' My lord, I do protest.' 
Prior ^" 


Middle Temple Hall 


Tarleton, with the Tabor.— From Harl. MS. 3885... 186 



Title-page. — 'All the world's a stage.' From a 
design by W. Harvey 187 


Forest of Arden. W. Habvey 189 

Cross at West-Cheap 200 


Border.— The Seven Ages. W. Harvey 202 

ACT. I. 

Scene I. — ' Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? ' 

W. Harvey 203 

Scene III. — 'To liberty, and not to banishment.' 
W.Harvey 2U 

Scene I. — 'A poor sequester'd stag.' W. Harvey. 213 
Scene VT. — ' Dear master, I can go no further.' 
W.Harvey 221 

illustrations of act II. 

Shepherd's Dial 223 

A Jetton, or Counter 223 

Scene II. — ' Tongues 1 '11 hang on every tree.' 

W.Harvey 224 

Scene V.— ' Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me. W, 
Harvey 2.33 

illustrations of act III. 

Ancient 'Painted Cloth.'— From Cough's Sepul- 
chral Monuments 235 

Suffolk Ox-yoke 235 

Falcon with bells 233 

act IV, 

Scene III.—' Lay sleeping on his back.' W. 

Harvey' 030 

Scene III.—' Be of good cheer, youth.' W. Har- 

'^"EV 211 

illustrations of act IV. 

The Hellespont 242 

Serpent-charmers of India 213 

Scene IV. — ' Here comes a pair of very strange 
beasts.' W. Harvey- 2i6 

Scene IV. — ' 1 '11 stay to know at your abandon'd 
cave.' W. Harvey 252 

supplementary notice. 
Implements of Hunting. W. Harvey 2.55 

Title-page. From a Design by W. Harvey 259 

introductory notice. 

• Like unscour'd armour hung by the wall.' W. 
Harvey 261 

dramatis persons:. 

Border. Sly. 

' No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Kot the king's crown, nor the deputed sword. 
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
Become them with one half so good a grace 
As mercy does.' 266 

Scene III.— Street in Vienna. Sargent 267 

Scene V. — Interior of Nunnery. Sargent 273 

illustration of act i. 
'An o'ergrown lion in a cave.' T. Landseer .... 274 

act II. 
Scene I, — ' How now, sir? ' Prior and Harvey 275 

Scene II. — ' Thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,' W, 
Harvey 2S5 


China Dishes 280 


Scene II. — Street before Prison, Prior & Harvey 287 
' The moated grange.' AV. Harvey ^ 294 


Death and the Fool 295 


Scene III. — Interior of Prison. Tiffin 297 

Scene V. — Fields without the To v.-n. Sargent.,, 305 


Near City Gate, Prior and Harvey S07 


' Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd.' 

W. Harvey 315 




. 323 

Tme-l.-ge. From a design by W. Harvey 


Act IV. Scene III. W. Hahvey. 

' I bless the tune 
When my good falcon made her flight across 

Tliy father's ground.' 

Act V. Scene in. W. Hakvey. 

' Now, in aje, 

Is she become the suitor r ^l' 

Hedlar. From a Woodcut by Jost Amman ■i'i-> 



Border. W. Harvey 


Scene II.—' We were as twinn'd lambs,' W. 


Emblems of jealousy, W. Hiiivey 

ACT 111. 

Scene III.-' What have we here?' W.Harvey 3.12 
Scene III.—' I am gone lor ever.' W. Harvey .. 358 

act IV. 

Time as Chorus, dispersing the clouds which 

conceal Perdita and f lorizel. W. Harvey .... 35E 
Scenelll.— 'Come, buyofme, come.' W.Hakvey 3/2 


Virginal. Costume, temp. Eliz. From a specimen, 
by W. Fairholt 

AfT II. 

Scene I.-' Behind the tuft of pines I met them.' 

W. Harvey 

Tripod. W. Harvey 








Trol-my-dames. Costume, temp- Eliz. From Speci- 
men, by W. Faihholt 

Ape-bearer. From Stnitfs ■ Manners,' &c 

Proserpine. From a Romau bas-relief. 

Dance of Satyrs. From an Illumination in Frois- 
SHi-t's Chronicles, Had. MSS 377 


Seene III. W. Harvey. 

' O, thus she stood, 
Even with such life of majesty.' 378 


Little Conduit in Cheapside. From a Print by De 
la Serre, 1638. Tiffin 3Sti 

.Tulio Romano. From a Portrait engraved by 15ar- 
tolozzl ^^^ 

Title-page. From a Design by W. Harvi y 


.. 387 


•On a bat's back.' W. Harvev, from a Sketch 

by Sev 


Bermuda ^^'^ 


Border. W. Harvey 

Prospero and Miranda. W. Harvey.. 
Ariel as a sea-nymph. W. Hauvey . 




Manacles. From Specimens in the Tower of 


' Apes that moc ?,nd chatter.' W.Harvey 410 

' Mi&er)' makes a man acquainted with strange 
bedfellows.' W. Hauvey 417 


rainted Fish. From a Print of the time of Chas. I. 118 


Ferdinand and Miranda before the cell of Prospero. 

W. Haiivev 419 

Ariel, like a Harpy, ' vanishes in tliunder, ami 

enter Shapes.' W.Harvey 424 



Picture of ' Nobody.' From the title to an old 
anonymous comedy, called ' Nobody and Some- 
body,' prior to 1600 ''25 

A 'forth-right' Maze. Projected from a ground 
plan in ' The Country Housewife's Garden,' 
1G17 425 

A Tyrolese peasant with a goitre. From a Sketch 
by G. Herring ; 426 

A Harpy. From a Sculpture at Thebes. ' Disc. 
de I'Egypte' 42G 


TheMasque. W.Harvey 427 


•A Frippery.' From a Print dated 1587 433 

act v. 

Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess 434 

Naples, from the sea 439 


'Thy groans did make wolves howl.' W.Harvey 412 

supplementary NOTICE. 

' Where the bee sucks.' AV. Harvey, from a Sketch 
by Severn 443 

. IUUfl.'lia(nt, .. ii, ' ''I'lM*''!'.) 

Comedies.— Vol. II. B 

Act V. Sc. HI. 



State op the Text, and Chronology, op All's Well that ends Well. 

This comedy was first printed in the folio collection of 1623; and it was entered at Statloner.s' 
Hall by Blount and Jaggard, on the Sth November, 1623, as being one of tho-se " not formerly 
entered to other men." In the original copy the play is divided into acts, but not into scenes. There 
are several examjiles of corruption in the text ; but, upon the whole, it is very accurately printed, 
both with regard to the metrical arrangement and to punctuatioa. 

We have already expressed an opinion as to the date of this comedy. " Meres has also mentioned, 
amongst the instances of Shakspere's excellence for comedy. Love's I^abour Won. This is 
generally believed to be All 's Well that ends Well ; and probably, in some form or other, this was 
an early play." * After this opinion was expressed by us, Mr. Himter's 'Disquisition on the Tempest' 
was published, in which he repudiates the notion that Love's Labour Won and All's Well that 
ends Well are identical. Mr. Hunter states that a passing remark of Dr. Farmer, in the Essay 
on the Learning of Shakspere, first pointed out this supposed identity ; and he adds, " the remark 
has since been caught up and repeated by a thousand voices. Yet it was made in the most casual, 
random, and hasty manner imaginable. It was sujiported by no kind of argument or evidence ; 
and I cannot find that any persons who have repeated it after him have shown any probable 
grounds for the opinion." It is not in the spirit of controversy that we are now about to show 
"some probable grounds for the opinion." In supporting our view of this question we must 
necessarily dissent from Mr. Hunter's theory ; but we shall endeavour to enforce our own " argument " 
without being betrayed into the spirit which too often has degraded Shaksperian criticism, and 
which we described in our original Prospectus as "doubly disagreeable in connexion with the works 
of the most tolerant and expansive mind that ever lifted us out of the region of petty hostilities and 
The remark in Farmer's Essay to which Mr. Hunter alludes was certainly made in a " casual " 


Merchant of Venice. Introductory Notice, p. 388. 


manner- because Farmer's object was not to establish the identity of Love's Labour Won and All's 
Well that ends Well but to show that Sbakspere did not go to the Italian source tor the plot of the 
latter plav The passage is as follows :-" The stoiy of All 's Well that ends Well, or, as I suppose 
it to have' been Bometimes called, Love's Labour Woune," (and here Farmer inserts a reference to 
iUres- ' WiU' Treasuiy,' 1598,) "is originally indeed the property of Boecace, but it came immediately 
to Shakspere from Painter's ' Giletta of Narbon.'" Now this remark, although passing and 
casual is not of necessity "random and hasty." Farmer might have well considered this question 
of identity without entering upon it in his Essay. Malone, in the jlrst edition of his • Chronological 
Onler of Shakspeare's Plays,' assigns the date of this comedy to 1598, upon the authority of the 
passage iu Meres. He says, " No other of our author's plays could have borne that title (Love's 
Labour Won) with so much propriety as that before u& ; yet it must be acknowledged that the present 
title is inserted in the body of the play :— 

' All 's well that ends well : still the fine 's the crown. 

" This line, however, might certainly have suggested the alteration of w'uat has been thought the first 

title, and affords no decisive proof that this piece was originally called All 's Well that ends Well." 

Wo shall presently recur to Malone's different opinion in the posthumous edition of his ' Chronological 

Order." He cei-tainly, in the first edition, adopted the title of Love's Labour Won as identical 

with this comedy, and not without showing "probable grounds for the opinion." "No other of 

our author'! plays could have home that title with so much propriety" This is, in truth, the real 

argument iu the matter; and when Coleridge, therefore, describes this play as "originally intended 

as the counterpart of Love's Labour's Lost," — when Mrs. Jameson, with reference to the nature 

of the plot and the suitableness of the title found in Meres, states, complainingly, " Why the 

title was altered, or by whom, I cannot discover," — and when Tieck says, " The poet probably 

first called this play Love's Labour Won," — ^we may add the opinions of these eminent writers on 

Sbakspere to the original opinion of Malone, in opposition to the assertion of Mr. Hunter, (which is 

also unsupported by "argument,") that "the leading features of the story in All's Well cannot be 

said to be aptly represented by the title in Meres' list." 

AMicn Coleridge described this play as the counterpart of Love's Labour 's Lost, we do not think 
he spoke in a " casual, random, and hasty manner." Shakspere's titles, in the j iidgment of our 
philosophical critic, always exhibit " great significancy." The Labour of Love which is Lost is not a 
very earnest labour. The king and his courtiers are fantastical lovers. They would win their 
mistresses by " bootle.«s rhymes " and " speeches penn'd," and their most sincere declarations are thus 
only received as " mocking merriment." The concluding speeches of the ladies to their lovers show 
clearly that Sbakspere meant to mark the cause why their labour was lost — it was labour hastily 
taken up, pursued in a light temper, assuming the character of "pleasant jest and courtesy." The 
princess and her ladies would not accept it as "labour," without a year's probation. It was offered, 
they thought, "in heat of blood;"— theirs was a love which only bore "gaudy blossoms." What 
would naturally be the counterpart of such a story? One of passionate, enduring, all-pervading 
love, — of a love that shrinks from no difficulty, resents no unkindness, fears no disgrace, but 
perseveres, under the most adverse circumstances to vindicate its own claims by its own energy, and 
to achieve success by the strength of its own wiU. This is the Labour of Love which is Won. Is 
not this the story of All 's Well that ends Well ? 
When Helena, in the first scene, so beautifully describes the hopelessness of her love— 

" It were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star, 
And think to wed it, he is so above me "— 

couMsho propose to come within "his sphere" without some extraordinary effort? "Hie labor, 
hoc opus est." She does resolve to make the effort; it is within the bounds of possibility that her 
labour may be successful, and therefore her "mtents are fix'd : "— 

" 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." 


luferior natures that estimate their labours by a cominou standard — " that weigh their pains in 
sense " — that are not suppoi-ted in their labours by a spirit which rejects all fear and embraces all 
hope, — confound the difiBcult with the impossible ; they know that courage has triumphed over diffi- 
culty, but they still think "what hath been cannot be" again. Helena is not of their mind : — 

" My project may deceive me, 
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me." 

This is the purpose avowed from the commencement of the dramatic action ; which marks every 
stage of its progress ; which is essentially " Love's Labour " whether it be won or be lost. How 
beautifully does Shakspere relieve us from the feeling that it is unsexual for the labour to be 
undertaken by Helena, through the compassion which she inspii-es in the good old Countess : — 

" It is the show and seal of nature's truth, 

Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth." 

How delicately, too, does he make Helena hold to her determination, even whilst she confesses to tho 
Countess the secret of her ambitious love : — 

" 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. 

Again : — 

" There 's something hints, 
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 " — 

not for the cure of the King only, but for the winning of her labour. To obtain the full advantage 
of her legacy no common qualities were required in Helena. " Wisdom and constancy " are her 
characteristics, as Lafeu truly describes. The "constancy" with which she enforces her power 
upon the mind of the incredulous King is prominently exhibited by the poet. Her modesty never 
overcomes the ruling purpose of her soul. She indeed says, 

" I will no more enforce mine oflSce on you ; " 
but she immediately after presses her " fix'd intents : " — 

" What I can do can do no hurt to try." 
She succeeds : — 

Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak.' 

The reward, however, which she seeks is avowed without hesitation. Her will was too strong 
to admit of that timidity which might have clung to a feebler mind : — 

" Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand, 
What husband in thy power I will command." 

Up to this point all has been "labour"— the conception of a high and dangerous purpose— the 
carrying it through without shrinking. When the cure is effected, and she has to avow her choice, 
comes a still greater labour. The struggle within herself is most intense :^ 

" Now, Dian, from thy altar do 1 fly ; " 

and — 

" The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, — 
' We blush, that thou should'st choose,' " — 

these expressions sufficiently give the key to what passes within her. Her feelings amount almost 
to agony when Bertram refuses her, and for a mo'uent she abandons her fix'd intent : — 

" That you are well restor'd, my lord, I m glad; 
Let the rest go." 

"But shall she weakly relinquish the golden opportunity, and dash the cup from her lips at the 
moment it is presented ? Shall she cast away the treasure for which she has ventured both life 


and honour, wLeu it is just within her grasp ? Shall she, after compromising her feminine deli- 
cacy by the public disclosure of her preference, he thrust back into shame, ' to blush out the 
remainder of her life,' and die a poor, lost, scorned thing ? This would be very pretty and inte- 
wsUug and charactcrUtic in Viola or Ophelia, but not at all consistent with that high deter- 
mined spirit, that moral energy, with which Helena is portrayed."* Helena suffers Bertram to be 
forced upon her— and this is the greatest " labour " of all. 

After the marriage and the desertion " Love's labour " is still most untiringly tasked. Love next 
assumes the sweet and smQing aspect of duty :— " What 's his will else ? "— " what more com- 
mands ho ? " — 

" In everything I wait upon his will " — 

are all the replies she makes to the harsh commands of her lord, conveyed by a frivolous messen- 
ger. In her parting interview with Bertram, in which his coldness and dislike are scarcely 
attempted to bo concealed, the same spirit alone exists. She has still a harder trial. Her lord 
avows his final abandonment of her, except upon apparently impossible conditions. She has only 
one complaint, — 

' ' This is a dreadful sentence ; " 

but hor intense love has destroyed in her all the feeling of self through which she was enabled to 
nccompliah the tiiumph of her own will : — 

'' 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? 

When she says " I will be gone," she probably had no purpose of seeking Bertram, and of endea- 
vouring to reverse his "dreadful sentence" by her own management. But "love's labours" were 
not yet ended. Her mind was not framed to shrink from difficulty ; and we soon meet her at 
Florence. The plot, after this, is such a one as Shakspere could only have found in the legendary 
history of an unrefined age, preserved from oblivion by one who was imbued with the kindred 
genius of unveiling the brightness of the poetical, even when it was concealed from ordinary vision 
by the clouds of a prosaic atmosphere. Mrs. Jameson has truly observed, " All the circumstances 
aud details with which Helena is surrounded are shocking to our feelings, and wounding to our 
deUcacy : aud yet the beauty of the character is made to triumph over all." The beauty of the 
character is in its intensity. By that is Helena enabled to pass through all the slough of her last 
"labours" without contamination; her purpose sanctifies her acts. From the first scene to the 
last her life is one continued struggle. But the hopeful quality of her soul never forsakes her ;— 

" The time will bring on summer, 
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns, 
And be as sweet as sharp." 

She repines at no exertion— she shrinks from no fatigue :— 

" But this exceeding posting, day and night. 
Must wear your spirits low," 

has no reference to herself. \Vhen she finds the King has left Marseilles she has no regrets .— 

" All's well that ends well, yet; 

Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit." 

Her final triumph at last arrives; but it is a happiness that cannot be spoken of. 
vent in — 

Her feelings find 

" O, my dear mother, do I see you living ? " 
She can now, indeed, call the Countess mother. In the early scenes she dared only to name her 
u mine honourable unstress." By her energy and perseverance she has conquered. Is this, or is 
it not. Love s Labour Won ? 

Malono aa wo have already expressed our belief, has applied the true test to the application of 
Mercs title of Loves Labour Won: "No other of our author's plays could have borne that title 
wuh «> much propriety aa that before us." The application, be it understood, is limited to th. 

• Mrs. Jameson's 'Characteristi'js.' Vol. I., p. 212. 


comedies. The title cannot be applied to The Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Comedy of Kirors, 
Love's Labour's Lost, A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Merchant of Venice, for those are also 
mentioned in Meres' list as existing in 1598. Can it have reference to the Meny Wives of Windsor, 
than which no title can be more definite; — to The Taming of the Shrew, equally defined;— to 
Twelfth Night, or Measure for Measure, or Much Ado about Nothing, or As you Like it, or The 
Winter's Tale ? — We think not ; — we are sui'e that none of our readers who are familiar with the 
plots of these plays can believe that either of them was so named. We, of course, here put the 
question of chronology out of view. Mr. Hunter, to support his opinion that The Tempest was 
written in 1596, boldly maintains the following opinion : — "But, if not to the All's Well, to what 
play of Shakspeare waa this title once attached ? I answer, that, of the existing plays, there is only 
The Tempest to which it can be supposed to belong : and, so long as it suits so well with what is a 
main incident of this piece, we shall not be driven to the gratuitous and improbable supposition that 
a play once so called is lost." The "main incident" relied upon by Mr. Hunter for the support of 
this theory is the following speech of Ferdinand, in the third Act : — 

" There be some sports are painful, and their labour 
Delight in them sets off; some kinds of baseness 
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters 
Point to rich ends. This my mean task 
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but 
The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead, 
And makes my labours pleasures. O, she s 
Ten times more gentle than father's crabbed ; 
And he's compos'd of harshness. I must remove 
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, 
Upon a sore injunction : my sweet mistress 
Weeps when she sees me work; and says, such baseness 
Had never like executor. I forget : 
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours." 

" Here, then," says Mr. Hunter, " are the Love Labours. In the end they won the lady." Wc 
venture to say that our belief in the signlficancy of Shakspere's titles woitld be at an end if even a 
" main incident " was to suggest a name, instead of the general course of the thought or action. In 
this case there are really no Love Labours at all. The lady is not won by the piling of the logs ; 
the audience know that both Ferdinand and Miranda are under the influence of Prospero's spells, 
and the magician has explained to them M'hy he enforces these harsh " labours." In the first Actv 
when Ferdinand and Miranda are thrown together, Prospero says, — 

"It goes on, I see, 
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit, 1 '11 free thee 
Within two days for this." 
Again : — 

" At the first sight 
They have chang'd eyes : Delicate Ariel, 
1 '11 set thee free for this." 
Yet he adds, — 

' They are both in either's powers : Sut this swift business 
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
Make the prize liyht." 

Would Shakspere have chosen this incident — not a " main incident," for we all along know Prcspero's 
real intentions, — as that which would furnish a title to his play ? The pain which Ferdinand endures 
is very transient ; and Prospero, when he removes the infliction, says, — 

"AH thy vexations 
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
Hast strangely stood the test." 

We know that the Love's Labours of Ferdinand are not severe trials, and that at their worst they 
were refreshed with " sweet thoughts." Can they be compared with the Love's Labour of 
Helena ? 

Mr. Hunter rejects the claim of All's Well that ends Well to be named Love's Labour Won most 
decisively; — but upon one ground only : " If ever there was a play," he says, " which itself bespoke 
its own title from the beginning, it is this : — 


' We must away; 
Our wa?gon 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.' 

" Again : — 

■ All •» Well that ends Well, yet; 
Though time seem bo adverse, and means unfit. 

" And, 03 if this were not sufficient, in the epilogue : — 

' The king 's a beggar, now the play is done . 
All is well ended, if this suit is won.' " 

We venture to tliink that the use of the word wm in the last line might have suggested to Mr. 
Hunter the possibility of the play having a double title— the one derived from the one great incident 
of the piece,— the other from the application of its dramatic action. Mr. Hunter, hoveever, rejects 
the claim of All's Well that ends Well to the title of Meres, upon the assumption that it could only 
have had a single title ; whilst he seeks to estabUsh the claim of The Tempest to the title of Meres, 
upon the assumption that it had a double title : " I suspect that the play originally had a double 
title. The Tempest, or Love's Labour Won ; just as another of the plays had a double title. Twelfth 
Night, or What You W^ill." This reasoning is, to say the least of it, illogical. If the argument is 
good for The Tempest, it is good for All's Well that ends Well. 

But "something too much of this." Whether, or no. The Tempest, looking at the internal 
evidence of its date, could have been included in Meres' list, there can be no doubt that All 's Well 
that ends Well has many evidences of having been an early composition — unquestionably so in 
parts. When Malone changed his theory with regard to the date, and assigned it to 1606, in the 
posthumous edition of his ' Chronological Order,' he relied principally upon the tone of a particular 
passage : " The beautiful speech of the sick King in this play has much the air of that moral and 
judicious reflection that accompanies an advanced period of life, and bears no resemblance to Shak- 
speare's manner in his earlier plays." The mind of Shakspere was so essentially dramatic, that when 
he puts serious and moral words into the mouth of a sick liing, who is growing old, we should be no 
more disposed to believe that the sentiment has reference to the individual feelings of the poet than we 
should believe that all the exuberant gaiety of some of his comic characters could only have been pro- 
duced by the reflection of his own spirit of youth. " Shakspeare's manner in his earlier plays " has, 
however, much more to assist us in approximating to a date. The manner — by which we mean the 
metrical arrangement and the peculiarities of construction — in All's Well that ends Well, certainly 
places it, for the most part, in the class of his earlier plays. Where, except in the class of the earlier 
plaj-8, shall we find one in which the rhyming couplet so constantly occurs ? But then, again, we 
occasionally encounter all the music and force of thought of his most perfect blank-verse. Tieck is of 
opinion that the play, as we have it, contains an engrafting of the poet's later style upon his earlier 
labours. He says, "Rich subject-matter, variety of situation, marvellous development, and striking 
catastrophe, allured the young poet, who, probably, later in life, would not have chosen a subject so 
uusuited to dramatic treatment. Some passages, not merely difficult but almost impossible to be 
understood, rema'm out of the first attempt ; and here the poet combats with language and thought — 
the is artificial, the expressions forced. Much of what I consider later alterations reminds us 
of the Sonnets, and of Venus and Adonis. The prose, particularly in the last Acts, is so pure and 
clear,— the scenes with Parolles are so excellently written,— that in all that concerns the language 
we must reckon them amongst Shakspcre's best efiforts. The first Act is the most obscure ; and 
here arc i)rubably the most extensive remains of the older work. The last half of the delineation 
of Parolles must belong to Shakspere's later period." 

Malone a.s.signs his second conjectural date of this play to IGOG upon other ground than that 
of Shakspere's manner: "Another circumstance which induces me to believe that this is a later play 
than I had formerly supposed, is the satirical mention made of the puritans, who were the objects of 
Ku..' James 8 aversion." Surely the poet might allude to the famous contention about wearmg the 
«urphce, ^^^hout being led to it by the aversions of King James. A friend has given us a valuable 
tht ul'v T'ln 1 , ^0 showing that the contest had been going on for many years, and 
P iona1^non';i 7' °' ' E-lesiastical Polity,' published in 1597, refutes the puritanical 

.pmions upon this matter at great length. Upon the subject of the surplice he distinctly says that 


the hostility of the puritans was much modified when he wrote. The controversy had raged 
with the greatest violence at the period when Shakspere, according to our belief, was most likely 
to have produced All 's Well that ends Well, — perhaps not as it has been handed down to us, but 
in an imperfect form. That period was probably not very widely separated from the period when 
Love's Labour 's Lost was produced j to which, as we do not hesitate to think with Coleridge, this 
play was the counterpart. 

Supposed Source of the Plot. 

Farmer, as we have seen, says that the story of this play " came immediately to Shakspeare from 
Painter's ' Giletta of Narbon.'" The 'Palace of -Pleasure ' was printed in 1575; and no doubt 
Shakspere was familiar with the book. But we have yet to learn that Shakspere was not familiar 
with the Italian writers, v^ho were as commonly read by the educated classes in England at the 
end of the 16th century as the Fi'ench writers are read now. Whether received by him directly 
or indirectly, the story came from Boccaccio. Shakspere has made the character of Helena more 
interesting, in some respects, by representing her solely dependent on the bounty of the good 
Countess, whose character is a creation of his own ; in the novel she is rich, and is surrounded 
with suitors. After her marriage and desertion by her husband, Giletta returns to the country 
of her lord, and governs it in his absence with all wisdom and goodness ; Helena is still a dependant 
upon her kind friend and mother. The main incidents of the story are the same; the management, 
by the intervention of the comic characters, belongs to Shakspere. 

Instead of wearying our readers by tracing the minute differences between the great Italian 
novelist and the greater English dramatist, we subjoin Hazlitt's spirited character of Boccaccio 
as a writer : — 

" The stoiy of All 's Well that ends Well, and of several others of Shakspere's plays, is taken 
from Boccaccio. The poet has dramatised the original novel with great skill and comic spirit, 
and has preserved all the beauty of character and sentiment without improving upon it, which was 
impossible. There is, indeed, in Boccaccio's serious pieces a truth, a pathos, and an exquisite 
refinement of sentiment, which is hardly to be met with in any other prose-writer whatever. Justice 
has not been done him by the world. He has in general passed for a mere narrator of lascivious 
tales or idle jests. This character probably originated in his obnoxious attacks on the monks, and 
has been kept up by the grossness of mankind, who revenged their own want of refinement on 
Boccaccio, and only saw in his writings what suited the coarseness of their own tastes. But the 
truth is, that he has carried sentiment of every kind to its very highest purity and perfection. By 
sentiment we wouW here imderstand the habitual workings of souie one powerful feeling, where 
the heart reposes almost entirely upon itself, without the violent excitement of opposing duties or 
untoward cu'cumstances. In the way, nothing ever came up to the story of 'Frederigo Alberigj 
and his Falcon.' The perseverance in attachment, the spirit of gallantry and generosity displayed 
in it, has no parallel in the history of heroical sacrifices. The feeling is so unconscious, too, and 
involuntary, is brought out in such small, unlooked-for, aud unostentatious circumstances, as 
to show it to have been woven into the very nature and soul of the author. The story of ' Isabella ' 
is scarcely less fine, and is more affecting in the circumstances and in the catastrophe. Dryden 
has done justice to the impassioned eloquence of the 'Tancred and Sigismunda;' but has not given 
an adequate idea of the wild preternatural interest of the story of 'Honoria.' ' Cimon and 
Iphigene' is by no means one of the best, notwithstanding the popularity of the subject. The 
proof of unalterable affection given in the story of ' Jeronymo,' and the simple touches of nature 
and picturesque beauty in the story of the two holiday lovers who were poisoned by tasting of a 
leaf in the garden at Florence, are perfect masterpieces. The epithet of divine was well be- 
stowed on this great pamter of the human heart. The invention implied in his different tales is 


^Zr.^Z ::^?oSLr:f Il^^^oUl, .. no .„ ™n .^ .e can 
i^T thT p giaH.m no farthe. Boccaccio has furnished subiects to nun^berless wnters smce 
^Le, b th'dramatic and nan-ativc. The story of 'Gnselda' is borrowed rom ^-J^^^^^^. 
by CUauUr • as is the ' Kuighfs Tale ' (' Palaraon and Arcite ') from his poem of the The.eid. 


[Henry II. of I'lance.] 

[Duke of Flurence.] 

The costume of this play, for anything that appears to the contrary, might be either of the age 

of Boccaccio or of Shakspere. The Florentines and the Siennois were continually at strife during 

the middle ages, and the mention of a "Duke of Austria" would, strictly, place its date anterior 

to 1457, Ladislaus, the last Duke of Austria, having died King of Hungary and Bohemia in 

that year ; whilst the allusion to Austria as a power per se would drive the period of action still 

further back amongst the dukes and margraves of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It is our 

opinion, however, that in all cases where there is no positive violence committed against history — 

where the foundation of the plot is either fanciful or legendary— that the nearest possible period 

to that of the writing of the play should be fixed upon as that of its action, as by so doing the 

best illustration is obtained of the author's ideas and the manners of the age which he depicted. 

With this view we should place the date of 'All's Well that ends Well' just previous to 1557, 

iu which year, on the 3rd of July, Sienna was given to Cosmo de Medicis, Grand Duke of 

Tuscany, by Philip of Spain, who had been invested with its sovereignty by his father Charles V. 

The Lwt war between the Florentines and the Siennois, and in which the former were supported 

by the troops of the emperor, and the latter by those of France, broke out in 1552 and ended iu 

1555, the King of France at that period being Henry II., and the Duke of Florence Cosmo de 

Medicis aforesaid. Our illustrations have, therefore, been taken from Montfaucon's ' Monarchic 

Francaiso' (sub anno), and the Florentine costume is furnished us by Vecellio, which, though a 

littlo later, is sufficiently near for the purpose. 



The hair was woru very shcn-t by geutlemen in France at tins time, a fashion which arose 
from au accident that happened to Henry's father, Francis I., wlio, in a twelfth-night frolic, 
was hurt by the fall of a lighted firebrand on his head, and was couipelled in consequence to have 
his hair shaved oCF. 

[French Nobleman.] 

[French Noble Lady., 


[interior of Palace in Rousillon.] 


SCENE I. — "Rousillon. A Room in the Coun- 
tess'* Palace. 

Enter Bee,tiia.m:, the Countess of Rousillon, 
Helena, and Lateu, in moitrninrj. 

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 ma- 
jesty'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 gene- 
rally 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. 

» Mr. 'WTiite observes that this purely French construction 
is noteworthy; — " Vous troavercz de le Roi un niari." 

b Lack it. This is the reading of llie old copies; but 
Theobald, Hanmer, and others, have slack it. 

Count. Wliat hope is there of his majesty's 
amendment ? 

Laf. He hath abandoned his physician, ma- 
dam ; under whose practices he hath persecuted 
time with hope, and finds no other advantage in 
the process but only the losing of hope by 

Count. This young gentlewoman liad a father, 
(0, that had! how sad a passage" 'tis!) whose 
skill was almost as great as his honesty ; had it 
stretched so far, would'' have made nature im- 
mortal, and death shoidd 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. 

a Passage. This use of the word is now little knowti ; but 
il is highly expressive. Modern writers have substituted 
event and circumstance— w oris that do not convey the mean- 
ing of passage— vfhat passes. Henry IV , in his reproof 
of his son, says, "My passages of life make me be- 
lieve," &c. 

1) Would— \l would. 


Act I.] 


[Scene 1. 

Laf. How called you the mau you speak of, 
madam ? 

Count. lie was famous, sir, in bis profession, 
and it was his great right to be so : Gerard de 

hif. He was excellent, indeed, madam; the 
king very lately spoke of him admiringly and 
mourningly : he was skUful enough to have lived 
still, if knowledge could be set up against mor- 

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king lan- 
guishes of? 
Laf. A flstula, my lord. 
Ber. I heard not of it before. 
J^f. I would it were not notorious. — Was this 
gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon? 
Count. His sole child, my lord; and be- 
queathed 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 vii'- 
tuous qualities, there commendations go with 
pity, — they are virtues and traitors too : in her 
they are the better for then- simpleness; she 
derives her honesty, and achieves her good- 

Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from 
her tears. 

Count. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can sea- 
son her praise in.** The remembrance of her 

n To understand this passage we must define tlie meaning 
of " virtuous qualities." The Countess has distinguished 
between "dispositions" and "fair gifts." By the one is 
meant the natural temper and alTections— by the other the 
risults of education. In like manner " virtuous qualities" 
mean the same as "fair gifts"— they are the acquirements 
which might find a place in "an unclean mind," as well as 
in one of honest "dispositions." Then " they are virtues 
.•>nd traitors too"— they are good in themselves, but they 
betray to evil, by giving the "unclean mind" the power to 
(teccivc. The " virtuous qualities" in Helena are unmixed 
with any natural defect—" they are the better for their sim- 
pleness." The concluding expression, "she derives her 
lionesty.and achieves her goodness," is one of the many ex- 
amples of Shakspere's beautiful discrimination as a moralist. 
How many that are honest by nature can scarcely be called 
good! "Goodness," in the high sense in which our poet 
uses it, can only b3 "achieved." 

>> "Toieoion," says Malone, "has here a culinary sense- 
10 preserve by salting." Upon this, Pye, in his ' Comments 
upon the Commentators,* says, "Surely, this coarse and 
vulgar metaphor neither wanted nor merited a note " But 
why "coarse and vulgar"?. The "culinary sense" of 
Malone may raise up associations of the kitchen, which are 
not i>erfectly genteel ; but suppose he had said "chemical 
lensc —would the metaphor have been itself different? 
«e would r,ithcr make our estimate of what is "coarse 
and vulgar" upon the authority of Shakspere himself than 
upon that of .\Ir. Pye. With our poet this was a favourite 
metaphor, npcated almost as often as " the canker" of the 
tote. In the Rape of Lucrece we have, 

" Hut I alone, alone must sit and pine, 
Sea$;ninj the earth with showers of silver brine." 
(n Romeo and Juliit, 

" Jciu Maria I What a deal of hrine 

Hath waih'd thy sallow cheek for Rosaline ! 
How much salt water thrown away in waste 
To ttaton love, that of it doth not taste I " ' 

father never approaches her heart but the 
tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from 
her cheek. No more of this, Helena — go to, no 
more ; lest it be rather thought you affect a sor- 
row, than to have.'' 

Hel. I do affect a sorrow, indeed, but I have 
it too. 

Lcf. Moderate lamentation is the right of 
the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the 

Hel. 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 ? 
Cotmt. Be thou blest, Bertram ! and succeed 
thy father 
In manners, as in shape ! thy blood, and 

Contend for empire in ther ; and thy goodness 
Share with thy birth-ri{ it ! Love all, trust 

a few. 
Do wrong to none : be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power than use; and keep thy 

Under thy own life's key: be check'd for 

But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more 

That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck 

Fall on thy head! Farewell. — My lord, 
'T is an unseason'd corn-tier ; good my lord. 
Advise him. 

Laf. He cannot want the best 

That shall attend his love. 

In Twelfth Night, 

" And water once a day her chamber round 
With eye-ofTending brine: all this to season 
A brother's dead love, which she would keep/rwA 
And lasting, in her sad remembrance." 

The metaphor which these critics call " coarse and vulgar " 
and "culinary" has the sanction of the very highest 
authority, in whose mouth the most familiar allusions 
are employed in connexion with the most sacred things: 
" Ye are the salt of the earth." 

a Malone here points out an inaccuracy of construction, 
and says the meaning is— lest you be rather thought to affect 
a sorrow than to have. This construction can scarcely be 
called Inaccurate. It belongs not only to Shakspere's phra- 
seology, but to the freer system upon which the English 
language was written by the most correct writers in his 
time. We have lost something in the attainment of our 
present precision. 

b Tieck assigns this speech, and we think correctly, to 
Helena, in the belief that she means it as a half-obscure 
expression, which has reference to her love for Bertram. 
Such are her first words—" I do afifect a sorrow, indeed, but 
1 have It too. ' In the original copies, and in most modern 
editions, the passage before us is given to the Countess. In 
her mouth it is not very intelligible; in Helena's, "though 
purposely obscure, it is easily comprehensible. The living 
enemy to grief for the dead is Bertram ; and the grief oT her 
unrequited love for him destroys the other grief-makes it 
mortal. To this mysterious expression of Helena, Lafeu 
addresses himself when he says, " How understand wa 
that ? 

Act I 


[S;'ENS I. 

Count. Heaven bless liim ! — Farewell, Ber- ' 

tram. [KivV. 

Ber. The best wishes tliat ean be forged in 

your thoughts [to Helena] be servants to you ! 

Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, 

and make mueh of her. 

Laf. Farewell, pretty lady : You must hold 
the credit of your father. 

SJLxeimt Bertram and Lafeu. 
Bel. O, were that all! — I think not on my 
father ; 
And these great tears grace his remembrance 


Than those I shed for him.'' Wliat was he 

I have forgot him : my imagination 
Can-ies no favour in 't but Bertram's. 
I am undone ; there is no living, none, 
If Bertram be away. It were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star. 
And think to wed it, he is so above me : 
In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : 
The hind that would be mated by the lion 
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a 

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 relics. Who comes here ? 

Enter Parolles. 

One that goes with him: I love him for his 

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 hnii, 
That they take place, when virtue's steely 

Look bleak i' the cold wind : withal, full oft we 

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 
Tar. Save you, faii- queen. 
Eel. And you, monarch.® 
Tar. No. 

n The "great tears" which the departure of Bertram 
causes her to shed, being imputed to her grief for ht • 
father, grace his remembrance more than those which 
she really shed for him. 

b Table— Va^ tabular surface, tablet, upon which a picture 
is painted, and thence used for the picture itself. 

c TricU — peculiarity. 

d Favour — countenance. 

e Monarch— When Parolles calls Ilvlena "queen, she 

Hel. And no. 

Par. Are you meditating on virginity ? 

Ilel. Ay. You have some stain" of soldier in 
you ; let me ask you a question : Man is enemy 
to virginity; how may we barricade it against 

Par. Keep him out. 

Ilel. But he assails ; and our virginity, though 
valiant in the defence, yet is weak : unfold to us 
some warUkc resistance. 

Par. There is none : man, sitting down be- 
fore you, will undermine you, and blow you up. 

Hel. Bless our poor virginity from under- 
miners and blowers up ! — Is there no military 
policy how virgins might blow up men ? 

Par. "Virginity, being blown do\vu, man will 
quicklier be blown up : marry, in blowing him 
down again, with the breach yourselves made, 
you lose your city. It is not politic in the com- 
monwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss 
of virginity is rational increase ; and there was 
never virgin got till virginity was first lost. 
That you were made of is metal to make virgins. 
Vii'ginity, by being once lost, may be ten times 
found ; by being ever kept, it is ever lost : 't is 
too cold a companion ; away with it. 

Hel. 1 will stand for 't a little, though there- 
fore I die a virgin. 

Par. There 's little can be said in 't ; 't is 
against the rule of natiu'e. To speak on the 
part of virginity is to accuse your mothers; 
which is most infallible disobedience. He that 
hangs himself is a virgin : virginity murders it- 
self; and should be buried in highways, out of 
all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress 
against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much 
like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, 
and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Be- 
sides, 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 year it will 
make itself two,** which is a goodly increase: 
and the principal itself not much the worse: 
Away with 't. 

Hel. How might one do, sii', to lose it to her 
own liking ? 
Par. Let me see : Marrv, ill, to like him that 

answers by a sarcastic allusion to the ilfonarc/io— an Italian 
who figured in London about 1580, possessed with the no 
tion that he was sovereign of the world. (See Love's La 
hour's Lost, Act IV., Sc. I.) , r .u 

a Stei'n— tincture ;— you have some slight mark ol tnc 
soldier about you. , . , , 

b We print the text as in the folio. It is commonly read 
ten; which the Cambridge editors adopt. Mr.\\!iile pro- 
poses " within 07ie year." 

' 15 

\n I.] 



ne'er it likes. 'T is a commodity will lose the 
gloss with lying; the longer kept the less worth: 
off with 't, while 't is vendible : answer the time 
of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, 
wears her cap out of fashion ; richly suited, but 
unsuitable : just like the brooch and the tooth- 
pick, which wear not now : Your date is better 
in your pie and your porridge than in your 
check : And your virginity, your old virginity, 
is like one of our French mthered pears; it 
looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a withered 
pear ; it was formerly better ; marry, yet,*^ 't is 
ft withered pear : Will you anything with it ? ^ 

Hel. Not my virginity yet. 
There, sh.all your master have a thousand 

A mother, and a mistress, and a friend, 
A phoenix, captain, and an enemy, 
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, 
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear; 
Ilis humble ambition, proud liumilitj, 
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 
11 is faith, his sweet disaster : with a world 
Of pretty, fond, adoptions Christendoms, 
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he — 
1 know not what he shall : — God send him 

well !— 
The court 's a leaniing-place ; — and he is 
one — 
Par. What one, i' faith ? 
Bel. That I wish well.— 'T is pity- 
Par. Wliat'spity? 

Hel. That wishing well had not a body in 't, 
Which might be felt: that we, the poorer 

Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, 
Might with effects of them follow our friends. 
And show what we alone must think; which 

Returns us thanks. 

Etder a Page. 

Pa^e. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you. 


• Yet, an instance of the use oi yet for now.—Slaunlon. 

■• There is evidently soraethinK waiUinR here— and it is 
pojdible that "will you anything with it?" ia a misprint 
for " will you anything wi" the court?" or "to the court " 
Hanmer makes Helcnn say, " You're for the court," before 
*hcBocson."Tlicre, shall your master," &c. Hermeaning 
tiowevcr obscure the eonnexinn with the speech of ParoUes' 
n. that Bertram will find at the court (which she afterwards 
ilejcnbetaa "the court's alearningplace,") some love whicV 
will have all the opposite qualities united which belouR to 
"a thouianil loves." The— 

" Pretty, fnnd, adoptions Christendoms, 
That blinking Cupid gossips," 

of which we have here an example, are taken from the 

r?^^"ir 'i.*-" 'r'''=-P''f^" of the day, which were adopted 
irom the llnlian poets. 


Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can remem. 
ber thee, I will think of thee at court. 

Hel. Monsier Parolles, you were born under 
a charitable star. 

Par. Under Mars, T. 

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, T think, rather. 

Par. Wliy think you so ? 

Hel. You go so much backward when you 

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 an- 
swer thee acutely : I will return perfect courtier ; 
in the which, my instruction shall serve to na- 
turalise thee, so thou wilt be capable of a cour- 
tier's counsel, and understand what advice shall 
thi'ust upon thee; else thou diest in thine un- 
thankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee 
away : farewell. Wlien thou hast leisure, say 
thy prayers ; when th< n 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, 
T\1iich we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky 
Gives us free scope ; only, doth backward pull 
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. 
What power is it which mounts my love so 

high ; 
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? 
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 
To join like likes, and kiss like native things. 
Impossible be strange attempts to those 
That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppose 
Wliat 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. 


A Room m the King'5 

SCENE IL-Paris. 


Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of Fhance, 
with letters; 'Lm^?, and others attending. 

King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the 
ears ; 

read^^^lvi?.t'hi;f ''*^*k" ""' '^'^ ^^^^ °"^'"^'J' ^nd would 
reaa, wiiat hath not been can't be." 

Act I.] 


[Scene III. 

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue 

A braving war. 

1 Lord. So 't is reported, sir. 

King. Nay, 't is most credible ; we here re- 
ceive 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, 
Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead 

For amplest credence. 

King. He hath arra'd our answer. 

And Florence is denied before he comes : 
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see 
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave 
To stand on either part. 

2 Lord. It well may serve 
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 
For breathing and exploit. 

King. What 's he comes here ? 

Knter Bertram, Lateit, and Pakolles. 

1 Lord. It is the count Housillon, my good lord. 
Young Bertram. 

King. Youth, thou bea,r'st thy father's face ; 
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste. 
Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral 

May'st thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris. 

Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's. 

King. I would I had that corporal soundness 
As when thy father and myself, in friendship. 
First tried our soldiership ! He did look far 
Into the service of the time, and was 
Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long ; 
But on us both did haggish age steal on. 
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me 
To talk of your good father : In his youth 
He had the wit, which I can well observe 
To-day in our young lords ; but they may jest 
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted. 
Ere they can hide their levity in honom*, 
So like a courtier; contempt nor bitterness 
Were in his pride or sharpness ; if they were. 
His equal had awak'd them ; and his honour. 
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when 
Exception bid him speak, and, at this time. 
His tongue obey'd his hand :^ who were below 

a The metaphor of a " clock" is continued ; his tongue, in 
sneaking -what "exception ' bade liira, obey'd the hand of 
honour's clock— Aw hand being put for Us hand. 

Comedies.— Vol. II. C 

He us'd as creatures of another place ; 

And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks. 

Making them proud of his humility, 

In their poor praise he humbled : * Such a man 

Might be a copy to these younger times ; 

Which, foUow'd well, would demonstrate them 

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, 2) — 'Let me not 


Thus his good melancholy oft began. 

On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, 

Wlien it was out, — ' Let me not live,' quoth lie, 

' After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuiT 

Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 

All but new things disdain ; whose judgments 

Mere fathers of their garments; whose con- 

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 laboui'crs room. 

2 Lord. You're lov'd, sir : 

They that least lend it you shall lack you first. 

King. I fill a place, I know't. — How long is 't, 
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 sou 's no dearer. 

Ber. Thank your majesty. 

[K.veimi. Flourish. 

SCENE III.— Rousillon. A Room in the 
Countess'* Palace. 

Enter Countess, Steward, and CIotpTU. 

Count. I will now hear : what say you of this 
gentlewoman ? 

a Malone deems the construction to be, "in tlieir poor 
praise he being bumbled." 


A=T I. 


[Scene 111. 

Slew, jradam, the care I have had to even 
your coutent, I wish might be fouud in the 
cdcndar of nij past eudcavours : foi' theu we 
wound our modesty, and make foul the clear- 
ness of our desenings, when of ourselves we 
publish them. 

Count. AVhat does this knave here ? Get you 
gone, sirrah : The complaints I have heard of 
you I do not all believe ; 't is 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. 'T is not unkuowu to you, madam, I am 
a poor fellow. 
Count. Well, sir. 

Clo. No, madam, 't is not so well tliat I am 
poor J 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 \\c 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 OAvn. Ser\dcc 
is no heritage : and I tliiuk I shall never have 
the blessing of God, till I have issue of my 
body ; for, they say, barnes are blessings. 

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt 

Clo. My poor body, madam, reqiiii-es it : I 
am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs 
go that the devil diives. 

Count. Is this aU your worship's reason ? 

Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy rea- 
sons, 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 wicked- 

Clo. I am out o' friends, madam ; and I hope 
to have friends for my wife's sake. 

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. 
Clo. You're shallow, madam, iu great friends ; '^ 

aat.'-T.!!?!' ^^° ^''°"' ^"'^'"e (Act II. Sc. i.}, Beatrice 
say. Thus goes everyone to the world but I " The com- 

?^" din'thef-r^'n." P""'«?f Beatrice by the'^cLwn' 

when fe be^"!;);, HHvr'.^Vj' ">^ C'"^^" ^'^ks his freedom 
wngn lie begs litr ladyship's "pood-will to go to the world " 

bllitie, ' " "'" "''"''' °^ encountering its responsi- 


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 iu 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 ; err/o, he that kisses my wife is my 
friend. If men could be contented to be vvhai 
they are, there were no fear in marriage: for 
young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam 
the papist, howsomc'cr their hearts are severed iu 
religion, their heads are both one,-— they may 
jowl horns together, like any deer a' the herd. 

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and 
calumnious knave ? 

Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the 
truth the next way :°' 

For I the ballad will repeat, 
Which men full true shall fina; 

Your marriage comes by destiny, 
Your cuckoo sings by kind. 

Cmtnt. Get you gone, sir ; I 'U talk with you 
more anon. 

Slew. May it please you, madam, that ne bid 
Helen come to you ; of her I am to speak. 

Count. Sirrah, tell my gcntlewomau I would 
speak with her ; Helen I mean. 

Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth -ihe, [Singi7ig. 

Why the Grecians sacked Troy.»> 
Fond done, done fond. 

Was this king Priam's joy ? 
With that slie sighed as she stood. 
With that she sighed as she stood. 

And gave this sentence then; 
Among nine bad if one be good. 
Among nine bad if one be good, 

There's yet one good in ten. 

Count. What, one good iu ten ? you corrupt 
the song, sirrah. 

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam, which 
is a purifying o' the song : 'Would God would 
serve the world so all the year ! we 'd find no 
fault with the tithe woman, if I were the par- 
son : One in ten, quoth a' ! an we rnight 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. 

meaning clearly being— You are shallow in the matter of 
great friends. 

» The ntxt jcay— the nearest way. 

b The mention of Helen is associated in the mind of the 
Clown with some popular ballad on the war of Troy. 

alt"e:4ll'cfoAl'i:>giy°^'' ^^'^ '^■"'^ «''°""i "^^ ««. -"1 "^ve 

nlt'l^'^w "'''^,°'■'°r^'/^^'^' '"'''• Steevens omits the word 
gWe°a sense. ^ ^^ correction of for appears to us to 

Act I ] 


[Scene III 

Count. You '11 be gone, sir knave, and do as I 
tjommaud you ! 

Clo. That man should be at ^voman's com- 
mand, and yet no hurt done ! — Though honesty 
be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt ; it will 
wear the surplice of humility over the black 
gown of a big heart.'' — I am going, forsooth; 
the business is for Helen to come hither. [_Exit. 

Count. Well, now. 

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentle- 
woman entirely. 

Count. Taith, I do : her father bequeathed 
her to me ; and she herself, without other ad- 
vantage, 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 '11 

Stew. ]Madam, I was very late more near her 
than, I think, she wished me : alone she was, 
and did communicate to herseK her own words 
to her own ears ; she thought, I dare vow for 
her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her 
matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she 
said, was no goddess, that had put such differ- 
ence betwixt their two estates ; Love, no god, 
that would not extend his might only where 
qualities were level ; Diana, no queen of vii-gins, 
that would suffer her poor knight to be sur- 
prised, without rescue in the first assault, or 
ransom afterward:* This she delivered in the 
most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard 
virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty, 
speedily to acquaint you withal ; sithence, in 
the loss that may happen, it concerns you some- 
thing 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 neither believe, nor 
misdoubt : Pray you, leave me : stall this in 
your bosom, and I thank you for your honest 
care : I \vill speak ^vith you further anon. 

{Exit Steward. 
Enter Helena. 
Coujit. Even so it was with me when I was 
If ever we are nature's, these are cur's ; this 

a The passage in the orisjinal stands thus:— "Love, no 
god, that would not extend his might only where qualities 
vrere level; queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor 
knight surprised without rescue," &c. The introduction of 
" Diana, no," was made by Theobald, and " to be " by Rowe. 
As the text is corrupt, we prefer a reading that has been 
generally received to any new conjecture. It would cer- 
tainly be a less violent alteration to let the description of 
Fortune and Love terminate without the introduction of 
Diana ; and to suppose the Steward to be translating into 
narrative an apostrophe of Helena to the Queen of Virgins. 

Doth to our rose of youth nghtly 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 imprcss'd iii 

youtli : 
By our remembrances of days foregone. 
Such were our faults ; — or then we thought them 

Her eye is sick on 't ; I observe her now. 
Ilet. What is your pleasure, madam ? 
Count. You know, Helen, 

I am a mother to you. 

Rel. ]\Iine honourable mistress. 
Count. Nay, a mother ; 

Why not a mother ? "When I said, a mother, 
Methought you saw a serpent : What 's in 

That you start at it ? I say, I am your mother ; 
And put you in the catalogue of those _ 

That were euwombed mine : 'T is often seen, 
Adoption strives with natui-e ; and choice breeds 
A native slip to us from foreign seeds : 
You ne'er oppress'd mc with a mother's 

Yet I express to you a mother's care : — 
God's mercy, maiden ! does it cui-d thy blood 
To say, I am thy mother ? What 's the 

That this distemper'd messenger of wet. 
The mauy-colour'd Iiis, rounds thine eye ? 
Why ? — that you are my daughter ? 

Hel. That I am not. 

Cou/it. I say, I am your mother. 
Rel. 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 

I care no more for than I do for heaven. 
So I were not his sister.^) Can't be other 
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother ? 
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter- 
in-law : 

^ We venture to point this very difficult passage differently 
from the received mode. It appears to us that the passages 
which we give between parentheses are spoken half aside. 
Fanner explains that " I care no more for "means "I caro 
as much for." 


ACT I.) 


daugliter, and 

[Scene III. 


God shield, you mean it not! 

mother, . 

So strive upon your pulse : What, pale again ? 
l[j fear hath catch'd your fondness: JNow 

I sec 
The mystery of your loneliness,'^ and find 
Your salt tears' head. Now to aU sense 

You love my son ; invention is asham'd, 
A'niinst the proclamation of thy passion, 
To say thou dost not : therefore tell me true ; 
But tcU mc then, 'tis so: -for, look, thy 

on G G K S 

Confess it, tli' one to th' other; and thine eyes 

Sec it so grossly shown in thy behaviours. 

That in their kind they speak it : only sm 

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue. 

That truth should be suspected : Speak, is 't so ? 

]f it be so, you have wound a goodly clue ; 

If it be not, forswear 't: howe'er, I charge 

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail. 

To tell me truly. 

f/e/. Good madam, pardon me. 

Coioil. Do you love my son? 
7/^/, Your pardon, noble mistress ! 

Count. Love you my son ? 
ffel. Do not you love him, madam ? 

Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a 
Whereof the world takes note : come, come, dis- 
The state of your affection ; for your passions 
Have to the full appeaeh'd. 

^gl^ Then, I confess 

Here on my knee, before high heaven and 

Tliat before you, aud next unto high heaven, 
I love your son : — 
My friends were poor but honest; so's my 

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 1 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, Indiau-likc, 
Kcligious in mine cn'or, 1 adore 
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 

» Lonrlineii — in tlic original, loneliness. Tliere can be no 
doubt tli.1t tonrliiien, nnd not loveliness, is intended. 

b Captious and intenible — capable of receiving Itaking) 
but not of retaining. 


But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
Let not your hate encounter with my love, 
l^or loving where you do : but, if yourself, 
Wliose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, 
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking. 
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your 

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, Hves sweetly where she dies. 
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak 
To go to Paris ? 

Hel. Madam, I had. 

Qgj,„^_ Wherefore ? tell true. 

Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself, 1 
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 languishings whereof 
The king is render'd lost. 

Count. This was your motive 

Eor 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 help him. 
They, that they cannot help : How shall they 

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 
Erabowell'd of their doctrine, have left off 
The danger to itself ? 

Hel. There 's something hints, 

]\Iore than my father's skill, which was the 

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. 

Act I.] 



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 '11 stay at home, 
And pray God's blessing into tliy attempt : 
Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this, 
What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss, 


[Gate cf Perpignan] 



I Scene I.—" To whom I am now in ward." 
'• It ifl now almost forgotten in England," saya 
Johnson, "that the heirs of great fortunes were 
the king'. >ranls. Whether the same practice pie- 
vailed in France it is of no great use to mquire, for 
Shakspeare gives to all nations the manners of 
EnglaLl.- The particular expression here used 
bv Shakspere does not necessan.y imply that tlie 
feudal ri.'hts of the sovereign over tenants in ctiiet, 
during their minority, were assumed to be exercised 
in the case of Bertram. Those rights, certainly, 
did not extend to all France, but were confined to 
Normandy. Our poet seems to hpve followed 
without much regard to the general question of 
wards, the story of Boccaccio, in which the Bertram 
of the novel is represented as being left by his 
father under the guardianship of the king. LSut 
in Shakspere-3 day the rights of wardship were 
exercised by the crown very oppressively, and an 
En-lish audience would quite understand how a 
sovereign could claim the privilege of disposing ot 
his tenant in marriage. There is a very curious 
state paper addressed by Lord Cecil to Sir John 
Savile and others, in 1603, upon the accession ot 
James, in which the king announces his desire to 
compromise his right of wardship for a pecuniaiy 
compensation. The Court of Wards was not 
abohshed till 165C; but James, half a century 
before the nati(ju got rid of this badge of feu- 
dality, thought that the existence of this species 
of tyranny afforded him a capital opportunity of 
making a merit of being gracious to his subjects, 
and of putting a round sum into his pocket at the 
same time. The scheme, however, failed, although 
very cleverly set forth. The letter of Cecil is 
long; but a sentence will show its objects and 
tone : — " His Majesty observing, among other 
things, what power he hath by the ancient laws 
of the realm to dispose of the marriages of all 
such subjects aa hold their lands of him by tenures 
in capite, or knights' service, and shall be under 
ages at the time of their ancestors' death from 
whom their estates are derived ; and conceiving 
well in his own great judgment what a comfort 
it would 1)« to give them assurance that those 
might now be compounded for in the life of such 
ancestors, upcii i-easonable conditions, I thought 
it my duty, being privy to his Majesty's gracious 
purpose of affording his subjectis at this time 
some 3iich conditi(jn of favour, to consider of and 
propound some cx)uvenient courses to his Ma- 
jesty,'" &c. (Lodge's Illustrations, vol. iii., 4to., 
page 189.) 

' Scene II. — " His plausive words 
He tcaUerd not in ears, but grafted them, 
To (/row there, and to bear." 

Of course from the collect in the Liturgy : — 

" Grant, wc beseech thee, Almighty God, that 
the words which we have heard this day with our 
outward oars may through thy grace he so grafted 
iniranily in our hearts, that theij may bring forth 
tJie jruie of good living," &c. 

But it iii noticeable that Shakspere'a reverential 
mind very seldom adopted the tiln-aseology of scrip- 
ture or prayer for the mere sake of oi-uamenting 
Ilia diction, as moderns perpetually do. The pas- 

sa<^e noted is an exception ; but such o,re very 
rare. Doubts have been entertained as to Shak- 
sper'e's religious belief, because few or no notices of 
it occur in his works. This ought to be attributed 
to a tender and delicate reserve about holy things, 
rather than to inattention or neglect. It is not he 
who talks most about scripture, or who most fre- 
quently adopts its .phraseology, who most deeply 
feels it.— (s ) 

3 Scene III. — " What does this knave here," &c. 

Douce classes the Clown of this comedy amongst 
the domestic fools. Of this genus the same writer 
gives us three species :— The mere natural, or idiot ; 
the silly by nature, yet cunning and sarcastical ; 
the artificial. Of this latter species, to which it 
appears to us the Clown before us belongs, Put- 
tenham, in his ' Art of English Poesie,' has defined 
the characteristics : — " A buffoon, or counterfeit 
fool, to hear him speak wisely, which is like 
himself, it is no sport at all. But for such a 
counterfeit to talk and look foolishly it maketh us 
laugh, because it is no part of his natural." Of 
the real domestic fools of the artificial class — that 
is of the class of clever fellows who were content 
to be called fools for their hire, Gabriel Harvey 
has given us some minor distinctions : — "Scoggin, 
the jovial fool ; or Skelton, the melancholy fool ; 
or Elderton, the bibbing fool ; or Will Sommer, 
the choleric fool." (Pierce's Supererogation, book 
ii.) Shakspere's fools each united in his own person 
all the peculiar qualities that must have made the 
real domestic fool valuable. He infused into them 
his wit and his philosophy, without taking them 
out of the condition of realities. They are the 
interpreters, to the multitude, of many things 
that would otherwise " lie too deep " for woi-ds. 

4 Scene III. — " Though honesty be no puritan, 
yet it will do no hurt ; it will wear the surplice of 
'humility over the blaclc gown of a hig heart." 

This passage refers to the sour objection of the 
puritans to the use of the surplice in divine ser- 
vice, for which they wished to substitute the black 
Geneva gown. At this time the with 
the puritans raged violently. Hooker's fifth book 
of ' Ecclesiastical Polity,' which, in the 29th chap- 
ter, discusses this matter at length, was published 
in 1597. But the question itself is much older — 
as old as the Reformation, when it was agitated 
between the British and continental reformers. 
During the reign of Mary it troubled Frankfort, 
and on the accession of Elizabeth it was brought 
back to England, under the patronage of Arch- 
bishop Grindal, whose residence in Germany, 
during his exile in Mary's reign, had disposed 
him to Genevan theology. The dispute about 
ecclesiastical vestments may seem a trifle, but it 
was at this period made the ground upon which 
to try the first principles of chui-ch authority : 
a point in itself unimportant becomes vital when 
so large a question is made to turn upon it. 
Hence its prominency in the controversial writ- 
ings of Shakspere's time ; and few among his 
audience would be likely to miss an allusion to a 
subject fiercely debated at Paul's Cross and else- 
where. — (s.) 

[Interior of tlie Louvre. J 


SCENE 1. — Pakis. a Room in the King's 


Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords, taking 

leave for the Elorcntine tear ; Beutkam, Pa- 

KOLLES, and Attendants. 

King. Eaieweil, young lord,"' these warlike 
Do not throw from you:— and you, my lord, 

farewell : — 
Share the advice betwixt you ; if both gain, all 
The gift doth stretch itself as 't is receiv'd. 
And is enouxrh for both. 

1 Lord. It is our hope, sii-. 

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. Earewell, young 

lords ; 
Whether I live or die, be you the sons 
Of worthy Frenclmien : let higher Italy 
(Those 'batetS, that inherit but the fall 

■1 Younq Inrd —Here, and in the passage of the following 
line which wo print "my lord," the original reads lords. 
Tlie suhsequ^u; passage, — 

" Share tlno advice belwixl you ; if holh gain all," — 
shows that the correction of the plural to the singular, 
made by Hanraer, was called for. 

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 Erench lack language to deny, 
If they demand ; beware of bemg captives, 
Before you serve. 

Both. Oui- hearts receive your warnings. 

King. Earewell.— Come hither to me. 

[The KiXG retires to a couch. 

1 Lord. my sweet lord, that you will stay 

behind us ! 
Par. 'Tis not his fault ; the spark— 

2 Lord. 0, 't is brave wars ! 

.1 Johnson explains the epithet higher to have regrence 
to geographical situation- ap/xT Italy, where the French 
lords w-ere about to carry their service. Those bated. Src.. 
he interprets as, those abated or depressed by the wars, who 
have now lost their ancient military fame, and inherit but 
the fall of the last monarchy. The construction of the 
whole sentence in the original (in ^vhich the pareiitheUcal 
punctuation is found) inclines us to fV-n''- ''""r n'liv i 
applies the epithet higher to the general d>gnity of Italy, m 
the nation descended from ancient Home - the last mo- 
narchy Be vou the sons of worthy Frenchmen ; let higher 
Italy (the Italian nation or people) see that J'ou come to 
v^^d honour; but I except those, as unfit judges of honoiur. 
who inherit, not the Roinan virtues, but the humiliation ot 
the Roman decay and fall. 

Alt II.] 


[Scene I. 

Par. Most admii-ablc; I have seen those 

Bcr. I am commanded here, and kept a coil 
'Too young,' and 'the next year,' and "tis too 
Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away 

Ber. I sliall stay here the forehorse to a smock, 
Creaking my slioes on the plain masonry. 
Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn 
But one to dance with ! " By heaven, I '11 steal 

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 tor- 
tured body. 

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 Cud in the regiment of the 
iSpinii 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 liis novices ! [Ex- 
eunt Lords.] What will you do ? 

Ber. Stay ; the king — {Seeing Mm 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 ex- 
pressive to them : for they wear themselves in 
the cap of the time ; there, do muster true gait, 
eat, speak, and move under the influence of the 
most received star; and though the devil lead 
the measure sucli 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 Lafeu. 

Iai/. Pardon, my lord, [kneeling] for me and 

for my tidings. 
Kin J. I'll sec'' thee to stand up. 
I,(iJ Then liere's a man stands that has 

brought his pardon. 

» The iword of fashion— tlic dress-sword as we still call 
II. The rapier was worn in Iialls of peace as well as in 
fleljj of war; in the inaction of which Bertram complains 
hit sword wa« only " oni.- to dance with." 

•j .See.— Ho the oriKinal. In modern editions, /ec. "I'll 
■ce thee to stand up" Is, I'll notice you when you stand up 

I would you had kneel' d, my lord, to ask me 

And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up." 
King. I would I had; so I had broke thy pale, 
And ask'd thee mercy for 't. 

La/. Good faith, across : But, my good lord, 
't is thus ; 
Will you be cm-ed of your infirmity ? 
King. No. 

La/. O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox ? 
Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if 
My royal fox could reach them : I have seen a 

That 's able to breathe life into a stone ; 
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary. 
With spritely fire and motion; whose simple 

Is powerful to araise king Pepin, nay. 
To give Great Charlemaiu a pen in 's hand 
And write to her a love-line. 
Jiing. What her is this ? 

La/. Why, doctor she; My lord, there's one 
If you will see her : — Now, by my faith and 

If seriously I may convey my thoughts 
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke 

a Mr. Leiph Hunt, in the preface to his very beautiful 
drama of ' The Legend of Florence,' has the following 
observation on the rhythm of Shakspere: — " That drama- 
tist, high above all dramatists, has almost sanctified a ten- 
syllable regularity of structure, scarcely ever varied by a 
syllable, though rich with every other diversity of modula- 
tion. But, noble as the music is which he has accordingly 
left us, massy, yet easy, and never failing him, any more 
than his superhuman abundance of thought and imagery — 
I dare venture to think, that, had he lived farther off from 
the times of tlie princely monotony of ' Marlowe's mighty 
line,' he would have carried still farther that rhythmical 
freedom, of which he was the first to set his own fashion, 
and have anticipated, and far surpassed, the sprightly 
licence of Beaumont and Fletcher." 

Without entering into the general theory here involved, we 
may express an opinion that, in many instances, the freedom 
of Shakspere's lighter dialogue has been impaired by his 
editors. We have an instance before us. The three lines 
spoken by Lafeu are printed by us as in the original copy. 
Nothing can be more buoyant than their metrical flow, and 
nothing, therefore, more characteristic of the speaker. To 
get rid of the short line spoken by the king, some of the 
"regulators "have transposed the lines after this fashion, 
and so they are often printed : — 

" 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." 

In the same way the succeeding lines, which we also print as 
in the original, arc changed by the syllable-counting process 
into the following : — 

" King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate, 
And ask'd thee mercy for 't. 

" ^"f- Good faith, across : 

But, my good lord, 'tis thus ; will you be cured 
Of your infirmity? 

" King. No. 

" ^"f- O, will you eat 

No grapes, my royal fox ? Yes, but you will 
My noble grapes, an if my royal fox 
Could reach them ; I have seen a medicina," a:c. 

Act II.] 



With one, that, in her sex, her years, profession,"' 
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more 
Than I dare blame my weakness : Will you see 

(For that is her demand) and know her busi- 
ness ? 
That done, laugh well at me. 

King. Now, good Lafeu, 

Bring in the admiration ; that we with thee 
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine, 
By wondering how thou took'st it. 

Laf. Nay, I'll tit you, 

And not be all day neither. \Exit. 

King. Thus he his special nothing ever pro- 

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. 


King. Now, fair one, does your business fol- 
low 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 to- 
wards him ; 
Knowing liim is enough. On his bed of deatli 
Many receipts he gave me ; chiefly one. 
Which, as the dearest issue of liis practice. 
And of his old experience the only darling. 
He bad me store up, as a triple eye, 
Safer than mine own two, more dear; I have 

so : 
And, hearing your high majesty is touch'd 
With that malignant cause wherein the honour 
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, 
I come to tender it, and my appliance. 
With all bound humbleness. 

King. We thank you, maiden ; 

But may not be so credulous of cure. 
When our most learned doctors leave us ; and 
The congregated college have concluded 
That labouring art can never ransom nature 
From her inaidable estate, — ^I say we must net 
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope. 
To prostitute our past-cure malady 
To empiricks ; or to dissever so 

a Pro/(?iiion— declaration of purpose. 

Our great self and our credit, to esteem 
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem. 
Hel. My duty then shall pay me for my 

pains : 
I will no more enforce mine ofTicc on you ; 
Humbly entreating from your royal thouglits 
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 

As one near deatli to those that wish him live : 
But, v/hat 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 yoiu' 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, 
Wlien 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 fads, and most oft there 
Wliere most it promises ; and oft it hits. 
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits." 
King. I must not hear thee ; fare thee well, 

kind maid ; 
Thy pains, not 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 with him that all things knows. 
As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows : 
But most it is presumption in us, when 
The help of heaven we count the act of men. 
Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent : 
Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. 
I am not an impostor, that proclaim 
Myself against the level of mine ahn ; 
But know I think, and think I know most sure. 
My art is not past power, nor you past cure. 
King. Ai't thou so confident? AVithm what 

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 nmrk and occidental damp 
Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp 
Or four and twenty times the pilot's glass 
Ilath told the thievish minutes liow they pass ; 
What is infirm from youi- sound parts sliall fly, 
Health shall live free, and sickness freely die. 

■•> Fits—\n the original, shifts. Pope altered lo lils. Mr. 
Dyce and the Cambridge editors read//i, after Mr. Collier. 



[Scene II 

Act a ] 

King. Upon thy ccvtaiDlv and confidence, 
Wliatdar'sl ihouTenturc? 
jr I Tax of impudence,— 

\ strumpet's boldness, a divulged sliamc,— 
Tradue'd by odious ballads ; my maiden s name 
Scar'd otherwise; no^ ^v'orse of worst extended. 
With vilest torture let my life be ended. 

Kiug. lilethinks, in thee some blessed spirit 
doth speak ; 
nis powerful sound within an organ weak : 
\nd what impossibility would slay 
In common sense, sense saves another way. 
Thv life is dear ; for all that life can rate 
Worth name of Ufc in thee hath estimate ; 
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, aU'' 
That happiness and prime can Iiappy call : 
Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate 
Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate. 
Sweet praetiser, thy physic I \vil|_try,_ 
That ministers tlihic own death, if i die. 

Uel. If I break time, or fliuch in property 
Of wliat I spoke, nnpitied let me die ; 
And well dcserv'd : Not helping, death 's my fee ; 
But, if I help, what do you promise me ? 
King. IMake thy demand. 
j^gl But will you make it even ? 

King. Ay, by my sceptre, and my hopes of 

mi. Tlien shalt thou give me, with thy kingly 
What husband in thy power I will command : 
Exempted be from me the arrogance 
To choose froni 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 ob- 
lliy will by my performance shall be serv'd ; 
So rnakc the choice of thy own time, for I, 
Thy rcsolv'd patieni, on thee still rely. 
More should I question thee, and more I must, 
Tliough more to know could not be more to 

trust ; 
From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, — But 

"Unqucstion'd welcome, and undoubted blest. — 

» >'o— in the original ne, llie old word for nor. 
•» The line ii usually printed — 

"Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all." 

I'lrtut wn« added by Theobald, " to supply a defect in the 
meaiurv." Thin mode of emendation is must unsatisfactory. 
Till- Ki"K cnunier.ati'K nil the (|Malilies wliich are ajipareiit in 
llelenn— which »lic has displayed in her interview witlihim. 
c //i-»rrn-in the oiiginal, /ic/7>. The rhyme is lost with- 
out the currvctiun. 


hoa!— If thou pro- 

Give me some help here, 

As hi^Hi as word, my deed shall match % deed. 
° \_Fl(MinsL Kxetint. 

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. 

Clo. I will show myself highly fed, and lowly 

taught : I know my business is but to the court. 

Count. To the court ? why, what place make 

you special, when you put off that with such 

contempt— But to the court ? 

Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man 
any manners, he may easily put it off at court : 
he' that cannot make a leg, put 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, 1 
have an answer will serve all men. 

Count. Marry, that's a bountiful answer thai 
fits all questions. 

Clo. It is like a barber's chair,i ti^^t fits all 
buttocks; the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, 
the brawn buttock, or any buttock. 

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all ques- 
tions ? 
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,2 as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his 
horn, as a scolding quean 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 mon- 
strous size that must fit all demands. 

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the 
learned should speak truth of it : here it is, and 
all that belongs to 't : ask me if I am a courtier : 
it shall do you no harm to learn. 

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 ? 

Clo. Lord, sir, There's a simple putting 

off; — ^more, more, a hundred of them. 

Act II.] 


[Scene III. 

Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, tliat 
loves you. 

Clo. Lord, sir. — Thick, thick, spare not me. 

Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this 
homely meat. 

Clo. Lord, sir, — Nay, puh me to 't, I war- 
rant you- 

Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I 

Clo. O Lord, sir, — spare not me. 

Count. Do you cry, '0 Lord, sir,' at your 
whipping, and ' spare not me ? ' Indeed, your 
'0 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 — 
' Lord, sir : ' I see things may serve long, but 
not serve ever. 

Count. I play the noble housewife with the 
To entertain it so merrily with a fool.* 

Clo. Lord, sir, — Why, there 't serves well 

Count. An end, sir : To your business : '' Give 
Helen this. 
And urge her to a present answer back : 
Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son ; 
This is not much. 

Clo. Not much commendation to them. 

Count. Not much employment for you : You 
understand me ? 

Clo. Most fruitfully; I am there before my 

Count. Haste you again. \Exeunt severally. 

SCENE III.— Paris. A Room in the King's 

Enter Bertram, Lafetj, and Parolles. 

Laf. They say, mii-acles 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 ; en- 
sconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, 
when we should submit ourselves to an unknown 

a These lines are ordinarily printed as prose, as they stand 
in the original. But we have no doubt that they were written 
as verse, to mark the change in the tone of the Countess. _ 

b This is generally printed, "An end, sir, to your 'lusi- 
ness." The Countess means,— an evid to this trifling; now 
to your business. ,. ,,t-i„ 

c Coleridge has the following note on this passage ( Lite- 
rary Remains,' vol. ii. p. 121): " Shakspeare, inspired, as it 
might seem, with all knowledge, here uses the word cause- 
less ' iu its strict philosophical sense ;— cause being truly 
predieable only of phenomena, that is, things^ natural, ana 
not of noumena, or things supernatural." 

Far. Why 't is the rarest argument of wonder 
that hath shot out in our latter times. 

Ber. And so 't is. 

La/. To be rclinquish'd of the artists, — 

Far. So I say ; both of Galen and Paracelsus. 

La/. Of all tlie learned and authentic fel- 
lows, — 

Far. Ilight, so I say. 

La/. Tiiat gave him out incurable, — 

Far. Why, there 't is ; so say I too. 

La/ Not to bo helped, — 

Far. Uight: as 'twere a man assured of a— 

La/ Uncertaiu life, and sure death. 

Far. Just, you say well ; so would I liavc 

La/ I may truly say, it is a novelty to the 

Far. It is indeed : if you will have it in 
showing, you shall read it in, — What do you 
call there ? '' 

La/ A showing of a heavenly effect iu an 
earthly actor. 

Par. That 's it : I would have said the very 

La/ Why, your dolphin is not lustier : '■ 'fore 
me I speak in respect — 

Par. Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange, that 
is the brief and the tedious of it ; and lie is of a 
most facinorous spirit that will not acknowledge 
it to be the — 

La/ Very hand of heaven. 

Far. Ay, so I say. 

La/ In a most weak — 

Far. And debde minister, great power, great 
transcendence : which should, indeed, give us a 
further use to be made, than alone the recovery 
of the king, as to be — 

L(/. Generally thankful. 

3;ter King, Helena, and Attendants. 

Far. I would have said it; you say wed. 
Here comes the king. 

La/ Lustick, as the Dutchman says :<= I'll like 

a Wliat do you call there? Equivalent to "What d' ye 

call it ^" 

b Steevens and Malone have a controversy on this passage. 
Steevens maintains that your dolphin means the dauphin — 
the heir-appaient of I'rance. Walker holds this opinion, 
saying that in the original the word is printed with a 
capital. Malone contends that the allusion is to tde 
gambols of the dolphin. 

c Lustick.— Cax>e\\ has a valu.ible note on this pa,sage, 
which is not found in any of the variorum editions :" An 
old nlay, that has a great deal of merit, calUd The -»> eak- 
est Goeth to the Wall' (printed in IGOO, but how much earlier 
written, or by whom written, we are nowhere informed), nas 
ill it a Dutchman, called Jacob van Smelt, who speaks a 
jargon of Dutth and our language, and upon several^occa- 
sions uses this very word which in English is— lusty. 


Act II.] 

a maid the better whUst I have a tooth in my 
head : Why, he 's able to lead her a coranto. 

Par. Mart du Vimiicire ! Is not this Helen ? 

Laf. 'Fore God, I think so. 

King. Go, call before me all the lords in 

court. [Bxit an Attendant. 

Sit, mv preserver, by thy patient's side ; 

And with this heathful hand, whose banish'd 

Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receive 
The confirmation of my promis'd gift, 
Which but attends thy naming. 

Unter several Lords. 
Fair maid, send forth thine eye : this youthful 

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing. 
O'er whom both sovereign power and father's 

I have to use : thy frank election make ; 
Thou hast power to choose, and they none to 
Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous 
Fall, when love please — marry to each— but 
Laf. I'd give bay Gurtal, and his furniture. 
My mouth no more were broken than these boys', 
And writ as little beard. 

King. Peruse them well : 

Not one of those but had a noble father. 

llel. Gentlemen, 
Heaven hath, through me, restor'd the king to 
All. We understand it, and thank heaven for 

Eel. I am a simple maid ; and therein wealth- 
Tliat, I protest, I simply am a maid : — 
Please it your majesty, I have done already : 
The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, — 
' We blush, that thou should'st choose ; but, be 

Let the white death '' sit on thy cheek for ever ; 
We'll ne'er come there again.' 

King. Make choice ; and, see, 

Wlio shuns thy love shuns all Ids love in me. 

JM. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly ; 
And to imperial Love, that god most higli. 
Do my sighs stream.— Sir, will you hear my suit? 

» nut one— except one. She wishes each of the lords one 
Wr and virtuout mistress, except one lord. She excepts 
licrtram, " wliose mistress" (says M. Mason) "she lioptd 
• he htr»clf should be; and she makes the exception out of 
modesty, for otherwise the description of a fair and virtuous 
miitreai would have extended to herself." 

b Tht irhile death — the paleness of deatli. 



[Scene III. 

1 Lord. And grant it. 

Hel. Thanks, sir ; all the rest is mute. 

L(//. I had rather be in this choice than 
tkrow ames-ace for my life. 

Hel. The hououi-, sir, that flames in your fair 
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. 

Jlel. My wish receive, 

Which great love grant ! and so I take ray leave. 

Laf. Do all they deny her? An they w^ere 
sons of mine, I'd have them whipped; or I 
would send them to the Turk, to make ennuchs 

Hel. Be not afraid [lo a Lord] that I your 
hand should take ; 
I'll never do you wrong for your own sake: 
Blessing upon your vows ! and in youi- bed 
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed ! 

Laf. These boys are boys of ice, they'll none 
have her : sm-e they are bastards to the English ; 
the French ne'er got them. 

Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too 
To make yourself a son out of my blood. 

4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so. 

L(f. There's one grape yet, — I am sure thy 
father drank wine. — But if tliou be'st not an ass, 
I am a youth of fourteen ; I have known thee 

Hel. I dare not say I take you; \io Ber- 
tram] but I give 
Me and my service, ever whilst I live. 
Into yom' 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 
youi" 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 ? 

Tier. Yes, my good lord ; 

But never hope to know why I should marry her. 

King. Thou know'st she has rais'd me from 
my sickly bed. 

Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down 
Must answer for your raising ? I know her well ; 
She had her breeding at my father's charge : 
A poor physician's daughter my wife ! — Disdain 
Bather corrupt me ever ! 

King. 'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the 

Act II.] 


[SiENK in 

I can build up. Straiigf> is it, that our bloods, 
Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all togctber, 
Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off 
In differences so mighty : If she be 
All that is virtuous, (save what thou dislik'st, 
A poor physician's daughter,) thou dislik'st 
Of virtue for the name : but do not so : 
From lowest place when vii-tuous things pro- 
The place is dignified by the doer's deed : 
Where great additions swell, 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 heii-. 
And these breed honour: that is honour's 

Which challenges itself as honom-'s born, 
And is not like the sire : Honours thrive, 
When rather from our acts we them derive 
Than our fore-goers : the mere word 's a slave, 
Debosh'd on every tomb, on every grave 
A lying trophy ; and as oft is dumb. 
Where dust, and damn'd oblivion, is the tomb 
Of hououi-'d bones indeed. What should be 

If thou can'st like this creature as a maid, 
I can create the rest : virtue, and she. 
Is her own dower; honour, and wealth, from 
Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to 

King. Thou wrong' st thyself, if thou should'st 

strive to choose. 
Hel. That you are well restor'd, my lord, I 'm 
Let the rest go. 

Ki7ig. My honour's at the stake; which to 
I must produce my power : Here, take her 

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift, 
That dost in vile misprision shackle up 
My love, and her desert ; that canst not dream. 
We, poizing us in her defective scale. 
Shall weigh thee to the beam ; that wilt not know 
It is in us to plant thine honour, where 
We please to have it grow : Check thy con- 
tempt : 
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. 

Info the staggers,'' and the careless lapse 

Of youth and ignorance ; both my revenge and 

Loosing upon thcc, in the name of justice, 
Without all terms of pity : Speak ! thine answer 1 

Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord ; for I sul)n)it 
My fancy to your eves : Wlien I consider 
What great creation, and what dole of honour, 
Flies where you bid it, I find, that she, which 

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now 
The praised of the king ; who, so ennobled. 
Is, as 't were, born so. 

Kinff. Take her by the hand, 

And tell her she is thine : to Avhom I promise 
A counterpoise ; if not to thy estate, 
A balance more replete. 

Ber. I take her hand. 

King. Good fortune, and the favour of the 
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, 
Eipecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her. 
Thy love 's to me religious ; else, does err. 

[_Exe7mt King, Bertram, Helena, Lords, 
and Attendants.^ 

Laf. Do you hear, monsieur ? a word with you. 

Par. Your pleasure, sir ? 

Laf. Your lord and master did well to make 
his recantation. 

Par. Recantation ? — My lord ? my master ? 

Laf. Ay : Is it not a language I speak ? 

Par. A most harsh one ; and not to be under- 
stood without bloody succeeding. My master ? 

Laf. Are you companion to the count Eousil- 

Par. To any count ; to all counts ; to what is 

Laf. To what is count's man ; count's master 
is of another style. 

Par. You are too old, sir : let it satisfy you, 
you are too old. 

Laf. I must tell thee, sii-rah, I write man ; to 
which title age cannot bring thee. 

Par. What I dare too well do I dare not do. 

Laf. I did thmk thee, for two ordinaries," to 

■"> The slaqqers. Johnson supposes the allusion i.i to the 
disease so called in horses. Surely it is a metaphorical ex- 
pression for uncertainty, insecurity. In Cymbeline, Post- 
humus says, 

" Whence come these staggers on me! 

h In the original, the following curious stape direction here 
occurs :— " Parolles and Lafcu stay behind, commenting ol 
this wedding." . 

c For Itvo ordinaries— iMTins two ordmaries at the same 


Act 11.1 


[Scene III. 

be a pretty wise fellow ; thou didst make toler- 
able vent of thy travel ; it might pass : yet the 
scarfs and the bannerets about thee did mani- 
foldly dissuade me from believing 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 ; and that thou 
art scarce worth. 

Par. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity 
upon thee, — 

Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in auger, 
lest thou hasten thy trial ; — which if — Lord have 
mercy on thoe 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. 

Far. My lord, you give me most egregious 

Laf. Ay, with all my heart ; and tnou art 
worthy of it. 
Par. I have not, my lord, deserved it. 
Laf. Yes, good faith, every dram of it : and 
I will not bait thee a scruple. 
Par. Well, I shall be wiser. 
Laf. Even as soon as thou canst, for thou 
hast to pull at a smack o' the contrary. If ever 
thou bc'st bound in thy scarf, and beaten, thou 
shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. 
I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with 
thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say, 
in the default, he is a man I know. 

Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable 

Laf I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, 
and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am 
past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will 
give mo leave. [^„V. 

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 fet- 
tering of authority. I'll beat liim, 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 Lapeu. 
iMf. Sirrah, your lord and master 's mamed ; 

t.,?n^fn"!"'"' ?T "^''-""^ several passages of a. similar na- 
ture, appears to have been intended for a L-rcat coxcomh in 
. re„: and J-afcu here compares his trappings to theLaudv 
ii,ii"1"'k? "='' I''=""r<=-ve"el, not " of too grcata burden " 
Icarfe!"- ' ^'"'" ^''- "'• "• ''^' "^^ '•«""'' 1 a soldfer so 

" The sturdy plouphman doth tlic soldier see 
All fcflr/fd Willi pied colours to the knee, 
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate- 
And now he 'gins to loath his former state "'' 

there 's news for you ; you have a new mis- 

Par. I most uufeignedly beseech your lord- 
ship to make some reservation of your wrongs : 
He is my good lord : whom I serve above is my 
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 honoiu-, if I were but two 
hoiu-s 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. 

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 person- 
ages, than the commission of your birth and 
virtue gives you heraldry. "^ You are not worth 
another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave 
you. \_E,rit. 

Enter Bertkam. 

Par. Good, very good ; it is so then.— Good, 
very good ; let it be concealed a while. 
Ber. Undone, aud 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. my Parollcs, they have married me :— 
I '11 to the Tuscan wars, aud never bed her. 
Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more 
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 biown : To the wars, 
my boy, to the wars ! 
He wears his honour in a box unseen 
That hugs his kickie-wickic 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 ! 

i,„"^ f" ^■^''.'''^ "/)o« here is to take exercise, which is to be 
had by beating Parolles. Hamlet says (Act v. Sc. ii), " It 
15 'lis breathing time ofday with me." 

heraldrj of your birth and virtue gives you commission." 

Act II.] 


[ScExts IV., -v. 

France is a stable ; we, that dwell in 't, jades ; 
Therefore, to the war ! 

Ber. It shall be so ; I '11 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 

Sliall furnish me to those Italian fields 
Where noble fellows strike : War is no strife 
To the dark house, and the detested wife."' 
Far. Will this capricio hold in thee, art 

sui'e ? 
Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise 
I '11 send her straight away : To-morrow 
I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow. 
Par. Wliy, these balls bound ; there 's noise 
in it. 'T is 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 ! 't is 
so. [E.veun(. 

SCENE rV. — The same. Another room in 
the same. 

Enter Helena and Clown. 

Hel. My mother greets me kindly : Is she 

Clo. She is not well; but yet she has her 
Iiealth : 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 

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. IVhat two things ? 

Clo. One, that she 's not in heaven, whither 
God send her quickly ! the other, that she 's in 
earth, from whence God send her quickly ! 

Enter Pakolles. 

Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady ! 

Hel. I hope, sir, I have yoiu- good will to have 
mine own good fortunes. 

Par. You had my prayers to lead them on : 
and to keep them on, have them still. — O, my 
knave ! How does my old lady ? 

a Bertram would .say— tlie strife of war is nothinp;, 
compared tu that of the dark house, &c. By the "dark 
house" we understand the house which is the seat of 
glooui and discontent. 

Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her 
money, I would she did as you say. 

Par. Wliy, I say nothing. 

Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man ; for many 
a man's tongue shakes out liis 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 mc ? The search, sir, was 
profitable ; and much fool may you find in you, 
even to the world's pleasure, and the increase of 

Par. A good knave, i' faith, and well fed. — 
Madam, my lord will go away to-night : 
A very serious business calls on hioi. 
The great prerogative and rite of love, 
Which, as your due, time claims, he docs ac- 
knowledge ; 
But puts it off to a eompell'd restraint ; 
Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with 

Which they distil now in the curbed time. 
To make the coming hour o'erflow 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 proceed- 
Strengthen'd with what apology you think 
May make it probable need. 

Hel. What more commands ho ? 

Par. That, having this obtain' d, you presently 
Attend his further pleasure. 

Hel. In everything I wait upon his will. 

Par. I shall report it so. 

Hel. I pray you. — Come, sirrah. 


SCENE V. — Another room in the same. 

Enter Lafeu and Bertram. 

Laf. But, I hope your lordship thinks not him 
a soldier. 

Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant aji- 

Laf. You have it from his own Jelivcraucc. 


Act II.] 



Ber. And by other warranted testimony. 

Laf. Then my dial goes not true : I took this 
lark for a bunting." 

Her. I do assure you, my lord, he is very 
great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant. 

Liif. I have then sinned against his experi- 
ence, and transgressed agahast his valour ; and 
my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot 
yet find in my licart to repent. Here he comes; 
i pray you, make us friends ; I will pursue the 

Enter Parolles. 

Par. These things shall be done, sir. 

\^To Bertram. 

Laf. Pray you, sir, who 's his tailor ? 

Par. Sir ? 

Jm/. O, I know him well : Ay, sir ; he, sir, is 
a good workman, a very good tailor. 

Ber. Is she gone to the king ? 

[Jside 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 
Given order for our horses ; and to-night, 
When I should take possession of the bride, 
End ere T 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 thou- 
sand nothings -uith, should be once heard, and 
thrice beaten. — God save you, captain. 

Ber. Is there any unkindness between my 
lord and you, monsieur ? 

Par. 1 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 

Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him 
at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and 
believe this of mc, there can be no kernel in 
this light nut ; the soul of this man is his clothes : 
trust him not in matter of heavy consequence ; 
I have kept of them tame, and know their na- 

" The lark and tlie common bunting greatly resemble 
each other, but the bunting lias no song. 
'' The reading of the original is — 

" And, ere I do begin." 
This valuable correction is derived from a MS. alteration 
of a copy of the first folio, and is given in Mr. Collier's 
" Reasons for a New Edition of Sliakespt-are's Works " 

tares. — Farewell, monsieur : I have spoken 
better of you than you have or will to deserve at 
my hand ; but we must do good against evil. 


Par. An idle lord, I swear. 

Ber. 1 think so. 

Par. Why, do you not know him ? 

Ber. Yes, I do know him well ; and common 
Gives Mm a worthy pass. Here comes my clog. 

Enter Helena. 

Hel. I have, sir, as 1 was commanded from 
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. 
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does 
The ministration and required oflnce 
On my particular : prepar'd I was not 
For such a business ; therefore am I found 
So much unsettled : This drives me to entreat 

That presently you take your way for home ; 
And rather muse, tlian ask, why 1 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. 
'T will be two days ere I shall see you ; so 
I leave you to youi* wisdom. 

llel. Sir, I can nothing say. 

But that I am your most obedient servant. 

Ber. Come, come, no more of that. 

Llel. 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. 

Bel. Pray, sir, your pardon. 

Per. Well, what would you say ? 

Llel. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe ; 
Nor dare I say 't is mine ; and yet it is ; 
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal 
What law does vouch mine own. 

Jicr- Wliat would you have ? 

llel. Something ; and scarce so much : — no- 
thing, indeed. — 
I would not tell you what I would : my lord— 

'faith, yes ; — 
Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. 

Act II.] 


[Scene V. 

Ber. I pray you, slay not, but in haste to i Go tliou toward liomc ; wlierc I will never come, 

Whilst I cau shake my sword, or hear the 

drum : — 
Away, and for our flight. 

Par- Bravelv, eoracrio ' 

Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my 

Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur ? — 

Farewell. \E.rit Helena. 



[General View of Paris.] 

CoMRDIES. — Vol. IT. D 


[Barber's Chair.] 

' Scene II.— « It is like a barber's chair." 

" As common as a b.arber's chaii- " was a pro- 
verbial expression, which we find used by Burton 
(Anatomy of Melancholy, edit. 1G52, p. 665). In a 
collection of epigrams, entitled 'More Foolesyet,' 
1610, we have these lines : — 

' Moreover, satin suits he doth compare 
Unto the service of a barber's chair ; 
As fit for every Jack and journeyman, 
As for a knight or worthy gentleman." 

The barber's shop, in Shakspere's time, was "a 
place where news of every kind circled and 
centered." So Scott has described it in the 'For- 
tunes of Nigel.' The " kuight or worthy gentle- 
man " was nothing loth to exchange gossip with 
the who presided over the chair; and, while 
" the Jack or journeyman " took his turn, many a 
gay gallant has filled up the minutes by touching 
the ghittern to some favourite roundelay. Jose 
A.mman, one of the most spirited of designers, haa 
given us a representation of a German barber's 
shop which may well enough pass for such an 
Luglish " emporium of intelligence " 

2 Scene II. — " A morris for May-day." 

In A Midsummer Night's Dream (Illustrations of 
Act I.) we have given a general notice of the May- 
games. We take the opportunity of here intro- 
ducing a copy of an ancient painted window at 
Betley, in Staffordshire, an engraving and descrip- 
tion of which is generally found in the variorum edi- 
tions of Shakspere, appended to Henry IV., Part I.- 

[Morrls for May-day— Toilet's Window.] 



Douce believes that this window " exhibits, in all 
probability, the most curious as well as the oldest 
representation of an English ]\Iay-game and morris- 
dance that is anywhere to be found." j\[r. Toilet, 
the possessor of this window, supposed it to have 
been painted in the youthful days of Henry VIII.; 
Ijut Douce is of opluion " that the dresses and cos- 
tume of some of the figures are certainly of an older 
period, and may, without much hazard, be pro- 
nounced to belong to the reign of Edward IV." 

Robin Hood and Little John wei-c prominent 
characters in the May-games. We do not find 
them in the painted window, unless some of the 
undistinguished dancers may be taken to personate 
them. The lady with a crown on her head and a 
flower in her hand (2) is taken to be Maid Marian, 
the Queen of the May ; and the friar (3) to be the 
no less famous Friar Tuck. (See Two Gentlemen 
of Verona, Illustrations of Act iv.) The rider of 
the hobby-horse (5) is deemed by Mr. Toilet to be 
the King of the May : at any rate, the hobby-horse 
was one of the greatest personages of the May- 
games. (See Love's Labour's Lost, Illustrations 
of Act III.) The Fool of the Morris (12) is plainly 
indicated by his cap and bauble ; and the Piper, 
or Taborer, (9) in the painted window, is pursuing 
his avocation with his wonted energy. Drayton 
has described this personage as Tom Piper, 

" Who so bestirs liira in the morris-dance 
For penny wage." 

Mr. Toilet thinks that the dancers in his window 
were representatives of the various ranks of life, 
and that the peasant, the franklin, and the noble- 
man are each to be found here. All the dancers, 
it will be observed, have bells attached to their 
ancles or knees; and Douce says "there is good 
reason for believing that the morris-bells were 
borrowed from the genuine Moorish dance." At 
any rate, the bells were indispensable even in Shak- 
spere's time. "Will Kemp, the celebrated comic 
actoi', was a great morris-dancer, and in 1599 he 
rmdertook the extraordinary feat of dancing the 
morris from London to Norwich. This singular 
performance is recorded by himself in a rare tract, 
lately republished by the Camden Society, entitled 
' Kemp's Nine Daies Wonder ; performed in a 
Dance from London to Norwich.' The following 
extract is amusing in itself, and illustrates some 
of tho peculiarities of the morris : — 

" In this town of Sudbury there came a lusty, 
tall fellow, a butcher by his profession, that would 
in a moi-rice keeji me company to Bury. I, being 
glad of his friendly offer, gave him thanks, and 
forward we did set ; but, ere ever we had measured 
half a mile of our way, he gave me over in the 
plain field, protesting that, if he might get 100 
pound, he would not hold out with me ; for in- 
deed my pace in dancing is not ordinary. 

" As he and I were parting, a lusty country lasa, 
being among the people, called him fiiinthearted 
lout, saying, 'If I had begim to dance, I would have 
held out one mile though it had cost my life.' At 
which words many laughed. 'Nay,' saith she, 'if 
the dancer will lend me a leash of his bells, I '11 ven- 
ture to tread one mile with him myself.' I looked 
upon her, saw mirth in her eyes, heard boldness in 

her words, and beheld her ready to tuck up her 
russet petticoat ; I fitted her witli bells, which she 
merrily taking, garnished her thick .short legs, and 
with a smooth brow bade the tabrer begin. The 
drum struck ; forward marched I with my merry 
Maid Marian, who shook her fat sides, and footed it 
merrily to Melford, being a long mile. There part- 
ing with her, I gave her (besides her skin full of 
drink) an English crown to buy more drink ; for, 
good wench, she was in a piteous heat : my 
she requited with dropping some dozen of short 
curtsies, and bidding God ble.«s the dancer. I bade 
her adieu ; and, to give her her due, she had a good 
ear, danced truly, and we parted friendly." 

^ Scene II. — "Do you cry, ' Lord, sir,' at your 
wMpphuj ? " &c. 

The now vulgar expression " Lord, sir," was 
for a long time the fashionable phrase, and has been 
i-idiculed by other writers. The whipping of a do- 
mestic fool was not an uncommon occurrence. Sir 
Dudley Carleton writes to Mr. Winwood, in 160 J, — 
" There was great execution done lately upon Stone, 
the fool, who was well whipped in Bridewell for a 
blasphemous speech, that there were sixty fools in 
Spain besides my lord admiral and his two sons. 
But he is now at liberty again, and for that unex- 
pected release gives his lordship the praise of a very 
pitiful lord." — (Memoirs of the Peer.s, by Sir E. 

* Scene V. — "Like him that leaped into the custard." 

Ben Jonson has a passage which weU illustrates 
this : — 

" He may perchance, in tail of a sheriff's dinner, 
Skip with a rhyme on the table, from New-nothing, 
And take his Alniain-leap into a custard, 
Shall make my lady mayoress and her sisters 
Laugh all their hoods over their shoulders." 

Devil is an Ass, Act i. Sc. i. 

The leaper into the custard was the city fool. 
Gifford has a note on the above passage of Jonson, 
which we copy : — " Our old dramatists abound with 
pleasant allusions to the enormous size of their 
'quaking custards,' which were served up at the city 
feasts, and with which such gross fooleries were 
played. Thus Glapthorne : — 

' I '11 write the city annals 
In metre, which shall far surpass Sir Guy 
Of Warwick's history, or John Stow's, upon 
The custard, with the fourand-twenty nooks 
At my lord mayor's feast.' — Wit in a Constable. 

" Indeed, no common supply was required ; for, 
besides what the corporation (great devourers of 
custard) consumed on the spot, it appears that it 
was thought no breach of city manners to send or 
take some of it home with them for the use of their 
ladies. In the excellent old play quoted above, 
Clara twits her uncle with this practice : — 

' Nor shall you, sir, as 't is a frequent custom, 
'Cause you 're a worthy alderman of a ward, 
Feed me with custard and perpetual white broth. 
Sent from the lord mayor's feast, and kept ten days, 
Till a new dinner from the common-hall 
Supply the large defect.' " 


H'lilii' '^4^' 

-^ ■imTmf\ ^lim CfTTTiTinilf 

(Court of the Duke's Palace, Florence.] 


SCENE I.— Florence. A Room m the Duke'* 


Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, 
attended; two French Lords, and others. 

Duke. So that, from point to point, now have 
you heard 
The fandaniental reasons of this war ; 
Whose great decision hath much blood let forth, 
And more thhsts after. 

1 Lord. Holy seems the quarrel 
Upon your grace's part ; black and fearful 

On the opposer. 
J)uke. Therefore we marvel much, our cousin 
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 sclf-unablc 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 gaess'd. 

Duke. Be it his pleasure. 

2 Lord. But I am sure, the younger of our 

That surfeit on their ease, will, day by day, 
Come here for physic. 

Buke. Welcome shall they be ; 

And all the honours that can fly from us 
Shall on them settle. You know your places 

Wlien better fall, for your avails they fell : 
To-morrow to the field. \Flourish. Excuni. 

SCENE II.— Rousillon. A Room in the 
Countess'5 Palace. 

Enter Countess and Clovm. 

Co2mt. 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 melancholy hold a 
goodly manor for a song.'' 

.1 The top of the loose boot, ■which turned over, was called 
the ruff, or riijffle. Ben Jonson has the latter word: " Not 
having; leisure to put off my silver spurs, one of the rowels 
catch'd hold of the ruffle of my hoot." (Every man out of 
his Humour, Act iv., Sc. vi.) 

b The reading of the original, and of the second folio, is 
"hold a goodly manor," &c. In the third folio it was 

Act III.] 


ISCENt 11. 

Count. Let me see what he writes, and when 
he means to come. \Ope)iing a letter. 

Clo. I have no mind to Isbcl, since I was at 
court ; our okl 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.'] 

' I have sent you a daughter-in-law : she hath recovered 
the king, and undone me. 1 have wedded her, not hedded 
lier; and sworn to make the not eternai. You shall hear 
I am run away ; know It before the report come. If there 
be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. 
M? duty to you. 

' Your unfortunate son, 

' Bertram.' 

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy. 
To fly the favour's of so good a king ; 
To pluck his indignation ou thy head. 
By the misprizing of a maid too vu'tuous 
For the contempt of empire. 

Re-enter Clown. 

Clo. madam, yonder is heavy news within, 
between two soldiers and my young lady. 

Coimt. What is the matter ? 

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, 
some comfort ; your son will not be killed so 
soon as I thought he would. 

Count. Why should he be killed ? 

Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I 
hear he does : the danger is in standing to 't; 
that 's the loss of men, though it be the getting 
of children. Here they come will tell you more : 
for my part, I only hear yom* son was run away. 


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, gen- 
tlemen, — 
I have felt so nmny quirks of joy and grief. 
That the first face of neither, on the start, 

changed to sold, which has been the received reading in 
several editions. That amelanclioly man should se/i a manor 
for a song is no illustration of the Clown's argument 'hat 
singing is a symptom of melancholy; but, as manors ^Yere 
held under every sort of service, it is not improbable (though 
we find no example in ' Blount's Tenures ') that one origin- 
ally granted to a minstrel for his song may have been held 
by a melancholy successor, and that he, by the musical 
effects of his melancholy, may have been as competent to 
discharge the service to the letter as his ancestor of the gay 

Can woman mc uuto 't, —Where is my son, I 
pray you ? 
2 Gen. Madam, he 's gone to serve the duke 
of Florence : 
We met him thitherward; for thence we came, 
And, after some despatch in hand at 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, which nevei 
shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body 
that I am father to, then call me husband : but in such a 
then I write a never.' 

This is a dreadfid sentence. 

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ? 

1 Gen. Ay, madam ; 
And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our 

Cou?d. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer ; 
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 
Thou robb'st me of a moiety : He was my son ; 
But I do wash his name out of my blood, 
And thou art all my child. — Towards Florence 

is he ? 

2 Gen. Ay, madam. 

Count. And to be a soldier ? 

2 Gen. Such is his noble piu-posc : and, be- 
lieve 't, 
The duke wUl lay upon him all the honour 
That good convenience claims. 

Count. ' Return you thither ? 

1 Gen. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of 

Hel. ' Till I have no wife, I have nothing in 
'T is 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 homdy, mistress. Who was with 
1 Ge/i. A servant only, and a gentleman 
"Which I have some time kno\vn. 

Count. Parollcs, was 't not ? 

1 Gen. Ay, my good lady, he. 
Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of 
My son coriiipts a well-derived nature 

With his inducement. 


Acv III.] 


[Scenes UI., IV. 

1 Gen. Indeed, good ladj, 
The fellow lias a deal of that, too much. 
Which holds him much to have. 

Coxtnt. You are welcome, gentlemen. 
I \vill entreat you, when you see my son. 
To tell him that his sword can never win 
The honoui- that he loses : more I 'II entreat you 
Writfcu to bear along. 

2 Gen. We serve you, madam, 
In that and all your worthiest affau's. 

Count. Not so, but as we change our coui'tesies. 
Will you draw near ? 

[Sxeioit Countess ai:d Gentlemen. 
Thl. ' Till I have no wife, I have uothmg in 
Nothing in France, imtil he has no wife ! 
Thou shalt have none, Rousillou, none in 

Then hast thou all agam. 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 coui-t, where 

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mai-k 
Of smoky muskets ? ^ you leaden messengers. 
That ride upon the violent speed of fire. 
Fly with false aim ; move the still-peering'' air, 
That sings with piercing; do not touch my 

lord ! 
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ; 
Whoever charges on his forward breast, 
I am the caitiff that do hold him to it ; 
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause 
His death was so effected : better 't were, 
I met the ravm lion when he roar'd 
With shai-p constraint of hunger; better 'twere. 
That all the miseries which natui'e owes 
Were mine at once : No, come thou home, Eou- 

Whence honour but of danger ^vins a scar. 
As oft it loses all ; I will be gone : 
My being here it is that holds thee hence : 
Shall I stay here to do't ? no, no, although 
The air of paradise did fan the house. 
And angels offic'd aU : I will be gone ; 
That pitiful rumour may report my flight. 
To consolate tliine ear. Come, night; end, 

day ! 
For, with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away. 


,,.?, ^''"-Pf^'''S- This is the reading of the oririnal It i. 

Th- Bens? of etrf^l^V^","^ '"^"^ ='°'" immediatdy. 
».ill-»eemsquite°asTood '''"^-''"'-^^ 

SCENE III.— Florence. Be/ore the Duke's 

Flourish. Fnter the Duke of Flokence, Ber- 
TBAM, Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others. 

Diclce. The general of oui- horse thou art ; and 
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 'U strive to bear it for youi- worthy sake. 
To the extreme edge of hazard. 

Buhe. 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 

A lover of thy di'um, hater of love. [Exeunt, 

SCENE IV.— Rousillon. A Boom tn the 
Countess's Palace. 

Enter Countess and Steward. 

Count. Alas ! and would you take the letter 
of her? 
IMight you not know she would do as she has 

By sending me a letter ? Read it again. 

stew, r am St. Jaques' pilgrim, tliitlier gone: 

Ambitious love hath so in me offended, 
That bare-foot plod 1 tlie cold ground upon. 

With sainted vow my faults to have amended. 
Write, write, that, from the bloody course of war. 

My dearest master, your dear son may hie ; 
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far 

His name with zealous fervour sanctify : 
His taken labours bid him me forgive ; 

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth 
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live, 

'\Vhere death and danger dog the heels of worth : 
He is too good and ]-air for death and me ; 
AVhom I myself embrace, to set him free. 

Count. Ah, what sharp stmgs are in her mild- 
est words ! — 
Binaldo, you did never lack advice so much 
As letting her pass so ; had I spoke with her, 
I could have well diverted her intents. 
Which thus she hath prevented. 

Stew. Pa-rdon me, madam : 

If I had given you this at over-night. 
She might have been o'er-ta'en; and yet she 

Pursuit would be but vain. 

<^<'«^^: Wliat angel shaU 

Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive, 














Act III.] 


[Scene 7 

Unless her prayers, whom heavcu delights to 

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wratli 
Of greatest justice. — Write, write, llinaldo. 
To this unworthy husband of his wife : 
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth, 
That he does weigh too light : my greatest grief, 
Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 
Despatch the most convenient messenger : — 
When, haply, he shall hear tliat she is gone. 
He will return ; and hope I may that she. 
Hearing so much, M'ill speed her foot again, 
Led hither by pui'c love. Which of them both 
Is dearest to me, I have no skill in sense 
To make distinction: — Provide this messenger: — 
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak ; 
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me 

speak. \_Exeuiit . 

SCENE ^.— Without the Walls 0/ Florence. 

A tucket afar off. Enter an old Widow of Flo- 
rence, Diana, Violenta, Mauiana, and other 

Wid. Nay, come ; for if they do approach the 
city, we shall lose all the sight. 

Bia. They say the French count has done 
most honoui'able service. 

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their 
greatest commander; and that with his own 
hand he slew the duke's brother. We have lost 
our labour : they are gone a contrary way : 
■hark ! you may know by their trumpets. 

Mar. Come, let's return again, and suffice 
ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, 
take heed of this French earl : the honour of a 
maid is her name ; and no legacy is so rich as 

Wid. I have told my neighbour how yoa have 
been solicited by a gentleman his companion. 

Mar. I know that knave ; hang him ! one 
ParoUes : a filthy officer he is in those sugges- 
tions* for the young earl. — Beware of them, Di- 
ana ; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, 
and all these engmes of lust, are not the thmgs 
they go under : many a maid hath been seduced 
by them ; and the misery is, example that so ter- 
rible shows in the wrack of maidenhood, cannot 
for all that dissuade succession, but that they are 
limed with the twigs that threaten them. I 
hope I need not to advise you further ; but I 
hope your own grace will keep you where you 
are, though there were no further danger known, 
but the modesty which is so lost. 

* 5a^^cs/«ons— temptations. 

Lia. You shall not need to fear mc. 

Enter Helena, in the dress of a pit y rim. 

Wid. I hope so. — Look, here comes a pil- 
grim : I know she will lie at my house : thither 
they send one anotlier: I'll question her.— God 
save you, pilgrim ! Witlicr arc you bound ? 

Hel. To Saint Jaqucs Ic 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 ! 

[-•/ march afar off. 
They come this way :— If you will tarry, holy 

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. 

Ilel. Is it yom-self ? 

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim. 

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your 

Wid. You came, I think, from France ? 

Hel. I did so. 

Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of 
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. 

Dia. Whatsoe'er he is. 

He 's bravely taken here. He stole from France, 
As 't is reported, for'^ the king had married liim 
Against liis liking : Think you it is so ? 

Hel. Aj, surely, mere the truth ; I know his 

Dia. There is a gentleman that serves the 
Reports but coarsely of her. 

Hel. What 's his name ? 

Dia. Monsieur ParoUes. 

Hel. 0, I believe with him, 

In argument of praise, or to the worth 
Of the great count himself, she is too mean 
To have her name repeated ; all her deserving 
Is a reserved honesty, and that 
I have not heard examin'd. 

Dia. Alas, poor lady ! 

'Tis a hard bondage, to become the wife 
Of a detesting lord. 

° For — because. 


Act III.] 



[Scene VI. 

IFid. Ay, right -^ good creature, whercsoe'er 
she is, 
Her heart weighs sadly : tliis young maid nught 

do her 
A shrewd turn if she pleas'd. 

jjgl How do you mean ? 

May be, the amorous count solicits her 
In the unlawful pui-pose. 

jfij^ He does, indeed; 

And brokes with all that can in such a suit'' 
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid : 
But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard 
In honestest defence. 

Enter, with drum and colours, a parti/ of the 
Florentine armi/, Bertkam, and Parolles. 

Mar. The gods forbid else ! 

TTid, So, now they come :— 

That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son ; 
That, Escalus. 

Hel. Which is the Frenchman ? 

Bia. He; 

That with the plume : 't is a most gallant fellow ; 
I would he lov'd his wife : if he were honester 
lie were much goodlier : — Is 't not a handsome 
gentleman ? 

Hel. I like him well. 

Bia. 'T is pity he is not honest : Yond 's that 
same knave, 
That leads him to these places ; were I his lady, 
I would poison that vile rascal. 

Hel. Which is he ? 

Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs : Why is 
he melancholy ? 

Hel. Perchance he 's hurt i' the battle. 

Par. Lose our drum ! well. 

Mar. He's shrewdly vexed at something: 
Look, he has spied us. 

Wid. Marry, hang you ! 

Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier ! 

[Exeunt Bertra m, Parolles, Officers, 
and Soldiers. 

IFid. 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 thank- 
Shall be for me ; and to requite you further, 

a Ay, riyht. The original reads, I write; which Malono 
adopts. But ay is 6o invariably printed I, that we doubt the 
propriety of retaining this forced expression, when the simpl" 
assent of the Wi.low to Diana's reflection is ol)vious. 

Brokea. To broke (an obsolete verb), is to transact 
business for others. 


I will bestow some precepts on this virgin, 
AVorthy the note. 

Both. We '11 take your offer kindly. 


SCENE VI.— Camp before Florence. 
Enter Bertram, aiid the two French Lords. 

1 Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to 't ; 
let him have his way. 

2 Lord. If your lordship find him not a hild- 
iug, 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 

1 Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own 
direct knowledge, without any malice, but to 
speak of him as my kinsman, he 's a most notable 
coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly 
promise-breaker, the owner of no one good 
quality worthy your lordship's entertainment. 

2 Lord. It were fit you knew him ; lest, re- 
posing too far in his vii'tue, which he hath not, 
lie might, at some great and trusty business, in 
a main danger, fail you. 

Ber. I woidd I knew in what particular ac- 
tion 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 wUl have whom 
I am sure he knows not from the enemy : we 
will bind and hood-wink him, so that he shall 
suppose no other but that he is carried into the 
leaguer ' of the adversaries, when we bring him 
to our own tents : Be but your lordship present 
at his examination : if he do not, for the promise 
of his life, and in the highest compulsion of 
base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver all the 
intelligence in his power against you, and that 
with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, 
never trust my judgment in anything. 

2 Lord. 0, for the love of laughter, let him 
fetch his drum; he says, he has a stratagem 
for 't : when your lordship sees the bottom of his 
success in 't, and to what metal this counterfeit 
lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not 
John Drum's entertainment,^ your inclining can- 
not be removed. Here he comes. 

Enter Parolles. 

1 Lord. O, for the love of laughter, hinder 
not the humour"' of liis design : let him fetch ofl 
his drum in any hand. 

a Leaguer is from the German lager, a camp. 
l) Humour— h\ the original honour. 


Act III.] 


[Scene VIl. 

Ber. How now, mousicar? this drum sticks 
sorely in your disposition. 

2 Lord. A pox on 't, let it go ; 't is but a drum. 

Par. But a drum ! Is 't but a drum ? A. drum 
so lost ! — There was excellent command ! to 
charge in with our horse upon our own wiags, 
and to rend our own soldiers ! 

2 Lord. That was not to be blamed iu the 
command of the service; it was a disaster of 
war that Cuesar himself 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 sei-vice is seldom attributed to the true and 
exact performer, I would hiivo that drum or 
another, or Ida jacet. 

Ber. Why, if you have a stomach to 't, mon- 
sieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem 
can brmg this instrument of honour again into 
his native quarter, be magnanimous in the en- 
terprise, and go on ; I will grace the attempt 
for a worthy exploit : if you speed well iu it, the 
duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you 
what fui-ther becomes his greatness, even to 
the utmost syllable of your worthiness. 

Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will under- 
take it. 

Ber. But you must not now slumber in it. 

Par. I '11 about it this evening : and I will 
presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage 
myself iu 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 vnll be, my 
lord ; but the attempt I vow. 

Ber. I know thou art valiant; and to the 
possibility of thy soldiership will subscribe for 
thee. Farewell. 

Par. I love not many words. \Bxit. 

1 Lord. No more than a fish loves water — Is 
not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so con- 
fidently 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 Lrd, as 
we do : certain it is, that he will steal himself 
into a man's favour, and, for a week, escape a 
great deal of discoveries; but when you find 
him out, you have him ever after. 

Ber. \ATiy, 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 ; but return with 
an invention, and clap upon you two or throe pro- 
bable lies : but we have almost embossed* him ; 
you shall see his fall to-night : for, indeed, he is 
not for your lordship's respect. 

2 Lord. We '11 make you some sport M'ith the 
fox, ere we case him. He was first smoked by 
the old lord Lafeu : when his disguise and he 
is parted, teU me what a sprat you sliall find 
him ; which you shall see this very night. 

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 'II leave 
you. \Bxit. 

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 faidt: 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 

Tokens and letters which she did re-send ; 

Aud this is aU I have done : She 's a fair crea- 
ture ; 

Will you go see her ? 

2 Lord. With aU my heart, my lord. 


SCENE VIL— Florence. A Room in the 
Widow'.? House. 

Enter Helena and Widow. 

Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, 
I know not how I shall assm-e you further, 
But I shall lose the grounds I work upon. 

IFid. Though my estate be fallen, I was well 
Nothing acquainted with these businesses ; 
Aud 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 bus- 
band ; 
And, what to your sworn counsel I have spoken. 
Is so, from word to word; and then you cannot, 

a Embossed. The vord is probably here used in tlie sense 
of exhausted. In tlie Induction to the TammR of tl''^/;'"'^'-. 
" the poor cur is r.m6ois'd"-swollen with hard rimninT. Jn 
the old field language, the weary stag was emboiscd. 


Act III.] 


[Scene VU. 

By the good aid tliat I of you shall boriow, 
Err in bestow ing it. 

Wid. I should believe you ; 

For you have show'd me that which well a])- 

Vou are great in fortune. 

Uel. Take this purse of gold, 

And let me buy your friendly help thus far, 
WTiich I will over-pay, and pay again, 
When I have found it. The count hs woos your 

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty, 
Resolves to carry her; let her, in fine, consent, 
As we'll direct her how't is best to bear it. 
Now his important blood will nought deny 
That she '11 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 ruig he 

In most rich choice ; yet, in liis idle fire. 
To buy his will, it would not seem too dear, 
llowe'er repented after. 

IFid. 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, 
Desii-es this ring ; appoints him an encounter ; 
In fine, delivers me to fill the time. 
Herself most chastely absent ; after this. 
To marry her, I 'U add three thousand crowns 
To what is past already. 

Wid. I have yielded : 

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever, 
That time and place, with this deceit so lawful, 
May prove coherent. Every night he comes 
With musics of all sorts, and songs compos'd 
To her unworthincss : It nothing steads us 
To chide him from oiu: 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. 
And lawful meaning in a lawful act ; 
Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact : 
But let 's about it. [Exeuiu. 

r Without the Walls of Florence. 1 


1 Scene II. — " Smohy muskets." 
PoKTABLE fii-e-arms, according to Sir Samuel 
Meyrick, were first used by the Lucquese in 1430. 
The hand-caiinon, and the liand-gan, were little 
more than tubes of brass fitted on a piece of wood, 
and fired with a match held in tho hand. In a 

French translation of Quiutus Curtius, written in 
1468, and preserved amongst the Burucy MSS. in 
the British Museum, we find the earliest represent- 
ations of hand fire-arms which are known. The 
following is a copy of part of an illumination in 
this volume : 

The arqu^nis conveyed the match to the pan by a 
trigger. This was the first great improvement in 
portable fire-arms. The following description of 
the tniisquet is extracted from the 'English Cyclo- 
psedia' (Art. Arms): — 

" The musquct was a Spanish invention. It i.s 
said to have first made its appearance at the battle 
of Pavia, and to have contributed in an especial 
manner to decide the fortune of the day. Its use, 
however, seems for a while to have been confined. 


It appears not to have heen generally adopted till 
the Duke of Alba took upon himself the govern- 
ment of the Netherlands in 1567. M. de Strozzi, 
colonel-general of the French inftintry under 
Charles IX., introduced it into France. The first 
Spanish musquets had straight stocks ; the French, 
cm-ved ones. Their form -was that of the haquebut, 
but so long and hea\-y, that something of support 
was required ; and hence originated the rest, a staff 
the height of a man's shoulder, -with a kind of fork 
of iron at the top to receive the musquet, and a 
ferule at bottom to steady it in the ground. On 
a march, when the piece was shouldered, the rest 
was at first carried in the right hand, and subse- 
quently hung upon the wrist by means of a loop 
tied under its head. A similar rest had been first 
used by the mounted arquebiisiers. In the time of 
Elizabeth, and long after, the English musqueteer 
was a most encumbered soldier. He had, besides 
the unwieldy weapon itself, his coarse powder for 
loading in a flask ; his fine powder for priming in 
a touch-box ; his bullets in a leathern bag, the 

strings of which he had to draw to get at them . 
whUe in his hand was his burning match and his 
musquet-rest ; and, when he had discharged his 
piece, he had to draw his sword in order to defend 
himself. Henceitbecamea question for a long time, 
even among military men, whether the bow did 
not deserve a preference over the musquet." 

2 Scene VI. — "John Drunt's entertamment." 

There is an old interlude, printed in 1601, called 
' Jack Drum's Entertainment ; ' and it appears that 
this species of hospitality to which Jack Drum, or 
John Drum, or Tom Drum (for he is called by each 
name) was subjected, consisted in abuse and beat- 
ing. Holinshed, speaking of the hospitality of the 
Mayor of Dublin in lo-51, says, "No guest had 
ever a cold or forbidding look from any part of 
his family ; so that his jester or any other oflScer 
durst not, for both his ears, give the simplest man 
that resorted to his house Tom Drum his entertain- 
ment, which is, to hale a man in by the head, find 
thrust him out by both the shoulders." 

[t'lnrentine Camp, and General View of Florence ] 


SCENE l.— mthoid the Florentine Camp. 

Enter first Lord, with five or six Soldiers in 

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 yourselves, 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 inter- 

1 Lord. Art not acquainted with him ? knows 
he not thy voice ? 

1 Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. 

1 Lord. But what Knsy-woolsy hast thou to 
speak to us again ? 

1 Sold. E'en such as you speak to me. 

i Lord. He must think us some band of 
strangers i' the adversary's entertainment. Now 
he halh a smack of all neighbouring languages ; 

therefore we must every one be a man of his 
OAvn fancy, not to know what we speak one to 
another ; so we seem to know is to know straight 
our pui'pose : chough's language, gabble enough, 
and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you 
must seem very politic. But couch, boa ! here 
he comes ; to beguile two hours in a sleep, and 
then to return and swear the lies he forges. 

Enter Pakolles. 

Par. Ten o'clock : within these three hours 
't will be time enough to go home. "What shall 
I say I have done ? It must be a very plausivc 
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 liis creatures, not daring the 
reports of my tongue. 

1 Lord. This is the first truth that e'er thine 
own tongue was guUty of. [Jstde. 

Par. What the devil should move me to un^ 


Act TV.] 


[SCEKE 11. 

dertake the recovery of this drum ; beiug uot 
ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I 
had no such purpose ? I must give myself some 
hurls, and say I got them in exploit : Yet slight 
ones -will not carry it : Tlicy will say, Came you 
off -with so little ? and great ones I dare not 
give. Wherefore ? what 's the instance ? Tongue, 
I must put you into a butter-woman's moulh, 
and buy myself another of Bajazet's mule,'^ if 
you prattle me into these perils. 

1 Zonl. Is it possible he should know what 

ho is, and be that he is ? [Aside. 

Par. I would the cutting of my garments 

would serve the turn; or the breaking of ray 

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. 'T woidd not do. [Aside. 

Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was 

1 Lord. Hardly serve. [Aside. 

Par. Though I swore I leaped from the 
window of the citadel— 
1 Lord. How deep ? [Aside. 

Par. Thirty fathom. 

1 Lord. Three great oaths would scarce make 
that be believed. [Aside. 

Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy's ; 
I would swear I recovered it. 

1 Lord. You shall hear one anon. [Aside, 

Par. A di'um now of the enemy's ! 

[Alarum within. 
1 Lord. Throca movovsus, cargo, cargo, cargo. 
All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villiaiida par corho, 

Par. ! ransom, ransom : do not liide mine 
eyes. [Tliei/ seize him and blind/old him, 

1 Sold. Poskos thromuldo hoskos. 
Par. I know you are the Muskos' regiment. 
And I shall lose my life for want of languao-e : 
If tlicre be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 
Italian, or Ereneh, let him speak to me, 
I will discover that which shall undo 
The Florentine. 

1 Sold. BosJcos vauvado : — 

I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue :— 
Kerehjhonto : — Sir, 

Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards 
Arc at thy bosom. 
Par. Oh ! 

1 Sold. ^ 0, pray, pray, pray.— 

Manka Tetania dulche. 

1 Jl/«/^ So the original. It was proposed by Warburton 
with great plausibility, to read " Bajazet's mute " 

1 Lord' Oscorbi dulchos volivorco. 

1 Sold. The general is content to spare thee 
And, hood-wink'd as thou Jirt, will lead thee on 
To gather from thee : haply thou may'st inform 
Somctliiug to save thy life. 

Par. 0, let me live. 

And all the secrets of our camp I '11 show. 
Their force, their purposes : nay, I '11 speak that 
Which you Avill wonder at. 
1 Sold. But wilt thou faithfully ? 

Par. If I do uot, damn me. 
1 Sold. Acordo linta. — 

Come on, thou art granted space. 

[T^xit, with Pauolles guarded. 
1 Lord. Go, tell the count Eousillon, and my 
We have caught the woodcock, and will keep 

him muffled 
Till we do hear from them. 

3 Sold. Captain, I wiU. 

1 Lord. He will betray us all unto om-selves ; — 
Inform on that.'"^ 

2 Sold. So I Avil], sir. 

1 Lord. Till then, I '11 keep him dark, and 
safely lock'd. [Pxeunt. 

SCENE II.— Florence. A Room in the Widow's 

Enter Bekteam and Diaka. 

Per. They told me that your name was Fon- 

Dia. No, my good lord, Diana. 

^er. Titled goddess ; 

And worth it, with addition ! But, fair soul, 
In your fiue frame hath love no quality ? 
If the quick fire of youtli 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. 

Pia. She then was honest. 

■^^^' So should vou be. 

Pia. ^ Xo: 

My mother did but duty; such, my lord. 
As you owe to your wife. 

-^f''- No more of that ! 

I prithee do not strive against my vows : 
I was compell'd to her; but I love thee 

'm?/'ar'^''En't°,hf"f The common reading is "inform 
oTthat",-, Jt\H ''''''""^ 's scarcely wanted. "Inform 
on that IS, give information on that point. 




[Scene III 

By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever 
Do thee all rights of service. 

Dla. Ay, so yon serve us, 

Tin we serve you : but when you have our roses, 
i"ou barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves, 
And mock us with our bareness. 

£er. How have I swoi-n ! 

Biff. 'T is 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 

yon, 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 -nhom I protest to love. 
That I will work against him : Therefore, your 

Ai'e words, and poor conditions j 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, 
Wlio then recover : say, thou art mine, and ever 
]My love, as it begins, shall so persever. 

D/'a. I see that men make ropes, in such a 
That we '11 forsake, ourselves.'' Give me that ring. 

£er. I '11 lend it thee, my dear, but have no 
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. 

a The reading which we here give, that of the original, is 
startling and difficult. The common reading, that of Rowe, 

" I see that men make hopes, in such affairs." 

Malone reads, 

"I see that men make hopes, in such a scene." 

Mr. Collier's MS. Corrector would read, 

"in such a suit," 

But it is not likely that a printer or transcriber would 
mistake such a remarkable word as scarre for scene or suit. 
Phillips, in his "World of Words," says that scar" signifies 
a steep rock," and is the origin of the name of Scarborough; 
and scaur is still used for a precipitous rock in Scotland. 
Thus, figuratively, it may be used for a difficulty U be 
surmounted. Men, according to Diana, pretend to show 
how we can overpass the obstacle, by furnishing the ropes 
by which the rock is to be climbed. The alterations are 
ail feeble. Mr. Dyce prints "hopes in such a case;" Mr. 
Staunton, " in such a snare." If hopes is substituted for 
ropes, and scarre retained, the sense then may be, that men 
hope, in such a position of difficulty, that we'll forsake our- 
selves—cease to rely upon ourselves. 

Dia. Mine honour 's such a ring 

My chastity's the jewel of our house. 
Bequeathed down from many ancestors ; 
Which were the greatest oldoquy i' the world 
In me to lose : Thus your own proper wisdom 
Brings in the champion honour on my part, 
Agahist your vain assaidt. 

JSei: Here, take my ring : 

My house, mine honoui', yea, my life, be thine, 
And I'll be bid by thee. 

Bta. When midnight comes, knock at my 
chamber window ; 
I '11 order take my mother shall not hear. 
Now will I charge you in the band of truth. 
When you have conqucr'd my yet maiden bed, 
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me : 
My reasons are most strong ; and you shall know 

Wlien back again this ring shall be deliver'd : 
And on your finger, in the night, I '11 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. [^Exii. 

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 has sworn to marry me. 
When his wife 's dead ; therefore I '11 lie with him 
When I am biu-ied. Since Trenchmen are so 

Marry that will, I'll live and die a maid : 
Only, in this disguise, I thiuk 't no sin 
To cozen him that woidd luijustly win. [Eril. 

SCENE llL—T/ie Florentine Camp. 

Elder the two French Lords, and two or three 

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 stiugs his nature ; 
for, on the reading it, he changed almost into 
another man. 

1 Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon 
him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet 
a lady. 

^ Braid — crafty, according to Steevens. Home Tooke ha* 
a curious notion that the word here mea.ns brayed— as afool 
is said to be in a mortar. Mr. Richardson, in his Dictionar>', 
considers that in this passage it bears the sense of violent. 


Act IV.] 


[Scene III. 

2 Lord. Especially he hath incurred the ever- 
lasting 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 dweU 
darkly with you. 

1 Lord. When you have spoken it 'tis dead, 

and I am the grave of it. 

2 Lord. He hath perverted a young gentle- 
woman here in Florence, of a most chaste re- 
nown ; and this night he fleshes his wiU m 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 ourselves what things are we ! 

2 Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in 
the common course of all treasons we still see 
them reveal themselves, till they attain to then- 
abhorred ends ; so he, that in tliis action con- 
trives against his own nobility, in his proper 
stream o'erflows himself. 

1 Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us to be 
trumpeters 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 hira see his company '^ anatomized ; that he 
might take a measure of his own judgments, 
wherein so cuiiously he had set this counterfeit. 

2 Lord. We will not meddle with him till he 
corne ; for liis presence must be the whip of the 

1 Lord. In the mean time, what hear you of 
these wars ? 

2 Lord. I hear there is an overtui'e 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 L^ord. I perceive, by this demand, you are 
not altogether of his council. 

2 Lord. Let it be forbid, sir ! so should I be 
a great deal of his act. 

1 Lord. Sir, his wife, some two months since, 
fled from his house : her pretence is a pilgrim- 
age to Saint Jaques le grand; which holy un- 
dertaking, with most austere sanctimony, she 
accomplished : and, there residing, the tender- 
ness 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 Jjord. How is this justified ? 

1 Jjord. The stronger part of it by her own 
letters ; which makes her story true, even to the 


fi Company — companion. 

point of her death: her death itself, whicn 
could not be her oface to say is come, was faith- 
fully confirmed by the rector of the place. 
2 Lord. Hath the count all 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 '11 be glad 

of this. 

1 Lo7-d. How mightily, sometimes, we make 
us comforts of oui- losses ! 

2 Lord. And how mightily, some other times, 
we di-own 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 cm- life is of a mingled 
yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would 
be proud if oui- faults whipped them not ; and 
our crimes would despair if they were not 
cherished by our vii'tues. 

Enter a Servant. 

How now ? where 's youi- master ? 

Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir, of 
whom he hath taken a solemn leave ; his lord- 
ship will next morning for France. The duke 
hath offered liim letters of commendations to the 

2 Lord. They shall be no more than needful 
there, if they were more than they can com 

Enter Berteam. 

1 Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the 
king's tartness. Heie 's his lordship now. How 
now, my lord, is 't not after midnight ? 

Ber. I have to-night despatched sixteen busi- 
nesses, 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 needs •,°' 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 re- 
quires haste of your lordship. 

Ber. I mean the business is not ended, as 
feariug to hear of it hereafter : But shall we 
have this dialogue between the fool and the sol- 
dier? — Come, bring forth this counterfeit mo- 
dule ; he has deceived me, like a double-meaniag 

a Needs. So the original. The common reading is deeds, 
which change is certainly not an improvement. 

Act IV.] 


[Scene III. 

2 Lord. Bring liim 

fortli : {Exeunt Soldiers.] 
he hath sat in the stocks all night, poor gallant 

Ber. No matter; his heels have deserved it, 
in usm-ping 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 imderstood, — he weeps like a weuch 
that had shed her milk : he hath confessed him- 
self to ]\[organ, 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 iu 't, as 
I believe you are, you must have the patience to 
hear it. 

Re-enter Soldiers, icltli Pauolles. 

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 tortui-es : T\Tiat will 
you say without 'em ? 

Far. I will confess what I know ^vithout con- 
straint ; if ye pinch me like a pasty I can say no 

1 Sold. Bosko chbdurcho. 

2 Lord. Boblibindo 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 
horse the didce is strong.' What 

Par. Five or six thousand; but 
and unserviceable : 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 ? 

Par. Do ; I '11 take the sacrament on 't, how 
and which way you will. 

Ber. All's one to him. Wliat a past-saving 
slave is this ! 

1 Lord. You are deceived, my lord ; this is 
monsieur ParoUes, the gallant militarist, (that 
was his own phrase,) that had the whole tlicorick 
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 agaiu, for 
keeping his sword clean ; nor believe he 

how many 
say you to 




a An allusion to the game of blindman's buff, formerly 
called hoodman blind. 

have everything in him, by wearing his apparel 

1 Sold. Well, that 's set down. 

Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said,— I 
will say tuic,— or thereabouts, set down,— for 
I 'U 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. 

1 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 will tell true. Let me see : 
Spurio a hundred and fifty, Sebastian so many, 
Corambus so many, Jaques so many; Guiltian, 
Cosmo, Lodowic, and Gratii, two hundred fifty 
each : mine omti company, Chitopher, Vaumond, 
Bentii, two hundred fifty each : so that the 
muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, 
amounts not to fifteen thousand poll ; half of the 
which dare not shake the snow from off their 
cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces. 

Ber. Wliat shall be done to him ? 

1 Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks. 
Demand of him my condition, and what credit I 
have with the duke. 

ISold. Well, that's set do^\-n. 'You shall 
demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain 
be i' the camp, a Frenchman ; what his reputa- 
tion is with the duke, what his valour, honesty, 
and expcrtness in wars ; or whether he thinks it 
were 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 
particidar of the intergatories : Demand them 

1 Sold. Do you know this captain Dumain ? 

Par. I know him : he was a botcher's 'prentice 
iu Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting 
the shricve's fool with child ; a dumb innocent 
that could not say hini nay. 

[First Lord lifts up his hand iu 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 iu the duke of 
Florence's camp ? 

Par. Upon my knowledge he is, and lousy. 

1 Lord. Nay, look not so upon mc ; we sliall 
hear of your lordship anon. 

Comedies. — Vol. TT. K 

a Walker suggests Julian. 


Act IV.] 



1 Sold. Wliat is his reputation with the duke ? 

Par. The duke kuows him for no other but a 
poor olEcer of niiue ; 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 '11 search. 

Par. In good sadness, I do not know ; either 
it is there, or it is upon a file, with the duke's 
other letters, in my tent. 

1 Sold. Here 't is ; here 's a paper. Shall I 
read it to you ? 

Par. I do not know if it be it, or no. 

Per. Our interpreter does it well. 

1 Lord. Excellently. 

1 Sold. 

' Dian. The count 's a fool, and full of gold,'— 

Par. That is not the duke's letter, sir ; that is 
an advertisement to a proper maid in "Florence, 
one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one 
count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but, for all 
that, very ruttish : I pray you, sir, put it up 

1 Sold. Nay, I '11 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 virginity, and devours up 
all the fry it finds. 

Per. 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 il ; 

He ne'er pays after debts, take it before ; 
.\nd 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 vow'd to thee in thine ear, 


Per. 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. 

Per. I could endure anything before but a 
cat, and now he 's a cat to me. 

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 
airaid 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 '11 see what may be done, so you 
confess freely; therefore, once more to this cap- 
tain Dumam : You have answered to his repu- 
tation witli the duke, and to his valour: What is 
his honesty ? 

Par. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister ; 
for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus. 
He professes not keeping of oaths ; in breaking 
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-di'unk, and in his sleep he 
does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about 
him ; but they know his conditions, and lay him 
in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of 
liis honesty : he has everything that an honest 
man .should not have; what an honest man 
should have, he has nothing. 

1 Lord. I begin to love him for this. 
Per. Tor 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 
^var ? 

Par Faith, sir, he has led the drum before 
the English tragedians,— to belie hini I will 
uot,~and more of his soldiership I know not ; 
except, in that country, he had the lionoiu- to be 
the ofiicer at a place there called Mile-end, to in- 
struct for the doubling of files : I would do the 
man what honour I can, but of this I am not 

1 Lord. He hath out-villaiued villainy so far, 
that the rarity redeems him. 

Per. A pox on him ! he 's a cat still. 
1 Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, 
I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him 
to revolt. 

Par. Sir, for a qiiarl d'cciC" he will sell the 
fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it ; 
and cut the entail from all remainders and a 
])erpetual succession for it perpetually. 

1 Sold. What 's liis brother, the other captain 
Dumain ? 

2 Lord. Why does he ask liiin of me ? 
1 Sold. What 's he ? 

Par. E'en a crow of the same nest ; not alto- 
gether so great as the first in goodness, but 
greater a great deal in evil. He excels his 
brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed 
one of the best that is : In a retreat he outruns 
any lackey ; marry, in coming on he has the cramp. 

1 Sold. If your life be saved, will you under- 
take to betray the Florentine ? 

Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, count 

1 Sold. I '11 whisper with the general, and 
know his pleasure. 

Par. I '11 no more di-umming ; a plague of all 

_ ^ Quart d'ecii— sometimes written cardeciie—a, French 
piece of monoy, being the fourth part of the gold croyra.. 

Act I v.] 



drums ! Only to seem to deserve well, and to 
])eguile the supposition of that lascivious young- 
boy the count, have I run into this danger : 
Yet who would have suspected an ambush 
where I was taken ? [Aside. 

1 Sohl. There is no remedy, sir, but you must 
die : the general says, you, that have so traitor- 
ously discovered the secrets of your army, and 
made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly 
held, can serve the world for no honest use; 
therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off 
with his head. 

Par. Lord, sir ; let me live, or let me sec 
my death ! 

1 Sold. That shall you, and take your leave of 
all your friends. \Unmiifflhig Mm. 
So, look about you ; Know you any here ? 

Ber. Good morrow, noble captain. 

2 Lord. God bless you, captain Parolles. 

1 Lord. God save you, noble captain. 

2 Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to 
my lord Lafeu ? I am for France. 

1 Lord. Good captain, will you give me a 

copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf 

of the count Eousillon ? an I were not a very 

coward I 'd compel it of you ; but fare you well. 

\JS.veimi BEKTrvAir, Lords, &c. 

1 Sold. You are undone, captain : all but your 
scarf, that has a knot on 't yet. 

Far. 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, sh- ; I am for France, too ; we 
shall speak of you there. [E.vit. 

Par. Yet am I thankful : if my heart were 
'T would burst at this : Captain I 'U 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 ' 

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 ! beiug fcol'd, by foolery thrive ! 
There 's place and means for every man alive. 
I'll after them. IKvH. 

SCENE IV.— Florence. A room hi the 
Widow's House. 

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diaka. 

Hel, That you may well perceive I have not 
wrong'd you, 
E 2 

One of the greatest in the Christian world 
Shall be my surety; 'fore whose throne 'tis 

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel : 
Time was, I did him a desired office, 
Bear almost as his life ; which gratitude 
Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth, 
And answer, thanks : I duly am inform'd 
His grace is at Marseilles ;"■ to wliich place 
We have convenient convoy. You must know 
I am supposed dead : the army breaking, 
My husband hies him home ; where, heaven 

And by the leave of my good lord the king, 
We '11 be before oiu- welcome. 

Wid. Gentle madam, 

You never had a servant to whose trust 
Your business was more welcome. 

IIcl. Nor you, mistress.- 

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour 
To recompense your love ; doubt not, but heaven 
Hath brought me up to be your daughter's 

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 bate. 
When sauey trusting of the eozen'd thoughts 
Defiles the pitchy night ! so lust doth play 
With what it loatlis, for that which is away ; 
But more of this hereafter : — You, Diana, 
Under my poor instructions yet must suffer 
Something in my behalf. 

Bia. Let death and honesty 

Go with youi' impositions, I am yours 
Upon your will to suffer. 

Hel. Yet, T pi-ay you, — 

But with the word, the time will bring on sum- 
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 reno\ra. 


^ Marseilles is here pronounced as a tri-syllable, as in tlie 
Taming of the Shrew : 

"That now is lying in Marseilles' road." 
Mr. Hunter says that this line, as we print it, is i.iliar- 
nionious ; but tliat Shakspere wrote 

"That now is lying in Marsellis road," 

whicli he adds was, no doubt, the approved pronunci.ition oi 
the time. But we must venture to observe tliat orthography 
is a very faHacious guide in sucli matters. In the passage 
in tlie text tlie original has it/arcc//iE; and in the last act we 
find Marcellus. 
b From the Latin, finis coronal opus. 



[Scene V. 


SCENE v.— RousUlon. A Boom in the Coun- 
tess's Palace. 

Enter Countess, Lapeu, and Clown. 

Laf. No, no, no, your sou was misled with a 
snipt"-taffaf a fellow there, whose villainous saffron 
would have made all the unbaked and doughy 
youtli of a nation in his colour : your daughter- 
in-law had been alive at this hour, and yoiu: 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 bim! it was 
the death of the most vu-tuous gentlewoman that 
ever nature had praise for creatuig : if she had 
partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest 
trroans 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 saUets, ere we light on 
such another herb. 

Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram 
of the sallet, or, rather the herb of grace. 

Laf. They are not sallet-herbs, you knave, 
they are nose-herbs. 

Clo. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, su', I 
have not much skill in grass."' 

Laf. AVhether dost thou profess thyself— a 
knave or a fool ? 

C7o. A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a 
knave at a man's. 

Laf. Your distinction? 

Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife, and 
do his service. 

Lnf So you were a knave at his service, 


Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, 

sir, to do her service. 

Laf. I will subscribe for thee ; thou art both 
knave and fool. 

Clo. At your service. 

Laf. No, no, no. 

Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can 
serve as great a prince as you are. 

Laf. Who 's that ? a Frenchman ? 

Clo. Eailh, sir, 'a has an English name ; but 
his phisnomy is more hotter in Erance than 

Laf. Wliat prince is that ? 

Clo. The black prince, sir, alias, the prince of 
darkness ; ulian, the devil. 

Laf. Hold thee, there's my purse: I give 
thcc not this to suggest thee from thy master 
thou talkest of ; serve him still. 

* OroM— in the original grace— &n evident misprint, 

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 nobility remain m 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 any tricks upon 'em, sir, they 
shall be jades' tricks ; which are their own right 
by the law of natui-e. \JE^^t- 

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 sauciuess ; and, indeed, he has no pace, but 
runs where he •will. 

Laf I like him well ; 't is not amiss : And I 
was about to tell you, since I heard of the good 
lady's death, and that my lord your son was 
upon his return home, I moved the king my 
master to speak in the behalf of my daughter ; 
which, in the minority of them both, his ma- 
jesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance, did 
first propose : his highness hath promised me to 
do it : and, to stop up the displeasure he hath 
conceived against your son, there is ^ no fitter 
matter. How does your ladyship like it ? 

Count. With very much content, my lord, and 
I wish it happily effected. 

Laf. His highness comes post from Marseilles, 
of as able body as when he numbered thirty ; he 
will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by 
him that in such intelligence hath seldom failed. 
Count. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see 
him ere I die. I have letters, that my son will 
be here to-night : I shall beseech your lordship 
to remain with me till they meet together. 

Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what man- 
ners I might safely be admitted. 

Count. You need but plead your honourable 


Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold char- 
ter ; but, 1 thank my God, it holds yet. 

Re-enter Clown. 
Clo. madam, yonder 's my lord youi- son 

» t^nfioppy— unlucky— mischievous. 

Act IV.] 


[Scene V. 

with a patch of velvet oq 's face ; whether there 
be a scar under it, or no, the velvet knows ; but 
't is 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. 

Lcf. Let us go sec your son, I pray you ; I 
loug to talk with the young noble soldier. 

Clo. Taith, there 's a dozen of 'cm, with de- 
licate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, 
which bow the head, and nod at every man. 


['So, look about you; know you any here? 'J 


I Scene IV.—" Our waggon isprepar'd." 

In Love's Labour's Lost, unquestionably an 

early play, Shakspere has used the term coach :- 

"No drop but as a coach dotli carry thee." 

In the Jlerry Wives of Windsor, Mrs. Quickly 

telh us that •' there has been knights, and lords, 

and gentlemen, ^-itb their coaches-coach after 

coach, I warrant you." The probability therefore 

is, that, in using the term ^caggon in the text, our 

poet meant a public vehicle. Certainly the early 
coaches were not much unlike waggons. Mr. Mark- 
land, in his interesting paper in the Archseologia, 
'On the early Use of Car.iages in England' (rol, 
XX ) has given us a representation from an ancient 
Flemish Chronicle of the fifteenth century in the 
British Museum (Royal MSS. 16 F. III.), repre- 
senting Emergard, the wife of Salvard, Lord of 
Koussfllou, driven in a covered cart or waggon. 
She is attended by a female, and in the front of 

the cart is placed her fool. The carriages in which 
Queen Elizabeth and her suite travelled are ex- 
hibited in the copy which we gave, in the Merry 
Wives of Windsor, of Hoefuagel's front of Non- 

such House (1582). We repeat here, however, the 
representation of the carriage of Elizabeth's at- 
tendants, the form of which is certainly more com- 
modious than that of the Countess of Iloussillon. 

Stow, in his Annals, speaks of long waggons for 
passengers and commodities in 1564; and these, he 
says, were .similar to those which travelled in the 
beginning of the next century to London from 
Canterbury and other large towns. These, it seems 

then, in Shakspere's time were called waggons, 
though they afterwards were occasionally named 
caravans. As late, however, as 1660, we find from 
Sir William Dugdale's Diary that his daughter 
" went towards London in Coventre waggon." 




SCENE I.— MarseiUes. A Street. 

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two 

Hel. But this exceeding posting, day and 

Must wear your spii-its low : we cannot help it ; 
But since you have made tlie days and nights 

as one, 
To wear youi' gentle limbs in my affairs, 
Be bold you do so grow in my 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, 
Ast. And you. 

Uel. Sii", I have seen you in the court of 

Ast. I have been sometimes there. 

Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not 
From the report that goes upon your goodness ; 
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occa- 
Which lay nice manners ])y, I put you to 
The use of your own virtues, for the which 
I shall continue thankful. 

Ast. "\'Vliat 's your will ? 

Hel. That it will please you 
To give this poor petition to the king ; 
And aid me with tliat store of power you have, 
To come into his presence. 

Ast. The king 's not here. 

Hel. Not here, sir ? 

Ast. Not, indeed: 

He hence remov'd last niglit, and with more 

Than is his use. 


Act v.] 



TFid. Lord, how we lose oui- pains ! 

Eel. All 's well that ends well, yet ; 
Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit. — 
I do beseech you, whither is he gone ? 

Asl. Mai-ry, as I take it, to Rousillon ; 
Wliither I am gouig. 

Hel. I do beseech you, sir. 

Since you are like to see the king before me. 
Commend the paper to his gracious hand ; 
WTiicli I presume sliall render you uo blame, 
But ratlier make you thank your pains for it : 
I will come after you, with what good speed 
Our means will make us means. 

Ast. This I'll do for you. 

Eel. And you shall find yourself to be well 
thank' d, 
"Wliate'cr falls more. — We must to horse again; — 
Go, go, provide. [Exeunt. 

SCENE n.— Rousillon. The inner Court of 
the Countess'* Palace. 

Enter Clown and Parolles. 

Par. Good monsieur Lavatch, give my lord 
Lafeu this letter : I have ere now, sii", been bet- 
ter known to you, when I have held familiarity 
with fresher clothes; but I am now, sii', mud- 
died in fortune's mood,'* and smell somewhat 
strong of her strong displeasure. 

Clo. Truly, fortune's displeasure is but slut- 
tish, if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of : 
I wiU henceforth eat no fish of fortune's butter- 
ing. Prithee allow the wind. 

Par. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, 
sir ; I spake but by a metaphor. 

Clo. Indeed, sir-, if your metaphor stink, I will 
stop my nose ; or agamst any man's metaphor. 
Prithee get thee further. 

Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 

Clo. Poh, prithee stand away ; A paper from 
fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman! 
Look, here he comes himself. 

Enter Lafeu. 

Here is a 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 Ilia distress in my similes ^ of comfort, 
and leave Lim to your lordship. \_Exit. 

n 3/«orf— caprice. Warburton clianged the word to mant 
o Simile»—\n the ori^'iiial, smiles. Theobald's correction 
e Bluze. The original has blade. Theobald made the 

Par. My loid, I am a man whom fortune 
hath cnielly scratched. 

Laf. And what would you have me to do? 
'tis too late to pai'e her naUs 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. 1 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. 
Laf. You beg more than word then. — Cox' 
my passion! give me your hand: Hov/ does 
yoor drum ? 

Par. O my good lord, you were the fii'st that 
found me. 

Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the fii'st 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 once both the office of God and the 
devil? one brings thee in grace, and the other 
brings thee out. [Trumpets soimd.'] The king's 
coming, I know by his trumpets. — Sii-rah, in- 
quii-e 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. [Eveunt. 

SCENE III.— The same. A Room in the 
Countess's Palace. 

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, 
Gentlemen, Guards, §c. 

King. We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem 
Was made much poorer by it : but youi- son. 
As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know 
Her estimation home. 

Count. 'T is 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. 

^'%- 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. 

^"f- This I must say,— 

But first I beg my pardon,— The young lord 
Did to has ma-jesty, his mother, and his lady. 
56 . ' ^ 

Act v.] 



Offence of mighty note ; but to himself 
The greatest wrong of all : he lost a wife 
Whose beauty did astonish the survey 
Of richest eyes ; whose words all ears took cap- 
tive ; 
"Whose dear perfection hearts that seom'd to serve 
Humbly call'd mistress. 

King. Praising what is lost. 

Makes the remembrance dear. — Well, call hiiu 

hither ; — 
We are reconcil'd, and the fii-st view shall kill 
All repetition : — Let him not ask our pardon ; 
The nature of his great offence is dead. 
And deeper than oblivion we do buiy 
The incensing relics of it : let him approach, 
A stranger, no offender ; and inform him 
So 't is our will he should. 

Gent. I shall, my liege. 

King. What says he to your daughter ? have 

you spoke ? 
Laf. All that he is hath reference to yoiir 

King. Then shall we have a match. I have 
letters sent me 
That set him high in fame. 

Enter Bektrak. 

Luf. 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. 

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. Admu-ingly, my liege : at first 
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart 
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue : 
Where the impi-ession of mine eye infixing, 
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend 

Which warped 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, 

» A day of season— 3. seasonable day. Sunshine and hail 
mark a day out of season. 

That she, whom all men prais'd, and whom my. 

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 compt : But love that comes too 

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 wc have. 
Not knowing them, until we know their grave : 
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust. 
Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust : 
Our own love waking cries to see what 's done. 
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. 
Be this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget 

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudliu : 
The main consents are had ; and here we '11 stay 
To see our widower's second marriage-day. 
Count. Which better than the first, dear 
heaven, bless ! 
Or, ere they meet in me, O nature cesse.* 
Laf. Come on, my son, in whom my house's 
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 ere I took her leave at coiu-t,** 
I saw upon her finger. 

Ber. Hers it was not. 

King. Now, pray you, let me see it ; for mine 
While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to it. — 
This ring was mine ; and, when I gave it Helen, 
I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 
Necessitied to help, that by this token 
I would relieve her: Had you that craft, to reave 

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. 

■I Cesse. So the original. Some modern editors have 
substituted cease. The word is used by Chaucer in 
Troilus and Cressida, I3ook ii. — 

" But cesse cause, and aie cessith maladie." 

b This line is probably corrupt, though the meaning, 
is obvious. 


Act V.) 



Ber. You are decciv'd, my lord, slie 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 i-hought 
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 
Eeceive the ring again. 

Ki>/^. Plutus himself. 

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, 
Hath not in nature's mystery more science. 
Than I have in this ring : 't was mine, 't was 

Whoever gave it you : Then, if you know 
That you are well acquainted with yourself. 
Confess 't was hers, and by what rough enforce- 
You got it from lier: slie cali'd tlie saints to 

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. 

Kiiiff. 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, — 't wUl not prove so ; — 
Ajid yet I know not : — thou did'st hate her deadly, 
And she is dead ; which nothing, but to close 
Her eyes myself, could vdn me to believe. 
More than to see this ring. — Take him away. — 
[Guards seize 'Bewiha'si. 
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 fui-ther. 

^^>'- 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. 

lExif Bektram, guarded. 

Enter the Astringer. 
King. I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings. 
-^*'- Gracious sovereign, 

■Whether I have been to blame, or no, I know not • 

» Ingag'd. Malone thinks this is used in the sense of 
un-engnnid. as •'inl.abitable" is used for uninhabitable 
We tliink that the lady is represented by Bertram to have 
consiuered liiin " ingag'd "—yi/erfr/ed—to herself. 

Here 's a petition from a Florentine, 

Who hath, for foiu- or five removes," come short 

To tender it herself. I undertook it, 

Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech 

Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know 

Is here attending : her business looks in her 

With an importing visage ; and she told me, 

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern 

Your highness with herself. 

King. [Reads.'] 

' Upon his many protestations to marry me, when his wife 
was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the count 
lionsillon a widower; his vows are forfeited to me. and my 
honour's paid to liim. 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.' 

Zflf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and 
toll for this : I'll none of him.'' 

Ktt/g. The heavens have thought well on thee, 
To bring forth this discovery. — Seek these suitors : 
Go speedily, and bring again the count. 

[Exeunt the Astringer and some Attendants. 
I am afeard the life of Helen, lady, 
W"as foully snatch'd. 

Count. Now, justice on the doers ! 

Enter Bertram, guarded. 

King. I M^onder, sir, since wives are monsters 
to you. 

And that you fly them as you swear them lord- 

Yet you desire to many. — What woman 's that ? 

Re-enter the Astringer, icith Widow, and Diana. 

Bia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, 
Derived from the ancient CapvJet ; 
My suit, as I do understand, you know, 
And therefore know how far 1 may be pitied. 

Wid. I am her mother, sir, whose age and 
Both suffer under this complaint we bring. 
And both shall cease, without your remedy. 

King. Come hither, count : Do you know 
these women ? 

^ Hemoves — stages. 

b This is usually printed, "I will buy me a son-in-law iti 
a fair, and toll him; for this, I'll none of him." We follow 
the original, which has an equally clear meaning. The 
tolling in a fair was necessary to the validity of a bargain, 
and Lafeu will get rid of Bertram by toll and sale, according 
to one reading, or he will buy a son-in-law, and toll him, 
according to the other. The custom is described in 
'Hudibras : ' 

" How shall I answer hue and cry, 
For a roan gelding, twelve hands high, 
All s)iurr'd, and switch'd, a lock on 's hoof, 
A sorrel mane? Can I bring proof 
Where, when, by whom, and what y' were sold for, 
And in the open market toll'd for ? " 

Act v.] 



Ber. My lord, I ueitber can nor will deny 
But that I know them : Do they charge me 
further ? 

T)ia. Wliy do you look so strange upon your 

Ber. She 's none of mine, my lord. 

Bia. If you shall marry, 

You give away this hand, and that is mine ; 
You give away heaven's vows, and those are 

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. 

Laf. Your reputation \to Bertkam.] comes 
too short for my daughter ; you are no husband 
for her. 

Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desperate 
Whom sometime I have laugh'd with : let your 

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour, 
Thau for to think that I would sink it here. 

King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill 
to friend. 
Till your deeds gain them : Fairer prove your 

Than in my thought it lies ! 

Bia. 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. 

Bia. He does me wi'ong, my lord ; if I were so 
He might have bought me at a common price : 
Do not believe him : O, behold this ring, 
Whose high respect, and rich validity, 
Did lack a parallel ; yet, for all that. 
He gave it to a commoner o' the camp, 
If I be one. 

Count. He blushes, and 't is his : * 
Of six preceding ancestors, that gem 
Couferr'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. 

Bia. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce 
So bad an instrument ; his name's Parol les. 

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, 

a His. The original has Jiil. We adopt Mr. Collier's 
reading oihU instead of the usual it. 

With all the spots o' the world tax'd and dp 

bosh'd ; 
Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth : 
Am I or that, or this, for what he '11 utter. 
That will speak anything ? 

King. She hath that ring of yours. 

Ber. I think she has : certain it is I lik'd her, 
And boarded'' her i' the wanton way of youth : 
She knew her distance, and did angle for me. 
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. 

Bia. I must be patient ; 

You, that have tiu-n'd off a first so noble wife. 
May justly diet me. I pray you yet, 
(Since you lack virtue I will lose a husband,) 
Send for your ring, I will return it home. 
And give me mine again. 

Ber. I have it not. 

King. What ring was yovu's, I pray you ? 

Bia. Sir, much like the same upon yoiu- finger. 

King. Know you this ring ? this ring was his 
of late. 

Bia. And this was it I gave him, being 

King. The story then goes false, you threw it 
Out of a casement. 

Bia. I have spoke the tnith. 

Enter Pakolles. 

• 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 ? 

Bia. Ay, my lord. 

King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I 
charge you, 
Not fearing the displeasui-e of your master, 
(Which, on your just proceeding I '11 keep off,) 
By him, and by tliis woman here, what know 

Far. So please your majesty, my master hath 
been an honoui-able gentleman; tricks he hatii 
had in him which gentlemen have. 

King. Come, come, to the purpose : Did he 
love this woman ? 

Bur. 'Faith, sir, he did love her : But how ? 

King. How, I pray you ? 

a Bonrrffd— accosted. , . .. v a 

b Mr. Singer reads infinite cunning ; and, althougn Wft flo 
not reject the original, we believe he is right. 


Act v.] 


[Scene III. 

Par. He did love her, sir, as a geutlemau 
loves a woman. 
Ki>if/. How is that ? 

Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not. 
Kiiir/. As tliou art a knave, and no knave : — 
'What an equivocid companion is this ! 

Par. I am a poor man, and at your majesty's 

Laf. He's a good drum, my lord, but a 
naughty orator. 
Dia. Do you know he promised me marriage ? 
Par. 'Paith, I know more than I '11 speak. 
Kiiiff. But wUt thou not speak all thou 

knoVst ? 
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 fui'ies, and 
I know not what : yet I was in that credit with 
them at that time, that I knew of their going to 
bed; and of other motions, as promising her 
marriage, and things which would derive me ill 
will to speak of, tlierefore I will not speak what 
I know. 

Kiiiff. TIiou hast spoken all already, unless 
thou canst say they are married : But thou art 
too fine" in thy evidence ; therefore stand aside. — 
This ring, you say, was yours ? 

Bia. Ay, my good lord. 

King. Where did you buy it ? or who gave it 

Bia. 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 And it then ? 
Dia. I found it not. 

King. If it were yours by none of all these 
How could you give it hun ? 

Bia. I never gave it him. 

Laf. This woman's an easy glove, my lord; 
she goes off and on at pleasui'e. 
King. This ring was mine, I gave it his first 

Bia. It might be yoiu-s, or hers, for aught I 

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. 
Khig. Take her away. 

I '11 never tell you. 

» Too fine — too full of finesse. So, in Bacon's Apoph- 
thefnns where the word is used in a complimentary sense : 
■' Your majesty was too fine for my Lord Burgl.ley." 


Dia. I 'U put in bail, my liege. 

King. I think thee now some common cus- 
Bia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 't was 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 '11 swear to 't : 
I '11 swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 
Great king, I am no strampet, by my life ; 
I am either maid, or else this old man's wife. 

\_Pointing to Lafeu. 
King. She does abuse our ears ; to prison 

with her. 
Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail. — Stay, 
royal su- ; [_E.vit WidoM' 

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, icith 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 ; 0, pardon 

Hel. O, my good lord, Avhen I was like this 
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 : 
Win you be mine, now you are doubly won ? 

Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know tliis 
I '11 love her dearly, ever, ever dearly. 

Hel. If it appear not plain, and prove untnie. 
Deadly divorce step between me and you ! — 
0, my dear mother, do I see you living ? 

Laf. Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep 
anon : — 
Good Tom Drum, [to Pabolles] lend me a 
handkerchief : So, I thank thee ; wait on me 
home, I'll make sport with thee: Let thy 
courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones. 

iCT v.] 



King. Let us from point to point this story 

To make the even truth in pleasure flow : — 
If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower, 

ITo Diana. 
Choose thou thy husband, aud 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 tlie 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. 



The king 's a befjgar, host the play is done : 
.\n is well ended, if this suit bs won, 
That you express content; which we will pay. 
With strife to please you, day exceeding day : 
Ours be your patience then, and y urs our parts j 
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts. 


[Court of Countess's Palace— Parolles and Clown.] 



' Scene I. — " Enter a yentle Astriuger." 
An astrin{/er is a falconer. " Tliey be called 
ostriDgers," says Markham, the great authority ou 
hawking, " which are the keepers of gosshawks or 

tercells." A "gentle astriuger" probably meant 
the head of the king's hawking establishment —not 
a menial, but an officer of rank in his househol(\ 
The grand falconer of England is a noble. 

[Gentle Aotringev.] 

" Indian-like, 
lieligious in mine enor, I adore 
The sun, that looks upon his worshijiptT, 
But knows of him no more." 

Act I., Sc. 111. 


We have already traced the principal dramatic action of All 's Well that ends Well iu the 
endeavour to show that it is identical with 'Love's Labour AVon.' We maj' therefore, as far aw 
may be, limit this notice to a brief sketch of its characters. 

Of Helena we have necessarily spoken at length. Mrs. Jameson quotes a passage from Foster's 
' Essays,' to explain the general idea of her character : — " To be tremblingly alive to gentle 
impressions, and yet be able to preserve, when the prosecution of a design requires it, an immoveable 
heart amidst even the most imperious causes of subduing emotion, is perhaps not an impossible 
constitution of mind, but it is the utmost and rarest endowment of humanity." This " constitution 
of mind " has been treated by Shakspere in his Helena ; and who can doubt the truth and nature 
of the conception ? 

Bertram, like all mixed characters, whether in the drama or in real life, is a great puzzle to 
those who look with tolerance on human motives and actions. In a one-sided view he has no 
redeemiug qualities. Johnson says, " I caunot reconcile my heart to Bertram ; a man noble 
without generosity, and young without truth; who marries Helena 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 himself by falsehood, and is dismissed to happiness." 
If the Bertram of the comedy were a i-eal personage of flesh and blood, with whom the busincs-; 



of life a.,sociated us, and of whom the exercise of prudence demanded that we should form ^n 

accurate estimate, we should say— 

" Too bad for a blessing, too good for a curse, 
I wish from my soul thou wer' t better or worse." 

But we are called upon for no such judgment when the poet presents to us a character of contra- 

dictory qualities. All that we have then to ask is, whether the character is natural, and consistent 

with the circumstances amidst which he moves ? We have no desire to reconcile our hearts to 

Bertram ; all that we demand is, that he should not move our indignation beyond the point in which 

hia qualities shall consist with our sympathy for Helena in her love for him. And in this view, the 

poet, as it appears to us, has drawn Bertram's character most skilfully. Without his defects the 

dramatic action could not have proceeded; without his merits the dramatic sentiment could not have 

been maintained. Shakspere, from the first, makes us understand that the pride of birth in Bertram 

constrained him to regard Helena as greatly his inferior. His parting with her is decisive : — 

" The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you." This is the kindness 

of one who had known her long, and pitied her dependent state. But he leaves no doubt as to 

the sense which he entertains of her condition: "Be comfortable to my moihev, yourmistress, i\nd 

make much of her." When the King proposes Helena to him as his wife, he assigns but one 

reason for his rejection of her— but that is all in all : — 

" I know her well ; 
She had her breeding at my father's charge : 
A poor physician's daughter my wife ! " 

If Bertram had seen Helena with the eyes of his mother, as 

" A maid too virtuous 
For the contempt of empire " — 

or with those of the King and of Lafeu— he would not have rejected her, and the comedy would 
have been only a common love-tale. Johnson says, he marries Helena " as a coward." This is 
unjust. Johnson overlooked the irresistible constraint to which his will was subjected, and the 
Bcorn with which he spoke out his real purposes even at the moment of submission : — 

" 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." 

Nothing can be less like cowardice than this speech. It is the bitterest irony of a desperate will, 
bowed for a time, but not subdued. Nor does Bertram leave Helena as " a profligate." We, who 
know the intensity of her love, which he could not know, may think that he was unwise to fly from 
his own happiness ; but he believed that he fled from constraint and misery ; from 

" The dark house, and the detested wife." 

The Bertram of the Florentine wars has something to recommend him besides his ancestry : " he 
has done worthy service." But the young, proud, courageous Bertram, is also a libertine. 
Schlegel asks, " Did Shakspere ever attempt to mitigate the impression of his unfeeling pride and 
giddy dissipation ? He intended merely to give us a military portrait." This is quite true. The 
libertines of the later comedy are the only generous, spirited, intellectual persons of the drama ; the 
virtuous characters are as dull as they are discreet. Shakspere goes out of his usual dramatic spirit 
in this play, to mark emphatically the impression which Bertram's actions produce upon his own 
associates. In the third scene of the fourth act they comment with indignation upon his desertion 
of Helena, and his practices towards Diana :— " As we are ourselves what things are we ! " But 
then, all the Shaksperian tolerance is put forth to make us understand that Bertram is not isolated in 
his vices, and that even his vices, as those of all other men, are not alone to be regarded in our 
estimates of character :— " The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our 
virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not ; and our crimes would despair if they were 
not cherished by our virtues." This is philosophy, and, what is more, it is religion— for it is charity, 
lu this spirit the poet uudoubtoUy intended that wo should judge Bertram. He is certainly nota 


hypocrite ; and, when he returns to RousLUon, we are bound to believe him when he speaks of 

Helena as 

" She, whom all men prais'd, and whom myself 
Since I have lost have lov'd." 

For ourselves, wc can see no poetical injustice that he is " dismissed to happiness ; " for, unless he 
has become a " sadder and a wiser man," he will not be happy. 

" In this piece," says Schlegel, " age is exhibited to singular advantage : tlie plain honesty of 
the King, the good-natured impetuosity of old Lafeu, the maternal indulgence of the Countess to 
Helena's love of her son, seem all, as it were, to vie with each other in endeavours to couquer the 
an'ogauce of the young Count." The general benevolence of these characters, and their particular 
kindness towards Helena, are the counterpoises to Bertram's jiride of birth, and his disdain of virtue, 
unaccompanied by adventitious distinctions. The love of the Countess towards Helena is habit, — 
that of the King is gratitude : in Lafeu the admiration which he perseveringly holds towards her i.s 
the result of his honest sagacity. He admires what is direct and unpretending, and he therefore 
loves Helena : he hates what is evasive and boastful, and he therefore despises Paiolles. 

Parolles has been called by Ulrici "the little appendix of the great Falstaff." Schlegel says, 
"Falstaff has thx'owu Parolles into the shade." Johnson goes farther, and declares, "Parolles has 
many of the lineaments of Falstaff." We have thought, and still think, that this opinion of Johnson 
exhibits a singular waut of discrimination in one who relished Falstaff so highly. Parolles is litei-aliy 
what he is described by Helena : — 

" I know him a notorious liar, 
Tlilnk him a great way fool, solely a coward." 

For the "fool," take the scene in the second act in which he pieces out the remai-ks of Lafeu 
upon the King's recovery with the most impertinent commonplaces — ending "Nay, 'tis strange, 
'tis very strange, that is the brief and the tedious of it." It was in this dialogue that Lafeu "smoked 
him ; " and he makes no secret, afterwards, of his opinion : " I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to 
be a pretty wise fellow ; thou did'st make tolerable vent of tby travel ; it might pass : yet the scarfs 
and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a 
burden. I have now found thee." To the insults of Lafeu the boaster has nothing to oppose, — 
neither wit nor courage. His very impudence is overborne. We thoroughly agree with Lafeu, that 
"there can be no kernel in this light nut." All this is but a preparation for the comic scenes in 
which he is to play so conspicuous a part — in which his folly, his falsehood, and his cowardice, 
conspire to make him odious and ridiculous. Before this exhibition he is denounced to Bertram, 
by his companions in warfare, as "a hilding" — "a bubble" — "a most notable coward, an infinite 
and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quiility." The disclosure 
which he makes of his own folly before he is seized, when the lords overhear him, is perfectly true 
to nature, and therefore in the highest degree true comedy : — 

" Par. Ten o'clock : within theso three hours 'twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It 
must be a very plausive invention that carries it : They begin to smoke me: and disgraces have of late knocked too often at 
my door. I find my tongue is too fool-hardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it, and of hiscrtatures.not daring 
the reports of my tongue. 

" 1 Lord. This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue was guilty of. [Aside. 

"Pur. What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum ; being not ignorant of the impossibility, 
and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: Yet slight ones will 
not carry it : They will say, came you off with so little ? and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore? what's the instancef 
Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman's moulh. and buy myself another of Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into 
these perils. 

" I Lord. Is it possible he should know what he is, and he that he is? [Aside." 

The last sentence is worth a folio of "Moral Essays." But Parolles certainly knows himself. 
There is nothing but plain knavery, mistaking 'ts proper tools, in his lies and his treacheries. The 
meanness of his nature is his safeguard : after his detection the consolations of his philosophy are 
most characteristic; — 

Comedies. — Vol. II. F flfi 


'■ Yet am I thankful : if my heart were great 
"F would 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." 

And he will " live.' Lafeu understands him to the last, when he says, " Though you are a fool and 
a knave, you shall eat." 

And is this crawling, empty, vapouring, cowardly representative of the ofP-scouriugs of social 
life, to be compared for a moment with the unimitable Falstafif? — to be said to have " many linea- 
ments in common" with him — to be thrown into the shade by him — to be even "a little appendix " 
to his greatness ? Parolles is drawn by Shakspere as utterly contemptible, in intellect, in spirit, in 
moi-als. He is diverting from the situations into which his folly betrays him ; and his complete 
exposure and humiliation constitute the richness of the comedy. If he had been a particle better 
Shakspere would have made his disgrace less ; and it is in his charity even to the most degraded 
that he has represented him as utterly insensible to his own shame, and even hugging it as a 

good : — 

" If my heart were great 
'T would burst at this." 

But Falstafif, witty beyond all other characters of wit — cautious, even to the point of being 
thought cowardly — swaying all men by his intellectual resources under the greatest difficulty — 
boastful and lying only in a spirit of hilarity which makes him the first to enjoy his own detection 
— and withal, though grossly selfish, so thoroughly genial that many love him and few can refuse 
to laugh with him — is Falstafif to be compared with Parolles, the notorious liar — great way fool — 
solely a coward? The comparison will not bear examining with patience, and much less with 

But Parolles in his own way is infinitely comic. "The scene of the drum," according to a 
French critic, "is worthy of Moliere."* This is the highest praise which a French writer could 
bestow; and here it is just. The character belongs to the school of which Moliere is the head, 
rather than to the school of Shakspere. 

And ^v•hat shall we say of the Clown ? He is " the artificial fool ; " and we do not like him, 
therefore, quite so much as dear Launce and dearer Touchstone. To the Fool in Lear he can no 
more be compared than Parolles to Falstafif. But he is, nevertheless, great— something that no other 
artist but Shak.spere could have produced. Om- poet has used him as a vehicle for some biting satire. 
There can be no doubt that he is "a witty fool," "a shrewd knave, and an unhappy." 

* Letourneur, Traduction, tome ix., p. 329. 

I.Fool's Ba'il.le, &i.] 



State of the Text, and Chronology, of Much Ado about Nothing. 

Much Ado about Nothing was first printed in 1600, under the following title :— ' Much Adoe about 
Nothing. As it hath been sundrie times publikely acted by the Right Honourable the Lord Cham- 
berlaine his Servants. Written by William Shakespeare. Printed by V. J. for Andrew Wise and 
William Aspley, 1600.' It had been entered at Stationers' Hall on the 23rd of August of the same 
year. There had probably been an attempt to pirate this play ; for in a leaf of irregular entries 
prefixed to a volume of the Stationers' Register we find, under date of August 4th, but without a 

" As You Like It, a book. \ 

" Henry the Fift, a book. /■ to be staled." 

" Comedy of Much Ado about Nothing, j 

Wise and Aspley were, no doubt, the author'sed publishers of this play, as they were of others of 
the original quartos. The first edition is not divided into acts ; but in the folio of 1623 we find this 
division. There was no other separate edition. The variations between the text of the quarto and 
that of the folio are very few : we have pointed out any important difference. There is a remark- 
able peculiarity, however, in the text of the folio, which indicates very clearly that it was printed 
from the playhouse copy. In the second act (Scene m.) we find this stage direction : — " Ente? 



I'rince Leonato, Claudio, and Jaclc Wilson.' In tte third act, .^•hen the two inimitable guardians 
of the'ni-ht first descend upon the solid earth in Messina, to move mortals for ever after with unex- 
tinguishable laughter, they speak to us in their well-known names of Dogberry and Verges; but in 
the fourth act we find the names of mere human actors prefixed to what they say : Dogberry be- 
comes Kempe, and Verges CoicJey. Here, then, we have a piece of the prompter's book before us. 
Balthazar, with his "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more," is identified with Jack Wilson; and 
Kempe and Cowley have come down to posterity in honourable association with the two illustrious 
"compartners of the watch." We could almost believe that the player-editors of the folio in 1623 
purposely left these anomalous entries as an historical tribute to the memory of their fellows. 
Kerape, we know, had been dead some years before the publication of the folio; and probably 
Cowley aud Jack Wilson had also gone where the voice of their merriment and their minstrelsy 
was heard no more. 

The chronology of this comedy is sufficiently fixed by the circumstance of its publication in 1600, 
coupled with the fact that it is not mentioned by Meres in 1598. Chalmers has a notion that the 
return of the prince and his companions from "the wars" conveys a temporary allusion to tlie 
Irish campaign of Essex in 1599. When Beatrice says "Yes; you had musty victuals, and he 
hath help to eat it," Chalmers detects a sarcasm upon the badness of the provisions furnished to 
Essex's army, which, according to Camden and other historical authorities, were not of the daintiest. 
We have little faith in this species of evidence. 

Supposed Source of the Plot. 

" The story is taken from Ariosto," says Pope. To Ariosto then we turn ; and we are repaid 
for our labour by the pleasure of reading that long but by no means tedious story of Genevra, 
which occupies the whole of the fifth book, and part of the sixth, of the Orlando Furioso. " The 
iale is a pretty comical matter," as Harrington quaintly pronounces it. The famous town of St. 
Andrew's forms its scene ; and here was enacted something like that piece of villainy by which the 
Claudio of Shakspere was deceived, and his Hero "done to death, by slanderous tongues." In 
Harrington's good old translation of the Orlando there are six-aud-forty pictures, as there are six- 
and-forty books ; and, says the translator, " they are all cut in brass, and most of them by the 
best workmen in that kind that have been in this land this many years ; yet I will not praise them 
too much because I gave direction for their making." The witty godson of Queen Elizabeth— 
" that merry poet my godson " — adds, " the use of the picture is evident, which is that having 
read over the book you may read it as it were again in the very picture." He might have said, 
you may read it as it were before; and if we had copied this picture, — in which the whole action 
of the book is exhibited at once in a bird's-eye view, and were yet, as he who gave " direction for 
its making" truly says, "the personages of men, the shapes of horses, and such like, are made 
large at the bottom and lesser upward," — our readers would have seen at a glance how far "the 
story is taken from Ariosto." For here we have, " large at the bottom," a fair one at a window, 
looking lovingly upon a man who is ascending a ladder of ropes, whilst at the foot of the said 
ladder an unhappy wight is about to fall upon his sword, from which fate he is with difficulty 
arrested by one who is struggling with him. We here see at once the resemblance between the 
story in Ariosto and the incident in Much Ado about Nothing upon which both the tragic and 
comic interest of the play hinges. But here the resemblance ceases. As we ascend the picture, 
we see the King of Scotland seated upon a royal throne, — but no Dogberry; his disconsolate 
daughter is placed by his side,— but there is no veiled Hero ; King, and Princess, and courtiers, 
and people, are looking upon a tiltiuggrouud, where there is a fierce and deadly encounter of two 
mailed knights.— but there is no Beatrice and no Benedick. The truth is, that Ariosto found the 
incident of a lady betrayed to suspicion and danger by the personation of her own waiting-woman 
amongst the popular traditions of the south of Europe— this story has been traced to Spain; and 
he intenvove it with the adventures of his Rinaldo as an integral part of his chivalrous romance 
The lady Genevra, so falsely accused, was doomed to die unless a true knight came within a month 


to do battle for her honour. Her lover, Ariodant, had fled, and was reported to have pei'ished. The 
wicked duke, Polincsso, who had betrayed Gencvra, appear-J secure in his treachery. But the mis- 
guided woman, Dalinda, who had been the instrument of his crime, flying from her paramour, meetij 
with Rinaldo, and declares the truth ; and then comes the combat, in which the guilty duke is slain 
by the champion of innocence, and the lover reappears to be made happy with his spotless princess. 
"We have selected from Harrington's translation such portions of the nai-rative of Dcdinda as may 
show the resemblance which led Pope mistakingly to say " the story is taken from Ariosto :" — 

" Intending Cy some vile and subtle train 
To part Genevra from her faithful lover, 
And plant so great mislike between them twain, 
Yet with so cunning show the same to cover, 
That her good name he will so foul distain. 
Alive nor dead she never shall recover. 

" To please my fond conceit this very night, 
I pray thee, dear, to do as I direct : 
When fair Genevra to her bed is gone, 
Take thou the clothes she ware and put them on. 

" And so went Ariodant into his place. 
And undiscover'd closely there did lie. 
Till having looked there a little space, 
The crafty duke to come he might descry, 
That meant the chaste Genevra to deface, 
Who having made to me his wonted signs, 
I let him down the ladder made of lines. 

" The gown I ware was white, and richly set 
With aglets, pearl, and lace of gold well garnish'd; 
My stately tresses cover'd with a net 
Of beaten gold most pure and brightly varnish'd ; 
Not thus content, the veil aloft I set, 
Which only princes wear ; thus stately harnish'd. 
And under Cupid's banner bent to fight, 
All unawares I stood in all their sight. 

" But Ariodant that stood so far aloof 
Was more deceiv'd by distance of the place. 
And straight believ'd, against his own behoof. 
Seeing her clothes, that he had seen her face." 

The motive which influences the Polinesso of Ariosto is the hope that by vilifying the character 
of Genevra he may get rid of his rival in her love. Spenser has told a similar story in the 
" Faerie Queene " (Book II., Canto IV.), in which Phedon describes the like treachery of his false 
friend Philemon. The motive here was not very unlike that of Don John in Much Ado about 
Nothing : — 

" He, either envying my toward good, 

Or of himself to treason Til dispos'd. 

One day unto me came in friendly mood, 

And told, for secret, how he understood 

That lady, whom I had to me assign'd, 

Had both distain'd her honourable blood. 

And eke the faith which she to me did bind ; 
And therefore wish'd me stay till I more truth should iind." 

The story as told by Spenser is a purely tragical one; and its moral is the mischief of "intem- 
perance : " — 

" This graceless man, for furtherance of his guile, 

Did court the handmaid of my lady dear. 

Who, glad t' embo; ^m his affection vile. 

Did all she might more pleasing to appear. 

One day, to work her to his will more near, 

He woo'd her thus : Pryen6 (so she hight), 

What great despite doth fortune to thee bear, 

Thus lowly to abase thy beauty bright, 
That it should not deface all others' lesser light ? 



" But if she liad her least help to thee lent, 

1" adorn thy form according thy desart, 

Their blaying pride thou vouldest soon have blent. 

And stain'd their praises with tliy least good part: 

Ne should fair Claribell with all her art, 

Though she thy lady be, approach thee near : 

For proof thereof, this evening, as thou art, 

Array thyself in her most gorgeous gear, 
That I may more delight in thy embracement dear. 

" The maiden, proud through praise and mad through love, 

Him hearken'd to, and soon herself array'd ; 

The whiles to me the treachour did remove 

His crafty engine ; and, as he had said. 

Me leading, in a secret corner laid, 

The sad spectator of my tragedy : 

Where left, he went, and his own false part play'd, 

Disguised like that groom of base degree, 
Whom he had feign'd th' abuser of my love to be. 

" Eflsoons he came unto th' appointed place, 

And with him brought Pryene, rich array'd 

In Claribella's clothes : Her proper face 

I not discerned in that darksome shade, 

But ween'd it was my love with whom he play'd. 

Ah, God ! what horror and tormenting grief 

My heart, my hands, mine eyes, and all assay'd ! 

Me liefer were ten thousand deathes prief. 
Than wound of jealous worm, and shame of such reprief. 

" I home returning, fraught with foul despite, 

And chawing vengeance all the way I went. 

Soon as my loathed love appear'd in sight, 

With wrathful hand I slew her innocent ; 

That after soon I dearly did lament : 

For, when the cause of that outrageous deed 

Demanded I made plain and evident, 

Her faulty handmaid, which that bale did breed, 
Confess'd how Philemon her wrought to change her weed." 

The Eui-opean story, which Ariosto and Spenser have thus adopted, has formed also the groundwork 
of one of Bandello's Italian novels. And here the wronged lady has neither her honour vindicated in 
battle, as iu Ariosto ; nor is slain by her furious lover, as in Spenser ; but she is rejected, believed to 
be dead, and finally married in disguise, as in Much Ado about Nothing. Mr. Skottowe has given 
a brief analysis of this novel, which we copy : — 

" Fenlcia, the daughter of Lionato, a gentleman of Messina, is betrothed to Timbreo de Cardona. Girondo, a dis- 
appointed lover of the young lady, resolves, if possible, to prevent the marriage. He insinuates to Timbreo that his 
mistress is disloyal, and offers to show him a stranger scaling her chamber-window. Timbreo accepts the invitation, and 
witnesses the hired servant of Girondo, in the dress of a gentleman, ascending a ladder and entering the house of Lionato. 
Stung with rage and jealousy, Timbreo the next morning accuses his innocent mistress to her father, and rejects the 
alliance. Fenicia sinks into a swoon ; a dangerous illness succeeds ; and to stifle all reports injurious to her fame, Lionato 
proclaims that she is dead. Her funeral rights are performed in Messina, while in truth she lies concealed in the obscurity 
of a country residence. 

"The thought of having occasioned the death of an innocent and lovely female strikes Girondo with horror; in the 
agony of remorse he confesses his villainy to Timbreo, and they both throw themselves on the mercy, and ask forgiveness 
of the insulted family of Fenicia. On Timbreo is imposed only the penance of espousing a lady whose face he shou.d not 
see previous to his marriage: instead of a new bride, whom he expected, he is presented, at the nuptial altar, with his 
injured and beloved Fenicia." 

Ariosto made this story a tale of chivalry ; Spenser a lesson of high and solemn morality ; Bandello an 
interesting love-romance. It was for Shakspere to surround the main incident with those accessories 
which he could nowhere borrow, and to make of it such a comedy as no other man has maxle — 
a comedy not of manners or of sentiment, but of life viewed under its profoundest aspects, whether 
of the grave or the ludicrous. 



We have already stated it to be our opinion that, in affixing by the costume a particular period to any 
of Shakspere's plays which are not historical, care should be had to select one as near aa possible to 
the time at which it was written. The comedy of Much Ado about Nothing commences with the 
return of certain Italian and Spanish noblemen to Sicily after the wars. Now the last war in which 
the Italians under Spanish dominion were concerned previous to the production of this comedy was 
tei-minated by the peace of Cambray, called " La Paix des Dames," in consequence of its being signed 
(August 3rd, 1529) by Margaret of Austria in the name of the Emperor Charles V., and the Duchess 
d'Angouleme in that of her son Francis I. This peace secured to Charles the crown of Naples and 
Sicily ; and, after vanquishing the Saracens at Tunis, he made triumphal entries into Palermo and 
Messina in the autumn of 1535. Of the costume of this period we have given a detailed description 
and several pictorial illustrations in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, to which we must refer the 

■J-^ -fWLU"'"' 

[Street in Messina.] 


SCENE I.— Street in Messiua. 

Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice, and others, 
with a Messenger. •■^ 

Leon. I learn in this letter, that Don Pedro of 
Arragon comes this night to Messina. 

Bless. He is very near by this ; he \yas not 
three leagues off when I left him. 

Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in 
this action ? 

Mess. But few of any sort,'' and none of name. 

Ijeon. A victory is twice itself when the 

^ In the stage direction of the early copies, we have — 
"Enter Leonato, Governor of Messina, Innogen his wife," 
&c. But the mother takes no part in the action or dial. gue. 
She appears again in the stage direction of the last scene of 
Act. U. 

b Any sort. The obvious meaning here is, of any condi- 
tion. There can be no doubt of this, for the Messenger 
adds, " and none of name." The word occurs again, and is 
used by the same speaker: "there was none such in the 
army of any sort." 

achiever brings home full numbers. I find here, 
that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on 
a young Florentine, called (,'laudio. 

3Iess. Mucli deserved on his part, and equally 
remembered by Don Pedro : He hath bonie 
himself beyond the promise of his age ; doing, 
in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion : he 
hath, indeed, better bettered expectation tlian 
you must expect of me to tell you how. 

Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will 
be very much glad of it. 

Ifess. I have already delivered him letters, 
and there appears much joy in him ; even so 
much that joy could not show itself modest 
enough without a badge of bitterness. 

Leon. Did he break out into tears ? 

3[ess. In great measure." 

Leon. A kind overflow of kindness : There 
arc no faces truer than those that are so washed. 

* In great measure — abundantly. 


Act I.] 


[Scene 1. 

How much better is it to weep at joy, than to 
joy at weeping ! 

Beat. I pray you, is signior Montanto" re- 
turned from the wars, or no ? 

Mess. I know none of that name, lady ; there 
was none such in the army of any sort.** 
Leon. 'What is he that you ask for, niece ? 
Hero. My cousin means signior Benedick of 

Mess. 0, he is returned, and as pleasant as 
ever he was. 

Beat. He set up his bills' here in Messina, and 
challenged Cupid at the flight : and my uncle's 
fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, 
and challenged him at the bird-bolt.^ I pray 
you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these 
wars? But how many hath he killed? for, 
indeed, I promised to eat all of his killing. 

Leon. Faith, niece, you tax signior Benedick 
too much ; but he '11 be meet with you,'= I doubt 
it not. 

Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in 
these wars. 

Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath 
liolp to eat it : he is a very valiant trencher- 
man, he hath an excellent stomach. 
Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 
Beat. And a good soldier to a lady:— But 
what is he to a lord ? 

Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; 
stuffed"* with all honoui-able virtues. 

Beat. It is so, indeed: he is no less than a 
stuifed man: but for the stuffing,— Well, we 
are all mortal. 

Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece : 
there is a kind of merry war betwixt signior 
Benedick and her : they never meet but there 
is a sku-mish of wit between them. 

Beat. Alas ! he gets nothing by that. In our 
last conflict, four of his five wits^ went halting 
off, and now is the whole man governed with one : 
so that if he liave wit enough to keep himself 

a Mnntanto. Beatrice thus nicknames Benedick, after a 
term of the fencing-school. 
b See note ^ preceding page. 

...^ -^^^ ''" '"^^^ ^'^'^ yozi—he '11 be even with you. So in 
1 he Tempest: — 

" We must prepare to meet with Caliban." 
d Stuffed— atnrei, furnished. 

e Five uiita Shakspere here uses the term wits in the 
sense 01 intellectual powers. In his Hist Sonnet he dis- 
tinguishes between the five wits and the five senses .— 
" But my five \f\ts, nor my five senses, can 
Dissuade ono foolish heart from serving thee.'' 
By the early writers the five wits was used synonymously 
with the five senses ; as in Chaucer ('The Persones Tale '), 
Certcs dehtes ben after the appetites of the /re witlis ; 
£9, sight, hermg, smelling, savouring, and touching." 
Johnson says, " The wits seem to have been reckoned five, 
Ijy analogy to the five senses, or the five inlets of ideas." 

warm, let him bear it for a difl'erence'^ between 
himself and his horse ; for it is all the wealth 
that he hath left, to be known a reasonable crea- 
ture. Who is liis companion now? He hath 
every month a new sworn brother. 
Mess. Is it possible ? 

Beat. Very easily possible : he wears his faith"" 
but as the fashion of his hat ; it ever changes 
with the next block.^ 

Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in 
your books." 

Beat. No: an he were, I would burn my 
study. But, I pray you, who is his companion ? 
Is there no young squarer ^ now, that will make 
a voyage with him to the devil ? 

Mess. He is most in the company of the right 
noble Claudio. 

Beat. O Lord ! he will hang upon him like a 
disease : he is sooner caught than the pcstOence, 
and the taker runs presently mad. God help 
the noble Claudio ! if he have caught the Bene- 
dick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere he 
be cured. 
Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. 
Beat. Do, good friend. 
Leon. You '11 ne'er run mad, niece. 
Beat. No, not tUl a hot January. 
Mess. Don Pedro is approached. 

Enter Don Pedko, attended hy Balthazar and 
others, Bon John, Claudio, and Benedick. 

B. Pedro. Good signior Leonato, you are come* 
to meet your trouble : the fashion of the world 
is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. 

Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the 
likeness of your grace ; for trouble being gone, 
comfort should remain; but when you depart 
from me sorrow abides, and happiness takes his 

a Biar itfnra diffcrenre — for a distinction— as in heraldry. 

Ij His faiih— his belief generally— here, his confidence in 
a friend. 

c In your bonlcs. The meaning of this expression, which 
we retain to the present day, is gentrally understcod. He 
who is in your books — or. as we sometimes say, in yowr good 
books — is he whom you think well of — whom you trust. It 
appears tolerably obvinus, then, that the phrase has a com- 
mercial origin ; and that, as he who has obtained credit, buys 
upon trust, is in his creditor's 600A-5, so he who has obtained 
in any way the confidence of another is said to be in liis 
books. None of the earlier commentators have suggested 
this explanation. Johnson says it means " to be in one's 
codicils or will:" Steevens, that it is to be in one's visiting- 
book, — or in the books of an university, — or in the books of 
the Herald's Office; Fanner and Douce, that it is to be in 
the list of a great man's retainers, because the names ol 
such were entered in a book. This is the most received 
explanation. Our view of the matter is more homely, and 
for that reason it appears to us more true. 

d Squarer — quarreller. To square is to dispute — to con 
front hostilely. So in A Midsummer Night's Dream : — 
" And now they never meet in grove, or green. 
By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen, 
But they do square." 

e The quarto reads — " are you come." 

Act 1.] 



D. Pedro. You embrace your charge too will- 
ingly. I think this is your daughter. 

Leon. Her mother hath mauy times told me so. 

Bene. Were you in doubt that you asked her? 

Leon. Siguior Benedick, no; for then were 
you a child. 

D. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick : we 
may guess by this what you are, being a man. 
Truly, the lady fathers herself: — Be happy, 
lady ! for you are like an houovu-able father. 

Bene. If siguior Leonato be her father, she 
would not have his head on her shoulders for all 
Messina, as like him as she is. 

Beat. I wonder that you will stiU be talking, 
siguior Benedick ; nobody marks you. 

Bene. What, my dear lady Disdain ! are you 
yet living ? 

Beat. Is it possible Disdain should die, while 
she hath such meet food to feed it as siguior 
Benedick ? Courtesy itself must convert to dis- 
dain if you come in her presence. 

Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat : — But it 
is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you ex- 
cepted : and I would I could find iu my heart 
that I had not a hard heart : for, tridy, I love 

Beat. A dear happiness to women ; they would 
else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. 
I thank God, and my cold blood, I am of your 
humour for that ; I had rather hear my dog bark 
at a crow, than a man swear he loves me. 

Bene. God keep your ladyship stiU in that 
mind ! so some gentleman or other shall 'scape 
a predestinate scratched face. 

Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an 
't were such a face as yours were. 

Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 

Beat. A bird of my tongue is better thau a 
beast of yours. 

Bene. I would my horse had the speed of 
your tongue ; and so good a continuer : But 
keep your way o' God's name ; I have done. 

Beat. You always end with a jade's trick ; I 
know you of old. 

D. Pedro. This is the sum of all, Leonato. — 
Signior Claudio, and siguior Benedick, — my dear 
friend Leonato hath invited you all.* I tell him 
we shall stay here at the least a month ; and he 
heartily prays some occasion may detain us 
longer : I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but 
prays from his heart. 

Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be 
forsworn. — Let me bid you welcome, my lord : 
being reconciled to the piince youi' brother, I 
owe you all duty. 

a The punctuation here given is that of the Cambridge 

D. John. I thank you : I am not of many 
words, but I thank you. 

lieon. Please it your grace lead on ? 

B. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato ; we will go to- 
gether. [Exeunt all but Benedick «wt? Claudio. 

Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter 
of signior Leonato ? 

Bene. I noted her not : but I looked on her. 

Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ? 

Bene. Do you question me as an honest man 
should do, for my simple true judgment ; or 
would you have me speak after my custom, as 
being a professed tyrant to their sex ? 

Claud. No, I pray thee, speak in sober judg- 

Bene. Why, i' faith, mcthinks she is too low 
for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, 
and too little for a great praise ; only this com- 
mendation I can afford her : that were she other 
than she is, she were unhandsome ; and being no 
other but as she is, I do not like her. 

Claud. Thou thiukcst I am in sport ; I pray 
thee, tell me truly how thou likest her. 

Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire 
after her ? 

Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel ? 

Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But 
speak you this with a sad brow ? or do you play 
the flouting Jack; to tell us Cupid is a good 
hare-finder, and Vulcau a rare carpenter ? * 
Come, in what key shall a man take you, tc go 
iu the song ? ^ 

Claud. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady 
that ever I looked on. 

Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I 
see no such matter : there 's her cousin, an she 
were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as 
much in beauty as the first of May doth the last 
of December. But I hope you have no intent 
to tui-n husband ; have you ? 

Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I 
had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my 

Bene. Is 't come to this, i' faith ? Hath not 
the world one man but he will wear his cap with 
suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of 
three-score again ? Go to, i' faith : an thou \vilt 
needs thi-ust thy neck into a yoke, wear the prmt 
of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look, Don 
Pedro is retm-ned to seek you. 

Re-enter Don Pedko. 

D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, 
that you followed not to Lconato's ? 

edition. Pedro and Leonato have been talking apart, and 
" the sum" is that Leonato gives the invitation, 
b To join in the song. 


Act I.] 


[SCEKZ 1. 

Bene. I would yoiir grace would constrain 

me to tell. 

D. Pedro. I etarge tliee ou thj allegiance. 
Bene. You hear, count Claudio : I can be 
secret as a dumb man, I would have you think 
so • but on my allegiance —mark you this, on 
my allegiance :-He is in love. With who ?— 
now that is voiu- grace's part.— Mark how short 
his answer 'is :-With Hero, Leonato's short 

Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered. 
Bene. Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not 
so, nor 't was not so ; but, indeed, God forbid it 
should be so.' ^ 

Claud. If my passion change not shortly, 
God forbid it should be otherwise. 

D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for the 
lady is very well worthy. 

Claud. lou speak this to fetch me in, my 
D. Pedro. By my troth I speak my thought. 
Claud. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. 
Bene. And by my two faiths and troths, my 
lord, I spoke mine. 

Claud. That I love her, I feel. 
J). Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. 
Bene. That I neither feel how she should be 
loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is 
the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me : J 
will die in it at the stake. 

Z). Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate here- 
tic in the despite of beauty. 

Claud. And never could maintain his part but 
in the force of his wiU. 

Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank 
her ; that she brought me up, I likewise give 
her most humble thanks : but that I will have a 
recheat " winded in my forehead, or hang my 
buijle in an invisible baldrick,'' all women shall 
pardon me: Because, I will not do them the 
wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right 
to trust none ; and the fine <= is, (for the which I 
may go the finer,) I wiU live a bachelor. 

h. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look 
pale with love. 

Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with 
hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that 
ever I lose more blood with love than I will get 
again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a 
ballad-maker's pen, and hang me up at the door 
of a brothel house for the sign of blind Cupid. 

D. Pedro. "Well, if ever thou dost fall from 
this faith thou wilt prove a notable argument. 

a Recheat. The huntsman'.s note to recall the hounds. 
b iJ«<dricA-a belt. « Thefim- — tlie conclusion. 


Bene If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, 
and shoot at me; and he that hits me let him 
be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam.^ 

B. Pedro. Well, as time shall try : 
' In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.'" 

Bene. The savage bull may ; but if ever this 
sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's 
horns and set them in my forehead : and let me 
be vilely painted ; and in such great letters as 
they write, 'Here is good horse to hire,' let 
them signify under my sign,—' Here you may 
see Benedick the married man.' 

Claud. If this should ever happen thou 
wouldst be horn-mad. 

B. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent aU 
his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this 
Bene. I look for an earthquake too then. 
B. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the 
hours. In the mean time, good signior Bene- 
dick, repair to Leonato's : commend me to him, 
and tell him I will not fad him at supper ; for 
indeed, he hath made great preparation. 

Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for 
such an embassage ; and so I commit you— 

Claud. To the tuition of God: From my 
iiouse (if I had it) — 

B.Pedro. The sixth of July: Your loving 
friend, Benedick. 

Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not: The body 
of your discourse is sometime guai'ded'' with 
fragments, and the guards are but slightly 
basted on neither : ere you flout old ends any 
further,^ examine youi- conscience; and so I 
leave you. \_Exit Benedick. 

Claud. My liege, yom* highness now may do 

me good. 
B. Pedro. My love is thine to teach ; teacli 
it but how. 
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn 
Any hard lesson that may do thee good. 
Claud. Hath Leouato any son, my lord ? 
B. Pedro. No child but Hero, she 's his only 
heir : 
Dost thou affect her, Claudio ? 

Claud. O ray lord, 

l^Tien you went onward on this ended action, 
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, 
That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand 
Than to drive liking to the name of love : 
But now I am return' d, and that war-thoughta 
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 
Come thronging soft and delicate desu-es, 

"■ This line is from Hieronymo. 

I) Guarded — trimmed — as with guards ou apparel. 

ACT I.] 


[Scenes II., III. 

All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 

Saying, I lik'd her ere I went to wars. 
B. Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover pre- 

And tii'e the hearer with a book of words : 

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it ; 

;Vnd I will break with her; [and with her 

iVnd thou shalt have her:"] Was't not to this 

That thou begann'st to twist so fine a story ? 
Claud. How sweetly do you minister to love. 

That know love's grief by his complexion ! 

But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 

I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise. 
Z>. Pedro. What need the bridge much broader 
than the flood ? 

The fairest grant is the necessity : 

Look, what will serve is fit : 't is once,'" thou 
lovest ; 

And I will fit thee with the remedy. 

I know we shall have revelling to-night ; 

I will assume thy part in some disguise. 

And tell fair Hero I am Claudio ; 

And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart. 

And take her hearing prisoner with the force 

And strong encounter of my amorous tale : 

Then, after, to her father will I break ; 

And, the conclusion is, she shall be thine : 

In practice let us put it presently. [Exetmt. 

SCENE II. — A Room hi Leonato'^ House. 
Enter Leonato and Antonio. 

Leon. How now, brother ? Where is my cou- 
sin, your son ? Hath he provided this music ? 

A7it. He is very busy about it. But, brother, 
I can teU you news* that you yet di'cam not of. 

Leon. Are they good ? 

Ant. As the event stamps them ; but they 
have a good cover ; they show well outward. 
The prince and count Claudio, walking in a 
thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus 
overheard ^ by a man of mine : The prince dis- 
covered to Claudio that he loved my niece, your 
daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this 
night in a dance ; and, if he found her accord- 
ant, he meant to take the present time by the 
top, and instantly break with you of it. 

Leon. Hath the fellow any Avit that told you 

a The words in brackets are not in the folio, 
b Once — once for all. So in Coriolanus : "Once, if he do 
require our voices we ought not to deny him." 
c In the quarto, strange neas. 
■J In the quarto, thus much overheard 

Ant. A good sharp fellow ; I will send foi 
him, and question him yourself. 

Leon. No, no ; we will hold it as a dream, 
tiU it appear itself : — but I will acquaint my 
daughter withal, that she may be the better 
prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be 
true. Go you and tell her of it. \_Sevcral 
'persons cross the stac/e^ Cousins, you knoT/ 
what you have to do. — 0, I cry you mercy, 
friend : go you with rac, and I will use your 
skill : — Good cousins, have a care this busy 
time. [E.'cettnt. 

SCENE III. — Another Room in Leonato'5 

Enter Don John and ConR/VDE. 

Con. What the good year, my lord ! why are 
you thus out of measui'e sad ? 

D. John. There is no measure in the occasion 
that breeds, therefore the sadness is without 

Con. You should hear reason. 

D. John. And when I have heard it, what 
blessing bringeth it ? 

Con. If not a present remedy, yet » a patient 

D. John. I wonder that thou, bemg (as thou 
say'st thou art), born under Saturn, goest about 
to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mis- 
chief. I camiot hide what I am : I must be sad 
when I have cause, and smile at no man's jests ; 
eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man's 
leisure; sleep when I am di'owsy, and tend on 
no man's business ; laugh when I am merry, 
and claw no man in his humour. 

Con. Yea, but you must not make the full 
show of this, till you may do it without control- 
ment. You have of late stood out against your 
brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his 
grace ; where it is impossible you should take 
root,'' but by the fair weather that you make your- 
self : it is needful that you frame the season for 
your own harvest. 

D. John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge 
than a rose in his grace ; ^ and it better tits my 
blood to be disdain'd of all than to fashion a 
carriage to rob love from any : in this, though I 
eannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it 
must not be denied that I am a plain-dealing 
villain. I am trusted with a muzzle, and 
enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have de- 
creed not to sing in my cage : If I had my 

a Yet. The quarto at least. 
ft In the quarto, trtie root. 


Act I.] 


[Scene III. 

mouth I would biie ; if I bad my liberty I would 
do my liking: in the mean time, let me be that 
I am, and seek not to alter me. 

Con. Can you make no use of your discon- 

D. John. I make all use of it, for I use it 
only. Who comes here? What news, Bora- 

Elder JBorachio. 

Bora. I came yonder from a great supper ; 
the prince, your brother, is royally entertained 
by Leonato ; and I can give you iutelligence of 
an intended marriage. 

D. John. Will it serve for any model to budd 
mischief on? What is he for a fool that be- 
troths himself to unquielness ? 

Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. 

D. John. WTio ? the most exquisite Claudio ? 

Bora. Even he. 

D. John. A proper sq^iii-e ! And who, and 
who ? which way looks he ? 

Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir 
of Leonato. 

Z>. John. A very forward March-chick ! Ho\T 
came you to this ? 

Bora. Being entertained for a perfumer, as 1 
was smoking a musty room,' comes me tha 
prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad"* confer- 
ence: I whipt behind the arras; and there 
heard it agreed upon, that the prince should 
woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her 
give her to count Claudio. 

D. John. Come, come, let us thither ; this 
may prove food to my displeasure : that young 
start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow ; if 
I can cross him any way I bless myself every 
way : You are both sure, and will assist me ? 

Con. To the death, my lord. 

D. John. Let us to the great supper : their 
cheer is the greater that I am subdued : 'Would 
the cook were of my mind ! Shall we go prove 
what 's to be done ? 

Bora. We '11 wait upon your lordship. 


' 5ad— serious. 

[Scene II. ' Walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchaid.'j 


' Scene I. — "He set up his bills." 

The history of advertisiug, if well worked out, 
would form one of the most curious chapters of 
any account of the progress of English civilisation. 
We are here iu the rude stages of that history, and 
see the beginnings of the craving for publicity 
which was to produce that marvel of society, a 
Times newspaper of our day. In Shakspere's day 
the bear-wards, fencing-masters, mountebanks, and 
players, "set up their bills upon posts;" mas- 
terless men " set up their bills in Paul's for 
services;" schoolmasters "pasted up their jjapers 
on every post for arithmetic and writing ; " and it 
is recorded as a somewhat clever proceeding, that 
a man having lost his purse "set up bills in divers 
places, that if any man of the city bad found the 
purse and would bring it again to him he should 
have well for his labour." These were very simple 
and straightforward operations. The mysteries of 
advertising were not tlien studied. Men had to 

make their plain announcements, and to be at- 
tended to. " The puff direct, and the puff col- 
lateral, and the puff oblique" were not then 
invented. We shall probably return in some 
degree to the simplicity of the old time, and once 
more be content to " set up our bills;" for puffery 
has destroyed itself. When everything has become 
alike superlative, there are no superlatives. 

2 Scene I.—" Challenged Cupid at the Jllgld .- and 

viJj uncle's fool, readinfj the challenge, stdj'icrlbcd 

for Cupid, and chaUemjed him at the binl-bolt." 

In Ben Jonson's ' Cynthia's Revels ' Mercury 

says to Cupid, " I fear thou hast not arrows for the 

purpose ; " to which Cupid replies, " yes, here be 

of all fiorts, Jli;/hls, rovers, and l)utt-shafts." Gif- 

ford explains that " flights were long and light- 

fiiathered arrows which went level to the mark." 

These were the weapons for (.'upid ; and JJencdick 

therefore is said to have " challenged Cupid at the 

flight," with arrows such as these : — 

But " my uncle's fool" thought Benedick was bet- 
ter qualified to match with him in the skilful use 
of that blunt and heavy weapon whose employment 

by those of his vocation has passed into a proverb — 
" a fool's bolt is soon shot." Douce has preserved 
the forms of some of these Jjird-bAts : — 

Comedies. —Vol. IT. G 



[Fulk Greville, first Lord Brooke.] 

3 Scene I. — " Ee wears his faith but as the fashion 
of his hat ; it ever changes with the next blocJc." 

In the perpetual change of fashions which was 
imputed to the English of Elizaljeth's day, (and 
which we shall have more particularly to notice m 
Act II.,) the hat underwent every possible transition 
of form. We had intended to have illustrated this 
by exhibiting the principal varieties which we find 
in pictures of that day ; but if our hlochs had been 
as numerous as these NocTcs, we should have filled 
pages with the graceful or grotesque caprices of the 
exquisites from whom Brummell inherited his be- 
lief in the powers of the hat : " Why, Mr. Brum- 
mell, does an Englishman always look better 
dressed than a Frenchman ? " The oracular reply 
was, " 'T is the hat." We present, however, the 
portrait of one ancient Brummell, with a few hats 
at his feet to chose from. 

* Scene I. — '' Cupid is a good hare-finder, and 
Vulcan a rare carpenter." 

The English commentators can give no explana- 
tion of this passage; except Steevens, who makes it 

the vehicle for one of his -Collins notes. Tied 
savs that Ayrer, of Niirnberg,-who has treated 
Xrhlsow^ manner the novel of Bandello upon 
^hich this comedy is founded,-iutroduces Venus 
complaining that Cupid has shot many arrows in 
vX at thf Count Claudio of his story, and that 
■«^ilcan will make no more arrows. 

We have received an explanation from two cor- 
respondents, to both of whom we beg to express 

our obligation : — , . „ ■, ■ ■, e 

'' Benedick is laughing at Claudio for his love of 
Hero, which indeed he still scarcely credits. He 
asks him,—' Speak you this with a sad brow ? — 
'i'e are you serious in your passion? -or are you 
flouting or mocking us,-as though you were to 
say that Cupid, the Mind god, has the keennt sight 
to spy a hare, and that Vulcan, the smith, is a rare 
carpenter 1 " 

» Scene l.—^LiTce the old tale, my lord: 'it is not 
so, nor 'tu-as not so; hut, indeed, God forbid 
it should be so.' " 

Mr. Blakeway, who has contributed a few valu- 
able notes to Shakspere which will be found m Bos- 
well's edition of Malone, has given us an illu.stra- 
tion of this passage, in his own recollections of an 
old tale to which he thinks our poet evidently al- 
ludes " and which has often froze my young blood, 
when I was a child, as, I dare say, it had done his 

before me." , , 

" Once upon a time there was a young lady 
(called Lady Mary in the story) who had two bro- 
thers. One summer they all three went to a coun- 
try-seat of theirs, which they had not before visited. 
Among the other gentry of the neighbourhood who 
came to see them was a Mr. Fox, a bachelor, with 
whom they, particularly the young lady, were much 
pleased. He used often to dine with them, and fre- 
quently invited Lady Mary to come and see his 
house. One day that her brothers were absent 
elsewhere, and she had nothing better to do she 
determined to go thither, and accordingly set out 
unattended. When she arrived at the house, and 
knocked at the door, no one answered. At lengtn 
she opened it and went in. Over the portal of the 
hall was written, ' Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. 
She advanced : over the staircase, the same inscrip- 
tion. She went up : over the entrance ot a gallery, 
the same. She proceeded : over the door ot a 
chamber,—' Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest 
that your heart's blood shoidd run cold. bhe 
opened it-it was full of skeletons tubs full of 
blood, &c. She retreated in haste. Coming down 
stairs she saw, out of a window, Mr. Fox advancing 
towards the house, with a drawn sword in one 
hand, while with the other he dragged along a 
young lady by her hair. Lady Mary had just 
time to slip down and hide herself under the 
stairs before Mr. Fox and his victim arrived at 
the foot of them. As he pulled the young lady 
up stairs she caught hold of one_ of the banisters 
^^^th her hand, on which was a rich bracelet Mr 
Fox cut it off with his sword: the li«nd and 
bracelet fell into Lady Clary's lap who then 
contrived to escape unobserved, and got home 
safe to her brothers' house. . 

"After a few days Mr. Fox came to dine with 
them as usual (whether by invitation or of his own 


accord this deponent saith not). After dinner, when 
the guests beg.aii to amuse each other with extra- 
ordinary anecdotes, Lady Maiy at length said she 
would relate to them a remarkable dream she had 
lately had. ' 1 dreamt,' said she, ' that as you, 
Mr. Fox, had often invited me to your house, I 
would go there one morning. When I came to the 
house, I knocked, &c., but no one answered. When 
I opened the door, over tlie hall was written, Be 
hold, he hold, hut not too hold. But,' said she, 
turning to Mr. Fox, and smiling, 'It is not so, nor 
it was not so ;' then she pursues the rest of the 
story, concluding at every turn with ' It is not so, 
nor it was not so,' till she comes to the room full 
of dead bodies, when Mr. Fox took up the burden 
of the tale, and said, 'It is not so, nor it was not so, 
and God forbid it shoidd be so ;' wliich he continues 
to repeat at every subsequent turn of the dreadful 
story, till she came to the circumstance of his cut- 
ting off the young lady's hand, when, upon his 
saying as usual, ' It is not so, nor it tvas not so, and 
God forbid it shoidd he so,' Lady Mary retorts, 
' But it is so, and it ivas so, and here the hand I have 
to shoiv,' at the same time producing the hand and 
bracelet from her lap : whereupon the guests drew 
their swords, and instantly cut Mr. Fox into a 
thousand pieces." 

6 Scene I. — "Hang me in a bottle like a cat," &c. 

This is very obvious. A cat was hung in a bottle 
and shot at ; — as cocks were thrown at. Yet.we 
have a story of a cat being closed up in a wooden 
bottle, containing also soot, and he that beat out 
the bottom of the bottle, and escaped the soot, 
running imder it, was the winner. The cat shot 
at was probably a real cat on some occasions, and 
on others a stuffed cat ; as the popinjay in Old 
Mortality had probably a fluttering predecessor. 
He that should be "clapped on the shoulder, 
and called Adam," was to be so honoured, in 
allusion to the famous old archer Adam Bell, who 
" sat in Englyslie wood, 
Under the green-wood tre." 

7 Scene L — "Ere you flout old ends any further" 
The " old ends " flouted at were probably the 

formal conclusions of letters, such as we find in 
The Paston Letters .— " No more at this time, but 
the Trinity have you in protection, &c. Written 
on the feast of All Saints, between mass and matins, 

(New edit, by A. Ramsay, 

calamo festinante." 
vol. i. p. 3.) 

® Scene IIL — " I had rather he a canlcer in a hedge 
than a rose in his grace." 

In an illustration of The Two Gentlemen of 
Verona (Act i. Sc. i.) we have shown how fre- 
quently Shakspere uses the image of the canker 
in the rose-bud. In the passage before us, a 
peculiar rose — the common dog-rose of the hedges 
— is meant. Mr. Richardson says, in his Dic- 
tionary, that in Devonshire the dog-rose is called 
the canker-rose. The name had probably a more 
universal application ; and as " the bud bit with 
an envious worm " was cankered, so the small 
uncultivated rose was compared to the rose of the 
garden whose beauty was impaired, by the name 
of canker. 

5 Scene 

Bur ion, in 
" The smoke 
at Oxford, to 
" perfumer" 
house or the 
sou's song : — 

" Still to 
Still to 

[Canker — Rosa canina.] 

III. — " Smoking a musty room." 

his ' Anatomy of Melancholy,' says, 
of juniper is in great reqiiest with us 
sweeten our chambers." Where the 
had been, the real cleanliness of the 
person was doubtful : as in Ben Jon- 
be neat, still to be drest, 
be perfum'd as for a feast," &c. 



fScene I. ' My visor is Philemon s roof; Within tlie house is Jove.'] 


SCENE l.—A Hall in Leonato's Hoiise. 

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatuice, 
and others. 

Leon. Was not count Jolin here at supper ? 

Ant. I saw liim not. 

Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks ! I 
never can see him but I am heart-burned an 
hour after. 

Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. 

Beat. He were an excellent man that were 
made just in the mid-way between him and Be- 
nedick ; the one is too like an image, and says 
nothing ; and the other too Hke my lady's eldest 
son, evermore tattling. 

Leon. Tlicn half siguior Benedick's tongue in 
count Jolm's mouth, and half count John's me- 
lancholy in signior Benedick's face, — 

Beat. With a good leg, 8.nd a good foot, 
uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a 

man would win any woman in the world, — if he 
could get her good-will. 

Leon. By my troth, niece, ihou wilt never 
get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy 

Ant. In faith, she is too curst. 

Beat. Too curst is more than curst : I shall 
lessen God's sendmg that way : for it is said, 
'God sends a curst cow short horns ;' but to a 
cow too curst he sends none. 

Leon. So, by being too cui'st God will send 
you no horns. 

Beat. Just, if he send me no husband ; for 
the which blessing I am at him upon my knees 
every morning and evening : Lord ! I could not 
endure a husband with a beard on his face : I 
had rather lie in the woollen. 

Leon. You may light upon a husband that 
hath no beard. 

Beat. What should I do with him ? dress him 

Acr II.] 



in my apparel, and make him my waiting gentle- 
woman ? He that hath a beard is more than a 
youth ; and he that hath no beard is less than a 
man : and he that is more tlian a youtli is not 
for me ; and he that is less than a man I am not 
for him : Therefore I will even take sixpence in 
earnest of the bearward," and lead his apes into 

Leon. "Well then, go you into hell ? 

Beaf. No ; but to the gate ; and there will 
the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with 
horns on his head, and say, ' Get you to heaven, 
Beatrice, get you to heaven ; here 's no place for 
you maids :' so deliver I up my apes, and away 
to Saint Peter: for the heavens, he shows me 
where the bachelors sit, and there live we as 
merry as the day is long. 

JnL Well, niece, [(o Hero] I trast you will 
- be rded by your father. 

Beat. Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to 
make courtesy, and say, 'Father, as it please 
you : '—but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a 
handsome fellow, or else make another courtesy, 
and say, ' Father, as it please me.' 

Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day 
fitted with a husband. 

Beai. Not till God make men of some other 
metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman 
to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? 
to make acount of her life to a clod of wayward 
marl ? No, uncle, I'll none : Adam's sens are 
my brethren ; and truly I hold it a sin to match 
in my kindi'ed. 

Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you : 
if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you 
know youi- answer. 

Beat The fault will be in the music, cousin, 
if you be not wooed in good time : if the prince 
be too important,'' tell him there is measure in 
everything, and so dance out the answer." For 
hear me, Hero ; Wooing, wedding, and repent- 
ing, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque- 
pace : the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch 
jig, and fuU as fantastical ; the wedding, man- 
nerly-modest, as a measure fuU of state and 
ancientry ; and then comes repentance, and^ 
with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace 
faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. 

a Bcarivfird ;— in the ori'^'ma.], bcrrord. The modern edi- 
tions have bear-herd. In Henry VI., Part II., it is bearar->. 
The pronunciation is indioated by bath nf the ancient 
modes of spelling; and bearward appears to be the word 
meant, when rapidly uttered. 

b Important — importunate. 

c The technical meaning of measure, a particular sort of 
dance, is here played upon. Beatrice'.s own description of 
that dance, •' full of state and ancientry," is the most 
characteristic account we have of it. 

Leo/!. Cousin, you apprehend pa.ssing shrewdly. 

BeaL I have a good eye, uncle ; I can sec n 
church by day-light. 

Leo?i. The revellers are entering, brother, 
make good room. 

E?/^er Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Bal- 
thazar; Bon John, Borachio, Margauet, 
Uksula, and others, masked. 

D. Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with 
your friend ? 

Hero. So you walk softly, and look sweetly, 
and say nothing, I am yours for the walk ; and, 
especially, when I walk away. 

D. Pedro. With me in your company ? 

Hero. I may say so when I please. 

B. Pedro. And when please you to say so ? 

Hero. When I like your favour ; for God 
defend" the lute should be like the case ! 

D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; 
Within the house is Jove.'' 

Hero. Why, then your visor should be 

D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. 

\^l\tlies her aside. 

Balth. Well, I would you did like me. 

Murg. So would not I, for your own sake, 
for I have many ill qualities. 

Balth. Which is one ? 

Marg. I say my prayers aloud. 

Balth. I love you the better; the hearers 
may cry, Amen." 

Marg. God match me with a good dancer ! 

Balth. Amen. 

Marg. And God keep hiiii out of my sight, 
when the dance is done ! — Answer, clerk. 

Balth. No more words ; the clerk is answered. 

Urs. I know you well enough ; you ai"e sig- 
nior Antonio. 

Ant. At a word, I am not. 

Urs. I know you by the waggling of your 

Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. 

TJrs. You could never do him so ill-well, un- 
less you were the very man: Here's his dry 
hand up and down ; you are he, you are he. 

Ant. At a word, I am not. 

TJrs. Come, conic ; do you think 1 do not 

•I Defend — forbid, 

1) 'I he line, which is in the rhythm of Chapman's Home-, 
and Goldin-j's Ovid, is an allusion to the story of Baucis 
and Philemon. 

These three speeches, which are assigned to Benedick 
in the originals, really belong to Balthazar. Tlicre is a 
series of dialogues between four masked pairs— Hero and 
Don Pedro, Margaret and Balthazar, Ursula and Antonio, 
Beatrice and Benedick. Tieck conjectured this; but M' 
Dyce shows that Theobald had also made this correction; 



[Scene 1. 

Act II 1 

know you by your exceUent wit? Can virtue 
Idde itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces 
will appear, aud there's an end. 
Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so ? 
BeM. No, you shall pardon me. 
Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you 
are ? 

Beiie. Not now. 

Beat. That I was disdainful,— and that 1 nac 
my good \rit out of the ' Hundred merry Tales;' 

"Well, this was signior Benedick that said so. 

Bene. What's he? 

Beat. I am sui'e you know him well enough. 
Bene. Not I, believe me. 
Beat. Did he never make you laugh ? 
Bene. I pray you, what is he ? 
Beat. Wliy, he is the prince's jester : a very 
dull fool ; only his gift is in devismg impossible 
slanders:^ none but libertmes delight in him; 
and the counnendation is not in Ms wit but m 
his villamy; for he both pleaseth men and 
angers them, and then they laugh at him and 
beat him : I am sure he is in the fleet ; I would 
he had boarded ^ me. 

Bene. AVhen I know the gentleman, I'll tell 
hun what vou say. 

Beat. Do, do : he'll but break a comparison 
or two on me ; which, peradveuture, not marked, 
or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy ; 
aud then there's a partridge' wing saved, for 
the fool will eat no supper Ihat night. \_Music 
wit/im.'] We must follow the leaders. 
Bene. In every good thing. 
Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave 
them at the next turning. 

[Dance. Then exeunt all hut Bon John, 

BoBACHio, and Claxjdio. 

B. John. Sure, my brother is amorous on 

Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break 

with him about it : The ladies follow her, and 

but one visor remains. 

Bora. And that is Claudio : I know him by 
his bearing. 

1). John. Are not you signior Benedick ? 
Claud. You know me well ; I am he. 
D. John. Signior, you are very near my 
brother in his love : he is euamoui-'d on Hero ; 
I pray you dissuade him from her, she is no 
equal for his bii-th : you may do the part of an 
honest man in it. 

Claud. How know you ne lOves ner ? 

» In a subsequent passage of this scene we have " impos- 
liblc conveyance." The commentators make difficulties of 
both these passages; and would change the adjective to im- 
passable or impurtablc. Wr. Dyce says that Sliakspere em- 
ploys the word impossible with great license. 

*> Boarded — accosted. 


D John. I heard him swear his affection. 

Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would 
marry her to-night. 

D. John. Come, let us to the banquet. 

[E.veunt Don John and BouACUio. 

Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, 
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 
'T is certain so ;— the prince woos for himself. 
Eriendship is constant in all other things. 
Save in the office and affairs of love : 
Therefore, all hearts in love use their own 

tongues ; 
Let every eye negociate for itself, 
iVnd trust no agent : for beauty is a witch, 
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. 
Tins is an accident of hourly proof 
Which I mistrusted not : Farewell, therefore, 
Hero ! 

Re-enter Benedick. 

Bene. Count Claudio ? 

Claud. Yea, the same. 

Bene. Come, will you go with me ? 

Claud. Whither. 

Bene. Even to the next willow, about your 
own business, count.- What fashion will you 
wear the garland of? About youi- neck like 
an usurer's chain?" or under youi- arm, Hke a 
lieutenant's scarf ? You must wear it one way, 
for the prince hath got yom- Hero. 

Claud. I wish him joy of her. 

Bene. Why, that's spoken like an honest 
drover; so they seU bullocks. But did you 
think the prince would have served you thus ? 

Claud. I pray you, leave me. 

Bene. Ho! now you strike like the blind 
man; 'twas the boy that stole your meat and 
you'll beat the post. 

Claud. If it will not be, I'll leave you. 


Bene. Alas ! poor hui't fowl ! Now will he 
creep into sedges. But that my lady Beatrice 
should know me, and not know me ! The prince's 
fool!— Ha, it may be I go uuder that title, 
because I am merry.— Yea ; but so ; I am apt 
to do myself wrong : I am not so reputed : it is 
the base though bitter<= disposition of Beatiice, 
that puts the world into her person, and so gives 
me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may. 

a Count. The original has the more ancient and more 

^°fTn\ZTel's'cnain-i\.^ ornament of a wealthy citizen 
or goldsmith. The Jews were not in Shakspere s time the 
only class who took use for money. „ , ,, u .» 

I Base though bitter. So the old copies. Bu the phrase 
has been changed into "the base, the bitter." Benedick 
means to say that the disposition of Beatrice, which pre- 
tends to speak the opinion of the world, is a grovelling 
disposition although it is sharp and satirical. 

Act II.] 



Re-enter Bon Pedro. 

B. Pedro. Now, siguior, where 's tlie comit; 
Did you see him ? 

Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part 
of lady rarae. I found him here as melaucholy 
as a lodge in a warren ; I told him, and I think 
told ^ him true, that your grace had got the will ^ 
of this youug lady; and I offered him ray com- 
pany to a willow-tree, either to make him a 
garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him'= a rod, 
as beiug worthy to be whipped. 

B. Pedro. To be whipped ! What 's his 
fault ? 

Bene. The flat transgression of a schoolboy; 
who beiug overjoy'd \vith finding a bh-d's nest 
shows it his companion, and he steals it. 

B. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a ti-ans- 
gression ? the transgression is in the stealer. 

Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had 
been made, and the garland too ; for the garland 
he might have worn himself; and the rod he 
might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, 
have stolen his bird's nest. 

B. Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and 
restore them to the owner. 

Bene. If their singing answer your saying, 
by my faith, you say honestly. 

B. Pedro. The lady Beatrice hath a quarrel 
to you; the gentleman that danced with her 
told her she is much wrong'd by you. 

Bene. 0, she misused me past the endurance 
of a block : an oak, but with one green leaf on 
it, would have answer'd her; my very visor 
began to assume life and scold with her : She 
told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I 
was the prince's jester, and'' that I was duller 
than a great thaw ; huddling jest upon j'est, 
with such impossible conveyance upon me, that 
I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army 
shooting at me : She speaks poniards, and every 
word stabs : if her breath were as terrible as her 
terminations,'' there were no living near her ; she 
would infect to the north star. I would not 
marry her though she were endowed with all 
that Adam had left him before he transgressed : 
she would have made Hercules have turned 
spit ; yea, and have cleft his club to make the 
fire too. Come, talk not of her : you shall find 

a In the quarto, 1 told him. b In the quarto, good will. 

c In the quarto, bind him up. d The quarto omits and. 

Terminations. Mr. Walker suggests that Shakspere 
wrote "her minalions," one of his many coinings from the 
Latin. The editor of Mr. Walker's " Critical Examination 
points out that termination never occurs elsewhere in 
Shakspere (as he might gather from Mrs. Clarke's ' Con- 
cordance '). But determination is used both in the singular 
and plural in the sense of resolve. Termination, used in a 
similar sense, is either a typographical error, or a colloquial 

her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would 
to God some scholar would conjure her; for, 
certainly, while she is here, a man may live as 
quiet in hcU as in a sanctuary ; and people sin 
upon purpose because they would go thither ; 
so, indeed, all disquiet, horror, and pcrtm-bation 
follow her. 

Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Leonato, and 

D. Pedro. Look, here she comes. 

Bene. Will your grace command me any 
service to the world's end? I will go on the 
slightest errand now to the Antipodes, tha*- you 
can devise to send me on ; I wiU fetch you a 
toothpicker now from the farthest inch of Asia ; 
bring you the length of Prcster John's foot ;- 
fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard ; do 
you any embassage to the Pigmies, — rather than 
hold three words' conference with this hai'py: 
You have no employment for me ? 

B. Pedro. None, but to desire your good 

Bene. O God, sir, here 's a dish I love not ; 
I cannot endure my lady Tongue. [Exit. 

B. Pedro. Come, lady, come ; you have lost 
the heart of signior Benedick. 

Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me a while ; 
and I gave him use for it — a double heart for a 
single one : marry, once before he won it of me 
with false dice, therefore yoiu- grace may well 
say I have lost it. 

B. Pedro. You have put him down, lady, you 
have put him down. 

Beat. So I would not he should do me, my 
lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I 
have brought count Claudio, whom you sent me 
to seek. 

B. Pedro. Why, how now, coimt ? wherefore 
are you sad ? 

Claud. Not sad, my lord. 

B. Pedro. How then ? sick ? 

Claud. Neither, my lord. 

Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor 
merry, nor well: but civil, count; civil as an 
orange, and something of that jealous com- 

B. Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon 
to be true; though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, 
his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, 1 Iiavc wooed 
in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have 
broke wth her father, and his good will ob- 
tained: name the day of marriage, and God 
give thee joy ! 

Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and 
i 87 

Aci It.) 



with her my fortunes ; his grace hath made the 
match, and all grace say Amen to it ! 

Beat. Speak, count, 'tis your cue. 
Claud. Silence is the pcrfectest herald of joy : 
I were but little happy if I could say how much. 
Lady, as you are mine, I am yours : I give away 
myself for you, and dote upon the exchange. 

Beat. Speak, cousin; or, if you canuot, stop 
his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak 

1). Pedro. Tu faith, lady, you have a merry 

Beat. Yea, my lord, I thank it ; poor fool, it 
keeps on the windy side of care : — My cousin 
tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. 

Clai(d. And so she doth, cousin. 

Beat. Good lord, for alliance !— Thus goes 
every one to the world but I, and I am sun- 
burned;" I may sit in a corner, and cry, heigh- 
ho for a husband ! '' 

D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 

Beat. I would rather have one of your father's 
getting: Hath your grace ne'er a brother like 
ycfti? Your father got excellent husbands, if a 
maid could come by them. 

D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 

Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have an- 
other for working-days ; your grace is too costly 
to wear every day : But, I beseech your grace, 
pardon me ; I was born to speak all mirth, and 
no matter. 

D. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and 
to be merry best becomes you ; for, out of ques- 
tion, you were born in a merry hour. 

Beat. No, sure, my lord, ray mother cried ; 
but then there was a star danced, and under that 
was I bora. — Cousins, God give you joy ! 

Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I 
told you of ? 

Beat. I cry you mercy, \incle. — ^By your 
grace's pardon. [_E.xit Beatrice. 

B. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited 

Leon. There's little of the melancholy ele- 
ment in her, my lord : she is never sad, but when 
she sleeps ; and not ever sad then ; for I have 
heard my daughter say she hath often dreamt 
of uuhappincss, and waked herself with laugh- 

J). Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of 
a husband. 

a Shakspere, in All's Well that Ends Well, has used the 
phrase to go to the world in the sense of being married. 

Ij Jleii/li ho for a hushniid was prolialily a popular ex- 
clatnalion in Sliakspere's time, as now. It has given a 
name to a modern comedy. 


Leon. O, by no means ; she mocks all her 
wooers out of suit. 

D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for 

Leon. O lord, my lord, if they were but a 
week married they would talk themselves mad. 

D. Pedro. Count Claudio, when mean you to 
go to chui'ch ? 

Claud. To-morrow, my lord : Time goes on 
crutches till love have all his rites. 

Leon. Not till Monday, my dear sou, which 
is hence a just seven-night ; and a time too brief 
too, to have all things answer my mind. 

B. Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so 
long a breathing; but I warrant thee, Claudio, 
the time shall not go dully by us ; I will, in the 
interim, undertake one of Hercules' labours ; 
vhich is, to bring signior Benedick and the lady 
Beatrice into a mountain of affection, the one 
with the other. I would fain have it a match ; 
and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three 
will but minister such assistance as I shall give 
you direction. 

Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost 
me ten nights' watchings. 

Claud. And 1, my lord. 

D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero ? 

ILero. I will do any modest office, my lord, 
to help my cousin to a good husband. 

D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhope- 
fuUcst husband that I know: thus far can I 
praise him ; he is of a noble strain,* of approved 
valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach 
you how to humour your cousin, that she shall 
fall in love with Benedick :— and 1, with your 
two helps, will so practise on Benedick, that, in 
despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, 
he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can 
do this, Cupid is no longer an archer ; his glory 
shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go 
in with me, and I will tell you my drift. 


SCENE II. — Another Room tn Leonato'>« 

Enter Don John and Bokachio. 

B. John. It is so ; the count Claudio shall 
marry the daughter of Leonato. 

Bora. Yea, my lord, but I can cross it. 

B. John. Any bar, any cross, any impedi- 
ment will be medicinable to me : I am sick in 
displeasure to him; and whatsoever comes 

^ Strain -is breed or lineage. 

Act II.] 



athwart his affection, ranges evenly with mine. 
How canst thou cross this marriage ? 

Bora. Not honestly, my lord ; but so covertly 
that no dishonesty shall appear in mc. 
T>. John. Show mc brieliy how. 
Bora. I think I told yoiu- lordship, a year 
since, how much I am in the favour of Marga- 
ret, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. 
J). John. I remember. 

Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of 
the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's 

B. John. What life is in that, to be the death 
of this marriajje ? 

Bora. The poison of that lies in you to tem- 
per. Go you to the prince your brother ; spare 
not to tell him, that he hath wronged his honour 
in marrying the renowned Claudio (whose esti- 
mation do you mightily hold up) to a contami- 
nated stale, such a one as Hero. 

L. John. What proof shall I make of that ? 
Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to 
vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato : 
Look you for any other issue ? 

L. John. Only to despite them, I will endea- 
vour anything. 

Bora. Go then, find me a meet hour to draw 
don Pedro and the count Claudio, alone : tell 
them that you know that Hero loves me ; intend a 
kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as — 
in a love of your brother's honour, who hath 
made this match ; and his friend's reputation, 
who is thus like to be cozened with the sem- 
blance of a maid, — that you have discovered 
thus. They will scarcely believe this without 
trial : offer them instances ; which shall bear no 
less likelihood than to see me at her chamber- 
window ; hear me call ]\Iargaret, Hero ; hear 
Margaret term me Claudio ; " and bring them to 
see this, the very night before the intended wed- 
ding: for, in the mean time, I will so fashion 
the matter, that Hero shall be absent ; and there 
shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's dis- 
loyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, 
and all the preparation overtlu'own. 

B. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it 
can, I will put it in practice : Be cmming in the 
working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. 

Bora. Be thou constant in the accusation, 
and my cunning shall not shame me. 

D. John. I will presently go learn their uay 
of marriage. \Bxeimt. 

a Theobald and other editors would here read Borachio. 
The very expression term me shows that the speaker as- 
sumes that Margaret, by connivance, would call him by the 
name of Claudio. 

SCENE III.— Leonato'* Garden. 

Enter Benedick and a Boy. 

Bene. Boy ! 

Boi/. Siguier. 

Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book ; 
bring it hither to mc in the orchard. 

Boi/. I am here already, sir. 

Bene. I know that;— but I would have thee 
hence, and here again. \E.ri{ Boy.]— I do nnirh 
wonder that one man seeing how much another 
man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours 
to love, will, after he hath laughed at such slial- 
low follies in others, become the argument of 
his own scorn, by falling in love: And such a 
man is Claudio. I have known when there was 
no music with him but the drum and the fife; 
and now had he rather hear the tabor and the 
pipe : I have known when he woiild have walked 
ten mile afoot, to see a good armour : and now 
will he lie ten nights awake, carving tlie fashion 
of a new doublet.^ He was wont to speak plai-n, 
and to the purpose, like an honest man and a 
soldier ; and now is he turned orthograplier ; his 
words are a very fantastical banquet, just so 
many strange dishes. May I be so converted, 
and see with these eyes ? I cannot tell ; 1 think 
not : I will not be sworn but love may trans- 
form me to an oyster ; but I '11 take my oath on 
it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall 
never make me such a fool. One woman is 
fair ; yet I am well : another is wise ; yet I am 
well : another virtuous ; yet I am well : but 
till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall 
not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's 
certain ; wise, or I '11 none ; virtuous, or I 'U 
never cheapen her; fair, or I Ml never look on 
her ; mild, or come not near me ; noble, or not 
I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent 
musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it 
please God. Ha ! the prince and monsieur 
Love ! I will hide me in the ai-bour. 


Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, and Claudio. 

D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? 
Claud. Yea, my good lord : — How still the 
evening is. 
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony ! 
D. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid 

Claud. 0, very well, my lord : the music 
We '11 fit the kid fox with a pennyworth. 




[Scene 111 

Enter Balthazar, with music. 
D. Pedro. Come, Balthazar, wc'U hear that 

song again. 

Baia. good ii;y lord, tax not so bad a voiee 
To slander music any more than once. 

D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency, 
To put a strange face on his own perfection :— 
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more_ 

Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will 
sing : . . - 

Since many a wooer doth commence his siut ■ 
To her he thinks not worthy ; yet he woos ; 
Yet will he swear, he loves. 

B.Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come: 

Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument 
Do it in notes. 

Balth. Note this before my notes, 

There's not a note of mine that's worth the 

D. Pedro. Why these are very crotchets that 
he speaks ; 
Note, notes, forsooth, and noting'.'" \_Music. 

Bene. Now, 'Divine air!' now is his soul 
ravished !— Is it not strange that sheep's guts 
shovdd hale souls out of men's bodies ?— Well, a 
horn for my money, when all's done. 

Balthazar sings. 


Balth. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ; 
Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot in sea, and one on shore ; 
To one thing constant never : 
Then sigh not so, 

But let them go, , 

And be you blithe and bonny ; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 
Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 
Tlie fraud of men was ever so, 
Since summer first was leavy. 
Then sigh not so, &c. 

D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. 

Ballh. And an ill singer, my lord. 

B. Pedro. Ha ? no ; no, faith ; thou singcst 
well enough for a shift. 

Bene, [y/.s/r/e.] An he had been a dog that 
should have howled thus they would have hanged 
him: and, I pray God, his bad voice bode no 
mischief! I had as lief have heard the night- 
raven, come what plag-ue could have come after 

D. Pedro. Yea, marry ; [_to Claudio.] — ^Dost 
ihou hear, Balthazar ? I pray thee, get us some 

8 The original copies have nothing. Mr. While says, 
"one of ihe many proofs that tU was pronounced like t." 

excellent music ; for to-morrow night we would 
have it at the lady Hero's chamber-window. 
Balth. The best I can, my lord. 
P. Pedro. Do so : farewell. [_Exeunt Bal- 
THAZAii. ] Come hither, Leouato : What was^ it 
you told me of to-day ? that your niece Beatrice 
was in love with signior Benedick ? 

Claud. 0, ay :— Stalk on, stalk on : the io\\\ 
sits.^ [_Aside to Pedro.] I did never think that 
lady would have loved any man. 

Leon. No, nor I neither ; but most wonder- 
ful that she should so dote on signior Benedick, 
whom she hath in all outward behaviours 
seemed ever to abhor. 

Bene. Is't possible? Sits the wind in that 

corner ? \_Aside. 

Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell 

what to think of it ; but that she loves him_ with 

an em-aged affection,— it is past the infinite of 


D. Pedro. May be, she doth but counterfeit. 
Claud. 'Faith, like enough. 
Leon. God! counterfeit! There was never 
counterfeit of passion came so near the life of 
passion, as she discovers it. 

P. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows 

Claud. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. 

Leon. What affects, my lord! She wiU sit 
you, — You heard my daughter tell you how. 
Claud. She did, indeed. 
D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you ? You amaze 
me : I would have thought her spirit had been 
invincible against all assaults of affection. 

Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lordj 
especially against Benedick. 

Bene. [Aside'] I should tliink this a gull, but 
that the white-bearded fellow speaks it : knavery 
cannot, sm-e, hide itself in such reverence. 

Claud. He hath ta'en the infection; hold it 
up. [Aside 

D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known 
to Benedick ? 

Leon. No ; and swears she never will : that's 
her torment. 

Claud. 'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter 
says: 'Shall I,' says she, 'that have so eft en- 
countered him with scorn, write to him that I 
love him ? ' 

Leon. This says she now when she is begin- 
ning to write to him: for she'll be up twenty 
times a night : and there will she sit in her 
smock, tin she have writ a sheet of paper: — 
mj daughter tells us all. 

Act II.] 


[Scene 111. 

Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I re- 
member a pretty jest your daughter told iaS of. 

Leon. O ! — Wlieu she had writ it, and was 
reading it orer, she fouud Benedick and Beatriec 
between the sheet ? 

Claud. That. 

Leon. ! she tore the letter into a thousand 
half-pence ;* railed at herself, that she should be 
so immodest to write to one that she knew would 
flout her : ' I measure him,' says she, ' by my 
own spirit ; for I shoidd flout him, if he writ to 
me ; yea, though I love him, I should.' 

Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, 
weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, 
prays, curses : ^ — ' O sweet Benedick ! God give 
me patience ! ' 

Leon. She doth indeed ; my daughter says so : 
and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, 
that my daughter is sometime afeard she will do 
a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true. 

D. Pedro. It were good tliat Benedick knew 
of it by some other, if she will not discover it. 

Claud. To what end ? He woidd but make a 
sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse. 

D. Pedro. An he sliould, it were an alms to 
hang him : She 's an excellent sweet lady ; and^ 
out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. 

Claud. And she is exceeding wise. 

D. Pedro. In everytliing, but in loving Bene- 

Leon. my lord, wisdom and blood combat- 
ing in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to 
one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for 
her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and 
her guardian. 

D. Pedro. 1 would she had bestowed this 
dotage on me ; I would have daff 'd "= all other re- 
spects, and made her half myself: I pray you 
tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say. 

Leon. Were it good, think you ? 

Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die; foi 
she says she will die if he love her not; and 
she will die ere she make her love known: 
and she will die if he woo lier, rather than she 
will 'bate one breath of her accustomed cross- 

D. Pedro. She doth mxII : if she sliould make 
tender of her love 't is very possible he '11 scorn 

a Steevens ingeniously suggests that a farthing, and per- 
haps a ha'fpenny, was used to signify any small particli- or 
division. Capell says that the allusion is to the cross of ilie 
old silver penny, whicli could he broken into halfpence or 
farthings, as Beatrice is said'to have torn her letter. 

b Curses. Mr. Collier's MS. Corrector has cries. 

c Da/'d— put aside; as in Othello, Act iv. Sc. n.:— 
" Every day thou dajts me with sjnie new device ; " and in 
Actv. Sc. I. of the present Comedy, "canst thou so daff 
me 2" 

it: for tlic man, as you know all, hath a con- 
temptible '"' spirit. 

Claud. He is a very proper man. 

D. Pedro. He hatli, indeed, a good outward 

Claud. Tore God, and in my mind, very wise. 

B. Pedro. He doth, indeed, sliow some sparks 
that are like wit. 

Leon. And I take him to be valiant. 

D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you : and in 
the managing of quarrels you may sec'' he is 
wise; for either he avoids them with great dis- 
cretion, or imdertakes them with a Christian- 
like'^ fear. 

Leon. If he do fear God he must necessarily 
keep peace; if he break the peace he ouglit to 
enter into a quarrel witli fear and trembling. 

D. Pedro. And so will he do ; for the man 
doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him, 
by some large jests he will make. "Well, I am 
sorry for your niece : Shall we go seek Benedick, 
and tell him of her love ? 

Claicd. Never teU him, my lord; let her wear 
it out with good counsel. 

Leon. Nay, that 's impossible ; she may wear 
her heart out first. 

2). Pedro. Well, we will hear fiu'ther of it by 
your daughter. Let it cool the while. I love 
Benedick well : and I coidd wish he would mo- 
destly examme himself to see how much he is 
unworthy to have so good a lady. 

Leon. IMy lord, will you walk? dmner is 

Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I 
will never trust my expectation. [Jside. 

D. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread 
for her : and that must yovu- daughter and her 
gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when 
they hold one an opinion of another's dotage, 
and no such matter ; that 's the scene that I 
would see, which will be merely a dumb show 
Let us send her to call him in to dinner, [^jiside. 
{Exeunt Bon Peduo, Claudio, and Leonato. 

Benedick advances from the arbour. 
Bene. This can be no trick : Tlie conference 
was sadly borne.— They have the truth of this 
from Hero. They seem to pity the lady; it 
seems her affections have their full bent. Love 
me ! why, it must be requited. I hear how I 
am censured: they say I will bear mys-^lf 
proudly, if I perceive the love come from her ; 
they say too, that she will rather die than give 

a Cotilcmvtihle is here used in the sense of contemptuous 

h In the quarto, say. 

c In the quarto, most Christian like. 


Act II.] 


[Scene 111. 

any sign of afFection. — I did uever tliiiik to 
marry — I must not seem proud : — Happy are 
they that hear their detractions, and can put 
them to mending. They say the lady is fair ; 
't is a truth, I can bear them witness : and vir- 
tuous — 't is so, 1 cannot reprove it ; and wise, but 
for loving me : — By my troth, it is no addition 
to licr wit ; — nor no great argument of her folly, 
for I will be horribly in love with her. — I may 
chance have some odd qiurks and remnants of 
wit broken on me, because I have railed so long 
against marriage : But doth not the appetite 
alter ? A man loves the meat in his youth that 
he cannot endure in his age : Shall quips, and 
sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, 
awe a man from the career of his liumoiu- ? No : 
The world must be peopled. When T said I 
woidd die a bachelor, I did not think I should 
live till I were married. — Here comes Beatrice : 
By this day, she 's a fail- lady : I do spy some 
marks of love in her. 

Unter Beatrice. 

Beat. Against my will, I am sent to bid you 
come in to diimer. 

Bene. Tair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. 

Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks, 
than you take pains to thank me ; if it had been 
painful I would not have come. 

Bene. You take pleasure, then, in the mes- 
sage ? 

Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take 
upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal : — 
You have no stomach, signior ; fare you well. 


Bene. Ha ! ' Against my wiU I am scut to 
bid you come in to dinner' — there's a double 
meaning in that. ' I took no more pains for 
those thanks, than you took pains to thank me' 
— that's as much as to say. Any pains that I take 
for you is as easy as thanks : — If I do not take 
pity of her I am a \illain ; if I do not love her 
I am a Jew : I will go get her pictui-e. [Exit. 


Sc. I. p. Sr) ^" Till he sinl; into his grave." 

" Till he sink apace into his grave." 

Mr. Collier's MS. Corrector has added apace after sin/c, 

and he may be right as tar as supplying a pun which is 

very obvious. But the Cambridge editors say this had 

been suggested by Capell, and is supported by a passage in 

Marston's ' Insatiate Countess,' edited by Mr. Halliwell 

" Think of me as the man 
WhoM dancing days you see are not yet done. 
Lan, "iet you sinke a pace, sir " 

[Scene III. • Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more '] 


' Scene I. — " Tliat I had my good wit out of (he 
'Hundred Merry Tales' " 

The " good wit " of Beatrice consisted in sharp 
sayings aud quaint allusions, and Benedick might 
naturally enough have twitted her with what we 
now call a familiarity with 'Joe Miller.' 'The 
Hundred Meri-y Tales ' were known only by their 
title; aud a great controversy therefore sprang up 
whether they were a translation of the ' Cent 
Nouvelles Nouvelles' or of the ' Decameron.' We 
need not enter upon this question ; for a fragment 
of the identical Tales has been discovered, since 
the days of Reed and Steevens, by Mr. Coneybeare, 
which shows that the work was literally a jest- 
book — most probably a chapman's penny book. A 
copy would now be above all price, if it could be 
recovered entire. But its loss has occasioned 
more printing, iu the way of speculation upon its 
contents ; and thus the world keeps up its stock 
of typographical curiosities. 

- Scene I. — "Bring you the length of Prester John's 
The inaccessibility of Prester John has been 
described by Butler : — 

" While like the mighty Prester John, 
Whose person none dares look upon, 
But is preserv'd in close disguise 
From being made cheap to vulgar eyes." 

^ Scene III. — " Carving the fashion of a new 

This is the representation of an Englishman 
thus described by Coryat, in his ' Crudities : ' — 
" We wear more fantastical fashions than any 
nation under the sun doth, the French only ex- 
cepted ; which hath given occasion to the Venetian 
and other Italians to brand the Englishman with 
a notable mark of levity, by painting him stark 
naked, with a pair of shears in his hand, making 
his fashion of attire according to the vain con- 

ception of his brain-sick head, not to comclinesi 
and decorum." The print from which we copy is 
in Borde's ' Introduction of Knowledge;' and we 
subjoin the verses which are given under it :— 

" I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here, 
Musing in my mynde wliat raynient I shall were , 
For now I will were this, and now I will were that, 
Now I will were I cannot tell what." 

* Scene III.— " Stalk on, stalk on: the fowl sits." 

The stalking-horse is thus described in an 
ancient tract, ' New Shreds of the Old Snare,' by 
John Gee : — " Methinks I behold the cunning 
fowler, such as I have known in the fen-countries 
and elsewhere, that do shoot at woodcocks, snipes, 
and wild-fowl, by sneaking behind a painted cloth 
which they carry before them, having pictured on 
it the shape of a horse; which, while the silly 
fowl gazeth on it is knocked down with hail-shot, 
and so put in the fowler's budget." There were 
stalking-bulls as well as stalking-horses ; and the 
process of decoying partridges in this way into a 
net is described in Willughby's ' Ornithology.' 

[Scene III. ' Are you gcod men and true ?'] 


SCENE I. — Leonato'5 Garden. 

Enter Hebo, Mabgahet, and Ukstjla. 

Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the par- 
lorn- ; 
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice 
Proposing -\nth the prince and Claudio : 
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse 
Is all of her ; say, that thou overheard' st us ; 
And bid her steal into the pleached bower. 
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun. 
Forbid the sun to enter ;— like favourites, 
Jklade proud by princes, that advance their pride 
(Vgainst that power that bred it :— there will she 
hide her, 

To listen our propose : * This is thy office, 
Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. 

Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant you, 
presently. C^^^'^- 

Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, 
As we do trace this alley up and down, 
Our talk must only be of Benedick : 
When I do name him, let it be thy part 
To praise him more than ever man did merit : 
My talk to thee must be, how Benedick 

a Propose. So the quarto: the folio, purpose. The 
words have the same meaning— that of conversaiion— and 
were indifferently used by old writers. In the third line ot 
this scene we have, 

" Proposing with the prince and Claudio." 
In Spenser, 

" For she in pleasant purpose did ahound." 

Act hi.] 


Is sick in lore with Beatrice : Of this matter 

Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made, 

That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin ; 

Bnter Beatkice, behind. 

For look wliere Beatrice, like a lap^^^ng, nms 
Close by the ground to hear om- conference. 

Urs. The pleasantest angling is to see the fish 
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, 
And greedily devour the treacherous bait :' 
So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now ' 
Is couched in the woodbine coverture : 
Fear you not my part of the dialogue. 
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose 

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. 

[Thei/ advance to the bower. 
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainfid ; 
I know, her spirits are as coy and wild ' 
As haggards of the rock.' 

^'■^ But are you sure, 

Ihat Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? I 

Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed 

TJrs. And did they bid you tell her of it, 

madam ? 
Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her 
of it: 
But T persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick, 
To wish him wrestle with affection. 
And never to let Beatrice know of it. 

Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentle- 
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed. 
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? 
Hero. O God of love ! I know he doth de- 
As much as may be yielded to a man : 
But natui-e never fram'd a woman's heart 
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes. 
Misprising "^ what they look on ; and her wit 
Values itself so highly, that to her 
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love. 
Nor take -no shape nor project of affection, 
She is so self-endeared. 

^'■■y- Sure, I think so ; 

And therefore, certainly, it were not good 
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. 
Hero. Why, you speak truth : I never yet 
saw man, 
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featm-'d. 
But she would spell him backward : if fair fae'd, 

carping is not corn- 



She would swearMhe gentleman should be her 

Made a fod blot : if tall, a lance iU-headed ; 
it low, an agate = very vilely cut • 
If speakmg why, a vane blo^^^l with all winds • 
If silent, why, a block moved with none 
So turns she every man tlie wrong side out: 
Ai.d never gives to truth and virtue that 
Which smipleness and merit purcliascth. 
Urs. Sure, sure, such 

Hero. No not; to be so odd, and from 
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable • 
But who dare teU her so ? If I should speak, 
She would mock'' me into air; O, she would 

laugh me 
Out of myself, press me to death with wit 
Iherefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire. 
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly'- 
It were a better death than die ^vith mocks • 
Which IS as bad as die with tickling 
Urs. Yet teU her of it; hear what she 

Hero. No ; rather I wHl go to Benedick, 
And counsel him to fight against his passion : 
And, triUy, I'll devise some honest slanders 
To stain my cousm mth : One doth not know 
How much an ill word may empoison liking. 

Urs. 0, do not do your cousin such a wrong 
She cannot be so much without true judgment, 
(Having so swift and excellent a wit 
As she is priz'd to have,) as to refuse 
So rare a gentleman as signior Benedick. 

Hero. He is the only man of Italy, 
Always excepted my dear Claudio. 

Urs. I pray you, be not angry with me, 
Speaking my fancy ; signior Benedick, 
For shape, for bearing, argument," and valour. 
Goes foremost in report through Italy. 
Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good 

Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. 
WTien ai-e you married, madam ? 

Hero. Why, every day;— to-morrow: Come, 
go in; 


Afi.s/ir/ijn^— undervaluing. 

a She would swear.— This has been turned into she'd swear. 
to suit the inincing rhythm of the commentators. 

t> Blacti — as opposed to fair — swarthy. 

c Agate.— In Henry IV., Part II., Act i., Sc. ii., FalstafT 
saysot his page, " I was never manned with an agate till 
now. Agates were cut into various fonus, such as men's 

d She would mocA— changed also to she'd mock by modern 

e ^r^«»(cn«— conversation. So in Henry IV., Fart 1. " I 
would be aryument for a week." 




I'll sliow tlicc some attii-es ; aud have thy coun- 
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. 
Urs. She's ta'en'-^ I warrant you; we have 

caught her, madam. 
Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps : 
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. 
\_E.veunt Hero and Ursula. 

33EATRICE advances. 
Beat. What fire is in mine ears ?- Can this be 

Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so 
much ? 
Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! 

No glory lives behind the back of such. 
Aud, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee ; 
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand ; 
If tliou dost love, my kindness sliall incite thee 

To bind our loves up in a holy band : 
For others say thou dost deserve ; and I 
Believe it better than reportingly. [_ExU. 

SCENE II.— J Room in Leonato's House. 

Elder Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and 

D. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be 
consummate, and then I go toward Arragon. 

Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if 
you 'U vouchsafe me. 

D. Pedro. Nay, that would be as great a soil 
in the new gloss of yom- marriage, as to show a 
child his new coat, and forbid him to wear it. I 
will only be bold with Benedick for his com- 
pany ; for, from the crown of his head to the 
sole of his foot, he is all mirth ; he hath twice 
or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring, and the little 
hangman dare not shoot at him : he hath a heart 
as soimd as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper ; 
for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks. 

Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been. 

Leon. ^0 say I ; methiidcs you are sadder. 

Claud. I hope he be in love. 

D. Pedro. Hang him, truant ; there 's no 
true drop of blood in him, to be truly touch'd 
with love : if he be sad, he wants money. 

Bene. I have the tooth-ach. 

D. Pedro. Draw it. 

Bene. Hang it ! 

Claud. You must hang it first, and draw 

n. Pedi 0. What ? sigh for the tooth-ach ? 

Leon. Where is but a humour, or a worm ! 

[Scene II. 

one can master a grief. 


Ta en. 

So the folio ; the quarto limed. 

Bene. Well, every 
but he that has it. 

Claud. Yet, say I, he is in love. 

D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy 
in him, unless it be a fancy* that he hath to 
strange disguises ; as, to be a Dutchman to-day ; 
a Erenchman to-morrow ; [or in the shape of 
two countries at once, as, a German from the 
waist downward, all slops ; and a Spaniard from 
the hip upward, no doublet : ''] Unless he have a 
fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he 
is no fool for fancy, as you would have it to ap- 
pear he is. 

Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, 
there is no believing old signs : he brushes his 
hat o' mornings : What should that bode ? 

D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the 
barber's ? 

Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been 
seen with him; and the old ornament of his 
cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls."= 

Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, 
by the loss of a beard. 

D. Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet : 
Can you smell him out by that ? 

Claud. That 's as much as to say, The sweet 
youth 's in love. 

D. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melan- 

Claud. And when was he wont to wash his 
face ? 

D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the 
which, I hear what they say of him. » 

Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit ; which is 
now crept into a lutestring,^ and now governed 
by stops. 

D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for 
him : Conclude* he is in love. 

Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him. 

T). Pedro. That would I know too ; I warrant, 
one that knows him not. 

Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in 
despite of all, dies for him. 

D. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face 

Bene. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ach. 

■1 Fancy is here used in a different sense from the same 
word which immediately precedes it— although fancy in the 
sense of love is the same as fancy in tlie sense of the indul- 
f;ence of a humour- The fancy which makes a lover, and tha 
fancy which produces a bird-fancier, each express the same 
subjection of the will to the imagination. 

b The passage in brackets is not found in the folio, but is 
supplied from the quarto. 

c In one of Nashe's pamphlets, ITini, we have, " they may 
sell their hair by the pound, to stuff tennis-balls." Several 
of the old comedies allude to the same employment of human 

d The qjarto has conclude, conclude. 


Act III.] 


— Okl Siguier, walk aside with me; I Jmve 

studied eiglit or nine wise words to speak 

to you, which these liobby-liorses must uot 

[Eveu/d Benedick a/id Leonato 
D. Pedro. Tor my life, to break with him 

about Beatrice. 

Claud. 'Tis eveu so: Hero and Margaret 

have by this played theu- parts with Beatrice ; 

and theu the two bears will not bite one another 

when they meet. 

F/iler Don John. 

B. John. My lord and brother, God save you. 

B. Pedro. Good den, brother. 

D. John. If your leisure served, I would 
speak with you. 

D. Pedro. In private ? 

B. John. If it please you ;— yet count Claudio 
may hear; for what I would speak of concerns 

B. Pedro. What 's the matter ? 
B. John. Means your lordship to be married 
to-morrow ? ^To Claudio. 

B. Pedro. You know he does. 
B. John. I know not that, when he biows 
what I know. 

Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray 
you, discover it. 

B. John. You may thmk I love you not ; let 
that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by 
that I now will manifest. Por my brother, I 
think, he holds you weU ; and in dearness of 
heart hath help to effect your ensuing marriage : 
surely, suit ill spent, and labom- ill bestowed ! 
B. Pedro. Why, what 's the matter ? 
B. John. I came hither to tell you : and, cir- 
cumstances shortened, (for she hath been too 
long a talking of,) the lady is disloval. 
Claud. Who? Hero? 

B. John. Even she ; Leonato's Hero, your 
Hero, every man's Hero. 
Claud. Disloyal? 

B. John. The word is too good to paint out 
her wickedness; I could say she were worse; 
think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to 
it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but 
with me to-niglit, you shall see her chamber- 
window entered; even the night before her 
wedding-day: if you love her then, to-morrow 
wed her; but it would better fit your honour to 
change your mind. 

Claud. May this be so ? 
B. Pedro. I will not think it. 
B. John. If you dare not trust that you sec, 
confess not that you know : if you will follow 
Comedies. — Vol. II. H 

ISciiNE 111. 

me, I will show you enough ; and wlicn vou 
have soon more, and hoard more, proceed "ac- 

Claud. If I sec anything to-night why I 
should not marry her to-morrow, in the con- 
, grcgation, where I should wed, there will [ 
shame her. 

B. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain 
her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. 

B. John. I will disparage her no farther, till 
you are my witnesses : bear it coldlv but till 
night," and let the issue show itself. 

B. Pedro. day untowardly turned ! 

Claud. mischief strangely thwarting ! 

B. John. plague right well preventctl ! 
So will you say when you have seen the sequel. 


SCENE III.— A Sired. 
Enter DoGBEURY and Veeoes, toith the Watch. 

Bogh. Are you good men and true ? 

Vcrcj. Yea, or else it were pity but they should 
sulTer salvation, body and soul. 

Borfh. Nay, that were a punishment too good 
for them, if they should have any allegiance in 
them, being chosen for the prince 's watch. 

Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour 

Bogh. First, who think you the most desart- 
Icss man to be constable ? 

1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Sea- 
coal ; for they can write and read. 

Bogh. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal : God 
hath blessed you with a good name : to be a 
well-favoured man is the gift of fortune ; but to 
write and read comes by nature. 

2 IVatch. Both which, master constable, 

Bogh. You have; I knew it would be your 

answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give 
God thanks, and make no boast of it; and i'or 
your writing and reading, let that appear when 
there is no need of such vanity. You are thought 
here to be the most senseless and fit man for the 
constable of the watch ; therefore bear you tlie 
lantern.'* This is your charge : You shall com- 
prehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any 
man stand, in the prince's name. 

2 Watch. How if a'' will not stand? 

Bogh. Why then, take no note of him, but 

•1 Niyht — so the /)lio; in the quarto, midnir/ht. 

b How if a. — We have rctaiiiuil the quaint vulgarism nt 
tlie original, instead of the modern refinement, liow if he. 
In many other passages of these inimitable scenes the same 
furni is restored by us. 




[Scene 111. 

let him go ; and presently call the rest of the 
watch togctlier, and thank God you are rid of a 

Very. If he will not stand when he is bidden, 
he is none of the prince's subjects. 

Bogb. True, and they are to meddle M'ith 
none but the prmce's subjects : — You shall also 
make no noise in the streets ; for, for the watch 
to babble and talk, is most tolerable and not to 
be endui'ed. 

2 Watch. We wUl rather sleep than talk ; we 
know what belongs to a watch. 

Bogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and 
most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how 
sleeping should offend: only, have a care that 
your bills be not stolen : — Well, you are to call 
at all the ale-houses, and bid them that are 
drunk get them to bed. 

2 Watch. How if they will not? 

Bogb. Why then, let them alone till they 
are sober ; if they make you not then the better 
answer, you may say they are not the men you 
took them for. 

2 Watch. Well, sir. 

Bogb. If you meet a thief, you may suspect 
him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man ; 
and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle 
or make with them, why, the more is for youi* 

2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall 
we not lay hands on him ? 

Bogb. Truly, by your office, you may ; but I 
think they that touch pitch will be defiled : the 
most peaceable way for you, if you do take a 
thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and 
steal out of your company. 

Verg. You have been always called a merci- 
fid man, partner. 

Bogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my 
will ; much more a man who hath any honesty 
Lu him, 

Verg. If you hear a child cry iu the night, 
you must call to the nurse, and bid h-er still it. 

2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and 
win not hear us ? 

Bog}]. Why then, depart in peace, and let the 
child wake her with crying : for the ewe that 
will not hear her lamb when it baes will never 
answer a calf when he bleats. 

Verg. 'T is very true. 

Bogb. Tills is the end of the charge. You, 
constable, are to present the prince's o\vn person ; 
if you meet the prince in the night, you may 
stay him. 

Verg. Nay by 'r lady, that, I thinlc, a cannot. 


Bogb. rive shUluigs to one on't, with any 
man that knows the statues, he may stay him : 
marry, not without the prince be willing : for, 
indeed, the watch ought to offend no man; 
and it is an offence to stay a man against his 

Verg. By 'r lady, I think it be so. 

Bogb. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, masters, good night 
an there be any matter of weight chances, call 
up me : keep your fellows' counsels and your 
own, and good night. — Come, neighboui". 

2 Watch. WeU, masters, we hear our charge : 
let us go sit here upon the church-bench tiU two, 
and then all to bed. 

Bogb. One word more, honest neighbours : I 
pray you, watch about signior Leonato's door ; 
for the wedding being there to-morrow, thei'e is 
a great coil to-night : Adieu, be vigitaut, I 
beseech you. SJSxeunt Dogbeuky and Verges. 

Enter Bokachio and Conrade. 

Bora. What ! Conrade, — 

Watch. Peace, stir not. {Aside. 

Bora. Conrade, I say ! 

Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow. 

Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched ; I thought 
there would a scab follow. 

Con. I will owe thee an answer for that ; and 
now forward with thy tale. 

Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent- 
house, for it drizzles rain; and I will, like a 
true drunkard, utter aU to thee. 

Wcctch. [_aside.'] Some treason, masters ; yet 
stand close. 

Bora. Therefore know, I have earned of don 
John a thousand ducats. 

Con. Is it possible that any villainy should be 
so dear ? 

Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask, if it were 
possible any villainy should be so rich ; for when 
rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones 
may make what price they will. 

Con. I wonder at it. 

Bora. That shows thou art unconfirmed : 
Thou knowest, that the fashion of a doublet, or 
a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man. 

Con. Yes, it is apparel. 

Bora. I mean, the fashion. 

Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 

Boi-a. Tush ! I may as well say, the fool's the 
fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief 
this fashion is ? 

Watch. I know that Deformed ; a has been a 
vile thief this seven year ; a goes up and down 
like a gentleman : I remember liis name. 

Act hi.] 


[Scene V 

Bora. Didst thou not Lear somebody ? 
Con. No ; 't was the vane on the house. 
Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed 
thief this fasliion is ? how gidtlily he turns about 
all the hot bloods, between foiu-teen and five-and- 
thirty ? sometime, fasliioning them like Pliaraoh's 
soldiers in the reccliy ^ painting ; sometime, like 
god Bel's priests in the old ehurch window ; 
sometime, lilce the shaven Hercules in the 
smirched'' worm-eaten tapestry, where his cod- 
piece seems as massy as bis club ? 

Con. All this I see ; and see that the fashion 
wears out more apparel than the man : But art 
not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that 
thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me 
of the fashion ? 

Bora. Not so neither : but know, that I have 
to-night wooed Margaret, the lady Hero's gentle- 
woman, by the name of Hero ; she leans me out 
at her mistress' chamber-window, bids me a 
thousand times good night, — I tell this tale 
vilely : — I should first tell thee how the prince, 
Claudio, and my master, planted, and placed, 
and possessed by my master don Jolm, saw afar 
off in the orchard this amiable encounter. 
Con. And thought thy INIargaret was Hero ? " 
Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Clau- 
dio ; but the devil my master knew she was 
Margaret ; and partly by his oaths, which fii-st 
possessed them, partly by the dark night, which 
did deceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, 
which did confirm any slander that don John 
had made, away went Claudio em-aged; swore 
he would meet her as he was appointed, next 
morning at the temple, and there, before the 
whole congregation, shame her with what he 
saw o'er-night, and send her home again without 
a husband. 

1 Watch. We charge you in the prince's 
name, stand. 

2 Watch. Call up the right master constable : 
we have here recovered the most dangerous 
piece of lechery that ever was known in the 

1 Watch. And one Deformed is one of them ; 
I know him, a wears a lock. 

Con. Masters, masters. 

2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed 
forth, I warrant you. 

Con. Masters, — 

1 Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let :is 
obey you to go with us. 

a Reechij — begrimed — smoky, 
b Smirclu'il — smutclicd — smudge;'.. 

c So the folio. In the quarto, "And thouglit tlieij, Mar- 
garet was Hero?' 

H 2 

Bora. We arc like to prove a goodly commo- 
dity, being taken up of these men's bills." 

Con. A commodity in question, I warran. 
you. Come, we '11 obey you. 

SCENE IV.— ^ Room in Lconato'^ House. 

Enter Heko, Mahgaret, and Ursula. 

Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Bea 
trice, and desire her to rise. 
Urs. I wUl, lady. 

Hero. And bid her come hither. 

Urs. ^\d\. [Rett Ursula.. 

Mart/. Troth, I think your other rabato= were 

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear 

Mart/. By my troth, it 's not so good ; and I 
warrant yoiu* cousin will say so. 

Hero. My cousin's a fool, and thou art 
another ; I '11 wear none but this. 

3Tar//. 1 like the ne^v tire witliin excellently, 
if the hair were a thought browner : •* and your 
gown's a most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the 
duchess of Milan's go\A'n, that they praise so. 

Hero. 0, that exceeds, they say. 

Sfarff. By my troth it 's but a night-gown in 
respect of yours : Cloth of gold, and cuts, and 
laced with silver ; set with pearls down sleeves,' 
side-sleeves,'' and skirts, roimd underbornc with 
a blueish tinsel : but for a fine, quaint, grace- 
ful, and excellent fashion, youi's is worth ten 
on 't. 

Hero. God give me joy to wear it, for my 
heart is exceeding heavy ! 

3Iarj. 'T will be heavier soon, by the weight 
of a man. 

Hero. Fie upon thee ! art not ashamed ? 

Mar//. Of what, lady ? of speaking honour- 
ably ? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar ? 
Is not your lord honourable without marriage ? 
I think, you wo;ild have me say, — saving your 
reverence, — ' a husband : ' an bad thinking do 
not wrest true speaking, I'll offend nobody : Is 

••» Shakspcre has here repeated the conceit whicli we find 
in tlie Second Part of Henry VI.: "My lord, when sliall 
we go to Cheapside, and take up commodities upon our 

b The false hair. 

c Tliis is usually pointed, "set with pearls, down 
sleeves." The pearls are to be set down the sleeves. 

d Side-slcevcs — long sleeves — or full sleeves— from the 
Anglo-Saxon, ««/ — ample— long. The " deep and broad 
sleeves" of the time of Henry IV. are thus ridiculed b) 
Hoccleve : — 

" Now hath this land little nccde of broomcs 
To swcepe away the filth out of the streete, 
Sen side-sleeves of pennilesse groomes 
Will it up licke, be it drie or weetc." 


Act III.] 


[Scene V. 

tlicrc any harm iii, ' the heavier for a husband ? ' 
None, I think, an it be the riglit liusband, and 
the right wife ; otherwise 't is light, and not 
lieavy : Ask my lady Beatrice else, here she 


Enter Beatrice. 

Hero. Good morrow, coz. 
Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. 
Hero. Why, how now ! do you speak in the 
sick tune ? 

Beat. I am out of all other tune, metliinks. 

Marg. Clap us into — ' Light o' love ; ' " that 
goes without a burden ; do you sing it, and I 'II 
dance it. 

Beat. Yea, ' Light o' love,' with your heels ! 
— then if your husband have stables enough, 
you'll look he sliall lack no barns. 

Marg. iUegitiraate construction ! I scorn 
that with my heels. 

Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis 
time you were ready. By my troth I am ex- 
ceeding ill : hey ho ! 

Marg. For a hawk, a liorse, or a husband ? 

Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.'^ 

Marg. "Well, an you be not turned Turk, 
there's no more sailing by the star. 

Beat. Wliat means the fool, trow ? "" 

Marg. Nothing I ; but God send every one 
their heart's desii-e ! 

Hero. These gloves the count sent me, they 
are an excellent perfume. 

Beat. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell. 

Marg. A maid, and stuffed ! there 's goodly 
catching of cold. 

Beat. 0, God help me ! God help me ! how 
long have you profess 'd apprehension ? 

Marg. Ever since you left it : doth not my 
wit become me rarely ? 

Beat. It is not seen enough, you should wear 
it in your cap. — By my troth, I am sick. 

Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus 
Benedietus,^ and lay it to your heart ; it is the 
only thing for a qualm. 

Hero. There tliou prick'st her with a thistle. 

Beat. Benedictus ! why Benedictus ? you have 
some moral in this Benedictus. 

" An epiijram by Heywood, 1566, explains this jest; and 
pives us tlic old pronunciation of ache, to whicli John 
Kembic adhered in despite of " the groundlings : "— 

" 11 is amongst worst letters in the cross-row ; 
For if thou find liim either in thine elbow, 
In tliine arm, or leg, in any degree; 
In thine head, or teeth, or toe, or knee 
Into what place soever H may pike him. 
Wherever tliou find ache thou shall not like him." 

w-r'',''"'r^ ^''°^- '^^ "» "'6 Mf-Try Wives of Windsor — 
' \\ no s there, trow ? " 


Marg. Moral ? no, by my troth, I have no 
moral meaning ; I meant, plain holy-thistle 
You may think, perchance, that I think you are 
in love : nay, by'r lady, I am not such a fool 
to think what I list ; nor I list not to think what 
I can ; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would 
think my heart out of thinking, that you are in 
love, or that you will be in love, or that you can 
be in love : yet Benedick was such another, and 
now he is become a man: he swore he would 
never marry ; and yet now, in despite of his 
heart, he eats his meat without grudging : and 
how you may be converted, I know not; but, 
methiuks, you look Avith your eyes as other 
women do. 

Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue 
keeps r 

Marg. Not a false gallop. 

Re-enter Ursula. 

Urs. Madam, withdraw ; the prince, the 
count, signior Benedick, Don John, and all the 
gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to 

Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, 
good Ursula. [Exeunt. 

SCENE Y. — Another Room in Leonato'5 House. 

Enter Leonato, with Dogbe'iky and Verges. 

Leon. '\Vhat v/ould you with me, honest 
neighbour ? 

Dogb. Marry, sir, I would have some confi- 
dence with you that decerns you nearly. 

Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for, you see, 't is a 
busy time with me. 

Dogb. Matry, this it is, sir. 

Vei-g. Yes, in truth it is, sir. 

Leon. WTiat is it, my good friends P 

Dogb. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little 
off the matter : an old man, sir, and his wits are 
not so blunt, as, God help, I would desire they 
were ; but, in faith, honest, as the skin between 
liis brows. 

Verg. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as 
any man living, that is an old man, and no ho- 
nester than I. 

Dogb. Comparisons are odorous : palabras, 
neighbour Verges. 

Leon. Ncighliours, you are tedious. 

Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, but 
we are the poor duke's officers ; but, truly, for 
mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king I 
could find iu my heart to bestow it all of your 

At! III.] 



Leon. All thy tcdiousucbs ou nie ! ah ? 

Bo^b. Yea, au' t were a thousand times * more 
thau 't is : for I hear as good exclamation on 
your worship, as of any man in the city ; and 
though I be but a poor man 1 am glad to hear 


Fei'ff. And so am I. 

■Leo/i. I would fain know what you have to 

Fei-f/. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, except- 
ing your worship's presence, have ta'eu a couple 
of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. 

Do^b. A good old man, sir ; he will be talk- 
ing ; as they say, AVhen the age is in, the wit is 
out ; God help us ! it is a world to see ! — Well 
said, i' faith, neighbour Verges : — well, God's a 
good man ; au two men ride of a horse, one 
must ride behind : — An honest soul, ifaith, sir; 
by my troth he is, as ever broke bread : but God 
is to be worshipped : All men are not alike ; 
alas, good neighbour ! 

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too snort 
of you. 

Doffb. Gifts, that God gives. 

Leon. I must leave you. 

Dof/b. One word, sir : our watch, sir, have, 
indeed, comprehended two aspicious persons, 

a riHZfs in the folio : the quarto has /)ou((d. 

and we would have them this mornuig cxammcd 
before your worship. 

Leon. Take their examination yourself, and 
bring it to me; I am now in great haste, as may 
appear unto you." 

Do//b. It shall be sutTigance. 

Leon. Drink some wine ere you go : fare you 

En^er a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your 
daughter to her husband. 

Leon. I will wait upon them ; I am ready. 

\ Leonato and Messenger. 

Doffb. Go, good partner, go. get you to 
Francis Seacoal, bid him bring his pen and ink- 
horn to the gaol : we are now to examination 
these men. 

Feiy. And we must do it wisely. 

Bof/b. We will spare for no wit, I warrant 
you here's that \iouclufg his forehead'] shall 
drive some of them to a non come: ^ only get the 
learned writer to set down ouj* 'ixcommunication, 
and meet me at the gaol. [Exeuul. 

a So the folio; in the quarto, "as it may appear unto 

l> Nun come in quarto and folio. The usual reading, non 
in. aspires to a correctness which does not belong to D.ig- 


[Ancient Watchmen.] 

[Haggards of the Rock.] 


' Scene I. — " Har/gards of the rocL" 

Simon Latliam, in his ' Book of Falcouiy,' thus 
describes the wild and unsocial nature of this 
species of hawk : — " She keeps in subjection the 
most part of all the fowl that fly, insomuch that 
the tassel gentle, her natural and chiefest com- 
panion, dares not come near that coast where she 
useth, nor sit by the place where she standeth. 
Such is the greatness of her spirit, she will not 
admit of any society i;ntil such a time as nature 

2 Scene I. — " What fire is in raine ears ?" 

The popvilar opinion here alluded to is as old as 
Pliny : — "Moreover is not this an opinion generally 
received, that when our ears do glow and tingle, 
some there be that in our absence do talk of us." 
— Holland's Translation, b. xxviii. 

' Scene II. — " His jcstiiuj spirit ; which is now 
crept into a lutestring:" — i. c. his jocular wit is now 
employed in the inditing of love-sougs, which, in 
Shakspere's time, were usually accompanied on 
the lute. The " stops " are the frets of the lute, 
and those points on the finger-board on which the 
string is pressed, or stopped, by the finger, 

■'Scene III.— "j5ra}- you the lantern" — " have a 
care that your bills be not stolen." 

At the close of this act we have introduced a 
representation of two "ancient and most quiet 
watchmen," of the days of Shakspere. The one 
with the bill is from the title-page of Dekker's ' 
per se, 0,' 1G12. The other with the halberd is 
from a print of the same period. The lanterns 
below are grouped from prints of a similar date. 


* Scene IV. — " Troth, I iJdiiJc your other rabato 
were better." 

The rabato was the ruff, or collar for the neck, 
such as we oftcu see iu the portraits of Queen 

Elizabeth. Dekker ealLs them " your stlfif-neckcd 
rebatoes." Menage derives it from rehutlrc, to i)ut 
back. The following portrait offers a pleasing 
example of this costume. 

« Scene IV. — " Clap us into—' Liyht o' lore.' " 

The name of au old tune ; mentioned also in the 
Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act i., Scene ir. Sub- 
sequently to the publication of his history, Sir 

John Hawkins states that he " lately recovered it 
from an ancient MS.'' lie gives the melody only, 
in the following manner. We have added a base 

and a few notes of accompaniment : — 


— ©,- 





• — «d — ^' 

— %x — 

r i 








1 1 — • Jim iUi 1 1 — — ^r—-\ — >- 

' 1C3 


7 Scene IV.—'' Carduus Benedictus." 

We look back with wonder upon the importance 
attached by our ancestors to old women s remedies 
That they confided in such powers as those ot tlie 
Blessed Thistle, and of 

" Spermaceti for an inward bruise," 

was a part of the system of Mief which belonged 

to their age; and which was in itself of more 

overeigii vi tue than we are apt to imagme. 

Perhaps our faith in a fashionable physician— 
which after all is no abiding faith — would not 
stand a more severe examination. But at any rate 
no one now believes in calomel or quinine, as a 
writer of Shakspere's day believed in the Carduus 
Benedictus. " This herb may worthily be called 
Benedictus or Omnimorhia, that is, a salve for every 
sore, not known to physicians of old time,but lately 
revealed by the special providence of Almighty 
God."— Cogan's Haven of Health, 1595. 

[Tlic Iliny Thiitle.] 

•!r: i,?i' 


[Scene I. Cathedral of Messina.] 


SCENE l.—T/ie itiside of a Church. 

Elder Don Peduo, Don John, Leonato, Friar, 
Clatjdio, Benedick, Heko, and Beatrice, ^r. 

Leon. Come, friar Erancis, be brief; only to 
the plain form of marriage, and you shall re- 
count their particular duties afterwards. 

Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry 
this lady ? 

Claud. No. 

Leon. To be married to her : friar, you come 
to marry her." 

Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married 
to this count ? 

a We follow the punctuation of the original. The 
meaning is destroyed by the modern mode of pointing 
the passage, — 

" To be married to her, friar ; you coir b to marry her." 

Hero. 1 do. 

Friar. If either of you know any inward im- 
pediment why you should not be conjoined, 1 
charge you, on your souls, to utter it. 

Claud. Know you any. Hero ? 

Hero. None, my lord. 

Friar. Know you any, count ? 

Leon. I dare make his answer, none. 

Claud. 0, what men dare do ! what men may 
do ! what men daily do ! [not knowing what 
they do I^'] 

Bene. How now ! Intei-jections ? Why, then 
some be of laughing, ^ as, ha ! ha ! he ! 

Claud. Stand thee by, friar : — Father, by 
your leave ; 

a The words in brackets are not in the folio, but In the 
b Shakspere had not forgotten his Accidence. 


Act IV.] 



Will you with free and unconstrained soul 
Give me this maid, your daughter ? 
Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. 
Claud. And what have I to give you back, 
whose worth 
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift ? 
D. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her 

Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble 
There, Leonato^.take her back again ; 
Give not this rotten orange to your friend ; 
She 's but the sign and semblance of her honom- : 
Behold, how like a maid she blushes here : 
0, what authority and show of truth 
Can cunning sin cover itself withal ! 
Comes not that blood, as modest evidence, 
To witness simple virtue ? Would you not swear. 
All you that see her, that she were a maid. 
By these exterior shows ? But she is none : 
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed : 
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. 
Leon. What do you mean, my lord ? 
Claud. Not to be married. 

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. 
Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own 
Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth. 

And made defeat of her vu-ginity, 

Claud, I know what you woidd say \ If I 
have known her, 
You'll say, she did embrace me as a husband, 
And so extenuate the 'forehand sin : 
No, Leonato, 

I never tempted her with word too large ; 
But, as a brother to his sister, show'd 
Bashful sincerity, and comely love. 
Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you ? 
Claud. Out on the seeming ! * T will wi'ite 
against it, 
You seem to me as Dian in her orb ; 
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown ; 
But you are more intemperate in your blood 
Than Venus, or those paniper'd animals 
That rage in savage sensuality. 

Eero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so 

Claud. Sweet prince, why speak not you ? '^ 

a In the originals, both the quarto and folio, we have 
"Out on l)tee seeming." Pope changed this phrase into 
"Out on ihij seeming." We believe that the poet used 
" Out on the seeming "—the specious resemblance — " I will 
write against U "—that is, against this false representation, 
along with this deceiving portrait, 

" You seem to me as Dian in her orb," &c. 

The commentators separate " I will write against it " from 
what follows, as if Claudio were about to compose a treatise 
upon the subject of woman's deceitfulness. 

B. Pedro. What should I speak ? 

I stand dishonom-'d, that have gone about 
To link my dear friend to a common stale. 
Leon, Are these things spoken? or do I bi:<- 

dream ? 
D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and these 

things are true. 
Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. 
Hero. True ? God ! 

Clatid. Leonato, stand I here ? 
Is this the prince ? Is this the prince's brother ? 
Is this face Hero's ? Are our eyes our own ? 
Leon. AH this is so : But what of this, my 

lord ? 
Claud. Let me but move one question to your 
daughter ; 
And, by that fatherly and kindly power 
That you have in her, bid her answer truly. 
l^eon. I cliarge thee do so, as thou art my child. 
Hero. God defend me ! Iiom' am I beset ! — 
What kind of catechising call you this ? 

Claud. To make you answer truly to your 

Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot thai 
With any just reproach ? 

Claud. Marry, that can Hero ; 

Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. 
What man was he talk'd with you yesternight 
Out at yoiu' window, betwixt twelve and one ? 
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. 

Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, mv 

B. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. — 
I am sorry you must hear : Upon mine honour, 
]\Iyself, my brother, and this grieved count, 
Did see hei*, hear her, at that hour last night. 
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window ; 
Who hath, indeed, most like a liberal "^ villain, 
Confess'd the vile encounters they have had 
A thousand times in secret. 

B. John. Fie, fie ! they arc 

Not to be nam'd my lord, not to be spoken of ; 
There is not chastity enough in language. 
Without offence, to utter them : Thus, pretty 

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. 

Claud. O Hero ! what a Hero hadst thou 
If half thy outward graces had been placed 

1) The speech of Claudio, at the bottom of col. 1 was ori- 
ginally given to Leonato. Tieck suggested the correction, 
which Mr. Dyce had long before seen to be required. 

c iitera?— licentiously free.— So in Othello: "Is he no! 
a most profane and liberal counsellor? " 

Act IV.; 



About thy tboughtsj and counsels of thy heart ! 
But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair ! fare- 
Thou pure impiety, and impious purity ! 
For thee I '11 lock up all the gates of love, 
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang-, 
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm. 
And never shall it more be gracious. 

Leoti. Hath no man's dagger here a point for 

me ? [Hero swoons. 

Beat. Why, how now, cousin ? wherefore sink 

you down ? 
D. Johi. Come, let us go : these things, come 
thus to light, 
Smother her spirits up. 
{Exeunt Bon Pedro, Bon John, and Claudio. 
Bene. How doth the lady ? 
Beat. Dead, I think ; — help, uncle ;— 

Hero ! why. Hero ! — Uncle ! — Signior Bene- 
dick ! — friar ! 
Leon. fate, take not away thy heavy hand ! 
Death is the fairest cover for her shame 
That may be wish'd for. 

Beat. How now, cousin Hero ? 

Friar. Have comfort, lady. 
Leon. Dost thou look up ? 
Friar, Yea ; Wherefore should she not ? 
Leon. Wherefore ? Why, doth not every 
earthly thing 
Cry shame upon her ? Could she here deny 
The story that is printed in her blood ? 
Do not live. Hero ; do not ope thine eyes : 
For did I think; thou wouldst not quickly die. 
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy 

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches. 
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one ? 
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame ? ■'' 
O, one too much by thee ! Why had I one ? 
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ? 
Why had I not, with charitable hand, 
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates ; 
Who, smirched thus, and mired with infamy, 
I might have said, ' No part of it is mine. 
This shame derives itself from unknown loius ? ' 
But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd. 
And mine that I was proud on ; mine so much. 
That I myself was to myself not mine. 
Valuing of her ; why, she — O, she is fallen 
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea 
Hath drops too few to wash her clean agam ; 
And salt too little, which may season give 
To her foul tainted flesh ! 

Bene. Sir, sii-, be patient : 

" Frame — ordinance — arrangement. 

For my part I am so attir'd in wonder, 
I know not what to say. 

Beat. O, on my soiJ, my cousin is belied ! 
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last 

night ? 
Beat. No, truly not ; although until last niglit 
I have this twelvemonth been licr bedfellow. 
Leon. Confirm' d, confirm'd ! O, that is 
stronger made. 
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron ! 
Would the two princes lie ? and Claudio lie ? 
Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foidncss, 
Wash'd it with tears ? Hence from her ; let her 
Friar. Hear me a little ; 
For I have only silent been so long, 
And given way unto this course of fortune. 
By noting of the lady ; I have mark'd 
A thousand blushing apparitions start 
Into her face ; a thousand innocent shames 
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes ; 
And in her eye there hatli appear'd a fire. 
To burn the errors that these princes hold 
Against her maiden truth : — Call me a fool: 
Tnist not my reading, nor my observations. 
Which with experimental seal doth warrant 
The tenour of my book ; trust not my age, 
My reverence, calling, nor divinity, 
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
Under some biting' error. 

Leon. Friar, it cannot be : 

Thou seest, that all the grace that she hath left 
Is, that she will not add to her damnation 
A sin of pei-jui-y ; she not denies it : 
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse 
That which appears in proper nakedness ? 
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are aceus'tl 

Hero. They know that do accuse me ; I know 
If I know more of any man alive 
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, 
Let all my sins lack mercy ! — my father, 
Prove you that any man with me convers'd 
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
Maintain'd the change of words with any 

Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. 

Friar. There is some strange misprision in 

the princes. 
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of 
honour ; 
And if their wisdoms be misled iu this. 
The practice of it lives in John the bastard, 
Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. 

n Hf r. Collier's Corrector suggests blightinj 


Act IV.] 


[SCEM£ 1 

Leon. I kuow not : If they speak but truth 

of her, 
These liands shall tear her ; if they wrong her 

The proudest of them shall well hear of it. 
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, 
Nor age so eat up ray invention, 
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, 
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends. 
But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind. 
Both strength of limb, and policy of mind, 
Abdity in means, and choice of friends, 
To quit me of them throughly. 

Friar. Pause a while, 

And let my counsel sway you in this case. 
Your daughter here the princes left for dead ; 
Let her a while be secretly kept in, 
And publish it that she is dead indeed : 
Maintain a mournmg ostentation ; 
And on your family's old monument 
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites 
That appertain unto a burial. 
Leon. Wh?ki shall become of this ? "V\1iat will 

this do ? 
Friar. Marry, this, well earned, shall on her 

Change slander to remorse ; that is some good : 
But not for that dream I on this strange course, 
But on this travail look for greater birth. 
She dying, as it must be so matntain'd. 
Upon the instant that she was accus'd. 
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd, 
Of every hearer : Tor it so falls out, 
That what we have we prize not to the worth 
Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost. 
Why then we rack" the value, then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show us 
Whiles it was ours : So wOl it fare \ni\\ Claudio : 
When he shall hear she died upon his words. 
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
Into his study of imagination ; 
And every lovely organ of her life 
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit. 
More moving-delicate, and full of life. 
Into the eye and prospect of his soul. 
Than when she liv'd indeed -. — then shall he 

(If ever love had interest in his liver,) 
And wish he had not so accused her ; 
No, though he thought his accusation true. 
Let this be so, and doubt not but success 
Will fashion the event in better shape 
Than I can lay it down in likelihood. 
But if all aim but this be levell'd false, 

» Rack — strain— stretfli— exaggerate. Hence »-rtc7c-ient. 


The supposition of the lady's death 

Will quench the wonder of her infamy : 

aVnd, if it sort not well, you may conceal her 

(As best befits her wounded reputation,) 

In some reclusive and rebgious life, 

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. 

Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you : 
And though, you know, my inwardness and love 
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio, 
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this 
As secretly and justly as your soul 
Should with your body. 

Leon. Being that I flow in griet, 

The smallest twine may lead me. 

Friar. 'T is well consented ; presently away ; 
Tor to strange sores strangely they strain 
the cure. — 
Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day. 

Perhaps, is but prolong' d ; have patience, 
and endure. 

\_E.veu7ii Friar, Hero, and Leonato. 
Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this 
whUe ? 

Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. 

Bene. I will not desire that. 

Beat. You have no reason, I do it freely. 

Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is 

Beat. All, how much might the man deserve 
of me that would right her ! 

Bene. Is there any way to show such friend- 

Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. 

Bene. May a man do it ? 

Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. 

Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well 
as you : Is not that strange ? 

Beat. As strange as the thing I know not : 
It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing 
so well as you : but believe me not ; and yet ] 
lie not ; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing : 
^I am sorry for my cousin. 

Bene. By my, sword, Beatrice, thou lovestme. 

Beat. Do not swear by it, and eat it. 

Bene. I will swear by it that you love me; 
and I will make him eat it that says I love not 

Beat. Will you not eat your word ? 

Bene. With no sauce that can be devised tt; 
it : I protest 1 love thee. 

Beat. Wliy then, God forgive me ! 

Bme. What offence, sweet Beatrice ? 

Beat. You have staid me in a happy hour ; I 
was about to protest I loved you. 

Bene. And do it with all my heart. 

Act IV. ] 


Beat. I love you with so much of ir.y heart, 
/bat none is left to protest. 
Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee 
Beat. Kill Claudio. 
Bene. Ha ! not for the wide world. 
Beat. You kill me to deny : Farewell. 
Be?ie. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. 
Beat. I am gone, though I am here :— There 
is no love in you :— Nay, I pray you, let me go. 
Bene. Beatrice, — 
Beat. In faith, I will go. 
Bene. We 'II be friends first. 
Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than 
fight with mine enemy. 
Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? 
Beat. Is he not approved in the heiglit a vil- 
lain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured 
my kinswoman ?—0, that I were a man!— 
What! bear her in hand until they come to 
take hands; and then with public accusation, 
uncovered slander, unm.itigated rancour,— O 
God, that I were a man ! I would eat his heart 
in the market-place. 
Bene. Hear me, Beatrice; — 
Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ?— a 
proper saying. 
Bene. Nay but, Beatrice ; — 
Beat. Sweet Hero ! — she is wronged, she is 
slandered, she is undone. 

Bene. Beat 

Beat. Princes, and counties! Surely, a 
princely testimony, a goodly count-confect ; a 
sweet gallant, surely ! O that I were a man for 
his sake ! or that I had any friend would be a 
man for my sake ! But manhood is melted into 
courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are 
only turned into tongue, and trim ones too : he 
is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a 
lie, and swears it : — I cannot be a man with 
wishing, therefore I v/ill die a woman with griev- 

Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice : By this hand, I 
love thee. 

Beat. Use it for my love some other way than 
swearing by it. 

Bene. Think you in your soul the count 
Claudio hath wronged Hero ? 

Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought, or a 

Bene. Enough, I an\ engaged, I will challenge 
liim ; I wUl kiss your hand, and so leave you : 
By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear 
account : As you hear of me, so think of me. 
Go, comfort your cousin : I must say she is 
dead ; and so, farewell. [E.Teiint. 


SCENE 11.-.^ I'rison. 

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in r/oions ; 
and the Watch, with Conrade, and Boraciiio.' 

Dof/l). Is our whole dissembly appeared ? 

Verff. 0, a stool and a cushion for the sexton! 

Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 

Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner. 

Verff. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the ex- 
hibition to examine. 

Se.vton. But which are the offenders that are 
to be examined? let them come before master 

Bog/j. Yea, marry, let them come before me. 
— What is your name, friend ? 
Bora. Borachio. 

_ Doffb. Pray write down, Borachio. Yours, 

sirrah ? 

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is 

Doffb. Write down, master gentleman Con- 
rade. — Masters, do you serve God ? 
[Co«, Bora. Yea, sir, we hope. 

Bof/b. Write down that they hope they serve 
God:~and write God first; for God defend but 
God sh.ould go before such villains !"— ] Masters, 
it is proved already that you are little better than 
false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought 
so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? 
Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 

Bo/jb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure 
you; but I will go about with him.— Come you 
hither, sirrah ; a word in your ear, sir ; I say to 
you, it is thought you are false knaves. 

Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 

Dogb. Well, stand aside.— Fore God, they 
are both in a tale: Have you writ down, that 
they are none ? 

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way 
to examine ; you must call forth the watch that 
are their accusers. 

Dogb. Yea, marry, that 's the eftesf* way : — 
Let the watch come forth: — Master-s, I charge 
you, in the prince's name, accuse these men. 

1 Watch. This man said, sir, that don John, 
the prince's brother, was a villain. 

Dogb. Write down, prince John a villain : — 
Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother 

Bora. Master constable, — 

Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like 
thy look, I promise thee. 

.1 The passage in brackets is omitted in tlie folio, but id 
given from the quarto, 
b Kfiest—<ia\c\iest. 



[ScEirs II 

Sexton. What heard you him say else ? 

2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a 
thousand ducats of dou Jolm, for accusing the 
Kidy Hero wrongfully. 

hoffb. Flat burglary, as ever was committed. 

Verff. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 

Sexton. T\' hat else, fellow ? 

1 Watch. And that count Claudio did mean, 
upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the 
whole assembly, and not marry her. 

Docjh. O vUlaiu ! thou wilt be condemned 
into everlasting redemption for this. 
Sexton. What else ? 

2 Watch. This is all. 

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you 
can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly 
stolen away ; Hero was in this manner accused, 
in this very mamier refused, and upon the grief 
of this suddenly died. — Master constable, let 
these men be bound, and brought to Leonato ; I 
will go before, and show liim their examination. 


Dogtj. Come, let them be opinioned. 

Verrj. Let them be in the hands — 

Con. Off, coxcomb ! * 

Dogb. God's my life! where 's the sexton? 
let him wiite down the prince's officer, coxcomb. 
Come, bind them : Thou naughty varlet ' 

Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. 

Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost 
thou not suspect my years ? — that he were here 
to write me down, an ass ! but, masters, remem- 
ber, that I am an ass ; though it be not written 
down, yet forget not that I am an ass : — No, 
thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be 
proved upon thee by good witness. I am a 
wise fellow ; and, which is more, an officer ; 
and, which is more, a householder ; and, which 
is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any jn 
Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; 
and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow 
that hath had losses; and one that hath two 
gowns and everything handsome about him :— 
Bring him away. 0, that I had been writ down, 
an ass ! iE.veiint. 

a The folio makes Verges say, " Let them be in the 
hands of Coxcomb." Stet?vens reads, adopting Theobald's 
division of the si)cech, " Let them be in hand," 


Sc. I. p. 110.— "And a fellow that hath had losses." 
" And a fellow that hath had leases." — Collier. 
On this substitution by tlie MS. Corrector, Mr. Collier 
remarks, "it has naturally puzzled some persons to see 
how his [Do^'berry's] losses could tend to establish that he 
was rich. Here, in truth, \vc have another misprint; leases 
vvas often spelt of old leasses, and this is the origin of that 
blunder." Tlie " misprint !" the "blunder!" What an 

impostor thou hast been, Dogberry, for two centuries and a 
half; for while all the world, except "some persons," was 
admiring the profound trutli of your boast of having bad 
losses, and hailed you as a great representative of human 
nature, you were only making an inventory of your wealth, 
which began with your " leases," and ended with youi 
" two gowns." 


[Exterior of the Cathedral of Messina. J 


SCENE I.— Be/ore Leonato's Eojise. 
Enter Leonato and Antonio. 

Ant. If you go oa thus, you will kill yourself; 
/\jid 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief 
Against yourself. 

"Leon. 1 pray thee, cease thy counsel, 

VVnich falls into mine ears as profitless 
As water in a sieve : give not me counsel ; 
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear, 
But such a one whose wrongs do suit Avith mine. 
Bring me a father, that so lov'd his child, 
Whose joj of her is over whelm' d like mine, 
And bid him speak of patience ; 
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, 
And let it answer every strain for strain ; 
As thus for thus, and such a grief for such. 
In evei-y lineament, branch, shape, and form : 
If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard ; 

And, 'sorrow wag' cry; hem, when he should 

groan ;* 
I'atch grief with proverbs; make misfortune 

With candle-wasters ;•> bring him yet to me. 
And I of him will gather patience. 

a This is a perplexing passage. In both the originals the 
line stands thus : — 

" And sorrow, wagge, cry hem, when he should grone." 
The editors have proposed all sorts of emendations, as — 
And hallow, wag — And sorrow wage — And sorrow waive — 
And sorrow ga<;— And sorrowing cry — And sorry wag — And 
sorrow waggery — [n sorrow wag. The emendation of Dr. 
Johnson is the ordinary reading: — 

"Cry, sorrow, wag! and hem, when he should groan." 
We prefer the slight change in the punctuation which givej 
the same meaning. 

b Candle-wasters. Ben Jonson calls a bookworm a canrf/<- 
waster ; aud we think with W'halley that this is the meaning 
here. To make misfortune drunk witli candle-wasters is to 
attempt to stupify it with learned discourses on patience, 
that the preachers did not practise . — 

" For there was never yet philosopher 
That could endure the tocth-ach patiently. 
However they have writ the style of gods." 


Act v.] 


[Scene i. 

But there is no sucli inau : Eor, brother, men 
Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
Which they themselves not feel ; but tasting it 
Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread. 
Charm ach with air, and agony with words : 
No, no ; 't is all men's office to speak patience 
To those that wring under the load of sorrow ; 
But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency. 
To be so moral, when he shall endure 
The like himself: therefore give me no counsel : 
My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 
Anf. Therein do men from children nothing 

Leo?i. I pray thee, peace ; I will be flesh and 

Eor there was never yet philosopher 
That could endure the tooth-ach patiently ; 
However they have writ the style of gods. 
And made a push* at chance and sufferance. 
A/ii. Yet bend not all the harm upon youi'- 

Make those that do offend you suffer too. 
Leo/i. There thou speak'st reason ; nay, I will 

do so : 
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ; 
And that shall Claudio know, so shall the prince. 
And all of them, that thus dishonour her. 

Enter Don Pedro and Glatjdio. 

Ant. Here comes the prince, and Claudio, 

D. Pedro. Good den, good den. 
Claud. Good day to both of you. 

Leon. Hear you, my lords, — 
D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. 
Leon. Some haste, ray lord! — well, fare you 
well, my lord : — 
i\je you so hasty now ?— well, all is one. 

D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good 

old man. 
Ant. If he could right himself with quarrel- 
Some of us would lie low. 

Claud. Who wrongs him ? 

Leon. Marry, thou dost vn-oug me ; thou dis- 
sembler, thou : — 
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword, 
I fear thee not. 

Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand, 

ff it should give your age such cause of fear : 
[n faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. 

a Push — a tlirust — a defiance. Pope changes the word to 
pish. Possibly push may be a misprint for pish; or tlie 
words might liave been synonymous. 


Leon. Tush, tush, man, never fleer and jest 
at me : 
I speak not like a dotard, nor a fool ; 
As, under privilege of age, to brag 
What I have done being young, or what would 

Were I not old : Know, Claudio, to thy head, 
Thou hast so wrong'd my innocent child and me. 
That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by ; 
And, with grey hairs, and bruise of many days. 
Do challenge thee to trial of a man. 
I say, thou hast belied mine innocent chUd ; 
Thy slander hath gone through and through her 

And she lies buried with her ancestors : 
! in a tomb where never scandal slept, 
Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villainy. 

Claud. My villainy ! 

Leon. Thine, Claudio ; thine I say. 

B. Pedro. You say not right, old man. 

Leon. My lord, my lord, 

I'll prove it on his body, if he dare ; 
Despite his nice fence and his active practice, 
His May of youth, and bloom of lustihood. 

Claud. Away, I will not have to do with you. 

Leon. Canst thou so daff me ?* Thou hast kill'd 
my child ; 
If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. 

Ant. He shall kill two of ixs, and men indeed ; 
But that's no matter ; let him kill one first; — 
Win me and wear me, — let him answer me, — 
Come follow me, boy ; come sir boy, come fol- 
low me -y 
Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining' fence ; 
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. 

Leon. Brother, — 

Ant. Content yourself: God knows, I lov'd 
my niece ; 
And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains ; 
That dare as well answer a man indeed. 
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue : 
Boys, apes, braggarts. Jacks, milksops ! — 

Leon. Brother Antony, — 

Ant. Hold your content : What, man ! I know 
them, yea, 
And what tliey weigh, even to the \itmost scruple : 
Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging "* boys, 
That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, 

^ Duff me— 'put me aside. 

^ Steevens destroys this most characteristic line — and 
his reading is that of all popular editions— by his cU 
fashion of metre-mongering. He reads, 

" Come follow me, boy; come boy, follow me." 

c Fojwzjfj— thrusting, 

<1 Tashinn-monging. So the original copies; but always 
altered to fashion-iiiongring. The participle of the Anglo- 
Saxon verb, meaning to trade, would give us mon-jing ; as 
the verb gives us the noun, signifying a trader, a monger. 

Act v.] 


[Scene J. 

Go anticly, and show outward hideousness, 
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, 
How they might hui-t theii- enemies, if they durst, 
And this is all. . 

Leon. But, brother Antony, — 

■^nt. Come, 't is no matter ; 

Do not you meddle, let me deal in this. 

J). Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake 
your patience. 
My heart is sorry for youi- daughter's death ; 
But, on my honoui-, she was charg'd with no- 
But what was true, and very fuJl of proof. 

Leon. My lord, my lord, — 

D. Pedro. I ^rill not hear you. 

Leon. No ? 

Come, brother, away : — I will be heard ; — 

^nt. And shall. 

Or some of us will smart for it. 

[Exeunt Leonato and Antonio. 

Enter Benedick. 

D. Pedro. See, see ; here comes the man we 
went to seek. 

Claicd. Now, signior ! what news ? 

Bene. Good day, my lord. 

D. Pedro. Welcome, signior : You are almost 
come to part almost a fray. 

Claud. We had like to have had our two 
noses snapped off with two old men without 

D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother : What 
thiuk'st thou ? Had we fought, I doubt we 
should have been too young for them. 

Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true 
valour : I came to seek you both. 

Claud. We have been up and down to seek 
thee; for we are high proof melancholy, and 
would fain have it beaten away : Wilt thou use 
thy wit ? 

Bene. It is in my scabbard : Shall I draw it ? 

D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy 

Claud. Never any did so, though very many 
have been beside their wit. — I will bid thee 
draw, as we do the minstrels ; di-aw, to pleasure 

D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks 
pale : — Art thou sick, or angry ? 

Claud. What ! coui-age, man ! What though 
care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in 
thee to kill care. 

Be7ie. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, 
an you charge it against me : — I pray you, 
choose another subject. 

Comedies.— Vol. IF. I 

Claud. Nay then, give him another staff; 
this last was l)roke cross. 

B. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and 
more : I tliink he be angry indeed. 

Claud. If lie bo, ho knows how to turn his 

Bene. Sliall I speak a word in your car ? 

Claud. God bless me from a challenge ! 

Bene. You are a villain ; — I jest not— I will 
make it good how you dare, with what you dare, 
and M'hen you dare :— Do mo rigid, or 1 will 
protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet 
lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you: 
Let me hear from- you. 

Claud. Well, I ^vill meet you, so I may have 
good cheer. 

B. Pedro. "V^'hat, a feast ? a feast ? 

Claud. V faith, I tliank liim ; he hath bid me 
to a calf's head and a capon, the which if I do 
not carve most curiously, say my knife's naught. 
— Shall I not find a woodcock too ? 

Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well ; A, goes 

B. Pedro. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice praised 
thy wit the other day : I said, thou hadst a fine 
wit ; ' True,' says she, ' a fine little one :' ' No,' 
said I, ' a great wit ;' 'Righi,' says she, ' a great 
gross one :' ' Nay,' said I, ' a good wit ;' ' Just,' 
said she, ' it hurts nobody :' ' Nay,' said I, ' the 
gentleman is wise ;' ' Certain,' said she, ' a wise 
gentleman :' ' Nay,' said I, ' he hath the 
tongues;' 'That I believe,' said she, 'for he 
swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he 
forswore on Tuesday morning ; there 's a double 
tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus did she, 
an hour together, trans-shape thy particular vir- 
tues ; yet, at last, she concluded with a sigli, 
thou wast tlie propercst man in Italy. 

Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and 
said, she eared not. 

B. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet, for all 
that, an if she did not liate him deadly, she 
would love him dearly : the old man's daughter 
told us all. 

Claud. All, all ; and moreover, ' God saw him 
when he was hid in the garden.' 

B. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage 
bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head ? 

Claud. Yea, and text underneath, 'Here 
dwells Benedick the married man ?' 

Bene. Tare you well, boy ! you know my 
mind ; I will leave you now to your gossip-like 
humour : you break jests as braggarts do their 
blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. — My 
lord, for your many courtesies I thank you : I 


ACT v.] 


[SCENB t. 

must discontinue your company: your brother, 
the bastard, is fled from Messina : you have, 
among you, killed a SAveet and innocent lady : 
For my lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall 
meet ; and till then peace be with him. 

[Exit Benedick. 
D. Pedro. He is in earnest. 
Claud. In most profound earnest; and I'll 
warrant you for the love of Beatrice. 
D. Fedro. And hath challenged thee ? 
Claud. Most sincerely. 

Z>. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is, when 
he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off 
his wit ! 

Claud. He is then a giant to an ape : but then 
is an ape a doctor to such a man. 

D. Pedro. Bat, soft you, let me be; pluck up, 
my heart, and be sad ! ''' Did he not say my 
brother was fled ? 

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with 
CoNRADE and Borachio. 

Bogh. Come, you, sir ; if justice cannot tame 
you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her 
balance: nay, an you be a cursing hyprocrite 
once, you must be looked to. 

D. Pedro. How now, two of my brother's 
men boimd ! Borachio one ! 

Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord ! 

D. Pedro. OfBcers, what offence have these 
men done ? 

Logb. Marry, sii-, they have committed false 
report ; moreover, they have spoken untruths ; 
secondarily, they are slanders ; sixth and lastly, 
they have belied a lady ; tliirdly, they have veri- 
fied unjust thmgs ; and, to conclude, they are 
lying knaves. 

D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have 
done; thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence; 
sixth and lastly, why they are committed ; and, 
to conclude, what you lay to their charge ? 
_ Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own divi- 
sion; and, by my troth, there's one meaning 
well suited. 

2). Pedro. Whom have you offended, masters, 
that you are thus bound to your answer ? this 
learned constable is too cuiming to be under- 
stood : Wuat 's your offence ? 

Bora. Sweet prmce, let me go no further to 
mine answer; do you hear me, and let this 
count kill me. I have deceived even yoiu- very 
eyes : what your wisdoms could not discover 
these shallow fools have brouglit to lii^lit; who, 
in the night, overheard me confessing to this 
man, how Don John your brother insensed me 

» Sad— senows, ; cease jesting. 

to slander the lady Hero ; how you were brought 
into the orchard, and saw me court Margaret in 
Hero's garments ; how you disgraced her, when 
you should marry her : my villainy they have 
upon record; which I had rather seal with my 
death, than repeat over to my shame : tne lady 
is dead upon mine and my master's false accu- 
sation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the 
reward of a villain. 
D. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron 

through your blood ? 
Clatid. I have drunk poison whiles be uttered 

Z>. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to 

Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the prac- 
tice of it. 
D. Pedro. He is compos 'd and fram'd of 
treachery : — 
And fled he is upon this villainy. 

Claud. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth 
In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first. 

Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; by 
this time our sexton hath reformed signior Leo- 
nato of the matter : And, masters, do not forget 
to specify, when time and place shall serve, that 
1 am an ass. 

Fcrg. Here, here comes master signior Leo- 
nato, and the sexton too. 

Re-enter Leonato and Antonio, with the 


Leon. Which is the villain ? Let me see his 
That when I note another man like him 
I may avoid him : Which of these is he ? 
Bora. If you would know youi- wronger, look 

on me. 
Leon. Art thou— thou "—the slave that with 
thy breath hast kill'd 
Mine innocent child ? 
Bora. Yea, even I alone. 

Leon. No, not so, villain ; thou beliest thy- 
self ; 
Here stand a pair of honourable men, 
A third is fled, that had a hand in it : 
I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death; 
Record it with your high and worthy deeds ; 
'T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it. 

Claud. I know not how to pray your patience. 
Yet I must speak : Choose your revenge your- 
self ; 

«■ The exquisite repetition of thou is found in the folio. 
AH the modern editions read " Art thou the slave? " 

Act v.] 


[Scene II. 

Impose me to what pcnaucc your iiivcntiou 
Can lay upon my sin : yet sinn'd I not, 
But in mistaking. 

D. Pedro. By my soul, nor I ; 

And yet, to satisfy this good old mau, 
I woidd bend under any heavy weight 
That he 'U enjoin me to. 

Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter 
That were impossible ; but I pray you both. 
Possess the people in Messina here 
How innocent she died : and, if your love 
Can labour aught in sad invention. 
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb. 
And sing it to her bones ; sing it to-night : — 
To-morrow morning come you to my house ; 
And since you could not be my son-in-law. 
Be yet my nephew : my brother hath a daugh- 
Almost the copy of my child that 's dead. 
And she alone is heir to both of us ; 
Give her the right you should have given her 

And so dies my revenge. 

Claud. 0, noble sir, 

Your over kindness doth wring tears from 

I do embrace your offer ; and dispose 
For henceforth of poor Claudio. 

Leon. To-morrow then I wiU expect your 
coming ; 
To-night I take my leave. — This naughty 

Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, 
Who, I believe, was pack'd xn. aU this wrong, 
Hir'd to it by your brother. 

Bora. No, by my soul, she was not ; 

Nor knew not what she did, when she spoke to 

me ; 
But always hath been just and vii'tuous. 
In anything that I do know by her. 

Dogb. Moreover, sir, (which, indeed, is not 
under white and black,) this plaintiff here, the 
offender, did caU me ass : I beseech you, let it 
be remembered in his punishment : And also, 
the watch heard them talk of one Deformed : 
they say, he wears a key m his ear, and a lock 
hanguig by it; and borrows money in God's 
name ; the which he hath used so long, and never 
paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and wUl 
lend nothing for God's sake : Pray you, exa- 
mine him upon that point. 

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and lionest 

Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most thank- 

ful and reverend youth; and I praise God for 

Leon. There 's for thy pains. 

Dogb. God save the foundation ! 

Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, 
and I thank thee. 

Dogb. I leave an arrant knave with youi- wor- 
ship ; which, I beseech your worship, to correct 
yourself, for the example of others. God keep 
yoiu- worship ; I wish your v.-orship well ; God 
restore you to health : I humbly give you leave 
to depart; and if a merry meeting may be 
wished, God prohibit it. — Come, neighbour. 

\_ExeuHt DoGBEUKY, Vergics, and Watch. 

Leo?i. UntH to-morrow morning, lords, fare- 

AiiL Farewell, my lords ; we look for you to- 

D. Pedro. We wUl not fail. 

Clatid. To night I'll mourn with Hero. 

[Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio. 

Leon. Bring you these fellows on ; we '11 talk 
with Margaret, 

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd 
fellow. \E.veunL 

SCENE II.— Leonato'5 Garden. 
Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. 

Bene. Pray thee, sweet mistress Margaret, 
deserve well at my hands, by helping me to the 
speech of Beatrice. 

Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet m 
praise of my beauty ? 

Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no 
man living sliaU come over it ; for, in most 
comely truth, thou deservest it. 

Marg. To have no man come over me ? why, 
shall I always keep below stairs ? 

Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's 
mouth, it catches. 

Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's 
foils, which hit, but hurt not. 

Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret, it will not 
hurt a woman ; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice : 
I give thee the bucklers. 

Marg. Give us the swords, we have bucklers 
of our own. 

Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must 
put in the pikes with a vice ; and they are dan- 
gerous weapons for maids. 

Mnrg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, 
I think, hath legs. \_Exit Margaret. 

Bene. And therefore will come. 

I 2 


^OT v.] 


[Scene III. 

The god of love, 2 
That sits above, 
And knows me, and knows me, 
How pitiful I deserve,— 


I mean, in singing; but in loving.— Leander 
the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of 
panders, and a whole book fuU of these quondam 
carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly 
in the even road of a blank verse, why, they 
were never so truly turned over and over as iny 
poor self, in love : Marry, I cannot show it in 
rhyme; I have tried; I can find out no rhyme 
to -'lady' but 'baby,' an innocent rhyme; for 
'scorn,' 'horn,' a hard rhyme: for 'school,' 
'fool,' a babbling rhyme; very ominous end- 
ings : No, I was not born under a rhyming 
planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. 

Enter Beatkice. 

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called 

thee ? 
Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid 

Bene. O, stay but till then ! 
Beat. Then, is spoken ; fare you well now : — 
and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, 
which is. with knowing what hath passed between 
you and Claudio. 

Bene. Only foul words ; and thereupon I will 
kiss thee. 

Beat. Toid words is but foul wind, and foul 
wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noi- 
some ; therefore I will depart uukissed. 

Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his 
right sense, so forcible is thy wit : But, I must 
tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes'' my chal- 
lenge ; and either I must shortly hear from him, 
or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray 
thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts 
didst thou fii-st fall in love with me ? 

Beat. For them all together; which main- 
tained so politic a state of evil, that they wUl not 
admit any good part to intermingle ^vith them. 
But for which of my good parts did you first 
suffer love for me ? 

Bene. ' Suffer love ;' a good epithet ! I do 
s\rffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my 

Beat. In spite of your heart, I thiuk ; alas ! 
poor heart ! If you spite it for my sake, I will 
spite it for yours ; for I will never love that 
which my friend hates. 

Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peace- 

a Undergoes — passes under. 

Beat. It appears not in this confession; there's 
not one wise man among twenty that will praise 

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that 
lived in the time of good neighbours -.* if a man 
do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, 
he shall' live no longer in monument than the 
bells ring, and the widow weeps. 

Beat. And how long is that, think you ? 

Bene. Question? — Why, an hour in clamour, 
and a quarter in rheum : Therefore it is most 
expedient for the wise, (if don Worm, his con- 
science, find no impediment to the contrary,) to 
be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to 
myself: So much for praising myself, (who, 1 
myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy,) and 
now tell me, How doth your cousin ? 

Beat. Very ill. 

Bene. And how do you ? 

Beat. Very ill too. 

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend : there 
will I leave you too, for here comes one in 

Enter Uksula. 

Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle ; 
yonder's old coil '' at home : it is proved, my lady 
Hero hath beeu falsely accused ; the prince and 
Claudio mightily abused; and don John is the 
author of all, who is fled and gone : will you 
come presently ? 

Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior ? 

Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, 
and be buried in thy eyes ; and, moreover, I will 
go with thee to thy uncle's. \_E.Teunf. 

SCENE 111.— The Inside of a Church. 

Enter Bon Pedko, Claudio, and Attendants, 
with 'music and tapers. 

Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato ? 
Attsn. It is, my lord. 
Claud. {Reads from a scroll.'] 

' Done to death by slanderous tongues 
Was the Hero that here lies : 
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, 

Gives her <^ame which never dies : 
So the lite that died with shame 
Lives in death with glorious fame. 

Hang thou there upon the tomb, 
Praising her when I am dumb.' 

Now, music sound, and sing your solemn hymn. 

a Good neJo7i6o!/r.5— fairies. r>o,( rr 

b Old coii-great bustle. We have m Henry IV., Part II., 
Act II., " old utis." 


Arx V.J 




' Pardon, Goddess of the night, 
Those that slew thy virgin knight ; 
For the which, with son<js of woe, 
Round about her tomb they go. 
Midnight, assist our moanj 
Help us to sigh and groan, 

Heavily, heavily : 
Graves, yav/ii, and yield your dead, 
Till death be uttered, 
Heavenly, heavenly. 'a 

Claud. Now uuto thy bones good night ! 

Yearly will I do this rite. 
D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters ; put your 
torches out : 
The wolves have prey'd: and look, the 
gentle day. 
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about 

Dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray .- 
Thanks to you all, and leave us ; fare you \vell. 
Claud. Good morrow, masters; each his se- 
veral way. 
D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on 
other weeds ; 
And then to Leonato's we will go. 

Claud. And, Hymen, now with luckier issue 
Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe ! 


SCENE IV. — A Room in Leonato'5 House. 

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, 
Ursula, Friar, and Hero. 

Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? 
Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who 
accus'd her. 
Upon the error that you heard debated : 
But Margaret was in some fault for this ; 
Although against her will, as it appears 
In the true course of all the question. 
Ant. Well, 1 am glad that all things sort so 

Bene. And so am I, being else by faith en- 
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. 
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen 
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves ; 
And, when I send for you, come hither mask'tl . 
The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour 

* Heavenly, heavenly. In the guarto the reading is 
keai'ily, heavily. The editors appear to have mistaken the 
meaning of uttered, interpreting the passage to mean till 
snngs of death he uttered heavily. To utter is here to put 
out — to expel. Death is expelled heavenly — by the power 
of heaven. The passage has evidently rsfertnce to the 
sub ime verse of Corinthians. 

To visit me :— You know your office, brother ; 
You must be father to your brother's daughter, 
And give her to young Claudio. 

[Exeunt Ladies. 
Ant. Which I will do with confirm'd counte- 
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I 

Friar. To do what, signior ? 
Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one of them. 
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior. 
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. 
Leon. That eye my daughter lent her : 'T is 

most true. 
Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite 

Leoti. The sight whereof, I tliink, you had 
from me. 
From Claudio, and the prince. But what 's your 
Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical : 
But, for my will, my will is, your good will 
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd 
In the estate of honourable marriage ; 
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. 
Leon. My heart is with your liking. 
Friar. And my help. 

[Here comes the prince, and Claudio.''] 

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio with Attendants. 

D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. 
Leon. Good morrow, prince; good morrow, 
Claudio ; 
We here attend you. Are you yet detennin'd 
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter ? 
Claud. I'll hold my mind, were she an 

Leon. Call her forth, brother, here 's the friar 
ready. [Exit Antonio, 

D. Pedro. Good morrow. Benedick : Why, 
what 's the matter. 
That you have such a February face. 
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness ? 
Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage 
bull: — 
Tush, fear not, man, we 'U tip thy horns with 

And aU Europa shall rejoice at thee ; 
As once Europa did at lusty Jove, 
When he would play the noble beast in love. 
Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low ; 
And some such strange bull leap'd your father'i 

& The passage in brackets is omitted in the folio. 


VcT v.] 


[Scene IV. 

And got a calf in that same uoble feat, 
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. 

Re-enter Aktonio, wU/i the Ladies masked. 

Claud. For this I owe you : here come other 
AYhich is the lady I must seize upon ? 
Adt. This same is she, and I do give you 

Claud. Why, then she 's mine : Sweet, let me 

see your face. 
Leon. No, tliat you shall not, till you take her 
Before this friar, and swear to marry her. 

Claud. Give me your hand before this holy 
friar ; 
I am your husband, if you like of me. 

Hero. And when I liv'd, I \yas yom- other 
wife : [ Umnaslcing. 

And when you lov'd, you were my other hus- 
Claud. Another Hero ? 
Hero. Nothing certainer ; 

One Hero died [defil'd ■^'\ but I do Uve, 
And, sui-ely as I live, I am a maid. 
D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is 

dead ! 
Leon. Slie died, my lord, but whiles her slan- 
der liv'd. 
Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ; 
When, after that the holy rites are ended, 
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death : 
Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, 
And to the chapel let us presently. 
Bene. Soft and fair, friar. — Wliich is Beatrice ? 
Beat. I answer to that name; [Unmasking ?\ 

what is your will ? 
Bene. Do not you love me ? 
Beat. Why no,'' no more than reason. 

Bene. Why then your uncle, and the prince, 
and Clandio, 
Have been deceived ; for they swore you did. 
Beat. Do not you love me ? 
Bene. Troth no, no more than reason. 

■> The word drfil'd is also wanting in the folio. 
_ b Why 110.- Steovcns rejects the why, upon the old piin- 
ciple of us being "injurious to metre." When Benedick, 
m the same way, replies to the question of Beatrice, 

" Do not you love me t " 

the poet throws a spirit and variety into the answer, 
by making it 

" Troth no, no more than reason." 

Steevens cuts out the "troth;" the metre, says he, is over- 
loaded. It would matter little what Steevens did with his 
own edition, but he lias furnished tlie text of many a 
popular edition of Shakspere ; and for this reason we feel it 
a duty perpetually to protest against his corruptions of the 
real text. 


Beat. Why then my cousin, Margaret, aud 
Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you 

Bene. They swore that you were almost sick 
for me. 

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh 
dead for me. 

Bene. 'T is no such matter : — Then you do not 
love me ? 

Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. 

Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the 

Claud. And I'll be sworn upou't, that he 
loves her; 
For here 's a paper, written in his hand, 
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, 
Fashion'd to Beatrice. 

Hero. And here 's another, 

Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her 

Containing her affection unto Benedick. 

Bene. A miracle ; here 's our own hands 
against our hearts ! — Come, I will have thee ; 
but, by this light, I take thee for pity. 

Beat. I would not deny you ; — but, by this 
good day, I yield upon great persuasion ; and, 
partly, to save your life, for I was told you were 
in a consumption. 

Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth. 

[Kissing her. 

D. Pedro. How dost thou. Benedick the mar- 
ried man ? 

Bene. I '11 tell thee ^hat, prince ; a college of 
wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour : 
Dost thou think I care for a satire, or an epi- 
gram ? No : if a man wiU be beaten with brains, 
he shall wear notliiug handsome about him : In 
brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think 
nothing to any purpose that the world can say 
against it ; and therefore never flout at me for 
what" I have said against it ; for man is a giddy 
thing, aud this is my conclusion. — For thy part, 
Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee ; but in 
that^ thou art like to be my kinsman, live un- 
bruised, and love my cousin, 

Claud. I had well hoped thou wouldst have 
denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled 
thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double 
dealer ; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if 
my cousm do not look exceeding narrowly to 

Bene. Come, come, we are friends : — let 's 

a What is omitted in the folio. 
ij In that — because. 

ACT v.] 


[SCiiKE IV. 

have a dance ere we are married, that we may 
lighten our own hearts, and our wives' heels. 

Leon. We 'II have dancing afterwards. 

Bene. First, o' my word ; therefore, play 
music. — 
Prince, thou art sad ; get thee a wife, get thee a 
wife : there is no staif more reverend than one 
tipped with hoin.^ 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'cn 'n\ 


And brought with armed men back to Messina. 

Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow ; I'll 

devise thee brave punishments for him. — Strike 

up, pipers. [Dance. 



Sc. III. p. 117.— "Those that slew thy virgin knight." 
" Xliose that slew thy virgin bright.— Collier. 

The MS. Corrector, vi-ho had manifestly little acquaint- 
ance with the peculiarities of poetical expression, strikes 
through knight, and substitutes the bald, prosaic epithet 

bright. Virgins 'were the knighls of Diana, as in 'The Two 
Noble Kinsmen' : — 

" O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant que«n. 
Who to thy female knights." 

[Scene TIT. Hero's Tomb.] 


' Scene I.—" // he he [augiy], he hioivs how to 

turn his girdle." 
Tnis was a common form of expression, deiived 
from the practice of wrestlers, and thus explained 
by Mr. Holt White :— " Large belts were worn 
with the buckle before; but for wrestling the 
buckle was turned behind, to give the adversary a 
fairer grasp at the girdle. To turn the buckle 
behind, therefore, was a challenge. Sir Ralph 
Winwood, in a letter to Cecil, says,—" I said, what 
I spake was not to make him angry. He replied, 
If I were angry, I might turn the buckle of my 
girdle behind me." 

2 Scene II.—" The god of Love : " 
"The beginning of an old song by W. E. 

(William Elderton), a puritanical parody of which, 
by one W. Birch, under the title of ' The Com- 
plaint of a Sinner,' is still extant." W^e have not 
been able to find the tune itself, or any other 
notice of it. 

^ Scene IV. — " There is no staff more reverend than 
one tipptd u-ilh horn" 

Steevens and Malone have long notes to prove 
that the staff here alluded to was the long baton 
appointed to be used in wager of battle. Surely 
the reverend staff is the old man's walking-stick. 
The "staff tipped with horn" was carried by one 
of Chaucer's friaps. 

r ^ 


[Messina, from the Sea.] 


We request thee, gentle reader, to imagine — for, as a lover of Shakspere thou canst imagine — 
that thou wert extant in the year of grace 1600 ; and that on a fine summer's morning of that year, 
as thou wert painfully guiding thy palfry amongst the deep ruts and muddy channels of Cheap- 
side, thou didst tarry in thy pilgrimage for a few minutes to peruse a small printed bill aflSxed upon 
a post, which bore something like the following announcement : — 

By the Right Honourable the Lord Chambeblaine his Servants, 

At the Globe Theatre at Bankside, 

This day, being Tuesday, July 11, 1600, ivill he acted, 


Written by William Shakspere. 

This, thou seest — for thou art cognisant of the present time as well as imaginative of the past — is not 
a bill as big as a house, the smallest letters of which are afflicted with elephantiasis ; nor is it a bill 
which talks of "prodigious hit" and "thunders of applause," nor in which you see Mr. William 
Kempe's name towering in red letters above all his feUows : but a modest, quiet, little bill — an inno- 
cent bill— which ought not to have provoked the abuse of the Puritans, that "players, by sticking 



of their bills in London, defile the streets with their infectious filthiness."* In reading this bill thou 
receivest especially into thy mind three ideas which set thee thinking- the company of actors who 
perform the play, the name of the play to be performed, the name of the writer. Thou knowest 
that it is the best company, and the best writer, of the day ; but the play— is the play a tragedy, 
or a history, or a comedy? Thou opinest that it is a comedy. If the title were Much Ado thou 
wouldst be puzzled; but Much Ado ahout Nothiiuj lets thee into a secret. Thou knowest, assur- 
edly, that the author of the j^lay will take the spectators into his confidence; that he will show 
them the preparation, and the bustle, and the turmoil, and it may be the distress, of some domestic 
event, or chain of events, — the Much Ado to the actors of the events, who have not the thread of 
the labyrinth ; but, to the spectators, who sit with the book of fate open before them,— who know 
how all this begins and expect how it will all end, — it is Much Ado about Nothing. It is a 
comedy, then ; in which surprise is for the actors, — expectation is for the audience. Thou wilt 
cross London-bridge and see this comedy ; for, " as the feeling with which we startle at a shooting 
star compared with that of watching the sunrise at the pre-established moment, such and so low is 
surprise compared with c.xpectation."t 

We have no wish to tutoyer the gentle reader any farther. We have desired only to show the 
significancy of the title of this play, by exhibiting it in slight connection with the circumstances 
under which it was published. For the title of this comedy, rightly considered, is the best expositor 
of the idea of this comedy. Dr. Ulrici, employing a dialect with which the English ear is not 
quite familiar, tells us that the fundamental idea lies in the antithesis which the play exhibits of 
the objective reality of human life to its subjective aspect. An able anonymous writer translates 
this for us into more intelligible language : — " He considers the play as a representation of the 
contrast and contradiction between life in its real essence and the aspect which it pi-esents to those 
who are engaged in its struggle. "J The "subjective aspect," then, is the Much Ado ; the "objec- 
tive reality" the ahout Nothing. The reviewer has given us clearly and concisely the results 
to which the inquiry, pursued upon this principle, has conducted the German critic. The 
contradiction between life and its aspects "is set forth in an acted commentary on the title of the 
drama; — a series of incidents which, in themselves neither real nor strange nor important, are 
regarded by the actors as being all these things. The war at the opening, it is said, begins without 
reason and ends without result ; Don Pedro seems to woo Hero for himself, while he gains her for 
his friend ; Benedick and Beatrice, after carrying on a merry campaign of woi'ds without real 
enmity, are entrapped into a marriage without real love : the leading story rests in a seeming 
faithlessness, and its results are a seeming death and funeral, a challenge which produces no 
fighting, and a marriage in which the bride is a pretender; and the weakness and shadowiness of 
human wishes and plans are exposed with yet more cutting irony in the means that bring about 
the fortunate catastrophe, — an incident in which the unwitting agents — headed by Dogberry, the 
very representative of the idea of the piece — are the lowest and most stupid characters of the whole 
group." The reviewer adds — " The poet's readers may hesitate in following his speculative critic 
the whole way in this journey to the temple of abstract truth." There are many of the poet's 
readers who will altogether reject this abstract mode of examining his works. To them the 
■' abstract truth " appears but as a devious and uncertain glimmering — a taper in the sunshine, 
Have we not in Shakspere, say they, high poetry, sparkling wit, the deepest pathos ; are not the cha- 
racters well defined, adroitly grouped ; his plots interesting, his incidents skilfully evolved ? True. 
And so, in nature, we have sky and water, and the forms and colours of leafy trees, and quiet dells, 
and fertile fields, and dewy lawns, and brilliant flowers ; and we can understand the loveliness of 
separate objects, and we partly see how they form what the eye calls a picture. But there comes 
an artist, and he sets us to look at the same objects from another point of view ; and he watches a 
moment when there is a sunny gleam upon this part of the landscape, and a softened shade upon 
the oth-ir part ; and he tells us to look again with the eye of his technical knowledge, — and the 
Hcene has become altogether 'picturesque; and when we have habituated ourselves to this mode 

* Mirror of Monsters, 1587. 
t Coleridge. Literary Remains, vol. ii., p. 78. I Edinburgh Review, July IStO. 



pf viewing the works of ricature, we have acquired almost a new sense. So it is with the works of the 
poet : he looks upon nature, and copies nature, not with a camera-lucida fidelity, but with the 
higher truth of his own art ; and till we have arrived at something like a comprehension of the 
principle of harmony in which he works, we are not qualified to judge of his work as a whole 
however we may be pleased with many of its details. AVith regard to Shakspere, a great deal of 
the false judgment upon his powers which has long passed current is to be traced to the utter 
blindness of the critics to the presence of any pervading idea running through a particular work 
which should illuminate all its parts. Had the Zoili of the last generation conceived that Shakspere 
worked upon some principle which, like the agencies of nature, was to be seen more in its effects 
than in its manifestation of itself, could such a sentence as this have been written of the comedy 
before us ? — " This fable, absurd and ridiculous as it is, was drawn from the foregoing story of 
Genevra in Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, a fiction which, as it is managed by the epic poet, is neither 
improbahle nor unnatural ; but by Shakespear mangled and defaced, full of inconsistencies, con- 
tradictions, and blunders."* We have done with this style of criticism, of course, now; but it haa 
only been banished by the disposition of the world to look at Shakspere's art, and at all art, a little 
more from the abstract point of view. 

But Mrs. Lenox, who, in default of a sense of the poetical picturesque, has thus told us of " in- 
consistencies, contradictious, and blunders," — and who is farther pleased to say that Shakspere, in 
this play, " borrowed just enough to show his poverty of invention, and added enough to prove his 
want of judgment " — this lady even is not insensible to the merits of parts of the composition : 
"There is a great deal of true wit and humour in the comic scenes of this play; the characters of 
Benedick and Beatrice are pi-operly marked." But there are critics, and those of a higher order, 
who do not quite agree with Mrs. Lenox in giving to Shakspere this comparatively small merit. 
Mr. Campbell tells us, — " during one half of the play we have a disagreeable female character in 
that of Beatrice. Her portrait, I may be told, is deeply drawn and minutely finished. It is ; and 
so is that of Benedick, who is entirely her counterpart, except that he is less disagreeable. But the 
best drawn portraits, by the finest masters, may be admii-able in execution though unpleasant to 
contemplate; and Beatrice's portrait is in this category * * * * She is an odioti.s woman."-\- 
With every respect for a poet's opinion of a poet's work, we presume to think that Mr. Campbell 
has fallen into a mistake ; and that his mistake arises from his contemplation of Beatrice as a single 
portrait cut out of a large picture, and not viewed in reference to its relative position with, and its 
dependence upon, the other parts of that picture. For, in truth, whether Beatrice be disagreeable 
and odious, or " cette charmante ct redouiablc femme" as a French critic has it, she could be no 
other than the identical Beatrice, in the place in which she is. For, is she not one that at first 
presents to us the prosaic side of human nature — the jesting, gibing, sarcastic side ; one who has no 
faith in valour, and is not to be subdued by courtesy ; who prefers a "skirmish of wit" to making 
" account of her life to a clod of wayward marl 1 " But is not the real Beatrice at bottom a true 
woman, — a high-spirited, imaginative woman, — one who, with all her wit, has no slight portion of 
woman's sensibility about her ; and is by no means very gay when she says " I may sit in a corner, 
and cry, heigh ho ! for a husband ? " Truly she is a woman that falls into the trap of affection vnih 
wonderful alacrity ; who, while hidden in 

" the pleached bower, 
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, 
Forbid the sun to enter," 

hears it said of her, and hears it without any violence or burst of passion, 

" Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in lier eyes, 
Misprising what they look on ; and her wit 
Values itself so highly, that to her 
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love 
Nor take no shape nor project of affection, 
She is so self-endeared." 

* Shakespear Illustrated, vol. iii., p. 2C1. t Moxon's Edition of Shakspeare. Life. 



And why is she so calm under this bitter reproach, which she believes to be real ? Why shows she 
no after resentment against her cousin for the representation which she has drawn of her ? Simply 
because she knows she has been playfully wearing a mask to hide the real strength of her syra- 


" Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! " 

She is not a thing of mere negations ; a fashionable, brilliant, untrusting thing. It is she whom we 
next encounter, all heart, presenting to us the poetical side of human nature, when all around her is 
prosaic ; who, when her cousin's wedding " looks not like a nuptial," and that poor innocent Hero is 
deserted by lover and father, has alone the courage to say 

" O, on my soul my cousin is belied." 

It is the injury done to Hero which wrings from Beatrice the avowal of her love for Benedick. Is 
it a reproach to her that she would have her lover peril his life against the false accuser of her 
cousin ? She has thrown off her maidenly disguises, and the earnestness of her soul will have vent. 
She and Benedick are now bound for ever in their common pity for the unfortunate. The con- 
ventional Beatrice has become the actual Beatrice. The "subjective appearance" has become the 
"objective reality." The same process is repeated throughout the character of Benedick, for the 
original groundwork of the character is the same as that of Beatrice. " Would you have me speak 
after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex," presents the same key to his character 
as " I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me," does to that of 
Beatrice. They are each acting ; and they have each a shrewd guess that the other is acting ; and 
each is in the other's thoughts ; and the stratagem by which they are each entrapped — not, as we 
think, into an unreal love, as Ulrici says, — is precisely in its symmetrical simplicity what was neces- 
sary to get rid of their reciprocal disguises, and to make them straightforward and in earnest. The 
conclusion of the affair is the playful echo of all that is past : — 

" Bene. Come, I will have thee ; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. 

Beat. I would not deny you ; — but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion." 

The Much Ado about Nothing was acted under the name of ' Benedick and Beati-ice,' even 
during the life of its author. These two characters absorb very much of the acting interest of the 
play. They are star-characters, suited for the Garricks and Jordans to display themselves in. But 
they cannot be separated from the play without being liable to misconstniction. The character of 
Beatrice cannot be understood, except in connection with the injuries done to Hero ; and except, 
once again, we view it, as well as the characters of all the other agents in the scene, with reference 
to the one leading idea, that there is a real aspect of things which is to be seen by the audience and 
not seen by the agents. The character of Don John, for example, and the characters of his loose 
confederates, are understood by the spectators; and their villainy is purposely transparent. With- 
out Don John the plot could not move. He is not a rival in Claudio's love, as the "wicked duke" 
of Ariosto : he is simply a moody, ill-conditioned, spiteful rascal ; — such a one as ordinarily takes 
to backbiting and hinting away character. Shakspere gets rid of him as soon as he can : he fires 
the train and disappears. He would be out of harmony with the happiness which he has suspended, 
but not destroyed ; and so he passes from the stage, with 

" Think not on him till to-morrow." 

But his instrumentality has been of the utmost importance. It has given us that beautiful altar- 
scene, that would be almost too tragical if we did not know that the " Much Ado " was " about No- 
thing." But that maiden's sorrows, and that father's passion, are real aspects of life, however 
unreal be the cause of them. The instrumentality, too, of the hateful Don John has given us 
Dogberry and Verges. Coleridge has said, somewhat hastily we think,—" any other less ingeniously 
absurd watchmen and night-constables would have answered the mere necessities of the action." 
Surely not. Make Dogberry in the slightest degree less self-satisfied, loquacious, full of the official 
stuff of which functionaries are still cut out, and the action breaks down before the rejection of Hero 
by her lover. For it is not the ingenious absurdity that prevents the detection of the plot against 



Hero ; it is the absurdity wbich prevents the prompt disclosure of it after the detection. Let us 
take a passage of this inimitable piece of comedy to read apart, that we may see how entirely the 
character of Dogberry is necessary to the continuance of the action. When Borachio and Conrade 
are overheard and arrested, the spectators have an amiable hope that tbe mischief of Don John's 
plot will be prevented ; but when Dogberry and Verges approach Leonato, the end, as they think, 
is pretty sure. Let us see how the affair really works : — 

" Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. 

Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the 
poor duke's officers; but, truly, for mine own part, if I were 
as tedious as a king I could find in my heart to bestow it all 
of your worship. 

Leon. All ihy tediousness on me I ha! 

Dogb. Yea, and 'twere a thousand times more than 'tis : 
for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any 
man in the city ; and though 1 be but a poor man I am g'.ad 
to hear it. 

Verg. And so am I. 

Leon. I would fain know what you have to say. 

Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to night, excepting your 
worship's presence, have ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves 
as any in Messina. 

Dogb. A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they 
say, When the age is in, the wit is out; God help us ! it is a 
world to see I — Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges : — well, 
God's a good man ; an two men ride of a horse, one must 
ride behind : — An honest soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he 
is, as ever broke bread : but God is tj be worshipped : All 
men are not alike ; alas, good neighbour ! 

Leon. Indeed, neiglibour, he comes too short of you. 

Dogb. Gifts, that God gives. 

Leon. I must leave you." 

Truly did Don Pedro subsequently say, " this learned constable is too cunning to be understood." 
The wise fellow, and the rich fellow, and the fellow that hath had losses, and one that bath two 
gowns and everything handsome about him, nevertheless holds his prisoners fast ; and when he 
comes to the Prince, with " Marry, sir, they have committed false report ; moreover, they have 
spoken untruths ; secondarily, they are slanders ; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady ; thirdly, 
they have verified unjust things ; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves," though his method be 
not logical, his matter is all-sufficient. And so we agree with Ulrici, that it would be a palpable 
misunderstanding to ask what the noble constable Dogberry and his followers have to do with the 
play. Dogberry is as necessary as aU the other personages ; — to a certain degree more necessary. 
The passionate lover, tbe calm and sagacious Prince, tbe doting father, were the dupes of a trea- 
chery, not well compact, and carried through by dangerous instruments. They make no effort to 
detect what would not have been very difficult of detection : they are satisfied to quai-rel and to 
lament. Accident discovers what intelligence could not penetrate ; and the treacherous slander is 
manifest in all its blackness to the wise Dogberry : 

'' Flat burglary as ever was committed." 

Here is the crowning irony of the philosophical poet. The players of the game of life see nothing, 
or see minute parts only : but the dullest bystander has glimpses of something more. 

In studying a play of Shakspere with the assurance that we have possessed ourselves of the 
fundamental " idea " in which it was composed, it is remarkable how many incidents and expressions 
which have previously appeared to us at least difficult of comprehension are rendered clear 
and satisfactory. As believers in Shakspere we know that he wrought in the spirit of the highest 
art, producing in every case a work of uniiy, out of the power of his own " multiformity." 
But, as we have before said, we have not always, as in the case of the natural landscape, got 
the right point of view, so as to have the perfect harmony of the composition made manifest to 
us. Let us bo assured, however, that there is an entirety, and therefore a perfect accordance in all 
its parts, in every great production of a great poet, — and above all in every production of tlie world's 



greatest poet ; and then, studying with this conviction, when the parts have become familiar to us— 
as in the case before us the sparkling raillery of Benedick and Beatrice, the patient gentleness of 
Hero, the most truthful absurdity of Dogberry— they gradually fuse themselves together iu our 
minds, and the u-hole at last lies clear before us, 

" A world 
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite. 

• f. 

I.. 1/, .' 




f.A-;fN5^.''i!,f^^'! Ill 




' An y 

A} ' , 



^'^' -^" 

:uif ->-. 







iffiif ||l»'l 1^'::^^ 

[Le Koi Boit. The Flemisli Twelfth Night. ', 


State op the Text, and Cheonologt, op Twelfth Night. 

Thi-i comedy was first printed in the folio edition of 1623, under tlie title of 'Twelfe Night, or 
What you Will." The test is divided into acts and scenes; .nnd the order of these has been 
undisturbed iu the modern editions. With the exception of a few manifest typographical errors, 
the original copy is remarkably correct. There is no entry of this play in the registers of the 
Stationers' Company. 

It is scarcely necessary to enter into any detail of the conjectures of the commentators as to the 
chronology of Twelfth Night, Their guesses have been proved to be very wide of the mark. 
Tyrwhitt assigned it to 1614, because Sir Toby, in the third act, says, "Nay, if you be an under- 
taker, I am for you." In 1614 certain persons had undcrtahen, thi-ough their influence with the 
House of Commons, to carry affliirs according to the wishes of tlie king; and the House was much 
troubled about the imdertakevs. Chalmers says the allusion was to the undcrlaltrs for colonising 

Comedies.— Vol. II. K 129 


Ulster, in 1613. The probability is that the passoge contains no allusion whatever; and that the 
literal meaning of undertake)-— one who takes up the work of another, as Antonio does the quarrel 
of Viola — was the only meaning. Moreover, says Chalmers, the Sophy of Pei-sia is mentioned ; 
and in 1611 Sir Robert Shirley arrived in London as ambassador from the Sophy ; and Sir Anthony 
Shirley published his 'Travels ' in 1613. Malone was originally for 1614, but in the last edition of his 
'Essay' he fixed the date as 1607, because in the third act we have the expression "westward-hoe;" 
and Dekker's comedy with that title was printed in 1607. This was to argue that a common expression 
was derived from the comedy, instead of the comedy having its title from the expression. Steevens 
traces, in tlie mutual fears of Sir Andrew Ague-cheek and Viola, an imitation of Ben Jonson's ' Silent 
Woman,' printed in 1609. Theobald makes Sir Toby's expression — " If thou thou'st him some thrice 
it shall not be amiss" — a manifestation of respect for Sir Walter Raleigh, and a detestation of Coke's 
brutal thouing of him in 1603 : — "All that he did was by thy instigation, thou viper, for I thou thee, 
thou traitor." Amidst these opposite opinions, all belonging to the class which we have so often had 
occasion to doubt and reject, there is found in the British Museum, in 1828, a little manuscript diary 
of a student of the Middle Temple, extending from 1601 to 1603,* in which the following decisive 
passage occurs : — 

"Feb. 2, 1601 [2]. 

"At our feast we had a play called Twelve night or ivhat you %vill, much like the comedy of 
errors, or Menechmis in Plautus, but most like & neere to that in Italian called Inganni. A good 
•practise in it to make the steward believe his lady widdowe was in love with him, by counterfayting 
a letter, as from his lady, in generall termes telling him what shoe liked best in him, & prescribing 
his gestures, inscribing his apparaile, &c. and then when he came to practise, making him beleeve 
they tooke him to be mad." 

Here is an end then of conjecture. The play was no doubt publicly acted before this performance 
at the Candlemas feast of the Middle Temi^le ; and it belongs, therefore, to the first year of 
the seventeenth century, or the last of the sixteenth ; for it is not found in the list of Meres, 
in 1598. 

SopposED Source op the Plot. 

The romance literature of Europe was a common property, from which the Elizabethan writers of 
every grade drew materials for their own performances, using them up with all possible variety of 
adaptation. Italy was the great fountain-head of these fictions ; although they might have travelled 
thither from the East, and gradually assumed European shape and character. In the hands of 
real poets, such as Boccaccio and Shakspere, the or'ginal material was little more than the canvas 
upon which the artist worked. The commentators upon our poet tell us, with regard to Twelfth 
Night, "There is great reason to believe that the serious part of this comedy is founded on some 
old translation of the seventh history in the fourth volume of Belleforest's 'Histoires Tragiques.' 
Belleforest took the story, as usual, from Bandello. The comic scenes appear to have leen entirely 
the production of ShaUpeare." He did create, then. Sir Andrew, and Sir Toby, and ISIalvolio, and 
the Clown. But who created Viola, and Olivia, and the Duke ? They were made, say the critics, 
according to the recipe of Bandello :—7^em, a twin brother and sister; item, the sister in love, and 
becoming a page in the service of him she loved; item, the said page sent as a messenger to the 
lady whom her master loved ; item, the lady falling in love with the page ; item, the lady meeting 
with the twin-brother; item, all parties happily matched. All this will be found at great length in 

rJl.T^J-tt^-'}^^ ""'■ particulars from Mr. Collier's valuable ' Annals of the Stage.' Tie says-" I was fortunate enough to 
^Yn„^i "^'"""^ the Harleian Manuscripts in the Museum." Mr. Hunter, in his ' Disquisition on the Tempest,' says, 
Jr^i f7 n" /7.''^"'-'",'^-^',' ''•''"^'^ >'°"'' attention, at the British Museum, to the discovery which I had then 
made m the Diary of Mayininyham, that Twelfth Night was performed in 1602, before the benchers of the Middle Temple." 

Templo^n 1597 ^^''"^" ^ '''""'^ '" " "'^* """ ' °''"'^' ' ^^""^ "'^' °'' ■'°''" Manningham, who was entered at the Middle 



Mrs. Lenox's 'Shakspeare Illustrated,' accompanied with many profound remarks upon the poet's 
stupidity in leaving the safe track of the novelist ; which remarks, being somewhat anti<iuated, may 
be passed over. Nor is it necessary for us to republish the entire stoiy of Apolonius and Silla, ns 
told in a collection published by Barnaby Rich, "containing very pleasant discourses fit for a 
peaceable time, gathered together for the only delight of the courteous gentlewomen of England 
and Ireland.' The argument of Rich's story does not infer any great resemljhmce in the plots of 
the novel and the drama: — "Apolonius, Duke, having speiit a year's service in tlie wars against the 
Turk, returning homewards with his company by sea, was driven by force of weather to the isle of 
Cypres, where he was well received by Pontus, governor of the same isle, with whom Silla, daughter 
to Pontus, fell so strangely in love, that after Apolonius was departed to Constantinople, Silla, with 
one man, followed, and coming to Constantinople she served Apolonius in the habit of a man, and 
after many pretty accidents falling out, she was known to Apolonius, who in requital of her love 
married her." But in the " manij pretty accidents " we find a clear resemblance between the poet 
and the novelist ; with the exception that the poet has thrown his own exquisite purity of imagina- 
tion over the conduct of the two heroines, and that the novelist is not at all solicitous about this 

The following somewhat long extract, which includes the main points of resemblance, will furnish 
a very adequate notion of the difference between a dull and tedious narration and a drama running 
over with imagination, and humour, and wit ; — in which the highest poetry is welded with the most 
intense fun ; and we are made to feel that the loftiest and the most ludicrous aspect of human affairs 
can only be adequately presented by one who sees the whole from an eagle-height to which ordinary 
men cannot soar. But we do not complain that Barnaby Rich was not a Shakspere : — 

"And now, to prevent a number of injuries that might be proffered to a woman that was left in her case, 
she determined to leave her own apparel, and to sort herself into some of those suits, that, being taken for a 
man, she might pass through the country in the better safety ; and as she changed her apparel she thought 
it likewise convenient to change her name, wherefore, not readily happening of any other, she called herself 
Silvio, by the name of her own brother, whom you have heard spoken of before. 

" In this manner she travelled to Constantinople, where she inquired out the palace of the Duke Apolonius, 
and thinking herself now to be both fit and able to play the servingman, she presented herself to the Dnke, 
craving his service. The Duke, very willing to give succour unto strangers, perceiving him to be a proper 
smooth young man, gave him entertainment. Silla thought herself now more than satisfied for all the 
casualties that had happened unto her in her journey, that she might at her pleasure take but the view of 
the Duke Apolonius, and above the rest of his servants was very diligent and attendant upon him, the which 
the Duke perceiving, began likewise to grow into good liking with the diligence of his man, and therefore 
made him one of his chamber : who but Silvio, then, was most near about him, in helping of him to make 
him ready in a morning in the setting of his ruITs, in the keeping of his chamber ? Silvio pleased his master 
so well, that above all the rest of his servants about him he had the greatest credit, and the Duke put him 
most in trust. 

"At this very instant there was remauiing in the city a noble dame, a widow, whose husband was but 
lately deceased, one of the noblest men that were in the parts of Grecia, who left his lady and wife large 
possessions and great livings. This lady's name was called Julina, who, besides the abundance of her wealth 
and the greatness of her revenues, had likewise the sovereignty of all the dames of Constantinople for her 
beauty. To this lady Julina, Apolonius became an earnest suitor, and, according to the manner of lovers, 
besides fair words, sorrowful sighs, and jjiteous countenances, there must be sending of loving letters, chains, 
bracelets, broaches, rings, tablets, gems, jewels, and presents I know not what : * * « » » « Thus 
Apolonius was so busied in his new study, that I warrant you there was no man that could challenge him for 
playing the truant, he followed his profession with so good a will : and who must be the messenger to carry 
the tokens and love-letters to the lady Julina but Silvio his man? in him the Duke reposed his only 
confidence, to go between him and his lady. 

"Now, gentlewomen, do you think there could have been a greater toi-mcnt devised, wherewith to afflict 
the heart of Silla, than hci-self to be made the instrument to work her own mishap, and to play the attorney 
in a cause that made so much against herself? But Silla, altogether desirous to please her master, cared 
nothing at all to offend herself, followed his busuicss with so good a will as if it had been in her own 

"Julina, now having many times taken the gaze of this young youth Silvio, perceiving him to be of such 
excellent perfect grace, was so entangled with the often sight of this sweet temptation, that she fell into as 
great a liking with the man as the master was with herself: and on a time, Silvio being sent from his master 
with a message to the ladv Julina, as he began very earnestly to solicit in his master's behalf, Julina, 



interrupting him in his tale, said, Silvio, it is enough that you have said for your master ; from henceforth 
either speak for yourself, or say nothing at all. * * * 

"And now for a time leaving matters depending as you have heard, it fell out that the right Silvio indeed 
(whom you have heard spoken of before, the brother of Silla) was come to his father's court, into the isle of 
Cypres, where, understanding that his sister was departed in manner as you have heard, conjectured that 
the very occasion did proceed of some liking had between Pedi-o, her man (that was missing with her), 
and herself ; but Silvio, who loved his sister as dearly as his own life, and the rather for that she was his 
natural sister both by father and mother ; so the one of them was so like the other in countenance and 
favour that there was no man able to discern the one from the other by their faces, saving by their apparel, 
the one being a man, the other a woman. 

"Silvio therefore vowed to his father not only to seek out his sister Silla, but also to revenge the villany 
which he conceived in Pedro for the cirrying away of his sister ; and thus departing, having travelled 
through many cities and towns without hearing any manner of news of those he went to seek for, at the last 
he arrived at Constantinople, where, as he was walking in an evening for his own recreation on a pleasant 
green parade without the walls of the city, he fortuned to meet with the lady Julina, who likewise had been 
abroad to take the air ; and as she suddenly cast her eyes iipon Silvio, thinking him to be her old acquaint- 
ance, by reason they were so like one another, as you have heard before, said mito him, I pray you, let me 
have a little talk with you, seeing I have so luckily met you in this place. 

" Silvio, wondering to hear himself so rightly named, being but a stranger not of above two days' continu- 
ance in the city, very courteously came towards her, desirous to hear what she would say," 

The rest may be imagined. 

Mr. Collier informs us, in his "Farther Particulars," that, after vainly searching for eight years, he 
in 1839 met with the Italian play of the Inganni, mentioned in the Barrister's Diary. This play, as 
Mr. Collier thinks, was known to Shakspere ; and certainly there is some resemblance between its plot 
and that of Twelfth Night. The differences, however, are so considerable, that the parallel would 
scarcely be worth following out. We have to add that Mr. Hunter mentions that he has traced, in an 
Italian play called the Ingannati (not the Inganni of Manningham). the foundation of the serious part 
of Twelfth Nisht. 


The comedy of Twelfth Night is amongst the most perplexing of Shakspere's plays to the sticklers 
for accuracy of costume. The period of action is undefined. The scene is laid in Illyria, whilst the 
names of the Dramatis Persons are a mixture of Spanish, Italian, and English. The best mode of 
reconciling tlie discrepancies arising from so many conflicting circumstances appears to us to be the 
assumption, first, that duke or count Orsino (for he is indifferently so entitled in the play) is a Venetian 
governor of that portion of Dalmatia which was all of the ancient Illyria remaining under the 
dominion of the republic at the commencement of the seventeenth century, and that his attendants, 
Valentine, Curio, &c., as well as Olivia, Malvolio, and Maria, are also Venetians; and, secondly, that 
Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek are English residents ; the former, a maternal uncle to 
Olivia — her father, a Venetian count, having married sir Toby's sister. If this be allowed, and there is 
nothing tliat we can perceive in the play to prevent it, there is no impropriety in dressing the above- 
named characters in the Venetian and English costume of Shakspere's own time, and the two sea- 
captains and Sebastian in the very picturesque habits of " Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote." 
Viola, the twin-sister of Sebastian, might therefore, by assuming the national male dress, be more 
readily mistaken for her bi-other, as it is absurd to suppose that she could otherwise, by accident, light 
upon a fac-simile of the suit he appears in ; and any manifest difference, either in form or colour, 
would tend to destroy the illusion, as we have already observed in the case of the two Dromios and 
their masters (Comedy of Errors). We leave the decision, however, to our readers, at the same time 
referring those who think with us to our numbers containing The Merchant of Venice, Othello, and 
The Taming of the Shrew, for the Venetian and English costume of the commencement of the seven- 


teentli century, auil coufiuing our pictorial illustrations of this part of our labours to the cliess of a 
womau of Mitylene (supposed the Mcssalina of the play) from the llabiti Antiche e Mokrni of CdCBRre 
Vecellio. The embroidered jacket and greaves, " the snowy camisa and the shaggy capote," of the 
Greek captains, have become almost as familiar to our sight as a frock-coat, Wellington boots, and 



[Scer.e II. ' Tins is lllyria, lady.'] 


SCENE I. — Jh. Apartment in the DukeV 

Enter Duke, Cukio, Lords; Musicians attend- 

Luke. If music be the food of love, play on. 
Give me excess of it ; that surfeiting. 
The appetite may sicken, and so die. 
That strain again ;— it had a dying fall : ^ 
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound a 

a Like the sweet sound. To those who are familiar with 
the well-known text, 

" O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south," 
the restoration of the viotA sound, which is the reading of 
all the early editions, will at first appear strange and 
startling. The change from sound to south was ma^e by 
Pope. Steevens tells us that the thought might have ^een 
borrowed from Sidney's Arcadia, Book I., and he quotes a 
part of the passage. We must look, however, at the con- 
text. Sidney writes, "Her breath is more sweet than a 

That breathes upon a bank of violets, 

Stealing, and giving odour. — Enough ; no more ; 

'lis not so sweet now as it was before. 

gentle south-west wind, which comes creeping over flowery 
Melds and shadowed waters in the extreme heat of summer." 
The comparison is here direct. The sweet breath of Urania 
is more sweet than the gentle south-west wind. Sidney 
adds, "and yet is nothing, compared to the honey-flowing 
speech that breath doth carry." The music of the speech 
is not here compared with the music of the wind;— the 
notion of Iragrance is alone conveyed. If in the passage o! 
the text we read ioa//j instead ot sound, the conclusion of 
the sentence, "Stealing and giving odour," rests upon the 
mind, and the comparison becomes an indirect one between 
the harmony of the dying fall, and the odour of the breeze 
that had passed over a bank of violets. This, we think, is 
not what the poet meant. He desired to compare one 
sound with another sound. Milton liad probably the passage 
of the text in view when he wrote, 

" Now gentle gales. 
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
Those balmy spoils." 

The image in Milton, as well as in Sbakspere, combines the 


Act I.] 


[Scene TI. 

spirit of love, how quick and fresli art thou ! 
That, notwithstanding thy capacity 
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, 
Of what validity and pitch soe'er. 
But falls into abatement and low price. 
Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy. 
That it alone is high-fantastical. 

Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ? 

Dulce. What, Curio ? 

(jjf^_ The hart. 

Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have : 
0, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence! 
That instant was I turn'd into a hart ; 
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds. 
E'er since pursue me.^— How now ? what news 
from her ? 

Unter Valentine. 

Val. So please my lord, I might not be ad- 
But from her handmaid do return this answer : 
The element itself, till seven years' heat,* 
Shall not behold her face at ample view ; 
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, 
And water once a day her chamber round 
With eye-offending brine : all this, to season '^ 
A brother's dead love, which she would keep 

And lastin?, in her sad remembrance. 
Buhe. 0, she that hath a heart of that fine 
To pay this debt of love but to a brother, 

notion of sound as well as fragrance. In Shakspere "the 
sound that breathes "—the soft murmur of the breeze playing 
amidst beds of flowers — is put first, because of its relation to 
the " dying fall " of the exquisite harmony ;■ but ia Milton 
the " perfumes "of tlie " gentle gales " are more prominent 
than "tlie wliisper," — because the image is complete in 
itself, unconnected with what precedes. Further, Shak- 
spere has nowhere else made the south an odour-breathing 
wind; his other representations are directly contrary. In 
As Yoii Like It, Rosalind says, 

" You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow lier 
hWie fuijgy south, puffing with wind and rnin? " 

In Romeo and Juliet we have tlie " dew-dropping south." In 
Cymbeline, "Tlie south-fog rot him." Mr. White, giving 
in his text the original word, says that the reading of Pope 
has been hitherto adopted by every editor except Mr. Knight. 
He adds — " Did Pope, or the editors who have followed 
him, ever lie musing on the sward at the edge of a wood, 
and hear the low sweet hum of the summer air, as it kissed 
the coyly-shrinking wild flowers upon the banks, and 
passed on, loaded with fragrance from the sweet salute? 
If they ever did, how could they make this change of 
'sound' to ' south'? and if they never did, they are 
unalile to entirely appreciate the passage, m«cli less to im- 
prove it." 

» Heat — heated. 

1j Season. This metaphor is repeated several times by our 
poet : the lirine seasons, preserves, a brother's dead love 
(resh. So in Romeo and Juliet: 

" Jesu Maria! What a deal of briue 
Hath wa^-li'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline ! 
How much salt water thrown away in waste 
To season love." 


How will she love, when the rich golden shaft " 
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else 
That live in her ! when liver, brain, and heart. 
Those sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and 

(Her sweet perfections,'') with one self king !" — 
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ; 
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with 



SCENE II.— The Sea-coast. 

Enter Viola, Captain, a7id Sailors. 

Fio. What country, friends, is this ? 
Cap. This is Illyria, lady.** 

Vio. And what should 1 do in Illyria ? 
My brother he is in Elysium. 
Perchance he is not drown'd : — What tliink you, 

sailors ? 
Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were 

Vio. my poor brother ! and so, perchance, 

may he be. 

* The rich golden shaft. The Cupid of the ancient my- 
thology was armed (as Sidney notices) with 

"But arrows two, and tipt with gold or lead." 
The opposite elTects of these weapons are described in Ovid 
(Metamorph.), and Shakspere might have read the passage 
in Golding's translation; — 
"That causeth love is all of gold with point full sharp and 

That chasetli love is blunt, whose steel with leaden head is 

•> Her sweet perfections. Steevens thns explains this pas- 
sage : — " Liver, brain, and heart, are admitted in poetry as 
the residence of passions, judgment, and sentiments. These 
are what Shakspere calls 'her sweet perfections.' " This is 
doubtless a mistaken interpretation. The phrase ought 
probably to be "her sweet perfection." The filling of the 
"sovereign thrones" with "one self king" is the ptr/ec//o« 
of Olivia's merits, — according to the ancient doctrine that a 
woman was not complete till her union with a " self king." 
In Lord Berners' translation of Froissart there is a sen- 
tence which glances at the same opinion. The rich Ber- 
tliault of Malines is desirous to marry his daughter to the 
noble Earl of Guerles; and he thus communes with him- 
self: — "Howheit, I will answer these messengers that their 
coming pleaseth me greatly, and that my daughter should 
be happy if she might come to so great a perfection as to be 
conjoined in marriage with the Earl of Guerles." 

•^ Self king. So the first folio ; ihe second, self-same king. 
Steevens adopts this, because in his notion the metre is im- 
proved by the introduction ot same; Malone, who rejects it, 
maintains, however, that sey-king means self-same king. 
We doubt this ; believing that the poet meant kingof herself. 
As to Steevens' thousand and one corrections of Shakspere's 
metre, it is only necessary to bear in mind a principle laid 
down by Coleridge. In quoting these lines of Beaumont 
and Fletcher,— 

" I'd have a state of wit convok'd, which hath 
A power to take up on common faith," — 
he says, " This is an instance of that modifying of quantity 
by emphasis, without which our elder poets cannot be 
scanned." And he adds, "Quantity, an almost ircm law 
with the Greeks, is in English rather a subject for a pecu- 
liarly fine ear, than any law or even rule; but then, in- 
stead of it, we have, first, accent; secondly, emphasis; and, 
lastly, retardation, and acceleration, of the times of syllables, 
according to the meaning of the words, the passion that ac- 
companies them, and even the character of the person that 
uses them."— (Literary Remains, Vol. II., p. 290.) 

<t This is Illyria, lady. So the original. We ordinarily 
find the text without thisis,—\.\\e work of the metre-tinkers. 

Act I.] 


[SCESE 111 

Cap. True, madam ; and, to comfort you with 
xissure yourself, after our ship did spHt, 
When you, and those poor number"' sav'd with 

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, 
Most provident in peril, bind himself 
(Courage and hope both teaching him the prac- 
To a strong mast, that liv'd upon the sea; 
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back, 
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, 
So long as I could see. 

Fio. For saying so, there 's gold : 

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, 
"Whereto thy speech serves for authority. 
The like of him. Know'st thou this country ? 

Ciqy. Ay, madam, well ; for I was bred and 
Not three hours' travel from this very place. 

Vio. Who governs here ? 

Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name. 

Vio. What is his name ? 

Cap. Orsino. 

Vio. Orsmo ! I have heard my father name 
He was a bachelor then. 

Cap. And so is now, or was so very late : 
For but a month ago I went from hence ; 
And then 't was fresh in murmur, (as, you know, 
What great ones do, the less will prattle of,) 
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.^ 

Vio. What 's she ? 

Cap. A vu'tuous maid, the daughter of a 
That died some twfelvemonth since ; then leaving 

In the protection of his son, her brother. 
Who shortly also died : for whose dear love, 

* Those poor number. So the original. The ordinary 
reading is tliat poor number. 

b We request the reader to look particularly at this part 
of the dialogue, beginning " Who governs here? " Is it not 
strictly metrical, and do not the three or four short lines 
that are thrown in render the question and answer rapid and 
spirited? It is printed here exactly as in the original. 
But the passage has been jammed into the Procrustean bed 
of Steevens, and in all editions before the Pictorial was 
turned out as follows : — 

" Cap. A noble duke, in nature. 

As in his name. 

Vio. What is his name ? 

Cap. Orsino. 

Vio. Orsino ! I have heard my father name him : 
He was a bachelor then. 

Cap. And so is now. 

Or was so very late : for but a month 
Ago I went from hence ; and then 't was fresh 
In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do, 
The less will prattle of,) that he did seelj 
The love of fair Olivia. 

Fio. What 's she ? 

TLcy say, she hath abjur'd the oompany 
And sight of men."' 

Vio. 0, that I serv'd that lady : 

And might not be delivcr'd to the world, 
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow 
What my estate is. 

Cap. That were hard to compass ; 

Because she will admit no kind of suit. 
No, not the duke's. 

Via. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain ; 
And though that nature with a beauteous wall 
Dotli oft close in pollution, yet of thee 
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 
With this thy fair and outward character. 
I prithee, and I '11 pay thee bounteously, 
Conceal me what I am ; and be my aid 
For such disguise as, haply, shall become 
The form of my intent. I 'U serve this duke ; 
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him, 
It may be worth thy pains ; for I can suig, 
And speak to him in many sorts of music, 
That will allow me very worth liis semce. 
What else may hap, to time I will commit ; 
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. 

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I '11 
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not 

T'^io. I thank thee : Lead me on. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III.— A Room in Olivia'* House. 
Enter Sir ToBT- Belch a?id Makia. 

Sir To. What a plague nueans my niece, to 
take the death of her brother thus ? I am sure 
care 's an enemy to life. 

Mar. By my irotli, sir Toby, you must come 
in earlier o' nights ; your cousin, my lady, takes 
great e^xceptions to yoiu' ill hours. 

Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted. 

3Iar. Ay, but you must ooullne yourself 
within the modest limits of oi'dcr. 

Sir To. Confine? I'll oonfine myself no finer 
than I am : these clothes are good enough to 
drink in, and so he these boots too ; an tiiey 
be not, let them hang themselves in their own 

Mar. That quafliiig ;ind drinking ^rill undo 
you : I heard my hvdy tilk of it yesterday ; and 
of a foolish knight, thatyo* bi-ought in one night 
here, to be her wooer. 

a The original reafls— 

" They say, she Twth :ib]u«a tfre sight 
And company of men." 
The words siyht and comprmj were transposed by Hanmer. 
which reading is generally received. 


scT r.] 


[Scene III. 

Sir To. Who ? Sir Andrew Ague-clieek ? 

Mar. Ay, he. 

Sir To. He 's as toll"' a man as any 's in lUyria. 

Mar. What 's that to the purpose ? 

Sir To. Why, he has tlirec thousand ducats a 

3Iar. Ay, but lie '11 have but a year in all 
these ducats ; he 's a very foolj and a prodigal. 

Sir To. Fie, that you '11 say so ! he plays o' 
the viol-de-gamboys,^ and speaks three or foiu- 
languages word for word without book, and hath 
all the good gifts of nature. 

3£ar. He hath, indeed, aluiost natural : for 
besides that he 's a fool, he 's a great quarreller ; 
and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay 
the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought 
among the prudent he would quickly have the 
gift of a grave. 

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and 
subtractors that say so of him. Who are they ? 
3Iar. They that add, moreover, he 's druidi 
nightly in your company. 

Sir To. With dfiuking healths to my niece : 
I '11 ckink to her as long as there is a passage in 
my throat, and drink in Illyria. He 's a coward, 
and a coystril, that will not drink to ray niece 
till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top.'* 
What, wench ? Castiliano-vulgo ;'^ for here comes 
sir Andrew Ague-face. 

E//ier Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch ! how now, sir Toby 
Belch ! 

Sir To. Sweet sir Andrew ! 

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. 

Mar. And you too, sir. 

Sir To. Accost, sir Andrew, accost. 

Sir And. What 's that ? 

Sir To. My niece's chamber-maid. 

Sir And. Good mistress Accost, I desire bet- 
ter acquaintance. 

Mar. My name is Mary, sir. 

Sir And. Good mistress Mary Accost,— 

Sir To. You mistake, knight ; accost is, front 
her, board her," woo her, assail her. 

Sir Atid. By my troth, I would not undertake 
her in this company. Is that the meaning of 
accost ? 

Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. 

Sir To. An thou let part so, sir Andrew, 
'would thou might'st never di-aw sword again. 

" TaW— atout— bold. 

b Warburton refines upon this phrase of the knight, and 
would read Caslitiano volto — " put on your Castilian coun- 
tenance ; that is, your grave, solemn looks." 

<; Board Aer— address her. 


Sir And. An you part so, misti-css, I would I 
might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do 
you think you have fools in hand ? 
Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. 
Sir And. Marry, but you shall have ; and 
here 's my hand. 

Mar. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, 
bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it 

Sir And. Wherefore, sweetheart ? what 's your 
metaphor ? 

Mar. It 's dry, sir. 

Sir And. Wliy, I think so ; I am not such an 
ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what 's 
your jest ? 

Mar. A dry jest, sir. 
Sir And. Are you full of them ? 
Mar. Ay, sir ; I have them at my fingers' 
ends : marry, now I let go your hand I am 
barren. [JExit Makia. 

Sir To. knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary : 
When did I see thee so put down ? 

Sir And. Never in your life, I think ; unless 
you see canary put me down : Methinks some- 
times I have no more wit than a Christian, or 
an ordinary man has : ])ut I am a great eater 
of beef, and I believe that does harm to my 
Sir To. No question. 

Sir And. An I thought that, I 'd forswear it. 
I '11 ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. 
Sir To. Pourquoi/, my dear knight ? 
Sir And. What is poiirqiioij ? do or not do ? I 
would I had bestowed that time in the tongues 
that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-bait- 
ing : 0, had I but followed the arts ! 

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent 
head of haii-. 

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my 
hair ? 

Sir To. Past question ; for thou see'st it will 
not cui'l by nature." 

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, 
does 't not ? 

Sir To. Excellent ; it hangs like flax on a 
distaff ; and I hope to see a housewife take thee 
between her legs, and spin it off. 

Sir And. 'Faith, I '11 home to-morrow. Sir 
Toby ; your niece will not be seen ; or, if she 
be, it 's four to one she '11 none of me : the count 
himself, here hard by, woos her. 

Sir To. She'll none o' the count; she'll not 
match above her degree, neither in estate, years. 

" Curl btj nature. This is a very happy correction bj 
Theobald. The original reads, cool my nature. 

.Vci 1.] 


nor wit ; I have heard her swear it. Tat, tliere 's 
life in 't, mau. 

Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a 
fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world ; I de- 
light in masques and revels sometimes altogether. 

Sir To. Alt thou good at these kiekshaws, 
knight ? 

Sir And. As any mau in lUyria, whatsoever 
he be, under the degree of my betters ; and yet 
I will not eompare with an old man. 

Sir To. What is thy exeellence in a galliard, 
knight ? 

Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper. 

Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to 't. 

Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, 
simply as strong as any mau in Illyria. 

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid ? 
wherefore have these gifts a curtain iDefore them ? 
are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's 
picture ? ^ why dost thou not go to church in a 
galliard, and eome home in a coranto ? My very 
walk should be a jig ; I would not so much as 
make water but in a sink-a-paee.'' What dost 
thou mean ? is it a world to hide vii-tues in ? I 
did thiulc, by the excellent constitution of thy 
leg it was formed uuder the star of a galliard. 

Sir And. Ay, 't is strong, and it does indifferent 
well in a damask-coloured stock."' Shall we set 
about some revels ? 

Sir To. What shall we do else ? were we not 
born uuder Taurus ? 

Sir. And. Taurus ? that 's sides and heart. 

Sir To. No, sir ; it is legs and thighs. Let 
me see thee caper : ha ! higher : ha, ha ! — 
excellent ! , \_Exeiint. 

SCENE IN.— A Room in the Duke's Palace. 

Enter Valentine, and Viola, in mati's attire. 

Val. If the duke continue these favours to- 
wards you, Cesario, you are like to be much 
advanced ; he hath known you but three days, 
and already you are no stranger. 

Vio. You either fear his humour, or my neg- 
ligence, that you call in question the continuance 
of his love : Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ? 

Val. No, believe me. 

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. 
Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. 

'^ Damask-colutired stuck. Stock is stocking. In the ori- 
ginal we find dain'd coloured. Pope changed this to flame- 
coloured. We have ventured to read damas/;-co\oavc(l ; fur 
it is evident that, if the word damask were written as pro- 
nounced rapidly, dain'sk, it might easily be misprinted 
dam'd. In Drayton we have "the damask-coloured dove." 
The name of the colour is derived from the damask rose. 

Luke. Who saw Cesario, lio ? 

Vio. On your attendance, my lord ; hero. 

Dwke. Stand you awhile aloof.— Cesario, 
Thou know'st no less but all ; I have unclasp'd 
To thee the book even of my secret soul : 
Therefore, good youth, address tliy gait uulo her ; 
Be not denied access, stand at her doors. 
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, 
Till thou have audience. 

Vio. Sure, my noble lord, 

If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow 
As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 

Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all ci\il 
Rather than make unprofited return. 

Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord : 
What then? 

Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love ; 
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith : 
It shall become thee well to act my woes ; 
She will attend it better in thy youth. 
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. 

Vio. I think uot so, my lord. 

Duke. Dear lad, believe it ; 

For they shall yet belie thy happy years 
That say, thou art a man : Diana's lip 
Is not more smooth and rubious ; thy small pipe 
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound. 
And all is serablative a woman's part. 
I know thy constellation is right apt 
For this afTair : — Some four, or five, attend him ; 
All, if you will ; for I myself am best 
When least in company : — Prosper well in this. 
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord. 
To call his fortunes thine. 

Vio. I '11 do my best 

To woo your lady : yet, {^Aside'] a barful strife ! 
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. 


SCENE Y.—A Room in Olivia'* House. 
Enter Ma.ria and Clown. 

Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast 
been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a 
bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse : my lady 
will hang thee for thy absence. 

Clo. Let her hang me : he that is well iianged 
in this world needs to fear no colours.^ 

Mar. Make that good. 

Clo. He shall sec none to feai. 

" Fear 7in colours. Maria explains the saying in one way 
—It was liorn in tlie wars. — referring to tlio colours of an 
enemy. It probihlv meant, I far no decepliojis. IIolo- 
femes says, " I do fear colouralilc colours." (Love's La- 
bour 's Lost. Act IV., Sc. II.) 


Act I.] 


[Scene V 

Mar. A good lenteu answer : I can tell thee 
where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours. 

Clo. Where, good mistress Mary ? 

Mar. lu the wars ; and that may you be bold 
to say in your foolery. 

Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that have it ; 
and those that are fools let them use their talents. 

Mar. Yet you will be hanged, for being so 
long absent ; or, to be turned away : is not that 
as good as a hanging to you ? 

Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad 
marriage; and, for turning away, let summer 
bear it out."' 

Mar. You are resolute, then ? 

Clo. Not so, neither; but I am resolved on 
two points. 

Mar. That if one break the other will hold ; 
or, if both break your gaskins fall.*" 

Clo. Apt, in good faith ; very apt ! Well, go 
thy way ; if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou 
wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in 

Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that : here 
comes my lady : make your excuse wisely, you 
were best. [Exit. 

Enter Olivia and Malvolio. 

Clo. Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good 
fooling ! Those wits that think they have thee 
do very oft prove fools ; and I, that am sure I 
lack thee, may pass for a wise man : For what 
says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool, than a 
foolish wit. — God bless thee, lady ! 
Oil. Take the fool away. 
Clo. Do you not hear, fellows ? Take away 
the lady. 

OIL Go to, you 're a dry fool ; I 'U no more of 
you : besides, you grow dishonest. 

Clo. Two faidts, madonna, that drink and good 
counsel will amend : for give the dry fool drink, 
■ — then is the fool not dry ; bid the dishonest man 
mend himself, — if he mend, he is no longer dis- 
honest ; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him : 
Anything that 's mended is but patched : virtue 
that transgresses is but patched with sin ; and 
sin that amends is but patched with virtue : If 
that this simple syllogism will serve, so ; if it will 
not. What remedy ? As there is no true cuckold 
but calamity, so beauty 's a flower : — the lady 
bade take away the fool ; therefore, I say again, 
take her away. 

a One Doctor Letherland proposed to read, " for turning 
of whey." Tliis is an amusing specimen of conjectural cri- 

b Points were the laces with tags, with which the gar- 
ments were adjusted to the person. In Henry IV., Part I., 
we have — " tlieir points being brolcen, down fell tlieir hose." 


on. Sir, I bade them take away you. 

Clo. Misprision in the highest degree !— Lady, 
Cucull'us nonfacit monachm; that's as much as 
to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good 
madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. 

OIL Can you do it ? 

Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna. 

OIL Make your proof. 

Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna: 
Good my mouse of vu'tue, answer me. 

OIL Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I '11 
'bide your proof. 

Clo. Good madonna, why mouru'st thou ? 

OIL Good fool, for my brother's death. 

Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. 

OIL I know his soul is in heaven, fool. 

Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for 
yoiu- brother's soul being in heaven.^— Take away 
the fool, gentlemen. 

OIL What think you of this fool, Malvolio ? 
doth he not mend ? 

Mai. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of 
death shake him : Infirmity, that decays the 
wise, doth ever make the better fool. 

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for 
the better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby will 
be sworn that I am no fox ; but he will not pass 
his word for two-pence that you are no fool. 

OIL How say you to that, Malvolio ? 

Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in 
such a barren rascal : I saw him put down the 
other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more 
brain than a stone. Look you now, he 's out of 
his guara already ; unless yon laugh and minister 
occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest I take 
these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of 
fools, no better than the fools' zanies. 

OIL 0, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and 
taste Avith a distempered appetite. To be ge- 
nerous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to 
take those things for bird-bolts that you deem 
cannon-bullets : There is no slander in an 
allowed fool, though lie do nothing but rail ; 
uor no railing in a known discreet man, though 
he do nothing but reprove. 

Clo. Now Meitmry endue thee with leasii^g,"' 
for thou speakest well of fools ! 

Re-enter Mahia. 

Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a yoivug 
gentleman much desires to speak with you. 

^ Leasing — fiilsehood. Johnson interprets the passage, 
" May Mercury teach thee to lie. since thou liest in favour 
of fools." Is it not rather, — since thou speakest the truth 
of fools (which is not profitable), may Mercury give thee 
the advantageous gift of lying. 

Act r.] 


[Scene V, 

OIL Troin the count Orsiuo, is it ? 

J\lar. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young 
man, and well attended. 

OH. Who of my people hold him in delay ? 

]\[a>: Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 

Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks 
nothing but madman : Fie on him ! \Ilxit Ma- 
lUA.] Go you, Malvolio : if it be a suit from tlie 
count, I am sick, or not at home ; what you will, 
to dismiss it. \^Exit Malvolio.] Now you sec, 
sir, how your fooling grows old, and people 
dislike it. 

Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if 
thy eldest son should be a fool ; whose skull Jove 
cram with brains ! for here he comes, one of thy 
kin, has a most weak^)/« mater. 

Enter Sir Toby Belcu. 

Oli. By mine honour, half drunk. — What is 
he at the gate, cousin ? 

Sir To. A gentleman. 

Oli. A gentleman ? what gentleman ? 

Sir To. 'T is a gentleman here — A plague 
o' these pickle-herrings ! — How now, sot ? 

Clo. Good Sir Toby,— 

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so 
early by this lethargy ? 

Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery: There's 
one at the gate. 

Oli. Ay, marry ; what is he ? 

Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he wiU, I care 
not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. 


Oli. What 's a drunken man like, fool ? 

Clo. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a mad- 
man : one draught above heat makes him a fool ; 
the second mads him; and a third drowns him. 

Oli. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let 
him sit o' my coz ; for he 's in the third degree of 
drink, he 's drown'd : go, look after him. 

Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the 
fool shall look to the madman. [E.vit Clown. 

Re-enter Malvolio. 

Mai. Madam, yond young fellow swears he 
will speak with you. I told him you were sick ; 
he takes on him to understand so nuich, and 
therefore comes to speak with you : I told him 
you were asleep ; he seems to have a foreknow- 
ledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak 
with you. What is to be said to liim, lady ? he 's 
fortified against any denial. 

Oli. Tell him he shall not speak with me. 

Mai. He has been told so ; and he says, he 'U 
stand at your door like a sheriff's post,'' and be 

the supporter of a bench, but he '11 speak with 

Oli. What kind of man is he ? 

Mai. Why, of mankind. 

Oli. What manner of man ? 

Mai. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with 
you, will you, or no. 

Oli. Of what personage, and years, is he ? 

Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor 
young enough for a boy ; as a squash is before 
'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an 
apple : 't is with him in standing water, between 
boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he 
speaks very shrcwishly ; one would think his 
mother's milk was scarce out of him. 

OH. Let him approach : Call in my gentle- 

Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. \_E.cit. 

Re-enter Maria. 
Oli. Give me my veil : come, throw it o'er 
my face. 
We 11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. 

Enter ViOLA. 

Vio. The honoui-able lady of the house, which 
is she ? 

Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her: 
Your will ? 

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatch- 
able beauty, I pray you tell me if this be the 
lady of the house, for I never saw her : I would 
be loath to cast away my speech ; for, besides 
that it is excellently well penu'd I have taken 
great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me 
sustain no scorn ; I am very comptible,* even to 
the least sinister usage. 

Oli. Whence came you, sir ? 

Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, 
and that question 's out of my part. Good gentle 
one, give mc modest assurance if you be the 
lady of the house, that I may proceed in my 

OH. Are you a comedian ? 

Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the 
very fangs of malice I swear I amnot that I play 
Arc you the lady of the house ? 

OH. If 1 do not usurp myself, I am. 

Vio. Most certain, if you are she you do 
usurp yourself ; for what is yours to bestow is 
not yours to reserve. But this is from my com- 
mission: I will on with my speech in your 
praise, and then show you the heart of my mes- 

Compiiblc-U apt to take info account- susceptible. 

Act I ] 


[Scene V. 

on. Come to what is important iu 't : I for- 
give you the praise. 

Fio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 
't is poetical. 

OH. It is the more like to be feigned ; I pray 
you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my 
gates; and allowed your approach, ratlier to 
wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not 
mad," be gone ; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis 
not that time of moon with me to make one in 
so skipping a dialogue. 

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. 

Vio. No, good swabber ; I am to hull here a 
little longer. — Some mollification for your giant, 
sweet lady. 

OH. Tell me your mind. 

Vio. I am a messenger. 

OH. Sure, you have some hideous matter to 
deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. 
Speak your office. 

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no 
overture of war, no taxation of homage ; I hold 
the ohve in my hand : my words are as full of 
peace as matter. 

OH. Yet you began rudely. What are you ? 
what would you ? 

Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me, 
have I learned from my entertainment. What I 
am, and what I would, are as secret as maiden- 
head : to your ears, divinity ; to any other's, 

OU. Give us the place alone : we will hear 
this divinity. [_E.vU Maria.] Now, sir, what 
is your text ? 

Vio. Most sweet lady, — 

OH. A comfortable doctrine, and much may 
be said of it. Where lies your text? 

Vio. In Orsino's bosom. 

OH. In his bosom ? In what chapter of his 
bosom ? 

Vio. To answer by the method, iu the first of 
his heart. 

OH. 0, I have read it; it is heresy. Have 
you no more to say ? 

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. 

OH. Have you any commission from your 
lord to negociate with my face? you are now 
out of your text : but we will draw the curtain, 
and show you the picture. \JJnveiHng:\ Look 
you, sir, such a one I was this present ■> Is 't not 
well done ? 

" Some would read, " if you be mad." 

b This text appears clear enough. Olivia says, "we will 
draw the curtain, and show you the picture." She then un- 
veils her face for an instant only ; and adds, " Look you, sir 
such a one I was this present,"— such I was this moment' 

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 
OH. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind 
and weather. 

Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and 
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : 
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive. 
If you will lead these graces to the grave. 
And leave the world no copy. 

OH. 0, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted ; I 
will give out divers schedules of my beauty: Jt 
shall be inventoried ; and every particle, and 
utensil, labelled to my will : as, item, two lips 
indifferent red ; item, two grey eyes, with lids 
to them ; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. 
Were you sent hither to praise me ? ^ 

Vio. I see you what you are : you are too 
proud ; 
But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 
My lord and master loves you ; 0, such love 
Could be but recompens'd, though you were 

The nonpareil of beauty ! 

OH. How does he love me ? 

Vio. With adorations, fertile tears. 
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of 
OU. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot 
love him : 
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble. 
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ; 
In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd and valiant, 
And iu dimensiou, and the shape of nature, 
A gracious person ; bat yet I cannot love him ; 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 
In your denial I would find no sense, 
I would not understand it. 

OH. Why, what would you r 

Vio. Make me a willow cabm at your gate. 
And call upon my soul within the house ; 
Write loyal cantons" of contemned love. 
And sing them loud even iu the dead of night ; 
Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 
And make the babbling gossip of the air 
Cry out, Olivia ! 0, you should not rest 

The text has been confused 1 y a slight change which has 
been overlooked; for we lind in many modern editions, 
"such a one as I was this present." 

a Praise me. Malo!ie has ingeniously conjectured that 
praise is here a contraction for appraise. But the word used 
in Shakspere's time was apprise — to fix a price ; and more- 
over, Olivia herself introduced the talk about schedules and 
inventories. We believe, therefore, that we must receive 
praise in its ordinary acceptation. 

b Fertile tears. So the original. Pope reads, " with fer- 
tile tears." 

c Cantons — cantos. 

Act I.] 


[SlENE V. 

Between the elements of air and earth, 
But you should pity me. 

OIL You might do much : 'What is your 
parentage ? 

J-^io. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
I am a gentleman. 

OIL Get you to your lord ; 

I cannot love him : let him send no more ; 
Unless, perchanee, you come to me again. 
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well : 
I thank you for your pains : spend this for me. 

Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady ; keep your 
purse ; 
My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 
Liove make his heart of flint, that you shall love ; 
And let your fervour, like my master's, be 
Plac'd in contempt ! Farewell, fair cruelty. \_Exit. 

OIL What IS your parentage ? 
' Above my fortunes, yet my state is well ; 
I am a gentleman.' — I 'U be sworn thou art ; 
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and 

Do give thee five-fold blazon : — Not too fast : — 
soft! soft! 

Unless the master were tlic man. — How now ? 
Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 
Metliinks, I feel this youtli's perfections, 
With an invisible and subtle steaKh, 
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. — 
What, ho, Malvolio !— 

Re-enler Malvolio. 

MaL Here, madam, at your service. 

OIL Run after that same peevish messenger, 
The county's man : he left this ring behind him, 
Would I, or not ; tell him, I 'II none of it. 
Desire him not to flatter with his lord. 
Nor hold him up with hopes ; I am not for him: 
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, 
I '11 give him reasons for 't. Hie thee, Malvolio. 

Mai Madam, I will. [Exit. 

OIL I do I know not what : and fear to find 
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. 
Fate, show thy force : Ourselves we do not owe;" 
What is decreed must be ; and be this so ! 


•■> We do not own, possess, ourselves. 

[Parish Top.] 


' Scene I. — " That strain again; — it had a dying 

By " fall " is meant cadence (from cado), a musical 
term, siguifyiug the close of a passage or phrase, 
and which commonly includes the transition from 
a dissonant to a consonant sound ; or, in the lan- 
guage of Lord Bacon, {Sylva Sylvarum, i. 113,) 
" the falling from a discord to a concord, which 
maketh great sweetnesse in musicke." Milton, in 
' Comus,' uses the word in the same sense as Shak- 
spere ; and Pope, in his ' Ode to St. Cecilia's Day,' 
has " dying fall." " Dying " pi'obably means a 
diminution of sound, technically expressed by the 
Italian term dindnuendo. 

' Scene I. — "And my desires, like fell and cruel 
E'er since pursue me." 

The story of Actaeon, which Bacon interprets as a 
warning not to pry into the secrets of the great, re- 
ceives in the passage before us a much more natural 
and beautiful explanation. In Whitney's Emblems, 
published in 1586, the fable was somewhat similarly 
applied : — 

" Those who do pursue 
Their fancies fond, and things unlawful crave, 
Like brutish beasts appear unto the view, 
And shall at length Acta:on's guerden have: 
And as his hounds, so their affections base 
Shall them devour, and all their deeds deface." 

But in Daniel's Fifth Sonnet, published in 1594, we 
find the thought, and almost the expression of the 

text : — 

" Whilst youth and error led my wand'ring mind, 

And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range. 
All unawares a goddess chaste I find, 

(Diana-like,) to work my sudden change. 
For her no sooner had mine eye bewray'd, 

But with disdain to see me in that place, 
With fairest hand the sweet unkindest maid 

Casts water — cold disdain — upon my face: 
Which turn'd my sport into a hart's despair, 

Which still is chas'd, -while I have any breath. 
By mine own thoughts, set on me by my fair ; 

My thoughts, like hounds, pursue me to my death. 
Those that I foster'd of mine own accord 
Are made by her to murder thus their lord." 

3 Scene III. — " Viol-de-gamboys." 

The viol-dagamho, or base viol, a kind of violon- 
cello, which had six strings, and was so called be- 
cause placed between the legs. 


[Viol-de Gamboys.j 

» Scene III.—" Till his brains turn o'the toe liJce a 

" He sleeps like a town top" is au old proverbial 
saying. Fletcher, in the ' Night Walker,' has 

" And dances like a town-top, and reels and hobbles." 

In the passage before us we find that the ioicn-top 
and the parish-top were one and the same. The 
custom which existed in the time of Elizabeth, and 
probably long before, of a large top being provided 
for the amusement of the peasants in frosty weather, 
presents a curious illustration of the mitigating in- 
duences of social kindness in au age of penal legis- 
lation. Whilst "■ poor Tom " was " whipped from 
tithing to tithing," he had his May-games, and his 
Christmas hospitalities, and his parish-top, if he re- 
mained at home. Steevens explains the custom of 
the parish-top in a very literal manner : — " A large 
top was formerly keptin every village, to be whipped 
in frosty weather, that the peasants might be kept 
warm by exercise, and out of mischief, while they 
could not work." We rather believe that our an- 
cestors were too much accustomed to rely upon 
other expedients, such as the halter and the stocks, 
for keeping the peasants out of mischief. But yet, 
with all the sternness which they called justice, the 
higher classes of society had au honest desire to 
promote the spirit of enjoyment amongst their 
humbler fellow-men ; aud they looked not only 
without disdain, but with real sympathy, upon " the 
common recreations of the country folks." Randal 
Holme gives us a pretty long catalogue of these 
amusements : — 

• They dare challenge for to throw the sledge ; 

To jump or leap over ditch or hedge; 
To wrastle, play at stool-ball, or to ran ; 
To pitch the bar, or to shoot off the gun ; 
To play at loggets, nine holes, or ten pins ; 
To try it out at foot-ball by the shins ; 
At tick-tack, seize-noddy, maw, or ruff; 
Hot-cockles, leap-frog, or blind-man's-buff; 

Comedies. — Vol. II, L 

To dance the morri'i, play at barley-break ; 

A.t all exploits a man can tliink or speak ; 

At shove-groat, 'venter-point, at cross-and-pile; 

At ' Beshrew him that's last at any stile; ' 

At leaping over a Christmas bonfire, 

Or at the ' drawing dun out o' the mire; ' 

At 'Shoot cock, Gregory,' stool-ball, and what not ; 

Pick-point, top and scourge, to make him hot " 

* Scene 111.—" Wherefore are these things hid? 
wherefore have these gifts a curtain hefore 
them ? are they like to take dust, like mistress 
MalTs picture ? " 

In a subsequent scene of this comedy Olivia says, 
" but we will draw the curtain, and show you the 
picture." It was a common practice to cover up 
pictures with curtains. Jack of Newbury is re- 
corded to have had in a fair large parlour wliich 
was wainscoted round about, " fifteen fair pictures 
hanging, which were covered with curtains of green 
silk fringed with gold, which he would often show 
to his friends aud servants." Jack of Newbury 
was a staid and wealthy burgher, aud was little 
likely to have had pictures in his possession not fit 
to be uncurtained. Mistress Mall's picture, how- 
ever, was probably not of the most correct class, and 
was therefore seldom exposed to view, for tlie al- 
leged reason of being " like to take dust." This pas- 
sage has been received as an allusiou to a lady wJio 
was more honoured in her generation, and passed 
through a long life with more uniform success (with 
the exception of a little occasional jjrison and pen- 
ance), than any other such heroine upon record. 
In addition to the supposed notice b}' Shakspere, 
Middleton and Dekker niade her the subject of a 
comedy; and playwrights and ejiigrammatists men- 
tion her for half a century. Her familiar name 
was Moll Cutpurse ; the name she received from 
her parents, Mary Frith. There is a letter in the 
British Museum, dated February 11, 1612, which 
gives an amusing account of her doing penance at 
Paul's Cross : — 



" This last Sunday Moll Cutpurse, a notorious 
bags;age that used to go in man's apparel, and 
challenged the field of diverse gallants, was brought 
to the same place (Paul's Cross), where she wept 
bitterly, and seemed very penitent ; but it is since 
doubted she was maudlin drunk, being discovered 
to have tippled off three quarts of sack before she 
came to her penance. She had the daintiest 
preacher or ghostly father that I ever saw in the 
pulpit, one Radcliffe, of Brazenose College in Ox- 
ford, a likelier man to have led the revels in some 
inn of court than to be where he was. But the 
best is, he did extreme badly, and so wearied the 
audience that the best part went away, and the rest 
tarried rather to hear Moll Cutpurse than him." 

Malone, who assigns the date of Twelfth Night 
to 1614, says Moll was born in 1584. A life of 
her gives the date of her birth as 1589. As we 
now know Twelfth Night was produced in 1601, 
the allusion cannot be to her. We believe that 
the allusion was to Mary Ambree, to whom Butler 
may allude when he speaks of 

'• A bold virago, stout and tall 
As Joan of France, or English Mall." 

Mary Ambree is held to have fought at the siege 
of Ghent in 1584. She also was celebrated in 
play and ballad. 

In the title-page to Middleton and Dekker's 
play there is the following portrait of Moll Cut- 
purse : — 

" Scene III. — " Why dost thou not go to church in a 

galliard, and come home in a coranto ? sinh-a- 


Galliard, a lively dance. " A lighter and more 
stirring kind of dancing than the pavan," says Mor- 
ley, a contemporary of Shakspere ; who adds— " The 
Italians make their galliards plain, and frame ditties 
to them, which, in their mascaradoes, they sing and 
dance, and manie times without any instruments." 

Coranto (courante), a quick dance, as the word 
indicates, and for two persons, according to Mer- 
senne {Harmonic Universelle, 1636). Morley de- 
scribes it as " traversing and running, as our coun- 
try-dance, but hath twice as much in a strain." 

Sink-aj)ace, i. e. cinque-pace, " the name of a 
dance," says Sir John Hawkins, "the measures 
whereof aie regulated by the nuiTiber five." In an 
old Italian work, ' 11 Ballerino' (1581), this dance is 
described as consisting of four steps and a cadence • 
and, according to Sir John Davis, in his poem on 
Dancing — 

" Five was the number of the music's feet, 
Which still the dance did with five paces meet." 

' Scene V. — " He says, he 'II staiid at your door 
like a sheriff's post." 

We have nothing very certain about the sheriff's 
posts, except what we find in the allusions of the 
old dramatists. It is commonly thought that these 
posts were employed to fix proclamations upon ; 
but we are inclined to believe that they were only 
tokens of authority, to denote the residence of a 
magistrate. We learn from several old plays that 
the posts were set up upon the election of a she- 
riff or chief magistrate, and that they were orna- 
mented. The following passages are given in a 
communication to the Society of Antiquaries by 
Mr. John Adey Repton (' Archseologia,* vol. xix. 
p. 383) :- 

" Communis Sensus. Crave my counsell, tell me what 
maner of man he is f can he entertain a man into his house? 
can he hold his velvet cap in one band, and vale his bonnet 
with the other? knowes he how to become a scarlet gowne' 
hath he a paire of fresh posts at his doore f 

Phantasies. Hee 's about some hasty state matters, he 
talks of postes methinks. 

Com. S. Can he part a couple of dogges brawling in the 


streetc? wLy then elioose him mayor upon my credit, licele 
prove a wise ollicer." — (Lingua, Act il., Sc. iii. — 1()07.) 

" I'll love your door the hettcr while I know 't. 

Widow. A pair of such hrothers were litter for posts 
without door, indeed to make a show at a new-chosen magis- 
trate's ijate, than," &c. — (Beaumont and Fletcher's Widow, 
Act II.) 

"1 hope my acquaintance goes in chains of gold, three and 
fifty times double ; you know who I mean, coz : the posts of 
his gate are a painting too." — (Dekkar's ' Honest Whore.') 

" If e'er 1 live to see thee sherifT of London 
I 'U gild thy posts." 

(Rowley's ' Woman never Vexed.') 

" IIow long should I he, ere I sliould put olT 
To t!ic lord chancellor's tomb, or to the sheriff's post f" 
(Ben Jonson's 'Every Man out of his Humour,' 
Act III., Sc. IX.) 

Mr. Repton accompanies his paper with two draw- 
ings of posts attaelied to ancient houses in Nor- 
wich, of tlic date of Henry VIII. and of Elizabeth. 
We copy that of the Liter period, which is well 
defined by the letters T. P. on one po.^t, and the 
date 159— on the other. Thomas Pcttys, — the 
arms of whose family are in another jiart of the 
building, — was mayor of Norwich in 15'J2:--- 



[Scene I ] 


SCENE I.— The Sea-coast. 

Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 

Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you 
not that I go with you ? 

Sob. By your patience, no : my stars shine 
darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate 
might, perhaps, distemper yours ; therefore I 
shall crave of you youi- leave that I may bear 
my evils alone : It were a bad recompense for 
your love to lay any of them on you. 

Jnt. Let me yet know of you whither you 
are bound. 

Seb. No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage 
is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you 
so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will 
not extort from me what I am willing to keep in ; 
therefore it charges me in manners the rather to 
express ^ myself. You must know of me then, 
Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called 
Rodorigo ; my father was that Sebastian of 
Iflessaline,'' whom I know you have heard of: he 

a Fxpress — make known. 

k Messaline. Mitylene (Lesbos) is most probably meant. 

left behind him, myself and a sister, both born 
in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, 
'would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered 
that ; for some hour before you took me from 
the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. 

Ant. Alas, the day ! 

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much 
resembled me, was yet of many accounted beau- 
tiful : but, though I could not, with such estim- 
able wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I 
will boldy publish her, — she bore a mind that 
envy could not but call fair: she is drowned 
already, sir, \vith salt water, though I seem to 
drown her remembrance again with more. 

Atit. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. 

Seb. 0, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. 

Ant. If you will not mm'ther me for my love, 
let me be your servant.^ 

Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, 
that is, kill him whom you have recovered, de- 

The gracious commentators say, " Shakspere knew little o? 
geography, and was not at all solicitous about orthographical 
nicety." It would be nigher the truth to conjecture that 
Shakspere wrote Mettaline, and that the t's were mistaken 
for s's. Mettaline is quite near enough the modern Metelin. 

Act II.) 


sire it not. Fare ye well at once : my bosom 
is full of kindness ; and I am yet so near the 
manners of my motlier, that upon the least occa- 
sion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am 
bound to the count Orsino's court : Farewell. 

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with 
thee ! 
I have many enemies in Orsino's court, 
Else would I very shortly see thee there : 
But, come what may, 1 do adore thee so, 
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. 


SCENE II.— A Street. 
Enter Viola ; MAvyoLio followh/^. 

Mai. Were not you even now with the countess 
Olivia ? 

Vio. Even now, sir ; on a moderate pace I 
have since arrived but hither. 

Mai. She returns this ring to you, sir; you 
might have saved me my pains, to have taken it 
away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you 
should put your lord into a desperate assurance 
she will none of him : And one thing more ; 
that you be never so hardy to come again in his 
affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking 
of this. Receive it so. 

Vio. She took the ring of me." I '11 none of it. 

3Ial. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to 
her ; and her will is it should be so returned : if 
it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your 
eye ; if not, be it his that finds it. \_E.rit. 

Vio. I left no ring with her : What means this 
Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd 

She made good view of me ; indeed, so much 
That,'' me thought, her eyes had lost" her tongue, 
For she did speak in starts distractedly. 
She loves me, sure ; the cunning of her passion 
Invites me in this churlish messenger. 
None of my lord's ring ! why, he sent her none. 
I am the man : — If it be so, (as 't is,) 
Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness. 
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 

* She took the ring of me. Viola has been blamed for this 
assertion. She would screen Olivia from the suspicions of 
her own servant. The lady has said that the ring was left 
with her; and Viola has too strong a respect for herown sex 
to proclaim the truth. She makes up her mind during 
Malvolio's speech to refuse the ring ; but not to expose the 
cause of her refusal. 

b That, methought. So the first folio. In the second folio, 
which is commonly followed, we find — " That, sure, me- 

c Lost — caused her tongue to be lost. 

How easy is it for the proper-false " 

In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! 

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we ; 

For, such as we are made, if such wc be.'' 

How will this fadge?" My master loves her 

dearly ; 
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him ; 
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me : 
What will become of this ? As I am man, 
My state is desperate for my master's love ! 
As I am woman, now alas the day ! 
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ! 

time, thou must untangle this, not I ; 

It is too hard a knot for me t' untie. lE.nt. 

SCENE III.— ^ Room in Olivia's House. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague- 

Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew : not to be a-bcd 
after midnight is to be up betimes ; and diliiculo 
surciere, thou know'st, — 

Sir Anil. Nay, by my troth, I know not : but 

1 know, to be up late is to be up late. 

Sir To. A false conclusion ; I hate it as an 
unfilled can : To be up after midnight, and to 
go to bed then, is early : so that, to go to bed 
after michiight is to go to bed betimes. Do not 
our lives consist of the four elements ? 

Sir And. 'Faith, so they say ; but, I think, it 
rather consists of eating and drinking. 

Sir To. Thou art a scholar ; let us therefore 
eat and driuk. — Marian, I say ! — a stoop of 
wine ! 

Enter Clown. 

Sir And. Here comes the fool, i' faith. 

Clo. How now, ray hearts ? Did you never see 
the picture of we three ? - 

;S/V To. Welcome ass. Now let's have a 

* Proper-false. — Proper is here handsome, as in Othello, — 
" This Ludovico is a proper man." 
This adjective is compounded with /n/.'c, in the same way 
that we subsequently have beauteous-evil. 

b This is printed in all modem editions, according to a 
conjecture of Tyrwliitt's, 

" For, such as we are made of, such we be." 
Both the first and second folios are clear in the reading 
which we give ; and in this case a typographical error in the 
preceding line is corrected in the second folio, which has 
"our frailty" instead of " 0, frailty." Steevcns justifies the 
change of if to of by the passa-e in the Tempest, " we ar9 
such stuflTas dreams are made nf." But the passages are not 
analogous. If Viola meant to say— we be such as we are 
made— the particle of is surplusage. But we think she does 
not mean this. She would say "our frailty is the cause, 
not we ourselves, that the proper-false deceive us ; because 
such as we are made frail if we be frail." The poet did not 
mean the reasoning to be very conclusive. 

c Fudge— lo suit— to acree— from the Anglo-Saxon fegan 
to join. Drayton has, 

" With ilattery my mu6e could never fadge." 


Act 11] 


[Scene III. 

Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excel- 
lent breast."' I had ratlier tlian forty shillings I 
bad such a leg ; and so sweet a breath to suig, 
as the fool has. In sooth, tliou Mast in very 
gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of 
Pigrogromitus, of the Vajaians jDassiug the equi- 
noctial of Queubus ; 't was very good, i' faith. 
I sent thee sixpence for thy leuian : Had'st it ? 

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity;'' for Mal- 
volio's nose is no whipstock : My lady has a 
white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle- 
ale houses. 

Sir And. Excellent ! Why, this is the best 
fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. 

Sir To. Come on ; there is sixpence for you : 
let 's have a song. 

Sir And. There's a testril of me too ; if one 
knight give a • 

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song 
of good life ? 

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. 

Sir And. Ay, ay ; I care not for good life 

Clo. O mistress mine, ■where are you roaming? 
0, stay and hear ; your true love 's coming, 

That can sing hoth liigh and low : 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 
Every wise man's son doth know. 

Sir. And. Excellent good, i' faith. 
Sir. To. Good, good. 

Clo. What is love? 't is not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty ; 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth 's a stuff will not endure. 

a Excellent breast — excellent voice. Warton has given 
several examples of this meaning of breast :— amongst 
others, Tusser, the author of 'The Husbandry,' v/ho was a 
chorister at Wincliester, says — 

" Thence, for my voice, I must (no choice) 
Away, offeree, like posting horse. 
For sundry men had placards then 

Such child to take; 
The better breast, the lesser rest. 
To serve the quire now tliere, now here." 
The expression has passed into high poetry in these lines 
of The Two Noble Kinsmen : — 

"I have heard 
Two envious Philomels beat the ear of night 
With their contentious throats ; now one the higher, 
Anon the other, then again the first. 
And by-and-by outbrcasted." 
') Impclicos thy gratillity. This is evidently a touch of 
(lie fantastic language which the clown continually uses. 
Johnson would read— " I did impetticoat tliy gratuity." No 
doubt we understand it so. But then comes a grave discus- 
sion amongst the commentators, v/hether the clown put the 
.sixpence in his own petticoat or gave it to his leman. Dr. 
Johnson says, with great candour and wisdom, — " There is 
much in this dialogue which I do not understand ; "—and 
we are content to plead liis sanction in not entering upon 
this recondite question of the petticoat; in leaving unex- 
plained the still more abstruse histories of " Pigrogromitus" 
and " the Vapians ; " and in (jiving up the riddle why " the 
myrmidons are no bottle-ale liouses." 

c Mr. White has pointed out that this song appears in 
Morley's " Consort Lessons," 1599. 


Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true 

Sir To. A contagious breath. 

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. 

Sir To, To hear by the nose, it is dulcet iu 
contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance 
indeed ? Shall we rouse the night-owl iu a catch, 
that will draw three souls out of one weaver ? 
shall we do that ? 

Sir And. An you love me, let 's do 't : I am 
dog at a catch. 

Clo. By 'r lady, sir, and some dogs wiU catch 

Sir. And. Most certain : let our catch be, 
' Thou knave.' * 

Clo. ' Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight ? I 
shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, 

Sir And. 'T is not the first time I have con- 
strain' i one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it 
begins, ' Hold thy peace.' 

Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. 

Sir. And. Good, i' faith ! Come, begin. 

[_Thei/ sing a catch. 

Enter Mahia. 

Mar. What a catterwauling do you keep here ! 
If my lady have not called up her steward, Mal- 
volio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never 
trust me. 

Sir To. My lady's a Catalan, we are politi- 
cians ; Malvolio 's a Pcg-a-llamsay, and ' Three 
merry men be we.'^ Am not I consanguineous ? 
am I not of her blood ? Tilly-valley ! lady ! 
' There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady ! ' * 


Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable 

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be 
disposed, and so do I too ; he does it ^vith a 
better grace, but I do it more natural. 

Sir. To. ' 0, the twelfth day of December,' — 


Mar. For the love o' God, peace. 

Enter Malvolio. 

Mai. My masters, are you mad ? or what are 
you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, 
but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night ? 
Do you make an alehouse of my lady's house, 
that ye squeak out your coziers' catches "■ without 
any mitigation or remorse of voice ? Is there no 
respect of place, persons, nor time, iu you ? 

" Coziers' catches—a cozier is a botcljer— whether a tailor or 
a cobbler is not material. 

Act II.] 



Sir To. We did keep time, sir, iu our catches. 
Sneck up ! * 

Mai. Sir Toby, I must be rouud with you. 
My lady bade me tell you, that, though she har- 
bours you as her kiusman, she 's nothing allied 
to your disorders. If you cau separate yousclf 
and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the 
house; if not, an it would please you to take 
leave of her, she is very willing to bid you fare- 

Sir To. ' Farewell, dear heart, since I must 
needs be gone.' ® 

Mar. Nay, good sir Toby. 

Clo. 'His eyes do show his days are almost 

Mai. Is 't even so ? 

Sir To. ' But I will never die.' 

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 

Mai. This is much credit to you. 

Sir To. ' Shall I bid him go ? ' 

Clo. ' What an if you do ? ' 

Sir To. ' Shall I bid him go, and spare not ? ' 

Clo. ' no, no, no, no, you dare not.' 

Sir To. Out o' time ? sir, ye lie.*'— Art any 
more than a steward ? Dost tliou think because 
thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes 
and ale ? ^ 

Clo. Yes, by saint Anne : and ginger shall be 
hot i' the mouth too. 

Sir To. Thou 'rt i' the right.— Go, sir, rub 
your chain with crumbs : " — A stoop of wine, 
Maria ! 

Mai. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's 
favour at anything more than contempt, you 
would not give means for this uncivil rule ; ^ she 
shall know of it, by this baud. [E.vil. 

Mar. Go shake your ears. 

Sir And. 'T were as good a deed as to drink 
when a man 's a hungry, to challenge him the 
field ; and then to break promise with him, and 
make a fool of him. 

Sir To. Do 't, knight ; I '11 write thee a chal- 
lenge ; or I '11 deliver thy mdignation to him by 
word of mouth. 

a Snech up. A passage in Taylor, the Water Poet, would 
sliow that this phrase means— hang yourself. He says, in 
tie ' Praise of Hempseed ' — 

" A Tyburn hempen caudle will e'en cure you : 
It can cure traitors, hut I hold it fit 
T' apply 't ere they the treason do commit : 
Wherefore in Sparta it ycleped was 
Snickup, which is in English gallowgrass." 
b Sir Tobv comes back to his former assertion—" we did 
keep time, sir." The old copies read " out o' tune." The 
correction was made by Theobald. 

c The steward's office of authority was denoted by a chain. 
Steevens tells us " the best way of cleaning any gilt plate is 
by rubbing it with crumbs." Our ancestors at least thought 
so, for Webster, in the ' Duchess of Malfy,' has, " the chip- 
pings of the buttery fly after him, to scour his gold chain." 
d Rule — conduct — method of life. 

Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for to-night ; 
since the youth of the count's was to-day with 
my lady, she is much out of quiet. Tur Mon- 
sieur Malvolio, let me alone with him : if I do 
not gvdl him into a nayword, and make him n 
common recreation, do not think 1 have wit 
enough to lie straight in my bed : I know I can 
do it. 

^(> To. Possess us, possess us;'' tell us some- 
thing of him. 

Mar. Marry, sii", sometimes he is a kind of 

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I 'd beat him 
like a dog. 

Sir To. Wliat, for being a Puritan ? thy ex- 
quisite reason, dear knight ? 

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't, but 
I have reason good enough. 

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any- 
thing constantly but a time-plcaser ; an affcc- 
tioned *> ass, that cons state without book, and 
utters it by great swarths : the best persuaded 
of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, witli excel- 
lences, that it is his ground of faith that all 
that look on Mm love him ; and on that vice 
in him will my revenge find notable cause to 

Sir To. What wUt thou do ? 

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure 
epistles of love ; wherein, by the colour of his 
beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his 
gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and 
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly 
personated : I can write very like my lady, your 
niece ; on a forgotten matter we can hardly 
make distinction of our hands. 

Sir To. Excellent ! I smell a device. 

Sir And. I have 't in my nose too. 

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that 
thou wilt drop, that they come from ray niece, 
and that she is in love with him. 

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that 

Sir And. And your horse now would make 
him an ass. 

Mar. Ass, I doubt not. 

Sir And. O, 't will be admirable. 

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you : I know my 
pliysic will work witli him. I will plant you two, 
and let the fool make a third, where he shall find 
the letter ; observe his construction of it. For 
this night, to bed, and dream on the event. 
Farewell. [^•'■'^- 

* Pnssess us — inform us. j , ci i 

I b Affeclioncd. Affection is several times used by bliak- 
snere in the sense of affectation. 


Act II.] 


[Scene IV 

Sir To. Good night, PeuthesUea. 

Sir And. Before me, she 's a good wench. 

Sir To. She 's a beagle, trae bred, and one 
that adores mc : What o' that ? 

Sir And. I was adored once too. 

Sir To. Let 's to bed, knight.— Thou had'st 
need send for more money. 

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am 
a foul way out. 

Sir To. Send for money, knight ; if thou hast 
her not i' the end, call me Cut."^ 

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it 
how you will. 

Sir To. Come, come ; I '11 go burn some sack; 
't is too late to go to bed now. Come, knight ; 
come, knight. [RveunL 

SCENE IV.— .:^ Room in the Duke's Palace. 
EnterUvKS, Viola, Curio, and others. 

Duke. Give me some music: — Now, good 
morrow, friends : — 
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song. 
That old and antique song we heard last night ; 
Methought, it did relieve my passion much ; 
More than light airs and recollected terms,* 
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times : 
Come, but one verse. 

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, 
that should sing it. 

Duke. Who was it ? 

Cur. Teste, the jester, my lord ; a fool, that 
the lady Olivda's father took much delight in : 
he is about the house. 

Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the 
while. \_E.cit Cukio. — Ilusic. 

Come hither, boy : If ever thou shalt love, 
In the sweet pangs of it remember me : 
For, such as I am all true lovers are ; 
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else. 
Save, in the constant image of the creature 
That is belov'd.— How dost thou like this tune ? 

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat 
Where Love is thron'd. 

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly : 

My life upon 't, yoimg though thou art, thine eye 
Hath stay'd upon some favour- that it loves ; 
Hath it not, boy ? 

I^io. A little, by your favour. 

Duke. Wliat kind of woman is 't ? 

^^0. Of youi- complexion. 

Duke. She is not worth thee then. What 
yearji, i' faith ? 

" Call we Cut. "Call me horse," says I'alstaff. A cut 
■was a horse. 


Fio. About your years, my lord. 

Duke. Too old, by heaven : Let still the wo- 
man take 
An elder than herself ; so wears she to him, 
So sways she level in her husband's heart. 
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves. 
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 
]\Iore longing, wavering, sooner lost and woji/ 
Than women's are. 

Vio. I think it well, my lord. 

Duke. Then let thy love be younger than 
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent : 
For women are as roses ; whose fair flower. 
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. 

Fio. And so they are : alas, that they are so ; 
To die, even when they to perfection grow ! 

Re-enter Curio atid Clown. 

Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last 
night : — 
Mark it, Cesario ; it is old and plain : 
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 
And the free maids ^ that weave their thread with 

Do use to chant it ; it is siUy sooth. 
And dallies with the innocence of love. 
Like the old age. 

Clo. Are you ready, sir ? 

Duke. Ay ; prithee sing, \_Music. 


Clo. ' Come away, come away, death, 

And in sad cypress c let me be laid ; 

a Won. The original has worn. Mr. Walker says " that 
it is wonderful any one should have hesitated between 
u'orn and the true reading, won." The reading was Han- 

b Free maids. Upon the passage in Milton's L' Allegro — 

" But come, thou goddess fair a.nd free, 
In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne " — 

Warton remarks that "in the metrical romances these two 
words, thus paired together, are a common epithet for a 
lady," as in 'Sir Eglamoui, ' — 

" The erle's daughter, fair and free." 

The "old and plain" song which the "free maids do use to 
chant" is of a serious character; and yet two of the com- 
mentators tell us that free here means licentious. 

c Sad ci/press. There is a doubt whether a coffin of cypress- 
wood, or a shroud of cypress be here meant. The " sad 
cypress-tree" was anciently associated, as it is still, with 
funereal gloom, and was probably used for coffins. The stuff 
called cypress (our crape), which derives its name either 
from the island of Cyprus, or from the French crespe, was 
also connected with mournful images. It was probably both 
white and black. In a subsequent scene of this play Olivia 

" A cypress, not a bosom. 
Hides my heart." 
In the Winter's Tale Autolycus reckons amongst his wares — 

' Lawn as white as driven snow, 
Cypress black as e'er was crow." 

In Ben Jonson's 'Epigrams ' we have " solemn cypress " as 

Act II.] 


Fly away, Hy away, breath ; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all ^Yith yew, 

O, prepare it ; 
My part of death no one so true 

Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet. 
On my black coflin let there be strown; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save. 

Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 
To weep there.' 

Bake. There's for thy pains. 
Clo. No pains, sir ; 1 take pleasure in singing, 

Luke. I '11 pay thy pleasure then. 
_ Clo. Ti-uly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one 
time or another. 
Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. 
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee ; 
and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable' 
tafFata, for thy mind is a very opal ! '^ — I would 
have men of such constancy put to sea, that their 
business might be everything, and their intent 
everywhere ; for that 's it that always makes a 
good voyage of nothing.— Farewell. 

[_ExU Clown. 
Duke. Let all the rest give place. 

{Exeunt Curio and Attendants. 
Once more, Cesario, 
Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty : 
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, 
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands ; 
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, 
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune ; 
But 't is that miracle, and queen of gems, 
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. 
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ? 
Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. 
^io- 'Sooth, but you must. 

Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is. 
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; 
You tell her so : Must she not then be answer'd ? 

Duke. There is no woman's sides, 
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
As love doth give my heart : no woman's heart 
So big, to hold so much ; they lack retention. 
Alas, their love may be called appetite, — 
No motion of the liver, but the palate,— 
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ; 
But mine is all as hungry as the sea. 

opposed to "cobweb-lawn." It is diflicult, and perhaps 
unnecessary, to decide the question ; for the sentiment is 
the same, whichever meaning we receive. 

» Opal — a gem whose colours change as it is viewed in 
different lights. 


And can digest as much : make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me. 
And that I owe Olivia. 

^''■^- Ay, but I know,— 

Duke. What dost thou know ? 
Vio. Too well what love women to men may 
owe : 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter lov'd a man, 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what 's her history ? 

Vio. A blank, my lord : She never told Jicr 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud. 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pm'd in 

thought ; 
And, with a green and yellow melancholy. 
She sat, like patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief." Was not this love, indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more : but, indeed. 
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my 

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's 
And all the brothers too; — and yet I know- 
not. — 
Sir, shall I to this lady ? 

Duke. Ay, that 's the theme. 

To her in haste ; give her this jewel ; say. 
My love can give no place, bide no deuay. 


SCENE v.— OHvia'5 Garden. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek, ««f/ Fabian. 

Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian. 

Fab. Nay, I '11 come ; if I lose a scruple of 
this sport, let mo be boiled to death with melan- 

Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have 
the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some 
notable shame ? 

Fab. I would exult, man : you know, he 
brought me out o' favour with my lady, about a 
bear-baiting here. 

Sir To. To anger him, wc 'II have the bear 

•1 A prosaic explanation of this exquisite passage may seem 
cut of place; — we will make it as brief as possible. The 
commentators are divided in opinion: some hold that Pa- 
tience was smiling at another figure of Grief; the contrary 
opinion is, that she who "never told her love " sat " smiling 
at grief," as placidly as "Patience on a monument." Vie 
have pointed the passage agreeably to the latter opinion. 


Act II.] 


[Scene V. 

again ; aud we will fool liim black and blue : — 
Shall we not, sir Andrew ? 
Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. 

Enter Mauia. 

Sir Tc Here comes the little villam :— How 
now, my metal of India ! '^ 

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree: 
]iIalvolio 's coming down this walk. He has 
been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to 
his own shadow, this half-hour : observe him, 
for the love of mockery ; for, I know, this letter 
will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, 
in tbe name of jesting ! 'iJThe men hide them- 
selves.'] Lie thou there ; [throws down a letter} 
for here comes the trout that must be caught 
with tickling. [Exit Maria. 

Enter Malvolio. 

Mai. 'T is but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria 
once told me she did affect me : and I have heard 
herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it 
should be one of my complexion. Besides, she 
uses me with a more exalted respect than any 
one else that follows her. What should I think 

Sir To. Here 's an overweening rogue ! 

Fab. 0, peace 1 Contemplation makes a rare 
turkey-cock of him ! how he jets under his ad- 
vanced plumes ! 

Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue : — 

Sir. To. Peace, I say. 

Mat. To be count Malvolio ; — 

Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

Sir To. Peace, peace ! 

Mai. There is example for 't ; the lady of the 
Strachy '' married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 

a My metal of India. So the original ioWo— mettle. In 
the second folio we liave nettle. My metal of India is, 
(ibviously enough, my heart of gold, ray precious girl ; my 
nettle of India is said to be a "zoophite, called tlie Uriica 
Marina, abounding in tlie Indian seas." Was Sir Toby 
likely to use a common figure, or one so far-fetched? If 
Shakspere had wished to call Maria a stinging nettle, he 
would have been satisfied witli naming tlie indigenous 
plant,— as he has been in Richard II., and Henry IV. — 
without going to the Indian seas. ' 

b The lady of the Strachy. This has been called a despe- 
rate passage; and many wild guesses have accordingly been 
made to explain it. We subjoin a note from a correspond- 
ent, w ulch probably comes as near to the mark as we may 
expect:— "Steevens conjectured, tlie lady of tlie Starchy— 
I.e. laundry; but this is not the point at which Malvolio 
aimed, viz. an example of a lady of high degree marryin<' 
^erserving-m?n. Mr. R. P. Knight suggested S/roc/»/ to he 
a corruption of the Italian Stratico :—' Cosi chi amasi il 
governatore di Messina,' says Menage. The word is written 
Stradico in Florio, anil was no doubt applied to governors 
elsewhere than at Messina. The low Latin, Strategus, or 
Straitens, or Slratigus, was in common use for a prefect or 
ruler of a city or province, (Du Cange,) from the Greek 
2TPOTI1709. Strategus in English would be Strateni,, which 
by various conuptions-Stratgy, Stratchy—may hare be- 

Sir And. Pie on him, Jezebel ! 

Fab. O, peace ! now he 's deeply in ; look, 
how imagination blows him. 

Mai. Having been three months married to 
her, sitting in my state, ^ — 

Sir To. O, for a stone-bow,' to hit him in the 

Mai. Calling my officers about me, in my 
branched velvet gown ; having come from a 
day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping : 

Sir To. Pire and brimstone ! 

Fab. O, peace, peace ! 

3Ial. And then to have the humour of state 
and after a demure travel of regard, — telling 
them I know my place, as I would they should 
do theirs, — to ask for my kinsman Toby : 

Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace ! now, now. 

Mat. Seven of my people, with an obedient 
start, make out for him : I frown the while : and, 
perchance, wind up my watch,^" or play with my 
some rich jewel.^ Toby approaches ; courtesies" 
there to me : 

Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us 
with ears,** yet peace. 

Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quench- 
ing my familiar smile with an austere regard of 
control : 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow 
o' the lips then ? 

Mai. Saying, ' Cousin Toby, my fortunes 
having cast me on your niece, give me this 
prerogative of speech :' — 

Sir To. What, what ? 

Mai. 'You must amend your drunkenness.' 

Sir To. Out, scab ! 

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews 
of our plot. 

come Malvolio's Strachy; or it may have descended from the 
Italian directly. The example was probably well known 
of a lady of the Strachy — i. e. the governor — marrying the 
yeoman of the wardrobe." And yet the context would 
rather point to some corruption of the name of a place. 
Warburton conjectures that Strachy was Trachg, Thrace. 
Malvolio would hardly say " the lady " of the governor, for 
the ividoiv of the governor; but he would say, the lady of 
such a land, for the princess. Unquestionably the allusion 
is to some popular story-book— one of those in which 
" Fair truth have told 
That (jueem of oltl 

Have now and then 
Married with private men." — R. Brome. 
Where the scene of the elevation of " the yeoman of the 
wardrobe " was placed by the story-book writer was of liltle 
consequence. It might be Thrace. It might be Astrakhan 
— Astracan — easily enough corrupted into A-strachy — and 
as easily metamorphosed by a printer into the Strachy. Mr. 
Collier suggests that it may be " the lady of the Strozii " 

"■ My state — my canopied chair — my throne. 

b My some rich jewel — some rich jewel of my own 

' Courtesies— makes his courtesy. 

J Cars in the folio ; Hanmer, ears. 



[Scene V. 

Mai. ' Besides, you waste tbe treasure of your 
time willi a foolish knight ;' 

Sir And. That 's me, I wai'rant you. 

Mai. ' One sir Andrew :' 

Sir And. I kuew 't was I ; for many do call 
me fool. 

Mai. What employment have we here ? 

[Taking vp the letter. 

Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. O peace ! and the spirit of humoui's 
intimate reading aloud to him ! 

Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand : these 
be lier very 6"s, her f/'s, and her jT's ; and thus 
makes she her great P's."^ It is, in contempt of 
question, her hand. 

Sir And. Her C"s, her f/'s, and her T's : Why 
that ? 

Mai {j-eads^ ' To the unknown beloved, this, 
and my good wishes :' her very phrases ! — By 
your leave, wax. — Soft ! — and the impressure 
her Lucreee," with which she uses to seal : 't is 
my lady : To whom should this be ? 

Fad. This wins him, liver and all. 

Mai. [reads'], 

' Jove knows, I love : 

But who ? 
Lips, do not move ; 
No man must know.' 

' No man must know.' — What follows ? — the 
number's altered!^ — 'No man must know:' — 
If this should be thee, Malvolio ? 

Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock ! ° 


' I may command, where I adore: 
But silence, like a Lucrece knife. 
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; 
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' 

Fab. A fustian riddle ! 

*S'//- To. Excellent wench, say I. 

3Ial. ' M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'— Nay, 
but first, let me see,— let me see, — let me see. 

Fab. What dish of poison hath she dressed 
him ! 

Sir To. And with what wing the stanuyel'^ 
checks at it ! 

Mai. ' I may command where I adore.' Why, 
she may command me : I serve her, she is my 
lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capa- 

■ " In the direction of the letter which Malvolio reads," 
says Steevens, " there is neither a C nor a P to be fount " 
To this Ritson ingeniously answers, " From the usual cus- 
tom of Shakspt-are's age, we may easily suppose the whole 
direction to have run thus : ' To the !7nknown belov'd, 
this, and my good Avishes,' with Care Present." 

b The number 's altered— the number of thr metrical feet 
is altered. 

c Brock — badger, 

d 5/anni/eZ— the common hawk The original has s/a//ion 
— clearly an error. 

City.'' There is no obstruction in tliis ;— And the 
end,— What shoidd tliat alpliabctical position 
portend ? If I could make that resemble some- 
tliing in me,— Softly !— J/, 0, A, L— 

Sir To. 0, ay ! make up that :— he is now at 
a cold scent. 

Fab. Sowter will cry upon't, for all this, 
though it be as rank as a fox. 

Mai. J/,— Malvolio ;—.l/",— why, that begins 
my name. 

Fab. Did not I say that he would work it out r 
the cur is excellent at faults. 

Mai. J/, — But then there is no consonancy in 
the sequel; that suffers under probation: A 
should follow, but does. 

Fab. And shall end, I hope. 

Sir To. Ay, or I 'U cudgel him, and make 
him cry, 0. 

Mai. And then / comes behind. 

Fab. Ay, an you had any eye Ijehind you, you 
might see more detraction at your heels, than 
fortunes before you. 

Mai. M, 0, A, I ; — This simulation is not as 
the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it 
would bow to me, for every one of these letters 
are in my name. Soft ; here follows prose. — 

' If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am 
above thee ; but be not afraid of greatness : Some are bornb 
great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands ; let thy 
blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to 
what thou art like to be, cast thy liumble slough, and appear 
fresh. Be opposite with*^ a kinsman, surly with servants: 
let thy tongue tang arguments of state ; put thyself into the 
trick of singularity : she thus advises thee that sighs for 
thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings ; and 
wished to see tliee ever cross-gartered : '" I say, remember. 
Go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let 
me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not 
worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that 
would alter services with thee. 

' The Fortunate Uxhappt. 

Daylight and champain discovers not more: 
this is open. I will be proud, I Mill read politic 
authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off 
gross acquaintance, I w^ill be point-devise,'' the 
very man. I do not now fool myself to let 
imagination jade me ; for every reason excites 
to this, that my lady loves me. She did com- 
mend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise 
my leg being cross-gartered; and in this she 

"■ Formal — reasonable. J formal man is a man in his senses. 

l* Born — the original ha^ become. 

c Opposite with — of a different opinion — do not hold wiih 

<i Point devise — exactly— with the utmost nicety. The 
phrase, Douce says, " has been supplied from the labours of 
the needle. Poind in the French language denotes a stitch ; 
devise, anything invented, disposed, or arranged. Poin/- 
rfer/'se was therefore aparticularsort of patterned wcrkid 
with the needle ; and the term pointAace is still familiar to 
every female." It is incorrect to write point-de-rice, as is 
usually done. 


Aci II.] 


[SCF.MF. V. 

manifests herself to my love, and, with a kind 
of injunction, drives me to these habits of her 
liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will 
be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross- 
gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on, 
Jove, and my stars be praised! — Here is yet a 
postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know 
who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it 
appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee 
well : therefore in my presence still smile, dear 
my sweet, I prithee.' Jove, I thank thee. — I 
will smile : I will do everything that thou wilt 
have me. \_E.TiL 

Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for 
a pension of thousands to be paid from the 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this de- 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowiy with her, 
Dut such another jest. 

Enter Mabia. 
Sir And. Nor I neither. 

Fah. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. 

Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck ? 

Sir And. Or o' mine either ? 

Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, >* 
and become thy bond-slave ? 

Sir And. I' faith, or I either ? 

Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a 
dream, that when the image of it leaves him he 
must run mad. 

Mar. Nay, but say true; does it work upon 

Sir To. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. 

Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the 
sport, mark his first approach before my lady : 
he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 
't is a colour she abhors ; and cross-gartered, a 
fashion she detests ; and he will smile upon her, 
which will now be so unsuitable to her disposi- 
tion, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, 
that it cannot but turn him into a notable con- 
tempt : if you will see it, follow me. 

Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most 
excellent devil of wit ! 

Sir And. I '11 make one too. \Fxeunl. 

<^^''^^j;, ''h^ '> 

'The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones/J 


' Scene I. — " If you will not murthcr me for vfiy 
love, let me he your servant." 

These words are uttered by Antonio to Sebas- 
tian, whom he has saved from drowning. The 
commentators offer no explanation of them ; but 
we think that they have a latent meaning, and 
that they allude to a superstition of which Sir 
Walter Scott has made such admirable use in 
' The Pirate.' Our readers will remember that, 
when Mordaunt has rescued Cleveland from " the 
breach of the sea," and is endeavouring to restore 
the animation of the jserishing man, he is thus 
reproved by Bryce the pedlar: "Are you mad? 
you, that have lived so long in Zetland, to risk the 
saving of a drowning man ? Wot ye nob, if you 
bring him to life again, he will be sure to do you 
some capital injury?" Sir Walter Scott has a 
note upon this passage : — 

" It is remarkable that, in an archipelago where 
so many persons must be necessarily endangered 
by the waves, so strange and inhuman a maxim 
should have engrafted itself upon the minds of a 
people otherwise kind, moral, and hosj^itable. But 
all with whom I have spoken agree that it was 
almost general in the beginning of the eighteenth 
century, and was with difficulty weeded out by 
the sedulous instructions of the clergy and the 
rigorous.injunctions of the proprietors. There is 
little doubt it had been originally introduced as 
an excuse for suffering those who attempted to 
escape from the wreck to perish unassisted, so 
that, there being no survivor, she might be con- 
sidered as lawful plunder." 

It appears to us, however, if we do not mistake 
the meaning of our text, "if yov, will not murther 
me for my love, let me be your servaut," that the 
superstition was not confined to the Orkneys in 
the time of Shakspere. Why should Sebastian 
murder Antonio for his love if this superstition 

were not alluded to? Indeed, the answer of Se- 
bastian distinctly refers to the office of humanity 
which Antonio had rendered him, and appears to 
glance at the superstition as if he perfectly rmder- 
atood what Antonio meant :— " If you will not 
undo what you have done, that is, kill him vhom 
you have recovered, desire it not." The vulgar 
opinion is here reversed. 

2 Scene III.— « How now, my hearts ? Did ymt 
never see the picture of we three ?" 

Our ancestors had some good practical jokes 
that never tired by repetition, and this was one of 
thera. " The picture of we three " was a picture, 
or sign, of Two Fools, upon which was an in- 
scription, we be three, so that the unlucky wight 
who was tempted to read it supplied "argument 
for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest 
for ever." Beaumont and Fletcher allude to this 
in the ' Queen of Corinth : ' — 

" Nean. lie is another ass, he says I believe. 
Uncle. We be three, heroical prince. 
Nean. Nay, then, we must have the picture of 'em, and 
the word nos sumus." 

The answer of the Clown in the text to "here 
comes the fool" is wonderfully adroit. 

3 Scene III.—" Let our catch he, ' Thou knave.' " 

Sir John Hawkins, in his ' History of Music,* 
inserts the following as the catch sung by the 
three characters, but does not state his authority. 
Dr. Burney evidently copies from Hawkins. We 
here give the real notes, putting them into the 
treble clef, instead of the contratenor. The effect 
of this catch must have depended wholly on the 
humour with which it was sung : the same, in- 
deed, may be said of most catches : — 




Hold thy peace ! and I 

-=^ — d- 

i f- 



pri - thee hold thy peace. 

— I 



Thou knave ! 

Hold thy peace, 

thou knave ! 



Thou knave. 



« Scene III. -" Malvolio 's a Peg-a-Ramsay, and I f^°^« ,f «°^^. °^'^ l?^''S-the following is the tune 

' Three mcrn, men he we.' " *° '^ ' '^'^'J, ^'''.f *Hf,, Bubjomed «;,;'?»• notes, but 

I cites no authority, lue base and accompanimeiit 

Sir .Tolin Hawkins says, " Peggy Ramsey is the I we have added. 



r ' I 


7^— T 














This air, however, is to be found iu William 
Ballet's ' Lute Book,' a " highly interesting manu- 
script in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, 
(D. 1. 21,) which appears not only to be older 
than Queen Elizabeth's ' Virginal Book,' but to 
contain a greater number of popular tunes of the 
time." (Chappell's ' Collection of National En- 
glish Airs/ ii. 115.) The words, " Three merry 
men we be," are iu the song of " Robin Hood and 
the Tanner," as reprinted from Anthony a Wood's 
black-letter copy : — 

" For three merry men, and three merry men, 
And three merry men we be." 

Sir J. Hawkins likewise gives a stanza of an old 
Bong, in which the same words — changing " men " 
into " boys " — are introduced. 

^ Scene III. — " There dwelt a man in Bahylon, 
lad I/, lady." 

The burden of " lady, lady," appears to have 
been common to several songs. The words which 
Sir Toby sings are found in the ballad of ' Con- 
stant Susanna,' which Percy describes as a poor, 
dull performance, and very long. He gives us 
the following stanza : — 

" There dwelt a man in Babylon 
Of reputation great by fame ; 
He took to wife a fair woman, 

Susanna she was call'd by name : 
A woman fair and virtuous ; 

Lady, lady : 
Why should we not of her learn thus 

To live godly? " 

* Scene III.—" Farewell, dear heart, since I must 
needs be rjone." 

This, again, is an old ballad which we find in 
Percy, who reprints it from ' The Golden Garland 
of Princely Delights ; ' — 

" Farewell, dear love ; since thou wilt needs be gone, 
Mine eyes do show my life is almost done. 
Nay, I will never die, so long as 1 can spy 
There be many mo, though that she do gc 
There be many mo, I fear not : 
Why then let her go, I care not. 

Farewell, farewell ; since this I find is true, 
I will not spend more time in wooing you : 
But I will seek elsewhere, if I may find love there : 
Shall I bid her go ? -what and if I do ? 
Shall I bid her go and spare not? 
O no, no, no, I dare not. 

Ten thousand times farewell ; — yet stay a while : — 
Sweet, kiss me once ; sweet kisses time beguile: 
I have no power to move. How now ! am I in love ' 
AVilt thou needs be gone ? Go then, all is one. 
Wilt thou needs be gone ? Oh, hie thee ! 
Nay, stay, and do no more deny me. 

Once more adieu, I see loth to depart 
Bids oft adieu to her that holds my heart. 
But seeing I must lose thy love, which I did choose, 
Go thy way for me, since that may not be. 
Go thy ways for me. But whither 7 
Go, oh, but where I may come thither. 

What shall I do ? my love is now departed. 
She is as fair as she is cruel-hearted. 
She would not be entreated, with prayers oft repeated. 
If she come no more, shall I die therefore ? 
If she come no more, what care I ? 
Faith, let her go, or come, or tarry." 

? Scene III. — " Dost thou thinh, because thou art 
virtuous, there shall he no more calces and ale ?" 

This reproof of the steward is of universal 
application ; but it was probably an indirect sar- 
casm the rising sect of the Puritans, who 
were something too apt to confound virtue with 
asceticism. Ben Jonson speaks more directly in 
the matter : — 


" yVinir. What call you the reverend elder you told me 
of, your Banbury man ? 

Lit. Rabbi Busy, sir; he is more than an elder, he is a 
prophet, sir. 

Quar. O, I know him ! A baker, is he not ? 

Lit. He was a baker, sir, but he does dream now, and see 
visions; he has given over his trade. 

Quar. I remember that too; out of a scruple he took 
that, in spiced conscience, those cakes he made were served 
to bridales, May-poles, morrices, and such profane feasts 
and meetings. His christian name is Zeal-of-the-land. 

Lit. Yes, sir; Zeal-of-the-land Busy.-' 

8 Scene IV. — " Light airs and recollected terms." 

Term forms no part of the technical language 
of music. Its plural may possibly be intended 
hy Shakspere to signify those passages called 
phrases; tut it is more likely that the word was 

originally written tunes, which would render the 
expression intelligible. In the folios it is apolt 
icrmcs : and this, in not very clear manuscript, 
might easily have been mistaken by tlie com- 
positor for tunes. Dr. .Johnson thinks tliat " re- 
collected " means recalled ; in which we agree, if 
by "recalled" is to be understood known hy heart 
— hy memory. Dr. Warburton's conjecture, that 
by " recollected " is meant studied, will not find 
many supporters. 

9 Scene V. — " 0, for a stone-bow." 

A stone-bow is a cross-bow which shoots stones. 
It was a toy for children, according to Beaumont 
and Fletcher : — 

" children will shortly take him 

For a wall, and set their stone-bows in his forehead." 

10 Scene V. — " Wind up my watch." 

It is said that watches for the pocket were first 
brought to England from Germany, in 1580. We 
give a representation of an ancient watch from a 
remarkable specimen. This watch is embellished 
on the face with roses and thistles conjoined, and 
has no minute-hand : these circumstances fix its 
date somewhere in the reign of James I. It is of 
silver, about the size of a walnut ; tho lid shuts 
the face from view, and when closed it looks like 
a small pear. In Hollar's print of Summer — a 
half-length portrait of a lady— a watch, similar to 
our specimen, hangs from the girdle. 

" Scene V. — " The impressure her Lucrece." 
One of the many evidences of Shakspere's fami- 

liarity with ancient works of art, in common with 
the best educated of his time. We give a copy of 
an antique " Lucrece : " — 

12 Scene V.- 

■ Wished to see thee ever a-oss- 

Barton Holyday, who wrote fifty years after 
Shakspere, describes this fashion in connexion 
with a Puritan : — 

" Had there appear'd some sharp cross-parter'd man, 
Whom their loud laugh might nickname Puritan ; 
Cas'd up in factious breeches, and small ruff; 
That hates the surplice, and defies the cuff." 

The fashion is of great antiquity. In the 24th 
vol. of tlie Archreologia, Mr. Gage has described 
an illumin.ation of a manuscript of the tenth 
century in the library of the Duke of Devonshire, 
where this costume is clearly depicted. Mr. Gage 
says—" The kind of bandaged stocking, so com- 
mon in all Saxon figures, which is seen to advan. 



iage iu the miniature of the Magi, where the 
principal figure (copied in the cut) has garters of 
gold, with tassels, was, as M. Langlois, the able 

and learned professor of painting at Rouen, in- 
forms me, in general use among the shephej'ds 
and country people of France during the 15th 
and 16th centuries. In the latter century the 
butchers often rode on horseback with their legs 
clothed in this manner. This part of the dress 
was made of white linen, and was called ' dee 
lingettes,' a name applied also to a part of the 
ancient costume of women of the Pays de Caux, 
that covered the arm. In the Apennines I have 
myself seen the contadini with a kind of stocking 
bandaged all the way up. The Highland stocking 
bears some resemblance to the costume." 

^^ Scene V. — "Shall I j^lay my freedom at tray- 

In Cecil's Correspondence, Letter 10, we have 
the following passage : — " There is great danger 
of being taken sleepers at tray-trip, if the king 
sweep suddenly." This led Tyrwhitt to con- 
jecture that the game was draughts. A satire 
called ' Machiavel's Dog,' 1G17, confirms this 
opinion : — 

" But, leaving cards, let's go to dice awhile, — 
To passage, treitippe, hazard, or mum-chance." 



SCENE I.— OUvia's Garden. 

Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabor. 

Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy music : Dost 
thou live by thy tabor ? ' 

Clo. No, sir, I live by the chui-ch. 

Vio. Ai't thou a churchman ? 

Clo. No such matter, sir; I do live by the 
church ; for I do live at my house, and my house 
doth stand by the church. 

Vio. So thou may'st say, the king lies""^ by a 
beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or the 
church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand 
by the church. 

Clo. You have said, sir. — To see this age ! — 
A sentence is but a cheveril glove'' to a good wit: 

^ Lies — sojourns — dwells. 

b Chvveril ijl'ive — a Icid j:love— an easy -fitting gleve. So, 
in Romeo and Juliet, '• a wit of clieieril." 

CoiiEDiEs. — Vol. II. 


How quickly the wrong side may be turned 
outward ! 

Vio. Nay, that 's certain ; they that dally 
nicely with words may quickly make them wan- 

Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had no 
name, sir. 

Vio. Why, man ? 

Clo. Why, sir, her name 's a word ; and to 
dally with that word miglit make my sister 
wanton : But, indeed, words are very rascals, 
since bonds disgraced them. 

Vio. Thy reason, man ? 

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none withou*^, 
woi-ds ; and words are grown so false, I am loth 
to prove reason with them. 

Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and 
carest for nothing. 

Clo. Not so, sir I do care for something : but 


Act III.J 


[Scene I. 

in my conscieuce, sir, I do not care for you ; if 
that be to care for uothiug, sir, I would it would 
make you invisible. 

Fio. Ai-t not thou the lady Olivia's fool ? 

Clo. No, indeed, sir ; the lady Olivia has no 
folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be 
married ; and fools are as like husbands as pil- 
chards are to herrings, the husband 's the bigger ; 
I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of 

Fio. I saw thee late at the count Orsino's. 

Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, 
like the sun; it shines every wliere. I would 
be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with 
your master, as with my mistress : I think I 
saw your wisdom there. 

Fio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I '11 no more 
with thee. Hold, there 's expenses for thee. 

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, 
send thee a beard ! 

Fio. By my troth, I '11 tell thee ; 1 am almost 
sick for one ; though I would not have it grow 
ou my chin. Is thy lady within ? 

Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir ? 

Fio. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. 

Clo. I would play lord Paudarus of Phrygia, 
sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. 

Fio. I understand you, sir ; 't is well begg'd. 

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, 
begging but a beggar : Cressida was a beggar." 
My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them 
whence you come ; who you are, and wliat you 
would, arc out of my welkin : I might say, 
element ; but the word is over-worn. \_Eril. 

Fio. This fellow is wise enough to play the 
fool ; 
And to do that well craves a kind of wit : 
He must observe their mood on whom he jests, 
The quality of persons, and the time ; 
Not like the haggard check at every feather •* 
That comes before his eye. This is a practice 
As full of labour as a wise man's art : 
Por folly, that he wisely shows, is fit ; 
But wise men, folly-fallen,'' quite taint their wit. 

Enler Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrev 
Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 
Fio. And you, sii'. 

a In Chaucer's Testament of Cresseyde, we have, 

" Great penurye 
Thou suffer shall, and as a beggar dye." 

b Not like the haggard. Tlie original has And. John- 
son's correction gives a clear meaning. 
c The original reads — 

" But wise men's folly falne, quite taint their wit." 

Tyrwhitt's correction, which we adopt, appears right. 


Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. 

Fio. Bt tons aussi ; voire serviieur. 

Sir A7id. I hope, sir, you are ; and lam yours. 

Sir To. Will you encounter the house ? my 
niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade 
be to her. 

Fio. I am bound to your niece, sir : I mean, 
she is the list"' of my voyage. 

Sir To. Taste your legs, sir;'' put them to 

Fio. My legs do better understand me, sir, 
than I understand what you mean by bidding 
me taste my legs. 

Sir To. I mean to go, sir, to enter. 

Fio. I will answer you with gait and entrance : 
But we are prevented." 

Enler Olivia and Maria. 

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens 
rain odours ou you ! 

Sir And. That youth 's a rare courtier ! ' Rain 
odours ! ' well. 

Fio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to 
your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. 

Sir And. 'Odours, pregnant, and vouchsafed : ' 
— I '11 get 'em all three all ready. 

OH. Let the garden door be shut, and leave 
me to my hearing. 

[_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria . 
Give me yoiu- hand, sir. 

Fio. My duty, madam, and most humble 

on. What is your name ? 

Fio. Cesario is your servant's name, fair 

OH. My servant, sir ! 'T was never meiTv 
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment ; 
You're servant to the count Orsino, youth. 

Fio. And he is yours, and his must needs be 
yoiu-s ; 
Your servaut's servant is your servant, madam. 

OH. For him, I think not on him : for his 
Would they were blanks, rather than fiU'd with 

Fio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle 
On his behalf : — 

'■^ i/si— limit — bound. 

i) Taste was used by the Elizabethan poets for <ri/,— the 
use of the word was not limited to touch by the palate. In 
Chapman's Odyssey we have — 

" He now began 
To tasle the bow." 
c P'-evented — anticipated — gone before 

Act III.] 


[Scene IT. 

OH. 0, by your leave, I pray you ; 

I bade you never speak again of him : 
But, would you undertake another suit, 
I had rather hear yon to solicit tliat. 
Than music from the spheres. 

Vio. Dear lady, — 

OIL Give nic leave, beseech you : i did 
After the last enchantment you did here, 
A ring in chase of you ; so did I abuse 
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you : 
Under your hard construction must I sit. 
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, 
Which you knew none of yours : What might 

you think ? 
Have you not set mine honour at the stake. 
And baited it with all the imniuzzled thoughts 
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of 

your receiving ^ 
Enough is shown ; a Cyprus,'' not a bosom. 
Hides my heart : " So let me hear you speak. 

Vio. I pity you. 

OH. That 's a degree to love. 

Vio. No, not a grise;*! for 'tis a vulgar 
That very oft we pity enemies. 

OH. Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile 
again : 

world, how apt the poor are to be proud 1 
If one should be a prey, how much the better 
To fall before the lion than the wolf ! 

\Clock strikes. 
The clock upbraids me with the waste of 

time. — 
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have 

you : 
And yet, when wit and youth is come to har- 
Your wife is like to reap a proper man : 
There lies your way, due west. 

Vio. Then westward-hoe : 

Grace, and good disposition, 'tend your lady- 
ship ! 
You '11 nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 
OH. Stay: 

1 prithee tell me, what thou think' st of me. 

Via. That you do think you are not what you 

OH. If I thnik so, I think the same of you. 
Vio. Then think you right ; I am not what I 


* Peceiving — coraprelieiision. 

b Ci/prus. See Note on Act ii., Sc. TV. 

c Hides my heart. The seccmd folio reads " hides iny poor 
lieart." The retardation of the time of syllables was not 
understood by the editor of that cojiy. 

J Grise — step 

OH. I would you were as I would have you 

Vio. Would it be better, madam, lliau I am, 
I wish it miglit; for now I am your fuol. 

OH. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
In the contempt and anger of his lip ! 
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon 
Than love that would seem hid : love's night ia 

Cesario, Ijy the roses of the spring, 
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, 
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, 
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. 
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, 
For, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause : 
But, rather, reason thus with reason fetter ; — 
Love sought is good, but given unsought, is 

Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, 
And that no woman has ; nor never none 
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 
And so adieu, good madam ; never more 
Will I my master's tears to you deplore. 

OH. Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, 
may'st move 
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love, 


SCENE IT.— ^ Room in Olivia's House. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek, and Fabian. 

Sir And. No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer. 

Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy 

Fab. You must needs yield your reason, sir 

Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more 
favours to the count's serving man, than ever 
she bestowed upon me ; I saw 't i' the orchard. 

Sir To. Did she see thee "■ the while, old boy ? 
tell me that. 

Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 

Fab. Tliis was a great argument of love in 
her toward you. 

Sir And. 'Slight ! will you make an ass o' mc ? 

Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the 
oaths of judgment and reason. 

Sir To. Aud they have been grand jury-men, 
since before Noah was a sailor. 

Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your 

" The.; is w.inting in the original. It was stipplied by 


Act III.] 



sight, only to exasperate you, to awake your 
dormouse valour, to put fire in your lieart, and 
brimstone in your liver : You should then have 
accosted her; and with some excellent jests, 
fire-new from the iiiint, you should have banged 
the youth into dumbness. This was looked for 
at your hand, and this was baulked : the double 
gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, 
and you are now sailed into the north of my 
lady's opinion; where you will hang like an 
icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do re- 
deem it by some laudable attempt, either of 
valour or policy. 

Sir And. Au't be any way, it must be with 
valour ; for policy I hate : I had as lief be a 
Brownist as a politician." 

Sir To. Why then, build me thy fortunes 
upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the 
count's youth to fight with him ; hurt him in 
eleven places ; my niece shall take note of it : 
and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the 
world can more prevail in man's commendation 
with woman, than report of valour. 
I'ab. There is no way but this, sir Andrew. 
Sir And. Will either of you bear me a chal- 
lenge to him ? 

Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand; be 
curst "^ and brief ; it is no matter how witty, so it 
be eloquent and full of invention; taunt him 
with the licence of ink : if thou thoust him some 
thrice, it shall not be amiss ; and as many lies 
as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the 
sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in 
England,^ set 'em down ; go about it. Let there 
be gall enough in thy ink ; though thou write 
with a goose-pen, no matter : About it. 
Sir And. Where shall I find you ? 
Sir To. We '11 call thee at the cuhiculo : Go. 

[E.vii Sir Andrew. 
Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, sir 

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad ; some 
two thousand strong, or so. 

Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him : 
but you '11 not deliver it. 

Sir To. Never trust me then; and by all 
means stir on the youth to an answer. I think 
oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. 
For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so 
much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a 
flea, I '11 eat the rest of the anatomy. 

Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his 
visage no great presage of cruelty. 

Curst — crabbeJ. 


3tfer Maria. 

Sir To. Look where the youngest wren of 
nine ^ comes. 

Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh 
yourselves into stitches, follow me : yond' gull 
Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; 
for there is no Christian, that means to be saved 
by believing rightly, can ever believe such im- 
possible passages of grossness. He 's in yellow 

Sir To. And cross-gartered? 

Mar. Most villainously ; like a pedant that 
keeps a school i' the church. — I have dogged 
him, like his murderer: He does obey every 
point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. 
He does smile his face into more lines than are 
in the new map with the augmentation of the 
Indies : '' you have not seen such a thing as 't is ; 
I can hai-dly forbear hurling things at him. I 
know my lady will strike him; if she do, he'll 
smile, and take 't for a great favour. 

Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. 


SCENE in.— ^ SireeL 
Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 

Seb. I would not by my will have troubled 
But, since you make your pleasure of your 

I will no further chide you. 

Ant. I could not stay behind you; my de- 
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ; 
And not all love to see you, (though so much 
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,) 
But jealousy what might befall your travel. 
Being skilless in these parts; which, to a 

Unguided, and unfriended, often prove 
Rough and uuhospitable : My willing love, 
The rather by these arguments of fear. 
Set forth in your pursuit. 

Seb. My kind Antomo, 

I can no other answer make, bat, thanks. 
And thanks : and ever oft good turns ^ 
Are slmfiled off with such uncurrent pay ; 

» Wren of nine. The original reads " wren of mine. 
Tlie emendation was by Theobald. 

•) We print the passage as in the original. One modern 
emendation is, 

" And thanks, and ever thanks. Often good turns." 
.Mr. White print.s with great probabili:y — 

" And thanks : and very oft good turns." 
A typographical mistake of «!•«• for !'(?r»/ might easily occur 

Act III.] 


[SttXE IV. 

But, were my worth,"' as is my conscieuce, finii. 
You should find better dealiiii^. What's to do ? 
Shall we go see the reliques of this town ? 
Ant. To-morrow, sir ; best, first, go see your 

Seb. I am not weary, and 't is long to niglit ; 
I pray you let us satisfy our eyes 
"With tiie memorials, and the things of fame. 
That do renown this city. 

Anf. 'Would you 'd pardon me ; 

I do not without danger walk these streets : 
Once, in a sea-tight, 'gainst the count his galleys, 
I did some service ; of such note, indeed. 
That, were I. ta'en here, it would scarce be an- 
swer' d. 
Seb. Belike, you slew great number of his 

Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody 
nature ; 
Albeit the quality of the time, and quarrel. 
Might well have given us bloody argument. 
It might have since been answer'd in repaying 
What we took from them; which, for traffic's 

Most of om- city did : only myself stood out : 
For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 
I shall pay dear. 

Seb. Do not then walk too open. 

Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here 's my 
purse ; 
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 
Is best to lodge : I will bespeak our diet, 
Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your 

With viewing of the town ; there shall you have 
Seb. Why I your purse ? 
Ant. Haply, your eye shall light upon some 
You have desire to purchase ; and youi' store, 
I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 

Seb. 1 '11 be your purse-bearer, and leave you 
For an hour. 
Ant. To the Elephant. — 
Seb. I do remember. 


SCENE IV.— Olivia's Garden. 

Enter Olivia a?icl Maria. 

OIL I have sent after hiui. He says he '11 
come ; 
How 'shall I feast him ? what bestow of him ? 

a irur//i— fortune — weaUli. 

For youth is bought mcrj oft, than bcgg'd or 

I speak too loud. — 

Where is Malvolio?— he is sad, and civil,* 
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes ; — 
Where is Malvolio ? 

Mar. He 's coming, madam ; but iu very 
strange manner. He is sure possess'd, madam. 

Oil. Why, what' s the matter ? docs he rave ? 

Mar. No, madam, he does nothing but smile : 
your ladyship were best have some guard about 
you, if he come ; for, sure, the man is tainted 
in his wits.'' 

OH. Go call him hither. — I am as mad as he, 
If sad and merry madness equal be. 

Enter Malvolio. 

How now, IMalvolio ? 

Mai. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 

\_Smiles fantasticallj/. 

Oil. Smilest thou ? 
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 

Mai. Sad, lady ? I could be sad : This docs 
make some obstruction in the blood, this cross- 
gartering. But what of that, if it please the 
eye of one, it is with me as the very true son- 
net is : 'Please one, and please all.' 

Oil. Why, how dost thou, man ? what is tlie 
matter with thee ? 

Mai. Not black iu my mind, thougli yellow 
in my legs : It did come to his hands, and com- 
mands shall be executed. I think, we do know 
the sweet Roman hand. 

Oli. Wilt thou go to bed, JNIalvolio ? 

Mai. To bed ? ay, sweetheart ; and I '11 come 
to thee. 

Oil. God comfort thee ! Why dost thou smile 
so, and kiss thy hand so oft ? 

Mar. How do you, Malvolio ? 

Mai. At your request ? Yes; Nightingales an- 
swer daws. 

Mar. Why appear you with tliis ridiculous 
boldness before my lady ? 

Mai. 'Be not afraid of greatness : '—'t was 
well writ. 

Oil. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio ? 

* Citiji— grave. Theregularity of the civil, civilized, state 
gives this meaning of the word. 

b This good honest prose, as Steevens found it in the ori- 
ginal, is rendered metrical by him, as follows;— and lliis 
was long accepted as Shalcspere's verse :-- 

" Mar. He 's coming, madam ; 

But in strange manner. He is sure possess'd. 

Oli. Why, what's the matter? docs he ravef 

j^jfir. ^"i '" 

He does nothing but smile: your ladyship 
Were best have guard about you, if he come ; 
For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits." 


Act III.] 


rSl.EN£ IV. 

3faL ' Some are born great/— 

OH. Ha? 

Mai. ' Some achieve greatness,'— 

OH. What sav'st thou ? 

Mai. ' And some have greatness thrust upon 

them .' 

on. Heaven restore thee ! 

Mai. 'Remember, who commended thy yel- 
low stockings ; ' — 

on. My yellow stockings ? " 

Mai. ' And wished to see thee cross-gartered.' 

OH. Cross-gartered? 

Mai. ' Go to : thou art made, if thou desirest 
to be so;' — 

OH. Am I made ? 

MaL ' If not, let me see thee a servant still.' 

OH. Why, this is very midsummer madness. 
Enler Servant. 

Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the 
count Orsino's is retui-ned ; I could hardly en- 
treat him back: he attends your ladyship's 

pleasure. -, o j 

OH. 1 '11 come to him. [Ex-ii Servant. J Crood 
Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where 's 
my cousin Toby ? Let some of my people have 
a special care of him; I would not have him 
miscarry for the half of my dowry. 

[_E.veunt Olivia and IMakia. 
Mai. Oh, ho ! do you come near me now ? no 
worse man than sir Toby to look to me ? This 
concurs directly with the letter : she sends him 
on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him ; 
for she incites me to that in the letter. ' Cast 
thy humble slough,' says she;— 'be opposite 
with a kinsman, siuly with servants,— let thy 
tongue tang with arguments of state, — put thy- 
self into the trick of singularity ;' and, con- 
sequently, sets down the manner how ; as, a sad 
face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the 
habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have 
limed her ; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make 
me thankful ! And, when she went away now, 
' Let this fellow be looked to : ' Fellow ! not 
Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow.'' Why, 
everything adheres together ; that no dram of a 
scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no 
incredulous or unsafe cu'cumstance, — What can 
be said? Nothing, that can be, can come be- 
tween me and the full prospect of my hopes. 
Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is 
to be thanked. 

a Thti in tlie original. Olivia does not l<nosv that he is 
quoting the letter. The correction is hy Mr. Lettsom, the 
editor of Wallier. 

b FcUoK—in the old sense of companion. 


Ee-eider Mama, wUh Sir Toby Bklck ami 

Sir To. Which way is he, in tlie name of 
sanctity ? If all the devils in hell be drawn in 
little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I '1. 
speak to him. 

Fab. Here he is, here be is :— How is't witli 
you, sir ? how is 't with you, man? 

Mai. Go off ; I discard you ; let me enjoy my 
private ; go off . 

Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks withm 
him 1 did not I tell you ?— Sir Toby, my lady 
prays you to have a care of him. 
Mai. Ah, ha ! does she so ? 
Sir To. Go to, go to ; peace, peace, we must 
deal gently with him ; let me alone. How do 
you, MalvoUo ? how is 't with you ? What, man ! 
defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to 

Mai. Do you know what you say ? 
Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, 
how he takes it at heart ! Pray God, he be not 
bewitched ! 

Fab. Carry his water to the wise woman. 
Mar. Marry, an it shall be done to-morrow 
morning, if I live. My lady would not lose 
him for more than I'll say. 
Mai. How now, mistress ? 
Mar. lord ! 

Sir To. Prithee, hold thy peace ; this is not 
the way : Do you not see you move him ? let me 
alone with him. 

Fab. No way but gentleness ; gently, gently : 
the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. 
Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock ? how 
dost thou, chuck ? 
Mai. Sir? 

Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, 
mau! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit 
with Satan : Hang him, foul collier ! 

Mar. Get him to say his prayers ; good sir 
Toby, get him to pray. 
Mai. My prayers, minx ? 
Mar. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of 

Mai. Go, hang yourselves all ! you are idle 
shallow things : I am not of your element ; you 
shall know more hereafter. [Eni. 

Sir To. Is 't possible ? 

Fab. If this were played upon a stage now, I 
could condemn it as an improbable fiction. ^ 

Sir To. His very genius hath taken the infec- 
tion of the device, man 

Mar. Nay, pursue him now ; lest the device 
take air and taint. 

Act III.] 


[Scene IV. 

Fab. Wliy, we shall make him mad, indeed. 

Mar. The house will be the quieter. 

Sir To. Come, we '11 have him iu a dark room, 
and bound.'' My niece is already iu the Ijclicf 
that he is mad ; we may carry it thus, for our 
pleasiu-e, and his penance, till our very pastime, 
tired out of breath, prom])t us to have mercy on 
him : at which time we will bring the device to 
the bar, and crown thee for a finder of madmen. 
But see, but see. 

Eiilcr Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 

Fal/. More matter for a May morning. 

Sir Jnd. Here 's the challenge, read it ; I 
warrant there 's vinegar and pepper in 't. 

Fab. Is 't so saucy ? 

Sir And. Ay, is it, I wai-rant him : do but 

Sir To. Give me. [_Reads^ ' Youth, whatsoever 
thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.' 

Fab. Good, and valiant. 

Sir To. ' Wonder not, nor admire not in thy 
mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee 
no reason for 't.' 

Fab. A good note : that keeps you from the 
blow of the law. 

Sir To. ' Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and 
in my sight she uses thee kindly : but thou best 
in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge 
thee for.' 

Fab. Very brief, and to exceeding good-sense- 

Sir To. ' I will waylay thee going home ; 
where if it be thy chance to kill me,' ^ 

Fab. Good. 

Sir To. ' Thou killest me like a rogue and a 

Fab. Still you keep o' the windy side of the 
law : Good. 

Sir To. ' Fare thee well ; And God have mercy 
upon one of" our souls ! He may have mercy 
upon mine ; but my hope is better, and so look 
to thyself. Thy friend, as thou uscst him, and 
thy sworn enemy, Andrew Ague- cheek.' 

Sir To. If this letter move him not, his legs 
cannot : I '11 give 't him. 

3£ar. You may have very fit occasion for 't ; 
he is now in some commerce with my lady, and 
will by and by depart. 

Sir To. Go, sir Andrew ; scout me for him 
at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-bau'e : 
so soon as ever thou seest him, draw ; and, as 
thou drawest, swear horrible ; for it comes to 
pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering 
accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more 

approbation than ever proof itself would have 
earned hiiu. Away. 

Sir A/id. Nay, let me alone for swearing. 


Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter: fur 
the behaviour of the young gentleman gives liini 
out to be of good capacity and breeding ; his 
employment between his lord and my niece con- 
firms no less ; therefore this letter, being so ex- 
cellently ignorant, will breed no terror iu the 
youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. 
But, sir, I wQl deliver his challenge by word of 
mouth ; set upon Ague-cheek a notable report 
of valour ; and drive the gentleman (as, I know 
his youth will aptly receive it) into a most hide- 
ous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetu- 
osity. This will so fright them both, that they 
will kill one another by tlie look, Hke cockatrices. 

Enter Olivia and Viola. 

Fab. Here he comes with your niece : give 
them way, till he take leave, and presently after 

Sir To. I will meditate the while upon some 
horrid message for a challenge. 

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Makia. 
Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of 
And laid mine honour too unchary on't :" 
There 's something iu me that reproves my 

fault ; 
But such a headstrong potent fault it is, 
Tiiat it but mocks reproof. 

Vio. IVith the same 'ha\'iour that your passion 
Go on my master's griefs. 

Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, 't is my 
picture ; 
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you : 
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. 
What shall you ask of me that I '11 deny ; 
That honour, sav'd, may upou asking give ? 
Vio. Nothing but this, your true love for my 

Oli. How with mine honour may I give him 
Which I have given to you ? 

Fio. I will acquit you. 

Oli. Well, come again to-morrow : Fare thet 
well ; 
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. 


ii Unchary on't. So in tlie oi i^'inal. The ordinary rcadinp 
is " uiicliary nut." Douce is unwilling, as we are, to disturb 
the old reading. Olivia has laid lior honour too unchary 
(uncharily) upon a lieart of stone. 


AtT III.1 


[Scene IV 

Re-enter Sir Toby Belch and Fabian. 

Sir To. Geutlemau, God save thee. 

Fio. And you, sir. 

Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee 
to 't : of what nature the wrongs are thou hast 
done him, I know not ; but thy intercepter, full 
of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee 
at the orchard end: dismount thy tuck, be yare 
in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, 
skilful, and deadly. 

Vio. You mistake, sir, I am sure; uo man 
hath any quarrel to me ; my remembrance is 
very free and clear from any image of ofTcnee 
done to any man. 

Sir To. You'll find it otherwise, I assure you : 
therefore, if you hold your life at any price, be- 
take you to your guard ; for youi- opposite hath 
in him what youth, strength, skill, and wratli, 
can furnish man withal. 

Fio. I pray you, sir, what is he ? 

Sir To. He is knight, dubbed with unhatch'd 
rapier, and on carpet consideration;'' but he is a 
devil in private brawl ; souls and bodies hath he 
divorced three ; and his inceusement at this mo- 
ment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be 
none but by pangs of death and sepulchre : hob, 
nob,"' is his word; give 't, or take 't. 

Fio. I wiU return again into the house, and 
desire some conduct of the lady. I am no 
fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that 
put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their 
valour : belike, this is a man of that quirk. 

Sir To. Sir, no ; his indignation derives itself 
out of a very competent injury ; therefore, get 
you on, and give him his desire. Back you 
shall not to the house, unless you undertake 
that with me which with as umch safety you 
might answer him : therefore, on, or strip your 
sword stark naked ; for meddle you must, 
that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about 

Fio. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech 
you, do me this courteous office, as to know of 
the knight what my offence to him is ; it is 
something of my negligence, nothing of my pm-- 

Sir To. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay 
you by this gentleman till my return. 

[ExU Sir Toby. 

Fio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this 
matter ? 

Fab. I know the knight is incensed against 

a Hob, nob — at random— come what will. 

you, even to a mortal arbitrement ; but nothing 
of the circumstance more. 

Fio. I beseech you, what manner of man is 


Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to 
read him by his form, as you are like to find 
him in the proof of his valour. He is. indeed, 
sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite 
that you could possibly have found in any pari 
of Illyria : Will you walk towards him ? I will 
make your peace with him, if I can. 

Fio. I shall be much bound to you for 't : I 
am one that would rather go with sir priest than 
sir knight : I care not who knows so much of 
my mei;le. [Exeunt. 

Re-enter Sir Toby, with Sir Andrew. 

Sir To. Why, man, he 's a very devil ; I have 
not seen such a virago."^ I had a pass with him, 
rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the 
stuck in, witli such a mortal motion, that it is 
inevitable ; and on the answer, he pays you as 
surely as your feet hit the ground they step on -. 
They say lie has been fencer to the Sophy. 

Sir And. Pox on 't, I '11 not meddle with him. 

Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified : 
Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. 

Sir And. Plague on 't ; an I thought he had 
been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I 'd have 
seen him damned ere I 'd have challenged him. 
Let him let the matter slip, and I '11 give him 
my horse, gray Capilet. 

Sir To. I '11 make the motion : Stand here, 
make a good show on 't ; this shall end without 
the perdition of souls : Marry, I '11 ride your 
horse as well as I ride you. [Aside. 

Re-enter Fabian atid Viola. 

I have his horse [to Fab.] to take up the quarrel ; 
I have persuaded him the youth 's a devil. 

Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him ; and 
pants, and looks pale, as if a bear were at his 

Sir To. There 's no remedy, sii- ; he will fight 
with you for his oath sake : marry, he hath 
better bethought him of his quarrel, and he 
finds that now scarce to be worth talking of. 
therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow ; 
he protests he will not hurt you. 

Fio. Pray God defend me ! A little thing 
would make me tell them how much T lack of a 
man. [Aside. 

Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious. 

» Virago — the original is firago. 

Act III. J 



Sir To. Come, sir Andrew, there 's no remedy ; 
the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have 
one bout with you : he cannot by the duello 
avoid it ; but he lias promised me, as he is a 
gcutlemau and a soldier, lie will not hurt you. 
Come on : to 't. 

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath. 


Elder Antonio. 

Vio. I do assure you 't is against my will. 

Ant. Put up your sword; — If this young 
Have done offence, I take the fault on me ;. 
If you offend hun, I for him defy you. 

Sir To. You, sir ? why, what are you ? 
Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do 
Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 

Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker,"' I am 
for you. [Draws. 

Enter two Officers. 

Fab. good sir Toby, hold; here come the 

Sir To. I '11 be with you anon. [To Antonio. 

Fio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you 
please. [?'o Sir Andrew. 

Sir And. Marry, will I, sir ; — and, for that I 
promised you, I '11 be as good as my word : He 
will bear you easily, and reins well, 

1 Off. This is the man ; do thy office. 

2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit 
Of count Orsino. 

Ant. You do mistake me, sir ; 

1 Off. No, sir, no jot ; I know your favour 

Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. 
Take him away ; he knows I know him well. 
Ant. I must obey.— This comes with seeking 

you ; 
But there 's no remedy ; I shall answer it. 
What will you do, now my necessity 
Makes me to ask you for ray purse ? It grieves 

Much more for what I cannot do for you 
Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz'd; 
But be of comfort. 

2 Off. Come, sir, away. 

A)it. I must entreat of you some of that 

a Undertaker. Ritson explains this as one who undertakes 
another's quarrel. 

Vio. What money, sir. 
For the fair kiudaess you have show'd me here, 
And, part, being prompted by your present 

Out of my lean and low ability 
I'll lend you something: my having is not 

much ; 
I '11 make division of my present with you : 
Hold, there is half my coffer. 

A/it. Will you deny me now ? 

Is 't possible, that my deserts to you 
Can lack persuasion ? Do not tempt my misery,^ 
Lest that it make me so unsound a man 
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses 
That I have done for you. 

Vio. I know of none ; 

Nor know I you by voice, or any feature : 
I hate ingratitude more in a man 
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, 
Or any taint of vice, whose strong corruption 
Inhabits our frail blood. 

Ant. heavens themselves ! 

2 Off. Come, sir, I pray you, go. 

Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that 
you see here, 
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death ; 
Eeliev'd him with such sanctity of love, — 
And to his image, which methought did promise 
Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 

1 Off. What's that to us? The time goes 
by ; away. 

Ant. But, O, how vild an idol proves this 
god ! — ■ 
Thou hast^ Sebastian, done good feature shame.— 
In nature there 's no blemish but the mind ; 
None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind. 
Virtue is beauty ; but the beauteous evil 
Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil? 

1 Off'. The man grows mad; away with Mm. 
Come, come, sir. 

Ant. Lead me on. 

[Exeunt Officers with Antonio. 
[ Vio. Methinks, his words do from such pas- 
sion fly. 
That he believes himself ; so do not I. 
Prove true, imagination, 0, prove true, 
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you ! 

Sir To. Come hither, knight ; come hither, 
Fabian ; we '11 whisper o'er a couple or two oi 
most sage saws. 

Vio. He nam'd Sebastian; I my brother know 
Yet living in my glass ; even such, and so, 
In favour was my brother ; and he went 
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, 
For him I imitate : 0, if it prove, 


Act in.] 


[Scene IV. 

Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love ! 


Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and 
more a coward than a liare : his dishonesty ap- 
pears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and 
denying him ; and for his cowardsliip ask Fabian. 

Fah. A coward, a most devout coward, reli- 

gious m it. 

Sir And. 'Slid, I '11 after him again, and beat 

Sir To. Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw 
thy sword. 

Sir And. An I do not, — \_E.ri(. 

Fab. Come, let 's see the event. 

Sir To. I dare lay any money 't will be no- 
thing yet. . \E.veunt. 

[ Once, in a sea liglit, 'gainst the count his galleys. 

[The Bed of Ware.] 


1 Scene I. — " Dost thou live hy thij tabor 1 " 

Tarleton, the celebrated clown of the ancient 
stage, was represented with a tabor in a print 
prefixed to his ' Jests,' 1611. " The instrument," 
says Douce, " is found in the hands of fools long 
before the time of Shakispeare." At the end of 
the Supplementary Notice we have given a por- 
trait of Tarleton with his tabor ; but this is not 
copied from the ' Jests.' It is taken from the 
Harleian MS. No. 3885— An Alphabet of Initial 
Letters by John Scottowe. On the title are the 
arms of Queen Elizabeth and the following in- 
scription :— " God save Queene Elizabeth longe to 
reygne." This circumstance proves this portrait 
of " Mr. Tharlton " (as his name is spelt by Scot- 
towe) to be an eaidier performance than the figure 
prefixed to the ' Jests,' 1611 ; and, as the two are 
exactly alike, our portrait is probably the original 
from which the old woodcut was copied. 

The figure in the Alphabet stands in the centre 
of a letter T : the following verses in the margin :— 

" The picture here set down 
Within this letter T, 
Aright doth show the forme and shap 
Of Tharlton unto the. 

When he in pleasaunt wise 

The counterfet expreste, 
Of cloune wt cote of russet hew, 

And sturtops w' ye rest. 

Whoe merry many made 

When he appeard in sight, 
The grave and wise, as well as rude, 

At him did take delight. 

The partie nowe is gone. 

And closiie laid in claye ; 
Of all the jesters in the lande 

He bare the praise awaie. 

Nowe hath he plaid his pte, 

And sure he is of this, 
If he in Christe did die : to live 

With him in lasting blis." 

2 Scene II. — " / had as lief he a Brownist as a 

The Brownists — so called from Robert Brown, 
who was a connexion of the Lord Treasurer Cecil, 
and was educated at Corpus Christi College, Cam- 
bridge—gave great offence to the Church about 
1580, by maintaining that her discipline was 
Popish and Antichristian, and her ministers not 
rightly ordained. The sect was subsequently 
known by the name of Independents. (See 
Neal's ' History of the Puritans.') 

3 Scene II.—" Big enough for the bed of Ware in 
We have given a representation of this famous 
bed, which is more interesting than any descrip- 

^ Scene II.—" Jffe does smile his face into viore 
lines than are in (he new map with the aug- 
mentation of the Indies." 
Shakspere, who paid no attention to geography, 
according to the commentators, here describes a 
"new map"— an accession to the geography of 
his day. This map is found in ' Linsehoten's 




Voyages,' 1598 ; and we have engraved a portiou 
of it, — about a fourth part of the original — ex- 
hibiting the islands of Malacca and Borneo, to 
show how accurately the " careless " poet has 
described its peculiarities. 

5 Scene IV. — " We'll have him in a darlc-room, 
and homid." 

Chains and darkness were the universal pre- 
scriptions for lunatics in the time of Shakspere. 
There was a third remedy, to which Rosalind 
alludes in As You Like It : — " Love is a madness, 
and deserves as well a dai'h house and a whip as 
madmen do." 

* Scene IV. — " He is hiight, duhhed with un- 
hatchcd rapier, and on carpet consideration." 

The knights of peace, — mayors, and justices, 
and serjeants-at-law, and physicians — grave men 
who hate a hatched rajjier, which has seen service, 

as bitterly as King James, are called carpet 
knights, according to Handle Holme: — "If it be 
the king's pleasure to knight any such persons, 
seeing they are not knighted as soldiers, they are 
not therefore to use the horseman's title or spurs: 
they are only termed simply miles and milites, 
knights of the carpet, or knights of the green 
cloth, to distinguish them from knights that are 
dubbed as soldiers in the field ; though in these 
our days they are created or dubbed with the like 
ceremony as the others are, by the stroke of a 
naked sword u])on their shoulder, with the words, 
Rise up Sir T. A., knight." 

' Scene IV. — " Empty trunJcs, o'erjlourisk'd hp Ihe 

The allusion is to the beautifully carved trunks 
of the Elizabethan age, of which we give two 

i r.i i i''WP-'^T^a i fflswcHfJ 


[Scene I. Spalatro. ' Hold, Toby, on thy life.'] 


SCENE I.— The Street before Olivia's House. 
Enter Sebastian and Clown. 

Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not 
sent for yoii ? 

Seb. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow ; 
Let me be clear of thee. 

Clo. Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not 
know you ; nor I am not sent to you by my 
lady, to bid you come speak with her ; nor your 
name is not master Cesario ; nor this is not my 
nose neither. — Nothing that is so, is so. 

Seb. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else : 
Thou know'st not me. 

Clo. Vent my foUy ! he has heard that word 
of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. 
Vent my folly ! I am afraid this great lubber 
the world, wiU prove a cockney."" — I prithee now. 

!> Douce has an ingenious conjecture here ; but we doubt 
its correctness: — "The Clown is speaking of vent as an 
affected word ; and we should read, ' this great lubberly 
word will prove a cockney, i. e. will turn out to be cockney 
language.' " But is the little word ver,t a great lubberly 
word? 'The Clown is tolerably consequential in his thoughts; 
and, if there were any precise meaning in his fear that the 

ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall 
vent to my lady ; shall I vent to her that thou 
art coming ? 

Seb. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me ; 
There 's money for thee ; if you tarry longer 
1 shall give worse payment. 

Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand : — 
These wise men that give fools money get them- 
selves a good report after fourteen years' pur- 

Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian. 

Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again? 
there 's for you. [Stri/an// 

Seb. Whj, there's for thee, and there, and 
there : 
Are all the people mad ? {Beating Sir Andrew. 

world would prove a cockney, we do not see how he brings 
the matter in. The original is pointed thus :— " I am afraid 
tins great lubber the world will prove a cockney." May it 
not be, spoken aside, " I am afraid the world will prove this 
great lubber (Sebastian) a cockney "—a foolish fellow .' Such 
an inversion is not uncommon. 

» The meaning obviously is— after the rate of fourteen 
years' purchase. This was a high rate; and any money 
given to fools for a good report was buying the commodity 
of reputation at a high rate. 


Act IV.] 



Sir To. Hold, sir, or I'll throw youi- dagger 
o'er the house. 

Clo. This will I tell my lady straight : I would 
not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [Exit. 

Sir To. Come on, sir ; hold. UloUVuig Seb. 

Sir And. Nay, let him alone, I'll go another 
way to work with him ; I 'U have an action of 
battery against him, if there be any law in 
Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no 
matter for that. 

Seb. Let go thy hand. 

Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. 
Come, my young soldier, put up your iron : you 
are well fleshed ; come on. 

Seb. I will be free from thee. What wouldst 
thou now ? 
If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword. 


Sir To. What, what ? Nay, then I must have 
an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. 


Enter Olivia. 

Oli. Hold, Toby ; on thy life, I charge thee, 

Sir To. Madam ? 

Oli. Will it be ever thus ? Ungracious wretch. 
Fit for the mountaiuo and the barbarous caves. 
Where manners ne'er were preach'd ! out of my 

sight ! 
Be not offended, dear Cesario ! — 
Rudcsby, be gone !— I prithee, gentle friend, 

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andeeit, and Fabian. 
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passio-n, sway 
In this uncivil and unjust extent * 
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house ; 
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks 
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby 
Mayst smile at this : thou shalt not choose but go ; 
Do not deny : Beshrew his soul for me, 
He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 

Seb. What relish is in this? how runs the 
stream ? 
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream : 
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep ; 
If it be thus to dream still let me sleep ! 

Oli. Nay, come, I prithee : 'Woidd thou 'dst 
be rul'd by me ? 

Seb. Madam, I will. 

Oli. O, say so, and so be ! 


*■ Extent. Johnson supposes that the word is here applied 
with reference to the lep;al process of extent. That name is 
derived from t\\e v/t\1 of extensi facias,- by which tlie goods 
seized are to he taken at tlieir extended value. But liete 
extent may be used in the sense of stretch — as we say a 
stretch of power— of violence. 


SCENE II. — A Room in Olivia's House. 

Enter Maria and Clown. 

Mar. Nay, I prithee put on this gown, and 
this beard ; make him believe thou art sir Topas 
the curate ; do it quickly : 1 '11 call sir Toby the 
whilst. [Exit Maria. 

Clo. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble'' 
myself iu't; and I would I were the first that 
ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not taU'^ 
enough to become the function well : nor lean 
enough to be thought a good student : but to be 
said, an honest man, and a good housekeeper, 
goes as fairly, as to say, a careful man, and a 
great scholar. The competitors" enter. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 

Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson. 

Clo. Bonos dies, sir Toby : for as the old her- 
mit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very 
wittily said to a niece of king Gorbodue, ' That 
that is, is :' so I, being master parson, am master 
parson : For what is that, but that ? and is, but is ? 

6*/;' To. To him, sir Topas. 

Clo. What, hoa, I say, — Peace in this prison ! 

Sir To. The knave counterfeits well ; a good 

Mai. [in an inner chamber.'] Who calls there ? 

Clo. Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit 
Malvolio the lunatic. 

Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, good sir Topas, go 
to my lady. 

Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest thou 
this man ? talkest thou nothing but of ladies ? 

Sir To. Well said, master parson. 

Mai. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged : 
good sir Topas, do not think I am mad; they 
have laid me here in hideous darkness. 

Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Satlian! I call thee 
by the most modest terms ; for I am one of those 
gentle ones that will use the devil himself with 
courtesy : Say'st thou, that house is dark ? 

Mai. As hell, sir Topas. 

Clo. Why, it hath bay-windows, transparent 
as barricadoes, and the clear-stories^ towards the 

a Dissemble — disguise— divest of likeness. Steevens says 
" Shakspeare lias here stumbled on a Latinibm." Writers do 
not stumble upon nice shades of meaning. 

b Tall. So the original. In some modern editicns we 
have the word changed into/aZ — a vulgar antithesis to the 
subsequent lean. 

c Competitors — confederates. 

tl Clear-stories. The folio lias c/eeresiorcs — which is c7ecre- 
stores. A clerestori/. or cleur-slory, is that part of the nave, 
or choir, of a church which rises above the aisles, in which 
an up])er tier of windows is usually introduced. In a con- 
tract for building the chuich of Fotheringay; founded in 
1-125, this clause occurs : — "And (in the nave) shall be tenn 
arches, and above every arche a wyndowe of foure lights, iii 

Act IV.] 


[Scene III. 

soutli-uorth are as lustrous as ebony ; and yet 
complainest thou of obstniction ? 

Mai. I am not mad, sir Topas ; I say to you, 
this house is dark. 

Clo. Madman, thou errest : I say, there is no 
darkness but ignorance ; in which thou art more 
puzzled than the Eg-yptians in their fog. 

Mai. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, 
thoudi ie;norance were as dark as hell; and I 
say, there was never man thus abused : I am no 
more mad than you are ; make the trial of it in 
any constant question. 

Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras con- 
cerning wild-fowl ? 

Mai. That the soul of our graudam might 
haply inhabit a bird. 

Clo. What thinkest thou of this opinion ? 

Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
approve his opinion. 

Clo. Fare thee well : Remain thou still in 
darkness : thou shalt hold the opinion of Pytha- 
goras, ere I will allow of thy wits ; and fear to 
kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of 
thy graudam. Fare thee well. 

Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, — 

Sir To. My most exquisite sir Topas ! 

Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. 

Mar. Thou might'st have done this without thy 
beard and gown ; he sees thee not. 

Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and bring 
me word how thou findest him : I would we were 
well rid of this knavery. If he may be conve- 
niently delivered, I would he were ; for I am 
now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot 
pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. 
Come by and by to my chamber. 

[Exeu?it Sir Toby and Maria. 

Clo. ' Hey Robin, jolly Robin, 

Tell me how thy lady does.' [^Singing. 

Mai. Fool- 
er. ' My lady is unkind, perdy.' 

Mai. Fool,— 

Clo. ' Alas, why is she so ? ' 

Mai. Fool, I say ; — 

Clo. ' She loves another' — Who calls, ha? 

Mai. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well 
at my hand, help me to a caudle, and pen, ink, 
and paper ; as 1 am a gentleman, T will live to 
be thankful to thee for 't. 

Clo. Master Malvolio ! 

Mai. Ay, good fool. 

nil points like unto the cicrestory of the saitl quere."— lirit- 
to::'B Architectural Dictionary pa^je 160.) 

Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five 
wits ? 

j\[al. Fool, there was never man so notori 
ously abused : I am as well in my wits, fool, ar 
thou art. 

Clo. But as well ? then you are mad, indeed, 
if you be no better in your wits than a fool. 

Mai. They have here propertied me ; keep 
me in darkness, send ministers to mc, asses, and 
do all they can to face me out of my wits. 

Clo. Advise you what you say ; the minister 
is here.— Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens 
restore ! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave 
thy vain bibble babble. 

Mai. Sir Topas,— 

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fel- 
low. — Who, I, sir ? not I, sir. God b' wi' you, 
good sir Topas. — Marry, amen. — I will, sir, I 

Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I say, — 

Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir ? 
I am shent"' for speaking to you. 

Mai. Good fool, help me to some light, and 
some paper ; I tell thee, I am as wcU in my wits 
as any man in lUyria. 

Clo. WeU-a-day, that you were, sir ! 

Mai. By this hand, I am : Good fool, some 
ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set 
down to my lady ; it shall advantage thee more 
than ever the bearing of letter did. 

Clo. I will help you to 't. But tell me true, 
are you not mad indeed ? or do you but coun- 
terfeit ? 

Mai. Believe me, I am not ; I tell thee true. 

Clo. Nay, I '11 ne'er believe a madman, till I 
see his brains. I will fetch you light, aud paper, 
and ink. 

Mai. Fooi, I'll requite it in the highest de- 
gree : I prithee, be gone. 

qIq^ • I am gone, sir, 

And anon, sir, 
I '11 be witji you again. 
In a trice, 

Like to the old vice, 
Your need to sustain ; 

Who with dagger of lath. 
In his rage and his wrath, 

Cries, ah, ha! to the devil : 
Like a mad lad. 
Pare thy nails, dad. 

Adieu, goodman devil.' 


SCENE III.— Olivia's Garden. 
Enter Sebastian. 
Seh. This is the air; that is the glorious sun: 

" 5/ien<— reproved. 


Act IV.] 


[Scene III 

This pearl she gave mc, I do feel 't, aud see 't : 
And though 't is wonder that enwraps me thus, 
Yet 't is not madness. Where 's Antonio then ? 
I could not find him at the Elephant : 
Yet there he was ; and there I found tliis credit,'' 
That he did range the town to seek me out. 
His counsel now might do me golden service : 
For though my soul disputes well with my sense. 
That this may be some error, but no madness. 
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune 
So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes, 
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me 
To any other trust, but that I am mad. 
Or else the lady 's mad; yet, if 't were so. 
She could not sway her house, command her 

Take and give back affairs, and their despatch, 
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing, 

B 7! or'cit—Uxis belief— this thins believeil. 

As, I perceive, she does : there 's something in't 
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. 
Fi/^cr Olivia f/nd a Priest. 

on. Blame not this haste of mine : If you 
mean well. 
Now go with me, and with this holy man. 
Into the cliantry by : there, before him. 
And underneath that consecrated roof. 
Plight me the full assurance of your faith ; 
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
May live at peace : He shall conceal it. 
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note. 
What time we will our celebration keep 
According to my birth. — What do yon say ? 

Seh. I '11 follow this good man, and go with you ; 
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. 

on. Til en lead the way, good father: — And 
heavens so sliine. 
That they may fairly note tliis act of mine ! 


[•Into the Chantry.'] 

rSceiie 1. Spalatro. 'Aly lorii, I do protest.'] 


SCENE l.—TJie Street before Olivia's House. 
Enter Clown atid Fabian. 

Fab. Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his 

Clo. Good master Eabiau, graut me auotlier 

Fab. Auythiiig. 

Clo. Do uot desire to see this letter. 

Fab. This is, to give a dog, and in recom- 
pense desire my dog again. 

Enter Duke, Viola, and Attendants. 

Did-e. Belong you to the lady Olivia, friends ? 

Clo. Ay, sir ; we are some of lier trappings. 

Duke. 1 know thee well : How dost thou, my 
good fellow ? 

Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the 
worse for my friends. 

Duke. Just the contrary ; the better for thy 

CoMEDiKS.— Vol. II. N" 

Clo. No, sir, the worse. 

Duke. How can that be ? 

Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an 
ass of me ; now my foes tell me plainly I am an 
ass : so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the know- 
ledge of myself; and by my friends I am abused: 
so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four 
negatives make your two affirmatives, why, tlicn 
the worse for my friends and the better for my 

Duke. Wliy, this is excellent. 

Clo. By my troth, sir, no; thougli it please 
you to be one of my friends. 

Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me ; 
there 's gold. 

Clo. But that it wouhl lie double-dealing, sir, 
I would you could make it another. 

" Coleridge thus explains tliis jiassafre :— " Tlie humour 
lies ill the wliispered ' No ! ' and the inviting ' Don't ! ' witli 
which the maiden's kisses are accompanied, and tlicncc com- 
pared to negatives, wliich by repetition coiiititutcan allirm- 
ative."— (Lit. Remains.) 


Act v.] 


[SctNE 1. 

Buhe. 0, you give me ill counsel. 

Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for 
this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. 

Buke. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be 
a double dealer ; there 's another. 

Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play ; 
and the old saying is, the third pays for all : the 
triplex,'^ sir, is a good tripping measure ; or the 
bells of St. Bennet, sir, may put you in mind ; 
One, two, three. 

B/i/re. You can fool no more money out of me 
at this throw : if you will let your lady know I 
am here to speak with her, and bring her along 
with you, it may awake my bounty further. 

Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty, till I 
come again. I go, sir ; but I would not have you 
to think that my desire of having is the sin of 
covetousness : but, as you say, sir, let your bounty 
take a nap, I will awake it anon. [_E.xU Clown. 

Enter Antonio attcl Officei's. 
Via. Here comes the man, sii', that didrescueme. 
Buke. That face of his I do remember well ; 
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd 
As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war : 
A bawbling vessel was he captain of. 
For shallow draught, and bulk, unprizable ; 
With which such scathful'' grapple did he make 
With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 
That very envy, and the tongue of loss. 
Cried fame and honour on him.— What 's the 
matter ? 
1 Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio 
That took the Phoenix, and her fraught, from 

Candy ; 
And this is he that did the Tiger board. 
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg : 
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and 

In private brabble did we apprehend him. 

Vio. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my 
side ; 
But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me, 
I know not what 't was, but distraction. 

Buke. Notable pirate ! thou salt-water thief ! 
What foolish boldness brought thee to their 

Whom thou, in terms so bloods, and so dear," 
Hast made thine enemies 

» Triplex. Triple time in music 

•> Scathful— ha.tmf\i\ — destructive. 

« Dear. Shakspere and the writers of his age frequently 
use the word dear in the sense of harmful. The old English 
verb to dere is from the Anglo-Saxon derian, to iniure hurt 
annoy, to do mischief; thence we have dearth, that which 
dereth or maketh dear. What was sjiared was therefore 
called dear, precious, costly, highly prized. Tlie two senses 
of the word are thus rendered clear, though the last- 
mentioned has become the most common. 

A?it. Orsino, noble sir, 

Be pleas'd that I shake off these names you give 

me : 
Antonio never yet was thief, or pirate. 
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, 
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither : 
That most ingrateful boy there, by your side. 
From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy mouth 
Did I redeem ; a wrack past hope he was : 
His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
My love, without retention or restraint. 
All his in dedication : for his sake. 
Did I expose myself, pure for his love. 
Into the danger of this adverse town ; 
Drew to defend him when he was beset ; 
Where being apprehended, his false cunning, 
(Not meaning to partake with mc in danger,) 
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance. 
And grew a twenty -years-removed thing. 
While one would wink ; denied me mine own 

Which I had recommended to his use 
Not half an hour before. 

Vio. How can this be ? 

Buke. When came he to this t own ? 

Ant. To-day, my lord ; and for three months 
(No interim, not a minute's vacancy,) 
Both day and night did we keep company. 

Enter Olivia and Attendants. 

Buke. Here comes the countess ; now heaven 
walks on earth. — 
But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are mad- 
ness : 
Three months this youth hath tended upon me ; 
But more of that anon. — Take him aside. 

OIL What would my lord, but that he may 
not have. 
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? — 
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. 
Vio. Madam? 
Buke. Gracious Olivia, — 
OH. What do you say, Cesario ? — Good my 

lord, — 
Via. My lord woidd speak, my duty hushes 

on. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, 
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 
As howling after music. 

Buke. Still so cruel? 

OIL Still so constant, lord. 
Buke. What ! to perverseness ? you uncivil 
To whose Lugrate and uuauspicious altars 

Aci v.] 



My soiil the faithfuU'st offerings hatli breath'd 

That e'er devotion tender'd ! What shall I do ? 

Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall 
become him. 

Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to 
do it, 
Like to the Egyptian thief, at point of death. 
Kill what I love ;"■ a savage jealousy. 
That sometime savours nobly ? — But hear me 

this : 
Since you to uon-regardance east my faith. 
And that I partly know the instrument 
That screws me from my true place in your 

Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still ; 
But this your minion, whom I know you love. 
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, 
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye. 
Where he sits crowned in his master's spite. 
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in 

mischief : 
I 'U sacrifice the lamb that I do love. 
To spite a raven's heart within a dove. [^Going. 

Via. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly. 
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 

{Folloicing . 

Oli. Where goes Cesario ? 

Vio. After him I love. 

More than I love these eyes, more than my life. 
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife : 
If I do feign, you witnesses above. 
Punish my life, for tainting of my love ! 

Oli. Ah me, detested ! how am I beguil'd ! 

Vio. "V\1io does beguile you ? who does do 
you wrong? 

Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself ? Is it so long ?— - 
Call forth the holy father, \lixit an Attendant. 

Duke. Come, away. {To Viola. 

Oli. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, 

Duke. Husband? 

Oli. Ay, husband, can he that deny ? 

Duke. Her husband, sirrah ? 

Vio. No, my lord, not I. 

Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear 
That makes thee strangle thy prc^n-iety : 
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up ; 
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art 
As great as that thou fear'st. — 0, welcome, 
fatner ! 

Re-enter Attendant ami Priest. 
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, 

Thyamis ; in Heliodorus. 

N 2 

Here to unfold (though lately we intended 
To keep in darkness what occasion now 
Ileveals before 't is ripe) what thou dost know, 
Hath newly pass'd between tliis youth and nic. 

Dried. A contract of eternal bond of love, 
Confinn'd by mutual joinder of your hands. 
Attested by the holy close of lips, 
Strengthen'd by intcrehangcment of your rings ; 
And all the ceremony of this compact 
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony : 
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my 

I have travell'd but two hours. 

Duke. 0, thou dissembling cub ! what will 

thou be. 
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case ?'' 
Or wiU not else thy craft so quickly grow, 
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ? 
Farewell, and take her ; but dii-cct thy feet 
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 
Vio. My lord, I do protest, — 
Oli. 0, do not swear ; 

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much 


Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, mi/i his head 

Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon ; 
send one presently to sir Toby. 

Oli. Wiat's the matter? 

Sir And. He has broke my head across, and 
has given sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too : for 
the love of God, your help : I had rather than 
forty pound I were at home. 

Oli. Wlio has done this, sir Ancbew ? 

Sir And. The count's gentleman, one Cesario : 
we took him for a coward, but he 's the very 
devil incardinate. 

Duke. jNIy gentleman, Cesario ? 

Sir And. Od's lifeliugs, here he is : — You 
broke my head for nothiug ; and that that I did, 
I was set on to do 't by sir Toby. 

Vio. Why do you speak to me ? I never hurt 
you : 
You drew your sword upon me without cause ; 
But I bcspake you fan-, and hurt you not. 

Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you 
have hurt me ; I think you set nothing by a 
bloody coxcomb. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch, drunk, led by the Clown. 

Here comes sir Toby halting, you shall hear 
more : but if he had not been in drink, he would 
have tickled you othergates than he did. 

ALT v.] 


[Scene 1. 

Luke. How now, geutlemau! liow is't with 

Sir To. Tliat 's all one ; he has hurt me, and 
there 's the end on 't. — Sot, did'st see Dick sur- 
geon, sot ? 

Clo. 0, he 's drunk, sir Toby, an hour agoue ; 
his eyes were set at eight i' the morning. 

Sir To. Then he 's a rogue and a passy- 
measures pavin ; I hate a drunken rogue. "■ 

OU. Away with him: Who hath made this 
havoc with them ? 

Sir And. I '11 help you, sir- Toby, because 
we '11 be dressed together. 

Sir To. Will you help an ass-head, and a 
coxcomb, and a knave? a thin-faced knave, a 
gull ? 

OH. Get him to bed, and let his hurt l)e 
look'd to. 

[E.veiint Clown, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew. 
Enter Sebastian. 
Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your 
kinsman ; 
But had it been the brother of my blood, 
I must liave done no less, with wit, and safety. 
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by 

T do perceive it hath offended you ; 
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 
We made each other but so late ago. 
Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and two 
persons ; 
A natural perspective, that is, and is not. 

Seb. Antonio, my dear Antonio ! 
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me, 
Since I have lost thee. 
Aiif. Sebastian are you ? 
Seb. Tear'st thou that, Antonio ? 

Ant. How have you made division of your- 
An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 
Thau these two creatures. Which is Sebastian ? 
OH. Most wonderful ! 

Seb. Do I stand there ? I never had a brother : 
Nor can there be that deity in my nature, 
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister, 
"WTiom the blind waves and surges have de- 
vour' d : — 

a We print as in the second folio. JIalone also follows 
tliis folio in tliis passage; liut tlie ordinary reading is,— 
" I'hen he's a rogue; after a passy-measure, or a pavin, I 
hate," &c.— Sir Toby is drunk, and yet lie is made by the 
modern editors to speak with grammatical correctness. The 
humour lies in liis calling " Dick Surgeon " *;/ the names of 
the solemn dances which he abhors, confounding the two. 
The passamezzo\ia.s slow, and accompanied by singing, Mer- 
senne seems to indicate; the ;jot)ara a stately dance, deriving 
its name from /jaro, a peacock, because, says the same writer) 
the dancers spread themselves out in the manner of that 


Of charity, what kin are you to me ? \_To Viola. 
Wliat country mau ? what name ? wl:-at parent- 
age ? 

Fio. Of Messaline : Sebastian was iny father ; 
Such a Sebastian was my brother too ; 
So went he suited to his watery tomb : 
If spirits can assume both form and suit 
You come to fright us. 

Seb. A spirit I am, indeed : 

But am in that dimension grossly clad, 
Wnich from the womb I did participate. 
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, 
And say — Thrice welcome, drowned Viola ! 

Fio. My father had a mole upon his brow. 

Seb. And so had mine. 

Fio. And died that day when Viola from her 
Had number'd thirteen years. 

Seb. O, that record is lively in my soiJ ! 
He finished, indeed, his mortal act. 
That day that made my sister thirteen years. 

Fio. If nothing lets to make us happy botli 
But this my mascidine usurp'd attire. 
Do not embrace me, till each circumstance 
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jump, 
That I am Viola : which to confirm, 
I '11 bring you to a captaiu, in this town 
WLere lie my maiden weeds, by whose gentle 

I was preserv'd, to serve this noble count : 
All the occurrence of my fortune since 
Hath been between this lady and this lord. 

Seb. So comes it, lady, you have been mistook : 

iTo Olivia. 
But nature to her bias drew in tliat. 
You would have been contracted to a maid ; 
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv'd. 
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man. 

Duke. Be not amaz'd 
blood. — 

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, 
I shall have share in this most happy wrack : 
B03', thou hast said to me a thousand times, 

[_To A^iola. 
Thou never should'st love woman like to me. 

Fio. And all those sayings will I over-swear ; 
And all those swearings keep as true in soul. 
As doth that orbed continent the fire 
That severs day from night. 

Duke. Give me thy hand ; 

And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. 

Fio. The captaiu, tliat did bring me first on 
Hath my maid's garments : he, upon some action. 

right noble is his 


Act v.] 


(Scene I. 

Is now in durance ; at Malvolio's suit, 
A gentleman, and follower of my lady's. 

OH. He shall enlarge bim :— Petch Malvolio 
hither : — 
And yet, alas, now I remember me. 
They say, poor gentleman, he 's much distract. 

lie-enter Clown, tcith a letter. 

A most extracting " frenzy of mine own 
From my remembrance clearly banish'd his. — 
How does he, sii-rah ? 

Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the 
stave's end, as well as a man in his ease may 
do : he has here writ a letter to you; I shoidd 
have given it to you to-day morning, but as a 
madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills 
not much when they are delivered. 

OH. Open it, and read it. 

Clo. Look then to be well edified, when the 
fool delivers the madman: — 'By the Lord, 
madam,' — 

Oil'. How now ! art thou mad ? 

Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness : an 
your ladysliip will have it as it ought to be, you 
must allow vo.v^ 

on. Prithee, read i' thy right wits. 

Clo. So I do, madonna ; but to read his right 
wits, is to read thus: therefore perpend, my 
princess, and give ear. 

on. Read it you, sirrah. \To Fabian- 

Fab. \_Reads^ 

•By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall 
know it : though you have put me into darkness, and given 
your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of 
my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter 
that induced me to the semblance I put on ; with the which 
I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. 
Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little un- 
thought of, and speak out of my injury. 

'The madly-used Malvolio.' 

on. Did he write this ? 
Clo. Ay, madam. 

Bitke. This savours not much of distraction. 
on. See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him 
hither. [^-"'^ Fabian. 

My lord, so please you, these things further 

thought on. 
To think me as well a sister as a wife. 
One day shall crown the alliance on 't, so please 

Here at my house, and at my proper cost. 
Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrat^e 
your offer. 

a ^x/rac/inf?— absorbing. 

b When the Clown begins to read, he raves and gesticu- 
lates : upon which Olivia says " art thou mad ? " His answer 
is clear enough-you must allow rox— you must let me use 
my voice— if I am to read madness as it ought to be read. 

Yolu- master quits you; [jfo Viola.] and, for 

your service done him, 
So much against the mettle " of your sex, 
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, 
And since you call'd mc master for so long, 
Here is my hand ; you shall from this time be 
Your master's mistress. 

Oli, A sister ? — you are she. 

Re-enter F.\bian, xcith Malvolio, 

Bti.lce. Is this the madman ? 

OIL Ay, my lord, tliis same : 

How now, Malvolio ? 

Mal. Madam, you have done me wrong, 

Notorious wrong. 

Oli. Have I, MalvoUo ? no. 

Mal. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that 
letter : 
You must not now deny it is your liand. 
Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase ; 
Or say, 't is not your seal, not your invention : 
You can say none of this : Well, grant it then, 
And tell me, in the modesty of honoui-. 
Why you have given me such clear lights of 

favour ; 
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you; 
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown 
Upon sir Toby and the Hghter people : 
And, acting this in an obedient hope. 
Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd. 
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, 
And made the most notorious geek'' and gull, 
That e'er invention play'd on ? tell mc why. 

Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
Though, I confess, much like the character : 
But, out of question, 't is Maria's hand. 
And now I do bethink me, it was she 
First told me thou wast mad; thou" cam'st in 

And in such forms which here were presuppos'd 
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content : 
This practice hath most slu-ewdly pass'd upon 

thee : 
But, when we know the grounds and authors of 

Thou shalt be both the plantiff and the judge 

Of thine own cause. 

^ab. Good madam, hear me speak ; 

And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come, 
Taint the condition of this present hour. 
Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it-shall not, 
Most freely I confess, myself, and Toby, 

c rro».-The original has then. The change to ihou was 
suggested to us by the late Mr.T. Rodd. 


Act v.] 



Set this device agaiust Malvolio here, 
Upon son.^e stubborn and uucourteous parts 
We had conceiv'd against him : Maria writ 
The letter, at sir Toby's great importance ; ''' 
In recompense whereof he hath married her. 
How with a sportful malice it was foUow'd, 
]\Iay rather pluck on laughter than revenge ; 
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd 
That have on both sides pass'd. 

OH. Alas, poor fool! how have they baffled 
thee ! 

Clo. Why, 'some are born great, some achieve 
greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon 
them.' I was one, sir, in this interlude; one 
sir Topas, sir; but that's all one:— 'By the 
Lord, fool, I am not mad ; '—But do you remem- 
ber? 'Madanij why laugh you at such a barren 
rascal? an you smile not, he's gagg'd : ' And 
thus the whii-ligig of time brings in his revenges. 

Mai. I '11 be revenged on the whole pack of 
you. \_E.rii. 

on. He hath been most notoriously abus'd. 

Luke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a 
peace : 
He hath not told us of the captain yet ; 
When that is known, and golden time convents,'' 

^ Importance — importunity. 

'' Coi/rc»/i— serves, agrees, is convenient. 

A solemn combination shall be made 
Of our dear souls — Meantime, sweet sister, 
We wUl not part from hence. — Cesario, come ; 
For so you shall be while you are a man ; 
But, when in other habits you are seen, 
Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen. 



Clo. When that I was and a little tiny boy, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
A foolish thing was but a toy. 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

Cut when I came to man's estate, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate. 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came, alas ! to wive, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

3y swaggering could I never thrive. 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

Hut when I came unto my bed, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

With toss-pots still had drunken head. 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

A great while ago the world begun, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

But that's ail one, our play is done, 
And we'll strive to please you every day 

1 Exit. 

Ui^-iL IK., 

[Middle Teinpie Hall.] 


There is something to our minds very precious in that memorial of Shakspere which is preserved 
in the little Table-book of the Student of the Middle Temple : * " Feb. 2, 1601 [2]. At our feast 
we had a play called Twelve nigJit or what you will." What a scene do these few plain wonls 
call up before us ! The Christmas festivities have lingered on till Candlemas. The Lord of Mis- 
rule has resigned his sceptre; the Fox and the Cat have been hunted round the hall; the Masters 
of the Revels have sung their songs ; the drams are silent which lent their noisy chorus to the 
Marshall's proclamations; and Sir Francis Flatterer and Sir Randle Rackabite have passed into 
the ranks of ordinary men.+ But there is still a feast ; and after the dinner a play ; and that play 

See Introductorj- Notice. 

t Consult Dugdale's Orii/ines Judiciates. 



Shakspere's Twelfth Night. And the actual roof under which the happy company of benchers, 
and barristers, and students first listened to that joyous and exhilarating play, full of the truest and 
most beautiful humanities, especially fitted for a season of cordial mirthfulness, is still standing ; 
and we may walk into that stately hall and think,— Here Shakspere's Twelfth Night was acted in 
the Christmas of 1601 ; and here its exquisite poetry first fell upon the ear of some secluded scholar, 
and was to him as a fragrant flower blooming amidst the arid sands of his Bracton and his Fleta ; and 
here its "-entle satire upon the vain and the foolish penetrated into the natural heart of some grave 
and formal dispenser of justice, and made him look with tolerance, if not with sympathy, upon the 
mistakes of less grave and formal fellow-men ; and here its ever-gushing spirit of enjoyment, — of 
fun without malice, of wit without grossness, of humour without extravagance, — taught the swag- 
gering roaring, overgrown boy, miscalled student, that there were higher sources of mirth than 
affrays in Fleet Street, or drunkenness in Whitefriars. Venerable Hall of the Middle Temple, thou 
art to our eyes more stately and more to be admired since we looked upon that entry in the Table- 
book of John Manningham ! The Globe has perished, and so has the Blackfriars. The works of 
the poet who made the names of these frail buildings immortal need no associations to recommend 
tliem • but it is yet pleasant to know that there is one locality remaining where a play of Shakspere 
was listened to by his contemporaries ; and that play, Twelfth Night. 

Accepting, though somewhat doubtingly, the statement of the commentators that Twelfth Night 
was produced as late as 1614, Schlegel says, "If this was really the last ivorlc of Shakspei-e, as is 
affirmed, he must have enjoyed to the last the same youtlifulness of mind, and have carried with 
him to the grave the whole fulness of his talents."* There is something very agreeable in this 
theory ; but we can hardly lament that the foundation upon which it rests has been utterly de- 
stroyed. Shakspere did, indeed, carry "with him to the grave the whole fulness of his talents," 
but they were talents, perhaps not of a higher order, but certainly employed upon loftier subjects, 
than those which were called out by the delicious comedies of the Shakspere of forty. His "youth- 
fulness of mind" too, even at this middle period of his life, is something very different from the 
honeyed luxuriance of his spring-time — more subjected to his intellectual penetration into the hidden 
springs of human action — more regulated by the artistical skill of blending the poetical with the 
comic, so that in fact they are not presented as opposite principles constrained to appear in a patch- 
woi'k union, but are essentially one and the same creation of the highest imaginative power. We 
are told that of Twelfth Night the scenes in which Malvolio, and Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew appear 
are Shakspere's own. The Duke, and Olivia, and Viola, and Sebastian, belong to some one else, it 
is said, because they existed, before he evoked them from their hiding-places, in the rude outlines of 
story-books without poetry, and comedies without wit. Hououi'ed be the memories of Bandello and 
Barnaby Rich, not so much for their own woi-k as for the happy accident by which they saved some 
popular tradition from oblivion, for a Shakspere to make his oivn for all ages ! Honoured be the 
learned or unlearned authors of the Inganni and the Ingannati, if they suggested to him that 
their shadowy representations of a wandering brother and sister coming through mistakes and 
crosses to love and happiness, had in them dramatic capabilities such as he could deal with ! Ho- 
noured be they, as we would honour the man, were his name recorded, who set the palette of 
Raphael or made Paganiui's violin ! "Whether a writer invents, in the commonly received meaning 
of invention, — that is, whether his incidents and characters be spick-and-span new; — or whether 
he borrows, using the same ordinary phraseology, his incidents and characters from tradition, or 
history, or written legends, — he is not a poet unless his materials are worked up into a perfect and 
consistent whole : and if the poetry be not in him, it matters little whether he raises his fabric " all 
out of his own head," as children say, or adopts a bit here and a bit there, and pieces then) together 
with a bit of his own, — for his house will not stand ; it is built upon the sands. Now it is this 
penetration of his own imaginative power in and through all his materials which renders it of little 
more account than as a matter of antiquarian curiosity, where Shakspere picked up hints for the 
plots of his plays. He might have found the germ of Viola in Barnaby Rich; and he might have 
altogether invented Malvolio : but Viola and Malvolio are for ever indissolubly united, in the exact 
proportions in which the poetic and the comic work together for the production of a harmonious 
effect. The mutral title of Twelfth Night— conveying as it does a notion of genial mirth— might 

* Lectures on Dramatic Literature, Black's Translation, vol. ii., p 175. 


warrant us in thinking that there was a preponderance of the comic spirit. Charles I. appear** to 
have thought so, when, in hi.s copy of the second edition of Shakspere, he altercl the title with his 
own pen to that of Malvolio.* But Malvolio is not the predominant idea of the comedy ; nor If 
he of that exclusive interest that the whole action, even of the merely comic portions, should turn 
upon him. When Shakspere means one character to be the centre of the dramatic idea, he for the 
most part tells us so in his title :— Hamlet, Othello, Lear, Macbeth, Timon. Not one of the comedies 
has such a personal title, for the evident reason that the effect in them must mainly depend 
upon the harmony of all the parts, rather than upon the absorbing passion of the principal character. 
The Twelfth Night is especially of this descriptit)n. It presents us with the golden and the 
silver sides of human life,— the romantic and the humorous. But the two precious metals are 
moulded into one statue. 

It is scarcely necessary for us to enter into any analysis of the plot of this charming comedy, or 
attempt any dissection of its characters, for the purpose of opening to the reader new sources of 
enjoyment. It is impossible, we think, for one of ordinary sensibility to read through the first act 
without yielding himself up to the genial temper in which the entire play is written. " The 
sunshine of the breast " spreads its rich purple light over the whole champain, and penetrates into 
every thicket and every dingle. From the first line to the last — from the Duke's 

" That strain again; — it had a dying fall," 
to the Clown's 

" With hey, ho, the wind and the rain," — 

there is not a thought, or a situation, that is not calculated to call forth pleasurable feelinga. The 
love-melancholy of the Duke is a luxurious abandonment to one pervading impression — not a fierce 
and hopeless contest with one o'ermastering passion. It delights to lie " canopied with bowers,"— to 
listen to "old and antique" songs, which dally with its " innocence,"— to be "full of shapes," 
and •' high fantastical." The love of Viola is the sweetest and tenderest emotion that ever informed 
the heart of the purest and most graceful of beings with a spirit almost divine. Perhaps in the 
whole range of Shakspere's poetry there is nothing which comes more unbidden into the mind, and 
always in connexion with some image of the ethereal beauty of the utterer, than Viola's "she 
never told her love." The love of Olivia, wilful as it is, is not in the slightest degree lepulsive. 
With the old stories before him, nothing but the refined delicacy of Shakspere's conception of the 
female character could have i-edeemed Olivia from approaching to the anti-feminine. But as it is 
we pity her, and we rejoice with her. These are what may be called the serious chai-actei-s, 
because they are the vehicles for what we emphatically call the poetry of the play. But the comic 
characters are to us equally poetical — that is, they appear to us not mere copies of the representatives 
of temporary or individual follies, but embodyings of the universal comic, as true and as fresh 
to-day as they were two centuries and a half ago. Malvolio is to our minds as poetical as Don 
Quixote; and we are by no means sure that Shakspere meant the poor cross-gartered Steward only 
to be laughed at, any more than Cervantes did the knight of the rueful countenance. He meant 
us to pity him, as Olivia and the Duke pitied him; for, in truth, the delusion by which Malvolio 
was wi-ecked, only passed out of the romantic into the comic through the manifestation of the vanity 
of the character in reference to his situation. But if we laugh at Malvolio we are not to laugh ill- 
naturedly, for the poet has conducted all the mischief against him in a spirit in which there is no 
real malice at the bottom of the fun. Sir Toby is a most genuine character, — one given to strong 
potations and boisterous merriment ; but with a humour about him perfectly irresistible. His 
abandon to the instant opportunity of laughing at and with others is something so th"roughly 
English, that we are not surprised the poet gave him an English name. And like all genuine 
humorists Sir Toby must have his butt. What a trio is presented in that glorious scene of the 
second act, where the two Knights and the Clown " make the welkin dance ; " — the humorist, the 
fool, and the philosopher !— for Sir Andrew i^ the fool, and the Clown is the philosopher. We 
hold the Clown's epilogue song to be the most philosophical Clown's song upon record ; and n 
treatise might be written upon its wisdom. It is the history of a life, from the condition of " a 

* This copy, which formerly belonged to Stcevens, was purcha.scd for the private library- vf George III., and was retained 
when George IV. gave that valuable collection to the nation. 



little tiny boy," through "man's estate," to decaying age — "when I came unto my bed;" and the 
conclusion is, that what is true of the individual is true of the species, and what was of yesterday 
was of generations long past away— for 

" A great while ago the world begun." 

Steevens says this " nonsensical ditty " is utterly unconnected with the subject of the comedy. 
We think he is mistaken. Gerviuus holds a different opinion from Steevens. He says — '• The Clown 
appears here as a singer by profession, who sings love-songs of a cheerful or tragic nature, merry jigs 
and heart-rending canons, with equal skill. Together with this, he is represented as a careless, cheerful 
fellow, who troubles himself about nothing, placed in the midst of a much-occupied society, a wise 
fool amongst foolish wits. He indeed says it often, and pi'oves it oftener, that his foolish wisdom is in 
reality not folly, that it is a mistake to call him a fool, that the hood does not make the monk, and 
that his brain is not as motley as his coat. The poet has not brought the Clown's acts and deeds 
in this piece into a main relation with the main idea, but placed him moi-e as a separate person in his 
individual expi-essions. In the play, where these instructive passages are found, it is required by the 
Clown's difficult office that he should well know the I'ight time, place, and person with whom he jests, 
so as to level his arrows at the weak points. He is at home wherever placed, or, as he says, is ' for all 
waters;' he lives with all in their own way, knowing their foibles, observhig their natures, attentively 
watchinc: the humour of the moment.'' 

■'^^'^^-— -- ■ — 


[Forest of Arden.] 


State of the Text, and Chronology, of As You Like It. 

h& You Like It was first printed in the folio collection of 1623. There appears to have been an 
intention to publish it separately, for we find it entered in the registers of the Stationers' Company, 
together with Henry V. and Much Ado About Nothing. There is no exact date to this entry, but it 
is conjectured to have been made in 1600.* The text of the original folio is, upon the whole, a very 
correct one. In a few instances the second folio of 1632 has slightly altered this text with advan- 
tage ; in other instances the changes in this second edition are capricious, or have arisen out of an 
attempt to modernise what was little more than a quarter of a century old. These variation.s are 
pointed out in our foot-notes. The original is divided into acts and scenes. 

The exact date of this comedy cannot be fixed, but there is no doubt that it belong.? to the first 
or second year of the seventeenth century. It is not mentioned in the list published by Meres in 
1598 ; and there is an allusion in the comedy which fixes the limits of its date in the other direo- 

» See Introductory Notice to Much Ado About Nothing, p. 69. 



tlou : "1 will weep for nothiug," says Rosalind, "like Diana in the fountain." The cross iu West 
Cheap, originally erected by Edward I., was reconstructed in the reign of Henry VI., and con- 
verted to the useful purpose of a conduit. The images about the cross were often broken and de- 
faced, probably by the misdirected zeal of the early reformers; and so the heathen deities were 
called in, and in 1596, according to Stow, was set up " an alabaster image of Diana, and water 
conveyed from the Thames prilling from her breast." Stow gives us this information in 1599 : but 
in 1603, when the second edition of his 'Survey of London' was published, the glories of Diana 
were passed away ; her fountain ivas no longer " prilling." " The same is oft-times dried up, and 
now decayed," says Stow. There can be no doubt that Diana was included in the popular hatred 
of this unfortunate cross ; for although Elizabeth, on the 24th September, 1600, sent a special com- 
mand to the city respecting " the continuance of that monument," in accordance with which it was 
again repaired, gilded, and cleansed from dust, " about twelve nights following the image of our 
Lady was again defaced by plucking off her crown, and almost her head." When Eosalind made 
the allusion to Diana in the fountain, we may be pretty sure that the fountain was not " dried up." 

Supposed Souece of the Plot. 

If we were to accept the oracular decisions of Farmer and Steevens, as to the sources from which 
Shakspere derived the story of As You Like It, we might dismiss the subject very briefly. The 
one says, with his usual pedantic insolence, " As You Like It was certainly borrowed, if we believe 
Dr. Grey and Mr. Upton, from the ' Coke's Tale of Gamelyn,' which, by the way, was not printed 
till a century afterwai-d, when, in truth, the old bard, who was no hunter of MSS., contented him- 
self solely with ' Lodge's Rosalynd,' or ' Euphues' Golden Legacye,' quarto^ 1590."* Thus "the old 
bard," meaning Shakspere, did not take the trouble of doing, or was incapable of doing, what another 
old bard (first a player, and afterwards a naval surgeon) did with great care — consult the manuscript 
copy of an old English tale attributed, but supposed incorrectly so, to Chaucer. In spite, however, 
of Dr. Farmer, we shall take the liberty of looking at the ' Tale of Gamelyn,' in the endeavour to find 
some traces of Shakspere. Steevens disposes of Lodge's 'Rosalynd' in as summary a way as 
Farmer does of Gamelyn. " Shakspeare has followed Lodge's novel more exactly than is his general 
custom when he is indebted to such worthless originals, and has sketched some of his principal 
characters and borrowed a few expressions from it. The imitations, &c., however, are in general 
too insignificant to merit transcription." All this is very unscrupulous, ignorant, and tasteless. 
Lodge's ' Rosalynd ' is not a worthless original ; Shakspere's imitations of it are not insignificant. 
Lodge's novel is, in many respects, however quaint and pedantic, informed with a bright poetical 
spirit, and possesses a pastoral charm which may occasionally be compared with the best parts of 
Sydney's 'Arcadia.' Lodge most scrupulously follows the 'Tale of Gamelyn,' as far as that poem 
would harmonise with other parts of his story, which we may consider to be his own invention- 
But he has added so much that is new, in the creation of the incident of the banished king, the ad- 
ventures of Rosalynd and Alinda (Celia) in the forest, the passion of Rosader (Orlando), and the 
pretty mistake of Phebe arising out of the disguise of Rosalynd, that it is nothing less than absurd 
to consider Shakspere's obligations to him as insignificant. It is remarkable that in the two in- 
stances where Shakspere founded dramas upon the novels of two contemporary English writers, the 
' Rosalynd ' of Lodge, and the ' Pandosto ' of Greene, he offered a decided homage to their genius,, 
by adopting their incidents with great fidelity. But in the process of converting a narrative into a 
drama he manifests, we think, even in a more remarkable way than if, using the common language 
of criticism, we might call the As You Like It and the Winter's Tale his own invention— especially 
in the exquisite taste with which he combines old materials with new, narrates what is unfit to be 
dramatically represented, represents what he finds narrated, informs the actors with the most lively 
and discriminating touches of character, and throws over the whole the rich light of his poetry and 
his philosophy — he manifests the wonderful superiority of his powers over those of the most gifted 
of his fellow-poets. We believe that our readers will not, in this point of view, consider the apace 


' Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare,' Eoswell's Edition, p. 214. 


ill bestowed which we ahall devote to an analytiis of Lodge's « llosalyud/ as compared with the As 
You Like It.* 

" The Colie's Tale of Gamelyn," says Tyrwhitt, " is not to be found in any of the MSS. of the 
first authority ; and the manner, style, and verification, all prove it to have been the work of an 
author much inferior to Chaucer." He adds : " as a relique of our ancient poetrj', and the founda- 
tion, perhaps, of Shakespeare's As You Like It, I could have wished to see it more accurately 
printed than it is in the only edition which we have of it."t Of the antiquity of the poem there 
can be no doubt. It not only employs the old language in the old spirit, but its conception of the 
heroic character is altogether that of a rude age, when deeds of violence did not present them- 
selves to the imagination as any other than the natural accompaniments of bodily strength and 
undaunted courage. There is nothing more remarkable than the different modes in which Lodge 
and Shakspere— who, be it remembered, were contemporaries, and therefore, with the exception 
of the difFereuceB of their individual habits of thought, to be supposed equally capable of modifying 
their impressions by the associations of a different state of society — have dealt with their common 
original. In the ' Tale of Gamelyn,' an old doughty knight, Sir Johan of Boundis, is at the point 
of death, and directs certain " wise knights " to settle how he shall divide his goods amongst hia 
three sons. The division which they make is, as we shall presently see, not agreeable to the wishes 
of the father, and he thus decrees that his land shall be divided otherwise than the friends hpxl 
willed : — 

" For Godd 'is love, my neighbouris, 

Standeith ye all^ still. 

And I will delin my londe 

After my ownfe will. 
Johan myn eldest sone shall 

Yhavfe plowis five. 

That was my fadir's heritage 

While that he was on live ; 
And naiddillist son6 shall 

Five plowis have of lond 

That I holpe for to gettin 

With myn own rights liond ; 
And all myn othir purchasis 

Of lajidis and of ledes 

That I bequeth^ Gamelyn 

And all my gode stedes." 

According to Lodge's ' Rosalynde,' Sir John of Bourdeaux, in the presence of his fellow knight.^ 
of Malta, calls his sons before him, and thus directs : — 

" As I leave you some fading pelf to countercheck poverty, so I will bequeath you infallible precepts tliat 
shall lead you unto virtue. First, therefore, unto thee, Saladyne, the eldest, and therefore the chiefest pillar ol 
my house, wherein should be engraved as well the excellency of thy father's quaUties, as the essential fortune 
of his proportion, to thee I give fourteen ploughlands, with all my manor-houses and richest plate. Next, 
unto Femandine I bequeath twelve ploughlands. But, unto Rosader, the youngest, I give my horse, my 
armour, and my lance, with sixteen j^loughlands ; for if the inward thoughts be discovered by outward 
shadows, Rosader will exceed you all in bounty and honour." 

The Orlando of Shakspere thus describes his legacy : — 

'■' As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will, but poor a thousand crovras ; and, 
as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well." 

The entire difference of the conception of character between the Orlando of Shakspere and the 
Rosader of Lodge follows this difference in the statement of the fixthcr's bequest. Shakspere, we 
have no doubt, was led to this difference by his knowledge of the original talc. We do not believe 
that he " was no hunter of MSS." The mode in which the friends of the old doughty knight 
disposed of his wealth was this : — 

• A reprint of this uncommonly rare tract forms part of a series entitled ' Shakespeare's Librar\'. a Collection of tha 
Romances, Novels, and Histories used by Shakespeare as the Foundation of his Dramas. Now first collected and 
accurately reprinted from the Original Editions, with Introductory Notices by J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. This 
meritorious publication, commenced at the end of 1810, forms two volumes. 

t Introductory Discourse to the Canterbury Tales. 


For to delin them al too on 
That was ther only thought, 
And for that Gamelyn yongist was 
He shuld^ havin nought." 

We see at once that the course which Shakspere has taken was necessary to his conception of the 
character of the younger brother. Because his brother neglected to breed him well, there begins 
Ws sadness: — 

" My father charged you in his will to give me good education : you have trained me like a peasant, obscur- 
ing and hiding me from all gentlemanlike qualities : the spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will 
no longer endure it : therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor 
allottery my father left me by testament ; with that I will go buy my fortunes." 

AVith the exception of the slight burst of violence at the insolence of his elder brother, the youngest 
.son of Shakspere is perfectly submissive, unrepiniug at his fortunes, without revenge. In the 
'Tale of Gamelyn,' and in Lodge's version of it, the youngest son being endowed more largely 
than his elder brother, there is a perpetual contest for power going forward. The elder brother is 
envious at the younger being preferred ; the younger is indignant that the cunning of the elder 
deprives him of the advantages of his father's testament. It is singular how closely Lodge has here 
copied the old tale. In his preface he says, — 

" Having, with Captain Clarke, made a voyage to the islands of Terceras and the Canaries, to beguile the 
time with labour I write this book ; rough, as hatched in the storms of the ocean, and feathered in the surge 
of many perilovis seas." 

It is quite clear that he had in his cabin a copy in manuscript of the old ' Tale of Gamelyn.' For 

example : — 

" Gamelyn stode upon a day 

In his brotheris yerde, 

And he began with his hunde 

To handclin his berde." 
Compare Lodge : — 

" [Vitk that, casting up his hand, he felt hair upon his face, and perceiving his beard to bud, for choler he 
began to blush, and swore to himself he would be no more subject to such slaverj'." 

Again : — 

" After camfe his brothir in 
Ywalkyng statelich thare, 
And seide unto Gamelyn, 
IVhat ? is our meld yare ? 

Tho Gamelyn ywrothid hym, 
And swore by Goddis boke, 
Thou Shalt y go bake, luke, thy self; 
I wol not be thy coke." 

The pai-allel passage in Lodge is as follows : — 

"As thus he was ruminating of his melancholy passions, in came SaladjTie with his men, and seeing his 
brother in a brown study, and to forget his wonted reverence, thought to shake him out of his dumps thus 
' Sirrah,' quoth he, ' what, is your heart on your halfpenny, or are you saying a dirge for your father's soul ? 
what, is my dinner ready ? ' At this question Rosader, turning his head askance, and bending his brows as if 
anger there had ploughed the furrows of her wrath, with his eyes full of fii-e, he made this reply : 'Dost thou 
ask me, Saladyne, for thy cates ? ask some of thy churls tcho are fit for such an office." 

In tlie 'Tale of Gamelyn,' which continues to be almost literally followed by Lodge, we have 

now a terrible conflict between the two brothers. The elder calls his men to bind and beat, the 

younger seizes "a pestill," (Lodge calls it " a rake,") 

" And droffe all his brother's men 
Right sone on a hepe." 

But there is a touch of nature in the old tale, equal in its pathos to the most beautiful things in our 
ancient ballads, which we look for in vain in Lodge ; but which unquestionably entered into Shak- 
spere's conception of the generous and forgiving Orlando : — 

" The knightd thoughtin on traison, 
But Gamelyn ori none, 
And went and kissid his brothir, 
And then they were at one-" 


We are uow arrived at the incideut of the wrestliug. lu the old tale there \a no trcacberoua 

agreemeut between the elder brother aud the wrestler. The kuight simply wishes that Gamelyn 

" might6 brekin liis nek 
III that ilk wrestiling." 

But iu Lodge we have the incident which is di-amatised in As You Like It. Act i. Scene i. 

"Saladyno, hearing of this, tliinking now not to let the ball fall to the ground, but to take opportunity l.y 
tho forehead, first by secret means couvented with the Norman, and procured him with rich rewards to swear 
that if Eosader came within his claws he would never more return to quarrel with Saladync for his possessions." 

But we turn again to the old tale, aud we find that Shakspere avails himself of whatever exists in 
that story suited for his dramatic object; although Lodge may have given a different version of it. 
With that care with which he distinguishes between what is necessary as a preparation for a dramatic 
incident, and the exhibition of another incideut not essentially dramatic, he engages our sympathy 
for Orlando by narrating the triumph of the wrestler over the old man's three sons : — 

" Yonder they lie ; the poor old man, their father, making such fitifal dole over them, that all the 
beholders take his pai't with weeping." 

When Gamelyn arrived at the wrestling-place he lighted down from his steed and stood upon iXu- 

grass ;— 

" And ther he herd a frankelyn 
Weloway for to sing, 
And beyaiiin all hi'.lirly 
His handis for to wring." 

Here we trace Shakspere ; in Lodge we lose him. 

" At this unlooked-for massacre the people miu:mured, and were all in a deep passion of pity ; but the 
franklin, father unto these, never changed his countenance, but as a man of courageous resolution took up the 
botUes of his sons without show of outward discontent." 

Farther, in Lodge, when the champion approaches Eosader, he simply gives him a shake by the 
shoulder; in As You Like It he mocks Orlando with taunting speeches; aud so iu Gamelyn ho 
starts towai'ds the youth, 

" And seidfe, Who is thy t'adir. 

And who is eke thy sire ? 

Forsothi ihou art a gret fole, 

For that thou camist hire." 

Up to this point has Lodge followed his original, with few exceptions, very literally ; but he uow 
gives a new interest to the stoi-y by presenting to us Eosalynd. The style in which he describes her 
beauty is amongst the prettiest of poetical exaggerations : — 

"The blush that gloried Luna, when she kissed the shepherd on the bills of Latmos, was not tainted with 
such a pleasant dye as the vermilion flourished on the silver hue of Eosalynde's countenance : her eyes were 
like those lamps that make the wealthy covert of the heavens more gorgeous, sparkhng favour and disdain ; 
courteous and yet coy, as if in them Venus had placed all her amorcts, and Diana all her chastity. Tho 
trammels of her hair, folded in a caul of gold, so far surpassed the burnished glister of tho metal as the sun 
doth the meanest star in brightness : the tresses that fold in the brows of Apollo were not half so rich to tho 
sight, for in her hairs it seemed love had laid herself m ambush, to entrap the proudest eye that durst gaze 
upon their excellence." 

Mr. Collier, quoting this description of Lodge, says it " puts one a little in mind of James Shir- 
ley's excellent ridicule of overstrained hyperbolical compliments and unnatural resemblances, in his 
play of 'The Sisters' (1652).* We wonder Shakspere's own playful sonnet did not occur to him 
ai a closer example of this ridicule : — 

" My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ; 
Coral iii far moi, red than her lips' red : 

If snow he white, vhy then her breasts are dun ; ^ 

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 
1 have seen roses damask'd, red and white, 
But no sucli roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight 
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 

/~, -- ^^ „ * Poetical Decameron, vol. ii. p. 171. ,n„ 

CoMEi;iE3. — \ GL. II. ' V jgj 


I love to hear her speak,— yet well I know 

That music hath a far more pleasing sound ; 

I grant I never saw a goddess go, — 

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground ; 

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as,rare 

As any she belied with false compare." 

Ixi this sonuet we see the dominant principle of good sense by which Shakspere made his p'jetry 
a reality. His Rosalind is a living being, full of grace, and spirit, and tenderness; arch, witty, 
l^layful, impassioned. The Rosalynd of Lodge is not exactly " of no character at all," but she leaves 
no very distinct or pleasing impression on our mind. Shakspere's ex(iuisite conception of her cha- 
racter is in no i^lace more clearly evinced than in the manner with which he deals with an incident 
that Lodge thus presents to him :— 

"As the king and lorda graced biiu (Rosader) with embracing, so the ladies favoured him with their looks, 
especially Rosalynd, whom the beauty and valour of Rosader had already touched : but she accounted love 
a toy, and fancy a momentary passion ; that, as it was taken in with a gaze, might be shaken off with a wink, 
and therefore feared not to dally in the flame ; and to make Rosader know she afiected him, took from her 
neck a jewel, and sent it by a page to the young gentleman." 

Compare this with the following delicious passage : — 

" Ros. Gentleman, 

[Giving him a chain from her neclc. 
Wear this for me ; one out of suits with fortune ; 
That could give more, but that her hand lacks mtau'^.— 
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, a mere lifeless block. 

Ros. He calls us back : My piide fell with ray fortune3 : 
I '11 ask him what he would : — Did you call, sir 1 — 
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
More than your enemies. 

Cel, Will you go, coz ? 

Ros. Have with you :— Fare you well." 

It is in Lodge that we find the story of a vtsurping king and a banished brother, of which there is 
nothing in Gamelyn. Lodge tells us of 

"Torismond, the KJng of France, who, having by force banished Gerismond, their lawful king, that lived as 
an outlaw in the forest of Arden, sought now by all means to keep the French busied with all sports that might 
breed their content. Amongst the rest he had ai^pointed this solemn tournament, whereunto he in most solemn 
manner resorted, accompanied with the twelve peers of France, who, rather for fear than love, graced him with 
the show of their dutiful favours. To feed their eyes, and to make the beholders j^leased with the sight of most 
rare and glistening objects, he had appointed his own daughter Alinda to be there, and the fair Rosalynd, 
daughter unto Gerismond, with all the beautiful damsels that were famous for their features in all France." 

But after the tournament Lodge returns to his original ; and we have a succession of contests 
of brute force between the younger and the elder brother, which Shakspei-e altogether rejects, 
Rosader, upon returning home with a troop of young gentlemen, is shut out of the house by his 
brother's order; but he kicks down the door, breaks open the buttery, and revels with his com- 
panions till they have despatched five tuns of wine in his brother's cellar. This is literally the story 
of Gamelyn; which has, however, the pleasant accompaniment of the young gentleman breaking 
the portei''s neck and throwing him into a well seven hundred fathoms deep. These events are 
followed, both in the old tale and the novel, by the elder brother chaining the younger to a post in 
the middle of his hall, where he continues two or three days without meat. The story thus 
proceeds : — 

"Which Adam Spencer, the old servant of Sir John of Bourdeaux, seeing, touched with the duty and love 
he ought to his old master, felt a remorse in his conscience of his son's mishap ; and therefore, although 
Saladyne had given a general charge to his servants that none of them upon pain of death should give either 
meat or drink to Rosader, yet Adam Spencer in the night rose secretly, and brought him such victuals as hp 
could provide, and unlocked him, and set him at liberty." 

It was in Gamelyn that Lodge found Adam Spencer : — 


" Then seide at last this Ganielyn 
That stodd bound in stroiip;, 
Adam Spencer, raethinkith that 
I fasti al to long. " 

G;iuielyu beiug released, he and Adam Spencer efifect a considerable slaughter of the elder brolhei's 
friends, in which particular Lodge nowise hesitates to follow his original. Shakspero has avoided 
all this; and he has given us instead one of the most delightful of all his scenes. It is said that he 
played the character of Adam himself. Oldys tells a story of a relation of the poet,— an old 
man who lived after the restoration of Charles II.,— describing " the faint, general, and almost lost 
ideas he had of having once seen him act a part in one of his own comedies, wherein being to per- 
sonate a decrepit old man, he wore a long beard, and appeared so weak and drooping, and unable 
to walk, that he was forced to be supported and carried by another person to a table, at which he 
was seated among some company, who were eating, and one of them sung a song." This was un- 
questionably the Adam of As You Like It ; and to us there is no tradition of Shakspero to jjleasiug 
as that in the following noble lines his lips uttered what his mind had conceived : — 

" 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 unregarded age in corners thrown ; 

Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed. 

Yea, providently caters for the sparrow. 

Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 

All this I give you : Let me be your servant ; 

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty : 

For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ; 
I '11 do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities." 

The beauty of Rosalind, according to Lodge's novel, filling all men with her praises, makes the 
usurping king resolved to banish her. Her cousin defends her; and the banishes them 
both. We need scarcely point out how judiciously Shakspere has made Celia self-banished through 
her friendship. He has not varied the circumstances of their departure as I'elated by Lodge : — 

" Alinda grieved at nothing but that they might have no man in their company, saying, it would be their 
greatest prejudice in that two women went wandering without either guide or attendant. Tush (quoth Rosa- 
lynd), art thou a woman, and hast not a sudden shift to prevent a misfortune ? I, thou seest, am of a tall 
stature, and would very well become the person and aj^parel of a page : thou shalt be my mistress, and I will 
jilay the man so properly, that (trust me) in what company soever I come I will not be discovered. I will 
buy me a suit, and have my rapier very handsomely at my side, and if any knave offer wrong, your page will 
show him the point of his weapon. At this AUnda smiled, and upon this they agreed, and presently gathered 
up all their jewels, which they trussed up in a casket, and Rosalynd in all haste provided her of robes ; and 
AUnda being called Aliena, and Rosalynd Ganimede, they travelled along the vineyards, and by many by- 
ways at last got to the forest side, where they travelled by the space of two or three days without seeing any 
creat\u:e, being often in danger of wild beasts, and pained with many passionate sorrows." 

But where is Touchstone ? We find him not in Lodge. Steevens tells us, " the characters of 
Jaques, the Clown, and Audrey, are entirely of the poet's own formation." 

" Ay, now am I ixi Arden ! " Touchstone thought that when he was at home he was in a better 
place. But here is the home of every true lover of poetry. What a world of exquisite images do 
Shakspere's pictures of this forest call up ! He gives us no positive set descriptions, of trees, and 
flowers, and rivulets, and fountains, — such as we may cut out and paste into an album. But a 
touch here and there carries us into the heart of his living scenery. And so, whenever it is otii 
happy lot to be wandering 

" Under the shade of melancholy boughs," 

wo think of the oak beneath which Jaques lay along, — 

" whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; " 

2 '^^ 


and of the dingle where Touchstone was with Audrey and her goats ; and of the 

" Sheepcote fenc'd about with olive-trees," 
where dwelt Rosalind and Celia ; and of the hawthorns and brambles upon which Orlando hutjg 
odes and elegies. The description which Lodge gives us of Ardeu leaves no such impression ; it i,- 
cold and classical, vague and elaborate : — 

" With that they rose up, and marched forward till towards the even, and then coming into a fair valley 
(compassed with mountains, whereon grew many pleasant shrubs) they descried where two flocks of sheep did 
feed. Then lookino- about, they might perceive where an old shepherd sat (and with him a young swain) 
imder a covert most pleasantly situated. The ground where they sat was diapered with Flora's riches, as if 
she meant to wra^s Tellus in the glory of her vestments ; round about, in the form of an amphitheatre, were 
most curiously planted jaine-trees, interseamed with lemons and citrons, which with the thickness of their 
bouohs so shadowed the place, that Phoebus could not pry into the secret of that arbour ; so united were the 
tops with so thick a closure, that Venus might there in her jolUty have dallied unseen with her dearest para- 
mour. Fast by (to make the place more gorgeous) was there a fount so crystalline and clear, that it seemed 
Diana with her Dryades and Hamadryades had that sj^ring, as the secret of all their bathings. In this glorious 
arbour sat these two shephex-ds (seeing their sheep feed) playmg on their pipes many pleasant tunes, and from 
music and melody falling into much amorous chat." 

Nothing can more truly show how immeasurably superior was the art of Shakspere to the art of 
other poets than the comparison of such a description as this of Lodge with the incidental ocene- 
paiutiug of his forest of Arden. It has been truly and beautifully said of Shakspere, — " All his 
excellences, like those of Nature herself, are thrown out together ; and, instead of interfering with, 
support and recommend each other. His flowers are not tied up in garlands, nor his fraits crushed 
into baskets — but spring living from the soil, in all the dew and freshness of youth."* But there 
are critics of another caste, who object to Shakspere's forest of Arden, situated, as they hold, 
" between the rivers Meuse and Moselle." They maintain that its geographical position ought to 
have been known by Shakspere ; and that he is consequently most vehemently to be reprehended 
for imagining that a palm-tree could flourish, and a lioness be staiwing, in French Flanders. We 
most heartily wish that the critics would allow poetry to have its own geography. AVe do not want 
to know that Bohemia has no seaboard ; vre do not wish to have the island of Sycorax defined on 
the map ; we do not require that our forest of Arden should be the Arduenna Sijlva of Caesar and 
Tacitus, and that its rocks should be " clay-slate, grauwacke-slate, grauwacke, conglomei'ate, 
quartz-rock, and quartzose sandstone." We are quite sure that Ariosto was thinking nothing of 
French Flanders when he described how 

" two fountains grew, 

Like in tlie taste, but in effects unlike, 

Plac'd ill Ardenna, eacli in other's view : 

Who tastes the one, love's dart his heart doth strike 

Contrary of the other dost ensue. 

Who drinks thereof, their lovers shall mislike." t 

We are equally sure that Shakspere mcayit to take his forest out of the region of the literal, when he 
assigned to it a palm-tree and a lioness. Lady Morgan tells us, " The forest of Ardennes smells 
of early English poetry. It has all the greenwood freshness of Shakspere's scenes; and it is scarcely 
possible to feel the truth and beauty of his exquisite As You Like It, without having loitered, as 
I have done, amidst its tangled glens and magnificent depths." J We must venture to think that it 
was not necesary for Shakspere to visit the Ardennes to have described 

" An old oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age. 
And high top bald with dry antiquity ; " 

and that, although his own Warwickshire Arden is now populous, and we no longer meet there a 
"desert inaccessible," there are fifty places in England where, with the As You Like It in hand, 
one might linger " from noon to dewy eve," and say, "Ay, now am I in Arden." 

Shakspere, as it appears to us, has not only taken the geography of his Arden out of the real, but 
has in the same way purposely perplexed the chronology of his comedy. In Lodge's ' Rosalyud ' 
the geography is somewhat more perplexed; for it is minute enough to belong apparently to the real, 

* ' Edinburgh Review,' vol. xxviii. 

+ ' Orlando Furioso,* book i., stanza 78, Harrington's Translation. 

i ' The Princess,' a novel, vol. iii., p. 207. 



wliilo it is essentially luitrue. Adam and Rosador travel from Eonrdsau-s to the forest of Ardoii • 
" Rosader and Ada-n, knowing full well the sceret ways that led through the vineyards, stole nway 
privily through the province of Bourdeaux, and escaped safe to the forest of Ardon."' Secret or 
public, the ways must have been sufficiently wearisome which led completely across Franco from 
the Garonne to the Mouse. This is one of the many examples of the disregard of exactness which 
we find in Shakspere's contemporaries. But here the inexactness looks only like a blunder : in Sliak- 
spere's forest of Arden we have nothing definite, and therefore we readily pass into the ima^inativo. 
In the same way, Lodge presents us with King Gerismond and King Torismond, kings of Vr;mce, 
Shakspere idealises these persons into dukes. We thus are thrown out of the limits of real histoi-y 
unless we strain a point to come within those limits. We grant that this idealising is very pcrulexin" 
to the stage representation of this and other plays ; but it must be remembered that this perplexity 
arises from the altered condition of the stage itself. Its scenes must now be copied from nature ; 
its dresses must noiv be true to a quarter of a century in the doublet and the hose. We do not 
object to this, in its place ; and we hold that 7vhcn the poet deals with the real it is our duty to 
follow him with the minutest scrupulosity. But with the same reverence for his guidance we main- 
tain that, when he proclaims by tokens not to be mistaken that he has entered the regions of ima- 
gination, we are not to take him out of those regions and surround him with the boundaries of time 
and space. We therefore, however unwillingly, give Mr. Planche's directions for the costume of 
this comedy, as a note.* The view which Ulrici takes of the extent to which the ideal prevails 
in this comedy has our perfect concurrence : — " Separately nothing appears dircctl}' opposed to 
reality : no siyjcr-natural, or Mjinatural beings or appearances. Separately, every character, situa- 
tion, and incident, might belong to common actuality ; it is only through the lions and serpents in 
a European forest that it is lightly indicated to us that we tread the soil of poetic fancy. And yet. 
more distinctly does the entire play in its development, — the involutions and proportion of the 
parts to the whole, — the oneness of the relations and situations, the actions and circumstances, — 
render it clear that this drama is by no means intended as a representation of common actuality ; 
but rather of life as seen from a peculiar and poetical point of view." 

We have already said that the deviations which Shakspere made in the conduct of his storj', from 
the original presented to him in Lodge's ' Rosalynd/ furnish a most remarkable example of the won- 
derful superiority of his art as compared with the art of other men. But the additions which he 
has made to the story of ' Rosalynd ' evince even a higher power : they grow out of his surpassing 
philosophy. To this quality Lodge sets up no i:)retensions. When the younger brother of the 
novelist has fled from his home with his faithful servant — when his Rosalynd and Alinda have been 
banished from the coui't — they each enter into the pastoral life with all imaginable prettiness ; and 
there in the forests wild they encounter native pastoral lovei's, and a dethroned king and his free 
companions leading the hunter's life without care or retrospection. Alinda and Rosalynd have now 
become Aliena and Ganimede ; and when they sojourn in the forest they find the verses of despair- 
ing shepherds graven upon tall beech-trees, and hear interminable eclogues recited between Mou- 
tanus and Coridon. How closely Shakspere follows the incidents of his original may be gathered 
from the address of Lodge's Aliena to one of these poetical swains : — 

" Therefore let this suffice, gentle shepherd : my distress is as great as my travail is dangerous, and I wander 
in this forest to light on some cottage where I and my page may dwell : for I mean to buy some farm, and a 
flock of sheei?, and so become a shepherdess, meaning to live low, and content me with a country life; for I 
have heard the swains say that they drank without susjiicion, and slept without care. JMarry, mistress, quoth 
Coridon, if you mean so you came in good time, for my landlord intends to sell both the farm I till and tlio 
flock I keep, and cheap you may have them for ready money : and for a shepherd's life (oh, mistress !) did yon 
but live awhile in their content, you would say the court were rather a place of sorrow than of solace. Here, 
mistress, shall not fortime thwart you, but in mean misfortunes, as the loss of a few sheep, which, as it breeds 
no beggary, so it can be no extreme prejudice : the next year may mend all with a fresh increase. Envy 
stirs not us, we covet not to climb, our desires mount not above our degrees, nor our thoughts aljove otu- fortrncs. 
Care cannot harbour in oiu: cottages, nor do our homely couches know broken slumbers : as we exceed not m 
diet, so we have enough to satisfy ; and, mistress, I have so much Latin, satis est quod sufficit. 

" By my truth, shepherd (quoth Aliena), thou raakest mo in love with your country life, and therefore scnrl 
for thy landlord, and I will buy thy farm and thy flocks, and thou shalt still under mc be overseer of them 

• See psge 2C1. 



both : only for pleasure sake I and my page will serve you, lead the flocks to the field, and fold them, Th'iE 
will I live quiet, unknown, and contented." 

Again, when Rosader and Adam entered the forest and in their extremity of distress encounter the 
merry company of banished courtiei's, we have the exact prototype of the action of Orlando and 
Adam of Shakspere : — 

" Eosader, full of courage (though very faint), rose up, and wished A. Spencer to sit there till his return ; 
for my mind gives me, quoth he, I shall bring thee meat. With that, like a madman, he rose up, and ranged 
up and down the woods, seeking to encounter some wild beast with his rapier, that either he might carry his 
friend Adam food, or else pledge his life in pawn for his loyalty. It chanced that day that Gerismond, the 
lawful King of France, banished by Torismond, who with a lusty crew of outlaws Hved in that forest, that 
day in honour of his birth made a feast to all his bold yeomen, and frolicked it with store of wine and venison, 
sitting all at a long table under the shadow of lemon-trees. To that place by chance fortune conducted 
Rosader, who seeing such a crew of brave men, having store of that for want of which he and Adam perished, 
he stepped boldly to the board's end, and saluted the company thus : — 

" Whatsoever thou be that art master of these lusty squires, I salute thee as graciously as a man in extreme 
distress may : know that I and a fellow friend of mine are here famished in the forest for want of food : perish 
we must, unless relieved by thy favours. Therefore, if thou be a gentleman, give meat to men, and to such as 
are every way worthy of life. Let the proudest squire that sits at thy table rise and encounter with me in any 
honourable point of activity whatsoever, and if he and thou prove me not a man, send me away comfortless. 
If thou refuse this, as a niggard of thy cates, I will have amongst you with my sword ; for rather will I die 
valiantly, than perish with so cowardly an extreme. Gerismond, looking him earnestly in the face, and seeing 
so laroi^er a gentleman in so bitter a passion, was moved with so great pity, that, rising from the table, he took 
him by the hand and bade him welcome, willing him to sit down in his place, and in his room not only to 
eat his fill, but be lord of the feast. Gramercy, sir (quoth Rosader), but I have a feeble friend that lies hereby 
famished almost for food, aged, and therefore less able to abide the extremity of hunger than myself, and dis- 
honour it were for me to taste one crumb before I made him partner of my fortunes : therefore I will run and 
fetch him, and then I will gratefully accept of your proffer. Away hies Rosader to Adam Spencer, and tells 
him the news, who was glad of so happy fortune, but so feeble he was that he could not go ; whereupon Rosader 
got him up on his back, and brought him to the place." 

Exact, also, is the resemblance between the Rosader of Lodge, wandering about and carving on a 

tree " a pretty estimate of his mistress's perfections," and the Orlando of Shakspere, who in the 

same manner records 

" The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she." 

Literal is the copy, too, we have in Shakspere, of the situations of the lovers when Rosalind passes 
with Orlando as the merry page : — 

" As soon as they had taken their repast, Eosader, giving them thanks for his good cheer, would have been 
gone ; but Ganimede, that was loth to let him pass out of her presence, began thus : — Nay, forester, quoth 
zhe, if thy business be not the greater, seeing thou sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou 
canst woo. I will represent Rosalynde, and thou shalt be as thou art, Rosader. See in some amorous eclogue, 
how if Rosalynde were present, how thou covildst court her ; and while we sing of love Aliena shall tune her 
pipe and play us melody. Content, quoth Rosader ; and Aliena, she, to show her willingness, drew forth a 
recorder, and began to wind it." 

Far different, however, is the characterisation arising out of these similar circumstances. Lodge 
gives us a " wooing eclogue betwixt Rosalynd and Rosader ; " wherein the lover thus swears in the 

good heroic vein : — 

' First let the heavens conspire to pull me down. 
And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse me : 
Let sorrows stream about my hateful bower, 
And retchless horror hatch within ray breast ; 
Let beauty's eye aiBict me with a lower. 
Let deep despair pursue me without rest, 
Ere Rosalynde my loyalty disprove, 
Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkind." 

The beloved of Shakspere uses no such holiday vows; but is contented with, "By my troth, and in 
good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous." It is tlio 
wit and vivacity of Rosalind, opposed to the poetical earnestness of Orlando, that prevents the 


pastoral from sliding into the ridiculous, as it has always a tendency to do. The same art is again 
shown in the management of the incident of Phebe's love for Ganymede. Lodge thus presents it 
to us : — 

" Ganimede, overhearing all these passions of Montanus, could not brook the cruelty of Phoebo, but, starting 
fr-^m behind a bush, said, And if, damsel, you fled from me, I would transform you as Daphne to a bay, and 
then in contempt trample your branches under my feet. Phoebe, at this sudden reply, was amazed, especially 
when she saw so fair a swain as Ganimede ; blushing, therefore, she would have home gone, but that bo held her 
by the hand, and prosecuted his reply thus : What, shepherdess, so fair and so cruel ? Disdain beseems not 
cottages, nor coyness maids ; for either they be condemned to be too proud, or too froward. Take heed, fair 
nymph, that in despising love you be not overreached with love, and, in shaking off all, shape yourself to your 
own shadow, and so with Narcissus prove passionate and yet unpiticd. Oft have I heard, and sometime have 
I seen, high disdain turned to hot desires. Because thou art beautiful be not so coy : as there is nothing moro 
fair, so there is nothing more fading : as momentary as the shadows which grow from a cloudy sun. Such, 
my fair shepherdess, as disdain in youth desii-e in age, and then are they hated in the winter that might have 
been loved in the prime. A wrinkled maid is like to a parched rose, that is cast up in coffers to please the 
smell, not worn in the hand to content the eye. There is no folly in love to — had I wist ? and therefore be ruled 
by me, love while thou art j'oung, lest thou be disdained when thou art old. Beauty nor time cannot be re- 
called, and if thou love, like of Montanus ; for if his desires are many, so his deserts are great. 

" Phoebe all this while gazed on the perfection of Ganimede, as deeply enamoured of bis perfection as Mon- 
tanus inveigled with hers : for her eye made survey of his excellent feature, which she found so rare, that shg 
thought the ghost of Adonis had leapt from Elisium in the shape of a swain." 

ComDare this with the fifth scene of the third act of As You Like It : — 

" Wli5', what means this ? Why do you look on me ? 
I see no more in you, than in the ordinary ._ 

Of nature's sale-work : — Od 's my little life ! 
I think, she means to tangle my eyes too : — 
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it ; 
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair. 
Your bugle 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 : 'T is 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, 
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love :" 

It is unnecessary for us to pursue this parallel farther. Shak.spere follows Lodge, with scarcely a 
deviation, in the conduct of his story. We have the same incidents of the elder brother's exile, — 
his rescue from a savage beast by the courage of the brother he had injured,— and his passion for 
the banished daughter of the usurping king. We have, of course, the same discovery of Rosalind 
to her father, and the same happy marriage of the princesses with their lovers, as well as that of 
the coy shepherdess with her shepherd. The catastrophe, however, is different. The usurping king 
of Lodge comes out with a mighty army to fight his rebellious peers,— when the sojourners in the 
forest join the battle, the usurper is slain, and the rightful king restored. Shakspere manages the 
matter after a milder fashion : — 

" 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 skirls of this wild wood he came; 
Where, meeting with an old religious man. 
After some question with him, was converted 
Both from his enterprise, and from the world: 
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother 
And all their lands restor'd to them again 
That were with him exil'd." 



D;-. Johnson does not entirely disapprove of this arrangement ; but he thinks that Shakspere lost a fit 
occasion for a serious discourse : " By hastening to the end of this work, Shakspere suppressed the 
dialogue between the usurper and the hermit, and lost an opportunity of exhibiting a moral lesson in 
which he might have found matter worthy of his highest powers." Shakspere, we venture to ima- 
gine, hastened to the end of his work, as his work was naturally approaching its conclusion. His 
philosophy, according to his usual practice, accompanies his action ; and he does not reserve his 
moral till the end. To him it can never be objected, " What tedious homily have you wearied your 
parishioners withal, and never cried. Have patience, good people ! " His " moral lesson" is to be col- 
lected out of his incidents and his characters. Perhaps there is no play more full of real moral 
lessons than As You Like It. What in Lodge was a pastoral replete with quaintness, and antithesis, 
and pedantry, and striving after effect, becomes in Shakspere an imaginative di-ama, in which the real 
is blended with the poetical in such intimate union, that the highest poetry appears to be as essen- 
tially natural as the most familiar gossip ; and the loftiest philosophy is interwoven with the occur- 
rences of every-day life, so as to teach us that there is a philosophical aspect of the commonest things. 
It is this spirit which informs Ms forest of Arden witli such life, and truth, and beauty, as belongs to 
no other representation of pastoral scenes ; which takes us into the depths of solitude, and shows us 
how the feelings of social life alone can give us 

" tongues in trees, books in the running broolvs. 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything; ' 

\vhich buUds a tliTone for intellect "under the greenwood tree," and there, by cTiaraderisfic satire, 
gently indicates to us the vanity of the things which bind us to the world ; whilst he teaches us that 
life, has its happiness in the cultivation of the affections, — in content and independence of spu-it. Ifc 
was by a process such as this that the novel of Lodge was changed into the comedy of Shakspere. 
The amalgamation of Jaques and Touchstone with Orlando and Eosalind is one of the most won- 
derful efforts of originality in the whole comj)ass of poetical creation. 

I.Cross at West C'iicap.] 


Although Shakspere has not given a name either to the duchy in which the scene is laid, or the duke 'who has been 
deprived of it, we have one point to guide us in our selection of the costume of this exquisite comedy, — namely, the cir- 
cumstance of an independent duchy in France. The action must therefore be supposed to take place before the union of 
the great fiefs to the crown, and consequently not later than the reign of Louis XII., whosemarriage with Anne o.'' Brittany 
incorporated that last and most independent province with the royal dominions. Illuminations of the reign of Charles VIII., 
the immediate predecessor of Louis XII., have been elsewhere suggested * as furnishing a picturesque and appropriate 
costume for the usurping duke and his courtiers, and a MS. in the Royal Library at Paris (Rondeaux Chants Royal, No. 6989) 
as supplying the hunting dress of the time.f Many of the former are engraved in Montfaucon's ' 5IonarchieFranfaise,'anU 
some figures from the latter will be found in Mons. Willemin's superb work, ' Monumens inedites, Src' The dress of a 
shepherd of this period may be found in Pynson's ' Shepherd's Kalendar : ' and the splendid Ilarleian JIS., No. 4-I2.'i, 
presents us with the ordinary habits of an ecclesiastic when not clad in the sacred vestments of his office or order. 

The late Mr. Douce, in his admirable dissertation on the plowns of Shakspere, has made the following remarks on the 
dress of this character : — " Touchstone is the domestic fool of Frederick, the duke's brother, and belongs to the class of witty 
or allowed fools. He is threatened with the whip, a mode of chastisement which was often inflicted on these motley per- 
sonages. His dress should be a party-coloured garment. He should occasionally carry a bauble in his hand and wear ape's 
ears to his hood, which is probably the head dress intended by Shakespeare, there being no allusion whatever to a cock's 
head or comb." 

« ' Costume of Shakespear's Comedy of As You Like It, by J. R. Planchfe.' 12mo., London, 1825. 
f See also ' Modus le Roy. Livre de Chasse.' Folio, Chambery, 1486. 


Touchstone, a clown. 

Sir Oliver Mar-text, a vicar. 

CoRIK, ") 

Syltius, 3 

William, a country fellow, in lovcjvilh Aiulrey. 

A person representing Hymen. 

RosvLiSB, daughter to the banished Duke. 
Celia, daughter to Frederick. 
Phebe, a shepherdess. 
AUDREY, a country ivench 

Lords belonging to the two Duhes ; Pages, Foresters, 
anil other Attendants. 

SCENE,— J'/rj/, near Oliver's house; afterwards, partly 
in the Usurper'^ court, and partly in the Forest oj 

•■ -"'.=. 

[Scene I. ' Wilt thou lay hancU on me, villain { •\ 


SCENE I. — An OrcJiard, 'near Oliver'^ Ilojise. 

Enter Orlando and Adam, 

Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this 
fashion bequeathed me by will, but poor a thou- 
sand crowns ; and, as thou say'st, charged my 
brother, on his blessing, to breed me well •.'^ and 
there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques 
he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly 
of his profit : for my part, he keeps me rustic- 
ally at home, or, to speak more properly, stays'* 

a We print this passage as in the original— the folio of 
1G23. It has been subjected to various alterations. In the 
folio of 1632 " poor a " is changed to "a poor." The speaker 
is quoting the will ; and poor is the adjective to a thousand 
crowns. If the bequest had been two thousand the cl. Mige 
vro'jld not have been made; a is one. The variorum editors 
must also change the easy conversational tone to a very pre- 
cise mode of expression ; and so they read — " As I remem- 
ber, Adam, it was upon this fashion. He bequeathed me by 
will but a poor tliousand crowns, and as thou say'st charged 
my brother," &c. The allusive construction is justified by 
" as thou say'st." 

t) Stays — detains. 

me here at home unkept. For call you that 
keeping for a genilcman of my birth, that dif- 
fers 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 ma- 
nage, and to that end riders dearly hired : but 
I, his brother, gain nothing uudcr him but 
growth : for the wliich his animals on his dnng- 
hills are as much bound to him as I. Besides 
this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the 
something that uatiu-e 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 m him lies, mines '' my gentility with 
my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves 
me ; and the spii-it of my father, which I think 
is within me, begins to mutiny against this ser- 

a Jfis countenance— his beh.iviour— his bearing; or, as 
Mr. Walker suggests, " the style of living wliich he allows 
me; " in which sense the word is used by Sclden. 

b Afjnfs— undermines— seeks to destroy. 


Act I.] 


[SCEKE 1. 

vitude : I will no longer endure it, though yet I 
know no wise remedy how to avoid it. 

Enter Olivee,. 

Adam. Yonder comes my master, your bro- 

Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalfc hear 

how he wiU shake me xip. 

OIL Now, sir ! what make you here ?•■' 

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

Oli. What mar you, then, su: ? 

Orl. Marry, sk, I am helping you to mar that 
which God made, a poor unworthy brother of 
youi's, with idleness. 

on. 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. 0, sir, very weU : here in your orchard. 

Oli. Know you before whom, sir ? 

Orl. Ay, better than him" I am before knows 
me. I know you are my eldest brother ; and, 
in the gentle condition of blood, you should 
so know me : The courtesy of nations allows 
you my better, in that you are the first-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 

Oli. What, boy ! 

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

a What make you here ? We liave the same play upon the 
word, between the King and Costard, in Love's Labour 's 
Lost, Act IV., So. III. : — 

" King. What makes treason here ? 

Cost. Jlay, it makes nothing, sir." 

1) Be naught awhile. In Ben Jonson's ' Tale of a Tub ' 
H'e have — 

" Peace and he naught I I think the woman 's phrensic." 
In his ' Bartholomew Fair ' we find, " Leave the bottle be- 
hind you, and be curst awhile." There are many examples 
in the old dramatists which clearly show that be naught or 
be nought was a petty malediction ; and thus Oliver says no 
more than— be better employed, and be hang'd to you. 
This is the substance of GiflTord's sensible note upon the 
passage in ' Bartholomew Fair.' Orlando receives be naught 
in the sense of be dissipated ; and refers to the parable of 
the Prodigal Son. 

c Him in the original. The ordinary reading is he. It is 
mere pedantry to correct, as the phrase is, these grammatical 
errors in the use of the personal pronoun. 

cl When Orlando says "nearer to his reverence," Oliver 
is offended by the sarcastic employment of a word which is 
used to denote the condition of an aged man — as in Much 
Ado About Nothing, " Knavery cannot hide himself in 
such reverence." He retorts by calling Orlando "bog ;" upon 
which the younger either seizes him, or makes a threatening 
movement towards the after seizure, in vindication of his 


Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? 

Orl. I am no villain : *■ I am the youngest son 
of Sir Rowland de Bois ; he was my father ; and 
he is thrice a villain that says such a father be- 
got villains : Wert thou not my brother, I would 
not take this hand from thy tkroat tiH this other 
had pulled out thy tongue for saying so ; thou 
hast railed on thyself. 

Adam. Sweet masters, be patient; for your 
father's remembrance, be at accord. 

Oli. Let me go, T say. 

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

Oli. And what wilt thou do ? beg, when that 
is spent ? Well, sir, get you in : I svill 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 be- 
comes me for my good. 

Oli. Get you with him, you old dog. 

Adam. Is old dog my reward ? Most true, I 
have lost my teeth iu your service. — God be with 
my old master 1 he would not have spoke such a 
word. [Exeunt Oelando and Apam. 

Oli. Is it even so ? begin you to grow upon 
me ? I will physic yom- rankness, and yet give 
no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis ! 

Enter Dennis. 

Den. Calls your worship ? 

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

Dc7i. So please you, he is here at the door, 
and importunes access to you. 

Oli. Call him in. [^i7V Dennis.]— 'Twill be 
a good way ; and to-morrow the Avrestling is. 

Enter Chakles. 

Cha. Good morrow to your worship. 

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

Cha. There 's no news at the court, sir-, but 
the old news : that is, the old duke is banished 
by his younger brother the new duke; and 

n. Villain. We have here the two meanings of the word. 
Oliver uses it in the sense of worthless fellow ; Orlando in 
tliat of one of mean birth —the original sense. 

Act I.] 


[Scene II. 

three or four loviug lords Lave put themselves 
into voluntary exile with him, whose lauds aud 
revenues enrich the new didcc ; therefore he 
gives them good leave to wander. 

Oil. Can you tcU, if llosahud, the duke's 
daughter, be banished with her father ? 

Cha. 0, no J for the duke's daughter, her 
cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cra- 
dles bred together, that she would have followed 
her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She 
is at the court, aud no less beloved of her uncle 
thau his own daughter; and never two ladies 
loved as they do. 

Oil. Where will the old duke live ? 

Cha. They say he is already in the forest of 
Ai-den,"' and a many merry men with him ; and 
there they live like the old Robin Hood of Eng- 
land : they say many young gentlemen flock to 
him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as 
they did in the golden world.^ 

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

Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to ac- 
quaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, se- 
cretly to imderstand that your younger brother, 
Orlando, liath a disposition to come in disguised 
against me to try a fall : To-morrow, sir, I wres- 
tle for my credit ; and he that escapes me with- 
out some broken limb shall acquit him well. 
Your brother is but young, and tender ; and, for 
your love, I woiJd be loth to foil him, as I 
must, for my own honour, if he come in : there- 
fore, out of my love to you, I came hither to ac- 
quaint you withal ; that either you might stay 
him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace 
weU as he shall run into ; in that it is a thing 
of his own search, and altogether against my 


Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, 
which thou shalt find I wiU most kindly requite. 
I had myself notice of my brother's purpose 
herein, and have by underhand means laboured 
to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I '11 
tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young 
fellow of Prance ; 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 poison, entrap thee by some treacherous 
device, and never leave thee tiU he hath ta'eu 

» See Introductory Notice. 

thy life by some indncct 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 brotlierly of hmi ; but, 
should I anatomize liim to thee as he is, I must 
blush and weep, and thou must look pale aud 

Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you : 
If he come to-morrow I '11 give liim his pay- 
ment : If ever he go alone again I '11 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 
schooled and yet learned ; full of noble device ; 
of all sorts enchantingly "^ beloved;" aud, indeed, 
so much in the heart of the world, and especially 
of my own people who best know hun, that I am 
altogether misprised: but it shall not be so 
long ; this wrestler shall clear all : nothing re- 
mains but that I kindle "= the boy thither, which 
now I '11 go about. {E.xit. 

SCENE 11.—^ Lawn hefore the Duke's Palace. 
Enter Rosalind and Celia. 

Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be 

Eos. Dear Celia, I show more mii-th than I 
am mistress of; aud 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 pleasm-e. 

Cel. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the 
full weight that I love thee : if my uncle, thy 
banished father, had banished thy unele, the 
duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me 
I could have taught my love to take thy father 
for mine ; so woiddst thou, if the truth of thy 
love to me were so righteously tcmper'd as nnne 
is to thee. 

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my 
estate, to rejoice in yom-s. 

Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, 
nor none is like to have ; and, truly, when he 
dies thou shalt be liis heir : for what he hath 

a Ga7??es(er— adventurer at this game. 

b Enchantinijlij—he\oyei, of all ranks, to a degree that 
looks like enchantment. 

c A'jnrf/e— instigates. In Macbeth we have, "enkindle 
you unto the crown." 

d I were merrier. I, omitted in the original, was addij 
by Pope. ^^^ 

Act I.J 



taken away fiom thy father, perforce, I will 
render thee again in affection ; by mine honoui- 
I wiU ; and when I break that oath let me tnru 
monster : therefore, my sweet Hose, my dear 
Rose, be merry. 

Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise 
sports : let me see ; — what tliiuk you of falling 
in love ? 

Cel. Marry, I prithee do, to make sport 
withal : but love no man in good earnest ; nor 
no further in sport neither, than with safety of a 
piu'e blush thou mayst in honour 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.* 

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. 'T is 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 
ofBce to natui'e's : fortune reigns in gifts of the 
world, not in the lineaments of nature. 

Enter Touchstone. 

Cel. No ? When nature hath made a fair- crea- 
ture, may she not by fortune fall into the fire ? 
Though natui-e hath given us wit to flout at for- 
tune, hath not fortune sent in this fool to cut off 
the argument ? 

Ros. Indeed, there is fortune too hard for na- 
ture ; when fortune makes natui-e's natural the 
cutter off of natures wit. 

Cel. Peradventure, this is not fortune's work 
neither, but nature's ; who perceiving ^ our na- 
tural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, 
hath sent this natui-al for our whetstone : for 
always the dulness of the fool is the whetstone 
of the wits.'' — How now, wit ? wliither wander 

Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your 

Cel. Were you made the messenger ? 

Toiteh. No, by mine honour ; but I was bid to 
come for you. 

a Cleopatra, in the presence of the dying Antony, uses 
the same image : — 

" Let me rail so liigh, 
Tliat i\\e false housewife. Fortune, break licr wheel." 
Antony and Cleopatra, Act iv., Sc. xii. 
J) Perceivinij. Tliis is the reading of the second folio ; the 
first has perceivelh. Malone reads " and sent." 

e The wits. So the original copies;— in some modern 
editions we have the arbitrary change of his wits. Tlie pro- 
priety of the original meaning is obvious— oh;- whetstone, 
the viits. 


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. * - ■ 

Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of 
your knowledge ? 

Ros. 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. Prithee, who is 't that thou mean'st P 

Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, 

Ccl.'° My father's love is enough to honour 
him enough : speak no more of him ; you 'U be 
whipp'd for taxation,'^ one of these days. 

Touch. The more pity, that fools may not 
speak wisely, what wise men do foolishly. 

Cel. By my troth, thou say'st true ; for since 
the little wit that fools have was silenced, the 
little foolery that wise men have makes a great 
show. Here comes monsieur- Le Beau. 

Enter Le BEAr, 

Ros. With his mouth full of news. 

Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed 
their young. 

Ros. Then shall we be uews-cramm'd. 

Cel. All the better ; we shall be the n.ore 
marketable. Bon jour, monsieur Lc Beau : 
What 's the news ? 

Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much 
good sport. 

Cel. Sport ? Of what colour ? 

Le Beau. What colour, madam ? How shaU 
I answer you ? 

a When Richard III. (Act iv., Sc. iv.) swears "by my 
George, my garter, and my crown," Queen Elizabeth "says 
he swears " by nothing: for this is no oath." 

b Celia asks a question, to which the clown replies. Tho 
usurping duke in the last scene is called duke Frederick. 
In the original this speech is given to Rosalind ; but we 
have to choose between two mistakes— either that Shak- 
spere in the last act forgot the name of the duke of the first 
act, or that tlie printer gave a speech of Celia to Rosalind. 
We prefer to regulate the text upon tlie minor error. 

c Taxation — satire, taxing people with follies. 

A<T I.] 


[Scene M 

lios. As wit and fortune will. 
Touch. Or as the destinies decree. 
Cel. Well said; that was laid on with a 

ToHc/i. Nay, if I keep not my rank. 
lios. 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 perform it. 

Cel. Well,— the beginning, that is dead and 

Le Beau. There comes an old man and his 
three sons, — 

Cel. I could match this beginning with an old 

Le Beau. Three proper young men, of e.\cel- 
lent growth and presence ; — 

Ros. With bills ontheir necks,— 'Be it known 

unto all men by these presents,' <= 

Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled 
with Charles, the duke's wrestler ; which Charles 
in a moment tlu'cw him, and broke three of his 
ribs, that there is little hope of life in him : so 
he served the second, and so the third : Yonder 
they lie ; the poor old man, their father, making 
such pitiful dole over them, that all the beholders 
take his part with weeping. 
Rus. Alas ! 

Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that 
the ladies have lost ? 

Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 
Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day ! 
it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of 
ribs was sport for ladies. 
Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 
Ros. But is there any else longs to see this 
broken music in his sides ? is there yet another 
dotes upon rib-breaking ?— Shall we see this 
wrestling, cousin? 

Le Beau. You must, if you stay here : for 
here is the place appointed for the wrestling, aud 
they are ready to perform it. 

Cel. Yonder, sure, they are commg: Let us 
now stay and see it. 

a Laid on with a irouie/— coarsely. A gros.s flatteier is 
still said to lay it on with a trowel. 

b Amaze — confuse. 

c It has been suggested that " with bills on their necks " 
should be spoken by Le Beau. The "bills " would then be 
the war-bills or the forest-bills- The double meaning may 
be as naturally employed by Rosalind, in giving the whole 
Bpeech to her, as in the original. 

Flourish. Enter Luke Feedehick, Lords, Oil- 
LANDO, CiiAiiLEs, and Attendants. 

Buke F. Come on ; since the youtli will not 
be entreated, his own pcrU on his forwardness. 
Ros. Is yonder the man ? 
Le Beau. Even he, madam. 

Cel. Alas, he is too young : yet he looks suc- 

Buke F. How now, daughter and cousin ? 
are you crept hither to see the wrestling ? 

Ros. Ay, my liege; so please you give us 

Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I 
can tell you, there is such odds in the man.* In 
pity of the challenger's youth I would fain dis- 
suade him, but he will not be entreated : Speak 
to him, ladies ; see if you can move him. 

Cel. Call him hither, good monsieur Le Beau. 

Duke F. Do so ; I 'U not be by. 

[Duke goes apart 

Le Beau. ]\Iousieur the challenger, the prin- 
cess'' 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 chal- 
lenger : I come but in, as others do, to try with 
him the strength of my youth. 

Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too 
bold for youi- years : Yon have seen cruel proof 
of this man's strength : if you saw yourself with 
your eyes, or knew yom-self with your judg- 
ment,'= the fear of your adventui-e would counsel 
you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you, 
ifor youi- own sake, to embrace your own safety, 
and give over this attempt. 

Ros. Do, yoiuig sir : youi- reputation shall not 
therefore be misprised : we Mill make it our suit 
to the duke that the wrestling might not go 

Orl. 1 beseech you, punish me not with your 
hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much 
guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies any- 
thing.-i But let your fair eyes and gentle 

» Odds in the man. So the folio ; in modern editions, men. 
The meaning would appear to be, the challenger is unequal. 
There is much difiere.-.ce of opinion on this point. Odds is 
used by Butler in the sense of superiority. 

b The princess, in the folio. The ordinary reading is the 
princesses. When Orlando answers I attend them,hc looks 
towards Celia and Rosalind, but Celia only has called him. 

c Your eyes, &c. It has been proposed to read "«>• eyes 
and our judgment. But Dr. Johnson interprets the passage 
a?cordin^ to^he original: if you used y."/ "^^VeTo your 
or your own judgment to know yourself, the fear ol jour 
adventure would counsel you. 

d Some would read herein, some therein. ^J- "f"" 
savs " the hard thoughts that he com;'lains of are the ap- 
prehensions expressel by the ladies of his not being ab 
contend with the wrestler." Hard thoughts i ne 
tender interest which the ladies take in 1'^ safety to De 

Acr I.] 


[Scene II. 

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 wiUiug 
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 
uj) a place which may be better supplied 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 de- 
ceived in you ! 

Cel. Youi- heart's desires be with you. 

Cha. Come, where is this young gallant that 
is so desu'ous to lie with his mother earth ? 

Od. Ready, sir; but his Avill 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 ! 

Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the 
strong fellow by the leg. 

[Charles and Orlando tvrestle. 

Ros. excellent young man ! 

Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can 
tell who should down. 

[Charles is thrown. Shout. 

LiiJce 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. Eear him away. 

[Charles is home out. 
What is thy name, young man ? 

Orl. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of 
sir Rowland de Bois. 

Dt(ke F. I would thou hadst been son to some 
man else. 
The world esteem'd thy father honourable. 
But I did find him still mine enemy : 
Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this 

Hadst thou descended from another house. 

called hard thoughts— to be complained of? Surely the 
meaning is, punish me not with your hard thoughts because 
I confess me much guilty to deny what you ask. Wherein 
IS decidedly used in the sense of i« that. 

a An, proposed by Theobald, is also a conjecture of the 
Cambridge editors, with a comma following after. They 
thmk the MS. may have been Orl. An (or And) mistaken bv 
the printer for Orland. 


But fare thee weU; thou ait a gallant youth; 
I would thou hadst told me of another father. 
[Exeunt Duke Ered., Train, and Le Beau 
Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this : 
Orl. I am more proud to be sir Rowland's 
His youngest son ;— and would not change thai 

To be adopted heii- 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 encoui'age him : 
]\Iy 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,'' 
Yoiu- mistress shall be haj^py. 

Ros Gentleman, 

{Givi7ig him a chain from her neck. 
Wear this for me, — one out of suits with fortune, 
That could give more but that her hand lacks 

Shall we go, coz ? 

Cel. Ay : — Fare you well, fair gentleman. 
Orl. Can I not say I thank you ? My better 
Are all thrown down ; and that which here 

stands up 
Is but a quinta^iu, a mere lifeless block.^ 

Ros. He calls us back : My pride fell with my 
fortunes : 
I 'U ask him what he would : — Did you call, 

sir ? — 
Su', you have wrestled well, and overthrowu 
More than your enemies. 

Cel. Will you go, coz ? 

Ros. Have with you : — Fare you well. 

[E.reunt Rosalind and Celia. 
Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon 
my tongue ? 
I cannot speak to her, yet she m-g'd conference. 

Re-enter Le Beau. 

poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown ; 
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. 
Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel 

a Culling — name. 

b But justly, &c. In the degree that you have gone 
beyond all eApectation: but as justly. 

Act I.] 


[Sl£NE III, 

To leave this plac; : Albeit you have deserv'd 
High commendatiou, true applause, and love ; 
Yet such is now the duke's condition," 
That he misconsters all that you have done. 
The duke is humorous j^ what he is, indeed, 
More suits you to conceive, than I*^ to speak of". 

Or!. 1 thank you, su- ; and, pray you, tell me 
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 shorter*^ is his daughter: 
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke, 
And here detain'd by her usiu'ping uncle, 
To keep his daughter company ; whose loves 
Are dearer than the natural bond cf sisters. 
13ut I can tell you, that of late this duke 
Hath ta'en displeasui'C '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 Ufe, his malice 'gainst the lady 
Will suddenly break forth. — Sir, fare you ■\\eU ; 
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 ! \_Kvit Le Beau. 

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; 
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother : — ■ 
But heavenly Hosalind ! {Exu. 

SCENE III.— y/ Room in the Falace. 
Enter Celia and Hosalind. 

Gel. Why, cousiri; why, Rosalind; — Cupid 
liave mc-cy ! — not a word ? 

Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. 

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast 
away upon cui's ; throw some of them at me : 
come, lame me with reasons. 

Uos. 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 is for my father's child : ® 
0, how fuU of briars is this working-day world ! 

" Condition — temper. 

b TInmorous — capricious. 

c /. So the original. In some modern copies it is cor- 
jected to me. 

J The shorter. The original has the taller ; but the read- 
ing is certainly erroneous, for in the next scene Rosalind 
describes herself as "more than common tall," and in the 
fourth act Oliver describes Celia as "low." Malone would 
read smaller; but ve prefer Pope's correction ot shorter. 
Shakspere uses short with reference to a woman — " Leon- 
ato's short daughter" (Much Ado about Nothing). 

e Ml/ father's child. In the original, mi/ child's father. 

C0MEDIE.S.— Vol, 1 1. P 

Cc/. They arc but burs, cousin, thrown upon 
tlieo in holiday foolery ; if we walk not in the 
trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch 

Ros. 1 could shako them off my coat; tlicso 
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 affections. 

Ros. 0, they take the part of a better wrestler 
than myself. 

Cel. 0, a good wish upon you ! you wiU try 
in time, iji despite of a fall. — But, turning these 
jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest : 
Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall 
into so strong a liking with old sir Ilowland's 
youngest son ? 

Ros. The duke my father loved his father 

Cel. Dotli 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. Whj should I not ? dotli he not deserve 
well ? " 

Ros. Let me love him for tliat ; and do you 
love him, because I do : — Look, here comes the 

Cel. With his eyes full of auger 

Rnler Duke Fkedeeick, with Lords. 

Luke F. Mistress, despatch you with your 
safest haste. 
And get you from our court. 

Ros. Me, uncle ? 

Duke F. You, cousin : 

Within these ten days if that tliou be'st found 
So near oui- public court as twenty miles. 
Thou diest for it. 

Ros. I do beseech your grace. 

This is interpreted by Theobald, " for him wliom I hope lo 
marry," who will be the father of my children. A\ e liave 
ventured to alter the te.xt as it was altered by Rinve .-iml 
other of the early editors ; the change benig adopted by iMr. 
Collier and Mr. Dyce. But it must be observed that what 
Coleridge calls "a most indelicate anticipation" is in liar- 
monywith other passages. The two girls speak freely to 
each other, but "in the way of honesty," Rosalind desires 
Orlando for a husband, and to her cousin she may wcU 
enough think of him as her child's lather. 

a Dearly — extremely. 

b Hate him not, far 7ni/ sake. 

Cel. Whi/ should I not ? do'.h he not deserve veil! 

Caldecott's interpretation of this passage is as follows . — 
" Upon a principle stated by yourself; 'because my rather 
hated his father, does he not well deserve by me to bchatei? 
while Rosalind, taking the words simply, and without any 
reference, replies, ' Let me love him for that ; 1. e. lor tliar 
he uell deserves." 

Act I.] 


[Scene lit. 

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear witli 

me ; 

If with myself I hold iutenigence. 
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires ; 
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic, 
(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle. 
Never, so much as in a thought unborn, 
Did I offend your highness. 

Bulce F. Thus do all traitors ; 

If their purgation did consist ui 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. 
Bake F. Thou art thy father's daughter, 

there 's enougli. 
Ros. So was I when your highness took his 
dukedom ; 
So was I when yoiu* highness banish'd him : 
Treason is not inlierited, 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. 
Luke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your 
Else had she with her father rang'd along. 

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay, 
It was your pleasm-e, 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 stiU have slept together. 
Rose at an instant, learn' d, play'd, eat together ; 
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans 
StiU we went coupled, and inseparable. 

JDuke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her 
Her very silence, and her patience, 
Speak to the people, and they pity her. 
Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name ; 
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more 

When she is gone : then open not thy lips ; 
Firm and ii-revocable is my doom 
Which I have passed upon her ; she is bauish'd. 
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my 
I cannot live out of her company. 
Duke F. You are a fool : — You, niece, provide 
yom-self ; 
If you outstay the time, upon mine honoiu-. 


•1 7?e»(0)-je— compassion. 

And in the greatness of my word, you die. 

\_Fa-eunt Duke Frederick: a^id Lords. 
Cel. my poor IlosaHnd ! whither wilt thou 

Wilt thou change fathers ? I Avill give thee mine. 
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I 

Ros. I have more cause. 

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin, — ■ 

Prithee, be cheerful ; know'st thou not the diike 
Hath banish'd me, his daughter ? 

Ros. That he hath not. 

Cel. No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the 
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 charge b upon jou, 
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
For, by this heaven, now at oui- sorrows pale. 
Say what thou canst, I 'U go along with thee. 

^0.?. Why, whither shall we go ? 

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Aiden." 

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us. 
Maids as we ai-e, to travel forth so far ! 
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. 

Cel. I 'U put myself in poor and mean attii-e. 
And with a kind of umber smii-ch my face. 
The like 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 aU points like a man ? 
A gallant cui-tle-axe upon my thigh, 
A boar-spear in my hand ; and (in my heart 
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will) 
We'll have a swashing"^ and a martial outside ; 
As many other mannish cowards have. 
That do outface it with their semblances. 

a Warburton would read, and we think lie has reason, 
" which teacheth me." Johnson defends the original reading 
oithee. He says, "where would be the absurdity of saying, 
Vou know not the law which teaches you to do right? " 

b Charge — in the first folio, change; corrected in the 

c All the ordinary reprints of the text are here mutilated 
by one of Steevens' hateful corrections. In them we rea<l,r- 
because " u-e have been already informed by Charles the 
wrestler that the banished Duke's residence was in the 
forest of Arden," — 

"Ros. Why, whither shall we go? 


To seek my uncle." 

And so the two poor ladies are to go forth to seek the ba- 
nished Duke through the wide world, and to meet with liim 
at last by chance, because Steevens holds that this indica- 
tion of their knowledge of the place of his retreat is inju- 
rious to the measure." 

d Swashing. To swash is make a noise of swords against 
targets. In Romeo and Juliet we have "the swa^'iir.r 
blow." ^ 

Act I.] 


[ScENt 111. 

Cel. What shall 1 call thee, when thou art a ' Cel. He'll go aloug o'er the wide world with 

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 yoiu* father's court ? 
Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 

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 tliat will be made 
After my flight : Now go in we content,* 
To liberty, and not to banishment. [Exeuiii. 

■^ In wc content. Tliis is thereailiiigof tlie first folio, tlial 
of the second, wc in content. Malone holds content to be a 
substantive, in the readii.g of the second folio. Adoptii!!/ 
the original reading, we must rcceis'e it as an .Tdjeclivu. 

-1 w _/-^,,SJ.I. 

l' To libcity, and not to baiiishnioiil.j 


1 Scene I. -" Fleet the time carelessly, «r they did 
in the golden icorld." 

In a foot-note to the first scene of Act ii. we have 
explained our reasons for adopting the belief that 
Shakspere, in his dramatic repi-esentations of the 
mode of life in the forest of Arden, had especial 
regard to an imaginary state of ease and content, 
such as is described to have belonged to the 
golden age. We subjoin a passage from Fan- 
shawe's translation of Guarini's ' Pastor Fido,' 
which illustrates the text, and in some degree 
confirms our general opinion : — 

" Fair Golden Age ! when milk was Ih' only food, 
And cradle of the infant world the wood 
Rock'd by the winds ; and th' untouch'd flocks did bear 
Their dear young for themselves ! None yet did fear 
The sword or poison : no black thoughts begun 
T' eclipse the light of the eternal sun : 
Nor wandring pines unto a foreign shore 
Or war, or riches (a worse mischief), bore. 
That pompous sound, idol of vanity, 
Made up of title, pride, and flattery, 
Which they call honour whom ambition blindi, 
Was not as yet the tyrant of our minds. 
But to buy real goods with honest toil 
Amongst the woods and flocks, to use no guile. 
Was honour to those sober souls that knew "^ 

No happiness but what from virtue grew." 

2 Scene I. — " Of all sorts enchant iiujly beloved." 

We subjoin a note of Coleridge, which is con- 
ceived in his usual inquiring spirit, and is there- 
fore worthy of consideration : — 

" It is too venturous to charge a passage in Shak- 
Bpeare with want of truth to nature ; and yet at 
first sight this speech of Oliver's expresses truths 
which it seems almost impossible that any mind 
should so distinctly, so livelily, and so voluntariJy, 
have presented to itself in connexion with feelings 
and intentions so malignant and so contrary to 

those which the qualities expressed would naturally 
have called forth. But I dare not say that this 
seeming unnaturalness is not in the nature of an 
abused wilfulness, when united with a strong 
intellect. In such characters there is sometimes 
a gloomy self-gratification in making the absolute- 
ness of the will (sit pro ratione voluntas !) evident 
to themselves by setting the reason and the 
conscience in full array against it." — Literary 
Remains, vol. ii. p. 116. 

^ Scene II. " My better parts 

Are all thrown dov:n ; and that which here stands 

Is but a QUINTAIN, a mere lifeless block." 

The origin and use of the quintain are thus de- 
scribed in the ' Pictorial History of England : ' — 
" A pole or spear was set upright in the grotind, 
with, a shield strongly bound to it, and against 
this the youth tilted with his lance in full career, 
endeavouring to burst the ligatures of the shield, 
and bear it to the earth. A steady aim and a firm 
seat were acquired from this exercise, a severe fall 
being often the consequence of failure in the 
attempt to strike down the shield. This, however, 
at the best, was but a monotonous exercise, and 
therefore the pole, in process of time, was sup- 
planted by the more stimulating figure of a 
misbelieving Saracen, armed at all points, and 
brandishing a formidable wooden sabre. The 
puppet moved freely upon a pivot or spindle, so 
that, imless it was struck with lance adroitly in 
the centre of the face or breast, it rapidly 
revolved, and the sword, in consequence, smote 
the back of the assailant in his career, amidst the 
laughter of the spectators." The lifeless block 
is clearly an allusion to the wooden man thus de- 
scribed. The quintain was, however, often formed 
only of a broad plank on one side of the pivot, 
with a sandbag suspended on the other side. 


-.' . V^V.'^J^J .3,- . 

J?*- IK? 

[' A poor sequester'd stag."] 

ACT 11. 

SCENE l.—T/ie Forest o/Arden. 

E?iier Duke senior, Amiens, and other Lords,. i?i 
the dress of Foresters. 

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these 

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 wnd, 
Which when it bites and blows upon my body. 
Even tiU 1 shrink with cold, I smile, and say 
Tills is no flattery, — these are counsellors 

That feelingly persuade me what I am." 
Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 

a In this celebrated passage we have restored the <ld 

reading : — 

' Here feel we not the penalty of Adam." 
In every modern edition, except that of Mr. Caldecott, the 
reading is — 

" Here feel we but the penalty of Adam." 
The change of not to but was made by Theobald, wlio says, 
"What was the penalty of Adam hinted at by our poetf 
The being sensible of the ditfetence of the seasons. The 
Duke says — the cold and effects of the winter feelingly per- 
suade him what he is. How does he not then feel the 
penalty?" Boswell — and Caldocott agree." with him — re- 
plies, '• Surely the old reading is riglit. Here we fe^'l not, 
do not suffer from, the penalty of Adam, the seasons' differ- 
ence; for when the winter's wind blows upon my body, I 
smile, and say — ." But whilst restoring i:ol, we do not assent 
to this interpretation; and, following a suggestion of .Mr. 
Whiter, we have pointed the passage very differently from 
the usual mode; for, we ask again, what is " the penalty of 
Adam ? " All the commentators iay, " the seasons' differ- 

Act II.] 



Wliich, like the toad, ugly and veuopious, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;> 
And this our life, exempt from public haiuit. 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 
Ami. I would not change it : Happy is your 
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us veni- 
And yet it irks me'' the poor dappled fools,— 

ence " On the contrary, it was, " In the sweat of thy face 
shnlt thou eat bread." Milton represents tlie repentant 
Adam as tlms interpreting the penalty :— 

" On me the curse aslope 
Glanced on the ground ; with labour I must earn 
My bread; what harm? Idleness had been worse." 
The beautiful passage in Cowper's ' Task,' describing the 
Thresher, will also occur to the reader : — 

" See him sweating o'er his bread 
Before he eats it. 'X is the primal curse. 
But Eoften'd into mercy ; made the pledge 
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan." 
" The seasons' difference" it must be remembered, was or- 
dained before tlie fall, and leas in no respect a penally. We 
may therefore reject the received interpretation. But how 
could the Duke say, receiving the' passage in the sense we 
have suggested, 

" Here feel we not the penalty of Adam i " 
In the first act, Charles the wrestler, describing the Duke 
and his co-mates, says, they " fleet the time carelessly as 
they did in the golden world." One of the characteristics 
of the golden world is thus described by Daniel :— 
" Oh ! happy golden age 1 
Not for that rivers ran 

With streams of milk, and honey dropp'd from trees; 
Not that the earth did gage 
Unto the husbandman 
Her voluntary fruits, free without fees." 
Tlie song of Amiens in the fifth scene of this act conveys, 
we think, the same allusion— 

" Who doth ambition shun. 
And loves to live i' the sun. 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And plcas'd with what he gets." 
The exiled courtiers led a life without toil— a life in which 
they were contented with a little — and they were thus ex- 
empt from "the penalty of Adam." We close, therefore, 
the sentence at "Adam." "The seasons' difference" is 
now the antecedent of " these are counsellors;" — the free- 
dom of construction common to Shakspere and the poets of 
his time fully warranting this acceptation of the reading. 
In this way, the Duke says, the differences of the seasons 
are counsellors that teach me what I am; — as, for example, 
the winter's wind — which when it blows upon my body, I 
smile, and say, this is no flattery. We may add that, im- 
mediately following the lines we have quoted from the 
Paradise Lost, Adam alludes to the " seasons' difference,'' 
but in no respect as part of the curse — 

" With labour I must earn 
My bread ; what harm? Idleness had been worse ; 
My labour will sustain me; and lest cold 
Or heat should injure us, his timely care 
Hath unbesought provided, and his hands 
Cloth'd us unworthy, pitying while He judg'd. 
How much more, if we pray Him, will liis ear 
Be open, and his heart to pity incline. 
And teach us further by what means to shun 
Th' inclement seasons, rain, ice, hail, and snow." 

Book X. 
a This is an amplification of a thought in Sidney's ' Ar- 
cadia :' " Thus both trees and each thing else be the books 
to a fancy " 

b Irks me. This active use of the verb irk has become 
obsolete, although it is used by as recent an author as 


Being native burghers of this desert city, — 
Shoidd, in their own confines, with forked lieads* 
Have their round haunches gor'd. 

1 Lord. Indeed, my lord, 

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that ; 
And, in that kiud, 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 

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 cxtremest verge of the swift brook. 
Augmenting it with tears. 

I)/(ke S. But what said Jaques ? 

Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 

1 Lord. yes, into a thousand similes. 
First, for his weeping into the needless '■ stream ; 
■' Poor deer,' quoth he, ' thou mak'st a testa- 
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
To that which had too much.' " Then being there 

alone, '^ 
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friend;® 
"T is right,' quoth he; ' thus misery doth part 
The flux of company : ' Anon, a careless herd, 
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him. 
And never stays to greet him ; ' Ay,' quoth 

' Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; 
'Tis just the fashion : Wherefore do you look 
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there :' ' 

Hoole. The meaning is obvious from the adjective, which 
we still retain, irksome. 
a Forked heads— the heads of barbed arrows, 
b Needless — needing not. 
c So, in the Lover's Complaint, 

" In a river — 
Upon whose weeping margin she was set. 
Like usury, applying wet to wet." 

d Then being there alone. So the folio of 1623. The 
second folio reads, "then being alone," which of course 
becomes the received reading. It is wonderful how soon 
after Shakspere's death his verse offered an opportunity for 
the tampering of those who did not understand it. Tlie 
twelve-syllable verse, sparingly introduced, imparts a singu- 
larly dramatic freedom to the poetry, and makes the regular 
metre more beautiful from the variety. 

^Friend. The ordinary reading is /rie?!^*. Whiter here 
observes, " the singular is often used for the plural with a 
sense more abstracted, and therefore in many instances more 
poetical." — 'Specimen of a Commentary,' Svo 1794, p. 15. 




"? — 

a « 


3 a, 

o "^ 

o '» 

si " 

2 I- 

1 = 

* s 







Act II. 


[Scenes II., Ill, 

Thus most invcctively he pierceth through 
TJie 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. 

Buke S. And did you leave him in this con- 
templation ? 

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com- 
Upon the sobbiug deer. ^ 

Duke S. Show me the place ; 

I love to cope" him in these sullen fits. 
For then he 's fuU of matter. 

2 Lord. I 'U bring you to him straight. 


SCENE 11.—^ 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 court 
Are of consent and sufferance in this. 

1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her. 
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber. 
Saw her a-bed ; and, in the morning early, 
They found the beduiitreasur'dof their mistress. 

2 Lord. My lord, the roynish** clown, at 

whom so oft 
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. 
Ilesperia, the princess' gentlewoman. 
Confesses, that she secretly o'erheard 
Your daughter and her cousin mnch commend 
The parts and graces of the wrestler 
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ; 

a Kill Ihem up. In the same way Sliakspere has "flatter 
up," — "stifle up."— " poisons up." 

b Sobbing deer. This dwelling upon the image of the 
"weeping" stag, and his " big round tears," shows how 
Shakspere saw the poetry of this popular belief, derived 
from antiquity, more completely than other writers. The 
ancient naturalist BartholomcEUS says, — "When the hart is 
arered (followed close) he fleeth to a ryver or ponde, and 
roreth, cryeth, and wepeth when he is take." The tame 
stag wounded by Ascanius (Virgil, .^Eneid, vii.) has been re- 
feiTed to by the commentators as suggesting this passage : — 

" Saucius at quadrupcs nota intra tecta refngit, 

Successitque gemens stabulis ; quaestuque, cruentus, 
Atque imploranti similis, tectum omne replevit." 

We have here " the groans " but not " the tears." Drayton 
makes the same use of t+ie popular belief as Shakspeic: — 

" The hunter coming in to help his wearied hounds 
He desperately assails; until oppress'd by force, 
He, who the mourner is to his own dying corse, 
Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall." 
(Poly-Olbion. Song 13.) 

c Cope.— encounter. 

d i?o//nuA— literally, mangy— the French rooneux. In 
the same manner we still say, a scurvy fellow. 

And she believes, wlicrcvcr tlicy are gone, 
That youth is surely in tlicir company. 

Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch thai 
gallant hitlicr ; 
If he be al)sent, bring his brother to me, 
1 '11 make him find him : do this suddenly ; 
And let not search and inquisition rpiail* 
To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt. 

SCENE UI.— Before Oliver's 
Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 

Orl. Who's there? 

Adara. Wliat ! my young master!— O, my 

gentle master, 
O, my sweet master, O you memory 
Of old sir Rowland ! why, what make you here ? 
Wliy are you virtuous ? WTiy do people love 

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. Wliy, what 's the matter ? 
Adam. unhappy youth, 

Come not within these doors ; within this roof 
The enemy of all your graces lives : 
Your brother — (no, no brother; yet the son- 
Yet not the son ; I wUl not call him son — 
Of him I was about to call his father,) — 
Hath heard your praises; and this night he 

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 liim 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 


■"i Cluail — slacken. 

b Bony priser. In the original, hnnntc priser. vie .irs 
willing to receive the correction of Warburton, bony; which 
is supported by the epithet " big-boned traitor " m Henry \ I. 

c Place. M.Mason interprets this, no p/ffcc /or yo«. Stee- 
vens' explanation is a seat, a mansion. But there could be no 
sense in saying, this is no house-place— mans- on ; this houu 
is but a butchery. It is clearly— this is no abiding place. 


Act II. 


[Scene IV. 

0)i. 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 wiU subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted blood,* and bloody brother. 

Adam. But do not so : I have five hundred 
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 unregarded age in corners thrown ; 
Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow. 
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
All tliis I give you : Let me be your servant ; 
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty : 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood : 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ; 
I '11 do the service of a younger man 
In aU your business and necessities. 

Orl. good old man ; how well in thee ap- 
The constant service of the antique world. 
When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
Wliere none will sweat, but for promotion ; 
And having that, do choke their service up 
Even with the having : it is not so with thee. 
But poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree. 
That cannot so much as a blossom yield. 
In lieu of aU thy pains and husbandry : 
But come thy ways, we '11 go along together : 
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent. 
We '11 light upon some settled low content. 

Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow tliee. 
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. 


a A divi'rled blood. Caldecott explains this, as, "affec- 
tions alienated and turned out of tlieir natural course ; as a 
stream of water is said to be diverted." 

b The original folios read seventy. That it must have 
been a misprint is evident from the next line but one. 

c Toe late a week — an indefinite period, but still a short 
period — somewhat too late. 

SCENE rV.—T/ie Forest of Arde/n 

Biiter Rosalind m hoy's clothes, Celia dress d, 
like a Shepherdess, and Touchstone. 

Ros. O Jupiter ! how merry 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 apparel, and to cry like a woman : but I 
must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and 
hose ought to show itself courageous to petti- 
coat : therefore, courage, good Aliena. 

Cel. I pray you, bear with me ; I cannot go 
no further. 

Totich. 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 I am 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 

Sil. 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 never 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. 
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise. 
Thou hast not lov'd : 
Or if thou hast not broke from company 
Abruptly, as my passion now makes mo, 

a Merry. Modern editors read weary ; and one objects to 
the restoration of the original text, and to Mr. Whitei's sug- 
gestion that Rosalind's merriment was assumed as well as 
her dress. Rosalind, as we learn as she continues her 
speech, assumes a courageous bearing as well as a merry 
one, when she addresses Celia. 

b Cross— 3. piece of money stamped with a cross. 

Act II. 


[Scene V. 

Thou hast uot lov'd : Phebe, Phebe, Phobe ! 

lE.rii SiLVius. 

Eos. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy 
I have by hard adventure found mine own. 

Toiu'/i. 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 kissing of her bat- 
ler,* and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopped 
hands had milked : and I remember the wooing 
of a peascod instead of her ; from whom*" I took 
two cods, and, giving her them again, said, 
with weeping tears, ' Wear these for my sake.' 
We, that are true lovers, riui into strange capers ; 
but as all is mortal in nature, so is all natm-e in 
love mortal in folly.'' 

Hos. Thou speak' st wiser than thou art 'ware 

I'oiic/i. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine 
own wit, till I break my shins against it. 

Bos. .Tove ! Jove ! tliis shepherd's passion 
Is much upon my fashion. 

Touc/i. And mine; but it grows something 
stale with me. 

Cel. I pray you, one oi you question yond 
If he for gold will give us any food ; 
I faint almost to death. 

Toiic/i. HoUa ; you clown ! 

Eos. Peace, fool ; he 's not thy kinsman. 

Cor. Who caUs ? 

Touc/i. Your betters, su-. 

Cor. Else are they very wretched. 

Eos. Peace, I say :— 

Good even to you, friend. 

Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. 

Eos. 1 prithee, shepherd, if that love, or gold. 
Can in this desert place buy entertainment. 
Bring us where we may rest om'selves, and feed : 
Here's a young maid with travel much op- 

•And faints for succour. 

Cor. Fair sir, I pity her. 

And wish for her sake, more than for mine own. 
My fortunes were more able to relieve her : 
But I am shepherd to another man. 
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze ; 
My master is of churlish disposition. 

a Ballrr— the bat used in washing linen in a stream. 

b From whom— from his mistress. He took from her two 
pcascods— that is, two pods. We lind tlie pod or cod of tlie 
pea used as an ornament in the robe of Kichard II., in his 
monument in Westminster Alibey. 

c Mortal in folly— extremely foolish, — from hk rt, a pro- 
vincial word for a great quantity. 

And little reeks to find the way to heaven 
By doing deeds of hospitality : 
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed, 
Arc now on sale, and at our shccpcote 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. 

Eos. What is he that shall buy his flock and 
pasture ? 

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but 
That little cares for buying anything. 

Eos. 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. 

Ccl. And we will mend thy wages : I like this 
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 yoru" very faithful feeder be. 
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. 


SCENE Y.—T/ie same. 
Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others. 


And. Under the greenwood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turni his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's tliroat. 
Come hitlier, come liither, come hither ; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

J(iq. More, more, I prithee, more. 

Jiui. It will make you melancholy, monsieur 

Jaq. I thank it. ]\Iore, I prithee, more. I 
can suck melancholy out of a song, as a wcazcl 
sucks eggs : More, I prithee, 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. Wliat you will, monsieur Jaques. 

Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; tney 
owe me nothing :- Will you sing ? 

a ^HrK— modulate. Tlie modern reading is lune. 

b nagged— hrokew, discordant. The term was u.^ed fn 
anything wanting in propriety. In Shakspere's Lucrec-e we 
have — 

' Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name." 

Bagged verses were inharmonious verses. 


.Act 11.] 


[Scenes VI. Vll, 

Ami. More at your request thau to please 


Jaq. Well theu, if ever I thauk any man 1 U 
thank you : but that they call compliment is 
like the encounter of two dog-apes ; and when 
a man thanlcs me heartily, methiulcs I have 
given him a penny, and he renders me the beg- 
garly 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 di-ink under this tree : 
—he hath been all this day to look you. 

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid 
him. He is too disputable"^ for my company : I 
think of as many matters as he ; but I give 
heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. 
Come, warble, come. 


Who doth ambition shun, [All Ingellm- here. 
And loves to live 1' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleas'd with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

Jaq. I '11 give you a verse to this note, that I 
made yesterday 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, 
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; ^ 
Here shall he see 
Gross fools as he. 
An if he will come to me. 

Ami. What's that ducdame? 

Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools 
into a circle. I '11 go sleep if I can ; if I cannot, 
[ '11 rail against all the first-born of Egypt.'' 

Ami. And I '11 go seek the duke ; his banquet 
is prepared. \_Exeimt severally. 

SCENE Nl.—The same. 
Unter Orlando and Adam. 
Adam. Dear master, I can go no further : 0, 
I die for food ! Here lie I down, and measure 
out my grave. Farewell, 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 

•■<■ Corer— set out the table. 
I) 7)i«;jH/«i/e— disputations. 

c The Jirsl-born of Egypt. Johnson explains this as a 
proverbial expression for liigh-born persons. 


anything savage, I wll either be food for 
it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is 
nearer death thau thy powers. For my sake, 
be comfortable,*'' hold death awhile at the arm's 
end : I will here be with thee presently ; and if 
I bring thee not something to eat I will give thee 
leave to die : but if thou diest before I come 
thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said ! 
thou look'st cheerly: and I'll be with thee 
quickly.— Yet thou liest in the bleak air : Come, 
I will bear thee to some shelter ; and thou shalt 
not die for lack of a dinner, if there Uve any- 
thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! 


SCENE Nil.— The same. 

A table set out. Enter Didic senior, Amiens, 
Lords, and otJiers. 

Dnh S. I think he be transform'd into a 
beast ; 
Eor I can nowhere find him like a man. 

I Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone 
hence ; 
Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 

Dul-e S. If he, compact'' of jars, grow mu- 
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres : — 
Go, seek him; tell him, I would speak with 

Enter Jaques. 

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own ap- 
Bu^-e S. Wliy, how now, monsieur ! what a 
life is this, 
That your poor friends must woo your company ? 
What ! you look merrily. 

Jaq. A fool, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, 
A motley fool ; a miserable world : 
As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms, 
In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I: 'No, sir,' quoth 

' Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me for- 
tune : ' 
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 : 

•"> Be comfortable— hecomc susceptible of comfort. 
" Com/;afi— oom^nunded, made up of. 

Act II.] 



Thus \vc may see,' quoth he, 'liow the worhl 


'T is but an hour ago, since it was nine ; 
And after one hour more, 'twill be eleven; 
And so, from horn- to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 
And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear 
The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer. 
That fools shou''d be so deep-contemplative ; 
And I did laugh, sans intermission, 
An hour by his dial. — noble fool ! 
A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear. 
Duke S. What fool is this ? 
Jaq. worthy fool ! — One that hatii been a 
courtier ; 
And says, if ladies be but young, and fan-, 
They have the gift to know it: and in his 

brain, — 
Which is as di-y as the remainder biscuit 
After a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd 
With observation, the which he vents 
In mangled forms : — 0, that I were a fool ! 
I am ambitious for a motley coat. 
Did-e S. Thou shalt have one. 
Jaq. It is my only suit : " 

Provided, that you weed your better judg- 
Of all opinion that grows rank in them, 
That I am wise. I must have liberty 
Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 
To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : 
And they that are most galled with my folly, 
They most must laugh: And why, sir, must 

they so ? 
The why is plain as way to parish churcb : 
He that a fool doth very wisely hit 
Doth very foolishly, although he smart, 
[Not to""] seem senseless of the bob :<= if not. 
The wise man's folly is anatomized 
Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool. 
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
To speak my mind, and I will tlu-ough auel 

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
Dide S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou 
wouldst do. 

.1 S'uU — request. Rosalind plays in the same ^^'av upon 
the word : " Not out of your appnrcl, but out of yo\u- suit. 

h Not to. These words are not in the original, hu; were 
added by Theobald. We cannot dispense witli them, unless 
we adopt Whiter's ingenious but somewhat forced punctua- 
tion : — 

" He that a fool doth very wisely hit 
Doth, very foolishly although he smart, 
Seem senseless of tlie bob." 

c Boh — rap. 

Jar/. What, for a counter, would I do but 

good ? '' 
Buke S. Most miscliievous foul sin, in chid- 
ing 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. 

Ja(j. Why, who erics out on pride. 
That can therein tax any private party ? 
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea. 
Till that the wearer's » very means do ebb ':* 
What woman in the city do I name 
When that I say, The city-wouian bears 
The cost of princes on miworthy shoidders ? 
Who can come in, and say that I mean her. 
When such a one as she, such is her neigli- 

Or what is he of basest function. 
That says, his bravery '' is not on my cost, 
(Tiiinking that I mean him,) but tiierein suits 
His folly to the mettle of my speech ? 
There then; How then? what then? Let me 

sec wherein 
My tongue hath wrong'd him : •"' if it do him 

Then he hath wrong'd himself ; if he be free. 
Why then, my taxing <= like a wild goose flies, 
Unelaim'd of any man. — But who comes here ? 

Ei/frr OiiLANDO, icif/i Jus sword drawn. 

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. 

Jaq. ^Vliy, 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 boldeu'd, man, by thy 
distress ; 
Or else a rude despiser of good manners, 
Tliat in civility thou seem'st so empty ? 

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first; the thorny 
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 rea- 
son, I must die. 

a Wearer's. The original hlis"u-enry very." We liavr 
adopted Mr. Singer's ingenious and .satisfactory nUera 

h Brai^enj — finery. 

c r«j;i»^— censure, reproach. 

d Nurture — education. 


Act II. 1 



Bul-e S. What would you have ? Your gentle- 
iiess shall force, 
More than your force move us to gentleness. 
Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it. 

Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to 
our table. 

Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray 
I thought that all things had been savage here ; 
And therefore put I on the counten;ince 
Of stern commandment : But whate'er you arc, 
That in this desert inaccessible, 
Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 
If ever you have look'd on better days ; 
If ever been where bells have knoU'd to church ; 
If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear. 
And know what 't is to pity and be pitied ; 
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be : 
In the wliich hope, I blush, and hide my sword. 

Dide S. True is it that we have seen better 
And have with holy bell been kuoll'd to churcli ; 
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 minister'd. 

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while, 
Wliiles, 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 sufBc'd, 
Oppress'd with two weak evils,'' age and hunger, 
I will not touch a bit. 

Du/re 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 ! [E:rii. 

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone un- 
happy : _ 
This wide and universal theatre 
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 
Wlierein we play in/ 

Jaq. All the world 's a stage, 

And all the men and women merely players : 
They have theii- exits, and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
Mewling and pidiing in the nurse's arms ; 
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel. 

* Upon command— al your own will. 
b Weak nils — evils tliat are causes of weakness 
c This construction, as we have often shown, is oowir.nn 
'o Shakspere anii the writers of his age. 


And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school : and then, the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
]\Iade to his mistress' eyebrow : Then, a soldier ; 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard. 
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth : and then, tut 

In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd. 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
FuU of wise saws and modern instances, 
And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, 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 


Jlc-entcr Orlando, icith Adam. 

J)nke S. Welcome : Set down your venerable 
And let him feed. 

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 
As yet, to question you about your fortunes : — 
Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing. 

Amiens sings. 


lllow, blow, thou winter wind, , 

Thou art not so unkind a 

As man's inf^ratitude; 
Tliy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 
Then, heigh ho! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 


Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot: 
Though thou the waters warp.b 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend reraember'd not. 
Ileigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! &c, 

a Unkind — unnatural. 

li Warp — There was an old Saxon proverb, Winler shall 
vnrp water. 

Act 11.) 


[Scene VJI. 

Buke S. If that you were the good sir Kow- 
laud's son, — 
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were ; 
Aud as mine eye doth his ciEgies witness 
Most truly limu'd, and living in your face. 
Be truly welcome hither : I am the duke, 

Tiiut lov'd your father : The residue of your 

Go to my cave and tell me. — Good old man, 
Thou art right welcome as thy master is ; 
Support him by the arm. — Give me your hand, 
Aud let rac all your fortunes understand. 

•-5i:^ V-gi Iff," v.. ..»■•- 

[ Dear mastei', I can yo no further.'] 

illustratiojss of act il 

' SOJINE I. — " Which, like the toad, uylij and re- 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head." 

It has sometimes been supposed that the " precious 
jewel" refers ouly to the brilliancy of the toad's 
eyes, as contrasted with its ugly form. But we 
think there can be no doubt it referi'ed to a com- 
mon superstition, with which Shakspere's audience 
was familiar. This, like many other vulgar errors, 
is ancient and vuiiversal. Pliny tells us of the 
wonderful qualities of a bone found in the right 
side of a toad. In India it is a common notion 
that some species of serpents have precious stones 
in their heads. Our old credulous writers upon 
natural history, who dwelt with delight upon 
"notable things" and "secret wonders," are as 
precise about the toad's stone as a modern geo- 
logist is about quartz. Edward Fenton, in 1569^ 
tells us " there is found in heads of old and great 
toads a stone which they call borax, or stelon : it 
is most commonly found in the head of a he-toad." 
These toad-stones, it should seem, were not only 
specifics against jjoisou when taken internally, but 
" being used in rings gave forewarning against 
venom." There were, of course, many counterfeit 
stones, procured by a much easier process than 
that of toad-hunting ; but the old lapidaries had 
an infallible mode of discovering the true from 
the false. " You shall know whether the toad- 
stone be the right and perfect stone or not. Hold 
the stone before a toad, so that he may see it ; 
and if it be a right and true stone the toad will 
leap toward it and make as though he would 
snatch it. He envieth so much that man should 
have that stone." Shakspere, in the passage before 
us, has taken the superstition out of the hands of 
the ignorant believers in its literality, and has 
transmuted it into a poetical truth. 

2 Scene V. — "Nay, I care not for their names; 
they owe me nothing. 

In the variorum editions we have no explanation 

of this passage. Mr. Caldecott says that it is an 
allusion to the Latin phrase nomina faccre, as ap- 
plied to debtur and creditor in the llonian law. 
He adds, "We have shown that the phraseology 
of our courts of justice, and the names of their 
ofBcers and process, were in universal use with 
our ancestors, and that as well in the pulpit as in 
common life and upon the stage; but through 
what channel fehakspere became acquainted with 
so much of the practical part of the Roman law, 
which it is pretty plain his commentators had not 
at their fiugers' ends, we in our turn leave to the 
reader to say." 

^ Scene V. — " Dacdame, ducdame, clucdainc." 

Hanmer tuiued this into Latin — due ad me. 
"When Amiens asks "What's that ducdJime?" 
Jaques replies, " 'T is a Greek invocation." It 
was not iu the character of Jaques to talk Latin 
in this place. He was parodying the " Come hither, 
come hither, come hither" of the previous song. 
The conjecture, therefore, that he was using some 
country call of a woman to her ducks, appears 
much more rational than his latiuity. 

■* Scene Nil.— " And then he drew a dial from his 

" There's no clock in the forest," says Orlando, 
and it was not very likely that the fool would have 
a pocket clock. AVhat was then the dial that he 
" took from his poke ? " We became the pos- 
sessor of a rude instrument kindly presented to us 
by a friead,.which, as the Maid of Orleans found 
her sword, he picked " out of a deal of old iron." 
It is a brass circle of about two inches diameter : 
on the outer side are engraved letters indicating 
the names of the months, with graduated divisions ; 
and 3n the inner side the hours of the day. The 
brass circle itself is to be held iu one position by a 


riug ; but there is au inner slide iu which there is 
a small orifice. This slide being moved so that the 
hole stands opposite the division of the month 
when the day falls of which we desire to know the 
time, the circle is held up opposite the sun. The 
inner side is of course then in shade ; but the 
svmbeam shines through the little orifice and forms 
a point of light upon the hour marked on the 
inner side. We have tried this dial and found it 
give the hour with great exactness. 

5 Scene YIL- 

' What, far a, coicntei; ivouhl I do 
but (jood V 

The wager proposed by Jaques was not a very 
heavy one. Jettons or counters, which are small 
and very thin, are generally of copper or brass, but 
occasionally of silver, or even of gold ; they were 
commonly used for purposes of calculation, in 
abbeys and other places, where the revenues were 
complex and of difficult adjustment : the figure 
represents a person employed in the arithmetical 
process with counter.?. From their being found 
among the ruins of English abbeys they are usually 
termed abbey-counters. They have been princi- 
pally coined abroad, particularly at Niirnberg (See 
Snelling's ' Treatise on Jettons'), though some few 
have been struck in England since the reign oi 
Henry VIII. The most ancient bear on both sides 
crosses, pellets, and globes ; the more modern have 
portraits and dates and heraldic arms on the re- 
verse. The legends are at times religious, and at 
others Gardez vous de niescomptci; and the like. 

® Scene VII. — " Let me see wherein 

Ml/ tongue hath wromj'd him," &c. 

Tieck observes that this speech of Jaques has 
great resemblance to B. Jonson's Prologue to 
' Every Man out of his Humour,' and that nmch 
in this character has more or less resemblance to 
Jonson, and to his sarcastic style. The following 
lines of that Prologue clearly resemble the passage 
we refer to above : — 

" If any here cliaiiee to beliold himself, 
Let him not dare to challenge me of wrong; 
For, if he shame to liave liis follies known, 
Virst, he should shame to act 'em : my strict hand 
Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe 
Squeeze out the humour of such spongy souls 
As lick up every idle vanity." 

If we could determine which play was first re- 
presented, and could be certain that ' Every ^lan 
out of his Humour' preceded As You Like It, we 
should have an interesting key to the principle 
which Shakspere had in his mind in the con- 
struction of the character of Jaques. As we 
understand the character he is a satire ujion 
satirists. The whole tone of Ben Jonson's Pro- 
logue is not merely satirical,- — it is furious. The 
play was firstacted in l.o99. If As You Like It may 
be assigned to IGOO, we have little doubt that the 
Jaques of Shakspere was intended to glance at 
the Asper of Jonson, — the name by which he 
chose to designate himself, as one "of an in- 
genious and free spirit, eayev and constant in 
reproof, w'ithout fear controlling the world's 

'' Scene VII. — '-AH the world's a sta<je." 

This celebrated comparison had been made by 
Shaksjiere in another jjlay, written, there can be 
little doubt, before this : — 

" I hold the world, but as the world, Gratiano, 
A stage, where every man must play a part." 

{Merchant of Venice.) 

It is scarcely nece.?sary to inquire whether Shak- 
spere found the idea iu the Greek epigram : — 

Inrji'Tj Tras o /3ios, koX irai'^viov. r} ixdQe ttoI (,th', 
Ti]v aTrouSrji' /j.fTade7s, rj (p^yi T0.5 oSvfas. 

'• This life a theatre we well may call, 

Where every actor must perform with art ; 
Or laugh it through, and make a farce of all, 
Or learn to bear with grace his tragic part." 

(Anonymous, in Bland's Selections from 
the Greek Anthology.) 

The idea had passed into a proverb; pud 
even a Latin Dictionary, published iu 1599, gives 
us the following passage : " Tlii.s life is a certain in- 
terlude or play. The world is a stage full of change 
every way; every man is a player." The division 01 
life into seven ages by Hippocrates and Proclus was 
probably familiar to Shakspere; and the commenta- 
tors say that there was an old emblematical print 
representing a human being in each stage. But 
wherever the general idea was to be found, who but 
Shakspere could have created the wonderful in- 
dividualization of the several changes ? 


% <w 

{' TcnyuLS I'll hang on eveiy tree. 'J 


SCENE I. — A Room in ihe Palace. 

Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, and 

Duke F. Not see liiui since ? Sii-, sir, that 

caunot be : 
But were I uot the better part made mercy, 
I should not seek an absent argument '^ 
Of my revenge, thou present : But look to it ; 
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is ; 
Seek him with candle ; ^ bring him dead or living 
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more 
To seek a living in our territory. 
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call 

Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands ; 

a Argument — subject-matter. 

b It is supposed that this is an allusion to the passage in 
Saint Luke, c. xv.: " (f she lose one piece, doth she not light 
a candle? " If so, it is, metaphorically, seek hirn in every 
corner with the greatest diligence. 


TlH thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth, 
Of what we think against thee. 

OIL O, tliat your highness knew my heart m 
I never lov'd my brother in my life. 

Difke F. More villain thou. — WeU, push lum 
out of doors ; 
And let my officers of such a nature 
Make an extent upon his house and lands :* 
Do this expediently,'' and turn liim going. 


SCENE Il.—Tke Forest. 

Enter Orlando, with a paper. 

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my 

a The law phrase is here used literally 
b Expedicntltj — promptly. 

Act III ] 

AS YOU lik:e it. 


Aud, tliou, thrice-crowned queeu of uight," 
With thy chaste eye from thy pale sphere above, 
Thy fiuutress' uame, that my full life doth 
O llosaliud ! these trees shall be my books, 
Aud iu their barks my thoughts I'll cha- 
racter ; 
That every eye, which iu this forest looks, 

ShaU see thy vii'tue witness'd everywhere. 
Ruu, run, Orlando ; carve on every tree 
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive'^ she. 

Enter Corin «;2f(? Touchstone. 

Cor. Aud 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 shep- 
herd's life it is naught. In respect that it is 
solitary I like it very well ; but in respect that 
it is private it is a very vile life. Now, in 
respect it is in the fields it pleaseth me well ; 
but in respect it is not in the eoui't 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 stomach. Hast any 
philosophy in thee, shepherd ? 

Cor. No more, but that I know, the more one 
sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he 
that wants money, means, and content, is with- 
out three good friends : That the property of 
rain is to wet, and fire to bui-n: That good 
pasture makes fat sheep ; and that a great cause 
of the night is lack of the sun : That he that 
hath learned no wit by nature nor art may com- 
plain of good breeding, ■= or comes of a very dull 

Touch. Such a one is a natai-al 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 t^^, all on one side. 

a Johnson says, "alluding to the triple character of Tro- 
serpine, Cynthia, and Diana, given by some mythologists 
to the same goddess." 

b ynexprcsiiye— inexpressible. Warton (m a note upon 
the following passage in MiUon's Hymn on the Nativity) 
supposes that Shakspere coined the word : — 
" The helmed Cherubim, 
And sworded Seraphim, 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'", 

Harping in loud and solemn quire, _ ^^ 

With uneipressire notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.' 

c May complain of the want of good breeding. Whiter 

says, "This is a mode of speech common, I believe, to all 


Comedies. — Vol. II. Q 

Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. 
Touch. Why, if thou never wast at coui-t 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 dam- 
nation: Thou art in a parlous** state, shepherd. 

Cor. Not a whit. Touchstone : those that are 
good manners at the court are as ridiculous in 
the country, as the 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 ? aud 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 are often tan-'d over with the • 
surgery of our sheep ; And would you have us 
kiss tar ? The courtier's hands are pcrfum'd with 

Touch. Most shallow man! Thou worms'- 
meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh : In- 
deed ! 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 


Touch. Wilt thou rest damn'd ? God help thee, 
shallow man ! God make incision in thee ! thou 
art raw.° 

Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer ; I cam 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 

Toitch. That is another simple sin in you ; to 
brmg the ewes and the rams together, and to 
offer to get your living by the copulation of 
cattle : to be bawd to a bell-wether ; aud to be- 
tray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth, to a crooked- 
pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of aU reasonable 
match. If thou be'st not danm'd for this, the 

.•> Manners is here used in the sense of morals. Mor.iU 
was not used by the old writers. 

b Parlous — perilous. 

c Steevens thinks this has ref.;rence to the proverbial 
phrase of " cutting for the simples." 

d Resigned to any evil. 

Act Iir.] 


[Scene 11. 

devil himself wiU have uo shepherds ; I cannot 
see else how thou shonldst 'scape. 

Cor. Here comes young master Ganymede, 
my new mistress' brother. 

E?tier Hosalind, read'mg a paper. 

Tlos. 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,a 
Are but black to Rosalind. 
Let no face be kept in mind, 
But the fairb of Rosalind. 

Touch. I'll rhyme you so, eight years toge- 
ther ; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours 
excepted : 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 liira seek out Hosalind. 

If the cat will after kind. 

So, be sure, will Rosalind. 

AVintred-garments must be lin'd, 

So must slender Rosalind. 

They that reap must sheaf and bind ; 

Then to cart with Rosalind. 

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind. 

Such a nut is Rosalind. 

He that sweetest rose will find. 

Must find love's prick and Rosalind. 

This is the very false gallop of verses : Why do 
you infect yoiu-self with them ? 

Ros. Peace, you dull fool ; I found them on 
a tree. 

Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 

Ros. I'll graff it 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 ere you 
be half ripe,<' and that 's the right virtue of the 

Touch. You have said ; b\it whether wisely or 
no, let the forest judge. 

Enter Gelia, reading a paper. 
Ros. Peace ! 
Here comes my sister, reading ; stand aside. 

1 Lin'd — delineated. 

b Fair — beauty. 

c "Whiter says, defending the old reading of rank, that 
tlie expression means the jog-trot rate with which butter- 
women travel to market, one afler another. In its applica- 
tion to Orlando's ])oetry it means a sel or string of verses, 
in the same course, cadence, and uniformity of rhythm. 
We think that Whiter's explanation is right ; and that 
Shakspere, moreover, had in mind the paek-horse roads, 
where one traveller must follow another in single rank. 

d Does this require a note? With regard to its premp.ture 
decay, is not the medlar the earliest fruit? Yet Steevens 
says, "Shakspere seems to have had little knowledge in 
gardening. The medlar is one of the latest fruits, being 
uneatai)le till the end of November."!!! 


Cel. Why should this a desert be?;> 

For it is unpeopled? No; 
Tongues I'll hang on every tree, 

That shall civil sayings show. 
Some, liow brief the life of man 

Runs his erringb pilgrimage; 
That the stretching of a span 

Buckles in his sum of age. 
Some, of violated vows 

'Twixt tlie souls of friend and frier.d ; 
But upon the fairest boughs, 

Or at every sentence' end, 
Will I Rosalinda write; 

Teaching all that read, to know 
The quintessence of every sprite 

Heaven would in little c show. 
Therefore heaven nature charg'd 

That one body should be lill'd 
With all graces wide enlarg'd : 

Nature presently distill'd 
Helen's cheek, but not her lieart ; 

Cleopatra's majesty; 
Atalanta's better part; 

Sad Lucretia's modesty. I 
Thus Rosalind of many parts 

By heavenly synod was devis'd ; 
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, 

To have the touches d 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 love have you wearied your parish- 
ioners withal, and never cried, ' Have patience, 
good people.' 

Cel. How now ! back friends ; — Shepherd, go 
off a little : go with him, sii'rah. 

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an ho- 
nourable retreat ; though not Avith bag and bag- 
gage, yet with scrip and scrippage. 

[Exeu7it CoiiiN and Touchstone. 

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ? 

Ros. 0, 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, Avithout Avondering 

* The original omits the article a. Some texts have — 
" AVhy should this desert silent be? " 
This was Tyrwhitt's emendation; but the adjective is cer- 
tainly unnecessary. A question arises, is desert an adjective 
or a noun ? The absence of people, says tlie sonnetteer, does 
not make this place desert, for I will hang tongues on every 
tree, that will speak tlie language of civil life. Desert is 
here an adjective opposed to civil. Rowe, to reform tl:e 
metre, reads — 

"AVhy should this a desert be?" 
Upon the principle that a line must be sometimes read with 
retardation, the article is not necessary; but receiving the 
word as a noun the sense is clearer. 

b Erring — wandering. 

c In little — in miniature. 

d Touches — traits. 

Act JIl.j 



how thy name shoiild be hanged aud cawed 
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 pabii-tree : I was never so be-rhymed 
since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irisli rat,- 
which I can hardly remember. 

Cel. Trow you who liath done this ? 

Ros. Is it a man ? 

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore,' about 
his neck : Change you eoloiu- ? 

Ros. I prithee, who ? 

Cel. O lord, lord ! it is a hard matter for 
friends to meet ; but mountains may Ijc removed 
with earthquakes, and so encounter. 

Ros. Nay, but who is it ? 

Cel. Is it possible ? 

Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most peti- 
tionary vehemence, tell me who it is. 

Cel. wonderful, wonderful, and most won- 
derful wonderful, and yet again ■wonderful, and 
after that out of all whooping.-"^ 

Ros. Good my complexion ! ^ dost thou think, 
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a 
doublet aud hose in my disposition ? One inch 
of delay more is a South-sea of discovery .<= I 
prithee, teU me, who is it ? quickly, aud speak 
apace : I would thou couldst stammer, that thou 
mightst poui' this concealed man out of thy 
mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed 
bottle ; either too much at ouce, or none at all. 
I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I 
may drink thy tidings. 

Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. 

Ros. Is he of God's making ? What manner 
of man ? Is his head worth a hat, or his cbin 
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 delay me not the knowledge of his 

Cel. It is young Orlando ; that tripped up the 
wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an i]i- 

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking ; speak 
sad brow, aud true maid."* 

a There is an old proverbial phrase, out oj cry, meaning, 
beyond all measure. 

1> Ritson explains this as a little unmeaning exclama*ory 
address to her beauty, in the nature of a small oath. 

c My curiosity can endure no longer. If you perplex me 
any further I have a space for conjecture as wide as the 
South-sea. Of is the original reading ; the modern change 
is " a South-sea off discovery." 

d Speak with a serious countenance, and as a true maid. 
So Henry V. says, 

" [ speak to thee plain soldier." 

Cel. V faith, coz, 'tis he. 

Ros. Orlando ? 

Cel. Orlando. 

Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my 
doublet and hose? — What did lie when thou 
saw'st him ? What said ho ? llow looked lie ? 
Wlierein went he?* What makes he here? 
Did he ask for me ? Wlicrc remains he ? How 
parted he with thee ? and when sbalt thou see 
liim again ? Answer me in one word. 

Cel. You must borrow mc Gargantua's moutli '' 
first : 't is a word too great for any mouth of 
this age's size: To say ay, aud no, to these 
particulars, is more than to answer in a cate- 

Ros. But doth he know that 1 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 re- 
solve the propositions of a lover : but take a taste 
of my findmg him, and rclisli it witli a good 
observance. I found him under a tree, like a 
dropped acorn. 

Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when 
it drops forth sucli*^ fruit. 

Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 

Ros. Proceed. 

Cel. There lay he, stretched along, like y 
wounded knight. 

Ros. Though it be pity to see suck a sight, it 
well becomes the ground. 

Cel. Cry, hoUa ! to thy tongue, I prithee ; it 
curvets unseasonably .'' He was furnished like a 

Ros. ominous ! he comes to kill my hart ! 

Cel. 1 would smg my song without a burdeu : 
thou bring'st me cut of tuue. 

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman ? when 
I think I must speak. Sweet, say on. 

Enler Oklando and Jaques. 

Cel. You bring me out:"'— Soft! comes he 

not here ? 
Ros. 'T is he ; slink by, and note liim. 

[Celia a>id Rosalind retire. 

Jaq. I thank you for yoiu: company; but, 

good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. 

Od. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion sake, 

I thank you too for your society. 

^ Wherein went he?— in what dress did he go? . 

b Garqantua's mouth— the mouth of the giant of Rabelais, 
who swallowed five pilgrims in a salad. . . • ., 

c Such is not in the folio of 1623 ; it is inserted in the 
socond folio. , , . , •. „„„ 

d The ordinary reading, contrary to t!ie original, is very 

e You bring me out — put me out. 


Act III.] 



Jaq. God be wi' you ; let 's meet as little as 
we can. 

Orl. I do desire we may be better straugers. 

Jaq. I pray you, mar uo more trees with 
writing love-songs in their barks. 

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses 
with reading them ill-favouredly. 

Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name ? 

Orl. Yes, just. 

Jaq. I do not Kke her name. 

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you 
when she was christened. 

Jaq. "What stature is she of ? 

Orl. Just as high as my heart. 

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers : Have 
you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, 
and conned them out of rings ? 

Orl. Not so ; but I answer you right painted 
cloth, from whence you have studied your ques- 

Jaq. You have a nimble wit ; I tliink it was 
made of Atalauta's heels. WiU you sit down 
with me ? and we two will raU against our mis- 
tress the world, and all our misery. 

Orl. I win chide no breather in the world but 
myself ; against whom I know most faidts. 

Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. 

Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your 
best virtue. I am weary of you. 

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool 
when I found you. 

Orl. He is drowned in the brook ; look but in, 
and you shall see him. 

Jaq. There I shall see mme own figure. 

Orl. Which I take to be either a fool, or a 

Jaq. I "11 tarry no longer with you : farewell, 
good signior love. 

Orl. I am glad of youi' departiu-e ; adieu, good 
monsieur 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 o'clock ? 

Orl. You should ask me what time o' day ; 
there 's no clock in the forest. 

Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; 
else sighing every minute, and groanmg every 
hour, would detect the lazy foot of time as well 
as a clock. 

Orl. And why not the swift foot of time ? had 
not that been as proper ? 


Ros. By no means, air: Time travels in divers 
paces with divers persons : I 'U teU you who 
Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, 
who Time gallops withal, and who he stands 
stdl withal. 

Orl. I prithee, 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 interim be but a 
se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems 
the length of seven year. 

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 
lives merrily, because he feels no pain : the one 
lacking the bui'den of lean and wasteful learn- 
ing ; 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 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 between term and term, and then, they per- 
ceive not how time moves. 

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; liere 
in the sku'ts of the forest, like fringe upon a pet- 

Orl. Ai'e you a native of this i^lace ? 

Ros, As the coney, that you see dwell where 
she is kindled. 

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you 
could purchase in so removed * a dwelling. 

^0.?. I have been told so of many : but, in- 
deed, an old religious uncle of mine taught me 
to speak, who was in liis youth an inland man ; 
one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell 
in love. I have heard him read many lectures 
against it ; and I thank God I am not a woman, 
to be touched with so many giddy offences as he 
hath generally taxed their whole sex withal. 

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 halfpence are : every one 
fault seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault 
came to match it. 

Orl. I prithee recount some of them. 

Ros. No ; I will not cast away my physic but 
on those that are sick. There is a man 
haunts the forest that abuses our young plants 

^ Itemov^d — remote. 

Act III] 


[S'jEttr. Ill 

with carviug Rosaliud on tlieir barks; hangs 
odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles ; 
all, forsooth, deifying* the name of Kosalind : 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 taught me how to know a man iu love ; 
in which cage of rushes, I am sui-e, you are not 

Oii. 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 iu 
beard'' is a younger brother's revenue:) Then 
your hose should be uugartered, your bonnet 
unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoued, your shoe 
untied, and everything about you demonstrating 
a careless desolation. But you are no such man ; 
you are rather point-device ^ in your accoutre- 
ments ; as loving youi'self, than seeming the 
lover of any other. 

Od. Fair youth, I would I could make thee 
believe 1 love. 

Ros. Me believe it ? you may as soon make 
her that you love believe it ; which, I warrant, 
she is apter to do thau to confess she does : that 
s 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 llosalind is so admii-ed ? 

Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white 
hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate 

Ros. But are you so much iu love as your 
rhymes speak ? 

Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express 
how much. 

Ros. Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell 
you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip 
as madmen do: and the reason why they are 
not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy 
is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too : 
Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 

Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? 

a Beifyivg. So the folio of 1632. In the first folio (feOyiH^. 

b Unquestionable— not to he questioned, not to he con- 
versed with. 

c Having in beard. So the original. The second edition 
reads, "having no heard." The meaning is, sonx 2>ossession 
in beard; hating is a substantive. 

d Point-devise— mumtc\y exact. See Twelfth Night, Act 
u. Sc. V. 

Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was 
to imagine me his love, his mistress ; and I set 
him every day to woo me : At which time woidd 

I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be cfTe- 
minate, changeable, longing, and liking ; proud, 
fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of 
tears, full of smiles ; for every passion something, 
and for no passion truly anything, as boys and 
women are for the most part cattle of this colour: 
would now like him, now loathe him ; then en- 
tertain him, then forswear bun ; now weep for 
him, then spit at him ; that I drave my suitor from 
his mad humour of love, to a lo\T:ng " humour of 
madness ; which was, to fors^^•car the full stream 
of the world, and to live in a nook merely mo- 
nastic : And thus I cured him ; and this way 
will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean 
as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be 
one spot of love in 't. 

Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 

Ros. I would cure you, if you M'ould 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 'U 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 ? [E-reimt. 


Enter Totjchstone and Attdeey ; Jaqites at 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 

Aud. Your features ! Lord warrant us ! what 
features ? 

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as 
the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was 
among the Goths.*" 

Jaq. knowledge ill-inhabited ! •= worse than 
Jove iu a thatched house ! ^ \_Aside. 

Touch. When a man's verses cannot be un- 
derstood, nor a man's good wit seconded with 

a Loving— i\\e original has living, which may hercceived .-i 
actual, positive. Johnson suggested the antitlictical epithet. 

b Cald»cott says, " Caper, eapri, capentious, capricious:, 
fantastical, capering, goatish : and by a similar sort ol process 
are we to smooth Goths into goats." 

c Jll-inhabited-HUod'^cd. » xt ..,• „ a-. 

d The same allusion is in Much Ado about Nothing, Act 

II. Sc. I.— . 

" Mv vi3or is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove. 


Act III.] 


[Scene III. 

the forward child, uiiderstanding, it strikes a 
man more dead tlian a great reckoning in a little 
room : Truly, I would the gods had made thee 

J.iid. 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. 

And. 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. 

And. 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 un- 
clean dish. 

Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the 
gods I am foul.'' 

Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foul- 
ness ! sluttishuess may cojne hereafter. But be 
it as it may be, I will marry thee : and to that 
end, I have been with sir Oliver Mar-text, the 
vicar of the next village ; 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 temple but the wood, no assemljly 
but horn-beasts. But what though ? — 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 ; 't is 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 

» A fool, says Johnson, with matter in him. 

1) Foul is here used in the sense of homely — opposed to 
fair. It retained this sense as late as Pope ; and tlie mean- 
ing in the time of Shakspere may be seen in the foUowinj^ 
extract from Thomas's 'History of Italy : ' — " If tlie maiden 
hefair she is soon had, and little money given with her; if 
she he foul they avannce her -with a better portion." 

c So the original, with a difl'erent punctuation. Mr. 
Collier's MS. Corrector has — "Are horns given to poor men 
alone ? " 

ii liascal is the hunter's term given to young deer, lean 
and out of season. 


single man therefore blessed? No : as a walled 
town is more wortliier 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 Olivee Mar-text. 
Here comes sir Oliver:'' — Sir Oliver Mar-text, 
you are well met : WiU you despatch us here 
luider this tree, or shall we go with you to your 
chapel ? 

Sir on. Is there none here to give the woman ? 

Touch. I ^vill not take her on gift of any man. 

Sir Oil. Truly, she must be given, or the 
marriage is not lawful. 

Jaq. {discovering himself.'] Proceed, pro- 
ceed ; I '11 give her. 

Touch. Good even, good master 'What ye 
call 't :' How do you, sir ? You are very well 
met : God 'ild you "^ for your last company : I 
am very glad to see you: — Even a toy in hand 
here, sir : — Nay ; pray, be covered. 

Jaq. Will you be married, motley ? 

Touch. As the ox hath his bow,"* sir, the 
horse his curb, and the falcon her bells,'' so 
man hath his desires ; and as pigeons bdl, so 
wedlock would be nibbling. 

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your 
breeding, be married under a bush, like a beg- 
gar ? Get you to chnrch, and have a good priest 
that can tell you what marriage is : this fellow 
will but join you together as they join wainscot ; 
then one of you will prove a shrunk paimel, and, 
like green timber, warp, wai-p. 

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 O sweet Oliver, 
O brave Oliver, 
Leave me not behind thee : 
But wind away, 
Begone, I say, 
I will not to wedding with thee. 

{Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey. 

•1 And by how much defence is belter, &c. Any means of 
defence is better tlian the lack of science ; in proportion as 
something is to nothing. 

1) Sir Oliver. See the opening of Merry Wives ofWindsor, 
Sir Hugh. 

c God yield vou — give you recompense. . 

Act Iir.] 


[Scenes IV., V. 

Sir Oil. 'T is no matter ; ne'er a fantastical 
knave of tbcni all shall flout me out of mv 



SCENE V^.—The same. Before a Cottage. 
Enter E-osaxind and Celia. 

Ros. Never tallc to me, I will weep. 

Cel. Do, I pritliee ; 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 would desire ; 
therefore weep. 

Ros. His very haii- is of the dissembling 

Cel. Something browner than Judas's : marry, 
Ids kisses are Judas's own children. 

Ros. I' faith his hair is of a good eolom-. 

Cel. An excellent colour: your chesnut was 
ever the ouly colour. 

Ros. And his kissiug is as full of sanctity as 
the touch of holy bread. 

Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of 
Diana : a nun of wuiter's sisterhood kisses not 
more religiously ; the very ice of chastity is in 

Ros. But why did he swear he would come 
this morning, and comes not ? 

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 

Ros. Do you think so ? 

Cel. Yes ; I thiulc he is not a pick-purse, nor 
a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I do 
tliink him as concave as a covered 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 dowmight 
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 coufirmer of false reckonings : 
He attends here in the forest on the duke your 

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much 
question with him : He asked me, of what parent- 
age I was ; I told him, of as good as he ; so he 
laughed, and let me go. But what talk we of 
fathers, when tliere 's such a man as Orlando ? 

Cel. 0, that 's a brave man ! he writes bravo 
verses, speaks brave words, swears brave caths, 

^ The goblet is covered when it is empty ; when full, to be 
drunk out of, the cover is vemoveJ. 

i> Puixny. So the orifjinal. The. Cambridge editors ex- 
plain that the word is used in the sense of inferior. A 
puisne judge is a younger or inferior judge. 

and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart 
the heart of his lover ; as a puisny '' tiltcr, tliat 
spurs his liorsc but on one side, breaks his stall 
like a noble goose: but all's brave tliat youth 
mounts, and folly guides : — Who comes here ? 

Enter ConiN. 

Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft in- 
After the shepherd tliat 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 uf him P 

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, 
Gro hence a little, and I shall conduct you, 
If you wiU mark it. 

Ros. 0, come, let us remove ; 

The sight of lovers fecdclh those iu love : 
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say 
I '11 prove a busy actor in their play. \E.rcunt. 

SCENE Y.— Another Part of the Forest. 
Enter Silvius and Phebe. 

Sll. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me ; do not, 

Phebe : 
Say, that you love me not ; but say not so 
In bitterness : The common executioner, 
Whose heart the aecustom'd sight of death makes 

Falls not the axe upon tlie humbled neck. 
But first begs pardon ; WiU you sterner be 
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? 

Euter UosALiND, Celia, and Cokin, at a 

The. I would not be thy executioner ; 
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 
Thou tcU'st me, there is nuu-der in mine eye ; 
'T is 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 aU 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, 0, for shame, for, 
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. 
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in 

thee : 
Scratch thee but with a piu, and there remaius 


Act in.] 


rScr.NE V. 

Some scar of it ; lean upon a rush. 

The cicatrice and capable *" inipressui-e, 

Thy palm some moment keeps : but now mine 

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ; 
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
That can do hurt. 

Sil. dear Phebe, 

If ever (as that ever may be near) 
You meet iu some fresh cheek the power of 

Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
That love's keen arrows make. 

Phe. But, tUl that time. 

Come not thou near me : and, when that time 

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; 
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. 

Eos. And why, I pray you ? {_Advapcvig^ 

Who might be your mother ? 
That you insult, exult, and all at once, 
Over the wretched ? What though you liavc no 

(As, by my faith, I see no more in you 
Than without caudle may go dark to bed,) 
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? 
Why, what means this ? Why do you look on 

I see no more in you than in the ordinary 
Of natm-e's sale-work : — Od's my little life ! 
I thmk, she means to tangle my eyes too : — 
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it ; 
'T is not youi- iuky brows, youi- black silk haii-. 
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream. 
That can entame my spiiits to your worship. 
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow 

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 fuU of ill-favour'd chil- 
dren : 
'T is not her glass, but you, that flatters her ; 
And out of you she sees herself more proper 
Thau any of her lineaments can show her. 
But, mistress, know youi'self ; down on your 

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's 

For I must tell you friendly in your ear. 
Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets : 

a Capable— aMe to receive. 

b Ho beauly. The tenor of Rosalind's speech is to make 
Fliebe think humbly of herself; and yet in modern editions, 
before the Pictorial, no is turned into more, it being main- 
tained that the original word was mo, misprinted no. 


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. 

PJie. 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 your*'' foulness, 
and she '11 fall in love with my anger : If it be 
so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning 
looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. — Why 
look you so upon me ? 

Phe. For no Ul will I bear you. 

Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, 
For I am falser than vows made iu wine : 
Besides, I like you not : If you will know my 

'T is 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 

None could be so abus'd in sight as he. 
Come, to our flock. 

\_E.xetmt EosALiND, Celta, and CoiUN. 

Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of 
might ; 
'Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight ? ' ^ 

Sil. Sweet Phebe, — 

Phe. Ha ! Avhat 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 ray grief 
Were both extermin'd. 

Phe. Thou hast my love ; Is not that neigli- 
bourly ? 

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 love so well, 
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 
I will endure ; and I '11 employ thee too : 
But do not look for further recompence 
Than thine owti 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 '11 live upon. 

a Your. The modern reading is her. We suppose 
Rosalind here turns to the parties before her, and addresses 

Act III.] 



Phe. Kiiow'st thou tlie youtli that spoke to 
me erewhile ? 

Sll. Not very well, but I have met liim oft ; 
And he hath bought the eotlage, and the bounds, 
That the old carlof once was master of. 

Fhe. Think not I love him, though I ask for 
him ; 
'T is but a peevish boy : — yet he talks well ; — 
But what care I for words ? yet words do well, 
When he that speaks them pleases those that liear. 
It is a pretty youth : — not very pretty : — 
But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride be- 
comes him : 
He '11 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 't is wcU : 
There was a pretty redness in his Mp ; 
A little riper and more lusty red 
Than tliat mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the 

a Curlot — churl or peasant. 

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. « 
There be some women, Silvius, had they niark'd 

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 liiin not ; and yet 
Have more cause to hate him than to love him : 
For what had he to do to cliide at me ? 
He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair 

black ; 
And now I am remember' d, scom'd at me : 
I marvel why I answer'd not again : 
But tliat's all one; omittance is no quittance. 
I '11 write to him a very taunting letter, 
And thou shalt bear it ; Wilt tliou, Silvius ? 

Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. 

Phe. I '11 Avritc it straight • 

The matter 's in my head, and in my heart : 
I will be bitter with liim, and passing short : 
Go with me, Silvius. \_Exemit. 

a This is explained as referring lothe silk called <lnni/isk: 
We doubt this. The damask rose was of a more varied hin 
tlian the cunslaiil ted of other species of rose. 


V "1 




I Scene V, ' Sweet I'hel'e, do iwl scorn me.'] 


' Scene II. — " Jlelen^s checlc^ hut not her heart ; 
CleojpatrcCs majesty ; 
Atalanta's better i^art ; 
Seal Lucretia's modesty" 

Mr. Whiter's explanation of this passage, in illus- 
tration of his theory of the Association of Ideas, 
is very ingenious. We are compelled to abridge 
it, by which process the chain of reasoning may 
be somewhat impaired. 

" I have always been firmly persuaded that the 
imagery which our poet has selected to discrimi- 
nate the more prominent perfections of Helen, 
Cleopatra, Atalcmta, and Lucrctia, was not derived 
from the abstract consideration of their general 
qualities ; but was caught from those jjecifZiaj' 
traits of beauty and character which are impressed 
on the mind of him who contemplates their por- 
traits. It is well known that these celebrated 
heroines of romance were in the days of our poet 
the favourite subjects of popular representation, 
and were alike visible in the coarse h.augings of 
the poor and the magnificent arras of the rich. 
In the portraits of Helen, whether they were 
produced by the skilful artist or his ruder imi- 
tator, though her face would certainly be deli- 
neated as eminently beautiful, yet she appears not 
to have been adorned with any of those charms 
which are allied to moelesty ; and we accordingly 
find that she was generally depicted with a loose 
and insidious countenance, which but too mani- 
festly betrayed the inward wantonness and perfidy 
of her heart. * * * * With respect to the 
majesty of Cleopatra, it may be observed that this 
notion is not' derived from classical authority, but 
from the more popular storehouse of legend and 
romance. * * * * i infer therefore that the 
familiarity of this image was impressed both on 
the poet and his reader from pictures or represen- 
tations in tapestry, which were the lively and 
faithful mirrors of popular romances. — Atalanta, 
we know, was considered likewise by our ancient 
poets as a celebrated beauty ; and we may be 
assured therefore that her portraits v/ere every- 
where to be found. * * * * Since the story 


of Atalanta represents that heroine as possesseil 
of singular beauty, zealous to preserve her virginity 
even with the death of her lovers, and accom- 
plishing her i^urposeg by extraordinary swiftness 
in running, we may be assured that the skill of 
the artist would be employed in displaying the 
most perfect expressions of virgin purity, and in 
delineating the fine 2yroportio7is and elegant sym- 
metry of her jierson. — ' Lucretia ' (we know) ' was 
the grand examj^le of conjugal fidelity throughout 
the Gothic ages ;' and it is this spirit of unshaken 
chastity which is here celebrated under the title 
of modesty. « * « * Such then are the wishes 
of the lover in the formation of his mistress, that 
the ripe and brilliant beauties of Helen should be 
united to the elegant symmetry and virgin graces 
of Atalanta; and that this imiou of charms 
should be still dignified and ennobled by the 
majestic mien of Cleopatra and the matron modesty 
of Lucrctia." 

- Scene II. — " / ivas never so be-rhymcd since 
Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat." 

How rats were rhymed, and rhymed to death it 
should seem, in Ireland, does not very distinctly 
appear; but the allusion was very common. Sid- 
ney, Jonson, Randolph, and Donne, each mention 
this remarkable property of Irish poetry. The rats 
have suffered more from the orators in modern 

^ Scene II. — " / answer you right painted cloth, 
from whence you have studied your questions." 

A specimen of painted cloth language in the 
time of Shakspere is cited by Maloue from a tract 
of 1601 — " No whipping nor tripping : " — 

" Read what is written on the painted cloth. 
Do no man wrong; be good unto the poor, 
Beware the mouse, the maggot, and the moth ; 
And ever have an eye unto the door." 

A much earlier specimen of these moral orna- 
ments occurs in ' Gough's Sepulchral Monuments.' 
It is a copy of a painting formerly placed against 


the wall M-ithin the Hungerford Chapel, Salisbury 
Cathedral, which chapel was totally pulled down in 

It represents a gentleman dressed in the f idl style 
of fashion of the reign of Edward IV". His finders 
covered with rings, his shoes extravagantly long 
and pointed, and his whole dress a perfect sj)e- 
cimen of foppery. He holds up one hand in terror 
at the sight of Death, who approaches him in a 
shroiul, and has a coffin at his feet. The dialogue 
between them is painted on the labels over their 
heads, and runs thus : — 

" Alasse, Detlie, alasse, a blessful thing yo were 
Vf tliow woldyst spare us in our lustynesse 
And 111 to wretches yt bethe of hcvy ehere 
When tliey ye clepe to slake there dystresse. 
But owte alasse thyne owne sely selfwyldnesse 
Crewelly werieth them yt seyghe vayle and wepe 
To close there yen yt after ye doth clepe." 

Over Death : 
" Grasles galante hi all thy luste and pryde 
Reme'byr, yt thow ones schalte dye. 
Deth shold fro thy body thy sowle devyde 
Thou niayst him not ascape certaynly. 
To ye dede bodys cast doune thyne ye 
Behold thaym well, consydere and see 
For such'as thay ar, such shalt yow b?." 

ff".<?lifil'"'"»'^/!'fffv»V(f'.fiyzf^ ■ 

4 Scene III. 

The ox hath, his low." 

The commentators say that the ancient yoke re- 
sembled a bow; and so, they might have added, 
does the modern. The following representation 
of the Suffolk yoke will show how unchanging 
some agricultural fashions are : — 

5 Scene III.—" The falcon her lells." 

Master Stejihen, in 'Every Man in his Hunioxir,' 
says, " I liave bought mc a hawk and a hood, and 
bellsandall." Gervase Markluim, in his edition of 
the 'Boko of St. Albans,' says, "The bells wliich 
your hawk shall wear, look' in anywise that they 
be not too heavy, wliereby tliey overload lier. 
neither that one be heavier tlian another, but 
both of like weight : look also that they be well 
sounding and shrill, yet not botli of cue sound, 
but one at least a note under the other."' 

''Scene Y.—'- Dead shepherd! now I find thy snxc 
etf might ; 
' Who ever lor'd, iheit lord not at first sight ?'' 

Tlie "dead shepherd" is Jlarlowc; the "s:nv 
of might " is in the ' Hero and Lcaudcr.' first pub- 
lished in l.WS :— 

" It lies not in our power to love or hate, 
For will in us is overrul'd by fate. 
When two ;ire strii)i)'d, long ere the course hc^in 
We wish that one should lose, the other win ; 
And one especially do we affect 
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect : 
The reason no man knows ; let it suffice. 
What we behold is ccnsur'd by our eyes. 
Where both dclibcmte the love is slight; 
IV/io ever lor'd l/ial lov'd tiol al first sight .'" 



-^'7mr it^^iC 

-' '4..' "^i^^^ 

tScene III. 'Lay sleeping on his back.'] 


SCENE 1.— T*//^ 5a»/,?. 

ZV^i'e/ Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. 

Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better 
acquainted with thee. 

Uos. They say you are a melancholy fellow. 

Jaq. I am so : I do love it better than 

Uos. Those that are in extremity of either are 
abominable fellows ; and betray themselves to 
every modern censure, worse than ckuukards. 

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say no- 

Ros. Why then, 't is good to be a post. 

Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melaueholy, 
which is emulation; nor the musician's, which 
is fantastical ; nor the courtier's, which is proud ; 
nor the soldier's, which is ambitious ; nor the 
lawyer's, which is politic ; nor the lady's, which 
is nice ; " nor the lover's, which is all these : but 
it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of 

a iVice — affected. 


many shnples, extracted from many objects, and, 
indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, 
in which my often rumination wraps me in a 
most humorous sadness.* 

Ros. A traveller ! By my faith, you have great 
reason to be sad : I fear, you have sold your owe 
lands, to see other men's; then, to have seen 
much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes 
and poor hands. 

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 

Enter Orlando. 

Uos. 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 Rosa- 
lind ! 

a The original reads " by often rumination." We give the 
reading of the second folio. His melancholy is the contem- 
plation of Ids travels, the rumination upon wliich wraps 
him in a most humorous sadness. Malone makes U|) 3 
reading different from both editions, and so does Steevens 
also in another way. 

.Wt IV.] 


[SCKNK 1. 

Jaq. Naj, tlieiij God be \vi' you, au jou talk 
ill blaiik verse. \_ExH, 

lios. rurewell, monsieur traveller : Look you 
lisp and wear strange suits ; disable •'' all the 
benefits of your own country ; be out of love 
with your nativity, and almost chide God for 
making you that countenance you are ; or I will 
scarce think you have swam in a gondola. — 
Why, how now, Orlando ! where have you been 
all this while ? You a lover ? — An you serve 
me such another trick, never come in my sight 

Orl. My fair Uosalind, I come within an hour 
of my i^romise. 

lios. Break an hour's promise in love ? He 
that will divide a minute iuto a thousand parts, 
and break but a part of the thousandth part of 
a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of 
him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder^ 
but I '11 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 ? 

lios. Ay, of a snaU ; for though he comes 
slowly, he carries his house on his head; a 
better jointure, I think, than you make a wo- 
man : Besides, he brings his destiny with him. 

Orl. What 's tiiat ? 

Ros. Why, horns ; which such as you are fain 
to be 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 Rosa- 
lind is virtuous. 

Ros. And I am your Rosalind. 

Cel. It pleases him to call you so ; but he 
hath a Rosalind of a better leer'' than you. 

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am 
in a holiday humoiu", and like enough to con- 
sent : — What would you say to me now, an I 
were your very very RosaUud ? 

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 1) matter, the cleanliest 
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 be- 
loved mistress ? 

' DuaJ/s- -detract from. 

b jtetr— feature. 

Ros. Marry, that should you, if 1 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 arc, 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 tui-ned nun, if it had not been for a hot 
midsummer night : for, good youth, he went 
but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, 
being taken with the cramp, was drowned ;' and 
the foolish chroniclers " 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 wiU 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, Or- 
lando,' — 

Cel. Go to: AVill you, Orlando, have to 

wife this Rosalind ? 

a Chroniclers. Tlie change which was adopted by Ilan- 
mer, of coroners, starts up again in tlie Corrector of Mr. 
Collier The technical use offoinid lias been held to justify 
the change. The wit of Rosalind upon the " chroniclers 
verdict on the good youth that was drowned need not be 
taken aupiei dc la lettrc. 


Act IV.] 


[Scene 11. 

Orl I will. 

Ros. Ay, but when ? 

Orl. Wliy now; as fast as she can marry its. 

Ros. Then you must say,—' I take thee, Rosa- 
lind, for wife.' 

Orl. I take thee, Eosalind, for wife. 

Ros. I might ask you for youi- commission; 
but,— I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband : 
There 's a gu'l goes before the priest : and, cer- 
tainly, a woman's thought runs before her ac- 

Orl. So do all thoughts ; they are winged. 

Ros. Now tell me, how long you would liave 
her, after you have possessed her. 

Orl. For ever, and a day. 

Ros. Say a day, without tlie ever: No, no, 
Orlando ; men are April when they woo, Decem- 
ber when they wed : maids are May when they 
are maids, but the sky changes when they are 
wives. I wUl be more jealous of thee than a 
Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen ; more cla- 
morous than a parrot against ram ; more new- 
fangled tlian an ape ; more giddy in my desu-es 
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 wUl laugh like 
a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to 

Orl. But win my Rosalind do so ? 

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orl. 0, but she is wise. 

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do 
this : the wiser, the way warder : Make the 
doors ''upon a woman's wit, and it will out at 
the casement ; shut that, and 't wiU. out at the 
key-hole ; stop that, 't wiU fly with the smoke 
out at the chimney. 

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, 
he might say, — ' Wit, whither wilt ? ' '' 

Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, 
till you met your wife's wit going to your neigh- 
bour'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. 

Orl. For these two hours, RosaUnd, I will 
leave thee. 

Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two 

» Mahe the doors — the language of the midland counties 
for making fast the doors. 
b Malone thinks these are the first words of a madrigal, 


Orl. I must attend the dulce 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 T thought no less : — that flat- 
tering 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 yom' 
promise, or come one minute behind your hour, 
I wiU think you the most pathetieal '"^ break-pro- 
mise, and the most hollow lover, and the most 
unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be 
chosen out of tbe gross band of the unfaithful : 
therefore beware my censure, and keep your 

Orl. With no less relirvion than if thou wert 
indeed my Rosalind : So, adieu. 

Ros. Well, time is the old justice that ex- 
amines all such oifenders, and let time try : 
Adieu ! \E.vit Oulando. 

Ccl. You have simply misused our sex in your 
love prate : we must have your doublet and hose 
plucked over your head, and show the world 
what the bii'd hath done to her own nest. 

Ros. coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that 
thou didst know how many fathom deep I am 
in love ! But it cannot be sounded ; my affection 
hath an unknown bottom, lUce the bay of Por- 

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 madness ; that blind rascally boy, 
that abuses every one's eyes, because liis own 
are out, let him be judge, how deep I am in 
love: — I'U tell thee, Alicna, I caimot be out of 
the sight of Orlando : I '11 go find a shadow, 
and sigh till he come. 

Cel. And I '11 sleep. [Exeunt. 

SCENE \l.— Another Part of the Forest. 

Elder Jaq'HES and Lords, in the habit of 

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 conqueror ; and it would do well to set 

a Wehave"mostpathetical nit "in Love's Labour's Lost 

A3T IV.] 


[Scene lil. 

the deer's horus iipou his head, for a branch of 
victory : — Have you no song, forester, for this 
purpose ? 

2 Lord. Yes, sii'. 

Jaq. Sing it ; 'fc is no matter how it be in tune, 
so it make noise cnousi-h. 



1. What sliall lie have that kill'd the dcei \ 

2. llis leatlier skin, and liorns to 
Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn 
It was a crest ere thou wast born. 

1. Tliy father's father wore it ; 

2. And tliy father bore it; 
All. The horn, the horn, the lust}' liorn, 

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. {Excuut. 

SCENE Wl.—The Forest. 
Hiiter Rosalind and Celia. 

llos. How say you now ? Is it not past two 
o'clock ? and here much Orhmdo ! '' 

Cel. I warrant you, with pure lo\'e, and 
troubled brain, he hath ta'eu his bow and ar- 
rows, 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 : 

[Climng a letter. 
I know not the contents ; but, as I guess. 
By the stern brow and waspish action 
Which she did use as she was writing of it, 
It bears an angry tenor : pardon me, 
I am but as a guiltless messenger. 

Ros. Patience herself woidd startle at this 
And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all : 
She says, I am not fail- ; that I lack manners ; 
She caEs me proud ; and, that she could not love 

Were man as rare as phoenix ; Od 's my will ! 
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt, 
^Vliy writes she so to me ? — Well, shepherd, 

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 iuto the extremity of love. 
I saw her hand : she has a leathern hand, 
A frcestone-coloui-'d hand; I verily did think 
That her old gloves were on, but 't was her 
hands ; 
a In modern editions we have a line after this — 
"Here sing him home." 
For the reasons of tlie omission, see Illustration 2. 
b Much Orlajido—ixoniQaWy, a great deal of Orlando. 

She has a huswife's hand : but that 's no mat 

tcr : 
I say, she never did invent this letter ; 
This is a man's invention, and his hand. 

Sil. Sure, it is hers. 

Ros. "Wliy, 't is a boisterous and a cruel si vie, 
A style foi- challengers ; why, slie deUcs me, 
Like Turk to Christian : woman's gentle braic 
Could not drop forth such giant rude invention. 
Such Ethiop words, blacker in tlieir cflcct 
Than in their countcnauce : — "W' ill 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 

" Art thou god to shepherd lurn'd, [Ucais. 

That a maiden's heart hath burn'd .' " — 

Can a woman rail thus ? 
Sil. Call you this railiug ? 

Ros. " ^^ l'y> f'y godhead laid apart, 

AVarr'st thou with a woman's hcai t .' 

Did you ever hear such railing ? 

" Whiles the eye of man did woo me. 
That could do no vengeance n to me.—" 

Meaiung mc 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 woik in mild aspect? 
Whiles you chid me, I did love ; 
How then might your prayers move ? 
He that brings tliis love to thee 
Little knowi tliis love in me : 
And hy him seal up thy mind ; 
Whether that thy youth and kiiidb 
Will the faithful offer take 
Of me, and all that I can make ; c 
Or else by him my love deny, 
And then I'll study how lo die.' 

Sil. Call you this chiding ? 

Ccl. Alas, poor shepherd ! 

Ros. Uo you pity him? no, he deserves no 
pity. — Wilt thou love such a woman ? — What, 
to make thee an instrument, and play false 
strains npon thee! not to be endured ! — Well, 
go yoiu' way to her, (for I see, love hath made 
thee a tame snake,^) and say this to her ; — That 
if she love rac, I charge her to love thee : if she 
will not, I M'ill never have her, imless thou cu- 
ti-eat for her. — If you be a true lover, hence, and 
not a word ; for here comes more company. 

[_Exit SiLViDS. 

n Vcngnancc — mischief. 
b A'!«(/— kindly affections, 
c Make — make up. 


Act IV.] 


[Scene IU. 

Enter Oliver. 

on. Good-morrow, fair oues : Pray you, if 
you know 
Where, iu tlie purlieus of tliis forest, stands 
A slieep-cote, fenced about -with olive-trees ? 

Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour 
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. 

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue. 
Then should I know you by description ; 
Such garments, and such years : ' The boy is fair. 
Of female favour, and bestows himself 
Like a ripe sister :=* the woman low. 
And browner than her brother.' Ai-e not you 
The owner of the house I did inquire for ? 

Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we arc. 

Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both ; 
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind, 
He sends this bloody napkin ; Are you he ? 

Uos. I am : what must we understand by 

Oli. Some of my shame ; if you wUl know of 
What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
This handkercher was stain'd. 

Cel, I pray you, tell it. 

Oli. When last the young Orlando parted 
from you. 
He left a promise to return agaui 
Within an hour ; and, pacuig through the forest. 
Chewing the food'' of sweet and bitter fancy, 
Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside, 
And, mark, what object did present itself ! 
Under an old oak, whose boughs were moss'd 

with age. 
And high top bald with di-y 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, ap- 
proach' d 
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly 
Seeing Orlando, it uulink'd itself. 
And with indented glides did slip away ' 

Into a bush : under which bush's shade , 

A lioness, with udders all di'awn dry, ' 

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike 

" Sister. Mr. Leltsom su;?|;ests /ore.f/er. 
b Food in tlie original. We would print cud if tlie change 
had something more definite than common usage. 

When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 't is 
The royal disposition of that beast, 
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead ; 
This seen, Orlando did approach the man, 
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 

Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same 
brother ; 
And he did render * him the most unnatuj-al 
That liv'd 'mongst men. 

Oli. And well he might so do, 

For well I know he was uimatural. 

Uos. But, to Orlando ; — Did he leave him 
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ? 

Oli. Twice did he turn his back., and purpos'd 
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge. 
And natui-e, stronger than his just occasion,'' 
Made him give battle to the lioness. 
Who quickly fell before him; in which liurtliiig. 
From miserable slumber I awak'd. 

Cel. Are you his brother ? 

2ios. Was it you he rescued ? 

Cel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill 

Oli. 'T was I ; but 't is not I : I do not shame 
To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 

Eos. But, for the bloody napkin ? — 

Oli. By and by. 

When from the first to last, betwixt us two. 
Tears our recouutments had most kindly bath'd, 
As, how*^ I came into that desert place ; — 
In brief, he led me to the gentle dulce, 
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, 
Committing me ujito 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, 
AVhich all this while had bled ; and now he 

And cry'd in fainting, upon Rosalind. 
Brief, I recover' d him ; bound up liis wound ; 
And, after some small space, being strong at 

He sent me liither, stranger as I am. 
To tell this story, that you might excuse 
His broken promise, and to give this napkin, 
Dy'd in this blood, unto the shepherd ycuih 
That he iu sport doth call his Rosalind. 

a Bender — represent 

b Just occasion — such reasonable ground as might have 
amply justified, or given just occasion for, abandoning him. 
c Tears our recountments had most Uindly bath'd. 
As, how — i.e. with a train of circumstances, " As how-" 

Act I v.] 



Cel. WLy, how now, Ganymede? sweet Ga- 
nymede ? , [Rosalind /r/ ////*■. 
Oil. Many wiU swoon when they do look on 

Cel. There is more m it : — Cousin — G;uiy- 

mede ! 
on. Look, he recovers. 
Ros. I would I were at home. 

Cel. We 'II 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. 

Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirra,"" a 

a Ah, sirra. — For this, the reading of the folios, some 
editors give sir." Mr. Dyce f,'ives sirrah, as it ^vas soiiie- 
tinies only a term of familiar address. Mr. White says 
Rosalind here resumes her boyish sauciness. 

body would tliink this was well counterfeited : 1 
pray you, tell your brother how well I counter- 
feited. — Heigh ho ! 

OIL This was not counterfeit ; there is too 
great testimony in your complexion, that it was 
a passion of earnest. 

Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 

OH. Well then, take a good heart, and coun- 
terfeit to be a man. 

Ros. So I do : but, i' faith, I should liave 
been a woman by riglit. 

Cel. Come, you look paler and paler ; pray 
you, draw homewards : — Good sir, go with us. 

Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back 
How you excuse my brother, llosaUnd. 

Ros. I shall devise something : But, I prav 
you, commend my counterfeiting to him : — ^Vill 
you go ? [E.veunL 

L&oeue 111. ■ He ol good cUef: juuth. 1 





' Scene I. — " Good youth, he went hut forth to wash 
him in the Hellespont, and, being talcen with the 
cramp, was drowned." 

This jjretty bauter of Rosalind is but a thin dis- 
guise of her real feelings. She thinks of the " good 
youth," and of " Hero of Sestos/' much more in the 
spirit of the following beautiful lines of Byron : — 

" The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on that niglit of stormy water 
Wheii Love, who sent, forgot to save 
Tlie young, the lieautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hojie of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sliy 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go. 
He could not see, he would not hear. 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
' Ye waves, divide not lovers long !' — 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true." 

(Bride of AbyJos.) 


2 Scene II. — " What shall he have that hilVd the 

The music to this " song " (given at pp. 244,5) is 
from a curious and very rare work, entitled " Catch 
THAT Catch can ; or a Choice Collection of Catches, 
Rounds, (fee, collected and jnMlshed hy John Hilton, 
Batch, in MusicJce, ^ 652 ; " and is there called a 
catch, though, as in the case of many other compo- 
sitions of the kind so denominated, it is a round, 
having no catch, or play upon the words, to give it 
any claim to the former designation. It is written 
for four basses, but by transposition for other voices 
would be rather improved than damaged. John 
Hilton, one of the best and most active composers of 
his day, was organist of St. Margaret's, Westminster. 
His name is affixed to one of the madrigals in ' The 
Triumphs of Oriana,' a work published in 1601, 
previously to which he was admitted, by the univer- 
sity of Cambridge, as a Bachelor in Music. Hence 
he was of Shakspere's time, and it is as reasonable 
to presume as agreeable to believe that a piece of 
vocal harmony so good and so pleasing, its age 
considered, formed a part of one of the most de- 
lightful of the great poet's dramas. In Hilton's 
round, the brief line, "Then sing him home," is 


rejected. The ooiissiou was unavoidable in a 
round for fov.r voices, because in a composition of 
such hmit, and so arranged, it was necessary to give 
one couplet, and neither more nor less, to each 
part. But it is doubtful whether that line really 
forms part of the original test. Printed as 07ie 
line we have, 

" Then sing him home the rest shall bear this burthen." 

without any variation of type. Is the whole of the 
line a stage direction? "Then .sing him home" 
may be a direction for a stage procession. Mr. 
Oliphant, in his useful and entertaining ' Musa Ma- 
drigalesca' (1837) doubts wlietherthe John Hilton, 
the author of the ' Oriana' madrigal, could have 
been the saa\e that subsequently published • Catch 

.hat Catch can, as well as unothcr work which he 
names. This is a quostiou into which we shall not 
enter, onronly object being to give such music, as 
part of bhakspere s plays, as is supposed to have 
oeeu originally sung in them, or that may have 
been mtroduced m them shortly after their produc- 

3 Scene III.—" / see, love hath made thee a tame 

Upon this passage the comment.ators simply say, 
" This term was, in our author's time, frequently 
used to express a poor contemptible fellow." We 
have no doubt that the allusion was to the snake 
made harmless by the serpent-charmer. 

rSen>eiit Charmers of ln(lj.^.■J 











What shall he have that kill'd the deer? His 






Take • thou no scorn to 


the horn, It 











fa — tiler's fa - ther 



— ^- 




The horn, the horn, the Ins - ty 


horn. Is 


^^-^— • 

time. ==^=pzz|z:^=gzzp : 





















'r— r-'-r — rp- 

— C3 







-J ^- 
























-^=3) — • — 

-^ — 











lea - - ther 









and horns 






ere thou 








ther wore 



to laugh to 

















> n 
















-I h- 














_S l_ 





I— I 








^3^' - . 

[Scene IV. 'Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, j 


SCENE l.—T/ic same. 
Unter Touchstone and Audrey. 

Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey ; pa- 
tience, gentle Audrey. 

And. 'Faith, the priest was good enough, for 
all the old gentleman's saying. 

Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey, a 
most vile Mar-text. But, Audrey, there is a 
youth here iu the forest lays claim to you. 

Aud. Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no in- 
terest in me in the world : here comes the man 
you mean. 

Enter William. 

Touch. It is meat and di-ink to me to see a 
clown: By my troth, we that have good wits 

have much to answer for ; we shall be flouting ; 
we cannot hold. 

IFill. Good even, Audrey. 

Aud. God ye good even, William. 

IFill. And good even to you, sir. 

Touch. Good even, gentle friend: Cover thy 
liead, cover thy head ; nay, prithee, 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 fau' name : Wast born i' the forest 
here ? 

Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. 

Touch, Thauk God! — a good answer: Art 
rich ? 

Will. Faith, sir, so, so. 

Act v.] 


[Scene U 

Touch. So, so, is good, Ycry good, very excel- 
lent good : and yet it is not ; it is but so so. 
Ai-t thou wise ? 

Will. Ay, sir, I liave a pretty wit. 

Touch. Why, thou say'st well. I do now re- 
member a saying; 'The fool doth think he is 
wise, but the Avise 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 : Tor it is a figure in rhetoric, that drink, 
being poui-ed 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, su- ? 

Touch. He, sir, that must mai-ry this woman : 
Therefore, you, clown, abandon, which is in the 
vulgar, leave, the society, which in the boorish 
is, company, of this female, which in the common 
is, woman, which together is, abandon the society 
of this female ; or, clown, thou perishest ; or, to 
thy better understanding, diest ; or to wt, I kill 
thee, make thee away, translate thy life into 
death, thy liberty into bondage : I will deal in 
poison with thee, or iu bastinado, or in steel ; I 
will bandy with thee in faction ; I will o'errun 
thee with policy ; I will kill thee a huncked and 
fifty ways ; therefore tremble, and depart. 

Aud. Do, good William. 

Will. God rest you merry, sir. \Exit. 

Enter CoRlN. 

Cor. Our master and mistress seeks you; 
come, away, away. 

To2ich. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey ;— I attend, 
I attend. {Exeunt. 

SCENE \\.— The same. 
Enter Orlando and Oliver. 

Orl. Is 't possible, that on so little acquaint- 
ance you should like her ? that, but seeing, you 
should love her ? and, loving, woo ? and, vooing, 
she should grant? and will you persever to 
enjoy her ? 

on. Neither caU the giddiness of it in question, 

a Consewt— concur. 

the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, nij 
sudden wooing, nor her " sudden consenting ; but 
say witli 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 contented followers : Go you, and 
prepare Aliena ; for, look you, here comes my 

Ros. God save vou, brother, 

Oli. And you, fair sister. 

Hos. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me 
to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf. 

Orl. It is my arm. 

Eos. I thought thy heart had been wounded 
with the claws of a lion. 

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a 

Eos. Did your brother tell you how I counter- 
feited to sound,*" when he showed me your 
handkercher ? 

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. 

Eos. O, I know where you are : — Nay, 't is 
true : there was never anything so sudden, but 
the fight of two rams, and Ctesar's thrasonical 
brag of — ' I came, saw, and overcame : ' For 
your brother and my sister no sooner met, but 
they looked ; no sooner looked, but they loved ; 
no sooner loved, but they sighed; no sooner 
sighed, but they asked one another the reason ; 
no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the 
remedy : and in these degrees have they made 
a pair of stairs to man-iage, which they ^nll 
climb incontinent,'' or else be incontinent before 
marriage : they are in the very wrath of love, 
and they will together ; clubs cannot part them. 

Orl. They shall be married to-morrow ; and I 
vnU bid the duke to the nuptial. But, 0, how 
bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through 
another man's eyes ! By so much the more shall 
I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, 
by how much I shall think my brother happy, 
in having what he wishes for. 

Eos. Wliy then, to-morrow I cannot serve 
your turn for Rosalind ? 

Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 

Eos. I will weary you no longer then with idle 

a //^r-which is necessary to the sense, is not in «he original 
b sJmd- swoon. <= /nco»/.«e«<,e.l>atcly. 


Act v.] 



talking. Know of me then, (for now I speak to 
some purpose,) that I know you are a gentleman 
of good conceit : I speak not this that you 
should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, 
insomuch, I say, I know you are ; neither do I 
labour for a greater esteem than may in some 
little measui'c 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, siuce I was three year old, conversed 
with a magician, most profound in his art, and 
yet not damnable. If you do love RosaHnd so 
near the heart as yoiu* 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 yoiu- 
eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without 
any danger. 

Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ? 

Eos. 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 llosalind, if you will. 

Enter SiLVius and Phebe. 

Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover 
of hers. 

F/ie. Youth, you have done me much un- 
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. 

Fke. Good shepherd, teU this youth what 't is 
to love. 

Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears ; — 
And so am I for Phebe. 

P/ie. And I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And I for llosalind. 

Ros. And I for no woman. 

Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service ; — 
And so am I for Phebe. 

F/tc. 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. 
AU 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. 

F/ie. If this be so, why blame you me to love 
you ? \_To RosAi>iND. 

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 

Ros. Who do you speak to, ' why blame you 
me to love you ? ' 

Orl. To her, that is not here, nor doth not 

Ros. Pray you, no more of this ; 't is like the 
howling of Irish wolves against the moon. — I 
will help you, \_lo Silvius] if I can : — I would 
love you, [fo Phebe] if I could. — To-morrow 
meet me all together. — I will marry you, \_lo 
Phebe] if ever I marry woman, and I'll be 
married to-morrow : — I will satisfy you, \_lo 
Orlando] if ever I satisfied man, and you 
shall be married to-morrow :— I will content 
you, [lo Silvius] .if what pleases you contents 
you, and you shall be married to-morrow. — As 
you [lo Oelando] love Rosalind, meet; — as 
you \_lo Silvius] love Phebe, meet ; And as I 
love no woman, I'U meet. — So, fare you well; 
I have left you commands. 

Sil. I 'U not fail, if I live. 

Fke. Nor I. 

Orl. Nox I. 


SCENE 111.— The same. 
Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 

Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey : 
to-morrow will we be married. 

Aud. I do desire it with all my heart : and I 
hope it is no dishonest desire, to desh'e to be a 
woman of the world.'' Here comes two of the 
banished duke's pages. 

Enter two Pages. 

1 Fage. Well met, honest gentleman. 
Touch. By my troth, well met : Come, sit, sit, 

and a song. 

2 Fage. We are for you : sit i' the middle. 

1 Fage. 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 Fage. I' faith, i' faith ; and both in a tune, 
like two gipsies on a horse. 

a Observance. — Malone changed the word to obedience; 
Mr, Collier's Corrector did the same when the word first 

b To be riifiriied. 

Act v.] 


(Scene IV. 



It was a lover, and his lass.l 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
That o'er the green corn-field did pass. 

In spring time, the only pretty ring a time, 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 


And therefore take the present time. 

With a hey, and a ho, and a )iey nonino ; 

For love is crowned with the prime 
In spring time, &c. 

Between the acres of the rye, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 
These pretty country folks would lie, 

In spring time, &;c. 


This carol they began that hour, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 

How that a life was but a flower 
In spring time, &c._ 

T uch. Truly, young gentlemen, though there 
Tpas no great matter in the ditty, yet the note 
\Tas veiy uutuneable. 

1 Page. You are deceived, sir ; we kept time, 
we lost not our time. 

Touch. By my troth, yes; I count it but 
t i aie lost to hear such a foolish song. God be 
with you; and God mend your voices! Come, 
Audrey. [JExeunt. 

SCENE IV .—Another Part of the Forest. 

Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Oklando, 
Olivek, and Celia. 

Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the 
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 
E7iier Hosalind, Silvius, and Phebe. 
Ros. Patience once more, whiles our compact 
is urg'd : — 
You say, if I bring ia your Rosalind, 

[To the Dulce. 
You will bestow her on Orlando here ? 

a Ring. See Illustration 1, where in the old copy of the 
music we find the reading of rsn^-time; in the original it is 
rang; and Steevens, not knowing of the music, suggested 
this very alteration. The original, in the same line, has 
" the spring-time." We omit the because it is not found in 
the musical copy. The stanzas in the first folio occur in the 
order which we have given. But in old copies of this song 
the second stanza is given as the last. 

Luke S. That M'ould I, had I kingdoms to 

give with her. 
Pos. And you say, you will have her, when I 

bring her ? \To Orlando. 

Orl. That would I, were I of all kmgdonis 

Pos. You say, you'll marry me, if I be will- 

iug? [ro PlIKBE. 

Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after. 
Pos. But, if you do refuse to marry me, 
You'll give youi-sclf to this most faithful shep- 
Phe. So is the bargain. 
Pos. You say, that you 'U have Phebe, if she 
will ? \To SiLVifs. 

Sit. Though to have her and death were both 

one thing. 
Pos. I have promised to make all this matter 
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your 

daughter ; — 
You yoiu-s, Orlando, to receive liis daughter : — 
Keep you your word, Phebe, that you 11 marry 

me ; 
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd : — 
Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry 

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. 
Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw 
IMethought he was a brother to your daughter : 
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-bom ; 
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 
IVTiom he 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 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 poHtic with 
my friend, smooth with mine enemy ; 1 have 


Act v.] 

AS YOU lik:e it. 


uudone three tailors : I have had four quarrels, 
and like to have fought one. 

Jaci- And how was that ta'eu up ?a 

Touch. 'Paith, we met, and fouud the quarrel 
was upon the seventh cause. 

Jaq. How seventh cause? — Good my lord, 
like this fellow. 

Buhe S. I like him very well. 

Touc/i. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the 
like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of 
the country copulatives, to swear, and to for- 
swear; according as marriage binds and blood 
breaks : A poor virgin, sir, an iU-favoured thing, 
sir, but mine own ; a poor humoiu- of miue, sir, 
to take that that no man else will : Rich honesty 
dwells like a miser, sii-, in a poor-house-; as yom- 
pearl, in your foul oyster. 

J)/i/ce S. By my faith, he is very swift and 

Touc/i. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and 
such dulcet diseases.** 

Jt/q. But, for the seventh cause ; how did you 
find the 'quarrel on the seventh cause? 

Touc/i. Upon a lie seven times removed; — 
Bear your body more seeming,'^ Audrey : — as 
thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain 
corn-tier's beard ; he sent me word, if I said his 
beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it 
was : This is called the ' Retort coui-teous.' If 
I sent him word again it was not well cut, he 
wovdd send me word, he cut it to please himself : 
This is called the ' Quip modest.' If agaia, it 
was not well cut, he disabled'^ my judgment : 
This is called the ' Reply chuiiish.' If again, it 
was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not 
true : This is called the ' Reproof valiant.' If 
again, it was not well cut, he would say, I lie : 
This is called the 'Countercheck quarrelsome:' 
and so to the ' Lie cii'cumstantial,' and the ' Lie 

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 du'ect : ' and so we measured swords and 

Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the de- 
grees of the lie ? 

Touch. O SU-, we quarrel in print, by the 

a Ta'c7i up — made up. 

b This quaint expression has a parallel in another witty 
clown, V)ur old friend Gobbo : — " the young gentleman (ac- 
cording to the fates and destinies, and such odd sayings, the 
sisters three, and such branches of learning) is indeed de- 

c Seeming — seemly. 

d Z)jsa4/t'd— impeached. See Act iv. So, i. 


book ; as you have books for good manners. 1 
will name you the degrees. The fu'st, the Re- 
tort courteous ; the second, the Quip modest ; 
the third, the Reply chm-lish ; the fourth, the 
Reproof vaUant; the fifth, the Countercheck 
quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie with circum- 
stance ; the seventh, the Lie du'ect. 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 anything, and yet a fool. 

Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking- 
horse, and under the presentation of that, he 
shoots his wit. 

Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind and Celia. 
Still Music. 

Ill/Ill. 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 might'st join her hand with his, 
Whose heart within her bosom is. 

Ros. To you I give myself, for I am yours. 

[To Duke S. 
To you I give myself, for I am yours. 

[To Orlando. 
Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my 

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my 

Phe. If sight and shape be true. 
Why then, — my love adieu ! 

Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he: — 

[To Duke S. 
I'U have no husband, if you be not he : — 

[To Orlando 
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. 

[To Phebe 
i/y;«. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion: 
'T is I must make conclusion 

Of these most strange events : 
Here 's eight that must take hands. 
To join in Hymen's bandsj 
if truth holds true contents. 

* Alone together— umte. 

Act v.] 



You and you uo cross shall part : 

\_To Orlando ami Rosalind. 
You and you are heart in heart : 

\^To Oliver ai/cl Celia. 
You [io Phebe] to his love must accord, 
Or have a woman to your lord : — 
You and you are svu-c together, 

[To Touchstone a/ul Audrey. 
As the wiater to foul weather. 
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing. 
Feed yourselves with questioning;* 
That reason wonder may diminish. 
How thus we met, and these tilings finish. 


Wedding is great Juno's crown ; 

O blessed bond of board and bed ! 
'T is Hymen peoples every town; 

High wedlock then be honoured : 
Honour, higli honour and renown, 
To Hymen, god of every town ! 

Puke S. O my dear niece, welcome thou art 
to me ; 
Even daughter, welcome in. no less degree. 
P/ie. I win not eat my word, now thou art 
mine ; 
Thy faith my fnucy to thee doth combine. 

[To Silvius. 

Enier 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 Prederick, hearing how that every day 
Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 
Address'd'' a mighty power ; which were on foot, 
Li his own conduct, purposely to take 
His brother hei"e, and put him to the sword : 
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came ; 
Where, meeting with an old religious man. 
After some question with him, was converted 
Both from his enterprise, and from the world : 
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother, 
And all their lands restor'd to them again 
That were with him exil'd : This to be true, 
I do engage my life. 

Duke S. Welcorae, young man ; 

Thou offer' st fairly to thy brothers' wedding : 
To one his lands withheld; and to the other, 
A land itself at lai'ge, a potent dukedom. 
First, in this forest, let us do those ends 
That here were well begun, and well begot : 
A.nd after, every of this happy number, 

a Questioning— Aiscoxasiag. b .4 dc/rcss'd— prepared. 

That have cndor'd shrewd days and nights with 

Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 
According to the measure of llieir slates. 
]\Ieantiiue, forget this ncw-faU'n dignity, 
And fall into our rustic revelry : — 
Play, music ; — and you brides and bridegrooms 

With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures 
Jaq. Sir, by your patience ; If I heard you 
The duke hath put on a religious life. 
And thrown into neglect the pompous coui-t? 
Jaq. (h B. He hath. 

Jaq, To him will I : out of these convertites 
There is much matter to be heard and leani'd. — 
You to yoiu- former honour I bequeath ; 

[To Duke S. 
Your patience, and your vii-tue, well deserves 

You [to Orlando] to a love, that your tnie 

faith doth merit : — 
You [to Oliver] to your land, and love, and 

great allies : — 
You [to Silvius] to a long and well-desciTcd 

bed ;— 
And you [to Touchstone] to wrangling ; for 

thy loving voyage 
Is but for two months victuall'd : — So to your 

pleasures ; 
I am for other than for dancmg measures. 
Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay. 
Jaq. To see uo pastime I : — what you would 
I'U stay to know at your abandon'd cave. 

Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we will begin 
these rites, 
And we do trust they 'U end in trae delights. 

[A (lance. 


Eos. It is not the fashion to see the lady the 
epilogue : but it is no more unhandsome, than 
to bee the lord the prologue. If it be true, that 
' good wine needs no bush,' 't is true, that a 
good play needs no epilogue : Yet to good wine 
they do use good bushes ; and good plays prove 
the better by the help of good epilogues. AVhat 
a case am I in then, that am neither a good epi- 
logue, nor camiot insinuate witli you in the behalf 
of a good play ! I am not furnished like a beg- 
gar, therefore to beg will not become me : ray 
way is, to conjure you ; and I '11 begin with the 


Act v.] 


[Scene IV. 

women. I charge you, women, for the love 
you bear to men, to like as much of this play as 
please you: and I charge you, O men, for the 
love you bear to women, (as T perceive by your 
simpering, none of you hates them,) that between 
you and the women, the play may please. If I 
were a woman,* I would kiss as many of you as 

" Tieck saya this alludes to the practice in Shakspere's 

had beards that pleased me, complexions that 
Uked me, and breaths that I defied not : and, I 
am sure, as many as have good beards, or good 
faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, 
when I make cui'tsy, bid me farewell. 

times of the femaleparts beingplayed by men. For tlius— 
though 'the lady' speaks the epilogue^ she has passed out 
of her dramatic character. 

[Scene IV. 'I'll stay to know nt your ah.indon'd cjvo.'] 


* Scene III.—" It xms a lover, and Ms lass." 

In the Siguet-OfSce library at Edinburgh is a 
MS. in 4to., formerly in the possession of Mr. Heber, 
containing many songs set to music, and among 
them the following. It seems quite clear that this 
manuscript cannot have been written later than six- 
teen years after the publication of the present play, 
and may have existed at a much earlier period; 
it is, therefore, not straining probabi-lity too hard 
to suppose that the air here inserted was, in some 
form — most likely as a duet, unless the two pages 

sang in unison— performed in tlie play, either m 
this was originally acted, or not long after its pro- 
duction. But whether our conjecture —and only 
as such we offer it — be well or ill founded, there 
can be no doubt tliat the composition is one of 
those which, in musical chronology, is classed as 
ancient. We here give it, with the simple and 
modern accompaniment, as it is printed in the 
' Collection of National Airs,' edited by Mr. Chappell 
(vol. i. p. 81), a valuable work, to which we havo 
before been indebted. 

— • -X 9 ^ ff_| E a 1 : iC l_ 


-n — P- 

It was a lov - er and his lass, With a hey, with a ho, with a 









, -, p. ^t^T--- : T — ° — ^ 

hey non ne no, and a hey 



no nee no, ni no, 








-^-p— p-- 


-P— P-- 




o'er the greene come field did passe In spring tyme, in spring tyme, in spring tyme, Tne 


-- 1- 

•— P 



^— #= 








* -*-^ ^ 




■ lie pret-tie ring tyme, When birds doo sing, Hey ding a ding a ding, Hey 










— ^ 1^^ . ■ — m — ■ — 

ding a ding a ding, Hey ding a ding a ding ; Suiet lo - vers love the spring. 








Op all Shakspere's Comedies we are inclined to think that As You Like It is the most read. It pos- 
sesses not the deep tragic interest of the Merchant of Venice, nor the brilliant wit and diverting 
humom* of Much Ado About Nothing, nor the prodigal luxuriance of fancy which belongs to A 
Midsummer Night's Dream, nor the wild legendary romance which imparts its chai'm to A "Winter's 
Tale, nor the grandeur of the poetical creation of the Tempest. The peculiar attraction of As You 
Like It lies, perhaps, in the circumstance that " in no other play do we iind the bright imagination 
and fascinating grace of Shakspere's youth so mingled with the thoughtfulness of his maturev age." 
This is the character which Mr. Hallam gives of this comedy, and it appears to us a very just one.* 
But in another place Mr. Hallam says, " There seems to have been a period of Shakspeare's life when 
his heart was ill at ease and ill content with the world or his own conscience. The memory of hours 
mis-spent, the pang of affection misplaced or unrequited, the experience of man's worser nature, which 
intercourse with ill-chosen associates, by chance or circumstances, peculiarly teaches ; — these, as they 
sank down into the depths of his great mind, seem not only to have inspired into it the conception of 
Lear and Timon, but that of one pi'imary charactei', the censurer of mankind. This type is Jirsl 
seen in the philosophic melancholy of Jaques, gazing with an undiminished serenity, and with a gaiety 
of fancy, though not of manners, on the follies of the world. It assumes a graver cast in the exiled 
Duke of the same play." Mr. Hallam then notices the like type in Measure for Measure, and 
the altered Hamlet, as well as in Lear and Timon; and adds, "In the later plays of Shakspere, 
especially in Macbeth and the Tempest, much of moi-al speculation will be found, but he has never 
returned to this type of character in the personages." + Without entering into a general examina- 
tion of Mr. Hallam's theory, which evidently includes a very wide range of discussion, we must 
venture to think that the type of character fa-st seen in Jaques, and presenting a graver cast in the 
exiled Duke, is so modified by the whole conduct of the action of this comedy, by its opposite cha- 
racterization, and by its prevailing tone of reflection, that it offers not the sliglitest evidence of 
having been produced at a period of the poet's life " when his heart was ill at ease and ill content 
with the world or his own conscience." The charm which this play appears to us to possess in a 
most remarkable degree, even when compared with other works of Shakspere. is that, while we 

* Literature of Europe, vol. ii. p. 397^ t lb. vol. iii. p. SCS 



behold " the philosophic eye, turned inward on the mysteries of human nature " — (we use Mr. 
Hallam's own forcible expression) — we also see the serene brow and the playful smile, which tell 
us that "the philosophic eye" belongs to one who, however above us, is still akin to us — who 
tolerates our follies, who compassionates even our faults, who mingles in our gaiety, who rejoices in 
our happiness ; who leads us to scenes of surpassing lovehness, where we may forget the painful 
lessons of the world, and introduces us to characters whose generosity, and faithfulness, and affection, 
and simplicity may obliterate the sorrows of our "experience of man's worser nature." It is not 
in Jaques alone, but in the entire dramatic group, that we must seek the tone of the poet's mind, 
and to that have our own minds attuned. Mr. Campbell, speaking of the characters of this comedy, 
says, " our hearts are so stricken by these benevolent beings that we easily forgive the other more 
culpable but at last repentant characters." * This is not the effect which could have been produced 
if the dark shades of a painful commerce with the world had crossed that " sunshine of the breast " 
which lights up the " inaccessible " thickets, and sparkles amidst the " melancholy boughs " of the 
forest of Arden. Jaques may be Shakspere's first type "of the censurer of mankind;" but Jaques 
is precisely the reverse of the character which the poet would have chosen, had he intended the 
censure to have more than a dramatic force — to be universally true and not individually charac- 
teristic. Jaques is strikingly a character of inconsistency ; one, as Ulrici expresses it, " of witty 
sentimentality and merry sadness." Nothing can be more beautiful than the delineation; but it 
appears to us to be anything but the result of the poet's self-consciousness. We are induced to 
believe that Shakspere's unbounded charity made him feel that there was a chance of Jaques being 
held somewhat too much of an authority, and that he in consequence made the Duke reprove him 
when he says, — 

" 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. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou wouldst do. 
Jarj. What, for a counter, would I do but good i 
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, 

Tliat thou with licence of free foot hast caught, 

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world." 

The German critic Ulrici, speaking of the characters of Jaques and Touchstone, calls them " the 
two fools." We are not about to pursue his argument ; but we accept his classification, which is, 
indeed, startling. What ! Is he a fool that moralises the spectacle of 

" a poor sequester'd stag,- 
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt," 

and gives us, thereupon, " a thousand similes," with which 

"most invectively he pierceth through 
The body of the country, city, court " ? 
Is 7(6 a fool that "can suck melancholy out of a song as a weazel sucks eggs " ? Is he a fool that 

" met a fool i' the forest ;" 

"lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
That fools should be so deep-contemplative "? — 

and who himself aspires to be a fool : — 

" I am ambitious for a motley coat " ? 
Is he a fool that tells us, 

" All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players " ? 

Is he a fool, who has gained his " experience," and whom the " sundry contemplation " of his 

travels wraps in a " most humorous sadness " ? Is Ae a fool, who commends him whom the critic 

calls his brother fool as " good at anything, and yet a fool " ? Lastly, is he a fool, who rejects 

honour and advancement, and deserts the exiled Duke when he is restored to his state, because, 

"out of these convertites 
There is much matter to be heard and learn'd "? 

Assuredly, upon the first blush of the question, we must say that the German critic is wronc'. 

* Life prefixed to Moxon's edition, p. xlv. 


And yet, what is a fool, according to the Shaksperian definition ? The fool is one 

" Who laid him down and bask'd liiin in the sun, 
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms, 
In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool." 

The fool is one that doth " moral on the time ;" one that hath been a courtier ; 

" and in his brain, — 
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit 
After a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd 
With observation, the which he vents 
In mangled forms." 

The fool is one that 
The fool is one who 

"must have liberty 
Withal, as large a charter as the wind." 

" will through and through 
Cleans-e the foul body of the infected world." 

The fool is one who aims at every man, but, hitting or missing, thus justifies his attack : 

" Let me see wherein 

My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right 

Then he hath wrong'd himcelf ; if he be free, 

Why then, my taxmg like a wild goose flies, 

Unclaim'd of any man." 
And thus Jaques describes himself. 

Now let us see what is the character of the companion fool. Touchstone. He introduces himself 
to us with a bit of fool's logic— that is, a comment upon human actions, derived from premises that 
are either above, or below,— which you please,— the ordinary argimientation of the world. Hia 
story " of a certain knight that swore oy his honour they were good pancakes " is not pointless. 
Perhaps it is a fool's bolt, and soon shot ; yet it hits. But the fool is not without his afi'ections*. 
The friendship which Celia had for Rosalind is reciprocated by the friendship which the fool has for 

" Eos. 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 ? 
Ccl. He '11 go along o'er the wide world with me." 

He is fled to the forest with the two ladies, their comfort, their protector : — 

" My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft 
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing." 

They are in Arden ; and then the fool becomes a philosopher : — 

" 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 

And then he goes on to laugh at romance in a land of romance, and tells us of " Jane Smile." 

But next we hear of him growing " deep-contemplative " over his dial : — 

" ' Thus we may see,' quoth he, ' how the world wags : 
'T is but an hour ago since it was nine ; 
And after one hour more 't will be eleven ; 
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 
And thereby hangs a tale.' " 

The fool's manners are changing. He did not talk thus in the court. He is quickly growing a 
philosopher. Hazlitt truly tells us that the following dialogue is better than all ' Zimmermann on 
Solitude,' where only half the question is disposed of : — 

" Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, master 

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, 1 like it very well ; but in re- 
spect that it is private, .t is a very vile life. Now in respect 
it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well ; but in respect it is 
not in the court, it is tedious. As 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 stomach. Hast any philosophy in 
thee, shepherd? " 
Comedies.— Vol. II. S 257 


The fool has lived aiiart from human sympathies. He has been a thing to make idle people latigh ; 

to live in liimself alone; to be in the world and not of the world; to be licensed and despised; to 

have no i-espousibilities. Tlie fool goes out of the social state in which he has moved, and he becomes 

a human being. His affections are called forth in a natural condition of society ; lie is restored to 

his fellow-creatures, a man, and nol a fool. We do not think that Shakspere meant the courtship 

of Touchstone and Audrey to be a travestie of the romantic passion of Orlando and Rosalind. It 

appears to us that it is anything but farce or irony when the fool and the shepherdess thus 

commune : — 

" Touch. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. 
And. I do not know what poetical is : is it honest, in 
deed, and -word ? Is it a true thing 1 " 

And thei'e is anything but folly when Touchstone resolves, 

" Be it as it may, I will marry thee." 
A touch of the court — of his old vocation of saying without accountableness — lingers with him, 
when, rejoicing in that most original hedge priest, who says, " ne'er a fantastical knave of 'em all 
.shall flout me out of my calling "■ — (the Fleet prison priest of a century ago) — he hugs himself with 
the belief that " I were better to be married by him than another ;" — but he is after all the true lover, 
when he rejects the "most vile Mar-text," and in the honesty of his heart exclaims, "To-morrow is 
the joyful day, Audrey ; to-morrow will we be married." 

And thus, it appears to us, is Ulrici justified in denominating Jaqnes and Touchstone "the two 
fools." It was the chai-acteristic of the Shaksperian fool to hang loose upon the society in which he 
was cherished ; to affect no concern in its anxieties, no sympathy in its pleasures ; to be passionless 
and sarcastic. Jaqites, a banished courtier, refuses to seek companionship in the solitary life ; — he 
rejects its freedom ; — he finds in it only a distorted mirror of the social life. The wounded stag is 
"a broken bankiiipt," — the "careless herd" are "fat and greasy citizens." This is not real phi- 
losophy; it is false sentimentality. Jaques, refusing to adopt the tone of his companions, who have 
embraced the free life of the woods, its freshness, its privacy, — has put himself into the condition of 
the fool, who belongs to the world only because he is a mocker of the world. When his friends sing, 

" Who doth ambition shun, 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleas'd with what he gets," 
Jaques answers, 

" If it do come to pass 
That any man turn ass, ' 

Leaving his wealth and ease 
A stubborn will to please," &c. 

This is the answer of one for whom " motley 's the only wear." 

And yet how beautifully all this harmonises with the pastoral character of this delightful comedy ! 
The professional fool gradually slides into a real man, from the power of sympathy, which is strong 
in him, and which is called forth by the absence of a just occasion for his professional unrealities. 
He is no longer a chorus. The clever but self-sufficient courtier, half in jest, half in earnest, be- 
comes a mocker and a j)retended misanthrope. He is passed into the chorus of the real action. In 
the mean while the main business of the comedy goes forward ; and we live amongst all the natural 
and kindly impulses of true thoughts and feelings, mingled with weaknesses that are a part of this 
sincerity. But most certainly the spirit which breathes throughout is not one of censure, or sarcasm, 
or irony. It is a most loving, and sincere, and tolerant spirit — radiant with poetry and therefore 
with truth. We desire nothing better to show that Shakspere did not speak through Jaques than 

these words : — 

" Jaques. Will you sit down with me? and we two will 
rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery ? 

Orlando. I icill chide no breather in the ::wrld, but myself; 
against ivhom I know most faults." 


Act III. sc. I. 

L' Unscour'd armour, hung by the wall.'] 


State of the Test, and Chronology, op Measure fob Measure. 

This comedy was first printed in the folio collection of 1623, and there had been no previous claim 
to the right of printing it made by any entry in the registers of the Stationers' Company. We are 
very much inclined to think, from the state of the original text, that the editors of the first folio 
possessed no copy but that from which they printed. Soiae of the sentences throughout the play 
are so involved that they have very little the appearance of being taken from a copy which had 
been used by the actors ; and in two cases p. word is found in the text {j^-enzie) which could never 
have been given upon the stage, and appears to have been inserted by the printer in despair of 
deciphering the author's manuscript. On the other hand, the metrical arrangement, which has 
been called "rough, redundant, and irregular," was strictly copied, we have no doubt, from the 
author's original; for a printer does not mistake the beginnings and ends of blank-verse lines, 
although little attention might be paid to such matters in a prompter's book. The peculiar structure 



of the versification in this comedy was, we are satisfied, the result of the author's system; and, 
from the integrity with which it has been preserved in the first edition, we believe that the original 
manuscript passed directly through the hands of the printer, who made the best of it without any 
reference to other copies. The original edition is divided into acts and scenes. It also gives the 
enumeration of characters as we have printed them, such a list of " the names of the actors/' as we 
have before observed, being rarely presented in the early copies. 

We cannot trace that any allusion to Measure for Measure is to be found in the works of Shakspere's 
contemporaries. There is, indeed, a passage in a poem, published in 1G07, which conveys the same 
idea as a passage in Measure for Measure : — . 

" And like as wlien some sudden extasy 
Seizeth the nature of a sickly man ; 
When he's discern'd to swoon, straight by and bye 

Folk to his help confusedly have ran, 
And seeking with their art to fetch him back, 
So many Ihrong, that he the air doth lack." 

(' Myrrha, the Mother of Adonis,' by William Barksted.) 

The followiug i.^ the parallel passage in the comedy : — 

" So play the foolish thrones with one that sivoons ; 
Come all to help him, and so slop the air 
By wiiich he should revive." 

Malone says of this coincidence, "That Measure for Measure was written before 1607 may be 

fairly concluded from the following passage in a poem published in that year, which we have good 

ground to believe was copied from a similar thought in this play, as the author, at the end of his 

piece, professes a personal regard for Shakspeare, and highly praises hif Venus and Adonis." * 

This reasoning is to us not at all conclusive ; for Shakspere would not have hesitated to compress 

the six lines of Barksted into his own dramatic three ; or the image might have been derived from 

some common source. Such coincidences prove nothing in themselves. In the other arguments 

of Malone as to the date of this play, which he assigns to 1003, we have an utter absence of all 

proof. The Duke says — 

" I love the people, 
But do not like to stage me to their eyes." 

James I., according to Malone, is the model of this dislike of popular applause; and the passage 
is an apology for his proclamation of 1603, forbidding the people to resort to him. The expres- 
sion in the first act, " Heaven grant us his peace," alludes, says Malone, to the %oar with 
Spain, which was not terminated till 1604. The Clown's enumeration of his old friends, the 
prisoners, includes "Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger-man, young Drop-heir that 
killed lusty Pudding, master Forthright the tilter, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots:" and 
so the poet must have had in view the Act of the first of James against such offenders, and the 
play and "the statute on stabbing" must be dated in the same year. Chalmers carries this 
laborious trifling even farther, stoutly contending for the date of 1604 : the assertion of the Clown, 
that "all houses in the suburbs must be plucked down," is held by Chalmers to allude to the pro- 
clamation of 1604 against the increase of London; and the complaint of Claudio, that "the ne- 
glected act " is enforced against him, is held to allude to " the statute to restrain all persons from 
marriage, until their former wives, and former husbands, be dead," passed on the 7th of July, 

Conjectures such as these are too often laborious trifling. But, for once, they are pretty nearly 
borne out by incontrovertible testimony. The perseverance of Mr. Peter Cunningham lias been 
rewarded by discovering in the Audit Office certain passages in the original Office Books of the Masters 
and Yeomen of the Revels, which fix the date of the representation at Court of some of Shak.spere's 
plays. The Office Book shows that ' Measure for Measure ' was presented at Court by the King's 
Players in 1604; and "The AccomjJte of the Office of the Reuelles of this whole yeres Charge in 
An" 1604 : untell the last of Octobar 1605," is preceded by the following very curious list of plays 
acted during that period : — 

• 'Chronological Order,' p. 387. 

The JPtaiers. 
I3y the Kings Ma"8 plaiers. 

Ry his Matta plaiers. 
By his Matis plaiers. 

By his Matis plaiers. 
]{y the Queens Matis plaiers. 
The Boyes of the Chapell. 
By his Matia plaiers. 

By his Matis plaiers. 
By his Matis plaiers. 
By his Matis plaiers. 

By his Matia plaiers. 
By his Matis plaiers. 
By his Matia plaiers. 


Hallanias Day being the fust of Nouembar A play in tlie Banket - 
infje house att Whithall called The Moor of Venis. 

The Sunday ffollowinge A Play of tlie Merry Wiues of Winsor. 

On St. Stiuens Night in the Hall A Play called Mesur for .Mesur. 

On St. Jhons Night A Maske wtli niusick presented by the Erl of 
Penbrok tlie Lord Willowbie & C Knights more of ye Court. 

On Inosents Night The Plaie of Errors. 

On Sunday libllowinge A plaie How to larne of a woman to wooe. 

On Newers Night A plave cauled : All Fouelles. 

Betwin Newers Day and Twelfc dav A Play of Loues Labours Lost. 

On Twelfe Night The Uueens Matis Maske of Mourcs wh Alevcn 
Laydies of lionnof to accupayney her matie well cam in great showes 
of devises wd" thay salt in wtli exselent mu»ike. 

On the 7 of January was played the play of Henry the fift. 

The 8 of January A play cauled Every on out of his Umor. 

On Candelnias night A playe Every one in his Umor. 

The Sunday tfollowing A playe provided and discharged. 

On Shrousunday A ])lay of tlie Marcliant of Venis. 

On Shroumonday A Tragidye of I'he Spanish Maz. 

On Shroutusday A play canled The Martchant of Venis againe 
comanded by the Kings Rtatif. 

The Poets wch miti/d 
the plates. 




By Georg Chapman, 


Nothing can be a strouger evidence of the surpassing popularity of Shakspere than this list. Tliis 
account was published in 1842 by "the Shakespeare Society," in a volume edited by Mr. Peter 
Cuuuiughaiu, and which is highly creditable to his industi'y and knowledge. 

Supposed Souuck of tue Plot. 

The Promos and Cassandra of George Whetstone, printed in 1578, but not acted, was, there can be no 
doubt, the foundation upon which Shakspere built his Measure for jVIeasure. Whetstone tells us iu a 
subsequent work that he constructed his play upon a novel of Giraldi Cinthio, of which he gives us a 
translation ; observing, "this history, for rareness thereof, is livelily set out in a comedy by the reporter 
of the work, but yet never presented itpon stage." * Without entering into a minute comparison of the 
conduct of the story by Whetstone and by Shakspere, it may be sufficient to give the elder poet's 
" argument of the whole history." 

"In the city of Julio (sometime under the dominion of Corvinus king of Hungary and Bohemia) there 
was a law, that what man soever committed adultery should lose his head, and the woman offender should 
wear some disguised apparel during her life, to make her infamously noted. This severe law, by the favour 
of some merciful magistrate, became little regarded, until the time of Lord Promos' authoritj', who, con- 
victing a young gentleman named Andrugio of incontinency, condemned both him and his minion to tho 
execution. of this statute. Andrugio had a very virtuous and beautiful gentlewoman to his sister, named 
Cassandra : Cassandra, to enlarge her brother's life, submitted an humble petition to the Lord Promos. 
Promos, regarding her good behaviour and fantasying her great beauty, was much delighted with the sweet 
order of her talk, and, doing good that evil might come thereof, for a time he reprieved her brother ; but, 
wicked man, turning his liking into unlawful lust, he set down the spoil of her honour ransom for her 
brother's life. Chaste Cassandra, abhorring both him and his suit, by no persuasion would yield to this 
ransom. But, in fine, won with the importunity of her brother (pleading for Ufe), upon these conditions she 
agreed to Promos — first, that he should pardon her brother, and after marry her. Promos, as fearless 
in promise as careless in performance, with solemn vow signed her conditions ; but, worse than any infidel, 
his will satisfied, he performed neither the one nor the other ; for, to keep his authority unspotted with 
favour, and to prevent Cassandra's clamours, ho commanded the gaoler secretly to present Cassandra with 
her brother's head. The gaoler, with the outcries of Andrugio, abhorring Promos' lewdness, by the provi- 
dence of God provided thus for his safety. He presented Cassandra with a felon's head, newly executed, 
who (being mangled, knew it not from her brother's, who by the gaoler was set at liberty) was so aggrieved 
at this treachery, that, at the point to kill herself, she spared that stroke to be avenged of Promos ; and 
devising a way, she concluded to make her fortunes known unto the king. She (executing this resolu- 
tion, was so highly favoured of tho king, that "orthwith he hasted to do justice on Promos ; whose judg- 
ment was to marry Cassandra, to repair her erased honour ; which done, for his heinous offence bo should 
lose his head. This marriage solemnised, Cassandra, tied in the greatest bonds of affection to her husband, 
became an earnest suitor for his life. The king (tendering the general benefit of the commonweal before her 

* ' Jleplaiiicron of Civil Discourses,' 1582. 

t ' Annals of the Stage,' vol. iii. p. 64. 



sijecial case, although he favoured her much) would not grant her suit. Audruglo (disguised among tbo 
company), sorrowing the grief of his sister, betrayed his safety and craved pardon. The king, to renown 
the virtues of Cassandra, pardoned both him and Promos." 

The performance of Whetstone, as might be expected in a drama of that date, is feeble and mono- 
tonous, not informed with any real dramatic powei-, drawling or bombastic in its tragic parts, extra- 
vagant in its comic. Mr. Collier has observed that "the first part is entirely in rhyme, while in 
the second are inserted considerable portions of blank-verse, put only in the mouth of the king, as 
if it better suited the royal dignity." + It is scarcely necessary to offer to our i-eaders any parallel 
examples of the modes in which Whetstone and Shakspere have treated the same incidents. We 
will, however, extract one scene, which may be compared with Shakspere. The second scene of 
the second act of Measure for Measure, fraught as it is with the noblest poetry, owes little to thfl 
following beyond the dramatic situation : — 

Promos with the Sheriff, and their Officers. 

Pro. 'T is strange to think what swarms of unthrlfts live 
Within this town, by rapine, spoil, and theft, 
That, were it not that justice oft them grieve. 
The just man's goods by rufSers should be reft. 
At this our 'size are thirty judg'd to die, 
Whose falls I see their fellows smally fear' 
So that the way is, by severity 
Such wicked weeds even by the roots to tear. 
Wherefore, sheriff, execute with speedy pace 
The damned wights, to cut off hope of grace. 

Shcr. It shall be done. 

Cass, [to herself.] O cruel words ! they make my heart to bleed : 
Now, now I must this doom seek to revoke, 
Lest grace come short when starved is the steed. 

[Kneeling, speaks to Peomos. 
Most mighty lord, a worthy judge, thy judgment sharp abate ; 
Vail thou thine ears to hear the 'plaint that wretched I relate. 
Behold the woeful sister here of poor Andrugio, 
Whom though that law awardeth death, yet mercy do him show. 
Weigh his young years, the force of love which forced his amiss, 
Weigh, weigh that marriage works amends for what committed is. 
He hath defil'd no nuptial bed, nor forced rape hath mov'd ; 
He fell through love who never meant but wife the wight he lov'd : 
And wantons sure to keep in awe these statutes first were made, 
Or none but lustful lechers should with rig'rous law be paid. 
And yet to add intent thereto is far from my pretence ; 
I sue with tears to win him grace that sorrows his offence. 
Wherefore herein, renowned lord, justice with pity pays ; 
Which two, in equal balance weigh'd, to heaven your fame will raise. 

Pro. Cassandra, leave off thy bootless s lit ; by law he hath been tried- 
Law found his fault, law judg'd him death. 

Cas. Yet this may be replied : 

That law a mischief oft permits to keep due form of law — ^ 

That law small faults, with greatest, dooms, to keep men still in awe. 
Yet kings, or such as execute regal authority, 
If 'mends be made, may over-rule the force of law with mercy. 
Here is no wilful murder wrought which asketh blood again ; 
Andrugio's fault may valued be, marriage wipe? out liis stain. 

Pro. Fair dame, I see the natural zeal thou bear'st to Andrugio, 
And for thy sake (not his desert) this f ivour will I show : 
I will reprieve him yet a while, and on the matter pause; 
To-morrow you shall licence have afresh to plead his cause. 
Sheriff, execute my charge, but stay Andrugio 
Until that you in this behalf more of my pleasure know. 

Sher. I will perform your will. 

Cass. O most worthy magistrate, myself thy thrall I bind, 
Even for this little light'ning hope which at thy hands I find. 
Now will I go and comfort him which hangs 'twixt death and life. [ExiU 

Pro. Happy is the man that enjoys the love of such a wife ! 
I do protest her modest words hath wrought in me amaze. 
Though she be fair, she is not deck'd with garish shows for gaze ; 
Her beauty lures, her looks cut off fond suits with chaste disdain; 
O God, 1 feel a sudden change that doth myfreedom chain ! 
What didst thou say ? Pie, Promos, fie ! of bet avoid the thought : 
And so I will ; my other cares will cure what love has wrought. 
Come away. [E.vetinf- 





WiTU the exception, iierliaps, of the Winter's Tale, no play of Shakspere's is so utterly destitute of 
any "loop or hinge to hang an" appropriate costume upon as Measure for Measure. The sceno 
is laid in Vienna, of which city there never was a duke ; and in the whole of the list of persons 
represented there is not one German name. Vincentio, Angelo, Escalns, Claudlo, Lucio, Isabella, 
Juliet, Franclsca, Mariana, all smack of Italy; and it has therefore been questioned by some 
whether or not we should read "Sienna" for "Vienna." There does not appear, however, to be 
any authority for supposing the scene of action to have been altered either theatrically or tyiio- 
graphically, and, consequently, we must leave the artist to the indulgence of his own fancy, with 
the suggestion merely that the Viennese costume of the time of Shakspere must be sought for 
:imongst the national monuments of the reign of the Eniiperor Rololph II., a.D. 157G — 1612. 

ViKCENTio, the Duke. 

Angelo, llie deputy {in lite Duke's absence]. 

EscALUS, an ancient lord [joined W'th Aiigelo ix 

the deputation.] 

Claudio, a young </entlenicin. 

tiUcio, a fantastic. 

Two other like yenllemen. 


Thomas, \ 

\ two friars. 

A Justice. 

Klbow, a simple cunstaOle. 

FnoTii, a foolish ffcutleniait. 


Abhorson', a?!, executioner 

Uauxaiiuine, a dissolute prisoner . 

IsADi-LLA, sister to Claudio. 
Mariana, betrothed to Angelo. 
Ji lii;T| beloved 0/ Claudio. 
FuANCiscA, a nun. 

Mistress 0\ ER-DONE, (7 bduul. 

Lords, Ccntientcn, Guar-'s, Vj/icers, ■ind ylhe- 




SCENE I. — An Apartment hi the Diike's 


Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords, and Atteudauts. 

Duke. EscaluSj — 
Escal. My lord. 

Duke. Of government the properties to unfold, 
Would seem iu me to affect speech and dis- 
course ; 
Since I am put to know,'^ that your own science 
Exceeds, in that, the lists ^ of all advice 
My strength can give you: Then, no more re- 
mains : 
But that, to your suiEciency as your worth, is 

. * Put to knoiu—eqva\a.\er\\.to I cannot avoid knowing. 
b Lints — limits. 

Aud let them work." The uatm-e of our people, 
Our city's institutions, aud the terms '' 

"• Here is one of the obscure passages for which this play 
is reniarhabls. The text is usually pointed tlius : — 
" Then no more remains 
But that to your sufliciency, as your worth is able, 
And let them work." 
It is certainly diihcult to extract a clear meaning from this. 
The emendation whicli Steevens proposes is to omit to. 
" Then " (says the Duke) " no more remains to say, 
But your sufliciency as your wortli is able. 
And let them work." 
It is not our purpose to remove obscurities by additions or 
omissions in tlie text, and therefore we leare the passage 
as in the original, excepting a slight alteration in the punc- 
tuation. But we suggest a reading which appears more 
clearly to give the meaning that may be collected from the 
text as it stands. We would read 

" Then no more remains. 
But that to your sufliciency your worth is able. 
And let them work." 
Siifficicncy is adequate power ; worth is the virtue or strengih 
{virtus), which, added to sulTiciency, is able (equal to the 
duty). By the omission tf as the sense is clearer, and the 
line is more metrical, 
b rernw. — Blackstone explains this to mean the technical 


Act I.] 


[SC£K£ I. 

For common justice, you are as pregnant in, 
As art and practice liatU enriched any 
That we remember : There is our commission, 
From which we would not have you warp. — Call 

I say, bid come before us Angelo. — 

[Erii an Attendant. 
What figure of us think you he will bear ? 
For you must know, we have with special soul 
Elected him our absence to supply ; 
Lent him our terror, dress'd him with our 

love ; 
And given his deputation all the organs 
Of our own power : What think you of it ? 

Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth 
To undergo such ample grace and honour, 
It is lord Angelo. 

Enter Angelo. 

Duke. Look, where he comes. 

Atiff. Always obedient to your grace's will, 
I come to know your pleasure. 

Duke. Angelo, 

There is a kind of character in thy life, 
That, to the observer, doth thy history 
Fully unfold : " Thyself and thy belongings 
Are not thine own so proper, as to waste 
Thyself upon thy virtues, they'' on thee. 
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do ; 
Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues 
Did not go forth of us, 't were all alike 
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely 

But to find issues : nor natui-e never lends 
The smallest scruple of her excellence. 
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
Herself the glory of a creditor. 
Both thanks and use." But I do bend my speech 
To one that can my part in him advertise ; ^ 

language of the courts, and adds, " An old book called Les 
Tevmes de la Ley (written in Henry the Eighth's time) was 
in Shakspeare's day, and is now, the accidence of young 
students in the law." 

"• The commentators have stumbled at this passage. 
Johnson says, " What is there peculiar in this, that a man's 
life informs the observer of his history?" Monck Mason 
would correct the passage as follows: — 

" There is a kind of hisiori/ in thy life. 
That to the observer doth thy character 
Fully unfold." 

Sorely character has here the original meaning of something 
engraved or inscribed— /A;/ life is thy habits. Angelo was 
a man of decorum. The duke afterwards says, " Lord 
Angelo is precise." 

b They— So the original. In modern editions them, as 
corrected by Hanmer. But as Angelo might waste himself 
upon his virtues, they might waste themselves on him. 

« Use. — Interest of money. 

<1 Alterations have been made and proposed in this pas- 
sage. Hanmer reads — 

" To one that can, in my part me advertise." 

This is to destroy the sense. My part in him is, my part 


Hold,'^ therefore, Angelo ; 

In our remove, be thou at full ourself : 

Mortality and mercy in Vienna 

Live in thy tongue end heart :'' Old Escalus, 

Though first in question, is thy secoudai'y : 

Take thy commission. 

Aiiff. Now, good my lord. 

Let there be some more test made of my 

Before so nobl-e and so great a figure 
Be stamp'd upon it. 

Duke. No more evasion : 

We have with a leaven' d" and prepared choice 
Proceeded to you ; therefore take yoiu- honours. 
Our liaste from hence is of so quick condition, 
That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd 
Matters of needfid value. We shall write to you. 
As time and our concernings shall importune. 
How it goes with us ; and do look to know 
What doth befall you here. So, fare you well : 
To the hopeful execution do I leave you 
Of your commissions. 

Aiiff. Yet, give leave, my lord, 

That we may bring you something on the way. 

Duke. My haste may not admit it ; 
Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do 
With any scruple : your scope is as mine 

own : 
So to enforce or qualify the laws 
As to your soul seems good. Give me your 

hand ; 
I '11 privily away : I love the people. 
But do not like to stage me to their eyes : 
Though it do M'ell, I do not relish well 
Their loud applause, and aves vehement : 
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 

Jjiff. The heavens give safety to youi- pur- 
poses ! 

Escal. Lead forth, and bring you back in 

DuJce. I thank you : Fare you well. [_E.vU. 

Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave 
To have free speech with you ; and it concerns 

To look into the bottom of my place : 

deputed to him, which he can advertise — direct his atten- 
tion to, — without my speech. 

" Hold. — Tyrwhitt supposes that the Duke here checks 
himself, Hold therefore; and that the word Angelo begins a 
new sentence. We have little doubt that the word hold is 
addressed to Angelo ; and used technically in the sense of 
to have and to hold. Hold, therefore, our power, Angelo. 

b Douce thus explains this passage :— " I delegate to tliy 
tongue the power of pronouncing sentence of death, and to 
thy heart the privilege of exercising mercy." 

c Leaven' d. As leaven slowly works to impart its quality 
to bread, so the considerations upon which the Duke made 
choice of Angelo have gradually fermented in his mind. 

iCT I.] 

of what strength 

A power I have ; but 

I am not yet instructed. 
J//^. 'T is so with me : — Let us withdraw 
And we may soon our satisfaction have 
Touching that point. 
FscaL I '11 wait upon your honour. 


SCENE ll.—yl Street. 
'Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. 

Lucio. If the duke, with the other dukes, 
come not to composition with tlie king of Hun- 
gary, why, then all the dukes fall upon the king. 

1 Genl. Heaven grant us its peace, but not 
the king of Hungary's ! 

2 Gent. Amen. 

Lucio. Thou concludest like the sanctimoni- 
ous pirate, that went to sea with the ten com- 
mandments, but scraped one out of the table. 

3 Gent. Thou shalt not steal ? 
Lucio. Ay, that he razed. 

1 Gent. Why, 't was a commandment to com- 
mand the captain and all the rest from their 
functions ; they put forth to steal : There 's not 
a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving be- 
fore meat, doth relish the petition well that prays 
for peace. 

2 Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it. 
Lucio. I believe thee ; for I think thou never 

wast where grace was said. 

2 Gent. No ? a dozen times at least. 

1 Gent. What? in metre ?i 

Lucio. In any proportion, or in any language. 

1 Gent. I think, or in any religion. 

L^icio. Ay ! why not ? grace is grace, despite 
of all controversy : As for example : Thou thy- 
self art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. 

1 Gent. Well, there went but a pair of sheers 
between us. 

L^icio. I grant ; as there may between the 
lists and the velvet : Thou art the list. 

1 Gent. And thou the velvet : thou art good 
velvet ; thou art a three-piled piece, I warrant 
thee : I had as lief be a list of an English kersey, 
as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. 
Do I speak feelingly now ? 

Ijucio. I think thou dost ; and, indeed with 
most painful feeling of thy speech : I will, out 
of thine own confession, learn to begin thy 
health ; but whilst I live, forget to drink after 


[Scene II. 

1 Geiit. I think I have done myself wron"- ; 
have I not ? " ' 

2 Gent. Yes, that thou hast ; whether thou 
art tainted, or free. 

_ Lucio. Behold, behold, where madam INIitiga- 
tiou comes ! I have purchased as many diseases 
under her roof as come to — 

2 Gent. To what, I pray ? 

Lucio. Judge. 

2 Gent. To three thousand dollours a-year. 

1 Gent. Ay, and more. 

Lucio. A French crown more. 

1 Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in 
me : but thou art full of error ; I am sound. 

Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, licalthy; 
but so sound as things tliat are hollow: Uiy 
bones are hollow : impiety has made a feast of 

Eiiter Bawd. 

1 Gent. How now ? Which of youi- hips lias 
the most profound sciatica ? 

Bawd. Well, well ; there 's one yonder arrested, 
and carried to prison, was worth five thousand 
of you all. 

2 Gent. Who 's that, I pray thee ? 

Bawd. Marry, sir, that's Claudio, signior 

1 Gent. Claudio to prison ! 't is not so. 
Bawd. Nay, but I know 't is so : I saw him 

arrested ; saw him carried away ; and, which is 
more, within these three days his head 's to be 
chopped off. 

Lucio. But, after all this fooling, I would not 
have it so : Ai't thou sure of this ? 

Bawd. I am too sure of it : and it is for getting 
madam Julietta with child. 

Lifcio. Believe me, tliis may be : he promised 
to meet me two hours since ; and be was ever 
precise in promise-keeping. 

2 Gent. Besides, you know, it draws some- 
thing near to the speech we had to such a pur- 

1 Gent. But most of all, agreeing with the 

LjKcio. Away ; let 's go learn the truth of it. 
[Eveunt Lucio and Gentlemen. 

Bawd. Thus, what with the war, what with 
the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with 
poverty, I am custom-shrunk. How now r 
what 's the news with you ? 

Enter Clown. 

Ci'o. Yonder man is carried to prison. 

•"^ It is justly considered that the 1 Gent, has a claim to 

tlic honours of this imrcliasc. 


Act I.] 



Baiod. VYell ; what has he done ? 

Clo. A woman. 

Bawd. But wliat 's his offence ? 

Clo. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. 

Batod. What, is thei-e a maid with chikl by 

Clo. No ; but there 's a woman with maid by 
him : You have not heard of tlie proclamation, 
have you ? 

Bated. What proclamation, man ? 

Clo. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must 
be plucked down. 

Bawd. And what shall become of those in the 

Clo. They shall stand for seed : they had 
gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in 
for them. 

Bawd. But shall all our liouses of resort in 
the suburbs bo pulled down ? 

Clo. To the ground, mistress. 

Bavxl. Why, here's a change, indeed, in the 
commonwealth ! What sliall become of me ? 

Clo. Come ; fear not you : good counsellors 
lack no clients : though you change your place, 
you need not change your trade ; I '11 be your 
tapster still. Courage ; there will be pity taken 
on you : you that have worn your eyes almost 
out in the service, you will be considered. 

Bawd. What 's to do here, Thomas Tapster ? 
Let 's withdi-aw. 

Clo. Here comes signior Claudio, led by the 
provost to prison : and there 's madam Juliet. 


SCENE \l\.~Tlw same. 

Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, atul Officers ; 
Lxjcio and two Gentlemen. 

Claud. FeUow, why dost thou show me tluis 
to the world ? 
Bear me to prison, where I am committed. 

Pro. I do it not iu evil disposition, 
But from lord Angelo by special chai-ge. 

Claud. Thus can the demi-god. Authority, 
IMake us pay down for our oflence by weight.'^ — 
The words of heaven ;^ — on whom it will, it will ; 
On whom it wiU not, so ; yet still 'tis just. 

Liicio. Why, how now, Claudio ? whence 
comes this restraint ? 

Claud. From too much liberty, my Lucio, 
liberty : 

^ To pay (Jown hij jcehjlit is to pay the full price or pe- 

b It lias been proposed here to read the sivnrds of heaven. 
The passage is, however, an allusion to St. Paul's Epistle 
to the Romans, chap. ix. ver. 15. 


As sui'feit is the father of much fast. 
So every scope, by the immoderate use. 
Turns to restraint : Oiu- natures do pursue 
(Like rats that ravin* down their proper banc) 
A thirsty evil, and when we drink, we die. 

Lucio. If I could speak so wisely under an 
arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors : 
And yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the 
foppery of freedom as the morality'' of imprison- 
ment. — What 's thy offence, Claudio ? 

Claud. What but to speak of would offend 

Luri'o. What! is 't murder? 

Claud. No. 

Lucio. Lechery? 

Claud. Call it so. 

Pro. Away, sir ; you must go. 

Claud. One word, good friend : — Lucio, a 
word with you. [Ta/ces him aside. 

Ljucio. A hundred, if they 'II do you any 
good. — 
Is lechery so look'd after ? 

Claud. Tlius stands it with me : —Upon a true 
I got possession of Julietta's bed ; 
You know the lady ; she is fast my M'ife, 
Save that we do the denunciation lack 
Of outward order : this we came not to, 
Only for propagation'' of a dower 
Remaining in the coffer of her friends ; 
From whom we thought it meet to hide our love, 
Till time hath made them for us. But it chances, 
The stealth of oiu- most mutual entertainment. 
With character too gross, is writ on Juliet. 

Lncio. With child, perhaps ? 

Claud. Unhappily, even so. 
And the new deputy now for tlie duke, — 
T^'hctlier it be the fault and glimpse of newness ; 
Or whether that the body public be 
A horse whereon the governor doth ride, 
Who, newly in the seat, that it may know 
He can command, lets it straight feel the spur ; 
Whether the tyranny be in his place. 
Or in his eminence that fills it up, 
I stagger in : — But this new governor 
Awakes me aU the enrolled penalties. 
Which have, like unscoui-'d armour, hung by 

the wall 
So long, that nineteen zodiacs have gone round, 
And none of them been worn ; and, for a name, 

•1 7?or;H— devour greedily. 

1j MoraUiy — in the original morlalily. It has been cor- 
rected, and properly so as would appear from the context, 
in the modern editions. 

c Deniinclaliun is used by old authors in the sense of aii- 
viini iaiion. 

d Propagation. It lias been proposed to read procura'ion, 
and bIso preicriation. 

Act /.] 



Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 
Freshly on inc : — 'tis surely for a name. 

Liicio. I warrant, it is : aud thy head stands 
so tickle on thy shoulders, that a milkmaid, if 
she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after tlie 
duke, and appeal to him. 

Claud. I have done so, but he's not to be 
I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service ; 
Tliis day my sister should the cloister enter, 
And there receive her approbation : "■ 
Acquaint her mth the danger of my state ; 
Implore her in my voice, that she make friends 
To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him ; 
I have great hope in that : for in her youth 
There is a prone ^ and speechless dialect, 
Such as moves men ; beside, she hath prosperous 

"When she will play with reason and discourse. 
And well she can persuade. 

Lucio. I pray, she may: as well for the en- 
couragement of the like, which else would stand 
under grievous imposition ; as for the enjoying 
of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus 
foohshly lost at a game of tick-tack. I '11 to her. 

Claud. I thank you, good friend Lucio. 

Lucio. Within two hours. 

Claud. Come, officer, away. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV.— ^ Monastery. 
Enter Duke and Friar Thomas. 

Buke. No, holy father; throw away that 

thought ; 
Believe not that the dribbling dart of love 
Can pierce a complete bosom : wliy I desire thee 
To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose 
More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends 
Of burning youth. 
Fri. May your grace speak of it ? 

Duke. My holy sir, none better knows than 

How I have ever lov'd the life removed ; 
And held in idle price to haimt assemblies. 
Where youth, and cost, and" witless bravery 

I have deliver'd to lord Angelo 
(A man of stricture "^ and firm abstinence) 

•'> Approbation — probation. 

b Prone. It appears to us that the word is here used in 
the sense of humble; and not in that of prompt, whicli Join - 
son and Malone have suggested. The timidity and silence 
of her youth alone would move men ; but when she chooses 
to exercise reason and discourse she can well persuade. 

c And is not found in the original, but is supplied in 
tlie second folio. 

'1 Keeps — dwells. 

e 67nc<»re— strictness. 

My absolute power and place heic in Vienna, 
And he supposes me travell'd to Poland ; 
For so 1 have strew'd it in the common car, 
And so it is rcceiv'd : Now, pious sir. 
You will demand of me why I do this ? 
Fri. Gladly, my lord. 

Bukr. We have strict statutes, and most biting 
(The needful bits and curbs to headstrong 

Which for this fourteen years we have let slip ; ^ 
Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, 
That goes not out to prey : " Now, as fond fathers 
Having bound up the threat'niug twigs of bnch, 
Only to stick it in their chilcben's sight, 
Eor terror, not to use, in time the rod 
[Becomes"] more mock'd than fcar'd: so our 

Dead to iuflietion, to themselves arc dead ; 
And liberty plucks justice by the nose ; 
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 
Goes all decorum. 

Fri. It rested in your grace 

To unloose this tied-up justice, when you 

pleas'd : 
Aud it in you more dreadful would have seem'd 
Than in lord Angelo. 

Buke. I do fear, too dreadful : 

Sith 't was my fault to give the people scope, 
'T would be my tyranny to strike and gall them 
For what I bid them do : For we bid this be 

Wlien evil deeds have their permissive pass, 
Aud not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, 

my father, 
I have on Angelo impos'd the office ; 
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike 

And yet my nature never in the fight. 
To do in slander : '' And to behold liis sway, 
I will, as 't were a brother of your order. 
Visit both prince and people : therefore, 1 

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me 

" steeds— in the original weeds. 

b Slip. The reading of the original has been changed to 
steep. Theobald, who made this correction, thought that it 
suited the comparison; and tliat the Iriti's were sleeping 
like an old lion. The Du/ce compares himself with the ani- 
mal " who goes not out to prey." He has let the laws slip. 

c Jiecnmes was added by Pope to the original. 

(I We print this as in the original. The passage is ordi 
narily printed 

" And yet, my nature never in the sight 
To do it slander." 

The image of ajiijht was certainly in the poet's mind, from 
the use of ambush and stri/te home. We tinderstood by /« tlo 
in slander, to be i)rominent in action, and thus e.xposed t< 


Act I.] 


[Scene V 

How I may formally in person bear 
Like a true friar. More reasons for this action, 
At our more leisure shall I render you ; 
Only this one : — Lord Angelo is precise ; 
Stands at a guard with envy ; scarce confesses 
That his blood flows, or that his appetite 
Is more to bread than stone : Hence shall we see. 
If power change purpose, what our seemers be. 


SCENE Y.—A Nunnery. 

Enter Isabella and Fkancisca. 
hah. And have you nuns no further privi- 
leges ? 
Eran, Are not these large enough ? 
Isab. Yes, truly : I speak not as desiring more; 
But rather wishing a more strict restraint 
Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of saint Clare. 
Lucio. Ho ! Peace be in this place ! [Within. 
Isab. Who 's that which calls ? 

Fran. It is a man's voice : Gentle Isabella, 
Turn you the key, and know his business of him ; 
You may, I may not ; you are yet unsworn : 
When you have vow'd, you must not speak with 

But in the presence of the prioress : 
Then, if you speak, you must not show your face ; 
, Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. 
He calls again ; I pray you answer him. 

[Exit Ebancisca, 
Isab. Peace and prosperity ! Who is 't that 

Enter LuciO, 

Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be ; as those cheek- 
Proclaim you are no less ! Can you so stead me. 
As bring me to the sight of Isabella, 
A novice of this place, and the fair sister 
To her uuhappy brother Claudio ? 

Isab. Why her unhappy brother ? let me ask ; 
The rather, for I now must make you know 
I am that Isabella, and his sister. 

Lucio. Gentle and fab-, your brother kindly 
greets you : I 

Not to be weary with you, he 's in prison. 

Isab. Woe me ! For what ? i 

Lttcio. For that, which if myself might be his 
He should receive his punishment in thanks : j 
He hath got his friend with child. '< 

Isab. Sir, make me not your story. 
Lucio. 'T is true. I would not — though 't is 
my familiar sin 

With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest. 
Tongue far from heart, — play with all virgins 

I hold you as a thing ensky'd, and sainted ; 
By your renouncement, an imniortal spirit ; 
And to be talk'd with in sincerity. 
As with a saint. 

Isab. You do blaspheme the good, in mocking 

lAicio. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 
't is thus : 
Your brother and his lover ^ have embrac'd : 
As those that feed grow full ; as blossoming 

That from the seedness the bare fallow brings 
To teeming foison ; even so her plenteous womb 
Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. 

Isab. Some one with child by him ? — My 
cousin Juliet ? 

Lucio. Is she your cousin ? 

Isab. Adoptedly ; as schoolmaids change their 
By vain though apt affection. 

Lucio. She it is. 

Isab. 0, let him marry her ! 

Lucio. This is the point. 

The duke has very strangely gone from hence ; 
Bore many gentlemen, myself being one. 
In hand, and hope of action : but we do leara 
By those that know the very nerves of state. 
His givings out were of an infinite distance 
From his true-meant design. Upon his place. 
And with full line of his authority. 
Governs lord Angelo : a man whose blood 
Is very snow-broth ; one who never feels 
The wanton stings and motions of the sense ; 
But doth rebate and blunt his natui'al edge 
With profits of the mind, study and fast. 
He (to give fear to use and liberty. 
Which have, for long, run by the hideous law. 
As mice by lions) hath pick'd out an act. 
Under whose heavy sense your brother's life 
Falls into forfeit : he arrests him on it ; 
And follows close the rigour of the statute. 
To make him an example ; all hope is gone. 
Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer 

"• In this passage Ve follow the original. Malone says 
that tlie reading should be thus: — 

" Sir, mock me not — your story." 

But the original meaning is clear enough : make me not your 
story is, invent me not your story, — a very common phrase- 
ology of our author. When Lucio replies 7 is true, he means 
his story is true ; he has not invented it; and he adds tliat 
he would not jest with her tliough jesting be his familiar 
sin, &c. 

b Loiter — mistress. Shakspere's poem of the Lover'i 
Complaint is the lament of a deserted maiden. 

Act I.] 



To softeu Angelo : And that 's my pith of busi- 
'Twixt you and your poor brother. 

Isab. Doth lie so 

Seek his life ? 

jA(cio. Hath ccnsur'd'' him ah-eady, 

And, as I hear, the provost hath a warrant 
For bis execution. 

hah. Alas ! what poor 

Ability 's in me to do him good? 

Lucio. Assay the power you have. 

Isab. My power ! 

Alas ! I doubt— ^ 

•'' Censur'd — sentenced. 

b We follow the metrical arrangement of the old copy. 
Sleevens, in his introduction to this play, tells us, for our 
consolation, "I shall not attempt much reformation in its 
metre, which is too rough, redundant, and irregular." He 
yet has attempted something, of which the following is an 
example : — 

" To soften Angelo: And that's my pith 
Of business 'twixt you and your poor brother. 
Isab. Doth he so seek his life ? 
Lucio. Has censur'd him 

Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath 
A warrant for his execution. 

Lucio. Our doubts are traitors, 
And make us lose the good wc oft might win. 
By fearing to attcmjit : Go to lord Augclo, 
And let him learn to kuow, when maidens sue 
Men give like gods ; but when they weep aud 

All their petitions are as freely theirs 
As they themselves would owe them. 

Isab. I '11 see what I can do. 

Lucio. But speedily. 

Isab. I will about it straight ; 
No longer staying but to give the mother 
Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you : 
Commcud me to my brother : soon at night 
I '11 send him certain word of my success. 

Lucio. I take my leave of you. 

Isab. Good sir, adieu. 


Isnb. Alas! what poor ability 's in me 
To do him good? 
Lucio. Assay the power you have. 

Isab. My power! Alas! I doubt, — 
Lucio. Our doubts are traitors. 

(Scene V.j 

Comedies. — Vol. II. 




' Scene II. — " Lucio. / thiyth thou never wast 
tvhere grace was said. 
2 Gent. No ? a dozen times at least. 
1 Gent. What? in metre?" 
There can be no doubt that in metre can have 
no other reference than to the ancient metrical 
grace.s, to be said or sung, — sometimes accompanied 
by some old monastic chant, such as we still hear 
in Non nobis, Domine. Tieck has, however, a sin- 
gular crotchet upon this passage. He holds that 
the explanation thus given is nonsense ; and that 
the allusion is to Johnson's f-avourite taverUj the 

Mitre, in a poor resemblance between the words 
metre and mitre. We have seen a drawing of an 
ancient knife, upon the of which a Latin 
metrical grace is engraved, with the notes to whicl 
it was to be sung. 

" Scene IV. — "Even like an o'ergrown lion in a 

That goes not out to jjre]]." 

The passage in the Book of Job, chap. iv. ver. 
11, probably suggested this image: — "The old 
lion perisheth for lack of prey." 


[Scene I. ' How now, sir .' 'j 


SCENE I.— A Hall in. Angelo's House. 

Enter Angelo, Escaltjs, a Justice, Pr-ovost,* 
Officers, and other Attendants. 
At^r/. We must not make a scarecrow of llio 
Setting it up to feari- the birds of prey, 
And let it keep one sbape, till custom make it 
Their perch, and not their terror. 

a The Provost is here a kind of sheriff— a l^eeper of pri 
b To fear — to affright. 

T 2 

Escal. '^y^ 1"'t yet 

Let us be keen, and ralhcr cut a Hi tie, 
Than fall,"' and bruise lo death : Alas ! tlu> 

Whom I would save, had a most noble father. 
Let but your honour know, 
(Whom I believe to be most straight m vir- 
Tiiat, in the working of your own affectious, 

a F„/;_The verb is here used actively. We stiH say' 
fall a tree; and probably Shakspere had this .mage .n bu 


Act II.] 


[Scene I. 

Had time coher'd with place, or place with 

Or that the resolute acting of vour blood 
Could have attaiu'd the effect of your own pur- 
Whether you had not sometime ia your life 
Err'd in this point which now you censiu'e 

And pidl'd the law upon you. 

Ang. 'T is one thing to be tempted, Escalus, 
Another thing to fall. I not deny, 
The jury, passing on the prisoner's life, 
May, in the sworn twelve, have a tliief or two 
Guiltier that him they try : What 's open made 
To justice, that justice seizes. What know the 

That thieves do pass on^ thieves ? 'Tis very 

The jewel that we find we stoop and take it. 
Because we see it ; but what we do not see 
We tread upon, and never think of it. 
You may not so extenuate his offence. 
For" I have had such faults; but rather tell 

\^Tien I, that censure him, do so offend. 
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death. 
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must 

Escal. Be it as your wisdom will. 
Ang. Where is tiie provost ? 

Trov. Here, if it like your honour-. 
Ang. See that Claudio 

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning : 
Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar'd ; 
For that 's the utmost of his pilgrimage. 

[Exit Provost. 
Hscal. Well, heaven forgive him ! and forgive 

us all ! 
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall : 
Some run from brakes of ice, and answer 

none ; "^ 
And some condemned for a fault alone. 

" In the elliptical construction of this sentence we must 
understand for after censure him. 

b Pass on — condemn — adjudicate. We have the same 
expression in a contemporary play: "A jury of brokers, 
impanelled and deeply sworn to pass on all villains." 

c For — because. 

<1 We print tills passage as in the orighial. It is usually 
given brakes of rice. Steevens supports the emendation in 
two ways: first, that a brake is an instrument of torture. 
Holinshed, describing the rack in tlie Tower known by the 
name of the Duke of Exeter's daughter, calls it t/ie brake. 
Secondly, brakes of vice may mean a thicket of vices. Le- 
tourneur translates the passage thus : — " II on est qui out 
tous les vices, et qui ne repondent d'aucun ; d'autres sont 
condamnes pour line faute unique." Those who would 
preserve the old reading consider that brakes of ice are frac- 
tures of ice — ice that breaks ; and Tieck so translates the 
passage. The line is certainly full of dilTiculties. The verb 


Efiier Elbow, Froth, Clown, Officers, ^c. 

Eld. Come, bring them away: if these be 
good people in a commonweal that do nothing 
but use their abuses in common houses, I know 
no law ; bring them away. 

Ai/g. How now, sir ! What 's your name ? 
and what 's the matter ? 

Eld. If it please your honour, I am the poor 
duke's constable, and my name is Elbow ; I do 
lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here 
before your good honour two notorious bene- 

Ang. Benefactors? Well; what benefactors 
are they ? are they not malefactors ? 

Eld. If it please your honour, I know not 
well what they are : but precise villains they 
are, that I am sui'C of ; and void of all profana- 
tion in the world, that good Christians ought to 

Escal. Tills comes off well ; here 's a wise 

Ang. Go to : What quality are they of ? El- 
bow is your name ? Why dost thou not speak. 

Clo. He cannot, sir ; he 's out at elbow. 

Ang. What are you, sir ? 

Eld. He, sir ? a tapster, sir ; parcel-bawd ; 
one that serves a bad woman ; whose house, sir, 
was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs ; 
and now she professes a hot-house, which, I 
think, is a very ill house too. 

Escal. How know you that ? 

Eld. My wife, sir, whom I detest before 
heaven and your honour, — 

Escal. How ! thy wife ? 

Eld. Ay, sir ; whom, I thank heaven, is an 
honest woman, — 

Escal. Dost thou detest her therefore ? 

Eld. 1 say, sir, I will detest myself also, as 
well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's 
house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty 

Escal. How dost thou know that, constable ? 

Eld. Marry, sir, by my wife ; who, if she had 
been a woman cardinally given, might have 

rail would lead one to believe In the correctness of the old 
reading; whilst, on the other hand, the employment of 
answer in a peculiar sense — the answer to the question 
enforced by torture — would lead one to believe that the 
interpretation of brakes as racks is correct. Mr. Dyce holds 
that "brakes of vice" is the proper reading; and, from a 
note in his edition of Skelton it appears that brake was 
used in the sense of trap, as in Cavendish's ' Life of 
Wolsey': — "to espy a convenient lime and occasion to 
take the Cardinal in a brake; " and in Marmyou's ' Hollands 
Leaguer,' 1632, there is 

" A stale to take this Courtier in a brake." 

A.CT II.] 


[ScKNr. 1. 

been accused in fornication, adultery, and all 
uncleanliness there. 

Escal. By the woman's means ? 

Elb. Ay, sir, by mistress Overdone's means : 
but as she spit in his face, so she delicd him. 

Clo. Sir, if it please your honour, this is 
not so. 

Elh. Prove it before these varlets here, thou 
honourable man, prove it. 

Escal. Do you hear how he misplaces ? 

[_To Angelo. 

Clo. Sir, she came in great with, child; and 
longing (saving your honour's reverence) for 
stewed prunes ; sir, we had but two in the house, 
which at that very distant time stood, as it were, 
in a fruit-dish, a dish of some tbi-ee-pence ; your 
honoiu-s have seen such dishes; they are not 
China dishes, but very good dishes.' 

Escal. Go to, go to; no matter for the dish, 

Clo. No, indeed, sir, not of a' pin; you are 
therein in the right : but, to the point : As I 
say, this mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with 
child, and being great bellied, and longing, 
as I said, for prunes ; aud having but two 
in the dish, as I said, master Froth here, this 
very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, 
as I say, paying for them very honestly ; — for, as 
you know, master Froth, I could not give you 
tkree-pence again. 

Froth. No, indeed. 

Clo. Very well : you being then, if you be 
remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid 

Froth. Ay, so I did, indeed. 

Clo. Why, very well : I telling you then, if 
you be remembered, that such a one, and such 
a one, were past cure of the thing you wot 
of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told 

Froth. All this is true. 

Clo. Why, very well then. 

Escal. Come, you are a tedious fool : to the 
purpose. — What was done to Elbow's wife, that 
he hath cause to complain of ? Come we to what 
was done to her. 

Clo. Sir, your honour cannot come to that 

Escal. No, SU-, nor I mean it not. 

Clo. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your 
honour's leave : And, I beseech yon, look iiio 
master Eroth here, sir; a man of fourscore 
pound a-year ; whose father died at Hallowmas : 
— AVas 't not at Hallo\ATnas, master Froth ? 

Frclh. All-hallcwnd eve. 

Clo. Wliy, very well ; I liopc hero be truths : 
He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; — 
'twas in the ]hi»ch of Grapes, where, iiidceO, 
you have a delight to sit : Have you not ? 

Froth. I have so ; because it is an open room,* 
and good for winter. 

Clo. AVhy, very well then; — I hope Iierc bo 

A)if/. This will last out a night in Russia, 
When nights arc longest there: I'll take my 

And leave you to the hearing of the cause; 
Hoping you'll find good cause to whip them 

Escal. I think no less : Good morrow to your 
lordship. [E-rit Angelo. 

Now, sir, come on : What was done to Elbow's 
wife, once more ? 

Clo. Once, sir? there Avas nothing done to 
her once. 

Elb. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this 
man did to my wife. 

Clo. I beseech your honour, ask me. 

Escal. Well, sir : what did this gentleman to 

Clo. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentle- 
man's face : — Good master Froth, look upon his 
honour ; 't is for a good purpose : Doth your 
honour mark his face ? 

Escal. Ay, sir, very well. 

Clo. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. 

Escal. VVell, I do so. 

Clo. Doth your honour see any harm in bis 

Escal. Wliy, no. 

Clo. I '11 be supposed upon a book, his face is 
the worst thing about him : Good then ; if his 
face be the worst thing about him, how could 
master Eroth do the constal)le's wife any harm ? 
I would know that of your honour. 

Escal. He 's in the right : Constable, what 
say you to it ? 

Elb. First, an it like you, the house is a 
respected house ; next, this is a respected fel- 
low ; and his mistress is a respected woman. 

Clo. By this hand, sir, his -wife is a more re- 
spected person than any of us all. 

Elb. Varlet, thou liest ; thou licst, m'ckcd 
varlet : the time is yet to come that she was ever 
respected, with man, woman, or child. 

a Open room. — This lias been explained as a warm room, 
from the same root as nrcn. But men, if Tooke's inter- 
pretation be correct, means a place hrni-cd, raised np. We 
rather think that open has here nnihinp to do with the 
winter quality of the room, but that it means a common 
room, which is also a warm room. 


Act II.l 



Clo. Sir, slio was respected with liim before 
he married with her. 

Escal. Which is the wiser, here? Justice, or 
Iniquity ? — Is this true ? 

Elb. thou caitiff ! O thou varlet ! O thou 
wicked Haunihal ! I respected with her, before 
I was married to her ! If ever I was respected 
with her, or she with me, let not your worship 
think me the poor duke's officer: — Prove this, 
thou wicked Hannibal, or I 'U have mine action 
of battery on thee. 

Escal. If he took you a box o' th' ear, you 
might have your action of slander too. 

Elb. Marry, I thank your good worship for 
it: Wliat is 't your worship's pleasure I should 
do with this wicked caitiff P 

Escal. Truly, oiBcer, because he hath some 
offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou 
couldst, let him continue in his courses, tUl thou 
know'st what they are. 

Elb. Many, I thank your worship for it : — 
Thou seest, thou wicked varlet now, what's 
come upon thee ; thou art to continue now, thou 
varlet ; thou art to continue. 

Escal. Where were you born, friend ? 

[To Fkoth, 
Froth. Here in Vienna, sir. 
Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a-year ? 
Froth. Yes, aud't please you, sir. 
Escal. So. — What trade are you of, sir ? 

[_To the Clown. 
Clo. A tapster ; a poor widow's tapster. 
Escal. Your mistress's name ? 
Clo. Mistress Overdone. 
Escal. Hath she had any more than one 
husband ? 

Clo. Nine, sir; Overdone by the last. 
Escal. Nine ! — Come hither to me, master 
Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you 
acquainted with tapsters : they will ckaw you, 
master Froth, and you will hang them : Get 
you gone, and let me hear no more of you. 

Froth. I thank your worship : For mine own 
part, I never come into any room in a taphouse, 
but I am drawn in. 

Escal. WeU ; no more of it, master Froth . 
farewell. [_E.vit Froth.] — Come you hither to 
me, master tapster; what's your name, master 
tapster ? 

Clo. Pompey. 
Escal. What else ? 
Clo. Bum, sir. 

Escal. 'Troth, and your bum is the greatest 
thing about you ; so that, in the beastliest sense, 
you are Pompey the great. Pompey, you are 


partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour 
it in being a tapster. Are you not ? come, tell 
me true ; it shall be the better for you. 

Clo. Tridy, sir, I am a poor fellow that would 

Escal. How would you live, Pompey ? by 
being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, 
Pompey ? is it a lawful trade ? 

Clo. If the law would allow it, sir. 

Escal. But the law will not allow it, Pompey : 
nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. 

Clo. Does your worship mean to geld and 
spay all the youth of the city ? 

Escal. No, Pompey. 

Clo. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will 
to't then: If your worship will take order for 
the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear 
the bawds. 

Escal. There are pretty orders beginning, I 
can tell you : It is but heading and hanging. 

Clo. If you head and hang all that offend 
that way but for ten year together, you '11 be 
glad to give out a commission for more heads. 
If this law hold in Vienna ten year, T '11 rent the 
fairest house in it after three-pence a bay : "■ If 
you live to see this come to pass, say, Pompey 
told you so. 

Escal. Thank you, good Pompey : and, in 
requital of your prophecy, hark you, — I advise 
you, let me not find you before me again upon 
any complaint whatsoever, no, not for dwelling 
where you do ; if I do, Pompey, I shall beat 
you to your tent, and prove a slirewd Ca;sar 
to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have 
you whipp'd: so for this time, Pompey, fare 
you well. 

Clo. I thank your worship for your good 
counsel ; but I shall follow it as the flesh and 
fortune shall better deterraiue. 
Whip me? No, no; let carman whip liis 

The valiant heart's not wliipp'd out of his 
trade. [Exit. 

Escal. Come hither to me, master Elbow ; 
come hither, master Constable. How long have 
you been in this place of constable ? 

Elb. Seven year and a half, sir. 

Escal. I thought, by your readiness in the 
office, you had continued in it some time : You 
say, seven years together ? 

Elb. And a half, sii*. 

Escal. Alas ! it hath been great pains to you ! 
They do you wrong to put you so oft upou'i ; 
Ai-e there not men in your ward sufficient (o 
serve it ? 

n Bay — a t;nu of b.nKliiig measurement. 

Act II. J 


[Sccsj: U. 

Eld. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such mat- 
ters : as they are chosen, they are glad to choose 
me for them ; I do it for some piece of money, 
and go througli with all. 

Escal. liook, you bring me in the names of 
some six or seven, the most sufficient of your 

Md. To your worship's house, sir ? 

Escal. To my house : Fare you well. lEviL 
Elbow.] What 's o'clock, tliink you ? 

JusL Eleven, sir. 

Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. 

Jusl. I humbly thank you. 

Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio ; 
But there 's no remedy. 

JusL Lord Angelo is severe. 

Escal. It is but needful : 

]\lercy is not itself, that oft looks so ; 
Pardon is still the nurse of second woe : 
But yet, — Poor Claudio ! — There is no I'enicdy. 
Come, sir. [E.veunt. 

SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
Enter Provost and a Servant. 

Serv. He 's hearing of a cause ; he will come 
I '11 tell him of you. 

Proo. Pray you do. [Exit Servant.] I '11 
His pleasure ; may be, he will relent : Alas, 
He hath offended but as in a dream ! * 
All sects, all ages, smack of this vice ; raid he 
To die for 't— 

Enter Angelo. 

Ang. Now, what 's the matter, provost ? 

Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to- 
morrow ? 

Ang. Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou 
not order ? 
Why dost thou ask again ? 

Prov. Lest I might be too rash : 

Under your good correction, I have seen. 
When, after execution, judgment hath 
Uepented o'er his doom. 

Ang. Go to ; let that be mine : 

Do you your office, or give up your place, 
And you shall well be spar'd. 

Prov. I crave your honour's pard ^n. — 

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning 

Juliet ? 
She 's very near her hour. 

Anij, Dispose of her 

To some more litter place ; ana that with 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd, 
Desires access to you. 

Ai/g. llath he a sister ? 

Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous 
And to be shortly of a sisterhood, 
If not already. 

Ang. "Well, let her be admitted. 

[E-vit Servant. 
See you, the foniieatress be reraov'd ; 
Let her have needful, but not lavish, means ; 
There shall be order for it. 

Enter Lucio and Isabella. 

Prov. Save your honour ! [Offering io retire. 
Ang. Stay a little while. — [To Isab.] You 

are welcome : What 's your will ? 
Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
Please but your honour hear me. 

Ang. Well ; what 's your suit ? 

Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, 
And most desire should meet the blow of jus- 
tice ;. 
For which I would not plead, but that I must ; 
For which I must not plead, but that I am 
At war, 'twixt will, and will not. 

Ang. Well ; the matter ? 

Isub. I have a brother is condemned to 
I do beseech you, let it be his fault. 
And not my brother. 
Prov. Heaven give thee moviug graces I 

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor 
of it? 
Why, every fault 's condemn'd, ere it be done : 
Mine were the very cipher of a function. 
To fine'' the fault whose fine stands in re- 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. just, but severe law ! 

I had a brother then.— Heaven keep your 
honour ! [Retiring. 

Lucio. [To Isijj.] Give 't not o'er so : to him 
again, intreat him ; 
Kneel down before hhn, hang upon his gown ; 
You are too cold : if you should need a pin. 
You could not with more tame a tongue de- 

sii'e it : 
To him, I say. 

a JFr. Dyce transposes the on'Rinal " but .is olTcndeii." 
b To fine— so the ori{,'ina). The ordinary readi'-.p is In 
find. To fine is to sentence— to bring to an end. 



Act II. 1 


[SciNE It. 

Isab. Must he needs die ? 
■^ng- Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon 
And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the 
Ang. I vnll not do 't. 

Isah. But can you, if you would ? 

Ang. Look, what I will not that I can- 
not do. 
Isah. But might you do 't, and do the world 
no wrong, 
If so your heart were touch'd with that re- 
As mine is to him ? 
Ang. He 's seutenc'd ; 't is too late. 

Lucio. You are too cold. \To Isab.] 

Isab. Too late ? why, no ; I, that do speak a 
May call it back again : Well believe this,'' 
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword. 
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe. 
Become them with one half so good a grace 
As mercy does. If he had been as you, 
.A.nd you as he, you would have slipp'd like 

him ; 
But he, like you, would not have been so 
Ang. Pray you, begone. 
Isah. I would to heaven I had your potency, 
And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus ? 
No ; I would tell what 't were to be a judge, 
And what a prisoner. 

Lticio. Ay, touch him ; there 's the vein. 

Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law. 
And you but waste your words. 

Isab. Alas ! alas ! 

Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit 

And He that might the vantage best have 

Found out the remedy : How would you be, 
If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
But judge you as you are ? 0, think on 

And mercy then wUl breathe within your lips. 
Like man new made.'' 

* Well believe this — be well assured of this. 

l> This is explained by Malone, — " You will then appear as 
tender-hearted and mercilul as the first man was in his days 
of innocence, immediately after his creation." Is it not 
rather with reference to the fine allusion to the redemption 
which has gone before? think on that, and you will then be 
as merciful as a man regenerate. 


Ang. Be you content, fair maid ; 

It is the law, not I, condemns your brother : 
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my sou, 
It should be thus mth him ; — he must die to- 
Isah. To-morrow ? 0, that 's sudden ! Spare 
him, snare him : 
He 's not prepar'd for death ! Even for our 

We kill the fowl of season ;'' shall we serve 

With less respect than we do minister 
To our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, be- 
think you : 
Wlio is it that hath died for this offence ? 
There 's many have committed it. 

Lncio. Ay, well said. 

A7ig. The law hath not been dead, though i( 
hath slept : 
Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, 
If the first that did the edict infringe '' 
Had auswer'd for his deed ; now, 't is awake ; 
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a pro 

Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils 
(Either now, or by remissness ncw-conceiv'd, 
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born,j 
Are now to have no successive degrees ; 
But, ere " they live, to end. 

Isah. Yet show some pity. 

Ang. I show it most of all, when I show jus- 
tice ; 
For then I pity those I do not know, 
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall ; 
And do him right, that, answering one ibu! 

Lives not to act anoth*-. Be satisfied ; 
Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content. 
Isah. So you must be the first that gives this 
sentence ; 
And he, that suffers : 0, it is excellent 
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 

Lucio. That 's well said. 

Isah. Could great men thunder 
As Jove himself does, Jove would • ne'er Ije 

For every pelting, petty officer. 
Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but 

Merciful heaven ! 

•'' The fowl of season — when in season. 
1j We print this line as in the original. The ordinary 
reading is, if the first man. 
c Ere — the original has here 

An IT.] 



Thou ratlier, with tliy sharp and siil]jhurous 

Splitt'st the unwedgeablc and gnarled oak, 
Thau the soft myrtle : But man, proud man ! '"^ 
Dress'd in a little brief authority ; 
Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd. 
His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 
Plays sueh fantastic tricks before high heaven, 
As make the angels weep : who, with our 

Would all themselves laugh mortal.'' 

Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench : he will re- 
lent ; 
He 's coming, I perceive 't. 

Frov. Pray heaven, she win him ! 

Isab. "We cannot weigh our brother with our- 
Great men may jest with saints : 't is wit in 

them ; 
But, in the less, foul profanation. 

Lticio. Thou 'rt in the right, girl ; more o' 

hab. That in the captain's but a choleric 
Wliich in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 
Lucio. Art advis'd o' that ? more on't. 
A)/g. Why do you put these sayings upon 

me ? 
Isab. Because authority, though it err like 
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself. 
That skins the vice o' the top : Go to your 

bosom ; 
Knock there ; and ask your heart, what it doth 

That 's like my brother's fault : if it confess 
A natural guiltiness, such as is his. 
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
Against my brother's life. 

■Aiiff. She speaks, and 'tis 

Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. — Fare 
you well. 
Isab. Gentle my lord, turn back. 
A/ig. I wUl bethink me : — Come 

Isab. Hark, how I '11 bribe you : 

lord, turn back. 
Aug. How ! bribe me ? 
Isab. Aj, with such gifts that heaven shall 
share with you. 

■ The editor of the second folio reads, 0! but man, proud 
man. How much more emphatic is the passage without the 
0, making the pause after myrtle. 

•j We understand this passage,--a3 they are angels, they 
weep at folly ; if they had our spleens, they would laugh, as 


Good my 

Lticio. You had marr'd all else. 

Isah. Not witli fond shekels of the tested 
Or stones, whose raies are cither rich or poor 
As fancy values them ; but with true prayers, 
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there, 
Frc sunrise : prayers from preserved souls, 
From fasting maids, whose minds arc dedicate 
To nothing temporal. 

Ang. Well : come to me 


Lncio. Go to : it is well ; away. 

\_Asi(le to TsAP 

Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! 

Ang. Aincn . 

For I am that way going to temptation, [^Aside. 
Wliere prayers cross.* 

Isah. At what hour to-morrow 

Shall I attend your lordship ? 

Ang. At any time 'fore noon. 

Isab. Save your honour ! 

\E.reu)it Lucio, Isab., and Provost- 

Ang. From thee ; even from thy virtue ! — 
What 's this ? what 's this ? Is this her foult, or 

mine ? 
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most ? 

Not she ; nor doth she tempt : but it is I, 
That lying by the violet, in the sun, 
Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower, 
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be, 
That modesty may more betray our sense 
Than woman's lightness ? Having waste ground 

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, 
And pitch our evils '' there ? 0, fie, fie, fie ! 
"What dost thou ? or what art tliou, Angelo ? 
Dost thou desire her foully, for those things 
That make her good ? O, let her brother live : 
Thieves for their robbery have authority. 
When judges steal themselves. What? do I 

love her, 
That I dcsne to hear her speak again. 
And feast upon her eyes ? Wliat is 't I dream 
on ? 

* We believe Tyrwhitt's explanation of this passage is the 
true one. He quotes the following lines from the Merchant 
of Venice, Act iii.. Scene i. : — 

"Sal. I would it might prove the end of his losses. 
Sola. Let me say Amen betimes, Icat the Devil croii thij 
And he adds, " For the same reason Angelo seems to say 
Amen to Isabella's prayer." 

b Evils has here a peculiar signification. The desecration 
which is thus expressed may be understood from a passage 
in 2 Kings, chapter .x., verse 27: " And they brake down 
the image of IJaal, and brake down the house of".n' 
made it a draught house unto this day." 


A-CT II ] 


[Scenes III., IV 

cuDoaing enemy, that, to catch a saint. 
With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous 
Is that temptation, that doth goad us on 
To sin in loving virtue : never could the strum- 
With all her double vigour, art, and nature, 
Once stir my temper ; but this virtuous maid 
Subdues me quite : — Ever till now. 
When men were fond, I smil'd and wonder'd 
how. \_Kri(. 

SCENE III.— ^ Room in a P 


Enter Duke, habited like a Friar, and Provost. 

Duke. Hail to you, provost ! so I think you 

Prov. I am the provost : What 's your will, 

good friar ? 
Duke. Bound by my charity, and my bless'd 
I come to visit the afflicted spirits 
Here in the prison : do me the common right 
To let me see them ; and to make me know 
The nature of their crimes, that I may minister 
To them accordingly. 

Prov. I would do more than that if more were 

Enter Juliet. 

Look, here comes one ; a gentlewoman of mine. 
Who, falling in the flaws " of her own youth. 
Hath blister'd her report : She is \vith child ; 
And he that got it, sentene'd : a young man 
More fit to do another such offence, 
Than die for this. 

Duke. When must he die ? 

Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. — 
I have provided for you ; stay a while. 
And you shall be conducted. [_To Juliet. 

Duke. Eepent you, fair one, of the sin you 
carry ? 

Juliet. T do ; and bear the shame most pa- 

f^ Flaws — so tlie original. Tlie ordinary reading, tliat of 
VVarbiirton, \s flames, which he adopts to preserve "tlie 
integrity of the metaphor." Shakspere, in the superabund- 
ance of his thought, makes one metaplior run into another; 
and thus Juliet may yield to the flaws — storms — of her 
own youth, and so blister her reputation. Steevens says, 
'^ Blister seems to have reference to the .;?nmes mentioned in 
the preceding line. A similar use of this word occurs in 
Hamlet: — 

" ' takes the rose 

From the fair forehead of an innocent love. 

And sets a blister there.'" 

The passage which he quotes to defend the reading oi flames 
makes against it. The blister succeeds the rose, without 
any previous burning. 


Duke. I '11 teach you how you shall arraign 
your conscience. 
And try your penitence, if it be sound. 
Or hollowly put on. 

Juliet. I '11 gladly learn. 

Duke. Love you the man that wrong'd you ? 

Juliet. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd 

Duke. So then, it seems, your most offenceful 
Was mutually committed ? 
Juliet. Mutually. 

Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind 

than his. 
Juliet. I do confess it, and repent it, father. 
Duke. 'T is meet so, daughter : but lest you 
do repent. 
As that the sin hath brought you to this 

shame, — 
Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not 

heaven ; 
Showing, we would not spare heaven, as \vc 

love it. 
But as we stand in fear, — 

Juliet. I do repent me, as it is an evil ; 
And take the shame with joy. 

Duke. There rest. 

Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow. 
And I am going with instruction to him. — 
Grace go with you ! Benedicite ! \E.rit. 

Juliet. Must die to-morrow ! 0, injurious 
That respites me a life, whose very comfort 
Is still a dying horror ! 

Prov. 'T is pity of him. \E.i-eunt. 

SCENE IV — A Room in Augelo'5 House. 
Enter Angelo. 

An//. When I would pray and think, I think 

and pray 
To several subjects : heaven hath my empty 

words : 
Whilst my invention,b hearing not my tongue. 
Anchors on Isabel : Heaven in my moutli. 
As if I did but only chew his name ; 
And in my heart, the strong and swelling evil 
Of my conception : The state whereon I studied 
Is like a good thing, being often read, 
Grown fear'd and tedious ; yea, my gravity, 
Wherein (let no man hear me) I take pride. 
Could I, with boot,'^ change for an idle plume, 

a LatL'—'m the original, love. 
b /Hroi/iora— imagination. 

c iJoo/— advantage. 

Arc 11.1 


[SctKE IV. 

Which the air beats for vain. O place ! O 

form ! 
How often dost thou M'itli thy case,"' thy habit, 
Wrench awe from fools, and tic the wiser souls 
To tliy false seeming? Blood, thou art blood :'' 
Let's write good angel on the devil's horn, 
'T is not the devil's crest." 

E//fe>' Servant. 

How now, who 's there ? 
Sen\ One Isabel, a sister, 

Desires access to you. 
Jfiff. Teach, her the way. heavens ! 

[_Krii Serv. 

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart. 

Making both it unable for itself, 

And dispossessing all my other parts 

Of necessary fitness ? 

So play the foolish throngs with one that 
swoons ; 

Come all to help him, and so stop the air 

By which he should revive : and even so 

The general,'^ subject to a well-wish'd king, 

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fond- 

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught 

Must needs appear offence. 

Enier Isabella. 

How now, fair maid ? 

Tsab. I am come to know your pleasure. 

J/i</. That you might know it would much 
better please me, 
Than to demand what 't is. Your brother cannot 
Tsal). Even so. — Heaven keep your honour ! 

Atig. Yet may he live a while ; and it may be, 
As long as you, or I : yet he must die. 

hah. Under your sentence ? 

Ang. Yea. 

Isab. When, I beseech you ? that in his re- 
Longer, or shorter, he may be so fitted, 
That his soul sicken not. 

Ang. Ha 1 Fie, these filthy vices ! It were as 
To pardon him that hath from nature stolen 

" Case — outside. 

1) So the original. The ordinary reading is, Bloi. i, thou 
slill art blood. 

c A crest was emblematical of some quality in the wearer, 
such as his ancestral name. Whatever legend we put on it, 
the crest is typical of the person. The " devil's horn " is 
the " devil's crest ; " but if we write " pood angel " on it, 
the emblem is overlooked in the " false seeming." 

d The general — the people. 

A man already made, as to remit 

Their saucy sweetness, that do coin lu.'avcu'i 

In stamps tliat are forbid : 'tis all as easy 
Falsely to take away a life true made, 
As to put mettle in restrained means, 
To make a false one. 

Is-ub. 'T is set down so in heaven, but not in 

Ang. Say you so ? then I shall pozc you 
Which had you rather, That the most just law 
Now took your brother's life; or, to redeem 

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness, 
As she that he hath stain'd ? 

Isab. Sir, believe this, 

I had rather give my body than my soul. 

Ang. I talk not of your soul : Our compeU'd 
Stand more for number than for accompt. 

Isab. How say you ? 

Ang. Nay, I '11 not warrant that ; for 1 can 
Against the thing I say. Answer to this ; — 
I, now the voice of the recorded law. 
Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life : 
Might there not be a charity in sin. 
To save this brother's life ? 

Isab. Please you to do 't, 

I '11 take it as a peril to my soul. 
It is no sin at all, but charity. 

Ang. Pleas'd you to do it, at peril of your soul, 
Were equal poise of sin and charity. 

l-:ab. That I do beg his life, if it be siu. 
Heaven, let me bear it ! you granting of mv 

If that be sin, I '11 make it my morn prayer 
To have it added to the faults of mine, 
And nothing of your answer.* 

ying. Nay, but hear me : 

Your sense pursues not mine: either you are 

Or seem so, craftily ; and that 's not good. 

Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, 
But crraeiouslv to know I am no better. 

Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most 
When it doth tax itself : as these black masks 
Proclaim an cnshicld beauty ten times louder 
Than beauty could, displayed.— But mark me ; 
To be received plain, I '11 speak more gross : 
Your brother is to die. 

Isab. So. 

* Your answer — for you to answer. 


Act II.] 

jvieasuee for measure. 

[Scene IV, 

Aitff. Aiid his offeuce is so, as it appears 
Accountant to the law upon that pain. 

Isah. True. 

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life, 
(As 1 subscribe not that, nor any other. 
But in the loss of question,) that you, his sister, 
Fiading yourself desir'd of such a person, 
Whose credit with the judge, or own great place. 
Could fetch your brother from the manacles 
Of the all-binding* law ; and that there were 
No eartlily mean to save him, but that either 
Yoa must lay down the treasures of your body 
To this supposed, or else to let hiai suffer ; 
What would you do ? 

Isab. As much for my poor brother as myself : 
That is. Were I under the terms of death. 
The impression of keen whips I 'd wear as 

And strip myself to death, as to a bed 
That longing I 've been sick for,'' ere I 'd yield 
My body up to shame. 

Jug. Then must your brother die 

Isab. And 'twere tlie cheaper way : 
Better it were a brother died at once, 
Than that a sister, by redeeming him. 
Should die for ever. 

Anff. Were not you then as cruel as the sen- 
That you have slander'd so ? 

Isab. Ignomy in ransom, and free pardon, 
Are of two houses : lawful mercy 
Is nothing kin to foul redemption. 

A)ig. You seem'd of late to make the law a 
tyrant ; 
And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother 
A merriment, than a vice. 

Isab. 0, pardon me, my lord ; it oft falls ouf, 
To have what we would have, we speak not what 

we mean : 
I something do excuse the thing I hate, 
For his advantage that I dearly love. 

Aiig. We are all frail. 

Isab. Else let my brother dip, 

If not a feodary, but only he 
Owe, and succeed thy weakness." 

a All-binding — the original lias all-hnililiiig. 

b Tlie original has "that longing hare been sick for," 
changed into the ordinary reading "that longing / hare 
l)een sick for." Mr. White reads I've. 

c This passage is exceedingly dltllcult; but its obscurity 
is not lessened by the change which has been adopted by 
modern editors, " Owe, and succeed by weakness." When 
Angelo says, "We are all frail," he makes a confession of 
his own frailty, and of that particular frailty of which, from 
the tenor of what has preceded, Isabella begins to suspect 
him. She answers, otherwise let my brother die, if we be 
not all frail— if he be not a feodary, — one holding by the 
same tenure as the rest of mankind, — and only he be found 


Ang. Nay, women are frail toe. 

Isab. Ay, as the glasses where they view them- 
selves ; 
Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 
Women ! — Help heaven ! men their creation mar 
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times 

frail ; 
For we are soft as our complexions are, 
And credulous to false prints. 

A)!g. I think it well : 

And from this testimony of your own sex, 
(Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger 
Than faults may shake our frames,) let me be 

bold ;— 
I do arrest your words : Be that you are. 
That is, a woman ; if you be more, you 're none ; 
If you be one, (as you are weU express'd 
By all external warrants,) show it now, 
By putting on the destin'd livery. 

Isab. I have no tongue but one : gentle my 
Let me entreat you speak the former language. 

Aug. Plainly conceive, I love you. 

Isab. My brother did love Juliet; and you 
tell me 
That he shall die for it. 

Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me 

Isab. I know, your virtue hath a licence in 't, 
Which seems a little fouler than it is. 
To pluck on others. 

Ang. Believe me, on mine honour, 

My words express my purpose. 

Isab. Ha ! little honour to be much believ'd, 
And most pernicious purpose ! — Seeming, seem- 

ing !— 

I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for 't : 
Sign me a present pardon for my brother. 
Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I '11 tell the world 
Aloud, what man thou art. 

Aug. Who M'ill believe thee, Isabel ': 

My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life. 
My vouch against you, and my place i' the state, 
WiU so your accusation overweigh. 
That you shall stifle in your own report, 
And smell of calumny. I have begun ; 
And now I give my sensual race the rein : 
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ; 
Lay by all nicety, and prolixious blushes. 
That banish wliat they sue for; redeem thy 

By yielding up thy body to my will ; 
Or else he must not only die the death, 

to own and succeed ihy weakness, which thou hast con- 
fessed by impMcation. 

Act II.] 


But thy uukindness shall his death draw out 
To lingeriug sufferance : answer me to-morrow, 
Or, by the affection tliat now guides me most, 
I '11 prove a tyrant to him : As for you. 
Say what you can, ray false o'erweiglis you 
true. " IKi-it. 

Imb. To whom should I complain ? Did I 
tell this, 
\VTio would believe me ? perilous mouths, 
That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, 
Either of condemnation or approof ! 
Bidding the law make court'sy to theu: will ; 
Hooking both right and wrong to the a-ppetite, 
To follow as it draws ! I '11 to my brother : 


Though he hath fallen by prompture" of (ho 

Yet hath he in him such a mind of hououj-, 
That had he twenty heads to tender down' 
Ou tweuty bloody blocks, he 'd yield them up, 
Before his sister sliould her body stoop 
To such abhorr'd pollution. 
Then Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die : 
More than our brother is our chastity. 
I '11 tell him yet of Angelo's request, 
And fit his mind to death, for liis soul's rest. 


" /"rom/iiarc— suggestion. 


Sc. 11.—" If He, which is the tup of judKment, shouUl." 
'• 1 1 He, wliich is tlic Gad of judgment, sliould."— Co//(>r. 

The MS. Coirccior changes tup to Gud, which Mr. Collier 
calls a bold and striking emendation. Mr. Dyce says, in 
his ' Few Notes on Sliakspeaie,' ''What Mr. Collier calls 
'a bold and striking emendation' deserves rather to be 
characterised as rash and wanton in the extreme." Dante, 

as Mr. Dyce points out, uses the same expression in le 
f-.rence to the Almighty : — 

' Che cima di giudicio." 

Which, we may add, Mr. Cary translates, "the sacred 
height of judgment," quoting, in a note, this passage from 

[Scene II. ' Thy sharp and Bulphurous bolt.'] 


' Scene I. — "They are not China dishes, hut renj 
fjood dishes." 
In the first scene of Massiuger's ' Renegado,' the 
servant of the disguised Venetian gentleman tells 
his master that his wares 

" Are safe unladen ; not a crystal crack'd, 
Or China dish needs soldering." 

China dishes were not uncommon things in the 
days of Elizabeth and James. We captured them 
on board the Spanish carracks; and we purchased 
them from Venice. Cromwell imposed a duty ou 
China di.»hes, so that they had in liis time become 
a regular article of commerce. 

[Scene II. Street before tlie Prison, 


SCENE \.—A Room in the Prison. 

Elder Duke, Claudio, and Provost. 

Duke. So, then you hope of pardon from lord 

Angelo ? 
Claud. The miserable have no other medi- 
But only hope : 

I have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die. 
Duke. Be absolute for death ; either deatli, 
or life, 
Shall thereby be the sweeter, Reason thus with 

Life : 
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
That none but fools would keep : "• a breath thou 

a Keep. — Warburton says, " the sense of the lines in tliis 
reading is a direct persuasive to suicide ; " and lie proposes 
to read reck — care for. Keep was anciently u.^ud in this 
vprv sense. In Wiclif's translation of the Bible, the fortieth 

Servile (o all the skiey influences 
That dost " this habitation, where thou kccp'st, 
Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death's fool; ' 
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shuu, 
And yet runn'st toward him i. till : Thou art not 

noble ; 
Tor all the accommodations that thou bcar'st, 
Are nurs'd by baseness : Thou art by no means 

valiant ; 
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 

verse of the tenth chapter of St. Luke is thus rendered: 
'And she stood, and said. Lord, takest thou no At'c/j that 
my sister hath Icit nie alone to serve?" In the authorised 
version the word care is substituted for keep. 

a Dost — Hanmer improperly changed the old reading to 
do: conceiving that " skiey intluences" was the nominative 
case. Porson restored what we think the proper reading, 
although Mr. Dyce asks what Porson was thinking of/ I'e 
was thinking that Life was the persanilicd entity to he 
reasoned with. Thou art a breath, (servile to all the .skiey 
induences,) that dost (propcily so in connection with thou) 
this habitation (the body) hourly afflict. The 7"/iuuJ through- 
out the speech are addressed lo Life— noi to Claudio, ai 
might be supposed. 


Act III 


[Sca^iB I. 

Of a poor worm : '^ Thy best of rest is sleep, 
Aud that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st 
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not 

thyself ; 
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains 
That issue out of dust : Happy thou art not : 
For what thou hast not still thou striv'st to get ; 
And what thou hast, forgett'st : Thou art not 

certain ; 
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects. 
After the moon : If thou art rich, thou art poor ; 
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows. 
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey. 
And death unloads thee : Friend hast thou none ; 
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
The mere effusion of thy proper loins. 
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 
For ending thee no sooner : Thou hast nor youth, 

nor age ; 
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, 
Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth 
Becomes as aged," and doth beg the alms 
Of palsied eld;^ and when thou art old, and 

Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor 

To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in 

That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life 
Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we fear, 
That makes these odds all even. 

Claud. I humbly thank you. 

To sue to live, I find I seek to die ; 
And seeking death find life : Let it come on. 

E/der Isabella. 
Tsr/l/. What, ho ! Peace here ; grace and good 


Pfov. Who 's there ? come in : the wish de- 
serves a welcome. 

D/di-e. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again. 

Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. 

laab. My business is a word or two with 

a Johnson says, " Worm is put for any cieepinp tiling or 
serpent. Shakspeare supposes falsely, but according to the 
vulgar notion, that a serpent wounds with his tongue, and 
tliat his tongue is forked." It appears to us that the fear 
here described is that of the icomi of llie f/ravi', and that the 
next sentence is an enforcement of the same idea. Through- 
out this speech the antagonist principle of life is kept con- 
stantly in view : — 

" Jlerely, thou art death's fool." 

" And death unloads thee." 

" What's yet in this. 

That bears the name of life? Yet in this life 

Lie hid more thousand deaths." 

l" F.ld—oM age, or old people. 


Pj'ov. And very welcome. Look, signior, 
here's your sister. 

Duke. Provost, a word with you. 

Prou. As many as you please. 

Diil-e. Bring me to hear them speak, where 
I may be conceal'd.^ 

\E.xeunt DuK£ and Provost 

Claud. Now, sister, what 's the comfprt ? 

Isab. Why, as all comforts are; most good, 
most good ^ indeed : 
Lord Angelo, having aflairs to heaven. 
Intends you for his swift ambassador. 
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger : " 
Therefore your best appointment make with 

speed ; 
To-morrow you set on. 

Claud. Is there no remedy ? 

hai. None, but such remedy as, to save a head, 
To cleave a heart in twain. 

Claud. But is there any ? 

Isab. Yes, brother, you may live ; 
There is a devilish mercy in the judge. 
If you '11 implore it, that will free your life, 
But fetter you till death. 

Claud. Perpetual durance ? 

Isah. Ay, just, perpetual durance ; a restraint, 
Though all the world's vastidity you had, 
To a determin'd scope. 

Claud. But in what nature ? 

Isab. In such a one as (you consenting to 't) 
Would bark your honour from that trunk you 

And leave you naked. 

Claud. Let me know the pouit. 

* The reading of the original folio is, 

" Bring them to hear me speak, where I may be 

This is clearly an error ; for the Duke does not desire that 
Claudio and his sister should hear him speak, but that 
being concealed he should hear them. The second folio 
corrects this manifest error, and at the same time creates 
another error : — 

" Bring them to speak, where I may be conceal'd, 
yet hear them." 

This is the usual reading; yet it is clearly wrong; for the 
Duke and the Provost go out to the place of concealn.ent, 
whilst Claudio and his sister remain. The transposition of 
the pronouns in the original line gives the meaning. 

b The empliatic repetition of most good, which occurs i}i 
the original, is sometimes got rid of upon Steevens' prin- 
ciple of allegiance to ten syllahles. 

c Leiger.— The commentators appear to have overlooked 
that the use of the word leiger is distinctly associated with 
the image of an ambassador in the preceding line. A leiger 
ambassador was a resident ambassador — not one sent on a 
brief and special mission. There is a passage in Lord Bacon 
which gives us this meaning distinctly : "Leiger ambassadors, 
or agents, were sent to remain in or near the courts of those 
princes or states, to observe their motions, or to hold cor- 
respondence with them." The same association of ideas is 
carried forward in the word appoiiitmenf, which Steevens 
explains as preparation for death. But the word especially 
belongs to an ambassador, as we find in Burnet: " He had 
the appointments of an ambassador, but would not take the 

Act 111.] 



Isab. 0, 1 do fear thee, Claudio ; and I quake, 
Lest tliou a feverous life shouldst cntertaiu. 
And six or seven winters more respect 
Than a perpetual houoiu". Dar'st thou die ? 
Tha sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon. 
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great 
As when a giant dies.^ 

Claud. ^Vhy give you me this shame ? 

Think you I can a resolution fetch 
From flowery tenderness ? If I must die, 
I will encounter darkness as a bride, 
And hug it in mine arms. 

Isab. There spake my brother ; tliere my 
father's grave 
Did utter forth a voice ! Yes, thou must die : 
Thou art too noble to conserve a life 
In base appliances. This outward-sainted de- 
Whose settled visage and deliberate word 
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmew, 
As falcon doth the fowl, — is yet a devil ; 
His filth within being cast, he would appear 
A pond as deep as hell, 

Claud. The precise"' Augelo ? 

Isab. 0, 't is the cunning livery of hell, 
The damned'st body to invest and cover 
In precise guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio, 
If I would yield him my vii'gkuty. 
Thou mightst be freed ? 

Claud. 0, heavens ! it cannot be. 

Isab. Yes, he would give't thee, from this 
rank offence, 
So to offend him still : This night 's the time 

a Precise.— The original folio gives us the meaningless 
wordprerazie, not only here, but in the subsequent line,— 
" In prenzie ffuards." Warburton proposes to read priestly ; 
Steevens and Malone, following the second folio, give us 
princely. It appears to us that, having to choose some 
word which would have the double merit of agreeing with 
the sense of the passage and being similar in the number 
and form of the letters, nothing can be more unfortunate 
than the correction of princely. Warburton's priestly is 
much nearer the meaning intended to be conveyed. Tieck 
has suggested, as we think very happily, the word precise. 
It will be seen at once that tliis word has a much closer re- 
semblance io prenzie than either of the others:— 
Angelo has already been called precise; and the term, so 
familiar to Shakspere's contemporaries, of precisian, would 
make Claudio's epithet perfectly appropriate and mtelli- 
gibls. It appears to us that we must adopt the same change 
in both instances. Princely jruorrfs— understanding by 
guards the trimmings of a robe— certainly does not give us 
the meaning of the poet : it only says, the worst man may 
wear a rich robe : priestly is here again much better. But 
precise guards distinctly gives us the formal trimmings of 
the scholastic robe, to which Milton alludes in 'Comus.' 
But the nearest word to prenzie is plirensy—s\}elt frenzie in 
Midsummer Night's Dream. In our Library edition we 
have ventured to suppose that when Isabella accused the 
" outward-sainted deputy," Claudio should think she was 
mad and exclaim, "The phrensy; Angelo?" 

Comedies.— Vol. II. U 

Tliat I should do what I aljhor to name. 
Or else thou diest to-morrow. 

Claud. Thou shalt not do 't. 

Isab. 0, were it but my life, 
I 'd throw it down for your deliverance 
As frankly as a pin. 

Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 

Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to- 

Claud. Yes. — Has he affections in him. 
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose, 
When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin ; 
Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 

Isab. AVTiich is the least ? 

Claud. If it were damnable, he, being so wise, 
Why would he for the momentary trick 
Be perdurably fin'd ? — Isabel ! 

Isab. What says my brother ? 

Claud. Death is a fearful thing. 

Isab. And shamed life a hateful. 

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not 
where ; 
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; 
This sensible wami motion to become 
A kneaded clod; and the dehghtcd" spirit 
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
In thrillmg regions'' of thick-ribbed ice ; 
To be imprison'd in the viewless wmds, 
And blown with restless ^•iolcnce round about 
The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst 
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts 
Imagine howling ! — 't is too horrible ! 
The weariest and most loathed worldly life, 

a Delighted.— Thii epithet has been changed to dilated ; 
and it lias been proposed to read benighted, and delinifuenl. 
Warburton explains "the delighted spirit" to mean the 
soul once accustomed to delight. "We agree with the 
learned and agreeable writer of an article on Farmer, piib- 
Huhed in ' Eraser's Jfagazine,' that Warburton's interpreta- 
tion is "rather strained; " but we cannot recommend his 
own suggestion of delated. We are indebted to an anony- 
mous correspondent for an explanation, wliich, if not quite 
unexceptionable, has certainly the merit of great ingenuity : 
— " Does not the word delighted (de-lighted) mean removeil 
from the regions of light, which is a strictly classic use of 
the prepositive particle de, and very frequent in Shak- 
spere ? " Our correspondent gives us a passage from Giles 
Fletcher in support of this explanation: — 

" The sun 
Wrapp'd in a sable cloud from mortal eyes, 
The hasty stars at noon begin to rise. 
And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies. 

But, soon as he again deshadow'd is, 
Restoring the blind world his blemish'd sight, 
As though another day were newly liis, 
The cozen'd birds busily take their flight, 
And wonder at the shortness of the night. ' 

(• The Eclipse.') 

He adds: — 

"The word ' deshadowcd ' is here used in a sense precisely 
antagonistic to 'de/15/i/ed;" viz., 'removed from the shade. 

b Meyians.-The original has region ; as, in a subsequent 
line, it has thought. We are not quite s.itisficd vr'«>' the 
change; bu^, in a passage like this, which is far"''»y„*° 
every one, the slightest deviation from the received tcil 
produces an unpleasant feeling to the reader. 


Act III.] 


[Scene I. 

That age, ach, penury, and imprisonment 
Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
To what we fear of death. 

Isal). Alas ! alas ! 

Claud. Sweet sister, let me live : 

What sin you do to save a brother's life, 
Nature dispenses witli the deed so far, 
That it becomes a vii'tue. 

Isab. O, you beast ! 

0, faithless coward ! O, dishonest wretch ! 
Wilt thou be made a man out of my Tice ? 
Is 't not a kind of incest, to take life 
From thine own sister's shame ? What should I 

think ? 
Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fail- ! 
For such a warped slip of wilderness " 
Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance ; 
Die ; perish ! might but my bending down 
Eeprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed : 
I '11 pray a thousand prayers for thy death. 
No word to save thee. 

Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel. 

Isab. 0, fie, fie, fie ! 

'i'hy sin 's not accidental, but a trade : 
Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd : 
'T is best that thou diest quickly. {Going. 

Claud. O hear me, Isabella. 

Re-enter Duke. 

Buke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but 
one word. 

Isab. What is your will ? 

Duke. Might you dispense with your leisure, 
I would by and by have some speech with you : 
the satisfaction I would requh'e is likewise your 
own benefit. 

Isab. I have no superfluous leisui'e ; my stay 
must be stolen out of other affairs ; but I will 
attend you a while. 

Duke. \_To Claudio, aside.'] Son, I have over- 
heard what hath passed between you and your 
sister, Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt 
her ; only he hath made an assay of her virtue, 
to practise his judgment with the disposition of 
natures ; she, havuig the truth of honour' in her, 
hath made him that gracious denial which he is 
most glad to receive : I am confessor to Angelo, 
and I know this to be true ; therefore prepare 
yourself to death : Do not satisfy your resolu- 
tion with hopes that are fallible : to-morrow you 
must die ; go to your knees, and make ready. 

Claud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so 
out of love with Hfe, that I will sue to be rid of it. 

Duke. Hold you there : farewell. 

[Exit Claudio. 

fi Wilderness — wildness. 

Re-enter Provost. 

Provost, a word with you. 

Prov. What 's your will, father ? 

Duke. That now you are come you will De 
gone : Leave me a while with the maid ; my 
miud promises with my habit no loss shall touch 
her by my company. 

Prov. In good time."' [E.xit Provost. 

Duke. The hand that hath made you fair hath 
made you good : the goodness that is cheap in 
beauty makes beauty brief in goodness ; but 
grace, being the soul of your complexion, should 
keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that 
I Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed 
to my understanding ; and, but that frailty hath 
examples for his falling, I should wonder at 
Angelo. How will you do to content this sub- 
stitute, and to save your brother ? 

Isab. I am now going to resolve him : I had 
rather my brother die by the law, than my son 
should be unlawfully born. But 0, how much 
is the good duke deceived in Angelo ] If ever 
he return, and I can speak to him, I wiU open 
my lips in vain, or discover his government. 

Duke. That shall not be much amiss : Yet, as 
the matter now stands, he wiU avoid your ac- 
cusation; he made trial of you only. — There- 
fore, fasten your ear on my advisings ; to the 
love I have m doing good. A remedy presents 
itself. I do make myself believe that you may 
most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a 
merited benefit ; redeem your brother from the 
angry law ; do no stain to your own gracious 
person; and much please the absent duke, if, 
peradventui'e, he shall ever retui-n to have hear- 
ing of this business. 

Isab. Let me hear you speak fiu:ther ; I have 
spu'it to do anything that appears not foul in the 
truth of my spii'it. 

Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never 
fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, 
the sister of Frederick, the great soldier, who 
miscarried at sea ? 

Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good 
words went with her name. 

Duke. She should this Angelo have married ; 
was aflianced to her by oath, and the nuptial 
appointed : between which time of the contract 
and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick 
was wracked at sea, having in that perished 
vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark, how 
heavily this befel to the poor gentlewoman : 
there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in 
his love toward her ever most kind and natural; 

n Z.'i good time — very we)! — a la bonne heure. 



Act Ill.j 


[Scene II. 

with him the portion and sinew of her fortune, 
her rnarriage-dowry ; with both, her conibinute " 
husband, this well-seeming Augelo. 

Isab. Can this be so ? Did Angelo so leave her? 
Duke. Left her in her tears, and dried not one 
of them with his comfort ; swallowed his vows 
whole, pretending, in her, discover ies of dis- 
honour; in few, bestowed her on her own la- 
mentation, whieh she yet wears for his sake ; 
and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with 
them, but relents not. 

Isad. What a merit were it in death, to take 
this poor maid from the world ! What eorrup- 
tiou in this life, that it will let tliis man live ! — 
But how out of this can she avail ? 

Du/ce. It is a rupture that you may easily 
heal; and the cure of it not only saves yoiu- 
brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it. 
Isad, Show me how, good father. 
Du/ce. This fore-named maid hath yet in her 
the continuance of her fii'st affection ; his unjust 
unkindness, that in all reason should have 
quenched her love, hath, like an impedmient in 
the current, made it more violent and iinruly. 
Go you to Angelo ; answer his requiring with a 
plausible obedience ; agree with his demands to 
the point : only refer yourself to this advantage, 
— first, that your stay with him may not be long ; 
that the time may have all shadow and silence 
in it ; and the place answer to convenience : this 
being granted in course, now follows all : — we 
shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your 
appointment, go in your place ; if the encounter 
acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him 
to her recompense : and here, by this, is your 
brother saved, youi- honour untainted, the poor 
Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy 
scaled." The maid will I frame, and make fit 
for his attempt. If you think well to carry this 
as you may, the doubleness of the benefit de- 
fends the deceit from reproof. What think you 
of it? 

Isab. The image of it gives me content al- 
ready ; and, I trust, it will grow to a most pros- 
perous perfection. 

Du/i-e. It lies much in your holding up : Haste 
you speedily to Angelo ; if for this night he en- 
treat you to his bed, give him promise of satis- 
faction. I will presently to St. Luke's ; there, 
at the moated grange, resides this dejected Ma- 
riana : ^ At that place call upon me ; and de- 
spatch with Augelo, that it may be quickly. 

Isai. I thank you for this comfort : Fare you 
weU, good father. [_Exeunt several!)/. 

1 Combinale — betrothed. 

b Scuhd — to scale is to weigh. 
U 2 

SCENE II.— The Street before the Prison. 

Biiter Duke, as a Friar ; (o him Elbow, Clown, 
and Ofiicers. 

Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but 
that you will needs buy and sell men and women 
like beasts, we shall have all the world drink 
brown and white bastard. 

Duke. 0, heavens ! what stuff is here ? 

Clo. 'Twas never merry world, since, of two 
usm-ies, the merriest was put down, and the 
worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to 
keep him warm ; and furred with fox and lamb- 
skins too, to signify, that craft, being richer than 
iunoeency, stands for the facing. 

Elb. Come your way, sir : — Bless you, good 
father friar. 

Biike. And you, good brother father : • What 
ofl'cuce hath this man made you, sir ? 

Elb. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law ; and 
sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for wc 
have found upon him, sir, a strange pick-lock, 
which we have sent to the deputy. 

Duke. Fie, sirrah ; a bawd, a wicked bawd ! 
The evil that thou eausest to be done. 
That is thy means to live : Do thou but think 
What 't is to cram a maw, or clothe a back, 
From such a filthy vice : say to thyself, — 
From their abominable and beastly touches 
I driiik, I eat, array myself, and live. 
Canst thou believe thy living is a life. 
So stiakingly depending ? Go, mend, go, incud. 

Clo. Indeed, it docs stink in some sort, sir; 
but yet, sii", I would prove — 

Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs 
for sin, 
Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer. 
Correction and instruction must both work, 
Ere this rude beast will profit. 

Elb. He must before the deputy, sir ; he has 
given him warning : the deputy cannot abide a 
whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and 
comes before him, he were as good go a mile 
on his errand. 

Buke. That wc were all, as some woidd seem 
to be. 
From our faults, as faults from seeming, free ! 

Enter liV CIO. 
Elb. His neck wiU come to your waist, a cord, 


a Sliaksjiere knew something of the primitive nicaiiinga 
of words. Friar is a corruption of the Frencli fri-re: ami 
Tyrwliitt shows us how the Duke's joke would read in 
French :—" Dieu vous benisse, mon i>6re frcre. Et vous 
aussi, mon frurc pire." 


Act III.] 


[ScEKE n 

Clo. I spy comfort; I cry, bail: Here's a 
gentleman, and a friend of mine. 

Lucio. How now, noble Pompey? Wiat, at 
the wheels * of Csesar ? Art thou led in triumph ? 
What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, 
newly made woman, to be had now, for putting 
the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? 
What reply ? Ha ? What sayest thou to this tune, 
matter, and method ? Is 't not di-owned i' the last 
rain? Ha? What sayest thou, trot ? Is the world 
as it was, man ? Which is the way ? Is it sad, 
and few words ? Or how ? The trick of it ? 

Luke. Still thus, and thus ! still worse ! 

Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mis- 
tress ? Procures she still ? Ha ? 

Clo. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, 
and she is herself in the tub. 

Lucio. Why, 't is good ; it is the right of it : 
it must be so : Ever your fresh whore, and your 
powdered bawd : An unshunned consequence ; 
it must be so : Ai't going to prison, Pompey ? 

Clo. Yes, faith, sir. 

Lucio. Why 't is not amiss, Pompey : Farewell ; 
Go ; say, I sent thee thither. Por debt, Pom- 
pey ? Or how ? 

Elb. Por being a bawd, for being a bawd. 

Lucio. Well, then imprison him : If imprison- 
ment be the due of a bawd, why, 't is his right : 
Bawd is he, doubtless, and of antiquity too: 
bawd-born. PareweU, good Pompey : Commend 
me to the prison, Pompey : You will turn good 
husband now, Pompey ; you will keep the 
house. ^ 

Clo. I hope, sir, your good worship will be 
my bad. 

Liccio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey ; it is 
not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase 
your bondage : if you take it not patiently, why, 
youi- mettle is the more : Adieu, trusty Pompey. 
— Bless you, friar. 

Duke. And you. 

Lucio. Does Bridget paint stUl, Pompey ? Ha? 

Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 

Clo. You Nvill not bail me then, sir ? 

Lucio. Then, Pompey, — nor now. — What 
news abroad, friar ? What news ? 

Mb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 

* Wheels. — We have here a remarkable example how an 
apparently slight error — the omission or substitution or a 
letter— creeps into repeated editions of many books, and 
destroys the force of a passage. We cannot trace where the 
srror began ; but we once invariably found heels instead of 
wheels, which is the original word, and of the propriety of 
which there can be no doubt. 

b This passage supports Dr. Jamieson's etymology of 
husband; who is of opinion that the terminating syllable, 
band, is not from the Anglo-Saxon Bind-an, to bind ; but 
from buand, bucnde, the past participle of bu-an, by-an, 
liabitare, colere. 


Lzccio. Go, — to kennel, Pompey, go : 

\Exeu)it Elbow, Clown, and Officers. 
What news, friar, of the duke ? 

Luke. I know none : Can you tell me of any ? 

Jjiicio. Some say he is with the emperor of 
Russia ; other some, he is in Rome : But where 
is he, think you ? 

Luke. I know not where : But wheresoever, 
I wish him well. 

Lticio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him, 
to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary 
he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it 
well in his absence ; he puts transgression to 't. 

Luke. He does well in 't. 

Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would 
do no harm in him : something too crabbed that 
way, friar. 

Luke. It is too general a vice, and severity 
must cure it. 

Jjucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a 
great kindi'cd; it is well allied: but it is impos- 
sible to extirp it quite, friar, tUl eating and drink- 
ing be put down. They say, this Angelo was 
not made by man and woman, after this down- 
right way of creation : Is it true, think you ? 

Luke. How should he be made then ? 

Lucio. Some report, a sea-maid spawned him : 
— Some, that he was begot between two stock- 
fishes : — But it is certain, that when lie makes 
water, his urine is congealed ice ; that I know 
to be true : and he is a motion generative, that 's 

Luke. You are pleasant, sir ; and speak apace. 

Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in 
him, for the rebellion of a cod-piece to take 
away the life of a man ! Would the duke, that is 
absent, have done this ? Ere he would have 
hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, 
he would have paid for the nursing a thousand : 
He had some feeling of the sport ; he knew the 
service, and that instructed him to mercy. 

Luke. I never heard the absent didie much de- 
tected for women ; he was not inclined that way. 

Lucio. O, sir-, you are deceived. 

Luke. 'T is not possible. 

Lucio. Who ? not the duke : yes, your beg- 
gar of fifty ; — and his use was, to put a ducat in 
her clack-dish : the duke had crotchets in him : 
He would be drunk too ; that let me inform you. 

Luke. You do him wrong, surely. 

Lucio. Sir, I was an inward" of his : A shy 
fellow was the duke : and, I believe, I know the 
cause of his withdrawing. 

Luke. What, I prithee, might be the cause ? 

a Inward — intimate. 

Acr III.] 



Tmcio. No, — pardon ; — 't is a secret must be 
locked within tlic teeth and the lijjs : but this I 
can let you understand, — The greater file of the 
subject * held the duke to be wise. 

Buke. Wise ? why, no question but he was. 

Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweigli- 
ing fellow. 

Buke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mis- 
taking ; the very stream of his life, and tlie bu- 
siness he hath helmed,'' must, upon a warranted 
need, give him a better proclamation. Let him 
be but tcstimonied in his own bringings forth, 
and he shall appear to the envious, a scholar, a 
statesman, and a soldier : Therefore, you speak 
unskilfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it 
is much darkened in your malice. 

Lucio. Su-, I know him, and I love him. 

Buke. Love talks with bettor knowledge, and 
knowledge with dearer love. 

Ltccio. Come, sir, I know what I know. 

Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you 
know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke 
return, (as our prayers are he may,) let me desire 
you to make your answer before him : If it be 
honest you have spoke, you have courage to 
maintain it : I am bound to call upon you ; and, 
I pray you, your name. 

Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio ; \vell known to 
the duke. 

Buke. He shall know you better, s