Full text of "The pictorial edition of the works of Shakspere. Edited by Charles Knight"

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SHAKSPERE.

CHARLES KNIGHT.

COMEDIES.— VOL. IE

LONDON: VIRTUE & CO.

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CONTENTS.

PAGE

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . , . . , 1

JIUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 67

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL . . . . , 127

AS YOU LIKE IT . . 187

MEASURE FOR MEASURE 259

A WINTER'S TALE , 323

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

v>-

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. IL

COMEDIES.

TITLE-PAGE TO VOLUME.
' All the world's a stage.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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

INXRODUCTOKY NOTICE.

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

DRAMATIS PERSONa:.

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

ACT I

Interior of Palace in Rousillon. — Countess and

Clown. Harvey and Prior 13

Gate of Perpignan. Sargent 21

ACT II.

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT II.

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT III

Hand-gun 43

Arquebus 43

ACT IV.

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

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT IV.

Travelling Waggon of the Fifteenth Century 54

Carriage of 1582 54

ACT V.

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.

Eliz.

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 ^

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. IL-OOMEDIES.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

PAGE

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

ISTRODUCTOBT NOTICE.

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

DaAMi.TI8 PEBSOSa-

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

ACT III.

Scene Ill.-Setting the Watch.* Harvey and

Tiffin -

Ancient Watchmen, temp. Eliz.

101

ACT I.

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

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

ItlUSTRATIONS OP ACT I.

75
80

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT III.

'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

103
101

ACT IV.

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

105

ACT V.

Exterior of Cathedral of Messina.* Harvey and

ACT II.

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

and Prior

Garden. Balthazar sings. G. F. Sargent

ILLUSTRATION OP ACT II.

Caricature from Borde .

84
92

Prior

111

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

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT V.

Ancient Walking-sticks

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

Messina, from the Sea. G. F. Sargent

120

121

Cupids forging Arrows.

From Albano 12G

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

TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

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

127

introductory NOTICE.

Le Roi boit— Flemish Twelfth Night. After a

Picture by Jordaens 129

Woman of Mitylene.— From Vecellio 133

DRAMATIS PERSONiE.

Border.— Interior of a Chamber '34

ACT I.

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT I.

' 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

159
159

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

ACT III.

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

173

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
vi

ACT IV.

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

Prior

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

ACT V.

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

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

Middle Temple Hall

183

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

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.— COMEDIES.

AS YOU LIKE IT,

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

IKTKODUCTORY NOTICE.

Forest of Arden. W. Habvey 189

Cross at West-Cheap 200

DRAMATIS PERSON^;.

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

MEASURE FOR MEASURE
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

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT II,

China Dishes 280

ACT III.

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

ILLUSTRATION" OF ACT III.

Death and the Fool 295

ACT IV.

Scene III. — Interior of Prison. Tiffin 297

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

ACT V.

Near City Gate, Prior and Harvey S07

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE,

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

W. Harvey 315

vii

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.-COMEDIES.
A WINTER'S TALE.

F\GE

. 323

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

IKTRODl'CTORY NOTICE.

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->

325

DRAMATIS PEnSOSX.

Border. W. Harvey

ACT I.

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

Harvey

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

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT I.

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

334

3^5
342

343

344

351

373
374
375

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT IV.

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

ACT V.

Seene III. W. Harvey.

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT V.

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

TEMPEST.

.. 387

ISTBODUCTORY NOTICE.

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

by Sev

389

Bermuda ^^'^

DRAMATIS PERSON.^;.

Border. W. Harvey

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

3S8

390
408

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT I.

Manacles. From Specimens in the Tower of
London

409

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

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

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT II.

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

ACT III.

Ferdinand and Miranda before the cell of Prospero.

W. Haiivev 419

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

enter Shapes.' W.Harvey 424

viii

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT 111.

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

ACT IV.

TheMasque. W.Harvey 427

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT IV.

•A Frippery.' From a Print dated 1587 433

act v.

Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess 434

Naples, from the sea 439

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT V.

'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.

[Boccaccio.]

INTUODUCTOHY NOTICE.

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
prejudices."
The remark in Farmer's Essay to which Mr. Hunter alludes was certainly made in a " casual "

Merchant of Venice. Introductory Notice, p. 388.

INTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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."

ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

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.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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 h.er 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 : —

miEODUCTOEY NOTICE.

' 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 vcr.se 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

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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

INTEODUCTOEY NOTICE.

^Zr.^Z ::^?oSLr:f Il^^^oUl, .. no .„ ™n t.an .^ .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.

Costume.

[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.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS AVELL.

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.,

fp'^^

[interior of Palace in Rousillon.]

ACT I.

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
time.

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.]

ALL'S ^VELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
Narbon.

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-
lality.

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-
ness."

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 " '
14

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
Uviug.

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

virtue.
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

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

silence,
But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more

will.
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck

down.
Fall on thy head! Farewell. — My lord,
'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

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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

like?
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

plague,
To see him every hour ; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table ; ^ heart too capable
Of every line and trick ° of his sweet favour :•'
But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here ?

Enter Parolles.

One that goes with him: I love him for his

sake;
And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in hnii,
That they take place, when virtue's steely

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

see
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
him?

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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[SCEKE II.

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

loves,
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;
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

bom,
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

never
Returns us thanks.

Etder a Page.

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

\_E.ni.

• 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
fight.

Par. That's for advantage.

Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes
the safety : But the composition that your valour
and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing,
and I like the wear well.

Par. I am so full of businesses I cannot 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.

[Exit.

A Room m the King'5

SCENE IL-Paris.

Palace.

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.]

ALL'S ^YELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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

parts
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
now.
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
him

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

now
But goers backward.

Ber. His good remembrance, sir.

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb ;
So in approof lives not his epitaph.
As in your royal speech.

King. 'Would I were with him ! He would
always say,
(Methinks I hear him now : his plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear, 2) — 'Let me not

Hve,'

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

are
Mere fathers of their garments; whose con-
stancies

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,
count.
Since the physician at your father's died ?
He was much fam'd.

Ber. Some six months since, my lord.

King. If he were living I would try him yet ;—
Lend me an arm ; — the rest have worn me out
With several applications :— nature and sickness
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count ;
My 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.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
marry.

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-
ness.

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 ]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
demand.

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
young:
If ever we are nature's, these are cur's ; this
thorn

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.
C2

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

none.
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

mother
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

groan.
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

matter.
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

mothers,
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.)

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

daugliter, and

[Scene III.

'tis

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

gross.
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

thee.
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
bond.
Whereof the world takes note : come, come, dis-
close
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

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

love:
Be not offended ; for it hurts not him
That he is lov'd of me : I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit ;
Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him ;
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know 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

Dian
Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose
But lend and give, where she is sure to lose ;
That seeks not to find that her search implies.
But, riddle-like, Hves sweetly where she dies.
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak
truly,
To go to Paris ?

Hel. Madam, I had.

Qgj,„^_ Wherefore ? tell true.

Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself, 1
swear.
You know my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading.
And manifest experience, had collected _
For general sovereignty ; and that he will'd me
In heedfullest reservation to bestow them.
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note : amongst the rest.
There is a remedy, approv'd, set down.
To cure the desperate 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

credit
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

greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would

your honour
But give me leave to try success, I'd venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure.
By such a day and hour.

Act I.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[SCEKE III.

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,

[Exeunt.

[Gate cf Perpignan]

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT L

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-
22

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 controver.sy 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

ACT II.

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

Palace.

Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords, taking

leave for the Elorcntine tear ; Beutkam, Pa-

KOLLES, and Attendants.

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

farewell : —
Share the advice betwixt you ; if both gain, all
The gift doth stretch itself as '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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,

[Scene I.

Par. Most admii-ablc; I have seen those

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

bravely.
Ber. I 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
away.

1 Lord. There 's honour in the theft.

Par. Commit it, count.

2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell.
Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a 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
24

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

mercy,
And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up."
King. I would I had; so I had broke thy 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

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

touch
Is powerful to araise king Pepin, nay.
To give Great 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
arriv'd.
If you will see her : — Now, by my faith and

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

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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

ISCENE I.

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

her
(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-
logues.

Re-enter Lafeu, with Helena.

Laf. Nay, come your ways.

King. This haste hath wings indeed.

Laf. Nay, come your ways ;
This is his majesty, say your mind to him :
A traitor you do look like ; but such traitors
His majesty seldom fears : I am Cressid's uncle.
That dare leave two together : fare you well.

{Exit.

King. Now, fair one, does your business 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

give.
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

space
Hop'st thou my cure ?

Hel. The greatest grace lending grace,

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ;
Ere twice in 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.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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

heaven."
mi. Tlien shalt thou give me, with thy kingly
hand.
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-
serv'd,
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

rest
"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,

ceed
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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
think

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
time.
To entertain it so merrily with a fool.*

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

Count. An end, sir : To your business : '' Give
Helen this.
And urge her to a present answer back :
Commend me to 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
legs.

Count. Haste you again. \Exeunt severally.

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

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
fear.

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
said.

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

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
same.

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

sense
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

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

voice
I have to use : thy frank election make ;
Thou hast power to choose, and they none to
forsake.
Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous
mistress
Fall, when love please — marry to each— but
one.'
Laf. I'd give bay 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
health.
All. We understand it, and thank heaven for

you.
Eel. I am a simple maid ; and therein wealth-
iest,
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

refus'd.
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.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
eyes.
Before I speak, too threateningly replies :
Love make your fortunes twenty times above
Her that so wishes, and her humble love !

2 Lord. No better, if you please.

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
of.

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
good,
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
already.

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
which

Act II.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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-
ceed,
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

scorn
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

said?
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
me.
Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to

do't.
King. Thou wrong' st thyself, if thou should'st

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

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

hand,
Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift,
That dost in vile misprision 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

hate
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

Jatc
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
king.
Smile upon this contract ; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,
And be perform'd to-night : the solemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
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-
lon?

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

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

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

Laf. I must tell thee, 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
table.

Act 11.1

ALL'S ^^ELL THAT ENDS WELL

[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
indignity.

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
vexation.

Laf I would it were hell-pains for thy sake,
and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am
past, as I will by thee, 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 "''
30

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

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
master.
Laf. Who? God?
Par. Ay, sir.

Laf The devil it is that 's thy master. Why
dost thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion ? dost
make hose of thy sleeves ? do other servants so ?
Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy
nose stands. By mine 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
merits
The tread of a man's foot : to the wars !

Ber. There's letters from my mother; what
the import is,
I know not yet.
Par. Ay, that would be 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.]

ALL'S AVELL THAT ENDS WELT.

[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

gift
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
me.
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
well?

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
well.

Hel. If she be very well, what does she ail
that she 's not very well ?

Clo. Truly, she 's very well, indeed, but for
two things.

Hel. 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
laughter.

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

sweets.
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-
ing,
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.

\_ExeuHt.

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-
proof.

Laf. You have it from his own Jelivcraucc.

Act II.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. .

[SCEKE V

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
amity.

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
treasure.
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
lord.

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 "
32

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.

\_Exit.

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
speech
Gives Mm a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter Helena.

Hel. I have, sir, as 1 was commanded from
you.
Spoke with the king, and have procur'd his leave
For present parting ; only, he desires
Some private speech with you.

Ber. I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course.
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

you,
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.]

ALL'S ^\rELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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 '

horse.
Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my

lord.
Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur ? —

Farewell. \E.rit Helena.

\_E.irunf-

-■-C*?^

[General View of Paris.]

CoMRDIES. — Vol. IT. D

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT II.

[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 arti.st 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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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
D2

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 kiudne.ss
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.
Brydges.)

* 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.]

ACT III.

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

Palace,

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
France
Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.

2 Lord. Good my lord.
The reasons of our state I cannot yield

But like a common and an outward man,
That the great figure of a council frames
By 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
nature,
30

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

well;
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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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.

[E.vit.

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
science.

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

pains.
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

speed.
Hel. ' Till I have no wife, I have nothing in
France.'
'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
hun?
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
wickedness.
My son coriiipts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

Acv III.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
France.'
Nothing in France, imtil he has no wife !
Thou shalt have none, Rousillou, none in

France,
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

thou
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-

sillou.
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.

[EtU.

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

Th- Bens? of etrf^l^V^","^ '"^"^ ='°'" immediatdy.
».ill-»eemsquite°asTood '''"^-''"'-^^
38

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

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

Diclce. The general of oui- horse thou art ; and
we.
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber. Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength : but yet
We '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

prove
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

done,
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

writes.
Pursuit would be but vain.

<^<'«^^: Wliat angel shaU

Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive,

{"^

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Act III.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[Scene 7

Unless her prayers, whom heavcu delights to

hear,
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
Citizens.

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
honesty.

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

pilgrim,
But till the troops come by,
I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd ;
The rather, for I think I know your hostess
As ample as myself.

Ilel. Is it yom-self ?

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim.

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your
leisure.

Wid. You came, I think, from France ?

Hel. I did so.

Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of
yours.
That has done worthy service.

Hel. His name, I pray you.

Dia. The count Rousillon : Know you such a
one ?

Hel. But by the ear that hears most nobly of
him :
His face I know not.

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
lady.

Dia. There is a gentleman that serves the
count
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.]

ALL'S

WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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-
ing
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.

[Exeunt.

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
him?

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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
wind.

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.

\B.xeuiit.

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
born.
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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

[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])-

provcs
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

daughter.
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

holds
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

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT III.

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.

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT III.

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 ]

ACT IV.

SCENE l.— mthoid the Florentine Camp.

Enter first Lord, with five or six Soldiers in
ambush.

1 Lord. He can come no other way but by
this hedge-corner: When you sally upon him,
speak what terrible language you will ; though
you understand it not 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-
preter,

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.]

ALL'S ^TELL THAT ENDS ^VELL

[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
stripped.

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,
cargo.

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 "
i6

1 Lord' Oscorbi dulchos volivorco.

1 Sold. The general is content to spare thee
yet;
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
brother.
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
House.

Enter Bekteam and Diaka.

Per. They told me that your name was Fon-
tibeU.

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.

KCT IV.]

ALL'S AYELL THAT ENDS WELL

[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

oaths
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
scarre.
That we '11 forsake, ourselves.'' Give me that ring.

£er. I '11 lend it thee, my dear, but have no
power
To give it from me.

Dia. Will you not, my lord ?

Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house.
Bequeathed down from many ancestors ;
Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In me to lose.

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

" 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

them,
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

braid,"'
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
Soldiers.

1 Lord. You have not given him his mother's
letter ?

2 Lord. I have deliver'd it an hour since :
there is something in 't that 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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
other.

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
king.

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

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
prophesier.

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

Act IV.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

[Scene III.

2 Lord. Bring liim

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

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
more.

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
that?

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

very

weak

cau

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

have everything in him, by wearing his apparel
neatly,

1 Sold. Well, that 's set down.

Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said,— I
will say 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
singly.

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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

fScENE III.

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
again.

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,

Parolles.'

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 ?
50

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
certain.

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
Kousillon.

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.]

ALL'S ^VELL THAT ENDS WELL

rSCESE IV.

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
great
'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 '

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 ! 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

needful.
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

aiding,
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

dowei'.
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-
mer,
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.

\_ExeuHt.

^ 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.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[Scene V.

ACT IV.]

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,

indeed.

Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble,

sir, to do her service.

Laf. I will subscribe for thee ; thou art both
knave and fool.

Clo. At your service.

Laf. No, no, no.

Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can
serve as great a prince as you are.

Laf. Who 's that ? a Frenchman ?

Clo. Eailh, sir, 'a has an English name ; but
his phisnomy is more hotter in Erance than
there.

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,
52

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

privilege.

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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT EKDS WELL.

[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.

''Exeunt.

['So, look about you; know you any here? 'J

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT IV

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."

*-^^-i^'

[Marseilles.]

ACT V.

SCENE I.— MarseiUes. A Street.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two
Attendants.

Hel. But this exceeding posting, day and

night,
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,
sir.
Ast. And you.

Uel. Sii", I have seen you in the court of
Erance.

Ast. I have been sometimes there.

Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not
fallen
From the report that goes upon your goodness ;
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occa-
sions.
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

haste
Than is his use.

Act v.]

ALL'S AVELL THAT EN^DS WELL.

[SCEKES II., III.

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
emeadatioii.

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.]

ALL'S "WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[SCEKE III.

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.

\Exit.
King. What says he to your daughter ? have

you spoke ?
Laf. All that he is hath reference to yoiir

highness.
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

me,
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.

self
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

late.
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
To the great sender turns a sour offence.
Crying, That 's good that 's gone : our rash faults
Make trivial price of serious things 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

her.
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
name
Must be digested, give a favour from you,
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter.
That she may quickly come. — By my old beard.
And every hair that 's on 't, Helen, that 's dead,
Was a sweet creature; such a ring as this.
The last that 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
eye.
While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to it. —
This ring was mine ; and, when I gave it Helen,
I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood
Necessitied to help, that by this token
I would relieve her: Had you that craft, to reave

her
Of what should stead her most ?

Ber. My gracious sovereign,

Howe'er it pleases you to take it so.
The ring was never hers.

Count. Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it ; and she reckon'd it
At her life's rate.

Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it.

■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.)

ALL'S ^YELL THAT ENDS \VELL.

[SCES-E III.

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

Helen's,
Whoever gave it you : Then, if you know
That you are well acquainted with yourself.
Confess 't was hers, and by what rough enforce-
ment
You got it from lier: slie cali'd tlie saints to

siu'ety.
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,
Lafeu,
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-
ship,

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
honour
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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[SCEVE III

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
wife?

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

mine;
You give away myself, which is known mine ;
For I by vow am so embodied yours.
That she which marries you must marry me.
Either both or none.

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
creature,
Whom sometime I have laugh'd with : let your

highness
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

honour,
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
a-bed.

King. The story then goes false, you threw it
him
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
you?

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.]

ALL'S AVELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[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
command.

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

you?
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
ways,
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

wife.
Bia. It might be yoiu-s, or hers, for aught I

know.
King. Take her away, I do not like her now ;
To prison with her : and away with him. —
Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this

ring, _
Thou diest within this hour.
Dia.
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-
tomer.
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
maid,
I found you wond'rous kind. There is your ring.
And, look you, here 's your letter ; This it says,
' When from my finger you can get this ring.
And are by me with child,' &c. — This is done :
Win you be mine, now you are doubly won ?

Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know tliis
clearly,
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.]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

ISCENE TU.

King. Let us from point to point this story

know,
To make the even truth in pleasure flow : —
If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower,

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.

{Flourish.

(Adtancing.)

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.

\Ex(::ur.t.

[Court of Countess's Palace— Parolles and Clown.]

ILLUSTRATION OP ACT V.

' 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.

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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-;

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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
64

ALL'S AVELL THAT ENDS WELL.

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

SUPPLEMENTAEY NOTICE.

'■ 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
pains-taking.

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.]

[Ariosio.J

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

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
year,

" 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?

INTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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
70

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

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 ?

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE

" 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.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Costume.

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
reader.

■J-^ -fWLU"'"'

[Street in Messina.]

ACT I.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT N0THIN"O.

[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
Padua.

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."
76

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
leave.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCEKE I.

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
none.

Beat. A dear happiness to women ; they would
else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor.
I thank God, and my cold blood, I am of your
humour for that ; I had rather hear my dog bark
at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

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-
ment.

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
wife.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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
daughter.

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
lord,
D. Pedro. By my troth I speak my thought.
Claud. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
Bene. And by my two faiths and troths, my
lord, I spoke mine.

Claud. That I love her, I feel.
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
shortly.
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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT I^OTHING.

[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-
sently.

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
fathei',

iVnd thou shalt have her:"] Was't not to this
end,

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
this?

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
House.

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
Hmit.

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
sufferance.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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-
tent?

D. John. I make all use of it, for I use it
only. Who comes here? What news, Bora-
chio?

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.

\^Exeunt.

' 5ad— serious.

[Scene II. ' Walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchaid.'j

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT I.

' 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

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT L

[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
82

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

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

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.']

ACT II.

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
SI

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
tongue.

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.]

UJJCn ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCBKE I.

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
hell.

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
thatch'd.

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
head.

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;

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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.

{E.vit.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCEXE I.

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
abbreviation.

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
Hero.

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
company.

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-
plexion.

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.)

MUCH ADO ABOUT ^^OTHING.

[SCEKC I[.

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
neither.

1). Pedro. Tu faith, lady, you have a merry
heart.

Beat. Yea, my lord, I thank it ; poor fool, it
keeps on the windy side of care : — My cousin
tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.

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
lady.

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-
ing.

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
Benedick.

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.

\_B.teunt,

SCENE II. — Another Room tn Leonato'>«
LLouse.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCEKE HI.

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
chamber-window.

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.

[JFithdraws.

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

himself?
Claud. 0, very well, my lord : the music
ended,
We '11 fit the kid fox with a pennyworth.

ACT II.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT l^OTHmG.

[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
noting.

D. Pedro. Why these are very crotchets that
he speaks ;
Note, notes, forsooth, and noting'.'" \_Music.

Bene. Now, 'Divine air!' now is his soul
ravished !— Is it not strange that 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.

II.
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
it.

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

thought.

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
she?

Claud. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite.

\_Aside.
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.
!*0

Act II.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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-
dick.

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-
ness.

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
happiness.

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
ready.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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.

\_E.xU.

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.

RECENT NEW READING.

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 ']

ILLUSTHATIONS OF ACT II.

' 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
foot."
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
doublet."

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 ?']

ACT III.

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,
9i

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.]

."MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTn^G.

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
nothing

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

lord.
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-
man
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed.
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ?
Hero. O God of love ! I know he doth de-
serve
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-

all

[SCEKK I.

She would swearMhe gentleman should be her
sister;

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

mendable.
Hero. No not; to be so odd, and from
fashions.
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

say.
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,
madam.
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

name.
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;

will

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
heads.

d She would mocA— changed also to she'd mock by modern
editors.

e ^r^«»(cn«— conversation. So in Henry IV., Fart 1. " I
would be aryument for a week."

ACT III.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINCx.

I'll sliow tlicc some attii-es ; aud have thy coun-
sel,
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

true?
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
Leonato.

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
afterwards.

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.
GO

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-
choly.

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
upwards.

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
hair.

d The qjarto has conclude, conclude.

Act III.]

MUCH MJO ABOUT KUTJilNa

— Okl Siguier, walk aside with me; I Jmve

studied eiglit or nine wise words to speak

to you, which these liobby-liorses must uot
hear,

[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
him.

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-
cordingly.

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.

[^Exeunt.

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
Dogberry.

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.

ACT III.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Scene 111.

let him go ; and presently call the rest of the
watch togctlier, and thank God you are rid of a
knave.

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*
honesty.

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
will.

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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT :N0THIXG.

[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
commonwealth.

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
better.

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear
this.

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
bills?"

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.]

MUCH AJ^O ABOUT J^OTHiKG.

[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

conies.

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 ? "

100

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
church.

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
worship.

At! III.]

UllCK ADO ABOUT KOTHLXG.

[SCKKE V.

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

it.

Fei'ff. And so am I.

■Leo/i. I would fain know what you have to
say.

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
well.

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.

\_E.ve/iH( 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
vovi."

l> Nun come in quarto and folio. The usual reading, non
in. aspires to a correctness which does not belong to D.ig-

co
berry

[Ancient Watchmen.]

[Haggards of the Rock.]

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT III.

' 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
worketh."

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,
102

■'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.

MUCK ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

* 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 : —

— ©,-

-A

dzii

--^

:=I==]=F

• — «d — ^'

— %x —

r i

Bf^ff

:c:

-^-

__j_

)

1 1 — • Jim iUi 1 1 — — ^r—-\ — >-

' 1C3

ILLUSTEATIONS OF ACT III.

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'

;h^i^lfS5^MiiLi

[Scene I. Cathedral of Messina.]

ACT IV.

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
quarto,
b Shakspere had not forgotten his Accidence.

105

Act IV.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCSNE 1

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

again.
Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble
thankfulness.
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
proof
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

wide?
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.
106

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

name.
Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot thai
name
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

lord.
B. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. —
Leonato,
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

lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

Claud. O Hero ! what a Hero hadst thou
been.
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.;

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCKME I.

About thy tboughtsj and counsels of thy heart !
But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair ! fare-
well.
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

shames.
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches.
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one ?
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame ? ■''
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
die.
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

of?
Hero. They know that do accuse me ; I know
none:
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

creature,
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

107

Act IV.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCEM£ 1

Leon. I kuow not : If they speak but truth

of her,
These liands shall tear her ; if they wrong her

honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up 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

behalf
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

mourn,
(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.

108

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
.vioiin-td.

Beat. All, how much might the man deserve
of me that would right her !

Bene. Is there any way to show such friend-
ship?

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
you.

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. ]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

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-
ing.

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
soul.

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.

[SCEKE It.

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
constable.

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
Conrade.

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
villain.

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.

ACT IV.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT I^OTHIN-Q

[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.

[Exit.

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,"

RECENT NEW READING.

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."

'MmpMrn

[Exterior of the Cathedral of Messina. J

ACT V.

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

drunk
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."

Ill

Act v.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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

differ.
Leo?i. I pray thee, peace ; I will be flesh and

blood;
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'-

self;
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,

hastily.
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-
ling.
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.

112

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

do
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

heart.
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.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[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-
thing
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
teeth.

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
side?

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
us.

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
girdle.'

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
easily.

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

113

ACT v.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT :N'0THING.

[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

it.
Z>. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to

this?
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
appear
In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first.

Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; by
this time our sexton hath reformed signior 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

Sexton.

Leon. Which is the villain ? Let me see his
eyes;
That when I note another man like him
I may avoid him : Which of these is he ?
Bora. If you would know 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? "
114

Act v.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT KOTHLNG.

[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
live.
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-
ter.
Almost the copy of my child that 's dead.
And she alone is heir to both of us ;
Give her the right you should have given her

cousin,
And so dies my revenge.

Claud. 0, noble sir,

Your over kindness doth wring tears from

me!
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

man
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
paias.

Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most thank-

ful and reverend youth; and I praise God for
you.

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-
well.

AiiL Farewell, my lords ; we look for you to-
morrow.

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

115

^OT v.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Scene III.

The god of love, 2
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve,—

[Singing.

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

me.
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
will.

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-
ably.

a Undergoes — passes under.

Beat. It appears not in this confession; there's
not one wise man among twenty that will praise
himself.

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that
lived in the time of good neighbours -.* if a man
do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies,
he shall' live no longer in monument than the
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
haste.

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."

116

Arx V.J

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[SCESB IV.

SONG.

' 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
speeds
Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe !

[Exeunt.

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

well.
Bene. And so am I, being else by faith en-
forc'd
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen
aU,
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-
nance.
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I

thinlc.
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

her.
Leoti. The sight whereof, I tliink, you had
from me.
From Claudio, and the prince. But what 's your
will?
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

Ethiope.
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

gold.
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
cow.

& The passage in brackets is omitted in the folio.

117

VcT v.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT E"OTHma

[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
reckonings.
AYhich is the lady I must seize upon ?
Adt. This same is she, and I do give you

her.
Claud. Why, then she 's mine : Sweet, let me

see your face.
Leon. No, tliat you shall not, till you take her
hand
Before this friar, and swear to marry her.

Claud. Give me your hand before this holy
friar ;
I am your husband, if you like of me.

Hero. And when I liv'd, I \yas yom- other
wife : [ Umnaslcing.

And when you lov'd, you were my other hus-
band.
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.

118

Beat. Why then my cousin, Margaret, aud
Ursula,
Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you
did.

Bene. They swore that you were almost sick
for me.

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh
dead for me.

Bene. '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
gentleman.

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

pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle ; here 's our own hands
against our hearts ! — Come, I will have thee ;
but, by this 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
thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends : — let 's

a What is omitted in the folio.
ij In that — because.

ACT v.]

LIUCH ADO ABOUT NOTlimG.

[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\

fliglit,

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.

[Exeunt.

RECENT NEW READING.

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.]

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT V.

' 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.]

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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,

MUCH ADOE ABOUT NOTHING,

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

121

SUPPLEMENTARY I^OTICE.

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.

\2'i

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

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.

123

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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-

pathies.

" 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
124

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

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

125

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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/, .'

'tu

.V..,;'ll:i.

f.A-;fN5^.''i!,f^^'! Ill

>^r^-

111!

' An y

A} ' ,

Ml,

',1

^'^' -^"

:uif ->-.

-'7~i

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lif'|ififiiil

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iffiif ||l»'l 1^'::^^

[Le Koi Boit. The Flemisli Twelfth Night. ',

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

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

INTRODUCTOEY ITOTICE.

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

130

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

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
matter.

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
preferment.

"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,

131

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

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.

Costume.

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-
132

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

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
trousers.

■'Mii^r,^-^*

liBMftM^^^^^

[Scer.e II. ' Tins is lllyria, lady.']

ACT I.

SCENE I. — Jh. Apartment in the DukeV
Palace.

Enter Duke, Cukio, Lords; Musicians attend-
ing.

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

135

Act I.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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-
mitted,
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

fresh
And lastin?, in her sad remembrance.
Buhe. 0, she that hath a heart of that fine
frame.
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."

13G

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

fill'd,
(Her sweet perfections,'') with one self king !" —
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ;
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with

bowers.

\_E.veuni.

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

sav'd.
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

bright:
That chasetli love is blunt, whose steel with leaden head is
dight."

•> 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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[SCESE 111

Cap. True, madam ; and, to comfort you with
cliancc,
xissure yourself, after our ship did spHt,
When you, and those poor number"' sav'd with

you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the prac-
tice)
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
iDorn,
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
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 seek the love of fair Olivia.^

Vio. What 's she ?

Cap. A vu'tuous maid, the daughter of a
count
That died some twfelvemonth since ; then leaving

her
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
be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not
see!

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
straps.

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.

137

scT r.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
year.

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.

138

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
drink.

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
wit.
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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, AVHAT YOU WILL. (Sceshsiv.v.

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
bounds.
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.

[^E.veunt.

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.)

139

Act I.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

[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
lUyria.

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-
ticism.

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."

140

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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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.

[_Ea:it.

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
you.

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-
woman.

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
speech.

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 ]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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,
profanation.

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'
142

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
white
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

crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty !

OH. How does he love me ?

Vio. With adorations, fertile tears.
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of
fire.
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.]

TAVELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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

spirit.
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 !

{Exit.

•■> We do not own, possess, ourselves.

[Parish Top.]

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT I.

' Scene I. — " That strain again; — it had a dying
fall."

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
hounds,
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 : —
144

" 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.

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[Viol-de Gamboys.j

» Scene III.—" Till his brains turn o'the toe liJce a
2)arish-top."

" 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 : —

145

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT I.

" 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-

pace."

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."
146

' 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

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

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:---

x\A

[Scene I ]

ACT II.

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.
148

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.)

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. is.eses ii, ui

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.

\_E.viL
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.

[Exit.

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
lady?
Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd

her!
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-
thought."

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-
cheek.

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
catch.

* 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."

149

Act 11]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, AVHAT YOU WILL.

[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

SONG.*^
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.

150

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true
knight.

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
well.

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,
knight.

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 ! ' *

\Singinfi.

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable
fooling.

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,' —

\_Singing.

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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT.; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[SctNE III

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-
well.

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
done.'

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
Puritan.

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
work.

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
colour.

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.

161

Act II.]

TWELFTH i^IGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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.

152

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
thyself,
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

bones.
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.

SONG.

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-
mer's.

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
says,—

" 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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHilT YOU WILL.

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,
sir.

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.

[SCEIIE V.

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
love,
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

boy?
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's
house.
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.

\Exeunt.

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-
choly.

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.

153

Act II.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OK, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
on't?

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-
154

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
eye!

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.

Acrll.]

TWELFTH ^^IGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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 ! °

Mai.

' 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
him.

<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 I.ice 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.

155

Aci II.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
Sophy.

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this de-
vice:

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
him?

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

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT II.

' 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 : —

^=^:

--4

Hold thy peace ! and I

-=^ — d-

i f-

pri - thee hold thy peace.

— I

=1^==^

Thou knave !

Hold thy peace,

thou knave !

Thou knave.

157

TLLUSTEATIONS OF ACT II.

« 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.

'-^^

-H-

r ' I
I

7^— T

15"

:b:

-s-

XEEE^.

r
I

is:

—I—,
x^i

■J:

-Or

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 ; ' —
158

" 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 again.st the rising sect of the Puritans, who
were something too apt to confound virtue with
asceticism. Ben Jonson speaks more directly in
the matter : —

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

" 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-
gartered."

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.

169

ILLUSTEATIONS OF ACT II.

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-
tnp."

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."

ACT III.

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-
ton.

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

ICl

Act III.J

TWELFTH ITIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
words.

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
Agtje-cheek.
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.

162

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
motion.

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
service.

on. What is your name ?

Fio. Cesario is your servant's name, fair
princess.

OH. My servant, sir ! 'T was never meiTv
world.
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
thoughts,
Would they were blanks, rather than fiU'd with
me!

Fio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle
thoughts
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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
send,
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
proof.
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-
vest,
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

are.
OH. If I thnik so, I think the same of you.
Vio. Then think you right ; I am not what I

am.

* 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
be!

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

noon.
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
better.

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,

[E.veu)it.

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
reason.

Fab. You must needs yield your reason, sir
Andrew.

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
Uowe.

1C3

Act III.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[SCESE 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

Toby.
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.

161

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
stockings.

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.

[E.Teu>ii.

SCENE in.— ^ SireeL
Enter Antonio and Sebastian.

Seb. I would not by my will have troubled
you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your

pains,
I will no further chide you.

Ant. I could not stay behind you; my de-
sire.
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

stranger,
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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OK, WHAT YOU AViLL.

[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

lodging.
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

people.
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

sake.
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

knowledge
With viewing of the town ; there shall you have
me.
Seb. Why I your purse ?
Ant. Haply, your eye shall light upon some
toy
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.

[JE.veunt.

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

borrow'd.
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 '"ida.ni.

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."

1G5

Act III.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; Oil, WHAT YOU WILL.

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.

166

Ee-eider Mama, wUh Sir Toby Bklck ami

Tabian.
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
mankind.

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
godliness.

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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OIJ, WHAT YOU WJLL.

[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
read.

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-
less.

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
villain.'

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.

[EaU.

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
him.

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
stone.
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
bears.
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

master.
Oli. How with mine honour may I give him
that
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.

lExit.

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.

167

AtT III.1

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
you.

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--
pose.

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.
1G8

you, even to a mortal arbitrement ; but nothing
of the circumstance more.

Fio. I beseech you, what manner of man is

he?

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
heels.

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

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

ISCESE IV.

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.

\_Draws.

Elder Antonio.

Vio. I do assure you 't is against my will.

[^Draws.
Ant. Put up your sword; — If this young
gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me ;.
If you offend hun, I for him defy you.

\_Drawuiff.
Sir To. You, sir ? why, what are you ?
Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do
more
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
officers.

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

well.
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

me
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
money.

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

trouble.
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,

169

Act in.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[Scene IV.

Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love !

{Rrit.

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
him.

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.]

ILLUSTRATIONS OE ACT III.

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
jwUtician."

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
England."
We have given a representation of this famous
bed, which is more interesting than any descrip-
tion.

^ 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

171

ILLUSTEATIONS OF ACT III.

^&ii

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
devil."

The allusion is to the beautifully carved trunks
of the Elizabethan age, of which we give two
specimens.

i r.i i i''WP-'^T^a i fflswcHfJ

(

[Scene I. Spalatro. ' Hold, Toby, on thy life.']

ACT IV.

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-
chase.'^

Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian.

Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again?
there 's for you. [Stri/an// Sebasti.vn.

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.

173

Act IV.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[SCEKB II.

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.

[Draws.

Sir To. What, what ? Nay, then I must have
an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.

[Draws.

Enter Olivia.

Oli. Hold, Toby ; on thy life, I charge thee,
hold.

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 !

[Exemit.

*■ 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.

174

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
knave.

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.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OK, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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
wUl.

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.'

[Exit.

SCENE III.— Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sebastian.
Seh. This is the air; that is the glorious sun:

" 5/ien<— reproved.

175

Act IV.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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

followers.
Take and give back affairs, and their despatch,
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,

B 7!i.is 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 !

\_Fjxennt.

[•Into the Chantry.']

rSceiie 1. Spalatro. 'Aly lorii, I do protest.']

ACT V.

SCENE l.—TJie Street before Olivia's House.
Enter Clown atid Fabian.

Fab. Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his
letter.

Clo. Good master Eabiau, graut me auotlier
request.

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
friends.

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
foes.''

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.)

177

Act v.]

TWELFTH mGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[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

state.
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

mercies.
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.
178

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

purse,
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
befoi'c,
(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

me,
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
lady.
To whose Lugrate and uuauspicious altars

Aci v.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OK, WHAT YOU WILL

[SCES'II I

My soiil the faithfuU'st offerings hatli breath'd

out,
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

favour.
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,
stay.

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

grave
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

fear.

Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, mi/i his head
broke.

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.]

TWELFIH mGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[Scene 1.

Luke. How now, geutlemau! liow is't with
you?

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

tliat
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-
self?—
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
bird.

180

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
birth
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

help
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
shore,
Hath my maid's garments : he, upon some action.

right noble is his

Act v.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; Oil, WHAT YOU WILL.

(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

you,
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

smiling.
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

it,
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,

';!^'!:^:"^*'in^d^rm^henceap.c*isonederided^
c rro».-The original has then. The change to ihou was
suggested to us by the late Mr.T. Rodd.

181

Act v.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

[SCEKE I.

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.

\_Exeuni,

SONG.

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.]

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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.

183

SUPPLEMENTAEY NOTICE.

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.
134

TWELFm NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL.

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.

185

SUPPLEi\IENTAEY NOTICE.

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.''

■'^^'^^-— -- ■ —

[TiU-lctou.]

[Forest of Arden.]

mTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

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.

1S9

K^TEODUCTOHY NOTICE.

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

190

' Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare,' Eoswell's Edition, p. 214.

AS YOU LIlvE IT.

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.

INTEODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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-"
192

AS YOU LIKE IT.

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

INTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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 : —
194

AS YOU LIKJ-: IT.

" 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 de.spot 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 '^^

mXEODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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.

196

AS YOU IJKE IT.

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.

197

INTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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
19S

AS YOIT LIKE IT.

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."

103

mTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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.]

NOTE ON THE THEATRICAL COSTUME OF AS YOU LIKE IT.

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
Arden.

•■ -"'.=.

[Scene I. ' Wilt thou lay hancU on me, villain { •\

ACT I.

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.

203

Act I.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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-
ther.

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-
thing.

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
reverence.

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
manhood.

204

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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

will.

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
wonder.

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
merry.

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

AS YOU LIKE IT.

LSCENE 11.

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
you?

Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your
father.

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.

206

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,
loves.

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[Scene M

lios. As wit and fortune will.
Touch. Or as the destinies decree.
Cel. Well said; that was laid on with a
trowel."

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
buried.

Le Beau. There comes an old man and his
three sons, —

Cel. I could match this beginning with an old
tale.

Le Beau. Three proper young men, of 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-
cessfully.

Buke F. How now, daughter and cousin ?
are you crept hither to see the wrestling ?

Ros. Ay, my liege; so please you give us
leave.

Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I
can tell you, there is such odds in the 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
forward.

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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

deed
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.

208

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
son.
His youngest son ;— and would not change thai

calling,*
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

means.
Shall we go, coz ?

Cel. Ay : — Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orl. Can I not say I thank you ? My better
parts
Are all thrown down ; and that which here

stands up
Is but a 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
you

a Culling — name.

b But justly, &c. In the degree that you have gone
beyond all eApectation: but as justly.

Act I.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
this;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke
That here was at the wrestling ?

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge
by manners ;
But yet, indeed, the 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
them.

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
dearly.

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
duke.

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
sake.
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
smoothness,
Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name ;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more

virtuous.
When she is gone : then open not thy lips ;
Firm and ii-revocable is my doom
Which I have passed upon her ; she is bauish'd.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my
liege;
I cannot live out of her company.
Duke F. You are a fool : — You, niece, provide
yom-self ;
If you outstay the time, upon mine honoiu-.

210

•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

go?
Wilt thou change fathers ? I Avill give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I
am.

Ros. I have more cause.

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin, — ■

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
love
Which teacheth thee* that thou and I am one :
Shall we be sunder'd ? shall we part, sweet girl ?
No ; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us :
And do not seek to take your 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
second.

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?

Cel.

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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

ILLUSTRATIONS OE ACT^ I.

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

up
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.

.H'^-

-.' . 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

exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these

woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam.
The seasons' difference, — as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's 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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[SCEKE J.

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

brooks,*
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Ami. I would not change it : Happy is your
grace.
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us veni-
son?
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

coat
Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool.
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the 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-
ment
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

Jaques,
' 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.

■3

"? —

a «

3 a,

o "^

o '»

si "

2 I-

1 =

* s

t^a

o
a
?:

Act II.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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-
menting
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.

\Exeunt.

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 Ilou.se.
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

you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and

valiant ?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser of the humorous duke ? ''
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies ?
No more do yours ; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it !
Orl. 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

means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it : if he fail of that.
He will have other means to cut you off .
I overheard 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

here.

■"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.

21.';

Act II.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
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 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-
pears
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.

[JExeuiit.

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.
21G

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
still.

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.

AS YOU LIKE rj\

[Scene V.

Thou hast uot lov'd : Phebe, Phebe, Phobe !

lE.rii SiLVius.

Eos. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy
wound,
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
of.

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
man.
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-

press'd,
•And faints for succour.

Cor. Fair sir, I pity her.

And wish for her sake, more than for mine own.
My fortunes were more able to 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
erewhile.
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
place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.

Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be sold :
Go with me ; if you like, upon report.
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will yoru" very faithful feeder be.
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[^E.r^iini.

SCENE Y.—T/ie same.
Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others.

SONG.

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
Jaques.

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.

?.17

.Act 11.]

AS YOU LUCE IT.

[Scenes VI. Vll,

Ami. More at your request thau to please

myself.

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.

SONG.

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.

218

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 !

[TUxetait.

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-
sical.
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres : —
Go, seek him; tell him, I would speak with
him.

Enter Jaques.

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own ap-
proach.
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

he,
' 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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[SCEKE VJI.

Thus \vc may see,' quoth he, 'liow the worhl

wags:

'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-
ments
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

through
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-

hour?
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

right.
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
point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture.'* But forbear, I say ;
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaq. An you will not be answered with rea-
son, I must die.

a Wearer's. The original hlis"u-enry very." We liavr
adopted Mr. Singer's ingenious and .satisfactory nUera
tion.

h Brai^enj — finery.

c r«j;i»^— censure, reproach.

d Nurture — education.

219

Act II. 1

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[SCEVE VU.

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
you:
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
days;
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.

220

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

justice;
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

thing.

Jlc-entcr Orlando, icith Adam.

J)nke S. Welcome : Set down your venerable
biu'den.
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
you
As yet, to question you about your fortunes : —
Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing.

Amiens sings.

SONG.
I.

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.

II.

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.)

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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

fortune.
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-
iiomous,
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
222

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
lioke."

" 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

AS YOU LIKE IT.

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
abuses."

'' 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 almo.st 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 ?

223

% <w

{' TcnyuLS I'll hang on eveiy tree. 'J

ACT III.

SCENE I. — A Room in ihe Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, and
Attendants.

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

thine.
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.

224

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
this!
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.

\_E.revne.

SCENE Il.—Tke Forest.

Enter Orlando, with a paper.

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my
love:

a The law phrase is here used literally
b Expedicntltj — promptly.

Act III ]

AS YOU lik:e it.

[SCENS II'

Aud, tliou, thrice-crowned queeu of uight,"
survey
With thy chaste eye from thy pale sphere above,
Thy fiuutress' uame, that my full life doth
sway.
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
kindi-ed.

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

languages."

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
civet.

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

rest.

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
suck.

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.]

AS YOU JAKE IT.

[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
medlar.

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."!!!

22fi

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

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[SCEME II.

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
chin.

Cel. It is young Orlando ; that tripped up the
wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an i]i-
stant.

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."
Q2

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-
Cidsm.

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
hunter.

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

unaeasnnnblij.
e You bring me out — put me out.

227

Act III.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

LSCENF. II.

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-
tions.^

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
cipher.

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 ?

228

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-
ticoat.

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]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
prisoner.

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
he.

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.

SCENE III.

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
you?

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.

229

Act III.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
poetical.

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.

230

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[Scenes IV., V.

Sir Oil. 'T is no matter ; ne'er a fantastical
knave of tbcni all shall flout me out of mv

callinE

IJjlxit.

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
colour.

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
them.

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
father.

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-
quir'd
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

hard,
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

distance.
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 sha.ne,
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

231

Act in.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

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

eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ;
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

Sil. dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet iu some fresh cheek the power of

fancy,
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

comes,
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

beauty,""
(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

me?
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

her.
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain ?
You are a thousand times a properer man.
Than she a woman : 'Tis such fools as you
That make the world 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

knees.
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's

love:
For I must tell you friendly in your ear.
Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets :

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.

232

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

house,
'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

see.
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
each.

Act III.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

fSOEKE V

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
difference

a Curlot — churl or peasant.

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. «
There be some women, Silvius, had they niark'd

him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him : but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate 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]^m^

\^i^%

I Scene V, ' Sweet I'hel'e, do iwl scorn me.']

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT III.

' 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

234

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
times.

^ 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

AS YOU LIKE TT.

the wall M-ithin the Hungerford Chapel, Salisbury
Cathedral, which chapel was totally pulled down in
1789.

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 .'"

235

^.A^'>

-^'7mr it^^iC

-' '4..' "^i^^^

tScene III. 'Lay sleeping on his back.']

ACT IV.

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
laughing.

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-
thing.

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.

2£6

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
more.

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.

237

Act IV.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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-
tiou.s.

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
sleep.

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
hours.

» 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,

2.SS

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
promise.

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-
tugal.

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
Foresters.

Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer ?
1 Lord. Sir, it was I.

Jaq. Let 's present him to the duke, like a
Roman conqueror ; and it would do well to set

a Wehave"mostpathetical nit "in Love's Labour's Lost

A3T IV.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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.

SONG.

1. What sliall lie have that kill'd the dcei \

2. llis leatlier skin, and liorns to wcar.fi
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
letter.
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

me
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,

well,
This is a letter of your own device.

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents ;
Phebe did write it.

Ros. Come, come, you are a fool.

And. turn'd 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
writes.

" 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.

239

Act IV.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
bottom,
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream.
Left on your right hand, brings you to the

place :
But at this hour the house doth keep itself,
There 's none within.

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
this?

Oli. Some of my shame ; if you wUl know of
me
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
watch,

" 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.
240

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
there,
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ?

Oli. Twice did he turn his back., and purpos'd
so:
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge.
And 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
him?

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

fainted.
And cry'd in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover' d him ; bound up liis wound ;
And, after some small space, being strong at

heart,
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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[SCESL III.

Cel. WLy, how now, Ganymede? sweet Ga-
nymede ? , [Rosalind /r/ ////*■.
Oil. Many wiU swoon when they do look on

blood.
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

241

[llellesiiOiU.]

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT IV.

' 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.)

•242

2 Scene II. — " What shall he have that hilVd the
deer?"

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

AS YOU LIKE IT.

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-
tion.

3 Scene III.—" / see, love hath made thee a tame
snake."

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

Oaily.

SES

HE?;

ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT IV.

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[Scene IV. 'Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, j

ACT V.

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
9A0

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.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[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
Rosalind.

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
lady.

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«<-.mn,e.l>atcly.

24/

Act v.]

AS YOU LIKE. IT.

[SfiENE IIL

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-
gentleness.
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.
248

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
you?

Ros. Who do you speak to, ' why blame you
me to love you ? '

Orl. To her, that is not here, nor doth not
hear.

Ros. Pray you, no more of this ; '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.

\_E.reunL

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
occurs.

b To be riifiriied.

Act v.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

(Scene IV.

SONG.

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.

II.

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.

III.
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.

IV.

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
boy
Can do all this that he hath promised ?

Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes
do not ;
As those that fear, — they hope, and know they
fear.
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

king.
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-
herd.
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
even.
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

her.
If she refuse me : — and from hence I go.
To make these doubts all even.

{Exeunt Rosalind and Celia,
Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd-boy
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.
Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw
liim,
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

249

Act v.]

AS YOU lik:e it.

[SCEKE IV

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
sententious.

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
direct.'

Jaq. And how oft did you say, his beard was
not well cut ?

Touch. I durst go no further than the 'Lie
circumstantial,' nor he durst not give me the
' Lie du'ect : ' and so we measured swords and
parted.

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-
ceased."

c Seeming — seemly.

d Z)jsa4/t'd— impeached. See Act iv. So, i.

250

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

daughter.
Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my

Rosalind.
Phe. If sight and shape be true.
Why then, — my love adieu !

Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he: —

[To Duke S.
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.]

AS YOU LUCE IT.

[SCESU IV.

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.

SONG.

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

us,
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

all,
With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures
fall.
Jaq. Sir, by your patience ; If I heard you
rightly.
The duke hath put on a religious life.
And thrown into neglect the pompous 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

it:—
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
have
I'U stay to know at your abandon'd cave.

[E.vi/.
Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we will begin
these rites,
And we do trust they 'U end in trae delights.

[A (lance.

EPILOGUE.

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

251

Act v.]

AS YOU JAKE IT.

[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.']

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT V,

* 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_

Bk:S=:t

-n — P-

It was a lov - er and his lass, With a hey, with a ho, with a

l±-^

-^^'-

, -, p. ^t^T--- : T — ° — ^

hey non ne no, and a hey

-P-

5^3^

I
no nee no, ni no,

That

r«t^-

^^^=^:SEBsij^^^^dEE^

^Ji:

-^-p— p--

-P— P--

-tr

o'er the greene come field did passe In spring tyme, in spring tyme, in spring tyme, Tne

-s-h
-- 1-

•— P

^— #=

f=?c

:£^^=^

&tp:

#-^J-

ILLUSTRATION OF ACT V.

.^^

^^^

* -*-^ ^

-P-
I

■ lie pret-tie ring tyme, When birds doo sing, Hey ding a ding a ding, Hey

»2»

#-•

'-^

-jEIil

±=I±

j^n^

— ^ 1^^ . ■ — m — ■ —

ding a ding a ding, Hey ding a ding a ding ; Suiet lo - vers love the spring.

:f=p:

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.

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

255

SUPPLEMEN'TAEY NOTICE.

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 ;"
whose

"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.
256

AS YOU LIKE IT.

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
Celia:-

" 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
content."

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
Touchstone?

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good
life ; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught.
In respect that it is solitary, 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

SUPPLEMENTAEY NOTICE.

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."

258

Act III. sc. I.

L' Unscour'd armour, hung by the wall.']

INTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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

2G1

INTEODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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,
1604.

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.
262

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.

MEASURE FOR ]\IEASURE.

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.

Shaxberd.

Hewood.

By Georg Chapman,

Shaxberd.
Shaxberd.

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.

263

INTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

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-

264

MEASUKE hVll MEASUKE.

Costume.

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.

Provost.

Thomas, \

\ two friars.

A Justice.

Klbow, a simple cunstaOle.

FnoTii, a foolish ffcutleniait.

Clown.

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-
Attendants.

fCENE— ViKKXA.

ACT I.

SCENE I. — An Apartment hi the Diike's

Palace.

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
able;

. * 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

267

Act I.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[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

hither,
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

touch'd
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

26S

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

metal,
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
happiness.

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

me
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

nature
I am not yet instructed.
J//^. 'T is so with me : — Let us withdraw
together,
And we may soon our satisfaction have
Touching that point.
FscaL I '11 wait upon your honour.

\_E.TeiaiL

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
thee.

MEASUEE FOR MEASURE
and

[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
thee.

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
Claudio.

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-
pose.

1 Gent. But most of all, agreeing with the
proclamation.

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.

2rt0

Act I.]

1^,IEASUEE ¥0E MEASUEE.

rScENS III.

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
him?

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
city?

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.

\Exeunt.

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-
nalty.

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.

270

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
again.

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
contract,
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 /.]

MEASUEE FOli jMEASUEK.

ISCENE IV.

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
found.
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

art
"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

you
How I have ever lov'd the life removed ;
And held in idle price to haimt assemblies.
Where youth, and cost, and" witless bravery

keeps.^
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
laws,
(The needful bits and curbs to headstrong

steeds,'')
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

decrees.
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

done,
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

home.
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

prithee.
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<
slander.

271

Act I.]

MEASUEE FOR MEASURE.

[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.

[Exeunt.

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

men.
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
calls?

Enter LuciO,

Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be ; as those cheek-
roses
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
judge.
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
272

With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest.
Tongue far from heart, — play with all virgins

so:"'
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
me.

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

time.
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
names.
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.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[SCENK V.

To softeu Angelo : And that 's my pith of busi-
ness
'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

kneel.
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.

[E.reuiit.

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.

27:3

ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT I.

' 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 bla.de 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

cave.
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."

J||i|||ii|ii:'^'^-''''^li^^

[Scene I. ' How now, sir .' 'j

ACT II.

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
law,
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
soners.
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>

gentleman.
Whom I would save, had a most noble father.
Let but your honour know,
(Whom I believe to be most straight m vir-
tue,)
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

mind.

Act II.]

MEASUEE FOE MEASUEE.

[Scene I.

Had time coher'd with place, or place with

wishing,
Or that the resolute acting of vour blood
Could have attaiu'd the effect of your own pur-
pose.
Whether you had not sometime ia your life
Err'd in this point which now you censiu'e

him,"'
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

laws.
That thieves do pass on^ thieves ? 'Tis very

pregnant.
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

me,
\^Tien I, that censure him, do so offend.
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death.
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must

die.
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

27G

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-
factors.

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
have.

Escal. Tills comes off well ; here 's a wise
officer.

Ang. Go to : What quality are they of ? El-
bow is your name ? Why dost thou not speak.
Elbow?

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
house.

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.]

MEASUEE FOIt l^lJ'ASUIfE.

[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,
sir.

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
prunes.

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
you.

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
yet.

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
truths.

A)if/. This will last out a night in Russia,
When nights arc longest there: I'll take my

leave,
And leave you to the hearing of the cause;
Hoping you'll find good cause to whip them
all.

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
her?

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
face?

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.

277

Act II.l

MEASUEE FOR MEASUEE.

[SCEKE I.

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

278

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
live.

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

MEASURE FOR INIEASURE.

[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
parish.

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
straight.
I '11 tell him of you.

Proo. Pray you do. [Exit Servant.] I '11
know
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
speed.

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
maid.
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
die:
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-
cord
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.

279

:^j

Act II. 1

MEASUEE EOR MEASURE.

[SciNE It.

Isab. Must he needs die ?
■^ng- Maiden, no remedy.

Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon
him,
And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the
mercy.
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-
morse
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
word.
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
stern.
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.

\_Asi(le.
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

once;
And He that might the vantage best have

took
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

that;
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.

280

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-
morrow.
Isah. To-morrow ? 0, that 's sudden ! Spare
him, snare him :
He 's not prepar'd for death ! Even for our

kitchens
We kill the fowl of season ;'' shall we serve

heaven
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

phet.
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!

wrong,
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

quiet.
For every pelting, petty officer.
Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but

thunder.
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.]

]\IEASUEE FOE IMEASUKE.

(SCEKF. II

Thou ratlier, with tliy sharp and siil]jhurous

bolt,
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

spleens,
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-
self:
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'

that.
hab. That in the captain's but a choleric
word,
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
others,
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

know
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

morrow.
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
mortals.

to-

Good my

Lticio. You had marr'd all else.

Isah. Not witli fond shekels of the tested
gold.
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

To-morrow.

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 ?

Ila!
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

enough.
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
praijcr."
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 B.i.il..".n'
made it a draught house unto this day."

2S1

A-CT II ]

MEASUEE FOE MEASUEE.

[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-
pet.
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

nxon.

Enter Duke, habited like a Friar, and Provost.

Duke. Hail to you, provost ! so I think you

are.
Prov. I am the provost : What 's your will,

good friar ?
Duke. Bound by my charity, and my bless'd
order,
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
needful.

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-
tiently.

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.

282

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

him.
Duke. So then, it seems, your most offenceful
act
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
law,"^
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

IMEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[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-
ness

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught
love

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
live.
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-
prieve.
Longer, or shorter, he may be so fitted,
That his soul sicken not.

Ang. Ha 1 Fie, these filthy vices ! It were as
good
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

image
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
earth.

Ang. Say you so ? then I shall pozc you
quickly.
Which had you rather, That the most just law
Now took your brother's life; or, to redeem

him,
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
sins
Stand more for number than for accompt.

Isab. How say you ?

Ang. Nay, I '11 not warrant that ; for 1 can
speak
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

suit.
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

ignorant,
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
bright.
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.

2S3

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

rubies,
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-
tence
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

284

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
lord.
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
love.

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

brother
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.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

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 :

ISCEKE IV.

Though he hath fallen by prompture" of (ho

blood.
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.

{Exit.

" /"rom/iiarc— suggestion.

RECENT NEW READING.

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
Shakspere.

[Scene II. ' Thy sharp and Bulphurous bolt.']

ILLUSTRATION OP ACT 11.

' 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,

ACT III.

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-
cine.
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
art,

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.

287

Act III

MEASUEE FOR MEASUEE.

[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

rich.
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor

beauty.
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in

this.
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

company

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
Claudio.

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.

2SS

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

bear.
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
conceal'd."

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
character."

Act 111.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

[SCKMK I.

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-
puty,—
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:—
prenzie.
precise,
princelie.
priestlie.
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-
morrow.

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.

2S9

Act III.]

MEASUEE FOE MEASUEE.

[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.

290

Act Ill.j

]\n<:ASUKE YOU MEASURE.

[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,

SU-.

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."

2&)

Act III.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[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.

292

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
infallible.

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.]

MEASUEE EOK MEASURE.

(SCENL II.

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, sir, if I may
live to report you.

Lucio. I fear you not.

Buke. 0, you hope the duke wiU return no
more : or you imagine me too unhurtful an oppo-
site." But, indeed, I can do you little harm :
you '11 forswear tliis again.

Lttcio. I '11 be hanged first : thou art deceived
in me, friar. But no more of this : Canst thou
tell if Claudio die to-moi-row, or no ?

DuJce. Why should he die, sir ?

Lucio. Why ? for filling a bottle with a tun-
lish. I would the duke, we talk of, were re-
turned again : this ungenitured agent will un-
people the province with continency ; sparro\A's
must not build in his hovise-eaves, because they
are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark
deeds darkly answered ; he would never bring
them to light : would he were returned ! Marry,
this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Fare-
well, good friar ; I prithee, pray for me. The
duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on
Fridays. He 's now past it ; yet, and I say to
thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though she

«■ The greater number of the people.

b Helmed — steered through. c Opposj/e— adversary.

smelt brown bread and garlic : say, that I said
so. Farewell. \^Exit.

Buke. No might nor greatness in mortalily
Can censure 'scape ; back-woundiiig calumny
'i'hc whitest virtue strikes : What king so strong,
Can tic the gall up in the slanderous tongue !
But who comes here ?

Enter EsCALUs, Provost, Bawd, and Ofiiccrs.

Escal. Go, away with her to prison.

Bawd. Good my lord, be good to me ; your
honour is accounted a merciful man : good mv
lord.

Escal. Double and treble admonition, and si ill
forfeit* in the same kind? This would make
mercy swear, and play the tyrant.

Prov. A bawd of eleven years' continuance,
may it please your honour.

Bawd. ]My lord, this is one Lucio's inform-
ation against me : mistress Kate Keep-down
was witli child by him in the duke's time ; he
promised her marriage ; his child is a year and
a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob : I liavc
kept it myself; and see how he goes about to
abuse me.

Escal. That fellow is a fellow of much licence :
— let him be call'd before us. — Away with her
to prison : Go to ; no more words. [Krcuiil

Bawd ai/d Oniccrs.] Provost, my brother An-
gelo will not be altered, Claudio must die to-
morrow : let him be furnished with divines, and
have all charitable preparation : if my brother
wrought by my pity, it shoidd not be so with
him .

Prov. So please you, this friar hath been with
liim, and advised him for the entertainment of
death.

Escal. Good even, good father.

Buke. Bliss and goodness on you !

Escal. Of whence are you ?

Buke. Not of this country, though my cliance
is now
To use it for my time : I am a brother
Of gracious order, late come from the see,
In special business from his holiness.

Escal. What news abroad i' the world?

Buke. None, but that there is so great a fever
on goodness, that the dissolution of it nuist cure
it : novelty is only in request ; and it is as dan-
gerous to be aged in any kind of course, as it
is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking.
There is scarce truth enough alive to make so-
cieties secure; but security'' enough to make

" Forfeit — transgress.

b 5(,'CMri7y— legal security — surety.

2&3

Act III.]

MEASUEE FOE MEASUEE.

[Scene IT.

fellowships accursed: much upou this riddle
runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old
enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray you,
ur, of what disposition was the duke ?

Fscal. One, that, above all other strifes, con-
iended especially to know himself.

D?i^e. What pleasure was he given to ?

Escal. Eather rejoicing to see another merry,
than merry at anything which professed to make
him rejoice : a gentleman of all temperance.
But leave we him to his events, with a prayer
they may prove prosperous ; and let me desire
to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am
made to understand that you have lent him
visitation.

Did-e. He professes to have received no si-
nister measure from his judge, but most willingly
humbles himself to the determination of justice :
yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction
of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life ;
which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to
aim, and now is he resolved to die.

Uscal. You have paid the heavens your func-
tion, and the prisoner the very debt of your call.
iiig. I have laboured for the poor gentleman
lo the extremest shore of my modesty ; but my
brother justice have I found so severe, that he
Iiath forced me to tell him, he is indeed — ^justice-

D/eh. If his own life answer the straitness
of his proceeding, it shall become him well ;

wherein if he chance to fail he hath sentenced
himself.

Excffl. I am going to visit the prisoner : Fare
you well.

Luke. Peace be with you !

[Exetmt EscAiiTTS a7id Provost.
He who the sword of heaven will bear
Should be as holy as severe ;
Pattern in himself, to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go ; *
More nor less to others paying,
Than by self-offences weighing.
Shame to liim, whose cruel striking
Kills for faults of his o^vn liking !
Twice treble shame on Angelo,
To weed my vice, and let his grow 1
0, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side !
How may bkeness,'' made in crimes.
Making practice on the times.
To draw with idle spiders' strings
Most pond'rous and substantial things :
Craft against vice I must apply :
With Angelo to-night shall lie
His old betrothed, but despised ;
So disguise shall, by the disguised.
Pay with falsehood false exacting,
And perform an old contracting. \_ET'it.

"■ Go. The <o which precedes i/ff/irf must bp understood herp.
l> Likeness — comeliness.

[* The moated grange.']

ILLUSTEATIONS OP ACT III.

5 Scene T.— " Mcrdij, thou art death's fool"
Cerimon, the good physicican in Pericles, says that
the study aud practice of the healing art afFord

" A more content in course of true delight
Tlian to be thirsty after tottering honour,
Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,
To please the fool and death."

In both these passages there is undoubtedly an
allusion to certain ancient repi'esentatious of Death
and the Fool. It has been clearly shown that
Wai'burton was mistaken in asserting that these
characters occurred in the old Moralities. The
idea was probably suggested to Shakspere by some
of the celebrated engravings of ' the Dance of
Death,' with which he must have been familiar.
In Stow's ' Sui vey of London,' 1618, there is an
initial letter exhibiting a contest between Death
and the Fool, which Jfr. Douce says is copied from
one of a set of initials used by the Basil printers
in the sixteenth centuiy. Of this the above is a
fac-simile.

- ScEXE I. — " For all thy llcssed youth," dr.
Warburton proposed a singular emendation of
this passage :" —

" FoT pall'd, thy blazed youth
Becomes assuaged."

Probably the original idea, or the critic's refine-
ment on it, suggested Byron's exquisite " stanzas
for music : " —
" There's not a joy the world can give like that it t?.kcs

away.
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull

decay :
'T is not on youth's smooth check the blush alone, wliich

fades so fast.
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be

past.

Then the few, whose spirits float above the wreck of hajipi-

ness,
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch

again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself conici

down ;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears.
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice

appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract

the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former

hope of rest ;
'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath.
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey

beneath.

Oh ! could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, —
Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd

scene ;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though

they be.
So, 'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow

to me."

3 Scene I. — " The poor hectic, that ice tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies."

These lines, taken apart from the context, would
indicate that the bodily pain, such a-s is attended
with death, is felt with equal severity by a giant
and a beetle. The physiologists tell us that this
is not true ; aud that the nervous system of .-j
beetle does not allow it to feel pain so acutely a.-;
that of a man. We hope this is correct ; but w«
are not sure that Shakspere meant to refine quite
so much as the entomologists are desirous to

205

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

believe. " It is somewhat amusing," says a writer
in the ' Entomological Magazine,' " that his words
should, in this case, be entirely wrested from their
original purpose. His purjDose was to show how
little a man feels in dying ; that the sense of death
is most in apprehension, not in the act : and that
even a beetle, which feels so little, feels as much
as a giant does. The less, therefore, the beetle is
supposed to feel, the more force we give to the
sentiment of Shakspere."

^ Scene I. — " At the moated grange resides this
dejected Mariana."
In a poem by Mr. Tennyson, the idea of loneli-
ness and desolation, suggested by these simple
words of Shakspere, is worlied out with the most
striking effect. AVe have great pleasure in ex-
tracting these beautiful verses, which have been
described as exhibiting "the power of creating
scenery in keeping with some state of human
feeling, so fitted to it as to be the embodied
symbol of it, and to summon up the state of
feeling itself with a force not to be surpassed by
anything but reality." *

" With blackest moss the flower-pots
Were thickly crusted, one and all ;
The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange,
Unlifted was the clinking latch,
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ' My life is dreary —

He Cometh not,' she said ;
She said , ' I am aweary, aweary ;
I would that I were dead ! '

" Her tears fell with the dews at even,
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by.
And glanc'd athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, ' The night is dreary —

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, ' 1 am aweary, aweary;
I would that I were dead!'

" Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow ;
The'cock sung out an hour ere light :
From the dark fen the oxen's low

* ' London Review ' July, 1835.

Came to her : without hope of change.
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ' The day is dreary —

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary ;
I would that I were dead ! '

" About a stone-cast from the wall,

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,

The cluster'd marish mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark :
For leagues no other tree did dark
The level waste, the rounding grey.
She only said, ' My life is dreary —

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary;
I would that I were dead !'

" And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up an' away.
In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low.
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her hed, across her brow.

She only said, ' The night is dreary —

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary ;
I would that I were dead ! '

" All day within the dreamy house

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ;
The blue-fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse

Behind the mould'ring wainscot shriek'd
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd through the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors.
Old voices call'd her from without.
She only said, ' My life is dreary-
He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary;
I would that I were dead ! '

" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, .ind the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense ; but most she loath'd the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Down-slop'd was westering in his bower.
Then said she, ' 1 am very drearj- —

He will not come,' she said ;

She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary ;

O God ! that I were dead 1 ' "

[Scene III.]

ACT IV.

SCENE I. — A Room in, Mariana's House.
Mariana discovered sitting ; a Boy singing.

SONG.

Take, oh take those lips away, I

That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn ;
But my kisses bring again,

bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,

seal'd in vain.

Marl. Break off thy song, and haste thee
quick away ;
Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice

Hath often still'd my brawling discontent. —

[£>/V Boy,
Enter Duke.

I cry you mercy, sir ; and well could wish
You had not found mc here so musical :
Let me excuse me, and believe me so, —
My mirth it much displeas'd, but plcas'd my

woe.
Dulce. 'Tis good: though music oft hath

such a charm,
To make bad good, and good provoke to hann.
I pray you, tell me, hath anybody inquired for
me here to-day? much upon this time have I

promised here to meet.

297

Act rv.]

MEASURE FOE MEASUEE,

[Stene II.

Mari. You have not been inquired after : I
have sat here all day.

Enter Isabella.

DuJce. I do constantly believe you : — The
time is come, even now. I 'Shall crave your
forbearance a little ; may be, ■ I will call upon
you anon, for some advantage to yourself.

3Icn-i. I am always bound to you. [Exit.

Duke. Very well met, and welcome.
What is the news from this good deputy ?

Isab. He hath a garden circummur'd'^ with
brick,
Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd ;
And to that vineyard is a planched ^ gate,
That makes his opening with this bigger key :
This other doth command a little dooi',
Wliich from, the vineyard to the garden leads ;
There have I made my promise upon the heavy
Middle of the night to call upon him."

Duke. But shall you on your knowledge find
this way ?

Isalj. I have ta'eu a due and wary note
upon 't ;
With whispering and most guilty diligence.
In action all of precept, he did show me
The" way twice o'er.

Duke. Ai'c there no other tokens

Between you 'greed, concerning her observance ?

Isab. No, none, but only a repair i' the dark;
And that I have possess'd"^ him, my most

stay
Can be but brief : for I have made him know,
I have a servant comes with me along,
That stays upon me ; whose persuasion is,
I come about my brother .

Duke. 'T is well borne up.

I have not yet made known to Mariana
A word of this : — What, ho ! within ! come
forth !

Re-enter Mariana.

I pray you be acquainted with this maid ;
She comes to do you good.

Isab. I do desire the like.

a Cirr.nmmnr'd — walled rounti.

b Planched — plankeil — made of boards.

c In the original we find these lines thus printed—

" There I have made my promise upon the
Heavy middle of the night to call upon him."

The metrical alteration in the text appears the most natural
way of dealing witli a difficulty. It has been proposed to
read —

" There have I made my promise to call on him,
Upon the lieavy middle of tlie night."

A Possess'd — informed.
298

Duke. Do you persuade yourself, that 1 re-
spect you ?
3I(m. Good friar, I know you do ; and have

found it.
Duke. Take then this your companion by the
hand.
Who hath a story ready for your ear :
I shall attend your leisure ; but make haste ;
The vaporous night approaches.

3farL WiU't please you walk aside ?

[JE.i-eu)it Makiana and Isabella.
Duke. place and greatness, millions of false
eyes
Are stuck upon thee ! volumes of report
Eun with these false and most contrarious quests"
Upon thy doings ! thousand escapes of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream,
And rack thee in their fancies ! — Welcome !
How agreed?

lie-enter Mabiana and Isabella.

Isab. She'll take the enterprise upon her,
father.
If you advise it.

Duke. It is not my consent.

But my entreaty loo.

Isab. Little have you to say,

When you depart from him, but, soft and Ioav,
' Remember now my brother.'

Mari. Fear me not.

Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at
aU: '"
He is your husband on a pre-contract :
To bring you thus together, 't is no sin ;
Sith that the justice of your title to him
Doth flourish'' the deceit. Come, let us go ;
Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's" to sow.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. — A Room in the Prison.

Enter Provost aitd Clown.

Prov. Come liither, sirrah : Can you cut off
a man's head ?

Clo. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can : but

a Quests — inquisitions.

t> Flourish — bestow propriety and ornament, — like rich
work upon a coarse ground. So in Twelfth Night we have,

" Empty trunks o'erflonrish'd by the devil."

c Tilhc. — It has been proposed to read tilth, whirh Farmer
says is provincially used for land tilled. To smv the tilth
would therefore be to sow the land prepared for seed.
Johnson defends the old reading by saying tliat tilhe is
taken, by an easy metonymy, for liarvest. Menley defends
tithu's, by saying that tlie Duke is speaking in tlie pei.-on
of an ecclesiastic. Mr. Dyce and Mr. White adopt Warbur-
ton's reading of tilth.

Act IV. J

MEASURE FOR IMEASURE.

ISCESE II

if lie be a married man, he is his wife's head,
and I can never cut olF a woman's head.

Prov. Come, sii-, leave me your snatches, and
yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning
are to die Claudio and Barnardinc : Ilcre is in
our prison a common executioner, who in his
office lacks a helper : if you will take it on you
to assist him, it shall redeem you from your
gyves ; if not, you shall have your fidl time of
imprisonment, and your deliverance with an un-
piticd whipping ; for you have been a notorious
bawd.

Clo. Sir, I have been an unlawful liawd, time
out of mind ; but yet I will be content to be a
lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive
some instruction from my fellow partner.

Prov. Wliat ho, Abhorson ! Where 's Ablior-
son, there ?

Enter Abhoeson.

Abhor. Do you call, sir ?

Prov. Sirrah, here 's a fellow will help you
to-morrow in your execution: If you think it
meet, compound with him by the year, and let
him abide liere witji you ; if not, use him for the
present, and dismiss him : He cannot plead his
estimation with you ; he hath been a bawd.

Abhor. A bawd, sir ? Fie upon him, he will
discredit our mystery.

Prov. Go to, sir ; you weigh equally ; a fea-
ther will tui-n the scale. [Pxit.

Clo. Pray, sir, by your good favour, (for,
surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you
have a hanging look,) do you call, sir, your oc-
cupation a mystery ?

Abhor. Ay, sir ; a mystery.

Clo. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mys-
tery ; and your whores, sir, being meml^ers of
my occupation, using painting, do prove my oc-
cupation a mystery : but wliat mystery there
should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, 1
cannot imagine.

Abhor. Sir, it is a mystery.

Clo. Proof?

Abhor. Every true man's apparel fits your
thief

Clo. If it be too little for your tliief, your true
ipan thinks it big enough ; if it be too big for
your thief, your thief thinks it little enough : so
every true man's apparel fits your thief."'

fi We divide this assertion and proof between tlia t .tj
characters, as in the orif;inal. Tlie whole of the elaborate
argunient is given by several editors to Abhorson; Imt
this piece of oratory is not at nil chaj-acteristic of his
sententioui! gravity. Warburton thinks that something has
been omitted but it appears to us that, when the C'lo«n

He-enter Provost.

Prov. Are you agreed ?

Clo. Sir, I will serve liim ; for I do find your
hangman is a more penitent trade than your
bawd ; he doth oftcner ask forgiveness.

Prov. You, sirrah, provide your block and
your axe, to-morrow four o'clock.

Abhor. Come on, bawd; I will instruct tlicc
in my trade ; follow.

Clo, I do desire to Icani, sir; and, I liopo, if
you have occasion to use me for your own turn,
you shall find me yare : ^ for, tridy, sir, for your
kindness I owe you a good inrn.

Prov. Call hither ]3arnardine and Claudio :

[Exeunt Clown and Abhorson.
One has my pity; not a jot the other.
Being a murdcrei', thongli he were my brotlicr.

Enter Claudio.

Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for tliy death:
'Tis now dead midniglit, and by eight to-morrow
Thou must be made immortal. Where 's Bamar-

dine ? .
Claud. As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless

labour
When it lies starkly'' in the traveller's bones :
He will not wake.

Prov. Who can do good on him ?

Well, go, prepare yourself. But hark, wliat

noise ? [Knocking within.

Heaven give your spirits comfort !

[Exit Claudio.

By and by : —
I hope it is some pardon, or reprieve,
For the most gentle Claudio. — Welcome, father.

Enter Duke.

Dulce. The best and wholesomcst spirits of
the night
Envelop you, good provost ! Who called here of
'late:'
Prov. None, since the curfew rung.
Duke. Not Isabel !

Prov. No.

Duke. They will then, ore 't be long.

Prov. Wliat comfort is for Claudio ?
Duke. There 's some in hope.

asks for "proof" that "hanging is a mystery," the hang-
man commences his exposition with an account of ihe
thief's Ciothes,— the link of fellowsliii) between iheni; anil,
proceeding slowly and logically, is iinerrupted by the lively
Clown, explaining his first postulate. They are then both
iiiterru|jtcd by the entrance of the Trovost.

.1 Yari' — ready— nimble.

I> 57«;7>7«— stiffly.

299

Act IV.]

MEASUKE FOE MEASUEE.

[Scene II.

Frov. It is a bitter deputy.

Duke. Not so, not so ; his life is parallel'd
Even with the strolce and line of his great justice;
He doth with holy abstinence subdue
That in liimself, which he spurs on his power
To qualify '^ m others : were he meal'd ^
With that which he corrects, then were he

tyrannous ;
But this being so, he 's just. — Now are they

come.-

[Knocking witJihi. — Provost goes out.
Tliis is a gentle provost : Seldom, wheu
The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.
How now ? What noise ? That spirit 's pos-

sess'd with haste,
That wounds the unsisting ° postern with these

strokes.

Provost returns, speaking to one at the door.

Prov. There he must stay, u^ntil the officer
Arise to let him in ; he is call'd up.
Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio

yet, _

But he must die to-morrow ?

Frov. None, sir, none.

Duke. As near the dawning, provost, as it is,
You shall hear more ere morning.

Frov. Haply

You something know; yet, I believe, there comes
No covmtcrraand ; no such example have we :
Besides, upon the very siege "^ of justice,
Lord Angelo hath to the public ear
Profess'd the contrary.

Enter a Messenger.

This is his lordship's man.
Duke. And here comes Claudio's pardon.''
Mess. My lord hath sent you this note ; and
by me this further charge, that you swerve not
from the smallest article of it, neither in time,
matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow ;
for, as I take it, it is almost day.

Frov. I shall obey him. [Exit Messenger.

'' Qualifii — moderate.

l> Meal'd— covci\>o-a\\AeA — from mcsler.

c Unsisting — This is one of Sluikspere's Latinisms, by
which he means, never at rest, from sisto, to stand still.
Blackstone suggested this meaning. Rowe gave us unre-
sisting, and Hanmer tmresting.

d Siege — seat.

e We venture to make an alteration in the person speak-
ing these two lines. In the original the Duke says, "This
is his lordship's man; " whereas it is not very likely that
the Duke would either know the man, or, in his assumed
capacity of a friar, would recognise him. But it is still less
likely that the Provost, who has so strongly expressed his
opinion that Angelo would be unrelenting, and who subse-
quently says " 1 told you," should, upon the very appear-
ance of a messenger, exclaim " and here comes Claudio's
pardon."

300

Duke. This is his pardon purchas'd by sucii
sin, \_Aside.

For which the pardoner himself is in :
Hence hath offence his quick celerity.
When it is born m high authority :
When vice makes mercy, mercy 's so extended.
That for the fault's love is the offender friended. —
Nowj sir, what news ?

Frov. I told you : Lord Angelo, belike,
thinking me remiss in mine oiBee, awakens me
with this unwonted putting on:°' methinks,
strangely ; for he hath not used it before.

Duke. Pray you, let's hear.

Frov. [_Reads.'] •> whatsoever you may hear to the
contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and,
in the afternoon, Barnardine : for my better satisfaction, let
me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly
performed ; with a thought, that more depends on it thnn
we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you
will answer it at your peril."

Wliat say you to this, sir.

Duke. What is that Barnardine, who is to be
executed in the afternoon ?

Frov. A Bohemian born; but here nursed
up and bred : one that is a prisoner nine years
old.i'

Duke. How came it, that (he absent duke had
not either delivered him to his liberty, or exe-
cuted him ? I have heard it was ever his manner
to do so.

Frov. His friends still wrought reprieves for
him : And, indeed, his fact, till now in the go-
vernment of lord Angelo, came not to an un-
doubtful proof.

Duke. Is it now apparent ?

Frov. Most manifest, and not denied by him-
self.

Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in
prison ? How seems lie to be touched ?

Frov. A man that apprehends death no more
dreadfully, but as a drunken sleep ; careless,
reckless, and fearless of what 's past, present, or
to come ; insensible of mortality, and desperately
mortal.

Duke. He wants advice.

Frov. He will hear none ; he hath evermore
had the liberty of the prison ; give him leave to
escape hence, he would not : di'unk many times
a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We
have very often awaked him, as if to carry him
to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant
for it : it hath not moved him at all.

Duke. More of him anon. There is written
in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy :

* Putting on — incitement.

^ Nine gears oW— during nine years.

Act IV.]

MEASURE FOR ]\rKASURE.

[SctNE 111.

if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles
me ; but in the boldness of my cunning, I will
lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you
have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit
to the law than Angclo who hath sentenced
him: To make you understand this in a mani-
fested effect, I crave but four days' respite ; for
the which you are to do me both a present and
a dangerous courtesy.

Frov. Pray, sir, in what ?

Duke. In the delaying death.

Prov. Alack ! how may I do it r having the
hour limited ; and an express command, under
penalty, to deliver his head in the view of An-
gelo ? I may make my case as Claudio's, to
cross this in the smallest.

Di'.ke. By the vow of mine order I warrant
you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let
this Barnardine be this morning executed, and
his head borne to Angclo.

Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and wUl
discover the favour.

Duke. 0, death 's a great disguiser : and you
may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the
beard ; and say, it was the desire of the penitent
to be so bared before his death : You know the
course is common. If anything fall to you upon
this, more than thanks and good fortime, by the
saint whom I profess, I will plead against it
with my life.

Prov. Pardon me, good father : it is against
my oath.

Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to the
deputy ?

Prov. To him, and to his substitutes.

Duke. You will think you have made no of-
fence, if the duke avouch the justice of your
dealing ?

Prov. But what likelihood is in that ?

Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty.
Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat,
integrity, nor persuasion, can with ease attempt
you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all
fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the
hand and seal of the duke. You know the
character, I doubt not ; and the signet is not
strange to you.

Prov. I know them both.

Duke. The contents of this is the return of the
duke ; you shall anon over-read it at your plea-
sure : where you shall find, Avithin these two days
he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo
knows not : for he this very day receives letters
of strange tenor : perchance, of the duke's death;
perchance, entering into some monastery ; but,

by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the
unfolding star calls up tlie shepherd. Put not
yourself into amazement, iiow these tilings
should be: all difficulties are but easy when
they are known. Call your executioner, and
off with Barnardine's head : I will give him a
present shrift, and advise liim for a better place.
Yet you are amazed : but this shall absolutely
resolve you. Come away ; it is almost clear
dawn. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. — Another Room in the same.
Enter Clown.

Clo. I am as well acquainted here, as I was
in our house of profession : one would think it
were mistress Overdone's own house, for here
be many of her old customers. First, here's
young master Bash ; he 's in for a commodity
of brown paper ^ and old ginger, nineseore and
seventeen pounds ; of which he made five marks,
ready money : marry, then, ginger was not much
in request, for the old women were all dead.
Then is there here one master Caper, at the suit
of master Three-pile the mercer, for some four
suits of peach-coloured satin, which now